The Word of God

by Christopher Cummings

  As he went to get up he heard the Americans yelling to each other. One was M16 screaming to: “Sit down or I’ll blast yer!” That indicated that none of the others had been able to take advantage of the opportunity. Grey Shirt yelled to the driver to bring a torch and his gun.

  That decided Peter. I’ve got to get further away before they come looking, he thought.

  But nameless fears of what the men might do if they recaptured him held him for a few seconds. Despite his fear Peter was still able to reason. He knelt on the steep slope and swung the webbing over his shoulders, noting inconsequentially that the straps were tight.

  Not mine. I hope it’s got some water.

  Gasping to recover his breath he peered up the slope through the trees. The headlights of the truck were clearly visible but there was no sign of Grey Shirt.

  It looked to be about thirty or forty metres up.

  Now, which way? Up, down or along?

  As the options raced through his mind Peter began moving cautiously along the slope in the direction the truck had been moving. Deep inside was a desire not to lose contact with the others, and guilt at having left his friends.

  I’ll follow them. They won’t expect that. They will think I took the easiest option and ran away down hill, he thought.

  That decision taken he moved faster, feeling with his hands to avoid twigs and branches, very conscious of every little sound he made. He forced himself to calm down and made an effort to get his breath back. The pounding of his heart in his skull made it very difficult to hear.

  A torch suddenly came on. Its beam slashed down through the trees. Peter dropped flat behind a burnt log. The light swept over him a moment later. Again his heart rate shot up.

  Grey Shirt’s voice rang out: “Give yerself up kid. If yer try to run fer it we’ll shoot ter kill.”

  That sent chills of terror through Peter’s battered and exhausted consciousness but he decided he had been shot at so much recently that it wasn’t that important.

  It’s been a long day, he told himself.

  Grey Shirt called out to the driver: “Get on the radio Jake and call Corporal Eggleton. Tell him to get his squad up here on the double before this guy gets away.”

  Corporal? Squad? Who the hell are these Americans? Peter wondered. Then he shook his head. Don’t waste time. Get going while you can.

  As the torch beam swept back and forth Peter used its light to pick out a route. He saw that there was a dry gully full of scrub leading downhill from behind him. It went uphill to his left so Peter began edging that way. What bothered him now were his tracks.

  The torch suddenly changed the pattern of its movement. Peter glanced up and almost froze in fear. Grey Shirt was coming down the hill and he seemed to have the torch directed on his tracks!

  That lent a new urgency to moving. Peter risked getting up and walking from tree to tree. The hill slope was so steep in places that he had to hold on to the trees to stop himself sliding down. As it was he started several small slides of loose stones.

  Luckily Grey Shirt was making so much noise himself these went unheard. Peter kept moving sideways, his heart thumping fit to burst and his mouth dry with fear. He found he was sweating freely although it was a cool night.

  To Peter’s relief he came to the end of the burnt area. From there on it was waist high grass and ferns, plus small bushes. That made it noisier to move but he knew he would be harder to track in the dark. He kept glancing to his right rear at Grey Shirt who was walking steadily down the slope. The dry creek bed appeared closer at every stop. To avoid being heard Peter halted every time Grey Shirt did.

  By the time Grey Shirt reached the same level Peter was thirty metres off to his right and almost in the creek. At that point Grey Shirt stopped and began to shine the torch around, searching for tracks. Every time the torch went away from him Peter risked walking another couple of steps, going from tree to tree.

  Once the torch suddenly shone in his direction. Peter froze, hoping the tree he was behind was thick enough to hide him, although his mind told him it was not. But Grey Shirt did not see him and again swung the torch down, to scan the ground. Peter moved three more steps- and encountered dry lantana.

  From long experience of the prickly pest Peter knew he had no chance of pushing through the lantana without making a lot of noise. Having no other option he began angling up the slope beside the creek line.

  It was as well that he did because Grey Shirt had found his tracks and followed them across the hillside. As he drew closer Peter went down on hands and knees in the grass and ferns and crawled, thrusting the fear of snakes aside.

  Grey Shirt closed the distance until he was only ten metres behind. By then he had reached the grass and ferns and that seemed to baffle him. He kept shining the torch into the dry creek. This wasn’t much cover, but it had a tumble of rocks which could be hiding places. To Peter’s enormous relief Grey Shirt pushed down through the lantana and began to search the creek line.

  A voice yelled from up at the truck: “Hey Jed, where are ya?”

  “Down here,” Jed replied. Peter could clearly see him silhouetted by the light of the torch about twenty paces away.

  “I got onter Corporal Eggleston. He says he’s on his way and that he’s bringin’ a night sight. We is ter wait fer him.”

  Night sight!

  Peter was gripped by even stronger fear. He knew what that meant. The army cadets used them on exercises. Good ones could turn night into day for several hundred metres.

  I must get well away from here before they arrive. Then a new idea came to him. They are looking for me down here. I will go back uphill and cross the road.

  With that decision made he resumed cautious movement. The torch and the muttered swearing of Jed were further away with every minute. As the distance lengthened Peter increased his speed and took more and more risks. Standing on a dry stick which snapped with a sharp crack slowed him down. He froze and looked back but Jed was too busy making noise himself.

  Five minutes later Peter was a hundred metres away and close beside the road about fifty metres in front of the truck. The truck’s headlights lit up the bush but it was back around a curve and Peter judged there were enough trees in the way. He decided the risk was worth it and moved cautiously out onto the road.

  Having assured himself he was unlikely to be seen he had a last check for Jed. His torch was still visible as a tiny light bobbing slowly away down hill.

  Good luck Jed, he thought.

  With that he started walking along the road, using the glow of the truck’s headlights to help him step from rock to rock so as not to leave any boot prints in the dust.

  A minute later he was fifty paces further up the road and around another curve. Unable to see the road surface well enough in the darkness he crossed the road and climbed up a low bank into the bush. It was open forest with waist high grass and ferns and offered easy going but good cover.

  Five minutes later Peter was two hundred metres up the ridge. The glow of the truck’s lights was just visible behind. Peter stopped and wiped sweat from his brow. He leaned against a tree and realized he was shaking like a leaf.

  Whew! That was bloody close!

  He sank down among the ferns, confident no search without dogs had any chance of finding him in the dark. For ten minutes he lay and recovered his breath and composure. Cold began to seep into his being and could feel his overtaxed muscles tightening up.

  I’d better keep moving and get a bit further away before I have a real rest, he decided.

  He stood up, groaning softly at the sore muscles and bruises which made themselves evident. Before moving he shook the water bottles on the webbing. Two had some water so he extracted one and had a long drink. To his parched throat it tasted wonderful but his stomach was so strained by the day’s exertions that it made him feel bilious. With an effort he kept the water down and put the bottle back.

  Must be Gwen’s webbing, he thought. He looked around to g
et the lie of the land. Which way?

  His compass was still in his pocket, tied to his buttonhole, so he took it out and studied the luminous needle.

  That’s north. So that high ground I can see is off to the west. And those lights are east. I reckon the lights are farms on the Atherton Tablelands, so the mountains must be the Herberton Range, or Hugh Nelson Range, he reasoned.

  That was comforting. Not only did he have a fair idea where in the world he was but he knew parts of the Herberton Range quite well from cadet exercises over the years.

  Anxious to get clear Peter turned left and began walking uphill along the spine of the ridge. He hated walking blindly through the long grass in the dark but forced himself to do so. As he did he kept speculating on who the men were and what they were doing.

  He had only moved about a hundred metres when he heard a vehicle motor from in front of him. For perhaps a second he considered flagging it down to try to get help. Then he shook his head. No. The driver may not be friendly. Quickly he moved behind a large tree and crouched to watch. The loom of headlights appeared among the tree tops off to his left front. A minute later the vehicle came around a sharp bend into sight. As it drove towards him Peter realized that he was back close to the road again. At that point it almost ran on the crest of the ridge. The vehicle was a 4WD with at least four people in it. It passed within ten metres of Peter’s hiding place, the headlights briefly bathing the area in light as it swung around the curve.

  As soon as the vehicle was past Peter rose and continued on up the ridge. He walked past the point where the road curved almost onto the crest, then on up onto a rough little knoll. From there he was able to see back down the ridge and valley beside it. Across the re-entrant on his left rear the headlights of the 4WD were visible. It stopped at the truck and its lights went out.

  That was a worry. More of them! How many of these people are there? And who are they? Peter wondered. I’d better put a bit more distance between them and me.

  Risking a fall he pushed rapidly on along the ridge. Several times he stumbled on rocks and once he slipped and fell heavily. There was no moon and he had trouble seeing where he was placing his boots in the starlight. Below on his left he kept getting glimpses of the road, a faint grey blur in the darkness. With the vague idea of somehow helping rescue the others he continued on beside it.

  Another engine noise, this time from behind, made him go to cover again. It was, as he suspected it might be, the truck. It came growling slowly up the slope in low gear and passed on out of sight up the mountain. Knowing that Joy and the others were in the truck made Peter even more determined to push on the way he was going.

  Panting from the effort he continued on up the ridge. As he did he thanked those weekend hikes for making him fit enough to keep going. His route took him over a low, densely wooded knoll covered in waist high blady grass. There were several logs and holes hidden in the grass and he banged his shins painfully several times. It was frightening because of the dual fear of snakes and of men with guns but he forced himself to push on. The road curved back and across the crest, forcing Peter to choose. He decided to stay on the side he was on. Beyond the road on the other side was a steep hill.

  The decision turned out to be the wrong one. As he pushed his way across the top of a steep re-entrant below the road the grass became thicker and taller until in places, it was over his head. The process of moving forward became one similar to a nightmare. There were several large logs which he had to clamber over. Weeds and some sort of vine snagged and slowed.

  Frustration and irritation took over. Peter swore angrily and began to force his way through the tangle heedless of the noise he made. Several times he had to stop to get his breath back but twenty minutes later he merged beside the road two hundred metres on, sweating and trembling.

  He paused to drain the water bottle, then continued on up the ridge. The road ran almost up the spine for about two hundred metres. The undergrowth was mostly waist high ferns and blady grass. Near the top the road curved left around the side of the hill. Peter went straight on towards the top.

  Near the top, just before midnight he stumbled on a rock in the long grass. He fell and whacked his knee hard on another rock. The pain was excruciating and for a minute he feared he had broken something. He muttered and rubbed his knee.

  As he did something large rustled and slithered in the grass close to his left hand. Fear froze Peter. Images of the Sniper having convulsions flooded his mind.

  Snake? his terrified imagination cried.

  He couldn’t tell. After a moment the noise stopped. Peter made himself move. Gulping with anxiety he stood and quickly hobbled on up the slope.

  On the crest he found an area of relatively short grass under a tree. Deciding it was a good spot for a short rest he checked carefully then lowered himself to lean against the trunk. As he sat there he shivered with reaction and muttered with pain as he rubbed his sore knee.

  I’d better have a bit of a rest, he told himself. Only then did he realize that it had only been that morning that they had left Little Mulgrave. Two mountain ranges in one day is a bit much, he told himself.

  Before he realized what was happening exhaustion took over and he slipped into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 26

  CONFEDERATES!

  Several times during the night Peter woke. Cramps seized his leg muscles and he found he was shivering with overexertion and cold. Each time he had a drink, draining all the water bottles dry in the process. Each time he subsided back onto the ground and dropped back to sleep.

  The sound of vehicle engines woke him. He opened his eyes and saw it was broad daylight. That was an unpleasant surprise as he had been planning to find a good hiding place before it got light. To add to his dismay the vehicles stopped close by and he heard doors opening and voices- American voices.

  His whole being filling with alarm he rubbed his eyes and sat up.

  Oh no! How did I manage to do that? he thought.

  Not fifty paces away were three vehicles: the truck he had been in last night and two 4WDs. One was white and the other a battered old green Land Rover. Climbing out of them were armed men in a wide variety of clothing: old army jackets, check pattern ‘Lumberjack’ shirts, a variety of hats and caps, and an assortment of weapons. The one thing they had in common was that all wore grey trousers.

  A man appeared from the front of the truck and Peter almost blinked and thought he was still dreaming. The man was middle aged and bearded. He wore a battered grey felt hat. But what attracted Peter’s attention was the grey jacket. It had light blue cuffs and collar and on each sleeve a set of pale blue sergeant’s chevrons. The man looked exactly like an ‘extra’ from a movie about the American Civil War.

  He sounded like one too. His voice was pure ‘Deep South’. And there was no doubt that he acted like a sergeant. He bawled: “You-all get lined up there; Number Four Squad on that side of the road and Number Five Squad this side. Git a move on Davis! We ain’t got all day. We gotta find this son-of-bitch escapee fast, or we’s got real big problems. Now move!”

  They moved. Peter stared in horror as the men filed into the long grass on either side of the road. All had rifles or shotguns and carried them as though they knew how to use them.

  At that moment another 4WD drove up from the west and stopped. Peter now saw that he was near a road junction on top of the range. An overgrown vehicle track ran off away from him along a ridge top. The 4WD pulled up and once again Peter goggled at the person who emerged from the passenger side.

  He was an officer, no doubt about it. The man wore a well fitting and clean grey jacket and trousers. His boots were knee length and shiny black. On his head was a grey Confederate Kepi cap. Around his waist was a pale blue sash over which a black leather belt was buckled. On the belt was a polished black leather pistol holster. On each shoulder were gold rank bars.

  That the sergeant saluted caused no further surprise to Peter. “All ready Lootenant Eva
ns sir,” the sergeant reported.

  Bloody Confederates! I don’t believe this! Who are these people? Peter wondered in amazement. That they were searching for him he had not the slightest doubt. He began looking around for the best place to hide.

  The officer returned the salute. “Fine, Sgt Stone. Get ‘em moving. The major is right displeased with us so we’d better find this sucker fast. He wants us back as quick as we can make it to get on with the search.”

  “Yes sir. Righto men, line out and start lookin’; and ifn you spot him and he won’t stop when you says so then blast him. There’s too much at stake to let him get away,” the sergeant called.

  That sent a spasm of fear through Peter. One glance at the men convinced him they would certainly shoot if they had to. He lowered himself flat and began crawling into the ferns. As he did he heard the men walking almost directly towards him.

  Peter had to stop crawling lest they hear him, or see the movement in the grass and ferns. He lay still, feeling horribly exposed and trembling from fear and overexertion. Into view came a man carrying a heavy calibre semi-automatic rifle, then one with a sub machine gun of some sort. Another followed with an automatic shotgun which glinted in the sunlight.

  The men stopped only ten paces from him and spaced themselves across the slope. They were obviously going to sweep the ridge in extended line. Peter braced himself for discovery. He could plainly see one of the men. The man was chewing a piece of grass and looked a real mean customer.

  The men suddenly all turned and face away from Peter. It took him a moment to take in what he was seeing and then he shuddered with relief and couldn’t believe his luck. At the sergeant’s word of command the men started searching, working down the ridge away from him.

  Thank God for that! he thought. A tremor ran through him and he lay there sucking in great gulps of air. But he knew he was in great danger. I must have left tracks through that long grass like a bloody elephant! he thought. I’d better get out of here.