Flight of the Eagle (26 page)

Horses pranced nervously and men taut with fear swore curses to relieve the tension. But nothing happened until an Aboriginal trooper burst through the scrub to rein his horse in beside Gordon. ‘Mahmy! Catch ′im blackfella gin long creek.’ The trooper's dark eyes rolled, revealing a smoky whiteness. ‘Kill ′im one fella gin.’

Gordon spurred his mount forward and signalled for the troop to follow. They rode until they reached the river where, on the sandy bank that led down to a deep rockpool, an old Aboriginal woman cowered under the gun of a European trooper. A twine dilly-bag lay beside her, from which spilled freshwater mussels.

Further along the bank lay the body of an old Aboriginal woman spreadeagled by the impact of the projectile that had taken her in the back and shattered her spine.

‘What happened?’ Gordon asked the trooper.

He was one of the recent white recruits who Gordon did not like or trust and was standing over the terrified old Aboriginal woman cowering at his feet. ‘Came on ′em in the creek,’ he replied, viciously prodding the old woman with the barrel of his rifle as she wailed with terror for what she knew was inevitable. ‘Called on ′em to stand in the name of the Queen,’ the trooper continued. ‘But they decided to run. Got the one over there, boss.’

‘So I see, Trooper Calder,’ Gordon said from the vantage of his horse. ‘Good shot considering the distance.’

The trooper beamed with pleasure for the praise from his commanding officer. Commanche Jack sidled his mount up to Gordon and stared down at the old woman curled on the ground in a foetal position. He was chewing tobacco and rolled the twist in his mouth. ‘What are yer gonna do with her, Inspector?’ he asked and spat a long brown stream of tobacco onto the sand between the two of them.

‘If I let her go she will go straight to her people and tell them where we are,’ he replied quietly. ‘That leaves me with little choice.’

‘They's already know where we are,’ Commanche Jack said as he leant on the horn of his saddle and gazed thoughtfully up at the summits that reared from above the thicker bush beside the river. ‘Know'd where we was the minute we rode into these hills.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Mescaleros, Kalkadoons. All fightin' people,’ Commanche Jack replied, rolling the remaining tobacco in his cheeks to savour the nicotine. ‘They'd be watchin' us right now. Probably discussin' what yer gonna do with this here darkie lubra.’

Instinctively Gordon glanced up at the tops of the hills surrounding the river valley and the American chuckled, ‘You ain't gonna see ′em, Inspector. That's the whole idea of a good fightin’ man. He knows more about you than you do about him.’

‘Well,’ Gordon replied ominously, glancing at the old woman cringing in the hot sand. ‘If they are watching then they are going to learn a lesson concerning the fate of those who resist the Queen's law.’

‘You gonna shoot the darkie?’ Commanche Jack asked quietly. He caught Gordon's gaze. ‘You could let her go.’

‘I'm not an executioner,’ Gordon replied. ‘You, or one of your party, will have to dispose of her.’

The tough American straightened in the saddle. ‘Not me, Inspector. I signed on to fight Kalks. Not shoot old darkie wimmin. You want her shot, you do it yerself.’

With a gesture of disgust the American spat a stream of tobacco into the sand, barely missing Gordon. He wheeled his horse aside to ride back to his men. Gordon scowled and swore under his breath. If the seasoned Indian fighter was not prepared to execute the woman, who would? ‘Trooper Calder!’ Gordon knew the man had a reputation for callous indifference towards life and although he had only been on one dispersal Gordon had been sickened by the man's obvious relish for killing Aboriginal women and children.

‘Sir!’

‘Take one of the patrol with you and
help
the darkie gin down the track a bit,’ Gordon said quietly. ‘I think you have a good idea what I mean.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the trooper replied with an evil grin. He prodded at the old woman with his rifle, causing her to wail piteously as she curled defensively into a ball. ‘Duffy, you half-caste bastard. Quit starin’ an’ help me with yer cousin here,’ Calder snarled. ‘′Elp me get 'er up on 'er feet.’

Peter slid from his horse with an easy movement and without a word he gripped his rifle and strode across to the trooper who had slammed the butt of his carbine into the petrified woman's back. The spectacle of the terrified woman curled on the sand had triggered a distant memory of his mother.
What had she called to him?

Peter stayed Calder's arm as he made ready to hit her again. ‘We aren't going to get her on her feet and out of here if you keep hitting her,’ he said.

The trooper glared at him with the eyes of a savage animal but reluctantly conceded to Peter's advice. ‘Yeah. You get 'er on 'er feet,’ he snarled. ‘Or drag the black bitch, if yer ′ave to.’

Peter heaved the woman to her feet and her eyes met his briefly. What she saw was a strange compassion and although she trembled with terror she felt less frightened than before. With gentle words Peter coaxed her away from the mounted horsemen.

Calder followed, his carbine slung carelessly over his shoulder. He turned to glance over his shoulder and wink at Gordon James who stared stonily at the backs of the two troopers disappearing in the scrub. ‘A good distance away, Trooper Calder,’ Gordon called. The further away the better, he thought, as if the distance would divorce him from what he knew was about to occur.

‘Yer doin′ a good job there, Duffy,’ Calder said, as he followed Peter who half-supported and half-dragged the Aboriginal woman through the bush adjoining the river. ‘Looks like yer got 'er thinkin’ she's gonna be let go.’

Peter did not reply but continued to help the woman through the bushes until they emerged in a clearing adjoining a section of the river where it widened and flowed between jutting reefs of rocks.

‘This'll be far enough,’ Calder said and brought the rifle off his shoulder. ‘Get 'er to make a run across the river on them rocks.’ Peter let the old woman go and she fell to the ground in terror. He knelt and with calm, friendly words coaxed her to her feet.

With tentative steps she tottered towards the river and the path of reefs that spanned the rapidly flowing eddies where she broke into an unsteady hobble. Calder slid the sights on his rifle to fifty yards, tucked the butt into his shoulder and took a sight on the old woman. ‘See if I can get a second darkie with a single shot,’ he muttered above the gentle bubbling sound of the river. He closed one eye and breathed in slowly and was releasing his breath when he felt the muzzle of Peter's carbine bite behind his ear.

‘Pull the trigger and I'll blow your head off, you white bastard,’ Peter hissed as the trooper froze. ‘Unload the gun very carefully,’ Peter commanded.

He watched with grim satisfaction as the old woman reached the far bank where she disappeared safely into the scrub. She could have been my mother, he thought sadly. Just an old woman whose only crime was being Aboriginal. But now she had been given the right to be with her people and live out her life as God had intended.

‘You half-caste bastard,’ Calder spat as he opened the breech of his carbine and ejected the unfired round. ‘Mister James will have to be told you let the darkie bitch go.’

‘Isn't that what he told you to do, let her go?’ Peter replied with feigned innocence.

‘You know what Mister James meant as well as I did,’ the furious trooper replied as he lowered his rifle. ‘′E never intended the black bitch to leave 'ere alive.’

‘To kill her would have been murder,’ Peter said quietly. ‘So you should be grateful I stopped you doing something you might have been sorry for if it ever got out.’

Shaking with rage Calder stepped back from Peter who by now had lowered his rifle. Calder's fury, however, was such that had his rifle still had a bullet in the chamber he would have preferred to kill his fellow policeman. ‘You know, Duffy, you don't even talk like a darkie,’ he hissed glaring at the young man who faced him. ‘You don't even act like a blackfella.’

‘Maybe it's because
us
blackfellas are smarter than you white shit,’ Peter replied. He had never felt more in control than this moment but knew that his decision to save the old woman's life had placed him on one side of his bloodline.

‘We go back an’ I report what you did here, Duffy, yer finished,’ Calder snarled.

‘We will see,’ Peter answered quietly and turned his back contemptuously on the trooper who was still fuming with frustration for having an unloaded rifle.

‘I didn't hear any shot,’ Gordon said to the two men standing at his stirrup. ‘What happened?’

‘Trooper Calder's gun misfired, sir,’ Peter replied before Calder could answer. ‘She got away before I could get her in my sights.’

‘That right, Trooper Calder?’ Gordon asked suspiciously and Calder shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Never dob in anyone to the bosses, echoed in his mind.

‘Like Trooper Duffy said, boss, bloody gun misfired.’

‘Get Sergeant Rossi to have a look at it when we camp tonight,’ Gordon growled, dismissing the two police troopers. ‘Join the troop.’

Gordon scowled as the two men walked over to their horses. He knew when men were lying. He also had no illusions that Peter could be trusted. It was only inevitable that he would eventually revert to his blackfella blood. But for the time being he dismissed his reflections on his former friend's loyalty to the Native Mounted Police and thought about the present situation. If what Commanche Jack said was true about being watched by unseen myall warriors they would have to find high ground for the night campsite. High ground that gave them the advantage, should the Kalkadoon decide to launch an attack on them in the dark. ‘Sergeant Rossi,’ he bawled down the line of horsemen strung out through the bush on the river bank. ‘Get the scouts up the hill over there. Make sure no-one else has taken up residence before us.’

The sergeant acknowledged the order and relayed it to the troopers.

Peter swung himself into the saddle and turned to glance at Calder. The man returned his look with a sneer. Peter reminded himself to stay clear of the man who clearly had murder on his mind. He reined away to join the patrol and prayed that the old woman had found her people. He also prayed that Gordon would not find the Kalkadoon. For if he did, the young tracker knew that his former friend would show no mercy to the men he hunted.

TWENTY-FOUR

D
ivested of his webbing Patrick breathed deeply to steady his nerves as he sat cross-legged, watching the sun disappear below the horizon. He tried not to think beyond the next few hours.

When the sun was gone he gave Angus a friendly slap on the back as he bade him goodnight. The big Scot shook his head and he watched the young captain swallowed by the darkness. The bonny lad had the look of a dead man about him, he thought sadly.

Patrick passed through the outer guard perimeter post where Captain Thorncroft was personally briefing the sentries on Patrick's mission. It was important that a nervous sentry did not shoot the returning officer in the early hours of the morning. Otherwise the cold-blooded courage required to carry out the mission would come to nought. Thorncroft whispered Patrick good luck in his mission. Better him than me, he thought as Patrick disappeared into the hostile desert.

A clear sky and the shadows of the silent, rock strewn gullies was Patrick's surreal world as he crawled on his belly towards a tiny knoll of stone. His hands and face were blackened with charcoal, which helped conceal his tanned flesh, but he still felt acutely aware that his khaki uniform stood out like a beacon in the night. He only carried his service revolver, a pocketful of spare rounds and the bowie knife.

He had carefully selected his route to reach the knoll which he had identified as an obvious place for a sniper to take up. It had a commanding position outside the effective range of the defenders in the fortified camp, but it was close enough to deliver random harassing fire. And now the knoll was in sight, silhouetted against the vast star studded skyline of the hill. But would the position already be occupied? Very carefully he slid the knife from inside his boot gaiter and rolled the blade on its side. A thrust from the bowie to the chest required the blade to penetrate in such a way that the blade could slide between the ribs and not be deflected by the tough connecting cartilage. In his other hand he gripped the butt of his pistol which was attached to his uniform at the end of a lanyard.

It was an eerie and frightening feeling to be so far from the Zareba. The only sounds he could hear now were those of the desert: the yipping howl of a jackal calling in the night; the flutter of some nocturnal bird seeking or escaping its prey or hunter.

Crawl slowly and avoid dislodging loose stones, Patrick forced himself to remember. Take your time. Sheela-na-gig is protecting you.

Then it suddenly dawned on him that the little goddess was still with his webbing. This was the first time they had been separated in the campaign. The dreaded thought went through his body with a shudder of primeval fear. He was without the talisman he had grown to firmly believe kept him alive.

He lay still and considered returning to the safety of the Zareba. Nothing made sense anymore. The panic welled up in him threatening to send him into an uncontrollable quaking fear. No. He had come this far and he knew there was no turning back. It was a stupid and illogical thought for an educated man to believe unseen forces guided one's life. That a stone idol and the words of a beautiful girl could keep him alive!

On the skyline, mere yards away, the rock moved!
No, not the rock, but the head and shoulders of a man.
So his extreme caution had been justified.

Patrick lay very still, his eyes barely above ground level, watching the Dervish sniper moving about in the dark with little concern for his security. He knew that he must neutralise the sniper and take his place on the knoll and from there he could slip off and follow the other snipers to wherever they rejoined the main body of their supporting base area. Once identified, he could double back and provide the coordinates for the guns to range on and then the artillery could deliver a concentrated bombardment. Not only would the bursting shells of the guns deliver to the enemy a reasonably good lesson, but also show them that approaching a Zareba at night could be fatal.