Flight of the Eagle (27 page)

The head and shoulders merged with the rock on the knoll as the warrior rested his long, flintlock rifle ready to fire his first shot into the British camp. His thoughts and concentration would have been on the possibility of his shot finding a target amongst the British as Patrick uncoiled from the cooling earth with the speed of a striking snake. The sniper died with the knife plunged into his chest. His gasp of pain was the last noise he made as he crumpled to the ground.

Patrick reefed the knife from the dead man but he did not have a chance to congratulate himself on his highly successful ambush. He was acutely aware that he was not alone.

Shadowy figures rose out of the earth from all around him. Ten, twenty, maybe more warriors rose, shocked by the sudden appearance of an evil spirit of the desert that burst with lethal fury amongst them. They had been squatting silently behind the sniper's knoll waiting to disperse to their own positions in the hills when Patrick had struck.

‘God almighty!’ Patrick cried in despair as he turned to face the unexpected threat, instinctively flinging up his pistol to fire blindly into the mass of warriors only yards away.

Stunned by his unexpected appearance, the Dervish warriors reacted slowly. Two of Patrick's wildly fired rounds found targets in their ranks and the men grunted in pain as they crumpled. When the pistol was empty Patrick spun on his heel and sprinted down the knoll towards the desert, away from his own lines.

Only the forward picquets heard the very faint popping sounds drifting to them on the still night air – and they dismissed the rapid volley as some mad tribesmen firing off their guns in the hills. They did not bother reporting the matter in the morning; they had been more interested in the sniper fire that came from closer quarters during the night, plunging uncomfortably close into the Zareba.

In the morning Private Angus MacDonald realised that the young captain had not returned. Major Hughes sent out a scouting party of Indian cavalry to reconnoitre the path that Captain Duffy had taken. They rode onto the deserted knoll and a cavalryman noticed the many blood stains in the earth. But there were no bodies – nor any sign of Captain Duffy.

When they reported the matter back to the brigade major he nodded and turned away from the bearded soldiers astride their big horses. The brigade had lost their finest junior officer and he had lost a friend.

General Graham had issued his orders to return to Suakin that day as the brigade major transmitted a telegram to Lady Macintosh informing her of the tragic news that her grandson was officially listed as missing in action. His telegram would be followed in due time by a letter of condolences for her loss, for although Patrick was listed officially as missing rather than killed in action, Major Hughes held little hope for the young captain's survival. If the Dervishes had not killed him then the desert soon would.

As they marched away from the hills of Tamai for the port of Suakin, Angus carried the webbing slung over his shoulder and remembered Captain Duffy's last request before he went off into the night. He had told him that under no circumstances was he to open the pouches of his webbing, and when he had reached the Red Sea, he was to throw the webbing into the waters.

Angus had not questioned the request. He knew a man facing death made such strange requests. But Captain Duffy had explained something to him that was stranger than the unusual request. He had said he thought the webbing might drift on the currents of the ocean to Ireland where it would be found by the Morrigan. Angus had not asked who the Morrigan was but he suspected that the webbing contained something very precious that no man had a right to know about. But he would not have to dispose of the webbing in the Red Sea, Angus told himself with an unshakeable belief. Captain Duffy would claim it soon himself when he rejoined the brigade.

As the army fell back on the port city of Suakin Private MacDonald held tenaciously onto Patrick's webbing. He should have handed it back to the quartermaster but that was not necessary. Captain Duffy would want it back when he returned, the brawny Scot reasoned and the quartermaster tentatively agreed.

TWENTY-FIVE

A
s the sun set below the tops of the hills the troopers and frontiersmen set about establishing their campsites. Sentries were posted and the horses hobbled for the night as firewood was gathered and bedrolls laid out.

Although the scene appeared deceptively serene all the men of the expedition harboured their private fears. They knew they were deep in Kalkadoon territory in the Godkin Range and the night could easily be rent with the bloodchilling war cries of the tribesmen. The talk around the campfires during the evening was subdued and few men lingered in the circles of light that were cast in the dark.

Peter sat alone, away from his fellow troopers. Word had spread to the others of his treacherous act and now he was shunned by men who had once respected him. But he was not alone for long.

Calder lumbered across from his campfire to stand over him. ‘The boss wants to see you, darkie,’ he sneered. ‘Get your black arse over there now.’

Peter rose and casually brought up his carbine with the barrel pointed at Calder. The gesture was not lost on Calder. He backed away in fear. But he was a tough man and spat at Peter's feet. ‘You an’ me going to settle up one day, Duffy,’ he snarled. ‘You can bet on that!’

Peter ignored his threat and strode across to Gordon who was sitting on a log, hunched over his fire with his coat around his shoulders. The evening chill was beginning to creep into the still night air of the mountain range.

‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ Peter asked in a flat voice.

Gordon gestured for him to sit down. ‘I just wanted to talk to you, Peter,’ he said. ‘I think we have to clear the air between us.’ The fire that framed Gordon's face flickered in an uncertain expression. Peter sat with his rifle between his knees and waited. ‘I have a good idea that you stopped Trooper Calder from carrying out my request this afternoon. You may have done the right thing.’ Peter blinked with surprise but did not comment. It was obvious Gordon had much on his mind. Gordon continued staring into the flames as the fire crackled softly. ‘I've never shot down darkies who weren't resisting before,’ he said quietly. ‘Never shot down gins and piccaninnies, unless it was an accident. My father never agreed with shooting darkies unless it was necessary … so my request this afternoon was wrong.’

‘She got away,’ Peter lied. ‘Trooper Calder's carbine misfired.’ He would stick to the story, protect the original lie.

Gordon glanced up at him with a sudden shift of anger in his face. ‘You and I know that's not true so drop the bullshit,’ he flared. ‘No matter what happened you probably saved me from some unpleasant questions if someone had got drunk and talked about the incident later on.’

The subdued talk of men beyond the campfire drifted to them. In the far distance some unknown animal squealed as an unidentified predator took its life. Dingo, owl, native cat – who knew? Both men paused in the conversation to listen. All noises in enemy territory were suspicious; it could have been some form of call between the Kalkadoon.

Gordon swung his attention back to Peter and continued, ‘You might have prevented a bad situation developing for us by your actions. But, at the same time, you have forced me to decide to send you back with the resupply party to Cloncurry tomorrow morning. I'm sorry, but your loyalty is in doubt and now your continued presence is bad for the troop's morale.’

Yes, sir,’ Peter answered. ‘But you are wrong about questioning my loyalty. Despite what happened this afternoon I was ready to fight the Kalkadoon. I just wasn't ready to murder anyone. Not even for you.’

Gordon did not reply. He picked up a mug of tea beside his boot and sipped the hot beverage. ‘That's all, Trooper Duffy,’ he said softly as he stared into the darkness. ‘You can go.’

Peter rose and walked back to his fire where he sat down heavily. So, it was all over. He felt no regrets.

At piccaninny dawn the men came awake as the sentries shook them from their sleep. They ate hurried meals of cold damper bread washed down with hot tea and as soon as they had saddled their horses Gordon called a briefing for his patrol commanders concerning the route they would take that day. He had decided to follow the river valley south having calculated that, if they were going to locate the main base of the Kalkadoon, it would most probably be in the higher and more rugged hills which posed natural fortresses against a mounted attack. He also guessed that the tribesmen would locate themselves close to a good supply of water, and the river valley pointed like an accusing finger south.

Peter Duffy swung himself into the saddle and joined four heavily armed frontiersmen who had been tasked to return to Cloncurry for extra supplies. Gordon had not disclosed the reason Peter was riding with them and they accepted him as an extra escort.

By the time the sun kissed the valley floors the column of troopers and bushmen auxiliaries were slowly weaving their way cautiously through the thicker scrub adjoining the river bank.

In the south the Kalkadoon tribesmen waited for their enemy. They had stockpiled extra spears, boomerangs and nullahs on the hill tops they had chosen to fight from. Their tactical decisions would have pleased any European general of the day but their decision to stand and fight did not please the wily old Darambal warrior. He had vainly attempted to persuade the supreme war chief of the Kalkadoon to return to waging the successful guerrilla tactics of hit and run.

When Wallarie gazed around the hill tops at the men who proudly stood with backs unbent he felt a deep sadness and honour to be amongst the warriors who had dared to stand and fight. Could such audacity not prevail in battle?

The runners came to the hills with messages from other hill tops further north. They reported that at the present rate of advance the white man would be on them in a day. Wallarie squatted in the dust of the hill and crooned a song for the young men who boasted of deeds to be done in the coming battle. But they ignored his Darambal song for the dead as he sat cross-legged on the craggy heights, gazing north into the thick scrub and tree-lined valley below and wondering if he would ever see his kinsman Peter Duffy again. Perhaps they would meet in the Dreaming.

TWENTY-SIX

T
he silence of the hot mid-afternoon was shattered by the bloodchilling war cry of the Kalkadoon. A whispering shower of spears sang their lethal song and the swish-swish of boomerangs whirred death in the air.

‘At them, lads!’ Gordon cried above the shots and shouts from his column of troopers who milled as the deadly wooden weapons fell amongst their ranks. But they rallied quickly under Gordon's calm leadership and spurred their horses forward at the fleeting shadows in the thick scrub of the narrow river valley.

Please God, Gordon prayed, that Sergeant Rossi and Commanche Jack would react to the situation as he had briefed them to.

The naked Kalkadoon warriors fled before the mounted charge as it crashed through the spindly scrub. But suddenly the fleeing warriors propped and turned to face the charge with fresh spears fitted to woomeras. A second shower of hardwood spears whistled through the mid-afternoon air and a trooper screamed as one of the deadly barbed spears found flesh. He toppled from his horse as he grappled vainly at the slender shaft protruding from his thigh.

If Sergeant Rossi and Commanche Jack were not in position they were all dead men, Gordon thought frantically as he twisted to fire his revolver at the dark figure that had suddenly appeared at his stirrup. The warrior fell back and his spear clattered to the ground.

On the left flank of Gordon's patrol the massed warriors appeared like weeds to surround the troopers who had ridden recklessly into their ambush. The air was full with spears and boomerangs flying from two directions as the warriors joined with the ambushers who had waited patiently for the troopers to pursue them.

It appeared to the Kalkadoon that the white man had learned nothing of their tactics. The patrol was hemmed in by the thick scrub and the Aboriginal giants were able to engage them in close quarter fighting. It would be rifle butt and pistol against wooden shield and nullah.

The trapped troopers sought desperately for escape but the fleeting shadows became a massed wave as they surged forward from the vulnerable left flank of Gordon's patrol. The Kalkadoon came at them from the front, leaving the trapped patrol of fifteen troopers pinned against the river on one side as the warriors encircled them with whoops and battle cries of imminent victory. To be unhorsed in the melee meant certain death and the trooper who had been speared in the thigh knelt on the ground firing, loading his carbine with a desperation born of this knowledge.

Dear God! Gordon prayed with dying hope for the plan he had so carefully planned. Save us! His revolver was empty and he lashed out at a warrior whose body was partially covered by his wooden shield. The man fell back and was saved by his shield which took the brunt of the pistol as Gordon swiped at him. He was grinning triumphantly and Gordon suddenly experienced the meaning of raw fear. He was seconds from being unhorsed by five other Kalkadoon who had joined the fight to finish him off. There was no retreat and the circle was closed on the troopers who fought their own battles for survival.

The grinning Kalkadoon warrior swung his stone axe in a low arcing movement and the sharp edge of the hand chiselled head caught Gordon a glancing blow in the calf of his leg. He hardly felt the pain; his thoughts were focused on a fighting retreat and he was no longer even aware of his carefully laid-out plan in his concentration to survive.

The rolling volley of shots came from behind him as Gordon frantically pulled down on the reins of his mount to drag her out of the semi-circle of Kalkadoon. They were attempting to close with him with shield, stone axes and lunging lances of wood as he became vaguely aware that the semi-circle had disintegrated. Above the increase in the blasts of carbines and pistols he could hear the roars and shouts of Commanche Jack's troop of horsemen as they descended on the flank where the tribesmen had waited in ambush. Above the din of gunshots, screaming men and cries of mortally wounded warriors he could hear the distinctive accent of the American urging his men on.