Shadow of the Osprey (10 page)

The tiny bush birds called to each other, oblivious of the drama unfolding around them, as the silence of the hot afternoon lulled the four into lethargy.

Towards sunset Jennifer, who was crouched under the wagon with Kate’s rifle, heard the sound. It was a strange sing-song melody and coming from the Cooktown direction of the track. She nudged Ben who dozed beside her. He came awake with the revolver in his hand. ‘I think I can hear someone coming,’ she said excitedly as she rose to get a better view up the track.

‘Chinamen!’ Ben grunted, recognising the strange voices. ‘Chinamen coming our way.’

‘We’ve got to warn them,’ Kate said as she took the rifle Jenny passed to her. ‘Or they will be massacred if they get much closer.’

Ben pulled a face. He did not feel that it was worth risking their lives for people who the white miners detested as farmers would locusts on a field of grain.

‘We need them, Ben,’ she pleaded softly. ‘If the myalls get to them first then that will only make it easier for the blackfellas to come after us later. You will have to warn them somehow.’

What she said made sense. Ben gazed at the shadows creeping through the long grass. ‘I’ll use the creek as cover and skirt around the scrub,’ he said as he unbuckled the holster from his waist. ‘Make my way around to the track where the Chinee are and warn them. With that Irish luck of yours Kate, I might convince them that attack is our, and their, best hope of staying alive.’ When the belt was unbuckled he passed it to her. ‘You keep this. Jenny can use the rifle if . . . ’ he trailed away.

Kate fully realised what the young man was doing. He was ensuring maximum firepower for the women. Without a gun he was virtually defenceless and was preparing to lay down his life for them. Courage and honour were the badges of the bushman and the protection of women and children an unspoken contract on the frontier. She reached out to the young man and touched him gently on the arm. ‘No, Ben,’ she said softly. ‘You keep your gun.’

He shrugged off her offer in such a way that at first Jenny was confused by this exchange. Then it dawned on her why Ben had given Kate his gun. ‘Benjamin!’ she gasped as he slipped a wicked-looking bowie knife from the side of his boot.

‘I’ve got this Jenny,’ he said casually with a grim smile as he held up the knife. ‘And I reckon I can outrun any myall from around here.’

She took a step forward and threw her arms around his neck. He could feel the pressure of her breasts against his chest and her lips were on his mouth as she drew him down to her. ‘I have never met a man like you Benjamin,’ she whispered hoarsely with tears in her eyes. ‘Please be careful.’

He was stunned by her passion and stood with his hands at his sides. She clung to him with desperation. Events had moved too fast for the normal coy processes of courtship. All she knew was that it was important that
he knew
she cared more than she could admit to herself. He pushed her away gently. ‘I hope you remember this moment when I return,’ he growled softly.

Then he was gone.

Kate passed the rifle to Jenny. ‘He will be back,’ she said reassuringly as she slid the big Colt revolver from its leather holster. ‘Ben is one of the best men out here.’

‘I know,’ Jenny answered in a small voice. ‘I only wish I had told him before.’

Although Kate had expressed her confidence in the young teamster’s ability to succeed in his task she could not feel as equally confident in the privacy of her thoughts. Was it that the strange curse on her family would take yet another she loved? She glanced down at the big Navy Colt in her hand checking that the percussion caps were in place over the revolver’s chambers. ‘God and Jenny’s love go with you Ben,’ she whispered softly. ‘Come back for both of us.’

B
en crouched and sprinted along a strip of dry sand in the creek bed. Where the sand ran out he was exposed up on the creek bank. Although his legs were strong from the countless miles of walking beside the big wagon, so too he knew were the legs of the hardy warriors. He prayed with desperate entreaty to God that the warriors in ambush would have all their attention on the column of approaching Chinese.

The knife in his hand felt lethal but he was also fully aware of how futile it was. It was unlikely any warriors would come close enough for him to use it in his defence. They would stand back and bury him under a shower of barbed spears. Worse still, they could rush him, and take him alive for one of their cannibal feasts! He shuddered with horror as he fought the terrible fear. The sprint in the late afternoon heat had taken its toll on his strength. But so far there had been no sign of the warriors and the long grass kept him hidden from their view.

He stumbled on a log and pitched face first into the ground, driving the wind from his lungs. As he lay gasping for breath he could hear the unintelligible sing-song voices chattering close by.

With some effort Ben rose from the ground. He could see the column of men above the sea of grass. Twenty, maybe thirty Chinese in their uniform blue trousers, shirts and broad conical hats. They jogged as they balanced bamboo poles with cane baskets slung across their shoulders while a few were carrying ancient flintlock muskets. They were being led by a giant of a man dressed in the bushmen’s garb of moleskin trousers and red shirt. But the giant also wore one of those big American felt hats with the brim turned down, and he trailed a Snider rifle with a bandolier of ammunition around his waist.

‘Hey!’ Ben called and stood to wave his arms. The column came to a hesitant halt. Fear etched the smooth faces of the men who turned to stare at him and the armed Chinese levelled their muskets. ‘You speakee English?’ he called.

‘Yair, I speakee good English Mister,’ the giant at the head of the column bellowed in a voice deeply resonant with the accent of an Australian bushman. ‘What the hell do you want?’

As Ben staggered towards the column, the bushman turned and spoke in Chinese to the men in the column. They were naturally nervous at the sight of the wild-eyed white man stumbling towards them. The lurid stories that circulated around the Chinese quarter of Cooktown of white men who ambushed and killed Chinese for the gold they might be carrying were fresh in their minds. It was rumoured that sometimes the white men would leave Chinese bodies with Aboriginal spears in the bullet holes in an attempt to make it look as if the natives had killed them. They watched suspiciously as the white man approached.

Ben was surprised to see that the man dressed in European clothing was part Chinese although at first glance this had not been noticeable. He was around Ben’s own age and clean shaven. The man’s eyes were a coal black and his appraisal of Ben like a deadly taipan snake’s of a mouse. The Snider rifle the giant Eurasian carried looked like a toy in his broad hands. ‘The name’s Ben Rosenblum,’ Ben panted when he reached the column. ‘And you are just about to be bushwhacked ’bout two to three hundred yards up the track.’

The Snider was casually levelled at his chest as the Eurasian eyed him suspiciously. ‘Myalls?’ he asked without taking the barrel of the rifle off him.

‘Yair. Myalls,’ Ben replied, ignoring the threat of the rifle. ‘Maybe a couple of hundred of ’em.’

Ben could see that the man was obviously the leader of the party. When he spoke the others reacted quickly. The men with arms closed on him while the others in the column squatted obediently in line waiting for further orders. The fear in the Chinese coolies’ eyes now turned to terror as they remembered the stories told in Cooktown of how the northern Aboriginal tribes preferred Chinese flesh to that of the Europeans. Around the opium houses, restaurants and brothels of the Chinese quarter fellow Chinese regaled tales to wide-eyed and frightened men going up the track to the Palmer, stories of others captured by the painted warriors and strung up by their pigtails from trees to await slaughter.

‘My name is John Wong,’ the Eurasian said without offering his hand. He let the rifle drop to his side. He had seen no guile in the other man’s eyes and decided to trust him. ‘Tell me what the hell is going on.’

Ben briefly recounted his discovery of the tracks in the creek while John listened and surveyed a stand of stunted trees on the grassy plain between them and the distant wagons. Cynically he realised that the teamster’s warning had only been given because he needed the Chinese as an ally to ensure his own survival; he was acutely aware of the European’s dislike of the Chinese.

When Ben had finished outlining the situation John turned and addressed those of his men armed with muskets. The Chinese looked fearful, although they listened without questioning their leader. When he had finished addressing his men, John turned to Ben. ‘I’ve told them that we are going to advance in a line against the myalls. I figure that if we go in shooting, the myalls will decide there are easier pickings up along the track and will run.’ He flashed Ben an evil grin. ‘But if I’m wrong and they stand and fight then the myalls are going to have an interesting supper tonight. White and yellow meat,’ he added with a chuckle as he cocked the hammer of his rifle. He turned to his men and barked brief orders. The Chinese responded – if somewhat reluctantly – and fanned out into an extended line.

They advanced cautiously across the grassy plain towards the scrub which now lay under a soft golden glow from the setting sun. The men with the muskets advanced ahead of the line and Ben kept close to John.

For the first hundred yards there was nothing except the sound of the bush birds warbling, and the swish of the long grass under foot. The Chinese were as tense as hunting dogs searching for game. The long barrels of their muskets thrust forward as if hoping they might ward off the hidden warriors. Ben’s nerves were at breaking point.

The ear-splitting screech of the black cockatoo rent the late afternoon air and simultaneously lines of yellow and white painted naked warriors rose from the long grass immediately ahead of them. The heart-stopping spectacle of the hundreds of warriors armed with their array of deadly weapons caused the advancing skirmish line to freeze in its tracks.

The Chinese teetered on the verge of panicked flight and, without firing a shot, turned to flee the superior numbers of black warriors confronting them. John’s voice roared above the Aboriginal war cry. He tried to rally his men as he fired his Snider into the massed ranks of painted warriors. A warrior crumpled with a yelp of pain as a bullet took him in the chest. But then a shower of deadly barbed reed spears hissed through the sky falling amongst the ranks of Chinese.

Ben felt a spear pluck at the elbow of his shirt and saw one of the Chinese musketeers nearby fall as a spear found its target. The stricken man dropped his flintlock as he desperately plucked at the spear buried deep in his lung. But the deadly barbs held firm against his futile efforts to tear the shaft out. The initiative was with the tribesmen and Ben knew the situation was extremely grim.

The volley of spears was followed by a full charge of warriors screaming their black cockatoo war cries as they surged forward brandishing clubs and wooden swords.

Ben scooped up the dying man’s musket and levelled the long barrel at a painted warrior who was charging towards him wielding a wooden sword and shield. The ancient flintlock fired true and the warrior spun as the lead ball took him.

Ben’s shot was followed by a rattle of fire by the Chinese musketeers as John bullied them back into a semblance of a line to face the phalanx charging towards them. A lethal shower of lead ripped through the warriors’ ranks and three warriors cried out their despair.

When they fell they were snatched up by their comrades who dragged them to the rear of the line which was by now faltering in its determination to close with the men who had rallied to fight back. Behind their own ranks the tribesmen stuffed the bullet holes with grass in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding.

John was firing his single shot Snider as if it had been one of the new repeating rifles from the Winchester company of America. With practised hands he fired, then flipped open the breech to slam in a cartridge. He did not have to take careful aim as the warriors were massed on the grassy plain in front of them.

Ben gripped the musket by its long barrel and stood his ground. He would wield the weapon as a club when the tribesmen reached them. Around him the Chinese musketeers scrabbled for powder and shot to reload their cumbersome weapons. They held their ground as they poured a spasmodic fusillade into the ranks of the charging warriors.

Then a distant crash of gunfire erupted behind the tribesmen. Kate and Jenny had joined the battle from the cover of the wagons. The combined weight of cross-fire unbalanced the momentum of the attack. The leader of the painted warriors could see that the Chinese had now rallied and appeared determined to sell their lives dearly. Bullets plucked at the grass and the men around him and he realised that the situation would only lead to unacceptable losses on his side.

It was not a lack of courage that caused the warrior chief to break off the attack but rather a thorough knowledge of the European way of fighting. He knew well the limitations of their own weapons. He knew that it was only through the use of stealth and ambush that they held any hope of success in their warfare against the invaders of their lands. On his command the warriors broke off the attack and turned to retreat with their wounded for the safety of the surrounding thick bush on the hillsides overlooking the track.

The gunfire from John’s Snider tapered off as the tribesmen melted into the bush. A wispy cloud of gunsmoke drifted on the still air. The victorious Chinese broke into an excited babble at the sight of the retreating Aboriginal warriors. Through the babble Ben could hear the distant voices of Kate and Jenny calling to him from the wagons. As he stood with the ancient flintlock in his hands, he realised that he was shaking uncontrollably. It had been so close. If John had not rallied his men and Kate had not joined the fight they would have been swamped by the screaming ranks of warriors.

He was vaguely aware of Jennifer’s cotton skirt swirling around her knees as she ran towards him across the grassy plain that had moments before been a battlefield. He tried to smile bravely as she flung herself into his arms and smothered him with kisses. He held her and knew he would never let her go.

‘I don’t know how I can thank you enough for helping us Mister Wong,’ Kate said, as she passed him a slab of jam-covered damper. He was not only a big man but he also had a big appetite. The jam dripped through his fingers onto his lap as he sat on a log beside the campfire under the canopy of brilliant stars.

‘Tucker like this is thanks enough, Missus O’Keefe,’ John answered gratefully, as he licked at his sticky fingers. ‘I’ve been on rice and dried fish for the last week. The tucker of my Chinese cousins isn’t what I’m used to. Man gets a craving for the food he was brought up on.’

Kate was surprised to hear him talk about his Chinese ‘cousins’ because he did not look very Chinese. Yet, he did have a Chinese surname, and there was the faintest trace of the Orient in his strong and handsome features. ‘You say your countrymen Mister Wong, but you don’t sound or look like them,’ she commented politely. ‘Although I must presume you have Chinese parentage.’

‘I’m half Irish half Chinese. My mother met my father on the Ballarat goldfields back in ’54. I was born there. Guess you could say I’m between two worlds,’ he reflected, as he stared into the flickering flames of the campfire. Kate glanced at him with surprise. It was hard for her to imagine someone of Irish blood also having Oriental blood. John noticed her bemused look. ‘I get to celebrate twice as many holidays,’ he chuckled when he came out of his introspection. ‘I even got drunk last Saint Pat’s day in Sydney with some of my mother’s relatives.’

Kate felt a little foolish talking about John’s mixed blood when she remembered that she herself was raising her brother Tom’s three children. They also lived between two worlds.

John finished the damper and washed it down with sweet black tea. The fire crackled in the silence and he stared contentedly into the flames. A full stomach of European food and the company of the legendary Kate O’Keefe sufficed for the moment. Even those in the Chinese quarter had heard of Kate O’Keefe. Her compassion crossed racial lines and the young Chinese girls working for the tongs had been recipients of her charity from time to time.

Ben and Jennifer had gone for a short walk into the dark to sit and gaze up at the brilliance of the southern sky. But they had not wandered too far from the protection the wagons afforded, just far enough to talk privately away from the hearing of the others.

Young Willie remained by the fire staring at John. He had attached himself to the charismatic man. The Eurasian bushman had taken the boy to his camp a short distance from the wagons and the Chinese had made a fuss of him, offering him some of their precious supply of candied ginger.

Willie had been wide-eyed at the strangeness of the men who had pigtails like girls and spoke in a language he did not understand. The Chinese were a relative novelty on the northern goldfields in the early months of 1874.

Now Willie sat at John’s feet savouring the tangy sweetness of a lump of candied ginger he had brought back from the Chinese camp. For once he was not clinging protectively to his mother, as Kate astutely noticed. But the excitement of the day and a full stomach caught up with Willie. He quietly slipped away to make his bed under Kate’s wagon while she sipped her tea and watched the shadows dance in the fire.

‘You know, I miss the company of my European brothers from time to time,’ John said reflectively. ‘But lately I’ve been starting to think in Chinese. Haven’t done that since I left my father in Melbourne years ago when my mother died.’