Shadow of the Osprey (39 page)

W
ith his rifle across his chest Michael Duffy lay on his back and gazed up at an eagle circling the dry valley. As graceful as it was lethal in its intent, the majestic bird dived earthwards. Michael tugged the broad brim of his hat down over his eyes and prepared to take a short nap.

A short distance away, using his rifle as a support, Luke Tracy crouched in the long grass, peering eastwards. Vigilant and alert he scanned the surrounding scrubby bush. They were deep within the territory of hostile tribesmen and such vigilance was essential to ensure that the shadows cast by a shimmering tropical sun did not suddenly move with the flash of a warrior releasing a deadly spear. Luke eased himself into a sitting position to take the strain off his legs.

‘No sign?’ Michael inquired lazily from under the shade of his hat.

‘Nothing yet,’ Luke answered as he reached for his water canteen.

A horse whinnied from a stand of scrub behind them. The sound instantly awoke Henry James who had been dozing under a spindly tree in the scrub. The horse was answered with a distant whinny, and the three men scanned the eastern horizon of low, scrub-covered hills.

‘It’s them,’ Luke said, as he rose and waved his rifle above his head.

In the distance one of the two shimmering mounted figures acknowledged them by waving his rifle above his head. After a short time the shapes took on more distinct outlines, as the two outriders rode towards them across the sun-baked plain.

Christie Palmerston and John Wong rode side by side with their rifles resting on their hips. They reined in at the edge of the tree line and Michael stepped forward to greet the two men. He gazed up at Christie Palmerston whose reputation as a superb bushman was well known to the people on the frontier.

Michael knew very little about the bushman’s past, except that it was rumoured that he was the illegitimate son of the famous opera singer Madame Carandini and Viscount Palmerston, an English lord. He was not really interested in the young man’s parentage but rather his considerable experience and skills as a bushman. He was a man in his mid-twenties and sported a long, dark beard down to his chest. Michael felt a kind of empathy with the young man whose left arm had been withered from birth. Michael’s own lost eye made him aware of how frustrating a physical disability could be.

‘They’re about three hours aback and coming this way,’ Christie said without being asked the crucial question.

‘How many?’ Michael asked.

‘Counted twenty-nine all up. Mostly Chinee. But saw four white men with them. Travelling single file and, as far as I knowed, not expecting a lot of trouble. Got a lot of arms for a Chinee coolie party though.’

‘You see a girl with them?’ Michael queried. He was fairly certain from the young bushman’s brief description of the approaching column that it was Mort’s party. Confirmation of the girl’s presence would be a bonus.

‘Too far away to see,’ Christie answered, as he wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Anyway, all Chinee look the same to me . . . man or woman.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Michael muttered. ‘It’s got to be them.’

Once Michael had scouted the valley with Henry and Luke, Christie and John had ridden away to locate Mort’s party. Christie had used his skills to skirt the track he knew the Chinese would most probably use, and the trail he had chosen had taken them up onto the ridges overlooking the narrow valleys and shimmering plains below. From their vantage point on the ridge they had observed small parties of prospectors winding like ants along the track. Eventually they had spotted the Chinese column snaking its way south west along the track towards the Palmer.

Michael turned and walked to the stand of scrub where their mounts grazed. Very little needed to be said. The five men, four days out of Cooktown, knew the next stage in his plan. Now it was only a matter of waiting for Mort to come to them.

The men watched with some curiosity from astride their horses as Michael walked the ground he had selected for his ambush site. He was a master tactician in ambushing and the site was carefully chosen for maximum advantage to compensate for their smaller number over Mort’s party.

Henry had more of an appreciation for what the Irish mercenary was doing, when Michael occasionally stopped, and crouched to scan the surrounding terrain. As a veteran of the Crimean War, he understood the importance of ambush; a small party of men had the odds on their side when they utilised surprise, concealment and cover, to catch an enemy in ground not advantageous to him.

Mort’s party was most likely to enter the killing ground that he had chosen because of the way the terrain naturally channelled them; a steep hill covered in forest to one side, and a sharp drop from the edge of the plateau on the other side left little choice.

An all out assault on a tong stockade was out of the question. In the open, and without the reinforcements of the Tiger Tong located somewhere along the track, Mort was most vulnerable. Satisfied at his choice of ground, Michael briefed his men and they dismounted to carry out the tasks he had assigned them.

The ambushers sweated under the tropical sun as they hastily erected log defences from the fallen timber they carried from the nearby hill. The trees, brought down by termites or storm, were made to appear as a natural part of the plain. Only those experienced in the tactics of ambush might notice the potential danger of the area. And Michael was gambling that Mort was not one of them.

When everything had been prepared the four men stood in a semicircle around Michael’s plan scratched in the earth. The ambush layout resembled an L with Henry and Luke to be positioned at the bottom. Michael and John would form the stem, while Christie would be positioned at the top, ready to cut off any attempt to retreat as well as to give early warning of the approach of the column. The only way out of the carefully laid ambush was over the steep edge of the plateau.

Michael used the tip of his bowie knife as a pointer. ‘That gully behind us will be our way out,’ he said waving to the cut in the hill behind them with his knife. The gully was a dry watercourse that had carved out the rock and provided a convenient cover for the withdrawal. ‘When we withdraw we will do so in short stages. One group on the ground providing covering fire while the other group moves. Are there any questions?’ They tugged at beards and scratched at the insect bites that covered their bodies. The plan appeared simple and effective and no-one spoke. ‘Good!’ Michael grunted as he stood and stretched. Each man knew his job and all had at one time or another in their lives known what to expect when the shooting started.

‘We ought to get the horses up there now,’ Henry said as he shaded his eyes against the glare of sun reflecting off the rocks.

‘Good idea,’ Michael said, sliding the bowie down the side of his boot. ‘We’ll hobble them on the other side. I don’t think we have much time.’

And he was right. They had hardly taken the horses over the hill, when Christie came running back from his vantage point. Sweat streamed down his face and into his beard. ‘They’re coming!’ he gasped breathlessly.

The ambushers melted into the ground behind their improvised timber defences and waited – but not for very long.

F
rom his concealed position Michael could see the lead man of the approaching column. He was one of the Chinese tong men and carried an ancient flintlock musket carelessly across his shoulder.

Michael set the rear sight of his Snider to two hundred yards, the distance he estimated the lead man was from him. Beside him, John did the same. Both men held their breaths as the man passed them and was followed by others.

No flanking scouts! Michael thought and breathed a little easier. He had gambled and won. He adjusted his rifle sights to one hundred yards. The centre of the column came into sight opposite them. Michael could see that they were bunched two abreast. It appeared that they had no intentions of falling behind their comrades, to be picked off by tribesmen, who might be lurking in the silent grey scrub. He could see that the Chinese were armed but that their weapons were a motley collection of ancient flintlocks with even a blunderbuss or two. At the centre of the column a handful of Europeans were clustered together carrying Winchester rifles.

‘There!’ John hissed. ‘There she is.’ Although John had never seen Hue before, she was as he had expected a member of a Chinese mandarin family to be. She carried herself with a regal dignity and was as beautiful as Michael has described her. John found that he could not take his eyes from the slender young girl.

‘Get ready!’ Michael hissed, and John reluctantly tore his eyes away. Michael scanned the line of men and found his target. ‘Tell ’em now,’ he said softly to John as he focused the former
Osprey
captain along the sights of his rifle.

‘Brothers! Throw down your weapons,’ John called out in Chinese. ‘Or you will die as you stand!’ Immediately the escort party milled uncertainly, peering in the direction from which the strange voice had come. But they had not dropped their muskets, and he could see Mort saying something to Woo, the pirate captain. Michael centred the foresight blade of his Snider on Mort’s chest.

‘Throw down your weapons brothers. There are many of us,’ John called out. ‘We can pick you off before you know death has come to you.’

One of the more daring Chinese raised his musket. Michael saw the man’s movements and immediately shifted his sights from Mort to the Chinese musketeer. Michael fired and the shot echoed off the hill behind them. The big slug of the Snider took the musketeer through the chest. He cried out and threw up his arms as he crumpled to the ground. A flight of sulphur-crested cockatoos rose as a screeching white cloud into the azure sky, the sound unhinging the Chinese who panicked and began firing wildly. It had been a split-second decision that had reprieved Mort from certain death.

The return fire from the ambushing men proved deadly accurate. Three out of four shots found targets. The escort party was now reduced by four and none of the panicked return fire caused any casualties to the ambushers. Michael’s party brought down four more Chinese as they remained standing to reload the cumbersome muskets, before wisely following the
Osprey
crewmen’s example and dropping to the ground.

Only the return rapid fire of the Winchesters had any real effect on the ambushers. It forced Michael and his men to keep their heads low, and some of the Winchester rounds flew uncomfortably close to pluck at the grass and whine off into the distance.

‘Who in hell is out there?’ Sims croaked with fear. ‘They’ll pick us all off.’

‘Must be another one of those murdering tong,’ Mort growled as he scrabbled in the pocket of his trousers for a box of cartridges. When he reloaded a thought nagged him. The ambush was too professional for what he had seen of the tongs. Whoever was out there, had laid a textbook ambush on them. He knew that they were trapped.

‘I’m hit!’ The strangled cry came from one of the crew members who had foolishly exposed himself to gain a better view of the plain. The sailor toppled on his back clutching his stomach, and dark blood oozed from the wound, staining the man’s dirty white shirt a dark coffee red. ‘Jesus it hurts,’ he groaned, as he writhed in agony. ‘Help me! For God’s sake help me Cap’n Mort.’

Mort chambered a round and levelled his rifle at the sailor. He fired and the bullet smashed into the sailor’s skull, killing him instantly. Sims gave his boss a frightened and shocked look. ‘Had to be done,’ Mort grunted. ‘The man was gut shot. He would have taken a long time to die.’

The firing tapered off as neither side presented themselves as targets. Mort cautiously raised himself on his elbows for a better view of their situation. He knew that they were boxed in, with just the drop of the plateau behind them. He considered the options; if he and his party remained in their present position the ambushers would be hard pressed to leave their own positions without exposing themselves to his guns. To opt for withdrawal, using the cliff behind them, invited the ambushers to advance, and pick them off when he and his men were exposed on the cliff face.

Mort knew full well the effective range of the Snider to be five hundred yards. Not reassuring knowledge, he thought dismally. In the hands of marksmen, the Snider rifle could pin them down forever. The men who had ambushed him were good.

‘Captain Woo!’ he bellowed. The pirate captain slithered through the long grass. Mort could clearly see fear etched in the man’s sweating, pockmarked face. ‘Do you know who might be out there?’ he asked.

Woo shook his head.

‘Man who call to us,’ he replied shaking his head, ‘he no speakee Chinee velly good. Me tink he maybe white man.’

Mort was puzzled. If what Woo said was correct, then he was lost for who might have reason to ambush them.

‘Mort! If you are still alive I suggest that you listen carefully.’

‘O’Flynn!’ Mort hissed. He should have been killed when the
Osprey
went down!

‘If you want to live, send the girl unharmed forward of where you are. If you do this we will let you all live . . . for now.’

For now
. . . The last words were not lost on Mort. So, O’Flynn was out for revenge. He was not really interested in wiping out the rest of the party, just him. ‘I’m here O’Flynn. And I hear what you are saying,’ he called back. ‘But as I see the situation, we are at a checkmate. You cannot advance. And we cannot retreat without losses on both sides.’

An ominous silence followed but was soon shattered by a single shot. A Chinese screamed as the Snider round took him through the head. Christie Palmerston had wriggled forward with the stealth of an Aboriginal warrior to pick off a Chinese musketeer who had foolishly moved. There was a murmur of frightened confusion amongst the Chinese.

‘As you can see Captain Mort,’ Michael called, when the sing-song voices had settled into a low moan of fear, ‘we can pick you off one at a time until we get to you.’

‘Captain Mort. You givee white man the woman,’ Woo said, plucking fearfully at Mort’s sleeve. ‘He will kill us all.’

The pirate captain’s plea was cut short by a voice calling to them across the plain. The words were in Chinese and its effect was to make him even more urgent in his entreaty to allow the girl to go.

‘What was said?’ Mort asked the terrified pirate. Aboard his junk Woo was afraid of no man. But in the heat and dust of this terrible land, death came randomly to pluck life away, and there appeared to be no answer to this kind of fighting.

‘He say you be killed by us if you no let girl go,’ Woo replied, staring wide-eyed at Mort. ‘He say all Chinaman go . . . not kill Chinaman you let girl go.’

Mort glanced around at the Chinese and noticed that one of the tong members was watching him with a dangerous and calculating look. He contemplated the rapidly deteriorating situation. There was a good chance his own men might turn on him. ‘We will give them the girl,’ he said quietly. But although he was giving her up, he had no intention of allowing the Irish-American to win. Two could play at ambushing! Already his murderous mind had formulated a plan. ‘Tell your men to let the girl go,’ he said to Woo, who nodded vigorously, and crawled back to Hue.

He ordered her to stand and she did so cautiously. She had also heard the strangely accented Chinese voice. As far as she could tell she was only going from one band of brigands to another.

Michael and John peered across the open plain as the slender young girl rose uncertainly. ‘Hue, do not be afraid,’ John called to her in Chinese. ‘Do as I say. Walk forward of where you are now standing. Walk towards the place on the hill where the big rocks are and wait. Be assured, we are friends come to save you, and return you unharmed to your home.’

They could see the girl’s chin tilt with hopeful expectation as the voice calling to her did not sound threatening. She walked slowly towards the rock-lined gully behind the ambushers while Michael and John slithered away from their position behind the log. As Michael crawled with his rifle cradled in his arms he bitterly regretted not killing Mort when he had the chance. But he had been true to the promise he had made to Horace Brown; the rescue of the Cochinese girl came first. Besides, the man he had vowed to kill would come after them, because he had no other choice. Without the girl, Mort’s sinking of the
Osprey
would have been a senseless and wasted act.

Hue walked uncertainly past John and Michael. If all was going according to plan Christie, Henry and Luke would now be snaking their way through the sea of long grass towards the gully. Michael would wait in his present position to give covering fire if necessary.

But Mort also waited patiently. He was in no hurry to expose himself to the guns of the ambushers as he had a healthy respect for his opponent’s military skills. While he waited he issued orders down the line of Chinese, using Woo as his interpreter. They knew they must obey. Tong leaders were murderously unforgiving. They must get the girl back or suffer the lethal consequences of failure.

‘I am John Wong. And the men with me are here to help you,’ John told Hue as she stood in the gully surrounded by the ring of tough-looking men. Although she was frightened, the young, clean-shaven giant who spoke to her had a gentle voice belying his tough appearance.

She recognised both the man with the eye patch, and the tall man who spoke bad French. But Hue was most intrigued by the tall young man who towered over her. She could see that he was part Chinese and part European. Never before had she met an Oriental man of his size. His dark eyes seemed to have a cold, deadly smoulder – except when he smiled. Then she felt the warmth that was at the core of the man who called himself John Wong. ‘I believe you John Wong,’ she replied in Chinese.

Michael kept an uneasy eye on the plain. When the rest of his party had scrambled into the safety of the rocks he flashed them a smile of relief. ‘C’mon,’ he snapped. ‘We have to get to the horses and out of here before Mort can close in on us.’ He had no doubts that even now the murderous former sea captain was probably redeploying his men to intercept them and cut off their retreat.

The scramble along the rock-littered gully, towards the dense rainforest on the summit above them, was made with few words. Michael noticed that Henry was lagging behind. He gritted his teeth and pushed on, despite the searing agony in his leg. He had insisted on joining this rescue party and had given his word that he would keep up with the others.

Breathing in ragged gasps from lungs tortured by the gruelling climb, they reached the top of the hill where Michael gave the order to take a short rest. Sweat soaked, they collapsed amongst the shadows of the majestic rainforest. All they had to do now was descend into the tiny valley below, where their horses were hobbled. From there Christie would guide them over the top of the range, and out onto a trail that led to the main track back to Cooktown. Mounted, they could easily outpace any attempt Mort made on foot to outflank or circle them for an ambush. So far it had been so easy, Michael thought as he surveyed his weary party.

Christie was first to pick up the ominous sounds that drifted on the humid, still air of the rainforest. Then Michael heard the distant whinnying and immediately recognised the sound as the pitiful cry of horses in distress. ‘Mort?’ he hissed his question.

Christie shook his head. ‘Bloody myalls!’ he spat, leaping to his feet. The others scrambled down the hill after him. When they finally reached the bottom of the narrow valley Michael groaned in despair at what they found.

Riddled with spears, the horses lay dead or dying, among them Henry’s chestnut. Blood-specked foam covered his muzzle as he made a feeble attempt to regain his feet. Henry raised his rifle and the big horse’s body quivered briefly in death from the single shot. As Henry reloaded there were tears of rage in his eyes for the men who had forced him to kill his gentle mare.

Without the horses they would have to elude any pursuers on foot across some of the most rugged country on the island continent. Their saddle bags had been riffled too and anything of value taken. The only remaining items were those which they carried. They were at least well armed and ammunition was not a problem. But they were without food and had lost a critical advantage over Mort. And they now had the additional problem of whoever had speared the horses.

‘Probably Merkin,’ Christie muttered as he threw aside one of the thin reed spears. ‘Killed the horses so they get a better chance to pick us off later in the bush.’

Hue stared fearfully at the dead horses and unconsciously shifted closer to John.

‘We will be safe,’ he said to her when he saw the expression of fear in her face. ‘The big man with the one eye is a great warrior.’ He shrugged nonchalantly as if to dismiss the situation as a minor setback to their plans. ‘He has seen worse.’

She understood his quietly spoken words. The men gathered around her indeed had the unmistakable look of tough warriors. In her own country she might have called them bandits.

Christie hefted his rifle and walked away from the horses. Sunset was almost upon them and he wanted to get to high ground before the sun sank in the deep valleys. Once the sun was gone they would be plunged into the total darkness of the rainforest night. The others followed as he led them out of the small and narrow valley.