Tarrapaldi

by Wayne T Mathews

  “It doesn’t matter. She’s hurt and will be easy to catch now. After her men. The one who catches her can have first turn. But remember,” the Lieutenant shouted after the running men, “we want her alive.”

  Reloading, the corporal looked past the men scampering after the limping woman like a pack of hounds. He noted that while she appeared to be hurt, the distance between her and the running men remained the same, and he wondered how far she’d lead them before she gave him another chance to take a shot.

  His rifle cocked, the corporal moved cautiously over to the place from which the woman had bolted. Inspecting the ground, he was surprised there was no sign of her having been there. He looked in the direction she had gone with the men following, then looked back up the valley in the direction they’d been heading before she appeared.

  The corporal decided not to follow the men. Picking a spot, he sat down and made himself comfortable. Taking out his pipe for the first time that day, he packed, and then lit it while he considered how long he might have to wait before the woman came back up the valley. He’d seen too many ducks use the broken wing act, to draw a predator away from either their eggs or their young, to be fooled by the limp of a woman he knew he hadn’t wounded.

  Tarrapaldi was beginning to tire when she came to the stream crossing where she’d left the false tracks. Using the unnatural limping gait was taking more out of her than if she’d trotted along in her normal stride. Looking back, she saw the first of the men coming through the trees. They weren’t yelling anymore. Even at that distance, she could see the sweat streaming down their faces, and their chests heaving.

  Her face expressionless, she let out a frightened-sounding squeal and limped through the stream. Coming out the other side, she looked back and saw one man had dumped the backpack he’d been carrying and was sprinting toward her as fast as he could. Barefoot and younger than the other convicts, he was within yards of her and she could hear his labored breathing when she looked back. The other men were not in sight when she let out another frightened squeal and stopped limping. Using her normal free flowing stride, she accelerated away, leaving him stumbling when he realized the futility of trying to keep up to, let alone catch, the fleet-footed woman.

  After 50 yards, Tarrapaldi looked back. Seeing the man stopped, both feet spread, his hands on his knees, and his chest heaving while he watched her, she slowed her pace and began limping again before she stopped. Turning to face him, Tarrapaldi mimicked his stance and labored breathing until the other men came into sight.

  With what she hoped would sound like a cry of despair, she turned and began limping away from them, drawing them after her. She kept them running, until with the ground she’d burned the day before in front of her, she stopped to look back.

  The men were all stumbling. The officer, no pack on his back, but pistol in hand, urged them on.

  Turning back to the burned ground, Tarrapaldi set off again. Still limping, she traveled at a more comfortable pace.

  When the Lieutenant saw her clearly across the burned ground, he ran to one of the troopers and snatched his rifle out of his hand. Holstering his pistol, the Lieutenant checked the prime while he ran to a tree. Using the tree to steady his aim, the Lieutenant forced himself to hold his gasping breath while he laid the sights on Tarrapaldi’s back, and squeezed the trigger.

  Tarrapaldi had no warning.

  The ball hit her high on the right shoulder and spun her around, punching her off her feet. She landed on her back, the air whooshing from her lungs.

  Through a fog of pain, she saw the men cheer, but surprisingly, didn’t hear it. Rolling onto her stomach, she realized when she tried to rise, that her right arm was damaged. Using only her left arm, she struggled to her feet while the whooping men raced toward her. Her spears and woomera, the throwing stick she launched her spears with, lay on the ground. But with her shoulder damaged, they were of no use.

  When the first man was close, Tarrapaldi saw in his eyes that he had no intention of stopping. He was going to tackle her. She skipped sideways. Holding her wounded arm to her side, she drove her left knee into his groin when he rushed past. Without stopping to check on the damage, she charged the next man. She delivered a stiff arm to his head, taking him completely by surprise, knocking him onto his back.

  But the rest of the men were either stopped or stopping. One of the soldiers unslung his rifle when Tarrapaldi reached him. Using her momentum, she gripped the barrel and wrenched the rifle from his hands. Continuing to turn, she lashed out with the rifle and smashed the stock against the Lieutenant’s elbow while he tried to clear his pistol.

  With the men milling around in confusion among the howls of pain and protest, Tarrapaldi took off. At a speed that didn’t seem possible, she ran for the bush that hadn’t been burned. Only this time, she didn’t run straight. Every few steps she sidestepped either one way or the other. And the two shots that rang-out behind her, didn’t even come close.

  Chapter Five

  Nathaniel heard someone coming. Not a lot of noise, but in the quietness of the bush, enough to let him know someone was sneaking toward him.

  Placing his rifle on the ground beside him, he knelt down the way Tarrapaldi had shown him and looked at the ground, concentrating on his peripheral vision in the direction he could hear the noise.

  “Nathaniel? Baiame, please let him be here. Nathaniel?”

  Nathaniel’s head snapped up. “Tarrapaldi? Where are you?”

  “Over here.” Then realizing he couldn’t detect direction from thoughts, she repeated out loud, “Warrania.”

  Suddenly he saw her. Leaning against a tree, blood seeping from the gaping hole above her right breast. Groaning, she levered herself off the tree and staggered toward him.

  Running to meet her, he tripped on a fallen tree branch and stumbled along trying to regain his balance until, turning to use her left hand, Tarrapaldi caught his arm. “Slow down, Nathaniel. I’m hurt enough for both of us.”

  “What happened?”

  “I forgot to zig and zag,” Tarrapaldi said.

  “That Corporal. The bastard. Did he do this?”

  “No. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t the Corporal. He must have dropped behind somewhere, because he wasn’t with them when this happened.”

  After making certain the wound was clean, Nathaniel tore his shirt into strips before binding the wound.

  “We’ll rest here for a couple of days before we go on. You’ll have to tell me where to find food.”

  “That’s no good, Nathaniel. I’ve lost a lot of blood, and my muscles are badly torn. If I’m going to have use of the arm again, you have to get me to Tunggaree quickly.”

  “Can I go and get him? Bring him to you rather than try to move you?”

  Tarrapaldi shook her head. “A few months ago, that wouldn’t have been a problem. But it is now. He’s recovering from the sickness, but he’s still too weak to travel any distance. No, we’ll just have to grit our teeth and get on with it.”

  “You can’t walk though.”

  “I can if you help me. Bring your weapon, hatchet, knife and water bottle. We’ll have to leave the rest.” Tarrapaldi watched and gave advice while Nathaniel cleaned up the campsite, and stowed his belongings under an overhanging rock. After removing most signs of their having been there, he slung his rifle over his left shoulder and helped Tarrapaldi to her feet.

  Moving slowly, they descended into the valley and walked westerly. Tarrapaldi leaning heavily on his shoulder for support, pointing out the sign the men left when they had chased her.

  “I don’t care about the tracks they left, Tarrapaldi. Save your energy and concentrate on where we’re going.”

  “The tracks are more important than you think.” She brought him to a stop by pulling back on the arm around his shoulder. “The corporal is still out in front of us.”

 
“Now what makes you think that?”

  “I don’t think it. I know it. The Corporal’s boots have iron spikes driven into the sole to make them last longer. Two of the spikes on his right boot are missing. You can see that clearly on the footprint you’re almost standing on.”

  Nathaniel looked down at the faint mark she was indicating. To him, there was nothing clear about it at all.

  “That Corporal came up this way, Nathaniel. But he hasn’t come back.”

  Looking around, Nathaniel turned to lead her away from the tracks.

  “Stand or die, Bucko,” the corporal called from where he’d waited patiently. “It’s a long shot, but I’ll put a ball through your heart if you make another move I haven’t ordered you to make.”

  “What is he saying?” Tarrapaldi asked.

  “He said he’ll shoot if we make another move.” Nathaniel said.

  “Keep him talking, Nathaniel. I’m going to pretend to pass-out.”

  “Have a heart will you,” Nathaniel called out to the man he still couldn’t see. “The wife’s been hurt bad. She’s about done in, and needs to lie down.”

  “Drop your rifle and bring her forward to the clearing. Slowly,” the Corporal said.

  When Nathaniel unslung his rifle and let it fall, Tarrapaldi sagged and fell to the ground before Nathaniel could get a good enough grip to prevent it.

  “Gently, Bucko. You make another move like that and you’ll meet your maker.”

  “She’s hurt, damn you,” Nathaniel yelled. “Can’t you see that? She needs help.”

  “Maybe she does. But you move away from her slowly. That’s right. Now sit on the ground facing her, with both legs straight out in front of you, and your hands on your head.”

  Nathaniel sat down, not moving a muscle. The corporal cautiously entered the clearing, his steps loud and clear. Nathaniel could feel the rifle aimed at his back.

  The corporal circled around until Tarrapaldi was between him and Nathaniel.

  “Move one muscle, and she dies,” the corporal said shifting the rifle muzzle towards Tarrapaldi. Moving with almost comical caution, he crept up to the prone woman, pressed the muzzle of his rifle into the flesh between her neck and right shoulder, and jabbed.

  “Leave her alone, dammit. Can’t you see she’s hurt?” Nathaniel put his hands on the ground, drawing his legs up to rise.

  “Don’t do it, Bucko,” the corporal said pointing his rifle at Nathaniel’s chest.

  “Relax, Nathaniel,” Tarrapaldi transmitted without moving a muscle. “He’s only checking to see if I’m pretending. I told you he’s a thinker.”

  Nathaniel didn’t take his eyes from the Corporal, “He’s a bastard is what he is.” He slowly put his hands back on his head, extending his legs in front of him again.

  The corporal stepped around Tarrapaldi and took the left strap of his backpack off his shoulder, before changing his rifle from his right hand to his left, his eyes never leaving the angry man in front of him.

  “Baal ngoppun.”

  The unmistakable click of a hammer being cocked sounded like a thunderclap over Tarrapaldi’s quietly spoken words.

  The Corporal froze. “What did she say?”

  “I think she said, don’t move.” Nathaniel slowly took his hands from his head and stood. Moving carefully, he reached out and pushed the barrel of the corporal’s rifle aside.

  Once it was clear, Nathaniel snatched the rifle from the corporal’s hands. Quickly stepping closer, he slammed the stock into the corporal’s groin. Taking a half step back, Nathaniel positioned himself to deliver a butt stroke to the corporal’s head, when Tarrapaldi’s command penetrated the rage clouding his mind.

  “Don’t, Nathaniel,” Tarrapaldi said. “We may need him.”

  Stepping back from the collapsing man, Nathaniel pointed the rifle at him. “We don’t need this son-of-a-bitch. But I’ve a good mind to blow a hole in his shoulder and then start poking it, just to see how he likes it.”

  “If you do that, Nathaniel. I will shoot you.”

  Nathaniel tore his attention from the man writhing on the ground. Tarrapaldi lay on her back, his own rifle held in her left hand and braced by her knee. The bore seemed big enough to crawl into when he looked past it, into her eyes.

  “I’m serious, Nathaniel. If you hurt him for the sake of hurting him. I will kill you.”

  “Good Lord, Woman. He’s one of the enemy. He’s been trying to hurt us for two days, and if he gets a chance, he’ll try again.”

  “That doesn’t matter. What matters is, he can help you carry me to Tunggaree. Please, Nathaniel, back up and put the gun down. My strength is failing and I need you to get two poles and make a seat I can ride in. You must do this while I still have the strength to cover him with your weapon.”

  Frowning, Nathaniel moved away and put the rifle down before returning to open the Corporal’s pack. Pulling out a pair of manacles, he turned to Tarrapaldi. “Will it be all right if I put these on him? He won’t be able to hurt us while I make the chair if he’s wearing them.”

  “That is a good idea,” Tarrapaldi said, “but don’t hurt him anymore than you have.”

  “You don’t know how lucky you are,” Nathaniel said while he locked the corporal’s wrists around a tree trunk with the manacles, and put the key in his pocket. “If I had my way, you’d have a bullet in you. But the lady thinks I shouldn’t,” Nathaniel said.

  “So you’re going to leave me chained to a tree to starve, are you?” The corporal said.

  “No. I’m going to feed you. And then you’re going to carry the other half of a stretcher that we’re going to use to get her back to her father. He’s a medicine man, she says, who will be able to mend the damage you bastards did to her shoulder,” Nathaniel said.

  “What makes you think I’m going to carry your black woman for you?”

  “If you don’t carry her, or if you hurt her while you are carrying her, or if we don’t get there early enough for her father to mend her shoulder, I’ll cut your dong off, and push it down your throat until you choke to death.”

  “What did you just say to him, Nathaniel?” Tarrapaldi asked when she saw the color drain from the corporal’s face.

  “I told him what was going to happen to him, if he did anything to hurt you again.”

  Tarrapaldi frowned. “You’ve frightened him half to death.”

  “Not yet, I haven’t, but he knows all too well, there’ll be no half about it, if he hurts you again.”

  Chapter Six

  Nathaniel cut and trimmed two poles with his hatchet. Using a ball of twine he found in the corporal’s pack, he lashed inch thick branches between the poles, to form a crude stretcher. He helped Tarrapaldi onto the stretcher, and after checking the prime, put the corporal’s rifle beside her.

  Taking up his own rifle, Nathaniel moved around behind the Englishman, and pushed the muzzle into his side.

  “I’m going to unlock one of your manacles. You’re going to put your pack on, then walk over to the stretcher and lock yourself to it so that you face away from Tarrapaldi. You will be in front throughout this march. But you will go the way we tell you. Tarrapaldi will have your rifle pointed at your back the entire time,” Nathaniel said. “So I suggest you do not joggle, or cause her any pain, that may cause her to flinch.”

  “Is that her name, John? Tarrapaldi?” the corporal asked after moving carefully to the stretcher, and locking the free end of the manacles around the lashed joint of the first cross branch and the left pole.

  “Who told you my name’s John?” Nathaniel asked while taking the key Newman offered.

  “You did,” the Corporal said. “The day all this nonsense started, you told us your name is John Nathaniel. I remembered it because my name is John Newman, and our initials are the same.”

  Tarrapaldi looked at Nath
aniel. “What is he saying?”

  “He’s asking our names. And he told me his name is John Newman.”

  “That is a good sign, Nathaniel. How do you say, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, John Newman. My name is Tarrapaldi.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, John Newman. My name is Tarrapaldi.” When Nathaniel said the words, Tarrapaldi repeated them a heartbeat behind him. Her words were an exact mimic of his American accent, riding over his while he still said them.

  Speechless, both men stared at her.

  “How did she do that?” Newman asked.

  “Damned if I know.” Nathaniel said. “But I’m going to find out. To do that, we have to first get the damage you bastards did, fixed. Pick up your end, Soldier.”

  “Can I make a suggestion?”

  “You can make it, but I’m not saying I’ll follow it.”

  “The rope on the side of my pack. We can tie it to the poles so we have a sling we can put over our necks. That way we’ll distribute the weight over our shoulders. Our hands will be free, and there’s less chance we’ll drop the stretcher if one of us stumbles,” the Corporal said.

  Nathaniel considered the suggestion for several seconds.

  “It’s a good idea, Nathaniel. Let’s do it.”

  “Can you hear what he thinks?” Nathaniel asked.

  Tarrapaldi chuckled. “Not yet. But I can hear what you’re thinking. And it’s a good idea.”

  Newman watched them during the silent communication.

  Nathaniel moved to take the rope off the pack.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you two were talking to each other just then,” Newman said.

  Nathaniel said nothing. Without cutting the rope, he tied one end to the front of the poles, so that the rope between the poles would form a sling. He repeated the same thing at the other ends of the poles before coiling the left-over rope, and tucking it in beside Tarrapaldi.

  “Now comes the hard part,” Nathaniel said, kneeling between the poles and placing the sling over his head, so that it lay across the back of his neck. When he saw Newman had done the same thing and was ready for the lift, he said, “Let’s go.”