by Peter Watt
After they had bathed Kate had presented the young woman with a clean dress. It was one which she had carefully packed for any occasion that might warrant its wearing. Not that any such occasion arose on the grinding, torturous trek along the track to the Palmer. But it was a small vanity that reminded Kate that she was still a woman, despite working in the gruelling man’s world of the bullocky.
Jennifer had burst into tears at the simple gesture. No-one had ever given her a present in all of her eighteen years and the simple cotton dress without the rigid stays clung to the slim body in a provocative way that did not go unnoticed by Ben. Nor was it unnoticed by the miners who they occasionally passed on the track. Although Jenny preferred not to notice the miners’ unabashed stares Ben had experienced twinges of jealousy for the attention Jenny was unwittingly provoking.
Despite his sometimes less than subtle interest in her he had remained aloof. He was afraid that if he showed any interest he might be rejected. And besides, Kate had spoken to him a couple of days out of the Palmer, and had explained that the girl might need time to adjust to the attentions of a good man. Indeed his boss had explained with such a knowing smile that it caused him to blush.
But now, standing next to Jenny and holding the heavy rifle into her shoulder, he was close enough to catch her scent and even touch her smooth flesh. The same disturbingly secret thoughts were back in his mind as he placed his hand self-consciously under the young woman’s, gripping the wooden forestock of the rifle. Her long hair brushed his face and he had an overwhelming urge to hold her and kiss her on the lips. He was afraid of his feelings as he had never known a woman in the carnal sense. Kate had been like a surrogate mother keeping him away from the tempting fleshpots of Cooktown. Although he knew she was acting in his best interests the invitations from the painted ladies were hard to ignore.
Jenny was more acutely aware of Ben than he realised. He was not like the other men she had known in her life. He was kind and gentle in a shy way and had a wonderful laugh. But she did not consider herself beautiful when she remembered the strawberry birthmark. What man would ever want a woman with such a disfigurement?
Mister Granville White had not cared about the mark, she remembered bitterly. All he ever wanted was her prepubescent body. She still remembered the depraved things he did to her. Willie had been a product of those terrible times. But he was now a part of her in a way that had brought only joy to her lonely life. Sometimes she shuddered when she looked at the boy and saw a part of Granville White looking back.
With the rifle butt in her shoulder she could feel Ben’s big callused hand under her own. As they stood at the edge of a shallow, stony bottomed creek she found herself wishing that the moment might go on for ever. She sighted the rifle at the fork of a drooping coolabah tree on the other side.
‘You just let the gun rest in this hand and hold it steady with your other,’ Ben said as he lowered his head to look down across her shoulder and along the sights. ‘Remember,’ he explained as his face pressed into her soft hair, ‘when you squeeze the trigger do so with a gentle but even pressure.’
Jenny nodded as she closed one eye the way Ben had taught her. She was suddenly aware of a disturbing change in him. He was tense, something had distracted his attention from the shooting lesson. ‘Jenny, I want you to walk back to the wagons with the rifle,’ he said quietly but firmly.
She turned and gave him a puzzled look. ‘Is something wrong?’ she frowned.
‘Maybe not,’ he answered quietly. ‘Just something I want to have a look at. Just go back to Kate and make sure Willie is at the wagon.’
She walked nervously away. On her right the rainforest marched up the craggy barrier that was the hilly spine between the Palmer goldfields and the ocean to the east.
The hairs on the back of Ben’s neck stood erect. He was acutely aware of a pounding in his ears and only when he could hear the distant sound of Jenny’s voice engaged in a conversation with Kate did he walk cautiously with the Colt in his hand a short distance up the creek which flowed gently through a plateau of tall grasses and stunted trees. The swirling little eddies of mud in the clear waters had caught his eye whilst he had stood behind Jenny. And now he stared down the creek line at the other eddies of mud in the water.
There were hundreds of them! Footprints!
Prints so fresh that the creek had not had time to wash them away. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes old, Ben thought with rising fear. Either a very large war party or a peaceful tribe moving across the trail behind them. But it was not usual for the tribesmen to allow their women and children so near the track. No provocation was needed for the miners to indiscriminately shoot at any Aboriginal sighted in the bush. The idea that the only good black was a dead one prevailed amongst many of the white men of the frontier. Ben could only conclude that he was staring at the footprints of a very large war party stalking them.
He could see that the Aboriginal crossing had been made behind them when they had stopped for the midday break. The warriors had probably circled them and were now moving into an ambush position in the thicker scrub that edged further along the track towards Cooktown. His stomach churned. He was afraid and he had very good reason for that fear. Somewhere deeper in the scrub the painted warriors were moving silently into position with their spears, wooden swords, clubs and broad shields.
He could still hear Kate and Jennifer talking softly in the distance. Water burbled over the pebbles of the creek while in the thick scrub the little song birds shrilled. The serenity of the bush was deceptively mesmerising.
Ben edged away from the creek and began walking towards the wagons. He was acutely aware that with the next step he might hear the bloodchilling, black cockatoo war cry, as painted warriors rose up out of the ground wielding their weapons. The hundred paces to the wagons felt more like a hundred miles.
Kate saw the gun in Ben’s hand as he approached and instinctively knew that something was terribly wrong. As he stood peering intently up the track to the stands of scrub she cast him a quizzical look.
‘I think we are being watched,’ he replied to her unspoken question. ‘Saw signs of a big myall party that has crossed behind us when we stopped.’
Jennifer paled and with a stricken expression clasped Willie to her protectively.
‘How many?’ Kate asked calmly as she poured tea into an enamel mug and passed it to Ben.
‘I don’t know.’ The mug shook in his hand. ‘Maybe hundreds from the signs I saw back at the creek.’
Kate turned to scan the surrounding scrub. The heat of the midday sun high overhead caused the scrub to shimmer with an uncomfortable haze. ‘I think they will be in the bush up ahead on the track,’ she said calmly as she shaded her eyes against the glare.
‘That’s what I think,’ he replied as he sipped the hot tea. ‘I think they are just waiting for us to move on. Wait until we are well and truly within range of their spears. A short rush and they would be on us before we could get off many shots. The bloody grass helps hide them. We could just about step on one of ’em before we could ever see ’em.’
‘Then we sit and wait here,’ Kate suggested. ‘Or we turn around and go back, or someone will come down the track and walk into their ambush. Then hopefully we will have extra guns to help us,’ she added optimistically, wishing that she had purchased one of those American repeating rifles. She had been offered one by an American prospector who had been down on his luck and prepared to part with his Spencer for the price of his fare home.
Ben could see that Jenny, although pale and still frightened, was quickly regaining her calm. Willie stood protectively holding his mother’s hand. He vowed silently that no man would ever again hurt her. Although he was not fully aware of what the tribesmen might do he did know that he would fight back somehow to protect her. Ben only wished that they had an extra rifle for Jenny. But all she carried was Kate’s little pepper box pistol. It might get one warrior, but little else.
‘Will the savages
attack us here?’ Jenny asked in a frightened voice.
‘I don’t think so,’ Kate answered as she gazed up the track. ‘At least not in broad daylight. They know that they would lose a few if they had to attack us across open ground. No, they will wait until either someone else falls into their trap. Or try to get us tonight.’
‘What do you think we should do Kate?’ Ben asked. He had a great respect for his boss’s decisions. She had not accumulated a fortune without a sharp and perceptive mind.
Kate turned and walked across to one of the wagons where the boxes of cartridges were kept for the rifle. ‘We fortify the wagons and wait,’ she said as she opened the box of cartridges. ‘If they come they will have to get at us under the wagons which should help stop their spears. And if we can keep up enough fire from under the wagons then it might be just enough to discourage them. From what I’ve been told it’s not usual for them to keep up an attack against guns for very long.’
Ben was not so sure. Had not the tribesmen attacked a well-armed police party on its way back to Cooktown? Surely they were less prepared than the police who were trained and equipped to repel attacks from the myalls. But they had no other options. Although not very religious, Ben said a short and silent prayer for their deliverance.
‘I think we should unhitch the bullocks,’ Kate said hefting the rifle on her shoulder. ‘And get them down to the creek.’
Ben agreed and Jenny stood guard while they hobbled the bullocks down to where they could graze on the grass and have access to the water.
~
The afternoon passed with an interminable slowness while the bells around the bullocks’ necks jangled softly with a reassuring and soothing sound. The group kept an anxious vigil in both directions along the deserted track as surely there would be a traveller before sunset.
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.’
NINE
Ben 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 tha
t 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.
