by Peter Watt
‘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 ord
er 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.
Mort gazed up at the rainforest-covered hill. The Irishman was somewhere up there but finding O’Flynn without an Aboriginal tracker was going to be extremely difficult. Nevertheless it was imperative that they should keep close on his heels.
He had debated with himself whether he should split his party and send on one half to try and set up a cordon near Cooktown. But he dismissed the idea, thinking of how easy it would be to slip past a few men in the dark near the town. This left him with one option. ‘Mister Sims. We are going up the hill.’
Sims groaned and passed on the message to the pirate captain. Woo stared with disbelief up at the range of hills covered in a tangle of rainforest and realised that the search for the men who had ambushed them would not only be physically arduous, but also downright dangerous. The ambushers had a ruthless efficiency in the way they had hit and run.
Woo’s fears were echoed silently by Sims. He too had no desire to plunge into the ominous rainforest above them in the pursuit of O’Flynn. But his fear of Mort was greater than his fear of the Irish mercenary, and he now bitterly regretted that he had changed his mind about jumping ship in Cooktown when they had initially sailed into port.
Mort’s men advanced with great caution up the hill. Within the hour they stumbled onto the dead horses in the small valley below. The discovery sent a chill through every man. With frightened looks they glanced around the valley, as if expecting to see the painted warriors suddenly emerge, ululating bloodchilling war cries of the black cockatoo and falling on them with stone axes and spears. They were more than eager to leave the oppressive valley and return to the more open plains of the Palmer track.
But Mort was forced to make camp for the night. Already the deep gloom of the valley descended into an inky blackness and he knew it was hopeless to try and find the Irishman in the dark. Besides, he figured, with a sense of savage satisfaction, O’Flynn would also have to make camp for the night.
Mort stared at the dead horses realising that their discovery had been a gift from the devil. The Irish bastard no longer had horses to get himself and his party clear of the mountains. Now he would be on even terms to hunt down O’Flynn and kill him.
FORTY-ONE
Wallarie had been gone two days when the Werners received their first visitors at the Schmidt farm. Caroline first noticed the tiny cloud of dust on the horizon and the faint outline of a small column of horsemen. ‘Husband,’ she called from the brackish, reed-covered waterhole about a hundred yards from the shanty, ‘men are coming.’
Otto pulled on his black coat over his shirt and braces and hurried down to join his wife. ‘They are mounted policemen,’ he observed, shading his eyes against the rising sun hanging low behind the men. ‘I count five of them.’
They stood together waiting for the patrol. A young officer rode ahead of the troop which came to a halt a short distance away. The man was hardly in his twenties. His uniform was covered in dust and his eyes a rheumy red from too many hours of scanning the plains. Behind him were three rough-looking white troopers and an Aboriginal trooper dressed in the uniform of his colleagues. The young officer reined in before the missionaries.
‘I am Inspector Garland sir. Who may you be?’ he asked somewhat brusquely.
From his manner Otto deduced that the young man was not used to polite niceties. ‘I am Pastor Werner and this is my vife Frau Werner,’ Otto formally replied.
The young officer glanced at Caroline with unbridled desire and she instinctively moved closer to her husband. Otto had seen his look and bridled at the boorish manner of the young policeman sitting haughtily in the saddle looking down upon them.
‘You must be the godbotherer the old German mentioned in his letter,’ Garland said, rustling in the saddlebag behind him. He produced a large leather wallet crammed with papers and a letter which he passed down to Otto. ‘We found the old German yesterday on our patrol.’
Sadly Otto glanced up from the letter. ‘Herr Schmidt is dead. Ja?’ Both Caroline and the policeman expressed looks of surprise. ‘I know this Inspector. This is Herr Schmidt’s final vishes.’
‘Thought it might be,’ the inspector grunted. ‘Don’t read German but I did recognise your name written in there.’
Otto turned to his wife and spoke in German, not feeling obliged to be polite to the young man. ‘Herr Schmidt has left us this place to be used as a mission station. He has said that the only friends he had out here were the wandering Aboriginal people who were very kind to him. He has begged us to look after them, my wife.’
Caroline nodded and tears came to her eyes, remembering the man who, despite being obviously wounded by a European bullet, had saved their lives when he could have just as easily let them die. ‘We have found God’s will,’ she replied simply, ‘and it is to give our lives to the true people of this land.’
Otto felt a burst of love for this beautiful woman who had followed him into hell. He knew that it would be she who would provide the true strength he would need to go on.
‘Sorry to interrupt you Reverend,’ Garland said somewhat irritably at being ignored. ‘But how did you get here?’
Otto turned his attention back to the officer.
‘An Aborigine person guided us here when we were out of vater.’
‘His name wasn’t Wallarie by
any chance?’ Garland asked as he leaned forward in the saddle. Otto frowned at the question.
‘Who is this Vallarie you talk about?’ he asked.
‘A murderin’ charcoal we have been tracking since a body was found a few days from here with his spear in ’im. At least that’s who my tracker tells me got the prospector. Trooper Jimmy used to be with the Native Mounted Police a few years back down in Rockhampton. That’s where he said he’s seen the spear before. This Wallarie speaks a bit of English.’
Otto stared into the eyes of the officer. ‘The Aboriginal who helped meine vife and I could not speak German or English, Inspector.’ The officer returned the stare for a brief moment. It was a contest, as they both knew.
‘Then my tracker must be wrong,’ Garland finally said. ‘He says that the blackfella we are tracking is the legendary Darambal man of central Queensland and well-known killer of Europeans, good, God-fearing Christians.’
‘The man who helped us was very old,’ Otto lied without hesitation. ‘Maybe in his seventies. How old is this Vallarie person you are hunting?’
The Inspector straightened in his saddle and glared at the missionary. ‘From what I have heard about him, he would not be that old.’
‘Ach, then the man who helped us could not be this Vallarie you are hunting. The man who helped us is probably just a vild blackman from the bush around here.’
‘Well, we will not bother you any longer Reverend,’ Garland said as he reined his horse away. ‘I am sure a man of the cloth would not lie to Her Majesty’s constabulary,’ he added sarcastically. Trooper Jimmy was the most experienced tracker on the frontier and was never wrong about anything to do with charcoals. If he said they had tracked the notorious killer blackfella to Schmidt’s farm – then that was it. It was obvious that the German missionaries had been helped by the blackfella in some way and were protecting him. But it did not bide well to harass a member of the clergy. The authorities frowned very strongly on such matters. From what he had heard of Wallarie’s reputation the hunt would not be easy. Legend had it that the warrior had been the companion of the equally notorious bushranger Tom Duffy and that the Darambal man had a great knowledge of European ways and weapons. Coupled with his inherent skills in the bush he was indeed a formidable foe to pursue. But Trooper Jimmy was an equal match.
