Fear Drive My Feet (7 page)

It was a long way from this bank to the south one. Through the field-glasses I could
see Tom and his sentry on the other side. They were waving, having seen my safe landing,
and I waved back. Their figures, so small and distant, and the vastness of the stream
between us, gave me a sudden feeling of inexpressible loneliness, which was cut short
by the boss-boy in charge of the boats' crews.

As he squeezed the water out of his tattered loincloth he said, ‘Suppose behind you
like come back, all right, you shoot three-fella time long musket. All right, me-fella
hearim musket 'e fire up, me-fella come quick.'

In other words, when I wanted to return, three rifle-shots would bring them over.

Without another word they scrambled onto their canoes and pushed off on the return
journey.

I looked about me. It was a dreary stretch of country, all ooze and mud, and covered
by a dense growth of cane-grass, or pit-pit, through which it was difficult to push
a
way. Even here, at its mouth, the Erap River was very swift, and carried such a
burden of silt that its consistency was that of thin porridge rather than water.
The Mari boys regarded it with misgivings, pointing upstream and chattering to each
other in their own local language. It was so swift here, they said finally in pidgin,
that it had certainly been raining in the mountains, and the higher we went the more
difficult it would be to cross. However, after a little persuasion they picked up
the loads and, with our eyes firmly fixed on the opening of the Erap Gorge in the
distant line of blue hills, we set off across the flat.

We spent the first half-hour scrambling in and out of water and it seemed that at
any moment the squelching mud would pluck the boots from my feet as we shoved our
way through the pit-pit grass. We were heading almost due north straight through the
tangled mass of distributary streams that formed the delta of the Erap.

Soon, however, the stream entered a more defined course, and the growth of pit-pit
gave way to kunai. Although it was so swift, the river had virtually no banks, and
one had the impression of a stream flowing over the plain rather than through it.
The nature of the ground changed, too. In place of the mud there was an endless stretch
of stones – water-rounded pebbles of varying size, but mostly about as big as a cricket-ball.
They were extraordinarily difficult to walk on, rolling from underfoot and making
one stumble every few paces.

In the course of a couple of hours we made about half a dozen crossings of the Erap,
which snaked round and coiled itself across our path.

As we scrambled out of the water onto the right-hand bank after one of these crossings,
Kari, who was at the head of the line, called out, ‘Master, you come! Me lookim leg
belong man.'

Tracks! I could scarcely see a sign of a footprint, but Kari and the other boys assured
me that they were there, and led in the direction of a patch of jungle about half
a mile from the stream.

‘Who do you think it could be?' I asked Kari.

‘It might be Japanese,' he replied. ‘But I think it is more likely that they are
kanakas from Bivoro, the village we are making for.'

‘That's right,' the others chimed in. ‘Whoever made those tracks was not wearing
shoes.'

‘The Erap kanakas often come down to these flats to hunt and fish,' added one.

A faint wisp of smoke curled up from the patch of jungle. Whoever they might be, they
were now in the bush. We put the cargo in a pile and moved quietly in the direction
of the smoke. A hundred yards or so from the edge of the timber we found a faint
path, and in the soft earth were several clear footprints. These convinced Kari and
Achenmeri that the people we were seeking were natives.

‘Leg belong kanaka,' everyone agreed confidently.

We crept along the path and into the timber. Five minutes brought us to the edge
of a small clearing, in which stood half a dozen tiny rough shelters of sago-fronds,
the sort of huts which natives make for an expedition of a few days' duration. Eight
or ten men were moving about, clad in the usual garb of tattered loincloth. There
were a couple of women, wearing the typical grass skirt, short in front and knee-length
at the back. There were also one or two small children. It was clear that they did
not suspect the presence of any stranger.

While the rest of us remained quiet, Kari stepped forward. At the sound of his approach
the women snatched up the children and fled into the bush. They had vanished almost
before one realised that they had moved.
The men seized the long spears which lay
handy, but they were reassured almost at once by the sight of Kari's police uniform.
He told them of our presence and then motioned to us to come out. An elderly native
with greying hair stepped up to me and saluted. He explained that he was the headman,
or luluai, of Bivoro, and apologized for not having his official cap on.

‘We have seen so few white men since the time of trouble with the Japanese came,'
he explained in pidgin, ‘that we expected nobody. Least of all did we expect anyone
to come upon us here. In fact, when your police-boy stepped out of the trees we were
afraid it was Japanese. They have sent native messengers up here to say that they
are going to take over all this country and send some of their people up from Lae.'

With a loud yodelling call he summoned the women back, apparently telling them there
was nothing to fear.

I asked him if there would be any Japanese in Bivoro, which was still some hours'
walk away.

‘No,' he replied, ‘though it is nearly a week since I have been there myself. We have
been down here hunting wild pig. But they would have sent for me at once from my
village if anything of that sort had happened.'

This was good news. Bivoro was important, for it was the last village on our line
of communications from the mountains back to Bob's. If the Japanese had not visited
these people and spread the usual propaganda about all the Australians having run
away, there was a good chance of our getting some help from the villagers.

The reluctance of the Mari carriers to make the journey up the Erap had increased
visibly with every mile we put between ourselves and the Markham. I was afraid they
might slip off into the bush and return home, so I asked the luluai of Bivoro if
his men would take over the
job and carry my six boy-loads of cargo to his village.
He agreed at once, and shouted orders to the women to pack all their belongings –
grass mats, blackened clay cooking-pots, and so forth. These went into the inevitable
string bags. The men he instructed to collect the cargo, which still lay in the kunai
outside the patch of jungle.

This arrangement pleased the Mari boys immensely. Now they would be able to sleep
the night at home, and not in a foreign village. Kari lined them up to receive their
pay, and I dropped a shilling and a stick of tobacco into each outstretched hand.
By accepted New Guinea standards this was substantial overpayment for half a day's
work, but it was important for them to be satisfied and in good temper. On their
homeward journey down the Erap, it was quite possible that they would meet a party
of Japanese and if they felt I had cheated them they might revenge themselves by
setting the enemy on our trail. As soon as the last man had been paid, the six of
them disappeared silently through the trees, stowing their shillings safely in their
ears as they went.

‘How are you off for tobacco?' I asked the luluai as I squatted on the ground beside
him, waiting for the men to return with the cargo. (I spoke in pidgin, of course.)

‘Not very well,' he replied. ‘We do not grow very good brus at Bivoro. It is a long
while since I had a piece of newspaper to roll my smoke in, too,' he added hopefully.

I gave him a stick of trade tobacco and several sheets of newspaper.

‘Divide the paper up for the men, and I will give them a little tobacco when they
bring the cargo up,' I told him.

He spread the paper on the ground before us and carefully tore it into strips.

‘Look,' he said finally, ‘there is one piece bigger than the others. I had better
keep it myself, so as to avoid any
dispute.' And the old rogue tucked into his string
bag almost a whole sheet of paper.

In less than five minutes the women had packed all their belongings into the bilums,
as the string bags were called, and the men had returned with my cargo. We were on
our way once more.

The luluai walked beside me, carrying my haversack, and I asked him about the route
we were to follow. He said that it would be necessary to cross and recross the Erap
at least half a dozen times before we got to Bivoro.

‘The river turns about and about so much,' he explained, ‘that if we were to follow
the one bank it would take us till tomorrow to get there. The water gets very swift
as we go up, too, but we will help you to cross.'

We emerged from the patch of jungle and regained the kunai. It was terribly hot,
and the sun was reflected straight back into our faces from the stony ground. I kept
hoping that no enemy reconnaissance planes would fly over, because there was not
a scrap of cover for several miles ahead. When we next came to the bank of the Erap
I realized that even if there had been a Jap plane about we would not have heard
it for the roar of the water and a dull rumbling sound which, Kari explained, was
caused by rocks and boulders that were being swept along the bed of the stream.

‘This stream is not deep,' he told me. ‘The danger lies in those rocks, which could
easily break a man's leg, and in the force of the water. I hope you are strong in
the water, because if you fall over in crossing you will be lucky to get out much
this side of the Markham, though the water is seldom deeper than your waist.'

The truth of this was demonstrated at our first crossing. The luluai had wished
to hold my hand and assist me over, but foolishly I would not hear of it. ‘If an
old man like that can do it, so can I,' was my thought, and I plunged
into the stream
ahead of the carriers. The water caught me, and immediately I was struggling to keep
my balance on the uneven stony bottom, though I was not even in the fastest part
of the stream. The luluai, seeing I had learnt my lesson, thrust out his stick and
hauled me to the bank.

He looked at me reproachfully, and explained that it was impossible to stand still
and keep one's balance, because the stones rolled away from underfoot. It was necessary
to keep running as fast as one could, never leaving the feet on the bottom more than
an instant. In this way it was possible to cross the stream without falling. Having
delivered his little lecture he grasped me firmly by the hand and led the way.

As soon as we entered the water we broke into a run, bobbing up and down in the current,
with the water sweeping us downstream almost irresistibly. Without the assistance
of the old man several times I would have fallen. By the time we had covered the
twenty yards' width of the river we were at least fifty yards downstream from the
point where we had entered the water on the opposite bank.

I took off my shirt to wring the water out, and watched the carriers, who were preparing
for the crossing by rolling their loincloths up round their waists to leave their
legs unhampered. Holding his load high in the air, each man plunged in and started
running, jumping up and down as he went. My patrol-box, the only double load of the
cargo, was carried by two men. Lashed to a pole, it swayed wildly to and fro between
them as they held it clear of the water. I watched them anxiously, for the box contained
all my essential possessions, including the precious map I had obtained from Bill
Chaffey. In the course of several journeys up and down the Erap I never ceased to
wonder how the carriers managed the distance without falling, with that awkward load
jolting about between them. When I expressed my admiration for their agility
they
merely grinned, and twisted the water from their loincloths. ‘Something – nothing,
master,' they said. ‘This river doesn't often become too flooded for us to cross.'
And they went on to explain a phenomenon of the Erap – that as soon as it was seen
to be raining in the mountains they knew they could safely cross the river, for the
flood would not reach the flat for some time.

‘When the flood does come, though, it is like a wave, and there is no hope if you
are caught in midstream,' said the luluai as the men picked up the loads and set
off again.

We walked fast, and without stopping to rest, across the stony ground, with the heat
growing fiercer all the way. When we crossed the Markham ‘road' – a faint dusty track
that led down to Lae – Kari and the other boys could find no sign of its having been
used recently. Certainly there were no footprints of Japanese to be seen.

Fast as we walked, however, the hills seemed to recede with every step. Even by two
o'clock they seemed no nearer for our hours of marching across the plain. Then, about
half past three, the Erap's banks suddenly became higher, and the stream took a more
defined course. The hills all at once looked less blue, and quite close. Within half
an hour we were well inside the Erap Gorge, its steep walls rising ever higher as
we went. Kari said that another half-hour's walk and one more crossing of the river
would bring us to Bivoro. A few stunted banana-plants were clustered here and there,
and we passed one small garden of taro where people had recently been working.

Confined in this ever-narrowing bed, the Erap became even more swift and turbulent.
The luluai called to us to hurry. There were signs, he said, that the flood was coming,
and if we did not reach the crossing swiftly we would be forced to camp in the open
for the night. He rushed to the water's edge and called to me to follow.