Authors: Peter Watt
T
he dawn mists swirled in ominous fingers around the campsite. The sun was burning off the coolness of the morning and soon the humidity would bring clinging sweat and thirst to be slaked with brackish warm water from the canteens.
George woke with a feeling that all was not right. He had stood guard until three in the morning when Jack relieved him, then gratefully crawled under his blankets to fall into an exhausted sleep. But now he awoke to notice that something was happening around him. Or that something was not happening!
He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He could see Jack standing in a huddle with the two police boys and by the way he held his rifle George knew that his former officer was tense with the expectation of a coming action.
Glancing around the campsite, he noticed that the fire had not been lit for the breakfast meal, and that the native porters squatted, looking out at the dense rainforest cloaked in a still, grey mist.
Jack disengaged himself from the two police and walked over to George. ‘No doubt that they are out there,’ he said. ‘The boys are sure. It’s all too bloody quiet for my liking. No bird sounds.’
‘What do you think will happen?’
And as if to answer his question an ululating sound rose in the forest. George felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. The call was answered by many and came from all around them. He had never heard such a strange, eerie sound before.
‘Better get yourself ready,’ Jack said quietly. ‘I know that sound and it’s not good.’
The porters cast fearful looks in the direction of the two Europeans as they fingered machetes. The police boys raised their rifles to their shoulders.
A swishing sound filled the air and a porter cried out in agony as a long, thin bamboo arrow struck him in the chest. And even before he had fallen to the ground three others pierced his body. He screamed as he groped at the deadly shafts.
The crash of Jack’s rifle beside George’s head almost deafened him as he snatched his own rifle from the ground beside him. When he rolled into a kneeling stance he saw Jack’s target.
Three short but solidly built dark skinned men had appeared out of the mist. They sported bird of paradise plumes above their heads. Around their waists they wore bark cloth skirts and they had strung short black palm bows with arrows. One of the men fell back when Jack’s well-aimed shot took him in the throat. His two companions hesitated at the sound of the rifle’s blast. It was obvious that they had never encountered a firearm before.
‘Looks like we found your Orangwoks,’ Jack muttered as he flung back the bolt and chambered a second round.
But as the arrows continued to rain down out of the mist one thunked into George’s side just above his waist belt. ‘I’m hit!’he gasped.
Jack fired again and dropped a second warrior before he could charge them, wielding a lethal looking stone axe. The mist swirled away on an eddy of morning breeze and it was Jack’s turn to gasp. Advancing on them and firing their arrows were at least a hundred warriors. Jack knew that they were completely surrounded as the men of the rainforest closed in. In unison the police boys wildly fired into the advancing warriors. Another warrior fell and this time the advance hesitated. The fact that members of their war party had mysteriously fallen at the sound of the thunder proved that these were surely evil spirits of the forest. Their power was awesome. Blood oozed from the dead and wounded men. One of the dead men had his flesh minced from a bullet exit wound. Such an injury was terrifying to behold. As one, the warriors broke off the fight, leaving their dead behind. The grey swirling mists swallowed them and left the campsite a haunted place of silence.
Jack bent to examine his friend. George lay on his side, tugging at the arrow. It was lodged firmly, having penetrated a good six inches.
‘God it hurts, old chap,’ George groaned. ‘Didn’t even see it coming.’
‘Just take it easy,’ Jack said gently. ‘I will give you a good slug of the rum and pull it out when you are a bit under the weather. It’s still going to hurt like hell though. But first I’ve got to see how we stand just in case your Orangwoks decide to return, so start sipping on the bottle.’
George nodded and raised himself to his feet to go to the tent and find the bottle in the medical supplies. It was the only thing close to an anaesthetic they had. The ground around him was littered with hundreds of arrows, protruding from the earth and riddling the tent. The number certainly gave credit to the war party’s expertise.
George swigged from the bottle until it was almost empty. The rum quickly took effect. He sighed and slumped down inside the tent.
Jack returned with blood on his hands. ‘They killed two of the boys and wounded three others,’ he said. ‘But the police boys were lucky – no injuries.’ He knelt beside George and examined the shaft. ‘I am hoping that isn’t barbed,’ he muttered. George winced when Jack tugged on it gently. ‘Sorry old mate, but I am going to have to cut you so that I can make the wound wide enough to allow me to pull the bastard out.’
‘Got to do it,’ George slurred and Jack chuckled. ‘Was funny?’ George asked.
‘Never seen you this pissed before. It’s a bit of an experience.’
‘Just get the bloody thing out you colonial hooligan so I can get sober.’
‘Never heard you swear before either,’ Jack added as he slid his skinning knife from a sheath on his belt. George eyed the blade and Jack could see the fear in his face. He was not a coward but the systematic cutting into his body held a personal fear.
‘You have to close your eyes,’ Jack said.
‘Why, old chap?’
‘Because I am going to say a little prayer, and I don’t want you to see me praying.’ George squinted at his friend. Jack was not a religious man and he wondered why he would be saying a prayer now. For whatever reason he obeyed and closed his eyes as he heard Jack mutter under his breath, ‘Dear Lord, who looks after wayward prospectors and mad pommies, gird my arm that I may do your work.’
‘Was that . . .’ George did not finish his sentence as the blackness came to him in a blinding shower of red stars. He had not seen Jack wrap the handkerchief around his fist. Nor did he see the powerful blow coming.
‘Hey Karius, Lipo – get over here,’ Jack called to the two police boys who hurried to the tent. ‘If Mr George wake up I want you to hold him down.’ They nodded and stood by with their rifles as Jack commenced his first incision.
Mercifully George did not feel the cut but he did feel the arrow being tugged from his side. He woke with a shout but found himself held firmly to the ground by the two police boys. Jack struggled to release the cane shaft from George’s flesh. With a mighty yank it finally slid from the Englishman. George’s body arched as the arrow was removed but only a gasp of air exploding from his lungs revealed any sign of his trauma. A copious flow of blackish blood seeped in a small rivulet from the wound.
‘How do you feel?’ Jack asked gently when George was sufficiently recovered.
‘Pretty awful, old chap,’ George replied and rolled on his side to promptly vomit up the contents of his stomach. With a rising horror Jack noticed that there was the dark stain of blood in the vomit; the arrow had pieced his friend’s stomach. From experience, such a wound on the battlefield usually meant a slow and agonising death unless immediate medical help was sought. And even then it was touch and go.
‘Sit back and take it easy,’ Jack said, helping George to lean against a low set camp stretcher.
‘Got a terrible thirst,’ George slurred. ‘And a bloody headache like the chimes of Big Ben are going off in my head. Need to have some water.’
‘Maybe not a good idea for the moment,’ Jack said and avoided the Englishman’s eyes. ‘Just get some rest.’
‘It’s a stomach wound isn’t it, Jack?’ George had tasted the blood in his mouth.
‘Afraid so. But we will get you to a mission station down on the coast where they usually have a good supply of medicines.’
‘That’s not going to happen as you and I well know,’ George sighed. ‘We both know that I will not live long enough to survive a stomach wound. I may be dead before the sun sets.’
‘We are going to try. The rest is up to you. We’ve been in worse spots before. Like that time . . .’
‘You don’t have to patronise me,’ George said softly. ‘At least I got to see my Orangwoks.’
‘Listen, you pommy bastard, I am not going to let you die out here. We didn’t survive all those years of war for you to die from an arrow fired by some Stone Age kanaka, when the best of German industry thrown at us failed.’
‘Jack?’
‘What?’
‘I am going to tell you some things before I die. Might shut you up for a while.’
‘Nothing that would be of much interest to me.’
‘I think what I am going to tell now has everything to do with you,’ George said as a wave of pain swamped him. ‘I have to tell you things about my past and who I am. I want you to give Iris some letters that I have been writing to her since we left Moresby.’
‘When we are having a drink back in Moresby you can tell me and personally hand over the letters to Iris.’
Before George could continue speaking the air was filled with the voices of many men keening a song that rose and fell with an unmistakable beauty in its simplicity. It was a wailing song, and its tone was sad rather than threatening.
‘The little bastards are back,’ Jack said.
The two police boys had already exited the tent to face another onslaught. Their courage was equal to that of the overwhelming numbers of warriors facing them. Jack stood with his men and the wounded porters – although fearful – gripped their machetes in a resolute manner.
They came from the forest with their wooden shields held high above their heads and their bows unstrung. Jack sensed that their wailing was not that of men preparing to attack. Their posture was like that of the Roman soldiers Jack had once read about in a history book. They were asking for a truce to retrieve their dead from the battleground. ‘Lower your guns,’ Jack ordered, by way of signalling to the slowly approaching warriors that he understood their motives were peaceful.
They retrieved the bodies of their fallen comrades and, still wailing their song, retreated to the cover of the jungle.
Jack walked back to the tent and stepped inside. ‘Damnedest . . .’ He froze as the words died in his throat. His friend was slumped back against the camp stretcher. Jack had seen death many times and knew that George was gone.
He knelt beside his old friend and the tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘Now why did you go and leave me,’ he whispered hoarsely as he choked back his terrible grief. George was closer than any brother he could have had. They had shared such experiences in the horrors of the Western Front, things that neither could tell to anyone who had not been there.
And even when the guns had fallen silent, George had followed Jack to Australia rather than returning to the greener fields of his home in England. But in doing so he had been led to his death. Jack was selfishly seeking riches for himself. But George’s noble search to enrich mankind’s knowledge was something that would endure in memory long after the gold was melted down and sold for the material comforts it could bring.
Jack rose from his knees and faced his small party. They too had reason to grieve. They knew that they would be leaving their fallen in foreign territory a long way from their ancestral lands.
The dead were buried and they struck camp. The confrontation with the tribesmen had decimated the expedition, but Jack had carefully marked his find for a future claim. It was time to return to Port Moresby.
Before they retraced their steps back to the Huon Gulf Jack stood over his old friend’s grave, his rifle slung on his shoulder and his battered hat in hand.
‘Don’t matter about who you were and what you did before the war,’ he said quietly. ‘All I know, is that you were the bloody best company sergeant major the Australian army ever had, and the best friend I ever knew. I won’t forget you George, and I will tell Iris that you had her name on your lips before you died.’
From the shadows of the forest many eyes watched the white demon and his servants preparing to leave. They had succeeded in killing one of the white demons but his partner was able to elude their arrows. They would go to the graves and dig them up as soon as the demon left their territory. That night they would feast on the flesh of the men they had slain.
T
he Japanese boat captain was true to his word. His boat was anchored in the bay waiting for Jack and his party, now diminished to just himself, the two police boys and the two Buka porters who had survived the fight weeks earlier in the mountains. The other porters had died from their wounds, from arrows Jack suspected had been dipped in poison.
They had arrived on the beach after a forced march. The drums that had been silent for Jack’s trek into the dreaded warriors’ territory now pounded in the forests with their unreadable messages. Their eerie sound was unnerving but the threat of another attack faded as they grew closer to the coast – although Jack never allowed his men to drop their guard. It was possible that the warriors had passed word back down to any coastal natives that the white demons could be killed like normal men.
But what Jack did not know was that the warriors who had attacked them had no knowledge of any other persons whatsoever living beyond their rainforest territory. George had been right when he had concluded that they had met their Orangwoks, although they did not ride on horses nor were they covered in gold armour.
The sea voyage back to Port Moresby was as uneventful as the voyage out and within a couple of weeks Jack arrived in the frontier town. His first stop was Government House to report to Sir Hubert Murray on the tragic consequences of their limited exploration into the Huon Gulf hinterland. Sir Hubert listened sympathetically and expressed his condolences on the loss of George and the Buka men who had accompanied them.
‘I have even worse news for you, Jack,’ he said leaning forward at his desk. ‘We received a letter for you some days ago. As it was actually addressed care of the administration my people took the liberty of reading it. The letter came from your brother-in-law. It seems that your sister Mary in Sydney is critically ill.’
Jack felt his shoulders slump at the news. In such a short space of time he had lost his best friend and his men. Now he might lose his beloved sister back in Sydney.
‘When was the letter dated?’ he asked wearily.
‘It was posted four weeks ago from Sydney. We have had no other news since then.’
Jack rose. He would need to submit an official report to the Papuan administration on the events of the past few weeks, but now he had to make his way out to Sen’s house and tell Iris the sad news concerning George’s death. In a way this was not something new to Jack. He had written many letters to next of kin of soldiers killed or missing in action during the war. Sometimes missing in action was nothing more than the official description for men who had taken a direct hit from a high explosive artillery shell and their bodies blasted into a thousand tiny pieces of flesh with nothing left to identify them or acknowledge that they even existed except for the fact they had been in the army. But he had never before personally delivered the message to the next of kin or a loved one. To do so was something he wished he could avoid. Jack knew his first stop before going to Iris would be to the hotel for a long, hard-earned drink.
‘What are you going to do about your sister?’ Sir Hubert asked as Jack picked up his big floppy bush hat from the floor beside his chair.
‘I will be arranging to catch a steamer south to Sydney,’ he replied. ‘Mary is looking after my son.’
Sir Hubert glanced in surprise at Jack. ‘I was not aware that you were married,’ he said.
‘Married and widowed – but with a son.’
‘I am sorry for your circumstances,’ Sir Hubert said gently. ‘It must be hard leaving a son behind.’ Jack did not reply.
When Jack thought it could not get worse – it did.
Sen explained that Iris’s horse had been found dead with an arrow in its chest about a month after the time that he and George had departed on their expedition. Iris was missing without any trace and the police had been investigating the circumstances of her disappearance. Their conclusion was that some renegade natives from around Moresby had taken advantage of the isolated area and a lone girl and had ambushed her.
‘Jesus,’ Jack swore softly and bowed his head as he sat on the verandah steps of Sen’s residence. ‘A single arrow killed her horse you say.’
‘It may have been a poisoned arrow,’ Sen said. ‘No other explanation.’
‘At least I have been spared the task of telling her that George is dead,’ Jack said bitterly. ‘And it is a kind of mercy that George did not live to learn of Iris’s fate. I think it would have killed George if he had known.’
‘What are your plans now?’ Sen asked.
Jack looked up from the fernery to stare at the blue sky above. ‘Use some of the money I know you will give me for the gold I found and head back to Sydney for a spell. My sister is pretty crook and I need to be away from here for a while. Just one of those things . . .’ He trailed off, at a loss for words to describe the crushing feeling of despair and guilt. Despair for George’s death – and guilt for leading him to that cruel fate.
‘You are always welcome in my house,’ Sen said, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘We have both lost people close to us.’
‘Thanks, old cobber,’ Jack said as he rose from the steps. ‘But I will catch the first steamer south I can. In the meantime I need to go back to Moresby and have another drink at the pub. With any luck I might bump into O’Leary while I’m still sober and finish what George started for me before we went north.’
‘O’Leary is not around these ways,’ Sen said with a touch of relief. He knew Jack was in a mood to take out his pent-up emotions in a display of violence. He was aware of the Australian’s pre-war reputation for being prepared to take on any man who dared challenge him to a fight. It was the Irish in him, some said. ‘O’Leary and his partner went west to the Fly River region on a recruiting drive about the time you went north.’
‘Pity,’ Jack growled. ‘It’s not going to be over between us until I make him know that I will not take any rubbish from him. Anyway, I will accept your kind offer and head back to put my head down here tonight. I should be able to get the boat leaving the day after tomorrow. You will find the gold in my duffel bag,’ he added as he rose from his cane chair. ‘I don’t have to say that I can trust you to arrange its sale with your Chinese contacts and take your commission.’
Sen glanced at his friend with just a touch of surprise. But why should he be surprised? Jack Kelly was indeed a trusting man when it came to friends. He knew that he could trust Sen and he also knew that Sen would not let him down. He watched him stride away but noticed his friend seemed to carry a sad load on his shoulders. His gaze lingered on Jack and Sen felt the surge of guilt turn to a wave of despair for those things about his own past years in the territories of Papua and New Guinea he knew he could never tell his good friend, who had fought so courageously for his country. It had been so simple to fool the Australians. They were a trusting people who saw him as just another Oriental who had worked hard to make his fortune. If only they had known how he had been given his stake to build his fortune he might now be a dead man. Such was the punishment for the offences he had committed during the war years. And as for O’Leary and Jack’s suspicions – Sen knew a lot more than he could tell.
Jack strode towards the stables. He would take the sulky into town and get roaring drunk and bury his old friend again in the manner they both knew so well. The horse would make its own way back to Sen’s with him as a passenger once the alcohol had helped numb his grief. Or was the alcohol a means of numbing guilt, Jack wondered bitterly.
Dademo was standing beside the sulky stroking the big chestnut’s forehead as it stood patiently waiting between the harness rails.
‘Hey, Mr Jack, me got something you want to buy,’ he said and held out his hand. In the palm of his hand nestled an empty rifle cartridge. ‘You buy this fella stuff.’ Jack knew that empty brass rifle cartridges could be reloaded and so too did the natives who worked with Europeans. Bullets cost money and a reloaded bullet cut back on cost of ammunition.
Jack took the brass cartridge and frowned. It was not the standard .303 case used in the Lee Enfield rifles common throughout the British Empire. He recognised it immediately as a German 7.92 case as used in Mauser rifles.
‘Where did you find it, Dademo?’ he asked. The houseboy suddenly appeared sheepish, moving from foot to foot in a manner that Jack knew meant he was reluctant to speak. ‘You tell me quick smart where you found this bullet.’
Under Jack’s withering stare, Dademo relented. What harm could come from telling Mr Jack, who was a good man? ‘Found it in the hills near where missus Iris horse got killed,’ he mumbled. ‘When we went out to look for her with Master Sen.’
‘You didn’t tell Master Sen about your find because you figured a white man would buy it from you.’ Jack spoke without rancour. It was the way of the local people to remain aloof from European matters not of their concern and he did not expect a reply from Dademo. ‘You think that one arrow could kill a horse?’ he asked and Dademo now frowned.
‘No, Mr Jack.’
‘Nor do I,’ Jack replied pocketing the empty case. From the expression on the white man’s face Dademo knew better than to ask for payment.
Jack hauled himself into the sulky and took the reins from Dademo. The ruse of placing an arrow in a bullet wound was as old as the Palmer River days, almost half a century before. Jack remembered how the old timers who had worked the dangerous gold fields of northern Queensland told stories of unscrupulous men who killed Chinese miners for their gold, then placed souvenired spears in the resulting wounds to make it appear that the Aboriginal warriors had killed the Chinese. This memory was fresh when Sen had told him that a single arrow had killed the horse. He had considered poison but that would still be slow acting – and from what Sen had told him, when they found Iris’s horse it was clear it had crashed into the ground very heavily.
The find of the rifle case was purely circumstantial. It could have been ejected at any time, but the fact that it was a Mauser case made Jack think of O’Leary. He was the only man he knew in Moresby who preferred the German rifle to the British Lee Enfield most commonly used by prospectors and police. But even a suspicion required proof. The rogue Irishman was the lowest of men, Jack knew, but surely not stupid enough to kill a woman related to a man with considerable influence in Papua. Jack remembered how Sen had told him that O’Leary left the Moresby district about the same time as Iris went missing. Sen
thought
that O’Leary had left a month earlier. But whilst Jack had been at the pub earlier after his audience with Sir Hubert he had been informed by one of his old gummy, prospector mates that O’Leary had stolen a good set of false teeth from him. When Jack had ceased laughing he had asked idly when the theft had occurred and the old prospector grumbled the date, which he had obvious reason to remember: three days before Iris went missing.
Before he flicked the reins Jack turned to Dademo. ‘That arrow that killed Miss Iris’s horse, I will pay two bob for it if you know where it is.’ Dademo looked startled at Jack’s offer of a reward. He did know where it was. It was in the possession of an old and feared
masalai meri
– a witch the Europeans would have called her. She lived in Dademo’s village and paid well for items that had been used to kill. Such items held strong magic and in a land where all misfortunes were attributed to acts of magic the arrow was a potent item. Her powers must be strong, as she was still alive in a land where a bloody vengeance was often sought against those identified as practitioners of the dark arts.
‘I know where the arrow is, Mr Jack,’ he replied. ‘But it belongs to
masalai meri
who is the witch of my village.’
‘Tell her that I will buy the arrow off her for five bob,’ Jack said, ‘and I will throw in a couple of bob more for you if you get it to me tonight.’
Dademo whistled. Such an amount of wealth must mean that the arrow was truly powerful and he now regretted selling it to her for the price of a blessing against the curses of his enemies.
‘I will, Mr Jack. But I will need some money to buy another blessing against the evil spirits.’
The reward he had offered was generous and Jack knew he would get the arrow when he returned from the hotel that evening. Dademo would be leaving only a trail of dust back to his village a short distance away to retrieve the item. ‘Tell her she only gets the money when I get the arrow.’
Dademo nodded and Jack flicked the reins.
In the town Jack submitted his written report to an official at Sir Hubert’s office then went to purchase his fare for the voyage back to Sydney. The exchange of gold for cash had left him with a considerable amount of spending money, which he took from Sen in Australian currency. Rolled in a wad it felt good in his pocket. But he was also aware that it was not enough to properly outfit another expedition back to the river where he had found his gold, nor enough to bring in the equipment and supplies to set up a large scale mining operation. To do that he would require a vast amount of capital, and Sydney was the place to try and raise it. For the venture he envisaged, this would not be just a case of grubbing a staked out lot. It would give him a chance at his long held dream of owning a mining company and becoming a very rich man.
Jack was deep in thought as he crossed the street to walk to the hotel where he had left his horse and sulky. Now it was time to have a drink in George’s memory. To raise a glass to him in the bar where George had so efficiently dispatched O’Leary and earned a place in local folklore for his efforts.