Flight of the Eagle (21 page)

‘Do you have family, Private MacDonald?’ Patrick asked, and the big Scot bowed his head. ‘I dinna know, sor. I left a wee bonnie lassie at the dock two years ago. She promised she would wait but I have not heard one word from her since.’

‘You and me both, Angus,’ Patrick replied, and the use of the soldier's first name seemed natural. It was a rare moment when the military barriers fell away between superior and subordinate in the strict discipline of the army, but for the moment they were just two young men a long way from home and cloaked by the darkness of the early morning.

‘Have you got a bonnie lassie waitin' for you when we return then, Captain Duffy?’ the Scot asked sympathetically, sensing his officer had a need to talk.

‘I thought I did.’

Patrick sighed sadly before both men lapsed into silence as the might of the British army advanced on the scene of their last bloody battle against the Dervishes.

‘God almighty!’ Captain Thorncroft gagged as the stench rose from the earth.

The blistering sun had cooked the decomposing bodies of men and animals that had lain in the desert for almost two weeks. Vultures bloated with the abundance of rotting flesh from the British, Dervish and the pack camels killed at the Tofrick enclosure hopped and flapped into the azure sky to wheel in spiralling circles overhead.

Some of the vultures ignored the army that had marched on the scene of the desperate fighting and continued to rip flesh and entrails from the bodies that were black but no longer swollen, as their flesh had been long pierced by the cruel beaks and the expanding gases released.

Patrick stood beside the colonial officer and took no pleasure from his discomfort at the sight and smells of the battlefield. Even he had trouble keeping in his stomach the tea he had drunk hours earlier. Dazed soldiers walked amongst the dead whose hastily buried bodies had been exposed by animals and the shifting sands for all to see. Others stood back and forced down the tinned meat and bread they had been issued for breakfast.

Angus MacDonald was glad that the bodies of the British soldiers were no longer recognisable. The ravages of decomposition and the scavenging birds and animals had made sure of that. He did not want to see any friend who he had laughed with, whored with, or got drunk with in this state.

But one man did not react to the hellish spectacle in the same way as most of his comrades. As a policeman working the poor districts of Sydney, he'd had many years' exposure to the sight of death in all its most hideous forms, and over the years he had built a shell of immunity to the demise of human life.

As he spooned greasy meat from a tin, Private Francis Farrell's attention was on the tall, broad-shouldered young British officer who stood alongside Captain Thorncroft. Farrell stared at Patrick who had detached himself from Captain Thorncroft and now stood alone gazing past the battlefield in the direction of the distant ruined village of Tamai which had been razed a year earlier by British troops after a major battle with the Dervishes. And it was near the ruins of the Egyptian village that the advancing force were expected to encounter and fight another major battle with the Mahdi's men.

The former policeman from Sydney wiped at his neatly trimmed beard as the fat dripped from his spoon. Now that he could see him in the blazing morning light, the man definitely reminded him of someone.

Private Angus MacDonald was striding towards the captain holding a chunk of bread and a mug of water. ‘Hey! Jock!’ Farrell called softly to the Scot as he passed him.

Angus acknowledged the call and turned to stare at the man almost as big as himself. He had recognised the Irish accent. ‘What would you want, Paddy?’

‘That boss of yours, what would his name be?’

‘Now why would you be wantin' to know, mon?’

‘Because I'd be askin' a civil question, boyo. And my sainted ancestors fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie at Culloden. That enough reason for a haggis eatin' Gael?’

At first Angus had bristled when he heard himself addressed as Jock but he could not help but smile at the Irishman's explanation as to why he should answer his question. Angus' ancestors had also stood with the Jacobites against the forces of British redcoats and their lowland Scot's auxiliaries on the terrible battlefield. ‘God bless yor sainted grandmother for providing a well-needed service for those brave laddies at Culloden, Paddy,’ he answered with a wicked grin.

But Francis Farrell was not to be outdone by any big, hairy legged Scot and retorted with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Me sainted grandmother used to bounce me on her knee and say, “Francis, me boy, the reason those Highlanders lost to the bloody British at Culloden was because they didn't have the strength left when I'd finished with them”.’

Angus chuckled. ‘Captain Duffy be yon officer, Paddy,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I hear he was born in Sydney Town.’

Patrick Duffy! No wonder there was a familiarity. How often had he had a drink with the big German Max Braun at Frank Duffy's Erin Hotel and bounced young Michael on his knee! Frank Farrell shook his head in utter amazement. ‘Young Patrick Duffy in the bloody uniform of a British officer,’ he muttered as he continued to shake his head. ‘Who would have ever dreamed? And what would the big man, Michael himself, think about his son being a bloody British officer!’

Angus could not hear the Irishman's mutterings and was impatient to get breakfast to his captain. The Irishman looked as if the sun had got to him already. ‘See you around, Paddy,’ he said with a nod of his head. ‘Might be we could share a wee dram or two sometime. Keep your bog Irish head down when the fightin' starts, mon.’

‘You look after your boss, Jock,’ Francis replied as he came out of his state of amazement. ‘I knew his father and a finer man you would never meet,’ he added once the Scot had departed.

Patrick Duffy! Sure and he was the image of his father at that age, Farrell mused as he watched the Scot march across to Patrick. And would young Patrick have come across his legendary father in his travels?

Over ten years had passed since the former policeman had last seen Patrick. There was some matter of his maternal grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh, taking the boy to England, for his education Farrell remembered. Something about his inheritance. Old Frank Duffy had been very tight lipped about the circumstances which his own son, Daniel Duffy had arranged. But Daniel, being the good lawyer that he was, let little be known of the mystery surrounding Patrick and his connection with the wealthy and powerful Macintosh name. Ah, but he would talk to the young Patrick when the opportunity arose, Farrell thought, tossing aside the empty tin and wiping his hands on the side of his trousers. Right now, however, he would have given anything for a cold drink back at the Erin Hotel.

The order to fall in and resume the advance across the shimmering hot sands was issued. For the troops, the order had not come too soon.

Patrick crossed the advancing square to make his introductions to Colonel Richardson. The sun was almost directly above them and little shadow was cast by the men and animals below. The forced march was going to be an ordeal and he wondered how the colonial volunteers would fare under the conditions.

By the time the army came to rest that night, however, Captain Duffy would feel pride for the stamina of the men from the country of his birth. Only three collapsed senseless. But not until the late afternoon.

EIGHTEEN

T
he tiny puffs of dust beneath the horses' hooves swirled to form a large, red cloud that trailed like a plume behind the combined column of thirty or so men. They galloped across the sparse scrub plain dotted with knee-high termite nests. Sub Inspector Gordon James led his column, following the guide from Sergeant Rossi's patrol, which had been operating close to the distant low hills of the Godkin Range.

The guide had been despatched to find Gordon's column and lead them to a creek where Sergeant Rossi was presently located. It was the first time the Italian sergeant had reason to call on his senior officer in the four months that they had been scouring the plains north of Cloncurry in their search for the Kalkadoon war parties.

When they finally reached the fine of trees that marked a meandering creek, Gordon reined his horse to a halt and flung himself from the saddle. He strode towards his sergeant who was standing with a small party, staring at the corpses of three white men stripped naked and swollen black. From the mutilations to their bodies it was obvious that the three men had died violent deaths.

‘Kalks,’ Commanche Jack grunted as Gordon joined the semi-circle of police and frontiersmen staring at the bodies which lay on their backs at the edge of the creek where a deep, rock waterhole trapped a last reservoir of dirty green water. ‘Ripped ′em open to take their kidney fat to eat,’ he added as he squatted to get a closer look at the bodies covered in clouds of flies buzzing in thick, noisy clouds around the wounds. ‘Looks as if'n they went for a swim an’ the Kalkadoon jumped ′em,’ he continued as his experienced eyes took in the scene. ‘Don' pay to take a bath aroun' here.’

The sickly sweet, unpleasant stench of the decomposing bodies caused some of the watching men to gag.

‘Get them buried before sunset, Sergeant Rossi,’ Gordon ordered with a wave of his hand. ‘And see if the myalls left anything that might identify who they were.’

The sergeant picked a handful of his troopers who quickly began to dig out a large single grave.

While the troopers sweated with bandanas over their noses, Gordon called a meeting of his expedition leaders as they stood or squatted in a semi-circle around the young police officer. Some of the men smoked pipes, their Snider rifles close at hand. Others just stood with thumbs tucked in belts slung with a variety of pistols. ‘This,’ Gordon said indicating with his finger to the three dead men awaiting burial, ‘is the first sure sign since this expedition set out from Cloncurry that the myalls are in large enough numbers to dare attack a party of white men. It appears to me from what I have been told by the black trackers that the Kalkadoon are retreating back to their mountain bases.’

‘Don't make sense the Kalks would bottle themselves up in the hills, Inspector,’ Commanche Jack drawled as he idled in the dust with a stick. ‘They's fight like the Apache. Hit an’ run the homesteads with us chasin' ′em all over the scrub in every direction. Jus' don't make sense for ′em to head fer the hills.’

‘A good point,’ Gordon answered. ‘But I feel that they are just bold enough to think they can take us head on in a fight. They think they are drawing us into ground of their choosing. But they have underestimated the power of the carbine.’

‘Mebbe so,’ Commanche Jack grunted. ‘Mebbe so.’

‘And that is their fatal mistake, gentlemen,’ Gordon continued. ‘Because what we need is to be able to pin them down in one place and let our rifles secure a lasting peace in the Cloncurry district. Tomorrow we begin the final stages in the dispersal of the Kalkadoon. Sergeant Rossi?’

‘Sari!’

‘Your column will ride with us tomorrow. From now on we will scour the valleys and hills to the west of our present position as a single force. We will endeavour to secure the ridges so denying the myalls any vantage points to rain rocks and spears down on us.’

‘Some of them hills are bloody high, Inspector,’ a bearded squatter commented, an edge of disbelief in his voice. ‘We're not going to get horses up all them hills.’

‘You can bet that the Kalkadoon have worked that out for themselves. So we take particular note of such hills and surround them. If the myalls are on top then that is where they will die. Are there any further questions that need answering at this stage?’

The leaders of the parties shook their heads.
The young inspector seemed to know his business.
‘I dare say that I don't have to warn you to be particularly vigilant from herein,’ Gordon said in parting to the men. ‘I feel that the myalls here are quite capable of launching an attack on us in the night. So keep sentries posted around your campsites.’

All had to agree with the young officer. Especially once they saw the naked and mutilated bodies of the three luckless men tumbled into the shallow grave nearby.

They rejoined their comrades who had commenced preparing their campsites for the coming night. Battered billies for boiling water for the tea and cast iron camp ovens appeared from the packs the spare horses carried.

The horses were hobbled to graze on the dry native grasses and men agreed to what watches they would stand through the night. Packs of greasy, dog-eared playing cards were produced out of saddlebags for the odd game or two to help wile away the time. The reality of the three dead men buried nearby had not unduly disturbed the tough frontiersmen. Death was a common enough event in their hard lives.

Night came to the expedition's camp, first as a gentle, beautiful orange light and then as a dark velvet cloak studded with crystalline diamonds.

Trooper Peter Duffy gazed across at Gordon James sitting alone by his small fire sipping tea from a mug. Over the long weeks of fruitless patrolling neither man had attempted to bridge the widening gulf of their dying friendship. The only thing they had in common now was Sarah – for Peter a loving concern of a brother for his sister's future; for Gordon a desire for a woman of mixed blood and a turmoil as to what he should do about his feelings for her.

Gordon gazed up at the stars and remembered the Aboriginal belief that they were the spirits of the dead. There were so many stars that a strange thought occurred to the young police officer. Would the skies be filled with many more before the expedition returned to Cloncurry? Three days earlier, boomerangs and spears whirred through the haze of the mid-afternoon, raining down amongst his column of horsemen.

Gordon had rallied his troopers and auxiliaries after the first onslaught to chase after the Kalkadoon who had flitted like shadows amongst the sparse trees of the plain. His reaction was based on the premise that the ambush was a sporadic affair. As such, the party had galloped at the warriors, his troopers and frontiersmen fanned out in a rough semblance of a charging cavalry.