Flight of the Eagle (25 page)

Patrick's experienced ear detected the small whizzing sigh of returning fire as the Dervish bullets fell in the square, spent in their over-stretched range. A colonial soldier behind him, thinking his comrade had punched him in the shoulder, cursed angrily. Then he realised he had been hit by a stray bullet from the Dervishes and his anger turned to amazement. He was wounded! Another suddenly yelped and hopped a few yards before he, too, realised he had been shot in the foot.

Comrades snatched up the wounded men and carried them to the medical wagons. The square was given the order to continue the advance but struggled to hold its shape as it moved through the broken ground of the mimosa hills.

Patrick cursed softly at the order. They may as well return to the Zareba on the other side of Tamai. It was obvious that the fuzzy wuzzies – as the British had nicknamed the Dervish warriors for the black mops of hair piled on their heads – were not showing any signs of falling for General Graham's wishes. The advance could go on forever – and the army march forever, or until it ran out of supplies or morale. No, Patrick concluded, a different approach was required to fight this kind of war where the enemy nipped at the heels of the giant with painful bites that sapped resolve.

As if reading his thoughts Private MacDonald growled, ‘I dinna think all the marchin' will do us any good, sor. Might as well be back at Suakin rogerin' their women folk.’

Patrick grinned. He was thinking more of strolling the narrow streets of the white washed mud and stone buildings of the port city on the Red Sea and searching for African artefacts in the bazaars. His brief acquaintance with Catherine had introduced him to an interest in archaeology.

‘I have to admit you might be right, Private MacDonald,’ he answered, and dutifully cautioned as was expected of an officer. ‘Except the venereal diseases of this part of the world can do more damage to us than the bullets the fuzzy wuzzies are firing at us now.’

Angus did not reply. He had his own view on life. Soldiering on active service certainly made a man careless of the morrow which might never be after a battle gone wrong and the best thing about the kilt was that it must have been invented for soldiers in a hurry to snatch carnal pleasure without the cumbersome fumbling of Sassenach trousers. Only a soldier hopelessly in love with the doe-eyed girl he left behind would utter such a cautionary statement, he thought. Or a married soldier who feared the wrath of his wife more than he feared death itself!

Near the end of the day's gruelling advance, and skirmishing with the retreating warriors of Osman Digna's army through the arid hills beyond Tamai, the order was given to about face and withdraw to the logistics base at McNeill's Zareba. They were returning to whence they had advanced from earlier that day and, although it was apparent that the eager colonial volunteers were disappointed with the outcome, they also looked forward to the cool of an evening tucked within the defences and a good night's sleep.

All had not been lost. Honour had been satisfied with the drawing of colonial blood and, with the sound of war still ringing in their ears, they turned about and marched along the same route as they had advanced. On the return they saw smoke billowing over the last of the standing buildings of the village at Tamai. Graham had ordered its total destruction. It would be a lesson to the Dervishes, proof that the British army could go anywhere at anytime. With stoic acceptance the retreating Dervishes watched the soldiers fire the village and saw their homes burn then crumble under the weight of the flames. Eventually the British would go and they could return to rebuild. It was, after all, the Will of God, that such things happened.

They had no sooner returned to their own hills when Patrick found himself summoned to brigade headquarters. To furnish a verbal report on the conduct of the colonial volunteers, he surmised.

But when he arrived at the tent of Major Hughes, to whom he regularly reported, he noticed that the officer had a worried expression on his face. Major Hughes had been in a deep discussion with the artillery colonel who had commanded the guns that had fired that day at the retreating enemy. ‘Captain Duffy,’ he said, as Patrick threw a reasonable salute for the benefit of the artillery colonel. ‘Colonel Rutherford and I have just been talking about you.’ Patrick was mystified. And the colonel's grave look was disconcerting. ‘The colonel was commenting on how you gave his best fighter a thrashing in the ring at Suakin last December. He feels there should be a return fight for the sake of the artillery's honour. A chance for the gunners to redeem themselves.’

‘I feel, sir, that your gunners redeemed themselves today from what I was able to observe,’ Patrick replied gallantly.

The colonel smiled at the flattery. ‘They did well,’ he replied. ‘But I fear we fired a lot of shells for little return.’

‘Colonel Rutherford has an idea on how his guns might get the maximum return on their expenditure of ammunition, Captain Duffy,’ Major Hughes said conspiratorially. ‘And I agree his idea has a lot of merit. But it involves somewhat of a personal risk to whoever should volunteer to undertake the task. How is your wound progressing?’

‘The wound has never been any bother, sir,’ Patrick replied cheerfully, and unconsciously flexed his arm to prove so. ‘Not much else I can do with the Tommy cornstalks, sir. They seem to be performing admirably well considering it's their first campaign.’

‘Good show,’ the major said absent-mindedly, staring out at the setting sun. Clearly he was still troubled by whatever the artillery colonel had suggested to him concerning a special mission.

The brigade major brought his attention back to Patrick. ‘I have to put the idea to the brigade commander for approval. But I think he will give it, considering his frame of mind at the moment.’

‘General Graham must be feeling as frustrated as the Tommy stalks,’ Patrick suggested. ‘They want to get at the Madhi's men in a decisive battle, too.’

Major Hughes nodded and Patrick realised whatever the artillery colonel had suggested might achieve the commander's aim as well as the ambitions of the eager colonial troops. ‘At night the fuzzy wuzzies creep in close to the Zareba to snipe us,’ the major said. ‘We bear the sniping and leave the night to them to virtually move about at will. But, as any soldier knows, even Dervishes must have a place to fall back on before the morning comes. And it appears that they have probably grown rather arrogant about their ownership of the night. A well-trained soldier just might be able to locate that forming-up point, then report back to the guns on their position for a precise bombardment on them. Catch them while they are sitting around scratching their arses and congratulating themselves on a good night's harassment of us. Do you have any ideas on how the mission might be achieved, Patrick?’ he asked using his first name fondly, for the man he knew would not hesitate in volunteering for the dangerous task.

Patrick sighed and turned to glance out at the hills before answering. ‘I would reconnoitre ground in front of our defences for a likely position to take up. The ground would be a position most likely used by a sniper firing on us.’

‘If so,’ Major Hughes cautioned, ‘then the chances are high that you might bump into any Dervish who should use the cover of night to take up that position.’

‘I could take care of that, sir,’ Patrick replied quietly.

The brigade major knew it was this critical factor in the mission that only one of his officers was truly capable of. And this young man had a proven record of coolness in the madhouse of killing that was battle. Besides, his physical strength was unsurpassed in the brigade.

Hughes nodded. ‘I have no doubts that you could, Captain Duffy.’ The artillery colonel nodded in agreement at the B.M. ‘s choice of officer for the mission. He had seen Patrick defeat his best fighter in a punishing match with his strongest gunner in the inter-unit fight at Suakin. ‘I will seek the brigade commander's approval then,’ Major Hughes sighed. ‘In the meantime you can get on with your reconnaissance, Captain Duffy, and prepare yourself for the job. I will have word back to you before last light whether you will go ahead or not, but at this stage, I think you would be advised to liaise with Captain Thorncroft to have the picquets aware of your movements on the perimeter. It would not do if they shot you. Not with the vital information you will carry for Colonel Rutherford.’

‘Sir,’ Patrick replied, saluting the brigade major and the artillery colonel. ‘If there is nothing else I suppose I should use the little time I have to prepare.’

‘Yes, Captain Duffy, I agree.’

‘Good luck, Captain Duffy,’ the colonel said warmly. ‘Your intelligence just might deliver the fuzzy wuzzies a parting lesson in good manners. And I hope to see my gunner give you a sound thrashing when you return to fight him back at Suakin.’

As Patrick walked away from the brigade headquarters to join Private MacDonald who was preparing their evening meal, he passed by the ambulance wagons where Private Francis Farrell was being treated. It would be good to talk to the man who, he now remembered more and more, was like some distant uncle in the close circle of Irish immigrants to the Colony of New South Wales.

Those days had been an innocent time when he believed Daniel Duffy was his real father and Michael Duffy, his long dead uncle. The truth of his parentage had been explained to him as a young lad and his maternal grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh, had also explained his mother's apparent treachery.

But what had originally grown out of Lady Enid's need to use the boy as a weapon against the duplicity of her own daughter and son-in-law had developed into a genuine, doting love of the stern woman for her grandson. His natural charm had beguiled the matriarch who held precious the Macintosh bloodline and the boy was granted all the privileges of English society. Patrick had taken to his life with the ease of his noble blood.

The surgeon major greeted Patrick warmly. The white apron he wore was spotted with the blood of the soldier's wounds he had tended to. No, Private Farrell had not as yet recovered sufficiently to rejoin his company, he replied to Patrick's question. Patrick thanked him and then parted company to carry out a survey of the ground in front of the perimeter of the Zareba.

Angus wondered at the strange expression on the young captain's face as Patrick squatted in the dust to accept the mug of coffee he passed to him. The mission had been cleared by the commander and he was to move out at last light. He had quickly briefed his batman. Angus knew what the expression was. He had seen the same look on the faces of men before battle. Men who believed their luck had finally run out.

‘You'll be needin' this,’ Angus said softly as he presented an item he had long hoarded.

Surprised, Patrick accepted the lethal knife. Designed by the American of the Alamo, Colonel Bowie, the weapon's fame had spread to the far corners of the earth, to any place where fighting men required both a sharp point and razor fine cutting edge. ‘Thank you, Private MacDonald,’ he replied gruffly. ‘Better than the English steel they issued us.’

‘That it would be, sor,’ Angus winked conspiratorially. ‘The Sassenachs have no appreciation of the broad blade.’

Patrick turned the knife over in his hand. He hoped that he would not be close enough to his enemy to have to use it. Somehow he had more faith in the protection of Sheela-na-gig.

TWENTY-THREE

T
he hills appeared smooth and round, like an old crone's molar teeth. It was as if the Godkin Range had chewed at the blue skies for so long that they were just plain worn out with age. But a few of the low hills were chipped along their summits, with small lines of rocky cliffs where they had bit on the occasional hard cloud. It was into the hills in the late afternoon that the expeditionary force of police and bushmen rode in search of the Kalkadoon.

Gordon James led the column while Peter Duffy rode with an uneasy eye on the sparsely scrubbed, concave slopes of the hills baked dry under the harsh sun. He had passed this way before and vividly remembered how the Kalkadoon warriors had risen from the ground from behind the barest of cover to ambush them. And he was not the only member of the current patrol to ride with an eye cocked warily on the surrounding silent hills. Ahead of the column rode the scouting trackers of the Native Mounted Police, rifles balanced across their saddles.

As Peter rode he reflected on the gulf that had to some extent always existed between himself and the man who led the expedition. At first in their early years it had been as a small crack which had widened, however, when they joined the Native Mounted Police. His Aunt Kate had attempted to talk him out of joining the ranks of the very people who had hunted his mother's people into almost total extinction, the same force that was eventually responsible for the death of both his parents.

Peter often had recurring nightmares of his mother staring at him with lifeless eyes from the flames of the campfire as the fire licked and sizzled her flesh. In his nightmares she was still alive but helpless in the flames as she pleaded to him with soundless words. If only he knew what she was calling to him? What was she asking him to do?

Why had he remained in the force when his friendship with Gordon was no longer something he could consider a part of his life? Now he was certain that this would be his last patrol. He would resign when they got back to Cloncurry. From there he would return to Townsville to work for his Aunt Kate. Gordon James could go to hell.

The hushed silence of the bush was shattered by the sound of a gunshot and the echo rolled off the hills from somewhere up ahead. Troopers snatched carbines from saddle-buckets and frontiersmen thumbed back hammers on their single shot Sniders. Gordon James raised his hand for a halt and called to his police riding ahead to keep a sharp lookout. All in the mounted force felt the gut wrenching fear of ambush as the hills seemed to close in around them. Frightened eyes scanned the slopes for the movement of shadows.

‘Look to the hills,’ Gordon roared unnecessarily as every eye was already staring up at the summits, searching frantically for sight of the dreaded warriors.