The Word of God (42 page)

Two hundred paces on Peter found what he sought; water. It was only a trickle but it was flowing. Moving carefully and quietly he went downhill for thirty metres till he found a pool just large enough to dip the water bottles into. With a sigh of relief and a prayer of thanks he took off the webbing and knelt to wash his face and drink. It was a typical jungle stream, clear and cold and tasting of rotting vegetation. He ignored that and thankfully drank. Then he rinsed his mouth and washed his face and arms.

Feeling much refreshed Peter carefully filled the water bottles, allowing the water to flow in slowly so as not to get too many floating ‘objects' in it. It was also a good opportunity to de-leech himself again. It was good to be able to wash off some of the blood and grime. Only when he had done so did it occur to him that maybe it hadn't been such a good idea. The dirt had been effective camouflage.

Peter shrugged and decided on balance the lift to his morale was worth more. He had a big drink, refilled the water bottle and prepared to move again. There was a chocolate in the back pack and he ate this. By then it was after 8 O'clock. The sun was well up, blazing down from a clear blue sky. The early freshness was gone from the air although it was still cooler in the rainforest.

Peter began moving along beside the road. This became quite difficult because of the tangle of tall grass, weeds and bushes which grew there. He was tempted to walk along the road but a look at it decided him that would be foolish. The surface was now dust and sand.

My boots will leave very distinctive tracks,
he reasoned.

Hard as it was he pushed steadily on through the dense vegetation. The road went uphill. On the right was a downslope covered with bushes and blady grass. He walked through this only a few metres from the road. On the left was a thick belt of rainforest and bushes.

Voices! And the sounds of crashing through the jungle. The sound of swearing and grumbling came to him.

There are people moving through the jungle just on the other side of the road!
he realized.

Peter crouched down behind a bush, heart hammering with apprehension as the sounds drew closer.

It's a line of men searching,
he decided as the noises covered quite a wide front.

Mouth now dry with fear Peter looked around and saw that his only escape route was downhill through the long grass. He knelt down and began slowly
crawling. The blady grass was awful. It scratched and was so thick it rustled and moved. He was also terrified of meeting a snake.

Behind him he heard men move out onto the road with sighs of relief. One of them raised his voice: “OK you-all, come in here and have a drink.”

As Peter had feared the man talking was a Confederate.
More of them! They can't possibly be the same squad as earlier.
He began to feel very hunted.
The whole bloody Confederate Army is searching for me!
he thought.

The word army came naturally to his mind, not just because there were a lot of them but because of their obvious organization, uniforms and rank structure. The men were so close that he did not dare move. All he could do was lie and listen; and brush off the black ants which began to fiercely attack him.

The Confederates were obviously in a foul mood. One grumbled: “When I catch this old bugger I'm gunna shove every one of these spiky damn vines in this damn forest up his ass!”

Another agreed: “This rainforest is a real son-of-a-bitch. It's worse than those Chickasaw thickets along the Yazoo.”

“Come on you guys, let's get on with it. We ain't goin' home till we've found this guy so let's keep lookin'. Now, remember, his hut is not far from a creek.”

“What for did this old codger come here corporal?” another asked.

“He and his sidekick used to come here lookin' fer orchids,” the corporal replied, sounding exasperated.

“What's orchids?” the man asked.

“Epiphytes,” a voice replied.

“What?”

“Bloody flowering plants what grow on tree trunks!” the angry voice answered.

“What for would anyone want to look fer them for?” the man asked.

“Why were you bloody born Simkins? Come on, let's go,” the Corporal replied.

“Where we searchin' next Jacko?” another asked.

“Other side of this creek, up to that little hut. Come on.”

Peter heard them walk off along the road, still talking and grumbling. To his great relief they went back the way he had come. Cautiously he raised himself behind a tree and watched them vanish from sight around the bend.

They aren't looking for me at all. They are looking for some old bloke. I wonder? Could it be Old Ned? Are they somehow involved in searching for this scroll?

It was certainly food for thought. Another idea also came to him.

If they are walking along the road maybe I can too. My boot prints won't be so obvious then.

He decided to look. Cautiously he made his way to the road and decided it was worth the risk. He was getting impatient to get out of the mountains to get help. What was gnawing at him all the time was the fear of what might be happening to Joy and the others. And Gwen, what of her?

Peter set off westwards along the road at a fast walk, eyes and ears alert, ready to take cover instantly. The road curved right around the side of the hill. The rainforest extended all the way on his left but the country the road was in became more open, with fewer trees and bushes. After a few hundred metres the road curved sharply right, then left, around the end of a low, grassy spur.

The road then curved right and went along the top of a flat ridge. On Peter's right was a deep valley which extended down to the open farmland in the distance. On the left was another creek but it was flowing roughly parallel and was choked with jungle.

I'm right on top of the mountains here,
Peter thought.

He kept walking, wary of stumbling into more Confederates. As he did another aeroplane droned into view. This was higher but still tracking back and forth over the mountains. It was an old aeroplane. Peter studied it.

A Douglas DC3,
he decided.
It should be in a museum.
Suddenly he clicked his fingers.
I'll bet it belongs to these Confederates. That will be how they got into Australia. And it is searching too.

The plane droned out of sight to the north. Peter marched on. He was still feeling very lonely and hunted but also very determined. There was also the heartening notion that if he was on top of the mountains every step was taking him closer to the towns and farms on the other side.

The road curved left and went down into thicker forest, lots of small trees with an undergrowth of waist high blady grass, ferns, lantana and bushes. Near the bottom it curved back to the right.

As he approached the bend Peter slowed and listened, then froze.

Voices!

Chapter 27

JOY

P
eter immediately moved off the road into the scrub on the left of the road.

From behind a bush he peered along the road, noting that it went down across a small creek, then up onto a low spur where there was a clearing. Parked on the right in the clearing, next to some sort of log fence, was a brown 4WD. The voices were coming from the area of the log fence.

Without even consciously thinking about why Peter made his way forward through the long grass and ferns, skirting clumps of lantana. All the trees were either spindly eucalypts or She Oaks and none of them offered any real cover. There was plenty of undergrowth though. Once again thoughts of snakes had to be thrust to the back of the mind for him to make any sort of progress.

As he got closer Peter angled away from the road to keep trees and bushes between him and the vehicle. He sniffed, then salivated. The aroma of frying steak came to him, along with a whiff of wood smoke. That got him staring and he saw smoke was rising slowly from somewhere among the logs.

Looks like an old cattle yards,
he decided. By the time he reached the small creek he could see that this was so.
Badly overgrown though. Obviously hasn't been used for years.

The creek was no obstacle. It was only one pace wide and was so choked with grass and weeds that he could hardly see the water. The bank beyond the creek was also covered in a dense matt of grass, ferns and deadfall. This was nearly his undoing. As he climbed up out of the creek he stood on a fallen branch which snapped with a loud crack.

His leg went down into a hollow under the long grass. That was painful as the ends of the stick scraped up his leg. But it was the thought of what manner of slithering reptile might be lurking that made Peter wrench himself free and scramble further up the bank, heedless of the noise.

Heart pounding and mouth dry with fear Peter crouched in the long grass behind a clump of lantana. His leg stung but obviously wasn't broken. Massaging hard to ease the pain and bruising Peter peered anxiously through the screen of leaves. He was now only about twenty metres from the 4WD, an old Toyota Land Cruiser. The voices continued, the speakers apparently not having heard him.

A quick look around revealed that a better spot for observation was behind a fallen log a few metres to the left. Peter got down and wriggled across, checked the log for unwelcome inhabitants, then raised his head behind a bush to look. What he saw made him gasp involuntarily, mostly with satisfaction.

A few metres in front of him was the clearing. This was only ten paces wide. The road ran across it. Parked on the other side was the brown Land Cruiser. Beyond it was the old cattle yards. They were a single yard surrounded by a log rail fence. Directly opposite was the gate, now open, at which stood an armed man. Inside at the left side was a tent fly slung over the corner. Under the tent fly were five people sitting on boxes and talking. All were Confederates. Beyond them in the other corner at that end was another tent fly with more boxes under it. Between the two flies was a fireplace. Two men stood there, one cooking and the other eating a steak sandwich.

At the other end of the yard was an old, open-sided shed. Sitting underneath it, apparently tied up, were Joy and the others. Peter did a check: Sir Miles, Graham sitting watching the Confederates, Megan lying down, Stephen apparently relaxed, Joy leaning back on the fence. Next to her was an old man whom Peter presumed was Old Ned. Peter heaved a sigh of relief and studied Joy more closely. She appeared unhurt and even a bit bored.

For the next ten minutes Peter lay under cover studying the layout and trying to decide on a plan.

Eight armed men. Now, how do I catch them by surprise and rescue the others?
he pondered.

His eyes scanned every detail, looking for a weakness. Ants and leeches crawled on him but he either ignored them or brushed them impatiently off. The smell of roasting steak again came to torment and tantalize. He saw one of the men get up from the group and go over to make a steak sandwich. That made Peter's stomach rumble and he salivated again.

There was a flurry of movement and suddenly the problem was half solved. Four of the five men under the closest fly stood up and walked out of the gate to the vehicle. The man eating the steak sandwich moved to join them. One of the men was well dressed in grey trousers and jacket. The jacket had light blue collar and cuffs. He wore a grey felt hat with a gold cord around the crown and a gold ‘crossed rifles' badge on the front. A single gold star showed on each side of the collar. The man had a neatly trimmed black beard and his posture, gestures and the body language of the other people all spelt ‘The Boss'.

One of the men, glasses, kepi cap, three gold bars on his pale blue collar
(Captain?), saluted. The Boss (Major or Colonel?) returned the salute and went to get into the vehicle.

“Sorry Major, other door sir,” one of the soldiers said. “These damned Aussies drive on the wrong side of the road.”

The Major smiled and nodded. “Of course. I forgot. If we stay here long enough I will remember.” The Major walked around to the other door and climbed in. The captain with the glasses followed, nodding at something the Major said. One soldier climbed into the driver's seat. Another, with a splendid jacket with a whole raft of chevrons on his sleeves, climbed in the back. Peter studied the badge of rank, trying to count the chevrons.

Four of five each way. Some sort of Master Sergeant or Sergeant Major,
he decided.

He studied the pattern of chevrons which had connecting semi-circles across the top, and tried to remember the American rank structure but its complexities defeated him.

Don't Yanks wear their sergeant's stripes upside down?
he thought.

That got him even more puzzled. He watched the fourth man get in. He settled in the back and placed radio headphones over his ears. The Major waved, the captain saluted again and the vehicle drove off towards the west.

This is Company HQ,
Peter decided as he watched the captain go back inside the gate.

The captain seated himself beside the man who had remained there. Peter now saw that the other man was also a signaller with headphones on. He was busy writing, using a box as a table. The captain took out a pen and also began writing, constantly referring either to a book or to the man beside him.

Decoding a message,
Peter decided. Having been his own unit Signal's Corporal one year, then the HQ Sergeant the next he understood exactly what they were doing.

The other two men were both busy as well. The sentry had placed his rifle, an M14 semi-automatic, against the gatepost as soon as the Major had driven out of sight. He then walked over to the cook and was now busy talking and making himself a steak sandwich as well.

Peter's mind registered that all four Confederates had their backs to him.

Now! Act now! But how? Move! The longer you leave it the more likely someone will arrive.

Without fully thinking it out Peter rose to his feet and walked forward across the road. The grass muffled any sound and he reached the gate without any trouble. For a second he paused, to take out the Beretta and the slip off the safety catch.