Papua (8 page)

‘Jack Kelly, you are a rascal, but your exemplary service to the King and Australia in the war has warranted some loss of memory for all the trouble you caused me with my German counterparts years back. I wish you all the best and hope that you do not cross paths with O’Leary again.’

George was quick to pick up on the mention of the name. Who was O’Leary and why was he to be avoided?

The two men politely excused themselves and left the charismatic ruler to continue his day of administering the territory. They were striding back to the buggy under a hot sun and cloudless skies before George asked, ‘Who is this mystery man O’Leary?’

‘Who is Lord Spencer?’ Jack countered.

Neither question was answered and they rode in silence back to Sen’s residence. George was not naive enough to believe that Jack was merely interested in his dream of making the last great discovery of the twentieth century – the finding of the Orangwoks. He knew Jack would be searching for gold as they trekked into unexplored country. But at least he had a partner who knew what he was doing. For George, Jack Kelly was the only man alive he truly loved as a brother and trusted with his life. That friendship had been forged in hell. But now they were in a strange and contradictory paradise. Even more important had been the discovery of the most exotic and beautiful of all creatures – Iris. He knew he was hopelessly in love and would eventually ask her to be his wife, even though they had only known each other a few days. That did not matter. He had lived through a time at the Front when life had been often measured in mere minutes and seconds.

‘We are going to take a boat from Moresby around the point at Samarai to this river here north of Morobe but south of Lae,’ Jack said, jabbing at the map spread on the floor of Sen’s house.

George followed Jack’s finger around the tail of Papua to a river marked on the coast north of the former German settlement of Morobe in the Huon Gulf. He noted that the map had a red brown colouring close to the coast to indicate areas under government control, but inland an expanse of grey with dotted outlines of a great spine of vaguely mapped mountains with the title Bismarck Range. Somewhere in that grey area George knew they would find the Orangwoks.

‘Does Isokihi still have his boats?’ Jack asked. Sen was standing above the two men as they crouched over the map spread on the coir mat floor. He nodded and Jack turned back to the map. ‘After we land it’s going to be a bastard getting up the hills in from the coast,’ he added. ‘We are going to need porters and it looks like we will have to take whatever we can from Koki gaol for that job.’

George frowned at the suggestion of native prisoners working for them but Jack noted his concern. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘It’s common practice around here for the boys to work off their sentence and, at the same time, get paid.

‘Why don’t we avoid the mountains by taking a course up the MarkhamValley?’ George asked quietly.

Jack seemed a bit evasive. ‘Been done before. If you are going to find your lost tribes you are going to have to look in places less accessible.’

‘I was hoping to look up in this region,’ George said, pointing to a grey area at the centre of the island between two ranges marked as the Victor Emanuel and Muller ranges. ‘That would mean it would be better to follow the MarkhamValley.’

Jack looked peeved. ‘Why not give this area a try first? It’s closer, whereas to try for the place you just pointed out, would require a longer sea voyage. That would put a bit of a strain on our supply line.’

George had to bow to Jack’s rationale. Logistics of supply had been his role as a company sergeant major during the war. ‘All right, old chap,’ he sighed. ‘So may it be that we find something in the region you have selected.’

Jack grinned and slapped his friend on the back. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’

George was acutely aware of what the Australian was really seeking. It did not matter so long as he had the opportunity to blaze a new trail into unexplored country. Should Jack find his gold then they would both find what they sought. For George the lure of gold held little value. Gold merely translated to financial wealth and that was something that no longer mattered in his life. ‘If there is nothing else then Sen and I can discuss the finer details of the plan,’ Jack said. ‘Give you a chance to improve your mah-jong game with Iris while we work on.’

George stood and stretched his legs. He was not offended by being dismissed. Indeed Iris’s company was something to look forward to. Especially as the departure date of their expedition was growing close.

George found Iris in the garden amongst the broadleafed monsterios. With the delicate fishbone ferns and colourful waterlilies, it was a cool, pleasant place of tranquillity. A place to sit and talk. A place to express gentle words of love.

It took three weeks to finalise preparations. George left the organising to Jack and spent his time in the company of Iris. She proved to be as intelligent as she was beautiful and George had to admit to himself – with a touch of guilt – that the expedition was taking a secondary place in his life. At times he had forced himself to join in Jack’s enthusiasm when in fact he felt depressed at leaving Iris behind. It was ironic that he had travelled to Papua to search for lost tribes and instead found love.

Iris had returned his feelings in a gentle manner. Although George ached to take her to his bed he also knew that this was not the way to prove his love for the mysterious woman. He had seen the same longing in her eyes however, and felt it in the touch of her fingers on his arm.

But the day came when Jack declared they were ready to take one of the Japanese boat builder’s modified ketches out of Moresby harbour for the voyage to the Huon Gulf.

‘How about we all go to the pub to celebrate?’ Jack declared in his usual cheery way. ‘Maybe say goodbye to Harry and the boys.’

Sen shook his head and mumbled, ‘Not a good idea for me to go with you, Jack. You know how the boys feel about us Chinese.’

‘You’re with me. No one will give you any trouble.’

‘Not a good idea,’ Sen reiterated. ‘You and George go.’

Jack turned to George who stood a short distance away. ‘Well, you old bastard, how about it?’

George smiled weakly and mumbled that he would go with him. He still felt the old duty to protect his friend. It had been like this when they were on leave in France. He knew of Jack’s wild ways once he had a few drinks under his belt. If they were to leave in the morning he felt that he should ensure Jack came home in one piece.

Jack scooped up his big floppy hat as Sen placed his hand on his arm. ‘Be careful, Jack,’ he said with a grim expression. ‘I have heard rumours that O’Leary is back in Moresby.’

George noticed the slight shift in the Australian’s expression, but his concerned look suddenly shifted back to a broad grin. ‘It all happened a long time ago,’ he said and turned to walk out the door.

George followed to the buggy. ‘About time you told me about this O’Leary chap,’ he muttered. ‘His name keeps cropping up.’

‘Just a bloke who I upset a bit a few years ago,’ Jack replied as they walked.

‘How upset?’ George asked.

‘I shot him once,’ Jack said mildly. ‘But the bastard had it coming. I only wish I had finished the job then because, if he is around Moresby tonight, I have a feeling he is going to upset my drinking.’

‘You shot him! And you think he is going to be around tonight?’

‘Hard to keep any secrets in Papua,’ Jack said when they reached the buggy hitched up by the houseboy. ‘Hey, Dademo. What do you think of O’Leary?’

‘Bad bastard, Mr Jack,’ Dademo replied with a wide grin. ‘You killim when you see him, Mr Jack.’

‘See, George,’ Jack said as he hauled himself up onto the buggy seat. ‘Told you O’Leary was a bad bastard.’

George took his place beside his friend who gave a flick on the reins. ‘You could at least tell me who to look out for just in case I meet him,’ George stated reasonably.

‘A really big and ugly man with two scars on his cheeks. The left hand scar is a bit bigger than the right hand one. My bullet blew his teeth through that side of his face. Anything else you want to know?’

‘Just a simple explanation as to why you shot him in the first place,’ George said, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

‘He was raping a native
meri
who was barely eight years old – if that. It seemed the best way to take his mind off what he was doing at the time. Anything else?’

George shook his head and stared at the dusty trail ahead. The sun would soon be below the hills and the dust that filled the air was turning a mauve mist on the horizon. He knew he was on a frontier not too different to the American West. Here the indigenous people could still kill a man with bows and arrows and only the toughest survived in the bush. For Jack to have settled a matter with a gun was just a natural extension in a frontier like Papua.

They had only been in the bar for a hour when George noticed a sudden hush among the normally raucous row of men drinking under the tilley lamps. George turned to see a man framed by the doorway.

‘Kelly, you bastard,’ the voice boomed and Jack, already half drunk, turned to see O’Leary glowering at him.

‘You can’t see where I shot him,’ Jack slurred to George with a grin. ‘Because he has a beard now.’

George paled under his recently acquired tan. The Irishman’s eyes were dark like a snake’s and yet reflected a danger that George could see. ‘Shut up, Jack,’ George hissed. He was glad that he had insisted on staying out of the rounds of strong rum being consumed by Jack and his mates. ‘I think we have a real spot of bother right now, so don’t aggravate the situation.’

O’Leary strode forward. He was truly a huge man with a thick bushy beard to his chest and George guessed him to be in his forties. The men moved aside to allow him passage to the bar where Jack leant back, grinning at him.

‘I was hoping you would survive the war,’ O’Leary said, thrusting his face up to Jack’s. ‘So I could settle with you.’

‘No trouble in here, O’Leary,’ the barman growled, causing the giant to turn his attention to him.

‘Kelly and I will be going outside,’ he said and the barman nodded.

‘Mr Kelly will be going nowhere,’ George said quietly.

The big Irishman frowned at him. ‘You sound like a bloody pommy,’ he snarled and George could smell liquor on his breath. ‘I don’t like you English bastards any more than I like Kelly here.’

George noted that they were both the same height but the Irishman had many more pounds on him. He was an imposing figure and a life of living in the bush had stripped any fat from the muscle. George felt real fear in close proximity to him. But he had experienced fear many times in the past and was still alive to know what he must do.

‘Leave him be, George,’ Jack said, straightening himself as best as he could. ‘I will go outside with him and finish what I should have done years ago.’

George could see that Jack was in no shape to confront the Irishman.

Contemptuously O’Leary lifted his arm to push George in the chest as if dismissing a slightly bothersome pest. But George had made up his mind. The speed with which he struck was blinding and O’Leary staggered backwards in a spray of blood.

George felt his forehead ache from the collision with the Irishman’s now shattered nose. He had used the street brawlers’ tactic of the ‘Liverpool Kiss’ once before against a French pimp when on military leave in Paris. It had worked then – and it worked now.

O’Leary stumbled on a chair and crashed heavily onto the floor. George did not give him a chance to react while he was down. With all the strength he could muster he lashed out with his boot, catching the prone man in the side of his head. O’Leary let out a loud groan, his eyes rolled and he lay still amidst broken glass and wood. But his chest rose and fell, indicating that he was still alive.

‘Come along, Jack, there’s a dear boy,’ George said, grabbing him by the arm. ‘I think we should leave before Mr O’Leary wakes up.’

Stunned by the speed and ferocity of the Englishman’s actions, Jack just gaped at O’Leary on the floor. ‘Best go, Jack,’ someone said sympathetically. ‘I think we all should go before the big bastard wakes up.’

George hauled Jack after him and guided him out to the buggy. It was dark and George helped Jack up to the seat. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Jack uttered in his absolute shock. ‘I thought I was going to be a dead man tonight until you got in first.’

‘Didn’t have much choice, old chap,’ George replied mildly. ‘It was either him or us.’

Jack did not reply but merely shook his head in wonder. What else did he expect than that his best mate would cover his back.

‘Oh the whiz bangs go ding-a-ling-a-ling for you, and not for me
. . .’
Jack sang for no other reason than it was good to be alive.

As the buggy rattled along the dirt track back to Sen’s bungalow George joined him in the song.

T
he tiny craft rocked gently at the wharf and George wondered how they would all fit in. It was not much more than a large whaleboat with a canopy and a thin funnel which indicated that at least she was powered.

Jack bawled orders for the supplies to be carefully loaded. Eight native labourers had been released from the Koki gaol to serve as porters and they grinned as Jack harried them with words that were unintelligible to George. Motu was the language of the coastal people who lived in the vicinity of Port Moresby. Maybe George would pick up a few phrases in the course of the expedition.

Two native police, wearing their uniform lap lap dress and short sleeved collarless shirt, stood by, their single shot .303 rifles slung on their shoulders.

On Sir Hubert’s instructions the expedition members had been assigned into Jack’s care. The convicts had been gaoled for infractions against their labour contracts to the plantation owners. George marvelled at how shiny black their skin was. He had lived for a short time in Africa but could not remember seeing men as dark before. ‘Buka men,’ Jack had commented when George asked. ‘Good men to have. They come from the Solomon Islands.’

A small but solidly built Oriental man stood in the boat. Isokihi Komine was the Japanese boat-builder and owner of a small fleet of coastal boats that plied the Papua and New Guinea waters with trade supplies. He recruited natives and occasionally collected beche-de-mer, the ugly sea slugs whose flesh was highly sought by the Chinese for their cuisine. George noticed that Sen and the Japanese boat owner avoided each other. ‘Monkey men,’ Sen had scowled to George. ‘True barbarians.’

George was a little surprised. He had expected that, as both men were of Oriental descent, that they would have found common ground.

Towards mid morning the supplies of tents, tinned food, rice, flour, sugar, salt, tea, medical supplies, guns and ammunition were loaded aboard. Despite his misgivings at leaving Iris behind, George was caught up in the air of adventure on the wharf. Curious natives – men, women and children – had gathered to see off the small expedition.

Iris stood with her sister and brother-in-law a short distance away. She wore a dress that fell to just past her knees and held a parasol against the tropical sun. George glanced at her. Her deep and beautiful eyes were watching him with a yearning.

‘You will come back to me,’ she whispered in his ear as he made ready to board the boat. ‘I love you very much.’ And with an impulsive gesture she wrapped her arm around the tall man’s waist to hold him close.

George felt a lump in his throat. He bent to kiss her on the top of her head. ‘I will always love you,’ he whispered. ‘And we will be wed upon my return.’

Iris disengaged herself, her eyes wide with shock. ‘You would marry me?’ she gasped. ‘But I am Chinese!’

‘You are a woman first,’ George said gently. ‘And I don’t care whether you be Chinese, Japanese or Mongolian. All I know is that in my whole lifetime I have never met a woman as beautiful as you.’ George turned lest she see the raging emotion in his face. He had grown up in a world where such expression of emotions in public was not the done thing. He strode away to leave Iris standing alone in stunned rapture.

Her brother-in-law glanced sideways at her. He had never seen Iris so stunningly beautiful as now. Whatever the Englishman had whispered to Iris had made her a very happy woman but he hoped it had not been a proposal of marriage. English gentlemen did not marry half-caste women if they ever planned to return to European civilisation. It was a formula for disaster.

George stepped down into the boat and Jack grinned at him. ‘Saw what happened on the wharf,’ he said with a broad grin from under his floppy bush hat. ‘Kind of get the impression you went and did something you will regret for the rest of your life.’

‘I was going to ask you to be my best man when we return to Moresby, old chap,’ George replied casually. ‘Unless you have any objections to a pom marrying a Chink.’

Jack slapped his friend on the back. ‘I would be honoured, old cobber,’ he replied as the ropes were cast off and the little wooden boat puffed up pressure in her boiler. ‘My only objection is that Iris is too good for any pom – let alone you.’

George stood at the stern of the boat and watched Iris standing on the wharf beside Sen and his wife until she was merely a tiny figure with a parasol. He did not take his eyes off her as the boat steamed out into the wide harbour. Soon he could not see her at all. They set a course south east for their meeting with whatever would be their destiny.

Iris was not the only person to watch the boat depart. From Ela Beach Tim O’Leary also observed the departing expedition. Beside him stood a smaller, dark skinned man with black eyes.

‘That pommy bastard seems to be pretty chummy with Sen’s sister-in-law,’ O’Leary grunted through split lips. ‘The time to settle with Kelly will start with that pommy bastard first,’ he added as he turned away to walk back into the tiny town of Port Moresby. The swarthy Corsican nodded and followed him. Whatever his brooding partner in business was scheming was sure to be brutal. It was the nature of the man. A nature not unlike his own.

As evening approached Isokihi steered into shore. They could camp and leave at first light the next day. The first night of the voyage was spent on a pretty and secluded beach west of Moresby but plagued with minute sandflies. Jack gave orders to his police to be alert throughout the night. He was not familiar with the country they were now in and his vigilance was a result of years on the Western Front. To stay alive meant being careful.

Timber was fetched from the nearby jungle and a fire lit for cooking – and to keep the overly curious giant salt-water crocodiles at a safe distance. The Japanese captain was a taciturn man however and kept to his own company. He sat away from the party eating a meal he prepared himself while the native police and convicts shared rice and tinned fish and Jack prepared a damper loaf of bread and opened a tin of bully beef.

‘Does it get any better than this?’ Jack asked after they had finished the meal and were lying back on the sandy beach amongst the dried rows of seaweed strewn along the shoreline. The moonless night was clear and balmy and the stars twinkled with a brilliance that almost hurt the eyes.

George did not answer but puffed contentedly on a cigar as he stared upward and listened to the gentle swish of the tropical waters lapping at the edge of the beach. He was trying not to think about the scent of Iris’s hair as he had bent to kiss her on the wharf hours earlier. What would his family think when he returned to England with an Oriental woman as his wife? Ah, to imagine the shock on their aristocratic faces, his father all a fluster. Not since his discharge from his father’s regiment would there be a scene like it.

But George was not the only one thinking about a woman. Jack stared at the stars and the face of Erika Mann floated before him. Why was it that she should haunt his life when he knew nothing about her? She was merely a two-dimensional image on a piece of paper and yet through the words of her letters to a long dead fiancé she was real to him. Then his thoughts drifted to the sad memory of a little boy watching him board the ship.

‘Are you ever going to tell me more about that chap I had the altercation with back in Moresby?’ George asked.

‘It was back in the year I enlisted,’ Jack answered. ‘O’Leary was working for Sen as a recruiter of native boys to work on the plantations around Moresby. He and his partner, a sleazy Frenchman, got themselves a bit of a reputation for shooting natives who refused to go with them, to be signed up as labour. Well anyway, I was staying with Sen when O’Leary turned up with a bunch of boys to be signed up. He also had a young girl with him for some reason. I got to find out why he had the girl one night when I went for a walk. He had the girl down in the bushes and was raping her. I kind of got a bit upset and told him to leave her alone. He told me to bugger off so I pulled my revolver and shot at him. When Sen learned of what had happened he fired O’Leary on the spot. O’Leary swore he would kill me one day, and I expect he will try.’

‘You did the right thing, Jack,’ George said. ‘But I have a feeling that Mr O’Leary may have added me to his list of persona non grata.’

‘No doubt he has,’ Jack agreed. ‘Just stay out of his way and everything will be okay. As it is, Sen is also on his dance card. The only thing is that Sen has some good men around him who keep an eye out.’

‘Why don’t the authorities here curb O’Leary?’ George questioned.

Jack laughed. ‘This is Papua. This is what the Yanks would call a wild frontier. Here men settle their differences between themselves.’

George was afraid that would be the answer. But years of war in the trenches had taught him that civilisation was a thin veneer. All men had a dark side and frontiers were merely places where it could be expressed without any real fear of retribution.

He was lulled into a sleep by the sounds of soft laughter from around the campfire and the gentle swish of the sea. But sleep did not guarantee peace. In his dreams he was with Iris but they were in the trenches under an artillery barrage. Iris was calling to him and she was covered in blood. George twitched and groaned as he attempted to fight his way through the growing piles of body parts torn asunder by the shards of red hot hissing shrapnel.

Iris closed the picture frame on the photograph that the houseboy had taken of her and George together in the fernery. Dademo had been given a quick familiarisation of the camera and grinned self-consciously as he lined up his subjects standing side by side. The black and white moment captured in time displayed a stiff-necked, unsmiling Englishman whilst the woman beside leant slightly towards him with a shy smile.

She sighed at seeing George appear so, but considered happily that when he returned, they would be wed. Her sister had expressed her delight at the news, although with some reservation as she knew her husband would not approve. But hopefully Iris would eventually win him over.

It had been three weeks since George had set off on his expedition and Iris had missed his company with the dull ache of yearning that comes with love. At first she had resisted her attraction to him. But his quiet ways and his obvious attraction to her had caused her reservations to crumble. But with the Englishman’s sense of decency George had honourably controlled his lust. This enduring quality about him, and along with his slow smile, Iris remembered with a warm glow.

Today she would take her favourite gelding for a ride into the hills to visit a little village some miles away. It was a place where she was known and liked by the native women with whom she would sit and gossip. On the way home she could search for wildflowers for the house as the dry season had been left behind and the rains of the monsoon season had transformed the brown and dusty hills into verdant carpets. Although it was still hot and muggy and she knew she would be stiff and sore from the long ride, the vibrant red colours of the poinciana trees, blooming in the hills with the onset of rains, made the discomfort worthwhile.

She felt no fear in such a ride as she was already known to the local villagers and under their protection. Dademo saddled her horse. Dressed in fashionable English jodhpurs, Iris swung herself into the saddle. She was a good rider and the gelding sensed her confidence. The houseboy watched her ride away and returned to his duties sweeping the verandah. He was to tell Master Sen that his sister-in-law had gone for a ride to the village but would be back before sunset. But Master Sen was in Moresby with his missus and probably would not return until dark anyway. Waiting around to tell him the message would be a waste of time. He would finish early and slip away to the local village markets to buy betel nut.

Iris allowed her gelding his head and they galloped along the flat stretches of land between green rolling hills dotted with umbrella-like, flame coloured trees. She was alone and the exuberance of the ride was a joy to experience. She did not hear the shot for a second and was only vaguely aware that her gelding had shuddered. Then a distant popping sound came to her as the horse reared with an almost human-like scream of pain. He crashed into the earth taking her with him.

Iris grunted in pain as the wind was knocked from her lungs. She fought to get her breath back as she lay on her back, staring up at a blue sky suddenly full of a haze of floating red dots. Feeling the weight of the horse on her leg, she knew that he was dead and in stunned disbelief came to realise that the popping sound was that of a rifle. Her horse had been shot.

O’Leary lowered the rifle with a bitter smile. It had been a clean shot, as intended. The Mauser was a beautifully balanced rifle and its high velocity bullet had been true at four hundred yards.

‘Let’s go and see if Miss Iris is still alive to provide us with a little amusement,’ he spat.

Pierre grinned as he lowered the binoculars. Luck was something he knew a lot about. And it had been sheer luck that had brought the girl within the proximity of their temporary camp outside the village. He had watched her galloping closer to them and his partner had hefted the rifle to his shoulder. Shooting the horse so cleanly was a grand sport. But nothing compared to what was to come.

Iris was struggling painfully to free herself when she noticed the two figures strolling casually towards her down the slope of a nearby hill. At a distance she could see a giant of a man with a rifle slung over his shoulder and a second, smaller man who seemed to scurry rather than stroll.