This Golden Land (50 page)

     Neal looked across the camp to where young Fintan was taking care of their horses. In the days since being reunited with the expedition, Neal and
his assistant had captured some beautiful images of the Australian Outback. Astounding rock formations. A lone tree in the middle of a vast plain. A rainbow that went straight up in the air like a column. Neal wanted his father to see them, wanted Josiah to know about his son's accomplishments. I lived with a tribe of Aborigines, Father. I survived on my own in the desert. I underwent a secret initiation. And I have preserved the beauty and soul of Australia on my photographic plates—sights which no white man has ever seen.

     As he turned the goanna on the roasting spit, the morning silence was broken by a shout. John Allen calling out, "Gold I've found gold!"

     Everyone jumped up and ran, breakfast forgotten.

     Neal followed and found the men near the giant boulders, on their hands and knees, frantically digging in the dry red soil while Sir Reginald watched with a smug grin on his face.

     "We came here for
gold?"
Neal said.

     "That's right, and gold we've found."

     Neal stared at the white-haired man. "You never said anything about gold."

     "The fewer who knew it the better." Oliphant reached into the pocket of his baggy shorts and brought out his fist. Opening it, he exposed a bright, shining nugget. "It's history is spotty, but a bloke in Perth told me about escaped convicts. This nugget somehow made it back to civilization and I bought it for fifty pounds and one word: Galagandra."

     "So this whole expedition was a sham," Neal said.

     As he watched Billy Patton and Andy Mason and Colonel Enfield—even the sedate Professor Williams—dig into the red soil in the shadow of stunted mulga and gum trees, Sir Reginald said, "I couldn't very well let the truth be known, now could I? Have a stampede on my hands. Just a trusted few."

     Neal watched the unsettling display for a moment—the men seemed to have gone out of their minds—when his eye caught on something that made his blood suddenly run cold.

     On the boulders: stick figures painted in black pigment.

     "My God," he whispered. "This is a sacred site. Sir Reginald, you have to get these men out of here."

     Oliphant made a dismissive gesture.

     "If the local tribe gets wind of us—"

     "Then we'll buy this place from them. Give them whatever they want."

     "This is a sacred site, they won't sell it!" Neal looked around nervously. With Sir Reginald's men on their hands and knees, unaware, vulnerable, it would take but a swift, surprise attack and the whole lot would be wiped out.

     He looked back at the camp, a hundred feet away, and saw Fintan hurriedly unpacking Neal's tripod. Rorke was a very able assistant, Neal thought in strange detachment. He had learned when to assemble the photographic equipment, and he knew that this was going to be a historic moment to be captured. Neal also noted that Fintan wasn't interested in digging for gold.

     Neal turned in a slow circle, taking in the red plain, the few trees lining the creek bed, the boulders and hill. How was he going to persuade these gold hungry men to get out of here?

     And then: up above, on the crest of the hill, a silhouette against the sky.

     "Sir Reginald," Neal said softly.

     And in that moment, fat Billy Patton shot to his feet, hand in the air, shouting, "I found a nugget! I found a—" His voice was stilled by a spear shooting through his chest. He looked startled, and then fell over dead.

     Neal spun around. It was not the man on the hill who had thrown the spear. Now he saw them, five Aborigines, arms raised, spears in hand as they came running.

     Neal seized Oliphant by his shirt. "Get these men out of here!"

     Sir Reginald looked at the Aborigines. His color drained. "You know these people, Scott. Talk to them. Show them your tribal tattoo."

     "I don't know them!" Jallara's clan had encountered other groups, some friendly, some hostile, speaking different dialects. Neal knew from the rock paintings that these people were different from Jallara's tribe, they would speak another language. His tattoo might only get him killed.

     The natives were now between the white men and the camp, their unearthly cries rising to the sky. Their spears flew and landed with deadly accuracy. Andy Mason, the horse wrangler, clasped one in his stomach as if to pull it out, before he fell over dead. The other men scrambled for the safety of the boulders—the sacred site of their attackers.

     "No!" Neal shouted as the natives closed in on the trapped men. He turned to Oliphant. "Do something!"

     "I. . . I don't know—"

     "The Khyber Pass! The ambush! You managed to get them all out. How did you do it?"

     "Well, you see, I never—"

     Neal released him with a shove. "You made it up.
You made it all up!
"

     The ruddy complexion paled. "I'm afraid you've found me out. I never was at the Khyber Pass."

     "You're a fraud! That's why you left me for dead! You knew I had found out your dirty little secret. Have you been
anywhere
in the world?"

     Sir Reginald was speechless with fear. He blinked in the direction of the Aborigines, where more had suddenly materialized, all running toward his men with spears.

     Neal spun around, thinking of the rifles back at the camp. More were dead now—Colonel Enfield, John Allen—their cries filling the morning air.

     As he started toward the camp, Sir Reginald grabbed his arm and said, "I will pay you a thousand pounds to get me to Perth."

     Pulling the hand from his arm, Neal ran back to the camp.

     Sir Reginald made a dash to where the horses were tied up, seized a chestnut mare and, hauling himself up, riding bareback, galloped off. Neal turned and watched in horror as a boomerang went spinning through the air, catching the Englishman on the neck to send him toppling from his horse. A mob of Aborigines was immediately upon him. Sir Reginald's screams rose to the sky as clubs rained down on him.

     Neal was frantic. More Aborigines had appeared. There were perhaps fifty now. Where were they coming from? It was going to be a slaughter. He knew that fire wouldn't scare them off, and rifles wouldn't be enough. And then he thought: Explosions.

     He searched for young Rorke and found him crouched behind a wagon, firing his rifle, but shaking so badly that he missed his marks.

     "Fintan!" Neal called, and the young man came running, his face the color of clay.

     "We'll drive them off with chemical explosions. Help me get the wagon rolling."

     "But Mr. Scott, the plates, all the pictures you've taken."

     There was no time to empty the wagon. As the attack continued at the boulders, with a few of the white men firing pistols, killing Aborigines, Neal and Fintan pushed the wagon loaded with photographic supplies along the creek until it rolled on its own. As it neared the Aborigines, Neal lifted a fire brand from the campfire and threw it onto the crates. It took but seconds. Huge fireballs erupted. The deafening chemical explosions spewed dense black clouds into the air, and sent the Aborigines scattering in all directions. As the nearby trees burst into flame, Fintan stared in horror, thinking of the shattered glass plates—the astounding rock formations, the lone tree, the rainbow—all gone.

     The survivors came running back to the camp, bleeding and hurt. Seven lay dead with spears in their chests.

     "Brilliant!" Professor Williams said to Neal. Blood trickled down his forehead. "Where is Sir Reginald?" And then he saw the broken body next to the horse.

     Neal scanned the area. The natives had vanished. But he knew it wasn't over. He had to muster the men, get them and the horses away from here. He squinted through the smoke at the boulders. Was there time to bury the dead?

     Another man came staggering out of the smoke just then with a dazed grin on his face. Despite a blood stain on his shirt that was spreading, he waved his fist, showing off the large gold nugget he had found. "There's more! Just lying on the ground to be picked up."

     As the men ran back to the site of the slaughter, Neal tried to stop them. "Wait! The explosions aren't over! Those trees are on fire. There are more chemicals to be ignited."

     But the greed for gold was too much. The men rushed in. Neal watched as the trees caught fire, branches dripping with flame, about to drop on the remaining unexploded crates.

     While the men scrambled on their knees in the red earth.

     He hesitated for only a second, then plunged through the smoke, reaching for arms and legs. Fintan followed, delivering himself into the intense heat and black cloud. A large mulga bush burst into flame. It shot sparks at the wagon, igniting the last of the chemicals—a lethal
formula of highly toxic potassium cyanide that was used as a fixing agent in photography.

     It exploded in fire and poisonous gas, engulfing Neal and Fintan, their cries rising to the smoke-filled sky.

T
HERE
! H
OW DOES IT LOOK
?"

     As Hannah stepped back to admire her handiwork, she dabbed her forehead with a handkerchief. It seemed strange to be decorating a Christmas tree on such a hot day.

     "The candles will look lovely," Alice said, "once they are all lit."

     Hannah had moved back into town not only because the Australia Hotel was closed, but also because, during her absence, a new doctor had arrived in the district and was receiving calls from people who had once been Hannah's patients. So she had chosen a small two-story house in a newer part of Adelaide, away from where the established doctors had their offices, and had created a private residence upstairs, with the ground floor made into an office, waiting room, and small laboratory and dispensary.

     She had been here for four weeks, with her brass shingle hanging on a post by the sidewalk—
Miss Hannah Conroy, Health Practitioner Trained in London, Specializing in Women & Children & Midwifery
—but she had yet to attract a single patient. Hannah was not discouraged. She had placed
ads in newspapers, had put up notices all around town, and had even gone around to establishments, as "Dr." Gladstone the barber-dentist had done, handing out her calling card and informing local merchants of her new practice. She knew that people just needed to time adjust to a new specialty, and to accept her.

     Just as she knew that Neal would be knocking at her door any day now.

     Six weeks ago she had said farewell to Jamie O'Brien on the old logging road. He was on his way to California, and she would cherish his memory forever. Hannah had left a letter at the post office, should Neal go there after discovering that the Australia Hotel was closed. She had also posted a notice for him on Mr. Day's public message board. He had said he would be back by Christmas, which was just two days away.

     "I have to get back to the Elysium and rehearse for tonight's Christmas show. You will be there?" Alice was drawing bigger crowds than ever, now that she had toured the colonies and drawn rave reviews.

     "I wouldn't miss it," Hannah said, giving her exuberant friend a hug. "Thanks for the help with the tree."

     She saw Alice to the door, and as she closed it, spotted the newspaper her housekeeper had purchased during the morning shopping, folded neatly on the entry table.

     Hannah picked it up and opened it out. The front page headline read: OLIPHANT EXPEDITION PERISHES IN DESERT. Underneath, the report began:
There are No Survivors of the Noble but ill-fated Expedition.

     The floor tilted. Hannah reached for the wall to steady herself. She suddenly couldn't breathe.

     
Services were held at St. George's Church in Perth with Lieutenant Governor McNair delivering the eulogy for the thirty-two Brave Men who departed from Adelaide nine months ago under the leadership of Sir Reginald. . .

     It was a moment before Hannah realized she was hearing a knock at the front door. Mrs. Sparrow, the housekeeper, appeared from the back, in her tidy dress and white apron, and went to answer it.

     A woman with two children stood on the threshold. Behind her, in the street, the carriage of a wealthy family waited at the curb. "Is this the house of the lady practitioner?" the woman asked.

     Mrs. Sparrow stepped aside and the visitor came in. When Mrs. Sparrow introduced Hannah as the practitioner, the woman said, "Timothy can't stop coughing and Lucy has an awful rash." The finely dressed woman lowered her voice and, unaware of Miss Conroy's unusual paleness, said, "And I have a private problem myself. To tell the truth, it's nice to have a lady to go to about these things. Doctors don't understand, do they?"