by Peter Watt
‘Then you are a rather unusual man and, I have to say, nothing like your father.’
‘No, I am not like my father,’ Karl reflected. ‘But my brother is very much like my father. Hans follows the path of war. I fear that he has joined the sabre rattlers who desire a confrontation with Britain. He and my father are hoping that the war in South Africa will provide an excuse for the Kaiser to declare war on his cousins in England.’
‘Not likely while Britannia rules the waves,’ Michael said.
Karl cast him a curious look. ‘It is unusual for a man with your Irish background to support the British. Did not your own father fight the British army at the Eureka Stockade?’
‘You have a point, Pastor. But you forget some men are mercenary when it comes to war. I guess I was just one of them. The British paid well.’
‘So you have left behind the ideals of your family?’ Karl queried.
Michael frowned. He had never really thought about his life, other than that it had been marked by a series of wars from New Zealand to Africa. ‘Irishmen just like a good fight, I suppose,’ Michael finally answered with a short laugh. ‘Doesn’t matter about the cause.’
‘I believe you have a relative, Father Martin Duffy, who still believes in causes.’
Michael stared hard at the Lutheran pastor. ‘How did you know about that?’ he asked with a hard edge in his voice.
The German glanced away before answering. ‘Maybe I have said too much. Some things said are better forgotten.’
‘I heard Father Duffy was recruiting for the Boers in South Africa,’ Michael said quietly. ‘Is he in communication with the German government?’
‘It is inevitable that he speak to Germany,’ Karl replied. ‘He sees us as natural allies in this war of liberation against the oppression of the English. He feels that war will eventually come to Europe and that we will see Germany pitted against England. In that case, he also sees the Irish rising with German assistance against the British army. We are natural allies.’
‘What do you personally think?’
‘I think that while such men exist they give fuel to foolish German aspirations amongst the warmongerers. It will not take much to light the fire for what I see as a terrible war. We have used science to develop weapons far beyond our control. To unleash such weapons of science spells the certain death of a whole generation of young men. I suppose you could call me a pacifist, Mr O’Flynn. A man not in any way like you, or my father.’
Michael stared at Karl for some time before nodding in agreement. The young man belonged to a new generation. ‘For the sake of us all,’ Michael said quietly, ‘I hope that such men as Father Duffy cease in their cause or are thwarted in some way from fuelling such a slaughter.’
‘Amen,’ the young missionary said quietly and Michael understood his prayer when he reflected on the murderous campaigns of the American Civil War: trenches, machine guns, barbed wire, quick-firing artillery guns and the communications to ensure maximum concentration of death at any given point on the battlefield.
Karl spoke again. ‘I shall bid you a good evening and retire for the night. Tomorrow will be a long day as my wife and I will be leaving.’
‘I thought that you had come here to set up a mission station,’ Michael said in surprise. ‘Surely you have not done that already.’
‘Your son and Lady Macintosh will not allow us to use a part of Glen View for such matters,’ he replied sadly.
‘Ah yes, I think I know why,’ the Irishman answered softly. ‘But it is something I would not expect you to understand, Pastor.’
‘The curse that you all believe in,’ Karl replied. Michael shot him a look of surprise. ‘Oh, I know all about your beliefs. My wife almost believes in the curse herself. But fortunately she has come to realise that pagan religions are based on superstition. There is only one God, and He is not the evil avenging spirit of the Aboriginal people of this land. Their beliefs are nothing more than animistic traditions.’
‘Well, I’m not exactly a practising Christian,’ Michael said with a wry smile. ‘So my mind is a little more open to other people’s beliefs. Even primitive blackfella ideas about curses.’
Karl von Fellmann frowned at the Irishman’s mocking tone. What was it about this vast and seemingly desolate land that drove otherwise rational people to such heretical beliefs?
Karl and his wife did not commence their journey to Sydney the next day. Helen sat in the dining room with her hands in her lap, her husband standing beside her, listening to Michael relate the extraordinary events of that morning.
‘Nerambura Duffy says the old warrior, Wallarie, is still alive,’ Michael said, seeing the expression of hope on Helen’s face as she reached out to grasp her husband’s hand. ‘He says he knows where he might be.’
‘Where, Mr O’Flynn?’ Helen asked leaning forward in her excitement.
‘Young Nerambura says the old blackfella has gone walkabout up north towards Burketown. Left a few months back.’
‘We must find him,’ Helen said glancing up at her husband. ‘If we find him and bring him back to Glen View, my grandmother will honour the promise to grant us land for our work amongst the Aboriginal people.’
‘Wallarie is the man who killed your grandfather and your uncle,’ Michael cautioned. ‘In the end, Lady Macintosh might not be so keen to have him back, considering the damage he has done to your family.’
‘But what do you think, Mr O’Flynn?’ Karl asked pointedly. ‘From your own experiences?’
Michael realised that Karl was deferring to his real identity without letting on to his wife. ‘I think we should find Wallarie,’ he answered. ‘I think he is the key to many mysteries that require answers – rational or otherwise.’
‘I agree,’ Karl answered, holding Michael’s gaze. ‘My wife and I should speak to Nerambura Duffy and ascertain Wallarie’s whereabouts.’
‘Not so easy,’ Michael warned. ‘Nerambura reckons the old warrior would be pretty wary even if you find him. Nerambura and I will come with you in the search. It’s pretty wild country out there.’
Karl felt his wife squeeze his hand. It was clear she agreed. ‘I cannot see any problem with your suggestion if that is your wish, Mr O’Flynn,’ he said. ‘I am sure Mr Cameron will provide us with what we need.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ Michael agreed. ‘There is one other thing.’
‘What is that?’ Karl asked.
‘Young Alexander will travel with us in our search for Wallarie.’
TWENTY-TWO
Away from the intensity of campaigning, the thousands of soldiers camped in and around the pretty little town tended to get themselves into trouble as they sought ways of relieving the boredom of camp life. But murder was going beyond the usual drunken brawls that brought the wrath of the ever-vigilant British military police down on troublemakers. Being appointed to assist the military police in their investigation was not an assignment that Patrick welcomed. Colonel Hay Williams had suggested his appointment to the investigation, knowing full well that the Australian major would lose his popularity with the colonial troopers if he were forced to ask intrusive questions in a murder investigation. Under the terms of reference presented to him by a coldly smiling Colonel Hay Williams at the Pretoria headquarters, Patrick was appointed to coordinate questioning of soldiers from the Queensland contingents.
One of the worst aspects of the occupation of Pretoria for Major Patrick Duffy was the mountain of paperwork he found himself buried under. Patrick now sat in his tent with papers scattered on his camp bed. He had been looking forward to a relaxed evening with his fellow officers in the mess but the investigation had stopped that pleasant interlude. He had before him the names of four soldiers who had been absent the night the British sergeant had been stabbed to death. Four men who had been reported missing from their lines without leave approved – and one name on the list particularly disturbed him: Private Saul Rosenblum.
Patrick frowned as he stared at the list. Rosenblu
m was a soldier with an impeccable record of service and a man whose courage under fire had earned him a recommendation of a gallantry medal. No, Saul Rosenblum may have been absent that night, but he could not have possibly killed the English sergeant.
But he felt a twinge of guilt for what he knew was a personal bias. Was it because he owed the soldier his life? Would he betray the very spirit of his commission as an officer if he turned a blind eye to one particular soldier in the investigation? Patrick sighed and shuffled the papers. His doubts were unfounded, he told himself. Private Rosenblum would have an explanation for his whereabouts on the night of the murder and that would end the matter.
The following morning all four of the Queenslanders on Patrick’s list were marched by the company sergeant major to the orderly room, set up in a deserted farmhouse just outside Pretoria.
Patrick sat behind a battered kitchen table serving as an office desk and listened to the CSM bark his commands to the four soldiers outside before marching into the orderly room. There was a crashing halt of boots on the wooden floor followed by a salute that made his arm appear to be sprung steel.
‘Soldiers present and correct, sah!’ the CSM bellowed as if he were still on the parade ground.
Patrick returned the salute. ‘Very good, Sergeant Major. You can stand the men at ease outside and send in the first soldier.’
‘Very good, sah,’ the CSM barked, saluting, and made an about turn and marched out of the office.
‘Private Hinton. Look smart, man. On the double. Report to Major Duffy.’
In turn Patrick questioned three troopers at length as to their whereabouts on the night of the murder. All were already facing a military charge of being absent without leave, but they were eager to cooperate when they learned that the major’s inquiries were in relation to a murder investigation, and each was able to provide witnesses to his whereabouts.
But Saul Rosenblum, the last to be questioned, could only say that he had gone for a walk that night, with no alibi as to his exact whereabouts. That did not mean the Queenslander was guilty, Patrick reassured himself. It just simply meant he did not have an alibi. And the Canadian corporal only had a fleeting glimpse of the soldier who had brushed past him in the night. All he had been sure of was that the soldier wore the uniform of a Queensland mounted infantryman, and he could even have been wrong about that.
Saul stood to attention in front of the desk and stared at a fly on the wall behind Patrick’s head.
‘Did you ever meet a Sergeant Temple, of the yeomanry?’ Patrick asked quietly.
‘No, sir,’ Saul replied without blinking. He had not met the dead English sergeant before he killed him!
A silence followed and Patrick scanned the face of the soldier. He appeared calm and confident. ‘Private Rosenblum, you are the only man I have questioned who does not seem to have an alibi as to where you were on the evening Sergeant Temple was murdered. As such, I will be forced to submit your name to the military police for further interrogation on the matter. But believe me when I tell you that I am reluctant to do so. I can only reassure myself that you could have no reason to kill a man you had never met before.’
‘I understand, sir,’ Saul replied, knowing full well that the major meant his words. ‘I have nothing to hide.’
‘Very good, Private Rosenblum. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for coming back for me at the Modder River. You risked your life under the most perilous conditions that day without any thought for your own. I would like you to know that I made recommendation in my despatches for official recognition of your courageous actions.’
‘Thank you, boss,’ Saul said with a sad smile. ‘But that wasn’t necessary. I just did what any other of the blokes would have done for you.
After dismissing Saul, Patrick returned to Lord Roberts’ headquarters to report to Colonel Hay Williams, confident that Saul Rosenblum had nothing to do with the murder. But his confidence was soon to be shattered by an overheard conversation in the officers’ mess that evening. Patrick would wish he had spent the evening elsewhere.
As officers are prone to do, Captain Garling of the yeomanry company was discussing his late platoon sergeant – the deceased Sergeant Temple – with a fellow captain from another yeomanry unit. Patrick had been sitting in a comfortable chair, reading a three-week-old copy of the Times, sipping a whisky and soda. It was the mention of the dead sergeant’s name that had attracted his attention and the fact that Captain Garling had expressed his relief at no longer having the troublesome man in his company.
Patrick placed the English paper on a cane table beside his chair. ‘Captain Garling, I could not help overhearing you say you are relieved that the late Sergeant Temple is no longer in your company. Why is that?’
The captain appeared ill at ease at having been caught out. ‘I would prefer not to discuss the matter, sir,’ he replied defensively. ‘It is simply a matter pertaining to an incident that occurred some weeks ago.’
‘I do not wish to pry into matters concerning the good order and discipline of your command, Captain Garling,’ Patrick said from where he sat. ‘But I have been assigned to the investigation of your sergeant’s apparent murder. Anything you may tell me would only relate to assisting in the case.’
Frowning, the captain clutched his gin and tonic. ‘Well, I suppose in the interests of solving the murder I could tell you. The rumour amongst the ranks is that Sergeant Temple was killed by a Boer in the uniform of one of the colonial troops.’
‘Why would they think that?’ Patrick asked, although the practice of Boer commandos using captured British army uniforms in such a way was not uncommon. ‘What reason would a Boer have for risking his life and going after Sergeant Temple in a town garrisoned by so many of his enemy?’
‘It appears that Sergeant Temple, in company with some Afrikaner, was responsible for the death of a Boer girl out on the veldt. Mind you, she apparently killed two good soldiers of mine and they supposedly had no choice but to kill her in their own defence. But we have since learned that she was the sister of a Boer field kornet, a particularly dangerous man who rides with De la Rey. The rumour amongst my men is that he had Sergeant Temple killed.’
‘You were saying that you were relieved to have Sergeant Temple out of your command,’ Patrick repeated. ‘Why was that?’
The English captain’s unease returned. ‘I’m afraid his story about the incident with the Boer girl left a lot of questions unanswered when we had the bodies of the two soldiers disinterred for a proper burial in Pretoria. We found that one of the soldiers had been shot through the head as if executed. We know from the gun that killed them that the girl could not have done it. I was about to question Sergeant Temple on the discrepancy, which he had not mentioned in his report, when the sergeant himself was killed.’
‘What about the Afrikaner who was with Sergeant Temple? Has he been questioned?’
‘A bit difficult,’ Garling replied. ‘It seems that his own kind executed him not long after the incident according to the intelligence chaps. They seemed to know a fair bit about the matter. Even knew the name of the girl. Seems she slipped through their fingers at Bloemfontein carrying something rather important for Pretoria. They are not quite sure what it was but considering her connections, my guess is that it was information on our dispositions. Apparently she was something of an enigma, a Dutch born Jew educated in England and working for the Boers.’
The description of the dead girl sent a cold fear through Patrick. Very few of the Queenslanders did not know where Saul Rosenblum went on his time away from the lines in Bloemfontein. They had in fact helped cover for him on occasions so that he could rendezvous with the pretty dark-eyed girl. Needless to say, Patrick had heard the rumours of Saul’s affair. He did not want to ask the next question.
‘Was the dead girl’s name Karen Isaacs?’ he asked softly.
The English captain cast him a quizzical look. ‘Did you know her, sir?’
‘No. J
ust knew of her,’ Patrick answered with a sick feeling churning his stomach.
Saul Rosenblum had killed the English yeomanry sergeant! His motive was simple. Revenge for the death of the woman he loved. Would he do no less if something had happened to Catherine?
‘Are you all right, sir?’ the captain asked as he stared at the stricken expression on the colonial major’s face. ‘Not a touch of that damned enteric fever by any chance?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘No. Thank you for the information, Captain Garling.’ He rose from his chair. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have an early start in the morning.’
They nodded and watched the major leave the mess after bidding good evening to the president of the mess committee as protocol dictated.
‘Funny chap, that Major Duffy,’ Garling commented to the other yeomanry captain. ‘A colonial.’
As Patrick walked back to his tent his thoughts were in turmoil. He had a duty as an officer to report all he had learned, albeit inadvertently, to the investigating police. Saul Rosenblum had a strong motive for killing the English sergeant. It was all circumstantial but solid enough to have him arrested. Military justice was harsh and should he be found guilty he would surely be executed. By the time Patrick had reached his tent he had made his decision. It was a matter of honour, though the decision did not rest well with him. But fate, and a tenacious Boer commander, General Botha, intervened in any decision Major Patrick Duffy might have to make. He was summoned to attend an important operations briefing first thing in the morning. The matter of Saul Rosenblum would not be a priority this day.
TWENTY-THREE
Lord Roberts’ concern at the growing concentration of Botha’s army east of Pretoria had prompted him to counter the threat. He feared the Natal Boers being pushed ahead of Buller’s columns would unite to pose a formidable threat to Pretoria itself but his tactic of engaging the centre of the Boer army whilst outflanking it had been anticipated by the wily Botha. Roberts, however, was not to know this at the time he sent his depleted army forth from Pretoria to engage his enemy.
