by Peter Watt
Major Duffy was assigned to the New South Wales Mounted Infantry and the secondment did not rest easy with him even though he personally knew many of the officers and soldiers of the unit. He had grown used to riding with his Queens-landers and the change in the order of battle left him with an ill foreboding, superstitious as such feelings were. It was as if he had lost his talisman. But the assignment to Colonel De Lisle’s mounted column was heartening in one aspect; he respected the astute commander’s ability to react quickly to all opportunities that presented themselves on the battlefield.
They had rode out of Pretoria to a range of hills shaped like a horseshoe called the Tiger Poort Range. Here they bivouacked in the shadow of Diamond Hill, watching the British infantry make a determined assault on the heavily defended plateau. But the British infantry came under intense fire from the Transvaalers and by nightfall they had captured little ground for heavy losses. In his usual brilliant style, Colonel De Lisle spotted a key position to the battle in a kopje at the south-eastern end of the plateau. It was time to commit his colonial mounted infantry to the battle for Diamond Hill.
Patrick sat in the grass resting his horse and chatting with his men. He had known many of them as an officer back in Sydney and they were glad to see him. His feeling of unease began to dissipate. It was mid-afternoon when the order came down to the New South Welshmen that it was their turn to attack with the West Australians in support.
The senior NCOs strode amongst the waiting troopers with directions to check the girths on their saddles. One of them, a sergeant who had worked for a Macintosh company in Sydney, saw Patrick tightening his saddle strap and stopped. ‘You coming with us, sir?’ he asked curiously.
‘Sergeant Higgins, isn’t it?’ Patrick quizzed.
‘Yes, sir,’ the sergeant answered, pleased to be recognised. ‘It is. I used to work for you at the shipping office in Bligh Street, sir.’
‘I remember,’ Patrick smiled. ‘You did a bloody good job then and now I expect you will do even better.’
The sergeant could not help but beam at the praise. ‘It will be good to have you with us, sir,’ he replied and thrust out his hand as a civilian would, forgetting for the moment they were a long way from the shipping offices of Macintosh & Company.
Patrick took the hand. ‘Good luck, Sergeant Higgins.’
‘And you too, sir,’ he replied.
‘By the way, Sergeant,’ Patrick said with a grin as he swung himself easily into the saddle. ‘Remind me to give you a raise when we get back to Sydney.’
The sergeant returned the grin and waved as Patrick trotted over to join a young officer assembling his squadron of men. He was casually briefing them on their objective, as if explaining a nice place to picnic: a farm set amongst a stand of gum trees at the end of a broad, rolling, grass covered plain dotted with ant nests. There they were to dismount to advance on foot.
The order was given to mount and three hundred and fifty infantrymen on horseback were deployed on command to a spacing of fifty yards. Patrick experienced the usual tension of all soldiers before an action but felt a strange calm descend once the order was given to advance.
The horsemen trotted into their lines then quickly broke into a gallop, making for the farm near the Boer-occupied hill. Behind the galloping horsemen the pompom guns opened fire at the entrenched Boers to give the horsemen support in their attack.
Patrick leant forward along the neck of his mount as the long lines of colonial horsemen charged forward, the exhilaration of the traditional cavalry charge upon him as any fears were absorbed in the wild ride.
The initial thunder of hooves was drowned by the rapid crash of the pompoms from behind, firing over their heads. To his front, Patrick could see the objective and wondered at first whether there were any enemy occupying the position. But the dust that began to sprout in front of the charging line of colonial horsemen soon confirmed that they had come under withering rifle and artillery fire which rained down on them from the heights of the plateau. Luck intervened when the long range Boer artillery suddenly shifted their aim to a herd of cattle away on the plain, mistaking them for horses, and under the barrage, the terrified animals ran about wildly as the shrapnel tore them apart.
Then they were on their first objective, the farmhouse and its surrounding outbuildings. The order to dismount brought the New South Welshmen tumbling out of their saddles with their carbines.
Patrick carried a Lee Metford as well as his service revolver, snatching a bandolier of rounds from around the neck of his horse before he joined the colonial troopers. De Lisle had wisely sent the pompom guns forward to take up a position behind a low-set stone fence. From there they could continue to provide covering fire to the troops who would now advance on foot in extended order, a spacing of thirty yards between each man.
Gazing across to the final objective, Patrick felt a cold fear for what was ahead: a steep, bare escarpment covered only by thin, straw-like grass. Beyond the escarpment he could see other stony terraces, rising like giant steps to the top where the Boers were well entrenched behind their stone built sangers.
The dismounted infantry advanced in their frontal attack, scrambling up the rocky slopes which would give some protection until they came to the final terrace where the Boer met them with unrelenting fire.
As he struggled alongside the younger troopers, Patrick felt as though his lungs were on fire. Occasionally he stopped to snap off a shot at the little stone fort sangers from where the Boers poured their fire upon the advancing infantry.
The gunfire had reached a crescendo with the explosions of the deadly pompom shells adding to the hell around him. Men screamed curses or died with strangled cries of despair as bullets ricocheted and the ground was churned with splintering stone and metal from spent rounds. Amidst the death and dying on the slopes just below the crest of the plateau, the order was given to fix bayonets and make the final charge to sweep the Boer position clear.
The almost impersonal charge across the plain had now brought the enemy close enough to make the war very personal. Patrick was not carrying a bayonet but rose to join the tough colonial troopers. He would use his rifle like a club to dislodge the entrenched enemy. It was like Tel-el-Kebir and McNeill’s Zareba all over again when men met in close-quarter fighting in a killing frenzy. Wooden rifle butts against steel knives, men’s fists and feet against those of his enemy. There would be personal and vicious deaths where a man would see into the eyes of his foe as a long bayonet was driven into his chest, throat or stomach.
A wild yell went up from the troopers who surged forward with their deadly bayonets extended like primitive spears on the ends of their rifles. The sight of the long lines of enemy infantrymen sprinting the last yards towards them caused the Boer riflemen to break, fleeing their entrenched positions in the last light of the day, but not leaving their wounded behind.
Patrick found himself swept up in the adrenalin-powered charge and was roaring the slogans he had learned many years earlier as a young officer commanding the tough Scots soldiers. He did not hear the incoming whistling shell that exploded into the earth behind him. For Major Patrick Duffy the war was over and he would not share the victory of the New South Welshmen as they swept the hill clear of enemy resistance.
Patrick was not aware how badly he had been wounded. He was mercifully unconscious as the four troopers carried him in a blanket down the hill and back to the farmhouse where the wagons of the medical corps waited to transport the wounded of both sides back to Pretoria. When Patrick finally regained his senses, he wished he was still in that blissful place of darkness where the terrible pain could not reach him. With each jarring bump of the mule-drawn medical wagon, his shrapnel torn body arched in agony, but his moans of pain were lost in the many cries of badly wounded soldiers who lay beside him. He could not see the extent of his injuries but sensed he had taken the full brunt of the explosion. In the dark night the wagon slammed into a pothole and slewed sideways. The soldier
lying beside him tumbled onto Patrick who cried out in agony.
‘You’ll be all right, sir.’ A gentle voice came to him out of the dark as a hand touched his face. ‘I’ll get him off yer. Looks like the poor blighter is dead anyway.’ True to his word the dead man was hauled away but the agonising pain remained with Patrick from the numerous shrapnel wounds. ‘Not too far to go before we have you in a hospital at Pretoria,’ the gentle voice continued reassuringly. ‘Got good people there.’
Patrick gritted his teeth, embarrassed by his protests of pain. He was an officer and as such expected to bear his torment in silence. But despite such thoughts he still reached out his hand to seek the hand of the disembodied voice and was rewarded with a firm grip. ‘Where have I been hit?’ Patrick asked, his voice weak from loss of blood. ‘I’m thirsty,’ he added. ‘So bloody thirsty.’
‘Can’t give yer any water, sir,’ the medic said sadly. ‘Yer got some shrapnel in the belly as well as in the chest, arm and legs. Water’s no good fer a gut wound.’
‘How bad?’ Patrick asked.
‘Seen worse an’ seen the same men up and walkin’ in a few weeks,’ the medic answered. ‘With any luck your wounds might get you a trip to London and out of this war.’
The driver berated his mules into greater exertions to pull the ambulance wagon free of the pothole. As the jarring caused further waves of agony to sweep over Patrick, his involuntary cry of pain died away into silence. Once again he had entered into the darkness whose gateway opened into the world of the dead. Major Patrick Duffy was not sure which way he should go.
TWENTY-FOUR
Thousands of miles east on another continent, Michael Duffy, alias Michael O’Flynn, sat astride his horse and stared across a shimmering plain. He glanced up at the angle of the sun and calculated it must be around noon then dropped his searching gaze back to the horizon. The distant tree line was barely visible but he knew from experience that it marked a waterway. Behind him, a pair of horses hauled the wagon and its two passengers with Nerambura Duffy at the reins, the young stockman’s horse following on a lead.
Behind the open wagon rode young Alexander Macintosh on the roan that had been purchased for him by Michael. His riding had improved considerably on the trek west across the dusty plains. It had been over a week since they had departed Glen View station and Nerambura had guided their way almost instinctively.
‘We camp up ahead about two to three hours away,’ Michael said over his shoulder. ‘Seems as good as any place to spend the night. I’ll ride on and check it out.’
With a sharp dig in his mount’s flanks he broke his horse into a trot. Three hours later the wagon reached the distant shimmering tree line to find a virtual oasis of coolabah trees overhanging a series of cool, clear waterholes and rocky pools. The river was wide but the Dry season had caused the level to drop to a fordable passage just a couple of hundred yards upstream. Michael already had a campfire burning in a ring of river stones and his hobbled horse grazed under the shade of the river trees.
‘It is a beautiful place, Mr O’Flynn,’ Helen exclaimed from the wagon’s seat. ‘You have chosen well. But are there any crocodiles in the river?’ she asked apprehensively.
‘Too far inland for crocs,’ Michael answered with a grin. ‘Just the bloody mosquitoes you have to worry about here at night. Big enough to suck a croc dry.’
Karl von Fellmann eased himself from the back of the wagon and stretched with a groan of relief before assisting his wife down. The journey in the rear of the hard sprung wooden wagon had not been pleasant and every muscle cried out.
Alexander’s eyes were wide with wonder at the beauty of the wild river that flowed through the plains, dry for hundreds of miles around. It was the biggest they had seen in their days on the trek. ‘Are there fish in the river, Mr O’Flynn?’ he asked with boyish excitement.
‘Should be. I hear they have a particularly good eating fish out here called a barramundi. You’ll get a chance to see if you can catch us one or two.’
The boy’s face beamed with pleasure. ‘I know how to fish,’ Alex said enthusiastically. ‘My father took us fishing once at Manly when we stayed there.’
‘A nice little cottage by the sea,’ the Irishman sighed.
‘Have you been to our place at Manly?’ the boy asked, wondering how Mr O’Flynn might know of the Macintosh seaside resort.
‘A long, long time before you were born,’ Michael reflected sadly and the boy sensed wisely that he should not ask any more questions.
Setting up the camp did not take long. It had become a practised routine over the days on the journey: a canvas sheet was spread under the wagon for Michael, Alex and Nerambura and a short distance away a small canvas tent was set up for the pastor and his wife. The von Fellmanns used camp stretchers to sleep on whilst the others slept on the canvas sheet, using saddles for pillows. Coarse blankets kept them warm against the chill of the western plains nights although the days had proved to be hot.
Michael and Nerambura headed to the river to collect firewood, to keep the campfire burning throughout the night. As they approached its banks the young stockman from Glen View frowned. ‘Big mob of blackfellas up along the river, boss,’ he said, crouching to examine the faintly discernible tracks at the river’s edge.
Michael peered at the prints. His years in Africa hunting lions had also honed his skills in tracking.
‘How many do you reckon?’ he asked.
‘Mebbe thirty,’ Nerambura replied. ‘Mebbe they bin see Wallarie.’
Michael nodded. ‘Maybe we should have a talk to them.’
Then the matter was put aside as the two men went about their task of fetching timber before returning to the camp where Alex was assisting his aunt set out the cooking pots.
Alex liked his father’s half sister. As she had lived most of her life in Germany he had known little of her until now and was only vaguely aware of the odd circumstances of his relationship to the woman. He knew that his grandmother Fiona White was both the mother to his own father and to the very pretty lady who was his aunt. Other than that nothing much had been explained to him. It was a subject that was as good as taboo in the family.
Michael explained to Karl von Fellmann what he and Nerambura had found on the river and the Lutheran pastor appeared pleased.
‘I will go and meet them,’ Karl said. ‘I have not as yet had the opportunity to meet with the wandering Aboriginals of this country.’
‘Not a real good idea, Pastor,’ Michael cautioned. ‘These people don’t always take to white men. It’s not that long ago we were hunting them down and shooting them as vermin. The tribes up this way have a reputation for armed resistance.’
‘I can take Nerambura with me, Mr O’Flynn,’ von Fellmann replied, ‘if you will stay and provide my wife with protection at the camp.’
Michael frowned as he pondered on the pastor’s request. He respected the young man, and more than likely he would come to no harm. Perhaps this was an ideal time to show his grandson how to catch one of the big, silver scaled fish he had heard so much about from the Palmer River bushmen years earlier.
‘I suppose you will be safe with Nerambura. But they’re a fair way upriver – looks like you can expect to camp overnight with them.’
‘That is not a problem. I would like to have the opportunity to examine them in their natural setting. I studied their culture at the Berlin University but this is the first time I have had the opportunity to see for myself how they live.’
‘Well, you can take my horse,’ Michael said. ‘And Nerambura can take my revolver as insurance.’
The pastor smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr O’Flynn. I know that God will protect us but I am sure Mr Samuel Colt will be good to have as a friend here on earth.’
Michael smiled. ‘That he will,’ he replied and turned on his heel to saddle his horse for the pastor.
Within ten minutes Nerambura and Karl von Fellmann rode away, following the line of big trees that ran alo
ng the edge of the river. The sun was high enough above the horizon to provide them with good light in their search for the nomadic tribesmen.
When the cooking pots had been set out and all was ready for the evening meal, Michael excused himself to take Alex to a promising bend on the river where a huge tree had collapsed and settled in the shallows. The old bushmen had told him that the barramundi liked to lurk in the tangles of such trees and could be coaxed out with a little patience. Michael soon had Alex set up on the trunk dangling their handlines into the cool, clear water that eddied around the submerged limbs of the tree. The boy sat with an expression of eager anticipation on his face, hardly registering Michael’s instruction to stay put while he returned to the campsite for some lines he had decided to set overnight.
When Michael reached the camp he was surprised to see that it was deserted. They had left Helen alone but Michael had done so with little fear for her safety. This was not a country where predatory animals stalked as in Africa and the most dangerous animal in Australia was man himself. He picked up the Martini Henry rifle he had left propped against the wheel of the wagon and went in search of her. His first guess to look downriver proved correct.
As Michael stood high on the bank amongst the shadows of the trees, Helen waded naked in a shallow of the river, the water swirling around her knees. Her long dress and pantaloons lay on a big rock in the river nearby and Helen stood oblivious to his presence amongst the trees. Michael did not feel as if he was intruding, his artist’s eye seeing only beauty in the sight of the young woman relishing the freedom that the wild river country gave her. She stood transfixed as if the rest of the world did not exist, the silence broken only by the gently gurgling water and the warble of bush birds. Overhead a flock of cockatoos screeched their noisy call as they swirled in a white cloud and Helen glanced up, her long raven hair falling as a soft tumble to her waist.
