To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4

by Peter Watt

  Matthew groped his way through the jumble of trenches and flour bag defences until he found the Queenslanders’ section. Whispered directions from shadowy shapes in the dark led Matthew to the end of the trench where he found Saul Rosenblum dozing with his back against the wall. Saul snapped out of his troubled sleep when he heard Matthew’s voice call to him.

  ‘Yer still alive,’ Saul answered with obvious relief. ‘I heard you Whalers took on the Dutchmen over on Captain Butters’ hill a couple of days ago and . . .’ He ceased speaking once Matthew was close enough for him to see him in the dark. ‘You been hit. How bad is it?’

  ‘Not bad,’ Matthew answered as he eased himself down into the trench. ‘A bit of shrap in the side but it went clean through and left me with only a bit of a cut.’

  ‘Looks like more than a bit of a cut to me,’ Saul said peering at the wad of dressings. ‘Looks like the shrap left a bloody big hole in you.’

  ‘I’ll live,’ Matthew replied with a nonchalant shrug. ‘How have things been in this part of the world?’

  ‘Same old thing every day. The Dutchmen shell us. And when they are not shelling us their bloody snipers make life hell. Some of the night raiding parties have had a bit of luck though. A few of the boys brought back some fresh-baked bread they got from a farmhouse over there,’ Saul said indicating with his rifle out into the dark. ‘Got the bloody sniper who was using the farmhouse too.’

  ‘I heard a rumour that one of the boys went out on his own accord, a couple of nights ago, and not only settled a matter with a sniper but also found fifty sovereigns in his pockets.’

  Saul flashed a grimy unshaven grin at the young man. ‘Yeah. That’s true. Lucky bastard. Not a bad effort for a night’s work in any job. Sure beats wrestling all day under a hot sun with some cranky scrub bull back home.’

  ‘I suppose you could say the army is teaching us a lot of useful things,’ Matthew said with a grin. ‘Except civilians would hang us if we did the same back home.’

  Saul laughed softly. He has shaped up to be a bloody good soldier, he thought, with admiration for the way Matthew was handling himself under fire. A bond had formed between the two men that would never be broken in their lives. Age and social differences between them meant nothing anymore. Under their unwashed skins and rags for uniforms they were brothers.

  A bullet cracked close by. Instinctively, both men flinched and Matthew felt the tic at the corner of his eye return. His nerves were stretched to breaking point.

  ‘There’s a bloody Dutchman about eight hundred yards in front of our positions who works us over every day,’ Saul said in a grim voice. ‘He’s a cunning bastard, uses the long grass as cover. I reckon he has dug a series of shallow hides in the night and is able to move from one to another on his belly whenever we think we’ve got his position fixed after he fires. If he is still there in the morning, I’m going out after him tomorrow night. The bastard is starting to get to me.’

  Matthew frowned. ‘Sounds like you aren’t looking for permission to go out.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get it if I asked,’ Saul growled. ‘But I’m going anyway. He got Frank just before last light so I intend to even the score.’

  Matthew knew that he would say nothing, even if he did not agree with his friend’s plan to take on the sniper. Loyalty was everything under the present conditions.

  ‘I’ll go with you.’

  ‘Not with that wound,’ Saul retorted. ‘Your job is to cover for me if questions get asked.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Matthew said. ‘Just be bloody careful.’

  ‘And don’t start swearing, young Matthew,’ Saul remonstrated with a grin. ‘Yer not old enough yet to start swearing.’

  ‘When am I old enough to start swearing?’

  ‘When yer old enough to start shavin’.’

  Both men laughed at the idiocy of the situation. They were into the second week of the siege and the Boers had reinforced their numbers, pinning the colonial defenders on all sides. Although the English military command had written them off as either captured or killed, the stubborn Australian and Rhodesian troops were too proud to admit defeat. At home, bushfire, drought and flood could not crush their spirits or drive them from the land. The Boer were just another force to overcome. They still had their rifles and when the bullets ran out they had their bayonets – so long as the tattered British Union Jack fluttered defiantly over the mound.

  Saul waited until near midnight before leaving the trench. With his rifle cradled in his arms, he crawled slowly on his belly through the long dry tussocks of grass until he was far enough out from his own position that the sounds of the men in the defences were muffled. The night was bitterly cold and dark clouds scudded across the night sky, threatening a deluge of cold lashing rain before dawn. For once Saul would welcome the rain to cover his movements.

  He paused after what he calculated was around five hundred yards distance and was aware that he could hear the guttural voices of Boer picquets manning posts on the forward edge of their lines. He listened carefully to pinpoint their locations. He would have to avoid them at all costs if he were to achieve his aim of neutralising the sniper.

  When Saul was satisfied he had a clear path he continued to creep forward. The sound that he had hoped to hear came to him: the soft snoring of a man totally oblivious to the danger he was in. Saul inched further.

  The Boer sniper lay asleep on his back in a shallow trench barely a foot deep and similar to the other such trenches Saul had discovered as he had moved forward. The sleeping man’s weapon lay beside him and Saul recognised the clean lines of a Mannlicher hunting rifle, no doubt a donation from the Imperial German government to aid in killing British soldiers.

  Very carefully, Saul slid his bayonet from its scabbard and crawled the last inches with his hand wrapped around the wooden handle. As he watched the man’s face, Saul found himself wondering if he had a wife and family. Momentarily, he hesitated, realising that his hands were shaking. He forced the thoughts from his mind and plunged the blade into the man’s chest with his right hand, groping for the man’s mouth with his left. The knife hit the cartilage between the ribs in the centre of the chest but Saul used his wiry strength to force it through until it came out the man’s back. The body under him arched and kicked as the dying man attempted to free himself from the agonising pain that had come to his dreams. He thrashed about with Saul’s weight holding him down until he suddenly went limp and a soft sigh escaped from between Saul’s fingers.

  With great difficulty the Queensland soldier removed the bayonet and wiped it on the grass beside the trench. He could feel the stickiness of the other man’s blood on the front of his tattered shirt, its warm and pungent scent clogging Saul’s nose. Saul felt the bile in his stomach rise at what he had done to a fellow human but reminded himself that the dead sniper had killed his mates. After a few moments, Saul was surprised to feel nothing for the man he had just killed and quickly searched through the man’s pockets. He found nothing of value.

  Saul removed the sniper’s rifle bolt and rendered it useless. From a water bottle beside the dead man he took a long swig, keeping his own bottle full. Water was as precious as bullets. Satisfied that he had completed his task, the Queensland trooper began to crawl back to his own lines.

  About a hundred yards further on a new course, Saul heard a soft moaning. He paused and recognised that the sounds uttered in Afrikaans were agonised pleas for water. Saul’s first instinct was to disregard the wounded man, but the voice sounded very young and Saul was drawn to a slight Boer, barely older than Matthew. The boy had been shot through the chest and had been a long time left out on the veldt. Saul wondered how the boy had survived so long with such a mortal wound. The floppy hat beside him looked too big for him, as did the trousers and shirt he wore. They were obviously the clothes of a man older than himself but all that had been available to provide the young boy with a uniform. Saul knelt beside the dying boy who gazed up at him through eyes al
ready dimmed with impending death.

  ‘Here, young fella. Try and sip this,’ Saul said gently as he dribbled water from his canteen into the boy’s mouth. ‘Just take sips.’

  The boy tried to focus on the softly spoken angel who had come to him on the battlefield but he did not understand the language of angels and began to cry. Between his tears, the words came as a desperate plea and Saul realised that he was begging for his mother. The boy gripped Saul’s hand as if attempting to stave off the ominous shadows all around him.

  Saul felt uneasy. He was deep inside the Boer controlled territory and knew that he should leave the boy to die alone and get back to the safety of his own lines before the sun rose. But the boy continued to weep and babble in Afrikaans, and the little of the language Saul had picked up on the campaign made him realise that the boy was talking about his family.

  As a mother would, Saul cradled the dying boy’s head in his lap and stroked the beardless face with gentle soothing sounds. Soon Saul found himself crying silently, tears splashing down his unshaven, dirty face. Saul cried for his own mother, long buried under the old pepper tree she had planted as a sapling on the Jerusalem property, and he cried for the wasted lives killed in a war he no longer believed in. Saul cried for the loss of the beautiful young Dutch girl barely older than the boy cradled in his arms. It was all so pointless.

  Just before the sun rose the boy died peacefully. And then the Boers took Saul prisoner. They were not rough with him when they realised what the Queenslander had done for the young soldier they had been searching for in the dark. But they took Saul’s boots anyway.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Under the August sun of central-west Queensland, an eagle soared high in the pale blue sky. Below it an open wagon trundled slowly along a rough bush track. Ahead of the wagon were two horses upon which rode a man and a young boy. They were riding north and followed a low line of hills where once the feared Kalkadoon warriors had lived and died. Winding through the range was a river named after the famed German explorer Leichhardt who had disappeared somewhere in Queensland’s interior with his expedition.

  Michael Duffy scanned the western horizon which was dominated by the low hills with their sparse covering of scrubby trees. Satisfied that he had brought them to the point where they should head west, he turned in the saddle to call back to the wagon.

  ‘We go that way towards the hills,’ he said. ‘That will put us on the river before nightfall to make camp.’

  Karl von Fellmann nodded and pulled down on the reins to turn the wagon.

  Michael had a feeling they would find Nerambura Duffy in the hills. If so, it would be along the life-giving river that wound its way through the ancient, eroded landscape.

  The rifle butt bit painfully into young Alexander’s shoulder. The sound of the shot rolled around the hills with its haunting memories of another time when the guns had spat death into the ranks of the Kalkadoon warriors.

  ‘Squeeze. Let the gun go off without thinking about the recoil,’ Michael said as he sat beside Alex. ‘Let the rifle become an extension of your mind and body.’

  Alex was still smarting from the powerful recoil of the big Winchester repeating rifle.

  ‘It hurts, Mr O’Flynn,’ he said in a small voice.

  ‘Not as much as whatever the bullet hits,’ Michael chuckled. ‘And don’t forget to chamber another round as soon as you have fired. That sort of mistake could cost you the second between being alive and being dead.’

  Obediently the young boy lowered the lever under the rifle and forced it up, chambering a second round.

  ‘Now do as I have told you and take your time. Don’t flinch, and forget everything except what you have in your sights.’

  Alex listened carefully for he was convinced the man sitting beside him knew almost everything. So far he had taught him to ride and live in the bush, things he had never dreamed he would learn in his lifetime although he knew his own father had the skills. Mr O’Flynn was tough and understanding like his father, and yet gentle and sensitive like his mother.

  ‘See that small tree on the other side of the waterhole, about fifty yards out? See if you can hit the branch on the left hand side.’

  Alex adjusted his posture and levelled the rear and foresights so they lined up. He took a breath and let it release slowly from his lungs. When the breath was gone and his body was perfectly still, he squeezed the trigger. The gun barked and the branch cracked and fell.

  ‘Good,’ Michael grunted and took a cigar from his pocket. ‘Now prove to me that your shot was not just lucky. Shoot at the point where the limb is hanging.’

  The boy fired again but the limb remained dangling from the tree.

  ‘Close,’ Michael grunted. ‘Your shot was a few inches off. But I think that’s enough for now. You can practise later. Maybe you will get us a wallaby for tonight’s cooking pot like you got the fish before Cloncurry.’

  Alex beamed at the praise and lowered the rifle. ‘How many men have you shot, Mr O’Flynn?’

  Michael stared across the placid waterhole ringed by stately gum trees. ‘Too many,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe not all bad men either.’

  Alex frowned and tried to digest the strange answer. But war was beyond his comprehension except for the woodblock reproductions he had seen of Queen Victoria’s gallant soldiers standing bravely against the hordes of savages that they fought in the many colonial wars.

  ‘Do you think Father will . . .’

  He hesitated and Michael glanced down at him.

  ‘Yes, Alex. Your father will be home soon. He’s a Duffy, and Duffys are bloody hard to kill, believe me.’

  ‘I do, Mr O’Flynn,’ Alex answered in a trembling voice. The rifle in his hands and its terrible power had summoned the fears he harboured for his father fighting in a war so far away.

  Michael put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘He is due to return just after Christmas and that is only a few months away. Off you go now, back to the pastor and your aunt, and help them with the camp.’

  The boy struggled to his feet and passed the rifle to Michael who remained sitting, watching his grandson walk away from him through the trees until he was out of sight. His thoughts were far away and dwelled on nothing in particular except the beauty of the land that he felt he wanted to capture on canvas.

  ‘I have never seen you appear so much at peace,’ Helen’s voice said from behind him.

  ‘Places like these are sanctuaries God put aside for the soul,’ Michael replied.

  ‘May I invade your sanctuary?’ Helen asked, sitting down beside him without waiting for an answer. ‘I must confess, I was watching you teach your grandson to shoot.’

  ‘If you had been a lioness hunting, then I might have been dead by now,’ Michael said with a slow smile. ‘I must be getting too old to be out in the bush.’

  ‘There are no lions in this country. Just a tiger that roams Tasmania.’

  ‘Maybe there is a lioness in this country,’ Michael said teasingly. ‘And maybe she is sitting beside me now.’

  Helen laughed.

  ‘And that lioness has the sweetest of roars,’ Michael continued.

  ‘Ah, Michael, your words belie the tough soldier and lion hunter that I know you once were. Your words are like the beautiful strokes of your hand on the canvas.’

  Michael turned to face Helen, aware of her gentle touch on his arm. He could see the same deep, beautiful green eyes of Fiona in the young woman and behind the eyes the same sensual appreciation of life. ‘Shouldn’t you be with your husband?’ Michael asked, as if attempting to remind them both that their meeting alone was not altogether safe.

  ‘Karl has gone exploring up the river. He thinks he might find some traces of the native habitation that was once here. He said he would not be back until sunset.’

  Michael continued to gaze into Helen’s eyes, noticing that they had grown wide and her lips slightly agape. ‘I think we should return to camp,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I
may do something I would regret.’

  ‘You know that I want you,’ Helen whispered. ‘God knows why I should want you so desperately but I do.’

  Michael smiled sadly and touched her face with his hand. ‘You are as beautiful as I remember your mother,’ he said.

  Helen ignored his words and suddenly clung to Michael, her lips seeking his. Michael felt her kiss and the sweet taste of her mouth. She held him with a desperation born of desire but Michael gripped her shoulders, forcing her away from him.

  ‘This is not right,’ he said softly and she thought she could see pity in his eyes.

  ‘I don’t care about anything except being with you,’ Helen said as tears of pain and rejection welled in her eyes. ‘We could be together.’

  Still holding her shoulders, Michael took a deep breath. ‘I am no saint,’ he said. ‘I have done many things I am not proud of and if you and I went beyond friendship, you would end up hating yourself.’

  ‘Do you not want me?’ Helen pleaded. ‘Am I not desirable?’

  ‘You are one of the most beautiful women I have ever met,’ Michael replied gently. ‘But some things can never be.’

  Helen jerked away and stood back to glare at the Irishman with the pain of rejection in her eyes. She turned and stumbled back to the camp, leaving Michael remaining beside the river, deeply troubled by what had occurred. He should have known better, he cursed himself. He shook his head and walked back to the campsite where Helen sat by the wagon, staring vacantly at the bush. Michael wanted to say or do something to heal her pain but sensed anything he attempted would only aggravate the situation.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The fire raged along the plains of the Elands River outpost, crackling with long fingers that chased the billowing clouds of smoke and obliterated the afternoon sky. Matthew was unconcerned as he watched. The grass fire had been lit by the Boers in an attempt to burn the defenders off the small hill, but Colonel Hore had anticipated the enemy’s tactic and earlier counter-burned the veldt to a distance of a hundred yards in front of his lines.