by Peter Watt
Ivan stared at Saul as he rose from the dust to remount his horse. ‘You make joke,’ Ivan said disbelievingly. ‘You not tell all this from earth.’
Saul swung himself into the saddle and looked at the big Russian. ‘Given time I could tell you what they ate for breakfast.’
Ivan shook his head and muttered in Russian. Saul guessed that it was not a compliment but ignored his friend’s disbelief. The faint outlines of footprints gave Saul an idea of how many and roughly how old. The imprint of rifle butts as the roving party stopped to rest also told him of the arms they carried. And from the current state of the weather and the direction of the tracks he could discern just how long ago and where they were going. It was not something learned overnight and he knew that a tracker’s skill depended on gut sense as much as observation.
Ivan followed Saul silently along a narrow trail to the bottom of the valley until Saul raised his hand and gave the signal to dismount. Without a word he moved forward to a good observation point, Ivan following. With the skills of seasoned soldiers both men lay on a rocky outcrop and carefully scanned the gorge ahead. Ivan gasped. There were eight men sitting in the shade of the gorge eating dates. Between them he counted five rifles and two ancient muskets. Ivan glanced across at Saul with sudden respect.
They watched the party for half an hour and when they were satisfied that the nomads were moving away from the moshava the two men made their way cautiously back to their mounts.
‘How did you know, my friend?’ Ivan asked, shaking his great shaggy head. ‘It was as you say.’
‘You would have to ask Terituba,’ Saul said with a broad grin.
‘Who this Terituba?’ Ivan asked.
‘Told you before,’ Saul sighed as he swung himself into the saddle. ‘An old and wise Kalkadoon blackfella.’
Ivan just shook his head and followed Saul.
The matter was reported to Jakob and the moshava committee when they returned the following morning.
‘Do you think they were a bandit gang or Arab villagers?’ Jakob asked.
‘Villagers,’ Saul replied without hesitation. ‘I’ve seen their tracks before around here.’
Jakob looked to Ivan for confirmation but the Russian shrugged. ‘I say Saul right,’ he replied. ‘Don’t know how, but he right.’
Jakob accepted Ivan’s confirmation. The two men were a good team and inspired a sense of security in the small community.
‘We will stay on our guard,’ he said with a wave of his hand. ‘I would like to talk to you, Saul,’ he added as the men prepared to withdraw from the meeting.
Ivan glanced back as he left the meeting room but Saul looked at him blankly. The Russian was followed by the village leaders, leaving Jakob and Saul alone.
Jakob gestured for Saul to take a seat.
‘I feel that it is very important to train and equip our young people against the possibility of an attack from the Arabs,’ Jakob said.
‘Ivan and I can train them all right,’ Saul said. ‘But we don’t have any guns or ammunition.’
Jakob steepled his fingers and gazed tensely through the doorway at the blaze of pale blue sky. ‘I know where we can purchase a good supply of rifles and ammunition,’ he said. ‘But I am not an expert and I will need you to advise me on what we need.’
‘That is not a problem,’ Saul said casually. ‘Where will you buy the arms?’
‘England.’
After discussing the details of the weapons enterprise, Saul bid Jakob a good day and left. He had only one task now and walked to the fields to find Anna. But when he arrived he saw her in the company of Aaron Herzog.
Saul scowled. The young man had arrived from Austria a month earlier and been accepted into the community to work alongside the moshava members. He had been a religious student in Vienna and hoped to be a rabbi one day. Anna seemed drawn to the serious young man from the day he had arrived, and although she still spoke with Saul he sensed a distance had come between them.
He watched the couple laughing and talking, oblivious to his presence at the edge of the field. He did not like the newcomer, not only for the fact that he had won Anna’s attention but also for his sanctimonious demeanour. Privately, the elders of the community had lauded the newcomer as a possible leader. He had, after all, a great knowledge of the Torah and was educated. This land needed men of God and Aaron was such a person.
Saul turned and walked back to the village with a heavy heart. When he was back at the house the expression on his face told his disappointment. Ivan had always known of Saul’s feelings for his beautiful sister.
‘You went to fields,’ Ivan grunted as Saul flung himself on his simple plank bunk with its mattress of clean straw. ‘Herzog was there.’
Saul did not answer but lay on his back staring at the ceiling.
‘My sister is young and silly,’ Ivan continued but said nothing more, having made his point.
For the following week Saul had little opportunity to see Anna. She was constantly in the company of the newcomer and Saul carried his pain with him on his constant patrols.
When he and Ivan returned from a patrol in the early morning they both noticed a distinct change in the atmosphere of the village. People were gathered together – some of the women weeping – and the faces that they saw from atop their mounts glared up at them with a mixture of fear and accusation.
Jakob hurried to meet them. ‘They came in the night,’ he said breathlessly. ‘They took three of the girls.’
‘Anna?’ Ivan gasped, as if sensing something dark and evil.
Jakob glanced away, confirming the Russian’s fear. Ivan looked desperately to Saul who had paled at the news.
‘The bastards must have been bloody lucky, or they had our movements noted,’ Saul said. It would not be hard to observe the coming and going of a mere two-man security force. ‘How long ago?’ Saul asked.
‘Three, maybe four hours,’ Jakob answered.
Saul wheeled his horse away towards the women’s quarters. He now had to trust in everything Terituba had taught him.
The raiders had not bothered to conceal their tracks. Saul examined the footprints carefully, now as familiar to him as if he knew the men who left them. ‘Same mob,’ Saul muttered so only Ivan could hear him. ‘That means we are outnumbered and outgunned when we catch up with them.’
‘Da,’ Ivan said. ‘But maybe we surprise them,’ he added hopefully.
‘That’s all we’ve got,’ Saul said looking up to a rise beyond the village.
It was in that direction the raiders had gone and Saul knew the hill was in line with the local Arab village. He did not want to think about the fate of the three girls. All he wanted to think about was tracking the men, finding them and killing as many as they could with their limited arsenal. Without a word he spurred his horse forward.
The trail had been easy to follow. The only problem the two men had was riding onto the raiding party without alerting them, so they moved cautiously between geographical features and dismounted before each rise in the terrain, creeping forward on foot with their rifles ready.
Just on sunset they were dismounting before a small ridge when Ivan heard the muffled laughter. He cautioned Saul and, keeping low, they crawled to the rise. Lying on their stomachs, both men peered over the summit to a gorge below.
Ivan gagged at what they saw and Saul realised that he would have to restrain the Russian from mounting a single-man attack on the raiding party below. Sickened as he was, Saul knew that there was nothing they could do to help the three young women whose naked, torn bodies lay spread-eagled on their backs in the dust. Eight men stood around them. Blood spread in a pattern around each of the girl’s heads indicated that their throats had been cut.
Saul held his hand firmly on Ivan’s back and could feel his trembling. ‘We will kill them all,’ he hissed to the Russian. ‘We will kill them – as they killed Anna.’
Ivan did not reply and Saul knew he was sobbing silently for the
loss of his little sister. All Saul could feel for now was a terrible burning desire to kill the men who had brought this atrocity into their lives. To achieve his aim he would have to remain calm and patient. He and Ivan were outnumbered and outgunned. But they had surprise and the motivation of vengeance on their side.
They remained on top of the hill and watched with a burning but controlled rage as the raiding party casually went about setting up camp for the night. In that time Saul observed and differentiated each of the party of raiders. Two were just boys probably, no older than twelve. This did not soften Saul’s hatred. If they lived, they would be even worse in their later years, he justified to himself. They had been blooded by their elders and did not appear to be unduly disturbed by what they had done to the moshava girls.
When the night came they waited until the campfire burned to a gentle glow. A guard of one man had been left to keep watch but in time he appeared to doze by the fire.
Saul and Ivan made their way down the slope, guided by the fire until they were in the camp. Saul worked his way around to the dozing guard, one of the young boys, until he was on him with his knife. The boy came awake with a start when he realised that the shadow was not imaginary but terrifyingly real. But it was too late for him to react. Saul’s finely honed knife sliced his throat from ear to ear as he held his hand over the guard’s mouth to prevent him from screaming. Saul gripped his slight body until his struggles ceased and noticed that a man sleeping nearby was stirring.
Saul dropped the body and pounced on the second man before he could rise. Again he struck with lethal professionalism, hoisting the befuddled man to his feet so that he could wrap his arm around his head and slice the exposed throat. The dying man tried to scream but drowned in his own blood.
Ivan had himself despatched two men quickly by snapping their necks before they could awake. But the slightly noisy presence of the two intruders awakened the remaining raiders and Saul kicked brushwood into the fire. Flaring, it illuminated the campsite. Only three men and one boy remained alive. They scrabbled to grab hold of their weapons but hesitated when they realised that they were looking down the barrel of Ivan’s rifle.
‘You will tie them up,’ Saul declared. ‘And in the morning finish the job.’
Ivan frowned. He was not sure what Saul planned – he was ready to finish the killing now. But he complied and sat back with Saul to wait for the dawn.
The sun was just rising above the silent hills when Saul stirred. The bound men looked with fear upon the terrible spectre of their comrades.
‘Untie the boy,’ Saul said softly to Ivan.
When the boy was released he stood unsteadily, watching with his dark eyes like a desert rabbit waiting for the hawk to swoop.
‘Hold him so that he cannot run away,’ Saul commanded and Ivan seized his arms.
The boy screamed, causing the three other prisoners to wail pleas for the boy and themselves. Saul drew his knife and walked past the terrified boy to the three remaining men, still tightly bound. With a deft movement, he cut each man’s throat before they could plea once more for mercy.
Even Ivan was struck dumb by the merciless efficiency of Saul, who he had never really considered a cold-blooded killer.
‘You can let the boy go now,’ Saul said turning from the now twitching men, bleeding away their lives in the sand. ‘He can go back to his village and tell the story of what will happen to any man who should dare touch another woman of the moshava.’
At first the boy stood petrified but an angry shout from Ivan sent him stumbling on his way. As the boy ran over the rise and out of sight, Saul wiped the blade on the leg of his trousers.
‘You will need to bring the horses down,’ he said and Ivan looked from him to the three young women, their naked bodies still in the open.
Saul walked over to them. Tears flowed and he attempted to wipe them away with the sleeve of his shirt. He remained at his vigil until Ivan returned, leading the two horses down the slope.
With great tenderness Saul lifted two of the young women over his horse and left Anna to be lifted by her brother. As they led their horses back to the village Saul felt nothing. Two women he had loved had died. He was sure that God did not belong to his Jewish ancestors any more than He belonged to the Christians. From now on he would be God and bring death to any who dared interfere with the villagers. Jakob would acquire the tools and he would use them. Anna had trusted in his skills as a soldier but now she too was dead, a bloody corpse draped over her brother’s horse.
FORTY-ONE
The Irish village of Patrick’s ancestors had changed very little in the fifteen years or so since he had last visited. He stood outside the public house with its quaint shingle and noted that the hotel still belonged to Bernard O’Riley. One or two passing villagers stared at Patrick with expressions of curiosity mixed with puzzlement: had they not seen this face before?
Patrick hefted his battered valise and strode into the hotel’s public bar. The publican, O’Riley, stared at Patrick, recognition slowly dawning.
‘Captain Duffy, would it be?’ he asked.
Patrick was surprised to be remembered after so many years. ‘Major Duffy, now,’ Patrick responded. ‘I was wondering if you had any accommodation, Mr O’Riley?’
O’Riley glanced along the counter at the faces of the men who had turned to observe the outsider seeking bed and board. ‘For how long?’ he asked.
‘Not sure – but I will pay you a week in advance,’ Patrick said, dropping his bag on the floor.
‘That will be fine,’ O’Riley said and came out from behind the bar to escort Patrick to a room upstairs. With formalities completed the publican closed the door behind him, returning to his duties in the bar.
‘You know that man, Bernie?’ one of the patrons asked.
‘He’s Catherine Fitzgerald’s husband,’ O’Riley replied, wiping down the counter. ‘An officer with the British army.’
The patron scowled and the peat digger sitting beside him looked directly at the publican with a meaningful expression of contempt. As if reading his thoughts Bernard O’Riley said, ‘Major Duffy is named for the big man himself, Patrick, who fought the British in the Colony of Victoria at the Eureka Stockade.’
‘Then his grandson is a bloody traitor to his people,’ the peat digger spat, ‘if he wears the uniform of our enemies.’
‘Don’t be going and thinking bad thoughts, Sean,’ O’Riley cautioned. ‘He is also blood kin to Father Martin.’
‘Then it will make it worse for the priest,’ the man countered, ‘having a traitor as a blood relative.’
O’Riley felt uneasy. Sean O’Donohue was a wild one, unpredictable and hot blooded with a deep and burning hate for anything to do with the British. The potato famine still reverberated in every Irish village and hamlet. O’Donohue’s ancestors had been decimated by the death brought on by starvation and while he lived he had sworn to kill as many of the perceived collaborators of the British as he could.
The Irish publican left Sean O’Donohue to brood. This was a matter that warranted a discussion with the council, the peat digger considered. A Duffy or not, the man was well and truly part of the English establishment and his sudden appearance in the tiny village suspicious.
Patrick knew whom he would first visit and was perceptive enough to sense the animosity his stay in the village had generated. It was in the looks of hostility he received when he walked the cobbled streets, and the silence that met his arrival wherever people were gathered. Even when he stopped a villager to make innocuous small talk, he was answered with curt replies.
At least he knew of one person who would not cut him short, and when he rapped on the door of the presbytery he was indeed greeted warmly by Father Eamon O’Brien, who ushered him inside with words of welcome.
‘Patrick, it has been a long time,’ Eamon said as he pulled out a chair for him at the table in the kitchen. ‘How long must it be?’
‘Not since I resigned my com
mission back after the Suakin campaign. Must be fifteen years.’
‘So much has happened in your life since then, I have heard,’ Eamon said as he automatically sought out the bottle of whisky. ‘Even that you have renounced the true faith in favour of your grandmother’s Protestant beliefs.’
Patrick smiled as he took the tumbler. ‘I think you know me well enough to know that I never really had much interest in any religion in the first place. My conversion to my grandmother’s religion was little more than a matter of politics – not belief.’
Eamon took a seat at the table and sighed. ‘Ah, yes, you and your father were never ones to grace the portals of the Holy Mother Church.’ He raised his glass to Patrick. ‘But it is good to see that you are alive, and looking well.’
Patrick acknowledged the salute with his own. ‘And it is good to see a friendly face in the home of my illustrious, if not rebellious, ancestors.’
‘I gather that you have been availed of the people’s mood then,’ Eamon observed.
‘That I have,’ Patrick replied. ‘I get the feeling that my stay here is not exactly welcomed.’
‘You must realise that my parishioners see you as part of the British army and therefore an enemy. I think that it is worse for you because the word has got around already that you are descended from Patrick Duffy, whose feats fighting in this county against the English have not been forgotten. I think you can understand their reaction to your involvement with the very enemies your grandfather fought.’
‘Could you perhaps let it slip,’ Patrick said leaning forward, ‘at your next mass that I am not with the British, but with the Australian army. I am not English – I’m Australian.’
Eamon grinned. ‘I just might do that,’ he said. ‘But I cannot guarantee it will do any good. It seems that there is something sinister going on around here at the moment. The people are highly suspicious of all outsiders – especially those of a military nature.’
