by Peter Watt
‘I would like you to meet the leader of the archaeological expedition,’ Jakob said, guiding Saul to a tall, aristocratic looking man of military bearing. ‘Colonel Hays Williams, I would like to introduce you to Mr Saul Rosenblum.’
Saul extended his hand to the Englishman. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Saul said.
The expression on the colonel’s face seemed to change to one of puzzlement.
‘From your accent, you sound like a colonial,’ he replied. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance have served in South Africa with the Queensland Mounted Infantry?’
Suddenly Saul felt as if the hot day had turned bitterly cold. Alarm signals flashed in the Australian’s mind.
‘’Fraid not, Colonel,’ Saul replied, trying hard to conceal his nervousness.
Jakob immediately sensed some tension in the situation and broke in. ‘Saul has come to us from Australia,’ he said. ‘You must have him mixed up with someone else.’
The colonel glanced at Jakob with an expression of disbelief. ‘The man I am referring to is a wanted man of the lowest kind, a traitor and murderer.’
Jakob held the man’s glare. ‘That is not Saul then,’ he said calmly. ‘Saul is a man who grows trees.’
Hays Williams turned his attention to Saul.
‘So what can we do for you, Colonel?’ Saul asked calmly.
Hays Williams did not answer immediately, as if considering something. It was an uncomfortable silence.
‘I am on leave with some friends,’ the colonel finally answered. ‘We were hoping that your people might know of some promising areas for us to search for ruins. My colleagues are from the British Museum. They’re authorities in the culture of the Holy Land.’
‘We’ll help you as much as possible,’ Jakob said, ‘but I’m afraid we do not know of any ruins in our area. Have you inquired with our Arab neighbours?’
‘We have,’ Hays Williams replied. ‘They could not help us.’
‘You are welcome to stay,’ Jakob offered. ‘We have accommodation to suit your needs.’
‘Thank you,’ the colonel said. ‘We will take up your offer, and perhaps Mr Rosenblum can tell me a bit about growing trees.’
Saul scowled inwardly at the Englishman’s sarcasm. It was obvious that the British officer was not convinced. Of all the places in the world, this English colonel – whoever he was – had to end up here. But what should he do? The first thought that crossed Saul’s mind was to simply kill the colonel at a convenient time. But that would attract international attention. The Ottoman Empire was on reasonably friendly terms with Britain so would undoubtedly pursue the matter. At least he was not on soil under British jurisdiction. Saul was thankful for that.
The colonel turned his back and strode to join his party while Jakob and Saul watched him go.
‘I could never have guessed,’ Jakob said, letting out a held breath. ‘I am sorry, Saul.’
‘No matter,’ Saul shrugged. ‘There is nothing the bastard can prove while I am here. And even if he does, I doubt there is anything he can do.’
Jakob glanced at the former soldier and could see a deep concern written on his face. As nonchalant as Saul wished to appear, he could not hide his feelings altogether.
‘Be very careful, my young friend,’ Jakob warned. ‘I do not like that man and I fear he may make mischief.’
‘He can try,’ Saul said as he walked away to join Ivan.
‘You look unwell,’ the Russian said when Saul joined him. ‘Do you know our visitors?’
‘The English colonel seems to think that he knows me,’ Saul said glancing back at the archaeological party. ‘I wish I knew how.’
‘Is there something you have done?’ Ivan asked bluntly and Saul stared contemplatively at his friend.
‘Back in South Africa I killed a man,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Ivan replied with just the trace of a grim smile on his bearded face. ‘Jakob told me about the man who had defiled his daughter.’ Saul shook his head at the Russian, who continued, ‘Not much is secret here, my friend. You were right in what you did.’
The following day Saul gathered his small army of seven young men and three young women to continue their training in the use of the Enfield rifle, a weapon Saul was familiar with from his service with the mounted infantry. The lesson was held at the edge of the village on a rifle range he and Ivan had constructed.
‘Not like that,’ Saul bellowed at one of his trainees who gingerly held the brass butt of the rifle to her shoulder as if it would bite. ‘Tuck it in and then relax.’
Ivan translated the order into German as some of the recent immigrants did not understand English. But it was unnecessary in the case of one young girl from Austria. Her name was Elsa and her widower father had chosen to leave the country of his birth after hearing the inspiring words of the newly formed Zionist organisation in Europe. However, he had died of a fever months earlier in Jerusalem where Elsa had learned of Jakob Isaac’s community. With the last of the money she and her father had between them she had made her way south. Although the people had welcomed her into their village she still grieved both for the loss of her family and of the country she had left behind. Palestine had proved to be a barren land, a place of hardships she could never have imagined. If she had, then she would not have followed her father’s dream to immigrate to the Promised Land.
And now Saul towered over her with a dark scowl on his face. He did not consider her gender a defence against his wrath when it came to weapons handling.
‘Learn to make the rifle a part of your body if you want to survive in this country,’ he continued in a softer but menacing tone.
Elsa’s bottom lip quivered as she fought back tears of humiliation. She was a pretty girl with brown curly hair to her shoulders and dark eyes. Elsa had never experienced such harsh words from a man and dared not look up.
‘You seem to have a good grasp of firearms drill for a man who plants trees,’ the voice of Colonel Hays Williams said from the edge of the buildings.
Saul swung in his direction and saw the tight smile on the man’s face. ‘We all learn to defend ourselves here, Colonel.’
The Englishman turned away to disappear behind the building, leaving Saul feeling uneasy. The man was arrogant and very sure of himself, which was unsettling. Saul turned his attention back to his trainee who was staring up at him, her big, brown eyes sending a sudden surge of sorrow through Saul. God willing that she would never experience what Anna had in her last moment alive, he thought. The memory of the Russian beauty he had once yearned for spurred Saul back to his task of being the hard man. Pity was something he could no longer afford if he was to keep his promise to Jakob, that no other man or woman of the moshava would fall victim to raiders. Nor would he ever allow himself to get close to a woman again. To do so seemed to be a death warrant for her.
Two days passed and the English archaeologists enjoyed the hospitality of the moshava. Saul kept out of the colonel’s way and counted the days till his parting. He even volunteered for extra patrols of the perimeter to ensure that he was able to avoid meeting with him.
After a night of sleeping out in the arid lands Saul rose to blink away the sleep from his eyes and prepare for the day. Nothing worth noting had occurred on the Arab side of the valley to suggest a possible retaliatory raid, although Saul had observed strangers coming to the Arab village. But after the strangers departed all would be quiet again.
He shook his bedroll and secured it to the saddle. His hobbled horse was grazing a short distance away just below the ridge Saul had selected for his bivouac. He flung his saddle over his shoulder and hefted his rifle to walk to the horse but suddenly froze. In front of him was a very faint but distinctly European-style imprint of a boot – and not his.
‘I would not make any rash moves, Trooper Rosenblum,’ the voice said from his right. ‘I am a crack shot and could have killed you as you slept.’
‘You have no authority here, Colonel,’ Saul sa
id casually, but knowing he was at a great disadvantage. ‘This is Ottoman territory.’
‘I am aware of that. As much as I am sure that you must be one and the same as a certain Trooper Saul Rosenblum, wanted on a warrant for the murder of an English non commissioned officer. I always had a strong feeling that you were not killed at Elands River. Your sort are like rats leaving a sinking ship.’
‘I didn’t desert,’ Saul replied angrily. ‘I was captured.’
‘Desertion will be added to the charges when I take you back to face British justice,’ the colonel said as he advanced on his prisoner.
‘I can’t see how that will happen when here you have no bloody right to arrest me.’
‘It’s either that – or I carry out a summary execution here and now.’
Saul smiled. ‘That you will never do because, if nothing else, you are English and pride yourself on the fairness of English justice. I have to give you bloody pommies that much credit.’
Saul slowly lowered the saddle and turned to face the colonel full on, still holding his rifle but making no attempt to raise it. From the expression of self-doubt on the colonel’s face, Saul could see that he had touched a nerve with the Englishman.
‘Did you kill that sergeant?’ the colonel asked, his revolver unwavering.
‘Yeah, I killed him,’ Saul said defiantly. ‘After he killed an innocent girl. And I would do so again under the circumstances.’
‘Then you readily confess to your crime, Trooper,’ Hays Williams said. ‘I am surprised that you would considering the position you are in.’
‘Are you married, Colonel?’ Saul asked.
‘I am,’ the Englishman replied stiffly. ‘Your point, Trooper?’
‘What would you do to the man who killed your wife if you knew he could go free for the murder?’
Hays Williams frowned. ‘That is irrelevant,’ he replied.
‘Well, I did what I knew was right, and killed the man who murdered the woman I loved. So you had better execute me now, because I am never leaving this land alive.’
The colonel raised the pistol level with Saul’s head and aimed. The Australian stood stock still, staring defiantly into the Englishman’s eyes as if daring him to fire. With his thumb, Hays Williams cocked the pistol.
The sun was rising as a great yellow ball over the ancient, arid lands of Saul’s distant ancestors. If this was where it was to end then he was ready.
Slowly, Hays Williams lowered the pistol and carefully eased off the hammer. ‘You are right about our sense of justice, Trooper Rosenblum,’ he said. ‘But I can promise one thing – so long as I live I will do everything in my power to bring you before a military court.’
Saul felt terribly weak. He had faced his firing squad and expected to be shot. He watched the colonel stride away stiff backed to disappear behind the ridge.
Very slowly, Saul bent to pick up his saddle. Was it that the threat of death no longer concerned him, he wondered as he continued his walk to his horse. It was a terrifying thought. Saul sensed that he had not seen the last of Colonel Hays Williams. He did not appear to be a man to utter idle threats. But when and how they would meet again was beyond Saul’s control.
FORTY-SIX
When news of the death of Lady Enid Macintosh reached Karl and Helen von Fellmann in Queensland, they immediately packed their few possessions and took a ship from Brisbane to Sydney where Helen, as Patrick’s half-sister, assumed the role of the mistress of the house.
Alex was pleased to be reunited with his Aunt Helen and Uncle Karl who he could talk to about the trek they had undertaken in search of the legendary Wallarie. But sadness tinged their recollections whenever the conversations touched on Alexander’s grandfather, Michael Duffy.
Over afternoon tea served in the garden, Fenella listened intently to the conversation, and sighed for the fact that she had not been granted the privilege of travelling with her grandfather. ‘Oh, why can’t women live like men do?’ she blurted.
‘Times are changing,’ Helen said, sipping at a cream-laced coffee served in a delicate china cup. ‘I believe that in our own lifetime women will live to enjoy the rights men take for granted.’
Karl tried not to smirk and glanced at Alex who frowned. His sister had some strange ideas and so too did his aunt, he thought.
‘What do you intend to do with your life when you come of age?’ Helen asked her niece.
Fenella’s pretty face broke into a beaming smile. ‘I am going to be an actress and travel the world,’ she replied, eliciting a disapproving frown from her uncle.
‘Nice young ladies do not aspire to become actresses,’ he said. ‘You should be considering seeking the hand of a good, God-fearing young man with expectations.’
Fenella’s bright expression faded. ‘The only young man I would have considered went away to South Africa,’ she sighed, ‘and when he returned, Lady Enid forbade me to see him again.’
‘She means Matthew Duffy,’ Alex said tactlessly.
‘I am sure Lady Enid had her reasons,’ Helen consoled her niece. ‘No doubt you will meet again if it’s meant to be. You know,’ Helen continued, ‘we met Matthew’s mother after we returned from visiting Pastor Otto Werner and his wife Caroline on their mission station west of Townsville. Mrs Tracy is a wonderful woman who has achieved more in her lifetime than most men could in ten.’
‘Father has talked of his Aunt Kate,’ Fenella said. ‘Matthew must be like his mother then.’
‘Or his father,’ Karl reminded. ‘Men are more likely to be like their fathers. It is a well-known fact of nature.’
Both Fenella and Helen raised their eyes to the heavens. Each tacitly decided at that moment that they liked each other. For Fenella, her Aunt Helen was another woman she could talk to in the absence of her own mother. And in Fenella, Helen saw the girl she hoped her own daughter might be like – if that was ever possible. She could only pray so. Meanwhile, Helen hoped that she would be able to spend a lot more time with her niece.
Only Karl and Helen attended the legal offices of the Macintosh companies to hear the reading of the will. A bald-headed solicitor with bushy mutton chop sideburns sat behind his impressive desk of polished mahogany. He adjusted the spectacles perched at the tip of his nose and, with a cough to clear his throat, commenced to read the document containing the last wishes of Lady Enid Macintosh nee White, who had been born in England and died in Sydney.
The lawyer droned on through the usual legal preamble and read out the expected beneficiaries of her estates. Naturally she left the bulk of her estate to her beloved grandson, Patrick Duffy, and his heirs. Miscellaneous items were left to favoured members of her staff but towards the end both Helen and Karl sat up with a start.
‘. . . and a portion of Glen View as surveyed in a plan lodged with my solicitors as a title deed is to be bequeathed to my grand-daughter Helen von Fellmann to be used for the purposes of the Lutheran Church to bring God to the remaining native peoples of the Glen View region. This land is to be utilised as a mission station so long as seen fit by the Lutheran Church and administered by my grand-daughter Helen with the provision that the Aboriginal known as Wallarie returns to Glen View, of his God-given free will, within a year and a day of my demise. If this does not occur then the land is to remain as part of Glen View. To my . . .’
Helen did not hear the remaining bestowments. Her mind was in a whirl. Her grandmother had finally recognised that she should do something for the Aboriginal people the family had dispossessed so many years earlier.
Outside the office on the city street busy with buggies and lumbering drays, Helen and Karl discussed the repercussions of the land grant. They finally had a home from where they could do God’s work amongst the native people. Lady Enid Macintosh had recognised the need to reconcile with the ghosts that haunted Glen View. It was now up to Helen and Karl to find Wallarie and bring him home.
Pastor Otto Werner, who they had met in northern Queensland, had not been much help
in locating the man who had once saved his and his wife’s lives a quarter of a century earlier. So how would they find Wallarie where all others had failed, including the old warrior’s former nemesis, the Queensland Native Police? Helen sensed that to fail in their search for Wallarie would have repercussions beyond merely losing the valuable Glen View land. An uncomfortable and superstitious thought, flying in the face of her Christian beliefs, made Helen think that the curse that seemed to dog her family might continue if they failed.
Lady Enid had left a quaint little sandstone cottage on the northern side of the harbour near the village of Manly to Fenella. A kookaburra brayed its welcome from a great gum tree in the backyard and the wisp of salty air made the place feel festive. Helen stood beside the young woman gazing at the overgrowth of plants around the house.
‘It is really mine?’ Fenella asked in an awed voice.
‘It certainly is,’ Helen reassured. ‘I remember this place from when I was even younger than you. Sometimes my mother would bring your Aunt Dorothy and I here to get away from Sydney. An old man was the caretaker. I think he used to be a convict and he would catch fish and net ducks for our suppers.’
‘Oh, I want to see inside,’ Fenella exclaimed in her excitement.
She had loved the grand old lady, despite her aloofness. And by way of her will she had demonstrated her eternal love for her great grand-daughter in the magnificent gift of this house.
Helen led Fenella up the stairs onto the shaky wooden verandah and opened the door with the key left in Enid’s desk. The place had a musty smell but otherwise seemed in good repair as a caretaker had maintained the holiday house since Helen had last visited as a little girl. As Helen opened some drapes to allow the sunlight to flood in, she could hear Fenella excitedly moving from room to room.
