by Peter Watt
Martin was sitting on a rock. ‘You came,’ he said with just a trace of surprise.
‘You asked,’ Patrick replied, the revolver hanging at his side.
‘It is good to see you again,’ Martin said. He rose from the rock to cross the short distance to his cousin. ‘You look well considering what I heard of your wounds in South Africa.’
They stood facing each other almost as if they were total strangers, suspicion filling the gap between them.
‘You know why I came,’ Patrick said, breaking the awkward silence. ‘I have a message to warn you that if you continue in your activities against the Crown then you will lose your protection as a man of the cloth and be treated as any other traitor would be.’
‘I am no longer a priest in the Holy Mother Church,’ Martin said bitterly. ‘I was excommunicated.’
Patrick was taken aback by the revelation. He could never imagine his cousin as anything other than a man of God. He had always been the religious one.
‘I am sorry for that, Marty,’ Patrick said, hardly noticing how he had slipped into the familiar use of his cousin’s name. ‘Bit of a bad break for you.’
Martin smiled for the first time in their meeting. ‘It was you who made me promise to be a bloody priest when we were at school and we got caught stealing the altar wine. Do you remember?’
Patrick was puzzled for a moment but then suddenly recalled the incident. He broke into a broad smile. ‘Yes, and I remember well that it was I who ended up being caned to save your scrawny neck.’
Time dissolved. Once again they were a couple of wild young boys playing in Fraser’s paddock under the old gum tree.
‘It is truly good to see you again,’ Martin repeated.
Patrick stepped forward to embrace his cousin in a hug. ‘You little bastard,’ he said. ‘You are still causing me grief after all these years.’
Martin stepped back from the embrace and gazed sadly at his cousin. ‘I am sorry that it has come to this, Patrick,’ he said. ‘But we can never go back to the past and be the boys we were. I cannot give up my cause to free Ireland. All I can hope is that you respect my reasons in the name of the family and its history to free this country from the British.’
‘You are an Australian,’ Patrick pleaded. ‘What goes on in the old country has nothing to do with us.’
‘An Irishman is someone who has been scattered to the far-flung parts of the world because of what the British have done to us over the centuries. I wonder how they would react if we Irish had invaded their land and under pain of death and imprisonment forbade them to speak English, practise their religion and eventually allow a famine to starve them to death. You don’t think they would fight back against us?’
Patrick could not refute Martin’s point of view. He knew that Britain was occupying a land they had no political right to. But he also knew that many in Britain would be more than happy to see the end of the Irish question. It was only a matter of extracting England from the troublesome country in a dignified and logical way. For this reason Patrick knew where his loyalties lay, and they were not with armed insurrection. ‘Your recruiting of Irishmen to fight on the Boer side in South Africa put mine and many other Australian lives in jeopardy,’ he countered. ‘That had nothing to do with freeing Ireland.’
Martin turned to stare at the grey sea beyond the fields. ‘Pat, anywhere we can cause the British to feel our resistance is acceptable. We have no great love for those stiff-necked, bigoted Dutchmen. Just their cause of resisting colonialism.’
‘I see that you and I will never be able to reconcile our differences,’ Patrick said quietly, suddenly remembering the pistol in his hand. It reminded him of his mission on behalf of Colonel Hughes and the Crown.
‘I always suspected that your purpose in coming to Ireland was more than just to see Catherine,’ Martin said. ‘I imagine that your meeting with my old adversary Colonel Hughes at your place in England has something to do with you coming to see me here today.’ Martin smiled grimly at Patrick’s surprise. ‘You must know that we have friends in places you would never suspect.’
‘But only . . .’ Patrick stopped himself. He was about to reveal a name that he prayed could have nothing to do with Martin’s intelligence gathering.
‘But only Deborah Cohen, you were about to say,’ Martin finished for him. ‘No, you were not betrayed by her, if that is what you are thinking, but one close to her. Your Colonel Hughes and I have been adversaries for a long time, although we have never met.’
Patrick did not know what to believe. He was quickly learning that this covert world of intelligence he had unwittingly fallen into was a dirty place of lies, treachery and shadows.
‘And I know that you have instructions to stop my activities,’ Martin continued calmly. ‘In whatever way it takes. Persuasion is your first option. The gun in your hand, the second.’
At the mention of the pistol, Patrick self-consciously raised the gun as if he did not know why he had it in his hand. ‘I will not resort to the second option,’ Patrick said quietly. ‘Maybe others will–but not I. We were once as brothers and I could not have the blood of a brother on my conscience, despite my sworn oath to the Crown.’
‘I didn’t think you would,’ Martin said. ‘If I’d thought you would kill me I would never have come here alone.’
Patrick was taken aback by his cousin’s pragmatic reasoning. There was a hardness in the man he had never known existed. Martin was a long way from the shy and rather meek boy Patrick had protected with his fists against the bullying of others at school.
‘I doubt that we will ever meet again, Patrick,’ Martin said sadly. ‘But in parting I just want to warn you to stay away from Catherine if Norris is at the mansion. Under no circumstances go there.’
‘What do you mean?’ Patrick asked with a puzzled frown. ‘What do you mean not go near my wife?’
‘Only until a certain matter has been resolved,’ Martin replied. ‘I cannot tell you any more than that and what I have already told you could brand me as a traitor to the cause. Just stay away for the next three days.’
‘Stop talking in riddles!’ Patrick exploded and took a step towards the former priest. ‘Is Catherine in any danger?’
Martin did not reply but turned and walked away. Patrick was left alone on the hill. A cold, biting wind swept up from the dark sea, whispering and moaning. It carried a message of dread and Patrick knew that before he left Ireland he would once again see blood running as red rivers in his life. Maybe it would be his, he thought, as he watched the figure of his cousin walking across the fields back towards the village.
FORTY-EIGHT
The stockmen’s quarters at the Glen View homestead was the only home Nerambura Duffy really knew. He had been raised there by his mother, Matilda, who worked as both nanny and cook for the station manager’s family. In many ways Glen View was the only home he had ever wanted. He felt as one with the endless horizons and the brigalow scrub plains that surrounded the property.
On this evening the sun was a gentle orange and sitting just above the sparse, stunted trees when Nerambura rode into the dusty yard between the sprawling homestead and stockyards. He had been on boundary riding duties for the last two weeks, patrolling the newly established fence line that marked the neighbouring Balaclava station and kept the respective stock from mixing. A rivalry existed between the two great properties and the Glen View manager considered Balaclava cattle inferior to his imported breeds.
The young stockman swung wearily from the saddle and led his horse to the yards to drink from the water trough.
‘Nerambura.’
He looked up to see his mother hurrying across the yard to him.
‘He has come,’ Matilda said when she reached her son. ‘He wants to see you.’
Nerambura did not have to ask who she meant. It could only be one person.
‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Wallarie says over on Balaclava near where the waterholes are. He sa
ys he wants to see you before the morning.’
Nerambura groaned inwardly at the old Aboriginal warrior’s demand. He had ridden many miles in the last few weeks and had been looking forward to his mother’s cooking and catching up with the other stockmen. But he was also aware that as an initiated man he must obey the command of an elder.
When his horse had taken her fill he unsaddled her and threw his saddle on a fresh mount. He tightened the straps wearily before swinging himself astride and setting out into the gathering darkness. Whatever the meeting was about must be important, Nerambura thought, as he let his mount pick her way through the scrub. Wallarie had come to his mother in a dream and the young stockman did not doubt what his mother had seen for one moment. Visions, he once heard the white missus from Glen View call them.
It was near sunrise when Nerambura finally saw the dying embers of a fire by the waterholes of Balaclava station. He dismounted and approached cautiously, not wanting to startle Wallarie, a man who had survived so long by remaining alert. Nerambura did not want to be mistaken for an unwelcome visitor. To do so risked one of the deadly twelve-foot barbed spears finding him as a target.
Weeks after the meeting between Wallarie and Nerambura Duffy, a telegram arrived at the Macintosh residence in Sydney. It had come by a tortuous route. Karl read the telegram addressed to him and his wife.
‘Helen!’ he called. ‘I have news of Wallarie.’ He hurried along the hallway to the parlour where his wife sat sewing a small tapestry of a religious scene. ‘We are to pack and travel north.’
Helen paused in her work. ‘Who has sent the telegram?’ she asked.
Karl glanced at the paper in his hand. ‘It is from Kate Tracy in Townsville.’
‘Patrick’s aunt,’ Helen reflected. ‘I wonder why she should inform us?’
Karl frowned. ‘I do not know, but she asks us to go to Glen View as soon as we can.’
Helen placed the half-finished tapestry aside and closed the little ornate basket containing her selection of needles. ‘Then we shall do so. I will speak to the children’s nanny while you make arrangements for us to take a ship to Queensland.’
Karl nodded and carefully folded the slip of paper. It said very little other than that Wallarie had been found and that they were to return to the station.
The pastor was not the only one mystified. Kate Tracy had received the news in a letter sent to her by the young stockman who she knew was a distant relative. The words were barely literate but the message clear. She too was to go to Glen View.
When Ivan was overdue from a patrol Saul Rosenblum went searching for him. The circling carrion birds in the clear blue sky led the Australian to a gully where he found the bodies of both Ivan and his horse.
Saul slid his rifle from the bucket strapped to his saddle and quickly scanned the surrounding hills for danger. He saw none and dismounted to go to the fly-covered corpses. He knelt beside the big Russian. Ivan’s pale, naked body blended with the dusty earth, the myriad stab and slash wounds a testimony to how hard he had fought his attackers in a deadly hand-to-hand battle.
Saul slowly shook his head as he sat back on his heels. Most of the ugly cuts appeared to be mutilations inflicted on Ivan after death. Had the Arab villagers returned to inflict them as an act of revenge? Or was the killing of Ivan a prelude to something else?
Saul stood up and walked away from the body of his friend. The sun was already causing it to blacken and bloat. Ivan had not been dead for very long and Saul’s knowledge told him that his friend had probably been ambushed just before dawn. It appeared that he had been on the move before first light when attacked. There was no sign of his campsite in the immediate area. From past experience, Saul knew something must have caused Ivan to break camp earlier than he normally did.
To corroborate the theory that was developing in his mind, Saul used all he knew of tracking to sweep the area. Finally he found what he was looking for. Saul squatted by the tracks. Ivan had been riding back to the moshava in a hurry. It appeared that he had met a party of between ten and fifteen men when he had attempted to take a short trail through the gully, generally avoided because it was an ideal site for an ambush.
Saul rose from the tracks and walked back to the site of the ambush. The black splashes of blood leading away indicated that Ivan had wounded his ambushers, who had chosen to use cutting weapons rather than firearms to bring him down. Saul frowned as a terrible thought occurred to him. The ambushers did not want to use firearms so as not to alert anyone who might be in the area. This was a carefully planned action.
Saul followed the faint blood trail away from the site and before long stumbled on two dead men. They were Arab villagers and had died from knife wounds, most likely inflicted by Ivan in a vicious hand-to-hand fight. The bodies had been laid out with some respect; it was this that confirmed Saul’s worst fears. The two dead men had been left because the ambushers intended to return and carry them back to the village after they had completed their mission.
Saul took a few paces back to scan the earth leading to the moshava. He needed no other sign than the scores of footprints he saw to send him racing back to his mount. Maybe a hundred or more Arabs were moving into position to attack the unsuspecting village. His people were vastly outnumbered and a massacre was sure to occur unless he was able to get back and warn them.
Saul dug his spurs into the mount. Time would be measured in minutes rather than hours if the tiny settlement was to survive. He rode hard and just before noon reached the vineyards of the moshava.
‘Get everyone back to the settlement,’ he yelled from the saddle to the young men and women working amongst the grapevines. ‘Now!’
Two of the men he had trained had their rifles and responded immediately, herding the vineyard workers away without questioning his command. Saul spurred his horse on to ride to the fields to pass on the same message. When he was satisfied that he had warned as many as possible he rode his lathered mount into the scattering of stone buildings, reining in at the community’s meeting hall where he was met by Jakob.
‘What is it?’ Jakob asked, his face creased with concern. ‘Has something happened?’
‘Ivan is dead,’ Saul answered in a flat voice. ‘The bastards ambushed him in a gully east of here, about an hour’s ride away.’
Jakob’s face paled. ‘We should go and fetch his body.’
‘If we do, then we will most probably share his fate,’ Saul said. ‘I am certain that they are going to hit us in the next few hours. Probably during the night, if I know their tactics well enough.’
‘If what you say is true, I should call a meeting with the council and decide what we should do,’ Jakob said in a distant voice. ‘I must hurry.’
Holding the reins of his horse, Saul led her to the stables. His warning had brought the settlement to life and rifles appeared in the hands of the small but efficient fighting force he and Ivan had readied. But not ready enough, Saul thought with some fear. Would they be able to defend the settlement against a sizeable raid by an enemy that, according to his estimates, outnumbered them five to one?
‘What do we do, Mr Rosenblum?’ a young man questioned, coming to a skidding halt before Saul, his rifle and bandoleer of spare ammunition in his hands. ‘I have heard that we are about to be attacked.’
‘You get everyone with a weapon to meet me here at the stables in five minutes,’ Saul said calmly. ‘I will brief you then on your duties.’
The young defender took heart from the experienced former soldier’s calm tone and hurried away, leaving Saul to unsaddle his hard worked horse.
Within a few short minutes a party of nine men and seven women gathered outside the stables. Saul stepped out and gazed around at the ragged militia. They stood silent and grimfaced but Saul was pleased at the way they bore their fear – it did not show.
‘To all intents and purposes,’ Saul said, addressing his army, one woman translating his words to Yiddish, ‘it seems we may be under attack at any
time. But more likely tonight.’
The young men and women still held their fear in check. Indeed, a fierce determination to defend their village crept across their faces.
‘I will assign you your tasks and appoint leaders who will report to me.’ Saul continued his briefing, nominating each person by name for a specific task. ‘We will add to our numbers by taking any able-bodied person who can hold an axe, pitchfork or anything else that can be converted into a weapon. The extras will be dispersed amongst those with the guns to bolster numbers.’
When the briefing was over, each nominated team leader scoured the settlement for the volunteers Saul had identified to supplement his small force. When they reported back to him, Saul took their section to a pre-planned defensive position around the settlement. By day the tactically sited outposts had a clear field of fire and anyone attempting to approach the village could be shot down. But by night this would be more difficult, almost impossible, and that is why Saul knew their enemy would attack during the hours of darkness. He walked the perimeter of the village, stopping to identify in depth points that could be defended. His overall plan had his rifles as far forward as possible and a second line of defenders providing positions to fall back, shrinking the perimeter. The defence called for every ounce of tactical knowledge Saul had. The Palestinians were no fools if they were able to ambush Ivan, he realised as he stood gazing out across a recently ploughed field to the distant hills shimmering under the late afternoon sun.
As Saul stood making his observations he had a brief chance to think about his old friend. Ivan was dead and there was nothing he could do about that. When it was safe they would go back and retrieve his body. Grief was something Saul knew he would have to put into the future – the time beyond that when his cold-blooded instincts were required for the sake of their very survival. He did not care if they thought he was heartless for the decisions that he must make. He was their military leader and knew that the orders he would give may bring death to some in the name of the community’s survival – that was the way of war. He dreaded the coming of the night and the decisions that would bring. He did not share the apparent optimism of his militia. Had he believed in the God of his ancestors, he might have prayed for a miracle. Instead, he would rely on the hitting power of the Lee Enfield .303 rifles in the hands of his young defenders. It might have been good to have the ancient biblical Joshua with him right now, he thought with a rueful smile. At least he knew how to fight.
