Ghosts of the Past

by Tony Park

  Susan smiled. ‘I’m sure she’s lovely, but I’m glad my snooping led me to you.’

  Nick grinned inside and cleared his throat. ‘Do you want a sample to look at now?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Nick unzipped his daypack and took out the latest instalment, which Lili had brought in to work that morning. ‘Before Blake escaped from custody Walters sent another Australian from their patrol to try to get Blake to change his story. When Blake refused, the guy tried to kill him and in a scuffle the other soldier was killed and a guard knocked out.’

  ‘Sheesh!’

  Nick smiled. ‘He seems like a real tough guy, and honest. So, he breaks out of jail, grabs his horse, and then rides back to the trading post on the Sabie River where the American and the woman, Claire Martin, had been holed up.’

  ‘I know that area, the lowveld. It’s beautiful. You should go there if you ever make it to South Africa.’

  ‘Hold that thought,’ Nick said, then he started to read out loud.

  Chapter 13

  Sabie River, eastern Transvaal, South Africa, 1902

  For the second time in as many days, Blake lay on his stomach just below the brow of a low hill and watched the abandoned trading post, with its small house and stable.

  Someone had been back here. There were two bags lying outside the front door of the house; both were open and their contents – clothes by the look of it – were scattered on the ground. Looters, perhaps? Blake thought it unlikely – there were no Shangaan tribal settlements within a day’s ride and no Boer commandos in the area.

  He scanned the surrounding bush again and reassured himself there was no one else nearby. Blake left his horse tied to a bush and approached the buildings cautiously on foot, his Broomhandle Mauser at the ready.

  In the empty stables he saw the overturned chair and the slashed bindings that had held the American. Of his missing ear, there was no sign, but that wasn’t surprising as there was hyena spoor on the ground; the animals would have been drawn by the smell of blood.

  He entered the main building and saw immediately that the place was a shambles, in worse shape than he had left it. A sturdy timber sideboard had been pitched over. Kitchen cupboards were open and pots, pans and plates were scattered over the stone floor. The crockery and glasses were plain, solid items. There was an air of impermanence about the place – aside from little touches like the spilled flowers and cracked vase he had first seen on the morning of the raid.

  And why the wildflowers, if this was a safe place of refuge for fugitive commandos? There was something between the American man and the woman; perhaps the man had placed the flowers as a tender welcome.

  Blake walked into the hallway and momentarily relived the moment when he had shot the Boer. His actions had been pure instinct, as instant and as unfeeling as a leopard pouncing on an impala.

  Instinct. It was something you couldn’t teach a new soldier. If he had it, he would have a better than even chance of surviving life in the bush or on the open highveld. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t last long.

  The door to the main bedroom was closed.

  Slowly, he backed out of the hallway into the parlour. He crept out the front door and eased his way along the exterior wall, ducking as he passed each window. Whoever had returned to ransack the house had opened the shutters to give themselves light to work by, but had taken the time to close the bedroom door. The open windows meant the intruder had been there in daylight; maybe he – or she – was still there.

  Once at the rear of the house Blake dropped to all fours and crawled until he was beneath the open bedroom window the woman had presumably escaped through. Slowly, carefully, he raised his head, the pistol near his cheek, ready to fire over the windowsill if need be.

  He peered inside. The bedroom was empty, but it was not as he had left it.

  Tied to the foot of the bed was a large-bore shotgun, its twin barrels pointing squarely at the door. A length of twine ran from the trigger, down over the lower rung of the wrought-iron bedstead and then up to the doorhandle. Anyone opening the door would end up with a gutful of lead shot. It was a clever trap that just added to the mystery of the trading post and its occupants.

  Blake inspected the windowsill carefully to make sure there were no other surprises waiting for him and then climbed inside.

  There was a wardrobe in one corner of the room and two small chests of drawers on either side of the four-poster. The furniture was made of Tamboti, a tree whose timber was as poisonous as it was beautiful. As in the kitchen, all of the drawers and cupboard doors were open.

  Blake untied the twine from the doorhandle and then freed the shotgun from the foot of the bed. He carried the weapon with him into the kitchen and looked out the window. A lone rider was approaching and Blake knew it was Walters.

  He stayed low as the captain reined in his horse by the stables and dismounted. Walters drew his pistol as he passed the stable door, then walked around the farmhouse to the front door and entered the building.

  Blake climbed out of the kitchen window and hid behind the outhouse, waiting.

  After a minute or two Walters came outside. He walked around the house to the bedroom window and peered inside. Blake crept up behind Walters and jammed the twin barrels of the shotgun into the back of the officer’s neck. ‘Looking for this?’

  Slowly, Walters turned his head. ‘I heard you escaped.’

  ‘Clearly. You prepared a welcome for me.’ Blake relieved Walters of his Webley revolver, tucking the pistol into his belt. ‘Time you and I had a little chat, sport. Let’s move inside.’

  ‘I can explain, Blake.’

  ‘My bloody oath you’re going to explain. To the provost marshal.’

  ‘There’s money involved, Blake. More money than you could possibly imagine.’

  ‘So Bert said. Keep moving. Inside.’

  ‘Blake, just listen to me –’

  Blake swung the shotgun around and clubbed the officer in the back of the head with the butt, though not hard enough to render him unconscious.

  ‘Bloody hell, what was that for?’ Walters wailed.

  ‘Bert, and the American Boer colonel. I should kill you.’

  ‘You don’t want to add a real murder to your list of so-far unproven crimes, do you? I can end your troubles with a quiet word to the provost marshal, Blake. I’ll tell him it was Hughes who did in the Boer. The package I’m looking for is yours and mine to find and split. Let us talk.’

  ‘You sent Bert Hughes to kill me,’ Blake said.

  ‘Sent him to talk some sense into your thick colonial head, more like it.’

  Blake heard the crack-thump of a rifle shot and a bullet slammed into the wall of the farmhouse beside them. Blake dropped to his belly and looked in the direction the shot had come from. Walters saw his chance to escape and sprinted away.

  ‘Get down, you idiot!’ Blake yelled.

  Spouts of dirt rose from the sunbaked yard as the marksman followed Walters’ dash. The officer ran to his tethered horse and slid a rifle from its saddle-mounted holster. Instead of aiming at the enemy, though, he worked the action and fired at Blake.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Blake swore. He pointed the shotgun at Walters and pulled the trigger twice, firing both barrels. Blake glimpsed a bearded man running from cover to cover.

  The range was long for a shotgun and Walters turned his attention to mounting his horse. Blake, meanwhile, had attracted the Boer rifleman’s attention now, and bullets slammed into the earth around him and the wall above his head. Another rifle joined in the fusillade.

  The sound of hoofbeats from the other side of the building told Blake the Englishman was on his way.

  Across the veld, beyond the stables, three men on horseback were closing on the farmhouse. One pulled up short, about a hundred yards away, and fired shot after shot at Blake, c
overing his comrades’ advance. Blake saw that these men knew what they were doing, and that he was cornered. He rose to his knees and held the shotgun in two hands over his head.

  The Boers called to each other in Afrikaans and the two who were moving galloped past Blake and the farmhouse, presumably in pursuit of the fleeing officer.

  The third rebel cantered up to the house, directing his horse with pressure from his knees while he held his Mauser rifle into his shoulder, the barrel pointed down at Blake.

  His sunburned face was dirty, his ginger beard unkempt and his eyes wide and wild. The man wore no coat or tunic, just a sleeveless garment made of an old grain sack over a long-sleeved undershirt that may once have been white. Two bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossed his wiry torso.

  Blake dropped the shotgun and stared up into the man’s eyes. He asked himself, if he were in the Boer’s position, a renegade living by his wits on the veld, would he bother taking prisoners? Probably not, thought Blake. He steeled himself for the impact of the bullet.

  Blake started to reach into the breast pocket of his tunic, but stopped when he saw the Boer’s finger tense on the trigger of his Mauser’s rifle. ‘Just getting a cigarette, all right?’

  The Boer nodded again and Blake slowly drew out the packet of Wills cigarettes. He took a step towards the horse and offered the pack to his enemy. The man stank so badly Blake had to breathe through his mouth.

  The man remained stony-faced for a few seconds, staring at the pack in Blake’s outstretched hand. Blake shook out two cigarettes, lit both at the same time and then handed one up to the man on horseback.

  ‘Good, eh?’ Blake said, holding the cigarette aloft as he exhaled.

  The Boer closed his eyes for a second, savouring the stream of nicotine. He exhaled slowly through his nose. ‘Dankie.’

  ‘No worries,’ Blake replied.

  ‘You are not English.’

  ‘Australian.’

  The horseman nodded and continued smoking his cigarette. The rifle lay across his lap now, but he still kept it pointed at Blake.

  As they finished their cigarettes the other two Boers arrived at the farmhouse on horseback. The three men conversed in Afrikaans and then dismounted. The first man kept him covered.

  ‘Australian, Hermanus,’ his captor said to the older man, who looked back at him reprovingly. Blake guessed the older man was the commander, and didn’t like his name being used.

  ‘What were you doing here?’ the man called Hermanus asked Blake in accented but good English.

  His hair was snowy white and fell to his collar. He sported a yellow-stained walrus moustache and long sidelevers. In another life he could have been a kindly grandfather figure, but the pistol in his hand and twelve-inch British bayonet hanging from his belt told another story. He wore a vest made of leopardskin and rough-sewn leather trousers that had come off the back of a buck of some kind. On his head was a wide-brimmed straw hat, such as a farmer’s wife might wear to a Sunday picnic, although the zebra-skin puggaree lent it a vaguely manly air.

  These were hard men, Blake thought. ‘Bitter-enders’, they called them, those Boers on commando who would never surrender. Cut off from their women and their farms with no lines of supply, they lived off the land.

  ‘Hermanus, is it?’ Blake tried. The man glared at him. ‘I’m Blake. I was just looking around.’

  ‘Looking for what? Why do two Englishmen ride out here to look at an empty trading post?’ Hermanus replied.

  ‘I came alone, and I’m Australian.’

  ‘We were watching. You and the Englishman, you fought. Why did he try to shoot you?’

  ‘Gambling debt.’

  Hermanus raised his pistol and pulled back the hammer with his thumb. ‘Time to pay up.’

  Blake sensed the old man was not someone to be messed with. ‘I was looking for evidence.’

  ‘Evidence of what?’

  ‘Something that would prove who committed a crime. One of your men, a senior officer, was killed here,’ Blake said.

  ‘So, is that a crime? You kill our people every day, even our women and children. Why is the death of an American a crime?’ Hermanus lowered his pistol a little.

  ‘I didn’t say anything about an American, but you obviously know who I’m talking about. Do you know how he was killed?’

  Hermanus shrugged. ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘He was tortured. He had information that someone wanted badly enough to break all the rules of war to get it. The man who just escaped was the killer.’ Blake had no qualms about laying the blame on Walters. The captain had tried to frame him and then have him killed. Besides, Blake had nothing to lose by telling the truth to these desperate men, who looked like they would kill him if they felt he was of no use to them.

  Hermanus said nothing.

  Blake looked deep into the man’s eyes. ‘There was a woman, and a younger man with the American.’

  ‘Tell me of their fates.’

  ‘The other man is dead,’ Blake said.

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘Captured and unharmed. For now.’

  The old man turned to his companions and appeared to translate what Blake had said, then the three of them conversed in their native tongue for a couple of minutes. They appeared agitated by the news of the woman’s capture.

  ‘Where did they take her?’ Hermanus asked Blake.

  ‘They took her to the guardhouse where I was imprisoned, but I found out they were moving her to the concentration camp near here. I escaped this morning.’

  ‘Escaped?’

  ‘That woman heard the English officer torturing your friend, heard his screams. She can confirm that I wasn’t involved in that business, but the British think I did it and they want to have me executed. I’m safer on the run for now.’

  ‘What do I care about what happens to you?’ Hermanus asked. ‘I should just kill you now.’

  Blake looked the old man in the eyes. ‘I reckon you want the woman. I want her as well and, unlike you, I can get to her.’

  ‘Who says we want the woman?’

  ‘Why would you lot come out of the hills to raid a trading post with no stores? There was something – or someone – in this place that people are prepared to murder over. I don’t particularly care what it is, but I do want my freedom.’

  ‘You can have your freedom. You are no use to us and despite what you may think we do not shoot prisoners. We will, however, take your clothes and your horse. Strip.’

  They may as well shoot me, Blake thought. With no horse and no clothes he wouldn’t last long out here in the bush. Even if the lions didn’t get him and by some miracle a British patrol found him he’d be swinging on the end of a rope or facing the firing squad before the week was out. ‘No.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Hermanus. He raised his revolver until the barrel pointed at Blake’s eye and pulled back the hammer.

  ‘Think about it. I’m an Australian sergeant. I can talk my way into wherever they’re holding the woman and I can break her out. You won’t get within cooee of civilisation the way you lot look.’

  Hermanus lowered his pistol and spoke again with the others in Afrikaans.

  ‘They say you will lead us into a trap.’

  ‘You saw how the Pommy was shooting at me. I’m on your side for now. The difference is that I can get into the camp where they’re holding the woman and I’ve got half a chance of getting out with her. You can ride off now and leave me if you want – just leave me my clothes.’

  Hermanus locked eyes with him. ‘You can keep your clothes. You will ride with us to the camp where they are holding the woman – she has something we need. If she is there you will bring her to us. If you fail, I will kill you.’

  *

  The concentration camp and a nearby army bivouac were half a day’s ride to
the south. There was a blockhouse on the road that passed between the two encampments, but Blake and Paul, the youngest of the trio of Boers, were waved through without a word.

  Paul was dressed in a British Army uniform that had come, in total, from the different members of the Boer commando. It was just as well it was dark, Blake thought, because if a sergeant major got within fifty feet of young Paul and saw or smelled the state of his tunic, trousers or boots, he would be disciplined on the spot. He made Blake’s generally scruffy, bush-worn and patched uniform look like he was a guardsman on duty at Buckingham Palace.

  Paul had shaved off his beard and his chin was deathly white compared to his deeply tanned cheeks and nose. Blake rode with his pistol holstered – his bullets had been confiscated – and Paul carried his own Lee Enfield, captured from a dead soldier of the Empire in some previous encounter.

  There was another checkpoint at the turnoff to the concentration camp. Paul hung back behind Blake, in the shadows. Blake reined in his horse.

  ‘Evening, Sergeant,’ said the sentry, a lanky British soldier.

  ‘G’day mate,’ Blake said. ‘Busy night?’

  ‘Saturday, Sarge. Ladies down t’ road are always game for a bit of fun on t’ weekend. Been quite a few fellas headed that way tonight.’

  ‘I’ll have to make sure there’s nothing improper going on then, won’t I?’

  ‘Right, Sarge. Though if it’s improper you’re after I’m told a lady by t’ name of Magrietta might be worth asking after.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. I’m actually here on official business. I need to talk to a woman who’s newly arrived at the camp.’

  The sentry nodded. ‘Couple o’ lasses came in today. One wi’ kids and t’ other single.’

  Blake raised his eyebrows. ‘Red-head? Good looking?’

  ‘Aye, that’s the one. A pal o’ mine said the captain put her in wi’ Magrietta. We were hoping she might be as interested in trading as her tent mate,’ he winked, ‘if you know what I mean, Sarge.’

  ‘I think I do. Where might I find these ladies?’

  ‘Follow t’ perimeter fence all the way down to t’ south corner. Wire’s in a shocking state – folk come and go as they please down there and that’s where t’ trading’s done. Have a good night, Sarge.’