by Peter Watt
With his parting statement delivered with spittle spraying the air and a wild expression in his eyes, the sergeant turned his back and stormed out of the tent, leaving Lachlan and Andrew staring at each other.
What had Forster meant about the Eureka stockade? Lachlan wondered. Had it not been for his own personal involvement, Lachlan might not have thought twice about the threat. But the statement stuck with him and was the catalyst for a dreadful nightmare. He was once again ten years old. On that hot, summer’s day at Ballarat, the musketry exploded all around him as the bloodied face of his father stared at him with dead eyes. He was helpless to call out but could see what he thought was either accusation or a plea in his dead father’s eyes. It did not make sense.
For the next couple of weeks life in camp was good for Lachlan and Andrew; no guard duty and a minimum of other duties around the camp. Each day they would find somewhere a short distance from camp for Lachlan to train and rest up. They were focused on the impending fight, but always aware of the menacing presence of Sergeant Forster, who continued to seethe at having the two men he disliked most out of his clutches.
When the day arrived for the fight, the whole unit were given leave to attend. An area had been cleared for the match and Lachlan once more was able to wear the blue silk sash that Amanda had given him. Stripped to the waist, he stood at the edge of the grassy clearing with the members of his unit standing behind him. Many slapped him on the back to wish him well and already the bets were being placed, despite military regulations forbidding such a pastime.
‘That must be the Von,’ Andrew said, catching a glimpse of a tall, handsome man standing with their commanding officer. ‘And that must be his fighter, O’Flynn,’ he added when an equally well-built young man stripped off his shirt.
Lachlan stared hard at his opponent’s hard, muscled back, finally catching his eye when he turned around slowly to face him.
‘God almighty,’ Lachlan gasped.
‘What?’ Andrew asked in his alarm.
‘I know that man,’ Lachlan said under his breath, so that only Andrew could hear him. ‘His name is Michael Duffy.’
NINE
On the Friday evening the bar in the Erin Hotel was busy and Daniel had been assigned to help Max and the pretty barmaid serve the thirsty customers. The men jostled at the bar, vying for attention of the voluptuous blonde in preference to the dour German.
As Daniel placed five bottles of imported beer on the bar counter, his attention was drawn to the man who was pushing his way forward to be served. He had a vaguely familiar look about him but his expensive, well-tailored suit meant he stood out amidst the sweating working men around him.
‘What will it be?’ Daniel asked when the man had found a place at the bar.
‘I would like a scotch straight – and possibly some information,’ the man said.
Daniel poured a shot of whisky into a small tumbler and slid it across the bar. When the man paid him Daniel could see from his roll of bank notes that he was well financed.
‘I was hoping that you might have information concerning a Mr Lachlan MacDonald,’ the stranger said, taking a swig of his drink.
‘Why do you want to know about Lachlan?’ Daniel asked suspiciously, naturally protective of the young man who was his friend.
‘Lachlan MacDonald is my brother,’ the stranger said. ‘We were separated many years ago and I have recently received information that he had contact with this establishment. My name is John MacDonald.’
Daniel could see the strong family resemblance. It was as if he was looking at an older version of Lachlan.
‘I think we should speak somewhere a little less crowded, Mr MacDonald,’ Daniel said, wiping his hands on his apron.
John finished his drink in one gulp and followed Daniel through the bar into the kitchen. Daniel gestured for John to take a seat at the kitchen table. ‘My name is Daniel Duffy,’ Daniel said, offering his hand over the table. ‘My father is the licensee of the Erin.’
‘Mr Duffy, do you know my brother?’ John asked.
‘I do,’ Daniel replied, taking a bottle of good quality Irish whiskey down from above the stove. ‘And I believe you are who you say you are. Lachlan has spoken much of you and you look so very much like him. But, I am afraid to say, Lachlan volunteered for the campaign in New Zealand and has been away this past few months. We are yet to receive a letter from him as to his whereabouts. Your brother is very much favoured by myself and my family.’ Daniel poured out two tumblers of the whiskey, handing one to John.
‘You have just given me the best and worst news of my life,’ John said, accepting the drink. ‘I have finally been able to track down my brother only to hear he is serving in a war where he may lose his life.’
‘Lachlan is a fighter,’ Daniel smiled grimly. ‘It would take a good man to put him down, Mr MacDonald. ‘As soon as he makes some kind of contact with us, I can assure you that I will immediately inform you,’ Daniel continued. ‘Where are you staying while in Sydney?’
John wrote down the name of the prestigious hotel and handed it to Daniel, who raised his eyebrows at what had been written on the back of John’s calling card. Lachlan’s brother was indeed a prosperous man to be able to afford those daily rates, he thought.
‘I would be grateful if you could tell me a little about my brother,’ John said. ‘I have spent many years wondering about his fate.’
Over a half bottle of the good Irish whiskey, Daniel told John as much as he knew from the stories he had been told by Lachlan. Daniel spoke of Duncan Campbell and Lachlan’s days on the bush tracks beyond the Great Dividing Range and his prowess as a bare-knuckle boxer in Sydney. John was pleased to hear how his brother had become a self-educated man and realised that they both had independently sought learning to better their station in life.
When Daniel had exhausted all he knew about Lachlan’s past – both distant and recent – John had a gloomy thought. How would his brother react to learning that his long-lost brother was in a relationship with another man? Would the issue divide them when they finally made contact?
Lachlan could see from the startled expression on Michael Duffy’s face that the recognition was mutual.
‘Who is Michael Duffy?’ Andrew muttered in Lachlan’s ear.
‘Probably the best fighter who ever came out of Sydney,’ Lachlan replied. ‘And I am going to get the opportunity to fight him.’
‘Well, why does he go by the name of O’Flynn?’ Andrew persisted, rubbing down Lachlan’s shoulders.
‘A long story,’ Lachlan replied in a low voice. ‘And I would warn you not to utter the name of Duffy to anyone.’
Andrew shrugged. It was of no consequence to him who the opposing fighter was. All that mattered was that Lachlan should beat him and the money wagered by their unit be won in the fight.
The referee appeared at the centre of the grassy field, beckoning to the fighters to join him. Both Lachlan and Michael moved forward to face off, two paces apart. Lachlan’s questioning expression said it all and was returned with what Lachlan interpreted as a plea not to reveal what he knew of Michael’s identity. The referee, a colour sergeant from a British regiment stationed nearby, reminded the two fighters of the rules.
‘Shake hands like the gentlemen that you are,’ he concluded, stepping aside.
The crowd fell into a hush as the two men raised their fists. It was Michael who struck first and despite their friendship Lachlan realised that he was in for the fight of his life. He parried the probing punch and the crowd roared its approval. The fight was on.
Afterwards, Lachlan could only remember how fast and furious the blows came but he also knew that his punches were hurting Michael. At one stage they fell into a clinch, the sweat from their bodies drenching them despite the cold air of the New Zealand afternoon.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Lachlan gasped into Michael’s ear in the clinch.
‘I’ll tell you after I beat you,’ Michael replied in
a hoarse voice.
‘Like hell,’ Lachlan said, forcing himself apart from the clinch. ‘You can tell me when I beat you.’
His defiance brought a crooked grin to Michael’s face and the fight resumed.
‘To arms!’ the cry came from somewhere in the crowd and was followed by a bugle call for assembly.
Lachlan and Michael broke contact and stood a few paces apart, looking to the spectators who were already moving away. The referee signalled for the end of the fight and strode away.
‘What in hell is going on?’ Lachlan asked Michael.
‘It looks like the Maori have struck somewhere and we are needed.’
‘Lachlan!’ Andrew called from the edge of the field. ‘We have to stand to. We are being called to action.’
‘I have to join my unit,’ Michael said, thrusting out his hand to his old friend. ‘You fought bloody well, but I reckon I would have beaten you.’
Lachlan accepted the hand with a firm grip of his own. ‘We just might get a chance later to find out who the better fighter is, Michael Duffy,’ he grinned.
‘Just promise me that you will tell no one of my real identity,’ Michael said.
‘I swear on the blood of my ancestors that your secret is safe with me, Michael,’ Lachlan answered with conviction in his voice. ‘Maybe we can catch up and you can tell me what happened after you left Sydney.’
‘A promise,’ Michael replied. ‘As soon as we can – but for the moment take care. If you are going into action against the Maori you will need to be on your toes. They are a fierce and courageous foe.’
‘Lachlan,’ Andrew called again. ‘We have to go.’
Lachlan turned and hurried across to Andrew, who held up a towel for him to wipe the drying sweat from his body.
‘I just heard that the church at Ramarama is under attack from a big force of Maori,’ Andrew said. ‘We have to go and relieve them with an ammunition re-supply.’
Fronted by a ditch four feet deep by six feet wide, the church at Ramarama was a wooden structure with an incomplete log stockade with loop-holes for firing through. Defensive bastions had been set in the diagonal corners of the improvised fortress which was manned by a few militia men and local farmers whose families had been evacuated to Auckland. Amongst the defenders were members of the McDonald family – fourteen-year-old grandson, father and grandfather.
The first warning of the attack had come when a Maori scout was sighted by one of the defenders the day before. The Maori warrior drew an inordinate amount of fire from the twenty-three defenders and that afternoon senior officers visiting had promised a re-supply of ammunition for the next day.
Confidently awaiting the re-supply the next day, the men lounged about after breakfast smoking. A militia man gazed down the road to the church and commented to his comrades, ‘Look at those cattle on the road, see how they are looking into the bush. I know there is something wrong.’
His comrades turned their attention to the road.
‘It is nothing,’ one of the soldiers said, getting to his feet and trailing his rifle with him. He winked at the men around him and mocked, ‘Come on boys, there is some bloody work before you this day.’ He raised his rifle and fired randomly into the scrub.
All hell broke loose as his cynical ploy at humour returned him a huge volley from the hidden warriors in the scrub. A mad scramble for the safety of the church ensued as the bullets flew around the men who only seconds before had scoffed at their comrade.
The defenders returned fire from the church as the warriors closed the gap between them, attacking through the graveyard and from the south. The church was surrounded and the defenders seriously trapped.
Young McDonald gripped his rifled musket and his attention drifted curiously to a white pigeon perched unconcernedly not far from them. But for now he must concentrate like his father and grandfather on the howling Maori warriors as they came on courageously into the line of fire from the church defenders.
The cross-fire continued for a good couple of hours with neither side gaining advantage. At around 11 a.m. someone observed that the Maori seemed to be gathering for an all-out attack.
‘Fix bayonets!’ The order from the senior NCO was bawled so loud that the attackers also heard it. It was obvious to all that this would be a fight to the last defender.
A fine-looking warrior chief standing a good six feet tall attempted to rally his men for a charge. He stepped into the open and roared his challenge to the defenders in English, ‘Come on, you cowards. Be men and do not stop behind the logs.’
He was flung on his back by a sniped shot from within the church. The sniper shook his head. It was a sad day to have killed such a courageous foe but in such a bitter fight there was no time for remorse.
By midday an audit of supplies revealed that each man was down to ten shots and water was scarce. There was no sign of the promised re-supply or of any reinforcements and young McDonald kept close to his father. He was afraid but knew he could not show his fear in the company of the men. The despondent defenders were cheered somewhat by the sergeant, who went about the confines of the church clapping his hands and saying, ‘Go it, my lads. This is a glorious day.’
Young McDonald interpreted the tough sergeant’s exaltations as meaning it was a good day to enter the gates of heaven. At least he would do so in the company of his father and grandfather beside him. He gripped the stock of his rifle and curled closer to the wall, peering out at the white pigeon which still perched serenely on the church steeple. Young McDonald wished that he could be that pigeon and fly from this terrible place and his certain death against such overwhelming numbers of Maori warriors.
As the smell of cooking fires drifted to the defenders, one of the soldiers noticed through a rifle slit that smoke was rising from just below the crest where the graveyard was. ‘The bloody heathens are cooking their meal!’ he exclaimed. ‘Confident buggers that they are.’
Suddenly, the call of a British bugle sounded and young McDonald was startled to see the pigeon fly from its perch. A soldier staring through a gun port exclaimed, ‘It’s the 70th Foot from Springfield.’
His observation instantly brought a rousing three cheers from the defenders and at the same time curses from the Maori warriors who had been preparing for another assault on the church. Although now reinforced by twenty-five men from the nearby British regiment, the ammunition still had not arrived. It was bogged down in carts being brought forward by Lachlan and his companions under the command of Captain Lightfoot, who cursed the delay getting to the battle raging ahead of them.
Young McDonald watched as the approaching reinforcements fought their way to them. A sergeant toppled forward, shot through the leg, but he turned to fire at his enemy and saw the Maori warrior drop from a fatal wound. With so few men to reinforce them, all knew that the fighting was far from over.
But Charles Lightfoot’s dreams of glory were also suffering. His company was rapidly being overtaken by soldiers from the 18th and 65th Foot regiments. The militia men struggled, sweating to get their two wagons through the mud. The badly needed ammunition for the besieged defenders was heavy and Captain Lightfoot cursed the delay. They could hear the distant gunfire, drifting on a stiff breeze towards them.
In the late afternoon the faint sound of a bugle carried down the muddy track to Lightfoot. He recognised the call for a charge. ‘Private MacDonald,’ he called down from his mount, dismounting at the same time, ‘to me.’
Lachlan left his post at the rear of one of the wagons where he had been pushing for all he was worth to assist the horses drag the wagon on the muddy track.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, coming to attention and saluting the officer.
‘You and I are going on ahead to reconnoitre the situation. Mr Grimes,’ Lightfoot said, turning to a mud-spattered young officer, ‘you are to assume command until I return.’ The young lieutenant saluted his acknowledgment and turned to supervise the remaining soldiers.
Unslingin
g his rifled musket from his shoulder, Lachlan checked that the primer was in place and followed the captain, who had drawn his revolver and sword. At a hurried pace they ran towards the slope of the hill around a bend in the road.
The men of the 65th Foot had arrived under the command of Captain Saltmarch. He quickly ordered all the British regulars to form up and charge down the hill to clear the Maori warriors, who now found themselves on the defensive. The bugler raised his instrument to his lips to sound the charge and it was sent spinning from his hands as a full shot of lead took away his face. He fell to his knees clasping his hands to his shattered jaw.
The charge went ahead and the first of the 65th fell. The Maori who had shot him advanced to retrieve the dead soldier’s rifle but in turn was wounded when Captain Saltmarch stepped over the body of the fallen soldier to fire two rounds from his pistol into the warrior’s chest. The Maori swung his double-barrelled shotgun at the officer and the blast took Saltmarch squarely in the throat. The tough warrior was hit again by a rifle shot but refused to fall. When he turned to retreat he was speared by a long bayonet hurled by an enraged soldier. The fighting went on into the late afternoon.
Within ten minutes of setting off, Lachlan and Charles Lightfoot arrived to witness the skirmishing at the base of the hill. The soldiers from the British regiments that had arrived to relieve the defenders were locked in hand-to-hand combat against the Maori warriors who by now were making a retreat. It was long bayonet against heavy war axe and club. Rifled musket against double-barrelled shotguns.
For Lachlan, it was his first sight of a battle and he felt a tightness in his stomach and chest. He did not know whether it was fear or excitement at what was to come.
‘Damn it to hell!’ Lightfoot swore. ‘It’s almost over and we have missed it.’
