by Peter Watt
Lachlan pulled the greatcoat around his body in a vain attempt to keep from soaking to the skin. At least its bulk provided some warmth against the biting wind that whipped through the dank ferns. He kept his rifle covered to avoid moisture dampening the paper cartridges and his finger remained not far from the trigger as he sat peering into the gathering darkness of the coming night.
His section of Rangers had now been three weeks in the bush scouting for enemy camps and tracks. They had patrolled without any luck in the rugged, heavily timbered hills south of Auckland. Their luck had changed this day as one of the Rangers, a man who had once lived amongst the Maori, spotted signs of a track being used by war parties.
The Von was consulted and he decided that they would sit off the track with the intention of springing an ambush should it be used again. The company established a base camp with the pack horses hobbled and then moved three smaller sections forward to cover the area. Lachlan was one of the sentries posted. He could hear the faint sound behind him. Slowly, he turned his head and was relieved to see Michael Duffy, with one of the other Rangers, creeping forward to his position.
‘Anything?’ he whispered and Lachlan shook his head.
‘Private Clyde is relieving you,’ Michael said. ‘Time for you to go down the hill for a hot cup of tea.’
Lachlan was thankful. His limbs were cramped from the hours of sitting in a hide of ferns, scanning the area for any movement. He was easing himself to his knees when all hell broke loose. The musket and shotgun fire that poured into the ambush site bespoke a sizeable force of Maori warriors who had somehow turned the tables on the outfit.
Lachlan immediately fell flat on his face, discarding the heavy, rain-soaked coat. Fragments of leaves and splinters of wood spattered his face. In his desperation he sought to see where Michael was and saw that he too was lying face down to avoid the incoming fire. A groan from behind Lachlan told him that Private Clyde had been hit.
‘Get back to the base camp,’ Michael shouted. ‘I will cover you.’
Lachlan raised his head to protest and from the corner of his eye could see four Maori warriors advancing stealthily through the trees towards them. They were armed with muskets as well as their personal weapons of axe, tomahawk and war club.
Lachlan swung his rifle to lay his foresight on the nearest man and fired. He was rewarded with the heavy bark of the Terry rifle and a thump in his shoulder but in the twilight his round went wide, smacking into a tree trunk beside the warrior. It was enough to make the Maori stop and take cover.
Beside Lachlan, Michael fired his rifle, dropped it and snatched his revolver from its holster. Rising to his feet, he roared in Celtic, firing his pistol at the Maori warriors as he did so. One of the warriors dropped his musket as a bullet caught him in the chest.
‘Go now!’ Michael yelled. ‘Tell the Von what is happening. I will hold them.’
Reluctantly, Lachlan turned to crash through the bush in the direction of their base camp, knowing that the gunfire would most likely already have alerted the company commander to the skirmish.
As he ran, Lachlan pulled out his pistol and snapped off a shot in support of Michael, now standing alone over the private’s prone body.
Lachlan was only part of the way to the camp when he saw the Rangers advancing up the hill in a skirmish line towards him. The Von was urging them on, waving a sword in one hand and holding a pistol in the other.
‘Sir, Sergeant O’Flynn is holding on about a hundred and fifty yards up the hill,’ he gasped. ‘Private Clyde is down wounded.’
‘Very good,’ Von Tempsky replied calmly.
Lachlan could see a strange mixture of serenity and excitement in the former Prussian officer’s eyes. It was as if such situations were made to fill his life.
With the night gathering fast, the skirmish line found itself being separated by the stands of trees. Lachlan almost stumbled into a Maori warrior and for a moment they stared at each other, mere feet apart. Lachlan fired three shots at point blank range, one of the bullets taking the warrior in the face. Lachlan fired again but his pistol clicked empty. In desperation he drew his long-bladed bowie knife, lunging at the man who was slumped, holding his face with both hands. Lachlan could feel the blade bite into yielding flesh and the man fell to the ground at Lachlan’s feet.
‘Fall back,’ came the call, relayed along the line of skirmishers.
Lachlan quickly reloaded his pistol and picked up his rifle, not wanting to look at the man he had just killed. Obeying the order, he fell back down the hill and was joined by other Rangers.
Von Tempsky was already conversing with his NCOs, trying to account for any of his men that might be missing.
‘Sergeant O’Flynn?’ he asked.
‘Nothing seen of him, sir,’ one corporal answered. ‘But we found Private Clyde. He has a gunshot wound to the face. He said Sergeant O’Flynn charged a group of Maori to draw them away from him. He says the sarge should get a medal for what he did, but we need to get the wounded man out of here now.’
Lachlan felt sick at hearing the soldier’s recounting of the last sighting of Michael. It seemed so typical of the man to risk his life for another. But now he had disappeared.
The company commander briefed his NCOs to organise an all-round defence of their base camp and hold for the night. Lachlan had come to learn why the Rangers received the extra pay for their services. In the cold and biting rain, he huddled against a fallen log with another soldier and without his greatcoat shivered throughout the long night. Little wonder the Rangers had a reputation for being tough. The only thing that helped Lachlan bear the misery was the memory of the kiss he had stolen from Amanda. He would retreat in his mind to a place where they were together in the warm sunshine, and she was holding his head in her lap. It was not a place he knew but told himself it must be in the colony of Queensland, as travellers had told him that the climate of that colony was warm and sunny. Yes, he and Amanda were together in Queensland, he dreamed. She had expressed her love for him and they were living as man and wife under the tropical sun.
‘Wake up,’ the man beside Lachlan nudged quietly. ‘I think the boss is on his way over.’
Lachlan snapped awake. He could see the glow of the lantern waving through the pitch dark towards them. Only the company commander had allowed himself a lantern, to minimise any signs of the camp, although they all guessed that the Maori warriors had probably spotted it.
‘MacDonald?’ Von Tempsky asked, the glow of the lantern lighting his face as he bent over the two men by the fallen log.
‘Yes, sir,’ Lachlan answered.
‘Tomorrow morning, you will report to me at first light. I have a mission for you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Lachlan replied dutifully, and then the Von was gone, moving in the dark to inspect his picquets.
What mission? Lachlan settled back behind the log to benefit as much as he could from its protection. He would learn the answer in the next few but long hours. In the meantime, he and his fellow Ranger snatched some sleep, taking turns to stand guard against an attack during the night.
Just before first light the rain tapered away to reveal a heavy mist rising from the wet ground, as the sun broke through the clouds, bringing some warmth to the men miserable with the cold.
A breakfast of cold water and equally cold hard biscuit was passed out as the men stretched their cramped limbs and rubbed their frozen hands together. Weapons were checked to ensure that they were still functioning and then the men formed up for a sweep of the hillside in the direction of the previous evening’s skirmish.
Moving forward very cautiously, weapons at the ready, the Rangers made their way up the timbered slope, ensuring that they kept within sight of each other. Near where Michael had stood over their fallen comrade, Von Tempsky called Lachlan to him, directing the rest of the company to sweep along a gully for any signs of the Maori war party.
‘Sergeant O’Flynn informed me that you knew of his secret an
d that he trusted you with his life,’ Von Tempsky said quietly once they were alone. ‘What I am going to ask you is to support what I say in my report. I am going to say that Sergeant Michael O’Flynn fell here yesterday in a courageous one-man stand to buy time for us and protect a fallen comrade. You will verify that you saw him slain by the natives before you fell back on our line. As I am mentioning his bravery in my dispatches, I will do so under his real name of Michael Duffy – the man deserves that much. That part of the report will be true. Do I have your word that you will never disclose that the rest of my report is a fabrication?’
Stunned, Lachlan listened to the Prussian relate the conspiracy. ‘Is Sergeant O’Flynn . . . Duffy, alive, sir?’ he asked.
The Von nodded slightly. ‘I hope so,’ he replied. ‘He had told me that he thought he might be betrayed by one of the new recruits to my company and we planned to give him the opportunity to slip away any time that might be opportune. As we have not found his body, I believe Michael Duffy is now on his way out of these hills to seek anonymity elsewhere. He is an extremely resourceful man. God go with him.’
‘I will support your report, sir,’ Lachlan replied without hesitation.
‘Good,’ the Von muttered, turning to greet a senior NCO moving towards them with his report of the sweep.
FOURTEEN
Nicholas Busby had been able to secure an interview with General Cameron, commander of the operations against the Maori rebellion. Nicholas found the general an easy man to talk to and they quickly established a rapport in their meeting at Cameron’s temporary headquarters in Drury. He was surprised that the English general expressed doubts about the righteousness of the war, even stating that he felt he was simply fighting for greedy land-grabbers. As an honourable man, he did not conceal his opinions, but Nicholas knew that such beliefs were dangerous. They could lead to the general being replaced and sent home.
But Nicholas also knew that Cameron was not alone in his indignation at waging war against a courageous people fighting for their lands. Others in high places were also grumbling that the government could have sought other means of resolution.
The meeting led to an invitation for Nicholas to join the English general that afternoon at a tea party being held by Captain Lightfoot at his cottage on the outskirts of Drury. It would be attended by army and naval officers from the district, and a few influential civilians, Nicholas because of his services to the military commissariat being one of them.
‘Three o’clock sharp,’ Cameron said. ‘Formal dress.’
Nicholas hurried back to his hotel, changed into a suit, found his way to the cottage and was welcomed at the door by a very pretty young lady.
‘I am Miss Amanda Lightfoot,’ she said. ‘And how must I address you, sir?’
Nicholas was struck by her warm smile. ‘Mr Nicholas Busby,’ he said. ‘Of Melbourne, and representing my firm, suppliers of rum and rations to the land and naval forces here.’
‘Well, Mr Busby, on behalf of my brother, Captain Charles Lightfoot,’ Amanda said, ‘you are welcome here.’
This delightful lady was the sister of the man he had travelled from Auckland to meet Nicholas thought. She appeared to be such a nice young lady that he almost had doubts about his mission.
‘General Cameron told me that your brother is responsible for the fine spread that I see before me,’ Nicholas said as they walked together towards a gathering comprising mostly men in uniform and a few ladies wearing their best dresses. The men stood delicately balancing cups in their hands as they partook of the array of fine cakes. From the way some of the young men looked in Nicholas’s direction he knew that he was not the centre of attention. Amanda had plenty of admirers.
‘I know that you have already met General Cameron,’ Amanda said, ‘so I must introduce you to my brother.’
She led him towards a tall, handsome officer standing in the company of two young ladies. They were laughing and Nicholas felt a strange coldness creep into his soul. So this was the man John was sure had murdered his father and brother.
‘Charles, I would like to introduce you to a guest, Mr Nicholas Busby.’
Lightfoot did not bother to extend his hand but simply looked Nicholas up and down dismissively as Amanda excused herself to greet General Cameron, who had arrived in the company of his orderly.
‘And your occupation, Mr Busby?’ Charles Lightfoot asked coldly.
‘I am the man who puts rum in your troops’ mugs and beef in their stew,’ Nicholas answered. ‘I was informed that you command a militia of Australian volunteers.’
‘I do,’ Lightfoot answered. ‘The scum of the Australian colonies, according to some in government here. From your speech I gather that you are a fellow Englishman.’
‘I was born in England,’ Nicholas replied. ‘But I prefer the climate of the Antipodes. Do you intend to return to England after this war, Captain Lightfoot?’
‘It depends on where I am next posted,’ Lightfoot replied. ‘If I do not gain a commission to a good regiment then I might consider resigning to take up business interests in the Australian colonies. There appear to be opportunities available to men of good breeding and enterprise.’
‘In terms of acquiring a sound return on investment I can assure you that you are right. I have recently availed myself of such an opportunity and doubt that I would have been as successful back in England. All one has to know is what people need, and then exploit the market. Take my card in the event you ever happen to be in Melbourne,’ Nicholas said, producing one of his visiting cards and pressing it on the captain.
‘I shall avail myself of your financial services if I ever return to the Australian colonies but if you will excuse me, Mr Busby,’ Lightfoot said, accepting the card, ‘I must return my attention to these two delightful young ladies.’
‘I understand,’ Nicholas said. ‘I feel that I should use this time to make the acquaintance of your fellow officers and ask them about the quality of my company’s products. Good day, sir.’
It was not long after the afternoon tea that General Cameron was to fight his most disastrous battle with the Maori rebels, at a place known as Rangiriri, just west of Lake Waikare on the Waikato River. The Maori defences were superbly sighted, with rifle pits running parallel to the river to cover any approach from that direction and heaped earthworks able to absorb the heaviest artillery bombardment. A series of ditches were positioned in front of the main earthworks to slow down an assault. Well-concealed trenches and parapets spread from the lake to the river in a continuous line and were manned by around only five hundred warriors. Under Cameron’s command were approximately twelve hundred heavily armed British regulars. The general’s strategy was to engage the Maori rebels in a decisive battle, bringing the rebellion to an end once and for all. To do this he planned to launch a two-pronged infantry assault from the front and rear of the Maori fortifications. This tactic would also ensure that none escaped to fight another day as had occurred at a battle near Meremere two weeks before.
The river had allowed Cameron to transport troops and heavy guns to the Maori fortifications. The small naval ships Pioneer and Avon towed two gunboats to support the assault but the troops on board arrived late and after a difficult landing assembled for the attack.
Earlier, Cameron had ordered a bombardment of the fortifications using his Armstrong artillery guns. This had little effect so he ordered in an attack by the 65th Regiment. The fighting was fierce and the Maori defenders relinquished some ground – only to counterattack and drive back the British.
Cameron conceded that the position was too strong to be taken and the British settled into a siege situation. But during the night many of the Maori defenders slipped away, foiling Cameron’s aim of containment and destruction. He had commenced a sap to snake its way to the main redoubt, which was to be blown by engineers when the trench reached the outer defences of the pa.
The next day a white flag was seen fluttering from the Maori redoubt. The Maori w
ere signalling that they wanted to negotiate. They knew they were in a strong position, but the British army took the flag as a sign of surrender and marched in. They captured one hundred and eighty-three Maori – but at a cost of forty-one of their own men.
As the long war dragged on, General Cameron continued to advance up the Waikato River to occupy the junction of the Waikato and Waipa rivers by the end of the year.
Private Lachlan MacDonald, along with his comrades from the Forest Rangers, was with the advance.
While bivouacked at the junction of the two rivers, Lachlan received his first letter from Amanda. The mail had been brought by pack-horse from Raglan, some sixteen miles away on the west coast.
With his rifle in his lap, Lachlan sat staring at the neat handwriting. With the edge of his knife, he slit open the envelope, carefully removing the letter inside.
My dearest Lachlan,
I pray that this reaches you safely and that no harm has come to you.
Your kiss from the last time we were together still lingers on my lips. Although we do not know each other as well as we should, I feel a strong bond to you. From the moment I first saw you on that paddock in Sydney I have always had you in my thoughts and, of late, in my heart as well.
I do not know what the future holds for us, as we are people of two very different worlds. My brother expects me to marry a man of means and I must confess that I owe him much for his kindness in supporting me since our parents died. I love my brother dearly and owe him my loyalty.
There are many times when I am out walking that I see the soldiers drilling and find myself searching their faces for your kind smile and beautiful eyes. But I know you are now with the Forest Rangers and live wild in the bush country, always in mortal danger from the natives.
