The Silent Frontier

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by Peter Watt


  My brother does not know that I have written to you and you must realise that any reply from you would jeopardise our secret. When it is cold and you are wet and miserable, please think of me, and the great affection I hold in my heart for you. I know when I am alone at night I think of you and the kiss you bestowed. No matter what happens I will wait for you to return to me and hope that we may share your dream of exploring those far-flung silent frontiers you desire to walk.

  With my warmest affection

  Amanda

  Around Lachlan, men built beds of cut fern, spoke quietly and smoked pipes as they set up camp. They were weary and wet from the rain that had drenched them on the march but for now Lachlan did not feel the harsh conditions around him. His heart was beating like a hammer and he wanted to cry with joy. He re-read Amanda’s letter many times, finally slipping it back into the envelope and carefully placing it inside his jacket.

  ‘Mac!’ a soldier called softly to him. ‘Time for you to go on guard duty.’

  Lachlan raised himself stiffly from the wet ground and for once the irksome duty was bearable.

  ‘I made discreet enquiries around Drury as to where your brother might be,’ Nicholas told John in the comfort of their hotel by the harbour. ‘It seems that he is no longer in Lightfoot’s company but has transferred to a unit known as the Forest Rangers. Last heard, the Rangers were advancing with General Cameron up the Waikato River.’

  John bowed his head and stared into his tumbler of whisky. ‘At least he is alive,’ he said, swallowing hard. ‘I just wonder how I can make contact with him when he is in the field, so far from the possibility of being granted leave.

  ‘It is Christmas eve,’ Nicholas said, attempting to lighten John’s heavy heart. ‘And my Christmas present to you is that I have met with your enemy and learned his weakness. That should cheer you up.’

  John turned and stared into Nicholas’s eyes. ‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘But a better one would have been to have Lachlan and Phoebe here to share a drink with us. There’s been little good news about Lachlan and none about Phoebe,’ he said.

  ‘Next Christmas, dear chap,’ Nicholas said, placing his hand reassuringly on John’s arm. ‘By this time next year you will have your brother back and then together you can search for your sister. However, I must caution you that we should return to Australia soon. Our enterprises call for closer management. At the moment it is out of the question for you to attempt to travel to General Cameron’s force. The best you could do is write a letter to your brother, as I know which unit he is in. At least that will establish a contact for the future when he returns from his service here.’

  John had to agree. They had been away long enough from the running of the company. He would write a long letter and mail it to his brother before leaving New Zealand’s shores.

  Christmas passed as good as unacknowledged by the troops advancing like a spear towards the heartland of the Maori rebels. The Rangers found themselves at the point, scouting the forward areas and securing the flanks for General Cameron’s regulars and militia men.

  Each day for Lachlan was spent moving stealthily in the thick undergrowth, always alert to Maori war parties. It was a war of nerves. The advance had been slowed by the need to manhandle three six-pounder, Armstrong guns, twelve bullock drays and 196 pack-horses across gullies and streams. By the end of January the officers and men of Cameron’s 2185-strong force eventually reached the formidable pa at Pikopiko. They set up camp, only to discover an equally formidable pa at Paterangi when they manoeuvred in the vicinity of the Waipa River.

  General Cameron surveyed the situation he found himself in. Paterangi, with Pikopiko on the north flank and the pas of Rangiatea and Te Ngako visible to the east, was in a position to command all the tracks and roads leading into the vital Waikato hinterland. Cameron realised how strategic was the Maori layout of fortifications and past, bitter experience made him more cautious.

  He established his field headquarters on the Te Rore River around one and half miles from Paterangi and pushed out a force of 800 officers and men to construct entrenchments within 1500 yards of the Paterangi pa. From their earthworks the British carried out sniping and some shelling with their artillery. By now Cameron was also in possession of intelligence that suggested that Maori from the east coast were gathering to join the Waikato warriors he now faced. A force was sent to Tauranga in the Bay of Plenty and landed unopposed. Both British and Maori settled down to see what would happen next.

  At the end of January John’s letter, along with five from Amanda, reached Lachlan at the advancing front of General Cameron’s force.

  Mail has been – and always will be – one of the most significant factors in a soldier’s life. It can boost morale or, at times, cause a pain no bullet can equal in its intensity.

  When the orderly room clerk distributed the all-important envelopes at mail parade, Lachlan could not believe his luck in receiving so many letters from Amanda. He sat alone to savour them. In the distance he could hear the occasional crump of the artillery guns firing and the muted voices of his comrades.

  Army life had hardened Lachlan’s body to a peak of fitness he had not known before – not even when he had trained for his fights in Sydney. He had grown a beard and his face and his hands were tanned by the New Zealand sun. Although he was not aware of it, he had become a different man from the one he left in Sydney. He had learned to discipline himself against the physical and mental hardships of living in the field, and the innocence of youth was long gone. He had killed many times and had watched his defeated foe die before his eyes. He no longer felt anything other than a hardness to the death around him, his dreams of becoming an explorer forgotten as he lived simply from day to day. Only the loving words from Amanda touched his soul. He had sealed her letters in a leather pouch which he always carried with him on the dangerous scouting missions. They were his good luck talisman – and a reminder of the reason to finish the war, so that he could go to her.

  Now Lachlan stared once more at the letter on top of those from Amanda and was puzzled by the handwriting. He did not recognise it, but the envelope bore a postmark from Auckland. He had decided to read this strange letter first and then allow himself as much time as possible to savour Amanda’s letters.

  As Lachlan began to read, his heart felt as if it had stopped beating in his chest.

  My dearest brother,

  I pray that this letter reaches you, as I have not been able to. When I learned from our dear friends, the Duffys in Sydney, that you had volunteered for service in the New Zealand campaign, I shipped to this country to find you.

  Alas, I was informed in Auckland that you are in the field with General Cameron’s army and unable to be met in person. My financial ventures force me to return to Sydney with my business partner, Mr Nicholas Busby, but I have all hopes that we may meet in person upon your return to Sydney. The Duffys will know where I am if my business causes me to move around the colonies.

  There is so much to say to you, but I feel that should be done in person. I am now well off and hold in trust your share of the money our father left to us. There was more, but I have recently learned that it was stolen by a man whom I now know as your former commanding officer, Captain Charles Lightfoot. Although he did not directly kill our father, he ordered a Samuel Forster to do so but it appears Lightfoot did strike our brother Thomas with a sabre, causing his lingering death . . .

  Lachlan could hardly believe what he was reading. No wonder Lightfoot and Forster were close; they were bound by a long-held secret.

  Lachlan read on as John sketched out his life and revealed how he had found the hidden coins. Finally, he wrote . . .

  My greatest desire is to find our sister and unite us once again as a family. My heart is with you and I count the days until we meet in person. My only desire is that you remain safe and well.

  Your loving brother,

  John

  Lachlan put aside the letter and stared into the da
rk forest before him. So he was no longer alone and financial means were waiting for him in Australia. The only cloud on this sunny, warm day was learning of Lightfoot and Forster’s role in the death of his father and oldest brother.

  ‘To arms! Rangers on parade!’

  The shouted warning snapped Lachlan from his reflections. He quickly stuffed the precious letters inside his jacket, snatched up his rifle and ran. He could see his fellow Rangers assembling in ranks. Von Tempsky was pacing up and down in front of the parade of around forty men while the senior NCOs ensured that all men who could be spared were on parade. Lachlan joined the ranks.

  The colour sergeant called the parade to attention, saluted the Von and marched smartly back to take up his position behind the parade.

  ‘Men,’ the Von spoke loudly,’ we have a difficult job ahead of us. A section of our British brothers has been ambushed while bathing in the Mangapiko River. Reinforcements have been already dispatched to provide covering fire. We have the task of flushing out the natives from the bush. You will be briefed by your NCOs as soon as the parade is dismissed. Colour Sergeant.’

  ‘Sah.’

  ‘Fall out the parade to their duties.’

  Lachlan fell out and joined his corporal for the briefing. The letters temporarily forgotten, he readied himself to go back into the dense scrub and once again engage the fierce warriors. He felt both fear and excitement – and a terrible, nagging sense of doom.

  FIFTEEN

  Lachlan quickly charged his revolver with powder and ball, ramming down the rounds into each chamber and packing in the musket balls. He rarely kept the pistol loaded in camp, lest the moisture soak the gunpowder charge. Satisfied, he finally slipped his Bowie knife into its sheath and left his rifle with his kit. This mission required a hunt where reloading might not be fast enough to counter a threat that they all knew would be only a hand’s distance away.

  ‘Across the stream and up the slope, lads,’ the corporal in charge of Lachlan’s section said quietly. ‘It’s a grand day to go hunting.’

  The section splashed across the stream, holding their revolvers high to avoid water entering the charged chambers. They struggled up the bank on the other side and fell flat on their stomachs to crawl through the fern undergrowth. The Maori warriors could be anywhere concealed in the dense forest around the old pa site.

  Lachlan could hear gunfire to either side of him but it did not deafen the sound of his own heart beating. He slithered forward, pausing to listen for any suspicious sounds. Not hearing any, he continued to crawl forward on his stomach and then stopped. His vision was obscured by the ferns and he risked raising his head above them. As he did so a young Maori warrior lifted his head to face Lachlan only a breath away. The fear on both men’s faces was cut short when the young Maori raised his shotgun to level at Lachlan. But he had managed to get his revolver in place and fire first. His bullet smashed into the stock of the Maori’s shotgun, snatching it from his hands. Lachlan fired again, but was horrified to hear the click of the hammer striking a percussion cap. Despite all his careful efforts to keep his powder dry, water had neutralised the explosive powder.

  Realising that he had been granted a second chance at life and now wielding a long-bladed knife, the Maori warrior did not hesitate to fling himself on Lachlan, who desperately attempted to roll away from the attack. Lachlan felt the knife blade rip through his jacket and slide along his ribs. Using his revolver as a small club, Lachlan struck the warrior, but his blow fell harmlessly against the Maori’s shoulder.

  Before Lachlan could bring his revolver into action again as a club, the Maori was straddling him, his knife raised. For a moment, both men locked eyes and Lachlan despaired. The young warrior had a look of triumph on his face, knowing that within a split second the blade would tear into Lachlan’s chest, delivering death. But suddenly the look of triumph became an expression of surprise as the Maori toppled forward. When Lachlan struggled out from beneath, he could see that a bullet had entered the side of the warrior’s head, killing him instantly.

  Lachlan did not know who had saved his life but as he lay on his stomach, with trembling hands he cleared the chambers of his revolver and reloaded them with the powder he had been able to keep dry on the river crossing. When he attempted to crawl forward the pain stung in his side. He cried out with surprise and did not attempt to go any further. The injury was worse than he had expected. Gingerly, he slipped his hand inside his jacket to feel for the wound along his ribs. Blood was stiffening his shirt and soaking the letters he had so carefully folded. His hands touched a bloody laceration and the contact made him gasp. Would he bleed to death before anyone found him? Lachlan rolled slowly onto his back and stared at the shining sky through the lush canopy above.

  Lachlan did not know how long he had lain injured but he figured that he must have lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes he could no longer hear gunfire but only the voices of his comrades around him.

  Four men carried him carefully down the slope, across the river and back to their camp site, where they laid him under a tent made of blankets on a bed of cut ferns. When his jacket was removed the package of blood-soaked letters fell to the earth.

  ‘Bad cut,’ someone said. ‘Need to get him over to the Waikato militia. They have a regimental surgeon who can take a look at him.’

  A litter was produced and Lachlan felt himself being lifted into it. He lost consciousness again and when he opened his eyes was aware of the regimental surgeon looking down at him. ‘Looks like a cut, not a musket wound,’ he grunted in a satisfied voice to his assistant. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood but should recover. I’ll need to stitch him. Private MacDonald, we meet again,’ he said gently and continued probing the wound with his fingers.

  The surgeon stitched the wound and wrapped Lachlan’s chest with a bandage before moving on to the next patient awaiting his skills. Lachlan accepted the water poured into his mouth from a canteen by one of the Rangers who had brought him to the aid post.

  ‘At least yer are better off than the soldier next to you,’ he said, capping the canteen when Lachlan had drunk enough.

  Lachlan turned his head to see the British soldier lying on a stretcher next to him. His face had been shot away from a blast that must have been delivered at point blank range. All that remained was a bloody pulp, without any recognisable features.

  ‘With any luck,’ the Ranger kneeling over Lachlan said, ‘the poor bugger might die without much pain.’

  Lachlan silently agreed with his comrade. The soldier next to him could just as easily have been him. His own mortality was something he no longer took for granted, although when he stared at the faceless man lying alongside him he knew that there were some things far worse than death.

  ‘It seems that we lost around six and about the same number wounded but the heathens lost over thirty-five killed from what I hear,’ the Ranger said before taking his leave. ‘Get some rest, Mac, an’ we will see you back in our lines.’

  Feeling too weak and weary to respond, Lachlan fell into a troubled sleep. He was awoken by a murmur of voices in the dark.

  ‘How are you faring, Private MacDonald?’ he heard the Von ask in a concerned voice.

  ‘Well, sir,’ Lachlan replied optimistically, ‘I will be back on my feet by the morning.’

  ‘I hope so,’ the Von replied. ‘We are advancing again and I will need you to be ready for action.’

  Lachlan was pleased that as far as his commanding officer was concerned he would not be evacuated to a rear area to recuperate. To be away from the Rangers for the campaign was unthinkable.

  ‘Wake up, you lazy scum,’ the voice snarled in his ear. ‘No time to go slacking on the army.’ Lachlan opened his eyes to find himself staring into the face of Sergeant Forster bending over him. ‘I heard that the natives had tickled you with a knife,’ he said. ‘Scum like you was lucky this time.’

  Rage rose up in Lachlan’s chest. He suddenly had an urge to smash the sergeant w
ith his fist, but remained silent.

  ‘So, I have you back for the moment,’ Forster said, standing to tower over Lachlan. ‘Yer probably think yer a real soldier now that yer have seen some service with the Rangers. Not real soldiers though,’ he continued, the contempt obvious in his voice. ‘Just the scum who couldn’t make it in the militia.’

  ‘I am not under your command, sergeant,’ Lachlan replied calmly. ‘I intend to report back to my company today.’

  ‘Pity,’ Forster sniffed. ‘I could have given you some work around here digging latrines.’

  With some difficulty, Lachlan sat up. The effort brought a stab of pain to his side. He felt light-headed and thirsty.

  ‘I have a question for you, sergeant,’ Lachlan said bitterly. ‘You were at the Ballarat goldfields when the rebellion occurred, were you not?’

  Forster blinked. ‘I was,’ he replied. ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘You get to kill anyone there?’ Lachlan asked, staring intently into the sergeant’s eyes.

  ‘I saw my share of fighting,’ Forster replied warily.

  ‘But did you get to kill anyone?’

  ‘I stuck a rebel scum,’ Forster answered. ‘Some Scotsman like you. He . . . ’ Forster’s expression suddenly altered dramatically. ‘Now I know why I have never liked you,’ he said softly. ‘You look a bit like that bastard.’

  ‘He was my father,’ Lachlan replied quietly. ‘And I swear that there will be a reckoning between you and me one day.’

  Forster stepped back and stared dumbly at the young Scot. He could see murder in his eyes and despite his rank knew that he was facing a very dangerous opponent.

 

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