Beyond the Horizon

by Peter Watt

  ‘It’ll cost you,’ Jack said.

  ‘As I said before, we need each other,’ George replied, extending his hand. Jack took it reluctantly. ‘It is a harsh world and one needs friends.’

  Jack let the hand slip from his own and placed his hat on his head to leave.

  *

  ‘I have had a newspaper man visit me,’ Louise said when George went to visit her in hospital.

  His heart leapt into his throat at her words.

  ‘It appears you have not been very discreet in your dalliances with other women. Or should I say, girls. What is your connection to the death of this Maude Urqhart?’

  George shifted uncomfortably. He knew that his wife was aware of his other women, but she had tacitly agreed to turn a blind eye, so long as he did not interfere in her relationship with her son.

  ‘What did the newspaper man want to know?’ George countered.

  ‘It seems that he does the police rounds, and the body of the girl was found naked in a tenement belonging to a Macintosh company. She was apparently a user of heroin, and he wanted to know if you knew anything about her, as he said he had sources that identified you as a frequent caller on her.’

  ‘I think you and I are adult enough to realise that I have needs, and I will not lie to you – Maude Urqhart was a young lady I knew. But for the sake of our name I wish you to deny that to anyone in the press.’

  ‘Of course,’ Louise said wearily. ‘For the sake of the good Macintosh name.’

  ‘I had no connection to her death – if you are thinking that,’ George added, and immediately regretted it when he saw the questioning look on his wife’s face. ‘It is just that the police have to carry out their routine of asking me as the owner of the tenement.’ He changed the subject. ‘Well, the doctors have informed me that you will be up and about before the end of the week. You will be well looked after at home.’

  ‘Thank you, George,’ Louise said and he could hear the bitter edge to her voice.

  ‘I must get back to the office,’ George said, and left without bothering to kiss his wife goodbye.

  When he was gone Louise closed her eyes, drifting to the edge of sleep, only to awake to the sweet scent of flowers. She opened her eyes to see Sean Duffy’s face smiling down at her and a bouquet of red roses in his hand.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I thought these might brighten up the ward a bit.’

  Louise broke into a smile, and tears formed at the corners of her eyes as she reached out her hand to take Sean’s. ‘Just the sight of you has brightened my world,’ she said softly. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  Sean settled into a chair, still holding Louise’s hand. ‘Besides the attack being in every paper, and the fact that I am a practitioner of criminal law, it was not hard to track you down. I believe the police have a man, Lenny Johnson, in custody for the assault.’

  Louise was silent for a moment. ‘You are the first person to tell me his name,’ Louise answered. ‘Is he someone you know?’

  Sean frowned. ‘He was going to give evidence against a client of mine, Harry Griffiths. I think you’ve met Harry. I don’t know why but I keep thinking that your husband has something to do with all of this, especially . . .’

  ‘Especially in the light of the police finding the body of his young mistress.’ Louise said what Sean had been too much of a gentleman to say. ‘I had heard. My husband was here earlier and swore that he had nothing to do with the girl’s death. Do you think he was lying?’

  Sean sighed. ‘I think your husband is a very dangerous man, and I wish you would leave him.’

  Louise squeezed Sean’s hand. ‘I have grown up in a world where duty comes first, and my first duty is to my son,’ she said. ‘If only we could turn back time and start again, but I cannot leave George until my son is old enough to stand up to his father. I love you Sean, and I always will, but we cannot be together as long as George is alive.’

  ‘I could kill the bastard myself,’ Sean said with bitterness. ‘God knows how many lives he has ruined over the years to consolidate his power in the family companies. If only Patrick and Alexander were still alive, matters would be very different.’

  Louise had loved her father-in-law and gentle brother-in-law very much, and she missed them sorely. At least she still had the love of Alexander’s widow, Giselle. ‘I had a letter from Giselle recently,’ Louise said. ‘I was hoping that she would come down to Sydney to stay with me over Christmas, but she has declined the invitation. I can’t help but be glad now. It’s an awful business all round.’

  The two chatted for a good hour, lifting Louise’s spirits, until a disapproving matron came to inform Sean that visiting hours were over. Sean leant over and kissed Louise on the forehead before rising from his chair with the help of his cane. ‘I’ll come and visit again before you are discharged,’ he said.

  Louise watched him depart the ward before allowing herself to break down and sob. If only she could turn back time and have left George before she fell pregnant with Donald. But then she wouldn’t have her precious son, and she couldn’t regret his birth, no matter how much she hated his father.

  Sean Duffy’s entry to the hospital was noted by George Macintosh, who had been forced to wait for his chauffeur to bring around the Rolls-Royce. Recent events had distracted George from his plan of having the troublesome lawyer killed, but now that he had sorted out Maude he could turn his attention back to Duffy. He was quite sure Jack Firth would see to it that the coroner signed the girl’s demise off as accidental death due to heroin overdose, and so long as the newspapers did not dig too deep, the matter would blow over in time.

  George was also aware that as Giselle would not be visiting Sydney over Christmas, another plan would need to be put in place. Maybe it was time that he made a visit to Glen View. Accidents often occurred in the vast, lonely stretches of the Australian bush. All was not lost because his sister-in-law had not come to him to die. Now that he had tasted the forbidden fruit of murder, he could take death to Giselle and his nephew.

  21

  It was not the same, Tom thought, surveying his new platoon. The old battalion was gone, and he still remembered that day in September when the Australian army had mutinied. Not because they had refused to fight the enemy but because their casualties had been so high that the military authorities had decided to disband the decimated battalions and amalgamate men into new battalions. It was not within the scope of the military staff in their comfortable and protected headquarters to empathise with the men living and dying in the trenches. They could not understand the brotherhood between men who relied on each other for survival. A battalion was not just a military unit – it was a family.

  A parade had been called to announce the new formations. The legendary Pompey Elliot rode onto the parade ground on his black mount, and the parade commander called the order to slope arms. The order was disobeyed by every man and officer on the parade, and Pompey Elliot was furious as he well knew that he was facing a mutiny.

  ‘This nonsense must cease at once,’ he roared and went on to explain in a furious voice that if the ringleaders could not be identified, he would use the old Roman army system of harsh discipline to have every tenth man executed by firing squad.

  ‘We have bullets too,’ came a voice from the parade, and the wily commander realised that threats against men who faced death on a daily basis was useless. To the war-weary men who had faced the terrible fighting on the Hindenburg line, seeing their battalions broken up was akin to deserting the dead who had given their lives wearing the cherished coloured patches denoting their family in the Australian army.

  Elliot gave the men on the parade half an hour to change their minds, but when he returned, the stubborn diggers had not budged. They were, after all, volunteers and some had lived through shearer’s strikes where comradeship had kept them going against the power of the government.

  Pompey Elliot gave in and compromised, but it did not end there as in the following days
other battalions took the same mutinous stance. As far as Tom knew, none had been punished for their stand and in their new battalions the diggers were allowed to keep their old battalion patches on their sleeves.

  But mutiny was not confined to the Australians. On the other side of the front line the German army had also decided that the war was not worth the cost in lives and the misery of the civilian population back home, starving to death because of the British naval blockade. There was the fear of Bolshevism taking hold of Germany, and the Prussian generals knew they could not win with the influx of the fresh troops from the USA.

  As Tom rested up behind the lines on a late autumn day notes were already being exchanged between Berlin and Washington about the possibility of an armistice. Prince Max von Baden had already given an order to curtail unrestricted submarine war and hinted that the Kaiser Wilhelm would abdicated.

  Despite the machinations by politicians on both sides, for Tom and the men of his battalion the war dragged on as artillery from the enemy still rained down hell on the terrified soldiers huddling in whatever shelter they could. Snipers still picked off the unwary and men still died, gutted by bayonets in hand-to-hand fighting while politicians on both sides continued to quibble over details of an armistice. For the moment Tom, and what was left of those he had come to know again in the old battalion, were relatively safe behind the lines, waiting for deployment back into the fighting.

  Tom sat on an empty ammunition case, smoking his pipe, staring at the men lounging around but saying very little.

  Paddy Bourke strolled across to him, a broad smile across his rugged face. ‘We got some leave,’ he said, plonking himself down next to Tom. ‘As from 0600 tomorrow morning.’

  Tom puffed on the pipe, pulling his greatcoat closer against the chill already in the air, and stared up at the gathering rain clouds sweeping across the wooded hills and ploughed fields. ‘Where we getting our leave?’ he asked.

  Paddy mentioned the name of the village and Tom realised that it was the place his fiancée had lived. The mention caught Tom off guard. ‘Juliet,’ he uttered.

  ‘What?’ Paddy countered.

  ‘Nothing,’ Tom said, tapping the ash from his pipe on the side of the empty ammo crate. ‘Just hope the rain holds off.’

  ‘Bloody cheery bastard you are,’ Paddy said, slapping Tom on the back. ‘Our first bit of leave in ages, and not even that has brought a smile to your black face.’

  ‘No, it’s good,’ Tom answered with a smile. ‘It’s just that when we finish our leave we come back to this bloody war. It’s got so that I don’t know how to do anything else any more, other than soldiering.’

  ‘What did you do before you signed up?’ Paddy asked.

  ‘It says in my service record that I was a stockman,’ Tom replied.

  Paddy didn’t ask any more questions, wandering away to share the good news of their leave.

  Tom stared out through the smoke from his pipe. ‘I just wonder if I can even ride a horse any more,’ he murmured to himself.

  Captain Matthew Duffy could see the deadly metal bombs falling from his Bristol into the packed columns of retreating Turks on the road to Damascus. Horse-drawn carts and riders on camels had little time to scatter, and exploding bombs tore apart man and beast without distinction.

  Behind him, Matthew could vaguely hear the chatter of Lieutenant Goddard’s Lewis machine-gun pouring bullets into the mass below, inflicting even more chaos and suffering. When Matthew swung his head he could see the other four Biffs also swooping on the shattered convoy.

  Matthew dropped the nose of his Bristol to angle the machine-gun towards any target presenting itself. At such low level, as he swept over the scattered troops, he could see the expressions of terror on faces looking up at him. They were so vulnerable in the open to the fast flying death that came from the sky, and Matthew also noticed that few attempted to shoot back at their tormentors. He guessed they were too demoralised to do so.

  The strafing run completed, Matthew pulled back on the stick to rise into the clear blue sky devoid of the blood beneath. He flew on to find another group of fleeing Turks pushed ahead of a pursuing British and Arab army.

  It did not take long before he spotted another cluster of Ottoman soldiers sitting on the ground in the open. He signalled to Goddard and dropped the nose to strafe the Turkish soldiers, but as he swooped down he noticed the men below did not move. They sat as if they were too exhausted and demoralised to even make a run. Matthew knew he had enough ammunition left to kill or wound most of them but he was suddenly overcome by a terrible sense of futility. The nose of the Bristol rose and his guns remained silent as he turned and flew away, leaving the war-weary and dejected enemy soldiers to wonder why they had not been machine-gunned by the infidel flyer. Among their group was a Turkish captain by the name of Barak.

  When Matthew and Goddard returned to the airfield, and the engine spluttered into silence, Matthew sat for a time in his cockpit. Behind him, Goddard also remained seated as the ground crew ran over to them.

  ‘How was it, sir?’ one of the crew called up to Matthew. ‘Get a few Johnny Turk?’

  Matthew did not reply, but eased himself from the cockpit and, with the help of the ground crew, jumped down onto the ground. Goddard was also helped from his cockpit and the two men stood facing each other. For just a brief moment they exchanged looks, and for the first time Matthew could see in the young officer’s face an understanding he did not have before. Lieutenant Goddard knew that when a man was beaten, it was just not cricket to put the boot in.

  Before going on leave, Tom had a visit from the company commander in his tent, where he was brewing a billy of tea. Tom could see from the expression on Major Cooper’s face that something was wrong.

  ‘I have just received some sad news,’ the major said. ‘Mr Hopkins had an accident with his service revolver while in England. You will be acting platoon commander for a while yet.’

  ‘Like a cuppa, boss?’ Tom asked.

  ‘No thanks, Tom,’ the major replied. ‘Have to get back for a trip to battalion HQ. I just thought that you should know about Mr Hopkins’s fate.’

  ‘He shot himself, didn’t he?’ Tom said softly. ‘Poor young bastard should never have been here in the first place. He’s as much a casualty of the bloody war as any of the cobbers dead from Hun bullets.’

  ‘He had an accident with his service revolver,’ Major Cooper said, staring levelly at Tom. ‘That is how it will be officially reported. The CO is going to see to that. I know Mr Hopkins was not very well liked by the men in his platoon, but he was one of us, and we look after our own.’

  ‘I agree, sir,’ Tom responded. ‘I will inform the men of his tragic accident.’

  ‘Well, time to head off, but I want you to know you’re doing a fine job leading the platoon, Tom,’ Major Cooper said as he turned to walk away.

  Alone, Tom shook his head sadly. Maybe he should have done more to help the young officer settle in, he thought as he sipped his tea.

  It was the fountain.

  As Tom leapt down from the back of the truck the first thing he noticed was the tiny village’s fountain. He suddenly remembered that it was near here that he had first met the woman in the photograph, whose name he knew was Juliet Joubert. She had been carrying a basket of eggs, and he had offered to assist her. With this memory came the realisation of their mutual and all-consuming love for each other.

  Tom could feel the tears well in his eyes, and he walked away from the happy group of soldiers disembarking from the back of the truck, who spread out in search of their billets and a good grog shop.

  Only Sergeant Paddy Bourke remained behind, keeping an eye on Tom. He didn’t look quite right, and Paddy knew that shellshock came at the strangest times and places and he feared his cobber might be suffering an episode. He walked over to Tom and saw the tears streaming down his face.

  ‘You okay, cobber?’ Paddy asked, and Tom nodded, wiping away the tears with the sleev
e of his battle blouse.

  ‘Just remembered a lot about this place,’ Tom answered. ‘I need to ask the locals a few questions.’

  ‘You want me along?’ Paddy asked.

  ‘Thanks but no,’ Tom replied. ‘I know some French. I think.’

  ‘Okay,’ Paddy shrugged. ‘See you for a drink when you’re ready.’

  Tom nodded again and Paddy walked over to a gaggle of soldiers who had decided to go for a drink before seeking out their billets from a cleanly dressed junior British officer with a clipboard and pompous manner, who was already chiding the diggers for not saluting him.

  Tom walked over to the fountain and sat at its edge, watching the water trickling over moss-encrusted stone. Juliet was the schoolteacher; he remembered clearly the day he had gone to her school on leave months earlier. He took a deep breath and made his way to a shop that was also a post office. There was little in the way of luxuries on the shelves and the owner was a stern-looking woman with her grey hair pulled back harshly into a bun. She saw his slouch hat and broke into a smile. The Australians had money to spend and were good for the local village economy – when they were sober and not brawling with troops from other Allied countries, or among themselves.

  ‘Yes, monsieur,’ she said, wiping down her dress for the handsome soldier.

  ‘You speak English?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Oui, soldier,’ she answered. ‘A little.’

  ‘I would like to know if you knew a Mademoiselle Juliet Joubert?’

  ‘Certainly,’ the woman replied. ‘She was the schoolteacher in our village.’

  ‘Do you know where I might find her?’ Tom asked, and the woman’s eyes flickered uncertainly.

  ‘I do not know where Mademoiselle Joubert is,’ she replied. ‘She left us very suddenly. But Pierre, our butcher, thinks she may be in Paris. His son was on leave there and he saw her in a street. He tried to speak with her but she rushed away from him. There is a rumour that she is working in a . . .’ The woman stopped and looked at Tom, her eyes wide. ‘You are the Australian Juliet was to marry, non?’