To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (12 page)

That night Saul slept fitfully under the stars of the African
veldt
. Every noise woke him. His nerves were stretched taut by how close he had come to death the previous day. Occasionally he would sit bolt upright and snatch for the carbine by his side, staring out into the dark. Exhaustion fed fear and fear fed his body with adrenalin.

Overhead, the shells from the British artillery sighed before whistling down onto the low range of hills where they exploded in silent plumes of dirty smoke. Seconds later the ‘crump crump’ of their explosions drifted to the weary men. Slouched in
their saddles, they watched the bombardment just outside Bloemfontein.

Saul scratched at his jaw and adjusted the chinstrap that held the battered brimmed hat on his head. His mount shifted and twitched with each shock wave as the ground beneath her hooves came alive. Although at this distance he could not see the Boer defenders, he knew they were still there. He did not feel any pity for the men under the terrible crash of exploding artillery rounds. He felt nothing.

At least they had not been ordered up to cut the fences that impeded their advance on a wide front, he thought with some relief. The New South Wales Lancers had scored that unenviable task and risked exposing themselves to the inevitable Boer snipers. A messenger from the front galloped past on his mount. Dark blood covered the horse’s shoulder from a gaping wound. The flesh was peeled open like an obscene leer. Shrapnel, Saul thought idly as he watched the horse pass. The Boers are probably hitting the Lancers with a pompom.

As usual Major Duffy was astride his mount and far from the relative safety of headquarters. He rode slowly along the column of colonial mounted infantry, murmuring cheerful words of support. The tough colonial volunteers privately took heart from his encouraging words. His quiet courage was infectious.

‘All well, Private Rosenblum?’ Patrick asked when he rode up to Saul.

‘No problems, boss,’ Saul replied. ‘Just hope you’re right about the Dutchmen getting the hell out of them hills.’

‘They will,’ Patrick replied casually as he stared up at the distant range bare of vegetation. ‘You’ll see.’

He moved on and continued talking softly to the rest of the men in the column, exchanging jokes and good-natured banter as he went.

After an hour the order was given to dismount and the troopers sprawled around on the
veldt
, legs stretched and smoking pipes or propping paper on water bottles to write letters home.

Saul used the time to stretch out on his back and slip his hat over his face. He soon fell into deep sleep. When he woke it was just on dusk and the shelling had stopped.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked a trooper sitting nearby and chewing on a blade of grass.

‘Boers have scooted,’ he answered with the blade still in his mouth. ‘Looks like we have to fight ’em in the town.’

Saul moaned his disappointment. He had almost hoped that the war would be over when he awoke, but it was just one of those stupid, futile dreams soldiers knew too well.

But the next day the word went down the column from man to man that the mayor and his officials had met Lord Roberts with the keys to the town. The Boer army had melted away, leaving Bloemfontein to the British. A month’s hard march had been rewarded. Soon around fifty thousand troops would descend on the five thousand or so inhabitants of the Boer capital. This was where the seeds of war had in fact been planted at the 1899 conference, when unreasonable British demands on
the independent Boer Republics under Paul Kruger had given him little choice other than fight for the freedom of his people and their way of life.

The beginning of autumn in southern Africa also signalled the beginning of a more far reaching change in the resistance that the free-ranging Boer commandos would offer the British expeditionary forces. But for Private Saul Rosenblum a more personal turning point awaited him on a dusty street in the little town. Her name was Karen Isaacs.

ELEVEN

I
n the Northern Hemisphere spring had arrived in the green fields of Ireland. From where Catherine stood atop a huge, round mound she could see the tiny village across fields blooming yellow with marigold.

Beyond the stone houses and narrow cobbled streets she could see the tiny harbour with its small fleet of fishing boats and the grey Atlantic Ocean beckoning them. Turning to gaze south, the stained glass windows of the house of her birth caught the sun in a dazzling display of rainbow-coloured reflections. A gentle breeze pushed upwards from the hedged fields below. It played in the wisps of Catherine’s hair that had escaped the securing pins and plucked cheekily at the hem of her white linen skirt, causing it to whip around her legs.

The surrounding circle of fir trees gave off a
wonderfully fresh scent and a mass of shed needles covered an inlay of ancient patterned stones beneath Catherine’s feet. She shaded her eyes and peered down through the gaps in the trees at the tiny figure of a man trudging the winding road behind that led past the mound to the Fitzgerald manor. As the figure drew near, Catherine could distinguish the black cassock, and she smiled with pleasure at the sight of an old friend.

She had been expecting him for some time, but duties had kept Father Eamon O’Brien in Rome and away from his parish for several weeks. As the priest paused to gaze up at the hill, Catherine waved and he returned the welcoming gesture. Cutting across the field of marigolds, he steadfastly puffed his way to the top to join her. Although only in his late thirties, the sedentary life of a priest at the Vatican had dulled his physical fitness.

‘Ah, Catherine Fitzgerald,’ he said, beaming with slightly myopic but intelligent eyes behind spectacles. ‘You have grown even more beautiful in those far-off heathen lands.’

Catherine returned his smile and gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek.

‘How many years, my dear lady?’ Eamon asked as he stood back to appraise her. ‘Fourteen . . . fifteen?’

‘Too long, Father O’Brien,’ she replied softly, a note of both happiness and sadness in her reply. ‘Too long away from home.’

Eamon looked about for somewhere to sit, finally lowering himself onto a rounded, lichen covered stone.

‘No need to call me Father O’Brien, Catherine,’ he sighed as his body recovered from the short but sharp climb. ‘You are not of the Faith and we have known each other for some years. And, from what I have heard, Patrick has now dropped the rosary beads in the Macintosh name.’

Catherine nodded. She preferred to address the man rather than the priest and she was a long way from the young barefooted girl who once haunted this strange and magical place.

‘Thank you, Eamon,’ she said. ‘I would feel more comfortable addressing you as a colleague rather than a priest if we are to work together on this dig. You know I could never accept your Christianity any more than I did my grandfather’s Protestant faith.’

‘I have always suspected that you were one of those pagan Celtic ladies of the old times,’ the priest replied with feigned indignation for the rejection. ‘The Morrigan I always imagined you really were. But God forgive, one day you might find the teachings of Saint Patrick and save your immortal soul. If not, then you will be doomed to go to that pagan heaven of yours surrounded by warriors and their blood-drinking gods.’

‘You sound almost envious, Eamon,’ she teased in return. ‘That your heaven is so boring.’

‘Ah, let us not go into talk of the next world when we have enough talk of this world – and the venture ahead of us.’

‘You are right. We have much to organise if our findings are to be accepted by the academic world of learned scholars. We will need a team of reliable men
to dig. Not men used to digging up potatoes, but men who will be patient enough to scrape away at the earth with trowels. And we will need a photographic record of our excavations for the journals. Not to mention –’

The priest put up his hand to halt her enthusiastic flow of plans. ‘First, I think I would be liking to go down the hill and see if your grandfather left his supply of whisky. There we can sit down and discuss what is needed. Besides, I’m curious to see if the new owner has changed the old place from how I remembered it when your grandfather was alive. I hear Mr Norris has kindly consented to fund our work?’

‘He has,’ Catherine replied just a little evasively, avoiding his gaze. ‘Mr Norris has a great interest in Irish history.’

‘Or is it you that his interest might be in, Catherine?’ the priest asked quietly.

‘Do you ask me as a priest or as a man, Eamon?’ she retorted gently. ‘Because, whichever you choose, I will tell you a lie.’

‘Ah, that would be a sin, and it is not my role to cause you to sin. Only you can do that.’

‘Then we understand each other. I know that we have a common cause in this place and we can leave the subject of Mr Norris out of our discussions. Does that offend your sensibilities as a priest?’

‘More my sensibilities as a friend,’ Eamon replied. ‘I do not think highly of Mr Norris and wonder what you could ever see in him when I remember the other men in your life.’

At this Catherine glanced at Eamon, puzzled, until suddenly remembering that he well knew of her young love for Michael Duffy, the Irish soldier of fortune who came to the village of Duffy to visit the place of his birth. A legendary mercenary, his hands held the ability to both create beauty through his paintings or to kill a man. Their wild, passionate interlude as she followed him across Europe would stay with her always but it was the son of that same man she had truly loved and eventually married.

‘Brett Norris is not like either of those
other men
you refer to, Eamon. He is a man of culture and charm.’

‘You do not have to defend him to me, Catherine,’ Eamon replied. ‘It is obvious you know what you want out of life.’

‘You are both a man and a priest,’ she returned. ‘I do not expect you to understand what a woman wants.’

‘On that point I concede you are right,’ he answered with a wistful smile. ‘I sometimes suspect that He did not know what He was in for when He allowed Adam to create Eve. Things just got out of control and have not been the same since.’

Catherine could not help but laugh at the priest’s light-hearted approach to life and religion. She knew she would like working with him on the dig. A sense of humour would be a definite asset in the backbreaking hours ahead of sifting soil.

They descended the hill together, talking amiably as they crossed the yellow fields to the brooding, two-storey stone house.

The Fitzgerald manor was more like a small castle than a large residence. To Eamon’s mind there was only a subtle change in the house. Maybe it was just the absence of old Fitzgerald, the tall and erudite man with whom he had shared many an evening, poring over his notes on Celtic artefacts. With a whisky in one hand and his spectacles in the other, Fitzgerald would deliver his theories on the region before Saint Patrick’s time. The staff were long gone and an elderly woman from the village had moved in to assist with the running of the large house.

Eamon sat in the musty library, gazing around the cluttered room. At least the library was still the same with its floor to ceiling library shelves, stuffed birds and untidy collections of old papers.

Catherine shifted a pile of notes in one corner and located a dusty bottle of her grandfather’s whisky. ‘I hope whisky gets better with age,’ she said, brandishing the bottle. She poured the amber liquid into a tumbler for Eamon.

‘Like a good woman,’ he responded cheerfully without thinking.

Catherine laughed. ‘You don’t sound like an Irish priest at all,’ she said, pouring herself a small tot and sitting down in her grandfather’s old leather chair by the fireplace.

‘I remember a young colonial officer saying that to me when we first met at my presbytery,’ Eamon replied as he let the whisky catch the back of his throat. ‘Ah, but that seems a lifetime ago.’

‘Patrick,’ Catherine said soberly.

She stared into a corner of the library, remembering how Patrick had stood, tall and arrogant, when she had first been introduced to him by Eamon in this very room.

Eamon noted the sad expression on Catherine’s face and regretted his reflection on times past. ‘I suppose it is my English education and Roman ordination that has tempered some of my Irish nature,’ he said tactfully, to change the course of the conversation. ‘I am not always sure of my Irish Catholicism and that is a terrible thing for an Irish parish priest to be saying when he has to minister to the souls of a devout congregation such as mine.’

‘If you saw the people of this land from my viewpoint, Eamon, you would be seeing the most pagan people in this Christian world of yours. You know the people in your village have a thousand customs that link directly with their pagan past. For example, the idea that piercing a young girl’s ears would guarantee good eyesight. A superstition no doubt buried in pagan custom and yet accepted as harmless by your Church.’

‘True,’ he mused. ‘And banshees and little people all have links with the past. I know they are just folklore but they persist in the minds of the people despite us scoffing at them as silly superstition. You might be right in thinking that the Irish Catholic Church stands steadfastly on a pagan religion. I suppose my interest in archaeology has a spiritual motivation. I suppose I feel the deeper we dig into that hill out there the closer I will come to finding the answers to my quest for Irish Catholicism. That
the Lord did indeed overcome the old pagan gods of the Celts in an unrecorded battle.’

‘My husband . . .’ Catherine frowned and checked herself. ‘Patrick has told me of a story that persists in his family on his father’s side. It is a superstition about another and older people. A story of an Aboriginal curse on the Duffys and the Macintoshes that seems to have been unleashed when grandfather Macintosh helped the Native Mounted Police to kill off a tribe on Glen View. Patrick believes that a supernatural force was unleashed to wreak misery on both families. A black force, whose home is a hill on the property that the Aborigines held sacred to their religion. Though I could never understand why the Duffys should have the curse on them when his father’s father was apparently murdered trying to save one of the survivors of the massacre.’