To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (13 page)

‘I have heard the stories that both families have suffered an undue amount of tragedy,’ Eamon replied. ‘If such a curse existed then it would only be logical that the curse be upon the Macintosh family – not the Duffys. If you ask me, I would say that Patrick still has a lot of Irish blood in him which causes his superstitious introspection.’

‘Oh, it is not only Patrick,’ Catherine said, gazing at a stuffed owl watching them with glass eyes from the top of a desk. ‘Even his grandmother, Lady Enid, has quietly expressed that they are all under some kind of curse. Is not the God of the Old Testament a vengeful figure who would destroy the people He created on a vast scale if they displeased Him? Did He not lay waste whole populations to protect His
chosen people? Patrick said he knew why the curse was visited on both families and at the time his answer terrified me.’

‘How?’ the priest asked as he leant forward with obvious interest. ‘How could he have the answer?’

As Catherine looked away the priest could see an unexpected fear and anguish in her face. ‘Patrick says that he is the reason why the Duffys too are cursed. That when his father, a Duffy, and his mother, a Macintosh, conceived him, they crossed their blood in him, and in so doing unwittingly extended the vengeance of the spirits of the Nerambura people to all those with his blood as well.’

‘Your children,’ Eamon concluded softly, now understanding her fear.

‘If he is right, yes, then my children are cursed. And so will their children be cursed.’

‘Catherine, you are a highly intelligent woman who knows that such things are the realm of ignorant people. They are the stories we invent to scare ourselves.’

‘A part of me believes that, Eamon. But . . .’

‘But nothing,’ he scoffed, swallowing the last of the whisky. ‘In the meantime you should be thinking of how we are going to go about the business of the dig. You have a lot to do.’

Catherine nodded but the priest’s attempt to dispel her seemingly irrational superstition was not completely successful. After Eamon excused himself saying he must return to the parish to hear confessions, Catherine escorted him to the door and bid him a good afternoon. But an uneasy feeling remained
with her as he trudged away. A storm was rolling in from the sea and Catherine hoped that he would make it back to his church before the rains came to lash the marigolds.

When Eamon passed by the strange hill he paused to gaze at it. What secrets would they find in the ancient place of the pagan Celts? Lightning flashed a blue-white jagged fork to the ocean beyond the hill and thunder rumbled ominously in the distance. The priest shuddered. For in the voice of the thunder he remembered the echoed warning of his old housekeeper, Mary Casey: Tis not a good thing to go disturbin’ the final restin’ place of the old ones, Father O’Brien.

Instinctively Father Eamon O’Brien crossed himself and hurried home.

TWELVE

M
ajor Duffy lounged in a canvas field chair with his long legs stretched in front of him. The sun was on his face and all around him the army prepared to move into the captured town of Bloemfontein. Beside him was a huge covered wagon that contained the mobile headquarters paraphernalia of Lord Roberts: map and dispatch boards, telephones and tiny, fold-down desks for his staff to scribble off situation reports and orders to his field commanders.

Senior NCOs bawled orders at tired men and mules brayed as their African handlers put them in the traces to haul the last mile. A bugle’s familiar note pierced the morning air as it called men to parade. All these sounds were as familiar to the soldiers as the noises of the city are to a civilian. But the seemingly disorganised noises were evidence of a single purpose and from the
cacophony would emerge the trundling rumble of wagons and the steady plod of hooves.

Patrick had snatched a rare chance to sit in the autumn sunshine and relax. He closed his eyes to block out the dull colours of camouflage all around him, but his privacy was interrupted by a shadow that fell across him.

‘Major Duffy?’

Patrick opened his eyes and stared up at a civilian wearing the khaki dress of a war correspondent. The man spoke with an Australian accent.

‘At your service, sir,’ Patrick replied without attempting to change his position.

‘I am Andrew Paterson, sir, correspondent for the
Bulletin
.’

‘You hardly need any introduction, Mr Paterson,’ Patrick said as he stood up to shake the other man’s hand. ‘My grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh, is an avid reader of your poetry. As a matter of fact my youngest son is currently attempting to memorise your poem, “The Man from Snowy River”, so I have been told.’

‘You did not mention yourself, Major Duffy, as a reader of my poetry.’

‘I must confess, sir, that I am more a reader of Mr Kendall’s poetry. I particularly liked his poem, “The Last of His Tribe”. It has somewhat an aptness to my family’s history.’ Patrick paused. His thoughts had been, ironically, on his family just before the well-known poet and journalist had interrupted his privacy. ‘As you know my name, I presume that you have come in search of me for a purpose?’

‘An officer on Lord Roberts’ staff suggested that I talk to you about the Queenslanders of the Mounted Infantry. He said you had the most first-hand experience to speak of their performance in this campaign.’

‘I would hardly think that a man with your considerable experience at the front lines would need to ask me, Mr Paterson,’ Patrick said politely. ‘You have followed the campaign with us and have as much knowledge as I of how finely they have performed under fire.’

‘I have been told that you have served in Africa at Tel-el-Kebir and the Sudan campaign. Did you know my former colleague Mr Lambie from that campaign, Major Duffy?’

Patrick suspected that the journalist was indirectly testing him on his attitude to the press by his question. ‘I’m afraid I never had the honour. All I knew of him was that he was shot in the leg when he rode into a village full of fuzzy wuzzies. A brave man. I have since heard that he was killed with the Tasmanians while on patrol with them near Rensburg a few weeks back.’

‘Yes. The Melbourne
Age
has lost a good correspondent and Australia a brave and colourful son.’

Patrick produced a packet of cigarettes and offered one to the war correspondent who declined politely. Patrick lit his own and sent a long trail of white smoke into the air.

‘All I can tell you about the men of the Queensland contingent is that they are not unlike your Clancy of the Overflow I suppose,’ he said. ‘Bushmen who are proving daily to Lord Roberts
and his staff that they are well and truly the equal to the Boers who ride in the commandos against us. These men have lived all their working lives on the back of a horse and with a rifle in their hands, the same sort of stock the hardy Dutchman is.’

‘Do you think that we will win this campaign when we capture Pretoria?’

‘No,’ Patrick answered bluntly and the journalist’s quizzical look prompted him to go on. ‘We are already seeing a new pattern of warfare developing here. The Boers have deserted their trenches and now strike at our supply lines at will. I have no doubt that the Boers under men like De Wet and De la Rey will be prepared to wage a war not unlike the Spanish guerillas did to Napoleon’s armies in Spain. Or even to an extent the kind of war we fought in the Sudan against the dervishes. They will try to wear us down with constant casualties, a cost that even the mine owners here will not tolerate. And finally a political victory in London with the public annoyed that their morning papers cannot herald as decisive a victory as they have known before. The British public will eventually demand that we pull out. The Boers are like the colonials: tough, self-reliant and inured to hardship. This is their land and they know it better than anyone outside the darkies themselves.’

‘How would you suggest we bring this war to an end then, Major Duffy?’

Patrick’s expression reflected his gloominess. ‘I don’t think we can win. Even if we lift the sieges we will have won nothing more than the towns. The Boer will own the countryside and each and every
one of his farmhouses will become a base of operations. His women will work the fields, tend the cattle and feed the men. No, we cannot win unless we are able to starve the Boer into surrender and I dare not think how we would go about that. I fear such tactics would bring outrage from the rest of the world.’

‘It may be necessary,’ Paterson replied. ‘I have heard many stories from men I have interviewed telling that they have come under fire from Boer farmhouses flying the white sheet of neutrality. And I have no doubt that many of those fellows who have sworn not to take up arms against us again simply do so to return to their farms for a bit of rest and resupply.’

‘That is why I think this war is unwinnable. But I would not like you to quote me, sir. My observations are merely reflections on the situation as I see it and have no relationship to the war aims of Lord Roberts.’

‘You are an honest man, Major Duffy,’ the journalist grinned. ‘First you admit that you are not a reader of my poetry when others lie to flatter me. But, at least I can promise you, sir, that your private opinions will remain out of the newspapers.’

‘Thank you, Mr Paterson,’ Patrick replied and held out his hand. ‘Please do not doubt my enthusiasm to continue this war. It’s just that I feel the world has not only entered a new century but is also seeing the future of a new kind of warfare. I only hope we can adapt in a military fashion to fight the new wars of this century or soldiers’ lives will be wasted for nothing.’

‘Rather well put, Major Duffy,’ Paterson said as he
took the offered hand. ‘I wish you good luck and good health.’

‘You too, sir,’ Patrick replied.

Patrick watched the famed Australian walk away to gather his kit for the advance into Bloemfontein. That’s about all he could hope for, Patrick thought. Good luck, good health, a hot bath, a square meal and clean sheets. A fleeting picture of his wife came to him lying naked against crisp bed linen, her beautiful tresses of red hair spread like a fan on the pillow as she smiled up at him. But such memories held nothing but emptiness for him now.

Patrick folded the canvas chair and threw it on the back of a wagon attached to the headquarters group. With long strides he crossed a field busy with men making last minute adjustments to their kit. At the horse lines his mount waited for him.

The troops of the column entered the town as a sorry looking spectacle of worn and weary men. Astride his mount Saul Rosenblum eyed the sombre crowd of men and women as they watched the conquerors of their town parade past. The rough-looking, big-bearded men scowled from under broad-brimmed hats from the verandahs of shops and Saul knew he could well have faced many of them along the barrel of his Lee Metford carbine only weeks or even days earlier. He had no doubt, from the surly looks that he was given, that he might see them again framed in the sights of his rifle in the weeks ahead.

His squadron was allocated an area at the edge of town to bivouac. Hardly had they set up camp before the mounted troopers began slipping away to explore the Boer capital, with or without leave from their officers. Saul was amongst those quietly making their way into town to enjoy for a moment the luxuries afforded by civilisation.

As he wandered through streets crowded with soldiers and civilians he could not help being reminded of the provincial towns of his own home Colony of Queensland. The neat and tidy homes with wide verandahs and struggling gardens were so much like those of Cloncurry or Mount Isa. Even from stands of blue gums imported from Australia wafted familiar eucalyptic scents. There were fine and substantial buildings like the Boer parliament house which was now being converted into a hospital for the sick and wounded of the column.

Wandering along the dusty streets, Saul could see the shops were empty of goods. The cutting of the railway from the south had ensured that the town was starved of supplies. In time it would be opened and thousands of troops and tons of supplies would flow in to bring a certain amount of prosperity again. But for now, to a soldier nostalgic for home it gave the town a desolate mood.

Saul’s attention was drawn to raised voices in the crowd just in front of the Orange Free State military barracks. One of those speaking in the guttural tones of Afrikaans was that of an obviously distressed woman. Saul pushed aside a circle of burly Boer farmers surrounding the young woman in tears.
A large, pot bellied man with a long beard was berating her. He raised a
sjambok
whip to strike as she cowered before him. But the whip did not descend. The pot bellied man suddenly felt the hard tip of a rifle barrel pressed firmly behind his ear. Angry voices were raised at the action of the Australian soldier but were dulled to loud mutterings as other soldiers of Roberts’ column stepped in to help Saul disperse the onlookers.

‘Don’t do it, Dutchman,’ Saul growled.

The Boer did not have to understand English to know what the soldier was saying to him. He slowly lowered the whip and snarled something in Afrikaans at the girl before reluctantly walking away, but not before he spat on the ground at the feet of a soldier who watched him cautiously. The soldier, a member of Saul’s squadron, grinned defiantly into the man’s face and drawled, ‘See you on the
veldt
some time, Dutchie, and when I do it will be the last time I will ever have to look at you.’

The girl was shaking. She was not beautiful. Her hips were too slim and her dark hair was cut short and worn loose around her shoulders. But Saul was immediately taken by her deep, brown, intelligent eyes as she gave Saul a look of gratitude for his intervention.

‘Are you all right, missus?’ Saul asked, not really expecting her to understand his question.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she answered. ‘They were not able to hurt me because you came to my assistance. I will be going now,’ she added as she brushed herself down.

Saul was surprised when she replied in English and reluctant to allow the young woman to leave. He had not been in the company of a woman for a long time and, although it was a strange way to meet one, he felt he had a right to get to know her. ‘What was all that over?’ he asked. ‘Why was that big Dutchman going to give you a hiding?’