To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (21 page)

‘That may it be,’ the English colonel said with a distant expression on his face, ‘but the second point I would like to make is that we do not have any report on this man’s character from his commanding officer. The man is obviously err . . . of the Jewish faith . . . and we all know what these people are like.’

So that was it
,
Patrick thought savagely. The bloody British colonel was a bigot. The rest of
his lame excuses were just a means to thwart the recommendation
.

‘Yes, sir, Private Rosenblum is of Jewish extraction but then wasn’t Mr Disraeli, the Earl of Beaconsfield, also?’ he retorted, knowing full well that the colonel would squirm under the comparison. The famous English prime minister of only twenty years past had done much to make the British Empire what it was.

‘Err, I believe that is correct, Major Duffy,’ the colonel replied reluctantly. ‘But he was not a colonial Jew. He was a man who understood what was expected of him, as a gentleman in society.’

‘Private Rosenblum is a soldier of the Queen, sir, and as such a volunteer prepared to lay down his life in the interests of the Empire. I should say that counts for something in society.’

Patrick could see that his quietly pointed argument was upsetting the English colonel. Williams’ face was now red with suppressed rage at such impudence from an upstart colonial major.

‘I believe you are attached as a special services officer to Colonel De Lisle’s staff, Major Duffy.’

‘That is correct, sir,’ Patrick replied, wondering why the colonel had asked.

‘Then you would know how many men are recommended for decorations. Far too many to give every one of them the VC. I personally feel that under the circumstances recommending
this
Private Rosenblum for the highest award the Queen can bestow is not within the guidelines. As such, I will not be forwarding your report to Lord Roberts with my concurrence on this matter.’

Patrick stared at the pompous colonel with undisguised contempt. ‘I will strongly object if you do so, sir,’ Patrick fumed. ‘The soldier has displayed the highest standards of bravery in the face of the enemy and that cannot be pushed under the carpet because you have a dislike for Jewish people.’

‘Careful in what you say, Major Duffy,’ the colonel said menacingly. ‘You might overstep your mark.’

‘Well, sir,’ Patrick said as he rose from his chair and saluted his superior officer, ‘if this is all we have to talk about, I suggest that I leave and not waste your valuable time.’

On that note Patrick marched himself out of the colonel’s office, closing the door behind him. The captain who had ushered him into the colonel’s office gave him a quizzical look as he brushed past. From the savage expression on the big colonial officer’s face, all had not gone well.

Patrick strode down the street passing the Afrikaner women, out shopping in their long dark dresses and bonnets. The matter was not finalised as far as he was concerned. Saul Rosenblum had earned some recognition for his outstanding courage. He would get a character report for the colonel from Saul’s commanding officer and he would chase up the young lieutenant who had provided covering fire that day with his Maxim machine gun. A fellow officer’s corroboration had to count. He could play their bureaucratic game if that is what it took.

NINETEEN

L
ocating the English sergeant who had murdered Karen was not difficult. A few discreet inquiries and Saul had marked his man.

Now Saul stood in the shadows of the night listening to the tinkle of a piano and the raucous laughter of drunken men and women coming from the building opposite. He waited until the dusty street was deserted before he made his move to cross.

Taking a deep breath, and with his head down, Saul walked quickly to the yard of the house frequented by the English sergeant when he was on leave, as he was tonight. The front room was packed with customers who paid for the grog and the services of the two ladies in the age-old tradition of camp followers.

The British occupation headquarters had been slow to react to demands by the staunchly religious
members of the Afrikaner church for the proprietor to be flogged out of town and his two employees branded with the mark of the scarlet woman. Instead, the military rulers had established a roving patrol of military police to ensure that the rowdiness was discreetly kept on the outskirts of town.

Saul had carefully reconnoitred. Now familiar with the house and the movements of the military police, he chose a night when most soldiers had been confined to their respective lines. Only senior noncommissioned officers were able to visit this house of ill repute tonight.

He made his way along the side of the house as unobtrusively as possible but still bumped into an inebriated Canadian sergeant, urinating into the bushes. The Canadian greeted Saul with the bonhomie of the drunk. Saul mumbled his greeting lest his Australian accent be detected and kept his head down, remaining in the shadows as best he could. Then he was in the spacious, bushy backyard amongst the heady scent of gum trees.

Saul glanced around to ensure that he was alone before stepping back into the darkest corner. Now it was only a matter of waiting and hoping luck would bring his man to him.

Two hours and around fifteen visits to the backyard by men with full bladders passed before Saul saw his man step out to relieve himself against a tree. He was alone. The Queenslander felt his heart pounding. The hand wrapped around the handle of his sword bayonet felt clammy. He wiped it before taking a firmer grip.

The sergeant was swaying on his feet as he hosed down the trunk of a tree, whistling in a tuneless way that Saul found strangely irritating. The Englishman was almost as big as himself and his back was to the light of the house behind him. Saul knew it was too risky to approach him where he presently stood, he would need to lure him into the darkness from where he watched.

‘Hey, Sergeant,’ he called softly. ‘You want a clean Dutch girl?’

The English soldier stopped rocking on his feet and peered suspiciously in the direction of the voice. ‘Who the bloody ’ell is that?’ he questioned, buttoning his fly. ‘Where you callin’ from?’

‘Over here, Sergeant. I can’t show myself or the bloody military police might cop me again.’

The sergeant staggered a few feet towards Saul. ‘What are you talkin’ about?’ the sergeant queried and his inebriation seemed to fall away. ‘What’s this about a Dutchie girl?’

‘I know where you can get one of the ladies here whose husband is out with the commandos. She’s bloody lonely and said she wanted to meet a fine soldier like yerself.’

‘Show yourself,’ the sergeant commanded. ‘I know you’re one of those bloody colonial Australians. I can tell from ya voice.’

Saul felt his nerve slipping. The sergeant did not appear as if he would come any closer unless Saul stepped out of the shadows. He was about fifteen feet away but still illuminated by the dim light cast from the windows and doorway of the house. He could
easily be seen from inside the house by anyone who should look out.

‘I told you, I can’t show myself.’

‘How come you don’t want ’er then?’ the sergeant asked.

Saul had to think quickly. ‘I already had her. Decided I could make a quid or two on the side.’

The sergeant suddenly grinned with a leer. ‘Yeah. You bloody Australians would sell ya own mothers for a quid. About ya standard.’

He stumbled forward to meet the man who would profit from some poor, lonely Boer wife and bumped up against him. Immediately Saul lashed out with one hand to grab the man by the throat so that he could not scream. The Queenslander’s hands were as strong as a vice from years of hard work and the English sergeant’s eyes bulged with fright at the sudden, disabling attack.

‘The Dutch girl’s name was Karen Isaacs,’ Saul hissed into the petrified man’s face. ‘I believe you knew her once, didn’t you, you murdering bastard.’

The sergeant’s bulging eyes seemed to flicker with recognition at the mention of Karen’s name – and he also knew death when he saw its face. With all the strength he could muster he attempted to bring up his arms to grip Saul’s hand on his throat.

Lightning fast, Saul brought the long bayonet in an upward swing to tear through the sergeant’s diaphragm just under his ribcage. At the same time he foot-swept the Englishman so that he fell backwards dragging the Queenslander down on top of him. The force of their fall caused the deadly bayonet
to thrust even deeper into the lung cavity and penetrate the heart.

Saul held his hand over the dying man’s mouth to prevent him crying out. As he held him down on the ground their eyes locked for just a short moment. The sergeant’s lungs collapsed as Saul tore the bayonet from them and stood up. He was shaking but still in control of his wits.

Quickly he wiped the long blade on the sergeant’s tunic, slid it back into its scabbard and took a grip on the dead man’s ankles. With a grunt he dragged the body into the shadows. It would be some time before the sun came up – or before those in the house noticed the sergeant missing. Either way he had time to get away and back to his own lines.

It was the mixed-blood proprietor who found the body in the early hours of the morning and informed the military authorities. Not long afterwards, he left town with his girls, suspecting that some outraged Afrikaner had taken the law into his own hands instead of letting God do his work.

But the investigating military authorities were familiar with the distinctive wound a British bayonet makes on its victim and strongly suspected that the sergeant had been murdered by a soldier of the occupying force. They were determined to find out who had carried out the killing and were fortunate that a Canadian corporal had noticed a stranger push past him and disappear into the shadows of the backyard. All he could remember of the man was that
he wore the uniform of an Australian mounted infantryman, but that at least narrowed the search down. Should they find their man and he was proven guilty there could only be one sentence appropriate for a murder on active service – death by firing squad.

TWENTY

Y
oung Alexander Macintosh was in heaven. At least that was how it felt waking up each morning at Glen View.

The silence of the night, broken only by the distant lowing of cattle or a night bird calling across the plains, took on the sounds of activity of a big homestead coming to life at piccaninny dawn: the Chinese cook in the kitchen clattering pots and pans as he prepared breakfast for the boss and his missus, the Aboriginal stockmen’s soft laughter and easy banter as they saddled horses in the yards across from the house, and the constant slamming of the gauze door on the back verandah as the domestic staff came and went. Above all, Alexander could hear the sweet sounds of the bush birds, the butcher bird’s melodic call to the magpie’s lazy warble. For the youngest son of Major Patrick Duffy the almost primitive sounds
and sights, so alien to those he had known in the sophistication of his Sydney life, were ones he did not ever want to forget. He felt strangely at home, as if he had discovered where he truly belonged.

And Mr O’Flynn with the black leather eye patch had proved as exciting and mysterious as any character Alex had read about in all the Boy’s Own stories.

When he first met Mr O’Flynn in Sydney Alex had been frightened by the man who towered over him like some huge bear, with his broad shoulders and powerful arms. And yet when he was finally able to stare up into the single grey eye he saw only a supreme gentleness, despite the gruff, deep voice.

George, his brother, had spoken ill of Mr O’Flynn behind his back. He said that the man was most probably a former convict, an Irish papist, one of those known around Sydney as an old lag. Alex suspected that secretly his brother was frightened of the big Irishman.

Fenella’s reaction was even more puzzling. She had said little in his presence when they were introduced to him in the drawing room, but her frown had concealed her awe. There was something about the stranger that she felt was familiar, although she was mystified as to how or what that could be.

When Lady Enid had introduced him as a dear friend of her father, fresh from the war in South Africa, Fenella had immediately sensed the love the man seemed to have for them even though he was a total stranger to their lives. She sensed an almost paternal love, the affection that she missed so much from her own father, still fighting in a war across the
sea. Had the big man moved to put his arms around her she would have willingly allowed him to do so. And perhaps then all the pain she was feeling for the absence of her mother as well would have flowed in a torrent of tears.

As Lady Enid informed Alex that he was going to accompany Mr O’Flynn to their Queensland property of Glen View the boy’s reactions were mixed. He had never travelled further from Sydney than visiting the town of Bathurst once with his father. Now he was going to the other end of the country with this big, mysterious man whom he hardly knew. Why Lady Enid, a stickler for him not missing classes at his expensive school in Sydney, had suddenly allowed him to be sent away was all a worrying mystery to him.

But when the day came and he stood on the wharf waiting to board a coastal steamer for Rockhampton via Brisbane, all such anxiety disappeared in his excitement at the adventure ahead of him. Although he had felt tearful on the carriage trip to the harbour Alex forced himself to retain a calm composure. Mr O’Flynn had growled something about women not being able to help themselves when it came to shedding tears at farewells and Alex did not want Mr O’Flynn to think he was a sissy.

From Rockhampton they travelled by Cobb & Co coach across the hills and down onto the plains to Glen View, way west of the coastal town. The days travelling, the changing landscape and interesting people they met, made the journey an adventure in its own right. Always, Mr O’Flynn proved to be
caring, and informative about everything Alex asked questions of, although he spoke very little about himself. Alex had enjoyed every day of their travels although he missed his sister and his great-grandmother. But he did not miss his brother and felt a strange independence he had not known before.