To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (43 page)

Suddenly an arm wrapped around his throat and he was wrenched off his feet.

‘Don’t try anything, laddie,’ a voice hissed in his ear as Sean felt the painful thrust of a gun’s barrel in his ribs. ‘I have stalked men far more dangerous than you and most of them are dead now.’

‘You’ve got the wrong man, mister,’ Sean protested. ‘I was just out for a walk.’

‘No fool goes out for a walk on a night like this unless he has important business,’ Patrick growled.
‘So I would be wanting an answer as to why you were following me, or you just might disappear forever – and that is a promise.’

‘I think you know why,’ Sean said through gritted teeth as the gun bit deeper into his ribs. ‘You are a Brit, and any Brit in these parts attracts interest.’

‘You’re wrong about that,’ Patrick said quietly. ‘I am an officer in the Australian army, not the British army – but I don’t expect someone as bog stupid as you to even know where Australia is.’

‘I know where Australia is,’ Sean replied angrily. ‘It’s the place the Brits sent all their convicts.’

Patrick released his grip and Sean massaged his throat.

‘You can turn around,’ Patrick said.

Sean turned to face the man who had materialised out of the night to ambush him so easily. He had a sudden, grudging respect for the grandson of the legendary Patrick Duffy who had caused the occupying British army so much trouble in the county over a half century before. But this made his grandson no less a traitor in the Irish rebel’s eyes as Duffy had faithfully served the Queen for many years.

‘Am I free to go?’ Sean asked in a surly voice and Patrick nodded.

As he was leaving Sean clearly heard the Australian’s softly delivered warning. ‘Don’t be going out to the Fitzgerald house again. Or I will personally hunt you down and kill you.’

Sean believed every word Major Duffy said.

‘Oh, and by the way,’ Patrick called to the back of
the retreating man. ‘If you happen to come across Father Martin Duffy, please give him my regards, and tell him that his cousin Patrick would like to meet with him.’

Sean knew the Australian’s relationship to the renegade Jesuit. He would pass on the message.

O’Riley was behind the bar when Sean entered from the cold night. He could see the angry scowl on the young peat digger’s face. ‘Top of the evening to you, Sean,’ the publican greeted cheerily. ‘And what would the dark look be for on such a grand evening?’

Sean stepped up to the bar. ‘Have you seen the priest?’ he snarled, ignoring O’Riley’s cheerfulness.

‘He’s around,’ O’Riley shrugged as he polished a tumbler with a clean cloth. ‘Would you be wantin’ to see him?’

‘Just tell him that his traitorous cousin asked after him.’

O’Riley leant across the bar. ‘You talk to Major Duffy tonight?’ he asked quietly.

‘You could say that,’ Sean answered. ‘But the next time we meet, Major Duffy will be a dead man, you can bet on that as a sure thing.’

The publican frowned. He could see the fire of hate burning in the fanatical young man’s eyes and felt uneasy. No-one had sanctioned the execution of the Australian. After all, there were many in the new country who sympathised with the Irish plight. Many of Irish ancestry had indeed fled to the Australian colonies – or been transported. These
were now the people they needed to protest from foreign shores against British occupation of Ireland. Major Duffy may have once fought for the Queen, but so too had many loyal Irishmen, seeking a way out of soul-destroying poverty by enlisting under the colours of the Union Jack.

‘Don’t be goin’ and doing anything rash,’ the publican hissed. ‘Major Duffy’s grandfather was the big man here, as well as in the Australian colonies.’

‘Did you know that Major Duffy turned Protestant?’ Sean replied. ‘Maybe that should tell you something about his loyalty to his blood.’

O’Riley did not know about Patrick’s conversion and the news came as a shock. If what the young peat digger said was true, then a shadow was indeed cast on Major Duffy’s kinship to the values of his ancestors. Was it that he had gone over to the British in every way? And if he was seeking out his cousin, Father Martin Duffy, for what reason? O’Riley felt a dread he could not comprehend. Whatever it was, the Australian’s presence in the village bode no good. Maybe young Sean was right. Maybe the major should become a legitimate target.

Father Eamon O’Brien closed the door to the confessional box, leaving behind the world of sins mortal and venial. The church was empty as penitents had intoned their Hail Marys and Our Fathers and left for hearth or pub.

The priest sighed and wondered how much whisky was left in the bottle in the kitchen cupboard
of the presbytery. The burden of the knowledge he carried was weighing like a millstone around his neck. In many ways he wished Father Martin Duffy had taken the confessions this day.

Eamon genuflected before kneeling at the altar to pray for guidance. God did not speak to him but at least praying gave him time to reflect on what he could do to save a life, without defiling the sanctity of the confessional. His parishioner had confessed to a sin yet to be committed and Eamon had argued vehemently that confession would in no way absolve the man from his sins if he went ahead.

How could he tell his friend Patrick Duffy that he had been marked for execution? Maybe a warning was not strictly a breach of the sanctity of the confessional. He would not, after all, be breaking his sacred oath.

Eamon crossed himself and rose, glancing up at the depiction of the agonised figure of Jesus on the cross. How could men still condone murder with absolution through religion? For Father O’Brien, his faith was one of love and forgiveness – not hatred and politics.

FORTY-FIVE

S
aul Rosenblum sat quietly by the swamp, gazing at the young eucalypt saplings. How well they were growing, he mused. They had taken to the ancient lands of Moses and Abraham as if they were always meant to be a part of the ongoing story of the chosen people.

Since the arrival of the arms supply from Europe, Saul had gained a reputation as a hard man. The young people of the
moshava
both admired and feared him as he went about training them in the use of the few rifles they had acquired. He and Ivan’s search for the missing girls and the bloody end to that story were well known to all, but only the newcomer, Aaron Herzog, had expressed his disapproval of the way Saul and Ivan had handled the situation to the leaders of the
moshava
.

‘It is not God’s way to kill on the Sabbath,’ he had
stated. When his criticism was related to Saul he was only held back by the giant Russian from going to the pious man and thrashing him within an inch of his life.

‘It is not the thoughts of the others,’ Ivan had soothed. ‘But I fear his kind will try one day to control us after we have tamed this land.’

To find peace Saul would often ride to this swamp which the eucalypt roots were struggling to strangle so that the land could be tilled for agriculture.

‘Jakob wants to see you,’ Ivan said from behind him. ‘He says we have visitors.’

Saul rose from the earth and waved an acknowledgement to his friend astride his horse. ‘I will head up and see him now,’ he answered.

When Saul rode back to the little village he noticed a group of well-dressed Europeans – both men and women – standing around a column of horses and pack donkeys. From the amount of stores packed on the donkeys Saul immediately concluded that it was some kind of expedition.

Jakob hurried to meet Saul, who dismounted and gazed around curiously. ‘We have guests, Saul,’ Jakob said. ‘A party from England who are interested in searching for ancient ruins in this area.’

Saul made a closer appraisal of the English, two women and three men. The women were of middle age and dressed in long white skirts and blouses, now dusty brown after the long trip from the coast. The men were dressed in the attire of English gentlemen abroad: pith helmets and walking clothes more at home on the slopes of the Swiss Alps.

‘I would like you to meet the leader of the archaeological expedition,’ Jakob said, guiding Saul to a tall, aristocratic looking man of military bearing. ‘Colonel Hays Williams, I would like to introduce you to Mr Saul Rosenblum.’

Saul extended his hand to the Englishman. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Saul said.

The expression on the colonel’s face seemed to change to one of puzzlement.

‘From your accent, you sound like a colonial,’ he replied. ‘You wouldn’t by any chance have served in South Africa with the Queensland Mounted Infantry?’

Suddenly Saul felt as if the hot day had turned bitterly cold. Alarm signals flashed in the Australian’s mind.

‘’Fraid not, Colonel,’ Saul replied, trying hard to conceal his nervousness.

Jakob immediately sensed some tension in the situation and broke in. ‘Saul has come to us from Australia,’ he said. ‘You must have him mixed up with someone else.’

The colonel glanced at Jakob with an expression of disbelief. ‘The man I am referring to is a wanted man of the lowest kind, a traitor and murderer.’

Jakob held the man’s glare. ‘That is not Saul then,’ he said calmly. ‘Saul is a man who grows trees.’

Hays Williams turned his attention to Saul.

‘So what can we do for you, Colonel?’ Saul asked calmly.

Hays Williams did not answer immediately, as if considering something. It was an uncomfortable silence.

‘I am on leave with some friends,’ the colonel finally answered. ‘We were hoping that your people might know of some promising areas for us to search for ruins. My colleagues are from the British Museum. They’re authorities in the culture of the Holy Land.’

‘We’ll help you as much as possible,’ Jakob said, ‘but I’m afraid we do not know of any ruins in our area. Have you inquired with our Arab neighbours?’

‘We have,’ Hays Williams replied. ‘They could not help us.’

‘You are welcome to stay,’ Jakob offered. ‘We have accommodation to suit your needs.’

‘Thank you,’ the colonel said. ‘We will take up your offer, and perhaps Mr Rosenblum can tell me a bit about growing trees.’

Saul scowled inwardly at the Englishman’s sarcasm. It was obvious that the British officer was not convinced. Of all the places in the world, this English colonel – whoever he was – had to end up here. But what should he do? The first thought that crossed Saul’s mind was to simply kill the colonel at a convenient time. But that would attract international attention. The Ottoman Empire was on reasonably friendly terms with Britain so would undoubtedly pursue the matter. At least he was not on soil under British jurisdiction. Saul was thankful for that.

The colonel turned his back and strode to join his party while Jakob and Saul watched him go.

‘I could never have guessed,’ Jakob said, letting out a held breath. ‘I am sorry, Saul.’

‘No matter,’ Saul shrugged. ‘There is nothing the
bastard can prove while I am here. And even if he does, I doubt there is anything he can do.’

Jakob glanced at the former soldier and could see a deep concern written on his face. As nonchalant as Saul wished to appear, he could not hide his feelings altogether.

‘Be very careful, my young friend,’ Jakob warned. ‘I do not like that man and I fear he may make mischief.’

‘He can try,’ Saul said as he walked away to join Ivan.

‘You look unwell,’ the Russian said when Saul joined him. ‘Do you know our visitors?’

‘The English colonel seems to think that he knows me,’ Saul said glancing back at the archaeological party. ‘I wish I knew how.’

‘Is there something you have done?’ Ivan asked bluntly and Saul stared contemplatively at his friend.

‘Back in South Africa I killed a man,’ he said.

‘I know,’ Ivan replied with just the trace of a grim smile on his bearded face. ‘Jakob told me about the man who had defiled his daughter.’ Saul shook his head at the Russian, who continued, ‘Not much is secret here, my friend. You were right in what you did.’

The following day Saul gathered his small army of seven young men and three young women to continue their training in the use of the Enfield rifle, a weapon Saul was familiar with from his service with the mounted infantry. The lesson was held at
the edge of the village on a rifle range he and Ivan had constructed.

‘Not like that,’ Saul bellowed at one of his trainees who gingerly held the brass butt of the rifle to her shoulder as if it would bite. ‘Tuck it in and then relax.’

Ivan translated the order into German as some of the recent immigrants did not understand English. But it was unnecessary in the case of one young girl from Austria. Her name was Elsa and her widower father had chosen to leave the country of his birth after hearing the inspiring words of the newly formed Zionist organisation in Europe. However, he had died of a fever months earlier in Jerusalem where Elsa had learned of Jakob Isaac’s community. With the last of the money she and her father had between them she had made her way south. Although the people had welcomed her into their village she still grieved both for the loss of her family and of the country she had left behind. Palestine had proved to be a barren land, a place of hardships she could never have imagined. If she had, then she would not have followed her father’s dream to immigrate to the Promised Land.

And now Saul towered over her with a dark scowl on his face. He did not consider her gender a defence against his wrath when it came to weapons handling.

‘Learn to make the rifle a part of your body if you want to survive in this country,’ he continued in a softer but menacing tone.

Elsa’s bottom lip quivered as she fought back tears
of humiliation. She was a pretty girl with brown curly hair to her shoulders and dark eyes. Elsa had never experienced such harsh words from a man and dared not look up.

‘You seem to have a good grasp of firearms drill for a man who plants trees,’ the voice of Colonel Hays Williams said from the edge of the buildings.

Saul swung in his direction and saw the tight smile on the man’s face. ‘We all learn to defend ourselves here, Colonel.’