To Ride the Wind (11 page)

Any surviving Turks quickly attempted to whip their camels away from Matthew but the attacking horsemen swept through them, taking out many more until the attacking party of around fifty was reduced to only a half-dozen enemy soldiers on foot with their hands in the air. But it was to no avail as the mounted men poured rifle fire into the survivors, executing them all without any hesitation. A couple of the men dismounted, walked among the bodies lying in pools of blood, firing shots into any that showed any sign of life. Matthew was in part appalled by the callous attitude of his saviours but reserved some sympathy for what they were doing. It was obvious that the wounded would die a slow, painful death in the desert if left without help and he well knew they were a long way from the nearest village or major settlement.

Matthew lowered his pistol as one of the horsemen wheeled away from the mounted men now going through the dead Turkish soldiers’ possessions, mostly recovering weapons and ammunition. A horseman trotted to within a few feet of where Matthew stood and brought his mount to a halt. He was dressed differently to the men who had saved him and was in his mid-thirties with a clean shaven, deeply tanned face. He wore a dirty cotton shirt, trousers tucked into riding boots with a bandolier of ammunition across his chest. When Matthew looked closely into the rider’s face he could see intelligent eyes behind a grim expression and the demeanour of a leader.

‘Shalom,’ he said. Matthew knew at least that word was of Jewish origin. ‘You know that your bloody escapade almost got all of us killed,’ he continued from his height overlooking the downed aviator. ‘What are you? British?’

Matthew stared into the face of the angry man who had chided him for his ‘escapade’, aware how dry his mouth was. But more than the thirst he was suffering was the realisation that Wallarie
had
to be behind his miraculous rescue.

‘Saul? Saul Rosenblum?’ he croaked in disbelief. ‘I thought you were dead.’

The rider peered into Matthew’s oil-stained face and his grim expression instantly dissolved. Sliding from his saddle, Saul Rosenblum took a few quick paces to embrace Matthew in a giant bear hug. ‘Young Matt Duffy!’ he roared, lifting Matthew off his feet. ‘You too are alive.’

He released Matthew and stood back to examine him. ‘Who under heaven could have told us that we would meet in God’s land sixteen years after Elands River?’

Grinning, Matthew shook his head. ‘You are listed on the old regiment’s roll as missing in action, you know, old chap,’ he said. ‘So, how is it that you turn up here with what is obviously a band of brigands.’

‘Ah, the men from my settlement,’ Saul replied, glancing over his shoulder to where he could see his machine-gun crew dismantling the deadly weapon and strapping it on the back of a pack horse. ‘We were shadowing the Ottoman patrol when you appeared out of the sky. The Turks are becoming more of a threat to my settlement in their retreat from the Canal. We had planned to ambush them if they appeared to be heading towards the moshava. But the deed has been done and the threat eliminated.’

‘Who are you, these days?’ Matthew asked. ‘And how the hell did you get here from Africa?’

‘It’s a long story, cobber,’ Saul said, slapping Matthew on the back and leading him away from the burning aircraft. ‘But we will take you back with us to the settlement, where you will meet my wife and sons. I can arrange to get news that you are safe to your unit and in due time get you back – depending on how secure our lines of communication are back to your army.’

‘Sounds like a reasonable idea,’ Matthew shrugged. ‘I could do with a good drink of anything wet in the meantime. Until you appeared I was about to say my prayers and leave the earth, hopefully on the wings of angels, if I could not use my own.’

‘Do you know that I served with the Zion Mule corps as a sergeant at Gallipoli and saw Colonel Duffy?’ Saul asked, walking Matthew to a spare horse led by the Jewish fighters now quickly recovered from their ambush on the Turkish patrol. They had incurred no casualties on their own side but were not celebrating their victory. Matthew could see from the way the men were disciplined in their actions that they were seasoned fighting men and their unsmiling faces showed that they did not wallow in the damage they had inflicted on the unfortunate Turkish camel soldiers. ‘But then I was under another name and avoided Colonel Duffy – lest he recognise me.’

Matthew did not want to think that his old friend from the South African campaign had deserted all those years earlier but it nagged him. No doubt Saul would tell his story and there would be a good explanation. Saul Rosenblum, former Queensland stockman and mounted infantry trooper, once recommended for the award of the Victoria Cross, was a man of honour. Matthew doubted that the man striding beside him had really changed in character.

When Matthew swung himself astride the horse provided he impulsively glanced back at his still-burning aircraft as if expecting to see the old Aboriginal warrior standing by it. Despite the fact that he did not he casually threw a salute. ‘Thank you, Wallarie, old friend,’ he said under his breath, and turned to ride with Saul Rosenblum and his band of fighters.

The thin man with the scarred face stood at the rails of the Macintosh cargo ship as it pitched and rolled just beyond the towering sandstone headlands that were the gateway to Sydney Harbour. He sucked on a cigarette and reflected on what lay ahead of him in the next few weeks. Mr George Macintosh had made a substantial down payment for him to carry out a killing on some actress in America. He knew the woman from watching her on the screen in the smoke-filled, darkened theatres in Sydney. She was a bonzer-looking sheila and he wondered why a well-known and respected Sydney businessman would want her dead.

A pod of dolphins followed the wake of the ship that spewed black coal smoke into the air as it prepared for the long voyage across the Pacific Ocean to San Francisco. The thin man flicked his cigarette butt at them as they drew close under the bow. Why Mr Macintosh wanted the woman dead did not really matter to him, he thought, as he unconsciously fingered the closed cutthroat razor in his trouser pocket. He was born into poverty but was an intelligent man and the dreaded Sydney street gangs had provided him with opportunities to make money. He had risen in their ranks because he was smart enough to keep himself out of jail. Even Inspector Jack Firth had grudgingly referred to him as a ‘good crim’ – that is, one who knew his business rather than one of exemplary morals.

So, he had only a few weeks when he got to Los Angeles to carry out his mission and then reboard the ship he was presently on. Back in Sydney he would collect the balance of his payment. He knew that on American soil he had the advantage of not being known to the local law authorities and so long as he kept to himself he would draw no interest from those around him. He would not live lavishly while he was in the States but simply carry out his observations as to the best place and time to cut her throat. Maybe, if the opportunity presented itself, he would use her for his carnal needs before he killed her. Proof of her death would easily be obtained. It was not every day that a film actress was murdered and it would be in the papers either side of the Pacific.

The thin man cupped his nicotine-stained hands around another cigarette and expertly lit it against the strong breeze blowing off the sea and across the deserted deck. He reflected on how his victim might have been living life to the fullest if only she knew that she had less than two weeks to live. The thin man had killed three times before with his deadly razor – a perfect score as he had only ever been assigned to kill three men. A hundred per cent result spoke for itself.

As if sensing the evil thoughts of the man on the deck above them, the pod of dolphins suddenly veered away from the bow of the ship and disappeared beneath the waves.

On the journey north towards Saul’s settlement the former Australian soldier explained that his men dressed as Arab irregulars fighting the Ottomans to disguise the fact that they were actually Jewish settlers. However, he pointed out, two of the men who rode in their ranks were actually Arabs from a nearby village.

‘The Moslems have a saying that goes something like this: the enemy of my enemy makes that enemy my friend,’ Saul explained. ‘Or words to that effect. My old enemy Abdullah from the village near our moshava has allowed his sons to ride with us against the Turks as his people have no love for the foreigners occupying their lands from Constantinople.’

On the evening of the first day they approached a small, squalid township surrounded by sparsely grassed and rocky lands where young boys attended to flocks of goats. Two of Saul’s men peeled away from the column to wave their salutes and ride towards the stone hovels.

Saul waved back, shouting something in a language Matthew did not understand but presumed was Arabic. For another hour they continued to ride down into a small valley where Matthew was surprised to see a veritable oasis among the arid hills; vineyards and orchards were laid out in neat patterns and a township of fine stone buildings was located at the centre of the valley. Saul and his men broke into a gallop. Matthew followed them into a cleanly laid out street where healthy, well-dressed men, women and children joyously greeted the return of their fighting men.

Saul slid from his saddle to hug two teenage boys. A pretty young woman wearing a head scarf and in her late twenties stood shyly by holding an infant girl on her hip. She stepped forward and Saul wrapped both wife and daughter in a tight embrace. Tears flowed down the young woman’s face.

‘My wife, Elsa,’ Saul said, turning to Matthew still astride his mount. ‘And the princess in her arms is my daughter who rules her two brothers, Joshua and Benjamin, here.’

Matthew dismounted to stand before two young boys he guessed were about twelve and thirteen years old. The eldest, he noted, had a German rifle slung on his shoulder. Both young men looked Matthew in the eyes and appraised him frankly when he shook their hands.

‘Pleased to meet you, boys,’ Matthew said. ‘I am an old friend of your father.’

Both boys nodded.

‘I am afraid that their English is not all that good,’ Saul said, now holding his daughter on his hip. ‘My wife speaks English, but was originally from the Russias, as most of the settlers in our moshava are. We tend to speak Hebrew here rather than Yiddish,’ he explained, although Matthew did not have much idea about the difference between the two languages. ‘Well, I am sure that you will look forward to a soft bed, a good meal and a bottle of excellent wine tonight, and we can talk about old times.’

Matthew was suddenly reminded of home. Not because of what Saul had just said but because he caught the slightest whiff of eucalyptus on the evening breeze. ‘Gum trees?’ he asked.

Saul broke into a wide grin. ‘My gum trees,’ he replied proudly. ‘They have helped us reclaim what was useless land and given us the opportunity to turn what our Arab neighbours sold to us into arable soil to plant our grape vines, olive and orange trees. It was one of my first jobs when I came to the settlement after Africa. That, and training the able-bodied to defend themselves against our Moslem neighbours. But that is a long story and I am sure that for the moment you would rather eat, drink and sleep.’

Matthew nodded and Saul guided him away from the horses now being led away to be brushed down, watered and fed by the young men and women of the village. Saul, Elsa and Matthew walked a short distance, all the time being so warmly greeted by the people in the street that Matthew had the impression that Saul was well respected and liked by those of his community.

They reached a neat stone house with a tiled roof. What made the house stand out in the street was a large, dustcovered Packard automobile parked in front. Matthew turned with a questioning look to Saul.

‘Oh, that is not mine,’ he answered the unspoken question. ‘It belongs to a guest, Miss Joanne Barrington of the New Hampshire Barringtons.’ Matthew sensed just the slightest hint of sarcasm. ‘She’s a Yankee archaeologist – or so she says. Her car broke down outside the settlement and we recovered it. The stupid woman is travelling virtually alone in war-torn countryside with nothing else to protect her than the fact she belongs to a neutral country. She feels that being an American abroad is enough to save her neck from bandits and rogue Ottoman troops.’

Before Matthew could ask any further questions about Saul’s intriguing American guest a young lady dressed in a white shirt and riding jodhpurs stepped from behind the car. Her freckled face was covered in oil and she held a large spanner in one hand. Her red hair flowed free about her shoulders and she had what Matthew would call a pretty elfish face with large, emerald-coloured eyes. He could also see that she was barely 5 foot 4 inches in height.

‘Mr Rosenblum,’ she called in a happy voice, ‘I am pleased to see that you have come home to us in one piece.’

‘My wife likes her,’ Saul growled under his breath to Matthew. ‘Otherwise, she is a pest around the settlement. Always talking women’s rights and them getting the vote. It will never happen.’

Matthew was aware that the pretty young American was looking at him with a curious expression on her face and smiled. She returned his smile, wiping her grease-covered hands on a rag she pulled from the hood of the big American car which surely would have cost a small fortune.

‘Miss Barrington, I should introduce another guest,’ Saul said. ‘Captain Matthew Duffy of the Australian Flying Corps, currently grounded due to the lack of being able to keep his aircraft in the sky.’

‘You crashed, Captain Duffy?’ Joanne gasped in her concern.

‘Shot down,’ Matthew replied stiffly as she put out her hand to shake his. Matthew was taken aback at the gesture he normally associated with men. But he had also heard stories that American women were very forward and frank. When he clasped her hand to shake it he was close enough to look directly into her captivating eyes. He had not felt that odd feeling for a long time. Matthew released his grip, realising that he was almost holding his breath. There was so much he had read in those large eyes. Both innocence and courage, but in ways he could not find words to explain.