by Geoff Lawson
By now, we had arrived at a major intersection and stood
outside a large hotel; a triple-storeyed brick structure that faced
‘the Avenue’ as the street was called. Straight across the road
was the Post Office, an equally grand and imposing affair.
“Look at that,” said Edward, pointing to the clock tower
above it. I couldn’t possibly miss it. It was the highest and
most significant structure I’d ever seen.
I also noticed a four-sided fountain in the middle of the
road. Exquisitely tall and of classical design, it was topped by
a cluster of gas lamps suspended from a fancy, cast-iron pole.
This whole place was impressive. I was so preoccupied with
all these marvels that I failed to notice the approach of another
lad of about my age – I walked straight into him.
“Beg your pardon,” I apologised in surprise.
“An’ so you should an’ all. You ought to watch where
you’re going.”
I wasn’t sure I liked his tone, but for now I chose to ignore
it. He was slightly taller and slimmer than I and looked a bit of
a swank. He wore a red and black tartan jacket with matching
trousers and his head was covered by a black bowler hat. He
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was using this opportunity to look me up and down and
sneered at my hardwearing country clothes.
“A country bumpkin, no less. No wonder you bump into
people, bumpkin.”
I bristled. “Don’t speak to me like that, you over-dressed
townie, turd-in-a-box!”
He blinked. For a second he tried to think of something
equally crass to say, but couldn’t manage it, so he resorted to
predictable mediocrity – he leaned closer and sneered.
“I speak how I want, bumpkin!”
That did it. I grabbed his jacket lapels with both hands and
shook him. His response was to grab me too, but I already had
the best hold and a struggle for dominance began. Then he
tried to trip me, but I wasn’t having that; I stepped over his
foot. Next, he let go with his right hand and tried a headlock,
but he was clumsy. I saw it coming and ducked. Then I lunged
against him, pushing him backwards with all the alacrity I
could muster until he tripped and we fell, the result being that
he landed on his hat with me on top.
I swiftly pinned his arms. He didn’t like that and struggled
to get free, but my weight had the better of him. Then I pinned
his arms with my knees, which left my hands free. Now, he
was completely stymied – his face fell, for there was no damn
chance he could wriggle out of that. Then I heard something
behind me. The next thing I knew, I received a whack on the
back of my head. Surprised, I looked up and discovered this
girl standing over me and threatening me with a brolly.
“Hey!” I growled, rubbing my head, “bugger off.” There
was no indication that she was about to comply.
“Stop your fighting!” she shouted, her eyes glaring. “If you
do not stop right this very minute, I will be forced to hit you
both!” She was balanced on her feet with a brolly swung back
over her right shoulder, fully prepared for attack or defence.
Words couldn’t convey the extent of my surprise. The top
of her head would scarcely come level with my shoulder and
the notion that she could beat me was utterly ridiculous. I
wagged my finger.
“Watch it miss, don’t do anything stupid.”
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She poked out her tongue. It was unfortunate for her that I
was now in a pretty good place and I was not in any mood to
give it up.
My antagonist, meanwhile, was watching all this and
commenced to struggle anew, but his position was hopeless
and he soon threw in the towel. Then missy decided she should
retake the offensive. She stepped towards me and took another
swing. This time I was prepared. In a flash, I grabbed the
brolly and held it fast.
“Give it back!” Her eyes enlarged with indignation and she
commenced to tug for all her worth, but I wouldn’t budge. We
glared at each other from the opposite ends of the brolly and it
was plain that she was not about to release it, so with both of
my arms free I commenced to drag her towards me, an inch or
two at a time.
She doubled her efforts, braced her skinny legs and leaned
back, straining her best to prevent it while I wolfishly grinned
and dragged her in, purposely bit by bit to prolong her
dilemma and provoke her rage; until we were virtually face-to-
face. By now it was plain that her possession of the brolly was
about to be lost, but I could sense that unless I was prepared to
forcefully prize her fingers from it, she was not about to give it
up.
“Let – it – go!” she breathed, her face red, our noses almost
touching. One had to admire her grit, although to be honest, I
had already proved that her possession of the brolly was not an
issue and that this had gone far enough, so I gradually let the
brolly go. She sprang back, a triumphant but wary look on her
face, while I got to my feet, mindful that I should keep my eye
on her. By now though, experience had proved that caution
would be a more sensible option and she made no attempt to
come any closer.
I began to appraise her with a good deal more interest. She
was pretty for one so young, for she would only be about
twelve. Her hair was pulled back and plaited. She wore a long-
sleeved dress that extended to her knees and a sash had been
wound around her waist. Her legs were covered with button-up
leggings which seemed to emphasize their skinniness and
large, hostile, brown eyes glared from a pixie face.
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I gazed back benignly, hoping that would help to calm her,
while wondering what to make of her. Meanwhile, my
antagonist rolled onto his knees and got to his feet, so she
faced-up to him as well, still trying to radiate menace and
threat.
“Aw, come on sis, put the brolly down. We were only
having some fun. It was nothing serious you know.”
She was too wound up to be having any of that. “Well
then! When you get home you can explain that to mother! You
can explain why you were brawling like a common hooligan
and we will see what she makes of that!”
Having perceived that I was no longer a threat, she had
dropped her arms. She gave me a look of undiluted hostility,
then abruptly turned and marched off. She had achieved her
goal of disrupting our altercation so I guessed there was no
longer any reason to hang around.
Stooping, my antagonist picked up his crumpled hat and
without a backward glance ran after her. “Aw come on Rach,
why does mother have to know about this?”
She was in charge here and she knew it.
They disappeared up the street, harping back and forth,
both of them engrossed in their sibling rivalry and neither one
about to back down an inch. He made a grab for her arm but
she
deftly avoided his outstretched hand and threatened to
whack him with the brolly. I laughed. Then I looked about for
Edward, who with arms folded, was taking it all in.
“Who on earth was that?”
“That was Albert Purdue and his sister. That Albert is a
smart arse, but you showed him.”
I grinned as my fingers probed a tender spot on the back of
my head. “Yeah and she got the better of both of us, don’t you
think?”
6
Chapter Two
CAPE COLONY, South Africa, October.
1899
Blue saluted the Major.
“Wilson as requested, sir,” then he turned and left. Major
Matlock was our company commanding officer. He was
fortyish, athletic and good at polo, with penetrating steely-blue
eyes and dark unruly hair that was starting to grey. He was
clean-shaven except for a thin moustache, which gave him that
devil-may-care appearance that was considered essential for a
professional cavalryman. He shuffled some papers into a pile
before he rose from his chair.
“Come with me, Wilson.” He escorted me outside his tent,
where under the awning were two men seated at a table
encircled with chairs.
“Well gentlemen,” said Matlock, addressing the two men.
“This is Private Wilson. These are Major Watermeyer and
Corporal Crawford of the Intelligence Bureau.”
I saluted them. Matlock pointed to a chair and we both sat
down.
It was immediately apparent that Watermeyer and
Crawford couldn’t possibly be a more contrasting pair.
Watermeyer was the elder of the two; fortyish and seemingly
informal. He was also slightly less than average height, stocky
in build with thinning hair and sported a thin moustache.
Crawford on the other hand was slim and about my age. His
wire-frame glasses enhanced his spindly appearance and he
was markedly formal in manner. He sat in his chair like he had
a rod up his back and his eyes darted with furtive precision
from one to another; but unless directly addressed, he was not
inclined to speak.
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“We have read the reports of the attack on your column and
note that you saw someone dressed as a priest leaving the
vicinity, just before the attack began.”
“Yes sir, I did.”
“Are you certain? No-one else mentioned anything about
seeing a priest.”
“Absolutely sir; he passed me no further than from me to
you.”
“Have you seen this man before?”
“No sir.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Yes sir, I probably would.”
“Describe him to me.”
“Well, he was mid-thirtyish, slim, with a long thin face. He
had straight, black hair and a closely trimmed beard. His arms
and body were completely covered by his cassock, yet he gave
me an impression of athletic strength.”
Watermeyer flopped back with one arm dangling over the
backrest of his chair. His face made it obvious that he was
deeply interested. He scratched the bridge of his nose for a
moment, evidently in thought, then leaned towards me.
“A good description. You are obviously observant. Do you
think he had anything to do with the attack?”
“Definitely, sir. There was only one road and all of us were
using it. If none of our lot saw him, then he must have
intentionally kept out of sight; he would have been aware that
they were coming and purposely hid to avoid them – and why
would he need to do that unless he was up to something?”
Watermeyer turned to Crawford. “I think this is our man.”
He looked back at me.
“Crawford here is an artist. Do you think you could assist
him to create a likeness of this fellow?”
“Yes sir, I certainly can.”
“Right then, best to get on with it.”
Watermeyer and Matlock rose from their chairs and
disappeared inside the tent, leaving Crawford and me to look
askance at each other. Hereached down beside him and opened
an attaché case which contained a sketchbook, pencils, pens
and inks.
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“Who is this man?” I enquired.
“You’d better come and sit by me,” he remarked without a
glance, fastidiously arranging his equipment in front of him
and setting to work.
When Crawford had finished I stood up and looked over
his shoulder. Although composed entirely from memory it was,
nonetheless, a pretty good likeness. Without looking up, he
suggested in a somewhat distant and preoccupied voice that
perhaps I should inform Major Watermeyer that the sketch was
ready, so I entered the tent to find Matlock and Watermeyer
locked into a serious conversation.
As I approached they rose from their chairs and we trooped
back outside to stand around Crawford, admiring his work.
“Do you think this is an accurate rendition?”
“Yes sir, it is to the best of my memory.”
He had captured the sweep of hair over the forehead
extremely well and the long face. The width of the eyes and
cheekbones was about right and the shape of the jaw was
pretty good too.
Crawford was slowly and meticulously shading the
background around the head to give the image better definition
in silhouette.
“Who is he sir?”
“Erich von Smidt,” said Watermeyer.
“Why is he of such interest to the Intelligence Bureau?”
“He is a spy and saboteur; a Prussian mercenary working
for Pretoria. His specialty is blowing things up and filtering
information of our movements. He is a Moriarty figure, a
ruthless and secretive phantom. So far, you are only one of
three people who have seen him who could identify him. In his
quests for information he has murdered a number of unarmed
military personnel in order to don their uniforms and penetrate
into the heart of our camps.”
“How can you be sure this is him?” asked Matlock.
“Because this picture more or less tallies with two other
descriptions. I’m sure he’s our man.”
“So what happens with the picture now?”
“We’ll distribute copies of this throughout the provinces so
people will know who to watch for. That should make it harder
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for him to snoop without being recognized; from that, we may
get reports of sightings and alert the general area to apprehend
him if they can.”
10
Chapter Three
WHANGANUI, NZ. November 1898
Eight years were to pass before I returned to the busy river
town of Whanganui. It was almost Christmas and I was now
twenty-four. Since leaving school I had done a lot of hunting
with father’s old Snider and during this time had successfully
bagged a lot of pigs, but these days, there were greatly
improved magazine rifles available that were considerably less
clumsy to load and shoot.
I wanted to buy a rifle that was new
and I could certainly
afford one. After my horse and stock saddles, this would be the
most expensive gift I ever bought. Mother and I arrived in
Whanganui on a Thursday, so we could do all our shopping the
following day. It was a bright and balmy morning when we
caught the train from New Plymouth and a relaxed, holiday
mood seemed to have settled over both of us. Predictably,
Eleanor was looking forward to our stay and while Mother and
Eleanor greeted each other I brought in the suitcases, after
which we sat in the kitchen for the requisite cup of tea. The
kitchen was roomy and the tongue and groove had been
repainted in a pleasant pale green, while modest English
landscapes hung at intervals from the walls. Also new was an
impressive kauri sideboard stocked with Churchill willow
pattern cups and plates, while above the stove an American
pendulum clock was ticking quietly on the shelf.
Wherever I looked, everything was spic and span; even the
coal range had been freshly blacked. I could just imagine
Eleanor labouring for days to make everything right for our
visit. Then my attention came back to the present company as I
refocused on the conversation.
“My, you’ve grown,” remarked Eleanor, smirking
mischievously. Her elbows were propped on a fancy linen
tablecloth with both hands cradling her cup. She wore a nice
linen blouse with subtle lacework down its front and her
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predominately blonde hair was pulled neatly back and up,
without a single hair out of place.
“What a young man you have become; and so handsome
and tanned too! I’ll bet the young ladies in Patea are keen on
you.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, I never get to see any young
ladies.” It was true, too. I lived in a world that was dominated
by men, where stock was the only equation. There was little
place in it for women; even my mother and sister rarely strayed
far from the house. It then occurred to me, that perhaps I was
missing a good number of things.
Maybe the farm was too large in my life. All the
neighbours had daughters, although none left me gasping with
the anticipation of seeing them again and besides, I only got to
see them at odd times, which didn’t provide much of a chance
to know them. It was probably time I should consider leaving
the farm to explore what the wider world had to offer.