Forgiven_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction

by Geoff Lawson

  Next morning we walked the three blocks to town, where

  mother and Eleanor went in search of Christmas presents and I

  wandered off on my own. Halfway down my first block I

  found what I was looking for – a sporting shop that traded

  firearms. Rifles were visible in a rack that could be seen from

  the windows, so I went on in for a look. There was the usual

  pile of second-hand shotguns, some shiny new ones and a

  couple of well-used military Martinis that had been shortened

  for hunting. There was also a new Stevens with an unusual

  folding, tang rear sight and a second-hand pump action

  carbine.

  But I couldn’t be bothered with any of these – it was the

  pair of new Winchesters which caught my eye. One was the

  most impressive magazine rifle I had ever seen and it had

  “Model 1895” engraved on the tang. I held it reverently. It

  oozed strength and quality, the action as tight as a vault; but it

  was too long and heavy for the bush. It was also expensive; at

  thirty-six pounds you would require a bank to afford it.

  I put it back in the rack and pulled out the other.

  Immediately, I was impressed by how light and graceful it was

  – and beautiful to point. It had a tapered twenty-four-inch

  barrel and the magazine held fifteen cartridges. By depressing

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  the lever and pulling it back one could fire it every few

  seconds. I just had to have one of these – it was nothing less

  than a mechanical marvel. The stubby .44 cartridge was hardly

  the most modern round available but as I scanned through the

  catalogue, I found the following commentary from the

  company that created it.

  From the frozen wastes of the north to the steaming jungles

  of the equator, the .44 Winchester Central Fire has killed more

  game large and small and men good and bad, than any other.

  That was good enough for me. The salesman put the rifle

  back in its box and I bought two hundred and fifty Union

  Metallic Co. cartridges in packets of fifty – the whole lot

  coming to eighteen pounds and nineteen shillings.

  Elated that I had achieved what I had set out for, I returned

  to the street, the box with the Winchester tucked firmly under

  my arm. I sauntered casually along, idly scanning displays in

  shop windows, and studied the mixture of people walking past.

  There were elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen and

  layabouts that loitered outside bars. There were hardware

  shops and outfitters, cake shops with delicious smells and

  bakers of fancy breads and biscuits. There was a wine shop

  with drinks I had never heard of and a shoe shop just for

  ladies. All of the sidewalks were covered with verandahs on

  fancy, cast-iron poles and I could see my reflection on

  shopfront windows as I sauntered on by.

  Then I saw her! It was her all right – I could hardly forget

  that face. Instantly, shopping dimmed and I moved to the edge

  of the footpath. From up ahead she had crossed the road from

  the other side and continued on in the same direction, and as

  she crossed she momentarily looked my way. Had she seen

  me? Had she remembered who I was? I lengthened my stride.

  We crossed Maria Place and I further increased my pace. What

  would I say? I didn’t really know.

  When we were separated by thirty yards she suddenly

  disappeared into a large three-storey building. I followed her

  and looked for her, but she was gone. The store was huge and I

  crisscrossed from one side to the other looking down every

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  aisle, but she was nowhere to be seen. At the far end of the

  store was a grand staircase, but she couldn’t have got that far

  without me being able to see where she went.

  In desperation, I looked around and saw that just inside the

  entranceway there was an elevator. That was it then, she could

  be anywhere in the building by now. Unwilling to trust myself

  to the unknown pitfalls of an elevator I piled up the stairs,

  where I passed beneath impressive, storey-high leadlight

  windows on my flight to the floors above. Disappointment

  followed; she wasn’t there either.

  I went back outside. The ornately-built brick store was

  called Warner’s, and was so large it had two grand entrances

  separated by long glass windows. I walked across the road and

  turned to look back, watching and waiting for her to reappear,

  but she didn’t materialise. I gazed in some adjacent windows

  but by now I had lost all interest in shopping, so I turned to

  look back at Warner’s, waiting for what seemed an agonisingly

  long time until eventually, weary and disappointed, I walked

  away. I didn’t know it then, but three floors above she was

  watching from an office window.

  It was one week later, while we were eating our evening

  meal, that father mentioned the number of holes made by pigs

  in our fences. These had increased markedly in recent weeks

  and something had to be done, so would I like to take a few

  days from regular work and go and fix them? I sure would, for

  as well as doing repairs to fences I would have a great

  opportunity to try my new rifle.

  Wild pigs are no respecters of fences. They poke their

  snouts between the wires and push until they create a space to

  slip through, extending the wire and leaving a permanent hole

  that allows sheep to escape. Commonly one could find pig

  dung with wool embedded in it, proving that pigs had been

  feeding on sheep carcasses. Aside from the damage they

  caused to pasture, they would also eat any new-born lambs,

  making it imperative to pursue them relentlessly at lambing

  time if you wanted to preserve your flocks.

  After breakfast, I brought in a couple of horses from the

  paddocks and put a stock saddle on the lighter one and a

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  packsaddle on the other. By mid-morning I’d loaded all the

  supplies I would need on the packhorse – wire, staples, batons

  and tools, ensuring that the weight of the load was balanced

  and firm before getting underway, keeping my food and rifle

  with me. I was looking forward to it, for as well as combining

  sport and work I would be on my own. Not that I minded my

  family – it was just that it was sometimes nice to get away

  from seeing the same group of people every day.

  I stopped upon reaching my favourite camping place.

  There was a clear meandering stream in the centre of a narrow,

  sheltered valley; the tops of the surrounding hills were dotted

  with bush and the bottoms were a carpet of lush green grass.

  Dotted here and there were clumps of young manuka, an

  occasional rimu, some beech and the odd kowhai, while the

  boggy places were dotted with picturesque stands of tree fern,

  a favourite haunt of pigs. I unloaded the horses and set up

  camp before making a lunch of cold mutton and taking a tour

  of the fenceline to pinpoint the locations of the holes.

  On the first evening I lit a fire and positioned my irons

  above it, adjusting
the chain that suspended the billy until the

  height was about right. I lounged back, watching the flames

  lick around the base of the tin, for that was what it was – a

  large recycled peach tin. I was content with the chop I’d

  cooked for my dinner and as I waited for the billy to boil, I

  thought about her.

  Would she have actually spoken to me? Possibly, but even

  if she remembered who I was, our last meeting would be

  unlikely to spark an interest in social pleasantries. She was a

  beauty though, no doubt about it; she was probably the belle of

  any occasion she went to. I could imagine the men all lining up

  to dance her legs off and give her the time of her life. I could

  just see it. A beau with a cab to whisk her and her mother

  away; a dance or the occasional ball, a Saturday afternoon

  flutter at the races, the theatre, or even a Sunday concert by the

  kiosk at the lake.

  I could picture her in the company of her friends, wearing a

  beautiful, cream coloured dress that was complimented by a

  parasol of embroidered gold thread. She would be smiling

  gracefully to all and sundry while her mother looked on;

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  brightly chatting as potential admirers suffered the company of

  others while waiting for a chance to engage.

  Her life would be one long social adventure. I couldn’t

  begin to imagine why she would want to live on a farm like I

  did – miles up some dusty road where church on Sunday

  would be the only contact with the outside world. For someone

  in her circumstances it would be nothing less than a prison

  sentence; and yet, that was precisely how I lived.

  The water began to boil, so I stopped my fanciful

  daydreams and dropped a handful of tealeaves into the water.

  What would I have said if I had managed to catch up with her?

  Lord only knows, I’m only good at farming. Imagine how

  inept I would be at a ball, for in all of my life I’ve never been

  to one, or even worn a tux if it came to that. Then there was the

  spectre of that upstart brother of hers. I could just see him

  hovering and glaring at anyone that he didn’t approve of.

  Imagine his reaction if he saw her talking to me. I banged a

  spoon against the sides of the tin a few times until the

  tealeaves sank to the bottom, then poured some of the brew

  into a mug and put it aside to cool.

  I had finished working early, so after I had eaten I decided

  to walk to the neighbouring farm and visit the Halls. Between

  the Halls and the camp was a track that wound its way up a

  long, steep ridge and entered the bush line near the summit.

  From there it crossed over the skyline and weaved its way

  down the valley that contained the Hall house on the far side.

  Before I left, I picked up the Winchester and filled the

  magazine.

  The late afternoon sun was bright and warm. As I climbed,

  the whistling of birds could still be heard when I reached the

  bush line near the summit. Once under the canopy, the light

  dropped and because it was close to sunset, the shadows cast

  by the sun’s dying rays were long and dark. The air was cooler

  and ten minutes later I reached the top, which was marked by a

  giant old rata stump

  I stopped for a breather. I was enjoying my walk and felt

  relaxed as I looked around, my nostrils absorbing the familiar

  scent of greenness and foliage decay. It was then that I made

  the discovery of unusually large pig tracks and dung with

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  sheep wool in it. Off in the distance a single bird still twittered

  among the trees.

  Then I heard something that was distinctly alarming and it

  seemed to be coming from very close range. Not daring to

  move and scanning the pervading gloom, I tried to pinpoint the

  direction of the sound. Then I heard it again, off to my left in a

  patch of deep shade.

  Much of the fern was higher than my waist and elsewhere

  it would have covered my head, effectively screening the

  source of the sound. Then I remembered that large boars were

  potential killers – they have been known to stalk and attack

  their victims without warning. At other times they grind their

  tusks when they are about to charge. Could that be what I was

  hearing now? Desperate to find somewhere safe, my eyes

  came to rest on the rata stump. At six feet high it was all that

  remained of a fallen forest giant, and now it represented my

  only likely chance. I reached it in one bound and throwing the

  Winchester upon it, I launched myself up.

  The boar attacked as soon as I moved. A good pig would

  go two hundred pounds, but this brute was double that, for

  when he stood extended on his hind legs his snout was almost

  level with the top of the stump. For a second I stared into his

  bulging eyes, then I grabbed the Winchester and fired straight

  at his head.

  To my immense disappointment, the bullet simply bounced

  off the slope of his forehead. His beady eyes vanished behind a

  cloud of powder smoke, although through the pall I could still

  make out his shoulder, so I levered another round and shot him

  again; but it was of no use. The bullet merely flattened out and

  whistled off to god knows where, his tough old hide seemingly

  impossible to penetrate.

  As I watched, the brute begin to circle, slowly stalking

  round and round, the bristles on his back standing up. Only a

  few yards away; he was grunting and looking for a way up.

  Fortunately, the ground sloped away on the opposite side, so

  there was no access for him there. It was obvious by now that

  he was not about to let me off the hook and as I pondered what

  else I could do, he made a mistake. He quartered away from

  me as he skirted a piece of rotting tree, thereby exposing his

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  flank. The hide on his flanks would be far thinner than his

  shield and therefore he was eminently more vulnerable.

  I shot him just behind the ribs; so the bullet would angle

  downwards towards his heart. That got him! He spun around

  fast and attacked the stump, his beady eyes blazing with fury. I

  fired another at his head to discourage him and with eyes

  glowering he turned aside. As he did, he exposed his other

  flank; so I hit him again, down low, just behind his left front

  leg. I heard the thud as the soft lead .44 struck home and he

  sprinted off into the gloom. He did not show himself and the

  surrounding bush was silent. There was no sound of anything

  moving out there.

  Twilight was now almost gone. He was lying low, no doubt

  trying to fool me into getting down from the stump. There was

  no way in hell I was about to do that, so I settled in for a long

  wait. Through the silence I could still sense him watching,

  waiting for me to make a mistake. I had to resign myself to the

  fact that I would not be meeting the Halls tonight, for I would

  have to remain on this stump until daylight returned, if I was to

  avoid confronting that brute in the dark.

&nbs
p; For once, I missed father’s old Snider. The Snider’s heavy

  bullet would have killed him for sure, for he was just too big

  for the light bullet of a Winchester. Then I heard him move. He

  was still out there. The night dragged on and so did the cold.

  Sleep was impossible. I sat and shivered with my rifle cradled

  in my arms, stiff and uncomfortable; having to frequently

  change position to ease my aches while constantly straining to

  hear the surrounding darkness.

  Finally, after what seemed a miserable, never-ending

  eternity, the cold grey gloom of dawn began to peel the cover

  of night away; but I continued to wait, for I was not yet ready

  to leave the protection of the stump. More time drifted by.

  There were more aches, more cramps and more of nothing

  happened. Eventually, stiff and with slits that passed for eyes, I

  decided I had endured enough. I could not bear to sit here any

  longer, so I slid off the stump with my rifle at the ready.

  Nothing happened. The silence of the bush was absolute. The

  brute was gone.

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  Chapter Four

  CAMP ORMANVILLE, Cape Colony.

  November 1899

  As I approached, Matlock looked up. I had found him reclining

  behind his desk, which was strewn with the usual detritus that

  went with deskwork. He leaned back and absently scratched at

  something behind one ear, his other hand rhythmically tapping

  his desktop with a pencil stub.

  “I’ve received a memo from Watermeyer that concerns

  you, Wilson.” He dropped the pencil and sat upright, lurching

  forwards on both elbows.

  “It would appear that the Intelligence Bureau are about to

  go after Eric von Smidt and have assembled a team for the

  task. They want you to go with them, because you are the only

  candidate they have who can positively identify him and has

  the necessary credentials for the job. So it’s a done deal. I’ll

  keep you posted on developments but meanwhile, you are to

  keep this under your hat. This operation is very hush-hush.”

  A couple of days afterwards, an armoured train pulled into

  a siding adjacent to the railway station and remained there.

  This sparked a good deal of interest around the camp, as we

  had never actually seen one of these fortifications on wheels

  before. The army was experimenting with various types of

  armoured train, the object being to create a reconnaissance