Forgiven_BooksGoSocial Historical Fiction
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reached out and touched my shoulder. “Thank you, Richard.
I’m going to miss you. If you and your beloved are ever in
England, be sure to come and see me, won’t you?”
I smiled. “Will I need a letter of introduction from the
highest authority?”
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“Of course not, I’ll see to that!”
I waved as the column moved off and watched it grow
smaller until eventually, far off in the distance, the little cloud
of dust finally disappeared. I silently wished her luck. We both
knew it was unlikely that I would ever go to England. The final
moment of our acquaintance had passed; the cord that had held
us together was now irrevocably cut and cast aside. It was
highly unlikely we would ever see or hear of each other again.
Which was a pity. She had merit in every pore and deserved
more than what she’d got. Then I realised, it was really
unadulterated vanity on my part to be so judgmental. The
almighty, it seemed, had other plans for her; her time had not
yet come. There was also no valid reason for me to blandly
assume that I would get the girl I wanted either, although I
admit that I did think that. Until I got my discharge from the
Army and Miss Rachel Purdue became Mrs. Rachel Wilson,
there was no way of knowing for certain if fate had other plans
for me as well.
It was still dark when we arrived in Rensburg and while the
lads unloaded the horses I walked to the Royal to make my
report to Colonel Porter. The hour was late, although I had no
idea what the time could be and there were few lights to be
seen. After a night guard had woken the colonel I was ushered
upstairs to a room that served as his office and came to
attention and saluted. He was fiftyish, light in build and a
monocle adorned one eye.
“Lance Corporal Wilson sir, New Zealand Mounted Rifles.
Reporting as instructed by Colonel Saunders at Duntroon.” I
slid the satchel across his desk and he opened it, withdrawing
the two envelopes.
First, he read the notes from Saunders, his eyebrows rising
slightly, then without comment he put them down. Next, he
opened the other envelope and slowly read its contents. There
were a number of pages, all written in a formal, feminine hand.
When he finished, he lowered the letter onto his desk and took
his monocle out of his eye.
“That’s astonishing Wilson. Take a seat and tell me your
version of these last few days.”
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I began by telling him he had a courageous daughter, of
whom he could be justifiably proud. I held back nothing in
telling him of her part in luring the Boer close enough for me
to attack, and how she’d then climbed down from the wagon
and grabbed his discarded rifle; that in shooting him, she had
certainly saved my life.
Then, there was the loss of Blenkinsop and Jones and the
events that led to it, as I understood them to be. Lastly, I
brushed over the excitement generated by the appearance of
the phantom saboteur and potential abductor, Erich von Smidt.
Naturally, I neglected to mention that we had slept together on
the veld and that I had also spent a night in her room.
“I’m staggered, Wilson. That’s the most extraordinary
thing I’ve ever heard. My daughter’s letter makes it clear that
she considers your willingness to endanger your life to defend
her as above the call of duty. The way she tells it, she had
complete faith in you to protect her and her faith was not
misplaced. Then, you tell me she is a heroine who has saved
your life. I have no reason to doubt the testimony of either of
you. It sounds to me that the courage and veracity displayed by
all involved in this mission is, quite frankly, astonishing. Sarah
also states that your men displayed the greatest daring in
opening fire on the Boers, even though they were outnumbered
three to one.”
He dropped the notepaper on the table top. “It is plain that
with a small force you fellows have challenged a superior
group of hostiles and despite onerous circumstances, went on
to complete your task with a minimum of casualties. If that
were not enough, Saunders then states that you single-
handedly foiled a plot to abduct Sarah, the consequences of
which, had it succeeded, would have been too dreadful to
dwell upon. Then to cap it off, the villain you killed turned out
to be at the top of the Army’s wanted list – all of which
demonstrates what a splendid fellow you obviously are. May I
shake your hand?”
I was astonished; he was asking me if he could shake my
hand!
“This is outstanding and I will always be indebted to you
for the service you have rendered to Sarah. I will be
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mentioning this in dispatches; so don’t be surprised if you hear
more about it. Dismiss, and thank you for everything you have
done for us.”
Next morning, I was summoned by Major Matlock. After I
had been escorted in I stood to attention and saluted. Matlock
watched my approach with a grin from ear to ear and standing,
shook my hand.
“I have just received a memo from Porter concerning your
little escapade and I must say Wilson, that you have more than
vindicated our choice in you. Good work. Lady Sarah
considers you to be more holy than St Michael and so does
Porter. You are now a sergeant first class. Dismiss.”
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Chapter Twenty-one
WHANGANUI, New Zealand. January 1900
The sack was up-ended. Rachel tumbled out on the floor and
immediately noticed that she was in some kind of out-dwelling
– a bunkroom, while two large men stared down at her with
grins on their faces. They ranged in age from thirty-something
to forty and were well dressed in suits with paisley ties, but
despite their tidy appearance it was apparent from their scarred
faces that they were tough nuts who were not to be trifled with.
She glared. Instinctively, she folded her arms firmly around
herself for protection.
“Bounders! Villains! How dare you abduct me?” She
surprised herself by saying it without hysteria creeping into her
voice. “What is the meaning of this outrage?”
“Sorry about this miss, but duty is duty et al. Your place of
residence has changed for a while, as you may have noticed
yourself. Only temporary like, mind you, or at least until your
father and our boss have resolved their little problem, an’ then
you’ll be on yer way back home.”
“Problem? What problem? What are you talking about?”
Her voice began to rise and she checked herself. By now she
had rolled onto her knees and noticed the mess she was in.
Dust from the inside of the sack was all over her clothes and
would be all through her hair. Evidently, it was too much to
ask that they would have kidnapped her in a clean sack.
“Well miss, I suppose it would do no ‘arm to tell ye like;
it’s your brother, you see; skipped town he did, while owing
the boss a pile o’ money. The boss mind you, is a proper
gentleman, or at least he is most of the time, but ‘e don’t take
kindly to people that skip town owing ‘im bundles of money
like, so you are part of the collateral, so to speak; to ensure that
your ol’ man coughs up what’s due if you get my drift.”
Rachel gasped – it could only be Albert they were talking
about. If he is the root cause of this then he’d better be dead,
she thought. He’d better not come home ever; Father will skin
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him alive and strangle what little is left of him after he hears
about this. Come to think of it, right now she’d like nothing
better than to strangle the brat personally She composed
herself.
“What money? How much are we talking about?”
“Ah, well miss, it’s not for me t’ give you that sort o’ detail,
let’s just say that it’s quite a bit o’ folding stuff. It would ‘ave
to be to make it worthwhile bringin’ me an’ the lad ‘ere to get
it back now, wouldn’t it?”
Her heart sank. She took another glance around the room.
It was tongue and groove with a musty smell and a leak had
created a water stain that spread down the wall in one corner.
There was a single window, a bed with blankets on it, a small
table, a candlestick and a washbasin. In a corner stood a
bucket.
“What’s that for?” She had already guessed, but wanted to
be sure.
“That miss, is something for you to pee in, should none of
us be around an’ you ‘ave a crisis. When we is ‘ere we’ll be
next door – on the other side o’ that wall like. If you need to go
just thump on the wall an’ someone will come and let you out.
If we are ‘ere long enough an’ we get ‘round to eatin’ you’ll be
fed too, but it may not be as regular like as you’d be used to,
nor the cookin’ as good as your mother’s.”
Rachel felt sick. As if to add further insult, she could taste
grime from the sack that had worked into her mouth. She spat
at the floor and wiped her lips and eyebrows with what
appeared to be a clean piece of her sleeve, only to find that she
could taste even more grime. How could one ever prepare
oneself for something as horrible as this? It was utterly
demoralising and appalling.
“Don’ worry miss, we’re not goin’ t’ hurt you or anythin’,
lest of course you give us trouble, an’ if you try an’ escape we
may have to confiscate your coat, dress and shoes, so I’d dwell
on that if I were you. If you make this easy you’ll be back
home soon, your father’s co-operation dependin’ o’ course, but
I don’t think a pretty wee thing like you will need t’ worry too
much about the certainty o’ that.”
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Chapter Twenty-two
RENSBERG Region, South Africa. January
1900
Off to the east, the first streaks of a new dawn began to lighten
the distant sky. The moon had gone and invisible, we weaved;
concentrating to avoid obstacles, mindful of making any noise
– a clink of heel or toe plate on stone; a fall, or a discharge that
could destroy the element of surprise. Ahead lay our quarry,
sleeping; unaware that a ring of phantoms were creeping closer
and closer; stealthy, menacing and with dark intentions on their
minds.
We had been on patrol the whole of the previous day, only
to discover when we arrived back at our camp that we were
required to ride throughout the night. Now, at the end of our
trek, we were exhausted and badly in need of sleep; there was
nothing more to be done except wait for the sun to rise. We
dropped on the ground, rolled ourselves in our blankets and
with our reins tied to our ankles, we slept.
We roused when the moon had gone and spread around the
still sleeping Boers, closing like pincers, using the undulations
of the landscape to screen our advance. With carbines loaded
and actions open we wove across the intervening ground, eyes
fixed ahead. Now we were close, one hundred and fifty yards
and closing. As we approached the lip of the last depression we
dropped on our hands and knees, then slid down on our bellies,
crawling forward on elbows and knees, our hats pulled low and
bayonets fixed while we waited for the coming of the light.
Soon, the silhouettes of bell tents could be seen and the
Boers began to stir. We rose up and charged, sprinting as fast
as we could across the remaining broken ground. There was a
volley of shots from their pickets and down we went; first you
see us, now you don’t. We waited; silence and invisibility
would only add to their confusion.
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Handicapped by bad light, the Boers began shooting at
shadows, their virulent imaginations fuelling their anxieties;
their bullets whistling harmlessly overhead. Then their
shooting stopped; they would need to reload so we rose and
charged again, screaming like demons as we sprinted across
the remaining yards of ground. Some bolted on foot but most
were too late; cut off by a continuous wall of rifle muzzles that
had closed all around.
We had another advantage – we had the bayonet. We leapt
over their sangar walls and had them bailed, threatening to
charge. Reinforcements continued to pour in and wisely, the
Boers gave up and lay down their arms; or at least, all did but
one.
Despite looking down the bores of multiple gun-barrels, he
refused to put down his rifle. He was repeatedly called upon to
surrender and put his rifle down, but he just stood there and
wouldn’t. We yelled and motioned with our arms, but he just
glared back and didn’t. There was anxiety; trigger fingers were
poised, twitching, straining to react. No one wanted to become
a victim and multiple voices demanded that he put the gun
down, lay it on the ground and step back. But, he did no such
thing. He continued to stare in hopeless indecision, unmoving,
and did not comply.
Fuelled by tension, patience ran out; someone fired and his
rifle dropped. He slumped to his knees, both hands clasped
over the bullet hole, before collapsing on the ground. We
gathered around, silently looking down. Strangely, his face
seemed calm and serene –acceptance perhaps that this was to
be his fate. Then he asked for water. We stood around and
watched him go – there was nothing anyone could do.
The ground was full of rocks and a shallow grave was all
we could manage. There was no cross, no service and none
that would mourn him. We piled stones on him and stood
around, leaning on our carbines, too weary by now to even
talk. The completely wanton waste of his life was depressing
and unnecessary; had he put the rifle down he would still be
alive and well. Instead, he was buried out here in this wretched
wasteland where his family were unlikely to find his rema
ins.
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By ten that morning we had organised the able-bodied
prisoners, who were seated on the ground and under guard. At
the same time their wounded were attended to and loaded into
ambulance wagons that had been brought up by the Australian
Horse. The captured stores were stacked into a number of Boer
carts and wagons and after being pushed into a group and
doused with paraffin, were set on fire.
I watched with wearied eyes. The flames took hold and
smoke curled briskly into the air – tents, saddles and harness,
blankets, cots and food burned, while their rifles and
ammunition were counted and loaded into another wagon. The
heat from the burning stores was considerable and I wiped
sweat from my face as Matlock came up.
“Well Wilson, what have you got?”
I consulted the packing slip upon which I’d scribbled some
figures. “Eighty-six prisoners sir, approximately four wagon
loads of general stores and twenty-nine tents destroyed, eighty-
nine rifles and 8,000 rounds of ammunition captured.”
“Pretty good eh, that’ll put a dent in their activities.” Just
then, two men appeared behind him and Matlock turned to
make introductions.
“This is Major Ainsworth and Lieutenant Devereaux of the
New South Wales Carbineers.” I saluted both of them before
realising that there was something astonishingly familiar about
Devereaux; although I had never had any contact with the
Carbineers, I had definitely seen him somewhere before.
He was slightly taller and slimmer than I, dressed rather
tidily for someone on campaign, his slouch hat positioned
perfectly and his manner and speech equally formal and exact.
The introductions were concluded and the three of them
walked away, deep in conversation, while I stared at
Devereaux’s retreating form. It was then that recognition
finally hit home. His name wasn’t Devereaux – it was Purdue.
He was Albert James Ernest Purdue! What was Rachel’s
brother doing here?
He made no outward sign that he recognized me and he
probably hadn’t; the last time he saw me was a long time ago.
My name would mean nothing, for we had never been
introduced, so he would not know who I was. I knew him
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though, because I’d seen his portrait at the Purdues’, where
large, hand-painted photographs of the Purdue siblings were