by Peter Watt
Patrick nodded, apparently satisfied by his answer. Then Arthur spoke, breaking the tension Matthew was experiencing.
‘Maybe you would like to show Miss Macintosh and masters Macintosh around, Matthew, while I have a talk to the major. You know enough after two weeks here to explain all that we do.’
Matthew nodded. He was grateful to be out of Major Duffy’s presence.
While Patrick followed Arthur outside to the privacy of the garden Matthew took the three Macintosh children into the darkroom where he cautioned against touching anything as the chemicals were dangerous. Showing them outside to a shed where the cameras and other equipment were kept, Matthew spoke using the technical language he had picked up from his mentor. He was a quick learner and Arthur had been pleased with the work of his new assistant, especially as Ralph had recently left to visit his family in South Australia for a time. While continuing his demonstrations and explanations, Matthew took every opportunity to steal glances at Fenella. She, in turn, acted as aloofly as a young lady should whenever she caught him doing so.
Her brothers were quick to notice their sister’s strange behaviour, however; she would be in for some teasing when they got home. Matthew had taken a dislike to George. He had caught the boy sneering behind his back at the idea that moving pictures might one day be an industry. But there was also something else about the boy that Matthew did not like. Possibly it was in the way he dominated his younger brother. But Matthew liked Alexander. He seemed a curious and genuinely interested boy.
After the three Macintosh siblings had departed with their father, Arthur informed Matthew that they had been invited to afternoon tea with Lady Enid Macintosh the very next afternoon. Matthew tried to look indifferent. Asking as casually as he could if Miss Macintosh would also be in attendance, Arthur grinned widely and replied, ‘No doubt she will be, Matthew.’
The afternoon tea was intended as a farewell function for Lady Enid’s grandson who would depart on a coastal steamer for Brisbane the following day. Major Patrick Duffy’s friends and family would not see him again for at least a year – if ever.
Enid had invited only a handful of Patrick’s closest friends to share the magnificent spring afternoon in the beautifully manicured garden. The afternoon was intended to be gay with laughter. However, it was subdued in a way that made Enid wish she had not sent the invitations.
The men talked of the shock reverses the British army was suffering at the hands of the Boers, an army better equipped in artillery and small arms than the British had expected. Modern artillery pieces from Germany were blasting holes in the stolid ranks of British infantry while the latest in small arms technology, the Mauser rifle, was being employed to fire a smokeless cartridge. It gave unseen marksmen the deadly ability to fight and flee – and the cold steel of the British bayonet was proving no match. In all, the news being telegraphed to the world painted a picture as bleak as any known to the Empire in many a year, and it was to the Boer-dominated kopjes and veldt that Major Patrick Duffy was going.
Matthew did not feel out of place amongst the important guests at Lady Macintosh’s afternoon tea. As one of the wealthiest people in the Colony of Queensland, with holdings in mines, pastoral properties, transport and numerous other enterprises, his own mother had often hosted such functions and entertained equally as important people at their home in Townsville.
The suit purchased for him only that morning by Arthur fitted Matthew well. He had accepted Arthur’s kind gesture on the understanding that he would pay it off out of his wages over a period of time. It was ironic when he remembered the suits that he had left hanging in wardrobes at his home in Townsville. But, as he reminded himself, he was no longer Matthew Tracy. He was now Matthew Duffy and his real identity must remain a secret if he was to be successful in enlisting.
Upon introduction to her, Matthew’s impeccable manners impressed Lady Enid. Alone in the company of Arthur, she complimented him on his choice of an assistant. ‘I hope he is nothing more than your assistant in your work, Captain Thorncroft,’ she said sternly, fixing him with a steely stare.
‘Nothing more, Lady Macintosh,’ Arthur replied with feigned shock.
After his introduction, Matthew looked around for Fenella. He finally found her under a marquee on the lawn in the company of a tall young man, about sixteen years of age and dressed in the clothes of one born to wealth. From a short distance away Matthew thought that Fenella’s companion paid an undue interest in her. He waited impatiently until the boy was called away before making his approach.
‘Can I fetch you a glass of lemonade or a buttermilk, Miss Macintosh?’ he asked. Fenella shook her head, looking up at him from under a delicate sunbonnet. ‘Mr Bryant is looking after me, Mr Duffy,’ she replied sweetly.
‘Is Mr Bryant that bloke you were talking to?’ he glowered, unthinkingly using a term he had picked up from his workmates on the building site. ‘Bloke’ was not good English.
‘That bloke,’ Fenella said teasingly, ‘is the son of one of the wealthiest families in Sydney, Mr Duffy. Some day he and I shall marry.’
‘I thought you were going to be in moving pictures,’ he muttered, before her smile confirmed that he had stumbled into her trap.
‘Yes, I shall be famous first, then I shall marry,’ she said. ‘Or possibly I shall not marry at all.’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter to me either way what you do. I’m off to South Africa as soon as I can join up.’
Matthew’s retort, delivered with a shrug of his shoulders, brought a response he did not expect. He felt Fenella’s hand on his and a sudden shift in her mood. She did not say anything but turned and walked quickly away from the guests in the garden towards a winding path that led down to the edge of the harbour through a blaze of brightly flowering shrubs.
Confused, Matthew stood for some moments before following. He found her sitting on a wooden pier that jutted into the harbour, feet dangled over the edge and long skirt drawn towards her knees, exposing milky white legs. She stared across the blue waters at the ships moving slowly towards the twin sandstone heads that acted as the gateposts to the harbour.
As Matthew sat down beside her he could see that she was crying and felt a strong urge to put his arm around her shoulders.
‘I’m sorry if I said something to upset you,’ he said softly, watching the tiny silver fish flash beneath their feet in the water.
Fenella wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It’s just that Father sails away from us tomorrow and Mother has already gone. I don’t know if I will ever see either again and I’m frightened.’
‘Your father is a good soldier. He will come back.’
‘And Mother?’ Fenella asked sadly. ‘Will she come back to us?’
‘I don’t know, Miss Macintosh. I did not know that she had gone away.’
‘No-one speaks of her anymore,’ Fenella continued bitterly. ‘It is as if she never existed. All I know is that she told us she would only be gone for a year to do something important in Ireland. But if it was that important why didn’t Father go with her?’
‘I don’t know,’ Matthew replied helplessly.
All he knew of Fenella’s mother was what he had been told by his own: that she was an Irish beauty distantly related to the family on her own side. He wished now that he had asked more but such matters of faraway family relationships bore little interest to a young man.
‘Would your father not be with your mother if something was that important?’ she asked with a little sob.
‘My father is dead. He died when I was born,’ Matthew said flatly. ‘I never knew him . . . just about him.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Duffy. It must have been hard for your mother.’
‘It was. I think she still loves him even though he has been dead for over fourteen years.’
‘But that would only make you a year older than me,’ Fenella replied in a puzzled tone. ‘Mr Thorncroft said you were eighteen.’
Matthew blushed furi
ously. He had tripped himself up!
‘You have been telling lies about your age,’ Fenella continued in an accusing tone that caused him to squirm.
Matthew did not know how to reply.
‘Is Matthew Duffy really your name? Or are you telling lies about that also?’
‘My name is Matthew but I cannot tell you my real family name. All I can do is beg you not to tell anyone what you know of my age,’ he pleaded. ‘It is important that I get in the army. The most important thing in my life. It is something I must do for my father who I never knew. Please keep my secret.’
As Fenella stared at him he could see doubt in her eyes. Was it all over? Would she tell her father and all would then be revealed? His life hung on the tiny thread that was a young girl’s whim. ‘I will not tell anyone, Matthew. I think that you are one of the most remarkable young men that I have ever met.’
‘Even more remarkable than your Mr Bryant?’ Matthew asked with a sheepish grin.
‘Even more remarkable than that silly young man. He is not half as brave as you.’
Then she leant over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
Matthew sat stunned until Fenella swung herself away from the edge of the pier, stood up and brushed down her dress. He pushed himself up to stand beside her. Without a word she placed her hand in his and together they walked up the winding path. When they reached the top and were almost in sight of the guests she let his hand go as if nothing had occurred between them. But Matthew was in love for the first time in his life.
A NEW
CENTURY
1900
TEN
The hot, still summer air over the African veldt shimmered ahead of the outriders from the column as they fanned out along the high ground that rose up into a cluster of rocks that the Boers called kopjes. Private Saul Rosenblum no longer felt the sweat that continuously covered his body under his heavy khaki tunic. Nor was the exhaustion of the forced march to Bloemfontein a consideration. It was something that he had long learned to live with over the four months he had campaigned in South Africa.
His tough little mount endured the same conditions of searing heat by day and bitter cold by night. If they were not sweating they were shivering. Not even the summer storms that came to lash the seemingly endless miles of rolling plains gave comfort to the soldiers advancing relentlessly towards the Boer capital in the Orange Free State under the command of General Lord Roberts.
The regular swish of the horses’ legs through the tall grasses was suddenly drowned by the shattering crack of Mauser rifles firing from the kopje ahead of the flanking outriders of the Queensland Mounted Infantry. Private Rosenblum was wrenched from dreams of a decent beef stew, a hot bath and clean sheets as his mount reared, the deadly rounds plucking at her body. She crashed to the ground, flinging her rider free.
‘Into ’em, boys!’ Saul heard Major Duffy roar amidst the terrifying crash of the high velocity rifle fire. He crawled painfully away from his horse as she thrashed helplessly on her side in the tall grass, her terrible dying whinnies of confusion and pain adding to the trooper’s fear. Although he still clutched his rifle in his hands despite the heavy fall, he realised that the bandolier of Lee Metford rounds slung diagonally across his chest had been flung away from him when he hit the ground.
Desperately feeling around for the precious ammunition, Saul soon found it a few feet away. Around him, horses’ hooves pounded the earth as the rest of the flanking party charged the knoll of rocks. A lethal hail of Boer bullets plucked the tips of the grass around him and Saul hugged the ground as if trying to be absorbed by the very earth itself. He knew from past experience that the Dutch farmers could be deadly accurate with their modern German rifles, so he dared not raise his head above the concealment provided by the tall grasses. But as quickly as the incoming rifle fire had rent the hot air, it tapered off into a spasmodic sound of distant shots. He guessed the Boers had employed their ruse of harassing fire and then escaped down a reverse slope to their waiting mounts. There was no hope of catching the expert horsemen as they galloped away to do the same further up the track. Their own horses had been pushed far too long and were in no state to gallop after the Boer skirmishers.
Major Duffy appeared above him astride his mount and glanced down with an expression of concern on his face. ‘You’ve been hit, Private Rosenblum?’ he asked with a note of concern.
Saul eased himself into a sitting position and reached for his broad-brimmed hat. ‘No, boss. But it looks like old Nelly copped it.’
As Patrick reached down to help Saul to his feet the trooper gazed across to the rocky knoll at the rise of the undulating grassy veldt. With bayonets fixed, his comrades were on foot, searching amongst the rocks. Although Saul could not hear them, he guessed they were cursing the elusive Boer guerillas, who refused to stand and fight a pitched battle.
‘Anyone else injured?’ Saul asked the special services officer who had been attached to his unit of Queensland Mounted Infantry.
The QMI rode to a battle like cavalry men but fought on foot like infantry whilst their horses were held in the rear by a handler. On the seemingly endless plains of the South African campaign this strategy proved highly effective against an enemy that used the mobility of the horse to strike at the less mobile British army which was hampered by a cumbersome logistics system.
‘We were lucky – this time,’ Patrick replied. ‘Lost a couple of horses and Private Grady hit in the leg. Not serious. Wasn’t one of those damned explosive bullets of theirs. You can take Grady’s horse.’
‘Thanks, boss,’ Saul replied as he chambered a round to put his own horse out of her misery.
She no longer whinnied but lay on her side snorting in laboured breaths, blood oozing from five holes in her broad chest. Her big brown eyes rolled in pain as Saul levelled the rifle at her head and fired. She jerked at the impact and then relaxed. The pain was gone. Major Duffy turned sharply and cantered towards the knoll to rally the flanking party and take stock of what they may have found for intelligence purposes.
Saul limped across to Grady’s horse grazing quietly on the grass. The rider was sitting beside his mount holding his leg and pulling a face as he gritted his teeth but making no audible complaint. Saul knew Grady from Brisbane where he was renowned as a rugby player. He was also an easygoing soldier liked by his comrades.
‘I’ll get you down to the medical wagons, Harry,’ Saul said, bending over to give his comrade a sip from his water canteen. ‘The boss has given me your horse.’
Grady grinned up at him when he had swallowed the warm water. ‘Better a bullet than to die of the shits,’ he said, knowing that enteric fever and dysentery had taken a terrible toll on the expeditionary force since it had arrived.
‘Yer not going to die of that wound, Harry. Probably get sent home to boast about how yer got it in the charge against the Dutchmen.’
‘Trouble is I didn’t. I went down before I even heard the shots. Never got a chance to follow Major Duffy up the hill. I suppose if he hadn’t given the order so quick we might all be lyin’ out here dead,’ Grady reflected grimly. ‘Didn’t give them Dutchmen a chance to pick us all off. Just straight into ’em before they knew what was comin’.’
Saul nodded. Although he did not have direct command over them, Major Duffy was extremely popular amongst the men of the unit. Major Duffy’s posting was more like a liaison role between the British staff of the column and the colonial soldiers. But he had a habit of spending his time wherever he thought the bullets might fly and his cool courage and competence had earned him the enviable title of ‘boss’ rather than the formal ‘sir’ that the British officers insisted on.
‘You able to get on yer horse?’ Saul asked as he helped his colleague get to his feet.
Grady nodded, wincing when he placed weight on his leg where the bullet had lodged in his thigh. The rest of the troop were filing down from the kopje as Saul helped haul Grady astride his mount. Four months was more
like four years, Saul thought as he doubled with O’Grady and reflected on his time in South Africa. All he had to do was survive another eight months and he would be free to go home. War was not as romantic as it had been portrayed by the cheering crowds in Brisbane when they had departed. It was just downright dirty, dull and dangerous.
General Roberts’ strategy was to thrust north along the axis of the vital railway track to Bloemfontein and hence the capital of the Boers, Pretoria. He planned to capture the seats of Boer government and in turn force the Boer armies to abandon their sieges of Ladysmith, Kimberley and Mafeking, names that had become rallying points of patriotism for the people of the British Empire. But in doing so he was forced to march his column at a relentless pace. To advance the required ten miles a day meant rations of only three hard biscuits, a quart of tea and half a pound of tinned beef per man, with little fodder for the horses and mules. The column’s route was marked by the carcasses of hundreds of horses and mules which had simply died of exhaustion and starvation. To the men of the colonial contingent the pitiful sight of brave animals dead and dying was heartbreaking. These were men who valued the horse as a companion, men who had traversed the great Outback of Australia’s colonies prospecting for gold, mustering sheep and cattle, or riding the boundaries where the horse is often the best means of staying alive in a hostile land.
But Roberts, bestowed with the Victoria Cross at Kandahar many years earlier, knew that his strategy might bring the war to a close and so the men of the column marched and rode with a desire to fulfil his aim and go home.
It had not all ended by Christmas 1899 as many had predicted, however, with the Boer armies inflicting some of the worst defeats in recent history on the British army in the closing days of the century. And now in the dawn of a new century, Private Saul Rosenblum faced the terrifyingly quick-firing guns known as pompoms, which threw explosive shells almost as fast as a machine gun. When the explosive projectiles burst open they would shower an area of ground with red hot fragments of iron shrapnel. He had also faced the barrages of the larger artillery guns of the Boer army which shook the earth under him as he hugged it, hearing it tear through men’s bodies and inflict terrible, ragged wounds of smashed muscle and bone. He had seen men and animals disembowelled, limbs torn from bodies, and heads smashed to pulp by the effects of the heavier shrapnel fired on them from the big field artillery pieces. These were sights that would haunt him for as long as he lived. Often he despaired of ever seeing the wide, sun-baked plains of the Queensland Outback again but, like all soldiers, he did not admit his fears to those who rode with him. What counted was that he did not let his mates down when they needed his courage and skill in battle.