by Peter Watt
‘Nellie, you are late again,’ Randolph heard Arthur chide.
Randolph turned to see Fenella walking barefooted down from Arthur’s cottage. She was wearing a long, flowing white dress and no hat. He frowned when he saw Wilkes follow her, wearing jodhpurs and a silk shirt unbuttoned to the chest. He strode across to the horse and the big animal attempted to prance away when Guy reached out for it.
Randolph grinned. It was obvious that the actor was going to have a hard time with his scene. From where he stood the American could see Guy berating the horse handler. Then he stomped angrily over to Arthur who was supervising the set-up of the camera with Bob Houston. More harsh words were exchanged and Arthur threw up his hands in obvious despair. Fenella sat down on the log that she and Randolph had shared the night before, watching the tantrums with a bemused expression.
‘Texas,’ Arthur called to Randolph. ‘Could I have a word with you?’
Randolph walked across to the huddle of cameraman, director and actor.
‘Do you think that you might be able to handle this horse?’ Arthur asked with a pained expression, gesturing to the snorting stallion. ‘I believe that you were once a cowboy in your own country.’
‘And a stockman here,’ Randolph added. ‘I will see what I can do.’
He walked over to the horse handler who was holding the reins. ‘What’s the big fella’s name?’ he asked.
‘Darkie,’ the handler replied. ‘He don’t usually play up like this. Looks like he don’t like the other bloke.’
‘That means Darkie and I have something in common,’ Randolph said, reaching out to touch the snorting horse on the nose. With gentle strokes, Randolph spoke softly to the horse as one would croon to a child. Soon the horse stopped its snorting and appeared to quieten. ‘He and I will be good pals,’ Randolph said, turning to the handler and taking the reins from him.
Arthur joined Randolph by the stallion. ‘I know that I am asking a favour but do you think you could do this scene and ride at full gallop along the beach, leaping from the horse when you reach Nellie? I can substitute Guy in the editing and have him swooping Nellie into his arms and kissing her. All you have to do is ride like the devil and leap from the horse.’
‘Sure,’ Randolph said with an easy smile. ‘What do I need?’
‘Well, you will have to change into clothing to match Guy’s outfit,’ Arthur said with a tone of relief. ‘We have a spare outfit up at the cottage that I think will fit you.’
‘Won’t it be obvious that it is me and not Guy on the horse?’ Randolph asked.
Arthur broke into a broad smile. ‘Dear chap,’ he said, ‘this is the magical world of movie making. We have ways to make it look like Guy. All you have to do is ride the horse, leap off into the surf and leave the rest to me.’
‘Okay,’ Randolph said, looking across to Fenella who was shading her eyes and obviously watching him. Randolph gave her a wave which she returned.
When he had changed and returned to the beach Fenella was already standing in the gentle surf, waiting for him to do his part in the scene.
Randolph swung himself into the saddle and the horse barely flinched at the stranger on its back.
‘Take him down about a couple of hundred yards and when you ride towards us keep parallel with the track,’ Arthur directed. ‘Bob will be attempting to move towards you on the trolley.’
Randolph glanced down at Bob Houston kneeling behind his camera while two burly men crouched in a position to push him as fast as they could when the time was right. With a mock salute, Randolph swung the horse’s head around and cantered down the beach. He swung the horse around and waited for Arthur’s command.
‘Go!’ Arthur shouted through a megaphone.
Randolph kicked the big mount into action. He was pleasantly surprised to feel the horse react so well to his handling and charged forward. He could hear the crew cheering him on and before he knew it Fenella loomed up before him in the surf. With practised ease, Randolph swung himself from the saddle and swooped Fenella into his arms, kissing her passionately on the lips even as he could hear from the beach something about ‘cut’. Fenella’s surprise was such that she did not resist and melted against him, returning the passion. The kiss seemed to go on forever and Randolph could hear the cheering from the crew as they watched the unscheduled scene.
Breathlessly, Fenella finally broke the spell and drew back, a dreamy expression on her face. ‘That was not supposed to happen,’ she said with a warm smile.
‘Sorry,’ Randolph replied without really meaning it. ‘I got a bit carried away with this acting thing.’
‘I hope that you were not acting,’ Fenella chided gently.
‘I wasn’t,’ Randolph said, grinning down at her.
They both burst into laughter and Randolph lifted Fenella off her feet in a bear hug, carrying her back to the beach where the crew were clapping their appreciation.
However, Arthur was frowning. ‘That was not part of your instructions,’ he said and suddenly burst into a broad smile. ‘But your acting was so good that I think we will have trouble editing it out. Well done, Texas.’
Randolph made a short bow and looked up at Guy Wilkes whose face was a mask of fury. Randolph grinned a challenge to do something about his bold advance on Fenella, but the actor simply turned on his heel. As he stomped away. Randolph realised that Fenella was still holding his hand.
10
Sister Bridget considered herself a dedicated nun, one whose life would most probably end in the jungles of the Pacific Islands, serving the needs of her church. She was the fifth in a family of eight girls and two boys, born into an impoverished life in Dublin. The Church had offered the young woman an opportunity for a life outside the soul-destroying slums of the Irish city. For the past twenty years Sister Bridget’s only contact with her family in faraway Dublin had been by letters – mostly from her younger brother who followed her in the order of birth. As children they had been close, living and playing in the filthy back streets of the Irish capital. In those days Bridget had been her brother’s protector but now he was dead. Liam had not died of natural causes, but from the bullet of a Lee Enfield rif le in the hands of a British soldier. For Liam had been a revolutionary, sworn to freeing his country from the occupation by the Protestant English.
Sister Bridget was now in the fifty-fifth year of her life and had witnessed first hand the suffering of the Tolai people under the yoke of German rule. She was fluent in German and also the Tolai language, and although she despised the German government she did not hate the German people. Liam had often stressed to her that if any country in Europe rallied to assist in the struggle for Irish independence from England, it would be Germany, a natural enemy of the British people.
‘He rambles about clearing the jungle,’ Sister Bridget said to Hauptmann Hirsch, standing in the shade of a grove of rainforest giants just a short distance from the clinic where Alex lay in a fever. ‘I do not know what he means.’
‘Thank you, Sister,’ Hirsch said, himself also of the Catholic faith. ‘I must confess that I also do not know what his ramblings mean. No doubt your closeness to Father Umberto might reveal if the man is a spy working for the English government. I fear that Captain Macintosh is not simply here for humanitarian reasons.’
‘I must return to the clinic,’ Sister Bridget said. ‘Father Umberto will be taking patients very soon.’
Dieter Hirsch nodded and watched the nun walk unsteadily away with the aid of a walking stick. God did not spare nuns from arthritis and the good sister suffered badly in the hip from the debilitating disease. He pondered on what Sister Bridget had overheard during her nursing shift with the gravely ill Australian. Clearing the jungle . . . Why would the Australian army officer be fixated with clearing the jungle? It did not make sense. Hirsch shrugged. It was time to speak with Father Umberto and ascertain the patient’s health.
As the German militia captain walked out of the shade of the trees he noticed one
of his Tolai police running towards him with an expression of fear across his dark face.
‘What is it, Buka?’ Hirsch asked.
‘The Tolai,’ Buka answered. ‘They stole a rifle and ammunition.’
‘God in heaven!’ Hirsch exploded. ‘When, and whose rifle?’
‘It was my rifle and it happened just now,’ Buka answered, standing at attention. ‘A bush kanaka took it when we were eating at the kitchen.’
Hirsch had some sympathy for the man confessing that he had lost his rifle. The Tolai policeman knew the harsh penalty he might incur for such a breach of regulations. Past cases of missing rifles usually suggested the policeman simply deserted rather than face a charge. But Buka had owned up immediately. ‘Get the others to parade now,’ he commanded. ‘We will commence a search for the offender and when we find him he will answer for his crime against the government.’
Buka ran back to where his companions nervously awaited the outcome of his admission to their commander. Within seconds they tumbled onto the large cleared space between the buildings of the mission station. When Hirsch questioned his men as to what they had witnessed one of them said he thought he knew in which direction the offender had gone. He even recognised the man from a nearby village that they had once visited. Hirsch suspected that the thief would be making his way back there.
Father Umberto had already heard of the theft of the rif le and hurried across to the German officer. ‘My people have told me that it was not one of them who took your weapon,’ he said. ‘They are a peaceful community and informed me that the thief is a man from the village east of here.’
‘I know,’ Hirsch said to ease the worry he could see in Father Umberto’s face about possible reprisals from the government for the serious breach of internal security in his mission station. ‘I will take my men and go immediately to the other village.’
Without any further thought of his duty to Alex Macintosh, Hauptmann Hirsch ordered his patrol to set off in pursuit of the thief.
By the time night fell over the mission station Hirsch had not returned. Alex was now out of the worst of the fever. He sat up and sipped from a bowl of vegetable soup prepared by the nuns and brought to him by Father Umberto who was sitting at the side of his bed. Jock stood in the background, relieved to see the young man recovering.
‘Is it safe to speak in front of your man?’ Father Umberto asked in German.
‘He does not understand German,’ Alex replied, wiping with a cloth at some drops of soup that had missed his mouth. ‘You know why I have come to meet you.’
‘I only know that your father has promised a generous grant of money and medical supplies to my mission for something that could prove to be dangerous to all concerned.’
‘I hope not,’ Alex replied. ‘But I would ask you to commit yourself to helping me with certain tasks that might be construed by the government here to be subversive. I do not know how the German authorities might react if they learned of what we have planned.’
‘If it involves any threat to life here you know that I will not assist you in whatever you are going to propose,’ the priest said, spooning the last of the vegetable soup into Alex’s mouth. ‘That would be against my principles and detrimental to the standing of the Catholic Church in this part of the world.’
‘I can promise you that what we have planned involves no threat to human life,’ Alex reassured. ‘We want you to recruit some of your trusted parishioners to clear a strip of jungle on the east coast for us. I have the dimensions but it needs to be done secretly within the next two months. Perhaps you could convince them that they are preparing the land for a large vegetable garden.’
‘Is that all?’ Father Umberto asked. ‘Just send some of my native boys to hack out a field down on the coast.’
‘I have a map of where we need the clearing done,’ Alex said. ‘We would also need a crew of at least six of your most reliable men to remain behind to assist us with porter duties – they will be well paid for their services.’
‘What is this “garden” to be used for?’ the priest asked with a touch of sarcasm.
‘The less you know the better,’ Alex answered. ‘Then you don’t have to lie if you are ever questioned by the Germans about our activities on the other side of the island.’
‘So long as your task will not unnecessarily endanger my community or any citizen of Neu Pommern I will assist you,’ the priest replied, standing stiffly away from the bed. ‘You need to rest for the night before you attempt to get on your feet. I will speak further to you in the morning. In the meantime, may God look over you.’
Alex thanked the Italian priest and turned to the Scot hovering close by. ‘Well, Jock, it seems that I am not yet destined for the bone yard.’
‘It was touch and go, laddie,’ Jock said, moving out of the shadows. ‘I was not keen to return to Rabaul carrying your rotting carcass. What was all that about with the dago priest?’ The Scot had little time for Papists – and even less time for anyone who did not have Scottish blood.
‘Nothing of any real consequence,’ Alex lied. ‘He was just saying that I was recovering well.’
Jock frowned. He could sense from the way the two men had been conversing that there was more to the conversation than mere trivial talk about health matters. ‘Captain Hirsch has been called away on a job,’ Jock said. ‘I heard from one of the nuns that a bush native stole one of their firearms and the wee German laddie has shot through after the thief.’
‘It could not have come at a better time,’ Alex said without elaborating any further. ‘Do we have any idea when Hauptmann Hirsch will be returning?’
‘None that I know of,’ Jock replied. ‘How long are we going to remain here?’
‘We leave tomorrow,’ Alex said, attempting to place his feet on the floor and test his strength after the bout of fever. He found that he could stand but felt giddy. He took the priest’s parting advice and sat down on the bed again. ‘I would think around mid morning when I have completed my arrangements with Father Umberto. I guess we will have to be prepared to camp out in the bush overnight.’
‘The sooner we leave the better,’ Jock growled. ‘I dinna like what’s going on around here. Something tells me that it could be dangerous if we stay on and I dinna know why. Just an old sense I got from my grandmother when I was a wee laddie myself.’
Alex accepted his engineer’s fears. His uncanny sense of impending trouble had proved accurate in the past when they had worked together. He only had to give Father Umberto a detailed briefing on the arrangements for the clearing and the assistance they would require and then they could leave – with or without the German officer currently away chasing a firearms thief.
After briefing the Italian priest the following morning, Alex and Jock prepared to make their way down the jungle-covered slopes of the mountain range to the coast and Rabaul. Hirsch had still not returned but Alex had decided to make his way back nonetheless. The priest provided them with some stores for the journey from his meagre supply and Alex thanked him for the anti-malarial drugs.
Alex and Jock had departed by a good six hours when Hirsch returned with his patrol of Tolai police.
‘Where is Captain Macintosh?’ he asked Father Umberto.
‘On his way to Rabaul by now,’ Father Umberto replied, noticing the expression of annoyance in the German officer’s face. ‘He left this morning.’
‘Why did you not stop him from leaving?’ Hirsch asked.
‘I could see no reason to do that,’ Umberto replied. ‘Besides, my people have informed me that the path back to Rabaul is safe to use because of your visit to us.’
Hirsch removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. He knew that what may have transpired between the Australian and the missionary priest would be reported to him by Sister Bridget. He hoped for Captain Macintosh’s sake that his mission to see the priest was no more than a goodwill visit but a discreet meeting with the Irish nun soon revea
led information that caught the German officer’s attention.
‘He has asked Father Umberto to provide labour to clear a stretch of jungle on the east coast,’ she said under the shade of a huge rainforest giant at the edge of the mission station. ‘Father Umberto has asked me to assist him with the plan but says little more about it.’
‘Do you know where and when this will take place?’ Hirsch asked.
‘That I do know,’ the nun replied and gave the details.
Hirsch let the information sink in. Suddenly he realised what the Australian was up to. ‘An airstrip!’ he exclaimed.
‘A what?’ Sister Bridget asked, fingering the long length of beads around her waist.
‘Nothing of importance,’ Hirsch dismissed. He would need time to consider all the possibilities of why Captain Macintosh was planning to have an airstrip constructed in the jungle. What could it possibly achieve?
‘Thank you, Sister,’ Hirsch said, terminating their meeting. ‘Your assistance in helping my government is duly noted and I am sure that it will go a long way in the future of a free Ireland for your people. I am also sure that if the English ever decide to make war on us we will assist your resistance movement against the occupiers of your country.’
Sister Bridget nodded. Liam might be dead from a British soldier’s bullet but there were many of his friends who would appreciate her tiny contribution to cementing a relationship with a free Irish movement far away in the Atlantic Ocean.
Dieter Hirsch walked away to muster his men for the return to Rabaul. He no longer had a reason to kill Captain Macintosh and his engineer. It would be better that the Australian proceed with his plan. Later Hirsch could swoop with an armed force on whoever was assisting him – including the Italian priest. He knew where and when the plan was to be implemented but for the time being it was a matter of organising the resources to intervene in the English plot. A cruiser from the Imperial German Navy should be tasked to support an operation against the would-be invaders of his land, Hirsch thought, walking towards the cluster of buildings where his men awaited him.