Kiwi Wars

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  At that moment Corporal Gwilliams was seen coming up the dusty road, with Harry Wynter and Ta Moko in tow. The trio had been out with a scouting party. They arrived at the tavern looking tired and dishevelled. Jack asked them how they had done.

  ‘Pretty well, sir,’ answered Gwilliams, throwing himself down on to the bench with a thump. ‘We found what we was sent for.’

  ‘This one,’ Ta Moko added, slapping the back of Wynter’s head, not too hard but enough to jolt it forward, ‘was dragging his feet.’

  ‘Hey!’ cried the private, rubbing his neck. ‘You didn’t ought to do that, blackie. I’m a soldier of the queen, I am. I want respect.’

  ‘You call me blackie again and I’ll throw you into the pond, Harry Wynter, soldier of the queen.’

  Wynter squinted at the Maori, whose broad face with its tattoos and wide nose was fearsome enough. He knew Ta Moko could pick him up and snap him like a twig if he decided to, but Harry Wynter had never been put off by the threat of pain. His battered body, white hair and sightless eye attested to that. Harry Wynter could soak up punishment like a sponge soaks up water. He had done it all his life. It was the pattern of his world and he knew it would never change. Even now an insult was on the tip of his tongue.

  Ta Moko remarked, ‘Don’t say it, Wynter. Better not.’

  ‘It’s said in my mind,’ muttered Harry, ‘an’ that’s as good as said out loud.’

  ‘We’ve just had the pleasure of your brother’s company,’ King told Harry. ‘He sends his love.’

  ‘You’re teasin’ me, Sergeant. He an’t got no love for me, that brother o’ mine; otherwise he’d look after me like he should. I hope he rots in hell, damn his eyes and liver. One o’ these days he’s goin’ to regret what he did to me an’ what he din’t do for me. It’s not the money, that he’s rich an’ I an’t got a sou, it’s what one brother should do for another is what’s important. I’ll see him out yet, you wait.’

  Harry Wynter was not finished on the subject. He continued for the next half-hour until the others were heartily sick of hearing about Abraham Wynter and his foibles. Soon after that King and Gwilliams drifted away, heading back to their quarters. Private Wynter followed on a short time afterwards. Jack and Ta Moko only were left to appreciate the gloaming, as evening twilight came in across the hills. The pair were silent for a long time, just enjoying the tranquillity.

  It was Ta Moko who spoke first.

  ‘The woman wishes to see you – tonight.’ The big Maori did not turn his head when he said this, but there was no indication that he disapproved in any way. ‘Shall I tell her yes?’

  Two savage animals suddenly began an intense battle in Jack’s breast. The less admirable of the two finally won. He could not help himself. He hated the choice; he hated his feelings. He was being wrenched from his complacent mood and thrust into a state of mind unfamiliar to him. Jack could not look away from the scene in front of him. Words like loyalty and honour were swirling around in his head, but he ignored them in favour of passion and desire. His noble spirit wafted away and was replaced by a demon called lust. Amiri was remarkably beautiful. Her body was like a hot fire to the touch. He could not reject it when it was offered so willingly. Why should he? he argued. He had fought wars without so much as a warm embrace at the end of each one. And here was so much more, just rewards, enveloping him.

  ‘Tell her yes,’ he said, throatily. ‘I–I would like that.’

  Ta Moko nodded. ‘I think she would like it also,’ he said, sagely. ‘She is a free woman. Her man was killed by another.’

  But am I a free man? thought Jack. No, I am not. However, he did not voice these observations, but allowed the excitement, the anticipation of the meeting, to well up inside him and dispel any doubts. It was a feverish Jack Crossman who waited in his quarters for the visitor he expected to come just before midnight. Indeed, he was not disappointed, for at 11.50 there was a light knock on the door of his quarters.

  Jack opened the door, saying, ‘Ah, the East Wind is early for the season . . .’ but was stunned into cutting the sentence short by being confronted by his superior, Colonel Lovelace.

  ‘Good God – Nathan?’

  Nathan Lovelace gave Jack a half-smile, extended his hand to be shaken, and said, ‘Are we into coded phrases now? I’m afraid no one told me tonight’s password.’

  Nathan, wearing the new insignia of a colonel, was immaculately dressed in his uniform at a time in the evening when most off-duty officers would be wearing mufti.

  This was the man who had recruited Jack Crossman to the intelligence service when he was a sergeant and had taught him everything he knew about espionage. They had served together through the whole of the Crimean War and afterwards saw out the Indian Mutiny. Jack admired Nathan Lovelace a great deal, but also disapproved of his fierce ambition and dedication to his duty. He liked the man as a person, though he was often frustrated at not being able to see what lay beneath this enigmatic character. Nathan was responsible for Jack’s progress in the army, from sergeant to captain. You had to like a man who did that for you, even if you did not wholly approve of his methods of working.

  The Rifle greens fitted him tighter than a second skin. His highly polished boots gleamed in the light from the lamp. He was just about the perfect shape for a soldier: tall, barrel-chested, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped and strong-limbed, without an ounce of extra fat on him anywhere. The wide smile on his handsome face went only skin deep, but women loved that mysterious reserve in him. It told of secrets which they thought they might winkle out of him. It never happened though, for Nathan Lovelace was a strongbox of cryptic information that could only be accessed by Nathan Lovelace and God: and God was not particularly interested in the detailed affairs of soldiers. His blond hair and blue eyes belonged to an angel, but his heart had been passed to him by one of those creatures who live in the countervailing world.

  Jack shook the hand of his commander. ‘Nathan, how good to see you. What are you doing here? This is just a little backwater place for us spies. Not much of a war, either. The Maori fight like wildcats, but it’s all very bitty – incidents rather than grand battles.’

  ‘I know,’ said Nathan, removing his cap and looking round for a chair in which to sprawl. ‘I came to see General Pratt, but I thought I’d look in on you while I was here. As you say, not much of a war for men of our stamp. Would you like me to send you elsewhere? I’m sure I could find a more exciting place for you.’

  Nathan found a wicker chair and sat in it, placing his cap carefully on the dresser next to it.

  Panic rose in Jack’s breast as he himself sank back on his cot.

  ‘No, there is much for me to do here. I’m in deep now and want to see the thing out. You understand? It’s gets personal after a while.’

  ‘But I understand it’s just mapping. I thought you hated all that stuff?’

  ‘Well, Nathan,’ said Jack, with a little laugh, ‘there’s a bit more to it than that. Have you had complaints about me? About my work? From the general or any of his staff?’

  ‘No, no, they’re quite pleased with your efforts. Pratt said the maps you were producing were a great help to him. Sergeant King’s labours, I imagine? Yes, of course. But I presume you oversee his work and pick up bits of information here and there? Naturally you’ve formed a network of Maori spies?’

  ‘It’s well in the making,’ lied Jack, realizing just how idle he had been since he had arrived in New Zealand. The place had enchanted him into becoming lax. He made a mental note to knuckle down and do just what Nathan was suggesting. ‘I’m grooming a Maori chief called Potaka who’s . . . look, Nathan, I’ve no whisky here in my room. Can I take you somewhere and we can talk over a drink?’ Jack looked at the clock by his bed, his stomach churning. It was ten past midnight. Any moment now Amiri would burst through his doorway.

  Nathan waved a hand. ‘No – quite unnecessary, Jack. Tell me about this Potaka fellow then. Is he in with the rebels?’


  ‘He is a rebel, but I’ve gained his confidence – and that of – of a woman in his tribe. You know how useful women can be, Nathan. They’re often ignored by warriors as they sit round and plan their next attack. The women walk amongst them, fetching and carrying, and listening to the men’s talk.’

  ‘Oh, without a doubt. Women often make the best intelligence agents for those very reasons.’ Nathan chuckled, adding, ‘For some reason men who would not trust a woman with their best friend are quite happy to trust them with their war plans. I do believe most men think the women are not interested in “male games” and that plans and such go over their pretty little heads. What nonsense. Women are the most intelligent and devious of creatures on this earth, Jack, and the only thing they love more than collecting secrets is passing them on to a third party. Even when they’re caught out they look as if butter wouldn’t melt—’

  The door suddenly flew open and to Nathan’s astonishment a woman entered swiftly and slammed the door behind her.

  ‘Jack. . .’ she began, her brown eyes alight; then, seeing the visitor, she shrank into a corner.

  ‘Speak of the devil!’ cried Jack. ‘Here’s my informant now. Amiri, how are you?’ Jack was shaking badly as he took her hand and pumped it as if he were meeting a comrade-in-arms. ‘Have you been discovered? Is that why you’re here?’

  Amiri looked from Jack’s face to the visitor’s face, her expression one of wariness and puzzlement.

  ‘No,’ she said, after a while. ‘No discovery, Jack.’

  Nathan seemed to be waiting, expectantly, for revelations, but then he stood up and took his cap.

  ‘Ah, she won’t want to speak in front of me, will she? She don’t know me from Adam. Look, I’ll see you in the morning, old chap. I just thought I’d make contact tonight, so that you could gather yourself together for a meeting tomorrow.’ Nathan placed a large hand on Jack’s right shoulder and looked into his eyes. ‘So good to see you again, Jack. You look a bit peaky though. Been ill?’

  ‘Took a knock on the head,’ Jack said, rubbing the wound given him by Potaka. ‘It’s healed, but I still get headaches.’

  ‘Ah, yes, heard about that. Nasty, eh? Understand Sergeant King’s had a tough time of it too. Got lost. You found him though. I met Gwilliams coming out of the local inn on my way here. He was sober enough to fill me in on a bit of recent history. But you can give me the whole picture tomorrow. Well, goodnight, Amiri, is it? Now what could that mean in Maori? Let me guess. Something to do with the wind? The East Wind? There, your eyes show surprise, ma’am, but I’m not a complete dunce. Jack knows that very well, don’t you, Jack?’

  With that Nathan opened the door and stepped outside, only to be hit squarely on the nose by a wicker ball.

  ‘What the hell . . .?’ he exclaimed, but Jack had followed him to the threshold and said, ‘There’s probably a message inside. It’s the picquets – they use wicker balls to pass messages to each other and headquarters. You could give that to the orderly officer on your way.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Nathan laughed. ‘Thought someone was using me as a coconut shy. Night, Jack.’

  ‘Goodnight, Nathan. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Who was that?’ asked Amiri, as Jack closed the door carefully behind him.

  ‘My boss.’

  ‘Does he know? About me?’

  ‘I think he’s guessed. Not much escapes that man, Amiri. What he’ll do about it, I have no idea.’

  Jack felt deflated. His affair with Amiri now seemed rather sordid. If he sent Amiri away now he would feel no cleaner inside. She smelled of coconut oil and some other Maori perfume. The desire rose in him as quickly as the disillusionment with himself subsided. Lust was a very difficult transgression to reject when a woman such as Amiri stood there as a willing participant in the game. Jack’s throat was dry with yearning. Amiri exuded passion and – yes – love.

  ‘Can he keep a secret?’

  ‘More closely than the Almighty keeps the secret of death.’

  She moved into his arms. ‘Then we can feel safe. You can be safe. I do not care what they think of me.’

  Safe, but unsavoury, thought Jack. How long had it been since he had lain with his own wife? Three? Nearly four years? A man was not made of stone. But these were mere excuses. Should he not love honour more, as the poem went? A poem written by a Colonel Lovelace. Not his colonel, not Nathan, but another Colonel Lovelace, a soldier back in Tudor times. I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more. But that was not about deception, but about war. About a knight who loved war more than he loved his mistress. Well, that was not Jack. War could go and hang itself for all Jack cared. . .

  He sank with her, back on to the hard cot, her softness beneath him, opening for him. Jack’s head swirled with a mixture of guilt and pleasure. Then the guilt swam away into the darkness at the back of his mind. A brown body, her tattoos tracing the contours of her body, one of them recently done for him. He ran the tips of his fingers along the lines, stroking her breasts on the way down, until he found the softest of places, the warmest, the most moist of crevices.

  ‘Oh my God, Amiri,’ he murmured in the back of his throat, ‘you are so beautiful, my love.’

  ‘As are you, my wonderful Jack,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Now move with me – slow, slow – ah, you are my wonderful lover. . .’

  * * *

  The following morning Jack met with Colonel Lovelace in the officers’ mess in the camp near New Plymouth. Nathan was in a cheery mood and he even patted Jack on the back as he spoke to him.

  ‘Well, Jack, are you ready to move on?’

  Jack was taken by surprise. ‘Move on?’

  ‘To pastures new. This was to be a short rest posting, wasn’t it? I thought we agreed on that. There are areas where you’d be far more useful than you are here. Back in India, possibly. Or Burma. Africa? I can’t leave you in a soft spot like this for ever, Jack.’

  ‘But –’ Jack was dismayed – ‘I’ve only been here a few months, Nathan. And there’s my wife, Jane.’

  ‘Jane? What about her?’

  ‘I’ve sent for her. I thought – well, I imagined we’d be here a year or two, till things settled down. Nathan, I haven’t seen my wife for over three years. I was hoping we could be together for a while.’

  ‘This is the army, Jack.’

  ‘I know, Nathan, but surely and all, three years. That’s longer than Jack tars spend away from their families.’

  Nathan’s face went a little rigid. He looked down at his boots and then up again to stare into Jack’s eyes.

  ‘Do you really want your wife here?’ he asked, meaningfully. ‘I’m only asking because it seemed to me that you were pretty comfortably settled.’

  Now Jack’s face went stiff and mask-like. ‘Sir?’

  Nathan’s hand came up. ‘I’m not prying into your private affairs, Jack. I’m not your moral guardian – I am no saint myself. I simply wonder whether you’re on a course of self-destruction. You’re a good officer, a man I know I can trust to do a good job. There will be openings for you – higher posts than the one you hold at the moment.’ Nathan gripped his arm. ‘Jack, intelligence in this man’s army is in its infancy. There’s no ceiling to promotion in the near future. With you at my right hand I expect to make general in a very short time – and the post would hold an enormous amount of power. We would be the quiet men behind the crown. I – we – would control a worldwide network of intelligence agents in every country in the British Empire. Now that generals like Raglan have gone, the new men at the top are convinced of the need for efficient spy systems. There’s no longer any talk of “skulkers”. I have spent all my time doing the convincing. This is the modern era, Jack. You and I are modern men.’ Nathan paused and poured himself a glass of water from a jug on the mess table. They were alone in the room. Only an orderly could be heard clanking around in the distant kitchen. ‘Think of it, Jack. This is a unique opportunity. Once in a thousa
nd years. In another three or four decades it will become just like any other army unit, with several officers battling for the top spot. At the moment it’s all free air, no devious rivals to screw things up – just a blank space to fill.’

  Jack sighed, looking down at his restless hands.

  ‘However,’ Nathan continued in a less excitable tone, ‘I could leave you here, if that’s really what you want. You could see these troubles out and then – well, who knows what then? But I’ll have gone on without you by that time. If you can’t get on board now you’ll have to run alongside the track with the others when the time comes.’

  There was a long period of silence, then Jack said, ‘Can I think about it?’

  Nathan stood up. ‘Of course. I can see you’re in a bit of a spin at the moment. Think about it hard, Jack. I’m here for a week or so, and then I’m on my way back to Sydney on the Triumphant. Get word to me. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume you’re bent on staying. In which case, I still expect you to do good work here. I know you will. Good luck, man.’

  The new colonel shook Jack’s hand, strode from the room, and left the mess to Jack and the saucepan-clanking orderly.

  Ten

  Captain Jack Crossman was in a quandary. His army career, which he once considered to be his sole reason for living, was in crisis. He knew he could not have everything. He certainly could not have two women and his removal from New Zealand would solve that decadent problem for him. But Jane was probably on her way out to the antipodes already, and what if she were to arrive and find him gone? What would be the level of her disappointment? Would she forgive him? To find her husband had chosen to leave her yet again for his other mistress – the army – might be the final straw.

  Certainly he, Jack, could not even remember her face now, without looking at the miniature she had given him. Did he still love her? He was bound to say he did, even given his wayward behaviour of late. And Jane did not deserve to be humiliated by a husband who deserted her in favour of promotion. No, leaving New Zealand would not solve anything between Jane and himself. Would she understand the lure of women like Amiri on a lonely soldier? Possibly, but it would tarnish him in her eyes and he was devastated by that thought. Better she never knew, if it were possible to keep it from her.