The Silent Frontier

by Peter Watt

  A native voice replied and Lachlan’s interpreter grinned. ‘The Maori has asked who will be killed? Cheeky bugger. Mr Mair has told them that they will be killed by the cannons, so they had better hoist a white flag.’

  Lachlan raised his head cautiously to see the row of dark tattooed faces peering over the wall of the pa. Such fixed expressions of defiance did not bode well, he thought. Mair remained exposed to the Maori and Lachlan could hear a low rumble of native voices discussing the offer. Suddenly, a voice called out from within the pa and Lachlan turned to his interpreter, who shook his head.

  ‘Stupid buggers,’ the soldier muttered. ‘Rewi himself has said, friend, the Maori have only one word only to say, we will fight you forever and ever.’

  When Ensign Mair responded, Lachlan’s interpreter simply answered his unspoken question. ‘Mr Mair is wasting his time trying to reason with them. They have made up their minds and will fight it out to the end.’

  Lachlan’s attention was suddenly drawn to movement on their flank. The Maori warriors had used the truce to manoeuvre into a position of attack. He did not need to warn the rest of the men in the sap as others had also noticed the stealthy movement. Mair ducked down, calling, ‘They say they will fight to the death. Give it to them again, boys.’

  A soldier near Lachlan cried out, ‘Well done, we admire them for their pluck, we will give them what they want.’

  The air was rent with the cracks of hundreds of rifles being fired and the crump of fused grenades exploding as they were heaved into the pa. As an Armstrong artillery gun added to the din, Lachlan remained crouched behind the earth wall, only a few yards from the enemy. It was time to fight.

  Lachlan rallied his section and they advanced up the sap to meet the oncoming Maori warriors. Reloading, he and his section scattered some attackers from the sap but the fighting continued until the rest of the warriors had retreated to the pa.

  Lachlan collapsed exhausted to the earth, now wet with blood from friend and foe alike. Wounded soldiers were being dragged past but he merely stared with unseeing eyes at the unfortunate men. He had fired all his ammunition and had a raging thirst, but it was time to remind himself of his responsibility. As a corporal he must look after the welfare of his men. With a great effort, Lachlan forced himself out of his strange lethargy and called on his men to rally around him. They had been engaging the enemy for the last four hours without a break. Resupplied with ammunition being doled out by a colour sergeant, Lachlan led his section down the sap and back to their lines.

  ‘They’ve just broken through the 40th!’ came the yell from a corporal running towards Lachlan and his section.

  ‘Rangers stand to! To arms!’ Lachlan immediately cried out and his men groaned in their exhaustion. The fight had flared up again and there would be no respite for them at their lines.

  A daylight evacuation by the Maori defenders had not been expected by the besieging British troops. The war leader, Rewi, had planned the surprise break-out carefully. He had placed the women and children in the centre of a flying column pointed at the lines of the 40th Regiment. A hill had covered them and the sight of the silent, disciplined, fighting column of Maori warriors had completely startled the besiegers. Smashing its way down the slope through the British line, the advancing column broke through. The soldiers of the 40th had been able to fire only one volley.

  Matthew Te Paea was amongst the leading warriors making the break-out. He could see a fence overgrown by fern before him and he scrambled over it. Then he saw the double rank of British soldiers waiting beyond the fence. Without a word, all fleeing the doomed pa broke into a sprint aimed directly at the line of muskets and bayonets. A rattle of fire erupted from the British troops and many of the charging Maoris fell, but Matthew had made it to the line.

  A soldier attempted to bayonet him but Matthew parried the deadly tip with the barrel of his shotgun, firing at the same time. The soldier fell against the man next to him and another stepped forward to meet Matthew’s charge. Matthew fired the second barrel of his weapon, felling that soldier also. Then he was through the line and running as fast as he could towards the relative safety of the tea tree swamps and scrub.

  Reaching the manuka bush, the Maori survivors broke up into smaller parties in an attempt to confuse any pursuers, all the time maintaining fire and movement to cover their retreat, and inflicting heavy losses on the British troops.

  The swift-moving British cavalry, and the Rangers on foot, pursued the retreating Maori warriors. It was only a matter of time before Lachlan and Matthew Te Paea would once again meet.

  EIGHTEEN

  The British cavalry swept forward and the Forest Rangers followed, Lachlan leading his section of five men forward in pursuit of a small group of Maori.

  ‘Careful not to hit the women and children,’ Lachlan yelled back over his shoulder. From the corner of his eye, he could see a couple of cavalrymen gallop down a woman and child separated from the men. A Maori turned and fired his shotgun, unhorsing one of the cavalrymen, but he was unable to save the woman as the sabre swept down to cut deeply into her shoulders.

  The party that Lachlan’s section pursued disappeared into a stand of bush. Lachlan could hear the splash as they found the swampy ground underfoot. ‘Careful, boys,’ he yelled to his eager men as they followed their corporal into the thicket.

  Lachlan found himself wading through rank, strong-smelling water that came up to his thighs. He could only hear the splashing ahead, his prey being concealed by the thick swamp scrub. The section had fanned out and Lachlan suddenly found himself alone, separated by the wiry trees that thrived in the fetid water. He knew he must keep within sight of his men, so as to be able to control their movement. All around him he could hear the shots and screams as the pursuers caught up with the fleeing Maori.

  A volley of shots from his right side and the confused yelling of both Maori and European told Lachlan that the bulk of his section had stumbled onto the party that they were chasing. He swore in his frustration at not being with them and prayed that they had not shot down any of the women and children. As he went to step forward the Maori warrior suddenly appeared in front of him. Immediately, Lachlan raised his rifle to fire.

  As if sensing his presence, the Maori swung and fired his shotgun, at the same time that Lachlan fired his carbine. In a split second, both men crashed backwards.

  Lachlan lay on his back in the water, his mouth filling with putrid vegetation. He forced himself into a sitting position then struggled to his feet. The pain in his left arm hit him like a sledgehammer. Such was its intensity that Lachlan cried out in agony.

  He hardly realised that the Maori warrior was also rising groggily from the waters of the swamp to stand, a puzzled expression on his face. Despite his pain, Lachlan recognised that he was still in mortal danger. His rifle was gone somewhere under the water, but he still had his pistol. With his right hand, Lachlan grasped the butt and swung it up to fire at the warrior facing him a mere ten paces away. But there was only the empty sound of a misfire. Slamming the pistol back into its holster, Lachlan grabbed the hilt of his Bowie knife. Only then did he focus the face of his adversary.

  ‘Matthew!’ Lachlan gasped. He had hit Matthew Te Paea in the thigh; blood oozed from the gaping exit wound caused by the big lead bullet. For seconds the two stood eyeing each other. Matthew had not attempted to reach for his war club.

  ‘I’ve got him!’ a voice yelled from Lachlan’s right. Lachlan swung around, to see one of his own men levelling a rifle at Matthew.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ Lachlan screamed. ‘The man has surrendered, he is my prisoner.’

  Reluctantly, the Ranger lowered his rifle. ‘You are wounded, corporal,’ he said, noticing the blood soaking the sleeve of Lachlan’s jacket. ‘You need to get help before you bleed to death.’

  Lachlan knew that he was right. Blood flowed down his arm into the waters of the swamp. He had no control of it. The arm hung at his side like a useless appendage.


  ‘Keep going,’ Lachlan said to the Ranger. ‘I will go back with my prisoner to seek aid.’

  The Ranger nodded and disappeared deeper into the swamp.

  ‘C’mon, Matthew,’ Lachlan said gently. ‘Come with me as my prisoner and I will make sure our doctor looks at your wound.’

  Without a word, Matthew waded painfully over to Lachlan. He could see the Australian was on the verge of fainting. Slipping a powerful arm under Lachlan’s good shoulder, the Maori helped his enemy through the stagnant waters of the swamp, to emerge near the pa. By this time Lachlan had slipped into a state of semi-consciousness. He hardly remembered what happened next as the darkness and relief came to him.

  ‘. . . should amputate. He took a considerable blast of shot in his arm,’ Lachlan heard as he regained consciousness.

  Amputate! Lachlan focused on a face hovering over him. It was the regimental surgeon from his old militia unit. ‘Please, no,’ Lachlan croaked, reaching up with his good arm to grasp the front of the surgeon’s jacket. ‘I am begging you, please don’t amputate the arm.’

  A medical aide grasped Lachlan’s hand and broke his grip.

  ‘You have had a bit of a rough trot, Corporal MacDonald,’ the surgeon said gruffly, but with sympathy in his voice. ‘Maybe we can keep it for a short time and see if any infection sets in. But I doubt that it will be very useful to you in the future. You have had a lot of muscle and nerve damage. There are still bits of lead shot in the tissue – but most I can dig out.’

  Tears of gratitude flowed down Lachlan’s face as he sank back on the wooden table. A pungent cloth went over his face and he sucked in the chloroform. Soon he was oblivious to the clatter of lead into an enamel tray as the surgeon removed the shot from his shattered arm.

  When Lachlan came to, he could feel his body being jolted and bumped. Above him was a blurry sheet of canvas. The squeaking of wagon wheels told him he was probably in an ambulance. The after-effects of the anaesthetic had caused vomit to rise up in his throat. Lachlan tried to resist but despite his efforts he brought up the vile liquid.

  ‘Yer awake, corporal,’ a kindly voice said at his elbow. Lachlan tried to focus on the face a short distance from his. He could make out the uniform of a bandsman from one of the British regular regiments. ‘Yer our only passenger on this trip,’ the medical aide continued. ‘All the rest have been transported to Drury.’

  Drury, Lachlan thought. Where Amanda was living. His arm throbbed with pain and he bit his lip, lest he cry out at each jolting bump. At least he might get to see her.

  ‘How long ago was the operation?’ Lachlan rasped.

  ‘Yer been out to it for a day,’ the medical aide replied. ‘The doc kept feedin’ you large doses of laudanum to ease the pain in yer arm. Lucky yer didn’t have it chopped orf. I have some with me if the pain gets too much for yer. Yer look as if yer could do with a sip.’

  Lachlan eased his good arm to gingerly touch where his shattered arm still remained. He could only feel a great swab of bandages and a sling.

  ‘There was a wounded Maori I brought in. His name is Matthew Te Paea.’

  The medic put a water canteen to Lachlan’s lips to ease the dryness.

  ‘Don’t know anything about any heathen warriors,’ the medic replied. ‘They had medical attention and then were sent under guard to Auckland. If yer brought him in, then he is probably destined to end up on one of them hulks in the harbour.’

  The water ran into Lachlan’s mouth. He was in terrible pain but the thought of being transported to a hospital in Drury made it bearable. He was finally going to see Amanda’s beautiful face once again and be able to tell her of his love.

  Weary from fighting the pain, Lachlan slipped once more into semi-consciousness. The last thing he remembered was the voice of the medic. ‘It looks like the Maori are finished around here and yer fighting days are over, by the look of yer arm. Time fer you to pick up yer pay and go home . . . ’

  Lachlan lay in a hospital bed in Drury frustrated by the fact that he was only a very short distance from the woman he loved. At the first opportunity he would get leave from the hospital and visit her, he decided.

  But he did not get the opportunity to carry out his plan. He awoke early one morning to see three men dressed in the uniform of the military police standing grimly over his bed.

  ‘Are you Corporal Lachlan MacDonald of the Forest Rangers?’ the sergeant among them asked.

  Lachlan struggled into a sitting position. ‘I am, sergeant,’ he replied, confused by their appearance in the ward filled with other wounded soldiers from the Waikato campaign.

  ‘The doctor has informed us that you are well enough to travel,’ the sergeant said stiffly. ‘You can consider yourself under arrest on the charge of murder.’

  ‘Murder!’ Lachlan blurted. ‘Whose bloody murder?’

  ‘That of Sergeant Samuel Forster, formerly of the Volunteer Militia, under the command of Captain Lightfoot,’ the sergeant replied. ‘On your feet and get dressed.’

  Stunned, Lachlan shifted from the bed to his feet. How had events come to this?

  After the fighting at Orakau, Captain Charles Lightfoot was given leave to return to Drury. He had noted Lachlan’s name in the post-battle report, under the list of wounded and hospitalised. Now Lightfoot dismounted from his horse outside his cottage in Drury. Amanda was standing in the front door and her expression of concern was a welcome sight.

  ‘Oh, Charles, I have heard the reports of your campaign,’ she said, kissing him on the cheek. ‘I have been praying to God to preserve you.’

  ‘Thanks to your prayers – and my trusty sabre – I have returned,’ Lightfoot replied, returning his sister’s embrace. ‘Now, I would welcome a hot bath and some good whisky. Where is the maid, Annie?’

  Amanda’s expression darkened slightly. ‘She has run away,’ she replied. ‘I think she has gone to join her people on the east coast.’

  ‘Damned natives,’ Lightfoot snorted. ‘Their loyalty is to their own kind and not the Queen.’

  ‘Can you blame them?’ Amanda retorted. ‘We are stealing their lands and killing their women and children.’

  Lightfoot was taken aback at his sister’s defence of the Maori and felt an uneasy echo of a woman too independent for her own good in her words.

  Amanda turned on her heel with a swish of her long dress and Lightfoot followed her inside their cottage, where he was pleasantly assailed by the scent of wildflowers. The cottage was a true sanctuary from the rigours of army life and Charles Lightfoot felt at ease. Well, almost at ease. Soon he would have to raise with his sister the subject of the young corporal. One way or the other, he would learn the truth.

  After his bath Lightfoot lounged in front of an open fire in his smoking jacket. Balancing a tumbler in one hand and a large cigar in the other, he stared at the flickering flames. Amanda had joined him in the small, comfortable living room and sat quietly with her sewing.

  ‘Is it true that you have been corresponding with that MacDonald chap?’ Lightfoot asked at length, causing Amanda to prick her finger with the needle. A tiny droplet of her blood splashed the embroidery in her lap.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ she said, placing her bleeding finger between her lips to stem the flow.

  ‘Because I am your brother, and guardian, and that gives me the right to know your affairs,’ Lightfoot replied. ‘Is it true?’

  Amanda removed her finger from her mouth. ‘It is true,’ she replied defiantly. ‘Lachlan and I have exchanged letters, while he was campaigning.’

  ‘Would those letters be of a romantic nature?’ Lightfoot continued in a soft tone.

  Amanda did not immediately reply. She had known that it was inevitable that he would eventually learn of her contact with the young Scot – and of her strong feelings for him. It had only been a matter of when.

  ‘I love him,’ she said quietly, bowing her head to avert her brother’s angry stare.

  ‘You cannot,’ Lightf
oot said in an almost gentle voice. ‘Soon he will be facing execution for the murder of one of my sergeants.’

  Amanda gasped. ‘What are you saying?’ she asked in her horror. ‘What do you mean execution for murder?’

  ‘Just that,’ Lightfoot answered smugly. ‘Oh, and I almost forgot to mention that your dearly beloved Ranger may have had his arm amputated by now. Makes it a bit hard to embrace you, don’t you think?’

  The news was almost more than Amanda could bear. She attempted to rise but felt faint and remained seated.

  Lightfoot rose from his chair and brought his tumbler of whisky to his sister’s lips, forcing her to take a mouthful.

  ‘You are the only family I have,’ he said, taking a puff from his cigar. ‘As your brother, I have only your interests and welfare at heart. I do not gain any comfort from telling you these things about Mr MacDonald. You must believe me on that.’

  Regaining her senses, Amanda wiped her mouth with a delicate handkerchief. ‘I must see him,’ she said quietly. ‘You must know where he is.’

  ‘That would be unadvisable. As soon as he is well enough to face an investigation, he will no doubt be facing the charge. It would not do your reputation – or mine – any good if your intimacy with him was known.’

  ‘I beg you, Charles, that I be allowed to see him,’ Amanda pleaded.

  ‘I am sorry, Amanda,’ Lightfoot said, shaking his head; ‘that is not permissible. To ensure that you comply with my wishes, I will be insisting that you return to Sydney at the next most practicable time, and remain there until I return.’

  ‘I will not do that,’ Amanda flared, an icy determination in her eyes.

  ‘You will,’ Lightfoot said, his expression matching her own. ‘I will make a promise to you. If you give me your word that you will never attempt to make contact with MacDonald again, as the officer pressing the investigation into his role in Sergeant Forster’s death, I will be less determined to see a judicial outcome leading to a firing squad. In short, the life of your precious Corporal MacDonald is in your hands, dear sister.’