The Silent Frontier (12 page)

The men of the 65th Foot had arrived under the command of Captain Saltmarch. He quickly ordered all the British regulars to form up and charge down the hill to clear the Maori warriors, who now found themselves on the defensive. The bugler raised his instrument to his lips to sound the charge and it was sent spinning from his hands as a full shot of lead took away his face. He fell to his knees clasping his hands to his shattered jaw.

The charge went ahead and the first of the 65th fell. The Maori who had shot him advanced to retrieve the dead soldier’s rifle but in turn was wounded when Captain Saltmarch stepped over the body of the fallen soldier to fire two rounds from his pistol into the warrior’s chest. The Maori swung his double-barrelled shotgun at the officer and the blast took Saltmarch squarely in the throat. The tough warrior was hit again by a rifle shot but refused to fall. When he turned to retreat he was speared by a long bayonet hurled by an enraged soldier. The fighting went on into the late afternoon.

Within ten minutes of setting off, Lachlan and Charles Lightfoot arrived to witness the skirmishing at the base of the hill. The soldiers from the British regiments that had arrived to relieve the defenders were locked in hand-to-hand combat against the Maori warriors who by now were making a retreat. It was long bayonet against heavy war axe and club. Rifled musket against double-barrelled shotguns.

For Lachlan, it was his first sight of a battle and he felt a
tightness in his stomach and chest. He did not know whether it was fear or excitement at what was to come.

‘Damn it to hell!’ Lightfoot swore. ‘It’s almost over and we have missed it.’

He had hardly spat the words when Lachlan saw a blur from the corner of his eye. As if from nowhere a giant Maori warrior wielding an ornate axe of greenstone had risen from the ground to spring at the officer. Lightfoot was so focused on the fighting at the base of the hill below the church stockade that he did not see the threat at his back. Lachlan could not remember how it had happened but the rifle he carried was at his shoulder and fired in the same blur of movement. The musket shot alerted Lightfoot, who spun around to see the giant Maori warrior crumpling a mere pace behind him as the smoke curled from the end of Lachlan’s musket barrel.

‘A damned close-run thing,’ Lightfoot muttered and glanced at Lachlan’s face that was pallid with shock.

Lachlan did not reply but instinctively went about reloading. His training had kicked into action. Later, he told himself, he would reflect on what had just happened in his young life but for now it was a case of keeping alive against an opponent as fearless as any the British army had ever faced in its many colonial wars.

‘Captain Lightfoot,’ a voice called from a distance. ‘The ammunition is up.’

Both Lachlan and Lightfoot turned. Not only had the wagons arrived under the command of Lieutenant Grimes, but the Maori had left the battlefield. The sounds of the fight faded as the warriors fell back to consolidate their forces. It was over for the moment and a peace descended on the breezes of the late afternoon.

Young McDonald came out from the church to gaze
with awe at the setting sun. He was still alive. Even at fourteen years of age, he understood what it meant to be a survivor. He stared with guilt at the bodies of the dead Maori scattered about the churchyard.

TEN

F
ollowing the battle at the church, Lachlan and the rest of his militia unit returned to garrison duties at their camp. On the first evening back, he was summoned to company headquarters where Charles Lightfoot thanked him with bad grace in private for saving his life.

‘I am granting you a three-day leave pass, Private MacDonald,’ he said, signing a form and passing it across his desk. ‘You will see that it is effective as from eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’

Lachlan thanked his commanding officer and took his leave to return to his tent. Lightfoot watched him depart. He had best keep the young Scot under his thumb while he was with his company, the officer brooded. Despite his dislike for the private he had to respect him for his courage and visually reward him to keep up the show. But that did not mean he would be sorry if something untoward were to happen to the young man.

‘Where will you go?’ Andrew asked.

‘Auckland,’ Lachlan replied.

‘What’s of any interest there?’ Andrew queried. ‘You don’t even drink.’

Lachlan’s promise to Max Braun still held and he had given his daily rum ration to Andrew. ‘Let’s just say that I have to find that out for myself,’ Lachlan replied, and Andrew did not ask any more questions.

Lachlan was able to obtain a ride in a wagon returning to Auckland for supplies. Along the way the wagoneers decided to stop at Rogers Criterion Hotel at Otahuhu for a meal and a couple of ales. Soldiers in the regimental dress of British units, some farmers and a few locals hung around the entrance to the hotel. The campaign had brought prosperity to the publican and his business of helping soldiers fill in the dreary hours away from home.

Lachlan followed the two men inside and was not surprised to see Michael Duffy sitting with a group of men dressed in dark blue who were sitting around a table, playing cards and drinking rum. Lachlan recognised them as members of the elite Rangers unit. Michael was similarly dressed, sporting the broad chevrons on his arm to indicate his rank as a sergeant. He glanced up at Lachlan.

‘Ah, Lachlan MacDonald,’ he said with a broad smile, pushing back his chair and crossing the bar. ‘Come and join us.’

It was obvious to Lachlan that Michael wished to speak to him, away from the company of his comrades.

‘What brings you here?’ Michael asked softly, his arm around Lachlan’s shoulders so that they might appear to be two drunken friends carousing. ‘Have you deserted?’

‘No,’ Lachlan answered, affronted by the suggestion of desertion. ‘I have three days’ leave.’

‘That’s okay then,’ Michael replied in a relieved tone. ‘The bloody British still flog a man for being absent without leave.’

‘I’m actually on my way to Auckland,’ Lachlan said. ‘But this unforeseen opportunity to meet with you here gives me the chance to ask what the hell is going on. Have you contacted your family in Sydney to tell them where you are?’

Michael sighed. ‘Let’s go and sit at that empty table in the corner, and I will tell you what has occurred since I last saw you,’ he said.

‘The ship that got me out of Sydney made a stop at Auckland,’ Michael commenced explaining. ‘I was at a bit of a loose end wandering around the town and was actually making some sketches of the buildings when the Von spotted my work. He is a painter of some talent himself and we fell into a discussion. Next thing you know he has me signed up with his unit of Rangers and for the last few months I have been out bush getting into the occasional skirmish with the Maori. Seeing you that day came somewhat as a shock and I am glad that you did not betray my true identity.’

‘You know that I would not do that,’ Lachlan said. ‘But have you written to your family?’

Michael stared at the rough-hewn table top, stained over the years by many spilled drinks. ‘I do not think that would be wise under the present circumstances,’ he replied. ‘Not until a decent amount of time elapses. I need to wait for the matter of the killing to blow over and be forgotten by the police. If I make contact with my family, it may put them in a situation where the law can say that they were aiding and abetting me, and don’t forget I’m a man wanted for questioning on a capital crime.’

‘From what I heard,’ Lachlan said quietly, ‘you were only defending yourself.’

‘The other bastard got his story in first,’ Michael replied bitterly. ‘I don’t trust British justice. I remember too well the stories my da told me about Ireland.’

‘Well, I could contact them to say that we have met and that you are well,’ Lachlan offered.

‘I would rather you did not,’ Michael countered. ‘At least, not until I think it is safe.’

‘That is fair enough,’ Lachlan accepted.

‘Private MacDonald,’ a drunken voice bellowed across the room. ‘What are you doin’ here, my lad?’

Both Lachlan and Michael turned to see Sergeant Forster swaying on his feet beside the bar. His eyes were bloodshot and although it was only just after midday it was obvious that he had been drinking for some time.

‘I have a leave pass, sergeant,’ Lachlan answered.

‘Get to yer feet, soldier, when you address me,’ Forster slurred.

The scene had attracted the attention of the Rangers as well as the rest of the patrons in the crowded bar. ‘You’re drunk, sergeant,’ Michael said menacingly before Lachlan could respond to the order. ‘I suggest you leave us alone.’

Michael’s defiance enraged Forster and he stumbled forward. ‘You think yer a man becuz you fought our precious Private MacDonald here, do yer?’ he said into Michael’s face.

‘You need a hand, O’Flynn?’ one of the Rangers asked.

‘Stay out of it, you colonial upstart.’ The voice came from a British corporal. ‘You can see that the sergeant is in his rights. You bloody colonials are a disgrace to the Queen. Won’t get yer hair cut or take orders from your betters.’

A chair rasped along the floor, and suddenly the Ranger flung himself at the corporal. Within seconds a full-scale
brawl had erupted; colonials against British regulars. Somewhere in the melee, Sergeant Forster went down, and both Michael and Lachlan made a hasty retreat through a back door.

‘I think that you should continue your journey to Auckland,’ Michael said with a grin. ‘I have a feeling the provosts won’t be far away.’

‘Good idea,’ Lachlan replied, shaking Michael’s hand. ‘Are you going to be all right?’

‘I am kind of used to this sort of thing,’ Michael replied. ‘By the way, have you thought about joining the Rangers? The Von has been called on to form a new company under his command. I know that he would appreciate having the second-best fighter in these parts with his unit as well as the best.’

Lachlan broke into a rolling laughter. ‘That is yet to be decided, Michael Duffy,’ he said. ‘But I like the idea of the better pay and less drill that I have heard you fellows enjoy.’

‘Then you will be one of us,’ Michael said. ‘Just leave it to me.’

‘One thing, Michael,’ Lachlan said in parting, ‘I have a friend who I know would also like to get away from the good sergeant inside. He’s a fellow Scot by the name of Andrew Hume. You think you could put in a good word for him?’

‘I don’t know,’ Michael said with a broad smile on his face. ‘The Von is looking for real fighting men – like us Irish. I’m not sure if he will take second-best with you Scots.’

‘Anytime, Duffy, anytime,’ Lachlan growled without malice. ‘Look after yourself and keep your head down.’

By the time Lachlan returned to the front of the hotel he was not surprised to see the two wagoneers preparing to leave.

‘We’re goin’ to find a pub where yer get a peaceful ale,’ one of them grumbled as he flicked out the end of the whip to put the wagon in motion. Lachlan was pleased to be on the move again.

Lachlan was let off by the friendly wagoneers at the end of the Great South Road into Auckland. He trudged into the town, overlooking the sweeping harbour crowded with British warships and cargo ships, steam-propelled as well as driven by the traditional sails that still guided ships across the seas. Alongside were smaller river gunboats capable of navigating New Zealand’s rivers and coastlines, and carrying aboard marines and heavy guns for use in bombardment of Maori earthworks.

The town itself had fine, well-established stone buildings alongside the newly sprung-up wood and tin buildings hurriedly built to take advantage of the financial boom the war in the Waikato had brought to many enterprising merchants. The streets were alive with soldiers and sailors in the uniforms of the British Empire and the islands’ capital had the look of a military establishment. Lachlan spent an hour asking about the location of Captain Lightfoot’s cottage and at length a soldier was able to point him in the right direction.

The little cottage was at the edge of town and when the door opened to his rap a young Maori girl wearing European dress stood before him.

‘Yes?’ she asked.

My name is Lachlan MacDonald and I wish to pay my respects to Miss Lightfoot,’ Lachlan answered.

‘I will see if Miss Lightfoot is accepting visitors,’ the maid replied, but before she could close the door Amanda stood there with a startled but pleased expression on her face.

She was as beautiful as he remembered.

‘I must apologise that I do not have a calling card to announce my visit, Miss Lightfoot,’ Lachlan said with genuine apology for his breach of social etiquette. ‘The army does not seem to have much time for such niceties.’

Amanda was at a loss for words. Before her stood the young Scot she thought of so often, in his crumpled militia uniform stained with the signs of his journey. Eventually, she was able to find her voice. ‘You appear to have journeyed a long way Mr MacDonald, and it would be very impolite of me not to offer you tea. Annie, please go and prepare tea for my guest,’ she asked, turning to the young woman who was suspiciously eyeing the bedraggled soldier on the doorstep. The maid left, leaving the two alone in the doorway.

Lachlan removed his cap and wiped his boots on the doorstep before stepping inside the small but comfortable cottage. It was not a grand place, but warm and clean.

Amanda gestured for Lachlan to take a chair and poured the tea, which the maid had brought in and placed before them, into two china cups.

Lachlan was not sure if Amanda was pleased or angry at his unannounced arrival and wondered if it had been such a good idea to visit her. But he countered his doubts with the fact that she was the primary reason he had travelled to New Zealand in the first place. He opened the conversation by telling her that he was serving in her brother’s unit and that he had actually signed his leave pass.

‘Does my brother know that you intended to visit me in Auckland?’ Amanda asked.

‘I just happened to learn that you were in Auckland,’ Lachlan replied lamely.

‘I’m not sure I believe you,’ she said with a smile. ‘Why is
it, Mr MacDonald, that I feel you have gone to all the trouble to travel from my brother’s camp simply to see me?’

Lachlan sipped at his tea. He did not know how to reply. He might as well have been back in the book store in Sydney when he had given her the book of poetry. He was helpless in her hands and they both knew it. He was never sure of her true feelings, as she liked to tease him. ‘Well, yes, if you want to know,’ he finally answered. ‘I had a great desire to see you again.’

Suddenly, the smile on Amanda’s face faded. ‘Is that why you volunteered to come to New Zealand? For if it is I feel that you have placed your life in danger and I hold grave misgivings for your safety. It was bad enough watching that man you fought from my brother’s regiment in Sydney inflict the savage blows on you. I . . . ’

She dropped her gaze, suddenly bereft of words. ‘Lachlan,’ she said, lifting her eyes misty with tears, ‘I do not think that this is the time or place for us to discover what we may feel for each other. I fear that if my brother learns of your feelings for me – and I must confess, mine for you – that he may do something terrible. I followed my brother to this country as a loyal sister should. I had hoped that we might see each other when I returned to Sydney and could never have known that you would enlist for the war here hoping to see me.’

‘Oh, I trust that you did not interpret my being here as any foolish attempt to win your affections, Miss Lightfoot,’ Lachlan said, hoping to retain his pride, but only too aware that she had called him by his first name. Such intimacy warmed his heart. ‘I am aware that I am but a lowly private soldier in your brother’s company and that I do not have any great fortune to my name,’ he continued. ‘I have yet to be recognised for what I feel I may achieve in the future.’

‘I believe that you will achieve whatever you set your mind to, Lachlan,’ Amanda said.

‘Well,’ Lachlan said, standing abruptly and taking his cap from the table, ‘I must beg your leave, Miss Lightfoot, and commence my journey back to camp. I just wanted to pay my respects while I was in Auckland.’

‘I hope that I may see you from time to time,’ Amanda said with a warm smile, causing Lachlan to feel a surge of fresh hope.

‘Thank you for the tea,’ Lachlan said, showing himself to the door. ‘Goodbye, Miss Lightfoot. I too pray that we shall have the opportunity to meet again soon.’

Outside the cottage, Lachlan could feel the cold wind against his cheek. ‘You bloody fool,’ he swore at the wind. ‘Why didn’t you just tell her what you truly felt for her?’

Standing in the doorway, Amanda watched Lachlan trudge away. She wanted to say something more, but she knew a penniless, handsome young man would never be accepted by her brother as a suitable beau for her. She turned away from the door, tears welling in her eyes. Oh, how she hated this class-ridden society that she had been born to.