The Silent Frontier (17 page)

Now Lachlan stared once more at the letter on top of those from Amanda and was puzzled by the handwriting. He did not recognise it, but the envelope bore a postmark from Auckland. He had decided to read this strange letter first and then allow himself as much time as possible to savour Amanda’s letters.

As Lachlan began to read, his heart felt as if it had stopped beating in his chest.

Lachlan could hardly believe what he was reading. No wonder Lightfoot and Forster were close; they were bound by a long-held secret.

Lachlan read on as John sketched out his life and revealed how he had found the hidden coins. Finally, he wrote . . .

Lachlan put aside the letter and stared into the dark forest before him. So he was no longer alone and financial means were waiting for him in Australia. The only cloud on this sunny, warm day was learning of Lightfoot and Forster’s role in the death of his father and oldest brother.

‘To arms! Rangers on parade!’

The shouted warning snapped Lachlan from his reflections. He quickly stuffed the precious letters inside his jacket, snatched up his rifle and ran. He could see his fellow Rangers assembling in ranks. Von Tempsky was pacing up and down in front of the parade of around forty men while
the senior NCOs ensured that all men who could be spared were on parade. Lachlan joined the ranks.

The colour sergeant called the parade to attention, saluted the Von and marched smartly back to take up his position behind the parade.

‘Men,’ the Von spoke loudly,’ we have a difficult job ahead of us. A section of our British brothers has been ambushed while bathing in the Mangapiko River. Reinforcements have been already dispatched to provide covering fire. We have the task of flushing out the natives from the bush. You will be briefed by your NCOs as soon as the parade is dismissed. Colour Sergeant.’

‘Sah.’

‘Fall out the parade to their duties.’

Lachlan fell out and joined his corporal for the briefing. The letters temporarily forgotten, he readied himself to go back into the dense scrub and once again engage the fierce warriors. He felt both fear and excitement – and a terrible, nagging sense of doom.

FIFTEEN

L
achlan quickly charged his revolver with powder and ball, ramming down the rounds into each chamber and packing in the musket balls. He rarely kept the pistol loaded in camp, lest the moisture soak the gunpowder charge. Satisfied, he finally slipped his Bowie knife into its sheath and left his rifle with his kit. This mission required a hunt where reloading might not be fast enough to counter a threat that they all knew would be only a hand’s distance away.

‘Across the stream and up the slope, lads,’ the corporal in charge of Lachlan’s section said quietly. ‘It’s a grand day to go hunting.’

The section splashed across the stream, holding their revolvers high to avoid water entering the charged chambers. They struggled up the bank on the other side and fell flat on their stomachs to crawl through the fern
undergrowth. The Maori warriors could be anywhere concealed in the dense forest around the old pa site.

Lachlan could hear gunfire to either side of him but it did not deafen the sound of his own heart beating. He slithered forward, pausing to listen for any suspicious sounds. Not hearing any, he continued to crawl forward on his stomach and then stopped. His vision was obscured by the ferns and he risked raising his head above them. As he did so a young Maori warrior lifted his head to face Lachlan only a breath away. The fear on both men’s faces was cut short when the young Maori raised his shotgun to level at Lachlan. But he had managed to get his revolver in place and fire first. His bullet smashed into the stock of the Maori’s shotgun, snatching it from his hands. Lachlan fired again, but was horrified to hear the click of the hammer striking a percussion cap. Despite all his careful efforts to keep his powder dry, water had neutralised the explosive powder.

Realising that he had been granted a second chance at life and now wielding a long-bladed knife, the Maori warrior did not hesitate to fling himself on Lachlan, who desperately attempted to roll away from the attack. Lachlan felt the knife blade rip through his jacket and slide along his ribs. Using his revolver as a small club, Lachlan struck the warrior, but his blow fell harmlessly against the Maori’s shoulder.

Before Lachlan could bring his revolver into action again as a club, the Maori was straddling him, his knife raised. For a moment, both men locked eyes and Lachlan despaired. The young warrior had a look of triumph on his face, knowing that within a split second the blade would tear into Lachlan’s chest, delivering death. But suddenly the look of triumph became an expression of surprise as the Maori toppled forward. When Lachlan struggled out from beneath, he could
see that a bullet had entered the side of the warrior’s head, killing him instantly.

Lachlan did not know who had saved his life but as he lay on his stomach, with trembling hands he cleared the chambers of his revolver and reloaded them with the powder he had been able to keep dry on the river crossing. When he attempted to crawl forward the pain stung in his side. He cried out with surprise and did not attempt to go any further. The injury was worse than he had expected. Gingerly, he slipped his hand inside his jacket to feel for the wound along his ribs. Blood was stiffening his shirt and soaking the letters he had so carefully folded. His hands touched a bloody laceration and the contact made him gasp. Would he bleed to death before anyone found him? Lachlan rolled slowly onto his back and stared at the shining sky through the lush canopy above.

Lachlan did not know how long he had lain injured but he figured that he must have lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes he could no longer hear gunfire but only the voices of his comrades around him.

Four men carried him carefully down the slope, across the river and back to their camp site, where they laid him under a tent made of blankets on a bed of cut ferns. When his jacket was removed the package of blood-soaked letters fell to the earth.

‘Bad cut,’ someone said. ‘Need to get him over to the Waikato militia. They have a regimental surgeon who can take a look at him.’

A litter was produced and Lachlan felt himself being lifted into it. He lost consciousness again and when he opened his eyes was aware of the regimental surgeon looking
down at him. ‘Looks like a cut, not a musket wound,’ he grunted in a satisfied voice to his assistant. ‘He’s lost a lot of blood but should recover. I’ll need to stitch him. Private MacDonald, we meet again,’ he said gently and continued probing the wound with his fingers.

The surgeon stitched the wound and wrapped Lachlan’s chest with a bandage before moving on to the next patient awaiting his skills. Lachlan accepted the water poured into his mouth from a canteen by one of the Rangers who had brought him to the aid post.

‘At least yer are better off than the soldier next to you,’ he said, capping the canteen when Lachlan had drunk enough.

Lachlan turned his head to see the British soldier lying on a stretcher next to him. His face had been shot away from a blast that must have been delivered at point blank range. All that remained was a bloody pulp, without any recognisable features.

‘With any luck,’ the Ranger kneeling over Lachlan said, ‘the poor bugger might die without much pain.’

Lachlan silently agreed with his comrade. The soldier next to him could just as easily have been him. His own mortality was something he no longer took for granted, although when he stared at the faceless man lying alongside him he knew that there were some things far worse than death.

‘It seems that we lost around six and about the same number wounded but the heathens lost over thirty-five killed from what I hear,’ the Ranger said before taking his leave. ‘Get some rest, Mac, an’ we will see you back in our lines.’

Feeling too weak and weary to respond, Lachlan fell into a troubled sleep. He was awoken by a murmur of voices in the dark.

‘How are you faring, Private MacDonald?’ he heard the Von ask in a concerned voice.

‘Well, sir,’ Lachlan replied optimistically, ‘I will be back on my feet by the morning.’

‘I hope so,’ the Von replied. ‘We are advancing again and I will need you to be ready for action.’

Lachlan was pleased that as far as his commanding officer was concerned he would not be evacuated to a rear area to recuperate. To be away from the Rangers for the campaign was unthinkable.

‘Wake up, you lazy scum,’ the voice snarled in his ear. ‘No time to go slacking on the army.’ Lachlan opened his eyes to find himself staring into the face of Sergeant Forster bending over him. ‘I heard that the natives had tickled you with a knife,’ he said. ‘Scum like you was lucky this time.’

Rage rose up in Lachlan’s chest. He suddenly had an urge to smash the sergeant with his fist, but remained silent.

‘So, I have you back for the moment,’ Forster said, standing to tower over Lachlan. ‘Yer probably think yer a real soldier now that yer have seen some service with the Rangers. Not real soldiers though,’ he continued, the contempt obvious in his voice. ‘Just the scum who couldn’t make it in the militia.’

‘I am not under your command, sergeant,’ Lachlan replied calmly. ‘I intend to report back to my company today.’

‘Pity,’ Forster sniffed. ‘I could have given you some work around here digging latrines.’

With some difficulty, Lachlan sat up. The effort brought a stab of pain to his side. He felt light-headed and thirsty.

‘I have a question for you, sergeant,’ Lachlan said bitterly. ‘You were at the Ballarat goldfields when the rebellion occurred, were you not?’

Forster blinked. ‘I was,’ he replied. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘You get to kill anyone there?’ Lachlan asked, staring intently into the sergeant’s eyes.

‘I saw my share of fighting,’ Forster replied warily.

‘But did you get to kill anyone?’

‘I stuck a rebel scum,’ Forster answered. ‘Some Scotsman like you. He . . . ’ Forster’s expression suddenly altered dramatically. ‘Now I know why I have never liked you,’ he said softly. ‘You look a bit like that bastard.’

‘He was my father,’ Lachlan replied quietly. ‘And I swear that there will be a reckoning between you and me one day.’

Forster stepped back and stared dumbly at the young Scot. He could see murder in his eyes and despite his rank knew that he was facing a very dangerous opponent.

‘When Captain Lightfoot hears how you threatened me,’ Forster replied, ‘he will have your hide for garters, Private MacDonald.’

‘I know about Captain Lightfoot’s role in the murder of my father and brother,’ Lachlan said.

Forster turned and stumbled away, leaving Lachlan to watch his parting back. When the surgeon approached the improvised tent, Lachlan called to him. ‘Sir, may I see you?’

‘What is it, soldier?’ he asked, bending down to adjust the bandages binding Lachlan’s wound.

‘I request permission to rejoin my company, sir,’ Lachlan said, suppressing the pain he felt.

‘The wound looks clean, but I will have to put you on a light duties chit for a couple of days. That won’t be so bad, will it?’

Lachlan liked the surgeon. He was a kind man with a real regard for the welfare of the soldiers in the company he was attached to. ‘That will be fine, sir,’ Lachlan replied.

‘Good,’ the doctor grunted and proceeded to scribble a note on a page from his notebook.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Lachlan said, taking the chit exempting him from heavy duties for a couple of days.

‘Well, Private MacDonald,’ the army surgeon said, ‘you Scots are a hardy bunch of souls. So far you have survived a flogging and a knife wound. I doubt that anything worse should befall you now.’

‘No, sir,’ Lachlan replied. ‘I think my luck should hold for the rest of the campaign.’

Lachlan struggled to his feet and reached down for his bloody jacket. With some difficulty, he slipped it on over the bandages and sought inside for his letters. He could not find them. The doctor had moved on to visit his other patients by now and Lachlan stepped out to find his company.

He found his comrades where they had set up camp.

‘Good to have you back, young Mac,’ they said, slapping him on the back.

‘I kept these safe for you,’ the corporal said. ‘They are in a bit of a mess, but I don’t think that really matters.’

Lachlan nodded his thanks. ‘Go and draw your firearms from the quartermaster,’ the corporal said. ‘We are on the move again.’

Lachlan suddenly felt a rush of warmth for the men he was with. Although he did not know them well, they had shown their concern for him by saving the letters and making sure that he got them. The looks of genuine pleasure at his return had cemented his membership of this very special brotherhood of men. Never before had he felt so proud to be a Ranger.

On his way over to the quartermaster’s tent to retrieve his field kit, Lachlan took the chit he had been given by the surgeon and tore it up. He did not need to be left behind if they were on the move again. Despite the discomfort he suffered, he reminded himself how the wounds of the flogging had
been worse and yet he had soldiered on. He now had another burning desire in his life besides staying alive and eventually seeing Amanda again. When he had dealt with the hated sergeant, he would find a way to settle with the captain.

Excusing himself from his comrades, Lachlan sought a quiet place to finally get the opportunity to read the letters Amanda had sent him prior to his wounding. He sat down under a tree and carefully parted each envelope from the next. When he opened each letter he was bitterly disappointed that his blood had blotted some of Amanda’s words from the pages. For the moment he forgot that she was the sister of the man he had sworn to kill.

Sergeant Samuel Forster stood with Captain Charles Lightfoot away from the camp site of the militia volunteers.

‘What do you want to see me about, Sergeant?’ Lightfoot asked irritably. The odious sergeant’s urgent plea for the meeting smacked of something he really did not want to know about.

‘It’s about Private MacDonald, sir,’ Forster said, wiping his brow with the edge of his cap. ‘I think there is something you should know.’

‘Get on with it, man,’ Lightfoot said, glancing back at his men going about their routines.

‘MacDonald is the son of that rebel you had me slay at Ballarat, and he knows about our role in his father’s killing.’

Lightfoot visibly paled. ‘How do you know this?’ he asked in a strangled voice. The rebel Scot had a bad way of coming to his troubled dreams at night asking for his stolen money back.

‘Coz the bastard told me himself, just after they brought
him over from the Rangers to have our surgeon look at his wound,’ Forster replied.

‘Do you know if anyone else is aware of this?’ Lightfoot asked. ‘Do you think he would have told any of his comrades?’ For a moment the difference in rank between the two men was forgotten.

‘I doubt it,’ Forster replied slowly.

‘How can you be sure?’ Lightfoot asked.

‘Coz he has threatened to do away with me the first chance he gets.’ The sergeant spat on the ground. ‘I doubt that he would go telling the world anything if he intends to kill me.’

Lightfoot nodded. What the sergeant said made sense. At least fore-warned was fore-armed, he reflected.

‘What are we goin’ to do about MacDonald?’ Forster asked.

‘That is something better handled by you, Sergeant,’ Lightfoot replied. ‘I am sure that you will come up with something. After all, serving in a war makes it easy to be killed, with few questions asked.’

Forster stood silently pondering the captain’s direction. After Lightfoot had taken the money from the dead Scot, he had given Forster a thousand pounds of his loot to ensure his silence. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined being in the same place at the same time with one of the sons of the murdered man.

‘Leave it to me, sir,’ Forster finally replied. ‘It won’t be easy and will cost you a thousand quid if I am goin’ to stretch my neck out for the hangman.’

‘Five hundred guineas – and not a penny more,’ Lightfoot countered.

‘That’s a deal,’ Forster replied, knowing full well that he could not argue for further money. He snapped off a salute to
his commanding officer. ‘MacDonald will be dead an’ buried before the end of this campaign.’