The Silent Frontier (18 page)

The weeks passed and the Rangers grew impatient. Meanwhile General Cameron formulated his plan to bypass the hilltop pas and march on the rich farmlands at Te Awamutu twelve miles away. To seize these Maori lands would effectively cut off food supplies to the pas and starve out their defenders.

Lachlan did not see Forster or Lightfoot during this time, as the Von remained active in sending out scouting patrols to clear the dense forest of any possible war parties forming for an attack on the British positions. But he did not stop thinking about Amanda, his brother in Australia, and how he would first kill Forster and then Lightfoot. The trouble was the latter obsession could get him arrested, in which case the other preoccupations would become irrelevant.

Finally, General Cameron made his move. On a night of drizzling rain, Lachlan and the rest of his comrades were given the order to move out. Cameron was going to bypass the fortified pas and march for the farmlands. And Lightfoot’s company was moving to join up with the Rangers.

SIXTEEN

T
he order to advance came down just before midnight. Marching in single file, the troops of Cameron’s assault force wound their way through fern wet from the steady drizzle of rain. Soaking fronds swished against the soldiers’ legs as they crossed the flat areas to ford cold streams in the dark. Finally they emerged on a dray road approximately two and a half miles from Te Awamutu.

But not all was well. A company of British regulars had become separated in the dark and the assault force had to wait for them to rejoin the advance. This cost Cameron two hours but finally Te Awamutu was reached and occupied without any resistance.

Cameron immediately ordered his force to continue the advance onto Rangiaowhia, an area where crops of wheat, maize and potatoes had been grown for the Auckland
market. The rich cultivation land was prized by both European and Maori.

General Cameron made his assessment and realised that an attack on the well-defended Paterangi pa was out of the question. He chose to bypass it instead, using the moonless night to assist his force. A mixed-race man by the name of James Edward, who had lived in the district, guided Cameron’s troops as quietly as possible past the Paterangi defence line.

Lachlan and his comrades had been given the task of defending the column from any attack from the rear. They had passed so close to the Paterangi sentries that they could hear the Maori warriors talking to each other.

The march continued throughout the night and by dawn Cameron’s weary force found itself just outside the village of Rangiaowhia. Cameron ordered his cavalry ahead and in a short time Lachlan heard the sound of gunfire coming from the settlement.

‘Looks like we’re in for a hot time,’ the corporal in command of Lachlan’s section said reflectively, as the Rangers crouched on the early morning earth, still damp with the evening’s coolness.

Lachlan gripped his rifle, experiencing the old fears that had become second nature to him. What were they up against? How many would die this day? As most soldiers do, he had come to learn that the waiting before an action was worse than being involved.

‘On yer feet, Rangers,’ their corporal said in a tired voice. ‘The word has come down that we are to join the fight.’

Lachlan heaved himself to his feet. He had been hungry but his appetite was gone. Now he moved forward with his company to engage in the fighting ahead.

Most of the Maori men and women had fled the village
of thatch-roofed buildings but a small, determined contingent had remained to fight it out. The Von ordered his men to assault the Catholic church. In ranks they poured fire into the building until a white flag was seen fluttering from a window. Reluctantly, the Von took the surrender and ordered his men on to the next objective.

In small groups of three or four men, Lachlan and his comrades moved through the village. Firing seemed to be coming from all directions. Lachlan found himself separated and when he turned a corner he came across Sergeant Forster, who was confronting a huge unarmed Maori warrior. It was clear the sergeant was about to execute his prisoner. He raised his rifle, shouting, ‘Die, you heathen bastard.’

Here was the perfect opportunity for Lachlan to exact his revenge. He raised his own rifle but an unexpected, almost forgotten memory of another time and place suddenly froze him. It was a recollection of a ten-year-old boy seeing helpless miners being slaughtered by the red-coats and goldfields police. For a brief moment he was a long way away in his mind but the sight of the huge Maori warrior brought him back to the present.

‘If you shoot, Sergeant Forster, I will shoot you down like the dog you are.’

Both Maori prisoner and Forster turned to stare. The young man had his Terry Callisher carbine to his shoulder and pointed directly at Forster.

Forster’s mouth fell open in his surprise and an expression of rage came to his face.

‘Go now,’ Lachlan yelled to the big Maori, who blinked his surprise at his unexpected reprieve. ‘Get away.’

‘Thank you, Pakeha,’ the Maori replied in English. ‘You are a good man.’

Without hesitating, the warrior broke into a sprint between the houses and Lachlan unexpectedly found himself hoping that the man might live to rejoin his people. But the warrior stumbled into the path of a British regular corporal, who immediately took him prisoner.

Forster swung his rifle on Lachlan and the two men now faced each other in a deadly stand-off. Now, Forster thought, was the perfect time to kill MacDonald. He would say that he met his death at the hands of a Maori warrior. It was unlikely that anyone would question his version of the events.

Lachlan harboured a similar scheme, but he was prepared to fire the Maori shotgun, thereby concealing the rifle wound and making the sergeant’s death from enemy action appear more credible.

Neither man had the chance to carry out his plan. A body of troops swarmed around the corner of the building, sweeping the two men up. The settling of accounts would have to be at another time.

Lachlan bent down, scooped up his cap and went in search of his company, while Forster bent down and picked up the shotgun that had been left on the floor beside him.

The fighting had come down to flushing out ten courageous warriors holding out in a warehouse where they had succeeded in killing a British corporal who had tried to enter the building. Under a baking sun the troops poured rounds into the building, which soon showed signs of being alight. Although smoke poured from the door and windows, the Maori defenders refused to surrender.

A British colonel standing nearby was felled by a shot from the burning building as the gallant defenders continued
to fight on. Eventually one of the defenders stumbled from the burning building, only to fall down dead a few paces from the doorway. The fight for the building was over but not the skirmishing which followed Cameron’s retreat from the village.

Along with the rest of the column, Lachlan fell back sweating. The track to the little village of Te Awamutu had been stirred into a cloud of dust raised by the boots of the troops and the iron-shod hooves of the horses. All the time the men’s jangled nerves, already cut raw by exhaustion, were constantly drawn taut by the sporadic Maori fire.

When they reached the village the order to fall out was given and Lachlan joined his comrades, collapsing gratefully onto soft patches of grass to rest their bone-weary bodies and reach for water canteens.

Lachlan lay on his back, his rifle across his chest, staring with gritty eyes at the puffy clouds filling the blue of the southern sky above. He longed to fall into a deep sleep.

‘Private MacDonald,’ the corporal said, toeing Lachlan’s boot with his own, ‘the Von wants to see you.’

Lachlan groaned, slipped on his cap and struggled to his feet. He could not think why his commanding officer wished to see him.

Lachlan found the commander standing with the colour sergeant, a big, broad-chested Scot who was known to be firm but fair in his meting out of discipline to the sometimes unruly colonial volunteers. Both men were eyeing Lachlan with some expression of amusement as he approached. Lachlan came to a halt and snapped off a salute by touching the stock of his carbine.

‘You are not reporting in regimental order,’ the colour sergeant growled gently. ‘You are out of uniform.’

Confused and dazed from his exhaustion, Lachlan could
only stare uncomprehendingly at the big Scot who was twitching with feigned annoyance. Beside him, the Von smiled enigmatically.

‘What the colour sergeant means is that you are not wearing your rank, Corporal MacDonald,’ the Von said.

For a second or two his commanding officer’s words did not sink in.

‘It is my pleasure to inform you, Corporal MacDonald, that I had nominated you for promotion a while back, and orders have come down from General Cameron’s HQ that the appointment has been approved, as from midnight last night. You have earned your promotion based on what the senior NCOs tell me about your leadership with others in the company. For one so young, you have gained the respect of many.’

‘So, laddie, get over to the quartermaster and draw your stripes,’ the colour sergeant said warmly. ‘It will be your shout tonight.’

Lachlan blinked, attempting to clear his head.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he half mumbled. ‘I am grateful for your trust in me.’

‘Just don’t let us down,’ the Von said. ‘I heard about your conviction when you were with Captain Lightfoot’s company but was assured by Sergeant O’Flynn . . . I mean Duffy . . . that you were innocent. I did not hold that against you when I put your name forward for promotion. Congratulations.’

As the significance of his promotion sank in, Lachlan thanked the Von once again. The colour sergeant excused himself to attend to regimental duties, leaving Lachlan alone with his commanding officer for a moment.

‘I did not believe that Mr Duffy was guilty of the charges levelled against him in Sydney,’ the Von said quietly. ‘He had
proved himself a splendid soldier and a fine man. I have recently heard a rumour that a man fitting his description was seen aboard a Yankee whaling ship leaving Auckland,’ the commander continued with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Sadly, if he is sailing for America, he is sailing into another war and, knowing the man the way I do, I doubt that he will be able to stay out of it. I have read that the Irish make first-class soldiers on either side of the civil war over there.’

As tired as he was, Lachlan understood what the Von was telling him; Michael Duffy had been able to flee the British system of justice for a new land.

‘You may fall in with your comrades, Corporal MacDonald,’ the Von said, granting leave for Lachlan to get a quick nap.

Lachlan saluted smartly, turned about and marched directly to the store to pick up his chevrons.

Lachlan’s promotion was well accepted by his comrades. He had earned a reputation as being cool under fire, with the quiet ability to inspire men despite his youth.

Many slapped him on the back to congratulate him and offered the young man a tot of rum. But Lachlan politely declined all offers of good Jamaican, remembering his promise to the old German, Max Braun.

His promotion carried with it extra pay – and extra responsibilities. He found that he had less time to sit down and write letters to Amanda, let alone resume his correspondence with his brother now living in Sydney. In one of his letters John had written that he and his business partner were using the city as a base to establish future enterprises in the colony of Queensland. Planting sugar cane would be one such enterprise and the establishment of their own rum
distillery another. Not surprisingly, the letters between the two brothers were somewhat stilted. They were almost strangers. All they really had in common was their blood, and a mutual desire to avenge the murder of their father and brother at Ballarat.

Lachlan never stopped scheming as to how he might find a way to kill Samuel Forster, but now that March had come to the campaign it was a time of relative inactivity for the Rangers camped at Te Awamutu.

As it was, Lachlan found himself in charge of his own section. The men were more than glad to go bush on reconnaissance duties, scouting for Maori war parties. At least they were not being used on fatigue duties, gathering potatoes for the winter or building redoubts. But they did not locate any real signs of enemy activity on their long patrols and back in camp they were able to relax a little – more than welcome after the long, arduous hours spent in the rugged hills and dense bush.

Each time he returned from the patrols Lachlan hoped for a small pile of letters from Amanda. With them in hand, he would retire to a quiet section of the camp to sit under a tree and carefully open each letter in order of the dated postmarks. Her words continued to express her yearning for him. Lachlan only wished that he could go to Amanda, take her in his arms, gaze into her eyes and express his feelings with words, rather than ink on paper.

Despite the lull in the fighting, Cameron was reinforcing his army with troops from Auckland, and near the end of March, Lachlan found himself back in action, but this time with the responsibility of leading men in combat.

Cameron had received intelligence that Maori war parties had retreated north-east to the lower spurs of Maungatautari Mountain, flanked by the Waikato River.
Mobilising a column of his troops, Cameron rendezvoused at Pukerimu with additional reinforcements and the river steamers
Avon
and
Koheroa
carrying siege artillery. Lachlan and the Rangers made camp overlooking the river and awaited further orders.

Outside his tent, over a folding camp table cluttered with maps and papers held down by a revolver as a paperweight, Captain Charles Lightfoot finished his briefing.

‘Are there any questions?’ he concluded, but none came.

‘Gentlemen and sergeants, you are dismissed to your duties,’ Lightfoot said, relieving his commanders to return to their men and brief them on their duties for the next day.

Sergeant Forster was about to rejoin his section when Lightfoot caught his eye and, with a movement of his head, indicated that he wished him to remain behind.

‘I have heard that MacDonald is still with us,’ Lightfoot said quietly. ‘I had faith in your abilities, Sergeant Forster.’

‘I almost had a chance back at Rangiaowhia,’ Forster replied, toeing the soil with his boot. ‘The bastard got the jump on me when I was occupied detaining one of those big heathens.’

‘You know, of course, that the Von has seen fit to promote the cursed man,’ Lightfoot added. ‘And worse still, there is a rumour coming from the Rangers camp that he is corresponding with my sister. I am loath to believe it, however, as I would think that my sister has more integrity than to associate with such as he.’

‘Women can be funny creatures,’ Forster said, realising his error when he glimpsed the stormy expression on his commanding officer’s face. ‘But your sister is a true lady, sir,’ Forster hurriedly added. ‘She would never entertain such a thought, I am sure.’

‘I will know soon enough,’ Lightfoot muttered. ‘I will be in Auckland very soon for a meeting with Mr Grey’s government.’