Flight of the Eagle (20 page)

Inside the human enclosure of rifle and bayonet armed soldiers, the camp followers went about their business of securing loads of water, rations and the accoutrements of a Victorian British expeditionary army: the officers' personal mess kits, canvas covered ambulance wagons marked with the distinctive red cross, fodder for the pack animals, medical supplies, veterinary equipment for sick animals and the quartermaster's jealously hoarded bits and pieces to be issued as replacements to careless soldiers.

Patrick came upon the New South Welshmen drinking ration issued cups of coffee. They were easy to find in the dark. He only had to navigate towards the distinctive accent that, fed on sunshine and copious quantities of mutton and bread, had grown in its own peculiar way. It was strange for him to hear so many of the drawling voices in the Sudanese night. Gentle memories of his childhood flooded him with nostalgia for the mild Sydney winters of sunshine and even the sweet, pungent smell of burning eucalypts in the dry hot summers as the bushfires blazed around Sydney. Too long he had lived amongst the English in the snow and sleet of the long northern winters. Too long away from the sights, sounds and smells that were peculiar to the land of his birth. Not even the magical Celtic mists could ever take the place of those experiences that had happened far across the Indian ocean in a land both new and very old. ‘I'm looking for Captain Thorncroft,’ Patrick asked a soldier he could see silhouetted against the starry horizon.

‘He's probably with Lieutenant Parkinson. Over there, mate,’ the colonial replied cheerfully as he pointed towards a huddle of men in conference nearby.

‘Officer present,’ Private MacDonald growled from behind Patrick. He was not going to tolerate colonial bad manners.

‘Sorry, mate, I mean, sir,’ the colonial replied, not sounding repentant for his failing to recognise Patrick's rank. But Patrick only grinned at the man's impudence; it was a refreshing change not to have a soldier tip the forelock to rank.

When Patrick and Private MacDonald were out of hearing, the colonial soldier turned to his companion to continue discussing the possibilities of engaging the Dervish leader Osman Digna's forces within the next twenty-four hours. Digna was an ally of the charismatic Mahdi who had led the tribesmen in the holy war against the British. The Dervishes had sacked Khartoum months earlier and the charismatic General ‘Chinese’ Gordon had been slain.

What had initially commenced as a British expedition to relieve Gordon had now become a punitive exercise. Gordon had never been a favourite of the British prime minister, Gladstone, but the British press agitated the public to pressure Gladstone's government into sending a force in support of the man who had achieved nigh on sainthood in the eyes of the people.
Gordon Pasha
could not be left to stand alone against the Moslem infidel. To the British public, the force that had been despatched to the Egyptian territory of the Sudan was a modern crusade to defend all that was virtuous in Victorian England.

But to the two colonial soldiers drinking coffee and talking in the night, the moral indignation of outraged civilians safely ensconced in Britain meant little to men who would have to face the lethal brunt of battle. Their hushed talk was centred on what might occur during the next day in their lives and not the values of a holy crusade. Practical talk of where they would next eat, how far they would march under a blazing sun, and how well their rifles would stand up against the arms of the Mahdi's warriors.

A second soldier, who had remained silent when Patrick had approached, was a big man equal in size and strength to the Scot who had growled at them. He was not a young man and only his contacts with the flamboyant Catholic politician in Sydney, William Dalley, had ensured his enlistment in the Australian contingent. But such influence with the premier of the colony was not beyond the reach of an Irish policeman who walked the beats of Sydney Town. For such a man might get to see and hear things that the good citizen did not. And in doing this make uneasy friends in high places and gain access to the ear of the premier. Constable Farrell's intimate knowledge of the comings and goings of the city's gentlemen to houses of carnal pleasures had helped him out of a delicate situation involving stolen grog and into a conveniently timed expedition far across the sea and away from embarrassing questions being asked around Sydney. He was now Private Farrell and the English officer who had spoken to them had stirred a queer feeling. It was as if he had met the man before – or someone very much like him.

Private Farrell listened to his fellow soldier chat on but he was staring intently at the officer framed against the night sky. The former policeman was puzzled. Why should the English officer who he had not clearly seen in the dark remind him of someone from his murky past?

‘What do ya reckon, Frank?’ the other asked.

Francis Farrell turned to stare at his mate. ‘Reckon about what?’ he said, as if returning to the conversation from the backstreets of Sydney. ‘I didn't hear you.’

‘Yeah, I know. You were staring at the officers.’

‘Just thought I might have met that bloke before,’ Farrell replied as he swilled down the last of his coffee. ‘But it's not likely’ he said in a distant voice. ‘Maybe just someone who from a long time ago reminded me of him.’

Someone a long time ago …
Somehow the tiny connections seemed to have a root in a long past violence. A wrong done and never rectified.

‘You are rather late, Captain Duffy,’ Thorncroft said, much as a schoolmaster would reprimand an errant schoolboy. ‘Colonel Richardson has joined with the right flank.’

Patrick almost apologised for his apparent tardiness in arriving with the left flank but checked himself. He was not late. Reveille had been set for one o'clock and the brigade major had briefed him he was to join the colonial force then. ‘I will see Colonel Richardson when the sun rises, Captain Thorncroft,’ he replied mildly, dismissing the haughty attitude of his military counterpart.
‘My
B.M. was exact in that regard.’

‘Well, you could have paid
our
commanding officer the courtesy of meeting him tonight rather than waiting until the morning,’ Captain Arthur Thorncroft persisted peevishly.

It was Private MacDonald who defied all military protocol to step to the defence of his officer and his quietly delivered interjection took both officers by surprise. ‘Beggin' yor pardon, sor, but Captain Duffy was wounded at McNeill's Zareba a wee few days back and hasn't had much sleep since. So I'd be thinking he needed some and so did the Brigade Major.’

Thorncroft was above average height but the huge Scotsman towering over him made him feel small and the reference to Patrick being wounded in the heavy fighting at Tofrick – which now appeared on military maps as McNeill's Zareba was intended to put the pompous colonial officer in his place as a soldier who had yet to prove himself in action. The point was not lost on Captain Thorncroft; he had never seen any active service in his career as an officer in the colonial militia of New South Wales.

‘Thank you, Private MacDonald,’ Patrick said warmly for the fierce loyalty exhibited by his batman. ‘I'm sure Captain Thorncroft understands. Why don't you see if our colonial brothers have a spare cup of coffee before we fall in for the advance?’ Patrick continued. ‘I'm sure they wouldn't refuse you.’

‘Sor!’

MacDonald lumbered into the night, seeking out the distributor of coffee to the troops. He knew Captain Duffy was going to have words with the upstart colonial officer and did not want him to be a witness. Could be that he was going to give the wee mon a physical lesson in manners, he thought with a grin.

When he was gone Patrick turned to his counterpart. ‘You and I seem to have got off on the wrong foot, Captain Thorncroft. And as we have to work together I will apologise for missing the opportunity of meeting with Colonel Richardson. I believe he has had distinguished service with the British army.’

Indignant as he was, Thorncroft could not help fall under the charm of the liaison officer sent to them from the brigade headquarters. This was not to say that he liked the man but his graciousness in offering the apology had to be accepted.

‘That's all right, old chap. Apology accepted,’ he said. ‘I'm sorry to hear that you were wounded. Where did they get you?’

‘The arm. Bullet passed through cleanly. Did no serious injury,’ Patrick replied, although he still felt pain in the arm. The Dervish bullet had cut open the flesh without fully penetrating and he had been careful to keep the wound clean as disease was rife in the Sudan. The wound was healing satisfactorily but promised to leave an ugly scar for life.

He had been forced to argue with a captain from the field ambulance that he was fit to immediately rejoin his men after they treated him. But the brigade major had intervened to transfer him to headquarters and then detach him as a liaison officer to the newly arrived Australian contingent. He explained that Patrick's experience in African campaigns would be invaluable in assisting the colonials. Major John Hughes had been a captain at Tel-el-kibir when Patrick was a lieutenant and the two men had become good friends.

Patrick knew full well that his friend was attempting to keep him out of the action at least until his arm healed and as liaison officer he would be forced to keep close to the staff of Colonel Richardson and away from leading at the front as was his usual practice.

‘Well, all going to plan we should have the privilege of engaging the Dervish,’ Thorncroft said happily. ‘Looking forward to seeing some action.’

Patrick made no comment but turned to stare out at the flat horizon. The stupid man would soon change his mind if he got to the stage of looking into the dark eyes of a Dervish intent on killing him.

‘Any advice, old chap?’ Thorncroft asked. ‘Before we engage the Mahdi's men.’

‘Just find the biggest Scot you can, and stand beside him when the fighting starts. Oh, and keep your revolver clear of any sand. That's about all I can tell you that's of any help for now.’

Hours later Patrick felt lost without his regimental comrades around him. Instead, he marched alongside the eager but raw troops of his native land in the still, chill night of the Sudanese desert.

Beside him strode the big Scot, humming sentimental ballads of his homeland. Other than the clinking of metal on metal of the soldiers' kits and the occasional protesting bray of an army mule, there was little else to hear on the silent march south. Their boots squelched in the sand, creating an eerie sound.

At least not having command of troops gave Patrick a chance to think about other things than the welfare of men who trusted in his decisions. He found his thoughts continually drawn back to the dream that had haunted him only hours earlier. Why had Catherine not answered any of the many letters he had written to her? Was it that she had found the attentions of Brett Norris more to her liking? He sighed. Almost nine months and not a single word from her. Nothing! Instinctively he patted the ammunition pouch strapped to the belt at his waist. Sheela-na-gig lived there and she had kept him alive as Catherine had promised.

The little stone goddess lay at the bottom of the pouch under spare rounds of revolver ammunition. He smiled when he had a fleeting image of some soldier going through his pouches should he be killed in action. What would he think finding such a lurid icon in the possession of an officer?

A wild animal called in the distance, a chilling howl. Jackal? Hyena? Patrick did not know, but its lonely call caused Private MacDonald to pause in his song before he began to hum again.

Another three months of silence from Catherine would make a full year without Patrick knowing what she was doing. His lonely, bitter thoughts echoed those that had plagued soldiers for thousands of years, thoughts which would continue as long as men went away to fight and others stayed at home with the women. Ah, but it was the cruel nature of a woman's wants, he thought. He did not agree with many of his fellow officers who maintained that a woman did not desire carnal pleasure, an opinion based on personal experience in the arms of a pretty young seamstress when he was at Oxford for his short sojourn as a student. She had seduced him and her uninhibited pleasure in his arms had shattered all the things he had been told about the lack of pleasure a woman derived from the sexual act. She had shown him how to touch her in a way that increased her pleasure. God! How beautiful those moments had been in her tiny, damp room above her father's shop. Sixteen years of age and Cristobel was her name, he remembered. And she had been madly in love with life and him, but had died from a burst appendix while he was away with his regiment in Scotland.

Across the early morning sky a meteorite blazed a trail of tiny fragments. Its appearance brought a murmur of admiring comments from the men who had seen it. ‘We had a comet at Tel-el-Kibir,’ Patrick said softly, and Private MacDonald ceased humming his tunes. ‘We thought it was a bad omen at the time. I suppose it was for the poor devils who died that day.’

‘Yes, sor, I suppose it was,’ Private MacDonald answered dutifully.