Flight of the Eagle (23 page)

Patrick stood observing the sweating soldiers gathering rocks amongst the stunted copses of mimosa bush on the rugged, bare hillsides. Behind him the native camel handlers of the commissary tussled with their obstinate animals as they unloaded their cargoes of military supplies for the night's bivouac. As Patrick observed the army digging in and preparing for any possible attack his eyes swept the surrounding hills. Dust rose as a thin film to filter the setting sun in a scene that was deceptively peaceful. The picquets were posted and stood gazing out through the arcs they had been assigned. Patrick was pleased with the preparations. He knew the craggy heights gave the army an advantage against any attack.

‘Yor think they will be comin' tonight, sor?’ Private MacDonald asked as he joined Patrick. ‘Or do ye think they have decided to run?’

‘They will be back,’ Patrick replied as he gazed down on the ruins that had once been a village. He could see evidence of newly constructed mud houses amongst the ruins. ‘It will only be a matter of degree.’

‘I was hopin' for a wee bit o' sleep tonight,’ the soldier grumbled. ‘So are our Tommy Cornstalks. The march wore them out.’

‘I don't think they would sleep, even if the Madhi's men leave us alone,’ Patrick mused. ‘They appear eager to prove themselves in battle and, I suspect, will be kept awake by their personal fears.’

Private MacDonald knew precisely what his officer meant. Men who had never been in battle would lay awake locked in the personal fear that their courage would fail them when the killing started.
Would they run away?
It was strange that officers never seemed to feel fear, the private soldier mused. They always made a point of being at the front of their men in battle, at least the junior officers. Captain Duffy was like that. No sign of fear when the fighting started.

But little did the private know the terrible fear all officers experienced before a battle. It was a fear they could confide in no-one – not even fellow officers – that they too might lose their courage and run. For Patrick the cool soldier's facade under fire hid his very real fears as a man who wanted the chance to live and love.

At the forward edge of the Zareba toiled Private Francis Farrell. He hoisted a large stone and slammed it down on top of a small wall that had begun to form a landmark. The work of building a low redoubt against attack was an unexpected and unwelcome surprise to the exhausted troops after the gruelling march. But that was the way of armies … march, work, stand guard and march again. Somewhere in between, the army allowed you to eat so that you could march, work, stand guard and march again. Rest and sleep were luxuries an advancing army issued when the commander was satisfied his enemy had been defeated – and only then.

Private Farrell glanced up from his work and saw Patrick Duffy standing with his back to him, gazing out at the village of Tamai. Maybe this would be a good time to make himself known to the man who he could plainly see was the Patrick Duffy he had once bounced on his knee at the Erin Hotel. He would tell him of his father and of what a fine man he was. Tell him how he still lived and hoped for the day they would meet.

The big former Sydney policeman straightened from bending over to push the rock into position. He felt his head swim. There were black spots floating before his eyes.

He groaned as he slumped to the hot earth.
Get him to the field ambulance!
He heard a voice call from the end of a long tunnel and strong arms lifted him from the earth. Too bloody old to be running around with the boys, he thought. Stupid idea to volunteer in the first place. It took four brawny soldiers to carry his limp body to the medical staff who were placed with their wagons at the centre of the defences.

The demented ramblings of the colonial soldier struck down by the sun made little sense to the medics who bathed his forehead and neck with cooling water …
something about Captain Duffy from the Scots' Brigade
, the surgeon major overheard.
Something about him being alive and innocent!

The surgeon major knew Patrick Duffy and wondered why a colonial soldier should be raving about his innocence. Maybe he would mention the matter to Patrick when he next saw him. But for now his patient was dangerously ill and the army surgeon had seen more soldiers die from illness and disease than he had seen die of battle wounds.

In the night the Dervishes came, as Patrick knew they would. Sniping shots from outside the defensive perimeter sent men scattering out of the light of campfires. Orders bellowed by senior NCOs, cursing men scrabbling for rifles, the braying of a mule startled by the rending of the night routine – sounds that no longer caused Patrick any great alarm. So they were not in for a night attack, he thought with some relief. Or else they would not have announced their presence with sniping. ‘You probably will get a wee sleep tonight, Private MacDonald,’ Patrick said to the Scot who gripped his rifle and groped for his bayonet in its scabbard on his belt. ‘The Mahdi's not coming tonight.’

The sniping was answered with a volley of rifle fire from the outer defences and the artillery guns that trundled with the army roared out, hurling high explosive shells in the general direction of the incoming sniper fire until the sniper's rifles fell silent. Inside the relative safety of the Zareba the men could rest in the knowledge that their guns would keep the enemy at bay. Throughout the crash of rifle and artillery fire Patrick lay on his back with his hands behind his head staring up at the beautiful canopy of crystalline stars. Ancient points of brilliance that showed all their magnificent lustre to the harsh and desolate places of the planet.

It was a strange time to think about Catherine Fitzgerald when death could come from an unseen Dervish warrior firing blindly into the redoubt. As a liaison officer he found himself with little to do than think about her. The brigade major had conspired with the brigade commander to rest him so that he could fully recover from his wound. He had only to report twice a day to his headquarters, a short distance away, where Major Hughes told him the same thing each time: ‘Just keep an eye on the Tommy stalks, Captain Duffy. Give them any advice you think they could do with. Oh, and report regularly to the aid post so that he can have a look at your wound. That's about it, old chap.’

‘Catherine, why do you not answer my letters?’ Patrick sighed softly as the exhaustion of the hard march crept over him like a suffocating blanket and lulled him into his loneliness. Would the tormenting dream creep to him again in the night?

‘Sorry, sor?’

‘Nothing, Private MacDonald. Just thinking.’

Patrick gazed at the stars and watched as the constellations slowly wheeled across the velvet black night sky. He did not remember going to sleep. Sleep was like death. It was a nothingness to his conscious being, an oblivion.

Through the long hours of the night the braver of the Dervish snipers returned to fire random shots into the mass of British troops huddled behind their walls of rocks, rifles and bayonets. Only one fatality was recorded for the night: a soldier accidentally shot dead by an officer who mistook the man for a Dervish warrior. But the random firing did not disturb Patrick's deep and dreamless sleep – the exhausted sleep of the seasoned soldier.

Private MacDonald pushed a steaming mug of coffee and a handful of hard biscuits in his face. ‘Mornin', sor and happy Easter,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Major Hughes told me to tell you to see the Surgeon Major before we move out this mornin'.’

Patrick pushed himself into a sitting position and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘Good God! Is it Easter already?’ he asked.

The big Scot grinned down on him cheerfully. ‘Good Friday, sor. But no hot cross buns.’

‘That would be expecting too much.’ Patrick grinned as he sipped from the mug of steaming coffee. It tasted good as the batman had ensured it was well-sweetened. ‘But it might not be a good Friday for the Mahdi's men if we catch up with them today.’

‘No, sor, it might not.’

When he had finished his breakfast Patrick quickly shaved, using the last dregs of his coffee to wet his face. The sugar was sticky but the razor's blade left his skin clean. Water was precious and the captain wondered why he should not grow a beard like many of the soldiers around him. It would have helped dispense with this morning ritual and save time.

When he had finished shaving Patrick scooped up his canvas webbing of straps, belt and pouches that lay in the sand within arm's reach of where he had slept during the night. He froze with shock. During the night a sniper's bullet had passed a fraction of an inch across his sleeping body to bury itself in the pouch where the little goddess resided. Superstitious horror swept him.
Was Sheela-na-gig injured?

With trembling hands he opened the pouch to peer inside. She lay unscathed at the bottom of the pouch, under the spare rounds for his revolver. ‘So we are both still together, little goddess,’ he whispered as he touched the enigmatic smile on the Celtic goddess's face with his fingers. Your silence is no less than that of the Morrigan herself, he thought wistfully. Was it that Catherine had found another?

Under the canvas of a field ambulance wagon, Private Farrell lay in a coma. The surgeon major examined him and frowned. The man's condition was not good. He should be sent back to a hospital at Suakin, Major Grant thought with some concern. But they were deep in enemy territory and the sick and injured would have to remain until General Graham was satisfied the Dervish warriors were not capable of interdicting his lines of communication to their rear.

Major Grant remembered the man's delirious ramblings before he slipped into his coma during the night. The Irish colonial volunteer seemed to know Captain Duffy from the Scots' Brigade. The major could see the young infantry officer striding towards him across the square. ‘Patrick, old boy. Come over here,’ he called. ‘There is a colonial here who has been using your name rather a lot, for some strange reason.’

Patrick greeted the surgeon. He was a good friend from their many games of chess together in the officers' mess. He stopped at the rear of the wagon beside the surgeon and peered down at the face of Francis Farrell.

‘Do you know him at all?’ the surgeon major asked.

‘I don't think so,’ Patrick replied with a slow shake of his head.
But there was something vaguely familiar about the man.
‘Who is he?’

‘Private Francis Farrell from the New South Wales contingent.’

‘Constable Farrell!’ Patrick exclaimed. The memories came flooding back: soft summer evenings sitting in the backyard of the Erin Hotel in Sydney; old Max and the big Irish policeman swapping stories and drinking Uncle Frank's grog; laughter and Patrick sparring with the big policeman as Max urged him on in his thick Hamburg accent full of English words a little boy should not hear, or use. Suddenly here in the Sudanese desert, on the edge of a possible battlefield, was a link with his past in Sydney. A rich Irish past full of love and friendships.

‘Ah, so it seems you know the man,’ Major Grant said. ‘Apparently he was a policeman, at some time in his life then.’

‘Sydney,’ Patrick answered as he stared stunned at Farrell's pale and fevered face. ‘He was a good friend of the family. He and Max were my teachers in the art of boxing a long time ago.’

‘So I have the honour of tending to one of the men who taught you the manly art,’ the surgeon major said with a wry smile. ‘Obviously a good teacher, from what I've seen of your abilities in the brigade matches.’

He had witnessed Patrick's prowess in the boxing ring on occasions. Patrick represented his brigade against other units in the army and had a fearsome reputation as a winner. The surgeon very rarely had to tend to Patrick after a fight – just his opponents.

Hailing from a Scots' regiment that boasted hard men, Patrick's place as the best fighter in the regiment was no mean feat. His fellow officers found his interest in boxing somewhat peculiar when their interests ran to horses and cards. But they also held fierce pride in their fellow officer's prowess in a sport that was normally the craft of the working classes. The young captain was prepared to take the punishing blows of any soldier who wished to match himself in the ring against one who hailed from the upper classes.

‘Get this man well, Harry,’ Patrick said softly. ‘He and I have a lot of catching up to do. At least ten years' worth.’

The surgeon nodded. ‘Now let's have a look at your arm, old boy, or you won't have much of a future fighting for those damned mad Scots of yours.’

Patrick stripped off his shirt and while the surgeon examined his wound Patrick stared at the very ill Irishman lying on a stretcher. This was a day of strange and frightening omens, he thought.

TWENTY-ONE

F
iona White – nee Macintosh – was meeting with the woman whose love for her had not faded with time or distance. Penelope – also known as the Baroness von Fellmann – was still a beauty whose looks had not faded with time. Her golden tresses showed no trace of grey and her voluptuous figure still retained the hourglass appearance of her younger days – albeit with just a little help from the rigid stays of tight fitting corsets.