The Silent Frontier (10 page)

Part Two
THE SOLDIER
1863–1864
Waikato,
New Zealand

EIGHT

S
ergeant Samuel Forster was drunk and swayed on his feet inside the crowded, wooden hut filled with around twenty men at the Otahuhu military barracks, south of Auckland. The biting rain had turned the encampment into a field of sludge and the volunteers were happy, despite the cramped conditions of their accommodation, to be inside.

‘Youse are in for a big shock if yer come over here to fight the Maori an’ think yer goin’ to go home alive,’ he slurred. ‘I’ve bin here fer a lot longer than youse an’ can tell yer that the Maori is a cunning bugger and as good as any Queen Victoria’s best have ever had to fight.’

Lachlan sat on his field cot, his Enfield musket between his knees. He had crossed the Tasman to disembark in the town of Auckland on the North Island of New Zealand. Around him in the tent were his companions, who had enlisted in Sydney with the promise of a 50-acre farm and
free rations for a year once their service against the rebel Maori warriors was complete. While serving they would be paid two shillings and sixpence per day as privates and prior to embarking had received free rations.

Married men with families had been given priority but a lack of suitable applicants had resulted in single men being signed up. Not all volunteered for the reward of land; many had simply sought glory and adventure in this campaign against an enemy the likes of which the professional had never faced before. The British army was used to fighting set-piece battles, capturing land or villages and considering this the sign of a decisive victory. But the fierce Maori warriors fought a running fight of hard-hitting skirmishes followed by the tactic of melting into the wild and rugged countryside before reappearing.

Lachlan had heard stories coming over on the ship of how the regular British troops had taken heavy casualties, often against lesser numbers of Maori, who had also perfected the entrenchment that made them virtually immune to the artillery of the attacking force. From his readings about the Land of the Long White Cloud he knew that the war against the rebellious warriors of Polynesian ancestry had its roots in a conflict as far back as 1845. This campaign was fought for possession of rich farming lands, with the inhabitants fighting to keep the colonisers from taking their lands and the colonisers being motivated by a fierce desire to control this new land. Lachlan did not think much about the moral issues of the war. For him, this was an opportunity to both escape the drudgery of working as a labourer and be closer to Amanda Lightfoot. He was a young man, and his sense of adventure had been a guiding factor in his decision to volunteer.

‘Have you seen much action, Sergeant?’ Lachlan asked quietly.

Sergeant Samuel Forster swung his attention to Lachlan, focusing on him in the dim light of the tent. He was a stocky man of about forty years of age with a full-blown beard like that of many of the other soldiers serving in the campaign. Behind the beard, his eyes were hard, devoid of any emotion other than hatred. ‘You questioning me?’ he asked belligerently and Lachlan regretted his innocent question.

‘No, Sergeant,’ he replied. ‘I was just wondering what you had seen at first hand of the Maori.’

The sergeant glared at the newcomer. ‘I’ve seen action from the Eureka rebellion to the Taranaki campaign. You questioning my right to wear my rank, boy?’

‘No, Sergeant,’ Lachlan quickly answered, sensing that he had inadvertently made an enemy. ‘We are fortunate to have you as our sergeant.’

His tactful reply appeared to appease the drunken sergeant. ‘Be sure of that,’ the sergeant answered grimly. ‘Make sure your muskets are cleaned and in proper order fer tomorrow’s drill,’ he said, leaving the tent to make his way to the mess for another bout of drinking.

‘I heard that Forster is a real bastard,’ a young man sitting opposite Lachlan said. ‘My name is Andrew Hume.’ He thrust out his hand.

‘Lachlan MacDonald,’ Lachlan replied, accepting the grip. ‘I have a feeling that you could be right.’

‘A friend of mine was under Forster last year and said that the man is a drunken bully. He only got his promotion because he has some kind of patronage from our new commander, Captain Lightfoot.’

At the name of Lightfoot, Lachlan felt his heartbeat quicken. He had been mustered into the volunteer militia unit under the command of Charles Lightfoot and wondered at the coincidence of being a part of the man’s
company. It was a good omen and augured well for giving him a better prospect of meeting with Amanda. Little did the young Scot know that Lightfoot had specifically requested that Lachlan be recruited into his regiment so he could keep an eye on him, a job which he’d requested Sergeant Forster to undertake.

The English officer didn’t trust his sister’s denial of feelings towards the young man and had no intention of letting some Scottish upstart spoil his plans for bettering himself through the marriage of his sister to a wealthy beau.

‘Where are you from?’ Lachlan asked his new acquaintance, whom he had taken an instant liking to.

‘Moreton Bay,’ Andrew replied. ‘I was a surveyor up in the colony of Queensland. And you?’

‘Sydney Town,’ Lachlan replied. ‘I was doing navvy work.’

‘You don’t give me the impression of being a navvy,’ Andrew said, wiping down the mechanism of his musket with an oily rag. ‘I would take you for an educated man.’

‘I read a lot and my guardian was a man who always taught me to keep learning about the world.’

‘So, that is why you are over here,’ Andrew said.

‘You could say that,’ Lachlan answered.

Over the next two weeks of drilling, musketry and more drilling on the parade ground, Andrew and Lachlan cemented their friendship. They had much in common. Both were self-educated, of Scottish blood and Andrew had lived and worked in the colony Lachlan dreamed of one day exploring.

Captain Charles Lightfoot was not seen for those two weeks and he eventually joined his company after a period spent in Auckland. In the meantime Forster had done his best to single out Lachlan during their training and included
Hume when he noticed that the two had become friends. The sergeant’s reputation as a bully was fully evident. The sergeant did not have to have any reason to dislike any particular soldier but even so Lachlan and Andrew seemed to get more picquet duty, standing for longer hours on guard duty around the camp in the cold, wet nights than the others of the company. Their officer in charge, a young lieutenant, had been acting as the company commander until the latter returned to assume his duties and thus had paid little attention to his men, leaving the routine of training to Sergeant Samuel Forster. So Lachlan and Andrew had little recourse to complain to their superior about the unfair treatment that was being meted out to them.

‘All men are to fall in with arms,’ Forster roared through the barracks in the hour just before dawn. ‘Your commanding officer, Captain Lightfoot, will inspect you at dawn.’

Lachlan slipped from his bunk, snatched his uniform and dressed quickly. The discipline of the army was making him more organised, at least. The recruits drew their muskets from the store and assembled on the parade ground. A weak sun broke through high, scudding clouds as the men shivered against the early morning cold while the roll was called.

When Charles Lightfoot appeared on a thoroughbred horse wearing a beautifully tailored uniform, Forster barked out his orders for the men to shoulder arms. When he had taken his parade through the drills, he brought them back to attention.

‘All parade present, sah,’ Forster bellowed, coming to attention and saluting his superior officer.

‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Lightfoot replied, returning the salute. ‘My parade, sergeant,’ he continued, taking formal control of his company. ‘Parade, stand at ease, stand easy.’

The men went through their drill and were thankful to
their company commander for allowing them to relax in military style, their musket butts beside their boots. Lachlan was in the front rank beside Andrew.

‘Men, I am your commanding officer, Captain Lightfoot,’ Charles said in a loud voice that could be heard by all. ‘I have good news for you. I am satisfied that you are ready to join your British brothers in the war against these rebellious savages and so today we join the advance against their fortifications. You will be briefed by your senior non-commissioned officers on your duties after breakfast parade. That is all.’

Concluding his brief speech, Lightfoot handed the parade back to Sergeant Forster, before riding away.

The militia marched south along the track known as the Great South Road to set up camp in their bell tents just north of Drury close to Manukau Harbour. There, they fell into the routine of mounting picquets to guard against a surprise attack and it was then that Lachlan had his first direct contact since Sydney with his company commander.

In the early hours of the evening Sergeant Forster came to fetch Lachlan from his tent. ‘Captain Lightfoot wants to see yer,’ he said belligerently. ‘Yer bin up to somethin’?’

‘Not that I am aware of, Sergeant,’ Lachlan replied and followed the sergeant to the tent designated as an orderly room and company headquarters.

‘Private MacDonald reporting to you, sah,’ Forster barked, threw a formal salute and stood back.

‘You can leave us, Sergeant,’ Charles Lightfoot said, dismissing the burly man.

Lachlan stood before a portable camp desk and saluted the Captain.

‘Stand easy, Private MacDonald,’ Lightfoot said curtly. ‘I was perusing the files and noticed your name. It seems that my hunch was right and that you are one and the same Lachlan MacDonald whom I saw fight our regimental champion. I was also pleased to see that you had volunteered for service here and even more pleased to be able to ensure that you were enlisted in my company.’

‘I also was pleased to see that good fortune had me posted to your company, sir,’ Lachlan replied uncertainly.

‘Well, so much for the greetings and salutations, Private MacDonald,’ Lightfoot said. ‘I feel that the same good fortune has put you in the right place at the right time. You see, I was hoping that I might have a man of considerable pugilistic talent in the company. While I was away in Auckland, I bumped into Gustavus von Tempsky, a remarkable chap with an over-inflated impression of himself and his men.’

‘The Forest Rangers,’ Lachlan offered. He had heard of their remarkable exploits fighting the Maoris. Von Tempsky and Captain Jackson had gained considerable publicity with their small units in scouting for the British army, as well as their forays into the bush to seek out and ambush Maori war parties. An old hand in their company had said that the Maori warriors had a great respect for the Rangers’ prowess.

‘Ah, I see that you are aware of the Rangers,’ Lightfoot said with an arrogant smile. ‘The Von and I had a chat and he boasted that he has a man in his company, an Irishman, who can beat anyone in the British army. I think that he is wrong. Do you think that you are still of the standard you were in Sydney?’

‘I do, sir. I think that we can give the Von a bloody nose, if I may use such an expression.’

Lightfoot broke into an oily smile, rose from behind his desk and slapped Lachlan on the back.

‘That’s a good chap then,’ he said with forced camaraderie. ‘I will ensure that you have time off from your normal duties to train for the fight. I think we can organise the bout for the early weeks of September.’

‘Could I ask a great favour, sir?’ Lachlan asked, almost holding his breath for the liberty he had taken.

‘What is that, Private MacDonald?’ Lightfoot responded.

‘I would need assistance in preparing for the fight. Would it be possible to release Private Hume to be my second?’

Lightfoot frowned but replied, ‘If you think that he could assist then I will inform Sergeant Forster that he is also released and that you are both free of guard duty et cetera.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Lachlan answered, relief flooding him.

‘If that is all that you require you are dismissed,’ Lightfoot said, returning to his chair and beginning to flip over a sheaf of papers on his desk.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Lachlan responded.

‘Send in Sergeant Forster on your way out,’ Lightfoot said dismissively from behind his desk.

Lachlan saluted and stepped outside the tent where he saw Sergeant Forster waiting. ‘Captain Lightfoot wants to see you,’ he said. ‘I think that he has good news for you about me and Private Hume,’ Lachlan added, unable to control his delight at being freed from the bullying NCO’s persistent needling.

Without waiting for the sergeant’s reply, Lachlan marched back to his tent to inform Andrew that he was now in the business of managing a fighter. But he had hardly settled in the tent and briefed Andrew on the developments when Sergeant Forster suddenly marched into their tent.

‘Yer think that yer smart,’ Forster snarled into Lachlan’s face. ‘Just cos yer got off some duties with yer friend here yer think that yer out of my hands. Well, I got news fer you. The Captain an’ I go way back to the Ballarat goldfields rebellion
an’ there are things that the Captain wouldn’t want people to know. So me an’ the Captain are pretty tight too. Jus don’t give me an excuse to call in a favour.’

With his parting statement delivered with spittle spraying the air and a wild expression in his eyes, the sergeant turned his back and stormed out of the tent, leaving Lachlan and Andrew staring at each other.

What had Forster meant about the Eureka stockade? Lachlan wondered. Had it not been for his own personal involvement, Lachlan might not have thought twice about the threat. But the statement stuck with him and was the catalyst for a dreadful nightmare. He was once again ten years old. On that hot, summer’s day at Ballarat, the musketry exploded all around him as the bloodied face of his father stared at him with dead eyes. He was helpless to call out but could see what he thought was either accusation or a plea in his dead father’s eyes. It did not make sense.

For the next couple of weeks life in camp was good for Lachlan and Andrew; no guard duty and a minimum of other duties around the camp. Each day they would find somewhere a short distance from camp for Lachlan to train and rest up. They were focused on the impending fight, but always aware of the menacing presence of Sergeant Forster, who continued to seethe at having the two men he disliked most out of his clutches.