Golden Hope (56 page)

With a sense of relief, Finch beckoned them with both hands.

‘I'll take on the lot of you one by one – the Australian way, right?'

The first man lunged at him and Finch went in fighting on sheer instinct. The war hadn't ended in South Africa. It wouldn't even end tonight in Hoffnung – not for him. For him the war would never end. He didn't care. He knew he had lost Clytie forever.

He went down fighting, under a hail of blows, blood gushing from his nose into his mouth. Boots ripped into every part of his body.

The voice of authority was familiar – Sergeant Mangles.

‘Stand aside, you cowards! This is your idea of an Australian fair go, is it? Scores of you against one soldier who has never recovered from the war. You ought to be damned ashamed of yourselves. You were safe here at home. All talk! Spouting jingoism. You weren't
there.
Piss off home, or I'll march the job lot of you off to the Watch House.'

When one drunk was unwise enough to argue the toss, Mangles grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. ‘I'll start with you, Moggy. Get it through your thick skulls, all of you – you're not fighting the Boers in Hoffnung, not on my watch, you're not!'

Finch staggered to his feet, unsure whether his face and shirt where drenched with sweat or blood.

‘No need to lock them up on my account, Sergeant. Thanks, but I can take care of myself.'

As he walked alone down the road, a man's voice was carried on the wind.

‘Bloody traitor!'

•  •  •

Again and again Finch saw the look of confusion and horror in Clytie's eyes. It was all over – his last refuge. He could not return to
his room at the Diggers' Rest. He could never return to sleeping in her barn. He could not bear to face the contempt in her eyes.

On the point of exhaustion he pushed through the dense bush blocking the track to the miner's right cabin. Rom was sitting by the ashes of the campfire, smoking a cigar. He held it aloft nonchalantly.

‘Salmon and Gluckstein, fine quality. Maybe hand rolled on some girl's thigh. Don't know what you're missing, Finch.'

‘You've sure changed your tune, Rom.'

Finch got the fire going with practised ease. He squatted on the other side, watching the firelight flickering on Rom's face. He was too drained by the night's revelation to want to play another round in Rom's game of tricks.

His anger spent, Finch was left with a nagging sense that it had all happened for some reason that was just beyond his mind's reach.

‘I hope you're satisfied, Rom. Thanks to you, it's all out in the open now. You're a hero in their eyes. I'm the outcast. Tomorrow everyone and his dog will know I was in Viljoen's Commando. I may have escaped Kitchener's Imperial Forces – but the whole of Hoffnung will be ready to lynch me. It won't make a blind bit of difference to them I originally joined as a stretcher-bearer.'

Rom nodded, puffing on his cigar. ‘They say confession is good for the soul. I wouldn't know. How does it feel, Finch?'

‘Lousy,' Finch said. ‘Gutted. Empty. Yet relieved – no more lies, no more subterfuge. One thing's got me beat. How did you find out I was on the Boers' side?'

Rom casually threw his cigar butt into the fire. ‘Why do you think I saved you?'

The simple answer stunned Finch. Finally curiosity overcame him.

‘What exactly do you mean?'

‘When I found you in that barn, naked and mumbling in English and some other lingo, I figured you were a Boer on the run after the carnage at Wilmansrust. I reckoned you were a prime candidate for the firing squad by Imperial officers. They were quick off the mark to pass the death sentence on Australians for “mutiny”.'

‘Why didn't you expose me?'

Rom shrugged. ‘I'd seen so many good Boers killed, men who didn't deserve to die. I decided it was time I saved one of them. You were
handed to me on a platter. I let everyone go on believing the photograph was a girl from
your
past. What better way to save you from a firing squad than getting you on a ship to Australia?'

‘So you knew all the time?'

‘Yeah, I figured you were just like me, sick of fighting a bunch of country lads just like us . . . who never did us any harm.'

Finch gave a sharp laugh but there was no mirth in the sound. ‘I had never fired a shot in anger. I just treated the wounded and collected dead bodies under fire.'

‘I know the feeling. After Wilmansrust I helped dig a mass grave. Our blokes, a Boer lad and a Kaffir all in the one grave. It struck home to me. They all looked the same in death – innocent somehow.'

Finch pressed on. ‘Everything changed for me – that night at Wilmansrust . . .'

Rom eyed him sharply. ‘Go on.'

‘Valjoen's men weren't trained soldiers – most were farmers. Some wanted time off to bring in their crops, their cattle. Valjoen never forced any man to fight against his will. Their ranks were depleted – a desperate situation. That night I filled the breach . . . I took up arms . . .'

His voice cracked. ‘I remember running through the smokescreen – shocked to find myself face to face with – Australians . . . I don't know whether I fired or not – I blacked out. You know the rest . . .'

They sat immobile, watching the shadow play of the fire on each other's face.

Finch broke the silence. ‘So you saved me – and the price I paid was to be your go-between.'

‘Why not? Would you have come to Hoffnung just for the mineral springs?'

Finch knew there was only one answer to that.

Rom shrugged. ‘All's well that ends well, as some bloke once said.'

‘Shakespeare,' Finch said automatically. ‘But it hasn't ended for me. After my public confession tonight, I could still be arrested as a prisoner-of-war.'

‘Not if you behave yourself,' Rom said. ‘Doc Hundey is on your side – so is Mangles. Some blokes may give you a wide berth. But no one will be game to dob you in to the Imperial Army. Doc is the real hero in this town.'

Finch offered his hand. ‘I guess I owe you – more than my life.'

Rom was strangely quiet but finally accepted the handshake. ‘Yeah, but maybe that's more than I want to give you. I want my
own life
back
.'

Finch knew the time had finally come. ‘Maybe you
can't
, mate. Maybe you've exhausted the last of your nine lives.'

Rom turned on him a look that was somewhere between scorn and fear.

•  •  •

When Finch awoke in the dark, the embers of the campfire were still smoking. Rom was gone. He managed to stagger the few steps to the cabin and collapsed on the bedroll, his body drenched with sweat, dimly aware that his mind was in a state of fever and he was talking to himself.

Moonlight outlined the figure standing in the doorway. He knew she was an illusion, but he didn't care.

‘You're beautiful,' he whispered.

When he felt the cool water on his face, and the gentle hands tending his wounds, he felt confused.

‘You're real?' he asked.

‘I was when I got up this morning, now I'm not so sure,' Clytie said crisply.

He tried to take her hand.

‘Lie still, Finch. You've got a bad cut that needs stitches. I'll get you to Doc as soon as it's light. Meanwhile, drink this down.'

She put the small bottle to his lips and he gulped thirstily then looked up in surprise. ‘Hey, this isn't water!'

‘Have you got something against brandy, all of a sudden? Doc gives it to his patients in shock. I keep some on hand for emergencies.'

Finch needed no encouragement to drain the bottle. He felt a warm glow spreading through his body that buoyed his confidence.

‘You heard me tonight at the pub, Clytie. I can't remember exactly what I said, it's all a blur, but I wouldn't blame you if you hated my guts.'

‘Why? You wanted to help the underdog. You did exactly what Rom would have done if he'd been living over there when war broke out. Rom would have been proud to hear your defence of that Viljoen.'

She didn't see him. But it's always Rom. First and last in her mind.

‘
I should thank you for coming. Seems like I'm forever in your debt, Clytie.'

‘No debt. I only do what I want to do.' She hesitated. ‘Don't misunderstand me, but you told me once that Sonny Jantzen offered to loan you his carriage should you ever need it.'

‘So?' Finch managed a wary smile. ‘What are you up to now?'

‘Well, you know how Emily Hobhouse went to South Africa and reported on the scandalous malnutrition and sufferings of Boer women and children held in British prisoner-of-war camps?'

‘Who doesn't?

‘Well, that little Cornish spinster has single-handedly shamed the British Parliament into action and made the South African Women and Children's Distress Fund a household word. If anyone can cut the appalling death rate and improve conditions in those camps, she can.'

‘No argument there. But what on earth has that woman got to do with me borrowing Sonny's carriage?'

‘Well,' Clytie took a deep breath, ‘there's a major concert being held at Bitternbird Town Hall this Saturday to aid Emily Hobhouse's fight on behalf of Boer women and children.' She added tactfully, ‘Now that I know how sympathetic you are to Ben Viljoen and his cause, I thought perhaps if you were free, you might perhaps . . .?'

‘Be your chauffeur to Bitternbird? There's no doubt about you, Clytie. You send comfort parcels to
our
volunteers and raise money for Emily Hobhouse's fund. And ask
me
for help. You heard my true confession last night. I'm the enemy, remember?'

‘It seems to me we're all somebody's enemy. Maybe The Creator of All Things has washed his hands of all of us. I'm only sure of one thing. What's happening in those camps is an outrage. Official bungling and neglect – the children don't even get proper food and milk.' Clytie's voice cracked. ‘Boer babies are dying, Finch – and it's our fault!'

Her dead baby.
Finch cursed himself for reopening the wound that never healed.

‘I'll drive you to Bitternbird and back – even if I have to steal a horse. You can count on it.'

Finch held tight to her trembling hand, unable to ward off his desperate desire to sleep – and the bad dreams that came to haunt him.
Now he had new ammunition to murder his sleep. The photograph of one of the young Boer mothers lying in her makeshift coffin, flowers framing her blonde hair like a halo, her dead baby lying cradled in her arms . . .

It was as if Clytie read his mind. ‘I'll stay with you until you're asleep, Finch.'

•  •  •

He awoke early next morning, confused to find Doc squatting beside him, a measure of medicine poured out ready for him to swallow without argument.

‘How'd you get here, Doc?'

‘Shadow and Clytie – an unbeatable combination. I would put them on the payroll if I had one.'

The medication worked fast. Finch felt his muscles beginning to unknot, relieved until he recalled each sharp, ugly detail of last night's public confession.

There was a smile in Doc's eyes. ‘I understand that was quite a performance you gave last night, Finch.'

‘My confession or my losing fight?'

‘Both. You might be surprised to know not all the town is against you. The initial glamour of the war has worn thin. People don't enjoy hearing our lads are ordered to burn down Boer farms. There's a growing rearguard action of sympathy for “the enemy”.'

Finch ruefully rubbed his jaw. ‘It didn't show last night.'

‘Sergeant Mangles has spread the word he'll clap any bloke in irons who gives you grief. But that's not why I'm here. It's about this whole triangle business.'

‘The Gold Triangle?' Finch shook his head, confused.

‘No. The triangle at which young Clytie is the heart.'

‘Forget it, that's past history,' Finch said tartly.

‘Indeed it's not. I must declare myself, Finch. I am Rom Delaney's friend, Clytie's friend, and yours. It doesn't take a medical degree to know you love her – against your will. I also know Rom loves her – or loved her in his own wild way. I can't hazard a guess as to how it will all pan out – women are unpredictable creatures. The only thing within my power is to try to right a wrong. I suspect you know what that is.'

‘Yes. Rom told me the mess he got into with women before he bolted.'

‘The tragedy is even worse than Rom knew. I suspect we have found the real key to his return.'

‘What is it?'

‘It is difficult to believe, which is why I delayed telling you. But I now have strong reason to think that the child who suffered crib death was not Clytie's babe but the Jantzens'!'

‘I don't understand. You mean it was a mistake due to the nurse's negligence?'

‘Even worse. I believe Sister Bracken played God – deliberately switched the infants following the crib death. My problem is that I have no way of proving this unless Bracken confesses her act to Sonny Jantzen. This she refuses to do. Sonny was the first child she brought into the world. In a sense he's the son she never had.'

‘And once she leaves Hoffnung in a few days – ?'

‘Her crime will become history, unsolvable. There's no known medical way to prove if Clytie is the boy's mother.'

‘Especially given Rom's belief that he fathered both babies – half-brothers!'

‘Exactly. So I have no other recourse but to keep up the pressure on Sister Bracken and trust that her moral compass will lead her to make the right decision.'

Finch shook his head in bewilderment. ‘And Bracken calls herself religious!'