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  FORGIVEN

  A novel

  Geoff Lawson

  Published by Geoffrey M. Lawson

  Kindle edition ebook

  Copyright © 2016

  All moral rights reserved

  This book and its electronic equivalent is sold subject to the

  condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,

  hired, or otherwise circulated in any other form, format or cover

  design other than that which it is published. No part of this

  publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or

  transmitted in any form or means, (electrical, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the express

  permission of the author/publisher.

  This novel is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the

  characters of this story and anyone currently living or dead is

  entirely accidental and unintentional.

  This book is written in New Zealand English

  ISBN 978-0-473-29323-9

  Historical fiction, New Zealand 1800s, Boer War, South Africa

  Prologue

  Cape Colony, South Africa. October 1899

  I ran and I had no idea where I was going – I may have run in a

  circle for all I knew. I ran with head down, my brow creased in

  concentration while looking for the larger rocks before I

  tripped on one and fell. Suddenly, I was confronted by water. I

  had found my way to the river, where hidden by the mist on

  the opposite shore was a ridgeline of boulders, a good place to

  hide. The more I was elevated when the fog finally lifted, the

  further I could see without being seen myself.

  With mounting urgency I pressed on, wading into the

  slowly swirling current with my carbine and hat held above my

  head; testing the bottom with my feet for obstructions as I

  forged my way towards the opposite shore. It was still early

  morning and the sluggish, muddy water had reached my

  armpits before I emerged, chilled and dripping, leaving a fresh

  trail of footprints across the damp sand.

  Boulders soon materialised from out of the gloom and I

  sensed I was beginning to climb. They were twice my height

  and reared out of the thickening shroud like silent, ominous

  shadows, forbidding and mysterious; megaliths that had stood

  and endured since the beginning of time. Progressively, the

  slope became steeper and I began to sprint on the balls of my

  feet, weaving my way upwards through the jumbled mass.

  Suddenly, I thought I heard voices. Was it the murmur of

  humans or sounds made by the river? It was surprising how a

  lack of visibility could markedly increase my paranoia.

  The previous night we had left our camp to attack the

  enemy. There was sure to be trouble when daylight returned

  and we would need to be adequately prepared, so rations were

  organised, horses were fed and carbines cleaned before we

  scoffed some more food and filled the empty loops in our

  cartridge bandoliers. The plan was to spend the night closing

  around an enemy camp and attack when the sun came up. A

  good trick, which we had successfully used before.

  We travelled through broken, gorge-like country that was

  crossed by saw-shaped ridges. There were ancient, weathered

  buttes among cone-shaped hills and grassy valleys that

  meandered for miles. It was vital to make the right turns when

  these valleys intersected – if you got it wrong there was no

  way of knowing where they would end. During the day, lizards

  could be seen while snakes lay hidden among gaps in the

  rocks. High above us, birds of prey would be wheeling silently

  round and round, watching for movement on the ground far

  below.

  This was a devil’s playground. A landscape that enthralled one

  minute and caused unease the next. At night there was the fear

  of the numerous deep holes while in daylight there was a

  constant danger of an ambush by Boers.

  Daylight came as we emerged from the canyons and spread

  out upon a broad, undulating, scrub-covered plain. We had

  been too long traversing the canyons and could have turned

  back, for a blanket of thin fog had descended on the landscape,

  turning the middle ground into a haze. We continued on by

  compass alone and we had rudimentary maps, but without

  being able to see the horizon we had no way to gauge how far

  we had come, or how far there was left to go. We persevered

  and soon found ourselves on the bank of a river, which

  confirmed beyond doubt that we had lost our way.

  By now the fog was perceptibly thicker so we dismounted,

  for at times we could barely see the ground; then, we worked

  our way forwards across a field, bridles in one hand and our

  carbines in the other. We walked methodically, picking our

  way, the only sound an occasional crunch of gravel or the clink

  of a horseshoe on stone. We watched and kept pace with those

  on either side while in front lay a wall of swirling fog. Time

  dragged and progress was slow until we noticed that the fog

  had begun to lift. It was then that we saw shadows, hovering

  indistinctly through the gloom. One spoke in Afrikaans. They

  were Boers!

  We hit the deck as an avalanche of bullets whizzed over

  our heads; there was bedlam, confusion. Wounded horses

  screamed and stampeded, the roar of musketry deafened.

  While bullets whizzed by the fog descended until there was

  nothing to be seen through the deepening haze.

  Suddenly, the shooting stopped. There was silence – no

  screaming horses, nothing moved. Nothing could be seen

  except gently swirling fog. Too afraid to blink, our attentions

  were absorbed by the all-pervading gloom. Minutes ticked by.

  Panic reared its ugly head. What were the bloody Boers

  playing at?

  We couldn’t stay here – there was nowhere to hide, so we

  fled like mackerel pursued by sharks. There was no orderly

  withdrawal, no prearranged rendezvous and no rearguard – we

  just bolted while we were still able to.

  We were quickly separated by the fog and due to panic and

  the noise I made, it was some time before I sensed that I was

  on my own. My horse had gone to god knows where and all I

  could do was find some cover and wait for the fog to lift.

  When it did, I could see that the plain was dotted with our

  dead horses. It was also apparent that I was completely alone. I

  was disappointed, but hardly surprised. I came down from my

  perch and re-crossed the river to search for my mount, finding

  that he too was dead. My ration sack was gone and so was my

  water bottle, but I found a water bottle on another dead horse

  and equipped with this essential my attention returned to

  getting home; hoping that I wouldn’t run into any more Boers.

  Judging from the number of dead horses, the column couldn’t


  be more than an hour or two ahead, for like myself the bulk of

  them would be walking. Therefore, there was every chance I

  could catch them up.

  With the sun still rising I began to walk – a minute figure

  on a vast, undulating plain that was dotted with scrub and the

  odd spindly tree, the only green in an otherwise arid landscape.

  The trail followed a wagon road and as I strode along I could

  occasionally see a cloud of dust on the horizon ahead,

  indicating the whereabouts of the column. I would need to

  measure my pace, for too much effort would soon burn me up.

  As it was, I was becoming hotter. Saliva would steadily

  evaporate and my tongue would soon stick to the roof of my

  mouth. Dehydration will cause your vision to decline. The

  ability to shoot and notice critical things can become impaired.

  After a couple of hours I looked towards the horizon and

  saw I was not alone. Another small, black dot was advancing

  towards me, coming from the direction of the column. As it

  came closer, I could see it was a black coupe drawn by a single

  black horse and by the time it drew level, I saw that the

  occupant was a priest. He was tallish with straight black hair,

  his thin face sporting a long nose and a close-cut beard. As he

  swept past I gave him a wave, but his dark, hollow eyes just

  stared and he didn’t wave back. That was strange – he didn’t

  seem to evoke the usual ambiance of a priest.

  I stopped waving and watched as he continued by. There

  was something odd about this and I kept looking back, even

  though there was nothing to see except the back of the coupe

  and the dust from its wheels. I carried on as the dust slowly

  settled, while my focus again switched to catching up. I must

  have walked for another hour when I lifted my head; I could

  hear the unmistakable sound of gunfire coming from the

  direction of the column.

  Chapter One

  PATEA, New Zealand. 1883

  Father once joked that Patea was like the American Wild West,

  except there were no six-guns or cactus plants. He was right

  about the cactus plants, but the part about the six-guns was less

  than correct. Although the wars with local tribes had ended a

  decade earlier, Southern Taranaki was still not perceived to be

  the safest place to live.

  The reason was that the infamous renegade Kimble Bent

  and Titokowaru, the Maori Napoleon, were still at large.

  Ranked among New Zealand’s most wanted, they were never

  apprehended because the hinterland was covered in deep, dark

  bush; a primeval netherworld that stretched across the largely

  unknown interior that lay to the north – an unbroken canopy

  that traversed the rugged Matemateonga range and continued

  on to the equally remote upper waters of the Whanganui River,

  where wild tribes were still rumoured to exist.

  Patea was a typical rural town that straddled the road

  which followed the North Island’s West Coast. To the North-

  West the skyline was dominated by Mount Egmont, while the

  road also continued the opposite way, where it crossed the

  Patea River to forge on towards Waverley, then to Waitotara

  and eventually to Whanganui, some forty miles to the South

  and East.

  The town consisted of a couple of blocks of single-and

  double-storeyed buildings, which had acquired the title of

  ‘Bourgh’ in 1881. It also had a port, a refrigerated meat

  canning works, two weekly newspapers and a hospital; a

  resident magistrate, the region’s only high school and a variety

  of government agencies.

  The main street was twice the width of a normal road so

  that freight wagons from the port could be turned. It was a

  dustbowl in summer and a mud bath in winter. Branching from

  it were sandy lanes that were without footpaths or graded

  surfaces and of street lamps there were none. When darkness

  descended, it was absolute beyond the range of a candle

  lantern.

  Patea was also a region that had grown faster than civil

  order could manage. It had its share of colourful characters and

  anything that could happen, invariably did. There was ol’ Bob,

  an engineer who liked to live rough, and another that lived in a

  cave cut in a bank. Yet another was ol’ Heke; the last of the old

  cannibals, whose teeth had been filed and his face tattooed. He

  was a harmless old man and kept to himself, but children ran

  away to hide when they saw him coming.

  By the time I was twelve I had passed my proficiency and

  schooling was now behind me. I went to work on our family

  farm, which was a block of rolling hill country out Kakaramea

  way. My wages were small but most of the time there was

  nothing to spend it on, except my clothes and the odd book, so

  my money sat in my account and slowly began to build. Our

  house on the farm was a rustic board-and-batten affair with an

  attic roof and verandahs across the front and rear. There was no

  bathroom as such and except for the kitchen there was no

  running water. The washhouse was our bathroom, where a

  wood-fired copper provided hot water for bathing as well as

  for washing our clothes.

  When I was sixteen, mother received an invitation to go

  and visit an old friend. A few years earlier, Eleanor’s husband

  had been appointed the manager of the Model Dairy Company

  in Whanganui, so our two families were only separated by

  forty miles; barely four hours of travel in our new modern age.

  An exchange of letters flowed back and forth until eventually,

  all had been duly arranged. Momentously for me, mother

  decided that I should go with her, not just to keep her company

  but for me to acquire some experience of travel, for since I was

  a boy I had never been anywhere other than to Kakaramea and

  Patea.

  One fine Friday we boarded the train from New Plymouth.

  I was eager to experience the novelty of being whisked along,

  only to find that it was actually disappointing as there was little

  sensation of speed.

  1

  We stopped at Waverley, one of the smaller communities

  along the way, and then at Waitotara, a place that was fortified

  during the wars. Next, we stopped at Maxwell Town, named

  after the son of Colonel Maxwell, before we rattled on to Kai

  iwi, where in the old times it was said, a woman had been

  eaten by a war party of relatives. Finally, after gathering speed

  down a long, winding hill, the train braked and came to a halt

  at Aramoho Station on the fringe of Whanganui.

  We disembarked and a porter with our luggage escorted us

  to the other side of the platform, where a suburban train would

  soon connect us to the heart of the town. As the engine crept

  along we could see there were a good many cottages that had

  been crammed into narrow streets. Smoke curled slowly by our

  windows and after rounding a curve, we travelled through a

  swamp that took us past an imposing English school. It was

  really novel to travel through the suburb
s in the comfort of a

  carriage and it was apparent that this was a sizable place, given

  the number of houses we had already seen. Soon after, we

  rumbled through a cutting and crept along the river’s edge until

  we arrived at Central Station.

  The station platform and its attendant double-storeyed

  buildings were more than a hundred yards long, while directly

  adjacent was a wharf which extended along the riverbank for

  at least half a mile. Eleanor Vance was waiting, so while

  mother and Eleanor hugged and exchanged pleasantries I

  retrieved our luggage, after which we walked onto a street

  where a dozen cabbies and their rigs stood waiting along the

  curb.

  The following day Eleanor pressed her oldest son to take

  me for a tour of the town. Edward was slimmer and a year or

  two younger than me. His head was covered with thick blond

  hair and a profusely freckled nose highlighted an air of

  boyishness. We sauntered off towards the river and on reaching

  the wharf we ambled along, hands in pockets, discussing

  anything that came to mind while heading upstream towards

  the centre of town. Jammed nose-to-tail were sailing scows,

  steam and sail vessels and steamers of all sizes. Smoke

  billowed up into the mid-morning air as vessels raised steam

  2

  and prepared to leave, while seagulls squabbled over a carcass

  that drifted on the incoming tide.

  There was plenty of other activity too, as horse and wagon

  teams were coming and going while goods from railway

  wagons were loaded onto ships. We continued past the railway

  station and ambled unhurriedly under an iron bridge, where we

  picked up stones to toss into the water.

  “See that cluster of piles,” remarked Edward, pointing.

  “They allow the span on the town side of the bridge to swing

  about so ships can pass through.”

  I tried to visualize how that was possible, for I had never

  heard of a bridge that could do that. Then we continued on our

  way, having nowhere urgent to be and with no acute tasks to

  perform, just wandering without any planned destination and

  enjoying the day.

  I had noticed that the streets that branched off were

  properly graded with footpaths, curbing and continuous

  verandahs that covered nearly all of the sidewalks. Compared

  to rural Patea, this was a town of considerable substance.