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  By now, we had arrived at a major intersection and stood

  outside a large hotel; a triple-storeyed brick structure that faced

  ‘the Avenue’ as the street was called. Straight across the road

  was the Post Office, an equally grand and imposing affair.

  “Look at that,” said Edward, pointing to the clock tower

  above it. I couldn’t possibly miss it. It was the highest and

  most significant structure I’d ever seen.

  I also noticed a four-sided fountain in the middle of the

  road. Exquisitely tall and of classical design, it was topped by

  a cluster of gas lamps suspended from a fancy, cast-iron pole.

  This whole place was impressive. I was so preoccupied with

  all these marvels that I failed to notice the approach of another

  lad of about my age – I walked straight into him.

  “Beg your pardon,” I apologised in surprise.

  “An’ so you should an’ all. You ought to watch where

  you’re going.”

  I wasn’t sure I liked his tone, but for now I chose to ignore

  it. He was slightly taller and slimmer than I and looked a bit of

  a swank. He wore a red and black tartan jacket with matching

  trousers and his head was covered by a black bowler hat. He

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  was using this opportunity to look me up and down and

  sneered at my hardwearing country clothes.

  “A country bumpkin, no less. No wonder you bump into

  people, bumpkin.”

  I bristled. “Don’t speak to me like that, you over-dressed

  townie, turd-in-a-box!”

  He blinked. For a second he tried to think of something

  equally crass to say, but couldn’t manage it, so he resorted to

  predictable mediocrity – he leaned closer and sneered.

  “I speak how I want, bumpkin!”

  That did it. I grabbed his jacket lapels with both hands and

  shook him. His response was to grab me too, but I already had

  the best hold and a struggle for dominance began. Then he

  tried to trip me, but I wasn’t having that; I stepped over his

  foot. Next, he let go with his right hand and tried a headlock,

  but he was clumsy. I saw it coming and ducked. Then I lunged

  against him, pushing him backwards with all the alacrity I

  could muster until he tripped and we fell, the result being that

  he landed on his hat with me on top.

  I swiftly pinned his arms. He didn’t like that and struggled

  to get free, but my weight had the better of him. Then I pinned

  his arms with my knees, which left my hands free. Now, he

  was completely stymied – his face fell, for there was no damn

  chance he could wriggle out of that. Then I heard something

  behind me. The next thing I knew, I received a whack on the

  back of my head. Surprised, I looked up and discovered this

  girl standing over me and threatening me with a brolly.

  “Hey!” I growled, rubbing my head, “bugger off.” There

  was no indication that she was about to comply.

  “Stop your fighting!” she shouted, her eyes glaring. “If you

  do not stop right this very minute, I will be forced to hit you

  both!” She was balanced on her feet with a brolly swung back

  over her right shoulder, fully prepared for attack or defence.

  Words couldn’t convey the extent of my surprise. The top

  of her head would scarcely come level with my shoulder and

  the notion that she could beat me was utterly ridiculous. I

  wagged my finger.

  “Watch it miss, don’t do anything stupid.”

  4

  She poked out her tongue. It was unfortunate for her that I

  was now in a pretty good place and I was not in any mood to

  give it up.

  My antagonist, meanwhile, was watching all this and

  commenced to struggle anew, but his position was hopeless

  and he soon threw in the towel. Then missy decided she should

  retake the offensive. She stepped towards me and took another

  swing. This time I was prepared. In a flash, I grabbed the

  brolly and held it fast.

  “Give it back!” Her eyes enlarged with indignation and she

  commenced to tug for all her worth, but I wouldn’t budge. We

  glared at each other from the opposite ends of the brolly and it

  was plain that she was not about to release it, so with both of

  my arms free I commenced to drag her towards me, an inch or

  two at a time.

  She doubled her efforts, braced her skinny legs and leaned

  back, straining her best to prevent it while I wolfishly grinned

  and dragged her in, purposely bit by bit to prolong her

  dilemma and provoke her rage; until we were virtually face-to-

  face. By now it was plain that her possession of the brolly was

  about to be lost, but I could sense that unless I was prepared to

  forcefully prize her fingers from it, she was not about to give it

  up.

  “Let – it – go!” she breathed, her face red, our noses almost

  touching. One had to admire her grit, although to be honest, I

  had already proved that her possession of the brolly was not an

  issue and that this had gone far enough, so I gradually let the

  brolly go. She sprang back, a triumphant but wary look on her

  face, while I got to my feet, mindful that I should keep my eye

  on her. By now though, experience had proved that caution

  would be a more sensible option and she made no attempt to

  come any closer.

  I began to appraise her with a good deal more interest. She

  was pretty for one so young, for she would only be about

  twelve. Her hair was pulled back and plaited. She wore a long-

  sleeved dress that extended to her knees and a sash had been

  wound around her waist. Her legs were covered with button-up

  leggings which seemed to emphasize their skinniness and

  large, hostile, brown eyes glared from a pixie face.

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  I gazed back benignly, hoping that would help to calm her,

  while wondering what to make of her. Meanwhile, my

  antagonist rolled onto his knees and got to his feet, so she

  faced-up to him as well, still trying to radiate menace and

  threat.

  “Aw, come on sis, put the brolly down. We were only

  having some fun. It was nothing serious you know.”

  She was too wound up to be having any of that. “Well

  then! When you get home you can explain that to mother! You

  can explain why you were brawling like a common hooligan

  and we will see what she makes of that!”

  Having perceived that I was no longer a threat, she had

  dropped her arms. She gave me a look of undiluted hostility,

  then abruptly turned and marched off. She had achieved her

  goal of disrupting our altercation so I guessed there was no

  longer any reason to hang around.

  Stooping, my antagonist picked up his crumpled hat and

  without a backward glance ran after her. “Aw come on Rach,

  why does mother have to know about this?”

  She was in charge here and she knew it.

  They disappeared up the street, harping back and forth,

  both of them engrossed in their sibling rivalry and neither one

  about to back down an inch. He made a grab for her arm but

  she
deftly avoided his outstretched hand and threatened to

  whack him with the brolly. I laughed. Then I looked about for

  Edward, who with arms folded, was taking it all in.

  “Who on earth was that?”

  “That was Albert Purdue and his sister. That Albert is a

  smart arse, but you showed him.”

  I grinned as my fingers probed a tender spot on the back of

  my head. “Yeah and she got the better of both of us, don’t you

  think?”

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  Chapter Two

  CAPE COLONY, South Africa, October.

  1899

  Blue saluted the Major.

  “Wilson as requested, sir,” then he turned and left. Major

  Matlock was our company commanding officer. He was

  fortyish, athletic and good at polo, with penetrating steely-blue

  eyes and dark unruly hair that was starting to grey. He was

  clean-shaven except for a thin moustache, which gave him that

  devil-may-care appearance that was considered essential for a

  professional cavalryman. He shuffled some papers into a pile

  before he rose from his chair.

  “Come with me, Wilson.” He escorted me outside his tent,

  where under the awning were two men seated at a table

  encircled with chairs.

  “Well gentlemen,” said Matlock, addressing the two men.

  “This is Private Wilson. These are Major Watermeyer and

  Corporal Crawford of the Intelligence Bureau.”

  I saluted them. Matlock pointed to a chair and we both sat

  down.

  It was immediately apparent that Watermeyer and

  Crawford couldn’t possibly be a more contrasting pair.

  Watermeyer was the elder of the two; fortyish and seemingly

  informal. He was also slightly less than average height, stocky

  in build with thinning hair and sported a thin moustache.

  Crawford on the other hand was slim and about my age. His

  wire-frame glasses enhanced his spindly appearance and he

  was markedly formal in manner. He sat in his chair like he had

  a rod up his back and his eyes darted with furtive precision

  from one to another; but unless directly addressed, he was not

  inclined to speak.

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  “We have read the reports of the attack on your column and

  note that you saw someone dressed as a priest leaving the

  vicinity, just before the attack began.”

  “Yes sir, I did.”

  “Are you certain? No-one else mentioned anything about

  seeing a priest.”

  “Absolutely sir; he passed me no further than from me to

  you.”

  “Have you seen this man before?”

  “No sir.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Yes sir, I probably would.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  “Well, he was mid-thirtyish, slim, with a long thin face. He

  had straight, black hair and a closely trimmed beard. His arms

  and body were completely covered by his cassock, yet he gave

  me an impression of athletic strength.”

  Watermeyer flopped back with one arm dangling over the

  backrest of his chair. His face made it obvious that he was

  deeply interested. He scratched the bridge of his nose for a

  moment, evidently in thought, then leaned towards me.

  “A good description. You are obviously observant. Do you

  think he had anything to do with the attack?”

  “Definitely, sir. There was only one road and all of us were

  using it. If none of our lot saw him, then he must have

  intentionally kept out of sight; he would have been aware that

  they were coming and purposely hid to avoid them – and why

  would he need to do that unless he was up to something?”

  Watermeyer turned to Crawford. “I think this is our man.”

  He looked back at me.

  “Crawford here is an artist. Do you think you could assist

  him to create a likeness of this fellow?”

  “Yes sir, I certainly can.”

  “Right then, best to get on with it.”

  Watermeyer and Matlock rose from their chairs and

  disappeared inside the tent, leaving Crawford and me to look

  askance at each other. Hereached down beside him and opened

  an attaché case which contained a sketchbook, pencils, pens

  and inks.

  8

  “Who is this man?” I enquired.

  “You’d better come and sit by me,” he remarked without a

  glance, fastidiously arranging his equipment in front of him

  and setting to work.

  When Crawford had finished I stood up and looked over

  his shoulder. Although composed entirely from memory it was,

  nonetheless, a pretty good likeness. Without looking up, he

  suggested in a somewhat distant and preoccupied voice that

  perhaps I should inform Major Watermeyer that the sketch was

  ready, so I entered the tent to find Matlock and Watermeyer

  locked into a serious conversation.

  As I approached they rose from their chairs and we trooped

  back outside to stand around Crawford, admiring his work.

  “Do you think this is an accurate rendition?”

  “Yes sir, it is to the best of my memory.”

  He had captured the sweep of hair over the forehead

  extremely well and the long face. The width of the eyes and

  cheekbones was about right and the shape of the jaw was

  pretty good too.

  Crawford was slowly and meticulously shading the

  background around the head to give the image better definition

  in silhouette.

  “Who is he sir?”

  “Erich von Smidt,” said Watermeyer.

  “Why is he of such interest to the Intelligence Bureau?”

  “He is a spy and saboteur; a Prussian mercenary working

  for Pretoria. His specialty is blowing things up and filtering

  information of our movements. He is a Moriarty figure, a

  ruthless and secretive phantom. So far, you are only one of

  three people who have seen him who could identify him. In his

  quests for information he has murdered a number of unarmed

  military personnel in order to don their uniforms and penetrate

  into the heart of our camps.”

  “How can you be sure this is him?” asked Matlock.

  “Because this picture more or less tallies with two other

  descriptions. I’m sure he’s our man.”

  “So what happens with the picture now?”

  “We’ll distribute copies of this throughout the provinces so

  people will know who to watch for. That should make it harder

  9

  for him to snoop without being recognized; from that, we may

  get reports of sightings and alert the general area to apprehend

  him if they can.”

  10

  Chapter Three

  WHANGANUI, NZ. November 1898

  Eight years were to pass before I returned to the busy river

  town of Whanganui. It was almost Christmas and I was now

  twenty-four. Since leaving school I had done a lot of hunting

  with father’s old Snider and during this time had successfully

  bagged a lot of pigs, but these days, there were greatly

  improved magazine rifles available that were considerably less

  clumsy to load and shoot.

  I wanted to buy a rifle that was new
and I could certainly

  afford one. After my horse and stock saddles, this would be the

  most expensive gift I ever bought. Mother and I arrived in

  Whanganui on a Thursday, so we could do all our shopping the

  following day. It was a bright and balmy morning when we

  caught the train from New Plymouth and a relaxed, holiday

  mood seemed to have settled over both of us. Predictably,

  Eleanor was looking forward to our stay and while Mother and

  Eleanor greeted each other I brought in the suitcases, after

  which we sat in the kitchen for the requisite cup of tea. The

  kitchen was roomy and the tongue and groove had been

  repainted in a pleasant pale green, while modest English

  landscapes hung at intervals from the walls. Also new was an

  impressive kauri sideboard stocked with Churchill willow

  pattern cups and plates, while above the stove an American

  pendulum clock was ticking quietly on the shelf.

  Wherever I looked, everything was spic and span; even the

  coal range had been freshly blacked. I could just imagine

  Eleanor labouring for days to make everything right for our

  visit. Then my attention came back to the present company as I

  refocused on the conversation.

  “My, you’ve grown,” remarked Eleanor, smirking

  mischievously. Her elbows were propped on a fancy linen

  tablecloth with both hands cradling her cup. She wore a nice

  linen blouse with subtle lacework down its front and her

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  predominately blonde hair was pulled neatly back and up,

  without a single hair out of place.

  “What a young man you have become; and so handsome

  and tanned too! I’ll bet the young ladies in Patea are keen on

  you.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, I never get to see any young

  ladies.” It was true, too. I lived in a world that was dominated

  by men, where stock was the only equation. There was little

  place in it for women; even my mother and sister rarely strayed

  far from the house. It then occurred to me, that perhaps I was

  missing a good number of things.

  Maybe the farm was too large in my life. All the

  neighbours had daughters, although none left me gasping with

  the anticipation of seeing them again and besides, I only got to

  see them at odd times, which didn’t provide much of a chance

  to know them. It was probably time I should consider leaving

  the farm to explore what the wider world had to offer.