Lost Souls

By Jenny Haworth

Luke Macpherson is growing old and is haunted by memories of his time as a soldier in South Africa during the Boer War. As his favorite nephew, Martin, excitedly signs up to fight in World War II, Like worries that this war will complete the destruction of his family that began after his brother, Jack, fought at Mafeking while serving under Baden-Powell.
As Martin is leaving he gives Luke diaries written by his uncle Jack at MafeKing. And for the first time Luke is able to confront the cause of his brother's rage and what it was that so filled him with hate that it changed their lives forever.
***
The second Anglo-Boer War is largely a 'forgotten war', but over 6000 New Zealand volunteer soldiers went to fight in South Africa between 1899 and 1902. And nearly 50 of New Zealand's war memorials are to those who died in that war. Lost Souls offers a fascinating insight into the gritty realities of war about which most New Zealanders know very little.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jenny Haworth
• Release date: Dec 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311976475

Jenny Haworth

JENNIFER HAWORTH, a New Zealander by birth, is both a fiction and non-fiction writer. She started her writing career as a travel writer and still works in that field. She had also written three novels and a number of non-fiction works. She specializes in writing history. Her novels fictionalize the period 1837-1842 in early New Zealand, the exploits of New Zealanders in the South African war 1899-1902 and a New Zealand artist in Europe in the period immediately after World War I. Her non-fiction works include histories of the fishing and aquaculture industry and the road transport industry as well as other aspects of New Zealand history. Her most successful non-fiction work was on the commissioned war artists in World War II and she is now writing a study of the impact of World War I on New Zealand artists.

Book preview

Lost Souls

Jenny Haworth

© 2013 Copyright Jenny Haworth

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

Published by Wily Publications Ltd

302 Lake Terrace Road, Christchurch 8016

email: [e-mail] (mailto:[e-mail])

www.wily.co.nz

First published 2005

The author has asserted her moral rights in the work.

This book is copyrighted. Except for the purposes of fair reviewing, no part of this publication (whether it be in any eBook, digital, electronic or traditionally printed format or otherwise) may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital or mechanical, including CD, DVD, eBook, PDF format, photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, including by any means via the internet or World Wide Web, or by any means yet undiscovered, without permission in writing from the publisher. Infringers of copyright render themselves liable to prosecution.

For my parents,

H. Jenner Wily

and

Helen Wily,

with thanks for the memories.

***

Table of Contents

Part 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part 2 - Luke’s story

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Epilogue: Martin’s Return

Part 1

Chapter 1

1

‘Get me out of here! Get me out of here!’ Luke pleaded with the white walls around him. He hoped to live another twenty years and he certainly didn’t wish to spend them in this coffin. But he had little choice. Nephew Martin, his brother Mark’s son, had made the decision. He was off to serve in the Air Force and needed to find a home for his pensioner-uncle who lived in a small cottage at the bottom of his Mount Albert garden. Luke resisted – he had argued against it, fought against it and when further resistance appeared impossible had sat in his favourite chair and refused to move.

Why leave when he had an ideal space to live out his retirement? From the cottage it was only a short walk to the shops and to the bowling club where he could meet his friends.. He longed for the peace to enjoy his old age, but another war had swept that away.

Of all his recent losses, the one he mourned most was the loss of his beloved vegie garden. How he loved the neat rows of carrots, parsnips and potatoes; they popped through the soil just as if they had been summoned onto the parade ground.

In his cottage there had been space for his life, for the things he held dear; the papers and books of his past. He had some of the family novels and travel books – tales of adventures in India, China, Sudan, and Southern Africa. There were heroic stories of soldiers like Lord Robert of Khandahar and Cetswayo’s fearless Zulu warriors. He didn’t like the newer war stories. Here there was no bravery, just the world celebrating an end to all decency in an almighty fireworks display.

His books were still at his Mount Albert cottage. Maisie, his nephew’s wife, had promised to bring over his ‘personal effects’ later when she found a friend with a car and a trailer.

He remembered the night Martin had knocked timidly at his door and told him he had signed up for the Air Force. Once his initial training was over he hoped to serve with the RAF. At this stage Martin wasn’t sure whether he would became a pilot. Luke had murmured that these planes were destructible, could explode into great fireballs that crashed from the sky. It worried him that Martin held so little concern for his own safety. His uncle Jack had been no better; a dare devil if ever there was one.

When Luke said this Martin, with his square jaw firm, had replied slowly, ‘Well, we all have to do our bit.’ A chill emphasis had fallen on all. All for what? Luke had wondered.

His mind turned back to Jack, fair-haired, carefree Jack, his older brother. It was almost as if he could hear him talking. ‘It’s war – the devil will look after his own. There’s no one to sit in judgement on what we do to reach our objectives.’ Such memories sent an unexpected tremor of fear up and down Luke’s spine.

It had not only been Martin but also Maisie who had been responsible for forcing him out of his cottage. As Martin explained: ‘You know she’s young, and she is better off with her family while I’m away. It’s a good thing I’m not leaving her with a couple of kids.. This place is going to be rented. It’ll be easier for Maisie, and the tenants want your cottage.’

So, like a useless old sheep he had been herded away with other useless rams. A room had been arranged for him at Ranfurly and he had been ‘delivered’ there

‘They’ll take you for your pension, Uncle Luke,’ Martin had informed him. ‘They’ll give you everything you need.’

Luke wanted to know what he was going to do when he needed one or two things for himself – a few smokes, a new notebook or a new pair of smalls.’

‘Don’t worry, Uncle, I’ll come and see you until I’m posted overseas. But you won’t need much. Everything is provided.’

Luke sat on the edge of the bed. He stared grimly at the empty walls. He thought of Martin and Jack. Their faces showed a family similarity – the same fair curls, firm mouth, and blue restless eyes. But Martin’s eyes were steady not constantly searching for adventure. Within Jack’s eyes, as Luke remembered them, there was always a hint of mockery – a teasing that suggested that, as the older brother, he was firmly in control.

He shook himself. At least, he would have a place where he could read and write quietly – some old fellows weren’t that lucky. He hoped Maisie wouldn’t forget a chair and his small desk when she packed his things. They were important. If nothing else, he would write something to describe to the world what hell lurked in old people’s homes.

‘Maisie, Maisie,’ he whispered her name, twisting his lips into an expression of hate. ‘Little bitch; it’s all her doing.’ He hoped she was a good girl while Martin was away – it was only fair and proper that a girl was loyal to her man even when he was hundreds of miles away. Chaps he had known in his war had no doubt their wives and sweethearts were loyal.

He climbed off the bed. It was no place to sit. The wire rib on its edge cut a deep indentation into his backside. He made his way to the wardrobe. Martin had hung a few of his clothes there; mostly suits with waistcoats that he had once worn in the shop. On the shelf above were a couple of felt hats and there behind them he saw a small mantle wireless. It wasn’t his; he’d never owned one. A previous occupant must have left it.

Briefly, he fiddled with the machine. As he tried to get a response he wondered what had happened to that person. ‘Dead,’ he thought. ‘Dead or gar-gar. Everyone here goes gar-gar eventually; it’s in the air.’ But for him it was going to take some time. He wasn’t yet 65. He turned the switches this way and that. He knew how to tune into 1YA and 1ZB, but even when he was on the station there was no sound.

A voice behind him made him turn around: ‘Morning, Mr Macpherson. Settling in are we?’

‘Not really, ‘ he said firmly. ‘I’m waiting for my niece to deliver the rest of my things – my books, papers, pictures and I hope a comfy chair to read in. At present the room looks like a coffin.’

‘Pardon, Mr Macpherson?’

‘Like a tomb!’ he yelled.

‘Please, Mr Macpherson. Jim, next door, is sleeping. I wouldn’t want to wake him early. If he sleeps during the day then he doesn’t have the same dreadful nightmares.. Then he wanders through the house hunting for his mate Ralph and we have to sedate him.’

‘Who’s Ralph?’

‘A friend of his he lost along the journey of life. Passchendale I think. As you get older sometimes the memories come back.’

Luke concentrated on the wireless. He didn’t want to explore the world of memories, of half-forgotten horrors. ‘I can’t get the radio going.’

‘Is it yours?’

‘No. It was in the cupboard.’

‘Probably poor old Bob Wiltshire’s. He was the last one here.’

‘Is he here now?’

‘No. Gone to the happy hunting ground of old soldiers – the land beyond the great river.’ Luke felt a chill pass over him. The curtain in the doorway flapped as a cool wind suddenly whipped off the terrace. ‘Gassed he was – gassed on the Somme. He used to keep the others awake with his hacking cough.’

‘Madness! Madness!’ muttered Luke.

‘I don’t think I remember him having a wireless – it must have sat in the cupboard for several years.’

‘Well, I’ll see if I can make it work. It would be good to hear the news occasionally.’

‘Keep it low, won’t you, Mr Macpherson? Bad news can affect our houseguests, bring back memories of things they’d rather forget. Lunch is at 12.30 and dinner at 6 and we’re having indoor bowls at 2.30 in the billiard room. There’s a special this evening to welcome you: – a glass of beer in the library. That’s at 5.30. I hope you meet some of your old mates here. We have a number who served in the Boer War, but I don’t know if any of them were in your contingent.’

2

It was nearly a week before Maisie arrived with the rest of Luke’s possessions. She and her friend unloaded everything at the foot of the stairs and then told the staff to find Mr Macpherson quickly because they had no time to wait.

When Luke appeared she glared at him ‘There you are. All those old books and notebooks were so heavy. And I’ve thrown in the paintings and the chair and desk you wanted, although I’m sure they belong to Martin. I don’t know why you want all this rubbish. I would have thought the room wasn’t big enough.’

For the first time Luke was glad he had escaped. Soon the hostel staff had everything upstairs and he was able to put his desk by the long door looking out towards One Tree Hill. It would be a peaceful place for him to write. He pushed the chair in front of the wardrobe. He would have to move it every time he wanted to get fresh clothes. One of the staff found a bookcase for his volumes; all he had to find now were picture hooks.

He sat at his desk and gazed out. The neat bungalows nestling among the trees gave him a sense of peace. These were the homes of people who had normal lives with time to raise children and care for the garden, to walk the dog and care for the cat. Yet he’d been reminded that it was wartime when he gazed at the same view last night – then everything was black. A darkness that hid the loneliness in many of those homes, where loved ones were overseas.

For a few moments he looked at himself critically in the mirror. Yes, he had to accept that he had reached another stage in life’s journey. The passing years had added furrows and flicked salt through his iron thatch. The hazel eyes were still there, but they had faded and lingering in the corners was a hint of sadness.

He picked up one of the pictures that Maisie had brought. Staring back up him was a rather sombre young man dressed in his khaki contingent uniform. The slouch had cut him under the chin and he could still feel the heavy serge tunic scratching his skin. The photo had been taken by a Christchurch photographer, just before he sailed. He had sent it to his mother as a reminder of the man who had gone away. In those days the matter he had been engaged on was too solemn for a smile to drift across his face. He’d had to hide any softness, any doubt behind a stern manliness. His curved mouth was tight shut, and his newly grown moustache was neatly clipped and followed the line of his upper lip. Above, the nose was firm and the eyes stared straight ahead to some distant goal. It was a gaze that suggested suppressed excitement about the adventure ahead.

He lifted up the photograph and turned it to the mirror. Now he could see both faces – the young and the old; they were just recognisably the same. But the old one had firmed and been reshaped. Crisscrossing it were the lines of life, experiences that had carved deep furrows into his face. Life had harrowed it and in its lines were recorded the experiences that had shaped him.

3

It took the Ranfurly Home another week to find picture hooks. Luke was grateful when the manager finally brought them to his room.. He tapped in the nails and stepped back. In front of him were scenes his mother had painted – in one of them Mount Ruapehu’s snow-clad peaks were fringed with ferns. Although it was only a watercolour the snow was tinted with shades of cream and glistened against the tree ferns. He could still picture his mother sitting calm and composed in front of her easel. He imagined her soft wavy grey hair, the long, straight, finely carved nose, and the hazel eyes – his hazel eyes – intent on creating a gentle wash of colours.

Painting had been his mother’s escape, a chance to free herself from the drab country life at Blair Atholl in the Turakina Valley. Here she had fought her battles in the kitchen, trying to keep the peace between maids who changed as regularly as the seasons. With their help she coped with the kitchen drudgery and the all out effort to feed the teams of men who worked on the property.

Jack and Luke had joined these men as soon as they left school. For Luke it had been a tragedy. He longed to continue his education, to become a teacher, but there had been no chance of that. The leading cowman had disappeared and Luke had to take his place. When he wasn’t milking he was expected to cut, hack and chop, so that pasture could be tugged out of the bush’s destruction.

Perhaps, thought Luke, Jack might have been able to do more with his life. He too had been a writer, scribbling things in his notebooks, but Luke had never been allowed to see them. He was also a great reader. Their father loved reading too. He was proud of being able to quote Burns. He kept copies of Scott by his bed and frequently told his children that they must read this greatest of all writers. Luke knew Jack shared this love of Scott with his father.

But Fergus was also a practical man. To him the land, his land, had all the sanctity of the holy book. These were the first acres he had ever owned. In the valleys near Aberdeen where he had grown up the land belonged to the laird – men generally educated in England, whose sons were officers in the army. Fergus Macpherson hated them for giving him no share in the land he loved.

His dream was to build a large farm that would make his own family lairds in the new land. But Luke found it hard work. To develop the land the bigger native trees were cut and sold to a greedy timber merchant in Wanganui. The merchant found fault with everything he was offered – the cut was crooked; there were too many small pieces. He was looking for any excuse to drop the price.

The ferns were cut and burnt as soon as they dried. As a result the land looked like a snaggle-toothed mouth. Stumps poked through the ash, splintered, useless trees stood gaunt against the skyline. And everywhere there was silence. After a burn-off not even piwakawaka twittered through the bush hunting for insects.

Like him, Luke’s mother mourned the destruction. She loathed it when the Wanganui merchant arrived to remove what had been stately trees; hated it when the ferns were left to wither and die. In the beginning she had pleaded for the clearing to stop, but Fergus would reply, shaking his ginger curls, ‘You’ve given me four-r fine su-uns. Each one of them will wu-nt a livelihood fr-rom the land.’

To which there was no reply, and so the clearing continued.

4

In 1899, three years after Luke left school, Fergus Macpherson decided that the very steep hills at the back of the property could be left in bush – a habitat for the property’s native birds. They discussed it around the dinner table one evening and decided that the birds’ rapid disappearance must be linked to the land clearance. Jack and Luke were encouraged to rescue what kiwi and weka they could and take them across the river to the steeper hills.

Jack had come once and then decided that there were more interesting pastimes than rescuing birds. He would pretend to leave with Luke and then head off into Wanganui.

So Luke rescued the birds on his own. He rode out to the remaining stands of bush with Tweed, his sheepdog, following. The dog had an excellent nose for birds, and recently Luke had had to muzzle him so he could put them up but not hurt them. He had already caught three weka – brown, sharp-eyed intelligent birds much too inquisitive for their own good. It was with difficulty that Luke released the birds from Tweed’s jaws. Early one morning Luke and Tweed were searching through bush that was being felled. Luke heard a shrill call – ‘pee-wee’ –a male hunting for a mate. Then an answer came; the rasping throaty cry of the female.

Before starting the hunt he harnessed Tweed. Then he drew a feather from his pocket and ran it under the dog’s nose to give him a whiff of bird. For several hours they walked through the bush, but only inquisitive piwakawaka flitted in front of them. He stopped under an old puriri. It was May and in the warm late autumn sun a whole flock of bellbirds flitted and danced, trilling and singing like a carillon of bells.

Luke sat for a few minutes on the bank of the stream and dabbled his toes in the water. He marvelled at the variety of the bush around him. He hated to think of this area being replaced by bland grassy hills covered with sheep – animals that only looked interested when it appeared he was likely to disturb their next meal or take away their lambs.

Relaxing back, he let Tweed off the harness. By now it would be too late to find any of the nocturnal ground birds the dog was likely to attack.

He must have dropped off to sleep for a few minutes.

Then he woke with a start. Tweed was barking in the distance. It was the excitement of a dog that had found its prey and longed for his master to come and inspect. Then the barking stopped and Luke could fix no direction. He knew Tweed was digging. Another excited yelp gave him an idea where he was. He rushed off hoping to reach the dog before it was too late.

When he caught up with Tweed, his head and shoulders had disappeared into the roots of one of the few remaining totaras. The soil around him was churned up and more soil was spraying up from his scratching paws. Then Tweed stopped and buried half his body, his back haunches braced as he pulled.

Luke dashed up to the dog and tried to wallop it on its behind. But the dog was too busy to notice. He reached down to pull Tweed out by the collar but the head was buried deep. Then, as he watched, the dog slowly pulled his head out of the hole; there in his mouth was a brown-speckled body struggling to make its escape. But Tweed had a firm grip.

Luke seized his collar. He must open the dog’s jaws and release the bird before any permanent damage was done. But Tweed’s jaws were clamped tight. ‘Drop! Drop!’ shouted Luke. ‘Drop!’

But the dog just sat in front of him holding the bird firmly and wagging his tail as if to say, ‘Aren’t I clever? Isn’t this what you wanted, boss?’ There was only one way to free the bird. He pulled the dog to its feet with one hand, while with the other he leant down and pulled its balls. The dog let out a bellow of pain and dropped the bird. Luke pulled Tweed back from the bird, which lay quivering on the ground.

He hoped that with Tweed under control he would be able to pick the bird up and remove it to its new home. He found a sapling to tie up the exuberant dog. Tweed sat at the edge of the clearing and barked with indignation. That was his prize and he was being denied his share of the fun.

On closer inspection, Luke was horrified to see Tweed’s teeth had just about severed one of its long legs. The kiwi could no longer run.

For a moment Luke wondered whether he might be able to save the bird. He would like to have tried a splint to see if the bone would knit.

Then as he leant over the bird he saw that the other leg was also torn.

There was only one solution. Reluctantly he drew out his knife. The kiwi quivered and died.

He bent down and plucked a handful of feathers from the beautiful carcase, caressing their softness. These were not really feathers; they were more like hair and they had no aftershaft. But it was the colour that Luke loved – the beautiful tawny brown flecked with silver.

He took the body some distance from the totara and buried it, digging a small grave with his hands. He wanted to cry at the waste.

He led Tweed away. The dog knew his master was not pleased with him. When they reached the river Tweed tried to make amends by leaning his head on Luke’s knee and looking up at him with great soulful eyes. Eventually Luke relented and patted him.

Luke carried those feathers with him for the rest of his life. They were amongst the things that Maisie brought from his Mt Albert cottage. He had kept them as a reminder of home throughout the South African War and in the long years that followed.

Luke rose from his comfortable chair and started to search for the feathers. As he hunted he thought of how he must record that story. He was sure Martin would be interested.

But as he wrote, other memories crowded in.

5

That night Luke was late for dinner; it was something his stern, unsmiling father hated. Luke expected a sharp, belittling comment, but there was none. He wondered what was up. The family was eating in silence and he sensed the aftermath of a battle.

His father laid down his fork and sighed, looked at golden haired Jack, and then turned to Luke. ‘It’s going to be your job to take your mother to Wanganui first thing in the morning, Luke, to meet your aunt and cousins. They haven’t met since your Aunt Marie went to South Africa straight after her marriage. Jack stays here. He’s got work to do, which he’s let slip.’

Luke felt a sense of pleasure wash over him. What luck, chaps – he was to be free of the dull routines for a few days and he’d have the chance to meet his South African cousins before Jack.

He wondered what Jack had done. Why was he not taking his mother as planned? Luke glanced at Jack but his head was down and he was not looking at anyone. Luke thought he might have been caught drinking; his father called it the ‘demon’ and never allowed anything but a little whisky in the house. It was only drunk when Fergus returned freezing cold after a long, wet lambing beat.

Luke glanced at his mother and realised how pleased he would be to have a few days with her. Somehow when Jessie MacPherson was away from Blair Atholl her step lightened. It was as if something of her youth returned and she could once again enjoy herself, away from the dour shroud Fergus drew around himself.

Later Luke heard from Jack that he had told their father he no longer wanted to stay at Blair Atholl. ‘I asked him for whatever share of my inheritance he could let me have. Told him I was off to the West Australian goldfields. They say it’s easy to pick up a fortune there. I might even try the prospects in South Africa. Father was not pleased. He claims that he has slaved for twenty years of his life just so we can have a decent inheritance. Not a penny will ya get he told me, if you leave home.

‘I think he’s worried,’ continued Jack, ‘that I might disappear in Wanganui.’ Then he whispered, ‘That’s why I wanted to go so much. I want to meet Albert and Maude and find out what the openings are like in South Africa. At twenty-two I’m old enough to make my own decisions.’

Luke promised to find out all he could.

6

Early next morning when they were harnessing the pony into the trap, Jack asked, ‘Could you try to persuade Albert to come out here for a few days? I know it won’t be exciting, but it may be the only chance I get to meet him.’

Luke would never forget that trip into Wanganui – he would write that up too. It was when he first met Maude. He and his mother had gone to Aunt Helen’s on St John’s Hill, and Maude had been there with her mother and brother Albert. Immediately she fascinated him. Her eyes danced with a warm radiance and her mouth tilted at the corners when she smiled. Pretty girls, ones who smelt like a soft-scented rose and had delicate colours in their cheeks and abundant auburn curls rarely crossed his path.

Maude extended her hand and in a soft voice said: ‘Welcome, cousin.’

To Luke’s ears, her voice sounded so very English. He took her hand and squeezed it, then worried he had done something wrong, as though he had touched one of the fragile flowers in his mother’s garden.

‘I-I trust that you are e-enjoying W-Wanganui and the people here.’ He cursed inwardly that he stuttered. He never did it normally.

‘I’m not sure. We’ve only been here two days and my mother has yet to go out.’

‘Would you like to see something of the town?’ Luke was suddenly animated. ‘You’ll want to see Victoria Avenue with its smart shops running all the way down to the river. We could even catch a paddle steamer up river.’

Before she could reply her mother interrupted, ‘Be quiet please! It’s twenty-five years since I’ve seen my sister and we’ve a great deal to talk about.’

So the young people had to sit in silence. Before long Albert appeared. He was a tall, lean man, a little older than Jack. To Luke he appeared elegantly dressed. His suit was smartly cut and the tan waistcoat and red and cream tie contrasted with the dark serge of the suit. These colours highlighted his smooth, dark hair. He rolled his fingers around the head of his ivory cane as if it was something to be fondled and enjoyed.

He welcomed Luke, then asked his mother if they might be excused, as he was keen to learn what entertainment was available for young gentlemen in Wanganui.

The two of them retired to the Billiard room. ‘I haven’t found much yet,’ grumbled Albert. ‘Just one nearly-completed Opera House and a number of old pubs – not one of them with a pretty girl.’

Luke was not much help. Unlike Jack he had spent little time in Wanganui, other than with his mother to visit relations. ‘I have offered to show your sister something of the town tomorrow and I suggested we might take a river cruise.’

‘A river cruise! What’s the fun in that? Do the chorus girls go?’

Luke explained that such trips were more like family outings.

Albert doubted it would appeal to him.

7

That night, after dinner, Luke took Albert to several bars in the main street. They found little company but over a whisky at the Rutland, Luke learnt about his cousin’s life. He had been living in the veldt in the new city of Johannesburg where his father was a mine manager. Luke knew little about the city – it was just one of those gold mining areas that fascinated Jack. He mentioned this to Albert.

‘Tell him it’s the biggest gold mine in the world, but he won’t make his fortune there. It’s all highly technical because the mines are underground and we use the Kaffirs to do the digging. He should come back with me and learn mining engineering.’

‘I’m sure he’d love to, but our father won’t allow it. They had a big row before we left – that’s why I’m here instead of Jack: he told our father he wanted some money so he could go to the goldfields in Western Australia.’

‘He’d have more opportunity in South Africa.’

Albert explained that his father was a reformer. ‘He was one of