To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (17 page)

‘I remember,’ she replied. ‘You said I would eventually come to your bed when I realised what I wanted in life. Well, that seems to have happened, just as you predicted.’

‘It was inevitable as you knew it would be,’ he said as he rose from the table and went to her. ‘As inevitable as you always being with me.’

She felt his mouth on her neck as he bent to kiss her, and his hands slid down to her breasts to cup them. ‘Please don’t, Brett,’ she pleaded. ‘I would fall pregnant if we went to your bed tonight.’

His hands ceased and he went very still. ‘Damn it, Catherine,’ he swore. ‘I want you tonight more than anything else in this world. Can’t you see that?’

‘I’m sorry, Brett. But tonight is not safe. Wait a couple of nights.’

‘A couple of nights,’ he fumed impotently. ‘A couple of nights is forever. But if it must be so then I will wait.’

She reached up and took his hand. ‘We will go to bed now and hold each other. I need that tonight more than you could know.’

Grudgingly he nodded. She pushed back her chair and he took her in his arms. His kiss on her lips was hungry with frustrated desire which frightened her a little.

Together they went to his room where he watched her undress by the light of the gas lamp. When her clothes fell to the floor revealing her shapely body he knew he truly wanted her more than the generous profits his companies were accumulating from the war in South Africa.

Catherine did not know what awoke her. Possibly it was the full moon, its light making a silver path from the huge window to the bed she shared with her lover. Beside her, Brett lay in a deep sleep. The night was hushed as if awed by the light the moon cast across the sleeping fields of marigolds and silent copses of fir trees. She eased herself from the bed and slipped on a long silk gown, a creamy colour like her pale skin. Her long red hair fell in a fiery cascade over her shoulders.

She padded to the window and stared across the fields to the hill, a brooding, dark landscape silhouetted against the night sky. A delicate mist covered the fields at its base under a sheet of white. No breeze stirred and it was as if the world Catherine gazed out upon had been frozen in time.

‘Cuchulainn,’ she whispered, thinking of the mythical ancient Celtic warrior who was both Patrick and Michael to her. ‘Are you waiting for me on the hill?’ Or something else, she thought with a faint sense of unease.

The mist swirled gently around Catherine’s legs as she walked across the field. She did not feel the cold, wet grass beneath her bare feet. Nor did she feel the
chill of the night air through the silk gown that clung to her body. She felt nothing except an overwhelming desire to climb to the top of the hill to find the mythical warrior of ancient Celtic stories. She was hardly aware of the climb to the top through the silent rows of heavily scented firs. It was as if the night was its own intoxication and she helpless to resist.

The marble altar shone in its pit with a glistening black light. Catherine stood at the edge of the excavation with mixed feelings of fear and elation: fear of the sinister object that Father O’Brien had shunned, and elation that she belonged in this place at this magical time of night. This was her hill and she had always belonged to the spirits that lived at the heart of the strange and ancient mound. Her elation overcame her fear and she found herself climbing down into the pit to go to the altar.

. . . some places should not be interfered with by mere mortals.
Eamon’s words uttered the previous day echoed in the back of her mind as she lay down on the cold, smooth slab. Her long tresses spread and splashed across the stone. The biting cold of the marble wet with dew bit into her through the silk gown but she was oblivious to any discomfort. She sighed and closed her eyes against the bright light of the moon and found herself in a world of darkness where vague shapes swirled like the mist and took on sinister but erotic forms.

. . . the stone has been corrupted and this is a place of evil . . .
There were men and women all around her. She was aware of their presence in her dark world
away from the moonlight. Flames from the oil candles in their clay pots cast their shadows in the room filled with the pungent scent of their sex. Strange music filled the room, music that was sensual, hypnotic, and which lulled her senses and dragged her deeper into the pit. She was naked and knew that her body was desired by all in the room. But she also knew that they would bring the young bull to plant his seed deep in her body. She was exclusively for him to service.

Catherine moaned in pleasure as she spread her legs to allow his long organ to enter her. Her desire was all consuming and swept away any fear she might have known.

Suddenly her desire turned to fear as she felt strong hands grip her arms and legs and she was dragged along the altar to its edge. Frantically she tried to struggle. But the hands held her and other hands forced her legs apart. She could not scream. This was not a world where human sounds had meaning. Then she saw a shadow materialise at the foot of the altar and she was very afraid. It was a sleek young bull with fiery red eyes. His coat was as shiny as the black marble upon which she lay and from beneath his hind legs his bestial lust was blatantly apparent. He was led towards the altar and rose up to place his front legs either side of her. His huge head was between her breasts and she could feel his hot breath on her face. She cried out as his swollen shaft slid into her, its thrusts deep and strong as she lay helplessly pinned at the edge of the altar. Catherine struggled desperately to reach the light that was
outside the world she had been dragged down into. When her eyes flew open, and she could see the moon above, she felt the bull’s shaft suddenly pulse as his seed entered her.

‘I woke and saw that you were gone from the house,’ the young bull seemed to say to her apologetically. ‘I followed you here and could not stop myself from having you. You were so damned desirable laying stretched out on your altar.’

‘Brett!’ she hissed. ‘What have you done!’

The priest’s words echoed as a hollow taunt in her mind . . .
This was a place of evil!
And she had entered into a pact with the devil when she had gone to his bed.

FIFTEEN

I
n the Orange Free State Private Saul Rosenblum was fighting for his life. A hastily deployed rear guard action to hold a river crossing had turned into a desperate defence of their own lives as the Boer riflemen of General De Wet’s field command swarmed forward towards the trapped squadron of Queenslanders.

Saul worked the bolt of his rifle and felt its sharp kick in his shoulder as he lay on his stomach on the cold earth. Around him, other troopers fired into the flitting shapes that appeared momentarily in their rifle sights. He did not know if his shots were finding targets and was hardly aware of his own rifle firing in the deafening crash of continuous sound. The ping and crack of incoming enemy rounds around his head blurred as a cacophony of death.

‘Jesus, where’s the covering fire?’ he heard a
trooper scream from nearby. ‘The bastards have deserted us.’

Saul’s protest was drowned out by the ear shattering high explosive that rained down on their position. A sizzling piece of shrapnel fell smoking in front of Saul’s face. He did not have time to contemplate his near mutilation from the jagged metal fragment the size of his fist as a bullet plucked at his elbow, tearing a small hole through his shirt. Instinctively he jerked his arm closer to his body. Hell was the air around him filled with thousands of small, high velocity projectiles the size of wasps.

He refilled the magazine of his rifle and slammed it home. Beside him a small pile of empty cartridge cases shone under the African sun. The enemy were about four hundred yards out and firing from cover and Saul knew if they were allowed to creep closer their accuracy would improve and then they were all surely dead men. From only fifty yards out a Maxim machine gun chattered as it spat a steady hail of bullets into the prone ranks of dismounted infantry.

Saul turned his head to seek a safer position at the river itself. He felt sick in the stomach. The colonial horsemen to his rear were riding away, obviously unable to come to their aid.

He groaned in despair and snapped off a shot in the direction of the enemy, then checked himself. He was down half his ammunition and only had forty rounds left. Every shot would have to count if he was going to take as many of the Boer as possible with him to hell.

He did not hear the hoof beats of the horse galloping to their rear. Nor was he aware that Major Patrick Duffy had been informed by a distressed young lieutenant that his beloved Queenslanders were amongst the men pinned down and facing certain annihilation. But he did hear a voice bawling faintly above the crash of gunfire: ‘Every man back to the river and mount up. Ride like hell and God be with you.’

The command had been given and the trapped men rose from the ground to sprint to the river behind them where their horses were waiting. The Maxim was swung on the major and its bullets sought him out.

Saul rose and ran zigzagging in a half crouch, trailing his rifle. He was aware that the gunfire had picked up as the Boer marksmen sought out the fleeing Queenslanders. He could see the major firing his pistol defiantly at the hidden enemy marksmen from astride his mount and his courage gave heart to the men who only moments before had given up hope.

Suddenly the major’s horse reared with a shrieked whinny as the machine gun found its range. Patrick went down with the horse where he lay with his leg beneath the dead animal.

Saul flung himself over the edge of the river bank and down into a muddy flat below. The mud stank of horse droppings and stuck like glue. He gained his feet and looked about for the horse handler. Other troopers were snatching at the reins of their horses and flinging themselves into the saddle.

Saul found his mount standing alone with its eyes rolling in terror as some horses around it went down
under the terrible fusillade of bullets pouring in from the now advancing enemy. Saul could hear the strangled cries of troopers hit by gunfire and the curses of men lying in the mud mortally wounded. The Boers were all around them. Private Berry was beside him mounted on his horse. ‘Get yer bloody arse on yer horse and get outa here,’ he yelled down at Saul.

‘Major Duffy’s down,’ Saul called up to him as he slipped his foot in the stirrup. ‘I’ve got to see if he’s all right.’

‘You haven’t got a chance in hell of getting ’im out even if ’e’s alive,’ Berry cried back as he leant along the neck of his horse and waded into the shallow river. Spurts of water erupted around him as he crossed the ford.

When Saul was in the saddle he wavered for just a second. Berry was right, he thought. To go back for the major was stupid, a suicide mission. But the major would probably have gone back for any of the men who were down.

‘Shit! Up, up,’ he swore as he forced his reluctant mount to breast the river bank. When he was over he had a fleeting regret that he had not followed Berry’s advice. All around him the Boers were advancing and firing towards the river. Saul saw a Boer carrying a Mauser directly in front and only twenty feet away. The man seemed momentarily stunned to see the enemy apparently making a one-man counter attack and paused in his assault on the colonial officer who was firing his revolver from behind the carcass of his horse.

Saul charged the Boer and, when he was on him,
swung his carbine down with one hand, braining him senseless. Others further out fired wildly at the lone horseman galloping across their front. Against the odds, Saul reached Patrick, who by now had disentangled himself from under his horse, and leant down. Patrick took his extended hand and hauled himself up behind Saul.

‘You been wounded, boss?’ Saul asked as he wheeled his horse around and put her head in the direction of the river.

‘No. Nothing broken, Private Rosenblum,’ Patrick answered.

Patrick snapped off his last shot at three Boers attempting to cut them off from the river. He missed but Saul’s shot from the hip dropped one of the men. His mount leapt forward when he gave her a savage kick to the flanks and, with nostrils flaring and ears back, she galloped for the river, straight through a skirmish line of Boers. Both riders immediately saw the hopeless situation before them. The enemy had reached the river in force and was already turning to concentrate their fire on the galloping horse coming towards them. Saul could clearly see the big, bearded men dressed in farm clothes as they raised their rifles for the killing shots. They had only one option if they were to live. Saul’s impulsive decision to save the officer he respected would bring captivity – if they were lucky. On the verge of slowing to a trot and throwing down his rifle, the regular chatter of a Maxim being fired on a sustained rate suddenly raked the line of Boers to their front, and those still standing scattered.

‘Where in God’s name is the firing coming from?’
Patrick yelled over Saul’s shoulder as he clung to him.

‘Dunno. Hang on, we’re goin’ through,’ Saul replied as he forced his exhausted horse into one last gallop.

The mare responded to his commands and raced through the ranks of the Boers seeking cover from the hail of machine gun bullets. They went over the edge of the river bank and splashed their way across the ford. The deadly hail of bullets passed close to their left then switched to their right. Whoever was directing the fire realised that they were attempting to escape the Boer cordon that had formed to trap them.

Saul reached the opposite bank and the horse scrambled up the gentle slope. On the other side of the river the Boers continued to follow their escape with a steady rain of bullets. After a few long minutes they reached a long shallow depression on the
veldt
where both men found the answer to their question as to who had provided the timely covering fire. Private Berry flashed Saul and Patrick a grin from where he stood beside the Maxim gun crew under the command of the young lieutenant who had first alerted Patrick to the danger the Queenslanders were in. The gun crew continued to pour a return fire back across the river as both weary riders flung themselves to the ground.