To Ride the Wind (43 page)

Matthew was surprised how spacious the building was inside. It extended to a small but pretty open space between the buildings towering on either side. Persian carpets covered the stone floor and the beautifully crafted furniture indicated that this was the home of a well-off man. They waited while the young man went to fetch his master.

‘You are the father of Benjamin,’ a balding, bespectacled man wearing a red fez hat and goatee beard said, entering the room holding a long cigarette holder between his fingers. ‘I am Dr Shariz.’ He spoke perfect, unaccented English and Matthew was pleased.

‘I wish to thank you, doctor,’ Saul said. ‘For saving my son’s life.’

‘He is well, then?’ the doctor asked. Saul replied that he was.

‘What do you know of an American woman, Miss Joanne Barrington?’ Matthew asked without any preamble.

‘You must be Captain Duffy. Miss Barrington spoke much about you,’ the Syrian said, turning his attention to Matthew.

‘I am, doctor,’ Matthew replied, extending his hand. ‘I was informed a few months ago that Miss Barrington had been taken by the Turks and handed over to the Germans to be sent to Berlin.’

‘Ah, yes, that was their plan,’ the doctor replied, indicating to the men to take a seat. ‘May I offer you coffee and dates?’ he asked. He spoke in Arabic and when the young man hovering in the background disappeared from the room the doctor took a chair opposite the two guests. ‘I have sent my servant away as I wish to speak with you in private about Miss Barrington. She was not sent to Berlin.’

Matthew felt a cold sweat and had trouble finding his tongue. ‘What has happened to her?’ he heard himself asking.

The Syrian leaned forward to speak. ‘Miss Barrington is most probably back in America with her father by now.’

His words swept away Matthew’s fears. ‘How is that possible?’ he gasped.

Shariz lay back against the cushions, a secretive smile on his face. He took a puff from his cigarette. ‘I was able to convince the local commander here that Miss Barrington would be worth a lot more for a ransom than she was to the Germans for interrogation. The commander is a practical man and arranged through the Red Cross to have her fate put in the hands of a Swiss banker, who, in turn, arranged for a large sum of money to be transferred to Istanbul. The commandant is an honourable man and so, shortly afterwards, the American woman was smuggled aboard a neutral ship which would take her home to her father.’

Matthew looked at Saul. He felt he could hug him in his joy at the news that Joanne was most probably enjoying the Christmas season with her family in America. All that mattered was that she was safe, and if he survived the war he would go in search of her.

‘There is something else that I think you should know,’ Shariz said as the servant re-entered the room, carrying a silver salver upon which were tiny cups, a plate of dates and a large, silver coffee pot. He placed the tray on a small, low set table and retreated after the doctor spoke to him.

‘Gentleman, please help yourself,’ he continued. ‘Ah, yes, something else you should know . . . Miss Barrington was under my roof for two months before being smuggled from the country. In that time we learned she was with child and she informed me that you are the father, Captain Duffy.’

It took some seconds for the news to sink in. Matthew was about to ask how this could be so when he remembered the night before the attack on the Arab village. He was shaken from his silence by a slap on the back from Saul.

‘Congratulations, Matthew, you sly dog,’ he said, a broad grin splitting his bearded face. ‘A father, eh.’

Matthew did not reply but looked to Shariz, who also smiled.

‘I can assure you, Captain Duffy, that when she left me Miss Barrington’s pregnancy was proceeding as expected,’ he said. ‘If all goes well, you will be a father in around three months’ time.’

‘I have to find Joanne,’ Matthew finally spoke.

‘I am afraid that will not be possible for the foreseeable future,’ Saul cautioned. ‘We have not yet brought the Ottomans to the table to sign their defeat. I don’t think your country will stop the war for you to find your Miss Barrington until the Turks are defeated.’

Matthew felt his elation rush from him like a breath exhaled. Saul was right. The best he could do was write to Joanne in America and tell her that he would be coming for her when the war was over. He would be able to obtain the address of her father’s residence through the Red Cross. So, there would be a grandson or granddaughter for his mother to hold, Matthew thought. For a moment he found himself reflecting on the irony of life. His own father had been an American citizen and if his child was born in the United States, he or she would also be an American citizen. He did not care whether his child was a boy or girl. All he cared about was that Joanne was in good health and so, too, was the child she carried.

Now all he had to do was stay alive.

*

Corporal Tom Duffy sat on a low stone fence in the village square and stared at the old, Gothic-style church with its gargoyles and angels around the arch above the wide wooden doors. It was cold but he did not feel the chill anymore. Villagers hurried to get inside their little houses or shops, seeing the darkening sky as a prelude to heavy, sleeting rain. Unlike his comrades who were inside the taverns drinking wine while on leave from the front, Tom preferred to roam the town and surrounding peaceful countryside, a landscape so different to the vast and lonely plains of the Gulf country where he had grown up.

‘You should get in from the cold,’ a female voice said in heavily accented English.

Tom turned to see the pale cherubic face of a young woman with large brown eyes and short dark hair, about eighteen years of age. She wore the dress of a farm girl and carried a large basket filled with duck eggs.

Tom pushed himself off the stone fence. ‘May I help you, mademoiselle?’ he asked, reaching for the basket. She did not resist his gesture and thanked him.

‘My name is Tom Duffy,’ he said by way of introduction.

The girl smiled at him, her eyes emitting a warmth that shone through from her soul. Tom felt himself drifting into that warmth and wondered if there could be any other woman as beautiful as this young French girl.

‘You are an Australian,’ she said, staring at the slouch hat that marked him as a digger. ‘My people say that the Australians are very brave but that they steal things,’ she giggled. ‘You will not steal my eggs, no?’

‘No.’ Tom smiled. ‘Where are you taking them?’

‘To the tavern where your friends drink,’ she replied, falling into step beside him. ‘Why is it that you do not drink with them?’

‘How is it that you speak such good English?’ he countered.

She blushed. ‘I learn from my cousin who live in England many years. One day I will be teacher of children.’

‘A school teacher,’ Tom said. ‘But you look like you have come from a farm.’

‘My parents have farm a half kilometre from town,’ she replied as they walked as slowly as Tom could to prolong the time in her company. ‘I finish school this year and now wish to learn to teach children, too.’

‘You could teach a lot of Aussies how to speak English,’ he said with a wry smile. The young woman looked at him blankly and Tom shook his head. ‘That is a joke,’ he said, his smile widening. ‘I suppose that you are all getting ready for Christmas this time of year.’

The girl looked away before turning back to Tom. ‘My brother, he was killed this year,’ she said sadly. ‘My parents do not want to, how you say, celebrate Christmas.’

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ Tom replied as they reached the tavern. They could hear the laughter of drunken men and the voice of a woman attempting to be heard over the merriment as her drunken audience shouted lewd suggestions at her.

‘Place must be full of Poms,’ Tom said. ‘An Aussie would let the singer have a go.’

Once again the girl looked at Tom blankly. He smiled, shaking his head. ‘I think you should learn how we speak in Australia,’ he said. ‘Much better than learning English. I will escort you inside to make sure that you are not molested.’

‘What is molested?’ she asked.

‘What I will not have to explain if I go with you inside.’

While the girl spoke with the tavern keeper, all around them soldiers from the Empire tried to temporarily forget that Christmas was coming and they would not be at home to share it with their loved ones. Cheap, red wine helped kill the homesickness and dampen the fear of what lay ahead for 1918. When the young French girl had concluded her dealings, Tom insisted on escorting her outside. When they were in the street, he handed the empty basket to her. ‘I do not know your name,’ he said.

‘Does that matter, Tom Duffy?’ she asked, pulling a scarf over her head.

‘It does if I am to see you again,’ he replied. ‘I have four more days until I return to the battalion.’

The girl stared at him. ‘You will be here for Christmas Day?’ she asked.

‘It seems so,’ he replied. ‘I am due back the day after.’

‘Then you should be the guest of my family,’ she said with a warm, inviting smile. ‘Just ask the people where the Joubert farm is,’ she continued. ‘I am Juliet and you have been a true gentleman, Tom Duffy. Thank you.’

She walked quickly away, hoping to miss the rain that was threatening the little village. Tom stood in the street, watching until she disappeared into the green fields behind the village common. When the rain began to fall he decided to seek shelter inside the tavern.

That night, as he lay in his fleainfested bed in the town’s stables that were being used to billet soldiers on leave from the front, he found it difficult to get to sleep. It was not the biting fleas that kept him awake – he had long grown used to the lice that infested the soldier’s clothing on the front – but the image of Juliet’s beautiful face swimming before him. She had not seemed to notice that he was of mixed race and, if she did, she did not seem to care. The French seemed less discriminating to people of colour. He had seen regiments of North Africans, men as black as the night, who had been treated respectfully by those Frenchmen with whom they served on the front. Maybe Juliet thought all Australians were tanned and had his facial features. Whatever it was, Tom was sure she had shown an interest in him. He hoped so.

Tom met Juliet and her family at the church for mass on Christmas morning. He was introduced to her parents, whose formal stiffness suggested a wariness about the strange man who obviously had a romantic interest in their youngest daughter. Tom soon learned that Juliet’s two older sisters had married local farmers and one had already been widowed by the war. Neither parent spoke English, so Juliet translated. A couple of times on the walk back from the church to the Joubert farm house, Tom noticed Juliet exchanging annoyed words with her parents. They had glanced at the young Australian soldier over their shoulders but otherwise acted in a courteous manner towards him. They knew of the fierce reputation the Australians had established for themselves on the battlefields of France and Flanders, and the reputation for reckless courage did not bode well with parents who had already lost a son to the war.

Inside the farm house Tom could feel the warmth of the open fireplace and smell the delicious aroma of a roasting goose in an oven. On the mantelpiece was the framed photo of a young man in uniform. Tom was struck by how much he looked like himself. Even Juliet’s mother had glanced at him with a curious expression on her face whenever she thought he was not looking at her. Tom tried to be as unobtrusive as possible and when they all sat down for the Christmas lunch bowed his head as Mr Joubert said grace.

When lunch was over Juliet sat at an old piano in the corner of the small but cosy living room. Tom was pleasantly surprised that she could both play with an expert touch and sing with a beautiful voice. Her sad songs alone enchanted him and he knew that he was falling in love with this enigmatic young French woman. He sat on a sofa as her parents joined in the singing. When their song finished, Mr Joubert raised his glass of brandy towards the photograph of his son. ‘Vive la France,’ he said.

Tom echoed his words – the few he knew in French.

That afternoon, aided by the brandy, Mr Joubert softened his attitude to the young Australian soldier and, through Juliet, asked him many questions about his life in Australia. Attempting to identify with his host, Tom said he too was a kind of farmer of livestock, which endeared him a little to Juliet’s father.

When the Frenchman asked Tom how many cattle he had, Tom extrapolated to what he expected to own when he returned to Queensland. ‘Around 3000 head,’ he said.

Mr Joubert looked at Tom in disbelief. ‘My father has said that a man with that many cattle would have to be the richest man in the world.’

Tom broke into a broad smile. ‘I hope to be, Mr Joubert,’ he replied.

The day went too quickly and soon it was growing dark. It would be cold walking back to his billet but he was to be on parade early next morning before being transported back to his battalion at the front. The men were engaged in patrols into no-man’s-land, attempting to take prisoners for the intelligence people while the Germans carried out similar patrols. It was dangerous work and Tom dreaded returning now that he had found something far more valuable than the bags of diamonds.

He stood on the doorstep, bidding his hosts goodbye. Juliet watched him with sorrowful eyes. They had not had the chance to be alone in the house but Tom could see from her snatched looks that her interest in him was more than just that of a friend. How badly he had wanted to touch her hand and kiss her face.

‘You will write to me,’ she said, her breath meeting his and her large eyes fixing his own.

‘Every chance I get,’ Tom replied, forcing himself not to embrace her, as Mrs Joubert stood behind her daughter in the doorway.

‘I will wait at the post office every day,’ Juliet replied. Suddenly she stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek, despite her mother’s gasp of disapproval. When she stepped back, Tom walked away into the cold night, the feel of her lips still warm on his cheek. He did not turn back. To see her face would have been more than he could bear knowing that he was going back to a war with no end.