To Touch the Clouds : The Frontier Series 5 (8 page)

The review of the island’s defence force was over, and upon entering the Garrison Officers’ Mess at the Rabaul Club, Major Kurt von Fellmann removed his cap and placed it on a hat stand. He glanced around the room with its timber plank walls adorned with the occasional stuffed deer’s head and high ceilings providing circulation of the humid tropical air. The club was obviously an attempt to remind the German planters and civil servants of their Fatherland, which had flung itself onto a wild and sometimes savage frontier. His eyes settled on a similarly dressed officer wearing the tropical uniform of a reservist captain.

Kurt strode forward. At thirty-five years he had the martial bearing of his profession. He had inherited his Australian mother’s blonde hair and blue eyes – as had his twin
brother, a Lutheran pastor working among the Aboriginal people of central Queensland. The captain rose from his chair at a table, stood to attention and clicked his heels together in the traditional German salute.

‘You may resume your seat, Hauptmann Hirsch,’ Kurt said, taking a chair opposite the German captain, a man in his late twenties with an open, pleasant face and a shock of red hair. He wore his field uniform stained with sweat and was of medium build and average height. He did not stand out in a crowd except when he was in command of men and then his true character as a leader prevailed.

‘What did you think?’ Dieter Hirsch asked with a frown.

‘Fifty reservists and a contingent of around six hundred native police are no match against the English in Australia,’ Kurt replied in disgust. ‘The damned government in Berlin has absolutely no idea how important the radio station here is to our naval strategy in the event of war with the English. We should have at least a couple of regiments of regular army, supported by artillery, garrisoning these islands – not what could barely be considered a company of troops.’

‘You can see that we are forgotten out here,’ Dieter Hirsch replied, pouring schnapps into two glasses. They were virtually alone in the club in the mid afternoon as the population of the modern, well-set out town of timber and iron-roofed houses sweltered under the fierce tropical sun. In the shadow of the ever-present volcano that dominated the pretty township on the harbour of Blanche Bay, avenues of mango trees provided some shelter to pedestrians walking the streets. The German trading town was prosperous, the hub of colonial administration in the German Pacific empire. ‘The Kaiser prefers his African empire to that so far from Germany in the Pacific.’

Kurt accepted the tumbler of fiery liquid from the
German reservist officer who, when not parading with his fellow colonists wearing their slouch hats and shouldering Mauser rifles, was a civil servant working for Governor Hahl. ‘I can see that, and upon my return home will be lobbying to reinforce these islands.’ He raised his glass in a silent toast and Dieter Hirsch responded by doing likewise.

‘Do you think that there will be war with France?’ Dieter asked gloomily. He had grown to love his single life in the tropics away from the cold, closed areas of his native Munich. War would mean an end to his idyllic life. He would be mobilised for the conflict and possibly sent home to serve.

‘Eventually,’ Kurt replied, with less than reassuring words for the German civil servant. ‘All of Europe is a vast depot of arms and armies. The British challenge our right to rival them at sea and the French hate us in Europe. All it will take will be a spark to set us all off in a war.’

‘It does not seem that our civilian population is as aware of the situation as we in the military are,’ Dieter said. ‘And if there was a war with France I have read that the English will possibly stay neutral.’

‘That it may be,’ Kurt replied, swigging at the schnapps. ‘They traditionally have no love for the French. If that is so, my friend,’ he continued, ‘you will not have to worry about your position out here in the wilds of our Pacific frontier.’

‘I will drink to that,’ Dieter said, raising his glass. ‘To peace in the Pacific and a glorious victory to us – if we eventually fight the French.’ Kurt did not want to disappoint this very likeable reservist officer and so joined him in his toast. ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ Dieter said, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and retrieving a telegram. ‘This arrived a few hours ago.’ He passed the slip of paper to Kurt. ‘It appears that we are to expect an Australian trading steamer in port
next week with a passenger who is related to you, a Mr Alexander Macintosh from Sydney. He is currently visiting with Herr Schumann in New Guinea. Schumann is one of our more influential plantation owners.’

Kurt scanned the inked words on the paper and folded it neatly. It appeared that his country’s intelligence services were well and truly active in this backwater of the Kaiser’s empire and he guessed that his distantly related Australian family were aware of his whereabouts in the Pacific from his itinerary posted at the German consulate in Sydney. It was not a military secret that he had been tasked by Berlin to make a tour of German defence outposts on behalf of the Imperial German Army. He had been chosen as he had a good grasp of the English language and the culture of the European settlers of the Australian continent. He was also tasked to end his tour with a goodwill visit of German settlements in Australia. He had a vague idea about his relations in Australia from the letters his brother Karl had written to him. There had been an interesting story about a trek his brother had undertaken in the company of the legendary Michael Duffy when Alexander was only a boy. It seemed that Alexander had not known that Michael Duffy was in fact his grandfather. Now he was about to meet the young man who he also knew held the King’s commission with an Australian militia unit.

‘I hope that the visit from Mr Macintosh will prove to be a happy one for you, Herr Major,’ Dieter said.

‘Oh, yes,’ Kurt replied. ‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting him before. It will be interesting to catch up on the English side of my family.’

When the glass was empty Kurt rose to excuse himself. He had much to do to record his findings for the overall analysis required by his superiors in Berlin. In the light of
what he had read it would be a scathing report as required by document twenty-two. How in hell did Germany expect to win the war in the Pacific if the English used their Australian allies to strike first at the vitally important radio stations that were scattered throughout the German islands and which supported the Imperial German Navy ships operating out of their China base? Kurt shook his head, placed his cap on his head and stepped into the blaze of the tropical sun.

Alex woke slowly to the sounds of the copra plantation stirring for the day’s work. He rubbed his eyes, pushed aside the mosquito net covering his bed and reached for his trousers hanging on the brass knob of the bed end. The chatter of Melanesian workers trudging to the rows of coconut trees was mixed with the raised voice of the housemaid chiding her young assistant over the matter of the cooking fire going out.

The previous evening spent with Albert Schumann celebrating their final agreement for a cargo hold of copra had taken its toll on Alex. He had a hangover and wished that he had not been so lax in watching his alcohol intake. But Herr Schumann had invited neighbouring planters to share in the celebration of the contract with the Macintosh companies. Alex had a vague memory of spending as much time as he could in the company of Giselle until he was steered away to speak with Schumann’s guests.

Alex stumbled to a bureau on which a porcelain dish containing warm water stood and fumbled for his razor and shaving brush. Lathering the stick of soap, he shaved, using his reflection in the mirror fixed to the wall behind the bureau to guide his hand. With water from another dish he wiped the soap from his face and combed his hair. Finished
with his morning preparations he made his way through the rambling house to the dining room where he was met by Albert Schumann and Giselle at their breakfast. He was greeted warmly.

‘It will be a pity to see you leave us, Herr Macintosh,’ Schumann said, looking up from a plate of sausages and eggs. ‘You have now been with us for almost three weeks and will always be welcome to visit us in the future. I will ensure that we see you off before you depart today but I must excuse myself for the moment to attend to plantation matters.’

Alex nodded and sat down at the large, polished table decorated with sprays of colourful tropical flowers. Giselle sat opposite him, nibbling on a slice of bread and jam. Alex smiled weakly at her, agonising over whether he had acted foolishly the night before.

‘If you are wondering, Mr Macintosh,’ Giselle said when her father had left them alone in the dining room, ‘you were the perfect gentleman last night – despite the amount of alcohol you had consumed.’

Alex blinked at her in surprise. It was as if she were reading his mind. ‘I, ah, was not sure,’ he said, poking at a plate of eggs placed before him by the housemaid who immediately left the room. ‘I think your father has bested me in the deal. I was attempting to drink away the thought that I will have to face my brother George in Sydney and explain why we have paid so much for the cargo.’

‘It would not have anything to do with currying favour with my father, would it?’ Giselle asked with the trace of a smile on her face.

Alex knew exactly what she was alluding to. His interest in her over the weeks must have been very obvious, he cursed himself. He had already surmised that a young
woman of such beauty and poise must have many suitors in her life.

‘No,’ he sighed, pushing aside the uneaten eggs and reaching for a ripe mango in a silver dish on the table. ‘I do not have much aptitude in business dealings. That is the domain of my brother. No doubt he will have me on the carpet for the deal but I don’t particularly care. At least the voyage brought me to a place where I could meet you.’

‘I am surprised that we did not meet in Sydney,’ Giselle said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘But I suppose you have little to do with the German community there.’

Alex sliced at the mango, peeling away the skin to expose the succulent yellow flesh. Juice ran down his fingers. ‘Strangely, we do have a lot of contact with the German community in Sydney,’ Alex replied. ‘My family has many business dealings with German agencies and this deal was organised from Sydney with a German broker.’

‘Well, it is indeed a pity that we did not meet in Sydney,’ Giselle said. ‘Then you could have taken me on picnics and to the theatre and also to the pictures to see your sister on the screen. I like her performances.’

Despite the throbbing in his head, her words penetrated sufficiently to make him forget his hangover. There was a mutual attraction but time had run out for him. He was due to steam to Rabaul that afternoon. ‘Miss Schumann,’ he said, forgetting the slice of mango in his hand, ‘there is nothing more in this whole world I would like better than to spend time in your company. Is it possible that you are able to travel to Sydney in the future?’

‘My mother and I are planning to travel to Sydney this September for the spring season,’ Giselle replied. ‘We have many friends there and hope to attend the horse racing carnivals. My mother is a great lover of good horse flesh
as my grandparents breed fine horses in Bavaria on their estate.’

Alex felt his spirits soar. But September was at least half a year away, he despaired. A dark thought entered his mind. Giselle might develop a romantic attachment to one of the plantation owners’ sons that he had met the evening before. He remembered one young man, a fine and handsome planter, a widower, being very attentive towards Giselle. Alex had experienced pangs of jealousy even then. Dirk Keller – that was the man’s name. ‘What will you do between now and then?’ Alex asked, attempting to sound nonchalant despite his turbulent feelings.

‘Oh, amuse myself around my father’s property,’ Giselle answered. ‘I also attend to the medical needs of my father’s workers. I hope one day to study to be a doctor of medicine and hopefully qualify as a surgeon.’

Alex was surprised at her revelation. He did not see Giselle as a nurse but when he examined her face he could see more than just physical beauty. There was also a gentleness in her eyes he had overlooked.

‘That sounds like a very honourable thing to do,’ he answered lamely. ‘Where would you study?’

‘Sydney University,’ she replied. ‘I am currently awaiting word on whether my application for admittance has been approved.’

‘Oh,’ Alex exclaimed, realising that if she were successful she would be living in Sydney for a long period completing her studies. ‘That would be grand.’

‘You have mango juice dripping into your lap, Mr Macintosh,’ Giselle said with a broad smile, causing Alex to blush and glance down. ‘I am afraid that I am not yet a doctor,’ Giselle said with a smirk, ‘so it would be inappropriate for me to wipe away the juice from that part of your anatomy.’

Alex glanced up and broke into a laugh. Giselle was certainly a young lady with more sides to her than he had already seen in the days that they had shared company and conversation. It had been a wonderful time of horseback rides to the edges of the jungle, reserved chatter and evenings spent on the verandah joining in the late afternoon drinks as the sun set. At no time had Giselle intimated any interest in him until this moment when they were alone in the dining room and he was about to steam away. But at least he had hope and was already scheming to see her before September. He knew his plans would mean a confrontation with his older brother but he did not care. After all, what could George do to him?

The day went too quickly for Alex. It was spent away from Giselle supervising the transfer of the copra bags down to the beach and onto the ferry boats of the Macintosh coastal trader. The little coal-burning ship lay at anchor a few hundred yards from the beach and was already building up steam for the voyage to Rabaul. Black smoke curled from her funnel and the derricks swung over the side to lift the heavy nets containing the white flesh of the coconuts that would eventually find itself compressed into oil for the market in Australia.