unhelpfully.
His reverend colleague quickly excused himself in the face of the foul-mouthed tirade as Private Wilson muffled its beak with a tobacco stained hand and took the creature below. The bird was duly christened ‘Sunday Best’ and continued to entertain many of the ship's company. Even the targeted clergyman was known to feed it when he thought no one was looking.
The usual entertainments – both legal and illegal - continued aboard. Gambling was rife and despite threats and a lecture from both chaplains to their respective flocks on its evils, two-up and card games thrived. Officers were keep busy hearing charges, while soldiers who had been designated to act as military police could be seen nursing bruised faces. Other forms of relaxation included deck games and sports. Boxing drew the biggest crowds and one such match would have direct implications for the men of the Field Ambulance.
Bert 'Birdie' Taylor was considered the best pugilist in the ambulance. He had knocked around shearing sheds and worked as a stevedore up and down the east coast. Standing over two metres tall he had a barrel chest topped by a disproportionately small head. It was as if someone had attached a child’s head to a man’s body, but apart from this deformity his close set eyes were his most remarkable feature. Tiny and almost black they reminded one of a magpie. They would fix upon you and never move. Even some of the officers felt uncomfortable when having to talk to him. While not particularly good with people he was a born animal lover and could do almost anything with one - be it horse or dog.
Major Clarke had spotted him outside a pub at a cattle sale. There had been a stampede and it was only through 'Birdie’s' quick action in heading off, then calming several head of cattle, that had prevented a little girl being trampled to death. As he was ‘between jobs’ Clarke had persuaded him to take the Queen’s shilling before appointing him as a horse handler and general roustabout for the unit.
However on the day of the unit’s weekly boxing tournament he met his match at the hands of a most unlikely contender. This was Private Jakub Nowicki, a 'new chum' who had emigrated from Poland only a few years before. An adventurer with an uncertain background and grasp of English, his father was reputedly a doctor and so when the Field Ambulance had advertised for men he enlisted. He had shown remarkable aptitude in first aid classes and was a fast learner. Several officers had already marked him out a possible NCO, despite his thick accent. Tall and thin with a shock of blond hair, he was an unlikely pugilist.
It was the third match of the morning. The ship swayed slightly in the swell and a mild breeze cooled the crowd around the canvas ring. 'Birdie' Taylor had won all three matches – a considerable feat, as one of his opponents had been the ship’s champion, a nuggetty Scot who had tumbled bloodied to the mat in the fourth round. Before morning tea Taylor had challenged all comers and to everyone’s surprise the Pole stepped forward. The wags running an unofficial book on the results saw pound notes flash before their eyes. Private 'Chook' Fowler, a farrier from Goulburn, oversaw all gambling within the Ambulance. He spent a frenzied few minutes taking silver shillings and several one pound notes from the more optimistic as he scribbled in a tiny ragged notebook. Word of the pending massacre soon spread throughout the ship. Even the ship’s captain, Robards, and the Bushmen’s colonel found themselves among the crowd.
Taylor faced off against the Pole in the ring. Although they had seen each other around the unit in the previous few weeks, this was the first time they had come close. For some reason 'Birdie' had taken an instant dislike to the gregarious Pole and took to parodying his accent in the mess. For his part Nowicki, who had picked up much while hanging around some of Sydney’s gangs (he had been a member of the notorious Redfern push for a while) had laughed it off and taken it in good humour. This only made Taylor dislike him even more.
The crowd became noisier as the referee, a diminutive second mate, issued the usual warnings about fair play. A sailor clanged two horseshoes together as a signal for the round to start. 'Birdie' moved straight for his intended victim’s jaw, but as quick as lightening the Pole moved aside, causing his opponent to lose balance. As he fell the ship rolled and judging the moment nicely the Pole delivered a punch of such force that the favourite did not rise from the canvas for a full thirty seconds.
There was a stunned silence as the troops took in the scene. Then a lone voice from the Ambulance shouted.
‘Good onya Jackie boy!’
There was a roar, helmets and hats were tossed into the air and 'Birdie’s' supporters swore and counted their losses. Missing his regular visits to the racetrack Dunkley had placed ten shillings through a third party on 'Birdie' minutes before the fight began. A smile crossed his face as he watched proceedings. While both contestants shook hands, Taylor had felt humiliated in a way he had never experienced before. The Pole was now marked as the enemy - on a par with the Boer. There were other less obvious going's-on aboard. Trooper Richard Straker, rumoured to have spent time in Sydney's notorious Long Bay Gaol, had also shown his fists to a few of his ship mates – mainly for late payment of poker debts.
In due course the Southern Cross came within sight of the South African coast a day ahead of schedule. Everyone not on duty below decks flocked to the ship's side. The hills, which receded from the coast, were filled with white buildings of various sizes. At this distance they gave the countryside the appearance of being neatly bisected by a band of white between the sea and the hilltops. Not a few men made favourable comparisons with the coastal town of Newcastle back home.
Dunkley was in a pensive mood, sucking his pipe on the port deck where O’Reilly and an excited Lieutenant McIntosh joined him.
‘I wonder what this place holds for us.’
O’Reilly mused to no one in particular.
‘Beautiful women and beautiful plants I hope’, added the freckled subaltern.
'A decent drop of whisky for me', said O'Reilly.
Soon the ship made its way into Table Bay, Cape Town. In the distance rose Green Point and Table Mountain.
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