Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (15 page)

‘You will have to go north and find your sister, Michael,’ Bridget said firmly as she brought her tears under control. ‘She will need you now more than ever.’

‘I have thought about that, Aunt Bridget,’ he replied. ‘And I think we have to let O’Keefe look after her now. Kevin is her husband and it is up to him to look after Katie . . . not us.’

‘You would desert your sister at her moment of need?’ she said with a flash of anger.

‘Aunt Biddy, Kate is a lot stronger than all the men I know,’ Michael protested. ‘She might only be sixteen, but she has the iron of both the Duffys and the Fitzgeralds. If anything . . . and knowing my sister . . . she will cope.’

Bridget listened to her nephew’s words. The strength was in the Duffy blood. There were those people who lived their lives frightened of change, or only dreamed about adventure. And there were those who did not know the former existed. To the latter, change and daring were the normal essence of life itself. There was a name for such people – pioneers! Kate was now a pioneer on a wild frontier. But she was also pregnant, and a long way from her family, with a man of doubtful qualities.

‘Yes . . . yes. I suppose I am like a mother who does not want to admit my little girl is a woman,’ she said softly as she reflected on her niece’s inner strengths. She had always been a mother to both Patrick’s children and although Kate had many of the characteristics of Elizabeth, her natural mother, she had also acquired many strong qualities from her aunt.

‘Katie will no doubt learn about Da and Tom,’ Michael said. ‘She will know what to do when she finds out.’

‘Do you think she will come home when she finds out?’ Frank asked.

Michael shook his head. ‘No. Somehow I think she will stay in Queensland and build her hotel . . . with O’Keefe’s help.’

Francis sighed. ‘She has no reason to remain up there with Pat and Tom gone.’

But he had to admit there was a perceptiveness in Michael’s observations. Patrick had been so different in his outlook on life. Not for his restless brother the city life, but the untrodden vastness of this new land and its far horizons. It was Kate who had also inherited the restless spirit of the Duffys to go beyond the paling fences and seek the places where only men normally went in search of adventure.

Only Michael was a little different to the rest of his family as he was very much like his poor dead mother, Elizabeth, with her creative spirit. For Elizabeth, it had been a sweet and beautiful voice that could create images sad and joyful in men’s minds with her songs.

Bridget finished cleaning the wounds and washed away the blood from his face, and impulsively she wrapped her arms around him and held him to her ample bosom as if he were a little boy.

Michael was emotionally drained. It had not taken much for the three soldiers to provoke him at the Sovereign Hotel. Just a derogatory comment about the lack of intelligence of the Irish race. But the brawl with the soldiers had dissipated his anger and grief, and all three soldiers had required treatment at the military infirmary as a result of their confrontation with the young Irishman. It was fortunate for him that an Irish police officer had been called to intervene in the brawl. And more fortunate still was the fact that the same policeman happened to be Constable Farrell who knew the Duffy family well.

When Bridget was satisfied that Michael did not require the services of Doctor Hughes, she prepared a cup of tea for him. He thanked her and she could see that her nephew wished to be alone. She indicated to her husband that they should leave him for the moment.

Michael stared with vacant eyes and confused thoughts at the corners of the kitchen. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours. So much had changed his life forever.

The wooden keg rattled down the chute and slammed into the cellar floor with a thud. Michael strained and, with a grunt, hauled it sideways away from the chute. He was stripped to the waist and his muscled body bore the imprints of bruises from the brawl two days earlier. Sweat streaked his face, even though the cellar was the coolest place in the hotel.

‘Ve vill haf a drink, my friend,’ Max said, as he straightened to ease his aching back. He too was stripped to the waist. ‘Ve vill try this ale.’

Michael wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt and sat down next to the German who produced two enamel mugs. He spiked a keg and tipped it carefully to pour the brown liquid. Michael sniffed at his cup and wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant smell.

‘Not really something to slake a thirst,’ he said of the odious beverage. Max took a mouthful and spat it on the dusty cellar floor.

‘You are right, mein friend. This country vill never haf a goot beer.’ The local beer was brewed with dubious astringent substitutes to the hops normally used in beer-making. It was no wonder that the imported English beers remained popular despite their higher price. ‘In Hamburg, vee haf the best beer,
ja
,’ he added wistfully as he recollected the cold lagers with their creamy and frothy heads flowing over the lips of huge drinking steins. ‘Vot you need in this country is such a beer. Vot you need is a goot Bavarian brewer to teach you how to make the beer.’ Both men stared down at their mugs and simultaneously poured the contents on the floor.

‘I’ve got a couple of bottles of English beer,’ Michael said as he reached behind a wooden crate.

‘Horse piss, your Englisher beer,’ Max said as Michael began to pass him the brown bottle. He shrugged, making a movement as if to replace the bottle. But Max grabbed it from him.

‘But I vill force myself to drink it,’ he said, with feigned reluctance.

Michael grinned mischievously. ‘I think you shouldn’t drink it, Max. You are getting fatter every day. Soon even I will be able to beat you in a couple of rounds,’ he said cheekily.

Max patted his ample belly. ‘Missus Duffy is a fine cook. It is not my fault.’

Michael laughed at the twinge of embarrassment shown by Max for the sad loss of his once fine body. Around Max, it was easy to laugh and hard work had been a good panacea for the emotional ills of the past few days.

‘If you think Aunt Bridget’s cooking is good, you should see what Uncle Frank has planned for the Erin starting next week,’ he said as he took a swig from the bottle of English beer. It was not cold, or even cool, but it was still pleasant to the palate of a thirsty man.

‘You mean like that other hotel vhere people pay for meals,’ Max growled disapprovingly.

‘Uncle Frank thinks he might give it a try,’ Michael ventured. ‘It will certainly be a change from what we usually serve up in the bar. Rabbit soup, saute of goose with olives, kidneys in champagne, mayonnaise of lobster, beans, peas, cauliflower, artichokes, spuds . . . Sounds like something I ate only a couple of nights ago . . .’ Michael’s voice trailed away as he remembered the night at the Macintosh cottage.

‘Ach! Too rich for the people who come to the Erin, mein friend. Vey vill not pay three shillings for such a meal. Vey are mostly dumb Irishmen like you . . . potato eaters,’ the German said good-naturedly, but Michael did not hear his friend’s good-humoured insult. His thoughts were across the harbour in another place with another person.

Max noticed the faraway look on the young man’s face and gave him a nudge in the ribs with his elbow. ‘Dumb Irishmen!’

Michael sighed and focused on the present. ‘Sorry, Max. I was just thinking about something,’ he apologised.

‘Your papa and brudder, my friend?’ Max prompted gently. ‘Patrick vas the best of men. He saved my life when the British came to kill us all at Ballarat and I vill never forget him.’

‘No. I wasn’t thinking about Da or Tom or Billy.’

‘Vot is troubling you, young Michael?’ Max prompted. But before he could reply, they were surprised to see Daniel with his coat over his shoulder climb down the stairs into the cellar and pick his way carefully to them through the wooden crates and kegs.

‘Have you any spare bottles down here, Mike?’ Daniel asked by way of greeting. Michael rummaged behind the crate and found three more which he opened, passing one to Daniel who took a long swig. At this time of day, he was normally at the chambers of the law firm of Sullivan and Levi and leave from the chambers was unheard of – except to attend family births and deaths. When Daniel had finished half the bottle’s contents, he made himself comfortable on a wooden crate.

‘I gather from your look,’ Michael said in a serious tone, ‘and the fact you are home early, you have found out something?’

As an articled clerk to a firm of solicitors in the city, Daniel was in a good position to hear things. ‘Yes,’ Daniel replied as he stared down at a point on the cellar floor. ‘The man who was killed by the blacks was Angus Macintosh.’

‘
Angus!’
Michael exploded. ‘I remember Fiona saying that was the name of her oldest brother. God almighty! Penelope said that Da had protected the murderer of a white man. She must have meant that the white man was Fiona’s brother and it’s no bloody wonder she hasn’t tried to get in contact with me in the past couple of days.’

‘That’s not all,’ Daniel added. ‘It appears, from a report by the police lieutenant in charge of a dispersal, that Tom’s body was never actually found by him or his troopers. The trap only made a presumption that Tom was killed.’

‘How did you find out all this, Dan?’

‘Better you don’t ask questions,’ he replied with a mysterious smile. ‘That way I don’t have to tell you any lies.’

Michael nodded. His cousin had devious ways about him, and it was no wonder he had chosen to be a lawyer. In fact, Daniel had used money to bribe a clerk in the Macintosh firm of solicitors for all the information they had on the affair in Queensland. The clerk had met him at a city hotel for lunch and information had been exchanged for money and a few free drinks.

‘What else did you find out?’ Michael asked as the news about Tom held a sudden ray of hope.

‘Apparently Uncle Patrick held the police at gunpoint so that some wounded blackfellow could escape,’ he answered as he took another swig from the bottle. ‘It seems the blackfella was responsible for the death of Angus Macintosh. The trap, who was in charge of the dispersal, reported that he left Uncle Pat and Old Billy alone and rode off. He said he then heard cries for help and when he rode back he found both Uncle Pat and Old Billy speared to death. Later he came across Uncle Pat’s bullock team and he made a decision to destroy the dray and bullocks so that supplies would not fall into the hands of any of the hostile natives that might be around.’

Michael frowned. ‘There is something about the trap’s story I don’t like, Dan,’ he said slowly. ‘Something that doesn’t sound right.’

Daniel nodded, and it was Max who intervened. ‘A trap vould never let Patrick go for stopping him in his duties,’ he reflected. ‘A trap vould arrest him, not ride avay and leaf him.’

‘You are right, Max!’ Daniel said, recognising the fundamental flaw in the police story. ‘The bastard could have killed Uncle Pat and Old Billy and somehow he missed Tom.’

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Michael swore. ‘Did you get the name of the trap by any chance?’

Daniel racked his memory. He had not considered the police officer as a suspect for murder before, but what Max had said made a lot of sense. It was not probable the inspector would allow Patrick to go free after harbouring a man wanted for murder.

‘Mont . . . no! . . . Mort, Lieutenant Morrison Mort of the Native Mounted Police. Mort is the name of the murdering bastard!’

The three men sat in a short silence, and the taste of the English beer soured in Michael’s mouth.

‘What about Fiona’s father? Was he anywhere near the scene?’ Michael finally asked, breaking the silence.

‘Yes. He was with Mort when Uncle Patrick bailed them up,’ Daniel replied, as he repeated the details given to him by the talkative clerk.

‘Then he is just as responsible for murder,’ Michael said quietly, and his eyes glowed feral in the gloom of the cellar.

Daniel shifted uncomfortably. ‘I doubt if we could prove anything against anyone,’ he said. ‘Without any witnesses, it would be our word against that of the police and Donald Macintosh. And . . .’

‘I know that,’ Michael snarled. ‘Murder gets done and we are without the law. But there is a thing called natural justice.’

‘Forget what you are thinking,’ Daniel said quickly to cut short the dangerous ideas he could see forming in his cousin’s mind. ‘You will only end up swinging on a rope with your neck stretched if you go after either Donald Macintosh or the trap.’ But Michael ignored his cousin’s warning as his mind was set and he knew what he must do.

‘I have some more news for you,’ Daniel added in an attempt to distract his cousin’s murderous thoughts. ‘Miss Fiona Macintosh has left Sydney with Miss Penelope White. It seems that their whereabouts is a mystery even to the family solicitors. There is a rumour that she was sent away on the orders of her mother because of some love affair she was having with an Irishman.’ Michael gaped. ‘Don’t worry, your name did not come up,’ he added, by way of reassurance.

Michael had planned to see Fiona that very evening. Now she was gone to God knows where! It was as if the devil were playing a sad and iniquitous game with him. He had not known exactly why he wanted to see her or what he would do and say when he met her again. All he knew was that he must see her – at least once more – before he travelled to Queensland to ascertain the truth concerning the death of his father and Old Billy. And possibly find Tom.