Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (30 page)

Mort ran his hand over the surface with a strange faraway look in his pale eyes. The first mate noticed this with a strange quiver of illogical fear. Was there a madness in the new captain? ‘I was fortunate to find this,’ Mort said, without looking up at him. ‘Mister White knew just what to give me as a welcoming gift to the company.’

‘If you don’ mind me sayin’, Cap’n Mort . . . It’s a peculiar gift.’

Mort raised his eyes to lock with those of his first mate. ‘He also told me about the circumstances of your employment aboard my ship,’ Mort said, without commenting on the peculiarity of the gift. Horton sensed the deadly menace in the tone and he squirmed. ‘Under the circumstances, he explained to me I could expect to have your total and unquestioning loyalty. Would I not, Mister Horton?’

‘You would, Cap’n.’

Mort nodded and slid the sword from its scabbard. He placed it on the bench, where the blade caught a ray of sunlight through a porthole to gleam a fiery silver.

‘He said I would be able to call on your “domain of skills” at any time. And in the difficult time ahead of us, possibly fraught with great perils, I expect your loyalty to be total,’ he continued, fingering the sword as it lay on the bench. It was no idle gesture, as Horton could very well understand. ‘So that will be all for now, Mister Horton. You can resume your duties overseeing the resupply.’

‘Yes, Cap’n,’ Horton said as he edged his way out of the cabin. He had met a lot of dangerous men in his violent life but none as dangerously mad as the new skipper of the
Osprey
, whose almost effeminate looks and diffident manner belied a savagery that he sensed and did not want to cause to be unleashed.

The predominantly Irish patrons of the Erin were unusually subdued as they gathered in the hotel’s bar to discuss the latest happenings in the popular publican’s family. The news had spread rapidly of young Michael Duffy’s death at the hands of the Maori heathens in New Zealand.

Many a sympathetic comment was passed on the God-cursed tragedy that had befallen the Duffy family since Patrick’s tragic death at the hands of the wild blackfellas in Queensland, although it was rumoured that there was more to the death than met the eye. Tom was a wanted man in Queensland for robbery under arms and he was suspected of murder. And now Michael had been slain in the war across the Tasman Sea.

Frank Duffy was not in the bar as he usually was in the evenings bellowing good-naturedly at unruly customers and shouting occasional drinks for a select few. The pretty, buxom barmaid, Elsie, was in tears as she fumbled with the glasses of ale for the customers, spilling much of the precious liquid. It had been well known that she had been in love with Michael and it was also wickedly rumoured that she had introduced him to the pleasures of the flesh when he was eighteen. Ah, but the Duffy men were wild lads, the customers mused. They had got it from their father, God rest his saintly soul.

Glasses were raised as toasts to Michael Duffy’s innocence and bravery and then glasses were raised to Tom for giving the traps a merry chase in the far-off colony of Queensland. And glasses were refilled to toast Patrick, the rebel father of the Duffy boys, who had himself assisted one or two English soldiers to their graves in Ireland, and Victoria at the Eureka Stockade.

Then glasses were raised to Francis Duffy as the finest publican outside of Ireland. Saint Patrick was next. The downfall of British rule at home was not forgotten and finally glasses were raised to dear old Ireland itself.

To be sure the copious quantities of rum and gin flowed down the thirsty throats of men toasting all that was important in life. And that led in turn to push and shove from the non-Irish drinkers who objected to the outpouring of Irish sentiment.

Before long, Max Braun was up to his muscled armpits in brawls with the
verdammen
drunken Irishmen. He had long learnt that it took little in the way of an excuse for an Irishman to get into a fight and it was no wonder they were found in the ranks of most of the mercenary armies of the world.

Above the din of breaking glass and thumps of men hitting the floor, amid drunken oaths in English and curses in Gaelic, Bridget sat by her bed in her old rocking chair with a well-worn set of rosary beads slipping between her fingers as she muttered her prayers, seemingly oblivious to the riot just below her bedroom.

The salvation of Michael’s immortal soul held her attention, as she had no illusions about her nephew and his wild ways. To be sure, Michael was a terrible sinner when it came to matters of the flesh. But he was also a gentle man who dreamed of beautiful paintings, and he had loved her as if he were her trueborn son.

The tears flowed but she was hardly aware that she was crying and it was not for Michael alone that she wept. Her tears were also for little Katie, who had suffered the unspeakable pain of the loss of her child, and Bridget Duffy prayed that she might return to the family that loved her dearly. So much death and suffering had been visited upon her dead brother-in-law’s family in the past year and only God knew why.

The tentative knock at her door interrupted her Hail Mary. She brushed the crucifix with a kiss and placed the well-used rosary beads in her lap. ‘Come in,’ she called with a feeble attempt to brush away the tears.

She did not recognise the woman who stood beside her ashen-faced husband in the doorway, but she could see that the woman held a bundle in her arms wrapped in a fine swaddling blanket.

‘Biddy, Miss Molly O’Rourke has brought someone to us,’ Frank said as he ushered the woman into the bedroom.

Bridget rose from her chair by the bed and crossed the room.

‘Missus Duffy,’ Molly said as she reluctantly passed the bundle to Bridget, ‘I have brought you the son of Michael Duffy. I have given him his name but he is yet to be baptised in the True Church.’

Bridget took the bundle and gazed down into the blanket where a baby with dark curly hair was asleep. She fought to stay on her feet. Michael now lived through his son. The shock of recognising the resemblance of the baby to his father was uncanny. ‘Dear Mother of God!’ She gazed down at the baby snuggled asleep in the warm rug and the little creature’s eyelids twitched at the annoying sound of brawling patrons in the bar below their feet.

‘What name have you given him, Miss O’Rourke?’ Bridget finally asked as tears of grief turned to tears of joy.

‘I have called him Patrick after the big man himself,’ she answered softly with tears welling in her own eyes. ‘I’m sure Michael would have wanted that name for his son. I knew Patrick Duffy in the old country a long time ago. Oh, I was but a mere slip of a girl then and I fell in love with Patrick himself like all the other colleens in the county. But he only had eyes for Elizabeth Fitzgerald, and not for the likes of a simple girl such as meself. Ah! but that was a long time ago,’ she sighed.

Patrick Duffy was woken by a window shattering downstairs as the brawl spread. He opened his eyes to stare myopically at his new world. He balled his tiny fists and opened his little lungs to vent his anger for all to hear that he did not like being disturbed from his comfortable sleep. Patrick Duffy announced to the world that he had come to live with his father’s family.

TWENTY-EIGHT

A
lthough the two men appeared to be relaxed astride their horses, they were particularly alert. Tom Duffy and Wallarie had good reason to be vigilant. They were approaching territory that was home to tribesmen prepared to spear intruders on their traditional lands.

Wallarie’s dark eyes also scanned the country around them for signs indicating the intrusion of white men beyond their established frontiers. The advance of white settlers usually meant the presence of the dreaded Native Mounted Police.

The two men rode in the style of the cavalryman, one hand swinging free while the other gripped the reins and led a packhorse burdened down with bags of flour and sugar, tins of tea and syrup, small boxes of ammunition for their weapons and a few precious tins of tobacco.

As they rode side by side through the low scrub of the Gulf, Tom Duffy’s thoughts were on a place somewhere ahead of them on the banks of the river that flowed into the placid waters of the Gulf of Carpentaria. Wallarie assured him all the signs indicated that the Gulf tribe they had befriended months earlier were camped there. If all was well Mondo would be with them and by now she would have given birth to their first child.

It was six months since he had last seen her and the signs of her pregnancy were obvious then. Six months away from their sanctuary to raid the homesteads south of the Gulf Country, relieving the wealthy squatters of their cash and valuables to redistribute among the storekeepers of Burketown. The money was used for replenishing badly needed supplies to sit out the coming wet season of the tropical monsoon of the north.

‘Blackfella by and by,’ Wallarie said softly as he strained to listen to the whispers in the still and oppressively hot air that wrapped round them like a stifling cloak.

‘How close?’

‘By and by close,’ he replied, shifting in his saddle to ease his discomfort. The hard ride from Burketown had been necessary to put a safe distance between themselves and the outpost of the white man’s civilisation where a Native Mounted Police contingent was camped. ‘Mebbe before billy time,’ he added. His estimations of time were always measured in meal breaks.
Billy time
meant a half hour from locating the wandering tribe, as it was already around midmorning.

His estimation proved to be correct as they rode warily into the deserted Aboriginal camp. But the telltale signs of fires left smouldering and middens of unopened shellfish indicated that they were being watched from the surrounding silent scrub by wary eyes.

Tom slid from his mount and gazed cautiously around him. ‘Mondo,’ he called loudly. ‘It’s us, Wallarie and me.’ But his call was answered with a continuing silence as the warriors crouched tensely in the shadows of the bush, fitting spears to slings.

Wallarie remained astride his mount with his hand not far from the butt of the Colt tucked behind a broad leather belt. He did not trust the northern tribesmen.

Tom frowned. He could feel the eyes watching them and sensed his friend’s tension as he sat astride his horse studying the silent scrub. Had their tentative truce with the Gulf tribe been forgotten already?

Their acceptance by the Gulf tribesmen had been founded on Wallarie’s knowledge of the trade route language. He had established that he and the white man would bring precious supplies of tobacco and sweet thick cane syrup to them. In return they would allow Mondo to live with them. The tribesmen had agreed and the deal was sealed with gifts of tobacco and syrup.

But six months was a long time and Tom felt a growing fear well inside him. Not a fear for himself, but for the woman he had left behind. Had they killed her?

‘Baal!’ Wallarie hissed, fingering the revolver tucked in his belt. ‘Blackfella watch us, Tom.’

‘So long as they keep watching,’ he said grimly as he strode across to the packhorse and loosened a wooden box containing the tins of syrup. The box crashed to the ground where it split open, spilling the tins in the fine red dust. Tom scooped up a tin to wave over his head.

‘Tucker,’ he called to the ominously silent scrub. ‘We have good tucker.’ Although the watching tribesmen did not understand the words, they did understand his gesture and recognition dawned in suspicious dark eyes. One by one, they emerged from the scrub trailing their spears and families behind them.

With a wide grin, Tom quickly passed the tins to the squabbling women, frantic to get hold of the sweet gooey gifts, as precious to them as gold was to the Europeans. Eager hands pried lids off and fingers of all shapes and sizes were thrust into the golden sticky liquid. All signs of wariness had gone from the tribesmen as they accepted Tom and Wallarie back into their lands with laughter and delighted squeals for the gifts.

Even so, Wallarie remained on his mount and kept the packhorse close by him, as he was aware that, given the opportunity, the tribesmen would have happily rifled all that was left of their precious supplies. But they respected his ownership of the stores he jealously guarded. The Darambal man was also a man greatly feared. He had come to them with an aura of powerful magic that only they understood. It was an aura that protected him in the lands of tribesmen who would normally kill such an intruder from another tribe.

Tom searched the faces of the people who now milled around in the camp, fighting over the last of the tins of syrup he had distributed. Then he saw the face he most wanted to see and with long strides he closed the gap between himself and the woman standing at the edge of the squabbling crowd. She was holding a baby on her hip and smiling shyly at him.

He stopped before Mondo to stare at the child at her hip, sucking his little thumb. The tough and feared Irishman was at a loss for words. She held his son!

The months of being hunted, the weeks of lying under the stars of Burke’s Land, wondering and worrying about the shy and pretty Darambal girl, were all washed away in a moment.

‘We will call him Peter. That’s a good name. It means rock,’ he said as he reached out to touch his son’s face with a big callused hand. ‘And our son will need to be as strong as the rocks of your land if he is to survive.’ The little boy grabbed for his hand and held the big Irishman’s thumb in a firm grip with his chubby little fingers.

Tom reached out to touch the face of his woman and he felt tears sting his eyes. ‘Mondo . . . my little black princess . . . that I could promise you and Peter a good life, I would give my own gladly,’ he choked in the white man’s language she did not understand. ‘Ahh, but that I could be free to raise our son without fear of the traps coming for us, and give him the future all free men are born to with a God-given right.’

His words trailed away and he shook his head as he gazed into the dark eyes watching him with a love that needed no spoken words. She smiled sadly for his pain, which she did not understand. They were, after all, alive and free, albeit it in the territories of a foreign people. And she held at her breast the child that was of her man’s spirit totem.

Wallarie watched the reunion and was glad that his kinswoman was well, as she was the only other survivor from his clan and a link to his Dreaming. It was strange, he mused, as he watched the son of his friend and his kinswoman united, that the child carried the spirit of both the Irishman and the Darambal people.

Wallarie’s attention was drawn to the nearby shallows of the river estuary where a brown and white feathered sea-eagle swooped to scoop up an unlucky fish that had swum too close to the surface of the tropical waters. For a brief moment, a terrible image flashed in his mind and it was not the sea-eagle itself but the image of the sea-eagle’s shadow. An evil entity of absolute and boundless cruelty. He did not understand and he shuddered. How was it that the dead could return to destroy the living?

But it would be so. The spirit of the sacred hill had spoken to him across the vastness of the timeless land.