Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (7 page)

SILENT
ECHOES IN
THE DARK

SEVEN

T
he harbour breezes puffed across the shimmering expanse of blue water. White sails unfurled on the little sailing boats as they skipped the tips of the gentle waves mocking the inactivity of the big ships at anchor in the coves and inlets of the southern shore of Sydney harbour. The big sailing ships lined the wharves and shore where they appeared as a forest of tall and slender masts naked of the sailcloth that gave them the means to cross the world’s oceans. Many of the stately ships now had funnels among their masts and others had huge round paddlewheels that protruded from their once graceful lines. For this was a time of transition between wind and steam on the oceans of the world.

The young man perched at the edge of a sandstone ledge gazed over the magnificent harbour. From high above the expanse of blue water, his thoughts roamed across the myriad of possibilities that the vantage point gave him to record the tranquil beauty of the harbour. A sketchbook dangled in one hand and a pencil in the other and beside him lay a leather satchel case which held his sketches.

It was a hot day and his shirt sleeves had been rolled up to reveal biceps that rippled with the latent strength of a fighter. His face was clean shaven and the summer sun was leaving a reddish impression on his normally fair skin while his thick mop of brown curling hair touched the collar of his starched white shirt which clung to a broad and muscled chest.

The twenty-one-year-old son of the teamster, Patrick Duffy, had been born in Ireland. But the land of his birth was now a sad and fading memory. Sadder was the distant sorrow of losing his mother to the fever that plagued the immigrant ship bound for the colony of Victoria from Ireland. A haunting memory of a terrible grief-stricken morning when the shroud-wrapped body was committed to the dark waters of the southern ocean. His mother’s final existence was marked by a transient splash in the cold seas and the land of his childhood was now a place haunted by the spirit of a soft and gentle woman who had sung to him in the night. For Michael Duffy, the beautiful harbour he now gazed across defined his new world.

Behind him stood his cousin Daniel, who might have passed as a brother had it not been for the difference in their physiques. Michael was broad shouldered whereas Daniel was lean and slightly stooped. Both men were of the same age and had grown up together, gone to school together and were, often enough, in trouble together. Michael was usually the instigator as he had learnt at an early age how to use his size and strength to settle disputes in the tough Irish-dominated streets of Redfern.

And it was Michael Duffy’s face that told the story of his fights. A small scar intersected his eyebrow over the right eye and his nose was slightly awry on a face women found appealing. But beyond his violently acquired badges of manhood were the grey eyes and slow smile. At times the eyes could be soft with a dreamy and faraway look. At other times hard with the appearance of a deep and cold sea. His smile and deep resonant voice charmed men as much as they charmed women and there was an aura about him that made women feel protected and men trust his word. He was not consciously aware of the strong effect he had on those around him. He was a young man preoccupied with dreams of fame as a great artist. But the considerable reputation he enjoyed as one of Sydney’s best bare-knuckle fighters was also a reality of his life.

Daniel stole a glance at the sketch Michael had shaded with a soft graphite pencil. It was a landscape sketch of the flora that covered Sydney harbour’s foreshores; spear-like stems rising up from squat tussocks, the spiky cone-like flowers of the banksia bush.

‘I thought you might sketch the harbour,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘The plants here aren’t exactly an artist’s delight.’ Daniel would have preferred to be promenading on the Manly Corso appreciating the pretty young ladies who walked in pairs coyly pretending not to notice the admiring stares of the young men who watched them. Michael glanced up from his sketch at his cousin who stood at his elbow with his coat slung over his shoulder.

‘Ahh . . . But there is beauty in the bush, Danny boy,’ he drawled. ‘You have to understand that this is not Europe. The beauty here is unique.’

‘How would you know that, Mick? You haven’t been to Europe.’

Michael nodded. ‘Well . . . That may it be,’ he replied with a frown, ‘but I have seen paintings of European landscapes. And it’s obvious they have different light and shadow. The Europeans have a certain dullness about their landscapes. We have a contrast in the vitality I can bring to my paintings with the brilliant light and colour we have here,’ he explained.

Daniel shook his head and smiled. His cousin was himself a strange contrast of light and dark; a powerful physical entity and yet, a gentle and intelligent spirit. ‘Yes, well, speaking about light, I think we are about to lose ours. If that storm catches us up here.’ Daniel noted the heavy clouds gathering as an ominous billowing wall of boiling purple-black over the stunted scrub of the distant headland that was Sydney’s harbour gateway.

Michael marvelled at the depth of hues of the storm rolling in from the south. But his cousin was right, Sydney’s summer storms were welcome, so long as you were not caught in the open. They brought cool relief to the city, washing away the refuse of the streets that harboured the seasonal epidemics of cholera and yellow fever, cleaning the air of the sickening smells of tanneries, and blowing off the coal smog of the factories for a short and pleasant time. He slipped his sketchbook into the satchel and slung the strap over his shoulder as he stood and wiped the dry moss from his trousers.

They made their way to a track leading down to Manly Village which had established its popularity as the place for day trippers to escape the rapidly expanding urban sprawl of Sydney. To reach Manly from the southern shore entailed a ferry trip which was all part of the holiday experience of visiting the pretty village which bordered both the majestic Pacific Ocean and the waters of the tranquil harbour. The steam ferry crossed the harbour from south to north and when the passengers reached Manly they could promenade along The Corso, take in a picnic in the nearby bush, pick succulent oysters from the rocks or walk on the yellow sand beaches that were buffeted by the Pacific’s majestic breakers.

By the time the two young men had reached The Corso, the storm was a low and black blanket stretched over Sydney. Michael was tempted to stop at the Steyne Hotel for a shot of rum but his less impulsive cousin warned him that the ferry would depart at 5.45 p.m. from the wharf. If they missed the ferry, they would be late getting back to the Erin Hotel and have to answer to Francis Duffy for their tardiness.

This was not a comforting thought to either as Sunday was the only day both men had away from work and they did not want to lose their day of rest by disobeying Daniel’s father. Frank Duffy had set the rules on when they should be home. His wife, Bridget, would serve a roast dinner late that evening and all were expected to be at the table when grace was said.

They walked the short distance to the jetty which was crowded with day trippers eager to catch the ferry before the storm broke. Men dressed in tight-fitting trousers, waistcoats and tall stovepipe hats carried picnic baskets for the ladies whom they escorted. The ladies wore their best crinoline dresses, wide colourful headwear and carried parasols.

The storm rolling in from the south added another dimension to the end of the day. The excited and nervous laughter of the ladies, the deeper and raucous voices of men who had imbibed port, claret or sherry on the picnic added to the festive feeling of the late afternoon. Couples and families, single men and chaperoned ladies waited with an underlying tension for the imminent fury of the Southerly Buster to unleash itself over a parched city.

The thunder and lightning were almost simultaneous, promising that the heavy and pelting rains were not far away and the waiting day trippers cast nervous glances to the south. A deep and violent boom of thunder overhead caused the jetty to vibrate as if it had been hit with a giant sledge-hammer and Michael suddenly felt his biceps gripped with such a force that he had a fleeting thought that he had been hit by lightning!

‘Oh!’
The gasp that accompanied the pain in his arm was not his and he turned to see the profile of a very beautiful and pale face with mouth agape revealing a perfect set of ivory white teeth. The beautiful young woman stared up at the boiling sky, which was lashed by jagged tridents of light, and when she turned her head her eyes, wide with fright, looked directly into his. They were emerald green and a faint memory of Ireland’s grassy fields on a summer’s day flashed through Michael’s mind. They were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. In stark contrast to her milky white complexion was her long raven hair which was pulled down and tightly parted. Although she was a head shorter than he, this made her tall by most standards for a woman.

‘May the angels protect you,’ he said softly to her as he gazed into her eyes with an exploring frankness. He did not know why he had used the phrase he had so often heard his Aunt Bridget utter. It just seemed appropriate for the situation.

‘Oh . . . I am sorry. I must have hurt you.’ The young woman apologised as she released her grip on his arm and he wished she had not.

‘You didn’t hurt me,’ he lied. ‘I was rather flattered that you chose my arm in your moment of distress.’ He continued to gaze into her eyes and she blushed with a giddiness when she looked into the gentle grey eyes of the stranger.

There was a strange contrast of savagery and gentleness in the rugged features and she had a momentary remembrance of how hard his muscled arm had been under the pressure of her fingers. She was also acutely aware that his presence seemed to cause an exquisite tingling in her stomach. Or was the exquisite, tingling feeling wickedly lower?

‘Fi, are you feeling well?’ A young woman’s voice broke the spell between them.

‘Yes, Penelope . . . I . . . I was just frightened by the thunder,’ she answered, without taking her eyes from his face. Michael resented the intrusion of the second woman although she was equally as beautiful and around the same age as the girl with the raven hair.

Fiona realised self-consciously that she was standing very close to the tall young man and stepped away from him. Side by side the two women were a striking contrast; Penelope had hair the colour of spun gold and a smattering of freckles over her nose. Her large eyes were a deep sapphire blue set against high cheekbones and she exuded a noticeable blatant sensuality. He could see that both young women were dressed in the finest of flowing muslin.

His appraisal was met with a frank expression from Penelope reflecting an unabashed exposition of sexual attraction. ‘If you would like I can stay with you,’ he said in a lame attempt to engage the company of Fiona for just a while longer. ‘Until the ferry arrives.’ She smiled in a way that he could see that she wanted to accept his invitation.

‘Your offer is very courteous but I think I should be with my cousin,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘But thank you for the offer, Mister . . . ?’

‘My name is Michael. Michael Duffy, Miss . . . ?’

‘. . . Macintosh. Fiona Macintosh. And this is my cousin, Miss Penelope White,’ she answered formally. Penelope smiled and nodded her head slightly as recognition of the introduction then turned her attention to Fiona.

‘Fi, we must join Granville. He is waiting for us at the end of the pier.’ She turned to the young Irishman. ‘If you will excuse us, Mister Duffy. I must say, however, that I am grateful for the assistance you rendered my cousin.’ With a parting and polite smile, Penelope took Fiona’s elbow and guided her through the crowd.

Michael watched them walk side by side down the jetty. They were certainly a striking pair of young ladies, he thought without taking his eyes off Fiona and was rewarded to see her turn once and glance back at him. He flashed her a beaming smile and felt a little foolish. Maybe he was leering more than smiling, he thought. Like the drunken patrons of the Erin at the voluptuous barmaids Frank Duffy tended to employ.

Daniel had observed the exchange between Michael and Fiona and although it had been fleeting, he was perceptive enough to notice their mutual attraction. Michael had been so enamoured by the beautiful young woman that he had failed to introduce him to the young ladies and Daniel felt a little annoyed at his cousin’s oversight.

‘She must be the most beautiful girl in the whole world, Dan,’ Michael said with a boyish tone of awe in his voice.

‘Shut your mouth, Mick. Or you will drown when the rain comes,’ his cousin growled lightly. ‘Beautiful she is,’ he mused as he watched the two young women walking together, ‘but I think she is not in our class. From the look of her I would say she is one of those ladies born to wealth. Probably the daughter of some big Sydney merchant or landowner.’

‘How do you know that, Danny boy?’ Michael challenged quietly. ‘She might be the child of a publican . . . Or working people like ourselves.’

Daniel pulled a pained expression at his naive optimism. ‘You only have to look at the way she is dressed, her accent. Her whole appearance says gentry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That’s how I know. Best you forget her.’

But Michael was not convinced that the beautiful young woman was unobtainable. So she might be high born but she was still a woman and he knew she had been attracted as much to him as he was to her. ‘Some day I am going to marry her, Daniel,’ he said quietly. ‘You watch and see.’

Daniel groaned and rolled his eyes to the sky. ‘Michael, Michael, Michael . . . It cannot happen.’

‘Yes it can, Daniel. You just watch,’ he answered with quiet determination and his grey eyes were set with the hardness of gun metal. It would not be easy! But he was sure that he and the girl with the green eyes would meet again. And how would this happen? He had already formulated a plan.

Fiona giggled as she walked away. Although it was a childish thing to do, the tension of the moment needed release. ‘Isn’t he magnificent, Penny,’ she said. ‘He is like a Greek god.’