The Silent Frontier (8 page)

Lachlan looked at his friend in surprise. ‘I heard that they never fought each other – although the match would have brought out all Sydney to watch.’

‘Ja,’ Max said with a wide grin. ‘But it was a fight of honour.’

‘Over what?’ Lachlan asked.

‘Mine little Katie’s honour,’ Max replied, taking a long gulp on his beer.

Lachlan was tactful enough to know that he should not ask any more questions. He was just pleased that he had never had to face the absent young Irishman who could thrash O’Keefe. All he had to worry about was this Bill Williams who Max was confident enough could be beaten by any man he trained. Lachlan prayed that he was right.

A cold wind whipped at the green grass in the paddock, now filled with a much larger crowd than had witnessed Lachlan’s first fight in the same place. The dust was gone, to be replaced with mud. There were many colourful military uniforms and on the slight rise that acted as a natural amphitheatre above the paddock many fine closed and open carriages were parked. Lachlan also noticed many more ladies attending the bout. As he stood stripped to the waist, attempting not to shiver against the bite of the late afternoon winter’s wind, an expectant hum filled the air and Lachlan was very aware of the many eyes appraising him.

‘I didn’t think it would be like this,’ he said in an awed voice.

‘Ja, many people saw you fight O’Keefe and admire the way you fought,’ Max said, massaging Lachlan’s shoulders with his broad hands. ‘They have come to see you win.’

Lachlan smiled inwardly. As nervous as he was, he was
actually looking forward to stepping up to his opponent but his cheer dimmed when he saw the army’s fighter step out from the crowd. He was Lachlan’s height but had a massive barrel chest and a head that seemed stuck onto his bovine-like shoulders. A long, handle-bar moustache topped off his fearsome expression. He was older and appeared confident. He glanced at Lachlan from across the paddock, snarled and turned to say something to his seconds, who laughed at his joke.

‘Don’t let him trouble you,’ Daniel said quietly in Lachlan’s ear. ‘Poor fellow, he does not know what awaits him.’

‘Thanks, Daniel,’ Lachlan said with little conviction. ‘The other chap looks like he should be working in a slaughter yard rather than the army.’

‘You vill beat him,’ Max grunted. ‘Just remember to dance.’

‘Mr MacDonald?’

Lachlan heard the voice from behind him and turned to look directly at Amanda. Her deep brown eyes were locked on his and Lachlan felt his stomach knot.

The young woman was given a path to move through the small circle of spectators directly around him. She was carrying a brilliantly coloured waist sash of deep blue in both hands and held it out to Lachlan. She was so close that he could smell the eau de cologne she wore.

‘I would like you to wear this for your fight against my brother’s champion,’ she said.

Lachlan felt his heart thump. He took the sash from her hands and wound it around his waist. A small cheer rose from those spectators closest to him at the gesture. ‘I am honoured, Miss Lightfoot,’ he said with a smile. ‘I will win this fight for you. I am your champion – as in a Byronic poem.’

An unexpected look of surprise swept across Amanda’s face. ‘Have you read any of Mr Byron’s work?’ she asked.

‘His and many others,’ Lachlan replied.

‘You seem to have hidden depths, Mr MacDonald,’ Amanda smiled sweetly. ‘Somehow that does not surprise me.’

‘It is time,’ Max said. ‘The referee has arrived and beckons.’

Lachlan wished that he could share some more moments with Amanda but he could see his opponent was already by the referee. When Lachlan turned back to bid Amanda his best wishes, she had already been swallowed by the crowd.

They were hammering blows, Lachlan thought in his exhaustion. For a good twenty minutes the fight had ebbed and flowed in either direction. Blood ran down both men’s faces from cuts above the eyes and from split lips.

Gasping, punching, grunting in clinches, both men probed with their fists for a weak point on each other’s bodies. Lachlan had heeded Max’s good advice and kept his distance from what he had come to learn was a stronger opponent. Bill Williams’s massive shoulders were reservoirs of power and Lachlan knew a well-delivered straight punch could end the fight with a loss to himself.

The earth under their feet was slippery and Lachlan was no longer aware of the crowd roaring with each punch delivered by either fighter. At one time, early in the fight, he had noticed Amanda sitting in her brother’s open carriage on the earthen terrace above the field. But that seemed an eternity ago as he fought to keep on his feet.

‘Go down, lad,’ he heard Bill Williams rasp when they went into a clinch. ‘Yer can’t take much more of a beatin’ from me.’

Lachlan ignored the advice and realised that Williams was in worse condition than he had thought. His plea for Lachlan’s capitulation was not delivered out of kindness but a subterfuge for himself to win the fight before he lost all his reserves of strength. This gave Lachlan a boost in his own inner strength and he broke the clinch to land three good punches into Bill Williams’s midriff, expelling air from his opponent’s lungs. Lachlan followed with three more quick punches to the head and his opponent reeled. Without letting up, Lachlan waded in with a continuous barrage of punches to both the head and body. Williams continued to reel back, blood splashing them both from the serious cut above the older fighter’s eye. Now Lachlan was aware of the crowd roaring. They too sensed a change in the pace of the fight as Lachlan continued to deliver his punches.

When Bill Williams dropped his guard, Lachlan knew he would win. The exhausted fighter fell to one knee and Lachlan stepped in to deliver the coup de grace of boxing. With all his remaining strength, he swung a punch that caught Williams in the side of the head. He toppled on his side to lie at Lachlan’s feet.

All Lachlan could remember was standing momentarily over the army’s unconscious champion and the crowd sweeping forward to hoist him onto their shoulders. His eyes had closed so badly he could not see Amanda in her carriage, but he hoped that she would be pleased. He had been true to his promise to her.

SIX

T
he evening was drawing nigh and the cold of winter was turning bitter. Amanda Lightfoot was snuggled against the leather seat of her brother’s carriage with a warm fur coat and muff warming her hands.

‘You chose wisely in your fighter,’ her brother mused opposite her in the carriage, a cheroot between his lips. ‘One would think that you have an eye for the sport, my dear sister. Our father would have been pleased at your intuition. May I ask why you insisted that this young man should be the one you suggested?’

Amanda gazed out at the tall gum trees bordering the road into the city. ‘I thought that he fought with courage in his fight before Christmas against that Irishman,’ she replied. ‘Nothing more.’

Charles Lightfoot was not satisfied with his sister’s answer. As her older brother it was his duty to ensure that she
make a good match in any liaison that might lead her to a good marriage, which was why he had introduced her to the eminently eligible Sir Percival Sparkes. Amanda knew where her duty lay but it seemed as though recently she had been neglecting her suitor and Sir Percival had spoken to him about the situation. She did not give any reason but simply declined accepting visits from her beau. Charles was puzzled and concerned at her sudden change of heart.

He and his sister had been orphaned not long after Charles had departed on a military posting to the Australian colonies. His first action had been at the Ballarat goldfields and a short time later he had received a letter from his uncle in England informing him of the death of his mother and father from a fever when they had been visiting London. The letter went on to say that his sister was being sent to the colonies to join him. With his limited financial means as a vicar in an English county, his uncle could not ensure she made a suitable debut into refined society.

Charles’s father had been a relatively well-to-do merchant with a warehouse just outside London and Charles had been able to purchase his first commission into a middle-ranking regiment. The money he had taken from the dead Scotsman at the Eureka stockade had been used to purchase his captaincy, with enough left over to ensure a comfortable cottage not far from his regiment. There he had been able to curry favour with his fellow senior officers with games of cards and bottles of good port.

It was at cards that the captain had proved to be lucky. Charles Lightfoot was a born gambler, who had added boxing matches to his list of wage-earning gambles. He had respected his sister’s choice of the young Scot against his own regimental champion as the odds were long against
MacDonald to win. Charles, wisely, secretly backed Lachlan, however, and had won a large amount on the fight.

The arrival some time ago of his beautiful young sister in the colony of New South Wales had ensured his popularity with the young, unwed officers of the regiment, many of whom vied for her company. Charles had been careful to vet each officer’s pedigree with the hope that one of them was only marking time in the army until an inheritance from a substantial family estate came through, either freeing him to return to wealth in England or allowing him to pursue further fortune in the Australian colonies, where already several expatriate officers had demonstrated their keen nose for a good business venture. Sir Percival Sparkes had been the perfect choice. Now, it seemed as if she had rejected him. In her brother’s eyes she was far too independent and educated for a woman of some means. She even found the stark beauty of the colonies appealing and seemed to immerse herself in its coarse culture devoid of the genteel softness of home.

But now Charles had been asked to take command of a militia being formed in New Zealand to confront the Maori warriors, and this was his prime concern. All that worried him was a small but nagging doubt about his sister’s interest in the young Scot. It was just something about the way she had looked at the man, Charles brooded. The way she seemed to react when MacDonald took the punishing blows as if she were feeling them too. No, she may think that she was infatuated with the Scot but he had nothing to offer the sister of an officer rising in the regiment.

Although he had little to do with his sister when they were growing up – and his postings in the army had taken him away from home – Charles was coming to learn that Amanda was a far more complex creature than most women he knew. She loved to read and yet was quite outspoken at
gatherings of his fellow officers when she should have remained quiet. She had a passion for life and the colonies seemed to agree with her. Charles was able to put on airs and pass as some kind of English aristocrat but Amanda spurned such behaviour. She was kind towards their housemaid, a young girl of fourteen, and did not speak down to anyone she met, whether rich or poor. This interest of hers in the young Scot troubled him more than he liked. But he had a plan.

‘Amanda, I would like you to accompany me to New Zealand for the duration of the campaign,’ he said, watching the grey smoke of his cheroot whirl away on the cold breeze.

‘I would like that,’ Amanda replied, her lack of hesitation surprising her brother. ‘I have read much about the people there and the land. It seems to be a fascinating place.’

‘Good,’ Lightfoot replied. ‘Then you can arrange our luggage for the voyage.’

Charles Lightfoot breathed a sigh of relief. The Tasman Sea would surely dampen his sister’s strong feelings for a young man of no consequence other than his ability to use his fists. After his service in New Zealand he would ensure that his sister was reunited with Sir Percival and was made to realise her duty.

Lachlan was in no fit state to enjoy the victory celebrations held for him at the Erin Hotel. Washed and freshly dressed, his face told the story of a hard-fought win. Both his eyes were nearly closed and the congealing blood from the cuts to his face marked what would be scars for life. The prize money had been delivered and a small amount of it had been used to pay for drinks all round. Despite Lachlan being raised a Presbyterian, the predominantly Irish Catholic patrons of
Frank Duffy’s pub had supported him to a man, as had the popular publican himself.

As Lachlan had given his word to Max not to drink alcohol again, he slipped from the rowdy crowd in the hotel to find a quiet place in the dark of the backyard amongst the stacked empty wooden crates. He ached all over from the heavy blows he had received and sat on an empty crate, the silk sash spread across his lap. He cherished this gift from the beautiful Amanda Lightfoot. He felt that it had brought him luck and knew that he would never part with it. If only he could speak once again with the young woman and listen to that soft, gentle voice, he sighed.

John MacDonald stood in the cold room of the newly completed storage area for the sides of beef that would soon hang from the meat hooks. Nicholas had been a master in organising the joint enterprise into which they’d invested all their savings but they now had a working meat canning complex situated not far from the wharves of Melbourne.

Nicholas had been able to track down the tradesmen and engineer who had worked on installing the cold works for the brewery and explained what he wanted. The engineer soon put together a system to cater to their requirements and the building had gone ahead without any real hitches.

John had been able to win a contract for meat to be supplied to the British army in New Zealand and now all they had to do was deliver. Along with the meatworks they had been able to corner the market on rum. All going well, they expected to see the money roll in within a short time.

‘This is not a good place to be in the middle of winter,’ Nicholas said, entering the large cold room. ‘But not so unpleasant in summer.’

John turned to greet him and they decided to exit the room for the comparatively warmer air of the Victorian winter day.

‘Well, my dear John,’ Nicholas said, rubbing his hands against the chill of the late afternoon, ‘it is going as I predicted it would. The British army is recruiting men in Sydney, Hobart and here in Melbourne to join an expedition to New Zealand fighting the Maori. We have put ourselves in the right place at the right time and will reap the profits.’

‘That’s good,’ John replied, yet without the enthusiasm Nicholas expected.

‘What is wrong, my dear chap? I thought our imminent fortune might make you as ecstatic as I am.’

‘I was just thinking that finding my brother and sister would have truly made our probable success a happier occasion. It all seems so empty without being able to fulfil my promise to my dying brother.’

Nicholas placed his hand on John’s shoulder. ‘The money we earn from our enterprises will be the key to finding your brother and sister,’ he reassured. ‘Money can open a lot of doors.’

John accepted the reassurance. Yes, he would use the money they earned to track down Lachlan and Phoebe. Nicholas was right.

After two weeks back on the work site, Lachlan’s body had healed and all he sported now were the tiny scars on his face which marked his fight with the army’s champion. He was well treated by his work comrades, as they had all won good money on the outcome of the match.

He still missed the larrikin ways of Jimmy, who, when
Lachlan thought about it, had been the catalyst for him to meet Amanda Lightfoot. Not that briefly meeting the beautiful and charming young woman would ever lead anywhere, Lachlan had to admit to himself. He was but a poor, hard-working young man of no foreseeable means of any worth, and only a dream to cling to.

He had read about the colourful explorer John Jardine establishing an outpost at Somerset on Cape York Peninsula in Queensland only months earlier and would have given his right arm to have been with him as he forged north through the wild, unexplored country. Lachlan had been impressed by the news earlier in the year of the massive funeral held in Melbourne for the ill-fated Burke and Wills, who had died at Coopers Creek a couple of years earlier. He read of how a huge crowd formed the funeral procession estimated at around four thousand strong. The bodies had been carried on a copy of the Duke of Wellington’s funeral carriage and escorted by a contingent of dragoons. Shops had closed and it had been the Victorian colony’s first state funeral.

Australia knew how to treat its glorious explorers, Lachlan had remembered thinking when he read the article. To be a famous explorer was to make a place in history and be remembered for all time. He was determined that he would one day establish his place in history, regardless of having already carved out a reputation in Sydney Town as a bare-knuckle boxer. But others would follow in the sport and he knew his feats as a pugilist would soon be forgotten. No, it was as an explorer he wanted to be remembered.

As he sat on the steps of the boarding house this winter’s day watching the horse-drawn drays, fancy carriages of the well-to-do and the pedestrians pass by the door, Lachlan pondered on his future. It was in poetry that he often found solace and the young Scot made his decision. He would go
to a book shop and lose himself amongst the words and thoughts of those who spoke with wisdom and experience from the volumes on the musty book shelves.

Lachlan loved the smell of books. He stood perusing a pile of poetry volumes neatly stacked on a table. The older woman who ran the store knew Lachlan from previous visits and had bid him a pleasant day with her smile when he entered the shop. Lachlan was so engrossed in flipping through the pages of a collection of John Donne sonnets that he was startled by the voice behind him.

‘So it is true that you really do have a romantic soul, Mr MacDonald.’ Lachlan turned to gaze into the brown eyes barely inches from his own. ‘Miss Lightfoot,’ he spluttered. ‘I would never have expected to meet you here.’

‘And why not, Mr MacDonald?’ Amanda teased with a gentle smile. ‘I can read and as it happens I consider Mr Donne’s poetry the best that was produced in Elizabethan times. I would think that you also have a love for his fine poetry.’

‘Er, ah, I do,’ he replied.

‘You are blushing, Mr MacDonald,’ Amanda said with a twinkle in her eyes.

Lachlan was lost for words.

She had caught him unawares and was consolidating her ground.

‘I suppose I was going to say that you are the finest lady I have had the honour of meeting. A lady born to privilege.’

‘You may see me as one born to the manor, but my parents were simple country people who struggled to build a business,’ Amanda said quietly. ‘In England we did not receive invitations from the gentry as you might think. I think that my brother wishes to forget our humble origins and pretend to be above what we really are.’

‘Despite what you say, Miss Lightfoot,’ Lachlan said, ‘you are still the finest lady I have met.’

‘Thank you,’ Amanda replied as a slight blush stained her cheeks. ‘I see that you have recovered well from your hard-fought victory.’

‘I was lucky,’ Lachlan replied modestly. ‘And I attribute my luck to the beautiful sash that I wore in your honour.’

‘You won because you have the heart of a lion,’ Amanda said, meeting his gaze directly. ‘And the mind of a poet.’

Lachlan felt that time was standing still and he wished it would remain that way for the rest of his life. He was in the company of an angel and could feel himself short of breath. He realised that his hands were growing clammy and hoped not to embarrass himself in her company.

Amanda broke her gaze and looked away quickly. ‘I must offer my apologies, Mr MacDonald, but I am here to pick up a book and depart,’ Amanda said. ‘Meeting you so unexpectedly here has been very pleasant,’ she added.

Amanda did not want to break her contact with Lachlan but she knew that her brother waited for her in their carriage outside and she did not want him to come looking if she remained too long in the book shop. She sensed that her brother suspected her feelings for the young Scot. Not that he had said anything to her but she knew him well enough to know some of his comments about Lachlan were less than subtle hints that he did not want her to see the boxer again.

Lachlan sought some way to delay her from leaving, but Amanda had already turned to walk over to the counter. ‘Miss Lightfoot,’ Lachlan said suddenly to her departing back, ‘I would like to purchase this volume of Donne’s sonnets, as a gesture of my thanks for having faith in me as a fighter.’