Tiger Men (53 page)

‘Steady on, old chap,’ Nigel said reasonably, ‘you can’t win them all, you know.’

But Reginald wasn’t listening. The plans he had laid in place for the past year had been thwarted and he was in the blackest of rages. ‘Who the hell does he think he is?’ he said, climbing into the trap. ‘Good God, I offer him and his wretched family the opportunity of a lifetime, a chance to move up in the world! They come from convict stock, for God’s sake.’ Reginald had looked into the Powells’ history, as he always did when he intended to buy up a family concern. ‘They should be grateful to be associated with a firm like Stanford Colonial. What in God’s name would induce them to refuse such an offer?!’

‘Perhaps they don’t want to be taken over,’ Nigel suggested mildly as the trap set off up the hill. The remark did not improve Reginald’s humour.

So convinced had he been that his takeover of the Powells was a fait accompli that Reginald remained in a rage for weeks after the meeting. He detested the Powells for having shattered his dream of a Stanford Colonial shipping line. There was nothing he could do about their decision, however, and no alternative solution offered itself. He certainly did not intend to set up the business from scratch: it was far too risky. He would now have to forgo his grand plan, and all because of the wretched Powells. It rankled immensely.

Reginald did not plot revenge, much as he would have liked to, simply because he couldn’t. He was powerless. The family was too self-sufficient, their businesses were impregnable. One day, however, an opportunity presented itself that he simply couldn’t resist. Here is a chance to get back at a branch of the Powells, he thought, and without their knowledge that I am in any way responsible. There would be no repercussions. It was perfect.

He’d arrived at the wharf warehouse late in the day with the intention of checking through the list of freight that was booked aboard the P & O freighter due to depart for the mainland early the following morning. He noticed a large Charlotte Grove shipment sitting on its pallets. Charlotte Grove Orchard belonged to one of the Powells, didn’t it? He wondered whether the shipment was awaiting collection for the local market or whether it was booked on the freighter.

There were workers around, but nobody took any notice as he slipped into the deserted foreman’s office. He rifled through the paperwork and discovered that the shipment, arrived from the Huon Valley aboard the
SS Emma Jane
that very afternoon, had been booked into the warehouse by Quincy Powell and that space had been reserved aboard the P & O freighter the following morning. Reginald then checked the list drawn up by the foreman, and there it was among the dozens of names, conveniently written in pencil as changes were constantly being made: Charlotte Grove Estate.

Without giving it a second thought he erased the booking. It was doubtful the warehouse foreman would check the paperwork. To facilitate speediness he would no doubt issue orders directly from the list, and the dock workers wouldn’t raise a query. They would simply load what they were told to load. All of which meant that, hopefully, the Charlotte Grove shipment would be left to rot in the warehouse. The Powells would have no idea he was involved. The Powells, like everyone else in the fruit market, booked their freight space through Henry Jones and WD Peacock. The unfortunate episode would be interpreted as a mistake by the warehouse foreman or the booking clerk – such things did happen – and no-one would be any the wiser. But it would be a costly mistake for the Powells of Charlotte Grove Estate. The sheer spite of the act gave Reginald immense satisfaction. So much so that in the weeks that followed he was able to put the Powells right out of his mind.

There was a recognisable tap on Reginald’s study door.

‘Come in, Clive,’ he called. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he said as his manservant appeared.

‘A Mr Powell is downstairs, sir. He says he wishes to discuss the proposed merger you put to Mr Hawtrey some time back.’ Clive looked dutifully apologetic. It was not his place to know the master’s business dealings. ‘Forgive me, sir, but he was most specific and most insistent that I state his case –’

‘And so you should. It’s perfectly all right, show the man up.’

So George Powell has called cap in hand to see me, Reginald thought with smug satisfaction as Clive disappeared, closing the door behind him. There could be only one of two reasons for the man’s visit. Perhaps he wished to join forces and was offering his support in the persuasion of his brother-in-law to agree to the merger, in which case they could do business. Or perhaps he was making a plea for the commissions that had been dangled before him prior to Hawtrey’s blanket refusal of the offer, in which case he would be shown the door. Either way, the meeting promised to be intriguing.

‘Come in,’ he called as the familiar tap once again sounded. He did not bother rising from his chair.

The door opened. ‘Mr Powell,’ Clive announced.

Thomas stepped into the room, and Clive left, once again closing the door behind him.

Reginald was confused. This was not George Powell. This was a young man, still in his twenties by all appearances. He’d hardly come dressed for a business meeting either: hatless and leather-coated he looked like a man of the land and there was a distinct air of aggression about him.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘Thomas Powell of Charlotte Grove Estate.’

‘Ah.’ Reginald nodded pleasantly: he refused to be unnerved. It had been a whole month since his act of sabotage and he’d all but forgotten about it, although he had heard to his intense satisfaction that it had proved most successful. The entire Charlotte Grove fruit shipment had rotted away in the warehouse, having mystifyingly been left off the freight list, a regrettable incident indeed, but one which could not possibly be linked to him. ‘And what can I do for you, Mr Powell?’

Thomas strode to the desk and, resting his hands on it, he leant forward, his face threateningly close to Reginald’s.

‘You can leave my family alone, Stanford, that’s what you can do. None of us wants a bar of you and your
merger
,’ he said scathingly, ‘and if you intend to make us pay for that, then you’d better think again.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ Reginald tried to bluff his way out of the situation, although there appeared little point – they clearly knew he was the culprit. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Even as he pretended innocence he wondered how on earth they could possibly have found out.

Thomas could see the puzzlement in the man’s eyes. ‘Oh, we know a great deal about you, Stanford, believe me,’ he said. ‘And I’m here to warn you, if you do one more thing that in any way damages any member of the Powell family or his business, you’ll regret it.’

Thomas was in fact not speaking on behalf of the family at all. The family didn’t even know of his visit. Indeed, they’d advised him against seeking a confrontation.

‘We can’t prove anything, son,’ Quincy had said. ‘You can’t go around accusing people with no proof.’

‘But you weren’t at the meeting, Pappy. Everything Simon told us points directly to Reginald Stanford. He wanted the merger and when he didn’t get it, he sought revenge. The man would cripple the whole lot of us if he could.’

‘I’ve spoken to Simon and he tends to agree with you,’ Quincy had said, ‘but Simon himself has advised against taking action with no proof. We’ll just have to make sure in the future that one of the family is there at the warehouse to see the shipment on board. You’ll have to leave it at that I’m afraid.’

But inaction was not Thomas’s way. He’d decided to take matters into his own hands, and a threat involving an army of Powells was far more effective than a one-man confrontation. Besides, if it came to a war he knew he was right. Powells stuck together.

‘There’s something you need to remember, Stanford,’ he now added, his tone laced with menace, ‘something that you really should bear in mind. There’s only one of you. And there are a whole lot of us. I’d think about that if I was in your shoes.’

Reginald felt outrage rather than fear. ‘Are you threatening me with physical violence?’ he demanded.

‘I most certainly am.’

‘We’ll see about that.’ Reginald rose from his chair and crossed towards the bell-pull, which hung beside the windows looking out over the courtyard. He would summon Clive and have the young blackguard bodily evicted.

But Thomas was too quick for him. Thomas was lean and fit and fifteen years Reginald’s junior, and he was suddenly very, very angry. The man’s arrogance infuriated him and in an instant he was by Reginald’s side, his hands around his throat.

‘I mean it, Stanford,’ he said. ‘You do one thing to damage our family and I’ll kill you, I swear I will.’

Reginald struggled to free himself, but he was no match for the younger man. Thomas hurled him aside, sending him crashing into the desk; he fell to the floor among a pile of books, the desk lamp shattering beside him.

Thomas, for all his rebellious nature, was not a violent man and he was a little taken aback by his own reaction. He stood watching as Reginald climbed to his feet and again made resolutely for the bell-pull.

‘Don’t bother,’ he said, ‘I’m leaving.’

He strode out the door and, half way down the stairs he encountered Clive Gillespie who, having heard the commotion, was on his way up to investigate.

‘Your boss wants you,’ Thomas said and he passed on by.

Clive paused for a moment, wondering whether he should apprehend the young man, and if he should, what for, but it was too late, Powell was already striding across the hall towards the front door. Clive continued up the stairs.

Reginald was not accustomed to being threatened, and he didn’t like it one bit. He also took offence at being personally assaulted. How dare the young thug manhandle him in such a manner. He longed to seek retribution. If only he could employ Alf Jordan to teach the blackguard a lesson, but of course he didn’t dare. If any harm came to Thomas Powell the family would know he was responsible. Just as they would know he was responsible for any acts of sabotage upon their respective businesses. There could be no retaliation.

Reginald’s anger and frustration knew no bounds. Once again the Powells had aroused in him the blackest of rages.

It was May 1902 and the Boer War was over. Victory was celebrated throughout the nation, and nowhere with greater pride than in the island state of Tasmania. Approximately 860 Tasmanians had served in South Africa, the vast majority as mounted infantry and, of all the Australian units to take part in the conflict, the 1st Tasmanian Imperial Bushmen was the most highly decorated, winning two of the six Victoria Crosses awarded to Australians. Little wonder Tasmanians held their heads high.

‘I see no cause for celebration,’ Silas croaked cantankerously. ‘Twenty-seven of our young men lost their lives. What is there to celebrate in that?’

Silas Stanford had been against the war from the outset. He was against war in general and extremely outspoken in his views.

‘The only people who gain from war are the pariahs who get fat on the misery of it,’ he’d say time and again. ‘The profiteers and the warmongers, Godless men every one,’ he’d rant. ‘War brings out the very worst in mankind.’

Now, even as Tasmania celebrated the return of its sons and sang the praises of its heroes, Silas would not leave the subject alone.

‘Damn good thing the whole wretched business is over,’ he croaked to his son. His voice these days crackled with age and phlegm, and Reginald found it incredibly nerve-jangling.

Reginald found everything about his father nervejangling. At the age of ninety-seven the old man was in a state of decay. Emaciated, skeletal and sunken-eyed, he reeked of death. The only trouble was, he refused to die. And even worse, he refused to shut up.

‘My only wish is that this war might have ended before men managed to reap personal gain from it,’ Silas continued. ‘The whole business is immoral –’ He would have gone on further if Reginald hadn’t interrupted him.

‘Tasmanian industry benefited from the Boer War, Father,’ he said. Sometimes he let the old man ramble, trying in vain to close his ears to the crackle of phlegm; on other occasions, dependent upon his own mood, he would goad his father into an argument. Today he was not inclined to sit in silence while his nerves were stretched to screaming point. ‘In fact the state of Tasmania is in a far better financial position than it was prior to the conflict in South Africa.’

‘Shame,’ Silas declared dramatically, ‘shame on those profiteers I say!’

‘They weren’t profiteers at all,’ Reginald countered, ‘they were honest men who accepted contracts from the Imperial Defence Force. In supplying goods to the army they assisted the cause.’

‘And got rich in the process, boy, don’t forget that.’ Silas’s head started to quaver as it always did when he became overheated and argumentative. ‘They got rich in the process, my word. Why, just look at that Henry Jones. Tasmanian jam sales were at an all-time low in ’99.’ He waggled a claw-like finger at his son. ‘I keep my eye on the market, boy, I know what’s going on. Smaller factories were closing down, but what does Jones do? He gets rich supplying jam to the army. That’s profiteering, that is.’ By the ring of triumph in his voice Silas was clearly declaring himself the winner.

‘I follow the market too, Father,’ Reginald said calmly. Nothing was to be gained in allowing his irritation to show, for his father would only see it as a further sign of victory. ‘And lucrative though Jones’s defence contract may have been, it is also well known that he personally supplied one million pounds of jam to the war effort without taking payment.’ Reginald remembered being flabbergasted at the time. It is surely some misguided public relations gesture on Henry’s part, he’d thought, unnecessary, wasteful and quite foolish, in his opinion.

‘Covering his tracks,’ Silas crowed triumphantly. ‘Covering his tracks. The man’s a profiteer –’

‘Don’t overexcite him, Reggie, he’s not been well lately.’

Reginald was relieved at the arrival of his mother with the tea and chicken sandwiches. It was pointless discussing the war with his father.