To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (25 page)

‘How bad?’ Patrick asked.

‘Seen worse an’ seen the same men up and walkin’ in a few weeks,’ the medic answered. ‘With any luck your wounds might get you a trip to London and out of this war.’

The driver berated his mules into greater exertions to pull the ambulance wagon free of the pothole. As the jarring caused further waves of agony to sweep over Patrick, his involuntary cry of pain died away into silence. Once again he had entered into the darkness whose gateway opened into the world of the dead. Major Patrick Duffy was not sure which way he should go.

TWENTY-FOUR

T
housands of miles east on another continent, Michael Duffy, alias Michael O’Flynn, sat astride his horse and stared across a shimmering plain. He glanced up at the angle of the sun and calculated it must be around noon then dropped his searching gaze back to the horizon. The distant tree line was barely visible but he knew from experience that it marked a waterway. Behind him, a pair of horses hauled the wagon and its two passengers with Nerambura Duffy at the reins, the young stockman’s horse following on a lead.

Behind the open wagon rode young Alexander Macintosh on the roan that had been purchased for him by Michael. His riding had improved considerably on the trek west across the dusty plains. It had been over a week since they had departed Glen View station and Nerambura had guided their way almost instinctively.

‘We camp up ahead about two to three hours away,’ Michael said over his shoulder. ‘Seems as good as any place to spend the night. I’ll ride on and check it out.’

With a sharp dig in his mount’s flanks he broke his horse into a trot. Three hours later the wagon reached the distant shimmering tree line to find a virtual oasis of coolabah trees overhanging a series of cool, clear waterholes and rocky pools. The river was wide but the Dry season had caused the level to drop to a fordable passage just a couple of hundred yards upstream. Michael already had a campfire burning in a ring of river stones and his hobbled horse grazed under the shade of the river trees.

‘It is a beautiful place, Mr O’Flynn,’ Helen exclaimed from the wagon’s seat. ‘You have chosen well. But are there any crocodiles in the river?’ she asked apprehensively.

‘Too far inland for crocs,’ Michael answered with a grin. ‘Just the bloody mosquitoes you have to worry about here at night. Big enough to suck a croc dry.’

Karl von Fellmann eased himself from the back of the wagon and stretched with a groan of relief before assisting his wife down. The journey in the rear of the hard sprung wooden wagon had not been pleasant and every muscle cried out.

Alexander’s eyes were wide with wonder at the beauty of the wild river that flowed through the plains, dry for hundreds of miles around. It was the biggest they had seen in their days on the trek. ‘Are there fish in the river, Mr O’Flynn?’ he asked with boyish excitement.

‘Should be. I hear they have a particularly good
eating fish out here called a barramundi. You’ll get a chance to see if you can catch us one or two.’

The boy’s face beamed with pleasure. ‘I know how to fish,’ Alex said enthusiastically. ‘My father took us fishing once at Manly when we stayed there.’

‘A nice little cottage by the sea,’ the Irishman sighed.

‘Have you been to our place at Manly?’ the boy asked, wondering how Mr O’Flynn might know of the Macintosh seaside resort.

‘A long, long time before you were born,’ Michael reflected sadly and the boy sensed wisely that he should not ask any more questions.

Setting up the camp did not take long. It had become a practised routine over the days on the journey: a canvas sheet was spread under the wagon for Michael, Alex and Nerambura and a short distance away a small canvas tent was set up for the pastor and his wife. The von Fellmanns used camp stretchers to sleep on whilst the others slept on the canvas sheet, using saddles for pillows. Coarse blankets kept them warm against the chill of the western plains nights although the days had proved to be hot.

Michael and Nerambura headed to the river to collect firewood, to keep the campfire burning throughout the night. As they approached its banks the young stockman from Glen View frowned. ‘Big mob of blackfellas up along the river, boss,’ he said, crouching to examine the faintly discernible tracks at the river’s edge.

Michael peered at the prints. His years in Africa hunting lions had also honed his skills in tracking.

‘How many do you reckon?’ he asked.

‘Mebbe thirty,’ Nerambura replied. ‘Mebbe they bin see Wallarie.’

Michael nodded. ‘Maybe we should have a talk to them.’

Then the matter was put aside as the two men went about their task of fetching timber before returning to the camp where Alex was assisting his aunt set out the cooking pots.

Alex liked his father’s half sister. As she had lived most of her life in Germany he had known little of her until now and was only vaguely aware of the odd circumstances of his relationship to the woman. He knew that his grandmother Fiona White was both the mother to his own father and to the very pretty lady who was his aunt. Other than that nothing much had been explained to him. It was a subject that was as good as taboo in the family.

Michael explained to Karl von Fellmann what he and Nerambura had found on the river and the Lutheran pastor appeared pleased.

‘I will go and meet them,’ Karl said. ‘I have not as yet had the opportunity to meet with the wandering Aboriginals of this country.’

‘Not a real good idea, Pastor,’ Michael cautioned. ‘These people don’t always take to white men. It’s not that long ago we were hunting them down and shooting them as vermin. The tribes up this way have a reputation for armed resistance.’

‘I can take Nerambura with me, Mr O’Flynn,’ von Fellmann replied, ‘if you will stay and provide my wife with protection at the camp.’

Michael frowned as he pondered on the pastor’s request. He respected the young man, and more than likely he would come to no harm. Perhaps this was an ideal time to show his grandson how to catch one of the big, silver scaled fish he had heard so much about from the Palmer River bushmen years earlier.

‘I suppose you will be safe with Nerambura. But they’re a fair way upriver – looks like you can expect to camp overnight with them.’

‘That is not a problem. I would like to have the opportunity to examine them in their natural setting. I studied their culture at the Berlin University but this is the first time I have had the opportunity to see for myself how they live.’

‘Well, you can take my horse,’ Michael said. ‘And Nerambura can take my revolver as insurance.’

The pastor smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr O’Flynn. I know that God will protect us but I am sure Mr Samuel Colt will be good to have as a friend here on earth.’

Michael smiled. ‘That he will,’ he replied and turned on his heel to saddle his horse for the pastor.

Within ten minutes Nerambura and Karl von Fellmann rode away, following the line of big trees that ran along the edge of the river. The sun was high enough above the horizon to provide them with good light in their search for the nomadic tribesmen.

When the cooking pots had been set out and all was ready for the evening meal, Michael excused himself to take Alex to a promising bend on the river where a huge tree had collapsed and settled in the shallows. The old bushmen had told him that the
barramundi liked to lurk in the tangles of such trees and could be coaxed out with a little patience. Michael soon had Alex set up on the trunk dangling their handlines into the cool, clear water that eddied around the submerged limbs of the tree. The boy sat with an expression of eager anticipation on his face, hardly registering Michael’s instruction to stay put while he returned to the campsite for some lines he had decided to set overnight.

When Michael reached the camp he was surprised to see that it was deserted. They had left Helen alone but Michael had done so with little fear for her safety. This was not a country where predatory animals stalked as in Africa and the most dangerous animal in Australia was man himself. He picked up the Martini Henry rifle he had left propped against the wheel of the wagon and went in search of her. His first guess to look downriver proved correct.

As Michael stood high on the bank amongst the shadows of the trees, Helen waded naked in a shallow of the river, the water swirling around her knees. Her long dress and pantaloons lay on a big rock in the river nearby and Helen stood oblivious to his presence amongst the trees. Michael did not feel as if he was intruding, his artist’s eye seeing only beauty in the sight of the young woman relishing the freedom that the wild river country gave her. She stood transfixed as if the rest of the world did not exist, the silence broken only by the gently gurgling water and the warble of bush birds. Overhead a flock of cockatoos screeched their noisy call as they swirled in a
white cloud and Helen glanced up, her long raven hair falling as a soft tumble to her waist.

Michael drew a cigar from his shirt pocket and lit the end, blowing hazy clouds of grey smoke into the still, late afternoon air as Helen let herself down into the water slowly, allowing its gentle massage to wash away the dust and sweat of the trek. The water caught her long hair sweeping it straight. The sun was losing its bite.

Rising quietly from where he crouched, Michael padded back into the trees. As he walked back up the river he could hear Alex shouting excitedly, obviously struggling with his first big catch.

‘It will get away,’ Alex cried in desperation as the heavy line ran through his hands.

Michael placed the rifle on the ground and stripped down to his trousers. He slid into the water with his knife and felt with his hands for the line. When he found it he followed the line through the tangle until his hand touched the scales of the big fish. It jerked away from him but was caught up on the hook. Taking a breath Michael dropped below the surface, feeling for the wide mouth of the fish. It was a beauty!

Alex watched anxiously. Michael exploded to the surface bringing the fish up with him. The young boy could not restrain himself from jumping up and down in excitement as Michael hauled himself up the bank, dragging the fish with him. It flipped and flopped at Alex’s feet and was as long as the Irishman’s arm, a big, fat fish for the cooking fire.

Michael caught his breath, his shoulders heaving.
‘You got him, boy,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now you have to learn how to cook him.’

When they returned to the camp Helen was dressed and combing her long hair. She greeted them with surprise when she saw the huge fish dangling between them. Alexander’s fixed grin beamed his pride in the catch.

‘A change of diet,’ Michael said as he dropped the fish on the ground in front of her. ‘Alex is going to cook it for us.’

Their eyes met and Helen wondered at the strange smile on the Irishman’s face. She felt a sudden twinge of guilt for her wanton delight in the river and glanced away lest he read her thoughts. There was something about the big man that disturbed her in a way she could not understand. He stood bare-chested to dry off and she could see the scars on his body that marked the violence of his life. She knew very little about Michael O’Flynn except what she had heard from her husband: that he had been a mercenary soldier most of his life and had fought in many wars around the world. When Helen had initially learned that he had been a soldier of fortune she had been horrified, but her husband had been strangely defensive.

But now it was not his violent past that intrigued the young woman so much as his gentle presence and artistic nature. He would often sit in the saddle or around the campfire and sketch a scene with the stub of an old pencil. He carried his many sketches in a battered leather satchel but did not volunteer to show his work.

Michael gutted the big fish and placed it in the
coals of the fire while Alex, squatting beside him, watched with acute interest. Helen prepared the damper bread as Michael had shown her at the commencement of the trek. She had grown to like the crusty bread fresh from the heavy, cast iron camp oven and with the fish that Michael dragged from the fire the meal was superb. She could not remember ever tasting fish as delicious and delicate before. The white flesh seemed to melt in the mouth as she picked at it with her fork.

By the time they had finished eating the stars were rising in the sky. Michael lit a kerosene lamp to give them more light. Alex wanted to sit up and enjoy the night but Michael growled that he should make his bed under the wagon and get some sleep. The boy knew not to argue. When he was comfortable Michael tucked him in. ‘Proud of how you didn’t lose the fish today,’ he said gruffly, patting him affectionately on the shoulder. ‘I think I made a good choice in teaming up with you, young Master Macintosh.’

Alex smiled in delight at the praise from the big Irishman and had an impulsive urge to reach up and hug him. But he restrained himself as he knew men did not show emotion like women.

‘Thank you, Mr O’Flynn,’ Alex replied seriously. ‘I wish today would never end.’

‘It won’t,’ Michael said. ‘These kinds of days always stay in your memory, no matter what happens. They are good things to fall back on when things get tough. Always remember that, boy.’

Alex nodded. ‘I always will, Mr O’Flynn. I will always remember you no matter what happens.’

Michael glanced away. ‘I’m not dead yet,’ he said with a choked laugh. ‘And don’t forget to say those damned Protestant prayers Lady Enid is so fond of before you go to sleep.’

Michael rose and was about to walk away when Alex called out to him softly.

‘Mr O’Flynn?’

Michael paused. ‘Yes, boy?’

‘Will you ever forget me?’

‘Only if you don’t get to sleep,’ Michael growled gently and walked back to the fire to join Helen who had prepared two mugs of coffee. Michael found a cigar and lit the end from a burning twig. He sat down on a log, sighing with contentment at the nicotine rush the cigar brought on, and looked over to where Helen sat on the opposite side of the fire sipping her coffee. Her hair was clean and dry and reflected the fire’s dancing lights. Michael reached for his battered leather satchel and pulled out a sheet of heavy paper. Bending his head he sketched in silence by the light of the lantern. His face appeared so young and contented as the graphite scratched away at the paper.