To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (33 page)

Trooper Matthew Duffy stood to attention inside the tent, and stared directly ahead at the heat shimmering through the white canvas wall behind the officer.

‘I am pleased to see that you have fully recovered from your wound, Trooper Duffy,’ Major Glenn said from behind his folding field desk.

Matthew noted uneasily that the major’s tone was not altogether friendly and sensed that his order to parade before his squadron commander was not to congratulate him on his role at Elands River. By now Matthew was sensitive to the subtle nuances of military life and the summons – gruffly relayed by the squadron sergeant major – had tipped him off that all was not well. Besides, the squadron sergeant major had personally escorted him to the tent, and was waiting outside like a wolf.

‘Or should I say Trooper Tracy,’ Major Glenn drawled, as if enjoying the delivery of his news.

‘Ah, it’s like this, sir,’ Matthew replied, stumbling over his words, his face burning with fear, and a sick feeling in his stomach.

Major Glenn stared directly into Matthew’s eyes and for a moment Matthew thought he saw a flash of humour.

‘A relative of yours, I believe, sent me a despatch before he was wounded,’ the major said. ‘Major Duffy informs me that you ran away from your home in Queensland and enlisted under-age with us in Sydney. You do, of course, realise the gravity of such an offence, Trooper.’

‘Yes, sir. I . . .’ Matthew was still at a loss for words and continued to stare bleakly ahead.

The major glanced down at a pile of papers. ‘Under all other circumstances I know I should report this matter to higher command. You would be charged under the Queen’s regulations. During active service such a matter is regarded very seriously and has dire consequences. But, considering how you conducted yourself during the siege, and the fact that Major Duffy is a man I know and greatly admire, I am going to bend the rules for you.’

A great sense of relief flooded Matthew. He was only too aware of the gravity of such a military charge in the field. He had often wondered whether he would be found out and concluded gloomily that it would probably only be a matter of time. Under the circumstances, Matthew knew that he must remain silent unless asked to speak by his officer commanding.

‘I am going to place your name on the list of men to be returned to Australia because of their wounds,’ the major continued. ‘And when you reach Sydney, you will be honourably discharged from the unit. When you are discharged you will return to Queensland – or any other place – and you will not
tell anyone how you got past our recruiters. Is that clear, Trooper Duffy?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Matthew gulped with relief. ‘I just want to thank you...’

The major raised his hand to silence him. ‘Don’t thank me, Trooper. Thank Major Duffy, if you ever get the opportunity, which at the moment is not looking good.’

‘How is Major Duffy, sir?’ Matthew asked.

‘Last I heard, they sent him back to England. His wounds are pretty severe and there is a chance he won’t make it.’

Matthew bowed his head, wishing now he had got to know his cousin better. He must have been a remarkable man to have seen so many terrible campaigns for the Queen in the years past. Matthew’s own brief taste of war had revealed that hell was not a place you went to after death. It was in the technology of mass destruction he had experienced under artillery and machine gun fire.

‘That’s all, Trooper Duffy,’ the major said, dismissing the young man. ‘But in parting I would like to add, off the record, that you were to be mentioned in despatches for your part in the siege. Needless to say, that will not occur now, considering all the matters before me. But at least you know that your service was recognised where it counts.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Matthew said as he threw his finest salute, before about turning and marching out of the tent into the formidable presence of the gruff squadron sergeant major, whose impeccably waxed moustache glistened under the African sun.

‘Trooper Duffy,’ he bawled, ‘get your kit together and report to the orderly room, immediately.’

‘Yes, sah,’ Matthew replied with a grin.

‘And wipe that smile off your face, Trooper,’ the sergeant major growled. ‘Just because yer going home a wounded ’ero to impress all the girlies, that’s no reason to smile.’

‘No, sah,’ Matthew replied, attempting to wipe away the smile.

‘Besides,’ the burly sergeant major added with his own unexpected smile, ‘I think yer mother will have a word or two about you running away to serve Her Majesty in savage Africa. Yer got a letter from her.’

For a moment Matthew was stunned. He took the envelope handed to him by the grinning man.

‘Despite everything, Trooper Duffy, you did a man’s job,’ the sergeant major added. ‘Yer made us bloody proud of yer back there at Elands. Hope yer mother knows that.’

Matthew glanced up from the envelope. Suddenly he felt a loss he could not explain. He was going home and yet he felt so lonely. Matthew realised just how much the men he had served with meant to him. They were closer than any brother he might have had. Even the aloof sergeant major, who had made his life hell from time to time in the name of military discipline, was special.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Matthew replied. ‘Thank you for everything.’

The tough professional soldier turned from the young trooper and marched away. He was a good
kid, he thought. Would make a bloody good soldier when he was old enough to enlist.

Colonel Hays Williams took the general salute from the smartly turned out sentries at Lord Kitchener’s headquarters. Inside the cool shade of the spacious stone building he walked briskly to the department of the provost marshall, a slim leather briefcase dangling from his left hand. As yet Trooper Saul Rosenblum may not have been located but inside the briefcase Colonel Hays Williams had the sealed and stamped papers for his arrest on a charge of murder. There was no statute of limitations on murder and, the colonel had consoled himself, the man could not hide forever from the long arm of British military justice, no matter where he might go. If only that damned colonial Major Duffy had done his job and apprehended the man then he would not have been subjected to chasing the papers required to legitimise the arrest. Nevertheless, he would get him in the end. It was only a matter of time.

THIRTY-FOUR

T
he dust rose in a small cloud and hung over the shimmering plains of scrub.

‘What is it, Mr O’Flynn?’ Alex asked.

‘My guess is that it’s a big mob of cattle being driven south.’ Michael turned in the saddle to glance back at the sulky. ‘Looks like we might have some company,’ he shouted to Karl and Helen.

Nerambura kicked his horse forward and joined Michael and Alex. ‘Maybe we get some meat,’ Nerambura said hopefully. ‘Boss man might have some to spare.’

‘Good idea,’ Michael agreed. ‘See how we go when we meet up.’

It was near sundown when the motionless cloud hovering on the horizon took on the lowing sound of cattle and the strong smell of their presence. It was indeed a cattle drive and the Aboriginal and European
stockmen rode at its edges, keeping the herd together as it moved slowly south for the greener pastures of New South Wales.

Michael broke away from his small party and rode towards the stockmen to identify their boss. He was directed to a man about his own age who rode a fine roan horse.

‘Michael O’Flynn,’ he called. The leading stockman stared at him curiously. ‘You the boss?’

‘Yeah. Bill Smithers is the name,’ he replied from the saddle. ‘Where you headed?’

‘Going north,’ Michael replied. ‘Wondering if you had any spare beef.’

The weather-beaten face of Bill Smithers broke into a slow smile. ‘Got a mob here of about two thousand beasts, but none to spare. If you are looking for a bit of fresh meat, we passed an old scrub bull up the track, about ten miles back near a waterhole. If you can find him he might give you a meal.’

‘My thanks, Mr Smithers,’ Michael said as the great herd passed him by. ‘Good luck with the drive.’

Smithers gave Michael a nod and watched the big man with the eye patch wheel away to trot towards a travel battered sulky. When Smithers squinted against the glare of the setting sun he could see what appeared to be a woman and man seated on it, and a young boy with an Aboriginal man astride horses. A bit of a curiosity so far from any township, Bill Smithers thought as he patted his pockets for his pipe. But the one-eyed man, O’Flynn, seemed fairly capable, he concluded. Just something about him.

Michael rejoined his party. ‘They don’t have any
beef to spare,’ he said as he dismounted. ‘But we will make our camp here and tomorrow head up the track to a waterhole to camp.’

Alex remained in the saddle, watching the great herd passing by. He wondered if Glen View had as many cattle and hoped that one day he might have the opportunity to muster on a cattle drive.

‘C’mon, young Alex,’ Michael said. ‘Time to help set up camp.’

Alex was reluctant to take his eyes off the slowly moving herd but obeyed Michael’s request as he would that of his father.

That night Alex snuggled under a warm blanket and stared up at the night sky. There was a weak moon and the stars stood out as sharply as glistening pieces of glass. Alex could hear the murmur of the adults’ voices from the campfire nearby and the distant howling of a dingo. Although they had partaken of canned bully beef and biscuits for the evening meal, Mr O’Flynn had said that they would be eating fresh meat on the morrow. What was more exciting was that he’d promised to take him on the hunt for the scrub bull he had been told about. Alex sighed. How could life be any better than this? He did not care if they never found the old Aboriginal warrior Nerambura Duffy had told him so much about, despite being enthralled by the stories. The search could go on forever as far as Alex was concerned. Sydney and its crowded life were another world, one that he did not miss.

From time to time he thought about Fenella and Lady Enid but he definitely did not yearn for the company of George. Alex shuddered at the recollection of his older brother’s bullying. George’s reign of terror against him had been subtle, punching or pinching him when there were no witnesses and threatening him with further pain if he attempted to complain. But worse was the deriding of his achievements. Alex had come to believe that he could do nothing important in his life – until now. Mr O’Flynn had taught him many things on the trek across the vast plains of the west, even how to box.

After the violent incident in Cloncurry, Alex had tentatively approached Michael and asked him if he would teach him to fight. Michael had stared hard at the young boy and for a moment Alex regretted his request. But Michael broke into a broad smile and placed his arm around Alexander’s shoulder.

‘Learning to fight is a bit of a family tradition,’ Michael had said. ‘I only wish I had old Max Braun here to properly teach you.’

Alex stared up at Michael. ‘Who is Max Braun?’

‘A wonderful man who taught not only me how to fight but also your father.’

‘Does my father know how to box?’ Alex asked with a note of awe.

‘Your father was once the champion of the bloody British army,’ Michael replied proudly. ‘But he was never as good as me,’ he added mischievously. ‘So I will teach you the finer points of fisticuffs.’

At first Alex shied away from the apparent violence of the art of boxing but Michael was patient.
‘Always remember,’ he said, ‘that if you are feeling pain from your opponent, so is he when you hit him. It’s just a matter of standing your ground until the other bloke realises that you are not going to give in – even if you are losing.’

Alex thought about the words; they made sense. Soon he was displaying a natural aptitude that made Michael nod his head and smile. Albeit reluctantly, Alex agreed to fight Nerambura, who had been instructed not to show any mercy to his smaller opponent.

Against the horrified protests of Helen, Michael drew a large square in the red earth and the two squared up in the improvised ring. Nerambura was a good head taller but both were about the same weight. On Michael’s command the fight began with a flurry of fists.

Alex lost after a knockdown but was surprised that he had not felt fear as he had imagined he might. Nerambura helped him to his feet as Helen rushed forward with a clean handkerchief to stem the flow of blood pouring from Alexander’s nose, berating Michael for allowing the fight to continue.

‘He will be all right,’ Michael chuckled as he stood back. ‘He doesn’t need mollycoddling.’

‘Your own grandson,’ Helen snapped savagely at Michael as she held the cloth to Alexander’s face. ‘How could you stand by and see your own flesh and blood hurt in such a brutal manner?’

Michael paled as Alex turned to stare quizzically at him, confused by Helen’s slip. Mr O’Flynn was not his grandfather, so why would Aunt Helen make such
a mistake? There was a dark frown on Michael’s face as he turned to Helen, who now appeared flustered.

‘I think that is enough boxing lessons for the day,’ he said, patting Alex on the head. ‘Time we did some work.’

Michael walked away, leaving Alex with Nerambura who appeared to be evasive when Alex questioned him about the strange statement.

‘Don’t know,’ Nerambura mumbled and he too walked away, leaving the confused boy alone.

Lying under the southern sky, Alex singled out a star and made a wish before drifting into sleep. He wished that Helen’s words could have been true and that he would wake up in the morning and learn that the man who had taught him so much and with such love and understanding was indeed his grandfather.

By the fire Michael sat against his saddle. Helen and Karl sat side by side drinking coffee from enamel mugs chipped by age, and Nerambura stared into the flickering flames. Since Cloncurry, a tension had crept into the party of travellers. It was not tangible but was apparent in the noticeable aloofness Karl displayed towards his wife.

‘I think we should turn back,’ Karl said, breaking the silence. ‘I do not think that we will find Wallarie. The land is just too big.’