To Ride the Wind (39 page)

‘Needless to say I did not hear that,’ Sean said, slapping his investigator on the shoulder. ‘But I promise you that one day Firth is going to answer for all his corruption and evil.’

Harry stared at the solicitor with a slight expression of amusement. The trouble with gentlemen is that they had a belief in justice, he reflected. Harry had long come to realise that there was justice and the law – and neither existed together. One day he would find his kind of justice with Firth, the kind that the law did not condone.

It was very still and hot. A heat haze shimmered across the brigalow, but a bank of black and white clouds boiled up over the sea of stunted scrub, promising a drenching that would bring alive the very earth itself.

Wallarie gazed across the plains at the growing cloud bank to the west, hoping that the rain would come to cool his body and run in rivulets down his sacred hill to splash into cooling rockpools he would be able to drink from. He would return to the sacred cave and sit listening to the life around him as the ancestor spirits watched down upon the earth where they once walked. If he was lucky on his journey home he would find a spiny anteater for the cooking fires. He could make the flour cakes and wash them down with heavily sugared black tea.

Lightning flashed and seconds later the thunder reverberated around the hill. From under his overhang the old Aboriginal felt a twinge of fear. He relished his reputation for being a magic man who could turn into an eagle or appear to those who first met him as a young warrior. But he also feared the forces greater than himself and, right now, he was looking directly into the face of the lightning spirit, who had the power to turn the scrub into a raging inferno.

A strong breeze pushing ahead of the summer storm washed over his scarred body. A voice was speaking to him in the old language that only he and the pastor knew. Pastor Karl said he was writing it down so the world would not forget that the Darambal people once lived in these lands. Wallarie had not understood why the Lutheran pastor should spend all his time recording the words when only he and Wallarie spoke the language anymore.

With a sudden roaring the wall of water swept towards Wallarie, flattening the scrub and swamping the hill. It was not just the deluge of heavy rain but a release of some savage spirit, bringing a terrible fear to the man who could soar on the wings of an eagle. In the roar of the wind and rain he could hear the old men who were now his ancestors talking to him softly.

Wallarie retreated to the dark cave and the voices became louder. They told him that a rent would appear in the fabric of Glen View, and warned him that he must leave this place and wander in the wilderness for many days and nights before returning.

The old warrior trembled at the message he had received, and through the mist of time he saw people coming to Glen View from the south. They were strangers he had never met and yet he knew them from his dreams. Wallarie began singing to appease the spirits but his tired voice was drowned by the sound of the storm rising over the plains.

22

S
ean Duffy made the journey to the internment camp where he was granted an interview with the acting commandant. A major in his sixties, he had served in the Boer War and had a fatherly demeanour. After chatting about Sean’s experiences on the Western Front and his own on the veldt of Africa, the two had established that they shared the common bond of battle.

‘You telephoned ahead and left a message that you wish to interview Frau Schumann, as her legal representative, Major Duffy,’ the commandant said, fingering the message sheet that had been written out at the switchboard.

‘Yes,’ Sean answered, hoping that Karolina had not mentioned that he was not in fact her legal representative. ‘It is in relation to a property dispute on which she may be able to shed some light.’

The commandant leaned back in his chair, hoping the space between his expanding stomach and the desk would let some air flow past. The summer heat had already hit Sydney and the ever-present smell of bushfires surrounding the city drifted on the little breeze there was in the room. ‘I suppose there can be no harm in that,’ the commandant answered. ‘I will get one of my men to escort you to Frau Schumann’s quarters.’

Permission granted, Sean was taken by a soldier to a large building made of timber and corrugated iron. When Sean stepped inside he could clearly see that the building was a hall, and judging from the religious icons on the walls most probably doubled as a chapel.

‘Mrs Schumann usually spends her days in the company of the Lutheran pastor,’ the soldier explained.

Sean saw a tall, gaunt man approach. He was wearing a shabby black suit that was much patched.

‘I am Pastor von Fellmann,’ he said without offering his hand. ‘How can I assist you?’

Sean introduced himself and stated that he had come to interview Karolina about a property matter, while the escorting soldier hovered to one side, obviously bored with his job of monitoring the lawyer.

‘Karolina, you have a visitor,’ Karl said.

Karolina stepped out from a small alcove, immediately recognising Sean from his visits to her daughter’s house.

‘Major Duffy, I hope that you have not come here to bring bad news,’ she said, extending her hand.

‘Yes – and no,’ Sean replied. ‘I do not know if you have been told of your son-in-law’s death at the front.’

‘I am sorry,’ Karolina responded with genuine concern despite having always considered Alex her enemy. ‘I was not informed. He was a good husband and father.’

‘Well, to cut a long story short, that also means that your daughter is now without her home as a result of the contract she signed with Alex’s brother. George has, however, found her employment and a place to live on a cattle station in central Queensland. I am here to ask if you know why your daughter would have signed such a foolish contract in the first place.’

‘My daughter did not tell you?’ Karolina asked, appearing genuinely surprised at the news.

‘No, but I suspect that she may have confided in you as her mother.’

‘I will find you chairs to sit on,’ Karl said, walking away.

‘Giselle was forced to agree to the contract in exchange for my life,’ Karolina replied wearily. ‘I think that the policeman who came to arrest me on spying charges is a friend of George Macintosh, and something was arranged to trade my life for the deal made with my daughter.’

‘Was that policeman Inspector Jack Firth?’ Sean asked.

‘Yes,’ Karolina replied. ‘Since I have been returned to the camp only the protection of Pastor von Fellmann has kept me from being killed by certain people in here,’ she continued. ‘What he has learned from loyal members of his congregation is that a rumour was circulated that I had informed on those loyal to the Fatherland. That could only be started by the policeman who arrested me.’

Sean had already taken that leap in his reasoning; Firth would be rid of the woman’s embarrassing existence if she were dead.

The pastor returned with two chairs and placed them in the centre of the hall. Sean could see from the looks that passed between the Jewish woman and Christian missionary that their relationship was close.

‘I can assure you, Mrs Schumann, that I am looking after your daughter and grandson’s wellbeing, and I also extend that to you if you wish to avail yourself of my legal services,’ Sean said.

‘Thank you, Mr Duffy,’ Karolina said. ‘I have not yet expressed my sympathies for your injuries.’

‘Just the bloody luck of the draw,’ Sean replied, waving off her kind thoughts. ‘I know that you are a loyal citizen of your country and I hope the damned war ends soon so that no more legs and arms go west on either side.’

‘Yes,’ Karolina nodded. ‘The war seems to have no end and soon there will be no young men to return home from either side.’

Sean chatted with Karolina for a short time before excusing himself and going back to the commandant’s office to sign out. He was met by the commandant, who said he hoped that Sean’s visit had been fruitful.

‘Is there any chance of any of your internees being released?’ Sean asked, leaning over the big book with its columns of names of visitors and times.

‘Yes,’ the commandant replied. ‘Some of the internees have been proved to be loyal citizens and are being released back to their homes. I have men and women in here with German or Austrian names, who were born in this country and hardly speak German. A damned shambles, if you ask me. At the beginning of the war neighbours often used the hysteria to settle old scores. I believe you met Pastor von Fellmann. He is a good example of a man who should be back on his mission station and not locked up here at the government’s pleasure. I have a feeling he may be released within the next couple of months if the paperwork goes through without any hitches.’

‘What about Mrs Karolina Schumann?’ Sean asked, placing the fountain pen back on its cradle.

‘Mrs Schumann is an odd one,’ the commandant frowned. ‘She does not attempt to hide the fact that she is loyal to her Fatherland – but what damage can a lone woman do, I ask you?’

Sean could have answered but he now saw himself in the role as her legal representative and kept quiet on the matter. ‘Is there any chance of having her released?’

‘I doubt it,’ the commandant replied. ‘She is under a bit of a cloud. One moment she is free and then she is returned to us without any explanation.’

‘What circumstances might get her freed?’ Sean persisted.

The commandant scratched his balding skull. ‘Maybe exceptional family circumstances,’ he finally replied.

As he drove back to his office along a dusty, rutted road Sean reflected on what he now knew about George Macintosh and Jack Firth. The link was beyond doubt, and it appeared that Macintosh pulled the strings. The two made a dangerous pair and Sean felt even more unease for his safety, despite the fact that Louise had made it plain she wanted nothing else to do with him. He had attempted to telephone her, but she refused to take his calls. Not satisfied that she had suddenly fallen out of love with him, he also realised that he would have to find some resolution to the problem of her husband’s ever-growing power in the Macintosh family.

Sean found himself thinking about France and Patrick Duffy. It would be winter on the battlefields and the icy ground would be ideal to spread shrapnel. He shuddered at the memories. He honked his horn at a horse-drawn dray occupying the centre of the narrow road and pulled past it with some difficulty. The bloody government had to do something about the roads around the city, he thought angrily. The advent of automobiles meant they needed better roads to ensure safety. But Sean was pleased that he had something else to think about other than the men he had left behind to continue living with frostbite, bitter cold and barbed wire.

The fighting along the Passchendaele front had exhausted the Australians and New Zealanders, and those in high command recognised that the weary, battle-worn men would have to be pulled out of the Ypres salient. As usual, for all the tactical victories achieved with sheer courage and blood, the Germans had not been dislodged from the Belgian coast, thus denying the Allies the ports badly needed for resupply. Under orders, Patrick had gladly withdrawn with his brigade to a quieter section of the front. He hoped that they would remain out of the fighting until his battalions could be reinforced, and his men given rest from standing and sleeping in the mud of their trenches. Looking back, he remembered how his men had bled in the lowlands of Flanders the previous year and throughout the year now drawing to a close.

Patrick had established his brigade headquarters behind his lines in a green field shivering under the grey skies of the coming winter. He appreciated that his HQ must be located out of enemy artillery range, but close enough to coordinate the movement of his battalions. It was always a juggling act to find the right distance. The days would pass as he oversaw his staff officers, planned the logistics for his brigade, and prepared orders for the day-to-day defences of the battalions. Signals flowed, were logged and intelligence summaries updated. Brigade HQ was the brain of the body, and Patrick’s HQ had a reputation of competency due to his quiet but firm leadership.

He stood over a large photographic map beside his operations officer, a major who had once been a grazier from Victoria, pondering on the movement of long-range German artillery batteries photographed by a recon aeroplane.

‘Still no threat,’ the major commented, tracing the distance between their location and that of the enemy artillery units with a ruler.

‘The information is two days old,’ Patrick reminded him. ‘I would like to have the Poms do another fly over and confirm the current position of their big guns,’ he said. ‘Arrange to have a signal sent to our English flyers for a mission on that sector.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the major replied, straightening his back while scribbling down the coordinates of the German artillery’s location.

Patrick was aware that a young signals corps captain hovered like an excited terrier behind him, clasping a sheet of paper. Patrick turned to him. ‘Yes, Mr Grant?’ he asked.

‘Sir, I think this might be of interest to you,’ he said, passing the sheet to Patrick who quickly read the abbreviated contents, raising his eyebrows and returning his attention back to the captain.

‘Send a signal to say that I request the company of our esteemed prisoner. He is to be escorted here by eighteen hundred hours to dine with the officers of our mess.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the captain replied and hurried off to telephone divisional HQ.

‘Well, I will be damned,’ Patrick muttered.

His ops officer had not seen his boss smile since the death of his son.

‘Some good news, sir?’ he asked politely.

‘Not good news for the Hun, Major,’ Patrick said. ‘They had one of their regimental commanders captured just a bit too far forward from his HQ by one of our forward patrols. It also happens that he is a distant relative of mine, General Major Kurt von Fellmann, and is now a prisoner of war. He will be dining with us tonight in the mess and I think you will like the fellow. He speaks fluent English and is a likeable sort of chap.’