Tiger Men

by Judy Nunn

  His audience was suitably impressed and the men exchanged glances. None of the family knew how Simon managed to obtain the information he did. If they asked him he was always evasive. ‘Oh, I do my homework,’ he would say modestly, ‘and I have the odd contact here and there.’ It sometimes appeared as if mild-mannered Simon Hawtrey had a network of spies at his beck and call.

  Simon’s gaze finally came to rest upon Thomas. ‘Fears of a monopoly have been raised in your industry, Thomas, and they’re perfectly justified. But I’m not sure if Henry Jones, or Peacock for that matter, are the men you should fear. Reginald Stanford wields a great deal of power behind the scenes, and he, unlike Jones and Peacock, is a man who would abuse it. Certainly, with wool, timber, hops, fruit, jam and other fruit products to export, it’s little wonder he has secretly set up a cartel to control the booking of freight space. It is even less wonder that he wants his own shipping line.’

  Thomas’s question had been well and truly answered and he had very little to say after that. Simon promised he would keep them all informed of any direct offer he received from Stanford Colonial, and the meeting concluded not long afterwards.

  Tasmanians welcomed in the New Year with all the jubilation a brand new era demanded, and also with a keen sense of expectancy. They were eager to embrace the twentieth century and the promise it offered, particularly that of Federation.

  In the referendums of the late nineties, the islanders had voted overwhelmingly in favour of Federation. There had been the grim-faced few, wealthy landowners for the most part, whose desire to cling to the English class system had seen them vote in the negative, but they had been a distinct minority. Most Tasmanians were only too keen to put behind them forever the memory of penal colonialism and the master–servant system their island had suffered throughout the past century.

  Along with impending federation, the war in South Africa remained an issue of principal focus. Patriotic fervour abounded in Hobart as reinforcements were sent to join the first contingent, and when, in rapid succession, the second and third contingents were farewelled at the docks. So eager were young men for the privilege of serving with the Tasmanian Imperial Bushmen, as the units were to become known, that the applications were oversubscribed by more than five to one.

  But as the year progressed there were some families who did not celebrate the Boer War, some who felt no triumph in its victories, only a tragic sense of loss. The Powells were one such family. In early May 1900, after serving on active duty with the Tasmanian Mounted Infantry for over six months, Private James Powell was killed in a Boer ambush in South Africa’s Northern Cape Colony.

  George bore his loss bravely. He was proud of his son, he said. James had died in the service of queen and country: no man could do more. His wife did not feel the same way at all. Emma Powell was bitter. Her son was buried in a foreign land – she couldn’t even visit his grave. The war had robbed her of her boy and she saw nothing noble in it. But she kept her silence, knowing that speaking her mind in such a manner would be disloyal to James, and knowing also that her husband was dealing with his own grief in his own way, as it seemed so many men did.

  Federation became a reality on the first of January 1901. When Alexandrina Victoria died three weeks later, the timing seemed eerily fitting. The Victorian Empire, which had ruled the colonies since 1837, ended with the death of its queen and the ascension of Edward VII at the very time when Australia came of age.

  John Adrian Louis Hope, seventh Earl of Hopetoun, was appointed Governor-General and Edmund Barton became the nation’s first Prime Minister. Sir Henry Parkes, ‘the Father of Federation’, had sadly not lived to see the day, having died five years previously, but his dogged persistence had won out and his ultimate goal had been realised. The once fractured colonies had at long last become the Commonwealth of Australia, the youngest nation on earth.

  The Boer War now took on an even greater significance for Australians, not least for the island state of Tasmania. Australia was at war as a nation for the very first time and, when the first two Australian-born soldiers ever to be awarded the Victoria Cross proved to be Private John Hutton Bisdee and Lieutenant Guy George Egerton Wylly, both of the 1st Tasmanian Imperial Bushmen, the islanders’ pride knew no bounds. Hobart claimed the young VC winners as its own. They were boys from the Hutchins School.

  For many the Boer War symbolised victory, for some it brought personal tragedy, and there were those for whom it was a financially profitable enterprise.

  ‘How very thoughtful of the British Army to consider its troops’ palates in such a manner,’ Reginald had drily commented when Henry Jones had approached him. Henry had wanted to know whether he might wish to help finance the increased jam production required to satisfy the Imperial Defence contracts IXL had undertaken.

  ‘Army rations are monotonous in content,’ Henry had told him, ‘and jam is a delicacy much sought after by the troops, strawberry and raspberry in particular, I’m told.’

  Henry had appeared mystified and even a little offended by Reginald’s response. ‘I’d hardly put it down to thoughtfulness,’ he’d said. ‘Jam is a highly nutritious source of energy.’

  ‘Of course it is, Henry, of course it is. So we are to satisfy the troops’ sweet tooth, boost their energy and assist the war effort all at the same time. Jolly good, very patriotic, I say.’ Reginald had congratulated himself yet again on having backed Henry Jones as a winner. How clever of the man to have gained the defence contracts, and so quickly off the mark.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ as usual Reginald’s irony had been wasted on Henry, ‘but we need to finance the smaller fruit growers in order to increase production if we’re to meet the army’s demand. I’ve secured a loan from Barclays Bank for the purpose, but I thought you might like to be in on it, Reginald.’

  ‘I most certainly would, old man. After all one must do one’s bit for the cause, mustn’t one?’

  ‘One must! Oh yes indeed, one most certainly must!’ Henry had thumped his fist on the table with such emphasis that Reginald had wondered whether it was possible the man had actually persuaded himself there was a vestige of altruism in his actions.

  The Boer War was not the only event of significance that was proving financially advantageous to Reginald Stanford. The birth of Federation brought about the final dismantling of the tariff barriers that had had a crippling effect on inter-colonial trade – particularly for Tasmania, with its limited population and isolated position.

  The Colonial Tariff Wars had seen the downfall of many a business during the latter half of the nineteenth century. The colonies, each concerned for its own survival, had introduced customs barriers and tariff restrictions that were absurdly protectionist in order to stifle importation and prevent competition. Federation was to be a blessing for those enterprising men of industry set upon broadening their horizons, and Reginald had been quick to anticipate their needs. Such men, in expanding their mainland interests, would not only require investment: they would need to purchase or hire offices and factory sites and warehouses. Stanford Colonial had, for some time now, been acquiring suitable real estate in Victoria and New South Wales, and sales and rentals were already booming.

  Business was going exceedingly well all round for Reginald, with one major exception: the Powells.

  After dangling the carrot in front of Simon Hawtrey and dropping hints to George Powell, Reginald had bided his time, leaving the family to contemplate the obvious benefits of a future merger between Stanford Colonial and Powell Channel Transport. They were bound to see the advantages that could be had by all, and they would be further tantalised if he kept them waiting.

  Then, upon hearing of the death of young James, he had decided to wait even longer, allowing time for the family to grieve before putting a proposal forward. He’d sent a letter of condolence to George and flowers to the boy’s mother. It was wiser to leave his approach until after the New Year anyway, he’d decided. With the new trade opportunities that would fol
low Federation, a regular freight service to the mainland would be invaluable and given the tie-up between the Powells’ respective businesses they’d leap at the chance.

  It had been the tie-up between the Powells’ businesses that had attracted Reginald from the outset. The Powells represented the perfect commercial proposition. They were a ready-made operation: the work was all done for him. It only needed someone with money and a broader vision to step in and take over.

  Reginald had waited until February before making an appointment with Simon Hawtrey and, on a bright summer’s morning, he had presented himself, together with Nigel Lyttleton, at the house in Napoleon Street. The two of us are bound to have an impact upon the man, he thought, particularly as Hawtrey’s office – in his family home no less – was so extraordinarily drab and unimpressive.

  They were greeted at the door by Hawtrey’s homely wife, who was cordial enough, but seemed incapable of smiling. Reginald had encountered her on his previous visit and had found her a most dour woman. And with such a successful business, surely the Powells could have a servant or two? Did they care nothing for appearances?

  He introduced Nigel to Martha Hawtrey, although it appeared the two knew each other on a vague social level, having apparently met at several charity fundraising functions. Which means that I’ve probably met the woman myself on previous occasions, Reginald thought, but he’d certainly forgotten where or when. Nigel laid on the charm, as indeed he did himself, but there was still not a smile to be had.

  She showed them to the study, where Hawtrey welcomed them, and when she left they set out on the desk the full presentation, an imposing folder with pages and pages of data designed to overwhelm.

  But it didn’t. Astonishingly enough, it had no effect at all.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Hawtrey said after barely five minutes, ‘but had I known you’d gone to such trouble I’d have told you not to bother. I’m afraid the answer is no, gentlemen. I do sincerely apologise, Mr Stanford, if I have unwittingly given you any reason to believe the answer would be in the affirmative, but I have heard nothing from you since your original approach, so I presumed –’

  ‘Have you discussed my proposal with other branches of your family?’ Reginald demanded.

  ‘If you’re referring to my brother-in-law George Powell, yes, most definitely.’ Simon did not mince words; when he wished to be direct, he certainly could be. ‘The whole family has discussed the matter. The answer is an unequivocal no,’ he said.

  And that, it appeared, was that.

  Reginald was furious. How dare this nondescript little man have the audacity to turn him down! He said as much to Nigel as they left the house.

  ‘How dare he turn me down like that?’ he said as they headed for the horse and trap where his coachman was waiting. ‘How dare he?!’

  ‘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 dis
tinct 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.’