by Peter Watt
George, his brother, had spoken ill of Mr O’Flynn behind his back. He said that the man was most probably a former convict, an Irish papist, one of those known around Sydney as an old lag. Alex suspected that secretly his brother was frightened of the big Irishman.
Fenella’s reaction was even more puzzling. She had said little in his presence when they were introduced to him in the drawing room, but her frown had concealed her awe. There was something about the stranger that she felt was familiar, although she was mystified as to how or what that could be.
When Lady Enid had introduced him as a dear friend of her father, fresh from the war in South Africa, Fenella had immediately sensed the love the man seemed to have for them even though he was a total stranger to their lives. She sensed an almost paternal love, the affection that she missed so much from her own father, still fighting in a war across the sea. Had the big man moved to put his arms around her she would have willingly allowed him to do so. And perhaps then all the pain she was feeling for the absence of her mother as well would have flowed in a torrent of tears.
As Lady Enid informed Alex that he was going to accompany Mr O’Flynn to their Queensland property of Glen View the boy’s reactions were mixed. He had never travelled further from Sydney than visiting the town of Bathurst once with his father. Now he was going to the other end of the country with this big, mysterious man whom he hardly knew. Why Lady Enid, a stickler for him not missing classes at his expensive school in Sydney, had suddenly allowed him to be sent away was all a worrying mystery to him.
But when the day came and he stood on the wharf waiting to board a coastal steamer for Rockhampton via Brisbane, all such anxiety disappeared in his excitement at the adventure ahead of him. Although he had felt tearful on the carriage trip to the harbour Alex forced himself to retain a calm composure. Mr O’Flynn had growled something about women not being able to help themselves when it came to shedding tears at farewells and Alex did not want Mr O’Flynn to think he was a sissy.
From Rockhampton they travelled by Cobb & Co coach across the hills and down onto the plains to Glen View, way west of the coastal town. The days travelling, the changing landscape and interesting people they met, made the journey an adventure in its own right. Always, Mr O’Flynn proved to be caring, and informative about everything Alex asked questions of, although he spoke very little about himself. Alex had enjoyed every day of their travels although he missed his sister and his great-grandmother. But he did not miss his brother and felt a strange independence he had not known before.
Mr O’Flynn seemed to get on with the many people they met. He appeared equally comfortable talking to the wealthy squatter they met on the ship as he was chatting with the stockmen on the streets of Rockhampton. Alex’s cloistered life had rarely brought him into the world of the working class and he was surprised to find that they were people he could relate to. So long as he did not attempt to point out that he was born of wealth, the strangers would treat him as a young man in his own right when he showed an interest in their lives.
When Michael spent time conversing with him, Alex was able to learn much about the mysterious man. Mr O’Flynn had fought in many wars but he would not say why he had. He said that he had never married and yet once, when they were on the steamer and he had drunk a lot of rum, he said that he had loved a girl, and had a son to her. It was a shocking disclosure for Alex who had a strong sense of morality from his staunch Protestant upbringing.
Only once had the young boy felt his awe for Mr O’Flynn turn to fear. An offhand remark by Alex about a man being ‘a mere tradesman’ caused Michael to turn on him and snarl, ‘No-one in this world is a mere anything, boy. I have seen so-called gentlemen turn to water when the chips were down. And I have seen men and women, who your world looks down on, give their lives for the likes of those who did not deserve to be born. Always remember that a man’s spirit, his courage and goodness, cannot be measured by Macintosh standards.’ And yet the fear turned to understanding and Alex had bowed his head in shame for his own misconceived words.
This was the fifth day Alex had spent on the sprawling family property managed by Duncan Cameron. He liked Mr Cameron’s wife, Mary, who was serene in the face of any of the crises that rose from time to time around the homestead. Whether it be Matilda, the mother of the young stockman Nerambura Duffy, breaking a valued piece of china when she was cleaning, or one of the stockmen being brought in by his mates with a broken arm, she handled each situation calmly and competently. Alex knew she had children who attended a boarding school in Townsville and she treated him as if he was one of her own sons.
Alex missed the gentle touch of a woman in his life and often, in the long hot hours of the night, would find himself crying quietly when he thought of his own mother far away in Ireland. She wrote often but her letters did not say when she would be reunited with them. She never mentioned his father in her letters and the mystery of what had happened between his parents left the boy with a sinking heart, although he never let go of a small flame of hope that one day his family would be united again.
In the absence of Mr O’Flynn, Nerambura Duffy had spent the previous day attempting to teach Alex to ride. Alex liked Nerambura. The shy young man was patient with him and he looked forward to his lessons in the saddling yard with the little roan mare especially selected for him.
Michael had spent the previous day with Duncan Cameron on a ride to one of the outlying parts of the property to supervise a cattle muster. He had returned that evening and for the first time met Alex’s cousin Helen and her husband Karl, who had been visiting Balaclava station adjoining Glen View. Even the young boy had been struck by his older cousin’s beauty. She was admittedly very old, probably in her thirties, but her emerald eyes sparkled when she laughed. Not that she seemed to laugh very often, except when Mr O’Flynn engaged her in conversation over the great wooden table in the homestead’s spacious dining room. Her husband was ten years younger than his wife and had very blond hair that was cut short. His pale blue eyes always looked as if he carried the woes of the world on his shoulders. Alex had learned that he was a Lutheran missionary and a very educated man in something called anthropology which he had studied in Berlin. Although the beautiful woman with the slender neck and long jet black hair piled on her head was a cousin, she was more of a stranger to Alex than the big Irishman. He had grown used to the gruff man with the eye patch and felt comfortable in his company.
Alex stretched then swung sideways and dropped his feet to the floor. He heard the approaching footsteps before the door to his room was flung open.
‘Breakfast is ready, boy,’ Michael boomed cheerfully. ‘Get your clothes on and join us before the sun is up.’
Alex dressed quickly in the working clothes belonging to one of her sons, who was about the same size as himself, that Mrs Cameron had set aside for him. When Alex joined Mr O’Flynn in the kitchen a plate of steak and eggs was plonked in front of him by the surly Chinese cook who muttered under his breath in his language. The boy was stunned when Mr O’Flynn replied in kind, but not half so shocked as the cook whose eyes flew open, as did his mouth. Michael grinned across the table.
‘Do you speak Chinese, Mr O’Flynn?’ Alex asked with awe.
‘Enough to tell old Wing Lee to mind his business and stop giving advice to the son of the owner of Glen View.’
‘Did you learn to speak Chinese in a war?’ the boy asked, mouth agape.
‘Sort of,’ Michael replied as he lit the end of a long thin cigar. ‘Not the kind of war you would understand. There were only a couple of us fighting it.’
‘Who was the other man?’
Michael drew on the cigar contentedly before he answered, thick smoke hovering in a blue cloud around his head.
‘An Englishman called Horace Brown. A very brave man who saved my life once – but died doing so.’
‘Oh, that is sad,’ Alex said with genuine sympathy for the man who was just a name to him. ‘He must have been a
nice man.’
Michael’s laughter rolled through the kitchen and he leant forward to slap his grandson on the shoulder. ‘He was one of the greatest rogues I ever had the misfortune to meet,’ he said, continuing to laugh. ‘But that was a long time ago and old Horace is probably plotting with Saint Peter to keep the Germans out of heaven.’
Alex did not understand Mr O’Flynn’s last remark so he cut into the fried steak and dunked it in the yolk of an egg.
After breakfast, Michael led two horses to the house, one the little roan mare Alex had been learning to ride the day before. ‘Get on,’ he ordered. Alex struggled into the saddle. ‘Just let her do all the work, young Alex,’ Michael said as he mounted his own horse with the ease of a man who had spent years in the saddle. ‘We are going for a ride today to visit a very special place.’
‘Where?’
‘You will find out when we get there,’ Michael replied. ‘It’s not too far from here.’
Alex felt very grown-up astride his mount, riding in the brigalow scrub behind Mr O’Flynn. They passed a group of stockmen off to their left who were searching for cattle amongst the prickly dry trees. After a while the boy became aware of a low range of ancient hills appearing above the scrub. Mr O’Flynn did not seem as interested but searched about the shimmering, stunted trees for something else. Finally he reined his horse to a halt and helped Alex, whose first long ride was leaving him feeling just a little stiff, off his mount.
‘We have found what we have been looking for,’ Michael said as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘Over there.’
Alex followed his gesture to a clearing where a big, old gum tree grew. He saw nothing other than the endless scrub beyond and was disappointed. He had hoped they might have gone to the hills to explore them.
Michael strode across the clearing with Alex in tow and halted to gaze down at three piles of stones amongst the straggly clumps of grass growing out of the crumbly red earth. Michael crouched on his haunches and removed his hat.
‘Here is a part of your heritage, Alexander,’ Michael said softly. ‘Here is buried one of your great-grandfathers, Patrick Duffy, for whom your own father was named. And beside him is Nerambura’s father, Peter Duffy, who was the son of a very famous man called Tom Duffy, your great uncle.’
‘Why was he famous, Mr O’Flynn?’ the boy asked.
Michael smiled sadly. ‘He was what the traps called a bushranger, and he rode with a Darambal warrior called Wallarie. Between them, the two men roamed from here to the Gulf of Carpentaria and were the scourge of your great-grandfather, old Sir Donald Macintosh.’
‘You mean Grandmama’s husband?’ Alex asked, open mouthed.
‘Yeah, Lady Enid’s husband who Wallarie was supposed to have killed a long time ago. Speared him, just as he speared young Angus Macintosh, way back in the sixties.’
‘Why?’
Michael frowned at the boy’s innocent question. ‘The Native Mounted Police came and killed all Wallarie’s people not far from here. Wallarie blamed your great-grandfather for the slaughter of his people.’
‘Did you know the people buried here?’
‘Yes, I did,’ Michael answered with a sigh but did not elaborate.
He could not tell his grandson that the bush-ranger Tom Duffy had been his brother, and that the big Irish bullocky, Patrick, had been his father. It was better for the moment that he remain in the boy’s eyes a friend and nothing more. Alex turned his attention to the third pile of stones.
‘Who is buried in the third grave, Mr O’Flynn?’
‘Just a blackfella who was Patrick Duffy’s friend,’ Michael replied as if Old Billy had not really existed. ‘I don’t remember his name.’
‘Are there any wild blackfellows here now?’
‘Not anymore. The last was Wallarie but he would have to be dead by now. He would be older than me if he was alive and that is pretty old for a blackfella.’
Alex stared at the three piles of stones, stunned to learn that he was related to a bushranger and that his new friend, the mixed-blood stockman Nerambura Duffy, was also a distant relative.
‘Father never told us about the people here,’ Alex said in an awed voice. ‘He never spoke about his father either.’
‘Didn’t he,’ Michael growled softly. ‘Well, you know about your great-grandfather now. He was a remarkable man who came to this land to dig for gold at Ballarat and ended up murdered here.’
‘Who murdered him?’ the boy asked aghast.
‘A low bastard by the name of Mort. Morrison Mort. But he’s long dead now. In the end cannibals got him up around the Palmer track.’
Alex shuddered. The thought of cannibals disturbed him. He had read of their cooking pots and how they put missionaries in them.
The Irishman fell silent, then stood and placed his hat on his head, resting his hand on the young boy’s shoulder. ‘Always remember their names, boy. Your blood is not only that of the Macintoshes. In your veins flows the blood of some grand Irishmen.’
‘But they were probably papists,’ Alex replied, horrified.
‘That they were,’ Michael replied. ‘And religion means nothing to the goodness and courage in a man. Never judge a man by the church he prays in. Accept all men as they accept you. You never know, one day your life might rely on someone who does not believe in the things you do. And now, I suppose, I should take you to see the graves of old Sir Donald and his son Angus, back at the homestead,’ Michael sighed. ‘Though God knows, I only do that for the sake of Lady Enid.’
Without thinking, Michael took his grandson’s hand and walked with him back to their horses grazing in the shade of the trees on the other side of the clearing. But the boy was aware of his hand in the Irishman’s and felt secure for the first time since his father and mother had gone away. He wished above all else in his life that Mr O’Flynn could be a part of his family too.
TWENTY-ONE
Dinner was a pleasant affair in the spacious dining room: corned silverside, potato and canned peas with a side dish of Indian pickles and fried onion. Afterwards Mary Cameron retired with Helen von Fellmann to one end of the long verandah while the men – Helen’s husband Karl, Duncan Cameron and Michael – sat at the other and chatted idly on subjects near and dear to a cattleman’s heart: the price of beef, the weather and troubles with Aboriginal stockmen going walkabout with their families.
Alexander had been sent off to bed after dinner which he ate in the kitchen with the Chinese cook. Eventually, Duncan excused himself and also retired for the night, leaving the Lutheran pastor and Michael alone to sip on the claret provided by the manager of Glen View for his special guests. Duncan’s letter from Lady Enid had clearly instructed that only the best would be good enough for her granddaughter Helen and her husband, and for his Irish guest, Mr Michael O’Flynn.
Karl stared up at the myriad stars in the clear night sky. The bite of the sun was gone from the plains and the moths had come to hover around a lantern that cast a dim yellow light in the night. Karl’s command of the English language was not as good as that of his pretty wife, not surprising as she had spent the first half of her life living in Sydney before travelling to Germany to complete her education.
‘I wonder why you have not told your grandson who you really are,’ Karl said quietly in his native tongue. ‘My father has spoken a lot about you, Mr Duffy.’
Michael’s expression did not register his surprise at the German missionary’s knowledge of his true identity.
‘I have my reasons, Pastor,’ he replied calmly in fluent German as he sat on the steps of the verandah puffing on a cigar. ‘It is my son’s place to tell Alexander who I am, not mine, and I hope that he will do so when he returns from the war.’
‘That makes sense,’ the missionary said, quietly reverting to English. ‘My father has told me much about you, Herr Duffy. He has said that you are the most dangerous man he has ever known.’
‘Second most,’ Michael snorted with mirth.
‘Old Horace Brown was far more dangerous than me.’
‘Ah yes, Herr Brown. My father said he was truly a dangerous man to the Kaiser’s interests in this part of the world. He has much respect for him.’
‘Had, Pastor,’ Michael corrected. ‘Horace is now in the past tense.’
‘Yes . . . had,’ the missionary reflected. ‘So you saw action in South Africa, Herr Duffy?’
‘I would prefer that you call me O’Flynn, Pastor,’ Michael replied. ‘And I would appreciate your silence on the matter of who I am.’
‘I will respect your wishes, Mr O’Flynn,’ Karl replied. ‘Not even my wife knows that you are the father of her half-brother.’
‘How did you know?’ Michael asked, taking a sip of his claret between puffs of his cigar.
The pastor smiled. ‘You have used the name of O’Flynn before, according to my father. And how many Irishmen in Australia have your scars and one eye? No, I knew you had to be my father’s legendary opponent. And as it is, he speaks very highly of you, Mr O’Flynn. I suspect that you are one of his last true friends, even if he did try to kill you once.’
Michael grinned. ‘And how is the count?’ he asked with a wry smile. ‘And your beautiful mother, the countess?’
‘They are well,’ Karl replied with an enigmatic smile. ‘I suspect my mother misses the company of her cousin, Fiona. Sadly my wife has never come to terms with what once occurred between her mother and mine,’ Karl continued as the smile faded.
‘You do not seem to judge people,’ Michael said. ‘That seems rather unusual for a man of the cloth.’
‘No, Mr O’Flynn, my role in life is to save souls – not judge what only God should.’