A House Divided

by Sulari Gentill

  Charles Hardy was a handsome man in his early thirties, whose strong smiling face appealed to men and women alike. His suit and hair were well cut, and his eyes piercing. He stepped forward with the relish of a natural orator and he began. The crowd, already warmed to his message, became a chorus of concurrence as he launched his attack on Communism.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, a dissident emerged. The challenger pushed in from the back. He wore no tie, and pinned prominently to his lapel was a large Soviet badge, clearly visible in its red and yellow. Rowland was both surprised and intrigued. So this was one of the mysterious Communists that his brother believed were lurking around every corner.

  The crowd surged against the radical, but then Hardy called for calm. He engaged the man in debate. What ensued was an extraordinary exchange between the leader of the Riverina Movement and a man who expressed all of the classically attributed sentiments of a Socialist intent on a workers’ revolution. Still, Hardy persisted with his impassioned rhetoric, appealing to the man’s sense of patriotism and country. In the end, the Communist tore off his badge, threw it to the ground and stomped upon it, in a public declaration of political conversion. Hardy welcomed him to the congregation of right-thinking men, and the hall broke into applause, as one more soul was brought back to the path of loyalist righteousness.

  Rowland was dumbfounded. He leant over to Wilfred.

  “Who is that? Is he a local?” He motioned toward the man who was a Communist no more.

  Wilfred rolled his eyes. “You’ll find he’s attached to the O’Brien Publicity Company,” he replied under his breath.

  “What?”

  “Let’s just say he’s been to a number of Hardy’s rallies—that badge of his has been trodden on a few times now.”

  Rowland laughed out loud, but sobered quickly under Wilfred’s glare. It appeared that though Wilfred did not applaud the pantomime, he had no intention of decrying it either.

  With the erstwhile Communist now firmly in his support, Charles Hardy addressed the street again. He proclaimed himself an unashamed Fascist. “There are perilous signs, my friends, that the constitutional government of New South Wales is on the cusp of collapse, leaving us in a state of national emergency.” Hardy paused dramatically, waiting till the silence was absolute and every ear strained for his next words. “The Premier’s financial misrule, with hundreds of thousands of unemployed primed for an upheaval of social disorder, makes chaos a likelihood, far more than a possibility!”

  The crowd responded on cue with shouts of horror and agreement. “If this calamity occurs, my friends, the Riverina Province Council will be ready to undertake immediate self-government!”

  “What’s the Riverina Province Council?” Rowland asked Wilfred.

  “The need for a provisional government is a sad reality, Rowly.” Wilfred didn’t take his eyes away from Hardy. “Charles Hardy is not the only man to see it. It’s simply a matter of time before Lang’s administration collapses.”

  “You’re all mad,” Rowland muttered. Wilfred chose not to reply.

  Hardy continued, berating the “worst elements of the community,” who, clothed as workers, were trying to set up a Soviet state on the pattern of Russia. He explained that in such dire circumstances, the Movement had to be prepared, indeed was prepared, to defend the country and install the Province Council to govern the Riverina. It appeared clear to Rowland that Hardy was styling himself as some kind of dictator of the region. The crowd was with the senator. There were shouts for immediate action. Hardy was living up to his title as the “Cromwell of the Riverina.”

  Hardy leaned over the balcony and pointed at a man who had just called of action. “By all that is good and holy, you are right!” He slammed his fist on the stone balustrade. “It is time those godless Red terrorists knew the wrath of right-thinking men! It is time they knew they are not wanted here, that we will not tolerate them among our wives and daughters.”

  The roar that ripped down the street was deafening.

  “Let every Communist traitor be on notice,” Hardy declared. “You have till midday to leave the patriotic district of Yass!”

  The crowd cheered. Someone began a chorus of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and soon five-hundred-odd men sang it with one voice. Hardy looked down from the balcony, a messiah before his people.

  Rowland thought the ultimatum presumptuous, considering Hardy was not from Yass, but it was just rhetoric. Even so, it would be wise if his friends headed back to Sydney soon…very soon.

  “Come on.” Wilfred grabbed Rowland’s arm and jostled him through the throng toward the building. He ushered his brother inside, past the vestibule where Aubrey Sinclair’s name was inscribed in marble, and up the staircase to the second floor. Hardy was still on the balcony. Wilfred spoke to someone from the Graziers’ Association, who stepped out to fetch the leader of the Riverina Movement. It was several minutes before Hardy tore himself away from his crowd to come inside.

  “Sinclair! Good to see you.” He took Wilfred’s hand between both of his.

  “Charles,” said Wilfred warmly, “I see your election to the national parliament hasn’t stemmed the flow of men to the Movement. To the contrary.” He glanced out of the window at the men now lining up outside to join Hardy’s cause.

  “New South Wales is still in the hands of Lang.” Hardy looked down proudly at the new recruits. “Precarious times need stout-hearted men.”

  The clock in the post office tower struck twelve, the chimes barely audible over the still-cheering crowd.

  Just as Wilfred introduced Rowland, Harold McWilliamson approached with two other members of the Graziers’ Association and joined the conversation. As usual, Rowland attempted to remain politely neutral.

  Presently, Wilfred pulled Hardy aside, leaving Rowland in the company of the graziers, who were still railing about the scourge of Jack Lang. They occasionally looked to Rowland for a grunt of agreement, but otherwise he was not called to participate to any great extent. His attention was in any case drawn to Wilfred and Hardy. The pair spoke earnestly, but he could not catch what they were saying. He could see the increasing tension in Wilfred’s neck. The discussion was becoming strained, and then Wilfred’s voice raised enough for Rowland to overhear “Campbell.” Hardy responded calmly, but he seemed resolute. Wilfred was clearly annoyed.

  Quite suddenly, Wil turned on his heels, leaving Hardy standing there, and motioned to Rowland to follow him down the stairs.

  “What was all that about?”

  “The Riverina Movement is full of good men, many of them ours,” Wilfred responded curtly. “But Hardy is making alliances with Campbell, and Campbell is as dangerous as the bloody Communists.”

  “Oh.” It occurred to Rowland that perhaps these good men were confused as to which secret Fascist army they belonged, but he decided against voicing this.

  As they walked out, Rowland noticed that the crowd had, in large part, dispersed or moved on. “Looks like everyone went home to check their sheds for Communists.”

  From behind them came a laugh. The brothers turned. It was McWilliamson. “They didn’t need to go that far, son. Apparently some Red blew in from the city.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “It’s twenty past twelve.”

  Rowland stared at him, horrified. Surely he could not be serious. Surely Hardy could not have been serious.

  “The boys went to get him from the Royal about a quarter of an hour ago.” McWilliamson smiled, his moustache bristling as he inhaled the patriotic atmosphere of the street with gusto.

  Rowland began to run, but Wilfred grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  “Let me go, Wil!” He wondered if Wilfred’s conversation with Hardy had been orchestrated to keep him occupied, while a mob went after Milton.

  Wilfred pushed him back toward the Hall. “Rowly, you are not getting involved in this. Your friend made h
imself a target.”

  Rowland swore, furious and dismayed. He tried to break away from his brother, but some of the graziers stepped in to bar his way and hold him still. Wilfred remained calm. “There’s nothing you can do, Rowly. You saw how many men were here before.”

  “Where the hell are the police?” Rowland demanded. “What happened to the King’s laws you’re so keen on defending?”

  “What do you expect two constables to do against five hundred angry citizens?” Wilfred returned. “You’re staying out of this, Rowly.”

  “They’ll kill him!”

  “No, they won’t—he’ll just get what he deserves.”

  McWilliamson laughed again. “Doubt the Red mongrel’s seen service. The feathers may quite suit him.”

  Rowland felt sick, panicked. He tried another tack. “Wil, I’m your brother. Don’t do this to me.”

  Wilfred regarded him intently. He checked his pocket watch. “Let him go,” he instructed. To Rowland he said, “Get the other two and go back to Sydney now—I’ll have your things sent on.”

  “And Milt…?”

  “When the mob’s finished with him, I’ll have him taken back to Sydney, quietly.”

  Rowland wondered why Wilfred thought he’d be satisfied with that. Perhaps his brother really did think him a coward. He shook his arms free of the graziers and ran toward the Royal.

  The establishment was barricaded shut. Rowland hammered and demanded entry. Who the hell tarred and feathered people? It was the thirties, for God’s sake. Where would one even get hold of boiling tar?

  The hotelier poked his head out of an upper window and recognised Rowland. He signalled him to come to the back. Rowland did so quickly. Yass appeared to have become a frontier town in the space of a single morning.

  He entered through the kitchen. The hotel-keeper, obviously nervous, muttered something about having done all he could. Rowland nodded, glad the man had showed the good sense to close the hotel. Edna was in the office, seated. She wore no hat, and her hair was dishevelled. She was silently sobbing. Clyde sat beside her, holding a wet towel to his face, his white shirt spattered with blood.

  Edna looked up as Rowland entered and threw herself into his arms. “Oh God, Rowly, they’ve taken Milt!”

  Rowland held her, but he spoke to Clyde. “I know. Are you all right? Do you know where they took him?”

  Clyde took the towel away from his face. One eye was blackened, and his nose was swollen and bloody. He shook his head. “There was a heap of them…on some kind of Communist hunt.” He stood up. “They said something about tarring and feathering him.” Clyde’s temper flared. “Apparently that’s not illegal, not out here!”

  “They’re going to kill him,” wept Edna.

  The hotelier, who had been in the room behind Rowland all this time, spoke up. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Miss,” he said. “The boys talk about tarring and feathering, but nobody ever remembers to bring the tar or the feathers. And it’s not as easy as that anyway, is it? Tar cools so quickly… It’s not as if you can carry a bucket of hot tar around with you to pour over a man…”

  Rowland was alarmed by the man’s detailed knowledge of vigilante reprisals. Edna just became more distraught.

  “Look!” Rowland struggled to think calmly. “Where would they have taken him?”

  The proprietor rubbed the grizzled stubble on his chin. “To the shire boundary, most likely, but I reckon they’ll stay near the river—that way they can throw him in.”

  “Where exactly?” asked Rowland, his mouth grim. It was obvious now that this had happened before, and the innkeeper was beginning to try his patience.

  The proprietor of the Yass Royal caught his tone, and gave him vague directions to the place he thought would be the most suitable site for a Communist eviction.

  “Right.” Rowland headed for the door. “Clyde, are you all right to go?”

  Clyde tossed the towel onto the desk. “I’m fine. Let’s go get Milt.”

  “Ed, you should probably stay here…” Rowland began. It was a futile attempt. The sculptress would have none of it.

  “You’re not leaving me here, Rowly. These people are mad—what if they come back?” She glanced at the proprietor and whispered, “Do you seriously trust him to protect me?”

  Rowland gave in—Edna had a point. “Okay, you two wait at the back door and I’ll bring the car around. There’s still a fair mob out the front.” He turned to the hotelier. “I assume you’ve alerted the police?”

  The man reddened and looked at his shoes. Clearly he hadn’t. Rowland tried to keep his temper. “Once we leave, I presume you will immediately make the authorities aware of the situation.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Sinclair.”

  Rowland ran out the rear door and back to where he had parked. Despite the antagonism in the centre, the Mercedes was exactly as and where he had left her. A wry relief. This was the country after all—kidnapping was one thing, but property, even a German motorcar, was respected.

  Clyde and Edna emerged from the hotel as he pulled up directly outside the back door, and after they piled in, Edna told Rowland more fully what had happened. They had stayed inside—taking care as Rowland had asked—when twenty or so men stormed the hotel and dragged Milton away. Clyde had gone to his aid, but no one else had helped them. “Do you think they’ll hurt him?”

  “No,” he said, more confidently than he felt. “Not on purpose, anyway. Hopefully they’re not organised enough to have tar and feathers on hand.”

  “What is wrong with these people?” Edna was both terrified and disgusted.

  Rowland kept his eyes on the road. “He’ll be all right, Ed.”

  “Rowly,” Clyde leant toward him, “Milt can’t swim.”

  Rowland did not reply, just gritted his teeth and engaged the supercharger again.

  As they approached the shire boundary, the wide expanse of the Murrumbidgee River came into view. Rowland cursed—there were hundreds of men by the bank. Periodic cheers indicated that someone was giving a speech. Rowland drove the car as close as he could. Again he tried to talk Edna into remaining behind, and again she refused, adamant that she was safer with him and Clyde. In the end they got out and, keeping Edna between them, pushed their way into the centre of the crowd.

  “What the hell are we going to do?” Clyde was at a loss.

  Rowland shook his head. He had no idea. Milton was being restrained by four men, while another stood upon a tree stump and rallied the crowd against the Communist traitor in their midst. Nearby burned a campfire over which was hung what Rowland assumed was cauldron of tar. For his part, Milton looked more contemptuous than anything else.

  “Righto.” Rowland glanced at Edna, wishing he had insisted that she stay behind. He could not see this becoming anything but ugly.

  The trio moved toward the fire, huddled close, shielding Edna as much as possible. The crowd was focussed on Milton. One man waved a set of shears. “Let’s cut the dingo’s hair,” he yelled. Of course, the crowd roared.

  Rowland saw his chance. He bent down and, seizing one of the longer branches protruding from the flames, he used it to topple the cauldron onto its side. As the sticky black liquid spilled onto the coals and the dirt, someone tackled Rowland. Edna screamed and Clyde joined the fray. The crowd pressed in dangerously.

  “Good on you, Rowly.” Milton was defiant.

  When Rowland was released from the dirt, he and Clyde were beside Milton, and the mob leaders were arguing about how to deal with both the loss of the tar and the additional Communists. Edna was ignored. This was a business for men.

  The same baritone from the town rally began to sing “God Save the King.” As before, the mob removed their hats and joined him. At the precise point when the anthem called for the monarch’s long reign, Milton’s captors lifted him bodily and hurled him
into the water. Clyde struggled to get to his friend’s aid. Rowland, who knew the river, was less frantic. Milton stood up in the waist-deep water, covered in mud and swearing furiously just as the chorus became loud enough to drown him out.

  The blood of the mob was high, but Milton was not going quietly. He began to sing “The Red Flag,” off-key, but as stridently as the others were singing their anthem.

  Men waded in and dragged him back to shore. The outraged crowd was not going to be satisfied with a mere dunking, and Rowland had thwarted their intention to tar and feather Milton. Suggestions were shouted.

  “Give them all a bloody good hiding!”

  “I say shoot them.”

  “Don’t be stupid—that’s Rowland Sinclair.”

  “We’ll shoot the others—we’ll horsewhip Sinclair.”

  “A rich Red is still a Red.”

  Milton fell into silence. This was getting very dangerous.

  A gunshot cracked the air. Instantaneously it quelled the mob. The sounds of engines and horns were now audible, and the crowd parted as several motorcars and farm trucks approached in billows of dust. The Rolls-Royce Phantom stopped just in front of the smoking campfire, the tar only feet from its tyres.

  Wilfred Sinclair stepped out.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wilfred glowered. He was a man who did not even think to doubt his authority over everyone present. “What’s going on here, Jessop?” He singled out one of the mob leaders.

  “Just showing these Reds how we deal with their kind out here, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “I think you mean the Red, Jessop.” Wilfred turned his eyes to the dripping Milton, whose head had been roughly shorn of its long tresses. “I believe you have made your point.”

  “We’re not finished.”

  “I believe you are.”

  “Rowland Sinclair is a bloody Red lover.”

  The words of anger spat from one of the men who was restraining Rowland. The crowd rumbled its assent.