by Peter Watt
Arthur rose to his feet, his face reddening. ‘If you just give this film a chance we will be back in the black,’ he said, controlling his rage at the smug, young man smiling at him from his chair. ‘After all, your own sister’s career is at stake. Would you deny her a chance to rival Lottie Lyell?’
‘But you are no Raymond Longford,’ George said, referring to the well-known and respected Australian film producer. He rose to end the meeting. ‘You have twenty-four hours to reflect on my offer. Good evening, Arthur.’
In a fog of despair, Arthur watched George leave his office. How could such a good family as the Macintoshes produce such a callous bastard like George? Twenty-four hours to find a solution to the problems facing his production company was not enough time. He would keep the news from his crew until the last moment.
3
The tropical sun was almost at its zenith over the territory of the Morobe District in German New Guinea as Alexander Macintosh observed the young New Guinean labourer endure his flogging in courageous silence. The long cane rod rose and fell with ferocious rapidity ten times before the punishment was over, and the blood ran in rivulets where it had broken the shiny black skin of the boy’s back. The young man was bent over a wooden structure and a huge, bearded white man towered over him, sweat staining every part of his dust-grimed white clothing as he wielded the long cane.
Sweat also trickled down Alex’s clean-shaven face beneath his wide-brimmed floppy hat. He stood at just under six feet tall, had the broad shoulders and chest of his Scottish forebears and a pleasant, open face. The white tropical suit that he wore was also stained with sweat, the result of standing in the hot, midday sun of the tropics. Single and twenty-five years of age, Alex had steamed to the German port in New Guinea to trade and the Macintosh trader, the Osprey II, now lay at anchor in the placid waters just off the coast.
‘Ja, that will teach him,’ an older man with a neatly trimmed beard muttered beside Alex. Switching to the German language, he continued, ‘His punishment is necessary to ensure that the kanakas understand the meaning of an honest day’s work.’
Alex did not comment. He was a guest of Herr Schumann’s hospitality on his copra plantation although personally he found the severe punishment brutal.
‘Release him,’ Schumann hollered to his foreman, a burly German who had administered the prescribed punishment to the labourer who had committed the crime of missing work for two days among the coconut trees of the German planter’s property. ‘Put a salve on his wounds and send him back to work.’ Turning to Alex, the planter said, ‘As you can see, Herr Macintosh, we are not barbaric in our treatment of the natives. The man was being punished for breaking the rules and now I will have him receive medical treatment.’
Alex bit his lip. He wanted to ask whose rules, but said nothing. His mission into German territory was on behalf of the family’s financial interests in extending trade to the European colonisers north of the Australian-administered territory of Papua. He had to admit that many Australians in Port Moresby agreed with the corporal punishment administered by their German counterparts in New Guinea to control indentured workers, many of whom worked as virtual slaves to the Europeans. ‘It is not my place to comment on Governor Hahl’s policies in your territories,’ Alex tactfully replied in German. It was a language that all members of his family had studied because of their links with Prussian relatives, one of whom was a Lutheran missionary with his station at the family property of Glen View.
‘Hahl is too soft on the damned kanakas,’ Schumann said, wiping his face with a clean handkerchief. ‘Ah, we will have coffee on the verandah away from this damned sun.’
The German plantation owner was in his late fifties and very fit for his age as the scourge of malaria had acted to keep his habit of eating to excess under control. Both men turned to walk towards the sprawling timbered house with its encompassing wide verandahs and shuttered windows left open to catch the tropical breezes drifting in from the coast nearby. The house was silhouetted against the great, lushly covered green mountains to the west bordering the river valley that stretched into the hinterland. White clouds billowed above the mountains, promising a cooling afternoon downpour.
A young housemaid wearing a colourful wrap-around skirt delivered the coffee to the two men now seated in comfortable cane chairs on the verandah overlooking the rows of coconut trees. Both men had removed their hats. Albert Schumann produced a collection of fine cigars from a silver container and offered one to Alex.
‘This is a tough country to break,’ Schumann said, sucking on his cigar to produce a plume of blue-grey smoke. ‘The kanakas are forever murdering our people – even missionaries, who have only the best intentions for them. Yet Berlin hardly grants any support to bring civilisation to the natives and protect our interests in these islands. We are a backwater in the Kaiser’s empire. He has more interest in our African and Asian colonies than those in the Pacific. We are expected to support ourselves.’
‘But your copra production is second to none,’ Alex said to flatter his host.
‘This is true,’ Schumann answered, nodding his head. ‘It is the reason you are here, yes?’
Alex took a long draw on his cigar and gazed out over the men toiling under the hot sun among the coconut trees. ‘I represent business interests that can pay you a good price for your product,’ he said.
‘I know that your companies have the shipping to transport our product to Brisbane and Sydney,’ Schumann said. ‘What price are you tendering?’
Alex made an offer. For a moment Schumann did not answer. ‘My wife and daughter will be arriving today, Herr Macintosh,’ he finally said, as if ignoring the offer. ‘Maybe we will talk business when you have had time to think about the figure you have put forward. But, in the meantime I would like to extend our hospitality to you and request that you stay over for a couple of days. You can observe how we manufacture the copra for export. I am sure that my wife and daughter would be impressed with our guest from Sydney who has relatives in Prussia. My wife is from Prussian aristocracy and may know your relatives.’
Alex knew that Schumann had considered the amount too low and was politely giving him time to come up with another offer. He was also surprised that his host knew so much about his family and, as if to answer the startled expression on Alex’s face, Albert Schumann continued, ‘There are many German businessmen in Sydney. We have a competent intelligence system when it comes to trade. It is always good to know who you are dealing with. I requested information on your companies when you wrote to me requesting this meeting. It is because you have links to my country that I am even considering your contract price.’
Alex smiled. Albert Schumann was a shrewd man and the negotiations would be hard fought.
Under a cooler, late autumn sun over Sydney, George Macintosh came off the tennis court, wiped his brow and reached for a tumbler of iced water. He swallowed the cold liquid and gazed across the spread of neatly manicured lawns to a spectacular view northwards over Sydney’s harbour. Sailing boats, ferries spewing smoke and little clinker-built fishing boats dotted the serene, sparkling waters.
‘You did not offer me a drink,’ a female voice said petulantly beside George.
‘You didn’t play well,’ George growled, turning to his tennis companion, Miss Coral Gregory-Smith. She wore a long, lightweight cotton dress to her ankles and the cumbersome dress required by young ladies even when playing a vigorous game such as lawn tennis had hindered her. The hurt expression on her face at the rebuke mattered little to George who hated losing at anything. Before she could reply, he added, ‘We should get changed. Father is having a formal dinner for some guests including my long-lost cousin tonight. I am sure you will enjoy the company.’
Coral turned on her heel and, in an unladylike gesture, tossed her tennis racquet towards a neatly trimmed hedge, muttering tearfully words that a well-bred young lady from a good Sydney family should not know. George watched her stride away and shook h
is head. She was only the latest in a string of socially acceptable ladies he had courted and he wondered how long she would last when she came to learn more about his ideas of carnal pleasure.
When she had reached the doors of the sprawling Macintosh mansion, George pursed his lips in contemplative thought. This house would be his solely one day. Neither his sister, Fenella, nor his younger brother, Alexander, had any rightful claim on the Macintosh estates – at least in his opinion. After all, Fenella swanked around Sydney involved in nothing more than displaying herself to the public, while Alexander was just as weak as his father with his taste for adventure. His siblings had no real interest in furthering the family fortunes and, as far as he was concerned, they would only squander what his ancestors had fought hard to build into a financial empire in the colonies of Australia.
As he stood sipping a second glass of iced water he saw his father in the company of a man George knew from previous visits as Colonel John Hughes, currently detached from the British army. Both men wore expensive suits and walked deep in conversation through the gardens at the edge of the estate as the waters gently lapped against the sandstone outcrops of the tiny, picturesque harbour inlet.
George frowned. His father hardly took any interest in the day-to-day running of the companies anymore, so preoccupied was he with his military duties as commanding officer of a militia regiment in Sydney. He seemed to spend more time in his uniform than in his business suit. George shrugged. Maybe that was a good thing. Now he was virtually the master of all decisions affecting the future of the family companies. So why was it that his siblings should have equal shares in all his hard work? Oh, what he could achieve without having to drag them along.
George placed the empty glass on the silver tray and hefted the racquet over his shoulder. He would go to his room, change for pre-dinner drinks and make idle conversation with his father’s guests. The matter of Arthur Thorncroft’s financial troubles would not be of any interest to his father. In fact, the situation could be used to destroy his sister in a devious way that only George could engineer. Fenella was the apple of his father’s eye; he adored his only daughter. George brooded. Fenella could wrap her father around her little finger. All George had to do was open his father’s eyes to who she really was – or, more accurately, what George would make her.
A smile slowly came to George’s face as he walked towards the two-storey sandstone house with its many lavishly decorated rooms. All he had to do was first take his sister out of the family and then concentrate on how he could remove his brother. Alex was somewhere up in the wilds of New Guinea. Hopefully he would encounter some wild, savage headhunters, even cannibals, thereby solving George’s problems. The idea flashed through George’s mind, comforting him. He knew that his brother and sister were no match for his cunning. Nor was his weak father whose only claim to any fame was his military record, fighting first the Queen’s enemies and later those of the King.
When George approached the front door he was greeted by his father’s personal valet, a former Scottish soldier his father had fought alongside in the Sudan almost thirty years earlier. His name was Angus MacDonald, a tough-looking, broad-shouldered man in his mid fifties. His face was scarred from bar room brawls and his red hair now thinning. Patrick had located the former soldier down and out in a Glasgow slum on a visit to the British Isles ten years earlier and immediately given the former soldier he had shared so much with on the battlefields of Africa a job, raising him from the destitution of a retired sergeant major on a meagre pension.
‘Hello, Angus,’ George said, passing the valet by the door.
‘Sir,’ Angus replied, acknowledging the greeting coldly. ‘I hope you had a good game.’
Angus watched the eldest son of the man he would have given his life for many times over and shook his head. How could the finest soldier he had ever served have spawned such a loathsome creature? But the Scot was privy to many family secrets and well knew that Patrick Duffy had a habit of not wanting to know too much about his eldest son’s private life.
Fenella arrived with Guy Wilkes on her arm and dazzled with her beauty, highlighted by an array of tastefully worn diamonds. She was greeted by her father who made a great show of paternal love. Next in line was George whose coolness towards his sister was cleverly masked by a man in control of his emotions.
‘Hello, Nellie,’ George greeted, without any attempt to kiss her on the cheek. ‘This is Miss Coral Gregory-Smith.’ His partner for the evening was also expensively dressed for the occasion. ‘I believe Coral is an ardent admirer of your films.’
Coral, a very pretty young woman of twenty years, flashed a smile. ‘I have seen all of your pictures,’ she said in a gushing way. ‘I think that you are very beautiful.’
Fenella accepted the compliment and returned the smile warmly. She noticed Coral’s eyes fall on Guy and the young woman continued, ‘I have also seen all your pictures, Mr Wilkes, and think that you are our best actor.’
Guy warmed to the words and pushed forward to take Coral’s hand in his. He did not let her fingers go until a little longer than the necessary time expected by the formalities of introduction.
Fenella glanced across the dining room to see Matthew and Randolph standing side by side looking a little awkward. Both men wore the required dinner suits and she could not think how Matthew had grown even more handsome in the many years since she had last seen him. But then he was hardly more than a fifteen-year-old boy who had escaped the hell of war. Immediately, she moved gracefully across the room to greet him.
‘Hello, Matthew,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘It has been a long time.’ She thought she saw a blush under his deep tan.
‘Nellie,’ Matthew said, accepting her gesture. ‘It is wonderful seeing you all grown up although, I have to admit, I have had the chance to see you on the film screen.’
‘Why did you not keep in contact with us in Sydney?’ Fenella asked, gently chiding him. ‘We are, after all, family.’
‘I, ah . . .’ Matthew fumbled. ‘This is Mr Randolph Gates, a good cobber of mine,’ he said, turning attention away from his cousin’s question. ‘He is also an ardent admirer of your performances on the screen.’
Fenella turned to the man standing beside Matthew. He was tall with a ruggedly handsome face and when he introduced himself she detected his slow American drawl.
‘I think that Guy would have competition from you, Mr Gates, if you ever chose to be in films.’
Matthew was surprised to see how his hard-bitten, harddrinking, two-fisted womanising friend looked suddenly vulnerable at the attention he received from the famous Australian film star.
‘Ma’am, most of my friends call me Texas Slim,’ he replied.
Matthew smirked, sensing that his American friend was smitten by Fenella’s beauty and charm. Both men had travelled the world together and had formed a bond as close as that between blood brothers. In a sense, Randolph had been both father and brother to a young man growing to adulthood without knowing his long-dead American father, the legendary gold prospector Luke Tracy. But Matthew always remained the boss, his mother having first employed the American cowboy before the turn of the century to assist in managing her many cattle properties in Queensland. Like Matthew, Texas Slim was also a veteran of a military adventure, having fought in the American army in Cuba against the Spanish in the brief 1898 Spanish–American war.
Before they could enter into further conversation, Patrick entered the room with Colonel John Hughes, a distinguished-looking man with thick grey hair and a curling moustache waxed at the ends. Both Patrick and John Hughes held the rank of colonel – Patrick being a lieutenant colonel and John Hughes a full colonel, thus outranking Patrick by one level.
Patrick announced dinner would be served and Matthew escorted Fenella to the place at the table marked for her beside Guy Wilkes. In turn, all members and guests of the Macintosh family took their places at the long, polished timber table which glistened under the flic
ker of the rows of candles placed along the centre. Expensive silverware lined the table beside crystal goblets.
When all had taken their place, Patrick stood to give a welcoming speech and reached for his goblet of wine. ‘To the King,’ he said, raising his glass. All stood to raise their glasses in the traditional toast to the monarch. ‘And to those who have in the past given their lives for the Empire.’
A mumbled repetition of Patrick’s words echoed in the large, candle-lit room. Chairs scraped as people resumed their seats. Two maids entered the room to ladel soup into the bowls in front of the guests. Matthew and Randolph had found themselves seated near Patrick and Colonel Hughes. All were soon introduced to each other and the various courses of the evening came and went in an atmosphere of light conversation, jokes and laughter.
As the plates for the final course were cleared away, Patrick once again rose to his feet and cleared his throat. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I think it is time that the men withdrew to partake in cigars and port. Guy and George, I think that you should keep the ladies company so that we do not appear to be just old chauvinists. Thank you.’
Patrick turned to Matthew and Randolph. ‘Gentlemen,’ he quietly said, ‘I think this is the time to have a discreet conversation in my library with Colonel Hughes.’
Patrick closed the door behind him and took down a decanter of port from a shelf. He distributed port glasses and opened a silver box of fine cigars. All four men helped themselves.
‘Take a seat, gentlemen,’ Patrick gestured, his lit cigar in one hand and port glass in the other.
All found large, comfortable, high-backed leather chairs and sank into them. ‘I would like to say how good it is to have you both as my guests,’ he continued, addressing Matthew and Randolph. ‘It is no accident that I should catch up with you after so many years, Matthew.’