‘You have my word as a gentleman. It will remain in your hands, not Severin’s. And because it is legally mine, Severin can never lay hands on it.’
Jean-Baptiste leapt up from the sofa and to Felix’s consternation, kissed him warmly on both cheeks. ‘Monsieur L’Estrange! You are the genius!’
They wasted no time in convincing the clerk that that painting was indeed for sale. Felix presented a cheque that would go a long way to wiping out Bonnard’s debt.
As he walked to the iron gates of Henrietta Villa, Felix felt light of heart.
This is the first time I’ve spent Father’s money on a noble cause. Father is no hypocrite. He will approve of my protection of a woman’s name – given that for years he’s done his best to protect his mistress, Jane Quayle.
The thought of Mungo brought a twist of jealousy. No matter how hard I try to be the perfect son, the Prodigal Son will always rank first in Father’s eyes.
• • •
On the return journey to Severin House, Vianna remained silent until her fury broke free. ‘You betrayed me, Severin. I shall never forgive you.’
He remained sanguine. ‘Oh yes, you will, m’dear. I kept my promise. I have transformed you into the most talked about woman in the whole Colony. The legend of Vianna Francis, the Sydney Town Venus, has now begun – thanks to me.’
His smile was that of a man who held the master card. ‘Tonight, Vianna, I expect you to be very grateful.’
Chapter 10
Mungo was seated on a fallen tree trunk, absorbed in working on the diary that he had been assigned to record under Dr Gordon’s instructions the descriptions, sketches and exact locations of the species of trees, plants and rocks they had examined and taken samples of during the past days of their expedition.
Dr Gordon was pleased that they had not only confirmed Logan’s previous identification of the ironbark, blue gum, box and apple eucalypts, and as yet unnamed trees with a broad leaf, but had also added an impressive number of new butterflies for Mrs Logan’s collection.
Mungo accepted that Sandy had no choice but to obey orders to follow in the wake of Logan’s group, which consisted of his servant, Private Collison of the 57th Regiment, three prisoners who were seasoned bushmen, their horses, plus two pack bullocks carrying food, weapons and ammunition.
To Mungo their own little band of two men on horseback, one being an invalid leader, plus an old packhorse loaded with rock specimens and botanical equipment, seemed like the scrag end of Captain Logan’s distant armed party of soldiers.
The contrast was ironic. Thanks to Sandy’s Quaker beliefs, all I’ve got to defend us is my sheath knife.
Not that Mungo had any cause for complaint. He knew this exploration was Logan’s final bid for glory before he and his 57th Regiment set sail for their next posting. India’s gain is our gain – that’s almost as good as having the bastard dead.
Free from leg irons and under Sandy Gordon’s benign leadership, Mungo could taste the freedom in his mouth. The October air was balmy, the haunting rainforest of such wild, exotic beauty that Mungo was entranced. This is God’s own country. If I hadn’t got myself transported up here, this is the place I would have chosen to settle with my bride and raise a family of little Quayles. But if I live long enough to finish my sentence, I won’t come back in a hurry. Too many ghosts.
In the days following the meal of Diamond Python, Mungo had promised wallaby stew and baked lizard, but was relieved when his leader opted for the veritable feasts of barramundi which Mungo caught daily. In the days to come Mungo was to remember this time as their last period of relaxed, shared laughter.
He began to feel a dark shadow had fallen across their path. He sensed that Sandy’s tension had escalated in an exact parallel with his determination to press on, despite earlier warnings about the natives’ growing hostility to Logan’s invasive journeys into their tribal land.
Mungo noticed how Sandy flinched each time they heard the echo of musket fire. Fragile in health as he was, the doctor was no coward. But it was clear he seriously doubted the wisdom of Logan’s orders: to fire over the natives’ heads to frighten them off whenever they encountered them deep in the bush. The blacks were so adept at making themselves invisible it was impossible to tell their numbers, or whether they might be surrounded by them at any given time.
As sunset inflamed the sky in streaks of tropical colour, Mungo wrote up the details of the day’s tasks and findings, trying to gauge their position in relation to the names on Logan’s last hand-written survey map, now tattered and travel-stained. Evocative, tantalising names spread out across the paper, including Limestone Hills, Lockyer’s Creek, Pumice Stone River, Glass House, Mount Warning. Some were originally named by Captain James Cook on his voyage of discovery, others no doubt by Logan to curry favour with Governor Darling, such as the Dumaresq River, in honour of Mrs Darling’s brothers.
Mungo tried to appear confident but honesty began to get the better of him.
Where the bloody hell are we? On some wild goose chase between Moreton Bay and Logan’s new Limestone Station? Or out the back of beyond? No doubt Logan knows exactly where he is, but I exaggerated my bushcraft skills so Sandy would choose me to assist him.
Mungo grew steadily uneasy and was finally forced to admit defeat. ‘I’ve studied this map and I’m bushed. Do you know where we are?’
Sandy drew on his pipe. ‘By my reckoning we’re camped on the Limestone side of the river. We can’t be too far behind Logan. I suggest you and I take turns at sentry duty tonight. I suspect we’re none too welcome here.’
On Mungo’s watch he spotted the outline of three black shadows on the far side of the river. These were no ghosts. They were natives, armed with spears. Then he saw that they were accompanied by a half-naked man whose skin was much lighter than theirs. This and his reddish hair clearly identified him as one of the escaped prisoners rumoured to have thrown in their lot with the blacks in the bush to learn how to live off the land and increase their chances of survival. After Mungo aroused Sandy from a deep sleep, he quietly briefed him of their presence. They remained on watch together throughout the night. At first light they breakfasted on water and dry biscuits rather than risk lighting a fire to make tea.
‘We need to get our bearings. No doubt, being a seasoned bushman, you can climb that tree?’ Sandy said, with only a touch of sarcasm.
The tree in question was a giant pine, so tall its lowest branches were a hundred feet above the ground. Mungo gave it a casual glance. Vertigo flashed into his thoughts, but there was not much choice. ‘No sooner said than done, Sandy.’
He had seen Aborigines climb trees like this as effortlessly as he could walk on two legs, but he would need a bit of help. He tied one end of a rope around his waist, knotting the other loosely around the trunk of the pine. He manoeuvred himself upwards in a series of jerky stages, his feet braced against the trunk. Like a game of snakes and ladders, he sometimes lost the short distance he had gained, but pressed on until he reached his goal – the first branch strong enough to bear his weight.
‘Good lad, you’ve obviously done this many times,’ Sandy said with pride. Mungo didn’t have the heart to tell him it was the first time.
From his position in the ‘crow’s nest’ of the tree, he was rewarded with a panoramic view of the valley. In the middle distance were some two hundred natives, at a rough count, who covered a hillside like a dark blanket. On the near side of the river was a lone figure on horseback, the arrogant red-coated figure of Patrick Logan attempting to cross the river. As always he led the way, well in advance of his party.
Is Logan fearless – or just plumb crazy? But who am I to call any man crazy?
‘Can you see anything, Sean?’
‘Plenty.’ Trying to fight off the waves of vertigo, Mungo described the scene to the now diminutive figure at the foot of the tree, who was clearly frustrated at having the scene relayed second hand.
Mungo was jolted in his preca
rious seat by what seemed like a sudden clap of thunder, but the sky was cloudless. He soon identified the cause. The blacks were rolling large stones down the path that Logan was attempting to take. Finally, he was forced to fall back to wait for his party to catch up with him. Mungo heard a warning shot fired by one of Logan’s party, evidently designed to frighten off the natives. It had no effect. Not one of them moved. They continued to shout their warnings and shake their spears at the sky.
‘Logan’s managed to cross the river. The blacks keep yelling at him, “Commidy Water”. Can you hear them?’
‘Aye, but what the devil does it mean?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe Commidy is their way of trying to pronounce Commandant. Whatever, it seems clear they’re warning Logan to back off. Go back across the water – to where he came from.’
Mungo felt annoyed by Logan’s blind determination to proceed. ‘The blacks are disappearing into the bush but I suspect they’re following him at a distance. Logan won’t even know they’re there.’
He described point by point how Logan’s party reached the river, exchanged signals with their captain and proceeded in a different direction.
‘I can’t be sure but it seems Logan has ordered them to join him later at Limestone Station – that’s the general direction they’re headed. What do we do now?’
Sandy was adamant. ‘It’s Logan’s expedition. I have no orders to the contrary, so we will continue to base our camp here and unlikely as it is, search for any other traces of the Basaltic formations he believes he will find at Mount Irwin.’
After a bout of coughing that left him depleted, Sandy added under his breath. ‘Let’s hope Logan finds his missing horse. Then we can pack up and return to Moreton Bay. I could do with a hot bath.’
Mungo kept his thoughts to himself. In that case let’s hope Logan doesn’t find it! I’d rather take my chances out here in the bush than back at Moreton Bay.
Relieved to be back on terra firma, Mungo lit a small campfire and boiled the billy for tea. The chance sighting of a gloriously patterned butterfly left them both speechless.
‘Catch one of those beauties and you might well earn your freedom, Sean,’ Sandy said with a straight face. He added, ‘I canna face another tin of salted beef but as much as I admire barramundi you’re not to risk fishing in case you’re spotted by the blacks.’
Mungo rose and patted the sheaf knife at his belt. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll come up with something.’ He turned and looked back at the Scotsman whose breathing was laboured. ‘How do you know I won’t make a bolt for it?’
‘Because you’re nae a fool,’ Sandy said easily. ‘Why risk your chance to be set free?’
Mungo strode off, his usual sense of freedom at being alone in the bush shadowed by a sense of dark foreboding.
• • •
Time had ceased to exist. All sense of distance had evaporated. He was swallowed up by the luminous wet vines and branches of the rainforest jungle, so thick he was unable to glimpse more than splintered ribbons of sunlight though the dense canopy of the forest, the silence broken only by his staggering footsteps and flocks of brilliantly coloured parrots screeching in flight. And the occasional snake, hanging from a tree, uncoiling itself to several times longer than his height to drape like a vine, its bright red eyes watching him, ready to strike if he threatened it.
Mungo pushed doggedly through the undergrowth, lost in time and space and only dimly aware that somewhere within its timeless womb he had lost his identity. There was no door to his past or future, his memories wiped clean as if he had just been born – or had died. Dumb with fear that seemed to fill his whole frame, he could smell the scent of death around him. Not simply lost in the bush, he was lost to the world. Abandoned by memories too dark to revisit, his mind and emotions were whittled down to one primitive instinct – survival.
Hunger gnawed at his gut. Unable to eat anything but berries that beckoned him with their unknown promise of sustenance or poison, he dripped water into his mouth from the waxy cups of leaves. Unable to sleep, instinct telling him that to lie down in this jungle would be to dig his own grave.
Grave. He shuddered at the forbidden images in his mind and used his knife to slash back the jungle and desperately forge a new track in a final attempt to contact human life – or be drowned in oblivion. Lost beyond recall.
Even his ghosts would not find him.
• • •
Mungo was conscious of a face peering down at him as he lay sprawled in the undergrowth. He dimly made out the features. A black man’s face. He was holding a spear in his hand, but his deep-set eyes were curious rather than threatening.
Mungo found himself hoisted to his feet, his arm looped around the naked black shoulder as he half stumbled and was half dragged into a clearing, the bank of a river flooded with sunlight that hurt his eyes.
He saw the black arm pointed at the other side of the river, and before he could dredge a word of thanks from his parched throat, the dark shadow had disappeared into the bush.
Mungo saw a thin thread of smoke from a campfire and crawled towards it.
I’m going to live. Then all was dark oblivion.
• • •
He awoke to find himself lying on a soft surface under a mosquito net, the smell of hot soup being offered to him in a pannikin. A familiar face bent over him, the eyes wrinkled with concern.
‘Sandy? Is that you?’
‘Aye. I’m relieved to see you’ve decided to rejoin the human race.’
‘I didn’t bolt. Just got lost for a few hours – but I always knew where I was,’ he lied.
‘A few hours and the rest! You were missing for two days. You’ve just slept around the clock. I knocked you out with a sleeping potion – so I could treat your wounds.’
Mungo nodded dumbly and ate everything placed before him. He was ravenous and didn’t want to waste words trying to describe the lost hours.
‘Where’s my shirt?’ He asked, realising he was wearing one that belonged to the doctor, too small to fasten.
‘It was covered in blood, Sean. You were a right mess when you staggered in, clutching your knife as if ready to defend yourself. Where have you been?’
Mungo flinched, unable to form the words. He was saved from answering by the sound of a horse galloping towards them, its rider wearing a red coat. An exhausted young soldier dismounted and delivered a garbled message sent by Logan’s servant.
‘Collison’s orders are to join the search party. Captain Logan’s gone missing.’
Sandy sprang to his feet. ‘What? When did this happen?’
‘He hasn’t been sighted since he crossed the river and rode off alone in the direction of Mount Irwin. Later his party thought they heard him cry ‘Coo-ee’. Several times they called Coo-ee in response. They fired several shots during the night. Next day they followed the tracks made by Logan’s horse. Sixty or more blacks shouted at them, armed with spears, shields and waddies, but no shots were fired.’
The corporal gratefully downed a pannikin of water, followed by a noggin of whisky, then continued.
‘It’s all confused. Some of his party returned to Limestone Station expecting to find him there, as arranged. No sign of him. I joined another search party. Miles away we found the Captain’s saddle lying near the remains of a fire. The stirrup leathers were cut asunder, the stirrup irons gone.’
Mungo exchanged a startled glance with Sandy, reminded of his story of Stimson’s ghost touching the stirrups of Logan’s horse.
The young soldier tried to resume an air of command. ‘We need every man available, Doctor.’
‘Aye, we’ll join in the search immediately.’
Mungo wasted no time in breaking camp, driven by a second reserve of energy. His silent glance at Sandy told him they were of like minds. Are we searching for Logan – or his corpse?
• • •
Mungo rode at Sandy’s side. The search party, headed by Surgeon Cowper, led them into the clea
ring. Native grasses had been eaten away in a circle where a horse had been tethered. Roasted chestnuts lay in the embers of a fire in the stump of a tree. The leaves of Logan’s notebook were scattered by the wind.
The saddle had been found elsewhere. Signs of hoof prints and footprints indicated he had leapt bareback on his horse to make his escape. There was a heavy silence when a soldier discovered Logan’s bloodstained waistcoat.
Mungo was some distance away when Cowper discovered the dead horse. Half submerged in the mud of a creek, its carcass was covered by tree branches. The smell of rotting horseflesh was overpowering at close range. A broken spear lay on the opposite bank.
Mungo was conscious of guttural cries of grief and anger around him but he froze at the discovery of Logan’s body. It lay face down in a shallow grave, the back of the head pulverized as if by a native waddy. From the stench of the corpse and the tropical heat it was obvious Logan had been murdered days earlier.
Cowper briefly examined the body. Sandy’s face was taut and grey as he watched the soldiers wrap their brother officer’s naked body in a blanket and carried it away on horseback.
Mungo could offer no genuine words of sympathy so he rode in silence by Sandy’s side.
On their return to Moreton Bay the night air was rent with the jubilant cries of prisoners who sang and chanted as if drunk on revenge. Bets were taken as to whether Logan was murdered by blacks or bolters.
All Sandy said was, ‘I dinna believe his murderer will ever be brought to trial.’
Mungo refrained from adding his voice to the mob’s, mindful that Logan’s widow was Sandy’s kin. He consoled himself with the ironic thought: Clunie can hardly shoot the whole six hundred of us for celebrating the death of a tyrant.
• • •
Standing on the wharf, once more shackled by leg irons, Mungo watched the coffin bearing Logan’s body carried on board the government schooner Isabella. Despite the state of her husband’s body making immediate burial advisable, Mrs Logan refused to have him buried at Moreton Bay and insisted on accompanying his body to Sydney. Sandy Gordon stood beside Mungo, dressed in a dark suit, the first time Mungo had seen him in formal attire.
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