The Silent Frontier

by Peter Watt

  Kevin O’Keefe was not alone. Beside him were two men. One, Lachlan had seen the previous week at Hyde Park and knew as Michael Duffy whilst the older, very solidly built man, he did not know.

  ‘Ah, O’Keefe has brought the referee with him,’ Jimmy said. ‘His name is Max Braun and he taught Duffy to fight. Max works at the Erin Hotel with the Duffy family. He will guarantee a clean fight.’

  Lachlan was reassured by this news, as Braun had a fearsome appearance. From his scarred and broken face it was obvious that he had seen many a brawl in his time. When O’Keefe saw Lachlan he waved in a friendly manner. Lachlan returned his opponent’s gesture.

  Max Braun went to the centre of the area left open for the fighters. It was dusty and a silence fell over the spectators as this well-known personage in the world of bare-knuckle fighting took up his position.

  ‘Ladies an’ gentlemen,’ Max said in a guttural way that left no doubt as to his Germanic origins. ‘Today vee haf Mr Lachlan MacDonald challenging Mr Kevin O’Keefe for the purse of tventy guineas. Vinner take all.’ Max raised his hands to indicate that the two fighters should step forward to him.

  O’Keefe stripped off his coat and shirt so that he also stood half-naked in the paddock. Both men were bare-footed and their skin-tight trousers accentuated the muscles in their legs.

  ‘Go and show him how a Scot can fight,’ Jimmy whispered in Lachlan’s ear. ‘Fer the honour of bonny old Scotland.’

  Lachlan moved forward to meet O’Keefe.

  ‘You two must fight clean,’ Max said when the men were face to face. ‘No biting, scratching, kicking or vrestling. I will stop the fight if I think enough is enough.’

  Both men nodded their understanding, intently eyeing each other.

  ‘You start fighting ven I drop the handkerchief,’ Max said, stepping back and holding a red cloth in his hands.

  The cloth fluttered to the ground and a cheer rose up from the spectators. Lachlan stepped back with his hands raised in the classic stance – as did O’Keefe. Lachlan knew only too well that his opponent had a longer reach and a few more pounds of body mass over his own.

  It was O’Keefe who made the first move with a quick left-hand jab for the face. Lachlan parried the punch, knowing it was simply a feint to see how he would react and before O’Keefe could recover from the punch he let fly with a left and right for O’Keefe’s own face. But he did not stop there. Lachlan knew that he must stay in close to his opponent to negate being held at arm’s length. The suddenness of the attack took O’Keefe off balance and he stumbled back with a sudden respect for the unknown young fighter.

  A roar rose from the crowd and Lachlan was vaguely aware of shouts of encouragement. He continued to hammer his opponent with hard, stinging punches to the stomach region. O’Keefe had his guard up and many of the punches slammed into O’Keefe’s forearms.

  Then Lachlan felt the first heavy punches as his opponent found the target of his own head and torso. O’Keefe was dancing away to use the advantage of his longer reach. But the distance also helped Lachlan as the punches had lost some of their sting when they connected. ‘Get in close,’ Lachlan could hear someone in the crowd yell. It was good advice but also a strategy O’Keefe was aware of as he kept Lachlan at bay.

  The fight settled down with Lachlan advancing, throwing a couple of good punches and hurting his bigger opponent, and then O’Keefe countering at a distance to continually sting Lachlan. The stinging effect was beginning to work, as Lachlan felt the attack sap his strength. Torrents of sweat stung the eyes of both men, interfering with their respective techniques.

  After what seemed an eternity, Lachlan suddenly found himself sitting down on a short wooden stool with water being splashed over his body. He was gasping for air and vaguely aware that his nose was broken. Blood washed over his lap with the flow of water.

  ‘Keep in tight,’ Jimmy hissed in his ear. ‘The big bastard doesn’t like yer punches. Yer really hurtin’ him. No one can remember anyone goin’ this long with O’Keefe. Yer just might beat him yet.’

  Lachlan did not know whether he should laugh or cry. Sure, he knew that he was hurting O’Keefe, but not often enough. His only chance was to wear his opponent down, maybe causing him to tire and drop his guard. But it was Jimmy’s last statement that stuck in Lachlan’s mind. ‘Yer just might beat him yet.’ What did that mean? Was he not here this day to beat O’Keefe?

  Before Lachlan could dwell on an answer, the fight was back on, and the slugging began again. But this time it had settled down to punch for punch. Dust rose to cling to the two men and the crowd roared. Blood – from Lachlan’s broken nose and O’Keefe’s split lip – splashed each opponent until they were both sprayed with red. Lachlan could feel the pain in his swollen knuckles and each blow was beginning to be agony. Never before had he faced such a challenge.

  Then it happened.

  Lachlan hardly knew what hit him. An explosion of red stars blurred his vision before the black night came and ended the fight. Lachlan did not hear the roar of approval from the Irish supporters as O’Keefe won by a knockout and remained the undisputed champion of Sydney Town.

  FOUR

  ‘You did very well against O’Keefe,’ an unfamiliar voice said as Lachlan slowly recovered his wits. He could taste blood in his mouth and his head throbbed. He knew he did not want to open his eyes and lay for a moment in his world of hurt. But the worst hurt was the knowledge that he had been soundly beaten in front of Amanda.

  A wet cloth splashed his face, easing just a little of the pain. Lachlan opened his eyes and attempted to sit up, but a hand gently held him down. ‘Take it from me,’ the unfamiliar voice continued, and Lachlan detected the influence of an Irish accent, ‘it is best to get your wits about you before you attempt to take on the world again.’

  ‘Do as Mr Duffy says,’ Jimmy said. ‘He knows what he’s talkin’ about.’

  Lachlan lay for a brief moment before opening his eyes to focus on the ring of faces looking down at him.

  ‘Ah, that looks better. I’m Michael Duffy and I saw you fight O’Keefe. He had the reach and weight on you – but you held him well. You are a real fighter.’

  Lachlan sat up with a groan and with help from Jimmy got to his feet to face the handsome, well-built, tall young man with striking grey eyes. Duffy was around Lachlan’s own age, with a charisma that was palpable. Michael held out his hand.

  ‘Lachlan MacDonald,’ Lachlan said accepting the firm grip. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Duffy.’

  ‘Michael will do. I ought to get old Max to give you some pointers. You tend to fight like someone more used to country pub bouts.’

  ‘You are right on that point,’ Lachlan replied, with a weak smile. ‘I think that was my first and last fight in Sydney.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Michael said. ‘I think that you have a big heart.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lachlan answered, warming rapidly to this virtual stranger. ‘But I think I will not be very popular in Sydney after losing the wagers my friends placed on me for a win.’

  Michael chuckled at Lachlan’s rueful reply. ‘Put it this way, don’t go drinking at the Victory, but you are always welcome at the Erin.’

  Jimmy coughed at Michael’s comment and Lachlan looked at him. There was something strange going on he was not a party to. ‘What does that mean?’ Lachlan asked, glaring at Jimmy, who was unable to look his friend in the eye.

  ‘I got yer a bit of money,’ Jimmy mumbled. ‘Me and the boys kind of bet against yer winning and I put some money on fer you without revealing where it came from. Yer just personally made five pounds by going down to O’Keefe. But it was touch and go fer a moment. It looked like yer just might put him down an we all would have lost our bets. Yer really are good – like Mr Duffy says.’

  Lachlan did not know whether he should punch Jimmy or admire him for his canny financial foresight. He opted for the latter and shook his head with a wry grin.

  ‘Well
done, my good fellow,’ a voice said from the side and they turned to see the immaculately uniformed officer of a British regiment. Beside him stood Amanda. ‘I was hoping to see that upstart Irishman get his just deserts when you faced him off. Here, take this as a token of my respect for a man of courage.’

  The gold coin spun in the dying light of the day to be caught by Jimmy, who immediately handed it over to Lachlan. Caught unawares by both the compliment and the coin, Lachlan did not reply. There was also the distraction of the beautiful face of Amanda appraising him. Lachlan was suddenly conscious that he was covered in blood, dust and sweat, but this did not seem to deter Amanda’s frank gaze.

  ‘Thank you,’ Lachlan finally blurted. ‘I accept your kind words.’

  ‘Well, if you were a part of my regiment,’ the captain continued,’ I am sure that you would be our champion. You have a good, strong Scots name with the shoulders to go with it. Now I shall bid you all a good evening. My sister was cheering for you, Mr MacDonald. She seemed to be very upset at your defeat.’

  With his farewell, the officer turned to walk back to his carriage with his sister, who had remained silent.

  ‘Bloody British,’ Michael spat in the dust. ‘Curse them all to hell.’

  Lachlan could see that Michael Duffy was not a patriot of the English crown but he did not hold this against him. ‘Why?’ Lachlan asked, sensing something personal in the curse.

  ‘It was English officers like Lightfoot at the Eureka stockade,’ Michael replied, turning to face Lachlan with fire in his grey eyes. ‘His kind slaughtered a lot of innocent men that day. I know, my family were there.’

  ‘You were at Ballarat that day!’ Lachlan exclaimed. ‘So was I!’

  Suddenly, the flame in Michael’s eyes was extinguished, to be replaced with brazen curiosity and a kind of empathy. ‘’Tis truly a holy sign of St Patrick and St Andrew,’ Michael said. ‘We were meant to meet.’

  ‘My mother died on the fields from consumption,’ Lachlan continued. ‘My father and oldest brother were killed that day. I was made an orphan and separated from my other brother and sister. I have not seen them since.’

  Michael and Jimmy stared at Lachlan. ‘’Tis a day of strange coincidences,’ Michael said, ‘that we should be here today with the stockade as a common bond. But it is back to the Erin with you, where you will be truly welcomed. Even if you are not of the true faith, there is at least Celtic blood in your veins.’

  He grasped Lachlan’s arm and Lachlan sensed that he had made a good friend in this enigmatic but charismatic Irishman. They both shared the wound of the massacre and, although divided by religion, still shared the spirit of the brotherhood of rebels.

  The return to the Erin Hotel with Michael and Jimmy opened up a whole new set of friendships for Lachlan MacDonald. In the kitchen of the hotel – owned by the gruff Frank Duffy and his kindly wife, Bridget – Lachlan met the rest of the Irish clan including Daniel, who was a leaner, more serious version of Michael, and Michael’s sister Kate. He also got to know Max Braun, who took him through the fight with O’Keefe blow by blow, patiently explaining where it had gone wrong for Lachlan.

  The talk around the kitchen table was accompanied by a bottle of good Irish whiskey and the night soon mellowed into a medley of Irish songs. Lachlan joined in heartily, despite his strict upbringing by Duncan Campbell.

  From Monday to Saturday the following week, Lachlan rued his brief attempt at glory and prize money. His body ached and his broken nose was setting at a slightly awry angle, adding a tougher look to his normally pleasant face. The bruising to his knuckles and face was beginning to fade away and the foreman did not press him hard on the work site – after all, he had made good money on Jimmy’s tip to back O’Keefe.

  By Saturday evening, Lachlan sat in the backyard of the hotel with Jimmy planning their Sunday outing. Jimmy was not surprised to hear his friend suggest that they go to Hyde Park again. It had not gone unnoticed that Lachlan seemed to be a different man ever since meeting Amanda.

  In Melbourne town, John MacDonald well and truly knew the subtle signs, and suspected strongly that he was not alone in his dark and terrible secret. He sat alone at his linen-covered table in the expensive hotel dining room, supping on an excellent pea and ham soup. There was only one other diner.

  John knew the other man’s name, as from time to time they had passed each other in the hotel foyer and exchanged polite greetings. Now John watched the other diner with more than passing interest. He was about ten years older than John, with the fine-boned features of an aristocrat. His face was clean-shaven and his hands manicured. Even in their brief encounters John had noticed the dreamy quality of the other man’s eyes when they exchanged brief glances. They reminded John of the eyes of a poet.

  ‘Why don’t you join me, Mr MacDonald,’ the man suddenly said, as if reading John’s thoughts. ‘We seem to be alone this night.’

  Startled, John almost dropped his spoon but recovered his senses to smile, stand up with his bowl and walk over to the other man’s table.

  ‘Thank you for the invitation, Mr Busby,’ John said, sitting down carefully, lest he disgrace himself by spilling his soup over the table.

  ‘I would rather you call me Nicholas,’ Busby said with a faint smile, ‘if I may call you John.’ He held out his hand and John accepted the gesture, noting how smooth and soft the other man’s hand felt in his own. ‘Despite your dress, speech and manner I suspect that you are nouveau riche,’ Nicholas said, sipping at his soup. Before John could speak to defend himself Nicholas raised his free hand. ‘That is a compliment, my dear chap. Something refreshing, when one considers my origins in merry old England and her class system.’

  ‘You are very perceptive,’ John replied. ‘I am the son of a gold miner from Scotland and my wealth is an inheritance as a result of my father striking it rich and selling out his claim at a good price.’

  ‘Ah, as for my good fortune,’ Nicholas said, leaning slightly back in his chair, ‘I am fortunate enough to be the third son of Lord Busby. Born on the right side of the bed, you might say. But now I am what you colonials call a remittance man, one who has been exiled forever from the fair shores of England to live on a stipend allocated from the family estates.’

  ‘I was under the impression that a remittance man was someone sent out here for some kind of indiscretion.’

  ‘True,’ Nicholas answered with an enigmatic smile. ‘Mine was to resist the temptation to marry well, sire a brood of little brutes and continue the family line in the time-honoured tradition. What is the dark secret of one who originally hailed from Van Diemen’s Land?’

  John was surprised at how much Nicholas knew of his life. It was both flattering and disconcerting at the same time.

  ‘Why would you think that I would have a dark secret?’ John countered uncomfortably.

  ‘Because we all have secrets,’ Nicholas said with that same smug look of knowing. ‘What are your dreams in life?’

  ‘To find my brother and sister,’ John let slip. ‘And make a fortune along the way.’

  ‘Maybe I could be of assistance – at least in the latter part of your dream,’ Nicholas offered. ‘It all depends on how we may find our future relationship in life.’

  John felt his heart skip a beat. His suspicion that the other man was inclined in the same manner as himself was being played out in their little game of verbal cut and parry. From the very first time he had first seen Nicholas in the hotel foyer he had to admit that he had been attracted to him. Now, this beautiful man was practically telling him that the feeling was mutual.

  ‘How could you do that?’ John asked, feeling as if he needed air to breathe.

  ‘If nothing else, my dear father is hoping that I will manage his estates in these colonies with some financial success,’ Nicholas replied, delicately wiping the side of his mouth with a perfectly starched linen napkin. ‘I sense that you are a young man with much talent, despite your origins.’

  Joh
n did not resent the comment, rather he desired Nicholas more than before.

  They finished their soup and the kitchen staff came in to reset the tables for breakfast. Both men retired to their respective accommodation. In the early hours of the morning John plucked up the courage and made his way very carefully and quietly to Nicholas Busby’s room. A gentle tap on the door was all it took to change both their lives forever.

  Lachlan had been invited to share Christmas day of 1862 with the Duffy family at the Erin Hotel and was welcomed as if he were a member of the family. He found himself very much in the company of Daniel Duffy, who was enjoying a break from his training to be a solicitor.

  In the European tradition, Bridget had prepared a feast of roasted vegetables and a haunch of beef. There was even the luxury of a couple of roasted chickens and a huge ham. Lachlan could not remember a Christmas before that he had enjoyed so much. Most of his Christmases had been spent on the dusty tracks outside one little town or other west of the Great Dividing Range.

  Ale and rum flowed throughout the day, while Bridget and Kate worked in a sheen of sweat to keep up to the demand by the hungry and thirsty men. A rich plum pudding covered in yellow custard took them into the evening when Frank Duffy, the publican, broke into nostalgic songs of old Ireland, bringing forth tears to the eyes of both the tough Michael Duffy and his gender cousin, Daniel. Only old Max Braun seemed to be immune to the sentimentality and sat quietly sipping his tots of rum.

  When Lachlan finally staggered home from the evening he found Mrs Woodford uproariously drunk, sitting with the rest of the boarders around the dining room table. It was the one day of the year she allowed alcohol in the boarding house and the empty sherry bottle on the table testified to her indulgence. Lachlan was greeted warmly by his friends and reeled up to his room to collapse on his bed.