by Peter Watt
‘Let us kill him now!’ a young warrior cried nervously to Terituba. ‘Before he can kill us.’
‘No,’ Terituba yelled to his warriors. ‘Not unless I say’ The warriors reluctantly obeyed. It would be so easy to shower the solitary man with spears that were waiting to taste blood.
Ben felt every nerve in his body tingle with the expectation of the bite of a barbed spear. He was gambling for more than his own life – he was gambling for the life of his two boys. He knew from their tracks that they would probably come home via the creek and stumble on the heavily armed party of Kalkadoon. So he was striking first, but with a gesture of friendship and not violence.
He continued to walk directly towards the tallest of the naked warriors who, he guessed correctly, had considerable influence amongst his people now gathered along the dry creek. He was a formidable figure of a man whose broad shoulders and barrel chest rippled with hard muscle.
Ben could see that the warrior fixed him with dark, unfathomable eyes as he approached. When he was about ten paces away Ben halted and placed the two bags at the warrior's feet. He stepped back and gestured with a friendly smile to the flour and sugar and waited with the cold fear of tension that turned his stomach into a mass of wriggling worms.
The dark eyes coolly appraised him for signs of fear – or madness. But neither seemed apparent and Terituba surmised the gesture was one of goodwill.
‘Do not harm this white man. He means us no harm,’ he called in a loud voice to his people. And Ben could sense the change in the atmosphere that seconds before had been loaded with deadly threat.
Women, children and old men drifted cautiously back from the surrounding scrub where they had fled. Terituba lowered his spear and strode towards Ben to examine the two bags at his feet. He knew flour and sugar as they had taken the delicious foods from a teamster's wagon after they had ambushed him a week earlier south of their present campsite.
Terituba prodded the sacks with the point of his spear and grinned at the white man. It was a signal all was well and the children were the boldest of the clan to approach. They reached out and touched the creature they had been taught to fear and who now smiled at them. In turn he was rewarded with shy smiles.
The women fell on the sacks and tore at the bags with the sharp points of digging sticks, squabbling with each over who should get the gift. Striking out with his nulla, Terituba waded amongst the women to bring order to the chaos. They fell back with screeches of protest but waited sullenly until he indicated who should be first to take a share. The men meanwhile stood back, trailing their spears and staring suspiciously at the white man. It was only the temporary benevolence of Terituba that kept him alive.
‘Ben,’ the Jewish cattleman said, pointing at himself. ‘Me Ben.’
‘Miben,’ Terituba repeated and Ben smiled at his interpretation of his name.
‘Terituba,’ the warrior said, understanding that the white man had given his totem.
‘What meat is that?’ he asked.
But neither man understood each other's language and an awkward silence fell between them.
‘Me lukim piccaninny belong me,’ Ben finally said to break the silence. Terituba understood piccaninny. It was a word he had picked up along the trading routes between the widely scattered tribes of Queensland. A word the white men had brought with them and which had been adopted by the tribesmen.
Ben repeated the question, his hand shading his eyes as if searching for something. He pointed at himself. Terituba understood from the pantomime that the man was looking for his children and felt a natural sympathy for him.
‘I have not seen your piccaninny,’ he replied in the Kalkadoon language and, although Ben did not understand the answer, he noticed a sympathetic note in the man's voice. He nodded as if he understood and thrust out his hand to the Kalkadoon warrior chief who eyed the gesture curiously.
Terituba imitated the movement and Ben took his hand and pumped it twice as he thanked the big Kalkadoon. Terituba could only surmise the gesture was a greeting between men of equal stature. It was a strange feeling to be holding the hand of a white man who had not come to kill him.
Then the white man whose strange totem was Miben dropped his hand and turned away. The warriors raised their spears and rattled them threateningly at the back of the man walking from them. But Terituba called to his men to let the white man go unharmed and curiously watched as the man strode along the dry creek bed and the women went back to squabbling over the precious supply of sweet sugar and flour.
Would they meet again, Terituba thought idly as Ben disappeared into the shimmering heat.
When Ben reached his horse which he'd left tethered to a tree he suddenly began trembling with the effects of delayed fear. He leant against the rough bark of a yarran tree from which came the hard timber the Kalkadoon used to fashion spears and boomerangs. For Ben it was a source of fence posts and firewood.
He had gambled with his life and won on the premise that a warrior culture would respect courage and goodwill and knew now that he could go in search of his two young boys without fear of ambush.
By sunset Ben had relocated the tracks of his two sons who had fortunately taken a route bypassing the creek bed and the Kalkadoon camped there. The tracks led back to the hut so Ben wheeled his mount and headed for home.
As he approached the hut just on sundown the barking of the dogs was a welcome sound. The exuberant noise meant that the boys were home.
But his joy turned to a cold fear when he saw Willie stumbling towards him like a drunken shearer at the end of a seasonal pay cheque binge. Tears streamed down the young man's face which was contorted with an inconsolable grief.
With a sharp kick Ben spurred his horse into a gallop towards the young man and Willie screamed his name with the sound of despair that only death could bring.
FOUR
The following morning Patrick woke to a beautiful summer's day.
The clouds had gone from the Irish sky and when he gazed blearily out of the tiny window to his room he saw the true colours of Ireland; a sea of green stretching across heather-like scrub and larch trees standing tall in neatly ordered copses.
In the distance beyond a sparkling blue lake he saw the most prominent feature of the fields: a tree-covered hill rising as a small but distinctive dome.
The tap at his door brought him out of his rapt gaze and before he could answer the door creaked open. A rosy cheeked young woman entered, carefully carrying a wide enamel bowl of hot water. She was about sixteen and the twinkle in her eyes bespoke the amusement she felt at finding the handsome young man in his long Johns as he stood by the window. Patrick's twinge of embarrassment only seemed to amuse the young girl further.
‘I'd be sorry for disturbing you, Captain Duffy,’ she said, obviously unrepentant for catching the young officer in his underwear. ‘But me father thought you'd be liking some hot water to wash up with.’ Patrick blushed even more when he realised the girl was staring unashamedly at his groin. ‘Thank you, Miss …?’
‘Miss Maureen Riley,’ she replied as she set the bowl down on the bed. ‘Bernard Riley would be me father.’
‘Thank your father for me then, Miss Riley, for the hot water.’
‘To be sure it was a pleasure, Captain Duffy, to bring the water to your room,’ she said provocatively. ‘And if there'd be anything else I … my father can do for you, it would be a pleasure.’
Patrick smiled at the young girl's open manner that verged on brazen. She was not beautiful, but pretty, in her plump and healthy appearance: flawless skin with a touch of red in her cheeks and raven hair tied back in a bun. Buxom but with a slim waist over broad hips.
Patrick had no illusions as to what she meant by pleasure. Here, in his room, stood the contradiction to the stifling mores of the Irish church. ‘I will certainly keep your offer in mind, Miss Riley’ he said with a twinkle in his eye that would have been accepted by the young publican's daughter as serious flirting. Miss Ri
ley was unaware of her own sensuality, however, and most likely would not have known what to do if Patrick had pressed the offer.
‘You'd be going to visit George Fitzgerald with Father O'Brien today?’ Maureen said, more as a statement than a question as she glanced curiously around the spartan but clean room.
‘And at what time would that be?’ Patrick countered facetiously.
‘I don't know that,’ she replied innocently, missing his gentle sarcasm. ‘But I suppose that would be after midday as Father O'Brien has things to do until then.’
‘Well then, I suppose I should get on with ensuring I'm ready to go with him after midday,’ Patrick said as a hint for her to leave.
Although Maureen was forward she was not obtuse and she gave him a parting smile as she turned with an inviting swirl of her dress to leave the room.
As priest and soldier strolled along the country lane to George Fitzgerald's house Patrick was beginning to feel ill at ease with the idea of visiting his paternal grandmother's brother.
He knew the story of the elopement of his grandmother with his grandfather and how her father had threatened to kill the Papist upstart who had taken his beautiful daughter from his hearth. Such threats were taken seriously in a clannish land where memories of grudges never died.
The brisk walk was helping to clear his head and the summer's day was spectacular. The two men were an incongruous pair: the tall, broad-shouldered Patrick Duffy and the smaller priest who hurried to keep up with his long, measured, soldier's stride.
They came adjacent to the small dome-shaped, tree-covered mound Patrick had first viewed from the window of his hotel room. ‘The hill? It doesn't look as if it belongs here,’ he commented.
Eamon stopped to stare up at it. In the distance beyond the hill lay the unusually placid but cold Atlantic ocean. ‘I think it was man-made. Possibly a burial mound for a great king,’ he said as a tiny breeze caused his black cassock to flap around his legs. ‘I think it even predates the Bronze Age. Mister Fitzgerald and I have often discussed an exploratory dig on it.’
Patrick did not see the figure until it moved. He shaded his eyes against the unfamiliar glare of the summer's sun low on the horizon. It was mid-afternoon and, without the cloud covering to keep in the heat of die day, die coming night promised to be crisp and clear. His training as a soldier in observing distant movement stood him well and he was able to focus on the figure. It was distinctly female. Even from die distance he could see the long auburn tresses flowing around her shoulders. On either side of her stood two huge shaggy grey hounds.
‘It looks as if there is someone on the hill watching us Eamon,’ Patrick observed casually.
‘Has she hair the colour of fire?’ the priest replied, and Patrick turned to him with a questioning expression.
‘You can see her?’
‘No,’ Eamon answered quietly. ‘But it must be Catherine Fitzgerald. She often haunts that queer place.’
‘She has hair the colour of fire,’ Patrick echoed as he turned to stare across the field at the girl. But just as he turned she disappeared along with the two hounds, into the trees. ‘Ah, she has gone now,’ he said with just a trace of disappointment.
‘A strange girl,’ Eamon commented as they turned away to continue their walk to the Fitzgerald house. ‘She is a love child. Poor girl was born out of wedlock.’ He paused, slightly embarrassed as he remembered the rumours he had heard after mass that morning. Even the breadth of the oceans that divided Australia and Ireland could not hold back gossip. It was rumoured Patrick himself was the result of an illicit union between Catholic boy and Protestant girl.
A silence fell between the two men for a short time. They both realised what had brought the absence of conversation until Patrick broke the embarrassed silence with a question. ‘Who are her parents?’
‘Her mother was George Fitzgerald's daughter Elspeth. God rest her soul. Her father, well, no-one knows as she never did say. She died just after Catherine's birth. George raised her.’
If ever there was a woman who could make Eamon forget his vow of celibacy it was Catherine Fitzgerald. Barely sixteen, she exuded a sensuality he had never before encountered. ‘Ah, but she is a wild one,’ he sighed. ‘She is neither Protestant in practice nor of the True Faith. In fact it is said she is not even Christian but a pagan believer of the old ways of Ireland.’
There was something else Eamon could not quite understand but which disturbed him further. Something beyond the realms of all his religious training. He remembered the stories of the Morrigan, the Celtic goddess of war, death and procreation. And Patrick? He would be the handsome Irish hero Cuchulainn. It was a strange thought which he shook from his head.
Patrick was distracted by the flight of a raven that rose out of the fir trees on top of the hill where the girl had disappeared. Eamon was able to see the young man's eyes follow the flight and he shuddered. Had not the Morrigan turned into a raven and flown from Cuchulainn when they met? The warm mid-afternoon sunshine suddenly had a chill to it.
The two men continued to walk past apple orchards and raspberry bushes until they saw the imposing Fitzgerald manor before them. A huge stone house with many rooms, windows of stained glass and ivy covered walls, it was the house of established Irish gentry of considerable power and old wealth.
‘Captain Duffy, your presence in the village has caused quite some speculation,’ George Fitzgerald said, as he eyed with just a hint of hostility and suspicion Patrick standing beside Eamon. ‘Some say you have come to resurrect the damned Fenians in these parts. That you come in the disguise of one of Her Majesty's officers in a Highland regiment.’
‘Speculation breeds on ignorance, Mister Fitzgerald,’ Patrick replied coolly, his eyes fixed on the man who had been brother to his paternal grandmother, Elizabeth Fitzgerald. ‘I am indeed an officer of the Second Highland Regiment and no sympathiser to the Fenians.’
Eamon O'Brien shifted uncomfortably. It was obvious that old hatreds did not diminish with time and that the tall, gaunt man absorbing the heat from the gentle flames licking at the logs in the huge open hearth still held bitter memories. Had it been a mistake to bring Patrick Duffy to meet his distant relative? ‘Captain Duffy is on leave from his regiment which may be sailing soon to relieve General Gordon at Khartoum, George. He has also served with Sir Garnett Wolseley at Tel-el-Kibir,’ the young priest said to break the icy chill that had descended between the two men in the confines of the old library. He glanced from one to the other and could see they were men of equal standing: the squire of the Duffy village proud and straight; the young Australian erect and arrogant. But the mention of Patrick's military campaigns softened the animosity in the old man.
George Fitzgerald gestured to the old, well-worn leather chairs of his study. ‘My only son was killed while serving as a captain during the Kaffir wars at Isandhlwana, Captain Duffy,’ Fitzgerald said sadly.
He continued to stand with his back to the fire and made no further comment on the matter of his son's death. Patrick knew that some memories did not welcome elaboration and cast a cursory glance around the study.
It was a sombre place crammed with leatherbound books. In the dim surroundings with only a shaft of light illuminating a square of faded carpet at the centre of the room, it was hard to discern the subject matter of the volumes that lined the glass-covered shelves that reached to the ceiling. In the nooks of the library were stuffed birds: owls, pheasants, and an eagle with its wings raised, beak agape as if preparing to defend itself. On a wall was a sepia photo of a handsome young man in the dress uniform of a British infantry regiment, smiling enigmatically at all who entered the room. Patrick presumed it was a daguerreotype of the old man's son as the similarity between the two men was plain to see. ‘I am sorry to hear of your loss, Mister Fitzgerald,’ Patrick replied with genuine sympathy. ‘I wish I had met your son.’
George Fitzgerald nodded stiffly and Eamon could see that some of the icy animosity towards the grands
on of the man he had sworn so long ago to kill was slowly thawing. Old Fitzgerald was appraising his distant relative in a fresh light almost akin to respect. ‘Is whisky and soda your preferred drink, Captain Duffy?’ the old man asked as he made his way across the room to an open roll-top desk crowded with sheaths of loose papers. ‘I know it is Father O'Brien's.’
‘Whisky straight thank you, Mister Fitzgerald,’ Patrick replied.
George Fitzgerald shuffled papers aside to find a newly opened bottle of fine Irish whisky and reached for the soda bottle on top of a bookshelf. He topped two crystal tumblers with the aerated soda water and passed one to his not altogether unexpected guests. News had spread fast from the village of the arrival of Patrick Duffy and George knew it was inevitable that they should meet.
It was rather ironic that the young man who now sat in his library bore the same name as the man who he had vowed to kill for the taking of his younger sister almost a half century earlier. She, the beautiful young daughter of a proud line descended from the Anglo-Norman invaders of the English King Henry II of the twelfth century.
Fitzgerald resumed his place before the hearth and raised his glass. ‘The Queen,’ he intoned. ‘God bless her.’
Patrick responded to the toast. ‘The Queen.’
He noticed that the priest raised his glass in the gesture of the toast but said nothing. ‘Eamon silently toasts the expulsion of the British Crown from Ireland,’ Fitzgerald said with a hint of mirth plucking at the corners of his mouth. ‘We have often discussed the idea of a Republican Ireland and on many points we agree.’
Patrick was surprised at the old man's view and, as if reading his puzzled thoughts, Fitzgerald added, ‘I am an Irishman, Captain Duffy, with as much claim to this land as Father O'Brien. Possibly more of a claim as Father O'Brien has spent most of his life in England. But I suppose, had he not spent his time travelling and being educated in foreign lands, then we may have not been able to reason as we do as educated and rational men.’