by Peter Watt
‘Your return to Sydney is known to my husband,’ she replied. ‘I am afraid the men who work for Manfred report all contacts they make with strangers and my husband was not slow to realise that the big Irishman with one eye who spoke fluent German could be none other than Michael Duffy. You must be more careful, Michael my love.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Michael swore. ‘What else does he know?’
As Penelope took a chair Michael could not help but admire her beauty. Age had not dimmed the aura of her sensuality, he thought. She was no less sexually appealing than when he had shared her silk sheets a decade earlier.
‘I'm afraid my husband fears you have been sent by that horrid Mister Brown to sabotage his mission,’ she answered frankly. ‘You know he has sworn to kill you if you attempt to interfere in his mission.’
‘Claim New Guinea for the Kaiser?’ Michael asked bluntly, and she smiled mysteriously before answering, ‘I never divulge what is spoken of in bed, Michael, as I hope you know and appreciate.’
Fiona glanced from Michael to Penelope.
‘You can assure Manfred,’ Michael said quietly, ‘that I have no intentions of sabotaging his mission. Nor does Mister Brown.’
‘I might believe you, Michael,’ Penelope answered with genuine sympathy, ‘but I doubt I could influence Manfred. He only knows you as a dangerous man capable of anything. Unfortunately he does not know you in other ways, as Fiona and I do.’
‘I mean it, Baroness. I am finished with working for Horace Brown and my life is my own.’
‘I said I believe you, Michael,’ Penelope reiterated. ‘But for your sake you should leave Sydney immediately so nothing will happen to you.’
‘My sake, Penelope?’ Michael asked with a grim smile. ‘Or yours?’
Penelope was quick to seize on his intimation of her relationship with Fiona and she glanced at her cousin. She had come to comfort Fiona with her body and instead had found Michael in her arms. Never before had Penelope felt as uncertain of her cousin's love until now. ‘Yours, Michael,’ she replied, as Fiona's eyes met hers.
No words needed be spoken. Fiona knew from her answer to Michael that Penelope loved her with her body and soul and Michael now stood as an outsider, denied both of them and yet loved by them both.
Michael rose and bid them a polite good evening. His last recollection of the two women who had been so important to his life was of them holding hands as he closed the door behind him.
As he walked away from the cottage Michael realised that a part of his life had been reconciled with his meeting of Fiona this day. Other than the son they mutually shared they had very little else between them. Fiona truly belonged to Penelope and for that he felt no jealousy. What he had felt in the room between the two women was real love, although he had to admit he did not fully understand it. But then, he sighed as he stepped onto the yellow sands and gazed out at the big rolling waves of the Pacific, no man would ever understand the mysterious ways of women. It was an impossibility. Finding Patrick was at least possible.
THIRTY-THREE
Ben Rosenblum slipped from the saddle and led his horse to the stockyards. He passed Jenny's grave and slowed to glance at the little pepper tree struggling to grow. It would need more water, he thought as he walked to the yards. More water and attention.
Life on the property had not been easy for Ben. He needed stockmen who knew the bush and how to find the cattle in the scrub when the time came for mustering. At least with Willie they had been able to cope with the few head he owned. But labour was in short supply; men had been reluctant to ride the lonely tracts of scrub, deep in the heart of Kalkadoon territory, so long as the fierce warriors were still an active force in the district.
Ben looped his reins around a rail and his mount shivered. Myriad bush flies had descended on her sweating flanks. She stamped her foot irritably and Ben understood her bad temper all too well. His was not much better. The loneliness of his isolation was getting to him with each day that passed on his own.
‘Whoa!’ he said softly to his horse as he ran his hand down her flank to calm her. He raised her rear leg to check her hoof as she seemed to be favouring the leg when he rode back. And it was while he was bent examining the hoof that he saw the figure, standing at the edge of the scrub line.
Cautiously Terituba watched the white man he knew as Miben. What would his reaction be? Would he shoot at him on sight as had happened when he had fled with his two wives and two sons from the Godkin Range after the dispersal? The guns of the squatters had taken the lives of one of his wives and one of his sons since that terrible day of the battle. They had been shot down whilst attempting to flee from the mounted bushmen scouring the valleys and gorges of the hills north-west of Cloncurry.
The young warrior realised the hills were no longer a sanctuary and chose to escape east and into the vast tracts of scrub. He retraced the track which had taken him into the great gathering of clans and stumbled onto the Jerusalem property of Ben Rosenblum. And now he knew his only hope to keep his remaining wife and son alive was to befriend the white man. With Miben he felt there might be hope of such friendship; he was a white man who had a good spirit, a brave man who also had children. Terituba watched but made no move and knew that the white man was making an appraisal of him.
Ben straightened casually as his hand instinctively fell over the handle of his revolver. He squinted against the glare of the late afternoon sun. He could see the Aboriginal giant standing alone and very still at the edge of the scrub; the man was familiar. He was the same warrior who had accepted his gift of flour and sugar many weeks earlier. He noted that the Kalkadoon was not carrying weapons and appeared to have sustained a wound to his head. ‘Come here!’ he called to Terituba, and beckoned with a wave of his hand. ‘Got some tucker in the hut.’
Terituba recognised the hand wave as a gesture to approach and grinned nervously as he sauntered across the dusty yard towards the bearded white man who stood with his hands on his hips. ‘Miben,’ he said when he was close. The white man broke into a beaming grin at the Kalkadoon's greeting.
Ben realised the joke was partly on himself. ‘Yeah, Miben,’ he responded, and thrust his hand out to the Kalkadoon.
The grasping of hands between the two men was a communication of spirit and Terituba knew that he had found a white man whose spirit was truly good. He thanked Ben in his own tongue for providing a sanctuary. Ben did not understand the language but understood from the grave tone that what was being spoken was something important.
Then Terituba raised his arm and Ben saw the figures of a young Aboriginal boy and young woman shyly emerge from the scrub. They were obviously hungry, he guessed from their thin appearance.
‘Looks like I've got me a cook, gardener and maybe a stockman,’ Ben chuckled as he examined the trio and led them to the hut.
Two days later a grubby and very weary young Saul Rosenblum stumbled home from his long trek from Townsville. He stood defiantly before his father who could only shake his head in wonder at how his son had weathered the perils of the arduous journey across the plains. Saul explained that he had befriended one of Kate's teamsters, and had promised his labour in return for a trip west to Cloncurry, where he was delivering supplies. The teamster had given him a job helping him with the oxen.
Needless to say, the poorly scribed letter Saul had left with his brother Jonathan would justify his sudden absence from the Cohen house. He had gambled on the fact that his uncle Solomon would understand why he had to return to Jerusalem to help his father with the property.
When Judith had read the letter she reacted by telling her husband that someone would have to ride after the teamster and fetch Saul back. But Solomon's response surprised her. ‘He is a young man now,’ he said firmly. ‘And he must find his own way in the world.’
Judith glared at her husband angrily and sniffed. ‘He is a boy and needs a good education.’
‘He will,’ her husband replied gently. ‘He is a m
an like his father and will learn all he needs to mustering the cattle.’
Not completely satisfied with her husband's attitude Judith turned to Jonathan who stood quietly in the room observing the exchange of views. It was fine for Saul to want to be a cattleman like his father, Jonathan thought, with just a touch of guilt. But in Townsville he would learn and one day become someone important, like a doctor or lawyer, or even a bank manager. He was pleased when his Aunt Judith took him to her bosom and swore that he would be given the best education the Cohens could afford.
Ben Rosenblum did not know how he should react to the sudden reappearance of his son in his life. The boy stood before him without any sign of remorse for his act of disobedience.
‘I ought to take the stockwhip to you,’ he growled.
‘Do that, Dad,’ Saul replied. ‘But don't send me away again.’
For a brief moment they glared at each other until the glare softened in Ben's eyes to be replaced with a moistness he did not want his son to see. ‘Go and get something to eat,’ he said as he turned away to stomp across the dusty yard. ‘Terituba's missus will look after you.’
He stopped halfway across the yard and turned back to his son who had remained watching his father's back as if expecting either a whipping or a kind word from the gruff man he loved so much. ‘It's good to have you back, son,’ Ben added. ‘But you're going to have to work hard if your decision is to be a cattleman and not get a good education in Townsville with your brother and sister.’
Saul wanted to run to his father and hug him with the love he felt for the tall man but knew that would be an admission of childish behaviour. Instead he let his heart skip a beat as he turned away to go to the bark hut where he would meet Terituba's wife and son.
As the days followed Saul found a friend in Terituba's son. Divided by language and race they soon bridged the gulf with their mutual love of the bush. And Terituba and his son were as good as any teachers, in terms of all that the boy needed to learn in order to live in a land which was hostile to Europeans from across the sea.
Ben would watch the two boys chattering happily together in a mix of English and Kalkadoon as they squatted in the shade of the trees near the hut after they had returned from roaming the bush in search of small game for the cooking fire. ‘Maybe the young fella did the right thing in coming back,’ he muttered to himself with a shake of his head. ‘But I still have to make sure he can read and write proper.’ To ensure that happened Ben realised that he would have to teach him the rudimentary rules of arithmetic and the alphabet. Saul needed more than a knowledge of the bush if he were one day to take control of Jerusalem Station.
THIRTY-FOUR
The rain fell with a steady, drumming beat on the tin roof of the ramshackle eating house tucked into a corner of Sydney's Chinese quarter. Men with plaited pigtails sat around cramped tables playing mah-jong. Bamboo and ivory tiles clicked with the sound of twittering sparrows as they were turned and tossed on the tables. Other patrons of the eating house held bowls close to their mouths and tucked into steaming savoury noodles with chopsticks, occasionally glancing with curiosity at the two European barbarians who sat at a table tucked in the corner. Much to the surprise of the proprietor, a thick-set Fukien Chinese whose pale skin glistened with sweat from the heat of the tiny kitchen, the older of the two had ordered in fluent Chinese. The Chinaman's hostile expression changed immediately and he hurried away to prepare his best noodles for them.
When the noodles were placed before them Horace ate slowly but Michael ate with a ravenous appetite. It had been a long time since he had eaten Chinese food.
When Michael finished his third bowl of noodles, subtly flavoured with smoked red pork and vegetables, he wiped his mouth with the cuff of his shirt and sat back to ruminate on the pleasures of food. ‘More, old chap?’ Horace asked, but Michael shook his head. ‘Enough for now,’ he replied. ‘Maybe later.’
Horace placed his bowl on the table and sighed contentedly. ‘One misses the delights of Fukien cooking,’ he commented, and wiped his mouth with a clean handkerchief. Napkins were not an item in the eating house. ‘I could die happy at a Chinese banquet.’
‘That bad?’ Michael asked bluntly, and Horace nodded.
‘That bad, old boy,’ he replied sadly.
‘Is that why you called off my mission here in Sydney?’ Michael asked softly.
Horace stared at him. ‘In a way,’ he finally answered. ‘But the proximity of one's own demise makes a man think on the importance of what he has done. Or is doing. When Godfrey telegrammed me the news concerning your son's reported missing in action I had cause to sit down and question my life.’ He paused as the proprietor sidled over to their table and asked Horace if he would like another helping. Horace politely waved him off but praised his cooking. The man appeared pleased and when he was gone Horace continued speaking softly. ‘I suppose if I was a religious man I might liken my experience with the telegram to that of Saul on the road to Damascus when he was struck down by divine revelation. I suddenly realised how inane all that we are doing is. For a lifetime I had tried to alert my colleagues in London that Germany was a real threat to Her Majesty's interests in this part of the world. But all I ever received in response was apathy. Here we were! A far-flung convict colony of no real consequence to England, except to rush to her aid with troops when the lion roars for help. And then there was your son. Colonial born, a sacrifice to the faceless grey men oblivious to everything except the grandisement of England.’
‘Your talk is almost akin to treason, Horace,’ Michael interrupted gently. ‘You talk as if you were a colonial, rather than a true Englishman.’
Horace smiled sadly at Michael's chiding remark. ‘I think I have been too long in the colonies, Michael. My loyalties are blurring … have blurred,’ he corrected. ‘I now see a people who desperately wish to impress Mother England with how grown up they are. But Mother England can be a callous bitch. She will use their misguided loyalty to fight her future wars. Her proud, tall Tommy Cornstalks will shed their blood to fertilise foreign fields where they will be quickly forgotten by the English public. That time will come. Mark my words. Maybe not in our lifetime. But the time will come. It will come as inevitably as von Fellmann claiming northern New Guinea for the Kaiser. And the first Australians to die will die fighting in the same territories the British government has given away in their blind and stupid apathy towards the interests of this land.’
‘You feel what we have been doing is a waste of time then?’ Michael asked. ‘That my work over the last ten years or so comes to nothing?’
Horace reached over the table and patted Michael's hand reassuringly. ‘Not at all, dear boy’ he sighed. ‘At the time it all made sense. And we tried to change things. But, in the end, it meant little to other people, though not you and I.’
‘I never really worked for your interests,’ the Irishman admitted bitterly. ‘I suppose I got hooked like some bloody fish on the money and the only way of life I'd grown to know. An Irishman loyal to British interests. Hah!’
‘Despite your personal feelings you risked your life on more than one occasion for us,’ Horace replied. ‘But now it is time that I went home to England's green fields and you went in search of your own life. George Godfrey has told me about Lady Macintosh's proposal to you concerning the search for your son in the Sudan. When do you leave?’
‘Three days. I'm taking a ship to the Suez. From there I will travel down to the Sudan to meet with the general staff. The Colonel has letters of introduction for me.’
‘Good old George. Not many people he doesn't know on the general staff,’ Horace mused as he stared across at the mah-jong players. ‘What will you do when you have found your son?’ he asked. ‘Return to the colonies?’
‘When I've found my son, I will finish something I set out to do a long, long time ago.’
‘Become a painter?’ Horace guessed. And Michael nodded. ‘You should always strive to use the little time yo
u are granted in life to pursue a dream. Eventually dreams fade and we face the eternal dark sleep of death. I know.’
‘I'll tell you something, Horrie,’ Michael said with the flash of a grim smile as Horace winced at the deliberate vandalism of his name. ‘You might have been a cunning bastard with the Queen's interests at heart but I kind of got to like you.’
Horace blinked and accepted the compliment as the highest the Irishman could pay him. True friendships had a way of transcending national boundaries and politics. ‘For that I thank you, Michael Duffy,’ Horace replied, forcing himself not to choke on any display of emotion. ‘But I feel we should part while we are saying these things to each other in a state of complete sobriety. Anymore said might embarrass us both.’
Michael grinned at the frail little Englishman sitting opposite him. ‘You're right, Horrie,’ he said mischievously. ‘I guess your invitation to this godforsaken part of town was not an accident.’
‘No,’ Horace said as they both rose from the table. ‘I believe our Oriental host will be familiar with the places where I might purchase the fruit of the poppy. I have a need to dream the sweet dreams of the living.’ He leant on his walking stick and thrust out his hand to Michael who took the fragile, veined palm in his, firmly but gently. ‘You know something, dear boy,’ Horace said quietly. ‘If you ever call me Horrie again I will take this bloody cane to you.’
Michael laughed and his good eye twinkled. ‘You are far from dead, Horace, when you can still make threats. I happen to know your cane has a sword blade concealed inside.’
Horace smiled. ‘Damned right, dear boy. I'm not dead yet.’
Horace watched Michael leave the cramped eating house and step into the steady fall of rain on the dark street where he pulled up the collar of his coat and hunched his broad shoulders against the driving rain.
Horace was about to turn to the Chinese proprietor of the eating house when he noticed a furtive movement in the shadows opposite the shop. Through the wall of rain three men suddenly materialised and surrounded Michael. They gripped his arms before he could reach for his pocket Colt.