Eagle on the Hill

by JH Fletcher

  So she gave him a beaming smile and headed for the upper deck to let Martin know before Charlie changed his mind.

  At the top of the stairs she paused. The hot air shimmered above the funnel; she could feel the boat trembling with the power pent in the shining boiler.

  Within minutes they’d be heading up the river. How many times had they done it? A hundred times? Five hundred? She had no idea, knew only that each trip, in its own way, had been a voyage of discovery.

  After one voyage Luke had been born; in the middle of another it had been Alex’s turn. What a performance that had been, with Petal jumping about like a flea and the wind building. Charlie had told her afterwards he’d thought Brenda would sink and they’d all be drowned. Thank God she hadn’t known it at the time. To go through that performance for nothing … It didn’t bear thinking of.

  Now Luke was seventeen and Alex fifteen and a half. Luke had flown the nest and it wouldn’t be long before Alex followed. Where had the years gone? Sarah stared over the side at the current swirling around the hull. Into the river, that was where. Into work and anxiety and joy.

  A life, like any other. All you could do was your best, and try to make things as good as possible for those coming after you, hoping they would remember you with kindness. It was eternity, of a sort. She started to dream about Alex and Martin. That, too, was eternity.

  ‘Stop it!’ she scolded herself. ‘It’s their life, not yours.’ She walked on briskly, putting all the nonsense behind her. How Charlie would laugh if he knew she’d been mooning about, thinking of eternity on the upper deck! He’d dunk her head in the river, most likely, to cool her off.

  She rapped on the door of the cabin where Martin was waiting for Charlie’s decision.

  ‘Martin!’ she called. ‘You’re wanted.’

  CHAPTER 71

  Three days later, shortly before noon on 15 December 1896, a meeting took place in the large drawing room of Eagle on the Hill, between three men whose relationship was based more on self-interest than affection.

  Nowadays George Grenville was old and buckled but as hard as he’d ever been, with a mouth that might have been stamped from the copper that was the basis of his fortune. He had travelled from Adelaide especially for this meeting, which was of more than usual importance.

  Now George sat at the head of the mahogany table that his servants had carried into the room for the occasion. On his right was a man with a well-fleshed face and pugnacious jaw. Sir Thomas Sutton, politician and tycoon, had been a well-known — some would have said notorious — figure in the land for thirty-five years. He had come to Eagle on the Hill to discuss a sharing of interests between the Clarence Bank, of which the Grenville family was a major shareholder, and his own Victorian National Bank. The third person present was Rufus Grenville, the man upon whose able shoulders — or so Sir Thomas said, in the pompous phrases beloved of politicians — lay the burdens and opportunities of the future.

  The meeting was being held at Eagle on the Hill at Sir Thomas’s specific request, because he wanted to take a careful look over the wine farm. It made things difficult; bank officials had been obliged to come all the way from Adelaide with the sheaves of figures and reports that Sir Thomas demanded. It was inconvenient for George, too, whose age was beginning to make the journey especially trying, but there was no help for it. As Rufus was quick to point out, a merger with the National would give the Clarence Bank the access to the eastern colonies that it presently lacked.

  Rufus had been all for the deal. George still had deep reservations about his son’s business judgment, which he thought had grown no better with the years, but time was taking its toll and he knew he’d soon have to hand over control, like it or not. Now seemed as good a time as any to begin the process.

  Sir Thomas scrutinised the figures with the ruthless eye of a tyrant. He raised endless questions. At last he expressed himself satisfied. The officials withdrew.

  And of course the National Bank is far too well known for us to go through the same procedure with his figures, George thought sourly. No doubt Sir Thomas Sutton, well known for keeping his secrets to himself, would be offended if we even suggested it.

  Which Rufus seemed in no hurry to do. Well, so be it. It was his call now.

  Nevertheless George wasn’t a man to bite his tongue indefinitely. He sensed that their visitor was close to proposing a deal. At such times he liked to change the subject, to imply he had little interest in the matter under discussion.

  ‘I see the new pyritic smelter at Mount Lyell is doing well,’ he said.

  But Sir Thomas was too wily a bird to be trapped by such tricks. ‘We were discussing Eagle on the Hill,’ he said, ‘and the list of bank debtors.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘A significant proportion of the bank’s assets are propped up by this estate. How healthy is that, when you don’t have your own factory?’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ said Rufus. ‘It’s a question of finding the right site.’

  Rufus was wary of this ruthless man, with his reputation for double-dealing, yet admired him too, and was proud that a chance meeting had enabled him to bring Sir Thomas to Eagle on the Hill. To prosper, the Grenvilles had to grow, and Sir Thomas, with his contacts and energy, was just the man to make it happen.

  ‘The factory has to be your first priority,’ Sir Thomas said. ‘That block is ideally suited. What’s to stop you building there?’

  ‘Only that it’s not our land,’ George explained.

  ‘But if you’ve paid a deposit …’

  ‘There’s a question of whether it was a deposit or a loan.’ George glared at his son; he had not forgiven him for making such a botch of the Keach business. ‘And there’s a history between ourselves and the present owner. He’s a tough nut.’

  ‘Even the toughest nut can be cracked,’ Sir Thomas said. ‘Doesn’t he have a loan with the Clarence Bank?’

  ‘That is true. But —’

  ‘Then call it in, man. Call it in.’

  Mary Grenville came and summoned them to lunch. George had issued his instructions before the meeting started. ‘If we’re not careful that man’ll talk all day,’ he’d told her.

  Not that lunch did much to stop Sir Thomas Sutton. ‘A merging of funds will bring both our banks huge returns,’ he declared. He chewed his beef and swallowed, leaving a suspicion of blood at the corner of his mouth. ‘Toughness, that’s what we need. The vision to see clearly and the will to take the future by the throat.’ He tapped the table with his knife, for emphasis. The future was a prime steak, to be devoured with gusto.

  Rufus, for all his air of nonchalance, was listening to Sir Thomas very closely. The banker’s advice made sense. They needed to consolidate, particularly with Martin showing no interest in the business, and Mary, despite his most valiant efforts, having failed to produce another son. Get big enough, the future would take care of itself. Sir Thomas was right about the land, too. Armstrong was the obstacle, but he was in debt to the Clarence Bank and therefore exposed. It was not only beef that could bleed.

  CHAPTER 72

  Martin had expected that the journey up the Murray in Alex’s company would be Heaven, but in some ways it was more like hell.

  After Sarah had told him he could go with them on Brenda, he had walked along the wharf to pass the news to Bill Priest, Majestic’s captain. He hadn’t gone aboard for fear Bill might not let him off again. Instead he had spoken to the captain from the wharf.

  Priest had stared at him. ‘What’s your dad gunna say?’

  ‘Why should he say anything?’

  ‘Goin’ upriver with the Armstrongs? You gotta be jokin’.’

  The whole river knew of the feud between the families. But Bill Priest had no intention of interfering. Kidnap the boss’s kid? That’d be the day.

  ‘Mr Armstrong said to let you know,’ Martin said.

  ‘We’re honoured. I’ll wait for you in Evans. Might be best if you do the last stretch wit
h me. If that’s all right with Mr Armstrong.’ He laughed harshly. ‘An’ good luck with the girl. How old is she?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Martin, very much on his dignity.

  ‘Sweet at any age, eh? Word of advice: you get in her pants, don’ let her old man find out. They say he murdered his own brother. Make sure you’re not next.’

  So up the river Brenda went. Martin was anxious to do his share of the work and Charlie did not disappoint him.

  ‘We got no room for passengers.’

  The next morning, true to his word, Charlie sent Martin ashore in a downpour to bring logs from a woodpile. It was hard work when you weren’t used to it and had to take care of your hands, but Martin was young, willing and as strong as most, despite what Charlie called his arty-farty ways, and he managed fine.

  He had less luck when they opened the store to get ready for the selectors. He got under everyone’s feet until Sarah told him to push off and bother someone else.

  That left only Charlie, and Martin had no intention of bothering him. Instead he stood on the foredeck, out of everyone’s way, and watched the gum scrub going past and wondered about the people who lived there.

  It was strange to think how it was not only the black people who led separate lives but the white ones too, how all along the river there were people whose lives were so completely different from his own.

  He remembered that Mrs Trask had told him about the settlers when he was a child, how they led such hard, lonely lives, cut off from the world, and what a big event it was when the riverboats arrived.

  He tried to visualise what such an existence must be like. As so often, his imagination expressed itself in terms of music. He thought the first movement of Beethoven’s F Minor piano sonata would be an apt mirror of their lives: dark and mysterious, yet illuminated by moments of a passionate joy.

  One evening, after dark, he stood with Alex at Brenda’s rail, looking out at the river while he tried to put his feelings into words.

  ‘I don’t know any of the selectors, but I feel them. My family has more money but the selectors are just as important as they are. More so, perhaps.’

  ‘It’s the rich ones run things,’ pragmatic Alex pointed out. ‘People like your father.’

  ‘Maybe they do, but it’s being alive that matters, not how much money you’ve got.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘I know what I mean but I can’t say it.’

  ‘One day you’ll say it through your music,’ Alex replied.

  Her words startled her a moment after she’d spoken them, yet she knew she had stumbled on the truth. To Martin, music was far more than recreating sounds written down by other men. It was the means whereby he related to the world: to selectors, squatters and Aborigines, the river and trees, the blue sky and golden cliffs, the birds, animals and fish, to every aspect of life. Perhaps even to herself.

  It was wonderful to be with this man who was able to articulate so much of life through music, and to feel herself one with him. It made her both humble and fearful that she would never fully understand him. She felt something else, too: a hollowness in her stomach, a sense of weakness when he looked at her in the starlight, as though her legs were about to melt under her. She had never known it, yet recognised it at once. For the first time in her life she felt desire.

  She said as much to him, not in words — not for life itself could she have done that — but by the way she smiled back at him, the way her eyes outshone the stars.

  And that was the hellish aspect of the journey. To be so close yet apart was agony for them both.

  Yet even with her parents watching there were times when they managed to be alone together.

  One night, with Brenda moored to the bank, Alex and Martin climbed the steps to the upper deck on their way to bed. The darkness was noisy with the chinking of frogs. As Alex walked ahead of him, Martin was filled with an almost painful desire to kiss her. When they reached the door to her cabin he put his hand on her shoulder. She turned to him and he held her tightly to him, clasping his arms about her.

  After a minute she drew back, her eyes questioning his.

  ‘If my dad catches us …’

  ‘Shhh …’

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her first on the forehead, then on both eyes. For a moment she held herself rigid, before toppling forward with a barely audible sigh and leaning her weight against him. Only then did he kiss her lips, which parted beneath his. They clung to each other and were still, while the night noises flowed about them and the hull rocked sleepily against the bank.

  ‘I should go,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, but moved only to kiss her again.

  She kissed him back and for a moment they were still once more.

  Then she stirred again. ‘I’d better get to bed …’

  Martin knew she was right. He said goodnight in a low voice; she leant forward and kissed him again, and turned to go.

  At the last moment, not wanting to be parted from her, he tried to seize her hand. ‘Wait …’

  Too late: her cabin door closed in his face. He imagined her listening on the other side of the door. He scratched the wooden surface with his fingernails to send Alex a parting message, then went to his own cabin.

  He lay on his bunk, eyes wide to the night. His body felt hot and uncomfortable, distended with blood. He twisted to and fro and sleep did not come.

  The next day, Martin summoned his courage and climbed the ladder to the wheelhouse. Charlie nodded at him but did not speak. Ahead of them the river narrowed before taking a right-hand bend, the current flowing fast between rocks that jutted out from either shore. Beyond the narrows a small boat with two men aboard was anchored in midstream.

  Charlie swore beneath his breath and rang the bell. The engine slowed. Brenda drifted towards the bank.

  ‘What is it?’ Martin knew he should be quiet but couldn’t help himself.

  Charlie pointed through the windscreen. ‘See for yourself. That boat’s plumb in the fairway. There’s rocks on both sides. Keep straight on, we’ll run ’er down. Try and pass and we’ll likely tear our bottom out.’

  ‘What are they doing there?’

  ‘I’d say they want a word with us.’

  ‘How did they know we’d be here?’

  ‘They musta heard Brenda was heading upriver.’

  The two men had hauled in their anchor and were now rowing leisurely toward the steamer.

  ‘Samuel McKinley and his brother,’ Charlie said as he saw their faces. ‘Well, well.’

  He left the wheelhouse and clambered down the ladder, with Martin following. By the time they reached the lower deck, the rowing boat was tied up alongside.

  The brothers were powerfully built men in check shirts and dungarees, with a wild, wary look on their weatherbeaten faces and beards flowing down their chests. The older of the two looked at Martin, then at Charlie. ‘That’s the Grenville boy. I thought you and his dad —’

  ‘Don’ think,’ Charlie told him. ‘What d’you want, Samuel?’

  ‘Let us on board,’ McKinley said, ‘an’ I’ll tell you about it.’

  Once the brothers were aboard, Charlie showed them to the door of the saloon, where Sarah was waiting, hands on hips.

  She glared at them, then turned to Charlie. ‘What do they want?’

  ‘An’ g’day to you, too, missus,’ said the elder McKinley.

  ‘Just a chat,’ Charlie said. ‘Then they’ll be on their way.’

  ‘Remember your promise,’ Sarah said, and walked past them, her expression angry, her nose tilted to the sky.

  Samuel McKinley seemed not to care what Sarah thought of him. He looked round at Martin, who had followed them. ‘Get lost, sonny.’

  ‘This is my boat,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll say who goes and who stays.’

  ‘Sure,’ Samuel said. ‘You want ’im listenin’ to your secrets, that’s fine by me.’

  ‘Go forward,’ Charlie told Martin. ‘We won’
t be long.’

  The three men went into the saloon. The door closed behind them. Within five minutes they came out again and walked back along the deck. The brothers dropped lightly into the rowing boat. Charlie cast off the painter and threw it into the boat after them.

  Samuel still had hold of Brenda’s side. ‘The biggest load we’ve ever had. I’m disappointed in you, Charlie. A thousand quid ain’t to be sneezed at. I thought you’d jump at it.’

  ‘You thought wrong.’

  ‘Well, no harm done. There’ll be other times.’

  ‘Not for me.’

  Samuel grinned, revealing blackened teeth. ‘Know what they say, Charlie? Never say never. We’ll be seein’ you.’

  And they were gone, with no more fuss than when they’d arrived. Watching from the bows, Martin saw them reach the bank below the bend, drag their boat ashore and disappear into the trees, where the forest swallowed them up.

  Sarah came to Charlie on soundless feet. ‘What did they want?’

  ‘The usual. I told them no.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Sarah said.

  CHAPTER 73

  It was Alex and Martin’s last evening together; Brenda was due at Evans in the morning.

  Charlie had mellowed towards Martin during the journey. He was still a Grenville, but he couldn’t help that, after all, and as Grenvilles went he seemed a good one.

  ‘O’ course,’ he told Sarah, ‘he could still prove me wrong.’

  Hardly a ringing endorsement, but a million miles from his thinking of a week ago.

  They finished tea, checked the mooring lines, got everything ready for the morning. The skies were clear and bright with stars. Sarah nudged Charlie. They settled down in the saloon with the door closed, leaving Alex and Martin alone on the foredeck.