by Peter Watt
‘Well, I suppose the matter is settled then,’ Frank said, as he fumbled in his vest pocket for his old briar pipe. ‘I suppose we will have to get a letter to Pat and Tom up in Queensland. Pat will be pleased to hear that he is soon to be a grandfather,’ he could not help adding. ‘Even if it is the son of a convict father.’
‘He will not be the son of a convict father, Francis, and you very well know that,’ Bridget snapped angrily. ‘Kevin O’Keefe is as freeborn as any Duffy. And Kate’s child will be a freeborn Australian.’
‘An Irishman,’ he rebutted. ‘The boy will be born an Irishman. His father is Irish and so is Kate.’
Daniel smiled. ‘Mother is right, Da,’ he said. ‘Kate’s child will be an Australian. Kevin was born in New South Wales and so will be Katie’s child.’ Francis frowned at his son’s statement of nationality. To him, Ireland was ‘home’ and this new country was just an extension of Ireland.
‘You are both wrong,’ Kate said, cutting across the two men’s discussion on birthright. ‘My child will be a Queenslander.’
‘What!’ Frank gasped and she serenely sailed on, ‘As soon as Kevin and I are married, I intend to journey to Queensland to start a business there with the money Da has set aside for me.’
Her second startling revelation, following the first concerning her pregnancy, caused even Bridget to stare at her aghast. Queensland! The new colony was a land of savage natives and little civilisation. Had not the explorer, Mister Kennedy, been speared to death by the savages? Did not the German explorer, Mister Leichhardt, disappear with his expedition in the wilderness of that terrible place? Not to mention the ill-fated Messrs Burke and Wills’ expedition. No, the Queensland colony was no place for a pregnant young woman who had known only the civilised comforts of Sydney. And besides, Kevin O’Keefe was no bushman. He was city-born and raised. She shuddered at the thought of Kate on the frontier. She had given her support – albeit reluctantly – to her proposed marriage, but this was a different matter altogether.
‘Katie, you cannot go to that terrible place in your condition. It’s unthinkable,’ she said quietly but firmly.
‘Other women follow their men, Aunt Bridget. Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Because in this case, O’Keefe would be following his woman,’ Michael interjected cynically. ‘It’s a rather unusual situation.’
Kate did not see the situation in the same light as her brother. Kevin was a strong and healthy man who could adapt to the new way of life she had in mind for them and it did not cross her mind that it was she who was making decisions usually made by a man. ‘I don’t expect Kevin will be out in the bush,’ she said confidently. ‘I have plans to start a hotel that will be the best in the new colony. That means we will be in a town and not in the bush.’
‘Kevin is not a publican,’ Francis noted. ‘He has no real experience in running a hotel.’
‘I will teach him,’ Kate replied defensively. ‘Growing up here, I have learnt a lot from you. I know how you keep books and how you manage a bar and I probably know more than Daniel and Michael put together.’
Francis had to admit she was right as Daniel had never shown much interest in the hotel. His ambitions were in law and Michael had aspirations to be an artist. ‘Have you thought that a man might object to being taught a trade by a woman, Kate?’ the publican parried. ‘That he might feel your knowledge . . . ah . . . a bit intimidating to a man such as himself?’
‘Sure and Kevin might think this,’ she answered carefully. ‘But I know he will learn. And be as good a publican as any in the new colony. He is smart. And he has a way about him that would make our hotel the most popular in Queensland.’
Frank Duffy sighed. The young woman’s eyes blazed with the enthusiasm reminiscent of her father and, had she been raised in Ireland, he had no doubt that she would have been harassing the redcoats beside her father.
‘You know your father gave me control over your share of the money that he left in trust for you and Michael,’ he said. ‘But it was intended for when you turned twenty-one. You are only sixteen, Kate.’
‘And soon to be a wife and mother, Uncle Francis. I can write to Da. And I know he will agree to release my share to me when I explain what it is for. Or you can make the decision as he said you could in his absence. Either way . . . I am going. And I am going to have the best hotel in Queensland. And that is that,’ she said, folding her arms across the swell of her breasts and staring defiantly at her uncle.
My God! She looked so much like Elizabeth when she was determined, Frank thought. And like Elizabeth, she would not back down. Only Patrick had been able to change Elizabeth’s mind with his beguiling ways. But not all the time. ‘I will write to Patrick and see what he thinks, Kate,’ he said, in a last effort to change her mind. ‘You know it will take time for any mail to reach him. The last we heard from him was that they were picking up supplies from some place called Rockhampton. He wrote that they would be a long time on the track and it may be months before I get a reply.’
‘I am planning to have a place Da and Tom can live in when they are not on the track, Uncle Francis. That means I need the money now because time is wasting just waiting for his permission. I am determined my child will be born in Queensland.’
Exasperated by her stubbornness, the burly Irish publican snapped, ‘Why is it so important that your child be born in Queensland?’
‘Because I want my father to hold his first grandchild when he or she is born,’ she replied softly. ‘I want to show Da the happiness of the moment. To give him something he has lost since Mother was taken from us. It’s important to me.’
Bridget understood her niece’s motivations. Kate had always adored the man who was both stranger and idolised father to her. She had grown with the memories of a big gentle man who cried with joy at the sight of his little girl on his rare visits to Sydney and the bond between father and daughter was special. Just like the bond between mother and son. Bridget had hoped to hold her niece’s child, but she also understood why Kate wanted to be near her father. ‘I think you should make the decision to give Kate the money now, Francis,’ Bridget finalised. ‘I know that is what Patrick would do under the circumstances.’
Francis Duffy stared at his wife. He had expected her to be on his side in stopping their niece from risking her life on a frontier so far away from their loving protection. ‘You realise Kate could be speared by a wild blackfella,’ he said despairingly. ‘That she and her baby could be lost forever up there in the bush, Bridget. Do you wish to condone that risk?’
Bridget knew that her husband was right, but he did not understand the deeper meanings of life as only a woman could. Some things transcended even the risk of a potentially short life on the frontier. ‘Kate has already said that she does not intend to go bush, but set up a hotel in one of the new towns,’ she countered quietly. ‘I am sure she and Kevin will be perfectly safe. I am also sure there are people who can look out for her up there.’
Francis tapped his briar pipe distractedly against his leg before answering. ‘God preserve us from the day women ever get into politics. Though that is not likely,’ he sighed, resigned to defeat. ‘Kate, you can have the money.’
She rushed at her uncle giving him a crushing hug as her words tumbled over each other. ‘Thank you, Uncle Frank . . . Aunt Bridget,’ she babbled. ‘I will have the best hotel in Queensland and I know you will be proud. You can come and stay with Kevin and myself. Da says the climate is wonderful and balmy in the colony and . . .’
‘Yes, yes. I know,’ Frank said gruffly, trying not to catch his niece’s contagious excitement. ‘But just remember you always have a home here with us if you ever need to come back for one reason or another. Now all we have to do is find Mister O’Keefe and tell him he is going to be a husband, father and publican in that order,’ he said between her crushing hugs. ‘And tell him that all this is going to happen a thousand miles from here in a place where even explorers get lost,’ he continued wi
th a mournful sigh.
Michael was next in line for a hug. Then Bridget, and finally Daniel, as Kate’s tears of joy splashed each one in turn.
‘Does anyone know where Mister O’Keefe is tonight?’ Frank asked quietly. ‘I think he should be here to ask my permission to marry Katie.’
Michael frowned. ‘I think I know where he is, Uncle Frank. Dan and I will go and fetch him.’ Daniel raised his eyebrows to ask where. Michael saw his questioning expression and drew his cousin out of hearing of Kate who was babbling excitedly to Bridget about wedding plans.
‘O’Keefe goes to the Hero of Waterloo on Sunday nights.’
Daniel recoiled as if confronted by a deadly snake.
‘You aren’t suggesting we go over to The Rocks on a Sunday night,’ he said, horrified. ‘You have to be a lunatic to suggest going there at any time.’
‘We will take Max with us,’ Michael replied and Daniel shook his head sadly. The Rocks! Better they just cut their own throats and die at home! But Michael was going and he knew he must dutifully follow. Max accompanying them was at least some consolation. He sighed like his father. The Rocks!
NINE
Electric blue flashes of lightning lit the three people on the sandstone verandah as the storm rumbled and rolled across the inky darkness of the harbour below. A cool breeze off the waters came to break the sweltering air and play with the loose strands of Enid’s hair as she sat in a cane chair on the verandah.
One year short of her forty-fifth year, Enid Macintosh was still a beautiful woman and it was not hard to see where Fiona had inherited her fine features. Enid sat in one of the cane chairs that were left on the wide verandah so that guests could admire the sweeping views of the harbour which was now becoming invisible under the cloud-covered night sky. Only the little blinking lights on the sterns of the fishing dories marked a place in the oily black waters of the harbour to indicate its presence. The fishermen would be netting for the abundant and delicious fish, she thought idly, as she held a china cup and sipped delicately the hot coffee laced with sweet cream. She luxuriated in the refreshing breeze that wafted the fresh scents of the garden renewed by the rain. It was good to be out of the house where the air was stagnant and muggy with summer dampness.
David Macintosh stood beside his mother’s chair and sipped a sauterne from a crystal goblet. The sauterne was a local wine from the Macarthur vineyards at the Camden Estate outside of Sydney and he mused that it had a fruity flavour comparable to any of the French wines he had known in his student days at Oxford.
Enid’s son was very much like his cousin, Granville White, in physical appearance except that he was not prematurely losing his hair as Granville was. David was twenty-two years of age and had only recently returned to Australia after graduating from England’s hallowed Oxford University with a Bachelor’s in the classics.
He had returned somewhat reluctantly as life in the cloistered halls of Oxford had suited his scholarly disposition. He was in every way a stark contrast to his tough and pragmatic older brother, Angus. David was more than happy to see Angus inherit the running of the Macintosh enterprises. For now he was content to bide his time in Sydney, sipping excellent local wine, and plan a foray on the virtues of the many beautiful young ladies of colonial society.
Granville stood with his back to Enid and David and was deep in thought for what he was to propose to them as he swilled an imported Portuguese madeira from a crystal goblet and puffed on an expensive Cuban cigar. Although preoccupied, he could still taste the rich flavours of the meal served at the Macintosh table that evening.
The dinner had had an interesting and delicate balance of European spices with local produce. First course had been a kangaroo tail soup served steaming hot with redcurrant jelly and a dash of port to lift the strong flavour. Then a freshly caught whole baked snapper was served smothered with an oyster sauce as the next course. The third selection on the menu was a pigeon pie in a thick and delicious gravy of red wine and vegetables. A choice of local sauterne or imported burgundy accompanied the meal. The final course was apple in a delicate pie crust with thick, yellow cream topping. Needless to say there was much left over from the dinner and the remains of the pigeon pie would be served cold for next day’s lunch.
The three contemplated their private thoughts and enjoyed the cooler air of the verandah until Enid broke the silence.
‘I could not but help noticing Fiona was very quiet at the table tonight, Granville,’ she said. ‘Did something happen on your picnic at Manly Village today?’
Granville took a large swig from the madeira before answering. ‘She was accosted by a damned Irish lout just before we boarded the Phantom for the trip home.’
‘What do you mean “accosted”?’ Enid asked. ‘Was she hurt in any way?’
‘No, not physically hurt,’ he replied as he ashed the cigar in the rose garden below. ‘More upset by the man’s loutish behaviour.’
David joined the conversation. He was five years older than his sister but they had been closer than he had ever been with his older brother, Angus. ‘What do you mean by his behaviour?’ he asked. ‘How did he upset my sister?’
Granville shifted uncomfortably. ‘He, ah, pressed his unwanted attentions on Fiona and Penelope.’
‘Did he in any way insult the ladies?’ David asked, showing fraternal concern. ‘Or was he just talking to them?’
‘He was talking to them,’ Granville answered reluctantly. ‘But he was damned impudent! Some kind of Irish oaf who works in a hotel in Redfern, from what I could gather. Damned ungentlemanly behaviour on his part in the way he approached the ladies.’
David grinned and was relieved to hear that there was really nothing in the incident to warrant concern. ‘So. He was rather handsome and charming, I gather,’ David concluded.
Granville gave his cousin a puzzled look. ‘How can you make that inference?’
‘I make that inference, Cousin Granville,’ David answered still grinning, ‘because my sister had the look of a young lovesick girl who had just met her Sir Lancelot. I could see it written all over her face all through this evening’s meal.’
Granville scowled. ‘And you think that is good? That she be infatuated by some popish Irishman from the lower classes?’
David shook his head. ‘I do not condone any such relationship,’ he replied. ‘But it is not likely she will ever see the man again, if what you say about his pedigree is correct. And it does not hurt a young woman to be flattered by the attentions of any young man. Knowing my sister as I do, I doubt she would have tolerated a man who did not act like a true gentleman. So Fiona will moon around for a little while until the next charming Lancelot comes along. Probably some squatter’s son. Or an eligible regimental officer at the next spring ball.’
Granville could see the sense in what he said but still felt a touch uneasy. She was to be his wife one day – naturally, with Donald Macintosh’s permission – as such a marriage would help bind the vast fortunes of the Macintosh family closer to that of the Whites’ considerable estates. The Whites had always been the relatively poor relations to their cousins, the Macintoshes. But through Enid’s marriage to Donald they had increased their estates substantially.
‘I suppose you are right, David,’ Granville said as a closing remark on Fiona’s brief infatuation. What I would like to do now is put forward a proposal that is guaranteed to make us a lot of money . . . the subject I touched on before dinner.’
Enid delicately placed her cup on the saucer in her lap. ‘Ah yes, cotton-growing and black labour,’ she said. ‘A rather interesting proposition. I suppose you need Mister Macintosh’s assistance in the proposal?’ Enid always referred to her husband in the third person formal when she discussed business, even with family.
‘Yes. I would need, at the least, the use of the Osprey for what I would propose,’ Granville replied eagerly. ‘And the purchase or lease of further land on the Queensland coast.’
David filled his win
eglass from a crystal decanter. ‘The Osprey. Where is she being used now?’ he asked as he placed the stopper in the decanter.
‘She’s being used on the run between Sydney and Brisbane,’ Granville answered quickly. ‘She isn’t being used directly in Macintosh business at the moment, so she can be spared.’
David knew of the ship. She was a barque designed for short hauls along the New South Wales and Queensland coast. But she was also capable of longer hauls between the Pacific Islands.
‘And you want control of her to transport indentured black labour?’ he asked as he swirled the clear wine, catching the shimmer of the faint light from the dining room candles behind them in the crystal goblet. ‘Darkies from the Pacific Islands to work in cotton fields in Queensland. In the first place, Granville, I would counter that the Americans have cotton-growing sewn up and that they will be back into the business as soon as they resolve their differences.’
Granville had known this argument might arise. ‘The war will drag on for a long time,’ he parried. ‘And in that time we will be able to grab control of the market. And keep it!’
‘What makes you so sure the war will go on for a long time?’ Enid asked. She was a careful woman in her business dealings and never made a decision unless she could see clear precedents for guaranteed success. Granville turned his attention to his aunt because it was she who held the power in the absence of Donald Macintosh to make the major business decisions.
‘I have been reading a lot in regard to the war lately,’ he replied in a carefully measured delivery. ‘And I have discussed the matter with officers from Victoria Barracks who have been following the war closely. Although most sympathise with the Confederate States, they admit that they are worried by the North’s capacity to replenish its war stocks from its rather substantial factories.’