Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1

by Peter Watt

  David stared disbelievingly at his mother who appeared so deceptively fragile. Yet she had just schemed to cut him off from the management of the family business all for the sake of the Macintosh empire to expand. She was absolutely ruthless.

  ‘You talk as if any sons of mine,’ he said, ‘just might be the rightful heirs to the estates, Mother, and not as if this were a natural assumption.’

  ‘What if they follow in your footsteps, David?’ she reasoned. ‘What if they decide they would rather be scholars like you. I hate to say it but if nothing else, the blood on my side of the family is determined enough to make the Macintosh blood the strongest in this country. And it would only be through another union of White and Macintosh blood that I think this would occur.’

  He shook his head disbelievingly. ‘You make all this sound like breeding horses or cattle. What if Fiona decides she does not want to marry Granville? Have you selected another stud with the right lines?’

  ‘Don’t be coarse! Fiona will marry Granville. There is no question on that matter,’ his mother said firmly, as she did not doubt her daughter’s ultimate loyalty to the family. Fiona had, after all, given her solemn word that she would never see the Irishman again.

  So his sister was to be a brood mare for the Macintosh line.

  His mother continued, ‘I can see that you are upset. But I know you will eventually understand the rational reasoning in all of this and agree with the decisions I have made for Fiona’s future.’

  ‘Not Fiona’s future, Mother – your future.’

  ‘You are wrong, David,’ Enid said quietly. ‘I only care about the prospects for the future for all of us. And that includes your best interests above all. It is our duty to follow the path I have chosen for us and if you cannot see that, then I am sorry. I think I should leave you to think over all that I have spoken of,’ she said as she rose and brushed down her dress.

  There was nothing left to explain. She was upset by her son’s lack of acceptance of her plans. She did not bid David goodbye as she left him to hurry down to her carriage waiting outside the Macintosh offices.

  Enid had tears in her eyes as she stepped into the carriage. David, I have done this for you, she thought bitterly. You are too gentle and kind. Men like Granville White would eat you up, and you would grow old and miserable doing something that your heart was not in. No, David, I love you too much to let you get hurt. If only Angus had lived . . .

  ‘Pitt Street, Missus Macintosh?’ the driver asked.

  ‘No. I think I would prefer to go home, thank you, Harold,’ she answered, ducking her head so that the driver could not see the tears in her eyes.

  FIFTEEN

  Molly O’Rourke was not at the King George Hotel.

  Michael sat in a corner patiently waiting but she had not appeared by closing time and the letter, embossed with the Macintosh family crest, delivered that afternoon to the Erin Hotel, had stipulated that it was most urgent that he meet her in the saloon bar. Molly had hinted that she would be able to tell him where Fiona was.

  The message had come at a critical time as Michael had booked passage for the colony of Queensland and the ship was to sail the following week. But finding Fiona had also been a lover’s priority and, bitterly disappointed, he left the hotel when the Macintosh nanny had not made an appearance.

  His long walk back to the Erin took him past the tangle of streets best avoided at night along alleys where the heady scent of incense, opium and the spices of the Orient prevailed. The route from the King George to the Erin had brought him into the markets area where, by day, the horse traders and wheelwrights vied for space with the Fukien Chinese traders, and where, by night, a woman might rob a man while his throat was being slit by her male partner.

  Something was wrong! Jaundiced light from the gas lamps added to the ominous and hushed atmosphere of the lonely place as Michael stopped to get his bearings and remember something of vital importance. Then the terrible truth dawned: the message could not have come from Molly O’Rourke because she could neither read nor write! Michael sensed that he was in trouble – serious trouble!

  ‘Ah, pretty boy. She’s stood youse up . . .’

  He spun around as Jack Horton emerged from the shadows of the lonely and deserted street.

  An ambush!

  With him was another man of equally repulsive appearance who grinned a broken-toothed smile. Michael noticed that both men were barefooted, which explained how they had followed so silently. He felt a sick fear in his stomach.

  ‘. . . But then she was never comin’ anyway,’ Horton continued. ‘So me an’ me brudder . . . well half-brudder, ’ere, says we’s should make sure youse got home all right. Now didn’t I say that, Benny Boy? Personally, I would never come this way at night. Very dangerous an’ no one sees much down ’ere. Not like The Rocks where we is all mates,’ he said as he continued his advance on Michael, who had no doubts that both men were armed. Nor did he have any illusions about Horton’s offer for safe escort, and he dared not take his eyes off the man who approached with the stealth of a hunting feline.

  Michael crouched and balanced himself for the attack he knew was coming. This was not going to be any rough and tumble bare-knuckle fight. It would require all the skills of a street fighter to stay alive. But he had been taught well by Max the dirty tricks he was going to need to survive. ‘Keep your distance . . . both of you,’ Michael growled.

  They hesitated uncertainly as they had expected the Irishman to turn and run, exposing his back to them. A cunning and calculating look passed across Horton’s face.

  ‘Me an’ me brudder don’ mean you no harm, Mister Duffy,’ he said in an oily voice. ‘As a matter of fact, me brudder had heard ’bout your reputation roun’ Redfern an’ Benny ’e says to me, Jack, I’d like to shake the ’and of such a fine gentleman as Mister Michael Duffy.’

  Benny Boy stepped forward with his right hand extended and grinned innocently. At first, Michael thought foolishly that the man was retarded. He could see the extended right hand was empty but remembered what Max had once warned him. He is left-handed, Michael thought with swelling fear. The knife is in his left hand!

  ‘Sounds fair to me,’ Michael said, trying to sound casual and unafraid although every instinct told him he had but a fleeting fraction between life and death in the next vital seconds.

  ‘Good thing to all be friends,’ Horton said with a hint of cunning in his voice. The two men were now at arm’s length.

  Michael’s unexpected attack was sudden and violent. He reached out to shake Benny Boy’s hand and simultaneously spat in Horton’s face. Stepping inside Benny Boy’s guard, Michael seized his left wrist and brought it through in a sweeping arc.

  Momentarily distracted by the spittle, Horton clawed at his own face and heard his half-brother grunt as the long knife that Benny Boy was holding punctured his chest. Horton swung blindly at Michael with his knife. The blade missed its intended target and buried itself in the side of Benny Boy’s throat.

  Michael did not wait for Horton to realise his terrible error. He spun and delivered a well-aimed boot into Horton’s groin. Horton and his dying brother collapsed together in a pool of Benny Boy’s blood and Michael turned on his heel to run.

  The bellow of rage that echoed down the narrow street spurred Michael as he sprinted for his life, and he did not stop running until he reached the Erin, where he hammered on the front door.

  A lighted lantern appeared in an upper room. ‘Who in hell is that?’ his Uncle Frank called down irritably.

  ‘Me, Michael . . . Uncle . . . Frank,’ Michael gasped, and in a matter of seconds the door swung open and Michael fell gratefully inside.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Frank said, as he dragged the young man to his feet. ‘What’s happened to you, Michael? You’re covered in blood!’ Michael could not reply immediately as he was winded from the fight and his flight from Jack Horton. ‘Biddy! Wake up Daniel and Max and tell them to get down here straightaway,�
� Frank yelled up the stairs as he helped Michael into the kitchen. He lit an oil lamp which flared, illuminating the room with flickering shadows.

  Both men responded to the urgent call and Max appeared standing in his long johns, bare-chested and bleary-eyed. Daniel wore a dressing gown over his nightwear and they all hovered anxiously in the kitchen until Michael was able to recover sufficiently to speak.

  ‘I was ambushed on the way back to the Erin by Jack Horton and his brother,’ he finally explained. ‘I don’t know why . . . but they were out to kill me. I got in first. Got Jack’s brother with his own knife.’

  ‘Did you kill him?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Think so,’ Michael replied as he reflected on the seconds of terror in the confrontation. ‘The knife went in pretty deep. Then Horton missed me and stabbed his brother as well. In the throat, I think.’

  ‘If they set on you, Michael,’ Frank said, patting his nephew on the shoulder reassuringly, ‘then what you did was self-defence. We get to the police and tell them what happened and they will round up this fellow Jack Horton.’

  It was Daniel who expressed a reservation. ‘What if Jack Horton tells the traps that Michael attacked his brother and killed him?’ he said pessimistically. ‘This will come down to Mike’s word against Horton’s.’

  ‘What do you think Michael should do?’ Bridget asked her son.

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly stay out of sight while Max and I go and see the police and explain the situation,’ he replied.

  ‘Won’t the police want to know why Michael is not with you?’ Frank asked.

  ‘We will say he is hurt, a knock on the head, and is unable to come straightaway. That should gain us some time until we are sure of what is happening.’

  Francis Duffy nodded his agreement because his son was the legal mind in the family and the best judge of how to handle this. ‘We will do it your way, Daniel,’ he said. ‘I will hide Michael in the cellar until your return. In the meantime, I think you need a shot of good brandy, Michael. It will help clear your head.’

  ‘I think Michael needs a good clean-up and a change of clothes,’ Bridget said as she fussed around him. ‘The boy has had a terrible time.’

  ‘He can have both.’ Francis shrugged as he stoked the smouldering fire of the stove with a fresh log. ‘Max can fetch some water.’

  Michael was spent and tired and the warmth of the kitchen lulled him into a sense of wellbeing. Had he killed a man? It was hard to believe. Everything had happened so fast!

  While the water boiled in a big iron pot on the stove, Frank poured Michael a half glass of his best French brandy. Michael accepted it gratefully, took a long swig and the strong liquor fumed in his head.

  Both Max and Daniel returned to the kitchen after they had hurriedly dressed and Daniel gave his cousin a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

  ‘We will go now, Mike,’ he said. ‘Everything will turn out all right.’

  Michael smiled at his words and they were on the verge of leaving when a persistent and ominous knock at the front door of the hotel froze them. Bridget’s eyes widened and she glanced fearfully at her husband.

  ‘I will see who it is,’ Frank said calmly, although he felt sick with apprehension. Max grabbed Michael by the arm. He yanked him unceremoniously out of the kitchen and down to the cellar as Frank left the kitchen to answer the front door.

  ‘Constable Farrell. And what might I be doing for you on this night?’ Frank asked the grim-faced policeman who filled the doorway. ‘Would it be a cooling ale to pass the time?’

  ‘And what a grand idea, Mister Duffy,’ the big Irish policeman replied. ‘I was passin’ this way and I thought I might share a jar with you. But first I would prefer just you and I have a short chat about strange happenings on the beat tonight.’

  Frank held the eyes of the big policeman. Both men knew they were playing a game and Frank knew by whose rules. ‘I think you should be coming in, Constable Farrell,’ he said, ‘and having a drink with me in the kitchen.’

  The policeman followed the Irish publican to the table where only the brandy bottle remained beside an empty glass, which Farrell eyed. Frank noticed the focus of the policeman’s gaze. ‘Would a good brandy be the thing for tonight, Constable Farrell?’ he asked as he took down a second clean glass from the shelf above the stove.

  ‘That it would, Mister Duffy. That it would.’

  ‘And what strange happenings have occurred this night to interest the guardians of Sydney’s streets and homes?’ Frank had to fight to control the tremble in his hand as he poured the brandy.

  ‘We found a fellow dead in Haymarket this evening,’ the policeman answered. ‘An unsavoury character well known to us and, if I must say so, God preserve his soul, better for leaving this world of temptations.’ He took a long sip from the half-filled glass of brandy and sighed with pleasure. The glass was refilled to its rim.

  ‘Ah, but there is terrible crime nowadays in the streets,’ Frank said with a sigh. ‘The trouble is the people of Sydney do not appreciate the work you do. Now if I could be giving . . .’

  ‘It’s not for the giving I came, Mister Duffy,’ the police constable said quietly. ‘It’s for the taking of one Michael Duffy who resides at the Erin . . .’

  Frank attempted to protest but the big Irish policeman held up his hand. ‘Before you say anything, Mister Duffy, I must be warning you that it is my duty to search the hotel for the said person. But I don’t think I’d be searching your cellar because only a foolish man would go down there to hide.’

  Frank Duffy kept eye contact with the police officer and understood clearly what he was saying.

  ‘If I may be asking, why is it that you want young Michael?’ he asked, with feigned innocence.

  Farrell took another swig from the glass before answering. ‘While I was on my beat tonight, I stopped Jack Horton. I stopped him because he rarely leaves The Rocks to come to this part of town. So I says to myself when I saw him, Jack Horton, why are you in this part of town on my beat? And the answer came to me that he was up to no good. As soon as I pinched him, he babbles on that his brother was murdered by Michael Duffy. He says Michael set upon the both of them for no reason. Now, I know the story is away with the fairies, but he produces a body and I take him down to the station to talk to the detectives. And they believed him. So I told them that I knew where I might find Michael and bring him in to be charged with murder.’

  ‘You came alone?’ Francis asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes. The detectives know I always get my man,’ he answered with a conspiratorial wink. ‘Well, almost always. But you realise I still have my duty to search the hotel and report back.’

  ‘I do, Constable Farrell. Duty,’ Frank replied, ‘even to the English Crown, duty must be done.’

  The big Irish-born policeman finished the rest of the brandy in one gulp. He was a hard-drinking man but he could hold his grog and showed no signs of the effects of the strong and fiery liquor.

  ‘I suppose if I were young Michael,’ he said, as he heaved his massive bulk from the chair, ‘I would be on a ship out of here tonight. Until the matter is cleared up in time.’

  ‘You think the matter can be cleared, Constable Farrell?’ Frank Duffy asked hopefully.

  ‘I think so,’ he replied and followed Francis into the dining room. ‘There is no argument that would support Michael attacking two men like the Horton brothers for no apparent reason. But the law being what it is has swung men and women before in this town, then found them innocent later. Better young Daniel get good advice for Michael before we speak to him.’

  They wandered from room to room in a pretence of a search and when they passed the door to the cellar, Farrell gave a wry smile and moved on. He thanked Francis for his cooperation as he walked with him to the front door.

  ‘I’d be saying to the boys down at the station that I heard Michael had gone west to the colony of South Australia,’ Farrell said in parting. ‘Big place, this country. He might
even have gone north to join his sister.’

  The publican watched the departing policeman stroll at a measured pace casually down the road. It would take him time to get back to the police station at Darlinghurst . . . and time was precious!

  Being a publican had its advantages. Especially when one of the patrons happened to be the skipper of a ship leaving on the early morning tide. It also happened that the skipper was an Irish Yankee out of Boston and a Republican with no love for English law.

  It did not matter where the ship was going. But hopefully to the Americas where Michael could lose himself until he was cleared of the stupid allegations. Francis closed the door and hurried upstairs to dress. There were not many hours to dawn and the turning of the tide.

  The young man, who had been smuggled aboard quietly with the captain’s permission, stood at the starboard stern rail of the American schooner. The crew knew not to ask questions about passengers who arrived under such conditions.

  It was almost dawn when the Eagle cleared Sydney harbour. She punched into the rising waves of the hissing sea and plunged bow first into the rolling troughs while the young man continued to stare back at the slowly disappearing headlands that blazed orange under the glare of the rising sun. It would be a hot and muggy day in Sydney when the sun rose, he thought sadly. The pub would do a good trade.

  ‘Cap’n says you can join him for coffee.’

  Michael turned to the sailor who had a toothless grin and a wizened face which mirrored his lifetime before the mast. ‘Thanks,’ he replied and he took another gaze at the disappearing land. ‘We headed for America?’

  ‘No, mister. We sailin’ for New Zealand.’

  ‘New Zealand,’ Michael echoed with no expression.

  ‘Yeah, New Zealand. But I wouldn’t want to be stayin’ there too long if I’se was you,’ the old sailor said conversationally. ‘Them big cannibals . . . Maoris theys calls them . . . is bustin’ fer a fight with the Limeys an’ I’d be puttin’ my money on them Maoris. They is one hell of a fightin’ man when they get goin’.’ With a cackling laugh the old sailor, bow-legged from his life at sea, made his way back to the bow.