Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1

by Peter Watt

  Luke swung himself into the saddle. ‘I don’t think we should stay here any longer,’ he said and she wholeheartedly agreed.

  They rode in silence with Kate taking the lead away from the forlorn place of slaughter and they did not look back. In time, the bones would be obliterated by nature and become little more than a distant sad memory.

  ‘Here! We are here, Luke,’ Kate exclaimed as she stood in the stirrups to peer across a clearing in the scrub and Luke reined in beside her. The ground looked little different from what they had traversed since leaving the site of the massacre hours earlier, except that there was a big old gum tree at the edge of a natural clearing and two untidy piles of stones under the tree. ‘This is where my father and Old Billy are! I just know it,’ Kate said and her eyes shone with the revelation of discovery.

  Luke slid from his saddle and Kate followed his lead. Neither knew who had buried the two men but, as she knelt beside the graves, Kate felt it must have been her brother.

  ‘I have come all this way,’ she sighed, ‘and I do not know in which grave my father is buried.’ Luke placed his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘If your father and Billy were mates, like you told me, I don’t think your father will be too concerned whatever grave you grieve over,’ he offered gently. ‘Mates out here share a special kind of friendship that I haven’t seen anywhere else.’

  She reached up and placed her hand over his. ‘You are right,’ she said quietly. ‘Father loved Old Billy. Thank you.’ Luke felt the warmth of her hand in his and her touch was gentle.

  Kate scooped a handful of the red soil and sprinkled the earth on both graves as she prayed silently for her father and Old Billy. Graves were becoming a part of her life. First it had been the grave of her baby, and now these. Although Luke did not consider himself much of a churchgoing man, he found himself silently wishing the spirits of the two men eternal peace as he stood with his battered hat in his hands. Pat Duffy had been a friend who had stood with him against the guns and bayonets of the British at the stockade, and now he rode with the big Irishman’s daughter as her guide and protector.

  ‘It is time to go.’ She sighed as she stood. ‘We have a long ride ahead of us.’

  He nodded and followed her back to the grazing horses.

  The craggy hill rose above the scrub like a majestic cathedral and Kate gazed at the hill knowing she was seeing the spires of an ancient place of worship, except that this cathedral was of stone covered in dry scrub and many thousands of years older than anything in Western civilisation.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispered as she gazed upon the summit where she sensed that the old Aboriginal was resting in an eternal sleep. She turned her attention to Luke, who rode ahead and looked so much a part of his horse . . . like a sunburnt centaur, she thought. But admiration for his skills as a bushman were not the only thoughts she was having for him. There had been times when she had felt guilty about her yearnings to surrender herself to him, but she dismissed the erotic thoughts as a natural part of her loneliness. If she were to give herself to him, then he would have to shave off his beard first. It would tickle, she mused, and she giggled self-consciously at the image of the American without his beard.

  Luke twisted in the saddle, casting her a quizzical look as she stifled her giggling and she flashed a reassuring smile at him. He frowned and returned to scanning the bush.

  He was always vigilant! Possibly she could shave the beard off while he was asleep, Kate thought, and the image of him waking to find his cherished beard gone caused her to break into uncontrollable laughter. This time Luke brought his horse to a halt and turned in the saddle to give the young woman a longer and more concerned look.

  ‘Are you all right, Kate?’ he asked with a worried look. Had the woman got too much sun?

  ‘I am well, Luke,’ she answered between bouts of laughter as she tried to bring her mirth under control. He shook his head, muttering opinions on the sanity of young women, before spurring his mount forward into the mottled shadows of the sparse scrub. He had only ridden a hundred yards when he suddenly reined his mare to a stop and signalled to Kate to halt. Luke stood in his stirrups to peer through the scrub.

  Something was wrong, Kate thought with a frown as she watched him staring tensely ahead and slip his Snider from the rifle bucket beside his knee. With the butt of the rifle on his hip, he waited with the tension of a coiled spring. Then she heard the distant thunder of galloping horses and she shared his tension.

  The four heavily armed horsemen galloped into view and reined to a dusty halt a few yards from them.

  ‘Are you Kathleen Duffy?’ Donald Macintosh asked belligerently. She was about to answer when Luke cut her short.

  ‘Who are you, Mister?’ He asked the question, while he held the rifle on Donald. ‘You tell me that first.’

  Donald eyed the American and was acutely aware of where the rifle pointed at him.

  ‘I’m the owner of the land you are on,’ the Scot growled. ‘And that gives me the right to ask the questions.’

  ‘I thought there was a custom around these parts,’ Luke said calmly, ‘that a man could pass through land without being bushwhacked.’

  ‘Anyone can,’ Donald snarled, as his shepherds stared curiously at Kate, ‘so long as they aren’t a Duffy.’ The shepherds had never seen a woman dressed like a man riding astride a horse before and they could not help but notice how pretty the young woman was, despite the fact of her manly attire.

  ‘I am a Duffy . . . Mister Macintosh,’ Kate cut across him defiantly. ‘And this land will not always be yours to decide who rides across it,’ she added imperiously.

  The Scottish squatter flared at her impertinence. He instinctively reached for his revolver but he froze when the American growled, ‘You planning to be buried here, Mister?’ Donald dropped his hand away from his pistol and the shepherds looked to their boss for orders. But none was issued, as Donald sensed that the man was prepared to die to protect the girl. The deadly determination was clearly reflected in the cold eyes of the tall man watching him like a hawk. A bloody American, from the sound of the man’s accent, Donald thought angrily. A man just stupid enough to go down fighting for the Duffy woman. He was very aware of the terrible damage a Snider bullet could do to a man’s body at close range.

  ‘Get off my land now,’ he snarled. ‘And don’t ever come back. If you ever come back, I will take steps to ensure that you leave in less than a civilised manner.’

  ‘We will leave, Mister Macintosh,’ Kate said, ‘but one day this land will not belong to you. And I have sworn on my father’s grave that I will do everything in my power to take this land from you, even if it takes me all my life to do so.’

  Luke felt uneasy. He could see in the squatter’s expression that Kate’s calmly delivered threat had pushed him to a point where he was liable to forget the rifle levelled at him.

  ‘So long as I am alive,’ Donald replied as he leant in the saddle towards Kate, ‘I can make you a promise that will never happen, lassie.’

  ‘We can both agree on that point,’ she said softly. ‘Your years are numbered by the spirits of the people you slaughtered, for they will be avenged as certainly as the sun rises every day.’

  Donald felt a superstitious chill in the hot still air of the midmorning and he shivered. It was not in the words that she uttered but in the cold grey of the eyes that locked with his. In their depth, he saw a fleeting glimpse of a spear with the distinctive long hardwood shaft that had taken the life of his son Angus.

  Without replying, he wheeled away and his men followed reluctantly. They had been looking forward to killing the Yankee and taking his woman.

  Donald Macintosh rode away knowing the Irish bushranger was not the only threat he faced from the Duffys. Like some ancient Celtic witch, the woman seemed to have a presence about her that was dangerous in ways that only a Gael could understand. ‘I should have killed her,’ he muttered as the distance between them increased and he knew
with a certainty that they would meet again one day and in the meeting would be a final resolution.

  Luke remained alert until he was satisfied that Macintosh and his shepherds were out of effective rifle range before he rode slowly over to Kate and reached out to take hold of her hand. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently.

  She nodded and her words came as a whisper. ‘I thought they were going to shoot you, Luke.’

  He shook his head and gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Better men have tried and failed. As a matter of fact, the whole bloody British army tried once.’

  She felt reassured at his bravado and the colour slowly returned to her face.

  ‘I think we should take Mister Macintosh’s advice and leave,’ she said as she gave his hand a squeeze. She added with a wan smile, ‘I think somehow that you will always be there when I need you.’

  He felt her hand close on his and he wished that what she had said could be true.

  Two weary weeks later they rode into Rockhampton.

  The confrontation with Donald Macintosh on Glen View had been a pivotal point in Kate’s life. She had expressed in words the sacred duty that had been passed to her from the old Aboriginal. But she was at a loss to how she was to achieve the seemingly impossible task. Had the old Aboriginal asked too much from her?

  In Rockhampton, she surprised Luke with her present of the three horses that she had bought with the help of Judith and Solomon Cohen. He tried lamely to tell her that he could not accept the horses, but she insisted. She brushed aside his gratitude with explanations that he had earned them for all that he had done for her. Judith was quick to see the dark expression of sadness cloud the American’s face. It was obvious that the man was in love with the young woman, she mused, with some annoyance at the way Kate was apparently blind to his feelings. Kate O’Keefe, you are a stupid woman sometimes, she thought.

  Kate was aware that Luke would leave one day. She could see his restlessness when he stopped off at the hotel where she worked as a barmaid. He would sit with the bushmen and talk of distant places in the northern colony and she understood his yearning to once again ride the vast open plains in search of gold. The same love of the harsh but beautiful plains had infected her.

  For a while he worked at odd jobs for Solomon or worked at his old job of clearing timber, until he had enough money to outfit himself for a prospecting expedition. Whenever he could, he would spend time with Kate on her days off from the hotel and they would take a picnic hamper into the bush and sit under the shade of a tree, talking about everything and nothing, like courting lovers.

  Although she accepted his leaving was inevitable, she had hoped that he might stay a little longer as she had grown used to him being in her life. But she was careful never to express any feeling for him other than friendship. It was not that she did not feel strongly for him, but she was still married, and wondered if her husband might return to her.

  One day Judith told her that Luke was gone and that he had left at first light with the three horses. He’d left no details about where he was going or if he would ever return. Kate’s disappointment was evident when she turned on Judith and asked angrily, ‘Why did he not at least leave a message for me? I thought we were friends.’

  ‘Because Luke is in love with you, Kate,’ she remonstrated softly. ‘And he carries the pain that you do not feel the same way about him.’

  Kate stared wide-eyed at Judith. How did he know how she felt about him when he had never asked her? she thought, in her stunned surprise at Luke’s sudden disappearance from her life. Deep down she was forced to admit to herself that she could not express her feelings for Luke. But she was not sure why. Was it that she had a need to protect her feelings? That love was the only emotion powerful enough to destroy her? She had once loved her husband and he had abandoned her. Whatever it was, she sensed that Luke Tracy held a power over her she could not afford to experience.

  On a ridge overlooking Rockhampton, Luke reined in his horses.

  He sat astride the mare Kate had given him and he gazed down on the town nestled on the banks of the Fitzroy River. Kate was somewhere down there, he thought. If only you knew how much I love you. But Kate had not seen his love for her and the pain of loving without that love returned had grown into an ache he knew he could no longer endure. There were too many reminders of her existence in his life around Rockhampton and he knew he must leave. Beyond the range was the seemingly endless horizon of the colony and somewhere beyond that horizon was the undiscovered gold strike that could give a man’s name immortality.

  He knew in the months to come he would ride with the image of Kate O’Keefe sitting across from every camp fire he made. She would be sipping tea from an old enamel mug and laughing at his wry stories of the bush. With a deep sigh of regret for all that he had lost in the past, and for all that was not to be his in the future, he gave his mount a gentle kick to spur her forward as he tugged on the lead rope of the packhorses. Love was not something that could be destroyed by a bullet. His love for Kate hurt worse than a bayonet wound.

  TWENTY-SIX

  A carriage drawn by matched greys rumbled down the finely crushed gravel driveway. It rattled along an avenue of trees standing naked against the drizzle of a wet Sydney afternoon and it came to a halt in front of the main entrance of the two-storeyed house.

  Enid Macintosh alighted from the carriage unassisted. She was a woman who had grown accustomed to doing many things on her own and she preferred to dispense with trivial social niceties in favour of getting on with affairs. She issued crisp orders for the coachman to take the parcels piled in the carriage to her room.

  She shivered as she moved from the cold wet day into the warm and dry interior of her house, while behind her struggled the coachman with an armful of parcels. A bountiful result of her shopping trip to the David Jones store in town.

  There had been many things to buy for the arrival of spring. It was a time of social engagements as the city came out of the cold winter to celebrate the birth of life and the normally frugal woman indulged herself lavishly when it came to buying clothes to meet the round of dinner parties, picnics and balls.

  The front door was opened by a pretty young dark-eyed maid wearing a spotless white pinafore.

  ‘Mister White is in the living room, ma’am,’ Betsy announced as she helped Enid remove her damp woollen cloak. ‘He arrived a short while ago.’

  ‘Thank you, Betsy,’ Enid replied. ‘Tell Mister White I will see him in a little while. Oh, and see if Mister White might like a sherry or port while he is waiting,’ she added as she removed her kidskin gloves from her hands.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Betsy answered dutifully as she took her mistress’s cloak away to dry it by the kitchen fire.

  Enid was puzzled by the unexpected arrival of her nephew, as she thought he was still in Melbourne discussing future loans with the bankers for the expansion of their pastoral interests in Queensland. He had been gone four months and the protocol of requesting a visit to the Macintosh residence had been flouted by him on his return. Enid was mildly annoyed at his rather rude assumption that he could visit her without a formal invitation. To her, social etiquette existed to maintain the dignity of established conventions and deviation from etiquette bordered on anarchy. She went straight to her room to change from her damp clothes.

  Enid entered the drawing room as her nephew stood warming himself in front of the huge open fireplace. He was watching the tiny flames flick from the red coals of the burning logs as he toyed with a glass of sweet sherry. He turned from his brooding silence to acknowledge her entry.

  ‘Hello, Aunt Enid,’ he said as she swept into the room. ‘I am sorry I did not have time to send around my card. But I have an idea you know why I am here.’

  Enid guessed Penelope had told her brother the news. ‘I think I have a good idea what you want to discuss, Granville,’ she said imperiously. ‘You were going to be told . . . All in good time.’

  Granville glared at
her and struggled to find the words to express his fury for the ultimate betrayal. ‘She is ruined goods,’ he finally exploded. ‘She is carrying the child of that Irish bastard Duffy.’

  ‘No, I believe Mister Duffy was born in wedlock,’ Enid replied serenely as she sat on a sofa watching her nephew’s anger with some amusement. He needed to be kept off balance from time to time, she mused, and said calmly, ‘His child will be the bastard . . . And as for being “ruined goods” as you put it, no one will know except for the immediate family and Molly O’Rourke. I have told my friends that Fiona is visiting relatives at Goulburn.’

  ‘What happens when she arrives back in Sydney with the child? Or have you already thought about that?’ he asked unnecessarily as he knew his aunt would have considered all ramifications of an unwanted child to their interests.

  ‘I have. Fiona will not be coming back to Sydney with the child, as I have made arrangements with Molly to dispose of the baby,’ she replied as if she were talking about the disposal of an unwanted puppy.

  Granville stared at his aunt with just a touch of respect and awe. She was most certainly a formidable woman! Ruthless and possibly even dangerous to anyone who might dare to attempt to thwart her ambitions.

  ‘By dispose,’ he said quietly, ‘I assume you mean the baby will be born dead.’

  Enid displayed the slightest smile of contempt when she replied. ‘We do not all require the services of men like Mister Horton to achieve our ends,’ she said sweetly and Granville baulked at the mention of Jack Horton’s name. But he made no comment as he did not know how much his aunt knew. Or even how she knew at all! ‘Oh, it was not hard to realise what you had done when I read in the newspapers about Mister Duffy being wanted for murder,’ Enid continued serenely. ‘I supposed it had to be more than just a coincidence that you employed Mister Horton, especially when he has a reputation as a very violent and dangerous man.’