by Peter Watt
The accusation caused Enid to glance away. ‘I will not lie,’ she replied defiantly. ‘So I will not answer your question, Fiona. I expect you to understand your duty to the family. To appreciate how important your place beside Granville is to the future of the family. It will be you who will bear the children who will carry our blood heritage into the next century.’
‘I carried a child in my body all these months,’ Fiona said in a pleading voice. ‘Did not that child carry our blood, Mother? Was not that child part Macintosh?’
‘Tainted by Popish Irish blood,’ her mother retorted angrily. ‘A bastard not born to our class, and my decision was the only one that could be made under the circumstances. I would suggest that the sooner you forget this episode of your life the better it will be for your future happiness. Oh, I understand that you will naturally grieve for your loss for a little while, but time will heal your grief just as it has mine for the death of your brother. What has happened has been God’s will and your sacrifice is His way of helping you repent for your sin . . .’
‘Sin? My sin? Does the murder of my child constitute a sacrifice?’ Fiona spat. ‘Is our God the pagan god Baal of the Bible, who demands human sacrifice?’
‘Do not blaspheme,’ Enid shot back savagely. ‘God will not be mocked by your blasphemy, Fiona. God has ordained that we must provide generations to give wise guidance to those people born of inferior blood . . . the black people . . . the Irish . . . and others like them.’
‘I want you to leave, Mother,’ Fiona said, turning her face away. ‘I do not want to be in your presence unless absolutely necessary. Not because you have killed my baby, not because what I have done in allowing him to be taken from me makes me as guilty as you . . . but because you dare to justify murder in the name of God and duty. Go, Mother. Go now and leave me with my pain. A pain I doubt you could ever be capable of knowing.’
Enid stood and stared at the back of her daughter’s head. She could hear Fiona’s sobbing and she wanted to reach out and hold her, despite the bitter words that had come between them. Instead she consoled herself in the knowledge that her daughter would heal with the natural progression of time and Doctor Champion’s doses of laudanum.
She swept from the room and called for the coachman who tended the horses at the cottage. He ambled from the stables, wiping axle grease on the sides of his leather apron. He was a big and brawny man whose powerful arms bespoke his time bending red-hot iron in the blacksmith’s forge.
‘Tell me what transpired after the baby was born, Hill,’ she commanded as she stood like a diminutive doll before the huge man. ‘And get that surly look off your face.’
‘Sorry, Missus Macintosh,’ he mumbled as he bowed his head. ‘I done what you asked. I took Miss Molly down to Sydney an’ she left with the kid.’
‘Left her where?’ she snapped. The big man shuffled his feet and could not look her in the eye. ‘Speak, man. Where did you leave her?’
‘At the place you said to go.’
‘Why didn’t she return with you then?’
‘I doan know,’ he mumbled. ‘She never come back to the carriage. I looked for her but she weren’t anywhere to be seen. She jus’ disappeared into thin air.’
Enid stared at him for a short while, but he did not elaborate any further on the Irish nanny’s disappearance. ‘Thank you, Mister Hill,’ she said formally. ‘I am sure you are telling the truth and I’m sure Miss O’Rourke will make contact with me in the near future.’
‘That all, Missus Macintosh?’ the coachman asked and was relieved to be dismissed.
He had never liked the thought of taking the baby to one of the infamous baby farms as he had too often been involved in the delivery of life himself, albeit horses and sheep. The idea of destroying a perfectly healthy creature was against all he held precious. But the whims of the gentry had to be pandered to if he was to keep his employment. He had actually been relieved when Molly had not returned to the coach, although he had wondered what had happened to her. He hoped the baby would be safe somewhere. The little mite had grasped his thick finger with his tiny hand during a stop at an inn on the way down to Sydney. In doing so he had infused the brawny coachman with a part of his little life. No, it was not easy to be a part of destroying a helpless little life – man or animal.
David Macintosh sat at his desk in his office and stared at the newspaper article. If what it said was true then the ramifications would certainly ripple around his family circle. So engrossed was he in the article that he had forgotten the cup of tea George Hobbs had placed on his desk and the tea was cold by the time he neatly folded the paper and placed it beside the cup and saucer.
He leaned back in his swivel chair with his hands behind his head, staring at the door to the office. He wondered what Granville would say when he was told the news. News that would certainly affect his soon-to-be brother-in-law.
David glanced up at the loudly ticking clock on the wall and he noted that it was almost ten o’clock in the morning. Granville would be on time for their appointment. Whatever else he found irritating about his cousin, punctuality was his one saving grace.
The appointment had been made to discuss the implications of Robert Towns landing his first cargo of South Sea Islanders in Brisbane, where they were to be assigned to work on his cotton plantation on the Logan River, south of the growing colonial town.
In turn, Granville would introduce the newly appointed captain of the Osprey to him and discuss the islands he had identified as the most likely places to recruit black labour for the Macintosh sugar and cotton plantations.
But David did not have to be introduced to the new captain. He already knew the man. They had met earlier that year on his trip north to Queensland.
The clock chimed ten and, on cue, Hobbs poked his head around the corner and formally announced Mister Granville White’s arrival.
David rose from his chair when Granville entered the room with the new captain of the Osprey.
‘Ah, Granville,’ David said as he put out his hand to Mort. ‘I see you have Mister Mort with you.’ Mort accepted the extended hand and David was surprised to feel how limp his grip was. It was not what he expected from the reputedly hardened former Native Mounted Police officer.
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance again, Mister Macintosh,’ Mort said with polite deference to one of his new bosses and released his hand. ‘Your father forwards his good wishes to you,’ he added solicitously.
Granville sat in a leather chair in a corner of the office. He crossed his legs as he brushed back his thinning hair with a swipe of his hand. It was an unconscious gesture as his receding hair was a blemish on his vanity. ‘Our Mister Mort is a man of many talents, David,’ he said, wiping down his trousers of the imagined grime from David’s office. He was fastidiously clean to the point of obsession. David tended towards being untidy at times, which irked Granville’s sense of all things having a place – and a place for all things. ‘Appears our Mister Mort holds master’s papers from his days prior to joining the Victorian constabulary back in ’54,’ he added. ‘One could say the right man in the right place for our South Sea venture.’
‘That is correct.’ Mort was quick to confirm Granville’s disclosure of his previous experience at sea. ‘My original career was on the Hobart–Melbourne route. I was the first mate of the Vandemonian.’
‘If I remember rightly, the Vandemonian was a brig,’ David said as he returned to his chair. ‘So the Osprey should suit you. Have you inspected the Osprey yet, Mister Mort?’
‘I’ve taken Mister . . . should I now say, Captain Mort . . . aboard before we came here,’ Granville said, answering David’s question. ‘I think, considering Captain Mort’s considerable experience with dealing with our black brethren, he will be admirably suited to the task ahead of him. And I think your father was rather astute in recommending him to us.’
But David was not so sure about his father’s wisdom. His own discreet inquiries about the enigmati
c man’s background had tended to paint a picture of a man with a dubious past. And there was the matter of his rather sudden resignation from the Queensland Native Mounted Police where it was rumoured, albeit unsubstantiated, that he had unnecessarily killed a trooper and he had been forced to tender his papers by his second-in-command.
And it was also rumoured that Mort was the illegitimate son of a serving girl from Sydney who had been dismissed when her unfortunate indiscretion with her employer could no longer be concealed from the man’s wife. The young girl had been thrown on the street and turned to prostitution in Sydney’s infamous Rocks, where Mort was born. But despite the man’s lowly origins he had to give Mort his due. He had been able to rise above his past to get where he was now.
Seeing Mort and Granville together in his office, David felt they were two men cut from the same cloth, except from vastly different sides of society, and it was a comparison that did not sit well with him. One Granville to deal with was bad enough, David thought, but another! However, his father had recommended the man for the position as captain of the Osprey, and his father was the ultimate decision maker in the family. His wishes were to be respected regardless of the doubts David harboured concerning Mort’s suitability.
David suddenly remembered the article he had been so engrossed in before his cousin’s arrival. ‘To digress for the moment, Granville,’ he said. ‘Have you read the report in the Bulletin covering the campaign in New Zealand?’
‘No. I haven’t had the chance as yet.’ Granville frowned. ‘Why, is there something I should know?’
‘Well, if it is of any interest,’ David replied, ‘I have just read that a Michael Maloney was reported killed in a skirmish with the Maoris last week in the Waikato campaign.’
‘Do I know the man?’ Granville queried and was slightly annoyed at his cousin’s theatricals.
‘Apparently you did,’ David answered, raising his eyebrows. ‘According to the report, the man known as Michael Maloney was discovered to be an alias for one Michael Duffy. The report also says that he is reported to be the same Michael Duffy wanted for questioning by Sydney police on a matter of the death of a man here last January.’
Granville tensed. He quickly uncrossed his legs, stood up and snatched the folded paper from his cousin’s desk. He flicked impatiently through the pages until he found the article reporting the Waikato campaign. As he scanned the report, his expression reflected his pleasure. So the Maoris had done what he had not been able to achieve – the death of Michael Duffy. The article also outlined how, after he had been killed, the soldier’s real identity had been exposed by a comrade with von Tempsky’s Forest Rangers. It was also reported that the man known as Michael Maloney – alias Duffy – had died in a courageous lone stand saving his comrades from a Maori ambush.
‘I think Fiona should be told the tragic news as soon as possible,’ Granville said smugly as he closed the paper. ‘I am sure she will need a couple of days to grieve for the loss of a dear friend.’
With the Irishman well and truly dead, he knew she would lose any last flame of secret hope that she might harbour for his return. Now Duffy was nothing more than a ghost and he had never known of a ghost being able to physically hurt the living.
Jack Horton stood at the top of the Osprey’s gangplank as the ship lay tied to the wharf. He stared down at the labourers manhandling the last of the supplies aboard for the sea voyage into the South Pacific. He watched curiously as two men on the wharf, carrying a strange stool-like bench between them, struggled up the gangway.
At first he did not recognise the wooden bench for what it was. Then, as its purpose dawned on him, he flinched. ‘A bloody whippin’ stool,’ he muttered uneasily. ‘The bastards got a whippin’ stool.’
Close behind the two sweating men came the new captain, dressed in the fine dark blue uniform of the merchant seaman. He carried a sword on his belt and glanced around the deck with an expression of possessive pride as he came aboard.
‘Good to have yer aboard, Cap’n,’ Horton said solicitously as he eyed the bench being taken below deck to the captain’s cabin. ‘’Ave’nt seen one of ’em in a long time.’
‘You must be Horton, the first mate,’ Mort said without extending his hand. ‘I want to see you in my cabin now.’
Horton followed Mort below and watched nervously as the two labourers placed the bench in the little space the cabin provided. It sat like some heathen altar with its timber smoothed to a dark polish from much brutal use in its bloody past.
Mort ran his hand over the surface with a strange faraway look in his pale eyes. The first mate noticed this with a strange quiver of illogical fear. Was there a madness in the new captain? ‘I was fortunate to find this,’ Mort said, without looking up at him. ‘Mister White knew just what to give me as a welcoming gift to the company.’
‘If you don’ mind me sayin’, Cap’n Mort . . . It’s a peculiar gift.’
Mort raised his eyes to lock with those of his first mate. ‘He also told me about the circumstances of your employment aboard my ship,’ Mort said, without commenting on the peculiarity of the gift. Horton sensed the deadly menace in the tone and he squirmed. ‘Under the circumstances, he explained to me I could expect to have your total and unquestioning loyalty. Would I not, Mister Horton?’
‘You would, Cap’n.’
Mort nodded and slid the sword from its scabbard. He placed it on the bench, where the blade caught a ray of sunlight through a porthole to gleam a fiery silver.
‘He said I would be able to call on your “domain of skills” at any time. And in the difficult time ahead of us, possibly fraught with great perils, I expect your loyalty to be total,’ he continued, fingering the sword as it lay on the bench. It was no idle gesture, as Horton could very well understand. ‘So that will be all for now, Mister Horton. You can resume your duties overseeing the resupply.’
‘Yes, Cap’n,’ Horton said as he edged his way out of the cabin. He had met a lot of dangerous men in his violent life but none as dangerously mad as the new skipper of the Osprey, whose almost effeminate looks and diffident manner belied a savagery that he sensed and did not want to cause to be unleashed.
The predominantly Irish patrons of the Erin were unusually subdued as they gathered in the hotel’s bar to discuss the latest happenings in the popular publican’s family. The news had spread rapidly of young Michael Duffy’s death at the hands of the Maori heathens in New Zealand.
Many a sympathetic comment was passed on the God-cursed tragedy that had befallen the Duffy family since Patrick’s tragic death at the hands of the wild blackfellas in Queensland, although it was rumoured that there was more to the death than met the eye. Tom was a wanted man in Queensland for robbery under arms and he was suspected of murder. And now Michael had been slain in the war across the Tasman Sea.
Frank Duffy was not in the bar as he usually was in the evenings bellowing good-naturedly at unruly customers and shouting occasional drinks for a select few. The pretty, buxom barmaid, Elsie, was in tears as she fumbled with the glasses of ale for the customers, spilling much of the precious liquid. It had been well known that she had been in love with Michael and it was also wickedly rumoured that she had introduced him to the pleasures of the flesh when he was eighteen. Ah, but the Duffy men were wild lads, the customers mused. They had got it from their father, God rest his saintly soul.
Glasses were raised as toasts to Michael Duffy’s innocence and bravery and then glasses were raised to Tom for giving the traps a merry chase in the far-off colony of Queensland. And glasses were refilled to toast Patrick, the rebel father of the Duffy boys, who had himself assisted one or two English soldiers to their graves in Ireland, and Victoria at the Eureka Stockade.
Then glasses were raised to Francis Duffy as the finest publican outside of Ireland. Saint Patrick was next. The downfall of British rule at home was not forgotten and finally glasses were raised to dear old Ireland itself.
To be sure the copious qua
ntities of rum and gin flowed down the thirsty throats of men toasting all that was important in life. And that led in turn to push and shove from the non-Irish drinkers who objected to the outpouring of Irish sentiment.
Before long, Max Braun was up to his muscled armpits in brawls with the verdammen drunken Irishmen. He had long learnt that it took little in the way of an excuse for an Irishman to get into a fight and it was no wonder they were found in the ranks of most of the mercenary armies of the world.
Above the din of breaking glass and thumps of men hitting the floor, amid drunken oaths in English and curses in Gaelic, Bridget sat by her bed in her old rocking chair with a well-worn set of rosary beads slipping between her fingers as she muttered her prayers, seemingly oblivious to the riot just below her bedroom.
The salvation of Michael’s immortal soul held her attention, as she had no illusions about her nephew and his wild ways. To be sure, Michael was a terrible sinner when it came to matters of the flesh. But he was also a gentle man who dreamed of beautiful paintings, and he had loved her as if he were her trueborn son.
The tears flowed but she was hardly aware that she was crying and it was not for Michael alone that she wept. Her tears were also for little Katie, who had suffered the unspeakable pain of the loss of her child, and Bridget Duffy prayed that she might return to the family that loved her dearly. So much death and suffering had been visited upon her dead brother-in-law’s family in the past year and only God knew why.
The tentative knock at her door interrupted her Hail Mary. She brushed the crucifix with a kiss and placed the well-used rosary beads in her lap. ‘Come in,’ she called with a feeble attempt to brush away the tears.
She did not recognise the woman who stood beside her ashen-faced husband in the doorway, but she could see that the woman held a bundle in her arms wrapped in a fine swaddling blanket.
‘Biddy, Miss Molly O’Rourke has brought someone to us,’ Frank said as he ushered the woman into the bedroom.