by Peter Watt
‘But you were once Miss Jones, I believe, ma’am?’ he asked and she nodded. ‘If I could just have a moment of your time, ma’am, I have something to tell you.’
‘It’s about Jack, isn’t it?’ she replied sadly, staring past the American at the departing backs of her brood of sometimes unruly pupils.
‘If the man you mentioned is the same one I met up north, then this is the first time I’ve know’d his name.’ He paused and continued politely. ‘My name is Luke Tracy, ma’am. Should have said so when I first spoke to you.’
‘Mister Tracy, I notice that you are an American from your speech,’ Rose commented. ‘Were you teamed up with Jack?’
‘No, ma’am. I met Jack . . .’ He hesitated and fidgeted with the battered bush hat in his hands . . . How could he break the news to the young woman who stared up into his face with such a stricken look of dreaded anticipation? ‘Jack is dead, Missus Carr. I was with him when he died and I gave him a Christian burial . . . if it’s any good to know,’ Luke said gently.
Her expression crumpled like the shattered facade of a beautiful marble wall, but she quickly recovered.
‘It was inevitable,’ she said sadly. ‘Poor Jack! How did he die, Mister Tracy?’ she asked in a controlled and almost calm voice.
‘Speared by the myalls south of Cape York Peninsula.’
Rose swayed and Luke took her by the elbow to guide her to a log seat erected in the schoolyard under a big old gum tree. He sat beside her while she recovered her composure. She had hoped that she would be in control when the news was eventually relayed to her of the prospector’s inevitable death. But the actual realisation was no less painful.
She sat staring straight ahead in silence as if Luke was not even in her presence and, in the awkward silence that followed, Luke wondered if he should not leave her and return later.
‘I must seem very cold to you, Mister Tracy,’ she finally said. ‘But you must also realise that I truly loved Jack for many years. And for those many years, I was young and believed in his dreams that one day he would find the gold he was always searching for. That he would return to me like some crusading knight of old to build me a castle. Jack used to have such foolish dreams of giving me the riches of the world, when all I ever wanted was to have him with me. But he could never see that I loved him for the wonderful, generous and gentle man that he was. Then one day he finally rode out and I told him I could wait no longer for him to return with his pockets empty . . . and the promise, that, just one more time . . .’ She choked as the tears welled at bitter and beautiful memories of the man she had once loved.
Luke remained silent and he thought of Kate in Rockhampton . . . Was love such an important part of life, when a man’s duty was to provide for his woman the best way he could?
Rose wiped away the tears that had streamed down her pretty face and she continued to speak. ‘When Jack left a year ago I promised myself that I would never take him back. He would only laugh and he’d make another promise he would return with a fortune for me. But he had said that one time too many. And when Mister Carr came into my life, I realised that there were men who were prepared to remain by a woman’s side. Men who would be there when they were most needed. A man so different to Jack. A man who did not have the need to face danger every day of his life with nothing more than a dream to keep him going. A good and predictable man who . . .’ She hesitated and turned to Luke with pleading eyes and said, ‘Do you know what I mean, Mister Tracy?’
He nodded and turned to stare straight ahead, as he did not want her to see the guilt in his own eyes. The good men stayed safe in their homes behind the frontier. And only the bad men went out beyond the frontier in search of dreams, he reflected bitterly. Maybe he should throw in his search for the elusive dream and settle down to a life in town as Solomon and Judith had always begged him to do. The little Jewish storekeeper had even promised him the management of a store he was planning to open in Townsville. But he had declined, explaining how he knew nothing of pots and pans.
‘Some men are born with a different kind of blood, ma’am,’ he said sadly as he stared at a trail of ants at his feet, labouring with the carcass of a dead grasshopper. ‘Maybe it’s a curse. But the blood makes those men restless and foolishly ambitious and they lose sight of what’s really important in life,’ he said wistfully and once again thought about Kate. Maybe too many years had passed between them for him to ever dream of finding her love.
‘I can assume that you are a prospector like Jack, Mister Tracy,’ Rose said gently to the man she sensed was also suffering from a deep loss, and Luke nodded. ‘Then I pray you find your dream before it kills you,’ she said as she touched him sympathetically on the back of his hand. Luke was reminded of a similar touch many years earlier from a woman who would be about the same age as the one sitting beside him. He smiled sadly, stood and reached into his trouser pocket to retrieve the package he had carried up from Brisbane.
‘I made a promise to Jack before he died,’ he said as he held out the cloth-wrapped bundle. ‘And no matter what, he wanted you to have this.’ She took the small bundle in her hands and stared at it curiously as he continued, ‘I didn’t know Jack long. But I figured him for a fine man who would have been happy to know that you found someone you could love. Someone who would look after you.’
Rose held the cloth-wrapped bundle without opening it, as whatever it was she felt that it should be opened in privacy. Hopefully it would be the journal he had always kept, recording his life on the lonely trails and his love for her. She was hardly aware of the parting words of the tall American. ‘Jack found his river of gold. But it done him no good in the end,’ he said as he turned and walked back to his horse tethered at the front gate.
Rose remained seated with the package in her hands, remembering the bittersweet times she had spent with the man she had once loved to distraction. But a man she had finally given up for a stable home and life with a gentle and considerate man who would always be there. At least the journal would be a part of her life to remember those days.
She slowly unwrapped the cloth, which fell open to reveal a pile of banknotes. Stunned, she sat gaping at the money in her lap and she didn’t have to be a teacher of arithmetic to know she was staring at a considerable fortune. The parting words of the American echoed in her bewildered mind.
‘Jack found his river of gold. But it done him no good in the end.’
A fiddle screeched and a young and world-weary woman sang a sad and haunting song about Moreton Bay’s brutal convict system on the banks of the Brisbane River many years earlier. Two weeks out of Toowoomba, Luke Tracy sat alone at a rough bush-crafted table just big enough to seat two men and two shots of rum. Pipe and cigar smoke clouded the room in a mist so thick that the American had no reason to light up a cheroot and smoke and he hardly heard the young woman singing her sad song, as he was engrossed in his own thoughts.
The patrons of the tiny hotel bar took little notice of the prospector. They were preoccupied vying for the attention of two other ladies who made it known they were available to share their charms with the man – or men – who paid the most.
Ironically Luke Tracy could have been just that man as he carried in a money belt enough cash to not only buy all three ladies for the night, but also the hotel and a year’s supply of its stock.
The Palmer River gold had been converted to pound notes through Solomon’s contacts in a world of transactions where questions were not asked. The gold would eventually find its way into respectability as items of jewellery and the fancy ladies wearing golden chains would never know of the blood that had been spilled to enhance their vanity.
Selling gold without government approval could incur a hefty prison term under the laws of the colony, but to disclose the gold meant revealing its source and that invited a gold rush that might leave him behind. Luke had no intention of losing the El Dorado he had searched for over the long and lonely years of his life.
He picked u
p the tumbler of rum in front of him. The alcohol fumed in his head and made him feel good. At least a little less morose. But it did not take away his soul-destroying loneliness. He had a small fortune and yet it meant nothing compared to the love he had for years carried with him for Kate O’Keefe. If only she knew how much he loved her. If only she knew.
‘Mister Tracy, isn’t it?’
Surprised, Luke glanced up at the mention of his name and focused on a tall and broad-shouldered man standing over him with something between a smile and a sneer on his handsome face.
‘I know you?’ Luke queried with a slight slur.
‘We met at Rockhampton back in ’63,’ the stranger said. ‘You don’t remember?’
Luke remembered and the rum in his stomach suddenly felt like bile. ‘Mister O’Keefe,’ Luke answered somewhere between a hiss and a snarl. ‘I remember. I thought you might not want to be recognised in the colony of Queensland.’
Kevin O’Keefe dragged a rickety chair to the table and sat down without invitation. ‘That might be, Mister Tracy,’ he said and he reached into the pocket of the fancy waistcoat he wore. ‘But the colony is badly in need of enterprising men with a certain kind of business acumen to make this place fit to live in. I suppose I am one of those men.’
He produced a florin coin which he placed on the table and turned to call across to the girl singing her sad song. ‘Get me and Mister Tracy another drink, Sally,’ he commanded. The girl ceased her song and obeyed with a small display of reluctance. ‘Bloody woman,’ O’Keefe scowled as he watched her walk unsteadily to the bar. ‘Should have left her in The Rocks to rot. She’ll be too drunk by the end of the night to work.’
Luke momentarily turned his attention to the girl, who was not beautiful but had a sexual appeal which was for sale as he’d guessed correctly. He turned back to O’Keefe.
‘All the women here work for you,’ he stated bluntly and O’Keefe nodded.
‘I hear you’ve been paying for your drinks with pound notes,’ he said leaning slightly forward into Luke’s face. ‘If I remember rightly from the last time we met, you said you were a prospector. So I can only surmise that you’ve made a good strike somewhere.’
‘If I had . . . what concern would that be to you, Mister O’Keefe?’ Luke answered without trying to conceal his hostility. ‘You don’t strike me as a man who would get his hands dirty doin’ an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay.’
O’Keefe’s eyes glazed at the intended slur on his character. He did not fear the American, even if he did carry a big Colt revolver tucked in the belt of his trousers. Other men had threatened him in the past, and other men had been paid with a beating that had maimed them for life. Behind his fancy clothes was still the hard bare-knuckle fighter of the tough Irish part of Sydney Town.
‘If I did what you call an honest day’s work, I wouldn’t be wearing these clothes, would I?’ O’Keefe challenged. ‘No, I provide a service no man can live without, Mister Tracy, and I am not concerned who knows. In your case, I was hoping you and I might talk about maybe a future location where men hungry for the gentle touch of a woman might go to dig for gold, nothing more than that. And I suspect you know such a place.’
Luke stared hard at the big man sitting opposite him and an image of a helpless young girl’s face gaunt with fever filled his memories. It was the image he remembered for the absolute sense of helplessness he had felt at the time. The image of Kate in her dire time of need boiled up like a rage in his belly. The speed and fury of Luke’s blow took even the experienced bare-knuckle fighter by surprise and O’Keefe felt himself propelled backwards where he hit the wooden floor with a heavy thump.
The crash of the table and chairs scattering in the small bar caught the immediate attention of everyone in the crowded, smoke-filled room. But O’Keefe was experienced in the ways of the street fighter and the blow had little more than a stinging effect on his reactions. The razor-sharp knife was in his hand in the blink of an eye.
A woman screamed and the girl who had been ordered to fetch the drinks let them fall to the floor with a crash of splintering glass. Luke was on his feet and the Colt in his hand was pointed directly at the head of O’Keefe, who lay on his back supported by his elbows.
‘You’re a lowdown son of a bitch, O’Keefe,’ Luke snarled with murder in his eyes. ‘And I should put a bullet in you right now for what you did to Kate.’
O’Keefe did not attempt to rise but he stared back at the man standing over him. He knew the American’s threat was very real and he was looking at certain death. But O’Keefe was not a man to be cowed by fear.
‘Kate!’ he said with a note of surprise. ‘You calling my wife Kate makes me think you have feelings for her, Mister Tracy.’
Luke was hardly aware of the sudden silence around him. He was looking down a tunnel with O’Keefe at the other end. ‘Your wife is the finest woman I have ever known,’ he replied quietly. ‘If killing you would help her, I wouldn’t hesitate in doing it now. But she is too fine a woman to have even a goddamned son of a whore like you get her name related to a killin’ in some scurvy pub. No. You get a second chance, O’Keefe.’
‘You don’t,’ O’Keefe replied menacingly from the floor. ‘If I ever hear you have been near her, Tracy, so help me God, I’ll kill you.’
‘You don’t get a third chance, O’Keefe.’ Luke snorted contemptuously with the revolver pointed steadily. ‘If I hear that you have gone anywhere near Kate, I will kill you.’
‘I believe you would,’ O’Keefe replied with a puzzled frown as if finding it hard to come to grips with the fact that there was a man in Kate’s life who was actually prepared to die for her. He knew he would not die for her. For that matter, no woman was worth dying for.
Luke carefully backed out of the hotel with his gun covering the patrons. Not that any of them appeared in the slightest bit interested in helping O’Keefe. Not even the girls who worked for him.
He untethered his horse from the hitching rail and eased himself up into the saddle. He had not gone far when he once again heard the screech of the fiddle belting out an Irish jig. Already the explosive confrontation between pimp and prospector was relegated to curious speculation among the hotel patrons who had witnessed the short but violent incident. The patrons had gone to the pub to drink and to drinking they returned.
Luke rode until he felt he was safely out of O’Keefe’s possible attempts to follow him. Not that he thought that was probable. He remembered Kate’s husband as a man more at home at a card table, or in another woman’s bed, than in the bush.
And as he rode he thought about Kate. He had not seen her in five long years. Maybe it was time he went north to Rockhampton to tell her his feelings. He could now because he had money.
Overhead, the flying foxes flapped silently in a seemingly endless stream as they sought the wild fruits of the forests in the hills around Brisbane Town and Luke began to sing. At first softly, then more loudly.
I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee.
It was a popular song from his homeland and it had crossed the Pacific with the Californians to the Ballarat goldfields in ’54.
The implication of his momentous decision began to dawn on him and suddenly the night sounds of the Australian bush were as sweet as any sounds on earth. But first he had to visit a man he knew who owned the best thoroughbreds in the colony.
O, Susanna, O don’t you cry for me . . .
FORTY
The room was dark although it was only mid-afternoon. The curtains were drawn for the woman who sat alone in the library of the immense house.
For David, Enid Macintosh had finally let flow the grief which she had withheld for the death of her first son. And now she sat alone, a gaunt and pale reflection of the woman she had once been.
The servants moved about the hallways of the mansion quietly so as not to disturb her, and the letters of condolence from friends and business acquaintances were piled high on the desk in the li
brary where they lay unopened. Nor was Lady Enid accepting visitors to the Macintosh mansion. Strict instructions had been issued to the domestic staff that she was accepting only immediate family.
Throughout the day the grieving woman remained in the library where she took her meals. She only left the darkened library to sleep in her bedroom or attend to calls of nature.
The tragic news that her beloved David had been murdered in the Pacific islands by the savages had been more than any mother should bear in a lifetime. The news of his death had arrived by telegram, relayed over the telegraph line between Brisbane and Sydney. It was followed by a letter from Captain Mort expressing his condolences to the Macintosh family. His letter also contained a rambling and heroic account of how he had tried to fight his way back to recover David’s body. But, alas! To no avail. Such was the ferocity of the natives.
Her dear boy was gone and no more would she see the loving and gentle smile of the man who preferred the pursuit of knowledge to the purchase of power. No more would she hear his laughter nor his gently humorous and sometimes irreverent accounts of life in the hallowed halls of Oxford.
No matter what Captain Mort’s report read, she knew that David had been murdered and why. If only she had insisted that David not take passage on the Osprey, he might be alive today, she thought in her grief. Mort may have carried out the execution but Granville had signed the warrant, she was sure. But she knew that to prove such a conspiracy was well beyond her for the moment. Her brooding thoughts were interrupted by Betsy, who had tapped softly on the library door to peer into the dark room.
‘Lady Macintosh,’ she called timidly around the door of the library. ‘Your daughter, Missus White, is here to see you, if you please.’
‘Send Missus White up, Betsy,’ Enid replied in a tired voice. She was not surprised that her estranged daughter was calling on her. The death of her brother would at least warrant one official visit to express formal grief.