Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1

by Peter Watt

  He coughed to hide his embarrassment and Kate realised that the kindly man was uncomfortable. She said, ‘Enough room for friends and relatives to stay over when they visit me in Townsville, Mister Cafe.’

  He nodded. He liked the young woman very much, which was not hard as she seemed to carry an aura of someone very special. An aura much older than her twenty-three years on earth.

  On the trip back to town Kate babbled happily to the stock and station agent of how she proposed to renovate the house. He listened with an eagerness that was infectious and he could easily understand how she impressed people in her business dealings. In a short time they reached his office, which was a pleasant stone building with wide verandahs.

  It was noticeably cooler inside, where a heavy but clean scent of leather perfumed the air. A big clock on the wall made a lazy tick-tocking sound, matched by the noise of a scribbling pen wielded by a young gawky clerk sitting at a desk in the corner of the room. The clerk was fifteen years old and had aspirations to become a stock and station agent one day. He glanced up as his boss entered the office with Missus O’Keefe at his elbow. The clerk’s eyes swivelled to indicate that a stranger was present in the room.

  Mister Cafe followed the young man’s glance and noticed a short but dapper man standing with his hands clasped behind his back. The stranger wore a dark three-piece suit and looked as fresh as if he were standing in cooler climes. Kate guessed he was in his mid-forties and she had the impression that the man was a foreigner to Australian shores. There was something alien about his whole demeanour.

  ‘Ah, Fraulein O’Keefe, I presume,’ the dapper little man said stiffly.

  ‘I’m afraid I must correct you, sir. I am Missus O’Keefe.’ Everyone in the room was stunned when Kate replied in excellent German. The stranger smiled warmly, extending his hand.

  ‘Your grasp of my language is excellent, Missus O’Keefe,’ he said as Kate met his light handshake. ‘I did not realise you spoke German.’

  She laughed lightly and replied in German, ‘It is almost impossible not to learn German when one grows up with an “uncle” who could hardly speak English. But, I’m afraid, my first words in German as a little girl are hardly fitting to repeat now.’

  The dapper little German who had appeared so stiff on first impression burst into laughter and his eyes twinkled.

  ‘Was he your real uncle?’ he asked with a chuckle.

  ‘Uncle Max was a seaman from Hamburg who jumped ship in Melbourne,’ Kate replied, ‘to try his luck on the goldfields back in ’54 . . . And somehow, since then, he has been part of my family.’

  ‘Ahh . . . yes,’ the German said in a more serious tone. ‘I believe you are Irish and, like your people, we are not exactly the best friends with the English.’

  Kate glanced at the clerk and Mister Cafe who had followed the conversation, which had alternated between English and German, with a certain amount of awe. She was a most interesting young woman and the younger man was obviously smitten by her beautiful looks as he sat staring with unabashed admiration for her. Kate felt a touch of unease at the German’s reference to international animosities. Australia was far from European intrigue, as if the continent were a planet unto itself, floating in a space of the Indian and Pacific oceans. The German detected her unease and tactfully changed the subject. He switched to his excellent English.

  ‘I am afraid I have been very rude in not introducing myself to you all . . . I am Herr Jurgen Rubenstein.’ He held out his hand to Cafe, who replied with his own introduction and a hearty handshake. ‘I have travelled a long way to find you, Missus O’Keefe,’ the German said, turning to Kate. ‘All the way from Sydney. We have much to talk about. But,’ he said looking at the stock and station agent, ‘I must apologise to Mister Cafe that our conversation should be in private.’

  Cafe rumbled his understanding and kindly offered them the privacy of his office. ‘Come on, young Harry,’ he said to his clerk. ‘Let’s go and see what’s on for lunch down at the pub.’

  Rubenstein thanked Cafe. When the men had left, he gestured to Kate to take a chair. She did so wondering who the mysterious German was. But she did not have to ask. He promptly explained who he was and why he had sought her out.

  ‘I represent commercial interests in my country, who have sent me to prepare a report on the feasibility of establishing a meatworks here. My company gave me the name of a Mister Isaac Levi, who is a partner with a firm of solicitors, Levi & Sullivan . . .’

  Daniel! Kate suddenly thought. That was the firm her cousin Daniel worked for!

  As if reading her thoughts, he smiled and said, ‘I had the good fortune of meeting a close relative of yours while I was there. Daniel Duffy is an impressive young man, Missus O’Keefe.’

  ‘You are Jewish,’ Kate stated without the prejudice that might have been apparent in anyone else. ‘That is why you contacted Mister Levi.’

  He stared briefly into her eyes as if to detect a covert bigotry, but found none. ‘That is correct, Missus O’Keefe. I am a Jew. There are many people like me in Germany who put our country before our ancient beliefs. God forbid . . . as the English would say. I dare say as you would put your country before your religion.’

  Kate thought about that and realised the man was right. She would rather fight to retain land than religion. Were we not from the earth? And to the earth – one day – we would return, she thought.

  ‘But matters of high intellectualism are not the reason why I have sought you out. My mission is to discuss with you the purchase of a cattle property in the Rockhampton district. I have spoken to a Mister Solomon Cohen. He told me that you have already discussed the idea of establishing a meatworks at Rockhampton, and you plan to supply it with beef from properties west of that town.’

  Kate raised her eyebrows in surprise as she sat with her hands in her lap.

  ‘I presume that Mister Levi recommended that you speak to Mister Cohen,’ she said, to clarify the chain of contacts.

  But he smiled at her presumption and replied, ‘No . . . Mister Daniel Duffy did. It seems you and he have been in correspondence with each other.’ Kate felt a little foolish at her words and she blushed lightly at her mistake. She had written many letters to her family and Daniel and she had carried on a lengthy correspondence concerning any means they could find to continue the fight against the Macintoshes.

  Jurgen continued. ‘He has told me that you have identified a property called Glen View which seems to be suffering cash-flow difficulties because of the current low price for beef. And it seems that Glen View may suit our needs admirably.’

  ‘I would assume, Herr Rubenstein,’ Kate said shrewdly, ‘that you have a rather substantial means for backing any purchase.’

  He nodded. ‘We have, Frau O’Keefe,’ he replied. ‘But I am also led to believe that you are able to finance part of the purchase.’

  ‘Why do you need me if . . . as I can only guess . . . you are in a position to purchase Glen View outright? Why approach me?’

  He paused and she could see that he was most probably searching for a way to explain his position without telling her too much.

  ‘We are a German company, mein Frau. As such, we have reasons not to publicise our financial interests in an English colony. I had hoped that you would be satisfied with that alone as an explanation.’

  Kate was quick to anticipate his meaning.

  ‘You wish my Eureka Company to be the purchasing agent while your company retains a silent share – albeit a majority – in the purchase?’

  ‘That is correct,’ he confirmed with a gentle hint of a sigh. ‘I think you will agree . . . when we consider the . . . how do you say it . . . the sentimental value Glen View has to you and your family.’

  Better to share the property with a foreign interest than not be able to have the property at all, Kate thought. After all, she would have access to those places that had become so significant in her life: the grave of her father, and the sacred place of the
Nerambura people. The oath that she had sworn all those years earlier when she and Luke Tracy had confronted Donald Macintosh on his land was now within grasp of realisation. She was close to honouring her vow of taking the land he held so dear from him and placing it in Duffy hands . . . with the Germans.

  ‘I think we can do it, Herr Rubenstein,’ she said quietly and this time he appeared relaxed.

  He smiled and helped her to her feet with his hand. ‘Then all we need is a lawyer you consider can be discreet in such a matter to prepare the papers. And may I be so presumptuous as to invite you to share dinner with me at my hotel so that we can clarify any other matters that you may consider need attention . . . I should point out at this stage that the management of Glen View will be completely under your control. All we need is a financial interest in the property with exclusive terms to the beef for our meatworks. I am sure the arrangement will prove very profitable for us both. And now . . . can you recommend a lawyer?’

  ‘Without hesitation I would recommend Mister Darlington from the Rockhampton firm of Darlington & Darlington,’ Kate said confidently. ‘They are a reputable firm with excellent credentials, Herr Rubenstein.’

  ‘If you have absolute trust in them, then that is good enough for me,’ he said as he escorted Kate to the door. ‘So until tonight I shall bid you good afternoon, Frau O’Keefe.’ And with a gallant Teutonic click of the heels, he left her at the front door of the stock and station office to stride across the dusty street.

  Kate watched him walk away and wondered a little uneasily why the German should go to such secretive lengths to enter into a conspiracy with her. Conspiracy, she snorted. There was no conspiracy in wresting Glen View from the Macintoshes. Whatever the reasons the Germans had, they were no concern of hers. If it was something adverse to English interests, then all the better.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Four days later Kate O’Keefe sat in Hugh Darlington’s Rockhampton office with her hands in her lap waiting for him to make a comment.

  He made little humming noises which Kate found appealing. He flipped through the papers on his desk, finally closed the folder in front of him and looked up at her. ‘Are you sure you are doing the right thing in this matter, Kate?’ he asked and rubbed his forehead with his hand as if attempting to wipe away a troublesome thought.

  ‘You know how much it means to me . . . to secure Glen View,’ she said quietly. ‘It probably means more than I can find words for.’

  He stared for a brief moment into her serious grey eyes and felt the spell of her spirit cast its magic over him. How could he steer her away from the purchase of the Macintosh property? he thought miserably. How could he sabotage her efforts to wrest the land that both Macintosh and Duffy blood had fertilised years earlier? He was fully aware of the tragic events that had occurred on the property west of Rockhampton.

  ‘You realise, of course, that your percentage interest in Glen View will be significantly smaller than that of your partners in this enterprise,’ he ventured, hoping to appeal to the businesswoman in her rather than the emotional female obsessed with revenge. ‘And that is not a sound financial investment in anyone’s books.’

  ‘I know,’ Kate replied simply. ‘But my partners have clearly set out that I have first option to buy them out in the future, should that situation arise. You have that in writing,’ she added, tapping the folder on Hugh’s desk with her finger.

  ‘I know that,’ he replied shortly and regretted his minor display of irritability. ‘I was only thinking of you.’

  ‘If you mean what you say, then you will do everything within your power to ensure that the purchase goes through,’ Kate said, fixing him with her eyes. ‘And I believe you will, because you have proved your love for me with the thousand pounds you so readily invested in my business. I do not know of any other man who would have done that for me when I am considered by most as nothing more than a silly young girl with grandiose ideas well beyond her capabilities.’

  Hugh glanced down at the folder in front of him and flipped it open. He stared unseeingly at the copperplate writing on the pages and hoped she did not see the guilt in his face. He looked up from the folder and cleared his throat.

  ‘You know that I love you, Kate . . . and would do anything for you.’ Kate had a fleeting and disturbing feeling that his words rang just a little hollow. But she dismissed the thought as a misinterpretation by her highly strung emotions at a time when she was so near to realising her dream.

  ‘I know that,’ Kate said reassuringly. But she was not quite sure whom she was reassuring and she deliberately let the thought go from her mind. And to affirm her feelings for him she added, ‘I have an appointment today to see Father Murlay about the annulment of my marriage.’ Her announcement brought a wan smile to his face.

  Kate rose from her chair and bade him a good morning as she left his office. As she did, she found herself reflecting on their meeting with an uneasy and unexplainable feeling of doubt about the expressions of love that had passed between them. There was something about Hugh’s whole demeanour that did not feel right to her. Something intangible that passed between people without a need for words, but just as strong in its communication of emotions. That intangible something she could only think of as a woman’s intuition. And intuition had no scientific basis – so she had been often told by men. But it was late in the day and she was weary from the busy schedule she had undertaken. All she felt was a dire need for a good night’s sleep and hopefully in the morning to wake to a new and promising day.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  They came under the cover of a thunderstorm. Horses’ heads drooped and tails tucked against the driving rain while the troopers shivered as the water drenched them. Although it was only late afternoon, it felt more like early evening as the storm had drowned the sun and extinguished its light. Men and horses felt miserably exposed on the scrubby plain and the numbed thoughts of the drenched troopers were mostly on the comforts of their barracks many long miles behind them.

  Soon the land would be green and alive in the Gulf Country. The lagoons would be covered in flowering waterlilies and countless water birds such as the black and white magpie geese, ducks, herons and long-beaked ibis would flock to the banks of the water holes. The tall and graceful brolgas would dance with graceful leaps. It would be a time of plenty.

  But now it was the transitional period before the dry season crept once again upon the land to bake the earth and turn the water holes into places of death, even for the undisputed master of the Gulf’s waterways, the giant estuarine crocodile. The Rainbow Serpent had not yet reached His own lagoon and it could be seen in the last of the storms that rent the tropical sky electric blue and drenched the earth below with each heavy downpour of rain.

  Lieutenant Wentworth Uhr’s thoughts were on the small range of hills somewhere to the south of the police patrol. As miserable as the day was, it was only one such day, typical of life in the Native Mounted Police. The long-ranging patrols had often lived with the vagaries of the weather. Tomorrow would probably be oppressively humid and the police would be plagued by the myriad of insects that rose off the lush green grass to bite and sting them. The troopers would grumble irritably and yearn for the rain to return and drive away the pests.

  Behind Uhr rode Sergeant Henry James, whose thoughts were decidedly mixed. In all probability this would be the second time he would meet the infamous bushranger. He secretly hoped that Tom would not be in the hills.

  Lieutenant Uhr brought the mounted column to a halt as his Aboriginal tracker, who had been sent ahead on foot to reconnoitre the hills, stood silently on the trail waiting for the patrol to catch up to him. He jogged back to Uhr and stood by the stirrup of the police officer’s mount.

  ‘Big-fella hill there, Mahmy,’ he said, pointing into the wall of rain to the south. ‘One man blackfella, one man whitefella, one fella gin got camp.’

  ‘Good man,’ Uhr said and twisted in the saddle to address his sergeant. ‘Sergeant J
ames, we will split up here,’ he said. ‘You take two of the troopers of your choosing and I will keep the other five with me.’

  Henry did not have to ask any questions of his boss. The plan had been worked out the night before at their last camp site. He turned to the column, choosing two Aboriginal troopers whom he knew well. They were men who had served with him at Rockhampton and both troopers were now the most experienced and reliable in the patrol. Uhr respected his sergeant’s choice of men. What he lacked in numbers, he made up for in years of experience with his choice.

  Henry gave the order to his two troopers to move out with him and the three policemen wheeled away from the troop to ride south. The plan was for them to take up a position on the reverse side of the hills and act as a cut-off should Duffy attempt to retreat from the advance of the main body of police.

  When the rain had swallowed Henry and his two troopers, Uhr contemplated the weather. The damned rain was a nuisance! But it did provide concealment to the patrol advancing on the wanted men. He had anticipated that the bushranger would never expect a police patrol to be dogging him under such atrocious conditions.

  ‘Dismount!’

  The lieutenant’s order to the remaining troopers was welcome, as they had a need to stretch their legs that had stiffened from the long ride and soaking cold rain. Although they would not be able to find shelter, they could at least huddle by a tree while they waited for Sergeant James to get closer to the hill.

  They waited an hour until Uhr gave the order to his men to prepare to advance on foot. The horses were left hobbled and the troopers gripped carbines as they followed their officer towards the rocky slopes of the hill.

  The bushrangers’ camp was protected by a convenient rock overhang which gave them shelter. At the same time, it allowed for the camp fire smoke to disperse without choking them. Tom had selected the site because it was a naturally protected position with a commanding view of the sparse tree plains below. But the panoramic view only existed when it was not raining.