Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1

by Peter Watt

  As she pondered the strange situation being played out in her bedroom, she heard his boots scrape on the floor as he heaved himself to his feet and lurched out the door without further comment.

  Kate remained huddled on the bed for some time after the squatter had left the house and she was vaguely aware that she was trembling. Whether it was through fear for the short but emotionally violent intrusion of the squatter, or the anger she felt at her own sympathy for the man’s grief, she was not sure. But she knew the man had said something that had always haunted her. Was there a curse on the two families? She found her thoughts drifting to her brother Tom, whom she had not seen since she was a little girl in Sydney, a time when Tom had stood beside her father and waved as he bade her farewell. Oh, how she had missed Tom. He had always been good to her. First she had lost Michael, and now Tom was a man hunted like some wild and savage animal in the colony’s wilderness.

  She listened to the return of the reassuring crickets’ chirp in the quiet and solitary hours of the morning. A dog barked from somewhere in town and further in the distance she could hear the mournful cry of the curlews. A cold shiver went through her as they seemed to be calling to her . . . or someone in her family!

  And she experienced another fear that she did not want to admit that had come from something Sir Donald had said in his drunken and rambling discourse. How did he know about her attempt to buy his lease?

  FIFTY

  As Tom picked his way down the other side of the hill, his thoughts were of Mondo. But he knew that he could not dwell on her death. To do so would distract him from his primary task of getting their three children to safety. Mondo would have wanted that. She had been born of a people whose dictates were practical and, in their often harsh world, the survival of the young mattered to the countless generations of women of the Nerambura people.

  The distant carbine and revolver fire continued spasmodically from atop the hill as a seemingly harmless popping sound. Tom made his way with the children to a site at the base of the hills where weapons and food were cached for such an emergency. The horses that had been left hobbled and grazing on the plain might have attracted the attention of the troopers who could be lying in ambush waiting for him to make an attempt at riding out. He knew he would not be able to use them in his escape.

  When he finally reached the bottom of the hill at the edge of the long grassed plain, everything went terribly wrong. First the rain ceased and then the clouds parted to allow the moon to shine through.

  Tom was also acutely aware of the frightening silence that now came from the top of the craggy hill where Wallarie had been holding the troopers at bay. He knew that he could not have run out of ammunition as they had stocked a good supply of powder and ball.

  The pale light from the half moon revealed a sea of dripping grass as high as a man, beyond which were the thinly scattered trees of the plain. Tom hefted Sarah off his shoulders and placed her gently down, and he gripped the Snider in both hands as he quickly surveyed the horizon to his front. At least to cross the moonlit plain would allow the tall grass to swallow them as surely as the sea rolls over a drowning man. But using the grass-covered plain would also make it easy to track him and the three children.

  ‘Stand in the Queen’s name!’

  Tom froze. The bastards had ambushed him! The command came from his right and the voice was vaguely familiar. He could see that he was only twenty paces from the long grass and the concealment that beckoned to him. But the bloody moon had lit them up as surely as a lantern in a public bar.

  ‘Sergeant James! That you?’ Tom called into the night warily. He sensed that he was at the end of a rifle sight, as the voice had been very close. Twenty, maybe thirty yards, he guessed. He still held his rifle as he desperately sought about for cover. Peter clung to his belt and would not let go. Sarah now held Tim’s hand and was crying softly as she trembled with fear for the strange events of the night.

  ‘It’s me, Tom,’ Henry called back. ‘Throw down your gun. I’m not alone this time.’

  Henry knew that if the moon went behind the clouds he would lose sight of the bushranger. And had it not been for the rain stopping and the moon suddenly appearing, Tom could easily have slipped past his flimsy cordon. The police sergeant knew that the bushranger was stalling for time, waiting for the moon to disappear, then he would try to make a dash to the taller grasses of the plains.

  ‘I have my kids with me, Sergeant James,’ Tom called. ‘Tell your troopers to be careful about where their trigger fingers are.’

  Henry could see the big man silhouetted against the night sky, but he could not see the children. Then he saw the slight movement of Peter’s head next to Tom’s waist. He swore. He did not know Tom had kids. If things went bad, the children could be caught in a lethal crossfire.

  ‘How many?’ he called to Tom.

  ‘Three . . . two boys and a girl.’ The clouds were too far apart. The time was running out for him to make a break for the concealment of the long grass.

  ‘Then for the sake of your kids you had better throw down your gun, Tom,’ Henry pleaded. ‘I don’t want their blood on my hands. Nor do you.’

  The Irish bushranger knew the police sergeant was right. To try to make a break meant that Henry and his troopers would be forced to shoot, and in the dark bullets did not discriminate between the innocent or the guilty. Although he was prepared to take the chance in making a dash for the long grass, it would mean putting his children’s lives at risk.

  The moon was only seconds from a cloud which now drifted across the sky to swallow the half circle of light. The frogs croaked in a deafening cacophony of sound as he watched the two troopers rise out of the long grass with their carbines pointed at him. They were advancing on him, taking advantage of the last seconds of light. Although Tom knew there was a slim chance, young Peter still had hold of his belt. Little Sarah sobbed while Tim was silent. He was too frightened to make a sound.

  Tom sighed. He might have a chance. But his kids were all that he had. The rifle dropped from his hands and he raised them above his head.

  ‘It’s done!’ he called to Henry, who rose from the grass with his rifle levelled.

  The night exploded and a bullet took Tom in the back, flinging him forwards.

  Henry looked up and could see the line of troopers on the hill with rifles raised to their shoulders. Smoke drifted like an evil mist around them as the echo of the volley of shots shattered the night. There had been a terrible mistake!

  ‘Christ, no!’ Henry screamed as he sprinted forward to drop on his knees beside the critically wounded bushranger. He ripped a scarf from around his own throat and tried desperately to stem the flow of blood, although he knew it was hopeless.

  The three children stared wide-eyed at the big white man who cradled their father’s head.

  ‘You once said you knew Kate, Sergeant James,’ Tom said, clutching his chest, and Henry nodded. ‘I’m not going to see the sun rise . . . I know that. But I want you to promise me that you will get my kids to Kate, wherever she is,’ Tom said, fighting back the darkness that came on him in waves. There were things to be said before he died. Urgent things.

  ‘I can do that for you, Tom,’ Henry said gently. ‘Kate is living in Townsville and I promise you that I will get them to her. I owe you that much. What happened here tonight wasn’t personal.’

  ‘I know that, Sergeant James,’ the dying bushranger said with a pain-twisted grin. ‘Peter is my oldest,’ Tom continued. ‘That’s Tim over there holding onto Sarah’s hand,’ he said, turning his head. ‘They are a bit wild and Kate will have to be firm with ’em. Look at that! The bloody moon is finally gone and I’m lying here in the arms of some bloody trap. It’s not a decent thing, Sergeant James,’ he said with an attempt at a laugh, then began to choke on his own blood.

  Henry knew Tom was almost gone when he had made his observation of the moon’s disappearance behind the clouds. The moon had not disappeared. The evening sky wa
s clearing and the stars, washed clean, sparkled overhead. Tom stiffened and with a long sad sigh, he relaxed.

  Henry rose slowly to his feet. ‘He’s dead,’ he said in a flat voice and the children stared wide-eyed at the police sergeant, although they did not understand what the white man had said.

  Henry looked at the three children huddled and trembling together, and wished he knew what he should do next. But his troubled thoughts were distracted by the sound of the remaining troopers picking their way down the track from the hill with Lieutenant Uhr leading the way. When they reached him, they cast the children curious looks while the police lieutenant squatted on his haunches to examine the body of the dead man at Henry’s feet.

  ‘Tom Duffy, sir. These are his kids. He surrendered without a fight . . .’ Henry began angrily, but knew that in the circumstances, it was really no one’s fault. ‘Just one of those things.’

  Lieutenant Uhr rubbed his face wearily. ‘Well,’ he said with a sigh, ‘at least we got one of them. The blackfella got away on us. Damned well slipped past us when we were right on him,’ he said. ‘I suppose we should be grateful we didn’t suffer any casualties.’ He stood and stared in the direction of the Duffy children. ‘We will have to take them back to Burketown and let the authorities figure out what they are going to do with them. We’ll camp on the hill and bury the gin in the morning. Duffy’s body goes back with us. You can organise the men to bed down for the night, as I doubt if we will find the blackfella now he is on his own. At least not for a while.’

  ‘Sir!’ Henry acknowledged. He would talk to Mister Uhr in the morning about the fate of the Duffy children. For now it was a matter of consolidating their position for the night. They were all weary and the tension of the events of the past hour had taken a toll on their spirits. Henry knew he would somehow get the children to Kate. What happened after that was up to her. But he also knew that she would not allow the sons and daughter of her brother to be cast aside. They were, after all, her kin.

  The rain was gone and the clouds had drifted away. In the distance, the curlews called to the spirit of Tom Duffy. Wallarie also heard Cry of the curlews and knew his friend was dead. How? He could not tell. But he knew he would never see him again. Except in the world beyond the Dreaming.

  The Aboriginal warrior cast away his rifle and revolver. They were things of the white man’s world and their possession would mark him to the white men who would always hunt him. Naked and without the guns, he was as much a part of the land as were his ancestors. Ancestors he would avenge, as the warrior of the cave had called to him for vengeance.

  While he walked with the sounds of the bush and the light of the shimmering stars above, he knew it was time to return to the old ways. He gazed up at the heavens, seeking the spirits that would guide him on his journey. And when he found the spirits he sought, he commenced the long journey south to the traditional lands of the Darambal people.

  As the last full-blooded Nerambura tribesman, he would sing the death chant for his white friend whose spirit he knew was now sleeping, one with that of the sacred hill.

  Hugh Darlington shrank from her fury as Kate stood quivering in her rage in the doorway of his office.

  ‘You told him about the purchase,’ she said with a venom in her voice to match the fire in her grey eyes that were like flints throwing off sparks. ‘You told Sir Donald, even though you swore your love for me. Why? I cannot understand why you would do that.’ Her last statement trailed away as a plea, a desperate attempt to allow him to explain the impossible.

  ‘I cannot tell you my reasons, Kate,’ he replied in a choked voice as he sat behind his desk. For a second Kate felt almost a twinge of sympathy for him. He looked so pathetic as he sat slumped in his chair and he no longer appeared in her eyes as the strong and decisive man she had loved. He was like a snivelling, goddamned son of a bitch, Kate thought, and she wondered how the strong language of the American prospector had crept into her thoughts so easily. She shook her head, turned her back and slammed the door as she walked out of his life.

  The only two men she had given herself to had betrayed her, she thought savagely. But she refused to allow her sense of loss to overwhelm her in maudlin sentimentality. And all the men who had truly loved her – her father, brothers and Luke Tracy – had been taken from her life in one way or another.

  As Kate swept across the dusty street striding purposefully to her office, she held her head high and had a set expression of determination on her pretty face. A few bystanders stared curiously at the beautiful young woman who marched past them without acknowledging their greetings. Anger was an emotion easily felt and none dared ask the fiery Kate O’Keefe what was wrong. The expression on her face did not invite questions.

  In her office, she leant on the closed door and burst into deep racking sobs.

  Kate cried not for the betrayal of a worthless man who had used her for his own carnal needs, but for the men she knew she would never see again. The men who had truly loved her in their quiet and gentle ways.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Kate heard the rattle of the wagon outside her house and she felt her panic rise as it came to a stop. It had to be Sergeant James bringing them to her, she thought, as she steadied herself. He had said in his telegram that he had expected to arrive with them today. Who else could it be?

  With a brief glimpse in the mirror she patted her hair and took a deep breath. Then she went to the door with a rustle of her best satin dress and a confident demeanour. But when she opened the door, her confidence evaporated.

  The three children stood on the wide verandah with frightened and confused expressions on their faces. They were dressed in ill-fitting and ragged European clothes that Henry had been able to scrounge in Burketown. They looked like trapped animals before the tall and solid frame of their captor, Sergeant Henry James.

  ‘Good afternoon to you, Missus O’Keefe,’ Henry said solemnly, dusting down his trousers with his hat. ‘I have them here safe and sound, as you can see. They weren’t much trouble. Still trying to come to grips with their situation, I suppose.’

  ‘Would you like to come in and have some tea?’ Kate offered as her eyes scanned the three little faces.

  The sergeant nodded. ‘That would be nice,’ he said. ‘It’s been a long trip.’

  ‘I’m sure it has,’ Kate replied politely as he gently herded the three children through the door.

  Kate poured the tea from a well-used and blackened kettle into fine china teacups set on the table and added a spoon of sugar to each. Henry accepted his cup with a mumbled thanks while the children gazed curiously around the kitchen, taking in its plain clean decor. Newly painted and unadorned wood plank walls were marked by sooty smoke stains from the small wrought-iron combustible stove.

  Kate had moved into the house a few days earlier, after she had received the telegram from the police sergeant informing her that her brother was dead and that Tom had bequeathed his three children to her care.

  The move to Townsville had been very much her way of leaving behind a place that held few happy memories for her. She would miss the many friends that she had left behind in Rockhampton, but Judith Cohen had quietly reassured her that she and Solomon would go about the transfer of her business interests while she started to make a home for Tom’s children. Kate had thanked her with tears and hugs.

  Kate placed slabs of freshly buttered bread on a plate and offered it to the children, who accepted the meal with shy and apprehensive gratitude. They ate the bread smearing butter on their little faces. Kate noticed the eldest boy catch her eye with some defiance as she passed him the buttered bread. It was then that she felt a twinge of guilty regret for accepting the responsibility of rearing her brother’s offspring. Would she prove adequate for the daunting task ahead?

  Henry sipped his tea in a rather delicate manner for such a big man.

  ‘They were no trouble on the trip over from Burketown,’ he said, by way of conversation. ‘Poor little buggers
don’t know what they’re in for, I suppose.’

  ‘They will be suitably cared for, Sergeant James,’ Kate replied quickly as if the policeman had somehow read her guilty thoughts. ‘I expect they will need time to settle in.’

  ‘They’ve been roaming the bush with your brother and his gin,’ Henry said tactlessly and he realised the error of his thoughtless statement. ‘I’m sorry, Missus O’Keefe. I didn’t mean it that way.’

  ‘I understand,’ Kate replied. ‘And I agree that they have been living a wild and nomadic life. But I’m sure they will adapt to life with me.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ he echoed awkwardly and he sipped his tea while Kate sat down at the table to drink hers.

  ‘Was Tom given a decent funeral?’ she asked softly and Henry bowed his head.

  ‘We buried him as a Christian. I made sure of that. Least I could do for him. He was a good man, despite him being a bushranger,’ he said with faltering words. He still had trouble finding means to express his mixed feelings for the man he had hunted over the years.

  ‘And what of the mother of these children?’ she asked, glancing at them. ‘Did she get a decent funeral?’

  A pained expression clouded the sergeant’s bearded face. ‘She weren’t a Christian,’ he replied with an edge of embarrassment in his voice. ‘We left her in the hills where she died. Figure that was the blackfella way. The way she would have wanted.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Kate reflected. ‘She was a woman of the plains and bush and it is probably fitting that her soul remain with the land that was her home.’ She paused and stared at an empty place beyond the sergeant. ‘It’s just that . . . I think my brother would have liked the mother of his children to be with him in the eternal sleep.’