Blackbird

by David Crookes

  `No, I don't think so. Of course Catherine is opposed to selling. But Clare announced some time ago she would relinquish her fifty per cent holding, if Catherine didn't produce some evidence of producing an heir to the Stonehouse fortune before a sale was finalized.'

  Moser saw the surprise on Fairweather's face.

  `There's no love lost between Clare and Catherine Percival. The only thing they have in common is that they live in the same house. Catherine is selfish beyond words. As a result, Clare has lived a life of utter solitude since Alexander's death, living in the past, and confining herself to her garden and her private quarters at Castlecraig. I'm sure over the years it has affected her mind.'

  'Tragic. Quite tragic,' Fairweather muttered quietly, almost to himself.

  Moser quickly put the subject aside. `However, Percival, to acquire control of Stonehouse's, your client would need additional shares, which I am prepared to provide on condition that British Far Eastern contracts to retain my services as head of Stonehouse's for an unspecified period of time. After all, I have built this company. It has been my life.' Moser took a generous swallow of port. `Now, if you can give me that assurance, and assuming British Far Eastern is prepared to pay the price we have put on the company, I will instruct our solicitors to draw the necessary documents without delay.'

  `Excellent, Silas,' Fairweather was jubilant. `I will cable British Far Eastern later today with your proposal. I think we will have an affirmative reply back very shortly. Now, as you know, I will be sailing to Sydney soon to fulfill other obligations of my visit to Australia. But I have promised Clare that I'll be back at Castlecraig in time for the garden party in honor of the Australian Naval Squadron on the first of August. Perhaps we can finalize the matter the day after that.'

  Fairweather smiled and rubbed the palms of his hands together. `And now, Silas. What say we order a bottle of Champagne to celebrate?'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The years had left their mark on the Palmer Road. The well worn rocky trail which had once carried thousands and thousands of diggers, each spurred on by his own personal dream of a new El Dorado on the Palmer River, now lay buried beneath thick spear-grass.

  Here and there along the trail, only a broken wagon-wheel, or a shovel, or a pile of human bones, bleached white by the searing sun of the Cape York country, bore stark silent testimony to the diggers' passing. Ben knew the hopes and dreams and weathered bones of hundreds more lay beneath the spear-grass—those who had their lives taken slowly by tropical diseases, or suddenly, and without warning, by an Aboriginal's spear as they trudged along that terrible road.

  The Chinese store-keeper in Cooktown had told Ben even the Aboriginals in the region who had escaped decimation of so many of their number by the Snider rifle, had long since deserted the awful road of death. But sometimes at night, when he lay quietly beside his camp-fire, Ben was sure there were hidden eyes nearby, watching his every move.

  Ben's passage down the Palmer Road had not been easy, but he was satisfied with his progress. Along the way there had been adequate feed and water for the mare, and she had taken to the Cape country as if she had never left it. On the morning of the eighth day out from Cooktown, Ben saw the big flat rock which marked Ah Sing's grave on the hill above the Palmer River.

  When he came closer he dismounted and walked the rest of the way to Ah Sing's resting place, now a barely discernible mound in the spear-grass beside the rock.

  `I have returned old friend,' Ben said aloud. He looked down on the Palmer River which lay sparkling in the morning sun. `I see your resting place is as peaceful as the day I left it. I only wish in life I could enjoy the same peace.'

  Ben turned and led the mare to a clump of tall scrub where he tied her up in the shade, unsaddled her, and laid the supplies she was carrying down on the ground. Then he took the shovel and walked over to the humpy which was now unroofed, and had all but yielded entirely to the elements.

  Inside the humpy's mudbrick walls, Ben used the side of the shovel to mow down the long grass which now covered the floor. Then he began to dig in earnest in the same place he had so many years before. With the passing of the years the ground had compacted, and he found the going hard.

  After fifteen minutes, sweat was pouring from his body. Ben laid down the shovel and walked back to the clump of scrub where he stood in the shade and took a drink from a water bottle. When he raised the bottle to his lips to take a second swallow he thought he saw something glinting among some big rocks on the hillside about two hundred yards away. When he looked again he saw nothing, and after a few minutes he walked back to the humpy to resume digging.

  It was nearly an hour before he had dug deep and wide enough to be able to lift the earthenware jar out of the hole in the ground. And once again Ben found himself staring at the nuggets inside with the same wonderment he had on the day he had first seen them.

  There was no more than two hours of daylight left by the time he had finished transferring the gold to his saddle-bags and saddled up. Ben knew, with the extra weight the mare had to carry, the return trip would take considerably longer than the outward journey. In order not to make it any longer than necessary, he set about discarding anything which would not be essential to him in the days ahead.

  Just before he mounted up Ben stood beside Ah Sing's grave once more.

  `Again, I must leave you Ah Sing. And I must go quickly. Once again I take with me wealth that you have given me. This time, I take it to keep from losing everything you have already given me. But this time, old friend, you may be sure, I leave you a wiser man. It is not likely that I will let you down again. I....'

  Ben's mare suddenly whinnied and jerked on the reins. He looked up in time to see a white puff of smoke from amongst the rocks where he had seen something gleaming in the sunlight earlier in the day. He heard a loud crack. Simultaneously he felt a searing stabbing pain when a bullet tore through the flesh of his right shoulder. Ben knew at once he had been shot.

  The impact sent Ben reeling against his horse. As he fell, he reached out and snatched his carbine from its holster on the mare's back. He landed heavily on the ground, the rifle beneath him, and firmly in his grip.

  The mare moved away and resumed feeding off the grass just a few yards away. Ben lay motionless, feeling the blood pour from his shoulder. Ever so slowly he cocked the hammer of the rifle, afraid the slightest sound or movement would draw more gunfire, and hoping against hope his attacker would think his single shot had been fatal.

  It seemed an eternity before Ben heard voices, shrill and high pitched, calling out excitedly to each other. Ben waited until the voices became louder before he dared half open one eye. Through the blades of rough, dry spear-grass in front of his eyes, he could see two big men.

  One was much closer than the other. The first was approaching cautiously, walking in a half crouched position with a rifle at the ready in his hands. The second man followed some distance behind and held the reins of two horses—one set in each hand.

  `Is he dead, Pat?' the man with the horses called out.

  `I can't tell,' the man with the gun yelled. By now he was less than twenty five yards away.

  `Give 'im another slug to be sure Pat.'

  The man with the gun stood up from his crouching position, pushed the wide brim of his hat back on his head, and took aim. Ben recognized him as Pat Flannigan from Cooktown. Ben knew he would have only one chance. It was now or never.

  He rolled over quickly, raised his carbine and took aim. Flannigan hesitated for just a moment, as if he couldn't believe his fallen prey had suddenly sprung to life. When Ben squeezed the trigger he saw a look of fear mixed with astonishment on Flannigan's hairy face. Less than a heartbeat later, Ben's bullet passed between Flannigan's eyes, and he dropped stone-dead to the ground.

  The Snider left its terrible trademark: a neat aperture at the point of entry of the bullet, and a hole the size of a man's fist at the back of Flannigan's head.

 
Ben almost passed out from pain when the recoil of the Snider slammed hard into the gunshot wound in his shoulder. With his head swimming he watched Whitey Flannigan, who, needing no confirmation of the certainty of his brother's death, desperately scrambled onto one of the two horses in his charge and rode off, wildly flailing his bushman's hat over the horse's flank as he went.

  Seconds later, with his long white hair streaming out behind him, and the second riderless horse in hot pursuit, the albino reached the ridge at the top of the hill and vanished from sight.

  Ben staggered to his horse and holstered his rifle, then with his good arm, led the mare by the bridle down to the steep slope to the riverside. He knelt down quickly when he reached the edge of the water, tore open his shirt, and using his hat for a ladle, splashed water over the wound in his shoulder.

  When the water began to ease the flow of blood Ben realized the wound felt a good deal worse than it looked. He was relieved to find it was only a flesh wound, and probably from a small caliber rifle. Fortunately the bullet had missed the bone, and passed in and out, through the soft flesh just under and inward of his armpit.

  Ben rose to his feet slowly, opened up a saddle-bag and pulled out a spare shirt and his bandy flask. He tore the shirt into several long pieces, then carefully soaked one with brandy, and pressed it firmly against the bullet hole. Soon the flow of blood had all but stopped, and Ben fashioned the remaining strips of cloth into crude bandages and fastened them as best he could over the wound.

  By now the shadows of dusk were lengthening. Ben decided to conserve his strength and make a fresh start on his journey at sunrise the next morning. He walked unsteadily back up to the humpy, and tied the mare to a tree outside.

  Soon it was dark. Ben lay on his bed-roll in the humpy, staring up through the twisted hardwood rafters at the myriad of bright stars in the night sky, and tried to ignore the persistent throbbing pain in his shoulder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Silas Moser walked briskly down the gang-plank of the Stonehouse Shipping Company's newest and most luxurious coastal steamer, the SS Fraser Island. The moment he set foot on the South Brisbane dock the plank was smartly hauled aboard, and the ship began to move away from the wharf, with her steam horns piercing the stillness of the early morning.

  Moser turned and looked for Percival Fairweather, whom, minutes earlier, he had personally escorted aboard the vessel at the start of its regular run to Sydney. He spotted the Englishman standing among a small group of passengers at the rail of the first class section and waved politely. Minutes later the vessel was well downstream, and Moser turned away from the river and walked along the dock toward his office.

  Barely an hour after sunrise, Brisbane and its busy waterway was only just beginning to come alive. The sun shone in a cloudless winter sky, but Moser pulled his coat collar tightly against his throat, as a brisk westerly put a rare nip in the morning air.

  Surprised staff in the general office abruptly ended unnecessary gossip, and hurriedly went about their duties when Moser entered Stonehouse's, at least an hour and a half earlier than usual. Soon after he entered his office on the second floor, an office boy tapped on the door and wheeled in a trolley with tea and toast.

  Moser rewarded the office boy for his thoughtfulness with a barely discernible nod, but at once poured himself a steaming hot cup of tea. He moved to his desk and sat down, and swung his chair around so he could look out over the river. He sat there perfectly still, nursing his tea, and contemplating what the future may bring.

  A week had passed since Percival Fairweather had cabled London, stipulating the price and conditions which he and Clare Stonehouse were prepared to accept in return for relinquishing control of Stonehouse's. But up until the time of Fairweather's departure for Sydney, no reply had been received from British Far Eastern.

  Moser took another sip of tea and wondered what could be the cause for the delay. Perhaps the price may well have been too high he mused, but then negotiations had to start somewhere, and nobody ever started at the figure they were really prepared to accept. No, he reasoned, it was just the British way. They were always slow to pursue the important matters. By God, he would show them how to do business with speed and efficiency when they looked to him to direct their operations in Australia.

  He stood up and poured himself more tea. As he was about to sit down again there was a knock on his door.

  'Enter.'

  The door opened. It was the office boy. `There is a messenger from the telegraph office downstairs, sir. He has a cable for Mr Fairweather. He says he must deliver it personally or have it signed for by our chief-manager. But Mr Worthington-Jones isn't in yet. Will you sign for it, sir?'

  `Yes,' Moser said. `Send him up immediately.'

  After the messenger left, Moser stared for some time at the large wax-sealed brown envelope laying on his desk and pondered its contents. Finally his curiosity got the best of him. He reached for an oil lamp, lit it, and held a tiny flame under the lump of hard wax. Soon the lump softened enough to allow his eager fingers to pry open the flap of the envelope. A moment later he read the short terse message inside.

  RE STONEHOUSE ACQUISITIONSTOP PRICE IS ACCEPTABLE STOP RE SILAS MOSER STOP HIS LONG ASSOCIATION WITH THE SOUTH SEAS LABOR TRADE PRECLUDES HIM STAYING ON AS MANAGING DIRECTOR IN THE LONG TERM STOP AVOID ANY BINDING AGREEMENTS BEING SIGNED IN THAT REGARD STOP SIR JOHN SOTHERBY CHAIRMAN BRITISH FAR EASTERN END

  Charles arrived at South Brisbane shortly before nine o'clock to find a hand written message on his desk asking him to report to Silas Moser immediately. He found Moser still seated in his chair, gazing out over the river.

  `You wish to see me, Silas?'

  Moser swung the chair around to face Charles. `With regard to British Far Eastern. There are a few things I would like to discuss. Would you mind if I am perfectly frank with you?'

  `Not at all, Silas.'

  Good. Now as you know, Fairweather expects to formalize the purchase of Stonehouse's as soon as he returns from Sydney, providing Catherine hasn't suddenly fallen pregnant. Now tell me... is there any possible chance of that happening?'

  Charles shook his head. `I don't think so Silas.'

  `I see.'

  Moser stared thoughtfully into the top of his desk.

  `I take it Percival has heard back from London then,' Charles said.

  `I don't think so,' Moser said quickly. 'He said nothing to me before he boarded the Fraser Island,' He looked up from the desk. `I suppose, of course, Catherine is still as opposed as ever to the sale of the company, and strongly disapproves of me selling enough shares to give British Far Eastern a majority holding?'

  `Oh, no. On the contrary. She has come to accept the fact that it's inevitable that Stonehouse's will pass out of the family's hands. Just last night she told Percival that she was prepared to sell her shares. After all, she will receive an enormous sum of money.'

  Moser's eyes narrowed. `Yes, yes of course. And you Charles. How do you feel about all this?'

  `I'm quite happy, Silas. Percival Fairweather assured me that British Far Eastern want me to stay on in a senior position.'

  Moser's face hardened. He slowly got up and stood at his window and looked toward the Queensland Parliament buildings on the other side of the river. `Very well, Charles. That will be all. I'm glad we've had this little chat. Now I can see exactly how the land lies.'

  Charles turned to leave, Just as he reached the door Moser turned his head and said:

  `Oh Charles, when you get downstairs would you send one of our messengers over to Shamus McClintock's office in Parliament House requesting him to meet me for lunch at the Colonial Club? And send another messenger to the chambers of Fagal, Finch and Wutherspoon in Queen Street, asking Hiscock, their senior clerk, to come to my office at his earliest convenience.'

  *

  Shamus McClintock downed his drink in a single swallow, and laid his glass down noisily on the long bar in the Colonial Club's members' lounge
. His face broke into a broad grin.

  `So Charles couldn't put a bun in Catherine's oven, 'eh Silas? She should have asked me, I'd have been more than happy to oblige.'

  Moser eyed McClintock reproachfully.

  McClintock's face took on a more serious look. `With Catherine now agreeing to sell,' Moser said, `the ace I held up my sleeve, in being able to give British Far Eastern control in return for a lengthy tenure as Managing Director, is now worthless. But I will not allow them to toss me out on my ear after spending a lifetime building the company.'

  `Just what is it you want me to do, Silas?' McClintock asked.

  `British Far Eastern will not buy Stonehouse's without being assured of the uninterrupted supply of meat for export to England from your graziers' syndicate, which of course, owns the refrigerated warehouses on the Stonehouse wharf. What I want is a commitment in writing from the syndicate members, granting me sole authority to act on their behalf in any dealings with British Far Eastern.'

  `I can't ask them to do that Silas,' McClintock said without hesitation. `Not with the financial crisis worsening every day. I think you're forgetting that the colony is teetering on the brink of bankruptcy. The only hope the graziers in the syndicate have of weathering the storm, is their income from the frozen meat trade, and they won't put it at risk just to save your position at Stonehouse's.'

  Moser was visibly shaken by McClintock's rebuttal. His anger showed on his face.

  `They owe it to me, Shamus. After all, it is me they have to thank for the enviable position they find themselves in today. I have served them well in the past. Tell them I don't think they can trust British Great Eastern. Tell them ... tell them anything.'

  Now it was McClintock who became angry. `I won't lie to them Silas. I was able to recruit them into the syndicate when you needed them because they trusted me. And it was these same graziers and their families and friends, who trusted me enough to put me into the Parliament when I ran for office. I will not deceive them just to save your skin.'