'But you are a politician, Shamus; lies and deceit are your stock-in-trade,' Moser said bitterly.
McClintock shook his head. 'This conversation is at an end, Silas.' He downed what remained of his drink in one swallow and walked stiffly from the room.
*
Silas Moser returned to his office in South Brisbane where he spent the afternoon pondering his situation. He was preparing to leave for the day when the head-clerk Fagel, Finch and Wutherspoon arrived. Hiscock entered Moser's office carrying a large leather satchel in his arms.
`I'm sorry not to have come sooner, Mr Moser,' Hiscock apologized, `but your new property portfolio has kept me very busy outside of chambers, what with court appearances and serving documents on debtors.
`Yes, yes.' Moser snapped impatiently. He waved Hiscock to a chair in front of his desk. `Now, with regard to the foreclosure on the property known as Jarrah at Graceville.'
`Yes, Mr Moser.' Hiscock fumbled with the buckles on the straps on his leather satchel, then ran his fingers through scores of documents which were crammed tightly inside. Eventually he pulled out a small separate sheaf of papers bound loosely with white string. `Here we are. Now what exactly is it you wish to know?'
`Has the debt owing on the property been paid?'
`No, Mr Moser.'
`And on what date will the property legally pass into the hands of the Stonehouse Shipping Company if the mortgagor fails to respond to our letter of demand?'
Hiscock checked the papers in his hands. `Two weeks from now, sir. At midnight on the first day of August.'
Moser nodded. `I see. Now, in your opinion, Mr Hiscock, what is the likelihood of the debt being paid.'
`I would say remote, Mr Moser, very remote. Usually an owner will exhaust every avenue open to him in order to hang on to his property, and keep us advised of his progress while doing so. But what with the financial state of the colony at the moment, and with the banks being closed, there's little anyone can do to prevent foreclosure.' Hiscock shook his head slowly. `In this particular case, I think the owner has already abandoned the property. He left the place the day after we served papers. As far as I know he hasn't been back since. He's a half-breed you know, half Chinese. These people aren't like us—they can't face up to responsibility. If they can't win, they just move on.'
`And the Kanaka woman he lived with, I take it she's still living on the property?'
`Oh yes, and two young children. He left them all behind. As I told you before, sir, in times of adversity, his kind usually run from any kind of responsibility.'
CHAPTER THIRTY
Ben had lost all track of time. For several days he struggled down the Palmer Road, but had no idea how many had passed since he had left Ah Sing's humpy. He had been careful to keep the gunshot wound to his shoulder as clean as he could to avoid infection, but still it simply refused to heal, and he knew it wouldn't begin to, as long as he remained on the move. But stopping was out of the question.
It was only the thought of the terrible consequences if he failed to reach Cooktown that kept him going. If he missed the Cape Bowling Green on her return passage to Brisbane, he knew Jarrah would be lost. More importantly, if he didn't make it back to Cooktown at all, he knew everything would be lost for Kiri, the children, and Mrs Llewellyn. And all the time, day and night, he knew he must keep a vigilant eye open for Whitey Flannigan.
As the days passed, Ben lost more and more blood. With the loss of blood came fatigue. Eventually, when the fatigue became extreme, Ben found himself hallucinating—usually at night, when lacking the will to light a fire, and wanting only to sleep, he lay huddled in a filthy blanket in the scrub beside the Palmer Road.
Often he would see Kiri, as large as life and just as real, smiling and beckoning to him to come to her. Sometimes she was so close he tried to reach out and touch her, but when he did, somehow she was always just out of reach. At other times, and sometimes in broad daylight, he would see Whitey Flannigan, his albino hair blowing in the wind, and his mocking pink face grinning at him from the bush at the side of the road.
Somehow, Ben managed to carry on, supported and encouraged by the dogged perseverance of his mare. But the distance they covered became less and less with each passing day, as what little strength he had remaining was steadily sapped from him. Then, one afternoon, when for the first time he was beginning to think he would never see Cooktown again, he rounded a bend high in the mountains and there, far below him, the waters of the Great Barrier Reef lay glistening in the sun.
At that moment, Ben heard a rifle bark in the bush nearby. Simultaneously his mare collapsed beneath him. She died instantly, without even a whimper, as a bullet tore a path through her big heart.
* The five cruisers and two torpedo boats of the Royal Navy's new Australian Squadron steamed in single file through Cook's Passage, a deep, safe, mile wide opening in the Great Barrier Reef.A thousand miles astern, across the Coral Sea, lay the newly proclaimed British protectorates in the Solomon Islands where the fleet had been on hand to show its might. Fifteen miles to the east lay mainland Australia and the high, rugged coast of Far North
Queensland, drenched in sun and fanned by the constant south-east tradewind. Commodore, Lord Clive Waverley stood in the midday sun on the bridge of the leading
vessel, HMS Katoomba. He waited until all seven ships had cleared the last of the coral heads
at the end of Cook's Passage, then gave the order to swing south. The flotilla increased speed.
In spite of the tradewind now blowing hard over the bow, the squadron covered the sixty
miles to the Endeavour River estuary at Cooktown well before sunset.
The arrival of the entire Australian Squadron drew a huge crowd of townspeople to the
wharf and all along the river-bank. The harbor-master signaled the Katoomba to make use of
the empty Stonehouse wharf, and for the remainder of the squadron to drop anchor where they
could in the river.
ﾁShortly after the Katoomba came alongside, Commodore Waverley received a delegation
of local officials aboard the flagship. Even though Cooktown was not an official port-of-call
on the squadron's goodwill tour, Waverley graciously accepted an invitation for himself and
his officers to attend a luncheon the following day at the home of the mayor. The next morning, the wharf and the entire estuary became a hive of activity, when ship's
provedores began the task of transporting provisions to the fleet of warships. Just before
midday a party of local dignitaries and their wives arrived on the crowded wharf to take the
ships' officers to the mayor's residence for luncheon.
The officers, who had assembled earlier aboard the flagship, came ashore dressed in
impeccable white dress uniforms, complete with swords and other traditional ceremonial
paraphernalia. They stood in the sun on the dock for a few minutes, and made polite smalltalk with their hosts. Then the cortege moved off the wharf toward the centre of town,
escorted by several police officers mounted on tall thoroughbreds.
Commodore Waverly rode in the leading carriage beside the Regional Police
Commissioner. Opposite them, the mayor of Cooktown, a balding little man bedecked with
his official chain of office, sat with his wife, a plump middle-aged matron, who looked as if
she may expire from the heat at any moment. When the line of carriages reached the main
street, people inside the hotels, shops and businesses, poured out to watch them pass by. As the procession neared the Lucky Strike hotel, Waverley noticed a line of horsemen
approaching in single file from the opposite direction. When they drew nearer, he could see
that all the riders were Aborigines, except for a white man astride the leading horse. All the
riders were dressed in splendid, but soiled and sweat-stained red and green uniforms, and all<
br />
were armed with short cavalry carbines. There were about ten horses in all including two
pack-horses at the end of the line. When the white man's horse passed the carriage, he saluted
smartly. The police commissioner promptly returned the salute.
`Who are these men?' Waverley asked.
`One of my detachments of Native Police,' the commissioner replied with a tinge of pride
in his voice.`Commanded by a white officer of course.'
Waverley watched as the line of wild-eyed, uniformed Aboriginal policemen filed by.
`And what is their function?' he asked.
`We use them mainly to control the blacks in the bush, Commodore. We discovered a long
time ago that when an Aboriginal encounters a black from another tribe, he sees him as an
avowed enemy who must be destroyed at all costs. We've put this fundamental belief to good
use. We recruit Aboriginals from one area, teach them to ride and shoot, and then send them
to disperse troublesome blacks in other areas. '
`Disperse?' Waverley's eyebrows rose.
The police commissioner gave Waverley a knowing smile.
`The word disperse means exterminate when used in relation to the blacks, Commodore.
Killing their own kind is what these creatures do best. They are efficient and utterly ruthless. I'm happy to say we have all but brought the blacks in the interior under control, and now we can get on with other important work. For example, this patrol you see today was sent out to hunt down a half-breed Chinese who killed a white man for gold on the Palmer River. The
dead man's brother reported the killing just a few days ago.'
The last of the troopers passed the carriage followed by the two pack-horses. Draped over
one of them was the body of a man tied face down. He was a big man and wore a pigtail in his
long dark hair.
The police commissioner beamed. `I see the Force has once again brought swift justice to
those who would break the law.'
At that moment a man with white hair lurched down from the veranda of the hotel and ran
over to the hapless man on the pack-horse. He roughly tugged on the man's pigtail until the
prisoner's head was raised sufficiently to see his face.
`It's him all right,' Whitey Flannigan shouted. He wrapped the pig-tail around his hand and
jerked the prisoner's head as high as he could. `See, this is the dirty half-breed who shot my
brother, Pat.'
Waverley was stunned when he caught a fleeting glimpse of the prisoner's face.
Immediately he vaulted from the carriage, leaving the local officials looking on in
amazement. In an instant he was beside the pack-horse, and looking into Ben's face. Ben had been badly beaten. His face was severely swollen from a number of recently
inflicted cuts and bruises, and was almost totally encrusted with dried blood. At first
Waverley thought he was dead. But then he saw Ben's eyelids move slightly, and knew his
life had not yet been crushed from him.
`Cut this man loose,' Waverley shouted. When no one responded right away, he quickly
drew his sword and sliced through the lashings binding Ben to the horse. Then he slowly
lowered Ben to the ground and cradled him gently in his arms.
`Oh Ben, why is it I always find you up to your neck in trouble?' Waverley muttered softly.
`Is there no end to your suffering?'
A horse reined in beside them. The rider was the troopers' white officer who wore the
insignia of an inspector. He looked down indignantly at Waverley from the saddle of his high
mount.
`Sir, I am in charge of this patrol,' the inspector stated loudly. ' This man is my prisoner,
and a murderer. I must ask you to leave him alone and not to interfere in any way.' `Murderer,' Waverley looked horrified. 'Good God, Inspector, that is a serious charge.
What evidence do you have?'
The inspector pointed to Whitey Flannigan. 'That man there—the albino. He was an
eyewitness. He saw the half-breed shoot down his brother on the Palmer River and steal his
gold.'
`What gold?'
The inspector pointed to the second pack-horse. `In those saddle bags, there's thousands of
pound's worth.'
Waverley looked around the faces in the large crowd which had now gathered in the street.
`I have known this man for years,' he said. `His name is Ben Luk. He is a brick merchant from
Brisbane. I cannot believe what the inspector claims is true. Please, is there anyone among
you who knows anything about all this? Come now, anything at all. There is a man's life at
stake here.'
A murmur ran through the onlookers. Then slowly the crowd parted enough to allow an
old Chinaman to push his way through. He came and stood close to Waverley, his hands
clasped together in front of him. His face showed his compassion as he looked down at Ben. `This man was in my store a few weeks ago, Commodore,' the old Chinese said. `He
bought food and supplies for a journey down the Palmer Road. He told me he would pay me in gold when he returned to Cooktown to catch the steamer Cape Bowling Green, to go back to Brisbane. He didn't say as much, but Iknew he must have returned for gold he left on the Palmer River years earlier. Soon after he started out I saw the Flannigan brothers mount up and follow him. I knew something like this must have happened when nearly a week ago, the
Cape Bowling Green left Cooktown for Brisbane without him.'
`All lies,' Whitey Flannigan bellowed. `These Chinks always stick together.' `I think we will wait to hear what Ben Luk has to say,' Waverley said. `In the meantime he
needs urgent medical attention.' Waverley beckoned one of his commanders. `Fetch my ship's
physician and also a party of armed marines. Have this man and his gold taken aboard the
Katoomba and go quickly, I fear these policemen have left little life in him.' `I'm sorry but I must countermand that order Commodore Waverley.' It was the police
commissioner who spoke now, his tone urgent, anxious not to have his authority usurped by
the Navy. `You must understand, sir, that this is a police matter. I'm afraid holding the
prisoner and the gold aboard your ship is quite out of the question.'
`Follow my orders Captain.' Waverley snapped when his commander hesitated, `The Navy
is taking this man and his gold into protective custody.' He turned a reproachful eye to the
Police Commissioner. `Surely you must realize, sir, that with seven warships lying in the
estuary, and with hundreds of armed Marines under my command, you are in no position to
tell me what I can or cannot do. If you still object, then do so to the governor of this colony.
But be assured if you do, I will tell His Excellency of the treatment my dear friend has
received at the hands of your troopers.'
*
Ben lay in his bed aboard the Katoomba. Three days had passed since Waverley had put
him under the care of the ship's physician, and only now had he recovered enough to be fully
cognizant of his surroundings. He listened as Clive Waverley recounted how he came to be
aboard the warship. Then Ben told his friend of the events which had brought him back to the
Palmer goldfields.
Ben closed his eyes and sighed. `I have been most fortunate my friend. I owe you a debt of
gratitude I can never repay. But with only a few days remaining before my property is seized,
and my family thrown out penniless onto the street, my personal good fortune is of little
consequence. It seems most unfair. Thanks to you, I have my gold which gives me the power
to
stop this awful injustice, but now time and distance prevents me from doing so'. Ben opened his eyes.He was surprised to see Clive Waverley was smiling. `Take heart, Ben,' the Commodore said. `You are aboard one of the Royal Navy's newest
and fastest ships-of-the-line, not some little steamer that stops at every settlement along the
coast. Within the hour the fleet leaves Cooktown on a goodwill tour of the capitals of the
Australian colonies. Our first port of call is Brisbane, where my officers are looking forward
to a civic reception to be held in their honor on the first of August. I'm sure the gathering will
be attended by the cream of Queensland's womanhood.Let me assure you, that after so many
weeks at sea away from civilization, only a hurricane could prevent the fleet from arriving in
Brisbane on time.'
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Silas Moser's carriage came to a full stop outside Castlecraig. He alighted quickly, and hurried up the steps to the front door of the house and rapped sharply on the huge brass knocker.
It was early afternoon and unseasonably warm for the closing days of July. Moser's face looked flushed. He loosened his collar, then began to pace the flagstones outside the door as he waited for his knock to be answered. Behind him on Castlecraig's huge front lawn, workmen were already erecting a large marquee in preparation for the upcoming reception for the Australian Squadron.
The big door swung open. Jenkins smiled politely. `I would like to see Mrs Stonehouse,' Moser said. `I do hope she's not taking her afternoon nap.'
`Oh no, sir,' Jenkins replied quickly. `Madam is busy pruning in her flower gardenPlease come inside while I go down and tell her you're here.'
`No, no. I'll go directly down to the garden, if I may.'
Jenkins closed the door and Moser walked around the house and down the terrace to the flower garden. He found Clare carefully pruning one of many bougainvilleas which grew in the lattice work of the summer-house.
`Oh, Silas,' she said when she saw him. `What a surprise. I don't recall ever seeing you at Castlecraig on a working day before. What is so important as to bring you out of your office?'
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