Outback Station

by Aaron Fletcher

  After dinner, Alexandra and Creighton went to the parlor and talked until late in the night, reminiscing about the years in London.

  The next morning, Creighton wanted to spend time with the boys and work with them on their lessons, and Alexandra wrote the land grant request in its final form for her brother to take with him when he left. During the afternoon, David returned from the paddocks.

  Wanting the two most important men in her life to get along well, Alexandra was extremely pleased when her husband and brother liked each other immediately. The afternoon passed in lively, enjoyable conversation, followed by a delicious dinner.

  That night, while preparing for bed, Alexandra told Kerrick about Creighton's proposal for a partnership in the family business. She explained the possibility of eventually turning it over to Morton as his inheritance, and David firmly agreed with her plan.

  The following day, while David oversaw work at the barns, Alexandra went riding with her brother and showed him around the home paddock. When they reached the far end of the Aborigine village and turned back, Creighton commented about Alexandra's obvious satisfaction with her life at the station. "That pleases me to no end," he added. "You have reason to be content, because you live in luxury that would be envied by most of the bunyip aristocracy in Sydney. But more than content, I can see that you're extremely happy, and David is the very best of husbands."

  "That's true on both accounts," Alexandra agreed. "We live well, but the outback isn't for everyone, Creighton. I'd like to keep both my sons here, but I believe Morton would be better off in what he wants to do. He would be a better businessman than stockman. What do you think?"

  "I think you're right. Now that I know him better, I believe his way of going about things would be different from mine. However, he might be more successful, and I believe he has a head for business."

  "Then let's discuss the partnership you proposed. David and I plan to send the boys to a boarding school in Sydney. After Morton finishes there, I'd like you to take him into the firm as an associate. When he reaches the age of majority, I'll turn over my share in the firm to him, and he will be your partner. In addition, I'd like to change the name of the firm to Hammond and Kerrick. Do you object to any of that?"

  "Certainly not to changing the name of the firm," Creighton replied. "It should reflect the ownership." He hesitated and thought for a moment, then smiled wryly. "As I said, Morton's ways might be different from mine, but I should be able to cope with that. And it doesn't appear that I'll have a son in the business with me, so I'll accept those terms."

  Alexandra nodded in satisfaction, and they discussed the matter further as they rode back up the creek. A short time after they reached the house, David joined them in the garden. The three of them talked about all aspects of Morton's future role in the partnership, agreeing on all the details.

  The arrangement settled, Alexandra was reasonably sure that Morton's future was assured. But for her other son, his future was less secure. There was every indication that his interests would center entirely on the sheep station, but whether the station would even remain in existence rested heavily on the outcome of the request for a land grant.

  The request and map were in Creighton's baggage when he rode away two days later. David left once again to take supplies to the stockmen and to check on the flocks. The house seemed very quiet after the constant activity and conversation, and Alexandra felt lonely and anxious, hoping the governor would approve the request. As she settled back into her busy routine, the loneliness soon passed.

  David returned after a few days, then when the days began turning into weeks, Creighton's visit became an enjoyable memory. But the request and map remained very much on her mind, scarcely an hour of any day passing without her thinking about them.

  When sufficient time had passed for Creighton to reach Sydney, her anxiety increased. Longing for a way to reach across the distance for some word about the governor's reaction, she tried to resign herself to wait for the arrival of the drays with supplies. That was months away, but she hoped for a reply to the request in the mail the drays would bring.

  The reply, however, came much sooner than that. While exercising her horse on a sultry, late-summer afternoon in February, Alexandra noticed two riders with a pack horse coming down the track. Riding to meet them, she saw that one was a woman with a baby in her arms.

  Stopping on a rise, the young couple looked at the home paddock in awe, the woman almost in tears of happiness and relief. The man touched his hat as Alexandra rode up to them. "G'day, mo'm," he said. "I'm Isaac Logan, and this is my wife, Mandy. I have mail for the owners here."

  "Good day, I'm Alexandra Kerrick. I'll take the mail."

  "I beg pardon," Logan apologized, snatching off his hat. "I should have guessed who you are, mo'm." Taking an oilskin package from his coat pocket, he leaned over and handed it to her. "I met Mr. Hammond, your brother, in Sydney, Mistress Kerrick. He said he would give me a recommendation for employment if I would bring the mail, and it's in that. He also gave me two of these horses so me and Mandy could get here."

  Alexandra looked at the package, aching to open it, then forced herself to turn to the woman. "Are you and the baby well?"

  "Aye, we are now, mo'm," the woman replied, smiling tearfully. "After that dreadfully long way on that tiny bit of a road, I didn't expect to see all this. It's like a wonderful, beautiful town, with that great, lovely house standing over it. It quite took my breath away."

  "It took me aback as well," Logan put in. "I'd heard that Tibooburra Station was big, but I didn't think it would be like this. It's been several days since we crossed the south boundary. Can I get a job here, mo'm? I've worked with sheep and dogs ever since I was a nipper."

  "Well, not everyone is content in the outback. But we can use another stockman, so we'll see how you and your family get on here. The last two houses beside the creek are empty. Take either of them, then go to the storeroom beside the shearing shed and draw rations. The storekeeper will also give you lamps and other things for your house."

  The young man and woman were piteously grateful, and Alexandra controlled her impatience and smiled as they repeated their thanks again and again. At last, they rode down the track. With trembling fingers, Alexandra unwrapped the oilskin. The package contained a letter from Creighton and a much thicker one with the governor's official seal on it.

  Breaking the seal, Alexandra took out a brief note and a folded parchment. The note, signed by Governor Ralph Darling, expressed thanks for the excellent map and the honor of having the large river designated with his name. After glancing over the note, Alexandra unfolded the parchment.

  With large, bright official seals and the governor's signature below the writing, it was a freehold land grant to David and Alexandra Kerrick, and to their heirs and assignees in perpetuity. The grant encompassed Barren Mountain northward to Steeple Hills, then east and west from the home paddock to a total distance of four hundred furlongs, the boundaries enclosing a total area of one million sixty thousand acres.

  The constant, gnawing anxiety of months suddenly lifted from her, Alexandra felt weak with relief as tears of joy welled up in her eyes. Clutching the parchment and other papers, she slowly climbed down from her saddle, her eyes blurred with tears.

  She grasped a handful of soil and let it trickle between her fingers. It had always been precious, but now it was subtly different from only moments before. Now it was safe, placed beyond the grasp of any envious intruder. For vast miles in all directions, it would belong to her family down through the generations to come.

  PART III

  Chapter Sixteen

  "I'd like to speak with you for a moment, Morton."

  Looking up from the papers on his desk, Morton noted the dissatisfaction in his uncle's voice and attitude. He sat back, motioning to the chair beside his desk. "Yes, of course. What is it?"

  Heavy-set and troubled with gout in his middle age, Creighton Hammond slowly crossed the o
ffice and eased himself into the chair. "I understand," he said somberly, "that you sold the firm's share in the cargo of a vessel named the Wavertree to Edgar Humphries."

  "Yes, and it's fortunate that I did. I see from today's admiralty office postings that the Wavertree sank off the Cape."

  "Fortunate?" Creighton echoed in disapproval. "Morton, Edgar Humphries has been a friend of mine for twenty-five years."

  "I'm fully aware of that. Are you suggesting that that should have a bearing on the firm's business dealings with him?"

  "Of course it should!" Creighton snapped. "Morton, how do you think something like this appears to others?"

  "I don't give a bloody rap how it appears to others!" Morton shot back. "The firm doesn't own a sixty-fourth of a cargo that's on the bottom of the ocean off the Cape, and nothing else matters to me."

  "But you sold it to him after the ship sank!"

  "And two weeks before the sinking was posted by the admiralty office! Does he contend that I knew about it before the admiralty?"

  Creighton drew in a deep breath and controlled his temper, combing his fingers through his white hair. "He contends nothing, Morton. But you know as well as I do that word of sinkings sometimes arrives by word of mouth before the admiralty office receives official notification."

  "Pissmire rumors," Morton replied, dismissing it with an impatient wave. "Who listens to the ramblings of drunken sailors?"

  "No, I can't leave it at that, Morton." Creighton lifted a hand as his nephew started to object hotly. "No, I'm the senior partner, and I insist that Edgar's money be refunded. I'll see to it myself."

  Morton sighed irately, shrugging. "Very well, but you'll be the senior partner of a bankrupt firm if you persist in this sort of thing. Further, I sold a share of that cargo to Farrel Ibbets, but he won't get a shilling back. That was a private venture of mine, and the sale will stand."

  "Farrel Ibbets?" Creighton exclaimed, suddenly amused. "That old rogue? He's swindled so many people out of money that I'm pleased to see him lose some of it. How much of a share did you sell him?"

  "An eighth."

  "An eighth?" Creighton gasped in astonishment. "You bought a full eighth of that cargo with your private funds? That's a very substantial investment. Did you sell it to him at the subscription rate?"

  "No, I discounted it, because I needed funds on short notice."

  Creighton sat back in his chair, studying his nephew with an anxious frown. "Morton, taking a loss on that share has every appearance of a panic sale. You didn't know that the ship had sunk, did you?"

  "How could I have known?"

  A momentary silence fell, and Creighton's brows were drawn in concern as Morton gazed back at him blandly. Then the older man slowly shook his head. "When you were an associate, Morton," he said soberly, "I often told you that principles are more valuable than money. I do hope you remember that, and I'll say no more on the matter. Have you examined the cost for that investment in the sheep station south of the Murray River?"

  Morton nodded, separating a paper from others on his desk and pushing it toward his uncle. "Yes, and I think it's a very poor investment."

  "Buying that land and providing money for stock and supplies would be an investment in peoplefour good, honest families. They'll work hard, and it should begin paying a return within a very few years."

  "No, I rather expect that we would be left holding land in the wilds of the Murray River, while the people would be looking for someone else to fleece for the necessities of life. I'm adamantly against it."

  "Then I'll fund it as a private venture," Creighton said in resignation, taking the paper and pushing himself to his feet.

  He left, and Morton dismissed his uncle and the conversation from his mind as he brought his concentration to bear on a stack of papers. They were mortgages that were heavily in arrears, which he had bought at a deep discount from face value. Studying each one, Morton made a list on a sheet of foolscap, estimating how much profit over his purchase price he could realize after he secured full title to the properties.

  Morton had bought a few of the mortgages which were on houses owned by judges, government officials, and professional people, for benefits other than direct profit. To secure those benefits, he had bought yet another mortgage, one on a house owned by the lawyer, John Fitzroy. Morton anticipated dealing with Fitzroy with pleasure.

  He had sent a message to Fitzroy, asking him to meet with Morton to discuss the mortgage. It had been ignored, an example of the contempt Morton had encountered from some with high social standing yet many who had ignored him a short time before were now being very friendly toward him. Money was power, and he had merely begun to realize his objective to amass an immense fortune and dominating power.

  At a polite rap on his office doorjamb, Morton looked up. As often happened, the day had faded unnoticed into dusk while he worked, and the head clerk of the firm was in the doorway. "I beg pardon, sir," he said. "Mr. Hammond went home awhile ago, and my work for the day is done. An apprentice will be here if you need anything."

  "Very well. Send the apprentice with a light for my lamp."

  The man left, and a boy with a candlestick entered a moment later and lit the lamp on the desk. Morton totaled up his estimated profits and made two lists, one of the names of well-placed people among the mortgages, and the other of mortgages on businesses he intended to foreclose. When he finished, he locked the papers in a desk drawer and left the office.

  In the dim, quiet outer office, the boy worked by candlelight at one of the tall accounting desks. Scrambling down from his stool, he went to the clothes rack. He helped Morton on with his coat, handed him his hat and cane, then opened the door for him.

  The town had settled for the evening, and the cobblestone street in the commercial district was quiet since shops and other businesses in the half-timbered buildings were locked and shuttered. Here and there, lighted windows in living quarters on the second floors cast a dim light down on the street. While walking, Morton saw a man step out of the shadows on the other side of the street and cross toward him. He recognized the middle-aged, paunchy John Fitzroy.

  "You, there," Fitzroy called haughtily. "If your name is Kerrick, I'll have a word with you."

  "That is my name, but I don't conduct business on the public streets," Morton replied brusquely. "Come to my office tomorrow."

  "No, I'll speak with you now," Fitzroy insisted arrogantly, reaching for Morton's arm. "It isn't my practice to patronize every"

  He broke off and stumbled back, as Morton slashed his cane at the man. "By God!" Morton snarled. "You venture to take my arm and hold me? I'll break your bloody head open, you impudent swine!"

  "How dare you!" Fitzroy exclaimed in outrage. "Do you know who I am, you upstart? I'll have you know that I'm"

  "Yes, I know who you are! You're the shyster, Fitzroy, who didn't reply to my message about the mortgage I hold on you. Now you be at my office at the seventh hour tomorrow morning."

  "I will not!" Fitzroy spluttered. "I'll have you know that"

  "Then take warning as to what will happen. On Sunday morning, when everyone is abroad, I'll hire ten of the scurviest, most drunken sailors I can find at the Pissmire, and I'll have them cast you, your family, and your belongings into the street for the town to see. Now if you think I won't do that, you bloody well wait until Sunday."

  His sagging jowls quivering, Fitzroy shook his head.

  "You wouldn't dare," he whispered, his voice trembling in fear. "I have friends, and they would take every sort of official action against you that"

  "No, they won't because they wouldn't want their own debts called to account in the same fashion. Until now, you've been dealing with bank directors who are more concerned with receiving dinner invitations than in earning profits. Now you're dealing with me, and I dine only at my lodgings. You be at my office at seven tomorrow morning."

  Leaving the man standing speechless in consternation, Morton walked away. He turned the co
rner and went down another street to a chemist's shop. The shop closed, he climbed the steps at the side of the building and rapped on the door at the top of the stairs with his cane.

  James Boland, the chemist, a bookish-looking man in his forties, was swallowing and wiping his mouth as he opened the door. "Good evening, Mr. Kerrick. I was just having a bite to eat. Would you join me?"

  "No, thank you. Kindly step outside and close the door."

  Nodding amiably, Boland came out onto the landing. A well-educated man and a former manufacturer in England, he had been convicted and transported to Australia for infringement of the patent rights on a steel process. He had obtained a ticket-of-leave and brought his family to Sydney, then had opened the pharmaceuticals shop.

  In debt and with a large family, he was often hard pressed for money. However, foreknowledge of who was ill, recovering, and expected to die could be very useful in the business affairs of the town, which he gladly revealed to Morton on occasion. Now Boland related all the medicines he had sold since he had last seen Morton, as well as whom they were for and what illnesses they were commonly used to treat. When the man revealed all he knew, Morton gave him a coin and left.

  Morton's next stop was several streets away, a public house where seamen congregated. Relatively expensive, it was patronized only by captains and other officers. The publican, Harvey Mankin, seeing Morton enter the crowded, noisy barroom, met him in a quiet corner near the door. Mankin had given Morton many extremely valuable and completely reliable bits of information, including that about the sinking of the Wavertree. He had overheard nothing useful since their last meeting, but he had a request. Transportation of convicts to New South Wales had ceased three years before, but many were still serving sentences. In addition, they were still being transported to Van Diemen's Land, and the publican's brother had been sent there a few months before.

  Having received a letter from his brother describing the conditions there, Mankin was frantic to get him out of confinement. "If you can attend to this for me, Mr. Kerrick," he continued anxiously, "I'll never take another shilling. And I'll work harder than ever to find out things for you. But I've got to get Harold out of there before they kill him."