To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (7 page)

‘Thank you, Mrs Tracy,’ Saul mumbled awkwardly. ‘My dad was a good ’un.’

As they sat for another hour chatting, Saul noticed that Matthew said little but took in a lot. When Kate excused herself to retire for the night leaving Saul and Matthew alone on the verandah, the young man finally found his voice.

‘I’m going to enlist with you,’ he said quietly.

Saul was about to laugh off the boy’s impulsive
statement but when he looked into the boy’s eyes he could see a burning ambition that was not about to go out.

‘Why would you want to leave all this behind and run away to a war?’ Saul asked. ‘Anyway, you’re too young to join up. You won’t get past the front door of the recruiting depot.’

‘Your own father was only a couple of years older than me when Mother gave him the Colt. I know because she told me the story. That’s not much different to what I’m going to do.’

Seeing the fire in Matthew’s grey eyes, Saul felt uncomfortable. He could see that Matthew meant every word. ‘Your mother would have me horse whipped if she even suspected I would help you,’ he replied. ‘She’s a good woman and there’s no way I would want to do anything that might cause her pain.’

Matthew leant forward and stared the bushman directly in the eyes. ‘My mother would never know you helped me enlist,’ he said in a pleading yet firm voice.

Saul could see that the boy was used to commanding others. It was in his bearing and, he guessed, probably as a result of his upbringing as heir to his mother’s fortune. ‘I just need you to support me when the time comes to produce my birth certificate,’ Matthew continued. ‘Sort of back me up.’

‘You won’t get far on your birth certificate,’ Saul said with a chuckle. ‘I heard most of the recruiting people can read and write.’

‘I have a forged birth certificate in the name of Matthew Duffy. That was my mother’s maiden name.’

Saul stared suspiciously at the boy. ‘How did you get your hands on a forged birth certificate?’ he growled.

Matthew smiled mysteriously and leant back in his chair. He could see that he was slowly winning. But he was not about to mention his contact.

‘I have and that’s all that matters,’ Matthew replied.

‘If I was to help you, what’s in it for me?’

A triumphant look crossed Matthew’s face. ‘You and I both know that you need to get to Brisbane in a hurry if you are going to join up in time to steam to Africa with the regiment. And we both know that you were going to try and ride south. How long will that take you?’

Saul frowned. ‘A bloody long time.’

‘Then you might just miss the boat. Unless you were to take a boat from Townsville to Brisbane. It’s the quickest way to get there.’

‘You can do that?’ Saul asked with a sudden respect for the boy. ‘You got the money to get us a ticket on a coastal going south?’

‘Enough for both of us. And we can leave first thing after lunch tomorrow. I just need a few hours to get things in order.’

‘What about your mother?’ Saul asked with a touch of guilt for his seeming betrayal of her faith in him.

Matthew fell silent for a short time and stared across the bay. The muddy water was flat and stagnant looking. ‘I will miss her but I’m going to leave a note to say I’ve decided to go off and see Queensland for myself for a year.’

The bushman shook his head. ‘You really think she will believe that?’

‘She married my father,’ he replied with the ghost of a smile. ‘And from what I’ve heard of him he was always going walkabout. I think she will blame him for my sudden need to head out west. Sort of something in the blood I can’t help.’

‘Jesus, boy, you could get me killed before we even get into a war,’ Saul laughed softly. ‘You better make sure, no matter what happens, that my name never comes up as the person who helped you get in the army. If it does, I promise you I will kill you myself.’

Looking at the tough, bearded bushman Matthew had no doubts that he would carry out his oath.

It was a full day before Kate realised her son was missing. When she found his letter and read his lie, tears flooded her eyes as she remembered how a tall, lean American prospector had kept coming and going in her life. She loved that man still and even now she felt his ghost at her elbow, as if Luke Tracy were trying to tell her something was not right, that she could easily lose her son forever to some great tragedy. She did not suspect in a million years that the tragedy had a name – and that name was war.

SIX

T
he end of October saw the rain come to Sydney, but it did not deter what seemed to be the whole population of the city thronging the route between the military barracks in Paddington and the embarkation point at Circular Quay. For the second time in its short history the city was farewelling brave young men off to fight in the Queen’s name. Patrick Duffy was one of those who took his place in the crush to watch his regiment march past with rifles at the shoulder and bayonets fixed.

He stood against the drenching rain under an umbrella and listened morosely to the unbroken roar of cheering and singing. He felt the loneliness of the deserter as the crowds became part of the spirit of the soldiers, soon to be Queen’s crusaders in far-off Africa. In places, the crowds hemmed in the New South Welsh contingent to the point where the
bands and the infantrymen could hardly move. Small Union Jacks festooned the tips of bayonets as well-wishers pressed forward. Pretty young ladies kissed any soldier they could reach. Shops and buildings displayed the colours of the Union Jack from walls and windows and red, white and blue predominated in the grey streets lashed by rain. Snatches of ‘God Save the Queen’ and ‘Rule Britannia’ blurred together in the jubilant singing.

Patrick stood in front of a bill board displaying a patriotic slogan: ‘The Lion and the Kangaroo will put old Kruger through.’ He could not see the marching men but neither did he have a great wish to. It was bad enough that his decision to remain at home and attempt to save that which was most precious to him, his marriage, meant that he could not sail with his men. Even if he had second thoughts it was too late now as officer appointments had been made and signed by the War Office in London.

He was not sure whether the wetness on his face was from rain or tears but he knew he had enough of the desolation he felt. Even his faithful secretary could not resist proudly boasting of his own son’s enlistment in the regiment now sailing for the war. With his chest stuck out, and tears behind his spectacles, George Hobbs had related how his son would show the English the prowess of Australians on the battlefield. Patrick had listened and wondered whether George truly understood that the war was not some grand cricket match. How could he deflate the proud father with his own recollections of war: dying men screaming for their mothers, others
cursing the very existence of God as they clawed at bowels hanging from ripped stomachs, and always the ever-present stench of decaying flesh, thirst and numbing fear. Instead he had mumbled his own admiration for such courageous patriotism and then taken his umbrella to join the rest of Sydney farewelling her troops.

With some difficulty, Patrick now pushed his way through the crowd until he came to a hotel. Most of the patrons were out on the street and very few stood at the bar. Patrick was aware of someone tugging at his sleeve as he forced his way through the door past a pack of young men with beer glasses in hand boisterously toasting the Queen. He turned to see Arthur Thorncroft at his elbow.

‘Thought I might join you,’ Arthur said with a weak smile. ‘A bit too much for me out there.’

Having shared a campaign and similar scenes of departure, Patrick welcomed his friend’s company. It was humid inside the hotel’s main bar as the spring rains heralded the coming of a hot summer.

‘Like this when you left for Suakin?’ Patrick asked as he fronted up to the bar with the smaller man beside him.

‘Not much different,’ Arthur replied as he shook off the rain and unfurled his umbrella. ‘Except we didn’t have the crowds the boys have now.’

Patrick ordered two pints of ale which had improved considerably since the early years of the colony. It no longer poisoned a man – just got him drunk.

‘They deserve the gratitude of Sydney,’ Patrick
mumbled as he sipped at his beer and stared at the painting behind the bar of a woman reclining naked on a couch. She smiled at him and he felt an ache for Catherine along with the sense that she was gone from his life, although he could not yet admit this to himself. ‘The memory of this day is going to have to get them through a lot of hard days and nights ahead,’ he continued sadly.

Arthur nodded grimly. They had soldiered together as officers under the blazing sun of Sudan’s arid lands and faced death together. That would always be a special bond between men, just as the birth of children was between women. ‘Anyway, it will all be over by Christmas,’ Arthur offered lightly, hoping to reassure his friend. ‘The lads will be back before Easter. Might not even get to see any action for that matter. The British regiments will probably roll up the Boers before they get to Capetown. After all, they are only up against a rabble of peasant farmers.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Patrick replied quietly. ‘I’ve seen how they operate – any man who could kill my father has to be more than a peasant rabble. No, it will not be over by Christmas.’

Arthur sipped his ale and said nothing. He knew of Patrick’s search many years earlier for his father, the legendary Michael Duffy. And he knew of the determined defence that father and son had put up from under the cover of an ox wagon on the African
veldt
against a force of mounted Boers – a defence that had cost the life of the big Irish soldier of fortune so that his son might live.

‘Your daughter, Fenella, certainly has an interest in my work,’ Arthur said, attempting to distract Patrick. ‘She badgers me to allow her to see my other work.’

Patrick’s mood shifted slightly at the mention of his daughter. ‘It would do her no harm. I will arrange for her governess to take her to your studio to see how moving pictures are produced.’

‘I think that you should come and have a look yourself. It would do you no harm either.’

Patrick smiled. ‘You don’t have to sell me, Arthur,’ he said. ‘My grandmother has already approved finance for you to travel to Europe. You know that. And you don’t have to change the subject because of my apparent melancholy. I will adjust in my own good time.’

Arthur sighed with relief and took a long swallow of his cool ale. ‘I know you will, Patrick,’ he said, wiping the creamy froth from his moustache. ‘All will work out for the best.’

But his last statement was delivered without conviction, for he knew what the rest of Sydney knew: Patrick Duffy’s beautiful wife was most often seen in the company of the English capitalist Brett Norris at the city’s cafes, theatres and hotels. Rumour had it that she was known to stay all night with the suave and elegant millionaire at his rooms in the city’s best hotel. But not even Arthur dared bring the matter to his old friend’s attention. If he didn’t know already, better that he find out in his own way.

The two men passed the afternoon drinking together. They talked mostly of Arthur’s coming voyage to Europe and what he hoped to achieve, and
they reminisced briefly on their experiences in the Sudan campaign. Finally they departed the hotel and rolled out onto a street covered in the backwash of a farewell party: lank red, white and blue bunting strewn in gutters where a downpour had attempted to wash the colours away. The rain had finally driven most of the party-goers from the street and both men were able to hail a Hansom cab. Arthur bid his friend a good evening, thoughts on his young man and a warm place by the hearth of the studio they shared. But for Patrick there was only the return to a sprawling mansion. It was a lonely place to be.

When Patrick arrived at his residence he slumped into his chair in the library. The room was his retreat from the world and his children had come to respect that this was not a place to enter unless summoned. So the timid knock on the door and the sight of his youngest son Alexander surprised him.

The boy stood awkwardly, framed by the open door awaiting permission to approach. Patrick nodded his assent and it was only when Alex came close that Patrick could see the bruising and swelling on his son’s face. Alex stood anxiously before him, his expression alternating between fear and resolve.

‘What is it, son?’ Patrick gently asked.

The boy’s battered face was twisted in anguish. ‘Do you want to tell me something about why your face appears as if it was kicked by a camel?’

‘I . . . I don’t think . . . ,’ Alex stammered as his
courage dissolved and he realised his question was beyond his daring to ask.

Patrick reached out to grip his son’s shoulders gently. Displays of affection were not normally encouraged in the house of Lady Enid and so his father’s compassionate gesture gave the boy courage. He took a deep breath and let the question tumble over itself.

‘Are you a coward, Father?’

Patrick was stunned by the question. ‘Who says I am a coward?’ he redirected quietly. Alex stood mute. ‘Someone I know?’

His son shook his head vigorously. But his answer was a lie. How could he tell his father that his own brother George had accused his father of cowardice?

Patrick sighed and slumped back into his chair, leaving his son gazing at him forlornly. ‘Do you think I am a coward,’ he asked the boy in a tired voice, ‘because I didn’t go with my men to war?’

‘No, Father. I think you stayed because of Mother and us. But . . .’ he trailed away as he realised that he had almost mentioned his brother’s name.

‘But what?’ Patrick asked.

‘Nothing important.’

‘Is that how you got your beating?’

‘Yes,’ Alex answered uncertainly, and then lied a second time. ‘Some boys from school.’

He could not say that he had received the beating from his brother after flinging himself at him, the accusation levelled at the man whose strength he idolised more than he could bear. George had taunted him after the beating and Alex had cried in shame at his inability to put right a wrong.