‘Amen to that. We’re defending this property, so don’t be afraid. No ill can come to those who believe in God’s righteousness.’
They waited on either side of the front entrance, peering through the windows for a sign of the intruders.
‘Maybe they won’t come,’ said Brandon as the minutes passed.
‘It’s possible,’ said Mr Truby. ‘Most likely they’ll burn the rest of the outbuildings first.’
‘Then I can’t stay here.’ There was Hetty to consider, left alone in the cottage with her children, and McCauley, who was bunked down in the quarters with the other workers.
Brandon ignored Mr Truby’s warnings and, crouching low, ran to the cover of the paling fence that ringed the homestead. Hetty’s cottage was still safe but the rest of the lit buildings were nearly collapsed, their fire-wasted frames jagged piles of burning, protruding beams. Men still called through the darkness but it was impossible to guess who was friend or foe. He tightened his grasp on the axe.
Flickers of light gathered in the distance. Like air-blown embers they drew apart and then came together again, forming a cluster of growing brightness that increased in shape and form. The group of men approached at a fast walk, their flares held high in proud determination, as if they were on some great mission. They set one of the outbuildings alight and then another, heading in the direction of Hetty’s cottage.
‘He could be in there!’ yelled a man.
‘Don’t hurt my cousin Maggie or the servant girl.’
Brandon recognised the second voice as Sean’s. He sat heavily in the dirt, unable to believe that his cousin was involved in the attack. But it was true. Sean was here and he was unaware of Maggie’s leaving. Brandon should have known Hackett wouldn’t take kindly to being bested by Mr Truby. They were here to send a strong message of what they thought of his illegal squatting on vast tracts of land. In that same instant, Brandon understood that it was him that they ultimately wanted. As far as Hackett was concerned, Brandon was to blame. He began to run the short distance towards Hetty’s home but was not fast enough to avoid the gang of men, who caught sight of him and bore down with speed.
The men gathered in front of Brandon. There were eight of them; people he’d once felled timber with and others he recognised from the Brotherhood meeting, men involved in the attacks in the village. He saw their heaving chests, the delight at destruction that shone in their glassy eyes and the anger that could only come from a people stripped of dignity, partly through circumstance, but also through longstanding hate. In the centre of the group, Hackett’s face was grimly firm, the firelight emphasising the weathered creases of his skin.
‘I was right about you. From the very beginning I knew you weren’t to be trusted.’ Hackett spat on the ground, as if sealing his opinion. ‘I gave you the benefit of the doubt because of your cousin, thinking that a little waywardness could be beaten out of you, but you’ve gone far beyond redemption, Brandon O’Riain. You’ve gone to the other side, converted and changed your name. There is no coming back from what you’ve done.’
‘I’m just an excuse for you to get at Mr Truby. And what I may or may not have done is none of your damn business,’ said Brandon.
‘None of our business, eh?’ Sean tossed a rock into the air and caught it.
Brandon stared at his cousin in the torchlight. At the rock he held. Thought of what the stone represented. Of Macklin dead on the ground. ‘Sean,’ he said in disbelief.
‘We’re Irishmen, born into poverty, forced to leave the old country and exist here in this land, though the English would squash us with their boots if they could,’ Sean sneered. ‘I thought you had the makings of an eagle that might soar high one day, but I was wrong. You’re just a pigeon, one who shits on everyone below.’
‘Take him,’ Hackett said to the men at his side. ‘A belting might make him see sense.’
Three men moved towards him. Brandon swung the axe in a half circle. They scattered and regrouped, more men attacking from all sides. A bloodcurdling scream shrank the air, and Brandon turned to see McCauley running into the group from the rear, swinging a lump of timber and clobbering the unsuspecting men on the head. One man fell immediately, then a second. A third. The mob grew wary. The men about Brandon broke free and ran, unwilling to risk their lives. Hackett lifted a cleaver and fronted McCauley, goading the slaughterer to fight, drawing McCauley’s blood with a choppy strike to his body.
Brandon saw his friend under attack and drew his concentration back to the lone man who was still attacking him with a torch. He reversed the axe, swooping it low, and struck the man’s thigh with the blunt end so that the assailant unbalanced and fell.
‘Fight on, fight on for the cause!’ yelled Sean, as he tried to stop his friends from retreating.
Brandon watched as Hackett sliced again at McCauley. The two men were sidestepping and lunging at each other. He dropped the blade over his head, feeling the balance of it anchored between his shoulders. The instrument hung patiently as he focused on Hackett, a bitter taste filling his mouth. The chance of a direct strike was low, for his target was moving, slashing the cleaver, intent on causing McCauley more harm. The calmness required for a steady hand was beyond Brandon at that point. He swiftly tested the wind, felt his arms tense, and then flung the axe forwards. Simultaneously, a warning shot echoed from the direction of the main house and the few men left scattered in all directions, running off into the scrub as first light turned the horizon grey.
Brandon’s heart slowed with the abrupt end to the fight. He caught sight of Mr Truby approaching, a pistol in his grasp, and then he walked to where Hackett lay motionless on the ground. McCauley stood over the body, swinging a piece of wood, a foolish grin easing the harshness of his features. The axe was nowhere to be seen.
Brandon frowned. ‘You killed him?’
‘All I need now is a vat,’ replied McCauley. ‘Your axe is over there.’
Brandon swung around, expecting to find his weapon embedded in the ground. Instead, he saw Sean lying collapsed in the dirt, close to the men felled by McCauley. Brandon ran forwards and then stopped sharply, not believing what he was seeing. The axe blade had struck his cousin on the knee. Blood poured from the wound.
‘But how . . .’ Brandon said, as McCauley came to his side. ‘I was aiming for Hackett.’
‘Lucky for me, then,’ said McCauley, lifting a shaggy eyebrow. ‘Light and shade. A chance wind. Men moving in different directions. The wrong direction.’ He made a cutting motion across his throat.
Brandon kneeled at his cousin’s side. Sean’s face was grey. Dots of sweat covered his skin. Dreading what was coming next, he took hold of the axe’s handle and pulled the blade free. Sean screamed.
‘We can walk away and leave him to his maker. Give him time to join his friends,’ said McCauley, obviously keen for this idea. ‘The heart is a mighty pump when left unattended.’
Brandon thought of McCauley’s life, one lived in partial shadows. His friend searched the fallen men’s pockets, shaking his head at their emptiness.
‘You tried to kill me,’ said Sean, gasping.
‘It was an accident, I swear,’ said Brandon. ‘I was aiming for Hackett.’
Mr Truby arrived, his progression slowing as he took in the sight of the battle.
Brandon spoke quietly to McCauley. ‘He’s my cousin. Let me explain things to Mr Truby.’
The slaughterer lifted his head to the sky and mumbled, ‘God’s drawers, if it ain’t a curse to be an honourable man. All right then.’
‘What happened?’ asked Mr Truby, taking in the wrecked skulls of the four men.
‘That’s Hackett.’ Brandon pointed to the man’s body.
‘And this one. He’s your cousin,’ said Mr Truby sharply. ‘I told you he was a troublemaker.’
‘He was only pretending to be one of Hackett’s men. He turned on them when they attacked me and was wounded for his efforts,’ Brandon said quickly.
‘And did he also try to stop them from burning my property?’ His employer waited, taking the opportunity to search Brandon and McCauley for traces of deceit. Brandon dropped his head. Mr Truby was within his rights to set the law on Sean. That was, if his cousin survived. Cutting timber in the Big Scrub had given Brandon plenty of opportunity to witness the ailments that came from open wounds.
‘He needs tending, boss,’ said McCauley. He gave Sean’s injury a brief inspection, which involved prodding shattered flesh and bone. ‘You’ll lose it. There’s no way I can save that leg and keep you alive,’ he told Sean.
‘Don’t you take my leg. Don’t let him take my leg, Brandon. Please God, don’t let him!’ yelled Sean. ‘I’ll never forgive you if you let him take it, Brandon.’
‘Be a man – if there is such a thing within that fanatical body you inhabit,’ Mr Truby replied to Sean’s ravings. ‘What about you, McCauley? I see you’re not unscathed.’ He gestured at the blood staining his shirt. ‘I’d rather you tend to your own injury first before worrying about that criminal.’
‘I’ve done worse to myself, Mr Truby.’ McCauley lifted Sean and threw him over a bony shoulder. Sean moaned.
‘I’ll be needing your table, lass, and some boiling water,’ said McCauley as he walked towards Hetty’s cottage, where she waited at the door.
A white-faced Hetty stood back as he entered and lay a now-unconscious Sean on the table. Taking a gutting knife from a sheath at his waist McCauley cut the material of Sean’s trousers, revealing the bloody mass. ‘Best get him tied down while he’s passed out. And this ain’t no place for young’uns.’
Hetty took the children outside and then returned to stoke the fire.
McCauley turned to Brandon. ‘He won’t hate you any less for you lying to the squatter. In fact, after I’ve finished, he’ll probably hate you more. And you understand that even if I take his leg, he might not survive.’
Brandon rubbed at his forehead. ‘If we can’t save him without taking his leg, then we have no choice.’
‘There’s always a choice, boy. It’s making the right one that counts. And I’m afraid he’ll cause you more trouble than your kindness is worth. If he survives.’
‘Do it,’ Brandon told him.
‘Well then, you best hurry to the mill and see if you can salvage a saw,’ said McCauley.
Brandon went outside. Everything around him seemed so large and he so small. Men were trawling through the smoking buildings and the bodies of the four men still lay on the ground. And there was his axe, his kin’s blood on the blade. He vomited in the dirt. Then went in search of a saw.
Chapter 52
Richmond Valley, 1949
Stella was tempted to dismiss the tale that Brandon told her of his early life. It was so dense with intrigue and uncertainty that to pick it apart would have taken a finer seamstress than she. Instead, she found herself wanting to retrace the journey of the two cousins from Ireland, to sift the falsehoods from fact and gather the remaining strands. But all she had were the utterances of a very old man.
She was exhausted by what had been described to her. The steely machinations for land. The conflicting values that had set two cousins against each other. The opposing faiths that destroyed love and, ultimately, friendship. And the grievous injury that Brandon had caused his cousin. She was certain it was this maiming that had torn the two families apart. Religion and name-changing were simply further proof of Brandon’s unreliable character, as far as Sean’s descendants were concerned.
It was late afternoon. Light struck the statue of the woman in the garden. Ants crawled over sandwich crumbs on the table between them. And still, Brandon was unrepentant. Not once had he said the word ‘sorry’ regarding his cousin’s injury.
‘You’ll tell Harry some of this?’ said Brandon.
‘I imagine that the version of events that Sean told him are very different from your recollections.’
Brandon gave a weary nod of his head. ‘That’s the problem with stories. We bring our preconceived ideas and values to the heart of the issue, and within seconds we’ve altered the substance of a thing entirely. What is good becomes bad. What should be joyous becomes plagued with doubt and disbelief. We are an anxious people at times. And it seems that we’re doomed to repeat our mistakes.’
‘Sean was very bitter,’ said Stella.
‘My dear girl, after that day he was like a black snake for most of his life. It wasn’t all my doing. I was caught up in circumstances I had no idea how to deal with.’
‘And yet many people suffered because of you and Sean,’ said Stella.
‘Yes, they did,’ Brandon agreed.
‘Why didn’t you apologise to Sean after the accident?’
‘He wasn’t my target. Hackett was,’ Brandon protested. ‘But the wind was changeable that morning. If there’d been more time, if Mr Truby had not been so quick to fire his pistol . . . The last of the men scattered when they heard that shot, including Sean. He ran into the path of the blade. And they were the ones who attacked me. It wasn’t the other way around.’
‘But you still threw an axe at another human being.’
‘Was I supposed to let Hackett kill McCauley? That man was my friend.’ His voice rose, his mouth twitching in agitation.
So that was how he’d managed to survive for all these years. He’d refused to acknowledge what he’d done by fashioning his guilt into excuses. Her own behaviour at Kirooma sprung to mind.
‘You never said how you came to own this farm,’ she said, quickly changing the topic.
‘Mr Truby willed the house and contents and the eight thousand acres to me on his death in 1874. Miss Schaefer died of the sweating fever in Sydney a few years before her uncle so there was no one left to contest the will. He’d already lost most of his holding by then. The Lands Department caught up with him eventually.’
‘And Sean?’ asked Stella.
‘It took a long time for him to get over the infections. By the time the gangrene had finished with him, McCauley had cut off another three inches.’ Brandon blanched at the memory. ‘He lived at the men’s quarters while he recovered. I rarely saw him during that time and when I tried to, he refused to speak to me. Hetty cared for him until he was capable of hobbling about on a stick and he left soon after. Mr Truby refused to have him on the property any longer and Sean was desperate to leave. He ended up being employed as a sailmaker in Wirra and eventually took over the business. I heard he kept to himself for many years until he eventually married a much younger girl. He made a good living in those early days. I used to ride by his house when I was in the village, hoping I’d catch a glimpse of him, find a reason to say hello, but the few times I chanced on him, he ignored me,’ he said sadly.
‘Their first four children never made it past childhood. Then I learnt that Sean and his wife had been forced to sell their home to pay their debts and were living in a hovel on the edge of town. It was the same year Harry was born, 1891. I never really knew what happened. Perhaps the paddle-steamers lessened the need for sailmakers on the river, but there was also a whisper that Sean overspent, pandering to a young wife. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to see Edwina happy.’
‘You met her?’ asked Stella.
‘Eventually, yes. I wrote to Sean, offering him a place here. I figured that enough time had passed. Nearly twenty-four years to be exact. I reminded him that it would be selfish to deprive his baby boy of a decent home and, more importantly, land, for I promised to gift acreage to Harry. It was a good couple of months before I received a response. However eventually Sean replied, agreeing to my offer for his family’s sake.’
‘And that’s when they moved here? To the same spot where Ann and Harry live now?’ said Stella.
‘The very same.’ He rose stiffly, using the arm of the chair for support. When he walked to the timber pillar on the veranda it was with a slight shuffle, as if he couldn’t quite trust his feet to move on command. He steadied his body against the p
ole. ‘When Sean died, Harry blamed me. He stood at the boundary fence and cursed me for an hour. Yelling at the top of his lungs. Sean had been burning one of the cane fields. It was a damn fool thing to put a crippled man in a fired field. But you never could tell Sean anything – his son either, it seems.’ He turned to her. ‘That wasn’t my fault.’
‘No. It wasn’t,’ she agreed. Brandon wasn’t responsible for Sean’s disposition.
Brandon appeared satisfied by her answer and he returned to the chair, extending his legs and flexing his feet. The bones cracked.
‘And you married Hetty,’ said Stella.
The mention of her name made him smile fondly. ‘No. We never married. Never had children. Though we lived together for a long time. We moved into this house when Mr Truby died. Tommy grew up here. It was his motorbike that Joe used to ride.’
‘Tommy, Hetty’s little boy?’ queried Stella.
‘Yes,’ said Brandon. ‘And Geoffrey, Clinton’s father. Geoff was Hetty’s baby too.’
‘Can I ask why you and Hetty never married?’ Stella knew she was prying but having discovered so much else it seemed that the story of Brandon and Hetty offered an element of optimism. Not so much for the man who’d shared his life story, but for her own understanding of relationships and the difficult place her marriage had inhabited.
‘Hetty understood that although I cared, I wasn’t capable of devoting myself to her. It was an unusual arrangement, however the two of us had come from poor beginnings, and in the end, companionship was more valuable to us than anything else. She died not long before Sean and Edwina moved here. I still miss her. There’s an album under the table. Can you pass it to me?’
Reaching for a rattan stool, Brandon positioned it under the backs of his knees. He sat the book on his lap and ran his fingers around the edge of it. It was stuffed full of photographs and clippings.
‘I rarely need this now. My head is full of pictures. I can still see Mr Truby the very first day we met. The man’s amiable face. The trust in his eyes. Trust for a stranger. I was so very young. Overeager. Willing to please. Gullible, that’s the word. I thought he considered me better than others, and that I was deserving. Still, he left me all this. The land. This house. My albatross. A millstone to keep me shackled to Sean and his family.’
The Cedar Tree Page 33
