by Judy Nunn
There was such zest for life in his eyes that the years dropped away; for a second Eileen felt she could have been looking at the young Mick O’Callaghan.
‘You did, Mick, you did at that.’ She cast a quick glance at her son and nodded. Col’s lunatic idea had proved a good one after all.
The crowd soon started to disperse, but Mick insisted the family stay until nightfall and, as dusk descended, he remained lost in the world that unfolded before him. Macquarie Street had become a fairyland.
When they finally got home they were exhausted, all of them. The children were fast asleep, Eileen felt she couldn’t walk another step and even Col, after carrying Oscar on his hip and pushing the wheelchair with one hand, and uphill for the most part, was feeling weary. As for Mick, well, Mick wasn’t feeling much of anything. During the return trip, the pain had attacked with such a vengeance that he’d dosed himself up with more laudanum, and by the time they put him to bed he was in another world altogether. But he seemed happy enough.
‘Incredible,’ he kept muttering, ‘who’d have believed it possible . . .?’
He died several days later.
Eileen wasn’t sure whether or not Col’s lunatic jaunt had hastened Mick’s death, but she didn’t care anyway, it had been worth it. She didn’t shed a tear. She had loved Mick and she would miss him, but she wouldn’t waste time grieving. She had two children to raise.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The dawn of the twentieth century loomed, bearing with it the promise of Federation and a bright new future, but the old century, in closing, had one final event to deliver that would have a dramatic impact upon the colonies of Australia. In 1899 the colonial military forces responded to Britain’s request for assistance in South Africa.
Following the lead of the other colonies, the Tasmanian government lent its resources to the Boer War. The requirement being for mounted troops with bushcraft and shooting skills, recruits were drawn principally from rural areas and there was no shortage of volunteers eager to sign up.
On the twenty-eight of October, 1899, the 1st Tasmanian Mounted Infantry Contingent, numbering eighty-four men under the command of Captain Cyril St Clair Cameron, departed Hobart aboard the troopship Medic, bound for South Africa.
Enthusiasm was not limited to the departing troops. Fifteen thousand people crammed the wharf to farewell the vessel that would carry their brave young men off to serve the Motherland in her hour of need.
Among the well-wishers was a considerable gathering of the Powell family, many of whom had travelled up from the Huon. They were there to farewell George’s younger son, James. Twenty-six-year-old James Powell, who could ride like the wind and was a crack marksman, had been eagerly snapped up by the recruiting officers. He was ‘off to fight the Boers’, he’d proudly announced, much to the envy of his young city cousin.
‘Why can’t I sign up like James?’ William had complained to his parents.
‘Because they wouldn’t want you,’ his mother Martha had said in her customarily blunt fashion, ‘you can’t ride a horse.’ Will had only just turned nineteen and Martha was thankful for the perfect excuse.
With the exception of the matriarch, Doris, who at seventy-seven avoided crowds, the city arm of the Powell family was all there at the wharf: Martha, her husband Simon Hawtrey and their two children, William and twenty-one-year-old Edith. Edith had brought her fiancé, Samuel, along.
The Huon contingent was also well represented, although George and his older son Lincoln had not brought their wives. Father and son planned to stay in town several days on business, so James had said his goodbyes to his mother at home, Emma saying that she preferred it that way. Quincy, however, in delegating his son Thomas to represent their side of the family, had boosted the numbers considerably: Thomas had not only brought his wife, Olivia, and his five-year-old-son with him, he’d brought their best friends, the Müllers, and their two children as well. James was being farewelled in style by three generations of family and friends.
‘They look so much handsome,’ Heidi yelled in her fractured English, pitching her voice above the sound of the brass band and the noise of the crowd as she and Olivia stood in the forefront with their children waving up at the troops.
‘They certainly do,’ Olivia agreed. The men do indeed look impressive, she thought, in their plumed slouch hats, bandoliers, khaki and puttees. ‘Very handsome,’ she yelled back to Heidi, ‘and very proud, as well they should be.’
The gangplank was lowered onto the wharf and, as the ship’s forward and aft lines were released, the excitement reached fever pitch. The brass band broke into ‘Soldiers of the Queen’, the stirring march that was currently resounding throughout every British military outpost across the world; people started hurling streamers up to the men who were leaning over the railings and the men hurled them back; girls blew kisses to beaus; men saluted with top hats and cloth caps; and women and children frantically waved.
‘Bye, Uncle James! Bye!’
David, who’d just turned five, screamed out his goodbyes at the top of his lungs and beside him, egged on by his excitement, little Eugenia jumped up and down.
‘Bye-bye, bye-bye,’ she squealed.
The two having been born just one month apart and their mothers being best friends, David Powell and Jeanie Müller were inseparable.
Heidi held three-year-old Max, the latest addition to the Müller family, up in her arms waving his chubby little hand at James, and James waved back.
James waved to them all, his father and brother and cousins and family, and his friends and their family too.
As the ship slowly pulled away from the dock, James Powell and every other member of the 1st Tasmanian Mounted Infantry Contingent waved farewell not only to their families and friends, but also to their homeland, most of them for the very first time in their lives. The great adventure had begun.
‘It’s the soldiers of the Queen, my lads,
Who’ve been, my lads, who’ve seen, my lads . . .’
The brass band had reached the chorus of ‘Soldiers of the Queen’, and all around the wharf people took up the song.
‘In the fight for England’s glory, lads,
When we’ve had to show them what we mean.’
Up on the ship’s deck and down on the wharf, troops and well-wishers sang as one.
‘And when we say we’ve always won
‘And when they ask us how it’s done . . .’
The voices swelled to a crescendo as thousands gave voice, the docks and the streets of Hobart ringing with the sound.
‘. . . We’ll proudly point to every one
Of England’s soldiers of the Queen.’
The band finished the march with bravura and, as everyone cheered, they started it up all over again.
Those on the wharf kept singing and waving until the ship was well out into the Derwent and the men on board barely visible. Then voices slowly faded, but it was only when the ship was completely out of sight that the crowd finally dispersed and people went their own ways.
The Powells and the Müllers retired to Martha and Simon’s house in Napoleon Street, where Doris had prepared tea and scones. Doris now lived in the refurbished servants’ quarters at the rear of the house, which she had insisted upon giving to Martha and Simon. Her generosity served a practical purpose for she rightfully knew her daughter would look after her in her dotage, but she had determined to die before becoming a burden. As yet, however, infirmity seemed to have overlooked Doris Powell, whose health remained strong and whose wits were as sharp as ever.
George and his son Lincoln were staying at the house for the duration of their three-day trip to the city. George always stayed with the Hawtreys when he had business in town. It not only provided a pleasant reunion with his mother and his sister and her family, it was convenient for business. The meetings relating to the joint interests of Powell Shipbuilding and Powell Channel Transport were conducted in Simon’s office, the office which had once bee
n Jefferson Powell’s study. The old family home held many memories for George.
Thomas Powell and Gus Müller had booked their respective families into Hadley’s Orient Hotel in the centre of town. They’d stayed there the previous night following their arrival and would stay tonight, returning to the Huon the following morning. Martha had urged them all to stay at Napoleon Street, but they had insisted that with three children in tow it would be far too crowded; and besides, Thomas had explained to his aunt, Olivia and Heidi were looking forward to the Orient as part of their treat.
The women, whose visits to the city were rare, had indeed planned to tie the trip in with a touch of luxury and a long overdue shopping excursion. New clothes for each member of their respective families was the common objective and with only Friday afternoon to find all they wanted they’d eagerly accepted Martha’s offer to babysit.
Upon the mass return to Napoleon Street, everyone gathered in the front sitting room overlooking the garden and, as tea was served and countless scones devoured with jam and cream, they discussed at length the historic events of the morning. They toasted the troops and their success in South Africa and they toasted James and his safe return and they toasted family and friends – no gathering of the Powell clan was ever complete without such a toast – and they finished with a special toast to Edith and Samuel, who had announced their engagement just three months previously.
Finally, it was time to get on with the rest of the day. When the tea things had been cleared, Martha took the children out into the back garden to play while Olivia and Heidi prepared to leave for the city.
Gus Müller had reluctantly agreed to accompany his wife shopping. He would rather have stayed with the men, who were shortly to have their business meeting, but he considered it his duty to go with the women in order to carry their purchases.
‘I’m to be a packhorse,’ he announced good-naturedly as they were about to take their departure.
‘You are to be a new suit,’ his wife corrected him. ‘You are to be fitting the tailor.’
‘I don’t know why,’ he said with a shrug. ‘The man has my measurements.’
‘You’re more than welcome to stay here, Gus,’ Thomas said, openly goading his friend; he considered Gus soft for accompanying his wife shopping. Thomas would never have gone shopping with the women himself. Why bother? Surely they’d be happier on their own, and they could have their purchases delivered to the hotel anyway.
Thomas may have had a point in his reasoning, but he failed to recognise the basic difference between himself and Gus Müller. Gus was not soft at all: Gus was a born gentleman. Thomas, rebellious from childhood, was not. The remarkable fact remained, however, that the friendship shared by Thomas Powell and Gus Müller was as close as that shared by their wives.
‘Uncle George and Simon and Lincoln wouldn’t mind if you sat in on the meeting, I’m sure,’ Thomas said with pretended innocence. It was a presumptuous suggestion on his part as, in a way, he was a guest himself – the business of Charlotte Grove Orchard was not scheduled for discussion.
George and Simon exchanged a glance. Thomas was out to cause trouble as usual, even if it was only in poking fun at his friend.
‘Of course you’re more than welcome to sit in on the meeting, Gus,’ George said, ‘you’re part of the family after all.’
‘No, no, I wouldn’t dream of intruding,’ Gus insisted with a scowl at Thomas, who grinned cheekily back. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘I shall enjoy being the envy of every man in town.’ He offered an arm each to Heidi and Olivia, who’d been patiently waiting, and the three left the house and set off down the street bound for the tram from Sandy Bay into the city.
The men retired to Simon’s office. Powell Channel Transport had a booking agency and offices in town, which were run by senior management and staff, and the company also retained an employee who lived with his family in the cottage on the point, overseeing the vessels’ repairs and maintenance at the nearby shipyards, but Simon preferred to conduct most of his business from home.
Young William accompanied the men, but sat to one side ready to take notes as his father had instructed. Will had only recently joined the family firm and was serving his apprenticeship in a secretarial position.
Simon took up his customary post behind the desk – he always chaired the meetings – and George, Lincoln and Thomas sat opposite.
As they took their seats, George Powell looked about the office. It was here that he felt his father’s presence most strongly. Simon had long since replaced the old desk and chairs, but the room still seemed the same as it had in Jefferson’s time. It still smelt of wood and leather, and the surrounding shelves were still lined with beautifully carved boats of all size and description. Most of them were models of vessels George himself had designed and built for Powell Channel Transport. He and his father had worked very closely here in this room.
George had felt not a shadow of resentment when his mother had gifted the family home to his sister and her husband, nor had his brother Quincy. Doris had discussed her plans with them both and they had all been in agreement. Jefferson Powell had been more than generous in helping his sons set themselves up in their respective businesses. It was only fair the house should go to Martha.
‘And besides, it means you boys won’t be saddled with me until I die,’ Doris had said; and although they’d laughed they’d known she hadn’t been joking. Their mother didn’t make jokes.
‘I’ve received an expression of interest from Stanford Colonial,’ Simon said, getting straight down to business, ‘from Reginald Stanford himself, I might add. He talked a lot about you, George, sang your praises most highly.’
‘Yes, we built the Lady Evelyn for Stanford and Hazeldene Timber as you know, and he was very pleased with her. In fact we saw him at the timber mill just recently, didn’t we, Lincoln? He was hinting at possible further commissions on a much grander scale.’
Lincoln nodded, but looked sceptical. ‘He was pretty evasive though, Pap, you have to admit.’ Unlike his father, Lincoln was something of a cynic. In fact there were times when he felt quite protective of his father, whom he considered an innocent. ‘I mean he was very flattering and all that, but he didn’t make any definite offer. I got the feeling he was just trying to butter us up.’
‘He was,’ Simon said. ‘He’s trying to butter all of us up.’
‘What was the offer he made to you?’ George asked.
‘Well, it wasn’t really an offer at all. As I said, it was an expression of interest. He was sounding me out more than anything.’
‘About what?’ Thomas demanded impatiently. He didn’t care that the current conversation had nothing to do with him, he just wished, as he so often did, that Simon would get to the point.
‘About a possible merger between Stanford Colonial and Powell Channel Transport,’ Simon replied.
There was a moment’s silence. Even Thomas was taken aback. That’s certainly getting to the point, he thought.
‘Stanford set out to impress upon me the possibilities of such a merger,’ Simon continued, unruffled as always, but aware that he’d dropped a bombshell. ‘He talked about extending the fleet. That’s when he sang your praises, George,’ he added in an aside to his brother-in-law. ‘He went on about the excellent relationship he’d developed with you during the construction of the Lady Evelyn. Obviously he was hinting to me of the advantages to be reaped by the Powell family in general should a merger take place.’
‘But he made no offer?’ Lincoln queried suspiciously. ‘It was just talk, as it was with us at the timber mill?’
‘That’s right, which leads me to believe he wants us to have a meeting such as this, where we’ll talk it over and see the advantages to be had on all sides. Stanford Colonial is a powerful organisation with a lot of money to invest. They could certainly broaden our horizons. He talked also of the possibility of opening up regular freight runs to the mainland, perhaps even to England, thereby doing away with
the necessity of relying on the major shipping lines.’
‘I for one wouldn’t say no to that,’ Thomas interjected. ‘It’d save us having to book our freight space with Jones and Peacock.’
Simon displayed no annoyance at the interruption; indeed he rarely allowed his irritation to show. ‘It’s fortuitous that you’re here actually, Thomas,’ he said. ‘The discreet investigations I have made into Stanford Colonial’s business transactions will be also relevant to Charlotte Grove, I should imagine.’
He redirected his attention to George and Lincoln. ‘However, with regard to the current matter, I have discussed Stanford Colonial’s expression of interest with Doris and Martha and the other directors and senior management of Powell Channel Transport and we are all in agreement there will be no merger –’
‘Why ever not?’ It was Thomas again, and this time Simon ignored him.
‘Stanford does not intend a merger at all: he intends a takeover. It’s the way he works. I hope, George, that our refusal will not adversely affect any future dealings you may have with Stanford Colonial, though I must say I’m inclined to share Lincoln’s mistrust. I believe that the man’s hints about commissions on a far higher scale were intended to make you look favourably upon a merger.’
‘I’ve more than enough work without Stanford’s commissions,’ George stated firmly. ‘We run a family business, Simon, and we want to keep it that way.’ He looked at Lincoln, who nodded. ‘Like you, we don’t want to be gobbled up by big investors. Our businesses will be handed down to the sons of our sons –’
‘What did you find out about Stanford that relates to Charlotte Grove?’ Thomas could be downright rude at times.
Simon appeared to once again ignore him, although he was in fact answering the question. ‘Stanford Colonial has financial interests everywhere,’ he said to the gathering in general, ‘real estate, both here and on the mainland, Merino wool and timber of course, and recently, unknown of by most, sugar refinery in Queensland. Also unknown of by most are their investments in the local hop industry, the fresh fruit market and fruit-based foods, including of course jam produce.’
