To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4

by Peter Watt

  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.

  ‘Has your mother seen the state you are in?’ Patrick asked, his love for his youngest son hurting as much as the aching distance that had grown between he and Catherine.

  ‘No, Father. She has not come home yet,’ he replied with tears in his eyes. ‘She telephoned Grandmama this afternoon to say she would be home tonight though.’

  ‘And I don’t suppose she told your grandmother where she has been for the last few days,’ Patrick muttered angrily to himself before realising that he was unduly bringing his youngest son into a matter over which he had no control. ‘No matter,’ he added quickly to deflect any answer the boy might feel he should give. ‘I will no doubt see your mother tonight.’

  Gazing at his father, Alex now knew his answer. He could see that his troubled question had been unnecessary. His father had fought in other wars, he knew from the stories, and had been very brave. He was only staying at home because he truly loved them. At least he had the satisfaction of knowing his brother was wrong.

  As he guided his son to the door of his bedroom Patrick did something he had not done in a long time. He kissed Alex on top of the head and gave him a hug. Embarrassed, Alex quickly disengaged himself, and went into his room after bidding his father goodnight. Patrick closed the door and walked slowly back to the library. So there were those who questioned his physical courage . . .

  Although he had been determined to remain awake in the library and await his wife’s arrival, the gentle ticking of the tall grandfather clock in the corner along with the steady beat of the rain on the roof and the effects of the ale consumed during the afternoon lulled him to sleep. It was a sleep the likes of which he had not known for many nights when he tossed alone in the bed that Catherine had all but abandoned.

  Old habits die hard and when the rain ceased Patrick woke. He came awake with a start, shaken by the memories that had crept into his world of dreams. Memories of nights spent wandering alone in the Sudanese desert behind enemy lines, surviving with nothing more than animal cunning. The sticky wet feel of warm blood on his hands as he slit the throat of some unsuspecting desert nomad slumbering by his campfire had merged into erotic dreams of Catherine’s creamy, pale breasts which under his kisses turned into two hills. Hills thousands of miles apart and yet sacred places to the ancient peoples who had lived around them.

  He sat up in the big leather chair, sweat covering his body. Peering at the face of the clock in the corner, the hands told him it was three in the morning. Except for the clock, the world was as silent as that distant desert of his past. With some effort he heaved himself to his feet. Catherine should be home by now, he thought. He would go to her.

  When he opened the door to their bedroom he could vaguely make out her outline under the sheets. Her long red hair spilled across a pillow. She was deep in sleep. He padded across to the big bed and sat gently on the edge so that he might not disturb her. Watching her breathing softly, with her mouth slightly agape, Patrick felt a massive surge of love for the woman who had travelled across the sea from her home in Ireland to marry him a decade and a half earlier. Catherine, my beloved, what is happening? He gazed down upon her sleeping body. How could a love as strong as ours just fade away?

  As Catherine turned on her side in her sleep Patrick could see the sensuous shape of her hip taut against the sheet as she nestled into her pillow. Memories of the wild and abandoned passion they had once known came back to him. Their passion seemed to have died over the last twelve months. His wife appeared to be at war with herself although he had not noticed until the last battle was fought in the past few weeks. Had it been that she had called out for his help and he had been so preoccupied with work that he had missed her call?

  Catherine stirred in her sleep and rolled over onto her back. The sheet fell away revealing the swell of her breasts under her silk nightdress. Patrick felt a yearning as he gazed upon his wife. He would wake her with gentle caresses and they would make love in the early hours of the morning as they once had.

  Sliding his hand under the sheet, he found the hem of the long nightdress. Carefully moving his hand along the contour between her legs, he leant forward and gently kissed her exposed throat. As his hand made its way softly along the inside of her thighs his tongue traced a silky path to her lips. A
s Catherine began to react to his caress, Patrick experienced a powerful feeling of overwhelming passion for the first time in many months. He would ask no questions. He would only accept that the love he knew she must have for him was somehow temporarily lost in her war.

  Catherine’s eyes were now open and she stared at him in confusion as his lips covered hers. His hand was between her legs and his fingers gently probed.

  ‘Don’t,’ she pleaded desperately as she became fully awake.

  Patrick suddenly realised why his wife had attempted to twist away from him. The wetness his fingers had discovered was unmistakable and he recoiled in shock.

  ‘Who was it?’ he snarled as he stood back from the bed, his overwhelming feelings of passion shattered as surely as if he had been hit with a bullet in the spine. A savageness that had long been dormant in him fought with what remnants of love he felt for his wife.

  ‘It does not matter,’ she replied as she snatched the sheet up, as if to shield her body from the fury in his eyes. She had never before seen the normally gentle man in such a deadly mood and she was afraid. The room seemed to be electric with a mixture of betrayal and pain. ‘What matters is that I cannot live with you any longer, Patrick.’

  He stood in the shadows of the room, his shoulders slumped as if he had fought a fight and been beaten. ‘Do I know him?’ he finally hissed in a low and deadly tone.

  Catherine could now see that the man she had married was in control of his passion, but the knowledge caused her a new wave of terror as memories returned to her. She had once heard stories of such control from Arthur Thorncroft. A drunk Arthur told of her husband surviving in the Sudanese desert by raiding dervish camps at night and cutting the throats of the nomadic bedouin he encountered. Arthur’s tales were recounted with something like pride for the man she knew he idolised, and it had been almost impossible for her to understand until now what kind of man could so cold bloodedly kill another in such an intimate manner.

  Now facing her husband’s steely self-control, Catherine knew that Patrick’s emotion was directed not at her but at the man who had taken her from him. She feared for her lover’s life. But for Patrick to turn and walk out of the bedroom without another word and without even a desire to know why she had betrayed him was even worse.

  Alone in the bed, she sat shaking uncontrollably. It was never meant to happen this way, she thought. She never meant to hurt him. But deep down a tiny voice laughed at her denial. What else could she expect? Her husband was, after all, the son of Michael Duffy, and the blood ran hot in his veins.

  Catherine sobbed. Something had gone terribly wrong. Had she not only that afternoon gone to tell Brett that she could not go to Ireland with him? And in doing so, had she not made the decision to return to her husband and attempt to rediscover that which had once been so wonderful between them?

  But the suave English capitalist had wooed her to his bed one time too many. The little harm she thought it could do had instead brought possibly the greatest disaster of her life. What chance she had to forget the past few weeks had walked out the door and she was left with just one option.

  SEVEN

  Matthew Tracy and Saul Rosenblum stepped ashore in Brisbane from a coastal steamer and hoisted their swags on their shoulders. They needed to find accommodation for the night, and as Matthew had a considerable amount of cash in his pocket, they decided on a hotel. The next day they would enlist in the contingent that the Colony of Queensland was sending to South Africa.

  As they trudged along a dusty, wagon-rutted road, Saul was deep in his unhappy thoughts. What if the boy managed to enlist and got himself killed? How could he ever face the woman who had been so important to his father? And in a battle situation the boy’s demise seemed almost inevitable to Saul. Although physically mature, he was still in many ways a boy. Sure he was big enough to pass for eighteen or so. But sometimes on their trip south he sounded just like a fourteen-year-old straight off the rugby playing fields. It was as if the boy saw what lay ahead as just a glorified game of football.

  The closer they came to Brisbane town the more determined Saul became to thwart the boy’s attempt to enlist. It would not be easy. Matthew Tracy had learned to ride and shoot on his mother’s property at Balaclava during school holidays, and it sounded as though the boy had learned quickly. If he was as good as he said then he might just fool the recruiters. And yet he felt guilty that the boy’s money had got him to Brisbane in time to join up. Matthew had a winning way about him that made betrayal hard. He had to think of something before they went to the military barracks in Brisbane to sign up.

  They arrived at a hotel that looked good enough for a cold beer, good meal and night’s accommodation. As Saul signed them in, the publican eyed the roll of pound notes fingered by the tall, broad-shouldered young man beside the sun-blackened bushman. Must be twenty quid, he thought avariciously, already counting in his head the amount of grog that could buy, including a bit of short changing as the evening wore on and the alcohol took hold. The war in far-off South Africa had been good to the unscrupulous publican as young men from the bush flocked to Brisbane to enlist in the great adventure.

  Saul and Matthew threw their swags onto the metal cots on the hotel verandah and were greeted by other men who had streamed out of the bush to the recruiting depots. The hotel was packed and only the sight of so much cash had induced the publican to find space for them in his already crowded establishment. Saul soon found a couple of men he knew from the Cloncurry district who had ridden in days earlier to join up and the party adjourned to the noisy bar.

  As Matthew tried to act as if a hotel bar was familiar territory to him, Saul noted with some disappointment that the boy was settling in too well with the rough and tough men from the bush. He introduced himself as Matthew Duffy, eighteen-year-old stockman from the Balaclava run, out west of Rockhampton. Fortunate that the Cloncurry men knew few of the Balaclava stockmen, he was able to parry any questions on horses and cattle from that area.

  But the flow of beer that came with the numerous shouts of the bushmen was another matter. At home Matthew occasionally sipped on a sherry or port after dinner in the company of his mother, and at his Catholic boarding school he joined other boys in drinking small quantities of purloined altar wine, provided by altar boys for a fee. But he was out of his depth with the hard-drinking men from the bush and the afternoon seemed to fade into a happy blur of laughter, boasting and more beer. Saul watched Matthew quickly becoming inebriated as the afternoon wore on and smiled to himself. He no longer felt any guilt for what he planned. Young Matthew had a long way to go if he were to join the company of men.

  Matthew did not know how he came to be on his cot on the verandah of the hotel fully clothed. All he knew was that when he awoke in the morning it was to the rough shaking of the publican, who said that his time was up and he had to leave or pay another day’s accommodation.

  Matthew groaned as he sat up, then made a scramble for a bucket at the end of the verandah. He prayed for merciful death as he painfully retched but it did not come to free him of his self-inflicted pain. His first hangover was one that he would not forget. When he finally rinsed his mouth, he reeled unsteadily back to his swag and gazed around bleakly at the world. With rising concern he noticed that Saul was gone. Why had he not woken him?

  Matthew’s question was soon answered when he arrived at the recruiting depot. A steely-eyed army sergeant sat behind a desk perusing the crumpled birth certificate before him. ‘Mr Matthew Duffy, is it?’ he asked. His mocking tone told Matthew that something was wrong. ‘Mr Matthew Duffy, from the Balaclava run out of Rockhampton?’ Matthew nodded, and his head felt as if it would either split or fall off.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  The sergeant’s waxed moustache quivered comically, and Matthew would have laughed were it not for the look in the man’s eyes. ‘Don’t bullshit me, boy,’ he growled, pushing the paper back across the table as the young man stood to attention as best he c
ould. ‘The only reason I don’t call the coppers is because you get marks for trying. I give you credit fer guts.’

  Matthew felt his world dissolve as he realised his ploy had failed. The sergeant continued in a more friendly tone. ‘I got a tip you might try to pull a fast one on us. I was told that you might be able to ride and shoot. And if you got past me that would mean we might end up sending you over to fight the Dutchmen. Wouldn’t do having a kid in the ranks whose mother might one day have my hide for letting her precious little boy get killed, would it? If I hadn’t been given the tip-off, you just might have fooled me with this bit of paper, all things being considered.’ He leant back in his chair and eyed Matthew. ‘But you might just fool those Whalers down south,’ he said with just the ghost of a smile. ‘So, I would be advising you to go straight home to your mother and not be thinkin’ of going south to try and join up.’

  Matthew folded the crumpled certificate and placed it in his pocket. Smiling bleakly at the burly sergeant, he thanked him politely for his consideration, and pushed his way through the crowd of young men waiting outside.

  As the recruiting sergeant watched Matthew leave, he could not help but think of his own enlistment many years earlier when he too had joined up under the required legal age. This one had the stamp of a young man who would one day make a bloody good soldier, he mused to himself. The few vacancies in the regiment were eagerly sought and only the cream of manhood were allowed to die for the Queen. The rest were allowed to stay home and have families. With a wry smile the recruiting sergeant shook his head and chuckled. He knew the boy was smart enough to pick up his meaning. He had seen the flicker of cunning behind the boy’s bloodshot eyes at the mention of fooling the recruiting officers of New South Wales. Ah, but what went on in the recruiting offices outside the Colony of Queensland was not his concern.

  ‘Next,’ he bellowed and another hopeful stumbled apprehensively into his office.