To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4

by Peter Watt

  ‘No, sah,’ Matthew replied, attempting to wipe away the smile.

  ‘Besides,’ the burly sergeant major added with his own unexpected smile, ‘I think yer mother will have a word or two about you running away to serve Her Majesty in savage Africa. Yer got a letter from her.’

  For a moment Matthew was stunned. He took the envelope handed to him by the grinning man.

  ‘Despite everything, Trooper Duffy, you did a man’s job,’ the sergeant major added. ‘Yer made us bloody proud of yer back there at Elands. Hope yer mother knows that.’

  Matthew glanced up from the envelope. Suddenly he felt a loss he could not explain. He was going home and yet he felt so lonely. Matthew realised just how much the men he had served with meant to him. They were closer than any brother he might have had. Even the aloof sergeant major, who had made his life hell from time to time in the name of military discipline, was special.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Matthew replied. ‘Thank you for everything.’

  The tough professional soldier turned from the young trooper and marched away. He was a good kid, he thought. Would make a bloody good soldier when he was old enough to enlist.

  Colonel Hays Williams took the general salute from the smartly turned out sentries at Lord Kitchener’s headquarters. Inside the cool shade of the spacious stone building he walked briskly to the department of the provost marshall, a slim leather briefcase dangling from his left hand. As yet Trooper Saul Rosenblum may not have been located but inside the briefcase Colonel Hays Williams had the sealed and stamped papers for his arrest on a charge of murder. There was no statute of limitations on murder and, the colonel had consoled himself, the man could not hide forever from the long arm of British military justice, no matter where he might go. If only that damned colonial Major Duffy had done his job and apprehended the man then he would not have been subjected to chasing the papers required to legitimise the arrest. Nevertheless, he would get him in the end. It was only a matter of time.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The dust rose in a small cloud and hung over the shimmering plains of scrub.

  ‘What is it, Mr O’Flynn?’ Alex asked.

  ‘My guess is that it’s a big mob of cattle being driven south.’ Michael turned in the saddle to glance back at the sulky. ‘Looks like we might have some company,’ he shouted to Karl and Helen.

  Nerambura kicked his horse forward and joined Michael and Alex. ‘Maybe we get some meat,’ Nerambura said hopefully. ‘Boss man might have some to spare.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Michael agreed. ‘See how we go when we meet up.’

  It was near sundown when the motionless cloud hovering on the horizon took on the lowing sound of cattle and the strong smell of their presence. It was indeed a cattle drive and the Aboriginal and European stockmen rode at its edges, keeping the herd together as it moved slowly south for the greener pastures of New South Wales.

  Michael broke away from his small party and rode towards the stockmen to identify their boss. He was directed to a man about his own age who rode a fine roan horse.

  ‘Michael O’Flynn,’ he called. The leading stockman stared at him curiously. ‘You the boss?’

  ‘Yeah. Bill Smithers is the name,’ he replied from the saddle. ‘Where you headed?’

  ‘Going north,’ Michael replied. ‘Wondering if you had any spare beef.’

  The weather-beaten face of Bill Smithers broke into a slow smile. ‘Got a mob here of about two thousand beasts, but none to spare. If you are looking for a bit of fresh meat, we passed an old scrub bull up the track, about ten miles back near a waterhole. If you can find him he might give you a meal.’

  ‘My thanks, Mr Smithers,’ Michael said as the great herd passed him by. ‘Good luck with the drive.’

  Smithers gave Michael a nod and watched the big man with the eye patch wheel away to trot towards a travel battered sulky. When Smithers squinted against the glare of the setting sun he could see what appeared to be a woman and man seated on it, and a young boy with an Aboriginal man astride horses. A bit of a curiosity so far from any township, Bill Smithers thought as he patted his pockets for his pipe. But the one-eyed man, O’Flynn, seemed fairly capable, he concluded. Just something about him.

  Michael rejoined his party. ‘They don’t have any beef to spare,’ he said as he dismounted. ‘But we will make our camp here and tomorrow head up the track to a waterhole to camp.’

  Alex remained in the saddle, watching the great herd passing by. He wondered if Glen View had as many cattle and hoped that one day he might have the opportunity to muster on a cattle drive.

  ‘C’mon, young Alex,’ Michael said. ‘Time to help set up camp.’

  Alex was reluctant to take his eyes off the slowly moving herd but obeyed Michael’s request as he would that of his father.

  That night Alex snuggled under a warm blanket and stared up at the night sky. There was a weak moon and the stars stood out as sharply as glistening pieces of glass. Alex could hear the murmur of the adults’ voices from the campfire nearby and the distant howling of a dingo. Although they had partaken of canned bully beef and biscuits for the evening meal, Mr O’Flynn had said that they would be eating fresh meat on the morrow. What was more exciting was that he’d promised to take him on the hunt for the scrub bull he had been told about. Alex sighed. How could life be any better than this? He did not care if they never found the old Aboriginal warrior Nerambura Duffy had told him so much about, despite being enthralled by the stories. The search could go on forever as far as Alex was concerned. Sydney and its crowded life were another world, one that he did not miss.

  From time to time he thought about Fenella and Lady Enid but he definitely did not yearn for the company of George. Alex shuddered at the recollection of his older brother’s bullying. George’s reign of terror against him had been subtle, punching or pinching him when there were no witnesses and threatening him with further pain if he attempted to complain. But worse was the deriding of his achievements. Alex had come to believe that he could do nothing important in his life – until now. Mr O’Flynn had taught him many things on the trek across the vast plains of the west, even how to box.

  After the violent incident in Cloncurry, Alex had tentatively approached Michael and asked him if he would teach him to fight. Michael had stared hard at the young boy and for a moment Alex regretted his request. But Michael broke into a broad smile and placed his arm around Alexander’s shoulder.

  ‘Learning to fight is a bit of a family tradition,’ Michael had said. ‘I only wish I had old Max Braun here to properly teach you.’

  Alex stared up at Michael. ‘Who is Max Braun?’

  ‘A wonderful man who taught not only me how to fight but also your father.’

  ‘Does my father know how to box?’ Alex asked with a note of awe.

  ‘Your father was once the champion of the bloody British army,’ Michael replied proudly. ‘But he was never as good as me,’ he added mischievously. ‘So I will teach you the finer points of fisticuffs.’

  At first Alex shied away from the apparent violence of the art of boxing but Michael was patient. ‘Always remember,’ he said, ‘that if you are feeling pain from your opponent, so is he when you hit him. It’s just a matter of standing your ground until the other bloke realises that you are not going to give in – even if you are losing.’

  Alex thought about the words; they made sense. Soon he was displaying a natural aptitude that made Michael nod his head and smile. Albeit reluctantly, Alex agreed to fight Nerambura, who had been instructed not to show any mercy to his smaller opponent.

  Against the horrified protests of Helen, Michael drew a large square in the red earth and the two squared up in the improvised ring. Nerambura was a good head taller but both were about the same weight. On Michael’s command the fight began with a flurry of fists.

  Alex lost after a knockdown but was surprised that he had not felt fear as he had imagined he might. Nerambura helped him to his feet as Helen rushed f
orward with a clean handkerchief to stem the flow of blood pouring from Alexander’s nose, berating Michael for allowing the fight to continue.

  ‘He will be all right,’ Michael chuckled as he stood back. ‘He doesn’t need mollycoddling.’

  ‘Your own grandson,’ Helen snapped savagely at Michael as she held the cloth to Alexander’s face. ‘How could you stand by and see your own flesh and blood hurt in such a brutal manner?’

  Michael paled as Alex turned to stare quizzically at him, confused by Helen’s slip. Mr O’Flynn was not his grandfather, so why would Aunt Helen make such a mistake? There was a dark frown on Michael’s face as he turned to Helen, who now appeared flustered.

  ‘I think that is enough boxing lessons for the day,’ he said, patting Alex on the head. ‘Time we did some work.’

  Michael walked away, leaving Alex with Nerambura who appeared to be evasive when Alex questioned him about the strange statement.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Nerambura mumbled and he too walked away, leaving the confused boy alone.

  Lying under the southern sky, Alex singled out a star and made a wish before drifting into sleep. He wished that Helen’s words could have been true and that he would wake up in the morning and learn that the man who had taught him so much and with such love and understanding was indeed his grandfather.

  By the fire Michael sat against his saddle. Helen and Karl sat side by side drinking coffee from enamel mugs chipped by age, and Nerambura stared into the flickering flames. Since Cloncurry, a tension had crept into the party of travellers. It was not tangible but was apparent in the noticeable aloofness Karl displayed towards his wife.

  ‘I think we should turn back,’ Karl said, breaking the silence. ‘I do not think that we will find Wallarie. The land is just too big.’

  ‘Maybe you are right,’ Michael said. ‘I have a feeling old Wallarie just doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘We have come so far,’ Helen protested. ‘I feel that we should go on.’

  Michael looked to Nerambura.

  ‘Wallarie will come to us when he is ready,’ Nerambura answered softly as he gazed into the flames. ‘He knows we are looking for him.’

  ‘But how could that be?’ Karl asked. ‘He does not even know we exist.’

  ‘Wallarie knows,’ Nerambura answered, and added nothing more. How could he explain to this man with his Christian god that Wallarie’s insights were older than anything the white man knew?

  ‘We turn back tomorrow,’ Michael stated.

  Karl nodded but Helen remained silent. She felt an emptiness as deep as the land they were travelling through was wide. The fruitless journey had become very much like her own life and she did not have the strength to argue that they should go on.

  ‘Tomorrow I will take Nerambura and young Alex to find that scrub bull for some fresh meat,’ Michael said as he stood and stretched. ‘At least we can mark the search with a couple of decent steaks.’

  Helen watched Michael heave his saddle over his shoulder and make his way into the night. She still smarted from his rejection of her offered love. Very few words had passed between them since Cloncurry and Helen sensed that Karl must suspect that her heart was not with him.

  The old bull was where Nerambura calculated it would be. He picked up its tracks late the following afternoon not far from the sandy creek bed with its precious supply of slime-covered water. The bull stood on the plain watching them through rheumy eyes as the trio gazed at him from astride their mounts.

  ‘Need to get closer,’ Michael said quietly. ‘Don’t want him to bolt if he hears the shot and I miss.’

  ‘I can ride around him to stop him getting away,’ Nerambura offered. ‘Push him in your direction.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Michael responded as he eased himself from the saddle and reached for the rifle in its bucket strapped to the horse. ‘You take Alex with you.’

  Alex looked down at Michael with a pleading expression. ‘Can I stay with you, Mr O’Flynn?’

  Michael manipulated the bolt of the rifle so that a round was chambered. ‘Bit risky,’ he grunted. ‘I will be on foot and you never know what these old scrubbers will do if they are wounded. He’s been the king out here for a while, by the look of him, and he won’t want to give up his crown too easily.’

  Nerambura reached for the reins of Michael’s horse and started to lead it away. Alex reluctantly followed, glancing back at Michael one last time, hoping that he would change his mind. But the big man was standing alone, the rifle casually in his hands, without any sign of countermanding his direction.

  Michael kept his eye on the bull, which held its head high as it continued to watch with suspicion the man now alone and afoot. The animal swung its head to catch sight of the two humans riding slowly around him and gave a snort of irritation that his enemy should divide into two parts. He lowered his head with its sharp horns, tail swishing from side to side to brush away the myriad flies that made his life miserable. Then he turned and began to break into a slow run.

  Michael groaned when he saw the bull turning. It was a long shot but he would try anyway. He threw the rifle up to his shoulder and steadied the foresight on the bull. The rifle bucked as the heavy bullet left the barrel and Michael was pleased to see the bull flinch. He had aimed at the half exposed flank and forequarter, his goal to at least wound the bull and slow its escape. At close range he could finish it off.

  The bull felt the projectile slam into the muscle at the top of his shoulder and swerved at the unexpected, stinging wound. Turning to identify what had caused the pain, the bull saw a man and boy riding hard at him across the plain. With a savage snort, the animal spun and turned away from the horsemen.

  Alex felt the thrill of the charge. He leant forward in the saddle, yelling at the top of his lungs to stop the hunted animal escaping their encirclement and was pleased to see that he and Nerambura had succeeded. The bull was now charging towards Michael who stood calmly with the rifle at his shoulder.

  Michael smiled to himself as he lined the approaching target in his sights. At close range the .303 round would bring the bull down with one shot and tonight they would be eating the choice bits barbecued over the campfire.

  Alex watched the charging animal heading straight for Mr O’Flynn. He began to feel a rising dread but fought the feeling, knowing that the man who stood facing the charging bull was only waiting for the right moment to fire.

  The enraged bull was almost on him and Michael squeezed the trigger. He heard the click of the firing pin hit the centre base of the chambered round. But that is all. Instantly he realised that he had a misfire. Without taking the rifle from his shoulder Michael slammed open the breach to eject the faulty round and chamber another from the magazine.

  Alex wanted to scream. Why hadn’t Mr O’Flynn fired by now? And then to Alexander’s horror the impossible happened. He saw Michael flung in the air on the horns of the wounded bull.

  Michael knew that the situation was hopeless. The bull was on him before he could fire again. He had left it all too late this time and a tip of horn tore through his stomach, entering his chest as the animal raised its great head to hurl him in the air. Michael crashed to the earth as the bull swerved to return and finish him off. He lay on the red earth, bleeding profusely from his wound and vaguely aware that a horse was between him and the bull which was returning to charge again.

  ‘No, no!’ a voice screamed and Michael knew it was Alex.

  The bull hesitated for a moment, gauging who it should attack but losing precious seconds which allowed Nerambura to leap from his horse and scoop up the rifle Michael had dropped. With the calm expertise of the bushman Nerambura stepped over Michael and fired. The bull felt the impact of the bullet and dropped to its knees before slumping to the ground.

  ‘Mr O’Flynn!’ Alex cried as he slid from his mount to kneel beside Michael. ‘Don’t die, please don’t die! I will go and get help.’

  Michael gritted his teeth to ease the terrible pain th
at swamped him in a continuous wave of red haze. ‘Don’t waste your time, Alex,’ he managed to whisper. ‘It’s all over this time.’

  Michael was able to focus on Nerambura who stood impassively over him. From the expression in Nerambura’s dark eyes, Michael knew his fate was confirmed. ‘Get Alex back to camp,’ Michael said hoarsely despite his racking pain. ‘Nothing you can do for me now.’

  Nerambura nodded and took Alex by the shoulder but the boy shrugged off Nerambura’s attempt to force him away from the dying man. ‘I will never leave you,’ he sobbed. ‘I will stay with you, Mr O’Flynn.’

  Michael tried to smile at his grandson’s concern. ‘Never forget that you have the blood of the Duffys in your veins, young Alex,’ he said with a strangled gasp and grimaced. ‘I will never forget you.’

  Slowly, Michael’s eyes closed as Alex desperately clutched his hand.

  ‘He is dead,’ Nerambura stated bluntly. ‘We go back to camp and get some shovels to bury him.’

  ‘I will stay with him until you get back,’ Alex replied between short sobs.

  He knew Nerambura was right about Mr O’Flynn being dead because he no longer breathed or responded to his touch. But Alex could not let go. Never before had he experienced so much pain – not even when Nerambura had given him a bloody nose in their fight. But this was a different kind of pain. He thought it would literally break his heart.

  ‘It’s good that you stay,’ Nerambura said softly behind Alex. ‘This man was your father’s father.’

  From where he knelt beside Michael’s body Alex turned sharply to Nerambura. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Is Mr O’Flynn really my grandfather?’

  ‘Mr Duffy didn’t want you to know,’ Nerambura said gently. ‘I don’t know why. But his real name is Michael Duffy and he is your father’s father. Maybe Mrs Fellmann can tell you better. She knows.’

  Nerambura turned to walk to his horse, leaving Alex alone with a turmoil of thoughts and the body of Michael Duffy. His wish the night before had come true. Mr O’Flynn was his grandfather.