by Peter Watt
Alex remained with his grandfather’s body whilst Nerambura rode back to fetch Karl and Helen. Within a couple of hours, just as the sun was disappearing below the flat horizon, the three returned.
They buried Michael by the light of a lantern and Karl uttered prayers for the dead over the earthen mound that marked the grave of the man who had been born on Irish soil but who now lay under the sod of the Queensland colony. Each mourned in their own way for the loss, but none felt Michael Duffy’s passing as badly as Alex, who sobbed uncontrollably until Helen took him aside and laid his head on her breast. She soothed him with the pieces of the story that she knew of Michael’s dangerous life and her words brought some comfort to the boy.
As she related the life of the man who had fathered Alexander’s own father, Helen pondered what might have been at the end of this journey with Michael Duffy. Could fate have finally opened his eyes to her love for him, despite the age difference?
When the sun rose over the plains the next day Nerambura took command of the party. He would lead them back to Glen View. When they departed mid-morning, all that remained to mark Michael Duffy’s resting place was the nearby carcass of the old bull, now a meal for the great wedge-tailed eagle circling overhead, and a mound of red earth marked with a crude wooden cross.
In time, only the scattered and dry bones of the old bull would mark the site as the winds of the arid lands eroded the heaped earth. But when the rains came with the summer storms, wildflowers would sprout in the soil and a sweet perfumed scent would waft in the Outback air.
BIRTH OF
A NATION
1901
THIRTY-FIVE
Sydney, New South Wales
Australia
February 1901
My Beloved Patrick,
The time that you are away from us is almost too hard to bear...
Patrick Duffy glanced at the date on the letter from his grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh, and realised that it had taken two months for it to reach him in England. He shifted a little closer to the great open fireplace in the country house outside London and continued to read.
. . . Much has happened since you left us for South Africa and that terrible war, which, I am overjoyed to read, Lord Roberts has proclaimed is over . . .
Patrick pulled a pained expression at his grandmother’s statement. He well knew that the war was far from over, as Roberts had prematurely declared on his return to London. During his long convalescence Patrick had received occasional letters from fellow colonial officers stating the war was entering a new and sinister phase which involved the rounding up of all Boer women and children and placing them in concentration camps to break the spirit of the rebel farmers. The underlying theme of the letters had been the disgust many of the colonial soldiers had felt at carrying out this task: burning the farms to the ground, killing the livestock, and herding frightened women and children to the newly established camps. To Australians, many from farming backgrounds themselves, this new phase of war did not sit well. No, the war was far from over – just different.
. . . I pray for your speedy return to your loving family although it may be overshadowed by your father’s tragic death. Helen told me she wrote to you last month to inform you of the circumstances surrounding the unfortunate incident but feels your father has found peace in a better place.
Patrick paused in his reading of the fine copperplate hand. Was it inevitable that his tough father should die in such bizarre circumstances when he had survived so many wars and intrigues? Patrick had not been able to cry when he received the news from Helen. His father had been almost a stranger to him, but maybe his loss would be more keenly felt when Patrick’s own time drew near.
Patrick had even received a letter of condolence from Baron Manfred von Fellmann in Prussia. The old German aristocrat and former adversary of Horace Brown and Michael Duffy expressed his great admiration for a fellow warrior from a past era that few could now truly appreciate.
. . . Helen is still in Queensland with her husband attempting to make contact with a colleague in the Lutheran Church, Pastor Otto Werner, and his mission station. It appears that Wallarie may still be alive and in occasional contact with Pastor Werner. If so, Helen and Karl hope to make contact with the Darambal man. I have promised that if they can prove that Wallarie is alive then they may have title to a part of Glen View to establish their own mission.
To find Wallarie had become some sort of crusade, Patrick reflected with a frown. What did they expect to achieve? Forgiveness for the violence that his grandfather had brought almost forty years earlier to an obscure clan of people?
. . . Alexander has returned to us and it appears that he formed a deep bond with your father. He still mourns for his loss but is a very different young man now. I am afraid he gave George a thorough thrashing only a short time after he returned over a matter he would not discuss with me. George no longer attempts to tease Alexander. When the matter of the fight was reported to me by the servants, I did ask Alexander in private where he had learned to stand up for himself and the name of Max Braun came up. I thought you would like to know that your old German friend’s spirit is still alive in the Irish side of your family . . .
For the first time, Patrick smiled. He suspected that his grandmother’s superficially objective account of his sons’ clash carried a certain amount of satisfaction. And his smile did not fade when he re-read her words about Max Braun. Was she stiffly acknowledging the good in the Irish side of his blood, just a little? This was not the Lady Enid he thought he knew so well.
. . . It is a shame that you have missed the celebrations to mark our colonies coming under one flag as a new nation in the Empire. I am pleased to see those idiotic trade tariffs dropped between the colonies. They were an obstruction to our trade for the Macintosh companies as you well know, but it is a strange feeling to think that we are all now one nation, although we all accept that England will always be our Mother.
The Federation of Australia had also affected Patrick’s career in the army. He was no longer a member of a colonial unit but part of the Australian army, though he doubted the colonial soldiers from Queensland and New South Wales he had served with would be quick to identify with the new army model. They had gone to war with regiments that had fought hard to earn battle honours and the idea of these honours being absorbed by one nation was not easy to accept.
Patrick continued to read the long letter. It contained snippets about life back in Sydney as well as mention of mutual friends. The letter had been written at the height of the Southern Hemisphere summer and now Australia was moving into winter. In England, the cold sleet and wet winds would soon be replaced with a massive revival of life in the fields and hedgerows with the coming of spring.
. . . Your adoring grandmother, Lady Enid.
With a sigh Patrick placed the carefully folded letter back in its envelope and gazed into the gentle flicker of the flames.
‘You have a visitor, Major Duffy,’ a voice said behind him.
‘Who is it, Davies?’ Patrick asked the manservant.
‘A Captain Thorncroft from Australia, sir,’ Davies replied with just a hint of distaste in his voice, no doubt due to this reminder of the new nation of former convicts.
‘Arthur!’ Patrick exclaimed softly. ‘Send him in, man,’ he commanded.
‘Very well, sir,’ Davies replied. He reappeared a short time later with Arthur in tow.
Patrick rose from the great leather chair to greet his old friend with a warm handshake.
‘You are looking very well, Patrick,’ Arthur said as he stood back to appraise him. ‘The suit is just a little loose but I suppose you have lost some weight since the surgeons extracted all that German iron from you.’
‘It is good to see a familiar face,’ Patrick smiled. ‘I did not expect to see you until I returned to Sydney.’
‘Have you forgotten,’ Arthur laughed, ‘that the Macintosh empire is paying to send me on a fact finding mission
around the world?’
‘Ah, yes, to find out more about moving pictures. How is your enterprise going?’
‘I could lie and say that I have been busy exploring the technical world of moving pictures,’ Arthur replied with a grin. ‘Or I could also tell you that I have been having a very good time doing so.’
‘Rather the truth, old boy,’ Patrick said, realising as he spoke that his convalescence in the Macintosh country house in England had transferred some English ways onto him, even down to his manner of speech.
‘Well, I heard that you were back from South Africa, albeit under rather brutal circumstances, and I decided that part of your recovery would depend on my contacts,’ Arthur said. ‘So as part of my commission I have come to fetch you back to London for some entertainment befitting a warrior of the Queen.’
‘I think I am up to that now,’ Patrick replied. ‘It has been a long time since I sought the company of others. Since I came here all I have really done is sit by this fire and brood about the future.’
‘And what are your plans?’ Arthur asked.
‘I don’t really know,’ Patrick replied, glancing back at the flames in the hearth. ‘The medical board has passed me as fit to remain with the army but what I hear coming out of South Africa disturbs me. I think I might be at odds with Kitchener in the way he is pursuing the war.’
‘Met Kitchener once,’ Arthur reflected. ‘It was back in the Sudan and I didn’t like the man. A cold fish, who I sensed had aspirations beyond his breeding.’
‘You have to give him credit for how he handled that campaign,’ Patrick defended. ‘But I don’t think he has the ability to handle this one. We are fighting a new kind of war, in a new century.’
Arthur broke into a broad smile to distract his friend from gloomy recollections. ‘Well, what about the trip down to London? I have a rather pleasant surprise waiting for you if you get yourself ready. You could say that the money your companies pay me to conduct research brings some rewards in the world of opera. Ah, but don’t expect me to tell you more, Major Duffy,’ Arthur continued when he noticed the quizzical expression on Patrick’s face. ‘You will have to meet her yourself.’
‘Catherine?’ Patrick asked hopefully, although he knew his wife had nothing to do with opera apart from occasionally attending a performance.
A dark expression clouded Arthur’s face and Patrick knew he was wrong. ‘I am afraid not,’ Arthur replied. ‘But someone who has shown a great interest in meeting you. It seems that she has rather a lot in common with your family.’
Patrick sighed at his friend’s love of intrigue. But he would go to London in company with Arthur. It would be a break from the confines of the Macintosh residence in a country throwing off the last cold blankets of winter.
Father Eamon O’Brien met his visitor with some reservation. Despite the fact that he was a fellow priest, although not wearing the cassock, Eamon still knew who he was. Father Martin Duffy already had a dark reputation in the village for political intrigue rather than a devotion to his religion. But that was the way with the Jesuits, Eamon thought, as he ushered the Australian priest into the presbytery.
‘God bless you, Father O’Brien,’ Martin said as he shook off the bitter cold of the grey day. ‘It is good to finally make your acquaintance.’
Eamon hoped that the edge of annoyance he felt did not show. The Jesuit had been in the village on other occasions without the courtesy of stopping by the church to introduce himself. He noticed that his visitor was similar in many ways to Patrick Duffy except that he was not as solidly built, his leanness giving him the illusion of height.
‘I believe you are Patrick Duffy’s cousin,’ Eamon said.
‘I am,’ Martin replied as he rubbed his hands in front of the iron stove. ‘We grew up together in Sydney many years ago. For the first part of my life I thought Patrick was my brother.’
‘We are all brothers,’ Eamon replied.
His sarcasm was not missed by Martin. ‘I gather that you do not approve of me,’ Martin said turning his back to Eamon. ‘But you were educated by the English, I believe, and that may explain your antagonism towards the cause I fight for.’
‘I was born in England,’ Eamon bridled, ‘but I was ordained in Rome and my loyalties are to the Church, not politics.’
‘Justice for the oppressed is God’s work,’ Martin said, turning to face Eamon. ‘But I do not expect a parish priest to understand that.’
For a second Eamon felt the sting of his patronising comment. ‘Pride is a sin,’ he replied. ‘It is something that I try to avoid. But putting our differences aside, Father Duffy, I am curious as to why you should finally make your presence in the village known to me.’
‘I have not declared my presence in the past so as to avoid involving your name in the cause to free Ireland from the English,’ Martin replied. ‘I can assure you, it was not prompted by any intended discourtesy.’
Eamon was taken slightly aback by the explanation and softened his demeanour towards the Australian priest. He had made a point of not getting involved in the ever-present issue of the English occupation of Ireland and was never truly sure whether it was because he had been born in England, or because he felt his mission tended towards the religious rather than secular matters of the parish.
‘I accept your explanation,’ Eamon replied in a conciliatory tone, ‘and can offer you a fine drop of Irish whisky to help warm the soul.’
Martin smiled for the first time and Eamon was reminded again of Patrick Duffy. He fetched the bottle and both men sat at the battered wooden table in the warmth of the presbytery kitchen.
When the tumblers were filled Martin raised his glass. ‘To a free Ireland,’ he toasted.
Eamon raised his glass. ‘God bless her.’
‘I have come to see you,’ Martin said after a generous sip, ‘because I know that you are well acquainted with my cousin’s wife, Catherine Duffy.’
‘Catherine and I had a mutual interest in archaeology,’ Eamon replied guardedly. ‘But sadly, we have had little contact since her . . . condition. She has isolated herself at the Fitzgerald manor and sees no-one. But what is your interest in Patrick’s wife?’
Martin did not answer immediately but stared at the table for a short time, gathering his carefully chosen words. ‘Despite Patrick’s and my estrangement over the years, he will always be like the brother I first thought I had. I learned of Catherine’s pregnancy some time ago and feel that I owe it to Patrick to try to help.’
Eamon stared into Martin’s eyes but could not see any guile in his explanation. ‘You have some knowledge of her dilemma?’ he asked.
‘I know that the baby cannot be Patrick’s,’ Martin replied. ‘I also know that my cousin was badly wounded in the fighting in South Africa last year.’
‘If I must say so,’ Eamon said quietly, ‘I find it strange that you should show your concern considering that I know of your activities to recruit the village men to go to South Africa and fight the English.’
‘That is not personal,’ Martin replied, taking a long swallow of the whisky. ‘Patrick is still my flesh and blood – and that is personal.’
‘So what do you propose?’
‘I thought that I might pay Catherine a visit,’ Martin said. ‘If nothing else, offer her my counsel in her difficult time.’
Eamon pondered the proposal. He had attempted to make contact with Catherine but she had turned him away each time. The dig had been abandoned and the stone altar reburied. He had warned Catherine that only evil could come of it, his religious beliefs overriding his logical scientific approach to the dig once they had uncovered the mysterious stone.
‘If you can help Catherine in any way,’ Eamon finally said, ‘then I would be grateful. She is a lost soul and I fear her baby’s soul will be also lost if she does not get help.’
‘Who is the father?’ Martin asked.
‘Catherine is under the delusion that Satan is the father but I strongly suspec
t that it is a Mr Brett Norris who now owns the Fitzgerald manor. He does not live there anymore, but I have heard he will soon return to visit Catherine.’
At the mention of Brett Norris’s name, Martin frowned. He knew of the man whose enterprises were substantial suppliers of arms and munitions to the British army.
‘How advanced is she in her pregnancy?’ he asked.
‘I suspect a good nine months already,’ Martin replied. ‘You will need to see her as soon as possible if you are going to do any good.’
Father Martin Duffy rose from the table. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, Father O’Brien,’ he said.
‘If you wish lodgings for the night you are welcome to stay here,’ Eamon offered.
‘I have lodgings,’ Martin smiled. ‘But your offer is appreciated. I think it would be wise for me to leave. My visit to you may have been noted by any English informants in the village, although I doubt even they would be out on a night like this.’
As Eamon accompanied Martin to the door, he noted with a frown that the Jesuit priest was joined by a shadowy figure as he stepped into the night. For a man of God, it was strange that the Australian priest put his faith in the powers of a bodyguard, Eamon thought as the sleet and dark took the two men from his sight.
THIRTY-SIX
Next to Sydney, London was Patrick’s most loved metropolis. And now it offered so much in the way of distraction from his insular brooding on the war wounds he had received. The army surgeons had removed all the shrapnel, leaving his chest, legs and arms forever marked. But the thin scar from a small shard of shrapnel that had sheared along his jaw was the only outward indication that he had been wounded.
Arthur had rented a small but comfortable set of rooms not far from London’s strip of vaudeville houses. He had already made his contacts amongst the entrepreneurs who were exploiting the moving picture technology to make money from London’s masses.
