To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4

by Peter Watt

  ‘I am only here to seek my wife. Nothing else.’

  At the mention of Catherine, Eamon frowned. He wondered how much Patrick knew about Catherine and her present circumstances. It seemed every time they met, regardless of years intervening, it would be he who would inform the grandson of Patrick Duffy of bad news.

  ‘Then you have heard?’ Eamon asked carefully.

  Now it was Patrick’s turn to frown. ‘Heard what?’

  ‘That Catherine gave birth last week to a baby boy.’ All colour drained from Patrick’s face and for a moment the priest feared that the man opposite him might collapse. ‘I regret to say,’ Eamon continued, ‘that the poor child did not live for very long. It was sickly and died before I was able to give last rites. Fortunately Father Duffy did that, despite protests from Catherine.’

  ‘Martin?’ Patrick whispered. ‘Father Martin Duffy of the Jesuit order?’

  ‘I know of his relationship to you, Patrick,’ Eamon said gently. ‘Maybe it was a good thing that it was he who delivered the little one’s soul into the hands of God.’

  ‘You know it was not mine,’ Patrick said in a strangled voice. ‘I did not even know that my wife was expecting a child.’

  Please, God, why me, Eamon questioned. Why is it me who always seems to be telling this good man terrible news? ‘I am sorry for the loss of an innocent baby’s life,’ he said. ‘But it was God’s will and –’

  ‘God be damned! It was the work of Mr Brett Norris – not God.’

  Eamon could see the cold rage smouldering behind the grey eyes of the man who had known so much pain in his life.

  ‘What will you do, Patrick?’ he asked gently.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Patrick replied, staring at a space beyond the room. ‘I really have no idea.’

  ‘You know that you can always talk to me,’ Eamon offered. ‘And I think that Catherine may need you in her time of pain and grief.’

  Patrick’s expression of betrayal suddenly took on a look of savage anger. ‘She has the man she chose over me to look after her,’ Patrick replied. ‘I will have nothing to do with her ever again.’

  Eamon did not reply. He knew Catherine well enough to see the change that had come over her soon after she arrived back in Ireland and sensed that she had realised her mistake. Eamon found himself in sympathy with Catherine, whose soul was lost to the mystical world of the Old Ones of the Celtic past. Pride was a terrible sin, he thought. It kept apart two people who should be together. But Patrick Duffy was not a man who could be lectured to. He was a man who must find his own answers to save his soul.

  Patrick left the presbytery in a daze of pain. He had come to renew his friendship with the Irish priest and covertly glean information from him about his cousin Martin’s whereabouts. Instead he had been informed that Catherine had borne the child of a man he hated more than any enemy he had ever faced on a battlefield. In coming to Ireland he had not been sure whether he would see Catherine. He had resigned himself to the idea that it was she who must seek him out. At least now he knew that his wife, who he had admitted to himself he had not stopped loving, was forever lost to him. Her heart belonged to another.

  From a presbytery window Eamon watched Patrick trudge away into the late afternoon. The priest brooded on the presence of the former British officer whose blood was so powerfully a part of the very soil the man walked upon.

  Eamon sighed for the pain of this tiny country that was also his own, despite his English education. Sometimes it seemed as though the Old Ones had never gone from the land, that they merely lived in the dark shadows and moonlit nights and forever cast their nefarious spells on those whose lives they controlled from the lakes, groves and rocky hills of the emerald green land. Maybe Saint Patrick had been astute to weave Christianity into the old beliefs, rather than attempt to convert the people with an imposed Romanised religion. But perhaps sometimes the Old Ones reached out from their shadowy places and sought Christian souls, as the Druids had made human sacrifices to placate the Celtic gods.

  Eamon shuddered. He sensed that a drama was being played out as old as the people themselves. This was an Irish pagan ritual of blood, lust, intrigue and revenge, not something belonging to a Christian world of written laws and civilised attitudes.

  FORTY-TWO

  The bellowing cattle trudged through the spindly scrub, raising a low, red cloud of dust that permeated the skin of the stockmen. Matthew Duffy rode listlessly at the edge of the great herd of Balaclava’s beasts, pondering on the vagaries of his young life. He had experienced the horror of war on a continent on the other side of the Indian Ocean, fallen in love with the daughter of the legendary Major Patrick Duffy and returned to a mother both overjoyed and furious. But mostly his mother had just been grateful for his safe return, although Matthew found her love just a little smothering after months of living alongside the tough men of the mounted infantry. It had been his suggestion that he spend time at their property to get his thoughts together and decide on the course of his life. Kate had reluctantly consented and Matthew packed his old army kitbag to travel inland from Townsville to the Balaclava station his mother owned adjacent to the Macintosh property of Glen View.

  As the herd meandered its way south to the greener pastures of New South Wales, Matthew had a lot of time to reflect on life. He still smarted from his failure to see Fenella. Her great-grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh, had forbidden any contact between them.

  When Matthew’s real identity had been exposed Lady Enid had paled. There was no way whilst she breathed that a papist would have anything to do with her only great grand-daughter. Lady Enid had written to Kate to express her view that the couple were far too young to have any liaison.

  Kate had read the letter and smiled grimly. She knew exactly what her old adversary really meant, but Kate had agreed with the aristocratic woman’s opinion. Very little of good had come from contact between the two families.

  Kate had met her son at the wharf when his ship had arrived in Sydney and after the tears and hugs a fiery scene occurred where Matthew was forbidden to make contact with Fenella. Matthew was at a disadvantage on account of his running away in the first place. But he loved this strong woman who had sacrificed so much for his future and reluctantly agreed to abide by his mother’s wishes.

  But now, out on the hot and dusty plains of central Queensland, he was re-assessing his life.

  ‘Hey, Duff, get your head out of yer ass and round up those stragglers,’ a voice called to him across the tramp of plodding cattle.

  Matthew had answered to Duffy for so long and wore the name with such pride during his months in South Africa that he had broached his mother with the idea of officially adopting her maiden name.

  At first she had resisted, as if the division in names might herald a split between mother and son. Tracy was the name of a fine man who had achieved so much in his life. But Matthew pointed out that he had never really known his father. So they compromised and Matthew adopted his father’s family name as his second Christian name. From now on he would be Matthew Tracy Duffy – or just Duff to those who liked him.

  Matthew snapped from his daydreaming and glanced around. He saw Texas Slim wheeling away on his horse and noticed that three of the stock had drifted away from the herd. Texas Slim was an American who had been employed by Kate because of his knowledge of cattle from his home country. He was a dashing young man of flamboyant dress who had served with American expeditionary forces in the Spanish American War in Cuba in ’98. Bringing with him an American know-how at a time when Kate was in need of new ideas, he’d been appointed head stockman at the Balaclava property. At first his position was resented by the older men, but they grudgingly conceded the Yank had some experience and talent. Better still, he was a firm, fair and friendly boss. He was also a superb horseman and great favourite with the ladies and had befriended the son of his employer when he learned of the young man’s record as a mounted infantryman in South Africa. Theirs was a friendship of th
ose who knew the camaraderie of fighting men and many nights on the track had passed in long conversations around the campfire discussing the life of a soldier. Although ten years lay between the two men, war had bridged the gap between them.

  Matthew spurred his tough stock horse into a canter to head off the renegade cattle. Within a short time they were back with the herd and their heads pointed south. For the moment Matthew’s thoughts were occupied with anticipation of the end of the day and a good meal. His mother would have been pleased to know that her son was getting on with his life. But she would have been less pleased to know of the plan that was already forming in Matthew’s head for the end of the muster.

  FORTY-THREE

  Fenella Macintosh had not taken kindly to Lady Enid’s command that she was to have no more contact with Matthew Duffy. She stamped her foot and tossed her head defiantly. ‘I am a young woman now, Lady Enid,’ she said. ‘I do not think it is fair that you should make such decisions for me.’

  ‘There is much more to this matter, young lady, than I could ever explain,’ Enid said calmly. ‘One day you will understand, but for now you will obey me.’

  But Fenella crossed her arms and assumed a stance that told her great-grandmother she was not prepared to listen. How could Lady Enid know what it was like to be in love, she huffed. She was after all an old woman without the capacity for passion.

  ‘I wish you were dead,’ Fenella said as she stamped her foot again and stormed to the door.

  Enid frowned as Fenella slammed the door of the library and rushed away to her room. So defiant, Enid sighed. Not like Patrick’s own mother, Fiona, at her age.

  For a moment she felt her heartbeat flutter and experienced a short period of giddiness. Enid gripped her breast and breathed slowly to steady herself. The family doctor had warned that she must remain calm at all times. He had detected an irregular heartbeat. Enid closed her eyes and sat quietly behind her great polished wooden desk in the soft shadows of the late afternoon.

  So much over the years had occurred in this room, she thought in her pain. It had been a place primarily of sadness. The confrontation with Fenella reminded her of the time so many years earlier she had confronted her own daughter about her illicit liaisons with a young Irishman, Michael Duffy. The event had left them estranged for many years and the pain of separation between mother and daughter was not easily cured by their eventual reconciliation. Too many valuable years had been lost to them both.

  The shadows were lengthening in the room, creeping unstoppably from under the draped window which overlooked the gravel driveway. Enid’s eyes opened on the display of Aboriginal weapons mounted beside the floor-to-ceiling bookcases – the spears, shields and boomerangs of a long dispersed clan of people once known as the Darambal tribe.

  For a second she imagined that a shadow had materialised in the corner of the room and she shifted her gaze to catch it. Had it merely been the gentle flapping of the drapes in the late afternoon breeze? For a moment it had appeared to have a greater substance than a mere shadow. She stared hard at the corner of the library and a grim smile set on her fragile face, still smooth and without wrinkles after so many years of life.

  ‘You have finally come,’ she whispered as the pain tightened, vice-like inside her breast. ‘After all these years I am now able to gaze upon your face and speak to you in person of the terrible sin we did to your people.’

  Then Enid was at peace once more as the shadow smiled upon her.

  An hour later the maid Betsy went to the library to inform Lady Enid that supper would be served in the dining room. She knocked unobtrusively and called to her mistress. There was no answer and Betsy tentatively opened the door.

  She found Lady Enid sitting in her chair and thought that she might be asleep, such was the peaceful smile on her wan face. But as Betsy stared she saw no sign of breathing and closed the door behind her as she went to call the family doctor.

  It was Fenella who experienced the most pain as the gravediggers shovelled the earth over the coffin. She had been the last person to see the grand old lady alive. Had their forceful argument caused her death? Her last ill-chosen words haunted the young woman who stood beside the grave, Alexander’s hand gripping hers as she swiped away the tears with her free hand.

  Very few had attended the funeral. Lady Enid’s true friends were long dead but one or two prominent people in commerce and finance were present out of respect for the formidable lady who had once ruled a great financial empire. Fine words of praise for her considerable achievements were intoned at the service in the church she loved so much.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Alexander whispered gently to his older sister. ‘Lady Enid was really old.’

  ‘How do you know how I feel?’ Fenella snapped under her breath, immediately regretting her terseness.

  ‘Because I felt the same way when our grandfather was killed up in Queensland,’ Alex replied sadly. ‘I felt it was my fault because I couldn’t stop the bull killing him.’

  Fenella turned to her brother who was now rapidly catching up to her in height. She saw in his eyes a terrible sadness for a memory not all that long past. Alex had returned to his family a different person and, in his own quiet ways, seemed much wiser than his tender years. He no longer backed down in the face of George’s bullying, for a start. In fact, it seemed that George now feared his younger brother.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Fenella said as she squeezed her brother’s hand in reassurance. ‘You’re right, Lady Enid was very old.’

  The mourners were trickling back to their coaches and buggies leaving only Alex and Fenella by the grave. The man shovelling the earth had retired to the shade of a tree to take a swig of water. Although it was heavily overcast, the heat rose from the earth, promising a wild storm by the end of day, not uncommon in Sydney.

  ‘You have never spoken much about your trip away,’ Fenella said as they turned to walk back to the coach and the stern nanny waiting for them.

  ‘There were lots of wonderful things that happened,’ Alex replied quietly. ‘And Mr . . .’ He paused. It was hard adjusting to the name of the man who had taught him so much about life. ‘Our grandfather . . .’

  Alex choked on the words and Fenella did not press him. Perhaps one day he would speak more about the man who, from the moment she had laid eyes on him, she had sensed was very important in their lives. Not that her feelings made any sense until she learned of the Irishman’s true identity. For Michael Duffy reminded her of no-one more than her own father, and she missed him so much.

  When they reached the coach George was waiting for them with a bored expression on his face. He was still a good half-head taller than Alex but his larger size was no protection anymore against Alexander’s anger and fists.

  ‘The old . . .’ George was about to comment on his great-grandmother’s passing when he noticed the cold fire in Alexander’s eyes, anticipating a derogatory remark. George was wise enough not to utter another word and they climbed into the open coach drawn by four grey horses.

  As the coach trundled back to the mansion by the harbour, Fenella found her thoughts drifting again to the young man she had known all too briefly prior to his leaving to fight in South Africa.

  For George Macintosh, his thoughts were on his inheritance. Now that Lady Enid was gone, his father would no doubt inherit the huge fortune left in the estate. And as the eldest he was next in line. What he could do with so much money! He could indulge himself in excesses he had only dreamed of.

  Alex caught the look on George’s face as he sat facing his brother in the coach but controlled the urge to wipe away the smirk and whatever evil lurked behind the cold grey eyes. Alexander was now old enough to understand that some people – like his brother – are just born bad.

  The cattle drive was over and Matthew stood in the dusty street of the New South Wales town of Moree waiting patiently for Texas Slim to settle with the stock and station agents. The discovery of artesian water in the district had p
rompted Kate to invest in land, and her venture had paid off. No matter how bad a drought hit Queensland, she could have her stock driven to her property in northern New South Wales to be watered and, if need be, fed on fodder.

  ‘Well, young Matt,’ Texas Slim said as he strode across the street with his saddle slung over his shoulder. ‘What next?’

  ‘How is it that you decided to come over here?’ Matthew asked unexpectedly as they stood in the shimmering heat of the tiny frontier town. Randolph Gates, alias Texas Slim, was a man he had come to admire. The tall, easygoing American embodied all the qualities of the friends he had left behind in South Africa – and at the same time was a bit exotic, maybe even like his own father had once been.

  Randolph looked at Matthew with a quizzical expression on his smoothly shaved and tanned face. ‘Kind of funny question to ask after all this time we have been on the trail together, pardner.’

  ‘I was just wondering,’ Matthew replied. ‘You see, my father was a Yank. My mother told me he came out to the goldfields at Ballarat in the ’50s and got himself into the big fight against the British at the Eureka Stockade. I was just wondering how come you decided to come over here.’

  The smile on the American’s face slowly turned to a frown. ‘I was a bit restless after being with the Rough Riders in Cuba. Got back home and saw the advertisement in a farming almanac for a man to work in the Australian Colony of Queensland. It sounded interesting and satisfied my need to see a bit more of the world. So here I am. Anything else?’

  Matthew shook his head and fell into step as they made their way to the hotel for a cold beer. Although Matthew was legally under the age to drink, all the men who knew him vouched for him. Somewhere in his life Matthew had lost his youth and catapulted himself into manhood.

  Drinking in company with the stockmen and being prepared to stand up in a fight against any man came naturally to Matthew, much to the despair of his mother. To Kate he would always be the little boy who she had nursed in sickness and cuddled. But she also saw in her son the father he had never known. He had a spirit of fierce independence and adventure. All she could do now was to stand quietly in the shadows of his life and be there for him. His life was that of the traveller in the lonely places of the great plains; he might see the life-giving rains fall as a storm in the distance, and hurry his journey to catch the refreshing, momentary coolness of the water, only to see it move away. To chase the storm was often a waste of time, as it would always remain tantalisingly ahead of the traveller. Matthew was the desert storm of her life – just as his father had been.