To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4

by Peter Watt

  ‘Can we stay tonight, Aunt Helen?’ Fenella asked breathlessly as if she had been running.

  Helen patted her niece affectionately on the head. ‘I have come prepared for such an occasion in anticipation of your wishes,’ she said with a warm smile. ‘Go back to the carriage and tell Henry he can bring in our supplies while you and I tidy the cottage. Henry can prepare a fire in the stove while you and I sweep and dust.’

  For once Fenella did not object to domestic chores. This was, after all, her house. A magical place. A place she could call her home, despite it being a lot less grand than the mansion she had grown up in.

  The coachman staggered under the piles of boxes to be deposited in the living room and grumbled as he went to work chopping wood for the stove. He was a man skilled with horses, not a mere navvy. But when the work was complete Helen rewarded him with a bottle of beer and he bid the two ladies good-night before returning to the city.

  Both women rolled up their sleeves and went about restoring the house. By last light they were sufficiently satisfied that the place was habitable.

  ‘I do not know how to cook,’ Fenella confessed.

  ‘Fortunately I do, young lady,’ Helen smiled. ‘One learns a lot when one is married to a missionary.’

  They ate a meal of cold corned beef and boiled potatoes with garden peas by candlelight. Not as elaborate as the fare Fenella was used to, yet it somehow tasted better than any meal she could remember. They followed with mugs of sugared black tea taken on the verandah, where they slumped in a couple of old cane chairs found in a bedroom.

  The evening was balmy and Fenella felt very content. This was her adventure and for the moment all her cares were gone. But suddenly she remembered something she had found which had intrigued her. While cleaning in the master bedroom she came across an old leather satchel behind a bureau. Upon opening it she found inside a mysterious sheet of paper. Now she would ask her Aunt Helen if she knew anything about the sketch that had been in the satchel. Although the drawing was very faded and frayed by time, the face stood out on the thick paper. Fenella passed the sketch to Helen who drew the candle close to examine the stiffened sheet.

  ‘Is that a picture of you, Aunt Helen?’ Fenella asked as Helen strained to read the faint words on the page. The face of the young woman depicted was surrounded by tiny fluttering angels. ‘It looks so much like you but I imagine it was done a long time ago,’ Fenella continued.

  Helen read aloud the words: May the angels protect you – forever. At the bottom of the page Helen could vaguely make out the artist’s name and a date: Michael Duffy, 186—. It could be 1862 or 63, she mused. Tears welled in her eyes and soon became a gentle sobbing.

  Fenella reached over to touch her aunt’s hand. ‘What is the matter, Aunt Helen?’ she asked. ‘Is it the picture?’

  Helen nodded and gazed away as if searching for something: a mother she no longer had, and a man she had known who had once loved her mother. If only they might suddenly appear from the night shadows, hand in hand, to walk into this house together.

  She glanced at her niece and saw an expression of grief. ‘I will feel better in a short time,’ Helen said reassuringly. ‘The picture is of my mother when she was not much older than you are now. The man who made this beautiful drawing was your grandfather, Michael Duffy. I think he loved my mother very much.’

  ‘Lady Enid never spoke about my grandmother,’ Fenella said. ‘I always felt that something terrible must have happened, before I was born. I always wanted to know more about her . . .’ Fenella tapered away as she considered her relationship with Aunt Helen. ‘My grandfather was in love with your mother,’ Fenella breathed, captivated by the idea which was both terribly romantic and sad.

  Helen’s tears were replaced with a gentle laugh and she impulsively hugged Fenella to her. ‘We certainly have a colourful family and I think it is time that I told you as much as I know.’

  Fenella’s mouth was agape. Helen told the young woman all that had never been spoken of by Lady Enid Macintosh as the evening turned into a dark night full of sparkling stars. It was near midnight and the last of the candle flickered as Helen tucked her niece into bed, bidding her a goodnight.

  Fenella lay between the fresh sheets and stared at the dark ceiling. She had learned that her grandfather Michael Duffy had once killed a man in Sydney and was wanted by the police so he escaped from Australia. That he had become a soldier of fortune and roamed the world fighting in wars and being wounded many times. That her own father finally met his father in Africa before she was born. And Fenella learned that her father had Irish papist relatives who were well known in Sydney’s social and political circles. This had shocked Fenella who had grown up under her stern great-grandmother’s suspicion of those who belonged to the Church of Rome. One of her distant relatives was in fact a priest who had grown up with her father in Redfern before he had come to live with Lady Enid.

  So much learned in one night that Fenella’s mind raced, initially defying the need to sleep. When sleep did finally come, she dreamed that something was watching her from the corner of the dark room. Not something tangible, but rather a strong presence that woke her in fright. It took a lot of courage to slip past the shadowy figure in the corner and go to her aunt’s room where she woke Helen before climbing in beside her.

  ‘I think there are ghosts in the house,’ Fenella explained in a strained voice. ‘Can I stay with you tonight?’

  Helen tried not to laugh at the young woman’s over-active imagination and pulled up the sheets to cover them both.

  ‘If there are ghosts in the house then they will be friendly ones,’ Helen said, sleepily. ‘I think the ghost might be Michael Duffy come to find my mother and look after you.’

  Fenella was not convinced but the reassuring presence of her aunt brought an untroubled sleep.

  The weekend passed all too quickly for Fenella. When the two women were satisfied that the cottage was restored to a comfortable state, they took walks to the little village of Manly bounded by the harbour and the Pacific Ocean. In the township they drank tea at cafes and strolled along the yellow sands of the beach, exploring the rockpools and inlets covered with tough native bushes.

  It was a time of peace – except for the second night when Fenella imagined an old Aboriginal warrior was standing in the corner of the room watching her. She did not know why she should see such a spectre. She had never even seen a native before, but he appeared so real for the brief moments before fading from her sight. It was unnerving and once again Fenella had rushed to her aunt who chided her over active imagination.

  In the last hours of her stay at the cottage, Fenella took a walk along the great stretch of sand that was the Manly beach. It was a wonderfully balmy day with little white puffs of clouds floating serenely above. She removed her shoes and skipped between the lapping waves that rushed onto the sands before retreating back to the blue seas.

  As she walked, Fenella thought about her mother and father. Their absence from her life was something she had learned to cope with but she could not deny the pain of missing them. She would give anything to have them back. To feel her father’s strong arms wrapped protectively around her as if she were still a little girl and to hear the gentle Irish lilt of her mother’s voice discussing things that only women understood. Finding the old sketch of Helen’s mother, Fiona White, herself a Macintosh before marriage, had caused her to experience a yearning for that thing called love – any kind of love in her life.

  She stood at the edge of the water deep in thought as she looked out to sea. Her parasol was tilted against the sun and her other hand hitched up her long skirt to her knees. A steam ship offshore blew smoke that trailed as a thin plume in the calm air.

  ‘Fenella?’

  Fenella turned to see a young man striding towards her. ‘Matthew!’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Matthew stopped a few paces away. He was dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pai
r of dark trousers. A coat was hooked over his shoulder by his thumb and he wore a smart hat.

  ‘I came down to Sydney with a mate for a short spell,’ Matthew answered awkwardly. ‘I went to your house and was told about Lady Enid. Your uncle told me that you were over in Manly at the family’s retreat for a while. So, I got directions and decided I would come over and see you. I am sorry to hear the news of your grandmother’s death.’

  ‘I am so pleased to see you, Matthew,’ Fenella said, her heart beating in her breast like a sledge-hammer. ‘I treasured every word in the letters you wrote to me.’

  Matthew hung his head and shuffled his feet. ‘I wanted to see you, despite what my mother and Lady Enid said, that we would be cursed if we ever saw each other again.’

  Fenella frowned. She had heard the stories from Lady Enid of how an Aboriginal curse had come on the family as well as that of Matthew’s family.

  ‘Do you really believe that we are cursed?’ she asked. ‘Because I think that is silly.’

  Matthew gazed at the beautiful young woman and shook his head. ‘I know that curses are just made up stories but . . .’ He trailed away. He was uncertain. The stories of the Glen View curse had been related to him by his own mother. She was renowned as a sensible woman and yet she firmly believed in the curse. ‘I don’t know,’ he concluded, contradicting his first answer.

  ‘Well, what are you going to do?’ Fenella asked. ‘Are you going to leave again without calling on me at my father’s house?’

  ‘When I was in Africa I used to dream about you every night,’ Matthew said shyly. ‘I missed you very much, although we had hardly seen each other before I left. I still want to see you but I have things to do before that can happen.’

  ‘What things?’ Fenella sniffed.

  ‘I don’t know exactly. Maybe the war changed things. All I know is that I have this feeling that the time is not right for us. It’s as if I have to go out and do many things.’

  Fenella felt her heart crush. Matthew was so different to the boy she had first met. He now looked and acted many years older than the person who had written letters from the battlefields of South Africa. She knew that she had lost him.

  Matthew could see the pain in her face and now wished he had not searched for her. He desperately wanted to reach out and hold her, to take away the pain he knew that his declaration had caused. But he was out of his depth in such matters of the heart and reacted in the only way he knew.

  ‘I think I should go,’ he mumbled. ‘Texas Slim is waiting for me back in Sydney and I will miss the ferry if I don’t leave now.’

  Fenella stared at him defiantly, refusing to let her hurt spill over into tears. She was a Macintosh, and as such pride was a virtue, not a sin.

  ‘I hope you find that which you seek,’ she said, controlling the quaver in her voice. ‘And thank you for at least paying me the courtesy of personally delivering your message.’

  Matthew did not know how to react so he held out his hand as he would to a man. ‘I will bid you a good day, Miss Macintosh, and hope that we meet again some day.’

  Fenella stared at him. He dropped his hand self-consciously and walked unsteadily away.

  When he was almost swallowed by the crowds of strolling couples promenading on the Corso, Fenella’s tears came. She stumbled home to Helen who immediately saw her distress. With soothing words, Helen stroked her niece’s long hair as she would that of a child.

  Matthew and Texas Slim painted the town red until their money and welcome at the hotel ran out. It was time to catch a steam train heading north for Queensland and get back to mustering cattle.

  At night on the train Matthew stared from the window of the carriage, feeling an emptiness in his soul for what had eventuated on the beach at Manly only days before. He had been torn between his desire for Fenella and the yearning to be free to seek what life held for him. Whatever it was, he knew he must find it alone, and when he did, maybe things could be different between him and Fenella. Only time would tell.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  The cadre gathered: the publican, schoolteacher, peat digger and priest. This time the meeting was held in the house of a sympathiser, the rebels careful to avoid being seen together too often in the one location at one time. Idle talk of such matters might be heard in the wrong places.

  As always, a guard was set to observe if any British soldiers or local police might be patrolling the area around the tenement house and nearby streets. But the mood was already tense tonight. This time the talk would go beyond treason.

  ‘You are sure of the arrival of Norris?’ O’Riley asked the schoolteacher, who nodded. ‘Then Sean will carry out his mission.’

  ‘What about the major?’ Sean asked from his usual position by a door. ‘If the opportunity arises.’

  Father Martin Duffy swung on him. ‘Major Duffy is not with the British,’ he said. ‘He is an Australian and killing him would be counter-productive to our cause.’

  ‘You say that because he is your cousin,’ Sean sneered. ‘I have never thought that you were committed to freeing Ireland. It’s easy for you priests when things get tough. You leave the rest of us to face the bloody British.’

  Martin was aware of a ripple through the room at the young peat digger’s words. ‘I have sacrificed more than you will ever know,’ Martin replied quietly. ‘Enough to put me beyond all hope of eternal salvation.’

  Martin did not elaborate as to how his activities had filtered back to the Vatican and the superior of the Jesuit order. He was now a defrocked priest – excommunicated by the Pope himself. But he had known it was inevitable that this would happen. He understood through the teachings of his Church that he was born with original sin but he also knew that he was born with the freedom to make his choices in life.

  ‘What do you say to Sean?’ O’Riley asked.

  ‘That killing Major Duffy would be a grave mistake,’ Martin explained. ‘Despite Patrick’s past as a soldier for the Crown, his grandfather was the big man himself, Patrick Duffy, who led the British in a merry dance in these parts early in the last century. Patrick was a hero to the Irish in Australia when he stood with Peter Lalor at the Eureka Stockade back in ’54. How do you think my fellow Irishmen in Australia would feel about the killing of Patrick Duffy’s grandson by us here? You don’t think we would lose credibility for the cause of freedom?’

  Martin could see the frown on the schoolteacher’s face and knew his argument had hit home.

  ‘Martin might have a point,’ the schoolteacher agreed. ‘I vote that we leave the major alone.’

  ‘Me too,’ O’Riley conceded and looked to Sean. ‘And you also will leave Major Duffy out of this. The man is a customer of mine and pays well.’ This brought a smile to both the schoolteacher and Martin. ‘Then it is agreed,’ the publican said. ‘We only kill Norris and the major is left unharmed.’

  Sean scowled and stormed from the room. Despite O’Riley’s instructions, as far as he was concerned the major was a traitor deserving a traitor’s fate. He would kill Norris as planned but he would also hunt down Duffy.

  Martin watched the impetuous young killer leave and had no doubt that Patrick was still in grave danger. The peat digger’s reputation for utter ruthlessness in his crusade to spread terror amongst the occupiers of Ireland was well known. He had killed a magistrate in front of his family only a year earlier and gloated whenever he recounted the assassination. ‘You should have seen the look on the bastard’s face when he knew he was going to die,’ Sean had chortled. ‘But better was the look on the bastard’s wife’s face . . .’

  Some men were born bad and the cause of freedom gave them the justification to kill when, under other circumstances, they would have done so for the sheer thrill of taking a life, Martin reflected. Sean was a born killer.

  Patrick sat at the edge of his bed in O’Riley’s hotel holding the pistol in his hand. The publican had taken him aside in a corridor upstairs when he returned from his early morning stroll fr
om the village down to the beach.

  ‘I have a message from Father Duffy,’ O’Riley had said. ‘He has told me that he would like to meet with you at the hill near the Fitzgerald manor just after midday.’

  Patrick had always suspected that the publican had links with the rebels in the county and viewed his message with suspicion. But it might be genuine and he had a need to meet again with the cousin who had once been as close as a brother.

  Patrick knew they had both changed much in the intervening years and they were now on opposing sides. Patrick no longer considered that he had any loyalty to his grandfather’s crusade to free Ireland. He was an Australian who had once sworn allegiance to the Crown as a commissioned officer of the British army. And even now that he was a member of the Australian army, his sworn allegiance was still to the British.

  As for Martin, Patrick knew that his cousin was acting against all that Patrick had sworn on his life to protect. They were nothing more than soldiers in opposing armies, when all was considered.

  Patrick placed the pistol in his pocket before leaving the room to make the rendezvous with whoever might be waiting for him. He was pleased to see that the weather had broken to reveal a pale, blue sky, but there was no break from the cold wind that whipped the green fields and grey sea on the horizon. He stopped at the base of the ancient burial mound and warily scanned the surrounding countryside with a soldier’s eye. The hill was a good place to lay in wait for a target. It was high ground and a natural choice for an ambush. But even as he spied out the hill he could see a figure standing at the top. Although they had been many years apart, Patrick recognised his cousin dressed in the garb of a civilian.

  Martin raised his hand and disappeared beyond the rim of the small hill. Patrick slipped the revolver from his pocket and commenced his ascent. If it was an ambush, then he was ready.

  When he reached the top he noticed that the hill he had first climbed over sixteen years earlier had been disturbed with picks and shovels.