His mount picked his way past the ridge and stepped lightly across the paddock. As if aware of the coming heat, the horse moved quickly, sensing the opportunity for faster travel would be limited in only a matter of hours. In the tree line Hamish spotted smoke streaming into the sky. This, he knew by its position, was the black’s camp. He scanned to the left and right of the smoke. Sure enough there it was, downstream of the camp, a second fire; his son’s. Hamish touched his horse’s flanks with the heels of his boots and they moved into a trot. He leant forward in the saddle, the movement of both horse and rider causing a breath of air to brush at his face. Soon they were racing towards the growing tree line, weaving between the great coolibah gums and brigalow trees dominating the approach to the creek. As the denseness of the woody plants increased, Hamish found himself forced to slow and he picked his way carefully across fallen timber and ground made uneven by previous floods and the burrowing of rabbits.
He found Luke by his campfire, squatting like a black in the dirt. Some feet away was a reasonably solid lean-to plastered with dry mud. Luke stood as he dismounted, pulled his hat low over his forehead even though the sun was yet to breach the creek. Hamish swatted at the morning flies, noting the empty mussel shells piled to one side of the fire. One of the blacks had brought him breakfast.
‘It would be helpful to tell someone of your whereabouts,’ Hamish began, standing on the opposite side of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back.
Luke slurped at his freshly brewed tea, saying nothing. Hamish walked down to the edge of the creek.
‘I’ve decided to send Angus away to boarding school: The Kings School in Parramatta.’ Hamish brushed at the flies. There was rain coming for the air was humid. ‘I agreed with your grandmother for your sake,’ Hamish began, recalling parts of the conversation he’d faintly overheard from the sanctity of his study. He wouldn’t stand to have his plans ruined through petulance.
‘And how does being deprived of my inheritance benefit me?’
The brown water of the creek moved sluggishly onwards. Leaves and small twigs sailed past, caught on a deceptive current. ‘A shopkeeper’s life is not something you would take to, lad.’ Having a conversation with Luke had always been akin to having a tooth pulled.
Luke threw the remains of his tea in the fire. ‘Well that’s something you have ensured I’ll not know.’ He picked tea leaves from his tongue, searched for his tobacco in the pockets of his trousers.
Hamish walked back towards him. ‘Look at you. You can’t even spend a night inside Wangallon Homestead. Not for you the constraints of a ceiling and walls. I understand that, Luke, although occasionally it would not hurt you to sleep in your room, dine with me on a more regular basis. Wangallon is your home after all, and as a Gordon you have a name and position to do credit to.’
Luke was rolling tobacco in the palm of his hand. ‘It’s never been my home. First it was yours. In the future it will belong to Angus. Surely I was entitled to something for myself.’
Fairness was not something Hamish had considered. ‘We’re landowners. You have Wangallon.’ The boy never loved Wangallon the way he should have. It was as if some strange process of osmosis occurred, transferring all the bitterness and melancholy of his mother into Luke’s own veins so that it flowed unbridled through his body. Hamish watched as his eldest struck a match, lighting his cigarette. ‘It was your grandmother’s decision.’ Hamish was drawing tired of the subject. ‘The drive will have to be bought forward. I’ve business with the Crawfords that must be taken care of. Inform the men accordingly. Tonight you and I will be riding out for the big river. We leave at dusk so you best break camp and move back to the homestead. We could be away for a number of nights so I’ll leave the provisioning to you.’
Luke considered the man before him. He was tall, a bearish, barrel-chested man yet it was his imposing stare, a thousand yard stare, that made most men acquiesce to his demands. ‘I’ll not be accompanying you, Father.’
‘This is not a subject for discussion, Luke,’ Hamish answered sourly.
‘I agree,’ Luke dragged on his cigarette, then poked the stub of it in the dirt. ‘It’s not.’
‘The business with Crawford –’
‘Is your business. You seem to disregard my affairs so I’m reckoning it’s time I repaid the favour.’
‘The cattle need to be moved at the end of the week. On the wan of the full moon.’
‘Look about you,’ Luke countered. ‘There’s been little rain, the grasses are drying, already the soil floats away on the breeze. To leave a month early could find the cattle starving on the route. We will be early for any rains further south.’
‘The steers must be out of this country by week’s end otherwise a calamity will be upon us. Besides which, they are already being mustered up.’
‘So I’m figuring you have some plan of ill that makes you push this decision.’
‘They are my cattle and you work for me,’ Hamish said angrily.
So there it was. One was expected to stay and work for the ongoing benefit of both the Gordons and Wangallon, even though he himself was considered no better than the other stockmen on the property. ‘Then I quit.’ The words came out so suddenly that Luke was momentarily stunned by his own audacity. Both men glared at each other. Luke wondered only briefly at the repercussions of his statement. What did it matter? He’d decided not to return from this drive. He looked up at his father, at the man that was like a foreign country to him. He admired him for what he’d accomplished during his life, however he never truly felt like his son, knew that he was unsure, still, if he even wanted to be Hamish Gordon’s son for the man threw a long shadow and, so far, Luke had been unable to crawl free of it.
‘So be it,’ Hamish finally responded. ‘I would never stand in the way of a man burdened by stupidity.’ Hamish mounted his horse. ‘I don’t expect to see you again.’
William Crawford found his father at the dining table, a lone figure at the end of the gleaming hardwood that could comfortably seat twenty. He sat rather stiffly amid a selection of tureens arranged within ease of reach, although the food on his plate remained untouched and the crystal brandy decanter showed he had displayed a healthy interest. Billy, his page, although the eight-year-old was indeed of Aboriginal stock, waited patiently behind him dressed in the manor of an English estate domestic: breeches, waistcoat and jacket with the obligatory white stockings. The boy only needed a hand-held rattan fan to transport William back to the tropics.
‘Ah, my boy. You’re back. Good, good. Just in time for the evening meal although you missed a fine apple strudel at dinner today. Yes, a fine strudel.’
William took his place on his father’s left, poured a generous glass of French brandy and took a more than gentlemanly sip. Mr Hamish Gordon’s visiting card in the form of a garish purple and yellow bruise still graced his father’s left eye and cheek, and had clearly affected the grinding mechanisms of his jaw for it was a number of days since Gordon’s impudent visit and his father appeared to have lost some weight.
‘This weather, really, Father, I don’t know how you stand it,’ William announced, taking another sip of brandy and wincing at the warmth. He had friends in both Sydney and Melbourne who benefited from those new fangled ice chests and cellars that enjoyed the bedrock virtues of a cool environment. Here he was sitting among candle-flaming candelabras, the heavy gold damask curtains obliterating any hint of air.
‘The soup is excellent, cabbage, Mrs Dean informs me, with a hint of preserved orange.’
Billy ladled soup, offered William a finely rolled bun.
Oscar waited for his son to begin an oratory of the property. Having spent a number of days in the saddle, each trip longer than the one before, detail was expected. The exercise assisted with the return of his son’s usual placid character, a marked feature of the youth that had been missing since Hamish Gordon’s uninvited visit.
‘The soup is rather good,’ William admitted, finis
hing off the bowl and taking another sip of brandy. ‘Are you still intent on pursuing your scheme?’ he asked as Billy served a large slice of potato and mutton pie.
‘Ah, so you have been ruminating on our discussions. Yes, my boy. You forget we were here before that Scottish brigand weaselled his way onto Wangallon. I know his type: ruthless and unforgiving; a seeker of revenge in the truest sense.’
William stretched his torso, readying his appetite for the next course. The house boy was lighting candles about the room and opening curtains with the disappearing sun. William stuck his fork into the pie. He couldn’t doubt the flaky texture of the pastry, however the mutton was a little tough and the salt, well, it would drive a man to drink water until he was fit to burst. ‘Exactly my point. We’re not quite of that stock, Father, and …’
Oscar burped loudly and waved his linen napkin for silence. There really was no excuse for this type of rendering of one’s opinion, not after the master of the household, and he might add the veritable brains behind their fortune, was decided on a course of action. ‘William, I have discussed the situation in detail with Peters and Tremayne. Tremayne you will recall is a tracker of some repute.’
‘Sounds rather African native to me.’ William waited for Billy to clear his partially eaten meal before custard was served. ‘You’re sure he will come?’
‘You may depend on it. Wetherly assures me of his plan. We don’t have all the details, of course, however we know he intends to strike during the full moon. And tonight the moon will be at its brightest.’
William licked pastry from his upper lip. ‘Wetherly can be trusted?’
Oscar gulped down more brandy. ‘The man is indebted to me. His liaison with Mrs Constable rendered him unemployable until I offered him the position of stud master. I believe his loyalty was proved upon informing me of Gordon’s counteroffer. I must say I find the machinations of life quite enthralling. Imagine Gordon having the audacity to offer Wetherly a position. Wetherly knows what side his bread is buttered on.’
William turned up his nose at the bowl of pale custard. ‘A common term, Father.’
‘For common people,’ Oscar reminded his son. ‘Hamish Gordon is not a man for paltry paperwork. He will come over the river with retribution in mind and we will be waiting, with a magistrate on hand, to witness his criminal intent.’
William doubted the plan would go quite so smoothly. Hamish Gordon, ignorant Scot he may be, was not stupid. In fact it seemed ludicrous to believe that Gordon would actually try to thieve their stock.
Oscar waved his stained linen napkin. ‘I know, my lad, what you are thinking; however, we have but forty or so stray cows belonging to that brigand and they have been moved well away from suspicious eyes.’
This snippet of information sat poorly with William. Still, if his father was correct and Hamish Gordon could be made an example of, they could perhaps purchase Wangallon. The heir, after all, was under ten years of age and the eldest was beyond the mantle of managing Wangallon. He was a drover of some repute but with little business acumen. ‘Very well. Certainly our plantations abroad have done very well this year, Father. The coffee trade is booming. We have, I believe, the necessary funds to purchase Wangallon.’
Oscar sucked at the spoonful of custard before waving a ruffled shirt sleeve for more brandy. Once his glass was filled and the child domestic had been sent from the room to refill the decanter, he tapped the arms of the hardwood chair. ‘My boy, I’m not thinking of buying Wangallon.’
William found his spoon suspended midway to his mouth. ‘What, but I thought that was what we had decided on.’
Oscar dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his linen napkin. Slowly his pale features slid into a smile. ‘I said that I wanted Wangallon. I didn’t say I wanted to pay for it.’
‘But how then?’ William stammered. He was a man of the law and should his father insist on some form of underhand deal, it would make them of no better elk than Hamish Gordon.
‘Do you not see, William? Once Hamish Gordon is incarcerated and the law has dealt with him in the appropriate manner, his wife will eventually consider remarrying. Believe me, Claire Gordon is no fool. She is still relatively young and –’
William looked askance. ‘You cannot be suggesting me? The woman is positively old.’
‘Making you most attractive to her, besides Claire Gordon is most becoming. She is markedly younger than her current husband and youthful in appearance. And, my lad, taking this woman as your wife does not preclude you from the company of younger, more attractive, shall we say, more vigorous women.’
William nodded thoughtfully. He was beginning to understand how his father had managed to amass such a fortune. It had everything to do with tenacity and planning and very little to do with luck.
Sarah opened the cedar wardrobe in her grandfather’s room. She was sure she recalled seeing a chest inside but blankets and plastic-wrapped woollen jumpers filled the bottom portion while suits, tweed jackets and shirts hung above. She pushed her hand between the squishy softness, smelling naphthalene and stale air and the faintest whiff of mice. She would need to set some traps to stop them from nesting among Angus’s belongings. Again she pushed her hand in, this time managing to dislodge a storey-high pile of blankets. They tumbled outwards onto the carpeted floor and there, just to the left, was the glimmer of metal. Sarah stacked armfuls of folded articles to one side until finally the dented chest was revealed. She pulled it forward from the recesses of the cupboard. It landed with a dull thud on the bedroom floor, a tarnished padlock rattling with the movement. In the cupboard she found a sturdy metal shoehorn and, wedging the end in the padlock, she twisted the horn back and forth. The old lock snapped easily.
Sarah squatted down in front of the chest. She didn’t know exactly what she expected to discover, except that there now seemed to be three issues at stake: Jim’s inheritance and Anthony’s development plan, which in turn appeared to have raised questions about the Gordons’ past. The lid gave a squeak of complaint and then the overhead light illuminated a piece of folded red cloth. A musky scent pervaded the room; a hint of tobacco wafted about her. Sarah lifted the cloth tentatively, wondering whose hand had last reached for the contents and under what circumstances.
There they were. The historic ledgers her grandfather talked about: All the station ledgers since the settlement of Wangallon. Sarah carefully lifted one out. It was cloth-bound, dated 1907. She carefully turned the creamy pages. A tight hand had recorded the minute happenings of station life: dates and stock movements, weather conditions and acquisitions, supplies and sales. There were detailed lists of canvas sacks of flour and potatoes, condensed milk, cod-liver oil and beechams pills, tobacco and wooden pipes, nails, cast iron buckets, bridles and saddles, bolts of material and sewing thread. This was the year of West Wangallon’s purchase and the conditions of sale, acreage and purchase price were all noted down. There was also a hand-drawn map of the property on one of the ledgers’ pages and a carefully folded copy of the deeds. Searching through the remaining books, Sarah found each one meticulously filled out. This was going to be relatively easy, she decided, selecting the ledger dated 1909, the year Boxer’s Plains was purchased. Sarah merely needed to know who Hamish purchased the block from and then she would have a starting point for further investigations. She ran her fingers through the entries and was stunned to find that after late January the rest of the ledger was blank. There was no reference to Boxer’s Plains, no details of stock movements, not even acquisition lists of station supplies. She sat with her legs tucked under her, double-checking the ledger contents. The only points of interest were the dates noted for full moons in December and January 1909 and a remark about missing cattle thought to be on Crawford Corner.
‘That’s just weird.’
At the bottom of the chest were numerous letters tied with ribbon. Sarah flicked through them, discovering that many of them were either to or from Hamish Gordon’s solicitor, the firm Shaw-Mich
aels. She sat back heavily on the floor. The Gordons had been dealing with the same firm for over one hundred years – no wonder Frank Michaels was so involved. With renewed interest she skimmed some of the letters. There were instructions regarding a will belonging to Lorna Sutton of Ridge Gully. Apparently the entire estate was to be left to a woman named Elizabeth. Sarah had never heard of her. There were also wool shipment information and proceeds, bills of sale and purchase orders for supplies including a new dray and a number of horses. But there was no deed for Boxer’s Plains. Right at the bottom of the chest was a gold fob watch, a knotted dirty grey handkerchief, which appeared to have dirt in it, and a mourning card. Sarah opened the card and instantly found herself staring into the craggy face of her great-grandfather. The black and white photograph showed him as an older man although his eyes were alert, almost defiant. Beneath the picture was his name and a line from Psalm 27.
‘The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear.’
The hairs stuck up on the back of Sarah’s neck as she turned the card over. On the reverse was a grainy photograph of a woman aged somewhere in her thirties or forties. How bizarre, Sarah thought, she looks a bit like me. Lifting the small photograph with the corner of her fingernail, she peeled it from the cardboard backing. A name was visible: Elizabeth.
‘Elizabeth.’ Presumably the Elizabeth willed Mrs Sutton’s estate, Sarah decided, as she repacked everything in the tin chest except for the fob watch, and shoved the trunk back into the corner of the wardrobe. This wasn’t getting her anywhere and with a return trip to Sydney looming, there were other things to concentrate on, like Anthony.
Sarah returned to her empty room. Anthony had not returned during the night and now as dawn clambered over the horizon she looked at the ruby engagement ring on the bedside table. It spoke so much of hope and the future, both Wangallon’s and hers, so why couldn’t she just put the damn thing on forever and say I do? Dressing warmly in a beige skivvy, matching jumper and jeans, Sarah swept the fob watch from the dresser. She flicked the small latch on the side and the cover sprung open to reveal the watch face. On the inside of the lid were inscribed the initials HG. Sarah touched the engraving, shut the lid and found herself looking over her shoulder. Don’t be silly, she chided herself as a shiver ran down her spine. She slid the watch and chain into the pocket of her jeans.
A Changing Land Page 29
