by Peter Watt
She was now a widow at the age of twenty-five. Behind her stood a little boy and girl, six and five years of age respectively, their clothing in rags. Her husband’s body was thin and wan; he had fought a terrible struggle with the fever that took his life.
Phoebe had been crying, but her tears were now dried up. She had loved this man, whom she had met in Adelaide seven years earlier, and who had taken her from the life of working as a housemaid for a wealthy family in the growing capital of the colony of South Australia.
George Meers had been a clerk working in a bank and, although he was not a rich man, he had a wonderful view of life, that one day he would become a bank manager and possibly a director on the board of bank governors. Phoebe loved his happy smile and gentle ways. She had been in her teenage years when they met at a picnic and fell in love. Soon they were wed and the pretty young woman eventually bore him two children.
The little girl, Nelly, stood behind her mother sucking her thumb while her brother, William, held his sister’s hand. He was frowning. Why was his father lying so still and silent? Phoebe could hear life going on as usual in the camp site on the goldfields of the Palmer River. The raucous voices of the miners and their families carried to the tent across the clatter of shovels. This place of dust and searing heat was so far from what could be called civilisation that Phoebe and her children could have been in a different country altogether. It was dangerous country, beset by bouts of famine, deadly fever and, for those who ventured into isolated gullies in search of gold-bearing ore, the possibility of sudden death from a tribesman’s long spear or wooden club.
Phoebe could hear the call of the itinerant pedlar, a sound which always evoked her childhood with her family on the goldfields at Ballarat . Some twenty years had passed since that terrible day when she had last seen her father and brothers.
A friendly man and his wife had taken her by the hand and led her away from the confusion. They had no children of their own and were returning to their home in Adelaide, having sold their mining lease. They had made their money and now it was time to leave. Phoebe did not remember much apart from the long journey in the wagon and the kindness the couple showed her. They raised her according to the tenets of the Methodist church, and Phoebe grew to love both of them dearly. They provided for her as if she were truly their daughter.
When Phoebe was fourteen she had been placed as a housemaid with a rich family who attended the same church. The years of drudgery were forgotten when she met George. They married in that same church, and their first couple of years of wedded life had been good. Phoebe was happy in their little cottage but George became discontented with the little that he made as a bank clerk. When the word raced around the colonies that a major gold find had been made on the Palmer River in Queensland, George, like many others, had thrown in his job. Taking a gamble with their meagre savings, he sailed for the colony with his young family, hoping to find the gold nuggets waiting for the taking in the creeks and gullies of the Palmer. Like so many others, however, he was ignorant of the conditions to be faced on the savage frontier.
There had been no gold for the latecomer. Only death from a tropical fever that had racked his body for three days before he died. His young wife and family were left destitute.
Phoebe rose stiffly from beside the camp stretcher. A couple of miners had kindly offered to take George’s body away and bury it.
‘Ready, Missus?’ a gruff but kindly voice asked from the entrance flap to the tent.
Phoebe turned to see the two bearded miners standing outside.
Answering with a nod, Phoebe pulled her two young children to her dusty dress. The men entered awkwardly, removing their battered hats out of respect for the deceased. One of the men bent and wrapped an old, threadbare blanket around George’s body. He took a large sewing needle and quickly stitched the edges together.
The two men lifted the body between them and carried it outside. Phoebe stood with her children at her side. She did not want to see the men dig the shallow grave from the hot earth. She wanted to remember the man she had loved, the times they had shared amongst the shadows of the tall gum trees by the river where they had first met. This wan, lifeless body seemed so alien. She could never have imagined that they would come to this place only for her husband to die.
That evening, after Phoebe had put her two children to sleep in the tent, she sat by the camp fire. She felt numb. Outside, by a sea of camp fires, people were laughing and singing. Phoebe stared at the flicker of flames and reflected on her situation. The last of her supplies had been used and the very little money remaining hidden away. There was barely enough to buy food for the children. George’s long hours of hard work had come to nothing.
So absorbed in her despairing thoughts was Phoebe that she did not hear the man approach from behind her. ‘If yer need any help, Missus,’ he said softly, ‘you only just have to ask.’
Phoebe turned her head. It was one of the men who had taken her husband’s body earlier that day. She did not even know his name.
‘My name’s Ken Hamilton,’ he said. ‘I’m packing it in and heading back up the track to Cooktown the day after tomorrow. Thought it wise to get out of here before the wet returns. If yer like, you and the young ’uns can accompany me.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hamilton,’ Phoebe replied. ‘Your offer is very generous and I will accept it.’
Phoebe guessed him to be in his late thirties and he had a kindly face behind his beard. ‘Well, I had better get back to me mates. Give yer time to sell off yer gear before we go,’ he continued awkwardly.
‘I do not think that I will be able to pay you,’ Phoebe said before he departed.
‘I wasn’t expecting any pay, Missus,’ he said. ‘Maybe you could cook up a good meal from time to time. That is all I expect.’
Phoebe smiled sadly. Hamilton was a total stranger, but she could not refuse his offer. Alone, with only the children, there was a good chance that they might be killed, whether it be by vicious white men preying on the helpless along the track or roaming tribesmen.
Phoebe and her two young children trudged behind the pack-horse.
Fortunately the children took to the man as they travelled through the rugged scrub on their way east towards the coast. Hamilton was cheerful and around the camp fire at the end of each day’s journey, he would regale them with tales of his years travelling the world as a sailor. Phoebe would sit by the fire mending their clothing or simply sipping tea, listening to the former sailor entertain her children. Her grief had not been spent, but still she was grateful that she had been fortunate enough to meet Ken Hamilton. He had proved to be a true gentleman.
Phoebe had been able to sell up all her mining gear and tent before leaving, but the small amount that it had fetched was not enough to secure their passage to South Australia. By the camp fire each night, she wondered what would become of her and the children once they reached Cooktown.
‘Time to sleep,’ Phoebe said gently to her children.
‘Just one more story,’ William protested, reluctant to leave the colourful world of Mr Hamilton’s adventures. ‘Please, Mother.’
‘No,’ Phoebe replied firmly. ‘We have many miles to journey tomorrow, and you need all your strength.’
With a shrug of defeat, William wandered over to the blankets that were laid out as a bed.
‘Didn’t mean to keep them up,’ Hamilton apologised.
‘You did not interfere,’ Phoebe replied. ‘Your stories have helped with their grief at losing their father. You have been able to distract them.’
‘And what about your own grief?’ Hamilton asked gently. ‘It’s always hard for a man to see a woman suffer.’
Phoebe glanced at him across the flickering soft glow of the flames of the fire. ‘I cannot go back and change what has happened in my life,’ she said sadly. ‘All I can do now is consider what I must do to protect my children. That is what George would have expected.’
‘Fair enough,’ Ha
milton said, reaching with a dry twig into the flames to obtain a light for his pipe. ‘What will you do when you reach Cooktown?’
‘I will seek work – until I have enough money to purchase a ticket to travel back to Adelaide with my children,’ Phoebe replied. ‘I believe that God will find a way to look after us. He has before.’
‘I have some friends in Cooktown,’ Hamilton said, puffing on his pipe. ‘That is, if they are still alive in that hell hole of a place. Maybe I could help out.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hamilton,’ Phoebe said. ‘I believe God sent you to us back on the Palmer and for that I am grateful.’
Hamilton did not reply. His thoughts were troubled. The young woman appeared to be ignorant of what Cooktown really held for her and he feared for her fate in the violent, sinful town.
TWENTY-TWO
It was only tiny, but at least Lachlan could see it – a beautiful flash of light from the multi-hued wing of a kingfisher swooping on the creek. Despite his fear, Lachlan had slept through the night and was still alive. The tribesmen had not attacked him and he was regaining his sight.
Stiffly, he rose to his feet, squinting to see if the blurred world would take on a more defined shape. At least he had enough vision to make out the rainforest trees looming above him and the water flowing in the creek. These at least gave him some sense of direction.
Fumbling around where he had left his stores, Lachlan found his tea-making gear and set up a billy. He groped around for some dry kindling and made a fire to brew some tea. Even as he sat sipping the hot tea, he was able to see more clearly. He washed out his eyes with the remainder of his tea when it had cooled. The tea leaves spattered his face but the water was soothing on his eyes.
By mid-morning he had recovered enough vision to locate the horses and prepare them to shift camp. He agonised over the decision to leave Jupiter’s body unburied but considered it would be unwise to go back up the track that had led them into the ambush. It was time to return to Townsville to deliver his report on this current expedition’s findings.
John MacDonald sipped his coffee, turning the pages of the newspaper on the table in front of him. It was quiet in the big, rambling house in the harbourside suburb. Only the ticking of a clock on the wall disturbed this time he allocated to reading before making his way to the city office that he and Nicholas had established in Sydney. They had decided to relocate from Melbourne so the company would be closer to their rapidly growing interests in sugar cane and beef production in Queensland. It also made it easier to manage their growing trade with the rest of the world. They had progressed from simply supplying the British army in New Zealand with rum and beef to purchasing prime land in the new colony up north and then establishing wool stores along Sydney’s waterfront to export the bales. Nicholas’s business acumen was second to none and their wealth and growing political power in the colonies achieved recognition when they were accepted for the prestigious Australia Club. It was here that much of their business was conducted.
A headline caught John’s eye. He placed his cup on the table and flipped open the paper to better peruse the item. The article reported that Major Charles Lightfoot, hero of the Waikato campaign, had returned to Australia with his sister and her husband from England. John took a deep breath. Before him was a name he had almost forgotten. The old feelings of anger welled up. Years earlier he had learned from Lachlan of Samuel Forster’s demise at the hands of a Maori warrior and had been strangely pleased to learn that the cruel man’s death had occurred in his brother’s presence. Half the score for the murder of their father and oldest brother was settled, but Lightfoot’s very existence still nagged John. Although a gentle man by nature, the very thought of this murderer who could also add common thief to his name rankled John’s strict sense of justice.
‘I can see from your dark expression that you have read the article about your old enemy,’ Nicholas said, entering the room with his own cup of coffee balanced in his hand.
John folded the paper and placed it on the table. ‘It is something that still causes me pain,’ he admitted as Nicholas walked over to a wide window to gaze at the peaceful yet busy harbour.
‘Do you still entertain thoughts of revenge?’ Nicholas asked quietly, without turning. ‘Until the day either Lightfoot or I meet our Maker,’ John answered, ‘it is a sworn blood oath.’
‘Something you heathen Scots seem to be good at,’ Nicholas said with a grim smile. He turned to face his business partner and companion of many years. Their love for each other had not abated with time.
‘Well, I also made a promise to you many years ago,’ Nicholas said, ‘that I would assist you in the destruction of Lightfoot. That promise is still valid.’
‘I love you for your unconditional support, dear Nicholas,’ John sighed. ‘But I’m still perplexed as to how you could do that.’
A slow smile creased Nicholas Busby’s face. ‘Many years ago, when we were in New Zealand searching for Lachlan, I met Lightfoot. I gave him my card and lo and behold, he has managed to track me down after all the years that have passed. I have received correspondence from him that he wishes to avail himself of my expertise in investment matters in the colonies – one gentleman to another.’
John looked shocked, until slowly he realised that his conniving partner would not be meeting with Lightfoot unless he had a well-thought-out plan. He would trust Nicholas’s judgement.
Phoebe had heard of Cooktown’s terrible reputation from the miners on the Palmer fields. When she and George had arrived on the Queensland coast they had disembarked at Townsville and taken the long overland route to the Palmer. This track had been dangerous enough. Through arid lands of stunted, desiccated scrub they had constantly fought off thirst and many times she had wondered if they would even reach the famed goldfields. But they had survived.
George had often spoken of going to Cooktown once he had found their fortune, but such a journey with her husband was never to be. Phoebe was unprepared for the noise, squalor and seeming disorganisation of the town. She was assailed by the sounds of drunken brawling and the raised voices of women chiding inebriated men. An alien scent wafted on the steamy breezes coming from the muddy Endeavour River. It was not unpleasant but reminded her of rich spices.
‘Chinese quarter,’ Ken Hamilton muttered, seeing the expression of curiosity on Phoebe’s face as she walked beside him with the children in tow.
The miner led his horse through the sea of tents at the outer limits of the sprawling town. The camp had sprung up to cater to the thousands who had come up north seeking their fortunes. Businesses of every kind from butchers to gun traders had flourished in the town. But the establishments that were predominant were the brothels and bars. It was said that there were even more brothels than establishments selling hard liquor – but looking at the bark and tin buildings, Phoebe could not tell if this was so.
However, it was immediately apparent to her that this was a dangerous place for a woman on her own. She looked at the man striding towards the main thoroughfare, Charlotte Street. Ken Hamilton was a strange one, she thought. Not once had he attempted to force his attentions on her while they had traversed the track to Cooktown. At all times he had proved to be kind and considerate, to both her and the children, although he had no real reason to do so. Now that they were in Cooktown, she wished that she had shown him a little more attention, but she was still grieving for George. Clearly Mr Hamilton understood this.
‘Mr Hamilton,’ Phoebe said, clearing her throat, ‘I don’t know how I will ever repay you for the great kindness you have shown myself and my two children in our hour of need.’
‘No need to thank me,’ Hamilton said gruffly. ‘I was just doing what would be expected of any good Christian under the circumstances. Now I have to find you quarters and maybe somewhere for you to earn your keep.’
‘Even though you have done so much for us already, I would appreciate your assistance,’ Phoebe replied. ‘I must admit that Cooktown frightens
me.’
‘You have good reason for your fears,’ Hamilton said, as gently as he could. ‘This is a place where you could get your throat slit for the shoes you are wearing.’
He did not elaborate any further. It was enough that Mrs Meers was here and almost destitute. She had enough to contend with.
Hamilton stopped walking when they reached the entrance to a side street that led into the Chinese quarter. ‘Mrs Meers, I am going to propose something that may help your situation, but I fear that it will not meet with your approval.’
Startled, Phoebe swung her attention to the bearded man’s face. She could see pain in his eyes. A terrible thought crept over her. Had she overestimated this man?
‘Make your suggestion, Mr Hamilton,’ she said in a low, angry voice.
‘It’s just that you need somewhere safe for you and the two little ’uns to stay and I have a friend here who can provide cheap but good quarters for the moment. I know what I am about to advise you to do is abhorrent to most Christians, but it is only a suggestion,’ Hamilton said awkwardly.
‘Go ahead and speak your thoughts,’ Phoebe said, instinctively clutching her two children to her side.
‘Well,’ Hamilton said, removing his hat and scratching at his bushy hair, ‘my friend is a Chinaman. He has a place down this road and I know he and his family would take you in. He is keen to have a white person teach them how to speak our language, as he plans to stay on in Queensland. Mr Lee is a trader and as fine a man as I have ever met, although many of my fellow countrymen might not agree. He . . . ’
Phoebe gripped his arm and smiled. ‘I would be honoured to meet Mr Lee and his family,’ she said, throwing the tough miner off guard. ‘If a fine man like yourself recommends Mr Lee and his family, then that is good enough for me.’
