by Peter Watt
Lachlan sobered up two days later in the stables where he had organised the expedition for Sir Percival. He washed, shaved and found clean clothes, but when he checked at Amanda’s hotel he was told that she had been able to secure a berth on a ship going south.
‘She said if you came looking for her,’ the hotel owner said, ‘you were to have this.’
The man held out an envelope to Lachlan.
Lachlan took the envelope and opened it to find a letter inside. He walked out onto the verandah.
My dearest Lachlan,
I could not bear to again say farewell to you. As much as I was fond of my husband, seeing you again so unexpectedly only brought back feelings that I thought I would never know again. My words to you written so long ago have as much meaning to me now as they did when they burst from my heart all those years ago in New Zealand. I still carry the little book of poetry that you gave me and often think of you whenever I read Donne’s words of love.
I wish that we could go back to when we first met and that life had not taken so many tragic turns for us both. I pray that you may find happiness and know that there is someone in this world who loves you.
Amanda
Lachlan read the letter only once. The pain was almost too much to bear. He carefully folded the letter and placed it in his shirt pocket over his heart.
Three days later, John returned to Cooktown. He looked leaner and harder than he had in many years, the arduous trek to the Palmer and back having eaten away the excesses of the soft city life. He was now sporting the beginnings of a thick, bushy beard, and his face and arms were tanned.
‘It is good to see you,’ Lachlan said to his brother when they met at the stables.
‘And you too,’ John replied, embracing his brother in a great bear hug.
‘Well?’ Lachlan asked.
‘I am afraid I was too late,’ John said, shaking his head sadly. ‘I was told by miners who knew our sister that she was indeed on the fields with her husband. But, alas, her husband died from a fever and she and our nephew and niece departed in the company of another miner by the name of Ken Hamilton. As far as I could ascertain, this Hamilton was providing an escort for Phoebe back to Cooktown, where she had told one of the miners she intended booking passage back to South Australia.’
‘How ironic,’ Lachlan snorted. ‘You travel all the way to the Palmer when she might well have been here all the time.’
‘You seem to be at odds with life,’ John frowned. ‘Am I perceptive in this matter?’
‘I guess you could say that while you were away things did not go well at this end. I lost Sir Percival.’ Lachlan went on to describe all that had occurred in the past few weeks: reaching Black Mountain, the clash with the bushrangers, the death of Sir Percival and the serious wounding of Matthew, who was even now still recovering. He did not mention Amanda’s name other than that she had been with her husband on the expedition. John was quick to pick up on this.
‘What has happened to Lady Amanda with the death of her husband?’ he asked.
‘She has packed up and taken passage back to Sydney to join her brother,’ Lachlan replied.
‘Was she not the woman you told me that you had once loved?’ John asked gently.
‘The same woman,’ Lachlan replied, glancing away to stare at the bright patch of light marking the stable entrance.
‘I’m sorry,’ John said, placing his hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘I can see that her appearance once again in your life has caused some pain.’
Lachlan’s slight nod confirmed John’s suspicions about his melancholy. Not so much for his own failure to find Phoebe, but the loss of Amanda from his life once again. ‘C’mon, I have paid a fortune for you and I to stay in the town’s best accommodation until I take passage back to Sydney. Tonight, we will dine at French Charley’s and drink champagne. We will raise a toast to dear, departed friends and get rolling drunk. The treat is on me, little brother.’
Lachlan tried to smile. He loved this strange man who was his brother. It was a bond that could never be severed – even by death.
Even as the two brothers walked from the stables with their swags over their shoulders, Charles Lightfoot stood in Charlotte Street. He had been able to secure passage on one of the quicker steamers going north. He would ask around about the MacDonald brothers and do all he could to find them. Then he would finish what he had started. No one made a fool of Major Charles Lightfoot and got away with it. He hefted his carpet bag and went in search of temporary lodgings. He did not intend to stay in this frontier town for very long.
TWENTY-NINE
John still felt confident about finding Phoebe in Cooktown. But, if it appeared she and her children had already left, he would arrange to return to Sydney, and from there go on to the colony of South Australia.
I need to pick up some supplies before I ride south for Townsville to meet with Andrew Hume regarding that land purchase you and Nicholas are going to close on there,’ Lachlan informed his brother over breakfast. ‘There is a store just down the street from here.’
‘I will come with you,’ John said. ‘I might even ask a few questions.’
Above the store door, painted on a board, was a description of the shop’s wares and the name Eureka Company. The two brothers stepped into the relatively spacious room. There was just about everything a settler or prospector could need on the frontier: pots and pans, shovels and picks, bags of flour and candles. They were greeted by a pretty young woman with red hair tied up in a bun and a smarter of freckles across her cheeks. But it was the tall, lean man with the scar tracing a line down his face who immediately caught John’s attention. From his drawling accent, it was clear that he was an American. Something about him struck John as familiar. When the stranger turned around, John suddenly remembered where he had met him.
‘Mr Tracy.’
Luke Tracy stared at John for a moment, puzzled. ‘Have we met, sir?’
‘Then it is you,’ John said. ‘It was at the Ballarat goldfields in ’54. You attempted to save my brother, Tom, after the British massacre.’
Luke Tracy’s face suddenly lit with recognition. ‘You were that little fella with his sister,’ Luke said with a broad smile. ‘God damn! And here you are now.’
Lachlan looked on in confusion as the men shook hands.
‘This is the man who risked his life for us after the British went hunting for survivors,’ John explained. ‘He helped get Tom back to us, until he was forced to flee himself to avoid capture. It was Mr Tracy who kept the secret of where the money Da had left us was buried, even though he could have retrieved it himself.’
Lachlan stepped forward to shake the American’s hand. ‘Well, it is good to meet you, Mr Tracy,’ he said. ‘My brother and I owe you a lot more than we can adequately say.’
‘It was no big thing,’ Luke shrugged off. ‘What any Christian would do under the circumstances.’
‘Not all men are good Christians,’ John parried. ‘Your act of courage and kindness changed our family fortunes in ways I would be here all day explaining. Thank you, Mr Tracy.’
‘I would feel more comfortable if you called me Luke and must confess that I have forgotten your name,’ Luke said.
‘It’s John MacDonald and this is my brother, Lachlan, who was tragically separated from us on that terrible day.’
‘But I see that you are now together,’ Luke replied. ‘I should introduce you to Mrs Emma James, who is the manager of this store,’ Luke said. ‘Mrs James’s husband is an old friend – as is Emma herself. Henry was once a sergeant with the Native Mounted Police.’
‘As Mr Tracy is boarding with us, I think that it is only right that you dine with us tonight,’ Emma said with a warm smile. ‘I have a feeling you three have a lot to talk over.’
Having accepted the invitation to dinner, that night John and Lachlan met Henry James, the former police sergeant. He was older by many years than his wife but was still strong and fit, although he
walked with a noticeable limp – a legacy of fighting with the British army against the Russians in the Crimean Peninsula in the same year that the British army attacked the Eureka stockade. When he learned of Lachlan’s military career in New Zealand, the two men warmed to each other, as only former soldiers can.
After dinner, the men retired to a verandah. Over cigars and brandy, John raised the subject of possibly seeking Henry’s assistance in tracking down Phoebe. If anyone could find a missing person, it had to be a former policeman, John explained and although he offered money for the assistance, Henry declined the money. He would do it as a favour for a friend of Luke Tracy.
The evening drew into early morning before the four men reluctantly curtailed their swapping of stories. John and Lachlan had learned meanwhile that Luke Tracy had returned to the Australian colonies to go to the Palmer fields in search of gold. On their way out, Emma James quietly informed them that she thought Luke was really heading out along the Palmer–Cooktown track in search of Kate O’Keefe – his one and only true love.
The two brothers walked down the hill and back into the still carousing town. When they reached their hotel, they were met by a sleepy desk clerk.
‘A telegram arrived for you, Mr MacDonald. It came just after you left.’
John took the envelope. ‘Probably from Nicholas,’ he said, slitting open the envelope with his finger. ‘Wanting to know when I will be returning to Sydney.’
Suddenly, John staggered sideways as if hit by a bullet. Lachlan stepped quickly to his brother’s side.
‘What is it?’ Lachlan asked in his alarm.
‘Nicholas has been murdered,’ John replied in a hoarse whisper. ‘It seems that Lightfoot slew him.’
Lachlan took the telegram from his brother’s trembling hand and read the contents. It was from John’s personal assistant, who had sent the message days earlier. Busby’s body had been found by a maid, almost immediately after he had been shot. The maid recognised Major Charles Lightfoot, who was leaving the house just as she arrived, but the police suspected that Lightfoot had fled the country on a ship that same night to a destination unknown.
‘C’mon,’ Lachlan said gently to John, guiding him up the stairs to the rooms. John moved like a sleep-walker, allowing his brother to usher him to a chair in his room. Lachlan retrieved a bottle of gin that John had packed in his travelling chest, poured a glass and handed it to him.
‘Drink this,’ he said. ‘You need it.’
‘It’s my fault,’ John said, taking a long swig of the fiery liquid. ‘I got him into this years ago, and now it has come back on me. He was the only man that I could have spent the rest of my life with.’
‘Lightfoot is a cold-blooded murderer. We know that from what he had done to our father and Tom,’ Lachlan said, standing over his brother with his hand on his shoulder. ‘I have personally experienced his evil. You were not to blame for Nicholas’s death.’
‘But I allowed him to get involved in my oath to destroy Lightfoot,’ John said, staring down at the rough floorboards. ‘Otherwise he would still be alive. I killed him – not Lightfoot.’
Lachlan did not reply at first. What his brother said was partially true, but he could not tell him that he thought the same thing. Anyone close to them was in peril, he thought. ‘Maybe you should have another drink and get a good night’s sleep,’ Lachlan gently suggested.
‘I have to return to Sydney as soon as possible,’ John sighed. ‘I have the funeral to attend to, besides the business. Under the terms of our arrangement, whoever survived the other inherited our companies. I should inform you now, in the event of my demise, you and Phoebe would inherit the companies, with you managing the estates.’
‘Yes, well I do not see that happening in the near future,’ Lachlan said, assisting his brother to his feet. ‘You will be around for a long time yet. More chance me being killed somewhere out there in the forests from a native spear or nulla.’
‘Promise me,’ John said, gripping his brother’s arm fiercely, ‘that if anything happens to me you will continue the search for Phoebe and take control of the companies.’
‘Of course I promise,’ Lachlan replied, helping his brother to the edge of his bed, where he sat him down with another glass of gin. ‘I swear a blood oath to you that I will do both, but it is a moot point when you will be looking after both matters for a long time to come yet.’
John swallowed down half the glass and pulled a face. He only wanted this moment to disappear from his life, but he knew that the news of Nicholas’s terrible death would not allow him to sleep.
When Lachlan had laid his brother fully clothed on his bed, snuffed out the lantern and closed the door behind him, he heard the first sobs coming from the darkened room. Although he would never truly understand how one man could love another, he did understand his brother’s grief.
Lachlan retired to his room next door and lay down on his bed. He found himself staring at the ceiling in the dark, but sleep did not come easily. Something in his brother’s manner had disturbed Lachlan, who had heard similar talk from men before a battle. It was as if they were foreseeing their own deaths and had resigned themselves to their fate.
Lachlan did not know why he came awake with a start. Maybe the many months of campaigning in enemy territory had honed his senses for survival. He blinked away the last remnants of his torpor and realised that he could hear the soft murmur of voices coming from his brother’s room and recognised his brother’s voice. Suddenly the voices became raised and there were curses, followed by a strangled cry for help from John.
‘John!’ Lachlan screamed as he flung himself out of bed and through his door to tumble into the hallway. Lachlan had gone to sleep fully clothed but he was devoid of a weapon.
Lachlan flung himself at his brother’s door, feeling it give way at his onslaught. He fell forward into the dark room and saw a shadowy figure standing over his brother and the dull sheen of a knife blade in the stranger’s hand reflected from the hallway light. The figure did not wait for Lachlan to regain his footing but crashed through a glass window adjoining the outside verandah. For a second Lachlan was torn between following the intruder and seeing to his brother.
‘John!’ Lachlan gasped. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Stabbed,’ John gasped. ‘In the chest. It was Lightfoot, Lachlan. He’s here.’
Fumbling in the dark, Lachlan found a box of matches alongside a candle and quickly lit the taper. The light it threw revealed John gripping his chest, blood spreading between his fingers. Pain racked his face.
To examine the wound Lachlan pried his brother’s hand from the spreading stain. He had seen many similar wounds and was relieved to note that the blade seemed to have been deflected by the ribs. If Lightfoot had been planning to stab John in the heart, he had missed by a good four inches and merely grazed his chest.
‘You will live,’ Lachlan said grimly, covering the bleeding with a torn fragment of the sheet. ‘But I have to get you to a doctor immediately.’
The ruckus had wakened the publican, who filled the room’s doorway with a lantern held high. ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ he snapped, irate at being torn from his much-needed sleep by the sound of yelling and breaking glass.
‘Fetch a doctor,’ Lachlan shouted over his shoulder. ‘My brother has been stabbed.’
‘It was Lightfoot,’ John said again and grimaced in his pain, grasping his brother’s arm. ‘He woke me to gloat about how he had killed Nicky. He wanted me to know that before he killed me.’
‘He failed,’ Lachlan said gently. ‘I swear that Lightfoot will be brought to account for doing this to you.’
Lachlan remained with his brother until the doctor arrived and tended to his brother’s wound. John was given a sedative and Lachlan remained by his bed, armed with a pistol and silently vowing to bring to justice the man who had caused his family so much heartache.
The police were summoned and Lachlan gave his statement to a grizzled serge
ant.
‘I believe it was a man by the name of Major Charles Lightfoot,’ Lachlan said, standing outside the room where his brother still slept. ‘As far as I know, he is also wanted in Sydney to be questioned regarding the murder of my brother’s business partner.’
The sergeant licked his pencil and recorded the name in his notebook. ‘Do you have any real evidence as regards this Major Charles Lightfoot being the man who stabbed your brother?’ he asked.
‘My brother said that the man admitted his identity to him before he attempted to kill him,’ Lachlan replied.
‘Ah, it was dark and your brother could have been confused. Besides, there are a lot of ruffians in this town,’ the police sergeant said, ‘who would cut your throat for a couple of shillings.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Lachlan replied sourly. He could see that the police investigation was only half-hearted. ‘But I am sure you will do your best to apprehend the man who has done this terrible thing to my brother.’
The sergeant left and Lachlan entered John’s room. His brother was awake but looked very pale from loss of blood. John attempted to struggle into a sitting position but Lachlan eased him back gently, reaching for a pitcher of water and helping John drink.
‘I know business should be the last thing on my mind,’ John said weakly, ‘but I was due to go to Townsville to meet with Mr Hume to settle a very important land deal.’
‘I will do that for you,’ Lachlan replied. ‘What you have to do is get a lot of rest before you leave this room. I will organise for someone to tend to your needs while you are recuperating.’
John nodded his head and closed his eyes. He felt secure in his brother’s care and confident that Lachlan was capable of looking after the company’s financial interests.
Before long, Lachlan was visited by both Luke Tracy and Henry James, who had heard of the attempted murder.
