by Peter Watt
‘My name is John Wong,’ the Eurasian said without offering his hand. He let the rifle drop to his side. He had seen no guile in the other man’s eyes and decided to trust him. ‘Tell me what the hell is going on.’
Ben briefly recounted his discovery of the tracks in the creek while John listened and surveyed a stand of stunted trees on the grassy plain between them and the distant wagons. Cynically he realised that the teamster’s warning had only been given because he needed the Chinese as an ally to ensure his own survival; he was acutely aware of the European’s dislike of the Chinese.
When Ben had finished outlining the situation John turned and addressed those of his men armed with muskets. The Chinese looked fearful, although they listened without questioning their leader. When he had finished addressing his men, John turned to Ben. ‘I’ve told them that we are going to advance in a line against the myalls. I figure that if we go in shooting, the myalls will decide there are easier pickings up along the track and will run.’ He flashed Ben an evil grin. ‘But if I’m wrong and they stand and fight then the myalls are going to have an interesting supper tonight. White and yellow meat,’ he added with a chuckle as he cocked the hammer of his rifle. He turned to his men and barked brief orders. The Chinese responded – if somewhat reluctantly – and fanned out into an extended line.
They advanced cautiously across the grassy plain towards the scrub which now lay under a soft golden glow from the setting sun. The men with the muskets advanced ahead of the line and Ben kept close to John.
For the first hundred yards there was nothing except the sound of the bush birds warbling, and the swish of the long grass under foot. The Chinese were as tense as hunting dogs searching for game. The long barrels of their muskets thrust forward as if hoping they might ward off the hidden warriors. Ben’s nerves were at breaking point.
The ear-splitting screech of the black cockatoo rent the late afternoon air and simultaneously lines of yellow and white painted naked warriors rose from the long grass immediately ahead of them. The heart-stopping spectacle of the hundreds of warriors armed with their array of deadly weapons caused the advancing skirmish line to freeze in its tracks.
The Chinese teetered on the verge of panicked flight and, without firing a shot, turned to flee the superior numbers of black warriors confronting them. John’s voice roared above the Aboriginal war cry. He tried to rally his men as he fired his Snider into the massed ranks of painted warriors. A warrior crumpled with a yelp of pain as a bullet took him in the chest. But then a shower of deadly barbed reed spears hissed through the sky falling amongst the ranks of Chinese.
Ben felt a spear pluck at the elbow of his shirt and saw one of the Chinese musketeers nearby fall as a spear found its target. The stricken man dropped his flintlock as he desperately plucked at the spear buried deep in his lung. But the deadly barbs held firm against his futile efforts to tear the shaft out. The initiative was with the tribesmen and Ben knew the situation was extremely grim.
The volley of spears was followed by a full charge of warriors screaming their black cockatoo war cries as they surged forward brandishing clubs and wooden swords.
Ben scooped up the dying man’s musket and levelled the long barrel at a painted warrior who was charging towards him wielding a wooden sword and shield. The ancient flintlock fired true and the warrior spun as the lead ball took him.
Ben’s shot was followed by a rattle of fire by the Chinese musketeers as John bullied them back into a semblance of a line to face the phalanx charging towards them. A lethal shower of lead ripped through the warriors’ ranks and three warriors cried out their despair.
When they fell they were snatched up by their comrades who dragged them to the rear of the line which was by now faltering in its determination to close with the men who had rallied to fight back. Behind their own ranks the tribesmen stuffed the bullet holes with grass in a futile attempt to stem the bleeding.
John was firing his single shot Snider as if it had been one of the new repeating rifles from the Winchester company of America. With practised hands he fired, then flipped open the breech to slam in a cartridge. He did not have to take careful aim as the warriors were massed on the grassy plain in front of them.
Ben gripped the musket by its long barrel and stood his ground. He would wield the weapon as a club when the tribesmen reached them. Around him the Chinese musketeers scrabbled for powder and shot to reload their cumbersome weapons. They held their ground as they poured a spasmodic fusillade into the ranks of the charging warriors.
Then a distant crash of gunfire erupted behind the tribesmen. Kate and Jenny had joined the battle from the cover of the wagons. The combined weight of cross-fire unbalanced the momentum of the attack. The leader of the painted warriors could see that the Chinese had now rallied and appeared determined to sell their lives dearly. Bullets plucked at the grass and the men around him and he realised that the situation would only lead to unacceptable losses on his side.
It was not a lack of courage that caused the warrior chief to break off the attack but rather a thorough knowledge of the European way of fighting. He knew well the limitations of their own weapons. He knew that it was only through the use of stealth and ambush that they held any hope of success in their warfare against the invaders of their lands. On his command the warriors broke off the attack and turned to retreat with their wounded for the safety of the surrounding thick bush on the hillsides overlooking the track.
The gunfire from John’s Snider tapered off as the tribesmen melted into the bush. A wispy cloud of gunsmoke drifted on the still air. The victorious Chinese broke into an excited babble at the sight of the retreating Aboriginal warriors. Through the babble Ben could hear the distant voices of Kate and Jenny calling to him from the wagons. As he stood with the ancient flintlock in his hands, he realised that he was shaking uncontrollably. It had been so close. If John had not rallied his men and Kate had not joined the fight they would have been swamped by the screaming ranks of warriors.
He was vaguely aware of Jennifer’s cotton skirt swirling around her knees as she ran towards him across the grassy plain that had moments before been a battlefield. He tried to smile bravely as she flung herself into his arms and smothered him with kisses. He held her and knew he would never let her go.
‘I don’t know how I can thank you enough for helping us Mister Wong,’ Kate said, as she passed him a slab of jam-covered damper. He was not only a big man but he also had a big appetite. The jam dripped through his fingers onto his lap as he sat on a log beside the campfire under the canopy of brilliant stars.
‘Tucker like this is thanks enough, Missus O’Keefe,’ John answered gratefully, as he licked at his sticky fingers. ‘I’ve been on rice and dried fish for the last week. The tucker of my Chinese cousins isn’t what I’m used to. Man gets a craving for the food he was brought up on.’
Kate was surprised to hear him talk about his Chinese ‘cousins’ because he did not look very Chinese. Yet, he did have a Chinese surname, and there was the faintest trace of the Orient in his strong and handsome features. ‘You say your countrymen Mister Wong, but you don’t sound or look like them,’ she commented politely. ‘Although I must presume you have Chinese parentage.’
‘I’m half Irish half Chinese. My mother met my father on the Ballarat goldfields back in ’54. I was born there. Guess you could say I’m between two worlds,’ he reflected, as he stared into the flickering flames of the campfire. Kate glanced at him with surprise. It was hard for her to imagine someone of Irish blood also having Oriental blood. John noticed her bemused look. ‘I get to celebrate twice as many holidays,’ he chuckled when he came out of his introspection. ‘I even got drunk last Saint Pat’s day in Sydney with some of my mother’s relatives.’
Kate felt a little foolish talking about John’s mixed blood when she remembered that she herself was raising her brother Tom’s three children. They also lived between two worlds.
John finished the damper and washe
d it down with sweet black tea. The fire crackled in the silence and he stared contentedly into the flames. A full stomach of European food and the company of the legendary Kate O’Keefe sufficed for the moment. Even those in the Chinese quarter had heard of Kate O’Keefe. Her compassion crossed racial lines and the young Chinese girls working for the tongs had been recipients of her charity from time to time.
Ben and Jennifer had gone for a short walk into the dark to sit and gaze up at the brilliance of the southern sky. But they had not wandered too far from the protection the wagons afforded, just far enough to talk privately away from the hearing of the others.
Young Willie remained by the fire staring at John. He had attached himself to the charismatic man. The Eurasian bushman had taken the boy to his camp a short distance from the wagons and the Chinese had made a fuss of him, offering him some of their precious supply of candied ginger.
Willie had been wide-eyed at the strangeness of the men who had pigtails like girls and spoke in a language he did not understand. The Chinese were a relative novelty on the northern goldfields in the early months of 1874.
Now Willie sat at John’s feet savouring the tangy sweetness of a lump of candied ginger he had brought back from the Chinese camp. For once he was not clinging protectively to his mother, as Kate astutely noticed. But the excitement of the day and a full stomach caught up with Willie. He quietly slipped away to make his bed under Kate’s wagon while she sipped her tea and watched the shadows dance in the fire.
‘You know, I miss the company of my European brothers from time to time,’ John said reflectively. ‘But lately I’ve been starting to think in Chinese. Haven’t done that since I left my father in Melbourne years ago when my mother died.’
‘What are you doing travelling to the Palmer with . . . ’ Kate hesitated as she did not know the appropriate word to describe John’s fellow travellers.
He glanced up and smiled. ‘You mean with the Chinks,’ he said, to relieve her embarrassed discomfiture in casting him as Chinese. ‘Well, as a man between two worlds, I have value to Soo Yin, my boss. Mister Soo uses me to act as his go-between in his dealings with the Europeans who ship the coolies out here. Very soon there will be thousands coming here and I will be the man to help organise their migration from Hong Kong. I don’t suppose that will make me very popular with the white miners.’
Kate had heard of Soo Yin, a wealthy and very powerful Chinese merchant operating in Cooktown. She had also heard that the Chinese merchant ran brothels and gambling houses for the Chinese, although Soo Yin did not discriminate against the white men who wished to avail themselves of the services he provided in the Chinese quarter. There were also whispered stories about Chinese secret societies in Cooktown, of which Soo Yin was reputed to be a leader. Tongs she had heard them called. ‘So you are a kind of interpreter Mister Wong,’ she offered conversationally.
‘Interpreter, adviser, supervisor and a few other things. Soo needs the European side of my mind to help him deal with the Europeans,’ he continued. ‘I suppose you can say I translate one idea on one side of my head into another idea on the other side. And vice versa. Right now I’m on my way down to the Palmer to establish a base for Mister Soo’s operations. My men who carry the arms are to be . . . gang bosses I suppose you could call them.’
‘What will you do?’ Kate asked. ‘When you have reached the Palmer?’
‘Return to Cooktown. Maybe sail for Hong Kong to see . . . ’ He hesitated. He had almost mentioned the existence of the tong he was working for, although he was not a member as his European blood made him suspect in the eyes of the Chinese purists. ‘. . . Well, to see about another batch for the Palmer.’ Then he fell silent.
Soo commanded the Lotus tong in North Queensland. John’s father had recommended his son for the employment on account of his dual knowledge of both Chinese and European ways. But John had always felt more comfortable in European ways, having grown up with the scent of the gum tree rather than the sandalwood incense stick. He spoke relatively fluent Chinese with a European accent. And his size commanded respect from those who were told to obey him. Soo had made a wise decision in employing the young man as had been proved in the encounter earlier that afternoon. He had the brains of his Chinese father’s people – and the brawn of his Irish mother’s side.
‘Missus O’Keefe,’ he asked now, ‘I don’t want to sound like I am poking around into your business, but did you have a husband back in Cooktown?’
Kate cast him a startled look. ‘I had . . . I have a husband. But I have not seen him in over ten years. Why do you ask such a curious question Mister Wong?’
John stared down into the fire to avoid her eyes. There was something on his mind and he wondered whether he should say anything at all. His question certainly had aroused Kate’s curiosity. ‘Why do you ask? Do you know something about my husband?’
He continued to stare into the fire, struggling with a matter that he knew he should stay out of. However he decided to tell her and took a breath. ‘There was a fella looking for you in Cooktown a while back. Said he was your husband.’
‘Kevin!’ Kate gasped. For so long he had gone from her life. Now he was back!
‘Don’t know his first name,’ John continued. ‘Just that he was a big fella. Good with the cards.’
‘Is he still in Cooktown?’ Kate asked, her feelings a confused jumble of emotions. She had grown to detest Kevin O’Keefe for leaving her on her own just when she needed him most. At the same time, she still remembered how she had felt as a sixteen-year-old girl madly in love with the handsome son of Irish convicts.
John gazed at the glowing coals of the fire. ‘I’m afraid the fella I met will be permanently in Cooktown, Missus O’Keefe,’ he said bluntly. ‘Got himself killed over some married woman. Seems her husband shot him and then took off.’ Sudden and violent death was a part of John’s existence on the frontier and he knew no other way of telling her the facts.
Kate swooned. John tensed as if to spring to her side, but she waved him off to reassure him that she was adequately composed. ‘I’m sorry it was me to break the news to you Missus O’Keefe,’ he said apologetically.
‘It is all right Mister Wong,’ she replied in a weary voice. ‘The inevitable has happened. I think I have always known that my husband’s life would end in that manner.’
A shooting star blazed across the night sky causing Kate to glance up at the long trail of sparks. A spirit trying to return to the earth an old Aboriginal had once told her in Townsville. She shuddered, hoping it was not her husband’s spirit returning to haunt her and said a silent prayer that his soul should rest in peace. Strangely, she felt resentment that his death had denied her the opportunity to confront him at least once more. Besides, his death had left her with unresolved issues about her own feelings.
John could see the grief etched in her beautiful face and wisely excused himself from her company. ‘Good night Missus O’Keefe,’ he mumbled, before returning to his men camped a short distance from the wagons.
As he walked to his camp he wondered whether he had actually seen grief in the woman’s face. Or had it been relief mixed with a little bit of anger? Who knew with European women? He shrugged his broad shoulders. But who knew with women of any nationality, when it came to that?
Kate sat staring at the fire, thinking about her life. Kevin was dead. She was free to start a life with any man she chose. Not that being married to Kevin had stopped her from going to Hugh Darlington’s bed years earlier. Living like a nun had not appealed to her passionate nature.
But into her life had come Tom’s children who kept her occupied as they would any mother. She had grown to love the three as if they were her own. They in turn eventually responded to her with their love.
Little Sarah was growing up with only the faintest of memories for her natural mother. Although Kate had tried to tell her who she was, young Sarah had the resilience of her birth mother and coping with the reality of her present life me
ant the little girl repressed terrible memories.
But the two boys did remember their mother and father. They had not forgotten the night when they saw both their parents die from the guns of the Native Mounted Police.
Kate had grown to accept the responsibilities of a parent but she still yearned for the love that she could share with just one special man. And she yearned again to feel a life growing in her body and a baby at her breast.
The fire had burned down to a softly glowing log when Kate heard the curlews crying to each other in the night. She shivered against the cold and pulled an old woollen shawl around her shoulders. She remained by the fire until even the night sounds were muted before rising stiffly to retire for the night. The morning would come soon enough.
TEN
Tiny as the kitchen of the Erin Hotel was, it had witnessed many memorable family gatherings of the Duffy family, and Sergeant Francis Farrell felt at home as he sat at the old worn table.
For years he had been a guest of the publican Frank Duffy. On cold nights when the big sergeant had been a constable walking his beat around Redfern’s splendid streets and narrow alleyways, the back door to the hotel had always been left open for him. It was a sanctuary from the bitter cold where he had sipped a warming rum with the publican and talked of bygone days in dear old Ireland.
Although Frank was dead, the tradition of hospitality of the publican’s son, Daniel Duffy, continued and the back door remained open to the police sergeant.
It was of mutual benefit for the two to meet from time to time. The Erin was the ideal place to swap information concerning Sydney’s criminal underworld – information to convict or acquit, depending on the trade-off between police officer and legal representative. For Daniel Duffy was a young man with an enviable reputation around Sydney Town as a highly successful criminal lawyer.
In his early thirties, Daniel was tall, clean shaven and slightly stooped by his years of academic study. But he had the Duffy trademark for toughness in his professional dealings and was grudgingly respected by even a waspish colonial society that normally looked down on the Irish.
