Eagle on the Hill

by JH Fletcher

  ‘I measured it meself —’

  ‘Give me a measuring tape.’

  She climbed aboard. She measured. Six inches to spare all round.

  ‘Thank goodness I got that right,’ said Mrs Madigan. She turned, sturdy legs braced, hands on hips, and shouted up to the crane driver in a voice that had undoubtedly frightened the Outback in its time. ‘Get on with it, then. What are you waiting for?’

  The crane driver wore a wistful look as he swung the crated piano above Mrs Madigan’s head. One touch on the controls was all it would take. It would be so easy …

  Cheered by his vision, he poised the crate above the open hatch and let it zip. Mrs Madigan screamed, fingernails in her cheeks, as her piano fell into darkness. To stop, swaying, an inch from the bottom of the hold while the crane driver grinned and the removal men swarmed, easing the restraining lines, pulling them taut, until …

  ‘Let ’er go!’

  And down it came, to rest as quiet as a feather in the place that had been cleared to take it. The ropes were hauled tight, the wedges driven home.

  ‘Thank goodness I was here to see things done properly,’ Mrs Madigan said.

  The price of art.

  Up the Murray they went, with Brenda bouncing and slewing across Lake Alexandrina in a wind that had come from nowhere to torment them. But the restraining ropes held the piano unmoving in its crate and soon they were across the lake and into calmer waters. All the while Will looked yearningly back down the river and hummed a little tune beneath his breath.

  After the Murray, the Darling. Mrs Madigan had travelled across country to meet them. At Menindee they had a repeat performance of the squatter’s wife and her concert grand, but Charlie did not care, because at last they would be rid of the old battleaxe. He was in a cheerful mood when he left her and went ashore to drum up some freight.

  Mrs Madigan, however, was not. She was displeased that the man she had hired had taken off without so much as saying goodbye. ‘Though I suppose basic courtesy is too much to expect on a riverboat …’

  Will, as always unable to keep his tongue in his mouth, offered Mrs Madigan a few thoughts on the subject. She, in return, passed on some tidbits of her own.

  ‘Enjoy yourself while you can, young man. I don’t think you’ll be in business much longer.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I certainly do.’ The thought evidently gave her no pain. ‘A friend of mine is going into the trade himself. He already has a steamer. The Titan. Good money to be made, he tells me, once he’s got rid of the riffraff.’

  ‘Nice,’ Will said. ‘And who is this mate of yours?’

  ‘I’m sure you’d love to know, but you won’t get his name from me. A very wealthy man, that’s all I’m prepared to say. Made a fortune out of that big copper mine up-country. More than able to buy every trader on the river, I daresay. I doubt you would have heard of him, in any case.’ She smiled, honey-sweet, every fang bared.

  ‘Made a fortune out of a big copper mine?’ Will repeated. And saw a name dance like flame before his eyes.

  ‘George Grenville,’ he said.

  Mrs Madigan, delighted yet astounded, gaped. ‘How did you guess?’

  * * *

  Will stood at the rail of the upper deck and watched as their snooty passenger was driven away in a carriage, while a slow trudge of oxen drew the cart on which the piano, roped and shrouded, rode in triumph.

  Thank the Lord for that, Will thought.

  A voice hailed him from the wharf.

  ‘Got a minute, chief?’

  Will stared down at the man: narrow eyes in a ferret face. ‘Depends who’s askin’.’

  Charlie got back from town an hour later. ‘Got rid of Mrs Madigan all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t knock the old bat,’ Will told him. ‘Told us somethin’ useful before she left. I found out who owns Titan.’

  He repeated what Mrs Madigan had said.

  ‘George Grenville,’ Charlie repeated, teeth much in evidence. ‘That bastard! I shoulda guessed.’

  ‘Somethin’ else happened while you was ashore,’ Will said. ‘I was asked if we’d carry some freight.’

  ‘That’s good —’

  ‘Off Titan.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She come through, not ten minutes after you’d gone.’

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘’andsome boat,’ Will allowed. ‘Twice our size.’

  Charlie looked along the wharf. Water levels were low and Brenda was the only steamer in port. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Gone on up to Wilcannia.’

  ‘Boat that size? She’ll never make it.’

  ‘I tole ’im that.’ Will smiled reminiscently. ‘That Con Copper … Don’ reckon ’e knows much. Wanted us to help out with his cargo but he was right vexed when I give ’im a price.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Normal rates, o’ course.’ He gave Charlie a dry grin. ‘Plus a small mark-up,’ he admitted.

  ‘How small?’

  ‘Three hundred per cent. He didn’ like it. Said he’d manage by ’isself.’

  ‘Can’t say I blame ’im.’

  ‘Like you said, he won’ make it.’

  ‘His choice,’ Charlie agreed.

  Couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke.

  Will’s thoughts had drifted back to what Mrs Madigan had let slip. ‘That lawyer said Titan had nuthun to do with the Grenvilles.’

  ‘He also said threats were a lawyer’s stock in trade. So are lies, I reckon.’

  ‘Think we should tell the others when we get back?’

  Charlie watched two ducks chasing each other in midriver, then shook his head. ‘Not yet. I got a better idea.’

  CHAPTER 21

  They went together, cutting through the bush and coming out on the driveway where it joined the track that ran twenty miles across country to Niland.

  Charlie had never seen the house from this angle, how it sat astride the ridge so that it dominated not only the river but the expanse of bush running away to the north.

  ‘Wants everyone to know he’s here, don’ he?’ said Will.

  Whether George Grenville wanted that or not, he was not available to casual callers. They knocked on the door and stated their business to the man who answered. When he tried to slam the door in their faces Charlie stuck his boot into the gap.

  ‘I told you we got urgent business with Mr Grenville.’

  The man, young and sure of himself, in some kind of flunky’s get-up, wanted to make something of it. He took a swipe at Charlie’s head, but a left hook buried itself wrist-deep in the soft welcome of his stomach.

  Next thing the young man was sitting on the floor, digging deep for his lost breath, eyes standing out like gooseberries. Charlie hoicked him to his feet and sat him on a handy chair.

  ‘Quiet as a lamb. That’s the way to do it,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Good as gold,’ Will agreed.

  They closed the door behind them, crossed the marble-floored entrance hall and went into a smaller room beyond. Here they met a woman in a black dress who stared at them in alarm.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  Anyone would think they had no right to be there.

  ‘Mates of Mr Grenville payin’ a visit,’ Charlie explained, smiling to reassure her.

  ‘Social,’ Will added.

  A voice, dry as the bush, spoke from an inner room. ‘What is it, Agnes?’

  ‘Two gentlemen, sir …’

  ‘Gentlemen?’ George Grenville appeared in the doorway. ‘I am expecting no —’ Then he saw the face of the taller of his visitors. His face darkened. ‘You!’

  ‘A friendly visit,’ Charlie said. ‘As we was passin’.’

  The pale blue eyes almost touched above the thin nose. The dark hair was showing the first threads of grey. ‘I have nothing to say to you. How did you get in, anyway?’

  ‘Your bloke opened the door to us. Wasn’t his idea, mind, b
ut we explained it was urgent.’

  The blue eyes did not waver. ‘Agnes,’ Grenville said, ‘fetch Smart. Tell him to bring a couple of his men with him.’

  ‘No need for that,’ Charlie told him. ‘We’re not lookin’ for trouble. All we want is a word with you about that deal your bloke Saul put to us.’

  George hesitated. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Of course you don’t. You haven’t heard what we got to say yet.’

  ‘Agnes …’

  The woman fled.

  ‘Say your piece. If you’re still here when she gets back I’ll have you put out.’

  ‘Pity to wreck your grand house,’ said Will.

  ‘I doubt it would come to that.’ George stared at Charlie, expression sharp enough to cut. ‘What have you got to say to me?’

  Charlie had hoped to sit down and talk things over, man to man, but clearly that wasn’t going to happen. He had met Smart before; if he and his mates turned up before Charlie could tell Grenville why he was here, Charlie and Will might indeed be put out, with nothing achieved.

  ‘You own Titan,’ he said. ‘Your man Saul came to see us —’

  ‘Did Saul say I was the owner? Because if he did I must warn you he was mistaken.’

  ‘Saul said nothing. Someone else told me.’

  ‘They were wrong.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Don’ matter, either way. Titan’s been undercutting the other river traders. There’s a feelin’ her owner’s tryin’ to drive everyone else out of business.’

  Grenville’s lip curled. ‘Perhaps Titan’s owner is more efficient than the rest of you.’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘No-one can make a profit, the rates he’s chargin’.’

  ‘So he’s making a loss. In which case he’ll soon be out of business himself, and you and your friends will have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I don’ think that’s right either. I think he’s rich enough to take the loss till the rest of us are ruined. Then, with no competition, he’ll be able to charge what he likes.’

  ‘And what’s this got to do with me? Even assuming you’re right? I’ve already told you, I do not own —’

  ‘And I’ve already told you it don’t matter whether you do or not.’

  Grenville was growing impatient. ‘Then I don’t see the purpose of this intrusion.’

  ‘I ’eard from a very reliable source that you own Titan. You say you don’t. Maybe you’re lyin’, maybe not. But the mood on the river is ugly. If I let on what I heard from this very reliable source, it might be difficult to hold back the hotheads. A paddle steamer is easily sunk.’

  George Grenville went white about the nostrils. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘It’d be a cryin’ injustice if you really wasn’t the owner, but it wouldn’t make no odds, would it, not with Titan at the bottom of the river? And it might not stop there, either.’ He looked around at the richly furnished room. ‘Eagle on the Hill is a grand house but you’ve left yourself open, buildin’ so far out of town. Enough people get angry about Titan’s rates, anything could happen. Grand houses have been burnt down before this.’

  ‘Vineyards can be wrecked, too,’ said Will. ‘A few blokes with axes …’

  George looked from one of them to the other, face white, expression incredulous. ‘You burst into my house, you manhandle my servant, you threaten to burn my house down? The authorities will hear of this. I shall swear a complaint —’

  ‘We’ve done nuthun,’ said Charlie. ‘Warned you what might happen, no more’n that.’

  ‘A friendly warning,’ said Will. ‘Between mates.’

  The three men stared at each other. There was a clatter of running feet and Smart came bursting into the room with two similar men at his heels.

  Charlie pinned George with his eyes. ‘Be careful. Or it’ll be too late.’

  Smart came across the room and seized Charlie’s arm. Charlie shook himself free, but the other men were closing in. No way could he and Will deal with all of them.

  ‘Be warned,’ Charlie said to Grenville.

  Shadows of anger and something else — doubt? — moved across the older man’s face. The three bruisers now had Charlie and Will closely held. Will was breathing deeply and one of the men was nursing a rapidly darkening eye, but there was no doubt the brothers would indeed be thrown out, if that was what George decided. All waited on his decision.

  He said, ‘Wait.’

  It was not what Smart had expected. He looked at Grenville uncertainly.

  ‘Wait outside,’ George told him, ‘but remain within call.’

  When the three men had gone he turned to Charlie. ‘What — exactly — are you telling me?’

  The brothers walked back through the bush towards the landing where they had moored Brenda. Around them the hot ground baked beneath a cloudless sky.

  ‘You reckon he’ll take any notice?’ Will asked.

  ‘He’s a stubborn bastard. Tricky, too. But I reckon he might. He knows he’s gone too far this time. And he’s wide open, if anyone really does decide to get their own back.’

  ‘Will you tell the others?’

  ‘I reckon not. Jock Harris is that hot, he might even do it.’

  ‘Why should we care?’

  ‘A waterfront war would bring in the wallopers. That won’t help any of us. Let’s wait and see what happens. If Titan’s rates go up, there’ll be no need to tell anyone.’

  They embarked and went on down the river.

  CHAPTER 22

  On a warm and sunny December morning, George Grenville and his son Rufus were eating breakfast in the small parlour of Eagle on the Hill.

  There was plenty to talk about. In addition to the vineyard at Eagle on the Hill itself, they had expanded their interests in mining and industry. There’d been a hiccup at the beginning of the year, when attempts to increase working hours in one of their companies had been thwarted by a strike, but in the main business had been good. The family now owned several sheep runs in the north, had a major interest in a bank and, with their investment in Titan, had taken the first step towards controlling the river trade.

  Rufus found the meetings with his father a trial. In theory George had handed over the day-to-day running of the business to him; in practice he had done nothing of the sort, and the meetings usually degenerated into criticisms and complaints that were George’s way of saying that things had been done better when he was in charge.

  On this occasion, however, the atmosphere was different. Two days after the Armstrongs’ intrusion, George was still furious.

  ‘I can’t believe the impertinence of the man,’ complained George. ‘Forcing his way in here with his brother …’

  ‘You have to admire his determination.’ Rufus was as close to enjoying himself as he could be with his father; it was a relief to taunt the old man and get away with it for once.

  ‘I admire nothing about him. The man is no better than a criminal. Threatening to burn Eagle on the Hill …’

  ‘Perhaps he only meant it as a warning —’

  ‘I was there. I know what he said. I should have instructed Smart to give them both a thrashing. Maybe that would have taught them some manners.’

  Rufus picked at a bread roll with nervous fingers. ‘Perhaps it’s as well you didn’t.’

  George eyed him scornfully. ‘I might have guessed you’d disapprove.’

  Rufus shook his head unhappily but said nothing.

  ‘Let me tell you something,’ George went on. ‘Men like Armstrong understand only one language. I let him off too lightly, that’s the truth of it. I shan’t make the same mistake again.’

  Rufus bit his lip. ‘But he was right, wasn’t he? We are at risk out here in the bush. Cutting Titan’s prices was provocation enough. If Smart and his bullies had beaten them up as well it would have been like pouring oil on fire.’

  ‘Are you suggesting we should start charging more?’

  ‘No. You
said yourself we’d only lose money that way.’

  ‘Then what exactly are you saying?’

  For once in his life Rufus felt he had a slight edge over his father. Titan was George’s new toy. He’d boasted to Mrs Madigan about her; now they’d had a letter from the stupid woman saying she’d spilt the beans to the Armstrongs. What had he expected, for God’s sake? Everything — the way the Armstrongs had burst into the house, the threats of violence — had stemmed from that. All his father’s fault. Rufus would never dare say as much, but knowing it was so — how delightful! — gave him the courage to put his thoughts into words.

  ‘I think we should send the owners a message. The whole point of cutting freight prices is to get rid of the competition. Right?’

  ‘Of course. Why else should we do it? Out of charity?’

  ‘But it’ll only work if it stops them getting cargo.’

  ‘Naturally.’ George snapped his fingers. The maid, standing discreetly out of earshot, came and refilled his coffee cup. When she had withdrawn he said, ‘So what’s your point?’

  ‘Saul tells me a selector has been double-crossing us. Letting the Armstrongs ship some of his wool on the side.’

  ‘While taking advantage of our cheap rates?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But it must be costing him.’

  Rufus shrugged. ‘Some of these fellows have exaggerated notions of loyalty.’

  ‘Do we know the selector’s name?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘So what’s your plan?’

  ‘That we should tell Smart to have a word with him.’

  George drank his coffee thoughtfully. ‘And send a message to the owners at the same time? It might work. No violence, mind. I’ll not tolerance violence.’ He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and gave his son a sardonic glance — the nearest he ever came to showing approval. ‘There may be hope for you yet.’

  Within a week the word along the river was that Des Jolley had a crack on the skull that meant he couldn’t see straight, and the shed where he’d stored his wool had been torched.

  ‘Go to the police!’ Mrs Jolley urged him. You couldn’t blame her; she’d scored a cuff or two herself when she’d tried to weigh in on her husband’s side.