Beyond the Horizon

by Peter Watt

  ‘I think you could be right,’ he said quietly. ‘He must have worked out by now that we had the Schumann file placed in the inspector general’s hands, and that would make us very unpopular with him.’

  ‘Will the police go after him over that?’ Harry asked.

  Sean shook his head. ‘Sadly, the last thing I heard was that the file had been sent over to Parliament House. I can only guess that George Macintosh pulled a few strings and has had the matter filed away for good. Firth has more lives than a bloody cat.’

  ‘You have got to make sure that you take every precaution you can, Major Duffy,’ Harry said. ‘Lay low until I can get a hearing for bail.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Sean replied. ‘In the meantime, sign nothing. We will have you free before you can say Jack Robinson.’

  ‘From anyone else I might have my doubts, but not from you, boss,’ Harry said with a feeble smile. ‘Keep your head down and I’ll see you soon.’

  Sean gripped Harry’s hand through the bars and then left the gloomy place to return to the street. He did so with a deeply uneasy feeling; there was more to the matter than Firth settling a personal score. Why was it that the name of George Macintosh kept cropping up at the edges of everything? Why would it be in Macintosh’s interests to frame Harry? To get him out of the way – if Firth or Macintosh were really planning to have him killed. But why would Macintosh want him killed? He thought of Giselle and her son and the new terms of Patrick Macintosh’s will. George Macintosh was capable of anything, even having a child murdered. And he would benefit by his nephew’s death. If this was what he was plotting, Macintosh would know that Sean would be a threat to any such heinous crime. Sean had also had an affair with Louise, and he didn’t think Macintosh would take that kindly. Put all these reasons in a pot and stir it and you had a strong motive to have him killed.

  Sean paused in his painful walk back to his office. ‘God almighty,’ he swore softly. Could Macintosh really be so evil that he would scheme to have his nephew murdered?

  The elite Australian Club in Sydney’s Macquarie Street had been founded in 1838 by the leading members of colonial society. That George Macintosh had been accepted for membership demonstrated to society that he was a man of worth. Here he rubbed shoulders with the most influential men in finance, politics, law and the public service. It was within these hallowed rooms, with their rich carpets, leather chairs, glass-fronted bookcases, chandeliers and prized art, that George conducted a great deal of his business.

  He lounged back in his great leather chair, newspaper on his lap, armed with a Scotch. The gentle clack of billiard balls wafted in from a room nearby, and the smell of expensive cigars filled the air.

  ‘Another Scotch, sir?’ asked a well-dressed waiter.

  ‘No,’ George replied, picking up the paper, and the waiter discreetly disappeared into the background. George opened the paper and his eye was caught by the headline of the morning Gazette. A man had been arrested for the murder of Mary Jackson. The article went on to name the legendary Detective Inspector Jack Firth as the man who had arrested Harry Griffiths. Sydneysiders could breathe a sigh of relief that a callous murderer was behind bars.

  ‘Good show, Firth,’ George muttered. With Griffiths off the streets it would be easier to get to the damned lawyer who had had the audacity to sleep with Louise. More importantly, Duffy had to be removed from the picture so that George could dispose of his sister-in-law and nephew. A boating accident was definitely the best way to go with her. It would look like an unfortunate event that was not all that uncommon around Sydney’s waterways.

  Smiling, George closed the paper and laid it on a small table by his chair. Maybe he would have another drink before returning to the office.

  Wallarie was confused. The current dreams of black water did not seem to have any meaning and the ancestor spirits were of no help interpreting them. He sat cross-legged in the shade of the temporary bark shelter he had constructed and poked at the earth with a stick. The sun was low on the horizon as it went to drink at a billabong beyond the plains before it returned in the morning, giving life and heat to this vast country.

  Never mind that the ancestor spirits had told him not to go near any whitefellas, Wallarie decided that it was time to visit his old friend, the Lutheran pastor at the Glen View mission. He and Karl von Fellmann would sit under the bumbil tree in the front yard of the station house and ruminate on what the dreams meant. It had been almost a year since he had visited Glen View, and he could argue with the spirits of the ancestors at a later time, Wallarie thought, standing and stretching his limbs to relieve the ache that had lately come to his joints.

  Karolina Schumann and Pastor Karl von Fellmann had been guests for dinner at the station house and were leaving in the horse-drawn sulky for the mission station a short distance away. Karolina had been able to catch up with her daughter and grandson, while Karl had talked with the station manager and Angus MacDonald about ordering medicines he needed to treat the Aboriginal people who came to him for help.

  Karl took the reins and urged the horse into motion. The horse knew its way in the dark and walked on easily. They had not been travelling long when Karolina gasped.

  ‘Over there!’ she said, pointing in the direction of the bumbil tree silhouetted against the stars. ‘I saw someone.’

  Karl turned to stare into the dark and now he too could see the outline of a man standing and holding a long spear.

  ‘Wallarie,’ Karl murmured and brought the sulky to a stop, clambering over the side and striding towards the solitary figure.

  ‘Hello, Pastor, you got any baccy?’ Wallarie greeted.

  Karl came to a stop before his old friend. ‘We have been worried about you,’ he said, restraining himself from grasping the old warrior and giving him a hug.

  ‘I bin all right,’ Wallarie replied with a smile that exposed his nicotine-stained teeth.

  ‘You need to come with Mrs Schumann and myself to the mission house and have a good meal – and some tobacco.’

  ‘Can’t do that,’ Wallarie replied. ‘Dunno why, but ancestor spirits telling me no.’

  Karl ignored his superstitious talk of spirits. ‘Why did you come?’ Karl asked. ‘I know that it takes a lot to get you to venture out in the night.’

  ‘Bad dreams about black water and debil debils,’ Wallarie replied. ‘Dunno what they mean. Making me worried something bad goin’ to happen.’

  Karl could see that the old man was worried, but he didn’t know how he could help him. He could hardly start talking to him about Sigmund Freud’s interpretation of dreams. ‘Everything is worse in the dark, old friend. I wish you’d come home with me and eat. We can talk there, in front of the fire.’

  Wallarie frowned. ‘Maybe I go and dream some more,’ he said. Then he turned and walked away, leaving Karl wondering whether he had been a figment of his imagination. There was always something eerie about the old warrior.

  ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’ said Karolina as Karl resumed his seat and took the reins.

  ‘It was Wallarie,’ Karl confirmed. ‘It has been a long time since I saw him last.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He wanted to talk to me about a strange dream he was having,’ Karl said, flicking the reins. ‘He said that he was dreaming about dark water.’

  Karl heard Karolina’s sharp intake of breath and glanced in her direction. She had her hands up to her face and even in the dim light of the sulky lantern he could see fear etched in her features. ‘What is it?’ he asked in alarm.

  ‘The dream of dark water,’ Karolina said, staring ahead into the darkness. ‘I was speaking with Giselle tonight, and we both said how recently we had both been plagued by a disturbing dream of water. And now you say that the Aboriginal is having the same dream.’ She turned to Karl. ‘This could not be coincidence. What does it mean? I feel it has a terrible link with death – yet I cannot say why.’

  Karl shook his head. ‘It is just a coincid
ence,’ he said softly. ‘Wallarie is always babbling about strange things. Dreams do not predict our future. Only God can do that.’

  ‘But the dreams?’ Karolina said. ‘It cannot be a coincidence.’

  She fell into a deep silence and did not say another word all the way home.

  *

  In the sacred cave Wallarie sat before his small fire as the flames brought alive the ochre paintings on the walls depicting the life of his now dead people. Wallarie knew that he had annoyed the ancestor spirits by disobeying the command to stay away from the Europeans, and he accepted their punishment. He was going blind, his vision slowly blurring until eventually his world would be filled only with darkness.

  Possums rustled in the treetops outside and the musty smell of ages permeated all corners of the cavern. This was a place where only men should enter. Wallarie began chanting his song, staring at the flames dancing small corroborees for him. After the constellations had wheeled across the southern skies he saw the dark water mixing with the flames. As he continued to stare beyond pictures of flames and water he saw a distorted face flowing with the water. Wallarie did not know the man’s name but he had seen him before when he had flown on the night sky to a place far to the south. He had known then that the man was evil and now the meaning of the water became apparent.

  A dingo howled from far away and its call brought the old warrior back to where he was in the world of living men.

  ‘Bloody ancestor spirits,’ he mumbled softly lest they hear him. ‘Bugger a man around. Could have told me before.’

  He knew that he had a duty to go to the pastor and warn him about a man who would bring death. But would he believe old Wallarie? He hadn’t seemed too concerned when he’d tried to talk to him about the dream. Besides, the old warrior would have to find a way of delivering his warning without causing the dreaming spirits to become angry again; if they took his eyesight away after last time, who knew what they’d take away next time. Those ancestor spirits, they were such an easily annoyed mob.

  11

  The weeks of being confined to battalion HQ had been frustrating for Tom. The battalion had been pulled back behind the front line to conduct training, so at least they weren’t in the thick of things without him. The regiment had had reinforcements sent up and for the platoon it had generally been a quiet time away from the horrors of the fighting.

  But the lull fooled no one as the soldiers watched their officers hurrying backwards and forwards to brigade HQ for orders. This was simply a preparation to return renewed to the fighting. The German army had spent itself in its spring offensive and had fallen back on old defensive lines. There was even an optimism among the Allies that the Kaiser might be feeling the strain of the newly arrived American army entering the fray with fresh troops and an enthusiasm not yet blunted by the realities of trench warfare.

  It was the height of summer and Tom sorted through a pile of newly issued gas masks while his platoon sat around a short distance during a break in their lessons on the use of the Lewis gun. The field was now dotted with drying flowers and browning grass as the sun beat down on the rolling fields. Birds could be heard above the distant thump of artillery shells, which reminded the men at rest that the war was always ready to welcome them back to hell.

  Tom picked up a mask, searching quickly but thoroughly for any faults. He was diligent in his work as he knew the user’s life might depend on its efficiency. He was being assisted by Private Dean, who had been detached from his section to carry out battalion duties for the day.

  The young soldier passed Tom a mask. ‘At least this got us out of a route march, Sarge,’ he said, gazing over at the rest of the platoon. They had all been on a long training march and were now having a lesson from a young second lieutenant who had recently joined the battalion. It was obvious that Tom’s platoon were humouring the young officer, whose keenness had not yet been dampened by the harsh realities of combat. The Lewis machine-gun had been the company’s constant companion, and all knew it as well as any tool they had ever used.

  ‘Who’s your section commander now?’ Tom asked, rejecting a mask that he found to have a hole in it.

  ‘We got Lance Corporal Paddy Bourke,’ Dean answered. ‘I’m sure he’ll get his second stripe when he takes over from Corporal Smithers.’

  ‘You got a good man there,’ Tom said. ‘He’ll look after your lot.’

  ‘When you coming back to the platoon?’ Dean asked.

  Tom took out a pipe, stuffed the bowl with a plug of tobacco. ‘How about we take a smoko break?’ he said to Dean, who was pleased to have a time away from the tedious but essential task of checking gas masks, even though he didn’t smoke. Both men sat down on the drying grass and gazed across a paddock where fat cows grazed behind a low stone wall.

  ‘You did well back a few weeks ago when the Hun almost overran us,’ Tom said and he could see Dean grow warm with his praise.

  ‘Thanks, Sarge,’ he mumbled, ducking his head. ‘I know it’s not my place but I don’t think you tried to kill Corporal Smithers,’ he blurted out. ‘I told the investigating officer that I saw Corporal Smithers cowering in the trench during the attack, but the adjutant didn’t put that in my statement. I wouldn’t have held it against you if you had done away with him anyway. He’s a real bastard, that one. The things he was saying about you had to be lies.’

  Tom puffed on his pipe, watching the smoke curl away on the hot air of the midday sun. ‘What was he saying about me?’

  ‘Well,’ Dean squirmed, realising that he had started something now.

  ‘C’mon, Private Dean, what was Corporal Smithers saying about me?’

  ‘Well, that when we last had leave in the village, your fiancée was sleeping with him behind your back,’ Dean replied awkwardly.

  ‘A bloody lie,’ Tom scoffed, but he could not forget the sight of Juliet waving to him tearfully as the truck drove away, and Smithers standing behind her, grinning with malice. The letters he had written to Juliet had not been answered, and that worried him. Something was wrong, and he only hoped it was the French mail system.

  Both men were still sitting when Tom spotted the regimental sergeant major marching towards them. They jumped to their feet and stood to attention. ‘Are you satisfied that all the masks here are ready for use, Sergeant Duffy?’ he asked by way of greeting.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tom replied. ‘Those over there failed the test.’ He pointed to a much smaller pile of discarded masks.

  ‘Good,’ RSM Pink said. ‘Private Dean, you are relieved of your duties here and are to report back to your platoon commander. As for you, Sergeant Duffy,’ the RSM said, ‘you are to report immediately to BHQ. Ensure that you are spick and span as you are to report to the commanding officer. So make sure your boots and brass are polished. I will be parading you within the hour.’

  Tom did not need to ask why he was being paraded before the CO. At last it was time for his case to be heard.

  The adjutant sat in a foldaway field chair in the corner of the CO’s office while the battalion’s commanding officer pored over his final report, flipping through statements. The adjutant sat very still as he watched his CO ruminating on what he had written in his summary.

  ‘You are satisfied that your findings are correct?’ the CO finally asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the adjutant replied. ‘I feel that Sergeant Duffy should be considered for a court-martial on the charge of attempted murder.’

  ‘Hmm,’ the CO sighed, looking up at his adjutant. ‘We’re going back into the lines in a few days. All I have to add to your report is my concurrence on your findings, and the Sergeant Duffy matter will be handed over to the provost marshal.’

  ‘That is where the matter belongs, sir,’ the adjutant said. ‘I feel sorry for the man. It is not his fault that he was born with a stroke of the tarbrush in him. From what I have heard, the black blood makes them unreliable and shiftless. Besides . . .’

  ‘Besides, how do you explain that Sergean
t Duffy was awarded a DCM when he was actually recommended for the VC?’ the CO finished for him. ‘But then again, how do you explain that his platoon commander’s report is on my desk recommending Sergeant Duffy for a Military Medal for his actions in the last bash by the Huns?’

  The adjutant squirmed at the obvious rebuke from his CO. ‘I am sorry, sir, but I can only base my findings on the evidence placed before me and what is known of the Aboriginal people.’

  ‘I understand that, adj,’ the CO said. ‘As you are aware, I trust your judgement. Send Sergeant Duffy in.’

  Tom was waiting at attention outside the office door of the CO in the company of the RSM, who stood stiffly to attention with his swagger stick tucked under his arm. Tom noted that there were no soldiers to escort him away if he was to be charged. Not that their absence necessarily meant he wasn’t facing a lengthy time in a prison.

  The door opened and the adjutant poked his head out. ‘March Sergeant Duffy in, RSM,’ he commanded.

  Barking his orders, the RSM led Tom into the CO’s office, where Tom snapped a smart salute on the orders of the RSM and remained stiffly at attention before the CO’s desk. Tom was aware that he was sweating and his heart was beating too quickly.

  ‘Stand Sergeant Duffy at ease, RSM,’ the CO said quietly and the RSM barked out the order. Tom relaxed only slightly, and hoped that his trembling knees would not give way under him. From the corner of his eye he could see the adjutant standing to his left just behind him, his hands behind his back.

  ‘Sergeant Duffy,’ the CO said, ‘a thorough enquiry into the matter occurring a few weeks ago between yourself and Corporal Smithers has been conducted. The adjutant, as the investigating officer, has given me his report, which is now on my desk.’ He tapped a close file. ‘He has concluded that there is enough evidence to have you charged with attempted murder and it is up to me to sign the report and concur with his findings.’

  Tom legs shook and his palms began to sweat. His whole future hung in the balance. The CO had paused and Tom could see that he was deep in thought, clearly struggling with some sort of problem. Finally, he spoke.