Beyond the Horizon

by Peter Watt

  George opened the packets of sandwiches and handed one to Jack but ignored Billy. The two men ate, brushing constantly at the annoying flies that had been attracted by the scent of meat.

  ‘All right I go for a walk down the creek, Mr Macintosh?’ Billy asked. ‘Boss wants to know how much water we got there.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ George replied. ‘Be back within the hour.’

  ‘All right, boss,’ Billy said and walked away, leaving the two men in the sparse shade of the stunted tree.

  ‘I thought we might go for a walk up the hill,’ George said. ‘I believe there is some sort of cave up there.’

  Jack had taken the bottle of gin from the sulky and poured himself a generous drop in a glass. ‘Not my kind of thing to go waltzing around this godawful country,’ he said. ‘But you go – if you want a case of sunstroke.’

  George frowned. ‘Just don’t drink the whole bottle,’ he said, turning to take a track he could vaguely see imprinted into the rock and earth at the foot of the hill.

  George climbed for what seemed a long time; the back of his legs were beginning to ache. He was not used to hard physical exercise and soon had to sit down on a rock about a hundred yards from what he thought was the summit. He wished he had brought the canvas water bag hanging from the side of the sulky. George was hot and thirsty and thought he might have had a touch too much sun. He removed his floppy wide-brimmed hat and waved it in front of his face to create a cooling breeze. Maybe he should have listened to Jack, he mused.

  As George sat on a rock gazing back across the plains he experienced a ringing in his ears. It was the silence, he thought. He was so used to living in a city with its honking horns of automobiles and clip-clop of draught horses pulling wagons and din of constant voices that this silence was eerie. The sun was a blazing ball of fire and his vision blurred as the plains danced in shimmering swirls.

  ‘Got to get back for water,’ he muttered, attempting to rise, but he found he could not. And then all the terror he could ever have imagined took shape before him. George immediately sensed that his life was in dire peril, and he knew from whom.

  ‘Wallarie!’ he gasped as the swirling image of a war-painted warrior loomed before him. The warrior was holding high a long hardwood spear balanced on a woomera – the means to give the spear leverage when hurled at its target. But the man could not be Wallarie, could he? This was a hard-muscled young warrior at the peak of his fighting prowess. The distance was only about twenty paces between them, and George knew that within seconds he would die a slow death, pieced by the long spear just like his illustrious ancestor, Sir Donald Macintosh, all those years earlier. George tried to scream but no words came. Instead it was as if he was hearing a warning in his head to leave Glen View immediately and never return. For him to remain meant certain death. George knew that he had soiled himself in his abject terror and fell to his knees before the fearsome spectre to beg for his life.

  With great difficulty George lifted his head and was stunned to see that the young warrior was gone but George could still sense his presence close by. For the first time ever he prayed for his life and for minutes he remained kneeling, waiting for the spear to pierce his body. The fatal wound did not come and eventually George rose cautiously to his feet.

  The smell of his fear still with him, he stumbled blindly down the track to the spot where he had left Jack. The man was asleep propped up against the sulky, gin bottle in his hand.

  George stopped and the fear returned with a sudden rush. Within a foot of where Jack dozed was a long spear protruding from the earth.

  ‘Wake up, you stupid bastard!’ George screamed. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

  Jack stirred, blinked and forced himself to his feet. It was then that he noticed the spear sunk in the dry earth inches from where he had slept. ‘What the bloody hell is this?’ he said but did not touch the terrifying object.

  ‘It could have been your death,’ George snapped, casting around for their guide, who he spotted walking back to them through the scrub.

  Jack was not completely drunk and George’s dishevelled appearance startled him. ‘Bloody hell,’ he sniffed. ‘Did you step in something bad?’

  ‘You, Billy, get over here quick, and get us out of here,’ George shouted, clambering aboard the sulky.

  Billy joined them, and his attention was caught by the sight of the spear. ‘Baal,’ he said. ‘Very bad. Wallarie angry. We must go now.’

  ‘As quick as you can,’ George said, glancing all around him at the lengthening shadows. He did not want to be out here when the sun went down.

  ‘What happened?’ Jack asked, following George into the sulky.

  ‘Nothing I want to talk about. But we will be leaving Glen View first thing in the morning.’

  ‘I hate to say it, but you stink like you shat yourself,’ Jack said, wrinkling his nose. George glared at him, discouraging any further questions about his physical state. ‘What about the boy?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Another time and another place,’ George replied. ‘Anywhere but here.’

  29

  The following day a still pale George Macintosh had his carpetbag put in the sulky.

  ‘I am surprised you are leaving so soon,’ Hector said, attempting to keep his pleasure under control at seeing the odious man departing. ‘You have not had a chance to inspect the workings of the property.’

  Jack Firth was already seated in the sulky and George climbed up beside him.

  ‘I have seen enough, Mr MacManus, and I am satisfied that you are managing well enough to retain your position here,’ George replied.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Macintosh,’ Hector replied just as Karl, Karolina and young David approached the homestead in their sulky. George saw the three and scowled.

  ‘I see that Wallarie is watching over you for your trip, Mr Macintosh,’ Hector said.

  George looked up in alarm. ‘Where?’ he asked, suddenly fearful again at the mention of the old Aboriginal’s name.

  ‘Up there,’ Hector answered, pointing to the sky where a huge wedge-tailed eagle soared in the azure skies above the homestead. ‘My men believe that Wallarie can turn into an eagle and take to the skies.’

  Shielding his eyes with his hand, George looked up at the majestic bird circling overhead. ‘I do not believe in such superstition, Mr MacManus,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘We will be going now.’ He indicated to the driver to set off and as the sulky disappeared down the track Hector could swear that George Macintosh was still warily watching the eagle in the sky.

  Hector turned his attention to the pastor, who had brought his sulky to a stop in the front yard of the homestead.

  ‘I see that Mr Macintosh has left suddenly,’ Karl said with a slight smile. ‘I wonder why.’

  Both men passed knowing looks, but did not need to mention Wallarie’s name. Some things in the vast inland stretches of Australia’s rugged land defied logical explanation.

  In a hospital in Sydney, Louise Macintosh gave birth to a daughter.

  She lay back holding her infant and tears of joy flowed down her cheeks at the sight of the tiny creature squirming in her arms.

  ‘You will be mine,’ Louise said softly as the infant reached up with a tiny balled fist to touch her new world of strange sounds and scents. ‘Your father will have no interest in a girl. A daughter will play no part in his ambitions.’

  George was still away in Queensland, and her first visitor was Sean Duffy carrying a huge bouquet of flowers.

  ‘She’s as beautiful as you,’ Sean said, gazing down at the baby girl Louise was cradling in her arms.

  Louise could not express her deepest wish that the child had been Sean’s.

  On a wharf in Brisbane two very well-dressed young men stood side by side waiting to board the ship to take them to Sydney and then on through the Suez Canal to England.

  Matthew and Tom Duffy turned the heads of more than one young woman also waiting to board. Well-dressed and handsome,
both men stood out for their manly bearing.

  Matthew’s journey would end at Suez where he would disembark to make his way to Jerusalem to organise his new enterprise in the territory the British controlled in the former Ottoman Empire. Black gold was drawing the big companies to the desert lands in search of deposits beneath the sands, and Matthew knew they would require air transport to prospect and move supplies to remote areas. By doing so he would be able to continue flying and be close to the land Joanne had loved so much.

  For Tom it would be a case of disembarking in England and using his wealth to search for the woman he loved. The war was over for the two men who had lost four years of their lives to fear and death. Now was a time to use their courage and initiative to find a new life in the peace that followed the Great War.

  Once a year, Kate Tracy attended a meeting of her directors in Brisbane to review the progress of her many investments nationally and internationally.

  Her Brisbane office had a small but lavish boardroom with a great teak table and the walls adorned with expensive paintings. When Kate entered the room the directors rose as if the queen herself was in their presence.

  Kate sat at the head of the table as each director delivered his report and listened to the drone of facts and figures. However, her mind was not on the delivery of the good news that the war had increased profit for most of her diverse enterprises. Instead, she found herself gazing at a painting that her former cattle manager, Randolph Gates, whom she had respected and liked, had recommended she buy. It was a scene of cowboys in Montana mustering cattle, which had a nostalgic meaning to him as he had been hired by her years earlier to manage the breeding of a strain of cattle better suited to the tropics before leaving the American state.

  ‘In all, Mrs Tracy, we have an overall increase in profits of thirty-five percent,’ the vice president of the board announced.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Howard,’ Kate responded. ‘I must extend my personal congratulations to you all for your sterling service over the past twelve months and inform you that Mr Howard will be acting in my place for the next six months. I am sure that you will welcome this decision as we all know that Mr Howard has proved himself more than capable over the years. Now, I think it is time that I closed this meeting and allowed you gentlemen to retire for cigars and a well-deserved drink.’

  All stared with surprise at Kate’s announcement; she had never handed over control like this before. It was most unlike this gentle but iron-willed businesswoman. Kate could see their looks of surprise and smiled. ‘Gentlemen, I have decided that money is not as important as those we cherish in our lives. I know that two of my board members lost sons in the Great War, and also know that all the money in the world cannot bring them back. I have booked to journey to America, which, as you know, is the homeland of my late and much loved husband, Luke Tracy. The years are passing so fast that I feel it is time I saw his land before I pass on. I also have other reasons to visit America. Be assured, however, that I will be back before the end of the year.’

  Wishes of goodwill came from the members of the board, who not only respected but liked this astounding woman who had built a financial empire from the dangers and trauma of her youth.

  Kate thanked them and then said, ‘Mr Howard, if I could have a word with you in your office.’ With this, she left the room.

  In his office, Mr Howard thanked Kate the trust she had placed in him.

  ‘I need to know more about our American investments,’ she said, taking a seat and accepting a cup of tea. ‘Do we have any links to the banks?’

  Howard was very well versed in the company’s portfolio of offshore investments. ‘We have a considerable share base in certain banks,’ he replied.

  ‘Good,’ Kate smiled. ‘I would like you to prepare a report before I depart for America.’

  ‘May I ask your interest in our US banking interests?’ Howard asked and Kate paused for a moment before answering. Then she explained what she planned to do and Howard sat down at his desk in his utter astonishment. He could see that Kate was deadly serious and could not help but break into a broad smile. He shook his head and his smile became a chuckle.

  ‘Bloody Yanks – excuse my language, Mrs Tracy – won’t know what’s hit them.’

  Kate sipped her tea and smiled.

  Now that Matthew had chosen to return to Palestine Kate was once again alone. Oh, how like his father Matthew was. He was born to roam the world in search of purpose and fortune. But at least he had given her the greatest gift she could have wanted – grandchildren. Nothing would stop Kate now. As a young woman she had made her fortune on the goldfields of the Palmer River. She had known two husbands and lost them both, stood and fought the wild and courageous Merkin tribesmen in a pitched battle, and survived the terrible hardships of the wild frontier of north Queensland when the state was still a British colony. She had slowly built a financial empire and had done it as a single woman raising a son. Although he did not know it, James Barrington Snr was about to confront the most formidable foe he had ever encountered.

  EPILOGUE

  June 1919

  Today was the day George Macintosh expected to hear from Sir Hubert that he was to be knighted by the king. George hurried to the exclusive Australia Club to meet Sir Hubert and found that in his eagerness he had arrived first. George settled back in a deep and comfortable leather chair, Scotch in his hand and smile on his face. When Sir Hubert arrived George rose to greet him.

  ‘Well, old chap,’ he said without any of the polite preliminaries. ‘Do you have the news?’

  Sir Hubert settled in a chair facing George and ordered a whisky from a passing waiter. George had to admit he was feeling a little nervous. At least nervous was better than the nightmares that still haunted him in the darkness of the night since his return from Glen View.

  ‘I’m sorry, George, old chap,’ Sir Hubert said. ‘But the past year there has been too much scandal associated with you and your companies. The bestowal of your knighthood has been deferred.’

  The news struck George as painfully as if Wallarie had pieced his chest with his fire-hardened spear. He sat stunned. The bloody curse, he thought.

  ‘However,’ Sir Hubert continued, ‘given time, I am sure that you will be renominated.’

  ‘I bloody well better be,’ George snarled. ‘Considering how much has gone into your party’s coffers and your own pocket. How long . . . a year, two years?’

  Sir Hubert looked uncomfortable. ‘Two years should see things settle down. I am sure it will eventually be approved.’

  George swallowed the remaining whisky in his crystal tumbler and glared at the senior public servant. ‘Two years,’ he said firmly. ‘After that, if it has not been approved, you and your party can go to hell.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, old chap,’ Sir Hubert protested. ‘You have to look at it from our point of view. A knighthood now would raise questions in the house, but the newspapers will move onto some other scandal and the death of that unfortunate girl will be quickly forgotten.’

  George had heard enough. He stood up and left, without bothering to shake hands with Sir Hubert.

  George stepped out into the bitter cold of the day and glanced up at the scudding clouds whipped through the sky by a southerly gale. Nothing seemed to have gone well since his visit to Glen View, he thought morosely, pulling up the collar of his overcoat as he walked along the street. His wife had given birth to a useless daughter when George had hoped for a boy to strengthen his future hold on the family name. George could have nurtured a fierce competitiveness among two boys to see which would emerge the stronger.

  A girl was of no use to him. His wife had given his daughter the name of Sophia – not that George cared much.

  Worse still was the death of Jack Firth, whose violent and mysterious death still caused talk on the streets. Drunk one night, Jack had been returning home when it appeared he had been confronted by a robber and stabbed to death in the dark. The police thought
the killing had been done by an ex-serviceman with experience in using a bayonet. Although neither the murder weapon nor a suspect had been located, the single thrust under the ribcage and into the chest cavity was remarkably like that of a killing thrust from a soldier armed with the long, deadly blade of the bayonet.

  Although the name of Harry Griffiths had been pandered about among investigating detectives, it seemed the man had an airtight alibi at the time Firth was killed. Harry Griffiths was playing cards with the well-known and respected Sydney solicitor, Sean Duffy. There were no other leads, and it seemed that the murder of the former detective inspector would remain unsolved.

  Without Jack Firth in his employ, George felt vulnerable. He had no one to do his dirty work for him now, nor did he have anyone within the police force to watch out for his interests.

  George was sure that his wife had renewed her affair with Sean Duffy, as she disappeared for long periods and was haughty in her responses to his questions of her whereabouts. He was sure people were talking behind his back about the affair. He was angry and humiliated, but he could not afford to alienate Louise – she knew too much about his private life and he could not afford the public shame and scandal of a separation, not after all the business with Maude Urqhart.

  It was as if all George’s power was slipping away; he felt old and weak and powerless.

  As if to add to the weight of misfortune weighing him down, the sky burst asunder and rain poured down. George hunched against the rain, knowing that when returned to his office he would have to deal with the German chemical company and the huge loss the company was having to carry as a result of his investment. Somehow, he would have to find a way of keeping the loss from the company directors. It was just another nail in the cross he found himself hanging from. Damn the curse!