A Few Right Thinking Men (13 page)

Wilfred pushed him back toward the Hall. “Rowly, you are not getting involved in this. Your friend made himself a target.”

Rowland swore, furious and dismayed. He tried to break away from his brother, but some of the graziers stepped in to bar his way and hold him still. Wilfred remained calm. “There's nothing you can do, Rowly. You saw how many men were here before.”

“Where the hell are the police?” Rowland demanded. “What happened to the King's laws you're so keen on defending?”

“What do you expect two constables to do against five hundred angry citizens?” Wilfred returned. “You're staying out of this, Rowly.”

“They'll kill him!”

“No, they won't—he'll just get what he deserves.”

McWilliamson laughed again. “Doubt the Red mongrel's seen service. The feathers may quite suit him.”

Rowland felt sick, panicked. He tried another tack. “Wil, I'm your brother. Don't do this to me.”

Wilfred regarded him intently. He checked his pocket watch. “Let him go,” he instructed. To Rowland he said, “Get the other two and go back to Sydney now—I'll have your things sent on.”

“And Milt…?”

“When the mob's finished with him, I'll have him taken back to Sydney, quietly.”

Rowland wondered why Wilfred thought he'd be satisfied with that. Perhaps his brother really did think him a coward. He shook his arms free of the graziers and ran toward the Royal.

The establishment was barricaded shut. Rowland hammered and demanded entry. Who the hell tarred and feathered people? It was the thirties, for God's sake. Where would one even get hold of boiling tar?

The hotelier poked his head out of an upper window and recognised Rowland. He signalled him to come to the back. Rowland did so quickly. Yass appeared to have become a frontier town in the space of a single morning.

He entered through the kitchen. The hotel-keeper, obviously nervous, muttered something about having done all he could. Rowland nodded, glad the man had showed the good sense to close the hotel. Edna was in the office, seated. She wore no hat, and her hair was dishevelled. She was silently sobbing. Clyde sat beside her, holding a wet towel to his face, his white shirt spattered with blood.

Edna looked up as Rowland entered and threw herself into his arms. “Oh God, Rowly, they've taken Milt!”

Rowland held her, but he spoke to Clyde. “I know. Are you all right? Do you know where they took him?”

Clyde took the towel away from his face. One eye was blackened and his nose was swollen and bloody. He shook his head. “There was a heap of them…on some kind of Communist hunt.” He stood up. “They said something about tarring and feathering him.” Clyde's temper flared. “Apparently that's not illegal, not out here!”

“They're going to kill him,” wept Edna.

The hotelier, who had been in the room behind Rowland all this time, spoke up. “I wouldn't worry about it too much, Miss,” he said. “The boys talk about tarring and feathering, but nobody ever remembers to bring the tar or the feathers. And it's not as easy as that anyway, is it? Tar cools so quickly…it's not as if you can carry a bucket of hot tar around with you to pour over a man…”

Rowland was alarmed by the man's detailed knowledge of vigilante reprisals. Edna just became more distraught.

“Look!” Rowland struggled to think calmly. “Where would they have taken him?”

The proprietor rubbed the grizzled stubble on his chin. “To the shire boundary, most likely, but I reckon they'll stay near the river—that way they can throw him in.”

“Where exactly?” asked Rowland, his mouth grim. It was obvious now that this had happened before, and the innkeeper was beginning to try his patience.

The proprietor of the Yass Royal caught his tone, and gave him vague directions to the place he thought would be the most suitable site for a Communist eviction.

“Right.” Rowland headed for the door. “Clyde, are you all right to go?”

Clyde tossed the towel onto the desk. “I'm fine. Let's go get Milt.”

“Ed, you should probably stay here…” Rowland began. It was a futile attempt. The sculptress would have none of it.

“You're not leaving me here, Rowly. These people are mad—what if they come back?” She glanced at the proprietor and whispered. “Do you seriously trust him to protect me?”

Rowland gave in—Edna had a point. “Okay, you two wait at the back door and I'll bring the car around. There's still a fair mob out the front.” He turned to the hotelier. “I assume you've alerted the police?”

The man reddened and looked at his shoes. Clearly he hadn't. Rowland tried to keep his temper. “Once we leave, I presume you will immediately make the authorities aware of the situation.”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland ran out the rear door and back to where he had parked. Despite the antagonism in the centre, the Mercedes was exactly as and where he had left her. A wry relief. This was the country after all—kidnapping was one thing, but property, even a German motorcar, was respected.

Clyde and Edna emerged from the hotel as he pulled up directly outside the back door and, after they piled in, Edna told Rowland more fully what had happened. They had stayed inside—taking care as Rowland had asked—when twenty or so men stormed the hotel and dragged Milton away. Clyde had gone to his aid, but no one else had helped them. “Do you think they'll hurt him?”

“No,” he said, more confidently than he felt. “Not on purpose, anyway. Hopefully they're not organised enough to have tar and feathers on hand.”

“What is wrong with these people?” Edna was both terrified and disgusted.

Rowland kept his eyes on the road. “He'll be all right, Ed.”

“Rowly,” Clyde leant toward him, “Milt can't swim.”

Rowland did not reply, just gritted his teeth and engaged the supercharger again.

As they approached the shire boundary, the wide expanse of the Murrumbidgee River came into view. Rowland cursed—there were hundreds of men by the bank. Periodic cheers indicated that someone was giving a speech. Rowland drove the car as close as he could. Again he tried to talk Edna into remaining behind, and again she refused, adamant that she was safer with him and Clyde. In the end they got out and, keeping Edna between them, pushed their way into the centre of the crowd.

“What the hell are we going to do?” Clyde was at a loss.

Rowland shook his head. He had no idea. Milton was being restrained by four men, while another stood upon a tree stump and rallied the crowd against the Communist traitor in their midst. Nearby burned a campfire over which was hung what Rowland assumed was cauldron of tar. For his part, Milton looked more contemptuous than anything else.

“Righto.” Rowland glanced at Edna, wishing he had insisted that she stay behind. He could not see this becoming anything but ugly.

The trio moved toward the fire, huddled close, shielding Edna as much as possible. The crowd was focussed on Milton. One man waved a set of shears. “Let's cut the dingo's hair,” he yelled. Of course, the crowd roared.

Rowland saw his chance. He bent down and, seizing one of the longer branches protruding from the flames, he used it to topple the cauldron onto its side. As the sticky black liquid spilled onto the coals and the dirt, someone tackled Rowland. Edna screamed and Clyde joined the fray. The crowd pressed in dangerously.

“Good on you, Rowly,” Milton was defiant.

When Rowland was released from the dirt, he and Clyde were beside Milton, and the mob leaders were arguing about how to deal with both the loss of the tar and the additional Communists. Edna was ignored. This was a business for men.

The same baritone from the town rally began to sing “God Save the King.” As before, the mob removed their hats and joined him. At the precise point when the anthem called for the monarch's long reign, Milton's captors lifted him bodily and hurled him into the water. Clyde struggled to get to his friend's aid. Rowland, who knew the river, was less frantic. Milton stood up in the waist deep water, covered in mud and swearing furiously just as the chorus became loud enough to drown him out.

The blood of the mob was high but Milton was not going quietly. He began to sing “The Red Flag,” off-key, but as stridently as the others were singing their anthem.

Men waded in and dragged him back to shore. The outraged crowd was not going to be satisfied with a mere dunking, and Rowland had thwarted their intention to tar and feather Milton. Suggestions were shouted.

“Give them all a bloody good hiding!”

“I say shoot them.”

“Don't be stupid—that's Rowland Sinclair.”

“We'll shoot the others—we'll horsewhip Sinclair.”

“A rich Red is still a Red.”

Milton fell into silence. This was getting very dangerous.

A gunshot cracked the air. Instantaneously it quelled the mob. The sounds of engines and horns were now audible and the crowd parted as several motorcars and farm trucks approached in billows of dust. The Rolls-Royce Phantom stopped just in front of the smoking campfire, the tar only feet from its tyres.

Wilfred Sinclair stepped out.

Chapter Sixteen

Wilfred glowered. He was a man who did not even think to doubt his authority over everyone present. “What's going on here, Jessop?” He singled out one of the mob leaders.

“Just showing these Reds how we deal with their kind out here, Mr. Sinclair.”

“I think you mean the Red, Jessop.” Wilfred turned his eyes to the dripping Milton, whose head had been roughly shorn of its long tresses. “I believe you have made your point.”

“We're not finished.”

“I believe you are.”

“Rowland Sinclair is a bloody Red lover.”

The words of anger spat from one of the men who was restraining Rowland. The crowd rumbled its assent.

Wilfred's eyes flashed. “Weatherall, isn't it? You'll meet many Reds when you join the ranks of the unemployed.”

Weatherall let Rowland go and stepped back. He didn't work on Oaklea, but then, Wilfred Sinclair did have that kind of power. “I didn't mean it, Mr. Sinclair…”

“You would all be well advised to leave my brother to me. Rowly, come here.”

Rowland looked at his remaining captors, and they too dropped their hold of him. He stepped forward, but unsurely. He might have escaped the wrath of this mob, but Wilfred looked furious enough to shoot him. The vigilantes watched as Wilfred's livid blue Sinclair eyes locked the rebellious gaze of his brother's. “Leave,” he said.

“I'm not going alone.”

Wilfred motioned toward Milton and Clyde and they, too, were released. “We don't want them here, anyway. Now go, all of you.”

Rowland nodded. He grabbed Edna's hand and Wilfred walked with them to the car. The crowd stood back, their certainty in their cause undermined by the presence of Wilfred Sinclair. Wilfred waited until the engine kicked over before he leant toward Rowland and whispered, “You wait for me at the Gunning Cemetery. Now, for God's sake, go!”

Rowland said nothing…Wilfred was beginning to scare him.

Gunning was a small, unremarkable settlement, more a hub for the surrounding farms than a centre in its own right. The main street was deserted when they drove in, a couple of carts and an Oldsmobile parked by the post office. Rowland wondered whether all the good men of Gunning had gone to hear Charles Hardy speaking in Yass. They stopped only to refuel the Mercedes, and then drove out to the cemetery, parking under the shade of a large plane tree.

“Are you sure you want to wait, Rowly?” Clyde was worried. “We could just head straight home to Sydney. Wilfred looked pretty wild.”

“I'm not afraid of Wil,” Rowland rubbed the dust off the mascot of his car with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Perhaps you should be.”

“Bugger Wil! Bugger him and his flaming lynch mob!” Milton shouted, taking off his once-cream jacket, now caked in fine Murrumbidgee mud.

“Don't be stupid, Milt,” Edna snapped. “If it wasn't for Wilfred, they might have shot the three of you. Why can't you just learn to keep your mouth shut?”

“Last I heard we lived in a democracy.” Milton snarled back at her. “No one expects Campbell or his Fascist cronies to keep their mouths shut, so why should we?”

“Because you might have got Rowly and Clyde killed. Don't you care about that?”

Before Milton could argue further, Wilfred's black Rolls-Royce pulled up, and he stepped out. Rowland could see McWilliamson and Maguire still inside the car.

Wilfred tipped his hat to Edna. “Miss Higgins.”

“Mr. Sinclair.” Edna looked at him openly, sincerely. “Thank you.”

He nodded slightly. “Unnecessary. Rowly come with me.” He turned and walked into the cemetery. Rowland followed.

Wilfred took them far enough to afford some level of privacy and then he turned on his brother, delivering a furious tirade as they stood among the headstones of Gunning's deceased. “You would do bloody well to remember that if the Communists get their way, we will lose everything and your arty hangers-on won't have any Woodlands House or Sinclair fortune to sponge on. You've always been irresponsible, Rowly—spoiled. Everything's been handed to you, and yet you will do nothing to hold on to it. You don't know the meaning of sacrifice. In your selfish headlong pursuit of your own pleasure, you're determined to undo what has been achieved by better men!”

Wilfred stepped closer, his voice shaking with unmitigated anger. “What the blazes do I have to do to get through to you?”

Rowland had taken Wilfred's dressing down in stony silence; but by now his own fury had grown to match his brother's. “Go to hell, Wil. If you want to play tin soldiers, carry on, but don't expect me to sit calmly by.”

Wilfred hit him, hard, and Rowland fell back against a headstone, too surprised to react.

Wilfred, too, seemed startled by his own action, and then embarrassed. He was not a man normally given to impulse, whatever the provocation. He offered Rowland his hand and helped him to his feet.

“Rowly,” he said, “you're my brother, but I have responsibilities to more than just you. I can't do what I need to if you're running around making me look like a fool.”

Rowland wiped the blood from his lip. “Milt's a mate, Wil. You didn't really expect me to just leave him, did you?”

Wilfred took off his bifocals and polished them with a handkerchief. “I suppose not.” He looked up. “You'll have to go now. You can't come back here—for a long time, I imagine—though I don't suppose that will distress you greatly. It will be hard on Mother, though.”

That reproach stung. “Look, maybe I could…”

Wilfred shook his head. “Just get in that…motorcar and go back to Sydney. I'll sort things out here. If I can.” He met Rowland's eye. “Stay out of this, Rowly. Do you hear me? If you can't stand with me, at least don't stand against me. I wouldn't want to have to shoot you.”

Rowland hoped his brother was joking, but there was no smile in Wilfred's words.

“I'll have your things put on the train,” Wilfred continued as they began to walk back to the cars.

Rowland nodded. “Thank you, Wil.”

Wilfred sighed. “You can thank me by staying out of trouble.” They returned to the plane tree and, with no further farewell, Wilfred's Rolls soon pulled away.

Rowland sat under the tree and rubbed his face. Edna stooped down, and inspected the cut on his lip. Impulsively, she kissed the top of his head. “Don't let Wilfred worry you, Rowly,” she said. “He'll get over it.”

She left him to resume her squabbling with Milton.

Clyde sat down and snorted impatiently toward Edna and the poet. He and Rowland had often sat through the heated arguments between the two. Milton and Edna had known each other since they were children, and they bickered like brother and sister.

“Not the best day, Rowly.”

“I don't know. Milt finally got a haircut.”

Clyde laughed. “I guess it was worth it then.” He got up. “Come on, mate, we better check the car to make sure we're good for the trip back.” Rowland stood and opened the bonnet. Clyde busied himself checking oil and water. Among his long list of past occupations, Clyde Watson Jones had worked at a motor mechanic's garage. He knew what he was doing, and Rowland was happy to leave him to it. Instead he leant against the grill watching Edna and Milton. Clyde looked up and caught the direction of Rowland's gaze. He regarded him sympathetically. The Sinclairs had more money than God, yet the poor bastard was still in love with Edna. Clyde shook his head. They'd all been in love with Edna at some point, but loving her was like looking at the sun—it would send you blind in the end.

He closed the bonnet and stood next to Rowland. “You know, Rowly, Ed's never going to be a Kate.”

Rowland smiled. He was well aware that both Milton and Clyde knew of the torch he carried for the sculptress. “And why would I want her to turn into my brother's wife?”

Clyde shrugged. “You know what I mean, Rowly.”

“Yes, I do,” he said. He was not defensive. There was no point. “Ed's fine just as she is.”