Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (36 page)

Tom and Henry were swallowed by the bush before Wallarie could reload. He strung together a string of invective words that Tom used when he was particularly angry at the world. Wallarie’s grasp of the English language was improving.

Without wasting precious time, he turned on his heel and sprinted back to where his horse was tethered a half mile further into the scrub. The bloody white man had fooled him with the appearance of settling in for the night. But it was not over, as the moon was on his side and he knew where the policeman was taking Tom.

Henry did not believe for a moment that he had shaken off Wallarie. But he was able to console himself that the night made it harder for the Aboriginal bushranger to track them. When they had galloped for what Henry considered a safe distance out of Wallarie’s reach, he ordered Tom to walk his horse.

‘You’re not going to throw him, Sergeant James,’

Tom said as he let his mount find her own way in the dark. ‘He’ll be on you before dawn.’

Henry ignored the Irishman’s confidently delivered warning, although he had a bad feeling he was probably right. For now they would ride until just after midnight, when Henry hoped that the setting moon would leave the vast plains under a cloak of darkness and he would snatch some sleep, shielded from the Aboriginal’s searching eyes.

Henry knew with the coming of the sun it would be a long day of exhaustive vigilance for him as they drew closer to Burketown. Wallarie would become more desperate in his attempts to free his friend. Henry realised that he would always have to be looking over his shoulder right up to the front steps of Lieutenant Uhr’s office.

Piccaninny dawn came with its soft light across the stunted tree plain as Tom felt his shoulder being shaken.

‘Wake up . . . time to start moving,’ Henry whispered in his ear as he bent to unlock the manacles from behind Tom’s back. The first of the diurnal creatures, the little bush birds, began to make sweet chirping calls as they stirred with the false dawn.

‘Sleep well, Sergeant James?’ Tom asked with an edge of facetiousness as he yawned and tried to stretch his cramped muscles. ‘Hope you did because I . . .’ The bushranger did not have a chance to finish his statement.

The strike was swift and deadly!

Henry yelped with shock and tumbled backwards. ‘Jesus help me! I’m a dead man,’ Henry screamed as he scrambled in the dim light to get away from the tree. Confused, Tom searched frantically for sight of Wallarie. But there was no sign of the tall warrior.

He suddenly froze and dared not move a muscle. The dark and sinister shape of the snake slithered away from near his foot and, with rising horror, Tom realised that the snake had nested in a rotting log behind him as he had lain chained to the tree. In the half light of the dawn, Henry had not noticed the log which gave way under his foot, and the usually sluggish snake struck with blinding speed. The needle-sharp fangs had hit just above the top of his riding boot.

‘Let me free, I can help you,’ Tom yelled at Henry, who ripped at the trouser leg that was tucked into his boot. ‘I’ve seen things the blacks do for snakebite.’ Tom found himself suddenly and unexpectedly on the English sergeant’s side. No one warranted the agonising death that came with the spread of the poison. Not even a trap. Death from the much-feared snakes of the Gulf Country was hideous and cruel. And death was certain if the bite was not treated.

Henry slumped to the ground feeling for the bite and located the puncture wounds in the calf of his leg. Blood flowed from the jagged short gash the snake’s fangs had inflicted and the flesh around the wound was sensitive to touch. The pain had not yet come from the venom. He heard Tom’s plea to help him but held little hope of his surviving the reptile’s bite.

‘I’ll free you, Tom, but I doubt if you can help me. I’m a dead man,’ he said bitterly. He was resigned to his inevitable fate. It was ironic, he thought, that he should survive a war and the events of policing on the frontier only to die from a snakebite. ‘I can’t leave you manacled to the tree in case your blackfella doesn’t find you. I’ll let you go.’

He fumbled for the keys and passed them to Tom, who quickly unshackled himself. Henry felt dizzy and slumped to the ground. It did not matter that Tom could take his guns from him now. For him to kill the bushranger served no purpose.

‘Lie still and don’t move around,’ Tom ordered. ‘Do what I say and you just might live.’ He searched frantically about the area for a fresh piece of bark from one of the trees and was careful when he stripped a fragment from a fallen tree trunk. Where there was one snake there could be a nest of them, he cautioned himself.

Tom placed the fragment flat over the puncture marks of Henry’s leg and strapped the bark down firmly with strips of cloth torn from his own shirt. Then he propped the sergeant against a tree and made him sit up.

That was all he could do for the moment and he did not know if he had the right bark or if he had done as Wallarie had once shown him. All he could do now was wait. Either the sergeant died or he lived. Tom hoped he would live. The police sergeant had risked his life to capture Tom alone and that counted for something.

Henry felt the nausea well up and he vomited. Tom sighed. It did not look good for the sergeant.

‘I will kill him,’ Wallarie’s voice came from behind Tom’s shoulder. He turned to see the rifle raised and pointed at Henry. ‘He is a dead man anyway,’ Wallarie said in the Nerambura dialect and Tom understood every word.

Henry did not have to know the Nerambura language to realise he was looking death in the face. And the face of death was black! The Nerambura warrior sighted down the rifle for the fatal shot. After all, had he not done the same to Wallarie’s people when they were facing a slow death from the white man’s bullets all those years earlier.

Henry closed his eyes and forced himself to picture the faces of his wife and son. He knew he was going to die and he wanted his last thoughts to be for the two people he most loved in the world.

THIRTY-FOUR

P
enelope could hardly refuse to attend her own farewell dinner, as Aunt Enid had already selected the guests for the occasion at the Macintosh residence. Penelope’s pending visit to Europe early in the new year had given Enid the opportunity to farewell her niece in a gracious manner.

As Penelope had very rarely visited the Macintosh house over the past four years, she accepted her aunt’s gracious offer with thinly veiled cynicism. Fiona was settled into married life with her brother, Granville, and there was little reason for her to visit her Aunt Enid’s home. Nor had she been able to visit Fiona very often in the years she had been married to her brother. Granville’s presence in Fiona’s life had been an awkward distraction to their friendship and had temporarily thwarted Penelope’s plans for the ultimate revenge. When she had visited her cousin there had always been an ever-present sense that something had been lost between them. Fiona had adopted the role of a dutifully married woman. And yet Penelope had always sensed a tension at their brief afternoon teas in the garden or drawing room. How much she had longed to take her beautiful cousin in her arms and lull her with words and stroke her naked flesh. But she seemed lost to her. Only the unrequited yearning was left and a hope that something might happen to let Fiona see who could truly love her.

Penelope well knew that her aunt still blamed her as a contributing factor in Fiona’s fall from grace when she became embarrassingly pregnant to the Irishman. The dinner was a hypocritical gesture by her as a supposed outward sign of her ability to forget and forgive the past.

Penelope’s mother, Sarah White, had died the previous year in London and left her daughter a substantial legacy, which Penelope had decided to use in a long and luxurious tour of Europe. She had booked passage via India and had intended to make her way to Prussia to visit the von Fellmanns, who were closely related to her deceased mother’s side of the family. As a young girl in England, Penelope had once met her intriguing German cousin, Manfred von Fellmann. The meeting had had a great impact on her at the time, she remembered, and although he had been much older she remembered how as a young girl she had instantly fallen in love with him. He had married but was now a widower. So the visit to Prussia held a special interest for Penelope.

Penelope arrived late as a subtle display of contempt for her aunt. Her carriage rumbled up the driveway and she was helped down by a footman to be greeted warmly by David Macintosh. Penelope genuinely liked her quiet and scholarly cousin, who had recently returned to the colonies from his sojourn of teaching at Oxford. He no longer troubled himself with the management of the family companies as the day-to-day administration was in Granville’s hands after he wed Fiona and the arrangement had proved to be a wise one by Enid. The family’s coffers continued to swell with financial returns under Granville’s competent and shrewd supervision.

David had acquired two new interests in his life since Penelope had last seen him: Miss Charlotte Frost and photography. His interest in photography had been aroused by his contact with Professor Smith at the newly established Sydney University. The daguerreotype process had come a long way since Mister Goodman had opened his gallery in Sydney back in 1842, when he had displayed the remarkable chemical portraits of well-known people around Sydney Town.

And the second interest in David’s life, Miss Charlotte Frost, was pretty and demure. She was of the London Frosts with a well-established bloodline of wealthy merchant entrepreneurs who had growing financial interests in the colonies.

Granville accompanied Fiona to the dinner and they were a handsome couple as they stepped down from their carriage. But when they made their entrance, Penelope thought Fiona looked rather pale and ill. She knew that the birth of Fiona’s second daughter had almost killed her cousin and although it had been three months since the delivery she still had not fully recovered.

Fiona’s eyes sparkled briefly when she greeted Penelope but the dullness returned when she saw her mother approaching. It had been many years since mother and daughter had conducted a civil conversation between them.

Enid was her usual regal self as she moved among the carefully selected guests she had invited to the dinner. Whatever devious reasons Enid may have had for arranging the dinner, Penelope was rather pleased to see that one of the guests invited was the dashing and rather mysterious Captain Morrison Mort.

She had heard much of the captain’s colourful exploits in the South Pacific islands recruiting the natives for the Macintosh plantations and her brother had often expressed his admiration for the
Osprey
’s captain. But she had not previously had the opportunity to meet the man.

Others who had met him thought the rather infamous sea captain cut a rather dashing figure even though it was rumoured that Captain Mort had a dark and violent past shrouded in controversy. Penelope found the man’s history fascinating.

He was possibly in his mid-thirties, she mused, as she watched him discreetly from across the anteroom to the spacious dining salon. He stood stiffly chatting with one of Sydney’s better known matrons and Penelope could see how the woman unashamedly vied for the captain’s attention although her husband, a respectable banker, was standing beside her. He has a most dangerous and attractive aura, she thought, with a stirring of strong physical desire.

Penelope could not keep her eyes off him and she was annoyed that she was continually being intercepted by acquaintances desiring to wish her well on her European tour. She would have preferred to engage the handsome captain in conversation.

During the course of the dinner, Mort was seated at the furthermost end of the table away from Penelope. She was next to Fiona and was engaged in listening politely to her cousin prattle on about her young daughters, Helen and Dorothy. The topic of the conversation had little appeal to Penelope and she thought that Fiona was growing rather dull in married life as she talked incessantly about the girls. Gone were the secret discussions about men and the forbidden subject of sex. And gone was the tender talk of romance. Now Fiona could only talk about children’s sicknesses and problems of teething and of Granville’s desire to see her bear a son.

But Penelope was also aware of a haunted and frightened look in her cousin’s eyes as she spoke of Granville’s need for a male heir. It was the kind of look one would see in the eyes of a cowed dog, Penelope thought, as she listened and made the appropriate polite noises to her cousin. Although she feigned interest Penelope was watching Mort engaged in a deep discussion with her brother at the other end of the table. Captain Mort was certainly a handsome man. And she wondered how it was that he was not married.

She assumed that his roving way of life precluded marriage. He was no doubt one of those exciting men who seized love where and whenever they could. The thought of his rampant approach to love appealed to Penelope. He was not unlike herself in that regard.

With the tedious dinner finally over, the men prepared to retire to the library to smoke cigars and drink port while the ladies retired to sip tea and coffee served in the drawing room.

Penelope excused herself from Fiona’s company and attempted to intercept Mort but she was unsuccessful, as he disappeared with her brother and the other men. Caught in the drawing room, Penelope continued to politely accept the best wishes from the ladies for her journey to Europe. She sighed. Would she ever be able to get the handsome and mysterious captain alone?

Enid had engaged a well-known soprano to entertain the guests and the recital would commence when the men had returned to the drawing room to rejoin the ladies. Penelope was bored with the occasion supposedly for her benefit. Frivolous chatter from dull matrons was not her notion of a good evening and she would glance occasionally across at Fiona, who she could see was also trapped by the mores of polite society into the same dull chatter.

She was finally able to catch Fiona’s eye across the room. Fiona returned the look with one indicating I-want-to-speak-to-you-alone. They stepped discreetly out onto the verandah to take in the cool harbour breezes. Penelope had sensed during the evening that Fiona was eager to get her alone and that the frivolous prattle was really a cover for what she wanted to confide.

The lost years between them fell away as they shared the serenity of the darkened harbour from the verandah where they could hear the men returning to the drawing room with their laughter raucous from the amount of wine and port consumed. Enid introduced the soprano and her accompanist on the piano.

The two women on the verandah stood side by side watching and listening to the inconsequential sights and sounds around them.

‘What is it, Fi?’ Penelope finally asked gently as she could sense Fiona was on the verge of tears.

‘I don’t want to have any more babies, Penny,’ Fiona blurted as she fought back the tears. ‘Granville wants to keep trying until we have a son. But I’m afraid I might die in the next childbirth.’

Penelope placed her arm around Fiona’s shoulders and led her further away from the sounds of the guests in the drawing room. ‘You do what
you
want, Fi,’ she said in a firm voice. ‘My brother’s ambitions are not worth your life.’

Fiona reached up to hold her cousin’s hand resting lightly on her shoulder. ‘I knew there was at least one person in this world who would understand,’ she said gratefully as she smiled weakly and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I knew I could confide in you.’

When they were at the furthermost end of the long verandah, Penelope guided Fiona to one of the cane chairs and took a seat on an adjoining chair. Penelope felt a surge of pity for her cousin, who had started life with so many romantic and foolish ideas about marriage and love. She even thought that it might have been better for her if Michael Duffy had not been killed in the Maori Wars. Michael Duffy might have been socially unacceptable, but at least he was a real man, she thought unselfishly.

‘I wish you weren’t going to Europe, Penny,’ Fiona said with a sad sigh. ‘I have only the visit of Father this Christmas to look forward to. And that will probably mean I will be forced to talk to Mother while he is here.’

‘Well, your father will be very happy to see you,’ Penelope replied cheerfully in an attempt to bolster her spirits. ‘I know he is very fond of his only daughter.’

Fiona had ceased crying and stared blankly at the garden veiled by the night.

‘I don’t think he is much more fond of me than he is of one of his horses,’ she said bitterly and Penelope moved to divert her from recriminations.

‘Your father loves you, Fi. I know that in my heart,’ she said gently. Fiona responded by providing the ghost of a smile for her cousin’s benefit. Yes, she would miss Penelope very much.

The intimacy they had shared on the verandah was broken by Granville, as he had seen Fiona leave the drawing room with his sister and had come to fetch her away. He did not trust his sister any more than he trusted Enid and over the four years he had been married to Fiona, he had noticed his sister’s rare visits to his wife had an unsettling effect on her. There was something there that he could not quite put his finger on. What he did not understand, he did not trust. But it was something very deep.

Fiona excused herself and went obediently with her husband to join her mother’s guests in the drawing room. It was important for Granville that he be seen with his beautiful young wife in public. He owned her and he wanted the world to see that she was his.

Penelope lingered on the verandah alone to enjoy the cool and refreshing night air and pondered on her cousin’s soft hand against hers. The proximity of her beautiful body had rekindled old feelings of desire in her. Feelings that had long lain dormant but never forgotten and nor was the driving need to revenge herself on her brother for the pain he had caused in her life.

She was also aware that the time was not far off when she would take that revenge. Fiona was growing more vulnerable as each day passed and time was on her side.

She was on the verge of joining the guests in the drawing room when she noticed Captain Mort step outside. The soprano’s rendition of the classics had little appeal to a man who grew up in The Rocks.

‘Why don’t you join me, Captain Mort?’ she suggested softly from the shadows. ‘The breezes are much sweeter here.’ With a nod of his head, he strolled down the verandah and sat beside her in the chair that Fiona had recently vacated.

‘Miss White, I believe. I have not had the privilege in all these years of making your acquaintance,’ he said as he lit a corona. ‘A rather unusual situation when I have worked all those years for your brother. I had that opportunity earlier and I must apologise for being remiss in doing so. But I’m afraid business with your brother has taken up most of my time.’

Penelope was aware the captain’s eyes had travelled over her with an undisguised appraisal of her voluptuous body and she liked the feeling of his attention on her which was frank with the lust he obviously felt. But there was something else rather disturbing about the pale eyes that she preferred to ignore. Or was the strangely disturbing aspect of the captain’s stare also sexually exciting to her? They were the eyes of a male animal. She had a fleeting recollection of another man who had the same animal appeal. Michael Duffy!

‘I have heard many stories of your rather colourful exploits in the islands, Captain Mort,’ she said and was surprised to see a guarded expression cloud his handsome face.

His body seemed to tense when he replied suspiciously, ‘What kind of colourful stories, Miss White?’

‘Oh, just that you have had encounters with headhunters and cannibals. Is that true, Captain?’ she asked with genuine innocence and Mort visibly relaxed.

‘Yes. It is true. The
Osprey
has encountered cannibals and headhunters in her travels,’ he replied with some pride for a distorted view of reality. ‘At times we have been forced to defend ourselves against their unwelcome attentions and the rascals have rued the day they ever dared take on the might of the
Osprey.’