Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (39 page)

THIRTY-SIX

‘S
ir Donald and Lady Macintosh.’

The herald’s announcement turned only a few heads to witness the grand entry of the newly knighted Scottish land and ship owner and his attractive wife into the glittering and packed ballroom. Knights of the realm were not an uncommon item at the 1867 New Year’s Eve ball and their appearance hardly warranted the interruption of polite conversation. The guests of Sir John and Lady Susanna Merle continued to chat among themselves with hardly a glance towards the entrance while the regimental band played a medley of martial airs.

Candles, colour and elegance marked the evening. Colourful mess dress of the dashing regimental officers, both colonial and British; shiny dark dinner suits of the wealthy merchants and leading squatters. Their ladies with sweeping dresses of silk, satin and chiffon. Tiaras and precious stones caught and magnified the soft light of the many candles in the ballroom. The New Year’s Eve ball also attracted guests other than the colonial gentry; ambassadors and a sprinkling of foreign naval officers on attache duty to their respective embassies. Politicians and their wives. Or in one or two cases, their mistresses.

The grand entry of Sir Donald and Lady Enid was noticed by Granville White, who bent to whisper in his wife’s ear, bringing a rare smile to Fiona’s face. Granville took his wife’s arm to escort her over to greet her mother and father, who were making their way slowly through a gauntlet of old friends and acquaintances congratulating them both on Donald’s recent knighthood. The knighthood had been recommended by the New South Wales Government for Donald’s outstanding services to the colony and was couched in the words of praise reserved for men of influence.

Fiona appeared radiant, like a young girl rather than a woman with two daughters, and the pomp and ceremony suited because it gave her an opportunity to lose herself in the merriment and glitter of the occasion. Although she had barely spoken a word to her mother in recent years, she was still proud to see her appear so outstandingly elegant beside her gruff and burly father. She was even prepared to allow a short truce with her mother for her father’s sake.

Granville shook Sir Donald’s hand. ‘Good show, Sir Donald,’ he congratulated and Fiona gave her father a rather bold peck on the cheek, whispering, ‘Well done, Father. You look magnificent tonight!’ But she did not reserve the same warmth for her mother and they exchanged polite, but formal head nods, as recognition of each other’s presence.

Granville was distracted by an acquaintance in the shipping industry and Fiona was glad to have an excuse not to remain in the company of her mother. She was escorted by her husband to meet the boring shipping man and discuss new opportunities along the trade routes of the rapidly opening north of Australia.

Sir Donald might have been a Knight of the Most Noble and Most Ancient Order of the Thistle but he was now feeling more and more out of place in the present company of urban merchants and bankers. He had been so long on the frontier that he felt more at home with the stockmen who had replaced his shepherds than in the company of the glittering colonial elite at the ball. He was more at ease sitting on the verandah of the newly built homestead at Glen View than standing under the imported crystal chandeliers of Sir John’s ballroom. The dust of Glen View was in his blood as much as the memory of the purple thistle of his native land. He now found all the protocol and glitter of Sydney foreign, but he owed his wife his attendance at the ball, as her discreet lobbying and lunches had assisted in getting the knighthood for him.

Sir Donald cast desperate glances around the packed ballroom for any other Queensland squatters who might have been in town for the ball but he could see none and he resigned himself to a boring night being seen in the company of the colony’s rich and famous.

‘Jolly good show your knighthood, Donald,’ Sir Ian Smythe said as he intercepted the knighted squatter searching for a waiter with the champagne. ‘Well deserved, old chap.’

Sir Ian was not a squatter but he had interests in leases in Queensland and he was pleased to be able to discuss pastoral matters with a man of such considerable reputation as the Scot. Sir Donald’s capable management of Glen View was legendary in the south. ‘Heard you cleared Glen View of the darkies a few years back,’ Sir Ian said, striking up a conversation. ‘One of my managers informs me he is having a spot of trouble on Cristabel Downs with them. Says the damned government won’t deploy enough of those native troopers up his way.’

Sir Donald nodded his head sympathetically. At least here was someone he could talk to about the problems on the frontier. ‘It’s the damned liberals in the south who would like to see us humiliated,’ he answered as he procured a crystal flute of the imported champagne. ‘Always out to bring us down.’

The conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Granville, as there was a matter of urgency to discuss and it could not wait. Fiona was left in the company of Charlotte Frost, David’s fiancée, to chat about the forthcoming wedding between her and David.

‘Sir Ian, I pray you are well,’ Granville inquired politely of the robust knight’s health. ‘Rather a warm night for the affair.’

‘Damned warm! But the champagne is cold,’ Sir Ian snorted. He could see from the expression on Granville’s face that he was impatient to talk to Sir Donald. Sir Ian blustered his excuses to collar an influential member of the legislature on matters of political significance affecting his business interests. When they were alone, Granville steered Sir Donald to a relatively quiet corner of the ballroom.

‘Well, Granville, what bad news do you have for me?’ Sir Donald asked gruffly. ‘I know it is bad news because I can tell from the look on your face.’ He would have preferred to stay with Sir Ian rather than talk to his son-in-law.

‘Some damned Presbyterian missionary by the name of Macalister arrived in Sydney about four weeks ago,’ Granville replied. ‘He’s lodged a complaint of murder against the captain of the
Osprey
. He . . .’

‘Mort!’ Sir Donald growled, cutting across his son-in-law. ‘Damned fool. ’Bout the kanaka business, is it?’

‘Well, yes,’ Granville continued. ‘But it could get worse. Mort has a suspicion that he is being followed and watched whenever he leaves his ship. He even fears that, if he sails, the navy will seize the
Osprey
.’

Sir Donald felt the beginnings of acid burn his stomach. The Royal Navy seizing the
Osprey
would bring an unwanted scandal to the Macintosh name and it would not look good in the newspapers that the newly knighted pastoralist was the owner of a ship whose captain was wanted for murder. He cursed himself silently for recommending the man to the job as skipper of the
Osprey
in the first place. But he knew with some guilt that he and the murderous captain were bound by the events of the dispersal years earlier. Mort knew enough to cause more than a scandal.

‘How far has this damned missionary got with his complaint?’ Sir Donald asked his son-in-law.

‘I’m afraid Macalister is drumming up support from the old anti-slavery movements and the newspapers. He’s launched a holy crusade against Mort and the
Osprey,
’ he answered.

‘This . . . on top of the troubles I am having in Queensland,’ Sir Donald growled. ‘I need this right now like I need a speargrass-infested flock of sheep.’

‘I hate to tell you things could be worse . . . but they are,’ Granville said with a pained expression on his face. ‘Macalister is getting legal advice from the firm of solicitors Sullivan and Levi.’

‘Sullivan and Levi,’ Sir Donald growled irritably. ‘Never heard of them.’

‘They have one Mister Daniel Duffy working for them,’ Granville continued, ‘who has not tried to hide the fact that he is out to bring us all down.’

Sir Donald reacted to the Duffy name as Granville knew he would. Duffy! The damned name was still haunting him. The bloody Irish bred like rabbits and they were everywhere. But these were dangerous rabbits.

‘What relationship is this Daniel Duffy to that blasted Irishman who was killed at Glen View in ’62?’ he asked, hoping that Granville would say ‘no relationship’.

‘Nephew,’ Granville replied. ‘I’ve heard that Daniel Duffy is a man with a reputation for not losing cases.’

The band struck up a Scottish reel and Sir Donald turned away. He toyed with the champagne flute without drinking a drop and brooded on the cursed name of Duffy. Finally he placed the still-full glass on a silver tray carried by a passing waiter, as he knew that the sparkling wine would sour his stomach.

‘I think it is time we got back to the ladies,’ Sir Donald growled and walked away to join his wife, whom he could see across the ballroom chatting with their son David.

She was still a handsome woman, he mused proudly, as he made his way to her. Straight-backed with little sign of the years and their responsibilities marring her beautiful and serene face. Fiona was fortunate to have inherited her mother’s looks. But had she inherited Enid’s ruthlessness? The notion disturbed him. Ruthlessness was a weapon of destructive qualities when turned against family.

Sir Donald was fully aware of the schism between mother and daughter, which was not unexpected as he had observed the tension verging on animosity between the two women over the years. Tension which had always been concealed by a polite and dutiful veneer.

But the animosity had risen to the surface at the time Fiona had given up the bastard son of Michael Duffy and he suspected that his daughter had allied herself with Granville in a way that might do Enid harm. But how? He did not know. But he knew Fiona was very different to the little girl he once knew. She was still outwardly affectionate to him but there was also a coldness he had not experienced from her before.

‘Hello, Father. You look very distinguished tonight,’ David said when he joined them.

‘Thank you, David,’ Sir Donald growled. ‘But I feel less than distinguished among all these poodle fakers. Damned bankers and merchants living off those trying to turn this country into a place fit for good Christian men and women . . .’

‘Donald! Do not let them upset you,’ Enid gently chided. ‘You promised no talk of business tonight.’ She could see her husband growing belligerent as he glowered at the cavalcade of the colony’s money manipulators, whom he saw as responsible for the July ’66 crash of the prestigious Agra and Masterton Banks in England.

Queensland had suffered badly when the financial tidal wave had crossed the ocean to swamp the heavily indebted squatters of the new colony. The Crimean War, the Indian Mutiny, and finally the American Civil War had come together to cause the commercial crisis now in Britain and adversely affect the colony of Queensland.

Sir Donald acceded to his wife’s wish. He had a Scot’s tenacity to overcome tough times and for now it was his duty to forget falling cotton prices and the need for a loan to keep the Glen View lease. In the structure of the family companies, it had been agreed to keep the pastoral enterprises separate from the shipping and other ventures. As such, Sir Donald realised that his tenure of his beloved Glen View might face extinction and he would be forced back to Sydney. The thought did not rest well with him.

‘I’m sorry, m’dear,’ he replied contritely. ‘You are right.’

Enid sat on a chair with a fan in her lap and asked David to fetch her a glass of ice water but the request was really an excuse to confer with her husband. When David was safely out of hearing she said, ‘David has told me that he plans to go on the
Osprey
and voyage to the islands with Captain Mort.’

Sir Donald frowned. ‘That is if we still have the
Osprey
,’ he replied with a growl, and Enid gave him a questioning look.

‘Damned missionaries are moving to have the Royal Navy seize her as a slaver,’ he explained quietly. ‘It appears that Captain Mort has done something to upset them.’

‘But that’s preposterous,’ his wife protested and was indignant that anyone would dare link the Macintosh name with the abominable practice of slavery, although she was aware that the newspapers were attempting to liken the kanaka trade to slavery. Lurid stories had been reported in the newspapers of wretched souls crying out for freedom from the devilish blackbirders. Stories which inflamed public outrage. ‘The
Osprey
is a legitimate ship of trade,’ she continued, ‘not some African slaver of old.’

‘I know that,’ Sir Donald reassured her. ‘But it appears some missionary by the name of Macalister is saying Mort has done something rather nasty. I will ask Granville to give us a full report on Mort’s activities and then put it in the hands of our solicitors. I’m sure there is nothing to worry about. As it is, the damned missionaries are always bleating about atrocities. Keeps them in the public eye when it comes to asking for money for their missions.’

Sir Donald could see that his wife had reacted to the news about the
Osprey
with mixed feelings. On the one hand she would have liked to see the
Osprey
taken out of the kanaka trade. But on the other hand she also feared the scandal such a move would bring on the family name. Should the Royal Navy seize the blackbirding ship, then David would have to cancel his trip on the
Osprey
. He had plans of photographing native life in the Pacific islands, but Enid did not like or trust Captain Mort. She had met the notorious captain when he first commenced employment with them in ’63 and she had taken an immediate dislike to him. It was in the eyes. A madness one would see in a rabid animal, she recalled later.

Nor did she like the first mate, whom she knew for a fact was an extremely dangerous man. Mort and Horton were a bad pair in her opinion and worse still was the total loyalty they had to Granville as their employer. She strongly opposed the idea of her son travelling in the company of such cutthroats. Call it a mother’s intuition but the feeling persisted that her son could be in mortal danger aboard the
Osprey.

She had tried to talk David into taking passage on another ship if he was so determined to sail the South Seas but he had pointed out that the
Osprey
was the only Macintosh ship working there, and that he was, after all, a part owner. It was bad enough that David had resigned from his position at Oxford to pursue his foolish dream of recording history in his photographs, Enid thought. But to venture with the blackbirders into situations of dire peril was beyond foolish.