To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (34 page)

‘Maybe you are right,’ Michael said. ‘I have a feeling old Wallarie just doesn’t want to be found.’

‘We have come so far,’ Helen protested. ‘I feel that we should go on.’

Michael looked to Nerambura.

‘Wallarie will come to us when he is ready,’ Nerambura answered softly as he gazed into the flames. ‘He knows we are looking for him.’

‘But how could that be?’ Karl asked. ‘He does not even know we exist.’

‘Wallarie knows,’ Nerambura answered, and added nothing more. How could he explain to this man with his Christian god that Wallarie’s insights were older than anything the white man knew?

‘We turn back tomorrow,’ Michael stated.

Karl nodded but Helen remained silent. She felt an emptiness as deep as the land they were travelling through was wide. The fruitless journey had become very much like her own life and she did not have the strength to argue that they should go on.

‘Tomorrow I will take Nerambura and young Alex to find that scrub bull for some fresh meat,’ Michael said as he stood and stretched. ‘At least we can mark the search with a couple of decent steaks.’

Helen watched Michael heave his saddle over his shoulder and make his way into the night. She still smarted from his rejection of her offered love. Very few words had passed between them since Cloncurry and Helen sensed that Karl must suspect that her heart was not with him.

The old bull was where Nerambura calculated it would be. He picked up its tracks late the following afternoon not far from the sandy creek bed with its precious supply of slime-covered water. The bull
stood on the plain watching them through rheumy eyes as the trio gazed at him from astride their mounts.

‘Need to get closer,’ Michael said quietly. ‘Don’t want him to bolt if he hears the shot and I miss.’

‘I can ride around him to stop him getting away,’ Nerambura offered. ‘Push him in your direction.’

‘Good idea,’ Michael responded as he eased himself from the saddle and reached for the rifle in its bucket strapped to the horse. ‘You take Alex with you.’

Alex looked down at Michael with a pleading expression. ‘Can I stay with you, Mr O’Flynn?’

Michael manipulated the bolt of the rifle so that a round was chambered. ‘Bit risky,’ he grunted. ‘I will be on foot and you never know what these old scrubbers will do if they are wounded. He’s been the king out here for a while, by the look of him, and he won’t want to give up his crown too easily.’

Nerambura reached for the reins of Michael’s horse and started to lead it away. Alex reluctantly followed, glancing back at Michael one last time, hoping that he would change his mind. But the big man was standing alone, the rifle casually in his hands, without any sign of countermanding his direction.

Michael kept his eye on the bull, which held its head high as it continued to watch with suspicion the man now alone and afoot. The animal swung its head to catch sight of the two humans riding slowly around him and gave a snort of irritation that his enemy should divide into two parts. He lowered his
head with its sharp horns, tail swishing from side to side to brush away the myriad flies that made his life miserable. Then he turned and began to break into a slow run.

Michael groaned when he saw the bull turning. It was a long shot but he would try anyway. He threw the rifle up to his shoulder and steadied the foresight on the bull. The rifle bucked as the heavy bullet left the barrel and Michael was pleased to see the bull flinch. He had aimed at the half exposed flank and forequarter, his goal to at least wound the bull and slow its escape. At close range he could finish it off.

The bull felt the projectile slam into the muscle at the top of his shoulder and swerved at the unexpected, stinging wound. Turning to identify what had caused the pain, the bull saw a man and boy riding hard at him across the plain. With a savage snort, the animal spun and turned away from the horsemen.

Alex felt the thrill of the charge. He leant forward in the saddle, yelling at the top of his lungs to stop the hunted animal escaping their encirclement and was pleased to see that he and Nerambura had succeeded. The bull was now charging towards Michael who stood calmly with the rifle at his shoulder.

Michael smiled to himself as he lined the approaching target in his sights. At close range the .303 round would bring the bull down with one shot and tonight they would be eating the choice bits barbecued over the campfire.

Alex watched the charging animal heading straight for Mr O’Flynn. He began to feel a rising dread but
fought the feeling, knowing that the man who stood facing the charging bull was only waiting for the right moment to fire.

The enraged bull was almost on him and Michael squeezed the trigger. He heard the click of the firing pin hit the centre base of the chambered round. But that is all. Instantly he realised that he had a misfire. Without taking the rifle from his shoulder Michael slammed open the breach to eject the faulty round and chamber another from the magazine.

Alex wanted to scream. Why hadn’t Mr O’Flynn fired by now? And then to Alexander’s horror the impossible happened. He saw Michael flung in the air on the horns of the wounded bull.

Michael knew that the situation was hopeless. The bull was on him before he could fire again. He had left it all too late this time and a tip of horn tore through his stomach, entering his chest as the animal raised its great head to hurl him in the air. Michael crashed to the earth as the bull swerved to return and finish him off. He lay on the red earth, bleeding profusely from his wound and vaguely aware that a horse was between him and the bull which was returning to charge again.

‘No, no!’ a voice screamed and Michael knew it was Alex.

The bull hesitated for a moment, gauging who it should attack but losing precious seconds which allowed Nerambura to leap from his horse and scoop up the rifle Michael had dropped. With the calm expertise of the bushman Nerambura stepped over Michael and fired. The bull felt the impact of the
bullet and dropped to its knees before slumping to the ground.

‘Mr O’Flynn!’ Alex cried as he slid from his mount to kneel beside Michael. ‘Don’t die, please don’t die! I will go and get help.’

Michael gritted his teeth to ease the terrible pain that swamped him in a continuous wave of red haze. ‘Don’t waste your time, Alex,’ he managed to whisper. ‘It’s all over this time.’

Michael was able to focus on Nerambura who stood impassively over him. From the expression in Nerambura’s dark eyes, Michael knew his fate was confirmed. ‘Get Alex back to camp,’ Michael said hoarsely despite his racking pain. ‘Nothing you can do for me now.’

Nerambura nodded and took Alex by the shoulder but the boy shrugged off Nerambura’s attempt to force him away from the dying man. ‘I will never leave you,’ he sobbed. ‘I will stay with you, Mr O’Flynn.’

Michael tried to smile at his grandson’s concern. ‘Never forget that you have the blood of the Duffys in your veins, young Alex,’ he said with a strangled gasp and grimaced. ‘I will never forget you.’

Slowly, Michael’s eyes closed as Alex desperately clutched his hand.

‘He is dead,’ Nerambura stated bluntly. ‘We go back to camp and get some shovels to bury him.’

‘I will stay with him until you get back,’ Alex replied between short sobs.

He knew Nerambura was right about Mr O’Flynn being dead because he no longer breathed
or responded to his touch. But Alex could not let go. Never before had he experienced so much pain – not even when Nerambura had given him a bloody nose in their fight. But this was a different kind of pain. He thought it would literally break his heart.

‘It’s good that you stay,’ Nerambura said softly behind Alex. ‘This man was your father’s father.’

From where he knelt beside Michael’s body Alex turned sharply to Nerambura. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked. ‘Is Mr O’Flynn really my grandfather?’

‘Mr Duffy didn’t want you to know,’ Nerambura said gently. ‘I don’t know why. But his real name is Michael Duffy and he is your father’s father. Maybe Mrs Fellmann can tell you better. She knows.’

Nerambura turned to walk to his horse, leaving Alex alone with a turmoil of thoughts and the body of Michael Duffy. His wish the night before had come true. Mr O’Flynn was his grandfather.

Alex remained with his grandfather’s body whilst Nerambura rode back to fetch Karl and Helen. Within a couple of hours, just as the sun was disappearing below the flat horizon, the three returned.

They buried Michael by the light of a lantern and Karl uttered prayers for the dead over the earthen mound that marked the grave of the man who had been born on Irish soil but who now lay under the sod of the Queensland colony. Each mourned in their own way for the loss, but none felt Michael Duffy’s passing as badly as Alex, who sobbed uncontrollably until Helen took him aside and laid his head
on her breast. She soothed him with the pieces of the story that she knew of Michael’s dangerous life and her words brought some comfort to the boy.

As she related the life of the man who had fathered Alexander’s own father, Helen pondered what might have been at the end of this journey with Michael Duffy. Could fate have finally opened his eyes to her love for him, despite the age difference?

When the sun rose over the plains the next day Nerambura took command of the party. He would lead them back to Glen View. When they departed mid-morning, all that remained to mark Michael Duffy’s resting place was the nearby carcass of the old bull, now a meal for the great wedge-tailed eagle circling overhead, and a mound of red earth marked with a crude wooden cross.

In time, only the scattered and dry bones of the old bull would mark the site as the winds of the arid lands eroded the heaped earth. But when the rains came with the summer storms, wildflowers would sprout in the soil and a sweet perfumed scent would waft in the Outback air.

BIRTH OF
A NATION
1901

THIRTY-FIVE

Sydney, New South Wales

Australia

February 1901

My Beloved Patrick,

The time that you are away from us is almost too hard to bear...

P
atrick Duffy glanced at the date on the letter from his grandmother, Lady Enid Macintosh, and realised that it had taken two months for it to reach him in England. He shifted a little closer to the great open fireplace in the country house outside London and continued to read.

. . . Much has happened since you left us for South Africa and that terrible war, which, I am overjoyed to read, Lord Roberts has proclaimed is over . . .

Patrick pulled a pained expression at his grandmother’s statement. He well knew that the war was far from over, as Roberts had prematurely declared on his return to London. During his long convalescence Patrick had received occasional letters from fellow colonial officers stating the war was entering a new and sinister phase which involved the rounding up of all Boer women and children and placing them in concentration camps to break the spirit of the rebel farmers. The underlying theme of the letters had been the disgust many of the colonial soldiers had felt at carrying out this task: burning the farms to the ground, killing the livestock, and herding frightened women and children to the newly established camps. To Australians, many from farming backgrounds themselves, this new phase of war did not sit well. No, the war was far from over – just different.

. . . I pray for your speedy return to your loving family although it may be overshadowed by your father’s tragic death. Helen told me she wrote to you last month to inform you of the circumstances surrounding the unfortunate incident but feels your father has found peace in a better place.

Patrick paused in his reading of the fine copperplate hand. Was it inevitable that his tough father should die in such bizarre circumstances when he had survived so many wars and intrigues? Patrick had not been able to cry when he received the news from Helen. His father had been almost a stranger to him, but maybe his loss would be more keenly felt when Patrick’s own time drew near.

Patrick had even received a letter of condolence from Baron Manfred von Fellmann in Prussia. The
old German aristocrat and former adversary of Horace Brown and Michael Duffy expressed his great admiration for a fellow warrior from a past era that few could now truly appreciate.

. . . Helen is still in Queensland with her husband attempting to make contact with a colleague in the Lutheran Church, Pastor Otto Werner, and his mission station. It appears that Wallarie may still be alive and in occasional contact with Pastor Werner. If so, Helen and Karl hope to make contact with the Darambal man. I have promised that if they can prove that Wallarie is alive then they may have title to a part of Glen View to establish their own mission.

To find Wallarie had become some sort of crusade, Patrick reflected with a frown. What did they expect to achieve? Forgiveness for the violence that his grandfather had brought almost forty years earlier to an obscure clan of people?

. . . Alexander has returned to us and it appears that he formed a deep bond with your father. He still mourns for his loss but is a very different young man now. I am afraid he gave George a thorough thrashing only a short time after he returned over a matter he would not discuss with me. George no longer attempts to tease Alexander. When the matter of the fight was reported to me by the servants, I did ask Alexander in private where he had learned to stand up for himself and the name of Max Braun came up. I thought you would like to know that your old German friend’s spirit is still alive in the Irish side of your family . . .

For the first time, Patrick smiled. He suspected that his grandmother’s superficially objective account of his sons’ clash carried a certain amount of satisfaction.
And his smile did not fade when he re-read her words about Max Braun. Was she stiffly acknowledging the good in the Irish side of his blood, just a little? This was not the Lady Enid he thought he knew so well.