To Chase the Storm: The Frontier Series 4 (39 page)

Martin could clearly see that Catherine was under a strain that was unhinging her mind, a wild look flashing briefly in her eyes then dying, to be replaced by despair. She needed more than he could offer.

‘Catherine, I would like you to allow the doctor to visit.’

‘I don’t need a doctor,’ Catherine spat. ‘I need . . .’

Her words tapered away and she turned to hide the tears rolling down her cheeks.

‘What do you need?’ Martin said as he crossed the room to stand beside her and take her hand.

She did not resist his gesture. Catherine bowed her head, rocking her body as the sobs came in waves. She would not answer Martin’s question. What – or who – she wanted would not want her, now that she carried this thing in her body. In her
mind she was convinced that she was forever lost and life no longer had any meaning.

‘Talk to me,’ Martin said gently. ‘I might be a priest but I think I can help.’

Catherine ceased rocking and looked up at the man standing over her. ‘Can you get Patrick to forgive me, and love me again as we did when we met?’

‘I can contact Patrick,’ Martin said quietly. ‘I could tell him that you would like to see him. I know my cousin, he is a compassionate man and, I think, very understanding.’

‘How could any man be understanding of a foolish woman who has left her family in another country to pursue her own selfish dreams? How could any man accept the thing I carry which is not his?’

Martin stared at the bookcase covering one wall, jammed with old volumes. He wished that he could find within them an answer that did not sound condescending. He had long excommunicated himself from the Church by his political activities. The director general of the Jesuit order had sent a summons for him to return to Rome to explain himself and he had broken his priestly vow of obedience in defying that summons. Martin was too immersed in the murky waters of rebellious intrigue to ever explain the actions that were seen as running contrary to his role as a priest.

He had come to the Fitzgerald house with a more sinister intention, but seeing the plight of the wife of the man he most missed from his life had for a moment made him feel more like a priest.

‘Catherine, you are in need of help although you may deny this,’ he said gently, holding her hand. ‘I know that you are acquainted with the landlord, Mr Brett Norris. If I contact him he may be of assistance.’

‘Brett has not visited since I told him of my condition,’ Catherine said. ‘Nor do I ever wish to see him again. I know of the many women in his life.’

‘Where do I contact him?’ Martin persisted.

Catherine wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. ‘He has written to say that he will be returning to the house to settle some business affairs,’ Catherine replied calmly. ‘But I doubt that he will want to see the bastard he has sired with the help of the devil.’

‘Do you know which day he will be in the village?’ Martin asked, trying not to sound too intense.

‘It is here,’ Catherine said with an edge of annoyance in her voice. ‘In the letter.’

She shuffled through the litter of papers on the desk and handed a neatly folded page to the priest. Martin scanned the words couched in a cold and formal prose until he found the date of the absentee landlord’s return. He glanced up at Catherine who was staring ahead at the bookcase and sensed that her mind was no longer in the room.

‘Thank you,’ Martin said placing the folded letter on the desk. ‘I will attempt to make contact with Patrick and –’

Catherine seized his hand with a vice-like grip that startled Martin.

‘Please, do not tell him anything,’ she asked in
desperation. ‘I beg you on your word of honour as a priest not to tell Patrick about me. I have plans to . . . ’

She suddenly tapered away again, releasing her strong grip.

‘What plans?’ Martin asked in alarm. ‘I hope you are not planning anything foolish, like taking your life. You should know such an act is a mortal sin in the eyes of God.’

‘I am not a Catholic,’ Catherine said with a bitter laugh. ‘I can’t go to hell for what I do not believe. Swear to me that you will not tell Patrick.’

Martin stared down at Catherine. Her once beautiful eyes spoke her plea. ‘I will not tell Patrick,’ he said gently.

As Martin left the manor to return to his safe house in the village, he trudged the pretty country lane bathed in late afternoon sunlight and wondered bleakly about the salvation of his own soul.

It was an unlikely combination of men for a committee of such importance: a schoolteacher, a publican, two peat diggers and a priest. Martin sat at the head of the table in the upstairs room of O’Riley’s public house with his back to the wall. It was an old habit he had acquired from years of warily watching doors to see who would come through: friend or foe.

The meeting had been convened as a result of Martin’s trip to the old Fitzgerald manor and the men in the smoky room looked to the priest for a report.

‘Norris will be coming at the end of next month,’
Martin said without any preamble. ‘His . . .’ Martin hesitated. What did he call Catherine Duffy? ‘His mistress has confirmed his arrival, with a letter I was able to read.’

‘The bloody British have increased the patrols in the county,’ O’Riley muttered. He was a balding man in the latter part of middle age but no less effective as a rebel in the cause to oust the English. ‘It might be that they have wind of our activities.’

‘Not likely,’ a young and bespectacled man said from the end of the table. He was a schoolteacher, an efficient organiser and a learned man who had the role of intelligence officer in the cadre. ‘My information points to a show of strength, nothing more.’

‘How do we do it?’ one of the peat diggers asked, slouching by the door to guard against a possible raid by the English controlled authorities.

‘We ambush him,’ Martin said. ‘Where and how I will brief you when I have a bit more information from Mrs Duffy.’

‘Catherine Duffy is a relative of sorts to you, Father,’ the schoolteacher stated. ‘Does that cause you any problems in this matter?’

Martin turned to the schoolteacher. ‘Personal matters are a secondary to what must be done to free Ireland,’ he responded. ‘Tonight was the first time I had ever laid eyes on the woman.’

‘But she is the wife of your cousin,’ the schoolteacher persisted. ‘I have heard it said that you and he were pretty close back in the colonies.’

‘I have not seen my cousin Patrick in years,’ Martin answered defensively. ‘I doubt that, considering the
way our lives have gone, an officer of the King’s army would be shouting me a drink in Mr O’Riley’s pub these days. No, what has to be done is all that matters right now. Norris is a big wheel in the British armaments industry and the Brits need to see that we can take the war to them when and where we decide. His death should shake up a few others in London.’

The schoolteacher bowed his head in recognition of the priest’s commitment to the cause, although he and the others hardly considered Father Martin Duffy as a priest anymore. Martin may as well have been defrocked as far as they were concerned. His involvement in their cause had been a point of resentment to many who had believed priests might speak out on political matters but not act. Indeed, at first the Australian had simply crusaded with words to enlist the young men of the county to fight against the British in South Africa. Now he was planning an assassination.

‘There is nothing more to discuss for the moment except to commit ourselves to the elimination of Norris when he returns to the county,’ Martin concluded. ‘We will keep in touch.’

The committee members nodded, chairs scraping as they rose to adjourn to the bar. Only Martin remained to reflect on what had occurred. He had sanctioned the killing of a man. Despite everything less than priestly about his life, he took a small black book from his pocket to read the prayers that were compulsory to a priest. He knew of priests who broke the vow of chastity on a regular basis but still
performed as men of God. Was fighting for the freedom of a people any less noble?

When he had completed the prayers of his office, Martin slipped the missal back into his pocket and stared at the wallpaper peeling at one edge of the small, airless room. He tried to picture Patrick’s face, remembering him as a young man, and Martin’s lips broke into a brief smile. It had been Patrick who had forced him into the calling of the priest, he thought ruefully, to placate the Jesuits of St Ignatius when they were caught stealing the altar wine. How strange that his choice of vocation had brought him to Ireland and the village of his ancestors.

FORTY

‘W
hat you see?’ Ivan asked from atop his horse. ‘Little ants?’

Saul knelt in the dust and stared at the marks that only his trained eyes could read. ‘Not sure as yet,’ Saul said as he slowly scanned the surrounding plateaux. Ivan scratched at his beard and gazed off into the distant blue sky. A few fluffy white clouds sat on the horizon and somewhere he could hear the distant screech of a falcon searching the desert for prey.

‘I see nothing,’ Ivan frowned as his friend remained dismounted and examined the earth around them. ‘No footprints. I not know how you see these things.’

‘You weren’t trained to track by the world’s best,’ Saul said quietly as the marks began to talk to him. Barely discernible as they were to his trained eye, they still told a story. He felt old Terituba, wherever he was, would be proud of his protégé’s skill.

‘Who teach you?’ Ivan scoffed. ‘There is nothing there.’

‘An old blackfella taught me,’ Saul said. ‘But you wouldn’t need tracking skills in Russia,’ he continued with a cheeky grin. ‘Blokes as big as you leave bloody big footprints in the snow.’

‘Not always snow in Russia,’ Ivan sighed. ‘Sometimes so many flowers in summer that you go blind looking.’

Finally Saul raised his eyes and peered across the arid valley below. ‘We have to be careful,’ he said. ‘There is a party of at least eight Arabs out there around a half day away and from what I can see they have at least three rifles between them.’

Ivan stared at Saul as he rose from the dust to remount his horse. ‘You make joke,’ Ivan said disbelievingly. ‘You not tell all this from earth.’

Saul swung himself into the saddle and looked at the big Russian. ‘Given time I could tell you what they ate for breakfast.’

Ivan shook his head and muttered in Russian. Saul guessed that it was not a compliment but ignored his friend’s disbelief. The faint outlines of footprints gave Saul an idea of how many and roughly how old. The imprint of rifle butts as the roving party stopped to rest also told him of the arms they carried. And from the current state of the weather and the direction of the tracks he could discern just how long ago and where they were going. It was not something learned overnight and he knew that a tracker’s skill depended on gut sense as much as observation.

Ivan followed Saul silently along a narrow trail to the bottom of the valley until Saul raised his hand and gave the signal to dismount. Without a word he moved forward to a good observation point, Ivan following. With the skills of seasoned soldiers both men lay on a rocky outcrop and carefully scanned the gorge ahead. Ivan gasped. There were eight men sitting in the shade of the gorge eating dates. Between them he counted five rifles and two ancient muskets. Ivan glanced across at Saul with sudden respect.

They watched the party for half an hour and when they were satisfied that the nomads were moving away from the
moshava
the two men made their way cautiously back to their mounts.

‘How did you know, my friend?’ Ivan asked, shaking his great shaggy head. ‘It was as you say.’

‘You would have to ask Terituba,’ Saul said with a broad grin.

‘Who this Terituba?’ Ivan asked.

‘Told you before,’ Saul sighed as he swung himself into the saddle. ‘An old and wise Kalkadoon blackfella.’

Ivan just shook his head and followed Saul.

The matter was reported to Jakob and the
moshava
committee when they returned the following morning.

‘Do you think they were a bandit gang or Arab villagers?’ Jakob asked.

‘Villagers,’ Saul replied without hesitation. ‘I’ve seen their tracks before around here.’

Jakob looked to Ivan for confirmation but the
Russian shrugged. ‘I say Saul right,’ he replied. ‘Don’t know how, but he right.’

Jakob accepted Ivan’s confirmation. The two men were a good team and inspired a sense of security in the small community.

‘We will stay on our guard,’ he said with a wave of his hand. ‘I would like to talk to you, Saul,’ he added as the men prepared to withdraw from the meeting.

Ivan glanced back as he left the meeting room but Saul looked at him blankly. The Russian was followed by the village leaders, leaving Jakob and Saul alone.

Jakob gestured for Saul to take a seat.

‘I feel that it is very important to train and equip our young people against the possibility of an attack from the Arabs,’ Jakob said.

‘Ivan and I can train them all right,’ Saul said. ‘But we don’t have any guns or ammunition.’

Jakob steepled his fingers and gazed tensely through the doorway at the blaze of pale blue sky. ‘I know where we can purchase a good supply of rifles and ammunition,’ he said. ‘But I am not an expert and I will need you to advise me on what we need.’

‘That is not a problem,’ Saul said casually. ‘Where will you buy the arms?’

‘England.’

After discussing the details of the weapons enterprise, Saul bid Jakob a good day and left. He had only one task now and walked to the fields to find Anna. But when he arrived he saw her in the company of Aaron Herzog.

Saul scowled. The young man had arrived from
Austria a month earlier and been accepted into the community to work alongside the
moshava
members. He had been a religious student in Vienna and hoped to be a rabbi one day. Anna seemed drawn to the serious young man from the day he had arrived, and although she still spoke with Saul he sensed a distance had come between them.