The Silent Frontier (23 page)

Soon the ship was being secured to a wharf at Circular Quay. Lachlan was acutely aware of his wounded arm, now out of a sling but hanging limply by his side. He wondered how Amanda might react to seeing him now that he’d been injured and squeezed his eyes tight. It was not something that he wanted to think about. He would exercise it as much as possible, but too much movement brought on almost unbearable throbbing pain. At least he could raise it and grip with his fingers. He leant down to sling his swag over his shoulder and with his free hand took out a scrap of paper to once more read the address written on it. Lachlan had decided that he should attempt to meet up with his brother before seeking Amanda’s whereabouts. He needed a place to stay and also wanted to discuss the inheritance John had written to him about.

As it was, the hotel was not far from Circular Quay, and Lachlan made his way up the street. The hotel was one of the better places in Sydney and when he entered the foyer the man behind the reception desk looked startled at the appearance of this broad-shouldered young man carrying a swag and wearing rough, working man’s garb.

‘I’m afraid we have no vacancies,’ the man behind the reception desk stated disdainfully when Lachlan approached. ‘You should try another establishment.’

‘I believe that a Mr John MacDonald is a resident in this hotel,’ Lachlan said, ignoring the expression of contempt.

‘Who may be in residence here is confidential,’ the man sniffed.

‘Well, I am his brother, Lachlan MacDonald, and have just returned from the Maori wars,’ Lachlan growled. ‘You can get a message to my brother that I am here.’

‘I shall see what I can do,’ the man replied, stepping back from the desk.

Lachlan turned his back and walked over to a comfortable leather chair. He sat down, dropping his swag beside him. Around him, well dressed men and women passed by.

The man behind the desk gestured for a young, smartly dressed boy to come to him. He whispered something and the boy disappeared up the curving staircase. Within minutes Lachlan looked up to see a well-dressed man stop at the bottom of the stairs and glance around the spacious foyer. John and Lachlan’s eyes met and a broad smile broke out on John’s face as he walked quickly forward to greet his brother.

‘Lachlan?’ he asked, with hope in his voice.

‘John.’

They stood staring at each other – a distance of years and experiences separating them and neither sure how to bridge the gap.

After a few moments John stepped forward and grasped Lachlan’s arms. ‘It has been a long time and we have much to talk about,’ he said with tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. ‘Harold,’ John said, turning to the man behind the reception desk, ‘I want your best room for my brother – and no excuses.’

‘Very well, Mr MacDonald,’ the receptionist said. ‘For you, it will be done.’

Lachlan broke into a grin. He’d felt so alone for so long but now he had his brother back again. He had a family.

Throughout that evening and into the early hours of the morning, John and Lachlan caught up on the lost years, sitting on the verandah of the hotel with a bottle of brandy between
them. Lachlan did not speak of his experiences in the New Zealand campaign. That part of his life held too many ghosts. And nor, for the time being, did he speak of Amanda.

‘Now, if we could only find Phoebe,’ John sighed, ‘then we would all be together again.’

Lachlan experienced a twinge of guilt at the mention of his sister’s name. But John was right, they would have to do all they could to find Phoebe.

‘This is such a big country,’ Lachlan commented.

‘But it has a small population,’ John countered. ‘Between us, we will find her and she will be able to claim her share of what was left to us. But what are your immediate plans?’

‘I hope to catch up with the Duffys at the Erin, and then find a lady I once met in Sydney before I volunteered,’ Lachlan replied, swirling the brandy in his tumbler.

‘Do I detect the sound of Cupid’s wings?’ John asked with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘May I ask, who is the young lady?’

Lachlan stiffened. He knew how he felt about Amanda, but he did not understand her leaving New Zealand without attempting to contact him and could not guess at how she would react to seeing him again. ‘She is no one that you would know, and I don’t know what will happen when we next meet,’ Lachlan finally replied. ‘It is just something that I have to do.’

Lachlan did not want to go into any details. He knew of his brother’s hatred for Lightfoot and it would be better that he did not reveal Amanda’s identity until he was able to sort things out between them.

When Lachlan finally retired to his room he fell into a sleep racked by dreams of sweating men engaged in hand-to-hand combat. In his dreams he could not use his arm and a Maori war club was about to descend on his head. Lachlan woke in a sweat. Why was it that the terrible things of the
battlefields should haunt him even now that he was safe? For a moment, he lay on his back staring at the darkened ceiling of the hotel room, frightened that his dreams were some sign of madness. It did not make sense that the past could intrude so easily into the present.

Lachlan slipped from the clean, crisp bed linen to sit at the edge of the bed. He reached for the remaining brandy. When he found it, he swilled down the last drops.

If anyone would know where Lachlan might find Amanda, it would be Daniel Duffy. The next morning, Lachlan shared breakfast with his brother, who suggested that he invest in a set of smart clothes befitting a young man who had inherited a small fortune. Lachlan took his advice and visited a gentleman’s clothing shop. He returned to the hotel, brightly bid the snooty hotel receptionist good day and went to his room to change. When he came down the stairs the expression on the receptionist’s face told him he made a suitable impression. No longer a bedraggled former soldier, he was now a well-dressed man about town.

Lachlan caught a cab to the Erin Hotel, where he was joyously welcomed by Bridget, Frank and old Max Braun, who was forced to turn away with a sniff lest anyone mistake the glistening in his eyes for the onset of a tear or two. Bridget fussed over Lachlan’s wounded arm with suggestions of applying goanna oil to help in its recovery, while Frank located his best Irish whiskey to toast the adopted member of the Duffy clan.

In the kitchen where so many important matters had been spoken of in the past Lachlan knew what the first question would be. ‘Did you get to see Michael when you were over there?’ Frank asked, leaning forward.

‘I did,’ Lachlan replied, taking a swig from his glass. ‘We served together in the Forest Rangers. I wanted him to write to you but he said that it was better that you think he was gone for good. He was worried that any contact with him might have brought the law down on you all here.’

‘The stupid lad,’ Frank sniffed. ‘We were not concerned with what the law might try to do to us. All we care about is Michael. He’s been like my own son since his father was killed in Queensland. Were you present when Michael was killed?’

Lachlan feared this question, as he had sworn a sacred oath to Michael that he would never reveal – not even to his family – his whereabouts.

‘I was,’ Lachlan replied quietly. ‘If it had not been for Michael holding them off, the Maori warriors might have inflicted many more casualties on us. He died like a hero. Unfortunately, we were unable to retrieve his body.’

‘I will never believe Michael is dead,’ Bridget said firmly, ‘unless I actually lay his body out myself.’

Lachlan cast her a quick look, avoiding the woman’s eyes. He wished that he could have told her Michael was still alive and probably somewhere in the Americas. But his oath held back any reassurance to Michael’s beloved aunt.

That evening Daniel returned home after his long day at the law firm. At the sight of Lachlan, he broke into a broad smile and hugged him affectionately.

‘It is good to see you!’ Daniel exclaimed. ‘We all feared that you might suffer the same tragic fate as Michael.’

After Frank and Max excused themselves to tend to their duties in the bar, Daniel removed his coat, hung it on a stand by the kitchen door and sat down at the kitchen table with Lachlan. He could see that the young Scot had been drinking, despite his promise to Max, but was still quite sober.

‘Why did you not write that you had come across
Michael?’ Daniel asked quietly, pouring himself a whiskey.

‘Michael made me swear not to mention it,’ Lachlan answered. ‘He had his reasons and I did not question them. You of all people must respect the sanctity of an oath.’

‘As his friend, you did the right thing by keeping his secret. I understand that.’

Lachlan felt relief. He had hated keeping Michael’s secret. Now he could relax and engage in normal conversation. ‘Michael died a hero,’ Lachlan said, closing any further questions on the subject. ‘Now, as regards another matter, I was wondering if you had heard anything of the whereabouts of Miss Amanda Lightfoot?’ Lachlan asked.

‘You don’t know?’ Daniel replied, a dark shadow clouding his face. ‘Miss Lightfoot was wed last week to Sir Percival Sparkes. Her brother gave her away.’

Lachlan felt like he’d been hit with a sledge hammer. As his nausea rose, Daniel could see the terrible impact the news had on his friend. The young Scot must have strong feelings for the lady. ‘I’m sorry, Lachlan,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I did not realise that you may have held a fondness for Miss Lightfoot.’

‘I simply thought that she was a nice lady,’ Lachlan lied lamely.’ It was nothing of any importance.’

Daniel did not know what to do. He excused himself from the room, leaving Lachlan alone. For a time, Lachlan stared at the wall of the snug little kitchen, finally placing his arms on the table. Laying his head on his arms, he broke into sobs. So much he had given to win her love and all for nothing. She had promised him that she would wait forever – she’d lied. His dream had been shattered as much as his left arm. Lachlan wept until there were no tears left. When he lifted his head from the table, it was to swear that one day he would destroy Amanda and her brother. He did not care how long it would take but he would see them both rot in hell before he died.

Part Three
THE EXPLORER
1874
The Colony of
Queensland,
The Northern
Frontier

TWENTY-ONE

H
e was virtually blind and the stinging in his eyes caused Lachlan to grit his teeth, lest he cry out and allow his enemies to know that he was injured and almost helpless. He sat on the rough stone pebbles of the tiny beach by the tropical creek, clutching his big Colt revolver in his right hand. Lachlan knew the terrain he was in, as he had been able to see it before the poison took its effect some hours earlier. He was deep in the rugged rainforest country of northern Queensland, his young Aboriginal companion had been killed by a twelve-foot spear through his chest, and it was unlikely any help would be forthcoming.

Above him on the steep slope running down to the creek bed the forest was silent. The only sound Lachlan could hear was that of water gurgling over the rounded stones and the rustle of the three hobbled horses nearby, grazing on a bank covered in native grasses. The silence brought back ominous
memories of the fern forests of New Zealand where, ten years earlier, he had fought against the Maori in the Waikato. Silence in any forest was not a good thing.

Lachlan had spent the last nine years of his life roaming the northern lands of the Australian colony of Queensland. Not in the grand tradition of the great explorers lionised by the press, but in private employment, seeking out potential farming land for the company of MacDonald & Busby. His secondary task was also to seek those places that might hold traces of gold and it was this that had brought Lachlan to country not before trodden by Europeans.

Further north, the Palmer River gold rush was well and truly under way and Lachlan had launched himself into a frantic expedition to explore regions just south of the Palmer for any other potential fields. He had set out with the fifteen-year-old Jupiter, the boy having attached himself to Lachlan when he was on a previous exploration in the northern rainforests. That had been four years earlier when he had found the boy, the only survivor of a massacre near the strange geological formation of black granite boulders piled into a hill south of the Endeavour River. Since then, the boy had accompanied him on all his expeditions and had proved to be a valuable companion in the densely forested ranges where the tribesmen fought for every foot of ground. Many times Lachlan had been forced to fight for his life against the brown-skinned warriors but this time it appeared that his luck had run out.

He and Jupiter had been traversing a ridge, away from the camp site they had established on a broad section of a gently flowing tropical creek, and had stumbled onto a well trodden track in an unknown tribal area. The track had been beaten out by many bare feet, and clearly over a long period of time.

‘Blackfellas!’ Jupiter hissed.

Lachlan felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. An old instinct told him that they were being watched. Drawing his revolver from his belt, Lachlan swung around. Five huge warriors wielding spears and clubs stood with spears raised only twenty paces away. Before Lachlan could react, he heard the rattle of the hardwood missiles in the air. Miraculously they all missed – except one. Jupiter’s cry of anguish took Lachlan’s attention off the warriors for a split second as he turned to see Jupiter on his knees, clutching the long shaft protruding from his chest. Such had been the power of the arm that hurled the spear that it had exited through the youngster’s back. He swung his eyes on Lachlan, a pitiful pleading for help, before toppling forward, the shaft of the spear snapping under his weight.

Lachlan swung again to face the threat. The warriors had advanced, armed with the war clubs. Raising his pistol, Lachlan aimed for the closest of the advancing men and fired. The heavy lead bullet took the warrior in the chest, causing him to stop in his tracks with a puzzled expression on his face. The other warriors faltered in their attack and when they saw their companion pitch forward, they turned and fled.

Lachlan’s shot had caused enough panic to ensure that he was momentarily safe. He knelt by Jupiter and turned him over, but the boy was dead.

‘Oh, you poor little bastard,’ Lachlan moaned, tears welling in his eyes. There was little else he could do except fetch a shovel and bury his faithful Aboriginal companion.

One of the spears still lay on the ground at Lachlan’s feet. He picked it up to examine the lethal barbed notches at the point. From his long experience in the northern forests he was often able to identify a tribal grouping by the way they carved their spears. He ran his hand along the barbs and then
flung the spear away. It was not one that he knew and he started to walk back to the camp site by the creek.

Sweating from the steaming heat of the tropical forest, Lachlan wiped away the perspiration running into his eyes with the back of his hand – only to feel the smarting effects of the poison from the barbs of the spear. He blinked rapidly but to no avail. Within minutes he was losing his vision. By the time he reached the camp site he was virtually blind, despite flushing his eyes with water.

Lachlan cursed. He had been careless on two occasions this day – the first had cost Jupiter his life and now the second mistake had cost him his eyesight.

The cooling air warned Lachlan that evening was approaching and his finely honed instincts told him that the tribesmen were most probably watching him from the cover of the rainforest. It was only a matter of time before they attempted an attack – especially if they twigged to his blindness. He knew that he must feign normalcy.

Lachlan rose to his feet, tucked the revolver back into his belt, and edged cautiously towards where he guessed he had left the saddle bag with his supplies. Somehow, he would attempt to find the remainder of the damper he had baked that morning. But he would not light a fire.

When Lachlan found the bush bread, he bit off a piece and leaned back on the saddle bag. He would at least light his pipe. Within minutes the slightest clink of creek pebbles nearby caused him to reach for his revolver and fire in the direction of the sound. The echo rolled around the walls of the steep banks. But nothing followed and Lachlan wondered if he had let his imagination take control. At least the blast told the warriors he still had the weapon.

As sleep began to overcome him, Lachlan drifted into another world. Tears of disappointment rolled down his
tanned cheeks. If only he had been allowed to live just a little longer he might have been able to make his mark in the history of exploration in the colony. He had been a fortunate man to have a brother like John, however – a kind and caring brother who had never forgotten his oath to find him and his sister. But the search for Phoebe had proved unsuccessful. Using his money and influence, John had secured many leads, but all turned out to be false. Phoebe would be around twenty-five years of age by now, Lachlan reckoned. She could be married with her own family.

Lachlan had often wondered at his brother’s lack of interest in the fairer sex and once he had asked John directly why he had not found a good woman to settle down with. John had stared out the window of his office in Sydney. ‘My energies are caught up in expanding the companies,’ he had replied. ‘Maybe one day I will take a wife.’

Lachlan accepted the answer. But as time went on, and Lachlan noticed how his brother related to Nicholas Busby, a horrifying suspicion crept into his thoughts. Was his brother one of those who preferred the company of other men? But his brother was a gentle, caring soul and so Lachlan would dismiss any thoughts about John’s private life. Over time, he accepted that his brother would never marry, and was consoled by John’s discretion about his relationship with Nicholas.

John had risen to great wealth in partnership with Nicholas but always insisted that Lachlan share in his good fortune. Reluctant to accept more handouts, Lachlan had convinced his brother that he could be employed by the company to work as a private explorer, seeking out new lands for their enterprises, which now included mining and agriculture. He had proved to be successful, locating prime land in the north, which was then purchased by the company for
resale. The ever-expanding frontier was a place of limitless possibilities and the company’s profits grew at a rapid rate.

Lachlan had only one real regret – that he had known love and lost it. His long years of wandering the frontier of Queensland’s north had left little time to go in search of love again. He had known the passion of a woman’s body in occasional encounters in the frontier’s whore houses, but time and again had been disappointed. Love was something very different, he had come to understand, and he yearned for it even though securing a woman’s true affections would mean giving up his current way of life. How could he expect any woman to wait for him while he went on the dangerous, long expeditions into places where he might not return?

Now as he sat blinded in the dark, he suddenly thought about Amanda. It had been ten years since he last saw her and although he had once vowed to bear hatred for her betrayal, he always carried her letters with him. His anger had mellowed somewhat over the years. Perhaps if they met again he would even wish her well. But for now, all he had to do was survive.

The young woman – her face pinched by hunger and her hair hanging like a greasy mat to her shoulders – knelt by the camp stretcher holding the cold hand of the man lying on his back, his eyes partially closed. Had she not been suffering the privations of her current life, any man seeing her would have been struck by her pretty face.

She was now a widow at the age of twenty-five. Behind her stood a little boy and girl, six and five years of age respectively, their clothing in rags. Her husband’s body was thin and wan; he had fought a terrible struggle with the fever that took his life.

Phoebe had been crying, but her tears were now dried up. She had loved this man, whom she had met in Adelaide seven years earlier, and who had taken her from the life of working as a housemaid for a wealthy family in the growing capital of the colony of South Australia.

George Meers had been a clerk working in a bank and, although he was not a rich man, he had a wonderful view of life, that one day he would become a bank manager and possibly a director on the board of bank governors. Phoebe loved his happy smile and gentle ways. She had been in her teenage years when they met at a picnic and fell in love. Soon they were wed and the pretty young woman eventually bore him two children.

The little girl, Nelly, stood behind her mother sucking her thumb while her brother, William, held his sister’s hand. He was frowning. Why was his father lying so still and silent? Phoebe could hear life going on as usual in the camp site on the goldfields of the Palmer River. The raucous voices of the miners and their families carried to the tent across the clatter of shovels. This place of dust and searing heat was so far from what could be called civilisation that Phoebe and her children could have been in a different country altogether. It was dangerous country, beset by bouts of famine, deadly fever and, for those who ventured into isolated gullies in search of gold-bearing ore, the possibility of sudden death from a tribesman’s long spear or wooden club.

Phoebe could hear the call of the itinerant pedlar, a sound which always evoked her childhood with her family on the goldfields at Ballarat . Some twenty years had passed since that terrible day when she had last seen her father and brothers.

A friendly man and his wife had taken her by the hand and led her away from the confusion. They had no children
of their own and were returning to their home in Adelaide, having sold their mining lease. They had made their money and now it was time to leave. Phoebe did not remember much apart from the long journey in the wagon and the kindness the couple showed her. They raised her according to the tenets of the Methodist church, and Phoebe grew to love both of them dearly. They provided for her as if she were truly their daughter.

When Phoebe was fourteen she had been placed as a housemaid with a rich family who attended the same church. The years of drudgery were forgotten when she met George. They married in that same church, and their first couple of years of wedded life had been good. Phoebe was happy in their little cottage but George became discontented with the little that he made as a bank clerk. When the word raced around the colonies that a major gold find had been made on the Palmer River in Queensland, George, like many others, had thrown in his job. Taking a gamble with their meagre savings, he sailed for the colony with his young family, hoping to find the gold nuggets waiting for the taking in the creeks and gullies of the Palmer. Like so many others, however, he was ignorant of the conditions to be faced on the savage frontier.

There had been no gold for the latecomer. Only death from a tropical fever that had racked his body for three days before he died. His young wife and family were left destitute.

Phoebe rose stiffly from beside the camp stretcher. A couple of miners had kindly offered to take George’s body away and bury it.

‘Ready, Missus?’ a gruff but kindly voice asked from the entrance flap to the tent.

Phoebe turned to see the two bearded miners standing outside.

Answering with a nod, Phoebe pulled her two young
children to her dusty dress. The men entered awkwardly, removing their battered hats out of respect for the deceased. One of the men bent and wrapped an old, threadbare blanket around George’s body. He took a large sewing needle and quickly stitched the edges together.

The two men lifted the body between them and carried it outside. Phoebe stood with her children at her side. She did not want to see the men dig the shallow grave from the hot earth. She wanted to remember the man she had loved, the times they had shared amongst the shadows of the tall gum trees by the river where they had first met. This wan, lifeless body seemed so alien. She could never have imagined that they would come to this place only for her husband to die.

That evening, after Phoebe had put her two children to sleep in the tent, she sat by the camp fire. She felt numb. Outside, by a sea of camp fires, people were laughing and singing. Phoebe stared at the flicker of flames and reflected on her situation. The last of her supplies had been used and the very little money remaining hidden away. There was barely enough to buy food for the children. George’s long hours of hard work had come to nothing.