The Silent Frontier (31 page)

THIRTY

O
n the verandah of his hotel, Ken Hamilton plugged his pipe, lit the contents of the bowl and puffed on the stem until the tobacco glowed and threw off a haze of grey smoke. The sun was high over the hills surrounding Cooktown and Ken Hamilton knew that in a matter of hours he would be viewing the tropical hills from the deck of a steamer sailing south for Moreton Bay, with Phoebe and her two children beside him.

But he still had time to peruse the local paper while he puffed his pipe before he paid for his hotel bill and went to the Chinese quarter to meet with Phoebe.

The news was much the same as it had always been in the paper. Many advertisements proclaiming the essential wares for prospectors and a few luxuries available to those who had struck it rich. He flipped the page and idly read an article by the editor concerning the lawless nature of the mining town,
and how a prominent businessman visiting the north to search for his long-lost sister Phoebe MacDonald . . .

Ken sucked in more than a mouthful of the strong tobacco and spluttered. Could
his
Phoebe be one and the same woman?

The livery keeper eyed the well-dressed gentleman who stood before him. ‘So you want some information?’ the livery man asked suspiciously, wiping his grimy hands on his leather apron. ‘Why do you want to know about Lachlan MacDonald?’

The livery man knew Lachlan and liked him. Lachlan was always prompt in his payments and had a winning way about him.

‘We soldiered together in New Zealand,’ Charles Lightfoot said with a friendly smile. ‘I was hoping to make his acquaintance again.’

The livery man sniffed, stared at the earth strewn with hay before answering slowly. ‘Well, seeing as you is a friend of Mr MacDonald I don’t see any harm in telling you that he rode out a couple of hours ago to travel to Townsville on business. It was a bloody awful thing that happened to his brother, though.’

‘What was that?’ Lightfoot asked, cupping a cheroot in his hand and lighting it.

‘His brother almost got himself killed a couple of days ago by some ruffian.’

‘That’s too bad,’ Lightfoot replied, watching the smoke from his thin cigar-like cigarette waft to the rafters of the stable. ‘But it would be taking something of a risk to put one’s head down in the hotels of Cooktown. Now, I’d also be interested in purchasing a horse, my good man.’

After some discussion about the former soldier’s needs, the livery man fetched his best mount and eagerly accepted the bank notes Lightfoot paid him. He included the rest of the equipment Lightfoot needed for an extra roll of notes and watched the stranger saddle his horse.

With practised ease, Lightfoot swung himself into the saddle. ‘You wouldn’t know which track Mr MacDonald took out of town, would you?’ he asked from astride his mount.

‘He took the south track,’ the livery man replied, picking up a rake.

As Lightfoot swung his mount around and trotted away without a further word, the livery man commenced raking the earthen floor. Suddenly he paused in his task. Surely it was nothing, he told himself. But he did not remember mentioning that Lachlan MacDonald’s brother had been attacked in a hotel.

Lachlan’s journey took him out of a valley and over a small, heavily forested range. The foliage dripped with water. Tears of the forest, Lachlan thought as he brushed against the wet leaves. The trees were crying for all that would come to their lands and for all those who had not left them alive. Hobbling the horses to graze on the native grasses, he prepared his camp for the night, unaware that he was being watched.

Lachlan was glad when morning arrived after a wet night of huddling under a sodden blanket. The rain continued into the morning and Lachlan realised he must press on with his journey south with some haste if he were to cross the small creeks that could quickly become raging torrents. He rose from under the blanket and stood stiffly.

Lachlan was hardly aware of the sound, but the impact of the bullet spun him around. Fighting to stay on his feet, he instinctively bent to reach for the rifle lying within reach against a log.

‘Don’t even try!’ a voice called to him from a clump of scrub trees at the edge of the clearing.

Lachlan straightened. The pain in his shoulder throbbed and blood trickled down the front of his shirt.

‘I thought that I would kill you with my first shot,’ the voice said, closer this time. Lachlan half-turned. ‘It must have been the rain that put off my shot,’ Lightfoot said, standing a mere few paces away with his revolver levelled at Lachlan. ‘After all these years, Corporal MacDonald, I thought that you would be better prepared against ambush.’

Lachlan stared with frustrated fury at his tormentor. Lightfoot was right. He should have been more alert, suspecting that his brother’s killer was at large.

‘I would expect no less than to be shot in the back by you,’ Lachlan spat. ‘You wouldn’t have the guts to face a man.’

‘I hunted you,’ Lightfoot said. ‘The same way you hunted the heathen Maori in New Zealand. With stealth and cunning – the soldier’s way.’

‘Was it the soldier’s way to murder a poor miner and his son at Ballarat?’ Lachlan asked, glaring at the barrel of the pistol.

‘That was a legitimate military action to suppress a rebellion,’ Lightfoot answered.

‘And attempting to kill my brother?’ Lachlan said wearily. He stood in the rain holding his hand over the bleeding wound. The pain was getting worse. ‘Get on with it,’ he continued. ‘We have nothing more to say.’

‘You are right, Corporal,’ Lightfoot said, raising the pistol.

Lachlan did not close his eyes but stared with all the
malevolence he could muster at the Englishman. These were the last seconds of his life. He heard the shots, but this time did not feel any pain.

Lightfoot’s expression of surprise seemed strangely mild to Lachlan. The former English officer stood staring at Lachlan, before toppling forward into the muddy earth. A pool of blood formed on the damp ground. A bullet had entered his spine and exited from his chest.

Lachlan was stunned. He blinked against the rain and saw two men astride horses emerge from the scrub. Both held rifles to their shoulders, and Lachlan could make out Luke Tracy’s features under his hat, pulled down low against the rain. On the horse beside him rode Matthew Te Paea. They brought their mounts forward and gazed down at the body sprawled at Lachlan’s feet.

‘I presume that is Major Lightfoot,’ Luke said, sliding his rifle back into the holster attached forward of his saddle. Still in shock at the dramatic turn of events, Lachlan could only nod.

‘Hello, brother,’ Matthew said, a wide grin across his broad, brown face. ‘I reckon it was my shot that got the bastard but Mr Tracy reckons it was his.’

Luke slid from his horse. ‘We were only minutes away when we heard the shot,’ Luke said. ‘So we hurried up to see him pointing his pistol at you. I was taking a chance with the range, but figured we only had one. If I missed, then I hoped that Mr Te Paea might get him. Otherwise, it looked as if you were going to be a dead man.’

‘That is Lightfoot,’ Lachlan finally spoke. ‘From what I had heard from my brother, you seem to be in the right place at the right time to rescue us MacDonalds. Guess it was my time to be saved.’

‘I never thought of it that way,’ Luke grinned. ‘But I
wasn’t only riding out after you to save you. I was hoping to catch up before you got to Townsville, to say that your sister, Phoebe, has found your brother. Thought you would want to know before going all the way to Townsville. I stopped by the livery and was talking to the owner, who just happened to mention that his previous visitor had been asking after you. When I asked him to tell me what the man was like, he painted a picture of this Lightfoot character just as you’d described him to me. I was about to leave when Matthew also turned up. He insisted on riding with me, so I got him a horse and lent him one of my rifles for the journey. It seems that fate has led us here just in time.’

‘You seem to need a bit of patching up,’ Matthew remarked. ‘How bad is it?’

‘I think it passed through,’ Lachlan grimaced. ‘Not the first time I have been shot.’

‘Yeah, well I will have a look at it,’ Luke said.

The wound was bleeding but not profusely. Luke made a bandage from an old shirt Lachlan had in his kit and when he had attended to the wound, Lachlan sat down on a log to regain his strength.

‘I think that it is best we all head back to Cooktown,’ Luke suggested wisely. ‘Get a doctor to have a look at you and order your friend here back to the hospital tent.’ He glanced across at Lightfoot’s body. ‘What do we do about the Major?’

‘We can take him to the hill over there,’ Lachlan said, waving to Black Mountain. ‘People have a way of completely disappearing in that hill.’

Luke Tracy glanced up. It was the first time he had actually seen this place. He had heard Henry say it was one of the cursed places in this ancient land. He had a feeling Lachlan was right. Anyone who went into the hill would most likely never be seen again.

The black hill held too many bad feelings for Matthew and he refused to assist in disposing of the body. Instead, he remained with the horses while Lachlan and Luke got rid of Lightfoot’s body down a crevice. They set his horse free and then tossed the little equipment he had been carrying down the crevice as well. By now the rain had eased off. Lachlan saddled up his horse to ride north once again.

Freshly bandaged with his arm in a sling, Lachlan went with Luke to the Chinese quarter of Cooktown to meet his sister.

The reunion had been joyous as they fell into each other’s arms and tears flowed freely. Lachlan met the Chinese family who had been caring for his sister and her two children. Nelly and William stared with shy eyes at this fierce-looking man who had been shot and was introduced as their uncle. But he had a kindly way and it was Nelly who took his hand in a gesture of acceptance. ‘Are we going to visit Uncle John?’ she asked.

Lachlan swept up the little girl. ‘We certainly are,’ he said with a broad smile.

Before Luke Tracy departed for the Cooktown–Palmer track, a heated argument broke out between him and Matthew. They could still not agree on whose bullet had killed Lightfoot. Hearing the argument raging between the two men, Lachlan produced the medal he had been awarded for his service in the New Zealand wars. ‘This is for you, my heathen brother,’ Lachlan said, pinning the medal to Matthew’s shirt. ‘In recognition of assisting in saving my life.’

Matthew beamed with pride at the award, all argument forgotten. He was at a loss for words.

After concluding the land deal initiated by his brother, in Townsville, Lachlan walked away from the bank and into the broad, dusty street.

‘Hey, Mac,’ a voice called and Lachlan turned on his heel to see one of the long-bearded frontier men smiling at him. He was a settler Lachlan had met in one of his many travels. ‘I heard that you got a million pounds and have decided to go south.’

Lachlan broke into a broad smile. ‘You heard wrong, Schmidt,’ he called back. ‘I’m putting together an expedition to go west. You have me confused with my brother, John.’

‘Good on yer, Mac,’ the man astride the horse replied before turning his mount and wheeling away into a canter.

Lachlan sighed and continued walking towards his hotel. Oh how he would have given it all for just one chance to tell Amanda how much he loved her. All the money in the world could not buy the love that comes from the heart alone. What good was fame and fortune if it could not be shared?

EPILOGUE

Two Years Later
A Place in the Scottish Highlands

T
he sky was heavy with the promise of snow and the soft click of the tough little pony’s hooves echoed against the row of low stone walls bordering the lane. On the driver’s seat of the gig sat two men well clothed against the biting cold that swept in from the nearby loch.

‘So ye know Lady Percival?’ the Highlander driving the gig asked his passenger.

‘We have met,’ Lachlan replied, pulling his collar up against the cold wind and eyeing the dark skies.

‘Poor lady. A pretty widow so young. There is a rumour that Sir Percival lost a lot of money in the Australian colonies. At least he still had his estates here for Lady Amanda to retain.’

‘I heard that,’ Lachlan replied, feeling somewhat uncomfortable knowing that Sir Percival’s financial ruin had been the doing of his brother John and his business partner, Nicholas Busby. The proceeds from the sale of the land had actually gone into the coffers of MacDonald & Busby and was now theirs to keep.

‘She just stays up at the manor,’ the driver continued. ‘A nice lady for a Sassenach, though. Never seems to be interested in any of the local gentry although she could have the pick of any one of the local gents.’

Lachlan only half-listened to the chatty Scotsman. His thoughts were in turmoil. After returning to Sydney his brother John had ensured that the vast spread of enterprises were well managed. Both he and John were pleasantly surprised to learn that Phoebe was expecting another child to her husband, Ken Hamilton, who was prospering with his boat-building enterprise at Moreton Bay.

From Brisbane, Lachlan set out for the north again – the silent frontier. In the depths of the rain-forested mountains Lachlan found peace – and often enough danger. His reputation as an explorer was now well established and he was acquiring a legendary status among the tough Queenslanders.

But in the silence Lachlan realised his life was empty. He would sit by a camp fire and remember the face of Amanda Lightfoot. The guilt of knowing he had been party to her financial downfall kept him from going to her. Besides, he feared finding her, only to lose her once more. At least he could still dream that they would one day grow old together in this tropical paradise.

One day, Lachlan returned to Sydney and with his brother’s help was on a boat to England. He had made his choice to travel to Scotland in search of Amanda, but with little hope that she could forgive him for being involved in
the plan to ruin her brother. Now his journey had brought him to the cold, bleak Scottish Highlands. To Greystones Manor – the Scottish home of Sir Percival Sparkes.

‘We’re here,’ the driver said, reining the cart to a halt.

Lachlan leapt down, stretched his legs and reached into his pocket to pay his fare.

The driver accepted the generous sum. ‘Would you like me to stay and take you back to the village?’ he asked, pocketing the coins.

‘No,’ Lachlan replied, gazing at the imposing double-storeyed building. ‘I was born not far from here,’ he said. ‘I still have memories of this place.’

‘So ye be one of the MacDonalds from up around the hill,’ the driver said, impressed that this son of Scotland who had travelled to far-off places had roots in the district. ‘Then you must be the son of Hugh and Mary MacDonald. I heard he met his Maker in the colonies.’

‘I am,’ Lachlan replied.

He turned and strode up the gravel driveway to the house. Never before had he experienced the fear he now felt for the unknown. Not even before a battle in New Zealand or facing hostile tribesmen on the Queensland frontier. What if Amanda rejected him after he had journeyed halfway around the world to meet with her again?

‘There is a stranger approaching the house, Lady Amanda,’ the elderly maid said, standing by the window which looked down on the driveway. Amanda, sitting by the coal fire reading a book of poetry, glanced up. ‘Do you not recognise him, Meggie?’ she asked, putting aside the book.

‘No, ma‘am,’ Meggie replied. ‘But I will send him away if you wish.’

‘Only a foolish or lost man would be this far from the village on a day like this,’ Amanda said, rising from her chair. The first flurries of snow began to fall from the heavy skies and Amanda focused on the man’s face.

‘Dear God!’ she exclaimed.

Meggie glanced at her mistress with alarm. ‘Should I fetch the constable?’ she asked, seeing the enigmatic expression on Lady Amanda’s face.

‘No, Meggie,’ Amanda replied and her sudden, impulsive hug startled the maid. ‘No, let the man in. He is no stranger. He is a man who does not know the tyranny of time or tide.’ Before leaving Australia with her husband’s body, Amanda had learned of her brother’s murderous rampage. Lachlan’s knowledge of the scheme to bring about her brother’s ruin was also discovered. Two years had passed and nothing had been heard from Charles. Even in the Scottish Highlands rumours circulated that he had escaped to the Americas.

Lachlan’s apparent duplicity had shocked Amanda when she had learnt of it, but more than that, it had hurt her. But time had healed her emotions and when her anger had dissipated she realised that above all she missed the young Scot. In her heart she had always known he would come.

Lachlan stood hesitantly at the great wooden doors of the manor. Had he come too far? He wondered whether he should turn around and go back to the Scottish village where he had temporary lodgings. But he did not have time to answer his own question.

The door opened. There was Amanda’s beautiful face before him.

‘Lachlan, my dearest, do not say anything,’ Amanda said and reached out to embrace him with a passionate kiss that startled even the tough bushman. It was enough to tell him that his journey of searching had finally come to an end.