Flight of the Eagle (57 page)

As the legal representative of the Macintosh financial interests in the northern colony, Hugh had an intimate knowledge of many of the dealings that flew close to the face of being unlawful. But Hugh was not a man to question such dealings; he had himself used similar tactics to further his own practice and political career.

‘I pray you had a pleasant passage from Sydney, Mister White,’ he said, as they settled down to the agenda of business Granville had scheduled for their meeting.

‘Pleasant enough,’ Granville replied. ‘But the weather here is so damnably hot and unpleasant.’

‘One becomes accustomed to the climate,’ Hugh commented mildly. ‘I fear that my blood has thinned over the years of exposure to the colony's weather.’

‘To each his own.’

‘Before we commence our discussions,’ Hugh said, dispensing with social chatter, ‘on the matters you have outlined in your letter, Mister White, I would like to raise the matter concerning the sale of Glen View.’

Granville looked sharply at the solicitor. ‘That woman has made an offer on the property. Missus Tracy. Has she not?’

‘You knew?’ Hugh said with surprise.

‘I guessed,’ he replied. ‘It was inevitable she would. She has been endeavouring to get her hands on Glen View for years.’

‘She has informed me that she is prepared to make a generous offer.’

‘She can burn in hell before I would allow any member of that damned Duffy family to get the place,’ Granville growled. The solicitor was surprised; he had appraised White as a businessman first and a sentimentalist second. He was well aware of the animosity that existed between the Macintoshes and the Duffys, but did not know the animosity extended to Granville White.

But Granville was not as sentimental as the solicitor gave him credit for. It was only that Kate was the sister of the man whom he feared and hated most in the world. The disposal of Glen View was not based purely on monetary considerations. It was also a need to show Lady Enid he had the power to destroy that which she held precious. ‘I already have a generous offer for the property from other sources,’ Granville added in a way that did not invite further discussion on the matter.

Hugh accepted his conclusion. They would move on to the other issues for discussion.

When the matters were finalised Granville raised the subject of the family property again and stated that he would personally visit Glen View before it was transferred to an English company interested in getting a foothold in the beef industry.

Hugh was surprised at his client's desire to visit the property; it was not necessary to do so for the purposes of the sale. He stated this but Granville replied, ‘I know what you are saying is correct, Mister Darlington, but I have my own personal reasons for visiting Glen View before it is sold. I have made arrangements with the stock and station agent and will travel with him from Rockhampton tomorrow.’

Granville did not feel the need to elaborate.
How could he tell anyone of his years of superstitious fear?
Of a fear for the brooding presence in his life that was like some kind of curse. A fear that he had come to recognise as emanating from Glen View itself and which could, with an unexplainable power, reach out to him even in far-off Sydney. Discussions of such matters were not the grist of a sane man.

‘Well, the matter is settled then,’ Hugh said. ‘I will have all the papers in order for you to sign upon your return.’

‘Good,’ Granville grunted. ‘But there will be one proviso that the purchasers must agree to before I sign over the damned property.’

‘What is that?’ Hugh asked.

‘That the property cannot be resold to any member of the Duffy family for at least ninety-nine years.’

Hugh raised his eyebrows at the request. ‘It will be done, Mister White,’ he replied. ‘I am sure that the property will remain permanently out of reach of the Duffy family with such a codicil attached.’

Granville smirked with satisfaction. After all, Lady Enid Macintosh was not the only one in the family who was capable of using less than violent means to destroy her enemies. He too could play the game.

SIXTY

P
atrick could see clearly that the big man had an eye patch. He scanned the immediate area for any sign of Catherine, but there was none.

The thought that he was about to meet his father caused Patrick a sudden feeling of panic. For reasons he could not fathom he wanted to turn around and ride away. What would his first words be? How did you address a man you had only met briefly once in your life? But Patrick did not have to concern himself with finding the words to introduce himself.

‘Are they with you?’ his father called to him from the river as he stared past Patrick to the grassy rise a half-mile behind him.

Patrick blinked in his confusion at the question and then turned in his saddle and caught his breath as he saw the commando of Boer horsemen fan out on the rise. They had rifles on their hips and it was obvious from their manoeuvre that they were preparing to carry out some kind of mounted attack. ‘No, I haven't seen them before,’ he called back.

His father hurried up the bank of the river and snatched a rifle from the wagon.

‘English, are you?’ Michael asked, as he took shelter behind the stout timber of his wagon.

‘Australian,’ Patrick replied, sliding from his horse. His reply caught his father's attention and he turned away from watching the Boers who were descending in a loose line off the rise. He stared into Patrick's face. For a long moment both men stared at each without saying a word. Finally, Michael broke the silence. ‘Bloody bad time to meet you, Patrick. I hope everything I've heard about your military reputation proves to be true, because right now, I'm going to need all the help I can get.’

The advancing line of horsemen was only a quarter of a mile away. Patrick could discern the bandoliers of cartridges slung across the riders' chests and see the bearded Boer faces under floppy hats with the sides turned up. They were generally big men, with copper complexions burnt by long exposure to the African sun, and they rode as if the horse under them was part of their anatomy. ‘What in hell is going on?’ he asked, confused by the sudden appearance of the commando. They must have been following him from De Aar. He cursed himself for not being more vigilant; it was only to be expected that in his father's line of work he would have many enemies.

‘It seems that Bronkhorst has discovered the Mausers I delivered him are a mite faulty,’ Michael replied calmly as he rested the barrel of the Winchester on the edge of the wagon. ‘And I don't think he has come for his money back. Grab one of these from under the blankets in the wagon,’ his father commanded. ‘I presume you know how to operate a lever action rifle.’

Patrick had never seen this model of the Winchester before but could see that it was not one of the lighter ones that fired a pistol cartridge. His observation was borne out by the packet of heavy brass cartridges on the tailgate of the wagon. They were a much larger cartridge. He hefted the heavy rifle from under the blanket. ‘Loaded?’ he questioned.

‘Loaded,’ his father confirmed. ‘New rifle from my friends at Winchester. Invented by an old friend of mine, John Browning. Sent me a couple to test trial on big game here.’

Patrick took up a position at the wagon and rested his rifle against the timber. His stomach felt as if it wanted to turn inside out as he came to grips with what they faced: fifteen heavily armed horsemen advancing in a line that was capable of swamping them in a determined charge.

‘Take out the horses only,’ his father said softly as he drew a sight on the centre of the line. ‘Try and not hit the riders.’

‘Does the rifle have the range?’ Patrick asked with a note of concern. He knew that every shot must count if they were to break up any determined charge. And at a quarter of a mile the range was extreme for even the best of marksmen.

‘It does,’ his father answered softly and squeezed the trigger. His first shot had barely echoed off the gently rolling grassy hills around them when he had chambered a second round and fired again. Patrick saw two horses hit. One reared and dragged down its rider while the second crumpled, pitching forward. The rider leapt free and crashed heavily into the earth.

Michael rapidly fired and reloaded. Although many of his shots went wild, his hope for a disrupting effect was rewarded with the line of advancing horsemen suddenly milling in a confused melee. Riders desperately pulled down on reins to drag their horses around and retreat out of range of the deadly volley of fire coming from behind the stout wagon. Michael fired until the last spent round spun from the side chamber of his rifle.

Patrick continued to fire, amazed at the wonderfully smooth action of the repeating mechanism. Although he fired carefully he flinched when he saw a shot pluck a Boer from his saddle. The man threw up his arms and slid from his horse. The bullet that had gone high had taken the horseman square in the back. By the time he had fired his last round the Boers had deftly snatched up those men who had been unhorsed.

Michael reloaded and fired a couple of shots in the air over their heads to speed them on. Soon only the empty plain, dead and dying horses, and ringing in their ears from the blast of the Winchesters was left.

‘What do you think they will do next?’ Patrick asked in a hushed voice. ‘Mount a charge?’

‘Not likely,’ his father muttered as he reloaded. ‘More likely they will either wait until dark and close in on us on foot. Or encircle us and come at us from different directions on horseback. Either way these boyos are bloody good at fighting and are not going to be put off by a couple of
Rooineks
they have pinned down on the veldt.’

‘I think they will attempt to take us out with a charge,’ Patrick mused. ‘They have the numbers.’

His father shook his head. ‘My guess is that they will wait until dark, seeing as Bronkhorst is in command. He has a lot of experience in night fighting.’

Patrick sat down with his back to the wheel of the wagon and reloaded his rifle from a box of cartridges. His legs felt weak and his heart thumped in his chest, a reaction to the adrenalin that surged through his body. And he had been worried only minutes earlier about what he would say to his father when they met!

As Michael propped his rifle against the wagon and lit a cigar, Patrick marvelled at how calm his father was considering what they were up against. He seemed fearless. Or was it that, in his fear, Patrick had suddenly felt a surge of comfort at being in the paternal presence of his father? His father! ‘What should I call you?’ he asked as he gazed at the profile of the man puffing serenely as he watched the skyline on the hill to their front.

Michael did not answer immediately. He felt as awkward as his son in the lull following the firing. ‘An uncaring bastard,’ he replied softly. ‘If that makes you feel better.’

‘Maybe. I have always wondered why you never attempted to contact me in all the years past.’

‘I had my reasons, Patrick. Reasons I doubt that I could explain under the present circumstances.’

‘Probably as good as any time to explain them,’ Patrick said. ‘Good chance we might not get out of these circumstances alive. Especially since it looks like I dropped one of them.’

‘Yeah,’ Michael sighed. ‘That seems like a good certainty.’

‘And where is Catherine?’ Patrick asked, with a bitter edge creeping into his question. ‘Is she still with you?’

‘Do you see any sign of her around here?’ Michael retorted angrily. ‘And is your next question, were we lovers? Because if it is you are wasting your time asking me.’

‘I was wondering,’ his son replied mildly. ‘But somehow, I knew you would not tell me.’

Michael turned to his son and gave him a pitying look. He could see himself in the young man. The realisation of all that he had lost in his life stung him. It was obvious Patrick had travelled a long way to meet him – a long search that had exposed his son to the present, dangerous situation that he had created by his own hand. ‘Maybe this isn't the time to play games with each other,’ he said gently. ‘I will try to the best of my ability to answer your questions … son.’

Patrick glanced at his father. His bitterness could not allow him to reciprocate with
father.

Michael turned his attention to the distant horizon. He could just see the head and shoulders of a man surveying their position, no doubt scouting to plan a strategy. ‘As for Catherine,’ he said, ‘I haven't seen her since Greece. She has an interest in archaeology. And when I left for the Cape she was about to leave for Constantinople to visit some ruins there. I don't know where she is now.’

‘I saw a painting of her back at De Aar.’

‘Ahh … yes. Katerina I called that one,’ Michael replied with fond recollection. ‘I painted that one from memory.’

‘She was naked!’

‘Most artist's models pose naked at some time in their careers,’ Michael answered. ‘It does not infer that she was my lover.’

‘But she allowed herself to be seen naked by you,’ his son insisted. ‘Surely one must come to certain conclusions.’

‘You sound like a petty schoolboy, Patrick,’ his father rebuked. ‘You will learn in life that women are their own mistresses. And,
if
we were lovers, that is a matter between Catherine and myself. No-one else.’

‘Then you admit you were lovers,’ Patrick insisted.

Michael thought he could hear a whine creep into his son's voice. ‘The biggest problem you have in your life is that you had no choice in who your father would be. Well, it's me and there is nothing you can do about that except understand that I am not a man who has much tolerance for little boys in men's bodies. So, shut your infernal whining, or accept the facts as they are. She is no longer with me. And you and I have more to talk about than whether or not Miss Catherine Fitzgerald and I were lovers. If that is all right with you?’

Patrick glared at his father with an expression of contempt. ‘You are a bounder of the worst kind. To allow a lady as young and innocent as Miss Fitzgerald to throw herself at you. She …’