Flight of the Eagle (8 page)

Then suddenly Willie was gone. Swallowed by the depths of the vast scrub he ran blindly, sobbing for the pain that was in his body and soul.

Willie returned in the morning as the sun rose – an orange ball in the eastern sky above the stunted trees of the flat scrublands.

Rebecca ran to him and hugged his legs as he shambled across the yard towards the bark hut. He had always been her favourite brother as he was gentle and not teasing like Jonathan and Saul. She held him as one would cling to a life raft in a stormy sea but sensed that her beloved Willie was a different person to the one she had known the day before.

Ben had stood as a gaunt spectre under the shade of the tiny sloping verandah roof that provided a cooling shelter to the front of the hut. He had watched his daughter run to Willie across the dusty yard and greet him with her love and watched as the young man stopped to stroke the mass of yellow curls that came to his waist.

‘Becky! Go and put the billy on,’ Ben asked the little girl before turning to call back into the hut, ‘Jonathan, Saul. Go and fetch some wood for the fire and help your sister.’

The children responded eagerly to their father's orders as they were the first words they had heard him utter in hours and were thankful for direction in a time when the world had come to a sudden halt. Although the terrible grief was in him, so too was the firm and gentle guidance of a father.

The sadness was not a surprise to Rebecca who knew tears had a place in life. For it had been her alone who had often witnessed her mother's tears when the men were absent at their work. Tears that her mother cried for the loneliness of their existence; tears for reasons unknown to Rebecca when her mother held her tightly in her lap as if she was frightened she might lose her only daughter to a monster that came in the night to snatch her away. And sometimes tears of happiness which welled when her father stood awkwardly in the hut grasping a bouquet of wildflowers.

‘Willie,’ Ben said gently. ‘You and I will make a coffin for your mother. A good one.’

Willie nodded. Yes, a good one for his mother he thought, to sleep under the dry red soil of the desolate lands. ‘We will bury her this morning beside that tree she planted last year,’ Ben continued. ‘The one over there,’ he said, and indicated the lone sapling struggling to establish its domain amongst the hardy scrub trees.

The sapling was a pepper tree. Jenny had been given the seeds before Ben and she had left Townsville to take up their selection. With loving care she had been able to raise a bed of seedlings. But despite all her care only one of them had survived to be replanted. The struggling tree had been precious to her as the mature tree would one day provide a spreading canopy of shade, a place sought by man, bird and animal as a refuge from the blaze of the summer sun. But now it was a place for Jenny to sleep for as long as the tree existed in life.

‘I'll dig the hole and you can make the coffin,’ Ben added gruffly. ‘We've got some timber in the shed that will do.’

He was having trouble keeping his grief in check but knew he had responsibilities. Jenny would not have wanted him to allow his feelings to cause him to neglect their family.

‘Now?’ Willie asked softly. He was reluctant to commit the body of his mother to the ground where he knew she would be permanently taken from his sight.

‘Now!’ Ben snapped. He was in no mood to be questioned. ‘Sorry, Willie,’ he checked gently, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder. ‘I …’ He faltered. With Jenny gone he had no words to fill the emptiness that existed between them. ‘We'd better get going before it gets too hot,’ he concluded gruffly.

Before die sun rose high above the flat scrub Jenny was laid gently in her grave. Rebecca knelt and placed a posy of dry wildflowers on the fresh earth mound and then stood back to shelter in her father's shadow.

Jonathan and Saul also stood beside their father while Willie stood alone a short distance away, staring at the dark red earth.

No words were said over the grave, just silence for the memory of a living, laughing, crying, scolding, loving woman who had been mother and wife to her family. No tears, just dry red eyes exhausted of salty moisture. No feeling, except numbed shock and inconsolable grief. No sound but the lazy buzz of flies and the distant lonely cawing of a crow.

Stones would be placed on the earth to provide a shield against the dingos but that was a task to be done when the sun lost its bite in the late afternoon.

Jennifer Rosenblum, aged thirty, mother of four and wife of Ben Rosenblum for ten years, would forever sleep in the shade of the pepper tree she had nurtured against the perils of frontier life. In time the tree would grow, and its roots fold loving fingers around the remains of the woman whose body now provided its nurture.

That night Ben sat by the grave of his wife and spoke to her. He idled through the night in a conversation that was conducted as if she were sitting at the table in their hut darning a sock or sewing a new dress for Becky. He talked of inconsequential things that were the grist of love between a man and a woman.

And there were silences in his monologue as he paused to listen to the familiar sweetness of her voice that existed only in his mind. He remembered her desire to see her children get an education, something she had never had herself. She especially wanted Becky to find a life away from the loneliness of the frontier.

Ben talked on softly and the tears rolled down his whiskered cheeks to soak his thick, bushy beard until he finally fell into a deep sleep of exhaustion.

SIX

T
he dinner served at George Fitzgerald's table was a sumptuous affair. But Patrick had lost his taste for roast venison. Nor was he attentive to Professor Ernest Clark's colourful and rather risqué anecdotes on the savage Celtic practices of old Ireland. He was also reluctant to allow himself to be drawn by Sir Alfred Garnett into an account of his experiences at Tel-el-Kibir and he only exchanged a few words of polite conversation with the magistrate James Balmer, who sat on his left, and with the Norrises, who sat opposite him.

Captain Patrick Duffy was preoccupied with brooding thoughts and his retreat into self-imposed silence could almost be described as churlish. From what he could glean from the conversation that flowed with the wine, Henry Norris had considerable holdings in Welsh coal, English railways and Birmingham steel. Although it was obvious Norris was a man of great wealth he did not have the acquired manners of old wealth. His roots in the back streets of Newcastle still appeared in his mannerisms and speech.

Further down the table Sir Alfred Garnett and his wife Lady Jane tended to dominate the conversation. At least Sir Alfred did with his talk of fox hunts and thoroughbred horses. When Sir Alfred was not attempting to thus engage the dinner guests, he berated the magistrate George Balmer on the scourge of the lingering Fenian threat to life and property in the county. Patrick took an instant dislike to the loud, garrulous knight of the realm on account of what he represented to the Ireland of Patrick's Catholic ancestors.

At the end of the table, seated next to Sir Alfred and his wife, sat the Reverend John Basendale and his wife Tess. The Reverend Basendale was the vicar from the local Church of Ireland and a frequent dinner guest of George Fitzgerald. It was not as if George found the man interesting – he was a meek and colourless man in comparison to Eamon O'Brien – but he could at least deliver the traditionally acceptable Church of Ireland form of grace. The minister and his wife smiled dutifully at Sir Alfred's stories but did little else.

Along Patrick's side of the table sat the distinguished American Randolph Raynor and his pretty wife Ann. He and his wife were guests of Sir Alfred, as were the Norrises. The American had investments in railways and cattle in his own country and it was obvious that the common interest of the Raynors and Norrises transcended continents. Randolph Raynor was a tall, well-built man who spoke softly but carried an air of authority about him like a military cloak. This was not surprising; he had served in the Civil War as a young colonel in a militia unit of the Northern forces of Mister Lincoln.

Beside Ann Raynor sat die Norrises' daughter Letitia. Now eighteen, she had blossomed into a very attractive young lady – and a very eligible catch for some worthy young man of good (and wealthy) stock. Her raven hair and dark eyes contrasted with her milk white complexion that was highlighted with a hint of rouge. It was obvious from die moment she had set eyes on die tall, broad-shouldered young captain wearing the uniform of a Highlander that all men in her life would mean nought should the dashing British officer ask her to elope with him.

Letitia was a prudish snob who did not like Catherine. She considered her as too free in her ways and thus not a lady. Or was it that she felt deep jealousy for the way all men stared with undisguised admiration for the girl with flaming red hair and flashing smile? She sulked in petulant silence as she toyed with her food and snapped irritably at one of die old women servants who placed a dish before her. Letitia was not happy having been seated away from the handsome Captain Patrick Duffy.

At one end of the stout oak table sat George, presiding over the dinner, with his beautiful and socially accomplished grand-daughter at the far end, facing him along a row of candles flickering in their silver candelabra. The soft, yellow glow highlighted the costly jewellery worn by the ladies around slim throats and dangling from dainty earlobes.

The same soft glow reflected off the polished brass buttons and badges of Patrick's resplendent uniform. The gentle glow also highlighted the faces of the guests and flashed off the crystal goblets raised as the guests sipped excellent French and Spanish wines. George Fitzgerald tapped the goblet in front of him with a silver spoon to silence the babble of voices for a moment.

Patrick rose, as did the other guests, and glanced down the table. Brett Norris stood as tall as Patrick himself and carried the arrogant air of one born to wealth. He leant to whisper something in Catherine's ear just before George Fitzgerald proposed the toast to the Queen and, in deference to his American guests, the President of the United States of America, Mister Grover Cleveland. Catherine giggled and placed her hand on the handsome young man's wrist while her lips pressed close to his ear. The intimacy of her gesture did not escape Patrick's notice. He mumbled his response to the toasts as social protocol required, resumed his seat and stared morosely into the dark coloured port in his crystal goblet.

Brett Norris was the son of Henry and Susan sitting opposite Patrick and had been conveniently seated on Catherine's left. Patrick was fuming with jealousy. He had not considered the possibility of some other man intruding on his short time with the beautiful woman whom he had so recently met.

When the dinner was over the guests rose from the table and broke into cliques – the men to sip port and smoke cigars, the ladies to take tea and coffee or sherry. The men would continue talk of investment opportunities, game shooting, fox hunting and salmon fishing, while the ladies gathered in a huddle to gossip of scandals in the county, fashions in London and holidays in the south of France.

Patrick selected a good Havana from a silver box and leant to light the cigar from the flickering flame of a candle. From the corner of his eye he could see Catherine standing very close to Brett Norris and laughing softly at something he said.

Patrick feigned to ignore their intimacy and strode after the men into an anteroom adorned with paintings of rural life, portraits of past Fitzgerald men and women and paintings of fine, thoroughbred horses. Tea and coffee pots steamed on a silver salver set on a polished teak sideboard. Further along was a crystal decanter of good port and rows of small glasses.

Patrick poured himself a port and was about to join the circle of men when he heard his name called. He turned to see Letitia Norris approaching him with a hopeful smile.

‘Miss Norris,’ he acknowledged politely with a smile and a nod of his head.

‘Captain Duffy, I'm afraid I was denied the pleasure of your conversation during dinner,’ she said, gazing up into the emerald eyes of the Australian. They were beautiful eyes, the eyes of a poet. Like the eyes of the romantic Lord Byron whose tragic life was not unlike the one this soldier led. A man destined to fight for the Queen in exotic places and dream of her with unrequited yearning. ‘I was hoping I might have the opportunity to engage you now,’ she sighed as Patrick glanced across her bare shoulders at Lady Jane Garnett holding court with the women. He noticed the disapproving expression on Letitia's mother's face. Soldiers were not fit company for her daughter, not even officers, whose pay was not sufficient to keep her daughter in the style to which she was accustomed.

Despite the pursed lips and scowl from Susan Norris, Patrick chose to indulge in some harmless flirtation with the young woman who, he could see, was smitten by him. Besides, Catherine was not the only pretty young lady in the room.

Letitia continued to gaze into his eyes with her wine moistened, rose-bud mouth partly agape, revealing tiny perfectly set teeth. But Missus Norris was a determined lady. She swept across the room to rescue her daughter. With feeble protests Letitia desperately sought a way of remaining in the company of her latter day Lord Byron but her mother's will was stronger and she led her daughter to the court of Lady Garnett to indulge in proper social intercourse.

Patrick smiled ruefully for the opportunity lost to make Catherine jealous. But things did not go unnoticed by Catherine who realised she also had competition for the captain's attentions. It was a thought galling to her that he might even find the prudish Letitia Norris in the slightest bit interesting, and with a deliberate gesture of defiance she took Brett by the arm and swept across the room towards Patrick.

He noticed Catherine approaching with Brett Norris on her arm, her red dress clinging seductively to her body and accentuating her hourglass figure. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a crown of whorls and she wore an emerald necklace around her pale throat. The gems caught the colour of her eyes perfectly and Patrick felt a surge of desire for her.