The Gallant (57 page)

“And ended up here at Bundilly,” William Broome supplied, smiling. “He’s working for me now and seems to have settled down quite happily. And he’s given our little Jane a new lease on life. We took the child in a few years ago-you see, she’s deaf and dumb and has always found it hard to communicate, even with us. But Luke has managed to get through to her, the Lord knows how, and . .

. well, she really is a new person. And of course-was William refilled both their glasses.

“It was Luke who brought Michael Wexford here.

You knew that, I suppose?”

Johnny shook his head. “No, sir, we did not.

We’ve been hunting him and, coming up against one dead end after another. Didn’t Pat tell you?”

William gave him a rueful smile. “He told us quite a lot when he was delirious, John, but it was all jumbled up, in no proper sequence.

And, frankly, it might be wiser to pretend he didn’t tell us about that crazy plan to aid Wexford’s escape from Port Arthur! In any event, it was never put into operation, was it? Michael Wexford-Michael Cadogan escaped on his own, according to what he told Luke-and then he contrived to smuggle himself aboard Luke’s ship, the Mercedes.

They left her together in Geelong, when she docked.”

Michael must have boarded the

Mercedes

right under their noses, Johnny thought. They had been on the jetty at the Hobart anchorage, he and Kitty and Pat, with Michael’s pardon ready to hand to him, legal freedom within his grasp. He re

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leased a sigh of frustration. “I’d like to hear how he managed that.”

“And so you shall,” his uncle assured him. “But it would be better if you hear it from Luke-he’ll be in soon, with my two boys. Luke convinced me, he convinced all of us that Michael Cadogan was no ordinary convict. To be honest, I was a mite annoyed when I found out that I’d been harboring a Port Arthur absconder unawares. The penalty for that is still a costly one, and I’m a magistrate!”

“What made Luke bring him here?” Johnny asked.

“Oh, that was pure chance. They were on their way north to the new diggings and were caught in a severe storm.”

William sipped his drink thoughtfully. “I have to say that there was no abuse of my hospitality.

Michael stayed for only one night. I offered him work-in fact I offered both of them work, and Luke took my offer up, but Michael did not. Out of consideration for my position, I fancy-another reason for saying he’s no ordinary convict on the run. In spite of what was done to him on Norfolk Island and in the Port Arthur Penitentiary, he must have retained the instincts of a gentleman.”

Yet, gentleman or not, Johnny thought, Michael-Michael Cadogan, Earl of

Kilclare-had allied himself with a gang of bushrangers, and there was a price on his head. He wondered whether or not his uncle knew this, and William answered his unvoiced question.

“Luke told us nothing, until Pat wrote to me. Even then, he simply said that Michael was an absconder. When Pat arrived here in person-in a state of collapse, as I mentioned, poor young fellow-we learned the rest of the story.

Partly from what Pat raved about, when he was semiconscious, and Luke finally told us the rest.

After that, my elder boy, Angus, went to Urquhart Falls for provisions and brought back some newspapers and a wanted poster. You realize, don’t you, John, that the pardon granted to Michael will be next to useless if he has committed other crimes in the colony? And it would seem he has, if he’s with this so-called Lawless Gang. They held up a gold shipment in which two police troopers were shot and severely wounded. And since then they’ve robbed a bank in Snowdon, I believe.”

“I read the reports when I was in Melbourne, sir,” Johnny admitted.

“But you are still trying to find him?”

“My wife is. I-was

“Your

wife?”

William stared at him in openmouthed astonishment.

“D’you mean you are married to Lady Kitty?

Pat never said you were.”

Johnny reddened. “I … that is, sir, I persuaded Kit to marry me on the way here. Pat does not know. We-that is, we haven’t had a chance to tell him yet.”

His uncle’s eyes were bright. “Well, good God!

My congratulations. She is a beautiful young woman, and you are a damned fortunate fellow.”

He refilled their glasses, raising his own in amused and tolerant salute, and as his wife came into the room he turned to her, smiling. “Dodie my dear, our newly acquainted nephew has just informed me that he’s married to the Lady Kitty!”

Dorothea displayed no surprise.

“Yes, she has just broken the news to her brother Pat, who appears to be delighted.” She came to Johnny’s side, her smile warm as she offered him her hand. “I am pleased for your sake, John.

You have chosen well. But-was Her smile faded. “I am concerned about the situation in which the three of you are placed. Has my husband told you that Michael Wexford is wanted for bushranging and, if the newspaper reports are true, also for murder?”

“I told John, Dodie,” her husband asserted gruffly. “In fact, I was breaking that piece of bad news to him when you joined us.” His eyes, shrewd and kindly, searched Johnny’s face, a question in them. “But he hasn’t told me as yet what he intends to do-have you, John?”

Johnny’s color deepened and spread, as he sought to gather his scattered wits. But what, he wondered despairingly, could he say? The truth would be unpalatable to a magistrate-of that there could be no doubt-and to remain there, under his uncle’s roof, while engaged in an attempt to aid a fugitive from justice was clearly a gross abuse of hospitality.

And

of trust …he lowered his gaze,

avoiding his uncle’s, and said reluctantly, “I’m committed to a course of action that would not meet with your approval, Uncle W. Or yours, Aunt Dodie. I’m sorry.

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We-in the circumstances, I think we ought to leave Bundilly first thing in the morning, all three of us.”

“Pat is not well enough to leave, John,” he heard his aunt protest. “He-was William held up a hand and she broke off, catching her breath on a sigh.

“Where do you propose to go, if you leave here?”

William asked quietly.

“I-well, to Urquhart Falls,” Johnny

managed. “That was our original intention, sir. To go there after we had seen you. There is a woman there, a woman by the name of Martha Higgins, who keeps an eating house in the town. We know that Michael lodged with her after he left Bundilly-she replied to an advertisement we had published, asking for information as to Michael’s whereabouts. We were hoping-that is, we still hope that she can tell us where he is.”

“I know Martha Higgins,” the older man said pensively. “A widow, with a smallholding outside the town. A decent, hardworking woman and the soul of honesty. If she has information, it will be reliable.

You would be well advised to talk to her, John. And Luke may be able to tell you something.”

William did not, as Johnny had feared he would, ask what plans the Cadogans had in mind if, at last, they succeeded in coming face to face with the man they sought. But it was evident, from his decision not to ask and from the glance he exchanged with his wife, that-while they could count on his silence-they must expect no practical help from him. It was a wholly reasonable stance to take, Johnny recognized. His uncle was a magistrate; he could not, in all conscience, condone what at best was a flouting of the law.

His aunt Dodie, on the other hand, seemed as if she wanted to question her husband’s decision; but although she opened her mouth to speak, she closed it again and, after a momentary pause, repeated her earlier assertion that Patrick was not well enough to leave.

“He has been very seriously ill, John,” she added. “The poor boy met with the worst of our winter weather when he rode here from Bendigo. He lost his way and spent two nights in the open, when it was snowing and blizzarding. Whatever you and comand your wife decide to do, you will have to leave Patrick with us for at least another week.” She did not wait for either his reply or her husband’s, J8ut excused herself quietly and made for the door. Reaching it, she paused, smiling at Johnny. “The boys will be in soon-Angus and Lachie and Luke. But save your Sydney news for supper, John, because I’m longing to hear it all. And-you are a journalist, aren’t you? I’m sure your father told Will that you were.”

“Yes, Aunt Dodie, I am,” Johnny

confirmed. “I’m with the Sydney

Morning Herald

but on a special assignment for a Hobart paper at present. Why? Was there any particular reason?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact there was,” his aunt confessed. “I’m anxious for news from India. My sister Julia-you probably will not remember her-is married to an Indian army officer, Colonel Dermot Macintyre. And as you will know better than I do, there’s serious trouble in India-a mutiny of the native troops in Bengal. That is where they are stationed-in Lucknow, which according to the last newspaper I saw is under siege.

I wondered if you had any recent news?”

There had been news, Johnny recalled, in the last edition of the Melbourne

Herald

he had seen; but his mind had been on other matters, and beyond registering the fact that the news had not been good, he had not really taken much of it in. There had been something about troops being recalled from China and sent to India, and a telegraphic message from Sir Henry Lawrence to the effect that Lucknow’s defenses were in good order, but … Johnny sighed. He could recall little else. There had been no mention of Ranpur, where Will De Lancey and Jenny were stationed, and so, presuming that all must still be well there, he had gone back to the task he had set himself-searching back numbers for reports of the activities of the Lawless Gang.

He remembered Julia, however-Julia Dawson, she had been, the elder of Abigail Tempest’s stepdaughters-an acid-tongued, unattractive woman, very different from the charming person who was his aunt Dodie. As boys, he and Red had disliked Julia intensely, but he could hardly say so now, of course. He started to quote what he could remember of the telegraphic message from Lucknow, in the hope that his aunt might find it of comfort, but she cut him short.

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“The last mention of poor Sir Henry Lawrence that I have seen stated that he was killed by a cannon shell,” she said sadly. “It was an unconfirmed report, in one of the newspapers Angus brought back from Urquhart Falls. I had hoped that you might have seen a more recent edition before you left Melbourne. News filters through and takes so long to reach us here.”

“Yes,” Johnny agreed, feeling foolish.

“Yes, Aunt Dodie, it does. But let us hope the report about Sir Henry Lawrence was wrong. I … my sister Jenny and her husband are in Bengal, too, at a place called Ranpur.

It is what they call an outstation, I understand, not far from Cawnpore. I’ve seen no mention of it in the papers, so I was hoping they have had no trouble there.

But-was

Again his aunt interrupted him. “I think,” she said, her voice oddly strained, “that I had better show you

my

paper, John. There has been a terrible massacre at Cawnpore, after the garrison surrendered, and … I’m afraid that this report cannot be wrong. It names names, and it … Oh, dear, perhaps you should read it for yourself. I’ll bring you the paper.”

She was gone for only a few minutes, leaving Johnny sick with apprehension. On her return, she waved him to an armchair and laid the opened sheet of newsprint on his knee. He read the report with mounting horror, wondering how he had come to miss it.

It occupied the front page, and appalling though the whole story was, it appeared to be substantiated by a statement from Lord Canning himself, in which he expressed his anger and repugnance at the base treachery of the rebel leader, the Nana of Bithur.

Stunned, Johnny put down the paper, meeting his aunt’s tear-filled gaze when he did so.

“It is terrible, isn’t it, John?” she said regretfully and expelled her breath in a long, unhappy sigh. “I had always thought of India as a land of milk and honey and safer than it is here. I used to envy Julia, when she wrote of the luxury she enjoyed, the hosts of servants, the balls and parties she attended. But-was She shivered.

“I do not envy her now, or your sister Jenny. They were so brave, those men and women in Cawnpore, and they held out so heroically. Let us pray that Lucknow will be

able to withstand the siege, even if Sir Henry Lawrence has been killed. And that Jenny and Will are safe.”

Johnny echoed her prayer. The boys came in shortly afterward, and over the evening meal, for which Patrick insisted on leaving his bed, the conversation was general, the subject of India avoided. From Luke, Johnny learned the details of

Michael’s arrival on board the

Mercedes,

and he saw Kitty’s eyes widen as she realized how close they had come to making contact with the fugitive.

“We were on the wharf, Pat and Johnny and I,”

she said. “I had Michael’s pardon, endorsed by the governor, in my purse, ready to hand to him! If only we had

known.

It’s heartbreaking to realize now that he was probably hiding a few yards from where we were standing.”

“We could not have known, Kit,” Patrick said, his tone faintly reproachful. “And even if he had seen us, Michael might not have recognized us.

It’s been so long.”

He sounded tired and discouraged. His illness, Johnny realized, had taken its toll, both of his strength and his spirits. And he raised no objection when it was broken to him that he must remain at Bundilly, leaving his sister and brother-in-law to continue the hunt without him.

“I’m as weak as a kitten,” he confessed, when turning to Johnny to offer him congratulations on his marriage-the congratulations, although warmly expressed, somewhat lacking in conviction. “I hope you’ll be happy, truly I do.” He glanced at Kitty, who was deep in conversation with their hosts.

“But Kit is-well, she’s a law unto herself, Johnny. You will have to ride her on a very light rein, for a while, anyway. But perhaps, if we find Michael-if we ever find him and are able to get him back to Ireland-perhaps then Kit will have time for marriage. She hasn’t now, you know.”