Fortune's Son
ABOUT THE BOOK
Can one man’s revenge become his redemption?
Young Luke Tyler has everything going for him: brains, looks and a larrikin charm that turns heads. The future appears bright, until he defends his sister from the powerful Sir Henry Abbot. His reward is fifteen years hard labour on a prison farm in Tasmania’s remote highlands.
Luke escapes, finding sanctuary with a local philanthropist, Daniel Campbell, and starting a forbidden relationship with Daniel's daughter, Belle. But when Luke is betrayed, he must flee or be hanged.
With all seeming lost, Luke sails to South Africa to start afresh. Yet he remains haunted by the past, and by Belle, the woman he can’t forget. When he returns to seek revenge and reclaim his life, his actions will have shattering consequences – for the innocent as well as the guilty.
Set against a backdrop of wild Tasmania, Australian gold and African diamonds, Fortune’s Son is an epic story of betrayal, love and one man’s struggle to triumph over adversity and find his way home.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Acknowledgements
To Peter Bishop, Varuna’s foundation
creative director and this book’s original champion.
CHAPTER 1
Funny, but on the day it happened Luke had never felt so cocky. As he set off in the cart that grey afternoon through Hobart’s wintry streets, he felt like he owned them. Felt like a king. Youth will do that to you.
Storm clouds piled high in the leaden sky as he drew rein in the lane behind Abbott House. The imposing double-storey home, with its fashionable Battery Point address, was a far cry from Luke’s humble cottage in working-class Wapping. Yet he wouldn’t have swapped them. For all its grandeur, there was something cold, even sinister about the home’s forbidding stone facade.
The force of the gathering gale caused the old pony to whinny and shy like a colt. Luke glanced up at Mount Wellington, its peak shrouded in cloud. Better hurry, the rain would hit soon. He knocked at the kitchen door, cap in hand, head bowed to the bitter southern blast. After a long wait, the housekeeper answered his knock. He was a favourite of hers, and knew it. A handsome lad with even features and bold, brown eyes, women already found his larrikin style and quick wit appealing. But instead of allowing him into the kitchen and out of the weather, perhaps even offering him a treat of freshly baked bread, she seemed oddly flustered and tried to close the door in his face. Luke jammed his boot inside to block it.
‘I’ve come for my sister, Mrs Dunsley. Where is she?’
The housekeeper avoided Luke’s eye and tried again to force the door shut. With a shove he entered the cosy kitchen, which smelled comfortingly of cinnamon scones and roast beef. Generally he’d find Becky there, chopping vegetables or polishing the silver tableware required for the evening meal when Sir Henry Abbott was in town. This time she was nowhere to be seen.
‘Your sister will be here directly,’ said Mrs Dunsley. ‘She’ll be taking the master his tea, is all. How about a nice piece of corn bread and jam? Or would you rather some cold lamb and chutney? I think I can find a glass of warm buttermilk to go with that.’
Bread and buttermilk? Why wasn’t she cuffing him round the ears for his cheek? And since when was it the job of a lowly kitchen maid to take the master his tea?
Ignoring her protests, he pushed past her into the hall. Faint sobs came from the parlour to his left. Bursting through the door he found Rebecca on the floor – blouse undone, skirts pushed up around her waist, lip split and bleeding. On top of her lay a trouser-less Henry Abbott, so intent on his pleasure that for a few seconds he failed to notice Luke enter the room.
He was only fourteen years old, but Luke could more than hold his own in a street fight. Working at his uncle’s blacksmith shop had given him powerful arms and a strong, straight back. Even so, he may well have been no match for the much older and heavier Sir Henry if it had not been for the power of his outrage. And the sight of his sister’s rumpled clothes, skinny legs and bloody, tear-drenched face caused any respect he might have had for his superior to vanish.
Luke dragged the surprised man off Rebecca by the collar of his fine starched linen shirt, choking him in the process, then hurled him half-naked and headfirst against the wall. Henry Abbott tried to stand, revealing a crooked nose and two broken front teeth. Dimly, Luke was aware he should stop, but he didn’t. He drove his fist hard into Abbott’s temple, rendering the master of the house unconscious.
‘Luke, you shouldn’t have . . .’
Turning his attention to Becky, he gently helped her to her feet, murmuring words of comfort, adjusting the crying girl’s clothes. Then, cradled like a child in arms, he carried his sister past the astonished Mrs Dunsley out to the cart, gee’d up the impatient pony and drove home before the storm struck.
His mother, Alice, was in the kitchen when Luke guided Becky through the front door, down the hall and into her little bedroom. ‘Is that you, Luke?’
‘Don’t tell Mama,’ whispered Becky. ‘I’ll die if you tell Mama.’
Her sobs were loud enough to summon Alice from the kitchen. ‘Whatever’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Luke? Becky?’
Luke took his mother’s hand. ‘No . . .’ said Becky, but Luke was already leading Alice from the room, shutting the door behind him.
As Luke recounted the events of that awful afternoon, all colour drained from his mother’s face. ‘You have to get away, this very minute,’ she said, her voice low and urgent. ‘Pack a change of clothes while I get some food. Hurry.’
‘Go?’ said Luke. ‘Why should I go? I’m going to make Abbott pay.’
‘It’ll be you who’ll pay, my darling,’ said Alice. ‘Who knows what they’ll charge you with.’
‘Let them put me in the witness box.’ Luke crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I can’t wait to tell the world what sort of scum Abbott is.’
‘I’ll pack your bag myself then.’ Alice turne
d on her heel, running down the hall towards the lean-to on the back porch where Luke slept.
She tossed a few things in his canvas pack with shaking hands. Becky appeared in the doorway, her face pale, and swollen around the jaw and temple. She’d have a black eye by morning. Alice turned and hugged her daughter fiercely enough that it hurt them both. She had to pull herself together. She mustn’t let fears for Luke overshadow what had happened to their sweet Rebecca. Alice touched the girl’s face with infinite tenderness, and choked back a sob. Where would Becky end up now? At the jam factory or flour mill? Work for girls in those places was like slow murder. And what if she fell pregnant?
‘Luke will be all right, won’t he?’ said Becky. ‘Papa will know what to do.’
‘Yes, yes . . . shush now,’ Alice said soothingly, but she knew better. Thomas couldn’t fix this. Luke had to leave, and leave now. It was his only hope. The coppers wouldn’t be far off and there’d be no fair trial of the kind Luke imagined. Even if Rebecca could face the shame of testifying, the word of a servant girl was of dubious value against the statement of a wealthy and important man like Henry Abbott.
Alice’s mind worked furiously as she grabbed boiled potatoes and cheese from the kitchen. The only person alive who might help them was Daniel Campbell. He’d gone out of his way to aid their family before. Giving Thomas work. Taking Luke into his school. A kind man. A respected man, with standing in society. But he was somewhere up country, many days’ ride distant. Thomas must go for him anyway.
Thomas. She drew a long, shuddering sigh. Any minute her husband would burst in the door with that cheerful smile, declaring his family was worth ten of other men’s. How would she tell him?
Alice dashed back to Luke, thrust the pack into his hands and pulled him down the hall towards the back door. ‘Go bush, up the mountain, to that little camp of yours. They’ll never find you there.’
‘I won’t run, Mama. It’s not me that’s done wrong.’
He’d grown so tall, her son, and he stood there, an immoveable object.
They looked at each other, eye to eye, as the pounding at the front door began.
‘Please, Luke,’ Alice said.
But then the door flew open and two constables trooped in.
‘Luke Tyler,’ said the biggest man in a rough voice. ‘I’m arresting you for the grievous assault of Sir Henry Abbott.’
Becky appeared at the doorway, shivering and hollow-eyed. The look on her face. She shook her head as if doubting the truth of what was happening.
Luke stood his ground, confident that justice would prevail. Even when they shoved him against the wall. Even when they seized his arms. Only when they chained his hands behind his back did Luke react. He exploded with impotent rage, roaring like an animal. The chains held tight. What could he do?
‘No.’ Alice grabbed hold of Luke. ‘You can’t take him. You can’t take my son. He was protecting his sister, that’s all.’ She tried to prise the constables’ fingers from his arm and was slapped away.
‘Don’t cry, Mama,’ Luke called as they dragged him out. ‘I’ll be back soon, I promise.’
Alice ran into the street after them, into the rain and gloom. Icy fingers gripped her heart so tightly it could barely beat. A fog wrapped around her mind, stealing her senses, making her stumble. She fell on the slippery road, landing hard in the mud. When she looked up, Luke was already gone.
CHAPTER 2
Luke took a bite of bread, then hurled it to the putrid floor. ‘Call this breakfast? It tastes of nothing but weevils and mould.’
His frail, bearded cellmate pounced on the prize and wolfed it down in between hacking coughs. Luke was both sickened and overcome with pity. ‘Here, greybeard.’ He handed over a morsel of hard cheese. ‘Have this too.’ The sick old man needed it more than he did. After three days in this stinking, freezing cesspit, Luke was to go before the judge that day and tell his story. With any luck he’d be home by sundown.
Morning crawled by. Bars at the high window cast striped shadows on the wall, his only way of marking time. The iron shackles bit into his skin, and minutes felt like hours. He filled the space by imagining how his parents were feeling. His mother? Sick with worry. His father? Wild and angry. Trying to find a lawyer. How much would that cost?
He listened all the while for the sound of footsteps in the hall outside. At last came a voice and the clang of keys in the lock. A guard opened the gloomy gaol cell, roughly cuffed Luke’s hands, and led him blinking into the wan winter sunshine.
Just a short walk. Part of the old chapel on site had been converted to a courthouse. Luke put on a brave front, but averted his eyes from the high iron gate to the right. The execution yard and gallows lay beyond. Passing them stole his courage. In the shadow of the gate, Luke felt like the frightened child he was, frantic for his family.
The guard took him to a back entrance of the courthouse, and down a hall with cells either side. They stopped outside an imposing carved door. ‘Wait here.’ The guard idly chewed tobacco as Luke shifted nervously from foot to foot, wishing his clothes weren’t so filthy and his feet weren’t so cold. He rubbed his frozen hands to regain some feeling.
A loud knock sounded from the other side. ‘In you go, son.’
He found himself in a crowded, oak-lined courtroom. Grand and civilised. It reminded him of Mr Campbell’s library. Luke took to the dock, feeling more hopeful.
‘Luke . . . Luke!’ His mother’s voice. He tried to find her in the sea of faces of the public gallery. There, at the side, and Becky too, waving. He waved back. Where was his father? Where was his lawyer?
A fat, red-faced clerk swore Luke in and read out charges of aggravated assault and attempted robbery. Robbery? Where had that come from?
‘How do you plead?’
‘Not guilty.’ Luke’s voice sounded faint and faraway in his ears.
The proceedings were a confusing blur. The bewigged judge looked half-dead, his sunken face marred with acne scars and great grainy circles under hollow eyes. Luke found himself shivering, unable to stop. The prosecutor, with the voice of a sergeant major and a handlebar moustache, boomed out the case against Luke. It bore scant resemblance to the truth.
‘This young felon forced his way into Abbott House with a scarf tied over his face, knocking the elderly housekeeper to the floor. He then helped himself to the family silverware. When Mrs Dunsley attempted to rise, the defendant made to strike her again. It was only the timely intervention of Sir Henry Abbott that saved her from further injury.’
The judge frowned. A cry of protest rose from the gallery. ‘You’re a lying piece of crap!’
Luke’s heart leapt with hope. His father? He eagerly searched for him. No, not his father, but big Uncle Hiram at the back, with his fist in the air and standing head and shoulders above the rest. As Luke watched, two constables bundled him out. Luke’s throat tightened as the prosecutor continued without mention of Abbott’s assault on his sister.
‘The defendant dropped the silver, struck Sir Henry in the mouth and fled like the coward he is.’
A murmur ran through the crowd as Henry Abbott emerged from a door at the side of the courtroom. Luke’s teeth ground together and his body stiffened. Abbott walked right by and shot him a brief contemptuous look before taking the stand.
How Luke hated him. The way he walked, and the sound of his voice and his cruel face. He hated his cold blue eyes. He even hated the smell of him.
Abbott spoke clearly, calmly, his evidence a pack of lies incriminating Luke and casting himself in the role of a hero. On being dismissed he left the courtroom without a backward glance.
Next, a nervous Mrs Dunsley testified. No wonder she couldn’t meet his eye. She confirmed Abbott’s cock-and-bull story in every detail.
‘No further witnesses,’ said the prosecutor. ‘As open and shut a case as I’ve seen, your honour.’
The judge nodded sagely and peered at Luke over horn-rimmed glasses. ‘Have you anything t
o say in your defence?’
Luke’s mouth was so dry it was hard to speak. He licked his lips, but no spit would come. ‘They’re lying, sir,’ he managed. ‘I didn’t steal anything.’
‘That’s for me to decide. Did you strike Sir Henry Abbott and Mrs Ida Dunsley?’
‘Not Mrs Dunsley.’
‘And what about Sir Henry?’
‘I was protecting my sister, Rebecca. She’ll tell you.’
‘Do you call her as a witness?’
Becky and his mother had pushed their way to the front of the crowd. Luke went to speak, then stopped, open-mouthed. He studied his sister with a growing sense of horror. Her arms were clutched around herself, shoulders curled forward and chest caved in. She rocked softly back and forth, eyes downcast. Confusion washed over him. He hadn’t thought this through.
His mother gently pushed Becky forward. She raised her head, revealing a face drained of colour and eyes like a wounded fawn before the hounds.
‘Well?’ asked the judge.
‘No,’ said Luke, finding his voice. ‘I do not call my sister as a witness.’
His mother clamped her hand to her mouth, eyes wide. Becky began to cry.
‘Then you will speak in your own defence?’
Luke’s heart was racing. Telling the truth would humiliate his sister in front of all these people. And for what purpose? He had no hope of being believed now. A silence fell on the crowded courtroom and the answer came to him. He swallowed hard, searching for courage. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
‘Luke, no!’ came his mother’s cry. She fell to her knees. Instinctively he reached his cuffed hands for her, but a guard shoved him back.
‘I plead guilty to all the charges.’
The judge’s bloodless lips creased into a thin smile. ‘A wise move, for I don’t suffer liars well in my court. Are you sorry for your crimes, boy?’
‘I am sorry, your honour.’ The words stuck in his throat. ‘And I beg God’s forgiveness.’
The judge picked up his pen and started to write. For an agonising few minutes, all Luke could hear was the scratching nib.
At last the judge looked up. ‘Luke Tyler, you have pleaded guilty to the charges laid against you: namely that you did on the fifteenth day of July, in the year of our Lord 1882, callously and with malice aforethought commit an aggravated assault on Sir Henry Abbott and Mrs Ida Dunsley. Furthermore, in the course of the assault, you did attempt to steal a quantity of valuable silver tableware.’ He shuffled his papers. A baby’s thin wailing sounded from somewhere. ‘These are very serious crimes, however, I am a merciful man, and will take into account your youth and contrition.’