Chapter Seven – Young and Jackson’s

Edward James Bartlett glanced out the carriage window, as it came to a stop on Flinders Street, diagonally opposite the weatherboard structures that made up the Melbourne Terminus, and behind it, the River Yarra. Across Swanston Street was the partially complete St Paul’s Cathedral, its construction having been dogged by disputes between the Church and builder, and cost overruns that each blamed on the other.

A footman opened the coach door. ‘Young and Jackson’s, sir.’

‘About time too,’ said Edward. ‘Tell Lionel to take the carriage up and wait in Flinders Lane. I will stroll up to Mackay and Company tailors for a fitting after the meeting. I may be as late as five pm.’ His hand reached for the handle of a brown leather briefcase on the floor, bundling it with his umbrella.

‘Very good sir,’ said the footman.

Edward stepped up onto the pavement, the case in his hand, and the umbrella under the same arm. Light rain had been falling when he left Fitzroy, and the fabric was still a little damp, though now the sun peeped over the top of the three-storey hotel known widely as Young and Jackson’s. Officially named the Prince’s Bridge Hotel, the bustling pub was already a city institution, and an attractive edifice – built from a dark basalt called bluestone, quarried in Footscray and used in most of the city’s fine buildings.

Edward couldn’t help noticing the carriage drawn up on the kerb ahead, outside the fishmongers. The panels were glossy with high-class joinery, and a coat of arms adorned each door – the type drawn up by heraldry companies for families with New Money and no history. The conveyance was worth three times as much as Edward’s, which was the partial cause of the red ink in his bank book, and constant letters from the manager. Appearances were important, however, particularly when substance was lacking.

Substance was what Edward hungered for – a mansion in Toorak – his boys educated at Scotch College with the sons of politicians and powerbrokers – and a London season every couple of years for good measure. That kind of life was ahead of him. It merely required hard work, and the application of his brain, always thinking three steps ahead of the rest.

As he passed the main door, Edward could smell the stale beer stink of the front bar, and hear the loud banter of working class men as they drank their cheques down. The public bar, however, was not his destination. Instead, he walked on to the next entrance, and stepped inside. There he encountered a doorman, controlling access to the accommodation upstairs, and private rooms down to the right.

‘Your name, sir?’

‘Edward Bartlett, I’m meeting with Mr Coombs and others.’ The surname Coombs had a weight to it. He was one of the richest men in the state, and Edward felt that wealth and power float like a blanket over him, by association.

‘Mr Coombs is already here, sir. May I take your hat, umbrella and coat?’

‘Of course.’

Divested of these garments, Edward walked down the corridor to the right, his nostrils filling with new smells – fine cigars, leather, Macassar oil and whisky. He opened a door without knocking, entering a smoky room dominated by a cedar table the size of a small bedroom. Three men were already seated. Howard Coombes sat at the head – an older man with a rugged and handsome face – long side whiskers and eyes like the two pointers of the Southern Cross.

 His seat was a wheelchair – an extravagant machine, with large, spoked wheels at the rear, and small swivel wheels at the front. The frame was of timber, with rattan platforms on both base and back.

The man himself was impressive, even as a cripple, Edward reflected. His life story was legendary. He had been born in a tent on the Campaspe River, and could ride, crutch and pen before he was nine. By the age of eighteen he was head stockman on one of Western Victoria’s biggest runs.

In the 1840s, when the fledgling colony was rocked by years of bank failures and a general depression, Coombs started buying up land with his savings, and when good times came again, he was lord of half a million acres. The gold rush brought a premium in lamb prices, and a wool boom followed.

 In the next decade he tripled his landholding, then, as if he had tempted the fates too far, tragedy struck. At the age of forty, still getting out into the stock camps himself and assisting with musters, his horse shied at a snake and threw him. Howard had, of course, been thrown before, but this time the base of his spine struck a rock. His legs, it seemed, would no longer move.

Despite the efforts of Melbourne’s best physicians, he never walked again. In characteristic fashion, however, he dusted himself off, and learned to ride by hands and voice, without the key signals a good rider transmits with his feet, knees and thighs. Assistance was needed to mount and dismount, but Howard Coombs was not a man who spurned help when he needed it. His success in business was partly due to his willingness to build and use a team of men he trusted – his sons foremost among them. His two eldest, in fact, sat at the table that afternoon.

In recent times, Coombs had cast his gaze northwards, where there was a bonanza at play, a land grab that only a fool would ignore – the entire northern half of a continent being divided into squares, vast landholdings offered for perpetual lease to men with money or determination or both.

At sixty-two years of age, Coombs had both qualities. He still had a handsome, square-jawed face, but for his teeth, which had yellowed before their time from chewing tobacco – a habit he had acquired on the land and could not seem to give up.

Edward admired him a great deal, watched his methods, the unscrupulousness of his dealings, his readiness and ability to take advantage of any situation. Business was a game to him, a grand game with the livelihoods and well-being of others at play.

‘You’re late,’ rasped Howard Coombes. His voice was gruff, with echoes of his low-class roots, a mish-mash of his cockney father and bush slang. It always amused Edward to think how the old tearaway must come across in the rarefied air of the Melbourne Club, where he was a member.  He doubted however, if Coombes gave a damn what anyone thought of him, and money, of course, has the sweetest voice of all.

Edward made a show of consulting his pocket watch. His lateness was a matter of a few minutes only, but he accepted the criticism with good grace. ‘I apologise, the horse and foot traffic out of Carlton was indescribable.’

A waiter in black trousers, vest and apron came through the door and appeared at Edward’s shoulder. ‘What would you like to drink, sir?’

Edward looked at the glasses of pale lager on the table in front of his companions. He preferred whisky, or wine, but he had learned that it did not pay to do things differently to one’s betters.

The waiter said, ‘Your companions are drinking a new lager brewed by the Foster brothers, here in Melbourne, sir. We are one of the first outlets to cellar it – a highly regarded drop if I may say so.’

‘You may, and I’ll be pleased to try it,’ said Edward.

 The waiter returned at a brisk pace with a foaming glass, and as he left, Howard Coombs called out, ‘Shut the door behind you, and see we are not disturbed until three.’

‘Of course, sir.’

When the waiter had gone Edward took a sip of his lager then slipped his cigarette case from his pocket, choosing one, tapping the end on his wrist, then placing it between his lips. The nearest of Coombs’s sons, a thirty-year-old called Jonathan, with a kinder heart than his father and brothers combined, struck a match, and held it out. Edward inhaled, breathed out through pursed lips and waited. There was no doubt of who was in charge of proceedings here.

‘Me an’ the boys aren’t happy,’ growled Coombs at last, ‘I ‘ad a wire yester-dye, from up north. It seems that one of the rough sorts you hired has committed manslaughter in Camooweaal and has been arrested.’

‘I am aware of that,’ Edward replied. ‘By all accounts, he was pushed quite to the edge by the deceased man – an African from Jamaica – and was forced to defend himself. Being of stern stuff, our man came off the better in this little matter, but unfortunately the law has intervened. He is now en route to Cooktown where I hope he might be exonerated.’

Coombs raised his bushy eyebrows. ‘That aren’t the result me informant be predicting. The version I hear is that your three hirelings rolled into town as drunk as lords and raised merry hell. Even if he gets orf, your man’ll be in Cooktown, an’ we needs him in the Territor-eye.’ He lowered his voice, the yellowed teeth appearing as he moved his lips, ‘You should have chosen better.’

Edward, being honest, had not enjoyed the voyage to the Gulf of Carpentaria. The first leg to Brisbane had been jolly enough, but the rest of the trip, on a little Burns and Philp steamer, was another matter. Burketown was abhorrent, with its twin scourges of heat and dust. There had even been a snake in his hotel room, which the publican’s boy took his time to remove, laughing all the time at Edward’s naked fear.

Thankfully, Edward had been able to fulfil his aims – finding the three men lounging in the town, after losing everything but their shirts on the Palmer, and having been all but run off the fields. The retainer Edward had offered had been enough for them to drop their current plans – which seemed to be staying put and drinking themselves to death – and head for Camooweal.  

‘I should have chosen better,’ Edward agreed. ‘Sadly, the pickings were slim, and while the Irishman was full of bluster and seemed to be the leader, I believe the one named Kahl will be more valuable to us in the long run. He is intelligent, for his type, and will reward our faith.’

‘So you seye,’ said Coombs. ‘I have eight thousand head of cattle waiting, in six different herds, and men drawing wages for doin’ sweet Fanny Adams ‘til this situation is resolved. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mr Coombs. I understand.’

‘You has been promised an exorbitant sum of money, and a share besides. You do want to be rich, don’t yer?’

Edward glanced at the boots worn by his host, on those useless legs, resting on the footrest at the front of his wheelchair. They were glossy brown, tooled by a craftsman. They were probably worth as much as a farmhand would earn in a year. ‘I have been so promised,’ he agreed. ‘And I will earn that payment and more, along with your gratitude.’

‘Exactly how might you do that?’ asked Coombs, his voice softening a little.

Edward lifted his briefcase onto his lap and opened it, withdrawing some papers and placing them on the desk in front of him. ‘This is the rest of the plan,’ he said. ‘It will work, and from now it will unfold with great speed.’