Flight of the Eagle (22 page)

But suddenly he had found another party of Kalkadoon warriors waiting to ambush his exposed flank. This time the spears found targets amongst the confused attackers. Two horses went down riddled with spears. The charge had ended in a melee, both horses and men breaking into confusion and panic as they fled in all directions. The warriors jeered at their retreat. Only Gordon's leadership had been able to rally his men, and turn a panicked flight into an orderly withdrawal.

When they had regrouped, sweating horses shivered and trembling men grinned sheepishly at each other. How easily they had underestimated their opponents, Gordon thought as he searched the plain for the Kalkadoon who had seemingly disappeared into thin air. It was a mistake he would never make again to underestimate the fierce and intelligent tactics of these warriors. Inspector Potter had underestimated them, and paid with his life.

On a hill top deep in the range of low round hills to the west of the Native Mounted Police campsite a seasoned warrior also sat alone by a fire and poked at the glowing embers with a stick.

Wallarie moodily watched the fire spirits dancing in a shower of sparks, fleeing into the night sky to join the twinkling spirits of the heavens. But he was not alone for long as he was joined by a broad-shouldered young warrior of the Kalkadoon.

Terituba had heard tales about the Darambal sorcerer who had travelled from the south to join them. It was said that the Darambal man knew much about the ways of the white men and had once befriended one who also had been hunted by the white tribes and the hated Native Mounted Police. The Darambal warrior had quickly learned the language of the Kalkadoon and been accepted as an advisor to the war chief.

Terituba sat cross-legged beside Wallarie and gazed into the glowing embers.

‘When the white men come to us we will wipe them out,’ he boasted to Wallarie who he knew had advised the Kalkadoon strongly against retreating into the hills. ‘Here they will be trapped in the hills and their horses of no use to them on the steep hillsides.’

But Wallarie remained silent and continued to gaze at the fire, ignoring the proud young warrior's boast. They did not truly know the persistence of the white troopers as he did!

‘We have the river to give us water and food,’ Terituba continued. ‘We have the rocks to shower on the enemy from our hills and we have killed a leader of the black crows before. They do not have the knowledge of the land as we do.’

Wallarie finally broke his silence. He could no longer stand the arrogance of the younger man. ‘The man who leads the black crows is a white man who knows the land,’ he said quietly. ‘I know this.’

Terituba stared at Wallarie with surprise. ‘But he is only a white man. How could he know the land as we do?’ he sneered.

‘Because he has lived amongst the Kyowarra for a time, and learned many things that we know. His father killed my people, until only I was left to tell you. He is a killer of all black people of the land. I know this because I know the man called Gordon James just as I knew his father before him.’

Terituba sat and listened as the older man uttered his words and felt the chill that came with the magic of a divine revelation. After a short while he rose to his feet and left Wallarie alone by his fire. The sorcerer was surely a man to be shunned or killed, he thought as he walked away.

When he was alone again Wallarie pondered on the coming of Gordon James to the hills with his horses and guns. Peter Duffy was with him. Peter, son of the big white man Tom Duffy and Mondo, Wallarie's blood relative. Peter was coming to kill his brothers who stood against the hated troopers of the Native Police.

A dingo howled from the depths of a valley. The old warrior glanced with dark eyes into the flames of the fire and saw things there. He crooned the songs of his people, songs that only he now remembered, until the dreams came. And when the dreams came the spirits of his people reached out to him across the vast plains of scrub, red earth and broken hills.

In his visions the spirit of the hill told him what he must do to save the memory of his people. Wallarie tried to protest but the voice of the spirit was strong and changed shapes to frighten him. Finally the Darambal warrior conceded to the wisdom of the ancestors. He sighed in his troubled sleep as the dingo howled to its kind in the Godkin Range.

NINETEEN

M
ichael Duffy bit the end off his cigar and spat the nipped section into the water that lapped gently against the rock wall of Sydney's Circular Quay. Passengers disembarking from the ferries bustled past him with barely a glance. He took his time in striking a match. He was in no hurry. He would savour the rich taste while he waited patiently to meet the man Horace Brown had contacted in the von Fellmann matter.

Paperboys peddled their trade, shouting to the passengers hurrying by in a language as unintelligible as that of an auctioneer. Horse-drawn trams and hansom cabs waited at the busy focal point of Sydney's link with the world. Steam ships lay at anchor in the many coves of the harbour city and sailing skiffs owned by the wealthy skipped the waves.

Michael idly watched the ladies in their long dresses that sprouted ungainly bustles. Men sported top hats and frock coats. He remembered similar scenes when, in his youth, he and his cousin Daniel had caught the ferry to Manly Village on the other side of the magnificent tree-lined harbour. It was there that he had first met the beautiful daughter of the powerful Scots squatter Donald Macintosh. But Fiona Macintosh was now Missus Fiona White and married to the man who had been responsible for the terrible turn of events that had thrust him into the violent world of mercenary soldiers.

Michael felt strangely at peace – even with the ever-present threat of his identity being disclosed to the police and the thought of the dangerous task that lay ahead of him – in the familiar sights and sounds of the city of his youth.

‘Mister Duffy,’ the deep, cultured voice behind him said as he continued to gaze across the water of the cove. ‘It has been some time since we last met.’

‘Major Godfrey. I see you are well,’ Michael said with some shock at recognising a face from his past. The last time he had met the military man had been over ten years earlier when the major had introduced himself at Baroness von Fellmann's afternoon party. They had talked about Colonel Custer and Michael had expressed his view that the Boy General would be in trouble if he ever confronted a united Indian front. Although the British officer had scoffed at this view Michael had proved to be right. In the intervening period George Armstrong Custer had perished with his troops at Little Big Horn. ‘Mister Brown informed me that you would be my contact in Sydney and somehow that did not surprise me.’

The older man smiled wryly. Although George Godfrey wore the fashion of the day, frock coat and shiny top hat, his bearing was that of the professional soldier: ramrod straight back, bending only at the neck to look down on the world of civilians. ‘Do not draw the conclusion that I am in the same profession as my dear friend Horace, Mister Duffy. My occasional work assisting him has been my duty as a soldier of the Queen. Any favours over the years have been motivated by a desire to see the possible enemies of Her Majesty foiled in their devious attempts to gain advantages over our imperial interests. I am a retired Colonel and have a small holding at Parramatta that is now my preoccupation in life. This will probably be the last time I will be assisting Horace in his work.’

Michael smiled to himself at the former English officer's quickness to disassociate himself from Horace Brown.
Intelligence work was not the occupation of gentlemen, as he had been told by Horace once.
‘That too is also my hope, Colonel,’ Michael said, deferring out of politeness to the other man's title. ‘This is definitely my last mission for the bloody British Crown.’

‘Understandable sentiments for the son of an Irish rebel,’ Godfrey said. ‘But obviously not a sentiment shared by your son, who I believe is with the Sudan expeditionary force at the moment.’

‘You know a lot about me, Colonel,’ Michael growled. ‘What do you know about my son?’

Godfrey knew a lot about Patrick but he was a man not prone to telling more than he thought necessary. Not even to the young man's father. The former British officer had worked for Lady Enid Macintosh for some years and had watched Patrick grow to become a man any father could be proud of. That is, if he did not object to Patrick's ties with Queen Victoria's imperial interests.

‘I have been reliably informed that your son is one of the finest officers to serve Her Majesty,’ he offered. ‘And apparently he has a taste for that working-class sport of bare knuckle boxing which I believe he gets from you.’

‘He got that from Max Braun, not me,’ Michael replied as if dismissing the matter. But he felt a secret pride in his son's link with his working-class background. ‘Max taught him to fight, just as he taught me when I was much younger.’

‘He must have been a very good teacher,’ Godfrey commented. ‘From what I have heard, your son is unbeaten champion of his Scots' Brigade. And from my personal experience of serving with those hot-headed kilt wearers, that is no mean feat. It's just a pity your son does not know more about the considerable accomplishments of his father in the good cause of Her Majesty.’

Michael stared with his good eye at the slightly taller man. ‘He doesn't even know I'm alive,’ he snorted bitterly. ‘And besides, I am not particularly proud of working for English interests.’

‘He is bound to find out one day that you are well and truly alive,’ Godfrey said, returning the stare. ‘Your existence is one of the worst kept secrets I know of.’

‘So it seems,’ the Irishman mused. He looked away and turned his gaze to The Rocks. It was still a seedy place that the good citizens of Sydney shunned. Its tenements and alleys appeared to wear an air of decay and despair like a dirty and torn mantle. ‘Hopefully not as well exposed in New South Wales as it seems to be in Queensland.’

‘Hopefully not,’ Godfrey sighed. ‘It would not pay to have a man's reputation questioned in regards to associating with a wanted felon such as yourself, Mister Duffy. But let us not dally with small talk. Small talk is not the grist of old soldiers such as you and I.’

The ferry passengers passing by the two men paid them little attention. They could be two gentlemen discussing the chances of a thoroughbred at the Randwick racecourse. Or the current threat the Russians posed to the security of the colonies due to their alarming moves in Afghanistan, the spectre of the Russian bear lumbering southward as it sought control of the gateway to India having emerged as a real threat to the British Empire in the vulnerable colonies of Australia. Already the conversation on many citizens' lips in the harbour city was of a possible strike by the considerable Russian naval force at England's vulnerable Pacific colonies. It was being mooted that the colonial volunteers who had sailed from the very quay where Michael and Colonel Godfrey now stood should be recalled to defend the city against the possible dreaded appearance of Russian warships in the harbour.

They might have been surprised – had they been privy to the conversation between the two men–that they were not discussing an immediate Russian threat but rather a long-term German threat to the security of the colonies.

Michael listened in silence as Colonel Godfrey outlined the support that was being provided for him and John Wong in their quest for information concerning Otto von Bismarck's intentions to seize Pacific territory for the Kaiser. At length, they parted company with a handshake.

Michael lingered by the water, puffing on the cigar and contemplating his next move as he watched the streaks of gold appear on the oily waters where the sun kissed the harbour. He would return to the office below the cramped residence he shared with John Wong. The lease had been paid for by the resources of Horace Brown and was located on the waterfront at one end of the cove where it had a clear view of ships coming and going. Ostensibly it was an office for import and export to the Oriental markets in China. But it was also an ideal base to monitor the activities along the waterfront where the right people could be nurtured to talk of things important to intelligence.

Michael pondered on the most difficult aspect of his mission: not the danger he was exposing himself to with a possible confrontation with the Prussian aristocrat, but what would happen when he met with Fiona? He puffed at the last of his cigar and flicked the stub into the water.

TWENTY

C
aptain Patrick Duffy was preoccupied with just staying alive for another day of the desert campaign. The British expeditionary force had completed a gruelling march across the blistering desert sands to arrive at the heights above the village of Tamai. Men hastily built a Zareba of stone and earth on sundown while aerial observers in a gas air balloon drifted above them to watch the manoeuvring of the Dervish army in the distance beyond the ruins of the village. A report was scribbled and dropped to die ground from the balloon's basket where it was snatched by a waiting runner who took the message to General Graham's mobile headquarters: the Dervishes were retreating to hills away from the advancing British army. The news would have cheered most but it did not cheer General Graham. He desired a decisive engagement with the rebels in a set piece battle and the fleeing warriors of the Mahdi were denying him that opportunity.

Standing alone on the forward perimeter of the defences, Patrick did not feel the same relief as many of his fellow soldiers for the Dervish retreat. Their exposure to the battlefield at McNeill's Zareba had dampened their enthusiasm for war, although they would not openly admit to this amongst themselves. Patrick knew too well that none of them would get an undisturbed sleep that night. His experiences in the Sudanese campaign had made him aware that raiding parties would creep back in the night to snipe and harass them. They might even possibly launch a full-scale attack on them. They were a brave and fanatical enemy who, in the holy war against the invading British puppets of the Egyptian government, held the belief that death granted them a place in heaven.