Shadow of the Osprey (25 page)

Michael listened attentively as Horace outlined his plan. It was fraught with extreme danger to all concerned and Michael guessed that the plan did not have the sanction of those in the British Foreign Office. He guessed that Horace was not about to inform his masters of how he planned to sabotage German operations in the Pacific. Like Michael he was a man used to living on the edge. What his civil service masters did not know could not hurt them.

But Horace was also acutely aware that only the pawns in the global chess game of strategy got burned – not the kings and bishops. And he knew that he and the Irish mercenary recruited to his cause were mere pawns where the moves left blood on the board.

Michael stood across the street from a modest building of pit-sawn timber and corrugated iron. A recently painted sign over the entrance displayed the words ‘The Eureka Company General Merchants to the Palmer and Cooktown’.

He gazed with mixed emotions at the building. There was a feeling of absolute joy for being so close to the sister that he loved dearly but, at the same time, a deep sadness for his inability to cross the street and back into her life. He was but a ghost of a memory to his sister – and one whose resurrection might be temporary. He well knew that the mission he was to undertake was extremely dangerous. Better he remain nothing more than a memory to her rather than reveal his existence and needlessly bring grief to her a second time.

He fished in his waistcoat for a small silver box of cigarillos. He lit the dark tobacco stick and remained standing under the shade of an awning, staring vacantly at his sister’s depot. With a deep sigh he prepared to walk away. He would keep his gentle memories.

He froze. Kate! He had no doubt that the beautiful young woman who walked out of the store onto the street was his sister. Even though over a decade had passed since he had last seen her, he recognised her distinctive long raven hair. She even had the same faint splash of freckles over her pert nose that summer in Sydney would bring to her pretty face. Stunned, he stared at her from across the street. A pretty little girl of mixed Aboriginal and European blood came out from the store. Smiling, Kate took her hand.

Michael was perplexed by the obviously close relationship. ‘The little girl with your sister, I reckon, is your niece,’ a voice at his elbow said quietly. Startled, Michael spun to confront John Wong. ‘Daughter of your brother Tom and his myall woman,’ he added. ‘Figured you would come here after you got through with Horace. Also thought you might need a guide.’

‘What’s the little girl’s name?’ Michael asked.

‘Sarah,’ John replied, recalling his conversations with Kate on the track. ‘I think you have a couple of nephews too, but I can’t think of their names. I remember a story getting around the hotels recently of how Henry James had to go after one of them – and his own son – up in the Kyowarra territory. Got them back okay.’

Michael returned his attention to the store where Kate stood in animated conversation with his niece Sarah. Yes, he thought. He could see the family resemblance in the little girl. One day she would also be a beautiful young woman – a bit like his own sister.

‘I guess you aren’t going to make your presence known,’ John said bluntly. ‘Not with what you and Horace are planning.’

‘Would you?’ Michael countered. ‘Considering what’s at stake.’

‘I don’t suppose so,’ John replied slowly, as if considering something profound. ‘My Chinese relatives believe in ancestor worship so I figure if you were Chinese like me then your relatives would be providing you with lots of free rice meals on your grave. It’s not a bad way of living,’ he grinned. ‘Beats working. Better to remain dead to them.’

Michael smiled at John’s self-effacing jokes about his heritage. ‘Been tough for you,’ he said. ‘Like it’s going to be tough for my little niece over there.’

‘Yeah, it will be tough for her,’ John sighed. ‘But I think she has the right kind of blood to deal with what people will say about her in the years ahead. I’ve seen your sister handle things most men couldn’t. And I grew up on the stories about Tom Duffy the bushranger. Now I’ve met you Mister O’Flynn. With that kind of blood in her veins I can feel sorry for the rest of the world.’

Michael noticed that his niece was pointing at him from across the street. ‘You said you played a bit of poker Mister Wong?’ he said. ‘I think it’s about time I found out how good you are.’ As John grinned Michael saw a flash of warmth behind the dark eyes.

He walked away with no sense of grief. Although Kate was only thirty paces from where he stood, she was, in fact, a lifetime away. He could see nevertheless that his sister was a woman all the Duffys could be proud of.

‘That man is staring at us Aunt Kate,’ Sarah said, pointing to Michael across the busy street. ‘He looks funny. He has one eye.’

‘It is rude to point,’ Kate gently chided. ‘Especially if the poor man is partly blind.’

‘But he is staring at us,’ Sarah protested. ‘And you told me staring was a rude thing.’ Kate’s curiosity overcame her need to exemplify manners. She followed the direction of her niece’s finger to see a tall, broad-shouldered young man in the company of John Wong. For just a fraction of a second, Kate saw the face of the stranger standing beside John before they both turned away from her. There was something hauntingly familiar about it.

Surely Mister Wong would have greeted her, she frowned. She raised her hand to wave to him but a big wagon came between them. By the time it had passed, both he and the stranger were gone from the street.

‘Do you know him, Aunt Kate?’ Sarah asked, aware of the subtle shift in Kate’s attention.

‘No,’ she replied uncertainly, ‘it’s just that he reminded me of someone I once loved very much.’

‘Mister O’Flynn,’ Henry said. ‘This is a mate of mine by the name of Luke Tracy. He’s a Yankee like you and he stood with the rebels at the stockade back in ’54. He’s looking for work.’ The appearance of the former police sergeant on the verandah felt poignant, given that he had come from Kate’s store.

‘I knew an Irishman who fought with the California Brigade back in ’54,’ Michael said, as he appraised Luke. ‘Fella by the name of Patrick Duffy. Did you know of him?’

‘Yeah, knew him personally,’ Luke replied. ‘Big Irishman. A bit like you as a matter of fact. When did you meet Patrick Duffy?’

‘A long time ago,’ Michael answered. He walked over to the railing of the hotel verandah to gaze down on the busy life of the frontier town; a never-ending stream of men and women heading down the dangerous track to the Palmer as they came off the ships docking daily at the Cooktown wharves. He turned away from the railing. ‘I have a team of men Mister Tracy and we sail very soon. Under other circumstances you might not have got a berth but you are in luck today. A vacancy has just come up and I don’t have time to go out and find someone else.’ Michael turned to Henry. ‘You are out of the expedition Mister James,’ he said bluntly. ‘Mister Tracy will take your place.’

Henry stood stunned. ‘I’m what?’ he exploded. Michael felt a twinge of guilt for sacking the former soldier and police sergeant. But he could not afford to risk the life of someone close to his beloved sister.

‘I regret that I had to make the decision Mister James,’ Michael said, as gently as he could. ‘But I’ve made my mind up and am not about to tell you why. You just have to accept it.’

For a brief moment he expected the Englishman to swing at him. There was a cold anger in the man’s eyes. But Henry shook his head in resignation and stormed away. Michael turned his attention back to Luke. ‘I will see you here tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock. You will be briefed and given your kit.’

Luke nodded. No words need be said – at least not to Michael O’Flynn. The words needed to be said to Henry, as it was Henry who had suggested that he approach the American recruiter. Neither had expected this outcome, and he felt a sense of misguided betrayal. He mumbled a thanks for the job and hurried away.

Michael watched them leave the hotel and walk across the street. The meeting had disturbed him. That the American Luke Tracy had stood with his father at the Eureka Stockade brought back memories. However, he was pleased that he was able to put Henry James off his team. He sensed that the situation would become very dangerous in the near future, and although he intended to put the lives of his team foremost, there were no guarantees, only that a man’s life did not go on forever.

The
Osprey
was due to sail into Cooktown in the next few days, according to Karl Straub, and Michael knew he would finally come face to face with the man who he knew in his heart was responsible for his father’s murder. He wondered how he would react to such a meeting. He would have to wait to find out.

There was little to do in the waiting. Everything was in place for the mysterious expedition. The purchase of the components for a bomb caused few questions in a town that sold mining equipment. Horace had even fused his device, a lethal package of blasting powder normally used to break rock in search of gold ore. In this case the bomb was designed to blow the bottom out of a ship.

Michael walked away from the railing and slumped in a cane chair. He had a strange feeling that some mysterious force had drawn him to this time and place for a reason. So many strange coincidences: the meeting with Fiona and Penelope in Sydney; his beloved sister Kate in Cooktown; the fact that he was soon to confront the man who had brought so much misery to his family; the chain of terrible events that led back to the dispersal of an Aboriginal tribe in Queensland, unleashing misery on both families.

He thought about the stories he had heard of a myall curse, stories told by the bushmen around the hotel bars in Brisbane that had become part of frontier lore. Maybe there really was a myall curse. If so, whose side would the fickle avenging myall spirits be on, when he met the man who he was always destined to kill – or be killed by?

S
ergeant Francis Farrell felt like dancing an Irish jig. But before he did, he would relate to Daniel Duffy the grand news that for so many years they had hoped for. He hurried to the offices of Sullivan & Levi where he was immediately ushered into Daniel’s office. All at the law firm were familiar with the big Irish police sergeant’s mysterious visits. The clerks had often speculated amongst themselves on the relationship between the Sydney policeman and the leading criminal lawyer. Most presumed he was on a retainer to provide inside information. Not that they voiced their suspicions. To do so would be killing the goose that laid the golden eggs crucial in winning cases for the defence.

Farrell’s waxed moustache fairly bristled with excitement and his eyes glowed with triumph as he took a chair in the office. ‘We’ve got him!’ he exclaimed, leaning forward to Daniel. ‘Lady Macintosh’s reward worked!’

‘Mort?’ Daniel asked. ‘You have evidence that will stand up in court?’

‘Two eyewitnesses,’ Farrell said with the broadest of grins. ‘Two men who volunteered Mort as the man they saw coming out of Rosie’s place immediately after they heard her screams cease. Said they were on their way to visit her when they heard her screaming. Said it put the fear of God in them and that they were too frightened to find out why she was screaming. So they hung back, and minutes later saw Mort come out with blood all over him. Better still, they said they saw a knife in his hand.’

‘Did you suggest to them that it was Mort they saw?’ Daniel asked impatiently. The answer was critical to a prosecution case.

Farrell’s broad smile turned to a knowing grin. ‘Didn’t have to,’ he replied. ‘They named Mort themselves. Said they saw him with a mate of theirs by the name of Sims who is now first mate on the
Osprey
. They don’t know how he got the job as he had no real sea experience except for a short time on a brig out of Sydney a few years back. Sims that is.’

Daniel frowned. ‘How do they explain their sudden recollection?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair. ‘Other than the fact that we know the reward money has cleared their memory.’

Farrell scowled. ‘That is a bit of a problem,’ he said. ‘Seems they both want fifty guineas apiece for giving evidence against Mort. They aren’t prepared to share the reward.’

‘I’m sure Lady Macintosh can accommodate their request,’ Daniel assured. He knew Enid would stop at nothing to see Mort hang and money was her weapon to ensure this happened. ‘Corroboration is the noose for Mort’s neck so you can tell them it’s fifty apiece if we ever get the opportunity to see that happen.’

The smile returned to Farrell’s face. ‘Good! I have their statements and it’s now only a matter of arresting Mort. Danny boy, we finally have him.’ But the smile began to fade when he noticed the glum expression on the lawyer’s face at the mention of Mort’s imminent arrest. ‘What is it? he asked. The news should have caused only ecstatic joy.

‘You don’t know?’ Daniel said. ‘Do you?’

‘Know what?’

‘The
Osprey
sailed a couple of weeks ago,’ he said bitterly. ‘Mort is on his way north and sailing out of our jurisdiction.’

‘Holy mother of God!’ the sergeant exploded. ‘The devil protects him again!’

‘It seems so. If only we had had this evidence weeks earlier everything might have turned out differently. But now we have to go through a tedious process of tracking him down, probably in Queensland, and undertaking an extradition. Somehow, I think Mort does have the devil protecting him, as you say, and he will simply slip away to another country. No, Sergeant Farrell, he has beaten us again.’

Farrell leaned back in his chair, completely deflated of his triumph. There would be no Irish jig this day to celebrate. Instead, he would probably join Daniel Duffy at the Erin Hotel, where they would get rolling drunk to drown their bitter disappointment.

Penelope took afternoon tea at Fiona’s house. They sat in the pleasant surrounds of the garden, enjoying the mild Sydney day. Normally they would have met at one of the city’s fashionable restaurants to chat about the inconsequential things in their lives – social engagements and fashion. Manfred had sailed into Sydney from Samoa and was now on board the
Osprey
bound for Cooktown. The little time Penelope had shared with her husband had been filled with organising his expedition north. And when they had made love it had been a brief but exciting interlude spiced with just a little something extra for her husband’s benefit. The interlude had included Fiona.

With Manfred now sailing north on the
Osprey
Penelope preferred to share a quiet, private moment with her beloved Fiona away from the crush and mill of Sydney society. In the background she could hear the babble of Fiona’s daughters playing hide and seek in the garden under the stern eye of Miss Gertrude Pitcher. As Fiona served tea from a fine porcelain china pot, Penelope gazed at the two little girls squealing with delight in their play. A frown clouded Penelope’s face. ‘Is there something wrong with Dorothy? She does not seem to be the same little girl I once knew.’

Fiona paused pouring the tea and glanced at her cousin. ‘I do not know what you mean,’ she said. ‘You don’t think she’s unwell do you?’

‘No,’ Penelope said slowly, as if attempting to analyse the subtle change in Dorothy’s demeanour. ‘I suppose it is just that she is growing up so fast, that the changes are noticeable. Nothing more than that.’ But she was not so sure. Something about her niece touched distant and disturbing memories of her own life at that age. There was something about the haunted look in the little girl’s eyes that only one who had experienced similar could recognise. Penelope shook her head. The vague and troubling thoughts could not be entertained. Surely not her brother again! Not his own daughter!

‘I suppose you are missing Manfred,’ Fiona said, too casually trying to hide her jealousy. ‘He never seems to be able to spend much time at home with you.’

Penelope leaned forward to her cousin. ‘You have no need to be jealous my love,’ she reassured softly. ‘Manfred is my husband. And I suppose I love him in my own way. He is strong and powerful, a man amongst men, but it is you I love with my heart. I provide Manfred my body to sate his desires and it is that which binds us when all else is considered. Not the love that the romanticists write about in those silly novels you so much like to read.’

Fiona placed the teapot carefully on the table. ‘Was it that apparent?’ she asked quietly, with a plea in her emerald eyes for forgiveness.

‘I understand you better than any other person alive,’ Penelope smiled gently. ‘I suspect even better than your own mother.’

‘It’s just that night . . . ’ Fiona tapered away and turned to gaze at her daughters.

‘That night was a special kind of sharing my love,’ Penelope soothed. ‘Manfred is a man of peculiar tastes. To watch two women making love is something that satisfies him in a way we may not understand. But I suspect, that in your own way, having my husband watching us heightened your own desire for me.’

Fiona blushed as Penelope reached over and took her hand. ‘I do not understand how you make me feel so much,’ she said hoarsely. ‘All I know, is that I want to be with you forever. But I know this cannot be, because I have duties to my family.’

‘We are together forever,’ Penelope said gently. ‘Even when we are apart. It is you who I think of when I am alone. No-one else. And now that Manfred will be away for so long I think we should meet more often.’

That she already spent so much time with Penelope caused Fiona a twinge of guilt. But she recognised how much Penelope meant to her very existence. Was it that she was obsessed by her rather than in love with her? Would the situation ever arise where she might be forced to choose between Penelope and someone – or something – she loved? Fiona glanced guiltily at her daughters. Had her long absences from them already forced that choice?

Granville White preferred to meet people in his office. In his own domain he felt he had the edge. Across the desk from him sat the priggish McHugh, his hostile glare barely concealed. Not that it mattered to Granville as the tone of the meeting would not be overly friendly.

‘I have been informed by one of the shareholders,’ Granville started icily, ‘that you were unable to convince my mother-in-law to step aside and allow me free rein to manage the companies.’

McHugh shifted uncomfortably under the unrelenting gaze of the man he both detested and was afraid of. The dark rumours that circulated in the smoking room of the Australia Club had given him reason to entertain loathing and fear. White had somewhat dubious contacts with the rougher elements of Sydney’s vicious gangs feared even by the police. He cleared his throat. ‘Lady Macintosh has recently informed me that she has someone under consideration to take over from her,’ he replied nervously, ‘should she ever step down. I felt that it was not my place to question her ladyship any further on the matter.’

Granville leaned back in his big leather chair. ‘Her ladyship, my mother-in-law, has no-one she can replace me with in the future,’ he scowled. ‘She has simply lied to you to deliberately sabotage my efforts for future expansions in the Macintosh enterprises. And if she remains we will all suffer the consequences of a feeble woman’s inept efforts to manage something well and truly beyond the natural capabilities God gave woman.’

‘I must disagree with you Mister White,’ McHugh bristled. ‘In the past, even when Sir Donald was alive, it was well known in educated circles that her ladyship really managed the companies. She may be a woman, and I agree with you that God has set natural limits on a woman’s abilities to manage in a world naturally belonging to men, but Lady Macintosh is something of an exception. I do not wish to cast aspersions on your own capabilities Mister White,’ McHugh continued politely but forcefully, ‘but you are not of Macintosh blood and the shareholders seem to have a peculiar trust in Macintosh blood.’

‘Nor is my mother-in-law of Macintosh blood,’ Granville reminded. ‘She is of the same blood as me. A White by birth.’

‘Ah, but Lady Macintosh has intimated that she has someone in mind who
is
of Macintosh blood,’ McHugh said quietly, ‘to take over from her. And that would bide well with the shareholders.’

Granville reddened and attempted to control his temper in the presence of the smug Scot. ‘Lady Macintosh is senile,’ he snarled, ‘if she thinks there is anyone left alive with her precious Macintosh blood who can replace me, Mister McHugh.’

‘I have informed the shareholders that we will accede to her ladyship’s wishes for a reasonable time,’ McHugh replied mildly. ‘She has since informed me that she will disclose her future representative before she sails for England in the next few weeks. So if that is all Mister White,’ he rose from his chair, ‘I will bid you a good day.’

Granville remained seated, not bothering to display the courtesy of escorting the Scot financier to the door. With a dark and violent anger boiling up in his soul he watched McHugh leave. He had a savage desire to smash anything that was within his reach. It was obvious that his despicable mother-in-law had contacted the Duffys to arrange that the bastard of Fiona and Michael Duffy be groomed as her future replacement. Although unthinkable – considering all she had done in the past to destroy the memory of the boy – Granville realised just how far she would go to destroy him.

But that would not happen. Before sailing, Captain Mort had briefed him of the arrangements to kill the boy and Granville had great faith in Mort’s abilities.

As McHugh was leaving the anteroom, where George Hobbs sat poring over his endless books of accounts, he heard a crashing sound. Startled, Hobbs glanced up from his ledgers.

‘Och man! I think Mister White’s desk just fell over,’ McHugh said with a broad grin. ‘I think Mister White is having a bad day.’

The burly Max Braun was uncharacteristic of his stoic heritage. He was prone to emotional displays, and it was hard not to be emotional when he gazed at
his
Patrick. The boy was the image of the father Max remembered so vividly. A young man he had taught to fight, drink and chase women.

In those days Bridget had frowned on his influence over Michael. But she had sighed in her resignation when she recollected that the Duffy men were prone to the carnal pleasures of the flesh. Just as they were to a good old Donnybrook. And now she sat in the kitchen of the Erin Hotel, and listened as her son Daniel tried to find excuses for Max not to have time off from his duties at the hotel.

Max listened with an expression of bitter disappointment and a small amount of surliness as young Daniel chided him as if he were nothing more than a servant to the family. ‘I haf never got one day off Daniel,’ Max replied, ‘since I come to work for your father in ’55.’

Daniel pulled a pained expression and thrust his hands in the pockets of his waistcoat which was beginning to feel a little tighter each year. ‘I would dearly like to give you time off Uncle Max,’ the young lawyer said. ‘But with the passing of my father, I have come more and more to rely on you to keep the hotel operating. You must understand what I am saying.’

‘Colleen can run things,’ Bridget said unexpectedly. ‘She has a lot of experience with pubs. After all, her father owns one in Bathurst, and she grew up around kegs and taps.’

Daniel glanced at his mother sitting at the table with her hands folded in her lap. He had not expected her to support Max’s request for two weeks’ leave from the hotel. ‘Colleen has the children to look after,’ he retorted. ‘She cannot run a pub.’

Bridget rolled her eyes and unfolded her hands. ‘What do you think I was doing all these years with your father,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Do you think all the work got done around here by leprechauns? I raised you, Michael and Katie well enough. No, I think Colleen will be able to do her part and I will be able to help her.’

Daniel shrugged his shoulders. He had long learned that his skills in persuasion as one of Sydney’s best courtroom lawyers did not extend to arguments with his stubborn mother. ‘You can have two weeks off then Uncle Max. But only two weeks. My mother seems to think that she can run things with my wife. As capable as they are, you must remember that a hotel is a man’s business, and not for the weaker sex.’