Shadow of the Osprey (35 page)

Beside him Caroline stirred. ‘What is it Otto?’ she asked, rubbing her eyes. ‘You seem agitated.’

‘He has gone,’ Otto replied in a surprised voice. ‘He must have gone during the night.’

Caroline sat up and attempted to brush down her long skirt, a feminine gesture strangely out of place considering their situation. ‘It was God’s will,’ she said in a hollow voice. ‘He is a child of this land and we could not have expected him to understand our need.’

Otto nodded and stared blankly at the rising ball of fire on the eastern horizon. In the long days they had travelled south west, they had not sighted a fellow European. How long would it be before their bones would be found for a Christian burial?

He staggered to his feet, and started walking uncertainly towards the horse which was breathing in ragged snorts as it lay on its side. He paused. Something was moving like a dot across the plain. He shaded his eyes and peered at the object which slowly took on a human shape. ‘Caroline!’ he shouted. ‘He returns!’

Within minutes, Wallarie stood grinning before the missionaries, with canteens full of water dangling from his shoulder. ‘I get water,’ he said simply. ‘You drink.’

It took only half a day for Wallarie and the Werners to reach the tiny bark hut Otto had referred to as Schmidt’s farm. Ironically the missionaries had only been a half a day from the creek that held the muddy pools of precious water. Wallarie had picked up the signs of whitefella habitation – the fading prints of cattle, horses and boots – when he had gone with the Werners’ canteens.

The sulky jangled into the dusty clearing that served as a front yard. Adjacent to the single-room bark hut, were the termite-infested rails of the stockyards, long fallen into disrepair. The place was eerily silent and the front door banged on its hinges when a gentle breeze stirred the gritty air. The Werners sat on the seat of the sulky and gazed around the deserted yard.

‘This could not be the place,’ Caroline said. ‘It does not look like anyone has lived here for a long time.’

Otto leapt down from the sulky and strode across to the hut. Wallarie hung back. He had an uneasy feeling about the place and fingered his spears nervously. It was a place of ghosts.

The German missionary disappeared inside the hut and in a brief moment reappeared holding a book in his hand. ‘It is Herr Schmidt’s Bible,’ he said, holding up the book. ‘But it appears that he has not been here for some time.’

‘Do you think something has happened to Herr Schmidt?’ Caroline asked, as her husband helped her down from the sulky.

‘That is a possibility,’ he replied with a frown. ‘Or he may have just gone somewhere else.’

‘He would not have left his Bible,’ Caroline said quietly.

‘You are right my wife,’ Otto nodded.

Wallarie watched the two conversing in the language he did not understand. His keen eyes surveyed the area looking for signs. But whatever signs might have existed were long gone. All he sensed was that death owned the place they had come to. He could see the deep worry written in the missionaries’ faces. ‘Whitefella go away,’ he said.

The Werners turned to him. ‘Vot do you mean?’ Otto asked. ‘Vot you mean go avay?’

Wallarie shrugged and squatted. His explanation was all the reassurance the white man and his woman needed. It was the way of the land. Walkabout, the whitefellas called it. ‘Go away,’ he repeated, and waited to see what would happen next.

‘I do not know your name,’ Otto said to Wallarie. ‘You have saved our lives and yet I do not know your name.’

Wallarie looked up at the big German standing over him. ‘Danny Boy,’ he replied. ‘Whitefella call me Danny Boy.’

Otto smiled. ‘Thank you
Herr
Danny Boy,’ he said. ‘We owe you a great debt. I think the Lord sent you to us and I hope you vill remain to be the first of our flock.’

Wallarie stared at the missionary. He had lied about his name. He knew that the Native Mounted Police had posted a reward for his capture. He had learned much about the European way from Tom Duffy and the name Danny Boy came easily to him.

He thought the offer to remain with the kindly whitefella and his missus had great merit. He was in lands where few would know of Wallarie the Nerambura warrior, and so he could stay legitimately in the care of this powerful spirit man. The bullet wound had not yet healed and the pain was still with him. He would stay and help the white man until he was better, then he would make his trek north for the sake of the spirit warrior. ‘I not stay,’ he finally answered.

A frown clouded Otto’s face. He reached out with his hand to assist the warrior to his feet, and Wallarie had a vague recollection of another time, when another white man had clasped his hand in the same manner. How could he tell the spirit man that the voices called to him to return to the dark forests of the dreaded northern warriors. The white man could not understand that the voices had become stronger as his body healed.

‘Mebbe I come back one day,’ Wallarie said, letting go Otto’s hand. ‘Mebbe help you and the white missus.’

‘Mein friend you vill alvays be velcome,’ Otto said sadly. ‘It might be that you have a mission from God to be elsevhere.’

Wallarie did not know if he had a mission from God. All he knew was that he must travel as fast as he could to the humid and wet forests of the north. For there he was needed for a purpose, one that would be revealed by the spirits of his ancestors, when they deemed so.

The Werners watched the tall Aboriginal walk away, trailing his long spears. Wallarie broke into a loping trot. He felt the pain of his wound but the need to return overcame all physical sensation. Before sunset he would be well north of the Schmidt farm.

They watched until the heat haze swallowed him from their sight. With a long, drawn-out sigh Otto turned to gaze at the desolate, silent lands that seemed to go on forever. ‘This is where we will establish our mission,’ he said softly. He could see Caroline’s troubled thoughts etched in the lines of her face. ‘God gave us one of His lost souls to guide us here. I am sure that He will not desert us now.’

T
he arrangements had been made and Patrick was taken to Lady Enid Macintosh’s house. Duly prepared in a new set of clothes, he found himself beside his grandmother in a carriage driving into the city for a meeting.

Enid had noticed the young man’s silence. She said little herself except for perfunctory words about his health and how manly he looked in his tailored suit and his replies in turn were short but polite.

When they reached the head office of the Macintosh enterprises in the city Patrick followed his grandmother inside. He was suitably impressed by the sombre building of granite facings and heavy timber doors. Even at eleven years of age he was aware of the power of money. People obeyed his grandmother when she told them to do something and she owned everything desirable in the world, like all the books in the library.

‘We are going to meet some important men,’ Enid said quietly, as they were escorted by a smartly dressed doorman up a broad flight of marble stairs. ‘You will not say anything unless I tell you to do so. If you are asked questions by any of the men, I will expect you to conduct yourself as the young gentleman you are.’

Patrick listened carefully to his grandmother’s orders and nodded. She smiled quickly at his response as they arrived at an important-looking door on which the doorman knocked before opening. Enid stepped inside. Patrick followed, filled with curiosity. He was assailed by the heavy scent of cigar smoke mixed with leather, and sensed something very important was happening – and that he was very much a part of it.

‘Gentlemen,’ McHugh said in a commanding voice. There was a rustling scrape of chairs in the softly lit room as ten men pushed back their chairs from a huge table. ‘Lady Macintosh,’ he formally announced.

The men nodded and Enid accepted McHugh’s hand. Patrick only recognised one man in the room and shuddered when he felt the eyes of Granville White glaring at him with undisguised hatred.

‘Lady Macintosh,’ McHugh said warmly as he ushered her to a chair at the table. ‘The directors are all here as you requested.’ Enid smiled, and Patrick followed to stand behind her chair once she was seated.

‘With all due respect Lady Macintosh,’ Granville said, with undisguised animosity in his voice, ‘this is no place for
that
boy to be.’

‘It is if he is to one day run the Macintosh companies, Mister White,’ she said. ‘Gentlemen,’ she continued, as the men took their places at the table, ‘I would like to introduce to you my grandson, Master Patrick Duffy.’

Not a word was said. The stunned silence said it all. Without a word of apology for withdrawing, Granville stormed from the room.

McHugh smiled. The young man standing behind Lady Enid Macintosh reminded him of a young prince in waiting at a royal court. He certainly was impressive, with his fine, aristocratic bearing and dark good looks. A man born to rule the Macintosh financial empire.

For a moment their eyes locked and McHugh saw an open frankness in the boy’s expression. There was nothing servile about him and yes, a sense of willingness to help those in need. As for which side of the blanket the boy was born, that mattered little. All that counted in inheritance was the right blood line. ‘I would personally like to extend my good wishes to yourself and your grandson Lady Macintosh,’ McHugh said with a genuine smile. A mutter of ‘hear, hear’ rolled around the room.

Granville was suffering an impotence he had not experienced since the night all those years earlier he found his wife in bed with his sister Penelope.

He stood in the foyer of the Macintosh building shaking with rage. The boy was still alive, as was his father. Now all hope of inheriting the sprawling Macintosh enterprises was wrenched from him forever – unless something unfortunate occurred to Fiona’s bastard son. He thrust his trembling hands in his trouser pockets. No, he was not beaten. Death can come in many forms.

‘Would you be wanting your carriage Mister White?’

Granville did not hear his question. Only the sound of his voice. ‘What!’ he snapped irritably.

‘I said would you be wanting me to fetch your carriage Mister White?’

‘Yes,’ Granville snarled. ‘Immediately.’

The doorman hurried away leaving Granville alone to smoulder. Slowly he brought his feelings under control and focused his thoughts on giving himself time to consider the future. What he needed was a physical release – and he knew just how he would achieve that. Money was power and power was the ability to indulge in any depravity he desired. He knew exactly what he would do. Already he was experiencing the thrill of lashing the young girl’s buttocks with a leather strap. She would cry for mercy and beg him to ravish her.

Granville had his carriage take him to his Glebe tenements where a former Rocks thug greeted his boss with deferential respect. He listened attentively as Granville issued his order for Mary to be brought to him and sauntered away to find the young girl.

Granville went to the room set aside for his private pleasures. He took off his coat and sat down on the bed. Inflicting pain on the innocent felt good, he reflected as he waited for the girl to join him. But his reverie was disrupted by the sound of raised voices outside the room and he was stunned to hear his sister’s voice raised in anger.

The door crashed open and Penelope appeared in the doorway, the thug hovering uncertainly behind her. ‘I tried to explain to the Baroness,’ he mumbled apologetically, ‘that she shouldn’t disturb you Mister White. But she insisted.’

Granville stared at his sister. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked as Penelope stepped inside the room.

‘I chose to see you here, dear brother,’ she replied icily, ‘because I wanted you to know that I know everything you think I don’t. Including this place.’

Granville glanced across her shoulder and waved the doorman away. Whatever the reason his sister had chosen to visit him in Glebe, it was not for general knowledge. ‘My day has not gone well,’ he said wearily as he slumped back on the bed. ‘So state your business and leave.’

‘I suspect that before I leave,’ Penelope said, staring down at her brother, ‘your day will be even worse.’

Granville looked sharply at her. ‘What do you mean?’

With a touch of menace he rose from the bed. Not intimidated, Penelope stood her ground. ‘I know what you have been doing to your daughter,’ she stated bluntly. ‘And I have come to tell you that you will never touch her again so long as I am alive or so help me God I will destroy you. You will never receive that knighthood you so much desire. Nor will the government submit your name for the honour should they learn of this place here and your ownership of it.’

For a moment Granville’s eyes glazed and his face reddened. With a raised hand he took a couple of steps towards his sister. Penelope did not flinch. ‘I will thrash you to within an inch of your life,’ he raged, ‘for the lie you bring to me.’

‘I would not do that Granville,’ Penelope replied calmly, fixing him with her blue eyes. ‘Or my husband will kill you as easily as he has killed many men in war.’ Granville checked himself and stumbled backwards to the bed. He knew his sister meant every word. ‘I have a witness in Miss Pitcher,’ Penelope continued. ‘She is prepared to swear that you have been making improper advances towards Dorothy during Fiona’s absences.’

‘Miss Pitcher,’ Granville blinked. ‘Miss Pitcher has left my employ.’

‘I know,’ Penelope said with a faint smile. ‘I told her to. And don’t even consider trying to find her. She is under my protection. You see dear brother, you are not the only one who can frighten people. It seems you still continue to underestimate the power of a woman. Just as you underestimated Lady Enid.’

‘You were at the office today?’ Granville asked suspiciously.

‘Yes,’ Penelope answered. ‘And Hobbs informed me that you left a meeting when Aunt Enid introduced young Patrick to the board members of the company. It appears that his acceptance is inevitable and I can sympathise that under the circumstances you have not had a good day.’

‘Only if the bastard lives long enough to turn twenty-one,’ Granville snarled.

‘You will not even consider anything untoward happening to Fiona’s son,’ Penelope responded with savage determination. ‘I may not be able to prove your complicity in David’s death but I do remember your link with Jack Horton who you sent to kill Michael Duffy. And now that we both know Michael is still alive, I am sure that it would not be difficult to relay what I know to him. Somehow, I doubt that you would want that. From what I know of Michael Duffy, he is an extremely dangerous man who, inadvertently, you helped to create. In a sense, you created the very rod for your own back dear brother, and now must live with it. I will bid you a good day Granville,’ Penelope concluded, as she turned to leave the room. ‘I feel that enough has been said.’

Granville glared at his sister with undisguised hatred. It was a sorry history repeating itself, he thought. Like some ancient Aboriginal curse . . .

Penelope settled back in her carriage and reflected on her impulsive gesture to protect the son of Fiona Macintosh and Michael Duffy. No, it was not an impulsive gesture, she reflected as the carriage pulled away from the tenements of Glebe. It was the natural reaction of any mother protecting her young . . . or the young of one she loved.