To Touch the Clouds : The Frontier Series 5 (12 page)

Glowering, Arthur watched him walk away.

Matthew could see a stranger staring back at him. At least the reflection in the window of the carriage appeared to be someone he had not thought much about as the train travelled through the night to Brisbane where he would change trains to travel on to Townsville. There his mother awaited his arrival. His trip north was the result of a telegram delivered to his hotel in Sydney. It had been from the family doctor to tell him that his mother, Kate Tracy, had suffered a minor stroke.

Matthew had stood staring at the words on the slip of
paper, suddenly realising that his beloved mother was not actually immortal as he had always thought. Here was the woman who had survived the wild frontier of the Palmer River gold rushes of the 1870s and built a fortune, a woman who had known the death of two husbands – the latter being his father, the American prospector Luke Tracy. She had always appeared to him to be so independent from the company of the many suitors who had attempted to court her after the disappearance of her husband Luke in the harsh and mostly unexplored interior of Queensland.

Matthew could see the flicker of tree tops silhouetted by the full moon casting its shadow over the hills and forests of Australia’s eastern seaboard. He had immediately organised this train journey and briefed Randolph that he was to remain in Sydney and keep contact with Colonel Patrick Duffy. It would take many days for him to reach Townsville in Queensland’s far north and Matthew prayed that his mother would not die in the time it took to reach her. The doctor had instructed in his telegram that she was in relatively good health, but guilt flooded him as he reflected on how he had spent so much time roaming the world instead of being by his mother’s side and assisting her in managing the family estates. But now his indestructible mother was ill and it had been over four years since he had last seen her face.

Matthew’s guilt went deeper when he considered that he had used his mother’s money to finance his wanderings of the globe in search of the elusive thing called self-meaning. His mother had once told him a story. The wandering Aboriginal people of the Julia Creek district where he was born in the shadow of a bullock wagon had said that he, the infant, was fated to soar with the eagles. That part appeared to have been fulfilled with his love of flying. He
had always yearned to fly above the earth and touch the clouds. But that had not been enough. He was part warrior and part eagle. Both had come together to guide him in his life as he sought a means to make the new flying machines instruments of war. His restlessness in his years of seeking to realise the dream of combining flight with war had cost him any chance of a stable life. He knew how much his mother wished for him to settle down, find a good woman and provide her with grandchildren. To that extent he had proved a failure.

Oh, there had been many women but they had come and gone as passing ships in the night, and none had been considered as a future wife. The way things were shaping up with the mission Matthew wondered if he would truly disappoint his mother by getting himself killed.

Pulled by the powerful steam engine pluming a trail of smoke the train bumped and rattled its way forward in the night. Passengers leaned their heads on seats and attempted sleep. Matthew did not like slumber. Sometimes those terrible days at the Elands River siege came back to him with memories of screaming artillery shells exploding around him, shredding and mangling men, of the crack of bullets, snatching the very life from the man beside him with little more than a grunt, of a final scream of pain and anguish. In the dark shadows of his life war was never far from the young man’s mind.

‘Casino . . . change at Casino,’ the tired-looking uniformed porter said, working his way along the rocking aisle of the carriage. ‘All out for the Brisbane line.’

Matthew rubbed his eyes and prepared for the change on the long railway station in the Northern Rivers region of New South Wales.

When the German steamer docked at Darling Harbour and the gangplank lowered Kurt von Fellmann was met by a balding man in his mid forties sporting a sweeping moustache and dressed in a smart suit.

‘Major von Fellmann, I have been sent by the consul to welcome you to Sydney,’ the balding man said without offering his hand. ‘I am Maynard Bosch, assistant to the consul here.’

Major Kurt von Fellmann was also dressed in civilian clothes and he too wore a smart suit. ‘Thank you,’ he responded at the bottom of the gangway.

‘Is this your first time in Sydney?’ Bosch asked, falling into stride beside the German army officer.

‘Yes, although I do have a brother who has lived for many years in this country.’

‘I know,’ Herr Bosch answered. ‘Your brother is a Lutheran missionary in Queensland. We had the good fortune to meet last year when he attended a conference we held in Sydney.’

‘How did my brother look?’ Kurt asked with genuine concern in his voice.

‘He looked well,’ Bosch answered. ‘Considering he was still mourning the death of his wife.’

Kurt hesitated in his stride. This was news to him. ‘I was not aware that my sister-in-law had passed away.’

‘Yes, sadly it seems that I am the bearer of the news to you. It seems that she developed leprosy.’

Kurt shook his head. The disease was a horrible way to die. ‘I presume that you are also here to brief me.’

Bosch glanced at the milling crowd of passengers disembarking from the ship – men in their suits and wearing straw boaters, the women in their long dresses flowing around their ankles and wearing an assortment of fashionable hats
in many shapes and designs. Luggage was being piled for the passengers to retrieve on the wharf. ‘I will brief you at your hotel,’ Bosch said. ‘Do you have much luggage to clear with Customs?’

Kurt travelled lightly. He had only one small suitcase to retrieve. When he stepped onto the street outside the Customs Office he was once again met by the assistant consul standing beside an expensive German-built automobile. Bosch helped Kurt load his suitcase into the car’s luggage compartment and placed himself behind the wheel to drive to the hotel. They navigated busy streets where trams powered by overhead electric lines vied for space with horse-drawn wagons and the puttering, shiny new cars. Pedestrians weaved in and out of the traffic, dodging the variety of vehicles now competing for the narrow streets bordered by sandstone buildings, some rising to a height of five storeys. Kurt could see why Sydney was considered the nerve centre of the Pacific trade. Office signs told their story of international enterprise and the clatter of vehicles was a noisy contrast to the serenity of the Pacific islands he had visited on his tour.

When they reached the hotel in the heart of the city Kurt admired its elegance. Bosch parked in a space on the street and assisted the German officer to check into the hotel. By the time Kurt had been given a room lunch was being served in the hotel’s dining room. They were ushered to a table with a white linen cloth and a fresh flower in a crystal vase set in the centre. The waiter was well dressed, impressing Kurt with the civilised standards of the former British colony.

‘The food here is excellent and I think you should find your time in Sydney enjoyable,’ Bosch said, accepting the menu the waiter passed to him. ‘I would recommend the roast lamb.’

Kurt accepted the assistant consul’s advice and ordered the lamb. His English was excellent with little trace of an accent as it had been a language his English mother had taught him from the cradle along with his twin brother, Karl.

‘Aside from your military duties I have this for you,’ Bosch said, reaching into the pocket of his suit coat. Kurt accepted the envelope, opening it to see a gilt-edged invitation.

‘A regimental ball for the local militia regiment,’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘How did their commanding officer know I was visiting these shores?’

‘Not so much the Australian government,’ Bosch chuckled. ‘We have friends here among the English population. It appears that you have English relatives, the Macintosh family, and one George Macintosh had the invitation passed to us some days ago. You will be required to wear your uniform as our government has approved your acceptance.’

‘Well, it will be interesting to meet my mother’s family here,’ Kurt responded, turning over the stiff cardboard invitation in his hand and placing it on the table.

‘I have another pleasant surprise for you,’ Bosch continued, leaning slightly forward. ‘Your brother has also been invited, in appreciation of his fine work among the native people of this land. He has accepted and will be travelling down from Queensland.’

Kurt was surprised to hear this further news. It had been many long years since his brother had left Germany for the far-flung continent of Australia with his wife. ‘I am looking forward to seeing my brother,’ he said, hiding his pleasure at the news. Kurt had long learned not to display emotion in front of strangers. ‘And now, what does the consul have for me?’

Bosch carefully unrolled his linen napkin as the waiter delivered two plates with the roast lamb in a gravy and served with baked vegetables. It smelled delicious and they remained silent until the waiter had left them. No wine had been ordered to accompany the meal as both men knew they were on official business that required a clear head.

‘We feel that the acquisition of the Australian government of its battle cruiser, two cruisers and three destroyers does not constitute any real naval strength – except that balanced against our own fleet on the China Station, the Australians have now a more modern navy than our own cruisers. We may outnumber them but the Australians have better ships. This was not something factored into document twenty-two when it was distributed to us out here.’

The mention of document twenty-two signalled to Kurt that the man briefing him had been cleared by the Imperial German Navy. It was thus safe to enter into a briefing with him. ‘I have considered the development of the Australian navy as a real threat to our plans in the event of war with the British,’ he replied quietly.

Although they spoke in German Kurt was acutely aware of the possibility of spies being around them. He hoped that if this was so in the dining room of the hotel they were not fluent in his native language. ‘My report has already identified that we are not capable of putting the operational order into action in the possible event of war with the British Empire. Our Pacific imperial interests are under-gunned and under-manned. I suspect that the Australians will already be considering their own operational order to cover the contingency of us and Britain going to war. I suspect that they will launch a force to seize our radio stations in the Pacific with the help of their New Zealand neighbours.’

‘There may be something in what you say about the
Australian government already anticipating the elements of document twenty-two,’ Herr Bosch said, frowning. ‘We have reliable information from one of our most valued informants that a Macintosh company ship, the
Osprey II
, is visiting Rabaul at this very moment. That would not be unusual except our source inside the company has informed us that aboard is another relative of yours – a militia army captain by the name of Alexander Macintosh whose father is the regimental commander of the militia infantry battalion here extending the invitation to you for the ball. Our source is not privy to exactly why the ship is posing as a trader for copra but does know something is highly suspicious about his travelling with the company ship. We have already alerted our people in Rabaul about his visit.’

‘What do you suspect that my cousin may be up to?’ Kurt asked, slicing away a piece of lamb.

Bosch shrugged. ‘I suppose he will attempt to reconnoitre our military dispositions there,’ he replied.

‘Well, what do you propose to do?’ Kurt asked, chewing on the succulent meat.

‘If we confirm that Captain Macintosh is indeed a spy we will arrange for him to have a serious accident,’ Bosch replied, wiping at his mouth with the white linen napkin. ‘We cannot afford to arrest him and accuse him of spying. That would cause ill feelings towards our people living in this country. No, we would have to arrange for him to disappear and make it look like an accident. Do you have any problem with that?’

Kurt felt a slight chill. The assistant to the consul was talking about the murder of a man he was distantly related to. Despite his own unquestionable loyalty to his Kaiser, Kurt was also aware that the man he had never met was still a blood relative, and a soldier like himself. ‘No,’ he replied,
also wiping at his mouth with his napkin. ‘If you are able to prove he is a spy then I am sure Captain Macintosh has to accept the consequences of his actions.’

‘Good,’ Bosch said, resuming his meal. ‘It is a delicate thing, complicated as it is by your affiliations with this family, but I am sure our source will be pleased to know that you have concurred with our decision.’

The two men finished their meal and separated. Kurt retired to his room to change. Now he would officially attend his consul to be met by his countrymen living in this vibrant part of the Pacific. As he walked the few streets to the German Consulate building he could not prevent himself imagining how a naval bombardment of the central heart of this city would bring down the buildings around him and kill all the civilians passing him by.