Flight of the Eagle (13 page)

The men who had come to hear the young inspector of the Native Mounted Police hooted with laughter. The American's eagerness to join the hunt for the dreaded Kalkadoon gave them heart.
Surely they could bring the problem to a resolution with Snider and Colt.

One man who had personal experience with the well-disciplined battle tactics of the Kalkadoon sat quietly to one side of the young inspector, listening to the exchange of views on how best to beat the warriors who lived in the range of hills north of Cloncurry. He was Trooper Peter Duffy.

Peter sat unobtrusively in a chair with his Snider carbine butt down on the floor and its barrel pointing towards the ceiling. Dressed in his uniform with a bandolier of cartridges slung across his chest, he had been selected to accompany Gordon to the meeting. This had pleased Peter, as he and Gordon had grown up together. His boyhood friend and now police commander had arrived in Cloncurry under orders to take command of Sub Inspector Potter's badly demoralised remaining force of troopers. But he had little time to speak privately with Peter when he arrived.

As boys growing up in North Queensland they had spent truant weeks living with the wandering tribes of the Cooktown region and had at one stage gone on walkabout with the wild Kyowarra tribesmen as far as the Normanby River. That was when Gordon's father had trekked after them to bring them back and only Wallarie's intervention had saved the former Native Mounted Police sergeant from certain death.

Peter smiled to himself as he contrasted his own life in the Native Mounted Police with that of his best friend. It was an ironic smile. Gordon should have been the tracker and he the commander. He was, after all, much better educated than Gordon and Gordon's skills of tracking in the bush were much better than his own. Gordon had learned well from the Aboriginal teachers who had introduced them both into bush lore, whereas he had paid more attention to the teachers who taught in the Townsville school.

When they joined the Native Mounted Police Gordon had automatically been granted rank whereas Peter had been relegated to the barracks as a trooper. It was nothing personal, Gordon had explained with some awkwardness. But he was a darkie and therefore not as smart as a white man. His tactless explanation had not rankled Peter who had grown used to the position in life that his part-Aboriginal blood bestowed on him. And besides, his father had been Tom Duffy, the notorious bushranger, Gordon had added as if attempting to take Peter's thoughts off the misfortune of his birth.

‘You ever hunted Kalkadoon before, Inspector?’ a lean, bearded teamster asked directly. ‘They's a cheeky lot. They'll take yer bullocks and eat them in front of yer and bare their arses at you at the same time. They's not like any other darkies I've known on all my years haulin’ supplies in Queensland. ‘Fraid of nothin' these Kalkys.’

‘I must admit, sir, that I have not hunted Kalkadoon. But I fail to see how your darkies are any smarter than others I have dispersed in recent times around the Cairns district and further north.’

‘Maybe that's what Inspector Potter said,’ Commanche Jack cautioned, and heads nodded agreement to his quietly spoken statement. ‘Maybe he thought he was dealin' with them India men. I know'd from my own country that the Mescalero Apaches ain't Arapahos an’ fight different. What you got here is a kind of Mescalero and he ain't no peaceful reservation Injun. No, sir! What you got here is somethin' you ain't dealt with before, Inspector. You got a colonial Mescy on your hands.'

‘I bow to your sage advice, Commanche Jack,’ Gordon replied graciously. ‘But a well-trained and disciplined contingent of Her Majesty's Native Mounted is a match for any warlike tribe in all the colonies. Or former colonies of the Crown for that matter.’ His pointed but light-hearted jibe at the Yankee's rebellious political history brought a smatter of laughter from the audience and a wide grin from Commanche Jack.

‘Mebbe so, Inspector. Mebbe so,’ he replied good humouredly.

The rapport between the tough and experienced Indian fighter and the young, relatively inexperienced police officer, brought a tacit acceptance of Gordon from the others in the room. He sensed he was winning them over slowly to accepting his role as overall commander of the expedition to track and disperse the Kalkadoon.

‘Well, gentlemen, I believe there is little else to discuss at this point except to tell you that I intend to hold a meeting here in two weeks' time at the same hour. I would urge you all to be here so that I can go over my plans for the expedition we will mount to rid us of the Kalkadoon problem once and for all.’

The men muttered amongst themselves and nodded agreement to the meeting as they rose from their chairs. Gordon turned to Peter still sitting in his chair. ‘Trooper Duffy!’

‘Sah!’

‘We shall depart and return to the barracks now.’

‘Sah!’

Peter followed Gordon out of the hotel and into the heat of the afternoon. Gordon slipped off his kepi and wiped his brow. The sweat had not altogether been caused by the stifling heat in the hotel bar. The two troopers who had been lounging around the front of the hotel waiting for the boss to come out smartened their demeanour at his approach and saluted their officer.

They unhitched their horses and as Gordon swung into his saddle he said quietly, ‘Come over to my office after evening drill, Trooper Duffy.’

‘Sah!’

‘Good man! We have a lot to talk over,’ he added with a conspiratorial wink that thawed the stiff formality that had existed between them ever since Gordon had arrived at the barracks. Not that there yet had been time to sit down and discuss the old days as Gordon had been met by deputations of frightened settlers and concerned townspeople as soon as he had arrived from Townsville.

They wheeled away from the hotel and rode with stiffly erect backs down the main street. Their disciplined appearance was greeted with smiles and waves from those few people who were sheltering from the sun on the verandahs of the shops of the town.

Word had gone around that the son of Henry James had taken command of the troop and many of the old timers still remembered his father's considerable reputation as a disperser of the native tribes down south in the Kennedy district. If'n he was ′alf as good as h's old man then there was some ′ope of dispersin’ the pesky Kalkadoon, they generally agreed.

ELEVEN

H
orace Brown watched the little steam lighter chugging towards the wharf. He leant on his cane with one hand and shaded his eyes as he peered across the muddy creek as the boat weaved between the wooden hulled coastal traders, making its way to the wharf. The day was mild and a clear blue sky promised good weather. This was fortunate, as on rough days passengers being transported from the steam ships anchored in Cleveland Bay often arrived in open whaleboats soaked and without their luggage.

Others also stood waiting on the wharf but hardly took notice of the lonely figure of the little Englishman who occasionally removed the spectacles from the end of his nose to wipe them on the sleeve of his jacket.

Horace was hardly noticeable to those about him because he could best be described as a nondescript man – a distinct advantage in his profession. For unobtrusive people made the best intelligence agents; they drew little attention to themselves or their occupation of gathering information and turning it into useable intelligence. But Horace – Remittance Man to those who made his acquaintance, and spy master to the passenger he waited to greet – had little time left working for Her Majesty's Foreign Office. A fact he was acutely aware of as the cancer ate at his body and sapped his life. How long? Six months at the most he guessed.

He hobbled painfully forward as the few people on the wharf pushed their way towards the boat that now steamed into the wharf. His rheumy eyes searched the passengers on the lighter for the distinctive figure of the tall, broad-shouldered man with the black eye patch and was rewarded with a glimpse of him standing like Ulysses watching for his Penelope amongst the mixture of Chinese and European passengers the lighter transferred from the ship out of Singapore. ‘Ah, dear boy!’ he sighed with tearful happiness to himself. ‘You have finally come home from your odyssey in the Orient.’

Michael Duffy was far from a boy. In ten years' travelling the Orient he had used other names and nationalities to stay one step ahead of the men who would rather see his espionage activities permanently curtailed by his violent demise. Although in his mid-forties, his body was hard with muscle and his remaining blue eye blazed with energy even though his once thick, brown curling hair was now shot with grey. It was still in the style of his younger days, worn just above the collar of his immaculate white starched shirt. He also wore a fresh black eye patch over the eye socket where shrapnel from Confederate artillery had taken his eye in the Civil War between the States of America. His clean shaven face was tanned and smooth without any sign of ageing and his rugged good looks still turned the heads of ladies of all ages.

‘Mister O'Flynn, dear chap,’ Horace said as he gripped Michael's extended hand as he stepped ashore. ‘It is so good to see you well.’

Michael was taken aback by the gaunt man whose eyes bravely attempted to shine for him. He had last seen Horace in good health: a robust and portly man addicted to opium and young Chinese boys. But the man before him looked nothing like the person he had left to travel to the Far East. The transformation left Michael speechless for some seconds and he felt an unexpected wave of pity for the man who had ruled so much of his latter life with the ruthlessness of the obsessed. ‘Horace, you old bastard! How the devil are you?’ And he suddenly regretted asking such a tactless question as it was obvious to him the man was seriously ill.

‘Well enough, Michael. Well enough.’

Michael could have sworn that the tough and ruthless man who had survived the Crimean Campaign of ′54 and played a dangerous game of intrigue with his German adversaries in Asia and the Pacific was on the verge of tears. To break the awkward moment Michael placed his arm around the shoulders of the smaller man and steered him down the wharf towards the town.

‘From your dispatches I gathered things became somewhat risky from time to time, old boy. I hope not too risky,’ Horace said as he walked slowly beside the big Irishman. ‘I was often worried you might let your wild Irish passion get you into trouble.’

Michael snorted with amusement at the Englishman's concern. ‘You mean you were concerned you might lose me,’ he replied. ‘And have all that trouble recruiting someone else to do your dirty work.’

‘Not true, old boy’ Horace retorted with indignation. ‘I've grown rather fond of you over the years.’ Michael did not know whether to believe him. The man was both ruthless and sentimental.

Once off the wharf Michael was amazed at how much Townsville had grown since he had last seen it in ′75. It was still a town of tin and timber but there were also fine public buildings of stone and brick. The great red rock hill reared up from the town itself to dominate the view inland and the streets were lined with gas lights. They were a short walk from the newly built Excelsior Hotel into which Horace had booked him when Michael noticed that, although the town had grown, the unpleasant smells of the cesspits remained.

He carried only one bag. It was battered and had seen much service in its travels but he had never considered replacing the old carpet bag; it symbolised his life. For all that was necessary to his existence he carried in the bag: his razor, a brace of Colt revolvers, two changes of clothes and a faded photograph of an unsmiling little boy staring with serious eyes at the camera. The photograph had been given to him by his sister Kate Tracy. It had been sent to her from Sydney by their Aunt Bridget prior to the boy sailing for England. The photograph was Michael's most treasured possession. It was of his son – now known as Captain Patrick Duffy of Her Majesty's military expedition to the Sudan. A son who was unaware that his father was even alive.

In a short time they arrived at the hotel. Michael signed in under the name O'Flynn. In the Colony of New South Wales he was still wanted for a murder that he had not committed. In his long years as a mercenary soldier he had killed many men who probably had not deserved death. But the only killing he had done purely in self-defence was called murder by the authorities of that southern Australian colony.

Michael's room had access to the front upper verandah where the view took in the muddy waters of the creek he had crossed to reach the wharf from his steamer. He could see the tall single spars of small wooden boats moored along the shore. A pleasant breeze played along the verandah and there was a sense of peace about the place. North Queensland was fast becoming home to him for many reasons. Here lived his sister Kate and her husband, his Yankee friend, Luke Tracy. Here resided the man who controlled his life and managed his pay. And here, too, he was not wanted for murder.

Horace had arranged for a bottle of cold champagne to be brought to them on the upper verandah and both men settled back in comfortable cane chairs facing out to the street. Horace raised his glass in a toast. ‘The Queen. God bless her!’

‘Saint Pat. And damn the British to hell!’ Michael responded.

This irreverent response to the toast had become a longstanding private joke between them. They threw back a good mouthful of the cold, fizzy wine and settled into the chairs to stare vacantly into the blue sky beyond the railing, both men deep within memories that the shared ritual stirred in them.

‘I should have shot you that night in Cooktown back in ′74 when we first got to know each other,’ Michael growled softly, and Horace chuckled at the recollection of confronting the dangerous, wily Irish-American who was in a rum-induced sleep.

‘If you had you would never have got to see the exotic Orient. Or settled scores with Mort,’ he replied. ‘Or picked up that rather lucrative reward from Cochin China from the princess's eternally grateful family.’

‘Maybe,’ Michael pondered. ‘Or maybe I would have had a life as a painter of beautiful landscapes instead of living constantly with the fear of someone putting a bullet in me.’