Flight of the Eagle (47 page)

Sarah made no comment. She knew that eventually her aunt would realise her dream. It would be good indeed to walk on the land that her natural mother had once walked with the tribeswomen of the Nerambura, the place where her mother had met her father. The land was sacred to them both.

FORTY-NINE

T
he dust heralded the arrival of the police patrol at Ben Rosenblum's property. Ben squinted against the angry red fireball rising in the east and could see that the patrol numbered six horsemen, led by a tall officer who rode with the easy grace of a man born to the saddle. When they were closer he recognised Gordon James although it had been three years since he last had seen the young man in Townsville.

When they reached the bark homestead Gordon brought the patrol to a halt.

‘Hello, Ben,’ he said. Ben nodded. The troopers were covered in a thick coating of red dust and they stared listlessly at the bearded pastoralist standing by a wood pile of split logs.

‘Suppose you're looking for that gang that raided the Halpin place last week,’ Ben drawled.

‘Yeah,’ Gordon replied. ‘Seems they have decided to head south. We were following them until my black tracker took sick. Had to leave him to make his way back to the Curry so I decided I might bring my boys this way to see if I could get your help.’

‘Not much that I can do.’

‘I was hoping you might lend me the use of the Kalkadoon I hear you have here,’ Gordon said, glancing around the dusty yard.

‘Terituba?’ Ben replied with a frown. ‘I need him here. He's shaping up to be a bloody good stockman.’

‘You can probably guess what those murdering bastards did to Missus Halpin before they killed her husband,’ Gordon said, leaning forward on the pommel of his saddle. ‘I hear you were pretty good friends with the Halpins. I would have thought that counted for something.’

Ben winced at Gordon's obvious play on his past friendship with the Halpins. They had been good friends who had visited him after Jenny's death and he did owe a debt of gratitude for their unreserved help in his time of grief. ‘You may as well get down and rest your troop,’ he replied. ‘And I'll call Terituba.’

‘Thanks, Ben,’ Gordon replied with a smile. ‘I figured I could rely on you to help when it was needed.’

He turned and gave orders for his men to dismount. They had ridden all night in their attempt to close the distance between themselves and the four men they hunted. The Aboriginal troopers slid gratefully from their horses and when Terituba appeared from behind the hut they cast suspicious – almost fearful – looks at the former warrior of the Kalkadoon. Terituba stood proudly against their stares and sneered at the troopers. Tribal animosities ran deep and the Aboriginals recruited from the far away districts of the Colony of New South Wales had no love for the tribesmen of the north.

Gordon barely gave Terituba a glance. Had he done so he might have seen the Kalkadoon staring at him with an expression of surprise. The former warrior had seen the vivid scar across the white officer's forehead.

While the troopers led their horses to a watering trough Gordon followed Ben to the shade of the hut where he sat down on a bench made from a log. Ben disappeared briefly and returned with a jug of raw gin. It was the best he could afford until his cattle were mustered for sale in Townsville.

He took a seat opposite Gordon, placed the jug between them and wiped two battered enamel mugs. Gordon filled his mug and sipped gingerly at the fiery liquid as he gazed idly at his troopers chattering softly amongst themselves in the meagre shade of the stockyards.

‘How long will you need my man?’ Ben asked as he swigged the raw liquor.

‘Maybe a month, no longer,’ Gordon replied. ‘If we haven't had a result in a month I will send him back to you. He will be paid a tracker's allowance while he is with us.’

‘Good. You will be getting the best black tracker north of the Capricorn for your money,’ Ben replied, noticing with interest that Terituba had kept a distance between himself and the troopers lounging around the stockyards. He knew the Kalkadoon had no love for the Aboriginals who had helped destroy his people the year before.

‘I suppose you have heard that Kate and Sarah will have nothing to do with me,’ Gordon said quietly. He knew that Ben was close to Kate Tracy and the news of his role in killing Peter Duffy would have eventually travelled west to Cloncurry.

‘Yeah. I heard about Peter.’

‘I didn't have much choice, Ben,’ Gordon said. ‘It all happened so fast. I still have nightmares about it.’

‘Things happen,’ the Jewish pastoralist grunted. ‘Nothing much can change the past. ‘And in his simple reply Gordon could see that Ben was telling him that he did not hold the same animosity as Kate did. ‘You know who the murdering bastards are?’ he asked as if to tactfully change the subject.

‘Know one of them,’ Gordon said as he took another sip at the gin. ‘From what we have been able to find out, he is a former trooper who I dismissed last year. A bad bastard called James Calder. We don't know the others in his gang except that they were stealing cattle before they decided to take to bushranging and murder.’

‘This Calder fellow an experienced bushman?’

‘Experienced enough.’

‘You got your job cut out for you then,’ Ben commented. ‘But I doubt that he could lose Terituba no matter how hard he tried.’

‘Hope you're right. The lads we are tracking are a particularly bad lot and right now haven't got a lot to lose. They will hang for sure when we catch them.’

‘When are you planning to ride out?’ Ben asked.

‘Pretty well straightaway. At least as soon as your man is ready to leave with us.’

‘I'll talk to him now. He'll be ready in about half an hour,’ Ben said as he stood and reached down for the jug. ‘But, I don't think he is going to welcome working with your lot.’

‘I suppose not. I doubt if he has much love for us. Considering what happened last year.’

‘No, he won't,’ Ben said with an enigmatic smile. ‘Especially after what he told me about almost scalping some white trooper with an axe.’

Gordon glanced up sharply and instinctively touched the scar on his forehead. He gazed across the dusty yard at the big Kalkadoon who squatted in the dust. ‘Jesus!’ the police officer swore with shock.

‘You still want him to track for you?’ Ben added with a chuckle.

Gordon rubbed his forehead. He remembered with terrifying clarity how close he had come to death that day. ‘Yeah. Maybe he might be the first to get to the bastards we're tracking,’ he laughed softly. ‘If he did, I wouldn't like their chances of ever getting to see the inside of a courtroom.’

Terituba listened to Ben outlining what was required of him and although he did not want to go he accepted what Ben asked of him. He trusted Miben, who had proved to be a fair boss and kind to his family. He had not attempted to take his woman from him as other white men might, and he treated his son with the respect that he would his own.

When Ben was finished Terituba went to see his wife and son and explained to them he would be gone for a while. They begged him to reconsider going away with the dreaded Mounted Police but he cut them short with a reminder that they would be well cared for by Miben. They accepted his final word and Terituba made his preparations.

Gordon stared in amazement at the transformation. Stripped naked to a belt of human hair with his war axe jammed at his waist and carrying his spears Terituba was once again the warrior who had confronted them on the hill. Gordon felt an uneasy twinge of fear for a spirit that refused to be defeated.

FIFTY

T
he office commanded a splendid view of the Quay. It had once been David Macintosh's and had then been occupied by Granville White. Now it was occupied by Patrick Duffy – since his return from Europe some months earlier.

Granville had relocated his own office to one further up the street – ever since a meeting of the Macintosh board of directors had recommended that Lady Macintosh's grandson learn the shipping side of the business. The brief meetings between the two men had been businesslike and cool and neither would allow the other to see any sign of disquiet at the uneasy arrangement in management functions.

Granville, however, had the upper hand in their meetings as he still managed the bulk of the company's transactions. But Enid knew that her grandson would eventually make his mark and impress the board of directors with his competence in the world of high finance. In doing so he would erode her hated son-in-law's hold over the Macintosh financial empire. In time Granville could be crushed. A wrong decision, costing the companies a large financial loss – or a scandal – would force him to step down. Whatever it would be, Enid knew she would find the right time to strike and discredit him. If Patrick thought war was a ruthless business he would soon learn that the financial world was just as brutal.

George Hobbs still screened the visitors to the office which he guarded as jealously as a dog guarding his master's yard from intruders. Others had come and gone in the company but George had survived on account of his devoted loyalty to Lady Enid. Granville had attempted to have him retired. His motivation had been prompted by his distrust of the secretary who knew too much for Granville's comfort. But Enid had vetoed it.

And now George Hobbs dutifully served Patrick. His intimate knowledge of the maze that was the financial structure of the Macintosh companies was invaluable and Patrick quickly became aware of George's astute abilities and was quick to acknowledge him with a pay rise, an act which further endeared him to the secretary.

With George handling the routine paperwork, Patrick had time to stand and stare out his window at the ships that lined the wharves. Elegant masts and spars webbed with rigging rode gently alongside the newer ships with funnels of lesser elegance. Months had passed since he had resigned his commission and returned to the Australian Colony of New South Wales, and since that time he had been tutored by the best people Lady Enid trusted in the management the different components of the business. He proved to be a quick learner and the normally dour woman glowed with pride for the reports on his remarkable progress.

Patrick had a way with men, a legacy of leading some of the toughest troops in the Empire. The Scots were not a race who suffered fools easily and the young colonial had won their trust. Now he applied his leadership talents to those who came under his management, rather than adopting the autocratic rule of slavishly following regulations. He was not only liked by Macintosh employees for his easygoing manner but highly respected for listening to them as well. Enid's only concern were the reports of his great dislike for the routine of paperwork. At least there were people in the company she trusted to keep her grandson briefed on what he should know – and sign.

Patrick sighed when he remembered Granville's recommendation that they shed themselves of the clippers of their fleet in favour of the coal burning steamers. To do so was like putting down a beloved dog. As far as Patrick was concerned, the speedy clippers still reigned as the greyhounds of the open seas. But even he could see that their time was limited by the advances in modern technology. The majestic ships were slaves to the winds that blew with the unpredictable whim of a beautiful woman.

The recollection of Granville's recommendations for the conversion in shipping made Patrick uneasy. His influence was still strong with a handful of directors but Lady Enid had warned him that Granville might try and discredit him as the bastard son of a Catholic Irishman, not a desirable pedigree in the staunchly Protestant world of colonial commerce. Nevertheless, his courageous record of service for the Queen had temporarily countered any move to discredit him.

Enid had also warned him – somewhat pessimistically – that the press loved scandal and would happily wait until people forgot all that he had done for the Mother Country. Only the fact that the paper she had purchased the previous year was keeping his name alive as a hero of the Suakin campaign kept the rival tabloids quiet. She hoped fervently that her grandson would be able to establish himself to a point where the other papers would not dare attack his heritage.

As Patrick stood by his window gazing at the sea of masts he waited with some amount of nervous anticipation. He had received a calling card the previous day and had not hesitated in cancelling all other scheduled appointments to meet his Aunt Kate.

Would she be as aloof as his Uncle Daniel, he wondered as he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, the uncle who had refused to meet with him because of his renouncement of his Catholicism? Or would she, the sister of his father, be more sympathetic to his adoption of his maternal grandmother's Protestant religion? In a matter of minutes he would know. He heard the muffled voices from the annexe. ‘Missus Tracy to see you, sir,’ George Hobbs said as he poked his head around the corner.

‘Bid her enter, Mister Hobbs.’

The first impression Patrick had of his famous aunt was that she did not look like the image he had harboured of an austere businesswoman. She was downright beautiful. Her large, grey eyes were soft and he could see depths of an infinite love in them. Her long, dark hair was splashed with streaks of grey but it also was soft and luxurious. She wore her hair piled in a neatly set bun and her long satin dress of dark green rustled when she moved across the room to greet her nephew.

Patrick took her extended hand and felt the firmness of her grip. ‘Aunt Kate, it is both a pleasure and an honour to meet you after all these years,’ he said with sober intensity. ‘You must be the most beautiful Duffy woman in all the colonies – or even in Ireland itself.’

Her merry burst of laughter was like the tinkling of a bell. ‘Patrick Duffy. You are as big a liar as your father,’ she replied with a broad smile of pleasure. ‘God knows where you Duffy men get your blarney when you were born here in the colonies and not dear old Ireland. But I love your flattery all the same. You make an old woman feel young again.’