Flight of the Eagle (50 page)

‘Would you like me to leave?’ Godfrey asked politely, placing his cup on its saucer. Patrick shook his head.

‘No,’ he frowned. ‘What I wish to discuss very much involves you, Colonel. I would prefer if you stayed.’

Godfrey cast a quizzical look at Enid. She nodded, feeling a rising trepidation for what was to come. She had never seen the strange tenseness in her grandson that he now carried like a heavy cloak.

‘Why didn't you tell me that you met with my father last year and hired him to go to the Sudan?’ Patrick's bluntly delivered question caused Enid to catch her breath. Why had she ever thought that she could keep the matter a secret? It had been hard enough concealing from him the fact that she had known for some years that Michael Duffy was alive.

‘How did you find out?’

‘I met with my Aunt Kate this morning.’

‘Your father's sister,’ Enid replied, using the relationship of his aunt to his father rather than himself in her reply.

‘My aunt by family blood,’ he corrected.

‘I did not tell you, Patrick,’ she answered calmly, ‘because your father is a man who is wanted on a charge of murder in this colony.’

‘Is that a reason, or an excuse, Lady Enid?’ he asked angrily. ‘Or was it that you hoped I would never learn he was alive and endeavour to find him?’

‘It would not do your name well to be associated with a felon,’ she answered him. ‘Your father has not even revealed himself to his family in Sydney, as far as I am aware. From what I can gather, he wishes to remain anonymous to all. Even you.’

‘I doubt that to be true when he was prepared to search for me.’

‘You may doubt what I am saying but you must consider the fact that at no time in the past has he ever attempted to make contact with you.’

‘He may not have been able to,’ Patrick replied. ‘I was halfway around the world for the last twelve years. First, in England, then in the army. He may have wanted to see me but was unable for that reason alone.’

‘I doubt that, Patrick,’ she scoffed. ‘Not
if
he loved you as a father would a son.’

In her retort he found an element of truth. Why had he not attempted to contact him?

The tiny doubt threatened to grow like a cancer. He turned his attention to Godfrey who stood protectively alongside his grandmother with his hand resting gently on her shoulder. ‘And you, Colonel,’ he said, fixing the man with brooding eyes. ‘Why did you counter-order the letters of introduction when he went to the Sudan?’

Godfrey returned the stare with the ice cold disdain of an officer being questioned by a subordinate. ‘You should realise, Captain Duffy,’ he bristled, ‘that I am not answerable to you. I think you should reconsider your question.’

‘I am not under your command, Colonel Godfrey,’ Patrick answered with a cold anger. ‘I ask the question without retraction.’

George Godfrey was not a man to be intimidated. He had faced the enemies of the Queen many times in battle without flinching and had even faced mutinous Indian soldiers bent on destroying the British power in their country. A mere captain held no fear for him.

Enid could see the friendship that had blossomed between the two most important men in her life rapidly unravelling. She realised that Godfrey would never betray her trust. Not even to death itself. ‘George, I think I should answer my grandson's question,’ she said quietly, and looked up at Patrick. ‘I told the Colonel to counter-order the letters. He was reluctant to do so at the time – but I insisted. I thought I was doing right for all concerned. But I see now that my decision to do so was wrong.’

Patrick was taken aback by his grandmother's sudden repentance. Lady Macintosh had never been known to bend in any matters.

‘Your father is a fine and courageous man, Patrick,’ she continued. ‘And, I suppose, in many ways I have been responsible for much of the misfortune that has been brought upon his life. No-one can recover the fragments of the past and put them back together again. If I could do so then I might have reconsidered many of my past decisions. But there is one I would not have changed. The decision to allow your father to marry your mother.’

‘Because my father was Irish?’ he asked.

‘No. Because of his Papist religion. No Papist could ever inherit the Macintosh name. Not even you.’

A short silence fell between them as Patrick pondered on the importance his grandmother placed on religion. He had renounced his Catholicism for no other reason than he was an atheist. He only paid lip service to his grandmother's staunchly Protestant beliefs.

Thunder rumbled in the dark skies and great drops of rain plopped amongst the trees and shrubs. ‘I think we should go inside,’ Godfrey said, breaking the silence. ‘I fear we are in for a drenching.’

He assisted Enid to her feet as the maid hurried outside to recover the linen table cloth and salvers of uneaten sandwiches.

On an impulse Patrick then asked quietly, ‘Colonel, do you know where my father is now?’

He cast Enid a questioning look and she nodded. They had developed such a close contact over the years that communication between them did not always require words. ‘Your father is presently working in South Africa, on vital matters for the Empire,’ he replied. ‘His exact whereabouts is not known to me. But I do know that he is somewhere in the Cape Colony.’

‘What is he doing there?’ Patrick asked as a cold fear rose in him. If Catherine was with him she might be in danger.

‘I can only surmise from what I know of his past that your father is spying on the Boers. As you probably know, your father is rather fluent in the German language and I believe he has ingratiated himself as a gun dealer. There are some in England who believe that the Dutch farmers will rise again, as they did in ′81, and your father has the task of collecting intelligence on them for the Foreign Office.’

‘God almighty!’ Patrick said in a strangled voice. ‘The Boers are no fools. He is bound to be uncovered in his mission.’

‘Sadly, I must agree with you, Patrick,’ the colonel said gently and with true sympathy in his voice. ‘Your father is a tremendously brave man. But his uncanny luck cannot last forever and the Boers are not very forgiving of spies in their ranks.’

‘I have to go to the Cape at the soonest possible time to find him.’

‘You may be wasting a trip,’ Godfrey said. ‘Every day your father deals with the Boers is a day off his life, one way or the other.’

‘Patrick is right, George,’ Enid interjected softly. ‘I think he should try. And if I remember correctly we have a clipper carrying a cargo of wool for England. It sails tonight and is sailing via the Cape. If you are able, you could just make the ship before she sails. It's the
Lady Jane
, our fastest clipper.’

Patrick glanced at his grandmother and felt a sudden respect and affection for her assistance. ‘Thank you, Grandmama,’ he whispered as he bent to kiss her gently on the cheek. It was the first time he had ever called her this and she felt the tears well in her eyes for his impulsive and loving gesture. She was too proud to let him see her cry, however, and excused herself as soon as they reached the house.

Only Godfrey had noticed the tears welling and wondered on the dramatic changes he had seen in her that afternoon. If only she could reconcile herself with her daughter, he thought sadly. Then she might find the love that she had denied herself for so many bitter years.

Enid went directly to her library. She needed time alone to consider the consequences of her sudden change of heart. Was it that the He had to be exposed? She could only trust in her God that Patrick could forgive her. If she was guilty of anything, it was growing to love him, and doing all in her power to keep him by her side. Surely he would be able to understand an old woman's weakness to protect the only flesh and blood who stood with her. She prayed fervently to her God that He would show the way.

George Hobbs hardly noticed the torrential downpour on the roof above his office. He was a man absorbed by the mystery confronting him in the columns of his ledgers. A simple error in his bookkeeping had caused him to refer back to the accounts commenced when Captain Duffy had taken over the office. Now George ran his finger down a column of payments and noticed that mysterious and large sums of payments had appeared that he had no prior knowledge of. The handwriting was so much like his own. But it was not!

He frowned and flipped the heavy book shut to examine the cover. It appeared to be one of his books, but still the payments recorded in the columns were a mystery to him.

He gasped as the thought of forgery crept into his mind. Someone had altered his books so cleverly, that the forgery would have gone unnoticed, until an audit revealed the extent of payments.

George rose from his chair and rubbed his face in his consternation. The rain pounded the building and only now was he becoming aware of the storm outside as he stood to stare out his window at the ships at anchor below. Had Captain Duffy arranged for a forger to alter the books? The answer resounded as a definite ‘no’. Why would Captain Duffy so blatantly pay a well-publicised Fenian supporter in the colonies such a large and regular sum of money? The Fenian was a rabble rouser, preaching that guns for Ireland be used against the Crown in a bloody rebellion and his radical views reported by the colonial press.

But a tiny doubt nagged the clerk. Had not Lady Macintosh's grandson spent a long time in Ireland before returning to Australia? Had he succumbed to his Irish heritage and was now using the Macintosh finances to commit treason?

The very thought of treason caused George Hobbs to shudder. What a scandal any such revelation would cause to Lady Macintosh and the family name. But the fact that he knew that the entries were blatant forgeries would crush any attempt to discredit Captain Duffy who had well and truly established his loyalty to the Queen with his illustrious service in the army.

Hobbs knew that he must bring the matter to Captain Duffy's attention as soon as possible to avert any whiff of a scandal. Whoever had conspired so cleverly must be stopped. But who would do so?

Mister White!

George slumped in his chair and despair was clearly written in his face. If Mister White was behind the conspiracy then the matter had taken a perilous turn. The clerk had always feared his former employer. There were stories whispered in the streets of Sydney that he was not a man to be crossed. George noticed that his hands were trembling when he attempted to flip open the great ledger. What was he to do? He felt like his head was in a steel trap poised to snap shut.

When he finally locked the office and stepped out into the rainswept street, he was not in the least surprised to find two very burly men waiting for him. George Hobbs sensed correctly that his very life was in mortal danger if he did not listen to what they had to say.

Granville had anticipated that David's clerk may have become suspicious of the books when they were returned to his keeping. He had never underestimated the man–or his loyalty to Lady Enid's interests. Either way, Granville decided insurance was best applied before any bleating by George Hobbs.

FIFTY-THREE

T
he troop rode hard. What was normally an hour's journey took only half that time. As they were approaching the last known campsite of the gang, Sergeant Johnson signalled to slow down. The horses panted and foam flecked their mouths while sweat streamed from their bodies. Gordon reined his mount alongside Johnson's horse.

‘Just up ahead along the creek behind that clump of trees,’ the sergeant said as he pointed to a copse of large coolabah trees where they could see a thin plume of smoke rising from the trees.

‘If it's them,’ Gordon said, ‘we had better arrive before they get a chance to saddle up.’

The sergeant grunted his agreement and with a final desperate effort the troopers spurred their exhausted mounts into a gallop. As they rode hard at the campsite they slid rifles from saddle buckets. Gordon's revolver was in his hand as he led the charge.

Calder was first to hear the drumming of horses' hooves on the plain while he was snoozing under the shade of one of the big coolabah trees, his hat over his face. He sat up and peered in the direction of the sound and saw the dust rising through the shimmer of the early afternoon heat.

Instantly he was on his feet and as he snatched up his rifle he screamed a warning to his companions who were further along the creek fishing in one of the deeper water-holes. They dropped the lines and snatched their rifles.

Calder dashed for his horse and desperately released the hobbles around its legs. He flung himself on the bare back and, with one hand gripping the mane, urged the horse into a gallop. But his effort was in vain as the troopers descended as a wave over the campsite.

‘That's them!’ Gordon yelled when he recognised the former trooper attempting to ride out. ‘Stand in the Queen's name,’ he bellowed above the whinny of horses and whoops of his own men.

A rifle crashed from close at hand and one of the trooper's horses whinnied more loudly as the bullet found a mark. The horse toppled forward, throwing the trooper into the hard earth. The fight had begun.

Calder's horse reared and hurled him against a tree trunk where he lay on the ground, winded for a short time. In the long dry grass he was able to roll into a sitting position as his breath came in ragged gasps. Bullets ploughed the earth around him from the troopers who were unable to steady their aim from the backs of their prancing mounts. Despite their cursing to bring their horses under control, the agonised whinnying from the trooper's critically wounded horse frightened them. Gordon leapt from his horse with his pistol in his hand and, crouching, he dashed for the cover of a tree.

Calder had regained enough of his breath to raise his rifle as he sought a target. He was determined not to be taken by the police as he knew the penalty for his crimes was certain death by hanging. He had nothing to lose by holding them off.

For a fleeting second he saw the crouching figure of Gordon James diving for the cover of the tree and his snapped shot plucked bark from the tree just above Gordon's head. ‘James, you bastard. You aren't taking me alive,’ he screamed defiantly as he quickly reloaded and dropped back to the ground out of sight without waiting for a reply. He wriggled away through the grass for the creek bed which provided a chance to find better cover behind the high banks of the meandering stream of sluggish water.