Flight of the Eagle (9 page)

‘Captain Duffy, you did not have an opportunity to meet Mister Brett Norris when you arrived,’ she said sweetly, with a smile which concealed the take-nothing-for-granted-about-me expression in her eyes. ‘Brett, this is my grandfather's guest, Captain Duffy.’

The arrogant smile on the son of the English industrialist imparted its own message. ‘A pleasure to make your acquaintance, old chap,’ Brett said, without attempting to offer his hand. Not that this was practical as Patrick held a cigar in one hand and a port glass in the other. ‘Catherine has told me a lot about you over dinner and I gather you are some sort of hero. I see you even have a couple of medals. What are they for, old chap?’

Then and there Patrick wished his competitor for Catherine's attentions was before him in the desert at Tel-el-Kibir dressed in the white uniform and red fez of a Nubian rifleman where he could bayonet the bastard! ‘For service at Tel-el-Kibir in ‘82,’ Patrick growled. ‘A bit for the old Empire, old chap.’

‘Rum show, so I have heard,’ Norris replied. ‘Killed a lot o' darkies yourself then?’

Patrick noticed that the young man had taken on the affectation of London's aristocratic fops and appeared to have little of his father's roots in the way he spoke and acted. And he, with a
petite bourgeoisie
background – a term Patrick had picked up in the readings of some obscure German Jew by the name of Karl Marx he had skimmed through whilst in his first year at Oxford.

It was not as if anyone would probably remember Marx in the years to come, he had thought then. There had been so many social philosophers expounding their views in the last few years. But the description of
petite bourgeois
seemed apt for the man now standing before him at Catherine's side. ‘Yes, we killed some, we killed a lot at Tel-el-Kibir,’ Patrick replied softly as for a moment his memories were transported to that terrible dawn of fear and death.

‘Probably an easy thing to do when the poor beggars you are fighting have no chance against British arms, what!’ Brett said with the hint of a sneer.

Patrick's hackles rose like those of a fighting dog. It was clear that the man was attempting to bait him in front of Catherine.

‘Maybe we didn't kill as many of those poor beggars, as you call them, as your father's coal pits kill Welsh miners.’

Patrick's blood affinity for the Celts of Wales had flared and the hint of a sneer disappeared from Norris's face as he realised that he had pushed the Highlander officer just a bit too far. Although he prided himself on the social status that his father's financial situation gave him, he realised that nothing protects you against a man who has lost some of his fear of violence in war. Catherine had followed the exchange and she too realised the green eyes of the Australian had a cloudy look that was animal dangerous.

‘I say, old boy, that was not called for. I think you should apologise immediately,’ Brett Norris bluffed.

But somehow it sounded more like the bleating of a sheep to Patrick's ears. ‘If you will excuse me, Miss Fitzgerald,’ Patrick flashed a savage and cold smile, ‘I think I will join the gentlemen for port and cigars.’

He did not see the frown of annoyance flit across Catherine's face as he strode away, his kilt swirling around legs muscled by miles of forced marches as an infantry officer. He was not playing the game the way she presumed he would!

‘Surly uncouth lout, that Captain Duffy,’ Norris said loud enough for Patrick to hear as he walked away. ‘He is a disgrace to the Queen's uniform.’

But Patrick ignored the taunt and joined Professor Clark as Catherine cast Brett a withering look.

‘Captain Duffy is to sail to Egypt very soon,’ she hissed. ‘And will probably be facing great peril again. I rather think you were being a bore with your talk.’

But Brett Norris only smiled at Catherine's rebuke. He had regained his composure. ‘The man has no class,’ he sneered. ‘And I suspect no real means of private income.’

‘You know nothing of Captain Duffy,’ Catherine flared in defence of Patrick who was now standing with his back to them.

Brett could see where Catherine's attention was directed. ‘Ladies might be infatuated by the likes of such men, my dear young Catherine,’ he said. ‘But they have enough practical sense to marry men like me. Men who will inherit wealth and power and who can provide the luxuries they so much yearn for in their years ahead.’

Catherine felt the breath of pragmatism blow softly in her ear and remained silent.
Yes. A woman did have to be practical when it came to the future.
But this was the present – and she was acutely aware that she was a woman who loved the romance of life, as much as the luxuries of wealth. At her elbow was a devilishly attractive young man who would do anything for her. In the circle of men stood Captain Patrick Duffy who she could easily give herself to. The choice was hers alone and she replied softly, ‘It may be possible I am not the lady you think I am.’

‘Catherine, come and join the ladies and let your young man alone for a moment,’ Lady Garnett commanded rather than requested. ‘I am sure Mister Norris has a point of view to add to the conversation of the men.’

Catherine normally did not find the small talk of the women interesting but Lady Garnett's imperious invitation gave her the opportunity to part with Brett Norris's company and be alone in her thoughts. ‘Thank you, Lady Garnett, I would
love
to join you,’ she answered. ‘Possibly you might relate your experiences in the south of France to me. One day I hope to visit the Riviera and take in the sunshine.’

Miffed at Catherine's subtle rebuke, Brett Norris idled over to the circle of men to join his father. At least he could talk confidently in such distinguished company of power and wealth. More than the uncouth and arrogant Captain Duffy could with his limited world of soldiering!

The cool summer's eve held the mists of magic
– at least it felt that way to Patrick when he bid his host good evening and stepped into the open air. Or was it that he had drunk too much port and was feeling the romance of the land of his Irish ancestors? Despite his last glimpse of Catherine in the company of Brett Norris, he was determined not to let the bitter memory spoil his last night of leave in Ireland.

‘Would ye be likin’ a lift back to the village, Cap'n Duffy?’ the coachman asked from the seat of the gig. He had been hired by George Fitzgerald to ferry the Reverend and his wife from the vicarage, as well as pick up Patrick from Bernard Riley's pub. Between visits to the kitchen of the Fitzgerald manor for fine table scraps and some alcoholic refreshment he had waited patiently while puffing on his battered pipe for the guests to leave.

‘No, but thank you. I think I will walk home tonight,’ Patrick replied politely. ‘It will do me good.’
There would be a lot of walking ahead when he reached the Sudan's arid and rock strewn deserts with their craggy hills …

‘Very good, Cap'n Duffy, and top o’ the eve'n to you then.’

SEVEN

T
he twitter of bush birds, and the snort of a horse being saddled in the soft light of the predawn, were now familiar sounds to Kate Tracy.

Kate Tracy, sister of Michael Duffy, had once been known as Kate O'Keefe. In Sydney at the age of sixteen she had married a shiftless handsome son of Irish convicts. A marriage motivated out of infatuation for the man who would leave the young girl almost destitute and pregnant at Rockhampton when he ran off with the wife of a local publican. That had been in 1863 and Kate had not seen her estranged husband until she visited his grave at Cooktown twelve years later. But her ill-chosen marriage had put her on a path north to the untamed Colony of Queensland and eventually to amassing a personal fortune through bullock teams transporting sorely needed supplies to the people of the frontier.

Approaching her fortieth year she was now one of the wealthiest women in the colony and although she could afford a lavish lifestyle she lived modestly with her prospector husband Luke Tracy in their rambling house in Townsville. The frontier and its people had ownership of her soul and the desire to return to Sydney was long gone.

‘Just about ready to go,’ she heard her husband's gentle American twang. ‘Figure I should be into the hills before sunset,’ he added.

Kate unconsciously reached out to touch the old scar on his face that marked the point of an English soldier's bayonet – a scar that reminded all of his stand with the American miners at the Eureka Stockade over thirty years earlier. She had since married the man who had continued to love her through the lonely years of his life prospecting at the edges and beyond of the Queensland frontier. The tall, taciturn Luke Tracy had always carried his love for Kate as he struggled through the tropical rainforests of North Queensland, trekking the wide arid plains of scrub tree in the west and into the ancient dry hills of central Queensland. He was a scarred veteran of the Stockade of fifty-four when he stood and fought as a young man with the California Independent Ranger Brigade against the redcoats on the goldfields.

‘I know,’ she replied, hoping she would not cry at his departure west on his journey to the little frontier town named in honour of the ill-fated explorer Burke. ‘Have you spare ammunition?’ she asked.

The tall man standing over her smiled reassuringly as he stroked her face with a callused hand. ‘You needn't worry ‘bout the Kalkadoon,’ he said. ‘I'll be riding well north of their territory.’ He ran his hand down to her swollen belly. ‘I'd be more worried about you, Kate,’ he added. ‘This time you've got to look after yourself – not go worrying about the business. Let the people you employ look after things.’

Kate nodded and forced back the tears. It was the pregnancy, she told herself, that had made her so emotional lately. The terrible spectre of two babies lost still haunted her. The first lost had been a son who had died hours after he was born and was buried at Rockhampton. She had been seventeen at that time and the father of her child had been Kevin O'Keefe, her first and worthless husband, who had deserted her on the eve of their son's premature birth.

But Luke had been there to provide a strong shoulder to lean on in the weeks and months following. It was then that she knew she loved him but dared not expose herself to the pain of admitting her love was for a man who saw only lonely places where gold might be. The American prospector had seemed to be one of those men fated to ride out and die in one of those forsaken parts of the frontier. She wanted the man who would share her life to be with her – not always riding out of her life.

Ten years past she had finally admitted to herself that she would rather risk losing him than not having him in her life at all. And that was when she also proposed marriage to him in a miner's tent outside the goldfield's port of Cooktown.

A child was born eight months after they had been formally married but the baby girl died from a fever six months later. Her grave was one of many at Cooktown where Kevin O'Keefe, Kate's first husband, also lay buried. But his death was the inevitable outcome of living a life steeped in crime.

The death of their daughter had caused Kate to retreat grief stricken from the world. But Luke had been with her and his quiet strength had nursed her through the self-recriminations. What had she done to cause the baby's death, she had asked herself. Could she have done something to prevent it?

Luke had reassured her that death on the frontier was not always explainable – nor should one blame oneself. His pragmatic advice came from personal experience as he had many years earlier lost a wife and child to fever. At that time he had ridden the Queensland frontier alone with his grief and often similarly questioned himself under the vast panorama of southern stars. As there was never any answer he came to learn that the grief must have a natural end. It was this blunt pragmatism he was able to eventually convey to Kate.

Years later she now carried their baby. She sensed that this time God would be kind and deliver them a healthy child who would grow to inherit all that she had fought to obtain in life.

‘I know God will look after you, my husband,' Kate sighed, realising the tears would not be constrained by her conscious efforts. ‘I pray that you will return home as soon as you can to hold our baby.’

Luke noticed the tears and felt a surge of love for this beautiful woman who had honoured him with her unconditional love in spite of his wandering ways. ‘I'm not much at being a good Christian,’ he said quietly, pulling her to him in a gentle embrace. ‘And I don't think God takes us old Yankee prospectors seriously when we make Him promises when the chips are down. He kind of knows we stray a bit but I will make you the promise that I will be there when the baby is born. I know God will be on your side to make sure I am.’

Kate sensed his gentle mocking of her strong Catholic beliefs. Luke was a man more in harmony with the beliefs of the Aboriginal people of the vast lands beyond the towns of the Europeans. She often mused to herself that this might be because the purpose of his life was to dig in the earth to find his precious gold. That the earth held the secret to life itself.

Although he was in the early years of the second half of his century on earth Luke was still tough and capable. His trip to a property near Burketown he felt was essential – although Kate did not. Luke had heard a rumour that a new breed of cattle was being shipped from Asia. It might be the tropical north's answer to the tough conditions that killed cattle from the south. His interest in cattle breeding had been a result of his years of self-imposed exile as a cowboy in the Montana territory just before his return to Queensland for the Palmer River gold rush.

Kate had unsuccessfully argued for him to remain but saw the look in his eyes that told her he was still trying to prove he could be a stable businessman and be part of her enterprising life. It was really his love for her that had caused him to set out on the journey – a way of showing her that it was not gold that ruled his life but a need to help Kate's ventures. She relented and they now stood in the paddock behind their house as he completed his tasks for his departure.