Shadow of the Osprey (29 page)

‘If I don’t,’ Luke protested, ‘she will get the wrong idea about what happened here today.’

‘No time for that,’ Michael replied as they reached a back door to the hotel. ‘The traps may take you in. We have to hide you until it’s safe to get you on the boat.’

‘Goddamn!’ Luke swore. ‘You don’t know what Kate O’Keefe is like Mister O’Flynn. If I don’t explain the situation before we leave she is going to think I’m just deserting her.’

Wouldn’t make any difference, Michael thought with a grim smile. I know what my sister is like. No, you will be safer with me, going to God knows where.

The police forced their way into the crowded hotel, and called on Luke Tracy to stand in the Queen’s name, but were met with derisive laughter and wisely retreated with sheepish grins. The unpopular solicitor had made haste to lay his complaint of attempted murder with them. But independent witnesses had provided an alternative version of the duel. The police recognised the ironically funny side of the confrontation and had better things to do than satisfy the aggrieved Rockhampton lawyer. On the frontier even men sworn to uphold the laws on the illegality of duelling could turn a blind eye.

Hours later, Kate was told of the gunfight by a breathless customer who had witnessed the shoot-out between the two men. She closed her store, and hurried to the hotel, but Luke was gone.

One of the patrons told her that he had left with Michael O’Flynn. He also thought that he was now working for the American. With tears brimming in her eyes, Kate roundly cursed both Luke and Michael O’Flynn, as she walked back to her store. Whoever O’Flynn was, she thought bitterly, he deserved to rot in hell.

Kate had a sick feeling that Luke was about to do something that might place his life in extreme peril. Then and there she swore an oath, that even if he came back alive to her, she would be done with him forever. She was through shedding tears for any man. Especially Luke Tracy! His wild, roving ways had caused her enough heartache for ten lifetimes. The old dog had strayed once too often! Pride was not the domain of men alone, she sniffed, as she walked slowly back to her store. Pride was the stiffness in the spine of the Duffy clan. She, after all, did not need a man.

Luke stood on the banks of the Endeavour River and watched a row boat being steered through a clutter of ships. Beside him stood Michael and five tough-looking bushmen he had recruited to the mysterious expedition. A short distance away Karl Straub stood alone near a pile of expedition supplies.

Michael puffed on an old briar pipe as he watched the
Osprey
’s longboat make its way to the shore. ‘Bloody impressive show you put on back there Mister Tracy,’ he said as he puffed on the pipe. ‘Took a big chance of missing the boat if the traps had got you.’

‘Maybe,’ Luke drawled, and let the matter drop. Michael sensed that he was in no mood to talk but he was still curious to know why the man would risk his life for Kate.

Luke’s thoughts were preoccupied with Kate. In a confusion of events he had been swept away from her. But what had he expected? Challenging a man to a duel was bound to bring him before the law. What did he expect Kate to think of his shoot-out with her former lover? A fit of jealousy? A man who said he loved her and then rashly put their love in jeopardy over a matter of pride? ‘Goddamn,’ he muttered, ‘I’m sorry Kate. I wish you knew why I had to do it.’ But his apology wafted away on a sea breeze.

Maybe she would understand when he returned, he thought optimistically. Maybe it would all turn out for the better. His optimism faded. Something told him Kate O’Keefe was not easily swayed by words. She was a woman of action – and his actions this day would take a lot of explaining.

The boat nosed ashore amongst the broken stumps of mangroves, and two sailors assisted the party waiting on the shore to clamber aboard. Michael and his bushmen carried little with them: bed-roll swags and few personal weapons. Two bushmen were assigned to remain behind and guard the wooden boxes. They would join the ship when the longboat returned to pick them up with the supplies.

As the boat headed back to the
Osprey
Michael scanned the blackbirding barque. She was not a big ship, but had the sturdy, pugnacious lines of a fighter, and he could see two men standing at the rails watching their approach with some interest.

One of the men at the rail reminded him in a vague way of Karl Straub – but much older. Michael guessed he was probably Baron Manfred von Fellmann: his demeanour and dress certainly fitted that of a Prussian aristocrat. The second man must be the
Osprey
’s captain. If that was so, it had to be Morrison Mort, he thought with a chill. Mort! The man he would kill!

As the longboat neared the barque Michael was able to make a closer examination of the ship’s infamous captain and grudgingly admitted to himself that Mort was a striking man.

He was aware that the man was appraising him with just the faintest hint of confusion reflected in his face. Their eyes met and Mort looked away.

Michael was first aboard, and was approached by the man who looked vaguely like Karl Straub. He held out his hand to the Irishman. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Mister O’Flynn,’ he said, gripping Michael’s hand firmly in his. ‘I am Manfred von Fellmann.’

Michael accepted the extended hand. ‘My pleasure Baron,’ he replied as the last of his men came aboard. ‘I had the honour of meeting your wife whilst I was in Sydney.’

‘She told me,’ the Baron replied, with just the hint of a smile on his handsome face, ‘that you are a man of remarkable skills Mister O’Flynn. Just the man for this mission.’ The Irishman flinched inwardly at the German’s comment on his ‘skills’. Surely Penelope would not have told her husband about their brief affair.

Before the Baron could continue with the uncomfortable line of conversation they were joined by Straub and Mort. The Prussian Baron greeted his fellow countryman cheerfully. ‘Herr Straub, I see that you have carried out your orders satisfactorily.’

Straub accepted the handshake. ‘Mister O’Flynn has proved to be a good choice to lead our bushmen Baron von Fellmann,’ he replied formally. ‘The men seem to have accepted his leadership.’

The Baron let the hand drop and turned his attention to Michael. ‘I would presume that you have not yet met Captain Mort, Mister O’Flynn.’

‘We have not had the pleasure,’ Michael said as he stared directly into the dead eyes of Mort. He did not offer to shake the captain’s hand – not that Mort made any gesture to do so either.

‘Are you sure we have not met Mister O’Flynn?’ Mort asked in a puzzled voice, staring at him coldly. ‘You seem somewhat familiar to me.’

So you recognise my father, Michael thought with a surge of hatred and angry satisfaction. But you are yet to know me. ‘I don’t think so Captain Mort,’ he replied, calmly disguising his true feelings. ‘I have lived all my life in the States.’

‘No doubt you have Mister O’Flynn,’ Mort replied with a frown. But in his expression Michael could see doubt. ‘You just reminded me of an Irishman I had the misfortune to meet some years ago. I was then with the Native Mounted Police in this colony. But I suppose not all Irishmen are criminals.’

The obvious slur on his father’s good reputation angered Michael. He was sorely tempted to reveal his true identity to the murderous captain. But it was not the time or place to challenge the man to a duel. He would wait for the opportune moment when the man would die knowing who his executioner was. ‘No Captain, not all Irishmen are criminals,’ he replied, attempting to defuse the tense situation developing between them. A frightened dog is a dangerous dog, Michael thought. And it was obvious that his uncanny resemblance to his dead father had triggered a fear in the captain.

‘You will excuse me gentlemen,’ Mort said abruptly. ‘I have to get my ship turned around, and ready to sail again.’ He turned his back and walked away to issue orders to his crew.

Michael inwardly relaxed when Mort walked away. The tension between himself and Mort was apparently unnoticed by the Baron and Herr Straub.

‘We will be sailing midday tomorrow Mister O’Flynn,’ the Baron said quietly. ‘No-one is to go ashore from now on unless with my explicit agreement.’

‘Sounds fair enough,’ Michael replied.

‘When we are well out to sea I will brief you on your role in our mission,’ Manfred continued. ‘Until then, rum will be distributed to you and your men. I am sure they will appreciate a drink before the
Osprey
puts to sea. Once at sea some of them will feel less inclined to partake of strong liquor.’

Michael grinned at the Baron’s wry observation. ‘I think you could be right.’

‘I have supper with the captain in an hour,’ Manfred said politely. ‘You and Herr Straub are invited to join us.’ Straub accepted the offer but Michael declined, saying that it was his role to eat and live with the men directly under his command.

‘A good soldier always remembers his men first,’ Manfred agreed. ‘I expected that choice from you Mister O’Flynn and I am not disappointed.’

After a short briefing on the routine of the ship, Michael joined his men below, where the rum ration was issued. They were in good spirits with the unexpected gift and one of them produced a battered harmonica from his bed-roll. Soon the ship’s hold echoed to the choruses of popular songs from America and the British Isles.

Michael did not join in the singing. Whilst he sat watching his men enjoy themselves his brooding thoughts were elsewhere. He was thinking morosely about the boxes of supplies the
Osprey
’s longboat had rowed back to the shore to pick up. Even now the bomb was in the supplies being brought to the ship.

On the shore, a portly little man with a silver-topped walking cane watched the last of the bushmen being rowed out to the blackbirding ship. He peered into the gathering dusk and was pleased to see that the box he had Michael include amongst the supplies was in the longboat. Now all the Irishman had to do was complete his mission: to sink the
Osprey
before she could reach New Guinea where Horace was sure his German adversary was bound.

When the longboat was out of sight behind a huge Chinese junk anchored beside the
Osprey
, Horace turned to walk back to his hotel. He had done all that he could. Now the future strategic interest of the British Empire lay in the hands of an Irish mercenary – a man wanted by the police of New South Wales.

Ah, Michael Duffy, Horace thought wistfully. Do not let your wild Irish passion lead you from your primary mission. Captain Mort is of no consequence to the pages of history. But stopping the Kaiser from his ambitions to eventually rule the civilised world is. The Englishman was acutely aware that his plans depended solely on the passion of a man whose loyalty to him was based purely on the powerful personal need for revenge, not on the lofty ideals of patriotism.

The day after the
Osprey
had slipped anchor and sailed out of Cooktown, Kate received a bank draft for a substantial amount of money from Hugh Darlington. It was transferred to her account without explanation, as the lawyer had left Cooktown vowing never to return.

Kate did hear a rumour that the duel had something to do with the transfer of funds to her account. But her bank manager shrugged when she asked him what it all meant. He had long learned to live with strange financial transactions in a town where men paid for drinks – and women – with gold dust and nuggets.

C
harlie Heath hunched against the drizzling rain and peered across the empty paddock. He should have figured that the boys would not be out playing in this kind of weather. For a week he had followed the boy he had confirmed as Patrick Duffy, to and from his school. Charlie had always been alert for a moment when Patrick might be alone in some isolated place. Given that opportune circumstance, he could slit the boy’s throat.

But Patrick Duffy had always been in the company of a slightly younger boy who Charlie confirmed as Martin Duffy. He needed to lure them both to some isolated place where he could separate them and get Patrick alone. It did not look promising until Charlie noted that the boys spent a lot of time playing in an area called Fraser’s paddock. It had a lot of trees and scrub and, even better still, on some days the boys played long into the twilight before returning home.

He glanced up at the scudding clouds and smiled grimly. The weather was breaking and the next day promised to be fine. Cooped indoors for the last few days, the boys would surely come to the paddock to play tomorrow.

The killer shrugged off his disappointment and trudged down a narrow street. He knew, with the certainty of the hunting animal, that his prey would come to the killing ground the next day. And when he did, he would be waiting in the shadows to pounce.

Max Braun had taken lodgings in a boarding house that was clean, comfortable and relatively expensive. He could afford to do so as he had saved a substantial amount of money over the years whilst working for the Duffy family at the hotel. His landlord was a former Dutch sailor who knew Hamburg well from his seafaring days. Of around the same age as Max, the two found much in common to discuss around the kitchen table of the boarding house and became friends.

The Dutchman had jumped ship in Sydney many years earlier, and had been fortunate to make the acquaintance of a lonely widow, somewhat older than himself. She had owned the boarding house and upon her death bequeathed the place to the Dutchman who had been her lover.

Although the quickly established friendship was based on mutual memories of bad sea captains and good whores, the Dutchman knew it was wise not to ask his German friend of his business. As to where he disappeared between sunrise and sunset was not his concern. It was good enough that his tenant paid promptly and left his room clean.

But on this day Max returned soaked to the skin and shivering from exposure to the heavy rain. He produced a bottle of good schnapps and a frown of mysterious concern. The Dutchman sat with him to share the fiery liquid.

‘My friend,’ he said, ‘the rain is going away you see.’ Max took a long swig from the bottle and glanced at the Dutchman.

‘Ja,’ he scowled. ‘I hope so. Time is running out.’

‘There’s a magpie’s nest near the top,’ Patrick said, as he stared at the upper branches of a tall gum tree. ‘I can climb up and see if there are any eggs in it.’

Martin frowned at Patrick’s suggestion. The night was rapidly approaching and Fraser’s paddock was falling under its shadow. Patrick was always doing dangerous things – or things that got them both into trouble. Like in the chapel at school where he snitched the altar wine and convinced Martin to try some. They did not hear Father Ignatius approaching with the stealth of a hunting leopard. When he struck it was with the carefully cultured words of a Jesuit priest. ‘Turning wine into water Master Patrick Duffy?’ he asked with a wry smile. ‘For I pray that is what you are attempting to do, as I know you would not commit sacrilege, by imbibing the Lord’s wine.’ Terrified, Martin had stood quaking in the shadow of the tall, gaunt priest who was also their Latin teacher. His mouth was too dry with fear to respond. But Patrick did.

‘I was showing Martin the Lord’s blood,’ he replied, showing no fear. ‘Martin is going to be a priest one day, just like you Father.’

The Jesuit stifled a smile. ‘Then he will be in a position to pray for your soul Master Patrick,’ he said, fixing the young man with his dark eyes, as he stood with his hands clasped behind his back. ‘When they lead you to the gallows to hang for stealing.’ Not that stealing was a hanging offence anymore – but the boys did not know this.

‘Our da is a lawyer and he would get me off,’ Patrick replied defiantly. Father Ignatius sighed. Young Patrick Duffy was incorrigible and he hoped that an education in England even though it be not of the true faith might reform him. A colonial education seemed to have failed.

‘Come gentlemen,’ Father Ignatius said. ‘Father Francis awaits your presence with the reformer.’

Martin had felt his legs turn to jelly at the mention of the reformer. He had never felt the thin cane’s stinging touch on his backside as Patrick had. They followed the Jesuit to the dreaded office of Father Francis where Patrick asked if he could speak to Father Francis alone. Father Ignatius was surprised at the boy’s forthright request and raised his bushy brows. But he allowed the request and ushered him into the office.

Martin remained outside, wringing his profusely sweating hands, as he prayed for salvation from the stinging cane. His worst nightmare came true when, after an ominous silence, he heard the swish and crack of the cane.

The door opened and Patrick emerged with a pain-racked face. He was barely able to speak and was forcing himself not to cry. His pride was at stake.

‘You are free to leave with your brother, Master Martin,’ Father Ignatius said from behind Patrick. Martin gaped at the priest, but quickly recovered his senses as he stumbled down the long corridor. He felt like the condemned man given a last minute reprieve from the gallows.

‘What happened?’ he questioned out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Why didn’t I get the cane like you?’

Patrick forced himself to fight the pain as he hobbled beside Martin. ‘I told them you really are going to be a priest one day,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘Said it wouldn’t look good if you were punished for stealing altar wine. Father Francis and Father Ignatius agreed. They think you might have a vocation. You bloody well better become one.’

Stunned, Martin fell in step with Patrick, and pondered on the deal Patrick had struck for him. He knew two things then and there. The first was that he loved his tough, courageous brother. And the second was that God had answered his prayers not to face the cane. It was possible that he did have a vocation.

But now, Patrick’s suggestion that they climb the tall gum and take birds’ eggs from a nest, was one of those things that could get them hurt. He thought about asking God for a miracle to stop Patrick in his foolhardy venture. It was a tall tree with few good branches to grip. The climb was downright dangerous!

He did not want Patrick to think he was scared. He knew that he would climb with him if he went ahead with his foolish venture. Dear God please make something happen so I won’t have to climb the tree, Martin prayed. His prayer was answered almost immediately by a voice that came from the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon. ‘Master Martin Duffy,’ the voice said. ‘Your ma told me that she wants you to go home right away.’ Both boys turned to watch the man emerge from the shadows.

‘Who are you?’ Patrick asked suspiciously.

Charlie Heath grinned at him. ‘I was up ’avin’ a drink in the bar and the big German fella there . . . what’s ’is name?’ Charlie said, scratching his unshaven chin.

Martin piped in helpfully, ‘Uncle Max . . . ’

‘Yeah, that’s ’im,’ Charlie continued. ‘Your Uncle Max told me to tell you if I see you up this way that your ma wants Master Martin home straightaway. Says you can stay Master Patrick. Seems she’s got a job for Master Martin.’

Patrick glanced at Martin. Chores were better than having to follow Patrick up that tree. ‘I’ll go,’ he said.

Patrick sighed with frustration. ‘I’ll come with you.’

Charlie’s grin evaporated. He had not anticipated that the boy would choose to go with Martin when a job was mentioned. ‘No need Master Patrick,’ he said quickly. ‘I see you are tryin’ to get up the tree. You after robbin’ a nest?’ Patrick felt uneasy in the man’s presence. He was a stranger – and yet he seemed to know the family. Deception did not really cross his young mind. ‘I know where there’s a plover’s nest with eggs in it not far from here,’ Charlie added. ‘Be much easier than tryin’ to climb this tree at this time of day. I’ll show you while yer brother goes home and does his chores.’

Patrick glanced at Martin who shrugged his shoulders before turning to walk back to the hotel. For a brief moment Patrick felt his unease warn him that he should follow. But the stranger was smiling easily, and had turned to walk towards the old creek that had been clear and flowing in the time before the white man came to settle on the sandy lands around the harbour. Plovers’ eggs were a prize and Patrick followed the man into the scrubby bushland adjacent to Fraser’s paddock.

‘What does Ma want me to do Grandma?’ Martin asked Bridget as she sat at the kitchen table shelling peas. ‘A man said that Ma had some job for me to do here.’ Bridget ceased what she was doing and looked up at her grandson. ‘What man?’ she asked with a puzzled frown.

‘The man who Uncle Max talked to in the bar a while ago,’ Martin answered. ‘He said Uncle Max was told by Ma for me to come back here and do a job for her.’

‘Dear God!’ Bridget exploded, spilling the peas in her lap as she sprang to her feet. ‘Max hasn’t been here for days you foolish boy.’ Martin’s face crimsoned with shame. He had been so intent on finding an excuse to get away from the paddock, and possibly making the dangerous climb, that he had forgotten Uncle Max had been away for the past week.

‘Go to the bar and tell your mother to fetch your father immediately,’ Bridget said, gripping the stunned boy’s shoulders and shaking him in her consternation. ‘Tell her that she is to send as many of the men in the bar straight to Fraser’s paddock.’

Young Martin reacted quickly and Bridget snatched a shawl from the back of the kitchen door. She did not wait for the patrons to spill out of the main bar before rushing into the darkening shadows.

She stumbled blindly in the night muttering a prayer over and over again. Dear God let Patrick’s guardian angel be with him in his moment of dire need. The pools of muddy brown water that had haunted her dreams were quickly turning to crimson pools of blood.

Bridget was the first to reach Patrick. She called his name and he answered from the scrubby land adjoining the paddock. She stumbled through the scrub and saw him standing over the body of a big, evil-looking man who stared with sightless eyes at the tops of the tall gums. Bridget noticed the glint of a knife blade in the dead man’s hand.

‘Are you all right Patrick me darlin’?’ she said, grasping the boy to her in a great hug. Patrick did not respond, but merely stared curiously at the dead man at his feet. Bridget followed his gaze down to the man. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

Patrick broke his trance-like state to stare at her with wide eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered slowly. He was still attempting to piece together the blur of sights and sounds mere seconds before he heard his name called. ‘I was walking along and the man was following me. I was just ahead of him through the bushes there,’ he said, pointing towards the old creek. ‘And I heard a noise like croaking. When I came back, I saw the man lying here, with his head twisted around strangely. I think he is dead.’

Bridget looked down at the man at their feet. She had seen broken necks before, when the British had hanged rebel Irishmen on the gallows, and the dead man certainly had a broken neck. ‘I thought I saw Uncle Max,’ Patrick continued hesitantly. ‘I thought I saw him running away.’

Before Bridget could reply a party of Erin Hotel patrons stumbled upon them. One of the men swore when he saw the body. ‘Charlie Heath,’ he said. ‘I know him. A bad one from The Rocks.’ The man bent to scrutinise the knife still in Charlie’s grip. ‘Looks like he was up to no good.’ The others nodded and the man looked up at Patrick. ‘You see what happened?’ he asked.

‘Patrick did not see anything,’ Bridget answered quickly before Patrick could reply. ‘He just found the man here.’

‘No matter,’ he said, wisely dismissing the affair. ‘The traps can look after Charlie. Don’t think they will be looking too hard for whoever slew him. Charlie’s a bad ’un.’

The other patrons from the Erin nodded their agreement and sauntered back to the hotel to recount amongst themselves what they knew about the dead man’s evil reputation. Bridget guided Patrick away from the paddock and fell behind the crowd noisily debating who might want to kill the infamous thug.

‘Was it Uncle Max?’ Patrick asked quietly, as he walked beside Bridget.

‘It was your guardian angel,’ she replied, and he knew not to ask any further questions.

Later that night Max returned to the hotel via the kitchen. He was startled to see Bridget sitting at the table with her rosary beads in her hands. At this time of night she was normally in bed and it was obvious that she had been waiting for him.

‘I would like you to have these Mister Braun,’ she said, offering the well-worn rosary beads to him. He did not take them but bowed his scarred head. ‘I am not of your faith Missus Duffy,’ he replied.

Bridget smiled enigmatically. ‘But you are a guardian angel of my faith Mister Braun. I would like you to keep the rosary beads as a gift from an old woman who will not be haunted by dreams of muddy water tonight.’

Max accepted the gift and felt the smoothness of the beads in his hand. ‘Danke Frau Duffy,’ he said. ‘I vill always keep them. Vun day I vill give them to Patrick.’