Flight of the Eagle (17 page)

Sarah skipped across the verandah, causing Kate to smile. Not quite a woman, she thought wistfully. But no longer a little girl tagging after her brothers and Gordon James anymore either.

FOURTEEN

I
nside the cavernous merchant depot of Wong & Sons the visitor was transported by the scents and sights to the Orient itself. Due to his time spent in Cochin China, Shanghai, Hong Kong and Singapore Michael Duffy was familiar with the fragrant herbs and exotic spices. In fact, stepping inside the cool, cavernous shed that was piled to the roof with crates, jars and cedar boxes came as a relief from the fetid smells of Townsville's sewage.

Michael adjusted his eyes to the dim interior of the depot and focused on a solidly built Eurasian man, arguing with a smaller Chinese man. The Eurasian, as tall as himself, was berating the other in the Chinese language and had not noticed Michael enter his store.

‘Hello, you son of a turtle,’ Michael said loudly. The Eurasian swung his gaze on the man who would dare question his parentage with the old Chinese expression of insult. ‘And begorrah it's a grand day for the Irish. Even half-Irish chinks,’ Michael added to his insult.

‘Michael Duffy, you old bastard!’ John Wong roared and completely forgot the Chinese merchant he had been taking to task over his exorbitant demand on the price of ginger. ‘You're still alive!’ In great strides the son of an Irish mother and Chinese father closed the distance between them and gripped Michael's shoulders with his huge hands. With a silly fixed grin of happiness he stared into Michael's face. ‘How the bloody hell are you?’

‘Still alive, despite friends like you and Horace Brown in my life,’ Michael replied with an equally stupid grin of his own. ‘Bejesus, John, you've grown fat living the life of a prosperous merchant.’

‘And I intend to get fatter, you worthless bastard,’ John growled fondly in response to Michael's observation on his thickening waist line. Although just thirty years old he was beginning to show the physical signs of a contented middle-aged man. ‘So forget any suggestions that I might help you and Horace Brown out on some harebrained scheme.’

‘John, John!’ Michael replied with feigned hurt for the rebuke from his friend. ‘Would I visit an old mate to ask any favours except you find a bottle and we share it for old times' sake? And none of that cheap rice wine either.’

John released the grip on his friend's shoulders and turned his attention to the Chinese merchant who stared curiously at the big European with the black leather patch over one eye. John said something to the merchant who scowled and broke into a torrent of Chinese that caused John to respond with a growl, ‘And the same to your ancestors too!’

Then he turned to Michael and led him to the back of the store and into a tiny room cluttered with ledgers and odd jade curios from the exotic East. He motioned to Michael to sit down on a crate jammed against the wall and rifled through his ornately carved teak desk to find the bottle of gin he kept for emergencies such as Michael Duffy turning up in his life. He then located two small bowls into which he poured the fiery liquid. He raised his bowl. ‘Cheers and God bless Saint Patrick and my illustrious Chinese ancestors,’ he intoned with a grin spreading across his handsome face. Michael responded by throwing back a good mouthful of the clear, spiced liquid. ‘So when did you get back?’ John asked cautiously. ‘Have you been to see Kate?’

‘Yesterday,’ Michael answered. ‘I will be seeing her again later this evening.’

‘Have you seen Horace Brown yet?’

‘Yes, but he looks pretty sick.’

John nodded gravely. The little Englishman often visited him to sit and talk in Chinese. Their friendship was based on mutual professional links to the past – links that John hoped to keep well and truly in his past as he got on with the job of building up his importing business from the proceeds of a ransom for the return of the beautiful Cochinese girl to her family years earlier.

Horace had kept John informed of Michael's life in the Far East. At least he'd told him as much as he thought it was safe to tell. Lately Horace's visits had become less frequent as the cancer took a greater grip on him and the opium John supplied had less effect.

‘I don't think he will see the year out,’ John said in a sombre tone. ‘A passing of an era in our lives, old friend.’

‘The bloody Foreign Office will soon find a replacement,’ Michael said bitterly. ‘The bastards don't really care about him.’

John raised his eyebrows. He could have sworn that Michael was growing attached to the Englishman who had so often placed his life at risk. ‘So what are your plans for when he is gone?’ he asked. ‘You know that you will always have a place here with me.’

Michael smiled sadly at his friend who sat leaning forward behind his desk. ‘Thanks, old friend. But I have to see what happens in the next few weeks before I go making any plans.’

From his answer John knew Michael's life working for Horace Brown had not finished and he guessed why Michael had come to see him. ‘I have a lot of responsibility here, Michael,’ he countered before Michael could broach the subject. ‘I can't help you in whatever you've come for.’

‘Ahh. You know me too well,’ Michael replied with a sigh. ‘I did come here to ask for your help, as you obviously knew I would.’

John's expression clouded. Commonsense dictated that he avoid any professional relationship with the Irishman, but loyalty tugged at his conscience. He owed much to his friend: his present prosperity and his beautiful Cochinese wife who had borne him two healthy sons and a daughter.

‘What sort of help?’ he asked in a weak voice as he knew the eye fixed on him bored into his soul and sought the roots of true friendship.

‘Nothing especially risky’ Michael answered, bringing the bowl to his lips with both hands. ‘Just a trip south to Sydney to expand your business. That's all.’

It sounded so simple yet John knew full well everything in his friend's life had an element of risk. ‘And the bloody rest,’ he growled, annoyed at how easily he had committed himself to helping the soldier of fortune.

Or was it that John missed the wild days of living on the edge and hated admitting that to himself! He had a family and thriving business and his wife would never understand even though she would obediently accept any decision he made as she was, after all, the dutiful wife on account of her Confucian heritage. But his children were growing up with minds of their own, a problem they inherited from their European blood and contact with the unruly European children with whom they mixed. They, too, would object to him going away.

Not only was his family the centre of his universe, John was a respectable businessman who had gained a place in the social circles of Townsville. He had a membership with the local horseracing club and owned a stable of horses himself. He was also respected for his astute knowledge in picking thoroughbred winners for the track and was the link between those European businessmen trading with the Chinese community and establishing the lucrative links in the Far East. The Chinese community in Townsville respected the big man for his intimate knowledge of their ways. John now stared at Michael silently as he weighed up the involvement that could cost him his life.

‘Horace thinks the Germans are going to annex New Guinea,’ Michael said quietly ‘This is our last job. I promise.’

‘So why go to Sydney? You could get yourself hanged down there.’

‘No choice. That's where von Fellmann is.’

John had never met the Baron but he knew a lot about him from what he had been told by Michael – and what he knew chilled him. The Prussian was a ruthless man. ‘Then if the traps don't get you von Fellmann will,’ he commented sarcastically. ‘Or someone like him.’

‘That might be so,’ Michael mused. ‘But no-one lives forever. Only the memory of who we were lives on in our children and their children.’ The echo of something he had said before resounded silently in the tiny office. Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Would his own son ever remember him?

‘Damn you, Duffy, you bastard!’ John swore. ‘You know I will back you. When do we leave for Sydney?’

Michael grinned at his old partner. ‘As soon as you have lied to your wife about your reasons to sail to Sydney. I've already purchased your ticket.’

When Michael arrived to visit his sister, his niece Sarah was not disappointed with the gift that he had promised. She gaped at the beautiful dress and made little noises of surprised joy. It was the finest dress she had ever seen! For Kate he had brought a volume of poetry by the Australian poet Henry Kendall entitled
Songs from the Mountains.

Sarah gave her uncle a crushing hug to thank him and then skipped away to try on the dress. She would find an excuse to be wearing it next time Gordon came home on leave.

When she was gone Michael followed Kate to the front verandah. There they could relax in the cooling evening breeze and share a bottle of rum. Kate was no stranger to the drink. She had worked the tough tracks with the bullock wagons and a tot of rum at the end of the day lifted her exhausted mind and body beyond mud and dust.

She gazed lovingly at the big man lounging in a chair on the verandah and thought wistfully of all the terrible things he must have seen and done in his tormented life. His youth was gone and his dreams to pursue a life as a painter almost forgotten. Oh Michael, my poor darling brother, will you ever find the peace you so much deserve, she thought as she watched him gazing into the soft shadows of the warm night. ‘You know you still have the beguiling ways about you that broke Aunt Bridget's and my heart when we were young,’ Kate said as she took a seat beside her brother. ‘The young ladies who worked for Uncle Frank fighting over you. My lady friends begging for an introduction.’

Michael laughed softly at his sister's flattery. ‘That had to be a long time ago,’ he said with a grin. ‘Not much call with the ladies for a one-eyed battle scarred man in the autumn of his life. A man without a respectable job and not much love either,’ he continued quietly. ‘Just the occasional snatch of paid love in some Chinese brothel.’

His frankness did not shock his sister. She sensed that she was one of the few women in his life to whom he could feel free to express his thoughts. ‘You can settle down and the leave the past behind. There is always a job here, as you know,’ Kate prompted gently. ‘Luke thinks you are one of the finest men he has ever known. God knows why when you almost got him killed twice,’ she added with a touch of exasperation.

Luke and Michael had worked together for Horace Brown to foil the Germans annexing the southern part of the New Guinea island. Then they'd mounted a rescue expedition for the Cochinese girl held by Morrison Mort.

‘Wish I could, Kate,’ Michael sighed. ‘But I have one more job to do before I could even consider your generous offer.’

‘It's that evil little Englishman again, isn't it?’ Kate spat as she realised her brother was a long way from finding peace. ‘And I hope you haven't come to recruit my husband for whatever he has planned for you.’

‘I've done with the recruiting, Kate. I only need John Wong and he has agreed to go with me to Sydney.’

‘Sydney! Are you mad?’

‘Probably’ he replied as he raised his glass and held it up against the rising moon. ‘But I have a need to confront my past as well as doing what needs to be done.’

Kate stared at her brother in the dim light of the verandah, watching the shadows of his face to see if he had changed expression. His identity as Michael Duffy was one of the worst kept secrets in the Colony of Queensland, she thought with growing alarm. Surely the rumours of his existence would have filtered to the police in Sydney by now? ‘By confronting your past, I suspect you mean seeing
Missus
Fiona White,’ she said with the emphasis on the married status of the woman her brother had first loved.

‘Fiona. Yes,’ he said dreamily as he continued to stare through the glass at the huge yellow moon. ‘And others.’

Kate had sworn to her brother to keep the fact of his existence a secret from all other members of the family. As far as they were concerned he had been buried and the mourning had been done with. Kate had disagreed with him but remained true to the oath she had sworn. ‘It might be better that you leave the past behind,’ she warned gently. ‘When they are disturbed, matters of the past have an ugly way of changing the present in ways we might not like.’

‘That's for me to discover, Kate,’ he answered firmly to deter any further sermonising on the subject. ‘But I won't be taking any stupid chances that might put myself or John at risk. No, I have a job to do that just happens to mean I have to confront certain aspects of my past. And yes, Fiona is one of those aspects, but not through choice.’

‘Whatever you do always remember you have a son you will most probably meet one day’ his sister reminded him. She knew what her wild brother was capable of. ‘I doubt you would want him to lead the life you have now.’

Michael threw back his head and laughed. ‘A bloody British officer! My son is a bloody British soldier. What would Da say if he were alive and knew his grandson was wearing the uniform of his old enemies? And you worry about him finding out about
my
life!’

‘That's not what I meant, Michael,’ Kate said quietly. ‘And it seems fate has conspired to lead him on a path not unlike your own violent destiny. Don't you think it is strange that your son should choose to be a soldier?’

‘I always wanted to be a painter, Kate,’ Michael reminded her as he swilled back the contents of his glass. ‘Not a bloody soldier of fortune.’ She could see the moon soften the shadows on his face and could also see the pain of a lost life in the glow as he added, ‘He must have got his disposition for soldiering from his mother's side of the family.’

Sarah appeared on the verandah in the new dress. It accentuated each graceful curve of her blossoming body and she pirouetted as the dress swirled around her ankles. Michael smiled. It was strange that the young lady should turn out to be such a pretty, graceful creature given that he fondly remembered his brother as a lumbering and awkward oaf. Must have got the beauty and grace from her mother, he thought as he made genuine expressions of admiration for how beautiful she looked as she stood in the moonlight. The rum was soothing his troubled thoughts of the future as he sat with the only real family he had.