Shadow of the Osprey (42 page)

Hue’s condition was little better than Henry’s. Her sandals had finally given out and her feet were cut and swollen. John had been forced to carry her piggyback fashion for the last four hours of the trek. The Irish mercenary made his decision. They would traverse the valley floor and gain precious time.

When Mort emerged from the rainforest and onto the plain of the grass-covered valley he brought his party to a halt. The Chinese squatted and produced small round bowls and chopsticks and quickly devoured a cold meal of gluey rice and dried fish.

Mort chewed on a stick of jerky as he scanned the way ahead. He had a good view of the broad valley with its flat open spaces and his gaze settled on the two low hills either side under a heavy growth of rainforest. If he could get up there he could command a panoramic view of the valley below, he mused. He may have lost the Irishman’s trail but he was determined to keep on his present course; he had calculated that his enemy would have had to traverse the valley if they were still travelling north to Cooktown. ‘Mister Sims. Get the men on their feet. We have a climb ahead of us.’

Suddenly something caught Mort’s eye. He could not believe his good fortune when he looked down on a tiny file of figures winding their way across the valley floor below. The Devil was on the side of those who cursed God! He spat in triumph. He was now going to use O’Flynn’s tactics against him!

Quickly seizing the initiative, he doubled his men into an ambush site at the end of the valley, where it was only a matter of waiting. With muskets and rifles ready Mort’s men waited for the tiny party to file into
his
killing ground.

T
he clipper creaked and groaned as she sailed into the rolling seas of the Great Australian Bight. Having departed the port of Melbourne the sleek ship was now on a westerly course and well on her way to England.

Patrick Duffy spent most of his time above decks where the salt-laden sea winds crusted his hair, much to the despair of his fastidious grandmother. She had hoped that he might spend more time with her and in the company of the first-class passenger clique. But he seemed more at home sharing the companionship and conversation of the working-class crew who had taken a liking to the confident but not brash young man. He displayed an interest in their work without being intrusive and the sailors wondered at how Patrick failed to notice the small party of young girls around his own age who unabashedly followed him everywhere he went aboard ship. Their shy giggles and flirtatious behaviour had no impact on Patrick. They weren’t to know he was absorbed in deep thoughts about his turbulent past and his uncertain future.

He stood at the starboard side of the clipper and gazed across the rolling waves at a grey horizon. He knew that somewhere below the horizon was the colony of South Australia and soon enough they would round the southern tip of the colony of Western Australia. At that point he would have left the land of his birth for the land of his grandmother’s birth.

‘Patrick,’ the voice called gently to him, ‘do you not feel that it is time to go below and join the captain? He has invited us to dine with him tonight.’

Patrick did not need to turn to see who had spoken to him.

‘I will,’ he replied quietly, ‘as soon as the sun is just off the bow five degrees.’

Enid raised her eyebrows in surprise. The boy was a quick learner. He was even absorbing the language of the mariner.

‘You will catch your cold if you remain too long above deck,’ she said, and startled herself by placing her hand on his shoulder in a maternal manner. She wondered at the gesture as she had very rarely done the same to her own children. Emotional displays were something of an indulgence for the working classes. Patrick, however, did not seem to notice her touch and continued to stare at the distant horizon. ‘Are you frightened Patrick?’ she asked, and his gaze dropped to the hissing seas kissing the hull of the ship.

‘No Lady Enid,’ he answered without looking at her. ‘I was just thinking that a lot of things have happened.’

‘Of what things were you thinking?’ she asked, and he finally turned to face her.

‘I was thinking of how things might have been different if my father were alive.’

Enid suddenly stiffened and felt a stab both of guilt and fear. She knew Michael was somewhere on the northern frontier of Queensland. But she had her reasons for concealing from Patrick her knowledge of his father’s existence. Patrick was hers to use in her ongoing war with her evil son-in-law Granville White. And from what she had gleaned from Penelope, it did not seem that Michael Duffy was a man likely to survive Baron von Fellmann’s expedition. Her guilt, however, was less for concealing from her grandson the fact that his father lived, than for the fact that she hoped that Michael would die, since he was the only person who truly posed a threat to her keeping Patrick.

‘As we all know,’ she replied a little tensely, ‘your father was killed in New Zealand about the time you were born.’

Patrick’s expression reflected his belief in her lie and she relaxed. ‘I am going to be a soldier like my father,’ Patrick said suddenly. ‘I know he would have wanted that.’

Now Enid felt a rising horror for her grandson’s aspiration to don the Queen’s uniform. All her plans were centred on him receiving the finest education the English system could offer and then going on to rule the family fortunes.

‘I think you will change your mind as you grow older,’ she said quickly. ‘You are young and I am sure that once you attend Eton you will see how much more there is to life than that of the soldier. So much more responsibility in managing the family’s financial affairs. It is upon your shoulders to take us into the next century.’

Patrick stared into her eyes and she sensed a will as strong as her own in the boy. ‘Uncle Max told me how my father died a hero in the Maori wars,’ he said stubbornly. ‘It is my duty to be like him.’

‘Your father never wanted to be a soldier,’ Enid countered. ‘He was forced into that war because the evilness of your uncle Granville forced him there by circumstances none could foresee. Your father had always wanted to be a famous painter . . . not a soldier.’

Patrick frowned. ‘Uncle Max told me that too,’ he said, and Enid sensed a slight confusion in his reply. The irony of explaining the gentle nature of a man who she had always hated for his involvement with her daughter did not escape her. For a moment she felt confusion as she gazed at her grandson and noticed the very different physical appearance of him from the men of her own bloodline. He was in so many ways a true Duffy man. And yet he shared her blood through her daughter. He must therefore be part Macintosh. This thought consoled her and she decided to let him live in his dreams of aspiring to be like his father. ‘Should you wish to be a soldier when you have completed your studies,’ she sighed, ‘I promise you that I will use my influence to purchase you a commission with a fine Scots regiment. My late husband’s family . . . your family now . . . have commanded Scots regiments in the past for the crown. I am sure you would make a fine officer of the Queen.’

‘You truly promise,’ Patrick grinned, ‘that you will allow me to be a soldier?’

‘I do,’ Enid replied with a smile, ‘but only if you return the promise to do well at Eton and not display crude colonial behaviour at any time. Your uncle David won academic prizes when he was a student at Eton,’ she added wistfully, thinking of her long-lost beloved son. ‘But I know you will do so too as you have a fine tradition of nobility in your heritage.’

For a moment Patrick tried to think of any Irish royalty in the Duffy family. He could not, and knew that Lady Enid was referring to her ancestors. He also knew that he must start thinking about his Macintosh blood even though his uncle Daniel had sworn him to a sacred oath not to forget his Irish roots or religion.

‘I promise Lady Enid,’ he replied with a disarming smile.

‘Good,’ she said with a gentle squeeze of his shoulder. ‘Then we shall go below and join the captain, young man. And there you shall display all the charm and manners of your aristocratic heritage.’

Patrick glanced up the deck at two young girls watching him from behind giggles, their mouths covered to contain their girlish secrets. He pulled a face at them and turned to accompany his grandmother. Girls were a confusing species, he thought. They were a bit of a pest. But even so, lately he had experienced strange and confusing thoughts about them. It was something in the way they smelt different and in the compulsion to touch their soft skin. And an even greater mystery was what they seemed to want from him.

M
ichael’s normally astute judgment was dulled. Exhaustion had taken its toll and he had no real indication that Mort was pursuing them, and was even now beginning to believe that he had either given up, or lost their trail. According to Christie Palmerston’s last instructions they should be close to Cooktown and it seemed to Michael that the young bushman had sacrificed himself for nothing.

With the dark forests at their backs they now faced a broad, grassy plain that tapered to a rocky defile which led up and over a low saddle between two hills. It would be an arduous climb, but not as difficult as the steep hills either side of the valley, Michael estimated, hoping that they would be able to see the river from the crest of the saddle. To do so would raise morale and, although weak and hungry, his party still had reserves of strength to struggle on.

He glanced over his shoulder at his tiny command trudging behind him. At the rear of the file trudged Luke while John still carried Hue in front of Henry who limped with his rifle slung over his shoulder. Henry’s twisted expression reflected his pain but was able to flash Michael a reassuring smile. Michael acknowledged his courage with a nod as he turned to resume the march. He flicked open the lid of a small brass compass to check their bearings. They were on a northerly course. Satisfied that the bearing put them close enough to Cooktown, he was in the process of closing the lid of the compass, when a sudden crackling volley of shots shattered the serenity of the valley.

Henry grunted as a Winchester bullet ripped through his chest. He died without a chance to fight back and Mort smiled with savage satisfaction to see the former sergeant hit by his well-aimed shot. Fate had dealt him an ace. His first round had been meant for O’Flynn, but the sight of his former sergeant limping behind O’Flynn allowed him an unexpected opportunity to kill the man whose actions many years earlier had indirectly brought him to his current predicament.

Michael pitched forward in the tall grass, hit by a bullet that seared a long furrow across the back of his shoulder. But his fall saved his life as a second volley of gunfire filled the air around him. Even as he had hit the ground he instinctively crawled away to take up another position, denying the ambushers an exact fix on where he lay.

Luke only knew that he had been hit. He could feel a stickiness at the back of his leg and was not surprised to see his fingers covered in blood when he reached down to feel the source of the wetness. The bullet had hit him low across the thigh and shock had acted as a temporary anaesthetic. But the effect was rapidly wearing off to be replaced by a very painful stinging sensation.

‘If you are still alive Mister O’Flynn,’ Mort’s voice taunted across the fifty yards or so that separated them, ‘I suggest that you surrender. I promise you that I only want the girl. You have one minute before I send my men in after you.’

Michael slipped the Colt from its holster and pulled back the hammer. Between the rifle and the pistol, he had seven shots of rapid fire. Although the waist-high grass of the valley concealed him from view it did not provide cover from probing bullets. Mort had set his ambush with the professionalism of a trained soldier. They were spread in a skirmish line along the plain, and Michael’s small party had walked right past the men crouching in the long grass. Michael’s error of judgment had rendered his party virtually ineffective when the first volley had ripped through their ranks. Only John and Hue had been spared as Mort had given strict orders that they were not to be fired on.

Michael did not know whether he was the only one left alive. He dared not cry out to the others lest he give his new position away to the ambushers. He well knew that Mort had every intention of killing him, and cursed himself for not keeping to the high ground as his military instinct told him he should. He felt sorrow, not for himself, but for the others whom he had led into the ambush. One minute was not a long time to reflect on thirty-two years of life, he thought sadly, as he lay on his stomach waiting for Mort’s men to advance on him.

Although he was wounded, Luke was not out of action, and like Michael did not know who was left alive. He was at least sure Henry James was dead. The situation was looking hopeless. The long grass waved gently as a gust of wind funnelled down from the saddle of the ridge. Luke’s face was pressed into the dry earth and the brittle grass felt harsh against his face.

The grass!

He suddenly remembered a time when he had been attacked in Burkesland years earlier. The tribesmen had fired the grass to force him away from his camp and into a line of spear-wielding warriors. Luke slid his knife from its sheath and sliced a handful of dry grass in front of him. He fumbled with a tin of wax matches and struck one of them. The match flared, and he thrust it into the improvised firebrand, which ignited with a soft crackle.

He shoved the firebrand into the grass and the dry grass hissed into life. The wind was still blowing in Mort’s direction, he noted with grim satisfaction, and within seconds the fire had raced away from him, consuming all in its path. Without waiting he crawled dragging the firebrand behind him.

Mort was peering cautiously above the tall grass when he saw the first wisps of smoke. The wisps rapidly turned into a crackling black billow that spread along his front as a wall of flame rushed towards him and his men. How in hell?

As Luke crawled through the grass he came upon the body of Henry James lying on his back staring with blank eyes at the sky. Luke did not spend time mourning his friend but crawled on until he came across John and Hue huddled together, John keeping himself between the terrified girl and the direction from which the firing had come. ‘Henry’s dead,’ Luke hissed as he passed them, and continued crawling towards Michael’s last-known position.

The grass fire was now well alight and the rising gusts of wind swirled burning embers into the clear blue sky. The crackle turned into a roar and the sheets of flame rose in the smoke as a wall of orange and black.

‘Get back to the hill!’ Mort screamed as he rose from the grass. The hill had less grass to provide combustible material to feed the greedy flames. The Chinese did not have to understand English to know remaining meant being roasted alive. As one, they rose and fled with the European sailors towards the relative safety of the hills behind them.

Michael crawled through the grass until he almost collided with Luke. ‘Henry’s dead,’ Luke said, ‘but John and Hue are all right.’

‘He knew he was going to die,’ Michael said softly with a frown.

‘What?’ Luke asked. He had not caught Michael’s words as they were drowned in the roar of the fire.

‘Nothing important,’ Michael muttered.

The wind was pushing the wall of fire away from them. Burning cinders fluttered down, as the valley was seared by the fire, causing it to twist on itself like a tortured animal being scorched. Michael glanced up to see John running towards them. He was dragging Hue after him and when they reached Luke and Michael, the four survivors ran towards the saddle between the hills.

Mort saw them make their desperate dash for the hill and turned to snap a rapid fire at the retreating figures. He cared little if he hit the girl, such was his rage at having the tables turned on him. But the rounds fell short as the wall of flames roared towards him, and Mort turned and fled with his men to the hills.

The enraged captain could see the tiny enemy figures climbing the rise of the saddle between the hills. But all was not lost, he thought bitterly. He could still catch them. He still had Sims and two of his former crew with him as well as seven armed Chinese. They still outnumbered and outgunned O’Flynn’s party. The grass fire was burning itself out and was only a temporary setback. Ultimately he would kill them all and take the girl.

‘Goddamn! It hurts like blazes,’ Luke said gritting his teeth. ‘But I can still walk.’ The wound was painful but not severe, and John bandaged Luke’s leg with a sleeve he had torn from the American’s shirt.

Hue attended to Michael’s wound. It was an ugly, puckered, bleeding mark across his back leaving Michael with a stiff and painful shoulder. He stood stripped to the waist as Hue poured water from a canteen over the wound and marvelled at the scars that covered the big man’s body. He was surely a warrior who had seen much combat in his lifetime she thought, and winced at the pain she knew she must be causing him.

Michael ignored his pain to stare across the valley at the forested hills where he could see Mort gathering his forces. He estimated that he was less than half a mile away and considered his options. His choices were dangerously limited. They could stand and fight from a defendable position. But Mort could lay siege and wear them down. Or push onto Cooktown thus exposing their backs to Mort’s guns. Or choose an option that combined elements of the first two choices. ‘We have to keep going,’ Michael said, gritting his teeth as he stretched his arm to test its flexibility. ‘I’m going to keep Mort busy while you get Hue to Cooktown.’

Neither Luke nor John made any comment. Michael was making the only possible decision under the circumstances. It was not a matter of heroics, but a tactical decision, one that gave the best chance of the majority surviving. If the river was close they would then be most vulnerable to Mort’s guns while they were trying to cross. Someone would have to stay and hold Mort off when the time came to cross.

Hue was puzzled by the strange expressions on John’s and Luke’s faces. There was a resigned sadness she did not understand as the two men turned to walk away from the warrior with the one eye.

‘Luke?’ Michael called softly to the American who was about to join John with Hue. ‘I want you to give my share of whatever we get for Hue’s reward to my sister,’ he said quietly as he stared across at the hills where Mort’s party had disappeared into the trees.

‘I’ll do that,’ Luke replied. ‘Just tell me where I can find her and I’ll make sure she gets it.’

‘You won’t have any trouble finding her,’ Michael said with an enigmatic chuckle. ‘You already know the lady. Kate O’Keefe is my sister.’ Luke gaped at him in a stunned silence. Michael grinned at his friend’s utter surprise. ‘She and the rest of my family think I was killed in New Zealand back in ’63. It’s a long story and we haven’t got time to chat about things right now.’

Luke suddenly felt guilty that it was Michael, and not he, who had volunteered for certain death. He reached out and placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder. ‘You go with them,’ he said grimly. ‘I can hold Mort off.’

‘Better I stay behind,’ Michael said gently. ‘As far as my family is concerned I have been dead for many years now. And that is how I want it to stay. Besides, I’ve got nothing to leave behind. I always figured this is how I would go anyway. Been a lot of men in the past who have tried to do what Mort’s men will probably do. But at least I will get a good chance to settle with him before they take me out. Kind of fitting that he and I go together.’

‘You aren’t dead yet,’ Luke said roughly, although he knew that Michael had little chance of beating off any determined attack.

‘Go now,’ Michael said, as he thrust out his hand to his friend. Luke accepted the gesture as a bond between them. ‘Be careful with John Wong when you get near Cooktown,’ Michael added softly. ‘Just keep up your guard at all times.’

Luke did not understand Michael’s warning, but nodded and walked away without looking back.

As Luke walked away with his rifle over his shoulder, Michael turned his attention to the tree-covered hills to his front and pondered the threat John Wong posed. Christie would not have left them if Horace Brown had given him secret orders to ensure that they got the girl back to the French, he considered, as he checked his supply of Snider rounds. So it had to be the Eurasian who was under orders to keep the mission on track. But Michael Duffy had made the mistake of considering only one possibility. Soo Yin had not entered into his calculation.

‘What was said to you when I was with the girl?’ John asked suspiciously as they made their way down the reverse slope into the scrub below.

‘Nothing much of interest,’ Luke replied, parrying his question. ‘Just that I have to buy him the first round of drinks when he gets back to Cooktown.’

‘You know he is Kate O’Keefe’s brother,’ John said unexpectedly as the three cautiously picked their way down the slope.

‘I do now,’ Luke replied sadly, gazing at the thick tropical scrub below. He could hear the steady, low roaring sound of water over rocks and guessed it had to be the river that Christie had told them about. If so, then Cooktown was very close.