Flight of the Eagle

by Peter Watt

  Michael stared after the little Englishman hobbling along the verandah on his cane. He had little to show for his life, Michael brooded, except the many scars of old battles in foreign lands that marked his body; of memories of good and bad times, of terror and laughter. Of a family in Sydney who had buried him so long ago and to whom he could never reveal his existence for fear of the scandal it would bring down on them.

  But he did have a son! A son who he had met briefly in Sydney for just a few minutes. At the time he had not known that he was talking to his own flesh and blood. Now all he had was the chemical image on a faded photograph of an eleven-year-old boy. What sort of man had he grown to be?

  Michael was aware of the pact made with Lady Enid Macintosh and his cousin, Daniel Duffy. Kate had told him all as confided to her by Daniel. And Michael had to agree the deal was of personal benefit to his son's future. Where else could he get the best education in the world than England? With whom else other than the powerful and wealthy Macintoshes could he have access to a financial empire rivalling the biggest in the colonies?

  But a fundamental issue had to be resolved by his son alone – an issue that was more important than all the fame and fortune the Macintosh name could grant. He must never forget that he was born a Duffy and would die a Duffy. Part of being a Duffy meant retaining his allegiance to the Church of Rome and to deny either his name or religion was to deny his father.

  Ahead of Michael now was the possible reacquaintance with the woman who was the mother of his son. And there was also the prospect of meeting Penelope and her husband, Baron Manfred von Fellmann, one of the most dangerous men Michael had ever encountered in his violence-filled life. Ah yes, all this was ahead of him, and life was not a guaranteed thing in his own dangerous existence.

  TWELVE

  ‘Troop will stand at attention. Aaaa … ten … shun!’ Gordon James drilled his men relentlessly on the dusty parade ground at the police barracks. The troopers' arms began to ache as they shouldered carbines, sloped arms and brought the carbines to the state of present. Gordon wanted to push the physical and mental resolve of his men to the point where they no longer thought of themselves as human creatures capable of feeling pain or distress. He had learned his technique of drilling men when he was a boy watching his father as barracks sergeant drill his troopers.

  ‘That trooper there!’ he bawled as he detected one of the white policemen waver. ‘Third from the right. I haven't given the order for the attention yet. As a matter of fact I might even go for my evening supper and when I return give the order.’

  All the troopers groaned softly lest they be heard. The way the new boss was driving them they half believed he would carry out his threat and leave them for an hour in the painful position. The wavering trooper cursed to himself for allowing the upstart bastard to see him fidget.

  ‘Keep your eyes straight ahead. Don't blink unless I say so!’

  The tableau of human statues waited patiently for the final order to stand at ease, thus releasing the tautness of stretched muscles. But the order did not come and the troopers remained frozen at attention. The officer who tortured their resolve was ominously silent. Then his voice came to their ears like the hiss of a snake warning of its impending strike.

  ‘I know you think,’ he said, ‘that the Kalkadoon are noble warriors who rule this country, who can strike at will and send you all scuttling back to the barracks to sit around like old women bemoaning the hopelessness of it all. Well, this is my first meeting with you as a troop and, as you can see, no glorious speeches as my way of introducing myself. Just this drill and a lot more to follow. And at the end of two weeks I promise you that you will be glad to go out and disperse the darkies and I also know that you will be the best Mounted Troop in the colony if not Her Majesty's Empire at the end of two weeks. Staaand … at … ease. Too bloody slow! We'll do it again until you are all able to get yourselves together.’

  They came to the attention and stood sweating with the setting sun in their faces. Men squinted to focus on the figure silhouetted against the orange ball, as Gordon had deliberately placed his men with the sun in their faces. He could see their discomfort but gained no pleasure from it. ‘Second trooper from the left. Yes, you. Where is Sergeant Rossi?’ he barked and the second trooper from the left pulled a puzzled frown and made a move to seek out the barrack sergeant who had been exempt from the drill. ‘Don't look for him, keep your eyes straight ahead,’ Gordon bawled. ‘Tell me where Sergeant Rossi is now.’

  ‘Not here. Sah!’ the trooper responded as he stared into the fiery orange ribbon of light that stretched along the western horizon. Black swirling stars clouded his eyes and as he fought to clear his vision the trooper suddenly saw a second figure to the left side of the officer and standing ten paces away. It was Sergeant Rossi! ‘Sergeant Rossi is to my front, sah!’ he replied somewhat sheepishly.

  ‘If Sergeant Rossi had been a dirty big Kalkadoon, trooper,’ Gordon said in an almost conversational and compassionate tone, ‘with a dirty big spear, then you would probably have been a dead man by now. And that would mean I would have to write home to your dear mother to tell her lies about your sobriety and respect for the weaker sex. For a God-fearing man as myself, such a letter could send me to hell. But I would have at least the consolation of finding you there.’

  Gordon's short speech on the drinking and whoring reputation of his white troopers, and the comparison of size of the very short Italian sergeant – who had once fought against Garibaldi – with the giant Kalkadoon warriors, brought a snicker of laughter from the troopers standing at ease. Maybe the new boss might be all right.

  Gordon let the snicker of laughter go unchecked. He knew he had to give a little to get a lot from them in two short weeks, and he also knew instinctively that he was winning them over, as he had the squatters and townspeople earlier that afternoon. Sure, the Kalkadoon might have them frightened. But as far as he was concerned the tribesmen were Utile different to any others he had dispersed in the past. ‘The lesson I hope you have just learned from my question concerning Sergeant Rossi's whereabouts is obvious to you. If it's not then I will tell you. When you are tracking myalls beware of letting the sun blind you in the late afternoon. Keep your eyes always away from the setting sun or else the thing you thought was a black tree trunk might suddenly move and spear you. Sar'nt Rossi!’

  ‘Sah!’

  The barracks sergeant hovering nearby came stiffly to attention and snapped a smart salute.

  ‘Your parade, Sergeant.’

  ‘Sah!’

  ‘Give the men drill until the sun is below the horizon, Sergeant,’ Gordon said softly to the little Italian with the huge moustache that curled with wax at its ends. ‘Then make sure their carbines are cleaned and ready for inspection before they retire tonight. I will inspect them at nine o'clock sharp.’

  ‘Sah!’ The ends of the moustache bristled with efficiency as he stepped back and saluted Gordon, who returned the salute with the lazy affectation of officers.

  ‘Paaraade. Aaaa … ten … shon!’

  As Gordon walked away from the troopers to return to the office that had once been Sub Inspector Potter's he felt the wave of satisfaction that comes after a good drill session. Yes, he had learned well from his father how to handle men. Ah, but that he could do the same with Sarah Duffy! As Gordon walked away Trooper Peter Duffy watched him and wondered at how things would be between them now.

  After the evening meal Peter marched over to the office occupied by Gordon. He knocked at the rough-hewn, timber door and announced his presence. A muffled voice granted him permission to enter and Peter stepped inside. Gordon was sitting at a plain desk scattered with paper.

  He glanced around the tiny office to see an old picture of a young Queen Victoria on the wall behind Gordon; a fly-specked surveyor's map of the district was pinned beside the obligatory depiction of the reigning monarch, and on a peg behind the door to the office hung Gordon's belt and pistol.

/>   He could see Gordon had been drafting requisitions for supplies and writing reports on the situation as he had found it upon his arrival in the town. Peter stood at attention as Gordon dabbed his pen in an ink bottle and scrawled his signature at the end of a requisition. He did not look up to greet Peter's entry but continued to sign the report. Finally he said ominously, ‘Haven't you forgotten something?’

  Puzzled, Peter frowned. ‘I don't think so,’ he said slowly as he cast his thoughts about for what he may have forgotten. He was dressed in the uniform as regulations required.

  ‘You forgot to salute when you came in, Trooper Duffy,’ Gordon said. He placed the pen aside and looked up at the young policeman standing loosely to attention before him.

  ‘Sorry, Mahmy,’ Peter replied as he stiffened and saluted.

  Gordon was not wearing head cover and returned the salute as protocol required by sitting stiffly in his chair with his hands on his knees.

  ‘That's better,’ he said less formally. ‘As much as we have been friends for years I know you will understand that discipline must be maintained regardless of the personal relationship that may exist between us.’

  ‘I understand, Mahmy,’ Peter replied formally to hide the hurt he felt for his longtime boyhood friend's apparent coolness towards him.

  ‘Take a seat, Peter, and stop calling me Mahmy. Only the charcoals in the troop address me as Mahmy.’

  ‘I'm half-charcoal, sir,’ Peter replied with an undisguised bitter edge as he sat stiffly on the government issue chair in front of the desk. ‘Maybe I should address you as Mahmy half the time.’

  ‘In this office and outside this office you call me sir. I know that is hard for you but we both belong to Her Majesty's constabulary and we knew the rules when we joined.’

  Peter could not bring himself to acknowledge the rebuke. So this was how things would be between them from now on. Gordon had changed dramatically. His martinet behaviour was so unlike the larrikin boy Peter remembered growing up with. They'd been as close as any brothers. When Peter became aware of the subtle and disturbing changes early in their enlistment, he speculated that Gordon's behaviour was driven by his friend's need to eclipse his legendary father's reputation. It was as if the son were out to prove himself a better man. Peter shook his head. Henry had been a man who he had looked up to in lieu of his own father's absence. He was certainly no martinet and now Gordon's formal reprimand to an old friend simply reinforced Peter's opinion. Gordon had become a horse's arse.

  ‘I've read the report you submitted on the massacre of Inspector Potter's patrol while I was at Townsville,’ Gordon said quietly. ‘Damned thing to happen to a fine officer, so I've been told, or was he such a fine officer?’ The question was delivered with the two men's eyes locking and Peter realised that in his own way Gordon was reaching out to re-establish a trust between them. His request to comment on the conduct of an officer was one not normally made of mere troopers.

  ‘He was a bloody fool,’ Peter answered. ‘He had no idea of how good the Kalkadoon are at fighting on their own lands.’

  ‘Our lands,’ Gordon corrected. ‘The lands the Kalkadoon occupy have been legally leased, or purchased, by the men who we are here to protect.’

  Peter did not reply to his officer's view on the matter of ownership. He was confused himself as he was a member of the Native Mounted Police and thus a representative of the Crown. But he was also half-Aboriginal and it was this half that secretly sympathised with the plight of the tribesmen who he also hunted. Although he had received the best education his aunt Kate Tracy could buy for him, white society still considered him a darkie, a nigga or part myall. As a trooper, he was a half-caste charcoal.

  ‘I would like you to elaborate,’ Gordon said reasonably, ‘on why you considered Inspector Potter's decision to go into the hills in pursuit of the Kalkadoon a mistake.’

  Peter leant forward in his chair. ‘Inspector Potter underestimated the Kalkadoon. He treated them as inferior fighters and that cost him and the patrol their lives.’

  ‘But you survived, Peter. How?’

  The question took Peter unawares. He had never included his contact with Wallarie in any report. How could he alone survive such a cleverly executed ambush?

  ‘Wallarie saved me,’ the young trooper answered softly. ‘He was with them.’

  Gordon winced as if slapped in the face. Wallarie! The warrior who had taught them both the ways of the Darambal people when he and Peter had been boys. The sorcerer who had so cunningly eluded the Native Mounted Police for years and had become part of the frontier folklore. The man whose very name and existence carried the mystique of an ancient curse on his father. The being which was both friend and foe. ‘Wallarie is alive?’

  Peter nodded and Gordon stared down at the desk as he gathered his thoughts and feelings. He had been locked in a terrible turmoil of indecision but was now clear as to what he must do. His duty to the law went far beyond any personal feeling he may have had for his old mentor in the ways of the indigenous people. ‘When we capture him he will no doubt be tried and hanged for the crimes he committed when he rode with your father in Burkesland those years past.’

  ‘You cannot capture a spirit man,’ Peter said softly. ‘No-one will ever capture Wallarie.’

  ‘He may be many things but I fear that your darkie half clouds your judgment,’ Gordon said with an edge of anger. ‘Wallarie is still only just another blackfella wanted for the murder of white men.’

  ‘He was your friend once, and saved your father when he had good enough reason to let him die on the spears of the Kyowarra. Do you not remember that day when we were kids?’

  ‘I remember,’ Gordon struggled. ‘But we have a duty to the law of this colony and you must always remember that too if you want to take your place alongside us.’

  ‘Alongside us? Peter countered. ‘Not with us. No, not with us, because despite all my education, and the fact that half my blood is a whitefella's blood, I will always be a blackfella to you. Just like the way you think about my sister.’

  ‘Shut your mouth before you say something you might regret,’ Gordon flared. Peter had touched on a subject that made the young officer most vulnerable. ‘Just drop the subject about Sarah now. I'm warning you as a friend and not as your superior officer.’

  But Peter was angry. So angry that even if the warning had been directed from Gordon as his superior officer it would have still gone unheeded. The matter of Gordon's desire for his beautiful sister had festered in Peter for some time now. The three had grown up together and Sarah had been equal to them in the rough and tumble of children's games. But as they grew older Peter had noticed the change in his sister's attitude to Gordon. She began to avoid the rough games of the boys and Peter became aware that his younger sister acted strangely around his best friend. When he was old enough to experience the effect the opposite sex had on him he became aware of what was behind her behaviour towards Gordon and he was also acutely aware of where it might go. Now he was angry enough to bring the matter to a head and release the poison between them.

  ‘No. I won't shut up. I'll tell you just how it is with us blackfellas. My sister is a lady who can do something with her life. She has brains and a lot of eligible blokes around Townsville will “forgive” her for being half-caste. In fact, they would marry her. But she mopes around, hoping that some day you will ask her to be your wife, except you are frightened that if you marry her your chances of promotion in the Mounted Police will be a lot less if it is known you have a gin as your wife. No, you will end up using her to satisfy your own needs and, in time, caste her off to marry some respectable white woman. Then my sister will be just another darkie gin around town giving herself for a cheap drink. She …’

  Gordon sat trembling, white with rage behind his desk. Peter had gone too far!

  ‘You don't know what's between Sarah and me,’ he interjected with quiet fury. ‘You might be her brother, but you don't have any idea what my plans are c
oncerning her.’

  ‘Do you?’ Peter snarled.

  How had the situation come to this? Had it always been the real reason for their meeting? Had the issue of Sarah's future really been the reason to talk privately? Had all else that transpired in the office been a mere formality?

  As Gordon glared at Peter sitting across from him the guilt that touching on the truth elicits in a man's face was obvious. All that he had said concerning his attitudes to Sarah were true! Yes, he wanted her. But at the same time he was pragmatic enough to realise what could happen to his career should he profess his love to the beautiful young woman! ‘I …’ He struggled to find words and was no longer an officer talking to a subordinate but a man defending himself against the bitterness of a brother who loved his sister. He leant forward and raised his hand as if to ward off the piercing glare of his boyhood friend. The room shrunk away as they were together again laughing and loving the bush they grew up in, Peter teasing him over his sister's obviously amorous attentions. He fought to find words in his defence and was saved by the urgent rap on the door. Gordon recovered his composure and sat up in his chair. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Sar'nt Rossi, sir.’

  ‘Come in.’

  The door opened and the Italian police sergeant entered the room in an agitated state. His dark eyes bulged and his moustache seemed to bristle. He was so agitated that he forgot to salute. Gordon overlooked the lapse in protocol as he accepted his senior non commissioned officer as a naturally excitable Latin.