by Peter Watt
Michael smiled to himself at the former English officer's quickness to disassociate himself from Horace Brown. Intelligence work was not the occupation of gentlemen, as he had been told by Horace once. ‘That too is also my hope, Colonel,’ Michael said, deferring out of politeness to the other man's title. ‘This is definitely my last mission for the bloody British Crown.’
‘Understandable sentiments for the son of an Irish rebel,’ Godfrey said. ‘But obviously not a sentiment shared by your son, who I believe is with the Sudan expeditionary force at the moment.’
‘You know a lot about me, Colonel,’ Michael growled. ‘What do you know about my son?’
Godfrey knew a lot about Patrick but he was a man not prone to telling more than he thought necessary. Not even to the young man's father. The former British officer had worked for Lady Enid Macintosh for some years and had watched Patrick grow to become a man any father could be proud of. That is, if he did not object to Patrick's ties with Queen Victoria's imperial interests.
‘I have been reliably informed that your son is one of the finest officers to serve Her Majesty,’ he offered. ‘And apparently he has a taste for that working-class sport of bare knuckle boxing which I believe he gets from you.’
‘He got that from Max Braun, not me,’ Michael replied as if dismissing the matter. But he felt a secret pride in his son's link with his working-class background. ‘Max taught him to fight, just as he taught me when I was much younger.’
‘He must have been a very good teacher,’ Godfrey commented. ‘From what I have heard, your son is unbeaten champion of his Scots' Brigade. And from my personal experience of serving with those hot-headed kilt wearers, that is no mean feat. It's just a pity your son does not know more about the considerable accomplishments of his father in the good cause of Her Majesty.’
Michael stared with his good eye at the slightly taller man. ‘He doesn't even know I'm alive,’ he snorted bitterly. ‘And besides, I am not particularly proud of working for English interests.’
‘He is bound to find out one day that you are well and truly alive,’ Godfrey said, returning the stare. ‘Your existence is one of the worst kept secrets I know of.’
‘So it seems,’ the Irishman mused. He looked away and turned his gaze to The Rocks. It was still a seedy place that the good citizens of Sydney shunned. Its tenements and alleys appeared to wear an air of decay and despair like a dirty and torn mantle. ‘Hopefully not as well exposed in New South Wales as it seems to be in Queensland.’
‘Hopefully not,’ Godfrey sighed. ‘It would not pay to have a man's reputation questioned in regards to associating with a wanted felon such as yourself, Mister Duffy. But let us not dally with small talk. Small talk is not the grist of old soldiers such as you and I.’
The ferry passengers passing by the two men paid them little attention. They could be two gentlemen discussing the chances of a thoroughbred at the Randwick racecourse. Or the current threat the Russians posed to the security of the colonies due to their alarming moves in Afghanistan, the spectre of the Russian bear lumbering southward as it sought control of the gateway to India having emerged as a real threat to the British Empire in the vulnerable colonies of Australia. Already the conversation on many citizens' lips in the harbour city was of a possible strike by the considerable Russian naval force at England's vulnerable Pacific colonies. It was being mooted that the colonial volunteers who had sailed from the very quay where Michael and Colonel Godfrey now stood should be recalled to defend the city against the possible dreaded appearance of Russian warships in the harbour.
They might have been surprised – had they been privy to the conversation between the two men–that they were not discussing an immediate Russian threat but rather a long-term German threat to the security of the colonies.
Michael listened in silence as Colonel Godfrey outlined the support that was being provided for him and John Wong in their quest for information concerning Otto von Bismarck's intentions to seize Pacific territory for the Kaiser. At length, they parted company with a handshake.
Michael lingered by the water, puffing on the cigar and contemplating his next move as he watched the streaks of gold appear on the oily waters where the sun kissed the harbour. He would return to the office below the cramped residence he shared with John Wong. The lease had been paid for by the resources of Horace Brown and was located on the waterfront at one end of the cove where it had a clear view of ships coming and going. Ostensibly it was an office for import and export to the Oriental markets in China. But it was also an ideal base to monitor the activities along the waterfront where the right people could be nurtured to talk of things important to intelligence.
Michael pondered on the most difficult aspect of his mission: not the danger he was exposing himself to with a possible confrontation with the Prussian aristocrat, but what would happen when he met with Fiona? He puffed at the last of his cigar and flicked the stub into the water.
TWENTY
Captain Patrick Duffy was preoccupied with just staying alive for another day of the desert campaign. The British expeditionary force had completed a gruelling march across the blistering desert sands to arrive at the heights above the village of Tamai. Men hastily built a Zareba of stone and earth on sundown while aerial observers in a gas air balloon drifted above them to watch the manoeuvring of the Dervish army in the distance beyond the ruins of the village. A report was scribbled and dropped to die ground from the balloon's basket where it was snatched by a waiting runner who took the message to General Graham's mobile headquarters: the Dervishes were retreating to hills away from the advancing British army. The news would have cheered most but it did not cheer General Graham. He desired a decisive engagement with the rebels in a set piece battle and the fleeing warriors of the Mahdi were denying him that opportunity.
Standing alone on the forward perimeter of the defences, Patrick did not feel the same relief as many of his fellow soldiers for the Dervish retreat. Their exposure to the battlefield at McNeill's Zareba had dampened their enthusiasm for war, although they would not openly admit to this amongst themselves. Patrick knew too well that none of them would get an undisturbed sleep that night. His experiences in the Sudanese campaign had made him aware that raiding parties would creep back in the night to snipe and harass them. They might even possibly launch a full-scale attack on them. They were a brave and fanatical enemy who, in the holy war against the invading British puppets of the Egyptian government, held the belief that death granted them a place in heaven.
Patrick stood observing the sweating soldiers gathering rocks amongst the stunted copses of mimosa bush on the rugged, bare hillsides. Behind him the native camel handlers of the commissary tussled with their obstinate animals as they unloaded their cargoes of military supplies for the night's bivouac. As Patrick observed the army digging in and preparing for any possible attack his eyes swept the surrounding hills. Dust rose as a thin film to filter the setting sun in a scene that was deceptively peaceful. The picquets were posted and stood gazing out through the arcs they had been assigned. Patrick was pleased with the preparations. He knew the craggy heights gave the army an advantage against any attack.
‘Yor think they will be comin' tonight, sor?’ Private MacDonald asked as he joined Patrick. ‘Or do ye think they have decided to run?’
‘They will be back,’ Patrick replied as he gazed down on the ruins that had once been a village. He could see evidence of newly constructed mud houses amongst the ruins. ‘It will only be a matter of degree.’
‘I was hopin' for a wee bit o' sleep tonight,’ the soldier grumbled. ‘So are our Tommy Cornstalks. The march wore them out.’
‘I don't think they would sleep, even if the Madhi's men leave us alone,’ Patrick mused. ‘They appear eager to prove themselves in battle and, I suspect, will be kept awake by their personal fears.’
Private MacDonald knew precisely what his officer meant. Men who had never been in battle would lay awake locked in th
e personal fear that their courage would fail them when the killing started. Would they run away? It was strange that officers never seemed to feel fear, the private soldier mused. They always made a point of being at the front of their men in battle, at least the junior officers. Captain Duffy was like that. No sign of fear when the fighting started.
But little did the private know the terrible fear all officers experienced before a battle. It was a fear they could confide in no-one – not even fellow officers – that they too might lose their courage and run. For Patrick the cool soldier's facade under fire hid his very real fears as a man who wanted the chance to live and love.
At the forward edge of the Zareba toiled Private Francis Farrell. He hoisted a large stone and slammed it down on top of a small wall that had begun to form a landmark. The work of building a low redoubt against attack was an unexpected and unwelcome surprise to the exhausted troops after the gruelling march. But that was the way of armies … march, work, stand guard and march again. Somewhere in between, the army allowed you to eat so that you could march, work, stand guard and march again. Rest and sleep were luxuries an advancing army issued when the commander was satisfied his enemy had been defeated – and only then.
Private Farrell glanced up from his work and saw Patrick Duffy standing with his back to him, gazing out at the village of Tamai. Maybe this would be a good time to make himself known to the man who he could plainly see was the Patrick Duffy he had once bounced on his knee at the Erin Hotel. He would tell him of his father and of what a fine man he was. Tell him how he still lived and hoped for the day they would meet.
The big former Sydney policeman straightened from bending over to push the rock into position. He felt his head swim. There were black spots floating before his eyes.
He groaned as he slumped to the hot earth. Get him to the field ambulance! He heard a voice call from the end of a long tunnel and strong arms lifted him from the earth. Too bloody old to be running around with the boys, he thought. Stupid idea to volunteer in the first place. It took four brawny soldiers to carry his limp body to the medical staff who were placed with their wagons at the centre of the defences.
The demented ramblings of the colonial soldier struck down by the sun made little sense to the medics who bathed his forehead and neck with cooling water … something about Captain Duffy from the Scots' Brigade, the surgeon major overheard. Something about him being alive and innocent!
The surgeon major knew Patrick Duffy and wondered why a colonial soldier should be raving about his innocence. Maybe he would mention the matter to Patrick when he next saw him. But for now his patient was dangerously ill and the army surgeon had seen more soldiers die from illness and disease than he had seen die of battle wounds.
In the night the Dervishes came, as Patrick knew they would. Sniping shots from outside the defensive perimeter sent men scattering out of the light of campfires. Orders bellowed by senior NCOs, cursing men scrabbling for rifles, the braying of a mule startled by the rending of the night routine – sounds that no longer caused Patrick any great alarm. So they were not in for a night attack, he thought with some relief. Or else they would not have announced their presence with sniping. ‘You probably will get a wee sleep tonight, Private MacDonald,’ Patrick said to the Scot who gripped his rifle and groped for his bayonet in its scabbard on his belt. ‘The Mahdi's not coming tonight.’
The sniping was answered with a volley of rifle fire from the outer defences and the artillery guns that trundled with the army roared out, hurling high explosive shells in the general direction of the incoming sniper fire until the sniper's rifles fell silent. Inside the relative safety of the Zareba the men could rest in the knowledge that their guns would keep the enemy at bay. Throughout the crash of rifle and artillery fire Patrick lay on his back with his hands behind his head staring up at the beautiful canopy of crystalline stars. Ancient points of brilliance that showed all their magnificent lustre to the harsh and desolate places of the planet.
It was a strange time to think about Catherine Fitzgerald when death could come from an unseen Dervish warrior firing blindly into the redoubt. As a liaison officer he found himself with little to do than think about her. The brigade major had conspired with the brigade commander to rest him so that he could fully recover from his wound. He had only to report twice a day to his headquarters, a short distance away, where Major Hughes told him the same thing each time: ‘Just keep an eye on the Tommy stalks, Captain Duffy. Give them any advice you think they could do with. Oh, and report regularly to the aid post so that he can have a look at your wound. That's about it, old chap.’
‘Catherine, why do you not answer my letters?’ Patrick sighed softly as the exhaustion of the hard march crept over him like a suffocating blanket and lulled him into his loneliness. Would the tormenting dream creep to him again in the night?
‘Sorry, sor?’
‘Nothing, Private MacDonald. Just thinking.’
Patrick gazed at the stars and watched as the constellations slowly wheeled across the velvet black night sky. He did not remember going to sleep. Sleep was like death. It was a nothingness to his conscious being, an oblivion.
Through the long hours of the night the braver of the Dervish snipers returned to fire random shots into the mass of British troops huddled behind their walls of rocks, rifles and bayonets. Only one fatality was recorded for the night: a soldier accidentally shot dead by an officer who mistook the man for a Dervish warrior. But the random firing did not disturb Patrick's deep and dreamless sleep – the exhausted sleep of the seasoned soldier.
Private MacDonald pushed a steaming mug of coffee and a handful of hard biscuits in his face. ‘Mornin', sor and happy Easter,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Major Hughes told me to tell you to see the Surgeon Major before we move out this mornin'.’
Patrick pushed himself into a sitting position and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. ‘Good God! Is it Easter already?’ he asked.
The big Scot grinned down on him cheerfully. ‘Good Friday, sor. But no hot cross buns.’
‘That would be expecting too much.’ Patrick grinned as he sipped from the mug of steaming coffee. It tasted good as the batman had ensured it was well-sweetened. ‘But it might not be a good Friday for the Mahdi's men if we catch up with them today.’
‘No, sor, it might not.’
When he had finished his breakfast Patrick quickly shaved, using the last dregs of his coffee to wet his face. The sugar was sticky but the razor's blade left his skin clean. Water was precious and the captain wondered why he should not grow a beard like many of the soldiers around him. It would have helped dispense with this morning ritual and save time.
When he had finished shaving Patrick scooped up his canvas webbing of straps, belt and pouches that lay in the sand within arm's reach of where he had slept during the night. He froze with shock. During the night a sniper's bullet had passed a fraction of an inch across his sleeping body to bury itself in the pouch where the little goddess resided. Superstitious horror swept him. Was Sheela-na-gig injured?
With trembling hands he opened the pouch to peer inside. She lay unscathed at the bottom of the pouch, under the spare rounds for his revolver. ‘So we are both still together, little goddess,’ he whispered as he touched the enigmatic smile on the Celtic goddess's face with his fingers. Your silence is no less than that of the Morrigan herself, he thought wistfully. Was it that Catherine had found another?
Under the canvas of a field ambulance wagon, Private Farrell lay in a coma. The surgeon major examined him and frowned. The man's condition was not good. He should be sent back to a hospital at Suakin, Major Grant thought with some concern. But they were deep in enemy territory and the sick and injured would have to remain until General Graham was satisfied the Dervish warriors were not capable of interdicting his lines of communication to their rear.
Major Grant remembered the man's delirious ramblings before he slipped into his coma during the night. The Irish colonial volunteer se
emed to know Captain Duffy from the Scots' Brigade. The major could see the young infantry officer striding towards him across the square. ‘Patrick, old boy. Come over here,’ he called. ‘There is a colonial here who has been using your name rather a lot, for some strange reason.’
Patrick greeted the surgeon. He was a good friend from their many games of chess together in the officers' mess. He stopped at the rear of the wagon beside the surgeon and peered down at the face of Francis Farrell.
‘Do you know him at all?’ the surgeon major asked.
‘I don't think so,’ Patrick replied with a slow shake of his head. But there was something vaguely familiar about the man. ‘Who is he?’
‘Private Francis Farrell from the New South Wales contingent.’
‘Constable Farrell!’ Patrick exclaimed. The memories came flooding back: soft summer evenings sitting in the backyard of the Erin Hotel in Sydney; old Max and the big Irish policeman swapping stories and drinking Uncle Frank's grog; laughter and Patrick sparring with the big policeman as Max urged him on in his thick Hamburg accent full of English words a little boy should not hear, or use. Suddenly here in the Sudanese desert, on the edge of a possible battlefield, was a link with his past in Sydney. A rich Irish past full of love and friendships.
‘Ah, so it seems you know the man,’ Major Grant said. ‘Apparently he was a policeman, at some time in his life then.’
‘Sydney,’ Patrick answered as he stared stunned at Farrell's pale and fevered face. ‘He was a good friend of the family. He and Max were my teachers in the art of boxing a long time ago.’