Flight of the Eagle

by Peter Watt

  For a moment Enid lowered her gaze and Michael could see she was deep in thought. She raised her eyes and answered, ‘An army lost my grandson, Mister Duffy, but I believe the love of two people searching for Patrick will find him.’

  Michael did not need to know more. She had answered his question in her simple recognition of his paternal love for a son whom he had only seen once in his life, although Patrick's photograph had been carried as his talisman over the years. On impulse he asked, ‘Do you have any likenesses of my son, Lady Macintosh?’

  She glanced up at Godfrey who excused himself to leave the room. ‘I have arranged with Colonel Godfrey for you to have bank drafts to cover your expenses,’ she said. ‘You will find they are generous. How you spend the money is of no concern to me, Mister Duffy. I know it is unlikely to be squandered when you are looking for my grandson.’

  Godfrey returned to the room and passed Enid a framed photograph. Tears began to appear in the corner of her eyes as she gazed at it before passing it to Michael. While she dabbed at her eyes Michael looked down at the full-length sepia portrait of his son wearing the dress uniform of a Scots' Brigade officer. The face that stared back at him was his own of twenty years earlier. Although the likeness was not in colour, he knew the great difference was in the eyes. Patrick's were the Macintosh emerald green of his mother and grandmother, his own were the blue-grey of his people. ‘May I keep this, Lady Macintosh?’ he asked in a voice broken with barely concealed emotion.

  ‘Yes. I have others. But I doubt that you would need a likeness of Patrick to recognise him now.’

  Michael knew exactly what she meant and thanked her.

  When she reached out with her hand to him she was helped to her feet by Godfrey and Michael guessed that she was telling him that their meeting was at an end.

  ‘There is one thing I should say in parting, Mister Duffy,’ Enid said as she paused at the door to the drawing room. ‘I may have been wrong in my choice of husbands for my daughter. But knowing my grandson I fear he is very much like what you must have been like as a young man. And, knowing that, I doubt I could have let you marry my daughter.’

  She turned and left the room with the regal grace of an empress and Michael grinned broadly after her. He had seen just a twinkle of merriment in her eyes at her parting rebuke and knew she was probably right.

  ‘I will take you back to Sydney, Mister Duffy,’ Godfrey said as he fetched his umbrella from a stand in the hallway. A pretty young maid in a starched apron showed them to the door.

  ‘That will not be necessary, Colonel,’ Michael replied. ‘I already have a cab waiting for me.’

  The colonel frowned and cocked his head questioningly ‘How is that, old chap?’ he asked.

  ‘I know only one person who would put his honourable ancestors' souls at risk. And my bet is that this person is lurking outside waiting for my safe exit.’

  ‘I hope Mister Wong has had the sense to keep the cab waiting,’ Godfrey said smiling. ‘Because it is a long walk back to Sydney.’

  John Wong had kept the cab waiting but at a high financial cost. Michael found him in the shadows of the sweeping driveway and greeted him with a warm growl. ‘Thought you swore on the lives of your family, and the honour of your ancestors, that you were going back to Townsville?’

  John grinned and slapped him on the back. ‘I didn't say when!.’

  ‘No, you didn't, come to think of it.’

  ‘So when are you returning home to Townsville with me?’

  ‘As soon as I meet with Horace and settle some old business I have in Sydney,’ Michael replied as the two men strolled down the driveway, the gravel noisily crunching under foot. ‘Then I am going to find my son. Only after all that will I return to Townsville.’

  Enid bade Godfrey goodnight and climbed the stairs to the library. She sat at her desk and removed an ornate, leatherbound journal from a drawer. The diary was used to record events she considered of some importance. It did not record such events as births, deaths and marriages which were penned in her copperplate hand in the great family Bible. But it did record the sinister side of her life: meetings in business matters that had very significant ramifications for the future prosperity of the family companies; information she received from her contacts about exploiting business opportunities; monies paid from time to time to grease the wheels of government.

  In the latter category Enid found an entry for the payment of one hundred guineas cash paid to a detective of police by the name of Kingsley. It had been in 1874 and the detective had visited her with information he had obtained from a criminal by the name of Jack Horton. The dying man's last act on earth was to tell as much as he knew of the murderous connections of Captain Morrison Mort and her son-in-law, Granville White.

  Horton's honesty had been motivated purely by a need to avenge himself on the captain who had deserted him in his time of dire need. Bleeding from a fatal slash to his stomach, Jack Horton also told the detective of Granville's complicity in hiring himself in an attempt on the life of one Michael Duffy. Duffy had killed Horton's vicious half-brother in self-defence.

  At the time Enid had received the information she had dismissed the existence of a death-bed confession. Michael Duffy had been reported killed years earlier in the New Zealand campaign against the Maori. And even if she had known he was alive, it was doubtful that she would have used the information to help him prove his innocence.

  Enid stared at the carefully compiled notes she had made just after the time of her conversation with the detective. Times, dates and names indelibly recorded in the pages of her journal.

  She closed the book and walked across to the window of the library that commanded a view of the driveway below. Should she reveal what she knew of Jack Horton's confession? Was it in her interests to have Michael Duffy cleared?

  Michael's existence posed a threat to her grandson's decision to renounce his Irish inheritance and adopt fully his Anglo-Scots blood. His father might well sway Patrick towards retaining his Papist religion. And a Papist controlling what was left of the Macintosh wealth was unthinkable! Even if he was her beloved grandson! No, better that Michael Duffy remain a hunted man in the colony. As such, his contact with Patrick would be seriously curtailed.

  Enid thought the decision to conceal what she knew of Michael's innocence was definite. But doubt nagged her conscience. What if Patrick came to learn of the knowledge she now had concerning his father's innocence? She felt a shiver of fear as she sat down behind her desk and placed her hand absent-mindedly on the cover of the journal. No, that would not happen! The consequences of such an exposure were too frightening to contemplate. For now she merely would allow the strange confidence she experienced when she first set eyes on Michael Duffy to warm her.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The expedition assembled on the scrub covered plain. In front of the rock strewn slopes of the craggy hill Gordon James sat astride his mount and a lone figure stood on the crest. Horses shifted under nervous riders; each and every member of the expedition had reservations concerning the wisdom of a frontal assault on the Kalkadoon hill. But the plan had been formulated and it was too late to make changes now.

  Terituba could see the tiny figures on their horses form ranks below his position on the slopes of the hill. He crouched and fingered the selection of spears he had stockpiled behind his rock with nervous anticipation for what would happen next.

  Wallarie stood alone on the rocky slope, gazing with fixed attention at just one of the tiny figures. The figure wore the blue jacket of the Mounted Police and did not carry a carbine. He could see the man gesticulating with his hands to bring his forces into the lines for what Wallarie knew was to come. The Black Crows had formed similar lines prior to attacking his people many years earlier when they were camped at the waterholes of his traditional lands.

  When Gordon was satisfied his forces were in position he turned to survey the ranks. He had briefed them that morning on the tactics to be employed in
the assault on the hill fortress of the Kalkadoon and would issue the legal challenge he was required to make. If the tribesmen did not respond accordingly they would charge the hill. They would ride as far as they could up the slope, then dismount and continue the attack on foot, using fire and movement tactics. Meanwhile, the grim faced bushmen sat astride their mounts, with rifle butts resting on hips; they stared up the slope to the lone figure.

  Concealed halfway down the hillside Terituba also stared up at the Darambal man. Then a thin and distant voice drifted to them on a slight breeze from the plain below. ‘What did the white man call?’ Terituba asked Wallarie, knowing the Darambal man understood the white man's language.

  ‘He said we must surrender,’ Wallarie called back. It was the only translation he could think of for the call Stand in the Queen's name!

  ‘Ahh!’ Terituba spat at the earth and hefted his basalt war axe into his hand. ‘I would like to see how he is going to make us surrender.’

  Gordon stared up at the lone figure and frowned. Where were the warriors? Were they concealed amongst the rocks? He slipped his pistol from its holster, raised the weapon above his head, and with a sweeping movement of his arm initiated the charge. ‘Forward!’ he roared and the two lines of horsemen broke into a trot.

  Then they picked up the pace to spur their mounts into a gallop. Bushmen and troopers alike whooped as they charged at full pace up the slope of the Kalkadoon hill. Commanche Jack let out an Indian war cry he knew from fighting the Apache. The red earth exploded into a cloud of dust as the hooves of the horses bit hard for leverage on the slope.

  Wallarie had watched the impressive display of European tactics and could not help but be awed by the sight of the two lines of horsemen charging across the dusty plain onto the lower reaches of the slope. Awed though they were, the thundering charge of horsemen did not scatter the few disciplined warriors, who waited amongst the rocks of the lower slopes. As the only line of defence the cleverly concealed men would take the brunt of the attack.

  Terituba could hear the thunder of the charge echoing amongst the rocks. It was not a sound he had ever heard before. It was fearful, not unlike that of the storm that brought the thunder and lightning.

  For Wallarie it brought back distant memories of a terrified young man crouching in the scrub as the troopers swept past him to fall on the helpless men, women and children of his clan. He felt no fear this time. This time he was ready. He glanced down at Terituba and could see his body twitching with nervous excitement.

  As the young warrior began to rise from his cover he heard the voice of the Darambal man shout, ‘Stay down. Don't let the Black Crows see you until they are close enough for you to use your axe on them.’

  Terituba sank back behind his cover.

  Surely no myall would take on a full-scale mounted charge, Gordon thought optimistically as he spurred his mount onto the hill slope. From the corner of his eye he could see his troopers leaning forward in their saddles with their carbines. They surged forward like an unstoppable tidal wave, yelling and cursing. To scatter the Kalkadoon from the summit of the hill meant they could then ride them down and pick them off.

  ‘Jesus!’ Gordon swore when he saw about thirty painted warriors suddenly rise from amongst the rocks, spears notched in woomeras and heavy war boomerangs gripped in strong hands. ‘They aren't going to run!’ he heard himself explode above the thunder of the charge.

  The mounted men reacted by firing from the saddle as they rode forward. Bullets smashed amongst the rocks and the ricochets whined around the slopes. Spears and boomerangs fell amongst the ranks of mounted horsemen and a horse whinnied in pain. A few of the wildly fired bullets found Kalkadoon targets as they attempted to retreat higher up the slope past Terituba's concealed position.

  Gordon scanned the hill top as his men continued the charge. Where was the main body of the Kalkadoon? Just a handful of determined warriors on the lower slopes and a lone warrior standing at the top of the hill were watching their attack. Had the Kalkadoon changed tactics? The thought chilled Gordon as he imagined that somehow the main body of warriors were even now forming to attack his flanks or rear.

  Horses reared in protest as the slope became too steep for them to advance any further and the attackers slid from saddles with their weapons. The horses, free of their riders, galloped back down the slope and sought the safety of the bush. A few of the fleeing horses had spears protruding from them and the bushmen and troopers could hear the derisive jeers of the black warriors taunting them from the summit.

  Using the cover of the rocks, they cautiously moved forward. The blue sky above was full of rocks falling like rain as the handful of Kalkadoon defenders showered them from their stockpile of stones.

  Gordon panted as he struggled up the steep slope and sweat stung his eyes. Around him he could see his men crouching behind any cover they could find to reload their guns, rise and fire, then duck again behind cover.

  The momentum of the attack seemed to be wavering and the battle Gordon had planned for so long appeared to be falling part against the determined resistance of a handful of Kalkadoon. He knew he could not afford to lose this decisive battle. Maybe thirty or so Kalkadoon opposed his larger force of heavily armed men. Where were the rest?

  Terituba crouched ready to spring. He could hear the crunch of stones under a boot on the other side of his rock cover. The enemy was so close that he could hear him panting with ragged breaths.

  Terituba rose and saw the startled expression on the white policeman's face. He swung his axe and the polished edge caught Gordon a grazing blow across his forehead. Blood splashed Terituba as the white officer toppled backwards. Gordon's forehead was split open and he crashed unconscious into the dusty earth of the slope. Seemingly from nowhere, a bullet struck the Kalkadoon warrior a smashing blow across the chest, breaking his ribs. The impact spun him around and he crumpled to his knees, gripping his chest.

  Wallarie saw the Aboriginal trooper who had shot Terituba down on one knee reloading his smoking carbine. The shot had saved Gordon from certain death but the trooper also realised that his own safety was far from secure. He now had to confront the older warrior on the hill top who, in the meantime, had scooped up a spear and notched it to his woomera. With the carbine reloaded, the trooper took a hasty sight on the figure poised to fling the spear at him. The spear missed the trooper but it was effective enough to throw off his aim. He flinched and fired wildly and Wallarie would only remember that something struck him in the side of the head, nothing else.

  ‘Get Inspector James!’ Commanche Jack roared from the cover of a rock. ‘He's down hurt!’

  The trooper who had fired the shot that had struck Wallarie ran forward and was joined by three other frightened and sweating troopers. They grabbed their commander roughly by the arms and legs and dragged him unceremoniously down the slope under the continuous barrage of rocks.

  From the heights, above the retreating attackers, a roar of triumph went up from the handful of defending Kalkadoon. But they had drawn blood against their attackers at a terrible cost to themselves. The rocky slopes were littered with their dead and wounded warriors.

  The sky was a red haze of swirling black dots and his head thumped like a bass drum being played by an imbecile. Gordon James groaned and rolled on his side to vomit. The action caused even greater pain in his head. He was helped to sit up by a trooper who pushed a canteen of water to his mouth. Gordon gulped down the water but the nausea welled up in his stomach and the beating drum was drowned by the eerie sound of Aboriginal voices singing in the distance. ‘What's happening?’ Gordon groaned as he focused his blurred sight on the ring of grim-faced men around him. ‘What's that noise?’

  ‘Corroboree,’ Commanche Jack answered, in a flat voice filled with disappointment. ‘The Kalks are celebrating their victory.’

  Gordon touched his forehead and was aware of a thick bandage that swathed his head. He vaguely remembered something hitting him. He thought t
hat he saw Wallarie standing alone on the hill when the blurred thing struck him senseless. When he focused on Commanche Jack he saw the man's left arm below the elbow was at a strange angle. And when he glanced up into his face he saw the acute pain in the smoky eyes of the tough Indian fighter.

  ‘Got in the way of a rock,’ Jack explained. ‘A lot of the fellas got in the way of rocks and spears. We took a lot of casualties but no-one kilt yet.’

  ‘Horses?’ Gordon asked as he regained his senses. ‘We get our horses back?’

  ‘The boys rounded ′em up,’ Jack replied, holding his broken arm with his good one. ‘The boys are fit to ride out on ′em right now. They reckon the Kalks have given us a good lickin’.’

  The young police officer struggled to his feet and swayed uncertainly as he surveyed the extent of his defeat. Bushmen and troopers with broken bones, split flesh and the occasional spear wound sat with their backs against the prickly bark of the arid land trees. They were silent and subdued and an air of defeat lay over the expedition like a heavy stifling cloak. The sound of rocks crashing and clattering on the hill slope, as the handful of victorious Kalkadoon celebrated their victory, drifted on the hot, still air.

  The exhausted and demoralised men watched Gordon as he walked amongst them to examine the extent of his inglorious defeat against such a pitifully small force of determined men. ‘Time to head home, Inspector,’ one bushman said as he nursed his broken fingers. ‘We'll need more than we got here to beat those blackfellas.’

  Gordon did not answer him but walked over to Sergeant Rossi who was treating a man wounded by a spear. The man groaned in agony as the sergeant attempted as gently as possible to twist the barbed point from the man's shoulder. But the barb would not come out and it was obvious that he would require the services of a surgeon to remove it.

  ‘Sergeant Rossi! I want you to get all able-bodied men together for a meeting in five minutes.’