Flight of the Eagle

by Peter Watt

  Horace frantically pushed past the smiling proprietor but was too late. The men were bundling Michael into a waiting coach drawn by two matched roans. He watched helplessly as the driver whipped the horses into motion. As the carriage clattered down the narrow, poorly lit street Horace instinctively knew who the men were and where they were taking Michael. The fear that gripped him was for Michael's last moments; he knew torture was inevitable before they killed him. But worst of all was the fact that there was little he could do to save the Irishman. The odds were too great.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The ship's hold reeked of oil and the three men guarding Michael were as miserably wet as himself. They had roped his hands to an overheard beam in the hold, the limited light from the kerosene lantern making the presence of the abductors even more ominous. The flickering beam cast their shadows on the rusty walls of the hold in a way that seemed to increase the Germans' physical size.

  The crewmen guarding Michael were more than just simple sailors. They were crack marines of the Kaiser's army – tough men trained to sail with the navy and fight on land as soldiers. Their immediate leader was most likely an unteroffizier, the German equivalent of a British sergeant, Michael guessed.

  Little was said in front of Michael as his captors knew of his fluency in their language, but Michael held out little hope of leaving the ship alive. Penelope's warning had proved all too accurate. Her husband was undoubtedly behind his abduction.

  Michael's arms ached and his only relief was to stand on his toes like a ballet dancer. ‘You wouldn't have a smoke would you, Gunter?’ he asked in German with a grunt of pain. ‘Man could die like this without a smoke.’

  The brawny German was the oldest of the three marines and Michael had learned that he had once served with the French Foreign Legion in Mexico. Since Michael had also served in Mexico as a mercenary after the American Civil War, the two men had found some common ground.

  Gunter stepped forward with a lit cigarette and pushed it between Michael's lips. He was not relishing his commanding officer's orders. ‘It is regrettable, my friend,’ he said sympathetically when he stepped back, ‘that it has come to this. I have been told much of your military exploits and you are truly an impressive soldier.’

  ‘Thanks, Gunter. I had a feeling there was nothing personal in all this,’ Michael replied, as the cigarette bobbed in his mouth.

  ‘You had us fooled, Mister Duffy,’ Gunter said with a tone of admiration. ‘You are very good at your job of spying.’

  ‘Was,’ Michael replied and took a puff on the cigarette. ‘But I don't expect you to believe me when I tell you that I am no longer a spy for anyone.’

  ‘No, Mister Duffy,’ Gunter answered sadly. ‘But I wish what you said was true. There is no honour in killing a brave man.’

  Suddenly the three marines stiffened and glanced behind Michael in the direction of the tiny door of the hold. Michael guessed who it was.

  Baron Manfred von Fellmann stepped in front of him. It had been almost twelve years since they had set eyes on each other and they both took in the changes. The Baron had not aged noticeably, Michael reflected. He looked every part the commanding soldier, even in the expensive suit of a civilian.

  ‘I am sorry to have to do this to you, Mister Duffy’ he said, in the rich, educated voice of an aristocrat. ‘I owe you a debt of honour for your part in killing Captain Mort those many years ago. But I suspect that you are not in Sydney for the fond memories that I know you have of the place. You see, I also know that you are wanted for murder by the police here.’

  Michael spat the cigarette on the floor and strained to stand on his toes. ‘I will admit that I know what you plan to do,’ he answered quietly. ‘But I will also tell you, on the honour of my true name, I have been ordered not to continue with my mission to stop you.’

  They stared at each other and the Baron's unnerving blue eyes looked deep into Michael's good one. Manfred broke the silence. ‘Under any other circumstances, Mister Duffy, I would tend to believe what you say. But these are not normal circumstances as you well know and I would require corroboration of what you are saying to feel safe enough to release you unharmed. Can you do that when, as far as I am aware, my old adversary Horace Brown is in Townsville?’

  They were in the dark about Horace meeting him in Sydney's Chinatown, Michael thought. Careless work on the part of the Baron's men. ‘I suppose you do not have the time to telegraph Mister Brown in Townsville to confirm that I am telling the truth?’ he asked with an edge of bitter irony.

  ‘Sadly no,’ Manfred answered, shaking his head. ‘Time is short and I cannot afford delays. So this brings me to an unpleasant choice. I must subject you to a rather brutal interrogation in order to ascertain who else knows about my mission.’

  ‘I could easily lie to you under torture,’ Michael said, trying to sound calm. ‘I know you are going to kill me anyway.’

  ‘I will know if you are telling the truth, Mister Duffy I assure you.’

  The Baron stepped away from Michael and nodded to Gunter who moved forward to rip Michael's wet shirt from his body. Then Michael saw the silver flash of a knife in his hand.

  Gunter's face was expressionless apart from a tic twitching at his eye. He did not like inflicting pain but in his time as a Legionnaire he had learned much of interrogation techniques from the Mexicans, as crude and bloody as they were. He stood and waited for the command to begin.

  ‘Sergeant Klaus will inflict pain on you, Mister Duffy’ Manfred said. ‘Then I will ask a question and expect a truthful answer. Believe me, I will know if you are lying. If I am satisfied that you are telling the truth the torture will not continue and you will be granted an honourable death befitting a man such as yourself. Do you understand?’

  Michael nodded, praying that he might be able to withstand the pain. He had so little to tell them but was most afraid that he might break and volunteer the information that Horace Brown was in Sydney. He knew that revelation would be Horace's death warrant.

  Manfred nodded and Gunter slid the sharp point of the knife under the skin of Michael's ribs. Slowly he thrust up and the sharp blade slid over the bone and cartilage without penetrating the lung cavity.

  Michael arched in agony as the blade severed raw nerves. He gagged on his scream and blood splashed the deck as Gunter withdrew the blade and turned his back on Michael.

  ‘Who else in Sydney knows of our plans?’ the Baron asked quietly as he stared into Michael's face, searching for the flicker of truth he might see in the man's eye.

  ‘Just me. And your wife!’ he gasped. Thank God John Wong had left.

  ‘Penelope?’ Manfred asked in a surprised voice. ‘Have you seen my wife on your visit here?’

  Michael hoped that he could unnerve his tormenter who could well get angry and become impatient with keeping him alive. Death might come early to relieve his agony.

  But Manfred only smiled when he realised what Michael was attempting to do. ‘I know you have had an affair with my wife, Mister Duffy,’ he said softly into Michael's ear so that his men could not hear him. ‘My wife is a very unusual and depraved woman. She likes to inflict pain. It makes her excited in a way that I am sure you know about. When I recount how you died she will fantasise for a long time about your death. She may even express her regret to me that she was not able to torture you herself. So do not attempt to make me angry at the mention of my wife's name.’

  Manfred was about to let Gunter resume the torture when he stared disbelievingly across Michael's shoulder.

  ‘You and I should talk,’ Horace said, leaning on his cane staring back at him. ‘In private.’

  Manfred nodded and gestured to Horace to accompany him to his cabin.

  When they were gone Gunter lit a cigarette and placed it between Michael's lips. ‘I regret what is happening, my friend,’ he said apologetically. ‘But I must obey orders.’

  ‘I know. Nothing personal,’ Michael answered bitterly. ‘Just doing your job.
I only wish you weren't so bloody good at it.’

  The brawny German snorted a bitter laugh at the other man's ability to find humour in the situation. He was a truly tough and brave man!

  ‘It has been a long time, Mister Brown,’ Manfred said. He settled down behind a table in his cabin and Horace took the chair offered to him. ‘Cooktown and French Charlie's excellent restaurant if I remember correctly. A time when your man Michael Duffy set out to avenge the deaths of his bushmen on the Osprey and inadvertently killed the murderer of my brother.’ It was a remembrance of a more pleasant night that the two men had shared when they had met in a rare truce between spy masters.

  ‘But I was informed that you were currently in Townsville,’ he added.

  ‘Your intelligence needs reviewing, Baron,’ Horace mildly rebuked. ‘I have been in Sydney for at least twenty-four hours and you did not know. Not very professional, old chap.’

  Manfred frowned. ‘You are here to rescue Mister Duffy from us,’ he said curtly. ‘I doubt that you have involved the authorities in your plan because it would, as you say, be a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire for him if the police were involved.’

  ‘No, I have come alone,’ Horace replied, leaning forward on his cane. ‘I have come to reason with you for his life. As one gentleman to another.’

  ‘I will listen,’ Manfred replied, with polite respect for the Englishman who had risked his own life by coming to him. ‘But I doubt that anything you say will help Mister Duffy.’

  ‘Why kill him when you very well know that your mission to seize New Guinea is known to me and suspected by others in my government?’

  ‘Because you may suspect, but only Mister Duffy has the ability to seriously interfere. Or have you forgotten that you used him to sabotage the Osprey on my first mission?’

  ‘Captain Mort scuttled your mission, not Mister Duffy,’ Horace gently reminded his old adversary. ‘It was Mister Duffy who saved your life when you were in the water.’

  Manfred shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Had it not been for Michael Duffy keeping him afloat in the tropical waters of North Queensland Manfred would not be alive today to kill the man. The irony was not entirely lost on the normally inflexible man. He owed Michael Duffy a very powerful debt. But his own life meant very little in relation to the interests of his country and the Kaiser. He was, after all, a soldier and such sentimentality had no place in decision making. ‘I am grateful for Mister Duffy saving my life. And I wish I had a way out of this situation. But you must realise I have a mission to complete and I know that if you were in my place you would do the same.’

  Horace nodded. ‘I don't know if he has told you, but I cancelled his mission a couple of days ago,’ he said. ‘You really are wasting your time torturing him.’

  ‘He told us he was no longer working for you,’ Manfred replied. ‘But I cannot risk releasing him while you are in Sydney. Together you are a dangerous team.’

  ‘What if you cut off the head of the animal?’ Horace asked quietly. ‘Then you would have nothing to worry about.’

  Manfred stared at the Englishman and smiled. ‘You and I know that I have no intentions of harming you, Mister Brown. That is not the done thing, old chap, as you English would say.’

  ‘But what if I were dead? Would you give your word to me as a gentleman of honour, that Michael Duffy would be released with no further harm to him?’

  ‘In that unlikely situation, naturally I would release Mister Duffy,’ Manfred replied in a puzzled tone. ‘I would give my word to you on that.’

  ‘Good!’ Horace replied and smiled enigmatically across the small space of Manfred's cabin. ‘Do you have a chess set by any chance, Baron?’ he asked.

  Manfred returned the smile with a grim realisation of what was transpiring in his cabin and recovered a finely carved ivory chess set from a sea locker. He placed the board on the table between them and scrounged a bottle of expensive port wine whilst Horace set up the game. The wine was one of two bottles Manfred had been saving to toast the Kaiser's claim to northern New Guinea. But he felt that this special occasion warranted a claim to his precious stock.

  When the colours were decided and thus who should move first, Manfred raised his glass. ‘A salute to courage,’ he said gravely, and Horace accepted his tribute in silence. No speeches of recognition for what was to be done … just a toast from an erstwhile enemy.

  ‘A toast to Michael Duffy,’ Horace responded quietly. ‘Reluctant servant of Her Majesty and father of Captain Patrick Duffy who is a relative by marriage to one of the Kaiser's most honourable soldiers. To you, Baron von Fellmann.’ Horace's convoluted toast uncomfortably reminded Manfred of his distant relationship to Michael's son.

  ‘You have my word, Mister Brown,’ Manfred reiterated his promise. ‘But for now, we shall see who is the master at chess, and drink this fine wine.’

  ‘A longstanding and perverse ambition of mine,’ Horace said as he sipped at the port, ‘has been to beat you at chess.’

  When the game was over Manfred left the courageous English agent alone in the cabin. Although Horace had taken the Baron's queen, he had lost the game of life.

  Gunter released the tension on the rope that was still holding Michael's arms stretched painfully above his head. The action caused pain to shoot through the upper part of his body and he winced as he reached for a sailor's shirt to replace his own, which had been torn from his back by Gunter.

  ‘Where is Horace?’ Michael asked, as he massaged his aching muscles.

  Manfred did not answer the question but dismissed his marines and turned to Michael once they were alone. ‘Mister Brown has died by his own hand.’ Michael knew that the Prussian was not lying; he had no need to under the present circumstances. ‘He wrote a letter saying he was taking his own life as gesture of goodwill for the agreement we had between us.’ The Baron spoke quietly and with respect for the death of his old enemy. ‘But he does not write those words in his final letter. He has written that he has taken his life because of the pain he suffers from his illness. I will notify the authorities of his death and ensure that he gets a decent burial. You are free to go, Mister Duffy. Horace told me that you were sailing for Africa this week to find your son and I wish you well.’

  There was little else to be said or done, Michael thought, as he was escorted to the wharf by the brawny German marine sergeant. Horace was dead.

  The rain still pounded the city and its chill bit into Michael's face and hands. Blood continued to ooze from his wounds and the shirt under his coat was stiff with it. But he did not feel the biting cold as he walked slowly away from the German ship. He realised he was still alive. And that was enough for now! Later he would feel the loss of an old friend whose courageous sacrifice had snatched him from the jaws of a certain and agonising death.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Gordon James was granted a dinner at Cloncurry's finest hotel to celebrate his glorious victory over the fierce Kalkadoon warriors. The speeches flowed – along with the copious quantities of beer and spirits – until the small frontier town was drunk dry.

  But Gordon felt the unease of an imposter as the number of those who had opposed his numerically superior force grew with each retelling of the epic battle. He had wanted to explain that a handful of warriors had courageously sold their lives so that their people could escape from inevitable annihilation. But he was also a pragmatic man who realised that the exaggeration of his victory would enhance his reputation in the eyes of his superiors and the frontier people of Queensland. Who knew what prizes might be showered on him as a result of his final report?

  But there was also Sarah. No matter how much his victory would enhance his career, he would lose her forever, should he choose to remain with the police. Just how much did he love her? He had brooded as the toastmaster droned on about his exploits. The answer was simple when he looked deep into his soul. He knew what he must do. But for now he accepted the standing toasts to himself and the men who he
had led on his long expedition to hunt down the troublesome tribesmen.

  With the celebration over and his patrol gathered together, Gordon asked around about Trooper Peter Duffy whose absence he had noted on his return to Cloncurry. Men shrugged their shoulders. No-one had seen him since his first day back in the town after he had accompanied the re-supply party. He must have continued on to Townsville, Gordon concluded angrily. He had not granted him permission to do so. Duffy had been ordered to remain in Cloncurry and oversee the re-supply for the expedition back out to the Godkin Range. He would chew him out when he got back to the barracks.

  Weeks later Gordon was relieved to ride into Townsville where the exaggerated account of his victory was the accepted version printed by an enthusiastic local press. His superior officer, Superintendent Gales, lavished praise on the young police officer for bringing honourable mention to the Native Mounted Police. He immediately issued him orders to compile his reports for Brisbane and ensure that his patrol was squared away in the barracks. Pay was to be organised for his troop and all lost and damaged kit to be investigated and recorded.

  Gordon accepted his orders with an outward good grace but privately bridled at the interference his duties imposed on him. He desperately wanted to ride over to Kate O'Keefe's house to see Sarah Duffy. The long weeks on patrol had made him realise just how much he missed her and Peter's savage inference that he would use her and cast her aside for the sake of his career had forced him to confront what was more important in his life. He knew without any doubt that Sarah meant more to him than a career as an officer.

  It took a day to square away all the matters for his patrol and meanwhile all discreet inquiries regarding Peter Duffy's whereabouts met with blank stares. No, Trooper Duffy had not been seen around Townsville. Concern now replaced anger but Gordon was too temporarily distracted by his duties to dwell on the matter of Peter's disappearance.