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Flight of the Eagle

Page 33

by Peter Watt


  On the deck of the departing troopship Private Francis Farrell gazed back at the wharf and noticed a tall, broad-shouldered young British officer amongst the clusters of soldiers who bid them farewell.

  Although he could not discern the facial features of the officer standing alone and watching them depart, he sensed he was seeing Patrick. He shook his head, muttering, ‘Patrick, I failed. Something was keeping me from telling you about your father.’

  Beyond the cluster of tiny figures on the wharf was the white stoned city of Suakin and beyond the city the craggy coastal hills of the Sudan. For some inexplicable reason Francis had a vague recollection of a fevered dream and a fiery hill. The thought went from his mind, however, as the troopship cleared the harbour and left in its wake the hills, the deserts and the white stoned city of Suakin.

  ‘I'm sorry that you have travelled so far for little reason,’ the captain said apologetically. A tall, broad-shouldered civilian sat in a chair in the corner of his office wearing a fashionable white suit and vest and holding a Panama hat in his lap. ‘But your letters of introduction have been cancelled, Mister Duffy.’

  Michael stared hard into the face of the staff officer sitting opposite him behind his ornately carved wooden desk. Overhead a fan stirred the languid air of the room. Outside the general staff headquarters, street traders babbled in Greek, Arabic and Sudanese as they went about the business of buying and selling in the bazaar. Their voices drifted to the window of the second storey office, a cacophony of humanity battling for financial survival.

  Somehow Michael was not surprised at the captain's pronouncement on the invalid status of his letters of introduction. When he had arrived to inquire as to the fate of his son he found himself shuffled from one office to another until he reached the captain. He was a man about Michael's own age and, from the many ribands on his khaki uniform jacket, a battle experienced soldier of many campaigns.

  ‘Captain French, I have come a long way. And I am sure you are acquainted with the influence of the signatory to the letters I have presented,’ Michael growled ominously. ‘This rather unexpected resistance to my attempts to contact Captain Duffy makes no sense considering the letters you have before you.’

  The captain glanced down at his desk and was obviously embarrassed by the question. But he was under orders to hold the Irishman and ensure he was put on a ship sailing for anywhere out of Suakin. ‘I appreciate your question, Mister Duffy,’ he said when he glanced up. ‘But your letters have been rescinded by a telegram we received from Victoria Barracks in Sydney some days before you arrived. And, I may say, by the signatory.’

  Why in hell had Colonel Godfrey counter-ordered his own letters? Why the sudden change of mind? Lady Macintosh! It came as a blinding and obvious answer. Enid now knew that his son was alive and thus Michael was no longer useful to her needs! ‘Then I take it that I am not permitted to see Captain Duffy while I'm here?’ he said, glowering at the British captain.

  ‘That is about the sum of it, Mister Duffy,’ Captain French replied.’ We have orders to escort you to the first ship sailing from Suakin and ensure that you leave without seeing him.’

  Michael rose from his chair and gazed out the open window to the busy street below. ‘I gather that I am under some kind of arrest then,’ he said as he turned to the captain.

  ‘I would rather not call it an arrest, Mister Duffy,’ he replied in a partly apologetic tone. ‘Rather, that you are possibly a reluctant guest of Her Majesty's army's hospitality, for the moment. And under those circumstances you will be treated with the utmost courtesy.’ The captain rose and extended his hand. ‘We will endeavour to meet any reasonable request for your preferred destination when you leave,’ he said politely. But Michael did not accept the gesture of goodwill and the captain dropped his hand to his side. ‘As a matter of fact there is a mail steamer sailing for London via the Canal tonight. Would that be to your satisfaction?’

  ‘As good as anywhere right now, I suppose,’ Michael replied grudgingly and the captain smiled with relief.

  ‘You are more fortunate than I, sir,’ the captain said with a sigh. ‘I only wish we could trade places.’

  Michael grinned ruefully at the captain who stood at the centre of the spacious cool room. ‘Not I,’ he replied bitterly. ‘My days serving Her Majesty's interests are finished.’

  His answer puzzled the captain but he did not inquire as to what the Irishman meant. ‘You will be escorted back to your hotel to gather your personal kit. I doubt that I have to go into a long list of instructions that apply to your short stay. Except to say you will not endeavour to contact Captain Duffy in any way. Nor will you depart from your escorts until you step aboard the mail steamer tonight. Other than that, you are free to avail yourself of the sights of the city and its many delights.’

  ‘Reasonable offer under the circumstances,’ Michael grunted as he walked towards the open door where two burly uniformed sergeants stood outside waiting for him. ‘I will bid you good day then, Captain French.’

  The two sergeants fell into step beside Michael as they strode down a walkway that overlooked a spacious marbled room below. From their manner it was obvious they had no intention of their ‘prisoner’ getting more than one pace from them until he was put aboard a ship.

  When they were on the busy street, thronged with street urchins hustling for a handout from the foreign visitors and robed merchants hawking for a sale, Michael turned to his guards. ‘May as well buy you fellows a drink before I leave.’

  They glanced at each other questioningly before the bigger of his two escorts replied, ‘Now that would be against orders, sir, for us to partake while we are on duty’ He grinned. His Irish accent was unmistakable. ‘But if we are to be hospitable, as Captain French has ordered, I can't see why we should refuse any reasonable request of yours to sip on just one or two little drinks in your company.’

  ‘You know any place that is private enough to indulge in a discreet drink or two, Sergeant?’

  ‘Now that you would be askin’ me I do know such a place in the Greek quarter by chance,’ the Irish sergeant replied, liking his lips and grinning broadly. ‘But don't go getting any ideas to get us drunk and slip away, Mister Duffy. Me an’ Sergeant O'Day here have orders.’

  ‘Now do I look like the kind of man who would even consider corrupting the likes of an Irishman serving Her Majesty?’ Michael said with the easy blarney banter. ‘Not two fine men as yourselves.’

  The burly Irish sergeant laughed as they made their way through the bazaar.

  ‘You would be, Mister Duffy,’ he said, staring Michael directly in the eye.

  Michael knew that the big sergeant was obviously a man who knew where his duty lay and dismissed any thoughts of attempting to give them the slip. Not that he had seriously contemplated doing so. His mission was to all intents and purposes over. His son was alive and no longer required finding as per the terms of the mission he had accepted from Lady Macintosh. The money she had paid for his expenses was generous and he knew that he now had enough to journey to Europe where he could hopefully eke out a living from painting. He had also accumulated enough over the years to see him through for a year or two and he sensed that it was not ordained that he should finally meet his son now, that the events in both their lives were destined to move forward until the winds of fate blew them together.

  ‘Now where would this place be, Sergeant?’ Michael asked and the Irish soldier guided them deep into the Greek quarter to his favourite place of wine, women and sad songs.

  When Michael was poured aboard the coastal steamer out of Suakin that evening, he left with no other souvenirs of the ancient and exotic city than a bad hangover from too much cheap Greek wine. Ahead of him was Europe and his old dreams. No more the sights and sounds of war, he prayed, but the beauty of creation in the colours of his mind. Fate – and Lady Macintosh – had conspired to deprive him of the opportunity to meet his son. Fate was something Michael had come to accept as a guid
ing force in his life. When the time was right, he was sure that fate would eventually bring him and his son together.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Gordon James stood dejectedly at the bottom of Kate Tracy's verandah steps and she felt a momentary surge of pity for the forlorn young police officer. His red rimmed and sunken eyes reflected the effort of the trek north to Townsville and he had since learned of the sudden death of his mother from a massive stroke. Pain and exhaustion cloaked him in despair for all the events that had unfolded in the recent weeks.

  But as much as Kate also felt his grief for the loss of her dear friend Emma James, she also felt the pain for the loss of her nephew Peter Duffy. He had, after all, Kate thought as she stared at Gordon, volunteered to hunt Peter down and the consequences must have been a consideration before he set out.

  Sarah sat in a chair in her bedroom, staring with a stony face at the ornate wallpaper. She could hear her aunt's voice telling Gordon he was not welcome.

  Gordon's shoulders slumped as he wearily resigned himself to defeat. He no longer had the strength to argue in his defence. He no longer doubted the power of the curse that had visited the son of the man who had first incurred the wrath of the powerful forces of the sacred place of the Nerambura people long before he was even born. He had no other way of explaining the unexpected death of his mother who had died at precisely the same time as he had killed Peter Duffy. Witnesses said she had been walking to Kate's store when she suddenly collapsed. She was dead by the time the doctor examined her.

  From inside the house Kate could hear her baby son crying for her attention and she turned her back on Gordon. He walked back to his horse tethered at the front gate. There was nothing else he could do.

  When Kate reached Matthew she found Sarah had already picked him up. The women exchanged grief stricken looks. Gordon's visit had only fuelled their pain. Sarah held the baby to her breast and rocked him.

  ‘If you went to him to hear what he has to say’ Kate said, ‘I would understand.’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘No. He has killed my brother,’ she replied softly. ‘And for that I could never forgive him. Ever!’

  ‘But you still love him,’ Kate stated gently.

  Tears welled in Sarah's eyes to burst like an explosion as she uttered one word. ‘Yes!’

  From the distance Kate was aware of the fading sound of a horse galloping away. Gordon was riding out of their lives. But for how long? Time inevitably weakened grief and when she gazed at her niece she could see that not all the hurt was reserved for her dead brother. There was also the terrible pain of a love lost and yet not forgotten.

  There were so many reminders of his mother in the house, Gordon realised. Sudden death does not give one a chance to tidy up before it comes to take away the soul.

  A book of poetry lay open on the kitchen table next to a mixing bowl. Gordon closed it. She must have been reading the poetry as she prepared to make a meal, he reflected. Then she had realised she was out of flour and had hurried to Kate's store. But death had taken her in the street.

  He wondered what sort of woman his mother really was. He only knew her as a mother with her reason for living being to love and care for him. And yet she once had another life as a vivacious young woman who had the courage to cross the ocean to a far and foreign land. And, in the years when she was still young, to have loved and married his father. Had they experienced the passion of desire he did when he thought about Sarah Duffy?

  ‘I am sorry for your loss, Gordon.’

  He spun on his heel at the sound of the voice behind him. So absorbed in his thoughts of his mother he had not heard Sarah enter the house. ‘Sarah!’

  She stood hesitantly in the doorway of the kitchen. ‘I did not mean to disturb you. I was watching you for a little while. You appeared to be deep in thought.’

  ‘I just came back to tidy up before the house is sold,’ he answered quietly. ‘Make sure everything was in order. Will you stay a while with me?’

  Sarah shook her head. ‘No. I only came to tell you,’ she replied sadly, ‘that your mother was a very special person in my life too.’

  ‘You won't stay and give me the chance to explain what happened?’ he pleaded.

  ‘There is nothing to explain, Gordon. You killed my brother.’

  ‘Damn it, Sarah. I loved Peter as if he were truly my brother,’ he replied sharply and realised he was growing angry. ‘What happened was a terrible accident.’

  ‘No-one forced you to hunt him down,’ Sarah retorted bitterly. ‘You must have known there was always the possibility that something terrible could happen when you met.’

  ‘I made the mistake of allowing my concern for his safety to cloud my judgment. But I don't expect you to understand what I am saying. If I could go back in time I would not have elected to go after Peter. I swear.’

  ‘It's too late for any explanations, Gordon. My brother is dead – and at your hand,’ she said softly. ‘I think I should go. Before you say something that might make me hate you.’

  Gordon took three steps across the small kitchen to grasp her by the shoulders, before she could turn and leave the house. His grip was strong. ‘You still love me, despite everything you say,’ he said with fierce determination. ‘Don't you, Sarah Duffy?’

  She tried to shake off his grip – and his question. ‘How I feel is irrelevant,’ she answered as she struggled against his hold. ‘Some things remain beyond my power to forgive. I have never thought about my heritage before now. But I know my brother would still be alive today if he had not been a half-caste darkie, as you would say. It must be the blackfella in me, but we have a belief in payback. It is stronger than you would ever realise. You can let me go, Gordon, because you and I can never be together. So long as we both live.’

  Gordon could see the fire in her dark eyes as she snarled her last statement at him. He had never seen her like this before. Even when they were young and he and Peter had tormented her she would grow angry but never express her anger in the same raw way that she was doing now. Her payback was to deny him forever that which he desired most – her! Never before had he wanted her as much as now. ‘If you want to act like a gin, then I'll show you how we treat gins,’ he snarled, increasing his grip of her shoulders.

  She winced with the pain but stared into his eyes with cold hate. Then she spat in his face and felt the back of his hand strike her a stinging blow across the cheek. ‘Do what you like, Inspector James,’ she hissed with a controlled hatred. ‘Because I won't stop you.’

  Suddenly Gordon felt his rage dissipate as he realised what he had almost done. Trembling, he released his grip and stumbled back against the kitchen wall where he slumped to the floor and covered his face with his hands. He burst into deep racking sobs as the loss and grief finally overpowered him.

  Sarah stood uncertainly watching him. A part of her so desperately wanted to go to him and hold him to her breast. But the memory of her beloved Peter welled up inside. The hand that had killed her brother had also struck her.

  When he was finally spent of his tears Gordon hardly noticed that she was gone. He had lost more than his boyhood friend. He had lost everything in his life except his job. The only thing that kept him from taking the revolver from his holster and ending it all was a tiny but intense flame called hope.

  The house was sold, Gordon's letter of resignation not submitted, and now he sat in uniform astride his horse gazing at Kate Tracy's house. He was alone and would soon ride out for Rockhampton to take up his new posting. Was Sarah in the house? His heart felt as if it would break. His mount shifted impatiently under him and he absent-mindedly patted her neck. ‘I know,’ he said softly to her. ‘It's time to go.’

  He reined away and rode with tears in his eyes. He could not remember the last time he had cried and self-consciously brushed away the tears with the back of his hand. ‘That I could give my life to prove my love for you, Sarah, I would,’ he whispered. ‘If only you could see that.’

 
FORTY-SIX

  The sultry heat of the day was dissipating with the disappearance of the sun. The crowd of assembled men pushed and shoved to gain a better view of the dusty clearing where the two contenders stood toe to toe, bare chested and wearing tight, thigh-hugging trousers. The carnival atmosphere preceding the title fight for the heavy-weight crown of the brigade was amplified by the worst kept secret in Suakin: that the army was leaving the desert to return to the milder English summer.

  So here was an event under the rising constellations of the African desert to entertain men yearning for the balmy English summer eves at home. An event to take their minds temporarily from the tense anticipation of the waiting for the official word to pack up and board the troopships that lay in the harbour.

  The spectators were fairly evenly divided in their support for both fighters. One section bet on Private Angus MacDonald because he was one of them, a soldier from the ranks. The other half gave their support to his opponent, Captain Patrick Duffy, because he was an exception to the rule of class distinction; he was a man who had the ability to cross social lines.

  The referee mumbled a few basic rules to the bare knuckle fighters and they nodded their understanding. This signalled to the enclosing ring of soldiers that the moment had arrived as to who would leave the Sudan with the title of champion. The odds were with the giant Scots private as he was in excellent health and his supporters had a grudging sympathy for his opponent who, it was said, had barely recovered from his ordeal beyond the coastal hill range. But the sympathy ended with the wagers that were being surreptitiously made at the rear of the crowd. This was not only a fight but a means of making some money.

  Patrick listened to the referee's mumbled words and stared at his former batman. He saw no animosity reflected in the dark eyes which caught the glint of the flames from the lanterns.

 

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