Flight of the Eagle

by Peter Watt

  Angus's friendly grin as they brushed knuckles to signal that they were ready to fight was returned by Patrick who growled good naturedly, ‘Watch my left hook, Mac, it will win the fight.’

  Angus spat into the dust and retorted with a friendly jibe. ‘Yor got a wee bit of Paddy in yer, sor, that makes you stupid.’

  Then the fight commenced with a stinging blow from the brawny Scot that connected with Patrick's ear and brought on a rousing cheer from the Scot's supporters.

  By the beginning of the ninth round both men were battered and bloody and the roar of the crowd was deafening as the two men swapped punch for punch. Their hands were bleeding and their knuckles swollen. Sweat streamed from them as they grunted with the pain each heavy blow inflicted and Patrick's ears rung like the chimes of Big Ben. But the original blurring speed of his punches was slowing, as was that of the Scot's punches. Both men reserved their strength for the occasional openings in their opponent's guard and the gruelling fight would only end when one man was able to muster the strength to deliver a flurry of damaging blows to his weakened adversary.

  It was near the end of the ninth round when Patrick noticed the glazed expression in Angus's face and realised with a rising horror that something was terribly wrong with his friend. The battering had caused damage to his head and Patrick realised that a knock out blow just might kill the big Scot. The crowd had sensed that the end of the match was near, and roared as the spectators at the Roman games must have done with a thumbs down for the loser.

  Angus reeled uncertainly and Patrick clasped his friend in a bear hug. ‘Now, Angus,’ he hissed into his ear. ‘Go for my head now.’

  Angus turned his head to stare for a brief and confused moment at Captain Duffy. ‘I canna do it, sor,’ he gasped and Patrick thrust him away. ‘Do it, you yellow Scots bastard,’ he snarled as he dropped his hands.

  With a final Herculean effort Angus waded into Patrick with grunts and furious blows. Patrick reeled under the barrage and felt his legs buckle. With a thud he hit the sand where he lay in a semi-comatose state.

  The crowd went wild with cheers and hurrahs and surged forward to hoist the big Scot on their shoulders to parade him around the camp. Even those who had lost money on the outcome admitted the loss was worth it for the most entertaining fight they had witnessed in many a year. But one or two former fighters realised that the young captain had strangely left himself open to the delivery of the knock out. They shook their heads as they walked away and wondered at the stupidity of those with Irish blood.

  Angus groaned as he soaked his battered, swollen hands in a basin of sun warmed water and only removed one hand to accept the silver flask of brandy Patrick passed him across the tent.

  ‘Never again,’ Patrick sighed through smashed lips. ‘Never again am I ever going to fight you, Mac.’

  ‘I didn't win the bloody title,’ the Scot moaned before he swilled from the flask the fiery amber liquid. ‘You let me win.’ He gulped down half the contents and his eyes glistened through half-closed eyelids as the brandy hit his stomach. He sighed with pleasure and passed the flask back to Patrick.

  ‘The right man won, Private MacDonald,’ Patrick replied quietly. ‘And the win should help you get those stripes you so much deserve.’

  Angus accepted the gesture and both men sat in silence on empty ammunition boxes under a magnificent display of stars. They were alone for the first time since Patrick had been rescued from the desert and had much to talk about.

  ‘Where did ye get the strength in the ninth round?’ Angus asked with a dumbfounded shake of his head. ‘I thought I had yer in the eighth.’

  Patrick grinned sheepishly and glanced down at his feet. ‘I imagined you were someone called Brett Norris,’ he said quietly. ‘For just a moment you had his face.’

  ‘He'd be having no face now,’ Angus hooted. ‘If he'd be a Sassenach gentleman you'd been hitting instead of me.’

  Patrick looked up into the broad face of the Scot, broadened even more by the massive swelling of damaged tissue. Not that his own face was in any better condition. ‘Ah, but that it had been him instead of you, Mac.’

  They fell silent as they nursed their exhaustion and private thoughts. Patrick took a shallow swig of the brandy before passing the flask to Angus who gulped down the remnants and glanced apologetically at Patrick who only smiled, then laughed, and slapped the Scot on the shoulder. ‘You earned it, Mac. For being Mister Brett Norris for just that moment.’ The smile, and the laugh, faded as Patrick leant towards Angus. ‘Why didn't you do what I asked,’ he questioned quietly, ‘before I went on that patrol, Mac?’

  ‘I threw yor pouches in the sea like you asked me to. But there was this wee little thing I knew you would want when you came back to us.’

  Patrick stared up at the heavens. ‘Thank you,’ he replied gratefully. ‘I'll settle with the quartermaster.’

  ‘No need, sor. He's my uncle and I've settled with him. He's written off yor kit.’

  ‘I owe you a great debt for what you did.’

  ‘No trouble, sor,’ the Scot replied and ducked his head with embarrassment.

  ‘I suppose I should retire to my tent,’ Patrick said as he stood stiffly, feeling every muscle in his body scream out in pain. ‘A lot to do before we go home.’

  ‘You think that will be soon, sor?’ Angus asked quietly, as he attempted to struggle to his feet.

  Patrick waved him down and he sank back gratefully on the improvised seat. ‘I hope so, Mac. I've had enough of this place.’

  ‘Good night, sor, and God bless you.’

  Patrick hoped that God would bless him. Or at least that Sheela-na-gig would still be with him when he finally went in search of Catherine. But first he had his duties in Cairo. He would have to wait another long three months before he could return to Ireland.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Little had changed in over a year. But then, little had changed in the last five centuries in the village.

  Patrick hunched himself against the grey drizzle and walked quickly along the narrow cobbled street to the lichen encrusted church where he hoped to find Father Eamon O'Brien in residence. His reappearance in the village had caused him an uneasy feeling. People stared at him with more than usual interest and whispered behind his back as he passed them by. Although he had only just arrived and registered at Riley's tavern, he sensed his visit marked something out of the ordinary. It was in the expressions of disbelief on the faces of the villagers who turned aside when he approached them in the street. Even Riley himself had been reticent when he had registered at his hotel.

  He reached the presbytery and rapped on the heavy wooden door. Eamon answered and his face lit up with delight at seeing Patrick. His broad smile warmed the chill of Patrick's soul. ‘God bless me! Captain Duffy! Come in. It is good to be seeing you again after such a long absence.’

  Patrick smiled with pleasure at the greeting and gripped the priest's extended hand, shaking off the cold drizzle as he stepped inside.

  ‘Take off your coat and I will get something to chase away the chills,’ Eamon said as he bustled around the kitchen searching for the bottle of whisky he kept for special visitors and particularly bad days in the parish.

  Patrick took a seat at the old wooden table he had first sat at when he met the priest over a year earlier. When Eamon found the bottle he took two glasses and poured them both a stiff drink.

  ‘Eamon, it is good to make your acquaintance again,’ Patrick said as he raised his glass. ‘I fear my appearance here seems to have caused somewhat of a stir amongst the local people of the village. I was hoping you might be able to tell me why.’

  ‘Ah, yes. It is only to be expected,’ he replied. ‘But first, have you partaken of a meal?’

  ‘The coach stopped at an inn for the midday meal only a few hours ago.’

  ‘Well, you are welcome to dine with me tonight if you wish, Patrick. Nothing fancy. Missus Casey is away and will not be returning until late so I'
m afraid I will be forced to reheat last night's supper.’

  ‘Knowing Missus Casey's fine cooking I am sure that the supper would be as good as any I have had since returning to Ireland,’ Patrick answered politely and took another swig of the whisky. It tasted good and helped wash away the chill of the day.

  Eamon followed his example with a good swallow and refilled their glasses even before they were emptied. ‘You look different, Patrick,’ he commented as he peered across the old table. ‘As if things have happened in your life a man should not experience. Was the war bad?’

  ‘Bad enough,’ Patrick replied softly, and stared down at the table's surface where deep scratches and burn marks had accrued over more than two centuries. ‘Worse when you live from day to day on nothing more than hope. Hope that the silence will be broken by even just a single word.’

  Eamon took his spectacles from his face and polished them on the hem of his cassock. He knew what Patrick was alluding to and desperately sought a way in his mind to tell him the painful facts that he would soon learn in the village. ‘George Fitzgerald passed away, God rest his soul, two months ago,’ he said as he replaced the spectacles and looked Patrick directly in the eyes.

  ‘I didn't know.’

  ‘His passing was peaceful. He died in his sleep at the manor.’

  ‘And Catherine?’ Patrick asked softly.

  ‘She is no longer in the village,’ Eamon replied. ‘The Fitzgerald place has been taken over by her sister-in-law who came back from the West Indies last week when Catherine left. No-one knows where she has gone. Not even her sister-in-law. She has a substantial inheritance from George's estate and is also still part-owner of the manor. I suppose she is travelling on the inheritance.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Dublin? London?’

  ‘Initially, I suppose,’ Eamon answered. ‘But I suspect much further afield, under the circumstances.’

  ‘What circumstances?’

  ‘She left to be with a man,’ Eamon replied, and wished he could be somewhere else when he saw the terrible pain in the young man's eyes.

  Patrick took a deep breath to steady himself and the priest rose from the table, leaving Patrick alone for a brief moment. He went to his office adjacent to the kitchen and returned with a large pile of sealed letters. With a shock Patrick recognised his own handwriting on the envelopes. They were all the letters he had sent Catherine!

  ‘When George died,’ Eamon explained quietly, ‘he left instructions in his will that I was to unlock his desk and take the contents without explaining to anyone what he kept there. I suppose I have broken a sacred trust in even showing you the existence of these. Catherine would haunt the post office after you left for the Sudan. Her grandfather had ensured that she was to receive no correspondence from you. He had his way. When she received none, she changed. She was heartbroken and, I suppose, presumed you had forgotten her.’

  Patrick stared at the pile of unopened letters Eamon placed on the table. No wonder the silence fell between them! ‘Now that George has passed on to his eternal rest,’ the priest added, ‘I suppose I can return the letters to you. They are rightfully yours.’

  Patrick picked up one of the envelopes from the pile and immediately recognised the tiny dark spots at its edge. They were bloodstains. The letter had been written hours after the terrible battle at McNeill's Zareba. Although he had attempted to protect the precious envelope, the blood had run down his arm from the wound inflicted in the fighting.

  Eamon resumed his chair at the table. He knew the worst was yet to come in the tragic story.

  ‘You said she left to be with a man,’ Patrick asked, with a deadly edge to his voice. ‘Was it Mister Brett Norris?’

  Eamon blinked as if hoping to blink away the question. He did not answer immediately but filled Patrick's glass with the remaining whisky from the bottle. ‘Get this inside you, Patrick, as you will need the strength of the Holy Spirit of the bottle to hear what I am about to tell you.’ Patrick obeyed and swallowed his whisky and waited for what Eamon was about to tell him. ‘A man came to the village. Not this Mister Norris you ask about. But a man seeking peace for his troubled soul. I did not meet the man but the villagers talked long and hard about him. It was said his journey had been a sad one through life and he sought himself in the expression of art and to this end he was commissioned by Catherine to paint her portrait. You must remember … she had despaired of ever seeing you again.’

  ‘Who was the man?’ Patrick growled ominously, but Eamon held up his hand to indicate he should be patient as there was much to explain.

  ‘Oh, he was a man very much like you, Patrick. A grand style of a man who, it was said, did not encourage Catherine. In fact, he was a man old enough to be her father. But, as the villagers were quick to notice, she became infatuated by him. When he became aware of her feelings for him, he left, but she followed him.’ Eamon fell into a short silence to gather the courage to tell the final part of the story. ‘The man she followed … is your father.’

  Patrick paled and the room swam before his eyes. His ears rung as if he had weathered a sustained volley of musketry. His father! His father was dead! He sat frozen in his utter shock at the revelation and the strangled words came barely above a whisper. ‘My father was killed before I was born!’

  ‘No, Patrick,’ Eamon said gently, as he reached across the table to grasp his hand. ‘Your father has been alive all these years … as the villagers have always known. He has been a man hunted by many enemies in his life and, I suppose, for that reason could never reveal his existence to you or anyone else in your family in Sydney.’

  ‘Catherine has gone to God knows where … with my father,’ Patrick echoed, and stared with a despairing plea at Eamon. ‘For God's sake and my sanity, if you know where they might have gone, tell me.’

  ‘If I knew I would. So help me on the office of my duties and before all that is sacred to the true Church, I would tell you if I knew, Patrick,’ Eamon replied. ‘But no-one in the village knows.’

  Patrick's breathing came in ragged gasps as if he had run a long distance. His father … Alive … And with the woman he loved more than his own life! It was like some terrible joke on him. As if a malevolent force was laughing in the background of his life. ‘No matter what it takes I will find them both,’ he breathed. ‘No matter what it takes.’

  THE

  STORM

  1886

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Catherine felt the kiss of the sun on her face and the rich scent of flowers. She stretched like a cat and opened her eyes slowly to savour the richness of the Aegean morning.

  ‘Michael,’ she murmured as she reached out to touch him. But her hand touched empty space and she sat up in the bed to glance around the hotel room. She saw him sitting by the window that opened to a panoramic view of the sea. His back was to her, and he seemed deep in thought and unaware of her presence.

  ‘Michael,’ she called again softly, and this time he reacted by turning to smile at her.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ he asked as he left his chair to come to her bed and sit beside her.

  ‘Wonderfully,’ she purred and reached out to touch his face. ‘But why are you dressed so early in the day?’

  Michael seemed to wince at her question and he hesitated before answering. ‘I had a lot to think about,’ he replied. ‘But nothing to concern you,’ he added gently, as he felt the soft caress of her hand on his face.

  ‘Why don't you come back to bed?’ Catherine pulled back the sheet to reveal her naked body. It was an invitation that Michael disregarded and he stood and walked back to the window. Catherine felt hurt, but more than that, she felt a rising panic. Was it that he had tired of her and she was no longer attractive to him? But if that were so, why had the signs not been more apparent? Her question had no answer. They had lived a life of passion and adventure since she had followed him to London. She still remembered the shocked expression on his face when she plonke
d her bag in his hotel room and announced that she would be his lover. He had protested but she could see the longing in his eyes that contradicted his words – the same look she had seen when he had painted her portraiture at the Fitzgerald mansion in Ireland.

  From that day on she had shared his bed and his life as he wandered through the great cities of Europe. It was as if he were searching for something. And as he roamed he stopped to paint landscapes although he was never happy with his efforts. She had witnessed the pain in his face as he stood back and examined his completed work, none of which he kept but instead sold for a mere pittance to anyone who might want a souvenir of the particular place.

  The times that she had lain beside him she had wondered at the magnetism of the man old enough to be her father. He was like an old, battle scarred bear she had reflected: strong but vulnerable; dangerous yet none of his fearsome reputation for killing touched the gentleness in him. In those quiet times she often thought about Patrick and wondered what might have been. His long silence seemed to tell her that the son did not have the father's strength to commit himself to searching for what she had to offer. There had been times when she had wanted to tell Michael about her meeting with Patrick but sensed the mention of him could only cause pain to this already haunted man whose life had known little happiness. As far as she knew Michael had not been told by the Irish villagers of Patrick's visit over a year earlier. It was not in their nature to upset the man who was a living legend walking amongst them.

  In Michael's arms Catherine found contentment and for the moment that was all that mattered. She sensed that in turn she also gave the troubled man a kind of peace. It did not matter that she was living simply for the day – that was her nature also.

  Their travels across Europe had at length brought them to a little hotel overlooking the Aegean Sea. Michael had appeared happy in the warmth of the Greek spring and Catherine had marvelled at the way her man had fitted so easily into any culture they encountered. Sometimes he would tell her stories of exotic places in the Far East. He was her Marco Polo. He introduced her to the alien but exciting tastes of Mediterranean cuisine and Catherine soon acquired a taste for the peasant food he tended to eat and particularly developed a love for piquant olives, goat cheese and unleavened bread.