Flight of the Eagle

by Peter Watt

  Granville was not happy in his new office, nor was he pleased at losing his control over the shipping line to Patrick Duffy. Exporting the colony's produce was the key to the country's future and shipping the main means of reaching the lucrative markets in far-off England. He had lost control to a man who was nothing more than a mistake on the part of his estranged wife during an impressionable time of her life.

  He paced the office and for a moment felt an almost wistful loss for his former employee, Morrison Mort. If he still retained the services of the vicious sea captain he might be able to discuss the means to dispose of his rival for power. But Mort was no longer of this world. The lurid stories that had filtered down from the northern frontier of Queensland years earlier described his death as particularly gruesome. It had been rumoured he had ended his life in a myall cooking fire as part of a heathen feast.

  Granville shuddered. It was also rumoured that Mort's untimely demise was partially the work of that Irish soldier of fortune, Michael Duffy, father of his current hated enemy.

  He plonked himself in a chair. Deep in thought he steepled his fingers and reassured himself that violence was not the sole means of destroying a man. He could take a page from his mother-in-law's book on the more subtle means of causing irreparable damage to a man's reputation. He sensed that even now Enid was playing her game of attempting to discredit him by the move to the new office.

  The company ledgers lay open on the desk before him. They had been routinely delivered from David's office for his scrutiny without any fuss. It was purely a matter of good business to examine the big leatherbound books that recorded profit and loss for all the Macintosh companies.

  Just for a moment Granville remembered his dead brother-in-law. Seventeen years earlier Enid's son had been an obstacle to Granville's ambitions as David stood ahead of him in the line of inheritance. But Mort had carried out his orders faithfully and the young man's bones were buried in an unmarked grave in the sands of a tropical island in the Pacific. David's death had been attributed to hostile natives but Granville knew his estranged mother-in-law did not believe the official account rendered by Mort when he returned to Sydney aboard the blackbirding barque Osprey.

  Two could play the game and even the hero of the Sudan would not be safe. He would no longer need to use extreme violence to discredit Patrick Duffy in the eyes of the world. He had at his fingertips the most reliable and unscrupulous means of destroying an innocent man's reputation. Did not the Macintosh companies include the ownership of a newspaper?

  A plan had formed in Granville's astute scheming from the moment Patrick had taken possession of his office. Now it was time to execute his plan. Execute, he mused. A good word to be used in destroying Patrick Duffy and his chances of controlling the assets of the Macintosh companies.

  For the first time all day Granville smiled. The neatly written rows of figures in the ledger columns were his ammunition. He had on hand a master forger who could transcribe in Hobbs' hand the figures to the blank pages of newly acquired ledgers, albeit with some telling additions – additions which would be corroborated with suitable bank receipts on hand for an audit.

  The pen was indeed mightier than the sword, he smirked. And men like Mort not always required to destroy a man.

  FIFTY-ONE

  Barcaldine was the name of the town. It was little more than a few pubs with their sprawling shady verandahs and stores that held the bare essentials for life. There was also one or two houses and a police lockup to hold the rowdy drunken shearers after they had blown their pay on drink.

  Gordon James sighed with relief at the sight of the iron roofs that shimmered across the line of low scrub under the blazing midday sun. His patrol had trekked south for two hundred miles across a vast, flat expanse of miserable scrubland and the first real vestige of civilisation now lay before them.

  Often on the trek he had questioned his decision to remain with the police. Without Sarah he realised he had little else in his life that held any meaning. Astride a horse on the sweeping plains he could lose himself in the loneliness of the great wide country of limitless horizons. But never was Sarah far from his thoughts. No matter how much he attempted to lose himself in his job he would often find himself thinking about her. The memories seared his soul worse than the midday sun of the harsh Australian summer. At least hunting men with his patrol helped divert such thoughts of her. As the leader of his band he was responsible for their welfare.

  Gordon spurred his mount forward to follow the big Kalkadoon tracker through the bush. Terituba seemed tireless. Day after day he had followed the faint trail of the four bushrangers – a trail that was visible to him alone. At least until they were fifty miles north of Barcaldine when the tracks had disappeared after a series of destructive small, tornado-like winds whipped through the scrub. The willy-willies obliterated the delicate signs of the tracks and, puzzled, Terituba had wandered in search of them.

  Gordon had lost a day in his hunt for the four men as he waited for the Aboriginal tracker to pick up the tracks again. He consulted his map and shot a bearing along the line of the pursuit with his compass. He deduced that the tracks had been leading them south to Barcaldine and remembered that Calder had once worked in the district as a shearer before joining the Native Mounted Police. It appeared that the wanted killer was leading his gang back into familiar territory.

  Gordon had put away his map and issued orders to the patrol to ride south until they reached the tiny township. It was a hard ride, with only a few hours' sleep in the two nights preceding their approach to Barcaldine.

  But now they were within sight of the township and he issued orders to his troopers to be on their guard as they rode in. According to Gordon's reckoning they were very close on the heels of the fugitives and his first stop would be at the local police lockup.

  Sergeant Johnson adjusted his heavy blue uniform jacket as he strolled out of his one-room office to greet his unexpected visitors. He was a gruff man with a pock marked face that sweated considerably.

  He stood in front of his office and eyed the young inspector with some curiosity and contempt. The Native Mounted Police allowed blackfellas to join the ranks and carry firearms. It was not a good thing. Sergeant Johnson did not feel he was required to salute the officer who he viewed as less than a real policeman. But nor was he discourteous. ‘Want to get down and come inside, Inspector?’ he invited. ‘Your boys can water their horses ‘round the back if you want.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Gordon replied, and slid from his saddle with an easy grace.

  The local sergeant also eyed the giant Aboriginal who stood beside the stirrup of the inspector's saddle. ‘Not a local blackfella by the looks of him,’ he commented as Gordon tied his horse to a hitching rail.

  ‘Kalkadoon, from up north,’ Gordon replied.

  The sergeant raised his eyebrows with surprise. ‘I thought you blokes wiped them out last year, north of the Curry?’

  ‘Not all.’

  The sergeant shook his head and chuckled. ‘He looks like he hasn't taken much to the white man's civilisation. Looks a bad one to me, if you ask.’

  Gordon was annoyed at the police sergeant's tactless observations as Terituba had proved himself invaluable to the mission, even though he had no real reason to help the men who had slaughtered his people. ‘He has a pretty good grasp of English, Sergeant,’ Gordon said. ‘So I wouldn't be too free with any insults or you might end up getting a taste of the axe he has tucked in his belt. I can assure you, from personal experience, that he is very good with it. That's how I got this,’ he said, pointing to the scar on his forehead.

  The sergeant blinked and cast the Kalkadoon a new look of respect. ‘He did that?’ he said in an awed voice, and Gordon nodded. ‘Then you must be Inspector James … sir.’ The local policeman had read much about the fierce battle with the Kalkadoon. ‘Sorry if I appeared a bit disrespectful.’

  ‘No offence taken, Sergeant,’ Gordon replied.

&nb
sp; Terituba gazed around at the tiny town with an expression of curious interest. This was the first white man's town he had ever been in and the way these people lived was a fascination to him. Why would they go to so much trouble building structures of permanence when the harshness of the land dictated that they might have to go walkabout in search of water and game thus leaving all their hard work behind to be reclaimed by the land?

  ‘You come with us, Kalkadoon man,’ one of the troopers called to him, and he followed obediently to go with the horses to drink from the trough. At least the trough was useful.

  Gordon followed the sergeant inside and plumped himself down on a chair. The office contained little furniture other than a noticeboard plastered with wanted posters, a cheap government issued desk and two chairs.

  The sergeant sat down behind the desk. ‘What brings you to Barcaldine, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘We've been tracking four men from the Curry. One of them is called James Calder. Do you know him? Or have you seen any strangers around here lately?’

  ‘Four fellows camped out along the creek just south of here – or so I've been told by a couple of shearers passing through.’

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Still there as far as I know. ‘Bout an hour's ride from here. They haven't caused any trouble that I know of, though.’

  ‘Could be them,’ Gordon mused. ‘Don't suppose you could guide us to where they are camped?’

  ‘Yeah. What are they wanted for?’

  ‘Murder, rape and robbery whilst under arms. They killed a selector and raped his missus in the Cloncurry district a few weeks back. The murdered man's wife gave us a pretty good description of them. At least the two who raped her. Unfortunately, they struck at night and she didn't get much of a look at the two who stayed outside.’

  ‘Who did the killing?’

  ‘Calder.’

  The sergeant rose from his chair. ‘I'll grab a few supplies and saddle up. Might be we could be out a few days if the lads have upped camp and left already.’

  ‘I gather you will be joining us then,’ Gordon said as he rose from his chair.

  ‘Looks that way, sir. With all due respect for your tracker I know the country around here and I know where the properties are. If these boys are as bad as you say, I wouldn't like them calling on any of the homesteads uninvited. I've got a lot of friends in this district.’

  ‘Fair enough, Sergeant …?’

  ‘Sergeant Johnson, sir,’ the man said, as he withdrew his service revolver from a drawer and slipped it into his holster.

  ‘Do you have a spare mount?’ Gordon asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. You be needing it for the tracker?’

  Gordon nodded.

  ‘I'll throw a saddle on then,’ he answered as he retrieved a Snider rifle from behind the door and dropped a box of bullets in the pocket of his trousers.

  The two men stepped outside and the sergeant walked across to the house adjacent to the lockup. As Gordon waited patiently for the sergeant to arrange his departure he gazed idly down the street at the bushmen and few townspeople who were staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and apathy. They lazed under the shady shelter of the wide verandahs of the hotels, gripping glasses of beer or spirits. Not much happened at midday in Barcaldine and even the town's dogs kept off the streets when the sun was at its zenith in the azure blue sky.

  ‘I'll be damned!’ Gordon swore, ‘Hey, Willie!’

  He walked quickly down the dusty road towards one of the hotels where he noticed the young man stepping onto the verandah. He was carrying a bottle of rum in one hand and at the sound of his name he froze.

  ‘Willie!’ Gordon called again.

  Willie waved. ‘Mister James. When did you get here?’ he asked, thrusting out his free hand.

  ‘Just rode in a few minutes ago. What are you doing in this part of the world?’

  Willie glanced across the inspector's shoulder at the troop of Aboriginal police who were in front of the station adjusting the straps on their saddles for the hard ride their boss had promised them. ‘I'm doing a bit of prospecting around these parts,’ he answered as his eyes settled on Gordon James again. ‘Just come to pick up some supplies.’

  ‘You on your own? Or you working with a partner?’

  ‘On my own,’ Willie answered. ‘What are you doing in Barcaldine?’

  ‘Tracking four men wanted for questioning about a murder,’ Gordon replied. ‘You probably knew them, Jack Halpin and his missus. They had a selection not far from Jerusalem.’

  ‘Yeah, I knew them,’ Willie answered softly and shifted his gaze nervously back to the troopers of the patrol. ‘What happened? Someone kill Jack?’

  ‘Yeah. It was pretty bad. Really messed up his missus as well. The four we are looking for are camped about an hour's ride from here. You wouldn't have come across them in your travels?’

  ‘Have, as a matter of fact,’ Willie replied. ‘Four fellas south of here. About an hour's ride, like you said. Still there as far as I know. Saw them this morning when I was riding in.’

  ‘That's good news. With any luck we will be able to catch up to them and see if they are the ones we want.’ Willie shifted from one foot to another and Gordon was vaguely aware that the young man appeared nervous. ‘It looks as if Sergeant Johnson is ready to go,’ Gordon said as he noticed the local policeman lead his horse and a spare onto the street. ‘So I had better join the troop. It was good seeing you again, Willie.’

  ‘You too, Mister James,’ Willie said as he extended his hand to the policeman once more. ‘Probably see you around if you are in these parts for a while.’

  Gordon walked back to his men who were standing by their horses. He turned once to see Willie swing himself into the saddle of his own mount, a huge animal with a good bloodline.

  ‘Ready to go, Sergeant Johnson?’ Gordon asked as he swung himself into the saddle.

  ‘Ready, sir,’ the sergeant answered. Gordon turned to tell Terituba to mount the spare horse. But the Kalkadoon was squatting in the dusty road, examining the earth.

  The tracker frowned and stared down the road as Willie disappeared into a line of scrub beyond the town's limits. He glanced up to meet Gordon's eyes. ‘That fella white man he go longa there,’ he said, pointing to where Willie had disappeared into the scrub. ‘He riding one horse Terituba track.’

  ‘You sure?’ Gordon gaped. ‘You sure that you have the right horse?’ But even as he questioned Terituba he knew with sickening certainty that the tracker was right. Willie Harris was one of the four wanted men! He did not want to believe that the young man whom he had known since the day Kate brought him and his mother to Cooktown was now in the company of killers. ‘After him!’ Gordon bawled to his men.

  He spurred his mount into a gallop with the troop following. Sergeant Johnson was caught unawares by the sudden order, however, and followed a good hundred yards or so behind as the troop charged the scrubline in a desperate attempt to catch Willie Harris. But Willie had a good start on his pursuers and as soon as he felt that he was out of sight he had spurred his big mare into a gallop. The troopers' mounts crashed through the scrub but it was obvious that they were no match for the pace of the horse they pursued.

  ‘Rein in!’ Gordon bellowed as he pulled down on his own reins bringing his mount to a panting halt.

  Sergeant Johnson caught them as they milled in confusion. ‘What's up? We still have him in sight.’

  ‘He'll lead us away from Calder and the others,’ Gordon bellowed over his shoulder as he realised that Willie was riding north, and not south, where his companions were last reported camped. ‘We have to get to the creek where they're camped before he gets to warn ′em.’

  The sergeant realised the inspector was probably right and, with a yell to urge his mount on, swung her head south. The troop galloped after him.

  Willie kept his mount at a flat gallop until he knew she could take no more. The horse crashed through the scrub and he glanced over his s
houlder. He could no longer see his pursuers and slowed his mount to a walk as the mare's great lungs heaved and foam flecked her mouth. ‘Good girl,’ he whispered as he leant forward to pat her affectionately on the neck.

  He slid from the saddle, let the reins fall from his hand and sat down with his back against a tree. He had always known that it would only be a matter of time before his role in the murder of the selector would be discovered even though Jack Halpin and his missus had not seen him standing guard outside their hut. Then he'd be tied in with those who had committed the horrific crimes. He had hoped that he could have at least reached Sydney before that had happened so he could realise his vow to his dying mother. Now, it seemed he would not fulfil his promise. Within days his name would be circulated to all the colony's police forces, via the telegraph line.

  Around him was only the silence of the bush, and above him the sweeping blue skies. He slipped the bottle of rum from his pocket and removed the top. With a great swallow he threw back a deep draught of the dark liquid. It did not quench his thirst but it did help to quell the despair that welled up in his spirit, threatening to drown him. How had it all gone wrong?

  He knew the hollow echo in his soul was the answer to his question. It had all gone wrong the day he had fallen in with the former trooper and his two shifty companions. Cattle stealing was one thing – but murder, rape and robbery another.

  His guilt for leading Calder and his men to the isolated homestead of the Halpins burnt his stomach as the rum's intoxicating effects took hold. Calder had promised that they would only bail up the selector and steal the stores they required.

  But Jack Halpin had stubbornly resisted the hold-up attempt, as Willie should have known he would. Calder had become enraged by the brave selector's efforts to hold them off with an ancient muzzle loader which was no match for the combined fire power of the four men. Calder had shot him, and while Halpin lay dying he had been forced to watch as Calder and his equally psychotic lieutenant, Joe Heslop, raped his wife. Calder finished off the wounded selector with a bullet in the head and then turned the gun on the hysterical woman. They had left her for dead, although Willie was relieved now to hear that at least she had survived. The four men had taken what they had needed and rode hard to put distance between themselves and the Cloncurry district.