Flight of the Eagle

by Peter Watt

  ‘It appears that he was involved in a rather violent attempted arrest of three men during the course of which two of the men were shot dead. The third has accused Inspector James of shooting down his unarmed partner in cold blood when the man attempted to surrender. Not that the man accusing the Inspector has much credibility in the opinion of most people. But since the publicity surrounding the Wheeler affair the Native Mounted troopers have made a lot of powerful enemies in the colonies. Not only down south but around here as well. A lot of well-intentioned, if misguided, people would like to see a conviction of any kind against an officer of the native police. It seems there has been some pressure to bring the young man before the courts.’

  Kate knew of Frederick Wheeler. He had been an officer of the Native Mounted Police who the authorities had attempted to bring to justice for his barbaric crimes against not only the native tribes but also his own Aboriginal troopers. They had failed and Wheeler had disappeared as a free man.

  ‘Gordon James is a lot of despicable things,’ Kate said, ‘but I doubt that he is a murderer.’

  ‘I suspect that you are right,’ Hugh agreed, ‘knowing as much as I do about his courageous stand against the Kalkadoon last year at Cloncurry. And I also suspect that a coronial inquiry will find he has no case to answer. The matter will be seen for what it is: a grudge by a vexatious criminal against a fine young officer. Then the matter will be dropped.’

  ‘I wish I could feel as certain as you,’ Kate replied hesitantly. ‘It is as if there was a curse on Gordon.’

  ‘I doubt that the matter has anything to do with a curse,’ the solicitor scoffed. ‘More like the liberals looking for a scapegoat.’

  Kate was not so sure. The events of Gordon's life had led him on such a path of destruction and she was well aware that forces existed outside the acceptance of most men. Strange forces, with the power to reach out and touch with a hand of vengeance those who would disturb the fragile fabric of the ancient land of the continent's original inhabitants. Gordon's father had been a party to waking the ancient spirits guarding the sacred places of the Darambal people and now his son followed in his father's footsteps, hunting the Aboriginal tribesmen. The unexplainable mystical forces seemed to touch them all in one way or another. They led back to the horrific dispersal of the Nerambura clan so many years earlier, the violent death of her father, the deaths in the Macintosh family and the many other untimely and violent deaths since then. No, the power of the ancient spirits was a real and ever-present curse, she reflected.

  ‘There are some things one should not scoff at, Hugh,’ she said softly. ‘Things in this world we cannot explain with pure logic.’

  ‘Like the mind of a woman,’ he retorted with a smile. ‘You are certainly creatures unlike us men with all your superstitious belief in the unknown.’

  ‘We accept the unknown for the fact that it is just that. Unknown,’ she answered seriously. ‘But we women do not have to have you men accept our beliefs and hold them as our realities.’

  ‘Very well put. I bow to your belief, even if they make little scientific sense to educated men of reason.’

  ‘But I will accept that Gordon must be prepared to defend himself with your educated reason,’ Kate said as she shifted her thoughts back to the world of courts, juries and judges. ‘If Gordon does not have legal representation he could be facing imprisonment. Or worse. Death by hanging if the matter goes badly for him.’

  ‘So you are going to fight your mystical curse with temporal logic and reason then,’ Hugh said with a hint of sarcasm. ‘To utilise a mere man to save Inspector Gordon.’

  She flared at his cynicism but refused to be baited. ‘I did not say that I do not believe in the powers of this world, Hugh,’ she bridled. ‘I realise that you have the means to prepare Gordon for an inquiry with your considerable expertise in matters pertaining to the law.’

  ‘Thank you, Kate,’ he replied. ‘Your trust in my earthly abilities humbles me.’

  ‘You and I may have had our differences, Hugh,’ she said quietly. ‘But I do know you are one of the best lawyers in the colony, otherwise Sir Donald would not have chosen you to represent his interests. If nothing else, Sir Donald was a very astute man.’

  ‘You realise that I cannot approach Inspector James to solicit him as a client … ethical issues you know.’

  ‘I realise that,’ she replied. ‘I will visit Gordon and suggest that he make an appointment to see you. That is, if he has not already approached anyone else in your profession.’

  ‘There is a matter of fees,’ the solicitor said, a reminder that his skills came at a price. ‘And, I would think, they will be high, considering the case.’

  ‘I will pay them, no matter what it costs,’ Kate accepted. ‘And I would expect you to spare nothing in ensuring that the matter goes no further than an inquiry.’

  ‘No promises there, Kate. Except that I will do the best money can buy.’

  When Kate had excused herself from the lawyer's office, she wondered why she had been so quick to assist the young man who had killed her nephew. But, after all, he was the son of her dear, departed friend Emma and as such it was only right that she help him. But the real answer came down to the intangibles of life: the love she knew Sarah still inexplicably harboured for the man.

  Kate unfurled her parasol as protection against the tropical sun and walked back along the dusty street to her hotel. Admiring glances from men sitting under the shade of the wide verandahs along the main street followed the progress of the woman who carried herself with the regal bearing of a queen. A few who recognised her whispered that she was Kate O'Keefe who had once worked as a barmaid in the Emperor's Arms hotel. Kate had travelled a long, hard road with nothing more than a dream and the courage to challenge the traditionally chauvinistic world of business. And in the end she had won.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  When Gordon James gazed out of the recently installed glass window of his office he could see the same dusty parade ground where his father had once drilled the Aboriginal police. It had been convenient for the local district superintendent of police to transfer Sub Inspector James from Cloncurry to Rockhampton and keep him in gainful employment around Rockhampton until the inquiry into the allegations against him could be dismissed.

  The superintendent was in no doubt that Inspector James was innocent but he also realised that justice had to be seen to be done. The arrest of Calder had attracted too much damned publicity. It was no secret that there were powerful enemies of the Native Mounted Police who would dearly love to see the unit disbanded. There had been many accusations over the years of wanton killings carried out against the myalls.

  The bleating sheep from down south, he had snorted. Europeans with no idea of how treacherous and vicious the Queensland blackfella was! And the misguided fools pointed to the Native Mounted Police as the instruments of their systematic destruction. The superintendent was the darling of the handful of ruthless and powerful squatters who feted him as a hero for his efforts in defending their rights to clear the land of the black vermin. As such he had always supported his police against the accusations levelled against them of indiscriminate murder.

  But there was an election scheduled and not all the squatters supported the actions of the police. Some of the misguided squatters actually lived in peace with the local tribesmen on their properties, and even went as far as attempting to bar the Native Mounted Police from entering their land. Their voice was being listened to by the bleating sheep down south and it fuelled the fire to have Gordon James face an inquiry. To make matters worse, that the accused Inspector of police had a fine record of service mattered little to the newspapers.

  Gordon had been formally informed of the allegations levelled against him by and was also reassured that nothing would come of them. He was not so sure. Nothing much seemed to be going right in his life, although he appreciated the superintendent's unshakeable faith in him and accepted the temporary posting to Rockhampton until
the outcome of the coroner's inquiry.

  Gordon was standing in his office, staring out the window at the empty parade ground and pondering the events of his life when he heard a buggy rumble to a stop outside. A woman spoke to one of the Aboriginal troopers. She was asking his whereabouts and if he didn't know any better he would have sworn the woman sounded like Kate Tracy!

  He opened the door and when he did he was astonished to see that it was in fact Kate.

  ‘Gordon,’ she said with stiff formality. ‘I have come to see you.’

  ‘Come in, Missus Tracy,’ he replied, as he held open the door and allowed her to brush past him.

  He followed her and pulled out a chair. Kate nodded politely and sat down gracefully. She could see that her unannounced visit had flustered him. He seemed ill at ease and confused at what he should do or say as he stood awkwardly behind his desk. ‘You could get one of your men to bring us tea, Gordon,’ she said quietly. ‘I am rather thirsty from the trip out to your barracks.’

  ‘Certainly,’ he replied gratefully. ‘Trooper Alma!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Mahmy.’ The trooper who had been sweeping the verandah in front of his office replied and hurried to the door to stand stiffly at attention, awaiting his orders.

  ‘Fetch Missus Tracy and myself a cup of tea quick smart. You hear?’

  ‘Yes, Mahmy. Quick smart.’

  When the Aboriginal trooper scuttled away to fetch a billy of tea from the barrack's communal kitchen, Gordon sat down. ‘I am somewhat surprised to see you here, Missus Tracy,’ he frowned.

  ‘I happened to be in Rockhampton on a matter of business,’ Kate replied coldly, ‘when I was informed of your current circumstances. I was told that you have been accused of killing a man you were attempting to arrest.’

  ‘I didn't murder him,’ he replied angrily. ‘He was shot in the back by that lying bastard Calder.’

  ‘I didn't say you did,’ Kate rebuked.

  ‘I'm sorry if I sounded angry,’ Gordon said quietly in his remorse. ‘It's just that nothing much has gone right for me – as you well know.’

  Kate appraised the young man's appearance and noticed that his uniform was crumpled. He usually had a smartly turned-out appearance, she remembered. He looked tired and washed out. She almost felt a twinge of pity for him. ‘You are no doubt wondering why I have driven all the way out here to see you, when you know that my visit isn't motivated by any love for you. Or what you have done to Sarah and myself.’

  ‘I was curious,’ he answered in a tired voice.

  ‘I came out to see if you have thought about legal representation for the coroner's inquiry.’

  ‘No. I didn't think I would need any representation. Only my statement as to the facts.’

  ‘Well, I think the ways things are going in your life, you should consider approaching a solicitor for help. And to that extent I have one in mind. A Mister Hugh Darlington who has an office in Rockhampton.’

  ‘I know of him,’ Gordon said. ‘He's the local member for the electorate. But I doubt that I could afford his fees.’

  ‘I am looking after any costs,’ Kate said.

  Gordon looked at her sharply. He was stunned by her completely unexpected generosity and unsolicited help. ‘You would help me? After all that I have done to you?’

  ‘Not for my sake,’ she replied softly. ‘But out of respect for your dear parents' memory. And for Sarah.’

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Yes, for Sarah's sake. It would devastate Sarah if you were hanged. I can see from the way your mouth is gaping,’ Kate added, ‘that my statement comes somewhat as a surprise to you concerning Sarah.’

  ‘I … I … Yes,’ he stuttered, as he tried to gather his thoughts and feelings into some logical form to answer. ‘Why would Sarah be concerned about whether I lived or died? She is, after all, engaged to another.’

  ‘Probably because she has never really stopped loving you, Gordon,’ Kate answered with a sigh. ‘She has always loved you and she could love no other man, as far as I can see. That love has been badly hurt by your actions but it still remains, although she does not speak of it.’

  ‘Then how could you know?’

  ‘I just do. I have known Sarah just about all her life and I know, as a woman, another's feelings for a man, even one as worthless as you. It's a weakness that afflicts women … to love a worthless man at some time in our lives.’

  Gordon glanced down at his desk. Kate's statement, he guessed, was based on her first marriage to Kevin O'Keefe. He did not know that she also reflected on her affair with the solicitor she had recommended to him. His hands trembled and Kate was quick to see that her divulgence of what she instinctively knew of her niece's hidden feelings for the young policeman had caused him an emotional reaction she had not expected. But she wondered if she could ever forgive him. It did not matter how she felt about Gordon James. What did matter was what Sarah felt for Gordon … and he for her.

  ‘I do not deserve Sarah,’ he whispered, and Kate could see tears welling in his downcast eyes. ‘I do not have the right to beg for forgiveness for all that I have done to you … and Sarah. That I could give my life for Peter's, and still retain Sarah's love, I would.’

  ‘I think you truly mean what you say, Gordon,’ Kate said gently as she reached out to touch his clasped hands. ‘I have never known you to lie.’

  He glanced up at her and she knew she was right. His eyes were filled with tears and a terrible pain. Gordon reminded Kate of his father, so many years ago. She had been younger then and the big police sergeant had also begged for her forgiveness.

  Trooper Alma was surprised when he peered into the office and saw the tough young inspector unashamedly weeping. Embarrassed and self-conscious for his mahmy's sorrow he crept away with the two steaming mugs of tea.

  The following day Gordon sat in Hugh Darlington's office. Hugh made a sucking noise through his lips as he stared down at the statement of facts that the policeman had written outlining the events of the death of Joe Heslop.

  ‘Tell me, Inspector,’ he finally said when he glanced up at the young man sitting very still in his chair. ‘Where on the deceased body did the bullet enter?’

  ‘His back,’ Gordon replied as if the fact was self-evident from his statement.

  ‘And, at the time Mister Heslop was shot, what sort of firearm were you carrying?’

  ‘A .45 calibre single action Colt, army model,’ Gordon answered.

  ‘And Mister Calder? What kind of weapon did he have when he was arrested?’

  ‘A Snider .577 calibre carbine.’

  ‘Did the bullet exit Mister Heslop's body when he was shot?’

  ‘No,’ Gordon replied and added hesitantly. ‘I don't think so.’

  ‘Where is the body of Mister Heslop now?’ the solicitor asked, as if conducting a cross-examination in a court of law.

  ‘He was buried at Barcaldine.’

  Hugh leant back in his chair with a triumphant expression on his face. ‘And what sort of bullet would we be likely to find in Joe Heslop's corpse if we exhumed him?’

  ‘A .577 Snider round,’ Gordon replied in an awed voice as the obvious dawned on him. ‘A bloody carbine round!’

  ‘I think Missus Tracy will be up for the costs of a trip to Barcaldine to start with. And the costs of a visit from Brisbane of an acquaintance of mine who just happens to be a former army surgeon major with a considerable wealth of experience in battle wounds and bullets.’

  Gordon smiled for the first time in weeks.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  So much of what Patrick Duffy saw of the countryside from the window of his carriage reminded him of the outback of his own country. Even the taciturn Boer farmers were like their Rooinek brothers in Australia – conservative men who lived by the unforgiving rules of nature's unpredictable moods and whose bearded faces concealed the disdain they held for the city people.

  His journey had taken him through the fertile plains on the coast, over the range
of mountains that ran as a craggy spine from Cape Town in the southwest to the Transvaal in the north-east, and onto the beginning of the veldt of the western province of the Cape Colony. He had marvelled at the similarities of the country that even shared the seasons with his own country. Not the cold, snowbound Christmas season of the motherlands of Holland and England for the white inhabitants of southern Africa, but the hot, dry Yuletide Australians also experienced.

  And even at the hotel in De Aar where Patrick now swigged on a cool beer, he felt that he could have easily been standing at the bar in Bourke or Walgett. Except that the European patrons spoke a guttural language, not unlike German which Patrick had a reasonable understanding of. He was the only non-Afrikaners speaking patron in the bar and was pleased that at least the publican was an Englishman. A big and burly man with a beefy red face, he appeared more than capable of handling any Boer who should take offence at his heritage as one of the perceived oppressors of the fiercely independent, Dutch descended farmers.

  De Aar had been the starting point recommended by Colonel Godfrey for Patrick to commence his search for his father. It was the town where Michael Duffy was known to report to his Foreign Office contact from time to time.

  The Boer patrons scowled at the tall young Rooinek amongst them and Patrick could feel their hostile eyes on his back as he stood at the bar. He had come from the railway station to the hotel he would use as a base for his search for his father – and Catherine. But he was beginning to regret his choice of accommodation. The mutterings from the patrons included a few derogatory words, particularly from five big, bearded men who sat around a table in the corner of the main bar room drinking gin.

  ‘Might be an idea if'n you drink in the saloon bar, mate,’ the beefy publican said quietly, as he sidled down the bar wiping the counter. ‘These boys have been drinkin’ since early this mornin’ an’ they're not real happy to see an Englishman here. This is what they consider their pub.’

  ‘I'm not English,’ Patrick replied, loudly enough for the Boer patrons to hear him. ‘I'm an Australian.’