Flight of the Eagle

by Peter Watt

  ‘I don't exactly know why,’ Mary replied with a sigh. The weather was so close that sweat streamed down her body under her heavy clothes and she envied Matilda for just the clean cotton dress she wore. But an Aboriginal girl was allowed such immodesty, as long as it concealed her female charms sufficiently from the menfolk who worked on the station. ‘I suspect he has a need to see the place personally,’ Mary replied after some thought. ‘It has links with his wife's family.’

  ‘Only bad spirits out there,’ Matilda grunted as the baby bit down with toothless gums. ‘Baal Nerambura spirits belong sacred hills.’

  ‘Your son is part Nerambura,’ Mary reminded her wet nurse. ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘Baal spirits, Missus,’ Matilda stubbornly reiterated. ‘Mister White, he make the spirits of the hill angry if he goes there. Make storm spirit angry.’

  ‘No, Matilda, just a storm, nothing more,’ she said with a weak smile of exhaustion. The weather was oppressive and sapped her strength. ‘And when my son gets older, do not dare frighten him with your stories about evil spirits,’ she chided gently.

  ‘Not stories,’ Matilda answered stubbornly. ‘All true.’

  Over the dry brigalow scrub plains the thunder-heads billowed into massive castles in the blue sky. In the brigalow scrub the creatures of the bush fell into a frightened hush as they gazed at the horizon with wide eyes. This storm had in its heart a destructiveness not seen for a long time on the plains.

  The Aboriginal stockman had not wanted the task of taking Mister White to see the hills. Like all the employees of Glen View, European or Aboriginal, he avoided the small range of ancient volcanic rocks. It was well accepted that the area was haunted and bad luck befell those foolish enough to challenge the spirits of the hills that lived in the rocks, trees and waterholes of the region. Cattle that strayed into the area were often found dead from no apparent cause. It was a place to shun – at all times, by all men.

  But he obeyed his boss's order to take the owner to the place that was baal. Within a couple of hours they arrived at the base of the hills and the stockman lurked by the buggy while Granville White stood a distance away, gazing up at the summit of the tallest crest in the range. ‘Is the cave up there?’ he called to the stockman.

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘And where did the dispersal take place of the blackfellas who used to live here?’ he asked as he walked back to the buggy.

  ‘Don't know, boss,’ the stockman lied, afraid the white man might ask him to take him to the killing grounds. As it was he had ensured they arrived on the opposite side of the hill to that of the spirit-haunted waterholes.

  Granville flashed a broad smile of triumph which the Aboriginal did not understand. He had faced the source of his nightmares and had only found a jumble of ragged, scrub covered rocks. He had finally exorcised the ghosts of his past. ‘We can go back to the house now,’ he said to the stockman who leapt into the driver's seat with a grunt of relief. He was more than happy to put the place behind them. Besides, the storm rumbling over the plains had an eerie feel which made the stockman's skin prickle.

  The trip back to Glen View homestead was much faster than the trip out and Granville had cause on more than one occasion to rebuke the man for the reckless manner in which he urged the harnessed horse through the bushy scrub.

  Wallarie did not know exactly where he was but he knew that if he kept heading in the direction of the setting sun he would eventually reach the mission station. There he would be safe; he could trust the white man and his missus whose lives he had saved years earlier.

  Behind him was the place the white men called Glen View and the spirit of Peter Duffy. But from the west he could see the billowing clouds of a storm racing east. Wallarie grinned as he rattled his spears. The ancestor spirits had called on the storm to go to Glen View and visit its fury on those deserving death.

  A gust of wind raised the red dust like dry blood around his body. They were here, he exalted. The ancestor spirits were all around him and he could hear their voices in the eerie shrieking whispers of a big storm full of lightning and thunder.

  He felt like dancing that corroboree his old white brother Tom Duffy used to call an Irish jig. So he did, and he thought for a moment that he could hear Tom laughing with the ancestor spirits.

  SIXTY-TWO

  The sniping continued spasmodically, making sure Michael and Patrick were pinned down under the wagon throughout the remaining hours of light. The afternoon was shortened by the darkening of the sky by grey rain clouds. The fierce storm that had initially threatened, however, turned unexpectedly to a steady but gentle drizzle that brought with it a creeping chill to the men sheltering under the wagon.

  Water dripped through the cracks between the floorboards and eventually soaked them as gusts of wind drove the drizzle sideways. The only consolation was that the weather was also making their enemies just as miserable.

  The occasional shots fired in their direction had little effect other than to keep them aware that the Boer commando had not left. But they were sufficiently concealed and out of range to take comfort in the thought that their deaths would not be as the result of a well-aimed bullet.

  Michael spent the hours talking to his son. He told him much about his life, including his work for the Foreign Office agent, Horace Brown. He also talked much about the battles he had fought, and the places he had been, in the last twenty years or so.

  In turn Patrick related what he could of his own life, growing up first with Michael's own family in Sydney then his life under the patronage of Lady Enid Macintosh in England. Both men could not help but marvel at the strange parallels in their independent lives. Patrick was truly the son of his tough yet gentle father.

  ‘It will be dark soon,’ Michael sighed as he noticed the crest of the hills to their front begin to blur with the sky. ‘Then they will come in full force, one way or the other.’ As he spoke he checked the big Colt pistol by his hand which would be used as a backup to his Winchester. The gun was loaded and ready to be used should his enemy get that close to him.

  ‘When should I leave?’ Patrick asked reluctantly. He did not feel that it was right to leave his father alone to face the Boer commando. But Michael had reasoned with him; he reminded him that he was a soldier and should appreciate the importance of critical thinking at such times. Argument based on emotion was a useless tactic with his father; it only made him angry.

  ‘Fairly soon,’ his father replied as he peered out across the plain at the hill. ‘As soon as we lose vision over fifty feet. Bronkhorst won't wait too long in this weather.’

  ‘Then that will probably be in about ten minutes' time,’ Patrick said as he peered up at the sky. ‘According to my calculations.’

  ‘You have all you need?’ Michael asked as if talking to a son preparing to go to school rather than slipping out from a wagon under siege. ‘You remember what I said about the kraal down the river?’ Patrick patted a parcel of items he had collected and wrapped in canvas. The parcel was a life jacket of sorts that he would use in his escape attempt.

  ‘Yes. Get to the kraal and ask for Mbulazi,’ Patrick answered.

  His father grunted, adding, ‘Mbulazi is an old Zulu warrior and no lover of the Boers. He will get help from a British post in De Aar. But don't let yourself get into any drinking sessions with the old bugger. His people brew a mean drop of beer from maize. I should know.’

  ‘You could come with me,’ Patrick offered hopefully. ‘By the time they get here we would both be gone.’

  ‘No chance, Patrick,’ his father replied sadly. ‘The Boer is a first class fighter and he knows full well that we will try and use the darkness to slip past him. So long as they know I'm here they will concentrate their forces to rush me in the dark. I'm the man they want. You are only a bonus.’

  ‘You hold out and I promise I will return with help,’ Patrick said fiercely. ‘So help me God! Or my name isn't Duffy.’

  Michael laughed soft
ly at Patrick's fierce determination. It was growing dark and he could barely see his son's features. He might as well have been the little boy he remembered from so long ago in Frasers Paddock in Redfern. ‘Do you know, Patrick,’ he said fondly, ‘a long time ago in Cooktown I thought I was going to die and your Aunt Kate told me about you. And I was able to fight off the grim reaper. So when I have you beside me now, saying that you will get help, I know you will.’

  Patrick heard his father's words of trust and fought back tears. It did not bode well that a son cry in front of his father! ‘I think we still have a lot to talk about,’ he said in a choked voice that he fought to control lest his father think he was crying. ‘But we will do so when all this is over.’

  ‘We will, Patrick. We will,’ Michael answered softly. ‘But now you get ready to leave because I feel they are making ready to come for us.’

  Patrick crawled across to his father and reached out to take the big man's hand in his own. He held it tightly then he rose as his father grasped him in a brief bear hug.

  ‘Tell your mother that you love her, son,’ Michael whispered. ‘That's very important to women, especially mothers.’

  ‘I will. And I'll buy you a round of drinks at the first hotel we come across.’

  ‘Good man,’ Michael replied gruffly. ‘And you can buy all the rest to follow with that Macintosh fortune of yours.’

  Without another word Patrick turned and in a low crouch sprinted for the river. His father watched him disappear into the darkness of the veldt then turned with tears in his good eye.

  He hefted his Winchester into his shoulder and fired off two shots, just to let the assembling Boer commando know he was still at the wagon. There was no returning fire. He knew there might not be as the commando was surely already advancing stealthily on him. ‘Come on, you Dutch bastards,’ he roared defiantly into the enveloping darkness that had been brought on prematurely by the drizzling rain. He levered a third round into his rifle and waited. ‘Come and see how an Irishman can die with the best of them.’

  As Patrick splashed into the cold water with his boots tied around his neck he heard the shots from the wagon echo in the darkness. And he heard his father's last defiant words challenging the tough Boer commando. He waded out to where the river was strongest and the water caught at his legs, dragging him off his feet. With a splash he was swirled away from the wagon. The canvas wrapped parcel floated and Patrick held onto it with both arms to keep his head above the cold muddy waters. All he had to do now was drift with the current until he felt he was beyond the perimeter of the Boer commando. Then he would kick out and push himself to the shore. Nevertheless, it was going to be a long night. Patrick tried not to think of his father. To do so would have sent him mad with grief.

  SIXTY-THREE

  When Gordon rode out to Balaclava homestead his less than welcome reception from the manager was to be expected. ‘I only wish to speak to Miss Duffy briefly, Mister Rankin,’ he said quietly. ‘I promise I will then leave.’

  ‘I know all about you, Inspector,’ Rankin growled. ‘My wife informed me of what you did to Sarah's brother last year.’

  ‘I do not deny what has been said about me,’ Gordon persisted. ‘But I only ask five minutes of Miss Duffy's time.’

  The manager stared at the young man standing at the foot of the steps with such an abject expression of sorrow that he could not help but feel a twinge of pity for him. He glanced questioningly at his wife and she nodded. ‘I will speak to Sarah, Inspector,’ she said and went inside the house.

  A brief moment later she returned, with Sarah accompanying her. Adele and her husband made a tactful retreat.

  Gordon stood forlornly in the blazing sun at the foot of the steps with his police cap in his hand. ‘Sarah, I love you,’ he said in a choked voice. ‘I always have and always will. There is nothing else I can do but speak these words.’

  ‘I know,’ she whispered and was barely audible. ‘I wish I could not love you, Gordon, but I do.’

  He stared up at her and his eyes brimmed with tears as he struggled for words to express complex emotions. ‘I have done many bad things in my life but the only good thing I ever did was love you. I have come again to beg your forgiveness.’

  ‘I can forgive you for what you have done to me but I cannot give my brother's forgiveness. For that you would have to ask him.’

  ‘Peter is dead, Sarah,’ he replied. ‘I cannot ask a dead man to forgive me. I only wish that was possible.’

  ‘In your own way you must find a way to be at peace with my brother,’ she said with the wisdom of a spirit caught between two worlds. ‘To do so is important for the future.’

  They fell into a silence. There was a gulf between them of blood and spirits seeking peace. Would their love be strong enough to breach the gulf?

  ‘I have to return to my camp on the waterhole north of here,’ Gordon said. ‘And then to Rockhampton to finalise some matters. I will be resigning my commission and will return to Balaclava for you,’ he said. ‘Will you wait for me?’

  ‘Yes, Gordon,’ she answered. ‘I have always been waiting for you to return to me.’

  He knew she had forgiven him. ‘I have a job with your aunt Kate when I leave the police,’ he said. ‘It will be a start where we could be together.’

  She nodded and the tears splashed down her cheeks and with tentative steps he closed the distance between them. They stood weeping together as they embraced.

  ‘I love you so much, Sarah, that I would rather die than ever hurt you again,’ he said as he kissed her eyes. ‘So help me nothing else is as important to me than you.’

  He wanted the embrace to last forever as the love they had repressed for so long flowed but he knew that he must return to the camp before dark and with great reluctance gently broke away and held her at arm's length. He felt the gentle pain of boundless love. This beautiful, intelligent woman had loved him despite the tragedy that had occurred between them.

  From a window the Rankins watched the touching scene. Humphrey Rankin gave his wife a puzzled look at the sudden shift in their governess's attitude to the police inspector. She merely returned his look with a smug expression of disdain for his ignorance of the ways of women. For Adele Rankin had always suspected that the young woman was in love with the inspector despite all that he had done to her. Life, she knew, was not ruled by absolutes but ruled by the heart.

  They all waved to him as he rode away from the homestead. Sarah had shyly informed Adele that the matters between her and Gordon had been resolved. She would have to inform her suitor that she could not marry him and that she would be marrying Gordon instead upon his return from Rockhampton after the coronial inquiry.

  For Gordon, riding away from the homestead, life was suddenly filled with a meaning he had never truly experienced before. He rode into his camp an hour later with a smile across his face as wide as the plains. If a curse really existed then Sarah had helped lift the spectre from his life with her admitted love for him. Kate had been right. Love transcends all!

  The following morning as Gordon and his troop prepared to break camp and leave for Rockhampton, Humphrey Rankin galloped to the waterhole. Gordon was puzzled at the set expression on the man's face as he reined in his horse beside them.

  ‘You'd better saddle up quick, Inspector James,’ he said without the ceremony of small talk. ‘Sarah is very sick with a fever. She could be dying.’

  Stunned by the manager's statement, Gordon gaped uncomprehendingly up at the man on his horse. ‘But she was in perfect health when I left her yesterday. How could this be?’

  ‘Some sort of blackfella stuff if you ask me,’ the manager replied sadly. ‘I've seen the same symptoms with the blacks who work on Balaclava when they think they have the bone pointed at them.’

  ‘I'm a doctor. I will come with you,’ Blayney said to Humphrey as he quickly rolled up his swag. ‘I've never heard such nonsense before.’

  Humphrey Rankin cast him a pityi
ng look and shook his head. ‘You obviously haven't lived in this country for very long, Doctor.’

  ‘If the girl is sick with a fever, sir, I can assure you that her illness will have nothing to do with some native superstitious claptrap.’

  But Gordon did not agree with the doctor's opinion. In his heart he knew what he must do to lift the curse from Sarah. Even if it cost him his life.

  Doctor Harry Blayney shook his head as he stood by the bed and looked down at Sarah. The girl was very sick and lay in a comatose state in the tiny room with its curtains drawn to keep out the light. The once clean, crisp sheets were dank with her sweat and at times she would ramble on about unrelated things before lapsing back into her coma. Her pulse was at first rapid, then weak, and her temperature fluctuated between high and low.

  Blayney's training told him that her illness had to have a sound medical basis, but just what that was he could not determine with the limited resources available to him. Nor was he impressed by Missus Rankin's diagnosis of some ridiculous Aboriginal spell cast on her. The woman had once been a nurse and as such should have known better than infer the illness was the result of such superstitious rubbish. ‘I think there is very little we can do other than keep the liquids up to her, Missus Rankin,’ he said with a sigh. ‘And, I will admit, I cannot diagnose the cause of her fever.’

  ‘I respect your credentials, Doctor Blayney,’ she said as she bathed Sarah's fevered brow. ‘But you must understand that out here I have seen many things that defy our understanding of the scientific world.’

  The doctor washed his hands in an enamel basin of water beside the bed. ‘Why are you so quick to diagnose a native spell if I may ask, Missus Rankin?’ he questioned as he dried his hands on a clean cloth.

  ‘I saw her earlier in the evening before she retired for the night,’ Adele answered. ‘She was perfectly well then. But later I heard her calling out, as if she was arguing with someone in her room. I was naturally concerned that one of the stockmen might have entered the house. When I entered the room …’ She hesitated as she took the cloth from Sarah's brow to stare down at her. ‘I know what I am about to tell you, Doctor, you will consider the opinion of a silly woman. But I will tell you anyway.’