by Peter Watt
Peter Watt has spent time as a soldier, articled clerk, prawn trawler deckhand, builder’s labourer, pipe layer, real estate salesman, private investigator, police sergeant, and adviser to the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary. He has lived and worked with Aborigines, Islanders, Vietnamese and Papua New Guineans.
Good friends, fine food, fishing and the vast open spaces of outback Queensland are his main interests in life. Shadow of the Osprey is his second novel. The final novel in this historical trilogy, Shadow of the Osprey, is available now.
Peter Watt can be contacted at www.peterwatt.com
Also by Peter Watt
Shadow of the Osprey
Shadow of the Osprey
Flight of the Eagle
To Chase the Storm
Papua
Eden
The Silent Frontier
This work is purely fictional, although certain historical characters are mentioned. Otherwise, no reference is made to any persons living or dead. There are scenes in this work that may be considered disturbing and certain characters’ language and attitudes may be considered racist. Any language or attitudes that may be considered racist are intended to be seen in the historical context of the novel and in no way reflect the personal views of the author.
First published 2000 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
This Pan edition published 2001 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney
Reprinted 2001, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2007, 2008
Copyright © Peter Watt 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
National Library of Australia
cataloguing-in-publication data:
Watt, Peter, 1949–
Shadow of the osprey.
ISBN 9246010362771
1. Frontier and pioneer life – Australia – Queensland – Fiction.
2. Australia – History – 1851–1891 – Fiction.
3. Historical fiction. I. Title.
Typeset in 11.5/13 pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group
Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
These electronic editions published in 2000 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000
Copyright © Peter Watt 2000
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.
This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.
Shadow of the Osprey
Peter Watt
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EPub format 978-1-74262-925-4
Online format 978-1-74262-923-0
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For my uncle John Payne.
In war – a true hero of the sea.
In peace – always there for me
Contents
About the Author
Also by Peter Watt
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Map
Prologue
Return of the Spirit Warrior 1874
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Beyond the Frontier
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
To a Place of Reckoning
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Forty-four
Forty-five
Forty-six
Forty-seven
Forty-eight
Forty-nine
Fifty
Fifty-one
Fifty-two
Fifty-three
Fifty-four
Epilogue
Author's Note
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The fictional Duffy and Macintosh families would not have existed except for the unstinting faith many people had in me. The size of the project appeared daunting at times but Duckie’s daughters were there to encourage me. These remarkable women are my mother Leni Watt and my aunts Marjorie Leigh and Joan Payne.
Support also came from my sister Kerry and brother-in-law Tyrone McKee whilst I was struggling to get published.
Phil Murphy and his company Recognition Australasia in Cairns continued to supply me with invaluable facts on military and historical matters. Thanks mate!
In Sydney, my old wantok Robert Bozek from my days policing in Papua New Guinea has proved a wonderful support.
A special thank you to Gerry Bowen and Renata from Tugun who, over the years, saw the potential of the project and backed it with their zeal.
My old mates from northern Queensland, Len Evans and Brian Simpson, have since married and settled down and I welcome to my circle of friends their respective spouses Shirley and Betty.
My old workmates from my days labouring on building sites in Cairns and Port Douglas whilst I worked on the novels always took it for granted that I would be published. Thanks for your faith Wayne Coleman, Benny Waters, Frank McCosky and Clive Whitton.
I would like to single out Rob and Beth Turner from Brisbane whose trust in me extends beyond friendship. And a special thank you to Mike and Patsy Cove who provided sound advice and encouragement at the birth of the trilogy.
At a professional level thanks go to my agent Tony Williams and his wonderful staff Ingrid, Sonja, Geoffrey and Helen for their years of support when things looked less than promising. Thanks also to Brian Cook who appraised the project and recognised its potential.
If people enjoy the books much credit must go to my wonderful publisher at Pan Macmillan Cate Paterson, editor El
speth Menzies and Anna McFarlane. But the thanks do not stop with editors. A big thank you is extended to publicist Jane Novak who has looked after me from the very beginning of the project’s release. My thanks to all at Pan Macmillan for their unstinting faith in me. And thank you also to Rea Francis from R.F. Media.
A special thank you to the great master of this genre Wilbur Smith for his kind words early in my time as a writer. To me he will always be the greatest storyteller of the twentieth century.
Finally a special thank you to Naomi Howard-Smith who has brought romance to my life.
The wallaroos grope through the tufts of grass,
And turn to their coverts for fear;
But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass
Where the Boomerang sleeps with the spear:
With the nullah, the sling, and the spear.
‘The Last of His Tribe’, Henry Kendall
PROLOGUE
1868
The island was a green-shelled turtle floating on a turquoise sea . . .
At least that was David Macintosh’s first impression of the distant island. The twenty-six-year-old heir to a financial empire stood at the bow of the blackbirding barque Osprey and watched the jungle clad island rise and fall on the horizon. Of medium height and clean shaven, he had the bearing of one born to wealth. But he also had an unpretentiousness that made him likeable.
Against the wishes of his mother Lady Enid Macintosh, David had sailed on one of the family’s ships to observe village life in the South Pacific. Although she had informed him of her premonition of a terrible risk to his life, should he sail on the Osprey, he had gently chided her for her foolish and unfounded fears. But his mother had succumbed to the superstitions concerning an ancient and obscure Aboriginal curse on the family. He still vividly remembered the anguish in her normally serene face as he waved from the deck before the Osprey pulled away from the wharf in Sydney.
Now, standing at the bow and gazing at the island, her fears were far from his thoughts as he anticipated the chance to observe at first hand a culture older than Western civilisation itself. The arrival of the Europeans to the Pacific islands had brought more change in the past half century than the preceding thousands of years. Replaced by the newcomer called Jesus the island gods were dying. The old gods now hid in the jungles where the true believers still visited them with traditional offerings to appease their anger at being usurped.
Captain Morrison Mort, the taciturn skipper of the Osprey, had informed David that the island had little contact with the blackbirders. However, the inhabitants had proved to be more warlike than most of the other islanders in the Pacific. They had in past years massacred the crews of visiting sandalwood ships. But that was back in the fifties, he had quickly reassured David, adding nevertheless that Chief Tiwi, the ruler of the island, was one of the old-style warriors who resisted the missionaries and their teachings. The ferocious old chief was usually avoided; other island chiefs were more readily compliant with the aims of the Kanaka trade.
The warlike disposition of the islanders did not deter David. He was eager to meet and observe the people whom he suspected might still adhere to many of the ancient customs. For the quiet and scholarly young man, the accumulation of knowledge was far more important than the amassing of further material wealth for his family’s already vast financial interests.
As David made his way along the deck to Mort he thought he glimpsed the faintest of smiles on the dour captain’s face. But it was not a smile reflected in the man’s pale blue eyes. Only a bestial madness lived there.
Captain Mort was not a happy man. Although Jack Horton, his first mate, had the Osprey on a tack to place her inside the coral reef which sheltered the beach from the rolling power of the Pacific Ocean, Mort trusted no-one except himself to bring his barque safely to anchor. In his mid-thirties, the captain was a handsome man, whose brooding nature attracted the attention of many a young lady. He had a dark mystique that women found intriguing and there were rumours of a troubled, even savage, past that added to his allure.
He watched with a dangerous resentment as David approached him at the bow. His employer’s presence was a thorn in his side. But a thorn can be removed, he mused. He suspected that even now young Macintosh was planning to remove him from command of the Osprey – probably after the barque returned to Brisbane when Macintosh had completed his mission.
Mort was suspicious of everything and everyone. He knew Lady Enid’s son had strong views on the Kanaka trade. David had often espoused the opinion that he would close down that side of the family business if there was anything that could cause a scandal to the Macintosh name.
The year 1868 was proving to be a bad one for Mort. There had been the trouble with the damned Presbyterian missionary John Macalister back in Sydney. The tough Scot had attempted to use his influence to bring him before a court on charges of murder. Only the Devil’s luck had kept him from the gallows.
And recruiting figures had been down. Too much competition coming from other ships in the trade. With his problems compounded, he had decided to search for recruits in islands normally avoided by blackbirders. He knew the natives would be less knowledgeable of their rights and he had heard that Chief Tiwi would cooperate for what he carried in the hold of the Osprey – muskets, powder and shot. The chief was intending to take heads and women from neighbouring islands. He needed the white man’s technology and the white man needed recruits – a sensible trade.
The closest thing to love Mort had ever experienced in his violent life was that for the ship he now commanded. He had vowed that no-one, not even the owners of the Osprey, would ever part him from his ship. He would rather scuttle her than lose her to another captain.
No matter, he brooded. The problem of Mister David Macintosh being aboard the Osprey was not one of great concern for much longer. The carefully coded telegram, veiled in the language of cargoes and sea routes, transmitted by Granville White in Sydney via Brisbane, authorised him to act in any manner he saw fit to retain the Osprey under his command. He conceded that Macintosh’s cousin, who was also his brother-in-law, was a man as ruthless as himself.
Just after midday the Osprey sailed into the waters Chief Tiwi controlled and sleek outrigger canoes were launched from the beach. The muscled warriors rowed enthusiastically to meet the Macintosh barque as she glided into the sheltered lagoon behind the coral reef.
Mort and his crew watched warily as the canoeists paddled towards them. Mort had weapons stacked ready for use: rifles, iron axes, belaying pins and gaff hooks. But when the dugout canoes with their sweeping outrigger pontoons neared, the captain could see the rowers were not armed.
The outriggers circled the Osprey which now furled her sails while her anchors rattled into the calm waters of the lagoon. Cheap trinkets were tossed from the ship. Some of the brown-skinned men dived into the clear and placid waters to retrieve them while a ribald banter was exchanged between the Osprey crew and those islanders still in the canoes.
Satisfied that the natives did not offer an immediate threat, Mort issued his orders.
‘Prepare the landing party Mister Horton,’ he said quietly to his first mate.
‘Mister Macintosh comin’ ashore with us skipper?’ Horton sneered.
‘I’m afraid he will insist. Not much we can do to stop him. Though I have warned him, on many occasions, about the treachery of these people,’ Mort replied with just the faintest of smiles. ‘He is, after all, one of our employers Mister Horton, and can go where he pleases.’
Horton nodded and spat into the clear waters below. He disliked the young man as much as he had disliked anyone. He had no time for toffs and it would serve the bastard right if the darkies turned nasty.
Although David had refused the offer of a side-arm Mort and his crew carried rifles. Mort also wore the infantry sword that was rarely far from him. But there was little chance of old Tiwi turning nasty. He would be on his best behaviour because he wanted the muskets they car
ried as barter more than a confrontation with the blackbirders.
The villagers on the beach hurried to inform Chief Tiwi of the arrival of the Osprey. At first the Chief thought hopefully that it might be the ketch returning for the troublesome little Scot missionary staying on his island with his equally troublesome wife. At least, if nothing much else, the missionary ketch that had originally brought John Macalister to his island had also brought gifts of blankets. Chief Tiwi only put up with the fiery Scot, who ranted against the custom of strangling widows and the drinking of the intoxicating traditional drink kava, for this reason. He had also decided against killing the Presbyterian missionary because he respected the man’s courage. But that was not a binding decision and it was the only respect that kept a thin line between life and death.
As soon as the longboats grounded on the beach of eroded and bleached coral, the landing party was met by a mixed crowd of semi-naked men, women and children who milled around the crewmen chattering excitedly. Regardless of the reception, Mort had left Horton in charge of the Osprey with orders to keep the stern cannon trained on the village at all times. Loaded with grapeshot, the gun was well within range of the palm thatch and coconut log houses. Chief Tiwi was acutely aware of the gun covering his village as his canoe crews had brought him the intelligence and he was aware of the power of the cannon from previous encounters with similar ships.
Chief Tiwi was on the beach with his people to meet Mort and his crew. So too was the Reverend John Macalister, although David did not see the missionary until he pushed his way through the crowd of handsome bare-breasted men and women.
‘Ye come off the Osprey, I see,’ Macalister stormed belligerently as he thrust himself to the front of the islanders and planted himself squarely in front of Mort. ‘Ye can turn around and go back to your murderin’ ship Captain Mort. We don’t need your cursed evil kind here.’
Although Mort towered over the missionary, Macalister appeared not to be the slightest bit intimidated by him. Behind him was the imposing figure of Chief Tiwi, an obese man, who carried himself with an air of regal authority.