by Peter Watt
Michael stared at the little Englishman sitting like a small Buddha on the pillows. He had toyed with the idea of getting out of Cooktown and out of the reaches of British law. It would have been easy to doublecross Brown when he was away from him. But now the Englishman was playing him like a hooked fish. ‘How do you plan to help me settle with Mort?’ he finally asked. ‘You know I will personally kill him.’
‘That is your affair,’ Horace replied casually. ‘But I think you could arrange to have Captain Mort go down with his ship, when you blow it up.’
‘Blow it up!’ Michael exploded, as Horace had not even blinked when he uttered his statement so casually. ‘You mean with a bomb?’
‘Yes. I believe that is how you blow up a ship,’ Horace replied calmly. ‘And now I will tell you all you have to know to accomplish the mission.’
Michael listened attentively as Horace outlined his plan. It was fraught with extreme danger to all concerned and Michael guessed that the plan did not have the sanction of those in the British Foreign Office. He guessed that Horace was not about to inform his masters of how he planned to sabotage German operations in the Pacific. Like Michael he was a man used to living on the edge. What his civil service masters did not know could not hurt them.
But Horace was also acutely aware that only the pawns in the global chess game of strategy got burned – not the kings and bishops. And he knew that he and the Irish mercenary recruited to his cause were mere pawns where the moves left blood on the board.
Michael stood across the street from a modest building of pit-sawn timber and corrugated iron. A recently painted sign over the entrance displayed the words ‘The Eureka Company General Merchants to the Palmer and Cooktown’.
He gazed with mixed emotions at the building. There was a feeling of absolute joy for being so close to the sister that he loved dearly but, at the same time, a deep sadness for his inability to cross the street and back into her life. He was but a ghost of a memory to his sister – and one whose resurrection might be temporary. He well knew that the mission he was to undertake was extremely dangerous. Better he remain nothing more than a memory to her rather than reveal his existence and needlessly bring grief to her a second time.
He fished in his waistcoat for a small silver box of cigarillos. He lit the dark tobacco stick and remained standing under the shade of an awning, staring vacantly at his sister’s depot. With a deep sigh he prepared to walk away. He would keep his gentle memories.
He froze. Kate! He had no doubt that the beautiful young woman who walked out of the store onto the street was his sister. Even though over a decade had passed since he had last seen her, he recognised her distinctive long raven hair. She even had the same faint splash of freckles over her pert nose that summer in Sydney would bring to her pretty face. Stunned, he stared at her from across the street. A pretty little girl of mixed Aboriginal and European blood came out from the store. Smiling, Kate took her hand.
Michael was perplexed by the obviously close relationship. ‘The little girl with your sister, I reckon, is your niece,’ a voice at his elbow said quietly. Startled, Michael spun to confront John Wong. ‘Daughter of your brother Tom and his myall woman,’ he added. ‘Figured you would come here after you got through with Horace. Also thought you might need a guide.’
‘What’s the little girl’s name?’ Michael asked.
‘Sarah,’ John replied, recalling his conversations with Kate on the track. ‘I think you have a couple of nephews too, but I can’t think of their names. I remember a story getting around the hotels recently of how Henry James had to go after one of them – and his own son – up in the Kyowarra territory. Got them back okay.’
Michael returned his attention to the store where Kate stood in animated conversation with his niece Sarah. Yes, he thought. He could see the family resemblance in the little girl. One day she would also be a beautiful young woman – a bit like his own sister.
‘I guess you aren’t going to make your presence known,’ John said bluntly. ‘Not with what you and Horace are planning.’
‘Would you?’ Michael countered. ‘Considering what’s at stake.’
‘I don’t suppose so,’ John replied slowly, as if considering something profound. ‘My Chinese relatives believe in ancestor worship so I figure if you were Chinese like me then your relatives would be providing you with lots of free rice meals on your grave. It’s not a bad way of living,’ he grinned. ‘Beats working. Better to remain dead to them.’
Michael smiled at John’s self-effacing jokes about his heritage. ‘Been tough for you,’ he said. ‘Like it’s going to be tough for my little niece over there.’
‘Yeah, it will be tough for her,’ John sighed. ‘But I think she has the right kind of blood to deal with what people will say about her in the years ahead. I’ve seen your sister handle things most men couldn’t. And I grew up on the stories about Tom Duffy the bushranger. Now I’ve met you Mister O’Flynn. With that kind of blood in her veins I can feel sorry for the rest of the world.’
Michael noticed that his niece was pointing at him from across the street. ‘You said you played a bit of poker Mister Wong?’ he said. ‘I think it’s about time I found out how good you are.’ As John grinned Michael saw a flash of warmth behind the dark eyes.
He walked away with no sense of grief. Although Kate was only thirty paces from where he stood, she was, in fact, a lifetime away. He could see nevertheless that his sister was a woman all the Duffys could be proud of.
‘That man is staring at us Aunt Kate,’ Sarah said, pointing to Michael across the busy street. ‘He looks funny. He has one eye.’
‘It is rude to point,’ Kate gently chided. ‘Especially if the poor man is partly blind.’
‘But he is staring at us,’ Sarah protested. ‘And you told me staring was a rude thing.’ Kate’s curiosity overcame her need to exemplify manners. She followed the direction of her niece’s finger to see a tall, broad-shouldered young man in the company of John Wong. For just a fraction of a second, Kate saw the face of the stranger standing beside John before they both turned away from her. There was something hauntingly familiar about it.
Surely Mister Wong would have greeted her, she frowned. She raised her hand to wave to him but a big wagon came between them. By the time it had passed, both he and the stranger were gone from the street.
‘Do you know him, Aunt Kate?’ Sarah asked, aware of the subtle shift in Kate’s attention.
‘No,’ she replied uncertainly, ‘it’s just that he reminded me of someone I once loved very much.’
‘Mister O’Flynn,’ Henry said. ‘This is a mate of mine by the name of Luke Tracy. He’s a Yankee like you and he stood with the rebels at the stockade back in ’54. He’s looking for work.’ The appearance of the former police sergeant on the verandah felt poignant, given that he had come from Kate’s store.
‘I knew an Irishman who fought with the California Brigade back in ’54,’ Michael said, as he appraised Luke. ‘Fella by the name of Patrick Duffy. Did you know of him?’
‘Yeah, knew him personally,’ Luke replied. ‘Big Irishman. A bit like you as a matter of fact. When did you meet Patrick Duffy?’
‘A long time ago,’ Michael answered. He walked over to the railing of the hotel verandah to gaze down on the busy life of the frontier town; a never-ending stream of men and women heading down the dangerous track to the Palmer as they came off the ships docking daily at the Cooktown wharves. He turned away from the railing. ‘I have a team of men Mister Tracy and we sail very soon. Under other circumstances you might not have got a berth but you are in luck today. A vacancy has just come up and I don’t have time to go out and find someone else.’ Michael turned to Henry. ‘You are out of the expedition Mister James,’ he said bluntly. ‘Mister Tracy will take your place.’
Henry stood stunned. ‘I’m what?’ he exploded. Michael felt a twinge of guilt for sacking the former soldier and police sergeant. But he could not afford to risk the life
of someone close to his beloved sister.
‘I regret that I had to make the decision Mister James,’ Michael said, as gently as he could. ‘But I’ve made my mind up and am not about to tell you why. You just have to accept it.’
For a brief moment he expected the Englishman to swing at him. There was a cold anger in the man’s eyes. But Henry shook his head in resignation and stormed away. Michael turned his attention back to Luke. ‘I will see you here tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock. You will be briefed and given your kit.’
Luke nodded. No words need be said – at least not to Michael O’Flynn. The words needed to be said to Henry, as it was Henry who had suggested that he approach the American recruiter. Neither had expected this outcome, and he felt a sense of misguided betrayal. He mumbled a thanks for the job and hurried away.
Michael watched them leave the hotel and walk across the street. The meeting had disturbed him. That the American Luke Tracy had stood with his father at the Eureka Stockade brought back memories. However, he was pleased that he was able to put Henry James off his team. He sensed that the situation would become very dangerous in the near future, and although he intended to put the lives of his team foremost, there were no guarantees, only that a man’s life did not go on forever.
The Osprey was due to sail into Cooktown in the next few days, according to Karl Straub, and Michael knew he would finally come face to face with the man who he knew in his heart was responsible for his father’s murder. He wondered how he would react to such a meeting. He would have to wait to find out.
There was little to do in the waiting. Everything was in place for the mysterious expedition. The purchase of the components for a bomb caused few questions in a town that sold mining equipment. Horace had even fused his device, a lethal package of blasting powder normally used to break rock in search of gold ore. In this case the bomb was designed to blow the bottom out of a ship.
Michael walked away from the railing and slumped in a cane chair. He had a strange feeling that some mysterious force had drawn him to this time and place for a reason. So many strange coincidences: the meeting with Fiona and Penelope in Sydney; his beloved sister Kate in Cooktown; the fact that he was soon to confront the man who had brought so much misery to his family; the chain of terrible events that led back to the dispersal of an Aboriginal tribe in Queensland, unleashing misery on both families.
He thought about the stories he had heard of a myall curse, stories told by the bushmen around the hotel bars in Brisbane that had become part of frontier lore. Maybe there really was a myall curse. If so, whose side would the fickle avenging myall spirits be on, when he met the man who he was always destined to kill – or be killed by?
TWENTY-FOUR
Sergeant Francis Farrell felt like dancing an Irish jig. But before he did, he would relate to Daniel Duffy the grand news that for so many years they had hoped for. He hurried to the offices of Sullivan & Levi where he was immediately ushered into Daniel’s office. All at the law firm were familiar with the big Irish police sergeant’s mysterious visits. The clerks had often speculated amongst themselves on the relationship between the Sydney policeman and the leading criminal lawyer. Most presumed he was on a retainer to provide inside information. Not that they voiced their suspicions. To do so would be killing the goose that laid the golden eggs crucial in winning cases for the defence.
Farrell’s waxed moustache fairly bristled with excitement and his eyes glowed with triumph as he took a chair in the office. ‘We’ve got him!’ he exclaimed, leaning forward to Daniel. ‘Lady Macintosh’s reward worked!’
‘Mort?’ Daniel asked. ‘You have evidence that will stand up in court?’
‘Two eyewitnesses,’ Farrell said with the broadest of grins. ‘Two men who volunteered Mort as the man they saw coming out of Rosie’s place immediately after they heard her screams cease. Said they were on their way to visit her when they heard her screaming. Said it put the fear of God in them and that they were too frightened to find out why she was screaming. So they hung back, and minutes later saw Mort come out with blood all over him. Better still, they said they saw a knife in his hand.’
‘Did you suggest to them that it was Mort they saw?’ Daniel asked impatiently. The answer was critical to a prosecution case.
Farrell’s broad smile turned to a knowing grin. ‘Didn’t have to,’ he replied. ‘They named Mort themselves. Said they saw him with a mate of theirs by the name of Sims who is now first mate on the Osprey. They don’t know how he got the job as he had no real sea experience except for a short time on a brig out of Sydney a few years back. Sims that is.’
Daniel frowned. ‘How do they explain their sudden recollection?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair. ‘Other than the fact that we know the reward money has cleared their memory.’
Farrell scowled. ‘That is a bit of a problem,’ he said. ‘Seems they both want fifty guineas apiece for giving evidence against Mort. They aren’t prepared to share the reward.’
‘I’m sure Lady Macintosh can accommodate their request,’ Daniel assured. He knew Enid would stop at nothing to see Mort hang and money was her weapon to ensure this happened. ‘Corroboration is the noose for Mort’s neck so you can tell them it’s fifty apiece if we ever get the opportunity to see that happen.’
The smile returned to Farrell’s face. ‘Good! I have their statements and it’s now only a matter of arresting Mort. Danny boy, we finally have him.’ But the smile began to fade when he noticed the glum expression on the lawyer’s face at the mention of Mort’s imminent arrest. ‘What is it? he asked. The news should have caused only ecstatic joy.
‘You don’t know?’ Daniel said. ‘Do you?’
‘Know what?’
‘The Osprey sailed a couple of weeks ago,’ he said bitterly. ‘Mort is on his way north and sailing out of our jurisdiction.’
‘Holy mother of God!’ the sergeant exploded. ‘The devil protects him again!’
‘It seems so. If only we had had this evidence weeks earlier everything might have turned out differently. But now we have to go through a tedious process of tracking him down, probably in Queensland, and undertaking an extradition. Somehow, I think Mort does have the devil protecting him, as you say, and he will simply slip away to another country. No, Sergeant Farrell, he has beaten us again.’
Farrell leaned back in his chair, completely deflated of his triumph. There would be no Irish jig this day to celebrate. Instead, he would probably join Daniel Duffy at the Erin Hotel, where they would get rolling drunk to drown their bitter disappointment.
Penelope took afternoon tea at Fiona’s house. They sat in the pleasant surrounds of the garden, enjoying the mild Sydney day. Normally they would have met at one of the city’s fashionable restaurants to chat about the inconsequential things in their lives – social engagements and fashion. Manfred had sailed into Sydney from Samoa and was now on board the Osprey bound for Cooktown. The little time Penelope had shared with her husband had been filled with organising his expedition north. And when they had made love it had been a brief but exciting interlude spiced with just a little something extra for her husband’s benefit. The interlude had included Fiona.
With Manfred now sailing north on the Osprey Penelope preferred to share a quiet, private moment with her beloved Fiona away from the crush and mill of Sydney society. In the background she could hear the babble of Fiona’s daughters playing hide and seek in the garden under the stern eye of Miss Gertrude Pitcher. As Fiona served tea from a fine porcelain china pot, Penelope gazed at the two little girls squealing with delight in their play. A frown clouded Penelope’s face. ‘Is there something wrong with Dorothy? She does not seem to be the same little girl I once knew.’
Fiona paused pouring the tea and glanced at her cousin. ‘I do not know what you mean,’ she said. ‘You don’t think she’s unwell do you?’
‘No,’ Penelope said slowly, as if attempting to analyse the subtle change in Dorothy’s demeanour. ‘I suppose it i
s just that she is growing up so fast, that the changes are noticeable. Nothing more than that.’ But she was not so sure. Something about her niece touched distant and disturbing memories of her own life at that age. There was something about the haunted look in the little girl’s eyes that only one who had experienced similar could recognise. Penelope shook her head. The vague and troubling thoughts could not be entertained. Surely not her brother again! Not his own daughter!
‘I suppose you are missing Manfred,’ Fiona said, too casually trying to hide her jealousy. ‘He never seems to be able to spend much time at home with you.’
Penelope leaned forward to her cousin. ‘You have no need to be jealous my love,’ she reassured softly. ‘Manfred is my husband. And I suppose I love him in my own way. He is strong and powerful, a man amongst men, but it is you I love with my heart. I provide Manfred my body to sate his desires and it is that which binds us when all else is considered. Not the love that the romanticists write about in those silly novels you so much like to read.’
Fiona placed the teapot carefully on the table. ‘Was it that apparent?’ she asked quietly, with a plea in her emerald eyes for forgiveness.
‘I understand you better than any other person alive,’ Penelope smiled gently. ‘I suspect even better than your own mother.’
‘It’s just that night . . . ’ Fiona tapered away and turned to gaze at her daughters.
‘That night was a special kind of sharing my love,’ Penelope soothed. ‘Manfred is a man of peculiar tastes. To watch two women making love is something that satisfies him in a way we may not understand. But I suspect, that in your own way, having my husband watching us heightened your own desire for me.’