Shadow of the Osprey: The Frontier Series 2

by Peter Watt

Henry tossed back his rum and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘He killed a good friend of mine once,’ he growled. ‘A darkie trooper who was as good as any white man including present company. I let Mort get away with it. Maybe you could say that if I’d done my job back then and reported the murdering bastard, your men might still be alive today Mister O’Flynn. Is that good enough reason for you?’

  He stared at Michael, daring him to rebut his reasons for inclusion. The Irishman stared right back into the smouldering eyes and understood the terrible torment within the man’s soul for revenge. ‘That’s good enough reason for me Mister James,’ Michael finally replied, and extended his hand to seal his inclusion in the small but growing force of bushmen. ‘Your shout on this round Mister James,’ Michael added with a slow grin, as Henry took the extended hand.

  ‘Sounds fair,’ Henry replied. ‘But my friends call me Henry.’

  Michael nodded and Luke slapped him on the back. ‘Good decision partner,’ he said. ‘Henry knows the bush and he’s pretty handy around horses.’

  Although Henry breathed a sigh of relief for being included in the expedition, he dreaded having to face Emma. He knew that she would take his leaving hard. How could he explain his reasons to her when they were not all that clear to himself? He knew that the bravest thing he could do was lie to his wife. He would tell her that he was going with Luke on a short trip to poke around some places he suspected might be likely places for gold. It was a thin story, but he hoped it would hold up.

  ‘You seen Kate O’Keefe since you got back?’ Michael asked Luke conversationally when Henry went to the bar to buy a round of drinks.

  Luke winced and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Not exactly,’ he replied. ‘Henry tells me that Kate told Emma that she never wanted to see me again, when she heard I’d survived the sinking of the Osprey.’

  ‘I wouldn’t take much notice of that if I were you,’ Michael replied as he glanced at the cards Luke had dealt him. It was not a good hand but he was still ahead.

  ‘Yeah, well you don’t know Kate,’ Luke replied, looking down at the hand he had dealt to himself. It was not a good hand either.

  Michael smiled to himself. If only you knew . . .

  It was Ben Rosenblum who inadvertently told Kate of the expedition, when she had gone to the paddock behind her house, to talk to him about purchasing a new yoke of bullocks for her wagons. And no sooner had he told her that Henry was with Luke Tracy and the American O’Flynn, than her eyes flashed with anger. He had cursed himself for not thinking. Now Henry would have to face Kate’s full wrath.

  ‘Why is Henry with them?’ she had asked in the quiet way that Ben had long come to recognise as a precursor to an explosion of anger.

  ‘I’m not sure Kate,’ he mumbled. ‘Just gone for a drink I suppose.’

  She fixed him with her eyes and Ben wished he could tell her all that Henry had confided in him. But he had sworn to keep silent on the matter, and even regretted that he had not been able to go himself. It was rumoured that the American had paid well to the men he had recruited for the ill-fated expedition on the Osprey. No doubt he would pay well to those who went with him on this expedition too.

  Kate sensed that she had stumbled onto something she was not supposed to know about. But any further questioning of Ben would force him to break the code of mateship. That she would not do, as she realised its sacred importance to men on the frontier. ‘I would like to see Henry,’ she said casually, still holding Ben’s gaze. ‘Where might I find him this time of day?’

  ‘He’s gone to the Golden Nugget,’ Ben answered. ‘But I didn’t tell you that Kate.’

  ‘You have my word on that,’ she answered with a grateful nod.

  ‘Stupid bastard,’ Ben muttered miserably to himself as she turned to leave him alone with the big beasts. He could tell from her purposeful strides that she was looking for trouble. Whoever it was with, he felt sorry for them.

  Kate knew exactly who she would confront and why. That damned American O’Flynn! How dare he even consider recruiting Henry to one of his nefarious schemes. She did not stop to consider that it could be Henry who was making all the overtures for enlistment. All she knew was that whenever the man she had come to know as Mister Michael O’Flynn was around those she cherished, they were placed in jeopardy.

  She slowed her pace and checked her emotions. Why was she so upset? Was she actually thinking about Luke’s welfare rather than Henry’s? Had she not vowed to forget Luke? A tiny voice told her she could not so easily forget him, and she quickened her pace, as if to walk away from the guilt. No, she thought with her chin set, Luke was well and truly out of her life forever. He would never come and go again, as he pleased. Her concern was for Henry and the danger involvement with the American mercenary posed to him. She had Emma and young Gordon to consider.

  Kate reached the hotel just after dark. Already the sprawling frontier town was awakening to a night of riotous, sordid living. Rollicking and drunken miners who did not know Kate made lewd suggestions, whilst those who did know her tipped their hats respectfully. She ignored the former and acknowledged the latter with a forced smile.

  Kate paused outside the hotel. She wanted to bring her anger under control before entering the bastion of men. She was about to enter when Henry appeared unexpectedly through the door.

  ‘Kate! What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  ‘I came to see you,’ she replied, stepping up to him. ‘And this Mister O’Flynn whom I have heard so much about.’

  Henry took her by the elbow and steered her away from the front of the hotel. ‘Did Ben tell you?’ he asked as he walked with her in the direction of her store.

  ‘He didn’t mean to,’ Kate answered protectively of her trusted employee. ‘It kind of slipped out that you were here to see O’Flynn.’

  ‘I won’t lie to you Kate,’ Henry answered. ‘I came to see if I could get a job with Mister O’Flynn but I cannot tell you anymore than that I’m afraid so please don’t ask me.’

  ‘What are you going to tell Emma?’ Kate flared.

  Henry did not answer immediately. ‘Well?’ Kate asked again. ‘Are you going to tell Emma what you are doing with that damned American soldier of fortune?’

  ‘No,’ Henry answered quietly. ‘I’m going to lie to her and I want your sworn promise that you will not tell her of my meeting with Mister O’Flynn either.’ He could see the determined set of her chin and sensed that the fiery Kate O’Keefe had a confrontation in mind with the American mercenary.

  She stopped and turned to face him. ‘You are asking more than I should say yes to, Henry,’ she pleaded. ‘I suspect that you will be in great danger with that man, from all that I have heard of him. It seems he walks with death and I care too much for you and Emma to see you hurt.’

  ‘I have been riding with death for many years now Kate,’ he smiled sadly. ‘What I am about to do I must do, for reasons I do not fully understand myself. It’s not even the money, but something in my life that goes back a long time to when I was with the Native Mounted Police. That’s about all I can tell you. Please promise me you will not go back and attempt to change Mister O’Flynn’s mind.’

  Kate frowned. She could see the deep torment in his eyes, and had no answer to what she saw. She turned away bitterly. Henry was a man of the frontier and physical danger a way of life for him, she thought with resignation. She would keep his secret. ‘I will respect your wishes. But half my mind tells me I should go back and confront this man so callous that he would possibly deprive a woman of her husband, a son of his father.’

  Henry grinned down at her. ‘He is no match for you Kate O’Keefe. He is only used to staying alive on battlefields, not confronting the likes of you.’

  Kate felt the mirth in his opinion. ‘A pity,’ she sighed as she started off towards the store. ‘I was looking forward to meeting this man who, it seems, has the whole town speculating on your mysterious mission out west. But Emma has dinner waiting for
us and you have things to tell her, as only you can.’

  Henry nodded gratefully and fell into step beside her. They walked in the balmy evening with the raucous sounds of the town around them. Kate found the sounds comforting, unlike the silence of the bush which always held an ominous hush for the dreaded screech of the black cockatoo, the war cry of the fierce northern tribesmen.

  When Horace’s late evening meeting with Soo was concluded and money had been exchanged for the horses, rations and guns procured through the tong leader’s contacts he walked to French Charley’s to meet Captain Dumas. The meeting had been arranged as part of the English agent’s extension of British hospitality to the Frenchman, although Horace assured him that, as a simple civil servant with the British Foreign Office, he abhorred talk of politics and intelligence intrigue. Anything that the captain might tell him concerning his country’s affairs was not of any great interest.

  Both men knew that was a lie. But Captain Dumas was suitably impressed by his fellow countryman’s famed establishment. French Charley’s did indeed rival the best colonial restaurants that the French gun boat captain had dined in. The food and wines were excellent, and the girls who worked for Monsieur Boeul were beautiful, although he had to smile at their attempts to imitate his national accent.

  Captain Dumas had attracted the admiring glances of the ladies of French Charley’s as he dined in his smart dress uniform and his host for the evening had promised him that the ladies were well and truly available to entertain lonely sailors. Captain Dumas had his eye on a little redhead with a saucy disposition. She smiled coyly at him whenever he fixed her with a champagne-induced leer. Although the female entertainment offered by the famed establishment was not to Horace’s tastes, in all other respects he could not fault the restaurant as a venue to loosen the Frenchman’s tongue.

  Already Captain Dumas had told him much concerning his mission and Hue’s importance to French intelligence. The girl was already being likened by Cochinese bandits, who saw themselves as nationalist patriots, to Trieu Au, a third-century girl who herself could be compared to France’s own Joan of Arc. Hue’s historical predecessor had fought the Chinese invaders and, when defeated at the age of twenty-three, had chosen suicide before capture.

  Through various subtle and less than subtle means French intelligence agencies were hoping to extract from Hue the names of those persons in the royal court of the Cochinese emperor who were plotting against French interests. But the captain himself was strictly a naval man who kept out of politics and was not particularly interested in what his intelligence counterparts did with her.

  ‘I must congratulate you on your excellent grasp of the English language, Captain Dumas,’ Horace said. ‘I myself have great difficulties with learning languages,’ he lied, ‘and only wish I had spent time visiting all the exotic places you have in your time with the French navy . . . ’ Horace’s voice trailed away as his eye caught a tall, commanding man entering the restaurant with a pretty young brunette on his arm. Manfred von Fellmann!

  Captain Dumas had also noticed the Baron enter the crowded room, and lurched to his feet full of bonhomie for the Prussian he had fished out of the sea. ‘Ah Baron von Fellmann, please to join us,’ he called above the din of voices. The Baron turned, and said something to his pretty escort, who pursed her lips with feigned disappointment as he left her alone, to stride over to their table.

  Horace watched him approach with mixed feelings. So, he was about to meet the man whom he had recognised from afar in Samoa, but had never formally met for professional reasons.

  ‘May I introduce Monsieur Brown to you Baron von Fellmann,’ the Frenchman slurred. He had trouble remaining on his feet as he waved vaguely at Horace, sitting very still at the table. Horace watched the dawning recognition on the Baron’s face, as he clicked his heels in the Prussian style, with his hands at his side.

  ‘It is good to meet you Mister Brown,’ Manfred said. ‘I have never had the honour of meeting a man with such a formidable reputation as yours.’

  The flattering insinuation was lost on the inebriated French naval man who gestured for the Prussian aristocrat to sit with them.

  ‘It is an honour to meet you Oberst von Fellmann,’ Horace replied with a nod of his head.

  ‘I am no longer a colonel Mister Brown. But I am sure, as two old soldiers, we could discuss the campaigns we have seen. Yours in the Crimea and mine against the army colleagues of my French ami at the Sedan. No my friend, I am a man only with commercial interests these days.’

  Horace slipped the spectacles from his nose to wipe them. ‘And sadly,’ he sighed, ‘I am but a simple servant in Her Majesty’s colonial outposts.’

  Manfred’s laughter rolled around the room at the little Englishman’s description of himself. They both knew who and what they were: two very professional – and dangerous – men fighting in an undeclared war for the interests of their respective nations. ‘I think we should toast this occasion Mister Brown,’ Manfred said when he stopped laughing. ‘Here we are as friends from Germany, France and England, enjoying the night in a neutral French restaurant, in a British colony far from our homes and loved ones.’

  The French captain slopped champagne into their glasses which they raised to each other in toast.

  The pretty brunette appeared at the Baron’s elbow, petulantly whining in a poor imitation of a French accent that he was ignoring her. Manfred patted her on her bottom and leaned forward to the Frenchman. ‘A little gift from Germany to France, Captain,’ he said with a conspiratorial wink. ‘The young lady has informed me that she would like to take French lessons – in privacy.’

  Before the girl could protest the Frenchman lurched to his feet, and gallantly took her hand, which he swept with a kiss. The gesture stilled her protests. She was impressed by the Frenchman’s manner and colourful uniform. He was a rather interesting looking captain, she thought, for a foreigner.

  ‘Gentlemen, you must excuse me if I leave you to give a lesson in the true language of love.’

  As he was led away by the young lady who was to learn what the Frenchman meant by l’amour, Horace refilled the crystal goblets. ‘To Herr Straub,’ he said solemnly. ‘Or should I say, Kapitan Karl von Fellmann.’

  Manfred did not raise his glass but stared at the Englishman. ‘I am not surprised that you know Karl was my brother, Mister Brown,’ he said menacingly. ‘Just as I suspect that the bomb that Captain Mort found on his ship was put there by you.’

  ‘I am truly sorry that you lost your brother Baron,’ Horace said, placing his glass on the table. ‘But it was never intended to kill anyone. Just, shall we say, slow down your ambitions to go sightseeing around New Guinea.’

  The German agent stared hard at his English counterpart but could not detect cupidity in him. Given similar circumstances he would have used similar tactics. The Englishman had not tried to deny the bomb was his. ‘My brother was a good soldier,’ Manfred replied. ‘He died for his Kaiser as surely as if he had died on a battlefield. So I accept your toast to a courageous man. And now, I would like to propose a toast to the success of your man in his mission, to kill the murderer of my brother. Mister Michael Duffy.’

  It was Horace’s turn to look stunned. How could the Prussian know Michael’s identity and that he worked for him? He sat staring at his glass of champagne. ‘My wife tells me everything Mister Brown,’ Manfred smiled grimly, as if answering Horace’s unspoken question. ‘And it was not hard to confirm my suspicions that Mister Duffy was the man who had brought the bomb aboard. And who would detonate it at the appropriate time. Your actions just now confirmed my suspicions.’

  Horace blinked and cursed himself. He had fallen for the German’s bluff so easily. His adversary was damned good at his job! ‘But do not concern yourself my friend,’ Manfred continued. ‘Because Mister Duffy’s proposed act of seeking out and killing the murderer of my brother and saving my life when we were in the sea more than exonerates his betrayal of my trust, for the m
oment at least. My wife tells me he is an excellent lover. Such a man as your Irishman is exceptional. I will regret having to kill him some day. That is, if he remains working for you. But we both know how unreliable mercenaries are.’ Manfred raised his glass. ‘To Herr Duffy, an exceptional man.’

  Horace raised his glass. ‘Her Majesty,’ he muttered. ‘God bless her.’ His thoughts drifted briefly to the Irishman. Would he ever see him again? Or would Mort claim yet another Duffy life?

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Max Braun did not try to hide his tears. He embraced Patrick in a powerful bear hug as they stood on the wharf amongst the throng of passengers who had come to farewell the voyagers to Mother England. They were an incongruous pair; the burly scarred man with a nose flattened across his tear-streaked face, and the tall boy with the fine patrician features promising a handsomeness that few women would be able to resist in the short years to come.

  Max lifted Patrick from his feet and hugged him tenderly. ‘Travel safely my little fighter,’ he whispered in words choked with emotion. ‘Never forget that your uncle Max loves you.’ The tough former Hamburg sailor wiped self-consciously at the tears streaking his face, and turned away, so that Daniel and his family would not see his grief. He might never see the boy again, he thought in his sorrow. Michael had been taken from him years earlier and yet had given him his son. Now Patrick would be sailing from his life for many years – if not forever.

  Fiona watched the scene from her carriage and would have given her very life to be in the place of the man who held her son. She ached to hold Patrick and tell him of so many things. But the graceful clipper that rocked at her mooring by the wharf, strained impatiently against the ropes like a champion racehorse, ready to take him from her life.

  Men in top hats and ladies in long dresses cried and hugged those who had come to farewell them on their passage to England. Porters and dockside workers sweated in the warm sun of the Sydney autumn day as they worked quickly to bring on board the last of the cargo for the trip that would take the clipper halfway around the world. An authoritative voice cried out above the din of laughter and tears for all to board and a bell clanged, warning of the imminent sailing.