by Peter Watt
Michael gripped the portside rail of the clipper and gazed at the harbour scenery, searching eagerly for the familiar landmarks of the city that had once been his home. Then he had been a younger man who had aspired to the gentle life of an artist.
But so much had happened in his life since those days. Instead of holding a paintbrush he now carried a gun. Rather than developing his creative talents sketching with a pencil, he had honed his skills to kill and maim.
Under the assumed name of Michael Maloney he had fled from his home eleven years earlier on a Yankee merchant ship destined for New Zealand. Since then he had adopted many names as a means of protecting his real identity. And even now he must remain living under an assumed name. He knew he could never resume being the dreamer the world had once known as Michael Duffy.
In the decade that had passed he had experienced the ugliness and horror of battlefields; from the dark and dangerous forests of New Zealand to the bloody carnage of the American Civil War, he had roamed and learned the arts of war.
When the cannons fell silent on the American battlefields he had drifted along the newly opened Western frontier to eventually travel south to Mexico as a soldier of fortune. His formidable reputation grew, but only to thrust him deeper into the world of international intrigue and, often enough, sudden and violent death.
Now he was home – albeit by accident rather than design – and he knew that his home town would not have forgotten that he was wanted for murder. At least if they believed him still to be alive.
The man who stood at the rail of the Boston was no longer the idealistic young man who had fallen in love with the dark-haired beauty Fiona Macintosh. Now Michael Duffy was Michael O’Flynn, battle-scarred veteran, mercenary and gun dealer called on a mission in the pay of the German Kaiser.
Horace cupped a cigar in his hands. The thick smoke was immediately blown away on the harbour breeze as he puffed contentedly and gazed at the busy shipping activity on the harbour.
Little had changed since he had last visited Sydney eighteen months earlier. The impressive man-o’-wars from Britain floated regally at anchor as symbols of the Empire. Plumes of black smoke billowed from the tall stacks of the busy little ferries as they dodged expertly between coastal schooners, brigs and barques steering for the open sea beyond the imposing headlands.
Horace watched crowded ships pass the clipper, their decks filled with hopeful miners seeking their fortunes on the newly discovered ‘River of Gold’ in the Colony of Queensland. The ships carried men, families and even single women, all with a dream of finding their fortunes on the Palmer. For an unlucky few it would be the last voyage they would ever make. Death would come for them at the end of a spear, starvation, fever or simply sheer exhaustion.
Some would only get as far as the goldfield’s seaport of Cooktown where they would be prey for the armies of whores, unscrupulous publicans and shysters. In some cases, they would be recruited reluctantly to that army of human predators. But for now they were rich in their dreams as they watched the graceful American clipper glide into Sydney Harbour.
Australia’s northern frontier was not even a consideration in Horace’s thoughts as he idly watched the crowded ships leaving for Cooktown. He was still wondering how the American gun dealer was linked with the German government and, more importantly, just what the Germans were up to in this part of the world.
Michael Duffy’s turbulent thoughts on the other hand were on coming home. He didn’t know what was waiting for him. One thing he did know however: there were old scores to be settled with those who had taken away his dreams.
‘You will be meeting the Baroness von Fellmann at a reception she is having for some Froggy official tomorrow, Mister O’Flynn,’ George Hilary said as he poured Michael another rum. The Sydney gun dealer had a red and bulbous nose which Michael saw as a sign of a man addicted to strong liquor. ‘The reception is being held at her home mid-afternoon.’
‘My German isn’t that good Mister Hilary,’ Michael said as he accepted the generous tot of rum.
They were sitting at a table covered in gun grease and pieces of assorted rifles at the back of Hilary’s gun shop. George Hilary was a Sydney gunsmith who had made his name supplying Snider rifles to the men going north to Queensland’s dangerous goldfields. The Snider rifle was quickly establishing a reputation not unlike the Winchester rifle’s reputation on the American frontier.
‘You won’t have to worry about your grasp of German. The Baroness is English,’ Hilary said, eyeing Michael in a calculating way. He sensed that the Irish-American was a man he would not like to get on the wrong side of. His very demeanour was that of a man who had lived with violence for so long that it manifested itself in the way he related to everything around him. There was a wariness in him that threatened to explode at the slightest hint of trouble and he moved with the grace of a hunting leopard, ever vigilant and yet apparently relaxed at the same time.
Michael sipped sparingly at the strong rum. He would not allow himself to become inebriated as he had not been told the reason for his unexpected passage to Sydney. All he knew was that he had been promised an extremely lucrative job utilising his proven skills as a leader of men and his knowledge of jungle warfare, and that the model ’73 Winchesters, destined for Baron Manfred von Fellmann in Samoa, had been re-routed to Sydney. He was being paid generously to escort the rifles to their new destination and did so without asking questions. Intrigue had long become a natural part of his life. He knew he would be told in good time why he was in Sydney and what he was to do.
Hilary was of little help in making clear just what was expected of him. The conversation was like walking through a hedge maze. So far Michael was not lost but he felt it could be easy to take the wrong turn if he were not careful. The Prussian aristocrat behind this mission had a reputation in Michael’s world not unlike his own.
‘I hear you brought some ’73 model Winchesters with you Mister O’Flynn,’ Hilary said. As a gun dealer he was interested in the rifle that might prove to be competition to the single shot Sniders he sold. ‘I’ve been told the ammunition for them is a centre fire cartridge.’
‘Yes. They’re in storage until I hear what I’m supposed to do next. And I’m out of pocket for customs duties on them,’ Michael growled irritably.
‘The Baroness will no doubt reimburse you for your expenses when you tell her of the costs you have incurred,’ Hilary said, refilling his battered mug. ‘I hear she acts for her husband in Sydney on all business matters.’
‘So you say. Will I be told everything when I go to this reception tomorrow afternoon?’ Michael queried.
‘You will be told as much as you need to know,’ the gun dealer smiled sardonically as he leaned back in his chair. ‘Because that’s the way they work. But I’m sure they will look after you. They have been pretty fair in their dealings with me.’
Hilary had taken a liking to the man who sat opposite him. Maybe it was the effects of the rum that brought on the feeling of bonhomie. Despite the aura of violence the Irishman carried like a cloak he sensed a gentler and even compassionate man.
As far as Michael was concerned his questions were answered. He downed the remainder of his rum and excused himself from the company of the gun dealer and stepped out into the busy street.
Horse-drawn omnibuses, drays and pedestrians crowded him on the narrow city streets. The unseasonal warmth of Sydney’s autumn day was oppressive and Michael felt sweat dripping down his chest under the starched shirt. He longed for the relative coolness of the hotel where he was staying. It was not far from Circular Quay and Michael considered spending the rest of the afternoon in the public bar. He had little to do until the following day when he would go to the Baroness von Fellmann’s house for the afternoon reception.
He had considered a ferry journey to Manly Village but decided against the visit. There were too many painful memories on that side of the harbour that he did not want to exhume from his past. Letting his family in
Sydney know he was alive was definitely out of the question. He was still a wanted man.
More important was the uncertainty of his present life. To reveal that he was alive would only subject his family to a second grieving should the mission go wrong. No, it was better that he remain a distant memory so they could get on with their lives.
Michael was not aware that he was being followed along George Street by a short, slightly overweight man who was sweating profusely as he attempted to keep a discreet distance.
Horace had scribbled down the name of the gunsmith in his leather-bound notebook. There were many names and dates in his notebook. To any inquisitive observer the notes made little sense, they were all in code.
Nearer the Quay a breeze from the harbour swept up the narrow street and ruffled the Irishman’s thick curls. When Michael reached the hotel he decided to go to his room instead of spending the afternoon in the public bar. The day had been long and Michael needed time alone to think about past, present and future.
Horace hailed down a horse-drawn hansom cab and directed the driver to take him to the military barracks at Paddington. There was someone he needed to consult on the matter of Mister O’Flynn’s visit to the Sydney gun dealer.
THREE
Kate O’Keefe uttered a short prayer of thanks to God for creating the ox. Her long, plaited stockwhip snaked over the backs of the bullocks and cracked like a rifle, shattering the droning silence of the midday bush.
Spattered with dried mud her normally elegant and beautiful features were masked. Her grey, expressive eyes were as staring as those of the miners who had passed on the track, stumbling back to Cooktown, fleeing the hell that had been the Palmer River goldfields in the monsoonal wet season of ’73/’74.
At first glance she appeared just another teamster, albeit one slighter in build than many who plied the track from the port of Cooktown to the goldfields along the Palmer. But on closer inspection any observer could see she had the curves that were distinctly female under the rough working man’s clothing she wore.
Her eighteen bullocks strained to haul the massive four-wheeled wagon with its eight ton load of supplies. Behind her, a second wagon rumbled and creaked under the whip of Ben Rosenblum.
Ben was no longer the gangly boy who had set out six years earlier to learn the trade of the teamster. The arduous work had turned him into a tall, broad-shouldered young man of twenty-one and his dark good looks had attracted more than one admiring glance from the ladies in the dance halls, saloons and hotels of Cooktown.
Ben was the son of a widow who had recognised that her son would inevitably fall into a life of crime on Sydney’s tough back streets and in an act of desperation had written to her sister Judith asking her for her help. Judith had responded by suggesting a job with Kate O’Keefe’s Eureka company, and, as a favour to her dear friends Solomon and Judith Cohen who had stood by her in tough times, Kate had offered the boy an apprenticeship with her tough old taciturn teamster Joe Hanrahan. Ben’s initial few months under Joe’s supervision had proved successful, albeit a bit rough, as Ben came to learn that work was a discipline that could be installed by a fast right fist.
But Joe was two years dead now and buried somewhere west of Townsville. He had been killed when a wagon being hauled up a mountain track had rolled back and crushed him against a tree. The young Jewish teamster had buried him and said the prayers for the dead over his grave. He had doubted that God was particularly concerned that he had not used the correct procedure as he used Christian prayers from Joe’s battered Protestant Bible. When the solitary service was over Ben had single-handedly continued with the task of getting the wagon and its load through to the outstations of the squatters.
Ben now walked with the long stride of a man. Gone forever was the pale city boy from Sydney’s slums who Kate had hired. Once a surly city boy, he had joined the ranks of the tough frontier bushmen of Australia’s northern colony. Between the two – Irish woman and Jewish man – they had laboured to haul the badly needed supplies over one hundred and sixty miles of ground left by God for the Devil to create.
By night they had taken turns standing guard against the possibility of an attack from prowling tribesmen. Kate would stand armed with a hardhitting Martini Henry rifle and her little pepper box pistol, while Ben always carried the big Colt revolver in a holster strapped at his hip. It was the same pistol Kate had presented him with years earlier on his first trip west with the taciturn and burly Irish teamster Joe Hanrahan.
The long haul from Cooktown to the Palmer River goldfields had taken its toll on both Kate and Ben. Fording rivers still swollen by the monsoonal rains by day, and double-banking the wagons on the steep sections of the track, with the never-ending work of off-loading, then reloading stores, had sapped their reserves of strength. Often they would stumble beside the wagons like sleepwalkers while the big, stolid bullocks strained at the yokes hauling the wagons just that one mile more and then, just one more mile after that.
When those times came, and Kate’s body screamed out for rest, she had talked to the big Irishman who walked beside her. He told her of other tracks in other places, of the devils that tempted with the promise of despair. He would urge her to keep going despite her despair.
Ben would see Kate talking to herself as she stumbled along. At first he thought she had been driven mad by the rigours of the trek, but he soon came to learn that she was talking to her long dead father who, sometimes gently and at other times harshly, encouraged his daughter not to give in.
Sometimes Ben suspected that the spirit of Patrick Duffy was speaking through his daughter when Kate refused to allow them to rest for even one day on the tortuous trail down to the goldfields. Day in and gruelling day out, they pushed forward with only the sounds of the wagons and the lonely bush as their companions.
‘You hear that?’ Ben cried as he stumbled forward. ‘That sound coming from the south?’
Kate could hear the sound. It was a distant murmur of massed voices and clinking of metal against rock as picks chipped at stone. It was the welcome sound that told them they had finally reached the Palmer.
~
The bedraggled teamsters struggled into the town of white canvas tents and bark shanties. They hugged and Ben danced a little jig. They had brought with them supplies worth literally their weight in gold while stranded behind them were the supply wagons of their competitors, pulled by the big cart horses. Unlike the stalwart bullocks, the horses were unable to cross the flooded creeks. The bullocks had again proven their versatility.
Being first to arrive on the fields meant asking your own price. The two wagons were rushed as the word spread up and down the banks of the Palmer and its eroded gullies that the precious goods had arrived.
The miners came, gaunt and hollow-eyed, to jostle for flour, sugar, tea, tinned fish and meat. But mostly the miners came to purchase the most precious of all goods – tobacco. And when they came to the wagons they brought their gold with them.
Within a few hours sixteen tons of goods had been sold to eager customers prepared to pay the inflated prices Kate demanded.
Had Patrick Duffy lived to see his daughter trading with the miners, he would have smiled. His daughter handled the impatient, enthusiastic miners with firmness and fairness.
This was not the first trip Kate had made with Ben to the Palmer. Before the Big Wet they had come in late ’73 when they had used two smaller bullock drays to haul supplies up the track from Townsville. A trek through hell as they had crossed the drought-parched plains and passed the long lines of hopeful miners walking with bed-rolls, pushing wheelbarrows loaded with their possessions, or riding on horseback.
For a fee Kate would carry the personal possessions of the miners on the drays. Together they would trudge past red-eyed men and women stumbling in the opposite direction, lost souls returning defeated to the relative haven Townsville offered. For here, on the drought-ravished plains, the biblical hell of fire and brimstone was preached. Here wa
s a place on earth where a man or woman could be punished for their sins before they died, as they faced the relentless torment of heat, dust and endless plains of tortured trees.
On this visit Kate was astute enough to realise that she would not need all the bullocks for the return trip to Cooktown where she had established a depot. With half the bullocks she could get back to Cooktown with what would be lighter wagons.
When they had reached the newly established goldfields in ’73 the excess bullocks were sold to a goldfield butcher for meat for the hungry miners, the bullocks themselves thus realising a massive profit. But although she had long hardened herself against sentimentality, Kate knew she would not be eating any fresh beef until she returned to the town on the banks of the Endeavour River.
With the cash and gold gained from the sale of both goods and bullocks, Kate had returned to Cooktown to purchase two four-wheeled wagons and new teams of bullocks. She had been acutely aware of the need to leave the Palmer before the monsoonal wet season came to cut the lifelines to the goldfields. But many of the miners were not familiar with the vagaries of the tropical monsoons. They ignored the warnings of experienced bushmen and foolishly remained to stockpile ore. But the ore was soon washed away under the constant hammering of torrential rains. In many cases so too were the lives of those who remained.
Kate was fully aware that as soon as the flooded rivers receded there would be a steady supply of food and goods to the goldfields and the glut of supplies would cause prices to fall. But she did not care as she and Ben had been the first to arrive and the starving miners had paid generously.
Kate carefully packed the delicate gold weighing scales into a small wooden case. The traded gold was now in small chamois bags and stacked neatly on the tray of her wagon. She did not need the gold scales for the last transaction as the wife of a miner paid her in crumpled currency. Twenty pounds for a bag of flour. The same bag would have sold for three pounds in Cooktown. A few of the miners also had paid in coins even though Kate preferred gold as she could make an extra five shillings on each ounce on the Sydney gold market.
