Shadow of the Osprey

by Peter Watt

  ‘You know Kate,’ Henry said with a grin. ‘O’Flynn struck me as a very capable man. In some ways he reminds me of you. I think that if you had been born a man you might have been very much like Mister O’Flynn.’

  ‘I don’t think we sound very much alike at all,’ she answered, shaking her head vigorously. ‘Mister O’Flynn sounds like a real rogue.’ They both laughed.

  Kate could be a rogue when she put her mind to it, Henry thought. ‘I think you should come home with me and talk to Emma for a while,’ he said, as he rose stiffly from the keg of nails and stretched his war-damaged leg.

  During the walk to his house Kate told him what had happened with Hugh Darlington and about his insistence on her repaying the loan with interest. He laughed when she related how she had caused the lawyer to become the butt of the miners’ jeers.

  ~

  Luke was visiting the James residence when Henry and Kate arrived. Kate greeted him rather coldly and immediately sought Emma’s company. The men shrugged and tacitly decided that it was time to go outside and sit on the wood heap.

  ‘Kate’s had a bad night from what I can gather.’ Henry said.

  Luke nodded. ‘Bloody women,’ he grumbled. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. One minute she looks as if she is glad to see me then . . . ’

  Henry made sympathetic noises and produced a bottle of rum, pouring Luke a generous tot in a battered tin cup. They swigged the dark liquid and Henry unravelled what he knew about Kate’s meeting with the Rockhampton lawyer.

  ‘So that goddamned snake-oil salesman wants his money back,’ Luke growled savagely. ‘Money not even his own.’ He fished in his trouser pocket and passed Henry a very worn scrap of paper. ‘It’s a receipt signed by Darlington for a lot of money,’ Luke explained. ‘And from what you tell me he only gave Kate half of what I told him to give her. The bastard probably spent the rest.’

  Henry handed back the receipt. ‘That the reason you took off for America back in ’68?’

  ‘I was so close to being there before Hahn and Mulligan,’ Luke answered ruefully. ‘If it hadn’t been for that goddamned son of a bitch I would have been on the Palmer back in ’68. I would have been known as the man who discovered the Palmer. But that lowdown bastard Darlington put me into the traps at Rockhampton for dealing in gold without a licence. Solomon Cohen tipped me off that they were after me. I had to get out of Queensland. Had to leave Kate . . . ’ he tapered off. How could he tell another man his deep feelings for the woman he loved? ‘And here I am now, broke and needing a stake to prospect down south.’

  ‘Kate was going to finance you,’ Henry said. ‘What happened?’

  Luke bowed his head and stared at the ground. ‘Couldn’t take money from a woman,’ he mumbled self-consciously. ‘Especially Kate.’

  ‘If you need a stake I know a man who might have a job for you,’ Henry said quietly. ‘I think you have what he wants and the money is good for the job.’

  Luke glanced up at him with interest. ‘Is it legal?’ he asked quietly, and Henry grinned at the question.

  ‘Was selling gold the way you did legal?’ he countered.

  ‘Not rightly.’

  ‘The man is looking for bushmen to go on a prospecting expedition, somewhere north it seems. But he only wants men with military or police experience.’

  ‘I don’t have military experience,’ Luke answered bluntly.

  ‘You got that scar fighting at Eureka, didn’t you?’ Henry reminded him. ‘Weren’t you with the California Revolver Brigade? They were a military force. Even if they were rebels.’

  Luke stared away into the night. ‘Yeah,’ he answered wistfully. ‘Maybe this fella recruiting might be sympathetic to veterans of the Eureka, no matter which side they served on.’

  ‘I think he might,’ Henry added, finishing the last of the bottle in one gulp. ‘He’s a Yankee like you. Kind of reminds me a bit of Kate in some strange way. His name’s Michael O’Flynn. I’ll take you to meet him at his hotel tomorrow.’

  ‘If I get the job,’ Luke said staring into the starlit night sky, ‘there is something I have to do first. I’m going to need your help. It concerns that son of a bitch Darlington.’

  Henry listened to his friend outline the plan he had for the fate of the Rockhampton lawyer. When Luke finished he only had one comment. ‘If things go wrong you’ll either die in the dust from a bullet or end up hanging anyway. Not many other choices left for you.’

  ‘You’ll help me?’ Luke growled.

  Henry shrugged and stood up. ‘I guess you love Kate a lot more than any other man alive to do what you have planned. Or you are completely insane. Either way I will stick with you Luke.’ Nothing more needed to be said between the two men. It was the way of mateship.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Opponents of the Chinese miners and merchants complained that Cooktown was rapidly becoming the Canton of the South. Out of Hong Kong on Robert Town’s ships they came in their thousands for Sin Chin San – the New Mountain of Gold – as the Chinese called Queensland. And they came with little else to lose other than their lives.

  Hard-working people who kept to themselves, the Chinese went where the Europeans left ground considered to be worthless. And from this supposedly worthless ground they extracted gold – reason enough to cause the animosity of the miners who felt cheated by their success.

  The presence of the Chinese manifested itself most noticeably in Cooktown’s China Town, a rambling quarter made up of Chinese eating houses from which wafted the aromas of exotic oriental spices and strange foods. From the opium dens and brothels came the pungent scent of opium mixed with the incense of joss houses. Doll-like girls with tiny, painfully bound feet waved delicate fans against the tropical heat as they rested from the places that employed their bodies to provide services to both Chinese and European miners. The Chinese quarter was an Asian world unto itself ruled by the secretive tongs.

  Michael Duffy’s guide was a surprising young man. At first Michael had taken him for just another miner – a big man with broad shoulders, golden skin and coal-black eyes. But it was obvious that his guide was a Eurasian when he said something in Chinese to one of the tiny young women outside a brothel. She laughed shyly from behind her fan and John grinned.

  Michael followed John Wong through the quarter to a ramshackle building of corrugated iron. Inside, Michael was aware of the close-packed smell of sweating bodies, opium and dried fish. It was a heady mix. Alien, but not unpleasant.

  A huddle of Chinese men squatted around a square sheet of tin with oriental calligraphy along the sides. They wore loincloths and little else in the stifling heat.

  ‘Fan tan,’ Michael commented. He had seen the game played by Chinese on the ship steaming north from Brisbane.

  ‘You play fan tan Mister O’Flynn?’ John asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied, as the players chatted and sweated around the board. ‘Never learned how to play but it looks interesting.’

  ‘It’s a fairly simple game,’ John explained. ‘The figures on the sides of the board are numbers one to four. The player selects the side he wants to put his money on and the banker, as you would call him, has a few dozen brass coins which he uses as counters. You see now, the banker tosses the coins in a pile on the floor.’

  Michael watched with a gambler’s professional interest. The banker placed a cup over some of the Chinese coins he had scattered and brushed the rest away with a deft movement. He then lifted the cup and quickly sorted the coins into sets of four. When he had completed the counting, one of the Chinese players at the metal board grinned triumphantly, and was patted on the back by the men behind him.

  ‘What happened?’ Michael asked. He was mystified by the outcome.

  ‘It’s pretty straightforward,’ John grinned. ‘When the last pile is counted, the number of coins left over corresponds to one side of the board. The winner gets three times what he put on. I suppose you could say each player has a one in four chance of winnin
g. Not bad odds.’

  ‘You play much fan tan?’ Michael asked.

  ‘I prefer poker myself,’ John chuckled. ‘You see, I have an inscrutable Oriental face that gives me the edge when playing against you Europeans. I hear you play a pretty good game of poker yourself Mister O’Flynn. At least that is what Mister Horace Brown tells me. Some day you and I should sit down to a few friendly hands.’

  ‘Did Brown teach you to play poker?’ Michael asked. John shook his head. ‘Then that’s too bad,’ Michael sighed. ‘Against you, I have a feeling I might come off second best.’

  John smiled at the compliment. There was a trustful feeling about the big Irishman, he thought. John was good at sizing up men, an ability which came from twenty years of living in a world where his mixed birth made him an outsider. He had always been cautious in his dealings with both Orientals and Occidentals. He instinctively recognised those who accepted him and those who did not. This man he sensed, accepted him.

  He led Michael through a low doorway and both men were forced to duck their heads. The room they entered could have been anywhere in the East; the scents of sandalwood incense and opium mixed to fill the air. Michael could see the incense sticks smouldering in front of a shrine to Buddha. A Chinese man, who Michael guessed could be anywhere between thirty and sixty years of age, reclined on pillows. He had the eyes of a viper and Michael instinctively sensed that he could be dangerous. Reclining beside him, Horace spoke softly in Chinese as the man closely watched Michael approach. Soo Yin was both a wealthy merchant and the Cooktown representative of a powerful tong based in Hong Kong.

  ‘Ah, Michael,’ Horace said in a slightly slurred voice. ‘I see Mister Wong got you here without any problems.’ Michael guessed that Brown had been smoking opium. His eyes had the faraway look of a man who had seen many beautiful dreams while still awake.

  ‘I’m here,’ Michael replied, as he cautiously scanned the dim interior of the room. ‘Your choice of meeting place surprises me Horace. But then, I can see you are right at home.’

  ‘Mister Soo and I have mutual interests and share a mutual pastime as you can see,’ Horace said, pushing himself with some effort into a sitting position. ‘Although I think it is rather ironic that we should force opium on the Chinese and then condemn them for using it. I myself find it preferable to rum or gin. But my preferences have little to do with our meeting so sit down and make yourself comfortable. We have a lot to talk about.’

  Michael felt awkward sitting on the floor with his knees under his chin. John sat beside him, his long legs crossed in the style Michael had seen depicted in the figurines of the Buddha. Brown was able to sit cross-legged easily, and he wondered how the short, squat Englishman could manage the position, without any obvious signs of discomfort.

  ‘Mister Soo does not speak English,’ Horace explained. ‘But he has kindly allowed us to use his place to meet from time to time. Here, there is little chance of people knowing of our meetings. Anyone seeing you come to this part of town will think you are visiting one of the, ah, establishments of Oriental carnal delights. It’s not uncommon for the miners to do so.’

  Michael had to agree that Brown’s choice of meeting location was well chosen. Much better than one of the European places where they might be seen by anyone with more than a normal curiosity. ‘Thank you John,’ Horace said, dismissing the young man. ‘Mister O’Flynn and I will speak alone with your boss.’

  John nodded and rose to his feet. Soo continued to puff on the opium pipe and slip into the dreams the drug would bring him as he watched the two Europeans converse. He knew that Brown would tell him anything relevant that he should know. Besides, he also knew that John Wong would only be a short distance away and in a position to eavesdrop on the conversation. Trust was not something the tong leader believed in. But he valued Brown’s friendship. He was an interesting man who had been able to open bureaucratic doors for him in Hong Kong with the British administrators. The opening of such doors came at a price, but Brown’s price was surprisingly little – just information. He guessed that Mister Brown was a spy. This did not matter, as he valued the financial opportunities their relationship gave to his enterprises, both in Hong Kong and Queensland.

  ‘Your Chinese friend Mister Soo has the look of a rattlesnake,’ Michael said quietly.

  ‘You can believe that Michael,’ Horace replied grimly. ‘He is not a man to cross. In India there are men who can control the cobra with music. Seen them do it m’self in the marketplaces. And I suppose I could compare Mister Soo to a cobra under my control. That is to say, he is quite capable of biting me if the music stops.’ Michael understood the analogy. Horace lived in a world of delicate balances based on reward rather than patriotism. ‘I suspect,’ he continued, ‘Mister Soo has John listening to what we are discussing right now. But that does not matter as we will be discussing matters Soo has little interest in.’

  In the days since Michael had arrived in Cooktown he had recruited six men of the calibre required by Straub. He had little trouble finding them among the unsuccessful miners awaiting a berth out of Cooktown. In the tent city on the outskirts of the town, and in the many bars, the word had gone around about a big, one-eyed Yankee looking for men to join a prospecting expedition. The money was more than generous for the right sort of man and the mercenary recruits flocked to his hotel room to apply.

  Michael passed Horace a sheet of folded paper with the names of the six men he had recruited. Beside each name he had jotted a short outline of their experience. Horace unfolded the paper and scanned the names. He knew only one of the men – at least knew of him. ‘How well do you know the man second on your list?’ he asked, as he showed Michael the sheet and pointed to the name.

  ‘He says he fought in the Crimea and that he was once a trap in the Native Mounted Police,’ Michael replied warily. ‘Heard I was recruiting and turned up to see me. Big fella with a limp but says it is not a problem to him. Used to be a police sergeant, he tells me.’

  ‘Well, you have a problem with Henry James,’ Horace said quietly. ‘I think there are some things you don’t know so I am going to tell you because, if what I know is right, Mister James would be a dead man if he ever stepped aboard the Osprey when she gets here.’

  ‘What in the hell is the Osprey?’ Michael asked, annoyed for being kept in the dark by both Brown and Straub.

  ‘A blackbirding ship under the command of one Morrison Mort. Does the name Mort mean anything to you?’ Horace asked, knowing full well that it did.

  Michael paled. ‘Was this Mort ever with the Native Mounted Police?’ His good eye had taken on a strange, terrifying depth that made Horace feel somewhat afraid at what he was unleashing.

  ‘Same man Michael,’ he answered grimly. But inwardly Horace rejoiced that the mention of Mort’s name had brought about a reaction. Yes, he thought. He knew now that the Irishman would give his full cooperation.

  ‘That murdering bastard!’ Michael hissed savagely. From his discreet inquiries around Brisbane on his stop-over, Michael had pretty well confirmed that the man had murdered his father. Although Tom had died, as the result of a bullet from an Aboriginal trooper’s carbine, it may as well have been Mort who pulled the trigger.

  ‘I suspected you would like to even scores with Captain Mort,’ Horace said. ‘For the woes he has brought to your family. I doubt that you would ever win justice in a court of law.’

  ‘You know that,’ Michael snarled. ‘Any settling will be done by me.’

  ‘Good!’ Horace replied serenely. ‘Then you will be interested in what I have planned, should the Osprey be sailing to New Guinea with the Baron as I strongly suspect it will be.’

  ‘You said that this man Henry James would be a dead man if he went aboard the Osprey. Why is that?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Ah yes, our Mister James. Well, it is a long story. In the short version, Henry James virtually had Mort cashiered from the Native Mounted Police about ten years ago. From what I can gather Captai
n Mort has a bit of a cloud over his head when it comes to leaving dead bodies, mostly black, around him. Appears he killed a trooper who James was a bit close to. I can understand how he felt. I was close to a darkie fellow once. Got himself killed and I took it personally. Happened in Samoa.’ Horace’s voice trailed away as he remembered the young man who had been his lover. He had died when his village was shelled by a German warship that had anchored off the coast and blasted the helpless villagers with high explosive gunfire. ‘There is something else I gather you do not know about Mister James,’ Horace added. ‘Or you would not have employed him in the first place. Henry James works for your sister in Cooktown.’

  ‘Kate!’ Michael gasped. ‘But Kate is in Townsville. That is what I was told while I was in Brisbane.’

  Horace shook his head. ‘At the moment your sister is working out of a depot she has set up only a street from where we sit now. It seems your sister is a remarkable woman. I have been told that she has built a small fortune all from a dray and team of bullocks. Apparently she has taken on the family tradition of being a teamster. The young man who brought you here has met her when he was on his way down to the Palmer. Helped get her out of a spot of bother with the natives, I believe.’

  ‘Does he know who I am?’ Michael asked, still recovering from the shock.

  ‘By now he does,’ Horace replied with a wry grin. ‘That is, if he is still listening to all that we say. But before we discuss as much as I know about your family,’ Horace continued, ‘I think you and I should agree on a few things first. One, that you recruit someone else to replace Henry James. I would hate to have to go to the funeral of a fellow Crimean campaigner. And two, that I have your total loyalty. No more taking von Fellmann’s money with some foolish idea that you owe him anything. I suspect that it is in your nature to be loyal to an employer. For your sworn loyalty to me I will give you my word that I will provide the means to settle with Captain Mort. Permanently.’