by Peter Watt
Luke carefully placed the dry inside sections of bark against the flames to ensure that the blaze grew in strength. He glanced up from his task and smiled at her. ‘I am going to have to look and see if that branch did you any injury Kate,’ he said. ‘Don’t see any reason why you might be shy.’ She returned the smile and opened the blanket to him. He held up the lantern to examine the bruise across her stomach. ‘Looks like you will be all right,’ he said, as he touched the bruise gently. ‘Just a bad bump.’ A little self-consciously he withdrew his hand and Kate wondered how he could be at one moment so assertive with her and yet shy. She reached out and pulled him to her.
‘Have I told you that I love you Luke Tracy?’ she said, with her head resting on his shoulder. ‘That I think I loved you from the very first moment I saw you standing on that wharf in Brisbane. You looked so proud and self-assured standing there with your bed-roll and rifle. I was so intrigued by the tall man with the smile when you looked up at me.’
‘I didn’t know you noticed,’ Luke replied softly. ‘You were another man’s woman then. I couldn’t tell you how much I thought you were the most beautiful woman I ever saw. I . . . ’ He felt clumsy expressing a love that he had carried with him for over a decade. A love that had not faltered, as his words did now.
It had seemed a hopeless love. Yet the small but intense fire refused to burn out, despite the odds against winning the beautiful young woman’s affections. But now, under the wagon, on an isolated track on Australia’s northern frontier, all the years of pain faded to nothing. This strange place was the heaven he had always dreamed of. ‘I love you Kate . . . always have,’ he stated with simple determination, and the expression in his eyes told Kate just how deep his love was for her. ‘I ain’t got much to give to a woman. Not a woman as beautiful as you. I . . . ’
She placed her fingers on his lips to still his sad recriminations on his lack of worldly possessions. ‘Just promise me that you will never leave me again Luke,’ she said softly as she closed her eyes. ‘I don’t think I could ever bear to lose you again. I have lost so many that I have loved.’
Luke did not answer but stared into the flames as he held her close. She was like a trusting child and he had never felt more miserable – or happy – in the same space of time. He had found something more precious than the River of Gold but there was something he must do before he could give Kate his word that he would never leave her side again. By swearing an old blood oath, when he had been forced to flee Australia for his native America years earlier, he knew he was risking more than his life. He was risking the loss of the love of this woman.
He stroked her hair as one would a child and Kate drifted into a deep and contented sleep. For the first time in many years she was truly happy.
TWENTY-SIX
All was not well aboard the Osprey.
A day’s sailing south of Cooktown and Sims seriously pondered the question as to whether he would jump ship and strike out for the Palmer goldfields. He had misgivings about his captain’s sanity and his doubts became almost certainties the closer they sailed to the gold port.
At first the captain’s ranting in the dark hours of the pre-dawn were ignored by the crew. They were shrugged off as the probable result of secret drinking. But Sims had witnessed the captain wielding his sword as if stabbing a real person and at that time Mort had been dead sober.
‘Did you see the nigger?’ the captain had cried wildly as he jabbed at a corner of his cabin. Sims had stood dumbstruck, gaping at Mort lathered in sweat.
‘What nigger, Cap’n?’ he asked in confusion.
Mort ceased his attack on the spectre that only he could see and stared at Sims. ‘The myall nigger with the bloody bird feathers all over him.’
It was not the first mate’s place to question his captain’s sanity and he shook his head as he backed out of the cabin. Not that Mort’s antics with his imaginary myall foe worried Sims as much as the captain’s instructions to make a search of the Baron von Fellmann’s personal possessions in the cargo hold. As he had not been instructed as to what he was looking for, Sims reported back to Mort that he found nothing worthy of note.
‘No papers of any kind?’ Mort asked, as he stood behind his chart table in the cabin.
‘Nothing Cap’n,’ Sims replied. ‘Jus’ clothes an’ things. Nothin’ more.’ Mort dismissed him with an impatient wave of his hand and Sims was relieved to return to deck. He was sure that the captain was stark raving mad. Years earlier he had served under a similar captain whose mind had snapped and had killed three of his crew before he was himself killed. The deaths were reported by the crew as an accident at sea. Their fear of the consequences of the truth outweighed the need to describe their captain’s death in terms of self-defence. Sims had been a young sailor then and had conspired with the survivors on a blood oath that he would never speak of the incident.
And now he was seeing it happen all over again: a man in authority who believed he was being haunted by some old myall warrior and had become so suspicious that he was now spying on the Baron for no given reason. The idea of skipping ship at Cooktown was gaining more appeal by the minute.
On deck Sims took in a deep breath of salt air. He gazed at the silvery shimmer on the blue waters and noted with some satisfaction that a formation of dolphins glided gracefully on the bow wake of the barque. Dolphins were the universal tokens of good luck for sailors. He fervently hoped so.
Captain Mort had good reason for his paranoia. He had hoped that his first mate just might find something else of interest to incriminate the Baron. The letter intended for Baron von Fellmann that was intercepted in the port of Brisbane had been enough. But further evidence might have given him the edge in the final, inevitable confrontation.
The damning letter had arrived in Brisbane when the Osprey had been laid over for resupply. Mort had secretly opened it as he was a man plagued by suspicions that everyone around him wished to do him harm. What he read gave him justification for his obsessive fear. Lady Macintosh was instructing the German to turn him over to the police upon their return from his expedition. Ah . . . but that would be right, he thought as he read the letter. The Macintoshes had a reputation for never letting personal feelings get in the way of making money. Let him finish his mission for the Germans – and then arrest him!
He guessed the necessary warrants would be in place to arrest him on charges of murder of the numerous young native girls taken aboard the Osprey whilst it had been engaged in blackbirding operations in the South Pacific. Someone had talked! But who? He had always been careful to release his crews of islanders back to their homelands and replace them with fresh crews after each trip. It was unlikely that his activities would be reported by the islanders in their faraway home islands.
Mort had racked his mind to think of anyone who had the detailed knowledge of his activities as contained in the letter. The identity of the informant, however, became apparent as he read on. Jack Horton! He also knew why the matriarch of the Macintosh family was determined to see him hang. Just as the damned Duffys did!
But he was wrong! Daniel Duffy had approached Enid for her assistance in bringing Mort to justice for the murder of an almost forgotten girl he had brutally murdered in Sydney. Not the young girls from the islands.
What Mort did not know was that Enid gambled on the possibility the arrested captain – given a choice between the gallows and a life term in prison – might name her nephew in the conspiracy to kill her son. Her considerable influence also spread to the colonial judicial system and in addition she had the young lawyer Daniel Duffy working behind the scenes to secure an arrest in the colony of Queensland.
Mort had considered destroying the letter. On careful consideration he decided that it would be better that the Baron receive it. He had a healthy respect for Lady Enid’s deviousness. What was to say she had not somehow contacted the German by alternative means to tell him the same thing.
He had carefully resealed the letter. At lea
st nothing was to happen before the expedition completed its mission, he had consoled himself morosely. It did not make sense to change matters considering the detailed planning for the expedition that he knew had occurred. But a lot could happen between the start and finish of any enterprise. However, he still had his options and gambled that he had the loyalty of his hand-picked crew – men very much like himself – in the event that he may need to use them against the Baron should he make a move to have him arrested.
A disturbing thought occurred to Mort. He remembered from the instructions he had read in Granville White’s office that the Baron had recruited some Irish-American mercenary by the name of O’Flynn to his expedition. Even now in the cargo hold, as they sailed north to pick up the man and his small party to work under the command of the Baron, were crates of the new Winchester repeating rifles. Would it be himself and his crew up against the Baron and his men when the time came to dispose of the Prussian? He briefly considered disposing of the German before they reached Cooktown. But dismissed the idea when he considered that O’Flynn might be in league with Lady Enid and the Baron. Should he arrive in Cooktown without von Fellmann then O’Flynn might activate the plan to have him arrested.
No, Mort brooded. He would wait until they sailed away from Cooktown. Experience had long taught him to bide his time and watch for opportunities. He had not lived his often dangerous existence without that vital instinct of knowing when to strike. Very rarely had he ever underestimated any man.
Henry James, his former sergeant, had been one of the few men he had underestimated. It was highly unlikely that their paths would ever cross again. But if they ever did Mort knew he would wreak his revenge on the man who had once made a fool of him.
This man O’Flynn . . . What sort of enemy would he be in the likely event of a confrontation? Irishmen seemed to be the curse of his life, he thought bitterly. Irishmen and the ghost of some old Darambal nigger who came to him every night and stood staring at him with accusing eyes.
It was time to shoot the noonday azimuth with the sextant. Up on deck Mort noticed the Baron chatting with one of his crew. Paranoid suspicion racked the captain’s thoughts. What were they discussing?
The German aristocrat also noticed the captain and greeted him warmly. ‘Good morning Captain. A beautiful day.’
The Baron was a striking man. A couple of inches short of six foot he seemed to be taller by his very demeanour. Mort had guessed that the Baron was in his late forties even though his handsome, clean-shaven face did not reflect this. His short-cropped hair was a brown colour shot with streaks of grey. His hazel eyes had a depth of intelligence and determination. Everything about the way the Baron deported himself spoke of power. Mort had quickly and grudgingly come to respect his passenger as a man not to be underestimated in any way. He nodded his acknowledgement of the greeting as Manfred continued, ‘Your sailor informs me that we are a little over twenty-four hours south of Cooktown. Is this true?’
‘Yes. We have been fortunate with the winds and weather Baron,’ Mort replied. ‘My crewman has sailed these waters before. We spotted the pyramid mountain some time ago, which means we are close to Cooktown.’
The Baron turned to gaze at the coastline off the portside. He saw a vista of beautiful, craggy, jungle-covered mountains topped by lazy puffs of white clouds. The scenery was little different from that he had witnessed in the tropical islands east of the colony.
‘This man O’Flynn we are taking aboard in Cooktown,’ Mort said, interrupting the Baron’s reflections. ‘What do you know about him?’
The Baron turned to face the captain. ‘An unnecessary question,’ he said, with a faint smile on his lips. ‘But I will answer it. Mister O’Flynn is an adventurer. Although I have never met the man personally I know of his reputation from others. He is a soldier who has fought many enemies in many places over the last ten years. Although he has lost an eye he is renowned as an expert marksman with rifle and pistol. There is a rumour that at one time he worked for the American government as an agent in South America after the Mexican revolution led by Juarez. I am fortunate that I have been able to acquire his services for our expedition.’
‘What would that be?’ Mort asked bluntly and Manfred eyed him with a trace of suspicion.
‘Establishing outposts for Hamburg traders,’ he replied, challenging Mort to further question him. Mort understood the response and let the subject drop. He made an excuse to extract himself from the German’s presence and made his way down the deck to the stern.
Manfred watched him go and then turned his attention back to the coastline. His thoughts were troubled. Had he detected a dangerous hostility in the Osprey’s captain since their departure from Brisbane? He shook his head slowly to console himself that Mort was unaware of the conspiracy against him. For now the mission was far more important than any one person, its ramifications of such a strategic interest against the ever-spreading British imperialism that even the past murders of a few native girls paled into insignificance. He had relayed his concern to Lady Macintosh by telegram that Captain Mort was not to be interfered with in any way whilst he was in the employ of German interests. She had reluctantly agreed in her veiled telegraphic response.
As for Mr O’Flynn . . . Manfred mused about the man as he watched the dolphins glide on the Osprey’s bow wave in the crystal clear tropic waters. His wife had assured him that O’Flynn was more than he had first expected for the mission. Mister O’Flynn appeared to be a very remarkable man with a mysteriously dark and dangerous past.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Emma James noticed the change in Kate when she returned with Luke from the trip to the outstations. There was an aura about her of happiness in everything she said and did.
At the first possible moment alone together in the store Emma cornered Kate with a broad smile and exclaimed, ‘You’re in love Kate O’Keefe!’
Kate smiled shyly and looked away with just the smallest degree of embarrassment. Was her happiness that apparent? Her reputation for hard-headed self-control now a thing of the past? ‘It must be Mister Tracy,’ Emma babbled on, regardless of Kate’s silence. ‘Has he proposed?’ she added.
‘What makes you think I am in love with Luke Tracy?’ Kate retorted somewhat feebly, which only caused Emma’s smile to broaden into a knowing grin.
‘Because it is written all over you Kate,’ Emma replied. ‘I have known you for many years now and I have always known that you have carried a torch for him, except you would never admit it to yourself. Something happened on the trip to finally force you to admit what we have all known,’ she exclaimed with a woman’s intuition on such delicate matters.
Kate finally looked squarely into her friend’s eyes. ‘You are right,’ she said, with a sigh of happy resignation. ‘I have finally faced the fact that I have always loved Luke.’
An impulsive and crushing hug from Emma followed her statement. ‘I am so happy for you both,’ Emma said, with tears in her eyes. ‘You truly deserve some happiness in your life. You have always been there for everyone else except yourself and I feel that Mister Tracy is a man who will always love and look after you.’
Suddenly Kate realised that she was crying with her friend. But the tears were a release of bottled happiness which she wanted to share with the world. Henry found them hugging and crying together when he entered the store. Alarmed at the sight of tears he immediately stepped forward and asked what was wrong. Both women looked at him. ‘Nothing is wrong,’ Emma replied with a gentle laugh. ‘Things couldn’t be better with the world.’
Confused, Henry frowned and retreated from the store. Better to leave their temporary insanity to themselves, he thought. If they were happy why were they crying? It didn’t make sense. But then, Henry was a man ruled by the logic of his gender, and not all that knowledgeable in the mysterious ways of a woman.
‘Has he proposed?’ Emma asked, as the two women disentangled from the embrace. Kate shook her head and sat down on a wooden keg of m
olasses.
‘Not yet,’ she answered wistfully, ‘but I know he will . . . ’ she tapered off, thinking about the conversations on the track back to Cooktown. There was something he was not telling her, she thought, and worry caused her to frown. Like some burden he must unload before he could go further in his life.
Emma saw the frown and took Kate’s hand in hers. ‘I know he will,’ she said. ‘I think he is one of those men who are brave in any danger – except facing a preacher.’
Kate glanced up and both women laughed. She had not thought about Luke being a man terrified by the thought of matrimony. Was it that she might have to prompt the tough yet gentle American prospector into asking for her hand in marriage? If she only had her brothers alive to confront Luke and force him to make her an honourable woman, she thought sadly. She remembered how Michael had once fought a terrible fist fight in the backyard of the Erin Hotel with Kevin O’Keefe to force him into a marriage. It was the Irish way, with brothers naturally defending the honour of their beloved and cherished sisters.
‘I think Luke will ask me for my hand,’ she finally said when they ceased laughing at the thought of a frightened Luke Tracy. ‘When he is ready to.’ Kate’s frown returned. Never before had she felt so happy and yet so frightened. She was sure of her love for him but not sure if he could settle down to marriage. He was truly a man of the limitless horizons. But she also knew that he loved her with his whole being and that everything would be all right in the end. Her frown dissipated along with her brooding thoughts about the future as she realised that only love could bring about so many maddening and conflicting emotions in such a short space of time.
