by Peter Watt
A tribesmen swung his stone axe and smashed Mort’s kneecaps. The stone axe had travelled north along the Aboriginal trade routes from a small, ancient quarry on a hill sacred to the Nerambura clan of the Darambal people of central Queensland. But Christie’s narrative tapered away as Mort’s drawn-out scream of agony filled the early morning air. He babbled for mercy, and soon would be granted it in the same manner that he had given it to the young girls who had begged him to stop their unbearable pain when he had tortured them for his bestial pleasure.
‘I think you and I should leave Mister O’Flynn,’ Christie said, quietly fingering his revolver nervously. ‘Doesn’t pay to be around these boys for too long when they get up a hunger.’
‘Before we go, I just want to tell Mort something,’ Michael said, taking a few tentative steps to test his legs. He was extremely weak and walking caused a giddiness that threatened to lay him out. But he knew he must speak to the murderer who had brought death to so many. He tottered over to where Mort lay helplessly on his back, spread-eagled across the rock in a semi-conscious state. He was whimpering like a child while the warriors argued over who should get his sword. They took little notice of the white man standing over their helpless prisoner.
Mort’s pale blue eyes fixed on the man standing over him and Michael steeled himself against the unspoken plea for mercy. He stared directly into the doomed man’s eyes. He wanted his full attention for what he was about to tell him.
‘My name’s not O’Flynn – it’s Duffy,’ Michael said softly. ‘You met my father once, on the track to Tambo. Back in ’62 I believe.’
Mort stared wide-eyed at the Irishman standing over him. It was surely Patrick Duffy come back to punish him! He opened his mouth to plead for mercy but only a long, piercing scream escaped his lips. And he screamed again, not for the agonising pain he was experiencing from the smashed knees but for what he knew was to be his fate at the hands of the dreaded tribesmen. He screamed. And screamed again until he could scream no more.
Christie gathered up Michael’s rifle and revolver. Supporting Michael on his shoulder, he led the way down the slope as the two men headed north towards the river in an attempt to put distance between themselves and the fickle tribesmen. Mort’s agonised screams followed them for a distance, until at last the noise was absorbed by the dense rainforest on the river bank, where they stopped to rest.
Michael felt light-headed and knew the fever was on him again. He knew death would follow. Whatever had kept him alive long enough to know that Mort was facing his Maker seemed to have deserted him now.
But it no longer mattered as he had so little to lose. He had realised his old oath to avenge his family – an oath sworn in the beer cellar of the Erin Hotel eleven years earlier.
He stared at a kingfisher flying towards a log jutting into the river. The morning sun caused the bird’s azure feathers to shimmer with a light so brilliant that it hurt his eye. Suddenly the hues of the kingfisher’s feathers exploded into a thousand colours of the universe, and Michael slumped forward with a groan onto the carpet of rotting leaves, rich with the scent of decay. A voice called to him. Remember, you must remember!
Remember what? the dying Irishman asked the kaleidoscopic spirals of exploding light.
Christie was forced to strike a camp to watch over Michael for the night. He had seen death before and knew it was waiting to snatch away the Irishman’s spirit. As he watched over the man toss and turn in his fever, he sensed that the dying man would need a stronger reason than his own love for life to fight the debilitating effects of the wound. If Duffy had nothing to live for, Christie thought morosely, then he was surely a dead man. The situation seemed hopeless. To get Duffy to Cooktown and medical help he would need at least one other to assist him. But they were alone in a vast land and in a region hardly explored. The odds of being found by a white man in the wilderness were next to nothing.
The soft crackle of a dying fire and a strange chanting sound brought Christie out of his sleep. An initial gripping fear paralysed him as he became more aware of what had happened while he slept. With his eyes closed he continued to feign sleep and very carefully wrapped his hand around the butt of the revolver beside him.
He knew the sound well as so often he had heard the tribesmen singing their songs at their corroborees. He slowly turned his head before cautiously opening his eyes to focus on the fearful sight of a wild-looking Aboriginal warrior squatting beside Michael.
With his eyes closed, the man was crooning softly. The dying flames of the fire flickered shadows on his black gleaming face. Despite his fear Christie found himself transfixed by the man’s chanting, and any thoughts of shooting him seemed to be lost.
The Aboriginal stopped chanting and opened his eyes. Christie was acutely aware that he was looking directly at him and the gripping fear returned to break the spell.
‘You got any baccy?’ the warrior asked with a broad grin spread across his face.
‘Yeah, I’ve got tobacco,’ Christie replied, sitting up and blinking away the tension of the moment. ‘You want some?’
Wallarie nodded and Christie rustled through his pocket for a twist. When he found a stick he tossed it across the fire to Wallarie.
‘You got paper?’ Wallarie asked patiently.
‘Sorry, no paper,’ Christie replied. ‘Lost it a few days back when your cousins speared our horses.’
‘Not my mob,’ Wallarie grunted as he slipped the precious tobacco into a small dilly bag at his waist. Later he would find a leaf and wrap the whitefella weed for smoking. ‘Blackfella mob from around here speared your horses.’
Christie peered at Wallarie and his experienced bushman’s eye confirmed that the man was not a local tribesman. ‘Where you from?’ he asked.
‘Down south,’ Wallarie replied. ‘Bin walkin’ north to find Tom Duffy’s spirit.’
‘God almighty!’ Christie swore, as realisation dawned on him. ‘You must be that blackfella Wallarie I heard about a few years back. Thought you were dead!’
‘Most whitefella think that,’ he chuckled. ‘Whitefellas think Wallarie a spirit man who come an’ get them in the night.’
Christie felt the hair bristle on the back of his neck. Was he dreaming? Was the man squatting over Michael Duffy an apparition?
‘But Wallarie come to get Tom Duffy’s spirit and take him to his totem woman in the big whitefella camp.’
‘Cooktown?’ Christie queried, and Wallarie nodded. ‘This whitefella not Tom Duffy,’ Christie added. ‘This fella Michael O’Flynn.’
‘This whitefella got Tom Duffy spirit in ’im,’ Wallarie simply stated. ‘Don’t know about this other whitefella. This fella got Tom Duffy spirit.’
Christie sighed in resignation. What use was it to try and explain that the man asleep in his fever was an American by the name of Michael O’Flynn. If the intention of the myall was to take O’Flynn to Cooktown to meet his totem woman then he had come along at the right time. Without medical help Michael was sure to die out in the bush. Between the two of them they would be able to get him to Cooktown. The town couldn’t be that far away. ‘Yeah, well you and I can get Tom Duffy’s spirit to Cooktown when the sun comes up – that is if O’Flynn doesn’t become a spirit tonight.’
Wallarie looked down at Michael tossing and turning in his fever, his face a sheen of sweat and deathly pale. He wondered at the wisdom of the cave spirits of his ancestral lands. The man who had Tom Duffy’s spirit looked as close to death as any man he had ever seen before.
FIFTY-ONE
The bullocky bellowed his incomprehensible instructions to his ox team. The ponderous wagon, loaded with precious supplies for the Palmer goldfields creaked and groaned under the weight of stores, as the powerful beasts strained against the weight. He kept a wary eye on the track ahead while his young Aboriginal woman walked behind him, scanning the monotonous scrub that bordered the dusty, wheel-rutted track for any subtle signs of those who might attempt them harm – white or
black.
The teamster, trudging beside his wagon and trailing a long stockwhip, stared curiously at the three people ahead of him on the dusty track. From their wild appearance he guessed that they were down on their luck. They were a sorry sight and the bullocky shook his head. When would they learn the Palmer was not a River of Gold?
‘How far to Cooktown?’ the tall man with the bandage around his leg called as he approached.
‘ ’Bout two hours. Probably three from the look of youse,’ the teamster replied loudly so as to be heard over the creak and rattle of his wagon. ‘Jus’ keep goin’ from where I came from.’
Luke thanked him and the three hobbled off the track to collapse amongst the shade of the tall eucalypt trees as his wagon rumbled past. The days of being hunted like animals were mercifully near an end. Exhausted as they were, they knew the next two hours would bring them into contact with the simple things in life: food, sleep and a hot bath!
John’s thoughts, however, went beyond the immediate pleasures they could look forward to. His were dark and troubled for what he must now do. He had sworn an oath to complete a mission regardless of his personal feelings. But now his feelings were in turmoil.
He slipped his long-bladed knife from inside his boot and hacked idly at the ground between his legs. ‘You know I’m supposed to kill you,’ he said as casually as if he were discussing the weather and not the elimination of a man.
Luke was an experienced knife fighter but he knew that the younger man was in better physical condition than himself. ‘Michael kind of warned me,’ he answered, as he slid a knife from his own boot, ‘that you and I might have some troubles when we got back to Cooktown. Fair of you to give me a chance, warning me first,’ he said, tightening the grip on the handle of his knife.
John raised his knife and, with a flick of his wrist, hurled the knife at a tree on the other side of the track where, with a dull thud, it buried itself in the trunk. ‘I’m not going to do it Luke,’ John said, gazing out into the scrub. ‘But I’m going to ask for your help.’
‘Before you go any further,’ Luke said, slipping his knife inside his boot, ‘maybe you should tell me why you changed your mind?’
John’s gaze shifted to Hue who was oblivious of the potentially deadly situation that had flared – and died – in the split second it took for the knife to leave his hand. Her eyes were closed and she slept in a world of jade and incense dreams. ‘For her. For Michael Duffy and yourself. For Henry and even for Christie Palmerston,’ he answered haltingly. ‘I was given orders to take Hue away from you when we got back. And I knew I would have to kill you and Duffy to do that. But things have got a bit personal over the last few days. Duffy’s staying behind meant he had little chance of coming out alive. I think I knew then that I owed you and him more than I owed Soo. And Hue . . . well she kind of messed up my plans to hand her over to him.’
‘Pretty obvious you like the girl,’ Luke prompted gently.
‘Yeah, I do,’ John replied wistfully. ‘You know, Soo was doublecrossing Horace Brown. He was going to make a deal with the French himself.’
‘Who’s Horace Brown?’ Luke asked. It was the first time he had heard the name of the shadowy agent.
‘Brown was Duffy’s boss,’ John replied. ‘He’s the man we were working for. And I doubt that he’d be very happy about what I’m going to ask you to do.’
‘You want me to help you get away with the girl,’ Luke answered quietly, and glanced across at the exhausted young woman deep in a blissful sleep. ‘I suppose your boss isn’t going to think too kindly of you doublecrossing him either. I hear your tongs can be a bit unforgiving about that sort of thing.’
John nodded. Soo would be more than unhappy. He would be murderously furious as he also had to answer to those above him. Failure was not tolerated. ‘I want to get Hue back to her home,’ he said.
‘You know she is worth a lot of money,’ Luke reminded, ‘to whoever hands her over. To either the French or her own people. Michael and I had the same idea. If her folks back in Cochin China pay up you will be a rich man. Bit unfair on myself and Michael, wouldn’t you say?’ he scowled.
‘I was never considering any ransom,’ John retorted with a frown. ‘Just getting her back safely to her family.’
From the young bushman’s reaction Luke felt that he was probably telling the truth. Either that or he was the most accomplished liar he had ever met. He stared hard at him, but the Eurasian’s dark eyes were absent of any signs of deceit. ‘I’ll try and help,’ Luke finally answered.
John broke into a broad smile of gratitude. ‘If her family insists on giving me anything,’ he answered with visible relief, ‘then I will split the proceeds fifty fifty.’
‘Any split is three ways,’ Luke replied quietly. ‘Michael might be dead or he might not be. Either way he gets his share, or his share goes to Kate O’Keefe. It was what he made me promise when we last saw him.’
‘Three ways,’ John echoed, and thrust out his big hand to seal the deal.
‘I have a gut feeling,’ the American said pessimistically, ‘that your boss Mister Soo will get to know that you have doublecrossed him when we get back to Cooktown.’ The running battle with Mort and his men might be over but he knew the tong leader had eyes and ears everywhere in Cooktown. It would not be long before Soo was informed that the girl was now with him. The second running battle to get Hue out of Cooktown and eventually the colony of Queensland was inevitable.
Luke stood and tentatively tested his wounded leg. Against all the odds the wound had not turned septic. He limped across to John and placed his hand on his shoulder. ‘I think I know someone who can help us,’ Luke said reassuringly. ‘But I don’t think she is going to be very pleased to make my acquaintance again.’
‘Missus O’Keefe?’ John guessed.
‘I’m afraid so,’ Luke sighed. ‘Think I’d rather go back and face Mort. At least we stood a chance against him. He only wanted to kill us.’
John smiled. Bloody women, he thought wistfully. More trouble than Horace Brown, Soo Yin and the French put together.
Kate sat with her hands in her lap. She was pale and her eyes were puffy from crying. Luke felt awkward now that silence had descended between them.
Both Emma and Kate had been in the store when the wounded American had hobbled back into Kate’s life. Her first reaction was an overwhelming joy to see him alive, albeit in a pitiful state, but she resisted the urge to tell him so. Although he now returned wounded and weary from God knows where, she thought, he had forfeited any future chance of her wanting him in her life again. So it had been Emma who had tended to Luke’s wounded leg and made him a mug of sweet black coffee. Kate’s seemingly cool indifference hurt him more than his wound. He knew she would be angry but her silence was worse than he could have ever imagined.
When Luke broke the news of Henry’s death as gently as he could Kate had passionately damned Michael O’Flynn to hell for allowing Henry to go with him. Luke did not tell the grieving women the real purpose of the trip except to say that they had been prospecting for gold with Mister O’Flynn when Henry had been killed by myalls. But neither woman was fooled by his thin story. Kate had noticed how uncomfortable he was in telling the lie. And Emma did not query him on details of Henry’s death. For her the past was the past and any account he provided would not bring the big bear of a man back into her life. She wiped away her tears and waved off Kate’s insistence that she fetch the buggy to take her home, saying that she preferred to be alone.
Henry had once said that grief was a personal thing and now Emma understood what he had meant. She left the store with her head down to avoid the curious stares of people on the street. Many had heard the rumours that her husband had last been seen in company of the notorious Irish-American adventurer, Michael O’Flynn, a man reputed to have been a soldier of fortune. It was obvious from Emma James’s distraught appearance that something had gone badly wrong for her husband on the mysterious expediti
on west of Cooktown.
When they were alone Luke cleared his throat. ‘I am going to have to ask you a big favour Kate,’ he said self-consciously, still feeling guilty for having had to lie to the woman he had always loved more than his own life. How had things gone so terribly wrong, he wondered sadly.
Kate stared stonily at him. ‘I will help you if it is within my power,’ she answered coldly. ‘If it is money you want . . . I can arrange that.’ She saw his crushed expression and regretted appearing so hard. But building a wall between them was her only means to protect her own vulnerability.
‘Not money Kate,’ Luke said softly. ‘I need your help to get some folk out of Cooktown. Without help they are as good as dead.’
‘Then you will need money,’ she replied less coldly, and Luke was grateful for the change in her tone. He felt miserable enough that he had to remain silent on the true identity of Michael O’Flynn. To tell her now, that the man she had cursed to hell was her brother, would have only caused her a grief greater than he knew she could bear. It had been bad enough breaking the news to Emma of her husband’s death.
‘Thank you Kate,’ he replied gratefully. ‘Some day I will make sure you get the money back.’
‘I would rather have had Henry back,’ Kate retorted bitterly. ‘Nothing can help Emma’s grief. Nothing can give a life for one that has been taken.’ He had no answer to her bitter recrimination and sat awkwardly staring at the floor of the depot. ‘These people you spoke of, who are they?’ she added. ‘Do I know them?’
Luke frowned and debated whether he should tell her. To do so might place her life in jeopardy. But he also knew that Kate O’Keefe wielded considerable power in the town. Maybe more power than Soo Yin, he considered. ‘One of the folks is John Wong,’ he answered. ‘The other is a Chinese girl you do not know. But it wouldn’t be wise for you to get mixed up in what I’m doing. Not right to risk yourself in this business.’
