Shadow of the Osprey

by Peter Watt

  ‘What might that be?’ Soo queried. His expression reflected an interest in the statement Horace had made and he could see that the tong leader was even now forgetting the presence of the head at his feet.

  ‘For your compliance with my wishes to leave the Eurasian and the Cochinese girl alone,’ Horace said calmly, ‘I will pledge assistance in you expediting the remains of your dead countrymen back to the land of their ancestors.’

  ‘You have contacts in the customs service?’ Soo asked with rising interest. ‘Who will assist me?’ How had the Englishman learned of his means of smuggling gold in the bodies of dead coolies being sent home to Hong Kong? He should not have wondered. Horace Brown was a remarkable man for a barbarian. Not only did he speak his language with fluency but he was also a spy.

  ‘I have,’ Horace replied, and Soo smiled for the first time in Horace’s memory of the man.

  ‘Then I will comply with your wish Mister Brown,’ he replied. ‘Wong and the girl are under my protection. But you must realise that Wong can never return to Cooktown whilst I am here. It is a matter of face, as you know from our ways.’

  ‘I understand,’ Horace answered gravely. ‘I doubt that you will see Mister Wong after tonight – and your honour will remain intact. What has transpired is between you and me only. You can tell your men to retrieve your assassin’s body from behind Kate O’Keefe’s depot in Charlotte Street. Other than a missing head and a wound to the chest it’s in remarkably good condition for transporting back to Hong Kong. Now I will bid you a good evening as I have a lot to do tonight. People to visit, old friends and all that.’

  Soo watched the Englishman turn on his heel and give a little wave with his walking cane. He had always wondered why Horace Brown had required a cane when he had always appeared quite mobile without one.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Kate’s money purchased John and Hue a passage south on a chartered ketch. The captain was more than pleased at the generous fee paid to sail south to Townsville with just two passengers and in return he asked no questions.

  Luke shook hands with John late at night on the jetty and John’s grip was firm with his gratitude. Both knew that their handshake symbolised a bond that could be called on at any time – and in blood – if necessary.

  When John and Hue boarded the ketch tears of gratitude flowed down the Cochinese girl’s cheeks. She choked back the words, ‘Merci, Monsieur Luke.’ As she stood beside John on the deck she thought of many things that had passed in her life in the land of the barbarians. She thought about the big, scarred warrior with the one eye who had sacrificed his life fighting a rearguard action so that they could escape the clutches of the tongs. And the tall American, who stood in the shadows of the jetty, was risking his life even now by smuggling them out of Cooktown. And there were the others: The big Englishman with the limp who lay dead in a dry, burned out valley in the mountains to the west. And even the bearded young bushman with the withered arm who made it plain he did not like those of Chinese blood. She owed them all a debt for her life. Big, generous and warm-hearted barbarians, with the courage of the jungle tigers of her homeland.

  Hue did not attempt to wipe away the tears and swore a silent oath on the spirits of her ancestors that some day she would repay her debt to the men who had fought so stubbornly to return her to her home. Hers was a silent oath, sworn under the constellation of the Southern Cross on the lives of her yet unborn children.

  Luke watched with a heavy heart the schooner glide gracefully between the ships at anchor on the river until it was swallowed by the night. They were all gone now – leaving him with his solitary life, and little else. John might never return with the ransom. But at least they were out of the immediate clutches of Soo Yin, he thought, as he turned and slowly walked along the jetty to the town alive with sound and light. It was just another night of drunken celebration for the successful miners returning from the Palmer with billycan and pockets full of gold. Another night of whores, gamblers, pickpockets and confidence men relieving the drunken miners of hard-earned wealth.

  It was during the long nights that he felt the loneliness most. The exciting and garish life of the gold town was so much a pulse of his own life. An eventful life that had stretched back to his youth on the Californian goldfields of ’49 and then to the Victorian goldfields of Ballarat in ’54 and now, to the port town of the Palmer, twenty years later.

  His was a life without roots. He was forever searching for a dream as elusive as the opium dreams in the smoke-filled dens behind Charlotte Street. He was somewhere at the beginning of the fourth decade of his life and he had nothing to show except the scars on his body, his callused hands and sad memories of a dead wife and child long buried under the earth of his adopted country.

  But he also had memories of a young, beautiful Irish woman whom he had grown to love. Memories and scars, he thought despondently. He felt that his life lived out on the frontiers of the harsh and sometimes savage land had left him with little to offer the future.

  Somewhat despairingly, he unconsciously walked towards the hotel where only days before he had shared drinks with Michael Duffy and Henry James. Now it all seemed a lifetime ago. So many friends lost in such a short time. He knew he was going to get drunk . . . falling-down drunk.

  ‘I think I should buy you a drink Mister Tracy,’ the voice said at his elbow. ‘You look like you need one.’ Luke turned to the speaker who had joined him in front of the hotel noisy with music from a fiddle and the laughter of miners at play. ‘My name is Horace Brown,’ the portly man said as he politely offered his hand to the startled American. ‘We have never met before,’ he continued, ‘but we have mutual friends I would like to join you in toasting.’

  Luke blinked. This was the man behind the ill-fated expedition to seize Hue from Mort, he thought. ‘Were you following me?’ he challenged Brown, ignoring the outstretched hand.

  ‘Yes and no, old chap,’ Horace replied. ‘You see, I ran into a mutual acquaintance of ours at my hotel this afternoon and he told me that you and Mister Wong got clear away with the girl, as far as he knew. Except that my other old friend, Soo Yin, hasn’t seen his trusted employee since he seconded him to Mister Duffy’s expedition. One could only believe that Mister Wong was avoiding Soo for one reason or another. I suspect that Mister Wong was under orders to seize the girl for Mister Soo to ransom to the French for certain favourable business opportunities he has planned in Saigon.’

  ‘You suspected John Wong and yet you allowed him to come with us Mister Brown?’ Luke queried, as he eyed the little man with the spectacles. ‘It don’t make a lot of sense to me.’

  Horace coughed and cleared his throat. ‘Well, it didn’t really matter who got the girl back to the French,’ he replied. ‘The main thing was that the British government was seen to be assisting them, in whatever way we could. The means justify the end as they say.’

  ‘You know the French aren’t about to get their hands on her, don’t you Mister Brown?’ Luke said quietly, watching closely to gauge the Englishman’s reaction.

  ‘Yes, I know that. I saw you put them on a boat sailing for God knows where,’ he replied.

  Luke gaped in surprise and Horace was pleased to see that he had unsettled the American. ‘Oh do not concern yourself,’ he continued. ‘I think, considering what the expedition cost in lives lost, we have impressed the French intelligence service with our efforts to assist them. I’m sure they will learn about the events through their own agents here and will be still grateful for the assistance Her Majesty’s government has granted them. In a very discreet way, of course. As for any ransom . . . well I know nothing of that,’ he said, with a conspiratorial wink which was not lost on Luke who fully realised that the Englishman could have easily prevented Hue from leaving the town. He held out his hand to the Englishman and Horace accepted the gesture of reconciliation.

  ‘I think we will have that drink. If you’re payin’,’ Luke drawled.

  ‘It will only be on
e drink, Mister Tracy,’ Horace replied. ‘Because I think you will want to see Michael O’Flynn tonight, He’s . . . ’

  ‘Michael. He’s alive!’ Luke exploded and grabbed the smaller man by the shoulders.

  ‘Yes. Christie brought him in. More dead than alive,’ he sighed. ‘Seems his wound went bad on him and he’s barely with us . . . ’

  ‘Where? Where in hell is he now?’

  ‘He’s with Mister Palmerston at the miners’ camp outside town. But he could be dead by now. I’m afraid only a miracle will save him.’

  It did not matter who had the girl, Horace reflected. And it was even fitting that the Cochinese girl was the property of the adventurers who had earned the bloody right to her.

  With a casual shrug of his shoulders he reckoned on it being time to pack his meagre kit and go elsewhere. His mission in Queensland’s far north was accomplished, and although the Germans had suffered a temporary setback in their efforts to annex the mysterious great island to the north of the Queensland colony, Horace knew that they would try again in the future. It would be his mission to thwart their attempts.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  The night was pleasantly mild and the children were tucked in bed when Luke came for Kate. She was writing a letter to her aunt Bridget in Sydney about events in her life when she heard the urgent rapping on the front door. She pulled a shawl over her shoulders and unlatched the lock when she heard Luke calling to her.

  Luke’s expression was grim as he stood in the doorway and his determined look did not invite questions. He ordered her to dress for a journey while he prepared the buggy for a short trip out of town. Kate hurried away and changed out of her nightdress. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she called from the verandah.

  ‘The miners’ camp out of town,’ he replied, as he led the buggy horse from the stable.

  Kate knew the camp well. It was a transitional place where miners stayed after returning from the Palmer down on their luck – or on their way up the track, to try their luck. It was a noisy place filled with the sounds of drunken singing, children bawling and the high pitched voices of women complaining about their spouse’s drunkenness. As part of her charitable works Kate would visit the camp, to meet with the women, and ensure that their children had enough food and medicine. The beautiful Irishwoman was well liked and respected by the transient population of miners.

  ‘Don’t ask me why,’ he added tersely, then, more softly, without taking his eyes from the track, ‘I can’t bring Henry back Kate but maybe I can bring back another life for you.’

  His answer intrigued Kate. She had absolutely no idea what he meant. As they drew near the tent city, many who recognised Kate called to her cheerful greetings, which she acknowledged with a smile and a nod.

  Luke hitched the buggy and led Kate to a canvas tent at the edge of the camp where they were met by the legendary bushman she had heard so many colourful stories about but never encountered. She was surprised to see that Christie Palmerston was not ten feet tall with the eyes of a fire breathing dragon. In fact, he was very ordinary looking, and his eyes reflected a deep and sensitive intelligence she found attractive in a man.

  Christie pulled back the flap of the tent and Kate adjusted her eyes to the weak glow of a kerosene lantern on an old packing crate. She saw a big man stripped to the waist on a camp stretcher with a clean gauze bandage around his chest. He wore a leather eye patch and on his body Kate could see the outline of many old scars.

  The man was sweating profusely and Kate guessed that he was in the grip of a bad fever, exacerbated by the wound he had obviously recently received. She looked at his face again. There was something vaguely and hauntingly familiar about it.

  ‘Hello Kate,’ Michael said hoarsely, before she fainted.

  Brother and sister were left alone in the tent while outside Luke spoke quietly to Christie. They had mutually agreed that what had happened in the last week of their lives would never be spoken of and both swore an oath to that effect. Christie was especially happy to do so. It was bad enough that the traps were always after him for one thing or another. Accusations concerning stolen horses and abuses of Chinamen – but the killing of Europeans! No, the events never happened as far as the bushman was concerned. He knew that there was much he must do in his life, and the embarrassing questions that might be raised about the dead sailors from the Osprey could make life difficult for him with the authorities.

  Holding his hand Kate knelt by her brother’s side. She found herself laughing and crying as she stroked his thick, curly hair matted with dirt. She prayed that there would be time to talk as there were so many questions to ask and so much to catch up on. For now, she could see that her beloved brother was very weak. He drifted in and out of consciousness and this was not the time for such talk. His grey eye glittered with the fever and his forehead was hot to the touch. But he gripped his sister’s hand as strongly as she gripped his.

  ‘Luke brought you here, didn’t he?’ he asked in a hoarse whisper and Kate nodded. Michael shook his head slowly. ‘Told him to keep his bloody mouth shut.’ He struggled to sit up and Kate held a water canteen to his lips. When he had sipped the water he turned to his sister. ‘Kate, I’m dying,’ he said. ‘I know it.’ Kate’s face crumpled. And the tears were no longer happy tears. ‘Don’t cry old girl,’ he continued weakly. ‘I’ve used up a lot of lives over the years. But at least I got to see you one last time . . . before I take that walk to the other side.’

  ‘You aren’t going to die Michael,’ she said between her tears as she tried to wipe them away. ‘You are going to get well and join me in the business.’ Her tears splashed her brother’s face as he slumped back on the stretcher.

  Michael gave his sister a sad smile. ‘Luke will look after you when I’m gone Katie,’ he said softly, exhausting his last reserves of strength. ‘He’s a good man and I think he has always loved you. He must have loved you a lot, to get that slimy lawyer to pass on to you all the money he had in the world a few years back. And love you enough to risk his life facing him down before we left Cooktown on the Osprey.’

  Michael’s eye was closed when he spoke and he was not aware of the shocked expression on Kate’s face. A lot of things were suddenly making sense. Things that had bothered her for a long time. Things like the donation Hugh Darlington had supposedly made to her. She remembered now that it was about the same time Luke disappeared from her life. ‘Luke gave me that money?’ she gasped. ‘Not Hugh?’

  ‘Never belonged to Darlington,’ Michael sighed. ‘The money was always Luke’s. He was too proud to tell you and the bastard robbed him blind. Luke had too much pride to let you know he was always with you Katie . . . ’ His voice trailed away as he drifted gently towards the abyss of death.

  Kate knew that she was listening to his last words. Her brother was giving into the peace that waited for him on the other side. He had always been a fighter, but now he was being seduced by the sirens who called from the rocks of the abyss. She buried her head on his chest and wept as she sensed the life force ebbing from his exhausted body.

  Remember! Remember and you will live! The distant voice of a child called to Michael in the darkness.

  Remember what? He heard his own voice call as an echo in the night. The whispers came to him from all sides . . .

  Remember the woman with the green eyes . . .

  ‘Michael!’ Kate threw herself across her dying brother and her anguished cry brought Luke rushing into the tent. ‘Michael’s dying,’ she sobbed as she knelt by her brother, holding him, ‘and there is nothing I can do.’

  Luke felt as if his heart would break for her pain and very tenderly took her in his arms. ‘A man has to have a good reason to fight on Kate,’ he said gently. ‘A reason stronger than his own life.’

  She pushed herself away from Luke, her face set with a fierce expression of determination. ‘Michael has a reason to fight!’ she said as she knelt again by the camp stretcher where her brother lay listening to the whisp
ers in the dark. ‘Michael. You must fight to live,’ she said firmly. ‘You must fight, so that you live to see your son grow to be a man. Yes, Michael.’ Kate’s sternly delivered words were those of a chiding mother rather than a despairing sister and she noticed a slight response to her voice. ‘Your son will need you more than any other person on earth when he too becomes a man like his father . . . ’

  I remember! The boy with the green eyes! Yes, the boy with the green eyes was not Daniel’s son! That is what I had known the night on the slope. Michael could hear the voice calling to him from far away. A boy’s voice!

  ‘Father!’

  ‘Patrick . . . my son!’ Michael’s whispered words seemed to echo in the tent. The barely uttered words assured Kate that her brother would not die. How he could know his son’s name she could not guess. But she did know with all her body and soul that her brother would live.

  She turned to Luke with an expression of serene victory. ‘Michael will live,’ she said triumphantly. ‘He has much to do in his life. And I love you Luke . . . I always have.’ She rose to go to the arms of the American. ‘And I’m afraid you will have to marry me Mister Tracy,’ she continued with a wicked smile. ‘Because if you don’t . . . then the child that I carry will not have a proper father.’

  EPILOGUE

  On a clipper in the southern oceans west of South Africa, a young boy stood at the railing of the sailing ship and watched the big seas rolling off the graceful bow. The clipper rose and plunged into the wave troughs, and the night wind ruffled Patrick Duffy’s thick curly hair. He felt the sting of the waves lash his face with hissing salt spray and felt so alone in the dark.

  He did not understand the irresistible urge to go above decks in the stormy night. All he knew was that a woman’s voice had called to him, like a soft whisper in his mind, from across the ocean. It was not a voice others could hear – and it was not a voice that he had heard before. He stood and stared into the howling wind that strained at the mass of canvas above his head, and moaned through the rigging with the voices of the lonely and desolate places of the spirit.