by Peter Watt
Fiona sat alone in her thoughts but not alone in the carriage. Penelope sat beside her, watching the pinched expression on her cousin’s pale and beautiful face. Penelope had seen pain before, but not the kind of pain she was now witnessing.
She reached over to gently cover Fiona’s hand reassuringly. How could one reassure a mother who was losing a son she had only just found after years of silent mourning? How could she tell the woman she loved that she had the barest inkling of the pain she was suffering?
Fiona turned momentarily to flash a weak smile of gratitude for her cousin’s tender gesture. ‘I have lost him forever. My mother has taken him from me twice in a lifetime. Once was almost more than I could bear.’
Penelope followed Fiona’s gaze to the crowded wharf. She could see Daniel Duffy, stiff and formal in his suit and top hat, waving gravely to Patrick who was following his grandmother up the gangway. Standing beside the tall lawyer was a pretty redheaded woman, weeping as she held the hand of a little girl very much a miniature of herself. A young boy about Patrick’s age waved to him and Patrick paused on the gangway to return the wave. An older woman stood beside Daniel. She had snow-white hair and reminded Penelope of the eternal grandmother of quiet and gentle ways.
The crowd of well-wishing farewellers milling on the wharf pushed forward to reach out to the passengers lining the clipper’s deck, and the Duffy family was obscured. The crowd now gave three hurrahs, to speed the passengers safely to England.
The dockside gangs cast off the ropes that held the ship captive to Sydney’s shores, and a brass band played a medley of popular tunes, before breaking into the traditional Scottish tune Auld Lang Syne. Penelope scanned the ship’s railing and saw Patrick and Enid standing side by side at the bow. She could see Enid saying something to Patrick whose smile was sad as he waved to his family on the dock.
A steam tug strained to pull the graceful clipper into the main channel where she would be set on her voyage across the Great Southern Ocean and around the Cape of Africa to England.
Fiona did not wait for the ship to be towed to the main channel. She did not want to remember her son as a tiny blur amongst strangers lining the deck. She wanted to keep the picture of the boy’s face clear in her mind, as he stood at the railing, rather than remember the clipper taking him away from her. She had no doubt that she had seen Michael’s spirit in the boy’s eyes and no matter what her mother tried to mould him into he would always hold a part of his father’s rebellious spirit.
Fiona knew that her son would be groomed to oppose Granville directly, and herself indirectly. Her sin was not that she had lusted for Michael Duffy. Her sin was that she had taken a side against her mother who was punishing her now by using the fruit of her liaison to hurt her in the cruellest possible way.
The bumping of the carriage on the packed earthen road along the route to South Head made Penelope feel ill. It was a warm day, one that gave promise of fires that would burn uncontrollably in the eucalyptus forests around the city, choking the town with the brown haze of cinders.
But such sickness was not uncommon to a pregnant woman. Penelope knew that Manfred was the father of her unborn child as she had been careful in her affairs with other men. Apart from her doctor, only she knew of the pregnancy now into its third month, and she wanted Fiona to be the third person to know. It was her pregnancy that made her especially empathetic to her cousin’s grief. She realised how precious the life within her was. How would she react to her baby being wrenched from her arms, from her life? The answer was clear. She knew she would be capable of killing any person who tried to take her baby from her.
Fiona stared out at the passing drays, wagons and carriages as they rattled past. The tall gums appeared weary from the industrial pollution that had come with Sydney’s growth as a city. Fetid smelling tanneries and factories spilled out noxious fumes, while sewage fouled the sandy earth. Once clean and clear swamps were now cesspools of poisonous waste. Sydney had an ugly face for Fiona. With its magnificent harbour, she had once thought the city to be the prettiest in the world. But Sydney was the home of the Macintoshes, a name she had grown to detest for all its implications in her life.
‘We still have Michael,’ Penelope said gently as the coach rattled and bumped along the dusty road. ‘So long as Michael is alive, you have an ally to win Patrick back one day.’
Fiona gave her cousin a bitter smile. ‘I think it is too late for Michael to help me,’ she replied sadly. ‘He is God knows where, and could even be dead, for all we know. No, I doubt that he could do much,’ she added bitterly.
Although Penelope respected her cousin’s opinion, it was not one that she shared. Michael was a born survivor and his scars a testament to his ability to withstand the worst that could happen to him. She was certain, however illogical it seemed, that one day he would return to help Fiona in her quest to regain her son.
‘You slept with Michael when he was in Sydney.’ Fiona’s unexpected accusation was stated with such casual aplomb that Penelope was taken unawares. Fiona had not even bothered to face her when she spoke.
Penelope remained in a stunned silence for a brief moment, considering how she should reply to her cousin’s accusation. ‘I slept with the man you knew as Michael O’Flynn not Michael Duffy,’ she finally answered.
Fiona turned on her with a cold fire in her eyes. ‘You and I both know Michael O’Flynn is Michael Duffy,’ she flared.
Penelope smiled sadly at her cousin’s bitterness. ‘We have shared the same body,’ she replied quietly, ‘but not the same man. Michael is not the young man you once knew. Michael Duffy has become Michael O’Flynn. A man whose soul is as scarred as his body. The young man who once had dreams of creating beauty in his paintings is now a man who will never know peace. Oh Fiona my love, I have seen into his soul, and I have seen the pain for what he can never go back to. No. I did not sleep with your Michael. I slept with an Irish soldier of fortune. I doubt that the man I knew intimately would even know your Michael. They have little in common.’
Fiona’s bitterness dissolved. Penelope was right, she thought. The man she had briefly met at Penelope’s house was so different from the gentle and carefree Michael she had once loved with her body. The man who had then stood before her on the lawn had the air of one who had seen far too much violence in his life. Yes, they had shared the same body, but not the same man!
Fiona took her cousin’s hand in hers. ‘I know what you mean Penny,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘I think we have both been fortunate to have known Michael in our lifetime. It is something we will always have in common, you and I.’
Penelope slipped her arms around Fiona and held her to her breast. It was then that she told her the wonderful news concerning her pregnancy. There were joyous squeals of delight as the coach drove into the driveway of Penelope’s house.
Their lovemaking that afternoon was both passionate and tender. But when it was over, and Penelope slept in Fiona’s embrace, Fiona found her thoughts drifting to both her son and his father. The thoughts wandered the empty places in her life. There was laughter in the memories of a beach at sunset, and the face of a tall, broad shouldered young man, who talked impulsively of taking her to America. And sorrow in the thoughts for the milk that once swelled her breasts for the son she had never had suckle her. ‘Where are you Michael Duffy?’ she whispered softly, as she stroked away a wisp of Penelope’s golden hair from her sleeping face. ‘Will we ever meet again? And how would you react to the knowledge we have a son?’
THIRTY-NINE
With his rifle across his chest Michael Duffy lay on his back and gazed up at an eagle circling the dry valley. As graceful as it was lethal in its intent, the majestic bird dived earthwards. Michael tugged the broad brim of his hat down over his eyes and prepared to take a short nap.
A short distance away, using his rifle as a support, Luke Tracy crouched in the long grass, peering eastwards. Vigilant and alert he scanned the surrounding scrubby bush. They were d
eep within the territory of hostile tribesmen and such vigilance was essential to ensure that the shadows cast by a shimmering tropical sun did not suddenly move with the flash of a warrior releasing a deadly spear. Luke eased himself into a sitting position to take the strain off his legs.
‘No sign?’ Michael inquired lazily from under the shade of his hat.
‘Nothing yet,’ Luke answered as he reached for his water canteen.
A horse whinnied from a stand of scrub behind them. The sound instantly awoke Henry James who had been dozing under a spindly tree in the scrub. The horse was answered with a distant whinny, and the three men scanned the eastern horizon of low, scrub-covered hills.
‘It’s them,’ Luke said, as he rose and waved his rifle above his head.
In the distance one of the two shimmering mounted figures acknowledged them by waving his rifle above his head. After a short time the shapes took on more distinct outlines, as the two outriders rode towards them across the sun-baked plain.
Christie Palmerston and John Wong rode side by side with their rifles resting on their hips. They reined in at the edge of the tree line and Michael stepped forward to greet the two men. He gazed up at Christie Palmerston whose reputation as a superb bushman was well known to the people on the frontier.
Michael knew very little about the bushman’s past, except that it was rumoured that he was the illegitimate son of the famous opera singer Madame Carandini and Viscount Palmerston, an English lord. He was not really interested in the young man’s parentage but rather his considerable experience and skills as a bushman. He was a man in his mid-twenties and sported a long, dark beard down to his chest. Michael felt a kind of empathy with the young man whose left arm had been withered from birth. Michael’s own lost eye made him aware of how frustrating a physical disability could be.
‘They’re about three hours aback and coming this way,’ Christie said without being asked the crucial question.
‘How many?’ Michael asked.
‘Counted twenty-nine all up. Mostly Chinee. But saw four white men with them. Travelling single file and, as far as I knowed, not expecting a lot of trouble. Got a lot of arms for a Chinee coolie party though.’
‘You see a girl with them?’ Michael queried. He was fairly certain from the young bushman’s brief description of the approaching column that it was Mort’s party. Confirmation of the girl’s presence would be a bonus.
‘Too far away to see,’ Christie answered, as he wiped sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Anyway, all Chinee look the same to me . . . man or woman.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ Michael muttered. ‘It’s got to be them.’
Once Michael had scouted the valley with Henry and Luke, Christie and John had ridden away to locate Mort’s party. Christie had used his skills to skirt the track he knew the Chinese would most probably use, and the trail he had chosen had taken them up onto the ridges overlooking the narrow valleys and shimmering plains below. From their vantage point on the ridge they had observed small parties of prospectors winding like ants along the track. Eventually they had spotted the Chinese column snaking its way south west along the track towards the Palmer.
Michael turned and walked to the stand of scrub where their mounts grazed. Very little needed to be said. The five men, four days out of Cooktown, knew the next stage in his plan. Now it was only a matter of waiting for Mort to come to them.
The men watched with some curiosity from astride their horses as Michael walked the ground he had selected for his ambush site. He was a master tactician in ambushing and the site was carefully chosen for maximum advantage to compensate for their smaller number over Mort’s party.
Henry had more of an appreciation for what the Irish mercenary was doing, when Michael occasionally stopped, and crouched to scan the surrounding terrain. As a veteran of the Crimean War, he understood the importance of ambush; a small party of men had the odds on their side when they utilised surprise, concealment and cover, to catch an enemy in ground not advantageous to him.
Mort’s party was most likely to enter the killing ground that he had chosen because of the way the terrain naturally channelled them; a steep hill covered in forest to one side, and a sharp drop from the edge of the plateau on the other side left little choice.
An all out assault on a tong stockade was out of the question. In the open, and without the reinforcements of the Tiger Tong located somewhere along the track, Mort was most vulnerable. Satisfied at his choice of ground, Michael briefed his men and they dismounted to carry out the tasks he had assigned them.
The ambushers sweated under the tropical sun as they hastily erected log defences from the fallen timber they carried from the nearby hill. The trees, brought down by termites or storm, were made to appear as a natural part of the plain. Only those experienced in the tactics of ambush might notice the potential danger of the area. And Michael was gambling that Mort was not one of them.
When everything had been prepared the four men stood in a semicircle around Michael’s plan scratched in the earth. The ambush layout resembled an L with Henry and Luke to be positioned at the bottom. Michael and John would form the stem, while Christie would be positioned at the top, ready to cut off any attempt to retreat as well as to give early warning of the approach of the column. The only way out of the carefully laid ambush was over the steep edge of the plateau.
Michael used the tip of his bowie knife as a pointer. ‘That gully behind us will be our way out,’ he said waving to the cut in the hill behind them with his knife. The gully was a dry watercourse that had carved out the rock and provided a convenient cover for the withdrawal. ‘When we withdraw we will do so in short stages. One group on the ground providing covering fire while the other group moves. Are there any questions?’ They tugged at beards and scratched at the insect bites that covered their bodies. The plan appeared simple and effective and no-one spoke. ‘Good!’ Michael grunted as he stood and stretched. Each man knew his job and all had at one time or another in their lives known what to expect when the shooting started.
‘We ought to get the horses up there now,’ Henry said as he shaded his eyes against the glare of sun reflecting off the rocks.
‘Good idea,’ Michael said, sliding the bowie down the side of his boot. ‘We’ll hobble them on the other side. I don’t think we have much time.’
And he was right. They had hardly taken the horses over the hill, when Christie came running back from his vantage point. Sweat streamed down his face and into his beard. ‘They’re coming!’ he gasped breathlessly.
The ambushers melted into the ground behind their improvised timber defences and waited – but not for very long.
FORTY
From his concealed position Michael could see the lead man of the approaching column. He was one of the Chinese tong men and carried an ancient flintlock musket carelessly across his shoulder.
Michael set the rear sight of his Snider to two hundred yards, the distance he estimated the lead man was from him. Beside him, John did the same. Both men held their breaths as the man passed them and was followed by others.
No flanking scouts! Michael thought and breathed a little easier. He had gambled and won. He adjusted his rifle sights to one hundred yards. The centre of the column came into sight opposite them. Michael could see that they were bunched two abreast. It appeared that they had no intentions of falling behind their comrades, to be picked off by tribesmen, who might be lurking in the silent grey scrub. He could see that the Chinese were armed but that their weapons were a motley collection of ancient flintlocks with even a blunderbuss or two. At the centre of the column a handful of Europeans were clustered together carrying Winchester rifles.
‘There!’ John hissed. ‘There she is.’ Although John had never seen Hue before, she was as he had expected a member of a Chinese mandarin family to be. She carried herself with a regal dignity and was as beautiful as Michael has described her. John found that he could not take his eyes from the slen
der young girl.
‘Get ready!’ Michael hissed, and John reluctantly tore his eyes away. Michael scanned the line of men and found his target. ‘Tell ’em now,’ he said softly to John as he focused the former Osprey captain along the sights of his rifle.
‘Brothers! Throw down your weapons,’ John called out in Chinese. ‘Or you will die as you stand!’ Immediately the escort party milled uncertainly, peering in the direction from which the strange voice had come. But they had not dropped their muskets, and he could see Mort saying something to Woo, the pirate captain. Michael centred the foresight blade of his Snider on Mort’s chest.
‘Throw down your weapons brothers. There are many of us,’ John called out. ‘We can pick you off before you know death has come to you.’
One of the more daring Chinese raised his musket. Michael saw the man’s movements and immediately shifted his sights from Mort to the Chinese musketeer. Michael fired and the shot echoed off the hill behind them. The big slug of the Snider took the musketeer through the chest. He cried out and threw up his arms as he crumpled to the ground. A flight of sulphur-crested cockatoos rose as a screeching white cloud into the azure sky, the sound unhinging the Chinese who panicked and began firing wildly. It had been a split-second decision that had reprieved Mort from certain death.
The return fire from the ambushing men proved deadly accurate. Three out of four shots found targets. The escort party was now reduced by four and none of the panicked return fire caused any casualties to the ambushers. Michael’s party brought down four more Chinese as they remained standing to reload the cumbersome muskets, before wisely following the Osprey crewmen’s example and dropping to the ground.
Only the return rapid fire of the Winchesters had any real effect on the ambushers. It forced Michael and his men to keep their heads low, and some of the Winchester rounds flew uncomfortably close to pluck at the grass and whine off into the distance.
