Flight of the Eagle (36 page)

The brawny German snorted a bitter laugh at the other man's ability to find humour in the situation.
He was a truly tough and brave man!

‘It has been a long time, Mister Brown,’ Manfred said. He settled down behind a table in his cabin and Horace took the chair offered to him. ‘Cooktown and French Charlie's excellent restaurant if I remember correctly. A time when your man Michael Duffy set out to avenge the deaths of his bushmen on the
Osprey
and inadvertently killed the murderer of my brother.’ It was a remembrance of a more pleasant night that the two men had shared when they had met in a rare truce between spy masters.

‘But I was informed that you were currently in Townsville,’ he added.

‘Your intelligence needs reviewing, Baron,’ Horace mildly rebuked. ‘I have been in Sydney for at least twenty-four hours and you did not know. Not very professional, old chap.’

Manfred frowned. ‘You are here to rescue Mister Duffy from us,’ he said curtly. ‘I doubt that you have involved the authorities in your plan because it would, as you say, be a case of out of the frying pan and into the fire for him if the police were involved.’

‘No, I have come alone,’ Horace replied, leaning forward on his cane. ‘I have come to reason with you for his life. As one gentleman to another.’

‘I will listen,’ Manfred replied, with polite respect for the Englishman who had risked his own life by coming to him. ‘But I doubt that anything you say will help Mister Duffy.’

‘Why kill him when you very well know that your mission to seize New Guinea is known to me and suspected by others in my government?’

‘Because you
may
suspect, but only Mister Duffy has the ability to seriously interfere. Or have you forgotten that you used him to sabotage the
Osprey
on my first mission?’

‘Captain Mort scuttled your mission, not Mister Duffy,’ Horace gently reminded his old adversary. ‘It was Mister Duffy who saved your life when you were in the water.’

Manfred shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Had it not been for Michael Duffy keeping him afloat in the tropical waters of North Queensland Manfred would not be alive today to kill the man. The irony was not entirely lost on the normally inflexible man. He owed Michael Duffy a very powerful debt. But his own life meant very little in relation to the interests of his country and the Kaiser. He was, after all, a soldier and such sentimentality had no place in decision making. ‘I am grateful for Mister Duffy saving my life. And I wish I had a way out of this situation. But you must realise I have a mission to complete and I know that if you were in my place you would do the same.’

Horace nodded. ‘I don't know if he has told you, but I cancelled his mission a couple of days ago,’ he said. ‘You
really are
wasting your time torturing him.’

‘He told us he was no longer working for you,’ Manfred replied. ‘But I cannot risk releasing him while you are in Sydney. Together you are a dangerous team.’

‘What if you cut off the head of the animal?’ Horace asked quietly. ‘Then you would have nothing to worry about.’

Manfred stared at the Englishman and smiled. ‘You and I know that I have no intentions of harming you, Mister Brown. That is not the done thing, old chap, as you English would say.’

‘But what if I were dead? Would you give your word to me as a gentleman of honour, that Michael Duffy would be released with no further harm to him?’

‘In that unlikely situation, naturally I would release Mister Duffy,’ Manfred replied in a puzzled tone. ‘I would give my word to you on that.’

‘Good!’ Horace replied and smiled enigmatically across the small space of Manfred's cabin. ‘Do you have a chess set by any chance, Baron?’ he asked.

Manfred returned the smile with a grim realisation of what was transpiring in his cabin and recovered a finely carved ivory chess set from a sea locker. He placed the board on the table between them and scrounged a bottle of expensive port wine whilst Horace set up the game. The wine was one of two bottles Manfred had been saving to toast the Kaiser's claim to northern New Guinea. But he felt that this special occasion warranted a claim to his precious stock.

When the colours were decided and thus who should move first, Manfred raised his glass. ‘A salute to courage,’ he said gravely, and Horace accepted his tribute in silence.
No speeches of recognition for what was to be done … just a toast from an erstwhile enemy.

‘A toast to Michael Duffy,’ Horace responded quietly. ‘Reluctant servant of Her Majesty and father of Captain Patrick Duffy who is a relative by marriage to one of the Kaiser's most honourable soldiers. To you, Baron von Fellmann.’ Horace's convoluted toast uncomfortably reminded Manfred of his distant relationship to Michael's son.

‘You have my word, Mister Brown,’ Manfred reiterated his promise. ‘But for now, we shall see who is the master at chess, and drink this fine wine.’

‘A longstanding and perverse ambition of mine,’ Horace said as he sipped at the port, ‘has been to beat you at chess.’

When the game was over Manfred left the courageous English agent alone in the cabin. Although Horace had taken the Baron's queen, he had lost the game of life.

Gunter released the tension on the rope that was still holding Michael's arms stretched painfully above his head. The action caused pain to shoot through the upper part of his body and he winced as he reached for a sailor's shirt to replace his own, which had been torn from his back by Gunter.

‘Where is Horace?’ Michael asked, as he massaged his aching muscles.

Manfred did not answer the question but dismissed his marines and turned to Michael once they were alone. ‘Mister Brown has died by his own hand.’ Michael knew that the Prussian was not lying; he had no need to under the present circumstances. ‘He wrote a letter saying he was taking his own life as gesture of goodwill for the agreement we had between us.’ The Baron spoke quietly and with respect for the death of his old enemy. ‘But he does not write those words in his final letter. He has written that he has taken his life because of the pain he suffers from his illness. I will notify the authorities of his death and ensure that he gets a decent burial. You are free to go, Mister Duffy. Horace told me that you were sailing for Africa this week to find your son and I wish you well.’

There was little else to be said or done, Michael thought, as he was escorted to the wharf by the brawny German marine sergeant. Horace was dead.

The rain still pounded the city and its chill bit into Michael's face and hands. Blood continued to ooze from his wounds and the shirt under his coat was stiff with it. But he did not feel the biting cold as he walked slowly away from the German ship. He realised he was still alive.
And that was enough for now!
Later he would feel the loss of an old friend whose courageous sacrifice had snatched him from the jaws of a certain and agonising death.

THIRTY-SIX

G
ordon James was granted a dinner at Cloncurry's finest hotel to celebrate his glorious victory over the fierce Kalkadoon warriors. The speeches flowed – along with the copious quantities of beer and spirits – until the small frontier town was drunk dry.

But Gordon felt the unease of an imposter as the number of those who had opposed his numerically superior force grew with each retelling of the epic battle. He had wanted to explain that a handful of warriors had courageously sold their lives so that their people could escape from inevitable annihilation. But he was also a pragmatic man who realised that the exaggeration of his victory would enhance his reputation in the eyes of his superiors and the frontier people of Queensland. Who knew what prizes might be showered on him as a result of his final report?

But there was also Sarah. No matter how much his victory would enhance his career, he would lose her forever, should he choose to remain with the police. Just how much did he love her? He had brooded as the toastmaster droned on about his exploits. The answer was simple when he looked deep into his soul. He knew what he must do. But for now he accepted the standing toasts to himself and the men who he had led on his long expedition to hunt down the troublesome tribesmen.

With the celebration over and his patrol gathered together, Gordon asked around about Trooper Peter Duffy whose absence he had noted on his return to Cloncurry. Men shrugged their shoulders. No-one had seen him since his first day back in the town after he had accompanied the re-supply party. He must have continued on to Townsville, Gordon concluded angrily. He had not granted him permission to do so. Duffy had been ordered to remain in Cloncurry and oversee the re-supply for the expedition back out to the Godkin Range. He would chew him out when he got back to the barracks.

Weeks later Gordon was relieved to ride into Townsville where the exaggerated account of his victory was the accepted version printed by an enthusiastic local press. His superior officer, Superintendent Gales, lavished praise on the young police officer for bringing honourable mention to the Native Mounted Police. He immediately issued him orders to compile his reports for Brisbane and ensure that his patrol was squared away in the barracks. Pay was to be organised for his troop and all lost and damaged kit to be investigated and recorded.

Gordon accepted his orders with an outward good grace but privately bridled at the interference his duties imposed on him. He desperately wanted to ride over to Kate O'Keefe's house to see Sarah Duffy. The long weeks on patrol had made him realise just how much he missed her and Peter's savage inference that he would use her and cast her aside for the sake of his career had forced him to confront what was more important in his life. He knew without any doubt that Sarah meant more to him than a career as an officer.

It took a day to square away all the matters for his patrol and meanwhile all discreet inquiries regarding Peter Duffy's whereabouts met with blank stares. No, Trooper Duffy had not been seen around Townsville. Concern now replaced anger but Gordon was too temporarily distracted by his duties to dwell on the matter of Peter's disappearance.

As he sat at his desk penning the last of his patrol report he felt decidedly uneasy at the sight of two of his troopers marching grim faced towards his tiny office. He moaned and swore when they rapped on his door. Gordon had good reason to feel apprehension. Any serious trouble in the barracks would delay his trip to Kate's house.

‘Trooper Calder, what have you to say about the matter?’ Gordon James asked, as the four men stood in the police barracks. Two European troopers had reported Calder to their commander.

It was hot and stuffy inside the bark and tin hut and Calder sweated even more under the searching interrogation from the young police commander. He stared at the small pile of coins and banknotes on his bed. They had been retrieved from inside the straw filled palliasse of his mattress. ‘I don't know how the money got there,’ he replied.

‘You stole it,’ one of the other two troopers sneered. ‘You low thievin’ bastard. You stole from your own mates!’ The trooper was only a small man and quivered like a fox terrier as he spat his words.

‘Don't know what 'e's talkin’ about, sir,’ Calder replied defensively. ‘They must ′ave set me up.’

‘I don't think so, Trooper Calder,’ Gordon said, as he bent to pick up the money from the bed. ‘This will be held as evidence until an inquiry is held.’ The two troopers who had caught Calder stashing the stolen money appeared disappointed; some of the money was theirs. Gordon noticed their reaction. ‘I don't think the inquiry will take long. Sergeant Rossi will arrange for a hearing at the barracks first thing in the morning. I'm sure we will have an outcome over this matter before midday tomorrow.’

The two troopers brightened but given time on their own with Calder – and a little persuasion – they would have gained a confession from the thieving bastard. To steal from mates was the lowest crime on the frontier!

As Gordon did not like Calder he was not unhappy at the discovery of his crime. The man had boasted that he was going to ‘do the half-caste darkie Duffy in’ when they returned to Cloncurry but had been denied his opportunity. Peter Duffy had simply vanished. ‘Trooper Calder,’ Gordon said. ‘In fairness to your record of service with my troop in the battle against the Kalkadoon, I will only confine you to the barracks until the results of the hearing tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. You are not to leave this building unless with my express permission. Do you understand what I am telling you?’

Calder glared at Gordon. He had no loyalty to the commander who was known to be friendly to the darkie Peter Duffy. Nor had he any intentions of hanging round to face an inquiry that, with no doubt, would find him guilty of stealing. ‘I understand, sir,’ he replied sullenly. ‘And on my word I will remain in the barracks.’

‘Good! Then I accept your word, Trooper Calder.’

The troopers who had confronted Calder in the barracks cast quizzical looks at each other.
Was Mister James mad?
Gordon indicated to the two troopers to follow him out of the barracks and Calder stood by his bed, watching the three leave the hut. Gordon James was added to the list of those he would one day settle with.