Flight of the Eagle (43 page)

Fiona smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘I did so to protect my son's inheritance, Mother. I did not make the decision lightly. But by doing so I was able to stop Granville from taking you to court to dispute Patrick's birthright. We came to an agreement. That is the
only
reason I sold Granville my inheritance.’

The revelation left Enid drained of any response. In the simple explanation a bridge was thrown across the gulf that separated mother and daughter. But it was not in Enid Macintosh's nature to express love in words. ‘When Patrick returns we will
not
need your help,’ she replied to her daughter's offer. And the bridge came crashing down between them.

Fiona shook her head despairingly and tears flooded her eyes.
What more could she do?
She rose from her chair just as Betsy returned to the library with the cups and saucers on a silver tray. ‘I cannot believe any person could be as heartless as yourself, Mother,’ she said, as if being strangled. ‘I asked only that you tell my son the truth. Tell him of my love for him. Nothing else. And for that you could have had the majority control of your precious companies. Is there no pity in you? Cannot you feel human pain?’

Betsy glanced from one woman to the other and realised wisely that she should not remain in the sea of raw emotion engulfing the confines of the room. She quickly placed the tray on Enid's desk and mumbled an apology as she retreated tactfully. But she was only a couple of steps ahead of Fiona who brushed past her, weeping in great sobs of despair.

Enid remained at her desk as she stared at the open doorway. A part of her struggled to call after her daughter and say that she would consider the offer. But her voice was frozen into silent rejection. To accept her daughter's offer would mean exposing herself as a liar to Patrick as over the years she had reinforced his mother's supposed total lack of feelings for him as her son.

Then her voice came to her as she tried to rise from behind the desk. It came as a hoarse and strangled cry of despair.
‘Fiona. My daughter! I'm sorry. ‘

But her daughter was already at the step of her carriage and her own sobbing grief drowned all sounds except the agonised beating of her own heart. The time for reconciliation had come and gone. Only the gulf remained.

FORTY-FOUR

P
atrick stood in the early morning sunshine on the Suakin waterfront watching the troopship make her way out of the harbour into the Red Sea. Drifting from its decks he could hear the colonial band playing ‘Home Sweet Home’. He had come to see the troopship carrying the New South Wales contingent steam out of Suakin harbour because the men who sailed on her were not unlike himself. Like them, he knew his home was the far-off ancient, sun-drenched continent of Australia.

Where the sun touched the ripples on the calm seas the blue waters sparked in flashes of shimmering silver, bringing back dim memories of the magnificent harbour of Sydney. His Uncle Daniel and Aunt Colleen would take him and his cousins on ferry trips across its beautiful expanse bordered by tree-lined shores of tall, majestic eucalypts.

Patrick knew that when he had found the answers to his troubling questions about Catherine in Ireland he too would sail for Sydney and take his place beside his grandmother in the family enterprises. He gazed at the grey-black smoke of the departing funnels until the ship was out of sight and then walked slowly away to rejoin the brigade preparing for its departure from the Sudan.

Although the Dervish had not been defeated, revenge for the death of General Gordon of Khartoum had been seen to be done. The public in Britain had been placated by the sterling efforts of the commanding general, Lord Wolseley, who had inflicted heavy losses on the infidel Moslem and had taught them a lesson in British might.

Patrick's resignation from the army had been accepted by the War Office in London – but with a provision that he spend three months on staff duties in Cairo before it became effective. He had bridled but also accepted that as a commissioned officer he had duties to Queen and country.

Still, he had another very important duty before he departed the shores of Africa. The brigade boxing championships were soon to be held and Private Angus MacDonald clearly had his sights on Patrick's title for the heavyweight division. Friendship forged in war had little to do with how they would face each other on the dusty arena before their peers. No quarter would be asked nor any granted. It would be a gruelling battle between two fighters and he knew that he must resume training. The slow walk turned into a loping run. No sense in wasting time.

On the deck of the departing troopship Private Francis Farrell gazed back at the wharf and noticed a tall, broad-shouldered young British officer amongst the clusters of soldiers who bid them farewell.

Although he could not discern the facial features of the officer standing alone and watching them depart, he sensed he was seeing Patrick. He shook his head, muttering, ‘Patrick, I failed. Something was keeping me from telling you about your father.’

Beyond the cluster of tiny figures on the wharf was the white stoned city of Suakin and beyond the city the craggy coastal hills of the Sudan. For some inexplicable reason Francis had a vague recollection of a fevered dream and a fiery hill. The thought went from his mind, however, as the troopship cleared the harbour and left in its wake the hills, the deserts and the white stoned city of Suakin.

‘I'm sorry that you have travelled so far for little reason,’ the captain said apologetically. A tall, broad-shouldered civilian sat in a chair in the corner of his office wearing a fashionable white suit and vest and holding a Panama hat in his lap. ‘But your letters of introduction have been cancelled, Mister Duffy.’

Michael stared hard into the face of the staff officer sitting opposite him behind his ornately carved wooden desk. Overhead a fan stirred the languid air of the room. Outside the general staff headquarters, street traders babbled in Greek, Arabic and Sudanese as they went about the business of buying and selling in the bazaar. Their voices drifted to the window of the second storey office, a cacophony of humanity battling for financial survival.

Somehow Michael was not surprised at the captain's pronouncement on the invalid status of his letters of introduction. When he had arrived to inquire as to the fate of his son he found himself shuffled from one office to another until he reached the captain. He was a man about Michael's own age and, from the many ribands on his khaki uniform jacket, a battle experienced soldier of many campaigns.

‘Captain French, I have come a long way. And I am sure you are acquainted with the influence of the signatory to the letters I have presented,’ Michael growled ominously. ‘This rather unexpected resistance to my attempts to contact Captain Duffy makes no sense considering the letters you have before you.’

The captain glanced down at his desk and was obviously embarrassed by the question. But he was under orders to hold the Irishman and ensure he was put on a ship sailing for anywhere out of Suakin. ‘I appreciate your question, Mister Duffy,’ he said when he glanced up. ‘But your letters have been rescinded by a telegram we received from Victoria Barracks in Sydney some days before you arrived. And, I may say, by the signatory.’

Why in hell had Colonel Godfrey counter-ordered his own letters? Why the sudden change of mind? Lady Macintosh! It came as a blinding and obvious answer. Enid now knew that his son was alive and thus Michael was no longer useful to her needs! ‘Then I take it that I am not permitted to see Captain Duffy while I'm here?’ he said, glowering at the British captain.

‘That is about the sum of it, Mister Duffy,’ Captain French replied.’ We have orders to escort you to the first ship sailing from Suakin and ensure that you leave without seeing him.’

Michael rose from his chair and gazed out the open window to the busy street below. ‘I gather that I am under some kind of arrest then,’ he said as he turned to the captain.

‘I would rather not call it an arrest, Mister Duffy,’ he replied in a partly apologetic tone. ‘Rather, that you are possibly a reluctant guest of Her Majesty's army's hospitality, for the moment. And under those circumstances you will be treated with the utmost courtesy.’ The captain rose and extended his hand. ‘We will endeavour to meet any reasonable request for your preferred destination when you leave,’ he said politely. But Michael did not accept the gesture of goodwill and the captain dropped his hand to his side. ‘As a matter of fact there is a mail steamer sailing for London via the Canal tonight. Would that be to your satisfaction?’

‘As good as anywhere right now, I suppose,’ Michael replied grudgingly and the captain smiled with relief.

‘You are more fortunate than I, sir,’ the captain said with a sigh. ‘I only wish we could trade places.’

Michael grinned ruefully at the captain who stood at the centre of the spacious cool room. ‘Not I,’ he replied bitterly. ‘My days serving Her Majesty's interests are finished.’

His answer puzzled the captain but he did not inquire as to what the Irishman meant. ‘You will be escorted back to your hotel to gather your personal kit. I doubt that I have to go into a long list of instructions that apply to your short stay. Except to say you will not endeavour to contact Captain Duffy in any way. Nor will you depart from your escorts until you step aboard the mail steamer tonight. Other than that, you are free to avail yourself of the sights of the city and its many delights.’

‘Reasonable offer under the circumstances,’ Michael grunted as he walked towards the open door where two burly uniformed sergeants stood outside waiting for him. ‘I will bid you good day then, Captain French.’

The two sergeants fell into step beside Michael as they strode down a walkway that overlooked a spacious marbled room below. From their manner it was obvious they had no intention of their ‘prisoner’ getting more than one pace from them until he was put aboard a ship.

When they were on the busy street, thronged with street urchins hustling for a handout from the foreign visitors and robed merchants hawking for a sale, Michael turned to his guards. ‘May as well buy you fellows a drink before I leave.’

They glanced at each other questioningly before the bigger of his two escorts replied, ‘Now that would be against orders, sir, for us to partake while we are on duty’ He grinned. His Irish accent was unmistakable. ‘But if we are to be hospitable, as Captain French has ordered, I can't see why we should refuse any reasonable request of yours to sip on just one or two little drinks in your company.’

‘You know any place that is private enough to indulge in a discreet drink or two, Sergeant?’

‘Now that you would be askin’ me I do know such a place in the Greek quarter by chance,’ the Irish sergeant replied, liking his lips and grinning broadly. ‘But don't go getting any ideas to get us drunk and slip away, Mister Duffy. Me an’ Sergeant O'Day here have orders.’

‘Now do I look like the kind of man who would even consider corrupting the likes of an Irishman serving Her Majesty?’ Michael said with the easy blarney banter. ‘Not two fine men as yourselves.’

The burly Irish sergeant laughed as they made their way through the bazaar.

‘You would be, Mister Duffy,’ he said, staring Michael directly in the eye.

Michael knew that the big sergeant was obviously a man who knew where his duty lay and dismissed any thoughts of attempting to give them the slip. Not that he had seriously contemplated doing so. His mission was to all intents and purposes over. His son was alive and no longer required finding as per the terms of the mission he had accepted from Lady Macintosh. The money she had paid for his expenses was generous and he knew that he now had enough to journey to Europe where he could hopefully eke out a living from painting. He had also accumulated enough over the years to see him through for a year or two and he sensed that it was not ordained that he should finally meet his son now, that the events in both their lives were destined to move forward until the winds of fate blew them together.

‘Now where would this place be, Sergeant?’ Michael asked and the Irish soldier guided them deep into the Greek quarter to his favourite place of wine, women and sad songs.

When Michael was poured aboard the coastal steamer out of Suakin that evening, he left with no other souvenirs of the ancient and exotic city than a bad hangover from too much cheap Greek wine. Ahead of him was Europe and his old dreams. No more the sights and sounds of war, he prayed, but the beauty of creation in the colours of his mind. Fate – and Lady Macintosh – had conspired to deprive him of the opportunity to meet his son. Fate was something Michael had come to accept as a guiding force in his life. When the time was right, he was sure that fate would eventually bring him and his son together.

FORTY-FIVE

G
ordon James stood dejectedly at the bottom of Kate Tracy's verandah steps and she felt a momentary surge of pity for the forlorn young police officer. His red rimmed and sunken eyes reflected the effort of the trek north to Townsville and he had since learned of the sudden death of his mother from a massive stroke. Pain and exhaustion cloaked him in despair for all the events that had unfolded in the recent weeks.

But as much as Kate also felt his grief for the loss of her dear friend Emma James, she also felt the pain for the loss of her nephew Peter Duffy. He had, after all, Kate thought as she stared at Gordon, volunteered to hunt Peter down and the consequences must have been a consideration before he set out.

Sarah sat in a chair in her bedroom, staring with a stony face at the ornate wallpaper. She could hear her aunt's voice telling Gordon he was not welcome.

Gordon's shoulders slumped as he wearily resigned himself to defeat. He no longer had the strength to argue in his defence. He no longer doubted the power of the curse that had visited the son of the man who had first incurred the wrath of the powerful forces of the sacred place of the Nerambura people long before he was even born. He had no other way of explaining the unexpected death of his mother who had died at precisely the same time as he had killed Peter Duffy. Witnesses said she had been walking to Kate's store when she suddenly collapsed. She was dead by the time the doctor examined her.