Flight of the Eagle (44 page)

From inside the house Kate could hear her baby son crying for her attention and she turned her back on Gordon. He walked back to his horse tethered at the front gate. There was nothing else he could do.

When Kate reached Matthew she found Sarah had already picked him up. The women exchanged grief stricken looks. Gordon's visit had only fuelled their pain. Sarah held the baby to her breast and rocked him.

‘If you went to him to hear what he has to say’ Kate said, ‘I would understand.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘No. He has killed my brother,’ she replied softly. ‘And for that I could never forgive him. Ever!’

‘But you still love him,’ Kate stated gently.

Tears welled in Sarah's eyes to burst like an explosion as she uttered one word. ‘Yes!’

From the distance Kate was aware of the fading sound of a horse galloping away. Gordon was riding out of their lives. But for how long? Time inevitably weakened grief and when she gazed at her niece she could see that not all the hurt was reserved for her dead brother. There was also the terrible pain of a love lost and yet not forgotten.

There were so many reminders of his mother in the house, Gordon realised. Sudden death does not give one a chance to tidy up before it comes to take away the soul.

A book of poetry lay open on the kitchen table next to a mixing bowl. Gordon closed it. She must have been reading the poetry as she prepared to make a meal, he reflected. Then she had realised she was out of flour and had hurried to Kate's store. But death had taken her in the street.

He wondered what sort of woman his mother really was. He only knew her as a mother with her reason for living being to love and care for him. And yet she once had another life as a vivacious young woman who had the courage to cross the ocean to a far and foreign land. And, in the years when she was still young, to have loved and married his father. Had they experienced the passion of desire he did when he thought about Sarah Duffy?

‘I am sorry for your loss, Gordon.’

He spun on his heel at the sound of the voice behind him. So absorbed in his thoughts of his mother he had not heard Sarah enter the house. ‘Sarah!’

She stood hesitantly in the doorway of the kitchen. ‘I did not mean to disturb you. I was watching you for a little while. You appeared to be deep in thought.’

‘I just came back to tidy up before the house is sold,’ he answered quietly. ‘Make sure everything was in order. Will you stay a while with me?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘No. I only came to tell you,’ she replied sadly, ‘that your mother was a very special person in my life too.’

‘You won't stay and give me the chance to explain what happened?’ he pleaded.

‘There is nothing to explain, Gordon. You killed my brother.’

‘Damn it, Sarah. I loved Peter as if he were truly my brother,’ he replied sharply and realised he was growing angry. ‘What happened was a terrible accident.’

‘No-one forced you to hunt him down,’ Sarah retorted bitterly. ‘You must have known there was always the possibility that something terrible could happen when you met.’

‘I made the mistake of allowing my concern for his safety to cloud my judgment. But I don't expect you to understand what I am saying. If I could go back in time I would not have elected to go after Peter. I swear.’

‘It's too late for any explanations, Gordon. My brother is dead – and at your hand,’ she said softly. ‘I think I should go. Before you say something that might make me hate you.’

Gordon took three steps across the small kitchen to grasp her by the shoulders, before she could turn and leave the house. His grip was strong. ‘You still love me, despite everything you say,’ he said with fierce determination. ‘Don't you, Sarah Duffy?’

She tried to shake off his grip – and his question. ‘How I feel is irrelevant,’ she answered as she struggled against his hold. ‘Some things remain beyond my power to forgive. I have never thought about my heritage before now. But I know my brother would still be alive today if he had not been a half-caste darkie, as you would say. It must be the blackfella in me, but we have a belief in payback. It is stronger than you would ever realise. You can let me go, Gordon, because you and I can never be together. So long as we both live.’

Gordon could see the fire in her dark eyes as she snarled her last statement at him. He had never seen her like this before. Even when they were young and he and Peter had tormented her she would grow angry but never express her anger in the same raw way that she was doing now. Her payback was to deny him forever that which he desired most – her! Never before had he wanted her as much as now. ‘If you want to act like a gin, then I'll show you how we treat gins,’ he snarled, increasing his grip of her shoulders.

She winced with the pain but stared into his eyes with cold hate. Then she spat in his face and felt the back of his hand strike her a stinging blow across the cheek. ‘Do what you like, Inspector James,’ she hissed with a controlled hatred. ‘Because I won't stop you.’

Suddenly Gordon felt his rage dissipate as he realised what he had almost done. Trembling, he released his grip and stumbled back against the kitchen wall where he slumped to the floor and covered his face with his hands. He burst into deep racking sobs as the loss and grief finally overpowered him.

Sarah stood uncertainly watching him. A part of her so desperately wanted to go to him and hold him to her breast. But the memory of her beloved Peter welled up inside. The hand that had killed her brother had also struck her.

When he was finally spent of his tears Gordon hardly noticed that she was gone. He had lost more than his boyhood friend. He had lost everything in his life except his job. The only thing that kept him from taking the revolver from his holster and ending it all was a tiny but intense flame called hope.

The house was sold, Gordon's letter of resignation not submitted, and now he sat in uniform astride his horse gazing at Kate Tracy's house. He was alone and would soon ride out for Rockhampton to take up his new posting. Was Sarah in the house? His heart felt as if it would break. His mount shifted impatiently under him and he absent-mindedly patted her neck. ‘I know,’ he said softly to her. ‘It's time to go.’

He reined away and rode with tears in his eyes. He could not remember the last time he had cried and self-consciously brushed away the tears with the back of his hand. ‘That I could give my life to prove my love for you, Sarah, I would,’ he whispered. ‘If only you could see that.’

FORTY-SIX

T
he sultry heat of the day was dissipating with the disappearance of the sun. The crowd of assembled men pushed and shoved to gain a better view of the dusty clearing where the two contenders stood toe to toe, bare chested and wearing tight, thigh-hugging trousers. The carnival atmosphere preceding the title fight for the heavy-weight crown of the brigade was amplified by the worst kept secret in Suakin: that the army was leaving the desert to return to the milder English summer.

So here was an event under the rising constellations of the African desert to entertain men yearning for the balmy English summer eves at home. An event to take their minds temporarily from the tense anticipation of the waiting for the official word to pack up and board the troopships that lay in the harbour.

The spectators were fairly evenly divided in their support for both fighters. One section bet on Private Angus MacDonald because he was one of them, a soldier from the ranks. The other half gave their support to his opponent, Captain Patrick Duffy, because he was an exception to the rule of class distinction; he was a man who had the ability to cross social lines.

The referee mumbled a few basic rules to the bare knuckle fighters and they nodded their understanding. This signalled to the enclosing ring of soldiers that the moment had arrived as to who would leave the Sudan with the title of champion. The odds were with the giant Scots private as he was in excellent health and his supporters had a grudging sympathy for his opponent who, it was said, had barely recovered from his ordeal beyond the coastal hill range. But the sympathy ended with the wagers that were being surreptitiously made at the rear of the crowd. This was not only a fight but a means of making some money.

Patrick listened to the referee's mumbled words and stared at his former batman. He saw no animosity reflected in the dark eyes which caught the glint of the flames from the lanterns.

Angus's friendly grin as they brushed knuckles to signal that they were ready to fight was returned by Patrick who growled good naturedly, ‘Watch my left hook, Mac, it will win the fight.’

Angus spat into the dust and retorted with a friendly jibe. ‘Yor got a wee bit of Paddy in yer, sor, that makes you stupid.’

Then the fight commenced with a stinging blow from the brawny Scot that connected with Patrick's ear and brought on a rousing cheer from the Scot's supporters.

By the beginning of the ninth round both men were battered and bloody and the roar of the crowd was deafening as the two men swapped punch for punch. Their hands were bleeding and their knuckles swollen. Sweat streamed from them as they grunted with the pain each heavy blow inflicted and Patrick's ears rung like the chimes of Big Ben. But the original blurring speed of his punches was slowing, as was that of the Scot's punches. Both men reserved their strength for the occasional openings in their opponent's guard and the gruelling fight would only end when one man was able to muster the strength to deliver a flurry of damaging blows to his weakened adversary.

It was near the end of the ninth round when Patrick noticed the glazed expression in Angus's face and realised with a rising horror that something was terribly wrong with his friend. The battering had caused damage to his head and Patrick realised that a knock out blow just might kill the big Scot. The crowd had sensed that the end of the match was near, and roared as the spectators at the Roman games must have done with a thumbs down for the loser.

Angus reeled uncertainly and Patrick clasped his friend in a bear hug. ‘Now, Angus,’ he hissed into his ear. ‘Go for my head now.’

Angus turned his head to stare for a brief and confused moment at Captain Duffy. ‘I canna do it, sor,’ he gasped and Patrick thrust him away. ‘Do it, you yellow Scots bastard,’ he snarled as he dropped his hands.

With a final Herculean effort Angus waded into Patrick with grunts and furious blows. Patrick reeled under the barrage and felt his legs buckle. With a thud he hit the sand where he lay in a semi-comatose state.

The crowd went wild with cheers and hurrahs and surged forward to hoist the big Scot on their shoulders to parade him around the camp. Even those who had lost money on the outcome admitted the loss was worth it for the most entertaining fight they had witnessed in many a year. But one or two former fighters realised that the young captain had strangely left himself open to the delivery of the knock out. They shook their heads as they walked away and wondered at the stupidity of those with Irish blood.

Angus groaned as he soaked his battered, swollen hands in a basin of sun warmed water and only removed one hand to accept the silver flask of brandy Patrick passed him across the tent.

‘Never again,’ Patrick sighed through smashed lips. ‘Never again am I ever going to fight you, Mac.’

‘I didn't win the bloody title,’ the Scot moaned before he swilled from the flask the fiery amber liquid. ‘You let me win.’ He gulped down half the contents and his eyes glistened through half-closed eyelids as the brandy hit his stomach. He sighed with pleasure and passed the flask back to Patrick.

‘The right man won, Private MacDonald,’ Patrick replied quietly. ‘And the win should help you get those stripes you so much deserve.’

Angus accepted the gesture and both men sat in silence on empty ammunition boxes under a magnificent display of stars. They were alone for the first time since Patrick had been rescued from the desert and had much to talk about.

‘Where did ye get the strength in the ninth round?’ Angus asked with a dumbfounded shake of his head. ‘I thought I had yer in the eighth.’

Patrick grinned sheepishly and glanced down at his feet. ‘I imagined you were someone called Brett Norris,’ he said quietly. ‘For just a moment you had his face.’

‘He'd be having no face now,’ Angus hooted. ‘If he'd be a Sassenach gentleman you'd been hitting instead of me.’

Patrick looked up into the broad face of the Scot, broadened even more by the massive swelling of damaged tissue. Not that his own face was in any better condition. ‘Ah, but that it had been him instead of you, Mac.’

They fell silent as they nursed their exhaustion and private thoughts. Patrick took a shallow swig of the brandy before passing the flask to Angus who gulped down the remnants and glanced apologetically at Patrick who only smiled, then laughed, and slapped the Scot on the shoulder. ‘You earned it, Mac. For being Mister Brett Norris for just that moment.’ The smile, and the laugh, faded as Patrick leant towards Angus. ‘Why didn't you do what I asked,’ he questioned quietly, ‘before I went on that patrol, Mac?’

‘I threw yor pouches in the sea like you asked me to. But there was this wee little thing I knew you would want when you came back to us.’

Patrick stared up at the heavens. ‘Thank you,’ he replied gratefully. ‘I'll settle with the quartermaster.’

‘No need, sor. He's my uncle and I've settled with him. He's written off yor kit.’

‘I owe you a great debt for what you did.’

‘No trouble, sor,’ the Scot replied and ducked his head with embarrassment.

‘I suppose I should retire to my tent,’ Patrick said as he stood stiffly, feeling every muscle in his body scream out in pain. ‘A lot to do before we go home.’

‘You think that will be soon, sor?’ Angus asked quietly, as he attempted to struggle to his feet.

Patrick waved him down and he sank back gratefully on the improvised seat. ‘I hope so, Mac. I've had enough of this place.’

‘Good night, sor, and God bless you.’

Patrick hoped that God would bless him. Or at least that Sheela-na-gig would still be with him when he finally went in search of Catherine. But first he had his duties in Cairo. He would have to wait another long three months before he could return to Ireland.