Flight of the Eagle (56 page)

S
o much of what Patrick Duffy saw of the countryside from the window of his carriage reminded him of the outback of his own country. Even the taciturn Boer farmers were like their
Rooinek
brothers in Australia – conservative men who lived by the unforgiving rules of nature's unpredictable moods and whose bearded faces concealed the disdain they held for the city people.

His journey had taken him through the fertile plains on the coast, over the range of mountains that ran as a craggy spine from Cape Town in the southwest to the Transvaal in the north-east, and onto the beginning of the veldt of the western province of the Cape Colony. He had marvelled at the similarities of the country that even shared the seasons with his own country. Not the cold, snowbound Christmas season of the motherlands of Holland and England for the white inhabitants of southern Africa, but the hot, dry Yuletide Australians also experienced.

And even at the hotel in De Aar where Patrick now swigged on a cool beer, he felt that he could have easily been standing at the bar in Bourke or Walgett. Except that the European patrons spoke a guttural language, not unlike German which Patrick had a reasonable understanding of. He was the only non-Afrikaners speaking patron in the bar and was pleased that at least the publican was an Englishman. A big and burly man with a beefy red face, he appeared more than capable of handling any Boer who should take offence at his heritage as one of the perceived oppressors of the fiercely independent, Dutch descended farmers.

De Aar had been the starting point recommended by Colonel Godfrey for Patrick to commence his search for his father. It was the town where Michael Duffy was known to report to his Foreign Office contact from time to time.

The Boer patrons scowled at the tall young
Rooinek
amongst them and Patrick could feel their hostile eyes on his back as he stood at the bar. He had come from the railway station to the hotel he would use as a base for his search for his father – and Catherine. But he was beginning to regret his choice of accommodation. The mutterings from the patrons included a few derogatory words, particularly from five big, bearded men who sat around a table in the corner of the main bar room drinking gin.

‘Might be an idea if'n you drink in the saloon bar, mate,’ the beefy publican said quietly, as he sidled down the bar wiping the counter. ‘These boys have been drinkin’ since early this mornin’ an’ they're not real happy to see an Englishman here. This is what they consider their pub.’

‘I'm not English,’ Patrick replied, loudly enough for the Boer patrons to hear him. ‘I'm an Australian.’

‘Don't matter to this mob, mate,’ the publican warned. ‘Anyone who speaks English
is
English.’

Patrick accepted the man's wise advice and retreated tactfully to the adjoining saloon bar. He had barely stepped into the tiny adjoining room when his attention was caught by a large painting on the wall. It was of a beautiful woman reclining naked on a couch. With stunned shock Patrick gaped at the face of Catherine Fitzgerald smiling back at him.

He called to the publican. ‘That painting, how did you come by it?’

The publican gave him a suspicious look. ‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because I would like to meet the man who painted it.’

‘If you want to buy the painting you can,’ the publican replied with a hint of mercenary cunning. ‘Might help me recover the cost of the bar bill he still owes me.’

‘How much?’

‘Twenty quid. English,’ he said quickly. ‘Worth every penny. She's a beautiful drop of crumpet.’

‘Twenty pounds, and you tell me where I find the man who painted her.’

The publican suddenly became evasive. The Australian was prepared to buy the painting for twice as much as what the big Irishman had owed. Come to think of it, he mused to himself, the Australian looked as if he could be the man's son such was the likeness between the two. ‘You know Michael Duffy?’ he asked quietly so that he might not be overheard by his patrons in the adjoining main bar.

‘My name is Patrick Duffy. I'm his son,’ Patrick replied as he attempted to restrain his rising excitement.
Of all the hotels he had walked into
…

‘You got any proof of that?’ the beefy man asked belligerently and Patrick realised with dawning certainty that the man was probably his father's contact. Why not? A man would not arouse suspicion dropping in for a beer in the very heart of Boer territory itself. From what he had learned of his father from others, it was in Michael Duffy's nature to suicidally push the limits of his luck. ‘Look at me closely’ he growled softly. ‘They say I'm the image of my father. Is that not proof enough?’

The man nodded and grinned. ‘Yeah. Put an eye patch over one eye an’ you could pass as ′im twenty years on,’ he said. ‘If yer lookin’ for yer father you'll probably find ′im camped out ‘bout ten miles from here on the track to Prieska. He's camped by a drift, I last heard. Has a wagon and supplies. That's about all I can tell ya.’

‘Does he have a young woman, the one in the painting with him?’

‘As I said,’ the publican reiterated, ‘that's all I can tell ya.’

‘Thanks. Now where do I get a horse and supplies around here?’ Patrick asked as he counted out twenty English pounds from a substantial wad. The publican told him, licking his lips at the sight of the new notes placed in his hand. The publican called after him as Patrick was leaving, ‘What about the painting you bought from me?’

‘I'll pick it up when I return,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘Keep it safe for me until then.’

Patrick had made only one mistake in his dealing with the publican. He had presumed the man was his father's contact. In fact, the publican did not particularly like the Irishman as he had a suspicion that the man was dealing in guns with the Boer patrons of his establishment. Not that he asked any questions.

‘Hey, Englisher,’ the oldest of the men who had expressed hostility at Patrick's presence in their hotel called to the publican. ‘That
Rooinek
, he buy Katerina, ja?’

‘Yeah, Lucas,’ he answered. ‘Paid off his old man's debts.’

‘Herr Duffy! Das is the
Rooinek's
father, ja?’ the older Afrikaner asked. He glanced at his companions and said in Afrikaans, ‘The Englishman who was just here has the smell of a soldier about him.’

Lucas Bronkhorst knew much about English soldiers. Five years earlier he had been in the final assault against the Scots' battalion occupying the rocky, treeless heights of Majuba Hill. The Afrikaner victory against the British that day had been an overwhelming success for Boer tactical skills.

His four companions nodded their agreement. Lucas Bronkhorst threw a handful of coins on the bar to pay for their drinks and the men at the table rose to join him. They would follow the
Rooinek
and learn more about him. To do so might tell them more about the Irishman who had sold them the German Mauser rifles.
Rifles that proved to be inherently faulty!

It seemed to the Afrikaners that Duffy was in league with the British intelligence services active in the Cape Colony and the appearance of the young
Rooinek
seemed to confirm Bronkhorst's suspicions. First, they would question them both when the young
Rooinek
met with the older one. Then they would probably have to kill them.

Patrick was blissfully unaware of the interest his presence in the town had caused the Boer farmers. He was able to ride out of town with a horse of dubious qualities, and lead a pack horse of even less merit. He rode west along a track that was marked by the flattened grass of the sweeping savanna plains and undulating hills laden with seas of waving grass pastures. He passed only native families who trekked to their distant kraals and could not help but admire the proud bearing of the dark people he met as he rode along the track to Prieska. Tall, well-built men with jet black skins, wide-eyed children on their mother's backs who sucked thumbs and stared at the Australian high above them on his horse.

But the same people would stare with open fear as they passed the party of fifteen heavily armed men who rode as a column a mile behind the solitary horseman leading a pack horse. The Boer commando kept far enough back to remain out of sight of Patrick but close enough to keep him in sight from the rises in the land.

Just on sunset Patrick rode onto a rise and from his vantage point looked down on a meandering stream of muddy water that cut the grassy plains like a giant brown snake. He could see the tiny figures of two oxen grazing on the lush grass, a wagon and a man kneeling in the stony bed of the stream washing dishes. He appeared to be alone and without being able to distinguish the finer detail of the man Patrick sensed that he was seeing his father for the second time in his life. He remembered with a flood of memories a big one-eyed American who had given him a silver dollar when he was a young boy growing up in Sydney. The same man had sworn him to keep their meeting a secret from his Uncle Daniel.

With a gentle kick he spurred his horse down the gentle slope. The man rose to his feet and watched the horseman riding slowly down the hill.

Michael Duffy instinctively rested his hand on the butt of the big Colt pistol at his hip.
All visitors in his life were potential enemies.

FIFTY-NINE

T
he sun was warming another hot day along the latitude of the Tropic of Capricorn and Kate kept her parasol near at hand as her luggage was loaded aboard the steamer. When she was satisfied that all her luggage was stored she turned her attention to Gordon James whose uniform, she noticed, was pressed and clean. Few people were present to see the coastal steamer depart for Townsville and only a few horse-drawn drays and the bearded men who tended them witnessed the departure.

A small huddle of Aboriginals were also present, dressed in the cast-off clothes of white civilisation. They squatted on the river bank, begging listlessly for tobacco or any spare coins. Kate cast the once proud Darambal people of the Fitzroy region a look of pity. She had an empathy for the people who bore the blood of her niece and to see them reduced to begging was upsetting.

‘I suppose you will be looking forward to getting home to baby Matthew,’ Gordon said when he saw Kate gazing wistfully at a naked Aboriginal toddler playing in the mud of the river bank.

‘It seems such a long time since I last held him,’ she sighed. ‘And I wonder if he will recognise his mother when she returns.’

‘I think so,’ he replied with a gentle smile. ‘Parents aren't forgotten.’

‘Nor are children,’ she said.

He understood her inference, and stared across the river at a flight of pelicans skimming the water. Kate could see that his attention was on other things than her departure and this was confirmed when he said quietly,

‘After the exhumation at Barcaldine I will ride to Balaclava. I pray that you are right in what you say about Sarah's feelings towards me.’

‘I am sure she will be able to forgive you, Gordon,’ Kate said quietly, as she gazed into his face. ‘Love is far more powerful than hate. Oh, I know that is easy to say. But it has been my personal experience that love will persist, despite all the hardships in our lives.’ And with bittersweet memories she thought about the years that had separated her from the strong and gentle American prospector. Long and lost years, she regretted, during which she had not admitted her love for the man. ‘Life is far too short to squander our time on worrying about what might happen,’ she added with a simple philosophy.

Gordon hung his head then glanced away from Kate at the Aboriginals on the river bank. ‘I have done a terrible thing to Sarah,’ he finally said in a whispered voice. ‘I really wonder if she can forgive me and I do not blame her for seeking another's love.’

‘She loves you with her body and soul,’ Kate answered softly. ‘And it matters not that she is betrothed to another if you are prepared to fight for her love. I know Sarah needs you in her life and until I met with you a week ago, I might not have supported her unspoken love for you. But I saw in your eyes the depth of your pain – and that you have changed.’

‘I'm leaving the police as soon as the inquiry is over, one way or the other,’ he added with bitter determination.

‘I doubt that you have anything to fear from the findings,’ Kate said reassuringly. ‘Mister Darlington has told me the facts of the case.’

‘I owe you more than you will ever know, Missus Tracy,’ Gordon said in a sad, distant voice. ‘More peace than money can buy.’

‘You will be owing me a considerable amount of money for the hefty legal fees I know Mister Darlington will forward to me, Gordon James,’ Kate said with a broad smile. ‘And I expect to see you with Sarah in Townsville at the first opportunity, so that you can work for me.’

‘I even owe you my future prospects,’ he said brightly. ‘It will be a debt gratefully repaid.’

A deckhand on the steamer called final boarding as he prepared to haul in the gangplank. Kate took Gordon's hands in hers. ‘Love is the most powerful force of all in the world,’ she said. ‘Never forget that. Empires come and go but love remains in our lives as a force greater than all else, even beyond death itself.’

She let his hands slip from hers. Gordon watched her go aboard, remembering her final words …
love remains in our lives as a force greater than all else, even beyond death itself.
For some inexplicable reason the words echoed in his mind.
Beyond death itself!

He remained on the wharf until the ship had pulled out into the river where it built up steam for the open sea. He could see Kate, with her parasol unfurled, waving to him from the deck but soon both she and the boat were out of sight.

As Gordon James contemplated Kate Tracy's parting words, a man had arrived with a priority in Hugh Darlington's busy schedule of appointments. He sat in the same chair that only days earlier Kate had occupied. He was Granville White.

Hugh Darlington had never before met the man whose correspondence had occupied much of his time: deed transfers on the numerous properties along the Queensland coast; company registrations and contracts for construction of the meatworks, sugar refineries and for the employment of the indentured Pacific labourers – known as Kanakas – who worked the sugar plantations.