Shadow of the Osprey

Peter Watt has spent time as a soldier, articled clerk, prawn trawler deckhand, builder's labourer, pipe layer, real estate salesman, private investigator, police sergeant, and adviser to the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary. He has lived and worked with Aborigines, Islanders, Vietnamese and Papua New Guineans.

Good friends, fine food, fishing and the vast open spaces of outback Queensland are his main interests in life.
Shadow of the Osprey
is his second novel. The final novel in this historical trilogy,
Shadow of the Osprey
, is available now.

Peter Watt can be contacted at
www.peterwatt.com

Also by Peter Watt

Shadow of the Osprey

Shadow of the Osprey

Flight of the Eagle

To Chase the Storm

Papua

Eden

The Silent Frontier

This work is purely fictional, although certain historical characters are mentioned. Otherwise, no reference is made to any persons living or dead. There are scenes in this work that may be considered disturbing and certain characters’ language and attitudes may be considered racist. Any language or attitudes that may be considered racist are intended to be seen in the historical context of the novel and in no way reflect the personal views of the author.

First published 2000 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

This Pan edition published 2001 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

1 Market Street, Sydney

Reprinted 2001, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2007, 2008

Copyright © Peter Watt 2000

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia

cataloguing-in-publication data:

Watt, Peter, 1949–.

Shadow of the osprey.

ISBN 9780330362771

1. Frontier and pioneer life – Australia – Queensland – Fiction.

2. Australia – History – 1851–1891 – Fiction.

3. Historical fiction. I. Title.

A823.3

Typeset in 11.5/13 pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane

Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

For my uncle John Payne.

In war – a true hero of the sea.

In peace – always there for me

T
he fictional Duffy and Macintosh families would not have existed except for the unstinting faith many people had in me. The size of the project appeared daunting at times but Duckie’s daughters were there to encourage me. These remarkable women are my mother Leni Watt and my aunts Marjorie Leigh and Joan Payne.

Support also came from my sister Kerry and brother-in-law Tyrone McKee whilst I was struggling to get published.

Phil Murphy and his company Recognition Australasia in Cairns continued to supply me with invaluable facts on military and historical matters. Thanks mate!

In Sydney, my old wantok Robert Bozek from my days policing in Papua New Guinea has proved a wonderful support.

A special thank you to Gerry Bowen and Renata from Tugun who, over the years, saw the potential of the project and backed it with their zeal.

My old mates from northern Queensland, Len Evans and Brian Simpson, have since married and settled down and I welcome to my circle of friends their respective spouses Shirley and Betty.

My old workmates from my days labouring on building sites in Cairns and Port Douglas whilst I worked on the novels always took it for granted that I would be published. Thanks for your faith Wayne Coleman, Benny Waters, Frank McCosky and Clive Whitton.

I would like to single out Rob and Beth Turner from Brisbane whose trust in me extends beyond friendship. And a special thank you to Mike and Patsy Cove who provided sound advice and encouragement at the birth of the trilogy.

At a professional level thanks go to my agent Tony Williams and his wonderful staff Ingrid, Sonja, Geoffrey and Helen for their years of support when things looked less than promising. Thanks also to Brian Cook who appraised the project and recognised its potential.

If people enjoy the books much credit must go to my wonderful publisher at Pan Macmillan Cate Paterson, editor Elspeth Menzies and Anna McFarlane. But the thanks do not stop with editors. A big thank you is extended to publicist Jane Novak who has looked after me from the very beginning of the project’s release. My thanks to all at Pan Macmillan for their unstinting faith in me. And thank you also to Rea Francis from R.F. Media.

A special thank you to the great master of this genre Wilbur Smith for his kind words early in my time as a writer. To me he will always be the greatest storyteller of the twentieth century.

Finally a special thank you to Naomi Howard-Smith who has brought romance to my life.

The wallaroos grope through the tufts of grass,
And turn to their coverts for fear;
But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass
Where the Boomerang sleeps with the spear:
With the nullah, the sling, and the spear.

‘The Last of His Tribe’, Henry Kendall

T
he island was a green-shelled turtle floating on a turquoise sea
. . .

At least that was David Macintosh’s first impression of the distant island. The twenty-six-year-old heir to a financial empire stood at the bow of the blackbirding barque
Osprey
and watched the jungle clad island rise and fall on the horizon. Of medium height and clean shaven, he had the bearing of one born to wealth. But he also had an unpretentiousness that made him likeable.

Against the wishes of his mother Lady Enid Macintosh, David had sailed on one of the family’s ships to observe village life in the South Pacific. Although she had informed him of her premonition of a terrible risk to his life, should he sail on the
Osprey
, he had gently chided her for her foolish and unfounded fears. But his mother had succumbed to the superstitions concerning an ancient and obscure Aboriginal curse on the family. He still vividly remembered the anguish in her normally serene face as he waved from the deck before the
Osprey
pulled away from the wharf in Sydney.

Now, standing at the bow and gazing at the island, her fears were far from his thoughts as he anticipated the chance to observe at first hand a culture older than Western civilisation itself. The arrival of the Europeans to the Pacific islands had brought more change in the past half century than the preceding thousands of years. Replaced by the newcomer called Jesus the island gods were dying. The old gods now hid in the jungles where the true believers still visited them with traditional offerings to appease their anger at being usurped.

Captain Morrison Mort, the taciturn skipper of the
Osprey
, had informed David that the island had little contact with the blackbirders. However, the inhabitants had proved to be more warlike than most of the other islanders in the Pacific. They had in past years massacred the crews of visiting sandalwood ships. But that was back in the fifties, he had quickly reassured David, adding nevertheless that Chief Tiwi, the ruler of the island, was one of the old-style warriors who resisted the missionaries and their teachings. The ferocious old chief was usually avoided; other island chiefs were more readily compliant with the aims of the Kanaka trade.

The warlike disposition of the islanders did not deter David. He was eager to meet and observe the people whom he suspected might still adhere to many of the ancient customs. For the quiet and scholarly young man, the accumulation of knowledge was far more important than the amassing of further material wealth for his family’s already vast financial interests.

As David made his way along the deck to Mort he thought he glimpsed the faintest of smiles on the dour captain’s face. But it was not a smile reflected in the man’s pale blue eyes. Only a bestial madness lived there.

Captain Mort was not a happy man. Although Jack Horton, his first mate, had the
Osprey
on a tack to place her inside the coral reef which sheltered the beach from the rolling power of the Pacific Ocean, Mort trusted no-one except himself to bring his barque safely to anchor. In his mid-thirties, the captain was a handsome man, whose brooding nature attracted the attention of many a young lady. He had a dark mystique that women found intriguing and there were rumours of a troubled, even savage, past that added to his allure.

He watched with a dangerous resentment as David approached him at the bow. His employer’s presence
was a thorn in his side. But a thorn can be removed, he mused. He
suspected that even now young Macintosh was planning to remove him from command of the
Osprey
– probably after the barque returned to Brisbane when Macintosh had completed his mission.

Mort was suspicious of everything and everyone. He knew Lady Enid’s son had strong views on the Kanaka trade. David had often espoused the opinion that he would close down that side of the family business if there was anything that could cause a scandal to the Macintosh name.

The year 1868 was proving to be a bad one for Mort. There had been the trouble with the damned Presbyterian missionary John Macalister back in Sydney. The tough Scot had attempted to use his influence to bring him before a court on charges of murder. Only the Devil’s luck had kept him from the gallows.

And recruiting figures had been down. Too much competition coming from other ships in the trade. With his problems compounded, he had decided to search for recruits in islands normally avoided by blackbirders. He knew the natives would be less knowledgeable of their rights and he had heard that Chief Tiwi would cooperate for what he carried in the hold of the
Osprey
– muskets, powder and shot. The chief was intending to take heads and women from neighbouring islands. He needed the white man’s technology and the white man needed recruits – a sensible trade.

The closest thing to love Mort had ever experienced in his violent life was that for the ship he now commanded. He had vowed that no-one, not even the owners of the
Osprey
, would ever part him from his ship. He would rather scuttle her than lose her to another captain.

No matter, he brooded. The problem of Mister David Macintosh being aboard the
Osprey
was not one of great concern for much longer. The carefully coded telegram, veiled in the language of cargoes and sea routes, transmitted by Granville White in Sydney via Brisbane, authorised him to act in any manner he saw fit to retain the
Osprey
under
his
command. He conceded that Macintosh’s cousin, who was also his brother-in-law, was a man as ruthless as himself.

Just after midday the
Osprey
sailed into the waters Chief Tiwi controlled and sleek outrigger canoes were launched from the beach. The muscled warriors rowed enthusiastically to meet the Macintosh barque as she glided into the sheltered lagoon behind the coral reef.

Mort and his crew watched warily as the canoeists paddled towards them. Mort had weapons stacked ready for use: rifles, iron axes, belaying pins and gaff hooks. But when the dugout canoes with their sweeping outrigger pontoons neared, the captain could see the rowers were not armed.

The outriggers circled the
Osprey
which now furled her sails while her anchors rattled into the calm waters of the lagoon. Cheap trinkets were tossed from the ship. Some of the brown-skinned men dived into the clear and placid waters to retrieve them while a ribald banter was exchanged between the
Osprey
crew and those islanders still in the canoes.

Satisfied that the natives did not offer an immediate threat, Mort issued his orders.

‘Prepare the landing party Mister Horton,’ he said quietly to his first mate.

‘Mister Macintosh comin’ ashore with us skipper?’ Horton sneered.

‘I’m afraid he will insist. Not much we can do to stop him. Though I have warned him, on many occasions, about the treachery of these people,’ Mort replied with just the faintest of smiles. ‘He is, after all, one of our employers Mister Horton, and can go where he pleases.’

Horton nodded and spat into the clear waters below. He disliked the young man as much as he had disliked anyone. He had no time for toffs and it would serve the bastard right if the darkies turned nasty.

Although David had refused the offer of a side-arm Mort and his crew carried rifles. Mort also wore the infantry sword that was rarely far from him. But there was little chance of old Tiwi turning nasty. He would be on his best behaviour because he wanted the muskets they carried as barter more than a confrontation with the blackbirders.

The villagers on the beach hurried to inform Chief Tiwi of the arrival of the
Osprey
. At first the Chief thought hopefully that it might be the ketch returning for the troublesome little Scot missionary staying on his island with his equally troublesome wife. At least, if nothing much else, the missionary ketch that had originally brought John Macalister to his island had also brought gifts of blankets. Chief Tiwi only put up with the fiery Scot, who ranted against the custom of strangling widows and the drinking of the intoxicating traditional drink kava, for this reason. He had also decided against killing the Presbyterian missionary because he respected the man’s courage. But that was not a binding decision and it was the only respect that kept a thin line between life and death.

As soon as the longboats grounded on the beach of eroded and bleached coral, the landing party was met by a mixed crowd of semi-naked men, women and children who milled around the crewmen chattering excitedly. Regardless of the reception, Mort had left Horton in charge of the
Osprey
with orders to keep the stern cannon trained on the village at all times. Loaded with grapeshot, the gun was well within range of the palm thatch and coconut log houses. Chief Tiwi was acutely aware of the gun covering his village as his canoe crews had brought him the intelligence and he was aware of the power of the cannon from previous encounters with similar ships.

Chief Tiwi was on the beach with his people to meet Mort and his crew. So too was the Reverend John Macalister, although David did not see the missionary until he pushed his way through the crowd of handsome bare-breasted men and women.

‘Ye come off the
Osprey
, I see,’ Macalister stormed belligerently as he thrust himself to the front of the islanders and planted himself squarely in front of Mort. ‘Ye can turn around and go back to your murderin’ ship Captain Mort. We don’t need your cursed evil kind here.’

Although Mort towered over the missionary, Macalister appeared not to be the slightest bit intimidated by him. Behind him was the imposing figure of Chief Tiwi, an obese man, who carried himself with an air of regal authority.

‘Sir, you know who I am,’ Mort said in a frosty tone as he stood inches from the missionary. ‘But I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.’

‘The name is John Macalister, Captain Mort. And I’m surprised you do not know of me by now,’ he replied angrily, quivering like a terrier dog. ‘You and I almost met in Sydney. But fate was on your side, it seems.’

‘Macalister! Ah, yes. The man who wanted to see me hang,’ Mort sneered. ‘Well, Mister Macalister, I would advise you to step aside and let me carry on my business which is as lawful as yours of bashing these poor niggers with your Bible. I’m sure Chief Tiwi has more use for what I have than he has for your sanctimonious words.’

It was obvious that Macalister had no intention of stepping aside to let the blackbirder advance another step on shore. Macalister was all hackles and spoiling for a fight. If martyrdom should come, then it was God’s Will.

David sensed that he should allow Mort to go about his business or the missionary might come off second best in a confrontation. He respected the little Scot’s courage but was also pragmatic enough to know a clash with the missionary would be eventually reported to Sydney. He tactfully worked towards avoiding any further scandal surrounding the Macintosh barque and inserted himself between Mort and the island missionary. ‘Sir, I am David Macintosh, one of the proprietors of the
Osprey
,’ he said offering his hand. ‘Do you think you and I could talk?’

John Macalister was still bristling when he turned his attention to David and saw before him a young man whose expression was frank and honest. ‘I would rather not shake your hand, Mister Macintosh. Although I feel, God knows, that you might be an honourable man despite your connections with this evil face,’ he replied. ‘But if I should talk to you, I would tell you to return with your captain to your cursed ship and sail away from here immediately.’

David dropped his hand.

With some amusement Chief Tiwi watched the confrontation between the white men. But he was more eager to find out what the blackbirding captain had for him and spoke in his own tongue to the missionary. Although David did not understand the language he realised that the exchange of words was heated and, for a chilling moment, he feared for the missionary’s life. But Macalister seemed to agree with the island chief, albeit reluctantly, which defused the situation between them.

Ignoring the old chief glaring angrily at him, Macalister turned to David. ‘It seems, Mister Macintosh, that you and I have the opportunity to talk. Chief Tiwi has told me to leave while he discusses recruits with your captain,’ he said, almost being polite. ‘Tiwi says he will listen and then send him on his way. But the old devil is lying, as always. I know he intends to barter with Captain Mort. I have warned him that not one man or woman will leave this island except over my dead body. He says that can also be arranged.’

‘Mister Macalister, I give you my word as a Macintosh,’ David replied respectfully, ‘that your wishes will be honoured. I have no intention of allowing a situation that would disrupt the fine work you are doing here to bring God to these poor people. For myself, I am only interested in their customs and would be honoured if you would allow me to make certain observations of their way of life. I will instruct Captain Mort that he is to only trade for fresh foods that we might use on the
Osprey.
’

David called to Mort who was supervising the removal of a wooden case from one of the longboats. ‘Captain Mort. I have given my word that we will trade for fresh supplies of food and nothing else,’ David said to him. ‘I think it is best that we then leave these people and recruit elsewhere.’

‘Mister Macintosh, it has cost a lot of money and time to get here,’ Mort scowled. ‘And with due respect for your position, I feel I should point out that I am also under instructions from Mister White. We are engaged in a lawfully sanctioned activity and do not have to bend to the whims of these blasted missionaries. Especially one who is trying to get me hanged.’

‘With due respect to my position captain,’ David replied firmly, ‘you will carry out my orders, or I will ensure that you are disciplined.’

Both men stood toe to toe.

Mort struggled to contain his anger and for a brief moment David regretted standing up to him. He was a long way from home he realised, with a sick feeling. The authority of his position relied on the legalities of civilisation. On a lonely Pacific island such legalities held little practical meaning. ‘If that is what you feel we should do Mister Macintosh,’ Mort said quietly, ‘then I will talk to the Chief about fresh supplies.’ He turned and strode back to supervising the removal of the other crates from the longboats.