Shadow of the Osprey (16 page)

He calculated that he was a couple of hundred yards out from the line of warriors. He also knew that another fifty yards would put him within range of their long, deadly spears. As if by tacit mutual agreement neither he, nor the warriors standing silently in their ranks watching him, seemed eager to close the gap.

Henry stood in the stirrups and scanned the ranks of tribesmen fingering their spears nervously and muttering amongst themselves. The sound was like the growl from the belly of a dangerous animal. ‘Gordon! Peter!’ he called. His call carried to the warriors who fell ominously silent.

‘Dad! Uncle Henry!’ the twin response came to him across the open space of the plain. Henry felt a wave of exhilaration that momentarily overcame his fear. They were alive! The days of sweating and ankle-twisting tracking in unfamiliar territory had been rewarded. For a brief moment he hated himself for harbouring the doubt that he may never see his son or Peter again, a doubt that had been a strange and superstitious fear creeping to him in the dark nights on the lonely tracts of primeval rainforest. A fear that the land and its people would claim his son from him as a cruel punishment for his role in dispersing the dark people of central Queensland.

Henry’s nightmares had caused him to wake and scream protests at the spirits of the night. He would wake in a lather of sweat and stare into the blackness. He would see the flitting shadows and hear whispers discussing the death he had brought on a helpless people. He had begged them not to claim his son for the sins of the father. But as the day crept above the jungle and the mists lay on the river like smoke from the night spirits’ fires, he would reassure himself that all in the night was but a dream of his own guilt.

Gordon stepped forward from the line of warriors. His young body was lean and hard. He was covered in animal fat and dirt. His hair was matted and except for a tattered pair of shorts he was to all intents a white Kyowarra. Behind him stood Peter in a similar condition.

Both boys appeared healthy and unharmed. For this Henry felt gratitude to the fierce tribesmen who stared malevolently at him. At the same time he also fully knew that the same courtesy was not being extended towards him. The warriors were notching spears to woomeras and the eerie silence in their ranks was broken by a murmur of low growling voices.

‘God! Not now!’ Henry whispered. He could see his son’s terror-filled face as he realised what was about to happen. He was about to see his father cut down by the Kyowarra warriors!

Henry raised his rifle above his head as the spears rattled on the woomeras. He held it high so that the warriors had a clear view of the weapon. Then he tossed the rifle to the ground as a gesture that he meant them no harm. But his gesture seemed futile as the warriors’ murmur turned to a loud growl.

Hopeless despair swept over Henry as he faced the ranks of warriors surging towards him. His mount shifted nervously under him as it sensed its rider’s fear. In seconds the Kyowarra would bridge the gap and Henry would never see his son or his beloved wife Emma again. He also knew that any attempt to retrieve the rifle in the grass was futile, and that the big Colt he carried barely matched the range of the spears, that would in seconds fill the early morning sky with their whispering death.

A single voice rose above the din of the warriors. It seemed to berate the Kyowarra tribesmen. And it was a voice vaguely familiar to Henry. ‘Wallarie!’ it hissed. Although six years had passed the voice had burned its fear into his mind forever. There was a distant memory of a black face behind a rifle pointed at him as he lay in a world of pain and imminent death brought on by the snake’s bite.

As suddenly as the attack had been launched it miraculously ceased. The line opened to allow a single warrior to stride forward with the two boys beside him. Wallarie stopped at the forward edge of the ranks of Kyowarra and turned to Peter. ‘The man who is my enemy has come for you,’ he said. ‘It is not his time to die yet. You will return with him to the white woman who is sister to my brother Tom Duffy, your father.’ He then turned his attention to Gordon who stood trembling beside Peter. ‘He has the spirit of the wild dog. One day he will be as his father was – a killer of black people.’ His voice seemed to come from a place beyond him. ‘You and he will travel together. But the day will come when a choice must be made as to which of you lives. I do not know which of you that will be. But I do know I will come to you again in my lifetime. I will come to you on the wings of an eagle, as old Kondola did when the white men hunted him in our lands. He flew to the sacred place of the Nerambura Dreaming and sang the songs for the others who could not. Go now and remember all that you have been taught.’

Mesmerised by the transformation that had come on Wallarie, Peter stood rooted to the earth, staring into the dark eyes of the warrior. He saw flashes of the Dreaming and for the first time in many years the confusion returned as to who he was. Standing on the grassy plain – so far from the world of Europeans – he saw his other spirit. It was wild and free. As old as the Dreaming itself.

The transformation in Wallarie’s face seemed to dissolve. He was once again the man Peter vaguely recalled in childhood memories, the man who had stood beside his white father on the plains of Burkesland. But now nothing more could be said and Peter walked hesitantly with Gordon towards Henry astride his horse.

Henry could not take his eyes from the tall Nerambura warrior who stood in the front rank of Kyowarra tribesmen. It was as if they were in communication without words being said. Just a mere presence was sufficient to understand each other.

Wallarie had given him back the two boys as a gift. Without his timely intervention Henry knew that he himself would have surely died. And yet the message that came to him from the Nerambura warrior was not of the forgiveness that he so desperately sought for his past wrongdoings. It was a message that only his death would suffice as penance for what he had done. That only his spilt blood could satisfy the spirits of the sacred places of a land where the crow and goanna lived amongst the bleaching bones of a long-dispersed people.

Was it guilt at confronting the last of the Nerambura clan of the Darambal people that caused him to experience the feeling of dread? Henry knew the answer could never come in ways a white man could understand. ‘I will pay the price for my life Wallarie, but spare my son,’ he muttered defiantly. ‘He was born of this land like you.’

The boys reached Henry’s mount and stared up at him somewhat sheepishly. They were no longer young Kyowarra warriors but two schoolboys caught in the act of truancy. Henry sighed as he gazed down at the grubby face of his son who was not only a reflection of himself but also a stranger. A child of the new land and belonging to this new world of harsh places.

For the first time he realised that Gordon would never be a part of a land he still occasionally yearned for as ‘home’. Not for Gordon the neatly terraced green fields of England. It was even possible that his son would never see a field under snow or walk amongst the forests of oak. Strange thoughts for a strange time, Henry told himself. He turned his attention to Peter whose grey eyes were those of his father Tom Duffy. His dark skin that of his mother’s people. Here stood the true native of the new land, he realised with a dawning insight.

In Peter’s blood flowed the conqueror – and the conquered. Half-castes, they called the new breed of children. But there was an exotic beauty in this union of people that both cultures had spawned – and then spurned. Henry glanced up to seek out Wallarie. But the Nerambura warrior was gone.

He did not turn to face the boys as he did not want his son to see the tears that splashed down his bearded face. Instead, he growled from the saddle that they should follow him back to the ridges and wheeled his horse. As the boys followed him across the plain, the tall grasses gently bent to the will of the wind spirits.

As he rode away, Henry felt the sorrow for the certainty that he would not grow old to see his son become a man. For Wallarie had told him violent death would be his fate. It was as inevitable as the sun setting across the plains of brigalow scrub that were the lands of the Darambal people.

I
t has not changed much over the years, Michael reflected as he stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at the Erin Hotel. He wondered what his family would be doing right at that moment. Aunt Bridget was probably poking at the fire in the kitchen preparing for the Saturday afternoon lunch. Uncle Frank would be down in the cellar grumbling to Max about anything and everything while Max ignored him. And Daniel? Daniel may have left home. By now he would be qualified as a solicitor if he had persevered with his articles.

The front door opened and Michael saw two young boys spill out onto the street. A petite, red-haired woman followed them out and by her maternal manner he could see that the two boys were obviously her children.

But the red-haired woman was a mystery. Michael had not seen her before. One look at the smaller of the boys, however, was enough to convince him that he was looking at a replica of his cousin Daniel. He smiled with warm pleasure. So Daniel was a father and the pretty red-haired woman was most probably his wife. He had done well for himself!

The woman went inside the hotel, closing the door behind her, and the two boys jostled with each other on their way up the narrow street. It was Saturday morning and they had all day to roam. Michael knew exactly where they were going and followed at a discreet distance. If the paddock was still at the end of the street then the boys were bound to start there. Had not he and Daniel done likewise when they were the same age?

As Michael followed the two boys, however, he was unaware that he was in turn being trailed.

Horace Brown yawned as he set off behind the damned American who kept odd hours. Mister O’Flynn had not always been predictable in his movements around Sydney over the last fortnight whilst awaiting a sea passage north. Horace knew about the voyage. Acting on a hunch he had checked shipping manifests to see if the American had plans of leaving the colony. His hunch paid off when a shipping agent came up with his name booked for a passage to Cooktown. An extra coin slipped to the agent produced the fact that the passage had been booked by the Baroness von Fellmann. So, Michael O’Flynn was scheduled to visit the northern frontier, Horace had pondered, as he left the shipping office.

But O’Flynn’s visit to the Irish section of town to stand on a street corner was very strange indeed! What link did he have with the Erin Hotel? He would attempt to find that out when he made discreet inquiries with some of the patrons. For now he would follow O’Flynn and see where he was going.

Michael smiled. He was right! The boys had led him to Fraser’s paddock where the old gum trees were still standing as they had from the first days of settlement with their solid trunks scratched smooth from the myriad of little feet that had climbed them. The big branches drooped permanently from the years of weight of the many boys who had used the limbs to sit on and to talk about things near and dear to a boy’s heart: of annoying sisters and little girls whose very existence demanded teasing, of plans to raid the Chinese kids in the next suburb and pull their pigtails. Many an adventure had been planned amongst those branches, Michael remembered fondly.

The bigger of the two boys scrambled up the oldest of the gums. He perched himself on a low branch and called to the smaller boy to join him. But the smaller boy seemed reluctant to risk climbing the gnarled tree and declined the invitation. He remained under the tree staring curiously at the man with the eye patch who was walking across the paddock towards them.

‘Morning boys. Having a good time?’ Michael asked in a friendly tone.

The boy sitting in the branches answered bluntly. ‘You talk funny mister.’

Michael flashed a wry smile up at the boy who obviously referred to the American accent he had acquired. ‘Yeah, guess I do talk funny,’ he said.

‘Why do you talk funny?’ the boy asked.

‘I suppose because I come from America,’ Michael answered. ‘Most of us talk funny over there.’

‘You’re a Yankee!’ the smaller boy standing below the tree exclaimed. ‘Have you killed any Injuns?’ he asked in an awed voice. Martin Duffy knew a lot about cowboys and Indians. He had overheard men talk about them at the hotel when they were discussing the Yankees.

‘A few,’ Michael answered, less than modestly. He knew this was one way of getting the boys’ attention and was proved right as both boys suddenly appeared impressed.

‘Did the Injuns knock out your eye?’ Patrick asked from the tree branch.

Michael shook his head. ‘No, but that is another story. My name is Michael O’Flynn. Who sir, may I be addressing?’

‘I’m Patrick,’ the boy on the tree branch answered boldly. ‘And this is my brother Martin. We live at the Erin Hotel.’

‘Ahh. I used to know some people who lived at the Erin Hotel,’ Michael drawled casually. ‘There was Francis Duffy and his wife, Bridget. And there was a man called Max and another man called Daniel.’

‘That’s our da!’ Martin exclaimed with boyish excitement.

Michael smiled. So the boys were definitely Daniel’s boys. ‘Do you have any other brothers and sisters?’ he asked politely to keep the information flowing about his family.

‘We’ve got a sister. But she’s a pest,’ Martin chortled. ‘Always wants to play with us. But we run away and hide from her. Mum gets angry when we do.’

‘She doesn’t know where we are today. Her name is Charmaine,’ Patrick added.

The two boys were a mine of information, Michael realised. ‘Is your father a lawyer?’

‘Yes. He works in town in a big office,’ Patrick answered still eyeing Michael and his mysterious eye patch. ‘When did you know our da?’

‘A long time ago. I was visiting from America and met your da then,’ he lied. ‘What is your mother’s name?’

‘Ma . . . I mean, Colleen,’ Martin answered, correcting himself. ‘She’s at home.’

‘And your grandfather?’ Both boys went silent.

‘Grandpa died last year,’ Patrick answered with a frown. ‘Got sick and died.’

Michael felt a stab of pain. He had always felt a great affection for his uncle Frank who had practically reared him as his own son. The boys did not see the mixture of tension and emotional pain in his face. A precious part of his world had gone and they were not to know. ‘What about your grandma?’ he asked, recovering as calmly as he could from the shock of learning his beloved uncle was dead.

‘Grandma is helping ma in the kitchen,’ Martin replied.

Michael felt a surge of relief to hear that she was still alive. She had been the only mother he had really known. His own mother had died on the sea voyage from Ireland when he was very young and his aunt Bridget had filled the gap, lavishing tender love on a little boy as only a woman can.

‘Does Max the German still work at the Erin?’ Michael asked.

‘Uncle Max teaches me to box,’ Patrick said proudly, warming to the stranger who knew all the people that he knew. ‘Max says I will be as good as Michael Duffy some day.’

So I’m not entirely forgotten, he thought sadly. At least remembered for my fighting prowess if nothing else. ‘Do you know who Michael Duffy was?’ He was curious to see how much the boys knew about him.

‘Not much,’ Patrick answered uncertainly, adding that he wished he had known more about his uncle Michael so he could tell the American all about him. ‘Except that Uncle Max says I am just like him.’ Michael looked closely at Patrick. Yes, he mused. It was as if he was looking into a mirror that reflected the past – except that the boy had very green eyes! Obviously a characteristic of his mother’s side of the family. But those eyes brought back a painful surge of memories. They were so like Fiona’s! ‘What happened to Michael Duffy?’ he asked.

‘He went away to a war and was killed,’ Patrick answered simply.

‘Does anyone ever talk about him at home?’

‘Grandma prays for his soul almost every night,’ Patrick answered. ‘And Da said that Michael Duffy was a good man. That’s all.’

Michael felt depressed. He regretted querying the boys about himself. Never before had he felt so much like a ghost. ‘Do you have an uncle Kevin and an aunt Kate?’ he asked as he shook off his melancholy.

‘Aunt Kate lives in Queensland and she is very rich,’ Martin answered with great pride for the aunt he had heard a lot about but had never met. ‘But Uncle Kevin went away a long time ago before I was born. I heard Grandma say so.’

Michael was not surprised to hear O’Keefe had deserted Kate. Married life was not Kevin O’Keefe’s style.

‘Well lads. Thank you for telling me all about your ma and da. And about your uncle Frank and aunt Bridget. And you, Patrick Duffy, do as Max tells you when you are boxing because he knows all there is to being a fighter. Some day I think you might be better than Michael Duffy himself. Remember that.’

Young Patrick gave the man a quizzical look. The Yankee looked like he was very sad and was going to cry like a girl, he thought, with a touch of embarrassment. ‘I have something for you boys,’ Michael added. ‘But before I give them to you, you both have to promise not to tell anyone I was talking to you.’ He gave each boy a silver dollar. They had a vague understanding of the value of the American coins and mumbled their thanks with promises to remain forever silent. ‘Some day you can buy something for your ma and da,’ Michael suggested. ‘As well as Aunt Bridget and Max. Maybe at Christmas time.’

The boys glanced at each other as Michael walked away.

‘Grandma isn’t our aunt,’ Martin said. ‘The Yankee must be crazy.’

From a street adjoining Fraser’s paddock Horace had watched the American talk to the boys. He wished that he could have heard what was being said. O’Flynn was seemingly deep in thought as he strolled along the narrow streets past the tenement houses of Redfern.

The past was buried forever. Now there was only the present Michael thought. He wished that the ship sailing to Cooktown was leaving before sunset instead of two days hence. The pain of being so close to those he loved without being able to reveal himself to them ached at his soul more painfully than any war wounds he had ever received.

Horace watched Michael walk out of sight. He was tempted to cut across the street to ask the boys what the American had said to them. But he decided against such an action. It would not pay to reveal himself to those O’Flynn had contact with lest he happened to talk to the boys again. Young boys had a habit of remembering and relating unusual incidents. He would try the Erin Hotel instead. Alcohol and gossip were bedmates.

In the hotel Horace found a handful of working men sitting in a corner with their heads down over their glasses of rum. Behind the bar stood a powerful-looking man with a face that had obviously seen a lot of physical hurt in its time. He stood polishing glasses with a cloth and glanced at Horace with just the smallest sign of curiosity.

Horace had a great belief in saloon keepers and barmen as sources of valuable information. They saw a lot – and knew a lot – about the people who frequented their establishments. But gaining the confidence of barmen was no mean feat. They were people who tended to keep what they knew to themselves. Although generally reluctant to talk, they were nonetheless only human, and every man had his weakness, even taciturn barmen.

Horace plonked himself at the bar and the barman approached. Despite his bulk he moved with the feline grace of a dangerous leopard. Instinct told Horace that the barman was a very dangerous man to be on the wrong side of.

‘Vot you vont?’ he asked.

Horace’s practised ear picked up the slightest nuances in the accent. Probably once a resident of Hamburg.

‘A schnapps if you have it,’ he answered in fluent German, which caused the barman to cast him a curious look.

‘You speak good German. For an Englishman,’ the barman replied in his native tongue, and Horace was just a little miffed that his fluent grasp of German was not good enough to fool him. ‘But we do not have any schnapps, my friend. You can have rum or whisky.’

‘Is it Irish whisky?’ Horace asked and the German nodded.

‘The best thing to come out of Ireland,’ Max said as he poured his customer a shot and pushed the glass across the highly polished and much-used bar top. ‘Better than those damned brawling Irishmen whose heads I have to knock together every night.’

Horace grinned at the German’s observation. He was obviously in a predominantly Irish expatriate drinking house. ‘How is it that an Englishman speaks German so good?’ Max added. ‘You live in Germany?’

‘My father was born in Bavaria,’ Horace lied. ‘I grew up in England. But my love is to the fatherland, my friend.’ Having established his false identity Horace slipped easily into the new man he had created for the situation. ‘The name is Franz Neumann.’

‘I am Max Braun,’ Max said, offering a big beefy hand. ‘Hamburg was my last port in Germany.’

‘Have you been in the colonies for long?’ Horace asked, drawing the German into a conversation.

‘Since ’54,’ he answered.

‘Skipped ship to join the rush for the Ballarat fields?’

‘Ya. Got my head busted by you damned English at Eureka.’

‘Ahh. But a sad mistake in history my friend,’ Horace sighed. ‘Maybe I could buy you a drink as by way of a belated apology for my English blood.’

Max broke into a broad smile, revealing where he had lost most of his teeth over the years from a bad diet at sea and too many fights on land. ‘I will accept your apology Herr Neumann and will join you in a toast to the brave Germans who fought you English at the stockade.’

‘My loyalty is to my German blood,’ Horace gently reminded his new-found friend. ‘Not my English blood. So here’s to the brave men who fought at the stockade.’

He raised his glass as did Max. But Horace secretly toasted the red-coated soldiers who had fought and died that terrible day. Not the rebels. They swilled back the whisky and Max promptly refilled the glasses for which Horace paid handsomely.

‘Tell me Mister Braun?’ Horace said, toying with his generously filled tumbler. ‘How is it that you came to be working in a hotel in the colonies instead of returning to Hamburg?’

Max eyed the little man on the other side of the bar and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Mister Duffy’s brother saved my life at the stockade,’ he answered. ‘He was a good man like my old boss Frank Duffy who owned the Erin until young Daniel took over. And Missus Duffy, Frank’s wife, is the best cook outside Hamburg. Why should I go back to Germany when I have a job where I get well fed, drink grog and get to break a few Irishmen’s heads now and then? No, my family is here.’