Shadow of the Osprey (32 page)

He instinctively moved to Lady Enid’s side, and she felt a rush of love for the same boy she had once schemed to have disposed of. She had thought of him as nothing more than a social embarrassment to the Macintosh name. Now he was the only person present prepared to stand up for her.

She reached out to take Patrick’s hand. He liked the soft touch of her hand, but wondered at the impulsive gesture of the woman who, up until now, he had thought was so aloof.

Fiona saw her mother’s gesture and the way her son reacted to the woman’s touch. I have lost you my son, she realised with unbearable pain and despair. Her son belonged to her mother, and nothing could ever change that so long as her mother had him with her in England.

Even if she conceded to her mother’s wishes – to leave her husband and also Penelope – her mother was too strong for her. Just as she had dominated her life when she was young, she would dominate Patrick. Fiona did not need time to consider her mother’s proposal. Penelope loved her. Nothing could change that and she would not give up that love. She would need precious time to win back her son. Now was not the time, nor the place, to show her hand.

Granville sat in his library through the silent hours of the night. He listened to the lazy ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and stared bleakly at the walls of the library festooned with Aboriginal artefacts. The wooden weapons had been a present from Sir Donald after a dispersal on Glen View in ’62. His gaze settled on a long Aboriginal spear fixed above a narrow wooden hand shield.

Was there really a curse? he brooded. Whatever the answer, Granville knew one certainty: that his attempt to have the son of Michael Duffy eliminated had failed. That was a curse in its own right.

The following day, Granville carefully worded a telegram in a code. He would alert Mort that aboard his ship was a man who must be killed, no matter what it took.

Granville’s veiled murderous words travelled over the long line of wires, and through relay stations to Cooktown, where the telegraph operator read the transcribed morse words of the telegram. The operator sighed and stared out his window at the driving rain. A check with the port authorities had confirmed that the
Osprey
had sailed days earlier. To all intents and purposes it was somewhere north in the heart of the storm that presently raged in the Coral Sea.

He folded the telegram and filed it before plumping himself at his desk, and pouring black coffee from a big pot that sat permanently on the little pot-bellied stove in the corner. He raised his mug in an ironic toast. ‘To you lads,’ he muttered, ‘wherever you are on this godforsaken day. I hope you make it.’ His words were swept away by the howling of the wind, and the pounding of the rain on the tin roof of his office. His only option was to transmit back down the line that delivery of the telegram was impossible.

T
owards dawn the storm eased. From below decks the bushmen – weak from lack of sleep and stomachs emptied by vomiting – crept up onto the deck of the storm-battered barque.

They were stunned at the scene that met them. The
Osprey
had lost one of her masts and her decks looked as if a major battle had been fought over them, with the
Osprey
the loser. But despite her appearance, the
Osprey
was a winner. She was still afloat and had lost none of her crew. Even Michael gave tacit, grudging credit to the courageous efforts of the captain.

The Chinese junk had not fared as well. She was stuck firmly on the coral with her bottom torn away. Her decks were awash and as the observers on the
Osprey
watched, she keeled over as a big swell washed her from the reef. In a desperate search for anything loose to cling to, panicked survivors thrashed around in the water fighting each other.

‘Not many going to make it,’ Michael said without emotion. ‘She hasn’t launched any boats and there isn’t enough debris in the water for them all to float on. Guess the sharks will have a feed soon enough.’

‘You’re wrong Mister O’Flynn,’ Luke said, pointing towards the sinking junk. ‘There’s some kind of boat being launched now.’ Michael stared across the oily waters. The occupants of a lifeboat appeared to be beating off the survivors in the water.

‘Bastards!’ the young bushman snarled as he joined the two men at the rail. ‘Ought to give the yellow bastards a taste of their own medicine when they get here.’

Michael did not comment on the young man’s expression of indignation. In his years of soldiering he had seen worse acts committed by Europeans. He merely shook his head and turned his attention to the French gun boat afloat in the distance. He could make out that she had fared badly in the storm. Missing a mast and her sails in tatters, she still had her auxiliary engine for power and as he watched, he could see a wispy streak of smoke rising from her single funnel. The French seemed to be turning about to navigate towards the junk.

Mort ignored the boat being rowed across from the stricken junk. In his opinion the survivors were Chinese and, as such, rated on a par with niggers. His only concern was to make his ship seaworthy again. He barked orders to his crew, who reluctantly broke off watching the junk sink below the tropical waters to go about their duties.

Michael directed his men to help the crew. Sims accepted their offer and put the bushmen to work below decks baling sea water that had washed in through the hatches during the night. Michael was about to go below decks with his men when the Baron joined him.

‘Mister O’Flynn, I have been discussing our position with the captain,’ he said as he gripped the railing and watched the Chinese lifeboat drawing nearer. ‘He feels – and I agree – that we must return to Cooktown for repairs. I want to assure you that you and your men will be paid out in full once we berth. It is not your fault that we are unable to continue with our mission. I am sure that after last night, your men will welcome your news.’

‘You are very generous Baron,’ Michael replied courteously. ‘I will tell the men when they have completed their work for Captain Mort.’

‘You will of course not divulge the destination of the
Osprey
to anyone Mister O’Flynn,’ von Fellmann said, quietly fixing him with his piercing blue eyes.

‘I have not told my men anything Baron. As you instructed at our first briefing.’

‘Good!’ von Fellmann replied. ‘I had a friend once, Gustavus von Tempsky, who told me that there were men of honour, even amongst the Englishers he knew. Ach! But you would not know the Von, as the Englishers called him, would you Mister O’Flynn?’

Michael thought he saw the trace of a mocking smile. Was it coincidence that he should use von Tempsky’s name in the conversation? ‘No. I’m afraid I only knew of the man from what I have read of his exploits Baron,’ he lied, boldly returning the piercing stare. ‘But he sounded like a good commander.’

Von Fellmann nodded, and walked away leaving Michael elated that he did not have to sink the
Osprey
. Unhappily, however, the return to Cooktown would make it more difficult to kill Mort. He would need to re-evaluate his chances of killing Mort on land. At least then he might get the opportunity to personally confront the devil himself, and have the satisfaction of informing him why he was being executed.

He turned to gaze out to the reef where the Chinese junk had foundered. She was gone now. Her passing marked by a huddle of the tiny bobbing heads of survivors treading water, or clinging to floating debris. When the sharks found them they would be gone, unless they simply drowned as their strength gave out. The lifeboat was drawing closer. Michael could count five people. They all appeared to be Chinese and three of the men were armed with old-style muskets.

Mort was also watching their approach, but he had no interest in taking aboard the Chinese survivors. He turned his attention to the horizon off the starboard bow and noticed that the French ship was steaming towards them. Whatever had motivated the French to try and intercept the junk in the first place had not been lessened by the storm. They were coming at full steam towards the lifeboat, which, however, reached the
Osprey
before the French could reach them.

From their lifeboat, rising and falling on the swell beside the barque, the Chinese survivors pleaded to be taken aboard. Mort ignored their wails and pleas and prepared to issue orders for the Chinese to be fired on by his crew. He despatched two men below to break out the rifles in his armoury.

Michael immediately realised what the murderous captain was about to do. Luke had also realised what was about to occur and looked to Michael for direction. Their eyes met and in an instant the decision was made. Michael reached for the small Colt revolver in his jacket. Although the opportunity for a confrontation had come unexpectedly, he had the excuse to kill Mort – and he sensed that he had the loyalty of his bushmen to back him. But the reaction from Mort’s crew was an unknown factor. They might stand and fight. Some of his bushmen might be killed, along with the Baron and Herr Straub. Was it worth their lives?

Michael felt his first rush of savage elation dissipate into an angry frustration. Above all else, the lives of the men he had recruited were entrusted into his hands. With a scowl he shook his head to warn Luke not to get involved. The murderous captain would have his way and there was nothing they could do for the moment. Luke turned away and spat his disgust at the feet of a sailor who had levelled his rifle on the terrified survivors. The bushmen, who had gathered on the deck, muttered angrily about bloody murder. Despite their dislike of Asians, they recognised the fellowship of helpless humans.

It was the Baron who unexpectedly stepped forward to intercede. Although he acknowledged the captain’s right to make decisions concerning the sailing of the ship and the welfare of those aboard, he argued that the taking aboard of survivors was Mort’s duty as captain.
Some rule of the sea . . .
he reminded Mort, who reluctantly conceded to the Prussian’s arguments.

It did not pay to put the German offside at this stage, Mort brooded as von Fellmann walked away. He had not yet thought out a scheme to neutralise Lady Macintosh’s plans to have him arrested when the expedition was officially over.

The
Osprey
crewmen reluctantly helped the Chinese clamber aboard the barque, surprised to see that one of the survivors was a beautiful young Chinese girl dressed in pants and a jacket in the same manner as the Chinese sailors. Her flawless skin was a perfect cream colour, in stark contrast to her jet black and waist-length hair. Her eyes were so dark that they were like black liquid pools, Michael thought. Although she was obviously frightened by the leering stares and comments of the sailors assisting her aboard, she refused to cower to them.

The crew quickly disarmed the Chinese and forced them to sit in a huddle on the deck. But the girl refused to join the huddled survivors cowering under the baleful stares of the sailors. She stood defiantly while the others squatted obediently. The tough
Osprey
crewmen were impressed with the young woman’s dignity, and her choice to stand, rather than join the frightened survivors. Michael noticed that the girl did not have bound feet as was fashionable for Chinese women. She acted as if she were born to royalty, he thought, not with the servility of a peasant fresh out of a rice paddy. She was not only very beautiful but an interesting young woman.

‘Anyone here speakee English?’ Mort demanded as he glared at the frightened survivors. A squat, evil-looking man with a scarred face rose uncertainly from the group. ‘I speakee English. Me captain of
White Lotus.
Me likee talk you captain boss. Me likee talk you away here,’ the man said, as he took uncertain steps towards Mort.

‘I will talk to you alone,’ Mort growled to the Chinese captain. ‘We will go below to my cabin.’

The Baron stood back with a smouldering cheroot between his lips. His attention was not on the Chinese captain but on the rapidly approaching French gun boat. What concern was the Chinese junk to the French that they should send one of their gun boats after her? He suspected that they were about to find out. As the French boat manoeuvred to draw alongside, he observed with a military man’s eye, that the French were at action stations. This had not been the first time he had watched Frenchmen go to action stations – except that the last time, less than four years ago in Sedan, he had been a colonel in command of an elite Regiment of Uhlans, and it had been on land. ‘I do not think you will have time to converse with the man Captain Mort,’ von Fellmann said quietly. The French ship was within a hundred yards of the
Osprey
with her deck gun manned and pointed directly at them. ‘It appears that the French have business with us. Of an urgent nature.’

‘Captain of the
Osprey
. I am Captain Dumas of the Imperial French Navy.’ The heavily accented voice drifted across the water between the two ships. ‘I am sending a boarding party over.’

The white-jacketed French sailors looked tired and worn from the effects of the storm. But despite their dishevelled appearance, they also appeared grim-faced, and determined to fight.

‘I deny permission for you to board my ship,’ Mort called through a conical loud hailer. ‘I am a British ship and you have no authority to board.’ His defiant reply seemed to cause a stir on the French gun boat. Her officers huddled on the bridge in an animated conversation.

Both the Baron and Mort had quickly reached a consensus. The French were to be denied whatever they were seeking. For the captain of the
Osprey
, his pride was at stake. No arrogant Froggie was about to board
his
ship. For the Baron, his Teutonic blood arrogantly detested the French whom he viewed as effeminate weaklings.

‘You have aboard your ship, captain of the
Osprey
,’ the voice came back from the French gun boat, ‘property belonging to France. And if you do not allow me to take that property I will be forced to board you regardless of your wishes.’

The Baron turned to Michael and quickly issued orders. Michael had his men hurriedly armed with the Winchester rifles broken out of the armoury below decks. He ordered his men into line and gave the order to present arms for action. Although the crews on both ships were dangerously exposed on the open decks, Michael fully realised that the French still outgunned the
Osprey.

Captain Dumas of the French gun boat was impressed that the
Osprey
was not about to be boarded without a fight. He also fully realised that both sides were bound to take casualties in such an event. The bearded bushmen lining the British ship’s deck appeared as if they were prepared to sell their lives to keep his sailors off British property. Bluff or no bluff, Dumas knew that the situation was at a stalemate. It was up to him to break it as he had thrown down the gauntlet.

Mort watched with rising apprehension as the crew on the French ship adjusted their deck gun to bear directly at the centre of his ship. He had a sick feeling that his bluff already had been called. But the
Osprey
flew the Union Jack, he thought desperately. And any attempt to seize her by force of arms could be construed as an act of war against Britain. He had calculated that the French captain was not about to risk a confrontation that could escalate into a war between the empires, especially when the French had taken a beating at the hands of the Germans only short years earlier.

It seemed that neither side intended to back down. The pride of two mighty nations was at stake in an obscure corner of the world. Michael stood beside his men who held their rifles levelled on the French sailors. ‘When the shooting starts,’ he said quietly, ‘aim for the crew of the deck gun first.’

Michael had armed himself with a Colt revolver and bowie knife, both useful weapons for the close-quarter fighting of men in hand-to-hand combat on a deck. He glanced across at the Chinese girl, who was glaring defiantly at the French. He had a strong feeling that all this was about her.

After what seemed an eternity, a voice finally floated over the short space between the two ships. ‘Captain of the
Osprey
. We will follow you to your nearest port. We will lodge a strong protest with your government as to your deliberate obstruction in the internal affairs of the French government. I am sure we will receive a sympathetic hearing from the Queensland government and you will bitterly regret your foolish actions here.’ The French gun boat raised steam and drew away from the
Osprey
.

All on the barque waited tensely as the French pulled away. Was she pulling back – out of rifle range – to shell them? The thought was in all their minds. But the French took up a position off their stern and waited. The captain indeed intended to follow them, as he said he would.

When Mort was satisfied that the French weren’t going to shell his ship, he gave the order for his crew to continue repairing the
Osprey,
while the Baron gave the order for Michael to stand down his men. Satisfied that his crew were carrying out their tasks, Mort took the Chinese captain below, with von Fellmann following them. They were no sooner out of sight when Michael was startled to hear the Chinese girl speak French. Although he did not understand the language, Luke Tracy did. He had spent a short time in New Orleans where he had discovered that he had a natural gift for acquiring languages. Although he was not fluent, and his knowledge rudimentary, he did have enough grasp of the language to understand her impassioned plea for help. And even as the girl pleaded for sanctuary – from both the French and the Chinese – Mort was learning from the captain of the junk just why the French had brought the two ships to the brink of a near international incident.