Shadow of the Osprey (38 page)

Henry grinned down at her. ‘He is no match for you Kate O’Keefe. He is only used to staying alive on battlefields, not confronting the likes of you.’

Kate felt the mirth in his opinion. ‘A pity,’ she sighed as she started off towards the store. ‘I was looking forward to meeting this man who, it seems, has the whole town speculating on your mysterious mission out west. But Emma has dinner waiting for us and you have things to tell her, as only you can.’

Henry nodded gratefully and fell into step beside her. They walked in the balmy evening with the raucous sounds of the town around them. Kate found the sounds comforting, unlike the silence of the bush which always held an ominous hush for the dreaded screech of the black cockatoo, the war cry of the fierce northern tribesmen.

When Horace’s late evening meeting with Soo was concluded and money had been exchanged for the horses, rations and guns procured through the tong leader’s contacts he walked to French Charley’s to meet Captain Dumas. The meeting had been arranged as part of the English agent’s extension of British hospitality to the Frenchman, although Horace assured him that, as a simple civil servant with the British Foreign Office, he abhorred talk of politics and intelligence intrigue. Anything that the captain might tell him concerning his country’s affairs was not of any great interest.

Both men knew that was a lie. But Captain Dumas was suitably impressed by his fellow countryman’s famed establishment. French Charley’s did indeed rival the best colonial restaurants that the French gun boat captain had dined in. The food and wines were excellent, and the girls who worked for Monsieur Boeul were beautiful, although he had to smile at their attempts to imitate his national accent.

Captain Dumas had attracted the admiring glances of the ladies of French Charley’s as he dined in his smart dress uniform and his host for the evening had promised him that the ladies were well and truly available to entertain lonely sailors. Captain Dumas had his eye on a little redhead with a saucy disposition. She smiled coyly at him whenever he fixed her with a champagne-induced leer. Although the female entertainment offered by the famed establishment was not to Horace’s tastes, in all other respects he could not fault the restaurant as a venue to loosen the Frenchman’s tongue.

Already Captain Dumas had told him much concerning his mission and Hue’s importance to French intelligence. The girl was already being likened by Cochinese bandits, who saw themselves as nationalist patriots, to Trieu Au, a third-century girl who herself could be compared to France’s own Joan of Arc. Hue’s historical predecessor had fought the Chinese invaders and, when defeated at the age of twenty-three, had chosen suicide before capture.

Through various subtle and less than subtle means French intelligence agencies were hoping to extract from Hue the names of those persons in the royal court of the Cochinese emperor who were plotting against French interests. But the captain himself was strictly a naval man who kept out of politics and was not particularly interested in what his intelligence counterparts did with her.

‘I must congratulate you on your excellent grasp of the English language, Captain Dumas,’ Horace said. ‘I myself have great difficulties with learning languages,’ he lied, ‘and only wish I had spent time visiting all the exotic places you have in your time with the French navy . . . ’ Horace’s voice trailed away as his eye caught a tall, commanding man entering the restaurant with a pretty young brunette on his arm.
Manfred von Fellmann!

Captain Dumas had also noticed the Baron enter the crowded room, and lurched to his feet full of bonhomie for the Prussian he had fished out of the sea. ‘Ah Baron von Fellmann, please to join us,’ he called above the din of voices. The Baron turned, and said something to his pretty escort, who pursed her lips with feigned disappointment as he left her alone, to stride over to their table.

Horace watched him approach with mixed feelings. So, he was about to meet the man whom he had recognised from afar in Samoa, but had never formally met for professional reasons.

‘May I introduce Monsieur Brown to you Baron von Fellmann,’ the Frenchman slurred. He had trouble remaining on his feet as he waved vaguely at Horace, sitting very still at the table. Horace watched the dawning recognition on the Baron’s face, as he clicked his heels in the Prussian style, with his hands at his side.

‘It is good to meet you Mister Brown,’ Manfred said. ‘I have never had the honour of meeting a man with such a formidable reputation as yours.’

The flattering insinuation was lost on the inebriated French naval man who gestured for the Prussian aristocrat to sit with them.

‘It is an honour to meet you
Oberst von Fellmann
,’ Horace replied with a nod of his head.

‘I am no longer a colonel Mister Brown. But I am sure, as two old soldiers, we could discuss the campaigns we have seen. Yours in the Crimea and mine against the army colleagues of my French
ami
at the Sedan. No my friend, I am a man only with commercial interests these days.’

Horace slipped the spectacles from his nose to wipe them. ‘And sadly,’ he sighed, ‘I am but a simple servant in Her Majesty’s colonial outposts.’

Manfred’s laughter rolled around the room at the little Englishman’s description of himself. They both knew who and what they were: two very professional – and dangerous – men fighting in an undeclared war for the interests of their respective nations. ‘I think we should toast this occasion Mister Brown,’ Manfred said when he stopped laughing. ‘Here we are as friends from Germany, France and England, enjoying the night in a neutral French restaurant, in a British colony far from our homes and loved ones.’

The French captain slopped champagne into their glasses which they raised to each other in toast.

The pretty brunette appeared at the Baron’s elbow, petulantly whining in a poor imitation of a French accent that he was ignoring her. Manfred patted her on her bottom and leaned forward to the Frenchman. ‘A little gift from Germany to France, Captain,’ he said with a conspiratorial wink. ‘The young lady has informed me that she would like to take French lessons – in privacy.’

Before the girl could protest the Frenchman lurched to his feet, and gallantly took her hand, which he swept with a kiss. The gesture stilled her protests. She was impressed by the Frenchman’s manner and colourful uniform. He was a rather interesting looking captain, she thought, for a foreigner.

‘Gentlemen, you must excuse me if I leave you to give a lesson in the true language of love.’

As he was led away by the young lady who was to learn what the Frenchman meant by
l’amour
, Horace refilled the crystal goblets. ‘To Herr Straub,’ he said solemnly. ‘Or should I say,
Kapitan
Karl von Fellmann.’

Manfred did not raise his glass but stared at the Englishman. ‘I am not surprised that you know Karl was my brother, Mister Brown,’ he said menacingly. ‘Just as I suspect that the bomb that Captain Mort found on his ship was put there by you.’

‘I am truly sorry that you lost your brother Baron,’ Horace said, placing his glass on the table. ‘But it was never intended to kill anyone. Just, shall we say, slow down your ambitions to go sightseeing around New Guinea.’

The German agent stared hard at his English counterpart but could not detect cupidity in him. Given similar circumstances he would have used similar tactics. The Englishman had not tried to deny the bomb was his. ‘My brother was a good soldier,’ Manfred replied. ‘He died for his Kaiser as surely as if he had died on a battlefield. So I accept your toast to a courageous man. And now, I would like to propose a toast to the success of your man in his mission, to kill the murderer of my brother. Mister Michael Duffy.’

It was Horace’s turn to look stunned. How could the Prussian know Michael’s identity and that he worked for him? He sat staring at his glass of champagne. ‘My wife tells me everything Mister Brown,’ Manfred smiled grimly, as if answering Horace’s unspoken question. ‘And it was not hard to confirm my suspicions that Mister Duffy was the man who had brought the bomb aboard. And who would detonate it at the appropriate time. Your actions just now confirmed my suspicions.’

Horace blinked and cursed himself. He had fallen for the German’s bluff so easily. His adversary was damned good at his job! ‘But do not concern yourself my friend,’ Manfred continued. ‘Because Mister Duffy’s proposed act of seeking out and killing the murderer of my brother and saving my life when we were in the sea more than exonerates his betrayal of my trust, for the moment at least. My wife tells me he is an excellent lover. Such a man as your Irishman is exceptional. I will regret having to kill him some day. That is, if he remains working for you. But we both know how unreliable mercenaries are.’ Manfred raised his glass. ‘To
Herr
Duffy, an exceptional man.’

Horace raised his glass. ‘Her Majesty,’ he muttered. ‘God bless her.’ His thoughts drifted briefly to the Irishman. Would he ever see him again? Or would Mort claim yet another Duffy life?

M
ax Braun did not try to hide his tears. He embraced Patrick in a powerful bear hug as they stood on the wharf amongst the throng of passengers who had come to farewell the voyagers to Mother England. They were an incongruous pair; the burly scarred man with a nose flattened across his tear-streaked face, and the tall boy with the fine patrician features promising a handsomeness that few women would be able to resist in the short years to come.

Max lifted Patrick from his feet and hugged him tenderly. ‘Travel safely my little fighter,’ he whispered in words choked with emotion. ‘Never forget that your uncle Max loves you.’ The tough former Hamburg sailor wiped self-consciously at the tears streaking his face, and turned away, so that Daniel and his family would not see his grief. He might never see the boy again, he thought in his sorrow. Michael had been taken from him years earlier and yet had given him his son. Now Patrick would be sailing from his life for many years – if not forever.

Fiona watched the scene from her carriage and would have given her very life to be in the place of the man who held her son. She ached to hold Patrick and tell him of so many things. But the graceful clipper that rocked at her mooring by the wharf, strained impatiently against the ropes like a champion racehorse, ready to take him from her life.

Men in top hats and ladies in long dresses cried and hugged those who had come to farewell them on their passage to England. Porters and dockside workers sweated in the warm sun of the Sydney autumn day as they worked quickly to bring on board the last of the cargo for the trip that would take the clipper halfway around the world. An authoritative voice cried out above the din of laughter and tears for all to board and a bell clanged, warning of the imminent sailing.

Fiona sat alone in her thoughts but not alone in the carriage. Penelope sat beside her, watching the pinched expression on her cousin’s pale and beautiful face. Penelope had seen pain before, but not the kind of pain she was now witnessing.

She reached over to gently cover Fiona’s hand reassuringly. How could one reassure a mother who was losing a son she had only just found after years of silent mourning? How could she tell the woman she loved that she had the barest inkling of the pain she was suffering?

Fiona turned momentarily to flash a weak smile of gratitude for her cousin’s tender gesture. ‘I have lost him forever. My mother has taken him from me twice in a lifetime. Once was almost more than I could bear.’

Penelope followed Fiona’s gaze to the crowded wharf. She could see Daniel Duffy, stiff and formal in his suit and top hat, waving gravely to Patrick who was following his grandmother up the gangway. Standing beside the tall lawyer was a pretty redheaded woman, weeping as she held the hand of a little girl very much a miniature of herself. A young boy about Patrick’s age waved to him and Patrick paused on the gangway to return the wave. An older woman stood beside Daniel. She had snow-white hair and reminded Penelope of the eternal grandmother of quiet and gentle ways.

The crowd of well-wishing farewellers milling on the wharf pushed forward to reach out to the passengers lining the clipper’s deck, and the Duffy family was obscured. The crowd now gave three
hurrahs
, to speed the passengers safely to England.

The dockside gangs cast off the ropes that held the ship captive to Sydney’s shores, and a brass band played a medley of popular tunes, before breaking into the traditional Scottish tune
Auld Lang Syne
. Penelope scanned the ship’s railing and saw Patrick and Enid standing side by side at the bow. She could see Enid saying something to Patrick whose smile was sad as he waved to his family on the dock.

A steam tug strained to pull the graceful clipper into the main channel where she would be set on her voyage across the Great Southern Ocean and around the Cape of Africa to England.

Fiona did not wait for the ship to be towed to the main channel. She did not want to remember her son as a tiny blur amongst strangers lining the deck. She wanted to keep the picture of the boy’s face clear in her mind, as he stood at the railing, rather than remember the clipper taking him away from her. She had no doubt that she had seen Michael’s spirit in the boy’s eyes and no matter what her mother tried to mould him into he would always hold a part of his father’s rebellious spirit.

Fiona knew that her son would be groomed to oppose Granville directly, and herself indirectly. Her sin was not that she had lusted for Michael Duffy. Her sin was that she had taken a side against her mother who was punishing her now by using the fruit of her liaison to hurt her in the cruellest possible way.

The bumping of the carriage on the packed earthen road along the route to South Head made Penelope feel ill. It was a warm day, one that gave promise of fires that would burn uncontrollably in the eucalyptus forests around the city, choking the town with the brown haze of cinders.

But such sickness was not uncommon to a pregnant woman. Penelope knew that Manfred was the father of her unborn child as she had been careful in her affairs with other men. Apart from her doctor, only she knew of the pregnancy now into its third month, and she wanted Fiona to be the third person to know. It was her pregnancy that made her especially empathetic to her cousin’s grief. She realised how precious the life within her was. How would she react to her baby being wrenched from her arms, from her life? The answer was clear. She knew she would be capable of killing any person who tried to take her baby from her.

Fiona stared out at the passing drays, wagons and carriages as they rattled past. The tall gums appeared weary from the industrial pollution that had come with Sydney’s growth as a city. Fetid smelling tanneries and factories spilled out noxious fumes, while sewage fouled the sandy earth. Once clean and clear swamps were now cesspools of poisonous waste. Sydney had an ugly face for Fiona. With its magnificent harbour, she had once thought the city to be the prettiest in the world. But Sydney was the home of the Macintoshes, a name she had grown to detest for all its implications in her life.

‘We still have Michael,’ Penelope said gently as the coach rattled and bumped along the dusty road. ‘So long as Michael is alive, you have an ally to win Patrick back one day.’

Fiona gave her cousin a bitter smile. ‘I think it is too late for Michael to help me,’ she replied sadly. ‘He is God knows where, and could even be dead, for all we know. No, I doubt that he could do much,’ she added bitterly.

Although Penelope respected her cousin’s opinion, it was not one that she shared. Michael was a born survivor and his scars a testament to his ability to withstand the worst that could happen to him. She was certain, however illogical it seemed, that one day he would return to help Fiona in her quest to regain her son.

‘You slept with Michael when he was in Sydney.’ Fiona’s unexpected accusation was stated with such casual aplomb that Penelope was taken unawares. Fiona had not even bothered to face her when she spoke.

Penelope remained in a stunned silence for a brief moment, considering how she should reply to her cousin’s accusation. ‘I slept with the man you knew as Michael O’Flynn not Michael Duffy,’ she finally answered.

Fiona turned on her with a cold fire in her eyes. ‘You and I both know Michael O’Flynn
is
Michael Duffy,’ she flared.

Penelope smiled sadly at her cousin’s bitterness. ‘We have shared the same body,’ she replied quietly, ‘but not the same man. Michael is not the young man you once knew. Michael Duffy has become Michael O’Flynn. A man whose soul is as scarred as his body. The young man who once had dreams of creating beauty in his paintings is now a man who will never know peace. Oh Fiona my love, I have seen into his soul, and I have seen the pain for what he can never go back to. No. I did not sleep with
your
Michael. I slept with an Irish soldier of fortune. I doubt that the man I knew intimately would even know your Michael. They have little in common.’

Fiona’s bitterness dissolved. Penelope was right, she thought. The man she had briefly met at Penelope’s house was so different from the gentle and carefree Michael she had once loved with her body. The man who had then stood before her on the lawn had the air of one who had seen far too much violence in his life. Yes, they had shared the same body, but not the same man!

Fiona took her cousin’s hand in hers. ‘I know what you mean Penny,’ she said with a wan smile. ‘I think we have both been fortunate to have known Michael in our lifetime. It is something we will always have in common, you and I.’

Penelope slipped her arms around Fiona and held her to her breast. It was then that she told her the wonderful news concerning her pregnancy. There were joyous squeals of delight as the coach drove into the driveway of Penelope’s house.

Their lovemaking that afternoon was both passionate and tender. But when it was over, and Penelope slept in Fiona’s embrace, Fiona found her thoughts drifting to both her son and his father. The thoughts wandered the empty places in her life. There was laughter in the memories of a beach at sunset, and the face of a tall, broad shouldered young man, who talked impulsively of taking her to America. And sorrow in the thoughts for the milk that once swelled her breasts for the son she had never had suckle her. ‘Where are you Michael Duffy?’ she whispered softly, as she stroked away a wisp of Penelope’s golden hair from her sleeping face. ‘Will we ever meet again? And how would you react to the knowledge we have a son?’