Shadow of the Osprey (6 page)

Henry raised his eyebrows at the American’s eagerness to get started but Emma smiled to herself. She had noticed with a woman’s perceptiveness the change that came over the American every time Kate’s name came up in conversation. It was no wonder he was eager to head out from Cooktown. He was a man desperately in love with the beautiful Irishwoman. But she frowned when she remembered the visit she had received two days earlier, a visit she knew would cause her friend a terrible pain in unleashing memories better forgotten.

Henry had been fencing a paddock for the bullocks at the back of Cooktown and she had been alone in the store. A big, handsome man had walked in and announced that he was Kevin O’Keefe, Kate’s husband, and that he was looking for his wife. Shocked, Emma stated that Kate was somewhere on the track between Cooktown and the Palmer. He had stood for a moment appraising the store and left without any other conversation.

Reeling from the meeting Emma debated whether to tell her husband of the sudden reappearance of the man who had deserted Kate over a decade earlier. She was fully aware of the circumstances of the desertion as Judith Cohen had recounted the story to her when they lived in Rockhampton.

It was a pitiful story of a young and pregnant seventeen-year-old girl left alone at nights while her worthless husband went in search of good times at the local hotels and grog shanties. Judith and her husband Solomon had nursed Kate through a terrible fever at Luke Tracy’s request. Finally Kevin O’Keefe ran off with the wife of a local publican, leaving his very ill wife to give premature birth to their child. The tiny baby lived only a few hours and was buried in a lonely grave outside Rockhampton. It had been the quiet strength of Luke and the loving care of the Cohens that had kept Kate going through the critical weeks following this tragic loss.

Emma had finally decided that she should not tell Henry of the meeting. Such was her husband’s loyalty to their employer, she was just a little frightened that her big burly husband might become angry and seek out O’Keefe for a thrashing for all the grief he had visited upon Kate. And she sensed O’Keefe was a man capable of great violence. Her real fear was for Henry’s safety should such a confrontation occur.

But now she had reason to feel an even greater disquiet. She remembered a story of a confrontation between Luke Tracy and O’Keefe. Years earlier a traveller to Rockhampton had told her of the incident. In some grog shanty outside of Brisbane Luke had pulled his gun on O’Keefe and threatened to kill him if they ever met again.

She turned her attention to the American puffing contentedly on a cigar Henry had produced after the meal. He seemed at peace and she suspected that the possible proximity of Kate had a lot to do with his serenity. She knew that if she told him of the meeting with Kate’s husband it might have a fatal outcome for the gentle American. Emma prayed that the two men would never meet.

T
he reception at the von Fellmann residence was impressive. The house and garden had a panoramic view of the harbour. Shade was provided under brightly coloured marquee tents to keep the copious quantities of champagne chilled in buckets filled with ice imported from America. The champagne washed down succulent rock oysters freshly harvested from the harbour’s foreshores.

The elegant guests picked at delicacies from silver salvers. It was obvious to Michael from the lavishly prepared reception that the German aristocrat was a man of considerable means.

Michael stood alone amongst the elegantly dressed guests. From his own flamboyant dress it was not hard to pick him as an American. But flamboyancy was not unique to him. Colourful military uniforms of colonial volunteer and militia officers, and their British brother officers on liaison duties to the newly established defence forces of New South Wales, also provided colour on the manicured lawns of the harbourside mansion.

Young ladies in dresses fitted over whalebone corsets flirted with the handsome and dashing young officers. More than one daughter of the landed or merchant gentry cast an undisguised look of admiration in the direction of the tall, splendidly built American with the exotic black leather eye patch. Coy whispers from behind ornate fans followed Michael as he walked alone to the edge of the lawn. From here he had a spectacular sweeping view of the harbour below. But he remained aloof from the guests. He had come on business. It did not pay to expose himself to inquiries about his past, however politely phrased.

He was not alone for long. A British army major joined him at the edge of the lawn. ‘Mister O’Flynn I believe,’ the officer said politely. ‘We haven’t met before but we nearly might have.’ The English officer extended his hand. ‘I’m Major Godfrey. Currently on liaison duty with the Duke of Edinburgh’s Highland Volunteer Rifle Corps. I heard from a mutual friend that you once served with Phil Sheridan’s command in the late war between the States. As it happens I had the honour of being one of Her Majesty’s military observers in the same campaign where you regrettably lost your eye.’

Michael accepted his extended hand. ‘You said a mutual friend Major Godfrey,’ he replied guardedly, sizing up the English officer. ‘I am not sure who that might be.’

‘Ah, yes. You were only vaguely acquainted with Mister Horace Brown on the
Boston
,’ the Major said as he gazed across the harbour. ‘Mister Brown and I served together in the Crimea many years ago. I had the good fortune to run into Horace only yesterday at Victoria Barracks. He often drops in on the Officers’ Mess when he is in town and tells me about his sojourns on the family’s money.’

‘Yes, I remember Mister Brown,’ Michael said warily as he appraised the major. ‘Poor poker player if I remember your friend rightly.’

Although the British major had the foppish manner of a gentleman born to command Michael noticed the colourful strip sewn on his jacket which belied the major’s dilettante manner. He was obviously tougher than he looked as his ribands reflected the many colonial wars the major had fought in the interests of the British Empire: service in the Crimean War, the Indian Mutiny and the Second China War. He also wore the dark blue riband with a brownish stripe of the New Zealand campaign in which Michael had also fought under the command of the famous Prussian Count von Tempsky.

‘I see you were also in the New Zealand campaign Major,’ Michael said by way of conversation. The English officer gave him a sharp look of interest.

‘I am flattered to think that an American would recognise the riband, Mister O’Flynn,’ he said. ‘How is it that you know the medal?’

Michael sipped at his champagne. A bad move to know such things. ‘Knew a Limey once who had the same medal,’ he answered quickly.

The Major did not pursue the subject except to say, ‘I believe you were awarded the Congressional Medal of Honour by the late President Lincoln?’

Michael nodded and glanced away.

A short silence followed until the British major decided to restart the conversation. ‘You and I should get together some time and share recollections on the Five Forks campaign,’ he said. ‘A fairly decisive encounter with the army of Northern Virginia by your army. I was rather impressed by the “Boy General” as your newspapers liked to call him. George Custer’s attack on the Confederate right was a rum show. Now there is a young man with a big future. I have read lately that George Custer is doing a spot of duty chasing redskins in the Dakota territory. Damned fine chap for a colonial.’

Michael knew George Custer and did not like him. He considered the man a dangerous maniac bent on self-glory at the expense of the lives of his men. ‘I believe
Lieutenant Colonel
Custer is doing so,’ he replied with the emphasis on the lower rank as opposed to Custer’s brevet general rank of his Civil War days.

‘If ever there was a man to deal with your native problem then Custer will be the one to bring them to heel,’ the British officer mooted with a note of admiration. ‘We need a man like that here to deal with the damned savages up north. But the blasted darkies prefer to fight guerilla war against our courageous settlers. Won’t stand and fight a battle.’

‘Maybe George Custer will bite off more than he can chew some day Major,’ Michael replied sardonically. ‘I can tell you from personal experience that those redskins as you call them are, in the words of one of your own officers, amongst the finest light horsemen anywhere in the world. And man for man I would put my money on the injuns. So long as Custer has the numbers he will beat them. But pity help him if he ever has to face a united nation of the plains tribes.’

‘Not likely to happen, Mister O’Flynn,’ Godfrey scoffed. ‘The Indians, fortunately for the white man, are little more than savages, without recourse to our superior tactics and technology. No, Custer will be the man to pacify the savages, mark my words.’ Godfrey could see that George Custer was not a favourite of Mister O’Flynn and tactfully turned the subject. ‘I am rather intrigued by your invitation to the reception Mister O’Flynn. How is it that you know our charming and, might I add, beautiful hostess and her husband the Baron?’

‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting the Baron or his wife,’ Michael replied. ‘But I was invited to make the acquaintance of the Baron’s wife by a mutual friend of the Baron and myself in Sydney.’ What Michael said was partially true although he did not know if George Hilary had ever met the Baron or his wife either.

‘Ah, I see,’ the major replied, turning to watch the two women strolling towards them across the lawn from the marquees. ‘Then I am pleased to say our hostess is approaching and I will have the honour of introducing you to the beautiful and generous lady.’ Michael half turned and froze. His tanned face drained of blood.

Penelope White! And Fiona!

Penelope was smiling as she accepted the Major’s patter of flattering compliments. She turned her frank gaze on Michael who saw a faint flicker of recognition in her eyes. Beside her Fiona had paled and appeared as if she might faint. The subtle exchange between Michael and the two women did not appear to have been noticed by the English major. ‘Mister O’Flynn, may I introduce the Baroness von Fellmann and her charming cousin Missus Fiona White.’

Michael fought to regain his composure. ‘You were right Major,’ he replied calmly. ‘But not generous enough in your praise of such a beautiful woman as the Baroness,’ he said as he brushed Penelope’s extended hand with a kiss in the Continental fashion. ‘Nor did the Major speak of the beauty of the other ladies of the Colony of New South Wales,’ he continued smoothly as he fixed Fiona with his single grey eye.

‘What a charming man you are Mister O’Flynn,’ Penelope said gaily as she withdrew her hand a little reluctantly from his. ‘I have heard that you Americans can be more charming than my French guests. Isn’t Mister O’Flynn charming Fiona?’

Fiona continued to stare wide-eyed at Michael and her cousin knew what had caused the painful reaction to the American. ‘You seem to be somewhat familiar to us Mister O’Flynn,’ Penelope continued.

Michael frowned and shook his head. ‘I wish I was Baroness. But this is my first visit to Australia. It may be that I remind you of someone perhaps?’ he asked calmly, although he could feel his heart pounding with the fear of being exposed.

‘Yes you do Mister O’Flynn,’ Penelope said brightly, pursing her lips in a seductive manner while her eyes roamed over him. ‘You bear an uncanny resemblance to a man Missus White and I knew many years ago. But I doubt you could be the same man. No, you are definitely not the man we mistook you for.’

Michael relaxed a little and appraised both women. Neither showed the passage of years except to mature and grow even more beautiful. They still made an interesting contrast: the dark-haired beauty of Fiona and the golden and more voluptuous beauty of the Baroness.

Fiona’s emerald green eyes were wide still with what Michael interpreted as shock and her naturally pale and flawless skin whiter than chalk. He was uneasy, but was aware that he had changed dramatically in the intervening years since they last met. The ravages of war had changed his face and he now had the hard look of a man accustomed to living with death rather than the gentler expression of the young man who had once dreamed of being a landscape artist.

‘I believe you are the gentleman my husband wrote to me about,’ Penelope said in a more businesslike tone. She was composed and her expression displayed little more than a sensual appraisal of him. ‘It will be my pleasure to discuss with you some matters of business. But you must excuse me today as I have to attend to my guests. Major Godfrey appears to be excelling at entertaining you for the moment. I would like to see you here tomorrow, six o’clock, if that is convenient to you Mister O’Flynn?’

‘I think so Baroness,’ Michael replied.

‘Good! Please mingle and meet some of my other guests,’ Penelope smiled enigmatically. ‘I am sure they are intrigued by your appearance. I have heard more than one young lady mention how she would like to meet the mysterious American. You seem to have a magnetism for women Mister O’Flynn,’ she said as she slipped her hand under Fiona’s elbow.

‘There is little that could be considered mysterious about me Baroness,’ Michael replied modestly. ‘But thank you for the compliment. I will take you up on the invitation.’

Penelope steered her cousin away. Not until they were out of hearing did Fiona finally utter, ‘Penny, it was like seeing Michael come back from the dead.’

Penelope beamed a smile at a French naval officer who had consumed a good quantity of his national beverage and was feeling rather amorous. He said something to her in French and she replied fluently in kind before returning her attention to her cousin. ‘I grant you that Mister O’Flynn has an uncanny similarity with Michael Duffy,’ she said as they strolled in the garden back to the marquee.

Fiona still felt faint. Meeting the American had opened a floodgate of bittersweet memories.

Penelope again sensed her cousin’s pain and leaned across to her as they strolled amongst the guests. ‘Forget Mister O’Flynn, Fiona my love,’ she whispered. ‘While you are thinking of Mister O’Flynn you are only causing yourself to think of Michael. And Michael is gone forever. You only bring unnecessary pain for what is long past.’

Fiona knew Penelope was right. Michael Duffy was just a sweet, sad memory. Penelope was convinced that the likeness of O’Flynn to Michael Duffy was purely coincidental. And she was far too astute to make a mistake.

Michael kept up a pretence of a conversation with Major Godfrey but his mind was still reeling from his encounter with Penelope and Fiona. He was pleased when the Major saw a fellow officer and excused himself with a promise that both men should get together to talk of the war. Michael agreed, but neither man made any arrangements to meet.

As soon as the Major had excused himself Michael also made his exit. He was very aware that he was in territory as dangerous as any battlefield he had fought on. Recognition could mean being betrayed to the police and execution by hanging was still the penalty imposed for the capital crime of murder in the Colony of New South Wales.

But Major Godfrey had not dismissed the American so easily. He had watched Michael take his leave from the afternoon lawn party with great interest. Damn Horace Brown! Damn him for even mentioning his mission to shadow the American.

Major Godfrey had not given much thought to his conversations with his old friend from the Crimea until this afternoon when he had noticed Michael O’Flynn amongst the invited guests of the Baroness. As an officer of Her Majesty’s forces he knew it was his duty to keep an eye on the mysterious American.

Now he would have to take his reluctant leave of the party just as the champagne had made some of the younger and more eligible daughters of the colony less inhibited.

Michael did not notice the British officer take a cab to follow him. He was preoccupied with his unexpected meeting with Fiona and Penelope. What if Penelope had not been fooled? How much did she still dislike him? He hailed a hansom cab to return to his hotel. The last time they had met – a decade earlier – she had expressed her resentment of him in the most cruel way she could. Did she still dislike him enough to have him arrested? The uneasy thoughts nagged Michael as he sat brooding in the cab even though he was sure he had convinced the two women that he was Michael O’Flynn, American gun dealer.

That evening Michael drank alone in the bar of the hotel and no-one dared approach the one-eyed man. He did not have the appearance of someone looking for company.

When the bar closed Michael made his way up to his room and was annoyed to find that the door was not locked. He was sure he had locked it.

He carefully pushed the door open and stepped warily inside the darkened room. It took only seconds for his eyes to scan the room that was bathed in the soft shadows of a hallway light. The outline of the naked figure reclining on his bed caused him to catch his breath.

Penelope slid from the bed and padded across the dimly lit room to him. As she approached he could see the contours of her shapely hips and slim waist.