Free Shadow of the Osprey by Peter Watt Page A

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.

FIVE
    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