Flight of the Eagle by Peter Watt Read Free Book Online Page B

that,’ she answered, with a teasing note in her voice. ‘Just disappear.’
    Patrick knew that the perfume of the crushed flowers was a figment of his imagination but somehow it had heralded Catherine's entrance into his life. His life! What life? His thoughts were gloomy as the realisation struck him that within forty-eight hours he would be leaving the village to return to the regimental barracks in London and thence shipped on active service to Africa. He was on the verge of travelling to the deserts of the Sudan to face the savage warriors there and no life was guaranteed beyond the next battle. For a reason beyond his understanding he knew that he had just met the woman who he most desired in the world. ‘Well, I hope you will not disappear tomorrow night, Miss Fitzgerald,’ he said. ‘Your grandfather has kindly invited me to dine with him.’
    ‘Captain Duffy must wear his mess dress,’ she said turning to her grandfather. ‘Or he will not be allowed to dine with us.’
    The old man smiled at her imperious order. ‘My grand-daughter's commands are rarely disobeyed, Captain Duffy,' he chuckled softly. If you have mess dress with you, you are to present yourself accordingly at dinner. Decorations to be worn.’
    ‘He has mess dress,’ Catherine said knowledgeably. She had friends in the village and the inquisitive maid to the young officer's room had verified so. ‘Redcoat and kilt.’ Patrick raised his eyebrows questioningly at the young woman but she simply returned the question with a smug look of I-know-more-about-you-than-you-know.
    ‘I shall wear my red dress,’ Catherine said happily. ‘It will complement Captain Duffy's uniform. I will be looking forward to you dining with us, Captain.’
    Patrick smiled. He was aware of Catherine's frank appraisal of him. ‘The feeling is mutual, I assure you, Miss Fitzgerald,’ he replied. ‘I shall be interested in Ireland's mythology, as much as its history. Father O'Brien informs me you are somewhat of an expert on the subject.’
    ‘Mythology often has a basis in history,’ Catherine said as she glanced at the priest. ‘I dare say the exploits of your father over the last few years – as often narrated by the villagers here – will one day be part of our mythology.’
    ‘I'm afraid your villagers have good imaginations, Miss Fitzgerald,’ Patrick replied quietly. ‘My father was killed fighting the Maori in New Zealand. That sad event occurred before I was born.’
    ‘I know you must be right,’ she said with a slight frown. ‘The villagers are prone to tell tall stories in the public houses. It is part of the tradition in this part of the world. Still, many of the myths of old do have a basis of fact to them, Captain Duffy.’
    Eamon had heard the same stories: of a big Irishman who went under many names. A man who had fought the Maori warriors of New Zealand and before that had fought in the Civil War of America. He had gone on to fight the Red Indians of the American West as well as fighting as a soldier of fortune in Mexico. It was said that the Irishman had one eye – the other lost in war – and was at least seven feet tall!
    An Irish prospector returning to the Duffy village from the Australian Colony of Queensland swore on his mother's grave that he had once met Duffy in a place called Cooktown. That had been ten years earlier and he had called himself Michael O'Flynn.
    ‘It is sad that the villagers are wrong,’ Catherine sighed. ‘A man such as the villagers describe would be well at home in the pantheon of Celtic heroes in this land.’
    ‘If the rumours did indeed have a basis in fact, Miss Fitzgerald, then I am sure I would have known,’ Patrick said with a grim smile.
    ‘Well, Captain Duffy, I wish they were true, because I would have liked to have met the man you may some day become.’
    With this wistful utterance she parted company from the three men and Patrick noticed the two huge hounds devotedly rise from their