The Light Horseman's Daughter

by David Crookes

  Stephen smiled again, ‘That’s what your cousin Elliot said.’

  Emma’s mood changed at the mention of Elliot.

  ‘Has he been up in your plane?’

  ‘I took him up when I was at Essex Downs looking for you. We went up to Yallambee.’

  ‘To Yallambee.’ Emma sat bolt upright in the bed. ‘You took Elliot to Yallambee. What on earth was he doing there?’

  ‘He said he wanted to look over the place before he moved up there.’

  Emma couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Moves up there,’ she said incredulously, her voice shaking with anger. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  Stephen looked surprised. ‘He’s going up there soon to manage the place. He told me his father had bought Yallambee. I thought you knew.’

  *

  During the time Bill Travis was left to languish in jail while Brisbane authorities tried to decide what to do with him, the elderly sergeant in charge of the Charleville police station and his wife had come to like the amiable young New South Welshman. The sergeant’s wife had just brought the prisoner his dinner tray one day, when two plain clothes officers arrived from Brisbane. To her dismay, and in spite of her husband’s objections, the detectives didn’t allow Bill to eat his meal before they began a lengthy interrogation.

  It was three hours before they’d finished asking questions and taking notes. Then Travis was bundled into a police car and driven to the Queensland-New South Wales border. Just outside the small township of Barringun, he was released into the blackness of the night to find his own way back to Sydney. But not before he was beaten, left bleeding beside the road and told of the severe consequences awaiting him if he ever returned to Queensland.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Through the winter of 1931, the heartbreak, pain and suffering of the Great Depression deepened. With over thirty percent of the work force unemployed and with the number of their dependants well over a million, the statistics were figures that could no longer be ignored by the authorities. The camps and shanty towns housing the unemployed in Australia’s major cities were bursting at the seams, except in Queensland, where the state government directed the Brisbane City Council to close the camps down permanently in retaliation to agitation from the Unemployed Worker’s Union.

  For many Australians, the only shelter from the elements were tents and tarpaulins, and their only sustenance was government ration coupons which they exchanged for a limited range of foodstuffs. Before receiving anything at all, the unemployed were required to complete numerous forms and declarations to prove their total destitution. Single men continued to be forced to wander the length and breadth of the country to collect rations valued at just seven shillings a week.

  In the past, all levels of government had been able to ease unemployment in difficult economic times by resorting to the tried and true remedy of expanding public works. But now, with the state treasuries empty and the British banks cancelling all loan facilities to Australia, massive public works programs were no longer an option.

  For the first time since federation, other than in the dark days of the war, the mood of a huge percentage of the population was ugly. All over the nation, from Perth to Sydney, hundreds of thousands of disadvantaged Australians were protesting in any way they could. Many chose to take part in marches through city streets. Most marches were ruled illegal by the authorities and often the demonstrators were broken up by baton-wielding police.

  Through inaction and suppression, the state and federal governments had painted themselves into a corner and were facing the real possibility of a total breakdown in law and order. On one hand, the authorities were threatened by revolution from the unemployed, egged on by communists; and on the other, they were in danger of being overthrown by extreme right wing groups, the most powerful being the New Guard Movement.

  Something had to be done. The New South Wales premier had already put forward his solution, dubbed the Lang Plan. In addition to the suspension of overseas loan interest payments, it called for a reduction of interest rates and reduced government spending. The only outcome of this proposal was the circulation of rumors that the government was about to seize savings held in the State Government Bank to put their own finances in order, rumors which led to a run on the bank which forced it to close its doors.

  Later, at a hastily convened meeting in Melbourne of the state and federal governments, another plan of action to solve the nation’s woes was hammered out and finally agreed upon. The strategy, called the Premiers’ Plan, did nothing for the unemployed, called for increased taxation and lower wages for those lucky enough to have a job, and for a reduction in pensions for the aged. All were moves guaranteed to add fuel to an already roaring fire of discontent.

  Few politicians were willing to openly endorse the New Guard Movement’s solution to the nation’s problems. But tens of thousands of reasonably well-off Australians were only marginally affected by the Depression until the Premiers’ Plan was adopted. In the absence of competent leadership from the government, they saw the New Guard Movement as the only light at the end of a long dark tunnel and they flocked to join the fledgling private army.

  Although the training of New Guard members in public was officially outlawed, New Guard recruits were seen openly drilling on the streets of Sydney, on school playing fields and in public parks as well as on roadways and private paddocks in country areas. Many recruits were armed with private weapons, many more with firearms stolen in daring New Guard raids on government armories. Private firearm licenses more than doubled in New South Wales shortly after the New Guard was formed. Lieutenant Colonel Eric Campbell, the leader of the movement, carried a licensed automatic pistol with him at all times.

  The New Guard was highly organized because of the large number of ex-army personnel in its upper ranks. Recruits were assigned to localities or divisions, each comprising two hundred and fifty men. Recruits came from all walks of life. All were ordered to pass on to their commanders, all information, regardless of how trivial it might seem, concerning the enemy living in their neighborhoods. The enemy was defined as trade unionists, socialists, communist sympathizers or anyone talking down, or acting against the aims and ideals of the New Guard Movement.

  Many New Guard members were public servants, which gave the private army a direct pipeline into government at all levels. These bureaucrats provided advance information on government plans as well as sensitive, secret information and intelligence, such as the location of the army’s gun and ammunition stockpiles and the government’s wireless system.

  Not content with land forces alone, and plans to transform cars into tanks armed with machine guns for street fighting, the New Guard pressed the private vessels and aircraft of its members into service as waterborne and airborne units. The sight of private motor yachts and launches performing maneuvers on Sydney Harbor became commonplace, as did air patrols in the sky above it.

  With Lieutenant Colonel Campbell claiming the famous aviator Charles Kingsford-Smith as a New Guard member, interest in the air unit was particularly high. But as ownership of an aircraft was a prerequisite to admission, participation was restricted to just a handful of pilots. Photographs of three or four flyers who met the entry requirements appeared in most of the Sydney newspapers. All were glowingly described as dashing national heroes.

  One of the young men whose photograph appeared in the papers was Stephen Fairchild, an up and coming young Sydney solicitor.

  *

  Lieutenant Colonel Campbell never missed an opportunity to advance the cause of the New Guard or to condemn the policies of Premier Lang. Riding the crest of the phenomenal wave of recruitment, Campbell called a mass meeting at Sydney Town Hall on July 22nd, 1931.

  Campbell, a tall, balding man with a moustache, flanked by a number of his lieutenants, delivered a populist speech to a crowd of almost three thousand, calling for lower taxation, opposition to any form of unemployment benefits, and the ruth
less stamping out of all communist activities. When he had finished, the crowd sang For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow. Next morning, a headline in The Sydney Daily Telegraph read:

  THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE SHOOK THE TOWN HALL LAST NIGHT.

  But not everyone clapped. At the back of the hall, a young man stood ashen-faced as the applause continued unabated. His shoes were down-at-heel and over his old threadbare suit he wore a Scullin’s Army coat, the name given to Australian Army greatcoats, dyed black and issued to the poor by Prime Minister Scullin’s government.

  Bill Travis had still not completely recovered from the savage beating at the hands of the Queensland police, but the incident had only strengthened his resolve to continue his fight against what he saw as callous indifference and injustice by apathetic authorities. Now, seeing the popularity of the New Guard Bill knew the legions of unemployed battlers had yet another enemy. In the past, apart from hopelessness, degradation and the common view that they themselves were responsible for their plight, the main adversary of the unemployed had always been the police.

  The police were called upon to enforce the draconian measure taken by inept authorities to suppress dissent, a task often taken on by the police with brutal relish. In addition, the police in New South Wales had been given the awesome additional power of administering the dole. Now, as the raucous support for the New Guard reverberated around the town hall, Bill shuddered at the thought of the unemployed having to fight on yet another front.

  A group of watchful policemen stood nearby, several young constables and two grey-haired sergeants. Bill took heart from the fact the policemen weren’t clapping either. One of the sergeants who knew Bill well and considered him not only an agitator, but also a champion of the poor, looked over and grimaced. Bill looked back and shook his head.

  Bill knew that contrary to some public opinion, the police were not automatic allies of the New Guard. Already the Police Commissioner, who had been accused of allowing his officers to turn a blind eye when the New Guard had stolen guns and ammunition from armories around Sydney, had publicly warned Campbell that his police force was the only legitimate upholder of the law and intrusions into its authority would not be tolerated.

  As the thunderous applause began to abate, Bill turned up the collar of his Scullin’s Army coat and stepped out of the town hall and began walking back to his digs in Redfern, his limp exacerbated by the coldness of the winter night.

  *

  Stephen stood alone at his office window. The glass was streaked with wind-driven rain. A winter storm had lashed the city since early morning. It was now late afternoon and below him, the traffic on Pitt Street was slowed by the atrocious weather. On the crowded footpaths on either side of the street, drenched pedestrians were scurrying toward Circular Quay to board ferries to their homes on the north shore and other areas of the harbor at the end of the day.

  Normally, the daily exodus from the city centre was orderly. Tonight, the wild weather made it chaotic. The stormy winds and the swarming sea of humanity in the street below only added to the excitement that had been building in Stephen all day.

  In a few hours he would join a team from the City Division of the New Guard to participate in his first real paramilitary action and he was eagerly looking forward to it. He didn’t much enjoy being a solicitor. Attending to the problems and grievances of clients held little interest for him. But years earlier he had followed his father’s wishes, as always, when his career path had been laid out for him. And there had been compensations. His father had allowed him to pursue his passion for flying and had even been persuaded to buy him an aircraft.

  Stephen turned from the window. A half-written letter to Emma lay on his desk. He looked at his watch. There wasn’t time to finish it now. Better still, he would try and get away and fly up to New England. He desperately wanted to see her again. After tomorrow he could see her with a clear conscience. Earlier that morning he had phoned his fiancé, Eleanor Bowes-Scott and arranged to meet her the next day. Over lunch at the Carlton Hotel he would tell her as gently as possible that their engagement was off.

  When he returned from Queensland, he had told Eleanor that he was unsure of their relationship and suggested they should stop seeing each other for a while. But she had dismissed the idea saying, in her usual assertive manner, that his concerns were just the usual jitters of a nervous bridegroom-to-be. And Stephen hadn’t mentioned his reluctance to continue his engagement to Eleanor to his father. He knew it would anger him. Fenton Fairchild represented the prominent Bowes-Scott family in legal matters and he had first introduced Stephen to Eleanor when he’d taken it upon himself to play matchmaker.

  Stephen moved away from the window and took his raincoat from the coat rack by the office door. The rain seemed to have eased a little when he stepped outside the building and joined the crowds heading for the ferries at Circular Quay.

  *

  The small armory at the rifle range on the military reserve west of Botany Bay was securely fenced off from the public and usually left unmanned between dusk and dawn. But with the increasing number of New Guard raids on armories around Sydney, the military decided to protect their inventory by placing armed guards on duty twenty-four hours a day at all military installations, regardless of size.

  A young army private and a corporal sat playing cards and drinking beer in dim light at a small desk inside the armory. The building was little more than a large steel shed with a single room, a lavatory partitioned off at one end. There were no windows at all except a small one in the lavatory designed for ventilation. Around the walls were tiers of gun racks holding .303 service rifles. The weapons were secured by lengths of chain threaded through the trigger rings of each rifle. Beneath the gun racks were wooden crates containing ammunition, hand grenades and detonators.

  Rain was hammering down so hard on the corrugated iron roof of the shed that the two soldiers barely heard the tinkling of glass when the lavatory window was broken. The corporal laid down his gin rummy hand and raised a silencing finger to his lips. He cocked his ear and listened for several seconds but heard nothing more. Then he relaxed, opened another bottle of beer and said to the private: ‘Better go and check the window in the lav mate. I think the bloody wind may have blown it in.’

  The private got up from his chair. He was about to lay his cards down on the table, then thought better of it and chose to take them with him to the lavatory.

  ‘Don’t you trust, me. mate?’ The corporal grinned and took a long swallow of beer.

  When the lavatory door swung open and the light went on, it was hard to tell who was more surprised, the private or Stephen, who had just squirmed his way into the room ahead of another New Guardsman who was just lowering himself down from the window. Stephen and the second guardsman, an ex-regular army officer carrying a service revolver, wore army fatigues and khaki balaclavas over their faces. The soldier froze.

  It was their uniforms that caused the private to hesitate, thinking perhaps the intruders might be soldiers sent to test the security of the armory, and for a moment he was fearful of being caught playing cards and drinking on duty. But the reality of the situation became clear when the officer’s fist came up hard under his jaw. The playing cards flew from his hand and he swayed on his feet. As he fell, he lurched forward, and pulling Stephen’s balaclava off. For a moment he saw Stephen’s features clearly, before the officer’s knee came up into his face and everything went black.

  When the private crashed noisily onto the floor, the corporal grabbed a loaded .303 and rushed down to the lavatory, the rifle raised defensively to his shoulder. The moment he appeared in the doorway of the little room, the New Guard officer fired just one well-aimed shot from his pistol. It hit the corporal in the centre of his forehead, killing him instantly.

  ‘What a shambles.’ the New Guard officer shouted angrily. He sat beside Stephen in the back seat of a black Ford as it roared off through the rain, its license plates obscured by masking tape. ‘What a b
loody cock-up.’

  ‘I thought the damn place was supposed to be unattended,’ the driver of the car shouted. He nervously checked that the lights in the rear view mirror to make sure they belonged to the truck they had brought with them to haul away the spoils of the now fruitless raid. ‘So much for our blokes in intelligence.’

  Stephen sat white-faced, heart thumping, hands shaking, as the horror of what happened in the lavatory sank in. He turned to the officer beside him.

  ‘My God, sir, you didn’t have to kill him, did you?’

  ‘You mean we don’t you Fairchild?’ the officer replied stiffly. ‘Of course we had to. It was him or us. This isn’t a game you know. It’s war. When your life’s in danger you shoot first or you’re dead.’

  For a moment Stephen thought he was going to be sick. When the nausea passed he took a deep breath and asked: ‘What happens now, Sir?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But a man’s dead, sir.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But we can’t just do nothing.’

  ‘Yes, we can. We have to.’

  ‘Have to do what, sir?’

  ‘We have to keep our bloody traps shut and get on with the job, that’s what. I told you Fairchild, this is war.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Eleanor Bowes-Scott pushed the bedcovers aside at 10.00 am to begin preparing for her luncheon appointment with Stephen at the Carlton Hotel. She lived in her parents’ sprawling mansion in prestigious Vaucluse overlooking Sydney Harbor, a short distance from the Fairchild residence.

  Eleanor lived a privileged life, part of a family whose commercial dynasty was almost unmatched in Sydney. She had her great-grandfather to thank in no small way for the commodious lifestyle she enjoyed. It was Harry Scott who started the small trading company which, over the generations, grew into one of the largest and most diversified in New South Wales.