The Silent Frontier

by Peter Watt

  Amanda glared at her brother. She was well aware how much power an officer commissioned by the Queen held over the life of an enlisted man. Had not Lachlan already been flogged, even though he was an innocent man? Hatred replaced the anger in her expression. This was outright blackmail.

  ‘Are you able to quash the investigation?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘I am afraid I cannot do that,’ Lightfoot replied. ‘But I can press my case less firmly.’

  Puzzled, Amanda asked, ‘Why would Lachlan want to kill your sergeant?’

  ‘He was the man that MacDonald assaulted,’ Lightfoot replied. ‘MacDonald has had it in for him ever since the flogging and took the opportunity to settle the score at Orakau.’

  ‘I do not believe that Lachlan would murder a man,’ Amanda said stubbornly. ‘He is a gentle soul with too much intelligence to risk his reputation over such a matter.’

  ‘Well, he can explain all that to the military police,’ Lightfoot said, hoping to conclude the matter. ‘All I need is your word that you will take the first ship to Sydney out of Auckland and never again make contact with MacDonald. Give me your word and I will do my best to see that he does not go before a firing squad.’

  ‘You have it,’ Amanda answered in a beaten tone. ‘But, you must promise me that you will do everything within your power to save Lachlan’s life.’

  ‘I give my word – as an officer and a gentleman,’ Lightfoot replied, raising his glass of whisky in a salute. ‘Needless to say, you have very little say in the matter anyway, as you are under twenty-one and I am your guardian until you attain that age.’

  Charles looked down at his sister mercilessly. ‘And another thing’ he added. ‘Sir Percival Sparkes has been enquiring after you.’

  Amanda looked sharply at her brother with tears in her eyes, wondering what else he had in mind for her.

  ‘I think it would be wise of you to see him on your return to Sydney to dispel any rumours of your affections for a convicted criminal.’

  ‘Lachlan has been convicted of no crime yet,’ Amanda retorted bitterly.

  ‘That’s correct, my dear,’ Charles said smugly. ‘And I’ll try to keep it that way if you keep Sir Percival happy.’

  Amanda bowed her head in defeat, knowing that the price, although heavy, was a small one to pay to keep Lachlan alive.

  That night in her bed, Amanda sobbed until no more tears would come. She would have given her very life to see Lachlan and feel his arms around her just one more time. His letters had opened a window to him as a man and what she had seen through that window had made her truly love him. But to see him even once more could cost the young man his life. She would keep her word and leave New Zealand, knowing that she would never see him again and accepting that her future lay in the hands of her ambitious brother.

  NINETEEN

  Sitting in a tent alone, and guarded by an armed soldier outside the entrance flap, Lachlan pondered the strange twists of fate in his relatively short life. Had he not saved Charles Lightfoot that time many months ago, then he would not be where he was now, waiting to face a court-martial for murder. From what he could gather, the investigating officer had accepted the superior officer’s word and felt that there were sufficient grounds for Lachlan to face the charge.

  The flap was thrown aside and a sergeant from a regular British unit stepped inside. Lachlan rose to his feet from the edge of the camp stretcher.

  ‘How is your arm?’ the soldier asked kindly and Lachlan recognised his thick Scottish brogue.

  ‘Good, Sergeant,’ Lachlan lied, as the pain continued to throb. At least the visiting regimental surgeon had not detected any sign of infection, and to Lachlan’s joy some feeling had returned to his shattered arm. Each day he would force himself to flex the arm and attempt to grip. Each day he found that he could do a little more.

  ‘Well, laddie,’ the sergeant said, ‘I am to take you to see Lieutenant Goldsworthy. He is going to be defending you in the court-martial.’

  Lachlan had been confined to the tent for five days now and this was the first time anyone had offered assistance.

  With an armed guard and in the company of the sergeant, Lachlan was marched to a stone building that was part of regimental headquarters. After a short wait outside standing to attention, he was ushered into a small office. He saluted the small, bespectacled man wearing the uniform of a commissariat officer.

  ‘You are dismissed, Sergeant,’ Goldsworthy said. ‘The guard can take post outside my office.’

  ‘Very well, sah,’ the sergeant said, snapping off a smart salute.

  When the sergeant and guard had exited the office, Goldsworthy gestured to Lachlan to take a chair on the other side of his desk.

  ‘I am Lieutenant Goldsworthy,’ he began, ‘and I will be defending you at the court-martial. Do you have any objections to me defending you, Corporal MacDonald?’

  Lachlan sat down carefully, lest he bump his arm in the sling. ‘No sir,’ he replied. ‘But do you have any legal experience?’

  ‘A fair question,’ the officer replied with the trace of a smile. ‘As a matter of fact I have been admitted to the bar in England, although I have not had much time in the Queen’s courts defending felons. I mostly carried out probate and conveyancing work for my firm in Sydney. However, we have a mutual friend there, Mr Daniel Duffy.’

  At the mention of Daniel’s name, Lachlan sat up. ‘Have you seen Daniel lately?’ he asked.

  ‘Not since I volunteered for service in New Zealand some six months ago. He just happened to mention that you had been writing to him and his family at the Erin, and when I saw your name come up in the provost marshal’s report, I put my name forward to defend you.’

  ‘I appreciate that, sir.’

  ‘Did you kill Sergeant Forster?’ Goldsworthy asked without any more preamble.

  ‘No sir, I swear on the graves of my family that I did not kill Sergeant Forster.’

  The young officer lifted a sheet of paper from an open folder in front of him. Adjusting his spectacles, he perused it for a short time before speaking.

  ‘Captain Charles Lightfoot has stated under oath that he has overheard you verbally threaten the said sergeant’s life on an occasion while you were still in his command.’

  Lachlan’s face reddened with indignation. ‘That is a lie, sir,’ he replied with controlled anger. ‘I have never threatened Sergeant Forster in front of anyone.’

  ‘So, you had at some stage threatened Sergeant Forster,’ the officer commented quietly, catching Lachlan off guard. ‘You must tell me only the truth in this matter – if I am to save you from a firing squad.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Lachlan answered contritely. ‘I once told Forster that I would kill him. It was just after I was wounded the first time, but none were around to hear my threat.’

  ‘Yet you say that you did not lie in ambush on the track and kill him with a blow to the back of the head with some heavy object.’

  ‘Sir, I did not kill him, although I did witness his death at the hands of another.’ The officer looked sharply over his glasses. ‘If what you say is true, then who did kill the sergeant?’

  ‘A Maori warrior,’ Lachlan replied. ‘With a war club, in the manner that you have described.’

  ‘How is it that you did not say this in your initial report?’ Goldsworthy asked, sitting back in his chair with a frown on his face.

  For a moment, Lachlan listened to the bawling voices of NCOs drilling men on the parade ground. He was reluctant to incriminate the big Maori with whom he had formed a strange friendship.

  ‘You must tell me all,’ the officer gently prompted. ‘I am your only hope of reprieve and must know all the facts.’

  ‘I knew the Maori warrior who killed Sergeant Forster,’ Lachlan almost whispered. ‘He has become a kind of friend – although he is also the reason for my wounded arm.’

  ‘How extraordinary!’ Goldsworthy exclaimed, removing his glasses to peer at the young Ranger sitting opp
osite him. ‘How is it that you have befriended one of those we consider the enemy?’

  ‘I saved him from being murdered by Sergeant Forster some time ago at a village called Rangiaowhia. Apparently he escaped, and we met again some weeks ago when he was on a scouting mission for his leader, Rewi, on the eve of the battle we had for Orakau. He killed Sergeant Forster to get back his shotgun that Forster had taken from him when he was about to kill him at the Rangiaowhia village. I was spared because he recognised me as the man who had intervened on his behalf, but I could not report that I had allowed an enemy to go. I did not think that it would be of any consequence when I reported finding Sergeant Forster’s body on the track.’

  The commissariat officer replaced his spectacles and picked up the statement made by Lightfoot. ‘Captain Lightfoot has queried why you were making your way towards his lines at the time,’ he said without looking up. ‘According to what you told your commanding officer, you were going to retrieve some misplaced mail but the Captain says that this is not true, as there is no evidence of mail addressed to you ever arriving in his unit. His orderly room clerk has corroborated this fact in a separate statement. What is your answer to that?’

  Lachlan was stumped by the question. He desperately tried to recollect who from the Rangers had passed on the message to him.

  ‘Sergeant Lingard!’ Lachlan exclaimed. ‘It was Sergeant Lingard of the Forest Rangers who passed on the message to me. He can support my story of why I was on the track to my old unit.’

  Goldsworthy scribbled down the name of the man mentioned. Hopefully, he would corroborate Lachlan’s excuse for leaving his unit lines that evening.

  ‘I don’t suppose that we can be lucky enough to have access to your chief witness, the Maori warrior who you say killed Sergeant Forster?’ Goldsworthy asked with a wry smile.

  ‘I took him prisoner – after I shot him,’ Lachlan replied quietly. ‘His name is Matthew Te Paea.’

  With a start, Goldsworthy looked sharply at his client. ‘You even know his name?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I would rather he did not come forward lest the army punish him for an act of war.’

  ‘If they attempted to do that,’ Goldsworthy said, ‘then I promise you that I would defend him. It has been widely accepted by the British army that this enemy are not simple savages but men of great courage and honour. What he did in killing Sergeant Forster in a time of war between us and his people is legitimate. Otherwise, the Maori could, in turn, have us put on trial for the occasional killing of their women and children. No, I doubt that he would be in any trouble if he bore witness in your defence. Possibly one day the judicial systems of the world will conspire to bring about a law which holds soldiers responsible for their acts against innocent civilians. I personally pray that this will one day eventuate. But, back to matters before us. You said that you once threatened Sergeant Forster’s life. Was that because he had you flogged?’

  ‘No,’ Lachlan answered, shifting his weight in the chair to ease the constant, nagging pain in his arm. ‘Many years ago, at the Ballarat goldfields, he murdered my father during the uprising. I have evidence of that and may eventually have settled the score with him and Captain Lightfoot, who was also involved in the slayings. But I did not get the opportunity to personally settle with Forster.’

  ‘You have an interesting story to tell about the deceased and your accuser, Captain Lightfoot,’ Goldsworthy said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Let us hope that I am able to acquire statements from Sergeant Lingard and the Maori warrior. I think that Te Paea’s statement is the most important one and should convince the good officers of the court-martial board that you are innocent. Nonetheless, I do not think that it is wise to mention your vendetta against the two men. It would appear as if you were trying to lead the court away from the matter before them. I doubt that would reflect well on your case when what you say cannot really be corroborated.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Lachlan replied, sensing that his interview was at an end.

  ‘You are dismissed, Corporal MacDonald. I will chase up our evidence to corroborate your innocence.’

  Lachlan rose from his chair, saluted and was escorted back to his tent by the sergeant and armed guard. He sat down on his bunk and stared at the light coming through the open flap. It was a bright, crisp day. All he could do now was wait and pray that all went well in his defending officer’s investigations. He had no duties due to his wound and wished that he had something to read. At least he was able to write letters to his brother. He had already attempted to send a message to Amanda, but had been unsuccessful until he found he could bribe a guard who said he would drop off a letter to Amanda’s cottage in Drury and ask about the lady from neighbours.

  When the guard had returned, he told Lachlan that no one had been home and a neighbour had informed him that Miss Lightfoot had travelled to Auckland to sail for Sydney.

  This news almost shattered Lachlan. Surely she must have known that he was back in Drury? So why did she not attempt to make contact with him? There was no answer – only a nagging suspicion that her brother had something to do with it.

  Two days passed before Lachlan saw his defending officer again. This time he came to Lachlan’s tent just after the regimental surgeon had departed, having changed the wound dressings and examined the wounds to the arm. At least his prognosis had been positive.

  Lachlan rose to his feet when Lieutenant Goldsworthy entered the tent.

  ‘Corporal MacDonald, how are you faring?’ he asked politely, but from the expression on his face Lachlan already knew that he was bearing bad news.

  ‘Something has happened, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘I am afraid so,’ Goldsworthy replied. ‘Sergeant Lingard has died of an illness in the field and it seems that your friend, Matthew Te Paea has escaped – again. I was told by the military prison people that he has a rather fierce reputation of being able to avoid confinement. It would appear that he only surrendered to you so that he could receive medical treatment for the wound that you inflicted on him. As soon as he thought he was well enough to leave, he did just that. Now he could be God knows where. I must confess that our case is looking rather bleak at the moment.’

  Lachlan did not reply but stood staring ahead, his mind a whirl of sickening thoughts. The officers of the court-martial board would no doubt accept the word of the senior officer and he would be found guilty of murder on circumstantial evidence.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Lachlan dutifully replied. ‘I know that you would have done your best.’

  ‘Your commander, the Von, has spoken very highly of you and is prepared to give character evidence in support of your case,’ Goldsworthy added, but the flatness of his delivery belied any hope of him winning the case. Indeed, Goldsworthy was already formulating how he would plead for a life sentence over execution. ‘Your hearing is tomorrow,’ he concluded bleakly. ‘You will stand before the board at ten o’clock to answer the charge.’

  With that, the young officer departed, leaving Lachlan to reflect on how long he might have to live after the case was concluded against him. He had only a few regrets. Amongst them the thought that he would die in disgrace even though he was an innocent man. This thought was as painful as knowing that he would never get to see his brother or kiss Amanda ever again.

  Three senior army officers sat behind a table facing Lachlan and Lieutenant Goldsworthy. Nearby sat a captain who would act as the prosecutor. Lachlan could see that the man was not from a front-line regiment but had been drawn from a logistics unit based in Auckland. Behind Lachlan and his legal defence stood the Scottish sergeant. Other than the panel of military judges, guard, prosecutor and Lachlan with his legal defender, the large room was empty. The improvised courtroom had once been a storage shed and a pigeon fluttered in the rafters overhead, seeking a way out.

  Lachlan’s arm was still in a sling and the sight of it elicited sympathetic looks from the three military men. He was at least recognised by them as a real so
ldier, one who had faced death many times on the battlefield.

  Goldsworthy was quick to pick up on the thinly concealed looks of empathy for a fellow fighting man, as the three judges were also men who had faced danger many times in their careers. Before them was not a soldier belonging to the commissariat or a behind-the-lines man.

  The charges were read and the plea entered of ‘Not guilty’. Now it was time to get down to the war of words. When the prosecuting captain stood to address the panel, he recited the facts at hand. Lachlan could hear the echo of Captain Charles Lightfoot’s lies. He knew that he would have to rely on the cleverness of his defender, Lieutenant Goldsworthy, to untangle the web of deceit.

  The first witness was the militia unit clerk who worked in Lightfoot’s orderly room. He gave evidence that at no stage were there any letters accidentally sent to his unit for Corporal MacDonald.

  ‘If there had been letters misdirected to Corporal MacDonald’s former unit, would they have possibly been sent from Captain Lightfoot’s sister to Corporal MacDonald?’ Goldsworthy asked the orderly room clerk.

  ‘Objection!’ the prosecuting captain said from his table.

  ‘Accepted,’ came the response from the president of the court-martial board. ‘I doubt that the witness would have an answer to such an irrelevant question,’ he continued.

  But raising the captain’s sister’s name, linking it to the man being court-martialled, brought expressions of surprise– even curiosity – to the faces of the presiding judges, just as Goldsworthy had wanted.

  ‘Sirs, I beg your pardon,’ Goldsworthy responded, smirking as he turned his back to glance at Lachlan who also registered a look of surprise. ‘I have no other questions of the witness,’ he concluded.

  Throughout the day, other witnesses came forward to give evidence: the officer of his own unit to whom he had reported the death of Forster, the two soldiers who had been dispatched to fetch back the body, and the regimental surgeon who made a cursory examination of Forster’s body when it was recovered for burial. He gave his evidence that the sergeant appeared to have died as a result of a massive blow to the head. When asked by Goldsworthy whether any instrument was recovered that could be consistent with the injury inflicted, the surgeon said that he was not aware of any such instrument at the scene. He added that the wound was consistent with having been inflicted by a Maori war club.