by Paul Howarth
“So you went out after them?” MacIntyre asked. “This Joseph and whoever else?”
“We did. Myself and my troopers, plus John Sullivan, his man Locke, and the two young McBride brothers, though I knew civilians were not allowed.”
“Why not?”
“It was against operational rules.”
“In which case, why take them?”
Joseph’s gun is not enough, Sullivan tells him; Billy will have to lie. Say he saw a mob of natives fleeing from the house, whatever gets Noone on their side. And he does so, he fabricates the whole tale, taking that burden so Tommy doesn’t have to, urging him to stay out of it, and to stay behind. But he won’t listen, his little brother, stubborn as he is, and in the end Noone insists it’s both of them or neither, Sullivan paying him handsomely to allow the boys to come.
“Necessity. We were heading into hostile, unmapped territory in the height of summer and drought. John Sullivan knew the region better than any man, his family had been there for generations. I believed his knowledge of waterholes and the terrain would be invaluable to the mission, and so it proved.”
“And the boys?”
“They were the only ones who could identify Joseph. Naturally, I would have rather they didn’t come. But it is a well-known tactic for a fugitive native to conceal himself among his own kind, much like the zebra on the African veldt—in a large group they can all look so alike. Luckily for us, the brothers knew the culprit personally. Without them, we would have had a hell of a task. As I recall, I offered to take only Billy, the eldest, so as to spare the younger brother the hardship. But they were newly orphaned and keen to stay together, understandably, so I allowed them both to come.”
“Did you arm them?”
“Of course not.”
“Did you allow them to participate in the attempted arrest?”
“No.”
“All right. What happened next?”
“Well, after a few days of tracking, we came upon Joseph and his savages in the lowlands just before the ranges out west. The murderers were on foot and desperate, we caught them easily enough, and by the authority of Queen Victoria ordered them to lay down their spears. They refused. There was a gin with them—that is to say, an Aboriginal female—also armed, plus a pack of wild dogs; it really was quite the melee. They did not comply with my instructions. One of the blacks put a spear through Raymond Locke, missed his heart by inches, it was a wonder he survived. Of course, we retaliated. The spear thrower was shot and killed, but the others escaped into the ranges, forcing us to give chase. By now it was early evening and the light was fading, but my troopers were expert trackers and we soon found them hidden in a narrow canyon high in the hills. Again, they refused to surrender, so we had no choice but to engage. Sadly, in the fighting, all three suspects were shot and killed, including Joseph, whom Billy McBride positively identified. It was a terrible situation. I regret how it all played out. But the fact is, we attempted to arrest them on a number of occasions, then in fear for our lives had no choice but to return fire.”
Billy sitting in the canyon, staring into the campfire, the two native men chained together on the ground and the woman and young girl huddled behind him on the ledge. Joseph is not among them, and somewhere deep down Billy knows he never was, probably isn’t out here at all. But they have started this now, this reprisal, there is no turning back. If he and Tommy are to survive after, if they’re to find a place in this world, this is a test they must pass. Suddenly Sullivan claps his hands and drags the woman to a nearby cave, urges Billy to take a turn. And he does, he follows, Tommy begging him not to go. Sullivan has his revolver pressed to her head as Billy lowers himself down. She is turned away from him, facedown on the rock, but he can feel her trembling, feel her tears. He finishes and stands and Sullivan shakes his hand and he returns to camp in a daze. Tommy will no longer look at him, something broken between them now.
Billy snatched his hand back from Katherine, cupped his nose and mouth, a long breath wobbling out of him, his eyes anguished, crazed. Katherine touched his leg lightly. He didn’t seem to register she was even there. It was outrageous that they could do this, make him relive it all, and in public too. He’d never even talked to her about it. She’d not realized it still affected him as much as it obviously did.
“And what happened to the bodies?” MacIntyre asked.
“Ordinarily we would have buried them, afforded them proper Christian rites, but again our hand was forced and, terrible though it was, we had no choice but to leave the dead where they lay. They are probably still out there, God help me, were anyone inclined to go and look.”
“I see. And how exactly was your hand forced, Chief Inspector?”
“Well, out of precaution I had sent a scout ahead, to see what lay beyond the hills. He returned and reported an entire tribe of natives, hundreds of them, a veritable horde”—gasps from the crowd—“and I knew that if we tarried we would be overrun. They must surely have heard the gunfire. Our window of escape was short. Under cover of the closing darkness, we rode for the safety of home.”
No, Katherine thought, it wasn’t that quick. They were gone far longer than just a few days. Tommy had been injured, he’d lost two fingers, and they’d taken some women captive, she was sure. Tommy had tried to free one, for himself, supposedly as a housegirl, and when she’d heard of the plan Katherine had been horrified.
“And that was the end of the matter? You came straight back?”
“We did. Luckily, we were not caught by the tribe. We recuperated a short while at Broken Ridge, injuries were attended to, food and drink were imbibed, a little too much by some perhaps—this was the time, as you will all no doubt remember, when Raymond Locke and John Sullivan had their fateful altercation, and I was once again forced to intervene.”
Heads hung in the gallery, crosses were carved in the air. Katherine felt her chest tighten: a memory of sitting in one of the wingbacks, watching her husband die.
MacIntyre said, “Aye, a terrible tragedy, and not one we need get into today. But as far as you were concerned, Chief Inspector, that was the McBride case closed?”
“Yes, although I took no satisfaction from it. Killing suspects is never the aim. But we must remember that back then, only twelve years ago, our colony was a very different place to the one we enjoy today. The natives were still warmongering. They would fight unto the death. At any time, Joseph could have surrendered and submitted himself to the rigors of the British justice system, but he did not. He was guilty, he knew he was guilty, and would rather die than stand trial. He was a coward, ultimately: this was little more than suicide at our hands.”
Silence lingered. Somber eyes watching him; much nodding of heads. Quietly, respectfully, MacIntyre asked, “You are aware, no doubt, of the allegations made by Reverend Bean, namely that the entire Kurrong tribe was killed at your hand, in some crater far out in the bush. What do you say to that?”
The sloping walls around him, littered with horse-trampled men, Billy terrified in the chaos, turning circles with his revolver, picking them off as they fled, lost in the roar of the slaughter and the drumbeat of blood in his veins.
“Pure fabrication,” Noone answered quickly. “Of course, it is a difficult charge to answer when the man making it isn’t here. I have not read the reverend’s so-called testimony, I do not know the specifics of what he alleges. Nonetheless, I deny it, all of it—other than my lookout seeing them, we had no contact whatsoever with the larger tribe. Let me also say this. We were a group of nine only: myself and four native troopers, plus two farmers and two young boys. Nine, against how many is it alleged? Hundreds? At least half of whom would no doubt have been seasoned warriors. To anyone with even the slightest experience of combat, those are frankly laughable odds.”
“I had to ask, Chief Inspector. I’m sure you understand.”
Noone addressed the gallery: “I do, unfortunately, for the sad fact is, ladies and gentlemen, this is not an uncommon allegation for a Native
Police officer to face, even now, when the force is all but gone. We remain the easiest of targets, as indeed we always were, scapegoats for the more liberal conscience of our fellow citizens on the coast. Over the years so much baseless rumor and gossip has been slung that an element was bound to stick. We acquired a reputation, through no fault of our own. Wrongdoing—against myself or any other officer—has hardly ever been proved, and in those few cases when it has, our disciplinary procedures are effective and swift. But there is rarely any evidence. As is the case today. The nature of our work exposed us to the gravest of dangers, on your behalf, and yet now on the whim of some madman I am forced to sit here and justify myself over events that occurred twelve years ago. I would remind you, Magistrate MacIntyre, and the ladies and gentlemen of this fine town, that the only reason I came to Bewley in the first place was that a family had been slaughtered and two young brothers needed my help. Which I gave, willingly, as I would have done if it were any of your loved ones who had been killed. The whole purpose of the Native Police was the protection of vulnerable communities such as this, honest hardworking families out here at the vanguard of colonial settlement, building a life from the dust. And we did so. We protected you. You might not have always been aware of us, for the work went on unseen, but now that there is peace in the colony, now that your little town is safe, I find myself in the dock answering fabricated charges about fictional crimes based on the testimony of a drunk ex-missionary who has fled. It is an unconscionable allegation. My very presence here is an affront. To the police force, to myself personally, to the lives that in service to this colony, this town, that in your own names were once lost.”
Lives lost in your own name—the words landed on Billy like a stone.
Chapter 24
Inquest
Noone settled back in his chair, shrugged down his jacket, straightened his cuffs; cheeks flushed, eyes afire, scanning the bashful crowd. From the lobby there came a cry of “Hear, hear!” that was met with a smattering of applause. “Innocent!” somebody shouted, to louder cheering, and Noone’s mouth twitched in a smile.
MacIntyre banged his gavel. Steadily the room calmed. “My sincere apologies, Chief Inspector, you are correct in all you say. This town does indeed owe you a debt of gratitude, and on its behalf may I thank you for your service and your candor today. Please accept our best wishes to yourself and your family. A safe journey back to the coast. You may step down.”
“Surely not!”
The smile slid from Noone’s face; half-risen, he lowered himself into his chair, and together with Magistrate MacIntyre glared at Henry Wells. He’d palmed the table as he said it; now he used that same hand to push himself to his feet.
“Sir, surely you cannot be about to swallow such a load of old claptrap and dismiss this witness without a proper cross-examination on the facts?”
“I have interrogated the witness, Mr. Wells. Take your seat.”
“You have done no such thing. But please, if you have indeed exhausted your examination, allow me to conduct one of my own.”
“Nonsense. This is my courtroom. I will decide who—”
“There are reporters here from Brisbane,” Henry protested, flinging out an arm. “The colonial secretary will hear of this sham, as will the whole of Queensland. For my part, I will see to it that there is an appeal, or a judicial review, or by whatever other means ensure the proper scrutiny of the law is brought to bear on this matter, and on the conduct of this court. I will not be deterred, Magistrate MacIntyre. That much I can guarantee.”
The magistrate seethed in the silence, Noone benignly watching on. Henry’s hand was trembling; he clutched it firmly with the other, hoping they hadn’t seen.
“I’ve a good mind to report you myself,” MacIntyre snarled. “I don’t know how they run the law courts back in Brisbane but this is not the kind of shitshow we are used to out here. Your superiors will hear of the disruption you have caused today.”
“I hope so, sir. Then they’ll hear my side of things too.”
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing, son? Have you lost your mind?”
“I am simply carrying out the duty entrusted to me. Assuming I am allowed.”
Noone leaned in the witness box and said quietly to the magistrate, “Last thing any of us needs is another hearing. Why not let the boy say his piece?”
“I’m about to excuse you, Edmund.”
“Ah, let’s give him the rope to hang himself. What harm can it do?”
The two men stared at each other intently then MacIntyre shrugged and flapped a hand. “Fine, suit yourself, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. On you go then, Mr. Wells. But make sure you keep it brief.”
Startled, Henry nodded. “Right, yes, well, thank you, sir. And to you, Mr. Noone, for the opportunity to clear up just a couple of minor things.”
“All that fuss for a couple of minor things?” Noone asked him, smiling pleasantly. “And it’s Chief Inspector Noone, if you’d be so kind.”
Henry glanced down at his papers, shuffled them a little, spreading out the pages containing his copy of Reverend Bean’s testimony and the notes he had been taking while listening to Noone’s version of events. He hadn’t prepared a full cross-examination. That ought to have been MacIntyre’s task. He’d taken himself aback by the force of his interruption, would normally never have dared threaten a judge like that. But he’d been here before: the Clarence murder trial, all those years ago, still the only one he had lost. He knew what Noone was, and what he’d done, and, after everything, could not stand to watch another blatant cover-up unfold before his eyes. Besides, how many times had he rehearsed this? How many times, as he read the dusty police reports, or the records of failed inquests, had he wished to get just one of these lying bastards before him on the stand?
He cleared his throat and looked up at the witness, his gray eyes staring playfully down. “Yes, of course, Chief Inspector—for how many years now?”
“Seven.”
“And that’s . . . in Brisbane? In Southport, isn’t it?”
“As you well know, Mr. Wells. Or do you not recall visiting my police house just before this all began, and like some gumshoe detective attempting to deceive me into thinking you just happened to stop by? Tell me, have you bought that property in Southport yet, on the bluff overlooking the sea?”
Henry reddened uncontrollably. MacIntyre’s feathery brows rose. “Not yet,” Henry mumbled, before steadying himself. “All told, then, Chief Inspector, how long have you served in the Queensland Police Force?”
“Twenty-five years, give or take.”
“And of those twenty-five years, how many were spent in the Native Police?”
“Perhaps mathematics isn’t your strong suit: that would make eighteen.”
“Ah, yes, my apologies. Still, that’s quite some length of service.”
“It’s been my career, Mr. Wells.”
“What I mean is, rarely do Native Police officers stick it for so long.”
“Much like yourself, I am not so easily deterred.”
“No, and you have certainly done rather well out of it. A house in Hampton, by the river, wasn’t that what you told me?”
A quick laugh. “Are we here to discuss real estate now?”
“It just strikes me as curious—there can’t be too many police officers living in Hampton, surely? How on earth do you supplement your wage?”
Noone turned to MacIntyre. “I didn’t realize my personal affairs were on trial here, Spencer. I fear I’ve misjudged the boy. We’re wasting our time.”
“Forgive me, sir,” Henry said. “Chief Inspector—”
“Because if they are,” Noone interrupted, “perhaps I should be asking a few personal questions of my own. Such as, why would a respectable lawyer with a family in Spring Hill spend so much time visiting a male-only boardinghouse in the city? Why would he be seen wandering the sly-grog shops, opium dens, and brothels of the Frog’s Hollow slums? Why, indeed, w
ould he have gained for himself the reputation of one who preferred the company of men of a—how can I put this—more flowery bent?”
Uproar in the gallery. Great guffaws from the crowd. Henry shriveled at the unmasking: shoulders stooped, head bent low. He thought of the man from the Post, furiously scribbling his notes, and the bylines and scandal that would follow him home. He glanced up at Noone, saw him laughing, and realized the trap he’d walked into: the bastard meant to ruin him, right here in this courtroom.
Laughing along with Noone, MacIntyre said, “Were there any other questions, Mr. Wells?”
The papers blurred in front of him. The ink bled on the page. He had no choice now. He was in a fight for his reputation, his career, maybe even his life—the gallows had seen plenty of men like him. Everything in him screamed to sit down, or to snatch up his papers and run, but he couldn’t, he knew that, splaying his hands on the table and forcing himself to keep his feet. He’d thrown down his cards and would have to ride it out: rip, shit, or bust.
“In those—” he began, his voice so faint and hoarse the words barely made it past his lips. He cleared his throat and swallowed. “In those eighteen years, Chief Inspector, how many arrests did you make?”
Noone was still enjoying the acclaim from the gallery, nodding and smiling at whoever was back there, and for a moment didn’t realize he was being addressed.
“Sorry? Did you say something?”
“Yes, I was asking how many arrests you made in those eighteen years?”
The crowd settled finally. “In the Native Police?” Noone said.
“Exactly.”
“A ridiculous question. I couldn’t possibly begin to count them.”
“Of Aborigines, I mean. How many Aborigines have you arrested?”
“Do you have any idea how many patrols I led, Mr. Wells?”
“Do you?”
“No. It would be well into the hundreds. More. Far too many to recall.”
“And how many of those were successful, would you say? Approximately?”