by Peter Watt
‘Ian is highly intelligent, even better educated than most of my former fellow officers,’ Samuel said. ‘He even dreams of soldiering, which I cannot comprehend. But that is his dream, although I am at odds to wonder why.’
‘Your dearly departed grandfather wrote before his death to say if you served out at least ten years in his old regiment, he would consider you worthy of a substantial inheritance of the Forbes’ estates in England, even in your position as second son. Otherwise, you receive only a pittance of the estate,’ Sir George paused. ‘I understand why you do not wish to resume your commission in the army, and sympathise. Your father, as my older brother, was quick to have me exiled to this land, with barely enough capital to establish my sheep farm. I suspect that he is rather annoyed that I was able to become wealthy by my own means. Wool has been good for this colony, thanks to Captain MacArthur and his wife’s nurturing of the industry.’ He glanced up at Samuel. ‘I must admit, I have grown very fond of you, as one would a son.’
Samuel met his uncle’s gaze. ‘And I of you,’ he said with genuine conviction. His uncle had proved more a father than his own, who had so cruelly condemned him to a life on the battlefields of Queen Victoria’s many small wars around the globe.
‘I think we share a mutual ambition to take our revenge on the family,’ George said, taking a long swallow of his brandy. ‘One that has a vast financial benefit for you.’
Samuel nodded. Fate had brought a man into his life who appeared more than capable of showering the family name with honour, and establishing a guaranteed comfortable future for himself to pursue a life as the next poet laureate of the Queen. Such a dream was easy – plotting the next step would not be. First, he must get to know his friend better. Samuel also had an ulterior motive – a need for revenge against the man who had dealt him his unwanted life as a soldier.
*
Ian was not surprised to see Samuel visit his place of work within the week.
Samuel dismounted and met Ian at the entrance to the blacksmith shop, presenting him with a bundle of books.
‘I thought these might be of interest to you,’ Samuel said. ‘I know your interest in military history, and my uncle agreed that you be allowed to borrow them.’
Ian looked with greedy eyes on the titles of the leather-bound books. ‘Please pass on my gratitude to Sir George,’ Ian said, wiping his hands on his leather apron before accepting the small pile.
‘Besides the books, I have also come to invite you to travel with me to Sydney next week. My uncle has business in the town, and I am sure you may also be able to find an excuse to accompany me.’
‘That is far too generous. Besides, I have much to do here.’
‘You have told me your apprentice is very competent, and he can look after your shop for a few days.’
Ian glanced down at the books in his hands and then at Francis, and was overcome with a sense of spontaneity. ‘As it stands, I do have some business in Sydney.’
‘Good. I will be taking my uncle’s gig. It will be less arduous than riding mounts,’ Samuel said with a smile. ‘I am looking forward to us sharing good conversation, and we have comfortable accommodation in Sydney Town with a dear friend of mine. We depart early tomorrow morning.’
Samuel remounted his horse and rode away, leaving Ian with the gift of the books. Ian walked back into the shop and informed Francis of his plan. Francis was delighted to be left with the responsibility of minding the business while Ian was gone. After work, Ian went home, informed his mother that he would be going to Sydney and his mother simply nodded with an expression Ian could not fathom. He packed a few items in a roll of canvas.
As promised, Samuel arrived early the next day driving a horse-drawn gig.
Ian slid his rope-tied canvas package into the gig and pulled himself up next to Samuel.
‘A Stanhope,’ Ian said. ‘Very impressive, but not the best for our journey along the track to Sydney.’
‘My uncle had it imported,’ Samuel replied, nudging the horse to step off. ‘I agree that it is too lightly sprung for the colonial roads, but if I take it carefully, it will get us to our destination.’
For the first hour or so, the road was well-formed but they soon came across a rough and winding track through dense eucalypt forest. Ian had been dozing for a short time when he was awoken by the gig coming to a stop.
‘What is it?’ Ian asked, forcing himself fully alert.
‘I thought I saw movement off the track up ahead, in the shadow of the trees,’ Samuel said quietly. ‘Call it an instinct, but I suspect someone is waiting ahead for reasons I fear may be nefarious.’
Ian knew that his friend’s fears were well-founded. Bushrangers haunted the roads to Sydney, waylaying gold prospectors returning with money in their pockets. The appearance of an expensive gig would attract unwanted attention from such criminals.
As if on cue, a man wearing a bandana over his face stepped from the trees just paces away, and Ian could see that he was not alone. Two similarly disguised men wearing the rough garb of bushmen joined him. They were armed with wooden clubs.
‘Stand and deliver,’ came the command from the first man, brandishing an antiquated musket.
Ian noticed that Samuel had slipped his hand into his coat pocket, and now produced a small Colt 31 revolver, which he whipped up to point at the man holding the musket on them, much to the surprise of both Ian and the bushrangers.
‘Sir, I suggest that you point that unreliable gun away from us, or I may shoot you.’
The startled bushranger blinked at the sight of the cap and ball revolver pointed at him, but did not comply with Samuel’s order.
‘Do I have a need to explain that the revolver in my hand contains six balls to the one in your musket?’ Samuel said calmly. ‘That is more than enough to shoot you and your two companions, even if I miss thrice. We do not carry a large sum of money or gold, and I am sure that you would prefer to go home for supper this night.’
Ian looked into the eyes of the bushranger and, even with his disguise, recognised him immediately.
‘Conan Curry, what the devil are you up to?’ Ian asked harshly. ‘Is that Kevin with you?’
The man under Samuel’s gun lowered his weapon reluctantly. ‘Steele, what are you doing on the track?’ Curry countered.
‘Just trying to go about my business in peace,’ Ian replied.
There was a tense pause. ‘Pass by then,’ Conan said miserably, waving his musket towards the direction of Sydney.
Ian took the reins while Samuel cradled the small revolver until they created a safe distance between themselves and the would-be bushrangers.
‘So, it was those ruffians who caused the mischief at the river,’ Samuel said. ‘I heard that highwaymen were known to haunt this road, and you can see I came prepared.’
‘Bloody good that you did,’ Ian said with a grin, remembering the stricken expression in Curry’s eyes when he was confronted with the multi-shot weapon. ‘I always wondered where they were getting their money to spend in the village tavern on Saturday nights.’
‘I will report them to the district magistrate to have the constables arrest them,’ Samuel said.
‘I was impressed by the way you handled them,’ Ian said. ‘They might have been tempted to do us some harm.’
‘They were nowhere near as fearsome as the Maori warriors I faced in New Zealand.’ Samuel grinned.
‘I know that Miss MacHugh will be impressed when I relate how you faced down a gang of bushrangers,’ Ian said. ‘I couldn’t help but notice how smitten she is with you.’
‘She is a wonderful young lady,’ Samuel replied. ‘My uncle thinks that we should plan to wed. Her dowry would be quite substantial.’
It was not the answer Ian wanted to hear but he had a need to see where he stood in the eyes of the very desirable young woman. It seemed h
e was hardly noticeable in her life.
The journey continued without incident, and just before the sun set on the very warm day, they came to clusters of well-kept stone cottages at the edge of Sydney Town. Samuel reined their dust-covered carriage to a halt and climbed down stiffly. He had hardly touched the ground when a well-dressed young man of about the same age stepped from the cottage to greet them.
‘Dear Samuel, it is good to see you after such a long time,’ the young man said, before noticing Ian. ‘I can see that you have brought company.’
Ian dismounted, recognising the other man’s accent as North American.
‘James, this is the man whom I wrote to you about, Master Ian Steele. Ian, this is my dear friend, James Thorpe,’ Samuel said. Ian thrust out his hand in greeting. He could feel that the other man’s hand was soft and smooth, indicating that he did not indulge in manual labour to make his living.
‘Mr Thorpe,’ Ian said. ‘It is a pleasure to meet a friend to Samuel.’
‘Please call me James,’ the young man said with a smile.
When Ian glanced at Samuel, he could see that he was pleased.
‘Did you have a good journey this day?’ James asked, gesturing for them to follow him behind the white picket fence, through the attempt at a garden and inside the neatly laid out cottage.
Ian glanced at Samuel, who discreetly shook his head with a frown. It was obvious that Samuel did not want to mention the incident along the track with the Curry gang.
James produced tea and cake for his guests, and that evening prepared a meal of roast lamb with vegetables. This was followed by rum and cigars outside under the stars to alleviate the heat of the day inside the cottage, which was cluttered with books, on shelves and in wooden crates.
It was a pleasant evening of talk about colonial politics and literature. Ian was able to glean from James that he had crossed the Pacific in search of gold purely for the adventure, as he came from a wealthy family in New York. He had met Samuel at a gentlemen’s club in Sydney the year before and they had become firm friends, in such a way that now made Ian feel as if he was an outsider. But it was even more than that, something he couldn’t quite name. Under the light of the stars and influence of the rum, Ian tried to dismiss his feeling of unease.
Three
The tavern was filled with a rowdy crowd of revellers on the outskirts of Ian’s village, a place condemned by the God-fearing citizens of the district. A violin screeched and played out a popular tune, hardly heard in the din of raised voices lubricated by cheap rum and gin.
The Curry boys had their own table and four of the brothers were joined by young Francis, Ian’s apprentice. It was not as if he’d had much choice, as two of the Curry gang sat him down with a promise of a free drink. Francis knew the reputations of the men whose company he reluctantly shared.
‘You lookin’ after the business while the boss is away?’ Conan asked, leaning towards Francis, breathing alcoholic fumes in his face.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Francis said.
‘We saw your boss today in the company of that English nob, Samuel Forbes,’ Conan said. ‘Has Master Steele got ideas about joining the ruling class?’
Francis felt the tankard of rum thrust into his hand by Kevin Curry. He took a sip. ‘Mr Steele is just friends with Master Forbes – that’s all,’ Francis said.
‘So, you are lookin’ after the shop and takin’ the money from the customers,’ Conan said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Where do you keep the money when Steele is away?’
Francis was wary of the question, but felt intimidated by the crush of the tough men around him.
‘The money is kept safe at his house,’ he replied, and immediately wished he could have thought of something else to say, disguising the whereabouts of the blacksmith shop’s substantial takings. But he also knew it did not pay to attempt any lies to the notorious louts, whose violence was well known to all.
‘He don’t seem to spend his money hereabouts,’ Kevin said, leaning into Francis, who now regretted his visit to the tavern on this hot night.
‘He buys books,’ Francis said, realising that not all the sweat trickling down his face was from the oppressive heat of the summer’s eve. ‘He don’t have much money.’
‘Frankie, you are a pal,’ Conan said. ‘Take your rum and leave us.’
Gratefully, Francis rose from his chair and departed into the smoke-filled air of the tavern, packed with layabouts, farmers and the village tradesmen. The rum had lost its appeal and Francis exited the tavern guilt-ridden for disclosing the financial matters of his boss. He tried to convince himself that the questions from the Curry boys was little more than simple curiosity.
When Francis had departed, Conan leaned forward to the members of his gang. ‘Steele deserves to get his comeuppance,’ he growled. ‘Me and Kevin will take his money so quietly, he’ll never know until he goes to count his takings. It will be simple, stealing while his ma sleeps. No harm is to come to Mary Steele, she has been good to us when we were kids.’
*
It was the barking of the village dogs that caused Mary Steele to come awake, then she thought that she heard a sound in the kitchen. Mary rose, lit a candle and armed herself with a metal fire poker, descending the narrow wooden stairs with great caution. Afraid as she was, Mary Steele had faced dangerous situations as a young convict girl, and had learned to deal with her fear. She was sure that an uninvited intruder was rummaging around in the small kitchen.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she heard a muffled voice exclaim. ‘Begorah! I found it, Conan!’
Mary stepped from the stair into the dark kitchen, the flame from her candle immediately alerting the two intruders.
‘What are you doing in my house Conan Curry?’ she demanded fearlessly, causing Conan and Kevin Curry to stop in their tracks. Mary glanced down at the small leather bag Conan was holding in his hand, knowing what was inside. ‘What are you doing with my son’s money?’
Kevin glanced panic-stricken at his brother.
‘It’s our money, Mrs Steele,’ Conan brazenly lied. ‘It’s money he owes us.’
‘Well, you will return the pouch, and take up your claim when my son returns,’ Mary said, focusing her attention on Conan, who was in the process of replacing the bag where he found it in the cupboard. She did not notice Kevin step behind her, or when he slid a heavy wooden club from his shirtsleeve. Conan saw what his brother was about to do and screamed, ‘No!’ but his warning came too late. His brother brought the hardwood club down at the back of Mary’s skull with a sickening crunch, causing her to crumple to the floor of the kitchen. A heavy pool of blood immediately began to form around her head.
‘God almighty!’ Conan said in shock. ‘Why did you go and do that, Kevin? We will surely hang if we are caught. Mrs Steele was a good woman and did not deserve to be slain. You are a bloody fool.’
‘She knew who we were,’ Kevin said, staring blankly at the lifeless body of the woman at his feet. ‘We have to get out of here.’
‘It won’t be long before someone discovers we killed Mary Steele,’ Conan said.
‘No one saw us do it,’ Kevin said, snatching up the bag.
‘We was askin’ Frankie ’bout where Steele kept his money,’ Conan said. ‘It won’t take the magistrate long to send the road patrol after us. We have to get out of the district.’
Kevin retrieved the pouch and ran his hand through the substantial pile of silver coins he found inside. ‘We have enough here to get out of the colony,’ he said. ‘We still have our cousins back in dear old Erin. We could use the amount we have ’ere to set us up.’
Conan looked to the leather pouch his brother held in his hand. ‘Not such a stupid idea,’ he said. ‘We take Mrs Steele out the back and hide her under the woodpile. It will give us time to get to Sydney and take a boat out of the colony before the traps
are onto us.’
Kevin nodded. To be caught would surely mean hanging from the gallows at the Darlinghurst gaol in Sydney Town. The two men lifted the slightly built woman and carried her to the backyard. In the dark, they piled cut logs of timber on her body until it was concealed, but in their panic, they did not return to the cottage, leaving the immediate evidence of the terrible crime.
The following morning Kevin and Conan Curry took the track to Sydney. Conan had always lived with his brother’s cruelty and protected him, but the murder of a woman he had truly liked and admired was beyond anything he had done before. Conan rued the plan to commit the burglary and its terrible consequence yet time only moved forward, and life could not be replayed.
*
Mary Steele was not in her pew at church for Sunday service, and Mrs Amelia Barton was concerned that her lifelong friend may have been unwell. She was aware that Mary’s son, Ian, had travelled to Sydney with Mr Forbes, and Mary may have come down with an illness. The Steele cottage was on her way home, and she stopped to knock on the front door. There was no answer and Mrs Barton walked to the backyard in the rising heat of the summer’s day. The back door was open and she went inside, immediately seeing the large pool of blood on the kitchen floor.
‘Oh, my dear Lord!’ she exclaimed.
When she looked down, she could see that the blood trail led out the back door. In her confusion, the elderly lady considered that her friend may have had an accident, and turned to follow the heavy blood droplets leading into the yard to the woodpile. It was then that she could see the cloud of flies buzzing in and around the piled logs. She gasped in horror when she saw a bare foot protruding from under the wood heap.
‘Oh my God!’ she screamed, tottering away from the horror she imagined beneath the timber.
Within the half hour, the district magistrate, Captain Henry Dyer, accompanied by a police constable, had uncovered the body of Mary Steele.