The Queen's Colonial

by Peter Watt

  That night, Ian got truly drunk for the first time in his life.

  He remained for a couple of days to ensure all the loose ends of his life were secured. His mother’s will had left him the cottage, and Ian welcomed Francis’ family into his house. They were grateful and thanked him profusely for what he had done for their son and themselves.

  By the weekend, Ian gathered together a few valuables and hitched up the dray to return to Sydney. Only Francis saw him off.

  Before sunset, Ian was outside the cottage that James and Samuel shared. As they greeted him, Ian was fully aware that there was no turning back to his predictable life as a village blacksmith. He was not sure what lay ahead, but it was his one and only chance to be a soldier for the Queen, and to carve out his place amongst the aristocracy of the Empire.

  *

  ‘My uncle will send a letter to my older brother explaining how I . . . you have changed with a robust life in the colonies. That will explain why I . . . you have broad shoulders and muscle, whereas I left England a callow youth,’ Samuel said with a grin as he sat with Ian under the shade of the grapevine-covered trellis. ‘I will brief you on anything about the family I remember before being shipped to the colony. By the time we are finished, you will know who each person in my family is and the peculiarities of my life in England. You will have to know something about my military service, and the main characters of the regiment. By the time we part, you will know more about my life than even my dear James. My uncle will be your main support when I am gone, and will provide any other information you require to pass as me.’

  Ian nodded. There was much to learn but he was determined to be a successful student. His new life depended upon it. ‘Your uncle must be very fond of you to provide support for the pretence.’

  ‘You have actually touched on the real reason my father hates my uncle . . . and me,’ Samuel said, his voice cracking. ‘Sir George is my real father, not the man who had me exiled to the army. My mother wrote to George many years ago to say they had a son who she named Samuel. My father also suspected the infidelity and has always resented my existence. He would disinherit me if he could, but the secret remains between the two brothers, and now you and I. It was important that you share the secret because when you return to England, you will understand the animosity from my father.’

  ‘Sir George Forbes . . .’ Ian echoed. ‘God almighty, you have an interesting pedigree.’

  ‘It is your heritage now,’ Samuel said with a shrug. ‘I think that you will be able to deal with my family much better than I would have. And at the end of ten years, both you and I will be beneficiaries to a small fortune.’

  ‘That fortune will be yours alone,’ Ian said. ‘I seek fame as much as fortune.’

  ‘I pray that we both succeed in realising our dreams,’ Samuel added. ‘I have a small gift for you.’ He reached into the pocket of his coat and produced the small Colt revolver. ‘I would like you to have this,’ he said, handing the pistol to Ian. ‘If you ever encounter the likes of the Curry brothers, I would think that this could be needed.’

  Ian took the pistol. ‘Fate is a strange thing,’ he said, holding the gun. ‘You and I met in such an insignificant part of the world, and here we are. Who is to say that I never meet once again with Kevin and Conan Curry?’

  ‘From the little I experienced in your mother’s company, I sensed a truly warm and loving woman,’ Samuel said. ‘You have been a very fortunate son. I never really knew my mother. My life was in the hands of a governess and servants.’

  Ian recognised the sadness in Samuel’s eyes and realised one very important aspect of his life compared to that of his new friend; Ian had known the love of wonderful parents.

  Samuel continued, ‘But, what we must now do is have my uncle polish your education to become a good member of the English upper classes. He will teach you the manners desired of a gentleman, and you will have to learn to alter your accent, although your accent may be excused because of my long time in the colonies.’

  The two continued to discuss matters relevant to Ian assuming the life of an English aristocrat until the sun began its descent on the horizon.

  That evening, Ian stayed and the three men indulged in port and cigars after a delicious meal of fish cooked in oyster sauce served with garden vegetables, accompanied by home-baked bread. Ian had to admit that James was a fine cook, although he was not altogether comfortable having learned of the true relationship between James and Samuel. He tried to put the matter out of mind, and in the morning bid the two men the best of fortune, before returning to his village.

  Ian had returned the dray to the Sydney wharves and now took the lightly sprung carriage back to Sir George’s estate, where arrangements had been made for him to learn the mores and manners of a gentleman.

  As Ian travelled along the rough and dusty track between the stands of eucalyptus trees and wattle bushes, he had time to think about the great adventure he was about to embark on. With the death of his mother, he no longer had any ties to the colony, and ahead was the chance to further himself as a soldier of the Queen. No doubt his departed father might have been sympathetic to his aspirations, but he had told his son of the horrors of the battlefield. The stories did not seem real to a young boy, who had a need to learn from his own experience.

  In his coat pocket he could feel the small pistol, and wondered if he would ever catch up with the Curry brothers. He knew the chances of that were sadly about nil. But he also knew that if he did meet them, he would kill them.

  *

  The wharf was crowded with passengers awaiting the order to board the ship returning to England. Two tough-looking men stood apart from the well-dressed passengers booked in first class, looking about furtively to see if they had drawn any attention from the authorities. Conan had purchased their fares for the journey in steerage – the cheapest fare. He had explained to his brother that they needed to ration the money they had stolen, as it would have to last until they reached Ireland. The slim clipper ship they were boarding was known as the greyhound of the oceans. It was a ship with a lot of sail and, if the winds prevailed, they could be in England within a couple of months.

  ‘Time to go aboard,’ Conan said, hoisting the canvas bag containing the stolen money on his shoulder.

  ‘Do you think Steele will be looking for us?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘If he is, he will be heading south to Victoria,’ Conan replied, walking up the gangway. ‘The hope of him meeting us in this lifetime are as good as you and I being knighted by the Queen.’ As Conan stepped forward, he did so with the image of Mary Steele’s body at his feet, fighting back the haunting memory with the knowledge that he could not turn back time. He had a blood loyalty to his brother, and this had led them to the clipper ship bound for England, with no hope of return to New South Wales.

  Five

  Sir George Forbes was expecting him. He and Ian sat in the billiard room which was the most private place in the sprawling sandstone-built house, surrounded by well-kept gardens watered from a nearby creek that still had pools of water. Tea had been brought to them by a young servant girl.

  ‘Samuel has instructed me to divide his allowance with you,’ Sir George said. ‘That way you will be able to sustain yourself without the usual income you would have received from your blacksmith shop.’

  ‘That was very thoughtful of Samuel,’ Ian said, sipping his tea.

  ‘When he first proposed his venture to me after meeting you, I must admit that I had reservations. But the more I have grown to know you, I feel his scheme might just work. I pray that it does, because Samuel deserves a new start in life, away from my brother. It is his hatred for me that put the poor boy in his current situation.’

  Ian was not sure if he should mention that he knew that the man sitting opposite him was in fact Samuel’s real father.

  ‘I love my nephew as I would love a son,�
�� Sir George said, and that decided it for Ian; he would not reveal what Samuel had confided in him.

  ‘In the next few weeks, you will keep up appearances as a full-time blacksmith, working for me,’ Sir George said. ‘We will have ample time for me to brief you on all those in the family, as well as boyhood friends that Samuel knew in England. By the time you leave here, you will be Samuel Forbes, and in the years ahead secure my nephew’s inheritance. I suspect that in doing so, a young man like yourself will profit greatly as well. Samuel has told me of your desire to serve in the Queen’s army. A smart officer has the opportunity to take advantage of situations to enhance his reputation and fortunes.’

  For the next month, Ian was instructed in how he should act in the company of the rich and powerful. Ian could relate the who’s who of the family as well as close friends. Knowing all this did not alleviate the uneasy feeling that he might strike a situation that could reveal him as an imposter. But he balanced that against what he could also gain within the Forbes family circle. Ian was instructed in the etiquette of social occasions and who deserved deference in meetings and provided a profile of those influential within the family’s circle of friends and acquaintances. Ian learned that the family fortune had its roots originally in slavery and then the good fortune of investing in the East India Company, but the astute ancestors had also diversified into manufacturing, mining and shipping. Although a vast fortune had accumulated in the family coffers, the Forbes family had not been able to achieve a higher social standing in the rigid class system of the English aristocracy. They were not completely seen as outsiders, and George’s brother plotted to ensure that the right marriages within the family might establish closer links with that old aristocracy.

  He warned Ian that the two most dangerous men he would face were Samuel’s older brother, Charles, and father, Sir Archibald Forbes. By the time Sir George was satisfied that Ian had passed his tests to become a real member of the Forbes family, Ian felt confident enough to walk into any manor in England, and pass as one who had been born into great wealth.

  In the meantime, Sir George had despatched a letter to his brother, narrating how Samuel had thrived in the colony. He was no longer the callow youth left at the gates of the regiment, but a robust and confident young man. He also made mention that Samuel would be returning to join their grandfather’s old regiment as a commissioned officer. Sir George knew that this would keep Ian away from those who might have known Samuel in his old regiment.

  The day came for Ian to journey to Sydney and onto England aboard a clipper.

  ‘You have first class passage, befitting a Forbes,’ Sir George said. ‘As you can see, you have only the finest of clothes that can be obtained in the colony, and even the pistol you carry has Samuel’s initials engraved on it.’

  ‘Sir George, I cannot think of a way to express my thanks for all that you have done for me,’ Ian said.

  ‘Thank Samuel,’ Sir George said with a smile. ‘I am sure that you and he will one day meet again. I must admit that in our time together, I have had to rethink my thoughts that gentlemen are born and not made. Seeing the way you have borne yourself, I must admit it is possible to shift from the lower classes to a station where one would call you a gentleman. Be always on your guard and, God willing, your life will be filled with fame and fortune. I have a package of letters and papers for you that may assist proving your identity.’ Sir George held out his hand and a thick but small leather satchel. Ian accepted the gesture with gratitude.

  ‘The carriage is waiting outside to take you to Sydney,’ Sir George said, and Ian thought that he saw just a hint of tears in the nobleman’s eyes as he turned away.

  A convict servant assisted Ian with his baggage to the horse-drawn carriage, and in the heat and dust of the summer under a blazing sun, Ian’s journey as Samuel Forbes began.

  As Ian sat next to the driver, he gazed at the fields of desiccated grass and tall gum trees, wondering if he would remember the smell of the sun-baked plains, and the acrid scent of the bushfires that raged this time of the year. But the closer they came to Sydney, the more Ian looked to the unknown future, and what it might hold for him. Soon, he stood at the gangplank of the sleek ship while his baggage was being loaded aboard.

  For just a moment, Ian looked around him, and then down at the wharf. This was the colonial land of a continent where Britain had sent her unwanted for their crimes committed mostly due to dire poverty. His own mother was one of those who had in desperation forged a document to obtain five shillings. That amount had cost her a fare to the other side of the earth, where she had met a good and sturdy British soldier. Ian’s father had been a gentle and intelligent man who had been self-educated. He had despised the class system of England and took his discharge in the colony where men of ambition could rise to make a good life. Ian had loved his father, who never used violence to punish him. A mere sad look of disapproval had been enough to bring Ian to heel. It had been his feisty mother who had inflicted any corporal punishment with the wooden mixing spoon – but not severely. Ian had been born under the Southern Cross, and now he was returning to the bosom of the mother country as a gentleman, albeit in disguise as another man.

  A whistle blew, and a voice boomed, ‘All going aboard, go aboard.’

  Ian stepped onto the gangplank.

  *

  They could hear the shrieks of women, and the cries of men from the married section of the ship. Conan and Kevin Curry gripped the edge of the wooden table at the centre of their steerage single quarters aboard the clipper ship. The storm raging in the English Channel had caused all hatches to be closed down, and in the near pitch-blackness of the cramped and unhygienic quarters, the voyage was hell. From the outset, the normally fast clipper ship had been delayed in its journey by storms and failing winds. The journey had taken weeks more than the skipper had anticipated.

  ‘We should have spent some of that money on first class,’ Kevin groaned, feeling the nausea welling up inside once again as sea sickness racked his body.

  ‘Couldn’t attract attention to ourselves,’ Conan said, breathing in the stench of the remnants of the midday meal of pickled pork, dried peas and bread spread across the now slippery deck of steerage.

  The stink was enough to make a man sick, and Conan’s only consolation was that the captain had declared they would be in the Thames River the next day.

  They shared their quarters with many other single men, some of as dubious character as their own. Others had once been prosperous until they squandered their savings in a fruitless search for the elusive gold of the Australian colonies, and now returned as poor men to the homes they had left behind in the British Isles.

  ‘Have you got the money on you?’ Conan asked his brother.

  ‘No, it’s safe enough under my bunk,’ Kevin groaned, caring little for the leather pouch when all he wanted to do was die and rid himself of the terrible torment of sea sickness. The sleeping arrangements consisted of rows of bunks along either side of the hull with the tables down the centre. The ship was infested with rats, and the food with weevils. The barrels of water were filled from dirty streams when the ship was in port, and algae often flourished in what was meant as drinking water. Both men were aware of that illness known as cholera which took passenger lives on such voyages, but the need to escape the possibility of the hangman’s noose back in New South Wales had motivated them into facing this danger.

  By early morning, the storm seemed to be abating and Kevin retired to his bunk. He had complained before the storm that he was feeling ill, and Conan could see that his brother was running a fever. The nausea and vomiting had not helped his condition.

  Conan also went to his bunk and was awoken with the flood of fresh air when the hatches were finally opened. The stench of vomit prevailed but Conan could also smell the brine saturating the air. His bunk was next to his brother’s, and he slipped out to wake him as someone
shouted, ‘London is off the portside bow!’

  Some of the steerage passengers were already clambering up the stairs, joining others on deck to see the first sight of the world’s most important city.

  ‘Kevin, get up, you lazy bastard,’ Conan said. He bent to shake his brother by the shoulder and froze. His brother’s eyes were open, his pale skin a deathly pallor. But what was most obvious was that Kevin’s throat had been cut to the spine. His brother was well and truly dead – murdered in the darkness of the night. Without much further thought, Conan slid his hand under his brother’s meagre mattress to feel for the money. To his horror, the leather pouch was gone. Just as they had reached London on their way to Ireland, Kevin Curry had been robbed and slain. When Conan looked around, he could see that all those in steerage had departed, leaving him alone with the body of his brother.

  Conan groaned his despair. He was now alone and penniless, hours from landing in a foreign city in the land of the hated English.

  Already the ship’s crew were swabbing down steerage with vinegar, removing the remnants of the night before, and the ship’s doctor attended to declare Kevin dead. He scribbled that the cause of his death was foul play.

  ‘I regret to say that the chances of arresting your brother’s murderer are slim to none,’ the doctor said sympathetically. ‘You should report the matter to the police.’

  Conan nodded, knowing that he would not be doing so. He could not afford to draw the attention of the law.

  Conan watched as a couple of men wrapped his brother’s body in a sheet and carried it up to the deck for removal from the ship.

  ‘Where are you going to take him?’ Conan asked.

  ‘Do you have any money to give him a proper burial?’ one of the men asked, and Conan said he did not.

  ‘He will get a pauper’s grave,’ the man replied, taking away the body to a cart waiting on the wharf.

  Conan left the ship with only the clothes he was wearing, and a few pennies in his pocket. He did not take anything that belonged to his dead brother. The stench rising from the polluted river caught Conan unawares, and the haze of smog over the city burned his eyes. Summer was coming to the northern hemisphere and Conan was in a state of despair.