The Queen's Colonial

by Peter Watt

  He walked from the Thames dockside into the bustling city until he found a pub. He went inside, took the last few coins he had, and ordered an ale in an attempt to drown his sorrows. The bar was crowded with working men who ignored the stranger amongst them.

  Conan took his ale, swallowed it down, and glanced around him. His eye caught sight of a soldier wearing the colourful red jacket so well-known to the world. On his sleeve, Conan could see the chevrons of a sergeant. The sergeant caught his eye.

  ‘Hey, stranger, I will buy you another ale,’ he said.

  The army sergeant was a big man, wearing a medal for some campaign he had fought on the edges of the British Empire. He called across to the publican for another ale, flashing silver coins when he did. He had an Irish accent, and Conan joined him at his table.

  ‘I thank you, sergeant,’ Conan said, sitting down, accepting the tankard of brown liquid placed in front of him. ‘But I cannot repay the offer.’

  ‘I can hear from your voice that you hail from the Emerald Isle,’ the sergeant said. ‘But I can also tell you have lived in the Australian colonies. I once did service in New South Wales. Are you just off a boat?’

  ‘I am,’ Conan said, taking a sip from his tankard in the smoke-filled bar. ‘Just disembarked a few hours ago.’

  The sergeant leaned forward. ‘Are you lookin’ for a job?’

  ‘I am,’ Conan replied. ‘I kind of lost my savings when my brother died just outside London on our voyage.’

  ‘You look to me like a big, strappin’ young man, ideal for the British army. I can sign you up. I sign up a lot of lads in this pub for a life of adventure, where the army gives you a uniform, a square meal a day and travel to exotic lands to do the Queen’s good work. I am Colour Sergeant Leslie and authorised to sign you up.’

  ‘I’m not an admirer of the British,’ Conan said. ‘Why should I fight for them?’

  ‘There are a lot of the lads in my regiment,’ Leslie said. ‘You don’t have to like the Queen. We Irish like a good scrap, and we aren’t fighting other Irishmen. If you take the Queen’s shilling, you will have a secure job for the rest of your life. What is your name?’

  ‘Conan Curry.’

  ‘Ah, Conan, with a good Irish name like that you would make a fine soldier,’ the sergeant said, and Conan sensed that the army sergeant must be a recruiter, finding his enlistees in pubs such as this one close to the disembarkation points along the Thames wharves. No wonder he initially called him stranger. It was obvious that he was a shrewd man who had the ability to draw in those down-and-outs as fodder for the British army.

  Conan swallowed the last of his ale, placed the tankard on the rough, wooden table and stood. ‘I would be thanking you, sergeant for your hospitality and will be thinking upon your offer.’

  ‘You know where to find me,’ the sergeant said with a shrug.

  With two ales in his stomach and nothing in his pocket, Conan exited the pub. Fortunately, the weather was mild and he began to walk aimlessly amongst the better-dressed citizens of the city, hoping to hear the accents of fellow Irishmen who might be charitable enough to aid him in finding work and a place to put his head down. For now, he knew that he was truly alone in a place where he could not see the open plains, or smell the eucalypt trees.

  *

  The two-storeyed brick house off the leafy fringes of Hyde Park was one of a few select homes for the rich. The butler took the letter delivered to the front door, placed it on a silver platter and walked towards the drawing room, adorned with painted portraitures of men and women past and present, where a tall man in his late fifties sat with a newspaper.

  ‘A letter for you, Sir Archibald,’ the butler said.

  ‘Thank you, Gilston,’ Sir Archibald Forbes said, taking the correspondence. He could see that the letter had travelled from the colony of New South Wales, and also recognised his estranged brother’s handwriting. He frowned as he opened the letter.

  Archibald read slowly, taking in each spider-like word on the fine paper. When he had finished, he reached for the bell to summon his butler.

  ‘Please inform my son that I wish to speak with him,’ Sir Archibald commanded.

  The butler disappeared, and minutes later, Charles Forbes appeared in the drawing room. Although he was married, he and his wife, Louise, were estranged and Charles resided at the family home in London.

  ‘Is something the matter?’ the lean man in his late twenties asked, seeing the concern written across his father’s face.

  ‘I have received a letter from your uncle in New South Wales, writing to say that we can expect your brother will be returning to us very soon.’

  ‘Samuel,’ Charles said. ‘This is rather unexpected. I thought that my brother was enjoying life in the wretched colonies.’

  ‘From what George has written, it appears your brother has a desire to return to his grandfather’s regiment, and not the one that I selected for him. He wishes to complete his service to the Queen as an officer in the army. You do know what that means for your future.’

  Charles sat down in an ornate chair opposite his father. ‘It means that after ten years, my worthless brother will be entitled to a third of the Forbes estate, in accordance with the wishes of your father.’

  ‘That is a substantial inheritance. It could weaken what we have,’ Sir Archibald said. ‘I had hoped that a dangerous life on the imperial frontier might have solved that problem for us. It was not to be when your brother resigned his commission, but still, I was pleased he did so because he had not satisfied the conditions of his inheritance. Now he may do so, if he takes up a commission in your grandfather’s old regiment. I feel this change of circumstances will be yours to rectify.’

  Charles looked hard at his father. He was aware of the bitterness he held towards Samuel, who he believed was not his son, but the product of betrayal by his wife with his brother. While Samuel was in his father’s presence, he was always reminded that the boy was another man’s offspring. If he’d had his way, the boy would have been smothered at birth. It was obvious what his father was saying, and although Charles held little love for his brother, the suggestion made him uncomfortable. While he was pondering the return of Samuel, a young lady of around eighteen years entered the room. She had blonde hair and an appealing face. Not beautiful but attractive to the opposite sex.

  ‘Gilston has told me the news that a letter has arrived from New South Wales,’ she said, excitement lighting her beautiful eyes. ‘Is there news about brother Samuel?’

  ‘Alice, my dear,’ Sir Archibald said to his daughter. ‘It is indeed a letter from your uncle George with news of your brother. It seems we may expect a visit from him very soon.’

  ‘Oh! How wonderful,’ Alice said, clapping her hands together. ‘It has been so long since I last saw him. I was a mere child, and he was always so kind to me. I remember how Sam would read stories to me when mother was ill and I was frightened.’

  ‘You may not recognise him now,’ Sir Archibald said. ‘Your uncle has said life in the colonies has made him more robust.’

  ‘I will recognise him,’ Alice said, beaming. ‘Do we know when he will arrive in London?’

  ‘It is hard to say. It will depend on the speed of the ship that brings him back to us.’

  ‘I will pray that his journey will be safe,’ Alice said, not noticing the dark exchange of looks between her oldest brother and father.

  Six

  Night arrived in London and Conan Curry felt the pangs of hunger gnawing at his stomach. He had drifted into the poverty-stricken neighbourhoods of the city, where narrow and filthy cobblestoned streets were filled with young and old whose faces reflected their poverty. Raucous prostitutes plied their age-old trade, and urchins in rags stared with blank eyes at all passing by. The air stank of rotting garbage and human waste. It was the size and dangerous demeanour of Conan that kept th
e beggars and gathering of thugs from confronting him for any valuables they thought he might have had upon his person.

  Still, Conan felt vulnerable. A couple of ales earlier in the day was no substitute for a good portion of beef or mutton.

  ‘Hey, you, stranger.’ A man’s voice called to Conan from the gloom of an adjacent alley. Conan turned to see a couple of young men step from the dark. ‘We haven’t seen your face down here before. Where you from?’

  Conan sized up both men, whose dress appeared as if they might be a little more prosperous than those around them. The man who called to him had a Welsh accent and Conan was alert to any movements that may indicate a threat. He wished that he had at least a knife to protect himself.

  ‘What business is it to you?’ Conan asked.

  ‘You look like you could handle yourself, Paddy,’ the larger of the two men said, detecting Conan’s Irish accent. Conan did not sense any menace in his statement. It was more like an enquiry.

  ‘Do you want to find out?’ Conan countered, and the man asking the questions smiled.

  ‘No, but I need another man for a quick job around here. You look like you could do with some friends hereabouts. Are you interested? The job will give you a place to flop tonight, and some bread and grog in your guts.’

  ‘What have you got in mind?’ Conan asked.

  ‘In the next street, there is a man of some means going from house to house. He looks like he might have a shilling or two on him. Me and my brother also think he might give them to us with a little friendly persuasion. You get what I mean?’

  Conan knew exactly what they meant. How ironic, he thought. He had fled from New South Wales because of a heinous crime, only to fall in with men of his own ilk on the other side of the world. It was almost like criminality recognised its own.

  ‘Is this generous man armed?’ Conan asked, and saw the two thugs look at each other.

  ‘Don’t know,’ the obvious leader said. ‘But the three of us could easily take him on in these streets. It sounds like you know what you are doing.’

  ‘We split three ways,’ Conan said. ‘Fair is fair.’

  For a moment, the other two men hesitated. It was obvious they had considered their offer to join them meant Conan was only to receive a small portion of the robbery. But they also sensed that the man they had picked was not new to this kind of craft.

  ‘Third shares it is,’ the leader of the two said with some reluctance. ‘About time we got to work.’ The two men had not offered their names, nor did Conan. If anything went wrong, no names could be offered up to the police. But in this part of the city, the sight of uniformed Metropolitan Police was rare. It was not a safe place for anyone at this time of night.

  The three men made their way through the night, and emerged from a side street of rundown terrace housing.

  ‘We wait here,’ the leader said, taking up a position out of the fever-like light cast by a gaslight lamp. Conan stood by his newly acquainted companions, wondering who they were about to rob, and saw a door open. A tall, well-dressed man stepped out with a black bag in his hand.

  ‘That’s him,’ the leader hissed and stepped forward to intercept the man. Conan followed, pushing his way through the people wandering the garbage-strewn street. The man they had targeted glanced up at the three who had suddenly appeared blocking his path.

  ‘Give us your money and bag,’ the leader growled in the startled man’s face, and Conan could see a long knife had been produced to back up the threat.

  ‘This is outrageous,’ the victim protested. Conan thought his accent was North American, perhaps Canadian. ‘I protest this nefarious act.’

  ‘Just give up all your valuables, and I won’t slit your gut,’ the leader said, pressing the blade into the victim’s stomach. ‘Take everything you can,’ he continued, looking at Conan, who plunged his hand into a trouser pocket to produce a small leather bag of coins. Meanwhile, the leader’s companion had retrieved the bag and a fob watch from the waistcoat the man wore. The robbery had caught the attention of some of the people in the street.

  ‘Robbery!’ someone yelled, turning all attention to the three men surrounding their victim.

  ‘Got to get out of here,’ the leader said, turning on his heel, and running down the street, followed by Conan and the other man who had the black bag. They knocked down anyone who dared to attempt to block their path, and ran hard until the leader ducked into a narrow alley, clambering up the rickety stairs of a tenement house, and bashed on a wooden door.

  The door opened, and the three men fell into a dingy room lit by a single candle held by a young woman with a pinched face, wearing an old threadbare dress.

  Conan was gasping after the desperate escape, breathing in air that smelled of rotting cabbage and human sweat. The young woman, barely more than a girl, cast Conan a questioning glance.

  ‘We got some goodies, Molly,’ the second-in-command said, holding up the bag victoriously. ‘We done good.’

  ‘Who’s this, Edwin?’ she asked, staring curiously at Conan. Conan noted the names.

  ‘Just a Paddy we found wandering the street looking for a meal, and somewhere to put his head down. We needed another man to pull off the job.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, turning to Conan, who could see that she was very attractive under the grime.

  ‘Conan,’ he answered.

  ‘Conan. And where are you from?’ she asked, appraising him with eyes that spoke of some admiration for what she saw.

  Conan considered lying, but thought it was not necessary in the company of people like himself. ‘I just got off a ship from New South Wales, and was fortunate to meet Ed and obviously his brother.’

  ‘That is Owen,’ Molly said. ‘He’s my brother, and so is Edwin. What you got in your hand?’

  ‘I got this,’ Conan said, opening the leather bag, spilling a handful of shillings on a battered wooden table in the tiny room. The siblings’ eyes lit up with appreciation. Molly quickly counted the small fortune.

  ‘There’s two guineas here,’ she said. ‘What’s in the black bag?’

  Edwin opened the bag and stared inside. From the disappointed expression on his face, the other three could see that there was not much. Edwin reached in the bag and removed what looked like a flat spoon. ‘It looks like the thing a surgeon has,’ he said in disgust.

  ‘Well, we can sell them things to the right person,’ Molly said hopefully. ‘They should bring in a penny or two.’

  ‘So we robbed a medical man,’ Conan said. ‘No wonder your locals were a bit upset.’

  ‘Don’t matter,’ Owen said with a shrug. ‘He can spare the money for us poor folks. Toffs like him have plenty of money.’

  ‘I cooked a stew,’ Molly said. ‘The Paddy looks like he could use a feed.’

  Conan nodded his appreciation and Molly went to a corner of the room to remove a pot from a small coal stove. She set three bowls and spoons on the table next to the small pile of silver coins. The stew of cabbage, mutton and a few carrots was ladled out, and Molly brought over a loaf of bread, cutting it into thick slabs to accompany the stew.

  The three men sat down at the table and tucked in. Molly sat with them, and they ate in silence, eyeing the coins at the centre of the table.

  ‘Paddy here says he will have a third of our takings,’ Owen said, wiping the gravy from his chin with the back of his shirtsleeve.

  ‘If he wants another meal and place to sleep, he will have to pay rent,’ Molly said. ‘His share will get him a couple of weeks under my roof. He will have to earn his keep if he is going to stay with us.’

  Conan looked at the young woman with just a touch of respect for her quick thinking.

  He shrugged. ‘Suits me fine. Where do I put my head down?’

  ‘You sleep out here on the floor,’ Molly said. ‘I have my own r
oom, and don’t get no ideas of sharing it with me, Paddy. My brothers have the other room.’

  Conan nodded, hoping he might get a blanket or two to soften the hard wooden surface. At least he had somewhere to stay and a meal in his belly.

  Conan remained at the table when the two brothers retired for the evening to sleep. Molly remained with him, sewing a dress in the dim light of the few candles in the room. She had made a pot of tea and Conan sipped the black liquid sweetened by a small portion of sugar from a cracked cup.

  ‘Were you a convict?’ Molly asked while she sewed.

  ‘No, I was freeborn, but my father was, and so was my ma,’ Conan said.

  ‘So, why have you come to England?’ she asked without taking her attention from her task of stitching.

  ‘My brother and me had some trouble and had to get out of New South Wales. My brother died of the cholera on the ship just as we got here,’ Conan lied. ‘And our savings was stolen.’

  Molly glanced up from her task with an expression of compassion. ‘I am sorry for your loss. Me and my brothers lost our parents last year in Wales from the cholera. We had nothing, so we came to London to make our fortunes. It has not happened yet.’

  ‘I can see you have a little way to go,’ Conan said with a smile. He liked this Welsh girl the more he got to know her. ‘I am hoping to get to Ireland where I can find my relatives in Dublin. I just need to make a bit of money for a fare.’

  ‘It’s not much better there,’ Molly said. ‘At least in London, there’s always a chance to make money off the rich toffs. You could do well with my brothers. You’re a big man and look as if you can handle yourself.’

  ‘Would you like me to stay?’ Conan asked.

  ‘Only if you want,’ she replied casually without looking at him. Conan sensed that she was attracted to him.