by Peter Watt
The bugle call to arise next morning was not welcomed by the two, who realised that the local drink had been more potent than they had anticipated. It was time to dress, make their way to the officers’ mess, and partake of breakfast.
In the mess, Ian was approached by Captain Miles Sinclair.
‘Captain Forbes, your absence last night was noted by the PMC,’ he said, balancing a fine china cup of tea in his hand. ‘Have you and Mr Forbes already discovered the haunts of the ladies of the night?’
‘No, a man,’ Ian replied, searching for the supply of tea for his hangover.
Sinclair raised his eyebrows. ‘I did not take you for that kind of person,’ he said with a smirk.
‘A surgeon who is a friend from the Reform Club and will be joining the regiment soon,’ Ian replied. ‘He has some inside information on the strategy of this campaign, and we both agreed that it is not off to a good start.’
‘Don’t let those views find their way to the colonel, or he will have you on charges of sedition,’ Sinclair quietly warned. ‘Personally, I tend to agree with you. Even though we are prepared for the little luxuries of life for our mess, there still seems to be a shortage. It is not a good sign. But first, you must approach the PMC, and apologise for your absence. I expect he will also consider that Mr Forbes being your brother was under your influence when he was not here last night.’
Ian agreed with his friend and sought out the President of the Mess Committee to apologise with the excuse of visiting Dr Peter Campbell. It was fortunate for Ian that the PMC, a major, was also a member of the Reform Club, and knew the Canadian surgeon as a friend. Excuse and apology were accepted, with a caution not to repeat the absence from the mess in the future.
That day, Ian tended to his duties as a company commander and was pleased to see his clerk continued to be very efficient in administering the company needs. There was a visit from the quartermaster sergeant to complain that certain supplies he required for the soldiers of the company had not been met by the civilian suppliers. Ian knew why, but reassured the irate senior NCO that the matter would be rectified in time.
It was the fifth day of their encampment outside the village when the dreaded news of sickness within the regimental ranks reached Ian. It was Herbert who reported the matter.
‘I have four of my men down with fever,’ he said. ‘And with the fever going through the ranks, the morale amongst the others is poor.’
‘I will visit the medical tent and review the sick men,’ Ian said, rising from behind the small wooden desk that the company clerk had been able to scavenge for his commanding officer. Ian grabbed his forage cap and sword to walk with Herbert to a large tent set aside for the sick. He was surprised to see Peter standing outside.
‘Herbert, Sam,’ he greeted them with a weary smile. ‘I have just completed my rounds and can confirm that you have cholera raging through the regiment.’
‘Bad air – miasma,’ Herbert said.
‘No, bad water,’ Peter replied. ‘But I cannot convince the soldiers treating their comrades that the water must be boiled before drinking. A friend of mine from the Royal College of Physicians, Dr John Snow, has done research through the Epidemiological Society of London he helped to establish with research into polluted water being the source of cholera. We have yet to understand what it is about tainted water that causes the sickness, but I believe if we ensure the troops have access to clean, boiled water, the incidence of the illness will decrease. I know my views are not accepted by most of my fellow practitioners, but I also know that Dr Snow is a brilliant physician. I trust his theory of the source of cholera.’
‘If that is what you consider the cause, I will post an order that all drinking water for my company be boiled before consumption, under threat of military discipline if not complied with,’ Ian said. ‘The order will be posted this day.’
‘Do you wish to visit the sick?’ Herbert asked and turned to Peter. ‘Is cholera contagious?’
Peter thought for the moment. ‘I have treated many cases in London and have not yet been afflicted,’ he said. ‘But then, I do not drink polluted water.’
‘Mostly wine and spirits,’ Ian said with a grin. ‘I don’t think I have ever seen you partake of water.’
‘Do you know something odd?’ Peter said. ‘Three of the men I examined look very much like the three who robbed me in London last year. I could be wrong as it was dark, and I was rather terrified. I would imagine that this is the last place one would expect to find the three ruffians who robbed me.’
‘Which soldiers?’ Ian asked.
‘Privates Edwin and Owen Williams. The third is an Irish colonial, Private Curry.’
The mention of Curry did not come as a shock to Ian.
‘What is their condition?’ Ian asked.
‘The two Welshmen may recover, but Private Curry is in a critical condition. The fever has him in its grip.’
Ian told Herbert to remain outside, and Ian stepped into the tent to be assailed by the stench of vomit and human excrement. Overflowing buckets were scattered amongst the men laying on the earth with only straw under them for their beds. Ian forced himself not to gag, and could see the soldier attendants wore handkerchiefs over their faces. It was a scene of misery, with many of the soldiers groaning in pain, racked by the constant vomiting and uncontrollable diarrhoea.
Ian squatted beside Conan, whose pain-filled face barely noticed the face above him. Ian could see the sunken eyes, wrinkled hands and clammy, pallid skin. But a spark of recognition lit Conan’s eyes through the pain and fever.
‘I know you, Ian Steele,’ he croaked through parched lips.
Ian glanced around, ensuring that they would not be overheard.
‘I am told that you are dying, Private Curry,’ he said just above a whisper. ‘You slew my mother, and are about to face your maker and answer for your sins.’
‘I know that,’ Conan said, tears appearing in his rheumy eyes. ‘So, what I tell you is the truth. I did not slay your mother. It was my brother, Kevin, and he has already faced his maker. He had his throat slit on the ship we came out on. I liked your mother. She was always kind to us, and if I could go back in time, I would stop my brother from committing the foul act.’
With a great effort, Conan reached up to Ian with his hand. ‘Please forgive me for what Kevin did. He was my brother and I had to protect him – regardless of the great crime he committed against a good woman.’
Ian frowned. ‘I cannot forgive you, but possibly God will, in the next life, if what you tell me is true.’
‘I swear it on my eternal soul, I had no hand in your mother’s death. I would like a priest to be with me in the last moments. I swear what I know about you will die with me.’
Ian sensed that the dying man was telling the truth. He had once read that dying men are prone to confess the truth, as they have nothing left to lose.
‘I cannot fetch a priest,’ Ian said. ‘I have also been informed by Dr Campbell that he believes you were in company with two of my soldiers in a robbery upon him. Is that true?’
Conan nodded weakly. ‘Please tell him I am sorry for what we did,’ he said. ‘Here I am confessing to a bloody colonial imposter, and not a priest of the true faith.’
‘You will pass on with my gratitude for keeping the secret of who I am, Conan,’ Ian said with a note of softness in his voice. ‘I pray that the Lord will be merciful towards you when you meet Him.’
Ian rose, confused at his change of feelings towards the man he had grown up with in New South Wales and, for a time, had been a close friend. He stepped outside the tent where Herbert and Peter were in a discussion.
‘Ensure that the sick men are constantly given clean water with a dash of salt,’ Peter said to Herbert. ‘It may stave off the dehydration that cholera brings on.’ He turned to Ian. ‘Did you question the three men I think ma
y have robbed me?’ he asked.
‘I questioned Private Curry, and he admitted that they were the same men,’ Ian said. ‘But from what you have told me, I don’t think reporting them will matter much now, from the way they all looked to me.’
‘This may be true,’ Peter said. ‘It is odd that I am now treating them in the possible last hours of their lives.’
‘Everything considered,’ Ian said. ‘As soldiers in the service of the Queen, they may have just paid their earthly penance. God rest their souls.’
Ian walked away from the medical tent, his thoughts swirling. With the death of Conan Curry, the only real threat to his identity would be gone but, at the same time, he held admiration for the oath that Conan had sworn on his deathbed – to take that secret with him to the grave. In this, Ian had some regret for the soldier’s imminent death.
Four days later, Ian was stunned to learn from his company clerk that Private Curry and the Williams brothers were recovering and returning to duty, thanks to the treatment Dr Campbell had suggested. The situation had dramatically changed.
Sixteen
There was blood on his hands, and also on his clothing.
Charles Forbes stood trembling over the pregnant body of Jane Wilberforce in her cottage as the sun set across the Kentish fields. He dropped the knife and it clattered to the floor. The many stab wounds no longer bled into the large pool of blood surrounding her lifeless body. It was her fault that she had to die, he convinced himself. She had declared she was pregnant to his half-brother, enraging him, and his first strike with the long knife through her throat had prevented her from crying out for help. The other numerous wounds vented his rage until he was sure she was dead.
Charles could feel his body trembling as the rage drained away. He knew that under the law he had murdered Jane, and British justice meant that he would be executed by hanging if he was arrested.
Charles sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at Jane’s bloody body. He knew that he would have to dispose of her, and required help to do so. He would need to confess to his father what he had done and implore him to help get rid of any evidence of the capital crime.
Charles gripped Jane’s ankles, dragging her out of sight under the bed. He found a wooden pail and went about washing away the large pool of blood off the floor. When he glanced around the room, he noticed blood had sprayed onto the walls, and scrubbed away the most obvious traces. Satisfied that he had cleaned up enough to rid the cottage of obvious signs, he dropped the cloths he had used in a wooden pail.
But when he caught his reflection in a tiny mirror, he saw that he was still covered in Jane’s blood. As nightfall was upon the village, he felt that the blood would not be seen, and made his way to his horse in the dark. The street was deserted, and Charles rode to the country estate to seek help.
When he arrived at the Forbes country manor, he led his horse into the stables, careful to keep an eye out for the stable hands. They were not in sight, and Charles stripped off his blood-soaked coat, burying it under a pile of hay.
Satisfied, Charles made his way to the house, and was met by the butler who cast his master a curious glance at his dishevelled appearance, but did not question him.
Charles pushed past him, going directly to the drawing room where he knew he would find his father reading The Times and smoking his pipe, with a glass of sherry on hand. Charles stepped into the room. Sir Archibald looked surprised at his unkempt appearance.
‘You have blood on your trousers,’ Sir Archibald said, placing his newspaper on his lap. ‘What has happened?’
Charles picked up the sherry decanter, pouring himself a generous amount. ‘I killed someone,’ he said. ‘It was an accident.’
‘Good God, man!’ Sir Archibald exclaimed, rising from his chair. ‘Who did you kill?’
‘A village girl,’ Charles replied, swallowing the full contents of his glass.
‘Not that Wilberforce girl?’ his father asked, standing at the centre of the room. Charles nodded, pouring himself another sherry. ‘Does anyone know of what you have done?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Charles answered. ‘Her body is still in the cottage we rented to her in the village.’
‘We must dispose of it before the act is discovered,’ Sir Archibald said. ‘It must disappear. You were always a fool to be involved with her. Your wife was aware of the affair, you know.’
‘I suspected that Louise’s indifference to me was due to her probable knowledge of the affair,’ Charles said. ‘Well, I can honestly tell her that I am no longer seeing Miss Wilberforce,’ he added with a bitter laugh. ‘How do I rid us of the evidence?’
Sir Archibald thought for a moment. ‘You take a carriage to the cottage in the early hours of this morning and retrieve the body. I am sure that you are strong enough to carry her to the carriage. You then take the body to the grove of trees where the old circle of stones is located and bury her there. No one disturbs the stones. The folk here have a deeply rooted superstition about that place. You do this alone, and ensure that you are not seen by anyone.’
‘Is that the best plan you can think of?’ Charles asked.
Sir Archibald shot his son a frosty glare. ‘Can you think of any other plan that does not involve others who might talk?’
‘No,’ Charles sighed, placing the empty sherry glass on a small wooden sideboard.
‘I strongly suggest that you go about the task now, and have it done before the sun rises,’ Sir Archibald said. ‘You need to destroy the clothing you wore as well. The amount of blood will raise questions.’
‘I will do that,’ Charles replied, rubbing his forehead with his bloody hand.
‘Go now,’ Sir Archibald said. Charles first went to his room, where he stripped off his blood-stained clothing, changing into clothing he usually wore when inspecting the estate. He went to the stables and was startled to see a stable boy waiting for him.
‘What are you doing here?’ Charles demanded of the young boy.
‘I heard you return a while ago, Master Forbes, and thought that you might need my help putting away your horse.’
‘That is not necessary,’ Charles snapped. ‘I am capable of doing that myself. You are dismissed.’
Confused, the stable boy stumbled away, leaving Charles alone. He waited until the boy had exited, feeling his heart beating hard in his chest. It was the little unexpected things that could undo him, Charles thought. Satisfied he was alone, he found a shovel, and went about preparing a one-horse carriage for his journey back to the village.
It was in the early hours of the morning that he reached the village. An owl hooted and some dogs barked. Charles waited in the carriage at the edge of the village to see if there was any reaction to the barking dogs, but no lanterns appeared in doorways. He proceeded as quietly as he could to Jane’s cottage, and went inside the darkened residence. Groping around under the bed, he secured her ankles, pulling Jane’s slight body out. He knelt down and slung her body over his shoulders. She was not heavy and, with little effort, he was able to take her to the carriage. The task done, Charles directed the carriage out of the sleeping town.
It was a new moon and the relative darkness concealed his exit from the village. He continued until he came to the fields where he knew the circle of stones existed on the hill. He halted the carriage and removed Jane along with a shovel and staggered across the fields until he came to the copse of ancient trees. A large owl flapped over his head, causing Charles to drop Jane’s body in his fright. He had heard the old stories about the circle of stones being a sacred place of the Druids, and that they had even practised human sacrifice. Well, he had a sacrificial victim for them, he reassured himself.
Charles entered the stand of trees and could see the dim outline of the stones. He stepped into the centre and began digging. The ground was relatively soft, and within an hour, he had made a grave deep and lar
ge enough to accommodate Jane’s body.
Charles placed her face up in the grave and carefully covered her with dirt. He groped around to find leaves and twigs to conceal the evidence of freshly dug earth. Satisfied, he stepped back to gaze at the resting place of Jane Wilberforce. Now he would spread the story that she had come to him with a request to leave the village for the bright lights of London.
Charles was about to walk back to the carriage when a terrible thought crossed his mind. His half-brother would eventually return to England, and no doubt search for Jane. Charles had discovered the pile of letters Ian had written to Jane, and ascertained that Samuel had intended to marry Jane at the first opportunity. Charles had come to appreciate that the meek and mild boy who had been exiled with the army to the colonies had returned a tough and dangerous man. Charles felt a shudder when he considered the possibility – as remote as it was – of Samuel discovering the murder and linking it to him. He did not doubt that Samuel would kill him. What was it that his grandfather would say about the art of war? The best defence was one of offence. Charles contemplated what he must do. He had failed once in eliminating his half-brother, but he would not fail a second time, especially now he had more at stake.
Charles left the place of the stones, walking back to the waiting carriage with the irrational feeling that Jane rested in a place of her own choosing, not his. There was a time that she may have been hanged as a witch, he mused. But that fear was one step behind him as the sun rose across a misty landscape filled with angels and demons.
*
Captain Ian Steele was not a happy man. Ian stood in the shade of a gnarled olive tree on top of a small hill, watching his company drill under a warm sun. They fired their volleys in well-formed ranks, and then charged at straw dummies with long fixed bayonets.
‘You appear to be in deep thought, Samuel,’ Miles Sinclair said when he walked over.
Ian frowned. Miles Sinclair had grown to be a close friend as well as a fellow company commander.