The Queen's Colonial

by Peter Watt

  Ian stepped back, saluted and marched out of the office with mixed thoughts. It had been easy to swear his allegiance as this was the way of the army and he was an officer. But it did not diminish his personal feelings towards Jenkins. At least he retained his beloved rifle company and it seemed that they were returning to war.

  *

  The message left at Ian’s club mystified him. It was an invitation to meet with Ella at a tea shop not far from the barracks.

  When he entered the cosy shop, he noticed her sitting alone at a table, clothed in a simple but smart dress. For a brief moment, he stood staring at her, drinking in how beautiful she was even without all the glamorous attire of the ball. She glanced up and smiled uncertainly.

  ‘I was pleasantly surprised when I received your invitation to meet with you here,’ Ian said, sitting down opposite the young woman.

  ‘I just wanted to personally express my thank you for the wonderful evening we spent together at Lady Montegue’s ball,’ Ella said. ‘Would you like to share with me tea and cake?’

  ‘It will be a pleasure, Miss Solomon,’ Ian said.

  ‘I would like you to call me Ella. I know that may sound a little forward but I feel comfortable in your presence.’

  ‘Then you must call me Samuel – or Sam,’ Ian said with a smile.

  Tea was ordered and Ella was at first just a little shy in Ian’s company. But he put her at ease, telling funny stories that made her laugh.

  ‘Does your father know that you have come to see me?’ Ian asked, and a dark cloud covered Ella’s face.

  ‘No, my father would not approve of my coming to see you of my own volition.’

  ‘I can promise that your virtue is safe in my company,’ Ian replied.

  ‘I know it is,’ Ella said. ‘There is something about you, Samuel, that makes you different to all the other men I have met in my life, but I suspect, you have been told that by many other women before. I think my father has also recognised that you are a man of honour to be trusted.’

  Impulsively, Ian reached across the table and took her two hands in his own. ‘I only wish that I could share my secret with you,’ he said. ‘But I cannot for now.’

  ‘I would like to meet with you again,’ Ella said.

  ‘And I, you,’ Ian replied. ‘That is our secret then.’

  The afternoon passed too quickly for Ian, as Ella shared her life and dreams with him. He listened, occasionally making a comment that made her laugh or smile, and as the day drew to a close, they both realised that they must return to their respective lives.

  Ian walked away from the tea shop even more confused about life. He had to face the reality that they were from different walks of life. She was Jewish, and he, a nominal Christian. Ian also suspected that if her father found out about his interest in his one and only princess, Ian might disappear in the Thames River. But that did not deter either of them, and the meetings became more common as he and Ella met to take walks in the park, tea in the shops and even an evening meeting at a theatre to watch a play by Shakespeare.

  It was while they were standing under one of the great oak trees in the park that Ella turned to Ian, kissed him passionately on the lips, and broke the kiss by saying with all her heart, ‘Samuel Forbes, I love you.’

  Ian did not know how to respond. The ghost of Jane’s absence in his life still haunted him and there was so much at stake for them both if he answered. He took Ella’s hands in his own.

  ‘It is time that you must return home,’ he said, aware of the pain in the beautiful young woman’s face. The chance of love had once again come into Ian’s life but so, too, had the distant sound of drums and trumpets, calling him to the ancient biblical land of Persia. But before he departed with his regiment, he had just one more visit to make.

  *

  At first, the valet attempted to block Ian from entering the London house of the Forbes family. Ian pushed past his feeble attempt and strode through to the billiard room. Ian was in his uniform and startled both Charles and Sir Archibald, who had been relaxing with a port and cigar. Both men looked up at him as if an ogre had come into their company.

  ‘Samuel, how dare you trespass in this house,’ Sir Archibald protested, spilling port wine on his lap. Charles half rose to meet Ian. He still bore a small scar over his eye as a result of the beating Ian had inflicted on him at the Kent country manor.

  ‘I have no intentions of remaining in your despised presence,’ Ian growled. ‘I have just come to ask one question of Charles.’

  Charles was now on his feet and Ian could see real fear in his eyes as he stood uncertainly gripping his port wine. ‘Ask and leave,’ he said.

  Ian turned to him. ‘What do you know about the disappearance of Jane Wilberforce?’ Ian could see that his question had hit a nerve as Charles paled.

  ‘I do not know what you mean,’ he replied. ‘As far as I know, she left the village to travel to London.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Ian asked bluntly.

  Charles did not immediately reply as Ian stared at him. ‘I heard it told to me by a man in the village,’ he finally replied. ‘But I cannot remember who told me.’

  ‘I and others suspect that Jane has met with foul play, and the only person I can think of who might want to hurt Jane is you, Charles,’ Ian said in a steady and threatening tone. ‘If I ever find evidence that you may have done her harm, I will kill you.’

  ‘How dare you threaten my son,’ Sir Archibald protested from his chair. ‘I will have the constables called to arrest you.’

  ‘You won’t do that,’ Ian said calmly. ‘This family has too many skeletons neither of you would want to be exposed – including Charles conspiring with Colonel Jenkins to have me killed. I am sure that you both know of a letter Alice read while Herbert and I were in the Crimea. Charles apparently dictated that he wanted Jenkins to have us both done away with. No doubt your eldest son does not wish to share any of your fortune with any other of your children.’

  Ian noticed Sir Archibald cast a questioning look at Charles. Ian knew that, despite all his weaknesses, Sir Archibald had been very fond of his youngest son and had truly mourned his death.

  ‘Is what Samuel is saying true?’ Sir Archibald asked Charles. ‘Did you request that Jenkins conspire to have Herbert killed?’

  Charles looked cornered but quickly regained his composure. ‘Samuel is lying,’ he responded. ‘Alice misread the correspondence I had with Jenkins. Herbert’s tragic death was simply the consequence of war, nothing else. It had nothing to do with Jenkins.’

  ‘Well, Sir Archibald,’ Ian said. ‘You should sometime ask Alice what she thought she read in the letter.’ Ian could see that he had put a divide between the two men. ‘It may be possible that your eldest son might tire of waiting for his inheritance. I would be very careful if I were you. Accidents can happen, and I won’t be around to protect you.’

  The stricken expression on Sir Archibald’s face told Ian that the patriarch of the Forbes family was accepting some of what Ian had disclosed. At least Ian felt that he had hammered a nail into the coffin he hoped to lay in the ground one day containing Charles’ body. Ian felt that Charles did nothing without Sir Archibald’s knowledge, and if Jane had been murdered by Charles, Sir Archibald would be aware of how far Charles would go to eliminate anyone who stood in his way.

  ‘I will leave you both,’ Ian said and turned his back on them to leave the house. Ian left with a good feeling that he had achieved in a subtle way a division between allies. It was, after all, a military tactic to divide forces. For now, he knew he must steam with his troops to another war but was happy to leave in his wake a very shaky house that might collapse on itself.

  Epilogue

  London

  Winter, 1856

  The Christmas spirit was on the faces in the snow-swept streets of London.

 
; Wearing a heavy military greatcoat, Ian Steele trudged towards the public house where he knew he would find Conan and Owen. He entered the smoke-filled room, shaking off the bitter cold, and saw the two soldiers sitting at a table. They greeted him with warm smiles as he sat down.

  ‘Well, sir it would be our pleasure to buy you a drink,’ Owen said.

  ‘An ale would be fine, Corporal Williams.’ Ian said, and Owen paused as he was about to stand.

  ‘Sir, I am Private Williams,’ Owen said, correcting his company commander.

  ‘Not anymore, Corporal,’ Ian said with a grin. ‘I was able to have our former colonel approve your promotion before he left the regiment. As a matter of fact, he also approved Conan to the rank of sergeant,’ Ian said, turning to face Conan Curry, who almost dropped his tankard of ale. ‘Congratulations to you both.’ For a moment both men were speechless. ‘I suppose you can view it as an early Christmas present. Sergeant Curry, you can pass on your chevrons to Corporal Williams.’

  ‘Sir, we cannot thank you enough for putting in the good word for Owen and me,’ Conan finally said.

  ‘You both proved your worth in the Crimea, and the colonel knew that. All I did was sign the recommendation for your promotions. I believe it is the tradition that you stand drinks for the bar.’

  And the two men did.

  Ian left them after a couple of rounds and made his way back to his club. Peter Campbell had finally succeeded in his persistent endeavours to marry Alice, and had moved out for modest but comfortable private lodgings not far from Alice’s family house in London. Even Sir Archibald and her brother had attended the wedding in London, reluctantly showing faces of pleasure for the union. They had accepted that if they did not agree then Alice would simply elope with the Canadian causing scandal on the Forbes name.

  The wedding was a simple affair held before Christmas. The officers of the regiment presented an arch of swords when the married couple left the church in one of London’s better suburbs. Alice wore a simple but elegant wedding dress, and at her throat was an extravagant necklace gifted by Ian from jewels he had taken in the Crimea. She was radiant as the snow fell gently on the red-coated officers forming the arch of swords and Peter in his military uniform. He too, beamed with absolute pleasure. Ian had stood in as best man, and the honeymoon was to be taken in India, where Peter’s brother, Major Scott Campbell, held a commission with an East India Company cavalry regiment. Alice had always wanted to visit the Crown Jewel of the British Empire, after reading so many stories of its exotic culture and, after all, her own family had made a fortune years earlier, from trade with India.

  Christmas Day was spent with Peter and Alice at their apartments, and the day proved to be good for Ian’s soul. He returned to the club in the early evening and chose to spend the rest of the evening in his rooms. The regiment was to sail early in the new year and Ian pondered the next campaign. His thoughts were also of Jane’s disappearance. He now accepted that she was most probably dead. The pain of confronting the reality of her mysterious disappearance haunted him in his sleeping hours and when he awoke, a new face also haunted him: Ella. But it was too soon as Ian still mourned the loss of Jane, the child they were supposed to have had, and the uncertainty of living through yet another war.

  *

  Within days, Ian boarded a troop ship to steam to the ancient biblical lands of Persia. It was early evening as the warships built up steam to catch the tide and depart the Thames. Ian stood at the rail of his transport ship, gazing at the docks where only the families and a few friends stood in little clusters to wave their beloved goodbye. It was not the fanfare of the regiment leaving for Crimea, with its parades, bugles and trumpets. This time it was simply a matter of the British army and navy going to a place to settle a local conflict, which did not attract the same attention as when they were off to fight a major European power.

  He gazed at the people on the dock, suddenly recognising one face. It was Ella, staring up at him with deep, sad eyes, and a wan smile. Ian’s heart beat hard in his chest, and his breathing laboured. He had never expected to see her again, but here she was, waving to him with a dainty handkerchief. She was mouthing words but he could not hear her over the tooting of the ship’s steam horn, and thump of its engines, as the ship slipped its ropes, and pulled away from the wharf.

  Ian wanted to rush to her, embrace her slim body as if never to let her go again in his life. He had realised his dream to be a soldier of the Queen, but it had come at a great cost to him personally. One of his worst enemies was now his commanding officer, and how many campaigns lay ahead until he fulfilled the ten years of military service promised to the real Samuel Forbes?

  The waves splashed against the hull as Ian desperately tried to keep Ella in sight. But the ship steamed towards the mouth of the Thames, and yet another military campaign, this time along the banks of the Euphrates River and the adjacent desert land that had seen many armies pass before.

  Author Notes

  Landmines, trench warfare, no man’s land, telegraph lines, railways, photographic records, the rifled musket, explosive artillery shells, and the odd war correspondent or two thrown in to the Crimean War, marked it as the first modern war of the nineteenth century before even the American Civil War six years later. It was a geopolitical war as most are today. The French and British helping the Ottoman Empire contain the Russian Empire from expanding to the Black Sea, giving the Russians a sea lane to the Mediterranean for their expanding navy. This was not acceptable to imperial designs by the British and French empires so feeble excuses were found to contain the Russian Tsar, and war was declared, despite the fact that the Russians had been the allies of Britain when facing Napoleon’s French and Allied armies years forty years earlier.

  Of all the sources I found most useful I must praise Elizabeth Grey’s The Noise of Drums and Trumpets: W.H. Russell Reports from the Crimea, Longman Group Ltd, London 1971. Russell witnessed all the major battles and reported via telegraph to his readers The Times of London almost in real time. He was the father of present day war correspondents and in 1882 he is quoted as saying about his colourful life: I wonder what would have come of it all had I followed the quiet path . . . instead of those noisy drums and trumpets. As the author of this fictional novel I am glad that he followed the noisy drums and trumpets.

  All the battle scenes are lifted from his eye-witness accounts, and the looting of the Russian baggage train actually happened as portrayed within the pages of this book, with many officers and soldiers acquiring small and large fortunes. That was very convenient for my characters of Captain Ian Steele and his loyal entourage.

  To Australian and New Zealand readers the name of Gallipoli Village would mark a name in 1915 that cemented the unbreakable bond between our two nations – except on the rugby and cricket fields – when we go to war with each other.

  Naturally this is a book of fiction but the history is real. During the nineteenth century every year the British army found itself fighting colonial wars in so many exotic places from Asia to Africa and beyond. Campaigns today mostly forgotten. Captain Ian Steele will march with his rifle company in the books ahead with Sergeant Conan Curry, VC and Corporal Owen Williams. There will be scores to be settled, and wars to be won in the name of Queen Victoria’s empire.

  Acknowledgements

  My thanks go as always to my publisher, Cate Paterson, and all at Pan Macmillan who work indirectly to keep the logistics of publication flowing smoothly. In particular Tracey Cheetham and Lucy Inglis in publicity and the all very important editorial staff of Bec Hamilton, Libby Turner and proofreader, Alex Craig. My thanks are also extended to LeeAnne Walker and Milly Ivanovic.

  For the ongoing Frontier project I would like to thank Rod Hardy, Paul Currie and Suzanne de Passe. All we have to do is persevere.

  Thanks to Kristie Hildebrand who keeps me in contact with readers through Facebook and Peter and Kaye Lowe who ma
intain the website www.peterwatt.com.

  A special thank you to Betty Irons OAM, Bob Mansfield and Dan Grey, who have kept me in contact with readers at the Maclean Community Markets for many years.

  To John and June Riggall – John has given his time to help establish the Australian Volunteer Emergency Services Legacy along with members from the Gulmarrad Rural Fire Brigade. To all the men and women of the volunteer emergency services I have worked alongside over the year in flood and fire my thanks.

  For those friends in my life, Kevin Jones OAM and family, Mick and Andrea Prowse, John Wong, Jan Dean, Dr Louis Trichard and Christine.

  To my family members: my brother Tom Watt and his wonderful family, and my sister Lindy and brother-in-law Jock Barclay. To Tyrone McKee and family. My cousins, Luke and Tim Payne and Virginia Wolfe and their families. My beloved Aunt Joan Payne, a special best wishes. And not forgotten, my cousins of the Duffy clan and their families.

  My gratitude to a few of my friends in prose. As always, Dave Sabben MG and his wife, Di. For Simon Higgins, never forgotten, Greg Barron and his latest release, Whistler’s Bones, Tony Park and his latest release, Captive, and introducing Jay Ludowyke’s debut novel, Carpathia.

  As always, my love and thanks to the lady who reviews my work as it progresses, my beloved wife, Naomi.

  About Peter Watt

  Peter Watt has spent time as a soldier, articled clerk, prawn trawler deckhand, builder’s labourer, pipe layer, real estate salesman, private investigator, police sergeant, surveyor’s chairman and advisor to the Royal Papua New Guinea Constabulary. He speaks, reads and writes Vietnamese and Pidgin. He now lives at Maclean on the Clarence River in northern New South Wales. He has volunteered with the Volunteer Rescue Association, Queensland Ambulance Service and currently with the Rural Fire Service. Fishing and the vast open spaces of outback Queensland are his main interests in life.