The Silent Frontier (13 page)

Lachlan reported to the company orderly room that he was back from his leave, but as he stepped from the tent to return to his quarters he saw Sergeant Forster hurrying towards him with two armed soldiers in tow.

‘Private MacDonald,’ Forster roared across the hard-packed parade area, ‘stop where you are.’

Lachlan ceased walking and waited for the sergeant and the two soldiers with him to approach.

‘Private MacDonald,’ Forster said when he was a couple of paces away, ‘you are under arrest. Guard, escort Private MacDonald to the cells.’

Lachlan knew the two men who had been detailed to
escort him to the small timber building used as a lock-up mostly for drunken soldiers. He looked at them and they both replied with shrugs and blank looks as if to say that they had just about as much clue as he did why he was being arrested.

‘On what grounds are you having me arrested?’ Lachlan asked Forster angrily.

‘A small matter of a riot you caused at Rogers Criterion Hotel a couple of days ago,’ Forster snarled. ‘And the ensuing assault upon the person of meself.’

‘I never hit you – or caused the fight,’ Lachlan responded. ‘And you know it.’

‘Doesn’t matter what I know, Private MacDonald,’ Forster sneered, thrusting his face into Lachlan’s. ‘What matters is that you are under arrest an’ when yer found guilty, yer get at least fifty lashes of the cat-o’-nine-tails at the triangle.’

Lachlan fought inwardly to control his temper. He wanted to smash his fist into the sergeant’s face, but knew plain well that would get him a court-martial and a hefty prison sentence, so resigned himself to being escorted to the lock-up. No doubt Captain Lightfoot would hear the charge and dismiss it, Lachlan thought as he was led away.

That evening Andrew was able to secure an unofficial visit to Lachlan in his cell. The two guards looked the other way as the two friends spoke through the barred window.

‘We heard the news when Forster came back from Rogers Criterion, ‘Andrew said. ‘He really has it in for you.’

‘I know Captain Lightfoot will listen to my version of what happened,’ Lachlan replied. ‘Forster was drunk and spoiling for a fight. The man is mad.’

‘Captain Lightfoot is away at the regiments headquarters,’ Andrew said gloomily. ‘Lieutenant Grimes is in charge and Forster has been boasting that he will do anything that
Forster tells him to do. The men are saying that Grimes is frightened of Forster. Is there anything we can do for you?’

‘Not really,’ Lachlan replied. ‘But thanks for the offer. It looks as if I will have to take my chances with Grimes.’

The following morning Sergeant Forster came for Lachlan and ordered the guards to escort him to the orderly room. They passed a British regular soldier wearing his best dress uniform and the chevrons of a corporal. Lachlan was curious as to his presence outside the orderly room and when the soldier caught Lachlan’s eye he looked away with an expression akin to guilt.

Lachlan was marched into the orderly room, where Lieutenant Grimes was waiting for him behind a desk cleared of all articles except a couple of sheets of paper. Lachlan came to a crashing halt, saluted the officer, removed his cap and waited at attention. Forster stood behind him and the two guards took a pace back. Grimes read out the two charges of assaulting a superior officer and disobeying a lawful order.

‘Private MacDonald,’ Lieutenant Grimes said, clearing his throat, ‘how do you plead?’

‘Not guilty, sir,’ Lachlan replied, staring beyond the officer’s head to where a picture of a young Queen Victoria hung on the wall.

‘Sergeant Forster, present your evidence,’ Grimes said.

Forster recited his story in martinet fashion, accusing Lachlan of striking him during a brawl that Forster claimed Lachlan had instigated when he had been ordered to produce his leave pass for inspection. Lachlan listened to the litany of lies spilling from the senior NCO’s mouth.

‘And I have witnesses from the British regulars who were
present that day,’ he concluded. ‘Corporal Martingale is outside if he is required to give his statement of facts to corroborate my version of events, sir.’

Lachlan now knew that the soldier waiting outside must have been a drinking partner of the militia sergeant and prepared to lie in support of Forster. ‘Sir,’ Lachlan spoke up, ‘I did not instigate the brawl and I would like it noted that Sergeant Forster was drunk when he ordered me to produce my pass. I did not have the opportunity to do so as a fight broke out and I wisely departed the hotel bar to avoid becoming involved in what eventuated. At no time did I knowingly disobey Sergeant Forster nor strike him. If he was struck, it was not by me. I have a witness to verify what I am saying is true and a correct version of what happened that day in the hotel bar.’

As if deep in thought, the officer stared at Lachlan before speaking. ‘Can you produce your witness, Private MacDonald?’ he finally asked.

But thinking now about Michael Duffy, Lachlan realised that he would be drawing attention to his friend when the last thing he needed was scrutiny. ‘I am afraid my witness is not currently available,’ Lachlan replied.

‘Then, if I should call on Corporal Martingale, a man with an impeccable record of service to the Queen, and he can corroborate Sergeant Forster’s version of the events, it will leave me with no other recourse than to punish you to the full extent of the army code of conduct. What do you say to that?’

‘I would prefer that Captain Lightfoot hear the charge, sir,’ Lachlan replied quietly.

This seemed to anger the young officer. ‘Captain Lightfoot has passed on the command to me, Private MacDonald, and in his absence I have his powers of
command. That also means his powers to hear all charges of this nature.’

Lachlan was not sure if this was correct, but recognised that he was in a tight spot. If the British corporal gave evidence, he would no doubt damn Lachlan with his lies.

‘I still plead not guilty to the charges, sir,’ Lachlan said softly.

The British corporal was called in and presented his evidence. Clearly he and the Australian sergeant had conspired to get their stories straight enough to sound convincing.

After presenting his evidence the corporal was excused. ‘I can only find you guilty of all charges, Private MacDonald,’ Grimes said, shuffling the papers before him. ‘But since your recent show of courage in saving Captain Lightfoot’s life I am empowered to show leniency,’ he said, fidgeting with the charge sheets. ‘I am going to sentence you to fifty lashes at the triangle at 10 a.m. tomorrow morning. The unit is to be paraded to witness your punishment as a deterrent to others who may consider committing such serious offences. There will also be a three-month stoppage of pay. You will not, however, be cashiered from the army and hopefully after your punishment you will prove to be a good soldier. Do you have anything further to say, Private MacDonald?’

Lachlan continued to stare at the wall behind the officer. ‘No, sir,’ he replied and could almost feel Forster’s pleasure. At least he would remain in the army and New Zealand.

Lachlan waived breakfast the following day and was marched out to the parade ground where the wooden triangle was set up. He was stripped of his jacket, tied by his hands to the wooden frame and the two soldiers assigned to deliver the punishment stepped forward with the thonged lashes in their
hands. Across the frame Lachlan could see his comrades glaring malevolently at Lieutenant Grimes and Sergeant Forster, who were standing by to supervise the punishment.

‘Stick this in yer mouth,’ one of Lachlan’s guards said under his voice as he tied Lachlan’s hands. It was a piece of stick, which Lachlan accepted gratefully between his teeth. ‘You don’t deserve this, as all the lads know,’ the guard muttered quietly lest he be overheard.

A drum rolled and Lachlan felt the first lash from the cat-o’-nine-tails strike his back. The pain seared through his body and he bit down on the stick in his mouth. It was followed by another lash. One by one the lashes were counted off. At twenty-five the second soldier took over and Lachlan felt the sweat of pain roll down his face. He refused to cry out and give Forster the pleasure of knowing he was being hurt. Instead, he grunted with each lash until, mercifully, it was complete, and the drum beat fell silent. Lachlan was still on his feet but could feel the blood running down his back.

When the regimental surgeon stepped in to examine him and ask if he was well, Lachlan merely glared at him. The surgeon stepped back and nodded his head to Lieutenant Grimes. Then the bindings were untied from Lachlan’s wrists and he felt himself being gently lowered to the ground. The parade was dismissed and Andrew ran over to Lachlan’s side.

‘The bastard will burn in hell,’ Andrew spat bitterly. ‘Can you stand, old chap?’

Lachlan struggled to his feet with a tight grin on his face. ‘Is it over?’ he asked with a crooked grin. ‘I was just starting to enjoy it.’

ELEVEN

W
hen Captain Charles Lightfoot returned from regiment headquarters, he was informed of the punishment and Lachlan was called up to his office. The wounds inflicted by the lash were still painful.

Lightfoot was standing by a window with his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Private MacDonald,’ he said with a pained expression on his face as he turned to face Lachlan, ‘I am bitterly disappointed in your behaviour. I had thought very highly of you until now, but what you did is not tolerated in Her Majesty’s colonial forces.’

‘I was not guilty, sir,’ Lachlan said quietly.

‘Damn it!’ Lightfoot exploded, turning his back on Lachlan. ‘You were found guilty on the evidence of two fine NCOs. The army is incapable of making mistakes and it does not serve you well to continue defending your supposed innocence to the charges.’

Lachlan had not expected this reaction from the man whose life he had saved, but he weathered the explosive outburst, realising that it was futile to attempt to defend himself.

‘What else do you have to say for yourself?’ Lightfoot asked, turning to glare at Lachlan.

‘Nothing, sir,’ Lachlan answered.

‘then you are dismissed,’ Lightfoot spat.

Lachlan saluted, turned about and marched out of the office. He stood in the early evening breeze, confused. Had he been foolish to even consider that Captain Lightfoot might have been sympathetic to him? Lachlan knew that Lightfoot had as much as called him a liar and that rankled more than anything. The young Scot’s upbringing had impressed the importance of honesty, but he was growing to recognise that the captain was far more treacherous than any of Australia’s deadly snakes. Was it possible that Lightfoot suspected his feelings for his sister? It could well be so.

Lachlan hardly marched back to his tent. It was more like a shamble. Michael Duffy’s invitation to join the Rangers was appearing a more inviting proposition with each miserable day that passed.

John missed Nicholas more than he wished to admit. But the friendship he had forged with the Duffy clan and Max Braun helped pass the days of yearning.

As it was, both he and Nicholas had decided that he would explore any possibilities in Sydney for expanding their enterprises. The profits that flowed from the lucrative contracts with the army and navy in New Zealand required reinvestment. Both men were growing richer and had cemented their business partnership with a formal document. They were now MacDonald & Busby, Merchants, and
it had been Nicholas who had first mooted the potential of the newly established sugar cane growing industry of southern Queensland. Sugar cane was the basis of rum and the far-off American war between the states had seriously curtailed the local industry.

John spent his days in interviews with bankers and men who had some understanding of the sugar industry in the Caribbean Islands. He had been fortunate when Daniel introduced him to a couple of the Erin’s patrons who had worked in the cane industry as supervisors on slave plantations. The possibility now loomed that he and Nicholas might expand to landowners in the still somewhat mysterious colony that had claimed the lives of so many illustrious explorers.

John sent a telegram to Melbourne to report on his progress and said he was looking forward to sharing an evening with Daniel, whom he found to be an extremely intelligent young man. When he arrived at the hotel, he was warmly welcomed by Frank Duffy.

‘Max has someone in the bar he thinks you might like to meet,’ he said, opening the back door to the kitchen. For just a moment, John’s hopes soared. Was it his brother returned? ‘A fellow, who knew your father on the goldfields,’ Frank continued, dissipating John’s optimism.

John made his way into the bar. It was not a busy night and Max greeted him. ‘The man over there,’ he said, indicating a table where a man sat nursing a tumbler of rum. ‘He knew your father and older brother.’

John ordered a whiskey and made his way to the table, accompanied by Max.

‘My name is John MacDonald,’ he said, standing in front of the table. ‘Mr Braun has told me that you knew my brother and father at Ballarat.’

‘My name’s Joseph Leeson,’ the man said, glancing up at the two men. He was in his late fifties, bald and had a long, black beard streaked with grey. His clothing gave him away as not being from the city. ‘Have a seat.’

‘I was talking to Max last evening when he just happened to mention how you had been at the Eureka stockade the day the red-coats came,’ Leeson said. ‘He said that you lost your brother and father in the bloody massacre.’

‘That is right,’ John replied, curious as to where the conversation was leading. ‘My father was Hugh MacDonald and my brother was Thomas.’

‘Thought so,’ Leeson continued. ‘I saw them struck down. I was only a few yards away but fighting for my own life at the time. I was not able to help them, I’m sorry.’

‘You need not feel any guilt, Mr Leeson. You are probably lucky to be here today, considering what happened.’

‘It was bloody murder, what they did to your father and brother,’ Leeson said, taking a long swig of his rum. ‘Your father wasn’t even armed and that bastard trap Samuel Forster slew him with a bayonet. Then that bastard red-coat officer Charles Lightfoot hacked down your brother with his sabre.’

John almost forgot the drink on the table in front of him. ‘I gather that you mean my father and brother were murdered,’ John stated coldly, remembering the promise sworn to his dying brother.

‘That is what I saw,’ Leeson said. ‘Cold, bloody murder. I heard later around the camp fires that Lightfoot took a fair bit of money from your father and used it to further himself in the army.’

‘Do you know what became of the two?’ John asked.

Leeson shrugged. ‘Lightfoot probably returned with his regiment to England and as for Forster, well I would be
surprised to hear that he is still alive. He had more than a few enemies amongst the miners. There’d be plenty prepared to meet him on a dark night and settle scores for his treatment of us on the fields. He was a real bastard. Some said mad. If he had a set on a miner for no particular reason, he would make his life hell. I kind of hope that is where he is right now.’

John thanked Leeson for his information and sat quietly for a moment, stunned by the news.

The old German patted John roughly on the shoulder. ‘I know this is a hard thing for you to hear,’ he added quietly. ‘But there is something else you should know. When Lachlan last wrote to us, he told us about his new life in the army.’

John stared at Max intently and the bartender shook his head with a frown. ‘That man Mr Leeson was talking about? That bad red-coat, Charles Lightfoot? He’s your brother’s commanding officer.’

Lachlan and Andrew found themselves stationed with a detachment of their comrades at a wooden stockade located near a creek mouth south-west of Drury. Lachlan welcomed the garrison and guard duties away from the hated Sergeant Samuel Forster. He was washing his pannikin in a metal tub after breakfast when he heard the gunfire. From his reckoning it was coming from the direction of a feature only a mile away known as Bald Hills where he knew a company of the Mauku Forest Rifles were stationed in a fortified church.

‘What do you think it is?’ Andrew asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Lachlan replied. ‘But there is a fair bit of it going on. No doubt someone will tell us soon enough.’

Lieutenant Perceval, commander of Lachlan’s militia detachment, called his men to arms and waited. Within the
hour a rider galloped to their stockade. He did not bother dismounting and all watching could see his excitement.

‘Sir, with Mr Lusk’s compliments, the natives are massing in the valley between the hills. He requires your men to defend the church. He has dispatched a messenger to Drury for other reinforcements.’

Lieutenant Perceval was a young officer with no combat experience to date and Lachlan was not surprised to learn that he had been ordered to the creek mouth stockade to garrison the wooden fortress. The captain was putting all his less experienced men and officers away from his company in the event that he be called on to engage the Maori in a significant engagement.

Already Lachlan and the others had grabbed their kit, readying themselves for a fight. Rifles were given a closer inspection to ensure no parts were faulty. Corporal Power had the men fall in for a parade and awaited further orders from their commander. The orderly had already galloped away to rejoin his unit at the church and inform Lieutenant Lusk that the message had been delivered.

‘Men fully kitted and ready to march, sir,’ Corporal Power barked, when he was approached by the young lieutenant.

‘We are not going to join Mr Lusk,’ Perceval said aloud so that his men could hear him. ‘We are going to move to the right for Titi Hill where, according to my calculations, we will be able to outflank any attack on the church and thus surprise the natives. I am sure that is a much better idea than joining our comrades in the defences.’

Lachlan felt uneasy. He caught a glimpse of the expression on the corporal’s face and knew that it was one of disagreement. But like a good soldier, the corporal knew to obey orders from superiors, and so ordered the thirteen men
of the detachment to set off with the young lieutenant in command.

The wounds to Lachlan’s back had not healed completely and the strenuous effort of hiking through the timbered country took its toll on his strength. Beside him, Andrew kept a wary eye on his friend.

‘Do you think Perceval knows what he is doing?’ Andrew asked in a hushed voice as they made their way in a skirmish line through the timber, always alert to a sudden ambush.

‘He’s the officer,’ Lachlan grunted as they struggled towards the crest of Titi Hill.

Then it happened. Over the crest swarmed a great mass of semi-naked Maori, screaming blood-chilling war cries, and coming down on the small detachment rapidly.

‘Get to the felled timber!’ Perceval bellowed. ‘Make every round count.’

Lachlan and Andrew scrambled over a huge fallen log and threw themselves into a firing position. Even at a rough guess, Lachlan calculated that they were outnumbered ten to one. As the warriors quickly surrounded the fourteen men of the militia, Lachlan caught sight of a huge Maori wielding an old musket over his head and signalling his orders for the dispersal of his warriors. For a brief moment, Lachlan had a grudging respect for the decisive tactics of encirclement. He drew a sight on the giant warrior and fired. The rifle bit into his shoulder. A cloud of smoke temporarily obscured where he had aimed but as he began to reload he noticed that the warrior was not to be seen. Whether he had hit him or not was irrelevant. None in the small detachment at that moment entertained any hope of surviving. The young officer had clearly blundered and led them to certain death. Beside him, Lachlan could hear Andrew mumbling a prayer as he fired and reloaded.

‘Over here,’ Lachlan heard Corporal Power yell at the top of his voice and between the stands of timber he caught sight of European uniforms. A small relief party had stumbled on them, led by an officer Lachlan recognised as Lieutenant Norman, who had been sent to Drury to pick up their pay.

The defenders in the timber could see the small relief force fighting for every inch of ground as they battled their way towards them. Still vastly outnumbered, they fell in beside Lachlan and his comrades, just as the Maori warriors broke through the gunfire to engage in hand-to-hand combat.

Lachlan had already fitted his rifle with a bayonet. The irony was lost on the young Scot that he and his enemy were now on equal ground. It would be bayonet and rifle butt against war axe and club.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Andrew suddenly stand and wield his rifle over his head like a club. A Maori warrior had leapt over a fallen log to bring his axe down in a wide swing at Andrew’s head. It caught on the stock of the rifle, crashing it down to the earth, leaving Andrew helpless against another attempt with the axe.

Lachlan lunged forward and with the tip of his bayonet caught the warrior in the thigh. The warrior stumbled back, as Andrew scrambled on his hands and knees for his rifle. Although wounded, the warrior roared his defiance and this time came at Lachlan. The world had come down to a tiny place on the earth for Lachlan. This was not the arena of the bare-knuckle boxer who was most likely to walk away from a fight but a case of being up against a man who had every intention of killing him. All around in the forest, similar scenes were being played out. Men cursed and cried for their mothers as they fought to stay alive.

Lachlan was only concerned with his own plight, as already Andrew was engaged in battle with a Maori armed
with a greenstone war club. The half-naked warrior Lachlan was facing was wearing only a small grass skirt but the mass of ornate tattoos over his body made him a fearsome spectacle. He was shouting words in his own language and his rage was obvious. Lachlan realised that even if he had fought this man in the boxing arena he might have come off second best.

The warrior did not launch into an attack immediately. He was sizing Lachlan up, the axe steady in a two-handed grip held to the right of his shoulder above his head. Lachlan stood with one foot slightly forward to balance himself in the classic stance of the bayonet thrust, his rifle fully extended from his body to keep the warrior at bay.

The Maori made a half lunge forward but Lachlan did not fall for the trick. Instead he allowed the huge man to come forward but the warrior was not fooled by Lachlan’s attempt to lure him onto the point of the bayonet and flashed a savage, disconcerting grin at the young Scot.

‘Die Pakeha!’ the Maori roared as he swung the axe in a wide arc, inches from Lachlan’s face. Only Lachlan’s years of fist fighting had prepared him for this moment. The heavy brass butt plate slammed into the Maori warrior’s head and he dropped senseless to the forest floor. Lachlan recovered his stance as the Maori attempted to rise from the ground. Without thinking, Lachlan lunged forward to drive the bayonet square between the warrior’s shoulderblades.