Call of Empire, page 11
In the distance, they could hear the very faint sounds across the water of ships hooting horns and the rattle of anchor chains.
Fourteen
In the month of May, death came to the New South Wales contingent.
He did not know it, but on 1 May 1885, Private Robert Weir became the first official Australian to die on active service for his country. It came by way of an invisible enemy that stalked the soldiers: dysentery.
Josiah had strictly enforced the rule ensuring his men only drank the water transported from Suakin, as the wells could not be trusted because they may have been poisoned by the enemy. The foul-tasting water his men were forced to drink had been desalinated at Suakin, then carried by rail or on camels to the forward lines.
A white clay-like substance called kaolin was dispensed for dysentery and Enos Fruit Salts at the first sign of stomach pains. The hospital ship Ganges was anchored offshore to receive patients, but more of the colonial contingent would die as a result of the diseases that had haunted armies ever since the dawn of warfare in massed formations. Life was miserable, with continual thirst, temperatures of 105 degrees Fahrenheit, sunstroke and enteric fever.
Josiah knew from his past experience that such outbreaks seemed to be associated with soldiers living in camps, and wished that they could be deployed on long-range patrols in search of the elusive warriors of the Mahdi to escape the cramped conditions. Even he now dreamed of being sent home; this was not the kind of war he had expected.
There was never a day that passed when he did not think about Marian and, as he had done five years earlier, wondered whether he should finish the letter he had commenced writing to her. He continued to write to his family and was shocked to read in a letter from Sam that Conan had been arrested on a charge of murder. Even more gut-wrenching was that the murder had been of his father’s mother. How could this be? Josiah questioned himself and felt helpless that he was not home to provide support for Marian’s father.
When Archie turned up at Josiah’s tent, pale and weak, to complain of having the backdoor trots, Josiah said what the bulk of the New South Wales contingent felt: ‘It’s bloody time the British sent us home. We are doing nothing useful over here.’
*
Ian had been able to bribe the guards to smuggle food into Conan’s cell as the rations provided were so meagre and of such poor quality. In later years, famous poet Henry Lawson, who had been imprisoned in the gaol for drunkenness and failing to pay alimony, would write a poem in which he used the term starvinghurst to describe the conditions. At least with Ian’s name and money, Conan was able to get sufficient food. Each time he visited, Ian assured his friend that he was working to have him released.
After one such visit, Ian attended the barrister’s office to ascertain any developments and finally had something to proceed on.
‘Do you know a Mr James Courtney?’ Humphrey Gooding asked, peering at Ian over his spectacles. ‘A gentleman in his mid-seventies and, from what my investigator has told me, he has advanced consumption. The police have his written statement that he witnessed the Curry brothers together in the vicinity of your mother’s house on the night of her slaying.’
Ian struggled to remember the residents of his village all those years ago, but the name was vaguely familiar. ‘I think I knew the man,’ Ian said. ‘At the time I was a blacksmith, I sold him a shovel he promised to pay me for, but failed to do so. If I remember correctly, he was always suspected of stealing from neighbours and was in trouble with the magistrate. So, he is the prosecution witness?’
‘Yes, and the prosecution are determined to have him appear before the court and repeat his statement. It is a rather damning account, but if what you say is true and I can verify his nefarious conduct, it will go to his lack of credibility, which is something I can use to further our case for Mr Curry’s innocence. He admits in his statement that he did not witness the murder of your mother.’
‘We have the problem that both Conan and his brother fled the village the day after,’ Ian added. ‘Their disappearance looked suspicious, and that is why the police undertook to hunt them down.’
‘Circumstantial, old chap,’ Humphrey said. ‘Simply coincidental timing that they chose to search for work elsewhere that same night.’
Ian glanced at the man opposite him with a frown. Circumstantial or not, he expected any jury could draw their own conclusion when it was linked with evidence provided by the witness, even one whose credibility would be brought into question. This was a game where a man’s life was on the line, and it could easily go either way with a jury. Ian knew that he would kill to defend his best friend, but also knew if the witness met a violent end, it would be blamed on Conan.
But there were other ways to prevent the witness from testifying.
‘If the main witness against Conan could not appear in court, what do you think the odds would be for a not guilty verdict?’
Humphrey looked sharply at Ian. ‘Colonel Steele, I hope you are not thinking about doing something nefarious?’
‘Something nefarious? Yes,’ Ian replied. ‘But not what you think.’
Humphrey shook his head. ‘I don’t think I wish to know what you are thinking, and will deny forever your statement here today.’
Ian rose from his chair with a mysterious smile. ‘There are many ways to skin a cat,’ he said and bade a good afternoon to the barrister, who was frowning as Ian left the office.
Ian returned to his house on the harbour where he was met by his wife, Isabel.
‘How is Conan bearing up?’ she asked.
‘As expected,’ Ian replied, giving her a peck on the cheek. ‘I must apologise, but I have to pack for a short visit to our old village.’
Isabel cast her husband a questioning look. ‘Why do you need to return there?’ she asked.
He smiled grimly. ‘The solution to one of Conan’s problems still lives there. James Courtney.’
‘I remember him,’ Isabel said. ‘A rather nasty man, if I remember correctly.’ Then she looked at her husband with an expression of horror, remembering how Ian had handled the man who had bashed and raped her years earlier.
When Ian noticed his wife’s concerned expression, he said quickly, ‘Nothing untoward is going to happen to Courtney. But I have a plan.’
Isabel relaxed, knowing that Ian’s word was his bond. ‘Just be careful, my love,’ she said, reaching out to touch his cheek.
‘There is nothing to fear. I’m still held in high regard by those who knew me as the village blacksmith.’
Isabel accepted his reassurance and assisted him to pack a few items for his visit to the little village at the foot of the Great Dividing Range west of Sydney. He intended to take his coach, so his next stop was to find Will Bowden.
Will was sitting in the shade of one of the imported trees, smoking his pipe and gazing out at the harbour. He stood immediately at Ian’s approach.
‘A good afternoon to you, boss,’ he said.
‘Will, you and I are going on a trip west of Sydney to carry out a vital task that could mean the difference between life or death.’
‘Who we goin’ to dispose of?’ Will asked, remembering that their ‘task’ years earlier had been to track down and kill the senior public servant who had violated Mrs Steele. The job had paid well, and Will had no regrets.
Ian grinned. ‘No, Will, not dispose of. A friendly talk only. We will stop over at that inn on the outskirts of Parramatta and in the morning, we should arrive at the village. All going well, we should be home late tomorrow night.’
Will looked visibly relieved and hurried away to prepare their one-horse gig for the journey. When he had done so, the two men commenced the trip to Parramatta.
Ian said little of what he had planned, but the two men discussed their sons in the Sudan. Will said that George had written regularly and was well, having recovered from a bout of fever. He had also mentioned that Josiah was a grand officer, liked and respected by the soldiers of his platoon. But George had also said the men were keen to return home, as they felt they were contributing little in the war. Ian spoke of how Josiah had expressed the same sentiments and that he felt the campaign had turned into a job for navvies, not soldiers.
They passed by big wagons bringing bales of wool from out west, and other multi-horse-drawn wagons with other agricultural goods to supply the growing city. By nightfall, they had reached the inn at Parramatta and Ian’s money secured them good lodgings.
After a hearty breakfast, they set out on the final leg to Ian’s home village, which he was surprised to see had grown and now showed signs of prosperity. There were new shops, and on the streets he saw only the faces of strangers. He passed by his old blacksmith shop, which had been expanded into a wagon-building enterprise.
‘Where to, boss?’ Will asked, and Ian directed him outside of the village. Ian had been given Courtney’s address by the barrister, and prayed that his trip would be worth it.
Blowflies swarmed around the ramshackle bark hut and when Ian and Will approached through the overgrown garden, they could see the hut had its wooden door hanging half off its hinges. Ian stepped inside to see the ghostly figure of a scarecrow-like man lying on a straw mattress. At Ian’s intrusion, the pale man with red-rimmed eyes struggled to sit up and rasped, ‘Who’s there? You gonna rob me?’
‘You have nothing to fear, Mr Courtney,’ Ian replied. ‘My name is Colonel Ian Steele. I remember you from when I used to own the blacksmith shop here.’
The sickly man was able to struggle into a sitting position, but immediately fell into a severe coughing fit. Ian kept his distance, using a handkerchief to cover his face, while Will remained well back in the doorway.
‘Ian Steele,’ Courtney finally said in a weak voice. ‘Youse the blacksmith who got famous. Me mates told me all about youse. They was proud that youse came from ’ere. Whaddaya doin’ ’ere?’
‘I returned home to look up some old friends and I heard you were not well,’ Ian lied. ‘Now I can see you need help.’
Courtney tried to scoff, but that set off another coughing episode. Ian was patient and when the coughing subsided, he continued. ‘As a valued member of the village, I thought that I might be able to help one of my previous customers.’ Ian did not add that Courtney had never paid him for the shovel purchased so long ago, doubting that the dying man would even remember. ‘I can arrange to have a doctor tend to you on a regular basis and food delivered every other day.’
Courtney started to laugh, but checked himself. ‘Hell will freeze over first,’ he said. ‘I’d rather have a bottle of rum an’ kill meself.’
‘I will fetch you a bottle of rum today,’ Ian replied, ‘and I am sure that a doctor would prescribe strong painkillers for your suffering.’
‘Why would youse do that?’ Courtney asked suspiciously.
‘Because I heard that the traps want to drag you into Sydney to give evidence in a court case against Conan Curry, and that would cause you considerable suffering. The police are not interested in your welfare. All they care about is that you give your evidence,’ Ian said. ‘I remember well how there was a time you hated the police and here you are, in your last days, helping them against the Curry boys, who never did you any harm.’
‘The traps, they came weeks ago and threatened me,’ Courtney said, his eyes still bright enough to show his shrewdness. ‘But if youse bring that bottle of rum, maybe I won’t be remembering what happened all those years ago.’
‘I will not lie to you, Mr Courtney. I can see the consumption has taken its toll and I have seen the last signs of death in a man’s face many times. But I will ensure you are comfortable in your last days on this earth,’ Ian swore.
With a shallow sigh, Courtney fell back against the filthy pillow, cradling his head. ‘Just get me the rum,’ he said.
Ian nodded before stepping into the morning sunshine. A crow cawed its lazy song in the distance and Ian could hear the occasional barking of a dog drifting from the nearby village that had once been his home. For a moment, he was transported to the days of wielding a hammer in the blacksmith’s forge.
‘Time to return to the village and satisfy a promise,’ he said to Will.
Within minutes of arriving, Ian had purchased a bottle of good rum and then stopped off at his old blacksmith shop.
A solidly built man around his own age was hammering out a wagon rim. He glanced up and blinked as if attempting to focus on the man wearing a good suit standing in the doorway. Then, suddenly, he recognised Ian.
‘Cap’n Steele! What are you doing here?’
‘Francis Sweeney. It appears that you have extended the shop,’ Ian said warmly to his former apprentice whom he had turned over the business to years earlier.
Frank brushed his hands on his leather apron and Ian accepted the firm, calloused handshake. ‘It has been a while since you were last around the district. How is your family?’ The reunion was warm and the questions genuine. Ian introduced Will to Frank and gave a brief report of his family. Frank in turn informed Ian that his family had grown to seven children, a mix of boys and girls ranging from twenty-two to five.
‘Are you staying for a while?’ Frank asked.
Ian shook his head. ‘I have pressing business back in Sydney, but hope to visit again and meet your family. But I have a favour to ask before I leave,’ Ian continued, and laid out how he wanted Frank to organise a food delivery to Courtney, and also a doctor to drop in occasionally to look to the man’s failing health. Ian produced a wad of notes, handing it to Frank. ‘This will cover the services and you for your trouble.’
‘You don’t need to pay me,’ Frank said, but still accepted the money for expenses. ‘One of my boys will look after Mr Courtney.’
‘You were the only man here who I trusted to help me out,’ Ian replied.
Will and Ian returned to the bark hut and handed over the bottle of rum to Courtney, whose shaking hands were still strong enough to lift the bottle to his lips. He took a gulp and looked up at Ian. ‘I’d be thankin’ youse, boss,’ he said.
Ian bade him a good morning, departing with Will for their journey back to Sydney.
Within the week, Ian received a letter from Frank, who regretted to say that after a couple of days, Mr Courtney had passed away. The doctor gave his verdict that the man had drunk himself to death.
‘There are worse ways to die,’ Ian muttered, folding the letter.
Fifteen
Detective Paull was called to his inspector’s office at CIB headquarters and already knew it had to be about his arrest of Conan Curry VC. He had already been informed that his prime witness had died from tuberculosis, considerably weakening his case, but was determined to proceed with the prosecution.
When he entered the office, he noticed a well-dressed middle-aged man he vaguely remembered seeing at the attorney-general’s office once. He was sitting in a chair adjacent to the inspector’s desk with his hat in his lap.
‘Detective Paull, this is Mr Egbert Conway, representing the attorney-general. He has something to tell us regarding your case against Curry.’
‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘After our office reviewed your case, and with your prime witness now unable to attend court, we feel that there is not enough evidence to mount a reasonable prosecution against Mr Curry.’
Andrew frowned. ‘Sir, with all due respect, I feel that the circumstantial evidence I have been able to gather is strong enough to continue. I –’
The attorney-general’s man raised his hand and leaned forward. ‘You have to understand. At this stage, the newspapers have not got wind of his arrest, but their crime reporters are getting suspicious. It would not bode well if they learned we have a man of Mr Curry’s high esteem being held at Darlinghurst in these rather patriotic times. It is not in the political interests of the government to pursue the prosecution of this man based on such a flimsy amount of evidence, especially with Mr Humphrey Gooding as his defence barrister.’
Andrew very well knew of the barrister’s reputation for getting the most apparently guilty of men off charges in court. He was a man with a sharp intelligence and winning manner before a jury.
‘Mr Curry may or may not be guilty of the charge of murder, but it is not in the interest of justice to attempt to prosecute.’
Andrew knew that politics trumped justice in the colony, and realised he was not going to win this argument. He turned to his boss. ‘Sir, if you order me to drop the investigation, I will,’ he said bitterly.
‘Then I am directing you to drop the investigation, Detective Paull. Mr Curry will be freed forthwith,’ the inspector said. ‘I know that you have been diligent in all that you have done. This will not be any black mark on your service record and I am sure you have other cases to pursue. If there is nothing else, you are dismissed back to your duties.’
Andrew felt as if he had been delivered a kick in the stomach, and left the office with a sour taste in his mouth. So close to closing a case of murder, yet time had beaten him with the gap of thirty years.
Andrew knew that Colonel Steele had visited his prime witness only days before he had died. Had Steele somehow arranged the witness’s death? Two men linked to the case, and two men the intelligent and dogged detective knew in his gut were guilty of dodging the long arm of the law. But there was no statute of limitation on murder and one day, they just might slip up. When they did, he would be there to arrest them.
*
It was a joyous moment when Conan returned home. Molly wept with happiness, as did Marian. Even Ian wiped at the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. Bottles of beer were opened and the celebrating quartet were quickly joined by Isabel and Becky.
