The Adventurers E-Book

Vivian Stuart

• Herausgeber: Jentas Ehf
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: The Australians
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 421

Beschreibung

THEY FLED AN OLD WORLD RAVAGED BY WAR AND HEARTBREAK TO SEIZE THEIR HEARTS' DESIRES IN THE NEW... The ninth book in the dramatic and intriguing story about the colonisation of Australia: a country built on blood, passion, and dreams. Justin Broome, the son of two of the most legendary prisoners in New South Wales, learns that skill and courage do not stand a chance against prejudice. Bitterness and disappointment are mixed with the wear and tear of his everyday life; all the while shiploads of miserable prisoners and free settlers continue to arrive from a war-weary England. Rebels and outcasts, they fled halfway across the earth to settle the harsh Australian wastelands. Decades later — ennobled by love and strengthened by tragedy — they had transformed a wilderness into a fertile land. And themselves into The Australians.

Leseprobe

The Adventurers

The Australians 9 – The Adventurers

© Vivian Stuart, 1983

© eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2021

Series: The Australians

Title: The Adventurers

Title number: 9

ISBN: 978-9979-64-234-3

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

The Australians

The ExilesThe PrisonersThe SettlersThe NewcomersThe TraitorsThe RebelsThe ExplorersThe TravellersThe AdventurersThe WarriorsThe ColonistsThe PioneersThe Gold SeekersThe OpportunistsThe PatriotsThe PartisansThe Empire BuildersThe Road BuildersThe SeafarersThe MarinersThe NationalistsThe LoyalistsThe ImperialistsThe Expansionists

Acknowledgements and Notes

I acknowledge, most gratefully, the guidance received from Lyle Kenyon Engel in the writing of this book, as well as the help and co-operation of the staff at Book Creations, Inc., of Canaan, New York: Marla Ray Engel, Philip Rich, Glenn Novak, Marjorie Weber, Carol Krach, Mary Ann McNally, Jean Sepanski, Charlene DeJarnette and last but by no means least, George Engel. All have given me encouragement and a warm friendship which has made my work as an author so much happier and less lonely than it was before I teamed up with BCI.

I should also like to put on record my appreciation of the help given me by my British publisher, Aidan Ellis of Aidan Ellis Publishing, Ltd., in publicizing The Australians series in the United Kingdom, and of that always so patiently given in the domestic sphere by my spouse and Ada Broadley.

The main books consulted were:

Lachlan Macquarie: M. H. Ellis, Dymock, Sydney, 1947; A Near Run Thing: David Howarth, Darrold, 1971; Waterloo: David Chandler, Osprey, 1980; Australian Explorers: Kathleen Fitzpatrick, Oxford University Press, 1958; The Life of Vice-Admiral William Bligh: George Mackaness, Angus & Robertson, 1931; The Macarthurs of Camden: S.M. Onslow, reprinted by Rigby, 1973 (1914 edition); Description of the Colony of New South Wales: W. C. Wentworth, Whittaker, 1819; The Convict Ships: Charles Bateson, Brown Son & Ferguson, 1959; History of Tasmania: J. West, Dowling, Launceston, 1852; A Picturesque Atlas of Australia: A. Garran, Melbourne, 1886 (kindly lent by Anthony Morris); Macquarie’s World: Marjorie Barnard, Melbourne University Press, 1947; A History of Australia: Marjorie Barnard, Angus & Robertson, 1962 (copy kindly supplied by Bay Books]); Philip Gidley King: Jonathan King and John King, Methuen, 1981; James’s Naval History: William James, Bentley, 1837; Australian Historical Monographs, various titles, edited by George Mackaness, Ford, Sydney, 1956; Francis Greenway: M. H. Ellis, Angus & Robertson, 1949; Let the Great Story Be Told: H. W. Jarvis, Sampson Low, 1945.

These titles were obtained mainly from Conrad Bailey, Antiquarian Bookseller, Sandringham, Victoria. Others relating to the history of Newcastle and Hunter River, New South Wales, were most generously lent by Ian Cottam, and research in Sydney was undertaken by Vera Koenigswarter and May Scullion. Gifts of books for research were received from Kim San tow, members of the Sydney P.E.N., and Women Writers of Australia, and practical help and hospitality in Sydney were given by Neville Drury and Dana Lundmark of Doubleday Australia Pty. and George Molnar. Research material was also made available by John Chisholm Ward of Oskamull, Isle of Mull, a descendant of the Australian Chisholms.

Truth, it is said, is sometimes stranger than fiction. Because this book is written as a novel, a number of fictional characters have been created and superimposed on the narrative. Their adventures and misadventures are based on fact and, at times, will seem to the reader more credible than those of the real-life characters, with whom their stories are interwoven. Nevertheless—however incredible the real-life characters may appear—I have not exaggerated or embroidered the actions of any of them.

Governor Macquarie—truly “the father of Australia” and arguably its best Governor—was treated as badly by the British Colonial Office as I have described. Samuel Marsden, John Macarthur, Jeffrey Hart Bent, Colonel Molle, and Commissioner Bigge were all allied against him and their concerted enmity almost destroyed him. On his return to England, the “Old Viceroy” defended himself valiantly against his detractors, and in particular against the public calumny of Henry Grey Bennet, MP, replying to the latter by means of a printed pamphlet. Macquarie sought an official inquiry but was denied it. He was never paid his pension, although after his death his widow was allowed three hundred pounds a year.

Macquarie died on July 1, 1824, having been kindly received by the Duke of York and Lord Bathurst on June 1, and by King George IV a few days later. He breathed his last in a thirty-four-shilling-a-week lodging in London’s St. James’s. His body was taken to the Isle of Mull, and he is buried there in a family tomb. In the colony he had ruled for twelve years, they mourned his passing as if he had been their king, and only the Macarthurs and their adherents were absent from the memorial service held for him in November 1824.

Elizabeth Macquarie died in 1830; young Lachlan died at the age of only thirty-two.

In the taverns and workshops and on the far-flung farms of the humble emancipist settlers, they sang on Foundation Day:

Macquarie was the prince of men!

Australia’s pride and joy!

We ne’er shall see his like again—

Bring back the Old Viceroy!

(See Lachlan Macquarie, M.H. Ellis)

Finally, I should like to mention that I spent eight years in Australia and returned there, for a very happy visit, in 1982.

Prologue

“Murdoch Henry Maclaine, in view of your youth and the jury’s recommendation that you be treated mercifully,” the old judge had said, emphasizing his words with an admonitory gesture of a bony forefinger, “I shall commute the death sentence pronounced on you. You will, instead, be transported to the penal colony of New South Wales for the term of your natural life. And,” he had added, with derisive piety, “may God have mercy on you!”

Seated in the jolting covered wagon, one of a row of fettered prisoners from Winchester Prison, Murdo Maclaine recalled the scene in the courtroom with remembered bitterness.

True, he had been given his life. He had not been topped, like poor old Sep Todd and Dickie Farmer, his two companions in the ill-fated holdup of the London mail coach. But for all that ... His dark brows met in a resentful pucker. To what manner of life had he been condemned? Botany Bay, some of the other inmates of the jail had told him, was hell on earth for all who were sent out there as convicted felons.

It would be different, of course, for his mother and Jessica and the two bairns. They had gone out with the 73rd Highlanders and Colonel Lachlan Macquarie, who had been appointed Governor of the colony, five years ago. To the best of his knowledge, all four of them were still in Sydney, forced to accompany his brutal swine of a stepfather—Sergeant Major Duncan Campbell of the 73rd—after he himself had run away.

He had it in mind to go out there and join them sooner or later, Murdo reflected, but not, God help him, as a lifer—a wretched convict, in chains! The disgrace would break his mother’s heart, no doubt of that; she had always been a proud woman, and he and Jessica had been brought up in accordance with her strict code of God-fearing honesty. She would be shocked and appalled if she knew that her only son had been tried and convicted of the crime of highway robbery.

Murdo shifted uneasily in his narrow wooden seat. His career on the High Toby with Nick Vincent’s boys had been rewarding, and he could not, for his part, regret having embarked on it. Nick had befriended him, given him a home and work—initially as his groom and horse minder, at five shillings a week. Even that had been better than the miserably paid toil he had been forced to undertake when, as a boy of barely fifteen, he had fled from his stepfather’s bullying into the icy cold of the Glasgow streets in midwinter.

He had begged in those streets, had worked briefly in the cattle market and as a drover, and had finally been employed as a roustabout by a foulmouthed old gypsy peddler, with whom he had come south to Guildford. And there the old skinflint had abandoned him, Murdo recalled bitterly, without settling their score, and making off with the only decent garment he possessed, his oilskin jacket. It had been when he was penniless and near to starvation that Nick Vincent, giving him his horse to mind outside an inn where he had halted to refresh himself, had taken pity on him and offered him work.

“I can use a likely lad who knows how to handle horses,” he had said, and had then added, with a tightlipped smile, “so long as he don’t ask too many questions and knows how to keep his mouth buttoned up. Think you’d fit the bill, eh?”

He had accepted without hesitation, Murdo reminded himself; he had asked no questions and had kept a careful guard on his tongue. Even when he had found out the true nature of his master’s profession, he had continued to work for him hard and willingly, and a year later—when he was seventeen—Nick had accepted him as a fully fledged member of the gang.

It was a large gang and a well-organized one, the holdups, as a rule, meticulously planned and efficiently carried out; but the night he and Todd and Farmer had robbed the London mail coach outside Winchester, Sep Todd had been careless. In his cups that same night, he had talked too freely. An informer had heard his drunken boasting with the result that the law had, at last, caught up with them ... and his two partners in crime had met their end at the hangman’s hands.

Whilst he ... Murdo gave vent to an unhappy sigh. He was chained up like a wild animal, on his way to Portsmouth or Southampton, and a six-month voyage to the unknown was an imminent prospect. True, he had a useful nest-egg, stashed away in Nick’s safekeeping. It was to be delivered to him, Nick had promised, before the convict transport to which he was consigned had pulled up her hook—or, if he were sent first to one of the hulks, which sometimes happened, he would receive the money before boarding the transport. Murdo repeated his sigh.

He hoped, uneasy for the moment, that Nick would keep his promise, and then thrust his doubts from his mind. Nick Vincent was a man of his word, and he had always played fair with the men who worked for him, seeing that their widows and families were taken care of, should any of them get topped, and providing lawyers to plead their case, if they were brought to trial, or held on suspicion.

And on a couple of occasions he had staged a rescue—once from a broken-down country jail, which had been easy, and once, with considerable daring, from a magistrates’ court, under the noses of quaking, terrified constables, who had put up no resistance.

Murdo grinned, his spirits lifting. He had taken part in the second rescue himself, and it had been dead easy, because Nick had planned and led it and no one had talked out of turn. The fat old sheriff’s officer, a pistol to his head, had ordered the release of his prisoner, and they had taken the chairman of the bench hostage, to ensure that there was no pursuit.

So that maybe—he glanced through the small, barred window across the van’s narrow aisle, straining against the leg-irons that held him in his seat.

Nick had hinted, on the brief visit he had paid to Winchester Prison before Todd and Farmer had gone to the gallows, that he might try his hand at holding up the convict wagon, if he were able to find out for sure that Murdo was in it. The little runt of a turnkey had accepted a bribe in return for providing that information, but there was, alas, no way of finding out whether the fellow had kept his bargain or, as his kind often did, had simply pocketed the half-guinea and forgotten his obligation, but if he had kept it, then—

Murdo leaned forward, hearing the sound of galloping hooves in the distance, his hopes suddenly rekindled. The man beside him cursed ill-temperedly and bade him sit still, but as the hoofbeats came nearer, Murdo ignored his sullen complaints.

A pistol shot rang out and his heart leapt when he heard Nick’s stentorian command.

“Stand and deliver! You’ve a cargo we want. Stop the wagon or we’ll drill you as full o’ holes as a colander! “

The wagon came to a jarring halt. The driver, with the two jailers accompanying him, was seated, exposed and vulnerable, on the box. His voice trembled on the edge of panic as he answered the unexpected summons.

“Whoa there!” he bade his jittery pair of workhorses, and added pleadingly, “For mercy’s sake don’t shoot, mister! We ain’t armed an’ we ain’t about to give you no trouble!”

“Then get down off the box,” Nick ordered. “All three of you—that’s the way. Now hands above your heads and face about. Frisk ’em, Joss, just to make sure.”

“They’re tellin’ the truth,” a deeper voice asserted—the voice of Joss Gifford, Nick’s right-hand man, Murdo recognized. He tried to rap on the window, but his chains held him back and the man beside him clapped a manacled hand over his mouth, preventing him from calling out.

“Quiet, you oaf,” the man hissed. “Bide quiet, till we see what they’re after!”

“You there!” Nick’s voice came nearer, evidently addressed to one of the jailers. “Inside with you and let ’em all out, fast as you know how! How many are you carrying? “

“Twenty-four, sir. But they—”

Nick cut him short. “Jump to it,” he demanded. “I want every man jack out of that wagon and lined up in front of me, understand? But leave their irons on till I tell you.”

The jailer offered no reply. But a moment later a key scraped in the lock and the rear door of the wagon opened. Murdo’s companions, who until now had maintained a stunned silence, realized suddenly that they were about to be set free and started to cheer wildly.

Nick cursed them. “Keep quiet, you stupid rogues! Quiet, I say! You’ll get your chance to run, if you do as I bid you. Out, as soon as your legs are unhitched, and let us look you over. Murdo, lad—” His tone changed. “Are you there?”

“Aye, that I am!” Murdo responded eagerly. The man beside him was already on his feet and Murdo, still resenting the fellow’s attempt to silence him, thrust past him and hobbled to the door.

Big Joss Gifford was standing at the foot of the steps, he saw, holding two horses. Behind him, their pistols levelled at the wagon’s crew, were three other mounted men, all masked. He recognized them, despite the masks, and grinned delightedly up at Nick.

“God bless you! I’ll never forget this, Nick, as long as I live.”

Nick nodded. “See you don’t, boy.” He jerked his head at the second jailer, who was standing scowling beside the driver. Pointing to Murdo, he said impatiently, “That’s the one we want. Strike off his irons and look sharp about it.”

Murdo held out his fettered wrists and the jailer, his fingers clumsy in their haste, freed him from the heavy cuffs. The leg-irons, which had to be struck off with a hammer, took longer, but the man, urged on by Nick, completed the task with commendable speed. The chafing irons came off, and Big Joss, grinning from beneath his mask, took a folded cloak from the saddlebow of one of the horses he was holding and flung it deftly in Murdo’s direction.

“Wrap that around you, lad,” he invited. “And get yourself onto the roan mare. Nick’s got a change o’ clothes ready for you, but we don’t want to hang about on this road for longer than we have to. You can rid yourself o’ them prison duds after we’ve made our getaway.”

Sensing that they were about to be abandoned, the other prisoners set up a concerted howl of protest.

Nick silenced them harshly. “Turn ’em all loose,” he ordered the jailers. “Go on—jump to it, if you don’t want your skulls stove in!” The younger of the two jailers hesitated and Nick, implementing his threat, kneed his horse forward and brought the butt of his pistol down on the man’s bare head. It was not a forceful blow; the jailer staggered and then, recovering, hastened to do his assailant’s bidding.

Murdo, seated on the roan’s back, watched the last of his erstwhile companions come tumbling out of the wagon, cowed into sullen acquiescence and flexing their cramped leg muscles as the irons were struck off and they were able at last to move freely.

“Cut the traces, Joss!” Nick directed, indicating the horses harnessed to the wagon. “And drive off those nags. You lot of scalawags—” He turned to the freed prisoners. “Tie up the screws before you make a run for it, but don’t harm ’em—if you do, they’ll top you for sure if you’re caught.” He cut short an attempt by one of the men to thank him with a crisp, “Good luck, boys. Don’t hang about—this is the main Portsmouth road. I hope you make it.” Then, seeing that Joss had done as he had asked and had remounted his own horse, he waved a hand in the direction from which they had come and dug in his spurs. With Murdo close on his heels, the small cavalcade formed up and galloped off.

A hundred yards down the road, Nick put his horse at a low post and rails and, clearing it effortlessly, led them in single file along the edge of a ploughed field and into a stand of thickly growing beech and hazel. Screened from the road, they all drew rein and Nick said curtly, “Right, off with your lag’s gear, Murdo, and get into these. “

He dropped a rolled-up bundle at Murdo’s feet and added, eyeing his cropped head critically, “I should have brought a wig for you, damme, to go with that gentlemanly accent of yours. Well, you’ll have to make do with a hat. Cram it well down on your head ... and hurry, boy, for the Lord’s sake! I want to put a few miles between us and that infernal prison van before someone spots it and calls in the law. They’ll have their work cut out, rounding up the others, which will give us a few hours’ start on ’em, but ...” He shrugged. “Bury those filthy garments, Liam—you don’t need to dig a hole. Under the leaves’ll do.”

The young Irishman, Liam O’Driscoll, clapped Murdo on the shoulder and, as he divested himself of the coarsely woven grey jacket and trousers that were the mark of a felon, took them from him and hid them under a pile of rotting leaves. Their masks were off now, the men beaming their pleasure at the success of the rescue and calling out in ribald encouragement as Murdo donned the garments Nick had brought for him.

“How’s it feel to be out o’ lumber, Murdo old son?”

“Bet you’re mightly glad we saved you from bein’ boated, ain’t you?”

“That’ll do, lads.” Nick was in no mood for premature celebration. “Time enough for crowing when we’re home and dry,” he cautioned them. “Bestir yourself, Murdo, and let’s be on our way. We’ve a tidy ride ahead of us.”

Murdo wasted no time. His jacket still unbuttoned but the ill-fitting tricorne crammed hard down to hide his shaven head, he was back in the roan mare’s saddle before Liam had remounted.

“Where are we going, Nick?” he ventured, as they again set off across open country.

“To Buck’s Oak,” Nick answered shortly. “And the Alton Arms, where I’ve arranged for someone to take care of you for a while.”

He lapsed into moody silence and rode on, making it plain that further questions would be unwelcome.

“Murdo!” Joss Gifford motioned to him to rein in. When they were riding side by side at the rear of the cavalcade, the older man said, lowering his voice, “We’re heading for Hinton Marsh, son, and I fancy Nick means to ride through the night. He’s a mite nervous these days, and small wonder—we’ve had a few close calls o’ late.”

“Close calls?” Murdo echoed, frowning.

“Aye, very close. ’Twasn’t only your caper that went sour. We lost old Harry—Harry Lee—and Barney Deakin. They was nabbed ten days since, and they come up before the beak next Monday. The heat’s on, Murdo, in this part o’ the country. Nick’s thinking o’ going north. If they top Harry and Barney, I reckon he will.”

Murdo was deeply shocked. This part of the country—the pleasant, rural area between Guildford and the coast—had always been Nick’s stamping ground. He had been born in Farnham and had friends everywhere—innkeepers, cottagers, small farmers, and a host of others. Even a few of the local constables and excisemen were well-disposed toward him. He knew every nook and cranny, every road, and he had ostlers and postilions in his pay, who tipped him off concerning the coaches and post chaises, plying between London and the coast, that were worth robbing ... and those that were not. Latterly, Murdo knew, Nick had formed a lucrative liaison with two gangs of brandy and ’baccy smugglers, who plied their trade in small fishing boats across the Channel. During the war with France it was a risky business, but now, with the two countries at peace, the trade was flourishing. Nick surely would not want to abandon its fat pickings by going north, unless he were compelled to do so.

As if reading his thoughts, Joss said, with a resigned shrug of his broad shoulders, “He’d have to be hard pressed to go, you understand. But he can’t afford to run no risks with you, son. Right now, you’re pretty hot property ... an escapee from one o’ His Majesty’s jails. There’ll be a hue an’ cry out for you.”

“Aye, I know there will,” Murdo conceded uneasily. “But Nick told me he’s arranged for someone to take care of me—for a while, he said—at the Alton Arms.”

Joss nodded in confirmation. “That’s right enough. Nick’s made plans for you, but I doubt if you’ll like ’em much. The idea is to safeguard all o’ us and to make certain sure you ain’t picked up. And I reckon you owe it to him to do as he wants, Murdo. He sprung you, he saved you from Botany Bay, so you owe him, don’t you?”

“Yes, I owe him,” Murdo agreed. But his uneasiness was increasing, and he turned in his saddle to look at Joss. “Do you know what he wants me to do?”

“I know, lad, But it’s not for me to tell you—Nick’ll do that. I just thought I’d give you a friendly warning.”

“Thanks,” Murdo acknowledged. Clearly, he told himself, Nick wanted him to do more than simply lie low in a village inn. Perhaps he intended to cast him adrift or send him back to the north until the hue and cry died down. Whatever it was, he would do it, of course, and he would have his nest-egg and his freedom. And if Nick should decide to come north with his gang, he could join up with them again.

There was nothing to be gained by idle speculation; Nick would tell him, as Joss had said, in his own good time. He had kept his word—he had taken a dangerous risk in holding up the jail van, in order to spring him. Murdo smiled at the anxious Joss.

“I’ll do whatever Nick wants, Joss. “

“Good lad,” Joss approved. “I reckoned you would.” He nodded affably and, kicking his horse into a canter, rode ahead to Nick’s side.

As he had predicted, they rode through the night, halting only once, at an isolated inn, in order to rest and water their horses and break their fast. Nick led them on a roundabout route, avoiding towns and main roads, and it was noon when they finally drew rein outside the Alton Arms in Buck’s Oak. Dispatched, with Liam O’Driscoll, to bed down their weary animals, Murdo awaited the expected summons from Nick without undue disquiet. It came, within less than an hour of their arrival, and he obeyed it with alacrity, only to halt, in stunned dismay, when he entered the taproom and saw that Nick was seated at a table with two uniformed strangers.

They were men in the King’s scarlet, with gold chevrons on their sleeves—sergeants, recruiting sergeants, one in infantry uniform, the other a swaggering heavy cavalryman in dragoon undress. Murdo guessed the reason for their presence before Nick rose to his feet and, a kindly arm about his shoulders, led him to the other side of the room.

“You are wanting me to enlist, Nick?” he blurted out, his voice shaking.

Nick nodded. “Aye, lad, that’s about the size of it. Understand, you’re a liability now, a risk to us all, with the whole countryside likely to be on the lookout for you in a matter of hours. They’ll catch the lags that were with you, and the stupid sods will talk their heads off. We’ve got to plant you somewhere safe, Murdo son.”

“But the army—” Murdo began bitterly.

Nick cut him short. “No one’ll look for you in the army. As God’s my witness, ’tis the one place they won’t look!” His tone softened, became persuasive. “You know how highly I regard you—you’re like a son to me, and it’ll break my heart to let you go. But it won’t be forever, and the war’s over. Army of occupation, it is now—a real cushy lay. Let ’em take you across to the Continent and live a life of idleness in the Duke’s garrison in Brussels.”

“The army’s not idle,” Murdo protested. He had spent his youth in army camps and was all too well aware of the harsh discipline to which the rank and file were subjected. Had he not run away from his home and his family because Duncan Campbell had sought to treat him as the common soldiers were treated? He attempted to explain, but Nick impatiently gestured him to have done.

“It will be better than Botany Bay. And you’ll not have to do any fighting.”

“Maybe not. But for all that, I’d do anything rather than enlist. Nick, I—”

“Murdo, Murdo!” Nick reproached him. “Where’s your loyalty, your gratitude? Do you want to put the rest o’ us in danger of our lives? Joss and me, all of us ... your friends, for God’s sake? We took a big chance, springing you. Remember that, boy!”

“I do,” Murdo conceded miserably. He glanced across at the two sergeants, but they had their backs turned and were sipping their ale, seemingly indifferent to whatever he and Nick were saying to each other, the big cavalryman placidly puffing at a long-stemmed clay pipe, his booted legs extended to the warmth of the crackling log fire.

“It would not be for long,” Nick said. His arm tightened about Murdo’s thin shoulders. “Six months, maybe even less, and the heat’ll be off. Then you can buy yourself out and come back to us. Look, I’ve your share of our loot on me, and it’s a tidy sum. You’d be foolish to take it with you, but I’ll stash it here with the innkeeper, Charley Finn, if you like. He’ll keep it safe till you want it, or I’ll go on keeping it for you, whatever you say. God’s blood, boy, you trust me, don’t you?”

“Aye, of course I do, Nick. All the same, I ...” Murdo made a final plea. “Could I not go north and hide out there? In Glasgow perhaps? I’d go on my own, I—”

“Without friends to help you, you’d be nabbed before you were within a hundred miles o’ the border,” Nick retorted, his tone one that brooked no further argument. Losing patience, he gestured to the brass-bound clock, ticking away on the wall above their heads. “We’ve wasted enough time. What’s it to be, Murdo? Are you going to do as I ask? Because if you’re not ...” He left the implied threat unvoiced, but Murdo recognized defeat. Nick’s threats were not to be taken lightly. He knew that he would never see the gold nest-egg he had worked for, unless he fell in with the plans Nick had made for him. Old Joss had been right, he thought ruefully—he certainly did not like them overmuch. But the army was, undoubtedly, better than exile to the penal colony of New South Wales and better by far than being topped, as he would be if he were caught.

Besides, he thought, pride coming to his rescue, a soldier could hold his head high, for had not the Duke of Wellington’s soldiers defeated Boney’s Frenchies, driven them back from Portugal and Spain and Boney himself into ignominious exile on some island called Elba?

“Well?” Nick prompted. “Are you willing to enlist?”

“Aye,” Murdo answered. He hesitated and then added firmly, “But I’ll not enlist in an English regiment. I’m a Highlander, Nick.”

Nick laughed and, grasping him by the arm, led him over to the recruiting sergeants’ table. “Here’s your lad, gentlemen,” he announced. “He’s free, willing and able to take the King’s shilling. But he’s from north o’ the border, and he’s wanting to join a Scotch regiment, so ’tis to be hoped you can indulge him. Provided, that’s to say,” he qualified hastily, “it is one under the Duke’s command across the Channel.”

“I reckon we can accede to his wishes, sir,” the infantry sergeant assured him. “We’re accepting recruits for all His Grace’s regiments, kitting ’em out and licking ’em into shape at our depot and then drafting ’em to Brussels. That don’t take above a few weeks. What’s your name, lad?”

“It’s Smith, Sergeant,” Nick supplied. He flashed Murdo a warning glance. “Murdoch Smith.”

The sergeant eyed Murdo thoughtfully and then, grinning, removed his ill-fitting tricorne. “An army haircut already,” he observed, with amused tolerance. “Well, it takes all kinds, my lad, and a spell in the ranks’ll be the making of you, I can guarantee. Which regiment do you fancy, eh? We’ve plenty for you to choose from. The 92nd are in Brussels, the 42nd and the 71st in billets outside, the 73rd at some place called Grow-now or Growmouse ... can’t get me tongue round these plaguey frog names. Then there’s the Camerons the 79th ...”

He talked on but Murdo was scarcely conscious of what he was saying. The 73rd, he thought, feeling his throat tighten—his own father’s regiment, the gallant 73rd. If he had to enlist, then surely this was the regiment he must choose. There would be small risk of his being recognized, since it was clearly the second battalion of the regiment that was now serving under the Duke of Wellington’s command. Colonel Macquarie—Governor Macquarie—had taken the first battalion with him to New South Wales.

“Would ye be any guid on a horse, Smith?” The cavalry sergeant took his pipe from his mouth and rose slowly from his chair to stand, a tall, imposing figure in his magnificent dragoon’s uniform, dwarfing both Nick and his fellow sergeant.

His accent was Lowland Scots and the question clear enough, but unaccustomed to his new name, Murdo stared back at him blankly, and it was Nick who answered him. “He’s the best, Sergeant, I give you my word. The lad’s a fine horseman.”

“Then ye could dae a lot worse than join my regiment. If you’re a Scot, ye’ll hae heard tell o’ them.” The big cavalryman spoke with pride. “The Royal North British Dragoons—the Greys, laddie, the famous Scots Greys! There is no finer regiment in the whole o’ the British Army, ye may tak’ my word for it. And if you’re as guid a rider as this—ah, as this gentleman says ye are, why then ye’ll be on your way in nae time at a’. Ye’ll be aiding the Duke tae keep the bluidy frogs back where they belong, wi’ their tails atween their legs!”

Murdo felt his heartbeat quicken. The cavalryman’s words had been bombastic, but for no reason that he could have explained, they moved him deeply. The war was over and there could be no prospect of doing further battle with the French, but ... He made his decision without any prompting from Nick, impulsively, yet with complete conviction.

“Aye, sir, ’tis the Greys I’ll be joining, if you’ll take me.”

The tall dragoon donned his white-plumed fur cap and grinned derisively at his fellow recruiter.

“My turn wi’ this yin, Billy!” To Murdo he said, still smiling, “We’ll tak’ ye and gladly. I’ll attest ye right awa’, just in case some ither body should try tae stake a claim on ye.” He aimed a blow at Murdo’s shaven head. “As they might, eh? Private Smith o’ the Scots Greys, that’s you now, laddie, and ye’ll not regret your choice. ’Tis yon bluidy scoundrel Boney who’ll live tae rue to day he cam’ back tae tangle wi’ us again!”

“What are you saying, Sergeant?” Nick demanded, his brows furrowed in bewilderment. “Has Boney escaped? Is the war not over?”

The sergeant’s smile faded. He answered gravely, “Aye, have ye no’ heard? The Emperor’s back i’ France. He landed a week ago, and they say he’s making for Paris, wi’ King Louis’ troops deserting tae join him. There’ll be a few ither battles tae be fought before the war’s finally over, if I’m any judge. ’Tis tae be hoped, sir, that your laddie has a bold hairt in him, for he’s like tae be i’ the thick o’ it, before he’s too much older!”

Both men turned to look at Murdo. There was pity in Nick’s grey eyes, and he started to mumble an apology. “I did not know, Murdo. Believe me, I—”

Murdo affected not to hear him. He drew himself up. They had robbed him of his native pride in the jail, with their leg-irons and the hateful fetters, with their solemn courts and the harsh sentences they imposed. But he was a Highland soldier’s son, he told himself, and his father had served in the 73rd and died with the regiment at the siege of Seringapatam. He was being offered an opportunity to regain his lost pride and, for all his earlier unwillingness to enlist, he was not going to let the recruiters accuse him of cowardice by backing out now.

The cavalry was fine in peacetime, but if there was fighting to be done, he would do it in his father’s regiment.

“I’m ready to take the oath,” he told the infantry sergeant quickly. “For the 73rd Highlanders, if you please. And my name is Maclaine.”

Nick shrugged resignedly and let him go.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the face of this congregation, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the name of man’s innocency ...”

The minister’s voice droned on and, standing stiffly at his brother’s side, George De Lancey found his attention wandering, his hand relaxing its grip on his sword. A fugitive ray of sunlight, in seeming defiance of the April downpour that had soaked them as they entered the church, shone through the high stained-glass window behind the altar. It formed a bright, many-hued pattern on the ancient flagstones at the bride’s feet and lit her small, veiled face to sudden radiance.

Not that she needed the sun’s aid to enhance her loveliness. Magdalen Hall was a beautiful young woman, George De Lancey thought, and his brother was a singularly fortunate man to have won her affections. The thought was devoid of envy; his elder brother was still—as he had been in their youth—the object of his veneration, on whose inspiring example he had endeavoured to fashion his own life during the past three and a half years.

He had never, even in his dreams, imagined himself capable of matching William’s achievements, still less of surpassing them. They were there in plain view for the packed congregation to feast their eyes on—the gold and enamel insignia of a Knight Commander of the Bath and, pinned beneath this, a Peninsular Gold Medal with two bars.

The military prowess to which these decorations bore witness would have been remarkable for any British officer in his early thirties, but they were the more remarkable in view of the fact that his brother was, like himself, American by birth. Indeed they were third generation Americans, both born in New York, descendants of a Huguenot family that had sought refuge there, after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.

The De Lanceys had been considerable landowners ... until the War of Independence had brought about a conflict of loyalties, and General Oliver De Lancey, their uncle, had elected to fight for his king. Following the colonists’ victory, their lands had been confiscated and the general compelled to seek refuge in England, where he had died in genteel poverty in Yorkshire, his loyalty to the British Crown unmarked and unrewarded.

Their own father had fared better, George recalled. Lord Shelburne had appointed him governor of Tobago and William, at the age of sixteen, had been offered a commission without purchase in the British Army. Within five years—and before his twenty-first birthday—he had risen on merit to the rank of major in the 45th Regiment of Foot and, during the latter part of the Duke of Wellington’s campaign in the Peninsula, he had served as deputy quartermaster-general on the Duke’s staff, ranking as a full colonel.

George De Lancey stifled a sigh. He himself—no doubt foolishly—had remained in America, starved of funds and lacking patronage, and at times living from hand to mouth. He had read law at Harvard, keeping body and soul together by clerking in his spare time, but with the obstinate intention of setting up as an attorney on the completion of his studies. He had even chosen the small town near Boston and the building in which he would hang up his shingle, but the war had forced him to change his plans.

With his country’s adherence to the French cause, the old, traditional conflict of loyalties had returned to plague him and, reluctantly, but driven by his conscience, he had taken ship to England and thrown himself on his brother’s mercy. Since William’s influence was limited to the military establishment, he had become a soldier instead of a lawyer, and—George glanced over his shoulder, seeing the rows of brilliantly uniformed officers who had come to witness his brother’s nuptials.

He was one of them now, he reminded himself, the ties that had bound him to the land of his birth forever broken, and little Katie O’Malley—whom he had hoped one day to marry—a memory, cherished still in his heart but fading with each passing year. Her image was obscured by other, harsher images of war and bloodshed, for these had become the pattern of his life.

He had fought in the final desperate battles that had seen Bonaparte’s once invincible legions defeated and driven back into France. He had been at the sieges of Cuidad Rodrigo and Badajoz as a fledgling ensign in the 52nd Light Infantry and, with the storming party on both occasions, had witnessed heroism beyond belief, appalling slaughter and, following the capture of Badajoz, the horrors of a sacked and looted town.

It had been then, George reflected, that Katie O’Malley’s image had started to fade, for he had sought solace from the carnage in the arms of a frightened waif, who had come to him for protection and whose name he had never known. She had bound up the slight wound he had suffered and wept in his arms as he took her, blindly and without desire ...

“William Howe, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”

The minister’s deep, resonant voice interrupted his train of thought, and George forced his attention back to the wedding service.

“Wilt thou love her, comfort, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

William responded with a firm “I will,” and Magdalen listened, with downcast eyes, when the same question was put to her and then, turning to look up at her tall bridegroom, answered it with shy eagerness.

Her father, the grey-haired Sir James Hall of Dunglass, gave his assent with the brief formality the prayer book required of him and stepped back into the family pew as the couple, in turn, made their vows, repeating them solemnly and with evident feeling.

Strangely moved, George felt in the pocket of his tightfitting full-dress overalls for the ring. His hand was trembling a little as he laid the small gold circlet on the minister’s prayer book, imagining for a moment that it was Katie who stood there in the white satin bridal gown, she who had just vowed to take him as her wedded husband. But Katie’s eyes were blue, her hair like spun gold, and Magdalen, who was now his brother’s wife, had brown eyes and shining dark hair ... there was no resemblance, one to the other. What he had seen had been a trick of the light.

He stepped back, as the bride’s father had done, leaving William and his bride to kneel alone together in front of the altar and, as the old minister intoned the prayer, let his thoughts once again drift away.

After the storming of Badajoz, William had been appointed acting quartermaster-general. That had been in May 1812, when at last the tide had started to turn in Lord Wellington’s favour and the forces under his command could begin the march to Madrid. William had appointed him as one of his aides; he had been promoted to a lieutenancy in the 16th Light Dragoons, and it had been in that capacity, George recalled, that he had fought in the battle for Salamanca. Two days before the battle—although, at the time, he had not known of it—President James Madison had declared that the United States of America were at war with Britain and her allies.

He felt his throat muscles tighten, as the congregation rose and the choir sang the opening lines of the psalm “Beati Omnes”. That day he had charged with Sir Stapleton Cotton’s heavy cavalry, breaking and putting to flight an entire French infantry division, and his brigade commander, the valiant General Le Marchant, had been killed beside him. Three weeks later he had ridden in Wellington’s train into Madrid, to the enthusiastic vivas of the Spanish citizens.

Thereafter had come setbacks, but by that time, even if the military tactics were beyond his comprehension, he had come to understand some of the reasons for the long forced marches, the fighting retreats that had followed even such victories, and the appalling toll these took in dead and mutilated men.

During the next two years, he had learned his trade as an army officer, George reflected. He had served for several months on the staff of Lord Wellington—since created Duke of Wellington—and had come to admire him unreservedly. His coolness and personal courage under fire were legendary; the men he commanded, who openly called him Nosey, had been ready to follow him anywhere. As, indeed, George himself had been, for all his inbred lawyer’s caution and the awareness of his American birth.

The psalm ended; the congregation seated themselves in preparation for the sermon, and George stepped into the bridegroom’s pew, the tension draining out of him. He sat down, closing his eyes, letting the memories flood back, as consciousness of the present drifted away.

In January 1813, news had come that the Emperor Napoleon’s campaign in Russia had ended in a more disastrous retreat than any the Peninsula had seen. Hopes were rekindled; his staff saw their commander smile again, and the army was on the move. At Vittoria in July, Jospeh Bonaparte, the so-called King of Spain, was driven from his kingdom and narrowly escaped capture when the town fell.

He was replaced as French commander in chief by Marshal Soult on orders from Napoleon, who, it was said, was so hard pressed by the Russians and their new Prussian allies that he had been compelled, by heavy losses at Bautzen, to agree to an armistice.

But the Duke wanted no armistice. He had pressed on, advancing instead of retreating, his British divisions substantially reinforced, those of the Portuguese fighting with skill and tenacity, and twenty-five thousand Spanish troops joining the victorious advance. San Sebastian had been taken, the Pyrenees crossed, and then, at last, the fighting had been on French soil and the end in sight.

The minister continued his sermon, and George glanced up and then closed his eyes again, endeavouring to remember. But the rivers he had forded, the mountain passes up which he had struggled, the fortresses and cities that had fallen to assault were simply names on a map, his memories of people and of individual actions the only ones that remained clear in his mind.

There had been women along the way—willing Spanish women, a French peasant girl, an Irish soldier’s widow, who had dressed the slight wound he had suffered at the Nive and given him comfort, in the only way she could. Their faces were blurred, as Katie’s had become blurred; he saw more clearly the faces of the fallen—some his friends, but many strangers to him—British, German, and Portuguese, quiet in death as were those of the French dead who lay beside them, and all seemingly at peace, despite the hideous injuries that had laid them low. Of the wounded who still clung to life he dared not permit himself to think. George drew in his breath sharply.

But it was over, he told himself ... for God’s sake, the war was over! For William and his lovely young bride, as well as for himself. Napoleon Bonaparte might have escaped from Elba, but Ney—once one of his marshals but now a Royalist general with an army of thirty thousand men under his command—had vowed to bring the former Emperor back to Paris in a cage and no doubt would succeed in making good the boast. There was nothing to fear with a French king restored to the throne and his people weary of war. As weary as he was, George thought.

His services had been rewarded with a captain’s commission in the 2nd Dragoons—the Scots Greys, at present in Belgium—but he could, when he wished, return to civilian life. He could sell his commission, as William intended to now that he was married. There could be no return to America, of course, for either of them ... but he could stay in England. Or seek his fortune in one of the colonies. During his leave, he had taken steps to have himself called to the English Bar and, while dining at Lincoln’s Inn, a chance acquaintance had told him that the penal colony in New South Wales was in dire and urgent need of qualified attorneys.

Two brothers, both members of Lincoln’s Inn, had gone out there as judges, at handsome salaries paid by the Crown, and according to his informant, the younger of the two had only recently been called.

“Jeffrey Bent was in my own chambers,” the barrister had confided. “And devilling for me, to keep the wolf from the door. Then his elder brother lands an appointment as deputy judge advocate at twelve hundred a year and has young Jeffrey made a civil judge at eight hundred, if you please. Together with a palatial dwelling house and perquisites in fees for civil actions ... damme, I know where I’d go, if I wanted to make money. Penal colony or not, I’d go to Botany Bay!”

There might be worse places, George reflected. The West Indies or ... He stirred uneasily, opening his eyes to find that the rest of the congregation was standing, the bride and groom starting to make their way to the vestry for the signing of the register. He collected his scattered wits and, spurs jingling, hastened after them.

William eyed him reproachfully, but Magdalen, turning to embrance him after the customary kiss from her new husband, was radiant with happiness.

“Dear George,” she whispered, as he held her gently in his arms, “it is so divine to have you as a brother!”

The short journey, in carriages, from the church to Dunglass Castle was followed by a magnificent wedding breakfast and seemingly endless speeches. Determined not to be found wanting in the performance of his duties, George slipped back into the role of aide-de-camp and later, when he was assisting his brother to change into civilian clothes, was gratified by his thanks.

“You stood up for me well, George my boy,” William told him, beaming. “Keep up the good work, if you please. I shall confide my address during the next three weeks only to you—and I rely on you to see to it that I am not disturbed, unless it is a matter of the gravest urgency. You understand, do you not? It isn’t every day that a man takes a wife, and God knows, I’ve waited a long time to wed my sweet Magdalen.”

“I understand,” George assured him. “You shall not be disturbed, I promise you.”

He anticipated no difficulty in keeping his promise, but within less than two hours of the newly wed couple’s departure, a footman summoned him from the ballroom of the castle, where the wedding guests had gathered to dance the night away.

“There’s an officer asking for Sir William, sir,” the servant explained. “I told him that Sir William and Miss Magdalen—Lady De Lancey, I mean—had left, and he asked to speak to you, sir. He said it was very important. And ...” The man’s tone was awed. “He said he had come from the Duke of Wellington, sir.”

George felt the colour drain from his cheeks. A message from the Duke could mean only one thing, he knew, and the messenger—Lieutenant Henry White, of the 32nd Regiment, with whom he had served on Major General Thomas Brisbane’s staff at Vitoria—confirmed his worst fears.