The Queen's Colonial Read online

  About The Queen’s Colonial

  Sometimes the fate to which you are destined is not your own . . .

  1845, a village outside Sydney Town. Humble blacksmith Ian Steele struggles to support his widowed mother. All the while he dreams of a life in uniform, serving in Queen Victoria’s army.

  1845, Puketutu, New Zealand. Second Lieutenant Samuel Forbes, a young poet from an aristocratic English family, wants nothing more than to run from the advancing Maori warriors and discard the officer’s uniform he never sought.

  When the two men cross paths in the colony of New South Wales, they are struck by their brotherly resemblance and quickly hatch a plan for Ian to take Samuel’s place in the British army.

  Ian must travel to England, fool the treacherous Forbes family and accept a commission into their regiment as a company commander. Once in London, he finds love with an enigmatic woman, but must part with her to face battle in the bloody Crimean war.

  In this first instalment of Peter Watt’s new series, Captain Ian Steele stares down the relentless Russian military . . . but he will soon learn that there are even deadlier enemies close to home.

  Contents

  About The Queen’s Colonial

  Title page

  Contents

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Part One

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Part Two

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Part Three

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Author Notes

  Acknowledgements

  About Peter Watt

  Also by Peter Watt

  Excerpts from emails sent to Peter Watt

  Digital imprint page

  For my beloved wife, Naomi.

  Prologue

  Puketutu

  The Colony of New Zealand

  May, 1845

  Eighteen-year-old Second Lieutenant Samuel Forbes wanted to run away. But it was the duty of the junior officer to give courage to the red-coated soldiers. He held the regimental colours aloft, knowing that he must stand firm.

  The field was covered in thick gun smoke, the Congreve rockets being fired by the blue-jacketed rocketeers only yards away adding to the confusion of the battlefield on rolling green plains surrounded by heavily forested hills. In many ways, the countryside reminded Samuel of his family estate in England.

  Men screamed in pain as the Maori musket balls ripped holes in the British army ranks, and the fortified wooden fortress the Maoris called a pa did not look as if it could ever be breached. No sooner did the weakening ranks of half-naked Maori warriors – with their fearsome tattooed faces – fall back than an attack would be launched from the rear of the British force.

  Samuel Forbes had never wanted to be a soldier. His father had purchased a commission in an infantry unit and left him at the gates of the regiment in England when he had just turned sixteen. Military life did not appeal to the young man, who had always dreamed of a career as a poet, extolling the romantic beauty of life. His father had told his second-born son that he was far too sensitive to be a member of the Forbes family, and army life would teach his dreamer son the lessons to face reality in life.

  Now, all he could see was the savagery of war and he knew – as much as the lowliest soldiers surrounding him – that they were losing, against an enemy they had severely underestimated.

  Beside him, a soldier fell screaming as a musket ball tore through his groin. Samuel wanted to be sick as he glanced down at the red-coated soldier writhing in pain at his feet, blood rapidly spreading on the white trousers. Samuel could feel his hands shaking uncontrollably as he attempted to stand firm, holding the regiment’s colours, wondering when the bugler would call to either advance or withdraw.

  ‘Fall back!’ a voice called in the din of musket volleys, exploding rockets and men yelling in pain and fear. Samuel recognised the command coming from Captain Larkin, his commanding officer. Samuel glanced around him and could see the men withdrawing, carrying and dragging their wounded comrades, joining the survivors of the original four hundred and twenty sent to teach the impudent natives a lesson about the might of the British Empire. The redcoats, their white cross belts over their jackets, took up a defensive position to repel any counterattack, the wall of shining steel bayonets a deterrent to the bravest of Maori warriors facing them.

  ‘Well done, Mr Forbes,’ Captain Larkin said when Samuel joined him in the line. ‘I fear we will have to give the ground to these rascals today.’ He sighed, and the order was passed along for the regiment to withdraw back to the coast.

  As Samuel marched with his men, he could not get out of his mind the sights and sounds of his first battlefield. He knew that they would haunt his dreams, and he also knew that this first clash with the Maori warriors would be his last.

  A Village outside Sydney Town

  The Colony of New South Wales

  May, 1845

  Eighteen-year-old Ian Steele closed the cover of Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War. The flickering candle on the wooden table beside his bed cast a dim light over his tiny room. With loving care, he placed the book beside the candle before blowing it out. In the darkness of the room, he lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling, pondering the tactics he had read in the precious book, the last gift his father had given him before he died a year earlier. He had idolised his father who, as a young soldier, had fought at Waterloo before his regiment had been sent on garrison duties to the British colony of New South Wales. Here he had met, fallen in love with, and eventually married a young Scottish girl, Mary, who had been transported as a convict and served her seven years for committing the crime of fraud. Colour Sergeant Malcolm Steele had taken his discharge in Sydney, and invested his pension money in a small farm on the outskirts, in the shadow of the Great Dividing Range that had once hemmed in expansion of the rapidly growing population of Sydney Town.

  Ian had been born after his mother had lost two children in their infancy, and he had survived to become their only child. Both his parents shared a passion for learning, and his mother was one of those rare women who could read and write. When Ian had returned from his schooling, she would ensure that he studied beyond what was expected, and the boy had excelled in his class. He grew to love learning and read every book he could get his hands on, from Greek mythology to books concerning military matters.

  Ian remembered the times his father would take him to the garrison in Sydney, meeting with his old comrades. He would sit and listen attentively amidst the smoke of their long, clay tobacco pipes as they reminisced on past campaigns in exotic lands, and from an early age had been captivated by their stories. Oh, but to be able to march with them, and face the fierce enemies of the Queen
!

  But reality was early in the morning he would saddle his pony and ride to the blacksmith shop, working the day away forging and bending steel for horseshoes, wagon wheels and ploughs. It was a long way from the ambitions of a colonial boy who dreamed of fame and fortune in a society that had also transported its class system from the British Isles. He was the son of a lowly, former non-commissioned officer and former convict woman. But at least the colonies, these new lands used as a dumping ground for England’s unwanted, had seen many of low birth rise to positions of power and wealth. All one needed was intelligence and ambition to struggle up the social ladder.

  Little did Ian know that fate was conspiring to change his life forever on a faraway obscure battlefield in the colony of New Zealand.

  Part One

  Sons of the Empire

  The Colony of New South Wales

  1852

  One

  Ian Steele stood in front of the entrance of his blacksmith shop, watching the trickle of gold seekers pass by. They journeyed on horseback, in drays and on foot, pushing wheelbarrows as they marched west across the nearby range of hills known as the Blue Mountains. They were still heading for the fields near Bathurst after the discovery the previous year, and Ian knew that the same sight could also be seen in the colony of Victoria further south, where the hopefuls streamed off ships from every part of the globe, heading for the Ballarat goldfields in search of the valuable yellow metal.

  The Australian colonies were already seeing a dramatic change in its importance to Mother England, and a population explosion for the continent.

  ‘Bloody fools,’ Francis Sweeney said.

  Ian nodded, agreeing with his sixteen-year-old apprentice. The boy had a good head on his shoulders, and had not deserted Ian when the word spread as fast as the bushfires in the Sydney district in summer. Ian had trouble keeping up with the demand for the shovels and picks he now churned out of his business, and he’d been able to apprentice the young man.

  At twenty-five years of age, Ian was prospering from the demand created by gold. He had to admit to himself, he had been tempted to join the steady throng heading west over the hills a year earlier, but was smart enough to know that gold and iron were partners; iron tools are needed to scrape out the gold nuggets. His foresight proved right, as he was strategically located on the main route west. Already he had accumulated a lot of money, and now considered he might be ready to court the eligible ladies of the district. He knew he was attractive, with his plain but appealing face and muscled body honed by hard work. He was clean-shaven and had a thick mop of hair. He stood at a respectable five foot ten inches. But it was his grey eyes that held the appeal for the fairer sex, and his ability to make a good living.

  Ian turned his back and walked back into the shop. The heat from the ever-burning fires of the forge was uncomfortable, but over the years Ian had grown used to it, and in winter it was pleasant. But this was mid-summer, and when a customer occasionally stopped by to purchase from the piles of shovels and picks stacked outside, the foray outside the shop was welcomed.

  ‘It is time for you boys to eat.’

  Ian broke into a broad smile as his mother entered the shop carrying a basket of bread, cold meat and chutney.

  ‘Frankie, take a break,’ Ian said, placing the heavy hammer he had been using to flatten a plate of iron on a solid bench.

  The young apprentice gratefully removed his leather apron, joining his boss and Mrs Steele outside under the shade of a great gum tree that had stood since well before the appearance of European settlers in this region. For the moment, the countryside around Ian’s shop was still a panorama of rolling fields, dotted with bark huts marking small farms, and copses of tall trees.

  Ian had built a table and bench under the shadow cast by the tall gum, and his still-growing apprentice was eager to partake of the midday meal. It would be washed down with a mug of sweetened tea, to the lazy caws of crows in the trees around them.

  Francis waited patiently as Mary Steele said a short grace, and then pulled aside the tea towel to reveal a loaf of freshly baked bread and a haunch of cold beef. The chutney had been purchased at the store, and she carved the meat for the two men as they prepared their bread and chutney.

  ‘Thanks, Ma,’ Ian said, biting into the meal.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Steele,’ Francis grunted, reaching for his mug of steaming tea, poured from the blackened billy can.

  Mary Steele shared the gossip she had heard at the local store, and Ian listened with love in his heart for this frail but tough little woman who had lavished him with love throughout his quarter century on earth. It had been she, and his father, who had insisted on him continuing his learning through the scarce books they had spent small fortunes on to obtain for his library.

  ‘I met Isabel MacHugh at the store today,’ Mary said, catching Ian’s attention. She was a pretty young lady of eighteen years of age, who Ian had admired from afar.

  ‘Her family are Methodists,’ Ian said. ‘And own half of the land around here. I doubt that she would consider a blacksmith a worthy catch.’

  ‘You have prospered, and you well know that your father was a Catholic, and I was born Presbyterian,’ his mother countered. ‘In the colonies, such unions are possible between people of different Christian beliefs.’

  ‘Yes, but you had to promise the priest that I would be baptised Catholic,’ Ian reminded his mother, and she fell silent. His father had not been a religious man, whereas his mother was devout in her beliefs. Ian remembered how his father would philosophise on how on the battlefield dying men did not call out to the Lord, but for their mothers. Mary Steele had despaired that her son held any Christian beliefs – but at least he believed in the Ten Commandments.

  ‘Hey, it looks like we have a customer,’ Francis said, interrupting Ian’s thoughts about Isabel MacHugh.

  Ian glanced up to see a horseman approaching on a very fine steed, dust rising in puffs from the hooves. The rider drew close and pulled up his mount a few yards from the table. Ian could see that he was a young man about his own age, clean-shaven with long dark hair and very pale skin.

  ‘Good afternoon to you,’ he said from astride his mount. ‘I wish to purchase a set of shoes for my horse.’

  Ian rose from the bench, wiping his greasy hands on the sides of his trousers.

  ‘I can do that,’ he said, eyeing the stranger with curiosity.

  ‘I should introduce myself,’ the stranger said with a wan smile. ‘I am Samuel Forbes. My uncle owns the Wallaroo estate not far from here and recommends your products. He says they are of the highest quality.’

  ‘Sir George Forbes,’ Ian said. ‘Your uncle is a good man – well respected in the district. You must be the man who writes poetry I have heard talk about.’

  Samuel looked surprised at Ian’s comment. ‘I was not aware that I held such a reputation.’

  Ian grinned. ‘I just also happen to love good poetry,’ he said. ‘I am fortunate to have a copy of John Donne. I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I did . . .’

  ‘Till we loved? Were we not weaned then? Good God, man,’ Samuel said, dismounting with practised ease. ‘You are very surprising. I would not have imagined in my wildest dreams that a blacksmith could quote “The Good-Morrow”.’ Samuel extended his hand to Ian and the grip between them was strong. Ian introduced his mother and Francis. Mary made a small curtsey as she knew of the aristocratic Forbes family in the district.

  ‘Would you join us for a simple meal, sir?’ Mary asked, brushing down her dress.

  ‘I would be delighted,’ Samuel replied, removing the broad-brimmed hat when he stepped into the shade of the gum’s branches. He sat down at the bench beside Francis, facing Ian and his mother.

  The conversation under the gum tree flowed almost exclusively between Ian and Samuel, once they established that they both had a love for the arts
. Samuel laughed when he pointed out that Ian, with his brawny build, looked nothing like a lover of the arts. The midday meal extended a little longer than normal for Ian, as the two immersed themselves in conversation on common ground despite between worlds apart socially. Both men instinctively recognised the basis of a friendship.

  ‘I will have the horseshoes ready by tomorrow morning,’ Ian finally said, reluctantly breaking the mood but recognising he had to be back at work at his forge.

  Samuel rose and shook Ian’s hand. ‘I shall have one of the servants pick them up,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Steele, for your generous hospitality, and wonderful food.’ He made a small tilt of his head to her, which made her flush in appreciation.

  Francis had already gone inside to resume his work leaving Mary and her son alone.

  ‘You have a queer expression, Ma,’ Ian said, noticing his mother watching the departing horseman.

  ‘It is as if you and Sir George’s nephew could almost be twins,’ Mary said quietly. ‘You even look remarkably alike in the face.’

  ‘Ma, he is highborn. How could we look alike?’ Ian chuckled.

  ‘Call it a silly mother’s intuition, but I feel you were two souls born to meet one day.’ Mary said quietly. ‘Why? God only knows the answer to that question.’

  Ian stopped smiling as his mother turned to return to their two-storeyed stone house a half mile down the dusty road towards the gently flowing river that meandered through the district. Ian watched her depart in the heated haze of the day, wondering at her statement. He and Samuel Forbes were so different, he mused. He was the son of a well-known aristocratic English family, and Ian was a simple blacksmith born of a convict mother and British soldier. They were at least both learned men, albeit Ian was more self-taught then formally educated.

  He shook his head and walked towards the open doors of the forge. It was Sunday on the morrow and a time of rest. The good people of the district would attend their various churches, and in the afternoon, take time to reflect on the grace of God over a roast meal.