She heard Brownlow say forcefully, “We need a confession, Father. We need him to admit he’s Wexford.”
“That is not my function, Mr. Brownlow,” the old priest demurred. “If, as you say, the man is dying, I will hear his confession and give him absolution. But the secret of the confessional is between this man and his God. I will not disclose one word of it, to you or anyone else. I-was
“Then be damned to you!” Brownlow retorted angrily. “I’ll get his admission myself.” He sought to thrust Kitty aside, with a brusque “Make way, madam,” but she jumped
to her feet, holding up a hand imperiously, her eyes bright with an anger that outmatched his.
“You will not lay a finger on my brother, Mr.
Brownlow,” she told him with icy contempt.
Brownlow halted, taken aback, and behind him the crowd of townsfolk voiced their indignation against him, Martha Higgins in the forefront, holding her sobbing young son by the hand”.
“Like Mr. Dorman says, he saved the young lady’s life,” one of the men argued. “And at the cost of his own, seemingly. You’re a brave gentleman,” he called out to Michael. “For you’d no part in the raid, had you, sir? I seen you go into the bank minutes before the Lawless rogues went in. Aye, and I’d swear to it in a court of law, Mr. Brownlow!”
Shocked by their concerted hostility, Brownlow glared at them, his puffy, red face suffused with color.
He rounded on Kitty. “If he’s your brother, ma’am,” he demanded thickly, “then tell us who he is. We’ll take your word for it.”
“His name is Michael Cadogan,” Kitty began. She felt an arm go round her and realized that it was Johnny’s. “And I have searched for him for-oh, for over a year, to bring him the royal pardon granted to him by Her Majesty the Queen.
He is the Earl of-was she began, but Michael himself cut her short.
“No, Kit-no, in God’s name!” He raised himself on one elbow, and his voice was suddenly loud and strong. “That title was never mine, and it belongs to Pat now. Let him do honor to it, since I cannot. Good people, you shall hear the truth-I’m Wexford.
I absconded from Port Arthur, and I led the Lawless Gang … and I’m not ashamed of it,”
he added defiantly. “Now leave me with the priest, for I must confess to my sins before I go to meet my God. Perhaps, of His mercy, Heeaw forgive me, for I swear to you I took no man’s life.”
The crowd moved back, Brownlow with them, in an oddly awed and respectful silence, and the old priest fell on his knees at Michael’s side, murmuring a prayer.
Michael lived for half an hour after his confession had been heard, but the effort of making it had sapped what little
William Stuart Long
remained of his failing strength, and he did not speak again until the end came. Kitty, with his hand clasped in hers, heard him whisper softly a name she knew was not her own, and then his hand slipped from her grasp and she sensed that he had gone … to join, perhaps, the woman whose name he had breathed, which had sounded like Lily.
She rose, stiff and drained of emotion, and Johnny gave her his arm.
“Mrs. Higgins has offered us rooms above her restaurant,” Johnny said. “There are only two, but Luke and I can bunk in together. We thought you’d prefer that to staying in Brownlow’s hotel.”
Kitty thanked him gratefully and let him escort her out, the boy Tommy shambling awkwardly ahead of them to lead the way.
She said, when they reached the street, “I’m your wife, Johnny, and tonight I-I could not bear to be alone.”
Johnny did not answer her, but she felt the warm pressure of his hand on her arm and knew that he had understood.
On the other side of the street, Tich Knight stood, the rein of his horse looped over his arm, and watched them cross and enter Martha Higgins’s diner.
He guessed what had happened from the expression on their faces and the little boy’s tears, and he breathed a pent-up sigh, as the tension slowly drained out of him.
He had left the gang’s horses tied up to the hitching rail, taking only his own, and no one had given him a second glance. He could have made a safe getaway a long time ago-when the shooting in the bank had first started, in fact-but something had held him back. He had seen Lily shot down and had sworn impotently at the waste of a young life.
Poor little lass, she must have come to try to warn them, though heaven knew how she had managed to get to Urquhart Falls, for she was no horsewoman.
But … she must have found out that they had been betrayed, that the bloody troopers would be in the bank, waiting for them. And, if she had found out, there could be only one suspect, one person who had had the time and the opportunity … Dingo Carter! He had been absent from the Magpie for
long enough to drive to town in the buggy and get back again, and, the devil roast him, he had been in the taproom, unnoticed and unsuspected, when they had discussed their plans for the robbery.
Well, he would settle with Dingo. The old swine had four deaths on his conscience, Tich reckoned.
He had seen Boomer shot in the doorway of the bank and Marty wounded, seen them carry Ginger’s lifeless body out, and watched the troopers lead Marty and Slugger away in irons, Slugger barely conscious. And the crowd had told him that the troopers had killed Michael. Of Chalky there had been no sign; but Chalky was a windy old sod and, like himself, had been in a position to make a run for it-the difference being that bloody Chalky had
run and he hadn’t.
Tich shifted his feet uneasily, as he saw the beautiful young woman and the two men who were with her go into Martha Higgins’s back premises. He wondered who they were. Connections of Michael’s, very probably … He frowned. Big Michael was not in the usual run of convicts-certainly not in the usual run of lifers, in his experience. Try to hide it though he had, Michael was a gentleman-that was plain to see-and his life, like poor little Lily’s, had been wasted. They had flogged and tortured the poor devil on Norfolk Island, and that had made him what he was. … Tich sighed regretfully. A good man, Michael-a gallant gentleman, whom the blasted convict system had never broken or tamed. And he had done the impossible; he had made a successful escape from Port Arthur Penitentiary. Maybe someone, someday, would write his story down so that folk could read it and remember him.
But now-Tich pulled his horse to him and felt for his stirrup iron in the gathering darkness. He would go back to the Magpie and give Dingo what he deserved-he was the only one who could now, that was for sure.
He rode slowly and unchallenged out of town, and whistled softly as he went, a tune Michael had been wont to sing. Tich did not remember all the words, but the song began, “True patriots we, who left our country for our country’s good …”
Perhaps, he thought, it was a fitting epitaph for Big Michael Wexford, a rebel out of Ireland.
The full horror of the events in India during the mutiny of the sepoy Army of Bengal was brought home to the Australian colonists when H.m.s.
Galah
limped into Sydney Harbor, with a jury-rigged foremast and a six-foot-long gash on her starboard bow, just above the waterline.
Red was thankful to have brought his damaged frigate safely to port, for the hurricane that had come close to wrecking her in the Coral Sea had sent several other vessels to their doom, off the inhospitable coast of New Guinea. But she was home at last, and among her passengers were Julia Macintyre and her husband, with their four young children and a stepson. Also on board were William De Lancey-severely wounded in General Havelock’s gallant attempt to relieve Lucknow-and a little boy named Andrew Melgund, whom he had adopted.
Red stood on the quarterdeck and looked about him as the signal gun fired the customary salute and he brought the
Galah
slowly to anchor. Sydney, in the early-morning sunlight, looked more beautiful than any city he had ever seen, he thought-more beautiful and infinitely more peaceful. In the thirteen months that he had been away, he had seen war at its most savage. He had seen the House of Women in Cawnpore in which his sister Jenny had met her death, and, attached to the naval brigade of H.m.s.
Shannon,
he had fought his way into Lucknow’s beleaguered defenses. On the never-to-be-forgotten night when the
Shannon’s
gunners, under the command of Captain William Peel, had covered their escape route, he had witnessed the successful evacuation of the garrison, with the women and children and the wounded in the van, and later he had marched with them, first to Cawnpore and then to Allahabad, with William among those borne painfully on a litter, praying for a death that had been denied to him.
But there had been many other deaths, between June and the raising of the siege in November. The noble little General Havelock, exhausted by all he had endured, was buried in Lucknow comz was Sir Henry Lawrence, Lucknow’s heroic defender-in an unmarked grave, to save it from desecration by the mutineers. William Peel, only slightly wounded in the final attack, had succumbed to cholera in the camp at Cawnpore; Colonel Neill, of the Madras Fusiliers, just promoted to the rank of brigadier general, had been shot down as Havelock’s advance guard was making for the Residency… . Red sighed, wishing he might erase some of the more terrible memories from his mind.
Others, less exalted, had also died: soldiers and seamen, loyal sepoys, officers whose regiments had mutinied-as had William’s in Ranpur-their defenseless women and children, even their servants and their pets. And, on the other side, countless rebels-sepoys and peasants, the Nana’s followers-had been killed in battle, hanged, blown from the mouths of cannon, or shot as traitors, in a blind quest for vengeance by those who had seen or subsequently learned of the savage butchery that made the name Cawnpore a British battle cry.
Red saw that a boat was putting out from the shore, and raising his glass to his eye, he recognized the governor in the sternsheets. Signals exchanged earlier between the
Galah
and the South Head station had identified his ship and whence she had come, and he had been ordered to proceed to the anchorage in the cove, instead of the normal naval anchorage in Watson’s Bay. The governor, it seemed, was anxious for news from India, and it was best that William De Lancey should give him a full, firsthand account. William was almost recovered now, although he was a gaunt, heartbroken shadow of the fine-looking man he had once been,
haunted by Jenny’s cruel death. Only his affection for the Melgund boy-the boy Jenny had saved-kept him from sinking into a state of melancholia. From all accounts, he had fought like a demon during General Havelock’s brief and William Stuart Long
bloody engagements with the Nana’s forces on the way to Lucknow, and, despite a complete disregard for his own safety, he had come through unscathed, until the last battle of all.
Francis De Lancey, the
Galah’s
first lieutenant, was at Red’s side and looked at him inquiringly.
“His Excellency is on his way out to us, sir,”
Francis informed him. “I’ve assembled the side party.”
He, too, had a wife and young family in Sydney, Red reflected, and clearly was wishing, as he himself was, that Governor Denison had postponed his visit to the ship until a more opportune moment. But he had not, and so … “My compliments to Colonel De Lancey, Francis,”
he said formally. “And ask him to come on deck to receive His Excellency, if you please.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Francis acknowledged. He passed the order to the midshipman of the watch and added, lowering his voice, “I fancy my brother will have plenty to tell H.e., don’t you? Shall I suggest that their consultation might be conducted at Government House?”
“You can suggest what you wish, Francis,” Red returned, suppressing a smile. “Certainly my cabin might become a trifle overcrowded-I see that Colonel Macintyre is also anxious to be on hand to receive His Excellency.”
He gestured to where Julia’s stout, red-faced husband was standing, a hand shielding his eyes as he peered shortsightedly at the approaching boat in an attempt to identify its occupants. Dermot Macintyre had not enjoyed universal popularity with the
Galah’s
officers, despite their sympathy for all those who had served in the Lucknow garrison during the siege. He was a long-winded, opinionated little man, who expressed his views aggressively, and during the hurricane he had strained tolerance to its limit by his prophecies of doom and his criticism of the manner in which the ship had been handled. And his acid-tongued wife had made few friends among either her fellow passengers or the ship’s company. Yet, Red reflected with sudden bitterness, she had survived the horrors of the mutiny, and Jenny, poor little Jenny, had died.
William stepped onto the deck at that moment, moving stiffly, the boy Andy, as always, at his side.
They were seldom
parted; Andy, it seemed, had never left his adopted father’s company since they had come on board.
William had left him in Cawnpore, in the care of the Fusiliers’ chaplain, when Havelock had led his small, outnumbered force to Lucknow, and the boy had suffered a breakdown and almost died. Reunited, on the march back to Allahabad, the two had saved each other, and now, if William adhered to the plans he had made during their homeward passage, he and Andy were to become sheep farmers.
“I shall buy land in the Illawarra area,”
William had asserted. “Somewhere near Marshall Mount, the Osbornes’ place. That was where Jenny always wanted us to settle when-was He had smiled faintly, Red recalled. “When I was ready to turn my sword into a plowshare. Well, I’m ready now. I’ve had my fill of war.”
The sound of Francis’s voice calling the side party to attention interrupted his reverie, and Red went to take his place at the entryport, as the governor’s boat came alongside. The
bo’sun’s mates put their silver calls to their lips, and Governor Denison stepped on board, the military secretary and an aide at his heels.
Red saluted and was greeted warmly.
“Good day to you, Captain Broome. I am delighted to see you and your ship back in Port Jackson, but … not without damage, I observe.