The Silent Frontier (22 page)

‘If there had been letters misdirected to Corporal MacDonald’s former unit, would they have possibly been
sent from Captain Lightfoot’s sister to Corporal MacDonald?’ Goldsworthy asked the orderly room clerk.

‘Objection!’ the prosecuting captain said from his table.

‘Accepted,’ came the response from the president of the court-martial board. ‘I doubt that the witness would have an answer to such an irrelevant question,’ he continued.

But raising the captain’s sister’s name, linking it to the man being court-martialled, brought expressions of surprise– even curiosity – to the faces of the presiding judges, just as Goldsworthy had wanted.

‘Sirs, I beg your pardon,’ Goldsworthy responded, smirking as he turned his back to glance at Lachlan who also registered a look of surprise. ‘I have no other questions of the witness,’ he concluded.

Throughout the day, other witnesses came forward to give evidence: the officer of his own unit to whom he had reported the death of Forster, the two soldiers who had been dispatched to fetch back the body, and the regimental surgeon who made a cursory examination of Forster’s body when it was recovered for burial. He gave his evidence that the sergeant appeared to have died as a result of a massive blow to the head. When asked by Goldsworthy whether any instrument was recovered that could be consistent with the injury inflicted, the surgeon said that he was not aware of any such instrument at the scene. He added that the wound was consistent with having been inflicted by a Maori war club.

Goldsworthy attempted to capitalise on this fact but the prosecution put forward that Corporal MacDonald had plenty of opportunity to have in his possession such a club – and also had plenty of time to dispose of the evidence before reporting the matter of the sergeant’s death. Even Goldsworthy was forced to concede to the prosecution’s argument on these matters.

Around three o’clock the president of the court-martial board called it a day, adjourning the case until the following morning, when the last witnesses would give evidence. It would be a quick case with a finding within forty-eight hours, Goldsworthy reckoned when he spoke to Lachlan when he was back under guard in his tent.

‘How do you think it is going, sir?’ Lachlan asked.

‘Neither way,’ Goldsworthy replied. ‘The prosecution’s star witness is Captain Lightfoot. Much will depend on what he says tomorrow morning.’

‘He will lie,’ Lachlan sighed in despair. ‘And it will be the word of an officer against a common corporal.’

‘The law does not see rank in a case like this,’ Goldsworthy hastened to reassure him. ‘His evidence will carry no more weight than your own.’

‘I wish I could believe that. From my experience, the gentry stick together, despite all that you have said about the law being blind to prejudice. They will take his version over mine.’

Although the young officer did not say so, privately he agreed. If only he had a witness who could corroborate MacDonald’s story.

Goldsworthy left Lachlan with his guard and retired to the officers ’ mess. But he had little appetite, knowing what was likely to ensue the next day.

TWENTY

T
he following day Lachlan was marched back to the courtroom. He took his chair beside Lieutenant Goldsworthy and stood to attention when the members of the military board entered the room to assume their positions.

A door opening behind him caused Lachlan to feel more than a chill from the cold breeze entering the room. He instinctively knew that Captain Charles Lightfoot was present, a suspicion confirmed when the immaculately dressed officer came into view. He hardly glanced at Lachlan but smiled brightly at his fellow officers on the tribunal.

Sworn in, Lightfoot outlined his accusation and recounted the alleged conversation that he had overheard between Lachlan and the now deceased sergeant. Lachlan listened intently as both the prosecutor and his own defence examined the captain’s statement, but Lightfoot did not
deviate from his allegation. When Lachlan glanced at the faces of the three officers sitting in judgment of him, he could see from their expressions that they believed what Lightfoot was saying.

Frustrated, Goldsworthy returned to the table. From his demeanour, Lachlan knew that their case was looking more hopeless by the minute. Finally, Lightfoot was excused and left the room.

‘Is there anything else to add to the defence, Mr Goldsworthy?’ the president of the board asked.

‘No, sir,’ Goldsworthy replied glumly.

‘Then, if that is the case we shall break for the moment and allow for summations to be delivered after the midday break. Sergeant, escort the prisoner back to his quarters.’

The Scottish sergeant marched forward with two soldiers to escort Lachlan from the improvised courtroom. Goldsworthy did not stand but remained seated at the table, staring at the sheets of paper before him.

‘Too bad, laddie,’ the sergeant muttered under his moustache. ‘If it’s any consolation, I dinna believe that you are guilty of what they say.’

Lachlan merely nodded his head. His mind was in turmoil. How was it that an innocent man could be executed on the mere word of an officer of the Queen’s army?

After lunch, the sergeant returned to escort Lachlan back to the court. Lachlan knew in his heart that the board had already made up its mind and the only decision now would be where and when his execution would be carried out.

When Lachlan sat down beside Goldsworthy, he was surprised by his defender’s expression of barely concealed
delight. Goldsworthy half turned to Lachlan and beamed a reassuring smile.

‘Gentlemen, are you ready to deliver your summations?’ the president of the board droned, satisfied that all was over, other than the formalities of delivering the guilty verdict.

‘I am, sir,’ the prosecutor replied, rising to his feet, clutching sheets of paper.

Goldsworthy scraped back his chair and stood to answer the question.

‘No, sir,’ he replied, causing all present to suddenly stare at him. ‘I have one more witness to be sworn in.’

‘This should have been brought to the court’s attention before the break,’ the prosecutor said in an annoyed voice. ‘I move that the request be denied.’

‘I would accede to that point, sirs, except that the person who actually killed Sergeant Forster wishes to address this court.’

The expressions of annoyance on the faces of the members of the tribunal turned to looks of disbelief. Finally, the president spoke. ‘If what you say is true, Mr Goldsworthy, then I feel that in the interests of military justice, your witness should be allowed to address this court-martial.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Goldsworthy said, turning to address the sergeant standing guard in the court. ‘Please, bring in the witness.’

All craned to see who would enter the room – including Lachlan. Matthew Te Paea was dressed in old European-style clothing and limped badly from the bullet wound inflicted by Lachlan. When Matthew caught Lachlan’s eye, he broke into a smile then looked away.

‘This is Matthew Te Paea,’ Goldsworthy said. ‘He is the man who killed Sergeant Samuel Forster, and will relate how he did so.’

Matthew stood and assured the court that he could swear the truthfulness of his statement on the Christian Bible. The officers sitting behind their table had to admit Matthew cut an impressive figure. Each and every one of them had a healthy respect as they listened carefully to Matthew relating the events of the killing. When he had concluded his evidence, the prosecuting captain attempted to tear his account to pieces. But Matthew held firm and responded to every question thrown at him in a frank and open manner. Eventually the prosecutor resumed his seat with an audible sigh of frustration. Then Lieutenant Goldsworthy led the big Maori through the vital aspects of the evidence.

Lachlan’s fate was back in the hands of the board. With the usual courtesies, the officers adjourned the court to consider all the fresh evidence. Would they accept what the proud Maori warrior had told them? Lachlan did not entertain much hope of this happening.

Lachlan stood swaying in the crowded, noisy bar. He had broken his oath to old Max Braun and knew only that he was getting very drunk.

‘Here’s to a close-run thing,’ the Scottish sergeant said above the din of the crowd. ‘Here’s to an innocent Scot being freed from the shackles of the Sassenach legal system.’

Lachlan attempted to raise his glass but swayed too far and slammed into a soldier standing beside him.

‘To Matthew Te Paea,’ Lachlan responded, struggling to regain his balance and dignity. ‘God bless the big heathen and those soldiers who accept that honour is still a reason to march a man into battle.’

A grumble of agreement rose around him. It was a rare thing for an accused man to walk away from a court-martial,
rare still for court-martialling officers to accept the word of an enemy over that of one holding the Queen’s commission. Maybe there was hope for the British army yet.

But a question still nagged Lachlan. It had been the big Scottish sergeant who had tracked Matthew down in Auckland and secretly brought him before Goldsworthy at the very last moment. The young warrior was a man well known to many and not so hard to locate. When he had heard of Lachlan’s plight, he had not hesitated to volunteer to step forward in his defence. If nothing else, Matthew Te Paea had a sometimes misguided trust in English justice, if not the British Empire.

As Forster’s killing had been committed as a legitimate act of war, the tribunal had no choice but to excuse the slaying, although they were quick to conclude that Matthew should be immediately arrested as a prisoner of war. Goldsworthy had leapt to his feet and made a deal with the tribunal that, if the Maori warrior gave his word not to ever again take up arms against the British Crown, he be granted a military parole. Matthew agreed to the conditions and walked from the courtroom a free man, albeit a bitterly disappointed one. He would have given his left arm to be allowed to continue fighting the British. However, Matthew also understood the meaning of an oath – in any language.

‘Why did you do it?’ Lachlan asked the sergeant now.

The Scot swigged his whisky and looked Lachlan in the eye. ‘Because it were right,’ he said. ‘And you are a fellow Scot. The Sassenachs may employ me to fight for them, but my heart is still with the heather and glens. It were right to give you a chance.’

Lachlan did not question him any further. All he knew was that his life had been spared because of a shared heritage. In his gratitude for this kindness, Lachlan felt he might break into tears. He quickly made an excuse to leave the bar and broke
into the noisy night of the Auckland street. Now Lachlan knew why he had taken the oath to abstain from liquor. The last thing he remembered before waking up in the military hospital was the night swirling around him like a heavy, stifling coat.

‘You have a bad fever. I feared as much with the wounds you received.’

Lachlan recognised the voice as belonging to the kindly surgeon from his old militia unit.

‘How long?’ Lachlan croaked.

‘Three weeks,’ the doctor replied. ‘You have been in and out of the fever since you were brought here.

‘My arm?’ Lachlan asked in a weak voice.

‘You get to keep it,’ the army surgeon gently replied. ‘The fever is abating and your wounds appear to have healed, although I doubt you will have the same strength in it as before. For the moment I will leave you in the care of the orderlies, but I think when you are discharged from the hospital, your days of soldiering are over.’

Lachlan smiled and closed his eyes. Around him he could hear the soft murmur of voices, broken only by the shouts of a wounded man a couple of beds from him. The man was obviously in a state of shock.

‘’E was at Gate Pa,’ came the explanation from the bed beside Lachlan. ‘The big heathens shot him down in the trenches. Where did you get yours?’

Lachlan opened his eyes, turned his head to see a bandaged head with only the eyes watching him.

‘Orakau,’ Lachlan replied. ‘Got shot in the arm. How about you?’

‘Gate Pa,’ the British soldier replied. ‘Me name’s Corbett. I’m with the 43rd.’

‘I was with the Forest Rangers,’ Lachlan said. ‘My name’s MacDonald.’

‘You a colonial then?’ the British soldier asked. ‘I thought you might have been a Scot.’

‘I am,’ Lachlan said. ‘But spent most of my life in the colonies. What happened at Gate Pa?’

The soldier turned his head on the pillow. The brightness in his eyes had faded.

‘We got the chop from the Maori. We was over Tauranga Harbour way where the heathens built a pa right under our noses. They was taunting us to come and fight them but old Cameron brought up every gun we had and bombarded the hell out of them. It looked like nothing could survive. Every inch of the pa had been shelled.

‘Finally, we went in. We thought all we had to do was pile up the bits and pieces left over in the trenches. At first we had only a bit of resistance when we went over the top but suddenly they were firing into us like rats trapped in a barrel. We lost seven officers killed and God knows how many of me mates killed and wounded.

‘The Maori had been as snug as bugs in their underground shelters and the artillery didn’t even mess up their hair. The fighting were so fierce that we had to get out and leave our wounded to the mercy of the natives. Young Henry over there, screaming his lungs out, swears that a native woman who could speak English came to him when he was lying wounded in the trench and gave him water. Some of the other boys tell the same story.

‘The Maori aren’t like other heathen natives I’ve soldiered against. The worst thing was that after they repelled us they all got away. Old Cameron is saying we had a victory, coz we took the trenches, but every one of us knows that the Maori won on account of so many casualties.

‘It was a nightmare in them trenches. I just want to go home.’

Corbett sighed and closed his eyes. The next morning, the orderlies came to remove his body.

Due to his half-useless arm, Lachlan found himself discharged from the army. Not that he minded, as his heart was no longer in soldiering. In common with many prominent men in the New Zealand government, Lachlan could clearly see the real reason for the war against the courageous Maori warriors – the stealing of valuable native land for a handful of rich speculators – and he was relieved to be no longer a part of it.

Besides being discharged with an honourable record, and his severance pay, the government had provided him with a ticket home to Sydney. Lachlan had a day before his ship sailed the Tasman. Sober, and dressed in civilian clothing, he set out to find Matthew Te Paea. The kindly Scottish sergeant had informed Lachlan that he might find the former Maori warrior living in a shanty town on the outskirts of Auckland.

It was a place of dispossessed Maori – men, women and children awaiting the end of the Waikato campaign, before attempting to bring normality to their shattered lives. So far, it appeared that the campaign was far from over. Cameron and his force had not been able to bring the rebels to a confrontation where he could deploy his forces to crush the resistance once and for all.

Lachlan found Matthew living with another former warrior in a tin shack.

‘I see that you are able to use your arm a bit,’ Matthew said, greeting Lachlan.

‘And I can see that you are able to walk well enough,’ Lachlan replied with a slow smile.

The two men stood some paces apart appraising each other. ‘I see that you are no longer fighting for Cameron,’ Matthew continued.

‘And you are no longer fighting for the Kingites,’ Lachlan said.

‘It was not really my fight,’ Matthew said softly. ‘I am of the Ngati Kahungunu people from the Hawkes Bay region. I only went to help the Waikato tribes to show them how real warriors fight.’

Lachlan nodded. So they both had volunteered to fight for a cause that was not theirs.

‘What are you going to do now?’ Matthew asked as a cluster of Maori watched with curiosity the two men in their midst conducting a conversation in English.

‘I am returning to Sydney. There, I will meet my brother and after that travel to Queensland to become an explorer,’ Lachlan answered, not mentioning that in fact his first task would be to seek out Amanda, having been told she had returned there.

‘Good,’ Matthew grunted. ‘I think that maybe I will go to Queensland one day. I have heard that it is warm there – even in the winter. It was not warm at Ballarat when I was there.’

‘If you ever travel to Queensland,’ Lachlan said, ‘you must look me up and we can reminisce about our fighting days.’

‘I will do that,’ Matthew said. ‘We will meet again.’

Lachlan extended his hand but Matthew reached out to draw the young man close, touching his nose with his own.

‘Our way of saying goodbye,’ Matthew said.

Lachlan stepped back, nodded, then turned to walk away, wondering at this strange friendship that he had formed with a man who had tried to kill him on the battlefield – yet saved his life in a courtroom.

When Sydney came into sight, Lachlan was standing at the bow of the ship, watching the rise and fall of the great sandstone cliffs that acted as the gate posts to the bustling city on the beautiful harbour. It was early morning and, despite the onset of winter, the sun shone over a gentle, rolling sea.