Lithgow

Lithgow

An Australian Historical Novel

Chris Craig 2011

Smashwords Edition

1st Edition

Copyright Chris Craig 2011

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Smashwords Edition License Note

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Put another way; if you enjoy this book (he said in the confident expectation that you will), then please pay the freight so the author can afford to sit down and write you another. Thanks.

Other titles by Chris Craig coming soon:

Catterthun

Noah’s Ark

The House of Thunder Series:

The Father

The Son

The Fall

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Table of Contents

Title

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

The End

Introduction

In the May of 1813, Gregory Blaxland, William Charles Wentworth and William Lawson set out to find a way across the seemingly impenetrable Blue Mountains of New South Wales. After twenty-one days the three men (together with their local guide, three convict servants, four pack horses and five dogs) stood on the heights of Mount Blaxland; the first Europeans surveying the vast grasslands of the Central West. Country rich enough to support the stock of the colony for the next thirty years, Blaxland said.

They stood, then, at the very frontier of the known world. Due to this isolation, it is easy to think of their feat of exploration as if it took place in a vacuum. But, of course, it did not. In New South Wales, it had been twenty-five years since the First Fleet had arrived at Botany Bay. The need to supply food to the growing colony was the driver behind Blaxland, Wentworth and Lawson’s expedition.

Around the world, major forces were at work. Movements were taking place in world history which would eventually dictate the future of the fledgling colony and those who were to come here.

As Blaxland, Wentworth and Lawson looked out over the hills and grasslands of Hartley, all of Europe was aflame. Britain had been fighting France in the Napoleonic Wars for ten years. Napoleon had suffered a disastrous defeat and winter in Russia. Encouraged by this development, Prussia, Austria and Sweden re-entered the war against the French in 1813. Arthur Wellesley won the Battle of Salamanca and broke French power in Spain in that year.

In the following year allied armies entered Paris and Napoleon abdicated on the 6th day of April, 1814. He was promptly imprisoned on the Mediterranean island of Elba. In September, the Congress of Vienna was convened to carve up the French Empire now that Napoleon had been disposed of.

The Congress was still in session, in fact, when Napoleon pre-empted its decisions by escaping from Elba and landing at Cannes in March, 1815. His veterans rallied to his call and Napoleon was back in charge. Once again the monarchy fled the country. Britain and her allies began to assemble forces to oppose Napoleon’s new attacks on the established order.

As Napoleon led his men north towards Belgium, hoping to catch his opponents before their armies could combine, Governor Macquarie was travelling with his wife on the newly completed Cox’s Road – across the Blue Mountains. On the trip, Macquarie named Springwood and Blackheath and proclaimed the town of Bathurst.

As he did so, Napoleon’s armies were pouring across the border into Belgium at Charleroi. The Duke of Wellington began to receive disturbing reports at his headquarters in Brussels as he was getting ready to attend the ball given that night, the fifteenth of June, 1815, by the Duchess of Richmond.

This is where our story begins. Europe is at war, in turmoil. This is the story of how that military, social and economic turmoil brought us to New South Wales; who we were, how we got here, and what happened to us then.

Lithgow

Chapter 1

(return to ToC)

A large rat ran across the black, wet cobblestones. It stopped, looking nervously about. Distant thunder muttered in the humid summer night. Lightning briefly flickered. The rat cleaned its whiskers and then scurried off, disappearing into the darkness. It had taken alarm at the tramp of approaching boots.

Four figures swung into the street, marching in a rhythm which spoke of long habit. The white in their sporrans flashed in the darkness, swinging in unison, as did the white stripes on the sleeves of their red coats. They were sergeants. Sergeants of the 92nd Highlanders: the Gordons.

In a courtyard off the narrow street, men sat around a fire burning in a small brazier. It had been lit for its light rather than heat. The men wore shirts with the sleeves rolled up. They were passing a black bottle as they talked in low tones, complaining about the humidity of summer in Brussels. They sprang to sudden attention as the four sergeants marched through the open gates of their walled courtyard.

McCallum! barked the leading sergeant, get yer kit on an’ come wi’ us!

Aye sergeant! replied one of the soldiers. Passing the bottle to a colleague he dashed into the open stables.

See it’s yer best, McCallum, the sergeant called after him, we are tae dance for th’ entertainment o’ ladies and gentlemen a’ th’ Duchess of Richmond’s ball, ye ken. At ease, th’ rest o’ ye men.

Ah’m tae dance, Sergeant? McCallum called back from the stables.

Nae laddie, ye are nae t’ jink. Mah brother Sergeants and ah wi’ dae tha’. Ye’ll be t’ look after our muskets lad, while we do our turn.

Sergeant, one of the other men ventured, is’t true wha’ they say? Tha’ Boney’s on th’ march? Tha’ we’ll be marchin’ the noo as well?

Aye, the Sergeant replied, it’s true.

Tha’ Boney’s on th’ march?

Ah, now tha’ ah dinnae ken.

But, ye said.....

Ah said tis true’ tha’is wha’ they say, the Sergeant rejoined, raising a laugh from the men, but ah’ll tell ye wha’. They say tha’ the Duke hissel’ will be at yon ball. If ah see him, ah’ll be sure tae ask wha’ his intentions are. Ah’ll say Private Frazer is anxious t’ know.

The discussion was cut short by the arrival of a piper in the courtyard.

Come on th’ noo McCallum, Mackay is here, the sergeant called and McCallum came out of the stable, fastening the last of his buttons. With a couple of unintelligible commands, the small party formed a line and marched out into the cobbled street again, making its way to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball.

The event was being held in a large vault of a room previously used by a carriage builder to house his products. A garage of sorts, it had big double doors opening onto a back street; it was the rear entrance to the fashionable home the Duke and Duchess of Richmond had rented for their summer in Brussels.

The street outside the ball was crowded with carriages, horses and footmen. As they drew near the entrance, the Gordons had to press themselves against a damp wall to allow a carriage to pass. It stopped and a party of the fashionable set alighted, making their way into the ball.

The large double doors of the ballroom had been kept closed. Light poured out of a smaller door on one side through which people came and went from the occasion. Uniformed doormen stood on either side of the door, ensuring that only invited guests were allowed in. McCallum watched as the sergeant explained their party. The other men unslung their muskets and leaned them against the wall. McCallum could see through the door. Men and women in bright, fashionable clothes and uniforms paraded past in stately pairs. He could see the rough walls of the space had been covered with wallpaper featuring trellised roses.

The others left him to stand guard over their firearms and went in through the doorway. After a time, McCallum heard the soft music stop inside the hall and an announcement was made. Then the pipes began. It seemed strange, that wild skirling to be coming from inside the genteel, rose-lined chamber. Then came the heavy, rhythmic crash of big men’s feet as the four sergeants went through their routine of jigs and reels, performing traditional Scots dances.

Appreciative ohs and ahs could be heard as the sergeants danced and the pipes wailed. Through the doorway, McCallum could see the backs of people crowding to watch. The footmen guarding the doorway looked at him from under their powdered wigs. They watched him with the disdain that servants of the rich and powerful reserve for common soldiers.

A round of applause signalled the end of the performance and McCallum waited for his party to emerge. There was some delay however, as the sergeants and their piper were taken into a side room and offered ardent spirits to cool their well-earned thirsts.

In due course they did emerge from the doorway, blotting out the light as their large frames filled the doorway one at a time. McCallum stepped aside so that they could take up their muskets. But then they all had to stand against the wall again as another carriage arrived. An officer in a mud-spattered Prussian uniform disembarked. With a curt nod to the doormen, the man swept into the ballroom, looking for the recipient of the message he carried. The Gordons paid the arrival little heed, however. After waiting for the carriage to pull away they set off in single file again, marching to their stables and their billets.

McCallum had only been asleep for a few minutes, it seemed, when a rough hand shook him awake in his bed of warm straw. He sat up, scratching his head, regaining his senses.

Wha’s tha’ noise? he asked the dark forms around him. A dull, repetitive boom rolled across the darkness of the city.

Tis th’ drums, laddie, th’ drums. They’re drummin’ us tae war.

Hamish McCallum’s company of men assembled in the dark street and the roll was called. Latecomers rushed into the rear rank, still fastening their uniforms. Then the sergeant walked slowly along the files of men, inspecting them in the gloom. Satisfied, he stepped back.

A’richt, gather up ye baggage, he bellowed and the men broke up, each picking up whatever personal and regimental equipment they were responsible for. Then the sergeant led them through the narrow street to a wide boulevard and their burdens were packed onto the wagons of the regimental baggage train. The dull boom of drums all the while vibrated the night air, calling them on to war.

Then they formed up with the rest of the regiment. Long lines of men stretching into the darkness on either side, filling the wide street. The first grey light of dawn appeared in the east and the order was given. The long lines began to march along the boulevard. They passed the residence of the Duke and Duchess of Richmond. The ladies had come out from the now abandoned ballroom to see the troops march away. They gathered in their bright dresses, some waved, some stood quietly crying. Some called out as officers rode past, their horses stepping carefully on the damp cobbles.

The Belgians began to come from their houses as well. They waved to men who had billeted with them. They called out, wishing the men good luck in the coming battle against the French. And still the drums pounded.

The first rays of the sun shafted suddenly through clouds as the Gordons marched out of the city gates, into the surrounding countryside, heading south.

Whaer are we goin’? Hae ye heard? a man in the ranks, marching near McCallum, asked.

Somewhaur called Quarter Brass, ah heard, replied another.

They marched throughout the morning, heading south through the rolling fields and woodlands of Belgium. As the morning drew on, the temperature began to rise. It was the sixteenth of June – the height of summer and the fighting season. As well as being hot, it was humid. The Gordons, and the other battalions marching south from Brussels, cursed the heat and humidity, and sweated in their uniforms as they marched.

They stopped for a break at lunchtime – a chance to rest in the long grass beside the roadway and fill depleted canteens from the nearest stream. As they ate their rations and drank thirstily, they began to hear the boom of cannon in the distance. Ahead of them, the Prince of Orange was confronting Marshal Ney, the commander of Armee Du Nord; the left wing of Napoleon’s army. The Gordon Highlanders looked at each other as the sound of cannon came to them on the breeze. They knew only too well what lay ahead.

Then they began to march again. The Gordons were part of the Ninth Brigade, under the command of Major General Sir Denis Pack. They saw old Pack himself ride past as the afternoon wore on. A rumour raced along the ranks that Wellington himself was marching further down the column. Dust began to rise as the ground dried and staff officers rode past this way and that with messages.

Suddenly the noise of the cannon fire grew louder. They marched across a crest and the tableau of the battle unfolded before them. Smoke haze hung in the air and thick billows vomited out from artillery batteries being operated by both sides. It was three in the afternoon, and the day was at its hottest. Pack himself came riding along the line, bellowing orders. His battalions and artillery were to take up a defensive position along the roadway to the left of a little hamlet of three or four houses: the village of Quatre Bras. The field officers of Pack’s division took up the cry. Battalions of men and batteries of artillery wheeled across fields of ripe wheat. Behind them, on the ridge line, they could see the cocked hat of Wellington himself. A string of staff officers rode to him and back carrying instructions for his generals and their replies. A cheer went up as the commander of the 92nd Regiment, John Cameron of Fassiefern, rode past, waving his hat and urging the men to their positions.

To their front, McCallum and his comrades could see the Dutch troops commanded by the Prince of Orange. The Dutch were giving way before the relentless advance of the French infantry columns. The ground was already littered with dead and wounded from the day’s fighting. This massive assault by the French was enough for the Dutch and they fled past the reserve battalions who had, it appeared, arrived in the nick of time.

Pack’s artillery opened up, cutting swathes through the advancing French columns. But still they came on.

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