The Soldier's Curse (35 page)

On more than one occasion, she told Monsarrat, she'd interrupted a game of Three Card Brag. Slattery still always won, and Meehan genially paid the money. As Mrs Mulrooney was leaving one day, he had taken her aside and quietly told her that Slattery was stashing the money, to be given to her on his execution.

It was after this revelation that Monsarrat found her in the kitchen, sitting and staring, a state which he had learned did not bode well.

She related the conversation to Monsarrat, then said, ‘I had almost convinced myself, Mr Monsarrat, that this would continue. That this time next year I would still be bringing pots of tea and those awful tin mugs down to the gaol, would still be interrupting
card games, would still be hearing young Slattery refer to that cell as his private room. Then that Meehan had to go and mention the execution. And I'd done such a good job of convincing myself, that I had to feel the shock of it all over again.'

She had tried to rise, but Monsarrat stopped her. ‘Let's see if I can improve on my last efforts,' he said, pouring boiling water from the kettle into the teapot to warm it. The tea made and pronounced drinkable by Mrs Mulrooney, Monsarrat sat down opposite her.

‘I'm not used to having room to sit in this kitchen,' she said. ‘There's usually a lummox with his boots on the table. For all my scolding I'd love to see those boots there, and I'd love to be putting together a breakfast tray for a lively young girl. But one's gone, and one's going, and most of what held interest for me here has drained away.'

‘You talk as though you're considering leaving the settlement,' said Monsarrat, feeling rising panic. Mrs Mulrooney had an unconditional ticket of leave – she could travel anywhere in New South Wales – so leaving the settlement, which for him was a fantasy, to her was merely a matter of planning.

‘Perhaps,' she said. ‘Would you be good enough to help me with a letter to Padraig? It might be that the station he is attached to has need of a housekeeper, or a cook or some such. It would be good to be with him again.'

Monsarrat knew that their friendship could not keep her here if the prospect of living again with her son was calling her away. But he felt desperately bereft at the thought of her departure, as unplanned as it yet was. Mrs Mulrooney was able to make things move very quickly when she set her mind to them.

He hid his depression, though, in solicitousness. ‘Of course, dear lady. You let me know what you would like to say, and I'll work something up and read it to you.'

‘Thank you, Mr Monsarrat. You're a good man.' She paused. ‘How much longer, do you think?'

Monsarrat did not need to ask what she was referring to. Barring foul weather, of which there had been none, the
Amity
would have reached Sydney by now. If the Colonial Secretary was disposed to deal with the matter quickly, it was not inconceivable that a reply was sailing up the coast towards them.

But her question echoed one he had been asking himself increasingly of late. How much longer before the ticket of leave which so effortlessly settled itself into the pockets of other men would do him the same honour?

He had the same answer to both.

‘I don't know,' he said. ‘I just don't know.'

The major's attitude towards Monsarrat had softened a little. His was a nature which couldn't share close quarters with someone he didn't like, and he was too honest a man to conceal that liking, even if he was still very annoyed with his clerk.

He had taken, though, to asking Monsarrat to visit Spring at the commissariat stores at the end of each day, with a request for Spring to unlock the back room, where the spirits and wines were kept. Monsarrat would have instructions to bring this wine or that, or sometimes rum, back to the study and leave it with the major.

Monsarrat did not know whether the major was in the habit of drinking on a regular basis – he was not in a position to observe him at all times, and didn't know what went on in the officers' mess. But he had certainly never seen the man drink in his study, which he viewed as a place of work and therefore sacrosanct.

To his even greater surprise, one night the major invited Monsarrat to join him, pouring him a small measure of rum in a tin cup. Had it not been for that drunken night ten years ago, Monsarrat might yet have got away from Exeter before he was arrested. He might now be living out his days, as a schoolmaster perhaps, under an assumed name in some picturesque corner of England, with a pretty wife and intelligent, well-behaved children. Or his flight might have influenced the judge at his assizes, tipping the balance against the commutation of his sentence from death to life.

Either way, Monsarrat wasn't much of a drinker. But refusing the major's offer, particularly in the man's present unstable state,
might be seen as an insult, so he accepted the cup with thanks, and took the seat the major gestured him to.

‘I am sorry if I was a little harsh, Monsarrat, over the matter of Diamond,' he said.

Well, this is a day of surprises, thought Monsarrat. He wondered if this was the first instance in the colony's history of an apology from a commandant to a convict.

Nevertheless, he said, ‘There is no apology necessary, sir. You were right. I should have acquainted you with the facts as soon as I knew you were not in possession of them.'

‘Perhaps,' said the major, ‘but there were others in positions of greater authority who could also have done that, and failed to.'

The major took a long draught of rum and put down his cup. ‘It is my hope that we have an answer shortly from the Colonial Secretary regarding the fate of the Irishman, as well as the confirmation of the tickets of leave and pardons I recommended. Busy day tomorrow, Monsarrat. Returns due soon. But there is one piece of business I would rather not wait until morning. If you are not yet addled by rum,' this said with a small smile, as the major had noted the tiny sips Monsarrat was taking, ‘I would appreciate your assistance in the formulation of a dispatch I would like to send to Sydney at the earliest opportunity.'

‘Of course, sir,' said Monsarrat, moving into his workroom to collect his writing implements. Returning, he surreptitiously moved his cup out of the way – accidentally spilling it on the admittedly less than fine parchment would do nothing to help the major's mood, particularly when he arrived at his study with a sore head the next morning to find the place still smelling of rum.

The major leaned back in his chair – another first as far as Monsarrat was concerned, who was used to seeing him sitting equally erect in a saddle and at a desk, his red coat immaculate.

‘Sir,' he began. ‘In addition to the recommendations I have made of late regarding tickets of leave and conditional pardons for those who assisted me in locating the new river, I have the honour to make another recommendation.'

Who's the lucky bastard this time? thought Monsarrat.

‘What's your middle name again, Hugh?' said the major, who had never before addressed Monsarrat by his first name.

‘Llewellyn, sir,' said Monsarrat, wondering if this was a harbinger of hope, or whether he was writing his own recommendation for an extended sentence.

‘And your date of birth?'

‘Twenty-sixth of January 1790,' said Monsarrat.

The major grinned, in a somewhat lopsided fashion. ‘I always suspected I was younger than you. You beat me into the world by a full year and a half, Monsarrat. Make sure all of your personal details accompany this letter on the next ship. Now … ah, yes.'

The major resumed the voice he customarily used for dictation, clear but expressionless.

Monsarrat's astonishment fought his eagerness to capture every word Major Shelborne said before the relaxing effect of the rum wore off.

The major leaned back. ‘I rarely get to make people happy, you know,' he said. ‘I expect His Majesty generally wishes me to do quite the reverse. So I'm delighted to be able to do this for you, Monsarrat, despite the fact that I'll be robbing myself of an excellent clerk. Maybe you could train up one of the boys from Rolland's Plains.'

And when Monsarrat still didn't reply, he went on, ‘This is a course of action I have been considering for some days. Do not fear that I will deny all knowledge of it tomorrow.'

Monsarrat recovered his voice. ‘I … Thank you, sir, I cannot tell you how overjoyed I am at this prospect. And you can be assured I will transcribe it with alacrity.'

The major smiled at this. ‘I've always appreciated your sense of humour, Monsarrat, however infrequently you let it off its leash. What passes for humour amongst some of my officers would make a whore blush.'

Monsarrat had little doubt of it.

‘Now, this rum is urging me to my bed – I'm not used to it, you see; I have no idea how some of them stay up all night pouring it down their throats. Goodnight to you, Monsarrat, and if the secretary accepts my recommendation I look forward to the day when you walk into this office a free man.'

‘Thank you, sir. I am forever in your debt.'

‘Don't mention it,' said the major.

As he stood, a little shakily, Monsarrat asked, ‘Sir, may I know what police district my ticket of leave will restrict me to?'

‘Is there a particular district you'd like to be restricted to?'

Monsarrat didn't know how to respond to this.

‘Obviously my own sense of humour doesn't benefit from rum. What I intended to say, Monsarrat, is that you will not be restricted to any region. Your ticket of leave will be unconditional. Now take that thought to bed with you, and sleep well.'

Monsarrat told no one about the major's letter. Speaking about it without it being official felt somehow wrong, as though he would be tempting a reversal of fortune. He kept the news even from Mrs Mulrooney – seeing her excitement at his impending freedom, and then seeing it dashed should the request not be approved, would be too much to bear.

Nevertheless, he personally escorted the letter – after he had made a fair copy and had it signed by a somewhat bleary major the next day – on to the
Sally
when she arrived three days later, having disgorged Captain Diamond, the rum, cedar and rosewood, and the commandant's earlier letters.

Given that one of those letters contained a less than complimentary account of Captain Diamond's behaviour, Monsarrat had wondered how conscientious he had been in delivering them to Sydney. But a soldier is a soldier, and Diamond had done what his commanding officer had asked of him. He must've handed the letters personally to the Colonial Secretary's office, for the
Sally
bore back with her his reply.

Monsarrat knew the mate of the
Sally
, a man called Tyrell who had also been mate on Monsarrat's original journey to Port Macquarie. During the three days at sea, Monsarrat had helped
Tyrell write a letter to his wife, and when the two had subsequently met at the docks, they had greeted each other amicably enough. He now entrusted the crucial letter to Tyrell's hands.

‘I will be forever in your debt, Mr Tyrell, if you could see this one delivered safely into the hands of one of the Colonial Secretary's clerks.'

‘Well then, I may have a few more letters that need writing, if you are able to assist me while we're backloading,' said Tyrell, smiling.

So as the mate was supervising the backloading of the vessel, he gave Monsarrat a few sentiments which he hoped to convey to his wife, who was a convict in Tasmania, and a few more for his brother back in Portsmouth. He also gave Monsarrat the respective addresses. ‘I trust you to put this into pretty words, Mr Monsarrat. Old
Sally
won't be by again for a little while, but I believe there is a brig coming in a few weeks – if I could impose on you to put them with the other mail on that, I'd be most grateful.'

Monsarrat assured him it would be done, and Tyrell gave equal assurance that the major's recommendation for the ticket of leave – though he didn't know that was what it was – would reach Sydney with all due speed.

Monsarrat watched the letter as it disappeared into Tyrell's pocket. He was surprised no one else could see it glowing and feel the heat emanating from it. Tyrell handed Monsarrat the packet from the Colonial Secretary, and left to bed down for the night, hoping to catch a favourable tide early the next morning.

Monsarrat considered breaking the seals and reading the reply from the Colonial Secretary to the letter asking for instructions on Slattery's fate. But he quickly talked himself out of it – he was not so impulsive as to risk incurring the major's wrath at this point, and recent events had shocked shadow Monsarrat into silence. In any case, he would know their contents soon enough.

He walked through his workroom and knocked on the major's door, receiving a muffled instruction to enter.

Major Shelborne gestured to a seat as he opened the packet. It would seem, Monsarrat thought, that the major already viewed
him as a free man, as previously he was expected to stand silently while the major read.

The major's mouth slowly expanded into a smile. ‘Well, Monsarrat. It seems my standing may be better than I had thought. The Colonial Secretary is delighted at the discovery of New River, as we are currently calling it – I think he would like the honour of naming it himself – and will send a surveying team. We will of course provide them all assistance. I will, anyway. You may not be here.'

He shuffled through the other correspondence. ‘Ah, it seems my recommendations for the tickets of leave and conditional pardons for those who accompanied me on the expedition have been approved. Monsarrat, can you make the necessary administrative arrangements? I wonder how we let Kiernan know.'

‘Allow me to take care of that for you, major. I have a shrewd idea as to how he can be reached.'

‘Very good.'

But on the last page, the major's smile vanished. ‘As Slattery has confessed, and given the nature of his crime, the Colonial Secretary has acceded to my request to send a judge to hear his plea and pass sentence, assuming the documents from the inquest are in order, which they are.'

The major set down the bundle. Looking up, he said to Monsarrat, ‘Do you still bear any affection for Slattery?'

‘Not for the man who committed the crime, sir. But for the boy he was, yes, I confess I do.'

‘It is with regret, then, that I have to ask you to carry out a task for me, one that I fear you may find distressing,' said the major. ‘I would like you please to ask the chief engineer to procure sufficient wood for the building of a gallows.'

Everything must indeed have been in order, as a few weeks later the brig
Fame
brought with it Justice Curtis, together with his clerk.

Monsarrat saw little of the judge, who stayed at Government House during his few nights there, the major having retired to the
barracks – he did not wish to ask the judge to sleep in the room of the person whose murderer he was to sentence, and of course the major had no wish to sleep there himself, so ceded his room to the judge.

The Female Factory was again pressed into service as a courtroom, with Monsarrat given the task of arranging the necessities under the direction of the judge's clerk, a fellow named Turner.

The long table at which the inquisitors had sat, scene of numerous convict meals, would serve as a bench, with Turner to be installed at one end. If the man felt the lack of the wood panelling and coat of arms he was used to in Sydney's new Supreme Court, he gave no indication, instead thanking Monsarrat for his efforts in procuring a large quantity of paper and more than enough ink.

Other long benches were placed against the wall in the long main room of the factory. Here the major and other inquisitors would sit, present should the judge have any need of them. Monsarrat stood at the back corner of the room, ready on a nod from the major or Turner to fetch anything which needed fetching.

If the judge and Turner had to live without wood panelling, they also had to do without a dock. Instead Slattery, when brought in, stood in the centre of the room, in front of the makeshift bench, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere over the judge's right shoulder.

Turner placed a Bible under Slattery's bound hands, on which he swore. The judge, without looking up from his notes, informed Slattery he was hereby charged with the wilful murder of Honora Belgrave Shelborne, and asked him to plead.

‘I plead guilty, Your Honour,' Slattery said. His eyes were still unfocused, his voice reedier than Monsarrat had ever heard it. He seemed already a little incorporeal, as though the sentence which would shortly be pronounced was already taking effect.

At his plea, the judge did look up. ‘I caution you against entertaining any hopes of mercy should you maintain your guilt. Given the nature of your crime, no mercy is possible. You may retire your plea and withdraw your confession, and face a trial.'

‘No, thank you, Your Honour,' said Slattery in the small voice of a chastened child. ‘My plea stands. I am guilty in the eyes of
the British law, and perhaps even in the eyes of God, but I am confident that he understands things more broadly than a British court might.'

The judge nodded. He withdrew from a box on the table a square of black cloth, which he rested on top of his wig. ‘Fergal Slattery, you will be taken hence to the prison in which you were last confined and from there to a place of execution at a time to be determined, where you will be hanged by the neck until you are dead, and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.'

Slattery was escorted back to his cell, and the judge retired to Government House to dine with the major before the
Fame
sailed back with him to Sydney the following morning. It fell to Mrs Mulrooney to prepare the joint of beef with vegetables which the two men, and a handful of senior military and civil officers, ate in a house devoid of any female presence.

The genial Meehan had become used to dealing with the private's visitors, and waved Monsarrat through the next morning as though he were entering a shop in Sydney. He found Slattery sitting with Father Hanley, engaged in quiet conversation. The two looked up at Monsarrat. The priest stood.

‘Ah, Mr Monsarrat, a delight as usual,' he said with the same flourish he had used in the kitchen weeks ago. ‘Fergal and I were just discussing some of the practicalities now.'

Monsarrat wondered what practicalities they could possibly have to discuss. The only action Slattery was required to take was to sit quietly and count his heartbeats until they ran out.

‘The Father is just ensuring my paperwork's in order for my next journey,' said Slattery. ‘I understand the bureaucracy up there is difficult, far more so than any penal colony. I suppose they need it, to administer all those saints. Nevertheless, I want to make sure I have all the appropriate documents. I can't pop back and get anything I may have forgotten.'

The priest smiled, a little sadly. ‘Well, Fergal, that's not exactly how I would have put it, but I suppose the intent is basically the
same. You will be giving me an extra decade of the rosary for that blasphemy, by the way, won't you, my boy?'

The young man nodded and held up a set of wooden beads. Monsarrat recognised them – they belonged to Mrs Mulrooney.

Father Hanley, Monsarrat knew, would be given unfettered access to Slattery in the lead-up to his execution. The fact that he was here now indicated that he, and Slattery, had some idea that the time was approaching.

‘I heard they're sending a hangman, make sure the job's done right,' said Slattery calmly. ‘When do you think he'll be here?'

An executioner, the major had told Monsarrat, would be sent from Sydney as soon as word was received that a sentence of death had been passed.

‘I'm not sure, but I'm under the impression that he'll be coming at the earliest opportunity. The
Mermaid
's back in a few weeks; he may be on that.'

‘And you'll make sure they build that gallows properly, won't you, Monsarrat? I don't want to slip before I'm supposed to.' Slattery sounded slightly nervous. ‘And for the love of God, make sure that the noose is capable of tightening. I saw a hanging once in Ireland where the noose hadn't been made properly, and the poor bastard took a long time to die, slowly choking as he twisted there. I'd as soon avoid that, if you don't mind.'

Monsarrat's throat tightened in sympathy. No one who had spent time in the colony could have failed to witness an execution, and Monsarrat had seen a few: as a convict he was required to watch others receive their punishment. None of them had been botched – but even the most expertly managed hanging still ended with a dead man at the end of a rope.

He assured Slattery he would do everything in his power to make sure things were quick. He had no wish to see the laughing boy strangled alongside the murderous man. He also gave the news to Mrs Mulrooney, as she bustled about the kitchen the next morning with breakfast for the judge, who would leave that day. When she had served the men last night, they had not mentioned the outcome of the day's events, and she hadn't inquired, fearful of the answer.

She paused in her preparations for a moment. She had her back to him, so he could not see whether the news had called forth any tears. But her voice was calm when she said, ‘Thank you for letting me know, Mr Monsarrat.'

He knew, though, that she visited the gaol every day with the pot of tea. She, Slattery and the Father often sat together, and she had taken to adding another tin cup to the collection she brought to the gaol with her.