The Soldier's Curse (17 page)

After a time he felt the cold tightening its grip on his fingers and immobilising them. That would never do – he would need them in working order, particularly over the next few days.

A barely perceptible lightening of the sky betrayed the sun, as it attempted to hide behind the clouds. Normally he did not appear at the door of the kitchen before six, but this being winter it must be nearly that hour now. In any case, he doubted Mrs Mulrooney had got any sleep either.

He was right, and the kitchen together with its uncooperative utensils were being driven by Mrs Mulrooney far more ruthlessly than Jevins had ever driven him in the work gang. She always
seemed to believe a frenzy of activity was the best way to ward off disaster. As she flitted around filling this, pouring that, chastising anything that looked like it was even thinking about not working, Slattery sat at the table, a full cup of tea sending steam towards the ceiling.

‘Have some more tea,' Mrs Mulrooney was saying. ‘You'll need some warmth inside you for the journey. The rain will be back, I guarantee it.'

So accustomed a presence was Monsarrat in the kitchen that neither of them so much as glanced at him as he pulled back the chair opposite Slattery, and sat down tentatively, unsure whether he was facing the old laughing rogue, or something newer and darker. Monsarrat had heard many people say taking a flogging changed a man. And he feared it might have changed this one in the giving.

‘A journey, private?' he said.

Slattery raised a brow and gave Monsarrat a half-smile, in a way which made it look as if the corner of his eye was dragging up the corner of his mouth. ‘Yes, Monsarrat, I thought I'd take in a little of the seaside to the north – does a man good, you know. And His Majesty is paying for the excursion, God bless and save him.'

‘You're going with Diamond, then.'

‘For my sins, which are legion, yes. He said he'd rather have me under his watch. He thinks Carleton is a bit too soft and might let me get away with things. I've always found Carleton a decent man myself, but I suppose there is no secret between the three of us as to what I think of Diamond's decency.'

Monsarrat didn't know how to frame his next observation. The two men had traded insults only – insults which were intended to mask affection while at the same time communicating it, but insults nonetheless. It was their conversational currency, and they had never used any other. ‘Slattery … You know you did your best. It was a brave thing to go up against him like that.'

The smile disappeared, and the arcing anger threatened to return. ‘There's nothing to be done, Monsarrat,' Slattery said flatly.
‘The captain is the authority here. And there's none to overrule him in the godless waste between here and Sydney. So he might as well be the ruler of the world.'

He stood up, slowly, as though his frame had suddenly become heavier. He went to stand beside Mrs Mulrooney, his back to Monsarrat, and began helping her in assembling the tea things.

‘You're kind to do that, Fergal, but there's no need. You've a big journey ahead, please, sit down.'

‘Not a bit of it, Mother Mulrooney, I might as well, while I can.'

Mrs Mulrooney smiled. She turned to Monsarrat. ‘He's a good boy for all his many faults, isn't he, Mr Monsarrat? He saw me struggling with the tea tray a few weeks ago, and ever since then he's put it together for me and carried it across to the main house whenever he's been here when it's time to take it. It's a weight off my mind as well as my arms – I often fear I'll drop the thing.'

With the tea things laid out to his satisfaction, Slattery turned, picked up the tray. He wormed the tip of his boot between the house-side door and the frame, opening it with his leg and standing against it to let Mrs Mulrooney through. They both trudged across the avenue to the house, Slattery handing the tray to Mrs Mulrooney and opening the door for her, and bowing with a flourish.

‘A good boy indeed,' said Monsarrat when the soldier returned. ‘Private, you mind you stay good on the road. If Diamond is willing to act like a brute in front of the whole settlement, there's no knowing what he'll do when the only witnesses are a native tracker and some trees. And keep an eye on Bangar, won't you? He's a fine lad – I'd as soon not see him abused by Diamond.'

‘Ah, never you mind, Mr Monsarrat. I like Bangar – I'll make sure no harm comes to him. Apart from that I have no intention of causing the slightest trouble. Not on this trip.'

‘Not on this trip? And on your return?'

Slattery's half-smile reasserted itself. ‘Ah well, then I will revert to my troublesome self, of course.' He muttered something in the impenetrable Irish tongue.

‘What was that?'

Slattery said it again. God alone knew how the words were spelled, Irish spelling being one of the universe's great imponderables as far as Monsarrat was concerned. But it sounded like
chockie-o-lah.

‘Just a little thing I say to bring myself luck from time to time, Mr Monsarrat. Now, you stay good yourself too. And look in on Dory for me now and again, won't you?'

And the soldier stepped out into the dawn.

It was an hour yet before Monsarrat was due to be in his workroom. He decided to spend that hour in the kitchen, as in the normal run of things he'd be here at this time anyway. He got the whetstone and took to sharpening some of the blunter-looking knives while waiting for Mrs Mulrooney to return.

When he heard footsteps, he sprang up to open the door. He was a little shamed, to be honest, by the assistance which Slattery had so willingly given the older woman. He chided himself for not doing likewise more frequently. Leaning against the door to hold it open for Mrs Mulrooney, he immediately took the tray from her hands and set it on the table. It seemed unnaturally heavy for a tray bearing an empty teapot.

Mrs Mulrooney looked approvingly at the array of sharp knives before him. ‘Thank you, Mr Monsarrat,' she said. ‘If I were a superstitious woman, I'd think the fairies came in at night and blunted them all. They can't be trusted to retain their sharpness, so you've given me easier work.'

‘You're most welcome. And I'm happy to see you in a more cheerful frame of mind than yesterday. With Slattery going, I must confess I feared you'd sink further into despondency, but the reverse seems to be the case.'

‘I'll miss the young devil. But I hope his journey won't be a long one. They may yet come upon the major not far from here, if he has completed his mission and is indeed returning. Those Birpai trackers, now, they are a marvel. But my spirits owe more to Mrs Shelborne this morning.'

Monsarrat, who'd been arranging the knives as she spoke, looked up. ‘You don't mean to say there's been an improvement?'

Mrs Mulrooney surprised Monsarrat with a girlish laugh, she who had a great impatience with girlishness. Frivolity didn't get the tea made. ‘Yes, there has, Mr Monsarrat. Christ and his saints be praised. Particularly his saints, to whom I've been praying these past few weeks.'

Monsarrat had only a vague acquaintance with the basic tenets of his own Protestant faith, which he had left behind in childhood, so the mechanisms of the Catholic religion went over his head. He tended to view Catholic saints like ministers of the Crown – each responsible for their own area, and vying for the attention of the prime minister so they could progress their portfolios.

‘And who have you been dealing with?' he asked.

‘Well now,' said Mrs Mulrooney, ‘I went to Father Hanley, you see, and asked him who would be most likely to help Mrs Shelborne. Her ailment has so many manifestations; I thought they might be too many for one saint to handle. So we agreed, he and I, that we'd asked St Pio to direct the efforts of the other saints, him being a general healing saint.'

‘Ah. And which troops have you asked St Pio to marshal?'

‘Well, there's quite a list. I asked Father Hanley to repeat it to me several times so I could make sure to remember them all. We have St Bernardino of Siena for the lungs, St Pancrus, St Teresa of Avila and St Crescentius for her headache, St Elmo for her digestive disturbances, St Quinton for her cough, St Vitus for those awful wrackings, and St Deodatus of Nevers for plague. I know Gonville's ruled it out, Mr Monsarrat, but I'm praying to so many as it is, it's hardly a trouble to add one more. Even if it's not plague, it might sway him, in case he's been considering blighting us for our lawlessness anyway. Yesterday I put them all aside and started
praying to St Joseph for her peaceful death. But I may have done so too soon, because it seems they are in the midst of answering my prayers. Ah, would you ever put that pot back on the counter for me, before we forget?'

Monsarrat did as he was asked. The pot he took from the tray was most definitely still full. ‘Well, it must've been the saints, as clearly it wasn't your tea, as reviving as it is – it seems she didn't drink any.'

‘No indeed, Mr Monsarrat, we've no time for thoughts of tea. I went in there as I do every morning. I put the tray on at the table near the window – she keeps a small table and chair near the window, so she can read in the light. Or she could, when she was still in a position to. So I put the tray on that, as I do every morning, and went over to smooth out her covers. I haven't needed to do that much lately. When she first got sick she would be thrashing around all night and I would come in to find the covers on the floor, or tied in knots by her legs. Now, unless she's having convulsions, they stay perfectly still. But it's a habit. So I went over and did it. And do you know what happened, Mr Monsarrat?'

‘I'm sure I don't.'

‘She opened her eyes – praise be to the Blessed Virgin, she actually opened her eyes. It was the first time I'd seen them in some days. Even a week ago, her eyes were usually only half open, and there was no spark behind them – they could have belonged to anyone. But this morning, she opened them properly, and I saw her in them. You have no idea, Mr Monsarrat, how many times over the past few days I have had the awful feeling that I was tending to a breathing corpse. There seemed to be nothing left of the dear woman, and I wasn't sure what was keeping her body going. I thought maybe she was like a carriage wheel which had been lifted off the ground – they keep turning, you know, for a little while, even after the carriage is no longer moving.

‘But when she opened her eyes – not half an hour ago! – I saw immediately that it was her. And I just stood there like an eejit, gasping and gaping, unable to believe it myself.

‘And then she smiled – the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. I don't want to tempt them, but none of those saints I've been praying to could match it. Her poor lips are very dry; it's been two days since I was even able to get much moisture between them. So when she smiled, gaps opened within them, and I saw that they would soon start to bleed. Still, it was her, her smile, and therefore lovely.

‘Thank the Lord I managed to remember to bring water with me – I haven't been bringing much on those trays recently, to be honest. There's been very little point. But I like to bring something every morning, as you never know what will be needed. While she draws breath I'll not stop doing it.' She sounded annoyed now, as though Monsarrat had suggested she should desist from bringing sustenance to the invalid's room.

Monsarrat himself was listening to her recount in astonishment. Everything he'd heard had led him to believe that Mrs Shelborne would die, and soon. The doctor had believed so, and more importantly Mrs Mulrooney had agreed with him. But this sudden reversal had him considering the possibility that Mrs Mulrooney's saints had indeed had a hand in things. If he were a saint, he would most certainly respond to her entreaties with the greatest speed.

‘So I brought the water over to her and dribbled little teaspoons of the stuff in between the lips, just to moisten them to start with. She smiled again, and this time one of the cracks started oozing blood, which I mopped up. I've been washing her face every day, and now I went over it with a cloth soaked in cool water. It seemed to soothe her. Then she spoke – actually spoke, and here was I thinking she'd uttered her last words. The voice sounded like dried leaves in the wind, I had trouble at first hearing what she was saying. Then when I leaned in I realised she was thanking me.

‘She's still so weak, though, Mr Monsarrat. Even that small effort exhausted her. I made her as comfortable as I could, smoothed down the coverlet, and held her hand. I gave it a squeeze, and I got the strongest squeeze in return than I'd felt for many days. Then
she drifted off again, and sleep will be her doctor for the next little while.'

‘I have no doubt this sudden improvement is due in large part to your determined nursing,' Monsarrat said. He realised that he was grinning, and made no attempt to stop himself, despite the fact that it went against the usual gravitas he tried to project. ‘I must confess, it has been so long since I received good news that I had stopped looking for it in any form.'

‘Ah, you must never do that, Mr Monsarrat,' said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘I'm afraid I do have some bad news for you, however. She took no tea, and that which is in the pot is the last of the chamomile infusion she favours. I'd as soon keep it, and warm it on the stove before I go up again. So I'm afraid your own tea will have to wait, perhaps all day. I am sorry.'

‘While life is made bearable by your tea, I am more than happy to sacrifice a day's worth for the continuing health of Mrs Shelborne. Congratulations, Mrs Mulrooney. Don't give too much credit to the saints – you had more than a little hand in this. I won't forget it, and if I have any claim to know Mrs Shelborne at all, neither will she. Would you like me to fetch Dr Gonville?'

‘Would you be kind enough, Mr Monsarrat? Have you time before you're due at your desk? I'd like to have her examined as quickly as possible by him. He might have some idea what has caused her recovery, so that whatever it is, we may get more of it!'

Monsarrat assured her he had sufficient time to visit the doctor. His main incentive for being at his desk on the very dot of seven had just ridden out of the settlement. In any case, it should not take the half-hour remaining between now and the official start of his workday to fetch Gonville.

He left a delighted Mrs Mulrooney in the kitchen, humming and neglecting to chastise a single pot, spoon or knife.

There had been times in Monsarrat's life when he had resented the weather for failing to conform to his moods. The day he was transferred to the prison hulk was quite pleasant, for England.
Surely it should have had the decency to rain, and to clothe its sky in a mournful grey.

The opposite phenomenon was apparent on the day Monsarrat received his ticket of leave. He had been, by now, in Parramatta for some years. There, he was sometimes called on to fill out tickets of leave for local convicts. The tickets would come to him up the river from the Attorney-General's office in Sydney with the names already inscribed by another clerk, and he would write in the sentence, the date, the ship the felon arrived on, and various other minutiae. They would then go back to the Colonial Secretary for signature, before being delivered into the trembling hands of the new emancipee.

The slips of paper were practical documents, with none of the flourish Monsarrat felt they should have, given their importance. They listed the prisoner's name, what they'd done to get here, where they came from, where and when they were tried, what their trade or calling was, and what they looked like. They entitled the felon, or now former felon, to employ him or herself in any lawful occupation in a particular district. They didn't warn the newly freed convict that leaving this district would send them back into servitude. They didn't need to.

Monsarrat was doing this work one day, with his eyes half closed so that he wouldn't have to be continually reminded he was writing freedom for someone else while he remained enslaved. He completed a ticket of leave, blotted it, and put it to one side. He glanced down at the next one. It informed him that His Excellency the Governor had pleasure in dispensing with the attendance at government work of Hugh Llewellyn Monsarrat, who was hereon restricted to Windsor.

With a shaking hand he filled in his own details. Tried at the Exeter assizes in 1815. Sentenced to life. Arrived per the
Morley
. Native place, London. Trade or calling, clerk. Five feet and eleven inches tall. Pale complexion. Dark brown hair. Blue eyes.

He put the paper – inscribed with a little less finesse than the others – in the stack to await signature. Within a week it was back in his hand. He needed to take several deep breaths to
stop that hand shaking so much it risked damaging the paper, and then he stepped out into the kind of rain England was too restrained to produce, great gouts of water pouring from some celestial amphora. Through the grey sheets, he made his way to the Prancing Stag boarding house, where a certain party would have an interest in both his freedom and its restriction. Then he would try to find a visiting stockman or merchant willing to give him a ride to the area to which he was now confined. Beyond this limitation, however, he now had as much liberty as anyone else.