The Soldier's Curse (37 page)

The stench which always accompanied a hanging began to waft in Monsarrat's direction, and he was grateful on Slattery's behalf for the barrier Jack Ketch had insisted on, so that the final products of Slattery's last meal could not be seen staining his trousers.

But now, Slattery was beyond caring. That awful gape remained in the centre of his face, but his eyes were no longer fixed on Monsarrat, or on anything.

In keeping with standard procedure, the thing that used to be Slattery was to be left dangling there for half an hour, to make absolutely certain that no traces of soul had stuck to his body.

The crowds began to be dispersed, being nudged by the Buffs back to their duties. Monsarrat turned to the major, whose face was as stiff as he'd ever seen it.

‘Sir,' he said, ‘may I beg leave to stay with him? Until he is cut down?'

The major nodded, without looking in Monsarrat's direction, and stalked off towards Government House.

So Monsarrat sat on the edge of the platform, close to the hole through which Slattery had fallen, and which resembled a similar hole back in Exeter which might have consumed him had the judge not commuted his sentence. He heard, from a distance, the sounds of a strange keening starting up, and wondered if it was Bangar's song, leading Slattery away. He did not look at what was now hanging from the rope. But he spoke, in his mind, to the boy who had been there until a few short minutes ago.

I hope the Lord accepted your apology, and that the priest's words worked their magic. I hope the hatred which destroyed you is no longer with you.

He tried to gather the words he would say to Mrs Mulrooney. It was good that she hadn't been there, but she would still want to know the truth of it.

And then, when the hangman cut down the body, he followed the major to Government House, his hands behind his back and his head tilted upwards, glaring at a sky which had no business being that blue.

Monsarrat tried to numb himself with administrative detail, being curter than was perhaps warranted with the young and hapless Ellis, and then making up for it by praising the boy's handwriting, or his eye for detail.

The major spent most of the day absent from the study. Monsarrat and Ellis passed the time pulling together accounts of maize production, rum, cedar and rosewood, wheat, and the much-vaunted sugar cane. Monsarrat showed Ellis how to put these into a form which would please the Colonial Secretary, and impressed on him the importance of transcribing an appropriately obsequious signature – ‘your obedient servant'.

At the dinner hour, he looked into the kitchen. Mrs Mulrooney had returned, and looked up when he entered.

‘Did he make a good end, do you think?' she said.

‘He made the best of ends. You'd have been proud of him, although perhaps you might not have approved of some of the sentiments he expressed in his last moments,' said Monsarrat, and told her about Slattery's gallows statement.

She smiled, a little. ‘He died as he lived, then. A fierce, bright and misguided boy.' Then her smile faded. ‘You don't think,
Monsarrat, that I could have done more? Should I not have spotted the darkness in him, tried to drive it out?'

‘To be honest, I think you did more than anyone to bring some light to him. But the damage was done a long time ago. I doubt there is anything you could have done, even had you realised what his true state of mind was. You should hold to yourself those words he spoke – you made his last time here bearable.'

He kissed her cheek and took his leave, back to the office to plunge into the emotionless pool of detail on the settlement's production.

He had thought the major might stay away the whole day, but as evening closed in, the man returned. Shelborne looked over Ellis's shoulder and nodded his approval at their efforts. He then dismissed Ellis and asked Monsarrat to come into his study.

Monsarrat still felt slightly uncomfortable sitting in the major's presence, but nevertheless was grateful for the chair which the major gestured him to. He began to perceive in himself a weariness which went far deeper than mere fatigue.

‘Ellis seems to be picking up the necessary details?' asked the major.

‘Yes, sir. If he had been trained in London he'd have made a first-rate clerk, but even so he has exceeded my expectations, and his script is improving daily.'

‘Well, that is excellent news,' said the major.

‘Sir, may I ask you – if the application for my ticket is rejected, do you intend to deploy me elsewhere?'

‘Well, had you said that Ellis would not make a half-decent clerk, I would have kept this information from you,' said the major, smiling, ‘but the ship which brought the executioner also brought a letter from the Colonial Secretary. The governor has approved your ticket, which I have here. Congratulations, Monsarrat. And thank you, truly, for your service.'

It was the news for which Monsarrat had been hoping, but now that it had come he could only gape in amazement, fearful that it was a mirage which would disappear when he tried to reach out for it.

But the ticket was real enough, as he saw when the major passed it over to him. And he was overjoyed to see no district inscribed on the section of the document where the word Windsor had once stood.

His mind raced ahead, galloping over the seas which harried the coast, and up the river to Parramatta. He would find Sophia Stark, and hope that she might throw over whichever man was currently enjoying her company. He supposed he would take up again at the Caledonia Inn to start with, until he was able to get a steady position. Poor souls were being disgorged from boats by the day, and most of them had at least one person to whom they wished to express love, regret, desperation, or just awe at the new surroundings.

He wondered if he could convince Mrs Mulrooney to come with him. Perhaps he might call on Magistrate Cruden. He held out few hopes of being able to resume his former position, and the boys would be too old to have need of a tutor now, anyway. But who knew whether the magistrate's Irish housekeeper was still in place, or whether he might have room for somebody to perform the official parts of her duties. At the very least he might know of somebody around Parramatta, and he resolved to ask the major for a reference as to Mrs Mulrooney's good character.

‘I must warn you, though, Monsarrat, that this ticket comes with conditions,' the major said.

Shadow Monsarrat began to stir again, then. Whispering rebellious thoughts. Saying, Here they go again, giving you freedom and then proscribing it so that it's not worthy of the name.

But all he said was, ‘Conditions, sir?'

‘Yes,' smiled the major, though Monsarrat could not think for a moment what was prompting such glee. ‘Your story, it seems, has rather captured the imagination of some in Parramatta. There is a degree of admiration for your part in identifying Private Slattery as my wife's killer, and in prompting him to come forward.'

Monsarrat had, in the past, taken credit for insights which had really emanated from Mrs Mulrooney. He urged himself, now, to explain her part in identifying Slattery, to praise her perspicacity. But he remained silent.

‘So, it seems your thoroughness impressed a certain member of the governor's Parramatta staff. A Mr Ralph Eveleigh, the governor's secretary there, is in need of a clerk. One with legal understanding – however acquired – who can be called on to manage more delicate matters as they arise.'

Monsarrat knew he was gaping, but the muscles in his face seemed to have stopped working. And even as life returned to them, they were struck numb again when the Major mentioned the handsome figure Monsarrat was to be paid for performing this service. His first thought was, It's more than enough to employ a housekeeper.

The major stood and extended his hand. ‘May I be the first to shake your hand as a free man,' he said, still smiling. ‘You're to report to Parramatta by the end of next month. I hope I may rely on your services until then.'

Monsarrat shook the proffered hand. ‘Thank you, sir. I can't begin to thank you enough, especially as I'm about to ask you yet another indulgence.'

The major raised an eyebrow and waited.

‘As you know, Mrs Mulrooney has been severely distressed both by the death of your wife, and by the execution of Private Slattery. I fear for her should she remain here, particularly without me. I will understand if you do not feel this is appropriate, but may I beg you to release her from your service, so that I may employ her?'

‘I was actually going to suggest something similar,' said the major. ‘I don't think there's anything left for her here, and to be honest seeing her reminds me of everything that's gone by these past months. I would be grateful if you were able to offer her a position.'

And then the major sat again, the smile well and truly gone, and reached into a drawer of his desk. He pulled out a piece of paper sealed with wax; thick and luxurious paper of the type Monsarrat had rarely seen since leaving Sydney.

‘And here is another reminder of what I've lost,' said the major. ‘I found this in Honora's papers recently. You'll note that
it's addressed to you, and you'll also note the seal is broken – I make no apology for reading it.'

‘Nor would I expect one,' said Monsarrat. He was astonished that Honora would have written to him, for any purpose. But as he opened the paper, with a date which showed it had been written as Honora's illness was worsening, he began to understand.

Monsarrat did not know whether this was the last letter Mrs Shelborne wrote, and whether her husband had found a message for himself amongst her papers. It was a question he would never ask. But if not the last, it was certainly close to it – the letter's date told him that it had been written days before she slipped into a state of semiconsciousness. And he intended to honour her wishes to the fullest extent – knowing all the while that Mrs Mulrooney was unlikely to take his tutelage quietly.

The major had obviously had a similar thought. ‘Well, Monsarrat, I wish you the very best of luck in convincing your housekeeper to submit to your teachings,' he said.

He looked directly at Monsarrat. ‘I would like you to do me this favour. I speak of my bemusement at and fascination with your condition. Perhaps I am in the minority, but I don't believe in a criminal class, in people born with deformed characters which incline them to offend. But some, like you, have offended. Often to survive, but that was not the case in your instance. I wish to know what drove you here, Monsarrat. I have a notion that understanding that might help me understand a great deal else.'

A decade of penal servitude had taught Monsarrat the dangers of answering before framing measured sentences in his head. After a few moments, he said, ‘One cannot argue with a sentence. It must be endured in the hope of redemption.'

‘Please, don't hedge with me, Monsarrat. I asked the question because I have never known quite so closely, and yet at the same time not known, a man in your position. In your mind, did you deserve your sentence of transportation? And similarly, what of your second sentence?' The man's eyes were still on him, frank and lacking in artifice or malice.

‘I fear that if I began to speak, I might offend you, sir.'

‘I fear that if you do not begin to speak, I will know less than I should about the world, and particularly about this netherworld here. Do you feel, tell me, that there is something essentially criminal in you?'

‘Very well,' said Monsarrat, returning the commandant's gaze. ‘You must understand that the greatest criminals do not know that they are criminals and will not admit it. If I were to explain
my founding crime, impersonating an officer of the court, I could say that there was as much yearning as any intent to do harm in it. For it is a terrible thing to have a mind for a particular profession and, despite one's best intentions, to be thwarted in the study and pursuit of it. It would be a wonderful world if all who had the talent, and I dare say I did have the talent, were given the means to pursue the desired destiny – the honour of a profession. That was what I yearned for, a licence to practise my own intelligence. And what a day it would be if everyone were able to pursue their talents to whatever limits society permitted them.'

‘Alas,' said the commandant, ‘you speak of utopia.'

‘I fear I do, sir. In any case I shall not see the day. There is a price to be paid under the present system. It is a harsh price, and it has embittered me. But it is the way of the world and must be borne.'

‘Indeed, my dear fellow,' said the commandant. ‘I am sad nonetheless that you must bear it to the limits. With a commuted death sentence, you will never be allowed to leave New South Wales for Britain or Ireland. I am sorry.'

‘I feel an equal sorrow for you, sir. For the loss of your angel.'

‘Indeed, indeed. But now, what of your colonial sentence? Again, speak freely.'

A second, and then Monsarrat did. ‘When I first acquired a ticket of leave, the malice of a particular man ensured that it would be restricted to a district, unlike the tickets of many other convicts which allow them to move freely about the colony. I was stupid enough to leave my district, and a second sentence was imposed. And that was purely technical, I thought – and think to this day. That a man should be punished for leaving his district, if he is unlucky enough to be limited to one, is just, but that he should be sentenced to three more years of servitude is far too severe and does not encourage the reformation of our characters.'

Monsarrat was now alarmed at himself.

‘I am pleased that you were here, of course,' said the commandant. ‘But I understand fully that it was not a joyful eventuality for you. I will try to take a personal interest to save you from magistrates narrow and punitive in their views. It is good to hear the honest feelings of a transportee. In New South Wales convicts
dare not tell the truth to those above them. I feel that is part of the colonial malaise. Thank you, Monsarrat. But do be careful.'

Then he stood again and said, ‘I think that's all for today. You may let Ellis take greater responsibility, day by day, over the next few weeks. In the meantime, you're relieved of your duties until tomorrow morning. I believe you have a situation to offer.'