The Soldier's Curse

  About the Book

  In the Port Macquarie penal settlement for second offenders, at the edge of the known world, gentleman convict Hugh Monsarrat hungers for freedom. Originally transported for forging documents passing himself off as a lawyer, he is now the trusted clerk of the settlement’s commandant.

  His position has certain advantages, such as being able to spend time in the Government House kitchen, being supplied with outstanding cups of tea by housekeeper Hannah Mulrooney, who, despite being illiterate, is his most intelligent companion.

  Not long after the commandant heads off in search of a rumoured river, his beautiful wife, Honora, falls ill with a sickness the doctor is unable to identify. When Honora dies, it becomes clear she has been slowly poisoned.

  Monsarrat and Mrs Mulrooney suspect the commandant’s second-in-command, Captain Diamond, a cruel man who shares history with Honora. Then Diamond has Mrs Mulrooney arrested for the murder. Knowing his friend will hang if she is tried, Monsarrat knows he must find the real killer. And so begins The Monsarrat Series, a fast-paced, witty and gripping series from Tom Keneally and his eldest daughter, Meg.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Book One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Book Two

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Book Three

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgements

  Authors’ Note

  Select Bibliography

  Copyright Notice

  For Rory and Alex

  BOOK ONE

  PORT MACQUARIE, NEW SOUTH WALES, JUNE 1825

  Chapter 1

  For someone whose cold hands were wrapped around a cup of excellent tea, Hugh Llewellyn Monsarrat was miserable.

  It wasn’t the tea’s fault. As it was for all the fallen, the liquid was one of his chief consolations. But he could calculate the number of cups he had drunk in servitude not as a gesture of geniality but with a hunger of loss, with his criminality settled on his shoulders. Every colonial child could tell the difference between him and, say, Doctor Gonville, as if the sentence of the court had entered the seams of the face, the fibre of fabric.

  ‘You won’t see the future in there, you know, regardless of what that witless article of a washerwoman thinks. Best just put it out of its misery.’

  ‘And it will put me out of mine for a short while longer, I thank you,’ said Monsarrat.

  The tea’s maker smiled. For an English gentleman, Mrs Mulrooney felt, Mr Monsarrat was a decent fellow.

  Mrs Mulrooney was generally quick to see decency. While not tolerating any nonsense (and she was the chief arbiter of the behaviour that fell into that category), she rarely took serious umbrage at people. She directed her annoyance instead to objects which refused to do as they ought. She had not discussed much of her history with Monsarrat – not here, where history could be painful and in any case had all the practical relevance of a fairytale – and he had not presumed to ask. But he knew she was a Wexford woman, ticketed and free-standing now.

  It didn’t surprise him – that trick of misdirected anger, abusing inanimate objects which could not put you on bread and water or lengthen your sentence, was typical of the more successful felons, the ones the system did not kill. Mrs Mulrooney muttered darkly when a tendril of peppery hair had the temerity to escape the confines of her white cloth cap, and glared at the kettle when it committed the sin of boiling over.

  The object of her ire at present was the breadknife, which she was using to slice a fresh loaf as part of Mrs Shelborne’s futile breakfast. It was letting her down by failing to be sharp enough.

  ‘Would you ever be kind enough to sharpen this cursed thing for me?’ she asked Monsarrat.

  ‘Of course. I’ll see it’s done before you next need it.’

  He watched her as she flitted around the room, a finch of a woman in an immaculate white pinafore over discreetly patched black skirts, small and quick with an unexpected wiry strength when called on to heave a log into the grate. The lines evident on other women her age seemed reluctant to settle on her own face in any great number.

  She picked up a skillet, examined it to determine whether it was guilty of any crime, and set it to the purpose of cooking the breakfast eggs for Mrs Shelborne, who would not eat them.

  ‘You’re casting a pall today with your mood, if I may say so, Mr Monsarrat,’ she said. ‘And we’ve enough of a pall as it is.’

  This was true. The physical pall of bloodwood smoke hung above her head, denied an exit by the windows closed against the winter, and a nest recently constructed in the chimney by some industrious but unwise birds. Smoke stains were crawling up the distempered brick walls towards the whitewashed ceiling. They would no doubt be admonished and scrubbed away by Mrs Mulrooney in due course.

  The smoke wove in and out of an invisible miasma of anxiety, which betrayed itself in the clench of Mrs Mulrooney’s jaw. It was, as far as she was concerned, well beyond nonsense – that her mistress, a young and lively woman, should so quickly have become a prisoner in her own body, stricken by an unknown affliction which had the surgeon puzzled.

  She’s right, of course, thought Monsarrat. The atmosphere is thick enough without my adding to it. He appreciated, too, her habit of disguising sharpness by delivering any criticisms she felt necessary as simple statements of fact – another prison trick learned by the fortunate.

  In fact, Mrs Mulrooney had more patience for Monsarrat than for many – most – others she shared the small settlement with. When he had joined the settlement two years ago, as a convict clerk to Port Macquarie Commandant Major Angus Shelborne, she’d felt pity for a gentleman like him brought low, the pity combined with an Irish delight in finding any gentleman debased.

  Now, in her, both pity and delight had given way to warmth for a soul who still seemed interested in the lives of others, despite the privations and injustices of his own. He had also proved entertaining company, and didn’t see her lack of letters as an impediment to their friendship. She was gratified that to be her familiar he had crossed the line between the readers who ran the world, and those who could not read and were the earth’s beasts of burden, and found a friend in her.

  For Monsarrat’s part, one of his pleasures was to be able to come across the frost on early mornings like this and into the mothering kitchen, for tea and conversation with someone he suspected had more natural intelligence than him. As a ‘Special’ – a convict with skills which equipped him for more than hauling timber and breaking rocks – he was tacitly allowed certain indulgences such as visiting the kitchen, as long as he didn’t make them too visible.

  But now, in the second winter of his friendship with Mrs Mulrooney, the path to the kitchen was well worn, together with the path between his small hut and Major Shelborne’s office, in an outbuilding beside Government House.

&
nbsp; Coming and going, Monsarrat was aware of time’s passage and was unhappy with the lack of movement in his life. He knew that His Majesty’s Government intended this; that the real punishment wasn’t removal from all that was familiar, but the sense of being caught in a sad timelessness, knowing that nothing was happening, or would or could happen, to interrupt the lethal, even pace of his apparently static, endless penal situation.

  ‘I shall smarten myself up at once,’ he said now. ‘But I wish I could perform some service to the colony that would jolt things along, other than by opening letters and receiving dictation. I think it’s going to take more than my beautiful copperplate hand to shift things.’

  ‘You do have a lovely hand,’ said Mrs Mulrooney, who could tell aesthetically satisfying handwriting when she saw it, despite being unable to decipher its meaning.

  ‘Yes, I’m exceptionally useful. Is that the problem? I wonder. Am I too useful to be ticketed again?’

  ‘You can make yourself useful for now by taking that kettle off,’ she said, pointing to it dangling on its accustomed hook below the stove, flirting with the fire.

  Monsarrat fetched a cloth and did as he was told. He moved deliberately, unwilling to risk a stain to his pearl-coloured waistcoat. It was one of two he owned, remnants from his interlude of freedom between penal stretches, which he’d been allowed to keep so as to cut an appropriately administrative, gentlemanly figure. Both waistcoats meant more to him than they should, and were meticulously maintained, even now when their fabric was wearing thin.

  ‘Perhaps I should have asked to go on the expedition with the commandant,’ he said.

  Major Shelborne had left, very recently, in search of a river, on a rumour from an absconded convict. A man who had evaded punishment by fleeing to the bush had sent a hint of new-found pasturage to the commandant and the commandant had ridden forth, and might give the fellow a reward if the reported valley actually revealed itself. This was what had soured the dutiful Monsarrat.

  The commandant’s departure had immediately preceded the illness of his young wife, who had since progressed with alarming speed from vomiting to coughing to convulsions.

  ‘That journey’s not for scholars such as you,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘And on top of that I should go out of my mind without your company. You have more wit than those others combined, and a ticket will find its way to you. In any case, what would you do on such a trip? They have trackers and cooks and soldiers. They’ve no need for a man of education.’

  ‘Well, I shall pass the time by assisting you,’ said Monsarrat.

  A small brass bell near the kitchen door began to move languidly, its clapper barely grazing its sides.

  Even Mrs Mulrooney knew this wasn’t the bell’s fault. She would have liked to be able to blame it on the object but knew its engine, young Honora Shelborne, was losing strength.

  Between the kitchen and the back of Government House lay a paved courtyard, to ensure that if the kitchen burned, the house would not. The residence was surrounded on three sides by broad verandahs with sloping roofs. There was a dining room and sitting room at the front with two large bedrooms directly behind them, and wings with smaller rooms extending backwards; the kitchen sat between these arms, like a ball in a cup. But the kitchen was connected to the house by a wire, which enabled Mrs Shelborne to pull a little lever to get Mrs Mulrooney’s attention. The bell’s peal was getting less vehement with each passing day.

  Mrs Mulrooney quickly assembled the breakfast and the pot of tea to take to Mrs Shelborne in her bedroom at the front of the house. Monsarrat knew that Mrs Shelborne lacked appetite and was more likely to ask Mrs Mulrooney to pass her a bowl to be sick in. He opened the door closer to the house to let Mrs Mulrooney through with the tray. There was not room for her and the tray side-on, so she had to edge the tray through first to get out into that yard between the kitchen and the house. He dashed ahead and opened the residence door which led into the dimness of the house.

  Before she went on up the hallway to the Shelbornes’ bedroom, Mrs Mulrooney confided in Monsarrat. ‘She used to be up at the table for breakfast by seven o’clock, and always ready to do something – ride or go fishing. But now … that spirit’s gone out of her.’

  ‘It may yet be mercifully restored,’ said Monsarrat. He knew of Mrs Mulrooney’s affection for her employer, and wanted to offer what comfort he could.

  ‘Look after the kitchen for me, mind that the fire behaves,’ Mrs Mulrooney said as she stepped into the dark house.

  The source of the river sought by Major Shelborne was unknown, but the source of its rumour was an absconded convict called Kiernan.

  The penal settlement with its fifteen hundred convicts – all second offenders, who had confirmed the courts’ wisdom in removing them from British and Irish society in the first place by now having committed colonial crimes – and the personnel required to keep them both productive and imprisoned was an oddly claustrophobic place for a town on a barely known rim of the world. Claustrophobic, because although it looked vast by some lights, it was hemmed in by three brooding mountains, an unpredictable river, and a sea whose mood, rarely tranquil, seemed to range from tetchy to irate.

  These geographic limitations had the advantage, though, of serving as natural gaolers – at least that had been the intention when the penal settlement was founded four years previously by the man it was named after. Governor Macquarie saw a lot of potential in the river, timber and soil of the place, resources which could be exploited by a bonded workforce, who would be kept at their stations by the isolation from the seat of power in Sydney and by an intractable hinterland.

  There were always absconders who decided to take to the Tasman Sea. The previous year, eight convicts had stolen the schooner Isabella. As they slid past the beaches and the cruel volcanic outcrops, the major had raced up to the signal station, which was also home to two cannon. The balls, though, had not found the ship, instead falling harmlessly into the ocean. The soldiers who had fired had been nervous, and not least about their commander’s response – eight convicts and a ship was a loss that would need some explaining. But he had assured them they had done their best.

  As for those who had disappeared on the Isabella, escape by ocean was far from a safe option, when recurrent southerly storms gave prisoners a regular demonstration of just how rough and wild the coast of New South Wales could be. Monsarrat, who had fractured dreams of escape almost every night, would look out onto the broken, riotous sea and pity anyone anywhere near, in or on it.

  It was less lethal to abscond into the bush. But success often depended on the escapee’s resemblance to deceased relatives of the Birpai, the tribe of well-formed men and women who had probably been on this land since before Britain could lay claim to being anything close to a civilisation.

  Simon Spring, the young Scottish assistant commissary-general who managed the stores, said that the Birpai believed that all whites were ghosts of some tribe or other, and the ones they could not identify were best returned to the settlement. But occasionally the natives would see an escapee plunging through the bush towards them in whose features and markings they recognised a relative or friend returned from the dead. Often a missing tooth helped, as the natives cut out one of the front teeth with stone chisels at the time when young men were initiated.

  But other escapees were quickly rounded up and returned by the bush constables, the name used by the soldiers for native men who helped in this way, and who were rewarded with rum and slop clothes, the rough canvas clothing worn by road gangs and convict labourers. Monsarrat sometimes wondered why the Birpai were so obliging, especially for so little reward. They had, after all, been here first and presumably had not invited a band of criminals and soldiers into their home.

  When Kiernan escaped, they had obviously seen a dead relative returned in his features; he was also helped by his lack of front teeth. No one was better equipped to avail himself of such good fortune: Kiernan had travelled with a number of
expeditions in the colony’s south.

  The loss of the Isabella still stinging, Major Shelborne had spent a lot of effort scouring the wooded foothills and penetrating the deep gullies of the mountains, looking for him amongst tree ferns larger than a house, grass trees, scribbly gum and huge verticals of eucalyptus trees. But it was impossible.

  Kiernan had been a particularly troublesome convict, those who had seen him before his escape said. He kept a lurking violence in check most of the time, but unleashed it freely when provoked. On one occasion he had been hit with a stick when making a johnnycake out of meal for his supper at the convict barracks, using an ancient frying pan to cook over the fire. The frying pan was, after years of intemperate use, part sieve, but it was the only weapon he had to hand, so he used it on his assailant’s head, breaking the pan rather than the skull, so the other man ended up wearing the pan around his neck, with a secondary necklace of welts quickly springing up. For that, Kiernan got a few dozen lashes on a back which was already scored from at least one other past punishment.

  But the fresh cuts in his back seemed to galvanise Kiernan in a way his previous flogging had not. Kiernan had grown up with a code of conduct as strict as any army’s, and more brutally enforced. The code of the street said you had a right to strike someone who struck you, and whoever started it was the greater sinner. So when he was not only punished for defending himself, but given the same number of lashes as his attacker, he came to the conclusion that he could not live within such a ridiculous system of right and wrong. This was Monsarrat’s assumption, anyhow, for Kiernan had absconded shortly afterwards.