by Meg Keneally
‘I never asked you,’ said Monsarrat as he watched Slattery eat, ‘about that message on the plaster.’
Slattery smiled. ‘Our day will come,’ he said. ‘My father used to mutter it sometimes, after his lordship had been by with a request for more money. His day never came. Nor will mine, now. Maybe your boy, Mother Mulrooney, will see his day come.’
‘I like to think he has no need of a day, so to speak,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘Everything to do with Ireland is a story to him, things I used to tell him when he was little. He hasn’t been infected by the old hatreds, the ones that put you here, young man. And I hope he never will be.’
‘They can kill you whether you’re infected or not,’ said Slattery. ‘Dory, now … no hatred for anyone, that boy, not really. His day will never come, despite my promise to him just before the flogging – turned out to be the last promise anyone ever made to him.’
The dinner done, Mrs Mulrooney began to pack up the things. She was taking her time about it though. Slattery bent down and gently helped her, before putting his arm around her. ‘Will you be there, tomorrow?’ he asked. He didn’t need to ask the same question of Monsarrat – he knew Monsarrat would be amongst those required to attend.
Mrs Mulrooney looked, suddenly, terribly anguished and tired. ‘Do you want me to be, Fergal?’
‘If you’ve a choice, now, I’d as soon you didn’t. I want you to remember me with all my considerable charm. It’s hard to be charming when you’re in the process of dying, or so I’ve been told.’
Mrs Mulrooney nodded. ‘I think that’s best.’
And then the awareness settled on both of them – that this would be their final moment together.
‘I would never have done it, you know, had I thought you would suffer for it, even for a moment,’ said Slattery. ‘You’re as good a woman as I’ve ever met, for all your crankiness, and I could never have borne it here without you and your tea.’
‘You take care, Fergal,’ said Mrs Mulrooney, before catching herself. An exhortation to take care implied a man had a future. ‘You concentrate on what Father Hanley tells you. Make sure you say all the prayers he asks for, go tomorrow in a state of grace, and then you and I might have a chance of seeing each other again.’
She started to cry then, and he folded her into a hug which nearly obscured her from Monsarrat’s view. He patted her head, somewhat awkwardly. ‘Don’t you go putting tears and viler substances on my shirt. I need to look my best for tomorrow,’ he said, his twinkle a little dimmed, matching her tears with his own.
She looked up at him. ‘I love you, young eejit,’ she said. She stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek and then abruptly turned and left the room, leaving the dinner things behind her.
Monsarrat, who had been watching from the corner, cleared them up.
‘You will be there of course, Monsarrat.’
‘Yes, though I don’t relish the prospect.’
‘Even less do I,’ said Slattery with that odd half-smile.
Monsarrat stood, setting the plates and other things aside on the wooden bench. ‘Fergal, I am going to miss you. I wish with all my heart you had never done this, whatever your grievance. Life will be colder without you; there’s no question. I need somebody occasionally to shake me out of my constraints. Without you, I remain in them forever.’
‘Ah, you won’t, Monsarrat. You’ve a bit more imagination than you give yourself credit for, even for a fooking Englishman.’
Monsarrat, because he knew it was expected of him, gave a courtly mock bow.
‘You know,’ said Slattery, ‘I was allowed a visit from Bangar last week. He says they’ll sing for me. To send me off, make a path for me to follow, when I no longer have eyes to see it or feet to tread it. It will help, I think, knowing that. I wonder, though, whether I could also ask you a great favour.’
‘Of course, assuming it’s not taking your place.’
Slattery smiled. ‘I’d like something to fix on in the crowd tomorrow … something I can watch until – well, I’m going to ask if they will dispense with the hood, but I don’t know whether they will. So I want somebody to watch, someone I know, until either the hood descends over my eyes or I drop.’
Slattery’s voice began to crack at this point, but he recovered himself. ‘I asked many a more handsome man than you, but they were all busy,’ he said. ‘Would you position yourself as close to the front of the crowd as you can? I’d be grateful to see you there.’
Monsarrat bowed again, and this time there was no levity in it. ‘I’d be honoured,’ he said.
The next day was cold and crisp, but with a beautiful blue sky, the kind this place seemed to churn out regardless of the season. Monsarrat was nearly at his workroom before he remembered that he would not be required there today. He had a different duty to perform.
He turned and headed for the parade ground. But on the way, he looked into the kitchen. It was empty. It was clear that breakfast had been prepared there, and recently too. The kettle was still warm from having been boiled, and hopefully it had behaved itself in the process or it would be the worse for it.
Monsarrat hoped Mrs Mulrooney had taken herself off for a walk, so as not to hear the shouts from the crowd that would accompany Fergal’s execution. She was not the maudlin type, not the kind to go and dash herself on the black rocks, but nonetheless Monsarrat was uneasy. He would go and search her out as soon as possible after the business was done with, let her know that she didn’t need to close her eyes anymore.
Slowly, then, he turned towards the parade ground. There was a considerable crush of people, far more than had been required to attend Dory’s flogging – floggings had happened before and would again, after all, but this was the penal settlement’s first hanging and deserved a decent showing.
Monsarrat had heard tales of notorious hangings at Tyburn near London, which had been a place of execution until shortly before his birth. The executions had been the focal point for a large amount of public merriment, with apprentices given the day off to go and look at the spectacle, and anyone who had something to sell fronting up to do business with anyone willing to buy.
The mood here, though, was not that of a carnival. Grim-faced Buffs lined the parade ground with shouldered muskets. Each man seemed perfectly and identically turned out, as if to demonstrate their rectitude and therefore unsuitability for the gallows. No one was chatting; there was no buzz of anticipation. Slattery had been well liked, even by those who had regularly lost money to him. And a great many of the convicts who had been there during the flogging of Dory, who had seen his intervention when Diamond seemed bent on flaying the young man to death, felt that there were others who deserved to be up there on the gallows in his place.
The major stood near the base of the gallows steps; Monsarrat too, shifting periodically to make sure he would be in Slattery’s sightline. On the platform was the hangman, like a burned tree in his executioner’s black.
The mass of people parted to form an avenue leading from the direction of the gaol. And now down it came Fergal Slattery, his hands tied, dressed in a white shirt and plain canvas trousers, with Father Hanley walking beside him. Monsarrat assumed that Slattery had used Hanley’s services that morning to get himself into a state as close to grace as possible.
A few arms, both in red sleeves and slop canvas, reached out and a volley of hands patted Slattery’s shoulders as he passed. He turned his head from side to side, smiling and winking, as though about to take the stage to perform a play.
When he reached the base of the steps, he nodded to Monsarrat and gave him a grateful smile. Then he turned to Father Hanley, who sliced the air with the edge of his hand in the shape of a cross, and intoned an absolution in a surprisingly deep and sonorous voice. ‘Ego te absolvo ab omnibus peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ he said.
Monsarrat was amongst the few Protestants there who could have translated, if asked: ‘I absolve you of all your sins in th
e name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.’
Slattery said his final amen, and mounted the steps of the gallows. At the top, he turned to face the crowd. ‘I ask God, the major, and all here present to forgive me for my crime in taking the life of Mrs Shelborne. I have come to realise she was innocent of any wrong against me – not, though, her family. But as long as a nation of innocents labour under a yoke unfairly imposed on them, more of those without blame on both sides will find their graves too early. May God have mercy on my soul, such as it is.’
The assembled convicts had never, when in a group, been as silent as they were now; however, the occasional mouth tweaked slightly upwards at Slattery’s last remark.
He walked over to the hangman, and nodded. The major had granted his request to dispense with the hood.
The hangman positioned Slattery under the arm of the gallows, tested the noose for the umpteenth time to ensure it would slide close around the man’s neck at the appropriate moment, and placed it over his head. He then stepped back, and looked at the major, awaiting direction.
Slattery’s eyes, meanwhile, were fixed on Monsarrat, who returned his gaze. He felt a huge weight of responsibility, realising that this was the last human connection Slattery would ever experience.
For a few seconds, the major did nothing, and Monsarrat with his eyes on Slattery entertained the impossible hope that there might be a last-minute reprieve. But then the major nodded to the hangman, who pulled the wooden lever on the platform. The door underneath Slattery’s feet sprang open, and he dropped far enough so that only his upper body was visible behind the barrier.
Monsarrat kept his eyes fixed on the young soldier all the while, steeling himself for a seemingly endless series of twitches, jerks and convulsions. But the hangman had done his job well – Slattery did bounce slightly and convulse, and his mouth spread further than it ever had, into a gaping, rugged hole from which a gurgle emerged.
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.
Chapter 33
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 fo
r 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.’