The Soldier's Curse

by Thomas Keneally

  The adored horse of a landowner of Father Hanley’s parish in Ireland had gone missing, to be eventually located under the priest’s buttocks. Hanley claimed to have found it wandering, that he was intending to return it after using the stroke of luck to do God’s work by visiting a sick parishioner. The invalid, as it happened, lived quite close to the local racetrack, where a horse of the same description was listed to run that afternoon (fourteen hands, roan, highly favoured). On investigation, the constabulary found evidence of two minor miracles. The invalid was seen vigorously chopping a tree in the copse near his home. And the horse listed in the afternoon’s race vanished, scratched for non-appearance.

  Father Hanley was saved from a criminal stain by his priestly status, accepting an amnesty. But this salvation only went so far. He was informed that he could live as a free man in the colony, provided he remained a priest, and provided he never returned to Ireland. No one was certain whether Hanley remained a priest in the eyes of the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. No one was inclined to check, least of all Hanley.

  His crime outraged Slattery. Not that it was the worst of those committed by the men under Slattery’s stewardship – although the purloined item was larger in both size and value than many others which had sent people to the port. ‘I’ve no quarrel with a priest running foul of the constables,’ he’d told Monsarrat. ‘But horse theft! Any theft. If you’re a man of the cloth, and you want trouble, you should at least have the decency to do it for someone else.’

  ‘Stealing food for the poor, that sort of thing?’ asked Monsarrat.

  ‘No! You’re being slow today, for a man of fookin’ letters, even if you forged half of them. No stealing. Not needed – plenty to do that. No, give me a priest sent here for standing between a bailiff and a tenant. For interceding with his lordship – any lordship – on behalf of a poor family. For preventing an innocent man from being gaoled. Or – here’s one – for speaking against the greed of the landholder, trying to make sure they leave the tenants with enough to get by. Natural justice, that’s their job. Or should be.’

  ‘Why should that be up to the priests?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it? It has to be up to someone. And barely an inconvenience to them if they’re slain in the process, with guaranteed passage into heaven and all.’

  ‘Unless they steal horses. Then it’s guaranteed passage to the colony,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘Exactly so. And then they’re no good to man or beast, and shouldn’t be able to hide behind the Holy Father’s skirts.’

  ‘But then what would you do for weddings, baptisms, last rites? Surely you wouldn’t submit to Reverend Ainslie?’

  Monsarrat knew that Fergal Slattery’s relationship with his own religion was problematic at best. The settlement’s most redeemed regular resident, the Reverend John Ainslie, had been appointed chaplain last year, and the thought of being part of his flock had drawn an Irish curse from Slattery. Frail though they were, priests like Hanley were at least able to make allowances for frailty in others, while Ainslie and his like condemned even the thought of a sin. Certain Anglicans referred to their spiritual leaders in New South Wales as ‘almost Methodist’. It was not intended as a compliment.

  ‘There is that, I suppose,’ Slattery had said. ‘A priest is a priest, even if he doesn’t deserve it, and he has his uses.’

  The major might have agreed with Slattery on the general usefulness of the clergy, Monsarrat thought. Before Ainslie’s appointment, religious observances had amounted to the chief engineer reading prayers each Sunday in the schoolhouse. Now Ainslie conducted Sunday services in the same location, or sometimes, in fine weather, on the hill where the church was slowly rising. The major felt that the Reverend should restrict himself to these activities, together with attempts to increase the moral rectitude of his crime-stained flock. But that wasn’t how Ainslie did things. All roads led to God, he was fond of saying. What he didn’t say was that this meant everything which went on in the settlement was his business.

  Monsarrat was party to a great many administrative secrets, of which he would never speak in case he lost the major’s trust and the privileges it brought. One of these secrets was the number of meetings Ainslie had with Shelborne, arriving unannounced and closeting himself in the inner office for at least half an hour, lecturing him on everything from convict drunkenness to gambling amongst the ranks (he had his eye on Slattery and others). Ainslie’s sermonising leaked out around the edges of the inexpertly fitted door, giving Monsarrat a free but unintended insight into Ainslie’s views on a range of moral perils. The major was unfailingly polite and patient, thanking him for his concern and showing him out, sometimes unable to resist a raised eyebrow in Monsarrat’s direction on the way back in.

  In public, the major and his wife treated the Reverend with the greatest respect – or had until the Female Factory closed. Anticipating objections about increased opportunities for loose behaviour, the major had invited the Reverend to his office and laid out his plans and the reasons for them – the expense of keeping just three women in such a large building; the alternative uses it could be put to; and Dr Gonville’s concerns about the health of the women detained there. The Reverend had nodded thoughtfully, and informed Major Shelborne that he intended to visit Sydney in the near future to attend to some personal matters.

  Those matters, it turned out, included a visit to the Colonial Secretary with tales of women prisoners at large in the settlement, roaming amongst the male population in a most disgraceful manner.

  Monsarrat knew the major had already written to Sydney about his intentions for the Factory – he’d transcribed the letter himself. When the Colonial Secretary responded with the concerns Ainslie had brought to him, Shelborne asked Monsarrat to read the letter aloud. He was undeniably angry, but controlled. Until Monsarrat read one of the closing paragraphs.

  The Reverend has expressed a concern that you have been unduly influenced in this matter by your wife, who has commendably taken an interest in the welfare of the females, but perhaps lacks the necessary appreciation for the moral dangers these women may face abroad in the settlement, being no doubt innocent of such matters herself.

  At this, the major’s control temporarily slipped. He grabbed the letter from Monsarrat’s hands and read it for himself.

  ‘That sanctimonious bastard,’ he said. ‘I hope he stays in Sydney – we’re well shot of him. Monsarrat, draft a reply to the Colonial Secretary reiterating my reasons for closing the Factory. Don’t address that ridiculous reference to Honora. Then I want you to draft another letter, to Ainslie. Use your best hand, please, and as many pleasantries as you can muster without making yourself sick. Tell him that I hope he is enjoying his time in Sydney, and that in his absence we have reintroduced the practice of reading prayers in the schoolhouse – yes, yes, I know, but I will, this very week. We shall revert to the situation in place before his arrival, whereby I conduct any necessary marriages, funerals and so forth. This in hand, he should feel no immediate pressure to return, but should take all the time that he needs to conclude his affairs in Sydney. Please make sure to add Mrs Shelborne’s regards.’

  So for the present, Hanley was God’s only representative in Port Macquarie, standing and gripping Slattery’s arm in commiseration.

  Slattery shrugged off Hanley’s grasp. ‘As you say, Father, very sad. Young he was, too. Did you get to him in time?’

  ‘Yes, barely. I was able to absolve him. He died in a state of grace – assuming no unclean thoughts traversed his mind in the minute or two between amen and his final breath.’

  ‘He has no further need of you, so,’ said Slattery. ‘Very good, you lot, at opening the door to the next world. Only God can say how good a job you’re doing there. But I have my own thoughts on the job you’re doing here. You should be making sure the door doesn’t open too soon, and that passing through it isn’t the only hope.’

  ‘Ah, Fergal. I do what I can. A powerless priest in a cradle
of the heathens. Don’t think, lad, that all of the work of Our Lord and his Blessed Mother needs to take place in the glare.’

  Mrs Mulrooney, having now distributed tea, reflexively crossed herself.

  ‘Who’s died?’ asked Monsarrat.

  ‘One of my plastering crew. Fellow called Jeremiah. He was taken ill a few weeks ago but kept working. Well, in honesty I didn’t give him a choice. Not until he wasn’t able for it. You’d not believe the ruses they pull sometimes.’

  ‘And taken, from what I understand, by the same malady that torments Mrs Shelborne, or something very like it,’ said Hanley.

  Mrs Mulrooney’s eyes made brief contact with Monsarrat’s, then directed themselves towards the floor.

  Monsarrat sought to salve his own rising sense of unease by burying it in administrative activity. He stood, placed both hands on the table and leaned forward on them. ‘Private, are any others amongst your plastering crew ill?’

  ‘Not deathly so. One of them has a cough, not looking his best. But that’s not unusual. He’s still able to work.’

  ‘Anyone else of whom you’ve heard?’

  ‘No, not like that anyway.’

  ‘Father, have you ministered to anyone with a similar sickness?’

  ‘No, Mr Monsarrat, nor have I heard any rumours.’

  ‘Mrs Mulrooney … are you feeling well?’

  Mrs Mulrooney drew herself up, offended by the implication that something as trivial as a wasting sickness could render her incapable. ‘Apart from a certain lack of sleep, my health is excellent,’ she said.

  ‘I am pleased to hear it. Private, may I suggest that you confine your crew to the sitting room for the morning?’

  Slattery, for all his regard for Monsarrat, did not appreciate receiving orders from a convict. But he was not unintelligent and saw sense in what Monsarrat was suggesting. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘Until when?’

  ‘Until I have had a chance to deliver a report.’

  Chapter 7

  Monsarrat meant to make two reports, in fact. With two purposes. To the same man.

  He found Captain Diamond by the river, gazing at a work crew and their overseer working on the breakwater. After the rains, the frogs were competing with the sound of the convicts’ tools, although Monsarrat didn’t approve of their song. They didn’t croak like any self-respecting frog. They tapped, in mimicry of the sticks the natives used to accompany their strange crooning. For Monsarrat, the sound was unsettling, being not far removed from the tap on the door at his Exeter lodgings, the tap which had ended his liberty and sent him here.

  Diamond observed the worksite from horseback, on a sturdier and less refined beast than someone of the officer class would be used to. Nor was he self-evidently anymore an officer. For this dirty work, he had replaced his beloved parade ground reds with duller clothes, making him look from a distance like a reasonably prosperous farmer.

  With the commandant away on the hunt for the fabled river, the works which had been approved before his departure were being undertaken with more than the usual haste, to clear the building schedule for his return so he might look with favour on more important projects. A report on the poor state of the barracks roof, for example, sat amongst the increasing sheaves of paper Monsarrat had laid by for the major.

  Diamond looked at Monsarrat sharply when he stopped beside the horse. ‘You have a report for me?’

  ‘There is no change in Mrs Shelborne’s condition. Or at least in the way it manifests itself.’

  Diamond spat. ‘The major should have a soldier for a secretary. Not someone who spends words like a drunk. Is she any worse, or is she not?’

  ‘The digestive disturbances, the bouts of coughing and the convulsions are no more frequent than they were yesterday or last week. No more severe, either. But she weakens. She takes no food, and her only sustenance is tea fed to her on a spoon. She is less able to withstand the onslaught.’

  ‘You don’t mean to say she is closer to death?’

  ‘That I don’t know, sir. You would need Dr Gonville’s opinion.’

  ‘Which is precisely what I can’t avail myself of, which is precisely why I have given you the opportunity to be of service,’ said Diamond.

  ‘I think I may be of service to both you and the common good in one stroke today,’ said Monsarrat. He told Diamond of Jeremiah’s death, and the precaution Slattery had taken in confining his men to the parlour.

  ‘You fear contagion,’ said Diamond.

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Monsarrat. ‘But I do believe that two illnesses following the same course should be brought to the surgeon’s attention. In so doing, it would be natural to discuss the condition of the surviving victim.’

  Diamond looked at the men, hauling rock on top of rock in a probably vain attempt to protect the landing place from the worst of the nearby ocean’s moods. The bottoms of their canvas pants would now be permanently stained brown by the river mud, which was silky to the touch and crafty at worming its way into the gap between threads. It had managed to climb, in patches, to the workers’ shirts, and had also taken up residence on most of their faces.

  Monsarrat wondered whether his news was causing more internal turmoil than was apparent on Diamond’s features. He knew Diamond would consider it bad form to show any strong emotion in front of a convict clerk.

  ‘I can’t go,’ the captain said. ‘You must. You are right: Gonville should be informed. So inform him.’

  ‘And then? What if he should recommend some restriction of movement?’

  ‘If he does, return at once. I’ll take the necessary action. Otherwise, gather what information you can on the other matter between us, and return here tomorrow. And be aware that I require more than second-hand generalities if you’re to settle your debt.’

  * * *

  Gonville, as it turned out, did not feel a general quarantine was necessary. ‘Too disruptive to the function of the place, without any evidence of plague,’ he said.

  Monsarrat was aware that a plea for a larger dispensary rubbed against the to-be-approved request for the repair of the barracks roof, and that too much disruption would jeopardise both.

  This knowledge sat beside a galloping fear of what a plague could do to the settlement. Monsarrat’s imagination had been scurrying into dangerous and dark places during his short walk from the river up the hill towards the hospital, and he chastised himself for it. Best not to allow one’s mind to create terrors, when enough of them existed in reality. One of those real terrors wore a red coat, and had handed out a secret commission which had unsettled Monsarrat more than he liked to admit. But when his thoughts were all he could control, it was crucial not to let them off their leash.

  As he passed the convict barracks, the scent of the river eucalypts gave way to murkier, more human odours, which did not help. If plague was allowed to take hold, he suspected, those barracks would putrefy so much that a forest of gums wouldn’t be able to compete. Its slow pace would gradually quicken – another case tomorrow, perhaps. Two next week. And then, suddenly, twenty. Thirty. The barracks roof would no longer matter, and the need for the larger dispensary would be acute.

  His mood lightened slightly as he neared the hospital. He didn’t see, as he had half-expected, corpses being removed for burial, or the afflicted lying on canvas stretchers outside, their number having overwhelmed the small hospital’s capacity. And now, in the doctor’s office – or more accurately at his desk behind a partition at the end of the long hospital – the threat seemed even less likely. A sideboard stood next to a window, which admitted a smell of lye so strong that it would surely make any contagion impossible. The sideboard was a twin of that in which Mrs Mulrooney kept the best china and cutlery. Here, though, its surface was draped with a white runner, on which were displayed implements of unknown purpose (and Monsarrat wished their purpose to remain unknown, at least as far as he was concerned). The shelves held more books than Monsarrat had seen anywhere in the colony save
the major’s study.

  ‘What is it, then,’ Monsarrat asked, ‘to strike down two people with the same symptoms? Both young, too.’

  ‘Mrs Shelborne has not been struck down,’ said Dr Gonville sharply. ‘In any case, there is no fever. And I remain standing, as does Mrs Mulrooney. We would surely be amongst the first to fall, if the disease were liable to jump from one person to another.’

  The doctor, in fact, did not remain standing, and occupied one of the office’s two chairs. It would never have occurred to him to offer the other to a convict.

  ‘Have you seen Daisy Mactier recently?’ he asked now.

  Monsarrat had never regarded Gonville as particularly prudish. His employment as a colony doctor told against squeamishness, both moral and otherwise. Nevertheless, he made it a rule not to answer a question unless he was sure of the intentions of the questioner.

  ‘I believe she’s been about, yes,’ he said. He smothered his own puerile speculation on whether he and Gonville had trod the same path. He preferred to relegate such awkward likelihoods to the mists at the edge of his consciousness, where they had less chance of coalescing into facts and thus demanding attention.

  ‘And she’s well?’

  ‘I’ve no reason to believe otherwise.’

  Gonville slapped his desk. ‘There you are, then. Harlots are a bellwether of plague. They’re at the crossroads, so to speak, and they can infect a great many others before being outwardly stricken themselves. No, if Daisy’s well, so is the colony. Not that contagion from that source would be a concern for you, of course, Monsarrat.’

  ‘I hope to avoid contagion from any source, doctor. Is there nothing we can do to lessen the risk?’

  ‘Keep yourself as hale and well fed as possible, I suppose. Not difficult for someone with fishing privileges.’