The Soldier's Curse

by Thomas Keneally

But while education is of crucial importance to the young, I believe the old can benefit from it as well. To that end, I would like to beseech you to teach Mrs Mulrooney her letters. I believe the world can only benefit from the addition of a literate woman.

  I trust you are continuing to work on the talk on Sisyphus and Icarus, which I hope to be in a condition to give before too long. May I request that you hold a draft in readiness for my perusal on my recovery.

  Yours sincerely,

  Honora Belgrave Shelborne

  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.’

  Chapter 34

  Monsarrat went back to the kitchen. In his exhilaration, he pushed the door open with all the force that had once been applied to it by Private Slattery, and immediately regretted it. The sound of the door banging so violently made Mrs Mulrooney look up hopefully for a second, before she registered the identity of the person in the doorway.

  Nevertheless, she managed to smile. ‘The fact that you’re charging around like some sort of demented young colt leads me to deduce that a certain ticket of leave has arrived,’ she said.

  ‘Indeed it has. And a situation of employment with it. I am to report to Parramatta, to the Governor’s office, by next month.’

  He must’ve been grinning like a loon, he realised, because Mrs Mulrooney was looking at him as though the last threads holding his sanity together had snapped – and perhaps they had.

  Then the despondency reasserted itself. ‘I am delighted for you,’ she said. ‘This is richly deserved. But I will miss you, and I make no secret of it. I doubt I’ll be here long anyway, one way or the other.’

  Monsarrat did not like the sound of that last statement. ‘Well, you may be right. It turns out I’ll be able to rent a reasonable house when I return to Parramatta. And of course, I’ll need a housekeeper. But I would absolutely understand if you didn’t feel able to work for a former felon such as myself …’

  Mrs Mulrooney was suddenly grinning. She got up, and he thought that she was about to embrace him. Then she stopped. ‘Quality servants cost money, you know,’ she said, and named the salary she expected.

  Monsarrat knew it was more than she was earning here, and did not begrudge her one penny of it. ‘There is one condition on your employment, however,’ he said. ‘Two, actually. One is that you continue to make the tea you’ve been making for me all these years.’

  Mrs Mulrooney snorted, offended at the suggestion that she would do otherwise. ‘And?’ she said.

  ‘And, I am to be not only your employer but also your tutor. I am to teach you to read.’

  Mrs Mulrooney came towards him again, but this time it was with the tread of a hunter stalking a deer. She moved around behind him, gestured him to a chair, and when he sat, took her cleaning cloth from the waistband of her skirt and flicked him with a surprising degree of force in the temple.

  * * *

  September could still occasionally be a little chilly in the settlement, but the worst of it was over, and the rains had receded, lurking beyond the horizon to return at the height of summer, as they had a habit of doing.

  But, Monsarrat thought, they would have to find someone else to fall on. He had swept out and cleaned his little hut as best he could, knowing it would become Ellis’s home. He had even convinced Spring to give him so
me tar, with which he tried to stop up the holes through which the chilly draughts gained access.

  Mrs Mulrooney had been making similar preparations in the kitchen, making sure everything was in place, impressing on Margaret McGreevy the importance of proper tea-making procedure, telling her that this skillet or that kettle needed to be watched at all times, and warning her about the misbehaviour of the fire.

  She had put her meagre possessions in a small crate some days earlier. Monsarrat took with him only his spare waistcoat (which had been his main waistcoat, until it acquired a permanent red smear thanks to his run-in with Diamond), his sleeping shirt, and his ticket of leave, which never left his person. In one of the voluminous pockets of his black coat, however, nestled a volume of Catullus in the original Latin, a parting gift from the major, who also allowed him to take his ink pot and pens. ‘I would as soon allow you to leave without your arms and legs, as to leave without these,’ he’d said.

  The major was, in fact, at the riverside now, chatting to the harbourmaster, as the Sally made ready to depart at the high tide, giving her the best chance of travelling safely over the lurking bar.

  Monsarrat was delighted when he learned that it would be the Sally which would convey him to Sydney, the same vessel which had brought him here, and he would have its genial mate Mr Tyrell to while away the time with on the voyage. The winds were still favourable, Tyrell had told him the night before, so if they continued to cooperate, the journey to Sydney should be an easy one.

  Mrs Mulrooney curtseyed to the major before she got on the ship, and he clasped her hand and thanked her for her care of his wife. He apologised, again, for her incarceration.

  ‘Ah, enough of that now,’ she said. ‘Had I not known I was innocent, I would have thought me guilty too.’

  Then it was Monsarrat’s turn to board, which he expected to do with a great deal more ease than Mrs Mulrooney, having far longer legs with which to accomplish the task.

  The major again shook his hand. ‘I wish you the very best in Parramatta, Monsarrat, I really do. I have been well served by you in the past two years, and I know you’ll apply the same industry to your work with the Governor’s secretary.’

  ‘I would not be making this journey if not for you, sir,’ said Monsarrat. ‘And I will not forget it. If I am ever in a position to do you any service at all, rest assured it will be done.’

  The major nodded, and gestured Monsarrat onto the ship. They crossed the bar without incident, and were soon sliding past Lady Nelson Beach and her cousins, with their sands pierced by black dragon’s teeth. The three brothers seemed to be watching the small boat, and Monsarrat wondered whether they wanted to ensure it bore him away, or were plotting to prevent him from leaving.

  Mrs Mulrooney didn’t like the ocean – of all untrustworthy things, it was top in her view – so she had immediately made her way below decks in an attempt to pretend that she was anywhere but on a boat.

  Monsarrat sought her out. ‘Shall we get started?’ he said.

  ‘Started on what, you great streak of a man?’ she said. Her mood was not being helped by the motion of the boat.

  ‘Well, you are to learn to read. The sooner the better, I feel.’

  ‘Well, I happen to feel differently,’ she said. ‘As if a soul could concentrate on anything with this infernal rocking. I refuse to even consider it until we are well away from the ocean, with no prospect of returning to it in the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Mrs Mulrooney, really, that is certainly not an appropriate way to address your employer,’ said Monsarrat.

  ‘Don’t think that just because you’re paying me a pittance for my considerable services, I’m going to suddenly start bobbing and curtseying. Nothing will change, Mr Monsarrat – I give you my word.’

  ‘No, I believe it won’t,’ said Monsarrat, ducking out of range of the cloth which she reached for now, having forgotten to remove it from her waistband before boarding the ship. ‘And that, I can assure you, is what I’m relying on.’

  Acknowledgments

  We’re indebted to the following people, who made this book possible: Judy, our beloved and insightful first reader; Craig, for his love and support; Rory and Alex, for being so patient and understanding when their mother was appropriated by Monsarrat and Mulrooney. ‘Mum’s gone to 1825 again,’ was a frequent comment during the writing of this book. Fiona Inglis and all at Curtis Brown Australia, for their passionate commitment to the project. Meredith Curnow and the team at Random House Australia, for their belief in this book. Stephanie Henzlik, for her friendship and for taking the time to read the draft.

  We’re also very grateful to those who generously shared their expertise: Debbie Sommers and the volunteers of the Port Macquarie Historical Society; Mitch McKay of Port Macquarie Hastings Heritage; Janet Cohen of the Sea Acres Rainforest Centre.

  Authors’ Note

  The Soldier’s Curse is a work of fiction. Its main characters never existed, and only three minor characters – William Branch (junior), Margaret McGreevy and Richard Neave – bear the names of people who actually resided in Port Macquarie at the time this book is set. Apart from these, only governors Lachlan Macquarie and Thomas Brisbane, referred to briefly, existed in the real world.

  Having said that, many aspects of our story draw on historical fact. For those who are interested, we’d like to describe the people, places and events rooted in actual history, those which have been wholly invented, and those which inhabit the blurred border between fact and fiction.

  Port Macquarie Penal Settlement

  The site which became Port Macquarie was discovered in 1818 (from a European perspective – the Birpai had discovered it many generations earlier).

  In September 1818 Surveyor General John Oxley, on an expedition to the unexplored north, came upon the valley through which flowed the river that he would name the Hastings, in honour of the man he believed was still the governor of India (he had actually died some months previously).

  Had Oxley gone a little further north, by the way, he would have discovered the Macleay River, the inspiration for the river Major Shelborne searches for in the book. The combination of fine farmland and a landscape that could keep people hemmed in made the site – the future Port Macquarie – ideal, in Oxley’s view, for a penal settlement. Governor Lachlan Macquarie agreed, and a penal station for second offenders was founded there in 1821. At the time this book is set, the place housed 1500 people – convicts, soldiers and civil officers – only a handful of whom were women.

  The layout for Port Macquarie used in this book is based on an 1826 map. The buildings mentioned are shown on this map or drawn from other sources. The footings of the overseers’ cottages (where William Branch and his son, William Junior, lived) are still visible beneath the Port Macquarie Glasshouse. The skeleton of a dog, found during excavation, can also be seen.

  The description and layout of Government House comes from the ‘Port Macquarie Former Government House Ruins Conservation Management Plan’. There is now an apartment building where Government House once stood, on modern-day Clarence Street, and visitors can enter its foyer and look at the building’s footings (discovered during construction) through a glass panel in the floor.

  Near Government House, St Thomas’s church was indeed being built in 1825, of convict-made bricks bound together by mortar in which you can still see flecks of oyster shell, extracted by the lime-burners at such a great price. It stands near the dispensary and the site on which the hospital once rested.

  Port Macquarie is now a thriving seaside town and holiday destination, a few hours’ drive north of Sydney. Lady Nelson Beach now goes by the name of Town Beach, and Shoal Arm Creek is now Kooloonbung Creek.

  Fact and Fiction

  Hugh Llewellyn Monsarrat and Hannah Mulrooney, of course, exist only in these pages. The inspiration for Monsarrat came, however, from a real gentleman convict, James Tucker, a clerk sentenced to transportation for sending a threatening letter. He arri
ved in Sydney in 1827 (per Midas). He lost his first and second tickets of leave for drunkenness (of which Monsarrat would not have approved) and forgery, and spent some time in Port Macquarie, where he is believed to have written one of Australia’s first novels, Ralph Rashleigh, chronicling the misadventures of a fictional convict.

  While researching this book we encountered another man, Charles Desroches, who bore a passing resemblance to Monsarrat. Sentenced to Port Macquarie for ‘running away and committing various forgeries’, his work as a clerk between 1824 and 1828 won him admiration from various commandants, with Commandant F. C. Crotty writing to Governor Ralph Darling of ‘the great utility of prisoner Charles Desroches’.

  Desroches shared Monsarrat’s yearning for freedom. In 1828 he, too, wrote to Governor Darling: ‘I am apprehensive … that when returning to headquarters I shall never obtain the object for which I have so long toiled – a Ticket of Leave. Having been allowed to live separate from the rest of the prisoners, I cannot conceal the dread I feel at being herded with them at the Hulk and the Barracks.’

  Hannah Mulrooney is a complete fabrication (as are Fergal Slattery, Honora Shelborne, Michael Diamond, Father Hanley and a great many others). Those who did her work at Government House in real life would have been convicts, as the only free women at the settlement were wives and daughters of officials, or of men serving sentences.

  The spot which would have been Honora’s burial place is across the aisle from a real grave at St Thomas’s, that of Commandant John Rolland (after whom Rolland’s Plains is named), who died in December 1824. He was buried on the building site, and the church was constructed over him.

  Honora’s husband, Major Angus Shelborne, owes his character to two progressive and humane (for the period) Port Macquarie commandants, Captain Francis Allman and Major Archibald Clunes Innes. The major’s real-life chronological counterpart, Captain Henry Gillman, may have been a somewhat darker individual. Michael Diamond’s advances towards the daughter of a convict were based on actions attributed to Gillman. Shelborne and Gillman do share one aspect, though – Shelborne’s dispute with Reverend Ainslie is based on a similar disagreement between Gillman and Reverend Thomas Hassall.