The Unmourned

by Thomas Keneally

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow.’

  ‘Well, you’re in a deal of trouble already – taking leave of herself so abruptly, and making it clear that you view me as more of a colleague than a servant.’

  ‘Why on earth would that upset the woman? She didn’t come to see me, she said as much. And she knows of the esteem in which I hold you.’

  Mrs Mulrooney stared at him for a moment, with what looked oddly like pity. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know why. And by this time they had reached the Factory, and the scene there made conversation impossible.

  On an upturned crate outside the gates stood a small man in breeches, with his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow so that those interested in such things could see that his wiry frame may lack fat but not muscle. He moved from foot to foot but, to keep his balance, never looked down. Indeed, he couldn’t have seen his feet if he’d tried, as they would have been obscured by a metal hot box he held, which leaked the smell of meat pies.

  ‘You need not listen to me,’ he was calling to the small crowd of men in front of him. His voice was deep and resonant. In those few words, Monsarrat recognised the refined accent which had been a feature of his daily life when he was a clerk at Lincoln’s Inn.

  ‘We won’t, so,’ said someone among the audience.

  ‘Very possibly a wise choice, sir,’ the man on the box said amiably. ‘You have in fact no reason to give what I say the slightest attention. But Aristotle. Now, there, my friends, is a man deserving of your attention. And I ask you to grant him a moment of it. Aristotle said that if liberty and equality are chiefly to be found in democracy, they are best attained when all persons alike share in government.’

  ‘Unfortunately, the government doesn’t like to share,’ said the heckler, earning himself a chuckle or two from those around him.

  ‘This is true, my friend, for power is all it has, and those with power tend not to give the concept of equality consideration. The key, then, is to make that power dependent on the goodwill of fine fellows such as yourself. And of the wretches behind these walls, whom some of you may be taking home. What I am talking about, my friends, is nothing less than universal suffrage.’

  ‘Don’t know what universal suffrage is, but I’m familiar with universal suffering.’

  ‘Precisely so. Universal suffrage, my friend, can put a stop to that. It means that we let everyone vote. No one can hold power – from the most junior functionary to the governor himself – unless the majority says they wish him to. This must be our goal, my fellow colonists, if we are to avoid in this place the inequities which characterise our former home. If we are to escape the enclosure of lands which has made starved shadows out of so many of our friends back across the seas. If we are to escape the rotten boroughs which allow the powerful to exercise yet more power.’

  ‘My suffering would be eased by one of your pies, if you’d be good enough to come down off that thing and sell me one.’

  The man on the box smiled and did as he was asked. No sooner had one of his bouncing feet hit the ground than he was surrounded. Shillings were shoved at him, and he opened the lid of his hot box to allow a wonderful smell to escape, and sight of the items responsible for generating it – pies of a remarkably uniform shape and size covered with golden pastry.

  Monsarrat glanced to the side and noticed Mrs Mulrooney gazing at the man. Perhaps it was out of interest in the pies, in how the pastry had been made so beautifully, but Monsarrat suspected she was more entranced by the man’s ideas.

  Behind the thicket of people jostling for pies was the barred gate of the Female Factory. A letter of introduction from Eveleigh convinced the watchman – a different man from the one who had admitted Monsarrat for his conversation with Preston – to open it.

  ‘One of the management committee is here,’ said the watchman. ‘In the committee room.’ The man pointed with his chin, clearly not thinking Monsarrat, whoever he was, worth raising a hand for.

  The committee room flanked the Factory’s outer yard, kept company by the superintendent’s quarters, some of the Factory’s several stores and the lying-in hospital, which would certainly have seen the birth of several of Church’s spawn. To its left, out of sight now, lay the drying grounds, and Monsarrat tried to avoid glancing in the direction of the Room for Useful Purposes – it was almost inconceivable that in such an inefficiently run institution Church’s body had already been removed. Ahead of him was the sandstone slab of a building which housed the First Class women, and a passage through to the yard in which they washed and walked and paraded for muster. To the right were the Third Class yard and its penitentiary, which held, with debatable effectiveness, Grace O’Leary.

  He didn’t know how much use Robert Church had made of the desk in the committee room, but the person sitting there now had most certainly claimed it, if covering it with papers could be said to equate to ownership. He looked up as Monsarrat entered, exposing a raw piece of flesh on his neck which had been rubbed by sweat and the wool of his high collar.

  And that wool … Monsarrat was accustomed to the sight of black or brown coats, punctuated by the occasional regimental red. This man, though, seemed heedless of sartorial convention. His cravat was a little too scarlet and his jacket was a more muted shade of the same. His waistcoat was nearly enough the same shade as Monsarrat’s, but the former convict’s bone buttons could not hope to compete with the gold studs glistening from this man’s torso.

  His wavy hair was so artfully pomaded that it put Monsarrat in mind of a tossing sea, and his full mouth looked as though it should belong to a poet. But there was nothing poetic in the man’s bearing, and Monsarrat realised that anyone willing to dress as he had must have power – an unassailability conferred either by indifference to the opinions of others, or the ability to dictate those opinions.

  As Monsarrat knocked to alert the man to his presence, he became aware that Mrs Mulrooney had positioned herself outside the direct line of sight of whomever was inside. She needn’t have bothered. Without looking up, the man said, ‘Go away.’

  Monsarrat glanced behind him at Mrs Mulrooney, who shrugged. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Sir, I do beg your pardon. I am here on behalf of His Excellency the Governor, sent to assist in gathering evidence in the matter of the superintendent’s death.’

  ‘The governor?’ said the man, still bent over the papers. ‘Would that be the one who has sailed for England, or the one who is dithering about in Van Diemen’s Land?’

  An interesting question, thought Monsarrat. ‘More correctly, sir, I am clerk to the governor’s secretary.’

  ‘Ah. Eveleigh’s man.’

  He did look up then, and Monsarrat wished he hadn’t.

  His eyes were very light blue, almost a feminine colour. They looked at Monsarrat as though he were guilty of a crime and it was their task to determine the punishment. The man was not old – perhaps Monsarrat’s age – but was clearly used to power.

  ‘Is this an inmate?’ he asked, nodding to Mrs Mulrooney as she attempted to become one with the door frame.

  Monsarrat bowed slightly and entered. ‘This is my housekeeper, sir. I thought her services might be useful to the Factory when I’m about my business here. She is ticketed and free.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the man. ‘Ladies’ Committee is here today – one of them, anyway. Have her go to Superintendent Church’s quarters.’

  Monsarrat turned and nodded to Mrs Mulrooney, affecting a hauteur necessary to disguise their amity, but for which he knew he would pay later.

  ‘Now … all here is in disarray. It will be a chore for the new superintendent when we appoint him. Until then, I suppose we must do all we can to find out what happened to the old one.’

  ‘Sir, will you have a hand in appointing the new superintendent?’

  The man glared at him for a moment. ‘I will excuse your ignorance on this occasion,’ he said. ‘Please ensure it’s not repeated when you’re next before me.’

&
nbsp; Monsarrat didn’t intend to come before this man any more than necessary.

  He hated not knowing who the man was, too, but Monsarrat suspected he would find an inquiry as to his identity presumptuous. In any case, he was obviously a member of the Factory’s management committee, so could likely make Monsarrat’s work here difficult if he chose to do so.

  ‘Sir, you knew the deceased?’

  ‘Yes. And I must say I believe humanity can get along perfectly well without him. Whoever is responsible not only shared that view but seems to have been holding it for some little time. This was no opportunistic attack, I gather, given the manner in which Church was dispatched.’

  ‘So it seems, sir. Mr Eveleigh has given me to understand that certain assumptions are being made as to the identity of Church’s killer.’

  ‘More than assumptions, I’d say. We simply need to find the proof that fits the facts we already know. I would say it’s close to certain that the killer is a particular convict woman. One of those who resides here involuntarily.’

  ‘May I ask, sir, what gives rise to this certainty?’

  ‘The woman’s own behaviour. She has fragments of education, you know. She decided to put it to use by petitioning the governor for Church’s removal as superintendent. But she could have left, you see. Didn’t want to. I hear whenever she was brought before a man seeking a wife, she would spit or pick her nose or rave or do whatever she could to put him off.’

  ‘Nevertheless, from what I understand, sir, her petition may well have had the support of several others, both within the Factory walls and outside them.’

  ‘I’ve no reason to doubt it, and would not even think to remark on it had it stopped there. Especially as she was, for a time, of good behaviour. First Class, in fact. She could have been out of the Factory any number of times – a handsome woman, or she was until a few weeks ago. Surprised no one selected her for a wife. Probably regrets she didn’t succeed in despatching Church the first time around.’

  ‘She made a previous attempt on his life?’

  ‘Not directly – at least not as far as I’m aware. No, it was the riot. You heard of it, no doubt. Police even came across some of the women in the streets, before they were all rounded up.’

  ‘No. I’m afraid I was … elsewhere, at the time.’

  ‘Well,’ said the man. ‘It all started with an objection the women had over some punishment or other. And they had a grievance with the rations.’

  When he was at Lincoln’s Inn, Monsarrat had abhorred the more obsequious clerks. Surely someone of sufficient talent and industry did not need to debase themselves. After ten years as a convict, though, he had learned the value of the protective coloration of the toady, while detesting himself for taking advantage of it. ‘Surely the management committee would not permit any tampering with the rations,’ he said.

  The man looked up sharply, eying Monsarrat for an uncomfortable half-minute, searching his expression for any sign of sarcasm.

  ‘No, indeed,’ he said finally. ‘Nevertheless – one morning during muster the women broke ranks, charged the guards, who didn’t defend themselves for fear of killing them. Breaking furniture, breaking windows. Eventually breaking the gate. They surged out and then didn’t seem to know what to do with themselves. I never thought women were as susceptible to heedless action as men, but it would seem these ones were just as capable of starting down the path without the faintest idea where it would lead them. So they were all rounded up. I interviewed them, and every woman, without exception, told me the riot had been O’Leary’s idea.’

  ‘So she’s been held in the penitentiary since, I take it.’

  ‘Yes. Before Church’s death she worked with the others during the day and was locked up at night. Since the murder, she has not been allowed to leave her cell.’

  ‘I see. May I have your permission to interview her? In accordance with my instructions from Mr Eveleigh, of course.’

  The man looked skyward, an affected expression of frustration designed to be decoded by its target. ‘Don’t expect to find a handsome woman now,’ he said. ‘Apparently Church decided to tie her to a chair in the middle of the yard and crop her hair as punishment. From what I understand, he didn’t take particular care with the shears.’

  Chapter 5

  Hannah Mulrooney thanked Christ and His saints that the Factory had not yet been built when she had pressed her foot to the earth of this place for the first time.

  The nine huts along Church Street into which she had been rammed on her arrival were still there. Not a lot of care had been lavished on their construction – particularly as the labourers were not builders by trade but pickpockets, rebels, poachers – and the administration seemed to have believed the huts would be capable of altering their meagre dimensions to accommodate the ever-increasing numbers of convict women.

  Perhaps none of this would have mattered, thought Hannah, had it not been winter when she had disembarked. Certainly the cold was not as bad as it would have been at home, nor the damp. But cold was cold, particularly wearing the woefully inadequate cotton and calico the navy had given her. A lot of the other women wore the clothes they had been tried and convicted in under their navy slops – in most cases it was essential just to preserve one’s modesty. Hannah had to contend with the chill without the benefit of her own clothes, as her infant son was wrapped in them.

  So, while conditions at the Female Factory might have been somewhat more physically comfortable than those in the huts, she would not have traded. Because with the Female Factory came the Orphan School. The Orphan School was where the children of the Factory women went when they reached the age of four. They were supposed to be reunited with their mothers at the expiry of their sentence, but women could be assigned as servants anywhere in the colony, without the means to get back here at the end of the standard seven or fourteen years. Sometimes mother and child never saw each other again.

  As a veteran of this place, Hannah had not had to face that particular cruelty among the multitudes she was exposed to. She had been able to keep her son, Padraig; dragged him with her even as she was assigned to service as a hut keeper in the shearers’ quarters of a property a day’s ride from Parramatta, the river mudflats giving way on the journey to jagged hills, bald in places, and twisted trees with crows in their branches that spoke with the same accent as the children.

  Padraig was raised with the property’s other children, he played with them, and she engaged in her first transaction with the Protestant faith when she sent him to the local rector, who had an educated convict teach children to read. It was not a gulf she wanted to jump, the one between her faith and the god of the Methodists. But she was willing to do it, to procure for her son the education which could ultimately mean the difference between a labourer who had spent his health by thirty, and a comfortable man of trade. So Padraig sat and learned his letters with the sons of felons, ticket-of-leave men and the occasional native stockman.

  As he grew she could see that his features were expanding until they filled a framework laid down for them at birth. With his red-gold hair he looked, increasingly, like his father, and this was why she refused to allow him a pudding bowl cut which would make his hair look like a cap. And his hair was never, ever to be cropped.

  At any rate, judging by what Monsarrat had told her of his conversation with Dr Preston about Mrs Church, neither Hannah nor her son would have benefited from the matron’s drunken care at the Female Factory.

  But this can’t be Mrs Church, she thought, as the door of the superintendent’s residence opened at her knock. She and the woman who faced her must have been almost the same height, both of them struggling to graze five feet. That, however, was the end of the resemblance. The woman had certainly been in the world a good decade and a half less than Hannah. She was wearing a plain but well-made cotton dress which was utterly spotless, a rarity in this place, where Hannah often believed (and said as much to Monsarrat) that she was the only inhabitant t
his side of the Indies with half a care for cleanliness. Clearly someone of means, then.

  Hannah had already admonished one woman for failing to remove her bonnet inside, and now here was another, vastly elevated in comparison, keeping it in place. Perhaps, she thought, she’d missed a change in the rules while she was in Port Macquarie, where the proper etiquette for bonnet wearers was not a subject of regular discussion.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure how I can put you to use,’ said the woman, after Hannah had told her why she was there, ‘but I imagine a cup of tea will provide the necessary inspiration. Please do come in.’

  There was a kettle already on the hob, with steam vines inching out of its snout towards the corners of the room. Beyond that, on a low couch in the corner near a staircase which might have led to a bedroom, lay another woman, snores leaking out of her. This woman had no bonnet, and the hair plastered to her cheek by sweat was light enough to conceal a small number of grey hairs, which were multiplying and threatening to crowd out the others until no claim to blondness could be made.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about waking her,’ said the woman. ‘I doubt anything will for some hours.’ There was a cheerful clatter of cups as she got them down from the sideboard, and the swishing of the water in the teapot as she warmed it, poured it out and replenished it over a mound of fragrant leaves.

  Her name, she said, was Mrs Rebecca Nelson.

  ‘I’m on the Ladies’ Committee, you see. Well, at the moment I am the Ladies’ Committee. Charlotte Bulmer had been running it, but her husband doesn’t want her mixing with convicts – he fears moral contagion. My husband fears moral contagion too, of course, but he takes the opposite view – he believes corruption sets in when one makes no attempt to help others. Mind you, he prefers to help from a distance. And I do believe he likes to think of me as the leading lady of philanthropy here, especially since they moved the native school into the bush. Dear Bessie Evans, she does such a remarkable job with those savage children. And now that she’s doing it well away from here, there are so few other ladies with the inclination to help.’