by Meg Keneally
The route he chose would take him three headlands to the south. He was reasonably assured of not meeting anyone on the way, as this was the territory of Goliath – an unusually large snake the rumour of which had reached the settlement, although the serpent itself hadn’t.
Goliath was known to reside in the south, along with many more of his kind – Slattery had been headed that way some time previously and, seeing several snakes imitating sticks as if to deceive the unwary, had later warned Captain Diamond of the danger. Neither Goliath nor any other snake had been known to pierce regimental skin, but they were to be presumed venomous until proved otherwise.
To replace a soldier fallen to a snake, Diamond would have had to negotiate a lengthy administrative labyrinth, as well as wait for a replacement to arrive from Sydney. He preferred to avoid the trouble, and therefore forbade all soldiers from going to the place that Slattery had described. Convicts, presumably, were more expendable, and he had not placed a similar prohibition on them. And while conditions were nowhere near as harsh as even the progressive Governor Macquarie had envisioned, most convicts did not have sufficient liberty (or inclination) for long rambles, especially under Diamond’s command. So the snakes and the distance and the need to scramble up loose diagonals of sandstone meant that few people, free or felon, visited the area.
But Monsarrat, who had called for Daisy the night before and felt in need of scourging himself, decided that the exertion, and the likelihood of a run-in with the dread Goliath, would serve well as a punishment.
Monsarrat crossed a headland, a tiny escape. It was hard work getting up it, but the view from the top of it, of the ocean and the coastline, was sublime. No man who stood atop it on such an afternoon could be considered entirely a slave.
Another headland. This was further than he’d walked before; below him stood a beach into which a creek flowed, fringed by low swampy country and those paperbarks which, had the Egyptians begun their civilisation on this river instead of the Nile, would have provided them with papyrus.
Scrambling up the headlands had taken him longer than he had anticipated – his physique was not as able as it had been the day he was discovered in Exeter. He noticed now that the horizon was beginning to reel in the sun, to submit it to its nightly drowning.
Monsarrat knew that if he continued, he would be back after curfew. This was before Diamond had caught him fishing, but he was already cautious of the captain, and did not care to be caught in a transgression, not least because it might affect his trusted status with the major.
Besides, if he turned around now, there might just be time for a cup of tea from the hands of Mrs Mulrooney before the curfew bell rang. But now a point of light snared the corner of his eye, dragging his face around to the direction of its source. He looked away from the beach, down into a swampy valley, saw a yellow lick in the middle of a stand of paperbarks. It could have been a native fire, but was a strange place for one, given the mosquitoes which bedevilled the more watery parts of the landscape.
He knew that if he investigated and found evidence of illegal activity on behalf of a soldier, or better yet a convict, this information might offer him some level of protection when he brought it to Diamond, whose autocracy was beginning to worry him.
Fortunately, Monsarrat was able to find a sand dune to half-slide, half-walk down, as sliding down a sandstone scree slope would have announced his approach as effectively as any trumpet blast. Walking cautiously up to the stand of trees, he passed some of their wilder brethren. The strangling figs, growing down as well as up over other trees after birds had deposited their seed in the unwary branches, looked as though they had been poured molten over their hosts, and here and there grew trees with oval incisions where the Birpai had excised shields with the help of wooden wedges, before sanding them with rough leaves.
Peering between the scrofulous trunks of the paperbarks, Monsarrat saw that the source of the light was deeper in. The rain had made the ground wet, so again luck was on his side and he was able to approach without the crunching which would have announced him after a long dry spell.
Monsarrat could now see amongst the trees ahead. On a fireplace constructed of small lumps of sandstone a large pot sat above the fire. And stoking the fire with fallen eucalypt and paperbark branches which hadn’t got too sodden in this fenny area was Private Slattery. Even though the muddy ground had given Monsarrat a quiet approach, Slattery looked up, and then stood, his face alert before it took on its customary Irish grin, a smile honest enough in Mrs Mulrooney’s kitchen, but which now had an edge to it, the edge of learned subservience, which welcomed the visitor while at the same time wishing God would strike him dead.
‘Well now, Mr Monsarrat, you’d have the soul out of me, sneaking up on a man like that. Not trying to abscond, are we?’
Clever, thought Monsarrat, to turn the blame back on the discoverer of his illegal still, for that’s what it undoubtedly was. The liquor distilled from potatoes and other organic substances was prohibited in the settlement, the consumption of a bad batch enough to send a man blind or insane, so it was said. But the prohibition had had no effect on the plentiful supply of the moonshine. And the moonshine had to come from somewhere.
Monsarrat had been under the impression that its manufacture required more equipment than a copper pot, but reminded himself that the making of Irish grog was not one of his areas of expertise. He had also heard Slattery say, on a great many occasions, that he never touched the stuff. Monsarrat didn’t quite believe him, but it was irrelevant – whether he touched it or not, he must be responsible for supplying it.
But then, if Slattery was careful, and didn’t make the kind of poison which could sometimes do such damage to the unwary drinker, why not? Monsarrat was certainly no supporter of Diamond’s pedantic rules, and would not begrudge his friend the opportunity to make a few extra coins, especially in a place where the scope for profit was so limited.
‘Of course I’m not, you fool,’ he said, smiling to telegraph the fact that the words were meant in the way of playful banter. Usually no such signal was needed. But in this fraught situation, Monsarrat didn’t want to take any chances.
‘Just as well – I would hate to have to take you in.’ Slattery stood and walked around the pot, rubbing his hands together over it to extract such warmth as he could. ‘Well now, how shall I express myself? You’ve stumbled upon my secret brew. Surely not the greatest of sins, nothing like the one that sent you here, but still … Just as well you’re a felon. You have your secrets, and I have mine. Could we respect each other’s secrets, do you think?’
‘Slattery, I don’t know who you think you’re talking to. I have no intention of revealing the existence of this place. And if you want to brew poteen, good luck to you. I’m no great respecter of the laws, as you point out.’
Slattery smiled again, and Monsarrat wondered whether it was just his recent thoughts of snakes which made the smile look reptilian.
‘Grand then,’ said Slattery, clapping his hands. ‘It would break Mrs Mulrooney’s heart to see you flogged for absconding.’
‘And her heart would be equally broken were you to be killed by one of those snakes,’ said Monsarrat. ‘I don’t suppose Goliath has been about today?’
‘Goliath?’ said Slattery, looking momentarily distracted. ‘No, no, I seem to be the only living thing here.’
‘I suppose the snakes don’t like the smell of poteen,’ Monsarrat said.
‘No,’ said Slattery. ‘I don’t suppose they do.’
Next morning Slattery was already at the kitchen table, drinking tea, when Monsarrat arrived. A knowing nod and smile passed between them.
‘So these winnings of yours,’ Monsarrat said now by way of distraction from accusations of shortbread theft. ‘What would you classify as a decent amount?’
‘Thirteen shillings. And easy to earn. None of them can keep still, none of them can clear their faces. They always twitch or turn or fiddle. Dray, he twitches the corner of his mout
h if he thinks he has a good hand. Cooper rubs his thumb and finger if he thinks he has a bad one. Not one of them can stop things seeping through.’
‘But you can?’
‘Better than they can, yes. It’s why I don’t play cards as often as I’d like – they’re leery of playing with me because I generally win. The angels could be smiling on my cards and you’d never know it from my face.’
The gentle knocking which announced the arrival of the plastering crew always surprised Monsarrat, as he knew the soft tapping came from knuckles which had once connected with the face of a bailiff.
‘In with you,’ Slattery yelled. ‘Down to three now – they’ll all have to work harder,’ he told Monsarrat.
But only two figures – those of Frogett and Daines – entered the kitchen.
‘Where’s Dory?’ asked Slattery, getting shrugs in reply.
‘The eejit,’ Slattery muttered. ‘I’ll have to go and fetch him. He’s lucky it’s me and not Diamond. You two! We’ll get you back to the barracks, can’t leave you here. But you’ll be working twice as hard when you get back.’
Monsarrat took his leave at the same time as Slattery, treading the well-worn path to the office, grateful for once to be leaving the kitchen and Slattery’s problems for the quiet order of the workroom.
As he sat at his desk, his eye caught on the red wax sealing Dr Gonville’s report on Mrs Shelborne. This, he thought, could satisfy Diamond, could make him free Monsarrat from further obligation. And it would remove the need to extract information from Mrs Mulrooney. He felt exceptionally uncomfortable when she praised him for being kind enough to ask after the young woman’s health.
He also remembered his promise to Edward Donald – that the report would find its way into the major’s hands with the seal unbroken. Well, he thought, I can read the letter and still keep that promise. I have the conviction to prove it.
Thankfully, the wax imprint was that of a cross – easy enough for Monsarrat to whittle a forgery that night, and have the paper sealed again well before the major’s return. And as a clerk, access to wax would not be an impediment.
Breaking open the seal, he saw that the document was headed ‘Port Macquarie Penal Station Medical Department’, and addressed to Major Shelborne, Commandant.
‘Sir,’ wrote Gonville (or more accurately Donald, in what Monsarrat felt was a serviceable but unimaginative hand):
Shortly after your departure on what one hopes will be a significant survey of a region adjacent to the location of the settlement and to the valley in which it is located, your wife fell ill with an unknown sickness.
It is my fervent hope that by the time you read this report, it will no longer be relevant and the lady will have recovered. However, so that you may have a continuous record of her state of health, I have taken it upon myself to describe her condition as it stands, for your perusal on your return.
I must confess, I bear grave concerns for her current condition. Her illness progressed from nausea, vomiting and coughing, with a little dizziness, to her present situation, which sees her racked with convulsions and unable to take sustenance. She has suffered gastrointestinal disturbances. And her maid and housekeeper has told me that the lady confessed to pains in the urinary organs.
Your wife barely uses cosmetic substances but I have taken the liberty of examining what she does possess, in the hope that I could find some egregious agent therein which is contributing to her state. It has been speculated that certain compounds used by women of fashion can adversely affect the health, and give rise to the same symptoms exhibited by your wife.
What she possesses has been made up by reputable chemists in Sydney but chiefly in London. Her facial powder is entirely zinc oxide, which is quite harmless. She does not possess any lip-reddeners of mercuric sulphide, as many fashionable women do but which a lady of her youth, refinement and beauty would not need. Nor does she possess any belladonna for the eyes. Obviously she has not foreseen any circumstance in which she would need these more questionable preparations. Her only perfume is rosewater – again quite innocuous.
One can conclude therefore that her disease has an entirely natural cause and yet one which eludes our current medical understanding. It shares characteristics with gastric fever and cholera; however, it would be unusual for her to be the only one stricken in either case. Though an outsider might argue that some depression of spirit is at work upon her, anyone who beheld her until recently can tell from her presence that she is not subject to such things, at least not to the degree which has now afflicted and disabled her. If we are to be thankful for anything, it is that she has no fever, enabling me to rule out some of the deadlier afflictions, including particular types of plague.
I have bled the lady with leeches, plentiful along the riverbank, and have cupped her in an attempt to draw out any dark humours which might be causing her condition. Here we have met with some limited success, as her symptoms have not worsened over the last few days.
Sir, I also wish to bring to your attention a certain rumour, which I have had from several sources. It is said the Birpai people have cursed your wife, due to her hunting. As educated men, we know this cannot be possible. Yet the simple minds which outnumber us in this place have latched onto the speculation; indeed, many have accepted it as fact. I mention this only to warn you of its potential to cause conflict with the Birpai, as I am sure this is not your desire, given the resources it would require, including medical resources we do not have.
I shall continue to report on Mrs Shelborne’s condition, so as to build a medical history.
Until then I remain your humble and obedient servant,
Richard Gonville
So more reports will be arriving via Edward Donald, thought Monsarrat. He decided to refasten the ribbon around the document and lay it facedown, so the tampering with the seal wouldn’t be immediately obvious should Donald come by that day. He might even seek Donald out, under the guise of saving the orderly a trip to Government House.
While the letter was still in his hand, the door was shoved open. In the rarified atmosphere, it was unused to such rough treatment, and complained loudly.
Slattery stood in the doorway, which had rarely framed so large a specimen. The young soldier’s pupils were dilated, and sweat gave him a gleam which, in winter, usually spoke of a fever.
Monsarrat forced himself to lay the document aside slowly, as though he had been perusing it with a legitimate objective.
‘He’s a fool, he’s a fooking simpleton,’ said Slattery. ‘You know what he’s done, Monsarrat? Dory? He’s only gone and absconded. He was seen crossing the bridge at Shoal Arm Creek. Only one reason to do that, Monsarrat. He’s heading to Sydney. By land.’
Monsarrat felt a stab of vicarious panic. Dory’s chances of a successful escape were slim. And if he were to make it to Sydney, he’d have to subsist as an anonymous labourer, with no hope of a baker’s licence and the respectability it conferred.
Slattery let loose a torrent of Irish invective. Monsarrat didn’t understand the tortured syllables, but their delivery left no doubt as to their general meaning.
‘What will you do?’ asked Monsarrat.
‘Well, I’ll have to go after the bastard, won’t I? With any luck I can get him back before Diamond is made aware of his absence. Although …’
Monsarrat shared Slattery’s doubt. Word of Dory’s escape was likely already filtering through the convicts. It was a matter of time – and not much of it – before the news reached Captain Diamond. ‘You had best go then, and quickly.’
‘Yes. Say nothing of this to Diamond, when he comes by. We’ll need the smiles of all Mother Mulrooney’s saints if we’re to spare the eejit a flogging.’
Chapter 9
Monsarrat had always thought Major Shelborne was an even-handed fellow. Given the distance from his immediate superior, and the time it would take for an order to reach him, the major realised he was, effectively, the absolute ruler of the settlemen
t, rather than simply a custodian or administrator. There were some, in Monsarrat’s opinion, who would have let this authority run away with them – Captain Diamond, of course, came to mind. But the major seemed to understand that life on the margins required certain adjustments, that the rule-bound way of operating he had learned in the army might not, in some circumstances, be the best way to run the settlement.
Monsarrat also felt, oddly, that while his own life had stagnated, his assignment allowed him a role in ensuring the life of the settlement moved forward. The major would dictate his wishes on punishment and mercy, on the allocation of resources, on the building of this structure or the tearing down of that one, and Monsarrat’s pen stroke would make those abstract thoughts a reality. Far better than scribing for a flint-hard old man and his frivolous colleagues.
But Monsarrat, like Dory, was not at liberty to cross Shoal Arm Creek, and the knowledge of this blighted his internal landscape. Contentment, at any rate, counted for little with Monsarrat. He had a high opinion of his own intellect, and wanted a stage on which he could show it off. So his months as a counterfeit barrister had been amongst the happiest of his life.
Finally free of Lincoln’s Inn, and with his forged call to the bar, Monsarrat had known that practising in London would be impossible. The chances of detection would be unacceptably high. In fact, it was fairly likely he’d be eventually found out anywhere, and one part of his mind knew this. But the compulsion to prove he was better than the Inns of Court gadflies (‘Write a brief for me, Monsarrat, there’s a good chap’), and the impulse to correct what he saw as a grave injustice, that which prevented him from coming by a call through honest means, overrode this knowledge.
In the early stages, when Monsarrat would try to honestly assess his chances of exposure, he would look at the likelihood out of the corner of his eye, quickly turning away from the unpalatable truth which stared back. After a while, he stopped looking. And from the darkness behind his closed eyes there rose another Monsarrat, a shadow who convinced him, almost, that if he found a provincial town and served his clients honestly and well, giving them no reason to discuss his failings with others, he could continue his ruse indefinitely.
