The Soldier's Curse

by Meg Keneally

  By the time of his capture, the shadow had just about convinced him it was no ruse at all. He had settled upon Exeter. His father had been a clerk there, to one of the many wool merchants operating in the city, and Monsarrat had attended a small grammar school. He felt the combination of his childhood knowledge of the place, its mercantile air and its distance from London would protect him.

  He had saved as much as possible over the past few years, and now put the funds towards a law library – a tenth of the cost of the libraries of the young carousers at Lincoln’s Inn, but adequate – and leasing chambers and rooms, from which he called upon a carefully constructed list of solicitors who dealt chiefly in civil matters, as these attracted less attention than their counterparts in the more lurid criminal courts.

  ‘Yes, it was a wrench to leave London,’ he’d say to their inevitable inquiry as to why a Lincoln’s Inn lawyer should be paddling in Exeter’s shallow pond. ‘But my father doesn’t have a peerage, you see, so Oxford and Cambridge were out of reach. And I do find the people of Exeter more … practical.’

  This appealed to many of the solicitors he visited, coming as they did from a merchant town which valued industry, and resented those with wealth and status who hadn’t had to earn them. Many had yearned for years to sweep assuredly into their own chambers at one of the Inns of Court, equal in law with the sons of baronets. The fact that someone who had achieved this happy state had chosen to eschew it in favour of their own town made them feel their situation was perhaps not so mean as they had supposed.

  Slowly, the solicitors started to send work to him. They already had barristers they liked dealing with, of course – some of whom paid a healthy commission for referred work, which Monsarrat couldn’t afford to match. But when those barristers weren’t available to act on minor matters, they decided to give the young man from London a chance.

  So Monsarrat represented clients in matters to do with small debts or wills. He did his job well enough to widen the channel of referred work, and larger cases began to trickle through – breach-of-promise suits, contractual issues.

  In one case, Monsarrat successfully defended one of the town’s most wealthy wool merchants against a breach-of-contract allegation. Johnathan Ham had met a man claiming to be a London cloth merchant at the New Inn, near Ham’s own premises on the Exeter high street. The man, Dodds, was unable to attend the weekly wool market, so Ham arranged to show him some broadcloth and serge. They agreed on a price per bale, as long as Dodds liked what he saw. Dodds didn’t, saying he had expected better from someone of Ham’s reputation, and leaving Ham’s premises with a sniff.

  Ham didn’t think much of the man’s judgement, given that his wares were universally acknowledged to be amongst the finest in Exeter. But Dodds, a small and aggressive man, returned the next week, saying he would do Ham a favour by taking the defective (in his view) cloth off Ham’s hands for a reduced rate.

  Ham took a great deal of delight in telling Dodds the cloth had been sold, to the East India Company at the wool market just gone, for slightly more than Dodds had agreed to pay (he may, he told Monsarrat later, have added to the price in the retelling).

  Dodds became furious, saying the pair had a contract which Ham had breached, and for a while Ham regretted his insistence on writing down the terms of their agreement, as a successful action against him would deal a possibly fatal blow both to his finances and reputation. A fifth-generation wool merchant, Ham couldn’t begin to imagine what he would do if he had to leave the trade.

  He was spared from having to do so by Monsarrat, who successfully argued that as the agreement included the price, any variation voided it. It was an easy argument to make, as Dodds’s position was weak, and Monsarrat could have taken the fee and been done with it.

  But the flimsiness of Dodds’s argument made him wonder why the man bothered, and in the Sundays leading up to his appearance, he made several trips to nearby towns. He spoke to those who were willing, and in Dawlish discovered a merchant who had had a similar experience with Dodds. But the Dawlish merchant had lacked the stomach, or the resources, to meet Dodds in court, instead paying him compensation of half his revised offer for the goods he claimed were substandard.

  Monsarrat continued his travels and found similar cases – all involving Dodds – in Seaton and Exmouth. As he laid this information before the court during the contract hearing, Monsarrat had the pleasure of seeing Dodds’s vicious smile falter, then die. Dodds, as it turned out, was no merchant at all, and relied on his targets’ desire to avoid a potentially damaging legal action by paying him to go away. He had been seriously concerned when Ham let the matter progress to court. He was later charged with fraud, convicted and transported to the colony.

  In the weeks afterwards, Monsarrat found himself on the receiving end of an increasing number of briefs, many of them revolving around thorny contractual matters. He was viewed by many merchants as something of a hero, saving them from Dodds and others like him, who would likely be deterred by the man’s forced journey south.

  He even received permission to walk in Rougemont Gardens with Ham’s daughter Lucinda, under the supervision of her nanny, but a walk was as far as things went – she had no interest in Roman poets, and he was unable to converse on the doings of London society.

  The increase in his work was matched by an increase in his status in the Exeter legal community. He was invited to and attended legal dinners, but did not make himself conspicuous by standing on benches and singing songs, or by getting notably drunk. He attended both the cathedral for evensong and the Quaker meeting house, since many Exeter merchants were Quakers. They were very decent people, the Quakers, Monsarrat found. Hard-nosed in business but not murderous, unlike some of the self-regarding bankers and merchants one saw at the cathedral.

  He relished that gentler, less frantic city, over which clouds of soot did not hang, a city which looked like an English city should, not like the reports of dismal Manchester or Birmingham. In the meantime, he read his Blackstone’s Commentaries as strenuously as any barrister in Britain, and more so than a whole lot of them.

  He prospered perhaps modestly by the standards of some, but bountifully by comparison with the income of a clerk, and he was able to take two rooms and a little boxroom. His life was not that of a monk, although he would not have objected if people thought so. He had enough money left over for an occasional wilder evening in the inns along the River Exe, and would sometimes invite a few of the younger, more sociable solicitors out with him.

  One of these was Samuel Smythe, who, like Monsarrat, was approaching his quarter-century. Smythe, the younger son of a merchant who had served as Exeter’s mayor, was well established, and already one of the town’s busier solicitors, with friends of his father’s sending him business to ‘help the young fellow along’. This business was increasingly finding its way to Monsarrat.

  Monsarrat liked Smythe. He honed his legal knowledge as though it was an implement, was single-minded in his business, and operated honestly, if a little bloodlessly. His only drawback, as far as Monsarrat was concerned, was a tendency to be overly impressed with London lawyers. He frequently boasted to people of his friend’s Lincoln’s Inn pedigree, which made Monsarrat profoundly uncomfortable.

  Still, as their birthdays were only a few weeks apart, Monsarrat agreed with Smythe that they should celebrate together. Arriving at the alehouse Smythe had nominated, Monsarrat saw his friend was not alone.

  ‘Hugh, this is James Dawkins. His father does business with mine, and he’s here for his sister’s wedding, and a few gulps of fresh air. You probably know each other, both having been at Lincoln’s Inn. Hugh, you were there until almost a year ago, weren’t you? So you must have crossed paths.’

  Monsarrat, of course, had never seen Dawkins. He hoped, desperately, that Dawkins might have seen him on some errand and remembered Monsarrat’s face but not the context.

  There was an odd frown on Dawkins’s face as he examined Monsar
rat’s features. He’s looking at my nose, thought Monsarrat, and thinking, Surely I’d remember that.

  Monsarrat’s lips began to tingle. His intestines liquefied, solidified again, and knitted themselves into a physiologically impossible pattern – perhaps a noose.

  ‘A funny thing,’ said Dawkins. ‘I thought I was on speaking terms with everyone at the Inn. You do look familiar though. We have met?’

  ‘I’m sure we must have,’ said Monsarrat. To his relief, he sounded casual.

  ‘Who were you in chambers with?’ asked Dawkins.

  Monsarrat knew his next words would be likely to prove fatal. But it was a likelihood balanced against a certainty of discovery if he did not utter them. ‘Oh, with old Fairburn – you know him? Bit of a tartar but very thorough. You could always gauge his mood by how much was in his decanter.’

  ‘Yes, you still can. I know Fairburn and the rest. How odd that we never met.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t there that long,’ said Monsarrat.

  Smythe was perplexed, as they drank their ale, at the subdued mood which had descended on the table. Dawkins excused himself after a cup or two, glancing at Monsarrat over his shoulder as he left.

  Monsarrat was desperate to leave himself, but he and Smythe had both been looking forward to the evening; it would look very strange indeed to suddenly plead a headache. And while a small but spreading corner of his mind knew he was done for, he forced himself to believe he might just have saved it, that Dawkins might just think, Well, he did look familiar, I must have just forgotten him. It would be a shame to escape revelation, only to bring it on by acting out of character.

  He resolved, though, that a period of absence from Exeter might be wise. He would depart first thing in the morning, send word to Smythe and his other instructing solicitors that he had to deal with a family emergency. He would fail to say what family member, or where they lived. In the meantime, the safest course was to act as though nothing was amiss, which meant drinking ale with Smythe. The ale, he thought, might do him good.

  In fact, his nerves made him consume rather more ale than he was used to, being only an occasional drinker. By the time he had tottered home to his lodgings, he reasoned that he could start the preparations for his departure at first light. Dawkins, after all, was unlikely to be certain of Monsarrat’s real background, and it would take some time for him to return to London, check with Fairburn and alert the authorities, if that’s what he meant to do.

  But Monsarrat had miscalculated. Dawkins did think he’d seen Monsarrat before, and in connection with Fairburn. But he was equally certain he knew every lawyer at the Inn. Perhaps he was doing the familiar-looking stranger a disservice, he thought, but as it was still early when he left the inn, he called on Mr Justice Allen, whom he knew, to raise his concerns. If the fellow really was what he claimed to be, the matter could be quickly laid to rest. If not – well, the more swiftly the rot was excised, the better.

  The dawn found Monsarrat still asleep. He was woken by a tap on his door, polite but insistent. On the other side, a beadle and two constables told him he was required before Mr Justice Allen. Yesterday, he was angelically clever. Today, he was being called upon to explain what could not be explained.

  Ten years later another Monsarrat, a different man in the same body, relived that experience when he heard of Dory’s apprehension, as he had whenever anyone was apprehended for any reason.

  Slattery had indeed lost no time in going after Dory, taking a horse from the stables and riding it hard, praying he was not passing the young man hiding in the trees.

  When he came upon Dory, who had stopped for a rest, the young man had looked up at him with deadened eyes, and had not tried to escape. Slattery told Dory he would take him back to the settlement. If they returned before his escape had been reported, he might be able to pass it off, he said. If word of the escape had made its way to the higher-ups, Slattery would have to take Dory in.

  ‘I asked him why he did it; of course I did,’ Slattery told Monsarrat later. ‘He had five years left, but it’s not forever. He said he looked at Frogett and Daines every day and saw nothing. They’ve both been here a few years, were amongst the first, in fact, and in the colony for five, six years before that. Dory said he didn’t want to be hollowed out like them, but he could feel his soul beginning to bleed through his feet.’

  ‘So why did he stop?’ asked Monsarrat.

  ‘He realised, as he walked, that his chances of making Sydney were slim. He also realised he would never make it back to the settlement in time. He knew then, he said, that he was doomed either way. There was nothing to be done. He might as well sit and wait. Breathe air that wasn’t putrid, probably for the last time. And let me and his fate take him.’

  Slattery’s fear that Diamond would find out about the escape became a reality when he approached the Shoal Arm bridge, Dory on the horse behind him, to see Diamond crossing it.

  Slattery said that when Diamond saw him, he gave a smile which ‘turned me to river water’. ‘He looked at me and he shook his head, and that smile didn’t flicker,’ said Slattery. ‘He just said, “Private, how unwise of you to go after an absconder without taking irons.”’

  Diamond had not made the same mistake. He had brought shackles. He had Dory dismount, and ordered Slattery to apply them. Then the young man was marched to the prison to await whatever punishment Diamond decided to bestow.

  Chapter 10

  Dory was a foolish boy, Monsarrat thought, not only to escape, but to do so while the settlement was under the control of Captain Diamond.

  Monsarrat himself bypassed the kitchen the next morning, the solace of a cup of tea and Mrs Mulrooney’s comforting presence. He felt certain that Diamond would be by sooner rather than later, and knew it was important, particularly now, to demonstrate rectitude by being at his desk and well into the day’s work when the captain got there.

  His instincts were proved right when Diamond swept into his workroom mid-morning. Ignoring Monsarrat for the moment, he went directly to the major’s study, and sat himself behind Shelborne’s desk – a place no one but the commandant had sat before – only then showing he was aware of Monsarrat’s existence by calling him in.

  ‘I shall require your services, Monsarrat, when it comes to dealing with yesterday’s absconder. First, though, there is another matter between us.’

  Monsarrat related the contents of Gonville’s report, with Diamond unaware that the source of the information lay near his elbow, resealed in a way which would withstand all but the most thorough of examinations.

  The captain’s face was impassive as he listened. ‘Well,’ he said when Monsarrat finished, ‘things seem to be moving with a frustrating sluggishness.’

  Monsarrat assumed, or wanted to assume, that Diamond was referring to Honora Shelborne’s failure to rally. If he let his imagination run away with him, he could almost believe that Diamond was referring to the young woman’s failure to die with efficiency.

  ‘I shall be expecting another report tomorrow. See that your information is fresh.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Monsarrat. He would redouble his efforts, from here on in, to be scrupulously correct in his dealings with Diamond. There were a handful of genuine monsters sprinkled amongst the settlement’s mostly petty criminals, and Diamond, to Monsarrat’s mind, was fast assuming the mantle of one of them.

  ‘Now,’ said the soldier, ‘you and I are going to the police house to sentence the absconder William Dory. I will give you the sentence so you can make a start on the administrative necessities.’

  Monsarrat presumed that Diamond wished him to transcribe a report to the Colonial Secretary. It would be telling, he thought, whether he left it with Monsarrat for the major’s signature, or signed and sent it himself.

  ‘You may inform the Colonial Secretary that given the number of recent escapes and the generally refractory nature of the prisoners here, I feel the convict population would be edified by witnessing a more severe p
unishment than usual,’ said Diamond.

  Monsarrat felt a sudden wrench of fear for Dory.

  ‘Please inform him that I am sentencing the absconder to one hundred lashes,’ said Diamond.

  ‘One hundred!’ Monsarrat was unable to stop himself. ‘Sir, prior to his departure Governor Macquarie left instructions that no punishment was to exceed fifty lashes, and the major has never ordered more than thirty-five.’

  Diamond slowly rose from behind the desk and leaned forward. His eyes narrowed, and Monsarrat fancied he saw a spark there which had not been present as he listened to the report on Mrs Shelborne’s condition.

  ‘Now listen, Monsarrat, with your ridiculous intellectual pretensions. I don’t care if you can recite the Psalms backwards in Latin. You’re a convict like the rest of them. Worse than the rest, actually, as you’re educated and should have known better. Clearly beyond redemption, criminal to the bone, and no amount of Roman poetry will change it. This settlement has been left in my care, and I will do what I think best to ensure its integrity.’

  He sat back down. ‘The governor who gave that order is taking his ease in Scotland. He and I never even stood on this landmass at the same time. One hundred lashes is the maximum allowable by law, so one hundred it shall be.’

  Monsarrat was certain Diamond would have ordered more, had the law allowed it. One hundred lashes, he knew, was a discount on the brutality of previous years, which had seen several hundred administered. Sometimes, by the end, the scourger had been flogging a corpse.

  But one hundred lashes could kill a man too. Sometimes the heart gave out, simply stopped beating in protest at the pain. Or it stopped beating due to lack of work, too much blood having been drawn off by the knotted cords of the flail. Or if it struggled on with its work, the wounds could absorb the noxious atmosphere around them, turning blood into poison.