by Tom Keneally
Monsarrat rode up the front until they were just out of sight of Government House. He handed McCarthy a packet and a small pouch of coins. ‘You’re sure you know where to go?’
‘I do, and Sally does too,’ McCarthy said. ‘Those roads, they’re not easy to travel on at speed in a coach. I have a saddle in the back, I’ll pull away and unhook the old girl, and we’ll be off. If anything happens to the coach …’
‘Mrs Mulrooney has agreed to pay for it to be fixed,’ said Monsarrat, hoping this wouldn’t be necessary. ‘And if you have to drag him from his dinner …’
‘I will, Mr Monsarrat. I understand what’s at stake. Now, into the back with you, next to the saddle. We’re nearly there.’
A few minutes later, the coach was pulling up beside Government House. When one of the soldiers on duty saw who was emerging, he knocked into the other and then scurried off.
‘Best pull around the side,’ Monsarrat said to McCarthy.
By the time Jardine arrived, Monsarrat was standing alone in the driveway.
‘Do come up here, Mr Monsarrat, I detest shouting.’
Monsarrat climbed the few steps between them.
‘You are irregular on a few points,’ Jardine told him. ‘You don’t have an appointment, and I understand you recently found a more comfortable means of conveyance.’
Monsarrat smiled at him.
‘Surely you have better things to do, Lieutenant, than concern yourself with how I move around.’
Jardine glanced to the side, where some younger soldiers were standing guard, watching the exchange. He seemed to stand straighter, if that were possible.
‘Quite. And yet I have abandoned these urgent tasks to come see you, Mr Monsarrat, so if you would be kind enough to let me know what precisely it is you want, I’d be most grateful.’
Monsarrat was a little surprised by Jardine’s waspishness. Although Monsarrat would never have allowed himself to think of the lieutenant as an ally, given the identity of the man’s commanding officer, neither had he seemed completely lacking in sympathy.
‘I need to see the colonel,’ said Monsarrat, ‘on a matter of the utmost importance.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me what that matter is.’
‘Well, it is confidential. But I believe he will find it well and truly worth his time.’
‘It seems to me your plan relies on an awful lot of luck,’ Cullen said. His shoulders were slumped and he hauled them back with what seemed like some effort, shaking his head roughly to keep himself awake. ‘What if there’s a roadblock? What if Mr Monsarrat is arrested? And the colonel has soldiers at his disposal – he could easily send some to the docks and to Peter at the same time.’
‘I hope Peter is beyond his reach today. I know it’s far from perfect, Mr Cullen,’ Hannah said, tucking a last few strands of hair into her cap. ‘If Duchamp arrests Mr Monsarrat, we have a packet of letters that will ensure his freedom, which are being taken to a place beyond Duchamp’s reach. As to a roadblock, I suppose there is nothing we can …’
I am a stupid woman, she thought. I have seen British regiments stopped in their tracks on the streets of Wexford, and I still didn’t think of this until now.
‘Mr Cullen, do you have a pen and paper? And without Peter, have you a means of getting a message to someone, quickly and quietly?’
Cullen went to the door, opened it and whistled outside. ‘Someone will be here soon enough,’ he said to Hannah. ‘They know that particular whistle means there will be payment.’
Within a few minutes, the dirty face of a young boy appeared around the door.
Hannah blotted the letter she had hastily written, handed it to him and asked, ‘Have you your letters?’
‘Yes, from Mr Donnelly.’
‘Good lad. So you know where he is to be found, then.’
The boy nodded.
Hannah drew out some pennies and pressed them into his hand. ‘The same again when you get back,’ she said. ‘But you must come back with a reply. Even better, with the man himself. Ask for Mr Cullen. By the time you return, he will be the only one here.’
‘Complete fabrications!’ fumed Duchamp. ‘Monsarrat, I’m appalled that a man of supposed intellect like yourself could be taken in so easily.’
‘As am I, Colonel. The thought that I was duped for so long, having hoped a man in your position would never act with such dishonour, saddens me.’
‘But these letters are not even in my hand!’ Duchamp said, tossing them back across his desk at Monsarrat so that the pages scattered. One landed in Monsarrat’s lap; others drifted down by his feet.
‘No, sir,’ said Monsarrat. ‘They are in mine.’
‘You see? Forgery! The same crime for which you were transported to these shores!’
‘They are copies, not forgeries,’ said Monsarrat. ‘The originals are elsewhere, and very clearly written by your hand, Colonel.’
‘Produce them then.’
‘I cannot, sir.’
‘And you are under arrest! Forgery as well as … let’s see, seditious libel? That would be fitting.’ He nodded to Jardine, who moved forward. Monsarrat liked the man, and believed the amity was returned. But Jardine was a soldier. He would arrest anyone on the order of his superior.
Monsarrat had been arrested before. Twice. He had known that should it happen now, his first instinct would be to bolt from the room. He also knew he would not get far – at best, other soldiers would quickly descend; at worst, a lead ball would find its way to the back of his head. So he forced himself to remain seated, still and calm, wondering why his skin wasn’t splitting from the pressure of containing his terror. ‘I think you might find, sir, that arresting me would be a tactical error.’
‘Tactical … How dare you employ the language of the battlefield, you who have never been on one! And in this case, there is no such thing as an error. This is my colony. I own the tactics, I own the strategy, I own the terms of engagement.’
‘What you don’t own, sir, is a packet of documents that has been taken to the dock. There’s a ship leaving tomorrow for England, I understand. The letters will be on it, addressed to The Times. There’s another letter with them that explains my intention to confront you, and provides the reader with some guidance as to what it would mean if I were to be arrested or disappear from view.’
Duchamp nodded to Jardine. ‘Send someone to search the ships, there’s a good man,’ he said.
Jardine saluted, turned and left the room, perhaps with a little less speed than the circumstances called for.
‘Mr Monsarrat, you may rest assured that the originals will be in my possession within the hour,’ Duchamp said.
‘Oh, I do apologise, I should have said – the letters being sent to London are copies as well. No point sending the originals, as no one up there is familiar with your handwriting anyway. But some of those in the colony are.’
‘And most of them work for me,’ said Duchamp.
‘Yes, although some have expressed a degree of concern as to the direction you are taking. I understand that one man in particular has corresponded with you on the issue, and that a number of terse notes made their way upriver. Ones that you didn’t bother to dictate. Ones that mean Ralph Eveleigh would recognise your handwriting. And I informed Mr Eveleigh of the possibility of my arrest or disappearance.’
Duchamp shook his head. ‘That damned Eveleigh. He sent me a demon. Oh, you look gentlemanly, but you have deployed low cunning in this case! But know this, Mr Monsarrat. I am the governor’s man. Everything I have done – and I am not saying that I have done what you accuse me of – has been in his interests. That will not be forgotten, no matter what some secretary in an outpost says. I am loyal to the governor, and he is loyal to me.’
‘I’m sure that’s true – until you cause him more trouble than you’re worth. Perhaps then Eveleigh might find himself sailing down the river on a more permanent basis.’
Duchamp glowered at Monsarrat then sat back
down behind the desk. ‘Mr Monsarrat, you’ll never prove that I killed Henry Hallward, for the simple reason that I didn’t.’
‘I know that, sir. Gerald Mobbs did – with the pistol you gave him. One that you used in the duel against Hallward. You do like your … elegant solutions.’
‘And do you know, I just thought of another one.’ Duchamp smiled suddenly in a way that made Monsarrat nervous.
The colonel stood again, and Monsarrat did likewise, uncomfortable at the thought of Duchamp looming over him.
Duchamp walked around the desk, not stopping until his nose was inches from Monsarrat’s face. ‘Hugh Lewelyn Monsarrat,’ he said, ‘I challenge you to a duel.’
Chapter 24
Hannah, of course, had no intention of waiting for Monsarrat before attempting to free Peter. She had promised the lad she would be back first thing in the morning, and she never broke promises to children.
She ran all the way to Mobbs’s house from the Chronicle’s offices and propped herself up against the wall of a nearby house, getting her breath back while watching Mobbs’s place for signs of life. There were none. Mobbs could be expected to be in his office at this time on a weekday morning, and it was Henrietta’s day at the School of Industry – Hannah imagined that a bright woman would realise that now, more than ever, she should follow her routine.
There was always the possibility that Monsarrat’s visit to Government House had caused a disturbance, that a messenger had been sent to the conspirators, that they were on their way here. For now, though, all seemed quiet.
She crept towards the house next door, seeing the twitch of the lace curtain. The front door had opened before she had a chance to knock; Mrs Selwyn stared at her silently.
‘You were absolutely right,’ Hannah said. ‘There is something very suspicious going on in that house. I intend to find out what it is, but I need your help. I believe you have access to a key?’
‘If I do, why should I give it to you?’
‘I will tell you everything I know, straight afterwards,’ said Hannah. ‘Before anyone else has a chance to read it in the newspapers.’ If any newspapers are left after this.
Mrs Selwyn pursed her lips, probably rolling around in her mind the value of knowing information before anyone else, being able to impart it breathlessly to those who would marvel at her connections.
‘And, of course, there’s this.’ Hannah handed over a few shillings. She had been chipping into Padraig’s inheritance far more than she would like to. She did hope Ralph Eveleigh appreciated everything, when it was all done.
Mrs Selwyn pocketed the money, then led Hannah through to the backyard and handed her a shovel that had been propped against the side of the door. ‘I can barely remember where I buried it. To the right, I think,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to dig down.’ She went back inside, closing the door firmly behind her.
‘I suppose you’ll have to ride with them, Private. Will your horse take two?’
Jardine was holding Monsarrat’s upper arm, perhaps less tightly than he could. ‘You’re lucky it’s house arrest and not the gaol,’ he said, more loudly than necessary, possibly for the benefit of the soldiers at his command. ‘The colonel has his own ways of dealing with inconvenient people.’
The colonel, thought Monsarrat, is looking for a palatable way to kill me.
He’d been momentarily shocked into silence when Duchamp had suggested a duel. Then he’d managed to say, ‘Colonel, as you pointed out several times, I’m a ticket-of-leave man. If I participate and you are injured –’
‘If you do not participate, I will make sure you’re hanged, and be certain no one will rise up to protest your death as they would have done for Hallward. Duels are typically at dawn, so we will keep you under guard at your lodgings until then. As the wronged party, I will choose the positions. You, Mr Monsarrat, will face east.’
Into the rising sun, Monsarrat thought. ‘There is one other issue,’ he said. ‘I do not possess a pistol.’
‘I think we can find one for you,’ said Duchamp.
Monsarrat was sure a pistol could be found for him – it just probably wouldn’t contain a ball. He now faced the choice between certain death on the gallows and probable death near a swampy waterway.
He bowed to Duchamp. ‘I look forward to seeing you at dawn.’
‘Oh, so do I, Monsarrat. You have no idea how much.’
Now, as the soldiers bickered over who would have to take Monsarrat on the horse, a carriage pulled up to the portico. The door slammed flat against its side, and Henrietta Duchamp jumped out, a whirl of green taffeta, her agitation betrayed by the fact she had left the matching parasol in the carriage. She approached Jardine with a haste Monsarrat wouldn’t have thought possible in such a dress. ‘What has happened? A messenger from my brother came to the school, blathering about some kind of fight.’ She turned to Monsarrat, frowning at the sight of Jardine’s hand restraining him. ‘What on earth is he doing here?’ she asked Jardine.
‘Making some accusations against the colonel, Miss Duchamp.’
‘There are accusations to be made against you too, Miss Duchamp,’ Monsarrat said. ‘But I was unable to get around to them before your brother challenged me to a duel.’
Henrietta stared at him, then turned to Jardine. ‘And the other one – that odious little dumpling of a woman. Where is she?’
Monsarrat could feel his shadow roaring forth – attacks on his friend always made it happen. His shadow had a habit of hurling words like weapons, without any thought for the consequences. He forced it back down. He wanted Jardine focused on him, on searching the ships, not on finding Mrs Mulrooney.
‘His aunt?’ asked Jardine.
‘Do you really think that’s what she is? When did you last meet an Englishman with an aunt who sounds as if she came from a peat bog? For all the rumours I heard – that she is seen in the better circles in Ireland as some sort of female Solomon – I didn’t credit them.’
The shadow gave a final flex and unfurled, rising through his throat. He had no way of controlling what was about to emerge.
‘Better to rise from a peat bog than descend into a sewer,’ he said.
Henrietta gasped, turning to him. ‘I did not give you permission to speak!’
‘Yes, permission to speak. Something you’ve been after since you and your brother started that conspiracy with Mobbs. You could do better, by the way – not a man I would have thought you’d take as a lover, but then of course love has nothing to do with it. It’s hard to convince a man to take a life unless he is looking so hard at the benefits of a liaison with a beautiful and well-connected woman that he almost doesn’t notice his hand on the trigger.’
‘How dare you suggest –?’ Henrietta started.
‘Oh, I suggest nothing. There is proof, I assure you, mixed in with the letters bound for London, and the others that will no doubt be read avidly by Ralph Eveleigh in Parramatta. But if you are concerned for your reputation, I wouldn’t be worried about an affair. You can’t be imprisoned or hanged for that. Kidnapping, though – that’s a rather more serious matter.’
Henrietta walked slowly up to him, looked him up and down then spat in his face, with a scowl more appropriate to a brawler at the Sheer Hulk than a finely dressed colonial princess. Jardine stepped back, dragging Monsarrat with him.
Monsarrat felt the moisture running down his cheek – and his shadow couldn’t have asked for anything more. ‘The point is, Miss Duchamp, I do not recognise your authority to permit me to speak or otherwise. You are every bit as grubby as Mobbs and your brother. There is a stain that no amount of silk can cover and a stink that no amount of scented stationery can remove. Your own speech will soon be taken up with protesting your innocence at trial.’
Monsarrat heard the words being injected into the air from his throat, in his voice, while his rational mind could merely stand back and listen. It was very unlikely, of course, that someone like Henrietta would face a trial – those we
re reserved for odious little dumplings like Mrs Mulrooney. But Henrietta’s pause, her frown, told him that she did not see the prospect as completely impossible, and his shadow rejoiced.
‘You, Mr Monsarrat, will be lucky to see a trial,’ she said. ‘All sorts of unfortunate things happen to the prisoners at Sydney’s gaol.’
Monsarrat shrugged. ‘You would know.’
Jardine cleared his throat. ‘Actually, Miss Duchamp, the prisoner is not headed for the gaol. Your brother has given orders that he be placed under house arrest, pending tomorrow morning’s duel.’
Henrietta clapped her hands. ‘Oh, Eddie is clever, isn’t he? That is perfect! Do you know, Mr Monsarrat, my brother is one of the best shots in the colony? He only misses when he intends to. Edward will be very contrite, of course, and explain that honour gave him no choice. The governor will be cross, but no more. And a duel is much quicker than a trial. Best get him on his way, Jardine – I’m sure he has some farewell letters to write, that sort of thing. I have business elsewhere.’
She turned, lifted her skirts and took tiny, swift steps down the portico stairs. As she was getting into the carriage, she called out to the driver, ‘Sydney gaol!’
As Monsarrat was marched back onto the driveway, he stared after Henrietta. He was not much for prayer, not to a God represented by the likes of Reverend Alcott and Horace Bulmer. But he did pray, then. That Mrs Mulrooney and Peter were safe. That Henrietta was not making her way back to his friend.
Then the soldier on horseback reared up at an obstruction in his path – a blockage that had also brought Henrietta’s carriage to a standstill.
A group of protesters was standing around fifteen yards away, just on the other side of the open gate that led to the grounds. They were blocking the road to the gaol.
Standing in front of them, his arms folded, was Donnelly. Next to him, some of the larger men in the group – probably chosen to be at the front – held placards proclaiming a desire for free speech and honest government.
