The Soldier's Curse (32 page)

He was reluctant to reach his hut and go to sleep. Losing consciousness would make the morning come more quickly, dragging them all one day closer to the event he very much feared was inevitable. Pausing, he tried to pick out which of the few lights still burning belonged to which building. He fancied he saw a light from the major's study, and another from the hospital. Further down, a few of the overseers' cottages were dimly illuminated. But the rest of the lights had already been snuffed out.

As he stood, he became aware of a footfall on the sand behind him. A long, loping stride. And then a large hand, clamped firmly on his shoulder.

He's going to kill me, thought Monsarrat. He will do away with me and let Mrs Mulrooney take his place at the gallows, and no one will be any the wiser.

He turned and looked at Slattery, and was astonished to see the twinkle had returned to the young soldier's eyes.

‘Mr Monsarrat,' he said with his odd half-smile, bowing slightly. ‘I'd be honoured if you would accompany me to the commandant's office, where I believe we have some business to discuss. There's not much point in redressing the balance, only to have it thrown off again by another unjust death. If Mrs Mulrooney hangs, the bastards have won.'

Monsarrat stared. ‘That's brave of you, Fergal.'

The young man shrugged. ‘It's to be hoped the fact of my coming forward will convince them to give me a long rope, and I'm a heavy article, so I imagine it will all be over quite quickly. If I can convince some of the lads to come and play cards with me while I wait in the cell, so much the better. Taking some of their money from them before I go would, I think, be fitting.'

Monsarrat suspected the major liked Slattery. He seemed to find the young soldier's impishness endearing, and enjoyed the opportunity to roll his eyes at Slattery's goings-on. If anyone complained of a lack of funds, he would ask them if they'd been playing cards with ‘that lightsome Irishman'.

He had also, after his wife's funeral, taken pains to thank those who had come to fetch him, including Slattery, to whom he had said, ‘You are not to be blamed that your intervention came too late.'

So he looked surprised, but not annoyed, to see his clerk standing at the door of his study with the tall young man at his shoulder. ‘I was about to retire, Monsarrat. Can this wait until morning?'

‘I fear not, sir. I have brought the private here on a matter of the most significant gravity. Forgive me for disturbing you so late; however, I believe once you have heard him out, you will forgive the disturbance, if not the news we bring.'

Monsarrat turned and looked expectantly at Slattery, who had been looking at the major and now dropped his eyes.

‘Sir,' the soldier said, ‘I fear I have done you the most grievous wrong. I don't ask for your forgiveness, as I know there will be
none forthcoming. But I do ask for the release of your housekeeper, so that I can take her place.'

Slattery's opening words sounded almost rehearsed to Monsarrat, who wondered whether the young man had foreseen this possibility, and prepared for it, all the while hoping it would not eventuate.

The major smiled sadly. ‘It's very brave of you to offer yourself in her stead, Fergal. I do admire you for it. But punishments should be reserved for the guilty. No one benefits when the wrong person hangs.'

‘I agree with you, sir,' said Slattery.

The major frowned. He sat down, and gestured both Monsarrat and Slattery to a seat. Monsarrat took one; Slattery decided to remain standing.

‘I'm glad to have your agreement, private. So why come to me?'

Slattery inhaled for what seemed like minutes. Then he told his commanding officer the story of his background, and Honora's family's part in it. And he described the means by which he had brought about her death.

Monsarrat had often thought that, had he been inclined to it, the major could have made as good a card player as Slattery. He had clearly put significant effort, over the years, into training his face not to betray his emotions. Now he sat and listened to the tale with so little expression that Monsarrat feared he was concluding Slattery was indeed attempting to be noble, concocting a story which would free Mrs Mulrooney.

When Slattery had finished, the major rose slowly from his desk. He walked around to face the young man, and stood staring at him for several moments. Then he drew back his hand, and cracked Slattery across the face, splitting his lip so that the blood ran down over his chin and disguised itself on the red of his coat.

He turned Slattery by the shoulders, then, and marched him out of the door towards the gaol. He did not appear concerned that Slattery might try to escape, nor did the young soldier seem inclined to do so.

Meehan was on duty again that night. Monsarrat knew he had
been treating Mrs Mulrooney well. When Slattery was marched up to him by the commandant, he seemed surprised and did not immediately comprehend what was happening.

‘Get some irons, man!' barked the commandant. ‘And release Mrs Mulrooney.'

Meehan had lost money to Slattery in several card games, but clearly had not taken the loss personally – he apologised to Slattery as he applied the irons to his ankles, taking a great deal more care than he usually would. He then clapped a hand on Slattery's shoulder as though congratulating him for a particularly quick win at cards, and moved him gently towards the cell.

Mrs Mulrooney appeared not to have moved since the previous night. She was still immaculate, still sitting on the bench staring at the walls. But when Slattery came into view, cuffed and bleeding from the lip, she sprang up so quickly that a splinter of wood from the bench tore her skirt.

‘There's no one to make my tea, Mother Mulrooney, so I thought I'd come and see where you'd got to, and here I find you lazing around in a private room. What's a man to do without you to look after him?'

Mrs Mulrooney took in the state of him, and began to cry. ‘Fergal, you haven't done this. Tell me you haven't. There's no need. Everything was in place; there is no need.'

Meehan was unlocking the door of the cell now, gesturing to Mrs Mulrooney to exit before Slattery entered.

Mrs Mulrooney refused to leave. ‘Another young life, major. Your wife was an angel from heaven; I was desperate when she passed away. But sending another young soul to join her, now that will do no one any good, will it? I'm getting old – I've limited use to anyone now – let me stay in here.'

‘I would do almost anything for you, to compensate you for the injustice which nearly befell you, and to thank you for your care of my wife. But this I will not do, Mrs Mulrooney. This man separated my wife's soul from her body, and the King's justice will come down on him. Nothing you say will change that. Please leave the cell, now.'

Monsarrat stepped past Slattery, put his arm gently around Mrs Mulrooney's shoulder, and started easing her towards the door. As she passed the soldier, she threw herself at him, slapping his face, catching him across the cheek. ‘You foolish boy! Why did you do this? Why would you go against me like this?' Then she reached up so that her arms were around his neck – she nearly had to straighten them to do so, as her head only came up to his chest – and her tears were added to the blood on his coat.

Slattery's hands were manacled by now, so he couldn't return her embrace. Instead, he rested his cheek against the top of her head. ‘I owe you a lot, Mother Mulrooney. Gallons of tea, and oceans of care. You've made my time here bearable, sometimes even more than that, enjoyable, despite the fact that you wouldn't play cards with me – yes, I know it's the devil's work. Now it seems I've been doing his work even more assiduously than you would have believed. But even someone as diabolical as myself is not going to let you put your head into the noose where mine should be.'

The commandant had stood back, but now clearly decided it was time for Slattery to be contained behind bars. He nodded to Meehan, who nudged the soldier into the cell as Monsarrat eased Mrs Mulrooney out. Meehan closed the door and locked it, frowning at Slattery as though he had suddenly turned into a different kind of beast.

‘I'd be grateful for some more tea from your dear old hands, before I dance for the audience,' Slattery called out after her.

Mrs Mulrooney turned as Monsarrat was leading her away. ‘Fergal, you will get the best cup of tea I have ever made.'

The three of them walked in silence back towards Government House, the major slightly ahead, not inviting conversation.

By the time they returned, it was closing in on nine o'clock.

‘Sir,' said Monsarrat, ‘may I have your permission to give Mrs Mulrooney some sustenance in the kitchen before retiring?'

The commandant turned sharply, as though he had forgotten they were there. ‘By all means.'

He walked up to Mrs Mulrooney and took her hand. ‘I will not pretend to understand the affection you seem to feel for my wife's murderer. But I know it was matched by your affection for my wife herself. I apologise for all that you've had to go through since her death, and I hope I may rely on you in the difficult weeks ahead.'

‘Of course, major. And please don't mistake my love for Fergal as approval of what he did. He is like a son to me, and I'm bound to love him regardless of the evil he's done.'

The commandant nodded. ‘Goodnight to you, then, and to you, Monsarrat. Please ensure you are in your workroom no later than seven tomorrow morning. You and I have a lot to do.'

Monsarrat thanked the major and said goodnight, before walking with Mrs Mulrooney across the courtyard to the kitchen. The fire had died, and it took Monsarrat a while to get it going again, while fending off Mrs Mulrooney's attempts to assist him. ‘Haven't I done enough sitting for the past few days?' she protested. ‘This is my fire. I know its moods.'

Nevertheless, he was eventually able to persuade her to sit while he kindled the flames. It was only when the fire was fully established, and the lamps lit, that a look of horror crossed her face.

‘Who has been let in here?' she demanded, in a tone which suggested Monsarrat bore full responsibility. She licked a finger and ran it along the table, dislodging crumbs from its grooves. The kettle had been left on the hob, not put back on its hook. And the teapot and cups were absent from barracks, having been placed on shelves where they had no business being.

Once she had noticed all this, Monsarrat did not have the scarcest hope of keeping her in her seat. She flitted from one shelf to the next, looking accusingly at the cups as she put them back in their places, muttering as she moved the kettle to its hook, and imposing a thorough scrubbing on the table.

This done, Monsarrat was able to persuade her to sit again, but only for as long as it took her to realise that he was going to attempt to make tea.

‘Now, I've had enough of an imposition here. No one but me will be brewing tea in this kitchen,' she said.

‘God save me from intractable women,' said Monsarrat with no real conviction. ‘Well, I suppose I can understand if you don't want me to make tea. You clearly feel you did not do a good enough job of teaching me how.'

Mrs Mulrooney jumped back down on the chair, folding her arms. ‘Well then, Mr Monsarrat, let's see how well you learn.'

In defiance of the impending evil, Monsarrat made a great show of going through the steps precisely as Mrs Mulrooney had taught them to him, warming the teapot with boiling water, waiting until it cooled enough to be introduced to the leaves, and straining the tea so only black liquid remained. With more flourish than necessary, he presented a cup to Mrs Mulrooney. She picked it up and tasted it, held it in her mouth for several seconds, and swallowed.

‘Well, for a man, you appear to have made a decent job of it.'

Monsarrat smiled. He knew this was as much praise as he could expect from Mrs Mulrooney on the subject of tea.

With his own cup, he sat down opposite her. ‘Not a patch on yours, of course.'

‘Of course it's not,' she said, astonished that he felt it necessary to make such an obvious comment.

They drank in silence for a while. Then Mrs Mulrooney said, ‘Was it you who talked Fergal into it?'

Monsarrat wasn't sure how she would feel about the answer. He knew she had, after all, intended to go meekly onto the ship sailing for Sydney, and not return. ‘Yes, it was. He didn't realise, or at least I hope he didn't, what mortal peril you were in. He assumed there would be a trial at which you would be acquitted, and everybody would just throw up their hands, say the murder couldn't be solved, and leave him, me and you to go about our normal business.'

‘Fool of a boy,' said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘A fool on so many levels. I am going to miss him greatly.'

‘You and I are going to miss what he showed us of himself,' said Monsarrat. ‘That's all. We will be missing an illusion, a smart piece of acting.'

‘No, for all his card playing, I don't think you're right, Mr Monsarrat. The mask never slipped, because it wasn't a mask. Certainly he was deceitful, but it was his crime that he tried to hide, not his true nature. I will never forgive him, and I will never forget him.'

‘You know, he might be in that gaol for a while. I don't know when the major intends to send him for trial. I imagine he'll seek guidance from the Colonial Secretary. And by the time his letter works its way to Sydney, into the secretary's hands, and back out again through a series of clerks, it may be a month or more before … Anyway, hopefully I can secure the major's permission for us to visit him.'

‘I'm not sure I want to, Mr Monsarrat.'

‘Yet I had trouble persuading you to leave the gaol, to leave him in the place where you were.'

‘Now that it's done, though … It might be better to leave him where he is, on the doorstep of the next world.'

‘But it seemed to me as though you wanted to forgive him.'

‘Forgive him? Not a bit of it. I curse him for Honora's death. And I am angry at him for laying claim to some of the love that should have gone to Padraig. Still, that doesn't mean that I take any delight in what's about to happen to him. I desperately wanted to save him. But he is close enough to dead now that any communion with the living might make his passing harder.'

She got up then, taking her empty cup and his, putting them back on the shelf without rinsing them. (‘God alone knows whether this water has been kept fresh enough.')

‘Well, Mr Monsarrat. I don't know how much convincing it took to get him to come forward, and I don't want to know, but it seems that I owe you my life. For now, though, I'm bone weary and shall go to my bed, if somebody hasn't left that in a mess as well. I'll be back early, though, long before you. I know the major wants you by seven. See that you come by here first. I have reason to think that tea might be the only thing which will carry you through the days ahead.'