The Soldier's Curse by Meg Keneally Read Free Book Online

ask you, Mr Monsarrat, to talk to young Spring? I don’t like this, but there is nothing I can do to prevent it. They don’t seem to mean harm, so I don’t want to get the soldiers. If Spring can tell us their intentions, we can decide what to do, hopefully before Captain Diamond notices.’
    Fortunately, Monsarrat thought, the captain would be busy that morning. Major Shelborne had mandated frequent drilling for the troops – Monsarrat had transcribed the order himself – to prevent boredom. Diamond would be marching his soldiers up and down this morning, with a sense of urgency which would make you think a French invasion was imminent, and no doubt thinking himself very gallant while doing so. Only soldiers withspecific assignments, like Private Slattery and his plastering job, were exempted. The military barracks and its parade ground were close to Government House – too close for Monsarrat’s liking. But perhaps the sound of boots striking the ground, muskets being shouldered and unshouldered, and the captain’s love of his own voice as it barked commands would allow the song to escape his attention.
    â€˜Come to the kitchen for a cup of tea first.’
    So back they went, Monsarrat avoiding the accusing gaze of the blank office window as he passed. It was as he was finishing the fortifying cup that Slattery had made his abrupt entrance.
    Now, having heard the plan, Slattery looked into his own nearly empty cup. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘Spring might be more forthcoming to a soldier than a convict.’
    â€˜Ah, you have your own work to do,’ said Mrs Mulrooney. ‘Mrs Shelborne will need the solace of a papered sitting room as she recovers.’
    And indeed, Slattery’s work crew were gently knocking at the outer door, as if to atone for their overseer’s roughness. They waited while Mrs Mulrooney let them in, led them through the kitchen and then across the intervening yard to the main house. ‘You’d best be off,’ she said to Monsarrat as she left. ‘Parade won’t last all day.’
    As he made towards the commissariat stores, Monsarrat heard Slattery’s voice from the verandah. ‘Off with you, you heathen bitches,’ he was yelling. ‘We’ve a sick woman here who doesn’t need your fookin’ pagan screeching!’
    His words failed to cause a ripple in the ocean of chanting voices.

    Simon Spring was a vigorous young man, despite his myopic eyes, for which he wore thick-lensed glasses. He shared Monsarrat’s interest in history, and with his wages had built up a small library. It was rumoured he intended to marry his native woman, which offended some (and very possibly the offence was shared by the Birpai, if they were aware of his wish).
    Like many a man taken with a native woman, Spring’s chief purpose in life was to make a Birpai–English dictionary. His work was routine, and probably always would be, and this dictionary was his chance of intellectual glory.
    â€˜Mr Monsarrat,’ he said, not standing. He did not share the common view of convicts as irredeemable, spoiled goods whose humanity had vanished with their offence. Nevertheless, he felt no impulse to rise as Monsarrat entered. ‘I enjoyed our discussion on Celtic barrow graves,’ he said, removing his glasses and absently polishing them on his shirt. ‘Made me wonder how many of my own people lie in them.’
    â€˜My ancestors are more likely to be in mass graves,’ said Monsarrat. ‘My father’s Huguenot forebears courtesy of the French, and my mother’s Welsh thanks to the English.’
    Monsarrat would never have made this statement to an Englishman. But he knew Spring had a rebellious streak which he kept carefully concealed. The arrangement with his native paramour, and the occasional use of the word ‘sassenach’ when drink had been taken, had alerted