The Soldier's Curse by Meg Keneally

status, accepting an amnesty. But this salvation only went so far. He was informed that he could live as a free man in the colony, provided he remained a priest, and provided he never returned to Ireland. No one was certain whether Hanley remained a priest in the eyes of the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. No one was inclined to check, least of all Hanley.
    His crime outraged Slattery. Not that it was the worst of those committed by the men under Slattery’s stewardship – although the purloined item was larger in both size and value than many others which had sent people to the port. ‘I’ve no quarrel with a priest running foul of the constables,’ he’d told Monsarrat. ‘But horse theft! Any theft. If you’re a man of the cloth, and you want trouble, you should at least have the decency to do it for someone else.’
    â€˜Stealing food for the poor, that sort of thing?’ asked Monsarrat.
    â€˜No! You’re being slow today, for a man of fookin’ letters, even if you forged half of them. No stealing. Not needed – plenty to do that. No, give me a priest sent here for standing between a bailiff and a tenant. For interceding with his lordship – any lordship – on behalf of a poor family. For preventing an innocent man from being gaoled. Or – here’s one – for speaking against the greed of the landholder, trying to make sure they leave the tenants with enough to get by. Natural justice, that’s their job. Or should be.’
    â€˜Why should that be up to the priests?’
    â€˜Why shouldn’t it? It has to be up to someone. And barely an inconvenience to them if they’re slain in the process, with guaranteed passage into heaven and all.’
    â€˜Unless they steal horses. Then it’s guaranteed passage to the colony,’ said Monsarrat.
    â€˜Exactly so. And then they’re no good to man or beast, and shouldn’t be able to hide behind the Holy Father’s skirts.’
    â€˜But then what would you do for weddings, baptisms, last rites? Surely you wouldn’t submit to Reverend Ainslie?’
    Monsarrat knew that Fergal Slattery’s relationship with his own religion was problematic at best. The settlement’s most redeemed regular resident, the Reverend John Ainslie, had been appointed chaplain last year, and the thought of being part of his flock had drawn an Irish curse from Slattery. Frail though they were, priests like Hanley were at least able to make allowances for frailty in others, while Ainslie and his like condemned even the thought of a sin. Certain Anglicans referred to their spiritual leaders in New South Wales as ‘almost Methodist’. It was not intended as a compliment.
    â€˜There is that, I suppose,’ Slattery had said. ‘A priest is a priest, even if he doesn’t deserve it, and he has his uses.’
    The major might have agreed with Slattery on the general usefulness of the clergy, Monsarrat thought. Before Ainslie’s appointment, religious observances had amounted to the chief engineer reading prayers each Sunday in the schoolhouse. Now Ainslie conducted Sunday services in the same location, or sometimes, in fine weather, on the hill where the church was slowly rising. The major felt that the Reverend should restrict himself to these activities, together with attempts to increase the moral rectitude of his crime-stained flock. But that wasn’t how Ainslie did things. All roads led to God, he was fond of saying. What he didn’t say was that this meant everything which went on in the settlement was his business.
    Monsarrat was party to a great many administrative secrets, of which he would never speak in case he lost the major’s trust and the privileges it brought. One of these secrets was the number of meetings Ainslie had with Shelborne, arriving unannounced and closeting himself in the inner office for at least half an hour, lecturing him on