Men ran, still holding muskets ready in case the soldiers charged. I followed them, panting, up the hill, as the rebel army formed into two lines again, then faced the enemy.
The redcoats had stopped in the middle of a field. One of the red-coated horsemen had advanced, carrying a white flag on a pole.
‘The flag of truce,’ said Mr Cunningham.
The soldier reined in his horse. ‘The governor offers you all an amnesty,’ he called. ‘Any man who surrenders in the next twenty-four hours will be pardoned. Put down your weapons and you can go free.’
The men around me laughed. ‘Who’d trust a redcoat?’ someone called.
‘Free to be flogged? To starve? To die on the gibbet?’ called someone else.
‘You know where you can put your amnesty!’ The man gave a rude gesture.
The redcoat who’d made the offer turned his horse and cantered back to his companions. He spoke with the others on horseback for a moment. The horses sweated and shook their tails at the flies.
‘Should we charge them, General?’ someone called.
‘Not yet,’ said Mr Cunningham. ‘We’re too exposed here; nor can we risk losses so soon. But they don’t want to fight us either, not with so few men.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘The governor wouldn’t be offering us an amnesty if he thought he could win. All we are needing now is time to get to Green Hills and the Hawkesbury. And once we get there —’ He stopped as another rider advanced now.
‘That’s Major Johnston. Humes and Johnson, you come and meet him with me.’ Mr Cunningham grinned. ‘A Johnson for a Johnston, eh?’
‘Don’t trust the major,’ said someone from behind. ‘Ye can’t trust none of them.’
‘He is an officer, and so I must suppose he is a gentleman,’ said Mr Cunningham. ‘Should I doubt an officer’s word?’
‘Yes,’ men muttered all around.
‘I think you may be right. But we need to buy the time till the others join us.’
‘Truce!’ yelled Major Johnston down below. ‘We come to parley terms!’
‘Then come closer, man!’ called Mr Cunningham.
Major Johnston didn’t move. His horse skittered, sweating, as he pulled back on the reins. ‘I am already within your pistol shot!’ he shouted.
Mr Cunningham looked around at his men. Most seemed distrustful. But nonetheless he said, ‘Very well.’
Mr Cunningham strode down the hill, his two comrades at his side. He was so tall he was almost face to face with Major Johnston on his horse. ‘What terms have you to offer us?’
‘What terms do you want?’ replied Major Johnston.
‘Death or liberty,’ called Mr Cunningham, loud enough for all of us to hear.
Major Johnston shook his head. ‘If any man here has suffered ill treatment, I pledge to see his wrongs investigated.’ He too spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear.
The men around me broke into laughter. Someone yelled out something rude.
Major Johnston flushed. ‘There is no need to —’ he began.
Mr Cunningham held up his hand for silence. ‘You have heard our terms, Major.’
He turned his back and walked away. Mr Humes and Mr Johnson followed him.
Major Johnston muttered something. He rode back to his men.
The sun rose higher. We stood there on the hill. The soldiers stood there in their field too, no more than a hundred paces from us. None of us moved much. Would we stand like this all day?
Heat bounced up from the brown tussocks. My legs felt like they were made of rock. All of us here had come too far and fast too. Each one of us was exhausted. And still the other rebels didn’t come.
But those soldiers had tramped as far as we had, or even further, and without the rest we’d had. We outnumbered them. Surely we could take them, I thought. Once we’d done that, we could turn around and march triumphantly to the now-empty barracks at Parramatta and take them too. I imagined Ma Grimsby’s face, seeing me march with rebel soldiers . . .
I glanced around. A few of our men looked uncertain. But most seemed as confident as I.
With a leader like Mr Cunningham, we could not lose.
Still the soldiers below us didn’t move. Mr Cunningham assessed them quietly. ‘What do you think?’ he asked Mr Johnson.
Mr Johnson shook his head. ‘They’re not fighting, but they’re not running either.’
‘Then we need to make them run,’ said Mr Cunningham. ‘Prime and load!’ he ordered.
Men opened their pouches, poured a little black powder into their muskets, then the ball and wadding . . .
Mr Cunningham strode up and down the lines. ‘Keep your courage, men, and we can’t lose. Any minute now a thousand others will be joining us from all corners of the colony. The day is ours!’
Someone cheered. Suddenly we were all cheering, clapping each other on the shoulders as if we had won already.
‘Ain’t you got a weapon, boy?’ The man next to me rammed his ball and wadding into his musket. He wore a blue shirt and a cabbage-tree hat. Another free settler.
I shook my head.
‘Hey, Hawkins!’ he yelled. ‘Got a spare musket for the boy here?’
‘I ain’t never used one,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Don’t know how to load either.’ He must have taken me for a farmer’s son, used to shooting kangaroos.
‘Pity. I’ll teach you once we’ve got this lot on the run.’
I gazed around. There was still no sign of any other rebels, but even up here on the hill it was impossible to see who might be coming through the trees. Major Johnston looked worried. And so he should be, I thought, looking at the two solid lines of us.
Major Johnston called an order to his troops, though I couldn’t hear what it was. He rode towards us again, on that big brown horse. This time a man dressed in the black robe and white collar of a priest walked beside him. Two soldiers rode on either side.
‘That’s Father Dixon,’ said a man with a strong Irish accent and scars across both cheeks. The backs of his hands were scarred too. ‘He’s a convict like us. He led the rebels at Tubberneering back in Ireland.’
‘Let the leaders come forwards again!’ yelled Major Johnston, holding his arms wide to show he was unarmed.
Mr Cunningham nodded to Mr Johnson. The two of them strode down the hill once more. Father Dixon walked towards them.
‘Major Johnston has given his word!’ called Father Dixon. ‘A truce. There need be no bloodshed today. Disperse, and no one will follow you. These men will fall back to Parramatta.’
Men muttered around me. Could it be so easy? We could all go in different directions, then meet up again behind the hill and keep marching to Green Hills, and then on to take Sydney Town.
I looked at Mr Cunningham. We all looked at him, in his cream suit, so tall and so commanding.
‘We won’t disperse, Father,’ said Mr Cunningham clearly. ‘We stand together, now and always, death or liberty at last.’
Father Dixon nodded, as if that were the answer he’d expected.
‘Will you bless us, Father?’ asked Mr Cunningham more quietly.
Father Dixon said something too soft to hear, then sketched the sign of the cross. He turned and trudged back to Major Johnston and his redcoats. Mr Cunningham and Mr Johnson walked back to us again.
Once more we waited, still in our hot lines on the hill, weapons at the ready. Down in the field Major Johnston looked to be discussing matters with those around him.
At last he rode forwards a few paces, a man at his side still holding the white flag of truce. His companion on the other side was almost as tall as Mr Cunningham, with a face like an angry ox. Major Johnston reined in his horse to stop, then beckoned, like Mr Cunningham was his servant, supposed to clean his boots.
‘Come further, man!’ called Mr Cunningham. ‘We meet on neutral ground, not yours.’
Major Johnston spurred his horse on a few more paces, then paused again, the two officers by his side.
Mr Cu
nningham and Mr Johnson strode towards the horses.
‘What are your demands?’ asked Major Johnston.
I blinked. Was Major Johnston going to ask much the same question all day?
Once again Mr Cunningham answered patiently. ‘Just as I have told you. Death or liberty,’ he repeated.
Suddenly there was a noise across the other side of the hill. I saw horses, and soldiers on them. They must have been hidden by the trees.
‘Redcoats surrounding us! It’s all been a trap!’ yelled someone.
I turned, just as another party of soldiers cantered from around the hill.
I felt the shock and fear run through our army. I glanced down again just as Major Johnston pulled a pistol from a hiding place under his sash. He pointed it at Mr Johnson’s head. ‘This is how I blow your soul to hell,’ he said, and fired.
Mr Johnson fell.
Time slowed. Even the sun above us must have stood still. For slowly, very slowly, I saw Mr Cunningham step back, his eyes widening in shock and betrayal. I saw the ox-faced man pull a rifle from behind his back and strike Mr Cunningham a blow with the rifle butt.
Mr Cunningham staggered, blood streaming from his forehead. He turned, to run to us, to call an order. I saw his arm rise in a signal. To shoot? Advance? Retreat? I could not tell. For just then the giant redcoat drew his sword and slashed him in the back.
Mr Cunningham staggered once again. Still he did not fall.
The redcoats were firing now, in front of us and behind, our men firing back. I tried to run to Mr Cunningham. The man next to me grabbed my wrist.
‘Run, boy!’ he yelled. ‘Take cover! They have us on both sides!’
‘No!’ I gasped. ‘We still outnumber them . . .’
But no one heard my voice. Around me, rebels were running, running, running, trying to find something to shelter behind. Horses charged up the hill. Mr Cunningham was lost among the hooves. Soldiers raised their muskets.
The world exploded.
Time began again.
The man beside me dropped, his jaw blown off. White chips of teeth and bone and red blood stained the tussocks.
Something struck my shoulder. I felt no pain. All I felt was cold. All about me men fell, men ran.
So I ran too.
CHAPTER 9
Liberty . . . and Death . . .
When I was six years old maybe, I found a treasure: a whole loaf of bread in a saddlebag outside a tavern, and a hunk of cheese. I grabbed them both and ran. But other urchins saw me. Seconds later they were after me, six of them or more. I ducked around the tavern . . .
And climbed a tree. Climbed like an o’possum, till I found a branch high up among the leaves. I clung there like a native bear, till the children ran past, peering under benches and around chimneys, never looking up as I ate my bread and cheese.
I climbed a tree that day too.
The world swirled about me: men, soldiers, horses, pleas for mercy. Swords slashing into flesh. Rough ground underfoot, a pond nestled beside the base of the hill, trees tall and straight — only one with a branch low enough for me to scramble onto. Someone must have seen me climb, my shoulder leaking blood. But the battle moved too fast. Any soldiers who saw me must have ridden past, maybe never thought of me again.
Up, my hands trembling. My left arm was nearly useless, but I forced myself to cling from branch to branch, using my bare feet to force me upwards. Blood dripped down the tree trunk, so much I was afraid someone would see it. Finally I was almost at the top. I perched between a broad branch and the tree trunk. I pressed my hand into my wound to try to stop it bleeding. I wanted to scream with pain, but a scream would get me killed. I looked down.
Bodies lay upon the tussocks. Bodies with no heads, no arms. Men who still struggled, pleaded, wept. But I saw no army.
The rebel army was no more.
But men still fought. Scattered rebels, pikes against swords. Men struggled to load their muskets before bayonets thrust them dying to the ground.
I tried to see Mr Cunningham. Perhaps, even wounded, he had escaped. But the place where he had been stabbed was out of my sight now. I could not see him as men ran from tree to tree, hiding, shooting, fighting hand to hand, though I looked for hours.
The day passed. I clung to my branch. The bleeding was not as bad now. The soldiers swept once more across the battlefield, tying the wrists of prisoners, shoving them back along the road towards the Hawkesbury.
I could still hear musket fire like distant thunder. The rebels had scattered far, but some still fought.
The sun hovered blood-red on the horizon. A cart arrived, pulled by two great bullocks. Convicts loaded up the dead. I looked for Mr Cunningham among the bodies.
He wasn’t there.
Were these convicts rebels too? They didn’t have croppy haircuts, but the soldiers who guarded them held muskets, so perhaps they were. Or more likely every convict was a suspect rebel now. As I would be, if I was found here, if anyone saw the wound I’d got that day and my own hacked-off hair. I would be shot or kept to be hanged.
Soldiers cantered about the hill. I heard them call as they found rebels, and officers yell orders. The shadows grew, tree shadows, strong and motionless, like we had been, until we lost our leaders. Darkness came so slowly I did not know if the world had lost its light, or only me.
And finally all were gone.
I stayed there in my tree. My good arm grew numb. The other shoulder felt like a great fire burned inside it. Hunger made me weak and thirst even more so. I had to find a stream. Or that pond — which way had it been?
And yet I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I wanted to cry, but no tears came. I didn’t know if I would ever cry again.
What if the soldiers came back and found me? I had to steal a shirt so no one would see the blood. Or maybe if I bound my shoulder up, it would stop bleeding, and I could wash my shirt . . .
I had to find a stream, if I was to live.
I did not want to live. Not enough to bother climbing down a tree. I had no life now.
I’d never had a life. Not really. Not back in the huts by the waterfront with women who might have been my mother yelling at me or giving me a crust of bread dipped in rum to hush my cries. I didn’t need a life back then. I only had to live.
I had never known what I lacked till I met Mr Cunningham and dreamed of what a life might be.
I had no dream now. I will sit here and let death find me, I thought. And then: It will be more comfortable to die down on the ground.
I half climbed, half slid, then fell the last few yards. I think I screamed as my shoulder hit the ground. It didn’t matter who heard me now.
Mr Cunningham was gone.
Darkness sat on me like a cold cloak. I leaned against the tree. All my half-dreams haunted me now. A dream of standing on the steps of Government House in Sydney Town with Mr Cunningham, the wind of freedom in our faces, a thick wool cloak, the kind I’d never had, blowing behind me, and French ships in the harbour. A green land stretched in front of us, a land we’d make free, me and Mr Cunningham.
An owl hooted above me. Small creatures scuttled or hopped. The stars began to find their light within the darkness. And suddenly I thought: What if he isn’t dead?
We could still defeat the New South Wales Corps! Why had I doubted? Our group might have been defeated, but all across the colony other rebel groups were rising. If Mr Cunningham was a prisoner, then they’d free him. Maybe even I could free him!
All I had to do was live.
I stood, swayed, began to walk. I could wash in the pond by the hill, bind my shoulder, drink.
I kept on walking. I do not know how long I walked before I realised I must have missed the pond. Nor did I meet a fellow rebel or see a rebel fire.
Above me the stars shimmered and then blurred. The night was darker than I’d ever known, and colder too, although my shoulder still burned. I tripped and found white light, not dark.
And nothing more.
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CHAPTER 10
My Life Shatters
Time passed; dreams of heat and pain, dust in my mouth or perhaps my mouth had turned to dust.
Hands and more pain, but the craving for water no longer filled me. I felt jolting, saw glimpses of tree trunks. At last I dreamed of softness. I seemed to almost float within a cloud, where rain showers gave me water and the breeze murmured comfort.
Faces floated about me. I tried to find Mr Cunningham among them. He wasn’t there. There were women’s voices and the scent of flowers, and strange tastes that were still good. I tried to speak, to call for Mr Cunningham. I tried to move and found I was bound. I struggled to break free.
‘Give me liberty or death!’ But my voice had left me. I pushed at my bonds again.
This time they moved. I opened my eyes.
My bonds were just a linen sheet that covered me. I had seen sheets before, hanging out to dry behind the fine farmhouses outside Parramatta.
I stayed still as a mouse under one of Ma’s tables, trying to work out where I could be. I had never felt so clean before. My head lay on . . . pillows. A white sheet covered me, an even whiter nightshirt . . .
I froze. No one had seen my body since I was small. I had made sure that they did not. My skin looked odd too, paler . . .
Clean.
I moved my head cautiously. Stone walls. A prison? Prisoners surely did not have white sheets. A window, open to the breeze, with wooden shutters, and beyond that a river carved a lazy curve. The same river as Parramatta?
‘You’re awake then.’ I turned a little more. A young woman sat there, a sleeping baby in her arms. She looked familiar. Oh! She was the woman whose basket I had stolen. What was Mrs Bean doing here? Or rather, what was I?
‘How did I get here?’ Was that my voice? It was so hoarse, so faint.
‘My husband found you on the road three days ago, on his way back from our other property on the Hawkesbury. He and our foreman carried you to our home.’ Mrs Bean wore a cotton dress now and a white farmwoman’s apron.
‘Why?’
‘Because you were wounded, ill.’ Her voice was soft and calm, with a strange accent I hadn’t noticed before. ‘Because many years ago Barney and I were hungry children, and a good man and his wife took us in.’
The Secret of the Youngest Rebel Page 4
