Birrung grinned. I had already learned to follow where she led. We ran out of the house and along the hill, past the brickworks and up again. There was a giant boulder there, almost flat on top. Birrung scrambled up — she could climb anything — then held out her hand to help Elsie up. I scrambled up by myself, even though I got a skinned knee for it.
You could see the harbour from there and a few canoes. Birrung’s people were coming back now the plague that had killed so many of them — and nearly killed Birrung — was over.
This land was just so big: that wide blue sky and the green trees that never ended. I was still getting used to big after the cramped streets of London, then Newgate Prison and the ship. But it was beautiful. Red and green birds flew above us, making bird sorts of noises. I was with Elsie and Birrung in the sunshine and there’d be a good supper waiting for us at home. I was as happy as I’d ever been. If only Ma had been alive, I don’t think I could have been any happier.
We sat there on the hot rock as the light danced across the water. All at once I realised that maybe we three on the rock were the only truly free people in the colony. The convicts had to stay till their prison term was up. The soldiers and even Mr Johnson and Governor Phillip were there until England recalled them. But I was no convict, and nor was Elsie, whoever else she might be. And Birrung . . .
I looked at her, dark as a gum-tree shadow, eyes bright like stars. Birrung was this land and this land was her, and she could vanish in the bush whenever she wanted to. I shivered. I think even then I knew that one day Birrung would leave us, no matter how much I loved her.
But John Black was free too now, I thought. Free to roam all the bush, in the shadows of the green trees, all that land that no one in the colony had seen yet, but everyone knew stretched behind us and around us. What mysteries did this land hold? Big lakes and seas? Even more new animals, like the ones that hopped on two legs, and the emus that poked long necks out as they ran and had big beaks and shaggy feathers that bounced?
Would Birrung’s people really make John Black their king? He was taller than most of the Indians. But the Indians didn’t have kings — if they had, surely their king would have come to meet Governor Phillip. All we’d met were gentle Arabanoo, who died in the plague, and Bennelong, who laughed and joked.
No, John Black wouldn’t become king of the Indians, no matter what he hoped. But suddenly I was glad he was free, even though I hadn’t liked the way he looked at Birrung.
I might have lived part of my life in gaol with Ma and on the ship, but I’d always known I was free, not a convict. Ma had made sure of that. No one could sell me, like they’d sold John Black. I could have left prison if I’d had anywhere to go. And when I grew older, I could marry anyone I wanted to . . .
I looked at Birrung, pretty in her blue dress, then found Elsie glaring at me again. And I hadn’t done anything! Elsie started to slide off the rock, but Birrung put a hand on her shoulder and pointed.
It took me a moment to see what she meant. It was a bee, in a flower shaped like a bottlebrush near the rock.
Birrung slipped down the rock, silent as a snake, holding her hand up to tell us to be still and silent. I watched her weave between the trees, then scrambled down the rock to follow her. I lifted up my arms to help Elsie; I thought she might refuse and slide off and twist her ankle because she was cross with me, but she smiled. She was light as a mouse as I swung her down.
We ran through the trees after Birrung.
She hadn’t gone far. She sat on the ground, sort of plaiting some sheets of white bark together, the kind that fell from the trees all the time. Then she grinned and clambered up a tree, showing her long black legs, which Mrs Johnson wouldn’t have approved of.
There was a hole in the tree. Birrung plunged in her hand and brought it out dripping with something pale green, and lots of little black things crawling on her.
Bees! Bees stung — or I had heard they did. But these didn’t sting Birrung. She slid down the tree, brushing them off, then held out the bark basket. I dipped my finger in the green stuff.
Honey! I’d only had it once before I came to the colony, on a foggy day in London, Ma coming home to the room we paid a halfpenny a night to sleep in with twenty other people, bringing a hot muffin covered with butter and honey. We ate it slowly, crumb by crumb.
And here was honey again, beginning to drip through the cracks in the basket. We took turns wiping it off with our fingers and licking them as we ran home with it.
Sally was awake and looked grumpy, but smiled as wide as a slice of pumpkin when she saw Birrung’s find. ‘Pancakes with honey!’ she declared, taking down the big frypan and rubbing it with chicken fat, because though goats gave us all the milk we wanted, goat’s milk wouldn’t make butter, only cheese. I reckon it’s because goats just like being stubborn and troublesome and that gets into their milk too.
Mrs Johnson came out of her room, yawning and smiling, and then Mr Johnson returned, his baskets empty.
I had expected him to smile, seeing us all so happy and finding the kitchen filled with the smell of pancakes. And he did. But he looked troubled too.
‘Is anything wrong down at the hospital?’ asked Mrs Johnson quietly.
He shook his head. ‘A man who lost two fingers because he couldn’t use an axe. But he is mending.’ He managed another smile. ‘He even thanked me for saying a prayer for him.’
Something was worrying him. But if he wouldn’t tell us, it wasn’t for me to go asking.
We ate our pancakes, said evening prayers and went to bed with the sun. I don’t know how long I had been asleep when I heard a noise just inside the house.
Had John Black come back? I didn’t think so — he’d asked Mr Johnson’s permission to come inside before. Maybe some other lag was helping himself to our leftover pancakes!
I wasn’t having none of that.
I slipped out of the storeroom and into the house. A small slush lamp flickered on the floor, where Mr Johnson kneeled, praying.
He must have heard me come in. He said, ‘Your will be done, oh Lord. Amen,’ with his head still bowed, then stood up. ‘Barney! You should be asleep.’
‘I heard a noise. Thought it might be a thief.’
‘No thief.’ Mr Johnson sank down on a chair. ‘Barney, have I done wrong?’
‘Of course not, sir.’
He shook his head. ‘Four nights ago I sheltered a man because he had been a slave, and slavery must be abhorrent to Christians everywhere. But last night — the night after our Saviour was born — John Black stole a musket and powder and shot from the brickworks.’
I sat down myself and looked at him. The brickworks were just along the track from us. John Black had said muskets made men mighty. Men killed each other with muskets. But the colony’s shooters also had muskets to kill kangaroos and other animals for meat. ‘Maybe John Black just wants a musket to hunt for food.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Mr Johnson softly. ‘But if he wants to use a musket to hunt, he must steal more powder and shot, for he has no tools to make them. This man was a thief, Barney, a thief several times over. And he has stolen again and may keep stealing. Did I help a slave be free, or did I give a thief the means to kill another man and to steal again?’
I thought about that, about the lessons Mr Johnson had given me in the last few weeks. Eventually I said, ‘I think you did a good thing, sir. And if John Black does bad things afterwards, that is for his conscience, not yours.’
Mr Johnson smiled. I was glad he smiled because I wasn’t sure myself if what we had done was right. ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings . . . We must both go to bed now. Good night, Barney.’
‘Good night, sir,’ I said. But it was a long time before I got to sleep.
CHAPTER 6
Attack!
30 January 1790
It was my birthday!
Most convicts didn’t know their birthdays, or even that the year had months, but Ma had told me what date min
e was and I’d told Mrs Johnson when she asked.
‘Why do you want to know when my birthday is?’ I’d said as I held the newly spun wool for her to roll into a ball. I was going to be eleven, but eleven wasn’t old enough to be issued with an adult’s rations, and I didn’t know why else Mrs Johnson might want to know my birthday.
It had been raining outside, and raining in the house too with the roof leaking. But we’d moved away from the worst of the splodges, and Sally, Elsie and Birrung were baking hearth cakes with our own ground corn and the berries of a tree with red leaf tips that Birrung had shown us, so the house smelled of warmth and cooking.
Mrs Johnson smiled as she rolled the wool. ‘Maybe something nice will happen. It often does on birthdays. You’ll just have to wait and see.’
‘But it ain’t . . . isn’t fair. Because Elsie doesn’t have a birthday. I mean, she must have a birthday. But she can’t say when it is. So she can’t ever have something nice happen on her birthday.’
Elsie glanced over at me, a strange look on her face.
Mrs Johnson looked thoughtful. She walked over to one of the sea trunks and brought out a small book. ‘Elsie,’ she called.
Elsie went over, a bit cautious-like.
Mrs Johnson opened the book. It was weird, all little squares and numbers and hardly any words.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘A calendar,’ said Mrs Johnson. ‘See, here there is a square for every day of the year. Elsie, do you know when your birthday is?’
Elsie pointed to a square in the middle of the chart.
‘The sixteenth of May?’ asked Mrs Johnson.
Elsie nodded. She went back to Sally and the hearth cakes — hearth cakes need a lot of turning if they’re not to burn.
I stared at Elsie. Had she really been able to read the calendar thing? Or had she just pointed to any square? But Elsie never lied. If she didn’t want to answer, she would just shrug.
The rain clattered extra hard on the roof and walls. ‘I hope the boat from Rose Hill isn’t delayed again,’ said Mrs Johnson, just as Mr Johnson came in, tired and wet, but with a smile on his face as warm as the fire as he lifted his nose to the smell of hearth cakes and nodded at Sally stirring the stew and bent over Mrs Johnson, who was holding up her cheek to be kissed.
And that suppertime she told him when our birthdays were.
Birthdays mean you get kissed on the cheek by every female in the house: a warm kiss from Mrs Johnson, and a floury sweaty one from Sally, and a peck from Elsie, who blushed. Birrung’s kiss was sort of muddled and smelled of salt waves and sunlight. I also got a hug from her, all laughter and dancing eyes. I’m not sure Birrung knew what a birthday was, but she hugged Mr and Mrs Johnson a lot.
And now I’d had a hug (and a kiss) from her too!
There were corn cakes with honey for breakfast — Birrung must have been back to the honey tree again — and another handkerchief, this time embroidered by Mrs Johnson and Elsie and Birrung. There wasn’t enough spare cloth in the colony back then for them to make one each. Me, Barney Bean, with two handkerchiefs! I’d never used the first one yet, and didn’t think I ever would. They both looked so pretty. Fingers were good enough for me.
Mr Johnson gave me a handshake, then grinned. ‘Your main present is outside.’
I must have looked puzzled. Mr Johnson’s grin grew wider, and Mrs Johnson smiled, and Birrung and Sally laughed, which meant they knew the secret too. Even Elsie gave a giggle.
I followed Mr Johnson into the back garden, with everyone traipsing after me. I looked around. ‘Where is it?’
‘Over there.’
I looked where Mr Johnson pointed. But all I could see was the corn growing strongly, and the lettuces, and the sheep in the pen.
‘The youngest lamb is yours,’ said Mr Johnson. ‘She’s the one with the black ear.’
‘A sheep? For me? Really and truly?’
I could hardly believe it. I pulled up a handful of grass and approached the pen. The ewes butted towards me, but I waited till my lamb came closer. She looked at me suspiciously for a bit, then began to chew the grass I held out to her. I rubbed the soft fleece on top of her head and she didn’t move away. Mr Johnson had taught me that sheep need to know who looks after them, so they won’t stray too far. And I didn’t want this lamb leaving me, ever.
This lamb wasn’t just the first animal I had owned. A sheep in the colony was worth . . . well, I didn’t know what they were worth, but there weren’t many in the colony back then, and there were a lot of people who wanted to eat them.
But no one was selling my lamb for a roast dinner. I’d shear her and she’d have lambs of her own and I’d shear them too and sell the wool . . .
And that was what Mr Johnson had given me, with that lamb. A future.
I felt like crying. Just a few months earlier I’d been a homeless orphan brat hiding in a ruined hut, trying to survive with Elsie with just my rations for both of us, each of us getting skinnier as the days went by. And now I had the best home I had ever known, and two handkerchiefs and a sheep.
But it was more than that — this sheep showed that the Johnsons liked me. That they thought I had a future, that I’d get a land grant one day and have a flock of sheep and grow crops just like Mr Johnson was teaching me to, and read books like a gentleman.
I didn’t have any words to say what I felt, and if I talked, I thought the tears in my eyes might fall on my cheeks, which would have embarrassed everyone. Luckily one of the convicts assigned to the hospital ambled around the house.
‘You’re wanted at the hospital. Sir,’ he added, a bit late.
‘Of course. I’ll come at once. Who is it?’
‘It’s that giant John Black, sir. Came in with a big spear wound in his side, and another in his shoulder and leg. He’s asking for you, sir.’
‘Of course I’ll come,’ Mr Johnson said.
‘May I come too, sir?’ I asked impulsively. The hospital hut was still the last place I wanted to be, but I wanted to know what had happened to John Black. And I thought Mr Johnson needed someone with him too — someone who could distract Surgeon White if John Black started talking about how Mr Johnson had helped him because, even if Mr Johnson was the colony’s chaplain, he could still be arrested for breaking the law. I knew the punishment for helping an escaped prisoner. We all did. You were tied to the stake and lashed, or hanged by the neck till you were dead. But surely Governor Phillip would pardon Mr Johnson, even if he wouldn’t build him a church.
Wouldn’t he?
We walked down with the convict, a small man like a monkey but with big gnarled hands. I wondered if he’d been a sweep — they starve them so they stay small enough to fit inside the chimneys. But if he had been, he must have taken to thieving instead while still quite young, because sweeps don’t live that long.
‘Such a story that big black cove told Mr Collins,’ said the man. ‘He swears he found the Indians herding our stray cattle, and when he tried to bring the cattle back to us, the Indians speared him.’ The convict snorted. ‘I’ve heard better tales in the dock at Old Bailey.’
‘Where was John Black found?’ asked Mr Johnson quietly.
‘Gave himself up down at Rose Hill. Didn’t have no choice, badly wounded like that.’
‘Will he live?’
‘Surgeon White says he will.’ The convict laughed. ‘It’d take more than a few spear wounds to bring down a big brute like John Black.’
Mr Johnson was silent.
John Black lay in the bed Ma had laid in, in the hospital hut. He had a blanket over him and bandages on his shoulder, very white against his dark skin. He sat up when we came in and I saw more bandages just above his waist.
‘Mr Johnson, sir,’ he began.
‘I am sorry to see you in this state,’ said Mr Johnson. There was only one chair. He sat on it, while I perched on the other bed in the hut. ‘I’ll have broth brought down to you this afternoon. Is there anything else you
need?’
John Black looked into his eyes. ‘My freedom, sir.’
Mr Johnson sighed. ‘Mr Black, your soul is free in the sight of God and always will be. I can promise that. But here in the colony the governor regards you as a thief. Is he wrong to do so?’
‘I took only what I needed, sir. The musket to shoot meat. Vegetables to keep me alive.’
‘But you could work for those, John,’ said Mr Johnson gently.
‘Work in chains again, sir? For that is what they will do to me. Chain me as a slave is chained. Convict or slave, they are the same chains, the same whip from the overseer.’
Mr Johnson was quiet for a while. ‘I don’t know how to help you,’ he said at last. ‘Will you pray with me, to ask God’s guidance in what we should both do now?’
John Black looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I will, sir,’ he said eventually.
I tried to read his expression. Was he pretending to pray just to get on Mr Johnson’s good side? Or did he really believe in the power of prayer, like Mr Johnson did?
I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure even what I believed back then, just that Mr and Mrs Johnson were the best people I had ever known, aside from Ma.
‘Dear Holy Father,’ prayed Mr Johnson.
John Black shut his eyes too, and put his hands together in the prayer position. So did I, but although I dropped my head, I kept my eyes open, watching John Black through my lashes.
‘Dear Lord, show us a way to give this lost lamb the freedom that he needs, and may you forgive him his sins. May all who labour in chains be freed, as no man is a slave in Your sight. In Christ’s name, Amen.’
‘And may you thank this fine man Mr Johnson,’ said John Black, his eyes still shut. ‘And give him a fine house and riches and all he wants because he fights to make slaves free. Amen.’ He opened his eyes.
The Secret of the Black Bushranger Page 3
