…kind friend Mrs King; and it is a cause of much uneasiness to me that Colonel & Mrs Paterson should be upon terms of disagreement with them. There is now Mrs King, Mrs Paterson and Mrs McArthur for all of whom I have the greatest regard, who can scarcely speak to each other; it is really a miserable thing to split a small society into such small parts: why do you ladies meddle with politics? But I do not mean you.13
Flinders was right. The ladies of the colony really did form only a very small society. Betsy Marsden, though, was grateful to see the numbers growing. In 1802 she could claim that of ‘our society of married ladies…we have now twenty’.14
Although it was easier for Elizabeth to socialise with her women friends now that John was away and not arguing with their husbands, her relationship with Elizabeth Paterson and Anna King remained cool. Closer to hand was Betsy Marsden, who needed friends more than ever. The Reverend Marsden was busy overseeing the building of Parramatta’s first church, St John’s, which was consecrated at the Easter of 1803, an event to which the ladies of the colony turned up in force.15 That achievement should have marked a happy year for the Marsdens but in August that year the family was struck by tragedy once again. Little John Marsden, the baby born two months after his mother and brother were flung from the carriage in August two years earlier, died from a scalding accident in his mother’s kitchen. Betsy never regained her equilibrium. From then on she considered August a fearful month, and could hardly bear to let her children out of her sight.16
Elizabeth also had plenty of male friends to turn to. With the barracks at Parramatta only five minutes from Elizabeth Farm, she could rely on the help and support of John’s fellow officers and his loyal subordinates. Captain Edward Abbott remained a stalwart friend, and his visits are mentioned in Elizabeth’s letters. Elizabeth cultivated friendships in the navy too, and Flinders and other officers from visiting ships regularly stayed at Elizabeth Farm.
Captain Nicholas Baudin, commander of the famed French scientific expedition, and his officers were welcomed as guests by Elizabeth, when their ships stopped briefly at Sydney in late 1802. The French spent their time socialising with the English officers and their ladies, and, like the Spanish before them, secretly compiling intelligence reports for their government back home. Elizabeth made enough of an impression that seventeen years later when one of Baudin’s officers, now Captain de Freycinet, returned in his own ship to Sydney, his stowaway wife, Rose, happily stayed two days at Elizabeth Farm.17
The problem with having friends in the armed forces, though, was that Elizabeth was forever saying goodbye. In 1803 Matthew Flinders wrote to her from Sydney, expressing his joy at finally being able to sail for England and back to his beloved wife. ‘Adieu my dear Madam—I am going home with the promise of being attended by fortunes smiles, and with the delightful prospect of enfolding one to whom my return will be a return of happiness.’ Flinders didn’t have time to visit Elizabeth again. ‘It would be much pleasure to me to have waited upon you at Parramatta, but my business will not allow me to bestow two days upon personal gratifications.’ Flinders was happy, though, to run any errands for Elizabeth in town and he doesn’t forget the cares of his friend. ‘For you, my dear friend I leave you with anxious suspense, and borne down with the cares attendant upon the interests of a large family, the oppressive weight of which your single shoulders are at present left to bear.’ Flinders’ letter alludes to Elizabeth’s strong religious conviction: ‘May that Almighty Power whom you reverence and adore impart such fortitude to your mind and health to your person as will enable you to discharge your various duties with the satisfaction that attends upon having done every thing well.’18 By the year’s end Flinders would be imprisoned by the French on Mauritius. He wouldn’t reach England for more than six years. Matthew Flinders died in 1814, the day after the publication of his magnum opus A Voyage to Terra Australis.19
Overall, though, Elizabeth does not seem to have had the time or the inclination to hover over her friends. A typical day would see the family rise early, eat breakfast at about seven before following their own pursuits until mid-afternoon.20 Elizabeth might ride out to oversee work on the farm and check her livestock, or she might spend a day in the kitchens, ensuring produce was properly prepared and preserved. There were tradesmen to meet, servants to direct and, always, the children. With John away there was only Elizabeth to teach them their letters and numbers, their bible, and their manners.
As an elderly man, Elizabeth’s youngest son William reminisced about his childhood to his niece. He did not recall having had any toys except a wheelbarrow. ‘I remember once taking a long walk with our house maid [and siblings] dear James & Mary & returning home with this wheel barrow wreathed with Clematis. Suddenly the barrow broke—my grief was intense—the others were older & did not care so much.’21 William could not have been more than four years old when this incident occurred. Perhaps he consoled himself with the other ‘toy’ the children played with, a ‘cannon, with which we would fire royal salutes on High Days and holidays’. They were most likely pretending but with the garrison so close, and with so many soldier friends, anything might be possible.
William also claimed that, until the age of seven, he never had more than two garments—presumably a shirt and pants—and as a result suffered some bitterly cold winter evenings. This is the sort of childhood memory that mothers of those now grown-up children hear with incredulity, and often quickly refute. In this case we only have William’s word for it, but clearly, although Elizabeth loved her children, she did not indulge them. William did, however, remember the moment he discovered he could read. He had picked up a book and:
…there was a poem about a rose in it. It suddenly flashed upon me what it meant and I read it off. My sister Elizabeth has told me I read quite fluently at the time of her return to the Colony when I must have been about four years old.22
It says something about Elizabeth’s household that there was a book of poetry lying around for a bright child to pick up.
The main meal of the day was eaten in the mid-afternoon while there was still light to see by. The family could eat by the light of their whale-oil lamps, of course, but for the servants preparing and clearing up after a meal was much easier done by daylight. After dinner, although perhaps not every evening, Elizabeth as the head of the family may well have read a short sermon to the assembled household, while the small children fidgeted. Elizabeth may not have lavished her children with doting attention, but nor was she a strict disciplinarian. She generally enjoyed the children’s company and in many of her later letters she and her sons use the word ‘merry’ to describe family gatherings at the table.
Elizabeth and her children were also welcomed at her friends’ tables, and it was in such a situation—dining with friends—that on Sunday 4 March 1804 they were caught in an ill-fated uprising of Irish convicts. Many of the Irish convicts at this time were political prisoners, transported for their role (or supposed role) in the 1798 rebellion of the United Irish. The rebellion sought to take advantage of Britain’s war against the newly conceived French Republic and was timed in the hope of coinciding with a French invasion of Ireland. By the end of the year the rebellion had been crushed, with large numbers of casualties on both sides. More than 300 men were sentenced to death, and between 1800 and 1802 about 500 Irish men and women were transported for political crimes.23 Convinced of the injustice of their imprisonment in New South Wales, several hundred Irish and English convicts employed on the government farm at Castle Hill, near Parramatta, raided nearby settlements for weapons. Their cry, as it was in Ireland, was ‘Death or Liberty!’ But they were poorly organised and ill-equipped, with little thought given to what might happen next—some convicts seemed to believe they might be able to negotiate a ship to take them home.24
That very March evening, some seven months after little John Marsden died, Mrs Marsden was coping well enough to have her friend and neighbour Elizabeth Macarthur over for supper. Elizabeth wa
s accompanied by her daughter Mary, then aged eight, and her son James, aged five. William Macarthur, aged three, was being looked after at home. In a letter to her friend Captain Piper six weeks later, Elizabeth vividly describes the scene in Betsy’s parlour:
…we were sitting at supper [when] Old Joice burst into the parlour Pale & in violent agitation. ‘Sir says he looking wildly at Mr Marsden ‘come with me’—‘and you too madam’ looking at me. Then half shutting the door he told us that the Croppies had risen, that they were at my Seven Hills Farm & that numbers were approaching Parramatta. Mrs Marsden, myself & our children repaired to the Barracks.25
Elizabeth can certainly tell a story. That half-shut door is a descriptive triumph, in its implication that Old Joice didn’t want the other servants to hear. ‘Croppies’ is Joice’s word—throughout the letter Elizabeth usually refers to the mutinous convicts as Irishmen or rebels.
At the barracks, only minutes from the Marsden home, the women learnt that Castle Hill was in turmoil. Elizabeth could see the flames. The Irishmen, reported to number 300, ‘were expected every minute to enter the town’.26 Elizabeth’s friends at the barracks suggested ‘as many ladies as chose should go to Sydney’ but Elizabeth could go nowhere without her son William. It was 11 pm before the boy was collected and Elizabeth, Mrs Marsden, Mrs Abbott and a Mrs Williamson departed down the Parramatta River with all their children by the light of a half-moon. They were accompanied by the Reverend Marsden (who carried a request from Captain Abbott at Parramatta for more ammunition) and presumably by the boat’s crew. By this time the Irish rebels were on the outskirts of Parramatta and, according to Elizabeth, were ‘making hideous shouts’.27
The river at Parramatta is relatively narrow, no more than fifty metres across. These days the banks are lined with impenetrable mangroves but contemporaneous paintings depict an open, grassy landscape along the river, with the occasional enormous eucalypt leaning over the water—perfect cover for a sniper. Not until nearly a kilometre or so downstream, past the easternmost border of Elizabeth Farm at Duck Creek, does the river widen, allowing nervous voyagers to steer a course safely out of musket range. At least, at the tail end of the summer, the weather was mild. The journey down the river and into the Port Jackson harbour took four interminable hours. They arrived at Sydney Cove at about 3 am, to a scene of lantern-lit activity and bustle, centring on HMS Calcutta, which was anchored close to shore. Elizabeth wrote:
The Town was all in arms. The Marines from the Calcutta disembarked & a great number of the Sailors armed. The Calcutta was beautifully lighted up. Most of the officers were on there & kindly received us, poor fugitives, at the Wharf. We had determined to take up our abode at Mrs Marsden’s House excusing only Mrs Williamson who went to Mrs Campbell’s. To this House we & our little frightened sleepy tribe were escorted & civilities were poured in upon us from every quarter.28
Elizabeth’s account is a polished anecdote, told and retold to her Sydney friends until all the fear and confusion had been edited out. It reads like a jolly midnight adventure—which it was only in hindsight. The convict rebels were quickly overcome by a detachment of soldiers led by Major George Johnston, recently back from England. He reported that over a dozen Irishmen were killed, and more were wounded. Johnston’s list of weapons taken from the rebels provides an insight into the Irishmen’s chances of success: ‘twenty-six muskets, one fowling piece, four bayonets on poles, one pitchfork, one pistol, eight reaping hooks, two swords’.29
Elizabeth’s adventure provided the perfect excuse for at least a partial thawing of her icy relationships and in her letter she makes special note of it. ‘Mrs King’s behaviour to us was most attentive and kind during our stay at Sydney as was also Colonel & Mrs Paterson’s & most of the other inhabitants.’30 Later that year Elizabeth would willingly dine with a party of women friends, including Anna King, Eliza Kent and Betsy Marsden, who met for a meal (without their husbands) in Sydney.31 After escaping the uprising, Elizabeth and her children and the Marsdens remained in Sydney for several days, until ‘the govt appraised us that we might return in safety to our Habitations’.32 It was only once she was again at home that Elizabeth discovered the very real danger she and her family had faced.
The rebels had planned to light two fires in Parramatta during the course of their attack: one in the town, and the other at Elizabeth Farm, encompassing the house or at least some of the outbuildings. As was afterwards confessed, and as Elizabeth described to Captain Piper, the fire at Elizabeth Farm was designed ‘to catch the attention of the Soldiery’. Elizabeth’s ‘lonely situation & the attachment the soldiers had to my family would induce them upon seeing the fire to repair initially to my relief’ leaving the barracks an easier target. ‘Thank God,’ wrote Elizabeth, ‘all was happily prevented.’33
The convict rebels were entirely right in assuming that the military would have rushed to Elizabeth’s aid. Less than a year later, in January 1805, one of her outbuildings caught fire and, according to a small article at the back of the four-page Sydney Gazette, the soldiers on duty in Parramatta were able to save the day.
Yesterday, between the hours of twelve and one at noon, a fire broke out on the farm of Mrs M’Arthur, at Parramatta, by which a detached kitchen was in a short time destroyed. From the direction of the wind the f lame several times reached the dwelling house but was happily extinguished every time with scarce perceptible damage by the military detachment on duty at Parramatta, whose active excursions prevailed in subduing the fire and limiting its ravage to the former building which was however totally consumed.34
It is interesting that the newspaper describes the farm as belonging to Mrs Macarthur. In effect it did—John had been absent for more than three years at this stage and the strain was beginning to tell on Elizabeth. She had neither the workers nor, it seems, the inclination to begin rebuilding the kitchen wing and the replacement would not be finished for four years.35
Around this time, during the summer of 1804-05, Elizabeth Farm was the scene of another distressing and sad event. Little William would remember it for the rest of his life. In his adult reminiscences, he mentions nothing of his late night flight down the river, or the kitchen fire. But he writes at some length about the local Aboriginal people who were regular visitors at Elizabeth Farm.36 It was not unusual for the colonists to encourage friendly Aboriginal people to camp on their land, ‘to keep [away] strange blacks who might otherwise make dangerous incursions’.37 The Aboriginal visitors to Elizabeth Farm included two friends, who were known as Harry and Bill. Related to each other and inseparable companions, both became attached to a particular young woman. She favoured Harry, however, and Bill, in his jealousy, speared Harry one night while he slept. Harry was badly wounded but he recovered; Bill fled to avoid the retributive justice of his clan and was not heard of for several months—until he turned up with a favour for Elizabeth.
‘It happened,’ wrote William, ‘that a favourite cow of ours (cows in those days were things of great price) had been for some time missing—and Bill found her in the neighbourhood of the South Creek.’ Bill knew the cow had been anxiously sought after so, still hoping to elude his clan, he came in secretly during the night to speak with ‘the Missis’, to tell Elizabeth the welcome news that her cow was safe. Elizabeth, even if roused from sleep, was no doubt pleased to hear it, but Bill had risked too much by bearing the message. ‘His affectionate nature cost him his life,’ remembered William. Bill’s people found him and compelled him to a trial by ordeal: he was to have spears thrown at him by the men of his clan—including his old friend Harry. Bill chose the site, some bare clean land a few hundred yards from the house at Elizabeth Farm, and William was a wide-eyed witness to the ritual. ‘He had many opponents and was at length mortally wounded by a spear thrown by Gogie, a native belonging to the Cowpasture tribe. Harry I believe, threw spears more for form’s sake.’38
Bill was taken into one of Elizabeth’s outbuildings and carefully tended by his clan
until his death a few days later. Elizabeth visited every day, and her presence was greatly appreciated. William remembered that on his last day Bill said, ‘Goodbye Missis, I shall never see you again.’ At his own request, Bill was buried within view of the front of the Macarthurs’ home, with his face turned towards the house. Harry was devastated. For a long time he ‘shunned the neighbourhood and I believe to the hour of his death, never ventured near Bill’s grave’.39 It is possible that Gogie made an error, deliberate or otherwise, in fatally spearing Bill. Gogie was not from Parramatta, and may not have been clear as to the intended outcome of the ritual. If so, it was perhaps not coincidental that Gogie was himself attacked with spears a short time later, in March 1805, by Bennelong and Nanberry, men well known to the Sydney colonists.40 A month after Gogie was attacked, two of Elizabeth’s stockmen, working only thirty kilometres or so from Elizabeth Farm, were killed—reportedly by Aboriginal people.41 A party led by former soldier Obadiah Ikins shot an Aboriginal man, Tallonn, in retribution and apparently ‘killed many others’ but Ikins was never charged or tried.42 There is nothing to suggest Ikins was acting on Elizabeth’s behalf and with the murderous skirmishes and vigilantism of the frontier wars now so close to home, in May 1805 Elizabeth fled Parramatta for the safest place in the colony—Government House in Sydney.
In John’s absence and with the passing of time, many of the rifts in Elizabeth’s social circle had been mended. Elizabeth Paterson had recently joined her husband in Van Diemen’s Land, where he was establishing a new settlement on the northern coast and subsequently the relationship between Anna King and Elizabeth Macarthur seems to have rekindled. Anna, aged forty, gave birth to a daughter in February 1805, eight years after the birth of her previous child. In these circumstances Elizabeth’s support and friendship would have been very welcome. In fact, Elizabeth, along with at least two of her children, stayed with the Kings at Government House for more than five weeks.43
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