For Rachel Warren
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
The Diary of Elizabeth Harvey
Rose Hill
Saturday 3rd April 1790
HISTORICAL NOTES
About the Author
Copyright
The Diary of Elizabeth Harvey
Sydney, 1790
Rose Hill
Saturday 3rd April 1790
Yesterday was Good Friday. Master Henry Dodd gathered his servants together to read ‘The Lord’s Prayer’. He made us repeat it after him. Sarah says to never tell anyone that I know my letters. She fears that if the officers hear that I can read and write, they might decide to use me elsewhere, and that this would separate us.
But this morning just after sunrise I was doing the usual house dusting and sweeping when I heard someone say, ‘My life for one of those cabbages.’
My heart leapt into my mouth. Sydney Cove is full of murderers & thieves. What if one had come as far as Rose Hill? Holding my broom as a weapon, I tiptoed into the next room. A young Royal Marine was peering out at our garden. This book was under his arm. Catching sight of me, he blushed to the roots of his hair. Then he introduced himself as Winston Russell and told me that he was here to see Master Dodd.
I took a deep breath and said, ‘Excuse me, sir. That book. Is it something you can write in?’
‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘This is a journal.’
I bobbed a curtsey and tried not to show my excitement. My life for one of those cabbages. In this colony, food is power. I knew that I could trade food for just about anything. ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘I could not help overhearing …’ He reddened even further. ‘Could you think of exchanging that journal for a vegetable?’
He licked his lips as if tasting it already. ‘Maybe for carrots. A cabbage would be nice.’
I said, ‘Would an onion do?’
He shook his head. ‘My sister Emily is sick. She pines for something fresh. Surely this book is worth three.’
That journal! I could not take my eyes off it. In my mind I could touch the clean smooth paper and smell the leathery cover. But this harsh life as a convict has taught me to strike a hard bargain. I said quickly, ‘I have only two.’
‘Three,’ he insisted.
‘Two.’ I turned to leave.
‘D–Done,’ he stammered as I reached the door.
Before he could change his mind, I ran outside to where Old Tom, Master Dodd’s chief gardener, has planted rows of onions, carrots, potatoes, turnips & cabbages. I knew what a risk I was taking. Governor Phillip has told Master Dodd to punish any person caught stealing food. If someone saw me, I would get a hundred lashes and be sent back to Sydney Cove.
But for once my luck was in. No-one was about. Stepping onto the bed, I pulled out two onions, hid them in my skirt and ran back into the house. The Marine held out his hand, the fingers long and delicate as any girl’s, and went to take the onions. I held them behind me and told him to first give me the book.
The corners of his mouth pulled tight, he carefully tore out some pages with writing on them. Saying that I would need ink with which to write, he handed me a small bottle. Only then did we make the exchange.
Before hiding the onions inside his jacket, he held them to his nose as if they were the rarest East Indian spice.
The sun has gone down and I have no candle. These southern skies are so vast. They make me dizzy just to look at them. Now the cicadas are starting up. Their song almost deafens me.
Tuesday 6th April
A fine warm day. All morning I helped Sarah launder our Master’s shirts and drape them over the bushes to dry. His poor shirts are so threadbare from too much wear—and too much soaking in hot water and lye—that they are almost transparent. Then back into the house to simmer a mutton shank and some wild spinach for our dinners. Sarah had intended for me to mend shirts until sunset. But as my hands are too red and puffy from washing to thread the needle, she has given me the afternoon to myself.
First I must finish recording last Saturday’s events. After I gave the Marine his onions, I held this book to my chest and prayed for him to leave. The longer he stayed, the more trouble I could be in. But he had come with a message for Master Dodd, and see him he would. Settling into a chair whilst assuring me that no word of this business would pass his lips, he said, ‘D–Did you not sail on the Lady Penrhyn?’
I was not surprised that he knew my face. So few of us sailed to Botany Bay, everyone here seems familiar. He wanted to know why I was so interested in books. I told him that it was not so much books as paper to write on. He paused to consider this. Then, ‘What is your name, child?’
Child? I thought indignantly. From someone with skin as smooth as a baby’s bottom? I bit my lip and stared at our feet—his, in shabby holed boots, and mine, so bare and dusty. His eyes followed my gaze and I felt his shock at glimpsing my scarred toes. He demanded to know how this had happened. I told him the gaolers in Portsmouth had asked for money. When I did not have any, they had promised me a lesson I would never forget.
‘Most memorable,’ was his dry response. Then once again he asked me for my name. I did not know what to do. My first thought was—what if he is caught carrying those onions? Might he not betray me? Then I considered how far he had gone to help his sister. To have risked so much for a loved one must show a kind heart. So I told him that I was Elizabeth Harvey. Then added that folk around here know me as Lizzie.
He leant back in his chair, and this gave me time to look him over. Gingery curls fall onto his collar, and his eyebrows are so thick, they remind me of smudges of orange paint. He is short and slim with fair freckled skin, and his nose is crooked, as if he has been in one fight too many. He said, ‘Lizzie, why were you sent to Botany Bay?’
‘They said I stole a linen gown and a straw bonnet worth seven shillings.’
‘A very bad crime indeed …’
‘But it was not me who did it,’ I cried, now wishing that I had kept my mouth shut.
His gaze was disbelieving. ‘No convict ever admits her guilt.’
‘Since I am transported,’ I cried indignantly, ‘why must I bother to lie? And it is only a crime for those who do not have to steal to stay alive.’
I flushed and fell silent. Rudeness to a Marine could bring me a flogging. I waited for him to dismiss me. Instead he said, ‘Where are you from?’
‘Cranham. A village in the Cotswolds. After my parents died, I was sent to London to find work …’
‘So you know how to shape your letters?’
As this is unusual for girls from poor families—some masters claim that too much learning will turn us into bad servants—I told him that our vicar had thought me clever enough to learn.
He said, ‘But now that I have your onions, won’t you be too hungry to write?’
‘Perchance,’ I replied. ‘But as there is no paper left in all of Rose Hill, this book is worth a little hunger.’
He leaned forward, his clear gaze seeming to see right through me. ‘Why is this journal so important?’
I sighed to myself. Nothing for it but the truth. Keeping one eye on the door in case Master Dodd came in, I told him how I had left you, my little brother Edward, in Cranham, and how you would surely wish to know that I was still alive.
If anything, this puzzled the Marine, and he asked me how this book might help. I told him that I plan to use it to describe my present life, and a little of how I came to be here. Then I intend posting it to you, Edward, on the very first vessel sailing home.
By now it was midmorning and Sarah Burke would be wondering where I was. I bobbed the Marine a curtsy and, praying
that Master Dodd would not smell those onions on him, tucked the journal under my shawl, and ran towards the kitchen.
Like the rest of Rose Hill, this room is no more than a hut made of wattle branches lined with mud. There are two tiny glass-less windows. The only furniture is a rough table, several makeshift benches, and a couple of straw pallets piled into a corner. This is where Sarah and I sleep. Large boilers of hot water sit on either side of the hearth. When it rains we must dry our clothes on lines blackened by fumes from the fire. Sarah never allows this fire to go out. In summer this hut is so hot we can hardly breathe.
Sarah is Master Dodd’s housekeeper and she rules his servants with an iron rod. Since we found each other in Newgate Prison, she has been my constant friend and protector. While she prepared our Master’s dinner of salted pork, dried pease and the end of a cabbage, I showed her the journal.
I had hoped she would be pleased for me. Instead she scowled suspiciously and wanted to know how I had got it. Of course I told her. Then all she could say was ‘Why risk a flogging for a book?’
‘He won’t tell,’ I sullenly replied. ‘His sister was sick and he was too hungry to bother with anything else.’
She dumped another kettle on the hearth, and cried, ‘What if someone saw you? What if Master Dodd gets to hear of it?’
‘I only bartered my share of the crop …’
‘Since when did words feed you better than onions? When food is scarce, nothing else matters. If you steal from here, we all suffer.’
She picked up a turnip. I ducked under the table—this would not be the first time Sarah had thrown something at me in a rage. She said, ‘And another thing … if you speak to the men you put yourself in danger.’ She tossed the turnip into the boiling water. ‘Never walk outside without pulling down your bonnet and covering your chest.’
But I saw this as a good morning’s work. Winston Russell had risked a flogging to care for his sick sister. And I had found a way of writing to you, my little brother. Though it is four long years since we last were together, you are always in my thoughts. I often dream that you are sleeping beside me as you once did.
Wednesday 7th April
All morning Sarah had me fetching pails of water from the river. Master Dodd had told her to make his cottage as clean as possible. As this cottage is little more than a hut with a beaten earth floor, and always dusty, this is not easy. Perchance our Master is hoping for another visit from Governor Phillip. Before my Master settled in Rose Hill, he once worked for the Governor, and they are the best of friends.
Sarah says that the Governor thinks Master Dodd the most trustworthy man in all Port Jackson. Though she also adds that my Master puts too much faith in God—and not enough in hard work—to get us out of our misery. But it seems to me that if all my Master says about God is true, and if God were listening, then our poor lives would not be this sad. Yet I would never dare say this aloud, as surely I would be flogged for blasphemy.
I was coming up from the river, a pail in each hand, when Simple Sam jumped out from behind some trees. Eyes rolling like cartwheels, spittle flying everywhere, he cried ‘Aahh … Come with me.’
I got such a fright I nearly dropped both pails. ‘Not now Sam,’ I said impatiently. ‘Can’t you see that I am busy?’
Sarah says that I should look out for Simple Sam and not let him come too close. But I know that Sam just wants to play—though playing is difficult in that he has a man’s face and body, but speaks and thinks like a baby.
Sam’s story is as sad a tale as I have ever heard. Once he was a clever villain and counterfeiter. But one day he got careless enough for the London police, the Runners, to catch him and take him to Newgate Prison. There, the gaolers thumped him so hard he ended up a halfwit.
Today his face was almost hidden by a tangled beard and shaggy mane of black hair. Scum dribbled from his nose and there was more dirt on him than you would find in a clay pit. The other convicts tease him unmercifully. They steal his food and rum, and never let him sleep in their huts. They say he stinks like a weasel.
Today I would have had no problem with Sam except that a couple of women were watching from the doorway of one of the huts. They started calling Sam and me names and making certain rude gestures. I let fly with a few names myself. Then setting my cap firmly on my head, I hurried to where Sarah was waiting for the water.
Dearest Edward, it is tiresome living alongside villains, drunks and idiots. But I suppose I should be grateful that I am still alive.
Thursday 8th April
We are a long day’s walk from Sydney Cove. Any news is slow to arrive. However we now know that the Navy ship Supply has sailed into Port Jackson. It came to report that the flagship Sirius, which was coming from Cape Town with food and other supplies, has been wrecked on a reef at Norfolk Island.
‘Have you anything else to report?’ Sarah demanded of the sailor who came to deliver this sad news.
That sailor was half-crazed from drinking too much rum. He laughed so hard we could see his blackened stumps. ‘Why,’ he cried, ‘too much sun has addled Lieutenant Maxwell’s brain. He rowed around the harbour for two whole days. We had to send out another boat to rescue him from Middle Head.’
Poor man. A wonder he is still alive. Sharks live in those waters, and they make a quick meal of anyone unlucky enough to fall in.
‘More like he’s mad from lack of food.’ Sarah threw more wood on the fire. ‘Was there a service for Good Friday?’
‘Surely there was,’ he said. ‘The Reverend Doctor Williams held it in the Storehouse. But no-one had the strength to pray too loud.’
‘Was there a goodly attendance?’
His shrug told us that he did not know, and what is more, that he did not care. In this kitchen it is always dusk. Crouching in the shadows, I had hoped the sailor would not notice the mutton bone Sarah had left on the table. To my horror he lunged forward to grab it.
Stealing our food? Though my heart bucketed with fright, I kicked and scratched him like a wild cat. Finally Sarah came to the bone’s rescue.
The sailor held his head where she had punched it. ‘What’s up, Missus?’
‘Off with you, or take more o’ this!’ She kicked his leg so hard you could almost hear the bone shatter.
The sailor shrieked loud enough to waken the dead. Then he ran down the hill like the devil himself was chasing him.
We watched him disappear behind a clump of spindly trees. ‘Thinks he can try anything for a ship’s biscuit,’ she said to me.
I said, ‘What will happen to those poor folk in Sydney Cove?’
Her grim smile revealed where the gaolers in Newgate had knocked out her front teeth. ‘Who knows, Lizzie? Even our strongest convicts are too weak to do a day’s work. And the land around Sydney Cove isn’t worth farming.’
I stared into the fire. ‘Perchance the crops on Garden Island will grow enough to feed those folk.’
She snorted and went on preparing the Master’s dinner. ‘Anything planted on Garden Island is already stolen. You and me, we’re best off at Rose Hill where there’s something to put in our bellies. Even if we had food to spare, we have no carts to carry it to Sydney Cove.’ Her scowl grew worse. ‘Now Missy, you’ve more to do than stand around gossiping.’
But I could tell from her eyes that she is as worried as I am.
Late last night I glimpsed a band of Indians, or ‘Aborigines’, as Master Dodd calls them, lurking further down the hill. When I pointed them out to Sarah, she thought they would probably come to steal our sheep. She thought them savages who did not know right from wrong.
I told her that I would like to ask them why they paint their bodies to look like actors in a theatre pantomime. At this, she laughed very loudly and said, ‘Ask away as much as you like. You’ll only get nonsense. When we landed at Botany Bay all they did was cry “Warra, warra”.’
I said, ‘Perhaps that was their way of welcoming us. They seem gentle enough even if they wear no clot
hes. Has not Governor Phillip made the native, Baneelon, into his own servant?’
‘Sure the poor man’ll be murdered in his own bed.’ And she made sure the kitchen door was firmly bolted from the inside.
Friday 9th April
Old Tom came to warn us to watch out for snakes. He says last night one crept into the hen-yard and stole two chickens. ‘I seen that thief well enough,’ he said pointing to his good eye. ‘A brown monster. Six foot long. Would steal a child easy as a fowl.’
Even Sarah shivered and nothing much scares her. Snakes terrify me. Old Tom says that there are hundreds out there. All different shapes and sizes. He has seen some with diamond scales like fish. Others that sit on their tails and pivot around like wooden tops.
During the day, there are large jumping ants that carry a most vicious sting. At dusk, mosquito bites raise welts that itch so badly we scratch them into sores.
But to make up for the insects, there are thousands of colourful birds. Most interesting are the parrots. There are flocks of pink, grey and white parrots. White parrots with mustard crests. Black parrots with black and yellow crests. And parrots with red, green, yellow and blue feathers Old Tom calls ‘Rose Hillers’.
I am most amused by a large-beaked dull-feathered bird who laughs whenever he sees me. And some large black and white birds that sing like angels. Also—and if I had not seen this with my own eyes I would find this hard to believe—there are flightless birds almost as big as small ponies that run in flocks through this valley.
We came expecting to find man-eating lions and tigers. Instead this country abounds with ‘kungaroos’—strange creatures that hop about on strong back legs. Old Tom says the only animals to fear are the snakes, as their venom can kill a dog. Also, a certain black spider that builds tunnels in the ground Tom calls ‘Widdermakers’.
Still, everything here is upside down. Instead of leaves, bark drops off the trees. Winter is summer. Spring is autumn. Two years ago when we first settled in Port Jackson, Governor Phillip gathered us together and told us in his quiet way that without caring for our seeds and animals, this colony would never survive. As a result our cattle, sheep & all the poultry are looked after as if they are King George the Third’s own property.
Surviving Sydney Cove Page 1
