Castle Hill Rebellion

by Chrissie Michaels

  Mr Johnston’s eyes narrowed. ‘Sing one more for us, Pat. Sing ‘Come All You Warriors’.’

  We heard shouting from a nearby hut and our group fell silent, shooting many glances as a constable marched out one of the prisoners, poking and prodding him forward with the barrel of his musket. The prisoner resisted the constable, strolling out slow and deliberate.

  I recognised him. He was a croppy. He often stood with Mr Johnston at the Mass.

  Mr Johnston remarked matter-of-factly, ‘That’ll be John refusing to speak English. Some of the constables take offence. They’ll be taking him for a visit with Duggan.’

  I shivered. Robert Duggan was the executioner and flogger. He served out the settlement’s punishments. He had been known to lash a man until the flesh became jelly and the bone showed through. Aye, and he took his time to shake the blood and skin from his cat-o’-nine-tails before freeing his poor suffering target from the triangle, a whipping frame. The threat was always there.

  Tuesday, January 3rd in the year of 1804

  The edge of the farm where I am serving out my sentence runs down to the Toongabbie Creek. A tangle of brush can mask a steep bank in places, humps of dirt can lead into a trough. There are plenty of fallen tree trunks and overhanging branches leaning down. My sheep depend on the drinking, but there was not much of a flow today, the water was running slight and the low had unearthed strips of grit and clay and rock.

  Joshua Holt had warned me this happens in summer. The level drops to no more than a trickle. ‘Dry or flood,’ he said, ‘doesn’t take long in the colony to learn what stuff you are made of.’

  I was deep in thought when I heard a sound. I lurched around to see Pat grinning down at me from one of those sagging half-dead tree trunks that run like a footbridge across the creek. The spindly wood cracked. Pat let go of the pail he was holding. The water was ankle high and the pail plopped and stuck where it landed. As the timber split and fell behind him, Pat followed suit, leaping down. I picked up the pail and said with a chuckle, ‘Dropped in for a chat, is it?’ Collecting clay and grit, more likely.

  ‘Pay. Marst. Err. Cox. Wont. Stown. Wee. Brawt.’

  ‘You brought a cart of rocks to the farm?’ I frowned. What for? Last September, Paymaster Cox had brought in a convict gang. They cleared a paddock of grey-green scrub and put up a stock fence. But what use for stone?

  Pat flicked droplets of water at me. Soon he and I were splashing at each other. We were only fooling around, mind, when London happened upon us. He was holding an empty pannikin. I shook my head in disbelief. Why was he looking for a drink on our patch of the creek?

  His nose was swollen and bruised purple, his face full of anger. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘Look who I’ve happened upon, all by themselves!’ He held something else, a fat white maggot, which he pushed in Pat’s face. ‘Grub time, Mealy-mouth!’ The guts were fit to burst.

  Pat tried in vain to close his mouth. London kept squashing his filthy fingers close to his lips. Pat kept pushing them away. I shot a panicky glance at him. It seemed that Pat’s stone gang was not the only one at the farm. The carpenters were here too.

  London was bent on causing trouble. He mocked Pat more, sticking out his chin and pulling his bottom lip up as far as his nose, tapping the side of his head with a finger. ‘Johnston and his croppy nutters ain’t ‘ere to ‘elp yer today, eh?’ He was full of scorn. He turned to me and sneered, ‘Less of yer gawking, Namby-pamby!’

  I knew I should have put a stop to his bullying. Given him a split lip or squeezed him a dead arm, mebbe cracked his shinbone hard. But I dared not. To my shame, I reeled away until I was standing apart. All I ended up doing was squeaking, ‘Leave Pat alone!’ As the plea left my mouth, London jerked his thick neck around and faced me. His smirk widened. His gums showed. I wanted to tell him to back away, but my mouth was dry and the words stuck in my gullet.

  ‘Say somefink, did yer, Squeaker? Yer nobbut a mouse in a cheese. Squeak! Squeak!’

  My eyes started their flabbergasting blinking.

  London laughed loud enough to bust his gut. He knew I was going to pieces. His knuckles tightened. They were scarred and tough. He began balling fists ready to fight me, hard-punching one into the other.

  A few more English lads appeared out of the scrub with their own metal cups, set to fill for drinking. Cockies stirred in the treetops and burst white overhead. The screeching and wheeling made us all look up. So when Kitt came bounding out of the scrub as well, flapping a posy of yellow sweet flowers, I had a near-on heart burst! What was Kitt doing back here so soon? She must have overheard London’s loudmouth sneering, because she rushed over and wedged herself between him and Pat.

  Kitt is a duchess of limbs; she is on the tall side, all arms and legs. London was ill-made; he stood short next to her. The other fellows snickered at the mismatch.

  Kitt threw them a fierce glower. ‘Don’t you ever dare strike this lad! A hard blow might do him in!’ She wrapped a protective arm around Pat. I was wishing she would do the same to me, but she had no urge to do so. To my shock I heard her add, ‘But sure, Joe here will fight you. All of you, if you have a care! Only honestly, one at a time.’

  She was lipping out a challenge on my behalf, wasn’t she. Asking the lot of them to step up to me one by one. I swallowed hard. I did not dare catch anyone’s eye. London was the only one here wishing us harm. The others had not done or said anything untoward.

  London pushed his face closer to Kitt’s. His lips brushed her cheek. ‘And what makes yer ‘spect I be heeding a girl?’

  I was fierce afraid of him, and for all her pluck Kitt must be too. Yet no sooner had the words left his mouth, she grabbed his shirt tight around his throat, forcing his head back. The posy went flying. I caught the heady scent of nectar.

  ‘Loosen yer grip, yer ripping my slops! Them have to last me the year.’

  His weaselling made the others snort.

  Kitt half-pushed him away. ‘Well, I won’t be doing your patching or darning if that’s what you think!

  He sneered, ‘An’ I won’t be fighting no girl I tells yer!’

  Kitt’s hands flew to her hips. ‘’Tis far too late for you to act the gentleman.’

  A shadow of a worry line creased London’s face as if he had brought something forgotten to mind.

  ‘Now, where were we?’ Kitt went on. ‘Ah, yes, Joe was going to fight you.’

  London shook a finger at her. ‘Ain’t rolling around in the dust with no skinny bleater neither!’

  ‘Well, then, how about another lad here gives you his best instead! Go on, Pat!’

  I knew what Kitt was calling for. Aye, I knew well what was coming. Kitt could have been turning a key in Pat’s back. Winding up his Banshee curse, wasn’t she.

  Sure enough, an eerie wailing poured from Pat’s throat. Inviting the Banshee sent my heart hammering. My hands flew up to cover my ears as I tried to block out the high-pitched wail. Kitt frowned at me, so I took my hands away and stood straight as a post.

  Her sharp eyes fixed on London. They were piercing blue to his wishy-washy fish ones. ‘Do you know an Irish curse when you hear one?’ she lashed. I had never seen her so nettled. ‘From now on you had better be looking over your shoulder. For if ever you hear that wail again, know the Banshee will be on the way to pay you a deadly visit. Aye, there’ll be no escaping!’ She glared at the others. ‘Nor for you all!’

  You could see London knew about the Banshee. His face went white. He took a step back and stumbled. He had to regain his footing. Aye, he was down in the mouth, he knew what he was up against.

  ‘Superstitious Loobies!’ he muttered, bending down and gathering a drop of water into his pannikin. ‘Let’s be back to work, eh, lads!’

  ‘Sorry, miss,’ said one of the others, looking abashed. ‘We meant no harm. We’ll wet our cups and be finishing what we’re doing.’

  London skulked ahead into the trees, calling back over his shoulder, ‘Yer misto
ok a lad’s innocent fun, Kitt. Don’t mean nothin’ by it!’

  She shouted, ‘Fie, you best take care! We Irish look after our own!’ She nodded over at me. ‘One large family, is that not the truth, Joe?’

  I was more taken up by the jolt of realising that she and London had a past shuffling between them. ‘You’ve met him before? He knows you?’

  ‘Any trouble he caused is over and done with.’

  I pulled a face. ‘When did he trouble you?’

  ‘He was in with the three Castle Hill hands sent last month to help Ann and Thomas bring in their wheat harvest. He kept wheedling his way into the kitchen and plaguing me.’ She shook her head. ‘First with sweet-talk and when that didn’t work, he started his bullying.’

  ‘Even so, what were you thinking with your scrapping talk?’ I accused. ‘Putting me forward like that!’

  ‘He was never going to fight you. Believe me, he is a coward deep down. Besides, no one has the right to consider himself better than another.’ Kitt regarded me with probing eyes. ‘Or worse, for that matter.’

  I felt my cheeks and ears burning. Kitt may have saved me from a beating but she did little for my pride. She knew my failings too well. For I’d been minding to myself what Joshua Holt said, is it, about the stuff we were made of. I feared I was not made of much.

  Pat nudged me in the ribs and said, ‘Dug. Gan.’

  ‘To be sure, Pat,’ Kitt jumped in. ‘Bullies like London will end up with a lashing from Duggan sooner rather than later.’

  She gave a shiver. So did I. No one liked to be reminded of those on the receiving end. But Kitt had misunderstood Pat. He was after making a different point. He was offering me safe ground. I set the matter straight. ‘Aye, Pat, Duggan is worse than anyone who walks the world.’

  Kitt gave us both a wry smile and made that coughing sound ‘Humph!’ with her throat. Pat kept smiling into the air. I joined in smug with him.

  ‘Well, then, I’ll be thinking I shall take leave of you both. Now I’ve seen you safe.’ Kitt brushed down her skirt.’

  ‘Don’t forget your posy,’ I said, rescuing the flowers. A look of innocence painted my face. ‘Are you expecting someone?’ As if Pat and I did not know. I dug my elbow into his side and he did the same back. ‘Twould be Joshua Holt. He was due over to do a stewarding check.

  Kitt stuck her nose in the air. ‘A girl can go picking wildflowers, can’t she? I may bump into someone or other. No need to worry yourselves on my account. I shall see you both in Parramatta on Sunday then. You haven’t forgotten? ‘Tis our turn for Mass.’

  ‘Aye, Kitt,’ I said.

  Our Catholic Sunday, is it, when our good priest, Father Dixon, comes to celebrate Mass at Parramatta. He visits every third Sunday. Governor King, who is in charge of the colony for the English, makes him take turns. One week he is on the coast in Sydney Town, the next week with us inland at Parramatta, before heading further west to the Hawkesbury.

  ‘Ahy,’ Pat joined in.

  ‘All’s well then,’ said Kitt. ‘In the meantime, my little lambkins, try to stay out of trouble.’

  Pat and I exchanged suffering, exaggerated shakes of the head.

  She grinned. She knew exactly what we were thinking. Babyish, is it, to be called little lambkins at our age!

  Later

  I soon discovered the reason London was down by the creek. From my hut I watched the remains of the burned farmhouse being cleared. Paymaster Cox had brought in a Castle Hill work gang to do carpentry work, along with Pat’s gang who had delivered a cartload of rocks and red bricks. But why? I wondered anxiously. I felt my shoulders slump. Paymaster Cox must be making changes.

  The stone gang had gone by the time Joshua Holt arrived. I saw him speak intently with the carpentry gang and make a study of their work. I stayed out of sight, although he would be wanting to know about the sheep. I wasn’t about to go near, not with London swaggering around.

  Joshua called to someone and a figure stepped from the shadows. It was John, the same croppy who had upset the constable at the prison farm when Pat had been singing for Mr Johnston. The croppy spat on the ground in front of London, who looked wild-eyed. London’s hand flew to his swollen nose and he took a step backwards. Joshua began speaking urgently, but his words were lost on the breeze. The croppy John silenced Joshua with a dark glare, then walked, slow-moving and deliberate, to where London’s gang was working, pointing out things to Joshua with a surly stab of a finger.

  The croppy had no sooner gone away than I heard Joshua calling, ‘Joe! Joe!’, but I wrapped my arms around myself and stayed hidden. I was afeared, is it, of facing London. Eventually Joshua gave up trying to find me and left.

  The convict crew continued working until the last pink glow of twilight drained out of the day. The constant rasp and rub of a cutting saw and the dragging of timber and clatter of hammers unsettled the flock. Only after darkness was setting in and the carpenters had returned to Castle Hill, did I gather the sheep, pen them and investigate the changes made.

  They had put together a roughly sawed lean-to, is it, a work shed of sorts. Pat’s pile of rocks and red bricks were stacked inside, waiting to be assembled. I turned in for the night ill at ease, wondering, Will Paymaster Cox still require me to tend his sheep?

  Friday, January 6th in the year of 1804

  This morning I woke up sweating from a despairing dream. I was back on the Rolla, wearing iron bracelets attached by a chain to anklets. They were rubbing hard. My bare feet were blistering red. The ship was idle, in a port. The hold was choking hot and I was gasping for air.

  I found myself above deck, shuffling along the planks. I could hear the sound of other hobbling feet and the jingling of chains. We were chained together. A face stared blank. Rust lines of dried blood caked his forehead.

  I craned my neck to look over the railing. The port vanished. Salted sea spray stung my face. I blinked. I couldn’t stop the tic. My lips were dry and cracked. A pannikin of water touched my lips. Mr Johnston was whispering, ‘Take a few sips, lad.’

  A storm hit, dimming his voice. The Rolla pitched and tossed. Roaring, white-topped waves pounded wild against the ship’s timber. I was back in the hold. Through a grill above me passed the shadow of a man: a brute with big hands and big feet, dragging a long rope.

  Was that Old Mullins yelling? No, not he. ’Twasn’t he. He has been, is, long gone.

  ‘Twas the brute. He was shouting orders. I tried to put my hands to my ears but my wrists were weighted by chains. I was crashing to the left and right, with no way of slowing. Around me I heard moans and smelled the stench of vomit. My own belly was rolling and churning. I began to retch.

  I felt the brute’s rope drag over my nose. Blood squeezed out of my swollen nostrils like bits of red jellyfish. ’Twould not cease. I felt my throat clogging with fluid. I spat the mess, but I was swallowing too hard.

  A gale sprung the main mast and ripped at the sails. They wrapped around me like a shroud. That instant I stirred, my face in a tangled knot of canvas bedcloth. I lay awake until daylight when the laughing song of the kookaburras bade me rise for the day.

  The work shed stands empty. I have been waiting for Joshua Holt to return, for us to have a word about Paymaster Cox’s intentions. Likely I will be the last to find out. The thought of being sent back to the crowded prison farm, even with Pat living there, is dragging my spirits low.

  Naught to do, aye, but keep on with my shepherding. There is no denying how the flock like to spend their time, even when the day’s hours are stinging hot. They forage for grass or cud-chew, totter around or stand like statues, or rest out in the clearing like a mob of roos. We have been keeping close to the creek and where the tall trees throw their shade across the ground.

  Saturday, January 7th in the year of 1804

  I walked back from the Parramatta storehouse this afternoon carrying my rations of salted meat and pease and flour, only to discover that the bricks and stone had been assembled i
nto a hearth and firepit. No sign of Joshua Holt yet.

  Won’t someone tell me what is happening?

  Sunday, January 8th in the year of 1804

  This day, ‘twas our Catholic Sunday. I headed to Parramatta for the muster and Mass. I am younger than Parramatta by a few meagre years. You can still feel the newness of the small farming township. Aye, ‘tis low and raw, with the smell of green timber on the lean-tos and tiny cottages that run alongside the river. The place has none of Dublin’s closed-in age or darkness.

  As was my habit, I met up with Pat when the muster bell was ringing. We headed towards the line to have our names marked off and our clothes checked.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Jonothan Joseph Daley, sir.’

  ‘Slops in order?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He frowned at me over a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. A short time ago, the stores had provided us for the year with two each of: shirt, canvas breeches, jacket, hat, and a pair of ill-fitting boots. My slops already held their fair share of grime and rips. At least I hadn’t traded them, or had them robbed from my back.

  ‘Any trouble this week?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  As if I would tell him about the bullying! Or hand London over for a flogging! Likely Pat and I would be sent to visit Duggan along with him. Last thing I wished was to have my arms stretched in a ‘V’ and strung to the triangle.

  ‘Any punishment served out on you?’

  ‘None, sir.’

  ‘Next.’

  ‘Parrt ...’

  The musterer lifted his hand in a silencing wave. He was always impatient with Pat. ‘Next.’

  I whispered to Pat, ‘Have you had any more trouble from you-know-who?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Did you tell anyone?’