Castle Hill Rebellion

by Chrissie Michaels

  ‘There are too many words for you to be fretting over, Pat.’ I looked past his face. I could tell he knew my eyes were saying different to my lips. My words were low, hurtful and unkind. I could tell inside he was aggrieved. For there was no denying spite was writ as plain as the nose on my face.

  Monday, February 20th in the year of 1804

  All through the night the shame of hurting Pat has stayed with me. ’Tis wearing me out. I had punished Pat for keeping quiet about being a croppy, while I had done exactly the same. I was the one in the wrong.

  I have to make things right. Only first I have to work up the courage to face him.

  Break of day

  Dawn was fast breaking when a voice too close for comfort made me blink and sit up startled.

  ‘Wake up, lad! Saint Peter?’

  There I was minding I had lain awake the entire night, when in truth the air was clogged with the reek of my sleep. ‘Saint Peter,’ I yammered back, scuttling out of my pallet. In the rush, I near-on cracked heads with the face peering down. ‘Oh, ‘tis only you.’ What was Croppy John doing here so early in the morning? I rubbed my eyes.

  ‘Put on your trousers, boy. Someone waits to speak with you.’ Croppy John’s jaw was clenched, his face the colour of crimson. Fierce with fury, I could tell. He strode away. I scrambled into my slops and hurried behind him down the slope.

  At the work shop I hesitated. ‘Mr Johnston?’ My first thought flew to Pat’s welfare. ‘Is Pat all right?’

  Mr Johnston’s arms were crossed, the lace on his cuffs tatty and shabby. He gave me a swift frown. ‘He is, Joe. You have a further message to convey?’

  I began thinking fast. Mr Johnston, is it, standing before me now. Aye, acting as if he is in charge. Mighty displeased, if I reckon rightly.

  Croppy John was blunt. ‘Tell Mr Johnston what you have to reveal, that you were too high and mighty to share with Pat.’

  My infernal eye twitching began. I blurted out, ‘General Holt was at Mr Duriault’s farm. Seemed important.’

  Mr Johnston rubbed at his chin and gave Croppy John a meaningful glance. ‘Was he now? How did things appear?’

  I imparted what I had seen and overheard.

  ‘Are you heading the rebellion, Mr Johnston?’ I had to ask. I wanted to know.

  ‘No, lad.’

  ‘Oh, then is Joshua’s father in charge? Is he going to lead the United Irish army here, like he did back in Ireland?’ Mr Johnston mebbe was acting over the head of Croppy John, aye, that I could well believe, and he was higher up in rank than most of the croppies transported to New South Wales. So was Mr Cunningham, Pat’s stonemason overseer, aye. But a general like Joshua’s father ranked far above a captain. Surely he was the best placed to lead. He was General Holt, the General of Wicklow, after all. Mebbe he was even behind the whole plot.

  ‘Nothing can be certain about Joseph Holt,’ Croppy John said icily. ‘You should be asking if Holt is a true patriot of Ireland, or a lapdog for the English!’ He spat on the ground. Nothing can be certain– the words contained in the message from Mr Duriault.

  ‘Go easy, John,’ cautioned Mr Johnston. He shook his head at him. ‘Plainly, not everyone considers General Holt a true supporter, Joe,’ he said to me. ‘Some hold that he is in, while others, like John here, tend to disagree.’

  ‘I warn you, he is slippery. Too much of a fairweather friend. We cannot trust him. The man will only do what is best for himself. His alliance has turned to Paymaster Cox.’

  This suspicion was a rude shock to me. I had always been in high esteem of Joshua’s father. I thought everyone was. True, General Holt was firm in friendship with Paymaster Cox; and Paymaster Cox was a redcoat; and while General Holt had come in exile for his United Irish allegiance in Wicklow these days he ran his own farm, in addition to managing Paymaster Cox’s estate. Aye, their two families were friends, harking back to their journey on the Minerva. General Holt was a gentleman, and a Protestant, not a Catholic. Smacked of privilege, aye; and a bit of double-dealing, mebbe. Croppy John made a good point.

  Still, I decided to hold firm to my own belief that Mr Duriault had asked General Holt something of great importance. They had shaken hands. Struck a deal. I had witnessed the salute with my own eyes. If this was not the General agreeing to be the chief of the rebellion, I was dumbfounded over why they had met.

  Croppy John pulled out a jemmy. ‘Let’s take a stroll together back to your hut, lad.’

  I gulped. ‘Are you going to whack me with that?’

  He narrowed his eyes and snorted, then strode out of the work shed.

  Mr Johnston said, ‘Go along with him, Joe.’

  I was shaking. I could not fathom that Mr Johnston would allow Croppy John to whack me over a stupid message. He had always looked out for me while we were on the Rolla.

  I made my way slowly up the slope. The sheep were bleating at me from their pen. Mebbe I would never see their woolly coats in this world again.

  At my hut I saw Croppy John prising free the door hinges.

  ‘Hoy! Stop!’

  Croppy John shrugged his shoulders. ‘There is always a price to pay, Joe Daley. You won’t be needing these where we are going.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  He shrugged. ‘After the uprising, you might change your mind.’ He lifted the door and laid it hard against the sapling wall.

  I rubbed a hand through my hair in frustration. ‘I told you, I’m going nowhere. E.R.E.H.W.O.N!’ The words rose in a sulk from my throat before I could stop them. Backwards, forwards, what was hard to understand? ‘You go to Ireland if you so wish, I’m staying put!’ There was naught for me back in Dublin, didn’t he see?

  Croppy John gripped me hard by the shoulder. ‘I think you need reminding about the cost of loyalty.’

  I flinched away from him.

  ‘Let me show you why we’re rising up.’ He turned his back to me and lifted his shirt. A crisscross of scars clambered over his back like a massed coil of snakes.

  My insides turned queasy. ‘How did you get those?’

  ‘Tried to mutiny while on the Hercules. Had no choice, the Master was treating us like animals.’ He rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘“Erewhon” means “nowhere” backwards, aye. I am no fool, lad. That is where we are headed if we do nothing. You’re joined with us, whether you like it or not. Protecting works both ways. You do for us, we do for you. Who do you think smashed in London’s nose on Mr Johnston’s orders, or gave him the black eye after his bullying at the creek?’

  I recalled how Kitt had mentioned seeing London sporting a black eye the day we’d scared each other with talk of the China Walkers. ‘You did that?’

  ‘United we stand, lad! You’d be wise to think further on it. Now let’s find a bough for wedging and a length of rope for tying and I’ll rehang your door in no time.’

  I made no further objection. Solid hinges with iron pins were a small price to pay.

  ‘One final thing,’ Croppy John said. ‘The oath you made is sacred, but if you ever risk our time and safety again by neglecting to pass on a full message to a Friend like Pat, I, for one, won’t be so obliging! Understand? You sorely undervalue the meaning of friendship.’

  I understood too well. His honest blunt words struck deep. What had Kitt said? ‘ No one has the right to consider himself better than another.’ Yet here I was, trying to make myself better than Pat, aye, and better than Croppy John. I was the worst of the worst.

  ‘Why do you need the hinges so bad?’ I asked, as he made to leave.

  ‘Melting down anything I can get my hands on. Making pike heads, axe heads, whatever we can use. The time is closing in.’

  A cold shiver ran through me. He was getting battle-ready.

  Sunday, February 26th in the year of 1804

  Today was the day I was set to visit Kitt. I only wished to keep company with myself, but I knew I had to show my face to Kitt, otherwise she was bound to come a’looking.

&n
bsp; I followed the run of the creek down to Ann and Thomas’s farm at Toongabbie. More of their bushland had been cleared. The maize, due for harvest, was swaying from side to side, and they had put in a crop of barley for beer-hops. The wheat paddocks lay bare, awaiting the next planting.

  Fowl came clucking around my feet in the yard. I sent them squawking, and frowned across at some mewling goats. Kitt was standing outdoors by the storehouse setting stern eyes on my approach. ‘Fall out of the wrong side of bed this morning?’ she called. I tried and failed to wipe the scowl from my face.

  Her arms were loaded with supplies, and a large key was swinging on a chain at her waist. When I was close enough she thrust a pot of salt and a small sack of flour at me. ‘I’ll say this much, you have perfect timing!’

  She turned back into the storeroom, only to come out with a thimbleful of sugar sitting in her palm. ‘Sweeten yourself up, then.’ Her face blossomed into a smile. She let me dip my finger in. I did my best to smile back.

  The lock on the door was new and had more bulk than the old one. ‘Have you had pilferers?’ I asked.

  ‘Greedy thieving loafers came around helping themselves a few nights’ back. Nearly broke down the door.’

  The kitchen stood separate from the main dwelling. ‘Leave the supplies on the dressing bench, will you?’ she said, pointing to a chunk of timber propped up on sturdy legs beside the butter press.

  A fireplace took up the centre of one wall. A heavy cook pot and kettle dangled from chains over the hearth. There was a hearty gamey smell. My stomach gave an unruly rumble. ‘Thomas been out catching roos?’

  ‘Went out on a hunt with those natives camped near our waterhole. Thomas gave them a pouch of tobacco and a stoppered jug of milk for their trouble. While we were sleeping, they upped and went without a word. No sign of them since.’

  ‘Were they your pilferers?’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Merciful angels, no! Although there are some around who would be quick to accuse them. Thomas thought the pilferers might be that pair of runaways those redcoats were chasing. They’re still on the run, you know, outfoxing everyone.’

  I told her about crossing paths again with the dingo dog and the native boy, Charley.

  The hearth fire was burning low. Kitt prodded at the embers with a poker. There was a scattering burst of orange fire that petered out. ‘Could do with more kindling,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll go collect some,’ I offered. I was out the back before she looked up.

  I had only been outdoors a minute or so when Kitt crept up from behind and wrapped playful arms around me. ‘I can tell you still need a bit of cheering,’ she said. Aye, tickling, she meant. She knew my funny spots.

  ‘Awh, don’t!’ I pulled away, but she kept after me, until I unbalanced and landed on my back.

  ‘Ow!’ Something sharp jabbed into me. I jumped up. Not a snake. Phew!

  Kitt gave me a swift check over. ‘No harm done, you’ll live.’

  I scratched at the dirt for the culprit and uncovered a sliver of blade. Kitt reached over. ‘Thomas must have run the plough over dry ground and broke a blade.’ She plucked the thing from my hand and kept hold. ‘He’ll likely melt it down.’

  I stared past her. Melt it down? Set me thinking, did it. Mebbe this was a good way to make up over my run-in with Mr Johnston and Croppy John.

  Back in the kitchen I tended the fire, making it hiss and spark back into life. Kitt placed the blade next to the supplies, then set about making some floating dumplings to add to the pot. ‘Pass me the crock will you, lambkin?’ she said.

  I let out a grunt. I wish she would stop babying me. But I picked up the crock she’d asked for. With the heat of the day, the butter in it had turned into a yellow lake. Melted, aye? An omen if ever I saw one. I stole a glance or two at the blade. Ann and Thomas were doing well for themselves. I reckoned they could spare a bit of old metal without making a fuss.

  I was minding all this when Kitt threw me a querying look. ‘I’d like to know what is going on between that blade and those eyes of yours!’

  Kitt was shrewd. She’d keep asking. I could not go confessing about how Croppy John was forging weapons. That would be dragging her into the danger. I chewed on my fingertips, filthy still from the dirt. I had to come up with a distraction.

  ‘Er, I was only minded of my flock. Did you know that sheep devote more time to eating grass than to any other act?’

  This was a feeble try. I knew. She knew. She rolled her eyes at me. ‘Suit yourself.’ She ladled a generous serve of roo and dumplings, plopping it solid into a bowl.

  I spooned the food to my lips. ‘Tastes good.’

  She kept fanning her face, waiting for me to open up.

  I tried another diversion. ‘Mighty better than a half-cooked cow’s heel.’

  The cow’s heel was a favourite story of Kitt’s, about why Ann had been nabbed and transported. After stealing a cow’s heel, Ann had run from the watchman, trying in vain to stuff the whole lot in her mouth, near choking herself. That is how she came to be on the same convict ship as Kitt’s mammy.

  ‘Won’t work, my lad. I know perfectly well what you are trying to do.’

  That should have been the end but I made things worse. I must have lost my wits. A flabbergasting fool, is it. And even worse, only a feebleminded flabbergasting fool would go to the bench when Kitt wasn’t looking, and pick up that blade and tuck it in their work shirt. I was like a moth dithering around a flame.

  When Kitt turned around again my hand was on my belly. I mumbled something about having a gripe.

  She put a hand on my forehead. ‘Your face is flaming.’

  Flushed with guilt, more likely. I scrambled a few steps backwards, unable to look her in the face. ‘Best I go.’

  ‘Well, if you must. Here take this with you.’ Her voice was tight. She thrust a bundle in my arms. Her fingers near-on touched the blade. ‘Be sure to share the food with Pat. And there’s some flour for Charley.’

  ‘Oh? Aye.’

  ‘Shall I walk a ways with you?’

  ‘No need.’

  I know she rushed outside after me, for I heard her call, ‘Here’s some for the smithy too!’ I didn’t go back. I had let her down masterly. Either she knew me already as a thief, or she would soon enough.

  The very least I could do was head straight over to the prison farm with Pat’s food. So that is what I did. I was tired and had a sick feeling in my heart, to stay overly long. However, I did have a mind to say sorry to Pat for the punishing way I had treated him over Mr Duriault’s message. I hoped he understood I was trying to make amends.

  I think he did. He nudged me with his elbow and said, ‘Frens.’

  I wonder if Kitt will tell Ann and Thomas about my thieving. I could not blame them if they turned me in to the magistrate. I will have to make amends to the three of them. One Sunday after Mass I will go and lend a hand on the farm. Aye, that is what I will do. Pay them back in kind.

  There was no point in putting off Kitt’s other request either. So, with only an hour left before sunset, I went looking for Charley down by the creek. For sure he was not easy to find. The dog showed herself first.

  I thought this was as good a time as ever to let her get to know me. I curled my hand into a fist and gingerly reached out towards her nose. ‘Go on then, have a sniff.’ She took a timid step closer. Slowly I opened my fingers. They brushed against hairy bone. ‘Where’s Charley? Go bring him.’

  The dog’s teeth flashed and she gave a growl like a rolling cough. I snatched my hand away.

  ‘Them warragals don’t like patting.’ Charley’s voice made me jump. He shook his head in warning.

  ‘How did you get so close?’

  ‘Lucky I don’t have no spear, and lucky this warragal’s not hunting, and lucky yer not a roo.’ His eyes flashed towards the sack I was carrying.

  Only then did I notice he was not alone. Someone taller was standing close behind him, his body smeared i
n pasty clay. He had a milky eye and a bone pierced through his nostril.

  ‘Biyanga,’ said Charley.

  I could see a resemblance. ‘Your father?’ I was guessing.

  Charley nodded.

  ‘A friend of mine sent this.’ On seeing the powdery dust I was offering, his father took a step backwards.

  ‘Wiri. Gunyamarra.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ I asked. ‘No good. He’s telling you to chuck away. Stinking. Bad smell.’

  ‘The flour is fine.’

  ‘Mebbe bad things in.’

  I shook my head. ‘Kitt would never. I would never.’

  I knew why he was troubled. There had been poisonings going on – settlers giving away sugar and flour on the pretence they were being charitable, but they had laced the food with a powder that burned the gut and made spit turn to froth.

  Charley wavered and glanced once more at his father.

  ‘Gunyamarra!’

  ‘Alright,’ I stammered, hastily tying up the sack. ‘You don’t want it. Fair enough.’

  Monday, February 27th in the year of 1804

  At daybreak I scrubbed a hand over my face to rouse myself. Glaring at me was that bag of flour and that liar-maker of a blade. All I wanted to do was rid myself of the wretched things. I heaved a deep sigh. Seeing as the damage was done, I might as well turn the blade over to Croppy John for melting down.

  He was busy at his forge, casting a horseshoe. His hands were blackened, his short hair dusted with ash. Sweat poured down his front.

  I held out what I’d brought. He accepted it gruffly. ‘Suppose ‘twill do as a pike head.’

  ‘Should you speak so freely about pikes?’ I asked.