Castle Hill Rebellion

by Chrissie Michaels

  ‘There’s no one around but us.’

  ‘Voices carry on the wind,’ I argued feebly. ‘They’ll take us for rebels.’

  ‘Correct your tongue, lad, the word is “Patriots”. There is a world of difference between the two.’ He rubbed his thumb against his chin, leaving a sooty streak. ‘What makes you think we act alone? We stand alongside many others. Not only Irish born. You’ve met Frank Duriault. He is French. Understand? They had their own revolution.’

  He motioned for me to work the bellows. ‘Heat the fire more. We’ll need the metal softened for shaping.’ As I forced air through they puffed and wheezed. He reached for the tongs. ‘Consider the colony a tree, aye? We are the wood ants, hiding and boring into the timber. Soon the very heartwood will crumble into dust. Voosh!’ He swept his free hand into the air. ‘And you, and me, and the pike you’ll be carrying will be the ones making it happen.’

  My eyes started their blinking. ‘I’ll not be carrying a pike! I’ll not be spearing anyone!’

  I wasn’t intending to raise my voice. I wasn’t intending to lash out at Croppy John. Only the fear took hold. Aye, the menace. I’d been minding too simple, is it, taken for granted the croppy boys would march to Governor King’s house, do a bit of threatening, have a parley, then wait until the Governor agreed to their demands. Straightforward. The rebellion over and done with.

  The forge began to swim before my eyes. I dropped the bellows. I felt myself keeling over.

  ‘What in damnation?’ Croppy John gripped me in a powerful hold, keeping me steady. Up close he smelled of charcoal, and sour. I wanted him to let me sink to the ground. I wanted to lie down and bury my face in the dirt. I was sick of everything, sick to the core. I made a throaty sound of retching.

  Croppy John sat me down. I became aware that I was rocking back and forth.

  His rasping voice kept a steady pace. ‘Easy, lad. Calm yourself. Let us hope the sun shines favourably on us, so no one has to fight.’

  Later

  This week has turned into my blackest ever. Worse than when I lost sight of my mammy. Worse than when I was thieving for Old Mullins. Worse than when I was nabbed and transported. This week I have shamed myself in front of everyone.

  After the turn overwhelmed me, Croppy John saw me safely back to my hut. I begged him not to tell anyone. All he said was, ‘Then stop putting yourself in such a bad way. Pull yourself together.’

  As I am writing this, a stark truth strikes me. Croppies have a way of keeping you loyal. They bind you to them. For one, by threat. For another, by oath. Sharing their battle stories and scars. Croppy John does not care. He’s after me to show some backbone.

  I keep telling myself things will take a turn for the better. But I am only pretending. Ill-fortune is swinging my way.

  Tuesday, February 28th in the year of 1804

  ‘Get a move on will you!’

  The sow I was struggling with this morning had a ring through her snout. After all that has happened of late, when all I wished to do was stay out of sight and tend my sheep, I was stuck tugging and pushing this unwilling critter along the road to Castle Hill. Farmers from all around were coming to settle their debts, using sows as currency. The prison farm’s superintendent was in charge of collecting them.

  I was fierce angry. And I could say the same thing about this hairy pink lump I was having to deliver. The pig did not even belong to our farm. Paymaster Cox had rented out my labour to a neighbouring farmer, which was not allowed by law, but everyone always turned a blind eye and did it anyway.

  Aye, I might know sheep, but I confess I know little about the nature of pigs. Half the trouble was this sow’s size. She was too big for me to handle alone. She stood unmoving across the road, refusing to budge.

  I tugged hard on the rope, trying to drag the sow forward.

  Snort. Grunt.

  As I lashed out with a string of curses, I heard the wheels of a cart rattle up behind me. I turned to find the glaring face of the Holts’ surrey driver, the back of his work cart bulging with a stinking sow from Paymaster Cox’s estate.

  Joshua’s father, General Holt, was turning his horse in a circle at the fuss my delay was causing. His tricorn hat shone in the sunshine. ‘You, boy, what’s the hold-up?’ he called out.

  He was waiting for an answer from me. The notion made me stutter. ‘S-S ... Sow’s at a ... st-standstill ... s-sir!’

  Then, at the pig, I snarled, ‘You’re holding up General Holt. Turn around or I’ll slice you into bacon rind!’ This was not an idle threat. I had a good mind to do so. Turning sows into bacon was against the law and a punishable offence, as Governor King had his eye on multiplying the pig stock, but right now I was willing to risk a twenty pound fine and an increase in my sentence.

  Snort. Grunt.

  ‘Aargh!’ I gritted my teeth. The only thing stopping me from doing the deadly deed was the fact there would be plenty to hand me in quick enough. A pound sterling reward being a profitable inducement.

  Joshua’s father climbed down from his mount and strode over. In wonderment I watched him approach, nothing can be certain playing in my thoughts.

  ‘No need to get so het up, boy. She’s a mighty creature.’ He surveyed my face. ‘You’re the shepherd boy. Hand me some of your rope. On no grounds let go altogether.’

  I was blinking hard and fast. General Holt, aye, Joshua’s father, he knew I was the shepherd boy. He knew pigs. He understood their nature. I slithered my hands along the rope, all the while keeping my grip, and then tossed him the end. Together we gave a great heave. The sow kept snorting and grunting as we dragged her to the side of the track.

  General Holt handed me back the rope. He scratched at his curly side-whiskers. ‘Damn stubborn creatures they are indeed! Never let anyone tell you pigs don’t become rankled. Move along now, boy. There’ll be no more hold-ups.’

  I was fierce in awe of General Holt. He had taken charge, brought the sow under control. Aye, he was worthy of respect.

  At Castle Hill, sow owners were mobbing in their numbers. Some had come from as far as the Hawkesbury. Constables were roaming and yelling, rounding us up as if we were the livestock. The sows were grunting and snorting. I kept my head down, ill at ease with the din and the rabble, my grip tight on the sow’s rope.

  The superintendant had set some work gangs to help move the sows. Of all people, London stepped sullenly in my direction. He had a faded smudge of a bruise under one eye and a raw whip mark across his cheek. As soon as he saw me, his mouth knotted up in a sneer and he started to backtrack.

  Suits me fine, I thought sourly. I did not feel inclined to make small talk.

  ‘Get back over there, or you’ll feel the end of this whip across your other cheek!’

  The constable’s shout stopped London in his tracks and made my sow even more jittery. The animal gave a mighty pull, yanking the rope out of my hands. Charged straight at London, didn’t she, and buried her head between his legs. Up he went, flipped and landed feet first across the pig’s back. The animal bolted, with him splayed on top.

  London had a speedy tour of the prison farm. Field workers in the nearby paddocks looked up from their grubbing, slapped their sides and hooted. Not me! I was in terror, honestly alarmed.

  Mercifully London tumbled unhurt onto the dirt. I did not like him, but I did not wish him injury. Burrs stuck to his legs. He sat picking them off, his mouth pressed tighter. Mr Johnston was the first to assist. I was second.

  ‘I-I didn’t set the sow on you, h-honest!’ I stammered. My voice was raw.

  London stood up, brushed himself down and jerked his face in close to mine. ‘Save yer gobbing backslaps! I ain’t believin’ yer!’ His teeth were clenched. I heard them grind. He was fit for a fight.

  Mr Johnston clamped a strapping hand on his shoulder. ‘Attend to the sow.’ He must have been pressing hard, for London winced and nodded hard enough to knock his own teeth loose.

  Without a further word of protest, Lo
ndon backed away from me and went to collect the sow, excepting for one insult when he called me a stinking little bleater. I took this on the chin because the sow had made him a bit of a laughing-stock.

  I nodded my relief to Mr Johnston. I hadn’t seen him since I delayed the message about Mr Duriault and General Holt meeting. He appeared to have forgiven me.

  I had to give the sow owner’s name for the ledger before I went back to my sheep, but I wanted to catch Pat too. So I was keeping my eyes open when a settler rushed past, nearly pushing me off my feet. He muttered something grave under his breath to a nearby constable and the constable bustled him over in the direction of the superintendant’s cottage. Shortly after, the same constable mounted a horse and rode off at high speed towards Parramatta.

  Some sort of alarm had been raised. And I was not the only one to have noticed. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted General Holt’s tricorn hat. He was sitting astride his horse, eyes pinned on the departing figure.

  Of a sudden Mr Johnston was standing by my side. He gave me an anxious look. ‘Did you hear what was said, Joe?’

  I lifted a shoulder, silently wondering if this had everything – or nothing – to do with raising an alarm about the rebellion.

  Mr Johnston’s puckered brow showed he wanted to go after the constable, drag him from his horse and find out the truth for himself. But both of us knew this was never going to happen.

  Wednesday, February 29th in the year of 1804

  I had my reckoning with Kitt today. She turned up unexpectedly. I saw her and took a few steps backwards, heading for the brush.

  ‘Wait up, Joe!’ She wasn’t smiling. ‘A fine day, isn’t it! Did Pat enjoy his stew?’ Her words had a bite.

  ‘Aye, I guess so,’ I said in a roundabout way.

  ‘And did you pass on the flour to Charley?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Well, at least you didn’t go taking those for yourself.’

  I was thinking of excuses about the blade, but they dried up in my throat. The quiet between us went on for a few thumping beats.

  ‘So? Naught to say?’ Her eyes kept roaming across mine, back and forth.

  I was wary and guilty and sorry. Better she had asked me, ‘How can you live with yourself?’ I had a ready answer, ‘Because we all do in the end, don’t we? Have to live alone with the knowledge of our own failings.’

  Instead, I looked down at the ground and avoided her probing eyes. ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘You cannot say?’ She gripped both my hands and held on tight. She would not let go. ‘Oh, Joe, I can see something is dire wrong. Mebbe I have shutters over my eyes so I am seeing only slivers through the cracks and losing the full sight, but do not for one instant think I am blind. Something awful is dragging you down.’

  I wrenched away my hands and buried my face in them.

  ‘Are you afeared I’ll put you into the magistrate? I ask you, if I had done something against the law, would you be putting me in, or would you be holding your tongue?’

  My voice was hoarse. ‘I would never put you in.’ I felt snivelling tears welling in my eyes.

  She lifted my chin. I had to look at her square in the face. ‘Neither would I. You can speak plain to me. Tell me what you have done.’

  ‘The broken blade.’

  ‘Ah, that! Forgotten. I am not angry.’ She gave me a rueful grin. ‘At least not anymore. Mind, it took me this long to mend my temper. What else is troubling you?’

  I could not find the words to describe my fears. I mean, I could, but I dared not utter them. I was feeling sick with fear, ridden with guilt; some devil was pulling me down, leaving me too weak to stand and all I could do was drag myself along the ground, stamping on others as I went. Worthless, is it, the stuff I was made of.

  ‘I cannot force you to spill out the truth, but remember speaking up helps share the burden. You and I are alike, you know. We always have too many battles to fight. The hardest one is with ourselves.’

  ‘You feel that way too?’

  ‘I am always battling against my own stubborn nature.’ She patted my hand. ‘Now, will you at least tell me if that scoundrel over at the prison farm is bullying you? For if he is making you steal things on his behalf, I’ll not allow you to keep the secret for long.’

  My eyes widened. Kitt was believing London was to blame! That he had forced my hand to thieve! Oh, she had a fierce imagination. If only I could tell her the truth.

  Instead, I said, ‘And do you battle against lashing out with your tongue?’

  She gave me a narrow look. ‘Aye, now that too.’

  ‘And being so pernickety,’ I added.

  ‘Humph!’ Her snort was a little shaky.

  ‘And gobermouching’

  ‘I’ll thank you to take that one back. I am far from being a meddler!’ she cut in snappily.

  We both sat quietly pondering things. In due course, she uncovered her basket. ‘I brought you some goat’s milk and cold praties.’

  The stone of the jug felt cool to the touch. I pulled the stopper out with my teeth.

  ‘One last bit of advice …’ Whatever Kitt was going to say faded. She gave me a forgiving smile. ‘Milk turns fast in this heat, so drink it without delay.’

  ‘You are grand, Kitt.’

  She was. Letting me keep my secrets. Not pressing me further.

  Thursday, March 1st in the year of 1804

  Those runaways have been nabbed at the Hawkesbury. Been on the run for weeks. Turns out the settler who pushed past me while I was delivering the sow happened across them seeking work and reported them.

  Croppy John paid me an untimely call, bursting into my hut with this news as I was eating Kitt’s praties.

  ‘Look mighty tasty,’ said Croppy John, licking his lips. ‘Where’s my share?’

  He helped himself to a few greedy bites. ‘Could do with a swipe of butter.’

  I glowered at him.

  ‘Lads were on the run awhile,’ he said. ‘Constable brought them in to Parramatta last night. They’re stuck in the gaol. We want you to try to make contact.’

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘There’s a chance they have a message from our Hawkesbury Friends.’

  ‘Find someone else to go.’ My voice felt chalky.

  ‘A lad like you has a better chance of working his way over the bridge. Less of a suspect.’

  I felt a clenching in my belly. ‘Any notion of how I am supposed to do that?’

  ‘You’re sharp-witted. You’ll come up with a way.’

  ‘Oh, aye, stroll in and tell the gaol guard I’ve popped in for a chat with two runaways! I can see him heartily agreeing. Aye, patting me on the back and waving me inside.’

  ‘Use your head, lad! We’re close to tasting freedom. No one said the way was going to be easy.’

  He was riled. So was I. Needless to say I ended up tramping downhill to Parramatta late in the day.

  I turned onto the main road running through the settlement, glimpsing the river behind the buildings and trees. The storehouse where I collected my rations was near the township’s landing place. Amongst the moored boats, wherrymen were disembarking their fares from Sydney Town, calling, ‘Shilling, one way!’

  I stopped to lean against a brush fence and gather my wits. ‘Bark, brush, wood. Stone, paper, bark. Water, bark, rock.’ I was nervy. I kept repeating the words under my breath. Only they kept changing, as if they were taking on a life of their own. ‘Gird yourself, Joe.’ I’d spoken too loud.

  A man rose from a verandah on the other side of the fence. ‘Hoy, what are you up to?’ He opened a sunk-in mouth, toothless, is it, and spat a great glob of something dark at me.

  I choked out a gasp and ran. I was nearing the trestle bridge which led over the river to the north bank and the gaol. All I had to do was cross. But I stopped near a roughcast house, put together so flimsy a sneeze would carry the timbers away. A woman passed by carrying a bundle of sticks. I moved on towards a hidey-hole of wa
ttles, where I took a few deep solitary breaths.

  A cart loaded with sacks turned towards the bridge. This was the cover I needed. I slipped unseen onto the back. Simple enough to hitch a ride. After all, we weren’t going far.

  A few years before I arrived on the Rolla, a gang had torched the old gaol. The new one was going up on the same site, built out of sandstone instead of burnable timber and thatch. Pat had done some of the carting and laying. He told me his gang had been a bit loose with the construction; on purpose, aye, they were hoping the gaol would fall down sooner, rather than later.

  The carter rattled past the Hanging Green, where the gallows go on show. The upper floor of the gaol was an unfinished frame of narrow beams and open roofline. Pat heard the top room is to become a manufactory, a female factory, is it, solely for convict maids. Wool mill by day, one long ward for sleeping in by night.

  My difficulty lay on the ground floor, which was in use and guarded. Stocks stood at the entry. Time to get this over and done. Aye. Let’s hope what I had stashed in a small swag would work the crucial magic.

  I waited until the cart stopped and tried my hand at strolling over carefree. A guard blocked my entry. He was solid built and weather-beaten, ripe with sweat.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ He gave me a slow eye up and down. I could hear shouting and banging inside the gaol; a rattling of leg chains.

  My throat went dry. I swallowed.

  His eyes sharpened. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  I felt a rush of blood leave my face. I unwrapped the bundle I was carrying and showed it to him. ‘Father Dixon, aye, well, he sent something for the prisoners to eat.’

  ‘Popish, are you? Planning on feeding the five thousand?’ He snorted in mockery at the tiny, white lumps of cold pratie I revealed – leftover scrape from Kitt’s food.

  ‘For the two brought in last night,’ I replied, ignoring his taunt. Using the praties and Father Dixon’s name had been the only notion I could come up with. My heart was thumping.

  He scratched his head. ‘Dixon, you say?’ His eyes rested on the food. I saw him considering. ‘In and out fast before the road gangs return, hear?’ He nodded towards the stocks. ‘Or you’ll be staying longer than you intend!’