I felt myself blink stupidly and took too long to move, I suppose, for whatever he had a mind to do flickered from his face. A firm grip of his hand stayed my shoulder.
‘On second thoughts—’ He grabbed the praties and flung them in the dirt. A fleck of foam formed at the corner of his mouth. ‘Think you can take me for a fool, you little cadger. I didn’t come on no Ark.’ A kick to my rear sent me sprawling.
I stumbled away. Declaring myself had been pointless. What a waste of Kitt’s praties, scraps or no! Stingy gaoler.
Friday, March 2nd in the year of 1804
In the afternoon, Croppy John let me know I was wanted over at the prison farm. His eyes seemed to hint at a warning. I half-guessed a reason. A roasting, is it, over my failed undertaking at the gaol. I must have upset more of the croppies.
I was wrong.
Turns out the dust was flying off the tracks today; a patrol of constables out in force. The recently captured lads from the gaol had escaped. Last evening they sawed off their chains and climbed along one of the open-air beams in the unfinished part of the gaol. Supposedly, the guards failed to see they were missing until dawn, when they did a headcount of the chain gangs to be sent out for the day. All I can say is, I hope the guard who tossed my praties got a chiding. O’course I only discovered this news when I reached Castle Hill.
The guard post was deserted. I was wondering why, when Pat stepped out from Mr Cunningham’s hut and waved me inside.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked warily, coming to a standstill in the hut where I realised there were plenty of others jostling for room.
Someone was doing a lot of complaining in Irish to Mr Cunningham. He was a real muckspout, the curses rolled and whined from his lips. ‘You’re a fool, Cunningham, for having a halfwit boy amongst your most trusted!’
I stole a concerned look at Pat. Mr Cunningham rested a strong, calloused, reassuring hand on Pat’s shoulder as he answered back in the Irish, ‘Think before you speak, man. Pat would never give us away. I can tell you he was heavily wronged by being sent here to the colony.’
Pat muttered something to me that sounded like ‘Sheep’.
‘What?’ I mouthed back to him, baffled.
The muckspout gave a bitter laugh and our attention slipped back to him. ‘Weren’t we all?’
Mr Cunningham was insistent. ‘And I am telling you this lad comes from a line of brave fighters. His father and uncle were amongst the last to fall at the Battle of Vinegar Hill. I held them in close regard.’
My eyes sprang wide and I stood open-mouthed. I was barely able to believe my ears. Pat’s father and uncle had fallen at Vinegar Hill? They were heroes? Mr Cunningham thought them worthy?
‘The lad was but six-years-old; yet he felt the butt of an English musket slam against his head, man! His mother wore the green, following in the camp with a babe in her arms and this boy tugging at her skirt! What say you to that?’
My eyes bulged. Pat’s injury was caused because his parents were at Vinegar Hill?
‘Never go forgetting what he sacrificed at such a tender age in the name of Liberty. He remains amongst us.’
The muckspout searched around the circle with his eyes, looking for support. None was forthcoming. He flicked a finger in my direction and snarled. ‘Can you vouch the same for him, Cunningham?’
I put my head down. He was after turning his scorn on me. I felt a ball of worms churn in my belly.
‘Stop being so hot-headed, man! I shall not hear Joe wronged either. He has proven himself.’
My head shot up. Mr Cunningham spared me an encouraging glance. So did Croppy John, who chose the moment to stride inside; he caught my eye in swift recognition.
‘He has a valid point,’ a voice piped up. ’Twas Mr Johnston. ‘While Joe is a Friend, I fear sometimes what we have come to, using childer to do our fighting.’
Mr Cunningham stroked his chin with a thumb. Whatever he was thinking quickly slipped from his face. ‘Enough time wasted, Friends,’ he said firmly. ‘You know why we are here. The time is coming.’
Only then did I realise that Mr Cunningham was the one speaking with all the authority. I should have known. Someone as worthy as Cunningham of Kerry, a former captain at Vinegar Hill, had to be taking the lead at the prison farm. I gave him a grateful look for speaking on my behalf. But I felt a mixture of fear with the gratitude. He knew everything I had done.
‘Today is as good as any,’ someone shot out.
‘Not this day,’ Mr Cunningham replied. ‘Although we are almost done with the waiting. Friends, our hope is to sail back to Ireland and continue our fight. Some of you may wish to stay in New South Wales and oversee the formation of a new republic. To do what you were denied at home, aye, make freedom and fairness the first rules of law.’
‘First we must topple Governor King!’ the muckspout spoke again. His eyes shot around in the same sinister way before settling on Mr Cunningham. ‘We will only succeed if we have the weapons. Do we?’
Mr Cunningham was forthright in his answer. ‘Maybe too few at the start. But we’ll collect more on the night. Visit each and every farm between the Hawkesbury and Sydney Town. Collect any weapon or tool at hand. Seize what is not readily handed over. Agreed?’
‘Aye!’ Clenched fists went up. A pack of questions was dealt thick and fast as a hand of cards:
‘How will we know to rise up?’
‘Has the word been spread to Parramatta and the Hawkesbury?’
‘Will they know to join us?’
‘Do we expect a high turnout?’
All eyes fixed on Mr Cunningham as he set about replying. ‘The first signal will come from here, from the prison farm itself. We will set fire to a hut. Final instructions will reach the other townships nearer the time. If everything goes to plan there should be a thousand marching forward – United Irish, and any other convicts, here or on farms, who choose to join us. We’ll march to the Hawkesbury from Constitution Hill, joined by our Parramatta Friends, meet up with the Hawkesbury force, then make our way east to join our Sydney Friends. We’ll board any ships anchored in the Cove and take command.’
I was not the only one to gasp. With such a force, Governor King and his troops, even with the help of loyalist settlers, would be outnumbered. They were bound to fall.
‘Any more questions, Friends?’
All but one voice fell silent: Croppy John. ‘Am I alone in noticing the absence of a particular General? Is Joseph Holt with us, or is he not?’
Mr Cunningham raised an eyebrow. He cleared his throat. He was slow in answering. ‘We all expect General Holt to take his rightful place amongst us. We need him as our leader. First, to organise Parramatta, and then to lead our entire army from the Hawkesbury to Sydney Town.’
I breathed in sharply, turning over in my head the deal I had seen Joshua Holt’s father strike with Mr Duriault. They had shaken hands. I had witnessed General Holt’s salute myself. He had to be top-ranking. Yet Mr Cunningham had not actually confirmed that General Holt was the main leader. To be fair, nor had he denied it.
The muckspout chipped in, ‘Holt better do!’
‘Keep the patience!’ Mr Cunningham ran a hand through his hair. ‘Now, Pat, will you do us the honour of ending this meeting with a rallying tune? Quietly though,’ he cautioned, ‘or you shall be inviting our constable to wander over and listen.’
From the guffaws, I guessed that the constable who was supposed to be on duty must know full well what was going on. That was why the guard post was empty. He was knowingly steering clear.
Pat’s voice was a leveller. He sang in Irish and he sang solemn. The hardened faces around me turned soulful. You could tell he put them somewhere else – roaming through lush green pasture, or warming their hands by a peat-smoke fire. I heard a cracked voice mutter, ‘Érin go brágh.’ Ireland forever.
Mr Cunningham must have known Pat’s singing would pull at the heartstrings. Make those present think of their loved ones, the on
es they’d left behind: wives and mammies, brothers and sisters, childer. As for me, I had nobody back in Ireland. At least I had Kitt and Pat to call friends. That is what I was thinking about while Pat sang.
Mr Cunningham ended in a sombre tone. ‘If you care to withdraw, do so now. No one here will hold you to account. If you follow, I cannot promise victory. Blood will be shed. But remember our fight is for freedom.’ He struck his chest. ‘Soon, Friends! Keep the heart!’
If you could put the Irish fighting spirit together into one body I believe this is what you would end up with – someone who was fearsome, a fighter, suspicious, mebbe a doubter at times, but proud and loyal and brave and worthy and tender. This was what I saw in Mr Cunningham; aye too, in Mr Johnston; and in the faces and hearts of those around me. As far as I could tell, they were only wishing for some hope and fairness through this life. Oh, aye, excepting that muckspout.
Mr Cunningham was offering an out; he wouldn’t hold me to account. But how could I withdraw? I’d be thought weak and spineless, is it. I can almost hear their mocking, ‘Joe Daley, he doesn’t amount to much.’ I could not bear the shame. I have to trust that I am brave enough to keep heart and overcome whatever danger lies ahead. Aye, but I am fierce afeared.
Saturday, March 3rd in the year of 1804
Joshua Holt came by my hut late this day for a report on the flock. ‘I fear I am imposing on your private time, Joe, but I must give my father an overview on his return. He is due back forthwith from a visit to the Hawkesbury.’
The Hawkesbury? I got to wondering if General Holt had gone there to rally the croppy army. I pictured him sailing down the mighty river with his dark cape billowing like a sail, surrounded by wild cliffs and thick scrub. Aye, and stepping off at a landing place, doffing his feathered tricorn hat and giving a soldierly salute in greeting, before instructing in the ways of war. Saying, ‘No need to get het up. Hand me some of your rope. On no grounds let go altogether.’ Joshua was standing at attention by his side ...
‘Joe, are you listening?’
I blinked. I’d been daydreaming, is it. Joshua stood waiting in front of me and I dared not ask him outright why his father had gone to the Hawkesbury. I came out of my imaginings to hear his complaint about Kitt.
‘She is too outspoken. She must learn to know her place. Will you try to convince her? She listens to you.’
I did not give him a ready answer. Wasn’t knowing your place and fitting in opposite to what a rebel set on toppling Governor King would be thinking? Aye, but then again, what if Joshua was only setting a false trail to hide his rebel leanings?
As it was, by the time Joshua left I was none the wiser about any of the Holts’ intentions, excepting in my mind’s eye.
Night-time
I am struggling to stay awake. My eyes are stinging. I keep sniffing for wafts of smoke in the air.
‘Soon, Friends!’ That is what Mr Cunningham said. Will the call come tonight, tomorrow or the next?
I must stay alert.
Sunday, March 4th in the year of 1804
No signal fire had been lit during the night. Who would have thought the start of this Catholic Sunday would be as ordinary as the Mass three weeks earlier ...
We all attended muster and the morning Mass. I tried not to yawn or steal glances at Pat, or Croppy John, or Mr Johnston, or Mr Cunningham.
Father Dixon’s preaching, ‘By the armour of justice on the right hand, and on the left, by honour and dishonour,’ faded in and out of my ears. I joined in with the droning of prayers. The constables roamed around, muskets slung over their shoulders.
After the Mass, Pat, Kitt and I stood together. Kitt pressed to know if I had crossed paths with Joshua. I blurted something vague about him saying she was outspoken, for my thoughts were hazy with anticipation of the call. And still, it had not come.
‘The nerve of him to be so insulting,’ she said. ‘We’ll see about that!’ She made that throaty sound of hers. Aye, she was fierce riled and left in haste with nary a word of farewell.
I shook my head at my own blunder. Oh well. I’d stopped her from pressing Pat and I to wander by way of the Field of Mars. We needed to stay primed for when the signal fire came. If only I could stop yawning!
Afternoon
‘Hoy!’
I woke abruptly, so startled I rolled defensively off my back, crouched and braced myself. I had been in the middle of a nightmare-filled doze where the redcoats were leering over me, ready to clap me in irons. The dream faded with the waking. I rubbed my eyes. A hot dry wind was blowing across the dirt outside my hut, and Kitt was kneeling beside me looking concerned.
‘You scared the wits out of me!’ I said.
‘No surprise! You were dead to the world.’
‘Why are you here?’ I sounded tetchy.
She frowned. ‘If you must know, I am returning from Joshua’s farm.’
‘You went there? By yourself?’
‘Aye. Joshua and I never had the chance to speak. His father rode hard into the farm, so I hid. He was red in the face and fit to burst. I could hear him ranting and blaspheming.’
I wondered what had made him so upset.
‘Do you think I should try again? Seek out Joshua?’ Kitt’s gaze shifted to my left before I could reply. ‘Your smithy’s approaching.’
‘Oh, aye, I’ll go see what he wants.’ Scrambling to my feet, I darted down the slope towards Croppy John. Kitt could not be overhearing any talk of a rebellion.
He had a smirk plastered all over his face. ‘Kitt’s growing into a fair picture.’
‘You leave her alone!’ I scoffed.
He swung his starry-eyed stare back to me and his face lost all trace of amusement. ‘Rightly said. This day is no laughing matter. Persuade the girl to go home. We want you to head to Parramatta without delay and keep watch over the situation there. Stay close to the redcoats’ barracks.’
‘And why would I be doing that?’
‘Steady your sulks, Joe. We are set. Expect a blaze from Castle Hill tonight.’ He waited for me to take in the meaning. ‘Word is on its way to Parramatta. They are to follow the first fire by torching Macarthur’s family homestead.’
A second fire? I wondered why. I said as much to Croppy John.
‘We need a distraction. Macarthur is overseas, but his wife and childer remain at the homestead. He has influence. The redcoats will be sure to rush across and do everything in their power to defend his home and family. Meanwhile, our Friends will take over the redcoats’ barracks and secure their weapons for our use.’
‘Tonight?’ I heard the tremor in my voice.
‘The second fire at the homestead will act as the signal for the rest of our Parramatta Friends to rally. Before they raid the arsenal, you are to confirm to them that the redcoats have left. Are you clear about what you have to do?’
‘I th-th … think ... s-so.’ I was stuttering. Beads of sweat appeared on my lip and I licked them away.
‘We can’t be having you lose your wits, Joe Daley. So you and I shall be calling this your final instruction. When we join forces with our Parramatta Friends at Constitution Hill, before setting off west to meet our Hawkesbury Friends, there is no need for you to follow. Do you understand what I am saying, lad? You stay clear.’
‘But I thought’
He gripped my arm hard and said slowly, ‘Taking up arms is not in your nature. You would be a hindrance. Mr Johnston and Mr Cunningham have settled on the matter for you, and Friend Pat, do you hear?’
Croppy John left me in a daze. The rebellion was set for this evening? I had to go to Parramatta to be a scout? I must go without delay? Then Pat’s and my part would be over? Either they believed we had no backbone or they were looking out for us. I made my way slowly back to Kitt turning over these conflicting notions.
She was frowning. ‘What did he want that makes you look so grim?’
‘Nothing.’ Yet to myself I was thinking, Everything.
‘Humph, wel
l and good! I have decided to go back and speak with Joshua. Are you coming?’
‘No!’ My voice cracked husky. If Mr Cunningham’s explanation was true about Joshua’s father leading the Parramatta force, then he would likely be on his way to the township. Joshua could even be by his father’s side. This was not the time for Kitt to be poking her nose around their farm. No, I could not allow her to unknowingly put herself in harm’s way.
‘Suit yourself,’ she said.
‘Oh, what I mean is ...’ I had to think fast. ‘Before you go ...’ What I was about to do was going to rile her no end. ‘Let me show you the improvements I have made inside my hut.’ Aye, she may never speak to me again. ‘’Tis a surprise. Close your eyes.’
She was curious enough to follow. She allowed me to lead her by the arm. By the doorway, I gave her a light push. She stumbled further inside. With me on the outside, I wedged the door firm with a heavy branch.
‘What the devil are you up to, Joe? Let me out!’
‘I cannot!’ I yelled back. Better if she stayed locked in.
Kitt began pushing at the door. ‘Stop kidding, Joe! I am warning you, there’ll be hell on earth to pay!’
‘After this is all over, I promise to come back and let you out.’
I caught the puzzlement in her voice. ‘When what is all over?’
This was the last I heard from her because I was already hotfooting my way towards Parramatta.
Later
Although his face was turned from me, his tricorn hat and dark cape gave him away. Joshua’s father, General Holt, was tethering his horse in Parramatta. I believed there was only one reason for him to be there. He must have come to lead the township’s croppies. I was relieved Mr Cunningham’s belief in him had been proven.
A bullock-pulled wagon rumbled by and I quickly sidestepped. Dust flew in my eyes. A woman toting a bundle of turnips gave a fleeting glance.
There was no sign of Joshua by General Holt’s side, but I saw a figure rushing towards him, beseeching him to take notice. I knew the face. Parramatta’s taskmaster, who managed the tasks for overseers and their work gangs. Why was a Governor’s man so mighty interested in catching up with Joshua’s father?
Castle Hill Rebellion Page 9
