Castle Hill Rebellion

by Chrissie Michaels

  ‘What happened with General Holt?’ I shouted in Kitt’s ear.

  ‘I followed him back to his farm. There was a raised voice, some hustle and bustle, nothing further.’ She avoided mention of Joshua. I decided to keep mum. His father’s strange actions were making us all uneasy.

  We had scarcely covered any distance further west when the mare stumbled. Her sides were heaving. She jerked her head around, tossing her mane, the whites of her eyes gleaming.

  Kitt pulled up. ‘Poor girl’s spent already. Too many of us are on her back.’

  We could not fair expect Selly to bear our weighty load. ‘Better I ride on alone, and stay ahead of the redcoats,’ I suggested. ‘Mr Cunningham must hear what we have to say. If not, he could be wandering into a deathtrap.’

  Pat had already climbed down, but Kitt refused to budge. ‘Selly knows me better,’ she argued, ‘I am our best chance.’

  Against my better judgement, I slid down, leaving her in the saddle. Pat and I would have to make our way on foot. ‘You’d better mention General Holt’s whereabouts,’ I added grimly.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ Kitt said.

  I could not help but admire her. She had a strong spirit. Stubborn, but able.

  She dug her knees into the mare’s ribs. ‘C’mon, Selly, old girl.’

  The mare shook her mane tetchily and then, with a snort, gave in to the ride.

  Pat and I pressed on. Telling dust floated in the air, too much for Kitt’s horse alone to have made. I felt a sense of dread. Other horses must be ahead of her on the road.

  We hadn’t run much further when a familiar dingo dog sprang out of the shadows and began sniffing around our legs. Charley’s low call floated through the air. The dog’s tail sprang upwards into a shepherd’s crook. Her ears pricked alert. She looked high into a gum tree. Charley must be up there.

  ‘Hoy!’ I called.

  Charley was like one of those big and powerful grey owls, perching on a branch and hidden by the leaves, that you were fortunate to spy once in a while. He must have had a sweeping view from his treetop lookout and I was mighty interested in what he had seen.

  ‘Two out in front,’ he told me when he scrambled down, ‘ridin’ fast.’

  From his description I recognised one as the Major. He must be scouting with a trooper.

  ‘Any sign of a girl?’

  Charley nodded. ‘Trailin’ ‘em.’

  Oh, Kitt, I thought, stay safe. ‘Any more?’

  ‘Lots of soldier fellas comin’ behind. He pointed back to Parramatta and fell into a march on the spot. ‘They keepin’ up a pace.’ He turned to Pat. ‘Some of them already spread out to your ngurra.’

  ‘Do you know Charley?’ I asked Pat in surprise.

  ‘Ahy,’ he replied.

  How come I never knew before? I realised how little I did know about everyone. Mebbe I was spending too much time in the company of my sheep for my own good.

  From what I could gather, the Major must have divided his troops and gone ahead with his trooper. If Pat’s ngurra meant what I thought it did – his clan, the rest of the prisoners at the government farm – some of the redcoats must be over at Castle Hill, leaving the other soldiers behind us on this road. We were all heading in the same direction, west towards the Hawkesbury, and Kitt, Pat, Charley and I were right in the middle.

  ‘Whirr. My. Ing. Oh. Ra?’ Pat stumbled over the words.

  Charley grinned at Pat’s attempt to speak his language, but he was sharp, he understood what Pat was asking. So did I. He was asking the whereabouts of the Castle Hill croppies. ‘Good question, Pat,’ I said.

  Charley provided an answer. ‘There’s plenty of your ngurra fellas runnin’ all over, shoutin’ and yellin’ and carryin’ stuff.’ He mimicked the croppies drinking, smoking clay pipes, waving around firearms. I listened hard. You could hear hollering in the far distance.

  We were going too slow. We had to find a way to move faster. From this point on, the land was largely unsettled. To our right the road ran through bushland; the other side had been set aside as grazing pastures by Governor King. ‘Hey, Charley,’ I asked, ‘do you know a speedier way to catch up with our mob and leave those redcoats behind?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He led us off the road through a tangle of stringybark. The tough fibres scratched my arms as I brushed past. We leaped over scraggly grass, clambered over boulders and edged along several flat rock ledges. Not much good for horses, but good for us. The wild dog ran ahead, lost to sight. We kept moving through high ground, then dropping down to a gully. The way was bushy and rocky, but in places there was well-trod ground. We soon began to slice off the distance.

  ‘You have some keen bush knowledge,’ I told Charley.

  ‘My people walk here for a long time.’ He looked pleased with himself and pointed back through the trees to a glimpse of dappled red jackets below. A sunlit glint of metal flashed. ‘When we stoppin’ again, you look behind and you be seein’ them soldiers far way back!’

  I hoped so. If we could reach Mr Cunningham before the Major and his redcoats did, we might give the croppies an advantage. I only hoped Mr Cunningham had met up with enough United Irish rebels to make a strong fighting force.

  Because we had left much of the settled land behind us, I was not expecting Charley to take us through any clearings where we could easily be spotted. But that is what he did.

  ‘Hold on!’ I said. I could hear voices. Was that singing?

  ‘This our way through,’ Charley insisted. ‘Always been.’

  Up ahead was a rough slab and bark hut. A pitchfork, scythe and fowling gun rested against one wall. Two Castle Hill croppies wandered into our view, their arms clasped around each other’s shoulders. They were slurring their way through ‘The Wearing of the Green’. The drink had got the better of them.

  To my shock, London stumbled out the door sloshing a jug of ale in one hand, and hanging onto a blunderbuss by the gun’s flared barrel with the other. What was he doing teaming up with rebels? He had no thoughts of fighting for croppy ideals. By his own actions, he had made himself an enemy. He must have slipped in amongst the croppies and joined in the breakout. Aye, well, Mr Cunningham was going to need all the help he could get, even from a bullying, grog-soaked, spineless, English convict runaway.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said.

  Charley led us back into the scrub, where we heard the panting of a horse. A familiar ribbon of green fluttered from a rein looped around a fallen log. It was Selly, Ann’s grey mare, head bent and grazing. Kitt herself was scrambling to hide.

  ‘Psst,’ I whispered. ‘It’s us.’

  She let out a sigh of relief. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Charley has a grand knack of knowing where everyone is,’ I said.

  Kitt gave him one of her radiant smiles. ‘Ah, so you are Charley. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ A fleeting guilt washed over me about the flour.

  She turned to me and her smile vanished. ‘Did you see them back at that hut? The drunken fools could hardly stand up on their own two legs. I hope the rest are not in the same state.’

  I shared her worry. Grog was the undoing of many. ‘Let’s keep moving,’ I said. ‘We have to outrun the Major.’

  Kitt threw me a shocked look. ‘He’s ahead of us?’ She began to unloop Selly’s reins.

  Charley watched on doubtfully. ‘Runnin’ on foot’ll make us quicker.’

  We made sure the mare was hobbled. Kitt undid the green ribbon and tied a bow around her wrist. Then we were stumbling through the bush, leaping over jutting rocks and ruts and fallen logs, until we found ourselves on a narrow slip of a track. By using Charley’s shortcut, we had covered a goodly stretch, fast and under cover. Hair-raising shouts cried out in the distance.

  ‘Your ngurra fellas making big noise over by the waterholes,’ Charley said.

  ‘We must have reached the Ponds,’ Kitt supposed. ‘In the wet, the hills and gullies turn swamp and soak.’


  I had never journeyed this far west. ‘Are we much past There or Nowhere?’ I asked.

  She shrugged. ‘As far west as anywhere, I think.’

  I gave her a wry look. ‘Excepting the Hawkesbury.’

  She had to have the last word. ‘And excepting China.’

  Charley took us downhill, slipping and sliding, using our hands to steady ourselves. Ahead, we heard a low growl. Charley pressed a warning finger to his lips. We all stood still to listen.

  I had forgotten the dingo dog. She was doing her own tracking. We could hear deep threatening noises rasp from her throat. Then, dangerously close by, there was a crack of shot. The dog let out a painful yelp. The smell of sulphur hung in the air. There was a shout and the rush of hooves galloping away.

  As Charley gave a low call, I gripped Pat’s arm.

  The dingo dog crawled into view. She was dragging her belly so low it was rubbing the dirt. When she saw Charley rushing towards her, she struggled to heave herself back onto her feet. Charley’s hand stilled on her head, and she slumped, her jaw coming to rest on her front paws. Her hind leg was shot open.

  Kitt gasped. Pat gave a wail.

  Fearing the worst, my eyes started their flabbergasting twitching and I closed them tight.

  ‘Yanu,’ I heard Charley say. When I opened my eyes again, he and the dog had vanished.

  Kitt said gravely, ‘Best let him go. This trouble is not his. We have already asked far too much.’

  True. He had led us all this way. The dog needed his care now. I mouthed a quick ‘Hail Mary’ to the holy mother of Jesus that the dog would be all right.

  The Last Halfway Pond

  ’Twas mid-morning by the time we stumbled upon the croppies. The redcoats’ drums of war, Rat-tat! Brrum! Rat-tat! Brrum! beat louder behind. The sun was blazing hot and a dry wind had picked up. Grass and dust blew around us. We were hidden by the trees, but we could see the croppy army massing together on high ground. In a numb daze, I counted their number. Four groups of fifty and thirty-three more.

  Plainly the croppies could hear the redcoats advancing. They were readying for battle, a ragtag of men, armed with an assortment of weapons – Brown Bess muskets, the one I had light-fingered in there, aye; pistols and swords; axe heads and farm tools, their tips sharpened and honed. They must have come from the stash, or been collected from homesteads during the night.

  Mr Cunningham should be walking amongst them. I searched vainly for his face, although I knew deep down we had arrived too late with our warning. Other faces came into focus. Somehow London had reached here; he was unsteady on his feet, the blunderbuss loose in his hand. I saw the grim, determined face of Croppy John, his mouth set tight, his eyes expressionless. He was favouring the pike.

  I became aware of Kitt’s trembling voice. ‘Do you see Joshua or his father? I do not.’

  Nor did I. The Holts were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘I feel terrible unnerved,’ she whispered.

  My belly was doing its fair share of griping. Where were the rest of the croppies? Their number fell strikingly short of the thousand expected. I had a sudden creeping premonition of a bayonet piercing my gut; Pat being knocked to the ground by the butt of a rifle for a second time in his life; and Kitt being clamped in irons and dragged away. None of us were fighters. Croppy John had known. He had pressed me not to come. And Pat may have been injured at Vinegar Hill, but his parents and uncle had been the ones fighting. He had been too young to know.

  Kitt gave a start. She gripped hold of my arm and tilted her head to the forest of trees opposite. The Major had arrived! He took position out in the open at the foot of the hillside. His horse reared and whinnied. He jerked the reins until it snorted and settled.

  The Major openly surveyed the croppies. His once spick-and-span uniform and his spit-and-polished boots were dusty. Aye, but he looked high and mighty. A lone trooper circled on a horse around him.

  Pat nudged my arm. ‘Tooo.’

  ‘Aye, Pat.’ There were only two of them, but the other redcoats were closing in.

  The Major slowly advanced until he was within pistol shot of the croppies.

  ‘What the devil is he up to?’ Kitt whispered.

  ‘Lay down your arms!’ he shouted. ‘Submit to the mercy offered you by the Governor.’

  There was a sudden flutter of panic. A cry rang out, ‘We shall not!’

  ‘I repeat, lay down your arms! It is not too late.’ The Major paused, as if expecting the croppies to do as he ordered.

  They held fast to their position.

  The Major’s mouth fell open in outrage. ‘Bring out your leaders. Let me speak with them!’

  At last I spotted Mr Cunningham in a pale frock coat and breeches. He was standing in the centre of his men. Mr Johnston was with him, dark-suited and shabby, watchful of the Major in the same heedful way I have watched the edges of the night for dingo dogs. The gentlemen rebels made no move forward.

  ‘Do the scoundrels lack spirit? Are they afraid to face me?’ The Major was trying to cast doubt, trying to unsettle everyone.

  Cunningham of Kerry was no coward. He and Mr Johnston brazenly strode forward. They exchanged sharp, low words with the Major.

  ‘Very well, if you will not listen to me, at the very least listen to your priest!’ Brashly, the Major turned his back on them and rode back into the trees.

  Kitt’s voice was scratchy and anxious. ‘Can he mean to fetch Father Dixon?’

  ‘He. Dee. Lay. Ing,’ said Pat.

  Aye, the Major was only bluffing until his redcoats turned up.

  Meanwhile Mr Cunningham and Mr Johnston were in heated debate with the other croppies. They must be disputing what to do next.

  Soon after, the Major returned and, to our shock, Father Dixon was by his side.

  ‘Has he been with the Major all this time?’ whispered Kitt.

  ‘Come closer, Cunningham!’ the Major demanded, a hard edge to his voice.

  Mr Cunningham took a few cautious steps towards him. So did Mr Johnston.

  Our good priest and Mr Cunningham and Mr Johnston acknowledged each other with the slightest of nods. A quiet understanding passed between them, aye, a knowing, is it, each of them doing what he had need to do.

  Father Dixon made an urgent plea, ‘I beseech you, do not be foolish! Throw down your weapons! Spare your lives! You heard the Major – Governor King has offered mercy for those who give up peacefully. Bring this to a close before any blood is spilled.’

  There were angry murmurings from the hillside. The Major cut in. ‘Enough! A parley, then! In closer, Cunningham!’

  Father Dixon moved back to the edge of the forest where, hat in hand, he kept imploring the other croppies to give in. His face was grey, is it, as ashen as the dust covering his black day suit.

  Mr Cunningham ventured close in. He had a proud and decent look on his face. Mr Johnston went to stand by the Major’s horse.

  ‘The Major will not shoot them, will he?’ Kitt’s voice was quivering.

  ‘He would not dare!’ I whispered. Shooting in cold blood was unheard of during a parley. Time and again on the Rolla’s long sea journey, the rebel prisoners had discussed the rules of warfare. How a parley was a truce, a white flag. That’s what the Major was offering, is it, for Mr Cunningham to speak freely with him before returning unharmed to his own men. Depending on what happened next, an agreement would be made with both sides giving a little, or, if no deal was struck, the battle would begin.

  ‘Tell me what you want!’ demanded the Major. He sounded as if he were offering a fair bargain, which is what we were all believing, including Mr Cunningham who took off his hat and, with a sweep of his strong, square, mighty hand, gave the Major a gentlemanly bow.

  ‘Death, or Liberty!’ Mr Cunningham declared. ‘And a ship to take us home.’

  ‘Then you leave me no choice!’

  The Major abruptly drew a pistol which he clapped to Mr Johnston’s head. The trooper dashed forward and
levelled his gun at Mr Cunningham.

  The Major had tricked them!

  The sound of boots stomped into the open to the drumming of a chilling drill. The redcoats moved into formation at the bottom of the hill. I did a calculation. Twenty and nine of them. Massing behind them were fifty or so settlers and constables.

  ‘Move to my ranks or have your souls blown to hell!’ the Major shouted, driving Mr Johnston and Mr Cunningham closer to his troops. They were trapped. They were his prisoners.

  The croppies had but one last chance. The Major’s army might be greater in firepower, but they were no match in number. If the croppies showed discipline, watched out for each other, most of all stood shoulder to shoulder and held their defence line, mebbe they could overpower the Major and his redcoats.

  But I was fearful. With Mr Cunningham and Mr Johnston taken prisoner, who was left to do the leading? Joshua’s father, General Holt, was the one with the experience, but he had not turned up.

  Without warning, a redcoat, a giant of a man, lunged at Mr Cunningham with his sword, slicing the flesh off his cheek. He stumbled and fell to the ground. Kitt gasped. My heart near stopped.

  There was a frightening stillness on the hillside. The cold silence of shock, aye, for us all to see Mr Cunningham cut down in cold blood where he stood. ’Twas like the shiver of roaming souls passing close, their breath brushing like a sigh at the back of your neck. The Banshee was coming. Pat’s face went ghastly. He let out a blood-curdling wail.

  I saw London twist and turn to see where the sound was coming from. He recognised the curse. His eyes welled up. He swiped at his nose.

  As if the wail had been a battle cry, the sea of faces on the hillside turned dark with fury. They stormed downhill, pushing and shoving, blindly yelling out their own curses.

  I thought that I would keel over. This was all wrong. ‘No! No! No! Hold your position!’ I yelled.

  ‘Too late,’ Kitt cried.

  The Major leaped into action, bellowing orders along his lines of redcoats.

  The drummer boy kept on with the beat of his deathly roll. Rat-tat! Brrum! Rat-tat! Brrum!

  ‘Ready your arms!’