Castle Hill Rebellion

by Chrissie Michaels

  Friday, March 9th in the year of 1804

  This morn at nine o’ the hour, Mr Johnston was amongst those led in chains up the winding track to Castle Hill where he was hanged in front of the work gangs. I remembered the best of him: his standing up for me on the Rolla; putting paid to the bullying from London; and how he had gone to parley so bravely alongside Mr Cunningham.

  His poor dead body has been left hanging in chains, in a small hollow on the road to Prospect Hill. Mr Johnston, you are beyond suffering now.

  As well this day, five men faced a flogging, aye, five hundred lashes. During the punishment, the surgeon watched on. When some suffered more than they could endure, the surgeon made them bring the whipping to an end.

  From those who were captured or gave themselves up, at least thirty have been shackled in double irons. These chain gangs are to be sent north of Sydney Town to mine coal. Backbreaking work, is it, remote from elsewhere.

  So much for Governor King’s mercy.

  The Major left Parramatta late this afternoon. His soldiers are on the march back to Sydney Town. Fair riddance, I say.

  Sunday, March 11th in the year of 1804

  Governor King returned to Sydney Town today, while Missus Macarthur came back. ‘Tis a week after Pat and I saw her escaping on the salt river for Sydney Town from her farm, the one that should have been set alight as the signal for the Parramatta rebels to rise. Her life will go on as if nothing has happened. Ah, but I cannot hold her to blame. None of this was her doing.

  The Governor has put an end to the curfew, allowing us to come and go more freely. Seems we are all to go on as if nothing has happened.

  Monday, March 12th in the year of 1804

  A bit of cheer today! The wild dog is alive. She is limping badly and keeping close by Charley’s side, but recovering well enough. Charley said he knew how to mix a salve using leaves ground into a paste. I thought of the green slime I found on my scalp wound after the rebellion and gave him a curious look.

  He wandered into my hut when I was scratching on this paper with a quill. ‘You a yellamundie?’ he asked, picking up one of my pages.

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘Storyteller.’

  ‘Aye, I guess I am.’

  ‘You passin’ down the story about your ngurra warriors?’

  Aye, I guess I was.

  I strolled back with him to his camp by the creek. Charley’s humpy was rough built, made from twigs and strung with paperbark and leaves. His father sat beneath the shelter, ignoring the five yelping and playful pups. They were sturdy. They had grown. Their dingo mammy settled in the dust; she was on her way to recovery and content with her brood.

  It struck me that the pups had the markings of a crossbreed. Charley must have guessed what I was thinking. ‘Warragal mated with a dog from your mob.’

  The biggest and bravest pup rushed towards me and tried to bowl me over. He hung around my leg, sinking his teeth in my boot.

  ‘They always snappin’ and nippin’,’ observed Charley. ‘They like playfightin’. Only they got enough fur for it not to hurt.’

  Charley’s father gave me a slow, wary stare and began jabbering in his language.

  ‘Your father’s not too pleased to see me, aye?’ I said uncertainly.

  ‘He sayin’ you the fella try feed us poison.’

  ‘Tell him the flour was fine!’

  ‘He never go believin’ you.’ Charley shrugged, then picked up the twisting, wriggling lump of fur that had been playing around my feet. He bundled the pup into my hands. ‘Feel there.’ He moved my fingers across the pup’s head. I felt a mite bump, almost a third ear. ‘That a warrior’s bump. Same as you.’ He flashed me a grin.

  I rubbed my head. The swelling had gone down. So there was a trace of truth in the dream I had about the dog. Charley must have visited my hut after the battle. He must have rubbed green paste on my wound. I felt the pup nibble my thumb.

  ‘He wantin’ to go with you.’

  ‘You think so?’

  I warmed to the idea of having the pup by my side. Mebbe after a bit of training he could be useful – act as an extra pair of eyes and ears. He had a much better nose than I had for sniffing out danger. But the dingo in him might not be much good for rounding up the sheep. I supposed I could keep him chained by my hut. A bit of growling would scare most pilferers away. I shared these thoughts with Charley.

  He shook his head and frowned. ‘Not so good bein’ chained up. Why d’ye fellas do it?’

  ‘Fact of life,’ I told him. For sure, being chained up was. They did it to me in the gaol after I was nabbed and for months on board the transport ship. Grimly I thought about Mr Johnston whose chained, mouldering body cast a long shadow over the settlement, and I felt pangs of suffering for the other men who had been flogged and clamped in irons. On second thoughts, mebbe I would not chain the pup.

  Charley tapped my head. ‘Wiri gitji ... your bad spirit ... he left?’

  I knew he meant more than my head wound. ‘I’m hoping so,’ I admitted.

  He pointed towards the Hawkesbury. ‘We gonna be leavin’ tomorra.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Yer fellas are movin’ us on.’

  ‘But you’ll be heading back sometime, won’t you?’ I was sorry to see him go.

  ‘We always done before.’ He turned his face away. ‘Don’t you wish to?’

  ‘Dunno. Land turning bad. Water spoiling. Animals leaving.’

  ‘Nura!’ his father called out.

  Charley shrugged his shoulders at me. ‘He says this our nura. Long-time country. Nura beranga. Where we belong. We always keep comin’ back.’

  Thursday, March 15th in the year of 1804

  This morning Kitt dropped by in a lather to tell me a constable had turned up at Ann and Thomas’s farm.

  ‘You were right in your warning, they are after Joshua’s father,’ she said. ‘The constable tried to wring a confession out of me after he learned I was acquainted with Joshua, but I held firm. He left none the wiser. I feel pressed to warn the Holts, although I have not seen Joshua since the day of the hangin—’ She stopped short and gave me a gut-wrenching stare.

  I mumbled a feeble excuse. ‘Me neither. He must be caught up on pressing matters for Paymaster Cox.’

  Kitt had a favour to ask. ‘’Tis Saint Patrick’s feast day on Saturday. Let’s meet by the creek to honour the fallen. Each do something worthy.’

  ‘Pat too?’

  ‘Goes without saying. Now, will you be so kind as to pen three words for me, Joe? Will you pen Érin go brágh?’

  ‘Aye, Kitt.’

  She watched on in silence, twirling a curl of hair around one finger, while I formed the spidery letters with my quill and ink.

  Friday, March 16th in the year of 1804

  Father Dixon has been doing the rounds of his congregation. Governor King has put a stop to him saying the Mass. Father Dixon told me so himself today.

  ‘From now on, Joe, there will be no more Catholic Sundays. You have to go to the Church of England service.’

  ‘But I don’t want to, Father! Their belief is not the same. Besides, Reverend Marsden despises us.’

  ‘We must face our troubles with a forgiving heart. Governor King sets the law. If you miss attending St John’s, ’tis twenty-five lashes. The second time, fifty. A third, you’ll be clamped in a chain gang.’

  He made a blessing on my forehead. ‘Let the wisdom of Saint Francis guide you to do what is necessary. Later, you can do what is possible. Before you know, you shall be doing the impossible. Keep the faith.’

  ‘Aye, I will do my utmost, Father.’

  ‘And keep up with the writing,’ he added. ‘Tis a form of prayer, a ray of light through the darkness, offering you hope in times of despair. I fear I cannot promise such a regular supply of paper in the future. The Governor has put a stop to my stipend. Herewith I am dependent on the goodwill of others. But I shall drop by from time to time to see how you are faring
. Now, I must go and bless John at his forge.’

  Father Dixon has a way with words. He always sets me thinking.

  Saturday, March 17th in the year of 1804

  Today is Saint Patrick’s feast day. All morning I sat staring at the sheep as they picked the weeds and greens from rocks. A sudden downpour hit me sideways in the face and left a sharp, earthy smell rising from the ground. Coming up with a worthy idea to honour the fallen was difficult, aye, and painful.

  Of late, I have taken to carrying the pup around with me. When he saw Kitt approaching the creek, he jumped down and edged between my feet. As Kitt bent down to scratch the pup’s ears, I could feel him nibbling playfully on my ankle.

  ‘Watch out!’ I warned. ‘He’ll nip your fingertips. He disposes to be friendlier than he really is.’

  The pup nuzzled into her hand, defying what I said.

  ‘Do you think life’s easier when you are a dog?’ she said. Her fingers were trembling. She caught me staring. She gave a wavering smile back. She was fierce downcast. Her hand reached up to the green band tied around her hair. ‘Look what I have sewn. ’Tis my way of remembering the lads.’

  Érin go brágh. She had copied my lettering in thread.

  ‘Are you wise to show the sentiment so openly?’ I cautioned. ‘Turncoats would delight in dragging us in for a reward.’

  She sighed and removed the ribbon, tucking it in her sleeve.

  Pat was heading towards us across the clearing. He gave a wave. As he drew closer, we could hear him singing. A song was a fitting way to mark the day.

  Kitt began a jig, starting slow on the spot, her feet moving like brush straw sweeping the dirt. The pup was growing unruly. He began chasing her toes. I rolled him over and scooped him back up in my arms. Kitt kept going until she was kicking her heels into a fury, her cheeks flushed with the effort. I reached over and grabbed her arm. ‘Enough now, Kitt.’

  Her eyes were watery. She wrenched her arm away from me. ‘What was the point of their stand?’

  ‘If the croppies had won would we even be asking?’ I said, thrusting the pup into her hands. There was a cold stone in my gut too. I had no real answer. ‘Hold him, will you? ’Tis my turn for a tribute.’

  I picked up a twig and set to scratching the shape of a harp in the pale dirt, finishing with long blades of grass for a frame. A green flag with a crownless harp, is it, the United Irish banner. For Mr Cunningham and Mr Johnston and the others.

  Kitt slumped down beside me. So did Pat. We sat together staring intently at my flag.

  Kitt was the first to speak. ‘Governor King is making it seem like the rebellion never happened.’

  ‘We’re still here. They can’t change what we saw.’

  ‘Ahy.’ Pat scraped some of the dirt from my drawing and let it run through his fingers.

  ‘We shall never be the same again,’ she said.

  ‘Lahyf.’

  ‘Aye, Pat,’ I agreed with him. ‘Life goes on. Mebbe we owe a debt to the fallen to make the most of our time left on earth.’

  Kitt stared past us for a long time, then gave an almighty sigh. ‘We’ll just have to show the Governor what we Irish are truly made of.’ She stood up. ‘Only before I can put anything behind me, there is something I need to lay to rest.’ She took a few hurried paces forward, her skirt swirling about her ankles. ‘Come along then, lads,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Or are you both going to sit there all day pining about life’s troubles?’

  Girls are bamboozling. Well, to me they are.

  Pat nudged me hard. ‘Jaw. Shoe. Ah.’

  Aye, I should have guessed Kitt’s change of heart would have something to do with Joshua Holt.

  The farmhouse door opened and Joshua strode towards us, holding a three-legged stool. He must have seen us arriving.

  Kitt cast her eyes at what was in his hand. ‘A bit late for milking.’

  He gave Kitt a little bow, but he looked mighty uncomfortable. He kept glancing this way and that. ‘Let’s speak over by the trees.’

  ‘Are you afraid to be seen in my company?’ Kitt’s annoyance flared. Joshua rolled his eyes.

  ‘No one is about! We are alone here!’

  Mebbe, but there must have been some truth in what Kitt was saying because his voice rang uneasy.

  Joshua set down the stool in some shade and motioned for Kitt to sit, which she did with a ‘Humph!’ He dropped down to the ground beside her.

  Pat and I hung back, keeping apart from them while ensuring we still heard every word. We didn’t know exactly what Kitt wanted us to do. She was absently pleating the bottom of her skirt, then letting it unravel. We were waiting for her to lift her eyes and tell us.

  The pup began making sleepy grunts. He was nodding off in my arms. Kitt glanced our way but said nothing. She fixed a marble stare on Joshua. ‘I have been worried, having heard naught from you.’

  ‘Are you surprised, considering the unholy mess we’ve faced?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘As you see, I have come to no harm.’

  Kitt pressed her lips together and passed a long time silent. I held my breath, waiting for lightning to strike and boulders to fall from the sky.

  Joshua shifted uneasily. ‘So ... is there any other reason? For you coming here today, I mean?’

  ‘We’re here because the constables have been asking questions about you and your father. Tell him, Joe, how on the day of the uprising you saw General Holt meet with the taskmaster.’

  I started. I had not reckoned on divulging this to Joshua. The pup’s eyes bulged open. He twisted around and tried to jump down. I clutched onto him tightly and he growled.

  Joshua’s gaze whipped past the dog to me. He frowned. ‘You were in Parramatta, Joe?’

  ‘Aye, I was.’

  Before I could open my mouth further, Kitt jumped in, ‘So you knew of their meeting?’

  ‘At first only that Father went for a walk.’

  I let out a breath. Neither of them was actually interested in what I had to say.

  ‘When Father returned from Parramatta, all he said was that the devil was busy in New South Wales as ever he had been in Ireland. He was in a very troubled state.’

  Kitt’s mouth tightened. ‘What did your father do next?’

  ‘He hurried to take counsel with Paymaster Cox. My mother was alarmed. She and my brother accompanied him, to sit with Mrs Cox and her childer.’

  ‘You mean he informed an English captain in the New South Wales Corps about the rebellion, fully mindful that he was going against Mr Cunningham and the United Irish?’

  Her accusation was not lost on Joshua. He spluttered, ‘Informed? Oh, come on, Kitt. You cannot seriously be blaming my father for Philip Cunningham’s untimely end! The croppies were a drunken rabble!’

  ‘Humph!’

  ‘I am not my father’s keeper!’

  ‘We are talking about Joseph Holt, the General of Wicklow, are we not?’

  Joshua’s jaw set hard. ‘For pity’s sake, that event was in Ireland, years ago. Do you fail to see my father had no choice? He manages Paymaster Cox’s estate! Besides, my family owe a lot to the paymaster. From day one of my father’s exile, he has stood by us. Judge our actions whichever way you choose, but what my father did, he did for his family and out of true friendship.’

  Joshua! Oh, Joshua! Any feeble mind could see he was going beyond igniting the fire, he was fanning the open flames.

  Kitt went on, ‘So, where were you, the dutiful son, throughout these troublesome events?’

  ‘I was left to defend our farm. If you have a care to know, some grog-soaked croppies did turn up. They robbed me of a musket and a blunderbuss. I was fortunate they did not press-gang me.’

  ‘Did they ask the whereabouts of your father?’

  ‘They did, but I refused to tell them. I was convinced they were going to come back. Who knew whether they were going to use force? They were steeped in liquor. They even boasted about how some fool had badl
y beaten Robert Duggan. One of the English convicts, who joined with the croppies, dragged him from under his bed. He was one of those hanged. Reverend Marsden was a target too, only he escaped. For all I knew, they intended to do the same to me and my father.’

  ‘What did you do next, since you were so afeared?’

  ‘As soon as the croppies left, I made my way to Paymaster Cox’s farm. I was anxious for our family’s safety. Father put me in with Mother, Mrs Cox and the childer.’

  Kitt gave a scornful laugh.

  Joshua kept up his defence. ‘I went in to protect them, for heaven’s sake! Father said later that if he had been the one in charge of the croppies, he would have taken the Major’s head off instead of taking off his hat and parleying, the way Philip Cunningham did.’

  ‘How dare you keep dragging Mr Cunningham’s name through the mud!’

  My throat was dry. Pat shook his head. We sided silently with Kitt.

  Joshua scowled. ‘You cannot seriously blame my family for the rebellion’s defeat! We were not even there!’

  ‘Exactly! Your father abandoned the same men who trusted him as their hero. You ... you never showed up either!’

  ‘And I suppose you did?!’

  Kitt ripped her furious eyes away from him and hid a gulp.

  Joshua sighed. ‘What would you wish of us? Wipe out all the redcoats and topple Governor King? Come to your senses, girl! How long before King George sent more ships? More militia? This uprising was doomed from the start. My father told the croppies how it would end – in misery and the gallows.’

  I could not deny that what Joshua was saying held some truth.

  He reached out a hand to Kitt. ‘Please do not let these tragic circumstances come between our acquaintanceship.’

  Kitt drew back the tips of her fingers as if hot water had scalded them. ‘Acquaintanceship? Joseph and Joshua Holt! I spit on the names!’

  Pat and I stood rooted to the spot. Neither of us dared speak, nor move.

  Joshua’s jaw set firm. ‘I will not let you dishonour us, Kitt, though I plead for your understanding. If Governor King discovers any evidence that Father was in league with the croppies, he’ll use the knowledge against him.’