‘Yes, and look where it landed me. Having notions like that do not always make you right.’
26 December 1801
For these past few days I have been thinking long and hard about my talk with Ann. The memory of what led to our transportation in the first place, keeps rushing back to haunt me. Lawdy, if only Mumma and I had walked out of Ball’s Linen Drapers that ill-fated day! Something warned me we should have left. No sooner did Henry Haynes begin measuring that calico for Mumma, than I had tried to catch her attention, beckoning towards the door. Hoity toity Mumma had disagreed, and kept up her rosy chattering. ‘I see you have some pleasant bandana handkerchiefs,’ she said to Haynes, ‘Do show me.’
I had watched her edgeways as she picked through the pile, tarrying over a dark printed pocket linen. Then with much misgiving, I moved towards some cloth that lay upon the counter.
‘Any cheaper ones?’ Mumma had asked, sweet as pie. Haynes shook his head and cast an uneasy glance in my direction. ‘Shame about that,’ she declared. ‘Pray tell me what I owe.’
With a slight of hand I had stashed the cloth under my cloak and taken a hurried step towards the door. Henry Haynes was much more nimble than old Thomas Ball. Before I could make anything like a clean run, he leapt over the counter and gripped hold of me, so close I could smell his sour breath. He whipped the hood away from my face, demanding to see what I had hidden.
I tried to wrench away his bruising fingers. ‘Nothing of yours!’
Three lengthy quantities of printed calico were what he pulled from the folds of my gown.
Mumma attempted to come between us. ‘The child should not be taking such things. This is never her nature.’
If she was not careful that tongue of hers would have me hanged. I tried to make amends, stumbling through a feeble explanation. ‘Ain’t what you think. They fell. I only picked them up.’
Mumma changed plan, fleeing out of the shop in a hasty dash. I recalled how her words ‘on your own’ had rung like a warning bell in my ears. Haynes yelled out, ‘Stop that felon!’ A stout passerby charged through the door, blocking any chance I might have had of following her.
Haynes rushed out, chasing after Mumma who had only managed to go beyond the next shop. I heard him yell out, and her furious answer: ‘I’m only looking for her father. He must be somewhere.’ Haynes was shouting. Mumma was shrieking: ‘All his fault, that’s what!’ Blaming poor Dadda, who we both knew was struggling over life and death. ‘He must have encouraged her to do such a thing. Why the girl’s not even mine!’ Until now I had forgotten how Mumma disowned me that day. How could she?
An evil air had come creeping in to swamp us, taking the form of the nightwatchman puffed up with his own importance, who handed us over to the constable, who in turn dragged us away through the thickening gloom to the watch-house. I had kicked and cursed the whole way, trying to break free, until a swift clout from the constable’s staff knocked me into surrender.
We were ushered before a Justice of the Peace with silky whiskers and a cold voice, who charged us with theft. Curling up beside Mumma on the straw-strewn flagstones of the watch-house cell, I had flopped my head dismally into her lap. She gave a sigh and rubbed my sore bump. ‘If Ball had been in his shop in the first place, we never would have landed in such a mess.’
She was right. ‘Ifs and buts!’ I had muttered in reply. If only we had changed our plans … If Haynes had not been so fast on his feet … Safe but for the watch … Safe but for the constable … If only I had got clean away I could have outrun the lot of them … But I did not. And we had failed poor Dadda. Now who was left to care for him? If and buts! Yes, indeed.
My thoughts came back to escaping. Somehow, I must convince Ann that we could do it.
6 January 1802
Today, my opportunity came. Only Ann was all in a mind to speak about Mistress Charlotte, and nothing else. She was the good wife of a free settler, who had passed over in childbirth. ‘Her husband is so affectionate, and so wealthy!’ Ann told me, ‘He wishes to spare no expense for his beloved Lottie. He has picked out the best plot in the burial ground and intends the grandest service.’
I sensed an opening. ‘Likely there’ll be a crowd lining up to lament the sad loss then.’
She nodded. ‘Mistress Charlotte was well liked. She never failed in her charitable service towards others.’
‘Good chance for us to abscond after her funeral, don’t you think?’
Ann’s mouth dropped open. ‘Oh, do stop with such folly, Mary.’
‘At least hear me out,’ I insisted. ‘This could be our best opportunity. You said yourself that the Cleaters are leaving for Sydney straight after the funeral and intend leaving you behind to keep house. I can ask Hetty to cover for me.’
I explained how simple it would be for me to disguise myself as a boy by dressing in black breeches and coat. How dark clothes would make me harder to locate, first amongst the mourners, then when darkness fell. ‘All I need is Tibs’ help,’ I said. ‘As soon as Mistress Charlotte’s service is over he must slip out of his Mute’s clothes and give them to me. You will already be dressed for the night so need not worry. After we leave, Tibs can point the soldiers to Henry Dodd’s grave, where I will have already placed my bonnet. A few droplets of blood pricked from my finger should convince them of disaster.’
Ann did listen, but her face drained of colour. ‘If they think Tibs has helped us escape they will lash him to pieces. He will most probably die out of desperation. That is if they do not hang him first!’
‘Do stop your fussing,’ I implored, ‘no one will blame Tibs. Why do you think I am leaving my bonnet behind? To make the soldiers think we have been taken by natives, that’s why.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, have you completely lost your wits?’
‘Can you think of anything better?’ Sometimes I wished she was not so sensible, and I, not so hot-headed.
8 January 1802
Ann hurried over to Quaker’s Row today and pressed a dark shawl of her own into my hands. Not Tibs’ clothing, like I had asked for. When I wondered what had pressed this change of heart, something secretive pooled in her eyes, but all she would say was, ‘My shawl will have to do.’
9 January 1802
At one o’clock this afternoon the funeral procession for Mistress Charlotte formed. The Reverend walked foremost, followed by Surgeon Thomson who had attended the poor mistress in her final hours. Tibs moved at a snail’s pace ahead of the good lady. Ann told me he had carved Mistress Charlotte’s initials on the coffin lid. Four Gentlemen of the colony acted as pallbearers, with Ann taking her solemn place as Weeper. The family followed, lamenting their loss. Then came some more Gentlemen.
With the dark shawl covering my head and shoulders I slipped into the throng, upwards of a hundred mourners, among whom I noticed anxiously were several Officers of Rank from the Corps. Amongst them, I spotted Captain Kemp. I kept an eye out for the Judge or Mumma, but they were nowhere about.
I waited anxiously. Ann and I had to depend on Tibs leading the redcoats to the bloodstained bonnet I had already left at Henry Dodd’s grave. Hopefully, we would not be missed too soon.
Poor Mistress Charlotte. Such a sorrowful day.
Mid afternoon
Ann struck past me. ‘Put some fire in your heels, Mary!’ she said firmly, leading me along tracks that I swore must be taking us in the wrong direction.
We stopped for a rest at a tiny hamlet of rough slab huts. Matted weeds grew through the walls. Old rags were stuffed into window openings. A babe whimpered. I heard a woman’s drunken curse and the bleat of a goat. I sat down with Ann on an old burnt log in the middle of a clearing.
She looked around and said uncertainly, ‘I am wondering how we could have finished up here.’
‘And where might here be?’ I asked.
‘Brickfields.’
I blinked in disbelief. Brickfields was completely out of our way, even I knew that. A dog growled. Ann pu
lled her shawl around her shoulders and murmured, ‘Somewhere close by they must have built the gallows.’
‘What are you blathering on about?’ I asked.
‘The murder. By all accounts it was a grisly tale. The murderers, Jones, his wife and their lodger left the body of their victim in the sawpit. After the trial they were hanged here, but first their hut was burnt to the ground.’ She gathered up some of the earth and let it fall through her fingers. ‘No one has ever since dared build upon this site.’
A cold southerly wind picked up and took bites at us. The air took on a peppery smell as if something had caught fire. You are a silly dolt, Mary, I told myself, you only smell broth cooking and a woodfire burning over at one of them huts.
Ann continued on with her dark tale. ‘They took Mistress Jones’ body to the hospital for the Surgeons to study, leaving the others strung up to rot until they were rags and bones. It was a warning to everyone with murder in their heart what could be in store for them if they dare carry through such a terrible deed.’
I swallowed hard, noticing we were shrouded by creepy shadows.
Ann’s eyes turned nervously towards me. ‘They say that when day turns into night, the ghost of that murdering Jones comes a wandering by.’ A strange expression filled her face. ‘I do not like carrying murder in my heart, Mary, do you? The soldiers are sure to blame innocent natives for our disappearance. They will go after them with their bayonets. The blood will be on our hands.’
Natives? Soldiers? Bayonets? Blood? Ann’s gibbering words mixed with the murderous ghouls dangling and dashing around in my head. Never once had I allowed the truth lurking behind my plan to step forward. The harm we would cause the natives was real. I felt shamefaced. Leaping to my feet, I said, ‘Hurry, Ann, we must go back and retrieve my bonnet before the redcoats find it.’
Ann was openly relieved. ‘That would be best, Mary.’
As we stood up ready to retrace our steps I heard a cracking and breakage of twigs. Before I could say ‘What do you think that was?’ a shape staggered from the shadows. There was no mistaking the limping, moaning, groaning bag of bones, tangle-haired and wild, that was heading straight for me. ‘Jones!’ I shrieked.
Its arms flailing frontward, the ghoul crashed into me. I lost my balance and fell, landing hard on my back. A nasty, foul smell was smothering me. I thrashed out. Go away, Jones! Leave me be!
Only when Ann pulled the wretched creature off me did my heart finally start to beat again. She was bent over him saying, ‘We must help. He is suffering.’
Rusting on his bruised ankles, those shackles were what they were and nothing else—convict irons. His filthy slop clothing hung in shreds. He was a man, barely alive, but not Jones, not the walking dead.
Ann broke off a morsel of a damper she had brought along. She wet the bread with her spittle, then pressed the softened dough to the man’s cracked lips. At the taste and smell of food he became a wild dog at a bone, snatching and biting at her finger. She cried out in pain, pulling away her hand. ‘Slow down, not too fast, or the choking will do you in,’ she said, taking her time to feed his hungry, thirsty mouth.
Gradually, he began to come around. His eyes were dull worn-out buttons, but he summoned the strength to speak, his voice coming out as a raw croak. ‘Be it my own funeral?’
Ann shook her head.
‘Be you the devil’s handmaidens?’
Ann caught my eye and pulled at her dark clothes. We must have looked unworldly to his weary eyes; two young girls dressed the way we were.
‘Be I alive then?’
‘We were thinking you was the ghost,’ I told him.
‘Nearly was.’
‘You are one of them absconders, ain’t you?’
He nodded weakly.
‘That’s what I thought,’ I said. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Dead.’ Slowly he recounted how as soon as they left the river there was no way of knowing where they were. All they could do was follow the sun. How wandering aimlessly, they tried to find a way over the Blue Mountains. The dangerous high cliffs and sheer drops prevented them. ‘Gave it our all, but out there is Hell,’ he said, and uttered a painful sigh. ‘Mercifully, I met you heavenly-sents. Kindly grab an arm each. Daresay I can brace myself from buckling and just about hoist myself up.’
‘We certainly ain’t angels. She is Ann. I am Mary.’
‘John. The pleasure be all mine. If you would drop me within range of a sentry, I intend turning myself in.’
‘You will be in grave trouble. They have been out searching for you for weeks.’
He managed a weak shrug. ‘At least I shall meet my end on a full belly. Stumps me how them native fellas ever find tucker out there.’
‘Did you come across any, natives, I mean?’
‘Frightened some off before running out of shot.’
Ann gave me a guarded look, which did not go unheeded.
‘Nothing for you girls to worry yourselves over,’ he reassured us. Suddenly he jerked up his head. ‘Wait on, I must’ve dropped my musket.’
I jumped up, offering to do the looking for him and scrambled into the bush where I soon retrieved it without too much trouble. ‘If you are caught with this,’ I shouted back, ‘you will be doubly made to suffer. How about I leave it stashed out of sight?’
‘Guess I be having no further use for it,’ he agreed.
I scrabbled through the broken branches and fallen tree trunks until I found a hidey-hole. After concealing the musket, I stuffed the hollow with bark peelings, twigs and leaves. No one but me should ever chance upon this place and know what was hidden.
‘Been telling your friend here to turn back,’ he enlightened me when I returned, ‘You’d never make it. Strong as an ox I was when I left, now look at the state of me.’
‘We had already changed our mind,’ I admitted.
Between us we supported John, but found it hard not to stumble. Dusk set in. We had to make our way slowly through the growing darkness. By the time we saw the welcome lantern at the Freemasons’ Arms, I could only be thankful our trek was near an end. John insisted we leave him alone to be recaptured. We bade him farewell, but not before he gave us a final warning, ‘Never chance an escape overland the way I did, for you shall surely die.’
16 March 1802
So much has happened in the few weeks since we came upon John. He has been kept in Parramatta hospital. There was no hanging, no flogging and no chain gang for him. Nor was he sent to Coal River.
Everyone holds a view on the mildness of his sentence. At the church service the Reverend preached that John deserved to hang, but said better he live so that his pitiful state serve as a lesson to us all. He told the congregation it was about time we all gave up the foolish notion of trying to escape over the Blue Mountains.
Hetty said there was more than one type of punishment. She said the Parramatta hospital is a wretched place. The windows and doors are missing. The wind blows through. The filth alone is more than enough for John to endure. You are doomed as soon as you enter.
Mumma said— Yes, Mumma and I have since been reunited! She was staying at the Judge’s residence in Port Jackson but is here now in Parramatta. Mumma said the real reason they did not hang John was because it suits those in power. They cannot afford to go killing all of us convicts. Without us working our hides off to the bone, clearing their land and planting their crops, cleaning their floors and raising their children, what would His Majesty have to show for twelve years of settlement?
Ann said it was most favourable that we met John or else we would have been the fools perishing. It was a lunatic notion in the first place, she said, and why she went along with me she shall never know.
I told her she was being too worrisome and reminded her we had already decided to go back before we even met John. Besides the Cleaters never found out. Hetty had made sure my absence went unnoticed. Did I not retrieve my bonnet? Nothing happened to Tibs. Or to any natives. Besides Ann kne
w very well why she went along with my plan. Because she was my best and truest friend. And I would have done the same for her. That is why.
I was glad to see Mumma again. Here is how it happened. I was cleaning fleece as usual, when I was issued with a pass and ordered outside in haste where I met William. Like Mumma, he is assigned to the Judge. He told me I was to accompany him on the cart. With a ‘Move on’ and flick of the reins we were soon heading over Clay’s Creek to the farmsteads beyond.
‘Over there is Experimental Farm,’ William told me, acting like he was taking me on the grand tour. ‘First farm set up in the colony. Belongs to Surgeon Harris these days. He is Surgeon to the Corps.’
Further on I saw a large homestead with shady verandahs. My hopes were raised. Could this be the Judge’s house? There were vast gardens, a vineyard, an orchard and a dairy. Waterways cut through the land. There were sheep with curved horns and bulky coats, and plenty of convicts laying bare the wheat fields. Most of the acres had already turned from golden to dry brown.
William soon put me right. ‘That’s Elizabeth Farm. Best land around. The Macarthurs have been there nine years. Their sheep are said to be much improving the breed. The name is well suited, since his wife keeps the place running in her husband’s absence.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Back in England, awaiting court martial over a duel with the Deputy Governor. Macarthur is a prickly one who can start an argument if you so much as catch his eye. The Judge is pleased he is away for they are in dispute over a debt. Most gentlemen have too great a sense of honour to press the Judge for what he owes them. But not that troublemaker Macarthur. And he has the backing of the Corps. If you ask me he won’t be satisfied until he and his friends are running this colony.’
Our short journey came to an abrupt and disappointing end at a house with shuttered windows and a sleepy verandah. The kitchen herbs were choking in a forest of weeds. The house was falling down in parts and no one seemed to care enough to fix it.
Convict Girl Page 3