Convict Girl

by Chrissie Michaels

  ‘De rien. It is only child’s play,’ the Commander replied. ‘Therefore I take little offence. Nevertheless, such songs do not promote goodwill between your country and mine.’

  I had to bide my time, until I heard the heavy sound of boots and a door closing. Only then dare I sneak back into the house. Mumma came flying at me. ‘Where’ve you been dillydallying? Leaving me to fetch them girls, one blubbering and the other as pale as a ghoul. No knowing what mischief they caused.’

  All I could think of was that the Judge and the Commander would know full well where the girls learned the ‘Giant Bonaparte’. From me, their nursemaid.

  Later

  The Judge summoned me to the library. He addressed me in a grave voice. ‘In future you are to ensure the girls do not indulge in any base habits. No low songs. No street games. No unseemly dress. No words, nor manner that may prove offensive to the sensibilities of any person of rank. Do you understand?’

  I curtsey bobbed and said in barely a whisper, ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  ‘Only a plea by your mother meant I have refrained from reprimanding you until now over the sorry state of affairs at Simeon Lord’s.’

  He knew about the girls wandering off from the hospital? Mumma never told me the Judge had found out.

  ‘Moreover Frances Penelope has advised me of a certain incident involving a cockatoo. If it were not for your mother—’ He frowned at me, and I caught the flowered scent of his nosegay. ‘I will not overlook any more mishaps, is that clear?’

  I took my leave, fully aware the Judge would not tolerate me making convict maids out of his little ladies. When Mumma asked me what the Judge had said, I shrugged off her question. ‘Duh ree-arn.’

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing.’ But it was everything, this warning from the Judge. I could never forget that I was a convict girl, a prisoner for life. If I lost the Judge’s protection, my future could so easily take a turn for the worse. Mumma’s too.

  I was relieved to settle for the night. Without bothering to light the candle I threw off my shift, pulled out my sleeper from where it was squeezed under the girls’ bedstead and flopped down. My leg touched something cold. Something coiled. Twisted rope? Something scaly. A snake! In a flash I rolled onto the floor, expecting the deadly strike to be swift.

  I waited. And I waited. In the darkness it was difficult to be sure, but I started to believe the snake was not moving. Eventually I gathered some courage and prodded the creature. Rightly, as I suspected—dead. Oh, the scallywag who put it there better value her life!

  I wrapped the snake in a shawl, carried it outside and flung the contents over the verandah rail. Mistress Poppy must have picked it out from the Commander’s specimens. Yuck! My shawl smelt of preserving spirits.

  28 August 1802

  Captain Hamelin’s ship came back infested with thousands of rats. So its decks have been cleared and unloaded and they have fumigated it with sulphur. Since I have still not forgiven Mistress Poppy for her mischief making, I decided to use this piece of information to deliver a sound lesson.

  ‘What do you know?’ I said, grabbing her arm and drawing her aside. ‘That pack of hungry French rats was jammed so tightly in the Naturaliste, at first smell of escaping they came spilling out of every open crack. In such a hurry they were, that they scrambled over each other’s backs, swam upstream and jumped over creek beds.’

  I raised my voice, making her jump. ‘Whole armies of them are marching in the direction of Parramatta on the orders of the Giant Bonaparte. Soon they will be climbing up petticoats and breeches, ready to tear at the throats of all naughty young children. Let us hope there are no naughty girls around these parts.’ Poppy wrenched her arm away from me. But I was far from finished. ‘You had better pull the bed ropes tight before those rats come climbing. If only we had a snake to guard us, for they do so love to munch on rats.’

  ‘You think you can say or do anything!’ she sneered. ‘You are nothing to Teresa and me. You will never find a place in our affections!’

  Oh, what had got into me, upsetting Mistress Poppy like that? I heard a sniffle and turned to see Mistress Tessa cowering in the corner. Her angel face had crumbled. I hugged her. ‘Let us pay Ann a call,’ I ventured, sorely in need of a breath of fresh air.

  She sniffed. ‘You do not like Poppy. You hate her. She told me so.’

  ‘She is being silly.’

  ‘Is she a shabby silly dolt?’ Tessa asked.

  ‘Little ladies do not speak that way,’ I said lamely. ‘Mistress Poppy is no such thing.’

  As we made our way to the Cleaters, I was much disturbed. If the Judge found out what had just happened he would be angry. Lawdy, why did Mistress Poppy think I disliked her so? She knew I had trouble holding my tongue. She must forgive me for that, surely? Then I realised. All along she had only wanted a mother to call her own. But who did she end up with? Me, as her nursemaid. I decided to make amends. I had to. For all our sakes.

  On our arrival, Mistress Tessa pleaded with Ann to summon the Pied Piper. Ann queried me with her eyes, before asking, ‘Why ever, dearest?

  ‘So he can lead the Giant Bonaparte’s rats away. Mary says they are marching by the thousands to eat us.’

  Ann frowned at me full of accusation, but continued on in her ever calm voice, ‘Where shall the Piper lead them, pet?’

  ‘Over the Blue Mountains where they shall fall from the cliffs and be gone forever.’ Her lip trembled. ‘Mary shall send Poppy too.’

  With a firm hand Ann pulled me aside. ‘Mary Beckwith, wicked girl, whatever are you doing, clouding this sweet child’s head with ruinous thoughts, and being so cold to her sister?’ She gave Mistress Tessa a soothing cuddle and squeezed her hand. Only when she was satisfied that innocence had been restored did she hand the little mistress back into my care.

  I bade her a hasty farewell, carrying home an uneasy feeling that Ann may wish to reconsider her offer for me to be nursemaid one day to her own precious brood.

  Later

  With Sarah nowhere to be found, Mumma sent me to the verandah to scrape the mud off a pile of boots. The double doors were ajar. I overheard the Judge in deep conversation with one of his Loyal friends. The matter concerned Commander Baudin. He had purchased the Casuarina, which is the schooner I saw at Master Underwood’s shipyard. She was now seaworthy and had taken a short voyage to Botany Bay.

  Captain Hamelin is to end his campaign in order to take much of the scientific cargo back to France on the Naturaliste, while the Casuarina is to join the Voyage of Discovery and continue on with the Géographe for a closer examination of the south coast of New Holland. The Commander planned to revisit Encounter Bay, the place where he chanced on Captain Flinders last April. I wondered if he would cross paths again with my Spithead Captain.

  Left to my own musings, I buffed the boots to a high shine. Hopefully Commander Baudin had ordered all those bothersome sailors I met at the hospital to go back to France on the Naturaliste. That way he could be rid of their complaining ways. He should keep only friendly sailors and officers for the Géographe and the Casuarina. That is what I would do if I were in charge.

  13 September 1802

  We have been two days in Port Jackson. Meg has surprised us by being here as well. The cheerful sound of the turning mill-wheel and the delicious smells coming from the bakehouse lead me to where she has been busily filling an order of biscuits for the Commissary, who has promised a year’s supply for the French ships.

  Meg pointed over to a French officer and whispered, ‘He comes every day to collect a batch. Stands there inspecting them for freshness.’

  ‘Their food will have to last the entire year,’ I ventured to say. ‘Such responsibilities require Commander Baudin to be cautious.’

  ‘Hark you! As if you know him so well!’

  ‘But I have made his acquaintance,’ I said, knowing I sounded boastful, ‘which is why I can speak so highly of him.’

/>   Meg insisted on the final word. ‘A year should see these biscuits hard enough to crack some teeth. The only soft bite in that hardtack will be the weevils.’

  We ended up rollicking in laughter over all our tales, including mine about a wayward cockatoo and a dead snake. Before Meg sent me on my way she slipped me a hot biscuit with a mouthwatering golden top and a buttery centre.

  22 September 1802

  1 vendémiaire, XI

  We remain in Port Jackson. The French calendar says today is New Year’s Day, Year 11 of the French Republic. I learned this from the little mistresses, who learnt this from the Judge. See, I have practised writing it under today’s date.

  The girls and I went out to the cove this morning to watch the French ships celebrate. There was the customary firing of salutes. The officers lined the decks. After raising their own colours the French flew our Union flag to honour King George. In turn we flew the Tricolour in respect of their Republic. Fancy us honouring the Giant Bonaparte! All seemed fine, until one of our Captains pulled down some flags. Everyone started murmuring. Something was wrong.

  26 September 1802

  Oh, what trouble has ensued over those flags! The Judge has only this hour returned from another meeting at Government House. He slammed the door as he came in, and we heard him calling for Mumma. ‘Damn and blast, where are you woman?’ His face was strained.

  All this fuss and bother is because our Captain took offence over the way the French ship flew His Majesty’s flag. He said it was placed too low on their mast and insulted King George. That is why he pulled down his flags. Then he lodged a complaint with Surgeon Harris, who as Harbourmaster had to take the complaint to Governor King.

  Commander Baudin turned up at Government House, most indignant. ‘A genuine error has taken place,’ he said, ‘your people overreact. We merely have a different way of placing our flags to you.’

  Then some of the Corps went strutting around Port Jackson saying the French officers did too knowingly dishonour our flag. Captain Kemp was the ringleader. The Judge has had to spend long hours helping the Governor avoid further unrest.

  I must finish writing. Mumma has come in all vexed. I am to return forthwith to Parramatta, taking the girls. She is to stay in Port Jackson to keep house here until this trouble has settled. ‘With not a soul about to give me a hand,’ she moaned. ‘I shall surely be worn out.’

  10 October 1802

  Today Mumma returned to Parramatta.

  ‘I could do with a brew,’ she said, slumping into the Judge’s favourite armchair. He was not due back until nightfall. I handed her a piping hot drink. ‘Ah!’ She sighed, after taking a sip. ‘What a time we’ve had over those blessed flags. The row would have ended earlier, if Captain Kemp had not gone spreading more rumours—accusing a French officer of selling the Atlas liquor to a convict.’

  I was amazed. ‘Governor King only let Commander Baudin buy that liquor as long as it was not sold on shore. I heard the Judge say so myself.’

  Mumma shrugged. ‘Anyways, the French officer concerned, a man called Freycinet, gave his word as a gentleman that he had not sold on any of that liquor to any convict. The Governor believed him. The Judge believed him. Kemp’s the only one still doing the accusing. The Corps have backed Kemp of course. None of them like the thought of someone else getting what they want.’

  I remembered the warning Hetty had given me when I first arrived. ‘On no account go clashing with the Corps. Swaggerers, the lot of ’em.’

  ‘Pour me another brew, daughter,’ said Mumma. ‘Let’s read them tea leaves and see what they have to say about it all.’

  12 October 1802

  Captain Kemp has refused to stop blaming the French officer. He even called him to a duel. On top of this the Governor is worried that the Irish convicts may join forces with the French, or try an uprising of their own. He is not far wrong, given what I already know about Bridget and her rebels.

  The Judge is doing a lot of shouting around the house: ‘Damn and blast the Corps! The Governor shall court martial the lot of them if he has to. Kemp is only the first!’

  This morning the Judge laid out his stock of weapons to be cleaned and refitted. Four muskets, three rifles and one sword are at the ready. The Governor is truly afraid the Corps might turn against him over this Atlas business. He has called a muster of the arms held by everyone in the colony. William said this is so he knows if his own loyal men have enough weapons to foil any plots.

  Later

  A small party of the Loyals have just left. They came to draw up a plan in case fighting breaks out. They agreed on a signal to arms if and when the Governor required their support. Then they toasted their loyalty.

  By my reckoning everyone involved thinks everyone else is unworthy and wicked, which is odd because most of the time these are words used to describe us convicts, or the rebels, or the natives. It left me wondering if this is how wars begin—through simple mistakes and angry, insulting words.

  The Judge continued his toasts until he was so overcome by the brandy he thought that he had already gone into battle. Thus far we have all been prevented from sleep by his thick voice shouting fierce orders—‘Fall in men! Shoulder arms! Mark time!’

  I have pulled my coverlet over my ears in the hope he will not come charging through the door waving his sword. Lawdy! If the Judge ever does go into battle I fear any weapon he handles may well and truly mistake their mark.

  13 October 1802

  I overheard the Judge give a chuckle of relief and paused to listen.

  ‘Young Kemp has been made a laughing stock,’ he was saying, ‘picked him over as a fool from head to toe.’

  The Judge was standing with one of his Loyals on the verandah, looking over a poster from Port Jackson which certainly was keeping them both amused. Seems one of the French artists, a Muh-shoe-err Petit, had been drawing some laughable sketches of Captain Kemp and posting them around the township for all to see. The Judge added, ‘A good likeness if I say so myself.’

  ‘Serves Kemp right! He has wasted a good deal of everyone’s time,’ replied the Loyal. ‘From now on, I hope he holds his tongue. It was a good move by the Governor to threaten him with a court martial and then put a stop to it. Force his hand that way so he would agree to send a letter saying he was mistaken about Officer Freycinet. Make him swear not to go through with the duel. Hopefully, these actions will settle the matter once and for all.’

  ‘For the French at least,’ agreed the Judge. ‘Nevertheless the Governor must watch out. No one in the Corps likes to be slighted. Not only Kemp. They do not favour any interference in their trading.’

  When it was all quiet in the library I sneaked in to have a look at the poster of Captain Kemp. It is a true likeness, and very amusing!

  31 October 1802

  Disaster has struck today! We were in the parlour. I was tickling Tessa who was squealing like a hog when the jingle of a harness and the rattle of wheels approaching the house disturbed us. There was a heavy thud of trunks being hauled onto the verandah.

  Curious, we went quiet, only to hear the judge’s voice rush out an excuse. ‘Pressing business with the Governor. Back shortly, Elizabeth, we shall talk then.’

  The driver called, ‘Move on,’ and the buggy rumbled away.

  Still we did not know who had arrived.

  A soberly dressed lady stepped into the parlour, brushing the dust off her skirts with finely gloved fingers. She looked our way and gave a short gasp. ‘What are those wretched servant children doing in here?’

  Even I had to admit that Mistress Tessa was not looking her finest and could be taken for a servant. Her pinafore bore the stains of our pretend blackbird pie. Streaks of dirt marked her face. Seeds of dry grass were stuck fast in her tangled hair. Mistress Poppy was slumped in the armchair, squinting over her needlepoint, her mouth drooping, ugly with concentration.

  I scrambled to my feet and gave a quick curtsey bob. ‘No, Mistress, begging your pardon, t
hese are the Judge’s daughters, the Mistresses Tessa and Poppy.’

  Her eyes drifted over them. ‘Richard’s children?’

  I made another curtsey. ‘That is right, Mistress, and I am their nursemaid.’

  I heard Mumma shrieking my name as she rushed into the parlour. On seeing the Lady she came to an astonished halt. No one spoke. The silence was thick with the Lady’s flowery scent. I kept wondering who she was, with her pale, unblemished skin and her way of looking at us with her eyes half-closed. But I could not fathom what she had in mind as her gaze descended on Mumma, then back to Mistress Tessa, then over to Mistress Poppy and then across to me.

  As if spreading a wing, she reached over to take Mistress Poppy’s needlepoint for inspection. Her words came out strained and tight. ‘Henceforth, Teresa and Penelope, you are to call me Mother.’

  ‘Frances Penelope,’ Mistress Poppy corrected. A smile was born on her downward-turning mouth. After all, wasn’t a mother what her little heart had been pining for all this time? And this fine figure of a Lady standing before her would do very well.

  This Lady who could only be Mistress Atkins, the Judge’s lawful wife, addressed Mumma coolly, ‘I take it you are the housekeeper. See the girls are bathed. Burn the clothes they are wearing. At once!’ But she could easily have been His Majesty’s mother, the way she spoke with a plum in her mouth and carried her head upright as she swept past us.

  Later

  All afternoon, Mumma has been full of complaint. She swears the Judge must have been forewarned, but the rascal never remarked on it. She kept on shaking her head at me and saying, ‘What a turn up. Times are changing and not the way we expected.’