‘God, they’re an ugly bunch,’ Sarah Hutchins exclaimed, double chins wobbling with amusement. ‘Did you notice, Hannah, that they had no cover, not even a stitch mind you, as naked as new born babes.’
‘Yes.’ Hannah smiled. ‘I couldn’t help but notice, could I? But, you know . . .’ She paused searching for the right words. ‘They probably think we’re ugly, too, in their own way. I wonder, though, what they really think of us.’
‘Who cares? Anyhow, Hannah, we’ve got enough problems without worrying what a mob of blacks are thinking about. Don’t you agree?’
‘You’re not wrong about that.’ Hannah sighed. ‘You know, Sarah, it’ll be getting dark soon. Are we going to row all night to this place or stop somewhere?’
‘Who knows? Maybe we could ask the Lieutenant,’ Sarah suggested.
‘What? Ask him? I wouldn’t ask that bastard anything,’ Hannah muttered heatedly.
Sarah looked at her new friend and nodded. She’d seen the altercation before. They grew silent and sleepy as the afternoon went on, shadows of the gum trees on the bank lengthening and intruding further over the surface of the smooth water...
At dusk, the lighter pulled into a small wharf berthing with a thump that woke the dozing convicts. The lieutenant reinforced their awakening with a shout for attention. ‘Listen up, you women. We’re stopping here overnight, some of us in the inn.’ He pointed towards a barn-like structure with a sign above the wide doors that said SQUIRREL INN. ‘You convicts will remain on deck overnight unless called to the inn for consultation.’ He smirked, eyes roving and coming to rest on Hannah for a brief moment before flicking on. ‘You, come with me,’ he shouted and the comely red-haired pickpocket from Liverpool rose to her feet. The woman didn’t appear worried by the Lieutenant’s attention, rather she went eagerly, Hannah noted with amusement. Well, as long as it’s not me, she thought.
‘There’s blankets and water, too, in the hold,’ the lieutenant added. ‘Sleep on deck where you are. If you try to escape, well, you’ll be shot. The Sergeant here . . .’ the fat Sergeant smirked in recognition. ‘Never misses, so be warned. As for food, you’ll be fed tomorrow in the Factory. You’ll have to wait for it then. That’s it. Have a good night, ladies.’ He motioned to the red-haired woman who came, leaping up beside him onto the wharf and following along behind him up the narrow path to the inn.
‘Well, that’s it,’ Sarah drew her blanket closer as they settled down for the night. ‘What a day. Let’s hope tomorrow is better.’
Hannah gave a wry smile and also pulled the thin covering over her. She thumped her bundle of clothing into shape as a pillow. ‘Sarah,’ she replied, ‘that’s all we live for is hope.’ She closed her eyes and tried to sleep but it was impossible. Irritated, she opened her eyes to view the magnificence of the sky, the brilliance of the multitude of dazzling stars in the heavens above. John had told her of the Southern Cross and she looked for it, uncertain whether she found it but, no matter, the whole panorama was breath-taking. London had never been like this. She felt Sarah’s body move to huddle against her in the cool night air and after a few moments heard her soft, effortless breathing. How can she sleep so easily, she wondered? Her thoughts switched back to her future and that of Hannah P and dear, sweet Rosie. Would they be safe and would Hannah P ever find happiness? In the background, the raucous, drunken shouts of merriment from the inn merged with the new, mysterious sounds of the Australian bush. Finally, she slept, exhausted as the night moved on . . .
They sailed and rowed all the next morning. At midday, they came around a bend to find a small village on the left of the river. There were many houses, two large red-stone buildings, barracks of some sort, and a church spire visible near them. Ahead, a bridge crossed the river and behind it, Hannah could see a stone wall that appeared to be a dam.
They pulled into the right hand bank before the bridge and the Lieutenant — eyes bloodshot and features haggard — screamed at the convicts to get onto the bank. ‘Line up there, two abreast.’ He chortled at the Sergeant. ‘Hey, hear that? Two breasts, I said. Ha ha.’ He clutched at his aching head, replaced his regimental cap and brushed feebly at his crushed red coat. ‘Come on,’ he grimaced. ‘Let’s go, don’t hold me up.’ He gave a vague wave towards a two story stone building on the top of the hill. ‘Up there is your new home.’
They trudged behind the Lieutenant and his soldiers up the steep slope, passing a flour mill where silent male convicts stacked sacks on a cart, and halted on command at a barred door. They stood quietly in a group while the Lieutenant banged on the door.
A silver-haired, mutton-chopped individual with a prominent stomach opened the door. Behind him, Hannah could see a bunch of stern-looking women who looked like guards.
‘They’re all yours, Cyril,’ the Lieutenant announced, ‘sixteen fine wenches. Sign here, would you.’ He put the signed chit back into his breast pocket. ‘This one’s okay.’ He pushed the pick-pocket who’d been his bedmate forward. ‘Look after her, Cyril. There are one or two big mouths.’ His eyes settled on Hannah and Sarah and he pointed. ‘That one carrying the kid and the fat one next to her but you’ll teach them, I warrant.’ He beckoned to his soldiers. ‘Let’s go. Enjoy yourselves, ladies,’ he sniggered and lead his soldiers back down the hill.
The guards came forward and herded the women through the door. ‘Welcome to the Female Factory, ladies,’ said Cyril, keen eyes sweeping over them. My name is Cyril and I’m in charge. You’ll find me a pleasant companion unless you cause me trouble. God help you if that happens.’
Hannah shivered. Beside her, Sarah probed for Hannah’s hand and gripped it tight.
Chapter 8
PARRAMATTA
1810-1811
‘Follow me,’ Cyril ordered, eyes squinting behind horn-rims, ‘so I can show you where you don’t want to go before I show you where you will be going. Let’s go.’
One of the female guards swung open another door and they entered the ground floor of the Factory. On either side, tiny open-grilled cells stretched all the way to the far wall. Cyril herded them down the passage way between the cells, a few occupied by defeated-looking women who watched them with interest but in silence. At the far end, Cyril opened the last cell door and pointed inwards. ‘This is the one we call the dark cell. It is complete darkness when the door is closed, not a speck of light. It’s not nice, is it?’ He slammed the door shut, the sound reverberating through the stillness of the cell block. A shriek of anguish came from midway up the block. ‘Shut up, Gabrielle,’ Cyril raised his voice, but not unkindly, as if he was talking to a child. ‘That’s a good girl.’ As they retraced their steps, Hannah cast a glance into Gabrielle’s cell. A straggly-haired, painfully thin woman lay huddled on the cold, moist stone floor in a foetal position, low moans emanating from her open, dripping mouth. ‘Gabrielle’s spent some time in the dark room,’ the superintendent commented casually, as if he was discussing the state of the weather. ‘She was a bad girl once but not anymore.’ He pointed to the stairway. ‘The trusties will take you up top to your place . . .’ He paused, eyes moving from face to face, finally settling on Hannah. ‘In there is quite reasonable existence, food and work. Down here is hell. You’ve been warned.’
The first few days in the upstairs floor of the Female Factory were terrifying for the new arrivals. Forty eight women crowded into one large open room 60 feet long and 20 feet wide. Hannah looked askance at the gaps in the filthy wooden floor and the common slop buckets with no privacy. At one end, an open fireplace served as the roster cook’s domain for the preparation of food. Bales of wool lined the sides of the room and substituted as beds. Running through the middle of the room, long rough tables served as work benches and for eating. A crazed woman went berserk a few days after their arrival and slashed a trusty with scissors. They dragged the screaming woman down the stairs to the cells below. ‘I heard them say they’re taking her to the dark room,’ whispered Sarah fearfully, as they sat side by sid
e removing stitches from garments. ‘My, God, Hannah, she’ll die down there.’
‘Yes. Maybe she’ll be better off.’ Hannah despondently picked at a soldier’s torn redcoat before re-sewing a patch. ‘I shouldn’t say that, should I? Oh, God, I don’t know . . .’
‘How’s the baby going?’ Sarah asked, changing the subject abruptly.
Hannah smiled through misty eyes. ‘He’s kicking. I think the wee one wants to get out.’
‘If I was him, I’d stay there. It’s safer. Oh, my God, Hannah, I hate this place.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I heard that some of the town men are coming on Saturday to ask for marriage or servants.’
Hannah looked at her friend keenly. ‘Will you go if someone asks for you?’
‘Well, I suppose so, Hannah, but I don’t want to leave you. You’re a good friend but I do want to get out of here, hopefully to some better life.’
‘You should go if you find someone decent who’ll look after you. Think about the future, Sarah. You could have children and then I’ll come and visit you, if and when I get out of this place.’
‘What about you, though? Someone might ask for you and―’
‘Are you crazy? Who’d take a woman with a kid due in three months? I’ll be here for some time, I daresay.’ She nodded her head, resigned. ‘At least until after the child is weaned.’
The days were long and tedious as the weeks went by. Convicts came and went, some accepting marriage, some assigned to an employer in Sydney or Parramatta and, occasionally, a rebellious convict would be sent below to Cyril and his cells.
Sarah was not chosen for marriage or assignment which surprised Hannah. She was pleasant company and a good worker. What more did they want, everyone to be pretty, charming and their willing slave?
Sometimes, the two women obtained permission to take their work to the large bay window that fronted the village of Parramatta. Here they would sit, darning or stitching, comfortable in each other’s company, and watch for the twice-weekly lighter to come around the far bend and discharge its convict passengers on the right bank. Then they would watch the newcomers herded into a familiar group and trudge behind the tall figure of the same hostile army lieutenant up the steep hill. They would scrutinize faces as they came closer, searching for friends and acquaintances and analyzing the body language of the newcomers. Later the boredom would be relieved — if only temporarily — by hearing the latest news from Sydney Town and, occasionally, with great excitement, England or Ireland and beyond. Hannah looked forward to these arrivals. It was the only thing that kept her from going mad, that and the pending arrival of her and John Dixon’s child . . .
Hannah gave birth to Charlotte Rose Dixon five days before Christmas 1810. As she clasped the tiny fair-haired, bundle to her bosom, her thoughts roamed to John Dixon. She could picture him now, leaning on a rail in characteristic, casual style, that oily old cloth cap shoved to the back of his head, staring at the green, heaving sea. Would he feel the vibes from so far away? Would he be a proud father? She reminded herself to write a letter care of the shipping line. Of course, she couldn’t put pen to paper herself but Sarah knew how to write. Although the trusties and her fellow convicts were kind and considerate during the birth — oh, how they loved babies — she wished with all her heart and soul that she could see the faces of her two dearest friends, Hannah P and Rosie. Oh, God, how she missed them. She couldn’t answer when a trusty asked her ‘Why so sad, Stanley? You’ve got a fine baby there, even if it is a Currency.’
She’d sniffed and wiped at wet cheeks. ‘Yes.’ She gave a wry smile ‘tis a fine Currency baby. Sorry for the tears, I guess it’s just the memories of what might have been.’
‘We all have those, Stanley.’ The trusty grew thoughtful. ‘They come along with our regrets, unfortunately.’
After the festivities of Christmas and the New Year — the convicts celebrated with smuggled-in cider and cake while the trusties turned a blind eye — the women settled back into the familiar routine of work and boredom.
In February, Sarah accepted the offer of marriage from a John Bridges, a ticket-of-leave convict and blacksmith by trade. ‘He’s got a shop in Sydney Town,’ she told Hannah wild-eyed. ‘It’s near Government House.’ She searched Hannah’s face for reaction. ‘He does seem to be a good man,’ she added.
‘He’d better be,’ Hannah threatened, ‘or else he’ll cop it from me.’
Sarah and John were married in the Female Factory to the exhilaration and celebration of the inmates. The vicar came up from Parramatta. Hannah hugged Sarah close when she left, immediately going to the bay window to watch the plump, happy bride frisk down the hill, arm in arm with her equally happy husband. She watched until they were indiscernible figures down by the bridge before turning away. Charlotte was crying, demanding attention. Why is that as soon as I make friends, I lose them, she asked herself as she breast fed the child. The baby gulped greedily and Hannah sighed with love for the tiny life in her hands. Whatever happened to her in the future, she would always have Charlotte.
The weeks stretched into months as Hannah languished in the Female Factory. Although the other women were, in the main, friendly and cooperative — they loved to hold the baby, even change its cloth and sing soft ballads to her — she missed Sarah for her simplistic honesty, everlasting cheerfulness and the spontaneity of her laughter. She had been fun to be with and, in a place like this one, Hannah needed that to survive in the constant boredom of sewing and stitching and the overwhelming feeling of futility. Charlotte, alone, was the catalyst that motivated her determination to survive and find a better life for her daughter.
One cold, wintry day in July, a new group of convicts arrived, led up the hill in the customary manner by the hated army lieutenant. Hannah overheard the group talking as they came upstairs, two of them discussing the government farm in Sydney Town. She froze with excitement. That was Hannah Porter’s assignment. ‘Excuse me,’ she said to the pair, ‘but do you know a friend of mine who was sent to the government farm. Her name was Hannah Porter.’ She gazed hopefully from one to the other.
‘Porter? Hannah Porter?’ The older one looked pointedly at the other who furred her eyebrows. ‘Yes,’ responded the older woman. ‘I knew of Porter. She’s no longer there.’
‘She’s gone for a trip up north,’ the other woman chuckled, ‘to Newcastle. ’
‘Newcastle? Where’s that and what is she doing there?’ asked Hannah, a premonition of disaster gripping her.
‘Doing extra time,’ said the older woman. ‘She abused an overseer and slapped him, knocked him down she did—’
‘But only after he belted her near senseless. He’s a mongrel is Jack Steele. He almost killed her, they say.’ The younger woman shook her head. ‘And they shaved her head, too.’
‘Oh, no.’ Hannah’s eyes flooded with tears. What she must be going through. ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ she said softly and walked away with lowered head. Devastated, she sat on her wool bale, staring into space, and tried to gather her thoughts ... irrepressible, kind-hearted, staunch, faithful friend, unlucky in love and life, our Hannah P, back in prison again. Hannah glanced down at the young babe chortling away in the basket beside her. God protect this little babe, she thought, and God help us all . . .
It was the vicar who prompted her to apply for ticket-of-leave after the compulsory service one Sunday. Surprised, she reminded him about the often-quoted four year waiting period. That can be dispensed with, he told her, if you have a recommendation from someone in authority.
‘Oh.’ She grimaced, disappointed. ‘That’s the end of that, well.’
‘On the contrary, young lady,’ the vicar replied, leaning forward to chuck Charlotte under the chin. ‘I will support your application and I believe it will be successful.’
‘Oh, glory be! Would you? That would be wonderful but how can I repay—’
‘No pay, Hannah. We’ll just be happy knowing it will mean a chance for you, a new life
for you and the babe and . . .’ He paused to make eye contact, anxious to test her reaction. ‘There is one thing you could do for us, however. My wife and I wondered if you might consider working with us in our home here in Parramatta for a while, nothing too hard, you know, just a little housework here and there. Florence is getting old like me and her arthritis is so bad she has trouble bending. You could stay as long as you like until you get on your feet.’ The clergyman searched her face. ‘So what do you think, Hannah?’
‘Oh, Reverend Melville, what can I say? ’ She felt the tears forming. They came so easily these days. ‘You know,’ she said, smiling now, ‘It’s all too easy to cry in here in this place. I do it all the time. Ha ha.’
‘I can understand that,’ he said softly and rose. ‘So it’s a deal, Hannah Stanley?’
‘Yes, oh, yes, thank you.’
‘That’s good.’ He touched the child’s rosy cheek. ‘I’ll be in touch again, soon.’
She watched his tall, black-garbed figure disappear from sight down the stairway. She was exhilarated. Was there a glimmer of hope ahead for her and her daughter? ‘Lucky you don’t know what’s going on here, missy, otherwise you’d poop your pants with happiness.’ She rocked the wide-eyed babe and laughed when Charlotte Dixon responded with a chortle.
The women gave Hannah and Charlotte a good-natured but envious farewell from the Female Factory. ‘Ticket-of-leave, your majesty?’ they exclaimed, clapping her on the back. ‘Well, well, remember us when you get your land grant. We’ll come and work for you.’
Hannah never forgot that last walk down the hill. She did look back, just the once, drinking in a last glimpse of the grey, dismal building and wondered how she had survived all those months. Still, she knew it could have been much worse. She could have been sent down below to Cyril’s cells and languish in the terror of his infamous, soul-destroying black cell. Looking ahead, now, she could see, on the other side of the bridge, Reverend Melville’s tall, distinguished figure standing beside his buggy. She hurried down to meet him.
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