The Rum Rebellion

by Libby Gleeson

  My Australian Story

  THE RUM

  REBELLION

  Libby Gleeson

  A Scholastic Press book from Scholastic Australia

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  The Diary of David Bellamy: Sydney Town, 1807-1809

  Historical Note

  References

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Copyright

  The Diary of David Bellamy

  Sydney Town, 1807-1809

  Tuesday 15th December, 1807

  On board the Duke of Carlyle

  ‘A ship’s log. A ship’s log for your life.’ That is what the Surgeon said when he handed it to me. Beautiful it is. Fine white paper and all covered in thick brown leather. A ship’s log and I am the ship. HMS David Bellamy.

  ‘You might find yourself needing this, Davy boy,’ he said. ‘It will not all be smooth sailing out there, you know.’ He pointed to the waves crashing on rocky cliffs that marked our point of entry to the harbour. ‘It is a rum-soaked, miserable place full of wild desperate creatures. You are going to feel a bit sad and lonely and writing it down can be a help, a kind of medicine. It is better than talking to yourself and going crazy.’

  ‘I will be all right.’ I did not look at him. ‘And as soon as I am able, I am going back. I am not staying here to rot at the end of the Earth.’

  He kept leaning on the rail and staring out to shore, not looking at me. If he had I might have wept. I could feel that pricking behind my eyes and I clutched this new possession to my breast. Does he know the depth of my feelings? Does he know that every morning I wake to thoughts of my Mother and my Father and all that I have lost?

  I will take this ship’s log and here I will write everything I cannot say out loud. Only here will I write that I am indeed a ship, a small vessel cast upon strange waters. I know not where I am going and what dangers may befall me. All I know is that fortune has deserted me, and I wish—oh, how I wish—that I could turn back the clock and be safe in my Mother and Father’s presence again.

  Evening

  Our supper is over but still it is light enough to write. Tomorrow I will meet my Uncle, my Mother’s Brother. I know nothing of him except the little I remember from what she said when she was ill. ‘A good man,’ she said. ‘A good, moral man.’ Does that mean he is like the parson and given to sermons and pious remarks? ‘In his youth,’ she said, ‘he wanted to be an actor, but that is now behind him and he set out for a new life in the Colonies.’

  Please God he is like her and like my Father, and not a man like the Captain, shouting and swearing. I want to run and hide when he is about the deck, stomping and bellowing like the old red bull in Thompson’s field, back in … no, I will not, I must not think about the village and all I have left.

  Thankfully I am not a sailor or a convict under his control but a passenger able to keep well out of his way. Just the sound of his boots pounding the deck makes everyone tremble.

  It is good to write that down.

  I will write one more thing on this page and then I will not look at it again.

  I am afraid.

  There, I have written it. I fear this strange land, its distance from my home, its inhabitants and its wild creatures, even my own relatives who are to take me in.

  I fear everything and I am not proud of that and I will not show it.

  Wednesday 16th December

  We are at anchor, still. I stood for a long time staring at the shore of this place, Sydney Town. The Surgeon came and pointed to the largest house on a small rise up from the Cove. ‘Governor Bligh’s House,’ he said. ‘You must have heard of him.’

  I shook my head. ‘Indeed no.’

  ‘He is the bravest sea captain ever trod deck,’ said the Surgeon. ‘If anyone can steer this land to better times, he can. He fought with the great Lord Nelson and then in the South Seas some of his men mutinied and put him and his supporters in a longboat. They rowed thousands and thousands of miles to land and never a one died.’

  I thought of the dead convicts and babies from below decks that we have watched slip over the side to their graves. Each time I thought of my Mother and my Father and I trembled.

  Later

  We are not to disembark until morning. While it was yet light I hung over the rail and Mr James Heep came and stood with me. We stared at the vessels at anchor and the smaller boats out fishing with lanterns strung above them. ‘Who knows what this place will bring, for us, young Bellamy?’ he said. I could hardly understand him for he speaks through his nose with a strange whining sound. He stood there, constantly stooping and then straightening, and winding his hands one around the other. Nowhere but on the closed world of a ship would I find myself in conversation with such a creature.

  I did not answer but listened to the voices calling across the water and the noises of singing and shouting from the lower decks of our own ship. There are extra rations tonight and, I think, much drinking and carousing. How can they be happy, transported as they are to this strange land? Perhaps it is just that tomorrow they will see sunlight again and feel the Earth firm beneath their feet.

  ‘At least they are happy,’ said Heep, indicating below decks. ‘I, on the other hand, cannot wait to finish my task here and then return.’

  I did not want to know of his task. I did not want to stand and listen to him. I did not want to reveal to him that I, too, plan to return. He went on and on about how his family had sent him out to find business opportunities. All I could think was that they had sent him to the other side of the Earth to escape his whining. But how could I escape him? When I return to England myself, may it not be on a ship with Mr Heep.

  I looked at houses scattered over the hillside not far from the water’s edge. Is that where Uncle George and Aunt Sarah live? Will they be kind to me? Will one of those houses be my new home? And are there children—cousins—with whom I can be friends?

  How strange it is to write again. It seems I barely know how to form my letters and the time when I sat by my Mother’s side, tracing what she had written, is so long ago. She looked over me with great patience and when my Father returned from his work he would take up my page and celebrate my success with loud praise. I must not think of that time. So long ago. So far away.

  Thursday 17th December

  I was woken at midnight. I was dreaming, terrible dreams. I was running from something but, man or beast, I could not see what it was. I ran down country lanes, dragging my lame leg, growing more exhausted, and each time someone was in the fields close by they turned away. I tried to call out but no sound came. Then I was in a village and I went to knock on doors to seek refuge but each house I went to had no door and no windows. They stood silent against me and I had nowhere to turn. I ran on and on and I was exhausted.

  The Surgeon woke me, saying that I had cried out in my sleep and he did not understand my words but felt I was sore distressed. He sat with me and held a glass of wine to my lips and spoke to me as if I were his own child. After that I slept again, but not soundly.

  We were up at dawn. I checked that everything from my cabin was packed away and went on deck. I wanted to see all, but I was wary of the Captain and the sailors as they gathered the passengers, preparing them to go over the side and into the small boats and then to the shore. I wedged myself between a stash of boxes and the ship’s edge such that no-one would see me, least of all the Captain or Mr Heep. I stayed there until I heard the Surgeon calling for me. ‘Look lad,’ he said, pointing to people gathered in front of a brick building. Maybe one of these will be your Uncle, come to fetch you.’

  He shook my hand then and wished me luck and passed on the Captain’s message tha
t I was to present myself to the ship’s Agent in the stone building to the left of where the people stood.

  I thanked him for his kindness and, taking with me only a bundle of my most precious things, I scrambled into the next boat. The chest with all I had in the world was to be deposited with the same Agent when it was raised from the hold.

  I was greeted by an old man with long white hair who reminded me so much of Mr Pennington, my Father’s partner, that I was startled. He said, ‘Well, well, lad, seen a ghost, have we?’

  I told him my business and he clapped his hands and said, ‘Ah. Mr George Suttor, a fine gentleman. It is a pleasure to do business with a relative of his.’

  That pleased me, and he called another gentleman who said that they had received a letter from my Uncle and that he would be with me himself at about luncheon time and I was to wait with patience.

  It was then about ten and they were all busy, so I was left to go out onto the docks and watch as our vessel was unloaded.

  I am writing this while I sit in front of the building and already I am receiving strange glances. A Soldier sitting on a pile of ropes studied me as I sat down and undid the lid of my ink. He seemed satisfied and promptly took a swig from his bottle, closed his eyes and is now sleeping.

  Each person who wanders past me stares. There is a woman just now with a baby wrapped in a shawl, and she calls to another to come and see what I am doing. I ignore them. A boy about my age is fishing at the edge. He has just caught a large silver fish and he flicked it high up in the air. It landed beside him and flopped about as he tried to take the hook from its mouth. Blood splashed on his hands. Even now, in the bag behind him, I see squirming and imagine that fish gasping for its last breaths of air.

  The convicts are coming off. They are strangely quiet now, staring at the wide expanse of sky, not seen by them since we crossed the Line some months back. Perhaps, like me, they cannot believe how blue this sky can be and how harsh is this Southern sun. But I have grown used to it these past few days. I know a splash of water on my skin or clothes will dry in moments.

  They are pitiful in their rags. They stagger forth and many stumble and fall, clutching at their fellows when they reach solid land. It is as if the Earth still moves underfoot, so accustomed are they to the movements of the ocean waves. Soldiers are everywhere, easy to see in their bright red jackets, although some of these are torn and, in places, more brown than red. The Soldiers stamp up and down the length of the area, shouting at the convicts and pushing those who move too slowly or who step away from the line. I cannot hear clearly the words the Soldiers say but their tone is rough and angry.

  A convict boy, no bigger than myself, catches my eye and says something, which I also cannot hear. He thrusts his arm forward in a wild gesture and twists his face so I know his words are unkind. What can he have done to be sent to this place? The wretches are marched off, away from where I sit. I am hungry. I wish my Uncle would come.

  Later

  That boy fishing, reeled in his line and made as if to leave. I nodded goodday to him but he replied with, ‘What you looking at?’

  I was surprised and said nothing, whereupon he came and stood over me. He said his name was Ralph and he was catching fish for his dinner and he had to hurry home to his Mother and his sisters.

  I stood up and shook his hand and said my name, but he had noticed my infirmity and said in a loud voice that I may be David but to him I would be ‘Gammy-boy’. That is better than ‘Limping Jesus’, which is the name the Second Mate on the ship used whenever I passed him on the deck.

  I think Ralph was about to ask me what had happened to my leg when there was such a commotion that he raced to the edge of the shore to see what was the matter. I followed as quickly as I could.

  A ship, the Parramatta, was lying beside the vessel on which I had travelled. A man, dressed as a gentleman, was standing on the deck but his behaviour was not what I expected. Even at that distance from the shore we could hear him screaming at the Captain who yelled back at him.

  I could not hear their words but there was such anger in their manner that those around them seemed to fall back with fear. Then the man turned abruptly and came over the side into a waiting boat. He stood tall as he was rowed to shore. He leapt from the boat as it beached and strode quickly to the Agent’s building. Ralph ducked away as he approached us but I was not so quick. He brushed past me and I caught a glimpse of dark anger in his eyes. I fell sideways and landed in the dust.

  Ralph pulled me up and rescued my book and my quill. I must have looked at him with a question on my face.

  ‘Captain Macarthur,’ was all he said.

  Friday 18th December

  I have met my Uncle.

  He came, as he said, at about luncheon time and I was much pleased to see him. I was growing tired and more and more hungry and I hesitated to ask the old man at the Agent’s for any food and the sailors and the people around the water’s edge all looked so busy and not to be disturbed. I wished I had thought to save some bread from my breakfast.

  I would have known my Uncle in any company. Like my Mother, his eyes are warm and brown and he has the same tooth on the left that crosses over the one at the centre of his mouth. Strangely, seeing that almost made me cry in ways that nothing else has, all these long months since she and my Father were taken from me. He welcomed me and I almost felt that I was back in the bosom of my family and the long hard months of travel were forgotten.

  ‘David, David, my dear boy.’ He embraced me tightly. Then he held me from him and studied me closely. ‘But you are quite pale,’ he said. ‘Did they feed you enough? Are you well?’

  Such shyness overcame me and I could not speak. Eventually he coaxed from me that I, too, had suffered from that which carried off my Mother and my Father and that had it not been for Mistress Pennington I would now be with them in Heaven instead of here at the far reaches of God’s Earth.

  He hugged me warmly. ‘You are lucky that we are now quite well-off for food. There was a time when many starved and some only survived by eating the wild spinach and other grasses. And even last year with the floods there was much hunger. But we are well provided for and we will soon fatten you up and put some red in your cheeks.’

  With that he produced some oatmeal cakes and an orange from his basket. I must have looked surprised for he asked me what was wrong and I told him that this was only the second time I had held an orange in my hand.

  The time before had been at Christmas, almost twelve months ago. Mr Pennington had given the fruit to my Father as a gift and in the morning, at breakfast, he placed it in my hand. We marvelled at its smell and the brightness of its colour and then my Mother broke it open and the three of us shared the sweet, sweet pieces till the juice ran down over our chins.

  ‘This one is all for you,’ my Uncle said quietly and we sat and watched the men heaving the boxes and the huge sacks up from the depths of the hold.

  Tonight we are at the home of my Uncle’s friend. I was introduced when we first entered the house but I have forgotten his name and I am now sitting on the bed, falling asleep while they talk in the room next door.

  Saturday 19th December

  I am not to live in Sydney Town after all but at my Uncle and Aunt’s farm. I have never been on a farm before.

  What if I am expected to do something with animals? What could I do? Milk a cow? Cut the wool from a sheep’s back? Pluck a chicken? I said something of this to Uncle George.

  He laughed and told me that he would teach me and that he had convict men who worked with him. Besides, much of his labour is in cultivating fruits and grain.

  I do not want to learn. And the men who work with him, they are convicts, transported for what? Murder? Robbery? Now I am more afraid than before.

  We have come to Parramatta, so different from that journey made from my village to the docks of London. There are no tall buildings here and no crowded, dark streets. The trees are different too—I never knew the co
lour green could vary so from one country to another. The track we travelled was narrow and tall trees with grey trunks and leaves that sloped down pressed close in on us.

  That animal that the Surgeon drew for me, the Kangaroo, is truly real. One stood between two trees as we passed some huts before we reached this town. It stood up, high on its back legs, like a man. I have never seen so strange a sight. My Uncle says they are common on his land where the trees grow thickly. I hope I never meet one face-to-face.

  We are to spend the night here and go on to the farm tomorrow. Uncle George is deep in conversation with his friend, Mr Caley, and I am left to amuse myself.

  The servant stares at me as I sit writing. Is she a convict? If so, what crime did she commit? Did she steal a petticoat or murder someone in a highway robbery? Perhaps she has not seen a boy write before.

  Certainly my Uncle tells me there is little in the way of schooling and that even my cousins, although they are younger than I, must work to help their Parents with the kitchen garden and with the animals. Perhaps he does not wish to have the convict workmen near the house.

  Uncle George’s friend is becoming agitated. He is holding up his jug of rum and swearing that before the year is out something must change. Freeborn Englishmen will have their rights and Soldiers must stick only to their soldiering. I do not understand what he is talking about and, besides, the year is almost finished.

  Monday 21st December

  I was so tired. My Uncle visited many people in Parramatta and we did not leave for the farm until the afternoon. I saw two Indians—a Mother and her child—sleeping by the entrance to a large farm as we crossed the river. They did not look like people to fear.