The Rum Rebellion

by Libby Gleeson

  We walked almost all the way to arrive here at Chelsea Farm as the night was drawing in. I wished the carrier who brought us from Sydney Town continued through to the new settlements. I did not complain although my bad leg was aching and I was fearful of all kinds of danger.

  Uncle George said this road is well settled and no harm would befall us, but I know in stories such calm is always followed by a fierce attack. At every turn in the road, I looked nervously at the tall trees, expecting to find the black figure of an Indian, or some convict escaped from the chain gang and still wearing the heavy iron fetters on his legs.

  Such things do happen. That evening when first we were in Sydney Cove, Mr Heep told me he had heard that many convicts escaped because they work on the farms and sometimes when their masters are away they simply leave. They think they can find another country beyond the bush when, in truth, there are vast oceans between this land and any other.

  At length, Uncle George placed me on the cart with my sea chest and the new hoes and the axe he purchased in Parramatta. He talked of his children and how they are hoping to find in me a big Brother to welcome into the family.

  I have never been a Brother. I do not want to be one. I do not want to sit at the table listening to the talk of other children. I do not want to share in their family. I had my own—my Father and my Mother—now gone. They cannot be replaced even though these Suttors are my own flesh and blood. I can never be as their own child.

  And how can I work in this land of suffocating heat, so great that it sucks the water from your skin and the air from your chest? My leg is throbbing. Now my Uncle knows that I cannot run and keep up with others, he must think me a great disappointment.

  Last night I fell asleep so soon after we arrived. Indeed I slept the last part of the journey. I remember Uncle George lifting me down from the cart and there being lots of little ones underfoot and a lady, my Aunt Sarah, welcoming me. I was so tired, my eyes fell closed and I could say nothing to her. She settled me on my bedding even in the clothes I had been wearing since leaving the ship, saying that I could worry about the niceties of a clean nightshirt when I was rested and accustomed to my new land.

  My bed is in a corner of the main room and I drifted into sleep to the sound of her shushing my cousins and preparing them for their night’s rest. I need not have feared my dreams for I drifted off into the soundest sleep that I have enjoyed, I believe, since leaving England so many months ago.

  I woke to the sight of a small face not inches from my own. Large brown eyes studied me intently and then a plump finger reached out and touched my nose and then my lips. I opened my mouth and made to gobble up the little hand whereupon the tiny owner of that hand erupted into gales of laughter and soon I and everyone in the room joined in.

  ‘I see you have met our Sarah Cordelia,’ said my Uncle, lifting up his youngest daughter and placing kisses on her rosy cheeks. ‘Named for her lovely Mother.’

  He called the other children to him and they lined up like descending stairs in a grand home—even though they stood on the bare dirt floor.

  ‘This one is George, known as Georgie, then Eliza and Thomas, William and Sarah. There will be another soon enough. I have a hunch it will be another lad, a son, and we will call him John Bligh Suttor. John for his grandfather and Bligh for our esteemed Governor, the best that has ever graced this Colony. Long may he continue.’

  Now it is late morning. I am seated just beyond the door, in the shadow for it is so hot in the sun. Indeed I do not think I have been so hot in all my life for even on board ship in the tropics there was always a breeze off the water to cool oneself.

  My Uncle has gone to where the convict men have finished the maize harvest. There, I have learnt that already. Here is grown maize and some wheat and barley as well as vegetables. And there are pigs and chickens and goats and some cattle and sheep.

  Young Georgie and Thomas wanted to take me everywhere to see everything and they wanted me to help them with the weeding in the garden but Aunt Sarah has told them I am to rest today. She is concerned that I am not yet fully recovered from my sickness, despite the months spent on board ship, and she says I am to move slowly into helping on the farm. She asked me this morning if my leg hurt. I said no although the truth is that I have a great deal of pain after the long hours spent walking yesterday.

  William, who I believe is three years old, has been sent to the poultry yard to find a fresh hen’s egg for my lunch. I do not know when last I saw such a thing.

  It is hard to remember everyone’s name. And there is a woman, Ellen, who was building the fire when I woke up. The sweat ran from her face like a drizzle of rain. I think she is a free woman, here to help my Aunt, but I am not sure. From where I am sitting I cannot see where my Uncle has gone, so I cannot see the convict men.

  Tuesday 22nd December

  I have been in this land now for a week and how my life has changed.

  This morning I went with Georgie to where the pigs are kept. Two of the three convict men passed us near the bottom gate and one of them called to him and asked who his limp-lame partner was. Georgie did not answer. The man’s words were like those of the Second Mate aboard the Duke of Carlyle, and he was toothless and fearful-looking with a stringy yellow beard. ‘That is Arthur,’ was all Georgie said.

  Even with him I had nothing to say and listened as he talked on about the sow that was due to have piglets very soon. He carried a long stick and brushed the grass ahead of us and said it was for the brown snakes of which I must be wary.

  Another convict, Jim, was with the sow. I stood as far from him as possible. He smiled at us, in a friendly enough way.

  That old pig was as full and fat as any animal could be. It grunted and rolled on its side, showing us its pink underbelly. It is about the ugliest thing in all God’s creation.

  ‘Is she not beautiful,’ said Jim.

  After our evening meal we sat under the tree beside the kitchen to catch the breeze. I was suddenly fearful of a terrible noise that drummed and drummed and seemed to come from the tree itself. The children laughed at me and pointed to a strange, large insect clinging to a branch. A cicada, they called it. But how do they all know to start their noise at the same time as their fellows?

  Wednesday 23rd December

  Georgie asked me this morning what was in my sea chest. I could barely remember the contents, seeing as it was in the hold for most of the voyage and I only had with me a small bag in the cabin.

  I opened it and the little ones gathered round as if this were the unveiling of some special discovery. The new suit of clothes which Mistress Pennington bought me before I sailed was still as she had lain it, on top of the few things I had brought from my home: my Father’s black leather boots, two shirts of his that are as yet too big for me, and the three books that were at my Mother’s bedside—the Family Bible, Gulliver’s Travels and The Pilgrim’s Progress.

  ‘Can you really read these?’ said Eliza.

  I nodded.

  ‘I can read a little bit,’ she said and she took the volumes, searching in them for pictures.

  Thomas put his hand deep in the chest and pulled out the wooden animals that my Father made me when I was very small. I wanted to snatch them from him. He turned them over in his little hands: a bear, a squirrel and a badger, all carved and polished so the tiny details shone.

  ‘What are they?’ he said and I realised that he knows nothing of these creatures. ‘Can I play with them?’ he asked.

  ‘No, they are special,’ I said. I took them from him and slipped them inside the toes of the boots at the bottom of the chest.

  He looked like he wanted to cry but I turned my back on him and closed the lid.

  It is evening now although quite light and I am able to write without a candle. Aunt Sarah has baby Sarah on her lap and is playing with her toes:

  This little piggy went to market,

  This little piggy stayed home,

  This little piggy had roast beef,


  And this little piggy had none,

  And this little piggy …

  Even before she continued, Sarah began to giggle and to squirm on her lap. The next words were suddenly in my head ‘… went wee, wee, wee, wee, all the way home.’ But how do I know this rhyme? Did my Mother sing this and play with me this way?

  Thursday 24th December

  Christmas Eve. After breakfast my Aunt announced that today we had to gather in some blossoming trees to decorate for the festive season.

  These trees are so different and it does not feel like Christmas. Indeed how could it possibly feel like Christmas when there is no snow, no icy wind, no pond for skating, no smell of coal-fires and chestnuts roasting and, instead of wearing my thickest, warmest clothing, I am here only in a light shirt and trousers? My feet are bare and still I am not cold.

  We went out early to avoid the heat of the day. Uncle George took his vegetables to sell in Parramatta. He was agitated at breakfast and said that now was the time for all men to stand firm. It sounded heroic and dramatic and I thought of his friend’s words about freeborn Englishmen and Soldiers.

  It is like the Book of Heroes that my Mother read me when I was little and which I could not bring with me. Maybe my Uncle is like Robert the Bruce or William Wallace or even like the brave King Arthur.

  Aunt Sarah asked him not to be so theatrical in front of the children. He said the children must know the History being created in their own land, but I do not know what he was talking about. He said it would all become clear later on, and left without saying more.

  Aunt Sarah led us in procession to the banks of the creek and we walked along, finding a lot of young trees, their branches heavy with red leaves. There were others where bursts of white and yellow flowers dragged the branches almost to the ground. I had never seen such a sight before. After we had rested a while, my Aunt took a strong knife and hacked at the stems until the branches came free.

  Each of us took up what we could carry; even Sarah, who is barely able to walk, toddled along trailing her branch of Christmas bush.

  When we got home we made large bunches of different colours and tied them to stakes driven into the ground outside the door. One day, Aunt Sarah says, there will be a roof out over these stakes and then we will sit there cool in the heat of the day instead of having to stay inside or rest under the shade of the kitchen tree.

  In the afternoon, the children were put down to sleep in their parents’ bed in the second room and while they slept my Aunt and Ellen baked for tomorrow. They asked me if I wished to help and I wanted to say no but they tempted me with things to eat and said the sun outside was hotter than the Blacksmith’s forge when he was shaping a wheel.

  They were laughing and joking and sometimes they invited me to comment on their stories but I said nothing. I think I blushed whenever my name was mentioned.

  I carried the bags of flour from the store shed and drew water from the well. I sat quietly at the table, sorting out dried fruits for the cake and pies, finding tiny stones that had been added to the bags to make the weight but which would break a tooth as quick as winking. I confess to having taken a piece of orange peel and also of dried cherry and having sucked the sweetness from them.

  I can say that here, for no-one will ever read this. Why is it that I can say things here in this logbook that I could never imagine declaring out loud? Why does my tongue falter and my courage disappear when I go to speak?

  Christmas Day, 1807

  Christmas, but I can hardly believe it.

  Last night my Uncle returned late. I heard his horse as if in my sleep and when I stirred my Aunt whispered, ‘Hush.’ Then I saw her take the lantern and go out to him. They talked in low soft voices for some time. I know the children hoped that he would bring gifts from Parramatta but when he came into the room he had only a bunch of papers in his hand.

  I must stop. We are to go to Church this morning and …

  Later

  It is now much, much later and this day has been so different from Christmases past.

  We began with gifts. After breakfast my Uncle read a passage from Scripture, one about the birth of Jesus, and in solemn tones he exhorted us all to grow with love and humility in the ways of our Lord. Thomas and William had their heads bowed but I opened my eyes in the middle of the prayer and I saw them lift their heads, their eyes busily searching for the gifts that they knew would come.

  Uncle George presented each of the children with a new toy—something he had made himself—carved in timber. They are not as beautiful as the ones my Father made me, although Thomas was mightily pleased with his whale. Spinning tops and tiny animals for the larger boys and a soft rag toy for baby Sarah. Indeed it resembles a Kangaroo and Sarah proceeded to drag it around behind her by its long tail.

  I received two fine quills to add to my store with which I write here. Magpie feathers they are, black and white and very long.

  When he presented them, my Uncle said, ‘You are very welcome as our newest son, Davy. These are but small things to give. There is a surprise for you that will be coming soon.’

  I blushed then and looked down at the rough timber grain of the table and I apologised for my own lack of gifts to present.

  ‘Hush, now,’ said my Aunt. ‘You are giving to us all by being here.’

  She is very kind. I fear that I am taking rather than giving. I eat. I take up a space in this house, which is far smaller than the home I have left behind. And yet it is all confusion.

  Sometimes I want to shout and scream and run. I fall over the little children and I long for the quiet of my old home. The quiet and the coolness. Other times I do feel grateful and I want to return their kindness and yet I am not well enough to work beyond gathering Christmas branches.

  Then we had Church. Not the Church that I am used to: no stone building with the worn flagging floor and wooden pews sat on by families for centuries. There were no stained-glass windows like the one in our village, showing images of Christ preaching to the poor and the needy, casting patterns of coloured light over the congregation.

  We stood on the grassy slope beyond the McDougalls’ place and although I am sure some listened with great piety, I confess I did not. I was intent on studying my neighbours. What manner of people live in this godforsaken place?

  There was one boy who seemed about my age although taller and stronger-looking and with him was a girl who was possibly his Sister. Like me, they did not seem to be listening to the words being spoken but they turned and stared. I know I went bright red and averted my eyes.

  When the minister said, ‘Let us pray,’ and the large laughing bird began to cackle, I could almost not resist chortling myself. William and Thomas dropped their heads and I saw from their shoulders that they could not control their laughter and my Uncle tapped them on their heads to reprove them.

  Our Christmas feast was a picnic by the creek. Many of the families from Church were there and we lay on the grass while spread before us were plates of salt pork, special pies, potatoes, cake and tarts from Aunt Sarah’s kitchen.

  When I asked what was in the special pie I was told it was made from the parrots that we see every morning in the trees around the watercourses. They are beautiful to look at and I must say they are a little tough to eat—but better than salt meat. I had enough of that on board ship to last me forever.

  We ate and ate and drank honey mead that Mrs McDougall made. I was asked questions by folk who have not been to England for many years. I could not always answer them. I stumbled as I explained that I had lived very quietly in our cottage in a village on the edge of London along the river and had never gone into the centre of that great city.

  Such talk brought thoughts of my Parents and our Christmases of plum pies and mince tarts and games in the drawing room. I stood up and excused myself and went away to find solitude. I sat with my back against a tree and would have stayed there thinking only of the past for a long time, had it not been for William coming
to find me to urge me to join a game of Blind Man’s Buff and I had no excuse not to say yes.

  My Uncle spent much of the time deep in conversation with the other men. They did not look as if they were in a mood for Christmas celebration.

  When everyone was quiet I asked my Aunt who the children were, the boy and girl I had noted at the service and why they were not part of our Christmas celebration.

  ‘Convicts,’ was her reply.

  Saturday 26th December

  I am shaking, still as I write. My Uncle has just returned from the McDougalls’ with a dog. A DOG. He does not know what this does to me. He called to me and there wrapped inside his jacket, black as jet, just the same colour as … no I will not write about that time.

  I ran from him when he produced the animal and he called out but I could not return.

  ‘Let him be,’ I heard my Aunt say. When I looked the other children were gathered around, freely touching the thing. I wanted to cry out but my words stuck in my throat. What would I say?

  Sunday 27th December

  The dog is to stay outside in a small structure that my Uncle has made. Whenever it is mentioned by the children I feel my Aunt is watching me closely.

  Last night when the children were asleep I sat at the table with my Aunt and Uncle and he told me of his meetings in Parramatta.

  ‘We are petitioning the Governor,’ he said. ‘The Colony is being run as a prison. We are freeborn Englishmen and we should be the same as freeborn Englishmen at home. We have no jury system. The Courts are in the hands of the Military. They must be curbed and Governor Bligh is the man to do it.’

  My Uncle is so brave. I believe that here the Governor is like His Majesty the King. It is he who makes the decisions in this place. He makes the laws and can set free the prisoners. Now my Uncle and his friends are to visit him with a petition. I would not dare.