Monday, January 23rd in the year of 1804
In the days since Croppy John fired up his forge, his thumping and hammering has been clouting nonstop through my head. I have kept my distance; aye, not set a toe inside his work shed. He, in turn, has left me well alone. But often I catch him out of the corner of my eye shadowing about the place, tongs or chisel gripped in his hand.
This changed today, at dusk. I heard him shout up at me, ‘Joe Daley!’ I was cooking damper in the hot ashes of a fire outside my hut. The mass of dough I’d fashioned out of flour and water was shaped like one of Kitt’s thin cheeses.
Under the twilight sky I saw him making his way up the slope to my hut. He squatted down on the ground next to the fire, eyeing off my bread as I scraped away the black ash.
‘Have you heard the news?’ he asked. ‘There’s been another uprising back in Dublin.’ His eyes were lighting up fit to spark. He snatched the hot hard crust of damper, broke a wedge and handed me back the rest. ‘Robert Emmet led the fight. You will have heard of the Emmets.’
Dublin was a town in Ireland and well known to me. Any Dubliner with an ounce of wit, even pick-purse childer, knew of the Emmets. The brothers were Protestant lawyers, close to Wolfe Tone, the founding father of the United Irish. They argued the law to help Catholics.
Croppy John’s eyes might be glittering with fervour, but mention of Dublin town had put me in a sour frame of mind. Dublin was the haunt of Old Mullins, who set me working as a pick-purse. The very thought of the rogue set me shivering.
Tuesday, January 24th in the year 1804
Today I was moving the sheep into a paddock close to the Castle Hill Road, urging them on with stern prompts of ‘Move it! Move it!’ when I heard, ‘Emm. Ett! Emm. Ett!’
The shout came from Pat. He and his work gang had been out quarrying rocks. Their cart was heavily laden. The strongest of the gang were yoked to the front for the pulling. The others used shoulders and chocks against the wheels to prevent the cart rolling backwards. I know horse and bullocks are hard to come by, unless you are an officer, or a gentleman, or run a prospering land hold, all the same, their work was punishing hard. Pat walked behind, ready to pick up any of the load should it tumble.
‘Hoy, Pat!’ I shouted back. He must have heard about Emmet’s rebelling back in Ireland.
He was bobbing his head and flapping his hands in a lather at me. ‘Emm. Ett! Fur. It! Emm. Ett! Fur. It!’ He kept repeating the words.
‘No need for you to be fretting or bothering over Mr Emmet,’ I called back. ‘His fight is across the ocean.’
I was a mite baffled. Usually I understood him.
Wednesday, January 25th in the year 1804
Joshua Holt finally showed up, late in the day, while I was digging over a pile of dry rotted manure. Aye, and he was a mite put out. He stood facing me with his arms folded, frowning. ‘Did you not hear me calling last time I was here? I assumed I knew where to find you, should I require it!’
Aye! I thought. And you took your time about coming here with your own explanations.
I averted my eyes, jumpy that my face would be a giveaway, and muttered something vague.
‘You’ll have met the blacksmith?’
I nodded.
‘Is he treating you fair?’
‘I haven’t crossed him.’ Only a halfwit would cross a croppy!
‘Do not. He is a hot-headed fellow. Should he trouble you, let me know. I would speak to my father.’
Aye, and he’d go tittle-tattling to Paymaster Cox! I thought.
‘Any stock losses from thefts, any kills to report?’ Joshua asked, intent on his stewarding.
‘Lettie fell in a ditch and suffered some scratching. Nothing broken. Though I did see a native dog lurking about.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Frankly, Joe, I don’t hold much view of you giving the sheep names.’
‘Kitt did the naming,’ I said.
Mentioning Kitt did the trick. Joshua’s mouth gave a little twitch. In actual fact, I silently agreed with him. Names can make the loss of the sheep harder to take.
‘I was at the prison farm earlier today,’ he went on. ‘On business for Paymaster Cox; some sows. All the talk was about an uprising in Dublin. A whaling ship brought the news.’
‘Aye, did it?’
‘More needless bloodshed, I expect. The sailors on the Ferret could not say for sure whether Emmet succeeded or failed. The letters and newspapers they brought were five-months old.’
Only then did I discover what I had failed to grasp from Pat. Not fretting! His Fur. It! was the name of the ship which had sailed into Port Jackson bringing the belated news.
‘Let’s hope Mr Emmet won,’ I said.
I was only making small talk, but Joshua glared uncomfortably at me. ‘Best not to repeat those rebel utterances. Walls sometimes have ears.’
For someone whose father was the General of Wicklow, a hero to the cause of freeing Ireland from English rule, aye, and a high rank United Irish, up there with the Emmets, this seemed a baffling thing for Joshua to say. Aye, I would have thought Joshua and his rebel father would be wishing for nothing but an Emmet victory.
Thursday, January 26th in the year 1804
‘Joe Daley!’ I heard Croppy John bark at me today. ‘You’ll be coming to speak with me now!’
I wondered what was so insistent. But there was no avoiding him.
His work shed was fierce orderly. I was surprised to see the forge so well set-up. A tub, full of water to cool the hot metal, stood by the hearth and firepit, while an iron anvil served as a workbench. Hammers and forming tools ranged in shape and size. Punches and chisels were set out on a saw-timber bench. A pallet in one corner served as his bed. If I hadn’t wished Croppy John gone, I would say he was a crack smithy.
‘I’ll be asking you a question or two.’ His back was to me. He didn’t look up. Tongs held some hot metal in place, while he worked it with a hammer.
For me to make more damper, I dare say.
He held the hammer high and drove it down heavy on the metal. ‘There are two sorts in this world. Only two. True friends of freedom, and those who go against. Ask yourself, Joe Daley, which one are you?’
I hadn’t expected such a riddling question. I bit my lip.
‘The trouble is, if you are not on the side of freedom, then we have ourselves a problem.’
He was menacing me. ‘But, why?’
He turned around and fixed the hard set of his eyes upon mine. ‘Emmet’s uprising in Dublin has put some of us in mind to make our own bid for freedom.’
I swallowed hard. ‘A breakout?’
‘More than that, lad! Toppling Governor King and his redcoats. So, Joe Daley, we’ll be having you join us.’
A sudden feeling of dread ran through me. I did not trust myself to speak.
‘Have you lost your tongue? I am asking you outright. Do we count you in?’ He took hold of my shoulder. His grip was strong. ‘And why would you not?’
I felt the threat. He had let me know the croppies had a plot, hadn’t he? I knew too much already, didn’t I?
Croppy John was like a sheep suffering from wool-blindness. Too much wool growing near his eyes and interfering with his normal sight, if you understand what I mean.
‘We’ll set up our own government,’ he was saying. ‘Then return to Ireland to continue the fight. We cannot stop until wrongs have been righted.’
The croppies on the Rolla had been the same. I had heard them rage in bitterness over lost battles, then hatch plots to continue their fight. I feared their way of doing things. They were rugged and tough. They were much too bitter an enemy for me to defy on my own.
‘’Twill be liberty or death, no in-between. Agreed then?’
He took my deadly silence for ‘Yes’. There was no bailing out. I knew. And Croppy John knew.
‘What we will be asking you to do is a dangerous step. You must take the pledge. Rest your hand on your heart.’
&n
bsp; In a daze, I parroted the United Irish oath: ‘I form – a brotherhood of affection for all the people of Ireland. I swear – to do anything I can to obtain equality and good government. I pledge – never to give evidence against a brother-in-arms, a Friend.’
Uncertainty made my heart pound. Who knew how far this would go? Would the croppies stop short of murder? Much of me was shrinking from the prospect of helping.
Yet, here is the odd thing. As I was giving the pledge, I felt I owed the cause something. Croppy John was calling in my kinship. Reminding me, the way Kitt had, that we Irish look after our own. I understood the nature of flocking too well from my sheep. Standing shoulder to shoulder against an enemy. Letting the many eyes watch out for each other. Closing in together, rather than leave one lone lamb at the mercy of a wild dog’s fangs or an eagle’s talon. Aye, there was something to be said for safety in numbers.
‘You’re joined with the United Irish now,’ Croppy John said. ‘First rule: no informing. Second: guard against informers. If you are carrying a message, use a watchword. One question: “Saint Peter?” One answer:
“Saint Peter.” Nothing more. Nothing less. Use it to recognise a Friend. If you think you are under suspicion, move away, without drawing attention, as quickly as your heels will take you. Good lad.’ He turned back to his smithying.
Good lad? Croppy John was acting as if we had just been passing the time of day in idle chitchat, when all the while he’d been roaring ‘Rebellion!’ He had roped me in to an uprising and all he could finish with was ‘Good lad’? I recalled Mr Cunningham had said the same after the Mass. The thought struck me like a blow.
I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out of the work shed. After my time spent thieving for Old Mullins, one thing I did possess was the art of fleeing.
Friday, January 27th in the year of 1804
Trouble follows trouble, wouldn’t you know. Today I was gathering together some of the flock by the bank of the creek when I stumbled upon that same slinking scrag of a dingo dog. I must have startled the animal gulping water, because it went whipping past, mouth dribbling. The sheep crowded together.
Native dogs are supposed to be shy around folk; they are supposed to hide away. I can well understand the feeling. Not this one. The wild thing reappeared, arched its back, bared its teeth, then gave a cough-like growl and lowered its hard jaw, all but rubbing the dirt.
The sheep froze. I jumped back and stood stock-still, wondering if the dog would spring. The worst thing would be to move suddenly, but my hand instinctively flew to my throat. To my advantage, the dog edged no closer. I tried to outstare its menacing eyes, wondering all the while when I should start to back away.
I soon had a suspicion why the dog was snarling. ‘Twas a female and from the look of the belly had been suckling young not long back. I must have stumbled too close to the brood. She was bound to be protecting them.
A low throaty call piped through the air. The dog lost all interest in me and darted away. The sheep sensed the danger was over.
‘Hoy!’ I called. I had a feeling who was doing the calling and went to investigate.
I kept my eye on the dog. She pulled up after a short distance. Her ears pricked alert and she began sniffing around the base of a gum tree. That’s when I caught a lingering smell of smoke. There was a pad of singed earth.
Coming from somewhere above my head I heard that same husky calling to the dog. I looked upwards. The gum tree was a giant. Branches straggled from the top, but the trunk was masterly thick and straight as a pole. Most of the rough bark had flaked off. Smooth-bark had to be slippery. A boy was shinning down, using cuts in the trunk made by some sort of axe. The boy’s toes gripped one notch after the other. A young possum slumped over his shoulder. That explained the fire. He must have smoked the animal out of a hollow.
I watched without speaking as he came to a standstill. I was admiring, but at the same time guarded. The boy fixed his eyes intently on mine, and I looked into a pair of brown river stones with a black gem in the centre. He was as skinny as a twig.
‘Dog’s a bit of a scrounger,’ I said, ‘seems set on dragging away one of my sheep.’
His eyes were alert. He dropped the possum he was carrying onto the ground. The dog sniffed at the meat, swiftly lost interest and lay down in the dust. Up close I saw she was sinewy, but you could tell she was strong. She was not starving or scavenging like I thought, and the boy knew.
‘Fair enough. Made your point,’ I told him. ‘But make sure you keep the mutt away from my sheep.’ I started to walk away.
‘Warragal,’ he said. There was a gap between his teeth. ‘Aye?’ I paused, wondering what he meant. ‘Well, you’d better be going about your hunting then. Best leave me to my work.’
He gave me a strange smirk, picked up the possum and sauntered away. I suspected for a time he and the dog were shadowing me but I did not risk a look back.
Sunday, January 29th in the year of 1804
I have been waiting for a call of ‘Saint Peter.’ Expecting. Dreading. Seems these days I can find little peace, not even whilst sleeping.
Another fearsome dream plagued me last night. I heard the pump-pumping of a beating heart. Father Dixon appeared on the slope where he preaches the Mass. He was holding a tin cup for a chalice and wearing a curtain as a robe. He lifted his hands to raise the chalice and a dead man rose by his side. They were shackled together. The dead man was calling, ’Peter! Peter!’ He must’ve been Jesus calling his disciple. His sacred heart was beating and bleeding. Hundreds of holy statues were rolling down the slope. They kept crashing and cracking and turning to dust. A dingo dog was growling. I woke up trembling. I felt clammy with the sweat.
At first light I went to check the penned sheep. The wind was tormenting, coating the fleece and me as well in a thin film of dust.
These troubles were all I could think about as I attended the Mass, it being Catholic Sunday. Afterwards I pleaded a throbbing head to Kitt, leaving her and Pat free to go Joshua Holt spotting, while I returned to my flock. In truth, I only wished to be on my own.
Monday, January 30th in the year of 1804
Today the sheep lifted their heads and stared into the distance, then went back to their foraging. They must have sensed Kitt’s movement through the trees before I saw her waving. They knew she was no threat. They weren’t the brightest of animals, you might say, but they do remember kindness. I did too. Kitt was not my call to arms.
‘Are you still out of sorts?’ she asked, by way of greeting. She reached into her basket and slung a thick hunk of bacon at me, by the aromatic smell smoked over tree chippings. There was also a dish of cabbage topped with thick milk sauce. ‘Best share some with your new smithy.’
‘No need to fuss.’
Soon she’ll be feeding the entire croppy army, I thought.
Her face broke into a concerned smile. ‘O’course I do, lambkin. ‘Tis my kind and godly nature, none other.’ She linked her arm through mine. ‘Stop pulling faces. Do you think the flock will look after itself for a while, if you sit by the creek with me?’
The sheep were settled, I had seen no sign of a wild dog today and Kitt wasn’t prone to be taking ‘No’ for an answer, so I said, ‘Aye, I suppose, but not for long.’ I told her about sighting the dingo and the native boy.
‘A native family are camped by our waterhole too,’ she said. She picked up a switch to swat the flies. Her hair was pulled up tightly, held by a green ribbon. Stray curls wisped around her face.
‘You’re done up fine,’ I observed.
She burst out laughing. ‘Oh, now don’t be going too sweet on your praise or you’ll have me blushing like a beet!’
My cheeks were the ones colouring up. ‘More than usual, I mean to say. Is today hankering to be special?’
‘No more than any other.’ She brushed down her homespun skirt. ‘I’m tired of rags and tatters, is all. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. A rub and clean with vinegar, and a touch of wax on
the pleats has to do. One day I’ll be affording a new yard of cloth, and when that day comes ...’ her voice tailed off.
I helped her along. ‘And when that day comes ...’
She looked at me half-puzzled, half-smiling. ‘Then I’ll be sure to fashion some hand-me-downs for you and Pat. A neck scarf, or a good pocket for the inside of your shirt, will that suit you?’ A glimmer crept into her eye. ‘Or how about a bit of piping to pretty your—’ She whipped off my hat with a laugh, then ruffled my hair. Caught out, I had to suffer a teasing wink.
I glanced around looking for a payback. The scented satinwood would have to do. For starters. I knew the names of trees. Father Dixon had once pointed them out to me. ‘Did you know the hard saw-timber of that particular tree can polish to a high yellow gloss?’
Kitt creased her eyes at me. ‘You’ll not outwit me.’
Around us the birds were calling. Some sang in single pings and some resembled the peal of a town crier’s bell. There was a crack-crack coming from a whip bird. I went on, ‘Seems to me the birds are tweeting like a feast of pipes today.’
‘Gloss and tweeting, aye? What next then?’
‘Music. Lamenting, is it. Sorrow flitting through the trees.’
‘That’s a mite dark, Joe.’ She looked around, interested of a sudden. ‘Mayhap Pat is coming. Singing his way to us.’
I shook my head. ‘He’ll be out doing stone.’
‘They push the lads too hard at that prison farm. Did I tell you I came upon that teasing coward of a bully on the Castle Hill road the other day? He was sporting a black eye. Didn’t utter a word. Just threw me a scowl and kept on his way.’
London, with a black eye? Fair riddance! I thought.
‘So,’ said Kitt, ‘tell me more about this music.’
I put a hand to my ear. ‘’Tis a song travelling on the wind, calling in whispers like the strums of a harp. Listen.’
She laughed. She was softening. ‘Oh, Joe, I cannot fault your way with words. ‘Tis a match for Pat’s singing.’
‘Can you hear the crickets’ drone? Means rain, aye? And when heavens open—’ quick as a flash I snatched my hat back from her hand, ‘—I’ll be needing some cover. Gotcha!’
Castle Hill Rebellion Page 4