Castle Hill Rebellion

by Chrissie Michaels

  His hand rose upwards. He made a soft noise in his throat. He must have seen the shooting star too.

  I shushed him with my finger, ‘You’ll be after getting us caught!’ and yanked him down beside me, pointing towards the constable who had been lured by some kind of sleeping sickness into a sitting position. His neck lolled forward and he was snoring like a hog.

  I was in a lather. It would not be fitting for Pat to see what I was about to do. ‘Go back to your hut! No! Shut your eyes! No! Best keep them open. But no questions, all right? Stay quiet, do you hear?’ I knew I was rabbiting on, but Pat landing in the thick of things was not in the plan.

  I let out a sigh. The quicker I was done with this thieving, the better for us both. I pulled the dark square of cloth that Croppy John had provided over my head and shoulders, slipped down on hands and knees, and edged forward like a cat on the prowl. Ground litter and grit crunched softly beneath me. I swallowed hard, cursing inside.

  The constable was in a heavy sleep. Moonlight caught bright on his buckle, strayed to the musket over his shoulder, and lingered on the powder horn and shot pouch fastened to his belt.

  Aye, I was fierce out of practice. My hands were shaking, the knuckles white. With a catch of my breath I made a silent prayer to the Almighty for a steady hand, added another asking for forgiveness, then began loosening my fingers and tightening them until the joints softened. With a few extra whispering wishes, I made do and slipped back to my days with the Dublin gang; let those thieving ways take hold.

  In the end, slitting a strap and removing a musket, horn and pouch turned out to be easy pickings. Even so, as I crept back to Pat, my heart was thumping against my ribs. When he saw what I was carrying, he gave me a hard push in the ribs. Ah, that pasted smile! Was he angry, fearful, or happy to see me back safe and sound?

  In a whisper, I pleaded, ‘Not a word to anyone, you understand? We were never here.’

  Thursday, February 9th in the year of 1804

  All night I have been worn down by the nightmares and the worry. I only hope Croppy John sticks to his word and buries the musket with the rest of their weapon stash. Pray let him leave me alone after this.

  There are bound to be knock-ons. As soon as that constable woke, he would have missed the musket and raised the alarm. Everyone at Castle Hill is bound to be a suspect. Pat was a witness. What if he suffers blame on my account? What if some turncoat peeped out from one of the huts and saw us?

  I am afeared of being accused myself, about what I may confess. Duggan will only have to string my arms to the wooden triangle and I am bound to be bleating like a lamb.

  Sunday, February 19th in the year of 1804

  Dawn

  Over this long spell I have barely managed to breathe. My throat feels tight as if I am being choked. I keep expecting the uproar over the missing musket to break over my head. Each and every noise makes me jump near out of my skin. I have stayed clear of the prison farm, kept out of sight of the constables, even avoided Pat. I do so for his safety, as well as for my own.

  I feel like I am trapped in a beehive, flinching at each ferocious sting.

  Morning

  Catholic Sunday. The muster bell was ringing. I was only in Parramatta waiting for my name to be marked because if I did not turn up they would think I had taken off into the bush and send out the constables. As I stood in line, I felt as jittery as that day in Dublin when I had to stand in the dock and await my sentence.

  Kitt hurried over. ‘I looked for you by the creek the other day. Where have you been hiding?’ She peered closely at me. ‘Why are you hunched over? Do you have a belly gripe?’

  ‘A sleepless night, that is all ...’ my voice trailed off into nothing.

  ‘You drive yourself too hard. You are wasting away.’ She patted my hand. ‘Come visit next Sunday. Let me cook you something hearty.’

  She was doing her best to cheer me, but was little comfort. I was unable to settle. I hadn’t sighted Pat yet. We always met at the muster line. What if they had dragged him away for questioning?

  ‘So, will you come?’ Kitt pressed.

  I managed a weak smile. ‘Aye, but Ann and Thomas may not wish to be imposed upon.’

  ‘They won’t mind. Besides they’ll be taking Selly the mare and the cart to Sydney.’ Her fingernail dug into my arm. ‘Don’t turn around. A constable is staring intently.’

  My eyes began moving to and fro. There could only be one reason. I was a suspect.

  Pat chose this second to come strolling over. At the best of times he was unreadable. He pinched my arm hard. ‘Stawp. Bling. King.’ He was trying to shock me into stopping.

  ‘I’m trying, Pat! I’m trying!’

  ‘Is there something bad going on?’ Kitt whispered.

  The constable strode towards us. He was heavy-set. On his ill-fit blue jacket, the button and buttonhole were in a tug of war, ready to rip open. He was shaking his head. I felt my breath catch in my throat. Pat stood stiff as a post. I looked down at the dirt. I needed to ready myself, make a run for freedom. Only my feet were frozen to the spot. My legs would not work. I swallowed. Even if by some miracle I was to bolt, where would I run to? And where did that leave Pat? Or Kitt?

  My mind was in a whirl. I could already hear Reverend Marsden, the Flogging Parson, spelling out the sentence. ‘Jonothan Joseph Daley, you are to suffer one hundred lashes for stealing the musket. Another hundred of the best for the powder and shot. What else have you done, lad? Confess. Get it over and done. Otherwise suffer a hundred more.’ The welts were bound to scar my back for life.

  The constable motioned at Kitt to back away. ‘A quiet word alone with these lads, if you will, miss.’ Her eyes were wide with disquiet. For once she was tongue-tied.

  The constable strode to-and-fro. His mouth opened and closed. I wasn’t hearing him. I was startled. I was baffled. The shock, is it. Only, eventually my heart slowed its racing and I did understand.

  He was saying, ‘We all have afflictions to bear in life, lads. We must carry them with courage.’

  Speaking out of flabbergasting sympathy, wasn’t he? He had seen Pat’s flabbergasting head wound and his useless mouth. He had seen me hunched and blinking. He must be thinking us halfwits.

  I tried to make my lips curve into a mannerly smile. But I could not even form a little smile. My mouth was a taut line. I wondered how afeared Pat was feeling under his own smiling lips. Or mebbe something else was washing over him because he moved apart as if stung and began scuffing his foot into the dust.

  The constable pressed my shoulder, sudden-like. His voice dropped low. ‘Saint Peter?’

  There was another wild spinning in my head. Had I heard rightly? He was a Friend? I could not say with any sureness. I did not believe him. But then I did. ‘Saint Peter.’ I made my reply sound like a cough. I shot a look towards Pat. He showed no interest. He must not have heard.

  ‘No cause for alarm, lad. All is in hand. You must think no further about what went on.’

  Without another word the hefty constable strode away.

  I tried to make sense of what had just happened. Lots of constables were ex-prisoners. Some Irish rebels had been given their freedom. They might have taken up a policing job. This one must have been canny, gaining the trust of the officials, giving his loyalty to the Governor and English Crown, when all along he was pretending. He was working on the side of the croppies. He had told me things were fixed with the musket. I looked around. Mebbe there were more constables swayed by the same thoughts of rebellion standing amongst us.

  Kitt came rushing back. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He was, umm, kind of pitying us, I think.’

  She shot out a rasping ‘Humph!’ yet her eyes flicked across to Pat and for a fleeting moment I saw sorrow in the pools. There was no hiding some hurts. My blinking affliction may come and go, but the truth was Pat’s struggle would never go away. Aye, there is more than one life sentence to bear in this world.

  T
hrough the Mass I kept my head bent down in prayer. Pat shifted his position a few times, before making his fingers into a steeple for praying and settling into stillness beside me. I heard Mr Johnston muttering his prayers; a gruff bark, aye, ‘twas Croppy John being holy; and Pat’s overseer, Mr Cunningham’s strong voice reaching loudest of all amongst the calls of ‘Amen’. Out of the worshippers, how many were set to rise up? Lads like me, how many? From the constables leaning against the tree trunks and those kneeling alongside us, who had joined the United Irish cause? I searched the sea of Irish faces, but they gave little away.

  My eyes came back to rest on Father Dixon. ‘ Per ómmia saecula saeculórum...’ World without end ... He was holding his right hand over the chalice. Our peace-loving priest had come out as a Political. Could he be mixed up in the uprising, as well?

  After the Mass, Croppy John pulled me aside. I threw him a withering look. I did not care. ‘You are not the first seeking me out today.’

  ‘Lower your voice, lad, and don’t be so riled. Only a select few know your actions. You have served well. We are knowing we can trust you. You’ll be running a message next.’

  ‘I thought I was done.’

  ‘You swore an oath, or have you forgotten? Until we do what we do, you must play your part.’

  I felt my eyes tearing up. Would it ever be over?

  ‘Will you recognise the vine grower, Frank Duriault?’

  ‘I know a bit about him.’ He was a French prisoner of war, allowed into the colony to plant grapes for Governor King. The vines were in the parkland behind the Governor’s country house at Parramatta.

  ‘Duriault is leasing land in Prospect. To reach there, cut along the track linking the Castle Hill Road with Toongabbie, cross the Hawkesbury Road below Joyce’s farm, then—’

  ‘I know my way to the Prospect Hill,’ I cut in, cranky as if I had a sore tooth. Pat and I sometimes roamed there collecting loose blue metal. The volcanic rock made a good topping over dirt and for filling in ruts after a downpour. We had scattered some along the track leading down from my hut.

  ‘Saves wasting my breath, then. Be back before the sun goes down.’

  Then Croppy John conveyed a secret message. He needed reassuring. ‘Have you got the words fixed in your head?’

  I parroted them back. Did he think I was a fool?

  ‘Give them only to Duriault. Wait for his reply. On no account draw attention from his wife. Winnie is set on her husband staying out of this. Transfer the message by word of mouth only, understand? Do not scratch one word on paper. Make your way back speedily. As the sun goes down, a Friend will come to your hut. Pass on Duriault’s reply, but exchange the watchword first as a safeguard.’

  ‘Why tell someone else when I can tell you?’

  ‘I will be over at There or Nowhere.’

  ‘You’re going sly grogging, is it?’

  A frown of reproach wrinkled the skin between his brows. ‘None of your lip! A meeting. That’s enough for you to know.’ I fully expected him to give me a cuff.

  To my surprise, he became fidgety. Something was amiss. I followed his gaze. Over to the left another constable was resting a beady eye on us. By the look of his scowl he was no particular Friend.

  Croppy John’s lips drew back in laughter. He rubbed my shoulder as if I had said something amusing. Aye, he was play-acting, but too hard for comfort. We moved apart in different directions. I was in such a haste I forgot to collect my usual supply of writing paper from Father Dixon.

  ‘About time!’ Kitt said as I rushed over to where she and Pat were waiting. ‘You and that croppy blacksmith seem friendly. Becoming thick as thieves, I see. Well, no harm in having friends.’

  She couldn’t be more wrong. I could have told her there was a wide gap between having friends like her, and a Friend like Croppy John.

  Later

  The wind always blew cooler on the Prospect Hill. Even so, my palms were clammy and I smelled like a keg of soured vinegar.

  Mr Duriault’s spread of about thirty acres was on a rising slope. The place boasted a healthy state of cultivation. There was a roomy kitchen garden, a small orchard of stone fruit, a sound dwelling with a covered verandah, a barn in good order and a very noisy hog sty. A woman’s scolding voice rose above the hogs snuffling and grunting. Had to be Winnie. She was pouring feed from a pail. The hogs were poking their snouts around the trough as if they had never tasted anything as grand in all their lives.

  Winnie had an open face with dark, round, knowing eyes. Freckles made a bridge across her cheeks and nose. Her sleeves were rolled up and the same brown flecks coated her bared arms. Aye, she had seen plenty of work out in the sun. I dived behind some brush before she could give me the same weigh up.

  A smart-dressed man headed towards her, dangling a babe at arm’s length. Winnie put down her pail. She scrunched up her nose and chuckled. The babe must have smelled as ripe as the hogs. ‘Come, my little sparrow, let’s get you wiped.’ She bore the babe away to the farmhouse.

  Mr Duriault brushed himself down. Alone now, he began looking every which way. He was expecting a visitor.

  I came out of hiding. ‘Saint Peter?’

  Whatever he was minding at the sight of me came and went, his face passed to blank. ‘Saint Pierre.’ He had a thick accent. ‘You have a message?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’ I carefully relayed the words from Croppy John. He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he listened. He was about to say something in reply when the whicker of an approaching horse made us both start.

  ‘Vite! Quickly, go!’

  ‘But I am to wait for your reply.’

  ‘Zut alors! Hide in the barn, then. Stay quiet.’

  I could not resist peeping out. The rider wore a sweeping cape. On his head was a tricorn hat. Dark, mutton-chop whiskers twisted fine-spun to under his chin. I recognised him at once as Joshua’s father, Joseph Holt, the General of Wicklow. He dismounted and tethered the horse to a timber rail.

  Mr Duriault shook hands with him before ushering him inside the farmhouse. Joshua’s father paying Mr Duriault a visit, but why?

  Eventually the two men came out. As they shook hands, Winnie stood at the door cradling the freshly swaddled bundle in her arms. The child was squalling. ‘Hush with your griping, sparrow,’ I heard her croon, before she switched an angry glare towards Joshua’s father. He seemed aloof to her state of mind and turned to put something into his saddlebag. Once mounted, he wheeled his horse around, gave a wave and sped away. A salute! Aye, I swear General Holt gave a soldier’s salute.

  Winnie stormed inside. The farmhouse door slammed behind her. Mr Duriault pushed open the door and followed her in, protesting. Her furious reply carried across to the barn. ‘If there is any more unrest I shall quit this place, don’t matter where, Frank! Mark my words!’

  The door flung open. Mr Duriault strode over to the barn. He thrust a leaf of paper at me. His brow was creased and he was in no state to be cordial. ‘Take this.’

  The paper lay in my hand like a dead moth. I felt my skin prickle. Croppy John’s instructions had been clear – transfer by word of mouth only.

  Before I could object, Mr Duriault turned his back on me and headed to the farmhouse. He glanced over his shoulder and saw me hesitating.

  ‘Va-t’en!’ he called. ‘Nous avons fini.’

  I think he wanted me gone. I squashed the paper tightly under my fingers and ran until I felt far enough away from Mr Duriault’s farm to slow to a walk.

  Only then did I look down at the crushed paper.

  Nothing can be certain.

  The message seemed harmless but I could take no chances; written words were evidence. I tore the paper to pieces. For a while I held the scraps in my hand wondering whether to bury them or let them scatter in the wind. In the end, there was only one true and safe solution. I chewed them to a pulp and made myself swallow them, cursing croppies, the nation of France and every lick of paper I had ever splashed ink upon.

&nb
sp; Sunset was settling over the treetops. The kookaburras sent out a cackling laugh to mark their territory as they always did at dusk and dawn. In the changing light, a mob of faces began to pop out from the scrub. Time when the roos become restless, aye. They were on the forage for food. In my uneasy state of thinking, their reddish fur became red coats. Their paws held muskets. I pictured them taking aim at me. Va-t’en! I broke into a run.

  I was within reach of my hut by the time the first star popped up at the edge of the sky. But I was near-on puffing my heart out though my mouth. I looked around for the Friend who was supposed to be meeting me here.

  A throaty snarl from behind made me swing around. The wild dog was on the hunt. She stopped in her tracks and her head lifted. Her nose scented the wind and she darted away. Charley must be somewhere close. It struck me he could be the Friend. The natives were good trackers. They had their own problems with the settlers and military. Mebbe Charley had taken the oath. I whispered the croppy code into the evening air.

  ‘Joh.’

  I whirled around. ‘Pat?’

  He was waving a sheaf of papers at me. ‘From. Fah. Ther. Dix. Sun.’

  I grabbed the sermons from him and began nudging him away. ‘Thanks, now leave, and fast!’ When the Friend arrived, Pat could not be a witness.

  He was struggling to shape his mouth into a word. ‘Say.’

  I tapped my foot.

  Another sound came out of his mouth, ‘Ent.’ He screwed his lips tighter.

  ‘Sing them to me,’ I said urgently. ‘Then you gotta go.’

  Out came four sweet notes. ‘Say. Ent. Pea. Ter.’

  My jaw dropped open. ‘You’re the flabbergasting Friend, the brother-in-arms?’ I gasped. I could hardly believe he was giving me the watchword. That explained his shorn hair and why he had turned up the night I thieved the musket. He had been sent to check on me! I slapped myself in the head for being so dimwitted. ‘You’re a croppy? You could have told me!’

  Hotly, I passed on Mr Duriault’s four simple words. ‘Will you tell your Friend that I have some more information?’ I added. Something broke in my voice when I said this. I could feel a tear from inside. A wrenching twist, aye, hard to hide from him or myself, because I had a sudden wish to be the one reporting how Joshua’s father, General Holt, had visited Mr Duriault’s farm; and explain the mysterious handshake; and how it looked to me as if they had struck some sort of a deal. I wished to be the one describing how, when the General rode away, he gave Mr Duriault an officer’s salute. I deserved some glory for all my trouble, didn’t I?