Castle Hill Rebellion

by Chrissie Michaels

  My eyes fixed upon a redcoat in the front line. He hugged his Brown Bess musket and placed the stock against his shoulder.

  ‘Aim!’

  He pulled back the hammer and took aim. His fingers were trembling. His nerves were raw.

  ‘Fire!’

  He squeezed the trigger.

  Takk!

  Takk! Takk! Takk!

  A volley of shots cracked out. The boom of the guns sent birds spraying from the trees. Flashes of powder left puffs of smoke in the air. The hillside soured with the bad-egg stink of sulphur.

  The soldiers’ lines stood. They knelt. ‘Reload! Aim! Fire!’ Their ears must have been ringing from the crack of their guns.

  London was amongst the first hit. He swayed, white-faced, and slumped to the ground. As the Banshee sucked out his last few breaths, he must have been despising the curse we brought down upon his head.

  ‘Front line, fix bayonets!’

  The redcoats obeyed, turning their guns into long savage knives. They broke into a run and fanned out. In sudden despair, those croppies who could flee trampled for cover, stumbling through the long stalks of grass into the brush and the trees.

  Pat stood up.

  Kitt reached out her hand to grab him. ‘God’s sake, get down!’

  Something made my eyes steal across the battlefield and rest on that same takk-takking redcoat from before. His Brown Bess was raised to his shoulder. His thumb was on the hammer. He was lining up a target. Lining up …

  ‘Pat!’

  I sprang to my feet, grabbed my friend around the neck from behind and yanked him down. We toppled backwards. The tzing of a shot whizzed past my ear. The back of my skull smacked into the ground and I felt a sharp edge of pain. Pat landed on top of me with a thud. He was pressing the breath out, near breaking my ribs. There was a buzzing in my ears ...

  My eyelids fluttered open. Kitt’s mouth was moving, but the world had grown silent. Her eyes goggled at me. I felt Pat roll off my body.

  ‘P-p … P-pa …’ I tried and failed to speak to him. Strong arms reached down and swept me from the ground. A face. I tried to blink. Croppy John, was it! Aye, but from where did I know him? My head and ears were pounding, and my eyes were swimming around the three of them as if I were staring out from under a pool of water.

  For the life of me, I could not recall the rest.

  Tuesday, March 6th in the year of 1804

  Recollections stir. The snort of a horse, the bleating of sheep, the creak of timber, of being laid down, the scratch of canvas pulled over my body, the mouldering smell of fern leaves in my nose and a metallic taste catching at the edge of my lip, after which I was tumbling down into the weariest of sleeps.

  Aye, I had a dark dreaming night. I minded standing alone on a hillside. I was holding my fists high, fighting redcoats. ‘I’ll take you one by one! Who next?’ I kept yelling, furious. ‘Come on! Stand up and be counted! Fifty of you, is it?’ My head was aching, I had an open gash, but I was winning.

  The dingo dog was an ever-present shadow. She lay curled up against me, warm and solid and safe. She was licking my cheek. Of a sudden the dog howled and I sat bolt upright.

  My eyes shot open to the full morning light. I was sitting up, back at my shepherd hut. I reached for the wild dog, then recalled the shot and her dragging belly. Charley had carried her away. Aye, I had only been dreaming, after all.

  There was a throbbing in my head. I ran my fingers through matted hair and winced at the swelling. I withdrew my hand to find it smudged with a green streak of something slimy from my scalp. Traces of rust red were under my nails. I smelled of leaf and horse and salt sweat.

  There was screeching outside. Cockies up to mischief, tearing up branches and spitting out tree cones. And bleating. Aye, well, I was hearing okay. I needed to check on the sheep. I stumbled towards my hut door. It swung open.

  Croppy John halted at the entry and stood staring at me. He had cuts under the thick stubble on his chin. Blunt as ever he croaked, ‘You’re up and about then.

  So you won’t die today. Though I can’t vouch for the morrow.’

  ‘Pat? Kitt? Are they safe?’ I blurted. I needed to know.

  ‘I saw the girl back to her farm, and the lad to his hut at the prison farm.’

  ‘Were you the one who brought me back?’

  ‘I did. Seeing as you failed to heed the counsel I gave.’

  ‘Aye. I had to.’

  ‘Comes a time when a man has to make his own choices.’

  A man? Is that how Croppy John saw me now?

  He cleared his throat. ‘Right then, come see!’

  I looked at him stupidly, suffering from some wooziness, as he strode back out the door and headed for the slope.

  My feet led me down behind him. A big blackbird cawed and I stumbled over a rock pushing itself out of the ground. ‘See what?’ I shouted hoarsely.

  ‘Tell me what you make of this, Joe Daley.’

  Nailed to the post of his work shed was a parchment. Croppy John’s eyes fixed on my face and I realised he could not read.

  ‘’Tis a proclamation from Governor King,’ I said.

  PROCLAMATION

  GIVEN under my Hand at HEAD-QUARTERS, PARRAMATTA

  PHILIP GIDLEY KING Esquire, Governor in Chief in & over His Majesty’s Territory of New South Wales & its dependencies.

  A number of convicts from Castle Hill and other districts have committed acts of outrage in a daring state of rebellion, attacking and robbing His Majesty’s loyal and peaceable subjects of property and weapons.

  I therefore declare martial law over Parramatta, Castle Hill, Toongabbie, Prospect, Seven Hills and Baulkham Hills, the Hawkesbury and Nepean.

  I charge and command all His Majesty’s subjects to capture and give up anyone who is on the road without a pass.

  Anyone who opposes the peace of this colony and does not give themselves up will face trial and suffer a severe sentence.

  I offer an amnesty to anyone who informs against the ringleaders and helps to give them up to Justice.

  The words contained in the Governor’s message spun around in my head, but I put them to Croppy John as best I could. ‘’Tis a declaration of martial law, a curfew placed upon us. Governor King wants any rebels on the run to surrender. He thinks there are more ringleaders and is offering a reward to informers.’

  ‘We must brace ourselves for the worst, Joe Daley,’ said Croppy John.

  I put a hand to my head.

  Night-time

  My own yelling woke me. I must have suffered another dark dream. Only the terror I am feeling is no nightmare. This terror is real.

  By late this afternoon, rumours about Mr Cunningham’s hanging had leaped from farm to farm like the licking flames of a bushfire. My own eyes had witnessed how the Major tricked him and how that giant redcoat had slashed his face. Folk are saying he was then carried, wounded, to Green Hills at the Hawkesbury, where the redcoats tossed a rope over the storehouse stairs and left his body swinging. They did not even give him a trial.

  In my nightmare, Mr Cunningham fisted his strong, square hand and held his arm high in salute. Then his sorrowful eyes bulged and the skin on his face hardened and cracked, until all that was left were bleached bones.

  ‘You’ve broken your yard,’ I called in vain. ‘You’ve walked too far from the water. Come back to your flock! You are lost!’

  I would better care to imagine him how I saw him last – standing proud and decent. Aye, he was a bold fellow, tough and hardy and brave. Cunningham of Kerry, you were all these things! A man of great stature, who believed in the white flag of truce, while the miserable Major did not.

  I went outside and stared at the night sky, half expecting to see a shooting star soar through the darkness – Mr Cunningham’s tortured soul, mebbe, taking wing. The stars and moon, though endless bright, were motionless. All I heard was the hooting of an owl.

  As to what has happened to Mr Johnston after he was taken pris
oner, no one knows. Is he captive? On the run? If so, will he give himself up? London, I knew, was one of the fallen.

  Governor King’s curfew is forcing everyone to stay close to home. I can only hope Kitt and Pat remain safe. Mebbe there are informers queuing up this very minute to turn us all in.

  I shall not rest easy this night. Aye, I wonder if I ever shall find peace.

  Wednesday, March 7th in the year of 1804

  Early this morning a blue-coated constable rode onto the farm and pulled up outside Croppy John’s work shed. I heard the constable shouting, ‘Governor King proclaims that all those involved in the uprising must surrender themselves forthwith. Show yourselves!’

  There was no escaping. I knew I had to face him. Croppy John had to face him. For sure, all those involved included us. I slipped and trembled my way down the slope, my thoughts knocking about like a set of skittle pins.

  As I approached the work shed, Croppy John wandered outside, looking as if he had been working the metal. His arms were by his side; in one hand a hammer, in the other, heavy tongs. His cheeks were smudged thickly with black ash. He was unshaven; a few days’ growth had turned the stubble on his chin into red hair. The ash and beard disguised the cuts.

  I drew in my breath and pulled my hat low to hide the lump on my head. I sorely hoped Croppy John would not use the tools against the constable. ‘Twas too late for weapons.

  The constable kept shouting. ‘Governor King expressly wants the names of the ringleaders. Those who provide this information will escape punishment. Do you understand? Save yourselves! William Johnston has already turned himself in.’

  Mention of Mr Johnston gave me a painful jolt. A heavy twist coiled like a snake in my stomach. So he had succeeded in escaping from the Major, only to surrender. Governor King was bound to make an example of him. But if he already had the ringleaders in Mr Johnston and poor Mr Cunningham, who else did the Governor believe was behind the rebellion?

  The constable was intent on questioning us. ‘You, boy! Move forward.’

  Croppy John fixed a telling stare on me. A ropy vein popped out on his neck. ‘No informing!’ I could hear him order.

  Mebbe the authorities would go easy on a lowly shepherd boy. Then again, mebbe Duggan, the executioner, would flog me near to death.

  I had to think hard and fast, and I did, coming up with a speedy plan. Mebbe there was a third way. Father Dixon always said the pen was mightier than the sword. So mebbe the spoken word would serve in place of weapons. What I was about to do was risky, aye. I was about to be fierce brave, or dire foolish; the next few moments would reveal which. But it might just work.

  I moved in closer to the constable with my back to Croppy John. I placed my hands behind my back and, for Croppy John’s eyes only, waggled my fingers in a warning: ‘ Keep out of this!’

  I heard Croppy John’s intake of breath. I could only hope he had taken my counsel.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Jonothan Joseph Daley, sir.’

  ‘Bonded to Paymaster Cox?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘What do you here?’

  ‘Shepherd boy, sir.’

  I was bathed in sweat. My throat narrowed around the words. But somehow I was feeling able, is it, fighting down the strain. Behind me, I could sense Croppy John waiting and watching, ready to spring.

  ‘Speak out, boy! What say you?’

  ‘I am turning myself in.’

  The constable’s head snapped up with interest.

  Did you ever look at a sheep eye to eye? If so, you’d know them to be meek and mild creatures with eyes placed more to the side of their head and a large pupil, rectangular in shape. The wide field of vision gives them the chance to run away from attack. Looking at this constable, his eyes were at the front and close together, near-on squint-eyed. There was no doubting he had the killer instinct.

  Behind my back I cautioned Croppy John again with my hand: ‘Do nothing!’

  ‘Turning yourself in? Are you indeed?’ the constable said thoughtfully. He jabbed a finger towards my slops. ‘You secreting any weapons under your shirt?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘So, where did you hide them?’

  ‘Nowhere, sir.’

  He guffawed. ‘You say you are a rebel, but you have neither pike nor musket?’

  ‘No weapons, sir.’

  His beady eyes narrowed. ‘If you are truly as involved as you say, then give me the names of your leaders.’

  I kept a firm gaze on his eyes. I am free of the blinking! I thought in surprise.

  ‘Do you think to waste my time? Who put you up to such devilment? The fellow standing behind you?’ he accused Croppy John, before narrowing his eyes back at me. ‘Or does the artful and designing wretch go by the name of Joseph Holt? Answer me, boy!’

  His question about Joshua’s father caught me unawares, and I stumbled through a reply, ‘No one, sir. No, not the Gen, I mean not Mr Holt.’

  ‘I ask you, boy, did you ever see Joseph Holt in conversation with Philip Cunningham or William Johnston?’

  ‘Not on my life, sir!’

  My answer was in all honesty. I had seen General Holt with others, but that is not what the constable asked, is it. He seemed only intent on the General. Governor King must suspect Joshua’s father had organised the rebellion. I drew a silent breath. ‘Only, now I come to think on it, sir, I did see Mr Holt speak with someone in Parramatta on the fourth.’

  I sensed Croppy John shuffling, gripping his tools.

  The constable leaned towards me, puffing meaty breath in my face. ‘Turn them in and you’ll have a free pardon, protection and a passage back to Ireland. Who did Joseph Holt speak with?’

  My heart was thud-thudding. ‘Governor King’s taskmaster, sir.’

  The constable’s mouth fell open. I watched his face grow red with bluster. ‘You play a very foolish game! Think I’ll listen to your feebleminded prattling, shepherd boy! Call yourself a rebel? A rebel without a weapon whose army is naught but a flock of sheep! Out of my sight, do you hear? Else I’ll pretend to believe you and clap you in irons!’

  The constable was the fool. He was trying to find witnesses to give evidence against General Holt, but I knew the truth. The attack the General was due to lead in Parramatta never happened. He had not even shown his face at the battle. That flabbergasting thing was certain.

  As I raced back to my shepherd hut, my heart hammering, I heard the constable bellowing at Croppy John. ‘Your name, fellow? What say you?’

  Oh, I hoped Croppy John would not whack him with the hammer. I hoped he could come up with a smart notion of his own.

  Later

  I have been back and forth to the work shed. Croppy John is gone. His hammer and tongs were lying in the dirt. They were free of blood, or skin, or any telling sign of having hit a body’s head, which is a mite settling, is it. But where can he be?

  Thursday, March 8th in the year of 1804

  Late this morning the thumping clink of a hammer as it struck metal rippled through the farm. Croppy John had returned. I raced to the work shed, only to discover they had kept him overnight for questioning at the Parramatta gaol; then without charge, released him back to his labour.

  His face was pale and drawn. ‘They mean to make examples of some of us,’ he told me. ‘Governor King has set up a court at Parramatta with Captain Abbott the presiding judge. Sitting on the bench are New South Wales Corps’ officers, and alongside them is the dirty redcoat who slashed Mr Cunningham. Mr Johnston is one of ten prisoners to face trial.’

  Croppy John’s eyes were fierce and set hard. When he inclined his head at me and muttered, ‘This battle is mebbe lost, but our war will only end when matters are righted,’ I knew he would never give in.

  Later

  Before sunset they made the convicts assigned to our district bear witness to three hangings at the Hanging Gallows. Not Mr Johnston though. His turn comes tomorrow.

  Pat, Kitt and I clung togethe
r. We had spoken in hushed, hurried tones when we caught sight of one another, Kitt relieved to see I was on the mend, Pat, unhurt, letting us know the guards were leaving him alone at Castle Hill, while I told them about the constable coming to the farm and warned the same could happen to them.

  Reverend Marsden led a procession of those sentenced to the gallows. Instead of praying for their souls, he shouted, ‘Repent or face hell!’, shooting his poisonous words into their faces on and on and on to the very last. Everyone could tell he saw their silence as an insult.

  Father Dixon followed behind, vested for sacred duties, fingers roaming over the beads on his rosary, prayer by prayer. His shoulders stooped and he wavered in his stride. Poor Father Dixon. He was a troubled man. I wanted to assure him that no one held him to account. We all knew he was peace-loving, our good priest.

  Joshua and his father were intent on keeping out of the way, but I spotted them, clear as day, in the company of Paymaster Cox. General Holt kept a stiff stare fixed on the ground. I wondered if he knew Governor King was after his hide.

  Joshua kept trying to catch Kitt’s eye. She was nestled between me and Pat. You could tell she was trying to ignore him, but I caught her stealing a furious glance when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  The sombre beat of a single drum conjured up a nightmare of horrors. I felt a tightness in my chest and closed my eyes. There was a silence all round, excepting for the creak and twisting of rope.

  Kitt’s hand found mine. She curled her fingers around and gave a squeeze. I didn’t pull away. She must have done the same to Pat. Her voice quivered in a whisper to him, ‘Are you fit to give them a song, help speed their poor souls on the journey? Although, I fear, the constables may hasten to stop you.’

  Without hesitating, Pat launched into ‘The Wearing of the Green’. He was singing in Irish, which confused the English constables because they kept looking at one another, trying to work out whether he was being rebellious, or singing a divine hymn; trying to work out if they should silence him. He managed an entire haunting verse before someone gave him a rough shove.

  Kitt made a noise like a hiss. ‘Show some pity!’

  Pat is brave and worthy. Pat of Castle Hill! No one can say different. He knew he did well. Afterwards Kitt pressed his arm and whispered how that was a fitting send-off, his singing like an angel amidst all this bitter cruelty.