Behind the Sun

by Deborah Challinor

  At last, Gabriel Keegan appeared.

  The convict women fell silent, the only sounds the creaking of the Isla’s timbers, the sea washing against her hull and the cry of sea birds overhead.

  His arrogant gaze swept over them as he walked across the deck towards the ship’s rail.

  Someone made a loud pig noise.

  ‘Oh Friday, don’t,’ Harrie whispered.

  It was picked up and the women launched a barrage of grunting, jabbering, snorting animal sounds, the pitch and volume rising until the alarmed crew clapped their hands over their ears.

  ‘Pig!’ a voice shouted.

  ‘Pig! Pig! Pig!’

  Matthew Cutler glanced over his shoulder as Keegan approached.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Keegan urged.

  Matthew fiddled about with the sling on the bosun’s chair. ‘I seem to have the ropes tangled. Won’t be a moment.’

  Keegan bared his teeth as behind him the taunts continued. Finally Matthew slid the seat beneath his backside and was launched into the air.

  ‘Rapist!’ someone shrieked.

  ‘Dirty bastard!’

  A pottery bowl flew through the air and hit Gabriel Keegan on the back.

  ‘Are you going to do anything?’ James Downey asked the captain.

  Josiah Holland examined his fingernails for a moment. ‘No point, really. He’ll be off in a minute.’

  ‘That’s true,’ James said.

  The bosun’s chair returned and Keegan threw himself into it, at last descending into the wherry below. Before he was even seated the watermen pulled away from the Isla in a wide arc and set out for the shore, passing the line of four lighters waiting to collect the latest shipment of convict women to arrive in New South Wales.

  A crowd awaited them on shore — a number of women, but mainly men with a hankering for a wife or simply come to inspect the plumage on the most recent cageful of His Majesty’s canaries. Some of the convict girls played up to them, and Friday was one of the worst, swishing her skirts about, showing her legs all the way up to her thighs and yelling out ribald comments. She was angry about Rachel, and this was the only way she had of letting it out. Sarah sulked and was aggressive. Walking on solid ground after so many months at sea was surprisingly difficult and the women staggered about as though in their cups. A man in the crowd shouted at them, ‘Drunken whores!’ and Sarah lunged out of the line into which they’d been herded and spat at him before a guard knocked her down and dragged her back. The crowd cheered, thoroughly entertained, then roared even more loudly when Friday swore the air blue then bared her backside at the guard.

  Harrie slipped a comforting arm around Sarah’s shoulder, but Sarah shrugged her off. Blinking back tears, Harrie looked around for Rachel, trudging along behind them, dragging her sack of possessions, still crying quietly, lost in her own muddled little world.

  Unable to stop it, Harrie burst into tears herself. This was absolutely awful. It seemed that they were as despised here as they had been in London, never mind that Sydney Town was filled with folk who had been convicts themselves, the mean buggers. And no matter how cheerful they’d tried to be on the Isla about their prospects in New South Wales, they were now thousands of miles from family and home and on the eve of a minimum seven-year sentence of what amounted to slave labour. It couldn’t get much worse.

  A hand slipped into hers; Rachel’s.

  Harrie squeezed and held on.

  They stayed only one night in Sydney Town, under lock and key in a shed on the waterfront, where they were mustered and had their papers checked by a man who announced himself as Mr William Tuckwell, superintendent of the Female Factory at Parramatta. The next morning they set out for the Factory, a journey of around fifteen miles up the Parramatta River, in six boats rowed by two dozen burly watermen. Their military escort distributed themselves two to each vessel, Mr Tuckwell riding in the lead boat. On the first leg, Harrie had sat only inches from a waterman, his face red and sweaty, his knees banging against hers as he’d rowed, and he’d not looked directly at her once.

  They had stopped so the watermen could be relieved, and now the river was narrowing, its banks lined with mangroves whose roots reached down into the water. It was warm and muggy on the waterway and hordes of voracious mosquitoes were out in force, giving rise to energetic swatting and swearing.

  At times, between the grumbling and slapping and the steady dip of oars into the river, could be heard the harsh cries of a familiar bird.

  ‘That’s a raven!’ Friday exclaimed, a note of pleasure in her voice. ‘Fancy having English birds here.’

  ‘’Tis not. Them’s crows,’ Matilda Bain argued.

  Friday shook her head. ‘Ravens.’

  ‘Crows.’

  ‘You’re a bloody old crow.’

  Harrie held her breath, worried Friday would lose her temper. ‘It doesn’t matter, does it? They’re both English.’

  ‘No, these ones are native to Australia,’ the young soldier sitting in the stern said. ‘Nearly the same as the English ones, but bigger. And it’s a raven. Ravens go “aarr, aarr, aarrrrrrrrrrrr”; crows go “ark, ark, ark”.’

  Everyone turned to stare at him. He went pink, adjusted his cap and looked away.

  He proved useful again later when an unearthly cackle rang out across the river and made them all jump and look around wildly, advising that it was a bird called a kookaburra, even though Matilda pronounced it to be the sound of the devil himself laughing at them as they were rowed towards their doom. This time Friday pinched her until she squawked.

  Rachel, who was getting a headache, slumped with her head in Harrie’s lap and her legs across Sarah’s.

  Finally, when they were convinced their backsides couldn’t tolerate the wooden seats any longer, the watermen veered towards the right bank and landed the boats. The women, stiff from sitting so long with their knees bent, disembarked with their possessions and trudged in a long ragged line towards a high, pale stone wall, their military escort marching beside them, Mr Tuckwell leading the way. Fearing that she might have a fit in the boat, Harrie had lightly dosed Rachel with laudanum: now she was dozy and Friday carried her on her back, Sarah following with an armful of sacks and bags.

  Skirting the moat beyond the base of the wall, which was easily fifteen or sixteen feet high, they plodded along in the wall’s lengthening shadow until they came to tall wooden gates set into an archway. The gates were flanked by towering pillars of sandstone — and they were closed.

  ‘It’s a prison,’ someone remarked, with an almost comical note of disappointment in her voice.

  There was a bit of weary laughter at that. What else had they expected?

  Friday said in Sarah’s ear, ‘Give me the kitty. And a bit of cloth, a kerchief or something.’

  A wicket was set into the left-hand gate: Mr Tuckwell rapped on it and it creaked open. A short exchange occurred with an unseen person, then it closed again.

  They all waited.

  ‘Jesus, hurry up,’ Friday said loudly as she crouched and slid Rachel off onto the ground, where she slumped, her head nodding. ‘Me bladder’s bursting!’ She walked off a short distance, turned her back, lifted her skirts and squatted. The soldiers stared.

  Discomposed, Mr Tuckwell shouted at Friday, ‘Hey, you, no! Wait until you’re inside!’

  A moment later the big gates swung ponderously open, grinding across the dirt and gravel beneath them.

  Bella Jackson, her girls struggling with her trunks, shoved her way to the front of the line. Harrie and Sarah picked up Rachel between them, leaving Friday to carry everything else. The soldiers closed in and herded the women inside.

  Behind them, the gates shut with an echoing bang.

  They found themselves packed into a small outer yard; ahead of them rose another lower wall and a second set of gates. One of the children started to cry, which set them all off. But not a single mother slapped or reprimanded; the day had been long and everyone was tired, thirsty
and hungry.

  A porter — or portress, as she was a woman — opened the gates. Through they went, leaving their military escort behind, into yet another yard, this one reasonably spacious and well-kept. Directly in front of them rose a wide, three-storey building with windows along each floor, divided exactly in the middle by a blunt, full-height transept more likely to be found in a church, and, rather incongruously given the unwelcoming appearance of its unadorned, sandstone facade, an elegant cupola on the roof and a clock set under the eaves of its entrance. The yard was enclosed by buildings on three sides, including the three-storey structure, and by the wall and gates through which they had just entered.

  In the centre, facing them, stood a woman. She looked middle-aged, was solid but neatly built and wore a white ruffled bonnet and a black dress that gave off a slight sheen in the late afternoon sun. For a long moment she observed them in silence, her face unsmiling, hands clasped loosely at her waist.

  ‘She looks a dour piece of work,’ Sarah said out of the side of her mouth.

  Friday stifled a snort of laughter.

  The woman’s head turned and her hooded eyes narrowed. ‘Is that girl ill?’ she demanded, pointing a short-nailed finger at Rachel.

  Harrie, struggling to support Rachel, felt a squirt of panic. ‘No, ma’am, just sleepy.’

  There was a ripple of laughter and the woman clapped her hands sharply. ‘Quiet! My name is Mrs Gordon and I am matron of Parramatta Female Factory. This will be your home until you are sent on assignment. For some of you that will occur almost immediately, which I certainly hope will be the case as at present there are four hundred and eighty-nine women and seventy-two children here, not including yourselves.’ She paused to take a breath. ‘The Factory operates a class system. All inmates eligible for assignment are drawn from first class, and first class only. Second-class inmates are on probation and third-class inmates are those confined to the penitentiary for crimes committed while on assignment.’ She paused again and deliberately swept the faces before her with a stern gaze. ‘My task is to ensure every adult inmate is eventually assigned. Until that occurs, all inmates fit for work will undertake industrious employment while at the Factory. Shortly you will bathe, undergo inspection, and be allocated quarters. I understand you were issued slops when you boarded your transport at Woolwich. You will only be issued with replacement slops if those which you currently possess are unserviceable.’

  From somewhere in the middle of the shuffling, rag-tag group came the unmistakable sound of fabric being torn. Someone tittered and soon it had spread until everyone was giggling and laughing.

  Mrs Gordon clapped her hands again. ‘Quiet! Quiet! Let it be known now that I will not tolerate insubordination or wilful disobedience.’ She waited stonily until the giggling had died down. ‘The Female Factory fulfils many roles. It is a labour exchange, a manufactory, a lying-in facility, a nursery, a hospital, a penitentiary, and I have even heard it referred to as a refuge and an asylum, but above all it is an institution for convicts and that is what you are. This entire colony was originally established as a gaol. It will serve you well never to forget that.’

  ‘As if we could,’ Friday muttered.

  Mrs Gordon turned on her heel and walked off, her full black skirts swishing, crossing the courtyard and entering the three-storey building.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Sarah said grumpily.

  ‘Well, I can’t muck about,’ Janie Braine said behind her. ‘I have to feed these babies. Me tits are bursting. Here, hold Rosie, will you?’

  Sarah took Janie’s baby while Janie opened her blouse and put William, Evie Challis’s orphaned infant, to her breast. He suckled half-heartedly, his delicate eyelids closing, long lashes brushing his cheeks, mouth working weakly.

  ‘Poor little tyke,’ Janie said, gazing down at him. ‘He’s so sickly compared to Rosie.’

  ‘Will you keep him?’ Sarah asked.

  Janie nodded and looked up, her bung eye staring blindly. ‘As long as I can. Well, he’s got no one else, has he?’

  ‘What about Evie’s little girl? Who’s got her?’

  ‘One of Evie’s mates. I’d like to take her, too, so as not to split them up. But we’ll see.’

  Friday appeared at Sarah’s elbow, waggling her fingers at Rosie and pulling the baby’s bare toes to make her smile. ‘Come on, we’re moving.’ She nodded at three women wearing keys at their waists. ‘Turnkeys.’

  The women herded the unwieldy group towards the three-storey building. The entrance door was quite narrow and they had to go through one at a time. Once inside the foyer, bigger than expected and with a soaring ceiling, the turnkeys directed everyone through yet another door on the far side and out into a third walled yard. Small clusters of inmates stood about, watching the newcomers. They wore the same clothes as the turnkeys, though many were barefoot.

  ‘So they’re lags, the turnkeys,’ Friday remarked to Sarah.

  Sarah’s expression was ambivalent. ‘Good and bad. Easier to bribe, harder to fool.’

  There were also curious female faces peering through windows in the buildings at the end and on the right side of the yard, though the wall of the building on the left side was windowless and blank.

  Mrs Gordon was waiting for them in the far corner, beside a flight of stone steps apparently descending into the ground.

  She clapped her hands once again, then indicated a doorway in the wall to her right. ‘On my say so, line up and move in an orderly manner through the workshop to the storeroom to receive your new slops. I remind you again, take only what you require. Return here with your new items, remove all your clothing, children included, and in groups of twenty at a time descend to the baths and wash your personages and hair thoroughly. You can be assured that there are no males in this area of the Factory to observe you. Leave all your possessions including your old clothing here in the yard, take only your new slops down to the baths with you. Your personal, non-regulation clothing will be stored until you are assigned. The wearing of non-regulation clothing at the Factory is not permitted.’ She gestured to a woman standing beside her. ‘This is Mrs Dick, one of my two assistant matrons. She and the monitresses will assist with the inspection. Now, please make a line.’

  There was the usual shuffling and milling about that accompanies the formation of a queue, then the first women moved into the building Mrs Gordon referred to as a workshop. Harrie, Friday, Sarah and Rachel followed. In each wall of the workshop was a doorway — the entire Female Factory seemed to comprise a maze of walls and doorways — but the line snaked to the right into a storeroom whose wooden shelves held piles of folded clothing, the slops Mrs Gordon seemed so anxious should not be distributed willy-nilly. Two women behind a counter were getting into a muddle handing out the various items that made up the Factory uniform.

  ‘We don’t usually get such a large intake all at once, you know,’ one grumbled loudly as she pushed a pile of clothes across the counter. ‘And don’t come complaining if it doesn’t all fit. I can’t be held to blame for the sizing.’

  By the time the girls left the storeroom their arms were full. Like everyone else they had sworn that the slops they’d been issued at Woolwich were falling apart, which was more or less true, so in effect they now had new wardrobes, if not very stylish ones. Outside in the yard Friday dropped her armful of garments on the ground and stood looking down at them.

  It was more clothing than some of the women had ever owned, but the quality was poor. To wear on weekdays they’d received one drab serge over-petticoat, one drab serge jacket, one apron of factory-made linen and two calico caps. For Sunday best there were a blue gurrah over-petticoat, an under-petticoat of factory flannel, one white calico apron, two shifts, a long dress with a muslin frill, a red calico jacket, one pair of grey stockings, a pair of shoes, two checked cotton handkerchiefs, a straw bonnet, a white cap, and a bag in which to hold everything.

  ‘A lot of clobber, isn’t it?’ Friday observed. ‘No
t exactly the height of fashion, though, eh. Can’t see me pulling many cullies in that lot. And how are we supposed to wear all that just on Sundays?’

  ‘I think we’re supposed to try to keep the best bits for Sunday and wear the rest during the week,’ Harrie suggested. ‘And you’ll be someone’s servant soon. You won’t have any customers.’

  Sarah rolled her eyes at Harrie’s naivety. ‘Did you normally wear the latest fashions when you were working?’

  ‘No.’ Friday sat on the ground to try on her ugly new shoes. ‘These are too small.’

  ‘Then stop complaining.’

  ‘They might fit Janie, though,’ Friday said. ‘The soles are out of hers.’

  They did, which was fortunate, as only the first three dozen women received new shoes before the store ran out of footwear.

  There was no sign of Mrs Gordon now; Mrs Dick gave the order for the first group of women to go down to the baths. There was some initial grumbling and reluctance but they stripped and, carrying their slops, descended the steps, the late afternoon breeze raising goose bumps on pale skin scarred from prison sores and other mishaps, and here and there birthmarks and tattoos. Before the head of the last woman had disappeared below ground the monitresses — who behaved exactly like the turnkeys at Newgate — began to go quickly and efficiently through the women’s possessions and discarded clothing, raising shouts of protest from those still waiting. It soon became clear that money was the prize, as any discovered was swiftly deposited in a large leather pouch.

  Harrie, looking on anxiously, whispered, ‘Friday, where’s our money?’

  ‘It’s safe, don’t you worry. Oi!’ Friday shouted to one of the turnkeys. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ came the reply.

  ‘Like hell I will. I’ll wager that ends up in the matron’s pockets,’ Friday said loud enough for Mrs Dick to hear.

  The turnkey shook her head but didn’t look up from her task. ‘Benevolent Society, to help the destitute.’