by Sienna Brown
Holt just chuckle. See the play of it. Then him move quick as lightning. Pin me up against the wall, him arm cross me chest. Grab me by the neck with the other. ‘I can kill you right here. Pretend like it’s an accident.’ And to prove it, him squeeze me throat till I start to choke.
‘Let me loose,’ I gasp. ‘And we going talk.’
Holt squeeze a little tighter before he finally let me go.
‘What you want?’ I ask, after getting me breath back.
‘You’re going to need help. And I can help you,’ him say.
‘How?’
‘A diversion.’
‘You not coming?’ This is a surprise.
‘Have my own plans. Will wait to see how you fare. Doubt you’ll get too far. Before I see you dragged right back to the barracks in a couple of days. Watch as the scourger bring the blood to you back.’
‘Then why you want to help us?’
‘As soon as you get out, I want you to post a letter.’
‘A letter? Why not give it to the warden?’
‘I want no one to open it, read it before it get there.’
Curiosity rising. ‘Only if you tell me what’s in the letter.’
‘Can’t a man have a little privacy in him life?’ Holt ask.
‘Privacy, yes. But more important is the need to trust. Is like a contract,’ I say. ‘You tell me you secrets and I going tell you mine.’
Holt look at me hard, but he can see me not going to back down. Finally, he hold out him hand and we shake on it. After that, the plan began to form.
Taking Flight
Saturday come round, the end of a long week of work. We just finish the last job at the bore for the day and we laying down tools. Everybody tired, convicts, overseer and guards alike. I know nobody going pay too much attention. Everyone looking forward to the Sunday rest. We standing in line waiting to be chained and marched back to the barracks. Holt look me in the eye, as if to say, ‘Ready?’ I look at James, he give me a nod as him look down at him feet. I hesitate, afraid to give the go-ahead signal. Afraid the plan will end in failure. In that moment, the sound of a lonely cry. We all look up, see a big bird hovering, in a blue and cloudless sky. And I remember William the Second, a reminder of the freedom we seek. I look back at Holt, nod while I look like me brushing away a fly. Then a moment of silence that seem to stretch out thin, go on forever, before Holt suddenly turn to a fellow convict, start to argue. Before I know it, they having fisticuffs, moving away from rest of us. Must be only a few seconds, but me and James just look at each other. Don’t even make a move. Is only when the guards blow a whistle, run towards Holt, I find me feet, drag James with me. Run as fast as we can to the nearest bore entrance. Shoot down into the shaft and with backs bowed move headlong into the darkness.
We been over the escape route so many times, we don’t even need to use the map. First, we head towards the places we hide the bits and pieces we been collecting. Coins, a knife, a hessian bag, matches, a couple of shirts. Then we leave a trail. Back in the main tunnel, we start to hear voices. The guards must be finally overcome Holt and now they coming after us. James and me forget bout trying to be quiet, start running. More voices, footsteps, orders shouted. Closer and closer, the voices and footsteps keep coming.
‘The bolters went this way,’ I hear one of the guards shout.
They must be find the trail. But is a trail that go nowhere, only deep inside one of the passages to a dead end.
No time to think, we just run and keep on running. Bend as low as we can, backs and shoulders scraping against the stone walls. I made notches in the wooden beams to tell us how much further we have to go. First mile come and gone. Second mile, we start to slow. The tunnel getting tighter, bundled up with the last heat of the day making us sweat even more. Suddenly we hear shouts again. I look back see a light way, way down the tunnel of the bore. We reach the place where we left one of the beams loose. Is a last resort, one I line up just in case. The light and voices keep getting closer. We claw and tug at the beam, our fingers bloody. James shake his head, like he can’t keep going.
‘Pull!’ I scream. ‘Pull!’
One last pull, and with that the beam break, dragging loose stones down with it, filling the tunnel with billowing dust. We might be safe now.
One more half mile to go. We tired, we bruised, we sore. No thoughts, just the sound of ragged breathing. Finally up ahead, a welcome sight: a dull light pouring in.
Gasping for breath, we make it to the end of the bore. Creep forward, look up the shaft at the sky, hold our breath, see no head looming over. I climb up the wooden ladder, inch by inch. Reach the top, wait, listening. It seem so quiet. Sounds back in the tunnel, they must be reach the broken-down beams. I poke me head out over the top and look round. No guards, no soldiers, nothing but the marsh of the Lachlan Swamps. I nod the all clear to James and we lumber up out of the shaft and into the light of the late afternoon sun.
I can’t believe the plan worked! We made our escape. I give silent thanks to Holt and then is like we have the same thought. We start to run like mad men through the bush, ignoring the branches and scrub clawing at us, scraping against our skin. We run and keep on running till finally we can’t run no more. We have to stop, double over, trying to catch our breath. Listen for the sound of guards running after us, but the only thing that greet us is the birds, startled from them resting places. Look round in the growing evening gloom. We are surrounded. Only boulders, bush, bramble and tall eucalyptus trees stretching into the distance. For some reason James and me start laughing, we can’t seem to stop. Is not happiness, is more like what happen when you let a rope go slack after you been pulling and tugging at it for a long, long while.
We been travelling through the bush for what seem like a week, but must be only a few days. We keep ourselves hidden. Taking turns to watch, making sure we not heard, not seen. Midafternoon we stumble pon a broken-down hut covered in cobwebs, overgrown with vines and weeds. We watch for a few hours before we decide is safe to enter. The door is stuck so we have to push, heave to get it open. Inside, everything is old and rotten. Look like the people who lived there must be leave in a hurry and no one else seen the inside of it. Not much in the way of supplies. We collect wood, light a fire, cook a bird we knock down with a stone. Sleep indoors for the first time since we escape. Stay another night, before we keep on moving.
One evening, as the last lingering rays of evening settling in, the bush turning a soft yellow, the smell of fire, of food, start drifting towards us. We so hungry, we take a chance, sneak up as close as we can, surprised to see a family of natives made camp. A man, woman, small child and old man sitting round the fire. A couple of spears lay beside them. Behind is a shelter, two animal skins stretched cross the low branches of a tree.
James decide to show himself. He stand up, move slowly forward, waiting, hoping them not going kill him. When nothing happen, I stand up and move closer, next to James. We spend a good deal of time just staring at each other. Our skins, raggedy clothes and hair. Us eyeing what look like one of the native animals with a long tail roasting in the fire. James rub his stomach, put him fingers to him mouth as though eating. The family look at the old man then look back at us. He must be the one in charge. We have nothing to share except a few tubers we dug up that morning and James lay them on the ground. Finally the old man nod, wave at us to come over.
It is wondrous to taste the meat, half raw, half burnt, juices running down our faces. Only the man tries to speak to us, a few words of broken English. But mostly we just sit and eat, listening as they speak in a tongue that is totally unknown to us. Finally we fall asleep, keeping our few precious things hidden beneath us. In the morning the sound of a native bird cackling in the dawn light wakes us. We are alone. The family must be moved on in the night.
A few days later, we reach water. Only a few shacks scattered back from the beach, a dirt track edging the harbour with small boats pulled up along the shore. The weather turn
ing cold, look like a storm brewing. We are worn out, our bellies grumbling from lack of food. James points cross the harbour, in the distance a wavering light shining out. If we in luck could be a bush tavern. The opposite shore don’t seem that far so we steal a boat and row cross, scramble up the rocky outcrop, get up close, peer through the window, have a peek inside. Not much to look at. A short wooden bar, a few tables with crates for chairs. Oil lamps burning, giving off smoke. Only bout three customers. I don’t think a female hand ever touch the room. We doubt the news of our escape going reach this barren place, so we decide to take a chance and show ourselves.
James enter first, then I follow. No one pay us too much mind. Seems to be that if you can pay for what you drink, no one going bother you. There’s a man sitting by himself in a corner in the shadows and, beside him, two empty seats. James amble over first, introduce himself and, when seated, call me over. With the few coins we saved, I order three ponies of ale and bring them over.
‘Richardson’s the name,’ the man say after I offer him a pony. I sit facing the door, keeping watch on who coming and going. ‘So where d’you laddies hail from? Don’t see many of the likes of you in these desolate parts.’
James and me look at each other, we already prepare our story.
‘Whalers,’ James say, with a serious face.
‘You must have many tales to tell then,’ Richardson say.
‘Aye,’ I say. ‘But we have enough of the seafaring life. What bout you?’ I ask, knowing our tall tale going run out if him ask too many questions.
‘Ticket of Leave man,’ Richardson say. ‘Been in the colony just under five years.’
‘What you get done for?’
‘Machine-breaking,’ him say, before him put down him pony and start to sing.
The law locks up the man or woman
Who steals the goose from the common
But leaves the greater villain loose
Who steals the common from the goose
He takes a long drink of ale. ‘Hunger can drive a man to do many things.’ A deep sadness come over him face.
By the time we drain the ponies, Richardson believe us to be good friends, especially after we buy him a second one. Next thing you know, we outside and Richardson leading us away from the tavern and the small group of shacks clinging to the harbour. We follow him up a narrow flight of stone steps, along the path up the hill, till we standing outside a stone house with a small vegetable patch off to the side of it. Is the dwelling place belonging to his master.
‘Mister Chadwick,’ him tell us. ‘The harbourmaster.’
‘You sure now, Richardson?’ James ask our companion in a steady voice.
‘Yes, indeed,’ him say with unsteady voice. The drink already settling into him head. ‘Mister Chadwick is a good master. Been assigned to him for over a year now. Signed for my Ticket of Leave he did. Allows me to come and go as I please. As long as I do the work he asks of me.’
The house is set back from the path, a little way off from the rest. No sign of life except for a light flickering inside. I give James the all clear.
‘Lead on, Richardson,’ James say, and help him through the gate, up the side path to the back door. Richardson pull out him key and, after a few tries, the door opens to find a stout, elderly gentleman, looking at Richardson over a pair of spectacles on him nose.
‘Evening, Mister Chadwick.’
‘Evening, Richardson. And what have we here?’ him say, looking over Richardson shoulder at us.
‘Two men new to the colony, in need of shelter for the night,’ Richardson say as him stand aside, allow the light from the kitchen to fall on our faces.
‘For one night, you say?’
‘Yes sir, Mister Chadwick,’ Richardson say, nodding him drunken head while Mister Chadwick look us up and down for what seem like a long time. Lucky for us, the thunder rumble, lightning flash, the heavens open up and it start to pour. Before you know it, James and me warming ourselves in front of the fire.
After a hearty bowl of soup, Mister Chadwick retire to him bedroom for the night. Leave us to settle down in front of the fire on matting put down to make our beds. In a few moments, Richardson fall into a deep sleep, snoring and whistling happily away.
I get up, pull out the hessian sack I been carrying, start to look round the room, while James stand by the door in case Mister Chadwick wake up. Is a humble home with not much in the way of furniture or personal goods on display, but lucky for us in pride of place over the fireplace is a sharpened axe with a new, well-made wooden handle. This I give to James, who point to the larder set up in one corner of the room. I quickly take a tin of tea and a tin of sugar, stash them in me sack, then settle down to a short sleep while James keep watch. It seem like only a few minutes before James nudging me awake. I wipe the sleep from me eyes, take the next watch. Pretty soon the rain ease and the light outside the window begin to brighten and is me turn to nudge James awake. We bout to leave when I notice the tip of hessian bag sticking out from behind some boxes in the corner. Is a couple of sacks of flour. A welcome sight. I grab one of them before we make our way out the door. Mister Chadwick and Richardson, them is good men, so we don’t strip the place bare. Quickly head back down the steps and continue along the path heading towards the harbour. Uncover the boat we left by the shore and row back to the gullies and ravines of the bush, looking to find protection in a place we later come to know backra call South Head.
Wanted
Been on the run for many weeks now. On the run, hiding out, camping rough, acting as free men. Journey north following the coastline looking out in awe at all them tumbling waves and water. When we get too hot, sometimes walk cross the sand dunes, find a safe place to wash in. Then is back up into the barren, wild and deserted scrubland, full up with plenty wildlife. Sometimes head further inland, raiding lonely homesteads when we come pon them, can see there is no chance of capture.
James prove to be a good companion, follow orders, don’t do nothing stupid if we find ourselves in a fix. And is James that find our hideout, the cave, the one we hiding in now. Is a good cave, close to fresh water. Tall, wide, give plenty shelter, but have a narrow entrance. Is well protected, buried deep in the bush. The land round it covered in thorny bushes, small trees and dense scrub. Must scrabble up a steep hill for at least a mile to get to it. And before that you have to pass through a whole heap of ravines and gullies. Hard to find because everywhere you look, no markers, it all look the same. A man could be close to the entrance and wouldn’t even know we there.
Every time we go out on a raid, we bring back the supplies we need, till finally we all set up. Have pots, pans, potatoes and onions we dig up. Beef, from a lame calf we discover, roast the flesh in the hide to preserve it. Supplies that can keep for a long time. We each have a musket, powder, cartridges. Even make our own shots using pieces of files and nail-rod iron. Been making damper with the flour we steal from Mister Chadwick. Sometimes we shoot a bird, or a rabbit, and bring it back to roast over the fire. Now the only thing missing is grog. To get grog what we need is money. That is the plan for the day.
Morning time. James is up already. I hear him rustling round, making a small fire. Put the tin pan on to boil. Head outside the cave to do him morning business. I pretend to lay still, catch a little more sleep before James return and start in with all him questions. Back in the barracks, James get known as the questions man, but it didn’t bother me, because most of time working didn’t leave much room for talking. Now that we out in the open with nothing to do is like James become one non-stop talker. A puppy dog, always bright, happy, yapping, glad to be alive. Me, it take longer to warm up to the day and no matter how much I try explain the way me mood always shifting, how I like to have a little bit of quiet round me, James come right back and start in with the questions.
The rebellion didn’t take place on him side of the island. James wasn’t part of the rising up, but heard plenty stories bout it before him got tangled up
with the horse-stealing business.
‘What was it like?’
‘What like?’
‘Fighting? Fighting in the rebellion?’
‘Me tell you already.’
‘You tell me nothing much. Only that there was a lot of fighting,’ James say, and I can see him going get bothered.
Is true. I been holding back on telling James, no matter how many times him ask me. I don’t really want to go back there. Is a time hidden behind the line in me memories.
But this morning, James keep pressing me, and finally I say, ‘Was like a dream. A dream me wake up into.’
‘What you mean?’ James ask, edging closer like he sense I going finally tell him what him been wanting to hear.
I look at him straight. ‘Was a dream me longed to see for real, except when it happened, me wished it was still a dream.’
‘Was exciting?’
‘Exciting? No! A dream filled with fear, with blood, with fire. A bittersweet dream, where we lived like free men, not slaves, but where all me saw round me was death stalking him prey. A dream where me saw the insides of a slave’s guts hanging out and him begging me to kill him. Saw the fear in a man’s eyes as me lifted up a cutlass to try to chop him down. Where many of us died, left by the side of the road to rot. And many of dem who died was me friends.’
James turn all quiet. Seem like him finally come to understand this rebellion business was more than just a story.
‘You think a man want to pick up arms and fight? To kill or be killed, to make other men suffer? That is a madness that come over you when you find youself behind a locked door and the one with the key never going open it. That man is a criminal. Swap places and him not going accept it. Was war! A different time, a different place,’ I say. ‘It bring results, was worth it, but the price we all pay was much higher than expected.’
That morning, for once James ask no more questions. Sit quiet while we drink tea made in the billy, eat damper we hold on a stick to toast over the fire.