Master of My Fate

by Sienna Brown

  We finally rid of Barra, true, but thanks to him, James and me is out in the open. That cave was protection, but we bring Barra into it and we no longer protected. It also mean all our supplies gone too and we have to start again with nothing.

  After that, we don’t bother to find another place to set up camp, we just keep moving from place to place, camping out in the bush under the stars. It make us restless, anxious, more daring and more foolish. Is like once Barra’s shadow touch us, it stay with us. Stay with us and grow till everything turn sour.

  A few weeks later we come cross a homestead, nothing close for several miles. Spend a day watching the place, notice that the farmer and what look like him two sons loading up a wagon with sacks, must be getting ready to sell him produce in the town we passed. We camp nearby, come back at dawn, watch as the man and him sons hitch up the horses and head off. We stay covered till we sure nobody else is there, before we break open the wooden front door. Inside is a well-stocked cupboard. We fill our sacks with food, help ourselves to whatever we can take. We bed down in the barn for the night. Is a relief to spend it in a place of shelter. We decide to spend another day, use it to clean ourselves up, even kill a chicken, roast it over a fire. We plan to leave early the next morning, grateful to have one more night of safety and, like always, James take the first watch.

  All of sudden James shaking me awake. He hear something. We quickly try to gather up the stolen supplies and make for the entrance, but is too late. The barn door swing open and I hear a voice shout out to give ourselves up. That farmer must have spotted us and brought the constables back. We move to the window at the back, check to see if anybody there. Start to open it, but a shot ring out, almost clipping James. We start to shoot, James from the window and me at the constables hiding by the barn door. Shot after shot get fired, but both sides miss the mark. Bad luck for us, we finally run out of bullets. They must figure this out because the constable shout out again to give up, but James and me stay still, hoping to find a way out. Then we smell smoke. Try as we might to hold out, that smoke start to sting our eyes, make us cough and splutter. I look at James and him look at me. We know the flight to freedom is over.

  Another Sentence

  The rainy season is pon us. The skies turn grey, is cold and damp and wet, but is not till the weather start to ease, warm up, that we finally get transported in a big rumbling prison cart from the gaol in Windsor down to Sydney. Get locked up in His Majesty’s gaol. A big stone building on George Street, a place I never think I going end up in when I walked past it, clanging along in the convict work gang. Day after day James and me just left to sit, stand, sleep in bunk beds with a hundred other prisoners in a room smaller than the rooms in the barracks. Backra don’t make us break rocks or jump up and down on the treadmill, all him do is leave us to wait for the trial to begin. The only time our spirits lift is when we get to walk in the yard, glad to feel the sun on our faces. Try hard not to look at the timber gallows just outside the stone wall, looming over us. Is where backra do the public executions. And after each one, our spirits sink even lower, can sense death approaching, especially when we hear that Lazarus Barra got executed, hanged from them very gallows.

  On the day of the trial we have to wait till other cases is heard. In the afternoon, we finally brought into court, stand in the dock before the judge and what backra call a military jury. Listen as the legal man tell all kind of things James and me done. Except, I gradually come to understand why it took so long to bring us to trial. No solid proof to hold against us. Is only when Mister Chadwick get called in as a witness that I know fate catch up to us and we is done for good.

  A few days later, we get marched back into the courtroom to hear the verdict. It is only a short while, but time seems to stretch thinner and thinner until I going howl if it go on any longer. Finally the judge pronounce the sentence.

  ‘William Buchanan and James Smith, you have been found guilty of bushranging. You are sentenced to …’

  And I think I hear him say: ‘to be taken from this place and hanged by the neck until dead’. But then I see that James winking at me and me ears open and I hear what the judge is saying.

  ‘You are sentenced to three years to be worked in leg irons.’ And the sound of the hammer hitting the little box go round and round in me head.

  Three years working in irons! I should be grateful that it is not a death sentence like Barra. Calla used to say that bad luck comes in threes. Three times I been in a courtroom, waiting with shaking knees for the sentence. Three times fate try to take me life, but once again I escape the hangman noose. Hopefully Calla is right, and maybe if bad luck don’t catch you after the third try, it never will. I send out a prayer to the Ancestors, thanking them for looking out for me.

  But it’s the end for James and me. I only have a few brief moments to say goodbye. Watch as he get trundled off in the prisoner wagon to a place backra call Illawarra. James come to be like a brother to me, and the pain of losing him weigh me heart down with sadness.

  After the trial, I get sent right back to where it all started. Back to the barren number world of Hyde Park Barracks. When I get there, enter through them iron gates, the place seem even more run down and filthy than when I escaped, but I see a few friendly faces of the island boys and it almost feel like a homecoming.

  I look to see if John McBean still there. Wonder if him managed to keep safe that silver button, but him gone. Become a Ticket of Leave man sent off to a place backra call the Hunter River Valley to work for a master by the name of George Wyndham Esquire. Must be not too bad a life, because rumour have it that Wyndham is a kindly man, he treat his convicts well.

  Holt still there and, when I see him, the first thing he ask is if I posted that letter. He finally, fully believe me when he receive a letter back. He get given Tickets of Leave to many places, but each time I see him marched back through them iron gates, sent off to solitary, accused of drinking too much, getting into fights, assaulting his master. The last time I see him, he is in the back of a cart on him way to a place backra call Liverpool Plains. He must be settle down, because he never return after that.

  As to me, well, I spend me sentence cutting stone in a quarry beside a windy, sandy hilltop place called the Woolloomooloo Stockade. The place where Governor Bourke decide to build the new gaol in Darlinghurst. End up laying stone for the underground tunnel going be used to take prisoners from the gaol to the cells of the main courthouse.

  Soon everybody I know gone from the barracks, but I just keep moving forward, shuffling in irons, one step, one clock strike, one clang of the hammer against the rock, one slap of the mortar against the stone. Clinging to the memory of that night by the river, when I looked up at the stars in wonder and discovered that inside I was a free man. And I hold that sweet memory of what freedom tasted like. Hold it strong in me heart as the years of me sentence pass by, so no matter what happen or how hard backra work me, is a place that no man can touch.

  Kind Master

  Was a windy, cool evening in June when I first arrived at the homestead, a stone cottage with a bark hut for storing things and a dog barking from the little front porch. Arrived to lights shining out the windows, like a beacon that I saw from when we was far away, a beacon shining out to us from among the lonely trees.

  It took us a couple of days to get there, me sitting in the back of the cart bumping along, watching the bushes as them drifted by. Letting me mind drift like them bushes. Holding onto nothing, just sitting, waiting for me fate to unfold. Knowing I going find out soon enough if is going be a kind or cruel one. Backra stamped the papers, gave me a Ticket of Leave. Sent me off. And with every mile I prayed that me finally leaving that soulless, barren place, Hyde Park Barracks. For good.

  Just before I left the barracks, I got a letter from James Smith. Him finally got him Ticket of Leave and was back up in Brisbane Waters, working for a tavern owner. Put him reading and writing skills to take stock, write up supplies. Sometimes him work
ed behind the bar, serving drinks. Other times, made the meals when the cook was too drunk. Asked me to send word as to where I end up and one day he going try to come for a visit. I kept that letter for a long time, folded up safe until it turned all ratty.

  When we arrived, me new master beckoned to come inside the stone cottage, not sit by the steps like some outdoor dog. Sit inside at a table where I was given hot stew in the kitchen by the mistress. She don’t have no servant. Rabbit stew, with potatoes and vegetables thrown in. Damper to wipe up the plate. The stew warmed me up, down to me bare feet, me gnarled toes. Filled me up with the promise of hope. The master noticed me eyelids drooping and he showed me the little room off the back they set up. Was a shock to not have to sleep in a hammock, but to get a bed, with sheets and a blanket to keep out the chill. Fell into a dead sleep. Woke up to see the sun breaking through the dust-swept little window with bright handmade curtains, bringing in a little heat.

  That first morning I will never forget. There was no chain round me ankles, no one giving out orders, no lining up to get grub, to use the wash house. I looked at the shadows on the floor, it must be late, but the master hadn’t come rushing into the room, to shake me from sleep, to shout at me to get up. I discovered later that I slept through the whole night and day and night again, and Master and Mistress just let me. Was the first bit of kindness I received in a long time and me spirits started to lift.

  The homestead is a good few miles from the town of Goulburn, a scrappy town I go to many times to get supplies, to sell chickens, sometimes sacks of vegetables for the master. Work in him fields, look after the cattle, build and mend things. Help dig a well. Live in me own little hut, I build for meself, after I been here a year. And all the while, Master and Mistress look out for me. Feed me well, treat me with respect. They is Christian people and when they hold a little service and the mood catch me, I sing some of the songs Sam Sharpe choir used to sing, while the master play on him fiddle and the mistress clap, following along. I get a little rowdy sometimes and they have to quieten me down, but I think they secretly enjoy all the swaying and praising of the Lord I add to the Sunday prayers.

  I tell meself one day I going send word to James, tell him all the things I seen and done since the last time we been in each other company. I plan to, want to, but in the end I didn’t and I come to understand why. I cared about James Smith, loved him like a brother, but he belonged to a part of me life that is over. A time I don’t want to remember, when I was a slave. A rebel. A convict. A bushranger.

  A Ticket of Leave man is what I am now. A man working for a kind master and mistress, helping out with whatever little thing that needs to be done.

  Is sunset and the master just return from town. Rushing over to where me digging up the garden, getting it ready to plant a new crop of vegetables.

  ‘It’s come, William,’ him say, holding up a letter, his eyes shining bright.

  ‘What’s come?’ I ask, me mind still on getting the garden ready.

  ‘Your pardon.’

  It still mean nothing and I keep on digging.

  ‘I sent them a letter. Told them of your service. The Crown has given you a pardon.’

  What the master saying slowly start to enter me mind. I take the letter, look at it, look at it again, notice me hand shaking. When I say nothing, the master stand by me, read it out loud, and the words start to float all round me.

  His Excellency the Governor has directed it to be notified that Her Majesty is graciously pleased to authorise the issue of pardon to the under mentioned person on condition that during the remainder of the term of his respective sentence, he does not return to the country or colony from which he was respectively transported. Pardon available every where save in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and Jamaica: William Buchanan, Moffatt.

  When him finish reading out them words, I start to feel heat rise up in me face. Me heart start pounding, I start to tremble and then suddenly me legs give way. Must be a fever catch me, because I fall into a heap on the ground. Look up to see the master’s face bending over me. See his mouth moving, but I can’t hear the words, they seem to be coming from a far way off. And as I slip into darkness, into stillness, I slowly come to understand the fight is over.

  And I hear myself whisper, ‘Freedom.’

  And in the whispering of that word, I get lifted out of the darkness, till a dream of light surround me.

  Last Night

  I wake with a start. Been dreaming. Dreaming bout a light that shine bright, strong, hot, even though all round is a cool, shadowy darkness. A light that call to me. Softly, softly, if only I can reach it. Touch it. Pull it out of the darkness, keep it safe.

  I try to reach out, catch it, but the light change, is no longer a wall of light. Now it is shafts of light squeezing through wooden boards. Boards in a wall, in a hut, that don’t seem to fit together. And I can see the roof, the shafts of light curving cross the shadowy afternoon.

  Is no longer a dream. Is a memory of me as a young pickney lying on a straw mat covered in rags, fingers and toes grasping, reaching for the light shafts surrounding me.

  Now there is a face. The face of a woman. A woman I know, a woman I remember. Stella!

  How long since I call to mind that name? Remember the hands that used to pick me up, bathe me in the softness of leaf-shadowed morning light.

  So many seasons come, gone and come again, yet still I find it hard to let meself remember Stella without the pain. A pain that been driving me from behind a line of hidden, buried memories.

  Maybe now is time to let them loose. Dig them up. Pull them cross the line. Drag them memories into the colour of life and relive the last time I held her. Then let meself depart, go me own way. Leave Stella and the thorn of pain behind.

  The night before the hanging, backra let me sit with Stella in a stone room with a gate of iron. A small cell with only straw for bedding. The guard shoved food through the bars. She didn’t want none. I expected to see her crying, knowing what the morning going bring. But all she worrying bout was her clothes. How she going look. She still had on the same dress she wore at the trial and it is dirty, all torn up. She used the water I bring to tidy up herself, before she pulled me down to sit beside her.

  ‘The children … dem all right?’

  I nodded. Couldn’t say nothing. Couldn’t tell her how much Eliza cried when the warden sent word is only I could come visit.

  ‘Me provision ground?’

  ‘Give it water every day.’

  ‘The house? Dem good-for-nuttin’ girls, they clean it good?’

  I nodded.

  ‘The washing? Must be piling up bad. Must be a big load. A big big load …’

  ‘Eliza in charge of the washing now. She turn into a real little slave driver. Order everybody bout. Wonder where she get it from.’

  At least this made Stella smile. Even if was a sad little smile.

  ‘Melon send this for you.’ I pulled a corn fritter out me pocket. Stella grabbed it. Eat every last crumb. Then we sat saying nothing.

  Until finally, all quiet like I asked her.

  ‘How come, Stella? How come?’

  Stella stiffened, sat still, said nothing.

  ‘You must tell me what happened.’

  Stella looked at me. Looked at me a long time before she started to speak.

  ‘Massa catch us. McKellar and me. Catch us in the long grass, laying together. Don’t know how him find us. Must be tell everybody him going to muster and then follow us. Stand there, looking down on us before him kick McKellar in him side. Hurt him bad. Drag me up off the ground by me hair. Start to beat me. Shout that what belong to him belong to him alone.’

  Stella put her head in her hands, rubbed her face like she trying not to remember what happened next.

  ‘Me feel the chain him have round me neck. The chain him keep squeezing that going squeeze the life right out of me. And suddenly, is like a raging fire overtake me. A fire me been holding down,
but can’t no more. Me chop him, Will. Pick up the axe and chop him. Chop, chop him,’ Stella said, shaking her head back and forth like she couldn’t believe she did it. ‘Chop him neck, chop him back, him arm. Would keep on chopping, but McKellar stop me. Is McKellar put Massa foot in the stirrup. Whip Massa horse, make him run. Held me, let me tremble and rage till the fire burn out.’

  After the telling, Stella just sat there, still shaking her head, before she finally slumped into me arms and wept.

  There was nothing left to say, to do, except try to give a little comfort. Was a big relief hearing the truth of it. Made some kind of sense that Stella took her eye for an eye and killed Massa, the man she loved, but also hated.

  Finally Stella gathered herself up.

  ‘Is almost time. Almost time, little Will.’ And in the saying of it, the fear start to fill up in her eyes.

  If only. If only, I kept thinking.

  If only what? Stella didn’t kill Massa? Wasn’t sentenced to die?

  ‘Stella,’ I started to say, before I turned back into a pickney trembling before the hugeness of what going happen. Meant she had to use her fast-fading strength to comfort me.

  ‘Hold me hands, boy. Hold dem tight,’ she said. ‘Remember how it feel. Is only me body going disappear. Because me spirit, me heart, me love for you going always be there.’

  I just kept nodding. Is the only thing I could do. Knew if I tried to say something, the peace that finally come between us would be broken. So in the stillness of that night, we just sat. Held hands until the silence got shattered. It was the sound of a rooster crowing, telling us the morning coming. And I lost control and started to fret, but Stella, she stroked me head. Hugged me tight. Calmed me right down.