Sydney – Port Jackson – Picture from Australia’s Heritage Magazine 1969

Published: 11 Mar 2019

Working for Samuel Wilcox became more a manservant and friend, rather than master and bondservant. There soon became one obvious realisation about farmer and convict, being neither understood how to farm the weather and poor soils of the colony. The farmer as he was not born to farm, the lad as England’s rich tapestry almost farmed itself.

It was true during the first year Wilcox had a fine harvest of Indian corn, even if some was lost to pilfery by the natives but his second crop lacked the vigour of the first and the ears were small and somewhat dryer, being only useful for stock fodder and then the rain came late, while the conditions were more favourable during the third planting and a measure of hope returned. Still the man persevered and with some luck and advice from others, part of his crop made the standard acceptable for sale.

There was good land to be found but that had been quickly selected by past members of the New South Wales corpse, in the likes of Macarthur and his cronies, free settlers or friends of each governor being under their mandate to manage what was thus considered to be Crown Land.

Others received their grant directly from the Colonial Office in England or the king himself. There was also good land in the vicinity of Parramatta and Bankstown but that had long been settled before Wilcox’s grant, also further out along the Nepean River. There the natives held strong resistance, often setting fire to crops, while during any extensive wet season that land there became flooded with ease but it was fertile land and worth the effort.

Six months into Edward’s bondage he was once again discovering he had a measure of self. The farmer found the lad’s value and more, he was becoming somewhat attached to Edward’s strange Devonian accent and west county ways, while a friendship grew between them.

Wilcox turned thirty during the Easter of that year, an event that passed without celebration, while Edward was closing in on his twentieth celebration and like the farmer made nothing of the fact. This was a country of hardship where every turn had something new, something ready to rip the heart out of one trying to etch a living from the land. It was more than possible to do so but had a steep learning curve that’s zenith may not eventuate before total failure became apparent and that failure was apparent most everywhere.

Before the arrival of Edward the farmer had readied himself for convict labour, erecting a rudimentary hold for a number of men close to his hut as was the habit but soon realised his selection wasn’t fertile enough to support more than he and possibly one other, maybe a third if the seasons held. At first Edward was secluded to this shelter but with the coming of that winter, the farmer invited the lad into the hut and because of the night’s chill and lack of bedding, into his bed with the notation the heat from two bodies was more warming that one alone.

Edward accepted the farmer’s bed without apprehension, as it was a common occurrence and while living home he had to share a bed with his older brother and with Samuel’s back along his own, skin on skin, heat to heat it became a pleasure to do so, giving him great comfort but an even greater longing for it to be James at his back, yet if Samuel were to take advantage of the situation, Edward knew he would not resist yet the farmer held reticence, even if his eyes lingered long as Edward bathed naked in the creek, or sat beside the fire on winter’s nights.

The eyes of the farmer were comforting, taking place of father and brothers while slowly developing into some cerebral relationship, one of thought, of word, two minds combining to become one without ever displaying necessity to become physical. Somewhere deep in Edward’s reflection he believed the farmer and he were of like minds but never was it suggested so, only the eyes gave intimation there was some secrete lurking within.

It was on such a night Samuel made suggestion they would need to travel into Sydney Town for supplies and seed. Because of the poor soil and difficulty in clearing the thick scrub on his selection, he had made decision to grow produce instead of crop for the coming season, although a small acreage of corn would be planted close to the creek where the ground was easiest to work. He had thought of planting wheat, others had succeeded in doing so but his plot was too damp being low to the river and held its moisture longer than the higher ground.

Edward yawned and stretched his shoulders while the fire’s heat made him drowsy, his eyes closed and his head commenced to droop. In that half life between sleep and consciousness he heard his father call, he gave a groan, “huh,” Awake now it was Sam who had spoken.

“Tired lad?” the farmer repeated.

Edward fort away his drowsiness, “a little,”

“I was talking with Gregory Blaxland while in Parramatta last week,” the farmer incidentally added to the conversation. Edward waited quietly for continuation. “He had recently made attempt to find a crossing of the mountains.” The farmer stoked the fire against the evening’s cold that entered through gaps in the hut wall like the long frigid fingers of some wayward woman. “He is going to attempt another crossing in the spring before the rain.”

“What does he expect to find?” Edward’s thought returned to what he had heard from others. Gone was the belief it was a way to China but many held opinion once across that barrier they would find a land settled by Europeans, possibly the French or Dutch, possibly the Spanish and from there one could obtain passage to some accepting country but for himself he no longer wished to find such a country only to become a slave to some foreigner.

“I don’t rightly know,” the farmer quietly admitted.

“Good land I should think,” Edward suggested. He was now awake while attempting to make sense of his dreaming of home. It had seemed real and was his father’s voice that called to him yet reality assured it could not be so. He was with the farmer in a wilderness that could not be furthered from his beloved Devon.

“Not China,” the farmer laughed pre-empting the lad’s thoughts.

“I realise that,” Edward abruptly answered not wishing to be considered a simpleton.

“Mr. Blaxland believes possibly a great inland sea as by his reckoning all rivers appear to run in the same direction but all known maps don’t have them at the western coast.” The farmer paused appearing to have something on his mind but didn’t know how to put it forward.

Outside the wind picked up and whistled through the gaps in the bark wall, both moved closer to the fire, shrugging into their shoulders.

“It’s colder this year,” the farmer admitted.

“I couldn’t say as I wasn’t here for the last winter.”

“Believe me it’s much colder and the wind more frequent.” Sam enforced.

“It is strange,” Edward now awake became interested in conversation.

“What would be strange?”

“Back home there would be snow a foot deep on the ground but the winter’s sun was warm, here the cold wind appear to go right through you.”

“I should think one only remembers the good times.”

“No really I believe it to be colder here even without snow,”

“I am sure you are correct Edward but where I came from it was mostly days of cold rain we hardly had snow, only continuous drizzle until everything you touched had a coating of cold and damp, even your boots grew mould if left for a short time.”

“Is your Mr. Blaxland wealthy?” Edward asked.

“Quite so and he is a free settler who was granted land back in England to grow crops but found it more advantageous to run cattle. That is why he is at logger with Macquarie.”

“So why does he wish to cross the mountains?” Edward asked.

“Land, the stock near the settled areas has cropped the grass so low it hasn’t had time to seed and reproduce, allowing the unpalatable grass to grow in its place,” hearing a noise the farmer paused, believing it nothing of concern he continued, “Macarthur is having the same problem by taking over the Cow Pasture and overstocking it with his sheep.”

“Why is it called the Cow Pasture?” Edward asked.

“With the arrival of the first fleet five cows and two bulls escaped into the scrub and multiplied, being found some ten years back. When they were discovered the herd had increased to around five hundred head and when Macarthur was given rights over much of the area for his sheep, there were almost five thousand and that is my guess is why it’s was called the Cow Pasture.”

“As good a name as any, do you think Blaxland will find passage across the mountains?”

“He believed he can.”

“What work do you want done while you are in town?” Edward asked but the farmer’s thoughts remained with Blaxland’s approach in finding a crossing.

“As you know there is hardly enough work for more than one here, so I was thinking.”

A cold wave flooded over the lad with fear of being returned to government labour or reallotted to some settler without the humanity of Samuel Wilcox.

“I thought you wished to clear the scrub from the top paddock,” Edward strongly put forward.

“That can wait until the summer I want you to come into town with me, as I wish to introduce you to someone.”

“Who would that be?”

“Gregory Blaxland.”

“Why so?”

“I thought seeing he will need bonded labour when he travels, he may take you along,” the farmer realised the rising anxiety within Edward and smiled, “don’t concern, nothing sinister but if he did take you it would be a good way for you to receive a ticket of leave and freedom.”

“To return home?” Edward became most excited, for a moment forgetting the judges promise to have him hanged if he did so.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself lad, that may never be allowed but you could at least become a free citizen of this fine developing colony, possibly with some luck start your own holding.”

“Why would Mr. Blaxland wish to choose me?”

“Why not, you are strong, trustworthy and developing a good bush sense. It is my opinion you would be a perfect choice, besides he respects my judgement.”

“You actually asked the man?”

“Not in as many words but there are many ways to do so.”

“What about the savages?” Edward felt a chill of fear, he had seen the natives who lived locally, perceived their indifference and displeasure towards the invaders and heard stories of settlers being either burned out in the night or speared as they worked their fields.

“I guess there will be natives,” the farmer agreed without showing any level of distress.

“It could be dangerous,” Edward envisaged.

“It could but I am sure if the natives are treated justly there would be little trouble, like the lot from the local camp.”

“Even they don’t appear appreciative with us being here and they do steel crops.”

“They take a little but I consider it to be payment for farming their land, other than that I’ve never had a problem with them.”

“Possibly so Sam but.”

“At least think about it.”

“It is still a little frightening.”

“Now you will come to Sydney with me?” the farmer asked.

“I guess so; do I have a choice in the matter?”

“Not when it comes to your future and emancipation, I think I have your best interest there and if you at least meet Mr. Blaxland you may feel better about joining him.”

Some distance towards Sydney Town the farmer with Edward driving the cart came across what appeared to be a convict and in much haste, his breath heavy and purpose in his stride. The farmer called upon the man but only received mumbled words as he headed towards the scrub in the direction of Parramatta. Wilcox thought little of the occurrence.

Although one rarely encountered a convict without supervision especially so distant from any of the settlements, it wasn’t exceptional. Free settlers would use trusted bound servants as postmen, delivering messages to outlying districts or holdings, regarding social events or official meetings.

“Now there’s a man in a hurry,” Sam ironically commented.

“He was running like a snow-bunny with a fox on its tail,” Edward said as the man crossed the road and disappeared into the scrub. After further comment on the man’s haste he was forgotten but on reaching town there appeared to be an unusual disquiet about town.

At Ferguson’s bond store the question was raised but with a shrug of shoulder passed away in the negative. Ferguson was not a man for words, with a temper more volatile than a summer’s storm, also a dislike of emancipated felons, convicts and officials, leaving only women from the many brothels to be to his liking and to be sure, any person who paid in coin or pad his tab on time. Although a free citizen the man’s prices were considered close on criminal and his dealings somewhat suspect but no more that usual from the many merchants who held business along the harbour front.

“Who’s the youngin?” Ferguson enquired, his eyes on Edward as if the lad were about to help himself to property.

“My bondservant,” the farmer answered, passing on his list of provisions. Ferguson as quickly passed it back, “can’t read your writing,” he growled, not wishing to admit he lacked schooling, “you lot are all the same, a little freedom and you think you are highfaluting.”

The farmer ignored the remark, addressing Edward he allowed him to go down to the docks and see what ships were berthed. As the lad departed he challenged Ferguson on his prices, as the previous month flour was almost half what the man was asking.

“Well there you go mate, pay or go elsewhere, for some of us it is a free country, others must pay the price.” There was a sting in the merchant’s words but once again the farmer disregarded while looking over his supply of seed, “vegetables, what have you in vegetable seed?” he asked.

“Not a lot but you may have luck with Simmons, being an ex-officer he got first choice of the Lady Susanne; she arrived from Calcutta yesterday.” Edward returned from the docks.

“Hey kid you come here and give your boss a hand with this lot,” Ferguson gruffly demanded. Edward obeyed and commenced to load a number of bags onto their cart.

“Righto Edward, we are done here,” the farmer acknowledged and nodded for the lad to climb upon the supplies within the wagon.

“Where to next Mr. Wilcox?” Edward asked.

“I need to visit a Mr. Simmons over at the Haymarket. Would you like some refreshments?” The lad remained silent as the farmer headed towards the business end of town.

“Rosie Craddock it will be,” the farmer spoke somewhat rhetorically.

“Who is Rosie Craddock?”

“She has the tavern on Hunter Street and the finest ale in Sydney Town – you do drink ale?”

“Yes sir but I have all but forgotten its taste,”

“So a pot of ale or two it will be.” The farmer released a wanting smile and continued on his way while somewhat lost in his thoughts. “Once it would be rum and little else,” he eventually spoke while passing the well appointed shops along Hunter Street.

“Why would it be rum Mr. Wilcox?”

“Ah it was currency then and controlled by the officers of the New South Wales Corps, still is currency in some ways, I guess it is hard to break old habits, especially with grog is concerned.”

“Currency?” Edward simply asked.

“Yes for a day’s work you would be paid in rum and if you drank it then you went without. The officers held sway over its import and sale and made a greedy profit on doing so,” the farmer paused and pointed down a narrow lane towards an old warehouse, “that was Major Johnson’s rum joint, he made a tidy profit I’m telling you.”

“Did you deal in rum Sam?”

“Only out of necessity but never drank the muck.”

“What you paid for beer with rum?” Edward quizzically asked seeing absurdity in such a ploy.

“Sometime I guess so but usually it was beer for kind. I chop your wood you give me food and drink, I guess one would call it barter.”

Before the lad could question further the busy street became even more so with oom-pah oom-pah of the 73^rd. Regimental brass and drum band, as it practiced by marching along the street in their scruffy uniforms but perfected order. The farmer’s horse took fright but was soon quieted, while pulling to one side to let the noise pass.

“They make a lot of noise for such a scruffy lot,” Sam laughed loudly bringing the drum major to glare.

“My Da was in the village band.” Edward proudly shared.

“What did he play?”

“No it was his voice, he had a wonderful voice,” Edward smiled as somewhere deep in his memory he heard his father singing. It was strong and happy and there with him was his mother proudly listning while his siblings sat close by gaily attempting to follow his words.

“Had – is your father dead?”

“I guess to me he is as I’ll never see him again, nor hear his singing, so it is best to believe he has died.”

“That is a sad state of affair but I can understand your sentiment, do you sing Edward?”

“Not a note, I sound like some frog croaking in a millpond but James -”

Edward left his revealing unfinished and Sam thought better of asking him to continue.

“As a lad I once sang Christmas Carols in my village choir,” Sam offered his memory with equal fondness.

“I’m not much religious Sam,” Edward admitted as the band past on.

“Nor am I lad but I did like the singing.”

Beside the racked of the military band came King Bongaree, a self appointed king of the local natives, dancing about like a man possessed in his cocked hat, blue navy waste coat, with gold braiding and buttoned to the neck, while lacking shirt or shoes, his large flat gnarled feet kicking up as much street dust as the band while in a strange rhythm of dance. For a change he did wear trousers, although where they came from, or class they represented wasn’t at all clear.

As Bongaree travelled with the band he begged for coin from the small crowd gathered for rare entertainment, an English penny, a holey dollar a dump or whatever the bystanders would offer. Most offered nothing but insults and King Bongaree accepted their taunting as if it were the highest accolade of praise.

The dollar and dump being of Spanish silver coinage with the centre punched out, creating two useable coins and rendering them useless except for scrap, if transported beyond the colony. The outer became valued at five shillings while the dump was worth fifteen pence but any coin of any realm would be useable as long as it had a high silver content and could be given parity in English currency.

“Who is the savage?” Edward mused at the black man’s boldness as he travelled with the band.

“Bongaree from the local lot and as cheeky as one can get.”

“They allow savages to roam free?”

“It is their land, or should I say was.”

“They are a frightening lot.” Edward gave a slight shudder.

“Can be but treat them favourably and they are fine, treat them badly and suffer the outcome, as it is with most people. I guess even you Edward if the mood is warranted,” Sam explained.

“Umm but they still are a frightening lot.”

Later that morning at Rosie’s Craddock’s Tavern the farmer enquired if Gregory Blaxland was in town. Rosie wasn’t helpful but one of the drinkers had seen him earlier and believed he was heading for Government House to visit Macquarie. Rosie laughed and claimed further, “more to point gone to argue with Macquarie and knowing the man, my guess a large portion of his mind he will be giving.” A lifting of snigger arose from the few in the tavern bar as the farmer gave appreciation for the information and departed.

“Come on lad we’re off to see the Gov.” the farmer spoke as he turned the cart towards the prosperous end of town.

“Why visit the governor?” Edward took on a nervous disposition, believing any encounter with authority would bring him further undone and to do so with a man who held sway over law and life may surpass daunting.

“Actually lad it is not to see Macquarie but I believe Mr. Blaxland is visiting there and as I said before, I think you may suit his needs when he takes his expedition beyond the mountains.”

The two were abruptly halted at the gate by a poorly mannered soldier of the 73^rd; whose uniform was well past best but still representative of his authority. “State you’re business!” the guard growled and pointed the bayonet of his rifle towards the belly of Edward as he encouraged their horse forward by walking beside and holding firm to the harness.

The farmer quickly spoke, “I have come to speak with Mr. Blaxland and I believe he is visiting the Governor.”

“Visiting you call it, I could hear the man shouting from here,” the guard harshly mocked, displaying his disregard for authority, “move your cart over there, by their conversation I don’t think you will have long to wait for Mr. Blaxland but by his mood when he arrived you may not have much success in speaking with him.”

While waiting a second visitor arrived and after a few words with the guard continued towards the house. As he passed he nodded and lifted his hat towards the farmer but did not speak. The farmer returned the gesture and allowed the man passage without conversation.

“Who is that?” Edward quietly asked once the man was well towards the house.

“Francis Greenway, he is the Government Architect and a friend of Macquarie, he is also emancipated.”

“He was a convict?”

“That he was and I guess still is until his time is served.”

“And he works for the Governor?” Edward appeared most surprised to hear one who had been transported for crime was now in government employment.

“Yes I believe embezzlement and forgery was his crime but now he is a freed man or sorts but like you and me, can’t return to England. Why do you question his position?”

“That he was a convicted person I guess.”

“I also worked in the earlier Governor’s office as a clerk,” the farmer proudly admitted.

“So possibly there is chance for one transported for -”

“Theft lad, theft and don’t you forget that,” the farmer cut short the lad’s criminal description, believing in a place such as New South Wales theft was a proud badge to wear, while the crime of sodomy, although well practiced would be most ostracizing.

Moments after the passage of Mr. Greenway, a most unsatisfied Blaxland passed by the architect at the door without exchanging the simplest of greeting, continuing with that mood the man also passed the farmer and quickly paced towards the gate where the guard made reference to the waiting farmer. Blaxland turned and roughly called. “Mr. Wilcox, I believe I know you business, I will call by your selection in the near future; have the lad ready.

“How did he know why you wished to speak with him?” Edward surprisingly asked.

“Ah that is because even before I suggested so to you I had already approached the man.”

“And if I decline?”

“I’m afraid declination isn’t a convicts right,” the farmer explained as he reapproached the guard, “Mr. Blaxland appears somewhat bothered,” the farmer implied.

The guard laughed, “I don’t think that will be the end of it all either. He and his brother were granted five thousand acres of good land back in England, now the Gov. appears reluctant to release the land, something about too much grazing ruining the grass crop and he was promised the land to grow much needed food crops not for grazing.”

It was near dusk when the farmer returned home and both were enjoying their evening meal when a commotion was heard coming from the thick scrub to the north bringing both to investigate, while expecting the disturbance to be coming from the native camp towards the branch creek.

Across towards the creek a number of convicts came with haste out of the scrub followed by the sound of musket fire. They soon passed by the hut and disappeared into the even thicker scrub to the south and a long scar in the land that was good concealment where it was almost impossible to follow on horseback. Moments later a number of foot soldiers entered onto the ploughed land near the farmer’s hut, trampling some of the crop back into the soil. The lead soldier paused at the door of the hut and forced entry.

“Name!” he shouted at the farmer while pushing Edward back from his stand by the door.

“Samuel Wilcox, what appears to be the problem?” the farmer rushed his concerned question.

“Bloody Irish again, same as Castle Hill in 0’two they just don’t learn.” The soldier cast his gaze around the small hut and was satisfied none had come inside then turned his attention towards Edward, “what’s your name lad?” he roughly demanded.

“Buckley sir,”

“Buckley what?”

“Edward Buckley,”

“Ya’ not Irish are ya’?”

“No sir I was from Devon,”

“God’s own county – best you keep your door shut and weapon handy tonight, until we’ve rounded this lot up. They have been on the prowl for some days and threatened to burn Macarthur out, also raided the armoury in Parramatta.”

“What is their grief?” the farmer enquired.

“Grief, they need no grief just being Irish is grief enough.” The soldier turned and called to his men, “nothing of interest her lads, move on.”

During the night more shots were heard and much shouting coming from the vicinity of Parramatta and a large fire was seen in that direction but by midnight all became silent.

“What happened in 0’two?” Edward asked, himself being in the colony for under a year and its past history not high on his agenda.

“It was an Irish uprising and the rebels wished to take over New South Wales to create an Irish republic, then take possession of any ship or ships in the harbour and transfer their associates back to Ireland to rekindle the rebellion there.”

“Obviously it didn’t work,” Edward envisaged.

“No they were totally unorganised and after a battle of sorts, lasting but minutes the leader, a Philip Cunningham was caught, seven were hanged and some hundreds punished, although less than one hundred arrived for conflict at Castle Hill and most of them had only sticks to battle with.”

“That was near here, were you affected?”

“Not at all, I was a clerk for the then Governor King and in Sydney Town, I didn’t know about it until it was all over.”

“Huh,” Edward grunted.

“Why huh young fellow?”

“Tonight’s lot, you would think they would have learned a lesson.”

“People never appear to learn from other’s mistakes that is certainty.” The farmer left the hut and cast his eyes in the direction of Parramatta. The fire that was raging earlier had died down and its glow in the sky could no longer be seen above the tree line.

“It appears to be over,” Edward assumed as he stood with the farmer.

“All but the hangings and there will be hangings.” Sam cast his eyes to the cloudless sky and the multitude of stars, finding it most difficult to believe with such a sight one could be but content with their lot.

“What do you think of the treatment of the Irish?” Edward asked.

“I suppose at home they have complaint, then again so have many in England but here they aren’t treated any different than others, I guess it’s their religion that makes the difference – you ask Reverend Marsden about that.”

“Who is Reverend Marsden?” Edward asked.

“He is a minister of the Church of England, he arrived with a bible in one hand and a whip in tuther and during the Castle Hill uprising the man barely made it down river ahead of an Irish lynching party.”

“When it comes to bother it appears religion is always the flint.” Edward commenced to return inside. The farmer followed.

“And intolerance as the lighter, watering tomorrow so an early rise before the sun dries it all away.”

News on the previous night’s entertainment arrived early from a neighbour who happened to be in Parramatta at the time of the uprising. By his telling a number of convicts had complaint about rations and set fire to a government store in Parramatta, then after raiding the armoury and without luck they stole a number of axes and hoes before taking to the bush, while declaring they would burn Parramatta to the ground and have Macarthur’s head on a spike before the next sunrise.

According to the neighbour there were no more than a dozen of the poor wretches, some alleged at most twenty, four were shot and killed, two wounded and the remainder piled into a wagon and carted away to Sydney Town for sentencing and hanging.

“Sentencing and hanging that was spoken as if one naturally followed the other,” Edward commented on their neighbour’s report once the man had departed.

“It seems to be that way.”

“Yes as it was with me.”

“You escaped the rope lad,” Sam commented against Edward’s complaint.

“Only because mad King George wanted farmers for this little experiment we are living out here.”

“And a very good experiment it is in my opinion,” Sam quickly displayed his satisfaction with his lot.

“I haven’t decided on that as yet Sam,” Edward placed as his thoughts returned to home, his family and most of all James.

The information arrived by decree, penned and copied at the police barracks in Parramatta and sent around to the immediate selections, to be read aloud to bonded servants to dissuade them from further action. One such notice was passed to Edward as he worked the field close to the hut. Edward immediately passed it to the farmer enquiring of its contents. The farmer read then folded the paper to his pocked.

“I never learned to read,” Edward admitted displaying an embarrassing undertone towards his lack of education.

“Reading and writing are most important in this new world of ours.”

“Mr. Wilcox would you teach me to read and write?”

“It would be my pleasure; I once taught children when I attached to the office of Governor King.”

“Weren’t you a little young to be a Government official?” Edward asked.

“I was nineteen but being able to read and write is in demand regardless of age.”

“None of my family could do their letters either,” Edward continued while remembering his father having to go to the local minister to pen any article of legal requirement.

“Then lad it is about time you learned and doing so, possibly it will help you once you get your freedom.” Edward gave a shudder, not going unnoticed by the farmer, “what bothers you?” the farmer asked.

“I was remembering how close I was to being done in.”

“Man’s inhumanity towards his fellow man and for a crime that comes from the natural way of things.”

“Do you condole with sodomy Mr. Wilcox?” Edward asked realising it to be the first time any form of conversation had developed between them towards such a subject.

“You had a friend?” the farmer asked without answering the lad’s question.

“I did so, James and he lived on the neighbouring farm. It was his father who discovered us in their barn and handed me to the authorities.”

“What happened to James?”

“He was locked in his room but escaped and came to visit me in prison but from there I have no more on him,” Edward paused and smiled, “that is why I wish to learn to write, I could send him a letter.”

“You could lad but if he has left his home, where would you address it to?”

“He has a cousin Mary – I think she would be sympathetic, Mary Clark of Dark Lane Budleigh, Edward gave a light smile, remembering early days as children in the dairy with her and James playing a game they called milking maid, when he and James became the cows and Mary the milking maid. He didn’t relate the game to Sam as there were strong undertones of nakedness and physical experimentation.

“So I guess there is not time to waste but remember as a convict you are not permitted to write letters back home but you could dictate to me and I could send it for you.”

“You would do that Mr. Wilcox?”

“It would be my pleasure lad.”

Winter was becoming spring and for once the winds of August did not arrive. Edward had finished his morning’s work and was seated on a log beside the hut door, his gaze northwards to the mid morning’s sun and in wonder how high it hung from the horizon. If he were home at winter’s end that same sun would still kiss the giant oaks along their farm divide, hardly rising above them on mid summer’s day.

At home the snow would still lay upon the grass and the air crisp and chilled but soon their animals would be in the fields. He missed his Devon and his family but was growing accustomed to the strange anomalies of his new home, now even if giving chance there was a possibility he would not return but how he missed James.

“What’s on your mind?” It was the farmer coming up from the creek while noticing Edward’s pensive mood. The lad broke from his dreaming and turned to answer.

“I was back in Devon with spring coming. The stock would soon be in the fields and buttercups growing along the hedgerows.”

“I’m afraid not lad,” the farmer laughed.

“Why do you say that?”

“Back in England they are going into autumn not spring.”

“I don’t understand,” Edward admitted.

“Simply the seasons are opposing, England’s winter is this country’s summer and spring is autumn.”

Edward appeared confused.

“Something to do with the tilt of the earth,” the farmer explained.

More confusion from the lad;

“I can’t explain further but I read it in a book on natural science, from Governor King’s library when I was his secretary. There is another good reason to learn your letters.”

The lad commenced to laugh, “this is some topsy-turvy country.”

“In more ways than you can imagine, I should think Mr. Blaxland will be visiting shortly, I heard in Parramatta last week he was equipping his expedition to the Blue Mountains.”

“That concerns me somewhat,” Edward answered.

“Don’t you want to go?”

“Not so much to do with wanting but I’ve become accustomed to your presence and working your farm, I would miss all that.” Edward stood from his seat and collected the two pails of water the farmer brought with him from the creek, “I’ll take over the watering now.”

“Yes I’ve become accustomed to you as well but for now there will be very little to be done around here except weeding and watering until mid spring.”

“The top field still needs clearing for next year’s crop.”

“Excuses lad; that can be done during early summer, I think you should go, besides it is planned now and I don’t think there is any escape clause.”

“What is your meaning?”

“A way out, I also studied business law for a time.”

“Yes I know, while a clerk with Governor King.”

“That’s him,”

“Why did you part from the governor’s employment?”

“That was a long drawn out account, before King there was Hunter who attempted to break the hold the soldiers had on the rum trafficking. The man failed and Whitehall sent Mr. King, he also failed so they searched their naval ranks for a man with a strong tenacious character.”

“Did they find such a man?” Edward cut across the farmer’s telling.

“Find such a man, they surely did in Captain Bligh and a more capable man could not be found.”

“So this Bligh won the day?”

“I’m afraid he totally lost the day and he was arrested by his own men and sent packing.”

“Did you also work for Bligh?”

“No Edward he wouldn’t have an emancipist in control of government matters, besides by then Governor King had already allotted me this land.”

As the two commenced their watering, movement caught their eye from near the ploughed field leading to the creek where Sam had planted a row of pumpkins. Both paused and perceived a group of natives all naked and carrying spears, although they didn’t appear interested in anything except crossing towards the creek. The farmer waved but was ignored, again he waved and cried out greeting, the lead native turned to him and shouted, wara, wara, wara and continued on his way.

“What did they say?” Edward asked while feeling somewhat threatened by their presence.

“No one knows for sure but those words have been shouted at us whites since we arrived and it doesn’t appear to be greeting that is a certainty.”

“The fella’ in the lead is big.”

“Yes he is tall,”

“That’s not what I mean,” Edward corrected mischievously.

“Cheeky,” the farmer released a wry smile.

“What?”

“Something I was told while working at Government House.”

“Are you going to share it so?”

“It was during the first Governor’s time, Captain Arthur Philip and when he approached a group of natives for the first time, they believed his sailors were the ghosts of their dead, while the men’s clothes confused the natives on their sex. Philip had a young rating low his trousers displaying his pizzle to prove he was a man.”

Edward gave a shudder, “I don’t think I would like to dangle my privates before some native, I hear they are partial towards balls as a delicacy.”

“That is only some story used to scare children and convicts,” Sam assured.

“It sure worked on me,” Edward admitted.

Towards the creek the group of natives paused becoming so still they could have been part of the scrub along the farm’s boundary, their ebony skin becoming one with the fire blackened exterior of the paperbark trees, then Edward notice a small mob of kangaroos grazing within the long grass on a slight rise.

At first Edward assumed the natives may have travelled further towards the creek as no movement could be depicted in the scrub where they entered. Eventually there was movement, this time much closer to the kangaroos. Again he lost their ebony black bodies against the stand of trees.

One by one the kangaroos lifted their heads and turned towards where Edward had last seen the natives, then before they could bound away to safety a number of spears broke through the ranks of animals and two fell to the ground sending the remainder bounding across the rise and out of site. Noisily the natives collected the dead animals and again disappeared into the trees.

“Come on lad, leave them be and I’ll put lunch on and after we’ll pen that letter you were talking about.”

“Except for that obvious rebuff they didn’t appear much interested in us or the farm,” Edward perceived of their character as the natives returned towards their camp along the creek.

“Many natives are like that, often walking right past you, even at touching distance as if you weren’t there, although those around Sydney Town are more animated and interact quite spontaneously. Come on let’s have lunch and start your first lesson.”

During that first lesson the farmer penned a letter with Edward dictating what was necessary. It was to be addressed Mary Clark of Dark Lane Budleigh East, being a request to find her cousin James but at not time was his crime mentioned or his position in Port Jackson.

At its conclusion the farmer read back the letter and suggested he could also pen a letter to Edward’s family. Edward thought not, thinking he had already caused them enough grief and to bring it all back with him at such a distance, where he could not define his innocence, instead somewhat detrimental to their wellbeing.

Besides there was a measure of truth in the charge, yes he did have sexual encounter with his friend and on many occasions but it wasn’t and could never be considered forced as suggested by James’ father and brother and never buggery, they were building towards that.

If anyone should have been charged for rape and penetration, it should have been Eugene as when the mood was right and women absent; it was often James who wore his brother’s sexual frustrations.

“Right then I will post your letter when we are in Sydney Town at the end of the week but don’t expect a reply for quite some time. It will be seven months before it reaches England and even if Mary can find James another seven months or more before you receive a reply, more than likely in the year of Eighteen-sixteen more than two years from now.”

Edward well understood the tyranny of distance but already his heart was lifting as if James had been found and well and during the following days and weeks, tried even harder to learn his letters. If James or Mary were to answer his request he wished to be capable of reading it for himself.

That week in Sydney Town there were two more convict ships with almost five hundred more wretched soles to be dumped at the end of the earth. The ships were, The Spirit of Hebrides and the Clarence while a third ship, somewhat smaller fresh from India and China, was moored close by and loaded with merchandise that only the well-to-do could afford.

Coming down to the dock with their cart the farmer pointed to the many chests of tea being brought ashore. “For the rich to become richer, the many must remain poor,” he announced with disapproving commitment.

“I guess so,” Edward half agreed. Firstly he had never in his young life encountered such merchandise from tea to silk, from riding boots to women’s dresses and kitchen utensils he couldn’t even consider their usage. There were stock saddles, side saddles and much more, even a number of horses, ordered by Macarthur himself for Elizabeth Farm and the pleasure of his children.

While the two watched over the unloading a mounted man seated proudly upon a fine grey mare forced his way through the small crowd. “Out of my way!” he growled and booted his mount forward, using his riding crop to disperse those gathered. Coming close by the three horses from the boat he dismounted and checked them for durability and health. Soon three bondservants came to his side. Macarthur spoke, “they will do, get them away from here and ride them back to the farm and no galloping them, or it will be you who get the whip.”

As quickly as the horses had come from the ship they were bridled and the three servants without saddles rode away while Macarthur departed into town in the direction of Government House.

“Never cross that man Edward, if he should speak to you treat him as if he were royalty, otherwise he will surely bring you undone,” the farmer once again warned as he moved the cart away towards Ferguson’s bond store to collect their supplies.

As the cart approached the store Edward spoke, “Mr. Wilcox with the way Mr. Ferguson treats you so why do business with him?”

“Simple lad, he may be rude and insulting but under all that bluster he is basically an honest man and would no more cheat an emancipist than a free man or servicing officer, although I hear some of his dealings are a little risky.”

“Basically?” Edward questioned.

“As honest as a business man in this part of the world can be.”

“I wouldn’t call his pricing honest.” Edward complained.

“Ah but no less than others, it is a monopoly and they hold their prices equally so not to undercut each other but Ferguson doesn’t tamper with his weighing like some do.”

“I guess I have a lot to learn about most in this town,” Edward admitted.

“Time lad and mistakes, I’ve made my share but you learn to roll with the punches, if you smile often usually you can come out the other side in one piece,” the farmer released a short chortle before continuing, “but if you do smile be sure it doesn’t represent cynicism.”

“Is your Mr. Blaxland acquainted with Macarthur?”

“He is; why do you ask?”

“Only to know where I stand, if I am required to travel with Mr. Blaxland.”

“They are well acquainted lad but two men of so different character you will never find. Mr. Blaxland is a man of thought, even if like Macarthur a little free with argument with those given position over them.”

“Did you remember my letter Mr. Wilcox?” Edward asked bringing the farmer to gasp.

“Sorry lad it remains on the over-mantle but promise to post it in Parramatta next week, fortunately there won’t be a ship leaving for some time.”

From an English prison colony to one of the Great Nations of today. This how it started. Let Gary know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net.

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