Published: 1 Apr 2024

For some time after Axel’s camp had been raided by the escaped convict, he procrastinated over his future. One moment he was for leaving the familiar territory of the eastern foothills, the next moment he was governed by concern towards what would be found on the Western Downings. True there were many making the trek but in most they were groups of fortune seekers or families, one man alone may have difficulties, especially if he became ill and unable to hunt.

Even more pressing were supplies and how he could gather enough skins to barter for what he may need. Hunting would not be a problem as he had become proficient but would the game beyond the mountains be the same as found on the coastal plain, would he find Murnong to dig, native beehives to raid, even more pressing would the blacks be in greater number and more troublesome.

It had been a cooler summer than usual and at early autumn there was already a light dusting of snow about the high peeks, with the Three Sister Monoliths having snow on their hair. The snow lasted but half a morning and by afternoon the day became quite hot, as for the snow it was nature giving a warning, it would be a cold and wet winter. It was time for decision but not this day as he tidied his camp before heading out for the day’s hunting.

At first Axel thought nothing of the commotion he heard coming from the direction of the Parramatta road. He had been hunting for wallabies near the road when the sound of troopers on the march echoed trough the forest. Reaching the road Axel waited silently aside as they passed. At the head of the column is Major George Johnson appearing most dapper in his new uniform as he sat high and proud on his mount, although it is a pity the same could not be said of the foot troopers noisily following at the rear.

Noticing the lad, Johnson halted the column and calls for Axel to approach.

Axel shouldered his gun and conforms.

“Are you Irish?” the Major forcefully demands, his eyes are piercing into the lad as if searching for recognition.

“No sir not Iris,” Axel quietly replies, keeping his tone submissive without understanding why being Irish would be questioned.

“I know you. You were Sergeant Miller’s bum-boy before he was posted to Mauritius, Tommy something or another,” the Major appears to be enjoying his abusive recollection and his troop to a man is smirking.

“No sir,” Axel quietly responds without the slightest acceptance of the insult. He remembers well what Scottish Jock advised when he became upset by a slant giving against his birth. Jock had said, never mind lad they are only words, so wear them proudly and remember to be insulted you firstly have to accept the insult, if you don’t it becomes their problem.

“What are you doing carrying a weapon on a public road?” the Major forcefully demands.

“I am hunting sir.”

“Have you a permit?”

“That I do, as I am hunting for fresh meat for the road gangs with the Governor’s mandate.”

“Mandate? I have doubt you even know the meaning of the word.”

“I do sir, I was educated to a fair standard by no other that the Reverend Samuel Marsden.”

It is now Axel who is smirking.

“Then be on your way, there is nothing of interest for you here,” Johnson gruffly demands while giving his troop the signal to continue their march. Axel waits for the troop to turn a bend before continuing with his hunting.

During the early evening as Axel prepared his meal there appeared to be more native activity than usual as small bands of natives comes from the direction of Castle Hill heading deeper into the foothills. At first he believed there may be a meeting of the tribes, as it was custom to gather occasionally to exchange idea and share new blood by intertribal marriage.

Remembering the troop movements during the afternoon he decided it to be part of the ongoing native wars, as while in Parramatta a few days earlier he had hear that Pemulwuy was again playing havoc with the selectors along the Hawkesbury, burning a farmer’s corn crop and spearing his convict servant who later died from his wound. Even so why would so many natives be on the move and appearing to be away from Castle Hill, which from Axel’s camp was most of a day’s trekking.

‘Tomorrow’s problem,’ he gives his usual thought when there is a quandary that doesn’t appear to have an immediate answer. He settles beside the small cooking fire, kept low not to advertise his presence.

As Axel commences his meal there is movement in a small gum tree off to his right that brings a smile. It is his resident ringtail possum preparing to come down to scavenge about his camp for a wasted morsel.

The possum’s eyes flash ruby red in the fires glow.

Axel offers a happy word, “are you hungry little fellow? It is well you are a ringtail, if you were a brushy tail,” he says, “I’d have your pelt.”

The critter sniffs the air as Axel tosses a scrap of damper bread to the base of the tree, “there you go.” He offers as the ringtail commences downwards.

‘Tomorrow,’ he again thinks.

‘Tomorrow I’ll go have a looksee what’s on the go with the troopers.’

‘But tonight is for sleeping.’

Lying back on his bed of meadow grass under a spreading of kangaroo hides, Axel once again ponders on travelling west. Immediately a wall of fear towards the unknown takes hold and he mind become bogged in past experiences and failures. Instead he is reminded of his time with the Sergeant and how he had been manipulated to the trooper’s degrading desire. He was a child then and now almost a man he could make his own decisions. Even so being the son of a convicted woman Axel wasn’t entirely free. True he was free to hunt and abode on what was once native land but he remained the property of King George, the so proclaimed mad farmer king who ruled a country he knew nothing of. He was free in spirit but not in body. True there were no chains about his ankles, on his wrists. His chains were in the minds and words of his fellow countrymen, who considered him nothing better than the trash of human society.

During his early days Axel ran free with the children of convicts, as those freeborn were not permitted to associate with the ragged urchins of felons in fear they may corrupt the purity of their souls. In most it was native children who accepted Tommy No-One without questioning his skin or his breeding, while teaching him language and the ways of the forest. Possibly it was his association in those early years while mixing with native children that now allowed him to hunt within tribal land without contest.

Axel’s resident ringtail is now on the ground and nibbling at the discarded damper, it sniffs the air and senses Axel’s presence but feels safe enough to approach further.“Are you hungry little fellow?” Axel repeats and the sound of his voice sends the possum in a scurry back to the safety of the tree. Somewhere far cross the dale below his camp a dog barks, it is not a native dog as they more yodel than bark. He remembers the selector who took up some land but a mile to the east and after clearing a small acreage ran sheep, without realising the land was too damp thus causing footrot. The selector had a dog. It was a large ugly brute that the man proudly announced could out run and bring down the swiftest blackfella’. Axel smiles, the last he heard from the farmer was the natives had speared the few sheep that survived the wet winter. The farmer had long gone: but what of his murdering dog? Possibly it had become feral and bread in with the native dingos. He had heard stories of such breeding that made the dingo bigger and more dangerous, while losing the native dog’s timid nature.

Axel recalls the Reverend Marsden mentioning the condition that caused sheep’s hooves to rot in damp pastures. The Reverend called it Diechelo-something, declaring the coastal plain was too wet for sheep and cattle but the exactness of the disease’s title had evaporated from Tommy’s youthful mind, even before the Reverend had finished his decree. That was long past before the Reverend departed for New Zealand, before he returned and took up selection and became a farming clergy. Since Marsden’s return Axel had kept his distance from the priest as he had no wish to be reminded of the past. In Axel’s mind Tommy No-One had long gone and with it the boy’s torment.

‘Tomorrow,’ he again thinks as sleep creeps.

He yawns.

‘Tomorrow, I’ll go see what the commotion is about.’

On reaching the Parramatta Road and still some distance from the settlement of Rose Hill, Axel noticed unusual progress along the river, all in the direction of Sydney. At the head of the procession he sees the Reverend Marsden nervously seated in his skiff, while with the day lacking the slightest breeze being rowed by two of his bond-servants straining against a strong tidal current. Although there was little room in the small skiff, it appeared to be stacked with the Reverend’s most prized possessions. Some distance behind the Reverend Axel spied Elizabeth Macarthur from Elizabeth farm, also making haste towards Port Jackson. It was as if anyone of importance or wealth was deserting the western boundaries of the colony.

Reaching the small farming community of Rose Hill, Axel is curious to discover what was driving those of property from the security of their holdings. Rose Hill is a small settlement on the Parramatta Road consisting of half a dozen houses and a general store owned by an emancipist woman of some size and determination with a belly laugh that would dampen the blackest mood.

Rosie Craddock had arrived on the same ship as Tommy’s mother although they had not been well acquainted and on arrival the infant Tommy No-One went with the female convicts to the women’s prison, Rosie was bonded as a servant to a free farmer who married her. Not long after their marriage her husband was speared and killed by the blacks while he was gathering timber near Castle Hill. Being emancipated and now a free woman, Rosie found her business ken and became a provider of goods at inflated prices to the newly arrived free settlers.

As Port Jackson was a prison, it wasn’t permitted to trade with the outside world. Even so in the main it was a prison without walls or iron bars. The walls were the rugged Blue Mountains to the west and the bars being fear of reprisal from the blacks. Now with the arrival of many free settlers and the developing Pacific trade, Sydney Town was becoming a hive of industry and corruption. By law it was not permitted for the military to trade, although they did in defiance of the many Governors England had dispatched to contain the military’s grip on trade. The problem became paramount when the Rum Corps rebelled against a previous Governor and arrested William Bligh.

After a mock trial for treason, they sent him packing from the colony to Van Diemen’s Land. Bligh later returned to Sydney Town being reinstated as Governor for a day before returning to England to attend the trials of his adversaries.

Although it was not permitted for the military to trade, they did and as they were the only holders of silver through their pay, whenever a ship arrived, the military would purchase its entire cargo, then on-sell at inflated prices to the settlers and shopkeepers such as Rosie Craddock. Then when the military needed to pay for services or goods, instead of their limited silver they paid in rum.

As Axel arrived at Craddock’s store he found the woman had boarded her windows and was in progress of moving the bulk of her goods inside from the store’s verandah.

“What’s the go Rosie?” Axel calls on approach.

“Tommy,” she returns the call, while struggling with a barrel of paraffin.

He ignores the title and helps with the barrel.

“There’s trouble at Castle Hill and there has been a threat to burn Parramatta.”

“Who; the blacks?”

“No its Phillip Cunningham with his Irish mob, they say they are going to turn the colony into an Irish Republic and slit the throats of any protestant that stand in their way.”

“I’ve heard of him, now I understand why Major Johnson asked me if I am Irish.”

“You’ve seen the military?” Rosie hopefully questions.

“Yesterday they were on the Parramatta road, although they didn’t appear to be in a hurry to be anywhere.”

“If I were you lad, I’d keep my head down, as some of those troopers are trigger happy.”

“I don’t take sides,” Axel admits.

“You know the saying with the Irish, you are either for or against and the military is no better. Do a favour lad and finish boarding that window, the glass is worth more than the goods I sell.”

Axel takes the hammer and attaches the final board, “if they are in a mood, I don’t think a few boards will bother them.”

Rosie gives a disregarding huff, she remembers the last time the Irish were displaying their displeasure when the only thing that saved her store was giving them all the rum and tobacco she had in stock, “come inside I have a pot of stew on the stove, you look as if you could do with a feed.”

It was a treat for Axel to sit to a plate of mutton stew with dumplings and oven baked bread rather than the singed damper he shared with the local ringtail possum. As he washed down the last with hot black tea there was a commotion on the road outside the store. Both go to investigate, discovering a body of troopers coming up from Sydney.

“Rosie Craddock,” the leading trooper calls on approach and seeing Axel at her side utters a warning, “I hope you are not fraternizing with the enemy, Rosie.”

“It’s only young Tommy, Rosie assures.

“Axel South, I would be called.” Axel quietly contradicts.

Rosie appears to take notice of Axel’s assertion and gives the lad an expression of apology. She would not use that name again.

“I hear your mother was Irish?” the leading trooper suggests.

“No sir, I believe she was from some place called Southwark in London.”

“Protestant?” the trooper asks.

“I couldn’t say but I’m no catholic,” Axel though better of declaring his non-believing attitude.

The trooper growls; “a convict all the same.”

Axel allows the insult to settle, as it never went well arguing with the military no matter what their ranking.

“What is the progress of the rebellion?” Rosie asks.

The trooper doesn’t comply, “it is thirsty work this marching,” he says and smacks his lips as proof.

Rosie understands and without question is soon back with a crate of beer. She reluctantly offers it to the tired and dusty troopers.

“What no rum?”

“No rum for the likes of you, George Benson,” she says.

The men make quick work of the offering, as the Corporal narrows his eyes towards Axel, “lad you appear to have a good strong back.”

“Strong enough for the work I do,” Axel cautiously answers.

“Then you can start by toting my pack,” the trooper dumps his pack to the ground with a loud thump portraying its weight.

“I have no quarrel with the Irish,” Axel says.

“You have now, pick it up or I’ll have you taken in as a collaborator.”

“Best you do as he says,” Rosie quietly advises.

Axel collects the pack and silently falls in behind the troop.

The march was short, as not long after leaving Craddock’s store the troop come upon the main body of the New South Wales corpse. At first it was believed the rebels were gathered on Constitution Hill but on arrival it was discovered they were moving towards Rose Hill with intent to burn the Windsor store before going on to the armoury at Parramatta and the government store. It was also believed by the rebels, once in Parramatta most of the town would rise up with them and together they would march down river to Sydney itself.

On reaching the main body of troopers, it is realised the rebels are close by and as their number hadn’t increased by any measure are ready to bargain. Axel is ordered to stand away as Major Johnson sends a Catholic priest, Father Dixon, to parley with the rebels but he soon returned without success. A second request brings the rebel leader Phillip Cunningham with one of his fellow rebels to bargain for at least a ship to return them to Ireland. Major Johnson with trooper Anlezark goes forward to met with the two leaders but weren’t in any mood to agree to their demands.

The meeting is short and the rebels well duped. As the Major and Trooper Anlezark approached the two rebels, now foolishly apart from their comrades and before Cunningham could dictate his demands, pistols were drawn with Anlezark shouting it’s the Gibbet for you Mr. Cunningham. Quickly the rebel leaders are escorted back to the line of troopers, leaving the rebellion without command. As they reached the line of troopers, Anlezark cut Cunningham down with his cutlass and Johnson ordered the troopers to form in ranks and fire on the rabble. At least fifteen fell dead in as instant, scattering the remainder towards the settlements of Dundas and Rydalmere.

With the soldiers in pursuit of the rebels the major spies Axel and remembering their previous meeting on the Sydney Road instructs the lad to approach.

“Didn’t I see you lurking on the road near Rose Hill?”

“As I said then I was hunting.”

“Are you one of the Irish rebels, lad?”

“No sir, I was born at sea. I have no country.”

The major’s gaze is on Axel’s red hair.”

“With that hair you could be Norse. What is your business here?”

“Your corporal made me carry his kit.”

“Did he? Where is Benson?” the Major spins in his saddle looking for his corporal.

“Here sir.” The Corporal reluctantly comes to the front, straightens his back and offers a weak salute.

“I’ll be having words with you later Benson.” The Major warns as he departs to organise the chase, although by now what was left of the rabble was well scattered and gone to ground.

“I’ll have you kid for putting me in to the boss.” Benson warns.

Axel releases a mocking grin without bothering to respond.

Although the Major hears the threat given by Benson he allows a measure of credence as is his opinion, Axel was nothing but one more problem with potential to sooner or later happen, so anything that kept the kid down to his allotted space in the colony would be considered pleasing, “Benson!” the Major shouts.

“Yes sir.”

“Do I have to tell you your duty – get going before I bust you down to permanent guard duty with the road gangs!”

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com

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