Published: 15 Apr 2024

Everything appears brighter with the daylight. Those words were often spoken by Axel’s departed friend, hunter and provider, Scottish Jock. Even so the previous night’s intrusion by the black man remained heavy on Axel’s mind, realising he would need to do something about his camp and soon.

While gathering twigs to build up his breakfast fire his thoughts returned to his departed friend.

‘What would Jock do?’

‘For a start he wouldn’t set up a permanent camp as I have.’

‘What was his reasoning?’

‘Yes I remember, he would say that remaining in the same spot for any length of time gives away your situation to anyone who would wish to do you harm,’

Axel recollects as flames dance about the dry kindling.

There is a morning chill in the air, that would soon dissipate with the sun, offering one more reason to move on, as winter is approaching and his camp open to the wind from the high mountains and with the thickness of the forest canopy in his area, daylight seldom reached the ground.

‘Like a she cat, she never leaves her litter in the one place for too long a time but moves it about.’ Axel smiles with the memory of Jock’s advice and quietly admits the Scotsman is well missed.

After breakfast it is time for Axel to visit civilization as he is low on shot and powder, needing to travel to Rose Hill for supplies. He chooses Rose Hill over Sydney Town as Tommy the kid with the red hair is well remembered on Sydney’s streets and during a previous visit he was almost arrested on a false accusation. It was Jock who said the good you do is soon forgotten, everything else follows you about like the smell of a rotten carcass for life and Axel’s visit to Sydney had been more than supportive towards the wise old Scots advice.

With his camp tidied, Axel gathers together his bundle of hides from almost a month’s hunting and prepares to depart with hopefulness for a fair trade. Usually it would be enough to cover powder and shot, with some aside for a few small luxuries but little more. Store keepers like Rosie Craddock at Rose Hill were well schooled in barter while he too timid to force the issue. Even so Rosie Craddock was fair and after the barter she would give him a feed of mutton stew with dumplings and potatoes and a little extra to take away with him.

Craddock’s store at Rose Hill is the halfway point between Axel’s camp and Parramatta and close to the Parramatta River, also being midway between Sydney and Parramatta with a jetty for river travel it is a rest stop for travellers. Also many of the natives who are influenced by civilization gathered there, as the Rose Hill settlement and Craddock’s was built slap-bang in the middle of a native meeting place. The first store before Rosie took up residence had often been raided by the blacks and the previous storekeeper’s convict servant speared by natives, his grave lay beside the road as a reminder of how savage the country could be.

The incident at the Rose Hill store was at the time when Parramatta and the road were being established, pushing the bulk of the natives further to the west into the mountains or along the Hawkesbury River to the north. Now even the land about the Hawkesbury was unsafe for the blacks and attacks on friendly native camps frequent. Some of the settlers bragged how they lay poisoned food out like baits for vermin.

One not so pleasant emancipist farmer had taken to cutting ears from killed natives, nailing them to his hut door. It acts as a deterrent, he proudly claimed. It was the same farmer who with the weapon of fear had encouraged his neighbours to gather and commit to a black-hunt along that part of the Hawkesbury, where they killed any native they chanced upon, man woman or child. The governor posted the wishes of the crown, declaring the natives were to be treated fairly but with few troopers and settlers spread over such a wide area, proclamations were hard to police and blame difficult to establish.

Reaching Craddock’s store, Axel found Rosie arguing about the cost of merchandise with a convict servant of Major Johnson of the Rum Corps. The Major had that week purchased the bulk of what the master of the convict ship Anne, had on offer and was blatantly onselling from Sydney Town to Parramatta. The Anne arrived some days earlier with a cargo of farming equipment, seed and kitchen ware, not putting aside many barrels of rum and seventy-eight convict men from the hulks in Portsmouth Harbour.

“But Rosie I am not at liberty to lower the Major’s asking,” the servant stressfully argues.

“And I am not at liberty to pay such inflated prices. I could never recoup my outlay.”

“Then I’ll be on my way, as those in Parramatta will be more than happy to do so.”

Rosie relents and pays what is demanded and the servant directs his cart towards Parramatta.

Seeing Axel approaching with his bundle of hides Rosie calls, “Young Axel, what have you got for me this time?”

“Seven fine kangaroo hides.”

“And by the look they are as red as your hair.”

“Yes they were of the red variety and becoming scarce about Stringers Creek.”

“Tis’ a shame as wallaby hides don’t sell as well; they are too small for most usage.”

“I also have some koala pelts.”

Axel mounts the store’s verandah and dumps his bundle down with a heavy thud.

“I would be thinking you will be in need of shot and powder?” Rosie suggests.”

“That is true.”

“I am afraid I will have to disappoint you as I haven’t any. The Irish rebelling made sure of that.”

Axel shows disappointment, “why so?’ he asks.

“Fearing an attack from the Irish, everyone from Parramatta to Sydney bought up all they could find. The rebels also raided and burned Jackson store near the two mile bend.

Axel is becoming concerned as he has only enough powder for a few days. Without powder there would be no hunting therefore any fresh meat to trade with the road gangs.

“You look thinner that the last time I saw you,” Rosie suggests as she scans him from red hair to warn out shoes.

“I get by.”

“I have some leftover stew, come in lad and fill your gut. I can at least be offering a feed.”

Axel is more than pleased with Rosie’s offer but remained concerned how he would acquire supplies. After a second bowl of stew and three slices of Rosie’s famous oven bread, washed down with a tankard of weak-brew beer Axel returns to the problem of supplies.

“You could try at Parramatta,” Rosie suggests, “although I don’t like your chances.”

“I don’t know Parramatta all that well and from what I believe they mostly barter in Rum from the military.”

“Rum,” Rosie growls, “I won’t trade with it. I tell you what lad, I will pay you in coin for your hides but it will be only to the value of what you would have usually purchased in powder and supplies.”

“That seems fair but doesn’t attend to my problem.”

“It is possible Parramatta has received supplies up river by now. Johnson’s servant said the Anne was well stocked with most things.”

“Yes I noticed your displeasure with his servant as I arrived.”

“Displeasure yes but I had little choice but to pay the Major’s price, either that or have little for my shelves.”

“You could complain to the Governor.”

“Huh lad, you have a lot to learn. It isn’t the Governor who governs New South Wales but the bleeding military but it won’t be for much longer, there is talk the Rum Corpse is to be recalled.”

“Army is army Rosie. I would say a replacement wouldn’t be much of an improvement, I understand most of the recruits are taken from ale houses.”

“So cynical in one so young,” Rosie titters, “I must admit, if they are recalled Major Johnson and the regiment won’t be too pleased, as many have established farms and businesses here in the colony.”

On his journey to Parramatta Axel passes the burned out shell of Jackson’s store, picked clean by scavengers once the fire had done its worse. Close by a gibbet had been erected and hanging in chains from its cross arm was the body of one of Cunningham’s Irish lieutenants, who it was believed led the assault on the store. As for Cunningham, true to the Major’s threat, he was executed without even a visit to the judge advocate. There were other’s who met the rope but in most the remaining rebels were sent north to Coal River to serve out their sentences doing hard labour.

‘What would Jock make of this?’ Axel presses to thought as he disengages from the dreadful sight, ‘man’s inhumanity to his fellow man, is what he would say.’ He guards his breath as already the stench from the decaying body is polluting the air.

‘And for nothing more than the want of freedom.’

Axel wished to dislodge the stench from his nostrils and knowing the bend at the two mile had a perfect swimming hole, he would take a dip. The morning’s chill had long gone as he approaches the river and he is perspiring, with sweat descending down his back, stinging at the corners of his eyes, while tasting salty on his lips.

Axel recollects the stories the old women told about his mother’s homeland, how the sky over London was always grey, the air permeated with smoke from coal burning fires. The streets smelling of emptied chamber pots, discarded scraps and the dung from animals driven to the Newgate market for sale or slaughter. Ahead is the pristine water of the Parramatta River, he remembers stories of the River Fleet in London, saying it was once sacred to those long gone but became so chocked with sewage, dead animals, even the occasional murdered victim, along with dumping from slaughter houses and tanning works, it had to be covered over and used as a sewer below the cobbles of the city streets.

As Axel gazes about the vastness of the country with clean sweet air scented with eucalyptus and wattle, he could not envisage such a place where the streets were so narrow the houses almost touched across the way and soot covered washing strung between the buildings, while blocking even the little light the high latitude provided.

‘How could anyone live in such a place?’ he thinks as he approaches the river but such thoughts are soon interrupted by the joyous cries from a number of native boys using the swimming hole. One native boy waves to him and calls out in language but as Axel has limited understanding of their tongue the words do not register, besides even in the Sydney area there are a dozen dialects which to an untrained ear would be nothing more than noise. In truth even if Axel understood their meaning, he may not be pleased, as usually the translation would be something offensive. Even so Axel acknowledges the boy who is ordered from the water by one of a number of native women digging for tubers in the soft earth along the opposing bank, she then gives the boy a vociferous ticking for his insolence.

Axel strips and enters the water, powering his way across the current. He gained his swimming style from native boys and has a strong stroke, easily reaching the opposite bank. As he came close to the bank the native women collected their belongings and departed.

Feeling refreshed, Axel returns to where he left his clothes. Discovering someone is watching, he pauses while waist deep in the water.

The stranger is a tall lean man and by his attire is of some wealth and position. He is smiling while showing interested in Axel’s folly.”Good morning young man,” he greets as Axel approaches the bank.

Axel forces a smile as he returns a slight head nod.

“What is the water like?” the stranger asks.

“Cold, it comes from the high mountains bringing the chill with it,” Axel says.

“You do realise you can be given at least a dozen lashes for naked swimming during the daylight hours?”

“So it is said.”

“And yet there you are as naked as the day your mother gave you birth, obviously without a care in the world.”

“That I am.”

There is a pause in conversation.

“Are you a constable?” Axel asks.

“No lad, simply a visitor from the old country. I arrived some days previous on the Anne and could be called a traveller, a tourist to this land but I would rather be described as an adventurer and painter of fine portraits.”

Axel leaves the water and commences to dress. The stranger appears to remain interested in his nakedness. He is a handsome man, clean shaven and although not yet reaching his thirtieth year, his hair is greying at the temples. He has a strong jaw, while his blue eyes lack even the slightest understanding of hardship.

“You cut a striking figure lad; I would like to paint you.”

“What pant on my body?” Axel laughs at the imagined absurdity of the question.

“Your likeness,”

“Why would you wish to do that?”

“As I said you cut a striking figure.”

“Who would want to see a painting of me?”

“You would be surprised what people find interesting. What is your name lad?”

“Axel South.”

“Are your origins Germanic?”

Axel doesn’t understand the stranger’s suggestion so answers negatively; “no sir, I suppose I am English by default but would rather be called a native of this land.”

“I am staying at Fisherman’s Inn in George Street Parramatta, do you know of it?”

“I do.”

“My name is Joshua Clarkson, come by and if you are agreeable as I would like to put your likeness to canvas. I can pay for your time.”

Axel finishes his dressing without reply.

“Then good day lad.”

Axel forces a smile without responding further.

‘Would I let him paint my likeness?’ he thinks.

‘Possibly but why would a man of obvious means be interested in someone like me?’

Axel gives a light noncommittal chuckle as his eyes follow the travelling painter’s departure.

‘Possibly,’ he unconsciously repeats and gathers his belongings together.

‘Probably,’ he quietly appends.

‘But not today, I have business to attend.’

Parramatta appeared to be breathing an air of reprieve, as folk went about their business after the Irish incident. Those who fled down river to Sydney for their protection had returned, feeling safe with extra military presence on the street. Being market day, ladies of leisure were about, showing off their finery, while inspecting the latest fashion from home. Although with the time taken to come from London or the Continent, the design is considered to be last year’s vogue, with those who recently arrived making callous remarks about the colony’s passé of fashion and uncultured attitude, while the posture to carry fashion considered most common.

There was more to be said about Sydney Town even with its short history, suggesting the colony had become the fence of the South Pacific. It was reported you could have a diamond and gold broach stolen at the London Opera and eight months later, it could be repurchased from a pawn shop in Pitt Street Sydney, also it was considered New South Wales was not only a colony of thieves but one of ramped homosexuality, not that Axel had discovered much of the latter, only what he had read in old issues of London’s Athenaeum Magazine that came wrapped about a chunk of bacon.

Along George Street farmers set up carts loaded with late season produce, their voices high and melodious as each attempted to call down his neighbour’s price. Amongst the crowd natives freely mingled, some clothed in foreign design but in most women naked to the waste, while the men had been forced to at least cover their loins, although about the periphery of town nakedness still prevailed, while women newly arrived with religious purity, tittered and complained. With a general feeling of normality it was business as usual although the military remained ever present on the street, searching carts on their way to market and questioning anyone they considered to appear Irish, sounded Irish or were carrying a gun or blade.

Axel arrived at the market as a detachment of soldiers commenced their searching of goods that came off the many river craft, their examination more out of boredom than necessity and as Axel progressed towards Sullivans store at the far end of the market, he was questioned by an over exuberant soldier. “Kid get over ‘ere!”

Axel heard above the hum of business. He turns, “who me?” he quietly asks, being cautious not to show brashness, even if his answer was mocking.

“Yes you – get ‘ere.”

Axel holds his ground, instead forcing the soldier to approach him.

“What’s ya’ name?”

“Axel South sir,” he admits in his best submissive tone.

“You look Irish to me.”

“Looks can be deceiving sir.”

“Enough of your lip or I’ll -.”

“Leave off Thompson, the kid’s harmless. It’s only Tommy No-One.” A second trooper calls while examining a number of barrels of beer, brought up river from the Avoca Brewery in Randwick.

Axel gives a relieving sigh as for once the name of Tommy No-One had been beneficial towards his wellbeing.

Eventually it was time to do business and with the money he was given by Rosie Craddock for his hides, Axel heads for Samuel Glass the owner of Sullivan’s store at the far end of the landing jetty.

On approaching the store he jingles the coin in his pocket, assuming he would have a little extra for luxuries, ‘coffee would be nice,’ he envisages, ‘some leaf tea even better, and a billycan to boil it in,’ but tea remained a luxury even for the rich. That what arrive in the colony came firstly from China to England and traded by the East India Company, then in small amounts on convict transporters to Sydney for the pleasure of gentry and officials.

Samuel Glass was a Jew by confession and tolerated as such, as long as he didn’t promote Judaism, also he attended the Church of England on a Sunday, although that condition was never policed. What he did on the other days was his own affair. Glass had arrived in Sydney on the very first ship carrying free settlers to the colony, some years later he opened his store in Parramatta. He was a fair man, although many espoused towards inflated prices, although giving caution towards a heavy thumb on the scale while weighing out sugar or biscuits.

Axel enters into the store and is immediately drawn towards the racks of workman’s clothing. His own shirt is held to the front with brindle burrs as the buttons had long gone and his trousers have a precarious tare at a strategic position at the crotch. If he bent down to quickly he would display for all to view more than etiquette and the law would permit.

Samuel smiles broadly, “Axel my young friend, it has been some time since you visited my humble establishment.”

Samuel is short in statute, even more so that Axel who isn’t considered tall, he has a rotund belly, a moon face, hooked nose and balding head, his redeeming feature are his eyes, as they twinkle like stars displaying a permanent happy disposition. He places a pencil above his left ear while he watches over the lad’s interests.

“True Mr. Glass, I have been quite busy hunting.”

“You appear in need of a new suit of clothing.”

“I do but I have no spare coin for such luxuries.”

“I could do you a deal.”

“I am more after powder and shot,” Axel says and departs the clothing section.

“I can’t help you there lad.”

“Why so?”

“It is because of the Irish rebellion. Firstly most was sold to those along the river for their protection against the Paddys and what was left placed under embargo by the military. I could lose my trading licence if I sold you any.”

“As a hunter I can’t make a living without shot. What about down in Sydney?”

Samuel gives an apologetic smile, “I would say it’s the same in Sydney. As I was saying about new clothing, I have some old shirts and trousers that were left after a gentleman farmer bought new. You could have them for some time on the axe chopping wood.”

“I could manage that.”

Axel was fair with his chopping and after close on an hour is finished. Samuel calls the lad in for a meal and over a mutton sandwich and jug of light ale, Samuel has a question.

“I have heard said you’re name is Tommy, how is it you call yourself Axel?”

Axel explains his birth at sea and how he was called Tommy No-One, it being more dismissive than a proper name. He explains how he took the name Axel from a visiting seaman and South from where he believed his mother originated. He then takes the token given by that very same sailor from his pocket. “He gave me this,” Axel offers the coin up for scrutiny.

“It is most definitely not a Shekel,” the shopkeeper professes.

“What is a Shekel Mr. Glass?”

“It matters not, I asked of your name as my Granddaddy was called Axel and he was from Saxony, you appear more English than Germanic.”

“At least you didn’t say Irish,” Axel laughs as over the previous days he had often been challenged as such.

“No never Irish,” Samuel agrees.

“What is a Jew Mr. Glass?” Axel innocently asks.

“Originally we came from Judea, what you English call the Holy Lands but it is more a religion than a nationality. It is like you being a Christian.”

“I don’t believe in god,” Axel quickly protests.

“I would think it better that way lad but even admitting that you are agnostic can often get you into strife.”

“What is agnostic Mr. Glass?”

“It is someone who is godless.”

“That I know, I was Reverend Marsden’s houseboy for some time and got a flogging for denying religion.”

“My advice to you Axel is to think a lot and say little.”

“A good friend once gave me similar advice,” Axel admits while remembering Jock’s words and similar warned by Edward Buckley.

“Therefore he is a good friend.”

“He was, Mr. Glass, unfortunately he had an accident. Why do so many hate Jews?” Axel innocently asks.

“Two reasons I guess, firstly Christians blame us for killing Christ, who oddly was a Jew and not a Christian but mostly because in the past Christians could not admit usury but in my opinion these days Christians have turned usury into robbery.”

“What is usury?” Axel smiles as it was obviously a day to learn many new words.

“Money lending at a profit, as Jew’s can provide usury we became the world’s bankers.”

Axel is confused and admits.

“Money, anyone who borrows money ends up hating their banker when it comes to remuneration.”

“I suppose,” Axel agrees as he recalls the words of Sergeant Miller when he had run up a tab at the local inn and refused to pay, then with his mates took to the place with axes, under the excuse the hotelier sold illegal grog and had a still hidden in the woods behind his establishment. Oddly the still was never discovered, nor the bar tab remunerated.

“I have work to be done, so Axel for now we will have to end our little discussion although I have found it quite entertaining.” Samuel says and removes the pencil from above his ear then commences to collate a column of figures.

“I notice you are left handed Mr. Glass, are all Jews left handed with their writing?”

“No lad, just me. Can you read and write?”

“Reverend Marsden taught me enough to get by and I can only do simple arithmetic but I stumble a little on big words. I can manage news print as they mostly keep their stories simple to save space.”

“I have some old copies of the Sydney Gazette, I use as wrapping. Would you like a couple of copies to entertain your nights?”

“My days are busy hunting and firelight doesn’t much illuminate the night for reading but I am sure I could put aside a little time, so I thank you for the offer.”

Glass was the eternal salesman, “I could sell you some candles and if you would like reading lessons, I could give you some – there would be no charge for the lessons.”

“Again thank you Mr. Glass but I believe I know enough for the sort of work I do. So you think I wouldn’t get shot down in Sydney either?”

“Not for some time. Or at least until the military have rounded up the last of the rebels.”

“Oh that will make life difficult for me.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” Samuel goes to his store room. He soon returns carrying a small package, “here is a little to go on with but don’t dare tell anyone.”

“How much do I owe you?”

“No charge, I guess the law says I can’t sell it to you, so if I give it to you than I haven’t broken any law.”

Axel pushes into his pocket and brings out some of Rosie’s coin, “It wouldn’t be right, I must pay you something.”

“No lad as I said, I can’t be arrested for giving it away, besides it is refreshing to find such honesty in one so young.”

“I don’t feel right taking it.”

“I’ll tell you what lad. Next time you are in town and the restrictions have been lifted, you can pay me then. Or if you are lacking coin,” Glass pauses with a stern expression, “mind you no rum.”

“Not rum Mr. Glass that is a certainty.”

“Then I reiterate if you have coin you can pay me, or if none then spend some time on the woodheap.”

“Reiterate Mr. Glass?”

“Be on your way lad. I think you’ve have had enough big words for one day.”

Axel again gives gratitude and is about to depart.

“Don’t forget the trousers; I don’t think that what you are wearing will even last until you return home.”

“True Mr. Glass but the natives don’t mind and where I live there are only blacks and wildlife.”

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

15,507 views