Surviving Sydney Cove Read online

  Unlike Botany Bay and Port Jackson, the soil at Rose Hill is rich and deep. Late last year we managed to grow a twenty-six pound cabbage. It is my job to gather wild spinach to make soup. Sarah brews liquorice-flavoured tea from a creeper growing close by. Master Dodd has told Sarah—and he had heard it from the Governor—that this is a sure cure for scurvy.

  Last week Sarah and Old Tom went to Sydney Cove to barter vegetables for meat. She came back with a dozen small fish that she rationed out very carefully. ‘What I would do for some salted mutton or pork,’ I moaned.

  ‘Barely any left,’ she said briskly. ‘And what’s left is more maggot than meat. Some of the convicts are sick with starvation.’

  ‘Why don’t they shoot more game?’

  ‘No shot for the muskets. The men are too weak to trap kungaroos, though some eat possum.’ She was busy shaping weevily flour into johnnycakes. ‘Now all they can do is fish. But with only two rowing boats and a dozen nets, their catch is poor.’ She went on to explain how each person’s ration is two and a half pounds including the fish’s head, skin and bone. ‘Some of the men worry that they will die of starvation if that’s all they eat.’

  I stared at her in amazement. What I would give for more of that sweet white flesh.

  Last night I dreamed that I was back in Cranham.

  I was walking along the track that led to home. In this dream I could see every hedgerow and dandelion. But when I arrived home, who should be there to greet me but Sarah. Edward, you were still a fat baby, and Sarah was holding you in her arms. ‘Where is Mama?’ I asked her.

  She smiled at me and said, ‘Your mama has gone away. I am to be yours and Edward’s mama now …’

  At this, you burst into loud sobs and woke me up.

  When I told Sarah my dream, she held me very close. Then, as if mightily embarrassed, she sent me to check the hen-yard for eggs. Even though she knows the hens are hardly laying.

  Saturday 10th April

  We are so busy cleaning the Master’s house it is hard to find time to write in my journal. Then this quill made horrid blots and I had to raid the hen-yard for a fresh feather. The cock crowed so loudly, Old Tom came running in. In spite of Tom’s scarred face, which could frighten even the bravest heart, he has a soft spot for children. He cast his one good eye over the hens—they were busy scratching up the dust—and said, ‘Thought I’d catch another of those thieving Indians.’

  Last week an Aborigine was caught spearing a pig and Old Tom had him severely flogged for it. He later reported that his tribe set up enough crying and wailing to waken the dead.

  But Edward, I must ask myself why people are whipped for trying to stay alive? It would seem most strange if they lay down meekly to die of starvation. Not that Governor Phillip would agree. He is determined to deal most severely with anyone caught stealing food.

  I later said to Sarah, ‘What if those Indians think all food is there for the taking?’

  She looked at me most oddly. ‘Why would they think that?’

  ‘Well …’ I hesitated. ‘Someone told Old Tom that the Indians do not keep animals or grow crops. He says that they stay alive through hunting. Whoever catches the animal, why, he gets to share it with whoever he chooses.’

  She sighed impatiently. ‘Lizzie, you have such queer notions. After all we’ve been through, I reckon you’d show more sense. And something you should know—Old Tom says someone’s been stealing his onions.’

  My heart nearly stopped beating. ‘Does he know it was me?’

  She placed her hands on her hips. ‘Why should he?’

  ‘Well …’ I paused uncertainly. ‘Who does he think stole them?’

  ‘An Indian. Or one o’ the men. But Lizzie,’ her voice rose warningly, ‘promise me no more thieving?’

  That I did. But she has accepted that I must, that I will write. Then warns me to do so in private.

  Edward, you will want to know what my friend Sarah looks like. She is a big woman, tall and strong, with a mop of unruly brown curls that defy any attempt to brush them into order. Yesterday she stood over me, admiring the way I shape my letters. Though I know that she cannot read these pages, I am careful not to write anything that might annoy her. While I was waiting for this page to dry, she picked it up saying that she could hardly see the marks for looking. Then she told me to mix more charcoal into the ink.

  I have offered to teach her the alphabet. But she says she has better things to do than waste her time with learning.

  At last a cool breeze wafts over Rose Hill. It reminds me of home. Edward, my stomach aches with loneliness. Sometimes I dream that the bush outside our window has disappeared. I am no longer in this immense land where everything is grey and lonely. Instead I am back in Cranham surrounded by green fields and low stone hedges. Jonquils and daffodils grow in the round green hills beyond our cottage. The air is misty with rain. Holding your small hand in mine, I run to where Mama and Papa wait for us with a warm supper.

  Then tears roll down my cheeks as I remember that Mama and Papa are no longer alive. That four long years must pass before we can be together.

  Sarah says we must make the best of what we have. Last night for maybe the hundredth time she told me how she was still a baby when her real mother gave her to Mistress Sally Tomkins, who ran a home for unwanted children.

  This filthy old woman was the closest Sarah ever knew as a mother. She fed Sarah just enough to keep her alive and dressed her in rags. But as soon as Sarah was old enough to walk, she sent her into the streets to pick up whatever she could find. Sometimes it was a gentleman’s watch or a purse filled with money. And once a splendid top hat.

  ‘What if you could not find anything?’ I asked.

  Her gaunt face took on a slow smile. ‘Then I’d make myself cry so people would throw me pennies.’

  When I asked Sarah if she ever did meet her own mother, tears ran down her cheeks. To add to her misery, she gave birth to a stillborn boy while we were still in the hulks waiting to be transported. It is a miracle that Sarah is still alive. In prison most of the pregnant women got very sick and died.

  She tells me that if God were to bless her with another baby, she would look after it with her last breath. She pretends to be tough as mahogany but she is really very emotional. ‘Meanwhile,’ she cries, clutching me to her bony chest, ‘you, Lizzie, can be my child.’

  I always hug her back, though she is all ribs and bones. Not at all like our own Mama who was soft and comfortable. Also the few teeth Sarah has left have rotted from the terrible food we had in prison and her breath stinks something terrible. Still, I am lucky to have such a faithful companion—even though sometimes I wish that she was more my age. It is not that I am ungrateful to Sarah for all she has done for me. If it were not for her, I would now be mad or dead. But Sarah will treat me as a child when I no longer feel like one.

  Our early years were so different from hers. Edward, can you recall sitting on Mama’s lap while she sewed? I remember pricking myself on her needle. Though Mama scolded me for not being more careful, Papa kissed the spot until it felt better. Another time I remember Mama lying on her bed, her brow damp with sweat. Mistress Bowen from next door shooed me outside, even though it was snowing and fearfully cold.

  Then hearing the cry of a newborn baby.

  That baby was you. For a long time you were so quiet, we thought you would not live. Mama had already birthed four sons, and all had died. But with the warmer weather, your health picked up. By the time you could sit up by yourself, you were smiling and watching everything I did as if you needed to learn it all.

  No more writing. Sarah is calling for more logs for the fire.

  Sunday 11th April

  Before prayers Sarah asked me to carry a basket with turnip and potato tops to Mistress Herricks. Also a potion steeped with a clearing oil. Since last winter, the Herricks’ elder children have had poor chests. Sarah is anxious to hear if they are spitting blood. If they are, we know their chances a
re not so good. But Mistress Herricks assured me that the poultice is helping very nicely. Her youngest child, Johnny, is barely six months old. When he sees me, he breaks into a gummy smile. I love to hold him. He is as plump as you used to be, Edward. His little hands and feet are so sweet and unused, they remind me of starfish. Mistress Herricks lives in a hut they share with another family. I saw a dozen straw pallets propped against the walls. Even those that live in the family huts are very cramped.

  My Master keeps over a hundred men and women convicts at Rose Hill to help with the crops. But Old Tom has no respect for the men. He says they would not know a cabbage from a monkey. He says that if he did not keep watch, they would pull up every potato plant thinking they were weeds.

  Since these are city folk who have never pulled a potato out of the ground, it is hardly surprising. But I would never say this aloud. Old Tom would most likely strike me if I said something he disliked. He can be most unfair. Perchance someone should remind him that last February those same men managed to harvest a little grain and vegetables.

  The single men sleep ten to a hut, sometimes even more. The single women are a little more comfortable. But I hate to walk between those huts, as both men and women call rude things, and make rude gestures, to every passer-by.

  ‘Remember to make yourself small,’ Sarah reminded me before I left.

  The day was warm. Still, I wrapped my shawl about me so no-one could see that I am starting to become a woman. Not that Sarah is pleased that I am growing up. She insists that I am best off trying to stay a child, and thinks it a good thing that I am only four feet ten.

  As I walked, I recalled our first two years in this colony. They have been so hard. Landing at Botany Bay, we found hardly any fresh water, so the Governor decided that we should sail further north to Port Jackson. What followed was eighteen months of sleeping in tents and quarrelling over rations. We were always hungry. Our first crops withered. Many of our animals escaped into the bush or ate poisonous grasses and died. Even the fish would no longer take our baits.

  It seemed to Sarah and myself that we would surely die. That is, until the day she heard that Master Dodd was looking for a housekeeper. She went to him saying, ‘I promise to never steal from you, not even a morsel, were I dying of hunger.’

  Master Dodd thought it rare to come across such an honest convict. He gave her the job and allowed her to bring to Rose Hill whoever she might choose. And this is how I happen to be here.

  I hear her calling. I had best leave this for later.

  Wednesday 14th April

  This year we have had hardly any rain, but last night it poured as if the heavens must empty. Today an ocean of mud surrounds us. All the hard work Sarah and I had managed in Master Dodd’s house has been undone.

  Our Master saw our disappointment and told us not to despair. He assured us that one day we would have a better house that will be easier to clean. It will be built of bricks and mortar, and have proper wooden floors and glass windows and green grass and stone paths leading up to it. Though his grizzled face and voice remained gruff, his eyes twinkled. He added, I think mostly for Sarah’s benefit, that it will have a fine set of oak stairs and at least a dozen bedrooms.

  I wish that he had not teased her. Now she will not stop complaining how hard it will be to look after so many rooms.

  Friday 16th April

  On this side of the equator, this season is autumn. But how can you tell the seasons apart when there is no snow and most days are the same? What we have here is wet and hot. Or dry and hot—though not as hot as it was in February and March.

  ‘If only this was an English spring,’ I said to Sarah as we spread laundry on bushes to dry.

  ‘Hmmph …’ She straightened up to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘All I ever knew of spring was melting snow and mud cold enough to freeze the marrow in me bones.’

  I had to agree that spring in the city is different from spring in the country.

  ‘Spring in the Cotswolds,’ I said dreamily, ‘makes me think of wild hares, daffodils and swallows. Big white swans. Foxes and finches and running through grass so green, it hurts my eyes to look at it.’

  That sent Sarah into gales of laughter. ‘More like in the city it’s warm enough to melt what folk leave in the streets. Spring ain’t no blessing if you happen to be poor.’

  I nodded ruefully. She is right. London is the dirtiest, most foul place in the whole wide world if you are only a servant girl. Though Sydney Cove is not much better.

  Sarah threw me another damp sheet to spread over a bush. ‘Best you get o’er your grieving for Cranham,’ was her advice.

  I have promised myself not to be so homesick. But I have no such control over my sleep. Many nights I dream that I am back home with Mama, Papa and you, Edward, you are still a baby. Suddenly some dread person is knocking on our door. He has come to carry me away …

  Saturday 17th April

  Just after sunset I went outside to fetch more wood. You can imagine my fright to see a group of natives watching this house. They can move so quietly, I swear not even an ant would hear them. They stood there observing me. So I stared back. The men had long shaggy hair and beards and wore no clothes. Though their appearance was savage, I felt that if I offered them no threat they would not hurt me.

  Several women stood behind the men. Woven baskets were slung over their shoulders and strapped to their waists. Most carried babies. One stepped forward and held out her child for me to admire. He may have been a year old or maybe less. But he was fat and healthy enough, though snot dribbled from his nose into his mouth. His mother pointed to the hen-yard and then to her mouth. Then they chattered between themselves, some laughing and showing off excellent white teeth.

  I did not know what to do. If Old Tom thought they had come to steal his poultry he would have them captured and flogged. So I picked up a branch and crashed it about making lots of noise. When I next looked around, every native had vanished.

  I wondered very much about them. Some of the women seemed so young. The one carrying the baby could scarcely be older than me. Edward, I could not help wondering what it must be like to never live in a proper house. To speak their strange tongue. To have a baby of my own.

  After they had gone, I went back inside and reported what I saw to Sarah.

  She said, ‘They’re no better than animals. Walking around as naked as Adam and Eve.’

  ‘Some of the women on the Lady Penrhyn went around with little more,’ I reminded her.

  ‘They were no better than animals too,’ was her reply. ‘Just as unnatural.’

  But Edward, I think that this is different. These natives act as if wearing clothes is unnatural rather than the other way around. It is all very strange.

  Sunday 18th April

  After prayers I spent all day darning and patching. Master Dodd is impressed with the neatness of my stitches. He demanded to know where I had learned to sew so well. I told him that our mama had shown me. I wish I could tell him that I can also read and write. But Sarah is so against this, I just do not dare. Sarah has just shown me where I missed a small tear in a pillow casing. If I do not patch it right away, she threatens me that feathers other than these will fly.

  Monday 19th April

  I have two rescues to report. The first was mine. A log fell out of the fire and I burned myself trying to push it back. Sarah plunged my hand into a pail of water. Now my hand hurts. But it is only red and not blistered.

  The second rescue is far more interesting. After I burned my hand Sarah said I would only be a nuisance in her kitchen. Instead she sent me to the river to report on what is happening there.

  I reminded her that she tells me to always stay away from places where men gather.

  She said that this time was different as the convicts are supposed to be cutting more reeds to thatch our roofs. These thatches are woven in the same way as at home. Rats love to live in them, as do some small black and brown beetles Old Tom cal
ls ‘roaches’.

  I was running across a bushy patch of ground when I heard someone cry out for help

  Without worrying about my own safety, I raced towards the voice. Who should I find but a small girl? She was maybe five years of age, and by her gentle appearance, certainly not a convict’s child.

  Simple Sam had his arms around her, and she was screaming with terror.

  ‘Away with you, Sam,’ I cried and he fled into the bush while I helped the poor thing to her feet.

  She was crying fit to burst. Tears poured from her eyes and nose. She pointed to her ankle which swelled even as I looked at it. Between more bouts of tears, she told me that she had been searching for her papa. Thinking he was by the river she had taken a shortcut through the bush. Then she had tripped and lain there, too winded and sore to move.

  This was how Sam found her. I think that he has no true evil in him, and that he was only trying to help her back onto her feet. But seeing those loopy eyes and hearing his strange speech, she was so frightened she started to scream.

  ‘Hush now,’ I said firmly—for how else should one treat a wrought-up child, even one this fair and delicate? Then I held her as close as I would hold you, Edward, when you were upset. Soon the worst of her sobbing eased, though her chest still heaved with fright and pain.

  Now I could think more clearly, I said, ‘Where are your mama and papa?’

  She pointed towards the barracks. I picked her up (she was light as a feather) and very slowly piggybacked her to the barracks.