DEFIANT VOICES: THE LEGACY OF AUSTRALIA’S CONVICT WOMEN

Thank you everybody for tuning in. Defiant Voices is an overview of the female convict experience in the Australian penal colonies from the start in 1778 to the end in 1853 in Van Diemen’s Land, as Tasmania was then called. It pulls together the huge volume of research into these women, which has been done over the last 40 years. I’ll briefly give some context as to why I took this approach, and then give some examples of how the female convicts used sound and voice to challenge authority, before concluding with some of the insights I gained by taking the chronological approach.

First, we need to remember that while the male convicts transported to Australia numbered approximately 163,000, only 25000 women were sent. Initially, they went only to NSW, but after Van Diemen’s Land was established in 1803, a steady trickle was sent to the younger colony, until 1820, when ships began delivering prisoners direct to Hobart. After 1840, when transportation to NSW ended, more women were sent to Van Diemen’s Land and, over time, the number sent to each colony almost equalised. Throughout the colonial period, women remained scarce compared to men. Western Australia became an official penal colony in 1850 but, from the start, A chorus of outrage had created bad reputation for all female convicts, which lasted unchallenged for more than a century. refused to take female convicts. Settlers needed the men’s labour, but feared the depravity of the women, whose frightful reputation had by then been widely publicised. In fact, every way a convict researcher turned, the women were condemned.

In the twentieth century, historians still accepted their nineteenth century reputation as fact, one declaring, infamously, that they were not the kind of women who would attract men into marriage. A vigorous feminist defence was mounted in the 1970s, which created a new reputation for the women but, this time, as passive victims of the male patriarchy. A fact that can easily slip from mind, is how young the women were. Most were teenagers, 15, 16, 18, or their very early 20s. The recklessness of youth can be glimpsed in their actions and attitudes, as well as their preoccupation with things like clothes, with keeping their hair nice, with their determination to have fun, which usually meant drink and dancing and singing in the nearest pub or with the crew of the ship. Sex was part of this merrymaking, which quickly had them labelled as prostitutes, sometimes that charge was accurate.

The National Library’s commission to write Defiant Voices made me reflect deeply on the historiography since my first book A Cargo of Women was published. In fact, I reread everybody’s books and papers. When I started research in 1982, we knew nothing about the women. All that remained in public knowledge were two stereotypes; that they were all whores, depraved, drunken sluts, an opinion that was loudly proclaimed during the colonial years in Britain as well as Australia. When free settlers arrived in numbers from the 1840s onwards, they perpetuated this idea, which lay undisturbed in our community consciousness for more than a century.

The second stereotype was created in the 1970s, through the vigorous feminist defence I mentioned, which resulted in this idea that they were passive victims. So, in 1982, I went looking for real, three-dimensional people. Academics and archivists told me, firmly, I wouldn’t be able to recreate convict lives, because the records had been destroyed. But by combining family history with academic scholarship, and by devising a new methodology of sampling the vast convict archive by the boatload, I did. When A Cargo of Women was published in 1988, it proved ground-breaking. Forty years on, I’m being asked to write about the female convicts again. It brought me full circle. The National Library gave me an open brief, except for requests that I make it accessible in style and keep it to 60,000 words, which was a big ask for me. Otherwise, the choice of how and what to write about the female convicts was entirely mine.

Temporarily, I flirted with the idea of doing several boatloads of them, but I quickly dismissed that thought; the result would have been a kind of enlarged Cargo. Secondly, there was no point. In the years since I had written Cargo, others had researched women by the boatload, and their work was available for scholarly use. However, with the exception of some large-scale academic studies, such as Deborah Oxley’s Convict Maids, and later Kirsty Reed’s examination of women at work in Van Diemen’s Land, we had mostly all been working at the micro level. Surveying the literature since, made it plain we had now accumulated a richness of detail about thousands of individual lives, that would benefit from an overview. So, I decided Defiant Voices would cover the full transportation period for women from the 1780s to the 1850s.

However much you have researched there before, being an official NLA author, you feel like the whole vast treasure trove of the library’s collection is at your feet, waiting to be mined for gold. The depth of the coverage about Elizabeth Fry surprised me. I seized in particular on her first report of the ladies committee, which was published in England in 1821. She was a great strategist and the report was as much a propaganda document to gather support for her prison activities as it was an account of what they’d done. From my point of view, its great value was a letter from Reverend Samuel Marsden, which it reproduced. When the Parramatta factory opened its doors on the 21 February 1821, Elizabeth Fry was on Marsden’s mind.

The female factory was their joint achievement, following years of persistent advocacy and pressure in Britain and Australia. Marsden wrote, “A house of accommodation is at length provided for the female convicts and is open this day. I’m happy to say they are in my sight at this very moment, walking for the first time to their new habitation, while I’m writing this hasty line. They will not now be compelled to live in such scenes of human misery and vice, as they had hitherto done.” Whatever you may think of the impact of reforms advocated by people like Fry and Marsden, there’s no doubt these two were well intentioned. That letter is a really useful discovery, because we had the reply and the Friends of the female factory used the reply at the recent 200^th anniversary of the opening of the factory, but they didn’t have Marsden’s original letter. Now they do.

Another example from the library’s collection, which I must mention, is the journal of Captain Colnett RN, written in 1803, which yielded a gem when he noted a change in the women’s appearance after time at sea. He confirmed they were getting benefits of a sea voyage. “They came onboard,” he wrote, “with despair, disappointment and anxiety stamped on their faces.” But later in his journal, he added, “Midway through the voyage, the ladies daily improved on the jail countenances. Health and content were apparent on their faces.” So, in pulling back from individual close ups of the women, which had so engaged us for so long, I found their voices – the scale, depth and the impact of them, which is not apparent when your subject is one woman. Then I went looking for more. For example, among the first examples of the women standing up for themselves, in surprising circumstances, were six women sentenced to death at the Old Bailey in 1789, who refused to accept a pardon.

They had all been tried separately, but this day they shared the dock as the judge announced that each had been granted a pardon on condition they were transported for life. The law at the time required that each formally accept. No one was more surprised than the judge, when one after the other, they shook the system by refusing mercy. “No,” said Sarah Cowden, “I will die by the laws of my country before ever I will go abroad for my life.” Martha Cutler echoed her, “I will sooner die.” Two others followed, saying the same thing. The Judge tried intimidation, “If you do not accept the King’s pardon, it will be too late. Depend upon it. Every woman who now refuses will be ordered for immediate execution.” His scaremongering had no effect.

The women were returned to jail and brought up at the next session several weeks later, where they were joined by two others. Jane Mills told the Judge, “My Lord, I will not accept it. I will die first. Anyway, I think I’ve suffered hard enough to be in jail for three years.” Mary Burgess was equally adamant, telling the Judge, “I’d rather die than leave my husband and child behind me. I am very willing to die.” “Consider what you’re about,” replied the Judge. “It’s my duty to give you notice you will certainly be ordered for immediate execution.” This stalemate lasted for several weeks, until someone behind the scenes persuaded the women to concede. Their defiance, however, made a lasting impression. A few years later, the Crown changed the law. From 1797, a convict was no longer required to accept a pardon, it could be conferred whether you wanted it or not.

Far from being powerless, passive victims, convict women used their voices, and every kind of sound from clapping, stamping their feet, wailing, shouting to inflict an aural on others. As late as 1852, and despite the heavy impact by then of penal reform, they were still doing it. The ship’s purser on the Duchess of Northumberland recorded, “After a fight among them, caused by an early lockdown below, with the hatches closed, they raised such awful yells that it was truly horrible to hear them. Fancy the lungs of 250 well-conditioned women. The crew threatened to scuttle the ship if they were not quiet. The most violent women were put in irons. Thoroughly enraged, the mate was very violent to several of them. One gave him such a tongue whacking that he was trying to gag her, but she caught his fingers between her teeth and bit them to the bone. He struck her most violently in the face. At this unmanly act, there was a great shout amongst the women.” A formal inquiry was held on board subsequently, at which the mate was severely reprimanded. But it didn’t need a huge mob to disturb others.

The transport ships were tiny. A lady like Elizabeth Macarthur could hear everything that happened on the deck above, on the deck below, or through the thin partition that separated her from the women. She would have lain sleepless through events like the following, where a ship surgeon recorded, “Found four women in the forecastle, put them in handcuffs for the night and kept them on the poop deck, where they kept singing most doleful ditties ‘till morning.” On another occasion, “Put Margaret, alias Mog Collins into solitary confinement for making a disturbance. She spent the night keening to the entire ship that it was all serene.” Imagine trying to sleep with that occurring every ten minutes.

A successful large-scale disturbance at Cascades female factory in Hobart in 1842 was achieved entirely by noise. It was triggered by an instruction that the women were to have absolutely no communication with men who were repairing pipes in the washer house. To enforce this, the women were confined to their day rooms, rather than being let out in the yards. By mid-afternoon, about 150 of them had reached frustration point. They began singing, dancing, shouting, clapping their hands and stamping their feet. The matron made several futile attempts to get them to quiet down. Foolishly, she also pressed for the names of the ring leaders, which generated a display of solidarity; “We are all alike!” they yelled. “We are all alike.” Her husband’s entrance was loudly hurrahed, but he did no better.

Superintendent Hutchinson’s first threat was to withhold their gruel, which produced an even greater clamour until he backed down. He had brought the police with him, however. According to the District Constable, the women kept up a tremendous clatter with their tongues. But he still managed to hear one of them shout, “Here’s the bloody traps!” Verbal resistance did just not occur on the ships, or collectively in the factories. The women were just as vociferous in the workplace. Historically, you can see how their indignation of being told what to do evolved.

The denature of Governor Macquarie in1822 marked a turning point. To develop the colonies, and most importantly to defray the expense of convict transportation, the British Government decided to foster the immigration of men with capital. As encouragement, they’d been given free land grants and a free convict work force. These new self-funded settlers and their families began arriving in NSW and Van Diemen’s Land from the early 1820s. They, rather than the Government, now became the major employer of convicts, and they found themselves confronting a female work force who were traditionally used to running their own race.

These men were mainly bachelor employers in the early days, then a mix of emancipists and occasional free settler couples under Governor Macquarie and, in Hobart, Lieutenant Governor Sorell. And now, not just a gentleman master but a lady mistress too. They were not what their servant was used to. Wherever they were in the penal colonies, the women were determined to make their employers behave in a way they thought appropriate. Workplace conditions should conform to their servant’s standards. The women’s scarcity gave them power in the workplace. For the first time in their lives, they were not afraid of being dismissed without a reference as there was always another job waiting. And if they didn’t like their current placement, they would engineer a return to the female factory. Many, in fact, just walked off the job after a dispute with a mistress. They hated, for example, being overregulated. “Niggled at” was how they described it. ‘‘Niggling, niggling everyday,’’ said one woman. Another woman reported, “If I was allowed to do as I thought fit and my mistress did not find fault, I dare say we might manage to get on.”

Running a colonial household was heavy work. In 1827, Mrs Robert Lethbridge reported, “I cannot do without three women at present, on account of all the washing. We wash everything at home. And what with the dairy, poultry, baking, making candles and so on, we’ve found plenty to do.” These ladies were usually young mothers as well and they were desperate for help. If necessary, they would try bribery in the form of clothing or jewellery or bonnets. But their servants were picky. A lady could easily transgress her servant’s fashion sense and feel the full force of her tongue as a consequence. “Bombazine? Is that all you can give me? Do you think I’ll wear such stuff?” The battle of wills between servant and employers never ceased. Superintendent of convicts, Josiah Spode, who was right in the middle of this power struggle, said, “The women all feel they are working under compulsion, which renders it almost a continual warfare between their employers and themselves.”

For many years, we assumed that, overwhelmingly, convict women were sexually exploited by their masters. Although this undoubtedly did happen, further research has revealed that it could also be a question of who was exploiting who. One master offered his servant two pounds if she would have sex with him, and then she reported him to the magistrate. On the other hand, there are examples of women charging their fellow servants ten shillings for sex.

After 40 years of investigation, it’s plain that convict women were involved in every kind of sexual encounter. Some of it, sadly, of the gross kind, being rape and occasionally gang raped. But, otherwise, they were involved for the fun of it, for defiance, for love, or to further their own goals. Were they prostitutes? No one can answer that dogmatically. At most, yes, sometimes. But their sexual mores were different from the observers who labelled them, and Michael Sturma’s early conclusion basically holds 40 years on; their reputation as prostitutes lay “in the eye of the beholder”. Certainly, we can stop worrying on their behalf that they were exploited.

Given a chance, they may well tell us, as one did a magistrate in 1814; “It’s my thing and I’ll do what I want with it.” The women’s successful resistance in the workplace and the factories was widely recognised at the time. An exasperated master, whose servant absconded, wearing the new clothes he had bought for her, wrote in 1839, “In point of fact, there is no adequate punishment for the women. At the crime class, they sneer. At the washtub, they laugh. And the cells, they ridicule. We do not advocate severity, but we do wish to emphasise the absolute necessity of instituting some plan of punishment which will induce the female convicts to deport themselves properly, or at all offence, to deter them from conducting themselves in the heedless, careless, unruly manner in which they delight to do at present.” He was bleating in the wind. The more punitive the authorities became, the less seriously the women appeared to take them.

Despite the harshness they experienced in Australia, the prisoners established a community of disrespect, irreverence and equality, where no person dared act as though they were better than anyone else. People were admired for who, and not what, they were, and for how they behaved in Australia. Newcomers were expected to leave their past behind, just as a nation of criminals had left theirs, and to take on a cultural assertion of equality. Gentlemen knew the rules. In the late 1890s, the retiring bishop of Tasmania told his students in England, “Make sure to clean your own boots when in Australia and learn to shoe a horse. Don’t use the affected voice or manner, and never speak about the lower classes. Australians don’t like it.” The women convicts were not passive observers, but active creators of this culture. Essentially, Australia was a nation made by the working class, it was the land where the people won. Writing a chronological history provides insights, in addition to recognising the scale and volume of the women’s defiance.

Just to summarise briefly. Inevitably, I compared the two penal colonies and realised that some detailed studies now, which contrasted them, would be useful. For example, the outcome for children who were sent to the orphanages. Secondly, more work needs to be done on the earliest colonial period in both colonies. Grace Karskens has done some sterling work, but it’s mainly centred round the Hawkesbury and it does not enlighten us greatly on the characters, the politics, and the behaviour of the early colonial Europeans.

I was surprised by the scale of those notorious concubines who began relationships with First Fleet officials, and soldiers in the camp at Sydney Cove; how domestic they were, how affectionate. Sergeant Thomas Jameson, for instance, took Elizabeth Collie, his mistress and their five daughters back to England. So did other men. Judge Advocate Richard Atkins, who was the black sheep of an aristocratic family, took Mary Beckwith home and married her when his lawful wife died. They are buried together in the family vault. And who knew that Governor Phillip had a mistress who was in the colony? For all his lamentations about colonial morals, Reverend Richard Johnson never mentioned that.

Another revelation to me was the different community reaction to convicts in NSW, compared to Van Diemen’s Land. This insight was revealed, for example, by the rapturous welcome given to the women from the Parramatta factory, who twice in consecutive years abandoned their overseer in order to attend the local races. When they rushed onto the course, they were received with cheers and applause, as they bowed and waved like actresses on a stage. An overview does confirm historian Lyndall Ryan’s opinion, expressed in the early 1980s, when she wrote that the women’s experience differed according to the time and place they arrived. For the women, the earliest colonial years in both colonies were largely unregulated, and left room for individual decisions about how to manage their lives, including their children. This period, however, was followed by a sharp imposition of morality and extra regulation under Governor Macquarie in NSW and Lieutenant Governor Sir George Arthur in Van Diemen’s Land.

Life on assignment to big pastoral estates dominated the years from 1820 to 1840 and was similar in both places. The idea of a penal System was supposed to be its feature in this time but, as I found in Cargo of Women, individuals found cracks in the first “system”, through which they could follow their personal goals. It was also a time of considerable overt resistance in the workplace, by both male and female convicts.

NSW ceased to be a penal colony in 1840. During the final decade in Van Diemen’s Land, the ideas of the evangelical reformists were imposed on the prisons in a crushing regime that aimed not just to make the women behave differently; to stop swearing, stop getting drunk, dress modestly, for example. In the closing decade, punishing routines designed to modify their behaviour continued, but now the aim of reformists was “subduing their minds and taming their spirit”. They kept resisting, as we saw with that riot on the ship, as late as 1852, but it became more sporadic and, around it, everyday life was getting harder to resist.

The relentless application of penal theories took its toll and it’s sobering to see how the self-confident exuberance of the ladies in the camp at Sydney Cove gave way to women who had been silenced, squashed even, to the point that one of them cried, “I am not allowed to live or exist!” This contrast gives rise to another sobering insight, which is starkly obvious when you write a narrative version of the female convict story. I’ll explain by reading the closing sentences of the book where I wrote:

Understanding the lives of women convicts is important for Australians, who live with the echo of their experience. But their story also has profound significance beyond the nation. As chronological study makes clear, the history of Australia’s female prisoners provides a case study for the global subjugation of women from which we are only now recovering.

I wrote those closing words in the latter part of 2019. In the light of Australia’s terrible revelations about Australia’s sexual culture over recent months, I wonder now if the word ‘echo’ was strong enough. Should I have said the enduring legacy? Are we paying the price of an unexamined life here, in this case an unexamined history? It’s a subject I intend to explore further.