Authors: John Birmingham
Leviathan (28 page)
One of the rehab coordinators told me there had been so much damage done the previous year that they had stopped bothering with repairs, except for reinforced steel doors and bars. The week before I arrived the centre's windows had been broken, its screen doors slashed, fence palings kicked out, toilets demolished and walls graffitied. A bare concrete slab lay where the laundry had once stood. It had been torn down after being damaged in territorial fighting between rival groups who were sleeping in it and the garage a few metres away. It wasn't much of a garage, just an L-shaped humpy of rotting timber and rusted corrugated iron. Both ends of the L were open but in winter it was home to a dozen or more. The dirt floor was still littered with the refuse of their smackpacks: condoms, wrappers, swabs and discarded ampules of sterile water. A train line ran past less than thirty metres away. These were the disorganised poor, without sufficient intelligence or skill to manoeuvre themselves into state-sponsored housing. However, looking at places like Macquarie Fields, Claymore and Airds, the question would have to be asked whether they were that much worse off. And in the long run I would suggest maybe not.
A weird sort of spatial mythology seems to inform our thinking about slums just as it did a hundred or more years ago. Then, middle-class moralists called for slum clearance without actually specifying what would happen to those who were cleared. It was just sort of assumed that the viciousness and degradation of the poor was somehow caused by their proximity to vicious and degraded surroundings. The idea that poverty and its ills were actually a function of the market never occurred to them. There are strong echoes of this today. A few years ago the government spent a couple of million dollars correcting some of the design faults of the Macquarie Fields housing estate, which had originally been laid out on what was thought to be an attractive open plan, with lots of winding cul de sacs and esplanades, walking tracks and shared recreation spaces. In fact, seen from the air, the estate resembles a giant clenched fist, trapping its reluctant residents within a painfully tangled knot of broken fingers. The shared spaces were free-fire zones contested by the young and the hopeless. The walking tracks became getaway routes. And the whole intensely inward-looking layout, which sat at the very edge of urban development, and was physically cut off from nearby suburbs by a wide stretch of road, encouraged the inhabitants, so it was said, to think of themselves as cut off from society. Just as the poor of Durands Alley once felt that the city had âcast them from its bosom to perish in dirt and dishonour'. Street alterations sought to address some these problems but while blocking off rear-lane access may deny housebreakers a simple entry and escape route, it does not fundamentally realign the structure of wealth and power. And it does not address the stonehard economic reality that these people, as a class, are doomed. Unemployment on the estate is universal. The majority of residents are second or third generation welfare recipients. The Salvation Army set up a soup kitchen there after discovering malnutrition amongst the young. For some of those children it is not just a matter of being poorly educated but not being educated at all. Local police recently found a nine-year-old boy who had never once been to school because his mother had forgotten to send him.
Should there come a day when somebody with more political savvy than Pauline Hanson is able to tap into the deep well-spring of malice she exposed, perhaps the
Herald
's revolutionary fears of the nineteenth century may well come to pass in the twenty-first. It will, I guess, come as a shock to most of us. For like our upper-class forebears in Georgian London, the lives of the poor â the real poor â are still as remote from our everyday concerns as life in the Forbidden City of 200 years ago. Those lives
are
increasingly solitary, nasty, brutish and short. Sir John Fielding and old Freddy Engels were right. Their sufferings are less observed than their misdeeds, and the well-fed are a race âwholly apart' from the hungry. The lucky occupants of the Chifley Tower have much more in common with the emerging global class of well-educated, highly paid knowledge workers than they do with any sexually abused, uneducated, drug-addicted housebreaker from their own city's outer suburbs. Some will find it ironic that the space between their lives, a yawning, rapidly growing chasm, has been cleared by the same forces â money and power â which light up such fantastic post-industrial beacons as the Chifley. But I don't.
Only the Strong
Titles are tinsel, power a corrupter, glory a bubble, and excessive wealth a libel on its possessor.
P
ERCY
B
YSSHE
S
HELLEY
,
Declaration of Rights
, 1812
The English bayonet of the early nineteenth century was a work of evil beauty; up to forty-three centimetres in length, a tapered steel spike, with blood vents for easier withdrawal from the quivering bodies of its victims. It had first proved itself in the 1740s against the Jacobite rebels of Scotland, whose awesomely savage Highland charges had previously swept aside redcoat armies like gossamer veils. At the battle of Culloden Moor in 1746, however, poor old Bonnie Prince Charlie's mad redheaded countrymen were chewed over by English artillery before being skewered like 5000 cocktail sausages on the Duke of Cumberland's well-drilled ranks of bayonets. It was a signal victory for the men with the long knives, even if it was achieved against an exhausted, starving and heavily outnumbered enemy whose attack was torn to shreds by cannon shot long before it reached the shimmering steel points of the English line. This mattered not. The Highland charge had been broken for the first time and most observers put it down to the steadfast employment by the English troops of their bayonets.
All the armies of Europe had adopted the bayonet as a standard infantry weapon by the 1800s, but no army in the world embraced the myth and utility of cold steel like the British. Under Major General James Woolfe and, somewhat later, the Duke of Wellington, the British combined the bayonet's defensive capabilities with the extremely aggressive charges of the conquered Highlanders to sweep away challenges to their imperial power in Canada, India and most of continental Europe. Wellington, who had driven off an attacking force of 60 000 men with the fixed bayonets of only 5000 on the subcontinent in 1803, was to destroy countless Napoleonic advances all over Europe. He seemingly achieved this through the simple expedient of placing in front of the French a thin red line of British infantrymen with their Brown Bess muskets and tempered steel. The bayonet, as much as the gunboat, came to symbolise British power and more: the innate mightiness of the British race. The image of a resolute red-coated line of British fighting men with bayonets fixed positively hummed in the national consciousness. So we can only guess at the effect on the incandescent temper of Captain William Bligh when His Majesty's representative in the colony of New South Wales looked out of his window just after dinner on the evening of 26 January 1808 to see about 400 bayonets glinting in the setting sun as the 102nd regiment advanced on his house in the second great mutiny of his career.
Bligh had been mulling over his second glass of wine with a small clutch of supporters when one them, William Gore, glanced out of a window at the western end of Government House to see the Governor's personal guard behaving rather oddly. Lieutenant Bell, who commanded the detachment, seemed to order them to prime and load their muskets. The small garrison then turned and advanced up the hill at speed. Gore, the colony's provost marshal â a sort of sheriff â hurried back to tell Bligh, who was still enjoying a drink with his secretary Edmund Griffin, a merchant named Robert Campbell, John Palmer the Commissary of the government stores, his deputy James Williamson, and the acting chaplain, Reverend Fulton. The Governor calmed his excited marshal, telling him to keep an eye on the soldiers. Gore left the drawing room, intending to return to his own house nearby. But at the back door of Government House he blundered into magistrate Doctor Thomas Arndell and the two men fell into animated conversation.
The power players of the town â the military and civil officers, the merchants, traders and large landowners â had been in turmoil for a number of days. Not that the town itself was aflame with riot and confusion, for the elite were but a handful of men amongst about 3000 inhabitants. But in the drawing rooms of the rich and powerful and in the officers' mess of the New South Wales Corps, hard-hearted, desperate, and occasionally drunken men contemplated violence, treason and revolt. Some of them were good, wise men, some were stupid, and some were simply possessed of rat-bastard cunning, insatiable appetites and knives in their eyes. The disorder of the previous few days was manifest in the commotion which suddenly broke out at Captain Bligh's dinner party. His guests could see a small party of armed redcoats charging up through the Governor's landscaped gardens. The artillery pieces of the New South Wales Corps, some 400 metres away, seemed to have been moved to allow them to fire on Government House. And a long line of soldiers, two or three abreast, attended by a small number of wealthy civilians and watched over by a much larger number of alarmed common people, was snaking its way down from the massive barracks parade ground high on a hill above the western reaches of town, with colours flying, bayonets fixed and the regimental band playing the grenadiers' march. Figures appeared in the doorways of the rude brick huts on the slopes of the Rocks, craning to make out the cause of the disturbance. The half-wild dogs which haunted the town charged about, barking in excitement. Dust lifted from the tramping of hundreds of pairs of marching boots. And twenty years to the day, almost to the hour, after the founding of the settlement, the man who claimed to be the first to set foot in Sydney Cove, the then Major George Johnston, commander of the regiment in Sydney, drew his sword and led his troops across the stone bridge over the Tank Stream to topple the colonial government. If the irony struck Johnston at all, he seems to have kept it to himself. But chances are it didn't. He was suffering the aftermath of a monstrous alcoholic binge as he launched his coup d'etat; one arm was in a sling and his face was all bashed up and horribly bruised from an unfortunate drunk-driving incident two nights before.
Back at Government House Bligh had called for his dress uniform and sword and had hustled upstairs to retrieve a few papers. His orderly was sent on a futile mission to saddle his horse for a quick getaway. Bligh was convinced that if he could make it to the Hawkesbury region, the settlers there, small farmers who had done well under his administration, would flock to his side against the combination of powerful business interests behind the coup. That was never going to happen though. Even if he could have made the two-storey leap onto the back of a fast nag, his own guard under Lieutenant Bell had already surrounded the house and the rest of the regiment was but minutes away. Bligh was standing at the top of the stairwell with Palmer, Campbell and the others when the lower levels of the house suddenly filled with soldiers. Gore, Arndell and the good Reverend Fulton were the first to encounter the mutineers. They were not, however, the first to offer resistance. That honour fell to Bligh's daughter, Mary, who charged down to the gates of Government House to give Lieutenant Bell a piece of her mind. She had apparently inherited her old man's sharp tongue and her screeching assault was alarming enough to bring Robert Campbell running down through the grounds. He found the Governor's daughter trying to bar the soldiers' way, but she was pushed aside and they swept on. Campbell raced back ahead of them, reaching the house a minute or so before Bell and getting in through the front door before Reverend Fulton locked it.
Palmer, who had left Bligh stuffing papers into his jacket, came down the stairs to be confronted by the strange sight of Fulton still barring the front door, even though other soldiers had barged in through the back. A couple of officers were yelling at Fulton, demanding entrance and getting a lot of backchat and attitude in reply. Fulton cried out that they could drive their bayonets into him if they chose. A few metres away to his rear, Gore was pushed aside by the bayonet of a Lieutenant Draffin (who was completely mad, his brother officers later testified). A private quickly followed up with his rifle butt. As soldiers rushed past him on the stairs, Palmer went over to Fulton and advised the Reverend to let them in. Troops were already pouring through the back door anyway and Palmer was fearful they might take the good father up on his challenge and drive a bayonet through the glass. The chaplain yielded and even more soldiers thundered in to search for the Governor.
It would be at least another hour and a half before they found him. Bligh had retreated to a servant's room upstairs, where he continued destroying some papers and hiding others. His supporters were led away under arrest and most of the hundreds of troops who had marched on Government House were sent out to search the gardens and surrounding land, just in case he had made that leap to freedom. Others scoured the house, becoming increasingly frustrated by their inability to lay hands on the old sea dog. A lieutenant did open the door of the servant's room while Bligh was hiding there, but in the excitement he hardly even glanced about, telling his men they need not search the place, the Governor wasn't there. He pulled the door closed and Bligh heard the search party rumble off down the stairs, rummaging through other parts of the house and damning his eyes. He stood a long time in that spartan room. Outside, the sunset died and darkness fell; the absolute darkness of prehistory, feebly held back by a few candles and lamps. Scouts rode out into the gloom, whilst others beat the bushes and ransacked the outhouses. Bligh knew by now there would be no escape to the Hawkesbury, no resistance from his loyal supporters, no avoiding capture and humiliation.
After standing in silence, for what seemed an eternity, the Governor heard the coarse voice of Sergeant Whittle yell out to his men to help him in another search of the upstairs rooms. Their boots pounded up as Bligh tried to stuff a couple more papers into his shirt. Then they burst in, about ten of them, furious drunken men with bayonets fixed. Someone cried out that the Governor was found and Bligh heard a cheer go up. Confused and enraged, he tried to jam his hidden papers further inside his waistcoat, causing the troopers to think he was going for a gun. One of the soldiers cried out a warning and another lunged forward with his bayonet, growling, âDamn your eyes, if you don't take your hand out of there, I will whip this into you â¦' Bligh called out to Whittle to keep his man off and at this moment Lieutenant Minchin pushed through the crowd shouting, âSergeant, keep the men off, the Governor is not armed; I will answer for it, the Governor is not armed!' Minchin took Bligh by the arm and led the furious, dishevelled and now former Governor down the stairs.
Or that was Bligh's story anyway. Whittle, who was keenly interested to see the Governor's demise after Bligh had ordered his house demolished, claimed that he was found hiding under the bed with feathers stuck to his uniform. Minchin, defending the uprising at Johnston's court martial a number of years later, said a corporal told him they had found Bligh under the bed and testified that his coat was full of dust and feathers. âHe appeared to be very much agitated,' said Minchin. âIndeed, I never saw a man so much frightened in my life, in appearance. When I went into the room, he reached his hand to me, and asked me if I would protect his life. I assured him his life was not in danger and I would pledge my own safety for his. I then told him that Colonel Johnston was in the room below, and that I would see him safely to him if he would allow me â¦'
Historians have been getting all hot and bothered over this scene for nearly 200 years. Now, as then, there doesn't seem to be any conciliation. Either he was pulled out from under that bed, covered in dust and feathers and pleading for his life, a scene which âwould make the real heroes of the British Navy blush with shame and boil with indignation' according to Johnston at his own court martial; or he was bundled up at knife point and frogmarched downstairs in high dudgeon, probably spluttering in purple, spit-flecked rage. Myself? I prefer the latter version. Whittle was a scoundrel, a forty-two year veteran of armed service who avoided a lot of uncomfortable questioning by fainting dead away like a grand dame with the vapours while under cross examination back in England. He was also flatly contradicted by the evidence of Private William Hutton whotestified that he was one of the first to enter the room and he found Bligh
atop
the bed, reaching into his coat.
Minchin, who would also stand condemned by any conviction of Johnston, his commander, was caught out a number of times on the witness stand, perhaps most importantly over the issue of whether a twenty-one gun salute was fired by the rebels to celebrate their uprising. Minchin, who had charge of the colony's artillery, denied ever lining the guns up on Government House and further denied any allegations of a salute being fired the following day. Bligh's counsel then trapped him by producing the entry of the colony's deputy store keeper, a Mr Gowan, in the day book for 27 January 1808: âGovernment use â Eighty-four pounds gun powder. Royal salute on account of maj. Johnston taking the government of the colony.'
Minchin and Whittle, like most of the Rum Corps, were a couple of lying hounds whose first thought was always for their own interest. And the rebels' interest was naturally to paint as black a picture as possible of the man they deposed. When they could find nothing incriminating in the papers they seized at his residence, they did as villains have always done and dipped their brushes into the poison pot anyway. All of the officers maintained that when Minchin led Bligh downstairs he meekly, almost thankfully handed over power. Johnston himself said:
At length he was found and brought to the room where I was. When he was introduced I gently informed him of the step which, by the requisition of the people, I had been obliged to take. He answered, he was very sorry he had incurred public displeasure; had he been aware that such had been the effect of his conduct, he would have acted otherwise; and he resigned all authority into my hands, publicly thanking me for the handsome manner in which I had carried the wishes of the people into execution â¦
All Johnston's supporters testified along these lines but anyone who actually knew Bligh and his incendiary temper could only have reacted by slapping their thighs and wiping tears of mirth from their eyes. Whatever the real story â and Bligh
never
accepted the rebels' authority â the brute fact was that when the sun rose over the harbour next morning, power had been transferred by bayonet rather than law, and a new government was settling into place. The strange confluence of forces which combined to destroy Bligh's administration have long since dissipated and their protagonists turned to dust in the ground. But the protean nature of power in Sydney and the fierce, uncertain currents of creation and destruction which were exposed by the coup, remain as potent in the digital city as in the mud-brick village. To understand the origin of these forces is to see the modern city anew, with a sort of x-ray vision which reveals the underlying structure not to be concrete and steel but rather lust, greed, hubris and a ceaselessly shifting but morally inert and insatiable will to power. To peer deeply into this ghost city, the one lying beneath the surface of things, is to understand that Sydney has a soul and that it is a very dark place indeed.