The Secret of the Youngest Rebel (The Secret Histories, #5)

By Jackie French

'HIGHLY RECOMMENDED FOR ALL READERS'

-- ReadPlus on Barney and the Secret of the Whales

The whisper in the darkness is: rebellion! (Or: death or liberty!)

Frog is an orphan, a pickpocket, starving on the streets of Parramatta in 1804.

But when the tall, commanding Irish rebel Mr Cunningham talks of freedom from tyranny and the lash, Frog creeps out to join the rebels, the 10,000 convicts who will take over the colony and proclaim the Republic of New Ireland.

Will farmers like Barney and Elsie Bean join the battle against the corrupt New South Wales Corps? For the fate of the colony -- and Australia -- will be decided at Castle Hill.

Based on eyewitness accounts, this fifth title in The Secret Histories series uncovers the secrets that the colonial government hid for over 200 years.

PRAISE FOR THE SECRET HISTORIES SERIES

'French's eye for historic details makes this a compelling reading' -- Daily Telegraph

'Jackie French has a knack for discovering fascinating hidden facts from our past and bringing them to life. Children will be so captivated by the story that they won't even notice they are absorbing rich and memorable lessons from Australia's history. Highly recommended for middle school' -- Magpies magazine

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Feb 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781460709191

Jackie French

Jackie French AM is an award-winning writer, wombat negotiator, the 2014–2015 Australian Children's Laureate and the 2015 Senior Australian of the Year. In 2016 Jackie became a Member of the Order of Australia for her contribution to children's literature and her advocacy for youth literacy. She is regarded as one of Australia's most popular children's authors and writes across all genres — from picture books, history, fantasy, ecology and sci-fi to her much loved historical fiction for a variety of age groups. ‘A book can change a child's life. A book can change the world' was the primary philosophy behind Jackie's two-year term as Laureate. jackiefrench.com facebook.com/authorjackiefrench

Book preview

DEDICATION

To Lisa and Mark: thank you for the adventure,

with love, admiration and gratitude

CONTENTS

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: The Apple Tart

Chapter 2: Me

Chapter 3: Hope

Chapter 4: Plots

Chapter 5: Tomorrow Might Be Wonderful

Chapter 6: Rebellion!

Chapter 7: Death or Liberty

Chapter 8: Comrades on the Hill

Chapter 9: Liberty . . . and Death . . .

Chapter 10: My Life Shatters

Chapter 11: A New Life?

Chapter 12: A Different Kind of Rebel Now

Author’s Notes

About the Author

Also by Jackie French

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Copyright

PROLOGUE

4 MARCH 1804

The darkness smelled of woodsmoke and the pies Ma Grimsby swore were mutton.

‘Death or liberty?’ Ma whispered. ‘Which will you choose, boy?’

I met her small, mean eyes. ‘Liberty!’ I said.

Tomorrow we’d be free, or we would die.

CHAPTER 1

The Apple Tart

It began with an apple tart.

The tart was in a basket, and the basket was carried by a lady in a yellow silk dress and bonnet, lifting her skirts out of the muck of the Parramatta street, just down from Ma Grimsby’s wattle-and-mud tavern. I’d hardly ever seen a lady like that, not up close.

I’d never seen a tart like that either — the apples in neat slices and the pastry yellow with eggs and butter. Not like Ma Grimsby’s flour and sawdust with mouse droppings the customers hoped were currants.

I slipped from doorway to doorway, knife in hand. The lady carried a silk reticule too. There’d be money in it, a well-dressed lady like that.

You didn’t get to sleep safely on the straw in the lean-to next to Ma’s tavern unless you brought her decent pickings. I’d sleep safely for many nights if I gave Ma that reticule, and get the pick of the scraps her customers had left, bits of crust or turnip.

But that tart. I’d never eaten an apple tart, just glimpsed them on the market stalls before the stallholder gave me a cuff on the ear for getting too close. And none of them tarts had ever looked so fine.

I couldn’t steal both the basket and the reticule. The basket wasn’t worth much: I should get the reticule . . .

I grabbed the basket and ran.

The lady gave a cry. But she couldn’t catch me, not wearing her long skirts. My bare feet pounded around a corner —

A big hand grabbed my collar. ‘Got you, you little vagabond.’

I was lifted up, and up still further, till I faced a man with a clean-shaven jaw and the clearest green eyes I’d ever seen. He had brown cropped hair, cut short like the Irish rebels, but was dressed in a gentry cove’s clean suit. He was the biggest man I’d ever seen. I was so lost in those green eyes I forgot to bite his hand to get away.

And then it was too late. The big man put me down, holding my arm. I couldn’t have bit him if I’d tried. I waited for him to call a constable. This was going to mean fifty lashes, or even chains . . .

Instead he looked over my head and smiled. The lady had followed me. Her hair was shiny black under her bonnet; her face and dress were all clean and fresh. I pushed the tangles of my hair back from my face with my free hand and felt the lice wriggle.

The big man gave the lady a short bow, moving stiffly. ‘Philip Cunningham, an unwilling guest of King George at Castle Hill, at your service, ma’am.’

The lady curtseyed. ‘I am Mrs Barney Bean, of Jeanne’s Farm.’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Bean. The lad here is going to give your basket back, aren’t you, boyo? And he’s going to say that he is sorry.’

Yes, he was Irish, I thought. Like all the others sent to the colony the last four years — rebels who’d fought against the English. Some of them were gentry too.

I tried to copy his bow. ‘I’m sorry.’ I held the basket out to Mrs Bean. But I couldn’t help staring at that tart.

Mrs Bean took her basket. I waited for her to carry it away. Instead she asked, ‘Did you steal this because you are hungry?’ Her voice was gentle. I’d never heard anyone speak gentle like that, or not to me.

I was always hungry, so hungry it was hard to walk sometimes. But I’d grabbed a chop from one of the redcoat officers’ dogs just that morning. There’d been good meat left on it, and I’d nicked a handful of turnips the night before, so I weren’t starving. Something in her voice made me tell her the truth.

‘I nicked your tart ’cause I ain’t never seen nothin’ look as good.’

I could have told her it might be the kind of tart the angels eat, but I didn’t know words like that, back then.

Mrs Bean smiled. She even had all her teeth, all white and straight. ‘I made the tart for a friend who likes my cooking. But she has all the tarts she needs. I think perhaps you should have this one.’ She held the basket out to me.

I grabbed the tart and scuttled away as fast as I could between the tumbled shanties.

There’s willow trees by the river, where no one can see you if you sit under the branches. The tart had cracked a bit by the time I got there, but I’d been careful not to lose a crumb. I’d just taken my first bite, felt the sweetness of the apple and the richness of that pastry, when the branches parted. Mr Cunningham gazed down at me.

I clutched my tart, ready to run.

‘Peace to you, boyo. I haven’t come to hurt you. Or take your apple tart.’ The big man crouched down next to me. ‘How long since you’ve eaten, boyo?’

I took another wary bite. ‘This mornin’. Half a chop.’ I didn’t tell him about the dog.

‘And yesterday?’

‘Couple o’ raw turnips and bit o’ pastry. Well, Ma calls it pastry. It