‘Death at Cressy’ by Denise Newton

This story was inspired by an unlucky ancestor who drowned in the Lake River near Cressy, Tasmania.

I died in bitter, dark water. Before you feel too much sympathy, I should mention that my death was, in its way, a kind of rude justice. Strange how the world works to complete a circle.

Thirty years earlier I had sailed atop another body of water, below decks on a convict ship. My crime? Stealing a sheep from my employer. Unbelievable stupidity, I know. Point one: to steal an animal as large as a sheep. Foolish creatures; impossible to hide and harder to shift. Point two: stealing anything from my employer. I can’t even recall the impulse, so many years after. I must have thought it a grand moment to make some easy coin, but if so, everything that followed showed that idea for the folly it was.

I got seven years for it. Not seven years’ gaol. That would have been hard enough, though preferable to hanging by a rope until my tongue swelled and I soiled my britches. No, my seven years were to be spent far away from my native Ireland, on another island: Van Diemen’s Land. When I first heard the name, I thought it was the demon’s land. Which for many, I suppose it was.

The voyage itself was mostly uneventful, if tedious. I got seasick several times, hurling my stomach contents into the privy bucket or over the railings if I was on deck. Everyone got doused with water during storms, of which there were plenty. But we were fed, given regular days to shave, wash ourselves and our clothing. There were even lessons for those who wanted to better themselves. I didn’t bother as I could already read a little and had no interest in learning a weekly catechism by rote. None died on the voyage, which seemed nothing short of a miracle.  

A few fellows were stupid, provoking fights among themselves or causing trouble with the guards for no gain, except a lashing with the cat-o’nine-tails up on deck. I decided from day one to keep my head down. No point creating a stir if it gets you nothing but pain and a bloodied back.

There was one amongst us whose name I would later hear with a shudder: Alexander Pearce. A surly creature, he created quite a stir afterwards. Became renowned for escaping from the ‘impossible to escape’ prison of Sarah Island in the west and blundering off into the wilderness with some fellow escapees. Those lags must have seriously regretted their choice of companion when their meagre supplies ran out, because one by one, Pearce killed and ate them. When I heard that story, I thanked the Lord that the victuals on board the Castle Forbes had been adequate. Otherwise I might have ended up as part of the midday meal for him.  

After nearly three months at sea, we were in Hobart Town and unloaded, to be sent out to labour across the island. I was assigned to a farm, where I dealt every day with sheep. Shepherding, mostly, until it was time to cut off the fleece and bundle it for sale. Work that moved between utter boredom and frustration, then the constant bending and lifting of shearing. I could feel every bone and muscle in my body after those days. Sheep: those stupid creatures again! Was this God’s private joke with me, or sheer coincidence?  

True to my resolve, I behaved well and got my Ticket-of-Leave, after which I could find my own employment and get paid for it.

It might surprise you to know that I stayed working with sheep. Cressy, where I’d settled, is a scattering of farms and big estates needing workers, and there is plenty of employment to be had. So, the sheep and I remained daily companions. I never grew fonder of them, mind, but I did have to laugh at their brainless antics at times.

I worked as an overseer at the Rich’s estate alongside the Lake River. The land here is beautiful; wide flat fields fringed with the grey-green trees that grow all over this place, so different from the deep emerald of home, but lovely in their own way. The Rich family grow wheat, tall ears that wave in the cutting winds that sometimes sweep through here. Their main concerns, though, are sheep. Flocks of them dot the fields, clustered together; outliers stray, cropping absent-mindedly at the grass until something startles them and they hurry back to their mates. Like I said, they are often comical.

Mostly they are the Spanish breed, Merinos, which I had not seen back home. Their fleece is thick: fine but abundant; prized in England’s wool mills. The family has prospered—Rich by name and rich by nature. They have a grand family home, with a bountiful kitchen garden and an orchard, sheds and a barn to one side, and on the other, the quarters where the assigned convicts sleep and eat.  

At the end of each tiring day, I valued my own hut, which came with my role as overseer. I’d light the fire in the stone hearth and watch as the flames built, spreading warmth through the single room and easing my aching bones.  I could take my meals in the Rich’s kitchen with the household servants. I know the convict men resented me for these luxuries, but I was not troubled by that. I had behaved well, worked hard, and earned my Ticket. It was up to them to do likewise.

Mind you, I toiled as much as they did. Up at dawn to wake the men, allocate work tasks and check on the stock. Long days walking, inspecting boundaries, checking the flocks for missing sheep (those outliers could wander far when the fancy took them.) If it were lambing time, I’d be out at all hours of the night, as ewes sometimes got into trouble with birthing, and we always had to be on guard against wild animals, or the occasional eagle, who fancied some tender lamb for their supper. When shearing was in full swing, the truly backbreaking work began. While helping with the shearing itself, it was also my job to make sure that the fleeces were taken off clean, properly pressed and packed for sale. Because I could read and write, I kept product and crop tallies for Mister Rich and noted ration supplies and suchlike.  

I was told to be on guard against any of the men filching wool from the bales: they could make money on the side, so long as they were not discovered, of course. Late one afternoon when the workers were on break, downing their pannikins of strong black tea, I caught two of the men, Pilcher and Barnes, trying to stow a sizeable bundle of fleece behind their barracks.  

I ordered them inside. They glared at me, sulky at having been caught. Barnes, a beefy fellow, looked like he might try to best me in a fisticuffs, then thought better of it. Pilcher’s eyes kept sliding sideways as I told them that the master could have them whipped, or worse, for the crime. Instead, I let them off with a warning. As they swaggered out to join the others, I immediately regretted my decision but vowed to keep a close eye on them.

Sure enough, two months later I discovered purloined rations behind the bunks of these same idiots. This time, I put them on reduced rations and extra work for a month.

I knew they were bitter about it, but they’d done wrong and had to be punished. Believe me, the penalty could’ve been much worse! The master may have had them sent off to the dreaded Sarah Island if he’d a mind to. I wondered if they’d have encountered the cannibal Pearce, if they had ended up there. Such thoughts helped me while away the hours spent tramping the estate, carrying out my duties.

It was a tiring working life, though satisfying in its own way. I dealt fairly with the men I supervised, and the Rich family treated me the same. I often thought I’d like the companionship of a woman, especially during the long winter evenings, but other than that, I had few complaints about my life.

That is, until the day I died.

In November we would begin washing the sheep. It was important to do this just before shearing started, to remove the grit and muck that gets caught in the fleece. It took a long time, dragging protesting animals into the river and out again. November is usually a milder time, leading into summer, but on the Norfolk Plains the weather can turn any which way.  

As the men and I mustered the sheep down to the riverbank, a bitter wind sprang up and heavy clouds gathered. I debated if we should hold off the washing, but shearing was about to begin. It was important to have the wool cleaned in time.

So, there we were, knee deep in icy water, wrestling with struggling sheep. I held a large ewe, who was panicking as she sensed the cold seeping through her fleece. As I tried to turn her in the current, my feet slipped in the mud beneath us. I was suddenly up to my chin in water.  

Have I mentioned I could not properly swim? Most of us fellows couldn’t. While I could float on a still surface if the river was placid, this day it was anything but. The water pulled at me, and the ewe, making her as heavy as a log. My fingers turned numb with cold. I was gasping for breath. Each time I tried to get purchase with my feet, they would slip further into the mud.  

In desperation I opened my mouth to yell for help, and it was immediately filled by the river. Spluttering and choking, I tried to wave to the others, but they had spread out so widely, none had noticed what was happening. My ewe had now disappeared under the water. I was on my own.

A movement on the bank caught my frantic gaze. There were two men there, pointing and laughing—at me. Surely, they would come to help? In my confusion, I thought they looked familiar…then my head was pushed under water by the current. When it reemerged, I saw them again. My heart sank. It was Pilcher and Barnes. They now had their arms folded, apparently enjoying the sight of me struggling for life. I would have no help from them.

A few seconds later, I went under the body of the sheep. By this point I neither knew nor cared what the morons on the bank were doing; my chest cramped tight with a desperate, unquenchable need for air, which never came.

You know how people say that when someone drowns, their whole life flashes before them? Nonsense. All I saw were the swirling water and mud. I was too cold to feel much, as the river filled my lungs and the life force left my body.

Why am I telling you this story? I think it’s to point out another saying, that is, perhaps, true. As a man lives, so he dies. For me, it was sheep. A sheep got me arrested and sent to Van Diemen’s land. Thirty years later, another got me killed.

I loiter around the river now, in spirit at least. I’m not sure why. I’m not trying to haunt anyone. Although if I ever see a sheep there, I make sure to create a disturbance, enough to spook it a bit. Sweet revenge.

 © Denise Newton 2026