The House That Changed Hands and Still Stood for the same corrupt regime
By The Boundary Rider - part bush philosopher feline, part realist, part stubborn old stockman - I watch what others overlook and ask the questions most would rather avoid.
I have been taken back in time today. To the days when corruption, greed and power reigned supreme. It made me think: what has changed? Only the names of the actors .. but the screenplay is much the same as it was. Same storyline, different cast.
In the summer of 1808, in a fledgling colony called New South Wales, the governor's house became the stage for Australia's only armed rebellion - a coup fueled not by ideology, but by rum and resentment.
And I was there. As always, simply present but never noticed.
No one notices a cat when in the shadows or under the table. Or on a shelf, quietly observing.
I am the Boundary Rider. The cat that sees all and lives in the shadows...
It earned that name because the New South Wales Corps, a regiment of soldiers who had turned traders, controlled the colony’s liquor trade.
The new governor was Captain William Bligh, of the infamous Mutiny on the Bounty.
Rum had become more valuable than money, and Bligh’s attempts to regulate it threatened both wealth and authority. Men called it necessary. History named it the Rum Rebellion - a label coined decades later by the teetotaler historian William Howitt. Modern accounts argue rum was more a symptom than a cause: at its heart, it was a struggle over corruption, land grants, trade monopolies, and Bligh’s abrasive clashes with entrenched elites like John Macarthur and Major George Johnston.
Men called it necessary. History later called it the Rum Rebellion - a convenient name, coined decades afterward, that blamed drink instead of admitting what it truly was: soldiers and wealthy settlers removing a governor to protect their privileges.
But who am I to say? I was only a passive observer - and observers, as cats know, see everything.
We remember it as the day power slipped away without a fight, in the quiet scuff of boots on familiar floors. Only to return. Again and again.
There are stories that do not belong to one lifetime.
Men insist on dates, documents, and proper attribution. Cats are not burdened by such things. We remember places - the echo of authority fading, the tang of rum seeping into wood like an uninvited guest, the hush that falls when men decide rules no longer apply to them. And we can still smell the same rot today, all these years later.
Whether the memory that follows is mine, or passed down from an ancestor who lounged in the same sun-dappled corners of Government House, I no longer care to distinguish. The house remembers. And so do I.
Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble notes, for the record:
Captain William Bligh - fresh from his infamous command of HMAV Bounty - arrived as Governor in 1806 with orders from London to smash the rum monopoly gripping the colony. The New South Wales Corps, a regiment turned rum barons, saw it differently.
I was already awake when the boots arrived.The boots change, but the floor knows their weight. The bottles are cleared away, yet the stain remains. Power doesn’t vanish - it learns new routes through the house.
Cats usually are. Important things begin not with proclamations, but in the souring of alliances - the way rum replaced coin, favours overrode laws, and officers grew fat on privileges Bligh vowed to strip away.
Government House had smelled wrong for days. Rum has a way of claiming territory, turning habits into entitlements. The Captain paced its halls with brisk certainty, believing clarity and rules could uproot the rot. He canceled shady deals, revoked bloated land grants, and stared down men who'd long mistaken nods for governance.
At first, hope lingered like fresh rain. But hope sours fast. The house tensed as whispers turned to plans, and familiar boots hesitated at doors they once owned.
The Captain's voice sharpened, his faith in justice turning brittle. Cats know brittle things break.
On that January morning, there was no clamour. Birds stilled. Servants averted eyes. Soldiers marched in, rum's confidence in their step, swords gleaming for show.
From under the table, I watched legs advance - polished, purposeful. Words like "arrest" and "authority" were uttered calmly, as if rehearsed. Bligh protested, clinging to the rules now twisted against him.
That is a moment cats understand well.
He was confined. The house exhaled. Power shifted, rum flowed freely, and laughter returned, laced with relief.
I was fed. As is quite right and correct.
Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble observes:
On 26 January 1808, Major George Johnston led the Corps in arresting Bligh. No shots fired, no blood spilled. Bligh languished under house arrest for nearly two years, while the rum trade resumed under interim rule.
For a time, the Captain faded into his rooms, his commands echoing no further. New men claimed old seats. The colony hummed on - trade, favours, quiet order.
Cats notice when peace is just silence.
Eventually, a wiser governor arrived: It is not documented whether or not he loved cats but we do know that Matthew Flinders was a loyal follower of our feline superiority. Lachlan Macquarie, who rebuilt with institutions, not confrontation. The Corps was disbanded. The house found new rhythms.
By then, I felt ancient. Memory weighs heavy.
Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble adds, reluctantly:
John Macarthur, wool pioneer and rum profiteer, orchestrated much of the unrest but escaped real consequence. The rebellion exposed the fragility of distant rule, paving the way for Australia's evolution from penal outpost to nation.
Men still debate it - was Bligh a tyrant or reformer? Were the soldiers rebels or restorers? Mankind craves heroes and villains for tidy narratives.
Cats don't argue. We know authority erodes in whispers, entitlements harden unseen, and righteousness alone rarely holds the door.
The boots change, but the floor remembers their weight. The bottles are cleared away, yet the stain remains. Power doesn’t vanish - it simply learns new routes through the house.
Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble reflects, finally:
Two centuries on, the lessons persist. Names change, faces grow unfamiliar, and the rooms may be newly painted. But the same dances of privilege and pushback play out in boardrooms or parliaments - Canberra included. Authority mismanaged invites its own overthrow, timeless as a cat's watchful gaze.
I watch the boundary still.
Someone always should.
Roderick (Whiskers) McNibble observes):
The Rum Rebellion shuffled quietly through corridors, the Eureka Stockade bled openly on the goldfields - one elite, one popular - but the ending is always the same. Government, in whatever form it takes, adapts, survives, and eventually sits taller on the same ground. Names change, buildings crumble, leaders rise and fall - but authority, like a cat on the fence, always lands. Stay alert folks - the Gulch is getting a Rum Deal and it maybe time for the Eureka moment again. Not with muskets, perhaps, but with eyes wide open and voices that refuse to be silenced. The house still stands, but the shadows remember.
BLOG COMMENTS POWERED BY DISQUS
