What Historical Fiction Writers Need to Know
Imagine this: it’s a stinking hot and sticky day in Sydney. The date’s January 26, 1808. The air is so thick with tension and the scent of gunpowder fills the streets. Then, 700 men of the New South Wales Corps begin their march up towards Government House. Their boots are kicking up dust from the unpaved streets. Drums beat with a call to arms. Bayonets are fixed and the harsh Australian sun reflects off their shiny surfaces. And, at the top of the hill, waits one man: Governor William Bligh. Now, he’s the same Bligh who had survived the infamous mutiny on the Bounty years earlier—no stranger to a scuffle or two—he’s about to face his second rebellion.
I’ve always been fascinated by this moment because it’s the only successful military coup in Australian history. The drama screams Aussie. But, back then, it was nothing more than a struggling colony that was home to no more than 7,000 European settlers, so flat-arsed broke that rum imported from India had become their de facto currency, erupting into a full scaled rebellion. And this wasn’t some ordinary colony; this was a convict colony, loaded to the brim with ratbags at the edge of the known world. The power here was brutal and carried out with fatal consequences. But it was also a power which hung in the balance between the Red Coats and civil authority.
But what was the Rum Rebellion, really, beyond a convict Jack-up? Dig beneath the surface a little, and you’ll find a funny little power struggle ripe with personal vendettas, economic ambitions, and clashing visions for the country’s future. Because, when Governor Bligh tried to control the rum trade and reduce corruption, he wasn’t just changing policy, he was threatening the very foundation of wealth and power that military and civil elites had built for themselves.
As a writer who’s spent years imagining Australia’s sights, sounds, and smells, I find this event particularly mesmerising, but not surprising… to a point where I’m baffled such an event hasn’t become the norm in the great southern land. But the Rum Rebellion offers such rich material for historical fiction—personal rivalries that turned venomous, economic interests that corrupted men’s souls, and a struggle for power that would help shape Australia’s colonial identity. Let me take you deeper into this story, beyond the history books, to the human drama that unfolded in that long-forgotten summer of 1808.
The Real Faces Behind the Rum Rebellion
History becomes infinitely more interesting when we see past the dates and events and put some faces to the names. The personalities driving the Rum Rebellion were far more complex and contradictory than their historical reputations suggest.
William Bligh: More than a Tyrant?
When William Bligh stepped off the ship in New South Wales in 1806, he carried not just his personal baggage but the heavy weight of expectations. The British government had selected him specifically for his no BS reputation, hoping his disciplinarian style would sort the ratbags out, clean up the corruption and break up the rum trade monopoly where earlier governors had failed.
Imagine Bligh’s mindset: Already haunted by the Bounty mutiny, determined to prove himself, and armed with direct orders from London. This wasn’t just another posting for William—it was his shot at redemption.
Bligh wasn’t simply the tyrant of legend, though his temper could peel the paint off of walls. One colonial clerk recalled diving under a desk when Bligh, face purple with rage, hurled an inkwell across the room during a vocal barny. Yet this same man showed genuine compassion when floods devastated the farms along the Hawkesbury River. While military officers were hoarding supplies, Bligh personally ensured that government food stores found their way onto desperate farmer’s dinner tables, insisting that those ‘hardest hit’ were a priority.
His fatal flaw? An absolute tin ear for politics and a habit of burning unnecessary bridges. When he questioned property leases held by several prominent citizens, including the ambitious John MacArthur, he wasn’t just following Colonial Office instructions—he was poking the hornets’ nest of very wealthy, and incredibly angry adversaries. But something tells me, he did not care.
John MacArthur: Ambition or Justice?
If you’re looking for a character worthy of a protagonist, or an evil villain in a historical fiction novel, look no further than MacArthur. I always picture him with a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth, thinking up his next move while everyone else was still trying to figure out the game.
Arriving as a young lieutenant in 1790, MacArthur transformed himself from a military officer into one of the colony’s richest blokes, and people who knew him best described him as a man with violent passions. His friendships strong, too but his hatred was impenetrable. The bloke could hold a grudge.
Imagine the dinner parties at Elizabeth Farm, his estate named after his equally formidable wife. The finest wines flowed nightly while MacArthur charmed his guests and quietly built alliances against Bligh. By the time of his death in 1834, this bloke had amassed over 24,000 acres of land with stock valued at £30,000. A staggering fortune for the time.
I’ve often wondered: Did MacArthur wake up on January 26, 1808, knowing he was about to change history? Or did he, like many men who shape events, simply see an opportunity, and grab it with both hands?
George Johnston: Reluctant Rebel or Power Seeker?
Of all the players in this drama, Major George Johnston is the most enigmatic. Picture a weathered old man who’d washed up with the First Fleet in 1788 (the first newcomer to set foot in the colony). By 1808, he’d spent twenty years watching Sydney Cove transform from a convict colony into a struggling but growing settlement. The colony was as much his creation as anyones. Cheers, george.
But, on that summer day, it was Johnston who led the troops up to Government House. And, it was Johnston, who’d since assumed the title of Lieutenant-Governor, that suspended Bligh’s appointed officials and became a reluctant rebel, pushed into action by forces greater than his own—as he later claimed? Yet, I say, he spotted a chance to take power and simply showed his hand?
I also find it telling that after being found guilty, via court martial—receiving only the mildest of penalties—Johnston did nothing but complain:
Every person that promised to support me with their lives and fortunes has risen upon my ruin. I alone am the sufferer.
Those are the words of a man who felt betrayed by his co-conspirators. A man who hadn’t fully understood the game he was playing until it all bit him on the arse.
Why the Rum Rebellion Happened: Beyond the Rum
Strip away the colourful stories and confrontations, and you’ll find that the Rum Rebellion wasn’t even about rum… it was about power, who held it, who wanted it, and what depths they were willing to sink to keep it.
The struggle for economic control
Now, imagine Sydney Cove in 1806: a colony of 7,000 Europeans all clinging to the edge of a vast, mostly unknown continent. Streets muddy after rain, buildings a curious mix of makeshift huts and more substantial government structures. There’s no Opera House, or Harbour Bridge to goggle at and, running through the mess, is this economic lifeblood—rum.
The absence of actual money meant that rum became the currency, and the officers of the New South Wales Corps had turned it to their advantage. They controlled who got rum, how much it cost, and who could trade it. This wasn’t about getting tanked; it was about control.
I’ve always pictured officers sitting behind their desks, quill scratching as they calculated profits, while outside, convicts and free settlers alike worked in the heat, knowing their wages would come in liquid form—a form their paymasters had already marked up by 400% or more.
When Bligh tried to implement reforms that would restrict these advantages, he wasn’t just changing policy. He was attacking the very foundation of wealth that the Corps had built. His order that promissory notes be made payable in sterling currency might seem like a minor bureaucratic detail to modern ears, but to the Corps, it was a declaration of war.
Bligh’s leadership style and its impact
There’s something else we need to know about Bligh. The man knew ships—like Jordan knows basketball—but he struggled with people. And, when he arrived, with the necessary orders: control booze as barter, restrict monopolies, then end corruption, he went out and tackled these tasks with all the subtlety of a rogue elephant.
One settler described a typical encounter with Bligh:
He received me with a stern countenance and, without any preface, asked what I meant by building without his permission. Before I could answer, he called me a damned rascal and said he would teach me who was Governor.
His confrontational style, open contempt for Corps officers, and rigid enforcement of regulations created a perfect storm. Rather than building alliances with the settlers who might have supported reforms, he alienated potential allies with his abrasive manner.
In October 1806, when Bligh issued new port regulations tightening control of ships and cargoes, he might as well have posted a notice declaring his intentions to cut off the Corps’ profits. These orders, though necessary, sank like a stone into the already turbulent waters of colonial Australian politics.
The role of personal rivalries
At the heart of the rebellion burned the white-hot animosity between Bligh and John MacArthur. Their conflict began over MacArthur provisional land grant at the Cow pastures and escalated when Bligh threatened to remove MacArthur from his prime land.
Imagine these two proud, stubborn men facing off. Bligh, the naval commander used to absolute authority at sea. And MacArthur, the ambitious entrepreneur who brooked no interference with his business affairs. Their clash was inevitable, and compromise was futile.
The breaking point came when MacArthur faced trial after a convict escaped on his schooner: The Parramatta. Refusing to be tried by Judge-Advocate Atkins (who owed him money), MacArthur set in motion the events that would kick-off the rebellion. When Bligh accused the six Corps officers supporting MacArthur of treason, he crossed a point of no return.
What the rebellion stood for, was not simply a fight about rum trading but a fundamental question: Would New South Wales remain a primitive convict economy run by government decree, or evolve into something controlled by private entrepreneurs like MacArthur? The answer would shape Australia’s future long after the rebellion calmed the heck down.
What Happened in The Rum Rebellion: A Closer Look
The events of January 26, 1808, unfolded with all the hoopla a historical novelist could wish for, and you can almost hear the band playing: The British Grenadiers as 400 soldiers of the New South Wales Corps marched up to Government House, their bayonets ready for a fight.
The arrest of Bligh: Fact vs. legend
Earlier that day, Major George Johnston had released John MacArthur from jail. Together, they drafted a petition declaring Bligh unfit to govern—setting the stage for what would follow.
Bligh’s own daughter Mary tried to ward off the approaching soldiers with her parasol, hoping to protect her father against armed men invading their home. But the most enduring legend about that day is how Bligh was found.
According to the rebel account, the governor was discovered hiding under a servant’s bed—a coward unworthy of leadership. But like many good stories, this one was fabricated for political purposes. But Bligh was searching for documents, trying to destroy evidence and secure important papers as the soldiers entered.
And, with the governor scrambling to protect sensitive correspondence as boots thundered through the hallways of Government House, the Corps officers—all self-styled gentlemen—needed to portray Bligh as ungentlemanly to justify their actions. What better way than to claim he was found cowering beneath a bed?
The military takeover and public reaction
After the arrest, Johnston proclaimed himself Lieutenant-Governor and instituted military rule. MacArthur effectively became a dictator as Colonial Secretary, running the business affairs of the colony. The fox was now guarding the henhouse.
The rebel administration at once reversed Bligh’s alcohol regulations, resulting in a boom in rum traffic. Within months, approximately ninety new liquor stores had opened throughout Sydney. But did the average settler understand the significance of what had happened? Or did they simply enjoy the immediate benefits of cheaper, more plentiful spirits?
The aftermath for key players
Bligh remained under house arrest for about twelve months, refusing his orders to return to England. Eventually, he sailed to Van Diemen’s Land (Tasmania) seeking support from Lieutenant-Governor David Collins, who told him to bugger off—another bitter disappointment.
The rebellion’s resolution came slowly. Lieutenant-Colonel Joseph Foveaux arrived in July 1808, taking temporary command until Colonel William Paterson ordered Johnston and MacArthur back to England for trial. And, it wasn’t until January 1810, when Major-General Lachlan Macquarie arrived with the 73rd Regiment of Foot, did the rebellion finally end.
Macquarie’s actions were decisive: he reinstated all officials sacked by Johnston, canceled all land grants made during the rebel period, and briefly reinstated Bligh—if not symbolically. The rebels faced mixed fates. Johnston was found guilty at his court-martial yet received only a cashiering from service—a meagre punishment for the time. MacArthur avoided trial as a civilian but was booted out of New South Wales.
I wonder how MacArthur felt in those years after, separated from the colony he had helped shape, watching from afar as Macquarie transformed Sydney into something resembling a proper British town. Did he regret his role in the rebellion? Or did he simply bide his time, planning his triumphant return?
Hidden Details Fiction Writers Should Not Miss
As a historical fiction writer, I’ve learned that the most compelling stories often emerge not from the headline events but from the everyday details of life which surrounded them. The Rum Rebellion offers a wealth of such details—human moments that can bring your fictional world to life.
Rum as currency and social power
Imagine being paid not in money but in bottles of rum—I’d never be fit for work. That was the reality for many colonial workers. With coins in desperately short supply, rum became the backbone of a complex barter economy controlled by a small group who grew extraordinarily wealthy from the arrangement.
The social implications were profound and often heartbreaking. Workers paid in rum often drank their wages rather than buying necessities for their families. One colonial letter describes a skilled carpenter who received four bottles for his week’s labor and was insensible for three days after, while his children went without dinner.
Even major construction projects ran on rum currency. Sydney Hospital earned the nickname: The Rum Hospital because Governor Macquarie granted the builders a monopoly on rum imports to finance its construction. Later governors addressed the rum problem not by banning it outright (which would have been impossible to enforce) but by increasing its supply—when something becomes abundant, its worth as currency diminishes.
Life in Sydney Cove: hardship and opportunity
Daily existence in early Sydney meant confronting extremes that settlers from Britain could never have imagined. The Aussie summers can be brutal, and thunderstorms terrifying, with one diarist describing: the sky opening with such fury that it seemed judgment day had arrived.
Food shortages stayed a constant threat. Rations often consisted of 450 grams of salted meat (sometimes rotten after months at sea), 450 grams of corn, and 450 grams of wheat flour. Women and teenagers received smaller portions, leaving many in a state of endless hunger. Imagine trying to perform hard physical labor on such meagre sustenance, the constant grumbling from your belly a reminder of how far you were from home.
Yet alongside these hardships existed surprising comforts. Many convicts lived in two or three-roomed houses with tables, chairs, and beds with mattresses—better accommodation than some had known in Britain’s slums. They cooked over fireplaces and ate from china crockery using silver cutlery. On weekends, they changed from government-issued slops into nicer clothing, visited friends for tea, attended dances, or enjoyed the occasional theatre performances.
This strange contradiction—deprivation alongside unexpected comforts—created a society unlike any other. A convicted pickpocket might find himself dining with silver utensils. A former street urchin might wear finer clothes on Sunday than she’d ever known in London.
The emotional stakes for settlers and soldiers
Perhaps most fascinating to me is what historian Malcolm Ellis called: the Botany Bay Disease. This was the psychological toll of colonial life. Remarkably, many rebellion participants later experienced severe mental health breakdowns.
John MacArthur, that master manipulator, suffered chronic depression, too and was later declared legally insane in 1832. Major George Johnston showed deep regrets and persistent sadness following the rebellion. Lieutenant Draffin developed a violent insanity, while Gregory Blaxland, another rebellion supporter, hanged himself decades later.
These emotional struggles reflect the immense pressure of building a new society on unfamiliar shores—tensions that skilful fiction writers can mine for psychological depth. What does it do to a person to take part in overthrowing legitimate authority? How does wielding sudden power change someone? What price did these men pay in their private moments for the public actions they took?
Some letters hint at this toll: The men who led the action against Governor Bligh Walk these streets as heroes to some, villains to others. But in their eyes, I sometimes glimpse a haunted look, as though they see something the rest of us cannot.
Conclusion
The Rum Rebellion offers far more than a simplistic tale of military officers overthrowing a governor over alcohol trade. As we’ve seen, this pivotal moment in Australian history provides rich terrain for historical fiction writers looking to craft authentic narratives about colonial Australia.
Throughout the article, I’ve tried to highlight how personal ambitions, economic conflicts, and leadership failures created the perfect storm that led to Bligh’s overthrow. The complex personalities involved—the disciplinarian yet reform-minded Bligh, the ambitious and calculating MacArthur, the enigmatic Johnston—offer compelling character studies just waiting to be explored by readers and writers.
What fascinates me most are the hidden details that breathe life into any historical retelling. The psychological toll of colonial existence—later manifesting as: Botany Bay Disease, among many rebellion participants. The daily realities of rum currency, food shortages, and surprising comforts amid hardship. The small human moments. Bligh’s daughter with her parasol. The carpenter drunk for three days while his children went hungry. The haunted look in the rebels’ eyes years later.
When approaching the Rum Rebellion as creative material, I like to look beyond the dramatic march on Government House to the contradictions beneath: officers promoting personal wealth while claiming to serve public interest; colonists struggling with both deprivation and unexpected privileges; leaders descending into mental illness following their brief hold on power.
The Rum Rebellion stands not just as Australia’s only successful coup but as a mirror reflecting timeless human conflicts around power, ambition, and the struggle to build society in unfamiliar territory. These elements, rather than the rum itself, make this historical moment an endlessly fascinating subject for those of us seeking authentic Australian stories to share with the world.
