Graeme Chapman. Eureka: A Tale of Mateship and Rivalry in the Victorian Goldfields.
Melbourne: Privately published, 2002.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dedication

To
my wife
Eileen
and
my friend
Dr. William Tabbernee
for their many helpful suggestions

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

      The large marquee was erected on level ground two hundred yards north of the Camp. It was harried by wind gusts that reached the Ballarat plateau after a long flight from the Antarctic. In spite of the fact that it was New Year's eve, the chilled air brought shivers to a group of miners in the Gravel Pits. Finding solace in their religion, and disdaining the noisy revelry convulsing nearby hotels, they were attempting to mend a broken windlass.

      Ballarat was divided into two communities. The Camp was established on a quartz plateau north of the Yarrowee. A cosmopolitan community of diggers, see-sawing between enthusiasm and frustration, were working a series of leads on the lower ground to the East and South East of the Camp.

      Several fiddles and an accordion, played with skill and a restraint appropriate to the self-perceived dignity of those for whom the music was being provided, filled the marquee with a hypnotic syncopation, a dancing balladry that only the irretrievably dour could resist. The air was heavy with the weight of human pollen, shaken from stamen by the energy of the dances, the pleasure of being seen and admired, and, for some, like gold commission agent, Charles Houghton, the stimulation of the chase.

      Houghton had arrived in Ballarat from Melbourne nine months previously, in March of 1853. Like other ambitious young men, he was employed by Commissioner Rede to issue gold licences and adjudicate disputes. While colleagues found his company stimulating, they were also aware that he was a loner. Except when he was trying to persuade or impress, he kept to himself. He was secretive about his past. All that was known was that he had spent his youth in Sydney, New South Wales, and that business had taken him to Melbourne. Through family influence, he had managed to secure an appointment with the Gold Commission.

      Governor Hotham was persuaded that the Ballarat diggers were unruly renegades, rather than law-abiding citizens with a [5] penchant for organising and adjudicating their own affairs. He enlisted the energy of the unemployed sons of the military, the civil service, and the squattocracy to administer the work of the Gold Commission, which was intended to secure law and order and to raise revenue for the new colony. Charles Houghton was a willing conscript.

      In the nine months he had been in Ballarat, Houghton had acquired an enviable reputation among the limited pool of eligible young women in this rough, goldfields settlement. Most were the daughters of local farmers, well-to-do shopkeepers, doctors, and other professionals.

      Houghton was of medium height, athletic, and well-spoken. He was swarthy in appearance. His face was unusually handsome. While he had a small scar under his right eye, it was scarcely noticeable. His raven hair was thick, parted on the left and combed back towards the crown. It cascaded down over his neck, where it curled gently as it rested on the collar of his coat. His dark eyes, framed by equally dark eyebrows, looked out over an almost perfectly aquiline nose. His full, sensuous lips were supported by a firm square-set jaw. His movements were practiced, self-conscious. He was aware of the effect he had on women. While still a youngster, he learned to use his physical attractiveness to advantage, becoming a master manipulator.

      For Houghton, the thrill was in the chase. He was rarely satisfied with his latest conquest. His current challenge was the young woman with whom he was dancing. He had noticed her arrive with her father. The father, he discovered, had developed a hardware business on Main Road. He had built it up from humble beginnings in a small tent erected on the western shoulder of the Ballarat-Geelong Road, adjacent to the Gravel Pits.

      An innovative and canny Scot, Robert Shaw used the capital derived from his now thriving ironmongery business to develop a foundry in West Ballarat at the southern end of Doveton Street. Shaw was rumoured to be one of the wealthiest men in Ballarat. Ruby would be a good catch. In her case, a different strategy was called for. If he played his cards carefully, he could enjoy the chase and pocket the prize. [6]

      Ruby was completely unaware of the trap being set for her. She tossed her head back as she reeled around, her long blond hair, wound into ringlets, swinging out to brush his forehead before returning to cascade down over her shoulders. Her fair skin and blue eyes, and the regularity of her features, appealed to him. Her energy, a natural spontaneity that manifested most intensely in her smile, captivated him. He found her youthful innocence irresistible.

      Robert Shaw had been reluctant to launch his daughter into the social scene. But as she was now seventeen, he had finally acceded to his wife's entreaty and consented to her accompanying them to the New Year's Eve Celebration. It was organised by the Gold Commissioner and the Police Inspector for the officers under their charge.

      Morag Shaw was enjoying the new-found celebrity that her husband's increasing wealth and social position afforded. She was at the ball to enjoy herself and was too pre-occupied to scrutinize her daughter's movements. Occasional glances in Ruby's direction assured her that her only child was enjoying herself.

      It was otherwise with Ruby's father. Though taciturn, he was discerning and rarely fooled. It was difficult for him to relinquish the special relationship he had with his daughter, whose first love affair had been with her father. He felt a stab of jealousy as he observed her dancing with the handsome young man who was monopolizing her attention. His reaction surprised him. He should have anticipated it. His mouth curled into a wry smile as he reflected on his reaction. There was pain in this surrender of an exclusive male right to his daughter's affection.

      The recognition of the permanency of his impending loss sharpened the edge of his protectiveness and concentrated his attention on the rival, in whose company she was blossoming. Something disconcerted him, but he could not put his finger on what it was. Nor could he be sure that his unease was anything more than the result of the sense of loss he was now experiencing. The nagging irritation persisted and appeared to be justified by his observation of the young man's practiced repertoire. [7]

      "So you emigrated from Dundee with your parents?" Houghton asked Ruby as they circled another couple, "How old were you?"

      "We came out in 1851", Ruby responded, "I was 15 at the time. In the beginning I hated it. We had difficulty finding accommodation. We couldn't return because we had spent all our money."

      "It must have been difficult for your father", Charles commented sympathetically, "How did you all survive?"

      "Neighbours of ours, who lived opposite, had migrated to Sydney the year before we left. We learned that they did not remain in Sydney long, but travelled on to Port Phillip."

      "Why the sudden departure?"

      "They were told that Melbourne offered greater opportunities for tradesmen."

      "So they were there to meet you at Hobson's Bay!"

      "No. They had no idea we were coming", Ruby replied, remembering the blustery, rainy day on which they had clambered down a slippery gang-plank into a small rowboat that was to take them ashore. Their suitcases and trunks were stacked in the rear of the boat. Her father had taken one of the oars from the boatman. The small craft, with its human cargo, had defied the swell and the foaming waves that keep breaking over the boat and showering them with brine and the occasional length of beaded seaweed.

      The fiddles and the accordion ceased their frenetic duelling. The noise of conversation, masked by the music and the shuffle of feet on the rough timbers of the temporary dance floor, intruded into the silence. It suddenly fell away, embarrassed by its own volume and the exaggerated intonation that had been necessary to compete with the din.

      When the music ceased, Ruby found herself standing behind Charles, who was holding her right hand in his above his shoulder. He rested their hands on his shoulder. Ruby, whose face was scarcely three inches from his left ear, half-whispered, "After we reached the dock, Father was finally persuaded that we should head to Prahran, where most of the new arrivals were bound. The [8] roads were rutted, and on several occasions I thought we would end up in a muddy ditch by the side of the road. It was horrible!" "You obviously survived."

      "We did. After being at sea for months, where the pitch of the ship and the cramped accommodation kept me constantly on the edge of nausea, I was looking forward to stepping onto dry land again."

      "You hadn't anticipated what you found?"

      "No. It was all so primitive. The mud, the rain and later the dust! It was nothing like what we left behind. It was so uncivilized."

      "So what happened when you arrived in Prahran?"

      This question was still hanging in the air when the music started up again. Charles looked deep into Ruby's eyes, with a playfulness that she was finding difficult to resist. He reached for her hands, which had released themselves during their conversation. Before Houghton connected, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

      "May I relieve you of the presence of this engaging gentleman for at least one dance", the stranger asked, addressing himself to Ruby. A barely perceptible flash of anger turned the deep brown of Charles eyes a cold gun-metal. Ruby was unaware of the metamorphosis. The angle of her face had lifted several degrees as she gazed at the boyish, six-foot-one intruder, whose innocent, engaging smile betrayed a youthful naivete that had not yet been corrupted by self-serving artifice, pretension, and sullied sophistication.

      After a moment's hesitation, she replied, "Of course you can. You won't mind, will you Charles?" If Charles had thought to protest, he now found himself checkmated. After the initial surprise, he recognised the voice of Timothy Barnes, a Melbourne-trained police officer, who had recently been appointed to the Ballarat Force. A likeable young man, he was hardly a rival. Barnes had the bounding energy, and lack of road sense, of a young puppy. Charles motioned to Ruby and Timothy to join the other [9] dancers, who, by this time, were already causing the boarded floor to groan.

      In spite of his compliant reaction, Charles found it difficult to rid himself of a persistent irritation, an incipient anger. He prided himself on his persuasive charm and his reputation among his peers for the speed with which he could win over the affections of young, and on occasions, not so young women.

      Not given to prolonged introspection, he looked around to see who was available. His eyes caught sight of a young woman who had been holding court at the opposite end of the marquee. She flashed him a smile. He had been so pre-occupied with Ruby that he had not noticed her. It was difficult to avoid noticing her.

      Her face, though not classically beautiful, was striking. Her dress, while it did not flaunt canons of decency, advertised what was on offer. It looked as if it was in danger of falling off her broad shoulders, which tapered down to a narrow waist. The milk-white skin on her stately neck and upper torso bodied out into ample breasts that drew furtive glances from even the most puritan of the establishment figures present that evening. This included Robert Shaw, who, after an initial inquisitiveness, averted his gaze. His response was due, less to any sense of propriety, and more to the fact that he had no intention of surrendering his power to this woman.

      As most of the men pounding the floor, or standing around the inner perimeter of the marquee chatting, knew, Dulcie Finnegan did not belong with the Camp clique or the nouveaux riche burghers on the hill. Her association was with the crude and un-self-consciously debauched revellers on the plain, the cosmopolitan riff-raff on Main Road. She was a prostitute.

      The Establishment despised her, not so much because of her origins, her Irishness, or even her profession, but because this provocative brunette evoked in them a lust that they would have much preferred not to have acknowledged. Some, unbeknown to their spouses, had, on evenings when the moon was niggardly, explored their fantasies in her usual place of employment, an upstairs room of the United States Hotel. A cut above fellow professionals, a short distance from the hotel, in Esmond Street, [10] Dulcie offered a discrete service to gentlemen from Ballarat West and surrounding stations, as well as visiting notables. A number in the marquee that evening were anything but strangers. But this was hardly the place to acknowledge an acquaintanceship. Many of the older matrons, without tangible proof of their husbands' infidelities, found it difficult to tolerate her presence in this crowded tent. She didn't belong, and her provocative attire was considered scandalous.

      It was with alacrity, and certainly no degree of reluctance, that Charles Houghton, happy for a respite from his wooing of Ruby Shaw, made his way around the perimeter of the marquee to reach Dulcie.

      There was an obvious affinity between these two. Charles could not afford to confront the pain that lay beneath a practiced urbanity. Dulcie's teasing superficiality was as much a defence against self-denouement as it was a provocative artifice to ensure a steady stream of clients. The self-possession, the deliberate self-control both exercised to keep their masks in place, was fuelled by anger, hatred, self-hatred. Co-conspirators, they acknowledged their affinity.

      "No doubt business has been brisk", Charles volunteered.

      "It has, and I have been drumming up more customers."

      "You are hoping for the fathers as well as the sons!"

      "Sometimes they are better. You young men, for all your fancy talk and enthusiasm, are fumbling amateurs."

      "Is this a challenge?"

      "Why not!" Out of the corner of his eye Charles noticed Timothy coming towards him with Ruby in trail. They were dodging the other dancers, who, in spite of their pre-occupation, moved aside to allow them through.

      "I thought I had better return Ruby to you before the evening was out. The musicians indicated that they would only be playing four more dances."

      When Timothy left, Ruby turned to Charles and whispered, "What a pleasant young man." [11]

      Noticing Dulcie, who had been surveying her with an almost proprietary regard, Ruby continued, "Sorry if I have interrupted you two, I didn't intend . . . "

      "You haven't interrupted us."

      Charles shot a glance at Dulcie. They were comfortable in the other's company. In a strange sort of way they did not need to pretend with each other. They had so cultivated the impressions they wished to convey that they had become their masks. With each other they could relax, they could play their roles, as set pieces, with tongue in cheek. They could spoof themselves without needing to maintain their guard. They were tongue and groove.

      Ruby was oblivious of the current that passed between Dulcie and Charles and missed the knowing smile with which Dulcie answered Charles' glance.

      "Yes, you were telling me how repulsed you were by your first experience of the colony. You never did tell me what happened after you arrived at Prahran."

      "I couldn't believe it!"

      "Believe what?"

      "The sea of tents. The village was a canvas city. Sprinkled between the tents were occasional wooden structures. These were constructed of four walls, but were without roofs. Canvas was draped over the walls to keep the rain out. They were charging high rental for these odd-looking houses."

      Charles motioned for Ruby to pause. He put his hand around her waist and edged into the circle of dancers. It was a waltz, and his right arm reached across her back, his hand settling into the fold in her waist.

      "So what did your father do?"

      "He left us under the shelter of a tree beside a makeshift general store. He set off in search of our former neighbours. We didn't know when he would return, and doubted that his quest would be successful. But he needed to try. Tents were scarce, and we had little money."

      As Charles and Ruby danced to the rhythm of a Strauss waltz, Ruby continued her account. She explained how her father, after asking around, managed to locate their neighbours, who [12] offered to put them up for several weeks while Robert sought work and arranged for accommodation. While her father had received no training as a tradesman, he had, as a small farmer on the outskirts of Dundee, shown himself adept at most trades. He was a natural, and could turn his hand to anything. He soon found employment as a carpenter with a fellow Scot.

      News of opportunities for tradesmen in Ballarat, which was alive with gold fever, enticed Robert with the prospect of advancing his fortunes. He engaged the services of a cartage contractor, with his bullock dray, to transport the family to Ballarat.

      What had once been a favourite Aboriginal camping site, was fast becoming a pockmarked landscape of burrows and tailings, of sapling and canvas, a cosmopolitan cauldron of frenetic humanity. Prospecting in alluvial flats had given way to deep lead mining, which dotted the area east of Ballarat with shafts sometimes over a hundred feet deep and littered it with windlasses, puddling machines, and a range of primitive, if innovative, machinery.

      After trying his hand at prospecting, it soon became obvious to this slow-spoken, but perceptive Scot that more money was to be made in servicing the miners than competing with them. He used his contacts in Prahran to organize the dispatch of spades, picks, adzes, metal dishes, and steel hoops to secure wooden slatted puddling machines. He soon began adding lanterns, canvas, and a range of household goods.

      Being a committed Presbyterian, Shaw shied clear of the sly grog trade, which offered easy money so long as one didn't get caught. He became respected for his integrity and reliability. He went into partnership with several groups of miners, advancing them provisions in anticipation of a lucky strike. He was also interested in local enterprise, in innovative machinery that was being developed in Ballarat to meet local needs. He also furnished financial backing to entrepreneurial tradesmen to allow them to proceed with production of their designs. He backed winners and his judgement was financially rewarded. Sensing the possibilities [13] of a local industrial base, he established a foundry. While embryonic, it was already registering healthy growth.

      Charles listened with increasing attention. When Ruby concluded her narrative, Charles commented, enthusiastically: "It was certainly worth his while coming to Ballarat!"

      After a few moments silence, Charles began again: "And how are you enjoying Ballarat? I understand you shifted into a new home in Sturt Street. It must be a change from the cramped quarters behind your father's ironmongery business on Main Road."

      Before Ruby could reply, a commotion broke out outside the marquee. Urgent voices were demanding to see Commissioner Rede, who, at that moment, was in conversation with Morag Shaw.

      In her late forties, Morag was still a beautiful woman, with an attractive Scottish brogue. "The lucky devil", he thought to himself, as his eyes played over the face of the vivacious redhead, who was Ruby's mother. Morag was beguiling, in spite of her attempt not to be. He also found himself contemplating the conjugal benefits of being married to such a woman.

      A daughter of the manse, Morag had been taught by her mother to restrain a natural inclination to flirtation. However, she had practiced on her father, who, unable to resist her wiles, found himself without the ability to deny her almost anything she asked. The limited size of his purse, and his wife's chastisement, were all that held him back from sheer prodigality.

      Morag had met her match in her husband. Robert's greatest gift to her was his calling her bluff, which her father had been powerless to do. Morag respected the fact that Robert recognised her manipulative strategies and bridled her extravagances. She loved him for it, for his strength, though she would never tell him so.

      Morag found her husband's taciturnity, and economic turn of phrase, disconcerting, particularly when she was in full flight. It frustrated her, but it was also her security. She noticed that the line was considerably looser when she fished other waters, and allowed herself greater liberties. She was not a socialite in the strict sense of the word, but she did enjoy socializing. She was [14] particularly enjoying the effect she was having, in a safe environment, on Commissioner Rede, who was hopelessly tangled in her line.

      Collecting himself, Rede turned his attention to the young police officer who had grabbed his arm to draw his attention. Urgency was written over his face. The officer whispered something in his ear, and Rede accompanied him outside. They were followed by Houghton, and several other of the Commissioner's lieutenants. The men were gone for several minutes before Rede re-emerged, excused himself, and left with Houghton and the other officers who had joined him. As the guests, who were nearest the entrance to the marquee, lifted back the canvas flaps, that served as the doors of the giant tent, and peered into the darkness, they saw Commissioner Rede and his party disappear into the night. The party was led by a disheveled miner carrying a kerosene lantern, and was headed towards Bakery Hill. [15]

 

 

Chapter 2

      The air was heavy with sweaty male odour and the smell of cheap gin and spilt beer at John O'Groats, which was set back from the south-east side of Main Road, between cart tracks that were to become Eureka and Barkly Streets. Tobacco smoke filled the room. It issued from cigarettes that were a measure of the creative dexterity of those from whose mouths they were hanging, and from pipes that drooped like miniature meat-hooks from the heavily bearded faces to which they hung.

      The range of apparel sported by the occupants of this bulging structure was cosmopolitan. While the revellers were predominantly Irish, they had been joined by small clusters of French and German expatriates, several Swedes in their mid-thirties, and a contingent of Americans recently arrived from California. John O'Groats was one of a score of hotels catering for bone-weary diggers celebrating the arrival of the first of January, 1854.

      Mud, brought in on boots that were thick with clay and grit from tailings left weird designs on the rough wooden floor. The mud crunched under-foot as it dried. Situated in the centre of the room was a free-standing metal firebox, which was fed periodically and stoked by the publican and the young women he employed to serve his customers. On this unusually cold summer's evening there was little need to supplement the body heat radiating from the fifty human radiators wedged into the room.

      A raised platform had been constructed on the southern side of the building, flush against the timber wall. The platform supported a piano, on which a balding pianist, in charismatic ecstasy, was thumping his way through an Irish ballad, much to the delight of the majority of his audience. Some joined him, a slurred bar or two behind, while others egged him on, assuring him that he was doing "a bloody good job."

      The scene was a cartoonist's delight. A Falstaffian reveller, standing with a raised half-empty beer glass above his head, had [16] shed his coat. As his shirt worked itself up over his gut, it revealed an expanse of hairy stomach. His trousers were grimly hanging by braces that threatened to slide from his shoulders. His companion had collapsed onto the table and was snoring. Standing immediately behind him was a tall bean of a man with a thick black beard. This bent, human pipe-cleaner stared ahead, mesmerized by the pianist. His eyes were the only visible part of his face.

      The French could be identified by their berets and colourful cravats, and the two Germans by their thick guttural accents. A tall, wiry Swede could be distinguished by his blond hair and blue eyes, which, with middle age creeping on, were looking more hazel than blue. The Irish were alive with memories of distant Erin, evoked by the music and the quantities of liquor they had consumed.

      Not all of the Irish were under the weather. A young Dubliner, recently arrived at the diggings, was seated in a corner with several new-found friends, who had taken the young man under their wing. He restricted himself to two beers for the evening. The second, which he was circulating in his hand, remained over from a round he had shouted his companions. He spent much of the evening judiciously declining the generosity of others and quietly taking in the scene. He surmised that the revelry would combust. It was fuelled by months of hard physical labour, disappointed expectations, claim disputes, and free-flowing alcohol. As the night wore on, he became increasingly convinced that it would.

      Sean O'Donnell, defying the Irish stereotype, was quiet and reflective. There was a gentleness about him, a rare capacity for self-control. A disciplined athleticism, scarcely visible to the casual observer, was hidden beneath the thick clothing he wore on the diggings and the quietly-spoken way in which he engaged others in conversation. Though he was only nineteen, and untested by the rigours of the demanding occupation to which he had recently been introduced, veterans couldn't help commenting on his self-possession. This was part of his un-self-conscious charm, which [17] was reflected in the incongruous and beguiling combination of dark hair and hazel eyes.

      Sean could not help noticing that the air was heavy with the energy of engorged male sexuality.

      Few on the diggings, except perhaps the Catholic priest, Father Downing, had voluntarily committed themselves to celibacy. The fact that there were few women present in the early days--and most of these were wives--meant that men were denied feminine company and sexual release. Some accepted this situation as a short-term necessity. Others, in their loneliness and frustration, became addicted to sly grog that was readily available from surreptitious vendors. A few turned to other men. Others channelled their testosterone-driven energies into aggression. While the merchants, wealthier miners, and the growing community of Ballarat West were able to afford to build substantial homes in which they could settle their wives and families, the gophers working the diggings, in the hope of making fast fortunes, remained a largely masculine community.

      Ladies from Esmond Street offered a welcome service for those willing to pay the fee. Half a dozen were present in the John O'Groats on this New Year's eve, as conspicuous to those still sober as nuggets of torn meat in a dish of fried rice. Even in the dim light of the niggardly-spaced candle clusters and lanterns, it was obvious that few were attractive, and most were well-weathered. The ravages of time showed beneath thick cosmetic disguises that had been applied with an almost childish abandon. But they were women, and the evolutionary alchemy worked its magic on the appetites of men with desperate thirsts, who were already planning to shell out, without demur, the necessary asking price.

      One of the women, somewhat younger than the others, appeared reluctant to work the crowd, to drum up custom, to tease interest into the certainty of an engagement. She was hesitant, and held back. She was unpracticed, even repulsed by what she felt her situation demanded of her. She did not display the callused abandon of those who had shredded their sensitivities, anaesthetized their feelings, and bridled their anger in the interests [18] of survival. She had not yet pushed through that barrier. This was a practice run for her.

      One of the other women, fair and fleshy, with an obvious maternal interest in the young woman, distracted the attention of her current paramour and shot her a glance, whose undisguised message was: "Get on with it, love."

      The hesitancy of the young woman was due to the fact that she was revolted, not only by what was required of her, but by the ambience of the establishment, the drunkenness, the ribaldry, the phallic oppression. She wanted to run away. She was no wench, and the atmosphere was foreign.

      Edith Clapham had been brought up in Sydney. Her father had been foreman in a soap and candle factory. The family was regarded as upper echelon within the trade. But her father had died. Her mother, to remove Edith from the influence of a tenacious currency lad who was pursuing her with unusual vigour, and whose motives her mother suspected, packed her off to Melbourne to spend a year with an uncle, her father's brother, and his family.

      While Edith was reluctant to leave Sydney, and the attentions of the young man, she consented to the year's absence, recognising that the experience would broaden her sights and allow her to deepen her relationship with her cousins: an older boy and his two younger sisters. For the first six months she could not have been happier. She enjoyed the new social life to which she was introduced, in, albeit, more primitive surroundings.

      Early one evening her world was thrown into disarray and her spirit into despair. When her aunt and cousins were out visiting, she was approached by her uncle, who began groping her. Recovering from the shock, which paralyzed her for an instant, she tried to push him away. But he was too strong and forced her onto the bed, spreading her legs with his knees. When he finally withdrew, threatening her with dire consequences if she said anything to anyone, she rushed to the basin by the bed and grabbed a washer and tried, hysterically, to scrub the contamination from her body and her clothes. Sobbing [19] convulsively, she ran into the street, wandering around for hours in a daze.

      It was in a back street in Carlton that Maggie Fitzsimmons found her. Maggie offered the convulsed youngster the shelter of a room in a back-street boarding house that she called home, and to which she retreated each morning at dawn. Maggie was kind-hearted, and unable to resist strays and waifs, probably because she recognised herself in them. Maggie bedded Edith down in her sparse room, and, after a brief vigil, fell asleep in a chair.

      Maggie woke mid-morning before Edith stirred, and prepared breakfast for the two of them. She was unable to persuade Edith to return to her uncle and aunt, and the young girl felt too ashamed to make contact with her mother. As the weeks passed, Edith thought about writing, but each time drew back. Who would believe her? She knew her auntie and mother would be frantic, but was also aware that stories would be put around about her by her uncle, whose threats resounded in her ears.

      Edith soon realised she would need to find employment. Ever so gradually, she edged nearer to accepting the suggestion made to her by Maggie, that she take up the older woman's profession. Maggie would take her on as an apprentice. The older woman lined up what she felt to be appropriate customers and arranged details. Edith was initially repulsed by the sordid nature of the transactions, as well as by what was expected of her. But her body had already been violated, and, little by little, the reluctance and the distaste moderated, and she found she could cope by severing her body from her soul.

      Edith had not been with Maggie long when her mentor, and many of her friends, decided that Ballarat offered greater opportunities than Melbourne. The shift to Ballarat was critical for Edith. It coincided with a dramatic development. Maggie indicated that Edith would need to begin drumming up her own clients. The bird was to be thrown out of the nest. The awkwardness of this evening in the John O'Groats indicated the difficulty she was experiencing. [20]

      In retrospect, Edith need not have worried. She represented a choice morsel for the robust, half-starved carnivores crowded into the room.

      A young German made his move. With Teutonic determination, he pushed himself from the wall, against which he had been leaning while talking in increasingly laboured conversation with a compatriot, who was at a similar stage of inebriation. He headed in Edith's direction. Managing to negotiate his way around the edge of a table that barred access to the young women, he came up behind her. She was startled by the hand that suddenly gripped her shoulder.

      "Come with me", he belched in her ear.

      His words would have melted into the conversational static that had risen in volume as the night proceeded and the alcohol dissolved the remaining layers of inhibition, had he not been overheard by Sean O'Donnell.

      Sean was straddling the end of an adjacent bench, with his left arm resting on the table on which he had set his half-empty glass. He absent-mindedly observed the dexterous playing of the middle-aged pianist, while occasionally allowing himself a furtive glance in the direction of the attractive young woman, who, just at that moment, appeared to be gripping, desperately, the edge of the table in front of her. His eye caught sight of the drunken German. He saw his hand grab hold of the girl's shoulder and wrench it back so that she was forced to look at him. He correctly judged the significance of the words, in spite of the slurred gutturals. Responding to the undisguised terror that filled the girl's eyes, he jumped up from his seat, grasping the young man from behind by the shoulders, and began pulling him away.

      "Leave her alone."

      The German, stocky and well-built, but disadvantaged by his state of inebriation, rounded on Sean, swinging at him with his right hand. The punch lost momentum as it neared its target, as if it had given up. The German, who had thrown himself off balance by the vigour of his assault, fell onto the table in front of him.

      This brief fracas was all that was needed to ignite the primed atmosphere in the room. The German was joined by his [21] compatriot, and Sean by one of his Irish friends. It was not long before the hotel dissolved into chaos. While the pianist, with one eye over his shoulder, continued to play on, the room broke up into shifting centres of aggressive volatility. Punches were thrown, beer glasses hurled, and insults traded.

      The publican, realising that he could not restrain the mayhem, withdrew to the safety of the kitchen, after shepherding most of the women into this temporary retreat. Several of the latter happily participated in the exchange, using their bags and whatever missiles they could lay their hands on. They enjoyed the rough and tumble, and were happy with the opportunity to settle old scores.

      With the near exhaustion of the reservoir of accumulated frustration fuelling the explosion, the weary attention of the bruised and bloodied protagonists turned to a shouting match between the two Germans and the handful of Irish whose altercation had lit the fuse. The Germans were accusing the Irish of shepherding claims to prevent them from occupying the best land on the frontier of the Eureka Lead. The Irish retorted that the Germans were intruding into the area of their claim, and that their lack of result was due to their ignorance of Australian conditions and to their unorthodox methods. The dispute had been simmering for weeks. Bad blood had turned septic.

      Without actually deciding to do so, the vocal tag teams, locked into continuing altercation, were moving closer to the door. Their continuing dispute over claim boundaries, like a gravitational nucleus, kept the two clusters of electrons whirling in different orbits around its centre. It piloted them out through the door, dragging them in the direction of the land under dispute. The hotel emptied of all except the pianist, who, by this stage, had surrendered the initiative, left his piano, and was peering through the door into the darkness. He turned, retraced his steps, grabbed a half-empty beer bottle by the neck, and emptied its contents in an uninterrupted stream into his upturned throat.

      It was not completely dark outside. A half-moon powdered the surreal landscape of densely packed wooden and canvas [22] shops, tents and windsocks that the exhausted revellers left behind as they made their way up the hill towards the Eureka Lead.

      Some were steadier on their feet than others. The sound of celebration, punctuated by loud, drunken voices, followed them, gradually diminishing the further they stumbled from the town.

      The motley assemblage passed a young Aborigine, whom they recognised as being in the employ of the constabulary. Neither party made contact as they passed silently in the night.

      The trek was not without its casualties. One of the Irish, a man in his fifties, whose corpulence reflected less on his eating and more on his drinking habits, tripped on a shovel in the darkness and fell head-first into a clay depression that a recent storm had filled with water. The women, who were not to be denied a ring seat in the next round, kept complaining that their shoes and skirts were being ruined.

      Eventually they reached the disputed territory.

      The younger German, who, by this stage, as a consequence of the cool evening air and the exertion, had begun to recover an element of sobriety, suddenly exclaimed: "Someone has shifted the peg!" At that point he caught sight of Sean, several feet away. His hatred of the young man, who had embarrassed him, erupted, and he swung a blow that collected the Irishman on the jaw, knocking him to the ground. Gloating over his success, the German drew back his boot to deliver a kick to the back of his prostrate victim.

      Suddenly, out of nowhere, the tall, wiry Swede emerged from the crowd and felled the German with a single blow. The German's mouth twisted into a groan where he had been hit.

      Alarmed by what had happened to his companion, and fearing that he would be the next casualty, the other German bolted from the crowd and ran, stumbling down the hill in the direction of the camp. His directional aid was the light illuminating the marquee.

      By the time Commissioner Rede and his posse of lieutenants arrived, having detoured via Bakery Hill, where their horses had been tethered, the German was sitting up, his jaw swollen, and his hair matted with clay. His companion, having returned with the law, was babbling away incoherently in his native tongue. [23]

      The commissioner was judiciously taking in the scene in order to form his own opinion. Less circumspect, Charles Houghton, exuding a confident self-importance, walked over to where Sean was standing nursing his chin. He grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. From what he had understood of what the German had said, this was the young man whose actions had triggered the incident.

      "So this is the troublemaker?" he began, looking around him, as if appealing to an audience. Staring directly into Sean's face, he inquired menacingly, "What do you think you are doing?"

      "Let's wait a minute", interposed Rede, separating the two men, "English justice does not condemn a man before he is tried. Let us try to sort out the facts before we lay accusations."

      Instantly a gaggle of voices began jabbering. The effect of the alcohol had not entirely worn off, and the commissioner had difficulty establishing an exact sequence of events. Behind him, Charles, having lost face, shot a glance at Sean, his eyes burning with anger. This anger was fuelled by embarrassment at having been put in his place by the commissioner before these half-drunken scum, and because a sixth sense told him, as he looked more closely at the young man he had been on the point of arresting, that the man's good looks and silent depths portended future conflict. He could not fully fathom this prognostication, but it haunted him, nevertheless.

      Finally deciding that the principal offenders were the Swede and the wounded German, and wishing to calm and disperse the crowd, Rede asked the two men for their licences. As neither could produce them on the spot, which he anticipated, he asked several of his subordinates to accompany them back to the police cells. An evening behind bars would sober them.

      Throughout the commotion the Swede stood silently at the centre of the crowd, behind Sean. When one of the commissioner's officers moved forward to arrest the Swede, Sean, unable to hold back, was about to explain that it was him, rather than the Swede, they should be arresting. Before he could get a word out he felt a vice-like hand close over his mouth. [24]

      Sean's eyes turned slowly and painfully around, tracing the arm belonging to the hand that held his mouth shut. Looking into the eyes of the Swede, and feeling the hand release its grip, he was riveted by the whispered comment from the silent sentinel, "Hush, Lad!"

      As the assigned deputy led the Swede away, the tall, taciturn captive looked back in Sean's direction, a wry smile shaping itself into the curve of his mouth.

      The mob, sobered by the turn of events, was momentarily lost in a moment of eerie calm. As the silence dissolved, repressed emotions emerged. Faces began crinkling into paroxysms of delight. Feet began stamping the ground. The delighted Irish began whooping!

      Eventually the crowd began to disperse. The Esmond Street professionals steered customers, who now had more to celebrate, to the dingy rooms where they would be relieved of their tension, as well as their change. Finally, three bodies remained, looking out over the city. In a tentative gesture, Edith reached out and touched Sean's arm. She quickly withdrew it. He looked up at her and their eyes met for an instant.

      Maggie slipped her arm inside Edith's, commenting, "It is time we were going home."

      Sean remained alone beside the disputed claim marker, lost in his thoughts. Eventually the pain in his jaw, and the chill wind that had sprung up brought him back to the present. He made his way to the tent he shared with two companions.

      In a room in the United States Hotel, recovering from the assault on his pride, Charles Houghton lay on his back in the comfort of Dulcie Finnegan's bed, exhausted after having made love to this consummate professional. She lay in the crook of his arm, looking up at the ceiling, fighting the inevitable drift into a near-narcotic sleep. [25]

 

 

Chapter 3

      Sven Lungren, his back against the rough, slated timber of the cell wall, was musing on the events of the previous evening. His right leg was stretched out before him on the compacted earth. His left leg was drawn up into a platform on which to rest his left elbow. The air was warmer than it had been the previous day. Summer had re-awoken to its seasonal obligation.

      The itinerant prospector was far from the scalloped fjords of his native land. On this pleasant Sunday morning Sweden was an infinity away. Memories played with the muscles of his face. His mother, his beautiful sister, the toast of Sundsvall, were receding visions, as distant, almost, as the father who had died when he was 16.

      Sven looked up, gazing at the still prostrate form of the young German, who was giving every indication that he was about to awaken. The Swede could not help feeling a paternal interest in the youth, in spite of the latter's drunken behaviour the previous evening. A bruise was beginning to appear in place of the swelling on his right cheek, which had lost some of its anger during the evening.

      The young man stirred, opening his eyes, which were looking directly into the sunlight slanting into the room through a gap between the door and the floor. He rolled onto his back to escape the glare, and gradually focused his vision. His back was suffering the effects of his having lain all night on the hard earth. His eyes began a reconnaissance of the area. Suddenly, he caught sight of the amused Sven, framed between his shoe and the corner of the room.

      "Good morning, young man."

      Fleeting recollections of the previous evening began patching themselves together. He knew he had too much to drink. His head, which was throbbing at a gentle rate of knots, told him so. He lifted himself on one arm, and made an effort to focus on the Swede. The concentration made his eyes appear to stand out from his face, as if they were embracing the unbelievable. [26]

      The frames began to organize themselves into sequence: the hotel, the women, the melee, the claim marker, then the sudden darkness. This was the man who had knocked him out. Anger, remorse, and fear fought for control of his bruised frame.

      "Tell me about yourself?" the Swede asked. While the German was composing himself, his fellow inmate continued, "But before you do, I'm Sven."

      "Günther", the younger man responded, thrusting a hand in the direction of his Nemesis, "Günther Schneider"! The fleeting thought of getting even, an instinctive response carried over from the previous night, dissolved. He was in no condition to fight, and the other man was taller and stronger than he. Besides, there was no belligerence in the Swede's voice, only an amused friendliness.

      "Sorry about last night, Günther. You didn't leave me much choice. You threw back too many steins. You were rude to the young woman. You acted like an oaf."

      Günther was about to respond with an indignant retort, but checked himself. He quickly replayed the scene, viewing it this time from the point of view of those who had observed his behaviour. The way he had been brought up as a youngster, and the greater clarity that came from sobriety, convinced him that he had over-reached himself.

      "I guess I was out of order. I don't find it easy to hold my liquor."

      Sven, musing to himself and brushing a twig across the dirt floor, commented, "Young master Günther, there is one lesson you have not yet learned."

      "And what's that?"

      The older man began poking the stick in the ground. After a moment he answered, "The young woman, whose favours you were demanding."

      "Yes?"

      A new eagerness spread over Günther's face. Sven continued:

      "Those who know would advise you that, while alcohol increases desire, it also decreases performance." [27]

      Günther paused to weigh up the comment. His response, beginning as a stirring in his belly, welled up into a smile that he could not contain. It escaped into an irrepressible guffaw.

      "I'll have to remember that", he responded, when he composed himself.

      "Tell me a little more about yourself?" Sven urged.

      Günther's attitude to the Swede was beginning to soften. There was a friendliness about Sven that was disarming, and a self-confident strength that did not need to prove itself. It was difficult to dislike him or to resist his invitation to intimacy, the sort of understated intimacy to which men respond.

      "I was born in Bavaria."

      "A Catholic?"

      "Yes."

      "Then you shouldn't be fighting with the Irish, you have the same Pope!"

      Günther chuckled. He was Catholic, but he had not been inside a church for years. He thought of his family, of the parish priests he had known as a youngster, the magnificent interior of the church in Erlangen where the family worshipped. He was about to explain that he had lost touch with his religious roots when the sound of voices, and the scuffing of boots on the hardened soil outside the cell, broke in upon their ambling conversation.

      They listened as a key was inserted in the padlock. A click was followed by the sound of grating metal as the device was removed. The door swung inwards. As their eyes adjusted to the increased glare they discerned the outline of three figures. Because the faces were in shadow, it took several seconds to recognise their visitors.

      Nearest them was the constable to whom they had been handed over the previous evening. His weariness was reflected in an involuntary yawn, which he made no attempt to disguise. The night had been long, and he was soon to be relieved. The other two figures were more of a surprise. Behind the policeman, and to his left, was Sean O'Donnell. In spite of the fact that his face was shadowed, it was evident that he was wrestling with a smile that [28] was trying desperately to escape his control. Following up the rear was Father Downing, wearing a kaleidoscopic expression that shifted between determined resolve, concern, and relief.

      Downing's voice, issuing from the rear of the group, exploded into the enigmatic silence.

      "I see you lads survived the evening."

      It was friendly fire. Günther and Sven relaxed visibly.

      "You're free to go", announced the constable, happy to be rid of his charges.

      The Swede used the strength in his legs to push himself to a standing position. He straightened his shoulders, and then flexed his joints to free them up. Günther, who was laying on his side, with his head and torso raised and supported by the elbow of his right arm, flopped back on his back, rolled onto his front, and pushed himself to a crawling position. He then sat back on his haunches from where he almost bounced onto his feet. He winced at the thick, numbing pain in his head, which was increased by this rapid movement. The previous evening's bierfest, together with the ensuing drama, were taking their revenge.

      The weary constable took his leave. Sean, uncertain about how he should respond to Günther, offered a faint nod of recognition, and walked past him to grasp the Swede by both hands, which he squeezed, before dropping his arms to his sides.

      Sven, motioning in the direction of the German, broke the silence with: "Sean, I would like you to meet my new friend, Günther."

      The Irishman slowly swivelled round to face the young man, who, the previous evening, had knocked him to the ground and been on the point of sinking his boot into his back. He remained involuntarily silent, as his mind attempted to come to terms with this strange realignment of relationships.

      Before he could answer, Father Downing cut in.

      "It's forgiveness we're called to, whatever the injury. I know it's a bugger, lad, but it's the word of the good Lord."

      Sean looked at the priest, and then back at Günther. He noticed a hint of what could be mistaken for softness, perhaps even a suggestion of remorse, in the German's expression. The stern [29] Teutonic control remained in place, but something was different. The change was scarcely perceptible, but it was there.

      Sven, intruding into the embarrassing silence, broke in with--"I am sure you two will have much to talk about, but not now. Now is not the time."

      "You can both do with a decent meal", chimed in Father Downing, "Why are we wasting time here. You will want to get back to your tents. You should hear some of the stories being put around. You three have become famous."

      The four men walked out into the sunlight. Passing in front of the camp buildings, they headed towards Sturt Street, the broad, rutted thoroughfare that divided Ballarat West into northern and southern segments.

      When they reached Sturt Street, the principal artery linking the cities of Melbourne and Adelaide, Father Downing retrieved his horse. It was tethered to a post that was supporting the awning of one of the many shopfronts that were appearing like mushrooms at the eastern end of the thoroughfare.

      Placing his left foot in the stirrup, he hoisted his body off the ground, and threw his right leg over the horse's back, quickly securing his right foot in the second stirrup.

      "I must be off", he offered, playing gently and almost absentmindedly with the horse's mane, "I am wanted at Clunes. A baby's due and I have been summoned. The doctor's indicated that the birth may be difficult. The family has asked if I would come. They seem to be expecting the worst."

      "Thank you for your help", Sean offered.

      "Think nothing of it", the priest replied, as he urged the horse forward. As his equine companion broke into a canter, Downing turned and shot back, his voice raised, "And don't you lads get into any more trouble while I'm away."

      The three men laughed, looking sheepishly at each other.

      They watched as the priest turned into a side street and was suddenly hidden from view.

      Sean turned to the others and commented: "He paid licence fees for you both." [30]

      His two companions were stunned. They had difficulty adjusting to the news. Contradictory emotions struggled for dominance.

      Günther, like other of his compatriots, felt swamped, and, on occasions, intimidated by the large community of articulate and energetic Irish on the diggings. He was having to come to terms with the fact that their priest had paid for a license for him, and after he had physically attacked one of his parishioners. Günther's gratitude, twisting itself around a vigorous thread of incomprehension, was at loggerheads with his awareness that the act was unnecessary. He possessed a license, though he had not been able to produce it the previous evening.

      Sven, who could not help but admire the priest's compassionate interest in his welfare, was nevertheless angry at the action that had been taken. His failure to take out a license had been a protest against what he felt was the inequity of the fee. It was an exorbitant tax on many who could ill afford it. Deep Lead mining was a chancy business that often yielded little or no result. Dividends were never certain. Furthermore, it was a form of taxation that made no provision for those bearing the tax to be represented in the colony's governing council. Sven rarely betrayed emotion, but, on this occasion, the kindly action of Father Downing, whom he knew to be equally opposed to the iniquitous tax, evoked an inner rage. It appeared to compromise Sven's silent, but resolute stand against the system and the abuses it fostered--the license hunts, incarcerations, and occasional brutality.

      The three fell into discussion as they sought to unravel their reactions. Sean was somewhat taken back by the strength of Günther and Sven's responses, but not altogether surprised by them. The conversation became so animated that the three companions were unaware of an approaching gig.

      When the crunch of the wheels on the road, and the groaning of the springs supporting the cabin finally caught their attention, the diggers looked up into the faces of the Reverend Mr. and Mrs. Hastie.

      Hastie and his wife were living in the Presbyterian manse at Buninyong. It had been built, along with a school, when [31] Buninyong was awash with diggers, and before gold was found in the environs of Ballarat. The diggers moved on, but elements of the settlement remained.

      While enjoying a reputation as a personable cleric, Hastie was uncomfortable with the informality of the impermanent canvas and wooden buildings that served as churches on the diggings. He needed the security of physical and ritual structure, and was inwardly distressed by the lack of either. During the period that Ballarat was developing as a mining settlement, he conducted services at the government Camp.

      On this particular morning he had conducted a brief service at a tent on the Eureka Lead that had been erected as a temporary Presbyterian chapel. The service was designed to encourage the faithful to confess errors of the previous year and to thank the Lord for the opportunity the New Year afforded of praising and worshipping, free from the taint of past failure.

      Hastie had been discomfited by the irregularities of the service in the canvas structure. In reviewing the past, in his sermon, he had allowed his prodigal mind to detach itself from the words that were coming from his mouth, and to entertain memories of a previous charge in Melbourne, where he had ministered to well-to-do burghers in an established suburb. His tension was still obvious--reflected in the manner in which he was gripping the reigns--when the gig, on this sunny mid-morning, struggled up the eastern end of Sturt Street.

      Catching sight of the three men, two of them dishevelled, Hastie concluded that these were the renegades he had heard about in the excited chatter following this morning's service. His suspicion was confirmed by the presence of the tall Swede, who had gained the reputation of being an opponent of the faith.

      It wasn't so much that Sven expressed vocal opposition to the Christian story. It was rather that, in his quiet and reflective way, he grounded the objections of others in reasoned argument and life experience. The Swede was deeply spiritual, but was unwilling to countenance the specious logic, or fantastic claims of over-zealous clerics and their lay lieutenants. So far as Hastie was [32] concerned, Sven was more dangerous than those who openly scoffed at the Church and its gospel.

      The three men were scarcely out of earshot before Hastie turned to his wife and shouted, above the noise of the gig, "Did you notice those three men. I am sure one of them was Lungren. One looked German, and the other was undeniably Irish. Troublemakers. Ballarat could well do without them. The godless consorting with the feckless Irish, the foot-soldiers of the Mother of Harlots!"

      Anne Hastie had noticed the three men, if only briefly. While she had arrived at the same conclusion as her husband, with respect to the identity of the men, she did not agree with his conclusions. But she knew her husband, and had long ago concluded that it was best not to contradict him when he was in full flight. She had heard about the Swede, and had met him on several occasions. He had a strength that she secretly admired, and to which she felt drawn. The young Irishman she found alluringly handsome. Keeping her thoughts to herself, she replied with a bland, "You could be right."

      Hastie's mind was still agitated by irregularities in the morning's service, and by regret at having forfeited an established Melbourne parish. He also sensed the threat to his personal security posed by the cosmopolitan community of the diggings, epitomized by the three men they had just encountered.

      Up ahead of the Hasties were several native police, shepherding a group of their Aboriginal brothers in the direction of the settlement, on the southern borders of the city, to which they had been relegated with the growth of the white community. Preoccupied, and hardly noticing them, Thomas turned to his wife, and commented, "The Irish and the godless will swamp us. They 'll take the country over from honest, god-fearing Protestants if we are not vigilant. It will be God's judgement on us!"

      When Hastie and his wife arrived at the Shaw's Sturt Street home, Robert was on the front lawn talking to his daughter. Father and daughter, spying their visitors, ceased their conversation, as etiquette required, and approached the gig, which had come to a halt. The horse, rearranging the bit in its mouth, was showing [33] evidence of exhaustion. Robert helped Thomas and Ann from the carriage.

      "I can't but admire your new home, Robert", Hastie began, obviously delighted in the change of setting, and gratified at having one of the richest, most admired men in Ballarat as one of his elders. The house was two-storied and attractively gabled.

      "Most of the bricks came from Melbourne, though some were made locally", Robert volunteered, "We have much work still to do on the garden, but we are making progress."

      While they were talking, Morag Shaw appeared at the front door, and warmly welcomed the minister and his wife. She ushered them into the panelled hallway.

      Robert and Ruby, having been momentarily relieved of responsibility for their visitors, resumed their earlier conversation.

      "But Father, the miners are rough. Charles told me that some of them are vicious."

      "Most of the men, Ruby, are honest and hardworking. Some are god-fearing, as you are aware from those who were at the service this morning. They don't look for trouble. They mostly have it imposed on them. As you know, from the occasions you helped me in the shop, few of them default on their debts. We may need to wait for some time to be paid, but they have their own struggles. Their income is anything but regular or predictable."

      "But Charles said. . . ."

      Ruby's protest faded as father and daughter entered the cavernous interior of their new home.

      At that same moment, Sven, Günther and Sean arrived back at their campsites at the disputed edge of the Eureka Lead. Looking back across the track they had taken, in the direction of Main Road, they noticed a group of Chinese, obviously returning to Golden Point after picking over tailings from previous mining activity. Their queues, when they needed to vault a rut, bounced on their shoulders. For most of the time they hung down, undisturbed, beneath the large bamboo hats that shielded them from the sun. On poles, over their shoulders, they carried their sluicing dishes, personal effects, and water containers. [34]

 

 

Chapter 4

      Ruby woke early. She had been looking forward to this day for what seemed an eternity.

      Late in January, Charles Houghton suggested to Ruby that she and her family consider being his guests at a picnic at Lake Burrumbeet, organised jointly by the Gold Commissioner and Police Inspector, and planned for mid-March. The picnic would follow a horse race in which young officers from the Commission and Inspectorate could pit their skills against each other. Rivalry, and occasionally resentment and ill-feeling between the two instrumentalities were allowed expression in this contest of skills. The first race had been held two years previously. It was an instant success. It had also drained off accumulated tensions. This yearly catharsis, even in so short a time, had become a significant social fixture.

      Houghton was odds-on favourite. He made no attempt to feign humility. It would have been out of character. Instead, he basked in the adulation his pre-race status evoked among his peers and the innocent young women who fancied their chances of ensnaring him in a matrimonial net.

      Morag, who was perceptive enough to identify in herself an attraction for the young man, was delighted that he appeared to be looking favourably upon Ruby. She was also excited about the fact that the family had been invited to the picnic. This was one of the few social events in the community from which she had previously been excluded, from lack of invitation. When she excitedly explained to her husband that young Charles Houghton was showing renewed interest in Ruby, and that he had invited the family to be his guests at the picnic, she was unprepared for her husband's unenthusiastic response. In fact, the more she pushed him on the issue, the more it became obvious to her that he was uncomfortable with the prospect of spending the best part of a Saturday as the guest of Charles Houghton.

      "What do we know about him?" Robert urged. [35]

      "Robert, the young man has obvious breeding. He handles himself with assurance. He has a good position in the Commission, and his seniors think favourably of him. Rede told me as much. They are considering him for further promotion."

      "Appearances can lie, and people can be fooled. What do we really know about the man, about his background?"

      "What am I going to do with you?" Morag muttered to herself, aware of the impossibility of battering down a brick wall, "You're impossible."

      "Impossible?"

      "Yes, you seem to have a set against the young man. Don't you remember when you were young?"

      Morag became more agitated as she proceeded. She knew what was happening to her, but couldn't help herself. Habituated ritual played itself out whenever her husband's stubbornness frustrated her enthusiasm. She turned away from him, and stormed out of the bedroom in tears.

      Negotiation, which followed such episodes, and in which each gave a little, resulted, in this case, in the decision to attend the picnic. Robert, however, refused to surrender his suspicions about Charles, though he promised not to inflict them on Ruby. He had no intention of prematurely arresting his daughter's emergence as a young woman by prejudicing her view of men. He was aware, however, that there were young men whose intentions were far from honourable. It was preferable that his daughter avoid these bounders.

      Ruby had been protected. Her innocence made her vulnerable. Like a budded flower, about to open to the sun, she would, in the ordinary process of maturing, find herself increasingly exposed to wind gusts, the devastation of parasitic insects, and bacterial infections. This exposure was inevitable and necessary. What needed to be prepared for, however, were more serious blights that could be obviated if appropriate precautions were taken.

      Robert found himself needing to sustain the impossible tension between encouraging Ruby's development and protecting her, as best he could, from unnecessary harm. This task was [36] particularly difficult during this period when his beautiful and warm-hearted daughter was emerging from her protected childhood.

      Robert respected Ruby's judgement on most issues, but, as far as matters of the heart were concerned, her trusting nature, and inexperience attracted the unscrupulous. In time she would become more discerning. In the interim, he would need to safeguard her as best he could from obvious pitfalls. He would need to do this indirectly, so as not to inhibit Ruby's development. He was also anxious to avoid antagonizing Morag, which not only threatened their domestic equilibrium, but also proved self-defeating. It catapulted his wife into the role of defence attorney for the accused.

      Ruby was unaware of the altercation between her parents that the invitation created, although she was vaguely conscious of a general lack of agreement over the most appropriate means of promoting her development. A low level of tension between her parents over this issue persisted, and intensified with the arrival of first light on the day scheduled for the picnic.

      Ruby was wakened by the sun as its shafted rays, filtering through filmy curtains, threw a gently moving pattern onto the regency wallpaper that decorated the west wall of her capacious bedroom. The previous evening she had left open the bedroom window that overlooked Sturt Street. The hint of a breeze was playing with the curtains, and chilling the air just sufficiently, on this mild, mid-March morning, to entice her to remain under the bedclothes until she was awake enough to consider her next move. As she lay back on the pillows, sunk in the mattress, and with the eiderdown preserving her body heat, she found it difficult to believe that the moment had finally arrived. Contrary to her father's expectations, it appeared that the day would be fine. Ballarat weather had a reputation for being unpredictable and changeable, but at this moment the indications were encouraging. Ruby threw back the bedclothes and advanced towards the window. No longer insulated from the morning breeze, she folded her arms across her chemise in an involuntary attempt to protect herself from the chill. She recognised instantly that this manoeuvre [37] was inadequate, and reached for a gown draped over an ornately carved chaise-lounge placed against the west wall. With the gown wrapped round her, she approached the window, and pushed it shut. She looked up to discover that there was not a cloud in the sky. Her prayer had been answered.

      She noticed several tradesmen on the street below, their carts laden with tools, making their way to work. The horses, faithful nags rather than flighty thoroughbreds, were exhibiting none of their usual reluctance. They were delightedly welcoming brother Sun after several days of drizzle, In the house next door, a young kitchen hand was splitting timber. In a nearby mansion several domestics, straightening their lace blouses, disappeared into the kitchen. The city was waking up.

      Ruby found it difficult to sleep the previous evening. She was too excited. Her body was over-energied. The more she tried to sleep the more awake she felt. She had finally fallen asleep around three in the morning.

      Ruby was in love. In the several months since the ball, Charles had courted her. Sensing her father's lack of enthusiasm, he pursued her surreptitiously. On occasions when he was in her company, he planted baits--compliments, teasing, mildly flirtatious asides. The strategy worked. Ruby was not experienced enough to suspect his motives. The uncharacteristic caution he exercised reflected his estimation of the coveted prize, a share in her father's wealth. He was aware that he did not need to win over her mother. He had taken Morag's measure, and played the game that he knew would entice her interest, and secure her support. Robert was a different proposition. He could not be seduced in the same way, and he was certainly no fool. Charles had not yet worked out how to bring him round. The invitation to the picnic was an appetizer, but he was not sure that it would win him favour. Nevertheless, whatever her father's reaction, he would enjoy the effect the display of his horsemanship would have on Ruby and her mother. If he didn't gain ground, he wouldn't lose any.

      The race was to start at 10:00am. Contestants, three representing the Commission and three the Inspectorate, would [38] race their mounts from a large clearing, several miles west of the township, to a nominated location on the shore of Lake Burrumbeet. The young men knew the route. They had travelled it in practice runs over the past fortnight.

      Handlers, supporters, and guests would congregate, mostly at the starting or finishing points. A handful intended to position themselves at various locations along the route.

      The Shaws planned to be at the finishing line. Ruby was convinced, as was most of Ballarat, that Charles would win, and she wanted to enjoy the thrill of being present when he came pounding through the final thicket.

      The Shaws decided to leave at 8: 30am to reach Lake Burrumbeet in plenty of time. The groom, who had risen early to prepare the phaeton and to harness the horses, brought the carriage from the stables, at the rear of the house, to its boarding position in the centre of the curved drive at the front of the main building. The maid carried the hampers from the kitchen and handed them to the groom, who loaded them into boxes at the rear of the carriage.

      Morag was the first of the Shaws to emerge through the front door. She had looked forward to this day with hardly less expectation than her daughter. It was not that she needed to be seen in the right places. She enjoyed company, and was fascinated by the diverse social tapestry of Ballarat. She was also aware that her husband was highly respected in government and commercial circles, and that other women, among them those who wanted to be regarded as important, coveted opportunities to be seen with her. Furthermore, she was frequently enough flattered by compliments about her beauty to be convinced that men still found her attractive. This was reinforced by an intuitive knowledge of the impact she had on certain men. Her flirtations, however, were confined to safe environments, and moderated by an inner discipline that enabled her to change course when it became obvious that the reaction she evoked was too passionate. Her behaviour was, after all, richly illustrative of the ebb and flow of spiced conviviality that alleviated the drabness of ordinary existence, and oiled the mechanisms of social life. [39]

      Morag was followed, several minutes later, by Ruby, who spent the extra time in front of her bedroom mirror, making final adjustments to her dress. It had been difficult to decide what to wear. She wanted to look her best, alluring in a demure sort of way, but was also aware that she would benefit from clothing that allowed her to take advantage of the freedom of the outdoors. She finally decided on a purple bodice, black skirt, and a white ruffled blouse. Her feet were securely encased in black, patent leather boots. She brushed an errant curl from her forehead and pushed it under a dark, broad-brimmed felt hat before placing her left foot on the running-board. She accepted the offer of a hand that emerged from the carriage, and was helped up and through the door.

      One could easily conclude that Robert Shaw, who was last out of the house, was less than enthusiastic about the day's outing. His tardiness, however, at least in-as-far as he understood himself, was due less to his suspicion of the motives of the young man courting his daughter, and more to his concern to ensure the party was adequately prepared for a downpour. He approached the carriage with a fist-full of brollies in the one arm, and a collection of coats in the other.

      "Forever the eternal pessimist", complained his wife, while raising her eyes and looking directly at their daughter. Ruby, who was fond of her father, in spite of his foibles, responded to her mother with a scarcely discernible echo of the latter's gesture, thus denying Morag the pleasure of deeper collusion.

      "There is no harm in being prepared. Better to be prepared than to be sorry, or to spend a week sniffling away your woes in bed, dosed up with snake oil", Robert retorted before climbing aboard.

      The day was getting off to a good start!

      The groom changed roles and mounted the buck-board. He shook the reins, flicked the whip and, with a strange series of clicking noises, urged the horses forward. The magnificent phaeton moved out of the drive and onto Sturt Street. It turned right and headed west. [40]

      The majority of the riders, their handlers and supporters were beginning to gather at the clearing at Cardigan. They arrived early to spell their horses before the race. The crowd grew as the time for the start of the race drew near.

      Charles Houghton had not been among the early arrivals, and, by 9:30am had still not put in an appearance. His supporters, but more particularly those who had laid money on him, were becoming restive.

      The horses, picking up the nervous scent of the gathering crowd, were manifesting their own agitation, moving around, looking about, and occasionally neighing into the wind.

      At 9:45 Houghton had still not arrived. A range of conjectures sought to explain his absence. He had overslept. His horse had fallen on the way to Cardigan, and been injured or lamed. He wanted to discomfort rivals psychologically. They were spooked by his reputation, and would be further disadvantaged by a carefully staged display of nonchalance. Whatever the reason, he was cutting it fine.

      Five minutes later, with a bare ten minutes remaining until starting time, Houghton arrived, his horse labouring from exertion. The other riders were making last-minute checks. Several were studying their whips. Young Timothy Barnes, considered an outside possibility, laid his cheek against the neck of his mare, and was chatting away to her with obvious affection.

      Charles dismounted and handed the reigns of his horse to a friend, who had been awaiting his arrival. He strode over to the race stewards, and was lost in animated conversation for several minutes.

      "I am afraid, Mr. Houghton, that we cannot delay the race", the head steward insisted, "You knew the time the race commenced, you should have been here earlier."

      Charles was showing signs of frustration. Anger was seeping through his cultivated urbanity. However, he knew that if he lost his temper he would be disqualified. He walked back to his horse, took the reins from his friend, and walked the stallion slowly backwards and forwards between two tall trees, so that it would rest without totally relaxing. [41]

      Five minutes later the riders were summoned. Their horses were inspected, and they mounted. They were drawn up in a line between the two trees that Charles had used as markers when promenading his mount. Ten feet in front of the line of horses, and to their right, was the official starter. He held a large red handkerchief above his head.

      The contestants were leaning forward, each eager to win personal glory, and to secure the coveted trophy for the organisation he represented. The horses, feeling the legs of their riders begin to grip their bellies with greater force, became restive, anticipating the effort that would shortly be required of them. They were restrained by tightly-held reins. Their eyes, wide open, were swivelling in their sockets, as if sensing danger, and wanting to know the direction from which it would come.

      The portly gentleman with the red handkerchief, looking as if he could no longer sustain the effort of keeping it raised above his head, suddenly brought it down. There was a mad stampede. The horses were given their heads. Whips were brought down on flanks, and the race was on. Those crowding the sides of the starting area were sprayed with clods of dirt, mud and moss as the horses raced over the open ground that stretched in front of them.

      The first casualty occurred in the sight of those gathered to witness the start of the race. One of the young police constables, who had adjusted and readjusted the buckle under the horse's girth securing the saddle, was ruing the fact that he had loosened it. The saddle had slipped under the horse's body and taken him with it. Feet still in the stirrups, he was desperately hanging on. With his hands edging up either side of the saddle belt, he was clinging to the horse's broad underbelly, as if embracing it, to avoid the obstacles over which the horse was galloping. But the effort was too much. He finally extracted his feet from the stirrups and let himself fall, calling upon what strength he could muster to throw himself clear of the animal's pounding hooves. He succeeded only partially. His mount's rear right hoof connected with the inside of his left leg at the knee joint. While he needed to relieve pressure on his knee during the following week, with the assistance of crutches, he was otherwise unhurt, except for a few [42] minor bruises and scratches. The incident provided a source of great hilarity on the many occasions when it was recalled. Fellow officers collapsed into irrepressible laughter with every replay. In the tribal mythology that developed, the unfortunate constable was cast in the role of unwitting buffoon.

      By the time assistance reached the injured and nonplussed officer, the remaining five riders had disappeared from view. All that remained were occasional wisps of dust that their horses raised as they were urged forward. The contestants had previously reconnoitered the territory. They decided what routes they would take through the scrub. They were aware that some sections were more thickly wooded than others. With the sound of pounding hooves in their ears, and with a consciousness that other riders were taking different tracks, they occasionally sat back from their hunched positions, and looked around to determine the relative position of their rivals. There were several near misses as overhead branches lowered the boom on their progress.

      With half the distance covered, some of the horses were beginning to tire. Houghton's mount was showing signs of discomfort, but he kept urging it forward, applying the whip to the stallion's rump and powerful back legs. The animal continued to surge forward.

      As they neared the three-quarter mark, Charles, who was slightly in front of the others, became aware of another rider catching him up. Looking around he saw that it was young Barnes, who had a maybe-I-can-pull-this-off look on his face. Making a split-second decision, Charles used the reigns, and a jab under the horse's belly to direct his near exhausted mount into an alternate route. He was taking a chance. The distance was less, but the obstacles greater. He was now on his own. His superb horsemanship enabled him to take the extra risks. He continued to whip the horse relentlessly. As he was about to emerge from dense scrub for the final dash to the line, he overestimated the height of an overhanging branch that clouted him on the forehead. His arms immediately sought the horse's neck to which he desperately clung. His whip dropped from his hand, but he managed to steady himself. As he emerged from the treed canopy he could see the [43] finishing line fifty yards away. But he had not been the only rider to greet the sunlight. On his right, young Timothy Barnes, whose facial expression vacillated between whimsy and desperate intent, drew level with him, and then pulled away, continuing to rub his horse's neck, and, in dulcet tones, to urge the mare forward.

      It was all over.

      The Police Inspector, his officers, and the well-wishers, who had come to cheer their riders on and to celebrate a victory should they win, were beside themselves. The women were opening picnic baskets, and the men uncorking wine bottles. It was obvious that the victory had taken them by surprise. Little had they imagined that they would be toasting young Tim Barnes, who had only been able to secure a place because one of their more seasoned riders had contracted a fever.

      The Gold Commissioner's camp following was uncharacteristically subdued. A shame-faced Houghton, embarrassed by his performance, used the excuse of needing to retrieve his whip and hat, which had also been left behind in his collision with the branch. Sheltered by the shade of the trees, and the thickness of the scrub from the prying eyes of the crowd, which he sensed were boring into him, he gave vent to his anger. Picking up a dead branch, an inch in diameter at its thickest end and three feet long, he lacerated the overhanging limb. It had almost brought him down, and probably cost him the race.

      "Bastard, bastard, you bastard", he yelled, as he assaulted the limb uncontrollably.

      Charles had been injured in his narcissism, and was not in the habit of blaming himself for the disasters that sometimes overtook him. It was always factors outside himself--people, things, circumstances--that were responsible. The branch had demonstrated malicious intent.

      Charles knew he had to compose himself before returning to his friends. He would need to put the best interpretation on his failure. He was still figuring out what he would say when he emerged onto the open ground beside the lake. He was making his way to the cluster of carriages and wagons where Commissioner Rede and his party were corralled. Inspector Evans was in [44] animated conversation with Rede, obviously enjoying the latter's discomfort at having his champion beaten.

      "Well, we can't let you win it every time", he heard the inspector say.

      "The best man on the day won", Rede responded.

      Both men were experienced enough with social protocol to avoid revealing the depths of the emotions they were feeling.

      "We live to fight another day", Rede continued.

      "That is what I am afraid of", retorted the inspector, attempting to ease Rede's embarrassment.

      Charles knew that he would need to face the commissioner, and was headed in his direction.

      Aware that Charles was approaching them, the inspector excused himself, and made his way back to the members of his party. They were seated on the bank of the lake in formal attire, consuming the sandwiches and salad they brought with them, and chatting excitedly among themselves.

      Rede's words to Charles were brief.

      "Houghton, I'd like an explanation, and soon." Having said what he felt he needed to say, the commissioner strode off in the direction of his wife. He had placed a considerable amount of money on the young man.

      The friend, to whom Charles had given the reigns of his horse before the start of the race, walked over to him.

      "What happened?"

      "It hasn't been my day."

      "I guess you will be hoping that Rede doesn't change his mind about your acting as Adjutant to Hotham when the Governor visits Ballarat. The latest intelligence is that he is planning a visit in August. This may give you time enough to recover some ground."

      "Let's hope so. I have built up some credit. I hope this has not drained it away."

      The friend moved on to talk with others. Charles, knowing that he had to face Ruby, and regretting that he had invited her, and her family, to witness the spectacle, tightly bandaged his ego, and made off in her direction. [45]

      Ruby, who had been restraining her anxiety, and resisting the urge to run to him, saw him coming, and excused herself. The pace she travelled across the grass scarcely disguised her feelings. By the time she reached Charles, her face was lined with concern.

      "What have you done to yourself? Let me look at your forehead. You're bleeding. You poor thing."

      "It's nothing", Charles responded brusquely.

      "It isn't, let me look at it."

      Her attention was balm to his bruised pride, and he allowed her a brief inspection. But he was also aware that numerous of his peers were gazing in his direction. He abruptly pulled back.

      "Nothing to worry about", he responded, as he drew away. "If you will excuse me, I need to congratulate Timothy Barnes. This is not easy for me. I hope to see you later. Maybe you can save me a sandwich."

      Charles strode off in Timothy's direction. It was easier losing to young Barnes. His family were pastoralists, and he had been raised with horses. This humble pie may be bitter, but it wasn't going to give him diarrhoea, which would have been the case if any of the older men he had taunted in his pre-race preening had won.

      Before he reached Timothy, he was intercepted by Dulcie, who was a guest of one of the constables. They had arrived late because Dulcie had been delayed. They had been informed of the result, and had been celebrating. Dulcie's comment was brief.

      "I noticed you talking to that Shaw girl again. Don't I satisfy you? Didn't I satisfy you this morning? Or is it something else you're after?" The toast of many of the eligible young bachelors of Ballarat, looking directly into Charles' eyes, mischievously lifted her pupils towards her eyelids, swinging them from left to right, and moved on.

      The group gathered on the northern foreshore of Lake Burrumbeet began to break up around 3: 30 in the afternoon. Picnic baskets were loaded into wagons, and carriages in preparation for the journey home. Horses were prepared for riding or were harnessed to the shafts of vehicles. By 3:45 the last of the picnickers had left. [46]

      The lengthening afternoon shadows threw strange patterns on the retreating carriages, appearing to alter their geometry. Ruby did not return with her parents, but gained their permission to travel with the family of the Assistant Commissioner, who was also transporting a subdued Charles Houghton, at Rede's suggestion. Reflecting on his reaction, the commissioner concluded that his response had been too hasty, and energized more by his financial loss, than by the behaviour of his young lieutenant.

      Charles and Ruby were seated facing each other. Ruby could not have been more delighted, in spite of the fact that she was trying not to reveal the extent of her enthusiasm.

      The phaeton was travelling fifty yards behind the Assistant Commissioner's carriage. Morag was chatting excitedly about the people to whom she had spoken, and the stories they had bartered. Robert responded with an occasional, "Humpt" and" Yes", but his mind was elsewhere. It was weighing the gravity of his suspicions about Charles Houghton. [47]

 

 

Chapter 5

      If you were to encounter him on an evening in which the full moon's dusky shadows exaggerated the craters in his face, the apparition would terrify you. His visage was lined and pitted, like leather discarded by a self-respecting bootmaker. His left eyelid was half-closed, the result of an accident in which a wooden slab wrestled itself free from the rope that was lowering it into a pit. Angus had been waiting at the bottom of the mine to observe what he anticipated would be its slow descent, and to secure it in place. The two-inch gash, which ran diagonally down his right cheek, was the work of an axe head that separated itself from its handle as the Scot attempted to split a resistant length of red gum.

      Angus' appearance belied his generous nature. He was an old hand, and willingly shared his expertise with novices. The history of Ballarat's gold era was written into his body. The colourful way he had of recounting anecdotes drew both seasoned goldminers and new chums to the claim he worked with two partners.

      Angus Campbell had emigrated from his native Scotland in 1838. Disembarking at Hobson's Bay, he made his way to Geelong, where he signed on with a cartage contractor, transporting supplies to the Learmonth brothers at Buninyong. John Learmonth offered him a job as a rouseabout. When Thomas Hiscock, a local blacksmith, discovered gold near Buninyong on the 8th of August 1851, Angus informed the Learmonths that he was taking his leave, and joined the growing band of prospectors, who were shuttling between Buninyong and Clunes in their quest for the precious metal.

      The discovery of rich deposits of alluvial gold at Golden Point, later that month, attracted Campbell to the area. Over millions of years, ice and water had eroded Ballarat's gold-bearing quartz ranges, depositing gold in streams, and patches of blue clay that were sometimes hundreds of feet below the surface. Occasional volcanic activity had altered the landscape, burying streams, and changing the geography of the area. The frenetic activity at Golden Point represented the unco-ordinated attempt of [48] a motley collection of miners, mesmerized by the spectre of instant wealth, to rediscover the original topography of the area, and to mine its load. The atmosphere was competitive, and occasionally rumbustious. In recounting these years, Angus explained that he often slept with a loaded pistol within reach.

      It was also during this period that the newly-created Victorian government attempted to regularize and control the activities of the miners.

      The innovative period represented by the initial Golden Point bonanza marked a transition in the development of mining techniques, eventually giving way to deep sinking. The latter required more sophisticated processes, and exposed miners to greater dangers.

      It was in late July that Sean O'Donnell caught up with Angus, who was working a small claim in the Gravel Pits. With two of the younger members of his party bucketing the water from the pit, Angus was seated on a wooden box, in which recent provisions had arrived. The tent protected him from the rain. The windsock, frequently changing direction, and lashing out at invisible tormenters, several times came close to giving him a nasty slap in the face.

      Sean O'Donnell, picking his way gingerly over the wet clay in a descent from the claim on the Eureka Lead to Main Road, where he hoped to make a purchase, caught sight of Angus seated on the crate.

      Michael O'Flannigan and Billy Wilson, who had taken an interest in Sean when he arrived in Ballarat, and invited him to join their party temporarily until he decided on his future, spoke warmly of Angus Campbell. Sean made a mental note to catch up with the grotesque legend when opportunity presented itself. He could not resist the invitation this wet July afternoon afforded.

      Readjusting the sugar bag he was wearing over his head to protect himself from the rain, he changed course and headed off in the direction of the old prospector. Carefully navigating the pot-holed terrain, and jumping the occasional puddle, he quickly arrived at the entrance to the tent. [49]

      "Mind if I join you?" he asked, searching the face of the old-timer for permission.

      Angus smiled.

      "I'd be inhospitable if I refused you", the leathered face responded with a chuckle, his rich Scottish accent scarcely influenced by the years he had spent in the colony, "Of course you're welcome. I am always ready to talk to a man who is willing to listen", he continued, with a twinkle in his eye.

      The older man pushed himself to his feet. It was obvious that his joints were no longer well-oiled. While his knees and back remained bent, his right hand took hold of the crate on which he had been sitting and repositioned it length-wise on the ground. "This is all I can offer", he commented, as he rested his weight on one end of the box. "There, you sit there", he urged, pointing to the unoccupied portion.

      Before Sean could begin, the Scot looked straight into his eyes and wagered, "I'll hazard you're the young man involved in the brawl at John O'Groats on New Year's Eve. They said you were good-looking, Irish, and had a touch of class. Seems to fit."

      Nonplussed, Sean drew in a deep breath, "I'm the young man, all right, but I don't know that I agree with the description."

      "Ha. Ha!" the older man chuckled, "You're modest too!" After a brief pause, he continued, "I shouldn't tease you. Not that I didn't mean what I said, but I did get pleasure from your discomfort."

      The two men were silent for a moment. Each picked up in the other an unself-conscious openness, a freedom from defensiveness, uncommon in men.

      It was Angus who broke into the reverie. "There is obviously a reason for your detour?"

      Collecting himself, Sean volunteered, "There are two reasons for my seeking you out. The first is to meet you. I have heard so much about you. The second is to canvas your opinion on the licence issue."

      "An interesting topic", the Scotsman volunteered. [50]

      Sean continued, "Most regard gold licences as an imposition. Considering the arguments put to me by those I have spoken to, I would have to agree with them."

      "You would find few who would disagree."

      "What I would like to ask you is what you think we should do?"

      Angus, whose head was resting in his right hand, swivelled his fingers several times in a rotary motion across his whiskery face before responding thoughtfully.

      "Most Ballarat miners are decent lads", he began, "They are tradesmen and professionals. You will find a sprinkling of mavericks, troublemakers. The majority are industrious--rough, sometimes coarse, but industrious.

      "It is obvious", Sean continued, "that the iniquitous licence system must be countered responsibly, in a way that avoids bloodshed, and that has some chance of success."

      "What are you suggesting", Angus inquired, keen to have the young man continue.

      "The canvassing of a range of strategies that are within the law, but which put pressure on the Governor and Legislative Council to consider our grievances. It is absolutely ludicrous that miners should have to pay 30 shillings a month in advance for the privilege of working their claims, particularly when returns aren't guaranteed."

      "And when the amount paid per year by squatters for their broad acres is less than what a miner pays for his miserable pocket handkerchief allotment."

      "It is a form of taxation, direct taxation."

      Angus, who had been watching two ants lugging huge burdens over the hardened clay in front of him, sat back on his end of the improvised bench, and turned to face the younger man. His eyes betrayed a controlled anger as he commented, "They want to tax us without allowing us a say in how the colony is run, or even how the goldfields are managed."

      After a moment's hesitation, during which he weighed the Scotsman's words, assuring himself that he had correctly judged the veteran's allegiance, Sean inquired, "Should we take out [51] licences, or should we refuse to do so, and ensure that our protest is registered."

      "You have been talking to Sven."

      "Yes."

      "Sven and I go back a long way."

      Sean's interest was suddenly quickened. His gaze remained riveted on Angus, anticipating a further revelation. But nothing came.

      "What you are asking me is whether or not you should pay for a licence?" Angus hazarded.

      "That is my dilemma. My instinct is to obey the law, even if it is a bad law. It is hard to change a law if you are seen to be outside it. However, my respect for Sven and my awareness of the stand he has taken, cause me to question my judgement." After a moment's hesitation, he continued, "While I know it is not appropriate for you to make my decisions for me, I would be interested to know whether or not you have a licence."

      Puncturing the seriousness of the moment, Angus burst out laughing. "Sven said you had spirit, lad, and I have to agree."

      The older man began fossicking in his shirt pocket. For a time it looked as if the expedition would be in vain. Finally he extracted a crumpled script. He rolled it out, as if he were unravelling a cigarette. He scrutinized it to assure himself that it was what he was looking for, and then handed it to Sean. It bore the signature of a Commission agent, and the date indicated that it was current.

      "Thank you", said the Irishman, as he handed back the licence.

      At that moment, a dimly audible sound, a cry from the depths, informed Angus that his assistance was needed. Dislodged clay and slush was waiting to be lifted to the surface. He stood, stretched himself with difficulty, and reached for the handle of the windlass. His hands, in spite of their age, and the abuse to which they had been subjected, were still strong. Reaching over to the weathered icon, Sean placed his left hand on Angus' shoulder, and squeezed it. Without speaking, he turned, stepped out of the tent, and continued on his way, manoeuvring like on skier on a slalom [52] course, between clusters of holes, mullock hills, ditches, and miniature lakes. Main Road, in the wet season, was often a quagmire. Embankments, on which an interesting array of small, largely wooden shops was arranged cheek by jowl, resembled the banks of a watercourse, particularly after a heavy downpour. On this day the earthen embankment, rutted by channels taking rainwater from pitched roofs to the road, was more slippery than saturated. One was more likely to sustain a fall than get bogged.

      Reaching the line of shops, Sean removed the sugar bag from his head. At the same time, he ran his right hand through his hair to remove the debris, the chaff, and course fibres the bag inevitably deposited. He walked past a butchery and a produce store before arriving at Shaw's Ironmongery. Pounding his boots on the ground to dislodge clay they had accumulated, he entered the store.

      He had been commissioned to purchase an iron hoop for his friends' puddling machine. It was a replacement for one of the metal bands that had been damaged by overuse and a series of accidents that had buckled and fatigued the brace. He walked over to where hoops of various sizes were resting against a side wall. He reached in his trouser pocket for a slip of paper on which he had pencilled the measurements.

      Robert Shaw rarely spent time assisting customers in his Main Road store. The management of his burgeoning interests kept him busy with figures, forward orders, and projected developments. However, he respected the earthy, hardworking, honest qualities of the diggers, and was often surprised by their ingenuity. He was also fascinated by the cosmopolitan texture of the human hive that was Main Road. It was these men, whose needs he was meeting, and he wanted to make sure he kept in contact with them. His motives were not altogether altruistic. It was their custom that built his business. More importantly, it was their uninhibited naturalness, in tandem with his religious faith, that enabled him to maintain a sense of decency, and that helped him remain centred. It kept him connected to his roots, and helped him readily identify the pretence and dissimulation, by-products [53] of the class stratification that was beginning to be evident among those with whom he was increasingly mixing.

      Shaw, who had slipped into the store to check the accounts, noticed the young man squatting on his haunches.

      "Can I assist you?" Robert inquired.

      "You can", Sean responded, in the process of gathering his thoughts, "I would appreciate your advice."

      Robert pulled a tape measure from his pocket, "Perhaps this will help. It will be a little more accurate than the length of string you are using."

      After measuring two of the metal bands that he judged would be about the size Sean required, and selecting the larger, Robert commented, "I think this is the one you want."

      Sean was about to reply, when an excited miner, who was well enough acquainted with Shaw to break in upon the conversation, burst through the front entrance of the shop, and blurted out, "Hotham's coming to Ballarat." Brandishing a newspaper over his head, he continued, "It's in the Times."

      Because of his contacts at the Camp, Shaw was familiar with the news. He responded with a mild, "Perhaps he will understand better the difficulties of goldfields' life. If he listens to the grievances of the men, we may see changes."

      "But he's in the pocket of the pastoralists."

      "He is a naval officer", Robert went on, "He thinks like a naval officer. However unruly the crew, discipline will bring order. It will be interesting to see if he will moderate this approach."

      Sean, who had been quiet through this exchange, commented, almost to himself, "Let us hope we can appeal from a governor misinformed to a governor better informed."

      Robert overheard the comment. He turned slowly and looked with undisguised admiration at the young Irishman, who was running his hand around the hooped steel, checking for weaknesses.

      Having delivered his news, the intruder disappeared out the door. [54]

      "This appears to be what I am looking for", Sean commented.

      "If you find it doesn't fit, bring it back and I will exchange it for another", Robert replied.

      After handing over the necessary coins to the Scot, the Irishman excused himself. He replaced the bag on his head, took the hoop in both hands, and made for the door. As he passed through the entrance, he looked back, smiled and offered a parting "Thanks."

      The proprietor watched as the young man disappeared from sight. Shaw remained lost in thought until awoken by a query from his manager, who had been rearranging stock at the rear of the establishment. [55]

 

 

Chapter 6

      Expectation over the Hotham visit built, anticipation of a positive outcome. The gophers of Ballarat East found themselves caught up in an emerging mythology in which the governor was cast as the hero. Once conjured into existence, the myth fed on the expectations it generated.

      At 1:00pm on the first Saturday in August, Sean O'Donnell was bent over the puddling machine, with spade in hand, raking through the muddy water. He suddenly became aware of a presence behind him. He was alerted by the sound of boots gently scuffing the ground. He ceased the swathe-like motion of the spade in the buttery mud, and turned to face his visitor.

      "Günther", he began, with warmth in his voice, "It is good to see you. How have you been?"

      "Dietrich and I have staked a claim on the Red Hill Lead", the German responded, "We have been busy establishing ourselves."

      "I thought you were crazy, turning down Sven's offer of a partnership. But I can understand you wanting to strike out on your own."

      The party working the claim next to ours", Günther exclaimed, "tapped into a seam yesterday. They extracted 5 ounces of gold. They couldn't contain their enthusiasm."

      Leaning on the handle of his shovel and casting his eye over the new steel hoop that was helping secure the wooden slats of the puddling machine, Sean inquired, "What brings you here?"

      "I have come to talk with you. I would like to take you to Red Hill and show you where we're working. Can you get away? Can Michael and Billy do without you for the rest of the day?"

      Billy, who was working the nearby windlass, and had overheard the conversation, broke in with, "We don't need you. Take the afternoon off."

      It took longer for the conversation to float down the mine shaft. When it did, Michael yelled, "Tell him to meet us at John O'Groats between four and six. We are rewarding ourselves for [56] these past three weeks. A man can only take so much of the gut-dissolving fluid that passes for liquor on this hill."

      Günther smiled. He and Dietrich had recently set up their own still. It was located out of sight, in a natural cave, formed by an overhanging rock, in the hills south of Canadian Gully. The still would supply their own immediate needs, and they were weighing up the possibility offering their product to a broader constituency. They were computing the odds against possible penalties.

      "Give me a minute?" Sean asked, addressing himself to Günther, "I will clean up and be with you. He walked over to the bucket of water they were using as a wash basin, and removed the caked mud from his hands. He scraped the excess grit from his boots, and, with a rotary motion of his right hand, flicked grass, twigs, and ash from his hat. "I am ready", he announced, lifting his gaze to read Günther's response.

      "We're off", Günther signalled to Billy. who tipped his hat. "See you later this afternoon", Sean called back, as he and Günther set off in the direction of Red Hill.

      The two young men detoured via Sven's claim. The Swede had secured a rope to enable him to descend and ascend the mine without assistance. His hands were strong, and his muscles powerful. His legs were long enough to reach across the squared hole. He used the cross-timbers bracing the pit as footholds. Another rope, which was mostly used for bucketing soil and water from the base of the hole, could be used in emergencies.

      Peering into the hole the two men discovered Sven in the dim light of its interior, digging with his pick into the black basalt rock. Wondering how they could gain the Swede's attention without alarming him, the pair looked at each other, and broke into spontaneous laughter. Sven looked up. A smile broke out on his face. "What do you two renegades want?" he inquired.

      "Günther called by to say hello", Sean responded, with a chuckle.

      "Just checking that you weren't planning to defy the law again", Günther broke in, "Have to make sure I am in with the right crowd." [57]

      "What are you two up to?" Sven called.

      "Günther wants to show me where he and Dietrich are courting lady luck. They have pegged out a claim on Red Hill. The prospects look good."

      "I hope they are", responded Sven.

      "We'll be off", announced Sean.

      "Make sure you come by again, Günther", Sven parried, "But don't leave it so long next time."

      "I won't", responded the German.

      "The two of you be off."

      The young men, leaving Sven's claim, set out across the thinly-wooded bushland, keeping to hilly country east of the Pennyweight and Navy Jack's Leads. Günther was obviously excited, and anxious to show his friend where he and Dietrich were prospecting.

      When they eventually arrived at the claim, Sean was greeted warmly by Dietrich, who was rummaging through lengths of timber they planned to use to brace the walls of the pit they had begun to dig. They were already ten feet into the ground. A tent covered the hole, and they were in the process of erecting a windsock. The skin framing Dietrich's blue eyes creased into a smile, the warmth of his gaze matching his welcoming grin.

      "Sean, it is so good to see you", he began, "Günther is always talking about you. I think he misses you."

      "Don't give away too many secrets", Günther warned his friend, "At least not yet."

      "Why not walk him over the claim", Dietrich suggested, as he returned his attention to the timber.

      "That was my intention", his partner responded. Grasping Sean by the arm, he urged, "Come this way."

      The area to which he had referred was 8 feet by 12 feet. The hole was 2 feet by 3 feet. It was obvious, given the fact that they had only recently staked the claim, which the Germans had been toiling at an unrelenting pace. On an incline, fifty yards behind the ground they were working, they had erected a tent, in which they slept, ate, and whiled away an occasional hour reminiscing about the land of their birth and the young women they left behind. [58]

      Entering the tent through a front flap, Sean was struck by how neatly ordered the interior was. In front of the fireplace, constructed of rock and clay-based mortar, firewood, of various sizes, was stacked in orderly piles. Resting against the side of the hearth were a range of tools--a spade, a shovel, an axe and an improvised broom made of thin twigs. A small table, knocked together from local timber, was stacked, on one side, with plates and various items of cutlery. Stubby lengths of eucalyptus served as chairs. Two beds, carefully made up, were positioned immediately inside the entrance to the tent. Arranged parallel to each other, their positioning allowed for a walkway between them, and for a fractional gap between the outer bearer, around which the reinforced canvas base was stretched, and the sloping canvas roof. A sparse array of clothing, several pairs of boots, a range of cooking pots and pans, a kettle, and assorted bottles completed the picture. Sean was not unfamiliar with this type of accommodation. Most miners, particularly bachelors, opted for this portable and relatively cheap alternative to the more permanent, wooden miner's cottages that were beginning to be erected in the area. What struck him was the precision with which everything was laid out, and the general cleanliness of the interior.

      The two men were standing in the centre of the tent, near the fireplace, in which stray embers were still smouldering. Günther, his hand on a pole that helped support the centre rib that ran the length of the tent, addressed his friend, "Sean, why don't you sit down? I have a proposition I would like to put to you."

      "Before you do that, let me ask you a question."

      "Certainly, what would you like to know?"

      "You don't mind me being direct?"

      "Of course not."

      After a moment, during which he shuffled a range of approaches to determine which would give least offence. Giving up this exercise, he began, "Where did you get the money to set yourselves up?"

      "I knew you would ask that question", Günther replied, "The answer is very simple."

      "Well?" [59]

      "When I indicated to Sven that I would not be remaining with him, he took a 2 oz nugget from his pocket, where he kept it for safe keeping. He used his handkerchief to clean it up. Then he handed it to me. I kept protesting that it was his, and not mine. After an hour of bargaining, I accepted the gift. I indicated that, as soon as our ground began to yield a reward, I would repay him. He waved away the suggestion, but I have no intention of going back on my promise. We have also persuaded Karl Steiner, who has a butchery in Main Road, to come into partnership with us. He is putting up money to enable us to continue, to deepen the shaft, and eat while we do so."

      "You have been fortunate in your friends", Sean volunteered.

      Seizing on this theme, Günther broke in, "Talking about friends brings me to the reason for inviting you here." Determining to lose no time in getting to the point, the German continued, "We would like you to consider joining us."

      Sean had half suspected that the conversation might be leading in this direction, but had not had time to formulate a response.

      "Günther, my friend", he began, "I am honoured by your invitation. But I will have to ask for time to consider the offer."

      "Take all the time you like."

      Sean looked up from the ground, where he had been observing lumps of crushed quartz embedded in the clay. He looked into Günther's face, which reflected an openness, a self-discipline, a determination, and a warmth that was disarming.

      "I appreciate the offer. I will give myself time to weigh it up."

      "We will be off", Günther advised Dietrich, once they were outside, "We're going to the John O'Groats. I will be back for dinner."

      Dietrich replaced a length of split timber on the pile from which it had been taken. He slapped his hands together several times to remove accumulated clay and splintered wood fragments. "I'll catch up with you later", he threw back, as he made his way to the tent. He intended resting for half an hour before beginning [60] preparations for the evening meal. He farewelled the pair with a final wave of his hand as he disappeared into the tent.

      It was 4 o'clock by the time the duo arrived at John O'Groats. Regulars had already begun to drift in, and were scattered around the wooden benches.

      In a corner, diagonally opposite the platform on which the piano stood in elevated splendour, was Sven Lungren. A copy of Ballarat Times was spread out on the table in front of him. He was too absorbed to notice the entry of the young men. To his right, Michael and Billy were engaged in animated conversation. Half-empty beer glasses sat on the table beside them. They motioned the newcomers to join them. Sven looked up, acknowledging their presence, and returned to his paper.

      "You two look like a couple of lost souls", Michael volunteered.

      "Not lost, just distracted", Sean replied.

      The Scotch landlord stood at the door of the kitchen waiting to take their orders.

      "The usual?" he inquired. Günther indicated assent, and the two young men seated themselves opposite Billy and Michael.

      "I don't think it will be long before we drag ourselves home", suggested Billy, "My body is complaining about the thrashing I have been giving it."

      A group of men, seated around a bench on the opposite side of the room, was becoming noisy. One of their number, a swarthy, corpulent man, who had become louder and increasingly opinionated as the afternoon wore on, stood to his feet. He swayed uncertainly, like a tall eucalypt in a gusty wind.

      "The bloody governor won't make a difference", he slurred, "You mark my words."

      His pontificating drew howls of denial from his companions.

      "Of course he will", one of them answered.

      "But the bleedin police will have his ear", retorted the self-appointed authority, "To say nothin of the commissioner and his imbeciles." [61]

      "You don't know what you are talking about, Stan", another member of the group responded.

      Four hands reached up and drew him down. Looking for a moment as if he had been robbed of his dignity, he reached out, picked up his glass, and emptied it. He belched, and opened his mouth again to begin to speak. He was drowned out by his companions, who had become involved in a verbal free-for-all.

      To counter the noise, Sven began to vocalize the poem he was reading, an ode to Hotham written by local poet, Ellen Young. When he had finished, he looked up and shook his head, as if disagreeing with what he had just read.

      The attention of several in the group, who had been observing him, was suddenly distracted by the rowdy inebriates opposite. They were making a noisy and unsteady exit.

      When peace returned to the room, Sven commented, slowly and deliberately, "I think he is right."

      "Who's right?" asked Michael quizzically.

      "The drunk", responded Sven, "The governor's visit won't make any difference."

      Persuaded by the enthusiasm sweeping Ballarat, promoted by the Times and the Star, the younger men looked incredulously at the lean Swede, as if his judgement had failed him.

      "We'll see", he said, as he stood to leave. He folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. His companions also pushed themselves to their feet. Signalling their departure to the landlord, the group walked to the doorway, disappearing through it in single file.

      Before Günther set off along Geelong Road, Sean sidled up to him and confided, "I'm going to have to turn you down. As much as I appreciate the offer, I don't feel I can walk out on Billy and Michael. Maybe later." Obviously disappointed, but devoid of animosity, Günther grasped his friend by the shoulder. Releasing his grip, he turned, and made off in the direction of his claim.

      Sean rejoined his three remaining companions. Braced by the damp, chilled air of this August evening, they made for their tents, guided by a familiar distribution of firelight. [62]

      Hotham's visit, later in the month, appeared to belie Sven's pessimism. The governor, who had been presented at Bendigo with a vigorous petition against the licence fee and the Goldfields' Commission, was the toast of the city. He wandered around the diggings, traipsing through knee-deep mud, doffing his hat in response to the cheers of the diggers. He described local prospectors as lovers of law and order, and spoke of the colony's miners as some of the finest men of the world. His wife, responding warmly to the greeting afforded her by the miners, remarked on their loyalty. Big Larry, the envy of his fellows, gallantly carried her ladyship over a large stretch of yellow mud. Unbeknown to the diggers, their cause received support from both the commissioner and the inspector. The miners had every reason to anticipate a positive result. [63]

 

 

Chapter 7

      On a simple portico-verandah, on the front of the building, a conspicuous sign, illuminated by a large lantern, read, "SOUPS ALWAYS READY--BOOKING OFFICE FOR MELBOURNE AND GEELONG COACHES." Inside, seated on benches on either side of a table covered with a profusion of Chinese dishes, were Sean, Michael, Billy, Sven, Günther, and Dietrich. They were celebrating Michael's twenty-fifth birthday.

      The date, the 16th of September, 1854, was auspicious. That morning the Ballarat Times had published a letter from a miner who had been arrested as a consequence of a new policy, authorised personally by Hotham, that required the police to make twice-weekly licence searches. Had Hotham been duplicitous? To many it appeared so.

      John Alloo's restaurant was packed that evening. The tables were groaning with food, and the conversation was animated. The group from the Eureka and Red Hill Leads, celebrating Michael's birthday, were engaged in animated conversation, largely designed to spoof the seriousness of the occasion. However, one could not help but pick up an undercurrent of muted concern that, from time to time, rippled, wavelike, through the whole restaurant.

      Billy, attempting to counter the noise generated by the convivial mood of the congested room, yelled across the table at Michael, "It is fortunate we have your birthday to celebrate. We haven't much else to celebrate at the moment!"

      Taking the opportunity of expanding on this bitter-sweet comment, Sean joined in with, "Perhaps we should take lessons from the Chinese at Golden Point, and learn how to subsist on rats. We could confiscate one or two."

      "Each man to his own", Dietrich chimed in, a sour expression on his face, "You have your rats. I'd eat bark before I ate rats."

      The table burst out laughing, though the seriousness of Billy's comment was not lost on them. It had been three weeks since any of the parties working the Eureka Lead had bottomed. The mood among the diggers in the area was sombre. It was [64] recognised that, in staking out their claims, they may have misjudged the lay of the reef.

      The group of friends celebrating Michael's birthday decided to use the evening to allow them at least momentary respite from the anxiety and frustration that was gnawing away at their normally tenacious optimism. To this point in time, they had been successful, but the liquor they had been consuming with the food had begun to interfere with mechanisms of suppression.

      "Maybe you should join us, stake out a claim next to ours", volunteered Günther, "Indications continue to suggest that the Red Hill Lead will yield healthy dividends. Another group bottomed recently, and took out £100 between them on a single day. We remain hopeful. Another week or two should prove or disprove our projections. Why not shepherd a claim near ours?"

      "The idea did cross our minds", Billy responded, as he used his molars to masticate several pieces of pork that had been covered in batter and smothered with sweet and sour sauce, "but we calculated that we would be no better off in the short term. It would take us weeks to re-establish ourselves, to dig a new shaft, to reinforce it, and to reach a level that may or may not be productive."

      "We concluded", broke in Michael, who had been tagged by Billy, whose taste buds were urging further indulgence and would not be denied, "that it was better for us to remain where we are, and to continue lengthening the pit."

      "We won't deny it is a dilemma", Billy almost spluttered, his mouth awash with vegetables and sauce that had been enhanced with ve-Tsin.

      Sven, as if emerging from self-preoccupation, cut in with, "This is why the licence fee, that they are requiring us to pay in advance, is so iniquitous."

      "The licence fee. Let us not talk about the licence fee tonight", urged Sean, hoping to cultivate, if only for the duration of the meal, a temporary oasis, "We can consider it tomorrow."

      Günther, who hadn't heard Sean above the hubbub, but had rightly guessed the topic that had been broached, was seated on the same bench as Sven, but at the other extremity. To catch the [65] older man's attention, he reached his head towards the centre of the table, turned it to the left and yelled, "It would appear that you were right about Hotham."

      Sven, returning the serve, yelled back, "I was hoping to be proved wrong. I still may be. Let's hope so."

      The hub of conversation at the centre of the table hovered around the question of Michael's interest in one of John Alloo's daughters, an attractive young woman, who, at that moment, was having difficulty manoeuvring her way between the tables, her arms laden with piles of plates that she was returning to the kitchen. When the attention of the group suddenly turned towards her, she blushed, became distracted, and failed to observe the legs of a spindly giant that were tucked under a nearby bench. Unfortunately for the young woman, they extended beyond it into the narrow passageway that allowed access between the tables. Caught off balance by the hairy protrusions, she plunged headlong towards the row of bovine-like ruminants whose gaze had distracted her attention. The plates, slippery with remnants of food, cascaded along the table, some smashing onto the floor and others depositing their contents onto the shirts, coats, and trousers of the birthday celebrants. The young woman, to save herself, threw her arms around Günther's neck, clinging grimly to his back. She quickly recovered her balance, and drew back, embarrassed.

      "Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. You will have to excuse", she almost cried, "Very Sorry. Very Sorry."

      The restaurant was in an uproar. Tired, weary, anxious bodies were collapsed over tables, so overtaken by mirth that they were unable to draw breath. John Alloo, alerted by the sound of smashing plates, raced into the dining area, his eyes taking in the scene. Discovering that his daughter was unharmed, he took a moment to assess collateral damage to his reputation. He skirted around the tables until he came to the bomb site. Taking full responsibility for what had happened, he apologised profusely, and sent his daughter to the kitchen for wet cloths to sponge down the gentlemen's clothing. He began cleaning up the mess, in the course of which he offered to supply further courses on a future occasion at his expense. [66]

      He need not have worried. His daughter, and the hairy obstruction, had given those around the table, not to speak of others in the room, a serendipitous gift. The warm glow associated with the incident would continue to distract them from their anxious concerns for several hours.

      "Thank you, but we have eaten well", answered Sven, who was the first to recover his equilibrium, "And don't blame your daughter. We distracted her."

      By this time, the young girl had returned, and was handing out what looked like small face washers to the group. She accompanied the distribution of each of the washers with, "Sorry. Very sorry."

      Apart from an inebriated American, whose manner had been surly all evening, and who had muttered "Bloody Chinese!" the reaction of the clientele was good natured. They enjoyed the comic relief.

      After removing remnants of chop suey, black bean sauce, won tons, and fried rice from their clothing, the celebrants decided it was time to leave. Billy poked his head through the door that led into the kitchen and thanked John Alloo, who had returned to supervise further orders. Billy indicated that the party was grateful for both the food and the entertainment. John, who was checking his daughter's shins for signs of injury, looked up and smiled inscrutably. "Thank you. Come again. Next time we will not baptise you!"

      Outside the restaurant the party divided. Following a round of handshakes and bear-hugs, Günther and Dietrich headed right, proceeding along Main Road towards Geelong. The rest of the men, crossing Main Road, picked out the well-trodden path that zig-zagged its way up the hill to where their tents were pegged on the Eureka Lead. [67]

 

 

Chapter 8

      When Michael, Billy, and Sean woke the following morning, they realised that it had been raining during the evening, and that the rain had set in. They remained in their beds longer than normal, recounting the events of the previous evening. They intended to josh Günther over his good fortune, teasing him with the possibility that he had been withholding crucial intelligence from them, information related to a secret romantic attachment. He said he would call by in the next couple of days, and they were looking forward to ribbing him.

      At that moment, Günther and Dietrich, who had not been discouraged by the inclement weather, were tending their still, shielded from the rain and prying eyes by the overhanging rock. They decided, in the course of the previous evening's conversation, that they would attempt to sell their product, which they judged to be of a superior quality than that usually available at illicit outlets. What caused them to make the decision was that they were anxious to help their companions out in their difficulty. Their plan was to sell the spirit to a distributor, and loan the money they made from the sale to their friends on the unyielding Eureka Lead, suggesting that they repay them when and if they were able. As they surveyed the equipment they were using, they estimated that they would need another day.

      At 10 the following morning, Günther and Dietrich could be seen threading their way carefully around obstacles, en route from Red Hill to Michael and Billy's claim on the Eureka Lead. Each was carrying a large iron pot. It was a strange sight, but not one that would have attracted more than casual attention. It could have been assumed that they were either transferring their camp, or joining another group for a meal. The strain on their arms, and the practiced dexterity with which they were manoeuvring the pots, would have indicated to the perceptive that, whatever the pots contained, it was heavy, and precious. Those they passed were either pre-occupied or disinterested. [68]

      On arrival at the claim, they made straight for the tent that served the three men as a makeshift home. Carefully negotiating the area between the beds, they lowered the iron pots to the ground, exhaling vigorously, and shaking their arms to rejuvenate their muscles. Each collapsed onto an upturned stump, and sunk his head between his legs. The first stage of the journey was over. They had avoided detection. They looked at each other, and laughed. They were un-used to flouting the law, but this was in a good cause.

      Allowing themselves sufficient time to catch their breath, Günther and Dietrich re-emerged from the tent, and wandered nonchalantly over to the claim site where they found Michael working the growling windless, and Sean puddling the most recently extracted clay deposit. Sean's broad-brimmed hat had fallen over his face, preventing him from observing their furtive arrival. Hearing their approaching footsteps, he looked up, his face breaking out in a broad smile. The sun, which had decided to make its debut after a long absence, was glistening on the perspiration running down his face.

      "As good as your promise", he volunteered.

      He signalled Michael to join them.

      "We have come bearing gifts", Günther began.

      "Gifts?" Michael, who had just joined the party, queried.

      "Are you able to take a break for a few minutes. We have something to show you", Dietrich interjected, leaving Michael's question hanging in mid-air.

      "Sounds interesting", Sean replied, "When are you going to let us in on the secret?"

      "Shortly."

      "Should I call Billy?"

      "Drag him out. We will meet you back at the tent."

      Ten minutes later Michael, Billy, and Sean filed into the tent, blind anticipation written in their faces. They were not left long in doubt about the nature of the surprise. Five mugs, of assorted sizes, were lined up on the small table they used for eating, for calculating expenses and earnings, and for the occasional stint of letter writing. In the bottom of each was half an inch of clear fluid. [69]

      "We would like you to try this", Günther urged, "It is our third batch, and the first for public consumption. We would like you to tell us what you think of it."

      The three Irishmen looked at each other, sheepish grins on their faces. Their friends were obviously intending to augment their earnings by supplying the sly grog trade.

      Billy, who had developed a hearty thirst that morning dislodging the clay at the bottom of the pit, broke the silence with, "What are we waiting for?"

      The five men lifted their mugs simultaneously, and put them to their lips. Michael, who was the first to throw down a mouthful, grimaced, drawing in his breath. When his eyes returned to their sockets and his throat and nose recovered from a temporary paralysis, he declared the grog first rate. Emboldened, the others threw caution to the wind, and, for the next several minutes, could be observed in various phases of pained delight.

      Günther and Dietrich beckoned their friends to approach the hearth, where they had deposited the iron cauldrons. The Irishmen were surprised by the quantity of illicit liquor their German friends had managed to distil in so short a time.

      "What are you going to do with it?" was the question that instinctively sprang to Sean's lips.

      "We have established contact with a distributor, who has offered to take it off our hands", explained Günther, lowering his voice, "He is an American."

      "He has been unable to meet demand, and has been scouting for further sources."

      "How are you going to get it to him?" inquired Billy.

      "We are to deliver it to a tent, which we have discovered is only two hundred yards from here", Dietrich responded, "He'll pick it up later."

      "You're not taking it now?" countered Sean.

      "We are", responded Günther.

      "But you will be seen", retorted Sean, with a look of incredulity. [70]

      "Of course we will", whispered Günther, "But that is part of our plan. Who will suspect that we are carrying sly grog in these iron pans?"

      "Its dangerous", responded Sean, "I would hate you two to get caught. Is it really worth it?"

      "Don't worry about us", Günther countered, "We can look after ourselves."

      It was obvious that the Germans were not to be dissuaded. Surrendering their opposition in face of the inevitable, the Irishmen fell to discussing ways in which they could assist their friends as lookouts, or decoys.

      Five minutes later Günther announced: "We are going to make a move." Then, after a moment's hesitation, continued, "We will call by Sven's claim before we cross no-man's land. He hasn't yet sampled the product. We can't leave him out."

      Billy held the flap of the tent open as Günther and Dietrich, each awkwardly lugging a large iron pot, and in single file, emerged from the tent. They hadn't far to walk to reach the tent that protected Sven's claim from the elements. As anticipated, the Swede was gauging into the clay at the bottom of his pit. A vigorous "Hello" drew his attention.

      "We have something for you", Günther yelled into the hole, "We'll leave it by the windlass." Sven, delighted to hear Günther's voice, commenced his ascent, carefully choosing toeholds in the timbers.

      The Germans were anxious to be on their way, and to have the final and most dangerous phase of the expedition behind them. After filling Sven's mug, they grasped the handles of their pots, and re-emerged from the tent. They had scarcely made twenty yards before a distant commotion caused them to lift their eyes from the ground, which they had been scanning to avoid obstacles. Holding the heavy iron containers, they peered into the distance. Voices were raised, several of which were decidedly American. The altercation was taking place close enough for them to be aware of the involvement of half-a-dozen police.

      They became conscious of a figure running towards them. It was a middle-aged Dutchman, with whom they had a nodding [71] acquaintance. He appeared to be picking his way between different claims, hurling whispered advice at whoever happened to be in earshot. As he approach Günther and Dietrich, he slowed down and paused a moment, squeezing out the words, "It's the police. They have arrested Frank Carey. This is the second time this week they have swept the area. It's a set up. He is going quietly, but his friends are very upset. They are taking him in on a sly grog charge." Picking up the scent of the liquid in the crocks, in which his face was reflected, he whispered, "Get rid of that, fast!!"

      Scarcely a second after the Dutchman had taken off, Günther and Dietrich turned, and hurried back to the tent sheltering Sven's claim. As the pots were heavy, and as the Germans were making every effort to avoid stumbling, their gait appeared grotesque. Reaching the safety of the canvas enclosure, they up-ended their pots into the shaft.

      Sven, who by this stage was wedged half way up the pit, found himself drenched by an unexpected shower, the shock of which almost knocked him off balance. Steadying himself, re-securing his toe-holds, and shaking his drenched scalp, he took several deep breaths and looked up. No-one was to be seen. The act of looking up released a stream of liquid that had been trapped in his hair, and that now trickled its way along crevices in his face, and into his mouth. He circulated the substance around his palate, and, convinced that what he was tasting was liquor, and good liquor at that, he recommenced his ascent.

      He emerged from the pit, swivelling his legs onto the ground. He rolled his body over, and drew himself up into a crouching position. While no one was to be seen, he was aware of the sound of splashing water in the area beyond the tent, where he did his puddling. He was about to walk from the tent in the direction of the noise, when he noticed his mug beside the windlass. He peered into its depths, lifted it to his lips, and grimaced as he gulped the fluid down. A smile spread over his face.

      When the Swede emerged from the tent, the sight that caught his eye reduced him to uncontrollable mirth. During his ascent, he had had time to put the strange pieces of the puzzle [72] together. The mug increased his suspicion. His hypothesis was finally confirmed by the sight that greeted him. There, before him, crouched on the muddy perimeter of his man-made billabong, were Günther and Dietrich, scrubbing away at the inside of their iron pots with clay-thickened water with the intensity that could only have been matched by Lady Macbeth. Sven, unable to control his convulsions, rolled back and forth over the ground, tears streaming down his face.

      Later that day, Frank Carey was brought before a police magistrate and sentenced to six months' imprisonment with hard labour for selling two glasses of grog.

      That evening, restiveness among the miners, particularly the Americans, had risen perceptively. The hot winds of official policy were drying out the undergrowth that was feeding the democratic aspirations of what had been a settled and ordered mining population. The situation in Ballarat East was fast approaching a state in which spontaneous combustion was inevitable. [73]

 

 

Chapter 9

      The room was 12 feet by 10 feet. It was richly furnished by the standards of the time. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, patterning the polished floorboards with geometric designs. An oval table, attached to claw-leg supports, set back from either end, occupied the centre of the room. The table was partnered by four chairs, whose elegance complemented its workmanship. Polished timber walls, whose lines ran horizontally, and several wing-backed armchairs completed the decor.

      The room was set aside for the use of special customers, those wealthy enough to rent it, or for friends and cronies of the management. Being apart from the general dining area, it offered privacy and atmosphere.

      On the evening of the 1st of October it was occupied by a party of four.

      Charles Houghton was seated opposite the door. To his right, and with a hand across his shoulder, was Dulcie Finnegan. Dulcie, looking up from the royal flush that he had just fanned out in front of him on the table, caught his eye, savouring with him this moment of triumph. On the other side of the table was Sergeant-Major Robert Milne. The second in his corner, ministering to his defeat, was a woman of coarser appearance than Dulcie. The second woman was attempting to compensate for genetic disadvantages by displaying an ample bust. Revealing as much as could be contained safely in a dress designed for the purpose, Flo Binney was waging all on a single attribute.

      "You have done me tonight", commented Milne, "I will save my revenge for another time."

      "I am sure you will, you old bugger", Charles quipped, "Revenge is your speciality." After a moment's reflection, he continued, "What happened to that American you arrested the other day?"

      Musing on the event, like a bull replaying an incident in which it had gored a matador, Milne responded, "I got him finally. I have been after him for the last six mouths. He eluded me every [74] time. He's ruing the day he crossed me. The magistrate gave him six months with hard labour. Hotham's new regulations played into my hands. I have friends in high places who can hand down stiff penalties."

      "You're incorrigible", taunted Houghton, who, after a moment's hesitation, continued, "I have heard it suggested that you have bile, rather than blood, flowing in your veins."

      Milne was silent for a moment, while his eyes followed the grain in the table. He then looked up at Houghton with a mock sternness that couldn't contain itself and dissolved into uproarious laughter. The infection spread to the others around the table.

      When the waves of raw-edged mirth subsided, Flo, sensing that she could contribute to the conversation without being tripped into an embarrassing display of ignorance, commented, "He can be an animal sometimes." Her remark, paired with the knowing glance she threw in his direction, evoked in him memories of the only sort of intimacy of which he was capable, a vulnerability, the weak sibling of his lust, that was quickly lost, following intercourse, in a reassertion of power.

      Before anyone else had a chance to speak, James Francis Bentley, the proprietor of the hotel, an ex-convict who had made good, appeared at the door, accompanied by one of his waitresses.

      "You have ordered roast beef", he began, "The meal will soon be ready. In the meantime, can I interest you in another round of beers, or perhaps a wine? I have chosen a red for the meal, but you might like something beforehand."

      "More beer", the sergeant major cut in.

      "And a moselle for the ladies", Charles added.

      "As good as done", rejoined Bentley, who immediately took his leave. The waitress gathered up the empty beer glasses and disappeared through the doorway, leaving the occupants of the room to contemplate the meal and continue their conversation.

      Elsewhere in the hotel, the large, semi-detached hotel dining room was full. In one corner, a group of five friends sat around a table, occasionally looking up at one another in silent recognition, as they concentrated on the meal they were consuming. This was the first time any of them had been inside Bentley's Hotel, the most [75] conspicuous and well-furnished hotel in Ballarat. A weatherboard structure, it covered half an acre, and was rumoured to have cost £20,000. It was a far cry from the John O'Groats, which was their usual gathering point.

      Swallowing the slice of roast beef, which he had chewed into thin shreds, Sean looked across at Günther, smiled and commented, "How much of that nugget are we eating tonight?"

      "A tiny fraction", replied his friend, "You do not have to worry about the expense. It is our shout. We wanted you all to celebrate with us."

      Reassured, Sean continued, "It is a pity Sven can't be here."

      "He said he had some letter writing to do", Günther responded, "He received a letter from his mother. Apparently some family matter, something to do with his sister. Whatever it is that is troubling them, it will be months before his reply will reach them. One of the disadvantages of living in the Antipodes."

      "I miss him when he is not around", Sean commented.

      "We all do", Dietrich agreed.

      "If we are here to celebrate your good fortune", Billy cut in, "Let us do so and not become maudlin over Sven's absence."

      Intrigued by Günther and Dietrich's good fortune, the trio from the Eureka Lead listened avidly to the account, delivered in stereo by the two Germans, of the discovery of the 3 oz nugget in the wash dirt at the base of their pit.

      "It seems as if we should have taken up your suggestion of shepherding a claim next to yours", Billy commented, once the group fell silent.

      "Realistically, though", Michael cut in, "They had little to go on except their enthusiasm, and their belief that they would repeat the experience of their neighbours."

      "Well, at least we have bottomed", volunteered Sean, "And we're making enough to keep us going."

      A noisy group of Americans, several tables away, began to attract attention. It was the same group, from California, that had been at John Alloo's the evening that Günther had been embraced, unexpectedly, by the proprietor's daughter. Patrons at other tables began casting glances in their direction. Several of the Americans [76] had reached an advanced stage of inebriation, and were becoming objectionable. One stood uncertainly to his feet, and mockingly suggested that the group toast "the great Robber Baron, James Bloody Bentley." Not to be outdone, his equally unsteady rival raised his glass in the air. "A toast", he said, "to that conniving swine, police magistrate D'Ewes."

      "Shut up and sit down", a voice yelled from one of the tables. It was Constable Timothy Barnes. He had been brought to Bentley's by several of his companions to celebrate his birthday. This was their night off and the last thing they wanted was to be involved in an arrest.

      Not to be deterred, one of the toastmasters shook his head, attempting to focus on the interjector. He took up his half-filled glass, and threw the contents over the policeman.

      Aware of the possibility of an untoward outcome, Günther rose and walked over to the table where the Americans were situated. He was soon joined by his friends. However, attempts as restraining the exuberance of the group, by encouraging them to tone down their remarks, had the opposite effect. The two orators, as if acting in concert, began to throw punches at the young men, whose only concern had been to settle them down. The eyes of the whole room began to focus on the disruption. Increasing numbers of people began to be drawn into the melee. Several of the waitresses slipped out a side door, with the obvious intent of informing Bentley of what was happening.

      The dining room was in an uproar when Milne strode in through a rear door, closely followed by Houghton and Bentley. Sizing up the situation, the sergeant major pushed his way through the crowd to reach the Americans. He laid into them with his baton, and called on Houghton and Bentley to help him drag them outside. While their resistance was more symbolic than effective, a consequence of the quantity of liquor they had consumed, the dead weight of the Americans rendered the exercise more difficult than anticipated.

      In the confusion, one of the Americans, resenting this affront to his dignity, tried to twist himself free of Houghton's grasp. In the process, his legs indiscriminately pummelled whatever [77] happened to be within their target area--chairs, plates, glasses, bottles, elbows, and shins. Sean O'Donnell, who was reaching down to assist one of the casualties, collected the full force of the underside of a boot on his neck and jaw. The blow knocked him off balance. He fell sideways, the bony ridge above his left eye connecting with the edge of the table. He lay on the floor semi-conscious, his face smeared with the blood weeping from the cut above his eye. Those who had been observing the melee from close quarters gathered round, mostly with ghoulish interest, to observe the damage. Billy and Michael were wedged between several tables that had been pushed together in the course of the fracas. Günther had accompanied one of the Americans, who was being unceremoniously ejected, on his winding progress through the dining room and out through the front door. He hadn't yet returned. Dietrich, who desperately wanted to reach his friend, found his progress blocked by a phalanx of curious spectators.

      Before Sean could be reached by any of his friends, the front door of the dining area swung open and Milne strode back into the room determined to maintain command. He was followed by Houghton, who ran his hand through his hair, and began removing unwanted debris from his suit. Focusing on the crowd gathered around Sean's prostrate body, Milne pushed his way into the centre of the circle. Catching sight of the young Irishman, and taking him for an American, he reached towards him, with the intention of dragging him to his feet. A lone voice sought to make itself heard above the hubbub, "He is not one of them." But the comment of Timothy Barnes was lost in the excited, apprehensive chatter.

      As Timothy's voice fell away, dissolving into the cacophony, Charles Houghton elbowed his way through circle, his eyes taking in the semi-conscious miner. It took him several seconds to recognise the injured man. A feeling of satisfaction began to well up from his gut, and passed through his chest before revealing itself in his eyes. As if kicking a lifeless chook gently to determine whether or not it was alive, he jabbed at Sean's shins, which were drawn up under his thighs. [78]

      "He is a troublemaker", he confided to Milne, steeling his eyes to avoid revealing his duplicity, an exercise at which he was proficient. As if reading each other's minds, the two men squatted down, Milne taking the Irishman's legs and Houghton his arms. They lifted him. Before any objection could be made, they hastily carried his limp body to the front door and threw him onto the ground outside.

      His friends, powerless to assist him, and overtaken by the pace of events, made their exit by separate routes, like carriages in a congested street. By the time they reached Sean, a small crowd had gathered to observe the collection of disoriented and bruised bodies that were lying in various states of injury and sobriety on the dusty soil outside the dining room.

      Günther and Dietrich lifted Sean to his feet, positioning themselves on either side of him, with his arms entwined around their necks. Supporting his weight between them, they carried him from the battle-field.

      Several of the Americans, who had managed to retain an element of sobriety, helped their less able colleagues to their feet. Billy and Michael, confident that Günther and Dietrich could manage Sean, assisted with the American withdrawal. As the motley community of the maimed disappeared around the side of the property, the crowd of onlookers, which had been augmented in the course of the exodus, began filtering back inside.

      The injured straggled past the imposing façade of the hotel, its weatherboard walls and sash windows highlighted by the imposing lamp over the front door. One of the Americans paused, appearing to take in the striking majesty of the building. "Bloody ex-con", he stuttered, "He's no more than a front man for some of the biggest names, the biggest rascals in the colony." After a brief moment, as he swayed uncertainly on his feet, he went on, "And Milne, bloody Milne, who does the bugger think he is! I'll have his balls."

      The humiliated digger, and self-appointed angel of vengeance, was interrupted in the course of his parting tirade by a younger companion, who grasped him by the elbow, and began to lead him into the darkness in the direction of the Eureka Lead. [79] Relinking him with several of his companions, the young man fell back until he met up with Günther, Dietrich, Michael and Billy, who had been following up the rear, taking turns carrying Sean between them.

      "How is he?" the young American asked, after identifying himself as John.

      "We really don't know", Michael answered, "We won't be able to tell until we get him to the tent."

      "I hope he will be all right", John commented, in a tone that announced his sincerity.

      "So do we", responded Günther.

      "Look", the American continued, "I just wanted to say thank you for trying to settle our crowd down. It was impossible. You had no hope. There are some really rough diamonds among us. You would find they had hearts of gold if you caught them on a good day. But they were toughened by their experience in California. Grog dissolves what little discretion they retain, and they can become quite abusive."

      "That was not half obvious", responded Günther, the faint hint of wry amusement flickering across his face.

      "Thanks again", John continued, "I hope your friend is OK. What is his name?"

      "Sean", replied Michael, sensing that they had begun developing some sort of bond with the young American.

      "Take care!" John threw back, as he took off to rejoin his companions.

      When the young men arrived back at the camp on the Eureka Lead, they laid Sean on his bed. Considering that he could be concussed, they decided not to try to wake him, but to leave him resting. They covered him with a blanket.

      The noise of their return had attracted Sven, who poked his head in the door to inquire whether anything was amiss. He hadn't expected them home so early. They motioned to him to enter. Concern registered on his face when he caught sight of Sean. He walked over to him, running his eyes over his face, and gently probing the edge of obvious injuries with the tips of his fingers. [80]

      "He's resting. Better to leave him and see what we can do for him in the morning", Sven volunteered. He walked gingerly over to the table and sat down on the end of Billy's bed. In quiet tones, the quartet recounted the evening's drama. Realising there was nothing he could do for Sean at this point, the Swede bade his friends good night, disappearing through the tent flap.

      The others boiled a billy of water and made themselves tea. They sat around the fire, mostly silent, aching for their friend, and wishing there was something more they could do for him. Around midnight, Günther and Dietrich, borrowing a lantern, bade farewell to their companions and set off across the uneven ground in the direction of their claim. [81]

 

 

Chapter 10

      It was 10:00am before Sean stirred. His right hand emerged from under the blanket and brushed against the right side of his face. He winced in pain. His eye was swollen and his jaw bruised. His cheek and nose had been scratched by the nails on the underside of the American's boot. The flow of blood from the cut on his eye, which his friends had managed to staunch the previous evening, had dried on his face, accentuating the damage.

      The sun warmed the area within the tent and Sven, who had committed the morning to sit beside his friend, had almost fallen asleep in its languorous magic.

      The action of Sean's arm, swivelling up to brush his face, jolted the Swede awake. He looked around and noticed that the young Irishman was beginning to stir. He leaned over the bed, taking hold of his hand and moving it away from his face. The restraint, frustrating Sean's attempt to connect with the site occasioning the irritation, accelerated his return to consciousness.

      "Careful, my young friend", Sven cautioned, "Keep your hand away from your face. You have done yourself some damage."

      Sean tried to open his right eye but could only manage to force a narrow slit through which he could discern a vague form. He had little difficulty concluding that the voice was that of his Swedish mentor. His left eye, which had been resting most of the evening against the bundle of clothes he used as a pillow, began to open, giving him a clearer focus. The outlines of the inside of the tent, nearest the flaps that served as a door, took shape. He rolled onto his back, dragging the bedclothes with him, and looked up into the pained face of his friend. The Swede was more aware of Sean's injuries, than was the young man himself, because he could see them. They were also mirrored in his own face, into which they had been etched by a deep connection between the two men.

      The Irishman was about to ask what had happened to him, when his disorientation began to lift, and the events of the previous night came swimming back. He remembered the commotion caused by the Americans, and could recall walking with his friends to their table. Beyond that, his mind was blank. [82]

      "I must look a mess", he said, realising that his face was swollen, and sensing the constriction on the movement of his skin caused by the dried blood. He was aware that one eye socket was twice its normal size, and was conscious that the movement of his jaw, when he attempted to speak, was painful.

      "You do", replied Sven, whose face gradually relaxed, as Sean's responses made him aware that his friend was not injured as seriously as the older man thought he might have been.

      The empathy between the two had grown over recent months. Though their ages ruled out a surrogate father-son relationship, a spiritual bond was evident between the lanky thirty-five year old Swede and the young Irishman. Others had remarked on the fact that it was difficult to resist being drawn to either. There were qualities in both that others found attractive. In Sven it was a calmness and centredness, and in Sean a youthful integrity, generosity, and capacity for friendship. Both men were devoid of pretence and protective self-preoccupation. They found an echo of themselves in each other.

      "I suspect you might be feeling hungry", Sven observed, looking for a response.

      "Give me a few minutes", replied Sean. After a brief moment, during which he ran his hand gently over the right side of his face, wincing several times, he continued, "What you could get for me is some warm water and a cloth. I would like to remove some of the blood."

      Sven leaned forward in the chair that was taking his weight. Pivoting on the balls of his feet, he used his calf muscles to push himself to a standing position. He walked to the opposite end of the tent, where an iron pot was positioned over a bed of radiant coals. The water it contained was simmering gently. With a natural deliberateness, that reflected the wiry athleticism of his body, and the balanced way in which his physical movements flowed. Sven lifted the heavy cauldron from its support. With the aid of a remnant of what had been a trouser leg, but which had been cut down to serve alternative purposes, he tilted the pot and poured several inches of water into a small metal basin. Returning the fluted pot to its iron stand, he took hold of the rim of the basin and [83] picked up a length of material from a small pile of used, but still serviceable remnants that rested on a wooden box that served as a makeshift cupboard. Straightening himself, he returned to his position beside the recumbent Sean.

      "Let me see if I can get some of this off for you", the Swede offered, dipping the material in the water, rinsing it, and allowing it a moment to cool down.

      The Irishman, after a moment's hesitation, decided to submit to the ministration of his friend, who started working first on the thickly caked blood that had found its way to surfaces that were not severely damaged. As he worked his way to more sensitive flesh, and to areas where the bruising was severe, Sven became more aware of the pain he was inflicting, unavoidably.

      "Maybe you would rather take over from here yourself. You are more aware of where you are sensitive", Sven suggested.

      "I think you are right", Sean responded, lifting the weight of his trunk on his elbow.

      "Let me help you out of the bedclothes. They seem to have wound themselves round yourself during the night."

      The Swede reached across, disentangled Sean from his bedding, which he drew back, and steadied him as he swivelled his feet onto the floor. For a moment the Irishman looked dazed, as if he were on the point of fainting. It took him a moment to recover a sense of balance. Once his world had stopped swimming, he took hold of a small metal mirror that Sven handed him, and gazed for the first time at his face. He recoiled from what he saw.

      "I do look a mess!"

      "I won't contradict you", Sven responded.

      For the next few minutes the Swede remained silent as Sean dabbed away tentatively with the blood-stained rag, gradually dissolving the caked blood that had formed protective patches over rent skin. Every now and then he would draw in his breath as the gentle caress of the water-soaked rag exposed a tear in the skin that stung.

      It took the young Irishman about half an hour to sponge down his face. As he did so, he exposed the extent of the bruising to his cheek and jaw, and the damage that had been done to the [84] skin over his eye socket, which had several times threatened to weep.

      While Sean was painstakingly working over his face, Sven kept the basin supplied with fresh water from the pot over the stove. Sensing that Sean had almost completed this initial procedure, he disappeared out of the tent to return several minutes later with a small bottle of Condy's Crystals. He took the bowl and the rag from between Sean's feet, opened the flap of the tent, and, with a circular motion of his right hand, distributed the contents of the water in an ark over the ground outside the tent. Re-entering the tent, and returning to the hearth, refilling the bowl with simmering water and standing it on the table. He added a small quantity of crystals, which turned the water a shade of purple. He brought the bowl back to Sean, and repositioned it between the young man's feet.

      "Repeat the procedure", he suggested, handing Sean a fresh rag, "Hopefully, this will prevent the wounds from becoming infected."

      It took Sean ten minutes of careful application to complete this second manoeuvre. When he had finished, he placed the rag in the bowl and the bowl on the ground.

      By this stage, Sean realized he was hungry. Without considering that he may be unsteady on his legs, he attempted to stand. However, his legs began to go from under him. Sven caught him, and returned him to the bed, spreading his body lengthways on the bedclothes.

      "Rest there awhile", he said.

      After a moment, Sean replied, "It looks as if I can't do much else."

      Sven rose and returned to the stove. He placed a quantity of tea leaves in a billy, which he then filled with water from the pot. After the tea had drawn, he lifted the lid, and, using the wad of material that he had used to insulate his hand from the heat of the iron cauldron, poured a quantity of tea into a metal mug. He helped Sean to a sitting position of the side of the bed, as he had done before, and handed him the mug. [85]

      "When that is cool enough, take a few sips at a time." He again disappeared through the door, returning four minutes later with a small brandy bottle. He unscrewed the top and poured several drops into the Irishman's mug.

      "That might help", he said, screwing the top back on the bottle and laying it on the bed beside Sean.

      Sven once more lifted his frame from the bed and fossicked among a range of food items stacked close to the table. He opened a small tin, and extracted several biscuits. He approached Sean. Bending down, he handed them to the young man.

      "You are best to eat these first", he advised, "Your stomach is probably still a little unsettled. I am leaving you now. You will be OK on your own, provided you don't attempt anything too strenuous. You are probably best to lie down and rest as much as you can. Your body has suffered a considerable shock. I will let Michael and Billy know that you have woken, and that you are taking nourishment."

      Without further comment, Sven straightened and headed for the tent flap. Sean's exhausted, "Thank you", dropped unheard into the vacuous silence occasioned by Sven's sudden departure.

      Exhausted by the effort of sitting up, and the added strain of the meticulous dousing of his face, Sean stretched himself on his bed. By the time Billy and Michael appeared at the door of the tent and peered in, Sean was asleep. Billy slipped in and placed several blankets over him. Looking down at his friend's face, which, while swollen, was clean, he felt something relax within himself--a tension that had been twisting his gut. They would not lose their friend, a friend who injected a spirit of peace and hopefulness into the dynamics of the group.

      At two-thirty that afternoon, Billy, who had been instructed by Sven to pay a visit to Mr. Lum, the Chinese apothecary on Main Road, decided that he had better make a move. He called out to Michael, who was working at the bottom of the pit, that he would be away for about an hour.

      It took him ten minutes to reach Main Road, and another five before he pushed open the apothecary's door. [86]

      Once inside, Billy found himself in a strange world of polished wooden cabinets, divided into small compartments bearing strange names, and of bottles of all sizes. Several of the walls were decorated with small parchments displaying Chinese calligraphy. Behind a counter, and separated from him by an array of preparations, was Lum's daughter.

      "Can I help you?" she asked.

      "Yes", Billy replied, a little flustered at finding himself in an alien environment, and in close proximity to an attractive young woman.

      Concluding that he hadn't heard her, she asked again, "Can I help you?"

      Recovering himself, Billy explained the nature of his mission, "Ointment for cuts and bruises", he said, "What do you have for cuts and bruises? I have a friend whose face is a mess."

      He had scarcely finished before Lum emerged from behind a screen. As the Chinaman approached his side of the bench, he suggested, "We have something that will help. It is an ancient remedy. It will soothe the skin and protect it from infection."

      "That sounds as if it is what we need", Billy cut in.

      "We prepare large quantities of this ointment", the apothecary continued, "Miners are always injuring themselves. It is in constant demand." Anxious to return to his pharmaceutical preoccupation behind the screen, Mr. Lum excused himself, "My daughter can fix you up with the quantity you require."

      Lum's daughter was reaching into a cupboard behind her to secure several quantities for comparison, when the door of the shop opened and Billy found himself face to face with another young woman. This one was English, and vaguely familiar. It took him a moment to put her into context. Before he made the connection, she had begun speaking to the apothecary's daughter, greeting her warmly. They were obviously friends, a fact betrayed by the excited banter that pre-occupied them for the several minutes it took Billy to situate the newcomer.

      As the pieces began fitting themselves together, Billy opened his mouth. It remained open for a moment as the process [87] completed itself, and as he fossicked around for a way to begin the conversation.

      "John O'Groats", he stumbled, "You were at John O'Groats."

      The young woman looked around suspiciously.

      "Sean", he continued.

      She paused a moment, fingering the word "Sean." "Sean, Sean", she seemed to be saying to herself, and then finally came out with, "Sean O'Donnell!"

      "Yes, that's it!" responded Billy, running on with, "I was with him that night, with several other friends."

      The young woman looked at him for a moment. She replayed the drama of the night. She had pushed it from her mind, as she had the memory of the situation in which she had found herself prior to the incident that had introduced her to Sean. As she fondled the memory of her rescuer, her expression began to lighten, "Of course you were, I recognise you."

      Without wanting to give too much away, she continued with, "And how is Sean?"

      The focus had shifted from the two women to the conversation between Billy and the newcomer.

      "Sean, at the moment", Billy confided, "is in a lot of pain, and feeling very sorry for himself.

      "Why? What happened to him?" the young woman asked, betraying an element of concern.

      Billy briefly outlined the previous evening's activities. The association between Sean and his Irish friends, and the two Germans, left his conversational partner confused, as the memory of the incident, that she had unintentionally provoked, cast them as antagonists. However, as the narration proceeded, her face took on a pained expression. Billy read the anxiety in her eyes.

      In the silence that descended, the young woman, asked tentatively, but urgently, "Were is he?"

      "When I last saw him he was asleep in his bed in our tent."

      "Can I see him?" she asked, her concern over-ridding her determination to blot the incident from her mind.

      "Yes."

      "Now?" [88]

      "If you want to."

      "If you can wait ten minutes I will check with my employer to see whether I can take the rest of the afternoon off. If I can, I will come with you now."

      The young woman swung around, walked to the door, opened it and was gone. By the time she returned, a quarter of an hour later, Lum's daughter had already attended to Billy, who had selected a medium-sized phial.

      As the door swung open, and the young woman re-emerged, she called out to Billy, who had continued talking to the apothecary's daughter while awaiting her return, "If you're ready, I am."

      Billy thanked Lum's daughter and made his exit. He was followed closely by the young woman, who was obviously anxious to see Sean. Half-way through the door, she called back, "Good bye, Mary. I'll catch up again soon."

      As the door closed behind the pair, the muffled voice of Mary Lum could be heard responding, "Good bye, Edith."

      It was three-thirty before they reached the tent. Sean, who had slept for four hours, had reawakened. Though still unsteady on his feet, he threw off the blankets, swivelled himself into a sitting position, and pushed himself to his feet. Walking slowly, he made his way to the hearth, supporting himself by the table and by grasping hold of several of the supports that held the ridge-pole in place. He made another cup of tea and tore himself a slice of damper. He finished both and swung his body back onto the bed. He was covering himself with blankets when Billy's face appeared between the tent flaps.

      Noticing that his friend was awake, Billy asked, "Are you ready to receive visitors?"

      Looking somewhat puzzled, Sean responded, "Yes, why shouldn't I be?" imagining that Günther and Dietrich were outside. Billy appeared to be acting strangely, and Sean was not sure where it was leading.

      "I have someone here, who wants to see you", Billy responded, the hint of a knowing smile breaking out on his face.

      He pulled back a flap and ushered Edith inside. [89]

      Their eyes met. Edith, catching sight of Sean's face, involuntarily drew breath. Sean, taken by surprise, was lost for words. Eventually recovering some composure, and in an attempt to lighten the moment, he volunteered, "News certainly travels fast!"

      "Particularly when you have good friends, who are concerned about you", Edith responded. Taking a moment to run her eyes over his face, Edith continued, "Your face is a mess. Billy wasn't exaggerating."

      Billy, sensing he was superfluous, asked if Edith would like him to pour her a mug of tea. She thanked him, but declined the offer.

      "I will leave you two together for a while to catch up", Billy volunteered, closing the flap and making his way to the claim site to inform Michael that he was back.

      Sean and Edith were silent for a time, each soaking up the emotion of the moment and reflecting silently on the strange combination of circumstances that brought them together again.

      Edith finally broke the silence with, "Your friends were concerned for you. Apparently they were not sure that you would pull through."

      "That is what friends are for, to worry!" Sean answered, and then continued reflectively, "Yes, I do have good friends. Some people are luckier than others, and I am lucky in my friends."

      They continued their conversation, which picked up as the strangeness wore off. Both recognised that they were comfortable in the other's company. The atmosphere was charged with the potential for deeper intimacy.

      In the course of the conversation, Edith expressed her puzzlement at Billy's comment about Günther and Dietrich, which appeared to suggest that enemies had somehow become friends. Sean laughed, explaining the sequence of events that led to the altered alliance. "I would trust them with my life", he commented, "Though I have to admit that it must all seem strange to you. You would have had to live through it for it not to feel strange."

      Sean was anxious to ask Edith what had happened to her since their first and only encounter. Maggie's establishment, [90] though a relatively new business venture, had acquired an enviable reputation, and the Irishman was aware that there was a connection between Maggie and Edith, in spite of a stubborn incongruity.

      "You are wondering if I am still in Maggie's employ", Edith began, aware that an almost feminine sensitivity, and an element of embarrassment precluded his asking the question he wanted to ask. "The short answer is, I'm not."

      Edith went on to outline the circumstances that led her to accept Maggie's offer of sanctuary, and the difficulty she had embracing the activities associated with the profession to which Maggie sought to introduce her. Maggie had eventually seen that Edith, in spite of her attractiveness, would not blossom under her tutelage. Ingrained scruples, and too strong a sense of self, cultivated by her parents, aborted her mentor's attempts at dissolving her reluctance.

      As the bordello increased its custom, and the number of its operators, Maggie was too busy to express disappointment at Edith's "failure." She kept her employed, because of her administrative skills, as a sort of general factotum, to keep accounts and run messages. Edith, in the meanwhile, had made friends among the community of shopkeepers on Main Road, and had been offered several jobs. One of these, at Jones' Drapery, she had accepted. She remained in contact with Maggie, though the ties were becoming tenuous. She could not forget that Maggie had helped her when she most needed help.

      Time passed without the two young people noticing it. The sun was no longer heating the air inside the tent, which was cooling as darkness descended. It was 5:45pm when a shadow appeared outside the door. One of the flaps was pulled back to reveal Sven, who was carrying a steaming bowl of soup and a freshly baked slab of damper. The Swede introduced himself to Edith as he squeezed past the two bodies.

      "I thought you might be hungry", Sven suggested, addressing himself to Sean. "There is sufficient here for the two of you", he continued. He left the soup on the table and stoked the fire, placing new logs on the disturbed coals. Before long they had [91] begun to burn, and he returned to the table. He picked up two bowls and filled them with the steaming liquid. The aroma was enticing, and had already wafted in the direction of Sean and Enid. "I'm not staying", Sven explained, "But Billy is waiting to take you home, Edith, and will call by in fifteen minutes."

      The thick soup was welcomed by the two young people, particularly when complemented by the warm damper. They were finishing off the final scrapings of soup when Billy arrived.

      Edith reached over. Taking hold of Sean's hand, she warned, "You look after yourself. If you don't, you will have me to answer to."

      Billy looked across at Sean, and then back at Edith. He smiled, but kept his counsel. Edith turned to Billy, indicating that she was ready to leave, and waved back at Sean as the tent flap closed behind her. [92]

 

 

Chapter 11

      Robert Shaw was standing at the end of a large oak table slicing a leg of lamb that had been brought to the table by one of the maids. He relished this duty, which symbolised his role as head of the household. It also reinforced a deeper feeling, the sense that, as provider, he was supplying the needs of his family. This family was positioned either side of him, his wife on the right and his daughter on the left. The ritual, the slicing of the roast and the apportionment of vegetables, was neither affirmed nor questioned. It was taken for granted.

      The two women were discussing current theatrical offerings, ranging from musical performances, through melodrama and slapstick to Shakespearean tragedy. One could be forgiven for assuming that their conversation was deliberately staged to exert pressure on the principal male in their lives. Their constant lament was that he was a dour stay-at-home, who appeared to delight in frustrating their social ambitions. The object of their performance had to admit, as he monitored their conversation, that he was up against a formidable combination.

      The truth was that Robert was a home-loving soul. He had sufficient contact with people during any one day to more than satisfy his need for social interaction. He enjoyed the occasional evening out, but preferred the relative solitude afforded by his own home to the busy hubbub of the social round that attracted Morag and was beginning to entice Ruby.

      Robert enjoyed his own company, did not need others to give him a sense of completeness, and lived a relatively rich internal life. When opportunity presented itself, he would settle himself into a comfortable chair and work his way through one of the classics of English Literature that adorned the bookcases in his study. He was particularly fond of the novels of Sir Walter Scott. It was not that he cut himself off from the two important women in his life. He enjoyed their company--the stimulation of two people, who, in appearance, interests, and perception, were so very different to himself. Although he did not indicate as much, he was [93] often energized by the disagreements they had with him that arose out of these differences.

      Another reason why Robert resisted Morag's attempt to draw him more fully into the social life of the town was that he could not abide pretentiousness and superficiality. He respected integrity and straightforwardness, and had not the slightest interest in the dance of illusion that often substituted for honest engagement.

      As a respected elder of the Presbyterian Kirk, Robert was also aware that his minister, the Rev. Mr. Hastie, was implacably opposed to theatre-going. It was a godless form of amusement, according to Hastie, who, like many churchmen, recognised its potential for sexual titillation. It was also associated, in Hastie's mind, with prostitution. Certainly, there was a historical link between the two professions. In Ballarat, as in other cities, they operated in adjacent locations. Robert was not blind to this association, but held a more liberal view than his minister. While recognising that the theatre was not free from moral ambiguity, he appreciated the art form in its more classical expressions. Nevertheless, in spite of his relative openness, he was aware that if he were observed to be a frequent patron of the theatre, he would be subject to public reprimand, even if he were not directly named.

      Robert finished carving the meat and was apportioning baked vegetables to the three plates, when Morag suddenly looked up at her husband, and, for a brief moment, fixed her gaze on him. The conversation with Ruby had worked her up. Anger at Robert's persistent refusal to schedule an evening at the theatre into the family's social agenda was in imminent danger of breaking through containment levies that she had long ago put in place.

      "Robert", she began, her anger now undisguised, "Why do you so persistently refuse to take us to the theatre?"

      "I have been too busy", he began, "Furthermore, the prospect of spending an evening in the company of people who would like to feel important, and whose conversation is inane, is more than I can tolerate, at least with any frequency."

      "Frequency! How often have we been? When did we last go to the theatre? It is so long ago I can't remember." [94]

      "It was two months ago."

      "Two months ago. That is exactly it. Two months!!"

      Ruby looked up at her father. There was a deep sadness in her eyes. She was in the process of discovering a new world. Where her father saw dangers, hypocrisies, agonies, his daughter, who was awakening to its beguilement, saw only opportunities. As Robert looked into his daughter's eyes, he felt a heel for playing with her affection. This Thespian of the domestic hearth caved in, stepped out of the role he was playing, and came clean.

      "Actually", he began, looking first at his wife, and then at his daughter, "I have booked seats at the Victoria Theatre. I inquired and discovered that D.G. Adcock is playing Macbeth. His troop is touring the colonies. I am told it is an excellent production."

      This sudden change of tone and intention was almost too much for Morag, who realised that Robert had been teasing her. He had obviously been provoked by her outburst into parrying her thrust with a little harmless deception. However, she was never happy at being toyed with, or in being out-manoeuvred, and the ruse was threatening to backfire. She felt like standing up and walking out of the room, but several factors held her back. She wanted to go to the theatre, and was grateful to Robert for having purchased the tickets. Furthermore, she also saw that she could use a strong, but more restrained reaction as a means of pressuring her husband to invite Charles Houghton. She was aware that he had not warmed to the young man and would need strong encouragement to include him in the party.

      "Robert", Morag eventually responded, "You're playing with your daughter's feelings. Why didn't you tell us before that you were intending to book seats? You stood there, listening to our complaints, and said nothing. I find it hard to understand you."

      "To tell the truth", Robert replied, "it wasn't until this afternoon that I made the decision. I was at the store. I had finished going through the accounts. I reflected on the fact that it had been some time since I had taken you both out. I had seen the advertising outside the theatre and decided to book the seats while on my way to the foundry." [95]

      "Father, why didn't you tell us when you arrived home? You are a tease."

      "Robert", Morag cut in, "Why don't you get an extra seat for Charles Houghton? You owe it to your daughter."

      Robert drew in his breath. While enjoying the game, he had been caught out. He had to admit that it had not been as harmless as he had supposed. He had underestimated, even if only to himself, the strength of the opposition to what was seen as his narrowing of the family's social horizons.

      Partially to recover ground, and because he had insufficient evidence to confirm his suspicions about Charles Houghton, Robert agreed to the young man joining them. He would organize an additional ticket the following day.

      Several nights later, after arriving home from the foundry, where he had been developing plans for expansion into a range of new products, Shaw found his wife and daughter anxiously wandering around the house.

      "Robert, where have you been?" his wife chided, "It is almost time for us to leave."

      Ruby was pacing the floor, her body alive with anticipation. She had occasionally caught up with Charles at social functions, following the picnic at Burrumbeet, but he had been in the company of others. Charles, for his part, aware of Robert's cautious attitude towards him, kept his distance. As his pursuit of the older man's daughter was driven, not by infatuation, but by avarice, this self-denial was in no way painful. It was merely a dexterous move on the chess board.

      "O Father, I can hardly wait to see him again", Ruby suddenly burst out, "Thank you for inviting him." She rushed over to her father and threw her arms around him. Robert's eyes, as he looked over his daughter's shoulder, betrayed the pained look of a man who realised that he was being thanked for an action he had been reluctant to take because it could prove, in the long term, to be to his daughter's disadvantage.

      The phaeton arrived outside the Victoria Theatre half an hour before the production was about to begin. Charles Houghton, who had made his own way to the venue, was standing, ramrod [96] straight in his uniform, outside the theatre, scanning the area for the arrival of the Shaws' carriage. When he caught sight of the vehicle, among half a dozen conveyances that were discharging theatre-goers onto the roadway in the immediate vicinity of the Victoria, he walked quickly to the door of the carriage. He arrived before the groom had had time to apply the brakes and scramble down from his perch. He opened the door, and, feigning the mannerisms of a footman, began, "I am at your service ladies. May I help you from your carriage?"

      Morag, who was nearest the door, was the first to respond. Rising from her seat and preparing to alight, she answered, "You certainly may, kind Sir."

      Once Charles had safely deposited Morag on the ground, he turned his attention to Ruby, whose excitement could scarcely be contained. As she was alighting, she almost lost her footing and fell against Charles, who caught and steadied her. She blushed, as she reached the ground, and began straightening her dress.

      The entrance foyer was filling with patrons, who were either catching up with acquaintances or promenading in their plumage.

      It was twenty minutes before the Shaws and their guest were seated. By that time, the seats were mostly filled, and a dozen musicians had begun to sculpture an atmosphere that settled the audience down and prepared it for the eerie opening scene with which Shakespeare's popular tragedy Macbeth begins.

      Seated at the edge of the party, beside Ruby, and at a maximum distance from Robert, Charles, looking around, caught side of one of his fellow officers from the Gold Commission. He smiled at him knowingly, nodding his head.

      The music began to subside and the curtains opened to reveal three hags, mischievous sprites, intent on the deadly task of planning the murder of King Duncan and the ruin of a weak-willed Macbeth, by playing to the latter's ambition.

      "When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightening or in rain?" incanted the first of the witches, as the trio laid plans to ensnare the unwitting victim, to have him impale himself on his own petard. [97]

      During intermission, when patrons had opportunity of commenting on the skill of the performers, it was generally agreed that Maude Downing, a local Thespian, who portrayed Lady Macbeth, had eclipsed Adcock, who played opposite her as Macbeth. Local pride prejudiced this judgement, as did the strength of the character Maude was portraying, when contrasted with that of the weak-willed Macbeth, Downing's performance, nevertheless, was worthy of the acclaim it was receiving. She was holding her own against the internationally celebrated Shakespearean actor and the local audience loved her for it.

      During the interval, Charles excused himself and caught up with Will Redmond, the fellow officer he had spied in the audience earlier. They stood outside the theatre, exchanging comment, not so much on the performance, as on the women each of them had accompanied. They agreed to ride home together.

      "Where have you been?" Ruby remonstrated, in a voice edged with disappointment, as Charles settled into his seat alongside her. The theatre was in darkness and the three witches were intoning, "Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble."

      "I needed to catch up with a colleague", Charles answered.

      "What colleague", Ruby inquired, revealing a residual anger and an incipient jealousy. She noticed how women were attracted to Charles, who rarely gave the impression of discouraging them.

      "Will Redmond", Charles responded, noticing, with the mention of Redmond's name, a reduction in the level of Ruby's anxiety. She threw him a faint smile and they returned their attention to the play.

      With Malcolm's final exordium, his invitation to his thanes and kinsmen to witness his crowning at Scone, and the descent of the curtain, the lights in the theatre were relit and the patrons rose from their seats and began milling around in clusters, delivering final verdicts on the performance.

      Robert had been able to lose himself in the play, and to distract himself from business concerns. "I am glad I made the effort", he reassured himself, "Perhaps we should do this more often." Looking around, he noticed Morag in conversation with the [98] wife of the theatre's manager. She was praising the quality of the performance. Ruby was talking animatedly with Charles, her eyes glued to his. Robert was in the process of pulling on his coat when he felt an arm on his shoulder.

      "Robert, may I have a word?" a firm masculine voice asked inquiringly.

      The Scotsman pivoted to the right and found himself looking into the welcoming face of Derrick Portlock, a business acquaintance. An astute Cornishman, Portlock had developed a profitable candle and soap business. A lucky strike at Golden Point had furnished the initial capital.

      "Derrick", he began, "I hadn't realised you were here. You enjoyed the performance?"

      "Yes. Macbeth is a favourite, and this was one of the best performances I have seen in years. I hardly expected to see you here, though. You're hardly a regular theatre-goer!"

      "You're right. I am usually too busy, or too tired. Morag has been at me for some time, and she has a point. I should consider the needs of the women in my life more than I have done, though I am not yet ready to admit to this change of heart, at least to those affected by it."

      "Robert", Derrick began, his voice inflected with a note of seriousness, "I have been meaning to catch up with you, but, like you, have been too pre-occupied to take the time."

      "You have me intrigued", Robert responded, his gaze intensifying in anticipation of a shift of focus.

      "When I first caught sight of you I said to myself 'Why don't you talk to him now'? Then another part of me countered with, 'But this is not the place. He is out with his family. I shouldn't intrude upon him'. However, observing that your family was occupied, and that you were on your own, I overcame my hesitations and decided to at least raise the issue with you. If you are interested, we can meet later and talk the proposition through at our leisure."

      "Proposition?"

      "Yes. I have a proposition to put to you."

      "You have me interested." [99]

      While listening to Derrick, Robert kept Morag in his peripheral field of vision to monitor her intentions. He became aware that she was looking at him to determine if he wanted to leave. He indicated with a wave of his hand that he was happy to continue socializing, for the moment. She returned with vigour to the animated discussion she had been having with several friends.

      "This proposition", Robert continued, "Lay it out in outline for me?"

      "You will be aware", Derrick began, "that there has been talk of the possibility of mining the ore beneath the basalt."

      "I gather such a project would require considerable organisation, machinery, and planning. The capital required would be considerable."

      "You are right. But the rewards could be great."

      "I agree with you. But so too would be the risk."

      Derrick, deciding to cut through to the core of his proposition, which he was certain Robert had already discerned, asked, "Are you interested?"

      After several seconds silence, Robert responded, "Tell me more."

      "I have been talking with a group of friends, Welsh miners, who have experience in this sort of mining. They have considered staking a claim in the area to the west of your foundry, towards Sebastopol. However, as you can guess, they lack the necessary finance, or the means of raising it."

      Interested, but cautious, Robert inquired, "What part do you see me playing?"

      "Your business and financial expertise would be invaluable."

      "Go on."

      Derrick, observing that his quarry was beginning to play with the bait, continued, "Your contribution on the financial side would be what you wanted it to be. However, your influence, your standing in the business community, your reputation for caution, together with your willingness to invest money of your own in the project could be a means of gathering together a group of investors whose combined resources could float a company large enough to [100] take on the project. Your influence would also help to bring the banks on side."

      Robert took a moment to reflect. It would not be too rash to say that he was interested. The ironmongery was running itself. It merely needed monitoring. The foreman he had appointed was capable and honest. The foundry was still developing, but there was no reason it should require as much of his time as it had been doing. He had been contemplating employing a manager. He had also been looking for a new challenge.

      "I could be interested. We will organize a time to sit down and look at the details. I am not committing myself, but it is worth looking into."

      "Robert", Morag's voice broke into her husband's focused intensity, "I think it might be time we left. The theatre is almost empty, and I am getting strange looks from the staff. They are wanting to be rid of us."

      Acknowledging Derrick, she went on, "I will have to keep you two apart. You are bad medicine for each other. I notice your wife leaving with your son-in-law. They must have given up on you."

      "Apologies", said Derrick, "It is my fault. Don't blame your husband."

      The candle and soap manufacturer smiled, nodded his head, turned on his heel and headed for the door. Before stepping into the street, he turned and called back, "I will call by and arrange a time."

      "Agreed", responded Robert.

      Robert looked around him. Standing to the right of Morag were Ruby, Charles and Charles friend, who was introduced as Will Redmond. Charles had waited to acknowledge Robert, and thank him for the evening. Aware that they were the last to leave the theatre, Robert, without further delay, guided his party through the front doors and onto the earthen walkway next to the road.

      The groom, who had been sitting, shivering on the backboard of the phaeton, wondering if his employers were going to remain in the theatre over-night, was awakened by the opening [101] doors and the sound of shuffling feet. He scrambled down, grateful that he did not have to wait any longer in the cold.

      Robert and Morag, who were now standing on the road beside the phaeton, bade good evening to the two young men, who stood like sentinels, ready to farewell the party, and clambered aboard. Ruby looked directly at Charles, caressing him with her smile.

      "Thank you. Thank you for coming", she said.

      "The pleasure was mine", the young man responded, taking her hand and assisting her into the carriage.

      When the phaeton had disappeared into the darkness, the two men walked to where their horses were hitched. They unknotted the reins and mounted the animals, heading them down Main Road in the direction of Bakery Hill.

      They had not gone far when they came across a group of four women headed for their sullied bowers in Esmond Street, following a weary evening, during which they serviced a party of policemen who had contracted for their favours.

      "Whores", Redmond commented to his companion, in a voice he intended the ladies to hear.

      Leering at the women, Houghton responded in a tone heavy with disdain, "Bloody whores." Noticing the growing alarm in their faces, he fed an incipient sadism with the follow-through: "They should be whipped."

      The two young men continued their journey. When they were out of ear-shot, they broke out into uncontrollable laughter. It was the sick laughter of those for whom cruelty is funny, and for whom a pathological exercise of power substitutes for strength of character.

      But they were not unobserved. Dulcie Finnegan was also returning from a tryst. Hidden from their gaze in a narrow walkway between two shops, she had a clear view of the incident. For a moment she stood riveted to the ground, as she processed what she had observed. When she looked up, her face had changed. It was tense, determined, resolute. It retained this appearance during her walk to the United States Hotel, into whose cavernous interior she disappeared. [102]

      On the following Sunday morning, during the course of the Mr. Hastie's sermon, mention was made of the pernicious evils to which the population of Ballarat was subjected. Theatre-going was included in a long list of seductive entrapments.

      "Traditionally, theatres have been associated with prostitution", Hastie intoned, "And no self-respecting Christian, no God-honouring Presbyterian, should patronize them. The Kingdom of God and the Kingdom of the World are set in direct opposition to each other. The Church, as the bridgehead of the Kingdom, should keep itself spotless."

      Robert winced, not from any sense of personal guilt, but from reflection on the black and white rhetoric of his minister. Shaw was deeply spiritual, and yet, in spite, or maybe because of this, he found it difficult to tolerate Hastie's blanket criticism of what the minister barely understood. He loved the man. Hastie was personable and generous, within bounds. But Robert did not always agree with him.

      "It may be argued that attending the theatre is innocuous, particularly when what is being offered for consumption is considered a classic. But this is specious reasoning, a ploy of the Devil to ensnare good Christian people into compromising their morals and diluting their faith."

      Robert was certain that the grapevine had worked. Knowledge of his attendance at the theatre had been conveyed to Hastie, who was attempting to counter this breach in the dyke, and to embarrass his principal elder, without actually naming him, into conforming to what Hastie, and the majority of the congregation, considered acceptable social mores.

      The remainder of the service washed over Robert, as he wrestled with the tension between his religious commitment and his determination to follow his own guidance.

      Once or twice during the castigation, Morag looked across at her husband, a nervous half-smile playing across her face. She had, on previous occasions, wondered why Robert had not taken Mr. Hastie aside to point out his disagreement with the minister over certain things that had been said, and to remind him that his salary depended on the good will of the congregation, particularly those [103] members who contributed the majority of the offering. But Robert had not considered using this sort of leverage to blackmail his spiritual adviser. He could understand Morag's anger, but this was not this way. He merely offered a quiet word, now and then, when such seemed appropriate. He had not been backward in arguing his case at meetings of elders. However, Robert was sufficiently in control of his opinions, and destiny, not to be disconcerted overly when his minister's pulpit ramblings ran counter to his own opinions.

      He was still mulling over the issue that had been broached as he waited in line, with his wife, to greet the minister, who was standing by the door farewelling parishioners.

      It was a moment of inspiration. As he reached out his hand towards Hastie he was overcome by an impish sense of fun, and a desire to inform the preacher that he understood that certain comments in the sermon had been directed at him, and that he had not agreed with them. He volunteered, teasingly:

      "Reverend, It was the best production of Macbeth I have seen in years." [104]

 

 

Chapter 12

      Robert Rede, frustrated by the stream of peremptory commands that kept arriving on his desk from Governor Hotham, ordering him to instruct the police inspector to conduct more frequent licence raids, shouted, in the direction of one of his junior officers, "Houghton, come here!"

      Charles was mentally preoccupied, shuffling sensuous images of Dulcie while working out his next move in the seduction of Ruby and in the plundering of her father's fortune.

      "Houghton, didn't you hear me? Come here. Now. Not in ten minutes time."

      The extra decibels penetrated Charles' nefarious reverie. Jolted into the present, the young officer jumped up from where he was sitting. Walking briskly across the room, he placed himself in front of the commissioner's desk. Looking suitably chastised, he began, "Sorry Sir, I was occupied and didn't hear you."

      "Make sure you are listening next time."

      "Yes Sir."

      "I want you to take this note to Inspector Evans. Hotham wants us to step up licence raids. I don't agree with the policy. The undergrowth is tinder dry, and this is equivalent to putting a match to it. I put my view to the governor, but he chose not to listen. There is nothing further I can do. I have to obey orders."

      He handed the note to Houghton, who glanced at it, taking in the contents.

      "Off with you."

      The young officer half saluted his superior, walked back across the room, through the door, and onto the verandah. His feet hardly connected with the ground as he made for the Police Barracks.

      As he passed through the door of the barracks, he noticed several policemen lounging near the entrance. Their uniforms, which were damp from the drizzle that had fallen during the morning, bore traces of clay. The bottoms of their trousers were streaked with yellow lines that looked as if they had been [105] trowelled on in random geometric patterns. They had obviously returned from yet another licence raid on miners, and shop-keepers suspected of selling sly grog. They looked exhausted.

      The barracks was a shambles. The resources of the Inspectorate had been overtaxed by the number of raids the police had been required to make. There was insufficient personnel to attend to ordinary policing duties. Record-keeping had been in abeyance for some time. It was obvious that this situation could not continue for much longer.

      Houghton, who knew his way around the building, made straight for Inspector Evans' office, which consisted of a desk, piled high with paperwork, in a corner of the room.

      The inspector, catching sight of the young man Timothy Barnes had worsted in the horse-race, called out, as he approached:

      "What might you be about?"

      "Commissioner Rede, Sir, has sent me."

      "I can't guess why!" Evans replied, almost to himself.

      "He sent me with this note, Sir. I understand it is the most recent instruction he received from Governor Hotham."

      Evans let out a sigh and leant back in his chair, closing his eyes as if willing sleep to overtake him and transport him beyond the reach of responsibility. Returning his attention to the note in front of him, he began reading, his eyes making jerky progress down the page.

      "Blast", he exploded, "That incredible naval martinet does not know what he is asking, much less what he is provoking. The man must be deaf, if not mad. I have explained that we do not have resources enough to carry out his orders, and the city is becoming open season to petty criminals with half a brain, who can seen that we are under-staffed."

      "He is the governor, Sir."

      "Don't I know it?" Evans retorted, "But being Governor does not stop the man being an idiot."

      "No, Sir."

      "Thank you Houghton. You were just delivering a message. I shouldn't take my frustration out on you." [106]

      "I appreciate the strain the force is under. I am happy to assist in any way I can."

      Evans thought for a moment. He rested his elbow on the table and his head in his hand. Finally, grasping the ends of the desk with both hands, and pushing himself back on his chair, he began, "I might take you up on that. I am sure Rede can spare you for several hours."

      Looking around the barracks, the inspector spied the two men Charles had noticed as he entered the room. One was seated on a chair, the insole of his right boot hooked under the chair, and over the strut bracing the two sets of legs. The other was leaning his shoulder and head against the wall.

      "Thompson! Craik!" he yelled, "Come here."

      The two men looked at each other, as if to say, "What now? Can't he leave us alone for ten minutes? We're buggered."

      "Sir", they both answered, slowly, as if one was a faint echo of the other.

      Recovering a semblance of decorum, they straightened themselves and their uniforms and made their way to the inspector's desk, their weariness clearly evident in their faces.

      "I need you for another sweep of the field. This afternoon is soon enough. Sar-Major Milne won't be with you this time. I am conscripting Houghton to organise it. You are to follow his advice."

      The two men looked at each other, and then back at the Inspector. Houghton was a junior member of the commission, and had no standing in the force. He had no authority over them. He was an officer of a rival administration, and, more significantly, was not particularly well-liked by junior officers of the constabulary because of his arrogance.

      Reading their minds, Evans reassured them, "You will not be under his orders in a formal sense. He will accompany you as an adviser."

      As if to explain himself, he continued, "We are being pressured to increase the number of licence hunts. We don't have the manpower. I cannot afford to send a senior officer with you. Houghton is the next best thing. He has been with our men before, [107] and his position in the commission is senior enough to justify my appointing him as adviser."

      He had scarcely finished before Sergeant Major Milne strode through the door, banging his boots on the floor as he brushed himself clean. Catching sight of Charles, an ironic grin spread across his face. "What the bloody hell are you doing here!" he began, almost oblivious of Evans.

      As he approached the group gathered around the inspector's desk, he offered a perfunctory, "Sir", in Evans' direction, as if it were a mandatory doffing of his hat to a retired and now senile functionary. Standing toe to toe with Houghton, he asked, with an element of playful provocation, "What brings you here. You are not changing sides?"

      "No!" Charles retorted, countering the charge, "Why would I want to?"

      "Because this is where the action is. This is where the real men work."

      At this point Evans cut in, "Do you mind if I interrupt? It would be interesting to observe the full fifteen rounds, but we don't have the time." Addressing himself to the sergeant major, he said, "I am glad you are back. I would like you to advise Houghton on the details. I know he has been on several licence sweeps before. He is not unfamiliar with the procedure. But I would like you to run him through it again. I am deputing him as "adviser" on a sweep this afternoon. I don't have anyone else to co-ordinate it."

      "Leave him to me. I will turn him into a bastard yet."

      Milne threw an arm around Charles' shoulder and shepherded him in the direction of the back wall of the building, where a small table, bare of paperwork, served as the rarely frequented office of this bull of a man.

      Milne offered Charles the chair and positioned himself on the desk. His right leg fell over the front of the desk. His left leg, which acted as a counterweight, was drawn up on the desk, the sole of his boot resting along the inside of his right thigh. Thompson and Craik had wandered back to their position near the door to continue their conversation, and to grumble about the [108] imposition of the additional assignment scheduled for the afternoon.

      Milne turned to Charles and began. "Who would have thought it would come to this! You leading a licence hunt. Things are getting bad."

      "Maybe it is because you have exceeded your quota."

      "Bloody likely", Milne exploded, roaring with laughter.

      "OK. You claimed I needed to be tutored. I don't agree, but go ahead. After all, you are the most experienced man on the field, the most feared, and most hated."

      Milne beamed with pride, his cheeks swelling with sardonic humour as he recalled the fate of a young Scot, who had called him a "bloody mongrel." His mates found their friend the next day at the bottom of their pit, his head smashed and body bruised by the descent. Evidence was insufficient to incriminate the sergeant major, who contended that the man was drunk, and had tripped.

      "The aim", began Milne, "is to determine when the rabbits are thirsty enough to venture out of their burrows. Three-thirty in the afternoon is a good time. Have a few men stationed in the area you target, not troopers, but paid outlooks, who will rat on their kind if the money is good enough. They will tell you where the rabbits make for, where their suppliers are. When they signal, swoop in and make your arrests. Some will escape to their burrows. But you will get enough to make it worth while. When you are finished with the sly grog traders, ask for mining licences. Most won't have them with them. Arrest them and cart them away before they have a chance to go back to their tents for them. Don't take any notice of their squawks. Bloody easy, and more fun than bear-baiting!"

      During the monologue, Houghton sat back listening, mesmerized by the energy with which the instruction was given, and the obvious pleasure Milne gained from what to him was the equivalent of a blood sport. The man was devoid of feeling and proudly paraded the fact. Houghton was honest enough with himself to recognise that he both admired and envied the older man. Milne's cruelty was raw and undisguised. He made no pretence of being other than what he was. He flaunted it before the [109] miners, and in the faces of his superiors, who were more than a little intimidated by him. Houghton's cruelty was duplicitous, disguised by a superficial urbanity. Yet it was no less vicious, or destructive.

      Recovering his grip on the present, Houghton smiled at Milne, complimenting him with the response, "You old bastard."

      The older man untangled himself from the desk, planted two sturdy legs on the floor, and shot at Houghton, "Off with you. When you come back I want to hear that you benefited from the instruction." As an afterthought he called out in the direction of the door, "Thompson, Craik, look lively. Fill Houghton in on the finer details of our modus. Grab those other two drunkards, Walsh and Spencer. Get on with your afternoon's entertainment."

      The two troopers, who had continued their conversation in a low key while Milne was issuing instructions, followed Houghton through the door, reluctance evident in their ambling gait. The party collected Walsh and Spencer, two of a much larger number of military veterans who had become incurable inebriates and had been hired by the Inspectorate. They were part of a group that was milling around outside the barracks, chatting and soaking up the meagre warmth provided by the October sun.

      Amid considerable grumbling, the five men mounted, setting off in the direction of the Eureka Lead. As this was a practice run for Houghton, it was suggested by Thompson and Craik that the Eureka Lead, with its population of excitable Irish and thirsty Americans, would not disappoint expectations. Walsh and Spencer were instructed to travel ahead to scout the area and to ask lookouts where they considered sly grog was being sold.

      When Houghton, Thompson and Craik arrived in the area of the Lead where a concentration of mining claims was being worked, they noticed that they were being watched with more than ordinary attention. Walsh and Spencer, who had spaced themselves at a distance from each other, and who were attempting unsuccessfully to appear nonchalant and disinterested, were signalling that the lookouts were proving unco-operative, and that there was a threatening spirit in the camp. [110]

      Frustrated and chuffed at being outmanoeuvred, Houghton decided to order an immediate sweep of the mines and canvas structures in the near vicinity. Thompson and Craik signalled to Walsh and Spencer, who came running. Thompson took Walsh, and Craik, Spencer. They burst into tents, accosted men who were sweating over puddling machines and peering down mine shafts. They were met with sullen hostility. Houghton bounced between the two separate areas of engagement, becoming increasingly enraged as it began to dawn on him that the raid was producing little result. He was not used to coping with the sense of powerlessness and the embarrassment the lack of result fostered. Licences were produced, and the troupers could find no evidence of sly grog. It was as if the rabbits had entered into a conspiracy against him.

      On the edge of desperation, Houghton caught sight of a man, apparently oblivious to what was going on, limping across the open ground in front of him. Frantic for a result, Houghton raced towards him, grabbed his arms and shook him, demanding, "Where is your licence?" When the man didn't answer, but looked up at him, confused and alarmed, Houghton yelled, "Your licence, you idiot." Intimidated by Houghton's manner, and the loudness of his voice, the cripple tried to break free. The Commission agent, whose anger was now at fever pitch, called out to Craik and Walsh, who were nearby, "Arrest this man."

      The noise created by the troupers' investigations had drawn the attention of Sean, Michael and Billy, who were several hundred yards away, and outside the perimeter of the sweep. Sean, who had been working the puddling machine, laid the spade against the cradle and joined Michael in the tent. They called Billy up from the base of the pit, where he had been chipping away at the clay.

      Houghton's near hysterical commands drew them out of the tent. Sizing up what was happening, Sean said to Michael and Billy, "Go and see what you can do, but be careful of the boar, I wouldn't want him to gore you as well. I will see if I can fetch Father Smyth." He had hardly finished before he set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the Catholic Chapel. He met the priest approaching from the direction of the church. He was [111] accompanied by two Irishmen, who were out of breath. They had conveyed news of the sweep and the priest wanted to be on site to protect, or, at least, to support any of his parishioners who were being harassed. Sean caught him up with the latest news.

      When the four Irishmen arrived at the scene of the fracas, Houghton was berating the cripple, whom Craik and Walsh had secured between them. Michael and Billy were shouting at Houghton, who could not hear what they were saying because they were being kept at bay by Thompson and Walsh.

      The priest, obviously agitated, but in control of his emotions, approached Houghton.

      "That man is my servant. Why are you arresting him? What has he done?"

      "He hasn't a licence."

      "He doesn't need a licence."

      "He refused to answer our interrogation. It was obvious he was keeping something from us."

      "He was keeping nothing from you. He is Armenian. The man can't speak English."

      Sensing that his only prey was in danger of escaping, and that to return to the camp empty-handed would be an embarrassment surpassing his defeat by young Barnes at the annual horse race, Houghton, like a fish puffed at the gills, yelled at the priest, almost hysterically, "I am arresting him. Keep your distance."

      Father Smyth, feeling anxious but not intimidated, approached closer and was about to speak again when Houghton continued, "I have no doubt that you would lie to save your own. You are all alike, you filthy Irish. You are born provocateurs, insurrectionists. You want to assure me this man is innocent. A likely story. You must think I am an idiot."

      Smyth was lost for words. His mouth was open, but nothing came. He was collecting himself and rapidly considering a range of strategies. Taking advantage of the momentary lull, Houghton called out to Thompson and Craik, "Take him to the camp and charge him with being unlicenced."

      "You can't do that", Smyth half argued, half pleaded. [112]

      "You see if I can't", replied Houghton.

      The cripple stumbled as they led him to Walsh's horse. They bound his legs and hands and laid him across the animal. Houghton and three of the troopers mounted and set off for the camp. Walsh followed at a distance, his horse's bridle in his hand, leading the animal and its human cargo. It was impossible to read the emotion in the Armenian's eyes. They were focussed on the horse's belly.

      On the following day the priest's crippled Armenian servant was charged at the police court with being unlicenced. Houghton arrived as the charge was being handed down, and had it struck out. He persuaded the magistrate to charge the unwitting victim, instead, with assaulting a trooper. [113]

 

 

Chapter 13

      The enveloping gloom was palpable. It chilled the bones and numbed the minds of the half-dozen occupants of the John of Groats on the early afternoon of Saturday 14 October.

      Sven, a tankard resting on the table several inches from his right hand, was reading the Ballarat Times, which was spread out in front of him. His hair, slightly dishevelled, was falling over his forehead. From time to time it slipped further. Its ends, curling under, began irritating his eyes. His right hand lifted itself from the table, flicked his hair back, and then returned to finger the bottom right-hand edge of the paper.

      "The authorities are absolute fools", he began, addressing no one in particular, except perhaps himself. His voice, like the low rumble of distant thunder, continued, "The magistrates are playing favourites. It is not justice they are practicing, but cronyism. They will reap the whirlwind."

      Sean and Günther, who were seated opposite the Swede, were startled by the uncharacteristic verbal ejaculation of their friend and mentor. Usually taciturn and in control of his emotions, Sven was betraying an energy and loquacity rarely associated with his ambient centredness. He was obviously stirred to his core.

      "What do you think will happen?" Sean asked, his eyes seeking an answer in his friend's face.

      Sven looked up, slightly embarrassed that his conversation with himself had been overheard. A hint of a smile played around the corners of his mouth, as he acknowledged the question. For a moment his gaze returned to the table, which, along with the tankard and newspaper, were relegated to the periphery of his awareness. His mind was preoccupied as he weighed the gravity of the situation in an attempt to project its consequences into the future.

      "The men have had enough. Their tolerance of stupidity, injustice and cruelty has reached its limit. They will not put up with any more. The authorities will bring about the changes they [114] are thwarting by their very resistance to them. But these changes will not be effected without a measure of violence."

      "Violence is no stranger to this community", Sean volunteered.

      "Violence provokes violence", Sven responded, extending his analysis, "Injustice calls out for remedy. Good men, however peace-loving under ordinary circumstances, will not stand by and allow others to be taken advantage of by authorities abusing their positions."

      "What you are saying is that the limit has been reached", Billy interjected.

      "That is what I am saying", Sven responded, looking up at Angus McKeon, the landlord, who had seated himself disconsolately at the end of the table to the right of the Swede. Throughout the conversation, Angus had been so pre-occupied that he had hardly heard a word. The spiked edges of the melancholy that was paralyzing him were needling him in the gut. Realising that the others at the table had turned towards him, he looked up, a doleful, vacant expression in his eyes.

      Sean, with an almost feminine sensitivity, caressed the man's pain with the whispered words: "He was your mate, wasn't he?"

      "Yes."

      The group of friends could see that the publican was on the point of breaking down, a legitimate but embarrassing reaction they had no desire to provoke further. They returned their attention to their immediate circle.

      "Either Farrell or Bentley did it", Dietrich commented, aware that his observation was not a personal opinion, but the strongly held conviction of the bulk of the mining population of Ballarat.

      Seven days earlier one of the regulars at John of Groats, James Scobie, a fellow countryman and close friend of Angus, had celebrated a reunion with a long-time friend in the company of the regular patrons of the hotel. Sven, Sean, Billy, Michael, Dietrich, and Günther were present. Songs were sung in honour of the two Scotsmen, the regular pianist excelling himself in spite of, or maybe because of, having imbibed sufficient ale to render him moderately drunk. At half-past twelve in the morning the guests of [115] honour left, making their way, unsteadily, towards the Eureka Lead. Their route was not direct, as they were less interested in reaching their destination than in continuing their reminiscences.

      About one o'clock Scobie and his mate Martin found themselves outside Bentley's Hotel. Noticing that a light was on, they knocked to gain admission. When there was no response, they pounded the door. Slightly off balance, due to his state of inebriation, Scobie accidentally smashed an adjacent window. Alarmed by the sound of the smashing glass, and fearing the worst, Bentley, his wife and a friend, Farrell, who had formerly been chief constable at Castlemaine, raced around the hotel to the front door. With Mrs. Bentley screaming in the background, Farrell grabbed a spade, bringing it down on Scobie's head. Martin had been knocked senseless prior to the assault on Scobie, and was in no condition to observe what had happened to his friend.

      Scobie didn't recover. At the inquest, the jury, incompetently directed by the coroner, brought in an open verdict. Having time to reflect, nine of the twelve jurors, unsettled by the verdict they brought down, wrote an open letter to the Ballarat Times, disagreeing with their initial conclusion.

      Suspicion fell on Bentley, who was consequently examined by the local bench. Police Magistrate D'Ewes and Commissioner Rede brought in a majority finding that exonerated him. Assistant Commissioner Johnson dissented from their opinion. The crowd that had gathered in the courtroom couldn't believe that Bentley had been acquitted. Aware of D'Ewes friendship with Bentley, and suspecting a financial interest in the hotel on the part of the magistrate, spectators at the trial were convinced that they had witnessed a miscarriage of justice. This was confirmed by the fact that they could not help noticing that D'Ewes' treatment of witnesses was biased in Bentley's favour and that the two had chatted together amicably during an adjournment. When the verdict was announced, the courtroom was filled with a spontaneous hissing.

      The Ballarat Times continued to rework the original incident, the subsequent coronial inquiry, and Bentley's trial, reflecting the general disbelief at the fact that the hotel proprietor had been [116] acquitted. Sven followed developments closely, and it had been his reading of the most recent opinion on the issue, together with the dire predictions that accompanied the detailed analysis, in the copy of the Times before him, that evoked his earlier mutterings.

      "How long are we going to allow this sort of thing to continue?" Dietrich asked, sweeping his arm around as if to encompass all at the table in the challenge of his interrogatory remark.

      "What can we do!" Billy uttered. His statement was more an expression of frustration than a question.

      "We are limited in our options when the law is against us", Sven volunteered, "Even if the law is an ass, it is the law. Our only option is to attempt to change the law, but none of us can do this on our own. We must combine our effort."

      "What is this going to involve?" Dietrich asked, his eyes riveted on the Swede.

      "Obviously some form of co-ordinated disobedience. But this disobedience cannot afford to be merely an expression of frustration. That would leave us weak and exposed. And we do not want to evoke anarchy. Anarchy doesn't solve anything. Ridding ourselves of current injustices by overthrowing the system doesn't guarantee that it will be replaced by a more beneficial and just process."

      "Where does this leave us", Sean asked. He had been following the conversation closely.

      "It is my suspicion", Sven began, "that recent incidents have generated a determination to see things changed. I have noticed this spirit among miners, shopkeepers, many businessmen, and not a few officials. Men of goodwill realise that the system of government regulation on the goldfields is not working. It is unjust. It denies a large percentage of the population a say in the way they are governed."

      "If the Star and the Times, and the talk in the town is anything to go by", Sean responded, "then I would have to agree with you."

      "The mood is explosive", Michael added. [117]

      "Are you planning to do something Sven?" Dietrich inquired, suspecting that this is where the Swede's comments might be leading.

      Sven looked down at the floor, his face a study in concentration. While those watching him concluded that he was carefully assessing a range of scenarios before replying, close observation revealed that contradictory emotions were fighting for dominance within his wiry frame. An inclination to grasp the initiative was effectively restrained by factors beyond the cognizance of the friends observing the struggle. He finally replied, "I wouldn't rule out the possibility, but I don't suspect I will."

      "I doubt if you will need to, even if you were so minded", Sean broke in, "Feeling is running high. Something is bound to happen."

      "I have heard that Father Smyth plans to say something at Mass tomorrow. There is talk of his calling a meeting to review the situation", Billy volunteered.

      "That wouldn't surprise me", Sean responded.

      "They are saying the Armenian is still in gaol", Michael cut in.

      "It's unbelievable. How could he get away with it", Billy shot back, and then went on, "That Commission agent. What's his name?"

      "Houghton", replied Sean.

      "Yes, Houghton. Who does the bastard think he is?"

      "The Almighty!" suggested Dietrich.

      From behind a hand that supported his chin, the deeply timbred voice of the Swede could be heard mumbling, "A mean one that." Having roused himself from absorption in the article he was reading, to deliver his judgement, Sven returned his attention to the paper.

      When the conversation meandered off in the direction of the Armenian, McKeon, having recovered a degree of self-control, picked himself up and returned to the kitchen to ensure that there was sufficient liquor for the evening's entertainment, and to oversee the preparation of the food. [118]

      A quarter of an hour later he appeared at the door of the kitchen. Approaching the friends among whom he had settled himself earlier, he asked, "Another drink for anyone?"

      Before any in the party had time to reply, a heavy American accent broke in with, "Did someone say 'drink'?"

      The party of friends, who, until that moment had had the hotel to themselves, looked across to the door, which was filed with the massive frame of one of the Americans they had encountered at Bentley's pub on the evening that Sean had collected a boot in the face. Behind him, in the gaps between his body and the door-frame, they caught sight of the rest of the party. Following up the rear was the young man who had identified himself as John. He smiled and waved, on recognising the unassuming heroes of that confused evening.

      The Americans settled themselves on the other side of the room. They spoke rapidly, voluminously, lubricated by the liquor they were drinking. The young man broke into their conversation and began pointing to the party at the table opposite. One by one they looked around, a faint recognition dawning. Their memories were assisted by the account of the evening that the young man had given them. Tentative smiles came to their faces, as they nodded their heads in recognition. At a signal from the bull elephant, the largest and most loquacious of the Americans, the party rose from its table and approached the group on the opposite side of the room.

      "Mind if we join you?" the leader's voice boomed out.

      Without waiting for a reply, they threw their legs over benches and settled in.

      "What do you think will happen?" one of the Americans asked.

      "Happen to what?" Billy responded.

      "The Scobie affair", the man replied.

      "The pits are buzzing with talk of insurrection", another of the Americans cut in.

      "There is a lot of unhappiness and a lot of anger", Sean responded, "But insurrection? That might be stretching it a bit." [119]

      "The talk we heard would suggest that 'insurrection' might not be an inaccurate description", a thin man, and one of the least voluble of the Americans, commented.

      "The steam in our boilers has reached an explosive pressure", the leader commented, rejoining the conversation, "That bastard Milne has been toying with us. He won't leave us in peace to enjoy our grog. He regards us as ticks. We are determined to hang onto the carcass until we bring it down."

      "That smart arse, Houghton", continued one of his lieutenants, "is certain to come to a bad end. We are happy to contribute to that end."

      As if the subject had temporarily exhausted itself, the conversation tapered off. A brief silence ensued, which was broken by Sven, who, in a slow and modulated voice that contrasted with the bombast of the Americans, asked, with an apparent innocence, "What are you planning to do?"

      The leader, looking up at Sven, and silently acknowledging the Swede's underplayed personal authority, particularly among the group they had gatecrashed, responded, in a more measured tone, "We have been thinking of organising our own Boston tea party."

      "There aren't enough of you, and circumstances favour your adversaries", Sven commented quietly.

      "You're right. But desperate situations call for desperate measures."

      "Desperate situations call for careful measures."

      The American looked at the Swede, acknowledging his wisdom. Checkmated for the time being, but without loss of face, be began, in a more sober tone, "I have heard talk of a meeting being called over the Scobie affair. This coming Tuesday evening, I believe. Those organising it, Scotsmen mostly, are solid but concerned citizens. They want to register a protest, and consider something has to be done to remedy the injustice and to direct the community's anger into positive channels."

      "I have heard a similar whisper", Sven replied, "It appears my sources are accurate. Shall we see you there?"

      "You certainly will" [120]

      With that, the Americans, like a flock of birds responding to a change in direction taken by their leader, rose, said their goodbyes, and walked single-file through the door, each, in turn, thanking the publican--who stood by the kitchen door bemused by the choreography.

      When they had gone, Angus wandered over to the men from the Eureka and Red Hill Leads, who had become his friends.

      "What were you all talking about?" he inquired, "The conversation was certainly animated, and, from what I could observe from a distance, serious."

      "Your mate Scobie", Sean began, "has not been forgotten. It appears that a meeting has been called of interested parties to look into the issue. Those taking the initiative are determined to find, arrest, and convict the murderer. It won't bring Jimmy back, but it should ensure that justice is done."

      "I hope it does", the publican replied, "I hope it does."

      Sven, who had remained seated throughout most of the afternoon's chain of conversations, stretched himself and rose to his feet. "I am looking forward to a good night's sleep", he announced, gathering up his paper and moving across to where Angus was standing. He threw an arm around the publican's shoulder, "Don't take it too hard, Angus. Scobie was your friend. Don't let your grief sour you. They'll be punished, by the law, or by the poison of a niggling memory they won't be able to erase. Bear up, my friend."

      The others rose, their minds occupied with anticipations of the 17th. They would be there. Each embraced McKeon, most of them silently, and followed the Swede out into the bracing October afternoon. [121]

 

 

Chapter 14

      The following day Robert Shaw indicated to Morag and Ruby over breakfast that he may be late arriving home. He suggested they proceed with the evening meal without him. When she inquired as to the reason, he was evasive. Suspecting that her husband was deliberately keeping her in the dark, and unwilling to be fobbed off, Morag rose from the table. With her legs firmly planted on the ground and her hands folded across her chest, she began the interrogation.

      "And where will you be?"

      "I have business to attend to."

      "What business?"

      "I have promised several friends that I will spend the afternoon with them."

      Morag was aware that Robert was determined to thwart her inquisitiveness for as long as possible, and that he was deliberately keeping his movements secret from her. Gripped by a combination of fear and anger, she became increasingly agitated. Her eyes lost their usual soft lustre, becoming fixed and hard. Riveting her attention on Robert, she demanded, "What is it that you won't tell me about?" Intuitively responding to the change her accusation effected in her husband, Morag, changing tack, softened her voice and continued, "If I didn't know you as well as I do, I might suspect that you were seeing another woman behind my back."

      "Oh, Mother", Ruby cut in, failing to discern the full range of nuanced subtleties in her mother's comment, "You know Father wouldn't."

      "Yes, of course I do", Morag responded, her smile embracing her daughter, who was still seated at the table, "But Father is holding something back from us."

      Realising that he was cornered, and that no amount of ducking and weaving would enable him to avoid burdening him family with the knowledge of his plans for the afternoon, Robert decided to come clean. They may remonstrate with him and try to dissuade him from carrying out his intention, but at least they [122] would know what he was about. Robert pushed his chair back from the table and stood to his feet.

      "A meeting has been called this afternoon to discuss the Scobie affair. It is a public meeting. The organizers are seeking as wide a representation as possible. Thompson and Carmichael have asked if I would be present. I had planned going anyway. Like others, I feel there has been a miscarriage of justice. This injustice must be addressed."

      Morag listed silently as her husband spoke, her fears gradually rising. Robert rarely betrayed much emotion, and his explanations, always carefully thought out, were succinct and to the point. But this left Morag never really knowing what he was feeling, as distinct from what he was thinking. This frustrated her efforts at achieving a deeper intimacy and left her with a niggling insecurity. It was this insecurity that fuelled the spontaneous response: "Robert, you can't go to that meeting."

      "I can and I am", Robert replied calmly and without animus, "It is a commitment to myself, to my beliefs and values, as well as to others, that I cannot responsibly deny."

      "But it could turn violent and you could be hurt."

      "It could be peaceful and I could make a difference."

      Realising that she was making little headway, Morag drew a dragnet across her mind to collect together as many reasons as were available to her in the hope that their combined weight would dissuade her husband from attending the protest meeting. In the course of dredging the sediment, she unearthed deeper motivations.

      "You could put yourself off-side with our friends. You could alienate the people in this town who really count."

      Robert realised that the conversation was venturing into an area both of them usually avoided. They generally made allowance for differences of opinion and courteously and strategically refrained from attempting to impose their perspective on the other. As a consequence, Robert took a moment to reply, carefully sculpting his response.

      "Morag, all the people in this town really count." [123]

      Recalling a recent sermon from Hastie, in which the minister had commented on the way Jesus had been no respecter of persons, and aware of her involvement in a range of charities in the town, Morag was momentarily cut off in mid-flight. It was a moment before she responded.

      "Robert, I know that we are responsible for helping those in need. Those of us who have should assist those who haven't. But it doesn't mean that we need to identify ourselves with them. We're not rough. We're not coarse. We don't drink ourselves silly."

      "All the more reason for those of us who are sober, and are familiar with commercial and legal processes, to make our contribution. To assist the miners best, the bulk of whom are hardworking, upright, decent fellows, we must sometimes put ourselves in the position to experience what it is like for them."

      "Robert, I can't argue with you. I don't have the ability. But I am afraid for you. I was talking to Commissioner Rede the other day and I know how concerned he is. He said that if the situation gets out of control he can't be responsible for what happens."

      The temperature of the debate had decreased, even if Morag's anxiety had not. Ruby was silently observing the interchange, paying attention to the way her parents sought to negotiate their way towards a compromise.

      "Morag", Robert began, in a conciliatory tone that was tinged with an element of tenderness, "I must go. But I will be careful. If fear prevented me from attending, or if I were to be persuaded, against my settled conviction, to absent myself from the meeting, I would find it difficult to live with myself."

      "Robert", Morag cut in plaintively.

      "I know this is difficult for you", Robert continued, "But I must go and I will be careful."

      Realising that further pleading was useless, Morag walked over to her husband, threw her arms around him and squeezed him tightly, her head resting against his chest.

      "I don't know what I will do with you", she said, more to herself than to her husband. [124]

      Ruby rose from the table and embraced both of her parents, "Sometimes I don't know what to do with you two either. But I am glad I have both of you as my parents."

      Ruby pulled back and Morag released her hold on Robert.

      Straightening his clothes, and pulling on his coat, Robert announced, "I had better leave for work. I have much to attend to before this afternoon's meeting. I will be careful. You are the two most important people in my life. Even if only for your sakes, I will not be exposing myself to danger unnecessarily."

      Robert opened the door and headed off in the direction of the gig, which the groom had brought to the front of the house.

      On his way to the foundry, and later, en route from the foundry to the shop, Robert noticed that the whole town was placarded with notices about the meeting. It was difficult for anyone to avoid knowing that it had been called. The projected gathering was the talk of the town, even among those who did not intend being present, or who were unable to attend because of business or personal commitments. There was an atmosphere of nervous expectation. The mood was low key, rather than explosive.

      By mid-afternoon a crowd began gathering on the Melbourne Road close to Bentley's Hotel. By the time Shaw arrived, numbers had swelled to around fifty. He quickly identified Thompson and Carmichael, who noticed his arrival. The three soon fell into conversation.

      "Inspector Evans came to talk with us earlier", Carmichael began, "He didn't appear overly concerned, but wanted to convince himself that our intentions were peaceful."

      "When we explained the nature of the meeting, and indicated who were involved in setting it up", Thompson commented, taking up the narrative, "he seemed much assured. He spent some time speaking with Hugh Meikle, who, as you are aware, was one of the jurors. He has been appointed chairman by the steering committee."

      "It did not come as a surprise for Evans to discover that most of us were Scotsmen", Carmichael cut in, "But it seemed to reassure him." [125]

      Volunteering an opinion, based on his acquaintance with the inspector, Shaw commented, "I suspect his sympathies are with us, even if his hands are tied."

      While talking to Robert, Thompson and Carmichael had been scanning the crowd. They were anxious to catch up with other notables whom they were hoping would attend. Aware of the arrival of several other carriages, their agitation increased.

      "Glad you could come, Robert", Thompson commented, as the two men moved away in pursuit of the new arrivals.

      Robert was about to move off to talk with a business acquaintance, when he caught sight of Sean O'Donnell. He remembered the young man visiting the shop in Main Road. He had been impressed, in spite of the brevity of their encounter. Sean, who was in conversation with a tall, wiry Scandinavian, looked around and noticed the ironmonger. It took a moment for recognition to dawn. When it did, he waved, a faint smile crossing his lips.

      Sean took hold of the Scandinavian's arm, pointed in Robert's direction, and began leading his older companion towards the Scot. It took him several minutes to reach him. The crowd was expanding and they needed to weave their way around human obstacles. The three men finally stood facing each other.

      "Mr. Shaw", Sean began, "I would like you to meet a friend of mine, Sven Lungren."

      Sven offered an open smile, looking deep into the other man's eyes. "Sean has spoken about you", the Swede began.

      "I would be intrigued by what he had to say", Robert replied, "Our only encounter was brief."

      "You have a reputation in the town", Sven responded, "You are held in high regard. I have only seen you from a distance. I have to confess that I patronize the opposition, merely because I have had no reason to change suppliers, not because of any reluctance to engage your services."

      "Businesses are built on relationships. Your supplier is obviously trustworthy."

      "He is, and taking my custom elsewhere would be betraying a friendship." [126]

      "I wish I had your custom, and that of many more like you."

      Bringing the conversation back to the afternoon's agenda, Sean asked Robert, "What do you think will be the outcome of the afternoon's meeting?"

      "Immediately, a resolution of the issue of Scobie's murder. Long term, a fairer system of land management, and the opportunity for men of all walks of life and conditions to have some say in the way they are governed."

      "Current injustices can't be allowed to continue", Sven offered.

      "I agree", responded Robert, "Hopefully, Scobie's death, while a tragedy and a travesty, will not have been in vain."

      "Let us hope that the meeting this afternoon", Sean commented, reading the minds of his more senior companions, "will begin the process of change."

      "This is our hope", Robert responded.

      "Most of the miners feel it could have been any one of them, rather than Scobie", Sven volunteered, "Until the person who killed him is identified, charged, and convicted, the community will be restive. The issue must be resolved. It is important that we demand this resolution, and work out effective ways of ensuring that it is carried through."

      "It is also important that the initiative does not fall into the hands of hotheads", Robert was quick to add, "Otherwise, there will be unnecessary bloodshed and the overriding intention will be aborted."

      "I couldn't agree more", Sven responded.

      While they had been talking, Sean caught sight of Günther, Dietrich, Billy and Michael, who were searching for their friends. Sean signalled wildly, eventually drawing their attention. Acknowledging the benefit of the conversation they had had with Robert, Sean and Sven excused themselves, making off in the direction of their friends.

      Robert, gazing after them as they departed, was convinced that he had done the right thing in insisting, over breakfast, that he attend this meeting. He was impressed with both men. He resonated with the openness and capacity for balanced appraisal [127] that the Swede had demonstrated in his brief comments. He was drawn to a depth in the man, which he sensed was beyond his capacity to plumb. His opinion of Sean was confirmed. Although still young, Sean exhibited incipient wisdom and integrity.

      From the time the ironmonger arrived, Shaw was aware of the presence of Charles Houghton, who was hovering around the outskirts of the gathering, identifying individuals he knew and seeking to gain a sense of the mood of the men. He occasionally cast a glance in Robert's direction, taking note of those to whom he spoke. He observed Sean and Sven speaking to the man he had tabbed as his future father-in-law. He remembered O'Donnell from the fist-fight on the Eureka Lead, and from the fracas at Bentley's Hotel, when he had helped Milne deposit the Americans unceremoniously outside the dining room. He felt a hatred building inside his body. With a cunning that substituted for intelligence, he realised that he was disconcerted by Sean, whose presence he continued to sense as a vague, inchoate threat.

      Noticing that Robert was alone, Charles made his way through the crowd towards the older man. The Scot was not looking forward to talking to Houghton. He was suspicious of the young man's intentions. Furthermore, he distrusted and disliked him. Shaw was unhappy with himself for feeling this way, but there was little he could do about it. He trusted his instincts, which he had no wish to over-rule.

      "Sir", Charles began, "I wasn't expecting to see you here among the rabble."

      "I don't see any rabble", Robert replied stiffly.

      "It was a way of referring to the miners", Charles explained. Realising that his prejudices were exposed, he tried to recover ground, with the comment, "You're a cut or two above the rabbits."

      "Am I?"

      "You are a man of substance and reputation", Charles ran on, imagining that Shaw, like himself, would have moved by an appeal to his vanity.

      He had misjudged his man. The Scot had long ago discovered that people treat each others in the manner in which they expect to be treated. Shaw, savouring this confirmation of [128] aspects of his judgement of the young man's character--his brittle vanity and inordinate ambition--reflected on the fact that people reveal an immense amount about themselves the moment they open their mouths. The way they frame what they say betrays them.

      "Young man", he began, a note of authority flecked through his rich Scotch brogue, "every individual is a person of substance and deserves our respect. A man is judged, not by his position or wealth, but by his character."

      Sobered, and feeling that he had been put in his place, Charles looked for an opportunity to escape. He had no intrinsic interest in speaking to the ironmonger. He found him staid, even a little pompous. But he had made the effort, because he judged that he needed to cultivate the old gentleman if he were to win the daughter's hand. What he experienced as a put-down rankled, but he tried his best to hide his feelings.

      "Well, I had better be off", he commented breezily, "I have been told to leave and join Commissioner Rede and Assistant Commissioner Amos at the Eureka outstation. My reputation among the miners is such, I am told, that my presence here could provoke violence."

      The comment was made, less as an explanation of careful strategy and more as a boast, the boast of a bully.

      "I presume I will see you again", Robert commented as the young Commission agent disappeared into the crowd.

      The crowd appeared to be well disciplined, though several Americans, situated fifty yards from where Robert had positioned himself, were talking loudly among themselves. While there was a scattering of nationalities, the Scots predominated, which probably contributed to the sobriety of the atmosphere.

      When the gathering was formally called to order, the chairman, Hugh Meikle outlined the issues with which they intended dealing. The meeting was orderly and the discussion to the point. It was decided to petition the Governor to reopen the brief on Bentley. Expenses would be covered by a subscription list that would also furnish a reward for the apprehension of Scobie's murderer. A committee was formed to carry through the mandate. [129] It comprised Shaw's two friends, J.R. Thompson and A. Carmichael, as well as T.D. Wanliss, J.W. Gray, W. Cockhill, A. McP. Grant, and an Irish neighbour of Scobie's, Peter Lalor.

      The troopers kept a low presence at the meeting. A party of mounted police hovered around the periphery of the group. A large force of foot police, hidden from view, was stationed in the hotel, as a response to a request from Bentley, who was alarmed that the meeting was being held only a short distance from the hotel. Sobered by recent events, and sharing an element of sympathy for those who wished to see Scobie's assailant brought to justice, the police were carrying no weapons. Neither could they discern any weapons in the crowd.

      When the meeting broke up, the crowd began drifting in the direction of the Hotel. The mounted police were headed towards the hotel, and the crowd followed them. Shaw felt himself drawn in that general direction. As he ambled across the grass, he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned around and found himself facing Derrick Portlock.

      "Derrick", Shaw began, "I wasn't aware that you were here."

      "You couldn't be expected to know that I was. It was a large crowd, more than I would have anticipated, though I realised that feeling was running high."

      "Let us hope that something comes of the resolutions that were passed."

      "Robert", Derrick's tone became more deliberate, "I have been wanting to see you, to talk to you about the proposition I put to you."

      "I have been thinking about it."

      "And what conclusion have you reached?"

      "I have decided, against my better judgement, that I will join you in the venture. I can't pass it up. I realise that the foundry is still in its infancy, and could benefit from my time, but it is established. So long as I maintain a watching brief, it should continue to grow."

      "Large-scale mining under the basalt is the way of the future." [130]

      "I agree with you. I have helped finance several smaller projects, of which I am now a partner, but these don't offer me the opportunity, the challenge that I have been looking for."

      "I can't tell you how happy I am that you have come to this decision."

      "You will have to introduce me to the Welshmen you talked about when we first discussed the project."

      "They are keen to meet you."

      Robert had not mentioned this prospective venture to Morag. He made a mental note to discuss the matter with his wife, now that he had committed himself, at least verbally. There would be time to pull out, if Morag's opposition was sufficient to necessitate this. He did not anticipate it would be, though he knew she could be concerned about the risk.

      The two men were now standing by themselves. The main section of the crowd had moved on, and was gathering outside Bentley's Hotel. People were milling around, without any clear intention. Energy was building, however.

      Just as Robert was about to quiz Derrick on details of the project, an audible groan issued from the crowd. It was a statement of disdain towards the police, who were little respected, even hated. The two men looked around.

      They heard the sound of stones tinkling on glass. The stones were thrown by several young boys. As they watched, the atmosphere began to change. Several men took up larger boulders and hurled them at windows. One rock hit the magnificent lamp over the front door.

      At this point, Robert grabbed his friend's arm, "No", he said, "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. The two men began running towards the crowd, hopeful that they could help stop a descent into chaos. But there was nothing anyone could do. It was no more possible to halt a cyclone than to arrest the momentum of the group. It was fuelled by pent up anger, transformed into rage.

      The situation was now completely out of control. The building was being torn apart. Enraged men brandished sticks, stones, and spades. They tore down furnishings and threw them [131] out of windows. Others used their hands to tear weatherboards from the building.

      In the midst of the melee, Sub-Inspector Ximines attempted to persuade Bentley to take his horse and ride off in the direction of the Camp, where he would be safe. But Bentley, unwilling to feature in this diversion, slunk off.

      Robert, who, with Derrick, was standing still, transfigured by the scene, saw Commissioner Rede appear at one of the windows. Rede clambered up onto the windowsill in an attempt to address the crowd, but was howled down, and became the target of a barrage of eggs and rubbish. His presence, his stiffness, and ineffectiveness, served only to inflame passions.

      As the two men approach closer to the scene of the dismemberment, Derrick thought he saw tiny flames. He drew Robert's attention to the pin-points of light. It soon became evident that fires had broken out in a number of locations. The warrior ants demolishing the building retired as the separate fires came together to create an inferno. The wind drove the flames into the bowling alley, which was attached to the hotel. The stables went up, as did the dining room, Linquist's Auction Mart, tents and stores, even the new concert hall and billiard room that were in the process of completion. The flames lit up the sky, and the huge bonfire could be seen from miles around.

      Exhausted by the exhibition of unleashed fury, which he had witnessed, Shaw turned to Portlock and placed a hand on his shoulder.

      "That committee will have more work to do than we imagined. Scobie's death has highlighted the need to address the broader question of reform, the weeping sore that has been growing larger by the day. Let us hope that the authorities here take note, and that the colonial government acts with wisdom and expedition to remedy the rampant injustices that have given rise to tonight's entertainment."

      "I hope you are right", Portlock echoed, "I hope you are right." [132]

 

 

Chapter 15

      The previous week had frustrated and exhausted Charles Houghton. As he lay back on the perfumed sheets, and allowed his body to relax into the mattress, he felt as if the strain and tiredness was draining away.

      The Camp had been under siege. Commissioner Rede, vacillating between despair and stubborn resolve, was at his wits' end. He was humiliated by the manner in which his authority had been disregarded and his dignity lampooned during the melee at Bentley's Hotel, where he had found himself the target of flying missiles. The feckless dignitary attempted to buy time and preserve authority by withdrawing like a snail into its shell. There was much puffing and blowing, but the fact that the perimeter of the Camp was constantly surrounded by a cordon of soldiers and police was a truer indication of the actual state of affairs.

      Charles, who had been confined in the Camp precincts most of the time, was suffering from claustrophobia and boredom. This enervated him. While he was restive because of what he considered Rede's inaction, and would have preferred to bring the conflict on, he found himself, to his own disgust, ingesting the atmosphere of fear that gripped the Camp. His energy, which fed on conflict, had turned inward and was poisoning his system. It had been evoked by the play of events, but had been denied release. He was both sick of himself and his confinement.

      As he rolled over and gazed into the smiling face of Dulcie Finnegan, he decided that this was not the occasion to fritter away an opportunity for satisfying his appetite for sensual pleasure. He reached out his right hand and ran his index finger along the length of her silhouetted face. Dulcie, unable to repress a smile, continued looking at the ceiling as his finger, after playing with her hair, ran down over her forehead, along her nose, over her lips and chin and then slipped down the curved incline from her jaw to her long elegant neck. His hand came to rest on the top of the bedclothes that were covering the rest of her body. She looked across, mischief and provocation in her eyes. [134]

      Dulcie shifted onto her right side. With the deliberate intent of prolonging the engagement, she began, "I hear Commissioner Rede is feeling a little fragile."

      "A little fragile", Houghton retorted, "The ineffective little man is a mess."

      "That is hardly the way to talk about your boss."

      "It's true", he responded, "The man hasn't the guts to take decisive action. He should be showing the rabbits and their victuallers who's boss."

      "But the word is that he has taken some harsh measures."

      "He has. He talks about teaching the diggers 'a fearful lesson', but all he does is increase penalties, which merely stiffen the resolve of the miners and shopkeepers to bring him down."

      "I have heard that he has set bail for the men charged in connection with the riot at Bentley's Hotel at £500, and is also demanding a £500 surety."

      "That has certainly stirred them up. The stupid bugger must have forgotten that Bentley, who was charged with murder, and was as guilty as a fox in a chicken coop, was allowed out on bail of £200 and £100 surety."

      "I thought you were friends with Bentley?"

      "I am. Or, at least, I was. He was useful."

      A consummate professional, Dulcie, tossing this morsel around in her mind, inquired, "Am I useful?"

      "You certainly are", Charles replied vigorously, and reached across to walk his fingers across that section of the blanket that outlined her ample breasts. "You have been distracting me", he chided, desire re-igniting in his eyes, "you clever floozy!"

      His loins began registering the urgency of their request. He shuffled across the bed on his left side. He slipped his hand under the bedclothes and began exploring her soft flesh.

      Dulcie brought her left hand across to arrest his progress, while her right hand compensated for the enforced delay by running itself through his hair.

      "Tell me", she began, "what is Rede planning to do about the support that is mounting for the men accused of the riot?" [135]

      "That's a difficult one. McIntyre, Fletcher, and Westerby have been singled out. Rede intends the prosecution to be an object lesson. He is desperate to regain his authority. The old fool doesn't recognise he has no hope."

      "You don't sound at all sorry for him."

      "Why should I be?"

      "He is your boss. He has supported your promotion"

      "So?"

      "So!"

      "He has outlived his usefulness to me."

      Offered another opportunity, Dulcie slipped under Houghton's guard, "Have I outlived my usefulness?"

      "You're needling me again."

      "You're avoiding the question."

      "You're delaying."

      Dulcie burst out laughing, less at the content of the conversation, and more at the ready repartee they both enjoyed. Anticipating that Charles was about to renew his ardour, Dulcie continued with her questioning. While not averse to his intentions, she had long ago planned, on this occasion, to keep him talking for as long as she could before she surrendered to his lovemaking.

      "I have heard that Rede has engaged stenographers to record the speeches of agitators at public meeting."

      "Your sources are correct. This information keeps us tolerably well informed."

      "About what?"

      "The miners, and their supporters in the town, are collecting funds to fight the charges against the incendiaries. They are complaining about the violation of their personal liberties. They are blaming us for the burning of Bentley's Hotel because of what they are describing as our partiality and maladministration. They are bloody-well right about the latter. The place is a mess."

      "Is this why the Camp is being so carefully protected--to preserve the mess?"

      "Protected! The troops are next to useless. I hope they don't ever have to protect us. They are as capable as drunken slugs. They [136] are an inefficient bunch of morons. McMahon, the new Police Commissioner admits as much."

      "I hear they were taking depositions at the Star hotel. They tell me Robert Shaw volunteered evidence."

      Dulcie adroitly slipped this comment into the conversation. She had been building up to it. She watched for Charles response. He was unaware he was being set up.

      "Yes, he was part of the crowd on Melbourne Road. He considered it his civic responsibility to be there. He would have had a good view of what went on. I wasn't there during the fire, but I don't imagine he would have been involved. A pompous bastard."

      Twirling the handle of the rapier in her fingers, Dulcie let fall the comment, "Is this the way for a young man to talk who has designs on the 'pompous bastard's' daughter?"

      Charles felt the power of this glancing blow. Attempting to recover himself, he reactivated his right hand, seeking to stimulate the flow of desire. This was both a diversionary tactic, and, hopefully, a means of cutting short the conversation and proceeding to a more enjoyable range of physical engagements that would blot the memory of the last two weeks, and its frustrations from his mind. As desire built, he felt an overwhelming urge to reach across and gulp this woman down.

      But Dulcie wasn't finished. She took hold of his hand and gently but firmly restrained its progress.

      "Ruby is an attractive young woman, don't you think?"

      "I guess she is."

      "The route to 'the pompous bastard's' fortune will not be an altogether painful one. I have noticed you laying the groundwork for the seduction."

      "She is not unattractive."

      "And she is a virgin. Or so you assume. That must have its appeal!"

      "Why are we wasting time talking about Ruby? I have set aside the evening to spend with you. And God knows, I need a diversion." [137]

      "But that is just the point. We do need to talk about Ruby. What becomes of me once you begin your pursuit of that fair maiden in earnest?"

      Charles was feeling considerable discomfort. The tension was off-putting, diminishing his desire. Not quite knowing how to duck for cover, he replied, in an uncharacteristically pathetic tone, "I will continue to visit you."

      "In my professional capacity?"

      "Well, yes."

      "You mean you will pay for it?"

      He hesitated a moment, "I guess I will."

      "You have been on a good thing, haven't you? You have had your very own whore, without paying a penny for the privilege."

      Dulcie's voice had risen, and there was anger in the tautness of her face. She hadn't finished with him, but she would take an intermission. She would use him as he had used her.

      She suddenly appeared to soften. She reached her left arm across, took hold of his shoulder and pulled herself towards him.

      "Why can't I resist you?" she appeared to be saying to herself, but the rhetorical question was offered to relax her victim, to drug him.

      Her left hand traced a wavy line down his neck and continued its progress until it had reunited his desire. Her right hand, intent on participating in the game, joined its partner in the seduction. Her practiced fingers, feather-light in their touch, re-ignited his lust.

      Charles was caught off balance by the change of tone, totally disoriented. But he surrendered to the experience, the incongruity adding an almost masochistic dimension to the experience. He usually took time to savour the stages of the ritual. Women who were familiar with the smell of his body could attest to his capacity for a controlled pleasuring of their bodies. But the excitement on this occasion was too great, too intense. The preliminary instrumentation, on which the reputation of this prodigy was based, was passed over cursorily, so overwhelming was the demand of the lust she evoked. [138]

      Waiting for no further invitation, he lifted his body onto hers. It was soft, supple, yielding, her flesh an almost peerless white. He entered her and began to mount a final charge. The two bodies merged, co-ordinating their dance of ecstasy, their groans testimony to their skill and the mutual pleasure they were giving each other.

      Charles finally collapsed his weight onto Dulcie's exhausted body. For several minutes the key remained in the lock, evidence, at least, of their moment of physical intimacy.

      She had had him. She could continue to have him whenever she wished, in spite of Ruby, or anyone else for that matter.

      Recovering himself, Charles rolled off the woman who had milked him of his evolutionary potential. He lay, face up, exhausted on the bed. After several minutes he looked across at Dulcie, who made no effort to roll over and lie against him. She was beautiful. But he had had her. The passion was gone. Given an hour and he could be aroused again. But for the moment, he coveted his separateness and chided himself with the knowledge that he could not do without this woman. He used her, but it was she who had the power. Charles Houghton despised himself for his powerlessness and it was the woman lying beside him on the bed who held the leash.

      Dulcie had one more card to play. She produced it tentatively, and with great skill.

      "Charles", she began, "You would be wasted on Ruby Shaw."

      Charles, who was as attached to his reputation as a stud as he was to his renown as a horseman, broke out into a smile that travelled from his mouth to his eyes and back again.

      "From you, that is a compliment indeed."

      "It's deserved."

      Edging towards her target, and feeling that she had made sufficient ground to change the subject, Dulcie asked, "I heard the other day that Bentley's barman had given the Commissioner of Police some interesting details."

      "You must have good sources."

      "I do. As you must realise, I have a range of clients. And none of the riff-raff. You would be surprised at the number of [139] people in high places who are familiar with the wall-paper in this room."

      The reality of Dulcie's profession occasionally made Charles uneasy. In spite of his own promiscuity, he felt a twinge of jealousy whenever he was forced to confront the fact that others enjoyed the body of his paramour. It was not that he was in love with Dulcie. It was rather that he felt he had some proprietary right over her. She was his.

      "Yes", he admitted, happy at the change of subject and the opportunity to squeeze emotions he found uncomfortable between the crevices in his psyche, "the barman fingered Bentley and Farrell."

      "Interesting."

      "But not altogether surprising."

      "No. I agree. It seems as if the rabbits have been right all along."

      "Yes. But they are still rabbits. Largely ineffective rabbits."

      "Speaking about rabbits. I wonder where you will go when you need a place to hide."

      Charles looked across at Dulcie, a quizzical expression lining his forehead. The reaction was momentary. He lay back on the bed in a final gesture of relaxation. Suddenly, his left hand, reaching across his body, took hold of the edge of the bedclothes, and, with a wave of his arm, pulled them back. He swung himself into a sitting position.

      "I must be going", he announced, as he tilted his body forward and stood up. Dulcie watched, amused, as he began the ritual of re-dressing. She had entranced the viper, who had no idea that he had been duped.

      Charles didn't bother to walk around to Dulcie's side of the bed and plant a kiss on her forehead, as he had often done.

      "Must be off", he said, as he put on his hat, opened the door and walked into the passageway. The door closed behind him, and Dulcie listened as his footsteps, descending the stairs, faded into the silence of the night. [140]

 

 

Chapter 16

      The two men were ushered into a room large enough to accommodate the numbers it was anticipated would attend. Robert Shaw had arranged with the proprietor of the Star Hotel to make available a sequestered room for a private meeting on the evening of the 21st November. He had earlier considered entertaining the party at his own home, but decided against it. He did not want to alarm Morag and Ruby further. They were anxious over developments in Ballarat during the last few months, and were concerned about his involvement in them.

      The party from the Eureka Lead, Sven and Sean, were the first to arrive. They were shown into the room by one of the hotel's hostesses. In the centre of the room was a large oval oak table, around which six elegant chairs were arranged.

      Sean wandered around, admiring the framed etchings that hung on the walls. Sven was tired. He pulled out a chair and lowered his weight onto it. The Swede was hardly settled before the door opened and two strangers entered. They introduced themselves as Henry Holyoake and J.B. Humffrray. Both were well dressed. They explained that they were members of the Reform League. Sven offered them a seat, which they willingly accepted.

      Sean, leaning on the back of one of the chairs, was on the point of explaining where their claims were situated, when the door opened and Robert Shaw walked into the room. The ritual of greeting was repeated.

      "Sorry I am late", Shaw commented, "We had a problem at the foundry."

      "Henry and I have just arrived", Humffray volunteered, "We can hardly accuse you of being late."

      Robert, anxious to begin, explained, "We have one more participant, who will be late."

      When the group was seated, Shaw began, "We are all aware of the tensions dividing our city, of inequities and injustices calling for remedy. There are hotheads preaching revolution, as if [141] revolution would solve our problems. However, there are men of goodwill and competence, who are working on constructive solutions. The reason I have invited you all here is to organise an exchange of information. You are all working for a settlement of our dilemmas."

      The silence that followed these remarks was broken by the sound of a knock on the door.

      "Come in", Shaw called out.

      The door opened and a hostess entered at the rear of an auto-trolley. A large teapot and stacked cups and saucers, together with a range of beers, ports, and glasses was laid out on the top level. Below was an assortment of cakes and biscuits.

      "Leave it against the wall", the Scot suggested, "Thank you. We'll serve ourselves."

      The woman nodded and backed out of the room.

      "I thought we may need something to sustain us", the ironmonger commented, and, reflecting for a moment, went on, "It may be best if we serve ourselves and bring our drinks to the table." While they were doing this, Robert transferred the food from the lower level of the auto-trolley.

      Once they were seated again, he began, "I think we will start with the Irish. Sean, what are your people doing?"

      Sean thought for a moment, turning the question over in his mind.

      "You will be aware", he began, "that we "Tipperary Boys", as Commissioner McMahon describes us, have been incensed by the way we have been treated--particularly those of us who have been working the Eureka Lead. We have been scurrilously defamed. We have also been subject to consistent, premeditated harassment."

      "I suspect that the delightfully energetic Irish temperament has provoked a latent sadism in certain officials", Robert responded, "Because there are less Irish-born officials or burghers, it is considered that you can be toyed with with impunity."

      "The description fits", Sean responded, savouring the morsel, "We have a well-deserved reputation for being excitable." After a brief pause, he continued [142]

      "Our immediate concern is the fate of Father Smyth's Armenian servant."

      "I hear that you had a meeting on the 23rd of October to discuss the issue."

      "We decided to petition the governor to reopen the case, to inquire into Houghton's behaviour and to suggest his removal from Ballarat. Timothy Hayes, John Manning, and Thomas Kennedy are taking the matter forward. Manning and Kennedy are full of fire. Hayes will help to steady them."

      "It is not only the Irish who are up in arms in response to the perfidy and incompetence of the authorities", broke in Holyoake, "The whole of Ballarat, and especially those whose occupations are in any way associated with mining, have put up with as much as they are willing to endure."

      "Are you referring to the meeting in Canadian Gully on the 24th?" Sven asked.

      "I am."

      "I hear they estimated the numbers at four thousand!"

      "You hear correctly."

      "I was there", Sven explained, "Though, I confess, it was difficult to determine the size of the crowd."

      "How would you describe the tone of the meeting?" Humffray inquired.

      "It reflected frustration and the deep-seated anger of honest, hard-working men, pushed beyond the limit of their endurance. It petitioned the governor to remove Commissioners Rede and Johnson, Charles Houghton, Inspector Evans, and the Coroner, Dr. Williams."

      "I notice that the press, the Age, the Argus, the Geelong Advertiser and the Ballarat Times added to the chorus of condemnation", Humffray commented.

      "As spirited editor of the Ballarat Times, Seekamp certainly excelled himself", Sven responded, "His flight of rhetoric must have un-nerved the authorities. It was bordering on the seditious."

      "Nevertheless", Robert broke in, "He was stating, with his usual rhetorical flourish, what all of us believe. The police presence [143] in Ballarat will not ultimately prevail against the moral force of its citizens, particularly when their patience is pushed beyond limits."

      "You may be aware", Holyoake explained, "that this hotel has been a gathering place for people from different backgrounds, interest groups and political philosophies, who have been working on ways and means of effecting changes."

      "I gather Hayes, Kennedy and Manning have been involved", Sean interjected.

      "Yes, and many others", Humffray added.

      "Some of us are hopeful", Holyoake commented, "that Hotham's announcement, on the 30th of October, that he plans to establish a board of inquiry, might begin a process of investigation, redress and restructure."

      Hastening to complete the picture, Humffray added, "We have also received the shocking news today that McIntyre, Fletcher, and Westerby have been convicted of the burning of Bentley's Hotel. This will fuel the revolutionary rhetoric of hotheads like Vern and Kennedy."

      "The Irish and German unions have been drilling", Sean commented.

      "We presented the government and Ballarat officialdom with a way out, a way forward", Humffray lamented, "But they have chosen to respond with an incredible short-sightedness. They are deluded in imagining that mere firmness will resolve the issue. They totally misread the situation and are perversely stonewalling on our demands for significant reform."

      "What else can we do?" Humffray asked, almost pathetically, as he leaned back in his chair, his arms spread wide in a gesture of despair.

      At that moment there was a knock on the door. "Come in", Shaw called out. The door opened slowly. The vision that greeted the men was other than what they had expected. They thought for a moment that the attractive young woman, in a stunning full-length, red velvet dress, had lost her way, until Shaw invited Dulcie Finnegan to be seated.

      "I am glad you were able to come", he began, and proceeded to introduce her to each of the men. [144]

      "Sorry I am late."

      "Your timing is perfect", Robert continued, "We have reached an impasse, and the information you have for us may offer new hope."

      The others around the table were still in the process of collecting themselves. They had hardly begun to surmise what it could possibly be that this celebrated courtesan could know that would further their cause.

      "Dulcie approached me the other day", Shaw explained, "Indicating she had some information that we would find interesting."

      The ironmonger then turned to the young woman and asked, "Well, Dulcie, we are here. What do you have for us?"

      "I have a single skein of information. It was divulged by one of my clients. But it could benefit your cause."

      The men were leaning forward.

      "What is that information?" Robert asked.

      "Some time ago", Dulcie began, "the Chief Commissioner of police was told by the barman at Bentley's Hotel that he had proof that Farrell and Bentley were guilty of Scobie's death."

      There was a stunned silence. The men looked around at each other and then back at Dulcie, hardly believing what they had heard.

      "How accurate is your information?" Humffray asked, "Can your source be trusted?"

      "The information is accurate", Dulcie answered.

      "Thank you", said Sean, "Thank you for coming forward."

      Dulcie rose from her chair, nodded towards the men seated around the table, and excused herself. Robert accompanied her to the front door of the hotel. By the time he returned, the table was buzzing with conversation.

      "How can we best use this information?" Holyoake asked.

      Sven, who had said very little all evening, broke in, "May I make a suggestion?"

      "Yes" came from various locations around the table.

      "The way I would approach it is this", he began, "One of us, preferably one of you, someone who is familiar with Rede, in a [145] social sense, should seek a meeting with him, suggesting that you have something of critical importance to tell him. At that meeting he should be informed that we know of the barman's testimony, and the fact that he is familiar with it. The information should then be used to suggest that he act upon it, responsibly. If he refuses to do so, or prevaricates, we should indicate that we will make the information public, together with his refusal to divulge it. He has, through his silence, knowingly contributed to a miscarriage of justice. This, I suspect, is an indictable offence. It would also be liable to get him lynched. However, we need to be cautious as it is not in our interest to go public at this stage, as it could provoke insurrection and lead to unnecessary bloodshed. If this happened, it would not only be an unnecessary tragedy, it would prejudice our cause and give justification to the authorities to instigate further repressive measures."

      The scope and simplicity of Sven's plan was breath-taking. It took a moment for the others to take it in and process it.

      "Robert's the one", suggested Humffray.

      "You know him", said Holyoake to the ironmonger, "You know him and there is no reason he should refuse to see you."

      Robert tossed the idea around in his mind for a moment, finally replying, "Yes. It has to be me."

      As he drove home later that evening in the gig, Robert convinced himself that he would on no account divulge to Morag details of the evening's meeting, or anything of the plans he was concocting for carrying through the resolution decided upon. [146]

 

 

Chapter 17

      On the following day, 22nd November, Shaw, too distracted to continue tinkering with plans for the expansion of the foundry, found himself pre-occupied with the task of working out how best to approach Commissioner Rede.

      As he sat in the small cubicle that served as his office, surrounded by ledgers, accounts and several piles of rough drawings, he looked through a small window that faced north. He gazed beyond his immediate field of vision, which was cluttered with a range of products awaiting sale and several rusting mechanical prototypes. He knew that several miles in the distance, Rede, who had recently returned from a fortnight in Melbourne, would be ensconced in his citadel, concerning himself with strategies for survival.

      The Scot concluded that there was no right way of approaching Rede, and events were moving too fast for him to delay taking the initiative. Reluctantly, but with determination, he pushed his chair back from the desk, stood up, and reached for his coat. As he walked through the heart of the foundry, he spoke to his leading hand, commenting, "John. I will be out for a time. I am not sure how long I will be away."

      Shaw walked out through the large corrugated iron doors into the yard. While a yard-hand collected and harnessed the horse, Robert walked back and forth, gazing at the ground. He was rehearsing a range of possible outcomes.

      "She is ready, Sir."

      "Thank you, Timkin."

      Shaw hoisted himself aboard the gig and settled himself in the seat. He took the reins in his hands, shaking them vigorously. The horse, familiar with the ritual, broke into a canter.

      It did not take him long to cover the distance to the Camp. When he drew in the reins outside the commissioner's compound, he had still not decided how he would begin the conversation, should he be ushered into Rede's presence. [147]

      Shaw couldn't help noticing that the Camp was bristling with troops. He gained ready admittance to the compound, as he was known to the trooper on guard duty, though other of the soldiers eyed him with suspicion.

      Dismounting from the gig, and uncharacteristically nervous, Shaw approached the building in which the Commissioner's office was located. He was about to knock on the front door, when it was opened and he found himself face to face with Charles Houghton. For a moment he was taken aback.

      Houghton, who was equally surprised, recovered first. "I presume you are not wanting to see me", he began, "Perhaps Commissioner Rede?"

      "Yes", replied Robert, "You are correct."

      "Can I ask how Ruby is?" Charles inquired.

      "Apart from suffering a little from the stress of the times", Robert answered, "She is well, thank you."

      "I have, for some time, denied myself the privilege of her company", Charles began, and then went on: "Once the current commotion dies down, I plan to make up for the neglect."

      Shaw had been relieved that the young Commission agent had not been pressing his attentions on his daughter over recent weeks. He inwardly winced at the suggestion of a renewal of contact, though he did not allow his face to betray his feelings.

      "Unfortunately", Charles explained, "Commissioner Rede is not present in the Camp at the moment."

      "Is it possible for me to make an appointment to see him?" Robert asked.

      "I will see what I can arrange", Charles replied, happy to be in a position to provide a favour for the wealthy burgher. The young man led Shaw inside, and found a seat for him, while he disappeared into another room. He emerged several minutes later with a diary.

      "Let me see. When is he likely to be available? Probably, the earliest would be the afternoon of the 28th. He has a dinner that evening, but he could possibly see you beforehand. I will pencil in an appointment for 5:30. I can't guarantee anything, but I will do [148] my best. I will let you know if the Commissioner is unable to see you."

      "I would be grateful", Shaw responded, with a faint hesitation in his voice that betrayed his reluctance at being obligated to this young man.

      As the two men walked to the door, Houghton commented, "I guess I may see you again soon. Pass on my respects to Ruby."

      The door closed behind the ironmonger, who walked across to his gig. As he drove out of the Camp, leaving the armed fortress behind him, he couldn't help wondering about the range of scenarios that could play themselves out before the arrival of the twenty-eighth. He decided to keep in touch with developments as closely as he could, while he awaited his appointment with Rede.

      Shaw discovered from Humffray, with whom he kept in contact, that the Reform League Committee, on the 23rd, had decided by a majority of one, to approach Sir Charles Hotham and "demand" the release of McIntyre, Fletcher, and Westerby. Black, Humffray, and Kennedy were to travel to Melbourne to put the case to the Governor. They would report back to a general meeting on the 29th, the day after Robert's proposed meeting with Rede.

      It was obvious to Shaw, as the days passed, that tensions were mounting. Both the diggers and the Camp authorities were taking up positions antagonistic to each other. The community was dividing. Those who were working to avoid violence, and to proceed by constitutional means, were finding it almost impossible to make progress, and thus to dampen down the incendiary potential.

      Sean kept Shaw informed of development among the Irish and the Americans. His principal source was Father Smyth.

      Smyth confided to the young man that he had witnessed a gathering of nine hundred armed men. The priest was so concerned that he had informed a detective, with whom he was friendly, and his bishop, who was on his way to Ballarat, that the atmosphere was explosive. He had also gone to the Camp to talk to Rede, and to urge upon him a conciliatory response. Some miners had burnt their licences, while others had thrown themselves before licence hunters. Feeling was running highest among the [149] Irish and Americans. This was little wonder, as the current conflict had opened up historical wounds.

      The patience of many in the Reform League was almost at an end. If the delegates, who had gone to Melbourne to parley with Hotham, returned empty-handed, they intended marching to the Camp and removing Rede and Johnson and holding them as hostages, in a desperate attempt to bargain for the lives of Fletcher, McIntyre and Westerby. They would use force.

      Shaw was also aware that Rede, rather than negotiate with the incensed diggers, had called for reinforcements. Mounted police arrived from Castlemaine and additional infantry and cavalry from Melbourne. The force available to the Commissioner increased by three hundred men.

      By 3:30pm on the 28th, Shaw had received no indication that his appointment with Rede had been cancelled. He began pacing back and forth across the yard behind the foundry, ostensibly checking and counting stacks of merchandise that were arranged in neat rows on the packed earth. The Scot usually internalized his concern. This involuntary manifestation of agitation was an indication of the level of his anxiety.

      By the time 5 o'clock arrived, Shaw, like an eager stallion forcibly restrained before the start of a race, was bursting with explosive energy. However, years of habituation, of disciplined restraint, kept it in check.

      As the cantering mare took him in the direction of the Camp, Shaw rehearsed possible responses to a range of scenarios.

      While preoccupied, Robert nevertheless noticed that the streets were strangely empty. It was as if a preternatural silence had descended, an oasis of calm presaging an explosion. The atmosphere mirrored his mood, but was more than simply a projection of it onto the landscape. The city was holding its breath.

      Waved through the cordon of troopers surrounding the Camp, Shaw pulled the reins as his horse approached the office of the Commissioner. Stepping down from the gig, he secured the vehicle, and turned towards the building. His steps were deliberate, and the muscles of his face tense. A guard, stationed [150] outside the entrance, apparently informed of his visit, opened the door.

      The outer office was empty, except for a young man, who was leafing through a pile of documents on the desk before him. The office had a dishevelled appearance, like a schoolroom at the end of the day. Extra activities demanded of the staff over recent weeks left no time for normal office procedures.

      The young man looked up from his desk, commenting, "You will be Mr. Robert Shaw."

      "Yes, I am here to see Commissioner Rede."

      "He is expecting you. I will see if he is ready."

      The young man disappeared into an adjacent room, returning several minutes later, with a hesitant look on his face.

      "The Commissioner apologizes, but he has several things to attend to before he will be able to see you. However, he does not expect to be longer than five minutes."

      "That will be no problem."

      The young man removed a seat from behind one of the desks and placed it beside the ironmonger.

      "Please take a seat", he began, "You are probably tired after an exhausting day."

      Shaw would have preferred to stand, but he decided to accept the young man's offer.

      "It has not been easy for the Commissioner", the officer volunteered, "Tensions have been rising. We don't know where it will end. Commissioner Rede is in constant touch with Governor Hotham. Nevertheless, it is the man on the spot who carries the immediate responsibility. I wouldn't exchange places with the Commissioner."

      "I hear there have been calls for his resignation."

      "There have, but they have only made him more determined. The Commissioner has made up his mind to hold his ground."

      As the young man was speaking, Shaw heard noises in the adjoining room. The door opened and the Commissioner appeared in the doorway. [151]

      "Robert. Sorry to have kept you. Would you please come in?"

      "I have been entertained by your adjutant."

      The Commissioner chuckled gently to himself, something he had not done for many days. Turning to the young man, he commented, "Thank you Williams, for entertaining Mr. Shaw. You may go."

      "Do come in, Robert."

      The door closed behind the two men. Shaw looked around the room. It was obvious that it had been newly constructed. Finishing touches remained to be attended to. The Commissioner had been insisting for some time that he needed an office separate from the general area where the bulk of the Commission's work was transacted. He had finally been provided with a room of his own, where he could entertain visitors in privacy. Rede's desk was littered with papers. The clothes he wore during the day were neatly folded over the back of his chair. He had changed into formal attire, and was in the process of inserting a stud through his collar, when he began.

      "I apologise for being in a state of relative undress, but I am due at a dinner the Americans are giving for their consul in a little under an hour's time."

      "I appreciate your making the time to see me."

      "What is it you want to see me about? It is obviously important."

      Robert coughed nervously into his closed fist, lamenting the fact that this interview had become necessary, but resolved to carry through with it.

      "Commissioner", he began, "I appreciate the stress you are under. I would not like to exchange positions with you."

      "Come out with it, Robert. I don't have a lot of time."

      "I hesitate to raise the issue with you, recognizing the invidious position you are in, but I feel I must."

      The Commissioner, who was adjusting his tie, paused for a moment and looked up at the respected businessman. [152]

      "You are aware of the general opinion, endorsed by the majority of the citizens of Ballarat, that Bentley's trial was a gross miscarriage of justice."

      "I do, but I disagree with this opinion. Even if Bentley was guilty, there was insufficient evidence to convict him."

      "Wasn't there?"

      "What do you mean?"

      Shaw was aware that he was treading on dangerous ground. He was not a close friend of the commissioner's, but a social acquaintance. Up until the last month, he had respected the man's competence and good will. However, an inflexibility had been revealed by the pressure of recent events. Furthermore, his unconscionable silence on the issue of Scobie's murder had diminished Shaw's respect for the man. The Ironmonger was reluctant to precipitate a naked confrontation that would further diminish the Commissioner's capacity to respond responsibly to the mounting crisis. He was also aware that the action he was on the point of taking would exacerbate his relationship with Morag, who was on friendly terms with the Commissioner's wife. Nevertheless, he knew he had no option but to proceed.

      "I am informed, Mr. Commissioner, by a most reliable source, that on the 22nd of October, the barman at Bentley's hotel informed the Chief Inspector of Police that Farrell and the Bentleys were guilty of Scobie's murder. I understand that he gave the Inspector a full account of the incident. I was also told that you were informed of this intelligence."

      Commissioner Rede's eyes glazed over for a second, as if to shield his turbulent mind from scrutiny. A practiced profession, he instantly recovered himself.

      "This is ridiculous. Do you realize the gravity of the charge you are making?"

      "I do", responded the Scot, holding his ground.

      Fencing for advantage, Rede shot back, "I don't doubt that you have received this intelligence. But you have no proof that what is alleged is true. Who gave you this information?"

      "As I indicated, a reliable source."

      "Who? You are being evasive." [153]

      "I am not disclosing the name of my informant, but I will tell you that the source of the intelligence can be traced back to your own office."

      For a moment Rede was quiet. Robert could see the Commissioner's mind canvassing possibilities, which confirmed his trust in his informant's truthfulness and accuracy. Rede had known of the intelligence, and he had connived in the suppression of irrefutable testimony as to the guilt of the perpetrators.

      Continuing to bluff, though with his credibility now in tatters, Rede argued, his voiced raised, "If you are unwilling to name your source, that source must be unreliable. What you are saying is libellous. You had better be sure of your facts."

      "Are you threatening to take me to court?"

      "I am."

      "That will certainly be one way of publicizing the barman's testimony, and of advertising your perfidious obstruction of justice."

      Rede was livid. He was not used to being spoken to so directly in this manner, and certainly not by a respected member of the local establishment. What was even more disconcerting was the fact that he had been caught out. The governor's representative, the man responsible for upholding law and order on the Ballarat goldfields, had blatantly disregarded that law. He lived daily with the contempt of the diggers. At this moment, confronting Shaw's accusation, he realized he faced the possibility of loosing the good will of the town's important citizens, and of being found to be in contempt of the law.

      "Even if what you say is correct, and I am not saying that it is", the Commissioner continued, his tone subdued, "What possible good can be served by publicizing the information?"

      "Justice can be done."

      "That may be so, but imagine the effect it would have upon the miners. I am sure you are aware that they have formed themselves into units and are drilling. My ears are ringing now with their inflammatory rhetoric. The town would explode. If what you say is true, it would not be responsible of me to act upon it. I would be fomenting revolution." [154]

      "You will be contributing to revolution if you don't."

      "You're mad, man."

      "You are the one who is mad", replied Robert, keeping his voice calm, "You could take certain steps to reduce the tension. I am giving you the opportunity of doing so. Inform the chief magistrate, privately, that you have new information on the Scobie case. Convey the same intelligence to Humffray and Holyoake, of the Reform League, and indicate that you are taking steps to rectify the injustice. Inform them further that you wish to consult them about ways and means of addressing the range of additional issues that have inflamed the population. Tell them that you are also willing to discuss with them the broader issues of goldfields administration, including licences."

      "And if I don't?"

      "I will go to Seekamp, of the Ballarat Times, with the information."

      "You wouldn't?"

      "I would!"

      Rede had taken more than he could tolerate. He reached for his jacket.

      "You will have to excuse me", he said brusquely, "I must be gone. I am already late for the dinner."

      He showed Shaw to the door, with none of the friendliness with which he had greeted him.

      "Good bye, Mr. Shaw."

      "Goodbye, Mr. Commissioner.

      Rede listened for the click of the outside door, which would indicate that the Ironmonger had left the building. He didn't have long to wait. The confirmation of Shaw's departure triggered a release of frustration. The Commissioner brought his right fist down on his desk, which mutely resisted the blow. Rede cradled his bruised fist in his left hand, as his eyes, afire with anger, scanned the desk. His reputation, his career, hung in the balance. In the current situation he didn't have the leisure to work on a strategy to counter the Ironmonger's threat. He realised he was checkmated, with little room for manoeuvring. Frustrated at his powerlessness and vulnerability, he swept his arm across the desk, [155] sending its contents onto the floor. As a stray paper, the last of the objects to make the descent, floated towards the floorboards, Rede sunk into his chair, his face in his hands.

      "Damn! Damn! Damn!" was all he could muster.

      After several minutes exhausted silence, the Commissioner pulled himself together, stood, straightened his suit, and strode towards the door of his office. He slammed it shut, and marched across the outer office. Kicking aside the chair on which Shaw had been seated because it impeded his way, he wrenched open the outer door and stumbled into the night.

      The Commissioner remained unsettled throughout the dinner. He remembered that Commissioner Amos at Eureka had had his horse stolen earlier in the day, and he couldn't help suspecting that the Americans were urging on the Irish and other excitable miners in the hope of staging a mini American Revolution. He also began wondering who had betrayed him.

      To add to his woes, Rede was called away before the dinner concluded, and before he could respond to the royal toast. A messenger came to inform him that a party of soldiers, en route from Melbourne, had been attacked on the road adjacent to the Eureka Lead.

      In his absence, a Dr. Otway, an American, volunteered to take his place, responding to the royal toast with, "While I and my fellow colonists claim to be and are thoroughly loyal to our sovereign lady the Queen, we do not and will not respect her men servants, her maid servants, her oxen or her ASSES."

      As he made his way home in the descending dusk, Shaw replayed the evening's events, calculating the likely consequences of the encounter. He did not want to carry through his threat to provide the information to Seekamp. It would provide the incendiaries with the justification and fuel they needed. It was a calculated risk. But it was necessary. Nor was he sure how he would deal with Morag once the consequences of the evening's altercation filtered through into their domestic relationship. [156]

 

 

Chapter 18

      His head was down. He was seated at a small desk, studying the latest figures provided by his manager, who was in the front of the shop, attending to a customer. During the last two weeks, takings in the Ironmongery were down. But this was hardly surprising.

      The diggers were pre-occupied. Had he been selling firearms, he would have done a roaring trade. The furtive looks on the faces of some of his customers, who had slipped into the shop, almost surreptitiously, to purchase the most unusual items, gave them away. They were obviously repairing broken or rusted fire pieces, or else preparing to defend themselves with metal implements.

      Ruby was standing beside him. He had invited her to accompany him to the shop. It was late Friday afternoon, the 1st of December. While he considered that there was some danger in her being in proximity to the diggings, the men at the Gravel Pits had a reputation for stability and loyalty.

      Robert judged that Morag's agitation over recent developments had unnecessarily alarmed his daughter. She needed space from her mother. He was also conscious that she had had little contact with Charles Houghton recently, presumably because of his being caught up in the increased activity at the Camp.

      Though she spent most of her time with her mother, Ruby enjoyed her father's company. His demeanour conveyed a sense of the importance of the tasks he undertook. The fact that he carried his responsibilities with an easy grace, meant that she was not burdened with his anxieties.

      "Father", she asked, as she placed an arm around his shoulders, "What do you think will happen?"

      Aware of the level of concern that lay behind the question, Shaw replied, "I am hopeful that the authorities will come to their senses, and that the miners will listen to the voice of moderation. [157] The issues that have provoked the tension are best dealt with calmly, through constitutional means."

      "But what if none of the parties is willing to give ground? Do you think there will be bloodshed?"

      "I hope not. Nevertheless, there are no guarantees."

      "I wish there were, I'm frightened."

      Robert, who had continued to study the figures during his conversation with his daughter, looked up at her, reading the anxiety in her face. He pushed the chair back and stood to his feet. Compared to Ruby, he looked a bear of a man. In reality, he was just a fraction below six feet, and carried little excess weight. He looked into his daughter's face, retaining the gaze silently for several moments. He reached out and took hold of her arms. She placed her head on his chest, and began sobbing quietly.

      "Father", she said, between bursts, "I am afraid. I am afraid for me. I am afraid for you. I am afraid for Mother. I am afraid for Charles."

      Robert was jolted by the mention of Charles. His daughter, still a stranger to the discernment that would have quickly alerted her to the young man's slick plausibility, was captivated by him. But then, so too was her mother, whose lack of perception could hardly be excused on the basis of inexperience. Perhaps, Robert concluded, it was the strange alchemy between men and women that led to this loss of judgement. He recalled his youthful ardour for Morag--the sleepless nights, the yearning and the uncharacteristic tenderness. Failing to allow for the rapidity with which his mind had canvassed this range of opinions, Robert judged that he had left his daughter's question hanging too long in the air. Chastened, he hastened to reply, "I am sure no harm will come to us."

      "Or to others, either", Ruby responded.

      "Or to others."

      At that moment there was a commotion in the front of the store. Someone had come through the door and was asking to speak to "Mr. Shaw." Ruby recognised the voice. It was Charles. She left her father, and made her way around the partition that separated the back of the store from the area open to customers. [158]

      "Ruby!" Charles exclaimed, "What are you doing here?"

      "I could well ask you the same question."

      At that moment Robert appeared beside the partition. Charles Houghton and Ruby were standing facing each other, both lost for a word. The young man was recovering his breath. He had obviously been in a hurry. Ruby was adjusting to the fact that she was standing opposite the commission agent whose interest in her excited her, but whom she hadn't seen for several weeks.

      "You were wanting to see me?" Robert began.

      "Yes", said Charles, between breaths, "I thought I might be able to speak with you. I wanted to bring you up to date with developments."

      Robert, deliberately keeping his tone non-committal, replied, "Developments?"

      Charles wondered if he were doing the right thing. He was taking a gamble, but the rewards, if reaped, would be worth it.

      Commissioner Rede, on the day following his interview with Robert, slipped into his office briefly, and called to Charles to join him. He questioned the young man about leaked information concerning the barman's testimony. Charles denied responsibility. He argued that he had not spoken to anyone. Houghton suspected that Rede did not believe him. He read it in his manner. As further protestation would evoke suspicion, the young man remained silent, which he realised, could also be interpreted as guilt. There was nothing Charles could do to improve the situation for himself. He was caught, however he answered. He also realised that, placing the Commissioner in the invidious situation that he had, meant that his career could be in jeopardy. It would not be in Rede's interest to dismiss him immediately. He was needed, and he was aware that the Commissioner, if he did dismiss him, ran the risk of the disgruntled young man turning on him. After all, he had explosive information for which certain parties would pay highly. This gave him time and opportunity to manoeuvre.

      Charles also realised, if he played his cards adroitly, that he could ingratiate himself with the Ironmonger. Pursuing Shaw's daughter had been a long-term strategy. He was now looking for short-term security, for a fall-back position. He was keen to [159] impress the businessman by volunteering information that he was sure the Scot would find of interest. It did not appear to him to place himself in Shaw's position, and to anticipate the Ironmonger's questioning of this sudden camaraderie.

      A further factor was also fuelling his ardour. Realising that Dulcie Finnegan had leaked the information about Scobie's murderers, whether intentionally or unintentionally, Charles sought her out. They had argued. She had denied the charge. They had shouted at each other. Charles had slapped her across the face. She had turned to face him, hatred burning in her eyes. "Get out", she yelled. He turned, slammed the door, and galloped down the stairs. He had walked, and half run, from the United States Hotel to the Ironmongery. It was even more important, now, that he intensify his pursuit of Ruby. He hadn't counted on finding her with her father. This was a bonus.

      Recovering himself, Charles asked, his attention still focused on Robert, "Is there somewhere where we could talk privately?"

      The Ironmonger looked the man up and down, attempting to guess at the reason that had brought Houghton to the shop in such haste. The answer was not obvious. He would suspend judgement until he had heard the young man out.

      "We can talk privately in the back room", he suggested.

      Realising that Ruby would want to join them, but not wanting her alarmed by the intelligence Charles may wish to pass on, Robert called out to his manager, who was rearranging a row of spades, "John, would you take Ruby home. Use my gig. Shut the shop up before you go. I doubt if we will be visited by any further customers at this late hour."

      "Father. Can't I stay?" Ruby pleaded. She felt like a starving woman, who had had a nourishing meal unexpectedly placed in front of her, only to have it taken away again.

      "Your Mother will be concerned if we are both late. Let her know that I will not be long."

      Ruby's eyes chided her father with denying her time with the young man. She was aware, however, that her mother would indeed be worried. Furthermore, she suspected that Charles would want to speak privately to her father, concerning issues about [160] which she would prefer to remain ignorant, as they would feed her anxiety. She also conjectured that leaving the two men together could lead to a softening of her father's attitude towards Charles.

      The young woman collected her purse from the table in the back room. She smiled at Charles, and brushed her father's cheek with the outside of her gloved hand. She waved at the two men as she made her way to the front of the shop, where John Richards was securing the bottom bolt on one of the front doors.

      Robert led Houghton into the back office and offered him a chair. He took up the stool he had been using at the desk, and turned it round to face the young man. After settling himself, he looked up and asked, "What is so important that you have sought me out at this late hour?"

      "I am aware, from the fact that you took time out to visit Commissioner Rede earlier in the week, that you are concerned about the turn of events. To be aware of what is happening is always better than not knowing. One can plan accordingly. I realised I had information that could benefit you, and didn't see why I should not put myself out to keep you informed."

      Robert felt like a boxer, moving around his opponent in the first round of a contest, sizing him up, anticipating his moves. He had to rein in the negative responses the young man's presence evoked in him. He suspected an ulterior motive, but it had not yet become obvious.

      "What are you wanting to inform me about?"

      Houghton was blind to the Ironmonger's sympathies. He was also as unaware of the exact nature of the older man's recent encounter with Rede, as Shaw was of the fact that Charles was the source of the incriminating evidence against the Commissioner. Charles, almost in haste, rushed into a recitation of recent developments.

      "On Tuesday night, the night, if I remember correctly, that I arranged for you to see the Commissioner, a party of soldiers, on their way from Melbourne, were set upon by diggers as they were passing through the Eureka encampment. The miners later claimed that the soldiers had lost their way and become entangled in tents, pits, and puddling machines. Rede, however, was convinced that [161] there had been a deliberate attack on Her Majesty's troops, and, indirectly, on his authority. A drummer boy was fatally wounded, and two others seriously hurt."

      "I gather Commissioner Rede also blamed the men working the Gravel Pits."

      "It is his opinion that they were involved."

      "I would very much doubt it."

      "Be that as it may, Rede was unhappy, to say the least."

      "I hear that there is a Captain Pasley among the newcomers."

      "Yes, there is. He is making his presence felt."

      "Throwing his weight around?"

      "He is the son of a general, and the word is that he was passed over for a promotion in Melbourne and he has come here to prove himself. The Commissioner is certainly happy that he is here. He has little confidence in local officers."

      "If he felt under threat before, I can understand that he would feel more secure now."

      "The upshot of the meeting called by the Reform League on the 29th at Bakery Hill suggests that Rede was right in ensuring that the Camp was in a state of preparedness. I was there myself. While only a couple of dozen licences were burnt, which we anticipated, the rebels raised a new flag. The Southern Cross, they're calling it. A white cross and stars sown onto blue bunting. I accompanied a magistrate and another junior commissioner. We stood among the crowd at Bakery Hill. We were asked to write down what was said, and to signal if here was a need for the military and police to move in. The meeting was orderly. The Irish and foreign extremists made a noise, but they were not prepared to make a move."

      "It seemed a foolish action for the Commissioner to order a licence hunt the following day at the Gravel Pits."

      "Rede anticipated trouble, and was determined to bring it on. Captain Pasley and Captain Thomas agreed with him. They sent Assistant Commissioner Johnson to the Pits."

      "Sheer stupidity!"

      "Nevertheless, the result of the visit indicated that Rede had every reason to be concerned, and to take the initiative." [162]

      "I can think of other initiatives he could have taken."

      Oblivious to the tenor of Shaw's replies, Houghton continued, "The Commissioner had word that the Eureka mob was on its way and read the Riot Act, calling on the troops to establish order. Pasley proved his mettle, and Johnson led away his eight prisoners."

      "I heard that the men from Eureka were furious and moved off to Bakery Hill."

      "Yes. The moderates seem to have melted away. They weren't to be seen. Lalor, an Irishman, mounted a stump, calling for "liberty. He asked for volunteers, arguing that they should form companies."

      "I hear there has been activity today."

      "They gathered at 4am this morning on Bakery Hill. A force from the Camp dispersed them. They returned later, when the troops were impeded by a threatening crowd in the township. Commissioner Rede again read the Riot Act."

      "I also heard that Father Smyth visited the Camp several times during the evening to try to persuade the Commissioner to cease the licence hunts. He apparently argued that, if Rede did this, the men would return to work."

      "I was with the Commissioner at the time. Smyth certainly has courage, but Rede was unwilling to back down. He brought on the crisis, and did not want to back away from it. The miners need to be taught a lesson."

      "Perhaps the Commissioner has something to learn as well."

      Houghton looked across at the Ironmonger, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. Because he had assumed that Shaw would have sympathized with the Commissioner, he found himself needing to change direction. He remained uncertain of Shaw's sympathies, but had begun to suspect that they might not be entirely in line with Commissioner Rede's. He smiled. It was a nervous, rather than an open smile.

      "Perhaps he has", he began, not quite knowing where to take the sentence.

      Robert became conscious of the time. He was aware that Morag would be expecting him shortly, assuming that Ruby had [163] arrived home and had let her mother know that her father would be following. The conversation with Charles had also convinced him that he needed to catch up with a friend on his way home.

      Taking the opportunity of a lull in the conversation, Shaw stood, giving every indication that he was about to conclude the conversation. Houghton, who had no desire to spend more time in the Ironmonger's presence than he needed to, correctly read the older man's body language, and got to his feet.

      "Thank you for coming to me with this information", Robert began, "It helps me place the events of this last week in fuller perspective. I also have a clearer idea of what to expect over the next few days."

      "I am glad the intelligence has been of some use."

      "Let me guide you out through the shop."

      Shaw took a lantern that was resting on his desk, and directed the younger man around the obstacles in the now darkened shop. He opened the door. Charles stepped out onto the packed earth that served as a walkway. He waved as he made off in the direction of the United States Hotel, where he had tethered his horse.

      Robert closed the door and secured the bolt. He retraced his steps through the shop and gathered up the papers he intended taking home. As he did so, he heard a noise at the back of the building, which he rightly divined to be John Richards returning with the horse and gig. He opened the back door of the shop and was greeted with, "One package duly delivered. Your daughter is safely home and your wife is expecting you shortly."

      "Thank you, John. I am leaving now. Can I offer you a lift?"

      "Thank you, but it will not be necessary. I have only a short distance to walk, and I intend calling in on a few friends, provided I can find them."

      "I will leave you to lock up. The front doors are secured."

      "Good evening, Sir."

      "Good evening, John."

      John disappeared inside the building. Robert, with a small leather satchel in one hand, clambered into the gig. He settled himself onto the buckboard and called to the horse to begin its [164] weary way home. Lights, attached to the side of the vehicle, gave some indication of the ruts to be avoided. The carriage pulled out into Main Road.

      The horse had hardly begun what it anticipated would be a moderately lengthy journey home, when the animal felt her master pull on the reins. They came to a halt outside the Star Hotel.

      Robert disembarked, secured the horse, and entered the hotel. He was recognised by a waitress, who ushered him into the private room he had used on the 21st. November.

      The young woman closed the door and Shaw found himself gazing at two disconsolate figures. One man was seated at the end of the table, slumped forward in an attitude of utter dejection. The other was pacing back and forth along the length of the room.

      Humffray looked up from the table. Catching sight of the Ironmonger, he offered him a seat.

      "Excuse us. We're exhausted and at our wit's end."

      "Thank you", Robert responded, and added, "From what I have heard, it is little wonder that you have even this skerrick of optimism left."

      "You've heard."

      "I've heard a little. Fill me in."

      Holyoake joined the other two at the table.

      "Hotham refused to listen to us. We reported back on Wednesday. At a committee meeting beforehand, I was threatened with a revolver. When we later reported our failure to the miners, they were enraged. They have given up on moderation, and on our constitutional approach. They are all for revolution."

      "Peter Lalor suggested the election of a new committee this coming Sunday", Holyoake broke in.

      "The Irish and the extremists have taken over", Robert lamented.

      "We haven't given up", Humffray replied, "but we don't anticipate a peaceful solution. On one side are the authorities, men concerned to preserve privilege and patronage, and to hobble any development towards democracy. They are blind to current realities. On the other are rabid, purblind revolutionaries, fuelled by injustices old and new, who are sporting for a fight. They [165] imagine that order and progress will fall out of heaven once they've won. In between is the majority, decent men, who have been indecently treated, and who have reached the end of their patience. Lalor swore them in, a thousand of them. I was there, and had my life threatened several times."

      "I don't have much to offer you, my friends. Our plans from the other evening didn't have time to mature. Events overtook us. All we can do is pray, and hope."

      "Let's all do as much as we can of both", Holyoake broke in.

      "I must be off. Get what sleep as you can. We will need to be in possession of our senses tomorrow."

      The Ironmonger walked to the door, heaviness weighing down his shoulders. He turned, signalling mutely to his friends, and closed the door behind him. [166]

 

 

Chapter 19

      The light of the kerosene lamp, flickering under the glass mantle, threw dancing shadows on the tent walls. A warm breeze, the sort of breeze that does strange things to humans and animals, was blowing softly into the tent. The door flaps were held back by ties. Two hundred wards away, a wooden palisade, erected that day, gave an eerie appearance to the area. Rough hewn, it was a symbol of the men who had built it, and of their lack of organization.

      It was three-thirty Sunday morning the 3rd of December. Six men lounged in various poses in different parts of the tent. Sven was lying on the floor, his head against a tent pole. Michael and Billy were reclining on their beds, struggling to remain awake. Sean and Günther sat on stumps on adjacent sides of the small table. Dietrich was seeing if he could coax another cup of tea from the billy. They were desperately tired, but none of them wanted to leave, to break up the group.

      The preceding week had been crammed with drama. Tensions among the mining community, and between the diggers and the authorities, ran high. Events were conspiring to bring on a climax. Men of goodwill despaired of a negotiated settlement between an intransigent Camp and an increasingly incendiary goldfield. The rhetoric of the two parties had become extreme, both feeling that justice was on their side.

      Sven, twisting his trunk to relieve the muscles in his back, rolled over onto his left side, and drew his left leg up until his foot supported his right thigh. He began drawing on the ground with a small stick he held on his right hand.

      "Wednesday's meeting demonstrated that the moderates are a spent force", he commented. "Unfortunately, Hotham's refusal to listen to the delegates decided their fate. I was standing close to the magistrate and had a good view of Frazer, up-ended across a rope at the front of the platform. He was courageous, or foolish enough to proclaim his respect for "the glorious British Constitution." The [167] big man didn't go over well with the Irish. They would have torn him limb from limb, had it not been for Hayes' intervention."

      "Hayes himself", Sean broke in, "was caught up in the enthusiasm of the moment. At least he was aware of where it might lead. When they raised the new flag--the 'Southern Cross' they're calling it--he questioned the crowd, 'Will you die for it?' Sven and I came away from the meeting with heavy hearts."

      Günther, whose elbows were resting on the table to support hands that were cupping his face, volunteered, "The Commissioner's stupidity in ordering a licence hunt the following day had to be seen to be believed. Sending Johnson only added insult to injury. Dietrich and I were there. We had gone for provisions, and were on our way home. The action had to be more symbolic than real. The men at the Gravel Pits have a reputation for being well-disciplined, sober, and for keeping to themselves. Perhaps he thought that a licence hunt at the Pits would evoke the least reaction."

      "The fact that the Pits reacted", Dietrich broke in, "indicates how widespread the frustration and anger is."

      "We arrived from Eureka just in time to hear Rede shouting at Humffray", Billy commented, "He said, 'This is the consequence of your agitation'. Poor Humffray was exhausted from his effort at bridling the extremists. He hadn't a hope. Rede, by refusing to compromise, has left him out on a limb."

      "He did answer the commissioner", Michael added, not wanting to have this fact overlooked, "He threw back at Rede, 'No. You look at what your policy of coercion has achieved.'"

      "Humffray is not wanting in forthrightness or courage", Sven commented.

      "The new leadership met at Shannahan's store tent that evening", Sean explained, "That was where we met regularly with Father Smyth. I saw the light on, and imagined he was there. I walked into their meeting. They were surprised, and so was I. They didn't see me as a threat, and invited me to stay. They considered Rede might attack the diggers with his forces that evening, or early in the morning, and they were planning a counter attack. They contended that they had enrolled over a thousand [168] men. They chose Ross, Lynch, Curtain, Manning, Esmond, and several others as captains."

      "They tell me the rebels have formed six companies", Sven commented.

      "That is right", Günther answered, "Besides the Irish, there are companies of Frenchmen, Swedes, Germans, and Vandemonians."

      Following up his line of questioning, the Swede asked, "How effective do you imagine this improvised citizen army would be?"

      "Some of the men will fight bravely", Günther answered, "But many are filled with more bombast than courage or ability. And they are undisciplined. Most are rugged individualists that no Prussian general could knock into order."

      "The weapons are crude, as well", Michael suggested, "I saw half a dozen men practicing with pikes this afternoon. They made them themselves, with the help of a blacksmith. They attempted to drill. The effect was comical. Several of them fortified themselves with grog. I wouldn't want them defending me."

      "Using coercion to conscript 'volunteers', as they were doing this morning, when we threatened to up-end that fellow into the pit, does not augur well for their cause" Sven commented, "If, by some quirk of fortune, they were to defeat Rede and his troops, and replace them, we would be in a much sorrier situation than we are now. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I suspect there is little hope of that. I am convinced that several of the rabble-rousers are little more than wind-bags. If and when the action begins, they will disappear."

      "The problem with the miners", Sean argued, "Is that they don't know what they are fighting for. They know whom they are against. They have a clear idea of what they are opposing. But they are without an ideology, or a political philosophy. Their anger, rather than being channelled into positive reconstruction, is being seduced by empty slogans."

      "The rebels have no plan of attack, and no effective defence", Sven commented plaintively, "The stockade they have built is an open invitation to Rede. It will give him the excuse he needs." [169]

      "Look at the rebel troops!" added Günther, "The few that are left. Some have returned to their tents to sleep. Other's can't return to their tents, because they are in a drunken stupor. If Rede were to attack now, there would be pandemonium and slaughter."

      "Let's hope he doesn't", responded Billy.

      "If nobody is going home", suggested Dietrich, "I will refill the billy."

      "Good", said Michael.

      "Yes, do so", said Günther.

      "If we are not going home, and we are not going to sleep, I could do with another cup", Sven added.

      Dietrich took the billy in his hand, stood up and walked over to the cauldron over the fire. There was little water left in it. He turned and headed towards the door, picking his way through the human obstacles that impeded his progress. He made his way around to the back of the tent, and found a drum containing fresh water. He filled the billy, and was returning to the front of the tent when his eyes picked up movement in the distance, beyond the palisade. He thought he heard the neighing of a horse.

      "I think something is happening", he whispered to his friends in the tent, " I hear noises. There appears to be movement in the distance."

      The men sprang to life. The near-dead raised themselves. They collected at the front of the tent, and peered out into the fag-end of the night. The day was just beginning to break. Beyond the stockade they saw movement. A shot was fired from within the palisade. A bugle sounded. They thought they discerned riflemen on the high ground. The government forces were attacking, the infantry in the centre, the cavalry on the left flank, and the mounted police on the right. The infantry began firing. They heard the voice of Peter Lalor, summoning and directing his forces. The stockade was breached where Lalor stood. The infantry began to advance, firing and bayoneting. They heard screams.

      The six men ran forward, with no fixed purpose and no weapons. But they could not stand by and watch their fellow miners being butchered by the troops. [170]

      Sven covered the distance first. The sight that greeted him was gruesome. Several soldiers lay dead. Other men in uniform lay moaning on the ground. The blacksmith's shop had been set alight and was blazing, lighting up the area. Sven saw one of his fellow countrymen crawling along the ground, his twisted mouth registering his agony. He had been shot in the knee, and the flesh was hanging off the bone. Sven raced forward and knelt to see what he could do for the man. His back was to an advancing soldier. The burly trooper, advancing on him from the rear, thrust his bayonet through his back. It pierced his lungs and heart. Sven slumped to the ground.

      Paralyzed by the horror of the moment, Sean stood, gaping at Sven's prostrate body, unable to take in the magnitude of what had happened. Recovering himself, he rushed towards the body of his friend. He lifted the Swede's face. There was no life. A cry of anguish caught, like a fish bone, in his throat. He looked around in time to see the soldier returning. The trooper would have dispatched his second victim, had not Sean seen the rife of the wounded digger lying on the ground. He grabbed it, cocked the trigger, pointed it into the belly of the rampaging bear and fired. The man staggered and fell face down onto the flinty ground.

      Sean looked around him. He heard the cries of a women coming from a nearby tent. One of the police was bayoneting holes in the canvas. The woman emerged from the tent, holding her baby and screaming. Sean scrambled to his feet and lunged at the man, bringing him down. He tore his rifle from him and threw it into the smouldering remains of the smithy's tent. He ran to the women and tried to calm her. As he did so, another of the troopers took aim at him and fired. The bullet went through his body, just below the shoulder. He staggered, his body crumpling to the ground. The woman screamed hysterically.

      Günther and Dietrich, who had been attending to several of the wounded, witnessed the sequence of events. They had been too pre-occupied, and it had happened too suddenly, for them to respond quickly enough to have prevented the tragedy. They looked around for Billy and Michael, whom they discovered ten yards away. They motioned them to join them. The four raced to [171] the spot where Sean had fallen. They rolled him onto his back, and heard him whisper, "They have killed Sven." Then he lost consciousness.

      In the distance they could see prisoners being taken. Günther signalled to Michael and Billy to carry Sven's body to their tent. The two men retraced their steps, lifted the body from the ground, curled an arm around each of their shoulders and dragged the corpse from the field.

      Günther and Dietrich gently lifted Sean from the ground, cradling him between them. They set off in the direction of their tent on the Red Hill Lead. The troops were preoccupied with those they had captured. Günther and Dietrich used what remained of the night to make their escape.

      Michael and Billy laid Sven's body out on the ground where he had been reclining scarcely half an hour ago. They covered it with a blanket. The respect they had for the man was evident in the care they took to straighten his limbs. They had lost a friend and mentor, one of the wisest men they had known.

      Günther and Dietrich were nearly exhausted when they reached their tent. Thy laid Sean on Günther's bed and inspected his wound. It appeared clean, but he had lost a lot of blood. They knew he needed more attention than they could give him.

      "What can we do for him? Where can we take him?" Günther asked, agonizingly.

      "He killed a man", Dietrich replied, "So we must be careful."

      They were silent for several minutes. Then light suddenly broke out on Dietrich's face, "There is a possibility", he said.

      "Yes", said a weary Dietrich.

      "Mr. Lum, the apothecary."

      "Maybe!"

      "Let's take him now."

      "Now?" said Dietrich wearily.

      "Yes, now."

      The two men, who had bound up the wound as best they could, dismantled Dietrich's bed, removing both ends. They lifted Sean onto this improvised stretcher, grasped an end each and took off in the direction of Lum's shop, being careful to avoid Geelong [172] Road. They were gentle with their cargo, taking a quarter of an hour to cover the distance.

      Knowing that Lum and his family lived in the back of the shop, the two young men knocked tentatively on the back door. They did not want to wake any of the neighbours. They heard a noise inside. The door opened and Mr. Lum, brushing sleep from eyes, appeared before them.

      "We are sorry to disturb you, Mr. Lum."

      "It is a strange hour in the morning to come visiting?" said the apothecary, who recognised the two young men, "What have you there."

      "It is a friend, Sean, Sean O'Donnell."

      "I have heard of Sean."

      "What happened to him?"

      "He was shot."

      "Where?"

      "At the stockade."

      "So that was the commotion. Let me look at him."

      The apothecary drew back the blanket and inspected the wound.

      "He has lost a lot of blood. Give me a minute and I will prepare a bed."

      Lum went back inside, returning several minutes later to direct the young men past the sleeping bodies of his family. They came to a bed he had made up in a far corner of the room.

      "Lay him there. Be careful. He can't afford to lose any more blood."

      The apothecary went back into the shop to boil some water. When he returned, he said to the Günther and Dietrich, "Leave him with me. You two go home and get some sleep. You don't look as if you have had any for days. I take it that you do not want anyone to know that he is here."

      The young men nodded assent.

      "Go on. Off you go."

      Lum opened the door for the two Germans. Grateful for his unquestioning assistance, they waived to the Chinaman, and set [173] off towards the Eureka Lead to check that their friends had managed to secret Sven's body back to their tent. [174]

 

 

Chapter 20

      At eight o'clock on Monday morning, Mr. Lum unbolted the front door of his shop. Half a dozen people had already gathered outside the premises. He welcomed them, ushering them inside. Several had wounds. Others had come for preparations for friends and husbands. He picked up, from the buzz of nervous conversation, that at least five troopers had died, and twice as many had been wounded. The numbers of dead insurgents had not been calculated, and perhaps never would be. Most had been buried in a common grave on the Sunday afternoon. The soldiers were buried separately. Prisoners had been taken back to the Camp. What had happened to them no-one seemed to know.

      Lum anticipated that this would be a busy day for apothecaries, like himself, and for doctors, who would be called to tents on the diggings to treat wounded men who had escaped, or been spirited away in the early hours of the morning.

      While the apothecary was dispensing medicines, mainly Chinese herbal preparations, to those who sought his assistance, his wife and daughter were in the rear of the building, attending to Sean O'Donnell.

      The body of the young man was covered with several blankets. He was running a fever, and had not regained consciousness. Since taking delivery of the young Irishman early Sunday morning, Lum had washed his body and dressed his wound.

      His family, who had been disturbed by the arrival of the young men, had been woken by Lum's movements as he walked back and forth from the dispensary. It didn't take them long to discover the alien presence. The man was occasionally groaning as he lay face upward on the apothecary's bed. They quickly realised that it was Sean, and were alarmed by his pallor. Father, mother and daughter were soon involved attending to his needs, co-ordinating their effort to ensure regular dressings and changes of clothing and bedding. The latter was difficult, as their supplies were limited. [175]

      Mr. Lum's father, who had been brought from China to spend his last days in Ballarat with his only surviving son, looked on. He helped where he could, but he judged that his limited physical stamina could prove a hindrance. He concluded that he could best assist the effort by keeping out of the way. For much of the time, he sat cross-legged on his bed, looking very much like the sublime picture of Kuang Gong, in the Joss House local Chinese had erected nearby. It was difficult to tell whether he was meditating, or whether his mind was vacant. When the attention of any of the family was drawn to him, as they went about their disciplined ministrations, he would smile inscrutably.

      As Sunday night drew on there was little change in the young man. The family continued its ministrations. His face was a constant lather of perspiration. His body occasionally shook, a result both of the fever and of the shock to his system the invasive wound had delivered. There was no guarantee that he would pull through.

      Bedding was a problem during the night. Extra blankets had been scrounged from the other beds during the day. But they were needed as evening drew on. The family was beginning to manifest its weariness in the testiness that crept into exchanges. If members were to continue their regimen, they needed sleep.

      The family members decided to roster their care of the young man between them during the night, taking two-hourly shifts. As a consequence of a scarcity of blankets, they decided to use their own body heat to keep Sean warm. They drew up one of the other beds, positioning it on the side opposite the wound in his shoulder. During their two-hour stints, each, after checking the wound, wiping the sweat from his body and replacing the bedding, would lie against him, transferring to him some of their warmth. This reduced the effect of the fever, and prevented his body from shaking with the cold.

      At four o'clock in the morning, when he arose from his bed to change places with his daughter Mary, Lum noticed what he took to be a change in the young man's condition. His daughter was lying against the Irishman, asleep, her head on his shoulder. He gently peeled her away, sat her up, and led her back to her bed, [176] from which he had himself just arisen, and drew the blankets up over her body.

      The apothecary returned to the young man. He bent over him, noticing that the sweat was not as profuse as it had been, and that he appeared to be breathing more easily. He re-dressed his wound and resettled him in the bed.

      As none of his family had eaten much during the past twenty-four hours. Lum began preparing a substantial breakfast. By six o'clock he heard stirrings. However, on looking around he found that his wife and daughter were still soundly asleep.

      Lum's father, who had been observing him, slowly swivelled himself round until he was sitting on the edge of his bed. He pushed himself to his feet and began his daily T'ai Chi ritual. The movement was slow and deliberate, the epitome of balance and grace. It was as if he were taking into his being the flow of life's energies. His limbs were old, and his skin wrinkled, but there was an eternal youthfulness reflected in his motions.

      When the older man had concluded his exercises, he pulled a coat around himself and joined his son, helping him with the preparation of the food. The smell of the frying vegetables eventually woke the two women, who were surprised to be teased by such an aroma so early in the day. They looked across at each other quizzically, then smiled.

      The apothecary felt better prepared for the day, nourished by a substantial meal. As he worked away in the dispensary, mixing ingredients, he was glad that he had broken with tradition. His stomach thanked him. He was also relieved that the young man had given some indication, however minor, that he may have rounded a corner. Lum knew he could leave him in the care of his wife and daughter.

      Several times during the morning Billy knocked on the back door of the shop to check whether there was any change in Sean. He was told that there was a slight alteration in his condition, but not to raise his hopes too high.

      The morning wore on, and the stream of customers did not abate. Lum was beginning to feel weary. He was handing over a remedy to one of his regulars, when he caught sight of a striking [177] young woman, just inside the door. Her hand was on the locking mechanism, and her eyes were scanning the room.

      "Edith", Lum called out, "Are you looking for Mary?"

      "Yes."

      "She is out the back."

      "Thank you."

      Edith Clapham skirted the knot of customers gathered around the counter, and made her way through a curtained doorway to the rear of the building. She was surprised to see Mary kneeling over a prostrate body on her father's bed. Her friend's posture caught her by surprise."

      "Oh!" she said, involuntarily.

      Mary, who had been preoccupied attending to Sean, was startled and looked around to see who it was.

      "Edith", she began, "You almost frightened me."

      Edith was hardly listening. She had begun to make out the features of the young man lying in the bed."

      "It can't be."

      "It is."

      "What happened to him?" Edith asked, as she rushed over to the bed, and knelt on the floor beside her friend, "He looks awful."

      "He was wounded by a bullet at the stockade early Sunday morning."

      "A bullet?"

      "Yes. His friends brought him here. They thought Father might be able to pull him through."

      "And how is he?"

      "He appears a little better. His fever isn't as severe, and his wound isn't infected. Let me show it to you. It is time for me to dress it again."

      Mary lifted back the top section of the bedding to reveal Sean's chest. Edith could see that he was well-built, without being over-developed. His strong muscular arms hung limply at his sides. Mary carefully untied the bandage to reveal the bullet-hole. The wound was closing over, but bruising was beginning to appear on the surrounding skin. It was obvious, when he regained [178] consciousness, that the young man would feel considerable pain. Mary redressed the wound, rewinding the bandage around his frame, an awkward manoeuvre for a slightly-built woman. When she had finished, she replaced the bedclothes.

      "Why don't I give you a break?" Edith suggested.

      "Would you?"

      "I would be happy to."

      Lum's wife was kept busy supplying her husband with ingredients for medicines he was making up. Stocks of some ingredients had been exhausted.

      The senior Lum left mid-morning to visit the community of Chinese that had been herded into an overcrowded village, near Golden Point, on the flood-ravaged Yarrowee flat. In fine weather, it was a daily trek.

      Mary, who was squatting, leaned back onto her haunches and pushed herself to an upright position. Her bones, young as they were, were complaining.

      "You shouldn't have anything to do", she commented to Edith, "If you are concerned, or need anything, come and get me. I will be helping Father."

      Lum, near exhausted, and on the point of displaying an uncharacteristic irritability, was relieved to see his daughter appear, ready to assist him.

      "I have left Edith to watch Sean", she whispered.

      "I am sure she will do that capably", he replied.

      Edith settled down beside the young Irishman. He moaned. She brushed a stray hair from his forehead. As the vigil lengthened, her mind played with memories of encounters with this young man, in John O'Groats, on the hill that same evening, and in the tent on the Eureka Lead. Her recollections wove themselves into each other, like the daisy chains she used to make when she was a little girl.

      Edith was so distracted that she did not notice that Sean was becoming increasingly agitated. When she became aware that he was moaning, and shifting about in the bed, she became alarmed. She was on the point of jumping up and racing into the dispensary for help, when one of his eyes gradually opened. It was joined by [179] the other. For a moment he stared ahead. He then turned his head towards Edith and looked at her for a moment, blankly. He began to smile, though without fully comprehending where he was, or what had happened to him.

      "Where", he began, and lapsed out of consciousness again.

      Edith had been kneeling beside the bed. She got to her feet and almost ran into the shop. It was joy, rather than distress that impelled her.

      "He woke up", she announced, as she approached father and daughter, "He woke up!"

      Mr. Lum smiled. "You go with Edith and check on him", he said to his daughter.

      When Edith and Mary approached Sean, they discovered that his eyes were closed and his body resting. His breathing was easier, and, from his occasional moans, they were convinced that he was recovering consciousness. Mary had grabbed a herbal preparation that she knew would ease the pain. As the two young women maintained their vigil, the Irishman woke with increasing frequency, remaining awake for longer periods. [180]

 

 

Chapter 21

      Early that same morning, Günther and Dietrich joined Billy and Michael, who were preparing Sven's body for burial.

      The two Germans had scrounged discarded timbers the previous afternoon. Between the four of them, they managed to knock together a rough casket. Billy worked on a grave marker. He used a poker, which he kept red-hot by returning it every few minutes to the fire. He hammered together a cross. On the horizontal beam he burnt into the wood the words, "Sven Lungren." Then in smaller text he etched in, "A wiser and kinder man we have yet to meet."

      Several hundred men gathered in Main Road to march to the cemetery on Creswick Road. They were accompanying half-a-dozen coffins. Sven's was one of the caskets carried in honour at the front of the procession. Choked with emotion, but trying not to betray it, Günther, Dietrich, Michael, and Billy moved forward with the other pallbearers, friends of the deceased, at the head of the procession. It would be a long march. The procession snaked its way, wearily and mournfully, around the Camp on its way to the cemetery.

      To relieve the emotion, Dietrich commented to Günther, whom he could not see, but whom he knew to be marching in step with him at the front of the coffin, "I hear that Peter Lalor escaped."

      Billy, who was following behind Dietrich, and had overhead his remark, cut in, "Apparently he was wounded shortly after sounding the alarm and calling the others to action. He fell back into the trench. Several of the timbers, where the palisade had been breached, were placed over his body, covering it so effectively that he was not noticed in the emotion of the moment."

      "I heard he was seriously wounded", Günther commented from the other side of the coffin.

      "His arm was a mess, I am told", Michael added, joining in the conversation.

      "It was", Billy confirmed.

      "How do you know so much?" Dietrich asked. [181]

      "I met Father Smyth this morning. Apparently he saw him fall, and, while the troops were distracted with their final mopping up, he lifted the timbers from his body and placed him on his horse. He rode away with him. I suspect Lalor is hiding out in the bush, somewhere between Ballarat and Geelong, closer to Ballarat than Geelong."

      "If his arm was injured so badly, he will not be able to hold out there for too long", Günther added.

      "He was a brave man", Billy commented.

      "He is a brave man", Michael corrected his friend, "Don't count him out yet."

      The last comment lightened the atmosphere just a little. The four men were struggling with the weight of the coffin, but they pressed on stoically.

      "I hear they found Carboni hiding in his turf chimney", Billy volunteered.

      "They did. The coward!" Dietrich chirped in.

      "Did you hear about Vern, that windy firebrand", Günther added, expanding the narrative, "When the battle was joined, the long-legged coward ran away."

      "The American, McGill, and his Californian Rifles were no where to be seen either", Billy added.

      The procession was entering the Ballarat Cemetery. Mounds of newly dug earth indicated where the caskets were to be buried. The graves had been prepared earlier in the day. Without great ceremony, the bodies, encased in improvised coffins, were lowered into the earth, dust returning to dust. Several spades, picks and shovels lay about on the ground. Friends of the deceased appropriated them to refill the graves with soil.

      Günther, Dietrich, Billy, and Michael took turns covering their friend's casket with clods of earth. Eventually all that remained was a heaped mound of freshly dug soil.

      As three of the men stood back, Billy took the marker, which they had balanced on top of the coffin, and thrust it into the soil at the head of the grave. "Sven Lungren" stood out, burnt into the timber. They gathered round the grave to pay their last respects to their friend. They had not begun to feel the depth of their grief. [182] Each would do that privately in his own way. Sven would live on in the memories of each of them, feeding their courage, fuelling their passion for justice, and encouraging them to seek wisdom within themselves.

      They left the cemetery to head back into Ballarat. The silence between them remained unbroken for most of the way. Their hearts were heavy, and they could not speak their pain. The loss was too deep.

      When they eventually arrived back in the town, they made immediately for the apothecary's. It was dusk. They knocked at the back door. Lum and his family were finishing their evening meal. The lightened atmosphere indicated an improvement in their friend's condition. Sean was lying on Lum's bed, in the corner of the room, sleeping peacefully.

      "He will pull through", the apothecary assured them, "He is a very fortunate young man."

      "Thank you", said four very weary men.

      "I did what I could."

      "We are grateful, so very grateful to you", Günther responded.

      "I think you young men need to be going home", Lum commented, "But before you do, let me give you something to take with you. You must be famished." The Chinaman trowelled what remained in several woks on the stove into containers. "I thought you might come by, and I made a little extra. You won't feel like cooking. Here take this."

      The four friends were too hungry and tired to resist. They took the parcels, which were wrapped in newspaper to keep them warm. They thanked the family and made their departure. Once clear of the shops, the Irish and the Germans separated, each seeking out their own tents. All were convinced they would sleep a long sleep. [183]

 

 

Chapter 22

      Charles Houghton left the Eureka Flat on Sunday morning with the last group of prisoners. He was in charge of several constables. Leading the prisoners away, he took one last look at the battlefield.

      The wooden slabs out of which the palisade had been constructed had either been burnt, or were lying around on the ground. The charred remains of several stores, the smithy, and several tents, that were now little more than solitary hearths and flapping lengths of shredded canvas, were all that remained of the structures that had given a sense of semi-permanence to the area. Bodies were still being heaped up onto carts, warm blood continuing to stain the ground.

      The wounded had been taken to the Camp ahead of the prisoners. They were accommodated in an improvised hospital. When Houghton and the two constables arrived they were directed to a hut that was already crowded. The prisoners were stripped of their belongings, and joined the noisy group that had already taken up occupancy in the building.

      As the night wore on, many of the troopers found relief from the tension that had been building over the past two weeks, and from the slaughter in which they had participated, by drinking themselves silly. They began abusing their charges, who responded by grumbling and howling.

      Houghton, who remained on duty, as part of a containment detail, was caught up in the exchange of mutual abuse. The two constables, who had accompanied him from the flat to the Camp, became irritated by constant taunts from the diggers. They rounded on several of them, and began physically beating them. The drunken constables were exceeding their authority. Charles approached the two men, to pull them off their victims.

      "What de ya think ya doin?" one of them demanded of him, his slurred speech trailing off. [184]

      "Leave us alone", the other added, looking through glazed eyes in the direction of his mate, "We're gunna teach these bastards a lesson."

      "Back off", Charles demanded.

      "Who are you to make us?" the first of the conversationalists retorted.

      Houghton walked over to the first man, who was unsteady on his feet, and dragged him back. The man fell to the ground. The second constable, on seeing his mate man-handled, staggered towards Charles and threw a punch. Wide of its mark, it propelled him forward. He fell forward across his companion, who was making an effort to rise.

      The noise of several groups of drunken constables and troopers, together with a rising crescendo of complaint from the congested captives, finally brought Rede from his office in the early hours of Monday morning. He arranged for the miners to be transferred to a larger building. They were accompanied by a motley collection of troopers, police, and commission agents.

      Houghton was walking beside a file of men when one of them pointed in his direction, calling out to a friend, further back in the line, "There's the bugger that ran Jenkins through. I'll not forget that face."

      The remark startled Charles, who felt a stab of remorse. He couldn't altogether repress the fear that accompanied it, which tightened in his gut.

      Ambition, fear, a secret desire to revenge a humiliation, the eruption of a newly discovered blood-lust, and the surrender of individual responsibility to the energy of the herd had possessed him. He shot three men and then, hardly in possession of himself, bayoneted a miner as he emerged from the shelter of his tent, thirty yards beyond the periphery of the palisade. The man had been checking to see whether it was safe for his wife and three children to make their way to uncontested ground. As the pulled the bayonet from the digger, blood followed the withdrawal of the blade. The man groaned, fell to the ground, and expired before the gaze of his wife and children. [185]

      Charles had never been concerned about his impact on others before. He had ridden rough-shod over rivals. He could be charming, but it was the hypnotic charm of a self-centred viper, preparing to lunge at its victim. Lust, rather than love, was the medium of exchange in his trysts with women.

      But this was different. It was almost as if he had been startled by the manifestation of a devil within, a devil that emerged from the folds of a cultivated urbanity to leer at him. And he could not be sure that it was altogether an aberration. This was what scared him. Whether the impact would be powerful enough, and sustained enough to effect a change remained to be seen.

      After the prisoners were secured in their new accommodation, their jailers organised themselves into shifts. Houghton was weary and glad of the opportunity of a rest. He slept through until mid-afternoon. As there were more than sufficient troopers and police to guard the prisoners, he was free to take time off. The rest of Monday at the Camp was spent cleaning up around the buildings, a task that had been neglected over the past couple of weeks.

      The Commission agent needed time to think. He collected his horse, threw the saddle over its girth, tightened the strap, placed his left foot into the stirrup, and mounted the stallion. He pulled hard right on the reins, and dug his feet in under its belly. The animal cantered in the direction of the guard post. Charles waved to the sentry, and set off in the direction of Creswick. On the way, he passed several hundred men, spread out over half a mile. The last stragglers were emerging from the cemetery on Creswick Road on the northern outskirts of Ballarat.

      He directed his horse into the cemetery, where he saw several fresh mounds of earth. One of the graves bore the name, 'Jenkins'. Alone in the graveyard, he dismounted and stood, hat in hand, in front of the grave. He remained there for ten minutes, in silence. He remounted his horse, and headed back to the road. Slowly climbing the hill towards Creswick, he turned aside into a thickly forested area. Once under the forest canopy, he gave the animal its head. [185]

      As the horse meandered at will through the Forest floor, pausing now and then to munch at tufts of grass that grew thickly in small clearings, the young man mused, in a desultory way, about his future.

      He had been Rede's protege, the young colt who would grow into a fine race-horse. He had demonstrated his drive and ambition. He was smart, competent. But he had blotted his copy-book. He knew that Rede knew that he had betrayed a confidence, which had embarrassed the older man. While Rede was not vengeful, he would not forget. Charles could not count on further promotion if Rede remained in charge.

      In all likelihood, Rede himself was finished. He had won the skirmish. He was relieved, even pleased with himself. Houghton was not sure that history would endorse this self-congratulation.

      What was certain was that the Commission's days were numbered. Even if Rede kept him on, employment remained uncertain. He knew, in spite of the up-beat conversation of those who worked with him as servants of the Commission, that the injustices that were the daily lot of the miners could not continue unredressed.

      He would be out of a job, whatever happened. And he was remembered by several groups of diggers for the high-handed way he had treated them.

      Houghton's only hope was Robert Shaw. However, his plans, which had taken a hundred-and-eighty degree turn, needed time to mature. While he had attempted to ingratiate himself with the Ironmonger, to draw the older man into a pseudo-conspiratorial relationship, he was not certain of the Scot's reaction. His ruminations convinced Charles that he would soon be jobless, and unwelcome in Ballarat.

      While in this mood of uncertainty, Houghton took up the reins, resting on the horse's neck, and headed the stallion towards Ballarat. It was a quarter of an hour before he reached the Shaw's residence in Sturt Street.

      Charles walked the horse to the rear of the building, securing it to a hitching post. He returned to the front of the house [187] and knocked. The maid answered, surprised at being confronted by a handsome young man.

      Morag, who was in the dining room, called out, "Who is it?"

      "It is a Mr. Charles Houghton."

      "Charles! What's Charles doing here?" Morag asked herself. Making her way into the hall, she turned towards the front door, and caught sight of the Commission agent. "Charles. What a pleasant surprise."

      Though the young man's appearance was dishevelled, she could not help being attracted by him. She envied her daughter her youthfulness. It was a subtle shift in self-identification that allowed her unconsciously to change places with Ruby, to relive her own adolescence. She was vicariously infatuated with the young man standing in front of her.

      "Do come in", she began, "How inhospitable of me to leave you standing at the door."

      "I am much obliged."

      "Would you be seeking Ruby?"

      "I wonder how you guessed!"

      Morag didn't want to relinquish exclusive possession of the young man before she had explored the reason for this unexpected visit.

      While Charles was looking around at evidence of the solid dignity of the interior of the home, which he had not before had the chance of observing, Morag suggested, "Let us go into the drawing room." As she left the hallway, she called out to the maid, "Bring Mr. Houghton a drink. He looks as if he might need it."

      "Thank you. I am somewhat weary", Houghton replied.

      "You will stay for dinner?"

      "That would be imposing."

      "We would love to have you join us."

      Once Morag had settled Charles on a sofa, and ensconced herself in a large wing-back chair, she commented, "Were you caught up in the conflict with the rebellious miners on the Eureka Lead?" [188]

      "Commissioner Rede had been anticipating it for some time. The rabble didn't stand much of a chance, in spite of their pathetic stockade. It was a brief skirmish. Everything is under control."

      "You were there. You weren't hurt?"

      "No, though several of our men were killed, and more wounded."

      Before excusing herself to fetch Ruby, Morag threw a parting comment at Charles. It revealed an anxiety arising from her assessment of the dangerous nature of the occupation engaged in by the young man, who could, in time, become her son-in-law.

      "Do you plan remaining with the Commission, or will you seek alternative employment?"

      Houghton drew in his breath. He looked down at the floor, and then up at Morag.

      "I am resigning from the Commission."

      "When?"

      "Probably tonight."

      "What will you do?"

      "I don't know yet."

      "Will you remain in Ballarat?"

      "Probably not."

      Morag was beginning to betray her distress.

      "If a job were offered to you in Ballarat, would you remain here?"

      "I may. It depends."

      Morag looked intently at Charles, her mind spinning with possibilities. She finally excused herself, and went to inform Ruby that a young man was waiting for her in the parlour.

      Several minutes later Ruby appeared at the door, slightly flustered.

      "Charles. What are you doing here?"

      "I called to see you. It was an unplanned visit. I apologise for the lack of notification. I needed to see you before I left."

      "Left! Where are you going? You are not leaving Ballarat?"

      "I have almost decided."

      "No!" [189]

      Ruby reached out and threw her arms around Charles, who remained in a daze. As she pushed herself back from him, she was aware of the front door opening and heard her father's voice, as he greeted his wife. As she looked unbelievingly at Charles, she heard her parents whispering. At one point her mother's voice was loud enough for her to hear, "But can't you offer him a job."

      "I think it might be best if I sought to establish myself elsewhere", Charles replied, after a delay.

      "But why?"

      "Ruby, you are full of questions tonight."

      "But why shouldn't I be? You are telling me you are leaving."

      Ruby heard her father's footsteps in the hallway. A moment later, his face appeared at the door.

      "Good evening Mr. Houghton. My wife tells me that you are to join us for dinner."

      "She has invited me to remain for the meal."

      "Ruby. Joy of my life!" Robert beamed, turning his attention to his daughter, "How has your day been?"

      "Mother and I have been shopping."

      "Did you find what you wanted?"

      "People's minds were on other things."

      Robert put his right hand to his forehead. He had had a harrowing day, and was looking forward to a relaxing evening in the security of his home, where he could find a temporary distraction from the concerns that had been eating away at him. He had not anticipated a dinner guest, least of all, Charles Houghton. During the day he picked up information about the Commission agent. Jenkins was a customer at the Ironmongery. Houghton fitted the description of the young man who had dispatched him.

      Addressing himself to Ruby, Robert began: "Would you leave Charles and me on our own for a few minutes. I think your mother may need assistance."

      Ruby's reply, "Yes, Father", betrayed considerable reluctance.

      Once the two men were alone, Robert turned to Charles and commented, "My wife tells me you are planning to leave Ballarat." [190]

      "That is becoming a more settled intention by the hour."

      "Where do you think you will go?"

      "Melbourne, probably."

      "Had you considered the possibility of remaining in Ballarat, and looking for another position."

      "I had, but I suspected that my association with the Commission may disadvantage me."

      "And the role you played in the quelling of the rebellion?" Robert added, looking directly at Charles, with a knowingness that the younger man found disconcerting.

      "Yes", he finally admitted.

      "So you are not going to try to find employment here?"

      "I thought of asking you whether you had any vacancies, but I considered this presumptuous."

      "A commendable response, even if it was not to your advantage."

      Shaw looked again at Houghton. Had he misjudged him? Was he, after all, not totally corrupt? Perhaps what he was witnessing was the beginnings of a transformation? Robert's religion told him that men could change. He was not prepared to offer him a job, but the young man might just manage to salvage a smidgen of self-respect and personal dignity.

      "Melbourne will provide you with more opportunities than you will find in Ballarat. I wish you well."

      "Thank you, Sir", replied Houghton, almost absentmindedly.

      "Let us go and enjoy the meal. The women will be waiting."

      Shaw led the young man into the dining room, where he found himself seated next to Ruby. The meal passed without incident. The conversation was lively, largely as a result of Morag's management, and the visible relief that Robert felt as a consequence of the knowledge that Houghton would be leaving Ballarat, perhaps for good. Charles, while contributing to the conversation, remained subdued. When the meal concluded, he excused himself. Ruby accompanied him to the door.

      "I had better go", he remarked.

      "Will I see you again?"

      "I don't know. I hope so. But no promises." [191]

      Tears welled up in the young woman's eyes and her breast began to heave. Charles reached across and cradled her face. He was lost for words. He didn't know what to say. Houghton's capacity for genuine engagement, even with himself, was non-existent. He was at a loss to know how to process what he was experiencing.

      Eventually he pulled himself away.

      "I must go", he said, and staggered into the driveway. Suddenly realising that his horse was at the rear of the building, he waved and disappeared around the side of the house.

      Ruby, who remained at the front door, heard the sound of the horse's hooves, and watched as the young Commission agent, on whom her hopes of a romantic future rested, ride off into the darkness. She closed the door, and made her way to her upstairs bedroom.

      The horse had not made much progress before he turned left out of Sturt Street, heading due North. The stallion picked his way towards the southern perimeter of Yuille's Swamp, where the young man dismounted.

      Charles took hold of the horse's bridle, and began walking him slowly around the swamp. Without an awareness of what he was doing, he was reaching out to a solitude, which he had always kept at bay, because it was too threatening. He had been drawn to the forest beyond the cemetery at Creswick. It was this expanse of water that drew him inexorably, offering him a mute oasis.

      The young man kept walking until he circled the swamp. He was about to remount his horse when the vision of Jenkins, the bayonet through his rib-cage, and a terrible look in his eyes, washed over him. Jenkins' wife's screams rang in his ears. He buckled over in pain, vomiting onto the ground. The vision faded, but not before it left his body shaking with uncontrolled emotion.

      Houghton patted the horse's neck, laid his head against it, and mounted. When he reached the Camp, he directed the horse past the sentry, and pulled the reins when he reached the Commissioner's office. The camp was silent. A spirit of exhaustion had descended on the place. He dismounted, secured his horse, and walked in through the front door. He smiled at the agent on [192] duty, grabbed a piece of paper, and scribbled a note. He opened the door into the Commissioner's office and placed the note on Rede's desk. "I am resigning", it read. It was signed, "Charles Houghton."

      Houghton signalled to the duty agent that he was on his way, and disappeared through the door. He remounted his horse and passed by the sentry a second time. After looking back at the Camp buildings, he turned and faced the long stretch of the Melbourne Road. The track was visible in the light of the half-moon. Charles paused for a final glance in the direction of the Eureka encampment. He then urged his horse forward, blinkering his mind against further recollection. All that accompanied him was the sound of hoof beats on gravel chips. [193]

 

 

Chapter 23

      It was a week since Sean had been taken to the Lums. His recovery was gradual. On the Friday he wanted to return to the tent on the Eureka Lead, but was persuaded to remain with the apothecary. His friends told him they did not want him around them, if it meant that they would need to nursemaid him. In reality, a return to the diggings was purely hypothetical. His recovery was partial, even precarious. The strongest factor arguing against a return was an almost total lack of energy. While the wound was healing well, the shock his body had received, and the struggle it had put up to pull him through had taken their toll.

      Sean was not altogether disappointed. He was aware that he was weak, and that it would be foolish to prejudice his recovery. Besides, he was not altogether averse to the attention he was receiving from Mary and Edith, particularly Edith.

      What he found most difficult was adjusting to Sven's death. As he had lain awake early Tuesday morning, in the longest period of lucidity he had enjoyed since he had collapsed, his memory began returning. He felt a deep sense of loss, that he had difficulty explaining to himself. As he struggled to interpret the feeling, the picture of the Swede, lying on the ground, with blood oozing from the bayonet wound in his back, flashed into sharp focus. Lacking the strength to bear the pain, he unconsciously repressed the memory. It continued to return, remaining with him longer each time.

      Billy and Michael, Günther and Dietrich were regular visitors. The Lums accommodated the constancy of this visitation with gracious equanimity. Hospitable and self-effacing, they lavished their disciplined attention on Sean without fussing over him or drawing attention to themselves.

      It was on the Wednesday, when the four men were together around his bed, that Sean raised the question of Sven's fate. The others had hitherto avoided the subject, so as not to unnecessarily disturb the young man, and therefore retard his recovery.

      "He was killed, wasn't he?" Sean asked. [194]

      "Who are you talking about?" Billy answered, suspecting that they could no longer avoid the question.

      "Sven!"

      "Sven was killed", Günther answered, "What do you remember?"

      "He was bayoneted from behind and lay on the ground."

      "You ran to him."

      "Did I?"

      "You did."

      "What happened after that?"

      "Don't you remember?"

      "I must have received this at some time", he commented, pointing to the bandage.

      "You grabbed a rifle and shot a trooper who was coming at you. You had no alternative. It was his life or yours. Then you rescued a woman from a policeman, who was shredding her tent. Another trooper came up behind you and shot you through the shoulder. Billy and Michael carted Sven's body to the tent, and Dietrich and I carried you from the field. We took you to our tent, which was far enough away for us to feel that you were safe."

      "But then we realised", Dietrich took up the narrative, "that you had lost a lot of blood, and would likely lose more during the night. We struck on the idea of taking you to Mr. Lum. We felt that he would pull you through. We trusted his discretion. You owe him your life, and his family."

      "I also owe my life to you and Günther."

      "We did no more than you would have done for us", Günther responded.

      Sean was silent for a moment. His eyes were distant. He was struggling to come to terms with the fact that he had killed a man. He felt nauseous. The incident was present to him only in the recollection of his friends. But he was sure the memory of it all would come back. In the meantime, he would have to adjust to the knowledge that he was a murderer. His soul would be forever stained with the guilt implicit in the act. His reaction had obviously been spontaneous, unpremeditated. It could be explained away as justifiable homicide. But the stubborn fact [195] remained. He had taken another man's life. In an attempt to erase the incident temporarily from his mind, he deliberately turned his attention to his friend. His grief worked as a narcotic.

      "It is hard to believe that Sven is gone. What happened to his body?"

      "We constructed a crude coffin. On Monday morning we carried the casket in procession to the cemetery on Creswick Road. There were several other coffins and near enough to three hundred men. It wasn't an elaborate burial, but it was appropriate. Sven would have abhorred anything more elaborate."

      "We'll miss him."

      "We are on our own now. Men like Sven come along once or twice in a lifetime. They don't say much, but you draw strength from them."

      "I will miss him", Sean commented, and then paused a moment. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes, and began falling over his cheeks. He tried to catch the pain in his throat, and hold it there, so he could continue, but he was too weak and his body started to heave. Günther lent across and cradled his friend.

      "We all miss him", he said, between clenched teeth.

      After a few minutes, Günther gently lay Sean back on the bed. The depth of feeling, and resulting emotion, had sapped him of energy. "We must leave", Günther said to Mrs. Lum, who had remained unobtrusively in the background. The four young men made their departure, bowing their heads in the direction of the apothecary's wife.

      Sean had a disturbed sleep on the Wednesday night. He was exhausted on Thursday morning and slept most of the day.

      On Friday the Irishman's attention returned to the two issues that were preoccupying him.

      In spite of the fact that he was convinced he had no option, he was feeling no better about having dispatched the trooper. It would be some time before he could forgive himself, and even forgiveness, if and when it came, would not enable him to recover his innocence. But then, loss of innocence was inevitable, unless one was to avoid human society altogether. The incident had etched a permanent scar into his psyche. Sean was also concerned [196] for any family the trouper may have had. He was in no condition at the moment to make inquiry. But he would when he was well enough.

      Sean also found it impossible to shake off his grief over Sven. His mind kept replaying memories of the Swede. He was fascinated by Sven's passion for justice. It was not a boisterous or ostentatious passion, an excuse for releasing pent up anger. It was pure, unwavering, and determined not to contradict itself by its belligerence. Sean wished he had known more of the personal details of the man's history. It might help explain him.

      Sean returned to the subject of Sven over the next few days, as he began processing his grief. He recognised that his memories of Sven, deepened by the pain of his loss, were embedding the personality of the man, and his call to authenticity. Yet for all of its irresistible demand, this call, while responded to by Sean, became snagged on his awareness of the fact that he had taken another man's life. [197]

 

 

Chapter 24

      On Monday morning, with Mr. Lum and Mary attending to patients in the dispensary, and with Mrs. Lum absent, Sean found himself in the company of the Senior Lum.

      The old Chinaman intrigued Sean. The young man watched him exercising every morning, noting the delicacy of his movements. He decided that he would ask him what he was doing.

      "T'ai-Chi", the old man replied, and, sensing that Sean had not correctly discerned what he was saying, repeated himself, with greater deliberation, "T'ai-Chi."

      "What is 'T'ai-Chi?" the young man asked.

      "T'ai-Chi is breath of Life, breath gives life to all things."

      "Is it like "Holy Spirit", the Holy Spirit that the priest talks about?"

      "Yes. No. I explain."

      "Go ahead."

      "Beginning of all things is Tao."

      "What is Tao?"

      The old man spread his arms wide, looking straight ahead, as if he was gazing out into eternity through a tear in the fabric of time.

      "Tao is Tao."

      "Yes, but what is it?"

      "Lao-Tzu say 'Tao that can be named is not Tao'."

      "How can we know anything about Tao if it cannot be named."

      "'Tao' means 'Word', but not ordinary Word."

      "Explain it to me a little more."

      "Tao Te Ching say: The Tao give birth to the One. The One give birth to the Two. The Two give birth to the Three. The three give birth to many creatures."

      "I still don't understand."

      The old man walked haltingly over to a box and took seven candles from it. He positioned six of them in glasses and arranged [198] them in the form of a triangle, with one candle at the top, two in the middle and three at the bottom.

      He lit the seventh candle, holding it in his hand and commenting, "Tao is source of all things. But cannot be known." With this taper he lit the candle at the apex of the triangle, "Tao give birth to One, to T'ai-Chi,--breath gives life all things." He used this candle to light the next two, "T'ai-Chi give birth to Two, to Yin and Yang--nature, spirit in nature. T'ai-Chi, Yin and Yang--moving Tao in nature. " He repeated the procedure with the three candles at the base of the triangle, "Two give birth to Three. Yin and Yang give birth to three spirits in nature--San-ch'ing, governs heaven, Ling-pao, governs earth, Tao-te, governs water and rebirth."

      "'T'ai-Chi' is the breath of the Tao, its expression in nature?"

      "Ah yaaa", the old man replied, somewhat hesitantly, "Exercise--move with spirit of Tao."

      "Tell me more."

      "Tao", the Chinaman announced, pointing to his head. Shifting his hand to his chest, he commented, "T'ai-chi." Pointing next to his gut, he uttered, "Yin. Yang." When he had finished, he fanned his hands out from his stomach, as if to embrace his body, "Tao. T'ai-chi!" Making a wide, sweeping movement with his arm, as if to encompass the limits of the universe, he repeated himself, "Tao. T'ai-chi!"

      "Yin and Yang. What is this Yin and Yang?"

      "Sky Yang. Earth Yin. Under earth, strong Yin. Yang, man. Yin, woman. Need balance. Need each other."

      "How does one follow the Tao?"

      "T'ai-chi. Flow with T'ai-chi. Young man learn, practice."

      "Tell me more about the Tao?"

      "Follow Tao, live well. Know Tao with gut. Leader follow Tao--humble, generous, meek, but strong. Doesn't impose self on others. Compassion. Selfless. Kind. Just. Not grasp riches. Wisdom, not cunning."

      "Sounds like Sven", Sean thought to himself.

      "Live with contentment. Gentle. Balance good and bad", the old man continued. [199]

      Sean was fascinated, but felt he had taken in as much as he could absorb. What remained with him most powerfully was the notion that there was this something that couldn't be named, this Tao that was the energizing breath of all that existed. It embodied wisdom. To discern and follow this Tao was the task of a lifetime. It would enable one to flow with some sort of divine intention that was built into the structure of reality.

      Was this what he was looking for? He had not jettisoned the faith into which he had been born. He remained a Catholic, though hardly a regular worshipper. Father Downing, and Father Smyth, in particular, impressed him and caused him to rethink his commitment. However, what this old man talked about took him deeper, reawakening in him a yearning for an authentic spirituality that he could own as his own.

      The Chinaman's appearance was exotic, and his customs strange. Both had their appeal. But it was this different tradition, as it found its embodiment in this frail old man that most affected him. It was as if he was looking to be nurtured, not so much by an individual, as he had been nurtured by Sven, but by a spirit that had found expression in Sven, in this old man and in others who had impressed him as being in possession of themselves. Perhaps they all were, in a subtle way, in touch with and flowing with this Tao. If they were, they were enhanced rather than diminished by it. Sean's conjectures were incapable of travelling beyond this point.

      Turning to the old man again, he asked, "Confucius. Is this what Confucius talked about?"

      "No. No. Lao Tzu. Confucius, behaviour--respect, piety children to parents, obligation to friends, help to stranger, loyalty to state. Virtues. Chinese virtues owe to Confucius."

      Sean sunk back onto his bed almost in a state of exhaustion.

      "Thank you Mr. Lum. I am grateful. You have given me much to think about. But I am exhausted."

      "Happy you like."

      As Sean drifted off to sleep, his semi-dream state was a kaleidoscope of images--Günther, Dietrich, Billy, Michael, Sven, Mr. Lum, Edith, pits, puddling machines, gunfire, bayonets, and [200] an invisible, unnamable Tao, that finally whisked him into a deeper, dream-state, peopled with shadowy figures representing compensatory attitudes, fears, and undeveloped potential.

      Glancing over, and seeing Sean's facial muscles twitch, the old Chinaman smiled, offering him his benediction, "Good night Mr. Sean. May you discover the Tao that cannot be known. May it discover you." [201]

 

 

Chapter 25

      On Tuesday morning, a little over a week after the rebellion, Billy, Michael, Günther and Dietrich gathered at the back entrance to Lum's premises to collect Sean. They had come to accompany him back to the claim on the Eureka Lead, which the three Irishmen had been working. It was not that he needed their assistance. He wasn't an invalid, in spite of the fact that his movements were still tentative. The return would be a ritual procession that would mark his recovery and celebrate his future. Before leaving, the group thanked the Lums for saving Sean's life.

      "While there is nothing we could do that could adequately thank you", Günther explained, addressing himself to the family, "There is something we would like you to accept."

      With that, he produced a folded handkerchief from his pocket, which he proceeded to unwrap. A final flourish revealed a three-ounce nugget. It had been cleaned and polished and shone brilliantly in the mid-morning sun.

      "Thank you. But I cannot accept this", Mr. Lum protested.

      "It was your professional skill and your dedication to Sean's welfare that ensured that he survived."

      "Healing is my calling. I make a living from it. I do not aim to be a wealthy man. It has been our pleasure to assist with Sean's recovery."

      "And it would give us great pleasure if you would accept this nugget from all of us, as an expression of our gratitude", Günther insisted, " We appreciate the selflessness of your attitude, but we would feel we have been robbed of the opportunity to say thank you if you reject it."

      "I know what I will do", said Mr. Lum, "I will accept it, but I will return it."

      "Return it?" questioned Billy.

      "I have heard", began Mr. Lum, "that it is the practice of some shopkeepers to invest in mining ventures, to become partners. I will accept the gold, but return it to you as my stake-holding in your mine." [202]

      It took the young men some time to process this new development. Günther recognised they were cornered. He also realised that the suggestion was a master-stroke on Lum's part.

      "It seems as if we have no choice but to accept your offer", Günther commented, "But we will ensure that accurate records are kept, and that you benefit from your investment."

      "My greatest investment is in Sean", Lum responded.

      "That it is."

      "We had better not keep you", said Dietrich.

      "Mary is looking after the customers", responded Mr. Lum, "Though I guess I should relieve her shortly."

      Sean turned to Mr. Lum and embraced him without a word. He hugged him several times before releasing him. He then walked over to Mrs. Lum, bowing to her. "How can I thank you, and especially your daughter?"

      "You will repay us by getting well", Mr. Lum responded.

      Michael picked up the bundle of clothing, secured with a belt, that Sean had used during his recuperation. The five young men waved goodbye to Mr. and Mrs. Lum, who returned the salute.

      As the men picked their way through the Gravel Pits, they heard an ancient voice call out to then from a canvas structure sheltering one of the shafts.

      "Mind you don't steal too much sunlight", the leathered visage chuckled, "Or you will end up like me, hidden under layers of wrinkles."

      The young men decided to detour, entering Angus Campbell's canvas grotto. The old man struggled to his feet, his arthritic knees complaining loudly.

      Turning his attention to Sean, he said, "Young man, you're a sight for sore eyes."

      Sean looked directly at the living relic, returning the energy of the older man's affection.

      "Your friends told me it was a matter of touch and go", he continued, "And here you are."

      "I must have a guardian angel", Sean replied.

      "I think you have a few of them." [203]

      "Perhaps, but one of them has deserted me."

      "You're meaning Sven?"

      "Yes."

      "It was a tragedy. You'll miss him."

      "I will. But he will remain an inspiration."

      Dietrich, who had been holding onto the central tent pole with his right hand, to support his weight while his right leg rested on the lip of the pit surround, broke into the conversation, "I can't help noticing that the diggings are quieter."

      "The match ignited the accumulated powder in the keg. ", Angus responded, "The explosive energy was released. Let us hope it doesn't build again. Nickle's coming has helped. Better martial law than the insults, impertinence, and arbitrary rule of the uncivil civil Commissioners."

      "I hear that they have established a Royal Commission into the rebellion."

      "Let us hope the real facts are finally revealed."

      "Talking about the real facts being revealed", Angus repeated, after a pause, "You are quite a celebrity, Sean."

      "I am?"

      "Yes. The woman you protected from the rampaging trooper, who had been shredding her tent, hasn't stopped singing your praises. She keeps asking for you. Your friends have put her off, thus far, but your day of reckoning will come."

      "My reaction was instinctive."

      "You will have to explain that to the woman."

      Obviously weary, after having been on his feet for so long, Angus, resettling himself on the wooden box that served as his seat, announced, "I am sure you young men will be wanting to be on your way. Sean must be looking forward to getting home."

      "We should be off", Billy agreed.

      "We will take in more of that sun", Günther commented, a broad smile breaking out across his face, "Even if it means we end up with a pitted face like yours."

      "Off with you", Angus jousted.

      The five young men began their climb towards the Eureka Lead. The pace was slower than normal. They were aware that [204] Sean was not fully recovered, and they did not want to exhaust him.

      When the windsock, identifying the Irishmen's claim, came into view, Sean felt a sense of relief. He was happy with himself for having managed the trip without needing to break the journey, but was looking forward to regaining his strength. The group passed by the claim and made for the tent. Once inside, Sean lay down on his bed, allowing his body to recover from the unaccustomed weakness debilitating him.

      Michael walked to the hearth to rekindle the embers, and to check the water in the pot. The others spread themselves around the room, wherever they could find space.

      After the young men had downed several mugs of billy tea, eaten enough damper to satisfy their hunger, and assured themselves that Sean was sufficiently recovered to set out on another, though much briefer, expedition, they pulled him to his feet, and led him through the tent door.

      The reluctant hero had been strangely quiet during their bantering conversation in the tent. His eye had fallen on the floor in front of the central tent pole, where Sven had been reclining on the early hours of Sunday morning, before the onslaught. The association of this section of packed earth with his absent friend had evoked bitter-sweet memories.

      "We want to renew your acquaintance with the claim you have helped us work", Michael explained, jolting Sean out of his reverie. "The puddling machine", he announced, as they passed by the slatted tub. As they approached the canvas roof that kept the rain from their pit, he continued, "The windlass. The pit."

      Sean, who was utterly bemused by this strange behaviour, didn't know what to make of his friend's curatorial descriptions. He looked at him blankly.

      To dispel his perplexity, Billy hastened to explain, "Sean, we wanted you to remember where you had spent so much of your time, because you won't be working on our claim any more."

      Before Sean had time to ask the obvious question, Günther took hold of his arm and led him in the direction of Sven's ground. [205] As they approached the familiar terrain, the German announced, "This will be where you will be working. This is your claim."

      "But this is Sven's claim", he protested.

      "It was Sven's claim. It is now your claim."

      "My claim?"

      "Yes. Sven has given it to you in his will. We have had the claim legally transferred. It is now your claim."

      Sean reached for the central tent pole to steady himself. It took him several minutes to reorient his thinking, and to steady his emotions. He released his grip on the pole, and, with slow steps, walked over to the rim of the pit. He looked down into the dark interior. This was where he had so often stood, conversing with his friend.

      Before he had time to reminisce further, Günther came up behind him, placed his hand on his back, and began, "We have other things to show you. We would like to take you to Sven's tent."

      The five young men filed into the canvas mausoleum. It was redolent with Sven's presence. Günther and Sean sat around the table. Michael was perched on the side of the bed. Dietrich sat on the floor, while Billy settled himself on the surround of the hearth, whose black embers testified to the absence of the former occupant.

      "Sven was very methodical", Günther began. The morning after the funeral, when we came to check on what needed to be done, we began going through his belongings. He used that box, in the corner, just beyond Billy, for his private possessions. When we opened it, we found three books, and a small tin. On top of the tin was a note. It was his will. Written in English, it indicated that, should he die, he wanted to leave his claim and his possessions to you."

      The atmosphere was heavy with presence. It united the young men, merging their spirits at a deep level. There was almost a ringing to the silence. They could feel the energy of their friend.

      "The three books were written in Swedish", Günther continued, "We couldn't make head nor tail of them. However, we sought out one of Sven's countrymen, a man we knew to be a close [206] friend. He took us slowly through each of the books, translating as he went."

      "We went through his diary first", Dietrich cut in.

      "Yes", Günther continued, "It helped explain much that was mysterious about Sven, things we half suspected, but didn't really know."

      "Sven had been a lawyer", Michael announced, anxious to carry the narrative forward.

      "Though only in his late twenties, he had acquired an enviable reputation in Sundsvall", Günther began, "He was in partnership with another man. This man's wife was unfaithful to her husband. Wrongly suspecting Sven, when he found him one day talking to his wife in their kitchen, he lunged at him with a kitchen knife. He slipped on the floor and both men fell to the ground. During the fall, as the assailant attempted to protect himself, the knife was turned toward his chest. When Sven landed on top of him, the knife penetrated to his heart and he died. Expecting that others would also assume that he was the lover, and, therefore, the murderer, Sven sailed for England, and later for Australia."

      "No wonder he kept to himself, and avoided, even abhorred violence", Michael added.

      "It also appears that he was Lutheran", Dietrich commented.

      "The second book we found was a Bible", Billy explained, and then added, "Though I doubt if it has been used for a long while. It was apparently inscribed by his father."

      "The third book", Günther continued, "Was an account book. At the back of the book were a series of letters. He was sending money to his mother, some of it to help with his sister's education."

      "And then there was the tin", Michael commented, "We haven't opened the tin. The note he left on top of it indicated that it was to be left for you to open privately."

      Günther rose, walked over to the box, reached for the tin and returned with it, handing it to Sean.

      Remaining standing, the young German addressed his friends, "We should leave Sean alone with his memories, and to digest what we have told him." Sean was lost in his own world, his [207] mind working overtime to absorb and piece together what he had just been told. He hardly noticed his friends depart.

      When he finally came to himself, Sean looked at the tin he was holding in his hands. He slowly opened it. It contained a note, in English, which he took several minutes to read. He replaced the note in the tin, which he left on the bed as he rose and walked over to the collection of boxes and trunks. He found a bundle of writing paper and a pencil. Taking them to the table, he seated himself on a log and began writing. He was still writing at six o'clock, when his friends came to inform him that they had prepared a meal. He told them he wouldn't be long. He finished what he was writing. After folding the sheets of paper, he placed them in a pocket in his jacket. He took one last look around the tent, closed the flap, and made off in the direction from which a most inviting smell was emanating. [208]

 

 

Chapter 26

      It was early December 1855, a little over a year since the Eureka Rebellion. Robert and Morag Shaw were entertaining John Basson Humffray, who, along with Peter Lalor, had recently been appointed a member of the unreformed Legislative Council of Victoria.

      Humffray sat opposite Morag. Robert, at the head of the table, was on his right. Ruby sat on the councillor's left. Humffray, a Chartist with a faith in moral suasion, had emerged a hero from the troubles of the previous year, in spite of being disregarded by Hotham and cast aside by the radical element among the miners in the final phase of the crisis. The people of Ballarat were convinced that Humffray had their interests at heart and had the insight, vision, and competence to carry forward their democratic aspirations.

      Sitting opposite this celebrated citizen, Morag had opportunity to observe the strength reflected in his face. A high, broad forehead overhung sensitive eyes that reflected gentleness, compassion, and pain. He had a strong nose and full sensuous lips. The latter suggested determination. A wispy beard, that thrust forward at a forty-five degree angle from his chin, ended in two matched peaks that were level with the top button of his waistcoat. While not a handsome man, he was attractive, and not merely because he represented the allure of power.

      Robert was standing, a knife poised in his hand, contemplating the most effective way of surgically attacking the roast.

      "I remember the evening I called on you", Robert began, "We were both despairing. Our plans to confront Rede had come to nothing. You had been sidelined, and your life was threatened."

      "Tensions were certainly running high at the time", Humffray recollected, "My life was threatened on several occasions. I argued that the governor could be persuaded. Some interpreted that as a sell-out. I was deemed a traitor." [209]

      "Were you afraid?" Morag asked, "Did you think you would be killed?"

      "I didn't know for certain. It was talk, but whether it would be translated into action I had no way of knowing. The threats were made in the heat of the moment. I convinced myself that they would not be carried through. I don't mind telling you I was no stranger to fear during that time. But then, there was little choice. I had committed myself to a course of action and wasn't prepared to turn back."

      "Strange, isn't it?" Robert remarked, rejoining the conversation after seating himself, "The hotheads and their rebellion, however much we depreciated their action at the time, proved to be the catalyst for change. Without Eureka, our gradualist, constitutional approach would still be bogged in the mire of entrenched patronage and privilege. Ironically, we are indebted to the firebrands."

      "As I interpret the balance of forces", Humffray joined in, "the rebellion woke the town. It convinced the citizens of Ballarat that enough was enough. The failure of the stockaders dramatized the clamant need for change. It evoked a passive resistance among the whole population."

      "Those posters advertising a £500 reward for Vern's capture, that were pasted up all over town, were defaced", Morag commented.

      "The commission, the police, and the colonial government itself were held in such disdain", Humffray explained, "that any directives issuing from the Camp, or from Hotham, were disregarded on principle."

      "The arrival of Sir Robert Nickle seemed to lead to a relaxing of tensions", Morag added.

      "The fact that he came with eight hundred troops, and placed the city under martial law, was greeted with relief by most segments of the population. The miners, who were demanding change, but were more fearful of the radicals than the Camp, could breathe again. The general population was happy to have order restored. People were also aware that Nickle, because he had not been embroiled in the conflict, and did not need to justify his [210] conduct, could deal fairly with all sides. Even the prisoners felt that they would be better off not being entirely at the mercy of commission and the police, both of whom had compromised themselves."

      At the mention of the Commission, Ruby glanced sideways at Humffray, who was too preoccupied to notice her involuntary reaction. She quickly returned her gaze to the food on the plate in front of her.

      "It was the beginning of the end for Rede, Johnson, and other members of the commission", Robert commented, adding, "Good men at heart, but unequal to the task. The pressure showed up their flaws."

      "If there was this change in sentiment, why weren't the prisoners released?" Ruby asked.

      "We tried", Humffray began, "But we were stone-walled."

      "I remember you signing a petition", Morag commented, looking up at her husband.

      "Henry and Charles Nicholls, two brothers, worked on it", Humffray explained, "They sat up on black hill, and pencilled out a draft. They showed it to me, and we refined it. We managed to secure four and a half thousand signatures. We took it to Hotham, offering him a way out. But the man refused us again, and persisted in bringing charges of treason against the stockaders."

      "The upshot was laughable", Robert cut in.

      "Yes. During February and March Melbourne juries acquitted the prisoners, indicating that they had been justified in opposing tyranny."

      "There was wild rejoicing."

      "So you were defending the men who were threatening your life", Morag commented.

      "I wouldn't put it quite that way", Humffray answered, "I reflected that the insurgents had been fighting my battle. Now I could fight theirs! After all, they were decent men, pushed beyond limits. The report of the Royal Commission, coming when it did, late in March, represented the nemesis of the administration and fully justified our actions." [211]

      "Nemesis", Ruby asked, "What do you mean? I am not familiar with the word."

      "The Camp and the government got what they had coming to them", her father explained.

      "The Royal Commission resulted in significant changes", Morag volunteered, looking for further explanation.

      "You are correct", Humffray replied, "The commission condemned almost all that had gone on here, supposedly under the auspices of Her Majesty's government. It also responded to the miners' basic demands. You will be aware of some of the changes."

      "Vaguely."

      "An export duty on gold replaced the hated licence system and miner's rights could be secured for £1 a year. The Gold Commission, a most un-British institution, was replaced by a single warden. Eight of us, representing the goldfields, were added to the Legislative Council. It was also decided that mining would be regulated by a local court of mines, elected by the diggers. If Hotham had listened to us earlier, these changes could have been effected without bloodshed. But that wasn't to be. Nevertheless, his intransigence accelerated the process."

      "We are a society reborn", Robert announced, as he signalled to the maid to collect the plates.

      "That might be too much of a hyperbole", Humffray responded, "But things are certainly different. "Joe" government is no longer so universally detested. The British system of government has proved itself in the antipodes."

      "I gather plans are in hand for the development of an elected Legislative Assembly", Robert commented, "Assuming that you will be elected to that assembly, what further issues will you be pressing?"

      "Aside from unresolved issues that have been part of our Charter from the beginning, including manhood suffrage and payment of members of parliament, I would also like to see provision made for mining on private property. The legal system needs to be reformed. I also intend arguing for land selections of 160 acres with five years to pay. I would like to see storekeepers, like yourself, and miners, on Main Road given clearer rights of [212] occupation. That area needs developing. The possibilities are exciting--larger, permanent, and prestigious buildings, in place of the flimsy, fire-prone structures that are there at present. This would promote greater domestic comfort, a higher standard of public morality, and, hopefully, strong local government."

      "In other words", Robert broke in, "You are intending to give people greater opportunity, which, we would all hope, will promote a deeper sense of personal and civic responsibility."

      A moment of silence, almost of exhaustion, ensued, during which the sound of the maid's shoes on the floor could be heard as she brought in the sweets.

      "I seemed to have hogged the conversation", Humffray began, "Which is very impolite of me."

      "We have fed you with questions", Morag responded, "So that, if there is any fault, it is ours!"

      "Robert", Humffray began again, "Tell me about your plans for the future. I am told you intend establishing a company to mine under the basalt in land near Sebastopol."

      "I have had a financial interest in several minor mining operations, and have considered investing in quartz mining. However, the indications seem to be that the possibilities of further deep sinking are limited. Most of the ground is taken up. The future appears to be in mining under the basalt. This will require considerable capital."

      "The best opinion supports your assessment."

      "I was approached some time ago by a business acquaintance, who suggested I consider the possibility of joining him in a venture. A Cornishman, experienced in such mining in the Home Country, he had been talking to a party of Welshmen, who have also mined under bluestone. He wanted to know whether I would consider using my influence with the banks to raise sufficient capital to provide a financial basis for the undertaking. With this basis secured, we could then raise further capital by issuing shares."

      "It sounds as if you accepted the challenge."

      "Yes. I did. I have been working on the financial and legal aspects, though it will probably still be some time before a start is [213] made. I want to familiarize myself with the engineering and technical details before finally committing myself. There seems to be a reluctance to allow larger, better organised assaults on the ore, but I am hopeful permission will be granted eventually."

      "I suspect it will. It is merely a matter of time. The reluctance stems from the history of mining in the area, which, as you well know, began with individual initiative on the alluvial flats. In time, hopefully, the newly established miners' courts will broaden their perspective. They will need to. The days of small mines are numbed, though it is this mining that concentrated capital in the town, ploughing it back into new initiatives. This provided local resources for further development."

      "Well, those are my plans for the future. In the meantime, the ironmongery continues to make money. In the past it has kept us from the poor house and generated capital for investment. I have been fortunate in my investments, while the foundry has continued to provide me with scope for indulging my love of invention."

      "You are either going to have to split yourself, or incorporate yourself, to cope with the number and complexity of your business interests."

      "Perhaps. If we float the company eventually, I will need to give undivided attention to the mine, particularly if a considerable portion of my fortune is invested in it. I will be looking for someone to run the foundry."

      "I won't offer to do it, Father", Ruby cut in.

      "It would not be appropriate for me to ask you to, though, I often wonder what further skills are hidden behind that pretty face."

      "Ruby", Humffray broke in, "We have been self-centred and negligent. We have been chattering on about our affairs, and we haven't asked you whether you were enjoying your 'coming out.'"

      "I don't know that 'coming out' would be the word to describe it at the moment", Morag joined in, "It is more a matter of suspended possibilities. The young man, who took an interest in Ruby, left for Melbourne."

      "Employment?" [214]

      "When we last talked to him there were no obvious prospects."

      "Why did he leave?"

      "He worked for Commissioner Rede, and seems to have felt, following the rebellion, that his prospects of work in Ballarat were slight."

      "You should have offered him work, Robert!"

      "That is what I told him", Morag commented.

      "It was Charles Houghton", Robert announced, with considerable deliberation.

      "I have heard of the young man", Humffray responded, with a quick glance in Robert's direction.

      "Since he left, Ruby has hardly left the house", Morag commented, raising her eyes to the roof, as if in despair.

      "Ruby", Humffray began, turning to face the young woman, who was becoming embarrassed to the point of distress by the conversation, "We are talking about you, and not with you, "Forgive us. As for your predicament, I am hardly one to offer advice. My courting days are long gone. My only advice, for what it's worth, is to give yourself permission to get out and about. You are intelligent and attractive. I suspect you will not be wanting for male company. If I am any judge of quality, you will be able to pick and choose. If you take after either of your parents, which I suspect you do, it will be your independence of spirit that young men will be attracted to."

      Humffray reached across to her hand and gave it a squeeze.

      Ruby felt affirmed and embarrassed by Humffray's comments. Keeping her gaze on the table, as if shielding her soul from inspection, he replied, "Thank you sir."

      Ruby's words had hardly had time to die away, when Humffray rose from the table, and announced, "I have had a wonderful evening. The food was delicious, and the company stimulating. But I must go. I have much to attend to before morning."

      "We have enjoyed your company, immensely", Morag responded. [215]

      "I will be off. Morag, thank you for your hospitality. Goodbye Ruby, I will look forward to the time when your cheeks once again match your name."

      "Good evening sir."

      Robert walked Humffray to the front door, which he opened for him. He had notified his groom of the Councillor's departure, while Humffray was bantering with the women. The phaeton stood in the driveway ready to transport Humffray home.

      "I am glad we finally caught up", Humffray commented.

      "So am I. I trust the election, later in the year, results in a positive outcome for you."

      "I hope that your new venture yields rich rewards.

      Robert waited at the open front door until the phaeton, heading in the direction of the town, disappeared from view. [216]

 

 

Chapter 27

      Morag's bonnet, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun, was tied under her chin by thick ribbons. The large bow, falling away gently at either side, softened her classical features. The soft blue of her bonnet compensated for the loss of blue in her eyes, which, with age, were gradually fading to hazel. Her body had lost none of its statuesque appeal. She stood out in any crowd, drawing appreciative glances from the men.

      On this Saturday afternoon, in late November 1856, she was standing on the lawns of a mansion, situated on the western extremity of Ballarat. The home, set in magnificent gardens, had been placed at the disposal of the women's auxiliary of the Miners' Hospital Committee, by the Bruces, a family, which had come, by its wealth through investment in transport. Its philanthropy extended to a range of benevolent causes. The gardens of the family home were not at their best at this time in the year, but the aesthetic appeal of the sculptured lawns more than made up for the lack of colour.

      Morag was standing beneath the limb of an oak, talking to Roderick Brown, who was farming a property in the Ripon Shire. He was working rich volcanic soil that promised healthy rewards.

      Brown was a short, squat Englishman, who had brought his horticultural skills with him from the Home Country. Conversation about cabbages, rhubarb, potatoes, pumpkin and other earthy wonders evoked an energy that would have kept him talking all afternoon. His stock of chestnut hair bobbed up and down as he spoke.

      "Of course, you must be sure to plant at the right times", he was explaining, "For Ballarat condition I had to work out an entirely different schedule. Weather conditions here are different."

      Wishing to steer the conversation away from talk of seeds, soil, and manure, Morag, who was only half listening, commented, "I expect you must have adequate markets for your produce to be putting in all of that effort." [217]

      "If we could produce more, we would have no difficult selling it. I am thinking of acquiring a much larger acreage. The potatoes are doing particularly well. If I had known earlier of the opportunities beckoning a man of my background, in this country, I would not have hesitated so long in making the decision to emigrate."

      "My husband informs me", Morag commented, fishing for an excuse to terminate the conversation gracefully, "that farming is a relatively new enterprise in the area."

      "I don't need to tell you that pastoralists have been in the area for some time. They established themselves before the discovery of gold. But you are right, farming is new. Increased transport facilities, and, therefore, access to wider markets, as well as a continuing increase in the Ballarat population, have opened up commercial possibilities that were not present before."

      "I was talking to Mrs. Bath the other day", Morag continued, attempting to move the conversation along, "and she indicated that her husband had recently imported several stallions. He apparently intends breeding from them. Are you into horses, Mr. Brown?"

      "I am a farmer, not a pastoralist. I use horses, but for ploughing and domestic transport. Breeding horses requires considerable capital. Besides, I am fully occupied."

      "I notice what I take to be your produce on the trestle by the rose bed. Those beets are magnificent. I am sure all of the food will have been purchased by the end of the afternoon. We are grateful for your contribution to our effort."

      "I am happy to be of service. Ballarat needs a hospital. I am happy to do what I can to help make it a possibility."

      "Your generosity is appreciated, Roderick", Morag concluded, adding, "You will have to excuse me. I can see I am being summoned.

      Robert's Shaw was silhouetted against the high bluestone wall that surrounded the property. He was dressed formally. His dark brown hair, turning silver over his ears, made him look even more distinguished. The sun was glancing the side of his face, causing him to squint occasionally. He had filled his quota of small [218] talk, being careful to avoid the more loquacious of the social boffins. He had been fortunate to discover Derrick Portlock. The two had become engaged in animated conversation.

      Portlock, who looked slight besides Shaw, was scratching the few remaining hairs on the crown of his head. He proceeded to make circular movements with is hands, which made it appear that he was vigorously mixing the contents of two invisible pudding bowls that were lying sideways, back to back. He was imitating one of the new mechanical devices, which one of the larger mines was using as a substitute for manual puddling machines.

      "Horsepower and mechanical power are taking over", he was explaining, "We will certainly need a large quartz-crusher, a stamping machine, otherwise the mine will not be financially viable."

      Derrick had enthused over possibilities since he first talked of his interest in the project to Robert, his imagination exploding beyond the limits of the financial backing that would be available. Robert listened patiently, sorting out realistic possibilities from flights of fancy.

      "There are two local developments I would like to explore before we go further", Shaw began, "And, if it is possible for Jonathan Jones to accompany us, to give us his opinion, that would be even better."

      "What are they?" asked Portlock, reassured by Shaw's command of detail and the combination of caution and willingness to risk that he exhibited. Portlock knew that his own wild schemes would be sieved through Shaw's analytical mind, which gave the Cornishman permission to dream.

      "I think", Shaw began, "That we should visit two of the newer mines that are being developed, the Black Hill and Red Hill Companies. The Black Hill Company, working on an open cut design, is using mechanical crushing equipment. I would like to see it at work so we can determine how useful it is likely to be, and how efficient. It may be possible to use the design, but improve it. At Red Hill they are using horizontal tunnelling to reach across the gutter." [219]

      At that point, Morag, circulating among the crowd, passed close enough to her husband to feel that she had permission to take a break from her formal duties as hostess. One could have enough of a good thing. She came up behind him, placed her hand on his shoulder, and, addressing herself to Derrick, commented banteringly: "You two should be ashamed, working on Saturday afternoon."

      "And what are you doing?" Robert retorted, "I would hardly have thought it was relaxing!"

      "You're right. I need a break", she replied, in a conspiratorial whisper, resting her head on her husband's shoulder.

      "I am glad to see that Ruby is enjoying herself", Robert commented.

      "She certainly is. It was a stroke of genius, your suggesting that she help with the distribution of food. She has had no lack of admirers, though I have yet to see anything like the sparkle that Houghton evoked."

      "She does look beautiful. She is maturing. She is losing the little-girl look."

      At that moment Ruby, with a tray of drinks in her hand, was talking to a nephew of the Hasties. They introduced him to several of the young people in the group, leaving him to circulate alone. They wandered off to socialize, which they had come to consider an expectation of their role.

      "You are going to be a minister, like your uncle?, Ruby inquired.

      "I am entering Divinity School next year."

      "And where is that."

      "I will be returning to Scotland. I will be studying at the Free Church College in Edinburgh."

      "How long will you be away?"

      "Three or four years."

      "What made you decide to become a minister?"

      "I felt the call of God."

      "How does one feel the call of God?"

      "That is not easy to say. One feels a sense of responsibility to preach the gospel." [220]

      "Heaven and hell, and that sort of thing?"

      "One shouldn't make light of important issues", he replied, with a seriousness that descended into pomposity, "We are sinners. If we don't accept God's offer of forgiveness, we will go where we deserve--to hell!"

      "I know that your uncle talks a lot about hell. But do we really deserve to go there? Are we really so bad. I don't feel bad. I feel that religion is important. It gives you a sense of rightness and wrongness, and strengthens your resolve to help others. But hell? I don't know?"

      "Of course, if you are not among the elect, you won't go to heaven. God has chosen those who will be saved."

      "That seems unfair. I wouldn't think much of my father if he acted in the way your God appears to act!"

      "But God is inscrutable, sovereign. We are not to question."

      "Why. If what God is doing is unfair, why shouldn't we question. If the miners were right in challenging the Commission, why should it be wrong for us to challenge God, if what God is doing is unjust."

      "That is heresy! Who is the creature to question the creator? Our responsibility is to worship, not to question."

      "Maybe what we should question is not God, but our view of God. I don't believe God is the sort of God you talk about."

      Ruby had been pushed almost to the limits of politeness, though, to be accurate, it had been young Roger Hastie who had come off worse. Righteous indignation, vicariously experienced on the Almighty's behalf by an apprentice, who was determined to preserve the deity's honour, had coloured his face the hue of his unruly red hair.

      Ruby, her eyes afire, and her complexion heightened by the energy of the encounter, looked strikingly attractive. Humffray was right. She had the strength of her father and the independence of her mother. This was becoming apparent, as the lineaments of a young woman emerged.

      Like a bee on the scent of nectar, a tall sandy-haired young man came up behind Ruby. With an unabashed impertinence, he briefly squeezed the soft flesh of her waist through her dress. [221] Reacting instinctively, she spun around, a tray balanced on her left hand. The drinks cartwheeled, ending up in free-fall. The young man was douched in the face and upper torso by a lemonade. Another glass, of local beer, catapulted its contents, or most of it, into the gaping mouth of young Hastie, who was caught so much by surprise that he ended up, bent over, choking.

      Recovering from the assault, both to his person and dignity, the young man whose unwelcome attentions had precipitated the incident, gathered together what remained of his dignity, and attempted a recovery.

      "That is hardly the way to greet a young man whose only sin was that he desired to speak with you."

      "That didn't appear to be all that you wanted."

      "But Madam."

      "Don't 'But Madam' me!"

      Ruby had taken an instant dislike to this excuse for a gentleman. She was affronted by his behaviour, which was as unwelcome as it was unsolicited. What was even more irksome, was the syrupy way in which he sought to ingratiate himself. His insincerity was patiently obvious, as was his lustful intent. What she couldn't work out was how he could possible have assumed that she would welcome his approach. If Roger Hastie had worked up her anger, this weasel of a man was finding himself the recipient of its expression.

      "What makes you think you have the right to take liberties with me?" she demanded.

      "Charles Houghton. I have seen you with Charles. I just assumed."

      Ruby was startled by the mention of Charles name. Nevertheless, she placed her inquisitiveness to one side, pressing on with the attack.

      "You assumed what?"

      "I", he began, and then caught himself. He had definitely seen her with Charles. Perhaps he had been confused, and made the wrong connection. He did not want to betray his friend. He stepped back from the situation in a strategic retreat. [222]

      "Sorry. An assumption was made that was incorrect. Pardon me."

      With that, he turned and marched towards the gate. Ruby was left wondering what he meant. Why had he brought up Charles name? What had he assumed, and why?

      It was in this state of puzzlement that she noticed Timothy Barnes loping towards her. She felt relieved, and slipped out of her emergent adult role, back into the safer one of the grown-up little girl.

      "You look great", Timothy began. This unpretentious and honest comment was refreshing after the last two encounters. Having greeted her, and established contact, Tim bounded off to salute others he knew.

      Ruby loved Tim, in a sisterly sort of way. He was excitable, but not overpowering. He was simple, but not unintelligent, handsome without being aware of his attractiveness. Once he matured, he would make some woman an interesting and mature partner, a rare combination. But the clay was still being moulded, and she hoped that the moulding he received at the hands of other women, who would leave an imprint, would not damage the material with which they were working.

      And Charles? What did she think of Charles? Well, she certainly missed him, though less as time went on. She missed his style, urbanity, and good looks. She desperately missed him being around. She couldn't anticipate that she would see him at dances, or at the theatre, and therefore had little incentive to look forward to the endless string of tomorrows that stretched away into the horizon. But that was changing. She could live without him, and she would.

      "Ruby", she heard her mother calling, "Are you ready? We are about to leave."

      Ruby looked around and found herself almost alone on the lawn. Her reverie had pre-occupied her, and she hadn't noticed the cleaning up that had gone on under her nose. Robert brought the phaeton up the drive. He stepped out of the carriage and assisted his daughter aboard. He closed the door behind himself and [223] tapped on the cabin to indicate to the groom that it was time to proceed. [224]

 

 

Chapter 28

      The bottom of the pit was dark, apart from the glow of the kerosene lamp, which faintly illumined the immediate area. Sean's pick was merely playing with the mixture of clay and rock at the base of the shaft. It was strange working on his own. It was even stranger working in an area in which Sven's personality oozed into the narrow area of the pit, like the water constantly seeping through the cracks between the timbers.

      It had been hard for him to take over his friend's claim. He felt an intruder. Sven was present, even in his absence. Sean's first time down the pit, when he had needed the assistance of Billy and Michael to help him remove the accumulated seepage, left him with the sense that he was trespassing.

      Sean continued to be reminded of his friend every time he descended into the pit. It was twelve months since he had taken over the claim, yet he continued to be affected by the marks left by Sven's adze in the cross-timbers that lined the shaft. They bore the Swede's signature. In the mining community, a man left his mark on almost every aspect of his work. He needed to improvise, to construct what he could not purchase, either because he didn't have the funds, or because the device he needed hadn't been invented. Sven used both his head and his hands. He had created small modifications that enabled him to work the claim single-handed.

      That first time down the pit, when he had been reminded so powerfully of Sven's presence and influence, Sean's mind spun out a series of images of the battle: images he was gradually recovering. The conflict had been brief, but brought so much pain to so many. Sean's red badge of courage had been staunched, and he had survived through the attentions of a family that hardly knew him. He had been the recipient of the compassion of strangers. He thought of the men who continued to languish in prison, their peace of mind and self-esteem dissolved away as a consequence of their incarceration. They represented a travesty of justice that cried out for remedy. [225]

      The energy of the passion that this injustice evoked within him inevitably resurrected the guilt he felt over having taken another man's life.

      Following his recuperation, and shortly after rejoining his friends, Sean made discreet enquires to see whether he would discover the identity of the trooper. For a long time it appeared an impossible task. But a chance lead, and a conversation with an ex-trooper, who had taken leave of the force, and returned to the diggings, furnished him with he intelligence he sought. The man had been an ex-marine who had been dismissed from the New South Wales Corp for drunkenness and insolence. He had no family that anyone knew of. He was a churlish loner.

      Sean did not excuse himself on the basis of this knowledge. The trooper was a fellow human being, however much he may have failed to endear himself to others. The Irishman decided that, if he could not recompense the man's family, he would discharge his obligation to the trooper by committing himself to a life a generosity and compassion.

      Alone, in the bowels of the earth, Sean also found himself reflecting on the men who escaped that night--McGill, Black, Kennedy, Lalor.

      He wondered what had become of Lalor. He had not asked earlier. However, on the evening of his first descent he put the question to Michael. His friend informed him that Lalor had been spirited from the field by Father Smyth, on the back of his horse. Lalor's arm was a mess, and he had lost a lot of blood. He was taken to nearby ranges, in the area between Ballarat and Geelong. He hadn't stayed there long. He was in such a poor state that he was returned almost immediately to the priest's house, where his arm was amputated.

      Sean, along with the rest of Ballarat, was gratified when Peter was appointed a goldfields' representative to the unreformed Legislative Council of Victoria. In October, he had been elected to the first Legislative Assembly under the new constitution. He was voted there by the constituency of North Grenville, which included Ballarat West. Humffray, who had defeated Thomas Loader and [226] George Black by a large majority, had been returned in North Grant, which comprised Ballarat East.

      But Lalor had recently alarmed his constituents, and shocked the whole of Ballarat, when he voted against manhood suffrage, supported an illiberal land bill, and indicated he preferred a nominated to an elected upper house. He obviously had his reasons, reasons that made sense to him. But they puzzled others, who found it difficult to understand what possessed him. His style of democracy, which obviously differed from the Chartism or republicanism of others, appeared to be summarized in his abhorrence of all forms of tyranny, whether perpetrated by government, press, or people.

      Sean's attention constantly returned to the case of Peter Lalor, as it did to the memory of Sven, as he laboured at the bottom of the pit, winched water, clay, and rock to the surface, and as he trowelled the latter around the puddling machine to free what gold it might contain. The one thing Sean had in abundance was time, and time gave him opportunity to think.

      He often found himself wondering, as he worked his body rhythmically, whether Sven knew anything about the Tao? He had often watched the Swede at work. Sven was unhurried. His movement flowed with the task at hand. His thinking, its perceptiveness and balance, its easy grace, was of a piece with his physical movement. It was unlikely that the ancient Chinese philosophy, and the ritual that perpetuated it, was known to him. Nevertheless, his body appeared to be acquainted with it.

      Sean also reflected on Edith Clapham. He felt drawn to her the first time he saw her. It wasn't animal passion, though he did find her attractive. There was something about her that attracted him, inviting deeper intimacy. This reaction had been present the time he had gone to her rescue, at John O'Groats. It was not a fragility that drew out the rescuer in him, because she was not fragile. Hurt, perhaps, damaged, but not fragile.

      The young Irishman was surprised that Edith felt attracted to him. Yet he recognised a meeting of souls, on that first evening, an unspoken closeness, that appeared to presage a deeper intimacy. [227]

      Sean next recollected Edith's visit to him in the tent, when he greeted her with a swollen face. They had talked into the early evening. She had explained that she was from Sydney, and had been abused by an uncle in Melbourne. He had asked why she had not returned to her mother in Sydney, and she indicated that she was not yet ready.

      Following his recovery from the bullet wound, Sean plucked up the courage to ask Edith out. He had enjoyed the food at John Alloo's, when they had celebrated Michael's twenty-fifth birthday, and invited Edith to accompany him there for an early evening meal. The restaurant was relatively empty. It would fill up as darkness descended. Sean was not disappointed by the fare. After the meal, they strolled along Main Road, until a cool breeze drove them into the dining room of the Star Hotel, where they sat talking and drinking until Sean realised that it was time he returned Edith to her lodgings.

      They had toured the world, he taking her to Dublin and regaling her with stories of his youth, she inviting him into the intimacies of her family life in Sydney. They discovered that they had both been fortunate in their parents and siblings. Neither family was wealthy, but the atmosphere that nurtured them had given them a sense of personal worth. Boundaries had been set, but they had also been loved and given freedom to explore their worlds. Perhaps, it was this similarity that drew them together.

      They were friends. Neither of them, for the moment, hoped for anything beyond this. They worked out that they enjoyed each other's company. The mutual affection could develop into something beyond a sort of sibling bonding, but neither wanted to hurry the process. Economic survival was the urgent issue they faced. Sean had almost exhausted his resources, and was wondering where to seek credit. Edith's employment was insecure. The Joneses were talking of selling up and moving back to Melbourne. The shop had done well, but they felt out of place in this Goldfields' town. The rebellion scared them. If they sold out, Edith would find herself without a job.

      Sean longed to be able to talk to Sven about the decisions they faced. But Sven was no longer there. He tried imagining that [228] the Swede was beside him, as his pick chipped away at the clay and rock. He actually addressed his friend, talking to him, imagining him in the pit with him.

      However, the seeking of guidance from his friend was mostly a silent exercise. It was not so much that Sean asked himself, "What would Sven do?" It was more a matter of putting the question, and waiting for an answer, anticipating that it would come. He sensed it would, but he knew that it would not come if it was forced. The only answer he received was the feeling that the answer would not come in advance of the crisis that required it. He was prepared to wait, particularly since he felt he intuited a responsiveness attendant upon his openness. It was a strange sensation, but not uncomfortable.

      It was late in the afternoon. In spite of the fact that it was mid-December, Sean began to feel the damp, chilled atmosphere of the pit beginning to penetrate his bones. He lifted the pick and stabbed at the earth for a last time. The pick struck a solid metal object several inches beneath the floor of the pit. He lifted the pick by the handle and stabbed again. This time he encountered only crumbling rock. As his excitement grew, he began jabbing at the clay, in the hope of rediscovering the crevice his pick had penetrated. He finally found it. Perspiration broke out on his forehead. He used the tip of the pick to try and lift the object, but it wouldn't budge. He then tried to trace around its outline in an attempt to gauge its size. Again, it defied his ingenuity.

      Sean's excitement mounted. He decided that he would approach the task of exhumation methodically. He began working the rock that was covering the object, shattering it. He tried to lever it up again. This time it showed some movement, but only a little. He kept working, carefully, assiduously, meticulously. He tried using the end of the pick as a crowbar. One end of the object came to the surface. Jamming his pick underneath it, he squatted down, brushing away the soil with his fingers. Even in the dim light of the lantern, he could see that it was gold. He keep working at the rock, cracking it, breaking it off. The more he removed, the larger he realised the nugget to be. [229]

      Sean could hardly believe his eyes. He gently thumped his head with his elbow, as if to convince himself that he was seeing what he was seeing. He stood for a moment, taking several long breaths, to calm himself. He resumed the archaeological dig. The nugget finally lay on the ground in front of him. He reached down to pick it up, but had to reassess its weight.

      Sean emptied the bucket of the clay and rock with which he had filled it earlier. He squatted, reached his hands down and grasped the golden lump, lifting it carefully and depositing it in the container. He grasped the chord that would steady his progress, and began his slow ascent, lantern in hand, finding footholds between the timbers. He rested every now and then, pushing his back into the wall of timbers at his rear. He finally breasted the lip of the pit, resting on it for a moment while he gathered his breath. He still could not believe his good fortune. It was like a dream. He stood up, dusted the remnants of crushed rock, clay and dust from his clothes and began turning the windlass. It seemed like an eternity before the bucket appeared. It finally reached the surface. He braked the machine, grabbed hold of chord attached to the bucket and lifted both onto the ground.

      Sean grabbed an old shirt he had been using to clean his hands, laying it across his knees. He lifted the nugget from the bucket and placed it on the shirt. He carefully folded the shirt over the nugget, wrapping it round the precious object several times. He took hold of the package with both hands and rose to his feet. He rested the parcel on the lower part of his right arm, securing it with his left hand. He ducked as he left the canvas shelter to make his way through the gathering dusk to the tent he shared with Michael and Billy. They were preparing tea. One lamp was hanging from a nail on the ridge pole. The other had been placed on the table. He walked over to the two men, who had been chatting around the hearth. He began, "I have something to show you." He gently unwrapped the tattered shirt from the object he was cradling in his right arm. When he came to the final fold, he lifted it back, and looked up into the eyes of both his friends, in turn. Their eyes said it all. They were speechless. [230]

 

 

Chapter 29

      It was 10am on a warm Monday morning in December 1856. Sean O'Donnell was weaving his way around displays of merchandise in Shaw's Ironmongery.

      Spades, picks, adzes, axes were lined up in rows. Various sized puddling troughs were laid on end, resting against each other, their combined weight being supported by the left side wall. Hammers, screwdrivers, and drills were in boxes on a trestle in the middle of the floor, along with screws, nails, cleats and hinges. Sickles and scythes rested against the right side wall, together with a range of saddlery and work boots. Kerosene lanterns of different sizes, and boxes of candles occupied a prominent place near the door. The wooden floor was already scuffed with dirt from the boots of customers, regulars from the mines, who supported Robert Shaw because he was helpful and reliable. He could also improvise items for them at his foundry, where he employed a blacksmith for special orders.

      Sean had called by the previous evening, when he asked John Richards, the manager, whether it would be possible for him to make an appointment with Mr. Shaw. Richards informed him that the proprietor was coming by early the next morning. While he could not give a guarantee, he was almost certain that Mr. Shaw would be able to see him. He suggested Sean call at the shop at ten.

      John was serving a customer the next morning when Sean arrived. He looked up, noticed the young man, and motioned to him to move through into the office at the rear. Sean did as directed.

      The young man found Shaw pouring over accounts. The older man was so absorbed it took him several minutes to recognize that the young Irishman was standing beside him.

      "I apologise", Shaw began, "I hadn't realised you were there. You must be Sean O'Donnell. Richards mentioned that you were coming by. " Taking a closer look at the visitor, he continued, "I do recognize you. I thought I would. I remember talking to you over a [231] year ago, when you came to purchase a band for your puddling trough."

      "You have an excellent memory. Let me also indicate that I am grateful that you are willing to see me."

      Shaw, who appeared to be weary, stood up, walked to a corner of the small office, took hold of the back of a chair, and placed it to the side of his table.

      "Please sit down", he said.

      When Sean was seated, Shaw turned his chair round to face his visitor and asked, "What can I do for you?"

      "I guess you have heard", Sean began, "That a rather large nugget was found on a claim in the Eureka Lead."

      "It was a most unusual place to find such a large specimen. My informants tell me it is difficult work up there, the ratio of effort to reward very much favouring the effort. Yes, I did hear the news. I am sure that those whose luck it represented are celebrating."

      "I found it. I was working on my own."

      Robert looked penetrating up at the young man, without his observation being invasive. His first impressions were being borne out. This was a remarkable young man--intelligent, balanced and lacking the gauche immaturity that was often characteristic of males of his age. There was a solidness about him, and perhaps even more.

      "The word is that the nugget netted you over £2000."

      "You are correct. When I had it assayed and weighed I was informed that it weighed in excess of 492 ozs."

      After several moments silence, Robert asked, "What can I do for you?"

      " I have come to ask your advice. Like you, I remember our last and only encounter. I also made inquiries among the miners, the business people along this road, and several acquaintances who have the ear of a number of important people in the town. The latter have nothing to gain personally from the question I asked. I wanted to know who could best help me decide how to manage my new-found wealth. Almost without exception, their [232] answer was, 'Robert Shaw.' You enjoy a remarkable degree of trust in this town. You also have a reputation for financial acumen."

      "I am flattered by your praise, though I am convinced that my friends have exaggerated. My minister would call it 'fulsome praise'. Nevertheless, I am very happy to help you in any way I can."

      "So as not to waste your time, I will get directly to the point."

      "That would be a good idea, though you are not wasting my time."

      "There are two major issues I would like your advice on."

      "Yes."

      "The first concerns several friends. I would appreciate your guidance on how I could best assist them. The second issue relates to the management of my assets.

      "Start with the first one."

      "I want to assist my friends in a way that will be responsible, and ongoing, as well as maximizing their returns. I also want to ensure that they continue to feel that they are managing their own affairs."

      "I am wondering just how much you need me. It seems as if you have thought the issue through yourself."

      "My problem is with the detail, and with lack of experience and familiarity with business procedures. It would help to run a few ideas past you."

      "Go on."

      "I came into possession of the claim I have been working through the death of a close friend. He was an unfortunate casualty of the Eureka rebellion. He left me everything. Before taking over his lease, I was in partnership with two Irishmen, who helped me when I first arrived in Ballarat. I am also indebted to several German friends, who are working a claim at Red Hill. I would like to benefit the four of them in some way."

      "And there are others?"

      "I would also like to assist a young woman. She came to Ballarat under unfortunate circumstances, but recently managed to secure employment. Her employers are considering moving back [233] to Melbourne. This would leave her without work. She also has a mother in Sydney, whom she hasn't seen for a number of years."

      "You would like to make it possible for her to visit her mother."

      "I would also like to do something for Mr. Lum, the apothecary. He and his family saved my life. There are also a number of charities to which I would like to contribute, the miners' hospital and the work being done to help Chinese lepers.

      "Quite a number of projects. Before you go on, let us look at possibilities. Tell me briefly how you intend addressing these issues."

      "My plan is to give Michael and Billy, the two Irishmen, an amount sufficient to tide them over difficult times, something on which they could fall back. Beyond that, I am tossing up between alternatives. I could either take out shares in their claim, become a partner with them in a financial sense, or else I could help to set them up in another business. My intention is merely to provide them with working capital. This would be a financial partnership."

      "Both ideas sound excellent. I suggest you let them choose between the alternatives. I do not know that I can add anything further."

      Günther and Dietrich, my German friends, have been more fortunate than Michael and Billy. They took a considerable amount of gold from their claim and managed to secure the backing of Karl Steiner, the butcher. What I am inclined to suggest to them, as I suspect that they will want to finish with mining shortly, is that I offer them an amount, equivalent to that which I will set aside for Billy and Michael, which I will invest in whatever project they decide upon. I trust their business acumen."

      "You are helping to provide for their future, not merely presenting them with an amount, which in other hands, could easily be squandered. The strategy also allows you to maintain some control over your investment."

      "It does, and, should they do well, as I anticipate they will, I plan to hand them the package of shares as a gift."

      "And the young woman?" [234]

      "I am wondering whether it would be possible for me, should her employers decide to transfer to Melbourne, to put down sufficient deposit to purchase the goodwill and stock. The business has been doing well. The young lady could pay off the remainder of the purchase price over time. So as not to be indebted to me in any way, she may also wish to buy me out, when she is able. If not, I would be happy to retain my investment in her business. She appears to have the personality, competence, and stability to make a success of it."

      "Again, I have to conclude that you have thought of most angles."

      "Mr. Lum is a different proposition. He will not want to receive anything from me. He would be embarrassed. Because of this I am toying with the possibility of assisting him to secure title to the land on which his shop is built. I could approach him and offer to invest in his business. My assistance would be an investment, rather than a gift. Provided the new regulations for land title in this area receive endorsement, he should be able to secure title to the property. My investment, added to what he is able to lay his hands on, may be sufficient for the deposit. If not, he could use the money in some other way."

      "I know Mr. Lum. He is generous to a fault, and self-effacing. He will find it difficult to accept assistance. But, if you represent it as an investment you are making in his business, he may agree to accept your offer."

      "With regard to the charities, I am considering two possibilities. The first is a one-off gift. The second would involve me investing a stipulated amount in shares, the interest from which would provide ongoing income for the charities. In the latter case, I would reinvest a small percentage of the income to maintain the real value of the investments. A third possibility would be a combination of both."

      "My own preference would be your third possibility."

      "I appreciate having you as a sounding board for these suggestions. I have given them considerable thought, but have no one, with experience, with whom to talk."

      "I am flattered that you came to ask my advice." [235]

      "The second major issue is one on which I will need considerable input from you. That is the matter of investment. What should I do with my money? What are my options?"

      For the next half-hour Robert explained to Sean the relative merits of placing his money in the bank, of investing in a range of shares through the stock exchange, of partnerships, and of investing in property and buildings. At one point he indicated that he and a number of other businessmen were about to raise additional money to establish a company to mine for gold under the basalt.

      "I am not suggesting that you invest in this venture", Robert assured him, "It would be inappropriate of me to do so. I am merely mentioning it as an illustration of the sort of share investments that are available. With each of them there is promise of reward and risk. The two are matched. The higher the suggested dividend, the greater the risk."

      "It appears to me that risk cannot be avoided."

      "You are certainly better to master the rudiments of investment and manage your own affairs, than to rely on others. Prediction is not infallible. The experts can be wrong. The best advice I can give you is not to be greedy. But then, with what you have indicated you plan to do with your wealth, you have demonstrated that this is not a problem. You will make mistakes. But there is no other way to learn."

      Discovering that it was a quarter past eleven, Sean realised that he should be going. He had stayed longer than he had planned.

      "I apologise for taking up so much of your time", he began, after a lull in the conversation, "I hadn't intended staying so long."

      "I was more than happy to help you. If I can assist you with anything else, don't hesitate to come and see me."

      Both men rose. The Ironmonger accompanied the young Irishman to the front of the shop, guiding him around the obstacles. He was about to reach for the door, when it opened and his wife and daughter walked through into the shop.

      Morag looked around and was startled to see her husband a few feet away. [236]

      "You almost frightened me", she commented.

      Glancing at Sean, she could not decide whether she should ask for an introduction. It was rare for her to socialize with her husband's customers. Ruby, who had noticed Sean before she had seen her father, nodded towards him in acknowledgment of his presence, a faint smile on her lips.

      To dispel the strangeness of the moment, Robert volunteered, "Sean. I would like you to meet my wife Morag and daughter Ruby."

      "Pleased to meet you Mrs. Shaw, and Miss Shaw. I am afraid I have already taken up too much of Mr. Shaw's time. I will take my leave. Thank you again for your help, Mr. Shaw."

      Sean bowed and disappeared through the door. Robert's eyes follow him. Sean was the sort of son he would have wished for, had he had a son. He admired the young man. In some ways, he was a younger version of himself. Morag was too pre-occupied to give the Irishman further attention. It was otherwise with Ruby. She was taken with Sean's manner. There was something about him that appealed to her. It was not the nascent sexual passion that Charles aroused in her. It was deeper, more long-lasting, though not without an element of physical appeal. The young man was handsome, she had to admit.

      A month after this interview, Sean accompanied Edith by coach to Melbourne, from whence she sailed to Sydney. She was away several months. [237]

 

 

Chapter 30

      John Richards was kneeling on the floor, straightening various lengths of hoop iron, when he noticed a shadow falling over him. It was thrown by a figure that was blocking out segments of sunlight streaming through the door on this warm February morning in 1857.

      Richards looked around, aware that someone was standing behind him. He rose from the ground. While the man's face was in shadow, there was something about him that was vaguely familiar. His mind was fishing for a name to pair with the sensual clues, when the stranger introduced himself.

      "I am Charles Houghton. You may remember me. I have come to see Mr. Shaw. Would he be available?"

      It had been over two years since Richards had seen Houghton. The young man had changed. He looked older, more strained. The scar under his right eye was a little more pronounced. His raven hair, which he usually kept immaculately in place, was dishevelled.

      "I am sorry", Richards answered, "But Mr. Shaw is not here. He is at the foundry."

      "Thank you", said Charles, "I am much obliged."

      Charles turned on his heels and walked briskly through the door into the sunshine. He unhitched his horse from a railing outside the shop, mounted the animal, and took off in the direction of the foundry.

      At that time Houghton was inquiring about Shaw's whereabouts, Robert was sitting in his small office at the foundry, enthusing with Portlock, who was standing beside him, over their plans for the establishment of the mine at Sebastopol. Derrick's arms, splayed out either side of him, were resting on shelving displaying models of inventions for which Shaw was becoming justifiably celebrated.

      "I think we should investigate horizontal tunnelling", Shaw was explaining, "I have been considering paying a visit to the old [238] country. If I do, I will schedule in a visit to Cornwall and Wales. It will be important for us to keep up with the latest developments."

      "Steam power definitely seems the way of the future."

      "I agree with you, except that I am not yet prepared to invest in a stamper. We may need to be prepared to take the quartz elsewhere to be crushed, at least until we can design modifications that make the machinery more efficient. Otherwise, we will discover that we have outlayed a vast amount of money for inferior machinery that is not able to do the job we require of it. I don't want to invest in expensive inefficiency."

      "I am afraid I have to agree with you, though it pains me to say so. I was hoping that a stamper would give us an advantage over rivals."

      Robert leaned back on his chair and extended his arms out either side of the arm rests, stretching himself to dissipate his weariness Shaw had been working long hours in preparation for the mine's opening, which was planned for several months time. In the meantime, he wondered how much longer he would be able to continue sustaining responsibility for three major enterprises.

      "I visited a community of Welshmen the other day", he commented, returning to the theme that was engrossing him, "They have built small cottages in Mount Clear. They indicated that they would be interested in working for us once we get started."

      "They were the men I put you onto?"

      "Yes."

      "They are experienced. They would be a valuable asset."

      "They seem to keep very much to themselves. They have their own community."

      "And their own language!"

      "They also sing beautifully. When I called to see them the other evening they were concluding their choir practice for the following Sunday's service in the little church they are building. They were saying that they lack a minister, and also indicated that few of them had experience in preaching. I said that I would happily help them out, provided they could promise that I would be feted with the quality of singing I had just witnessed." [239]

      While Shaw was speaking, Thomas, his foreman, appeared at the door. He had a query about an item a group of the men were preparing to caste. Before he had time to speak, however, Charles Houghton burst in upon the company.

      "Mr. Shaw", he called out from some twenty yards away, before he became aware of the congestion in the small office.

      "Excuse me, John", Robert said, rising from his seat to determine who was connected to the voice.

      "I am sorry", Houghton explained, catching sight of the three men, "I didn't mean to disturb you."

      "I am involved at the moment. Could you occupy yourself for a quarter of an hour and I will be with you."

      The Scot was thrown. He thought he had seen the last of Charles Houghton. His daughter was recovering from her loss, and Morag had ceased pressing the young man's merits upon him. His peace of mind began to unravel. He began to wonder what brought Houghton back to Ballarat.

      Derrick sensed his friend's agitation. He felt he had wasted enough of Robert's time and excused himself.

      "I will call in on you again later in the week", he promised.

      Shaw attended to Thomas' request, confirming a suggestion that would alter the design of the piece they were creating.

      "That will give the item greater aesthetic appearance", he explained, folding the paper on which he had sketched a diagram. He handed the paper to his foreman, commenting, "I am glad you consulted me before the casting proceeded. It is another modification for which you can take credit. Incidentally, if you see young Houghton, send him in."

      Several minutes later Charles appeared at the door.

      "Come in. Take a seat."

      Once Charles had settled himself comfortably into a chair, there was little room remaining in the small, congested room.

      "I suppose you are wondering what I am doing back in Ballarat", Charles began, attempting to project an aura of composure and control, which was strangely at variance with his rumpled appearance. [240]

      "You certainly took me by surprise. It has been over two years now, hasn't it?"

      "You are correct. Looking around, I notice there have been many changes. The city is looking more established, the buildings more permanent."

      Keen to discover the reason for Houghton's visit, Robert asked, "What brings you back to the Lucky City?"

      "Having spent several years in Melbourne, I came to the conclusion that Ballarat offered a combination of advantages and opportunities that could not be past up easily."

      "What specifically were you thinking about?"

      The young man thought for a moment, distractedly swivelling the thumb of his left hand across the skin on the surface of his right hand.

      "Building is proceeding apace. Commercial businesses, foundries, larger mining operations, agricultural development, and brick and pipe works testify to the city's energy. Melbourne is obviously larger, and, admittedly, offers some opportunity for young men like myself, but there is a compactness about Ballarat that is appealing."

      "How had you thought you might support yourself?"

      "I have yet to work that out. I aim to explore options in the next couple of weeks. One of my reasons for coming to see you was to find out whether you knew of any available positions that would demand the sort of talents I would bring to them."

      "What are your talents?"

      "For a start, I am young and energetic. In my work for the Commissioner I was often described, so others tell me, as intelligent and enterprising. I am used to commanding men. My family's credentials are significant. My father was Adjutant to Sir. M.C.P. O'Connell, commander of troops in New South Wales from 1838 to 1847. It was the influence of his son, Maurice, that secured me the position on the Gold Commission."

      "Maybe you would find greater opportunities in Sydney than in Ballarat", Shaw commented, hopeful that the suggestion might be taken up, "It seems that that is where your family's [241] influence is strongest. Influence still counts for a lot in the Mother Colony."

      "It does. But, as you know, it is important for sons to make their own way. I cannot see myself going back to Sydney. There is no denying that the harbour is attractive, but the little town that has grown up around the tank stream no longer holds much appeal for me."

      "What about your parents?"

      "I haven't seen them for some time."

      "Don't you miss them?"

      "Not really."

      "What about brothers and sisters?"

      "I have one sister. We argued fiercely several years ago. We haven't spoken since."

      As he talked with the young man, Shaw played with the suspicion that Houghton had baited his hook. Charles wanted to ask for a job without appearing to do so. This was evident in the manner in which he had volunteered information about himself, where he was pushing acceptable limits of self-promotion. Shaw was reluctant to take him on, and even more averse to asking his friends to do so.

      "I would appreciate it if you could help me."

      "Nothing comes to mind immediately. Leave it with me and I will make inquiries. In the meantime, see what you can find."

      Charles rose to leave.

      "Thank you, Sir", he said.

      Charles was pleased that he had broached the issue, and even happier that Shaw's response to him, and to his proposal, had not been dismissive or cool. In spite of his confident demeanour, he had approached the interview with some trepidation. He felt uncomfortable in the past with the suspicion and reserve he had detected in the older man's attitude towards him. Both appeared to have moderated. Before leaving, and on the basis of a growing confidence, he decided to press his advantage to the limit.

      Looking directly at the older man, who was framed in the door of his office, Houghton asked, "I wonder if I have your permission to pay my respects to your wife and daughter?" [242]

      Shaw did not betray his deep disappointment and anxiety. Because he had no reason to deny permission, he replied, "You have."

      "I will call later this morning, after I have settled myself into temporary accommodation at the Star. Thank you again."

      Robert returned to his office as Charles made his way out through the double doors of the foundry.

      The Scot could not settle to work, in spite of its urgency. His mind was pre-occupied with the young man who had just re-entered his life, and that of his wife and daughter. By mid-afternoon he decided he would cope better with his feelings if he went home. He would also be able to determine how his family was reacting to the news of Houghton's return, which he was anxious to ascertain. Shaw was not comfortable with events that eluded his control. Houghton's appearance in Ballarat disturbed his usual equilibrium.

      Before making his way home, Shaw decided to visit the Ironmongery. Richards had been distressed over family circumstances in Melbourne. His father had suffered a stroke, and his mother was having difficulty managing the home and her husband at the same time. They did not possess ample means and could not afford help. Two other sons, and their families, lived in Queensland. Both were making plans to travel south, but the nature of the arrangements they had organised meant that their arrival was still several weeks away. Richards had asked about the possibility of a fortnight's leave of absence. Robert had been trying to work out how he could release the manager of his ironmongery for the period without detriment to the business. Richards was now more familiar with the shop, and its customers, than Shaw was himself.

      Robert found John in the office at the rear of the shop. While business was quiet, he was using the opportunity to stock-take.

      "John", Robert began, "I have been wondering how your parents are coping."

      "Much the same. Mother's letters are distressing."

      "Your problem is that you are so good at your work that you are indispensable. Your virtue is your undoing. I have been [243] looking at possibilities. I will call in again in the morning. We have to get you to Melbourne."

      "If you could release me, I would be grateful."

      "I will see what I can do. I had better be off."

      "Goodbye, Sir. Give my regards to Mrs. Shaw."

      As Shaw was walking through the front of the shop, with Richards following behind, the manager commented, "I forgot to ask. Did Mr. Houghton call to see you? He dropped in at the shop this morning, and I directed him to the foundry."

      "He did, John. I don't mind admitting I was surprised to see him. His visit left me with some discomfort. Nevertheless, I keep telling myself that I should not judge the man before I have evidence to substantiate my impressions. And, I admit, the latter could be misleading."

      "There are men and there are men", Richards volunteered, "You like some, you don't like others, and you don't always know why."

      "My problem is that the women in my life like him. That's what causes me the discomfort."

      "I have given up trying to understand women. We can't avoid being attracted by them. We need them as they need us, but understanding is another matter."

      "I will be off. In the meantime, I will give more thought to ways of relieving you of responsibility here, even if I have to delay other plans, and take over the shop myself."

      When Robert arrived home half an hour later he was greeted by Ruby, who was admiring the flowers in the front garden beds.

      "What are you doing out here?" her father asked, expecting her to be inside.

      "I said goodbye to Charles. Mother invited him for lunch, and he has just left."

      "You must have been surprised to see him after so long a time."

      "I was. I am finding it hard to describe, to myself, how I felt when he appeared at the door. Mother bounded out of the kitchen. I took longer to come to terms with my feelings."

      "What were you feeling?" [244]

      "I don't know, really. He left so abruptly, and disappeared so completely from my life that I had begun to make a life without him."

      "You were beginning to enjoy yourself."

      "I was beginning to feel I could look after myself. Seeing him today reminded me of how much I was dependent on him. I am happy being the way I am. On the other hand, I still find him attractive."

      What Ruby didn't mention to her father was her developing interest in Sean O'Donnell, and her perplexity over the remark made to her, about Charles, by the salacious young man at the garden party.

      "Robert. You're home early", Morag's voice rang out, projected from the steps of the front door, "This is a pleasant surprise. It is the second surprise I have had today."

      "You're referring to Charles Houghton", Robert suggested.

      "Yes. Isn't it wonderful, wonderful for Ruby?"

      Ruby looked at the ground. She couldn't entirely endorse her mother's enthusiasm, nor, on the other hand, could she dissociate herself from it entirely. She would need time to process her response.

      Robert kissed his wife and walked into the house. Morag followed closely behind.

      "Ruby. Would you check with the cook and see whether dinner can be brought forward."

      Robert, following ritual, made for his study, Morag close on his heels. Once inside, she shut the door and sank into a chair.

      "I had a wonderful talk with Charles today", she began, "He tells me he will be looking for a position in the city. I told him that you might be able to help him."

      "I talked with him myself, as he probably indicated to you. I said I would ask around to see what is available."

      "But you could offer him a position yourself."

      "I could?"

      Yes. At the Ironmongery."

      "But what does he know about Ironmongery?"

      "Not a great deal, but I could help him. " [245]

      "What do you know?"

      "You told me you were wanting to relieve Richards for several weeks. Why not try Charles for the two weeks Richards is absent. I have some familiarity with the book-work. I used to help you. I am not altogether clueless. If Charles does well, you could offer him the management of the foundry, so that you could concentrate on the mine."

      "Slow down."

      "How do you know it wouldn't work?" Morag shot back. After a brief silence, she continued, " I can read your skepticism. I am familiar enough with it."

      "If Charles knows nothing about the Ironmongery business, he knows even less about creative design and casting."

      "You could give Thomas charge of the day-to-day activities at the foundry. Charles could organize the business side, which would be overseen by you. You could monitor what he was doing."

      "You are going too fast for me."

      Unlike Robert, who reasoned his way to conclusions, Morag jumped there in a single bound, and usually dug herself in to defend her position. Robert knew that he would have a battle on his hands if he decided to dismantle her plans. On the other hand, he was not used to capitulating.

      However, he was tired, and there was some sense in what she said. He hadn't come up with a solution for Richards, who needed to be released from responsibility immediately, if possible. Furthermore, he didn't want to be saddled with the day to day running of the Ironmongery, nor did he want to delay the opening of the mine.

      Shaw decided he would find Charles tomorrow. The young man mentioned that he was planning to arrange temporary accommodation at the Star until he was settled. He would briefly familiarize the ex-Commission agent with the management of the Ironmongery, leaving him for a day with Richards. He would take up Morag's offer to keep, or at least, check the books and place orders. [246]

      "Your suggestion has merit", Robert admitted, after several moments silence, "I will place him in charge of the Ironmongery for two weeks and see how he performs. At the moment, I am promising nothing beyond that."

      "O Robert. I didn't think I would so easily convince you", Morag purred, standing and taking his arm, "Let us take our befores in the parlour. We have something to celebrate."

      "Do we"?, thought Robert, wondering whether he had dishonoured his normally accurate intuition, and surrendered his sound judgement. [247]

 

 

Chapter 31

      It was a Saturday afternoon in April 1857. A fire was crackling in the small parlour of the miner's cottage. Sean was arranging chairs, the majority borrowed to accommodate his guests. He had invited them to a house warming.

      The Lums, who insisted on doing the cooking, were busy in the small kitchen. Mrs. Lum had been working all afternoon, cutting up vegetables, poultry, pork and lamb. She had been joined by her husband and daughter Mary, after they had closed their premises for the day.

      The smell and sound of food being tossed around in woks, greeted Günther and Dietrich, who had walked around the back of the house, and were knocking on the kitchen door.

      "We must have come to the right place", Günther commented as he opened the door.

      "You should open a restaurant business", Dietrich added, "And give John Alloo some real competition."

      "Thank you", said Mrs. Lum, "Compliment is accepted. But we are happier dispensing herbs. Cooking--too much work."

      "You will find Sean in the parlour, I think", Mr. Lum explained, "He is trying to arrange the house to fit us all in."

      Dietrich, for whom food was a constant temptation, particularly Chinese food, squeezed around the congested bodies in the kitchen, peering into the cooking basins. Happy to leave the menu entirely in the hands of the Lums, Günther wandered down the small hall and peered into the parlour.

      "With all those chairs, there will be no room for people", he called out to Sean, who was having difficulty working out how he could best position the furniture to maximise seating arrangements.

      "I am about to give up", the host admitted, It may be better for us to have some sitting on the floor."

      "Definitely, " Günther agreed, "Let me help you remove a few of these chairs. Where would you like me to store them?" [248]

      "Put them wherever you can find space in either of the two bedrooms."

      In spite of the smallness of the rooms in the cottage, particularly when the furniture was in place, it was a decided improvement on the tent on the Eureka Lead that Sean had shared with his friends.

      Discovering the nugget, which improved his circumstances, had not immediately led to Sean upgrading his accommodation. He was happy to remain in Sven's tent, close to his friends. He also wanted to plan the apportionment of his new-found wealth before determining what he would do about housing. He preferred to arrange his investments so that they would accrue long term benefit, both to himself and to those whose ventures he was helping foster. He had no interest in ostentatious display. He had seen what had happened to others, who dissipated new-found fortunes in riotous celebration or foolish acquisitions.

      Sean allowed himself an occasional over-night stay in the Star, whose lounge he had used as an office to talk over business proposition with friends, and associates, for whom conversation in a tent would have been off-putting.

      The young Irishman finally decided to purchase this small miner's cottage on Geelong Road. It was all that he needed for the moment. It also helped conserve money for investments. The timber structure had wooden floors, walls, and ceilings. It would have accommodated a small family comfortably. For Sean, it was ideal, providing him with more room than he needed. Keeping it clean and tidy, while he was so busily occupied in a range of activities, presented him with a challenge.

      Neighbours were scattered along the road. Many of them were Welsh or Cornish. Some had talked to him of employment that had been offered them in Sebastopol by Robert Shaw, the Ironmonger. Sean told them that Shaw was a man whose word could be trusted. That had been their impression on meeting him. Most had signed up, exchanging their labour for a modest living.

      Sean rearranged the seats that remained in the parlour, and went in search of Günther and Dietrich. He found the two [249] Germans in the main bedroom, admiring the large bed, with its elaborate head-rest.

      "It is hard imagine you sleeping here", Günther commented, reflecting on the stretcher Sean had used at Eureka.

      "This one is for visitors", the Irishman responded, "I am using the smaller bed in the next room. If I used this, I would spend most of the morning tidying it up."

      Dietrich was inspecting a large box, which he noticed in a corner of the room.

      "Open it up", Sean offered.

      Dietrich felt around for a catch. When he discovered the metal clasp, he pulled it away from the box, and slowly opened the lid. Peering inside, his eyes bulged.

      "You have enough sheets in here to make the bed three times over", he commented.

      "I was offered a good price on the sheets at a certain drapers in Main Road."

      "I guess that is understandable", Günther cut in, "Especially when you part-own the business, and are on better than speaking terms with the proprietor."

      "It always helps to have the right contacts", Sean parried.

      Dietrich closed the lid of the box, with the comment, "A little better than the crate you used in the tent."

      "More secure too", Sean responded, adding, "Sit on it. Try it out."

      Sean sat on the side of the bed facing Dietrich, who was redistributing his weight on the box. Günther was by the window, looking out into the gathering darkness.

      "So what are you two up to?" Sean inquired, "How is the business going?"

      Günther turned around, rested his weight on the window ledge, and began an explanation.

      "As you know, we decided that there was no long term future in small mining units. We didn't want to work as labourers for one of the larger mining companies. With our own capital, and your help, we purchased the goodwill on the hatter's store, several doors from the Victoria Theatre. We hope to eventually purchase [250] the building and land, and, maybe later, to move our operation to Ballarat West. We are making slow progress, but this is to be expected at this stage. Once we are better known, both for the quality of our merchandise, and our service, we believe our business will take off. At the moment we are living behind the shop."

      "How long do you think you will continue sleeping there?" Sean asked.

      "Probably for some time yet. Who knows? Dietrich has taken an interest in a lass who works at the Criterion Store. If the friendship progresses, we will need to review the arrangement."

      "You are reading more into the relationship than is there", Dietrich protested.

      "Am I?"

      "A permanent relationship is a long way off."

      "Really! I wouldn't call fifty yards a long way off."

      "It sound as if your business is on its way", Sean commented, breaking the impasse by distracting attention.

      "It is", Dietrich commented, "But we have much hard work ahead of us."

      Günther had been inspecting the ceiling, while listening to Dietrich's response. Attracted by his gaze, Dietrich and Sean ran their eyes along the lengths of timber making up the ceiling.

      "What is fascinating you?" Sean asked Günther, unable to discern a reason for the exercise.

      "I was wondering what would happen if an animal climbed under the roof and died there. If the maggots got to it, you could find possum dribbling onto your sheets."

      "Yuk!" Dietrich retorted, and then, addressing himself to Sean, he continued, "Imagine living with him!"

      "I think it is time I checked on the meal", Sean announced, "You two can do what you like. Why don't you explore the other bedroom? The evening is designed for you to satisfy your curiosity."

      Sean made his way through the hallway into the kitchen. The food was almost at the stage where it was ready to be served. The fried rice was coloured by an interesting collection of local [251] vegetables, and a few Chinese ingredients imported from Melbourne. The sweet and sour pork, the chicken chow mien, and the lamb and black bean sauce were at a similar state of readiness. Sean was anticipating, when he had agreed to accept the Lum's offer to provide the meal, that there would also be a collection of medicinal herbs added to the ingredients. This did not trouble him. Whether or not they enhanced the flavour, the health of his guests would certainly benefit.

      "This smells wonderful", he assured the cooks.

      "We hope you will enjoy", Mrs. Lum responded.

      "I am sure we will."

      "We cannot thank you enough for your help", Mr. Lum explained.

      "I am glad you eventually accepted it. I could never repay you for what you did for me. You gave me my life."

      "We are looking forward to the time when we own the land. We will be more secure", Mr. Lum explained.

      The Lums so generously expressed their appreciation that Sean sometimes felt that in making any comment about their business, or inquiring after it, he was fishing for praise. But it was difficult to avoid priming the pump. One had to be silent, and to be silent was to show disinterest. They were beautiful people, and he merely wanted them to know that he appreciated them.

      "I think I had better check to see where the rest of our guests are", Sean commented, excusing himself, "They do not seem to have arrived yet."

      Just at that moment, there was a commotion at the front door. Two familiar voices could be heard, intoning an Irish melody. The tune was occasionally interrupted by a woman's laughter, and frequent guttural guffaws.

      "I think they have arrived", he corrected himself.

      Emerging from the kitchen, Sean caught sight of Billy, Michael, and Edith at the front door, being welcomed by Günther and Dietrich. The young Germans demanded an admittance fee, which, for Michael and Billy, was an Irish ditty. Edith had accompanied them with a Scottish reel, which she had been taught as a small child by her maternal grandmother. The fee was [252] declared discharged, and the three young people were granted admittance.

      "I don't remember Günther and Dietrich singing for their supper", Sean commented, mischievously, "I think we should ask them to do something."

      The two men looked at one another, smiled, and made for the parlour. Each grabbed a pewter stein from the hutch that was resting on a small cupboard pushed up against the far wall. Dexterously avoiding falling over the chairs that Sean had so carefully arranged, they broke into a rollicking German beer-hall song. Exhausting themselves, they ended up on the floor, doubled up with laughter.

      "I think the food is almost ready", Sean announced, "I will check with the Lums to see what they want us to do."

      Returning several minutes later, Sean explained, "They would like us to make our own selection. You will find the plates on the bench against the far wall. There is plenty of food. Take what you want from the large dishes. You will find the fried rice in the wok on the stove. Extra sauces are on the table. If you want to know what is in the dishes, you had better ask the Lums."

      Quietness descended once the visitors had served themselves, and were sampling the cuisine. Taste buds were responding to the oriental titillation. Recently expended energy was being replenished.

      "You will find a range of drinks on the table in the corner", Sean explained, "There should be sufficient variety for all tastes."

      Once this role as maitre d'hotel had been discharged, Sean seated himself opposite Michael and Billy, spearing a piece of battered pork with a chopstick, while cradling it on the right hand side with the other, in preparation for raising it to his mouth.

      "What kept you both so late?" he asked.

      "As if you can't guess", Billy responded.

      "You were working the new claim at Red Hill."

      "I wonder how you knew?" Michael retorted, his eyes smiling knowingly.

      "Once a miner, always a miner! Or should I say, once a gambler, always a gambler", Sean commented. [253]

      "Different ones of us gamble on different things", Michael shot back.

      "Checkmate", Sean admitted, and then, after a moment, continued, "How is the new business going?"

      "Slowly, but we believe we will get there", Michael explained, "We face competition, but we are arguing that we offer a better service. We have purchased an old dray, which we have patched up, and are delivering the wood."

      "Firewood is your main staple?"

      "Yes."

      "Are you aiming to diversify?"

      "We are. In fact, we already offer a range of products, including fence posts, cut slabs for bracing mine-shafts, and pole lengths of various widths. We have asked Robert Shaw if he will design a steam-driven saw so that we can mass produce timber for housing, which we can sell at a reasonable price. This will involve a significant outlay, but we are hoping that we can recoup it. If the new design gives us an advantage, we should be able to do this."

      "When do you find time to mine?" Sean asked.

      "Late in the day, if we have finished our deliveries", Billy responded, "And Sunday afternoons."

      "No wonder I see so little of you these days", Sean commented.

      "We haven't forgotten our friends, but time seems to run away with us", Michael answered.

      "I have to admit to the same weakness", Sean commented, twisting his mouth into a grimace.

      The pattern of Sean's life had changed dramatically. Physical labour had been replaced by mental challenges. He needed to master a range of accounting skills to keep track of his diverse range of business interests. He was learning to hold his own in commercial life with men who enjoyed well-placed family connections and years of experience. He also found himself needing to manage people, a task for which he discovered he had a natural ability. Around the town he was becoming known as a young man of promise, whose word could be trusted. He was beginning to be sort out for his opinion. [254]

      Sean was on the point of excusing himself, when there was a knock at the front door. Delight spread across his face, and he rose, placed his plate on his seat, and disappeared into the passage-way.

      "You were able to come after all!"

      "Sabbath concluded at six this evening, as you would be aware. My family had nothing specific planned for the rest of the evening, so I excused myself."

      "I am so glad you could come. Come in and I will introduce you to the others."

      Sean appeared at the doorway leading into the parlour. As he did so, several faces looked up. They were greeted by the sight of a slight, dark-haired, and somewhat pale face that was sporting a black moustache the drooped across the corners of his mouth. Sean called for attention.

      "I would like to introduce you to a new friend of mine, Sol Levi. He is a stockbroker. His parents are from Poland. He has been teaching me the ins and outs of the market. I have invited him along tonight to meet you all."

      "Pleased to meet you", Sol responded, "I trust you are having a good party?"

      "We are", Billy responded.

      "Let me introduce you to the Lums", Sean commented to Sol, who followed him out into the kitchen.

      The Lums were consolidating the food that remained onto smaller plates. As the two young men entered, they looked up, unaware of the identity of the stranger.

      "It is to these three people that I owe my life", Sean explained, "They nursed me back to heath when I was near death's door."

      "Sean has spoken of you before", Sol responded, "He is obviously very grateful to you."

      "They are such wonderful cooks as well. Can I interest you with some of the food. I realise that our kitchen is not kosher, but there may be something that you can eat."

      "The food looks and smells beautiful, but I have eaten. Thank you." [255]

      Sean returned Sol to the parlour, and left him with Billy. No sooner were they seated, than Mary Lum appeared at the door, "There is more food, if you would like." Günther and Dietrich's eyes lit up and they made their way to the kitchen. Realising that her parents would cope with second helpings, without her assistance, Mary found a seat beside Edith.

      "I have been wanting to talk to you all night", she commented, "How is business? I have noticed crowds clustered round your windows."

      "The shop is doing well."

      "I am sure it is because of its new owner."

      Edith blushed, looked at the floor, and then replied, "The Jones were liked and serviced their customers well. I am benefiting from the goodwill they built up."

      "You are too modest. Your customers speak highly of you. You are innovative. You are willing to experiment with new lines."

      Wanting to change the subject, Edith commented, "Did I tell you my mother is coming to stay with me for a month? It will be a little cramped, at the back of the shop, but I am thrilled."

      "You mentioned she was coming. When is this happening?"

      "She should be arriving in Hobson's Bay sometime later in the week. I am hoping she will be here at the latest by the weekend. Sean has to travel to Melbourne on Thursday and has offered to take me with him. I have engaged a young girl to look after the shop for me. If the boat docks on the Thursday, Sean will bring us back to Ballarat early Friday morning."

      "That sounds wonderful!"

      Mary had hardly concluded before Günther's voice broke it. "It is time", he said, "for the formal toasts. " Looking around the room, he caught sight of Billy, in earnest conversation with Sol. "If I can interrupt you to a minute, Billy, I will ask you to call the Lums."

      Mr. and Mrs. Lum appeared at the door, and looked around. While giving the appearance of wondering why they had been summoned, they half suspected that it had something to do with the meal, and were embarrassed at the prospect of being thanked publicly. While they were preparing to deal with their [256] embarrassment, Michael selected several beverages from the cupboard, and was refilling glasses.

      "As is customary in this country", Günther began, "We will first propose a royal toast."

      Following the salute to British royalty, a further toast was proposed to the Lums, who were roundly thanked for their generosity in providing the food, and for the satisfaction it gave. The toasts culminated in a celebration of the host and guest of honour.

      "Would you raise your glasses to toast our host, and to wish him many happy years in his new accommodation. He is our friend, who, in his good fortune, has not forgotten his, what are they calling us? Yes, his mates! What we will be toasting next time, I don't know. But you will notice he has a large double bed in the front bedroom. Maybe Edith can let us in on the secret."

      At that, the room appeared to draw in its breath, and then burst out in a paroxysm of barely repressed mirth, light-hearted and sensual. Edith covered her face with her hands, and even Sean looked slightly overcome.

      "Anyway", Günther continued, having freshened the atmosphere with laughter, "Let is raise our glasses and toast Sean O'Donnell."

      The guests shortly departed, one by one. Michael and Billy returned Edith to the rear of her shop, ensuring that she was settled before they left. Sol set out by himself, and Günther and Dietrich finally overcame their reluctance to bring the night to an end, and made their way home along Geelong Road. Sean offered to assist the Lums to return their cooking utensils to their home, but they insisted that they could manage on their own. He was finally left in the cottage by himself.

      The young businessman wandered round the house, from room to room, reliving memories of the evening's activities, and assuring himself that this structure, and the ground on which it was built, was really his. He had come a long way in a few years. He realised, however, that what he most treasured, was not this house, but his friends. He could lose the house. Fortunes were lost [257] as easily as they were won. He could live in a tent again, and enjoy it. Friends were what were important. [258]

 

 

Chapter 32

      Charles was gathering up boxes of nails to return them to the trestle in the centre of the shop. A customer had spread them over the floor, arguing that he needed to measure nail lengths against thicknesses of wood, which he had brought with him. Houghton found it a bother, cleaning up after others. He also resented the need to humour some patrons, when he would have preferred to give them a piece of his mind. The servant role was not one to which he was accustomed. It irked him. He was used to commanding men, not being abused by them. A "Yes, Sir", in response to Rede, a natural superior and commanding officer, was a different matter from placating a grubby, irascible miner.

      The two weeks had stretched to several months. Richards was still in Melbourne. His father was in no better condition, and his brothers had been delayed. Houghton could not wait for John to return and resume responsibility for dealing with these bloody-minded diggers.

      On this particular morning, in late April, he had been incensed by a customer, who appeared to go out of his way to irritate him. He half suspected that the man recognised him. Perhaps he had been working the Eureka Lead on the afternoon Charles had led the raid that netted Father Smyth's Armenian servant. The man had backed into displays, sending them flying. He was not satisfied with what was available, abusing the young, replacement manager, who was informed that he knew nothing about mining or construction. The problem, Charles recognised, was that the miner was right. This recognition did not ameliorate the bruising impact of the criticism, but merely rubbed salt into the wound. The muscular corkscrew, standing before him, taunting him, knew more than he, Charles, did, about basic survival skills. Competency in such areas, which calibrated a man's capacity for self-reliance, and therefore the extent of his manhood, found Charles wanting. This rankled.

      It was while he was in this foul mood that Morag and Ruby arrived at the shop. Morag was on her way to a meeting of the [259] Women's Auxiliary of the Miners' Hospital Committee. She asked Ruby to check the books for her, as she would not have time to get to them for another week. Since Houghton returned, she had endeavoured to throw Charles and Ruby together as frequently as possible, within acceptable limits of decorum.

      "Charles. You will drive Ruby home?"

      "Yes, Mrs. Shaw, I will."

      Morag swept out of the shop, opened the door of the phaeton, clambered aboard, and indicated to the groom that she was ready to depart.

      "Ruby. You have come just at the right time", Charles began, "I need to go up the street. Can you look after the shop while I am gone?"

      "Yes. But where are you going?"

      "We are out of certain products. I need to visit our rivals to see if I can parley with them."

      "Could I go for you, so that you can remain in the shop? I don't know a great deal about nails, and cleats, and spades. It would be better for you to remain and me to go."

      "It would take me too long to explain what I need. No. You stay and I will go."

      Ruby reluctantly consented to remain.

      Charles grabbed his hat and made off up the street. Quickening his pace, he zig-zagged around potential customers admiring items in shop windows, and people who had merely stopped to chat. They were blissfully unaware that they were obstructing his path.

      When he reached the doors that led to the bar of the United States Hotel, he pushed them open, and breasted the counter. Looking around, he could see no-one he knew. He ordered a beer, and stood drinking it until he had finished. When the barman came to ask whether he wanted a refill, Houghton inquired about Dulcie Finnegan.

      "Yes. She came in ten minutes ago", he answered, "Are you wanting to make an appointment with her?"

      "I may shortly."

      "That second beer?" [260]

      "Yes."

      Charles took the beer to a table and sat to consume it at leisure. From where he was sitting, he could observe the parade of passers by. The longer he mused, the more they became indistinct shapes, framing the images that had begun to pre-occupy him, resurrected fantasies that arose, phoenix-like, from the ashes of his lust for Dulcie.

      Since returning to Ballarat, Charles had lived the life of a sexual aesthete, a new and unwelcome experience for him. His association with the Shaws, with whom he was spending much of his time, had curtailed his amorous adventures. If he were to inherit Robert's fortune, by impressing the older man with his business acumen and through his association with Ruby, he needed to ensure that his plans did not unravel because of an indiscretion that became public property. But his loins were alive with desire. The tongue-lashing he had received, earlier in the day, from the disgruntled digger, together with the fact that Ruby's innate chastity was off-putting, even annoying, had generated a high level of frustration. He needed to escape, even if for a brief period, from the enveloping morality of the family and its businesses, and to lose himself in the softness of Dulcie's flesh.

      Charles placed his empty beer glass on the table, pushed his chair back, and stood up. He straightened his clothes, adjusted his bow tie, and ran his hands around his hair to return errant strands to their appointed positions. He made for the door that led to the stairs that would take him to upstairs apartments.

      With each stair his excitement grew. He could feel a new energy flowing through his body. He reached the door, and was about to knock on it, when he heard giggling coming from inside the room. This was followed by the sound of a male voice. He recognised the voice. It was that uncouth bugger he had argued with that very morning.

      Houghton's instinct was to reach for the knob, but something held him back. If he opened the door, whatever else happened, his cover would be blown. The prize would escape him. He had come too far now to jeopardize his future. Engorged lust, [261] shrunken away to a flaccid caricature of its former self, fuelled his growing anger.

      Charles turned and bounded down the stairs, crashing through the doors of the hotel. He marched down the street, anger steaming from every pore. He paused several shop-lengths from the Ironmongery, in an attempt to recover some composure before facing Ruby. He reached the door of the shop, took three deep breaths, and walked inside.

      Ruby was talking to a customer. She looked around and inquired, "Were you able to get what you wanted?"

      "No."

      "You were away a long time."

      "Why should that matter to you?" Charles responded testily.

      Ruby drew back. She wasn't accustomed to being spoken to in this way. There was fear in her reaction. The man she was serving looked from Ruby to Charles, trying to assess what was happening. Finally, after Charles had retreated to the back room, the miner looked at Ruby, and lifted his eyes to the ceiling.

      After the customer left, Ruby joined Charles at the rear of the shop.

      "What was that all about?"

      "It was nothing."

      "It wasn't nothing. You were angry with me. What have I done?"

      "Nothing."

      "Then why are you angry?"

      "I am not angry."

      "You are."

      "Oh Shut up. I have had enough today. I don't want you criticising me.

      "I haven't been criticising you. I haven't done anything. You come through the door and start abusing me. What is happening to you?"

      Since his return from Melbourne, Ruby detected a strangeness about Charles. She saw things she hadn't noticed before. He could be charming, but he could also be horrible. He could be the life of the party, but he was cold. He knew what to [262] say, what would impress, but when they were on their own, he had little conversation. At times, she felt he disliked her. The image she had been in love with was revealing its faults. It was falling apart. The mask was slipping and threatened to disclose the ugliness it was covering.

      Ruby was frightened. She felt she no longer knew this man, who had figured so prominently in her dreams.

      "I would like to go home", she urged. It was both a statement and an inquiry.

      "You mean you want me to take you home, now?"

      Charles found Ruby stultifying. He looked at her, and, for the first time he hated her. He hated her for her innocence. He hated her because she represented the charade he had created that was imprisoning him. Houghton was like a stallion aroused by a mare in heat, but unable to follow the call of nature. He was tethered to a hitching rail. That rail was Ruby.

      "Yes. I would like you to take me home."

      "I can hardly leave the shop."

      "You can."

      "How?"

      "Shut up the shop."

      "But it is not finishing time."

      "That doesn't matter. Please take me home."

      Charles threw down the sheath of papers he had picked up from the counter. He went to the back of the shop and banged the rear door shut. On his way through the office he kicked the waste paper basket, sending it under the desk, where it lay on its side with its contents strewn over the floor. He strode towards the front of the shop, colliding with several of the exhibits.

      "Come on", he yelled to Ruby, who stood transfixed at the entrance to the office.

      "Come on, woman. You wanted me to take you home. I am taking you home. Hurry up."

      Ruby emerged from her trance-like state. She gathered up the few belongings she had deposited on the desk in the office when her mother dropped her off. She followed Charles, in childlike obedience, through the front door. [263]

      Charles strode around the back of the building, through a narrow passageway between the shops. The horse was grazing on the little grass that was still growing in the rear of the property. Houghton harnessed the animal to the gig they used for deliveries. He pushed Ruby aboard, and clambered up himself, striking the reins against the horse's flank. Charles turned the gig into the narrow passageway on the other side of the shop, and then directed the horse out into Main Road.

      They had hardly gone two yards along Main Road before Houghton pulled on the reins. The gig shuddered to a halt. Charles put his hands to his head.

      The frustration, the powerlessness, the anger spiralled to a climax. Long denied, it focused its energy in his head. His forehead throbbed. The vision that had haunted him over the past two years, returned. In the apparition, he saw the ghostly miner emerging from his tent and looking around. He lunged at the man. He drew his bayonet from the digger's chest. Blood flowed from the wound. He heard the man's voice gurgle in his throat. The miner slumped to the ground. His wife emerged from the tent, screaming, delirious with terror and grief.

      Charles screamed, "No. No." His hands thrashed around, alarming the horse, which took off in fright. Ruby clung on to the front rail of the gig for dear life.

      A hundred yards up the street, Edith Clapham was outside her shop with her mother, drawing her attention to the design she had created in her window. She heard a commotion in the distance, and saw a gig hurtling along the street. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a small child on the road, in the path of the vehicle. Without considering what she was doing, she jumped onto the road, grabbed the child, and threw her clear of the panicked horse. But as she was removing herself from its path, her dress caught in the horse's hoof and she was dragged back onto the road and under the vehicle, the wheel crushing her head.

      The thud and the screams of onlookers jolted Houghton out of his nightmare. He brought the horse to a halt, and looked around to see what had happened. Beside him, Ruby was white [264] with shock. Edith's mother had her hand to her mouth. For a moment she was transfixed, too shocked to react.

      The Lums rushed out of their dispensary. Mr. Lum bent down to examine Edith. Mary was beside herself. Her mother joined her father on the road. After several minutes Mr. Lum looked up, tears in his eyes, and pronounced her dead. [265]

 

 

Chapter 33

      The day following the accident, Edith Clapham was buried in the Ballarat cemetery on Creswick Road. The cortege, led by a hearse drawn by two plumed horses, left from the Ballarat East Anglican Church, at 3:30 in the afternoon. The service was conducted by the Rev. Mr. Hastie, in the absence of an Anglican priest.

      The minister had drawn attention to Miss Clapham's enviable reputation. Though young, she had recently set up in business for herself. She was well-liked. Her customers and neighbouring storekeepers spoke well of her, a fact that augured well for the future of the business.

      Edith had not been a regular churchgoer, though she had exhibited the sort of characteristics usually associated with people of strong Christian character. She was trustworthy, compassionate, and generous to a fault. A lively soul, she was spontaneous and graceful. It was obvious that her background in the Church of England, the church of her parents and her baptism, had deeply influenced her. Her family and friends would feel the loss.

      Edith was struck down in the bloom of youth. The minister, memorializing her achievements, likened her to a broken column. It stood incomplete, testimony to the fragility of human existence. There had been so much potential, but there would be no opportunity for its realisation. "The Lord giveth", explained the minister, "And the Lord taketh away." Who are we, he argued, as mere mortals, to fathom the mind of God, or to question?

      Hastie went on to speak of the life everlasting. Faith in God, and commitment to the church, he argued, assured one of the eternal prize. "I am the resurrection and the life", Jesus had said, "He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And he that liveth and believed in me shall never die." By the time the minister concluded his address, there was not a dry eye in the church.

      In the front row sat Edith's grieving mother. Until four months ago, she considered her daughter lost to her forever. Then [266] she received a letter from her to say that she was in Ballarat, and intended visiting them.

      When Edith arrived at the family home in Paddington, mother and daughter fell into each other's arms. Her mother found it hard to believe that her uncle had molested her, but she was prepared to believe her daughter. Edith explained that the visit had been made possible by the generosity of a young man, for whom she had a deep affection. The two young people had no permanent plans, but were happy, for the time being, merely to enjoy each other's company.

      Edith's mother was devastated, but had not begun to grieve. She was anaesthetized by her pain. She had been given her daughter back, only to lose her again. The highs and lows of her emotional responses continued to buffet her. It was as if the fates found pleasure in a form of sadism that raised expectations only to disappoint them.

      Next to Edith's mother, it was Sean who was feeling the loss most acutely. Edith had been his friend, a feminine presence in his life that helped him remain sensitive to his feelings. They may have drifted into marriage had they come to the stage where each was convinced of its rightness. Their friends, discerning the depth of their relationship, had anticipated that this would be the case. For Sean, this door had closed. The delight he had taken in the unselfconscious gaiety of the young woman, whose presence he had enjoyed, and whose opinion he had valued, was now at an end.

      The Irishmen was choking on his emotion, swallowing it every time it decided to regurgitate itself. He was afraid, if he gave way to it, that he would find himself convulsed. Every now and then, during the service, he allowed himself some release. It was legitimate to feel what he was feeling. The tears could be seen trickling down his eyes, as his lumped throat dealt with the constricted emotion.

      Michael and Billy were not so successful at disguising the depth of their distress. They were sitting beside Sean, and, every now and then, would look to see how he was coping. They had enjoyed Edith's unrestrained sense of fun. She was like a sister. [267] Because they regarded her as Sean's girl, they had not allowed themselves to develop a romantic attachment to her. This had kept transactions clean.

      Günther and Dietrich were seated on the other side of Billy and Michael. Even their Teutonic control was put to the test. While Edith was too feminine to be one of the boys, she was family. They respected her intelligence, an intelligence that did not diminish others by needing to convince them of its superiority. She did not appreciate how intelligent and resourceful she was. In the estimation of the Germans, this intelligence was matched by a spontaneous warmth that had no intention of consuming those on whom it was lavished.

      The Lums were strangely out of place in the church. But it was appropriate that they be there. There was sadness in Mr. Lum's eyes, as he gazed up at the preacher, absorbing every word and touching up, from his own experience, the portrait the minister was painting. His mind kept reverting to the image of Edith on the road, her head crushed by the wheel of the vehicle. Mrs. Lum kept her eyes on the floor. She remembered the countless times Edith called at the dispensary to spend time with Mary. The girls were like sisters, twins, and one of the twins was dead. Mary had let her feelings flow in the tears she shed. Her unashamed affection was testimony to a deep friendship in which secrets of the heart had been shared.

      Maggie Fitzsimmons was tucked away in the crowd. Over the years she had learned to cover her feelings. Her occupation had required this of her. But the life she lived had also allowed her, in moments when she was free of clients, to be honest with herself. Pretence, appearance, public image were of no relevance or benefit to her, a fact that gave her a decided advantage over her more respectable sisters. She knew herself in a way they did not know themselves, and she was familiar with the shadow side of the town's reality, as well as the unrestrained, but mostly disguised, energies of some of its prominent citizens.

      Maggie liked Edith from the first moment she saw her--wandering, dazed and disoriented in the back streets of Carlton. She suspected she would not make a career as a lady of the night. [268]

      She was too refined. While she admitted to a measure of disappointment, for Edith would have been a favourite in her stable, she was secretly glad that the young woman had resisted her importunity and gone her own way. Maggie had, at least, brought Edith to Ballarat, and been a means of her establishing herself there. Now she was dead. Though Edith had not followed through on the training Maggie gave her, the older woman still regarded the younger as a protege. As Edith's patroness, Maggie was devastated. It was difficult not to love the girl, and Maggie had loved her. The emotion showed in her face.

      Robert Shaw sat in the middle of the church. The strain, the pathos, the agony resulting from the fact that he felt he shared some responsibility for the tragedy, were etched into the lines in his face. It had been an employee of his, driving one of his carts in an irresponsible manner, who had caused her death. When first told of the tragedy, he could not believe what he was hearing. He had been informed by one of his foundry workers, who had been in Main Road when the accident occurred. He grabbed his coat, and made for the scene of the accident. He spoke to Edith's distressed mother, expressing his condolences, and offering to cover any expenses, including the cost of her return to Sydney. He had not known the young woman, though he was familiar with her reputation. He was also aware that she was a friend of Sean's.

      When he arrived home, after his visit to Main Road, Robert was met at the door by a distressed Morag. Ruby was in a state of shock. She was not responding to anyone, but sitting in her room looking blankly ahead. The doctor was called. He had not been able to rouse her. Knowledge of what happened was dependent on Charles, who explained that the horse had been spooked by a rabid dog, and bolted. Morag, who was attending to Ruby, was unable to accompany Robert to the funeral.

      Charles, who felt obliged to attend, sat at the back of the church by himself. His mind, in its normal convoluted way, had already exonerated him of blame. The young woman had run into the path of the gig. It was not his fault. These things happened.

      After the service in the church, the casket was carried to the hearse by Michael, Billy, Günther, and Dietrich. Sean followed, [269] accompanying Edith's grieving mother. The cortege moved, at walking pace, along a section of Main Road. People stood facing the road with heads bowed. The men removed their hats, and many of the women brushed away tears. Shops closed their doors as a mark of respect. Shop owners were among the mourners.

      The procession moved into Sturt Street and then turned right into Creswick Road.

      Inside the gates of the cemetery the hearse halted. The casket was again shouldered by the four young men, who carried it to the grave. On the way, they passed the simple grave marker that indicated Sven's burial place. The casket was lowered into the grave and the minister read the final, simple words of committal, "Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return. In the hope of life everlasting. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Amen."

      Edith's mother came forward, accompanied by Sean. They bent down, each grasping a clod of earth, which they threw into the wound in the earth. Others repeated the procedure, until the lid of the casket was obscured by a layer of soil. The grave-diggers were standing at a distance, leaning on their spades, waiting for the mourners to disperse.

      The grieving, turning away from the grave, gathered in groups to talk, to lighten the heaviness of this rite of passage, chatting their way through to the mundane.

      Charles, who stood by himself during the grave ritual, offered perfunctory condolences to Edith's mother, and disappeared.

      Robert Shaw sought out Mrs. Clapham again, seeking to console her. He then drew Sean aside.

      "I hear you paid for the funeral. I realise that you would want to do this. I would like to contribute, and not only because of the sense of responsibility I feel."

      "The accident was not your fault. Thank your for your offer, but I would prefer to pay for it myself. However, there is something you could do. Mrs. Clapham is booked to sail from Hobson's Bay on Tuesday next. I am tied up for several days next week. If you could take her, I would be grateful." [270]

      That evening, Billy, Michael, Günther, and Dietrich made themselves riotously drunk at the John O'Groats. Sean, restricting the intake of fire-water, sat silently at one of the trestles, numb and brooding. The Lum's had a quiet dinner together, Mary finding it difficult to speak. While the others were cleaning up after the meal, old Mr. Lum, squatting on the floor by his bed, was lost in meditation, which gently embraced his family in its ambience. Maggie had difficulty with an obstreperous client. She found she didn't have the patience to humour him, and sent him packing. Sean accommodated Mrs. Clapham in his cottage, where she finally found time and space for herself.

      When Robert Shaw returned home, he discovered that Ruby had shown no improvement. The doctor had been again, underlining the importance of maintaining an environment free of stress. She was not to be pressured to recall events. Healing would take time.

      Morag mentioned that Ruby had been calling for Charles. The doctor suggested that the young man might be her best medicine. They were to ensure that he was on hand.

      After spending an anxious half-hour talking with Morag in muffled tones in the parlour, Robert climbed the stairs to Ruby's room. He knocked on the door. There was no answer. When he entered, he was greeted by the sight of his daughter curled up in a foetal position on the bed. Her eyes swivelled in his direction. She looked at him blankly. In a fleeting moment of recognition, she responded with "Daddy", immediately fading back into a state of inertia. She had stopped calling him "Daddy" when she was twelve.

      Robert continued gazing at his daughter. He was numb with anxiety and furious at his powerlessness. [271]

 

 

Chapter 34

      A month passed and Ruby's condition had not improved. The doctor indicated there was nothing he could do. He had exhausted his skills. Only time could heal, but there was no guarantee that it would. Other medical practitioners were consulted. None offered hope. Recovery was a vague "maybe."

      The Shaws were beside themselves. Morag cancelled all engagements in order to spend time with Ruby. Robert found it difficult to concentrate on his work. The atmosphere of the home was sepulchral. Ruby, ensconced in her upstairs room, dominated their lives.

      Morag implored, cajoled, and tried to reason with Charles to call more frequently. According to the doctor, the young man was Ruby's best medicine. Robert and Morag noticed that when Charles came Ruby was different. There was more response. When he wasn't there, she called for him.

      Morag could not understand why he would not want to come more frequently. He pleaded pressure of business. When he came, he was always anxious to leave. There was a reluctance in his gait.

      Robert sat for hours beside his daughter, occasionally reaching across to stroke her hair, as he had done when she was a little girl. She either appeared not to notice, or pushed his hand away.

      Morag was constantly in her room, ensuring that Ruby's physical needs were met. Her energy and patience were tested. She began to feel, as the months dragged by, that she, herself, was on the edge. It was not unusual for her to reply testily to an innocent question from her husband. Her life had been measured out by teaspoons and meetings, charity projects, and theatrical performances. While it was now more stringently ordered, it was lived in the windowless cell of her anxious care for her daughter.

      Besides being concerned for Ruby, Robert was burdened with business concerns. While Charles managed the shop, in Richards' absence, it became obvious, by comments made by [272] customers, who knew the proprietor well enough to have a word in Robert's ear, that Charles lacked the personality to endear himself to those the shop was servicing. Robert was relieved when Richards returned. He shifted Charles to the foundry, where he gave him responsibility for managing accounts. John Furlonger, on whose skill and sagacity Robert relied, was placed in charge of projects and personnel.

      Robert was reluctant to hand Charles even this degree of responsibility, but he was caught. He did not want to so alienate the young man that he prejudiced his daughter's recovery. On the other hand, he distrusted Houghton's judgement in many areas, and remained suspicious of his intent. Furthermore, he had not failed to notice a falling off in Charles attention to his daughter.

      Robert had planned a trip to the Mother Country. The itinerary included visits to Cornwall and Wales. He was keen to observe, first hand, new developments in mining techniques. Because he realised that the ability of the new mine to be competitive was dependent on up-to-date technology, it was imperative that he go. He had invested heavily in the project, and stood to lose more than he cared to admit, should it founder.

      Robert was looking forward to taking Morag with him. She had been excited about the prospect of travel and the opportunity to catch up with relatives in Scotland. Ruby's illness had dampened her enthusiasm. She would not go while her daughter was in the condition she was. However, she insisted that Robert go. She knew he had to. There was nothing he could do for Ruby that she wasn't already doing.

      Robert contemplated a six months' absence, which had become more a matter of necessity than pleasure. In his absence, Derrick Portlock would take responsibility for running the mine, which had commenced production in a limited way early in May. While he trusted the men who would carry major responsibility for his three ventures, he was distrustful of Charles Houghton. Nevertheless, he convinced himself that John Furlonger would keep an eye on him, and prevent any untoward disasters.

      It was a Tuesday afternoon in late May, Robert was sitting beside Ruby's bed, keeping vigil. Morag was resting in her [273] bedroom. The constancy and stress had begun to take its toll. Morag had sent a message to Robert, who was supervising developments at the mine at Sebastopol, and asked if he would sit with Ruby for a couple of hours. She desperately needed respite from the constancy of the attention she lavished on her daughter.

      Robert looked down at the recumbent body of his daughter. She was asleep, and appeared peaceful. She was now twenty, and should be enjoying herself in the round of social engagements that constituted a coming out. But here she was, suffering a strange malady of the mind that kept her in a world of her own.

      Images of her childhood arose as Robert sat by the bed silently observing his daughter. The little girl who had thrown her arms around her father, while he squatted on the floor. The child who had asked about heaven and hell, after she had heard an address from a learned divine in church one Sunday morning and had questioned its theology. The twelve-year-old, who became self-conscious about her burgeoning femininity.

      Robert was so lost in reverie that he did not hear the knock on the front door. It was opened by a maid, who shortly appeared at Ruby's door.

      "A Mr. Furlonger to see you, Sir."

      "Thank you Priscilla, I will be down."

      Robert gently closed the door of Ruby's room, and descended the stairs. John was standing in the doorway.

      "Do come in, John."

      "I am sorry to bother you at home, but there is an issue I need to talk to you about."

      "Come into the study."

      Rows of books looked down at John as he settled himself into a chair. He felt awkward, in his work clothes, in his employer's well-appointed study. Robert took a chair opposite his foundry foreman.

      "What is troubling you?" Robert asked.

      "It is about Charles Houghton, Sir."

      "What has Mr. Houghton being doing?"

      "He has been over-reaching his authority."

      "In what sense." [274]

      "Several instances."

      "And they were?"

      "One of our customers came with an idea, and was wanting to know whether we thought that the machine he had designed would work. If we said yes, he wanted us to make it for him. I was talking to him about it, when Mr. Houghton came out of his office, demanded to know what was happening, dismissed me, and took the man to his cubicle."

      "According to the customer, who later sought me out, Houghton did little more than display his ignorance and self-importance. If it hadn't been one of our regulars, we may have lost his custom."

      "And the other incident?"

      "We were preparing to cast a complex piece when he stormed out of his office. He spoke rudely to the men, insinuating that they did not know what they were doing. They were incensed. He then proceeded to tell them what to do, suggesting modifications that were inappropriate and unworkable."

      "Thank you for informing me about these two incidents, John. I will attend to Houghton."

      Both men rose, and Shaw showed Furlonger out. He waited at the door while his foreman rode off, waving just before he disappeared from sight.

      The next morning Robert called at the foundry and discovered Houghton in the office. He closed the door and drew up a seat."

      "I have something I would like to talk to you about."

      "Yes?" the young man replied, wondering what was to follow.

      "I understand that there have been several incidents, in which you took action, which exceeded the scope of your responsibility."

      "Which incidents?"

      "You dealt directly with clients on technical issues, and you gave orders for designs to be altered. Neither of these areas is your responsibility. I also understand that you antagonized some of the workers by your attitude." [275]

      Robert was as direct as he felt he could be, without totally alienating the young man who could hold the secret to his daughter's recovery. Nevertheless, he needed to be direct, so that his point would not be lost in vague allusions. He was also aware that he would shortly be leaving for the Home Country, and wanted to leave no doubt in Houghton's mind as to where authority lay.

      There was another factor, related to the young man, which added to Shaw's concern. He was troubled by alternative explanations of the incident involving Edith Clapham, which contradicted the account Charles had given.

      Robert wished he was free to dismiss the man with impunity, but he was caught. His daughter was the most precious thing in his life. His concern for her overrode everything else. He would keep Charles on, but restrict his responsibilities. As he looked at the young man, he was convinced of his capacity to lie. His earlier suspicions had been confirmed.

      "I had the interests of the company at heart", Houghton replied, "I was taking initiative."

      "I do not want you taking initiative in areas that are not your responsibility."

      "Yes, Sir", responded Houghton, in a diplomatic retreat.

      The young man was furious that he had been reported. He did not take kindly to being found out, and was not used to being told off, however diplomatically. The anger in his gut was held in check by the knowledge that he could not afford to lose Shaw's patronage. His response was further moderated by the fact that he knew that the old man would be leaving for overseas shortly.

      "I hope, when I return, to hear that you have kept a eye on financial incomings and outgoings, and kept up with accounts and book-work. This is the work for which you are best suited, and for which I am paying you."

      "I will do my best, Sir."

      Shaw stood up, opened the door, and shook the young man by the hand. He turned and made his way through the foundry, speaking to John as he passed by a group of men who were [276] preparing a sand tray. Charles stood at the door until Robert left the building.

      That same afternoon, Sean called at the Shaw's residence, and was admitted by Morag. She took the Irishman into the parlour, offering him afternoon tea. This was a welcome respite from her monotonous ritual. Her husband had talked affirmingly about this young man. She felt slight embarrassment that it had been Sean's friend who had been killed in the accident.

      After he consumed the refreshment offered him, and engaged in the mandatory small-talk, Sean explained the nature of his visit.

      "I have come to see Ruby. I hear she is no better. I am not a doctor. Nor am I a close friend. But I felt that visiting her might help. It might bring something back."

      "That is very thoughtful of you, considering that it was your friend who was killed."

      "I can't bring Edith back. If I can assist with Ruby's recovery, I feel I would be salvaging something from the tragic incident."

      Morag looked at the young man, thought for a moment, and then commented, "Give me a moment. I will check that she is presentable."

      She returned five minutes later, and invited Sean to follow her upstairs. Morag turned the doorknob, opening the door. The sight that greeted them was pathetic.

      Morag had straightened the bedclothes, and arranged her daughter along the length of the bed. In the meantime, Ruby returned to her side, with her legs drawn up like a caterpillar, with its head reaching for its tail. Her eyes were partly open, and staring vacantly in front of her onto the sheets.

      Even through she was pale and distant, Sean could see that she was beautiful. No prince had been able to wake this sleeping beauty from the trance-like state. Morag mentioned that Charles had been calling less frequently.

      Sean walked to the right side of the bed and knelt down. He looked into her face, and whispered, "Ruby." She didn't stir. He spoke again. But there was still no response. He walked around to the left of the bed, knelt down and took hold of her right hand, [277] which was hanging over the bedclothes. He squeezed it. Her eyes moved, and she called out, "Charles!"

      Sean responded with, "I am here."

      Morag looked at Sean, her eyes full of hope. Sean squeezed her hand again.

      "I am here", he reassured her, "What you saw was awful. But you didn't cause it."

      Ruby slowly rolled onto her back, then turned her head and looked up at Sean. She was puzzled. There was no recognition.

      "You witnessed a terrible accident", he continued, as Morag look on incredulously, "But it wasn't your fault."

      Ruby brought her left hand up and placed it over the top of his hand. It was as if someone inside her was desperately wanting to believe him, to come out, to rejoin the world. But she was not ready.

      This exquisite moment was shattered by the sound of boots vaulting up the stairs and crashing into the room. It was Charles. He had made his way to the Shaw's residence that afternoon. When the maid mentioned to him that another young man was with Miss. Shaw, and listened to her description, he knew that it could only be Sean.

      "What are you doing here?" he demanded aggressively, looking directly at Sean. At the sound of his voice, Ruby returned to her side, curving her body in upon itself. She retreated from the world again, freezing out the pain.

      Sean released her hand, placing it on the bed.

      "I came to see if I could do anything for Ruby."

      "Thank you. But your help will not be needed."

      "Then I had better leave. I have other business to attend to."

      "I will see you to the door", Morag offered.

      As Sean passed by Charles, the ex-commission agent whispered, through clenched teeth, "You stay away from my woman."

      When they reached the front door, Morag grasped Sean's hand and squeezed it. "Thank you", she said, "Thank you so much." [278]

      "I would call again", said Sean, "But it may not be to Ruby's advantage."

      Morag nodded her head.

      Upstairs, Charles did not disguise his anger.

      "You bitch", he spat at Ruby, "You will not frustrate my plans. Dream your dreams, and stay in hell!"

      Walking over to the window, from where he could see Sean leaving on his horse, he continued his vitriolic outburst, "I will get you, Sean O'Donnell. I will ruin you as surely as I will this bitch's father." [279]

 

 

Chapter 35

      A fire was crackling in the grate of the stone fireplace. Sean was lounging in a chair he had positioned to gain maximum benefit from the warmth radiating from the hearth. It was seven o'clock on the evening of the 18th August 1857. It had been a bitterly cold day, and the evening threatened to be even more severe. The wind was howling through the gums that ringed the perimeter of the property on which his cottage was situated.

      The Irishman had the Ballarat Times open on his lap, which he was reading with the aid of light thrown by a lantern resting on a small table to his right. The dark wood of the interior of the parlour, gently illumined by the steady flame in the lantern, was alive with the energy of the dancing sprites choreographing their unique, unrepeatable ballet in the grate.

      Sean had had a busy day. He checked through the accounts of the drapery business, which he had purchased outright following Edith's death. The couple he hired to run the business were conscientious. He offered them the option of purchasing the good-will later, should they choose to do so. He spent several hours with Sol Levi at "The Corner", checking on commercial developments, and organizing share transactions. He paid a deposit on the purchase of three wagons, which he hoped would form the genesis of a transport company.

      The Irishman was reading through the letters to the editor, when he came across a letter from a Welshman, complaining about sweated labour, and the dilatory payment of wages. The miner was incensed that he and his fellows should be treated this way. They were experienced and utterly trustworthy. They did not deserve this response from the management.

      Sean folded the paper and looked up at the ceiling. The letter helped him make sense of several unusual developments. On a number of occasions, over the last two weeks, when he returned to the cottage on Geelong Road, which served as his office as well as his home, he was surprised to find several of his neighbours fixing up things around their properties, instead of being at work. [280] The previous evening he had noticed a light burning well into the night in a nearby cottage. These incidents had not unduly concerned him, as they could have been attributed to a range of causes.

      However, this letter, combined with what he observed, suggested that all might not be well in the mining community. He would check with his neighbours in the morning.

      Sean leaned his head against the back-rest of the chair. He felt the tension drain from his body. Tomorrow was a new day. After a good night's sleep, he would have the energy to confront its challenges. He was about to rise, and take himself off to bed, when he heard a shuffling of feet and a knock at the front door.

      Opening the door, he found himself looking into the face of Derrick Portlock, whom he had met through Robert Shaw. Portlock was accompanied by several miners, whom he recognised as neighbours. Concern was etched into the faces of his visitors.

      "Come in", he said, "Please come in."

      The three men followed the young Irishman into the parlour, where he offered them seats.

      "Draw your chairs up around the fire", he suggested.

      When they were settled, he looked around at the men, and inquired, "What brings you here at this hour in the evening? You obviously haven't come to socialize."

      It was Derrick who began.

      "We are embarrassed calling on you so late in the evening, but we didn't know what else we could do. Our situation has become desperate."

      "What situation?"

      "At the mine", Evan Jones, one of the Welshmen responded.

      "What has been happening at the mine?"

      "When Mr. Shaw left, I was given responsibility for the operation of the mine", Derrick continued.

      "That was what I understood was happening."

      "He is no longer in charge", David Lloyd, the second Welshman, cut in.

      "No longer in charge. What happened?" [281]

      "Mr. Houghton came to the mine several weeks ago, and informed us that costs were too high and that wages would be reduced", the Welshman continued, "He also informed us that we would have to work longer hours for these reduced wages."

      "But he has no right to do that!"

      "Technically, he doesn't", Derrick explained, "But Robert did leave him in charge of accounts. It was merely meant to be a book-keeping role, but he has expanded it, contending that he is responsible for financial management."

      "Can't you do something about it?"

      "We've tried. We've even gone to Mrs. Shaw, but she is unable to help. We have written to Mr. Shaw, but the letter will take three weeks to reach him, if it reaches him. His reply will take another three weeks, by which time he will probably have returned.

      "Have you challenged Houghton?"

      "We have, but it merely stiffens his resolve. He does not take kindly to being thwarted."

      "The other day he threatened to sack us all", Evan broke in.

      "We had Mr. Shaw's word that our employment was secure", Thomas added, "And now we find that we could be out of work. How will we feed our families?"

      "Why come to me?" Sean inquired.

      "We trust you", Evan responded, "You are a businessman. You know how businesses are run. You would know if there is anything we can do that we may not have thought of."

      "We were convinced that you would hear us out, and help us, if you could", Thomas explained.

      "I am also aware", Portlock added, in slow and deliberate tones, "that you are the second largest shareholder in the business. This should carry some weight with Houghton. It may give us leverage."

      Sean was silent for several minutes.

      "There are a number of issues here", he began, "First, I can see that I will have to talk with Houghton. I will do this tomorrow. Second, I will see if I can arrange temporary assistance for you. Your families have to eat. Third, I will determine whether there is [282] any legal means of restraining Houghton. If Mr. Shaw were here he could solve the issue simply. But he is not. We will have to do the best we can."

      "We are very grateful to you", Portlock offered, "And we thank you for receiving us. We will not delay you further."

      "I can only promise to do what I can", Sean commented, "I don't work miracles."

      "Whatever you can do will be appreciated", Derrick concluded, as Sean's visitors passed through the front door into the wintry evening.

      After the three men had gone, Sean put more wood on the fire, and brought a pencil and paper to the table. He calculated what assets he could liquidate to provide assistance for the families of the men caught up in the dispute. He spent a long time in silence, wondering how he would approach Houghton.

      The following morning, Sean set off early for the foundry. He found it easily, as it was a well-known landmark. He was in his gig, which he halted outside the large corrugated iron doors. He dismounted and walked into the building. Workmen were constructing a sand mould. They were so pre-occupied that they didn't notice him for several minutes. It was Thomas who finally caught sight of the Irishman.

      "May I help you?"

      "My name is Sean O'Donnell. I am looking for Mr. Houghton."

      "I think he is at Sebastopol at the moment. You can wait, if you wish. He said he would be back around ten."

      "Where may I wait."

      "The best place is probably in his office. But you can wait wherever you like."

      "I will watch you for a moment, if you don't mind. I am not familiar with this process."

      "Be our guest", replied one of the workman, who had begun to warm to the Irishman.

      After spending half an hour observing the men at work, Sean excused himself and made for the office. He could work on calculations of his own. [283]

      Sean found himself a chair and began to look around the cramped room, with its bundled invoices, ledgers, and array of model inventions. He could feel the personality of Robert Shaw. It was from this tiny room that the Scott ran his many businesses. But there was also an alien feel in the cramped quarters. The sacred space had been intruded upon by a sinister energy that was polluting it. Sean was in the midst of exploring these contradictory intuitions when Houghton burst into the room.

      Charles had spent the previous hour talking to the miners at Sebastopol, and had presented them with an ultimatum. They had challenged his right to treat them as he was doing, which only made him more determined to punish them. If they were not willing to work under the conditions he specified, he explained to them, he would reduce their pay further, and extend their hours. They threatened to withdraw their labour, so he called their bluff.

      The men walked out on him, lustily intoning the hymns of their faith as they walked over the hills to their homes.

      If these men were determined to defy him, Houghton would ensure that they starved. There was part of him that didn't give a damn. The other part was hell-bent on ruining Shaw. The turn of events was playing into his hands. If the miners worked longer hours for less, he would pocket the difference. If they didn't, Shaw would be ruined. The old man would not be returning until December the 4th, by which time his empire would be in ruins.

      Houghton was rankled because the Welsh minnows had challenged him, but elated because he had outsmarted them, and possessed the ability, because of his assumption of power, to rub their faces in the mud. That idiot, Portlock, was weak. He would be powerless to resist the forces Charles had set in place.

      This bundle of emotional responses was in charge of the young man as he strode through the foundry towards his office. On the way, he was informed that Sean O'Donnell was waiting for him in the office.

      "What are you doing here", were his first words.

      "I have come to see you about several issues."

      "What issues!"

      "Issues relating to the mining operation at Sebastopol." [284]

      "What concern is that of yours."

      "The interests of the men are my interests. What is more, I have a considerable financial stake in the venture."

      Charles had been unaware of the latter, though it played into his plans, feeding his blood-lust. He could wound O'Donnell at the same time he was ruining Shaw.

      "They have been winging to you, have they? They have gone whimpering home to big brother."

      "They have spoken to me of their concerns."

      "I have given them a choice. Either they abide by the conditions I have laid down or they don't work."

      "That is hardly a choice!"

      "It's the only choice they'll get!"

      "I understand you were left in charge of the book-keeping. You were not given responsibility for management. You have been overstepping your authority."

      "Whether or not I have been overstepping my authority, you have no way of stopping me. However much you may have invested in the mine, Robert Shaw has the majority share-holding. My authority was given to me by the old man himself, and he is out of the country. There is nothing you can do."

      "I can see I can't reason with you."

      "I have said all I am going to say. Please leave the property. You have no right to be here."

      Sean rose, reached for the hat he had left on the desk, looked briefly at Houghton, who stared back at him with steely eyes, and made his way across the floor of the factory to the large entrance. He looked back at Thomas, smiled and waved, then made his way to the gig. He grimaced. It would be a long, savage battle. [285]

 

 

Chapter 36

      It was two months since Sean attempted to speak with Houghton about the predicament of the Welsh miners. The weather was only marginally warmer. On this October evening, a Southerly was blowing in from the Antarctic, chilling the Ballarat plateau.

      The cottage was again providing a meeting place for Sean and his friends, who were spread around the parlour. Günther was lying on the floor in the centre of the room, his legs resting on the low masonry apron surrounding the fire. He was warming the soles of his boots. Dietrich was seated on the floor, to the left of Günther, his back against the wall. Michael and Billy were occupying two seats on either side of a small table, to the right of Günther, which was pushed against the wall. Derrick Portlock was ensconced in an armchair to the right of the fire. Sean was in his favourite spot, sunk down in an armchair, positioned opposite its brother, which was encasing Derrick. Sol was standing by the window to the left of the fire-place. He took off periodically, pacing around the house.

      The atmosphere was heavy with frustration, and low-grade angst. On the table beside Sean, three bottles of wine, each emptied of part of their contents, together with several replenished jugs of beer, stood as mute testimony to the dispirited mood of the men.

      "The miners have been on strike now for two months", Billy commented, "And there is no end in sight."

      "The little we have been able to collect together to help them through is fast running out", Sean admitted sadly, "There is little more I can draw on."

      Sean had emptied his coffers to help the dozen miners and their families survive. But the stand-off had gone on longer than anyone anticipated. They had bargained on the fact that Houghton, for his own survival, would be unlikely to hold out for longer than was necessary to prove his point. The miners had gone to him with a compromise, but he wouldn't listen. His motives appeared more punitive than strategic. He would bring the house down on its [286] occupants, even if he destroyed himself in the process. They had no way of understanding him, as they lacked his deviousness, impertinence, cunning, and capacity for cruelty.

      "I wish we could help more", Dietrich offered, "But we are still in the process of establishing ourselves. If we tried to sell the good-will of our business now, there would be few buyers. Even if we managed to sell, we would need to pay off our creditors, and there would be nothing left."

      "We are in the same situation", Michael lamented.

      "I wouldn't allow either of your businesses to be sold", Sean commented, "It is for this reason that I have not attempted to sell my interest in either business. I considered it, theoretically, but rejected it. The sale wouldn't realise anything, and it would leave my friends with nothing to support themselves. You would have spent four to five years in Ballarat, with nothing to show for it!"

      "It is not only the miners who will suffer", Derrick commented, "By the time Robert Shaw sets foot on Australian soil again, he could be bankrupt. What a wonderful home-coming present!"

      "If only there was something we could do?" Günther commented, from his coveted position in front of the fire.

      "Unless there is something someone has been holding back ", Sean reflected, "We have exhausted all options."

      "There are two issues, aren't there?" Sol broke in, "First, can we do anything further to assist the miners? Second, is there any way of frustrating Houghton's ambitions, of removing him?"

      "On your first issue, I think we have exhausted resources", Sean argued, " All that I have left to sell are my cottage, and my shares in the mine. I am still considering whether or not to sell the house. As for the shares, they are worthless. The town is aware of the conflict. Who would want to buy into a mining company that is going bust! I wouldn't, no matter how altruistic my intention."

      "Maybe we haven't exhausted all avenues", Sol suggested.

      "What do you mean?" Billy asked, "Do you know something we don't?"

      "No. But I have an idea."

      "Well, tell us. Don't keep us in suspense." [287]

      "There are people in the Synagogue I could approach. They may think it strange that I am asking them to consider supporting Welsh Presbyterians. But they are public spirited, and they have a deep sense of justice. If necessary, what they give could be regarded as a loan, and be paid off over time, with little or no interest. It is worth a try. What about the priests and your Catholic friends. Would anyone be willing to approach the Rev. Mr. Hastie? Robert Shaw is one of his elders. Is it possible that similar help could come from that quarter?"

      "We could take up a collection at John O'Groats", Billy suggested, somewhat whimsically, and then added, "I surprise myself. That might just work."

      "You are more than a good broker, Sol", Günther responded, looking up at the serious expression on the face of their new friend, and smiling, "I am glad you are on our side."

      "And the second issue", Sean asked, "How do we bring Houghton down?"

      "I have thought of a way", Günther responded energetically, "We will get Derrick to call him to the mine. He will say that there is an emergency. He could suggest that the miners are running amuck. Once Houghton is there, we will set on him. We will chain him up in one of the underground bays, and starve him into surrender. In the meantime, Derrick can get the men back to work, and the mine working again. Alternatively, we could clobber him with a crowbar, and dump him into one of the old mine shafts on the Eureka Lead. That would be poetic justice!"

      "I will be in that", shouted Billy, as he raised his fist in the air.

      "We could draw straws to see who wields the crowbar", Michael added.

      "Before you get too carried away", Sean broke in, "We are looking for peaceful, legal solutions. While I know how you feel, because I have entertained similar fantasies, I don't want any of you ending up behind bars for the rest of your lives."

      "But he wouldn't be found", Billy urged.

      "Yes he would", responded Dietrich, "He would when he began to stink." [288]

      "He stinks already", Michael added.

      "Cut it out", Sean demanded, calling his friends to order, "Let's get serious. Is there anything we can do? Sol? Have you thought of anything we haven't yet tried?"

      "There is one thing that may work", Sol replied.

      "What is that?"

      "When you approached Houghton you indicated that you were a major shareholder?"

      "Yes."

      "And it didn't make any difference?"

      "Not a skerrick!"

      "It is obvious, then, that the man can't be reasoned with."

      "I won't debate that point."

      "It may be possible, if we could get hold of Robert Shaw's share register, to contact all shareholders, to bring them together, and jointly decide on a course of action. There is a possibility that we could apply for a court order to force Houghton to hand control of the businesses over to us, the committee of shareholders, as Shaw's proxy. I am unaware of any precedent, but it is worth a try."

      "It is certainly preferable to clobbering him with an iron bar and spending the rest of our days in prison", Sean reflected, laconically.

      "I will look into the possibilities of such a course of action", Sol commented.

      "Thank you Sol. We are grateful for both suggestions."

      The agonizing dilemma remained, but at least there were now several slithers of light. Even if they came to nothing, they would keep hope alive a little longer.

      "Who's thirsty?" Sean asked, "You can't leave me with all this liquor. The temptation would be too great. How about finishing it off?"

      "I will be in that", Günther responded with alacrity, lifting his boots from the grate and jumping up.

      The room seemed to come alive as the young men moved to the table and helped themselves to what remained of the drink. Disbursed among them, its effect was diluted, though not [289] insignificant. As it loosened their tongues, a range of scenarios suggesting an appropriate fate for the target of their anger, from the ravages of syphilis to forced conscription into the French Foreign Legion, were touted. Offers of assistance were made to the Fates, and the most vascular of expletives were used to decorate his name. Only Sol remained perfectly sober. While Sean was not tipsy, he allowed himself greater liberty than was his custom.

      In the silence, after his friends had gone, Sean had the house to himself again. He sat in his chair by the fire, musing over the plans that had been laid. There was no guarantee that they would work. But they had to be tried. If every initiative failed, he, Sean, could sell his cottage, and begin again. There would be no second cache of nuggets. Lady Luck rarely leaves more than one calling card. But even if he had to start again, he was a different man. He had matured. He was experienced, and much better informed about the ways of the world.

      He woke at two in the morning and found himself in his chair. The fire had died down, and the cold had wakened him. He stood up and took himself to bed. It was not long before he was asleep again. [290]

 

 

Chapter 37

      It was a wild day. The rowboat that was taking one of the passengers ashore was being tossed about by the waves. The sky was an angry grey, and the wind blew frothed brine into the faces of the boatman and passenger. The two men, and the luggage between them, gave the small craft some stability. But progress was slow.

      Eventually the boat drew into a small wharf, and the boatman, whose arms felt as if they had been pulled from their sockets, helped his passenger ashore, and then swung the luggage onto the jetty. He waved a final greeting, and set out for the ship again.

      The man, who had been deposited ashore, pulled his overcoat around him to protect him from the vengeance of the threatening storm. It was late October, and Winter had returned for a final taunt, before surrendering the initiative to Spring. As the solitary figure stood on the end of the wharf, he was approached by several coach drivers, vying for his fare. He gave the nod to one of the men, who picked up his luggage, and packed it into the rear of his vehicle.

      "Did you say Ballarat?" the man asked.

      "Yes. Ballarat"

      The coachman helped his passenger aboard. As he closed the door, he remarked, "You are in the right place in this sort of weather. On days like this I would happily exchange places with a green grocer."

      The man clambered into his position overlooking the horses, took the reins in his hand, let off the brake, and called on his team to move forward. It was not long before the coach was making respectable progress over difficult roads. It was three o'clock the following afternoon before the coach reached Ballarat. The two men stayed overnight at a hotel at Bacchus Marsh.

      The carriage finally pulled into the drive of the house in Sturt Street, Ballarat, owned by Robert Shaw. The passenger looked weary as he stepped down from the coach. The driver lifted his [291] luggage from its storage at the rear of the vehicle, and placed it on the ground. The fee was paid. Mutual thanks were exchanged, and the driver clambered back on board, shook the reins, and the coach moved slowly out of the drive into Sturt Street.

      He was home at last!

      A face appeared at the window of Ruby's upstairs bedroom. Morag had heard the sound of a carriage on the driveway as she was sitting by her daughter. When she looked out the window, she could hardly prevent herself from screaming. She ran out of the room and down the stairs, through the hallway, and almost fell down the front steps as threw herself into her husband's arms.

      "You're home", she sobbed.

      After a moment's silent embrace, Robert gently pushed Morag away, and looked into her eyes. They were full of pain and anxiety. The girlish sparkle, that had survived their years of marriage, was gone. It had been replaced by a dull lustre. He felt a tinge of remorse at having agreed to proceed with the trip, in spite of the fact that Morag had insisted that he do so. The responsibility she shouldered for their daughter, the remorseless regimen of the day to day care she expended, and the fact that she had had no respite from the constant reminder of their powerlessness, had taken their toll.

      "Let's go inside", he said.

      Shaw placed his arm around his wife and guided her to the front steps. He closed the door behind them. Depositing his luggage in the hallway, Robert followed his wife into the parlour. Summoning the maid, he asked her to consult the cook to see whether anything had been left over from lunch. He also asked for a pot of tea.

      When the maid left, he turned to Morag, who was seated beside him on the couch, her head resting on his shoulder.

      "How have you survived?"

      "Just", she responded wearily. Looking up into his face, she commented, quizzically, "You took me by surprise. I wasn't expecting you. Why are you home so soon? I thought you would be away another six weeks." [292]

      "I was never happy at the thought of leaving without you. But I knew I had to go. On the trip over, as I sat on the deck regretting my decision, I worked out a new schedule. While in Scotland I reorganized the itinerary."

      "Why didn't you let me know? You gave no indication in your postcards of these new plans."

      "Some details had not been confirmed. I didn't want to raise your hopes, only to disappoint them. By the time final arrangements were in place it was too late to inform you."

      "I wish I had known."

      "I am home now, and that is what matters."

      "It's too much to take in."

      "Let's go and see Ruby. I have been consumed with concern for her since I left. She was constantly on my mind."

      "You will notice hardly any change, apart from the fact that she is more wasted. She has had no exercise."

      "There has been no improvement?"

      "She did look as if she might be coming out of her dazed state one evening, when Sean O'Donnell visited. But then Charles arrived, and she retreated into herself again."

      "Has Charles been visiting regularly?"

      "Scarcely ever these days. I have not been concerned, because lately, whenever he came, her condition seemed to worsen, rather than improve."

      "Do you know why?"

      "No. Not exactly. But there is something else you should know about Charles."

      "What is that?"

      "There has been a lot of unhappiness among your employees. Richards seems to have been left alone, but Thomas Furlonger cannot abide the young man. Charles appears to have taken over control, not only of the foundry, but also the mine. The mine has been closed down. There has been a stand-off between Charles and the miners. They have been suffering. From what I can gather, Sean O'Donnell has been helping support them."

      Robert was dumbfounded. He could not believe what he was hearing. When he left the country he assumed that Houghton [293] understood his role was limited to book-keeping. He had pointed this fact out to the young man in no uncertain terms.

      The miners, who trusted Robert, had been treated abusively. Furlonger must be reaching the limit of his tolerance. Robert could not afford to lose Thomas. O'Donnell, who had no obligation to assist, had drained his own coffers to assist the miners. Heaven alone knew what financial predicament the businesses were in. They may be beyond rescue.

      The Scot, weary from the coach trip to Ballarat, motioned to the maid, who was standing at the door with a tray in her hand. She deposited a portion of re-heated lunch on the table before her employer and set out the cups, teapot, and biscuits. She curtsied and withdrew.

      Robert devoured the meal, while Morag played with the biscuits and tea. Placing the last mouthful in his mouth, Shaw turned to his wife, "I would like to see Ruby."

      He climbed the stairs and opened the door to her room, Morag following closely behind. He went to the far side of her bed, taking the seat his wife has been using before she had gone to the window to investigate the sound of coach wheels on the drive. Morag stood behind him.

      Robert looked down at his daughter, curled up, and appearing to be asleep. She looked more wasted than she was last time he had seen her.

      "She has been eating", Morag said, "Not enough, but just sufficient to survive."

      As Robert gazed at his daughter, emotion, rising from his gut, lumped itself in his throat, and his chest began to heave. Morag had never seen her husband cry before. She knew he felt things deeply, but he had always controlled the public expression of his feelings.

      When the heaving subsided, he looked up at his daughter again, and ran his hand down her hair.

      "O, Ruby, Ruby", he lamented, "My little girl. My precious little girl."

      She looked up and gazed at him, as if trying to peer through a fog. For a moment she caught his eye. He knew something passed [294] between them. Her head sank into the pillow again, almost too weak to raise itself.

      Robert stood up, turned to Morag and hugged her. Before he released her, she commented, "That is the most response she has shown in weeks."

      As they walked down the stairs, Robert explained, "I will be gone for a time. I have to pay several visits I hadn't planned on. This wasn't the homecoming I had anticipated, but I am glad I'm here."

      "Must you go?"

      "Unfortunately, Yes. And I am unsure of when I will be home. Tell the cook to keep dinner for me. I could be late. But, at least, tonight, I will sleep in my own bed, beside my wife."

      "Don't be too late", Morag teased, with the little strength and enthusiasm she could muster, "Or your wife may be asleep."

      Robert summoned the groom from the yard and asked him to prepare the phaeton. It was drizzling. Ten minutes later the young man brought the carriage to the front door, informing the master that the carriage was ready. He opened the carriage door and Robert climbed aboard.

      It was 5 o'clock before they reached the foundry. The men were still working on cleaning up a frame they had recently cast. Furlonger, who was supervising the work, looked up and could hardly believe his eyes.

      "Sir!" he began, "You weren't expected back until early November. I am looking at a ghost."

      "You're not."

      "Am I glad you're back. I am at my wits end."

      "Let us go into the office. I need to talk to you."

      When they reached the office, Robert noticed that it had been re-arranged. It no longer reflected his personality and interests. He flipped through several ledgers lying on the desk. It didn't take him long to conclude that journal entries had not been kept regularly. There were no entries for the past six weeks.

      The two men spent half an hour talking. Morag's comments proved accurate. Orders were down. and the men were on the point of resigning. They had been looking for alternative work. [295] This included Thomas, on whose competence, people skills, and discretion Shaw so consistently relied.

      "Where is Houghton?" Robert asked.

      "I don't know. He went out at lunch-time. I haven't seen him since. He may be back this afternoon, he may not."

      Robert stood up. Thomas rose to his feet. Shaw placed his right hand on the foreman's shoulder.

      "My friend", he began, "I am deeply indebted to you. Without you this place would have fallen apart. It was the men's respect for you that kept them here. You should not have had to endure Houghton's insolence. You won't have to any longer. I'm back. We will work together to rebuild the business."

      On his way out, Robert stopped to chat with the men. They looked relieved, and responded to him warmly. As Thomas accompanied Robert to the factory doors, he turned and winked knowingly at the workmen, as if to say, "He's back. Life can return to normal."

      By the time Shaw reached the Ironmongery, Richards was locking up. He looked up, and took a minute to realise who it was.

      "You surprised me, Sir. What are you doing home?"

      "I decided to cut short the trip. How has business been?"

      "It's had its ups and downs. Things haven't changed much, which, as I am sure you have discovered, cannot be said for the foundry and the mine."

      "I am glad that one of our businesses has retained its energy."

      "Once or twice Houghton attempted to interfere, but he was preoccupied with other things."

      "John, I don't need to tell you I rely on your excellent work. I appreciate your faithfulness."

      "Thank you, Sir."

      "Before I leave you to continue with your locking up, there is one thing you may be able to help me with."

      "What's that?"

      "Do you know where Sean O'Donnell lives?"

      "Not without looking it up. Sean made a number of purchases for his new home. It's on Geelong Road. The address will be on the invoices. Let me look." [296]

      The two men walked into the shop, proceeding through to the office. John leafed through a pile of invoices.

      "Oh, here it is. Let me write it down for you."

      Robert waited while John scribbled out the address. He took the note, pocketed it, and shook John's hand.

      "Thank you again", he said, and turned and walked through the shop and out the front door.

      It took scarcely ten minutes to reach Sean's cottage. There was a light in one of the side windows. The shafts of a gig were resting of the ground in the front of the property. A horse was grazing at the rear.

      He knocked on the front door. He heard footsteps in the hallway. The knob turned, the door opened, and he found himself looking into the surprised face of the young Irishman.

      "The monster from Lock Ness", Sean began, in an attempt at humour, and then quickly added, "Do come in."

      "Thank you."

      The two men walked through the hallway into the parlour, where Robert was offered a choice of armchairs by the fire.

      "We hadn't expected you back till early November", Sean began.

      "I returned early for personal reasons."

      "There will be more than a few people glad that you are back, myself included."

      Wanting to get directly to the issue, Robert asked, "What can you tell me about the mine?"

      The two men remained by the fire, which Sean continued to feed, for over an hour. The Irishman spoke of the hardship faced by the miners, and of Houghton's implacable attitude. He outlined what he and his friends had been able to do to relieve the miners' distress, and informed him of the idea of forming a committee of shareholders, that Sol put forward.

      "You have used your own funds to assist the men. Unless I am wrong, you have probably depleted your resources. I heard that you were contemplating selling this house!"

      "It was a possibility." [297]

      "I can't tell you how grateful I am to you for the help you have given the miners. Without your assistance, they would have been destitute. I will need to spend time tomorrow working out whether the foundry and the mine remain viable. I hope they are, even if they need to be built up again. Let the miners know I am back. Tell them I intend to honor my commitment to them."

      "I will let them know."

      "I must be going. I promised Mrs. Shaw I would be home as early as was possible this evening. Thank you for calling to see Ruby. Apparently she responded to you in a way she has not responded to anybody else. I would like you to call on her again whenever you are able."

      Sean accompanied Robert to the front door.

      "I like your cottage", the Scot remarked, " It reflects something of your character. It is ordered, warm, intimate, and accommodating."

      "Thank you. I'm comfortable here. Let me say again, how glad I am that you're home."

      "Thank you for all you have done. It will not be forgotten."

      "Good evening, Mr. Shaw."

      "Good evening Sean."

      The sound of the door opening, and the light of the lantern Sean was carrying, woke the groom, who was asleep in the back of the carriage. He dismounted, opening the door for Robert. Returning to his position at the front of the vehicle, he signalled to the horses, and the phaeton moved out onto Geelong Road.

      It was ten o'clock before Robert arrived home. Tiredness had overtaken him. He decided to pass up the evening meal that had been kept for him. After sitting by his daughter's bed for ten minutes, listening to her breathing as she slept, he snuck into bed beside his wife. Though asleep, Morag must have sensed his presence. She moved across to him, and threw her leg over his. Looking up at the ceiling, he lifted his arm across her back, and drew her to him.

      At the time Robert had been talking to Sean in the cottage, Michael and Billy were sharing a pint with several of their customers in the John O'Groats. During the conversation, a group [298] of Americans burst into the hotel. Slightly under the weather, they were hardly able to contain themselves, and could be heard throughout the building.

      "The little bugger had it coming to him", one of them announced.

      The group collapsed into uproarious laughter. After they had sobered up again, another of the revellers asked: "Did you see the look on his face when the bailiff came into the bar of the Star and asked for him."

      "Yes", the first man responded, "And when the man announced, to the whole bar, that he was arresting him for embezzlement, his face went white. Did you see it?"

      "But that wasn't the funniest part", a skinny man commented, "The funniest part was when he was putting the handcuffs on him, and he informed the poor bastard that he was also taking him back to face a paternity suit."

      Laughter again convulsed the Americans, who were beginning to sound like an excited gaggle of geese. When the flock again drew breath, the first contributor, not to be outdone, commented, "The idiot stole from the mayor of Brighton, and left his daughter in the family way."

      By this stage the geese were bent double, tears streaming from their eyes.

      Thoroughly intrigued, Billy asked, from across the room, "Who are you talking about?"

      "Charlie Houghton", the man responded, "Bloody Charlie Houghton." [299]

 

 

Chapter 38

      The following morning Shaw was awakened by the sun streaming through his bedroom window. He had overslept, but he was unconcerned. It was obvious that his body, needing to recover from the stress it had been subjected to the previous day, had programmed in its own recovery. As he had grown older, Robert had become aware that he couldn't punish his body with impunity, as he appeared to have been able to do when he was younger. He had taken to discerning its rhythms, and to flowing with them. Financial independence had given him the ability to do this.

      It was 8:15 and Morag was still asleep. Robert carefully lifted the sheets back from his side of the bed, and eased himself out. He slipped on his dressing gown and tip-toed into his daughter's bedroom.

      Ruby appeared to be asleep. He took up the position, beside the bed, that he had assumed the previous evening. He wished, looking down at her, that there was something he could do to awaken her to reality, to re-ignite her vibrancy, her love of life. He knew the recovery, if it came, would not be produced by a click of his fingers. It would come slowly. He stood up and walked to the door. He took one last look, and made his way to the landing.

      Descending the stairs noiselessly, Shaw made his way to the kitchen, where he found the cook agitated by the fact that the family was still asleep. She had prepared a hot breakfast, and was wondering how she could keep it warm without spoiling it.

      "Is Mrs. Shaw up yet, Sir?"

      "No Clara, when I left her she was still asleep."

      "I don't know how I am supposed to provide meals for this family, when I can no longer count on predictable meal times."

      "We are putting you to a lot of trouble, Clara. It is hardly fair on you. But with Ruby being sick, and me being away, routines have been disrupted."

      As if placated by his understanding, Clara went on, "Mrs. Shaw will be happy to have you home. We have all been worried about Miss. Ruby." [300]

      "I know you have."

      "She returns most of the food we send up to her."

      "You have tried your best. She has just not been up to eating."

      Robert's appetite was beginning to be aroused by the smell of the food Clara had prepared.

      "That smells wonderful", he commented, lifting the cover placed over one of the dishes, "Would it be too much trouble for you to set up my breakfast in the study? I would like to work while I am eating."

      "I will do that for you", Clara responded, happy that not all that she had prepared would be spoiled.

      Morag slept for another hour and a half. It was as if the accumulated stress of the past eight months had caught up with her. By the time she woke, the mid-morning sun had brought the city to life. It was still not offering a great deal of heat, but it appeared it reflected an optimism revived by her husband's return the previous evening. When she first opened her eyes, it took her a moment to re-assure herself that Robert was really home. But the other side of the bed had been slept in and the clothes he had taken off the previous evening were arranged neatly over a chair.

      Morag pulled on a gown, and walked out of the bedroom towards the stairs. She wanted to check on whether Robert was still in the house. As she came out of her room, she encountered the maid, returning with a tray from Ruby's bedroom. She noticed the lightness in her step.

      "She is taking more interest in her food this morning, Mam", the girl commented.

      "That's good", Morag responded, changing direction, and heading for Ruby's bedroom. Ten minutes later she re-emerged from the bedroom, and made her way down the stairs. Noticing the door of the study open, she knocked and entered. Inside, she found her husband, in his dressing gown, with the young Irishman, Sean O'Donnell. They were in such earnest conversation that they failed to notice her.

      "Robert", she began, breaking through their engrossment, "Ruby has eaten more this morning than she has for a long time" [301]

      "That's good", he replied, "When I slipped into her room this morning she was still sleeping."

      Recognizing that he was excluding Sean from the conversation, Robert, alternating his focus between his wife and Sean, asked, "You know Sean?"

      "Of course, I know Sean. Good morning. You are not seeing me at my best."

      "But you are more relaxed than when I called the last time."

      Morag smiled, which she hadn't done for a long time. Placing her hand on Robert's shoulder, she commented, "It is good to have my husband home."

      "You will want to have breakfast, but, before you go, there is some news that Sean had brought that can't wait. There are two developments you will wish to hear about."

      "Yes, but quickly. I'm hungry. I see you've eaten."

      "First, Charles Houghton is in custody. He was arrested late yesterday afternoon in the Star Hotel. Apparently, during the time he was in Melbourne, he embezzled money from the mayor of Brighton and took liberties with his daughter, who fell pregnant. I had my suspicious about that young man from the beginning, but I had no evidence."

      "In the end, I became suspicious myself", Morag admitted.

      "The second development is that Sean talked to the miners this morning, and they are prepared to continue to work for us. I will see them myself this afternoon."

      "That must be a relief to you", his wife commented, and then added, "I had better go to see if there is any breakfast left. I'm starving. I hope Clara hasn't thrown it out."

      Morag left the room, closing the door behind her.

      The men returning to the subject they had been discussing before Morag interrupted them. Robert proceeded with his explanation of what he intended doing with his businesses.

      "Houghton didn't interfere with the Ironmongery. It is in good shape. I will spend most of what is left of today at the foundry, going through the books. My suspicion is that the business has wound down. I hope it can be revived. How much damage had been done to the mine has yet to be assessed." [302]

      "That the men are willing to return to work for you is in your favour."

      "That is true. But if, at this moment in time, we had to pay the wages they were due, as well as making payments on machinery, I would be out of business. I need to call a shareholders' meeting. I feel bad that their investment in the project has been degraded by the actions Houghton has taken."

      "I intend maintaining my share holding."

      "I suspected you would say that, and I thank you. The reality is that it is in all our interests to remain committed to the mine. Otherwise our investment is worthless. I hope that this will be the attitude of all the major shareholders."

      "I imagine it would be."

      "I should also indicate that I intend to reimburse you for what you have outlayed to help the miners survive. I can't do it now, but once we are buoyant enough financially, I will recompense you."

      "That is not necessary."

      "For me it is. Not only was it not your responsibility, but the mine was obligated to honour the wages it had contracted to pay. If the mine doesn't live up to its obligations, it will be seen to have broken the contract it made with the men. And I could not live with myself, knowing that you shouldered an obligation that was not yours, but mine."

      "That obligation was, and is, yours, but what happened at the mine was not your direct responsibility."

      Robert smiled, and continued.

      "I also should indicate what I intend to do with the three businesses."

      "Yes?"

      "John Richards has managed the Ironmongery well. I aim to give him greater responsibility and reward his initiative more generously. Thomas Furlonger is an excellent tradesman, and a good foreman, but he lacks either interest or skill in management or finance. I intend to concentrate my energies at the foundry. I enjoy the challenge of improvisation. The mine. Well. How would you like to take it on?" [303]

      "Me!"

      "You can't tell me you have no experience in mining."

      "Not in large scale mining."

      "That may be so. But that deficiency can be remedied. You are familiar with the mood of the miners. You know them. You have a good business head. You plan strategically. Other men respect you and look to you for leadership. You will have a board that will plan with you. I intend remaining involved, but not in the day to day running of the project. I have come back with some excellent ideas. I have seen new processes in operation in Cornwall and Wales that will help to revolutionize the mine. What do you say?"

      "Give me time to think about it."

      "Certainly. Take all the time you need."

      "Give me at least until tomorrow!"

      "There is one other matter I want to mention to you. On Saturday night I am planning a party for the employees of the three businesses. I have booked a room in the United States Hotel. We will begin with a meal at 6pm. I would like you to come, and bring your friends, the friends who have been so helpful over these difficult times."

      "I will try rounding them up. I don't think they will need to be persuaded."

      "Good."

      After several minutes' silence, while he reflected on the proposition put to him, Sean asked, "I wonder if I could see Ruby before I leave?"

      "I wouldn't let you leave without seeing her. But first let me check with her mother, to see whether she is in a state to see you."

      Sean was left to himself for five minutes. He reflected on all that had happened over the past few months. Reversals of fortune appeared to be more the norm than the exception. He wondered how all this fitted into the flow and balance of the Tao? Maybe he would ask old Mr. Lum one day.

      The Irishman's reverie was interrupted by Morag, who appeared at the door, and motioned to Sean to follow her. [304]

      "Sorry to keep you", she said, "But we know Ruby would want to look her best for you."

      When Sean walked through the door of Ruby's bedroom, the young woman was sitting up in bed. Her father, who was seated beside her, had arranged the pillows to keep her upright. Robert offered the chair to Sean, who accepted it. Sean turned to Ruby and smiled at her. He thought he discerned a smile trying to break through the fixed glaze on her face. Without warning, she reached her hand across and placed it on his.

      Morag drew in her breath. The diameter of Robert's eyes expanded. He could hardly believe what he was witnessing. Then the words came.

      "It wasn't my fault, was it?"

      "No", responded Sean, gently, "It wasn't your fault."

      He placed his other hand over hers and squeezed it.

      "I think you should be seeing other people. We have been keeping you to ourselves. You would like that?"

      He had thrown out a suggestion, an indicator. The three of them waited for a response. She was obviously thinking about it. She nodded her head up and down.

      "Is that a yes?" her father asked.

      "Yes", she said, slowly, "Yes."

      As Sean was leaving the house, he commented to Robert and Morag, who had come to thank him, and to see him off, "It will take some time, but she appears to have turned the corner. At some stage it will be important for her to talk about the accident. In the meantime, fill the house with as many of her friends as you can, without exhausting her."

      On the Friday, when Sean came by again, he thought he heard girlish laughter from Ruby's bedroom. He also detected a male voice. When Robert met him at the front door, he asked who was visiting their daughter.

      "Timothy Barnes", Robert replied, "He is the best medicine she has had all week."

      "Good", Sean responded, "I knew she would come through. I hope he keeps coming." [305]

      "From what I have observed", Morag replied, "I imagine he will!" [306]

 

 

Chapter 39

      At 10 o'clock on Saturday morning, Sean was waiting patiently outside Bath's hotel. He kept looking around, as if expecting someone. At 10:30 churning dust, observable in the distance, indicated the approach of a coach. It came to a halt outside the hotel. Several people alighted, among them a tall, statuesque woman, whose blond hair framed a strikingly attractive face. In that face, in spite of her youth, one could discern a disciplined strength.

      Sean went up to the woman, and spoke to her. He picked up her luggage, and she followed him to his gig, which he had hitched to a rail outside a bookstore in a side street. He assisted her aboard. Untying the reins, he headed the horse in the direction of Main Road, bringing the vehicle to a halt outside the United States Hotel. He helped the young woman down, and lifted her luggage out of the tray of the gig.

      They entered the Hotel. Sean had reserved her a room. He carried her luggage upstairs, and made sure she was settled. She thanked him. He bowed to her and left, making his way down the stairs.

      That evening most of the guests arrived at the United States Hotel by 6. By 6: 30 Sean had still not shown up. His friends did not know where he was. Even Sol had had sufficient time to conclude Sabbath rituals, and make his way to the venue. Robert was becoming concerned. He did not want to begin the meal without Sean. He tried to imagine where he might be.

      Five minutes later, Sean appeared in the doorway. At his side was a young Scandinavian beauty, her blond hair and blue eyes drawing attention, not only from the men, but also from their wives.

      "There is something familiar about her", Billy commented, "But I don't know what it is?"

      "I feel the same way", Günther agreed, "Is it the way she is holding her head. Perhaps it's the cheekbones." [307]

      Robert, catching sight of Sean, came towards him, "I was wondering where you were. In fact, you had me worried. Now you are here, we can eat. But before we begin, you had better introduce us all to your friend."

      Robert called for attention.

      "I was wondering what had happened to our guest of honour", he began, "Though he didn't know this evening was in his honour. But he has arrived, and he has brought a friend. We all want to know who she is."

      Sean coughed, looked at the young woman, turned towards the other guests, and began, "It is my pleasure to introduce you to Anna Lungren, Sven's little sister!"

      The whole room broke into applause. Sean and Anna turned coyly towards each other, embarrassed by the attention.

      Later in the evening, when Robert was speaking privately with Anna, he asked, "Why did you decide to come to Australia?"

      "Well", she said, "After Sven died, Mother and I started receiving regular letters from a Sean O'Donnell. He sent us money. It helped us survive. I was able to continue my education. We did not use all the money. Mother managed to save some of it. I said I would like to go to Australia to meet the man who wrote to us, and supported us. I wanted to thank him, and to see where Sven had lived. I arrived today. I was surprised. Sean is so young!"

      "And good looking", Robert added.

      "Yes", Anna agreed, a blush appearing in her cheeks, "He booked me into the hotel, and said he was going to take me to the cemetery to see where Sven is buried. Then he will take me to Eureka, where they dug for gold. I am looking forward to it."

      "I am sure you are, and I have no doubt Sean is. You will both have to have dinner with us one night shortly. I would like you to meet my daughter Ruby."

      "I would love to meet her."

      "It seems as if there are others who want to talk to you. I won't hog your attention."

      "Thank you."

      Later that evening, when Sean returned Anna to her room at the hotel, they stood together at the door. [308]

      "I will pick you up tomorrow at 9am", Sean explained.

      "At 9. I will look forward to it."

      "And so will I." [309]

 

Electronic text provided by Graeme Chapman. HTML rendering by Ernie Stefanik.
16 September 2003.

Eureka: A Tale of Mateship and Rivalry in the Victorian Goldfields
is published as an online text with the kind permission of the author.
Copyright © 2002 by Graeme Chapman.
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