Above the Starry Frame

by Helen Townsend

  These things, and the days they spent together digging and washing dirt, buried the different paths they took each Sunday morning. William never wanted to think about their different religions, although it was no small thing back in Ireland. He thought back to Knockaleery and the mass path, which all the Catholics took across the paddocks to get to their church – along which so many of them could be seen going on a Sunday. There was the other path his family took to the Church of Ireland at Kildress, which their relations and friends took also. The difference between the path to Kildress and the mass path was very great indeed.

  Father had always done business with the people on the mass path. He was friendly with many Catholics and the Catholics were friendly back, but they weren’t friends and there were no cousins amongst them, for few would ever marry outside the Protestant religion. Father said the Catholics were ruled by Rome, instead of by the dear Queen in England. The Catholics were often poorer and, as a result, people thought them less respectable and inclined to superstition. This was more a feeling, with little said, although there were some spectacular examples of Catholic decrepitude, like Paddy Malloy, who hired out his horse and a hearse for funerals, but at other times was drunk and rowdy. Not, William thought, unlike his own Uncle Archy, who married badly and drank too much, despite being a Protestant.

  These differences seemed not to matter when he and Michael lived in the tent together and looked after each other’s wounds and cooked their meals. They had arguments and quarrels, but there was no division between them. On the goldfields – different from Ireland, different from Sydney – no-one troubled about religion, about where a man was from, or what rank of person he was. Indeed, those who came as gentlemen and wanted to be treated in some way different were generally in for a rude awakening, with fun had at their expense.

  From their tent, even on a Sunday, William could see the drays lumbering onto the goldfields, bringing food, drink and stores. The appetite of the diggers was endless. William observed the storekeepers with interest for, unlike every other man on the field, they were not possessed by the mania for gold. As a result, they were generally regarded as less adventurous and somewhat mercenary. The digging of gold was not regarded as mercenary, for it was full of daring and risk, quite above any sort of grasping commerce, in the minds of the diggers at least.

  However, William saw from the numbers of drays and the busyness of the stores that this commerce was a lively business. And while he thought of himself as a digger, he felt a lively curiosity about the drays that came and what the storekeepers sold.

  ‘I was a digger,’ a storekeeper named Sutherland told him, as he sold him two bags of flour and pressed some coffee onto him. ‘But this is steadier, and considerably easier on my old knees.’

  On account of Sutherland’s knees, William occasionally helped him stack his bags of flour and tins of biscuits. ‘Storekeeping requires some intelligence,’ Sutherland said. ‘And knowing what sells and what doesn’t, and what might spoil on the road and what might not. Gold digging, well, anyone can do that. If they got the knees for it,’ he added ruefully. William was curious and Sutherland showed him that flour in sacks with pretty blue printing sold more quickly than flour in plain sacks, and that when a thing was scarce, almost any price could be charged. It was on this basis, at the beginning of 1852, that William lent Sutherland some money to bring the first cherries of the season to the field, and took a slice of the profit. From that small enterprise, he ventured carefully into other goods. He thought much about these transactions. At home, money had been used only to pay the rent, to pay McCrea and to make small purchases. Money was always scarce, eked out to cover necessities. But here, he saw his money could be used in a different way, to make more of itself. He felt a great pleasure in this new way of looking at things. It seemed a fine thing to put in a little money, and then make a little more back.

  * * *

  Dec 1851

  Knockaleery, Parish of Kildress

  Dear Son, the 2 littel peices of gold came safe and at the opening of the letter one of them dropt on the ground and when the letter was read, 2 peices was read out of the letter. The floor was ruf and the serch was made and found the other piece.

  But my Dear Son, you have done uncommonly clever. Why should you give me your saving? Far be it from me to think you should do so.

  Your loving Father, with kind love and blessings,

  Joseph Irwin

  * * *

  On long, dark winter nights, the family gathered around the fire after tea and Mother would tell stories from the Bible. Tonight, as Mother told the story of Noah, it was just Eliza and John, with Father gone to see Sergeant Donald McBean. William had sent a draft of money and Father wished to discuss with McBean how he might best manage the business of laying it out.

  ‘Donald McBean is the only man who settles your daddy’s thoughts,’ Mother had said to Eliza. ‘Otherwise he gets to speculating. McBean helps fix his mind.’

  The story of Noah’s ark was John’s favourite, and for a silent man he asked very many detailed and persistent questions about the animals, and how they might have been quartered and fed, for it was no small matter having so many creatures in an ark. Their food, John pointed out, was sometimes the other animals, whose care God had entrusted to Noah. Did Noah take more than two mice so that the cats might survive? Did he take extra sheep for the wolves to eat?

  Mother confessed she didn’t know the particulars at all, but agreed it must have been a complicated business.

  The telling of the stories was a smaller thing now, for not only had William gone, but James had suddenly sent money six months ago, enough to bring two to America, so it was decided that Ann Jane and Mary should go. James had wanted his sisters to come and Father had agreed, as he could not part with Robert, it being harvest time, which made Robert even more sullen and angry. The girls had gone but it seemed to Eliza that it happened too quickly, as it had with William, so they were still making sense of it. It was true that with two mouths less to feed, life was easier, and they now had small luxuries like butter and cream. It had been easier for Mother to part with Ann Jane and Mary because they went together and were going to James, so they were not alone in a strange land as William was. But they had always been such a big family, and now they were a small one.

  As Mother was finishing the story, Robert came in from Tatty-keel, where he slept now, although they saw him often, for he came back to work and sometimes to eat too. Now, he got a great amount of potatoes, six or more from the pot Mother had on the fire, and then sat himself down and ate them. But then, when Mother had finished the story, Robert began to speculate about emigrating, which he always did, and with considerable passion.

  ‘It makes no sense whatsoever to keep me here, digging in the dirt, instead of digging lumps of gold like William is in New South Wales,’ he said. ‘Father grudges me and does not play fair in this matter.’

  Mother tried to explain the things Father had to balance. The cost of passage was considerable, seeing as there was no further assistance to New South Wales once gold was discovered. There was still the debt to McCrea, and Father needed Robert’s labour.

  This was the same conversation they had often, and it changed no-one’s mind at all.

  Mother said she would walk some of the way to Tattykeel with Robert, since the moon was out and she did not want to see him leave in ill temper. John and Eliza stayed together by the fire, John taking immediate possession of the armchair the moment Mother had left, as he always did.

  Eliza got up and put the corn to soak for morning gruel, for the next day was the Sabbath and Mother liked to keep it free of work. She thought how since William and her sisters left it felt as if they had taken something of the life of Knockaleery away with them, leaving things smaller and harder. But, as Mother said, it was the way of the world now. She had got Eliza to learn bits of the Bible by heart, the same way she knew them.

  ‘It’s a great comfort, at times of sorrow
and joy both,’ Mother had said. ‘And if your eyes don’t mend, you’ll have the Good Book in your head.’ Eliza still had trouble with her eyes. They were often red and sore, sometimes sticky, and she fancied she could not see so well as she once had.

  In church the next morning, it felt lonesome too, for before they’d had to squash into their pew. Ten squeezed in before brother Joseph was married and then eleven with Eleanor. Then there were ten again when James went away, and nine when William went, and only seven now Ann Jane and Mary had joined James in America. So there was considerably more room and more kneelers. When Eliza looked towards the front of the church, she felt a hollowness in her stomach, for it was the same all over, like a mouth losing teeth. When they sang the hymns, it was not a full voice that filled the church. Now they could hear Uncle Cander clearly, whereas once his wavery voice had been covered by the whole.

  The Sabbath was their day of rest, but now that there were fewer of them to share the work, this resting was a hard task. There were the young animals being reared that Eliza had taken over from Ann Jane, and the cows to be milked and water to be fetched.

  Doing all these tasks, Eliza was accompanied by her new pup from the litter that they had thought old Diana was too decrepit to have any more of.

  ‘What will you be calling your little pup?’ Mother asked.

  ‘Hercules – for strength,’ Eliza said. ‘From the classical times that Mr McNickle used to tell us of at school. He’d talk of it on Friday afternoons when we was all tired of the letters and the mathematics, even Mr McNickle himself.’

  ‘Your father named Diana the same,’ said Mother, ‘for she is the ancient goddess of the hunt, although our dear Diana is a most lazy creature, as you know.’

  After she had tended the ponies, Eliza walked down to the bog with Hercules. She loved the bog, with its grasses and bulrushes and criss-crossing streams. She coaxed Hercules to go into the stream, for she had heard of a dog being drowned in the bog, having never been accustomed to it when it was a pup. She was much attached to Hercules and she didn’t want him drowned.

  She stood watching Hercules, who discovered the art of swimming immediately. He got out, shook himself and then raced in circles. Eliza thought it very fine to be here with her little dog, for the sky seemed bigger than back at the house, and perhaps that was why she loved it so.

  CHAPTER 4

  Sometimes, in the dark of night, in their tent on the goldfield, William thought of the sod hut on the other side of Tattykeel Hill, where he and Lizey had seen the dead child. And he thought of the hunger and fear they themselves had felt in those years. Whenever he thought of it, he could still feel how it had lain in their bellies for so many seasons. And he marvelled that this country was so different, so bountiful, and he felt himself so free. In Knockaleery, it seemed a large thing to go to the market at Cookstown, and a very large thing indeed to go to Portstewart or Belfast, both less than a hundred miles distance, but here he and Michael had decided very easily to go to the new field at Ballarat, a voyage of a thousand miles or more by land and sea. They had read of the gold being better there, and there was no reason not to go. With hard work, the goldfields provided a good living, as well as the more elusive prospect of a fortune, which they had not yet made, although they lived well and William had sent money regularly to those at home. He and Michael had been on the field for more than a year now and he had begun to think there were many things he might do with the small amount he had put by.

  ‘I do not wish to spend another winter in this place,’ said Michael. ‘It is miserable cold.’

  ‘It will be winter in Ballarat,’ said William, ‘and may be miserable cold there.’

  ‘But a different variety of the miserable cold, perhaps,’ said Michael. ‘I been thinking we should buy a horse to take to Ballarat. To ride around, like men of substance. Does your daddy have a horse?’

  ‘My daddy now has two ponies at Knockaleery,’ said William, ‘for cutting the bog. The landlord’s agent has a fine grey to ride about on, and the estate has a stable full of horses.’

  ‘My mam used to say that the landlord’s horses would outlive her,’ said Michael. ‘Those horses never went scratching for nettles on the roadside. My mam died and they still live, comfortable in their stable.’

  ‘We can afford a fine horse.’

  ‘It would give more amusement than our old wheelbarrow.’

  ‘Considerable more.’

  ‘But cost a little more.’

  It was July of 1852 when they returned to Sydney, and it was a much livelier and more expensive town as a result of the gold rush. William busied himself buying stores and equipment. Apart from what he and Michael would use, he bought extra biscuits, tea, sugar and sweets that he could sell in Ballarat for a profit. He liked this business, as a sideline to digging.

  He bought passages for himself and Michael and one for the horse, which they’d named Apollo, even though it was a gelding and somewhat timid. Neither of them was certain of how to buy a horse, but Michael had run his hands up and down the horse’s legs like he’d seen others do, and William rode him a little and tried him with things on his back. He was a calm, handsome piebald, a great asset to their party.

  When they sailed into Geelong harbour, they found the captain of the brig Faugh-a-ballagh had never been there before and did not know his way around. There was considerable cursing as he ran the brig aground, and it stuck fast.

  ‘You’ll be obliged to swim ashore with the horses,’ said the first mate to William and Michael. ‘We’ll get as much cargo off as we can and refloat her on the tide. We’ll have a barge bring the rest of your stuff in.’

  ‘We can’t swim,’ William said to one of the sailors. It was miserable cold, of the Geelong variety, and the water looked deep.

  ‘You need to move the arms ahead of you and pummel the legs,’ said the sailor. He demonstrated, briefly and casually across the deck. ‘You’ll get the hang of it.’

  One of the sailors had already led Apollo into the water and William jumped in after him. He sank immediately and realised he did not have the hang of it at all. As he bobbed up and down, but mostly down, the odds felt much stacked against him. Going down seemed natural but coming up was a struggle. He caught sight of the fellow who had demonstrated the swimming, staring out over him as if he did not exist. It crossed his mind how foolish it had been to jump in the water, not knowing how to swim. He began to panic as water poured into his mouth, and he thought what a fool way this was to die in this new place, where he was to have made his fortune.

  With a mighty struggle he came up, spluttered and kicked as hard as he could. He saw Michael, floundering just as badly. Ahead of them was Apollo. Somehow William managed to propel himself forward and grab the gelding’s mane. Breathlessly, he reached out his other hand to Michael.

  ‘I think Apollo has the art of this rather better than ourselves,’ spluttered Michael. Crazed with relief, they began to laugh, vomiting up water at the same time, and that moment in which they had felt themselves to be drowned men disappeared.

  ‘We were strong enough,’ gasped Michael, hanging on to Apollo’s neck. ‘Praise be.’

  ‘A good omen,’ said William. ‘Our new beginning here.’

  They took their time, almost five days, getting to Ballarat, the road being boggy and overcrowded. The country here was wild, but not as wild as in New South Wales. There was forest, and sparsely wooded rolling hills, but none of the great cliffs and bluffs of the mountains which they had become familiar with. There were farms along the way, and stores, public houses and coaching stations, which had sprung up to accommodate those going to the field, many of whom were newly arrived in the colony. William and Michael became aware of how much they had learned in their time on the field. They knew how to camp comfortably and travel lightly. Apollo carried much of their equipment, as well as the extra goods William had bought to trade.

  ‘I myself shall stick entirely to digging,’ said Michael. ‘I d
on’t want to be speculating, turning meself into a grouchy storekeeper.’

  ‘Them grouchy storekeepers hang on to their money, whereas I have the difficulty of my gold slipping away,’ said William. What he didn’t send home, William was inclined to spend on food, drink and merrymaking. Frequently, after a night of drinking, he looked in his empty purse and thought how it made sense that the men who did best on the field were the storekeepers and the grog sellers, even though they did not have the chance of great fortune that the diggers believed in.

  ‘A whore house might be a good business for you,’ said Michael, poking him in the ribs. He and William were both very shy of girls.

  ‘A whorehouse?’ said William. ‘Those girls is more scarifying than our near drowning.’

  When they arrived at Ballarat William thought the place very pretty. A goldfield, he knew, was the strangest place to live, but it felt most natural to him. On the flat at the Little Bendigo field where they staked their claim, it was open country, and the wattle was out in glorious yellow and full of parrots. The flat was dotted with tents. There were storekeepers and sly groggers and the general cheerfulness and companionability that was characteristic of the goldfields.

  The Irish camped together in one place, so there was a sense of solidarity and comradeship. Roaming over the field, sitting round the campfires, swapping tools or drinking tea, William and Michael exchanged their names and places of origin with others. The Irish all knew common songs, loved to joke and did not take their misfortunes too seriously. At night, there were always men with fiddles, flutes and whistles, with many to join in a song or dance a jig. Most were Roman Catholics, but there was a general ease between Catholics and Protestants. The Irish were much liked, for they were hard working, good humoured and entertaining, which were great gifts when men were far from home.