by Peter Watt
Duncan reached for his battered old pipe and filled it with a plug of tobacco. Sitting with his back to the wagon wheel, he lit up and watched the grey smoke curl away on the light, early morning breeze. He remained smoking until the sound of gunfire drifted into sporadic shots and eventually into none at all.
With a sigh, he rose to his feet and went to his horse hobbled a short distance from the wagon. It was time to return to Ballarat.
Crying softly, Phoebe huddled against her brother John while Lachlan stood among the trees gazing in the direction of the stockade. He was too far away to see anything of the battle but the disturbing sounds drifted to him on the early morning breezes.
‘Why haven’t Da and Tom come?’ he asked without turning. ‘I think something bad has happened to them.’
‘They will come to us,’ John said firmly. ‘They said they would.’
Lachlan was not convinced. He did not know why, but he felt a dread he had never experienced before. The waiting was terrible and a man with a dreadful wound to his head had stumbled past their hiding place only moments earlier, only heightening his feeling of fear.
‘I will go back to the tent,’ Lachlan suddenly said.
‘No,’ John protested. ‘We are to stay here.’ But, before he could rise to his feet and stop his younger brother, Lachlan had broken into a run in the direction of the stockade. John was about to go after his brother when he realised that would mean leaving his little sister alone to the mercy of the bush. Torn by his duties, John chose to remain with Phoebe, to protect her. ‘It will be all right,’ John said soothingly to his sister. ‘Da, Tom and Lachie will be back soon for us.’
In the stockade women were moving amongst the dead and wounded. Their anguished cries rose into the sky with the flames and smoke from the burning tents. Walking slowly amongst the carnage, oblivious to the troopers and soldiers around him, Lachlan could hear the agonised cries of the wounded. It was hard to tell where his father’s tent was, as the orderly rows had disappeared into burning heaps. But he did recognise the body of the man being thrown onto a wagon by red-coated soldiers sweating in the searing summer heat of the day.
‘Da!’ he cried out, stumbling forward to reach the blood-stained wagon.
A hand grabbed him by the shirt collar. ‘Where you goin’ boy?’ an Irish-accented voice asked gruffly. ‘There be only dead ’uns on the wagon.’
‘My da,’ Lachlan gasped, struggling against the strong hand that held him. ‘You are taking away my da.’
‘Sorry, lad,’ the gruff voice softened. ‘Not something a young lad should see, so come away with ye.’
Lachlan glanced up at his captor and saw the ruddy face of a soldier wearing the red coat of the British army.
‘Let the boy go, sergeant,’ a voice from behind said. ‘Only right that he sees – and remembers – the fate of those who would oppose the Queen’s peace.’
The grip was released and Lachlan turned to see a mounted British officer. The man had very fine features, hair the colour of corn and was about his brother Tom’s age. Lachlan did not thank him but immediately went to the wagon to take his father’s limp hand in his. Tears spilled from the young boy’s eyes, splashing the ashen face. His father’s eyes stared with an opaqueness Lachlan had seen in his mother’s eyes only two months earlier when she had lain in a coffin awaiting burial. The consumption had killed her, people said in whispers behind his back. Now it was his father’s turn to have that same look of death.
‘What was your father’s name?’ the young English officer asked.
‘Hugh MacDonald,’ Lachlan, sobbed, without turning to address his questioner. ‘He was my da.’
‘Well, he has paid for his treason,’ the officer said callously. ‘I dare say he will answer in the next world for betraying the Queen.’
‘Sir,’ the Irish sergeant growled, ‘I think that the little fellow does not need to hear that. He has lost his father.’
‘Scottish scum do not deserve sympathy, Sergeant,’ the officer said, bringing a furious look to the Irish sergeant’s ruddy face. The sergeant knew that this pompous officer also considered the Irish soldiers who served loyally in the British regiment as little more than scum themselves. At least the Scots and Irish had the same Celtic blood, which the English had lost to the Angles and Saxons centuries before.
‘Get the bodies to the morgue,’ the officer commanded. ‘And be quick about it. The rising sun will soon make them stink.’
‘Yes sir,’ the Irish sergeant replied dutifully but with a note of barely concealed contempt. ‘Come away, lad,’ he said to Lachlan. ‘Your da will be looked after.’
Reluctantly, Lachlan stood back as the wagon was moved on to seek out more bodies for transport.
‘What’s your name lad?’ the sergeant asked gently.
‘Lachlan MacDonald,’ the boy answered, wiping away the tears from his face with the sleeve of his dirty shirt now covered in his father’s blood. ‘Have you seen my brother Tom?’
A faint smile appeared on the Irishman’s face. ‘I’m sorry, young Lachlan,’ he said. ‘But I do not know your brother.’
‘Tom stayed with Da,’ Lachlan explained, looking up into the face of the red-coated soldier where he thought he could see a hint of kindness. ‘Tom is old, like Da,’ the boy patiently explained.
‘Maybe you should stay beside me for the moment,’ the Irishman said. ‘I don’t think it is wise to wander around here alone right now. Besides, you might bump into Lieutenant Lightfoot again and I don’t think that would be a good idea, considering his comments about your father.’
Lachlan knew that this friendly Irish soldier was somehow the enemy but he appeared to care for his welfare and so Lachlan warmed to the man. They walked towards the road that defined the rear of the roughly built palisade of timber and carts when the Irish sergeant suddenly stopped.
‘Duncan Campbell, would that be you?’ he called.
Lachlan’s attention was drawn to a covered wagon drawn by a single horse and driven by a solid-looking, red-haired man sitting on the wagon seat.
‘Would that be Paddy Rourke addressing the likes of me?’ the man asked, a slow smile creasing the corners of his eyes.
The Irish sergeant quickened his pace to the wagon, where he was met with a great bear hug.
‘I thought you would be dead by now,’ Paddy said. ‘I thought one of those heathens in India would have taken your God-cursed Gaelic soul to hell with him.’
Duncan stood back. ‘And I heard the sounds of a great battle here just a few hours ago,’ Duncan said. ‘I never guessed my old comrade in arms would be in the colonies fighting the good cause for the Queen, God bless her.’
The Irish sergeant frowned. ‘I don’t think what has happened here today will appear on the regiment’s battle honours, Colour Sergeant Campbell,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Many of the boys of St Pat faced kith and kin here today and did not feel good about killing fellow Irishmen regardless of which side they were on. It was not a battle so much as a massacre.’
‘Who is the wee laddie with the long face?’ Duncan asked, turning his attention to Lachlan.
‘One of your own,’ Paddy replied. ‘A MacDonald, who goes by the moniker of Lachlan.’
Duncan broke into a broad smile and extended his big, calloused hand. ‘A fine name for a Scot. An honour to meet you, Master Lachlan.’
‘Sergeant Rourke,’ a voice called from the stockade. ‘Get your men together and form up for a sweep of the hills.’
‘Sah,’ Paddy replied.
‘Now.’
‘Sah.’
‘I would be asking you for a small favour, Duncan,’ the Irish sergeant said. ‘I would be asking you to look after the wee lad until I get back to you. His father was one of those rebels who was killed in the fighting.’
‘I will do that for you, Sergeant Rourke,’ Duncan answered. ‘For old times’ sake and our serving together under the colours.’
‘Mr Campbell will look aft
er you, lad,’ Paddy said, patting Lachlan awkwardly on the back.
Paddy turned his back and marched smartly over to a detail of red-coated soldiers awaiting further orders. Behind them Lieutenant Lightfoot sat astride his fine mount surveying the burning tents of the stockade and the grief-stricken women moving amongst the soldiers and wounded miners now being taken prisoner.
‘Well, laddie,’ Duncan said when Paddy was out of sight. ‘You look as if you could do with a tot of water.’
Realising how thirsty he was, Lachlan gratefully accepted the canteen passed to him from the side of the wagon.
‘I have to go back to John and my sister,’ he said when he had taken a long draught. ‘They will be worried about me and Tom will be angry if I don’t get back now.’
‘I can take you to your brothers and sister,’ Duncan said. ‘Where are they?’
‘In the hills hiding,’ Lachlan replied. ‘I know where.’
Duncan frowned. Already, the soldiers and police were spreading out to track down any wounded rebels who had fled into the thick bush on the hills behind the stockade. It was going to be a long day.
Some time after the soldier and officer were gone, Tom regained consciousness. He glanced over to where his father lay and knew immediately that he was dead. Then Tom felt for the money belt under his shirt; it was still intact. For some unknown reason they had not searched his body, leaving him for dead. All around him Tom could hear the sounds of the massacre and smell the pungent aroma of burning canvas. He lay for a moment in the dust and felt the terrible pain bite at his shoulder. When he tried to move his left arm he screamed in pain; the sabre had inflicted a deep and deadly wound. The fighting shifted away, leaving him alone in its wake.
With great effort, Tom forced himself to his feet, trying not to cry out. Stumbling like a drunken man, he weaved his way through the stockade, which was filled with galloping, mounted police and the red-coated infantry who seemed to ignore him as they sought out those who were still able to resist.
Eventually he reached the foothills where he had sent his brothers and sister. Then the pain became too much and Tom sank to the earth with a loud groan. He knelt on the road, forcing himself to remain conscious.
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ a voice said, as if from afar, and Tom felt an arm under his good shoulder, hoisting him to his feet.
‘It don’t pay to be caught here with your wound,’ the voice said and Tom vaguely recognised the accent of a young American miner around his own age, with whom he and his father had been friends.
‘Luke Tracy, leave me,’ Tom said. ‘Get away while you can.’
The young American ignored Tom’s plea. When Tom was able to focus on his helper’s face through the haze of his own pain, he could see that Luke had sustained a terrible wound. The side of his face had been slashed from his jaw to his ear. Blood streamed down the clean-shaven, handsome face. ‘I will get you into the bush and try to hide you,’ Luke said. ‘Then I will go.’
‘You get chopped with a sword?’ Tom asked as the American helped him to his feet.
‘God-damned Limey red-coat stuck me with a bayonet,’ Luke replied with a wince. ‘Got a feeling that I am not going to look too pretty if I ever get to dodge a hangman’s rope. The British aren’t going to look kindly on anyone who belonged to the California Colt Revolver Brigade after this.’
‘We weren’t even party to the rebellion,’ Tom said as they struggled across the road into the bushland at the base of the hills. ‘And the British murdered my da and tried to kill me. They slew him for nothing.’
‘Not nothing,’ the American rebel said. ‘We stood for our God-given rights – as it says in our American constitution – where all men are equal and deserve a voice in how things are run.’
‘That was a bit overlooked in Her Majesty’s colony of Victoria,’ Tom said, as Luke helped him into the cover of the dry bush and its trees. ‘Hotham doesn’t understand that we never wanted to rebel – just air a grievance.’
When they were deep in the bush, Luke helped Tom down to the ground and examined his wound. As a younger man on the California goldfields of ’49 he had seen similar serious wounds and knew instinctively that his Scottish friend would most likely die.
‘How’s it look?’ Tom asked with his eyes closed and vainly attempting to stem the pain.
At first, Luke did not know how to answer. ‘Is there someone I can fetch for you?’ he replied and Tom understood.
‘I have to find my brothers and sister,’ he said. ‘I have something very important for them. They should be somewhere around here if they did what they was told.’
‘What are their names?’ Luke asked.
‘My brothers are John and Lachlan. They are twelve and ten. My sister Phoebe’s just a little mite. I know that I am done for, but what is most important is that I have something for them before I die. Please, Luke, find them for me before I go.’
Hearing the plea in the dying man’s voice, the American disregarded his own wound. ‘I will leave you for a short time, Tom, and see if I can find them before the red-coats start sweeping the hills. Just take it easy and I will be back.’
John was huddled with his little sister when he saw the blood-stained face of the young American rebel.
‘You young John?’ Luke asked, standing over the two.
‘I am,’ John replied, staring in horror at the terrible wound to Luke’s face.
‘Where is your brother Lachlan?’ Luke asked, glancing warily around the bush for any sign of the British troops.
‘He went back to the camp to find Da and Tom,’ John replied. ‘He hasn’t come back yet.’
‘I’ve found Tom for you,’ Luke said. ‘He is only a short distance away and has been hurt. I think you should come with me to see him.’
Obediently, John rose to his feet and took his sister’s hand. They followed the American through the bush until they came upon their brother, lying on his back in a slowly gathering pool of blood. Tears rolled down John’s face. Little Phoebe, who did not quite understand what was happening, stood quietly by her brother with her thumb in her mouth.
‘John,’ Tom gasped weakly, ‘Da is dead. I saw him slain at the camp. You have to look after Lachie and little Phoebe from now on. I want you to swear to me on the blood of our ancestors who fought at Culloden that you, as now the eldest in the family, will keep your brother and sister with you. Do you understand what I am saying to you?’
John nodded, forcing back the tears lest his brother think that he was a coward. ‘I promise, Tom.’
‘Good,’ his dying brother sighed. ‘I have something for you to make sure that you are looked after in the years ahead.’ With a great effort, Tom slipped the lacing loose and Luke helped pull the money belt out from under the dying man. ‘Luke, on your word as a Christian, I want you to bury this at the base of the tree over there,’ Tom said. ‘And when that is done, mark the tree with a slash. There is a fortune in that belt and I want you to swear that you will tell no one of its existence. Swear your oath to a dying man on the fate of your eternal soul.’
‘I swear,’ Luke said. ‘Your wish will be respected.’
‘Take this for your help,’ Tom said and opened his hand to reveal thirty pounds sterling in five-pound coins.
‘I don’t want your money, Tom,’ Luke said. ‘You give it to the little ones.’
‘You will need it to get out of the colony,’ Tom gasped, as the pain came over him in a searing wave. ‘I know that you are a good man with an honest soul, Da told me.’
Reluctantly, Luke took the gold coins; the dying man had better things to say before leaving this world. He took the heavy leather belt and commenced digging a hole a few yards away at the roots of a tall eucalypt. When the belt was buried, he used his bowie knife to carve out a deep notch in the trunk. When he turned to speak to Tom he realised that the young Scot was already dead. John knelt by his brother whilst Phoebe stood staring at her eldest brother’s lifeless body with a confused
expression on her pretty little face.
‘Soldiers coming,’ John said quietly, spotting the flash of sunlight on a bayonet and then glimpsing a distinctive red coat. ‘You should go.’
Luke could see what the young man had spotted and was torn deciding between whether he should stay with the young boy and girl or flee. It was an agonising decision, but he had to believe that the soldiers would not harm defenceless children. As for himself, well, they would probably shoot him down on the spot as the bayonet wound on his face marked him as a rebel. He would be no good to the children then anyway.
‘Take care of your sister,’ Luke said, grasping John by the shoulder. ‘And always remember where this place is.’
John nodded as Luke rose to his feet and quickly disappeared further into the bush, away from the cordon of soldiers sweeping the hills. When they arrived they only found two children grieving over the body of a young rebel. They were kind to the children and did not harm them, but the children were taken to the soldiers’ camp and in the night strangers came and the children were separated. John realised that he had lost more than his father and brother to the massacre. He had lost his whole family.
It was near evening on that terrible day on the Ballarat goldfields when Duncan finally returned to find Lachlan with his little dog in his lap by the wagon.
‘No one has seen or heard about your brothers or sister, Master Lachlan,’ he said gruffly, sitting down with his back to the wagon wheel. ‘There is a lot of confusion around us. The army is half expecting a counterattack tonight. I heard that there might be rebels up in the hills even now, forming up for an attack.’
‘I have to find my brothers and sister,’ Lachlan replied. ‘They will be worried about me.’
