The Night They Stormed Eureka

by Jackie French

  Wheels rumbled in the distance. Men moved to one side out of the way to let a canvas-covered wagon pass; it had big wheels and straining horses, just like in a cowboy movie. She almost expected an arrow to twang past as the ‘Indians’ attacked.

  But it didn’t. The wagon rumbled into the distance as the three of them turned from the track onto the road.

  The country looked more like a park now, with a few large trees. The land seemed almost empty, despite the traffic on the road, and the sense of movement among the tents in the distance, like a million scurrying ants.

  The tents drew closer as they walked, a scattering at first, then rows of them, mostly just scraps of cloth drooping between two poles, though one or two were fancier, with many poles and even flaps for windows. Mounds of dirt loomed through the deepening shadows, as though a mob of kids had been making forts or giant wombats digging tunnels. Fires glowed as men threw on branches. The world was filled now with people instead of trees; men carried buckets, and other figures, pale and dirty, climbed up from the mounds of dirt.

  Miners, she thought. But this isn’t what the goldfields should be like. This almost looked like a school camp in the bush: the orderly tents, with rough stools out front and fireplaces, and wet trousers hanging on washing lines strung between the trees.

  The feeling of unreality grew as they kept walking. The tents got closer together, almost like a suburb, with mines instead of gardens, and logs and hunks of wood to sit oninstead of garden furniture. Some even had tiny patches of vegetables and flowers. Men washed in metal basins outside their tents, or boiled their billies.

  The stench of sewage was so strong she almost gagged.

  There were bark huts among the tents now too. A bigger building even had a verandah out the front, where a row of men leaned back against the wall in exhaustion, drinking from wooden mugs.

  Someone was grilling meat. Her stomach clenched with hunger.

  So many men. Yells, laughter, the sound of metal hitting dirt. But it had a strange quiet too. No rumble of traffic in the distance, no shrieks of brakes or engine noises, no mutterings from TVs. It was almost peaceful, she thought, trying to shift the onions onto a bit of shoulder that wasn’t bruised.

  The world exploded. A bang, and then another, volley after volley like a war scene in a movie. The ground shuddered. A mob of cockatoos feeding in the droppings on the road flapped screaming into the air.

  She bit down on a scream. A boy wouldn’t scream. She stared around, trying to find the battle …

  Mrs Puddleham laughed. ‘Takes you by surprise, don’t it? Don’t mind the noise, deary. The men let off their muskets at dusk, that’s all. Say it’s to check their powder’s still dry, but I reckon men just like making bangs. Waste of good powder I call it, but there, that’s men for you. Present company excepted of course,’ she added, with a smile at Mr Puddleham.

  Mr Puddleham bowed slightly above the wheelbarrow handles, but didn’t answer. His face was pale with exhaustion.

  ‘Nearly there,’ said Mrs Puddleham, either to Sam or her husband. ‘Don’t look over there, deary,’ she added in a whisper as she noticed Sam staring at the men drinking on the verandah. ‘Murphy’s grog is gut rot — sends men mad after half a tankard. Best keep clear.’

  Sam nodded. Was the Puddlehams’ cook shop like the hotel, with slab walls and a bark roof? What sort of beds did people sleep on here? Not four-posters, like in the movies, not here at the diggings. But there’d be white sheets, and a feather pillow … maybe a patchwork quilt …

  Her arm felt numb with the weight of the onions. Mr Puddleham’s breath came in small huffs as he pushed the barrow. The world around them was dark now, lit only by the fires and the extraordinary brightness of the stars above. Surely, thought Sam wearily, stars aren’t as bright as that back home. The moon began to rise, a vast orange popping up from the horizon.

  Her feet felt almost too heavy to lift by the time the Puddlehams turned down one of the small tracks that led into the world of tents. They headed downhill through the lines of tents to the darkness beyond them and into a gully.

  Food, thought Sam giddily, and sleep … A few trees cast moonlit shadows over a wriggle of waterholes, each shining like a mirror.

  A ragged tent stood next to a giant fireplace, marked out by rocks, with two cauldrons suspended above glowingcoals. Seats surrounded it — most just blocks of wood but some with planks across them, making benches wide enough for several men. A big heap of firewood, mostly dead branches, stood to one side.

  Sam stared. This couldn’t be it. It couldn’t!

  ‘And here we are,’ said Mrs Puddleham, happy as if they’d come to a mansion. ‘The best cook shop on the diggin’s.’

  Her husband said nothing. He pushed the wheelbarrow under another sheet of cloth that was propped up on two sticks next to the tent to make a lean-to, then collapsed onto one of the blocks of wood.

  ‘Gorblimey,’ he muttered, in quite another accent from the one Sam had heard him use before, then glanced quickly around in case someone heard him.

  A scarecrow rose from the darkness beyond the fire, and bowed. A ginger goatee beard straggled from his chin. Even by the moon and firelight she could see the knees and elbows of his clothes were worn right through. His cuffs were ragged.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said, lifting a hat as battered as his clothes. A bald spot on the top of his head glinted in the moonlight. A few locks of ginger hair wisped onto his shoulders. His words are as clearly enunciated as Mr Puddleham’s, but more … casual, thought Sam, as though he’s never had to think about his pronunciation. He sounded like a hero from one of those TV series where all the women wore bonnets and lived in big houses with maids.

  But no hero tied his trousers around his ankles with string. String circled his boots too, to keep the top half bound to the bottom bit. There was something about the way the man spoke as well. Something about the way he smelled. Something familiar …

  ‘Everyone served an’ satisfied, Professor?’

  Sam stared. How could this tramp be a professor?

  ‘Indeed they were, Mrs Puddleham.’ The scarecrow sat back on his stump of wood, and sipped from the stone jar by his side. ‘Your stew was magic, as always. Sixty happy men, sixty empty plates.’

  The man was drunk, thought Sam. Not very drunk. Just that sort of relaxed almost-drunk, like Mum in between the bad times …

  What had she come to? She’d dreamed of safety! Not a ragged tent. Not a drunk, leering at her in the darkness.

  She glanced at him again. He wasn’t leering. He looked at her with curiosity, caressing his jar with battered fingers, then turned back to Mrs Puddleham.

  ‘Well, I hope ye remembered to count the spoons.’ Mrs Puddleham slung her sack onto the wheelbarrow in the lean-to. ‘Them scoundrels made away with two last time ye minded the pots.’

  ‘Ah, madam: “Once harm has been done, even a fool understands it", as the great Homer reminds us. This time I checked the spoons as each man finished, Mrs Puddleham, indeed I did. Twenty spoons, all as they should be.’

  ‘Any stew left?’ Mr Puddleham’s precise voice was hopeful.

  ‘Of course, sir. Would I leave your belly hungry? “The belly is the commanding part of the body", as Homer says. We were talking of Homer, were we not?’ The man smiled at them gently, and took another sip from his stone jar. It was as though his quotes came automatically, thought Sam, to save him the trouble of thinking what to say.

  ‘Is there enough left for three? This,’ said Mrs Puddleham possessively, ‘is our son, Sam, what’s just come up from Melbourne to help us. Sam, deary, this is the Professor, what helps us serve the stew now and then.’

  So this was the man who’d sold George’s da the book for a drink. She nodded. ‘Professor? Professor who, then?’

  The so-called Professor blinked, and glanced at her again. He smiled a little mockingly. ‘Professor Shamus O’Blivion, at your service. I am proud to make your acquaintance, Master Pud
dleham.’

  Shame us oblivion? He’s making fun of us, thought Sam. He knows the Puddlehams won’t know what oblivion means. They won’t understand most of the stuff he’s saying. He thinks I won’t know, either. She let her disbelief into her voice. ‘Really?’

  The Professor smiled, a hint of a true smile this time instead of the easy smile of a drunk. He waved his hand, as though to take in the far-off fires, the dim shapes of tents in the darkness. ‘As real as anything you see here. Welcome to Ballarat. “Oh, brave new world, that has such people in it".’

  Ballarat! So that’s where she was. Sam forced her tired mind to remember lessons. Giant nuggets, yes, that was right, the Eureka Stockade …

  Eureka …

  No!

  The night loomed even thicker around her. People had died at Eureka! The diggers had rebelled against paying for mining licences, hadn’t they? They’d built a stockade, but the soldiers stormed it early one morning, taking them by surprise.

  Sam stared around at the darkness. The world was quiet here in the gully, apart from laughter in the distance. It was almost impossible that so many men were so nearby.

  Don’t panic, she told herself. Maybe the rebellion was long past. The diggings looked peaceful despite the sounds of gunfire, almost a town.

  ‘A fine young lad,’ the Professor was saying with meaningless happiness as he sipped from his jar again. ‘You must be proud of him.’

  Mrs Puddleham looked up from the pot she’d lowered onto the coals. Her smile was wide in the firelight. ‘Our Sam argued off a bushranger. There’d have been no gold to pay for the stores if it ain’t been for Sam here.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The Professor’s gaze lingered on Sam again. ‘Impressive. You used words for your weapon, did you? Ah, once I might have done the same … but now —’ he held up his jar in the firelight. ‘Now my words are empty as the wind.’

  ‘Now you’re a drunk,’ said Sam flatly.

  ‘Sam!’ Mrs Puddleham looked up from the cauldron, startled. Mr Puddleham coughed reprovingly. The Professor stared at her, his eyes pale in his dirty face.

  ‘Sorry, er, Ma,’ said Sam. She should shut up, she thought. This was a strange place, a strange world and a strange time.

  ‘An’ now,’ Mrs Puddleham nodded, relieved at the apology, ‘I’ll whip up a batch o’ scones in the camp oven good as the queen herself could ask for, to celebrate Sam’s coming like, and we can have them with the stew. An’ you better have a plateful yourself, Professor, ‘cause if you don’t eat nothing yer goin’ to fall into that jug o’ yours and fade away.’

  Chapter 7

  The stew was good, thick and savoury, though anything would have tasted good by now, thought Sam, using a scone to wipe up the last of the gravy just like Mrs Puddleham was doing. It had been at least six hours since she’d eaten the dumplings, and her sandwich at school yesterday had been … she suppressed a giggle. More than a hundred years in the future!

  The scones were perfect. Somehow Mrs Puddleham had managed to mix them in seconds, dropping round balls of dough into a big iron-lidded pot nudged into the coals, with a shovelful of coals on the lid. The scones had turned out golden brown and just right for eating with stew.

  Mrs Puddleham gave a happy sigh, and burped. Across the fire her husband nibbled at the last of his scone.

  ‘Anyone for seconds?’ Mrs Puddleham brushed the crumbs off her bosom then wiped her finger over a drip of stew.

  Sam shook her head. ‘It was wonderful.’

  ‘You sure, deary?’ This time Mrs Puddleham’s smile was brighter than the fire. ‘Ah, you should have seen what Ihelped cook up in the palace. Now those were real dinners. Four different roasts even when it were just the family, beef and lamb and turkey and guinea fowl mebbe, or pheasant. Four sorts o’ fish as well, an’ every vegetable swimmin’ in good butter or them foreign sauces. Baked potatoes all crisp and brown and sparrowgrass in holidays sauce, blancmanges and jellies an’ pineapple fritters. None o’ this stew there.’

  ‘Their lack, madam.’ The Professor — or whoever he was — sketched a straggly bow.

  ‘Anyone want another scone with a bit o’ treacle for afters? No? Time for shut-eye then.’ Mrs Puddleham heaved her bulk up from her seat, and placed their plates in a wooden bucket. ‘Sam and I will sleep in the tent,’ she added pointedly to Mr Puddleham. ‘You can roll up in your swag out here.’

  Mr Puddleham stared at the plump comfort of his wife. ‘On my own? Out here?’

  ‘I can sleep by the fire,’ said Sam quickly.

  ‘It’s not right for a gir—a young ‘un to sleep by ‘imself outside,’ said Mrs Puddleham stubbornly.

  Finally they compromised. Sam would sleep in the lean-to, where the meat and vegetables were stored, wrapped in Mrs Puddleham’s best blanket. ‘Just washed last Saturday so don’t you worry about no bugs in it. An’ you call us if you need something in the night.’ She bent to whisper to Sam. ‘The thingummy’s in the lean-to for when you needs it. There’s a pile o’ nice soft leaves if you needs them too.’

  Mr and Mrs Puddleham vanished into the tent and theflaps closed behind them. There was the sound of boots being pulled off, and grunting, then eventually two sets of snores, one low and the other high with an almost-whistle to it.

  Sam sat and waited for the Professor to leave, so she could use the ‘thingummy’ without him hearing. But he just sat and stared as the flames licked the air. He took another swig from his jar, then pushed the cork in carefully. His fingernails were stained and split.

  ‘Well, my dear,’ he said conversationally, still looking at the flames, not her. ‘Do you care to tell me who you are?’ The mocking note had gone.

  Sam glanced at him quickly. ‘What do you mean?’

  The Professor glanced up at her and shrugged. ‘Call it curiosity. You’re no kin to the Puddlehams. Not even from London, if I’m any judge of an accent, which I rather think I am. American perhaps? But don’t feel you have to tell me. And don’t think I’ll feel obliged to tell anyone if you do. It’s curiosity, that’s all. I doubt there’s a single man on this goldfield — or woman either — who is exactly what they profess to be, or who isn’t running from something. Poverty, disgrace, their wives …’

  Sam hesitated. ‘Can’t they be running to something? Something better?’

  The Professor took another sip. ‘In some cases. A few.’

  ‘What are you running from?’

  The Professor held up his jar.

  Sam snorted. ‘You’re holding it, not running away from it.’

  ‘What it led me to. I run from that.’

  ‘Aren’t the Puddlehams who they say they are?’

  ‘A butler to Queen Victoria? I doubt it. A butler in any great house must be an imposing man, and Mr Puddleham is scarcely imposing enough to be a merchant’s butler, much less Queen Victoria’s. But an underbutler — maybe. Quite likely even, given the man’s demeanour. And Mrs Puddleham,’ the Professor smiled across the darkness. ‘I stand corrected. She is one, perhaps, who shows her true face to the world, even when she does not intend to — though I do not doubt that she has secrets too. But I was asking about you.’

  ‘Why do you think there’s anything to tell?’

  ‘Your accent is — odd. Your choice of words.’ The Professor wrestled the cork out of his jar once more and took a thoughtful swig. ‘I’ve known children who were rash, defiant, able pickpockets at eight years of age. But I’ve never met a child like you.’

  ‘I’m not a child.’

  The Professor smiled, showing crumbled teeth. ‘You see.’

  Sam took a breath. ‘Okay then. I come from the future — about a hundred and fifty years away, I think.’ She paused. ‘You’re not going to say, “You’re lying"?’

  ‘"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Excuse me, my dear. What I mean to say is: not yet. What were you in this future? Princess or beggar maid?’

  ‘Neithe
r.’

  He took another swig. ‘A real liar would have claimed to be the princess. So what was your life like?’

  ‘It … it wasn’t good.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Try,’ said the Professor softly.

  ‘Mum … Mum used to teach at the uni. Now she’s an alcoholic. Like you,’ she added.

  ‘What about your father?’ The voice was gentle.

  Sam shrugged. ‘I’ve never had a father. Not that Mum will tell me about.’

  ‘Who do you have, then?’

  ‘Friends, I suppose. But I can’t tell them what it’s like.’

  ‘Your friends wouldn’t help you?’

  Sam was silent. ‘I think they would,’ she said at last. ‘That’s not why I can’t tell them.’

  The Professor nodded, as though he had expected the answer. ‘You are ashamed. So you came here, like every other dreamer on the goldfields, hoping for a new reality. Will you go back if you don’t find one?’

  He reached across the fire. Just a pat on her shoulder, and then his hand retreated. But somehow his presence was comforting, despite the stink of booze. The snores from the tent were a comfort too …

  ‘I don’t want to go back! It was so easy today! Just being someone else —’

  ‘Easy.’ The Professor stared up the gully to where the city of tents was just a dim glow of firelight. Drunks sang in the distance in a language she’d never heard.

  ‘Mrs Puddleham said you argued with a bushranger today. You think this life is easy?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sam. ‘It is for me.’ She rubbed her nose on her sleeve. ‘Okay. What about you?’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Professor. ‘You know what my great lie is?’ ‘What?’

  ‘I really am a professor.’