‘Where have you been?’ she demanded, puffing. The sheep bleated at her, alarmed. ‘You haven’t been round for ages! We were worried!’
George glanced up at her, his face expressionless. ‘Was you?’
‘Of course. I thought you’d be at yesterday’s meeting. There were ten thousand people there and —’
‘I heard,’ said George heavily. He hauled a straying sheep back by the neck with his crook. ‘So many coves about these days we hears everything, even at the farm.’
‘Then why didn’t you go to it?’
He shrugged. ‘Only went that first time to hear the bleedin’ bands. An’ I heard them. ‘
‘Well …’ she hesitated. She’d been going to say history was being made. ‘It … it’s exciting,’ she said instead.
He shrugged. ‘Won’t make any difference to me, will it?’
She looked at him more closely. His face was closed, without the joyousness of the past few weeks since he’d met the Professor. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothin’.’
‘Yes, there is.’
‘My business then. None o’ yours.’
‘You’re my friend.’
He glanced over at her from under his hat. ‘Friends with a native?’
She stilled. ‘Did someone call you that?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m used to it. Nah, it were more’n that. At that meeting, the one with the bands …’
‘Go on,’ said Sam quietly.
‘Cove spat on me, didn’t he?’ George tried to sound indifferent. ‘Said I’d jostled him, what were I doing crowdin’ a white man, mixing in things that weren’t none o’ my business.’
Fury ripped through her like lava up a volcano. But she tried to keep her voice calm. ‘What did the Professor say?’
‘He were at the grog shop. That’s what I were doing — waiting for him.’
Typical drunk, thought Sam. All nice and smiling till he’s really needed. She shook her head helplessly. ‘The man was stupid. You’re a hundred times better than him. A million. And it is your business. It’s about getting you a vote too. When you grow up, anyway.’
George laughed. It was like the laugh he’d given when the sight of the dying sheep had made her feel ill. ‘An’ the bunyip down the river is gunna cook dinner. They’ll never give me the vote.’
‘But —’ Sam stopped. It was true, wasn’t it? She just hadn’t thought. Had forgotten. Indigenous Australians hadn’t got the vote till when? She tried to think. Some time when Mum was her age. Far, far in the future from now.
George saw her expression change. ‘There ain’t no better life for me whether the miners win or the redcoats,’ he said more gently.
She nodded. ‘I’m … I’m sorry. I didn’t think.’
He tried to smile. ‘It’s funny. Bein’ here’s taught me to think properly. An’ now I can think I knows there’s no point gettin’ mixed up in white man’s business.’
‘But more people getting the vote is still good. It’s worth fighting for!’
What was she saying? The last thing she wanted was for George to fight. Her tongue had run away with her. But even as she hesitated he was speaking again.
‘Not for me it ain’t. That fool were right. Nothing to do with me. I know what I’m gunna do now.’ He looked at her, his face set in a way she’d never seen it before.
‘What?’
‘Stay out of it. I’m gunna wait till it all settles down again, an’ the Professor’s stopped going to them roll ups. Then I’m gunna learn the stuff I need to know to get a job — the readin’ and the writin', none o’ this democracy lark. I’ll get me the best job anyone’ll give a darkie. And then one day I’ll tell me children how their country got like this, with white men burrowing like wombats just for a speck of gold.’ He stared at her. ‘You think it’s really better if I go and stand with the whiteys and get killed?’
‘No,’ she said softly.
His face grew gentler. ‘You shoulda seen this place afore the miners came. It were beautiful. They talk o’ gold — the stream here looked like gold when the sun shone on it the right way. There was ducks and ‘roos an’ so many koalas you wouldn’t think they could all fit in the trees. Ma’s got a koala-skin cloak. Softest thing you ever saw.’
‘How is your ma?’
‘Kept coughin’ blood last night. That’s why Da’s not helping with the sheep today — he’s stayin’ with her.’
Sam stared at him in horror. ‘But … we have to do something. Get a doctor.’
‘Doctor couldn’t do nothin’ when Da got one last time. She’s dying.’ His voice was emotionless again, but his eyes were dark with pain. ‘Not today or next week maybe, but soon. Just another native dyin',’ he added bitterly. ‘Most round here would say a good thing too.’
‘I don’t. Or the Professor.’
He looked at her consideringly. ‘No. Ye don’t, do ye? I’d best get goin',’ he added. ‘Sooner I get these to the butcher the sooner I can get back to Ma. Can you tell the Professor why I ain’t helping him this week?’
Did he mean because he had been spat upon? Or because his mother was dying? Both, she supposed, each adding to a pain impossible to bear.
But you did bear things. Life went on.
‘Of course,’ she said quietly. ‘I wish I could go back with you. Help you look after your Ma. But the Puddlehams need me too.’
‘It’s all right. Me and Da, we manage.’
She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek impulsively. He blushed and rubbed the spot, but smiled.
‘Mrs Puddleham’d have pink kittens if she saw you do that.’
‘Let her,’ said Sam. ‘Take care, George. I’ll see you soon.’
‘You take care too. All this —’ his wave took in the marching diggers, the flag flying high on its pole ‘— it ain’t safe for a girl. If things get too bad you come out to the farm.’ He hesitated. ‘If you can’t reach the farm, get to Ma’s folk. They’re good people. They’ll keep you safe. An’ bring the Puddlehams and the Professor too.’
‘I don’t think they’ll come. But thank you, George.’ She held out her hand.
He pressed it briefly, then looked down at her as she smiled. ‘What you grinnin’ at?’
‘I almost forgot. Mrs Puddleham said she wants four forequarters of mutton. Seems funny, talking about mutton when there’re so many things that are much more important.’
‘Suppose food’s important too. I’ll get the butcher to bring ‘em. He owes me a favour. An’ you take care o’ yourself.’
He turned back towards the butcher’s shop. The sheep plodded along the road with him, unaware of the fate around the corner.
Like everyone here, thought Sam, as she turned to walk back to the waiting Mrs Puddleham. Everyone but me.
But at least, she thought, George would be safe back at the farm. Now she only had to keep the Puddlehams and the Professor away from the stockade when it was stormed by the soldiers.
Chapter 26
The surprise was a bonnet. ‘I asked for the biggest, fanciest one in the whole of Melbourne town,’ said Mrs Puddleham, lifting it proudly out of its tissue paper so everyone in Wilson’s shop could see it.
‘It’s certainly … big,’ said Sam. The hat was made of fine creamy-coloured straw. But so much pink lace and so many ruffles had been added, as well as two bunches of pink ribbon on the side, that it was almost impossible to see the hat itself.
‘You like it, lovey?’ Mrs Puddleham’s face shone.
Sam smiled at her. ‘I’ve never ever seen a hat as wonderful.’ It was true too, she thought. It was a wonder that any hat could hold quite so much decoration.
Sam handed it back to the woman across the counter. She put it back in its hatbox and added the usual string around it to make a handle. ‘You’ll look like a queen in it,’ she said to Mrs Puddleham.
Mrs Puddleham blushed. ‘Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for my daughter.’
‘Didn’t know you had a d
aughter as well as Sam,’ said the woman.
‘She’s back in Melbourne,’ lied Mrs Puddleham easily. ‘And she’s the prettiest girl you’ll ever see.’
‘Well, she’ll look even prettier in this. But I tell you what, Mrs Puddleham,’ the woman leaned over the counter. ‘You’ll find hats a tenth the price back in Melbourne. You wait till you’re back there to buy any more. You’re a good woman and a hard worker,’ she added. ‘An’ even if it’s cutting me own throat I don’t want to see you waste your money.’
Mrs Puddleham patted her hand. ‘That’s right nice of you. But it ain’t no waste. I’ll get more pleasure looking at this hat and imagining my girl in it than I’d have got from wearing the crown of England.’
The heat hit them like an oven door had been opened as they left the shop. The days were getting hotter. Summer was coming, thought Sam. Summer and revolution …
A cry echoed up the dusty road. ‘Joe! Joe! Joe’s on the diggin’s!’
Suddenly the tide of men working the cradles at the gravel pits surged up towards the main road.
‘What?’ Mrs Puddleham stared as a mob of soldiers strode down the main street.
‘They must be crazy!’ cried Sam, peering out the door. Surely the troopers knew it wasn’t safe for them to be on the diggings now.
But these were soldiers, not troopers. One of them grabbed the elbow of a man sitting outside the grog shop opposite. ‘Licence!’
The man spat, leaving a gob on the redcoat’s boot. ‘I’ll hawk your guts up from yer garters afore I show a licence to the likes of you.’
‘Licence!’
‘Licence! Here, you, show us your licence!’
‘Them redcoats must be crazed,’ muttered Mrs Puddleham. ‘The diggers’ll strangle the lot o’ them.’ She stepped back into the shop doorway, pulling Sam next to her, as miners surged up from the gravel pits waving their shovels and crowbars.
The cries of ‘Joe!’ were spreading across the diggings again. This time the voices held fury, not warning.
‘I don’t like this!’ panted Mrs Puddleham. ‘I don’t at all.’
Suddenly Sam heard the sound of marching boots. She glanced down the road, more worried with every footfall. But these weren’t troopers or soldiers, though they were approaching in formation, muskets over their shoulders.
They were miners, part of the rebel army of the diggings. Most carried muskets over their shoulders and, even as she stared, another band marched across from the gravel pits, and another from behind Bakery Hill.
All at once the soldiers were surrounded by a jeering crowd. Men yelled all around them.
The soldiers formed a circle, moving with quick precision. The ones on the outside kneeled to let the redcoats behind aim their muskets at the crowd over their backs.
The marching miners drew closer. The watching crowd yelled in triumph, standing back to let the marchers get closer to the redcoats.
‘Please, lads, don’t use them muskets,’ whispered Mrs Puddleham.
The first rock hit a soldier in the chest. The next hit one on the cheek.
One of the soldiers yelled something. He wore a different uniform from the rest — grander, with gold lacing. He was reading something out. Sam tried to hear the words, but there was too much noise to make them out. Something about a riot …
Why is he reading? thought Sam desperately. Why have the redcoats come here at all, so few of them? They must know how dangerous it is! If they had to come, why not bring more soldiers?
Suddenly another noise added to the din.
I should know that noise, thought Sam. I’ve heard it lots of times before. On TV, at the movies …
‘We need to go get Mr Puddleham,’ said Mrs Puddleham uncertainly. ‘Families need to be together at times like this.’
‘No!’ Sam pushed Mrs Puddleham back into the shop, just as the first of the horses arrived.
Soldiers on horseback galloped up one road; more soldiers on horseback surged along the other, swords in their hands, slashing down, down. And after them line upon line of redcoats marched, bayonets fixed as they forced their way into the crowd of diggers. They pushed the bayonets into flesh and kept on marching, marching as the street below turned red.
Horses reared, half in terror, half sharing their riders’ fury. Men screamed under their hooves. Swords bit into arms and necks and heads. Blood spurted like someone had turned a hose on. Sam stared. She had never realised that blood could arc so high.
Mrs Puddleham made a small noise. She thrust Sam behind her, and tried to hold her hands over the girl’s eyes. Sam pushed the hands away and peered out.
Men ran. Others lay, shrieking, curling and twisting to try to staunch or ease their wounds. Part of her wanted to dart out to help them. Another part — the rational part — said to go out was to risk her own death too. Yet another simply felt the cold shock wash over her in the face of so much agony. Just a few minutes ago this road had been calm …
‘Mr Puddleham, ‘ whispered Mrs Puddleham.
Sam hugged her fiercely in their doorway. Mrs Wilson cowered behind the counter inside. ‘He’ll be all right. His squad was drilling down near our gully. They wouldn’t have had time to get up here.’
Mrs Puddleham nodded numbly. She clutched Sam to her, no longer trying to stop her looking.
The army of miners had vanished now, apart from the dead and the wounded, slumped or desperately trying to crawl to safety. The only people upright in the street were redcoats, assembling again in straight lines of men and horses, and a few troopers in their blue uniforms, grinning, heading into the gravel pits among the cradles, demanding licences. Along the road, women peered out of doorways and tents; miners who had heard the din put their heads out of their holes, then ducked back down.
Even as Sam and Mrs Puddleham watched, the troopers hauled up some of the wounded or stunned and chained them together. Eight miners, thought Sam, trying to count as the men struggled and swore.
An officer barked an order. The horses tossed their heads and stamped and rolled their eyes, nervous at the yells and the smell of blood. Troopers and redcoats marched away, dragging the miners with them in their chains.
Sam glanced up at Bakery Hill. The rebel flag that had flown so bravely had vanished.
Chapter 27
This meeting was the largest yet. If there had been ten thousand at the last meeting, then perhaps there were fifteen thousand now.
Is there anyone on the goldfields, wondered Sam dazedly as she was jostled closer to Mrs Puddleham, who isn’t here this afternoon? The hills and streets of the diggings near Bakery Hill were dark with men, bearded, dirty, their yelling and their muttering turning to cheers as Peter Lalor stepped up onto a stump and waved his rifle in the air.
Somehow he looked bigger than he had at the cook tent. Impossible to mistake him now, with his Irish voice and shaggy hair and beard.
‘The time for talking is past! I call on you — call on the best of you — to form into divisions, so we can fight the oppressor, whether he wears a blue coat or a red one. Who will answer me? Who will join the army of the goldfields?’
Voices roared like a thundering waterfall as men rushed forwards. Lalor held up his rifle for silence again.
‘Let each division elect its best comrade as captain. For never again will birth and privilege hold sway!’
Once again they cheered him, cheered themselves, cheered a vision more intoxicating than anything sold in the grog shops. How many men in the mob have even thought what the new world they fight for might be like? thought Sam, dazed by the noise, the sheer numbers, the emotion. A few hundred, perhaps, at most.
But they knew what they hated. They hated the troopers, the redcoats, hated the governor, the magistrates who took bribes. Hated being hungry, powerless and without a voice when injustices were done.
They’re running away from something, just like the Professor said, she thought. These were men who had abandoned homes. Now they abandoned the queen’s l
aw.
It was frightening. It was exciting. Part of her would always be proud that she was here. But the rest of her — the sensible part, she told herself — knew that her duty was to keep those she loved safe.
That was the most important thing, wasn’t it? For, after all, you couldn’t change the past. Australia still had not broken away from Britain. The stockade had fallen. Glorious as all this was, eventually they’d lose.
Peter Lalor waved his rifle once more. Someone yelled for silence, then shot a musket into the air to attract attention.
The yelling died away again.
It was so quiet now you could almost hear the breathing of each of the thousands there. Peter Lalor raised his voice again.
‘Hear me with attention! The man who after this solemn oath does not stand by our standard is a coward in heart. I order all persons who do not intend to take the oath to leave the meeting at once.’
He grinned down at them, as though he knew their decision already, as though the hopes and dreams of all of them had made him larger than he’d ever been before. ‘Are you with me?’ The yell echoed across the silent diggings.
The cries of Yes! were so loud it hurt.
Lalor stepped down. For a moment Sam couldn’t see him. Then one by one the men around him kneeled as well, and then the men behind.
Suddenly it seemed that every person on the diggings was kneeling. Even Sam kneeled, helping Mr Puddleham get Mrs Puddleham down too. There was something red in the dust under her knees. Blood, she thought, from when the soldiers attacked. I am kneeling in someone’s blood.
Mr Puddleham gripped his wife’s hand. ‘For Lucy,’ he whispered. ‘For you and Sam.’
The new flag flew high above them. Lalor yelled the words, and those who could hear him muttered them first, with others catching them and passing them on. Thousands upon thousands chanting where their friends had fallen: ‘We swear by the Southern Cross to stand truly by each other, and fight to defend our rights and liberties.’
The Night They Stormed Eureka Page 14
