The Night They Stormed Eureka

by Jackie French

  Such simple words, thought Sam, helping Mr Puddleham heave Mrs Puddleham to her feet again and brush the dust from her skirts. Back in her own time they’d be a cliché. But now they meant so much.

  The men began to build the stockade that afternoon — a fort from which they could defend the land they had declared independent of the governor and the queen. Hundreds of diggers shovelled soil for freedom now, not for gold, as they dug the foundations of a fortress that they hoped could hold back charging cavalry with its trenches four feet deep. Other men carted pit props, logs and slabs from shanties, bags of sand and branches, carts …

  Sam could still hear the oath they’d sworn ringing in her brain. So could the men labouring here on the hill, she was pretty sure, and the women helping them, bringing food and water. Perhaps people were still hearing it in her own time, she thought.

  She watched, her arms around the trembling Mrs Puddleham as they stood in the shade outside Wilson’s shop, while little Mr Puddleham panted, helping haul pit props up from mines deep below the ground, then joined teams of men to lug the props over to the growing fort.

  It isn’t what I imagined, thought Sam. How could anybody imagine this? She’d thought the stockade would be like something from a cowboy movie, a lot of neat poles lashed together vertically and sharpened at the top, with towers perhaps, for guards to peer down from.

  It wasn’t like that at all.

  This fort was about a metre high, enclosing ground the size of the oval back at school. It rambled across the hillside, enclosing tents and mineshafts, a coffee house, a shop, and the shanty where two women still scrubbed the clothes of any miners lucky enough to be able to pay a washerwoman.

  It looked like a pile of wreckage — until you looked closer. And then you saw the plan behind it all, the way the outside sloped inwards, an almost unbroken wall of thick slabs of wood. Even if the inside looked a mess, the outer walls would hold back an army and protect the men inside.

  Unless, thought Sam, the men inside were taken by surprise. Unless the redcoats charged when most of the diggers were away or asleep. That’s what had happened, wasn’t it? What was going to happen?

  She had only to run up to Peter Lalor, and warn him not to be taken unawares. It was easy to make him out now. Somehow since the last big meeting he had become the leader, climbing up on a carriage that formed part of the barricade to give more orders, urging men to work harder, faster.

  But what would happen if she did warn him? Could she really change history?

  And did history need to be changed? Could it be changed? Surely, if a girl called Sam had warned Peter Lalor that the redcoats would take them by surprise one dawn the Eureka Stockade would not have fallen.

  And then perhaps she would not have been born. She’d never have come back to the past, never changed it, then the stockade would fall and she might be born after all … but then —

  Maybe she couldn’t change things, no matter how hard she tried. Maybe if she did change things, the future would be worse, not better.

  Maybe if the diggers took over the Ballarat diggings, England would send out lots more soldiers, and there’d be years of war. And after all, the things the miners wanted had happened eventually, even though the Eureka Stockade had failed. Would Australia really be a better place if it had rebelled against England and become an independent republic like the USA?

  She didn’t know. History was too big. She couldn’t fit it all in her brain, even if she had the books or a computer to begin to look things up and write them down in order. How could one girl work out what was best for a whole country?

  ‘Mr Puddleham shouldn’t be up there,’ whispered Mrs Puddleham. ‘It ain’t right, not at his age, carrying those big things, not in this heat. He’ll bring on the apoplectics.’

  Apoplectics? Heart attack, Sam supposed, or stroke. ‘He wants to help,’ she said gently. Time enough to get him away when night falls, she thought. He’d be safe as long as he wasn’t at the stockade when the soldiers attacked one morning.

  Mrs Puddleham raised her chin. ‘Well, I knows what’ll help more’n that. Mr Puddleham!’ she called.

  The little man turned at her yell.

  ‘You leaves those pit props to them as has carried them before. We’ve got a better way to do our bit.’ She gazed back at Sam. There were tears in her eyes. Were they tears of pride or of grief for her lost daughter, or for all the other things the people in power had taken from her? ‘It’s time we learned how to feed an army, lovey.’

  Chapter 28

  ‘Put the stew pot over there,’ Mrs Puddleham pointed to a space outside the wheelwright’s hut near the stockade. The wheelwright was labouring on the stockade too and happy to have the Puddlehams there to keep an eye on his tools.

  Behind them Mr Puddleham led a band of miners carrying firewood, wooden buckets, the frying pan, the pudding pot, the sacks of flour, the tins of treacle and dripping. Only the log seats, tent and bedding were left in the gully.

  One of the washerwomen carried a burning branch from the fire under her copper to set the Puddlehams’ fire alight. Mrs Puddleham nodded her thanks. The wood crackled as it began to burn.

  ‘Give it a chance to burn down to the coals,’ Mrs Puddleham told Sam. ‘Otherwise the bottom o’ the pan’ll burn, an’ the stew too.’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘Now, a plateful for each man — but only if they’s been working on the stockade. I ain’t feedin’ the whole diggin’s here.’

  ‘How do I know if they’re a rebel or not?’

  Mrs Puddleham considered. ‘Ask ‘em,’ she said at last. ‘Won’t be no man on the diggings today will lie about that, not here in sight of the stockade.’ She grinned, showing the gaps in her teeth. ‘The other coves’d fair lynch ‘em if they did.’

  Sam was glad to see the grin. Mrs Puddleham still looked pale and her breathing was laboured again too. But she grabbed up the blackened frying pan with her old energy and slapped in a ladleful of mutton fat to brown more flour. And if her eyes were wistful during the day as platefuls of food were handed out with no threepences in exchange, her husband’s eyes were steely with long-remembered duty. But this duty was now to his comrades, not the queen.

  By the time the shadow of the stockade stretched across the street there was little more than flour and water and potato gravy in the pot. ‘But at least it’s hot and wet an’ fills their bellies,’ said Mrs Puddleham, browning more flour to thicken the stew again. She brushed her hair away from her forehead, dank with sweat and exhaustion. She looked up at the stockade. ‘Not much more will happen there tonight.’

  Sam nodded tiredly.

  All day men had been carrying pit props and anything else they could find to reinforce the stockade, while others trained at marching like redcoats, muskets on their backs — or picks or spades — learning to ‘charge’ or stand shoulder to shoulder to defend a position. Now with darkness falling they were setting up makeshift beds within the stockade, or heading off to their own camps.

  ‘Back to the gully,’ said Mrs Puddleham, as Sam caught sight of Mr Puddleham’s small figure trudging down the hill. But even in his exhaustion he refused to droop. ‘An’ we’re taking this lot with us, too,’ she nodded at her pots. ‘Rebellion or not, there are too many light-fingered Demons around to leave good pots just lyin’ there.’

  Mr Puddleham gave one of his stiff bows. ‘A weary long day, Mrs Puddleham,’ he said, ‘but we will win this, indeed.’

  Mrs Puddleham took his hand. ‘I’ll make us all a nice potato cake back at camp,’ she promised him.

  Mr Puddleham shook his head. ‘I must remain here on guard. The redcoats could come at any time.’

  ‘Not them,’ said Mrs Puddleham. ‘Not in the dark like.’

  ‘They might,’ said Mr Puddleham. ‘And I am staying.’

  Sam said nothing. The soldiers would attack at night. But the stockade had stood for more than one day, hadn’t it? She tried to imagine the pages of the book in
her mind, hear Mrs Quant’s voice as she explained to the class. The unearthly breeze trailed cold fingers across her shoulders, and she shivered.

  Surely Mr Puddleham was safe at the stockade tonight.

  The night was lit by scattered campfires as she and Mrs Puddleham hauled the pots back down the road to the gully. Above them the stars spread like spots of jam across the sky. The Southern Cross must be up there, thought Sam, just like it was on the new flag above the stockade. She looked up again, trying to work it out, but couldn’t find it. It looked so much clearer on the flag …

  ‘I hopes Mr Puddleham remembers to put the blanket down double afore he turns in,’ said Mrs Puddleham, panting a little with the worry. ‘He gets the lumbago bad if he sleeps on cold ground. Mebbe I should take him up another one.’

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ said Sam, trying to reassure herself too. Mrs Puddleham was worrying about the blankets to try to still her terror of what else the night might bring — redcoats, not lumbago, she thought.

  ‘An’ what if he has to stay there tomorrow night too? It’s Friday tomorrow. He always likes his maritals Friday nights —’ Mrs Puddleham clapped her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, you didn’t hear that, deary. What am I saying, talking like that in front of a young girl?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Sam absently, as they started to lug the pots back to the gully. Mrs Puddleham was talking about sex, wasn’t she? Just about every show on TV had more sex in it than Mrs Puddleham could imagine.

  She smiled as she stowed the pots safely in the lean-to and tugged at her boots. She could hear Mrs Puddleham inside the tent, pulling off her shoes too. It was sort of sweet, having ‘maritals’ on a Friday night —

  Sam froze. Friday. Saturday. Sunday …

  And suddenly she remembered. Not the date of the attack — she had never been good with dates. But she remembered the day of the week. The redcoats had attacked before dawn on a Sunday morning! People had been shocked back then — now — by a battle on a Sunday morning, on what was supposed to be God’s day of rest.

  She took a deep breath. For once the breeze was floating from beyond the mines, for it smelled of gum leaves, not of mud and men. It was going to be all right! She just had to make sure Mr Puddleham didn’t stay at the stockade on Saturday night. There had to be some excuse to keep him safe at the gully for just one night!

  By the time the Puddlehams realised what was happening it would all be over.

  It wouldn’t change anything if Mr Puddleham was there or not, Sam assured herself. Not one little elderly man.

  The stockade was going to fall.

  And it would fall without Mr Puddleham.

  Chapter 29

  The Eureka flag hung limply above the stockade in Friday’s heat. Inside the stockade men marched with their guns or picks, or practised aiming at redcoats through the gaps in the walls; the women did the washing and the children played soldiers and rebels in the dust; and the cockatoos perched on the trees and gazed at it all, before swooping down to feast among the horse droppings.

  Sam and Mrs Puddleham lugged the pots up to the stockade again. Yesterday’s meat and potatoes — enough to last a week normally — had already been eaten. But Mrs Puddleham paid for another forequarter of mutton from the butcher. She was thickening the stew with even more browned flour mixed with water when a horse galloped up the road, its hatless rider yelling that the redcoats at the government encampment had shouldered arms and were ready to ride out and attack, bringing even more troopers to check for licences.

  Men scurried up and down from the gravel pits, lugging up more bags of sand and branches to reinforce the stockade.

  But no soldiers came.

  The sound of clanging began to ring across the diggings. The German blacksmith was hammering shovels and spades into pikes, the points sharp enough, he promised, to skewer redcoats, and troopers in blue coats too.

  By the time the sun was past its midday height most of the diggers went back to their own camps to get food or water, or to hunt through the diggings for anyone who would donate more arms and ammunition, even if they weren’t prepared to help defend the stockade.

  Sam stirred the stew pots, her hair limp with sweat and fatty smoke. It would be hours yet before the stew was ready to eat, but Mr Puddleham joined them for a meal of damper and treacle. He looked tired, his eyes sunk in dark circles, the lines about his face even deeper. He walked stiffly too, as though the cold ground, away from the warmth of his wife, had given him little rest.

  One more night up in the stockade, thought Sam hopefully, and he’ll be glad to come back to the gully. I’ll tell him Mrs Puddleham and I are nervous by ourselves.

  She looked up at the sound of yelling. A mass of diggers marched down the road, more or less in military formation, though they carried shovels and picks, not muskets or rifles. ‘Hey there, laddie!’ one yelled. ‘Where’s the fort?’

  Sam pointed.

  The man stared. ‘That?’

  Mr Puddleham looked up wearily from his hunk of damper. ‘It’s the best we’ve been able to do,’ he said curtly.

  The man rubbed his eyes, as though when he’d wiped the sweat away a bigger stockade might have appeared. ‘We’re from Creswick. They promised us guns and ammunition and a proper fort. How are we supposed to free the land in that?’

  Mr Puddleham stood up, suddenly straight despite his tiredness. ‘What are you seeking, young man?’ he demanded. ‘Will you join us in work as well as glory? Or are you here for glory only?’

  The man shrugged. He turned to argue with his companions. Soon the diggers had separated into two groups — one lot heading back down the road to Creswick, and those who had decided to stay spreading out among the diggings, hunting for more timber to reinforce the stockade, more arms and ammunition, more men.

  The afternoon passed. Sam trudged through the tents, begging for firewood to keep the stew cooking, for Mr Puddleham had no time now to look for wood. More men than usual lurked by their tents today — even those who didn’t want to help with the stockade were waiting, too worried about the violence to come to head down their mines or back to the gravel pits, where they’d risk the scorn of the rebels.

  Sam was just heading back with her second armful of branches when a bearded digger ran down the road, waving his arms and panting.

  ‘Redcoats,’ he shouted.

  ‘What, here?’ yelled someone.

  The bearded man tried to get his breath. ‘No, not here. Not yet. There’s a mob o’ new ones heading to the soldiers’ camp.’

  Sam thrust the branches into the pile by the stew pots. As she straightened, a band of diggers marched out of the stockade, muskets over their shoulders. Mrs Puddleham looked at them with a mix of fear and pride. ‘Going to ambush the redcoats, I’ll be bound. Grab their weapons an’ bring them back here.’

  Sam nodded. She didn’t know if that was what was happening or not. It was so much easier with TV and radio, she thought tiredly, not to mention mobile phones.

  Mrs Puddleham held her ladle threateningly. ‘Well, if any o’ them redcoats touches Mr Puddleham, I’ll give ‘im a ding on the ear.’

  If only it was all over, thought Sam. She and the Puddlehams were mixed up in things that were too big for them. ‘More firewood?’ she asked Mrs Puddleham wearily.

  The big woman shook her head. ‘Got enough to get this lot cooked. No point making a pile for some’un to pinch tonight. You have a sit-down, deary, and look like you’re kneading the pastry so’s no one yells at you to do no heavy lifting. Ain’t good for a girl to lift too much heavy stuff. Shifts their insides. Besides,’ she added proudly. ‘Soon you’ll be needing soft hands, to be proper lady-like, not all hard and work-worn. Nothing like making pastry to soften the hands.’

  Sam smiled at her, to try to make her smile too. ‘When we get our hotel, what will the kitchen be like, Ma?’

  It worked. Mrs Puddleham sat back, the wooden spoon in her hand. ‘Big,’ she said. ‘With tiled floors, so j
ust a mop’ll keep ‘em clean, no need for no one to be scrubbing on their knees all day. Not that you or me’ll do the scrubbing, but I don’t want no bad knees in my hotel. A girl with pattens on, to crush the cockroaches. And proper stoves, with ovens, not pots and fires where some’un has to turn the rack to roast the meat. An’ big tables down the middle to work on and windows — lots o’ windows so the cooks can see out and half o’ Melbourne can see in, and drool over the good things going on inside.’

  ‘We’ll make a fortune all over again,’ said Sam encouragingly.

  ‘Aye,’ said Mrs Puddleham. She reached over and stroked Sam’s hair. ‘But better’n all — we’ll be a family. You and me and Mr Puddleham. We’ll have our own rooms right up at the top o’ the hotel — not in the attics mind, but the proper top floor, with a view an’ all from the windows. Your room’ll be all pink satin —’

  ‘Er,’ said Sam. ‘How about yellow?’

  Mrs Puddleham looked startled. She thought for a moment. ‘Well, yellow is a good bright colour too,’ she allowed. ‘An’ red an’ blue carpets down the hallways, even up the servants’ stair, an’ …’

  The shadows lengthened. Mrs Puddleham’s chatter had drained away by the time the marching men returned. There had been no guns. No redcoats. No ambush either.

  Mr Puddleham joined them at the stew pots for supper. He ate silently, sitting on a hunk of log, his eyes on the stockade above them, the flag that flew over it, its pattern visible now in the late afternoon breeze.

  Mrs Puddleham touched his hand gently. ‘You all right, Mr P?’ she asked softly.

  He gazed up at her. ‘We can still do it,’ he said. ‘We may not have enough guns or horses, or enough men. But we have the hearts of lions, and right is on our side.’

  Mrs Puddleham nodded. For once she seemed lost for words. Then she said, ‘I’ll make pancakes, will I, for tomorrow morning? Nothing like pancakes to put heart into you. An’ there’s a jar o’ melon jam left, that I kept for something special.’