Do You Dare? Eureka Boys

by Penny Matthews

  ‘Look at all those guns,’ exclaimed Frank. ‘Wouldn’t I like to get my hands on them!’

  ‘Well, now’s your chance,’ said Mr Hunter, who was polishing the barrel of a very old musket. He threw an oily rag to Frank, and another to Henry. ‘Roll up your shirtsleeves, grab a weapon and some gun grease, and make yourselves useful.’

  Frank stared at the gun Mr Hunter was holding. ‘What’s that you’ve got? I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  Mr Hunter looked at him over his half-moon spectacles. ‘This is a Baker rifle. It was probably last used at the Battle of Waterloo, nearly forty years ago,’ he said. ‘Most of these guns are old, and we’re short of ammunition, but pikes won’t go far in a battle with cavalry. Nor will shovels and pitchforks, I fear.’

  ‘Wellington didn’t have enough fire-power at Waterloo, either,’ said an elderly digger wearing a shabby old beaver hat. ‘And he still had a glorious victory. God protects those with right on their side.’

  ‘Let us hope so,’ Jack said. He waved a rifle in the air. ‘Liberty, my friends!’

  ‘Liberty for ever,’ said another voice. The commander-in-chief, Peter Lalor, came out of a nearby tent. He smiled at Henry. ‘I know you, boy, don’t I? You once held my rogue of a horse, and as I recall you were wounded for your trouble.’

  ‘It wasn’t your horse’s fault,’ Henry told him. ‘He was spooked.’

  ‘You’re a brave lad. With fighters like you, we will achieve our ends, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Liberty!’ the other men shouted as Peter Lalor walked away.

  ‘Liberty from our colonial masters,’ added the man in the beaver hat. ‘Those arrogant jumped-up beggars deserve everything we’re going to give them.’

  ‘Some of these guns haven’t been used in years,’ Jack said, going back to his cleaning. ‘We must make sure they are in working order. We don’t want one of our men to fire his musket and have it explode in his face.’

  Still feeling proud because the commander-in-chief had recognised him, Henry picked up a rusty Brown Bess and squinted down the inside of the barrel. It was clogged with old gunpowder and dirt. ‘This one’s filthy! It must be at least a hundred years old.’

  While Henry cleaned and polished, he listened to the men talking about battle plans and manoeuvres. It all sounded so exciting that sometimes he or Frank stopped what they were doing, and they had to remind each other, with a nudge in the ribs, to get back to work.

  ‘When d’you think the fighting will start, Jack?’ asked Frank.

  ‘Oh, not for at least another day,’ Jack replied. ‘There were more than a thousand rebels here yesterday, plenty of Germans and Italians and Yankees among them. Our Yankee friends the California Rangers are spoiling for a fight. But many people have gone home now, and today there’s only a hundred and fifty of us. Our commander-in-chief doesn’t expect the military to attack the stockade. There are women and children here, after all. The battle proper will probably take place on the Gravel Pits.’ He patted the revolver in his belt. ‘Wherever it happens, my pepperbox is ready.’

  Night fell, and the moon rose. Henry and Frank continued to work by the flickering light of a campfire. The stack of rusty old guns never seemed to become any smaller.

  ‘You should be off home, my covies,’ Jack said at last. ‘We’ll still be here tomorrow, depend upon it.’

  ‘Leave? Not on your life,’ said Frank. ‘Ma says she’s happy for me to stay.’

  ‘And you, Henry?’ asked Jack. ‘Perhaps you should go home to your father. Won’t he be concerned about you?’

  Henry knew exactly what Father’s reaction would be. For a second he missed having someone who might worry about where he was and what he was doing. But what could be more exciting than staying here with Frank and Jack, at such a time?

  ‘My father doesn’t care what I do,’ he said.

  As he watched the sparks from the campfire fly upwards, he felt excited at the thought of what was to come – a better deal for the miners, and an end to the brutality of the traps. Whatever Father said, that was definitely worth fighting for.

  Henry was dreaming. In his dream he was back in Birmingham, and Mam was still alive. It was all very real, and he felt very happy until he rolled over and half woke up.

  The hard ground underneath him and the feel of the rough blanket around his chin reminded him that he wasn’t in his old bedroom in Birmingham after all. He was in a tent inside the rebels’ stockade, with Frank and Jack, all crammed together with several others.

  He could hear snoring, and the soft rattle and clink of horse hobbles. One of those horses was Peter Lalor’s, the same horse that had led him a merry dance down the main road all those weeks ago. The memory made him smile.

  All’s well, he thought, and immediately he went back to sleep.

  He was woken by gunshots. Gunshots, directly outside the tent!

  He threw off his blanket and sat up. ‘Frank!’ he said, shaking him by the shoulder. ‘Frank! Something’s happening.’

  Jack was already awake. ‘The military have mounted a surprise attack,’ he said. ‘The California Rangers are on sentry duty in the rifle pits but they won’t be able to keep the soldiers at bay – ready or not, we must fight.’

  ‘I’m ready, Jack,’ said Frank, rubbing his eyes. ‘Just give me a gun!’

  ‘No, Frank, no – stay here. You and Henry, keep your heads down and pray for us.’ And Jack ran, stooping, from the tent. ‘Liberty!’ he yelled.

  ‘Liberty!’ came the ragged response.

  Henry began to follow Jack. Then he stopped. He wasn’t dressed. He ducked back into the tent and put on his coat, checking that Father’s Derringer was still in the pocket. He pulled on his boots. Then he went outside again and stood still, shivering. Where was Frank?

  ‘Forward!’

  Where had that call come from? Was it the military, or the rebel miners calling their men to arms? In the greyish dawn light Henry could see men running from their tents, putting on clothes as they ran, searching for ammunition, desperately priming muskets.

  Now the whole camp was awake. Children were crying, dogs barking. The shooting hadn’t stopped. Just inside the barricades Henry could now make out men lying on the ground, or huddled in shapeless heaps. Some were moving, others were very still. On their clothes and pooling around them was darkness. With a chill, Henry realised it was blood.

  A woman darted from one of the tents and fell on to the body of one of the wounded men. Her agonised howling filled Henry with horror.

  ‘Charge!’

  ‘What’s happening? What’s happening?’ ‘It’s but four in the morning!’ ‘The dragoons are here, Lord save us!’ ‘Great God, here come the troopers!’ People were rushing everywhere, bumping into each other in the half darkness, shouting orders and curses.

  The sound of galloping hoofs made the hair stand up on the back of Henry’s neck. What could the diggers do against a cavalry charge, or against mounted police with fixed bayonets? He could see the rows of pikemen facing the Melbourne road, their weapons held ready. As he watched, several of them fell, their pikes useless against the cavalry’s bullets.

  From beyond the barricade he could hear shouted orders, the whinnying of horses, and the constant rattle of musketry. ‘Fire!’ ‘Fire!’ ‘Fire!’

  ‘Henry!’ Frank was at his side, his eyes huge, his red hair purple in the grey light. ‘I’ve found myself a pistol. Let’s go get the beggars!’

  Henry took the Derringer out of his pocket and released the safety catch. His mouth was dry with terror.

  It was too late to think of promises made to Jack. Too late to think of anything. There was more firing, this time coming from inside the stockade – a quick rat-tat-tat. The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder and the moaning of the wounded.

  Suddenly Henry saw Peter Lalor standing above one of the rifle-pits. ‘Retreat! Retreat!’ he was shouting. ‘Take cover!’ Another volley of shots rang out. As Henry watched, t
heir commander-in-chief fell, clutching his shoulder, and rolled out of sight.

  ‘Dear Lord, he’s down,’ he heard a miner say. ‘God help us now.’

  Henry swallowed, choked. This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be! He gulped air, trying to breathe. Peter Lalor was dead! It was the end of everything.

  There was another burst of musketry, and more men standing at the barricades slumped into the shadows.

  A bugle sounded, ripping the air apart. There was a moment when the firing stopped, followed by a rustling, clinking stampede of soldiers falling in.

  It’s over, Henry thought. Thank God, it’s over.

  Then his blood froze.

  The soldiers, with bayonets fixed, were storming the barricade. One section was already weakened, and now it fell. With blood-curdling yells, a tide of red-coats and police troopers poured into the stockade.

  And there was Jack, his tall figure outlined against the dawn sky. He was standing on top of the barricade, urging the diggers on. ‘Courage!’ he was shouting. ‘Don’t give up, men! We can win!’’

  ‘Come on, Henry,’ shouted Frank. ‘We have to help Jack!’ And he raced straight into the raging battle.

  He’s gone mad, Henry thought. He’ll be killed!

  ‘Frank!’ he shouted. He ran, crouching low to the ground, aiming his pistol at the sea of red-coats. But when he pulled the trigger, all he heard was a hollow click. What? Father always said he kept the pistol loaded and ready. But it was empty, dead, no more use than a child’s toy. Despair flooded through him.

  Now I’m for it, he thought. I have no weapon. I’m going to die.

  Looking up, he saw a horde of soldiers bearing down, swords and bayonets flashing. Teeth bared, sweating, red-faced, they looked less than human. And Frank, struggling to re-load his pistol, stood right in their way.

  Now the red-coats were so close Henry could hear their hoarse breathing. One of them was coming straight for Frank, sword raised.

  ‘Stop!’ screamed Henry. He ran forward and stood in front of Frank as other soldiers rushed past and around them. ‘Stop! Leave him alone – he’s unarmed!’ He pointed the useless Derringer squarely at the soldier’s face.

  The man stopped. He stepped back. ‘Who in hell do you think you are?’ he yelled. ‘Out of the way, sonny, in the Queen’s name!’

  ‘I’m Henry Bird,’ Henry said. ‘Put down your weapon.’

  The soldier stared at him for a long, long moment. Then, to Henry’s amazement and relief, he lowered his sword. ‘What are we coming to, murdering children?’ he said. ‘You boys should be home in bed.’

  ‘No!’ shouted Frank, pushing Henry aside. Tears were streaming down his face. ‘I want to fight!’

  ‘Frank, it’s too late,’ Henry said. ‘Can’t you see? It’s too late.’

  ‘You’d better run, boys,’ said the soldier. ‘Find somewhere safe.’ And then he was gone.

  Huddled against the barricade, Henry and Frank watched the red-coats continue their rampage. They swarmed through the stockade, stabbing and slicing at anybody in their way. They plunged their bayonets into dead and wounded bodies, ripped into the fabric of tents that Henry knew still sheltered women and children.

  Some thrust burning brands into the sides of the tents, setting them alight, cheering as smoke and flames drove the terrified occupants outside.

  Henry saw a soldier drag the rebels’ flag from the flagstaff, and it felt as if his heart was being wrenched from his body.

  The flag! The beautiful starry flag!

  ‘It’s all wrong,’ Frank said, over and over, between sobs. ‘It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It’s all wrong.’

  The soldier waved the flag triumphantly in the air before stuffing it under his arm like a bundle of washing. A police trooper snatched it from him and threw it to the ground, stamping it into the dirt.

  It really is all over, Henry realised. It’s all over, and we’ve lost.

  A few of the rebel miners stayed to face their attackers. Henry saw shovels used against swords and bayonets, pikes useless against bullets. More men fell. Others fled towards a gap at the back of the stockade fence. Troopers and soldiers followed them, shooting with pistols and rifles.

  ‘It’s a massacre!’ shouted a digger, running past them. ‘Get out of here, now!’

  Henry pulled at Frank’s arm. ‘Come on, Frank. This is a battle we can’t win.’

  ‘It’s all quiet now,’ Henry said. ‘We have to go back. We have to find Jack.’ He tried to speak calmly, but his teeth were chattering as if he was cold. ‘I feel as if none of this is happening.’

  ‘I feel like that, too,’ Frank said. In the early morning light Henry could see that his face was streaked with tears and caked with blood from a cut over his eye. Frank made a wobbly attempt at a smile. ‘Don’t worry about Jack. He’s too smart to have got himself wounded, or be . . .’

  The word ‘dead’ hung between them. Neither of them could say it.

  They pushed their way out of the scrub where they had taken cover and walked back past the broken wall of the barricade. A haze of smoke hung in the air, shot through with feeble rays of sunshine. Henry sniffed: he could smell burning, and something else. Blood?

  As he hesitated, looking around, he heard a faint voice to their left. ‘Help, mate. Give us a hand.’

  Henry turned to Frank. ‘Did you hear a voice?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t see anyone.’

  ‘Hello!’ called Henry. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m down here, in a ditch. There’s a wooden slab on top. I’m wounded, and I can’t shift it.’

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll help you.’

  Henry and Frank followed the sound of the voice, and saw a blood-stained leg, dressed in navy blue serge, sticking out of a shallow hole.

  ‘My mate put me here for safety after I got shot. Now I can’t move.’

  ‘It’s a trooper,’ Frank whispered to Henry. ‘Why should we help him? Let’s leave him and go find Jack.’

  ‘He might be badly hurt, though,’ Henry whispered back. ‘We should find out. He’s a human being, as my Mam would say.’

  ‘All right,’ said Frank. He stopped whispering. ‘I’ve re-loaded my pistol,’ he said loudly.

  ‘Where are you hurt?’ Henry asked the trooper. ‘Can you move at all?’

  There was silence. Then the voice replied. ‘If you must know, I was shot in the . . . in the rear.’

  Henry took hold of the heavy wooden slab that covered most of the hole, and with Frank’s help he heaved it aside.

  ‘Well,’ said Frank, ‘would you look at that, now.’

  ‘Why, Sergeant Nockles,’ said Henry. ‘You are the last person I expected to see. I’d have thought a battle would be something you’d keep well away from.’

  ‘Calling me a coward, are you?’ said Nockles. But he didn’t sound as aggressive as he usually did.

  ‘You were shot in the bum,’ Henry said. ‘That means you were running away. Of course you’re a coward.’

  Nockles pointed his rifle at Henry’s chest. ‘Watch your tongue, Master Bird. Just get me out of here, or I’ll shoot you both.’

  ‘I don’t think you’d do that, would you?’ said Henry. ‘Because it might be a long time before anyone else finds you. Unless your mate comes back . . . but he could’ve been killed, couldn’t he?’

  ‘Not the way your lot were fighting. Talk about cowards –’

  ‘Don’t you dare call them cowards,’ Frank said furiously. He pulled out his pistol. ‘I ought to shoot you dead right now, you – you blatherskite!’

  ‘All right, all right!’ Nockles said. ‘Don’t shoot!’

  ‘It’s your lot who are the cowards,’ Henry said. ‘Only cowards would sneak up in the night and attack without any warning. And then what you did when the barricade came down . . .’ He stopped, remembering the horror. ‘Come on, Frank, let’s leave him to be eaten by ants.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Frank. ‘We’ll neve
r tell where he is. I suppose they’ll find his rotting corpse one day.’

  ‘Wait!’ called Nockles. ‘I’ll bleed to death in this hole. Just get me out of here, and I won’t ever bother you again.’ He looked at Frank. ‘I kept my word to your mother, didn’t I? You can trust me.’

  ‘We wouldn’t trust you as far as we could throw you,’ Henry said. ‘So before we do anything, give us your rifle. If you don’t, we’ll leave you to rot.’

  With a grunt of anger, Nockles threw out the gun.

  It was hard work prising him out of his cramped hiding place, and Nockles was swearing with pain by the time he was on level ground. As they laid him down, his jacket fell open and Henry saw that he was wearing a silver watch on a handsome silver chain. He stared at it, and his heart jumped. He reached forward and turned the watch over. Engraved on the back, in a fancy scroll, were the initials AJB.

  ‘That’s my father’s watch, you thief,’ he said. ‘We never saw the licence you said you’d give him in exchange, so it’s mine by rights. I’m taking it back.’

  He unhooked the watch and chain and put them in his own pocket. ‘You can make your own way home, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘We’ve done all we can for you, and it’s a lot more than you deserve.’

  The stockade was a miserable sight. The tent in which they’d spent the night was now a pile of smouldering ashes. Henry pushed some burnt blankets away with his foot, and suddenly felt as if his heart had stopped beating. Beneath the smoking remains he could see grey fur.

  ‘Frank, it’s Jack!’

  ‘Calm down, Henry. Look, you eejit, it’s only his cloak. He left it behind when he went charging off into battle.’ Frank picked up the scorched and charred mess. ‘That’s a shame. Jack will be sorry to see what’s happened to it.’

  ‘Thank God I’ve found you.’ It was Mr Hunter, out of breath, peering at them from behind his half-moon spectacles. ‘I’ve been searching for you boys since daybreak. It’s chaos with so many dead and wounded. Do you need help? Are you hurt?’