by James Fearn
‘Say, Josh! You may be interested to come to a demonstration next Saturday afternoon. Have you heard about it?’ said John. ‘You’ll get the feel of the diggers’ thinking first-hand if you need any convincing.’ Josh loved a bit of politicking and responded enthusiastically to John’s suggestion.
Abruptly changing the subject, Josh came out with a startling question. ‘Say, have you two ever thought o’ farmin’ in the United States? In Mississippi and Louisiana, they’re cryin’ out for folks like you to work on them plantations. Cotton’s real bigtime in Europe, y’ know.’ Y’ could be sure of a decent livin’ there an’ make a decent life for yer kids.’
John’s immediate reaction was one of indifference. He believed that he and Anna could succeed in Australia, eventually, and he was not keen to leave.
Anna had listened carefully to the conversation with growing interest. The idea of migrating yet again to a country with brighter prospects was not such a barrier to her. While she loved her husband and was prepared to endure the rigours of life on the diggings, she could clearly see that their hopes of owning a farm of their own in Victoria were fading as the gold yields diminished. The prospect of farming in America seemed to her to offer a better chance of making good if Josh was correct.
That night the usual pillow talk was suspended as they discussed Josh’s suggestion. ‘Farming in Mississippi!’ John mused. ‘You’re really interested in that, aren’t you, my dear?’ said John, turning to look at his wife. ‘I’ve married a real adventurer, haven’t I? I thought you might have had enough travel by now.’
‘But, John’, she responded, ‘it sounds exciting. Josh says it would give our family a better life than Forest Creek could ever give us.’
‘Big talk is cheap’, said John, ‘and Texans are pretty good at it. Still it seems from what Josh says that it’s a much freer society than we’ve got here. And we wouldn’t have these crippling licence fees to pay. But there’s one big problem, Anna,’ said John. ‘There are black slaves on their plantations. How could you live with that?’
‘Well, the Bible does say something about masters treating their slaves all right, doesn’t it? And without a safe place to live most of them would be in poverty back in Africa,’ said Anna, recalling the words of her parish priest back in Sheffield.
‘I think we should consider it, John,’ she continued. ‘You must admit that digging here has been disappointing.’
And so the seed had been planted, and the idea of another radical change in the direction of their young lives began to grow and mature. John’s involvement in the Red Ribbon League and before that, the Chartists, had deepened his commitment to freeing oppressed people. What could possibly fulfil such an aspiration in yet another land?
Chapter 6
The social and political tensions of the Victorian goldfields of the mid-nineteenth century were at fever pitch. The blatant tyranny of the police and the unrelenting government had combined to incite open rebellion. A massive response was expected to the call to the anti-government demonstration, which had been planned for the weekend before Christmas at Forest Creek.
After lunch on Saturday, Josh, the American miner, appeared at the door of John’s tent. He was dressed in a typical miner’s garb with a red cotton band around the crown of his hat, the unmistakable mark of anti-colonial sentiment. From his demeanour, it was obvious that he was anxious to hear the celebrated President of the Red Ribbon League, the advertised keynote speaker for the rally. John and Anna hurried to ready themselves for the half-hour walk to the centre of town.
When they emerged, John was carrying a small leather pouch in which he kept the meagre results of his week’s labour on the diggings. ‘I’d like to sell the gold before the meeting if you don’t mind,’ he said to Anna. ‘I’ll need to call in at O’Grady’s on the way.’
Most of the storekeepers were buyers of gold either for cash or in exchange for goods, and it was unfortunately true that some of them were downright swindlers. When John arrived with his little pouch, he tipped the contents on to a glass plate on the wooden counter. The gold buyer picked up the largest nugget with tweezers and put it on his troy-weight scales.
‘Two ounces, four pennyweight,’ he announced. Five smaller lumps were weighed together. ‘Eighteen pennyweight, twenty-nine grains,’ called O’Grady.
Finally, John produced a small bottle with a little gold dust on the bottom. This was duly tipped on to the pan of the scales.
‘Fourteen grains’, said O’Grady. ‘Now let me see, altogether that makes . . . three ounces, three pennyweight, sixteen grains. At eighty shillings an ounce . . . , I owe you twelve pounds, fourteen shillings, and eight pence.’
‘Just a minute!’ said John who had been watching proceedings suspiciously. What in fact had just happened was the old trick of dividing the gold into small lots. When each lot was out on the balance, its weight was slightly underestimated. The trusting miner was thus credited with less than its total weight. In aggregate this became significant.
‘Let me do it,’ said John in a sceptical tone. Ignoring O’Grady’s protests and putting all of the gold on the pan at once, he balanced the scales and read the weight. ‘Ha ha! Look, three ounces, four pennyweight, and twelve grains. You owe me twelve pounds, eighteen shillings.’ The dealer looked aghast. He had been caught out. ‘But the balance isn’t accurate with heavier loads,’ he protested.
‘Considerably more accurate than the way you did it,’ said John accusingly. ‘You owe me twelve pounds, eighteen shillings, and that’s that. Now come on, pay up!’
‘Y’ ol son of a gun!’ drawled Josh. ‘Yer really had his measure didn’t yer.’ Anna giggled with delight that they had three shillings and four pence more than it looked like were going to be paid. She could get three pounds of sugar for that. ‘What a rogue?’ she thought. ‘He could do very well that way with the dozens of miners who came though his store.’
By now, the diggers were assembling. Again, it had been arranged that the speakers would address the crowd from the ‘pulpit’ in the tree. As John looked across the road, he could see the crowd. They were good honest hard-working men who were capable of giving their adopted country their undivided loyalty if only they were treated fairly. The men felt deeply that the new tax was grossly unfair. John felt proud to be part of a movement that was standing up to a domineering establishment. Shades of his pre-convict past.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen of Forest Creek!’ came the voice of the Chairman. But his voice was quickly overwhelmed by the sounds of a bush band, leading a rambling throng up the track towards the tree. At the head of the column came the Irish contingent, always the leaders when there was a row in the offing, then came the Scots, one of two of them wearing the kilt followed by the English. In front, walked a huge giant of a man carrying an enormous Union Jack in his right hand held out rigidly in front of him. At the rear, walked smaller groups of men carrying the revolutionary flags of France and Germany and accompanied by the Stars and Stripes of America. What a colourful and stirring site it was? The men sang protest songs about freedom and independence. This cacophony of male voices might well have struck fear into the hearts of the staunchest of government minions like the distant skirl of the bagpipes on the Scottish highlands.
Pushing a path through the milling mass of men, John led the visiting speaker to the ‘pulpit’. The Chairman once again called for quiet. An eerie hush fell over the great assembly. A lone jackass laughed derisively from its perch high above in the tree as if he thought the whole thing was a joke.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen of Forest Creek!’ he began again. ‘You all know why we’re here today. We all feel strongly about the increased license fees that none of us can afford. Today, all over the goldfields there are meetings like this, calling upon the government to treat us fairly. I am very pleased today to introduce to you a man who has been in this fight ever since we first heard about it. He has spo
ken at dozens of rallies around the colony and we think it’s great that he has come to Forest Creek today.’
‘My good friends, let’s give a rousing welcome to Mr Jonathan Stanley, the President of the Red Ribbon League.’ A spirited chorus of ‘Hip! Hip! Hurrah!’ rang out from hundreds of voices in expectancy, and they were not to be disappointed.
‘Diggers of Forest Creek! I greet you in the name of freedom,’ he began. Another shout went up from the men. ‘I greet you in the name of independence!’ An even louder roar echoed around the hills.
‘It has been said that the goldfields are drifting towards rebellion, and no wonder! We diggers have had enough of the arrogance of the ‘traps’. We’ve had enough of the graft and corruption of the government officials. If we’re going to pay our license fees, we demand to have a vote. We demand the right to elect out own representatives in parliament.’ Stanley lowered his voice dramatically. ‘Some say that it’s only a matter of time before there’s a showdown.’ In a rising crescendo, he continued, ‘If it’s not in Ballarat, then it will be in Bendigo or even here in Forest Creek. We need to take a strong stand now, or we’ll be beaten into submission forever. Are we going to lie down and let them crush us?’
By now, the angry interjections from the audience were so loud that the Chairman had to call for order. The hot sun was beating down upon the President who gladly accepted a cool drink while order was restored. Wiping the sweat from his brow, Stanley stepped forward to the front of the ‘pulpit’ once more.
Suddenly, the crack of a horsewhip was heard in the distance. A second crack and the sound of galloping hoofs signalled the approach of a horseman. The whole audience turned as one to look back down the track as the whip-cracking rider raced through the parting crowd and stopped at the foot of the ‘pulpit’. Stanley bent over to listen to the obviously urgent message. The men were hushed for several minutes as the message was delivered. He straightened up to address them his face as white as a sheet.
‘Men, it is my sad duty to advise you that there has been a massacre at Ballarat this morning.’ He spoke gravely and quietly. ‘This morning a detachment of the military and the police attacked the stockade of our gallant mates at Ballarat. These brave men were defending our rights and our freedoms.’ Tears came to his eyes, as he spoke with passion. ‘And some of them have paid the supreme sacrifice in doing so. Thirty of our friends have been killed there this morning and many more wounded.’ The assembly stood motionless hushed and stunned.
Stanley’s voice quavered as he called for a moment of silence in memory of the brave boys who had fallen. But the miners’ feelings could not be contained. Gradually, their restrained chatter gave way to hostile shouts, which escalated into a thunder of angry voices. The feeling was so high that John thought it fortunate that the military detachment had not been posted to Forest Creek for surely a fight to the death might well have resulted.
An irate digger jumped up on to the ‘pulpit’ held his license paper high above him and set fire to it. Many of his colleagues torched their papers too in a united show of defiance.
Sensing the imminent danger of a riot, John leapt to the ‘pulpit’ and lifted his voice with the authority of a respected leader.
‘Men of Forest Creek! Listen to me! I know and feel your anger, and I share your grief. We will not tolerate the murder of our mates. But we must not take revenge in the heat of the moment. Remember the military and the police are well armed. We would be no match for their fire power. We can achieve our ends by other means.’
‘Let us resolve that no miner, not one of us will pay the increased license fee. There’s no way the authorities can force us all to pay other than the gun. I call you to reason not to recklessness. I call you to solidarity not selfishness. I call you to resolution, not compromise.’ John’s rhetoric was again being called upon to pacify the militant mob and to prevent riot. His mother would have been proud of him.
With John’s words in their minds, the crowd began to disperse slowly. Taking Anna’s arm, John walked pensively away from the scene. He was seeing less and less chance of peace in his adopted country. American democracy was as far from a reality in this place as was the hope of making a fortune. Perhaps, Josh’s advice should be thought about at least. Was it time to leave the Victorian diggings and try his luck in another land?
John’s conversations with Josh, often into the late hours of the night were fascinating. He was impressed with the political system that Josh was describing and with the apparent opportunities for even the common man to make good.
But John was puzzled, nevertheless, by what seemed to him to be a terrible weakness. The freedoms and the rights that the constitution conferred upon the ordinary citizen did not extend to the coloured population. Indeed, he began to wonder how long it would be before such double standards would bring down the Republic.
Christmas Eve arrived and John and Anna decided to spend the morning shopping for presents. It was a warm December morning, and the gentle north breeze was tossing the leaves of the gum trees and the cheerful songs of the magpies and jackasses echoed across the gully. It was occasions like this that the thought of leaving Forest Creek was abhorrent to John and Anna.
After spending time in O’Grady’s store, they were about to make their way home when a large dray packed with travellers and new diggers trundled into the town. ‘Wo . . . ah there!’ shouted the driver as the bullock team plodded to a halt.
John and Anna could hardly believe their eyes when, who should they see getting off the dray but Harry, Anna’s father. He stepped down quite briskly carrying a small carpetbag. He was well dressed like a Victorian squatter with a colourful cravat at his neck and a pork-pie hat. When he caught sight of the young couple, he ran to Anna flung his arms around her and kissed her affectionately.
‘It’s good to see y’, me boy!’ he said to John. Not a trace of enmity towards his son-in-law was evident in Harry’s manner. On the contrary, he seemed delighted to greet him and to see for himself that Anna was happy and well.
‘Let me take your bag, Father,’ said John as they began to walk home. Anna and Harry spoke with such animation and speed that John found it hard to get a word in. Anna made no mention of the baby, wanting to tell her father all the good news and to hear about her mother. Harry was amazed to see all the tents and shacks that were dotted here and there across Pennyweight Flat and very pleased to observe how well accepted his daughter and son-in-law were in this colony.
Arriving home, Anna took hold of her father’s hand and led him to the little grave. The dried wreaths had long since gone, but the little cross was still there. Harry wanted to share Anna’s grief with her and the two of them stood in silence hand in hand. A tear ran slowly down Harry’s rugged cheek as he comforted his daughter. His simple faith tempted him to wonder if this was God’s punishment on his daughter. But he kept his peace.
On Christmas morning, Harry was up early. The wind had dropped and the sun beat down upon him with a ferocity that suggested that a hot day was in store. Beatrice and Richard had suggested that John, Anna, and Harry should share their Christmas dinner with them. Later in the morning, as they made their way down the path to the cutler’s place the family reminisced about Christmases past.
Little did they expect the sight that greeted them as they came around the corner of the track just a stone’s throw from their hosts’ tent. It was decorated in colourful ribbons and bunches of wild Christmas Bush. The magpies chortled in the trees above, and the air was heavy with the scent of the eucalypts. A nearby Egg and Bacon bush in full bloom served as a Christmas tree. On it were coloured paper decorations, which matched its orange and yellow flowers. At its base, lay a pile of brightly wrapped Christmas presents each with a name tag clearly displayed. Richard had tied up the walls of their canvass tent to allow what little breeze there was to waft over them. The table, consisting of timber hewn with an axe and nailed together, reste
d on four sawn tree trunks. A white cloth was spread over it, and a great vase of Christmas bush flowers dominated the table, its mint-like aroma perfuming the air refreshingly. From the main tent pole hung sprigs of mistletoe in full flower their bright red and green colourings giving the place the feel of Christmas.
After Christmas greetings were exchanged, the guests took their appointed places at the table. Richard at the head of the table said grace, and Beatrice disappeared outside to fetch the turkey. It was a bush turkey, which Richard had trapped on Christmas Eve. It was a little tougher than the farmed turkeys, which one could buy at a price but quite acceptable. To Anna, it was a culinary delight and certainly a change from the cheap mutton, which was all that she and John could afford.
The turkey was brought from the bush oven and placed before Richard for carving. Stuffing, rich with wild herbs oozed from the sewn neck of the bird as Richard cut the string. When the meat was served, Beatrice placed hot vegetables and gravy on the plate. Harry could hardly believe the size of the plate that was set before him. As the party struggled to consume their dinners, beads of sweat ran from their brows. Their thirst was quenched with brandy and water in large tumblers. The happy chatter and laughter belied the fact that this was a family that had so recently emerged from the shadow of death.
The arrival of the Christmas pudding brought their animated conversation to a standstill. Like a large lump of conglomerate rock, it sat alluringly upon the plate crowned with a sprig of scented gum leaves. The serving of pudding immersed in creamy custard was absolutely delightful. All of a sudden Anna’s teeth bit on something hard. When it was removed with her spoon, she was astonished to see a gleaming gold nugget shining brilliantly in the early afternoon light.
Immediately, the other diners took a keen interest in the pudding. They examined each mouthful carefully in anticipation and hoped to finish fast enough to get a second helping. Beatrice looked on with an expression of benevolent satisfaction on her face.
