Blood in the Dust Page 14

  Near the floor of the valley another road crossed from north to south. Here, the buildings were more substantial, built to last longer than the ramshackle huts and tents littering the countryside. Some were finished in weatherboard and painted with whitewash. People moved around like ants. Miners in cabbage-tree hats carried washing cradles and spades and stepped nimbly around buggies and men on horseback, all with looks of determination on their faces as they went about their business.

  Frank manoeuvred his wagonette alongside. His family sat four abreast on the seat with him, incredulous expressions on their faces. They craned their heads in every direction, trying to take it all in. Frank pushed his hat back and shook his head with amazement.

  ‘Sweet lavender in the springtime! Where do we start?’

  ‘We need to find the gold commissioner and get a licence before we peg a claim,’ Toby said. ‘And we need to know where our claims will be before we go to the trouble of setting up camp. No use in camping on this side of the valley if our claims are going to be miles away.’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine there’s a piece of land out there not already being dug up by someone,’ Maree said. She sat stiffly on the seat with her daughters on either side of her, arms placed protectively around them.

  A heavily bearded man in dirt-stained clothes rounded a tent and made to walk past them. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Toby said. ‘Could you point us in the direction of the Gold Commissioner’s office?’

  The grubby man stopped and leaned against the nearside front wheel of Toby’s wagonette. He opened his mouth into a broad grin and pushed his hat back on his head, leaving a dusty red smear above his eyebrows.

  ‘The gold commissioner, you say?’

  With one sweeping glance he surveyed the people on the wagonettes, taking in the fresh faces, neatly stacked belongings and shiny new equipment. His eyes lingered on Maree and Annie for a moment before he turned back to Toby.

  ‘The Gold Commissioner’s got a tent on the edge of Government Camp,’ he said, pointing in the direction they were facing. ‘If you’re looking to set up a claim, I hear they’re taking nuggets the size of chook eggs out of Canadian Flat. Me mates and me is thinking of moving over there from Golden Point. Ain’t got nothing out of there ’cept calluses and aching joints.’

  Toby touched a finger to the brim of his hat. ‘Thanks, sir.’

  Government Camp stood out as an island of orderliness in a sea of mayhem. The tents were pitched in neat rows, all evenly spaced, and a horse yard stretched across the back of the camp, leaving the front area free as a parade ground. A flagpole stood at the end of the open square, the Union Jack fluttering in the breeze. To one side of the flagpole sat a tent. A queue of thirty or so men stretched away from the tent and wound its way to the edge of the track.

  They parked the wagonettes, and Toby and Frank wandered over to join the queue, leaving Paddy with Maree and the girls to tend the horses and find something for a midday meal.

  ‘I hope to God I have done the right thing,’ Frank said, as they waited in line.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Toby lifted his hat and pushed sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes.

  Frank shuffled his feet in the dust, watching the marks his boots left as he trailed them back and forth. ‘Ten thousand miles I’ve dragged them, away from the only home they knew,’ he murmured, inclining his head towards the wagonettes. ‘The stories we heard in England of this place: riches lying on the ground for the taking; land enough for every man just for the asking; a place where a man can be his own master. I knew they were mostly stories, but I hoped there was just an ounce of truth in them. Have I brought my family to the ends of the earth just to live in a tent beside a hole in the ground?’

  ‘Pa used to say that for every man who finds gold, a hundred will run for home with their tails between their legs. This is where the riches are, Frank. We just have to figure out how to get our share.’

  Frank looked him straight in the eyes and Toby could see the worry and pain behind the steely depths. ‘I hope you’re right, Toby. We don’t have a home to run back to. Like you and Paddy, everything we have is over there on that wagonette.’

  The gold commissioner handled proceedings efficiently and they moved steadily down the queue. Toby and Frank soon entered the small tent to find two men sitting behind a makeshift desk. Uniform jackets hung loosely from the backs of chairs, and the rear of the tent had been opened to allow what little breeze there was to drift through. One man, sitting straight-backed and military-like with his hands clasped on the table in front of him, asked the questions necessary to complete the licence forms while the other, short and overweight and sweating profusely, wrote the details down. Toby and Frank each paid one pound, ten shillings licence fee.

  ‘You will need to renew your licence every month,’ the straight-backed man informed them. ‘You can peg out an area of twelve feet square each. You must carry out some form of work on each claim for it to be honoured. Try not to jump the claim of someone else. I do not have the stomach for another cut throat. Good day, gentlemen.’

  ‘I’ll take the first shift down the hole if you don’t mind, lad. The air’s still cool down there,’ Frank said.

  Toby didn’t mind at all. Alternating their duties four times a day meant Frank would also have the first shift of the afternoon when the bottom of the shaft would be hot and airless. Frank knew this too, but he liked getting the best shift along with the worst. He dropped a shovel to the bottom of the pit and grabbed a pick before swinging onto the ladder and disappearing down the mine.

  They had pegged two claims close to the floor of a gully, a little above the muddied waters of a creek. Under the terms of their licence each claim had to show some sign of being worked or that claim would become forfeit and could be pegged by another digger without any recourse to the gold commissioner. Shepherding a claim was a well-established practice on the diggings. If a party had two claims, but wanted to concentrate their attention on one at a time, they would show a token amount of work at the second claim, thereby honouring the terms of the licence and preventing others from taking over. Frank, Toby and Paddy had sunk their shepherd claim to a depth of three feet before turning all their efforts to this claim.

  They had managed to sink a shaft almost fifteen feet into the hard, quartz-rich dirt of Ballarat. The sides of the shaft were roughly six feet by six, leaving a further three feet between their claim and those surrounding it. The formed trails and tracks were off-limits. Under the terms of the gold licence these had to be left clear. However, this didn’t stop the more greedy diggers from staking a claim on a track if the area showed promise. The tracks and paths were formed by the diggers themselves and the gold commissioner and his troopers could not hope to be familiar with even half of them. The result was a lot of dead-end paths and trails that criss-crossed through and around the diggings. Care was required when walking, especially at night. One wrong turn could lead to a fatal fall down a shaft.

  Paddy trundled the barrow and cradle a short distance down to the creek and returned a few minutes later with the empty barrow for Toby.

  ‘All set, Paddy?’ Toby asked and received a nod in reply.

  ‘This could be the day we strike it rich. Then we go and buy our farm back off Pelham.’

  Paddy picked up a shovel and scurried away towards the creek. Toby started every morning with that statement. He watched Paddy go, and wanted to share in his brother’s enthusiasm, but the reality was all around him. Only a lucky few ever made a fortune on the goldfields. The road back to Melbourne was full of diggers who, having run out of money and luck, were forced to pack up and head back to town to find work. Toby wondered how long they could last. Everything on the goldfields was expensive. Everyone wanted to make a fortune, from the storekeepers and sly grog shop operators to the government themselves with their monthly licence fee. He hated to admit it, but if they didn’t find some gold in the next few weeks, they wouldn’t be able to afford a licence. If they were caugh
t mining without one it would mean a fine or, if unable to pay, imprisonment.

  ‘Bucket.’

  Frank’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts and he lowered the bucket into the shaft.

  ‘Pull away.’

  Toby braced his feet and pulled the rope hand over hand until the laden bucket reached the surface. He poured the contents into the barrow and then lowered the bucket again. Nine times this was repeated before the barrow was full.

  Toby leaned out over the shaft and called to Frank, barely visible in the shadowy depths. ‘Taking the barrow down to the creek, Frank.’

  ‘Aye, lad.’

  Toby took hold of the barrow’s handles and headed down the path to the creek, the little wooden wheel wobbling and bouncing over rocks and bumps. Paddy saw him coming and was waiting with a bucket of water in hand. With a grunt Toby tipped the contents of the barrow onto the bank of the creek for Paddy to wash through the cradle.

  With Paddy started on his task, Toby headed back to the shaft with the barrow. The lack of noise from below told him Frank was ready for the bucket again. ‘Below,’ he warned, and the bucket descended into the shaft.

  The process went on like that until mid-morning when Annie and Betty appeared. Annie carried a billy of steaming tea and Betty carefully picked her way over the ground holding in her hands three mugs which already contained the sugar each of them took. This mid-morning ritual also signalled a change of shift for Frank and Toby.

  ‘Frank, the girls are here,’ he called down the shaft, and then climbed the mound of dirt to call Paddy up from the creek.

  ‘Mama says lunch will be a little late today. She had a terrible row with the butcher over the price of beef,’ Annie said, as she poured. Betty passed the full mugs to each of them.

  ‘Mama says the price goes up every few days,’ Betty added. ‘She says we won’t be able to eat beef soon the way things are going. And mutton isn’t far behind either.’

  Annie reached into her apron pocket and took out a carefully folded tea towel. She laid it gently on the ground and unfolded it to reveal three thick slices of damper coated in plum jam. She passed one each to her father and the boys.

  Toby attacked the slice of damper and washed it down with a mouthful of tea. ‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Tell your mama thank you very much.’

  ‘Oh, Mama didn’t make the damper,’ Annie beamed. ‘I did. I’m glad you like it.’

  Toby felt self-conscious as Annie continued smiling at him. ‘Well, it’s very nice indeed,’ he managed to squeak out.

  ‘I’ll second that,’ Frank added.

  ‘This hole sure is getting deep,’ Betty said from near the ladder.

  Frank leaped to his feet and took his daughter by the hand. ‘Come away from there, sweetheart,’ he said, leading her back from the shaft. ‘That hole is getting too deep to go leaning over like that.’

  ‘But, Papa, I was just looking,’ Betty said, a hurt look in her big eyes, her bottom lip pouting.

  ‘In the first days it was okay to lean out over the mine, but not now. The hole is far too deep for that. Do you understand? Both of you?’ He looked to Annie as well.

  ‘Yes, Papa.’ Betty and Annie chorused together.

  Toby was in a position to see Annie roll her eyes and caught the slight smile at the corners of her mouth. But when she went to take her father’s empty cup her face was expressionless. She gathered the remaining cups and, taking Betty by the hand, led her away up the path towards their camp.

  ‘Tell your mama we’ll leave it a little later to come up for lunch,’ Frank called after them.

  ‘Well, I guess it’s my turn down the hole,’ Toby said, and swung out onto the ladder. Although the sun held warmth, the hole was cool and smelled of the dirt they were busily digging away. He estimated they had started digging about twenty feet above the level of the creek bed. Other diggers had said any gold in the area would likely be at creek level or lower.

  ‘C’mon, gold,’ he told the coarse gravel as he swung the pick into it. ‘Reveal yourself. Just one big nugget will do, something the size of a loaf of bread. Is that too much to ask?’

  Light spilled from every window of the homestead and flooded across manicured lawns and rose gardens. From where he stood in the shadows, Anderson could see a hut some distance from the main building. This too had lighted windows. Raucous laughter erupted from that direction and he turned to the three Jannjirra warriors.

  ‘The building behind this one. It is the hut of men. Kill them all.’

  Chilbi, Tarrat and Yawong pulled war clubs from their cloaks and stole away into the darkness. Anderson turned his attention back to the homestead. A pair of French doors opened onto a wide verandah. Above the steps, a lantern burned, throwing light along a stone path. This was no squalid settlers’ home, he realised. The owner must be a wealthy grazier, a person of stature.

  A few frantic shouts drifted down from the stockmen’s quarters. If anyone from the house heard the commotion and tried to go to their aid, he was in the perfect position to ambush them. But the Jannjirra worked swiftly and without mercy. One stockman made it as far as the doorway, but a fleeting shape materialised behind him. Anderson heard the strike of the club from where he stood.

  Satisfied the workers had been dealt with, he pulled the revolver from his belt and strode up the path. He reached the French doors and kicked them open, shattering several panes in the process. The hallway beyond was carpeted, a regal-looking red pattern that stretched past several doorways.

  A man came through the first door on the right wearing a dressing gown and carrying a shotgun. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, Anderson raised the revolver and shot him in the head. The man fell to the floor and a woman screamed somewhere in the distance. He followed the screams to a bedroom and found a woman sitting up in bed. She saw him in the doorway and the scream rose in pitch. He placed his finger to his lips and the woman shut up, but she couldn’t stop the trembling spasms of fear that wracked her body. Pulling the bedclothes up to her chin, she watched him through fear-filled eyes.

  Deciding the woman was no threat, Anderson went from room to room. He found no one else before returning to the bedroom and pulled the woman from beneath the covers. She wore only a thin cotton nightdress and Anderson grunted with approval as he let his gaze roam over her body.

  ‘What have you done with Cornelius?’ the woman pleaded.

  ‘Nothing, milady,’ Anderson said and hooked a finger into the neck of the nightdress, tearing it halfway to the hem.

  The woman struggled to get free and screamed again. Anderson reversed the revolver in his grip and struck her temple so hard she collapsed onto the bed, not out cold, but too dazed to scream. He loosened his trousers and let them fall to the floor. Then he completed the tear to the nightdress. It fell away, leaving the woman naked.

  ‘Cornelius says for you to look after my every need, milady.’ Anderson pulled her knees apart. ‘And look after my every need you shall.’

  Some minutes later he was aware of movement behind him. Chilbi stood in the doorway, his war club covered in hair and blood.

  ‘Are all the men dead?’

  ‘Yes, Warrigal,’ Chilbi nodded. ‘We have sent them to their ancestors.’

  ‘Good.’ He could see Chilbi’s gaze on the woman. ‘Do you want a turn at this one?’

  ‘I will never lie with a Djarriba woman.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Give me your war club. She’ll be good for nothing now I’m finished with her.’ He took the club from Chilbi’s hands and stood back from the bed, his trousers around his ankles. The woman did not move or cry out as Anderson raised the club. The fire-hardened knob whistled through the air and struck her in the side of the head. Her legs twitched and blood pulsed from the wound at first, then slowed to a trickle. Anderson handed the club back to Chilbi.

  ‘Take all that we can use,’ he said, stooping to pull up his trousers. ‘Take food as well. I’ll gather up the weapons
and gunpowder – and see what they have in the way of valuables.’

  Chilbi turned from the room and strode down the hallway towards the front doors. As he passed one of the other rooms he heard a muffled cry from behind a closed door. Reaching for the door, he pushed it open, the club ready in his hand.

  A lantern hung from the ceiling hook, lighting a small cot. A table near the window contained a pile of clean swaddling clothes, oils and powders. There was a large wardrobe against the far wall, one door hanging slightly ajar. Chilbi crossed the space in two quick strides and used the club to push the door wide.

  A young girl of maybe fifteen or sixteen years crouched in the wardrobe holding an infant to her chest. The baby squirmed in her grip and the girl had a hand over its mouth, trying to stifle the cries. She looked up at Chilbi and her eyes flew wide. A whimper of terror escaped her mouth and Chilbi glanced over his shoulder at the doorway.

  The girl began sobbing, huge wracking gasps that shook her body. She forgot about trying to keep the baby quiet and lifted her hand. The infant squealed in wild indignation.

  Chilbi reached out to quiet the girl, but she mistook his actions and let fly a blood-curdling scream. He tried again to quiet her, but it was too late. He could hear Anderson thumping down the hallway.

  ‘What the hell do we have here?’

  Chilbi turned as Anderson’s bulk filled the doorway. The bushranger eyed the girl in the wardrobe.

  ‘Ah! Another little filly for my pleasure.’

  He stepped forward, but Chilbi blocked his path.

  ‘No, Warrigal. This one is mine.’

  The bushranger paused, unused to having any of the Jannjirra oppose him. He eyed the war club in Chilbi’s hand, but did not step back. ‘Don’t be stupid. She’s a Djarriba woman. I’ll have my fun with her and then send her to her ancestors – the bairn too.’

  Chilbi lifted the club slightly, all too aware that Anderson’s hand had started for the revolver in his belt. Chilbi tensed, ready to strike. He held the bushranger’s cold stare, knowing that at any moment Anderson could erupt into deadly violence – he had seen it often before when the bushranger didn’t get his way. His pulse raced, but he held his ground, not sure if he would be quick enough with the club.