Blood in the Dust Read online

  ‘What do you mean pay double?’ Toby shouted. ‘What has Henry Pelham got to do with you and Dundas taking our cattle?’ Even as he spoke, Toby grasped the whole evil design that had seen him and Paddy lose their home. Henry Pelham had played them like the young fools they were. Eager to please. Eager to gather together a herd and drive it out along the colony’s tracks where it would be easy prey for men like Scotchy and Dundas. He had played right into Pelham’s hands.

  ‘You all right, laddie?’ McTavish had come up behind Toby.

  ‘Tell him.’ Toby stabbed a kick at Scotchy’s boot. ‘Tell him what you just told me.’

  Scotchy glared up at the policeman and sneered. ‘I got nothin’ to say to no one.’ He dropped his head to stare at the patch of ground between his legs.

  Toby bent and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat.

  ‘Tell him, you thieving bastard. Tell him how Henry Pelham paid you to steal our cattle so he could take our farm.’

  Scotchy accepted Toby’s rough handling with resigned indifference. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He looked at Toby and smiled, the skin around his eye crinkling.

  Toby brought his fist back, but McTavish pulled him away before he could deliver the punch.

  ‘He’s a prisoner of the Crown, laddie. I can’t let you beat him up – no matter how much he deserves it.’

  ‘We have to get the truth out of him,’ Toby yelled, struggling against the sergeant’s grip as he was pulled away.

  Behind him, Scotchy chuckled quietly.

  Sir Charles Hotham paced up and down the verandah outside his residence at Government House and tugged absentmindedly at his sideburns, as he did when he was agitated. He let out a deep sigh and settled his lean frame into a wicker chair. The sigh was not so much a result of his current predicament, but more a release of his frustration at what might have been.

  A naval officer of the old school, Hotham was an ambitious man with a deep-seated dedication to duty – whatever he interpreted that duty to be. He had requested a posting to the Crimea, for that was where the action was. Her Majesty’s armed forces needed officers of the highest order, men able to make tough decisions that would ultimately lead to victory. A senior officer who could change the course of a military engagement with a decisive plan could name his own posting, would be the toast of the empire, and have his advancement ensured.

  He had requested the Crimea. But it seemed his glory was to be denied him. His superiors had seen fit, instead, to ship him out to this far corner of the empire, as the new Lieutenant Governor of the Colony of Victoria.

  The colony itself had been left in a disastrous state by his predecessor. Every branch of the fledgling government was in a state of chaos. Hotham had arrived with strict instructions from the colonial secretary to fix the treasury in Victoria. He had immediately ordered an audit of the department and was astonished to learn that the colony was in debt by almost a million pounds. An unbelievable sum. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the treasury still haemorrhaged money at a substantial rate.

  The population itself seemed to be in a constant state of protest at the mismanagement of government departments. Miners at Bendigo had rallied and threatened to march on the Government Camp there in protest at the licence fee and the number of Chinese being allowed to flock to the diggings. Hotham was a great believer in strict discipline, and he knew a firm hand was needed when dealing with unruly men.

  Now it seemed that the troubles were about to re-emerge on the fields at Ballarat. He had toured there only recently and had been warmly received by the miners. They had expressed their concerns at what they considered an exorbitant licence fee and made pleas for stronger representation in the legislative assembly. Governor FitzRoy in New South Wales had seen fit to lower the monthly licence fee to ten shillings. Surely something similar could be implemented here, they pleaded. He had told them he would see what could be done to address their concerns and the diggers had sent him on his way back to Melbourne with three hearty cheers. Then they had rioted over the result of a murder trial and burnt a building to the ground. When the ringleaders had been arrested and brought to Melbourne for trial, the miners had sent a delegation to him demanding their release. He was the Queen’s representative in the colony and the citizens were making demands of him. He would not tolerate it.

  All recent despatches from Commissioner Rede at Ballarat carried word of growing unrest. The miners were forming into large and dangerous mobs, calling for changes to government process and taxes. They disguised these treasonous gatherings under the false banner of the Ballarat Reform League, but Hotham could sense the seeds of rebellion taking root among the shafts and mullock heaps of the diggings. It was time a firm hand was used to quell this type of behaviour. Then he could return to the task of sorting out the colony’s other problems.

  ‘I’ll have the 40th and 12th Regiments march to the diggings at Ballarat as soon as possible,’ he mused out loud. ‘A show of force is just what is needed. Nothing quiets an unruly mob quicker than a procession of redcoats marching into view with bayonets fixed.’

  On Sunday, Toby left for the hut on the diggings before the sun came up. He made his way into Ballarat and onto the Melbourne road before leaving the main thoroughfare and entering one of the side tracks that would eventually climb into the gully where the Hockings were camped. A few men and women made their way along the paths, some in their Sunday finery as they headed for church.

  As he rounded the shoulder of the hill, he found his way blocked by a group of men.

  ‘Which way did you come from?’ one of them asked. He looked at Toby with red-rimmed eyes and his boots were caked in mud.

  ‘From the sawmill on the western road,’ Toby said.

  ‘Did you see anyone with a young girl? She’s about fourteen and wearing a blue pinafore. I fear some mongrel has snatched her. We’ve been out looking since sundown yesterday.’ He cast his arm at the six men behind him.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ Toby said. ‘Where did she go missing from?’

  ‘We live on the edge of Yuille’s Swamp,’ he said, pointing towards the large body of water to the north of Ballarat. ‘She went out to check the eel traps late yesterday and didn’t come back.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Toby said. ‘She didn’t fall in the water or something?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Me mates and me have spent all night trudging around the edge of the swamp. When we didn’t find her, we thought we’d try the diggings. Someone has to have seen her.’

  ‘Tell you, what,’ Toby said. ‘I’ll fetch my brother and father-in-law from their camp and we’ll come give you a hand.’

  Toby returned on foot ten minutes later with Frank and Paddy in tow. The man stood by the track with just one other. The rest had gone.

  ‘Me mates have gone to search through the diggings,’ he explained. Colin and me thought we’d head back to the swamp and have a look in daylight.’

  ‘Probably the best thing you can do,’ Toby said.

  ‘My name’s Peter Dunn,’ the man said, and shook hands with everyone. ‘This is Colin Symes. Thanks for your help. Caroline is just a girl. She’s never been away from home before.’

  Dunn and Symes led them to the swamp and they followed it to the west. The edge was thick with reeds. The path eventually opened out into a small clearing and Dunn pointed at the water.

  ‘The eel traps are just through there. Caroline comes around here every afternoon and checks them.’

  ‘Let’s take a look closer to the water,’ Frank said. Symes and Dunn followed him through the reeds.

  Paddy wandered about the clearing and studied the ground. There were many footprints. He sat on his haunches to examine a small depression in the mud. Toby moved up beside him.

  ‘What is it, mate?’

  Paddy pointed at a small, dainty print made by a bare foot.

  ‘Was Caroline wearing shoes, Mr Dunn?’ Toby called in the direction of the water.

  ‘N
o. She always goes about barefoot.

  ‘Must be hers, Pad,’ Toby said, and his brother nodded. ‘Let’s see if we can find her trail going in and coming back out. Then we’ll know she’s not in the water.’

  They scouted about the clearing. The ground was soft and the prints well formed. After a few minutes it was possible to single out the girl’s spoor leading into the clearing from the east. The trail disappeared into the water near the eel traps, and then came back into the clearing.

  ‘She’s not in the water,’ Toby called to Frank and the others. ‘Not in this part of the swamp, anyway.’

  The three men came out of the reeds. Paddy herded them away from the spoor to prevent it from being obscured.

  ‘How can you be sure?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Her trail is quite clear here,’ Toby said. ‘She came around the edge of the swamp, went in to the traps and then came back out.’

  Dunn looked down at the confusion of prints and scratched the back of his head. ‘Where did she go from here, then?’

  ‘It gets a little confusing just here,’ Toby said, pointing at a mess of mud and prints. ‘But we can’t find her bare feet heading back to the east.’

  Frank glanced at the impenetrable wall of reeds and scrub on higher ground. ‘She didn’t go through there. She must have gone further around the swamp.’

  ‘Let’s see if we can find her spoor in that direction,’ Toby suggested, and they moved off in a loose line, stooped over as they examined the ground.

  ‘Where did you learn to track?’ Symes asked as they neared the far end of the clearing.

  ‘Paddy and me used to track down lost cattle on our parents’ property up on the Coliban River. We’d hunt down dingos that took an interest in the sheep. Sometimes we’d even track each other when we were playing in the hills. We’re no experts, though. An Aborigine tracker could run rings around us.’

  ‘You seem to be doing all right,’ Symes said. He was interrupted by Paddy clapping his hands for attention.

  ‘Found something, Pad?’

  Paddy pointed at the ground and Toby went to him. ‘It’s her print all right.’

  ‘Why was she going this way?’ Dunn said. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Our hut is round the other side.’

  Toby bent to examine another print nearby. This one was the half-circle of a horse’s hoof. ‘When you came searching last night, were any of you on horseback?’

  ‘No. We walked from my place around the edge of the swamp,’ Dunn said.

  Paddy tugged at Toby’s sleeve and pointed ahead.

  ‘Yeah, I see ’em, Pad.’ More prints led into the distance. ‘She was up on the balls of her feet here.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Symes asked.

  ‘My God,’ Frank said. ‘She was running.’

  ‘Running?’ Dunn asked. ‘Running from what?’

  ‘My guess would be whoever was on the horse,’ Toby said. He followed the prints for a few paces. ‘See how the horse’s spoor closes with the girl’s? He caught up with her here. Her prints just vanish, even though the ground is quite soft. I reckon the cove on the horse pulled her off the ground.’

  ‘I was right,’ Dunn said, a look of horror on his face. ‘Some bastard has snatched my little girl.’

  ‘We should fetch the police,’ Frank said.

  ‘There’s no time for that,’ Dunn yelled. ‘We have to catch the bastard before he hurts her.’ He turned to Toby and gripped his arm. ‘You can follow the horse. You and your brother can do it. Please, you have to help me.’

  ‘All right.’ Toby nodded. ‘We’ll give it a try.’

  The hut sat below a range of low hills to the north-east of Yuille’s Swamp, a simple structure of bark and bush timber. A piece of old sacking hung in place of a door. Forty yards from the hut a mullock heap and mineshaft were just visible through the trees. Behind the hut someone had erected a small horse yard by lashing poles to the trunks of saplings. A roan horse stood near the rails, unaware of the men concealed in the bush.

  ‘Are you sure this is the place?’ Dunn asked.

  ‘The tracks from the swamp come straight to here,’ Toby confirmed.

  ‘I don’t see anything,’ Frank whispered. ‘Maybe they moved on.’

  Dunn shook his head. ‘Someone lives at this place. They wouldn’t leave the horse yarded up like that unless they were close by.’

  ‘He’s here,’ Toby said. ‘In the hut. The girl’s here somewhere, too.’

  Dunn stood and walked cautiously forward, his musket held low across his hip. The others followed him across the clearing to the hut. A campfire by the doorway had burned down to a bed of white ash. An empty whisky bottle lay beside it. Dunn reached the doorway, pulled the sacking aside and stepped into the gloomy interior. Toby followed him through.

  A naked man lay sprawled on a cot, on his back with one arm draped across his face.

  Dunn prodded the sleeping figure with the muzzle of his gun.

  ‘Where’s my daughter, you bastard?’

  The man lifted his arm from his eyes and, for a moment, seemed to have trouble focusing. His gaze found Dunn looming over him, gun in hand, and he pushed himself towards the back wall, skidding across the bed on his bare buttocks.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ he whimpered. ‘I haven’t any money. Take whatever you want, but don’t shoot me.’

  ‘We don’t want your money,’ Dunn screamed. ‘Where the hell’s my daughter? You lifted her from the track beside the swamp yesterday.’

  The naked man tried to push himself back further, but came up hard against the wall. ‘There’s no woman here. You’ve got the wrong man. I wasn’t anywhere near the swamp yesterday.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Dunn snapped.

  ‘It’s the truth, I tell you,’ the man whimpered. ‘I didn’t do nothin’ to no girl.’

  Toby turned and went past Frank, back out into the sunlight. All around the campfire there was a confusion of footprints, wandering in many different directions. Out of this mess he found a trail moving away from the hut – bare feet, a man’s feet – heading in the direction of the mine. Paddy came up beside him and they followed the tracks around the mullock heap to the shaft. Toby leaned over and looked into the shadowy depths. The shaft wasn’t deep, about fifteen feet or so. There was enough light to see to the bottom where the crumpled body lay.

  A week after Caroline Dunn’s murder, the men at the sawmill were sitting about the campfire enjoying an evening nobbler of rum. Paul and Horrie were teaching Toby and Gary how to play rummy, while Jim sat in a camp chair, his back to the fire as he read a copy of the Argus newspaper.

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he said, twisting to get more firelight on the page.

  ‘What is it, Jim?’ Horrie looked up from where he was shuffling the deck of cards.

  ‘That young girl’s murder is in the paper. The article runs for nearly a full page. The bastard what did it has been transported to Melbourne.’

  ‘He’ll dance the devil’s jig at the end of a rope,’ Gary said. ‘Hangin’s too bloody good for him, though.’

  Toby remained quiet. He was still having nightmares about the body in the bottom of the mineshaft and just wanted to forget all about the incident. Jim pulled him into the conversation.

  ‘You get a big mention here, Toby. The article credits you with trackin’ the mongrel down.’

  ‘It wasn’t just me,’ Toby said. ‘Paddy did a lot of the work as well.’ He pointed at the cards in Horrie’s hands and tried to change the subject. ‘C’mon, we playing or what?’

  ‘Well, the whole colony will know your name now,’ Jim said, and turned the page.

  ‘Joe! Joe!’

  Along with everyone else at the blacksmith shop on the Gravel Pits, Paddy turned towards the direction of the shouts.

  ‘Digger hunt,’ said one of the men waiting in line.

  Out across the flats a large group of foot police crossed the diggings. Each carried a musket and the bayonets glinted viciously in t
he hot sun.

  ‘Look at that, would you?’ Another man lifted his hand to shade his eyes. ‘There must be thirty of the buggers.’

  A line of horsemen materialised out of the heat haze behind the foot police and Paddy realised these were mounted police, ready to chase down any miner who tried to run from the net cast across the flats.

  ‘Bloody hell! They mean business this time.’

  Miners climbed from their shafts or left their gold cradles standing in the creek and ran to form a barrier to oppose what in their eyes was a blatant abuse of authority. Paddy and the others at the blacksmith shop ran to join hundreds of men gathered on the flats. They stood shoulder to shoulder across the front of the advancing police. The diggers formed a line near the blacksmith shop, already two and three deep, with more running to join the throng. The foot police came to a halt and eyed the angry diggers.

  From the ranks of mounted police an officer urged his horse forward. He stopped behind the line of foot police, drew his sword and pointed it at the diggers as he spoke.

  ‘You men there, have your licences ready for inspection.’

  A chuckle came from a few diggers, rising clear above the wind. The laughter was taken up and spread like a bushfire down the line of diggers until they all howled with mirth, some slapping their knees with amateur theatrics.

  Beneath his peaked cap, the officer’s face turned a vivid scarlet. Paddy realised he was not used to having his instructions treated with such contempt. The horse sensed its rider’s anger and wheeled about uncertainly. The officer had to fight to bring it back under control.

  ‘Foot police!’ he roared. ‘Advance and check their licences. Anyone without a licence is to be taken into custody. We’ll see if a day or two chained to the tree at Government Camp won’t cool their ardour.’

  The foot police started forward, bayonets to the fore. They had not gone three paces when a barrage of stones, sticks and other missiles rained down on them from the assembled diggers. Despite the primitive defence, the barrage continued like a hailstorm until the police, outnumbered by almost six to one, were forced to check their advance and retreat out of range. Several of their number had been knocked senseless and were dragged to safety by their comrades.