Blood in the Dust Page 28

  The officer trotted his horse up and down the rank of police, a look of consternation on his face at having his men so crudely beaten back.

  ‘We won’t show our licences. We won’t show our licences.’ The cry was taken up like a war chant. The diggers bellowed at the top of their voices and sent the occasional stone flying towards the police to show they were still prepared to meet any assault.

  Having had enough of these games, the officer reined in his horse behind the left flank.

  ‘Number one section, prepare to fire. On my order, one round of volley fire over the heads of the miners. Don’t aim too high. I want them to feel the wind in their hair. Number one section, fire!’

  The left flank of muskets erupted into noise and flame. A cloud of blue smoke hung in the air for a moment, and then was carried on the wind through the mob of diggers. Paddy and some other miners had thrown themselves to the ground, but others remained stoically on their feet. They began taunting the police once more.

  ‘You missed, you trap bastards.’

  ‘Where’d you learn to shoot?’

  ‘Couldn’t hit the ground if you tried.’

  On the Eureka Lead word passed quickly that the traps were firing on diggers down at the Gravel Pits. Every man dropped whatever he was doing and ran to join the affray. Some, having heard the gunfire, detoured by their tents to retrieve firearms before running to the flats.

  Frank smoked a pipe as he waited for Paddy to return with the sharpened pick. He heard the news from a mob of running men and set off to support his mates in the fracas below. A digger running beside him gave a quizzical look and Frank tried to answer between ragged breaths. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, mate, but we better keep with the rest of ’em.’

  The Eureka mob reached the Gravel Pits and Frank could see the ranks of police with their bayonets fixed, the mounted constables with pistols in hand. Then he saw red-jacketed reinforcements double-timing down the hill from Government Camp to join the already formidable opposition.

  ‘We need to disperse,’ a voice yelled. ‘The soldiers will cut us down if given the chance.’ Frank recognised the speaker as Peter Lalor, a man who had addressed several meetings to discuss the miners’ treatment by government forces.

  ‘Run away?’ one of the diggers nearest him asked. ‘We need to stand together.’

  ‘And we shall die together,’ Lalor yelled into the man’s face. ‘We aren’t prepared for a battle like this, picks and shovels against muskets. Spread the word,’ he shouted to all within earshot. The man had a natural gift for leadership and the men looked to him for instruction. ‘Tell the diggers to pull back. We shall meet again on Bakery Hill. We need time to prepare, to arm ourselves.’

  Frank and the other men ran to their task, spreading Lalor’s orders through the crowd of angry miners. But it was happening too slowly. Frank saw that the miners were spread along a front of almost two hundred yards and the yelling and stone throwing had started once more, drowning out voices of reason.

  He found Paddy among the crowd and clasped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Thank God, Pad. Lalor wants the miners to pull back. We’re meeting up on Bakery Hill.’ Frank related Lalor’s instructions.

  Orders were being yelled from the police lines and Frank turned to look. The line of foot police seemed to rise as one and rushed towards the retreating diggers to take into custody those who were not so fleet of foot. He looked about for Paddy and found him three paces away, using an outflung arm to direct what diggers he could towards Bakery Hill.

  ‘C’mon, Pad. Time we were gone from here,’ he growled, pushing him along roughly. ‘This sort of thing can’t keep going on. It’s time the men on this diggings did something about it.’

  Word spread through the diggings like a scrub fire and the miners hurried in their thousands to an open patch of ground near the bakery, a huge gathering of men who had either witnessed first-hand or had heard of the government’s use of unreasonable force during that morning’s licence hunt.

  Frank and Paddy found themselves near the fore of this angry and vengeful assembly. They had gone back to the hut before coming to the meeting and Paddy carried his musket.

  Looking above him, Paddy saw the flag of the Southern Cross, the standard of the diggers, as it fluttered on a makeshift pole, the white stars showing proudly on a field of blue. Four rope stays held the flagpole erect, within which was the stump from which addresses had been made to previous meetings.

  Several attempts were made to get the meeting underway, but each person who climbed onto the stump made the mistake of asking for moderation from the diggers and was howled down by the mob before any resolution could be reached. They had been attacked in force and they wanted action. None were prepared to listen to talk of delegations and petitions. But when Peter Lalor climbed onto the stump, the first thing the diggers saw was a pistol clasped firmly in his right hand. He held it above his head for all to see and the rumble of voices died away. Paddy watched as Lalor revolved slowly on the stump with pistol held high.

  ‘Today our rights as free citizens were violated,’ Lalor shouted. ‘No more!’ He shook the pistol above his head.

  ‘No more!’ The diggers echoed his words, their voices a blast of sound that echoed among the hills and gullies.

  ‘We have tried the voice of reason,’ Lalor continued. ‘We have tried petitions and have sent delegations of respectable and honest men to the Governor himself. Still, our rights as free men have been trampled as though they mean nothing.’

  ‘Too right, Pete,’ a digger called and the cheer went up. Lalor waited patiently for quiet. Paddy thought he carried a look of solemn regret on his face.

  ‘I propose that if none in government will defend our rights then that duty falls to us. I propose we arm ourselves,’ he shouted, raising the pistol once more, ‘and form into divisions. That we place these divisions in such a manner that we, the miners of Ballarat, will be able to stand against the tyrants who would see us crushed into the dust.’

  A great hurrah went up from the masses. Paddy realised these were the words the diggers had been waiting so long to hear. Here, at last, was a man they could trust to help them stand against unscrupulous officials and petty administrators. Along with the other armed diggers, Paddy raised his sea-service musket and Frank cheered, putting enough energy into his voice for Paddy’s share as well.

  ‘Those men willing to stand and fight, I ask now to come forward and enrol. We are lucky enough to have some ex-military men among us and they shall captain the divisions. I would ask you to enrol according to the type of weapon you carry or the type of weapon you are proficient at using.’

  Before Lalor finished speaking there was a great rush towards a row of trestle tables where men waited with ink and paper. The diggers jostled each other for position, each wanting to be the first to place his name on a list. Once more Lalor’s leadership came to the fore. He soon had the surging crowd organised into orderly queues and proceedings running smoothly.

  Because Paddy had the musket, he and Frank joined a line of men wishing to enlist in a rifle brigade. When their turn came to front the table, the digger acting as clerk eyed them curiously.

  ‘I see the lad is armed, mate, but do you have a gun?’

  ‘No,’ Frank admitted, ‘but Paddy here is mute. He needs me to talk for him.’

  ‘Your son?’ the clerk asked.

  ‘Brother of my son-in-law. He’s part of my family.’

  ‘Well, this ain’t the British bloody Army,’ the clerk said with a grin. ‘We don’t break up families here. What are your names?

  ‘Patrick O’Rourke,’ Frank said, clamping a hand on Paddy’s shoulder, ‘and Francis Hocking.’

  The clerk noted their names on one of a bundle of loose sheets of paper. When he was finished he looked up. ‘Welcome to the Second Rifle Division. Form up on the left of the flagpole and await further instructions.’ He waved them away.

  Paddy walked with Frank t
o the area the clerk had indicated and fell in with the rest of their divisional comrades. The line wavered a bit and seemed to move about with the mood of the men forming it. Some broke ranks to go to other divisions and talk to their mates. Others attended the stall of a sly grog seller who had the foresight to set up shop at the gathering and capitalise on the huge number of hot and thirsty men. There was no military discipline to this ragtag army of miners, thrown together from men who came from all over the world.

  When the last of the diggers had placed his name on one of the lists and wandered off to join his comrades, Peter Lalor climbed back onto the stump.

  ‘Take a knee,’ he said, and the diggers dropped as one man. Like the other men, Paddy knelt, removed his hat and held it over his heart. Lalor waited until the noise of their actions had settled, then removed his own hat and tilted his face upwards to the blue and white flag fluttering above him. His voice rang out clear and strong.

  ‘We swear by the Southern Cross to stand truly by each other and defend our rights and our liberties.’

  The diggers repeated the oath, word for word, their gaze fixed on the banner above Lalor’s head. Paddy echoed the oath in his mind. Despite lacking a voice, he meant every word of it. The flag of the Southern Cross had become their symbol, their declaration to the world that they would fight to defend their rights. Each man made the oath with bared head and hand outstretched to that new flag, and each man carried in his heart the conviction to stand by the words spoken, whatever the cost.

  ‘Divisions form up,’ Lalor shouted, and he leaped from the stump. The flag was hauled down and held at the head of a winding column of diggers as they marched in divisions, two abreast, to the Eureka Lead. Here the flag was raised again at the northern end of the lead near the Melbourne road.

  While Lalor and the captains retired to a hut to discuss defensive measures, Paddy, Frank and the other men set about constructing a crude stockade wall out of anything they could lay their hands on. Bush poles and split timber slabs were gathered up from all over the diggings and carted up to the Eureka Lead. Carts and drays were seconded to the cause and overturned to form barriers. Where huts were encountered by the men their walls were incorporated in the barricades. One storekeeper returned to his hut to find that it now formed part of the fortifications of what the diggers had begun calling the Eureka Stockade.

  A gap of ten or so paces was left in the southern part of the breastwork and two drays were positioned in the opening to act as gates which could be rolled aside if needed. Sentries were posted at these makeshift gates and a series of roving pickets set about patrolling the perimeter.

  A blacksmith shop had been enclosed inside the fortifications of the stockade. Paddy watched the sympathetic smithy furiously hammering out crude blades that were then lashed to lengths of bush timber to form pikes. Thus armed, the pikemen began to drill under their divisional captains, marching and wheeling about, shouldering their pikes or grounding them to present a bristling barricade against an imagined cavalry charge.

  Late that afternoon the rifle brigades were assembled and some of those without weapons were issued with firearms collected from the mining populace in the name of liberty. Frank found himself in possession of a single-shot 10-bore shotgun that looked as if it had been collecting dirt and dust under some miner’s cot for years. It was old and battered, but he felt better for having a weapon in his hands. He immediately set to cleaning and loading the ancient piece, proud to be more than just a supernumerary among the armed men.

  A little after four o’clock the Second Rifle Division was called to order by their captain. Paddy and Frank stood together in the front rank, their weapons resting on their shoulders.

  ‘Men, we are desperately short of supplies within the stockade,’ the captain began, pacing up and down his line of troops with both hands clasped into the small of his back. ‘Mr Lalor has asked that all men not engaged in the actual defence of the stockade at this moment should be sent out to forage for provisions of both a nutritional and military nature.’

  He paused and looked at them sternly, raising his voice. ‘There is to be no looting. Any storekeeper who provides to our requirements is to be given a promissory note against those goods. Powder and shot are our priorities, gentlemen, then bacon and beef. However, if a kindly publican should offer up a keg or two of the good stuff, who are we to refuse such a kindly gesture?’ A murmur of chuckles passed down the ranks, and the captain dismissed them to go about their tasks.

  Frank and Paddy made their way out of the stockade and headed towards their camp. Along the way they came across a store and, following orders, Frank ushered Paddy inside and asked the storekeeper for any provisions he could spare in the name of the Ballarat Reform League.

  ‘Take whatever you want,’ the storekeeper blurted, eyeing the firearms in Frank and Paddy’s hands. He was surprised when the two desperados settled on two forty-pound casks of black powder, some lead bars and shot moulds to make musket balls and a bag of percussion caps. To carry it all they also picked out a wheelbarrow and piled their provisions into it. Frank wrote out a promissory note for all they had taken, including the wheelbarrow, and gave the man a hearty handshake.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Much obliged.’

  The storekeeper looked at the note with disdain, but he was happy to see them leave his store.

  By this time the sun had lowered onto the western horizon. Everywhere the pair looked there seemed to be parties of armed diggers out foraging for provisions. Frank looked over at Paddy and asked, ‘Are you getting hungry, mate?’

  Paddy nodded his head and rubbed his stomach. With all that had happened during the day neither of them had eaten since breakfast.

  ‘Did Annie say she was doing dumplings for dinner tonight?’

  Paddy nodded, a huge grin on his face. Annie’s dumplings, from a recipe obtained from Mrs Guinane, were one of the men’s favourite dishes.

  ‘It looks as if we’ve done our bit for the cause,’ Frank said, sweeping his arm over the contents of the barrow. ‘There are enough coves out doing the gathering. I don’t suppose they will miss us until after dinner time. Come on.’

  Maree watched the two men come up the trail to the hut and felt very relieved to see them. All afternoon the diggings had been abuzz with talk of the newly formed diggers’ army. While collecting water from the creek she had stopped to talk to a group of women who told her that there was talk of revolution, that the new army planned a raid on Government Camp itself. She did not know what to believe. As Frank and Paddy approached the hut, she ran to confront them.

  ‘Frank, what’s going on? Everyone is talking about the diggers forming some kind of militia. They say there’s going to be a revolution.’ She noticed the shotgun in Frank’s hand.

  ‘Where did you get that gun, Frank? You know we can’t afford anything like that. Paddy has his gun. We don’t need another one.’

  ‘Hush, woman,’ Frank said. ‘I didn’t buy the bloody gun, it was issued to me.’

  ‘Issued? What do you—? Frank, you haven’t enlisted in this damned diggers’ army, have you? Please tell me you haven’t been so stupid.’

  Frank shouldered past her and continued to the hut. Paddy gave Maree a smile of apology as he carefully manoeuvred the wheelbarrow around her and followed Frank. They stopped below the step and leaned their weapons against the wall beside the door.

  ‘Francis Hocking and Patrick O’Rourke!’ Maree’s voice came as a squeal of rage. ‘You are not leaving those guns there. What if Betty were to come out? She could hurt herself – or worse.’

  Frank looked from the guns to his wife and back again. ‘Paddy, take the guns and put them in the storeroom, will you, mate. Make sure the door’s bolted so no one wanders in there.’

  Paddy moved to obey and Frank took his boots off at the door. ‘Did Annie do the dumplings?’ he asked. It was a half-hearted attempt to change the subject and Maree saw right through it.

  ‘There are regiments o
f soldiers and more police on these diggings than can be counted.’ Her voice pleading. ‘How can a group of miners hope to match the might of an army?’

  Frank turned, took his wife’s shoulders in his hands and held her motionless in his bear-like grip. He looked down into her eyes and Maree was taken aback by the determination on his face. His voice, when he spoke, was as calm as hers had been.

  ‘I hope we don’t have to stand against the soldiers and police, Maree, I really do.’ He went to pull her to him, to hug her to his chest, but she hadn’t forgiven him and resisted with all her strength.

  ‘But no one will listen to our complaints,’ he continued. ‘The government and the administrators are grinding us into the dust with their unfair taxes and regulations. Prices on the diggings have tripled since we arrived here and the fee on the gold licence keeps climbing. You’ve seen how they collect their licence fees – at the point of a bayonet.’

  Maree felt the strength go out of her body and Frank sensed it. He pulled her to him and she didn’t resist.

  ‘I don’t want to lose you, Frank. You or Paddy.’ Her voice came as a whisper, the words muffled against his chest. ‘You know the government and army will come down hard on anything to do with rebellion.’

  ‘I don’t think it will come to that,’ Frank said gently. He looked around, and saw his daughters were standing by the big bed. Annie had Sean in her arms and Betty clung to her sister’s waist, tears rolling down her cheeks. He held out his arm and they rushed to him.

  ‘Papa, please be careful.’ Annie was close to tears herself, fighting hard to control her emotions lest she upset her child.

  ‘I will, petal. I will.’

  They ate their evening meal in near silence. When they were finished, Frank kissed his daughters and wife goodbye and hugged his grandson.