Blood in the Dust Read online

  ‘C’mon, Paddy. We had best get back to the stockade with our supplies.’

  The girls went to Paddy and hugged him tight.

  ‘Take care,’ they chorused, and Paddy blushed openly at the attention.

  With firearms slung and Paddy pushing the wheelbarrow of supplies, the men headed down the path that would round the shoulder of the hill and take them out towards the Eureka Lead. It was the path they walked every morning as they went to work the claim and it was the path they came home on every evening. As Maree stood in the doorway and watched the pair disappear into the gathering dusk, her mind raced as she struggled with the realisation that she might never see either of them again. She sighed, turned back into the hut and lifted a lantern from its hook. ‘I am just going down to speak to Blacky Pete and ask if I can borrow his buggy.’

  ‘Why, Mama?’ Annie looked up from where she was preparing Sean for bed.

  ‘So I can go out to the sawmill in the morning.’ She lifted the lantern high and stepped into the darkness. ‘Maybe Toby can talk some sense into those two. I know I can’t.’

  The Warrogah gold escort arrived at the one-building settlement of Stony Creek a little before sunset and made camp some hundred yards from the store. Eight men were employed by the private escort company. The foreman, a swarthy fellow named Jones, set the other guards scrambling about while he watched over them, his carbine hanging loosely in his hand.

  ‘Reece? Be a good fellow and collect as much firewood as you can. Enough to keep the fire burning brightly all night.’

  Reece wandered towards the trees by the creek and the foreman turned to the other six men as they erected a tent.

  ‘If anyone needs a piss while standing watch, move away from the tent. The last time somebody pissed on it the damn thing stank for a month.’

  With the tent erected and a fire burning, Jones had the horses unhitched and tied to a line behind the camp. He then placed four men around the coach and made an inspection tour. Satisfied everything was in place, he turned and went to the store.

  One corner of the ramshackle building had been turned into a pub. Several men stood along the bar and Jones saw they were mostly diggers, on their way from one goldfield to another. Some sat at tables, playing cards or eating a meal prepared by the publican’s wife. He paused in the doorway and cast a quick glance about the room before stepping inside. The publican saw him coming and already had a glass on the bar as he fumbled for a bottle of rum.

  ‘Jonesy! Making the run a little early this week, aren’t you?’

  ‘Hello, Tim.’ Jones took the glass and threw half the contents into his mouth, swished it around and swallowed. ‘The Warrogah diggings is a bloody jeweller’s shop. They keep pulling the stuff out of the ground. More gold means more escorts. The commissioner doesn’t like to have the stuff sitting around.’ He turned his back to the bar and cast his eyes over the men in the room. ‘Suits me fine. Extra runs means extra pay. I tell you, Tim, working for a private gold escort company is the best move I ever made.’

  ‘The Warrogah diggings is doing well, then?’ a grubby little man at the end of the bar asked.

  ‘The proof is sitting in that coach out there, mate. The strongbox has a king’s ransom in it. And in a week there’ll be another just like it.’

  ‘That so?’ The little man stood up straighter. He almost reached Jones’ shoulder. ‘You just leave it out there all night?’

  ‘It’s not left alone,’ Jones said. ‘Normally, we bivouac for the night in a town with a police post or secure building, but this little place is the only stop on the road to Warrogah. Don’t worry, friend. The gold is well guarded.’

  ‘Can we take a look in the strongbox?’ one of the others asked. ‘I’d love to see all that gold.’

  Jones smiled and shook his head. ‘Sorry, mate. My men are on orders to shoot anyone who approaches within fifty paces of the coach.’ He raised the carbine in his hand. ‘They’ve all got one of these.’ He pulled his coat aside to reveal a revolver tucked into his belt. ‘And one of these. You’d have your head blown off before you even got close.’

  ‘Another rum, Jonesy?’ The publican gestured at the empty glass.

  ‘Nah. One is all I can have, Tim. I really called over to warn your clientele about wandering too close to our camp. Seems I’ve done that. I’d better be getting back.’

  From a corner table Anderson watched the foreman leave. He sat alone with a glass of whisky in front of him, his face partly concealed in the shadows. He listened to the foreman’s boots thump across the verandah and down the steps before moving.

  Outside, he watched Jones walk away, his bulky frame silhouetted by the large watch fire that cast a wide circle of light about the escort camp. Any normal man would not get within sixty paces of the coach before he was spotted. Anderson waited at the top of the steps, studying the ground around the camp, noting with particular interest how the fire created shadows among tufts of grass and depressions and reminded himself that the Jannjirra warriors were not normal men.

  He smiled and went to where his horse was tethered.

  Reece changed his grip on his carbine and let out a prolonged yawn. The store had quieted down hours ago and was now in darkness. The dim glow of campfires showed over by the stockyard where a party of diggers had encamped, but nothing moved beyond the circle of light cast by the watch fire.

  ‘Reece, what’s the matter?’ his friend called from the adjacent corner of the coach.

  ‘I’m busting for a piss.’

  ‘Well, move away from the bloody tent. Jonesy will have a fit if you piss on it.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Reece muttered, and unbuttoned his flies as he moved away from his corner. The fire had burned down and he made a note to throw more wood onto it once he had relieved himself. The ground here was in darkness, just patches of shadow where the tent shielded the ground from the firelight. He walked out about twenty paces, stopped beside a shadowy clump of dry grass, then urinated on the ground. When he’d finished, he began to button his flies, but stopped when he became aware of movement beside him.

  The clump of dry grass lifted from the ground and Reece was confronted by a dark face only inches from his own. Something sinister glinted in the feeble light. His panicked gaze flicked towards the knife already in motion.

  A little after first light the proprietor of the Stony Creek store and grog shop went out into the dawn and picked up a bucket by the rope handle. He swung it idly as he strolled down to the creek to fetch some water for his morning cup of tea. On his way back to the store he noted the gold escort still encamped beyond the stockyard. The coach stood where it had been the previous evening, the horses still tied to their line.

  Funny, Tim thought, they are usually well and gone by this time.

  He returned to the hut, built a fire in the stone hearth and, once he had it burning satisfactorily, set a billy of water over the flames for his tea.

  His wife snored loudly in the bed behind the calico curtain. He wouldn’t wake her yet. There were only two travellers in the little bunkroom behind the hut, and they had both drunk more than their fair share of rum before retiring; they wouldn’t be wanting their breakfasts for some time. He would let her sleep and enjoy the peace while it lasted. Pouring tea into a mug, he walked out onto the verandah to enjoy a rare moment of solitude.

  Strangely, there was still no movement at the gold escort camp. With cup of tea in hand, Tim walked towards the tent. The escort horses whickered softly as he moved past them and he expected at any moment to be challenged by one of the guards. When no challenge came, he moved around the rear of the coach and onto open ground in front of the tent.

  Four guards lay in their bedrolls around the now burnt-out campfire, their blankets pulled up over their heads.

  ‘Hadn’t you fellas better be on your way?’ he called, expecting the guards to leap up and chase him away.

  No one stirred.

  He moved to the nearest form and gingerly pulled
back the blankets. The sight that greeted him made him cry out in alarm. The guard was dead, a deep depression in the top of his skull where he had been struck by some sort of club. The man’s eyes were open, fixed wide in fear. The killing stroke had been swift and brutal.

  Feeling sick in the stomach, Tim moved around the campfire checking the other bedrolls. Each man had received a killing blow to the head or had his throat cut.

  He turned to the tent and pulled the fly open. The bodies of the four remaining guards were piled inside. Flies had found the carnage already and rose in a buzzing cloud that whipped about the storekeeper’s head. He threw a hand over his mouth and staggered back, the bile rising in his throat. He came up against the coach and leaned on the open door for support. It was then he realised the vehicle was empty.

  The strongbox was gone.

  Maree found the sawmill a little after noon, but Toby had gone off with Horrie and a bullock team to drag in a log. Jim Clark fussed about and made her as comfortable as possible on the verandah of his hut as he plied her with one of Paul’s camp oven scones and a cup of tea.

  ‘I’m sure he won’t be too much longer, Mrs Hocking. They left at first light and are usually back by now.’

  ‘Not to worry, Mr Clark. I don’t mean to be a bother, but it is a matter of some urgency.’ Maree plucked a few crumbs from her clothing.

  ‘No bother at all, I assure you. I do apologise for the crudeness of our camp. We don’t often receive visits from the fairer sex.’

  Maree shrugged the apology away. ‘I have lived in a tent on the diggings for close to two years, Mr Clark. Your camp far exceeds that.’

  ‘You’re too kind,’ Jim said. He cocked his head to one side and listened intently as a series of whip cracks drifted out of the trees. He smiled. ‘Ah. That sounds like our errant young man at last.’

  Maree watched as a bullock team crawled into view from the far side of the clearing. Toby walked beside the lead animal, encouraging the six beasts along by cracking a whip above their backs. Another man walked at the other side with a supple stick he used to turn the bullocks towards the saw pit. The animals dragged a huge log behind them, three feet thick and twenty paces long. When the log was in line with the pit, Toby brought the bullocks to a stop and turned to Jim.

  ‘Fester picked up a splinter in his front hoof.’ He used his thumb to point at the lead animal. ‘I thought we’d be stuck in the bloody bush all day.’

  ‘Never mind that now, Toby,’ Jim said. ‘You have a visitor.’

  Maree stood. Toby saw her and dropped the whip. ‘Maree! What are you doing here? Is everything all right? Where are Annie and Sean?’

  ‘Oh, Toby. I fear there is going to be terrible trouble.’

  Toby was unable to go to the stockade that evening. The gold commissioner had put a curfew in place, warning that all lights and campfires should be extinguished within sight of Government Camp. Rumours of a rebel attack were rife, and the soldiers had orders to fire on anyone who approached the perimeter. Knowing that many fingers would be resting on triggers tonight, Maree and Annie prevailed on Toby to wait until first light before venturing out on the diggings. Reluctantly, he agreed, and they ate a meal of cold meat and bread before retiring to bed.

  Having heard the diggers were commandeering any horses and firearms they laid eyes on, and not wanting to have either the Lovell or Moonlight taken from him, Toby left them at the hut and walked alone to the Eureka Lead in the growing light of morning.

  The extent of the stockade walls surprised him. They enclosed a great deal of ground adjacent to the Melbourne road, about two acres of hilltop with a commanding view of the valley towards Government Camp, a mile away. The fortifications, mostly timber slabs originally intended to line the walls of mineshafts, formed a criss-crossed breastwork that wound around the hillside. In some places fallen trees or piles of quartz stones had been used to fill gaps. On the inside of this makeshift fortification, diggers were busy transforming shepherd holes into rifle pits by piling loose dirt and stones on the outward-facing edges.

  As he rounded the edge of the breastwork and approached the gateway, Toby noticed a flag flying from the top of a pole in the centre of the stockade. The diggers’ standard waved idly in the breeze above a regiment of pikemen practising their manoeuvres. Other men were grouped around numerous campfires, cooking their breakfast or smoking their first pipe of the day.

  Two armed diggers stood at either side of the gateway. The wagons had been rolled aside, leaving the entrance open, but the sentries approached Toby and used their muskets to bar his way forward.

  ‘You don’t look like no digger,’ the sentry on the left said through a huge black beard as he studied Toby’s clothing.

  ‘I used to be,’ Toby said. ‘I’ve come to see my father-in-law and brother. I’m told they’re part of the Second Rifle Brigade.’

  The bearded sentry was unimpressed. ‘We’ll be needing the password. No one goes in without the password.’

  ‘I don’t have a password,’ Toby said rather sharply.

  ‘Don’t get all hoity with us, mate,’ the second sentry snapped and used the barrel of his musket to push Toby back a pace. He was clean-shaven, the skin of his face sunburnt a glowing shade of red. ‘We’re just doin’ our bleedin’ job. No one goes in without the password. No exceptions. Government Camp has all sorts of spies about. If you’ve got genuine business in the stockade then you’ll have been told the password.’

  ‘Well, then maybe you could pass a message to them. Frank Hocking and Patrick O’Rourke. Tell them I need to talk to—’

  ‘We aren’t your bloody messengers, mate,’ the first sentry interrupted. ‘We can’t go abandoning our post just to deliver your bleedin’ regards to whomever, can we, Johnny?’

  ‘No way, mate,’ Johnny agreed.

  ‘Well, maybe—Oh, forget it.’ Toby turned on his heels and strode away. He stopped by the road and searched within the stockade for a familiar face, someone he could shout a message to, but he dared not approach too close in case one of the sentries thought he was a spy surveying their fortifications and took a shot at him. In the end he gave up. He would just have to hope that Frank and Paddy decided to pay a visit to the hut that day.

  He turned and was about to cross the road and head back to the hut when a large contingent of riders came trotting over the crest of the hill. Toby was forced to jump back out of their way or be trampled. The riders were in a loose column of two, about two hundred of them in all, led by a straight-backed man who wore a sabre in a scabbard on his belt. The riders were all civilians, appearing for the most part to be unarmed. Then Toby noticed that each carried a revolver stuck into his belt or worn in a holster at his hip. They spoke freely among themselves as they trotted by and their accents twanged and drawled. Toby had no doubt that the entire procession consisted of Americans.

  The head of the column reached the stockade perimeter while the rearguard still passed where he stood. He looked up at the last few men as they trotted past and spotted a familiar hooked nose and moustached face among them.

  ‘Sam?’

  The face turned and smiled. Sam Guinane swung his horse out of the file and waved to his companions to continue. ‘Hello, Toby O’Rourke. I thought you had given up a prospector’s life.’

  ‘True, I have,’ Toby said. He stepped up and shook the hand held down towards him. ‘It pays the bills for the others to be able to continue digging. I had to do something, Sam. I’m a family man now.’

  ‘Yeah, so I heard. Congratulations.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Toby replied. ‘So, tell me, Sam, what’s all this?’ He gestured at the procession of riders, now mostly inside the stockade.

  ‘This, my friend,’ Sam said proudly, ‘is the Independent California Revolver Brigade.’

  ‘So, you’ve joined the diggers’ army too?’

  ‘Yeah, me and about three hundred of my fellow countrymen. We assembled over on the Creswick diggings. What about you? You signed up
, have you?’

  ‘No, not me. I came to talk to Paddy and Frank. They’re inside the stockade now, but I can’t get in there because I don’t know the password.’

  Sam Guinane looked at the stockade and back to Toby. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in me telling you. After all, you only want to talk to your kin. It’s a strange one; I don’t understand it at all, but the password is “Vinegar Hill”.’

  Toby gave a little chuckle under his breath and Sam looked at him quizzically. ‘That mean something to you?’

  ‘Yeah, Sam,’ Toby admitted. ‘Some years ago, a group of Irish convicts revolted against their captors in New South Wales. “Vinegar Hill” was the password used to begin the revolt. I think it stems from the place of a similar revolt in Ireland.’

  ‘How apt,’ Sam said. ‘Take my arm and swing up behind me. I’ll take you into the stockade.’ Toby took Sam’s offered hand and sprang up onto the rump of the big gelding. ‘Old Mason here won’t mind the extra weight for a little bit.’ He urged the horse towards the stockade gates.

  ‘So, tell me, Toby, this Vinegar Hill? Were the convicts successful in their revolt?’

  ‘No, they weren’t. Those that weren’t shot down by the soldiers were taken prisoner and flogged. The ringleaders were hanged.’

  ‘Yikes! I hope history doesn’t repeat itself.’

  ‘Me too,’ Toby admitted.

  They crossed the road and approached the stockade gateway. The sentries that had confronted Toby earlier were still on duty. They approached the two riders and made to block their way.

  ‘Sam Guinane, Independent California Revolver Brigade,’ Sam called down to them, and when they were close enough to be heard without raising his voice he muttered, ‘Vinegar Hill.’

  On hearing the password the sentries stepped aside to allow them through. The one named Johnny scowled up at Toby when he recognised him perched on the horse behind Sam. Toby gave him a cheeky grin.