Blood in the Dust Page 31

  Yawong gabbled away like a lubra as he prepared a campfire, and he failed to notice how Warrigal made his sleeping position a little away from them. Chilbi’s gaze flicked to the Djarriba, who had the packsaddles positioned under his head, his feet towards the fire. A warrior of the Jannjirra always slept with his head to the campfire, facing out into the bush, for that was where any threat would come from. Chilbi’s warrior eye took note of the commanding position Warrigal had over their little encampment – on slightly higher ground and with a huge stringybark at his back. He could sweep the sleeping positions of the two Jannjirra at a single glance.

  Chilbi turned his attention to the growing flames, his mind troubled by this strange behaviour. He remembered when he had first encountered the Djarriba on the escarpment of their tribal lands. Any member of another tribe would have been killed instantly for their trespass, but this pale-skinned stranger was different. The elders, Chilbi’s father included, had suspected great magic at work. The stranger had been cared for until he returned to health. Instead of being grateful, the stranger had bullied and cajoled the Jannjirra to provide for him, sometimes resorting to violence. This had earned him the name of Warrigal, the wild dog.

  The sickness had come soon after. Warrigal had said this bad magic had been sent by the Djarriba in the lowlands to wipe out the tribe and take their land. He recalled the words of Madagurrie, the old Waddirawong warrior, who had said the Djarriba carry the sickness with them, that they cannot send it on ahead. Had Warrigal brought the sickness with him to the lands of the Jannjirra? Had he cast the evil magic so that the whole tribe had died? He remembered the grip the sickness had on him, the shivering fever and pustules and how only he and his brothers had survived its onslaught. When they were well enough, Warrigal had led them into the lowlands to seek revenge for the sickness.

  The Jannjirra were a warlike tribe and had a reputation for raiding those tribes around them. Never had they taken more than they could use, and never had they hurt lubras or children. That was not the Jannjirra way. Warrigal, however, seemed intent on killing anyone who stood in his way – man, woman or child.

  Chilbi watched as Warrigal settled down for the night, the revolver resting in his lap, and decided he would need to be watched very closely indeed.

  Toby sat astride Moonlight fifteen paces from the twin ruts of the Melbourne road, the Independent California Revolver Brigade spread on either side. Most men were still mounted, but others had become disillusioned with the ambush and now lay in the bracken as they tried to sleep. Above them the canopy was so dense that no starlight penetrated. Even the full moon was reduced to a vague paling of the sky beyond the leaves as it climbed towards its zenith.

  ‘Will they come, do you reckon?’ a voice asked from Toby’s left.

  ‘What if they’ve been past already and we didn’t hear them?’

  ‘The trail’s just there, you goddamn idiot. Cannon being transported make a lot of noise. We would’ve heard ’em for sure.’

  ‘All right, keep it down,’ Sam Guinane growled. ‘The patrols will be back soon and we’ll have a better idea of what’s happening on the road.’

  Another hour went by without as much as a solitary digger passing their position.

  ‘Maybe they camped for the night,’ Toby suggested. ‘No one travels in darkness unless they have to.’

  ‘Well, tomorrow is the Sabbath,’ Sam mused. ‘Actually today,’ he corrected himself, for midnight had come and gone. ‘I don’t suppose they would attack the stockade on a Sunday. That leaves them a whole extra day to bring the cannon up and get them into redoubts.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Toby muttered.

  They sat on in silence for a while and listened to the sounds of the bush. Nocturnal animals were out and about, scurrying through the bracken. Every so often a wallaby crashed through the undergrowth and startled them back to alertness.

  ‘Riders approaching.’

  The word passed down from their left, and moments later Toby heard the unmistakeable rhythm of cantering horses approaching from the east.

  ‘That’ll be Sullivan’s patrol,’ said Sam.

  Sullivan and three others had been sent out in the direction of Melbourne with instructions to ride for forty-five minutes and then report back. Sam had given strict instructions that the screen of bracken fern in the ambush site was not to be ridden over and trampled down. The patrol continued along the road for a hundred yards then cut back into the bush and doubled back to Sam and Toby’s position.

  ‘Anything, Sully?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ Sullivan admitted. ‘There are a few little camps on the side of the road. Diggers on the move from one goldfield to another. Nothing of a military nature at all. We rode as far as the ridge near the river. In the full moon we could see ten miles further along. I feel confident to report they are not anywhere on that section of road, sir.’

  ‘All right, Sully. Well done, thank you. You can dismount and rest your horses.’

  ‘Maybe they’re just slow,’ the man on Sam’s right said. ‘They may be still closer to Melbourne than we thought.’

  Sam lifted his hat and rubbed his brow. The night was warm and his face glistened with perspiration. ‘Or they are further along than we thought. Let’s wait to see what the other patrol reports. We may have missed them while moving into position through the forest.’

  Five minutes later the patrol which had been sent off in the direction of Ballarat reported back. With the appearance of the second patrol, Sam sat up in the saddle and looked every bit the army officer as he received the report.

  ‘Nothing, sir. It’s as quiet as a church on Monday morn.’

  Sam slumped back onto the saddle, perplexed by this strange development.

  ‘I can’t understand what’s going on. If the information we got at the stockade was good, we should have come across the cannon somewhere on this section of road.’

  ‘If the information was good,’ someone repeated.

  ‘Why would someone give us bad information?’ Toby asked. ‘I saw the man at the stockade myself. He looked like a hardworking, honest digger.’

  ‘Maybe that was what he was supposed to look like,’ the voice said. ‘Maybe he was a – a—’

  ‘—An agent provocateur,’ Sam finished for him.

  ‘But what could they hope to achieve by sending us out on a wild goose chase?’ Toby ran his eyes up and down the line of men, the answer to his own question already forming in his mind. There were one hundred and fifty men out on the Melbourne road tonight. Men who should have been inside the stockade manning its defences.

  ‘Oh my God!’ He felt the cold hand of fear reach into his gut and knot it tight. ‘It was a trick to get us out of the stockade. They’re going to attack!’

  Without waiting for a reply from Sam, Toby spurred Moonlight’s flanks mercilessly. The horse sprang forward, vaulted the growth of bracken and tore its way out onto the road.

  ‘I have to warn them. I have to warn Paddy and Frank.’

  He heard Sam shout something behind him, but couldn’t make out the words, nor did he care. Within three paces he brought Moonlight into a gallop and swung his head to the west, towards Ballarat and the stockade.

  Paddy wiped at sleep-deprived eyes and thought his mind was playing tricks on him. Ghost-like shapes moved on the lower slopes, only half seen in the moonlight. Dawn was maybe an hour away. A full moon stood just above the western horizon. Its pale glow lit the spaces between the trees, but darkened the shadows where the ghosts moved. There was something else in the shadows too. He squinted and tried to make it out. It looked like a school of fish reflecting sunlight in the depths. The fish were in a long line that ran across the lower slopes of the hill. A figure moved behind the line and gave it depth. He drew in a sharp breath as he realised he was looking at moonlight as it reflected from the blades of bared bayonets.

  These ghosts had teeth.

  He would have cried out if he had a voice. His mouth
went dry with fear and he shifted the musket into his left hand, then reached down to shake Frank’s shoulder. Frank awoke and rubbed sleep from his eyes. He climbed to his feet and rested the shotgun on the edge of the pit.

  ‘What’s happening, Pad?’

  Paddy pointed through the timbers of the breastwork. The soldiers were a hundred paces away, but advancing towards them with muskets held low and bayonets at the fore.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Frank turned to tell one of the other sentries, but they weren’t the only ones to have seen the approaching soldiers. From somewhere up near the blacksmith shop a voice began yelling, ‘To arms! To arms! The Camp is attacking!’ A stream of oaths rose out of the tents. Men stumbled about in various stages of dress as they hurried to take up defensive positions.

  All around him Paddy heard the sounds of muskets being cocked, the ratchet clicks like a chorus of crickets. The sound stilled his panic and he hooked his thumb over the horn of the hammer. His hand was slick with sweat and he carefully dragged the hammer to full cock, then squinted down the sights at the approaching figures.

  The ranks were three deep. They stretched around the hillside and were lost from sight beyond the shoulder of the gully. Officers, swords held high, led their men forward. Somewhere, a faint order drifted up the hillside to the waiting defenders. The soldiers halted their advance and an uneasy quiet settled over the scene.

  Sweat ran into Paddy’s eyes and he blinked furiously to clear it. He didn’t dare move a hand from his musket. Beyond the quiet there was a different sound now. He cocked his head and tried to make it out, his brow creased with concentration. The noise came from beyond the hilltop. A fresh wave of fear ran through him as he recognised the rattle and scrape of mounted horses. Lots of them.

  Frank had heard it as well. ‘Cavalry?’ he asked.

  ‘More likely mounted police,’ another digger answered. His braces dangled about his legs and his shirt was untucked. He quickly shrugged his shoulders into the braces, hoisted his musket and took up position at the firing line.

  ‘Diggers, steady!’

  Paddy recognised the voice of Peter Lalor. Their commander-in-chief stood on a pile of wooden slabs near the blacksmith shop. Lalor had a pistol in his hand and pivoted slowly as he examined the defensive positions of his men.

  ‘Captains, get some pikemen over to the eastern perimeter.’ Lalor had seen or heard the horsemen. ‘Prepare for a mounted charge in that sector.’

  The captains of the pikemen moved to obey and double-timed their divisions across the hillside, pikes held at the ready.

  Someone had thrown several timber baulks onto the watch fire and it now flared brightly, illuminating the scene within the stockade. The Southern Cross hung limply in the breezeless air. Men still ran for their positions at the breastwork.

  Paddy turned back to the soldiers on the hillside. More orders were given and they advanced once more, closing the distance at a steady gait. A musket barked from somewhere off to his right –the sight of the advancing troops was clearly too much for one digger. An officer marching in the lead fell to the ground and the soldiers stopped, waiting. A voice drifted out of the massed ranks and this time Paddy heard it clearly.

  ‘The Queen’s troops have been fired upon. Front rank, prepare to fire!’

  Paddy watched the front rank of soldiers drop to their knees and take aim up the hillside. It seemed a hundred muskets were aimed directly at him.

  ‘Get down!’ Frank yelled. Paddy felt an arm across his shoulders as he was pulled into the pit.

  ‘Fire!’ The roar of muskets came as a single blast. An unbroken line of flashes lit the hillside like lightning in a summer storm. Paddy pressed his face into the rough earthen wall as musket balls swooped over his head like a swarm of angry bees. Pieces of breastwork tore away under the onslaught and rained down on his back. Musket balls ricocheted into the distance or thudded into the dirt. Then the noise rolled away down the gullies and came back in a series of echoes from the bulk of the Black Hills range.

  ‘Diggers!’ Lalor’s voice from the slabs. ‘Return fire!’

  Paddy climbed to his feet and took aim through the breastwork. In rifle pits around their defensive perimeter other diggers did the same.

  The first rank of soldiers were reloading, ramrods frantically pumping up and down. The second rank stepped through the spaces between their comrades and took up firing positions.

  Paddy sighted on a red jacket and squeezed the trigger. The musket jumped in his hands and instantly his vision was obscured by a cloud of smoke. The diggers along the breastwork began firing.

  The miners had no hope of matching the well-disciplined shooting of the redcoats. Their return fire rattled out in a cacophony of reports that lasted a full five seconds. Musket smoke hung motionless in the air like morning fog and hid both sides from each other. Burning wads from the muskets had started several small grass fires, adding more smoke to the confusion.

  Paddy dropped to his knees to reload. Along the breastwork he could see ramrods rising and plunging in unison. He still felt afraid, but the act of firing that one shot had dissolved its cloying effects. His hands no longer sweated and he deftly worked the ramrod, tamping down the ball. As he returned the rod to the hoops under the barrel his other hand cocked the hammer and placed a cap on the nipple. He was one of the first to finish and stand to the firing line.

  The second rank of soldiers fired. Muzzle flashes illuminated the gum trees as the thunder of the second discharge merged with the dying echoes of the first.

  Paddy ducked as a ball hit below the pit and spat dirt into his face. He felt the sting of grains of quartz bite into his skin and dropped below the edge of the pit to wipe a hand over his face.

  ‘You all right, young fella?’

  He looked up and found Frank’s concerned gaze on him. Frank held the unused shotgun in one hand and lifted Paddy’s chin to examine his face.

  ‘No harm done.’

  Paddy looked at his hand, surprised there was no blood. He shook his head and ran his tongue around his mouth, then spat a glob of dirt onto the ground. Frank placed a fatherly arm on his shoulders.

  ‘Don’t get yourself killed, Paddy.’

  He shook his head again and Frank patted his shoulder.

  ‘Soon they’ll be close enough for me to use this.’ He shook the shotgun.

  Paddy wondered how long the battle would last once the soldiers had closed to shotgun range. The first two volleys had been swift and deadly. He could hear wounded men screaming from both sides of the firing line. Somewhere up near the horse lines an animal whinnied in panic. Then another noise drowned out the horse and the cries of the wounded.

  A bugle call sounded on the hillside below, a rapid but brief succession of brassy notes.

  ‘That means extend to skirmishing order,’ the digger beside Paddy said matter-of-factly. ‘They’re about to charge the stockade.’

  Paddy stood to the firing line again, and carefully lifted his head.

  The front rank of redcoats took a sidestep and opened their lines. Those behind came forward to fill the gaps. Here and there a body lay on the ground, some moving and some still. An officer pointed up the hillside with his sword and the bugle rang out again. A great roar went up from the soldiers and they broke into a run.

  ‘Get ready, Pad. Here they come.’

  Paddy watched in horror as the soldiers rushed forward. They yelled screams of rage as they came, a hundred different war cries, muskets held low, bayonets a bristling line of cold steel coming to feast on human flesh.

  Muskets fired from inside the stockade and redcoats fell at random, but the gaps were closed up and the soldiers came on without check.

  Paddy took aim at a soldier and fired. When the gunsmoke cleared he could see the man lying face down on the ground, but others swept past him as they continued the charge. They were close enough now to see features on their faces. A walrus-moustached redcoat ran straight at him, his shako tilted forward and ha
tred gleaming in his eyes. Only twenty paces separated the soldiers from the breastwork. Not enough time to reload before the redcoats would be among them.

  A pitiful few shots answered the charge as the soldiers reached the breastwork. Frank fired his shotgun at a group of soldiers tearing defensive slabs from the ground. One soldier fell, but the others continued their work until a gap had been made and the redcoats poured into the stockade.

  Paddy watched the soldiers coming at him and knew the battle was lost. There were too many of them for the diggers to beat back. Toby’s words came to him as he stood with a useless musket in his hands and soldiers running at him, screaming like banshees.

  ‘Give up or lie down in your hole, Paddy.’

  At a rifle pit twenty paces to Paddy’s right the diggers rose to meet the charge and were instantly cut down by bayonets. One digger threw his hands up in surrender, but the soldier opposing him lunged forward with his musket. The gory tip of the bayonet emerged between the man’s shoulder blades and he sank to his knees. The soldier placed a booted foot on his chest and worked his bayonet free.

  So much for surrender.

  The digger beside Paddy leaped to his feet. ‘C’mon! We have to fall back. We need to regroup on higher ground.’

  He climbed from the hole and made a mad dash towards the blacksmith shop.

  Frank slapped Paddy on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go!’ He pointed at the retreating digger.

  They climbed from the pit and ran for the shop. Muskets fired in random explosions of noise and Paddy ducked instinctively as a ball whistled past his ear. The digger running ahead of him threw his arms out and his musket clattered into the dust as he fell headlong to the ground. Paddy and Frank couldn’t stop to help; to do so would be suicide. They leaped the dying digger and kept their heads low as they crossed the open ground below the blacksmith shop. Paddy expected at any moment to feel the slap of a musket ball between his shoulder blades. His breath sawed in his throat and, beside him, he could hear Frank wheezing, almost spent. He reached out, took Frank’s elbow and urged him over the last few yards.