Chapter 4. A Funnel And Tar Pot; and Pouring A Nightcap
Johns’ snoring growled along loud and steady, his bedroom directly through the corrugated iron wall. But when McCullock went to the lowest of the lean-to’s three rough shelves and lit a candle the snoring suddenly ceased.
Johns’ wire stretcher creaked as he rolled over, following which came some snuffling and snorting. McCullock quickly blew out the candle and padded inside again, ready to say he’d gone out for a leak, but the rasping soon recommenced.
When it had settled into a regular rhythm he collected his boots and returned to the lean-to. There he relit the candle.
The ironstone gourd was standing loose piece upwards, still where he’d put it that day after arriving back from Unka. He prised the smaller piece free, went to the topmost shelf for their metal funnel and put its narrow end in the opening.
And then, one at a time and with the utmost of care, Lester McCullock untied the gold bags and transferred their heavy, mesmerizingly-yellow contents into the ironstone’s clean dark interior, all to the accompaniment of Johns’ laboured breathing.
In the event the cavity was barely large enough. To accommodate the last half cupful he had to tamp down their bounty with a broom handle.
That done he returned the funnel to its place and took down a dust covered treacle tin. Daubed crudely on its side in tar was the word “TAR”. He removed the lid and gouged up a dab with a short dry stick, following which he put the tarry end in an empty tobacco tin. This was held over the candle to melt the tar.
Inside the house the relentless snoring continued.
Over at the gum tree he took a softer, live twig, chewed one end to fray it then used it to tar the fragment’s edges. Following this he pressed the piece back into place. Next he gathered a light crowbar and a long-handled post hole shovel from a corner of the lean-to and took them over to the drums.
He’d be needing the watering can as well but that was already there, ready for Sayd’s gardening duties come morning.
Dangling from the drum currently in use was a siphon hose, both ends of it in the open bung hole. McCullock pulled an end and ran some water into the can. At a third full he stopped the flow and returned it to the opening. He then went back to the lean-to for the gold filled boulder.
The ironstone gourd was now desperately heavy and even rolling it as far as the drums proved hard work, yet McCullock knew this was nothing. The real test would lie in its lifting and carrying.
Back in the lean-to he grabbed a wheat bag, pulled on his boots, snuffed the candle and headed down the path to their bush toilet. There the tarry tin and sticks went into the long drop
On returning to the drums he laid the bag flat on the ground, Johns’ snoring now faint in his ears. Three holes were stabbed through its waistline with his stockman’s pocket knife, after which the boulder was rolled inside it. He then rolled the ironstone-in-a bag to the nearest water drum; there he threaded the shovel’s handle in and out through the holes by pairs. All was now ready.
Facing the drum, McCullock set a foot firmly each side of the bag and boulder and reached down to grip the shovel handle left and right of the wheat bag. He then took up the slack … and lifted.
“Bloody hell!” he grunted through teeth clamped tight, surprised even then by the ironstone’s now formidable mass. A brief, resolute struggle followed as he raised it drum high and rolled it onto the top, then he leant forward onto it, overcome with dizziness.
After half a minute he stood up again and slid the shovel handle a little farther through the holes – as far as the neck of its steel blade. Then, turning his back to the arrangement, McCullock put the handle over his shoulder, pulled down firmly on its end and leant forward.
The gourd slid from the drum and nestled against him, its mass held in balance by his downward pull on the handle.
―Daunting but manageable, he decided. He took up the crowbar and watering can in his free hand and set off.
Earlier he’d given thought to hiding the gold in the gourd then leaving it where it was. The idea was rejected, however; Johns could too easily guess what he’d done.
Burying the boulder was a far better idea, especially in a pit that no one would give a second glance. And it was just for a few weeks anyway, until they’d mined-out the rest. Then they’d be gone.
A half moon shone above, its brightness waxing and waning through patches of thin broken cloud. Thankful for the light McCullock made his way into the creek. Ten seconds later, when nearing a gum tree in the main channel, a heavier cloud loomed up. As the moon disappeared he trod on an unstable flagstone.
Suddenly he was staggering sideways in total darkness, top heavy with the gourd’s fearsome mass … only to have the tree trunk save him from falling. Grateful for its presence he leant there a moment to regain his balance and steady his nerves.
Burying the gold in the creek had never been part of the plan but if he fell now he’d have no choice. There’d be no getting the bag over his shoulder again or dragging it away somewhere. And dragging it would leave a drag mark.
The cloud mass passed and McCullock set off again, taking care not to stumble a second time. Once up the far side’s gently sloping bank he turned northward, onto level going.
The easy walking didn’t last, however. After two hundred metres he came to a rough little gully, beyond which lay the stony ground of Reward Hill’s south east footing. Nor were these his only problems, for the shovel handle’s pressing into his shoulder was beginning to hurt badly. Nothing could be done about it now, he thought ruefully, as he made his way down into the watercourse.
Crossing it proved a nightmare, with its close packed grass and dense vegetation. Out on Reward’s higher ground he trudged along resolutely in the moonlight and tried to ignore the pain. Changing the handle’s angle occasionally helped a little, though each time he did so the aching would soon recommence. He pressed on grimly, his shoulder’s soreness increasing with every step, all the while wishing he’d padded it with another wheat bag.
After a while McCullock began considering dropping the can and crowbar and concentrating on delivering just the boulder. Doing this would free-up a hand, he mused, which could then be worked under the shovel handle, hopefully to some effect. He kept going, however, deciding to first take everything as far as he possibly could.
Onward he slogged, focusing on each footfall as he worked his way around the eastern side of the hill. Nothing grew here; it was just hard stony ground with a gutter or two, the odd larger channel and an occasional patch of rocks. All were negotiated as carefully as possible so as not to torment his shoulder.
To force his mind from the ordeal he glanced up briefly to check on the clouds over the ranges. A shower seemed to be developing there; with any luck it might drift this way and disguise his work. He then bet himself a tenner he’d have to use the watering can. Just as he looked to the ground again a more substantial cloud mass suddenly blacked out the moon.
McCullock stopped to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.
In front of the ranges a large patch of light was hurtling toward him, racing across the lower hills and valleys there at speed. Moments later it was on him as cloud and shadow passed.
He moved off again, his shoulder now beginning to grow numb. A short time later Great Northern’s spoil heaps became visible ahead in the moonlight, boosting his determination. He’d already chosen the pit he’d be using. It was an isolated trench in the country rock on the eastern side of the rise. Why the old timers had chosen to dig just there he could only guess at.
Whatever the case, it suited him perfectly. Being away from the other pits meant it was easily coded onto his map, and rubble aplenty should have washed into it by now to conceal the gourd. He recalled, too, from an earlier visit to Great Northern, that most of the trench’s spoil had appeared to be soft weathered chlorite rather than tough Jervois country-rock. That would make digging deeper more manageable, should such be necessary.
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A few minutes later McCullock reached his goal and, with an immense feeling of relief, set down the watering can and crowbar. His main burden was more troublesome, however; all he could manage with that was to bend forward and let bag, boulder and shovel slide from his shoulder. Trying to restrict their fall made no difference; the ironstone hurtled straight to the ground.
He checked to see if it had broken, massaged his outraged shoulder briefly then climbed into the trench. There he began shovelling back the fallen-in material from the northern end.
Once the corner was cleared he sat on the edge of the rubble heap he’d created and began chipping out a deeper, undercut hole with the crowbar. As McCullock had hoped, the rock there was weathered chlorite and easy to dig.
Soon the cavity was large enough to partially accommodate the gourd, so he took the shovel and cleaned away the chippings. That done, he dragged the bag and boulder to the edge of the pit then slid them down the wall, this time restricting their descent a little more successfully.
After removing the boulder he threw out the bag and rolled the ironstone into place, lid-piece upward. Rubble was then shovelled back over it until the trench looked approximately as before, after which McCullock climbed out.
At a nearby patch of turkeybush he scraped up some leaf litter – a good two-hands full. Back at the trench he dusted the fine dry leaves over his work then checked the clouds.
Some rain to settle the litter and turned-over ground would be nice but he doubted any would come. Instead he took the watering can and sprinkled some water into the pit, then where he’d walked around its edges – sparingly, in the manner of a gentle shower.
That should do, he thought, checking the results in the moonlight. Whoever would imagine the trench had been disturbed? …Certainly none of the miners, even if they came along tomorrow. It wouldn’t fool any of Twofoot’s lot, of course; a shower and some wind would be needed for that.
Satisfied with his handiwork, McCullock sprinkled the last of the water into the pit then gathered his things and set off back to the Attutra. Along the way he stuffed the wheat bag into the hollow of a half dead bloodwood tree.
He approached the house with caution, alert for the slightest sign of light or movement. All seemed quiet. From nearer the water drums came the sound of Johns’ drunken snoring.
Confident all was in order, McCullock pulled off his boots, quietly returned the implements to their places then opened the door and went inside. As he closed it behind him he held the latch to stop it from clicking and listened again. Save for his partner’s laboured breathing all was still.
Sore, stressed, bone weary and tired, he padded across to the bed, then undressed and eased himself into his swag. Just as he began to relax there came a sudden shout from Sayd’s corner.
McCullock held his breath. Had the boy caught him out?
But Sayd was only talking in his sleep. And Johns just kept snoring.
Shaken but relieved McCullock went to the cool safe for a nightcap then sat with it on the edge of his stretcher.
The situation was now under control. The gold was safe so Johns could get as stroppy as he liked. He and Sayd would get their share when the rest had been mined and they were far far away.
There was no other option. Anything else would end in disaster.
McCullock's Gold Page 5