What is certain, though, is that he is a man with a great deal to live for.
The sun is just beginning to mercifully sink below the brown hills that lie beside Ballarat on this stiflingly hot Sunday afternoon that has sapped the energy from all and sundry when Sergeant Harris informs the Chairman of the so-called ‘Ballarat Reform League’ that he has visitors. It proves to be Hayes’s wife, Anastasia - a vision of fresh loveliness and unbowed strength - and his six children, one of whom is presently suckling at his mother’s breast as she holds him in the crook of her arm. There is a warmth to her, a care for her husband and children, that deeply moves the other prisoners.
Like men dying of thirst in the desert suddenly hit by the remembrance of things past, both the prisoners and many of the guards now gaze mutely and longingly on this splendid portrait of a family, a real family.
Anastasia has brought a pile of freshly laundered clothes, neatly bundled together with a small basket of supplies so he can look like what he is - an innocent gentlemen - as he heads off to trial in Melbourne in a matter of days. She assures him that she will be there for him, now and always, and he is seen to straighten his back and even muster a wan smile. And now his children crowd around him. He gathers up one toddler daughter to embrace her, and she immediately tries to climb up on his shoulders. The eldest, a 12-year-old lad, valiantly holds back his tears - his father would want him to be strong - but soon he gives up the struggle. After kissing his father’s left hand, he proceeds to cover it in tears. It is all Timothy Hayes can do not to cover his son in the same - never has he been brought so low.
At least Hayes remains relatively robust. The same, alas, cannot be said for poor Henry Powell out on the diggings, who has been suffering terribly since that horrifying Sunday morning. His deep wounds simply have not healed, and he grows worse by the day.
Apart from getting well, what he most wants is justice, so he sends a friend to the Camp, begging that a magistrate take down his statement of what occurred. But this magistrate must come quickly, he insists, because Powell is ‘in immediate danger’.94
Police Inspector Gordon Evans is quickly dispatched with some colleagues, and the scene they find is a troubling one. Poor Henry Powell is seriously ill and lying on a filthy bunk in the tent of the same Mr Cox who he had originally come to visit. Drifting in and out of lucidity - he is sometimes coherent for as long as 90 seconds at a time - his agonised statement is carefully taken down: the attempted arrest, the blow to the head, the trampling and beating, and how ‘the troopers rode over me, the blow was struck with something like a knife about three and a half inches long’.95
Only a short time later, at ten o’clock, Henry Powell dies.
While those who know and love Henry well are, of course, grief-stricken, the one bit of solace is that at the inquest the following day - a well-run, proper inquest, far removed from the debacle surrounding poor James Scobie - ‘Arthur Purcell Akehurst’ is found to have a case to answer and is committed to trial for the ‘willful murder’96 of the late Henry Powell, buried this very day. The jury even notes, ‘[We] view with extreme horror, the brutal conduct of the mounted police, in firing and cutting down the unarmed and innocent persons of both sexes, at a distance from the scene of the disturbance …’97
The deeply stunned Akehurst is immediately arrested, placed under guard and sent to Melbourne to await trial.
Elsewhere, most of the legal focus remains on capturing those ringleaders at the Stockade who have so far escaped justice, and it is on this 11th day of December that the government announces a reward of no less than PS500 for anyone who can capture the man described as the mastermind - none other than Friedrich Vern! Capturing the Hanoverian is particularly urgent, as one of the rumours circulating is that Vern is ‘erecting another Stockade in the Warrenheip forest’.98 The word goes out: the Commander-in-Chief of the ‘forces of the Republic of Victoria’99 must be captured, and quickly, for he is nothing less than ‘their generalissimo … a man of considerable talent, daring and impetuous’.100
Somewhere, Vern is surely blushing with pleasure.
Four o’clock in the morning, Tuesday, 12 December 1854, in the Camp cells, bound up and Melbourne bound
Moving the manacled prisoners is far easier said than done for men who have been inadequately fed and cared for over the last nine days, some of whom are still grievously wounded. But presently it is done and they all stand as respectfully as they can - many of them still chained together - so that Captain Thomas, all spick and span in his sparkling uniform, can address them and give them the ‘Order of the Day’.101
That order is very simple: they are to be transferred for trial in Melbourne, where the juries will be less inclined to be sympathetic. But the good captain needs them to understand one thing. If any of them raises a finger against this transfer or, worse still, raises his voice as they cross the diggings, they will be summarily shot.
On receipt of this piece of information, Raffaello Carboni, as downtrodden and depressed as he is, simply cannot contain himself. So reminiscent is this arrangement of the Austrian rule he long suffered under that he bursts out with, ‘God save the Queen!’102
His reward is to have one of the policemen, Inspector Foster, instantly spring to him and unbearably tighten the ropes that bind him to Joseph. Then, when he is taken outside and put into one of the carts, the Italian and the American are positioned right in front with Inspector Foster, with the trooper in command given specific instructions: if they so much as turn their his heads, the two of them are to be shot.
And so, even before the sun is up, the convoy makes ready to move off. Thomas is taking no chances of a rescue attempt. At the front of the 13 prisoners on three horse-drawn carts, he has a dozen dragoons on superb horses. The soldiers are armed, dangerous and well-trained, with orders to shoot to kill at the first sign of trouble. Pressed in tightly around the carts on their own horses are no fewer than a score of the more familiar troopers of the Ballarat stamp, their swords resting on their laps, carbines cocked, ready for anything. A sharp command from Captain Thomas and - altogether now - they move off at a canter, the prisoners bouncing in the carts like rocks in a shaking bucket.
Now, despite the threat to shoot him if he so much as turns his head, Carboni does risk a quick glance at the tent he had left just over a week earlier, a snug little place where he had passed so many happy hours. There it lies, deserted and uncared for, and he simply cannot help himself - he begins to weep, and the tears will not stop.
In the first few miles they see only one digger on the main road, and some three hours later the convoy stops in Ballan to change horses and have food and refreshments. At least the horsemen and Captain Thomas have biscuits and cheese washed down with ale, served on the stump of a tree outside the public house, while the prisoners beg for water. Arriving in Bacchus Marsh, the prisoners spend the night in a dark lockup and, upon the orders of Captain Thomas, in the morning they are served plenty of damper and a gallon of porter to share. And then they are on the move again.
Finally, after a second day of no fewer than 16 hours on the track, with only the odd stop along the way, the prisoners arrive at their Melbourne gaol in Russell Street at eight o’clock on the Wednesday evening. They are exhausted, covered in dust and so thirsty it feels as though they have been licking the Lieutenant-Governor’s boots for hours. The troopers hand them over to turnkeys, and a whole new phase of their lives as prisoners begins.
After some bread and cheese, they are ordered by the prison governor to strip down to their shirts and directed to their shared cells - all stone walls and iron bars - where they see a bare board for a bed and a single blanket for protection against the night’s cold. Then the heavy metal door is shut and bolted upon them.
And then?
As Raffaello Carboni would later recount, ‘Within the darkness of our cell, we now gave vent to our grief, each in his own way.’103
14 December 1854, Melbourne, let the Commission of E
nquiry commence
All sit.
And so they do. It is on this day, for the first time, that the Goldfields Commission of Enquiry meets in a chamber of the Legislative Council under the chairmanship of William Westgarth - he who was the first member of the Legislative Council to visit the goldfields in 1851 - and including John Pascoe Fawkner, and Chief Commissioner of Goldfields, William H. Wright, to ‘enquire into the Laws and Regulations now in force affecting the mining population’,104 and to work out if they might be more fairly framed.
After that first day’s sitting in Melbourne, the Commission proceeds to visit Ballarat, Creswick, Castlemaine and Bendigo, meeting with interested parties including diggers, traders and officials. Finally, the administration is actively listening, instead of simply telling.
18 December 1854, the ante is upped on Ballarat
Posters go up all over Ballarat:
PS400 REWARD
Whereas two persons of the names of
Lawlor & Black,
LATE OF BALLARAT,
Did on or about the 13th day of November
last, at that place, use certain TREASONABLE
AND SEDITIOUS LANGUAGE,
And incite Men to take up Arms, with a view
to make war against
Our Sovereign Lady the QUEEN!
NOTICE IS HERBY GIVEN
That a Reward of PS200 will be paid to any person or persons giving such information as may lead to the apprehension of either of the above named parties.
* * *
DESCRIPTIONS.
LAWLOR.—Height 5 feet 11 inches, age 35, hair dark brown, whiskers dark brown and shaved under the chin, no moustache, long face, rather good looking, and is a well made man.
BLACK.—Height over 6 feet, straight figure, slight build, bright red hair worn in general rather long and brushed backwards, red and large whiskers meeting under the chin, blue eyes, large thin nose, ruddy complexion and rather small mouth.
By His Excellency’s Command,
WILLIAM C. HAINES.
* * *
Late December, 1854, Melbourne Gaol, hominy and hope
With five prisoners pressed into each tiny cell, life settles down to a dull, dark routine, interrupted only by the occasional strip-search. Breakfast at dreary dawn is not much more than slops, a dish of ‘hominy’ - boiled corn meal from which every ounce of nutrition has been removed, though it is admittedly often fattened with whatever grubs are ruling in the prison kitchen at that time.
Lunch consists of boiling water in which the turnkeys have dropped a few grains of rice, allowing them to call it ‘soup’, together with small piece of dried bullock’s flesh, a piece of sour bread and a couple of black potatoes. Dinner is anything the prisoners like on the menu, which means more hominy. The Eureka men’s companions are bushrangers, horse-thieves and common criminals.
On Sundays, at least, Carboni is let out of his cell with the other Catholics to hear Mass, such as it is. The priest is always in a hurry and on two occasions does not turn up at all. He never once comes to visit the prisoners in their cells to offer Christian consolation.
O Father, why hast thou forsaken us?
And then it happens. One bright morning, Carboni is visited in his cell by an extraordinarily distinguished-looking gentleman with a high forehead and kindly eyes. Despite looking entirely out of place among the poorly dressed prisoners and shabby uniformed officers, he still evinces an air of complete comfort and confidence.
‘My name,’ he says in the unmistakable accent of a man who is as Scottish as haggis, even as he proffers his hand to the Italian, ‘is James Grant and I am a solicitor who would like to represent you in the coming trial.’105
There is a God.
After the Italian quickly agrees that he would be delighted if Mr Grant would represent him, the two engage in a detailed discussion of just what Carboni did and said at the Stockade - and when he did it and said it - all of it carefully noted down by the Scotsman’s clerk.
The older man is not long in pronouncing his conclusion: ‘You need not fear. You will soon be out, all of you.’106
And God is good, yea, verily, He is great!
Dusk, 21 December 1854, in the Government Camp, a Wise last word
Easy. Easy. Steady. Steady. Big breaths. Big, rattling breaths. And now more rattle than breath. And now nothing. Nothing at all. Blackness, eternal.
Captain Wise has survived for over two weeks after the fearful wounds he suffered during the attack, but now, as the sun goes down on this 21st day of December, it takes with it the last, tortured gasps of his life.
The next day, in the shimmering heat that is now blasting the Ballarat goldfields, a large cortege of mourners, 260 strong, is seen making its way toward Ballarat Cemetery. With full military honours, which includes volleys of shots fired into the air by a guard of honour, the display of the regimental colours and the regimental chaplain delivering a eulogy recording him as ‘one of the best loved men of those who fell’,107 the brave English officer is laid beneath the sod. Samuel Huyghue is one who notes the occasion with great sadness.
‘He was,’ the functionary records, ‘a gentleman of good prospect, being heir to a large fortune, and had left home with his regiment contrary to the wishes of his relatives, little supposing that he was fated to fall in the civil fray so far from all he held dear.’108
Around the diggings, many flags, led by the flag in the Government Camp, are lowered to half-mast in respect.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS
A mongrel crew of German, Italian and Negro rebels …1
The Sydney Morning Herald defines those about to go on trial for their lives, on Monday, 1 January 1855
Early January 1855, on another track winding back, between Ballarat and Geelong
It is a common thing for wagons travelling on the track between Geelong and Ballarat to have hidden contraband - usually vast quantities of grog secreted between the other supplies of flour, shovels, clothes, etc. The differences on this occasion are twofold. Firstly, this particular contraband is heading from Ballarat to Geelong and, secondly, the forbidden thing in the wagon is not grog at all, but a man - none other than Peter Lalor.
Recovered just enough to make such an arduous journey, he lies in the back of the dray of a carrier by the name of Patrick Carroll, covered by tarpaulins and feeling every bump in the track through his excruciatingly painful shoulder. Accompanying Carroll is an old Cornish digger, Thomas Marks, who acts as Lalor’s nurse, confirming from time to time that the rebel leader is still conscious.
For his part, Lalor can only wish that he were unconscious - no matter how much he wants to cry out, he knows he cannot. Any such outburst would not only risk his discovery by the troopers and result in his instant arrest, but it would also endanger the liberty of the brave men who have agreed to smuggle him to Geelong. Besides which, despite his agony, he has a rising sense of excitement. Tonight - tonight! - he will see once more the love of his life: sweet Alicia. She knows he is coming, knows he needs a safe place to stay, to recuperate, to get stronger, and has passed word back that she is more than ready for him.
Alas, Lalor’s agonised reverie of what it will be like to be with her again is suddenly shattered by a shout from ahead.
‘We are looking for Lalor,’ he can now clearly hear a voice call out, belonging, he correctly presumes, to a member of the mounted police. ‘There is a PS200 reward on his head - dead or alive.’2
Lalor’s heart nearly stops. His every breath sounds ragged and, to him, very loud, as he instinctively curls into the foetal position in the corner of the dray, trying to make himself small.
‘Musha,’3 replies Carroll in his thick brogue, using the Irish word for ‘indeed’ as he gets down from the wagon, slowly scratching his bushy beard. ‘The English are always liberal when they want to book a man, and that’s a real fine reward ye are offering for Lalor, and by the same token, if we get a glimpse of him, ye c
an depend upon us coming back and letting yez know.’4
At this point, Tommy Marks, ignoring for a moment that he is a devout Methodist unaccustomed to lying, chimes in, ‘See ‘ere, you, we know Peter, and will not forget the PS200 if we get a sight on him on the road to Geelong.’5
A trooper doesn’t need to be experienced to know these are good, honest men who want to help, and so they are allowed to proceed on their way … as Lalor breathes again.
That evening, well after dark, at a time when even prying eyes can make no headway in the thick stygian gloom, there is a muffled knock-knock-kn … on the door of the double-fronted wooden cottage at 188 McKillop Street, Geelong, before it is instantly opened. After a small female cry of delight or anguish - it is hard to tell - the two fall into each other’s arms. At least, Peter Lalor falls into Alicia’s arms …
She is shocked by his emaciated form - as is her uncle, Father Dunne - but more than grateful to have him safely with her. As soon as the young woman and the priest can, they organise for a local surgeon to perform another operation on Lalor at Geelong’s Young Queen Hotel, where the remaining bullet is removed from his shoulder. And then it is quickly back to bed in Alicia’s house, where she devotes herself to nursing her love back to full health.
Back on the goldfields, though there was relief when Commissioner Rede ‘asked to be relieved’6 and returned to Melbourne, tension remains. And that tension is never higher than when, in the second week of January, to the ‘unfeigned astonishment of everyone’,7 the diggers hear that the license-hunts are to resume!
Eureka: The Unfinished Revolution Page 55