Above the Starry Frame

by Helen Townsend

  ‘I’m going to America,’ James announced one evening, after they had been in Sydney a couple of months. ‘To California, to the gold fields. I’ll make enough there to start a mill here and then I’ll come back.’ William and Michael had heard talk of the Californian gold, but were amazed at this stroke of daring. For them, there was a great distance between the talk and the doing of the thing.

  Michael was happy enough working on the wharves. He had only himself to care for, whereas William was forever hoping to send money back to his family. His feelings for them were complicated. He missed them, very badly at times, but he did not want to fail at being away from them. Nothing would have made him happier than to post a letter with money to them – he could imagine how surprised and joyful they would be when they opened such a letter. He sometimes played this scene through his head, so he could see Father smiling and proud, Mother crying a little and Lizey squealing and running about. But the money to put into the letters eluded him, so he felt worse each time he thought of home and wrote short letters only. He waited for their letters, which were full of love and concern. Their judgment of him was never harsh, but he badly wanted some success.

  In Ireland, labouring was regarded as the lowliest of work, and seeing as William wished to improve himself, he searched for work as a clerk in the bond stores, in legal offices or in a shop. But such positions seemed to go to the colonial born or the educated English, for in Sydney the Irish were not well regarded. He discovered there had been great suspicion of the Irish convicts, then of the Irish Catholics, and then of any poor Irish. He did not know how he might improve his lot in the world.

  Finally, a kind man at his church suggested he try school teaching, and arranged a job as an assistant school master at The King’s School out at Parramatta. William felt a surge of hope for, although it would be painful to be separated from Michael, with whom he had such a strong friendship, to be a school master seemed like a grand thing. In Ireland it was a most respected position. But he found education was not so highly regarded in the colony, and school masters even less so, and an assistant school master hardly at all. And once he had taken the job, he found he was poorly paid. He hung on, intimidated by the respectability and disdain of the learned masters. The school gave him board and lodgings, but held his pay back, so he was forever waiting for his wages. He felt like one of the moths the Latin master had pinned up in the glass case in his study. He stayed, pinned for almost a year.

  When William heard of the discovery of gold in New South Wales, on the other side of the mountains, news that had the whole colony abuzz, he saw a possible way out of school teaching. He heard that men could walk to the goldfields. He heard that a pan and a shovel were needed. He heard of eminent men preaching of the perils and evils of the gold rush, but by now, he mistrusted their pompous warnings. He was fired with hope. According to the letters William received from his father, James Brown had made money on the Californian goldfields, although he could tell his father believed that searching for gold was dangerous, and in some way not quite fitting for a steady man.

  Being only an assistant master, William was not permitted to sit in the masters’ study after dinner, but was at their beck and call.

  ‘Young Irwin, we need some biscuit to go with this port. Fetch some. Be smart.’

  He ran down to the kitchen, filched a slice of the cold hogget from the pantry, and fetched the biscuit. As he came back, the Latin master had his Sydney Morning Herald held out in front of him, and was reading in a pompous tone to the other masters.

  ‘“May 19, 1851. The intelligence from Bathurst on Saturday rather checked the mania for gold mining. It gradually oozed out that of the five or six hundred men at work, very few were earning more than they could at their respective trades.”’ The Latin master lowered the paper and looked over his glasses. ‘What fools these men are. I feared when this nonsense first came out that some of our wilder boys might run off.’ He turned and looked fiercely at William. ‘This is the masters’ study,’ he said, ‘not for assistants, young Irwin. Off you go.’

  Several days later, the Latin master summoned him to get wood for the fire, then complained about him warming his hands for a moment in front of the blaze. As William was leaving, the Latin master began reading his paper again. ‘“Although hundreds of persons were not obtaining more than ordinary wages, many were getting an ounce a day, which is worth about three pounds.”’ He snorted derisively. ‘We’ll be seeing men desert their trade for three pounds. Disorder and ill discipline will be the result of this. Three pounds indeed!’

  Three pounds a day, William thought, was a clear invitation to desert school teaching.

  The next day he pestered the headmaster for his wages, saying he must send money home for his poor family, and although he did not get the full amount owing, he was given eight pounds in all. William went to the dormitory, packed his very few belongings, and walked out of the school with a glorious sense of freedom. He did not know if he could make money at gold digging, but he could hardly do worse than he had. The governor of the colony, Sir Charles Fitzroy, alarmed at the full-scale flight of men to the diggings, had indicated that none were to leave their jobs without permission. To do so was an offence. But William decided that since ten of the constables at Parramatta had taken off for the goldfields, leaving none to administer the law relating to absconding labour, he was safe. He knew very little about gold digging but he felt his future was now in his own hands.

  * * *

  William caught the boat down the Parramatta River to Sydney and went to the lodgings of his friend Michael O’Connell. William was happy to see Michael and hear the familiar Irish brogue.

  ‘I’m hoping you might come searching for gold with me,’ William said.

  ‘I had the same idea myself,’ said Michael. ‘And the idea that you might come with me, except I thought that with school teaching, you might not see it my way.’

  ‘It’s the school teaching makes me see it your way,’ said William. ‘Being an assistant master was only a name for being a servant. I think digging will be a good deal better.’

  Happy to find themselves in agreement, they pledged to share everything and evenly divide the fortune which they were sure awaited them. Their combined fifteen pounds bought them a tent, blankets, two shovels, a panning dish and food, although prices were high and they could only afford the poorest of each thing. They spent the last night tossing and turning, speculating about their future fortune and wondering how the gold was dug. They were up early the next morning and on their way to the field at Turon, past Bathurst, walking all the way.

  William revelled in the freedom of the road. ‘I’d always thought that being a teacher would be a fine thing,’ he told Michael, ‘but at the academical institution of The King’s School at Parramattay, it proved a difficult business.’

  ‘You were a fine teacher on the ship,’ said Michael. ‘To be able to read and write, now, is an excellent thing for an Irish lad like myself.’

  ‘It was being Irish that they looked down upon,’ William said. ‘They caught me off guard in the spelling of “uneasy”, which I have always spelled O-N-A-S-E-Y and never known anyone to have any difficulty with my meaning. It put me at a disadvantage, even though the master whom I worked for could not multiply past ten times, except on paper.’

  ‘I can’t believe they paid you less than I got for labouring on the wharves.’

  ‘They didn’t get round to paying me most times,’ said William, ‘so I failed to get paid less than you – that was the pity of it.’

  ‘You should have demanded it.’

  ‘They’re sons of gentlemen,’ said William, ‘and such gentlemen don’t pay the school till they’ve sold their wool in England. And the merchant gentlemen of England are slow to pay. And somehow myself, being Irish, is barely worth paying at all.’

  The memory of the school left William with an even greater resentment, for they had looked down on him, not just for being Irish, but f
or the paucity of his education for which his own father had strived so hard. When he had asked questions about science or geography, they had scoffed at the idea that a mere Irish farm boy might try to educate himself further.

  The second day of the trudge over the mountains was cold and often miserable. This country, William realised, was a very wild place indeed. In Ireland, the road was sometimes the easiest way to go, but often not. There, one could go across fields and along streams, tracks and laneways. But crossing these mountains, everything beyond the road was thick, tangled bush, with great cliffs and ravines where a man would get lost in a moment. Here and there, they could see small settlements or farms carved out, but the bush pressed hard against these. Such settlements made it seem like a very new country, but the great bluffs and giant trees made it seem a more ancient land than Ireland.

  There were men of all sorts on the road – some gentlemen, some old lags, some Americans – blacks amongst them, sailors who had jumped ship, whole families, lads little more than boys. Some flashed by in carriages, others on bullock carts, some had pack horses, some rode more spirited but less suitable creatures, others had wheelbarrows. Some, like Michael and William, had poor swags on their backs. But all were in the highest spirits, united in their rosy picture of future fortune. Many had left solid positions to follow this dream, which was full of promise but no proven substance. They were buoyed by a sense of their own enterprise and an escape from the humdrum reliability of poverty, or even of plenty. There was an adventure here, to which they gave the name ‘fortune’. It felt joyously unpredictable, full of possibility.

  Their dreams were expanded by stories of riches already won by others, as well as their own private hopes. Some framed them modestly – ‘just enough to get my wife out here’ – or a little more hopefully – ‘enough for a cottage and a cow’ – but some had high style – ‘I’ll go back to England as a gentlemen and show off to those who sent me here.’ William and Michael were more vague; they would find a new path in the world, but they were uncertain where the path would lie.

  They heard the settlement at Turon before they set eyes on it. The noise of the cradles being worked came like a low drumming over the hill. Then they came upon the diggings, a scene of industry and destruction together, utterly strange and unimagined. There in the valley were hundreds of men digging the earth, denuding every part, taking every blade of grass, every stick of firewood, so all green was gone except for the distant hills. It was like a colony of ants, spreading out down the river.

  Close up, it felt quite different again, with all the sights and smells and activities of men, all living close together, side by side in tents. Butchers, grocers and blacksmiths were there. There were grog shops, coffee shops and restaurants flying coloured flags. ‘I got lucky!’ one drunk digger told them, holding up a bag of gold dust. ‘I’m off for more ale and a feed of oysters.’

  William noticed a church, roughly made, but a church nevertheless. No women were to be seen, except a few of a particular type. There were also a few of the black natives of the place. They were different from the natives of Parramatta, who were generally a sad lot. These looked much wilder, bewildered by the changes in their home in just a few weeks. Amongst the diggers, William observed many different faces and casts of men: disappointed men, lucky men. Everywhere, there was the hopeful talk of gold. And although there was little governance, no-one to say ‘go here’ or ‘do that’, the thing worked, so men lived side by side, their needs catered to, their quarrels settled. It seemed astounding, but William and Michael agreed that although it felt quite foreign, it also had an easy familiarity.

  The gold metal itself, which William and Michael had such extravagant visions of, was nowhere to be seen. The clay and the slurried water covered everything, so it was all the same dull colour, the same as the canvas of the tents. Even nuggets of gold didn’t shine as he had thought, but William was much taken with the prodigious energy of the field. He watched as men worked, digging and carting dirt, and washing it in cradles and pans. It was not an idle task, picking gold from the ground. William and Michael explored the entire field, then used their last pennies for hot tea and buns.

  ‘You’re new, chums?’ asked an old bearded fellow, who sat himself down beside them. ‘The first thing for it, fellas, is to disappear.’

  ‘Disappear?’ said William.

  ‘Aye, disappear. For if the gold police find you without a licence, you’ll be in the lock-up.’

  ‘A licence?’

  ‘A licence, thirty shillings’ robbery that the government demands.’ The old fellow took them outside and pointed down to a spot. ‘Pan down there – you may get the money for a licence and a good feed, which you look in need of. And you want to camp on the east side of the valley, for the wind blows up fierce on the other side.’ As they were going, he added, ‘Don’t trust the women. They’ll rob you blind.’

  They thanked him for his advice, and set out for the camp spot he had indicated.

  ‘Don’t go out after dark,’ he shouted after them. ‘You’ll fall down a shaft and kill yerself. Me own cousin died that way. And no-one knew it till the Saturday.’

  They started vigorously on the work of gold digging. The first two days, they got tiny grains of gold in the dish. They marvelled over these specks, which accumulated and allowed them to buy another blanket and to feed themselves. Encouraged, they worked long days, blistering their hands, which were always wet from the slush. They dug enough to buy a monthly licence. They listened to the talk on the field, and at the beginning of their third week, they staked a claim in a new area. There were many men who came to the diggings and gave up in the face of hard work and disappointing rewards, but William and Michael had nothing to go back to, and they had their friendship together.

  ‘Look here!’ yelled William, after five solid hours of digging and cradling on the third day on their new claim. ‘Two nuggets, no, three. Michael, look!’ Michael came up out of the shaft, his striped digger’s shirt covered in mud. They laughed and hugged each other as they danced around the shaft.

  ‘Praise to our Lady, Mother of God,’ said Michael and crossed himself.

  William felt a sudden spurt of homesickness. Nothing would have made him happier than to run to his mother, as he had when he was a small child to show her a new thing. He wanted to tell her that he had these nuggets here in his hand, and to explain how these small hard lumps would transform his world. And she, like Michael, would say, as she always did, ‘Praise be to God.’

  The nuggets were not worth a huge sum, but now nothing would induce them to return to Sydney. It was backbreaking, dangerous, difficult work, but they could feel their independence, a heady and hardy sense. This, William thought, was what he had so wanted in leaving Ireland, although he had not known it then.

  The winter was almost as bitter as an Irish one, but being young, William and Michael quickly became used to the cold and to the hard labour. They got wet, then sick with dysentery, but refused to be discouraged. They sometimes found themselves cheated by those offering false kindness, but they were also offered true kindness, and developed a nose for sniffing one from the other. They had shovels that broke and gold that was stolen. They cooked meals so bad that they were inedible, despite their hunger. They had days when their own pickaxes seemed to attack them, when they burned themselves on the fire, found no gold in the mud and were miserable beyond belief. They themselves showed kindness to strangers and became acquainted with women who showed them things that two Irish farm boys might otherwise never have imagined, for a price of course.

  There were months of constant cold and wet, then in summer searing heat, so dry it was impossible to get enough water for the washing of gold. At the same time, the heat nourished the bush flies in great numbers, the creatures crawling into their eyes, noses and mouths. But William and Michael did everything together and their friendship was a great thing, although they didn’t speak of it. It was there as they dug the dirt, drank, and, a
s all the Irish did, sang together.

  These things William did not mention in letters to his family, as such things always seemed too large or too small to describe. Once he started sending money home, the family were much fixed on the pieces of gold and the draft bank notes and did not notice the absence of detail. In the letters that came from home, William saw his money was helping pay McCrea and setting Father’s mind racing with plans and dreams. He felt pride in the easing of his dear father’s worries, and he imagined them at home, speaking of him with pride, rather than the concern which they had felt in his early days. He felt himself changed, not just hardened by the labour of digging, but that he knew more of life, and had an ability to make his own way.

  One Sunday afternoon, as William was writing home, Michael suddenly asked, ‘Do you tell your family that I’m with you in all this?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said William, ‘and they say if you ever go back to old Ireland, you must go and see them.’ He wondered why he had felt he had to say so, when he had barely mentioned Michael in his letters home.

  That morning, Michael had attended mass, and William had gone to the Presbyterian service. On the field, the Presbyterians were the favoured Protestant church, so he attended this rather than the Church of England, which was further away. They did this each Sunday, making plans for afterwards, such as mending clothes, or laying in supplies, or sometimes hunting a kangaroo with a larger party of men. The kangaroo meat was tasty, if a little tough, but the fun was in the chase and the companionship, regardless of whether they got a kangaroo, which generally they did not.