by Mary Arrigan
Chapter Thirty-Two
There was little work done at the diggings the following day. Every man seemed to be down at the stockade, including John Joe and Adam. Now and then someone would pass by with word that the miners there were poised at the defence, but that the military were showing no signs of attacking.
‘Thank goodness,’ said Mama. ‘Now perhaps they’ll all see how futile this is and it will end.’
Grandpa went down to see for himself how things were progressing. He came back late that night.
‘What’s happening?’ Mama asked. ‘Will there be violence, Father?’
Grandpa shook his head. ‘Most of the men have gone home,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday. There will be no violence on the Sabbath.’
‘So, where’s John Joe?’ I asked. ‘And Adam?’
Grandpa held his hands towards the dying fire. ‘Some of the men are staying on,’ he replied.
‘They’re daft,’ put in May. ‘What’s the point of staying in that dismal place if nothing is going to happen?’
Grandpa shrugged. ‘They’re young,’ he said. ‘Who can argue with the passion of young men?’
‘Do you know something, Esty?’ May said to me later as we prepared for bed. ‘I used to think that men knew everything, that they were the ones who made all the right decisions and made life easier for us women. But, do you know what I think now?’
‘What do you think, May?’ I said wearily.
‘I think they’re mad. All of them. Mad. I think I’ll be a nun, all nice and safe in a convent with nothing to do except say lots of Hail Marys, sew silky vestments for bishops, and grow vegetables. Do you think they have convents in this country? I’m sure they’d be delighted to have a fine girl like me.’
I had to laugh. ‘May,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t last five minutes in a convent. You’d give cheek to the Reverend Mother, talk during meals and complain about the lack of men. Now, please let me get on with earning that two shillings from Henry Seekamp.’
‘You might not need it,’ May whispered, nodding towards Mama’s bed, under which lay our money and gold nugget.
‘Oh, get some sleep, May,’ I said. ‘No point in speculating about might or might not.’
Later that night, I was awakened by May shaking my shoulder. ‘I can’t sleep,’ she whispered.
‘Well I can,’ I replied drowsily. ‘Tomorrow is Sunday, and Grandpa said there would be no unpleasantness from the military on a Sunday. They’ll all go home tomorrow, those men at the stockade. Now, go back to sleep.’
But she shook me again a few minutes later. ‘Let’s go down there, Esty.’
‘Down where, May? What are you talking about? Look,’ – I pointed to the fading darkness through the open flap above our heads – ‘It will soon be dawn.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘But what’s the harm in just going down to look? Before they take away the stockade, why not just take a peep and see what it’s like?’
By now I was wide awake, and I knew May had no intention of going back to sleep. Besides, I was curious, and if I saw the stockade, I could write a description of it.
‘Just a quick look, then,’ I whispered. Mama was still asleep, snoring gently. We dressed silently and went out. We didn’t take a lantern as we didn’t want to draw attention to ourselves. I glanced into the wagon. Grandpa wasn’t there. I suppose I’d known that he would follow the boys. Holding hands, we strained to see the path in the pre-dawn, now and then giggling when one of us stumbled.
‘Hush!’ a sharp voice hissed from dark, thick shrubs ahead of us. May and I clutched one another.
‘Who … who’s there?’ I asked. The shrubs moved and a stout woman emerged, followed by three or four more. We could barely see their shapes against the sky.
‘What are you two doing here?’ The stout woman peered at us. ‘Come for fun, have you?’
‘Certainly not,’ May retorted. ‘How dare you…’
‘We have family in the stockade,’ I put in. It was a harmless lie that gained us their sympathy. At once their attitude changed and they beckoned us to join them.
As we stepped towards them, we stopped and gasped.
There, below us, was the infamous stockade. From the lights of the fires and lanterns, we could see that it was less than an acre in size, made up of chopped-down trees, overturned carts, flimsy-looking stakes and slabs of stone. There were lights on in some of the tents. Now and then we’d see shadowy figures moving between the carts and shady hillocks, and hear voices that travelled eerily to where we stood.
Beyond the stockade, a little higher up, there were the tents and houses of the police, military and Government officials. It looked peaceful enough.
‘This is it, then, is it?’ May whispered. ‘The stockade.’
‘Indeed it is,’ replied one of the women wearily. ‘The Eureka Stockade. Some of us here sewed the flag of the Southern Cross.’
‘Have you family down there?’ I asked.
‘My son,’ another woman replied. ‘And some of us have husbands and brothers.’
Now more women began to emerge. ‘We’ve taken them food,’ one of them said. ‘And we’re waiting.’
Waiting for what? I didn’t dare ask.
‘I can’t see many miners,’ May put in, bending forward in the gloom.
‘Maybe one hundred or so. Most went home earlier in the night,’ the stout woman explained. ‘They’ve taken the Sabbath to be with their families before…’ she broke off.
‘They’ll be back,’ someone else said. ‘By Sunday evening they’ll all be back to show strength of numbers.’
‘Sit with us,’ said the stout woman, whose name was Hannah. ‘Sit on the rug. There’s not much we can do, but we’d rather be here than in our tents worrying.’
There was something comforting about being in the company of these women, sharing our anxieties with them. They passed around scones and bread left over from the baskets they’d taken to the miners.
‘I wish I knew where John Joe and Adam are,’ said May, peering out again.
‘Brothers?’ someone asked.
‘Sweethearts,’ I said.
‘Esty!’ exclaimed May.
‘It’s true,’ I laughed. ‘One man is not enough for May. She has two courting her.’
The women laughed. One of them patted May’s arm. ‘Take the one with money,’ she said.
‘No,’ another put in. ‘Choose the gentler one. A gentle man is worth all the gold in Ballarat.’
‘And where would you find a gentle digger?’ said a voice.
Our laughter was cut short by a cry from one of the women.
‘They’re coming!’ she cried. ‘Look.’
We all got up and looked towards the stockade. Sure enough, we could see the troops moving towards the stockade. Behind them came mounted figures brandishing swords that glinted in the firelight. We stood frozen with disbelief, until one of the women began to run down towards the stockade.
‘Wake up!’ she was shouting. ‘They’re coming! Get up!’
We watched her until she reached the edge of the stockade, still shouting. Hannah held out her brawny arms to stop the rest of us from following.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ she said. ‘Our men would only try to protect us. We must let them fight unhampered.’
‘I’m going back to the diggings to tell them,’ someone cried out. ‘To get help.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said May. She looked at me guiltily. ‘I can’t stay and watch this, Esty! Come with me.’
Part of me wanted to flee from this awful scene, but I knew I must stand firm with these brave women.
‘No, May. Go!’
Now the shouting had begun below us. In the faint dawn light I saw someone stand beside the Eureka flag. I could hear his cries as he shouted to the miners to hold their fire, to save their ammunition until the attackers came closer. I knew that voice, I’d heard it often enough at the meetings – it was Peter Lalor. Then he suddenl
y fell as a shot rang out. And then the shooting really began. We women clutched one another, crying out as more and more people fell. By now the stockade was overrun with soldiers, mounted and on foot, shooting as they advanced.
‘Dear God!’ sobbed Hannah. ‘This is slaughter.’
One or two of the women broke away and ran towards the battle. Hannah shouted at them to come back, but they were intent only on reaching whoever belonged to them. Someone put her arm around me when I was sick in the bushes.
‘It’s now we need our strength,’ she said, as she wiped my mouth.
She was right. In a few horror-filled minutes the battle was over.
With Hannah leading, we ran to the stockade.
‘Shout “Dead!”’ Hannah called out to us, just before we climbed over the barricade. I was to find out soon enough what she meant as we approached the injured, groaning miners. The soldiers were shouting at us to go away. Indeed, some of the mounted police were running down any uninjured men they saw trying to escape. But we kept on going, to tend the wounded. By now it was bright enough to see the carnage that had been caused.
Nothing, I thought, is worth this. I stopped to comfort a wounded miner. I knew him – he was one of our dinner men.
‘It went through my arm,’ he said. ‘The bullet just went right through. I’m all right, Esty. Go to someone who’s bad.’
‘I’ll come back later,’ I said. There was confusion everywhere. I saw one of the women from the hill sitting with a wounded man in her arms. A soldier with a bayonet approached her.
‘Out of the way,’ he barked.
‘He’s dead!’ she cried, putting her hand over the man’s face. But he wasn’t dead. After the soldier had passed, the man whispered his thanks to the woman. So this was Hannah’s plan, I thought. The so-called ‘dead’ would be claimed by their own and taken away on carts to safety. Now the cry could be heard all around the stockade. ‘Dead … dead.’ I looked around frantically for Grandpa, and was just in time to see him being marched away with other survivors, including a limping Adam.
‘Grandpa!’ I screamed, running towards the walking wounded. He turned and waved me away. I knew I’d only cause further trouble – there was nothing I could do but watch the straggling miners being herded towards the military camp. At least he and Adam are alive, I told myself, before turning my attention back to the wounded.
At the foot of the flagpole, where the Southern Cross flag hung limply, I found John Joe.
‘John Joe!’ I ran to him. ‘Oh, please be alive!’ I knelt and held him to me. I pulled him even closer when I saw a pair of military boots stop beside me.
‘Dead!’ I cried as convincingly as I could. I looked up and saw the uniformed trooper, his bayonet poised to finish off the badly wounded. Then I gasped, as I recognised the young trooper whose glances had once made me happy.
‘Dead,’ I said again.
It was at that moment that John Joe groaned and opened his eyes.
Epilogue
‘What is your grandfather up to, Esty?’ Mama sighed. ‘I have to write out the lunch menu.
‘Patience, Mrs Maher,’ said May, putting down her basket and spreading her skirt as she sat on the sofa. She brushed the velvet collar of her tight-fitting jacket and looked at me. ‘What do you think of my town outfit, Esty?’
I smiled, and nodded my head. ‘Very elegant, May, just like every other outfit in your wardrobe. I sometimes wonder where Adam manages to keep his clothes.’
‘Oh, men don’t need as many changes as we women do,’ May laughed. ‘Besides, it’s important for the wife of a prominent businessman to have a well-dressed lady on his arm.’
‘Well, your house is certainly big enough to accommodate several wardrobes,’ Mama put in, as she stepped out on to the balcony.
It was quite true. Baker and Son, Master Butchers was a fine shop, over which were roomy living quarters divided between May and Adam, Rose and James. It had been completed in time for the wedding almost one year ago. What an exciting, glorious day that had been! A true Irish wedding in the heart of Australia! Grandpa had offered to lead May to the altar to give her away, but May had politely refused.
‘I’ve asked John Joe to do that, Mr Maher,’ she said. ‘He was like a brother to me when I was in service, and a brother is the person who gives you away when you don’t have a father.’
Now, when I looked at May, I marvelled at the seamless way she’d moved into a way of life so remote from tending the Burgess ladies. What a way we’ve come, I thought.
At first we’d been disappointed by the small amount of gold we harvested from our shaft before giving up.
‘The gold,’ Grandpa had said apologetically, when he counted out the money he’d received from that last nugget, ‘is not the fortune we’d hoped for. But it will give us a step up.’
His words proved to be true. Mama had become so immersed in her catering business that she’d rented premises for a restaurant in Ballarat. With business booming, she was soon able to buy the whole property – over which we had spacious living quarters built in the colonial style, and a garden where she grew her vegetables and herbs. We’d agonised over an appropriate name, but it was Mama herself who’d come up with The Bridge End Restaurant.
‘It was our address on the goldfield, and it will be our address now,’ she said. ‘We’ve crossed many bridges to achieve what we have, so the name will serve to remind us what we went through to find this happiness.’
Some of those bridges would haunt our dreams for years to come, but we had learnt to adjust to change and push the bad past aside. John Joe had made a good profit investing his money in some scrubby, seemingly worthless land beyond Ballarat, and was turning it into a successful horse-breeding business.
‘Can you believe it, Esty?’ he said, as he proudly showed me his property. ‘My land, my horses. Just think – if I’d stayed in Ireland, I’d probably be dead.’
I still shudder at the word ‘dead’. It’s not death itself that disturbs me – it’s the memory of that moment, etched in my mind, when I nursed John Joe on that awful morning and cried out ‘Dead!’
The young trooper and I had looked at one another as John Joe groaned, injured – but very much alive.
Giles, for that was his name, leaned closer to me. ‘Drag him to the barricade,’ he said. ‘I’ll help.’
Thus, between the two of us, we dragged John Joe to a cart which had been appropriated for the dead. Giles stayed with me until the cart was pulled clear of the stockade. I’d wanted to thank him, but he’d simply nodded and backed away.
John Joe, being the tough survivor he’d always been, recovered after a few weeks – with just enough scars to boast about to anyone who’d listen.
Grandpa, along with Adam and the other stockade protestors, was jailed for several weeks, but they were all eventually acquitted when the miners’ grievances were acknowledged and the law was changed. It was hard to believe, looking around our beautiful home and watching Mama bustling about her restaurant with such pride, that we’d once been so close to failure.
‘Peter Lalor is on his way here for his morning coffee,’ Mama called out, as she glanced down the street. ‘What a shame to see his empty sleeve,’ she sighed.
‘It could have been worse, Mama,’ I said. ‘He’s lucky he survived.’
I gave an involuntary shiver at the memory. As Giles and I carried John Joe towards the dead wagon, I caught a glimpse of Peter Lalor being dragged away by some of our own people. They got him to the safety of a priest’s house, where his badly injured arm had to be amputated.
‘Goodness, Mrs Maher,’ said May. ‘Did we ever think we’d see the day when a representative of…’ she broke off and turned to me. ‘What is he representative of, again, Esty?’
‘Of the Miners’ Legislative Council,’ I laughed.
‘Yes, that,’ said May. ‘Did we ever think that someone so important would be a customer of the grandest restaurant in Ballarat – owned by one of
us?’
‘Which makes a change from being a wanted man with a sentence of death hanging over him,’ said Mama, coming into the room again. ‘What is Father at, keeping us waiting like this? I cannot think what he’s up to. He spends all his spare time in that locked shed at the bottom of the garden and he won’t let the rest of us look inside.’
‘He’s probably making stools for the children,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard him say that there are more pupils turning up.’
By day, Grandpa was working at something that had always been dear to his heart – teaching. He’d built a wooden school at the edge of town and rounded up the youngsters running amok around Sovereign Hill to give them an education. At first, most of them had resisted, but he’d gradually coaxed them in with the stories he read from his books. They were now well into learning to read for themselves.
‘Help me, Esty,’ he’d said. ‘Between us, we could tame these wild youngsters into outstanding citizens.’
‘No thank you, Grandpa,’ I replied. ‘Apart from the fact that those urchins terrify me, I’m much happier taming words. Words do what you tell them.’
But Grandpa, with the help of Peter Lalor, succeeded in raising funds for his school, and also in employing the enthusiastic Mrs Atkins, whose husband, Pastor Atkins, had died of fever leaving her penniless.
Surprisingly, she agreed with Grandpa that religion would not be part of their teaching.
‘These children come from many lands with different faiths, my dear,’ he’d said. ‘We must not impose our doctrines upon them.’
‘Indeed,’ Mrs Atkins replied. ‘We shall civilise them first, Mr Maher. That is surely our first duty.’
‘Good morning.’ A gentle voice broke into my thoughts.
The three of us turned towards the door. ‘Oh, Mrs Casey,’ Mama said, and patted the sofa. ‘Come and sit down.’
‘I’ve made out the day’s menu in my head,’ she said. ‘I just need you to write it down.’
Mrs Casey. I took a deep breath of satisfaction as I watched her and Mama working together. My world was now complete. Mama’s letter to Mr Egan a year ago had brought the troubled reply that Mrs Casey was about to be replaced by a younger cook. Mama had kept this information to herself, but as soon as she could, she had put things right by sending money to arrange assisted passage to Australia for Mrs Casey.