Band of Gold

by Deborah Challinor

‘Yes, well, you’ll also be late for breakfast if you don’t hurry up and put your shirt on.’

  Breakfast was fried potatoes, porridge and black pudding. Whereas Rian had two helpings, Amber refused to eat the black pudding, insisting that it looked like rounds of dog turd. Rian laughed, but Kitty told her to watch her language and keep her voice down—other patrons were looking at them.

  After breakfast, they set out for the diggings that spread out on both sides of the main road heading south towards Geelong. The night before, they had come in along the Melbourne Road through the diggings that extended eastward, and there were other heavily mined leads to the north, but their claim was to the south of the town proper and the Camp. On the advice of the publican’s wife they hired a cart: the going would be very mucky and wet, even on the road.

  The going was indeed extremely muddy, particularly down the hill on the Main Road into the basin that was Ballarat Flat. The carthorse, though, was an enormous animal, and negotiated the greasy slope with a minimum of snorting and head-tossing. There was little room on the seat of the cart, so Amber and Simon sat on the back, holding grimly onto the sides. Once they reached the flat, the ride was marginally smoother, but still hazardous and slow, and the holes to be avoided in the road even larger.

  It was immediately evident that the Ballarat basin was a swamp. But, despite this, the Main Road was lined with stores and hotels, and behind them and to the south, as far as the eye could see, was a vast number of tents, slab and log huts, and tiny bark-and-tin shanties. Above the long-dry underground rivers that threaded beneath the basin, the ground had been excavated into a barren and currently frost-rimed landscape of gullies and deep trenches topped with great heaps of soil and gravel, as though a giant mole had gone berserk, spanned by spindly-looking timber viaducts and criss-crossed with rail lines. And again, the odd sail-like structures Kitty had noticed the night before were everywhere, taut in the raw, cutting wind. The vista was one of hectic, mud-sodden industry.

  The people they passed on the street—and they numbered in the hundreds—wore heavy layers of clothing against the cold and damp. Men, many sporting bushy beards, wore rough work attire and sou’westers or the unglamorous but evidently ubiquitous cabbage-tree hats. The few women looked little different from working women everywhere, in their shawls, bonnets and flapping capes. All, however, appeared to be wearing very sturdy boots or clogs, and their hems were noticeably shorter than those in Melbourne. Among the civilians were several mounted and foot police, distinctive in their dark-blue uniforms with red trim.

  ‘Where exactly is this house?’ Kitty asked, her ears humming with the cold.

  Rian transferred the reins to one hand and dug a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. ‘According to this, it’s near the Red Hill Lead and it’s the fourteenth dwelling directly behind the saddlery on the left.’ He glanced along the road and pointed. ‘Just up there, I’d say.’

  He steered the cart into an alleyway and down a short slope, then along a rough track past a dozen or so shanties. ‘This must be it,’ he said, reining in.

  Kitty’s heart sank.

  The ‘dwelling’ was a timber-and-iron cottage, with a window in each wall, a chimney and a single door. The windows were glazed, with the exception of two boarded-over panes, the silver-grey of the slab door testimony to its never having been painted. Above it had been nailed a shingle that read Lilac Cottage—the work of the Widow Murphy, Kitty assumed—even though there wasn’t a lilac in sight. The cottage was tiny, but she had to admit it was markedly more substantial than many of the bark huts and tents flanking it, their sides sagging with frigid rainwater. And, thank God, it wasn’t near any butchers’ tents, more than a dozen of which they had passed. With carcasses hanging in the open air and great piles of discarded offal and skins lying about, they would be a putrefying, reeking Mecca for flies in summer.

  ‘You could ask next door,’ she suggested, her fingers mentally crossed that they had made a mistake.

  Rian climbed down from the cart and rapped on the sheet of iron that served as the nearest hut’s door. A harried-looking woman appeared, wiping her hands on her apron; there was a quick conversation, then Rian turned to Kitty and nodded.

  She smiled resignedly, climbed off the cart and brushed the creases out of her skirts. ‘Is there a key?’ she asked as he came back.

  He opened his hand. ‘Your woman there was looking after it,’ he said, and unlocked the door.

  Kitty stepped inside, followed closely by an inquisitive Amber.

  It wasn’t quite as bad as she’d been dreading. It was bigger than it looked from the outside, and had three rooms. Two were bedrooms, one only just large enough to accommodate a narrow single bed, and the main room had a fireplace fitted with a sway to hold non-existent pots and cooking utensils. But no matter, because Pierre, as usual, would be preparing all the meals.

  There was, however, a small table with two chairs, and a rocking chair, which wouldn’t rock properly because the bare floorboards were uneven, and the larger of the two bedrooms held an iron double bed frame, but no mattress. A glance through the window of the back bedroom revealed that the sanitary facilities consisted of a small copper on a tripod over a brick fire-pit, and a rickety-looking privy.

  The cottage was also damp, and Kitty knew she would have to keep a fire going constantly to dry it out and keep them warm. And she would need to buy fabric for heavy drapes, and perhaps a few rugs for the floor. If they stayed at Ballarat, of course: she still harboured a faint but undeclared hope that Rian’s enthusiasm for making a fortune as a gold miner would wane and they could return to Melbourne.

  ‘It’s a bit cold, Ma, isn’t it?’ Amber remarked. ‘And dark.’

  ‘Yes, it is, sweetie, but a good fire should fix that.’

  But a quick reconnaissance outside the cottage revealed that there was no firewood.

  ‘We’ll buy some,’ Rian declared, then pointed to the south-west towards a series of wooded hills. ‘Or we’ll go and cut it ourselves. It’ll be wet, though.’

  Kitty made a mental account of what they had brought with them, and what they would need to purchase.

  ‘Perhaps we should stay at the hotel another night, until we have everything we need,’ she suggested.

  ‘Probably not a bad idea,’ Rian replied. ‘Come on, let’s go and have a look at our claim, shall we?’

  Kitty noted the gleam of excitement in his eyes: he looked exactly like a small boy with a new toy.

  Their claim was a hole in the ground. A deep one, granted, but just a hole nonetheless. Worryingly, the sides did not appear to have been reinforced at all in the manner described by Mr Harcourt, but at least duckboards had been laid around the lip to counter the mud. Water dripped somewhere, and Kitty suspected the regular plink sound came from the hole itself. And it had taken them half an hour in the cart to get to it. The claim wasn’t in any way isolated, however—it was only one of many on the Malakoff Lead near the Yarrowee River, and their trip had been accompanied by the hoarse shouts of diggers, endlessly barking dogs, the scrape of shovels, the rumble of barrows and carts, and the rhythmic din of many hundreds of cradles being rocked in the shallows of the river. Judging by the number of tents and shanties, many prospectors seemed to have set up camp near their claims, and Kitty wondered idly why the Murphys had chosen to live so far away from theirs.

  Rian was talking to a rugged little man with grey in his beard who had pitched his tent almost on top of the shaft.

  ‘Kitty, this is Patrick O’Riley. He’s been keeping an eye on things. My wife, Kitty.’

  Patrick O’Riley touched the brim of his hat. ‘Mrs Farrell.’

  ‘Patrick says there have been two attempts to jump the claim, and the winching gear has been stolen, but otherwise he’s had no trouble.’

  ‘Sure, you turn your back here for more than a moment and everything you could call your own has gone,’ Patrick said ruefully. ‘But Mrs Murphy gave me enough money to keep the lic
ence up to date, so she did.’ He shuffled his feet, looking awkward but managing to hold onto his dignity. ‘She said the new owner’d reimburse me, and pay for me services as a caretaker.’

  Rian produced his purse. ‘Been down yourself, then?’

  ‘Not likely. Not on me own.’

  ‘I assume this will cover your time and expenses?’ Rian said, handing Patrick a generous fee. ‘Amber! Come away from that hole!’

  Amber stepped back, looking only vaguely chastened.

  Patrick counted the money. ‘Ah, it will, and very nicely, too, Captain.’

  ‘You worked for Mr Murphy, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did that, but I’m goin’ in a syndicate with some diggers now that you’ve arrived.’

  ‘Promising claim?’

  ‘’Tis.’ Patrick waved a hand in a south-easterly direction. ‘Just down the track there. We’ll be neighbours, so we will.’

  ‘Well,’ Rian said, ‘if you’re ever looking for work, I’d be interested. I could do with a man who knows his way around.’

  Patrick nodded in acknowledgement of the offer, although his expression suggested that as far as he was concerned his days of working for anyone but himself were over. He scratched at his beard. ‘Seen the cottage? You bought that, too, I’m assuming?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘Me own place is right next door.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I think we might have met your good wife.’

  Patrick nodded. ‘She’s a fine lass, my Maureen. If you’re after needin’ anythin’ for the cottage, you come and see me. I’ve got the contacts,’ he said, winking and tapping the side of his nose with a dirty finger. ‘Could save the wear and tear on your purse, shall we say.’

  ‘Thank you, Patrick, that’s good to know.’

  ‘Only right, seein’ as you’re from across the sea. There’s a lot of us Irish here at Ballarat, so there are.’

  They left him pulling up the pegs around his tent and drove back towards Lilac Cottage, sticky mud collecting on the horse’s hooves with every step.

  ‘I suppose we’ll have to be careful we’re not robbed,’ Kitty said unenthusiastically.

  But it wasn’t robbery that Rian was worried about—it was the safety of his wife and daughter. He’d already noted how the diggers’ eyes had followed them, and the thought of leaving them alone while he and the others were working on the claim gave him a prickle of unease.

  Simon, who had said almost nothing since they’d rattled down the hill from the hotel, read the concern on Rian’s face and suggested, ‘We could set up the tents behind the cottage. Pierre will be there most of the time to keep an eye on things.’

  Rian brightened. ‘Yes, we could, couldn’t we? And if he wants to try his hand down the shaft, someone else can stay behind. Yes, that’s an excellent idea, Simon!’ He tweaked Amber’s hair. ‘And you are not to go anywhere by yourself, do you hear? And nor are you, Kitty,’ he added, knowing his wife’s propensity for doing exactly as she chose.

  But Kitty had also seen the men’s eyes hungrily taking in Amber’s lovely fresh face and her barely flowering pubescent body. ‘You don’t have to tell me, Rian. I have no intention of letting Amber wander about alone. Not for a minute.’

  By the time they had returned to Bath’s Hotel, the others had arrived and were sitting on the verandah with their backs against the wall, enjoying a warming drink. The horses and bullocks were spattered with mud up to their bellies, and Bodie was still in her cage, looking even more bad-tempered.

  Rian brought the cart to a halt, handed the reins to the hotel’s stable boy, and climbed down.

  ‘Just arrived?’ he asked, offering Kitty his elbow as she alighted.

  Hawk nodded. ‘About half an hour ago.’

  ‘Safe journey?’

  ‘Oui,’ Pierre confirmed. ‘’Cept for my arse. The seat on the wagon, he is very hard.’

  Mick knocked back the last of his brandy and belched. ‘Seen the claim yet?’

  ‘Yes, and all it is is a big hole,’ Amber said disappointedly. She knelt next to Bodie’s cage and crooned, ‘And how’s our kitty-cat? Did you have a nice sleep on the way?’

  Bodie gave her a baleful look.

  ‘Can we let her out yet, Pa?’

  ‘Not yet. Wait until we get back to the cottage or she might run away and get lost.’

  Pierre snorted. No matter how many times Bodie ran away, she never became lost and never failed to return.

  ‘Is the cottage suitable?’ Hawk asked. ‘Is it a cottage? Or is it just a shanty?’

  ‘Well, it is a cottage, but actually it’s smaller than the Katipo’s living quarters,’ Kitty replied, ‘and, I have to say, far less comfortable. But I expect we can make do.’

  Amber tickled Bodie’s head through the cage. ‘Simon said we should pitch the tents just behind it, then Pierre can watch out for Ma when she hangs out the washing.’

  Hawk shot a questioning look at Rian, who frowned darkly and said, ‘Yes, well, there’s a hell of a lot of men here…’

  Kitty sighed. ‘Rian, I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, but still, I don’t want—’ He glanced at Amber, and modified what he had been about to say. ‘I don’t want anything untoward to happen.’

  Amber opened Bodie’s cage and let her out. ‘Whoops!’

  Bodie stretched luxuriously, clawed the boards of the verandah, then streaked off it and disappeared.

  ‘See?’ Kitty accused, wondering why Amber had to be so contrary. ‘Your father told you.’

  ‘She be back,’ Pierre soothed.

  ‘And we met this lady on the coach,’ Amber said, ignoring Kitty. ‘She had dark red hair and a lovely blue cape. But, actually, I didn’t like her, and neither did Ma. Did you, Pa?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. And if you see her again, I don’t want you going near her, all right?’

  ‘Why not?’ Mick asked, his eyes twinkling. ‘She sounds like she might be worth getting to know, so she does.’

  ‘Er…’ Simon began.

  But Rian interrupted. ‘I suspect she’d charge you for it, Mick.’

  ‘He means she’s a whore,’ Amber said cheerfully.

  ‘Amber!’ Kitty admonished.

  To distract Amber from pursuing the subject further, Gideon unfolded his huge frame, stood, and said in his deep, rumbling voice, ‘Where shall we unload the wagon?’

  Grateful for the diversion, Rian explained the route to Lilac Cottage.

  The journey down the hill was as treacherous as it had been earlier, but even more so with the extra weight of the loaded wagon. But they descended without mishap, and with Bodie, who had come scampering and had landed with a flying, scrabbling leap on the canvas securing the load.

  The tents were pitched a hundred yards or so from the rear of the cottage, on relatively dry ground and not too close to the privy. The tents themselves were of a reasonable size and could accommodate up to four men, but were nothing like the size of the truly enormous circular structure they had noticed this time from the Main Road. Amber had been intrigued, insisting that it must be a circus tent, although that seemed unlikely.

  Some of the gear was unloaded into the crew’s tents, while the equipment worth stealing was packed into the smaller of the two bedrooms in the cottage, as Amber had elected to sleep on the floor in the main room by the fire. By one in the afternoon the animals had been hobbled, fed and watered, Pierre had built a fire and was preparing a meal, and Amber was swaggering about in her heavy new ‘gold-digger’s boots’. Kitty had to admit she was grateful for hers; the lighter boots she usually wore were clarted with mud and would be ruined in no time.

  After the meal, and leaving their daughter in the safe hands of the crew, Kitty and Rian prepared to set off on horseback for a tour of the diggings. The horses—a bay and a chestnut, named Finn and McCool by Amber after the famous hunter-warrior of Irish legend—were sound and fine-looking. Unfortunately neither of the saddles was des
igned for a lady to use, a fact neglectfully overlooked by Rian when he’d purchased them.

  ‘Well, I’m not sitting astride in skirts,’ Kitty complained. ‘I think I’ll wear my trousers.’

  ‘You bloody well will not!’ Rian exclaimed. It was all very well Kitty habitually wearing trousers on board the Katipo, where there was only the crew to see her, but here on the diggings it was a different matter altogether.

  ‘But I won’t even be able to get my leg over, never mind my modesty!’

  ‘Then I’ll help you up,’ Rian said, through slightly gritted teeth. ‘Daniel, hold the reins, will you?’

  Daniel took a firm grip on Finn’s bridle and held the horse’s head steady, as Rian put his hands around Kitty’s waist.

  ‘When I lift,’ Rian instructed, ‘put your left foot in the stirrup and hook your other knee over the pommel.’

  ‘No,’ Kitty said, ‘I’ll slide off.’

  ‘Not if you hold on, you won’t.’ Leaning closer, Rian whispered in her ear, ‘Behave, or I’ll throw you over the other side.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’

  ‘I would,’ he said and lifted her with ease.

  She landed in the saddle facing him, and quickly clamped her knee over the low pommel as he placed her foot in the left stirrup.

  ‘I can feel myself sliding off already,’ Kitty grumbled as Daniel handed her the reins.

  ‘Then brace yourself with the stirrup,’ Rian said as he mounted McCool. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not going far like this, just to the saddler.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have to worry if I were wearing my trousers.’

  ‘God, woman, why must you be so unendingly stubborn!’

  ‘Why must you be so bossy!’

  They glared at each other, then burst into laughter.

  Neither noticed as Daniel looked away, his expression impassive but his heart smarting from the knowledge that he would always be excluded from any such intimacy with Kitty.

  At the saddlery, Rian asked to see a range of women’s saddles.

  ‘Don’t get much call for ladies’ saddles in these parts,’ the saddler replied.