Band of Gold

by Deborah Challinor

  Pierre spat, taking care to avoid the bowl in front of him. ‘That chatte! ’

  Kitty took Amber’s hand and moved through to the back of the shop, grateful that there were no customers at the moment. ‘Don’t make excuses for me, Rian. I started it. I’m completely at fault.’ She turned to her daughter and said sharply, ‘And don’t ever let me catch you behaving like that, Amber, do you hear me?’

  ‘But you had the chance to get in the boot?’ Pierre interrupted.

  Rian said, ‘Shall we say, Kitty came out of it looking a lot more attractive than Miss Pearce did.’

  Leena laughed out loud, and Pierre smirked into his croissant dough.

  ‘Anyway, it’s time I got back to work,’ Kitty declared briskly, anxious to put her embarrassment behind her. ‘Amber, love, lend me one of your ribbons, please.’

  Amber was happy to oblige, as it meant she could spend the next half-hour pretending to rebraid her hair instead of almost breaking her forearm beating an enormous bowl of butter and sugar for Pierre.

  Kitty pulled back her hair and secured it with the ribbon. She looked at Rian. ‘Why were you in town anyway?’

  ‘What? Oh.’ In all the excitement, he’d forgotten. Neither the setting nor the audience was ideal, but the occasion was probably quite appropriate. He reached into his pocket. ‘These are for you.’

  Kitty looked at the velvet case and muslin package he’d placed in her hands, then up at his face. ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes. Go on, open them.’ He watched as first she unwrapped the muslin, then opened the case, and smiled as he saw on her face that she understood exactly what his message was.

  Forget-me-nots and ivy: true love and fidelity.

  Chapter Eleven

  If Kitty hadn’t been so preoccupied with defending the good name of her family, she might have paid more attention to the events happening around her—events that, coming so soon after what had already taken place at Ballarat in recent months, provided yet more fuel for the unrest that was steadily building on the diggings, gaining more and more energy until some sort of explosion must surely be inevitable.

  On 11 November, a meeting of almost 10,000 convened at Bakery Hill, directly and some said deliberately opposite the Camp, during which the Ballarat Reform League was established. Its goals, based on Chartist principles, included the right for all men to vote (by secret ballot), abolition of diggers’ and storekeepers’ licences, reform of goldfields administration, and revision of laws relating to Crown land. Nothing new, Kitty noted, when news of the meeting did finally filter through to her, but it would no doubt please many people.

  Five days later, the Colonial Secretary dismissed John d’Ewes from his position as police magistrate, much to the delight of many, and Governor Hotham appointed a Goldfields Commission to look into conditions on the diggings. Two days after that, on 18 November, James and Catherine Bentley, Thomas Farrell and William Hance were finally convicted of the manslaughter of James Scobie, and many at Ballarat celebrated that justice had at last been done.

  But only three days later, in Melbourne, diggers Henry Westerby, Thomas Fletcher and Andrew McIntyre were tried, convicted and gaoled for the destruction of James Bentley’s Eureka Hotel. Rian gave voice to the opinion of many when he remarked to Patrick over a glass of brandy that it was absurd; dozens of men had tossed brands at Bentley’s hotel and bowling alley, so why had Westerby, Fletcher and McIntyre been singled out and punished so harshly?

  It seemed that many at Ballarat wanted that question answered, so the league sent a delegation, carrying a copy of the league’s charter, to Hotham in Melbourne with a demand for him to release Westerby and his two compatriots. Hotham, however, took exception to the use of the word ‘demand’ and sent the delegation on its way. The miners departed for home, not realising they were trailing contingents of the 12th and 40th Regiments of Foot already dispatched to Ballarat to reinforce the Camp.

  Patrick saw what happened as the soldiers marched into town on the night of 28 November, and told Rian, and anyone else who cared to listen, about it the next morning.

  Rian, sitting on a mullock heap eating one of Pierre’s pasties, said, ‘And what were you doing all the way over on the Eureka Lead at that hour of the evening?’

  Patrick looked shifty. ‘Conferrin’ with me colleagues.’

  ‘Stirring shit, more likely,’ Mick commented, wiping pasty juice out of the beard he hadn’t bothered to shave for a week.

  Patrick gave him a look. ‘It might behove you to stand up for what you know to be right, me lad. You might be a sailor by trade, so you might, but you’re a digger as long as you’re here. Have some pride. Where’s your Irish spirit?’

  ‘In me Irish arse,’ Mick replied benignly. ‘I don’t go looking for fights, so I don’t.’

  ‘It’s all right for you, boy. You’ll be sailin’ away after this.’

  ‘I will,’ Mick agreed.

  Patrick scowled into his mug.

  ‘So what actually happened?’ Simon asked.

  Cheered at the prospect of telling the story, Patrick slurped the last of his tea. ‘Well, it was a sight to behold, I can assure you. The 40th come stridin’ along, swords drawn and bayonets fixed like they’re marchin’ on Sebastopol, and them that’s linin’ the route—and there was plenty of us, make no mistake about that—start shoutin’ and jeerin’, because what are they here for if not to cause trouble, I ask you?’

  ‘Were you expecting them?’ Rian asked. ‘Is that why you were at the Eureka diggings?’

  Patrick looked surprised by the question. ‘No. I was there for a meetin’. I think they might have gone the wrong way and it was such a spectacle everyone came out.’

  Daniel said, ‘I heard a drummer boy was shot.’

  ‘Hold your horses, I’m comin’to that.’ Patrick produced his pipe, tamped in a plug and lit up. ‘Anyway, we’re yelling and goin’ on and generally demonstrating our displeasure, but I have to say they were steady, those lads, they just kept on marchin’. But not ten minutes later, just when we think there’s nothin’ else to see, here come the bloody 12th! Well, they’re armed to the teeth as well, not to mention they’re haulin’ ammunition wagons and drays loaded with God knows what else. So we want to know from their officer in charge if they’re bringin’ in heavy ordnance, and it all starts gettin’ a bit out of hand, so it does.’ He paused and made a vaguely rueful face. ‘I suppose it might have looked like we were mobbin’ him. Anyway, the officer pipes up and says he’ll have “No communication with rebels!”—rebels!—and all hell breaks loose, and he turns tail and disappears! The soldiers look like they’re going to open fire, so we start throwin’ stones and bottles and anything we can lay our hands on. And somehow two or three of the soldiers get the bejasus beaten out of them, and two drays get pushed over and everything ends up in the ditch. Then the shootin’ does start and that’s when the drummer boy gets hurt.’ He frowned. ‘It’s not right, that, is it? Puttin’ a lad in the line of fire.’

  ‘Who started the shooting?’ Rian asked.

  Patrick began, ‘Who do you think? It was the bloody…’ He faltered, then gave a weary sigh, as if reluctantly coming to terms with an unpalatable truth. ‘I’d like to say it was the soldiers, but in truth it could just as easily’ve been a digger.’

  ‘Did he die, the drummer boy?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Can’t tell you for a fact, but I heard he was only wounded. And so was a shopkeeper and an American fellow.’

  Hawk upended his mug and knocked the tea leaves out of it. ‘So, the first blood has been shed. How many extra troops have been brought in now? Four hundred? Five hundred? You surely cannot be expecting a peaceful resolution to your grievances at this late stage, Patrick. What do you think will happen next?’

  Sunday, 3 December 1854

  ‘It might never have come to this, you know, if Rede hadn’t insisted on that final bloody licence hunt.’

  Rian and Hawk were inside the Ring, a barricaded area of
heavily mined ground abutting the northern side of the Melbourne Road, east of Bakery Hill and just west of the Eureka Lead. It was cool but not cold, and the sun hadn’t yet begun to rise. Fires inside the Ring sent smoky ashes swirling into the dark sky on a gentle pre-dawn breeze.

  Hawk, ever the voice of reason, said, ‘I expect he thought he had to do something to try to reassert his authority.’

  Patrick shifted on his log to ease his thin buttocks, and said grumpily, ‘Whose side are you on?’

  ‘We’re not on anyone’s side, Patrick,’ Rian reminded him. ‘We’re here because you asked us to help.’ And because I owe you a debt for finding Amber.

  ‘That’s true,’ Patrick agreed, for once sounding as old as he looked. ‘I did, too. And I appreciate it. You didn’t have to come. You could be asleep in your beds.’

  Yes, we could, Rian reflected ruefully, thinking of Kitty in her nightgown, the gauzy fabric moulding enticingly to her curves. He suppressed a smile as he wondered if she was wearing her brooch—she’d hardly taken it off since he’d given it to her. ‘Sorry, Patrick, what was that?’

  ‘I said: and the reason I did ask you was because you said you’d done a bit of fightin’ against the Queen’s men yourselves, and I thought the experience’d come in handy.’

  ‘Well, not exactly. More observing, really,’ Rian replied.

  ‘Still, the more the merrier,’ Patrick remarked.

  But events at Ballarat over the past few days had developed into a situation that was far from merry.

  After the 12th’s inauspicious arrival, another monster meeting had been held at Bakery Hill, at which the future direction of the Ballarat Reform League had been energetically discussed. Ideas of direct action were very popular, especially the proposal to burn licences. The next morning, Commissioner Rede had instigated a licence hunt on the largest scale ever seen in Ballarat. He chose the Old Gravel Pits, the closest lead to the Camp. Stones were thrown, a riot soon developed, troops fired on the diggers, Rede read the Riot Act and a handful of miners was arrested. By then word had reached even the most outlying leads, and diggers had come into town by the thousands to protest the latest government outrage.

  That evening another meeting was called on Bakery Hill. When the league’s leaders failed to appear, Peter Lalor mounted the stump, proclaimed ‘Liberty’, and called for volunteers for companies. A council of war was chosen and the blue and silver Southern Cross—newly designed, and hurriedly sewn by a tentmaker—was hoisted. Diggers knelt, heads bare and hands raised, and swore by the new flag to stand together and fight for their rights and liberties.

  Although they were in the crowd, neither Rian nor any of the crew followed suit. After so many years, they had come to accept that in practice they were soldiers of fortune: they bought, sold and traded—and fought—wherever and whenever it suited them. They owed allegiance to no one, and never would.

  The following morning a crowd of 1500 armed and angry diggers again gathered at Bakery Hill, then marched on to Eureka, where they spent the day preparing for a clash with soldiers and requisitioning arms and ammunition. The military was on high alert, and had been since the 12th’s arrival: the cavalry were sleeping with their bridles in their hands, and the wooden buildings of the Camp were surrounded by bales of hay, sacks of grain and logs. The townspeople had been warned that their properties were also in danger. The tension was almost unbearable.

  The previous morning, Saturday, work had begun on the Ring, with the Southern Cross as its proud centrepiece. Rian had watched some of the activity, and despite words such as ‘stockade’ and ‘fortification’ being bandied about, he knew no one could pretend it was anything more than a fenced-off mustering place. The area, an acre or so, was encircled by a waist-high barricade of slabs, logs and rocks. Inside were close to twenty tents, whose occupants included women and children, perhaps double that number of shafts with accompanying mullock heaps, and a smithy, which was busy turning out rough weapons such as pikes and the like.

  The night before, there had been around a thousand men inside the enclosure, many organised into companies based on nationality to make communication easier. But now, very early on Sunday morning, Rian was nervous: there were nowhere enough should the soldiers attack. Some diggers had gone back to their tents and shanties—either for a decent night’s sleep, or permanently because the fire of rebellion had burned out of them. Others were drunk and had wandered off down to the Main Road. There were perhaps ten dozen men left. Not even Peter Lalor was here. And security was non-existent: people were coming and going from the compound constantly.

  Rian glanced over his shoulder at the others, who were reheating last evening’s stew and toasting bread over a fire. Pierre, Ropata, Gideon, Daniel, Mick and Haunui had also agreed to come. Patrick hadn’t asked Simon, and Rian knew he had been relieved.

  Daniel stood, stretched and turned away from the fire.

  ‘You off?’ Rian asked, even though he very much doubted it.

  ‘Going for a piss.’

  ‘Don’t go outside the fence. If I were Rede, I’d be planning to attack quite soon.’

  Daniel headed off towards the nearest tree as Patrick said, ‘Not on the Sabbath, he won’t.’

  Hawk scowled, his heavy brows almost meeting in the middle. ‘Where is Mick?’

  ‘Drunk,’ Ropata replied matter-of-factly. ‘Gone to look for more whiskey.’

  Patrick swore disgustedly and spat on the ground.

  Rian laughed. ‘He’ll be back when we need him, Patrick. He’s a good man.’

  Patrick made a disparaging noise. ‘I have me doubts.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Rian replied with a hint of coolness. ‘I’d trust my life to Mick Doyle. In fact, I have.’

  There was a prolonged silence. ‘Sorry, fellahs,’ Patrick said, ‘but there’s spies everywhere, I know it. I’m shittin’ meself, to tell you the truth. You’re right. If Rede is goin’ to attack, it’ll be tonight while half of us are in our cups and the other half have gone home for a decent night’s sleep.’

  The Irishman sighed and shook his head. ‘Holy Mother of God, what a feckin’ shambles. We’re not just rebels, you know. We tried to get things changed the right way. We tried to get Hotham and all the rest of them to listen.’ He waved a dispirited hand towards the hundred or so men sitting by fires and the sad little fence surrounding then. ‘And now it’s come to this, so it has. And all them others who pledged support? Where are they, eh? I ask you. And what’s happened to the Americans?’

  ‘Ae, what has happened to them?’ Haunui asked. Yesterday afternoon, the contingent of American miners had taken the horses and gone to search out expected government reinforcements, and had never returned.

  A lone kookaburra cackled raucously in the same gum tree Daniel was presently pissing against, and Rian realised that a wash of grey was seeping into the sky from the east. He dug out his watch, flipped open the lid and angled the face towards the fire: almost five o’clock.

  He nearly jumped out of his skin as a shot sounded, followed a second or so later by a bugle call; then an unbroken line of flame lit up the western side of the compound as Her Majesty’s troops opened fire with a deafening volley of musket fire.

  ‘Ah, shite, here they come,’ Rian muttered as he checked that his pistol was tucked into his belt, and reached for his rifle.

  Daniel came running back, fumbling with his flies, Pierre kicked dirt over the fire, Patrick scuttled back to his cronies, and the others scrambled for their weapons.

  Rian stuck his head up just in time to see a wave of red-coated troops surge over the barricade. The noise of musket fire was earsplitting, men shouted, women screamed and chaos reigned as diggers and soldiers met and fought hand to hand and Rian lost sight of everyone but Daniel, whom he noted was acquitting himself impressively.

  Something crashed into Rian and he went down. A moment later Daniel dragged him back up, and shouted into his face.

  Rian spat out dirt. ‘What?’ />
  Daniel pointed to the far perimeter, and when Rian looked his heart almost stopped as he spied through the smoke and turmoil Kitty determinedly making her way towards them, followed by Maureen and Leena.

  He exchanged a horrified glance with Daniel.

  ‘I’ll go!’ Daniel shouted.

  Rian ducked a blow from a soldier and shook his head. Daniel looked as alarmed as he felt, but nowhere near as angry. ‘Tell the others where I am,’ he said through lips that barely moved.

  He ducked and weaved through knots of fighting men, and felt a ball go past so close it nicked the skin off a knuckle. Every step he took towards an unsuspecting Kitty raised his temper another notch, and when someone snatched at his arm he hit out with enormous force.

  Whoever it was hit back. ‘Hey, I’m your mate, so I am.’

  ‘Patrick? Ah, I’m sorry.’

  Patrick looked at Rian with beseeching eyes. There was a cut on his temple, and the dark blood had run down his cheek and into his beard. He put his mouth to Rian’s ear. ‘Maureen’s over yonder with your Kitty. Will you take her out of here?’

  Rian gave a curt nod.

  Patrick grabbed Rian’s arm. ‘Take yourself out, too, Rian, and your men. It’s goin’ bad. We’re not goin’ to win.’

  Rian looked at his friend’s tired and defeated face. ‘My men will come when they’re ready, Patrick.’ But he knew they would leave the battle as soon as they realised that he, Rian, had gone.

  Patrick touched his arm in thanks, then disappeared back into the fray.

  When Rian reached Kitty he said nothing, and saw by the look on her face that she knew better than to attempt to say anything herself. He also saw that she was terrified. He grasped her arm, spun her around and marched her in the direction from which she and her companions had just come. Leena and Maureen followed.

  Shepherding Kitty out through a gap in the barricade, he led the group onto the Melbourne Road and far enough away from the Ring to be safe from flying bullets and the battle-inspired loutishness of both soldiers and diggers.