The Night They Stormed Eureka

by Jackie French

  ‘Not this morning,’ began Mrs Puddleham, then stopped. ‘Well why not? It’s a treat like. You’d like a nice mug of lemonade, wouldn’t you, lovey?’

  Sam nodded, thinking of the dirty creek. At least a bottle of lemonade would be clean. But instead of the soft drink she expected, the man reached behind him and drew out a jug like the Professor’s and two tin mugs, which he filled with a flourish right up to the brim. The lemonade man stood and bowed to them, clicking his heels together, then handed them each a mug.

  Sam sipped cautiously. It wasn’t lemonade. It wasn’t even lemon cordial. But there was a faint bitter taste of lemon, and the drink was sweet and curiously good.

  Mrs Puddleham sipped slowly too, obviously making the treat last. She wiped her lips as she drained the last drop. ‘Ah, that was good.’ She reached into the small cloth bag that hung from her waist, and drew out a coin. The lemonade man coughed politely. ‘It is a penny each, Frau Puddleham.’

  ‘Not a halfpenny?’ Mrs Puddleham looked innocent. ‘Oh, my mistake.’

  The man smiled. ‘For so beautiful a Frau on such an afternoon, it is a halfpenny. This is your son?’

  ‘Our Sam, just up from Melbourne.’

  ‘A good-looking boy. He looks just like you.’

  Mrs Puddleham beamed. ‘Don’t he just? A good day to you.’

  ‘And to you, Frau Puddleham.’

  Sam waited till they were out of earshot. ‘Is he German?’ Oops, she thought, Germany doesn’t exist yet, does it? It’s still just lots of states. But Mrs Puddleham didn’t notice her mistake. ‘Some foreign place. Half the diggers don’t speak the Queen’s English right. Gotta long name that sounds like a sneeze. Folks just calls him the lemonade man.’

  The road was lined with huts now. A milking goat baaed at them from the end of a short line, while its kid nosed about for weeds. A kookaburra tethered by one leg to a post gazed at the world that had once been his. A woman in a battered man’s hat pushed a thing like a broom with a plug on the end into a wooden tub. A long line of wet trousers stretched above her. She waved to Mrs Puddleham.

  ‘Mrs Hopgood,’ said Mrs Puddleham, waving back. ‘Her laundry’s a nice earner. But clean trousers can’t compare to my stew.’

  The road had been rising so slightly Sam had hardly realised it. Now they had reached the top of small hill.

  Sam gazed down over the crest, and gasped.

  Mrs Puddleham grinned. ‘Takes yer breath away, don’t it? Thems the gravel pits. More gold’s been taken out of there than ye’d find in the crown jewels.’

  Sam nodded, still stunned. She had thought the diggings behind them were crowded. But this …

  Once there had been a river here. Now the water was divided into hundreds of channels bubbling brown and filthy into tiny pools, each guarded by a ragged team of miners.

  Men huddled over barrels, buckets, tin dishes or what she recognised as cradles, scooping, lifting, shovelling up the gravel, sifting, swirling, examining. All around the pools was a city, but like no city she had ever imagined: a vast warren of tents so close they almost touched each other. Each square metre of land was grabbed and held for tent space, a fire or for the dream of gold.

  Gold. Its shadow cast a light as bright as the sun on the diggings.

  It was too much to take in: thin men crawling across the broken earth, hungry from a hundred miles of marching, from lugging swags and shouldering shovels; the mud, stinking of sewage and sweat; the flies, not bush flies but flat black ones from well-fed maggots that bred among the filth, so thick they formed a shimmering haze over thewhole scene; and the noise — the shouts and shovelling, and the wail of a baby above it all.

  Flies crawled into her eyes and up her nostrils; the stench was almost thick enough to float on. But over the whole place lay a feeling of excitement too, as though the breeze itself whispered the word, ‘Gold … gold … gold …’

  ‘Noisy, ain’t it?’ Mrs Puddleham tugged Sam’s hand and they began to walk again. ‘You could cut that smell with a knife. We’re better off down in the gully, ain’t we, well away from it all. Let the customers come to us, I says. Come on. The shop is thisaways.’

  Sam followed her down the hill. The clamour of yells and picks striking the ground grew as loud as a million fire alarms, pounding at her brain. But it was the intentness that was weird. The sheer focus of so many men.

  Gold isn’t just yellow metal, she thought suddenly, remembering the Professor’s words last night. They’re digging for the stories that could change their lives. A poor man becomes a rich man, a convict buys a farm …

  ‘Joe! Joe! Joe!’ The yell came from nowhere and everywhere, as though a dozen voices had yelled at once.

  It was like someone had pressed the TV remote control, changing the scene entirely. Crowbars splashed into the water. Men downed tools and began to run. Cradles sat abandoned by the stream. The cry was repeated all along the diggings like a mob of cockatoos was yelling it overhead. ‘Joe! Joe! The Joes are coming!’

  Sam grabbed hold of Mrs Puddleham’s solid arm. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Don’t you fret, lovey. Takes you by surprise if you ain’t used to it. It’s just them troopers, checking licences.’

  ‘Troopers? You mean police? But why are all the men running?’

  ‘Not all, lovey. More’n half, I reckon, though.’ Mrs Puddleham’s lips thinned. ‘They ain’t paid for their licences, have they, poor ijits. Thirty shillings each a month a licence costs, and most of the men here don’t make half that, or if they do they drink it all away. And more fool them. If they can’t cough up the dosh they ain’t got no call being miners.’

  So that’s why they’re going to rebel against paying the licences, thought Sam dazedly. ‘Why do they call out “Joe"?’

  Mrs Puddleham shrugged, as though the desperate men still scrambling for hiding places were no business of hers. ‘Search me, lovey. They was doing it afore we got here. Now Wilson’s shop is just up the hill …’

  They turned up another road, as the men scrambled from the gravel pits behind them. This road was as wide as a main street back in her own time, and lined with buildings not tents, mostly made of wood with iron roofs, with a few bark huts in between.

  Everywhere she looked there was something she’d never seen before, had never guessed existed in the past.

  On one side of the road a man surrounded by half-made barrels dipped thin slabs of wood in a steaming cauldron of water. On the other a beefy man in a leather apron used a giant hammer to bash a glowing red horseshoe, while thehorse and its owner looked on. Another blacksmith thrust a red-hot metal shovel into a barrel. The water frothed and spat around it.

  Dried sheepskins, bloody at the curling edges, were stretched over the walls. Through the door of the next hut Sam could see a man measure a clear liquid into stone jugs like the Professor’s.

  Mrs Puddleham snorted. ‘Sly grog shops they call them. Ain’t nothing sly about them. You pays the magistrates off and you can be as open about it as you like. An’ don’t you look over that way, either.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Sam, turning automatically to look at the building across the road.

  It was bigger than all the others: a long wooden shed with a bark roof and a verandah. Horses tied to a railing outside hung their heads and gazed at the dust, or looked nervously at the passing crowds. On the verandah, men lounged on chairs made of slabs and branches. One of them fondled one of the brightly clad ‘hussies’ on his knee. She kicked her legs up, showing a froth of red petticoats, and squealed, then bent down to kiss his lips among the tangle of whiskers.

  ‘Lovey,’ said Mrs Puddleham warningly, as Sam kept staring. There was something familiar about the youngest of the men, the one with the pale blue eyes. She’d seen that horse with the white sock too …

  ‘It’s the bushranger,’ she whispered. ‘The one who held you up!’

  The bushranger grinned. He lifted his mug in recognition, almost like a salute.

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bsp; Mrs Puddleham grabbed her arm and marched on down the street. ‘Ain’t surprised,’ she muttered.

  ‘We should tell the police.’

  ‘Telling the fairies would be as much use. The police are being paid well to look the other way, I reckon. We’d just get ourselves in trouble if we try informing on coves to the coppers. You know what happened when they tried to get Jim Bentley, him as owned the Eureka Hotel, put in prison.’

  ‘No,’ said Sam.

  ‘I forgets you’ve only just got here.’ She clasped Sam’s hand and patted it. ‘Seems like you’ve always been with us, lovey. Bentley had the magistrate in his pay, didn’t he? Got let off, even though a whole mob saw him kick that poor cove to death. And them as burned down his Eureka Hotel in revenge are in the pokey. So like I says, we keep our noses clean and stays out of it.’

  Suits me, thought Sam. She cast a final look back at the bushranger. He grinned again. He was younger than she’d thought, sixteen maybe. He looked even more like Nick now, without his handkerchief, except for the grimness in his eyes. She could feel him watching as she followed Mrs Puddleham into the shop.

  Wilson’s shop at least was just like a store in any old-time movie she’d ever seen: a giant shed crammed with everything from shovels to barrels of biscuits or butter, sacks of flour and sugar, tins of treacle and giant wheels of cheese, as well as row after row of bolts of cloth, mostly thick hessian or canvas, but also a few in bright blue, white, red or green.

  The boots were on three shelves along the far wall, all the same thick sturdy style.

  Mrs Puddleham glanced at the solid boots and sighed. ‘When we get our hotel you’ll wear silk slippers,’ she whispered. ‘And lace on your petticoats too. Ah, and look at this!’

  She fingered a bright blue dress. ‘One day you’ll wear better’n this and you’ll go to school and be a lady. Nay,’ she added, as Sam looked startled. ‘I heard you talk to the Professor. You’ve had book learning already, or my name’s not Mrs Puddleham. A few silk dresses and I bet you could call the queen your cousin.’ She turned away to examine the boots.

  Sam was silent as the boots were measured against her foot and duly purchased, along with two pairs of thick wool socks, a pair of thick trousers and a shirt ('Which I can alter for Mr Puddleham when you’ve no need of them,’ whispered Mrs Puddleham practically).

  School, thought Sam, as she stamped back and forth across the wooden floor to soften the stiffness of the boots, while Mrs Puddleham discussed other purchases with the shopkeeper. What was school like here?

  Going to school … and wearing silk dresses … maybe they’d even have servants. It all seemed a long way from the manner in which the Puddlehams lived here at the diggings. Did Mrs Puddleham really know how much a hotel would cost? Could you make that kind of money serving stew?

  She made a few experimental tip-toe jumps in the new boots. They still felt stiff, and heavy, but they’d keep outthe damp and the mud. She watched as Mrs Puddleham counted out coins for the shopkeeper, then picked up her other parcels, each wrapped in brown paper with string tied around it and into a little handle to carry.

  ‘What else did you buy?’ she asked, as Mrs Puddleham picked up a small tin trunk as well. Her ‘Ma’ must have been busy while she’d been trying out her boots.

  Mrs Puddleham winked, and handed her some of the parcels to carry. ‘Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. It’s a surprise,’ she added.

  ‘For me?’

  ‘No, for the elves! O’ course it’s things for you, lovey. You need the trunk to keep yer things in, otherwise they’ll get damp and mucky on the diggin’s.’

  Sam walked next to her down the street, the new boots squeaking a bit, and rubbing at her toes despite the socks. She tried to avoid the piles of bullock droppings and the ooze of horse dung and mud. She had to think.

  She’d liked school. I can study history and English back here too, can’t I? she thought. The past was still the past, whichever point you started to study it from.

  She could help the Puddlehams run their hotel too. Maybe she could invent hamburgers. Even Mr Puddleham would want her to stay if she was useful.

  Suddenly it was as though the hotel the Puddlehams dreamed of was real. It will be, she thought fiercely as they turned down the track that led to the gully. Mrs Puddleham would have her velvet seats. And she’d have a home forever. And maybe a dog. A big one, like Happy Jack’s. But her dog would never be hungry, not with Mrs Puddleham in the kitchen. It could help guard the hotel. Suddenly she felt like dancing down the track.

  Mrs Puddleham screamed.

  ‘Mrs Pudd—I mean, Ma, what is it?’

  But Mrs Puddleham was running down the track towards their camp, her skirts held high.

  Chapter 11

  Sam stared down into the gully. Two troopers in blue uniforms, with red collars and red stripes down the sides of their trouser legs, stood by the big cook-shop cauldrons. Did they want to buy some damper? Why wasn’t Mr Puddleham ushering them to their seats, erect and butler-esque?

  Her new boots thudded down the slope as she ran after Mrs Puddleham, just as one of the troopers grabbed Mr Puddleham’s arm, forcing it behind his back. Mr Puddleham gave a snort of pain.

  The trooper laughed.

  Mrs Puddleham puffed to a stop, her hands on her hips. ‘You — you blaggards!’ she screamed.

  The trooper glanced at her. ‘None o’ your lip, missus. You know the law as well as I do. All diggers got to have mining licences.’

  ‘But Mr Puddleham’s not a miner!’ cried Sam, stumbling to a stop.

  ‘That right, sonny? How do I know he ain’t slipping down to do a bit o’ panning on the quiet like? How about you? You have your licence on ye?’

  ‘I don’t have a licence either. We make stew!’

  Mrs Puddleham turned her back and pulled up her petticoats, then drew a scrap of paper out of the top of her stocking. She thrust it at the troopers. ‘Here, our storekeeper’s licence.’

  ‘But this ain’t a store, is it? It seems to me you need another kind of licence entirely.’

  ‘I assure you, sir,’ Mr Puddleham’s voice was stiff with dignity, though his eyes were narrowed with pain. ‘I paid the licence inspector an extra five shillings only two weeks ago for any irregularity.’

  ‘Did you now? Well, it weren’t me, I know that. It’s a five-pound fine if ye ain’t got a licence on you. Double,’ he added, with a glance at Sam.

  ‘But it’s not right —’ began Sam hotly.

  Mrs Puddleham put a pudgy hand on her arm. ‘The officer’s doing his duty,’ she said flatly. ‘And we’ll do ours, won’t we, Mr Puddleham? Don’t want no trouble for no one.’ She turned to the trooper. ‘All right if I pays you the fine here and now? Saves lining up at the Commissioner’s, don’t it?’

  The man leered at her with a mouth full of crumbling teeth. ‘That’s right, missus. You just give us the money an’ we’ll say no more about it.’

  Mrs Puddleham nodded, trying to get her breath back. ‘I’ll have to go back to the bank. We don’t keep that much here.’

  ‘Then ye’d better hurry, hadn’t ye?’ The other trooper’s teeth were yellow, with black gaps in between. ‘I’m sure wecan amuse ourselves here while ye’re gone.’ He let Mr Puddleham’s arm go, but before the little man could get a breath the trooper chained his wrists behind his back.

  ‘Bend down,’ he ordered.

  Mr Puddleham bent. The trooper propped his bayonet under his prisoner’s stomach, the point pressing into his flesh.

  Sam gasped. The chain was long and heavy. If Mr Puddleham collapsed, the bayonet would go right through him. How long could he bend over without falling?

  ‘There,’ said the first trooper easily. ‘You run off nice like and get our money, missus, and we’ll wait all comfortable here.’

  Mrs Puddleham took a last anguished look at her husband, arched above the sharp point of the bayonet, then picked up her skirts and ran.

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p; Sweat was already rolling down Mr Puddleham’s face. His face looked like a skeleton’s, the dignity washing away in his fear. The trooper looked at Sam speculatively.

  ‘Don’t touch h—im,’ panted Mr Puddleham. The tendons in the little man’s neck bulged. ‘You’ll get your money.’

  ‘We will an’ all.’ The trooper peered into the steaming stew pot, then grabbed a plate and helped himself. He picked up a hunk of meat in his fingers, blowing on it to cool it, then took a bite. ‘It’s tough as old boots! What do you charge for this?’

  Sam clenched her fists. She wanted to yell at them, scream at them, call for help. But all around them miners gazed down into the gully, making no move to come totheir assistance. Sights like this must be common on the goldfields, she realised. Which meant there was nothing she — or they — could do.

  ‘It won’t be ready till tonight,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Ha!’ The trooper looked at the stew consideringly, then lifted the plate to his lips and slurped at the gravy. ‘A cook boy, eh?’ he added, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. ‘A petticoat lad, by the look of ye. Not got the gumption to be a digger, eh? Like to stick round mama’s skirts and stir the cook pots?’

  Sam said nothing. She glanced back at Mr Puddleham. His tongue started to protrude between his teeth. How long till Mrs Puddleham could get the money? How long could he last?

  ‘Here, you!’ The trooper gestured to one of the miners watching above them. ‘Bring yer licences over!’ He raised his voice. ‘All of youse! Yes, I mean you too!’

  The men he’d pointed to shuffled down the slope. The others vanished beyond the gully. All carefully avoided looking at the straining Mr Puddleham. One by one they showed their licences and were dismissed.

  ‘What’s this then?’ The second trooper held up a sodden bit of paper.

  ‘Got wet down the shaft,’ mumbled the digger.

  ‘Half a licence is no licence. Chain him up,’ he added to his companion.

  This time the digger was merely chained to the tree. Sam supposed he had no companion who could be persuaded to fetch ten pounds.