The Gold Seekers (47 page)

She came at last, a woman with a plain, pale face and darkly pitying eyes, the lamp in her hand dispelling the shadows in her immediate vicinity and casting its muted light over his gaunt, unshaven face.

The cup of water was held to his parched lips, her free hand steadying him, as she set the lamp down. As if she had read his thoughts, she whispered gently, “Do not lose hope, dear young man. Pray that you should live to return to your homeland and those who love you. I shall join my prayer to

yours.”

And then she was gone, passing like a ghostly angel of mercy down the long, dark corridor, her lamp shining like a beacon in the foul-smelling dimness of the wretched ward and its rows of sick and suffering men.

William lay back and closed his eyes.

“Dear God,” he prayed silently, “of thine infinite mercy, grant that I may live to—to return to my homeland. Please, Lord, give me the courage to live and to go back … to Australia!”

In the sprawling canvas town of Ballarat, with its polyglot population of some ten thousand, its miles of gold diggings, its crowded drinking dens, bowling alleys, and brothels, the situation was deteriorating with each day that passed. The diggers reacted with bitter fury to the police “license hunts” and the arrests that inevitably followed their biweekly invasion. Inflammatory articles in the Ballarat Times and the new Melbourne Age encouraged defiance and discontent; the Chartist Diggers’ Advocate went even further, calling for manhood suffrage and democratic reform, with social and political rights and an end to police persecution.

Even Jasper Morgan was alarmed to observe the change when he, along with George Black and Thomas Kennedy, returned to the diggings from an unsatisfactory visit to the new Governor in Melbourne. Driving back on the Geelong road, the three emissaries passed through a main street plastered with posters, then arrived in camp to be ushered before a meeting of the reform league, attended by virtually every member of the mining community. It was convened in the open on Bakery Hill, and when Frederic Vern rose to speak from the makeshift platform, the angry murmurs that greeted him made it evident that news of the failure of their appeal to Sir Charles Hotham had preceded the deputation’s return.

Vern, however, convinced of his own powers of oratory, embarked on what he intended to be a lengthy speech.

“My friends, we have won some concessions,” he asserted in his strong German accent. “His Excellency appointed a commission of inquiry. The archscoundrel Bentley and his creature Farrell were tried by the Supreme Court in Melbourne, found guilty of the manslaughter of poor Jim Scobie, and given three years apiece. Magistrate D’Ewes has been removed from the bench, and Sergeant Milne discharged from the police. The commission found them both guilty of corruption. In addition—”

“What about our lads?” a voice from the crowd demanded aggressively. “The poor devils they locked up after we burnt down the bloody Eureka Hotel? Young Broome and Andy Macintyre and Yorky Westerby? Weren’t you sent to demand their release?”

“I, personally, was not,” the wordy Vern was compelled to admit. “I will call on George Black, who led our deputation. Unless …” He glanced inquiringly at Jasper Morgan. “Unless Captain Humphrey, as secretary to our committee, wishes to speak?”

Morgan hastily refused the invitation, and Black, a sober, dignified figure in his dark frock coat, rose somewhat reluctantly to his feet.

“The Governor received us courteously,” he began, as the shouts died down. “He is a well-spoken gentleman, with a fine record in the naval service—they say he distinguished himself in naval operations against Argentina a few years ago. He has something of a—well, what I can only describe as a quarterdeck manner, in that he is inclined to bark questions at one. In fact, he—”

“Did he listen to the answers?” a man at the front of the crowd interrupted. He added, amid ribald laughter from those about him, “We don’t need you to tell us what New Chum Charlie did before he came here or what he’s like. We had the doubtful pleasure of a visit from His bleeding Excellency when he first got here, didn’t we?”

George Black smiled. “Ah, I was forgetting that,” he said, without rancor. “Thank you, sir, for reminding me. And as to your question—yes, he listened. And we did all in our power, all three of us, to convince him of the injustice of the sentences imposed on the so-called ringleaders of, ah, what he was pleased to call the riot at the Eureka Hotel.”

“Sure, and were you after tellin’ him that swine Bentley deserved all we gave him?” an Irish voice asked pugnaciously.

“Aye, and that he was one o’ the accursed Sydney ducks,

out in “Frisco?” another put in. “A bloody murderer ten times over?”

Other voices echoed these demands, and it was with difficulty that Timothy Hayes, as self-appointed chairman, restored the meeting to order. “Mr. Black is trying to tell you what took place, boys. Let him speak!”

“I imparted every scrap of information I had concerning Bentley,” Black protested indignantly, losing a measure of his calm. “And I told him—we all told him—that the police were to blame for the fracas at the Eureka. They began it; they fired on us—I told His Excellency all that.”

“Well, did he listen?” the first man who had spoken repeated his question impatiently. “Or is he only giving credence to Brownlow’s lies, and that rogue Milne’s, like Latrobe did?”

“His Excellency’s disposition seemed to be to favor the people,” Black insisted. “But he is surrounded by injudicious advisers, as you rightly suggest.”

“What about our poor lads in jail?” someone else asked. “Is he goin’ to release them or ain’t he?”

Black started to flounder. “The great objection His Excellency entertained against your representatives was that we were sent not to petition for the release of the prisoners but to demand that they be freed. His Excellency regarded this as lack of courtesy on our part. Indeed, gentlemen, the word ‘demand’ was the stumbling block. It—”

There was an outcry, and Jasper Morgan, losing patience, raised a hand for silence and stated coldly, “The Governor refused to commute the sentence imposed on my young partner Angus Broome, who, as you are all aware, played no significant part in the riot. And he was adamant as far as the other two were concerned. I understand, however, that Angus’s father—a landowner and magistrate—will make a personal appeal on the boy’s behalf.”

A chorus of enraged shouts greeted his announcement, but, Morgan thought with satisfaction, what he had stated publicly concerning Angus would free him of any possible suspicion of complicity in his young partner’s arrest. And Brownlow would not talk; the police commandant had too much to lose if he failed to keep a guard on his tongue.

The meeting continued for another two hours, but it eventually broke up in confusion, the men’s fury aroused to fever pitch when Tom Kennedy told them that Governor Hotham had threatened to send in troops if there should be any repetition of the Eureka Hotel riot. Hotheads in the crowd howled down attempts by Black and Lalor to smooth things over, and there were renewed complaints of the ever-rising cost of prospectors’ licenses.

“A lot of us can’t pay what the bloody government’s chargin’,” a black-bearded giant yelled bitterly. “We ain’t takin’ out enough for our grub, let alone three quid a month to the soddin’ gold commissioner! An’ we gotta eat to stay alive, ain’t we? We gotta eat to have the bloomin’ strength to sink shafts sixty, eighty feet down an’ work ‘em when we have!”

“If Mr. Hotham sends troops in,” one of the Americans said grimly, “he’ll regret it, because then there will be a riot, and there are a heck of a lot more of us than there are of them. And we’re armed!”

The reform league committee met briefly after the crowd had dispersed, but beyond expressing anxiety should the Governor decide to send in troops, they made no decision as to their own future action, the fiery arguments of Rafaello Carboni being countered by those of the young Catholic priest, Father Smyth, who begged for restraint.

Next day, in response to a message from Brownlow, passed on discreetly by Rede, the resident gold commissioner, Morgan rode out into the bush to meet the police commandant at their accustomed rendezvous.

“Good morning, Inspector,” Morgan said uncertainly. “I understand you wanted to see me?”

“I have to confess I’m worried, Captain Humphrey,” Brownlow admitted, without responding to the greeting. “The mood here is downright ugly, and it’s growing worse— you can see that with half an eye, can’t you? I’ve orders to check for unpaid or expired prospectors’ licenses daily, and however little the infernal diggers like it, I’m bound to do it. What worries me is that they have arms—too bloody many of ‘em have Colts and muskets.”

“I’m aware of that,” Morgan returned unhelpfully.

“But will they use “em?” Brownlow asked, scowling.

“They may. I’d say they’re likely to, if Governor Hotham does send the troops in.”

“You think the redcoats would inflame ‘em, do you?”

Morgan’s answer was flat and uncompromising. “Yes, I do. I tried to tell Sir Charles Hotham that, but he paid no heed. The diggers are fomenting rebellion, he said, and must be taught a lesson.”

“And are they, Captain Humphrey?”

Morgan shrugged. “Well, last night’s meeting was an angry one, as no doubt you know. You had men spying on it, didn’t you? Tom Kennedy said you had.”

Brownlow ignored the question. “I have reinforcements coming in,” he volunteered. “But they’ll be mostly raw recruits. We’re under strength, and I asked for more men, as a matter of urgency. If I had twice the number of mounted troopers, there’d bloody well be no need for the soldiers. But with recruits—hell, I don’t know. We could be in for trouble. And mounted men can’t come by steamer—they’ll have to ride here.”

Morgan hesitated, wondering how he could turn this information to his advantage. Trouble—if it were sufficiently serious—might cause the new Governor to continue to hold Angus Broome and his fellow rioters in prison, and it would certainly discourage the boys’ father from allowing Lachlan to come back to Ballarat. More important, it would create confusion, and in that confusion he himself might be able to slip away unnoticed, claim the sale price for the gold deposited at the Treasury’s assay office in Melbourne, and take passage in any ship leaving Port Phillip … no matter what its destination, so long as it took him out of reach of his erstwhile partners and their wealthy father. And, of course, out of reach of the members of the reform league …

“Do you want trouble, Inspector?” he questioned bluntly.

For a moment Brownlow seemed indecisive, as if he, too, were weighing the possible advantages against the drawbacks posed by his lack of men, but finally he nodded.

“Why not?” he suggested dryly. “I thrive on trouble. And I could get a promotion, if I deal with it expeditiously—a commendation from His Excellency, even. Whilst it’s true

the diggers have arms, they don’t know how to use ‘em, and my troopers do. Granted I get my reinforcements, and if the soldiers are ordered to stand by to give me support should I need it … then, yes, Captain Humphrey. Let ‘em rip! But I’d be counting on you to keep me informed of every move the blasted diggers make—before they make it.”

“You can count on me, Mr. Brownlow,” Morgan assured him. “Provided you can ensure that I can be safely out of range once the trouble starts.”

“A police escort to Geelong, you mean? Or right through to Melbourne?”

“That would be a fair return for my services, I think, yes.”

Brownlow mopped his moist red face with his neckerchief. His eyes held a gleam of suspicion as he turned to study his companion from beneath furrowed brows.

“You’ve got your reasons for wanting to light out, I suppose? Seeing you’re on the blasted committee of the—what do they call themselves? The Ballarat Reform League.”

Jasper Morgan met his gaze unsmilingly. “Yes,” he conceded. “I have. I simply cannot walk out on them at this stage. Too many questions would be asked.”

“About young Broome, for instance?” the police inspector pursued. “I don’t mean the one who’s safely locked up in jail. His kid brother’s the one I mean. I heard tell he was back.”

“Lachlan—here in Ballarat?” That took Morgan by surprise, and his tone was sharp. “I’ve not seen him.”

“One of my fellows met him on the road this morning. He’d put up at Watson’s Inn—reckoned his horse was lame, and he was waiting for the Cobb’s coach.”

Morgan recovered from his surprise. Lachlan’s unexpected return might complicate matters, but he could find a way to rid himself of Lachlan, too. If there was trouble, with the police or the soldiers, it would not be too difficult to see that Lachlan became embroiled in it. The boy had always been friendly with the American diggers, and they had filled him up with their republican ideas and the rubbish most of them preached about the rights of the common man. He would join in any battle with authority, and with his elder

brother already jailed as a rioter … Morgan’s expression relaxed.

“All right, Inspector Brownlow,” he said easily. “You shall have your trouble. It will flare up without my lifting a finger, if the Governor does send the troops in. And if he doesn’t, there will be other ways.”

The troops marched in, two hours after Lachlan’s arrival, and Morgan watched his forecast become reality. The advance guard, under the command of a youthful subaltern, entered Ballarat by the Geelong road with bayonets fixed, to be greeted by catcalls and jeers from the mob of diggers lining the way. They suffered no worse and reached the government camp, a mile and a half distant, without incident. But their arrival spread alarm, and shouts rose from the miners. “There are more coming! … Hotham’s sending cannon to blow us to kingdom come! … It’ll be martial law—they’ll take our license money at the point of the bayonet, the bloody lobsterbacks!”

By the time the main body of men of the 40th Regiment, under an arrogant captain named Wise, reached the outskirts of the camp, thousands of diggers had gathered and the whole town was in a state of uproar. In an attempt to keep the peace, Peter Lalor requested a parley but was brusquely waved away, the captain informing him coldly that he did not parley with rebels.