The Gold Seekers (48 page)

His words, passed from man to man, inflamed the diggers even more. Before Wise knew what was happening, the mob was upon him. He was dragged from his horse, his men were swiftly scattered and overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers, and two of their baggage wagons were overturned and their cargoes set on fire. The soldiers withdrew in disarray, carrying half a dozen of their number wounded by stones and brickbats, to take refuge in the government camp with the advance guard and Brownlow’s police. Brownlow persuaded them to remain there, holding themselves in reserve, and promising that his troopers would restore order. “We’ll give ‘em till tomorrow morning to simmer down,” he decided. “My reinforcements may be here by then, and that will put me in a stronger position, because they’ll be mounted. Licenses are due for renewal tomorrow. I’ll send in a strong party and make as many arrests as I can, just to show the rebellious swine what’s what.”

But the diggers were in no mood to simmer down, as Jasper Morgan observed with increasing satisfaction. They had won an unexpected victory over the soldiers, and the fact that they had done so renewed their confidence. At Morgan’s suggestion, several hundred of the more militant of the men gathered outside Peter Lalor’s tent, demanding that another meeting be called at once. “A council of war, Mr. Lalor,” one of them asserted gravely. “That’s what it will have to be, whatever Father Smyth says. If the bloody Governor dubs us rebels, then so be it—he shall have his rebellion. We’ve stood enough.”

Lalor was reluctant to give his agreement, but Morgan, sensing his indecision, urged him to comply. “The men won’t rest until you give them what they ask,” he insisted. “And it’s surely best if we are organized and under proper leadership. A stone-throwing mob will achieve nothing.”

Vern, Hayes, and Carboni backed up his argument, and a raid by the angry Captain Wise to recover his baggage wagons decided the issue. Shots were exchanged, Wise harangued the diggers and again accused them of planning rebellion, and the harm was done. Despite misgivings on the part of Lalor and some other members of the committee, a meeting was called for the following day. As before, virtually the whole camp attended, the hotheads much in evidence, their anger fueled by a second raid, at dawn, by police and troops, which had resulted in a score of arrests and a charge by the mounted troopers.

Fiery speeches from Rafaello Carboni and Frederic Vern won thunderous applause.

“I say,” Vern concluded his address, “that every miner here should burn his license and that we pledge ourselves on oath to do so here and now. And that we swear to unite and protect any man whom the police attempt to arrest for having no license. Is that agreed?”

There were few dissenting voices, and Lalor’s plea for time in which to renew negotiations with Commissioner Rede for the release of the prisoners taken that morning was

howled down. Morgan did not speak; with young Lachlan Broome at his side, he was content to leave the shouting to others, satisfied that the boy had been caught up in the frenzied excitement and was giving his pledge with the rest.

Bonfires were lit; although some of the men drifted away, most of them took out their licenses and gleefully consigned them to the flames. It was dawn when the last piece of government vellum had been destroyed, and when a squadron of mounted police made their appearance to conduct a license hunt, they were greeted with catcalls and volleys of stones.

The youthful Commissioner Rede attempted to read the Riot Act, but he, too, was howled down. “There is not a man here who has a license, Mr. Rede,” Lalor informed him gravely.

“You are in breach of the law,” Rede threatened, “for which you are liable to arrest and imprisonment.”

“Very well, sir,” Lalor challenged. “Arrest us. The whole camp will surrender to you. All or none, sir.”

The gold commissioner paled, losing his bombast. “You must know that I do not have a sufficient force to hold all of you in arrest, Mr. Lalor.” He flinched before the angry faces and menacing attitude of the men surrounding him and reined back his horse.

“Then, sir,” Lalor answered levelly, “I beg you to retire. You will be in no danger from us if you will do so and take the police troopers with you. I myself will escort you. You may wish to release the prisoners you took this morning—on bail, if you require it.”

Commissioner Rede admitted defeat. He agreed to bail his prisoners, and with Lalor and two others of the committee walking beside him, he left the camp to the jeers of the men standing by—the police troopers, commanded by a sub-inspector, following sullenly at his heels. Brownlow, Morgan observed cynically, had not seen fit to accompany his men—a prudent decision on his part. Clearly, he was waiting for his reinforcements.

“You have not heard the end of this, Lalor,” the commissioner found the courage to say, when they reached the edge of the miners’ campsite. “You have committed an act of open rebellion. I shall inform His Excellency the Governor, and you need have no doubt he will at once send a large force of troops to restore order here. The penalty for rebellion against Her Majesty’s government, sir, is death.”

Peter Lalor released his hold on the bridle of the commissioner’s horse. He drew himself up and returned, with dignity, “We are not in rebellion against Her Majesty’s government, sir, I give you my word. All we are asking is justice—an end to excessive license fees and police persecution, and the release of three of our people, who have been wrongfully convicted. We are ready at any time, Mr. Rede, to send a delegation to wait on His Excellency Governor Hotham in order to put our case to him. If there is armed conflict, it will be of your making. But if we are attacked, we shall defend ourselves.”

“I will see you hanged, Lalor,” Rede retorted furiously. “You and those who support your outrageous demands! You are a traitor, sir, to your Queen and your country, and by heaven, you shall take the consequences—that I promise you!”

Motioning his police escort to follow him, he kicked his horse into a canter and made off.

Lalor said wryly, “Well, it would seem that we have burnt our boats, as well as our licenses, in a vain quest for justice, my friends. Now there’s nothing left to us but to resort to force of arms, I fear. So we had better call another meeting.”

Studying his face, Morgan became aware of a subtle change in the man who had hitherto preached restraint and negotiation and deplored violence. Peter Lalor was roused to a deep, abiding anger; he would fight, and because of his intelligence, his courage, and his genuine sense of grievance, he would prove a formidable opponent.

At a hasty rendezvous with Brownlow, Jasper Morgan expressed his fears, which were in no way placated when the police commandant pooh-poohed them.

“My reinforcements will be here in a few hours, Captain Humphrey, and Captain Wise, of the military, is hopping mad at the way his soldiers were set on by that blasted mob of rebels. He’s sent for reinforcements, too. The bloody diggers

won’t last five minutes against us, once we get organized—you can take my word for it.”

Morgan shrugged. “I shouldn’t be too sure of that, Mr. Brownlow. The diggers are really up in arms, and they mean business, believe me.”

“There ain’t that many of “em,” Brownlow countered, refusing to be convinced. “A hell of a lot moved out of Bendigo and Castlemaine and even Beechworth, didn’t they, when the malcontents there were shown what’s what? It’ll be the same here. I think you’ll find that support for their precious reform league will crumble, when the sensible fellows realize what’s afoot. They’ll light out for places like Mount Korong and Omeo, on the upper Murray, where they know there’ll be less chance of us getting at ‘em. You know what they’re like—it’ll be up-stakes and on their way when it comes to the crunch. They’ll be a pushover if they do take up arms against us.”

That might be so, Morgan was forced to concede. Of late, there had been an exodus from Ballarat, caused partly by fear of the coming confrontation, but mainly as a result of stories of richer strikes being made elsewhere. The fortune hunters were always susceptible to such tales, always ready to move on in the hope of easier pickings, and they moved in their hundreds, virtually overnight, taking their tents and their wagons with them.

He repeated his shrug. “They’ve called another meeting for tonight. That will decide whether they fight or run—but I still think the majority will fight.”

“Aye, but how many?” Brownlow sneered. “I can’t tell you that yet. At least five hundred, maybe twice as many. They all burnt their licenses, you know,” Morgan cautioned uneasily.

“More fools them,” Brownlow retorted with unconcealed contempt, “because they’ll all have to pay up for ‘em again or face being arrested.” He spit on the dry, sandy ground at his feel and climbed once more into his saddle, jerking his horse’s head from the sparse grass it had been cropping. “Come on, you big brute, you’ve eaten enough.” He tipped his cap at Morgan in farewell and added, before starting to move away, “You’ll tell me what happens at the meeting Captain Humphrey?”

“I’ll tell you,” Morgan assured him. He mounted his own horse, frowning. “I fancy,” he called after the retreating police commandant, “that I’ll be on the move pretty soon after it, Mr. Brownlow. And I shall expect you to keep your promise.”

“You may have to earn your escort to Melbourne,” Brownlow called back over his shoulder. “I reckon you’ll have to ride with us, if it comes to a showdown.” He put his horse into a canter without waiting for Morgan’s reply.

Vaguely uneasy, Morgan waited until Brownlow was out of sight before heading back to the camp. Much would depend on the outcome of the diggers’ stand, he thought. Certainly, if they made a stand, it would cause all the confusion he could possibly want; but if he were seen to be on Brownlow’s side, riding with the police, he would be branded a traitor by the members of the reform league, with consequences too hideous to bear thinking about.

On the other hand, he dared not ally himself openly with a bunch of rebels in defiance of government authority—that would be to risk ruin, if not his life. Morgan drew a long, apprehensive breath as he trotted through the closely growing screen of blackwood and stringybark trees, to emerge by the gravel pits and the road that led to the government camp, with its jail and its fortified stone buildings. He would attend tonight’s meeting, he decided, since failure to do so would undoubtedly arouse suspicion; but after that, if it came to a battle, he would seize the first chance that presented itself to slip away—even without the promised police escort. All he need do was to ensure that young Lachlan Broome threw in his lot with the diggers—and that should present little difficulty.

The meeting was attended by fewer than half of those who had previously pledged their support to the reform league, many pointedly staying by their claims or in their tents. In marked contrast with previous gatherings, it was sober and well ordered, speeches from the platform by Vern, Carboni, and George Black being listened to without interruption,

considered carefully, and then voted on. And the vote was for action, as outlined in the speeches.

Vern, claiming previous military experience in Austria, put himself up for election as commander in chief, but by an almost unanimous vote Peter Lalor was elected in his stead. The young engineer took his stand beneath a blue flag, adorned with the stars of the Southern Cross, and invited those present to take a solemn oath to “stand truly by each other and fight to defend the rights and liberties of all.”

Although many had already drifted away, a hard core stayed to take the oath, following which the committee gathered in a store tent on Bakery Hill to organize resistance to the attack they knew must come.

“Let it be understood, gentlemen,” Peter Lalor warned them solemnly, looking up from the rifle that lay across his knees, his bearded face grimly set, “we take up arms for no other purpose than for our defense. The battle is for our liberty and independence and to right the wrongs that we, as honest, hardworking men, have for so long endured at the hands of a corrupt authority. Let us proceed at once with our preparations to defend ourselves.”

By first light the following morning—Friday, December 1 —an area of about an acre on the Eureka lode had been enclosed with piled-up mining props, building material, and timber. Close to five hundred miners were hard at work, improving and strengthening the barricades. A German blacksmith, working with half a score of eager helpers, began the task of fashioning pikeheads, and those who possessed firearms set about cleaning them and sorting out supplies of powder and shot. Thomas Kennedy set off for Creswick to enlist the support of the diggers there, while others formed themselves into companies and drilled in front of the stockade or went out in foraging parties to gather weapons and commandeer stocks of food.

In a last and somewhat despairing attempt to avert conflict, Father Smyth and George Black led a deputation to the commissioner, demanding that he keep his promise to release the recently arrested men on bail, which he had failed to do, and give an undertaking that the license hunts should cease. Lachlan Broome was also a member of the deputation,

and he returned to report glumly that Commissioner Rede had rejected these demands.

Black nodded in somber agreement. “He’s singing a different tune from the last time we talked to him. Very cocky, he was. These men were taken in riotous assembly,’ he said, ‘and will be taken before a magistrate. I cannot interfere with the course of justice.’ Young Lachie spoke to him as nice as you please, but he just ranted on that our wanting the licenses abolished was a cloak to cover a damned socialist revolution and he had his duty to do. Then he told us to get out. We’re going to have to stand and fight, Peter, or we’ll be back where we were, with that miserable scoundrel Brownlow arresting anyone he has a mind to. We’ve no choice.”

There was an angry murmur of agreement from the others, and Rafaello Carboni exclaimed excitedly, “We’ll give as good as we get, by heaven we will! We have fifty men with rifles or muskets, the Californian Rangers have revolvers, and Jim McGill, who is a West Pointer, is leading them, two hundred strong.”