Band of Gold (14 page)

There was a gasp from the small but growing knot of spectators. Kitty felt her breath catch in her throat, even though she knew damned well Rian would never have said any such thing. She made an almighty effort to rein in her rapidly inflating anger and said, with icy dignity, ‘Are you sure he didn’t say that the other way around, Lily? You are a
lot
older than I am, after all.’

Lily’s assurance slipped momentarily, but she rallied quickly. ‘The fact is, your husband came to my house, Kitty Farrell, and spent time with
me!
’ She shook a triumphant finger at Kitty. ‘And you can’t deny it. How do you feel about that!’

‘Very little,’ Kitty lied through gritted teeth. ‘We’ve sailed around the world many times, my husband and I, and seen women whose beauty and exoticism defies description. If he was ever going to be tempted, I can safely say that it wouldn’t be by someone the likes of you.’

A low
oooh
emanated from the onlookers.

The blow clearly found its mark, and Lily retaliated with a sneer that didn’t quite conceal her discomfiture. ‘Ah, yes, I’d forgotten about your little sailing ship.’ She left a long, calculated pause. ‘Your daughter must be very busy, with all those sailors on board.’

A single second of silence ensued, at the end of which Kitty swung back her hand that gripped the shopping basket and aimed it at Lily’s
head. Lily dodged, but the basket caught her tiny hat and knocked it off, taking with it her wig of dark red ringlets. Beneath it, her rather sparse and patchy hair was an ordinary brown colour, pulled into a bun at the back of her head.

Lily screeched, torn between retrieving her wig, which was lying like a small, furry animal in the dusty street, and fighting back. Anger and humiliation won out and she lunged at Kitty. Still incensed with rage at Lily’s vile insinuations, Kitty dropped her basket and struck out with a closed fist, remembering to keep her thumb on the outside as Mick had once shown her. She missed altogether and the force of her punch put her off-balance, and she stepped forward into a stinging slap from Lily’s right hand.

Around them the number of onlookers increased almost instantly, attracted by the fascinatingly awful spectacle of women fighting, especially as one appeared to be a respectable lady. The scandal!

Dimly aware of the crowd forming a circle around her and Lily, Kitty blinked at the vicious slap, mentally shoved aside her mortification at such a demonstration of common vulgarity—fighting in the street, for God’s sake!—and concentrated on the task at hand. She knew Lily would not permit her to walk away from this now; she, Kitty, had thrown the first punch and had humiliated Lily horribly. There would be no civilised apology; it had gone too far for that now.

So, knowing that she was covering herself in a shame she would never live down, she ducked another well-aimed slap from Lily and struck out again, grunting with satisfaction as she knocked the other woman completely off her feet.

Not far down the street, Rian leaned on a shop counter contemplating the piece of jewellery he’d had made. The jeweller, a Russian Jew named Mr Rabinovich, had been delighted to accept the
commission—as a master craftsman he’d grown bored over the past year polishing vulgar gold nuggets to be worn on watch chains or making nugget pins to fasten pretentious cravats.

The finished article was lovely. Made from Ballarat gold, naturally—in the new twelve-carat—the brooch was fashioned in the shape of a spray of three forget-me-not flowers. The petals were made from Persian turquoise cabochons, with small but brilliantly sparkling diamonds at their centres. The leaves were of green enamel. Rian didn’t know much about jewellery, but he’d chosen the forget-me-not motif in the hope that Kitty would recognise the sentiment behind it. He knew he was woefully inadequate when it came to putting into words how he felt; and how he felt was guilty, for spending all their money on the claim, even though it was paying out now, and for dragging her all the way out here. She had shown a remarkable degree of tolerance for this latest in a succession of—and even he had to admit this—sometimes ill-considered schemes, and he wanted to do something that demonstrated his appreciation of her patience and her faith in him. And his love for her. He had commissioned the piece a month ago, but the gift was probably even more timely now.

‘It’s very pretty, isn’t it?’ he said appreciatively. He was no connoisseur, but even he could see that the jeweller had done a very fine job.

Mr Rabinovich allowed himself a small smile of self-satisfaction. ‘I think so.’ He tilted the brooch so that the diamonds caught the sun streaming through the shop window. ‘It was a very satisfying piece to make. However, I had to go to Melbourne to visit a colleague for the glass powder for the enamel. I did not have the perfect colour here.’

Rian flapped his hand dismissively. ‘I trust you’ve added the expense to the fee. And were you able to attend to the other matter?’

Reaching under the counter, Mr Rabinovich retrieved a slender,
muslin-wrapped package, and carefully opened it to reveal a single sprig of freshly cut ivy. ‘I did not pick it myself, you understand. It transpires that the only source of ivy in this town is in somebody’s lovingly tended garden, so I paid an urchin to steal it.’ He rewrapped the ivy, placed the brooch in a red velvet case, wrote the final figure for the work on a scrap of paper and handed all three to Rian. ‘I hope your wife enjoys her new jewel, Captain. It has much style and elegance, as I’m sure she does herself.’

Rian paid the bill, slid the case and the ivy into his jacket pocket and said proudly, ‘Yes, she has
considerable
style, my wife. Good day to you, Mr Rabinovich.’

Outside, Rian mounted Finn and set out along the street, heading back towards Malakoff’s Lead. A short distance on he noticed a crowd of about fifty people, and as he approached he saw that in the centre of it two women were rolling on the ground, kicking and slapping the hell out of each other. God almighty, he thought with distaste as he steered Finn around the ruckus.

But something suddenly made him stop. Christ! That hair—it was the exact shade of raven black he woke next to every morning. Leaping off Finn, he thrust the reins at a spectator and elbowed his way into the circle.

It was Kitty, all right. He reached down, grabbed her elbow and hauled her to her feet. ‘What the
hell
do you think you’re doing!’

‘What does it look like!’ she hissed hysterically. Her hair had come out of its customary chignon and was tangled and dishevelled, one sleeve of her dress had torn under the armpit, and there was a large smear of dirt across her cheek.

Rian glanced at Lily, sitting on the ground glaring at them. ‘That bloody shrew of a wife of yours started it!’ Lily accused in a pathetic whine, pointing a finger at Kitty.

‘For God’s sake,’ Rian said, and angrily led Kitty away. But a second later he was almost knocked over as Sergeant Coombes barged
through the crowd, his nightstick in his hand.

‘What’s going on here?’ he demanded.

‘That woman assaulted me!’ Lily shrieked, having suddenly rediscovered her voice, and pointing again at Kitty. ‘I want her locked up!’

‘Ah, you probably deserved it, Lily,’ Coombes replied wearily. He put away his stick and hauled Lily up off the ground.

‘My wig, my wig!’

Coombes retrieved Lily’s wig. It had been severely trampled on, and would require a fair bit of ministering to restore it to its former glory.

Rian, watching the interaction between the two of them, suspected a familiarity born of more than just a casual acquaintance. He gripped Kitty’s arm more tightly, propelling her out of the crowd. ‘Come on, I don’t want to tangle with Coombes.’

But Kitty jerked her elbow out of Rian’s grip. ‘
Don’t
push me around like a wayward child!’

‘Why not? You were behaving like one. For God’s sake, woman, what were you thinking?’ Rian snatched the reins off the goggle-eyed man with whom he’d left Finn. ‘What are
you
staring at?’

Correctly assessing Rian’s filthy mood, the man shook his head mutely and stepped smartly away into the dispersing crowd.

‘She was absolutely
beastly
about Amber, Rian! She said the most
awful
things!’ Kitty protested, the memory sending her blood pressure soaring again. ‘Bloody
witch!
’

‘Calm down, calm down,’ Rian said to both Kitty and the horse, as Finn, one rolling eye on Kitty, skittered away.

‘But what was I supposed to do, Rian? Just walk away?’

‘Kitty, I said
calm down!
’

Kitty stood still, glaring at Rian, and breathed deliberately in and out through her mouth until she felt her heartbeat begin to slow. Rian watched her, noting the tension drain from her jaw, neck and
shoulders as she gradually gained control of herself. He felt his own anger begin to slide away. He couldn’t blame her, really. Lily had obviously said something pretty nasty to make Kitty lash out at her. His wife, Rian knew from personal experience, had quite a temper, but she was only ever moved to violence after extreme provocation.

They started to walk.

‘Feeling better?’ he asked after some minutes. Kitty’s hands had stopped shaking and her breathing seemed to be returning to normal.

She nodded, then gave a watery sniff. ‘I’ve lost my shopping basket.’

‘I’ll buy you a new one. Do you still have your purse?’

Kitty patted the pocket concealed in her skirts, and nodded.

‘Well, that’s something, then,’ Rian said gently. Looping Finn’s reins over his arm, he dug around in his own pockets until he located a slightly grubby kerchief. ‘Stop for a minute, will you?’ Moistening a corner with spit, he gently wiped the smear of dirt from Kitty’s cheek then swept her hair back over her shoulders. ‘There, now you don’t look like you’ve just got out of bed.’

‘I don’t go to bed with dirt all over my face!’ Kitty protested. They looked at each other, then burst into smothered giggles. ‘Oh God, Rian, I’ll never live it down! What are people going to think?’

He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him. ‘They’ll think whatever they’re going to think, love, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. So forget about it. Come on, I’ll take you home, shall I?’

‘No, I’m working in the bakery this morning. I’m only supposed to be out buying a pound of salt.’

‘Well, I’ll escort you to the shop, then.’

Together they walked along the street until they reached the bakery, their boots clattering on the floorboards as they entered.

Pierre and Leena looked up, their jaws dropping when they saw the state of Kitty.

‘Ma! What happened?’ Amber cried as she lifted the hatch in the counter and darted through.

‘Your mother became involved in a bout of fisticuffs,’ Rian said matter-of-factly, exchanging a look with Pierre.

‘
Fist-
icuffs? Who with? Ma, are you all right?’ Amber demanded, picking a twig out of Kitty’s hair.

‘I’m fine, sweetheart, don’t fuss. I’m sorry, Pierre, I didn’t get the salt.’

‘Lily Pearce provoked her,’ Rian explained.

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.

I
f 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.