Eureka - The Unfinished Revolution (57 page)

Rede and his men return to the Camp to find it barricaded with sandbags and trusses of hay all around, manned by parties of armed soldiers and police. Captain Thomas has astutely given the order that no digger – no
person
– from the diggings may approach the Camp. Even those who attempt to pass by close on the main road are told to move on.

And move on they quickly do. For as it happens, it seems an impromptu meeting is shortly to begin on Bakery Hill.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘WE SWEAR BY THE SOUTHERN CROSS . . .’

[They] despatched emissaries to the other diggings to excite the miners, and held a meeting whereat the Australian flag of independence was solemnly consecrated and vows proffered for its defence . . .

Sir Charles Hotham, to Secretary of State Sir George Grey in London

Two o’clock, Thursday afternoon, 30 November 1854, atop Bakery Hill, the second ‘monster meeting’ warms up

To Bakery Hill, men. And to our flag! Again the standard is raised, once more with the man described as its ‘bridegroom’, Charles Ross, standing at the base of the flagpole, gazing proudly up at it.

Bakery Hill, the small nob of land within sight of the Government Camp, has become the gathering point for discontent – and as a mob the diggers passed mere discontent days ago. They are now boiling with rage like a billy atop a roaring fire at what has occurred, and they gravitate quickly to the new-found symbol of their unity.

The leaders and speakers from the day before – the moral-force Chartists – well, all of them seem to have disappeared. For they are speakers of moderation and compromise, and the time for moderation and compromise has passed. No-one wants to hear from Humffray, for example, telling them the Governor and his men are ‘reasonable’ and that their grievances will sort themselves out – even if he had shown himself, it is unlikely the diggers would have let him speak.

The speaker they do want to hear from, though, is Peter Lalor, and after waiting in vain for one of the leaders to show up, the Irishman decides he has no choice but to respond to the urgings of his fellow diggers, mount the podium and take the lead. Appalled by the government’s calculated and uncaring aggression, and more impassioned by the cause than ever before, the last of his reservations disappear.

And yet, before speaking, Lalor takes pause, savouring the moment.

‘I looked around me,’ he would later recount. ‘I saw brave and honest men, who had come thousands of miles to labour for independence. I knew that hundreds were in great poverty, who would possess wealth and happiness if allowed to cultivate the wilderness that surrounded us. The grievances under which we had long suffered, and the brutal attack of the day, flashed across my mind; and with the burning feelings of an injured man, I mounted the stump and proclaimed “Liberty”.’

It is the moment when the moral-force Chartists finally fade entirely from view, and those who – even if reluctantly – have come to believe in physical force take over.

Led by Peter Lalor.

Standing on a stump before the pole that bears their new flag, the Irishman holds the muzzle of his rifle with his left hand, its butt resting on his foot, and is suddenly an imposing figure as he clears his throat to address them.

The men,
his men
,
hang on his every word as in eloquent language that would have done his brother Fintan and his father, Patrick, proud, Peter Lalor makes his rallying cry. This fight for liberty is serious, and if the men who stand here really are ready to honour the promise of the day before to rescue by force any here who should be arrested, then they must understand that the result can only be a clash with the armed might of the government. For seven of their number have been arrested this very morning! If they are not ready to resist that, then they should leave now.

The resolute expressions of the men before him and their murmurings of approval tell him that he has their support. He goes on, calling for volunteers to come forward and enrol themselves in the militia that he is then and there forming, to do what needs to be done.

Companies are put together on the spot through a combination of natural affiliations and common weaponry. Pistols go with pistols, swords with swords and rifles with rifles. Here are the diggers with shotguns, there the French and Italians forming a troop, there the sailors, and over there those who have no firearms but fancy their chances with pikes . . . and so on.

Lalor’s insists they choose ‘the best men amongst you, those you can most depend upon’ to lead them.

A large group of Americans who possess many rifles and, of course, their ubiquitous Colt revolvers are present. In short order they have formed themselves into the ‘California Rifles’, commanded by one ‘Captain’ Nelson – the honorific being instantly accorded to all those elected to lead their companies.

Because language is clearly going to be a problem, given the number of nationalities present, Lalor is again eager that Raffaello Carboni be involved as much as possible. Not only is Carboni deeply experienced in insurrection – he is quick to boast that he was taught the art of guerrilla warfare under the eye of Garibaldi himself – but he is also a firm believer in the cause at hand and speaks all the major European languages.

‘I want you, Signore,’ Lalor says, gripping the hand of Raffaello Carboni warmly before pointing to a group of French and Italians who are without weaponry. ‘Tell these gentlemen, that, if they cannot provide themselves with fire-arms, let each of them procure a piece of steel, five or six inches long, attached to a pole, and that will pierce the tyrants’ hearts.’

It is a strong line – and totally treasonous, of course – and is overheard by one who takes careful mental note of it to report in full later. To Carboni, it is as music to his ears. Though Lalor can speak a few words of French tolerably well, he knows few more Italian, German or Spanish words than ‘Rome’, ‘Munich’ and ‘Madrid’. The chance to be his interpreter and thus, effectively, his aide-de-camp is thrilling.

Hundreds of men step forward to affirm their willingness to do so, as the brother of George Black, Alfred Black – who Lalor names as his ‘Secretary of War’ – notes down the names of each of the companies, together with those whom they have elected to be their ‘captains’.

Not surprisingly, Carboni is captain of the French and Italians, while none other than that well-known figure on the goldfields, the quietly spoken but resolute James Esmond, the discoverer of gold at Clunes, commands the Second Rangers. A young German-Jewish man by the name of Edward Thonen emerges as the leader of a company of riflemen; Charles Ross, a group with rifles and muskets; and two Irishmen, Patrick Curtain and Michael Hanrahan, form up their countrymen and a scattering of other nationalities, including a native-born Australian, Monty Miller, with the Irish weapon of choice throughout the ages: the pike.

With a modicum of organisation thus imposed on the throng, the men in their six companies, with their captains in front, now form up before the podium. And now Lalor raises his right hand towards the Southern Cross, palm facing outwards, and indicates that he wishes them to do the same – an order instantly complied with.

‘It is my duty now to swear you in,’ he begins, his words rolling over this international sea of hard men, ‘and to take with you the oath to be faithful to the Southern Cross. Hear me with attention. The man who, after this solemn oath, does not stand by our standard, is a coward in heart. I order all persons who do not intend to take the oath, to leave the meeting at once. Let all [companies] under arms “fall in” in their order round the flag-staff . . .’

Not one man leaves the meeting. They are staying. They are committed to the cause. By way of emphasis, that all their men are present and accounted for, the captains fire off a rough military salute to their leader, their open hands to their foreheads and quickly back down to their sides.

All is ready.

Again indicating he wishes them to follow his lead, Lalor removes his hat, kneels and raises his right palm outwards to the flag,
their
flag, and says in a forceful tone with measured pace, ‘We swear by the Southern Cross to stand truly by each other, and fight to defend our rights and liberties.’

The sea of men, their heads bowed, their hands raised, repeat the words with an earthy, throaty rumble, ‘WE SWEAR BY THE SOUTHERN CROSS . . .’ which is followed by a unanimous ‘AMEN’.

Raffaello Carboni would also record the wondrous look of the men at this moment: ‘The earnestness of so many faces of all kinds of shape and colour; the motley heads of all sorts of size and hair; the shagginess of so many beards of all lengths and thicknesses; the vividness of double the number of eyes electrified by the magnetism of the southern cross; was one of those grand sights, such as are recorded only in the history of “the Crusaders in Palestine”.’

It is done. For the first time since the colonisation of this land began seven decades earlier, the fealty of a large body of colonists has been sworn to an entity other than the British crown. Instead, these men have sworn loyalty to each other, to their rights and liberties, and to this land beneath the Southern Cross. True, from a purely legal point of view, this could be construed as treason, but it does not feel like this.

For indeed this really is a land where Jack is every bit as good as his master, and if his master does not accept that and insists on treating Jack as a mere vassal, then, reluctantly but forcefully, Jack will have to teach him some respect.

———

To arms, brothers! It is time for a show of strength. The men need to do something to demonstrate to all on the goldfields just how strong and united they are – something to help galvanise those who might like to join them but are wavering.

Why not a march? Yes, a march, a real ‘military’ one.

Or at least as military as they can make it. After Captain Ross retrieves the Southern Cross from the flagpole and fastens it atop a staff long enough to keep it from the dirt, he personally leads their procession. The rest of the diggers fall in behind him in their companies, marching two abreast the half mile or so from Bakery Hill to the Eureka.

Of course, when leading such a procession, it is a good look to be carrying something slightly different from everyone else, so Patrick Curtain, who is the leader of the worthy pikeman, asks Raffaello Carboni if they can swap weapons. He will take Carboni’s sword, brought all the way from Italy, and give him his pike to carry. Alright . . .?

Va bene
.

All up, as they march behind Peter Lalor, who is proudly bearing his own family sword, more and more diggers join the happy, angry, determined throng, and no fewer than 1000 of them are under arms in some fashion, be it gun, pike, knife or sword – even shovel and pick. They make an impressive sight. The procession is so long that when the flag of the Southern Cross is visible on the road that reaches the Eureka on one hill, the tail end is visible by the Catholic church on the opposite hill, at least half a mile away across the gully.

This is a show of force, a statement that the arguments the diggers have on the issues before them are not mere words. They have muscle, too. Armed muscle. So much muscle, it seems, that none of the Redcoats, traps and troopers are visible, having chosen this very time to have a bit of a spell back at the Government Camp. How very, very convenient . . .

For the diggers, it feels good to be part of the movement, parading thus. But there is also an ugly edge to it. When that bastard Dr Alfred Carr is spotted – the very one whose testimony tried to get that even bigger bastard Bentley off, the one who is thought to be a spy for the government – he is grabbed by the collar by one enormous digger, who puts a cocked revolver to his head. There is a general rush upon Carr by other diggers, and it is only by the considerable efforts of Timothy Hayes that the doctor is saved and told to stay well clear of the scene. Carr does not have to be told twice.

And now Lalor gives an order. If they are going to make a stand – and by God they
are
– then they are going to need a central and defendable stronghold. And there it is, lads. Just a hundred yards from where they have finished their parade is a small hillock that – in his first major act as their leader – Lalor designates as the spot where they will make that stand. It is on the Eureka part of the goldfield, in the heart of where the Tipperary mob holds sway.

Around its lower reaches, Lalor orders his men to build a defined enclosure with clear boundaries where they can muster, go through drills and, if necessary, find armed refuge from the next license-hunt. It is with this in mind that the diggers begin to busy themselves constructing a kind of ‘stockade’ – a rough, higgledy-piggledy rectangular barricade composed of slabs of wood from their shafts placed broadly upright but sloped a little away from the vertical facing outwards, together with upturned old carts and anything else that comes to hand. To make the whole thing more secure, huge mounds of earth are shovelled up against its base. The roughly four-foot-high barricade surrounds a broad four acres of land measuring about 100 by 200 yards. After all, if the government can have their enclosed Camp, which lies on the other side of the large gully from Eureka, then the diggers can have their own defensive enclosure.

Yes, the whole thing encompasses the tents of a number of miners, including Lalor’s, but most of it is open ground on a slope overlooked by the Free Trade Hotel on high. It is situated little more than 200 yards from the shattered, blackened ruins of Bentley’s hotel, and Lalor has especially selected it for its commanding view of the Camp, which lies on its own rise a little under a mile to the west. If there is any attack coming, the diggers should be able to see it and have plenty of warning. A bonus is the number of ‘shepherds’ holes’ at the site – shallow pits left by the half-hearted diggers who were minding the spot for other diggers – that lie on the north-westernmost part of the Stockade, which are ideally suited to hold men with rifles in comparative shelter. Most of these holes come complete with a small framework of logs around them to hold the windlass, with dirt packed up around their sides, making them superb defensive positions. Those inside can poke their guns through the small gaps in the logs, which are further protected by large slabs of bark nailed horizontally.