The Night They Stormed Eureka (13 page)

‘They ain’t your ma and pa? Not when you talk about ‘em like that.’

‘They … no. I only met them the day we came to your farm.’

‘Ma said that were strange then too. That you didn’t seem like a lad with his family.’

‘Your mum — she’s sick, isn’t she?’

His face clouded. ‘Consumption. That’s what she says it is, anyhow. She were a maid in a doctor’s house when Pa met her. That’s how she knows how to dress proper and things.’

‘You don’t have to be ashamed of her,’ said Sam softly.

He gazed at her with fury. ‘I ain’t!’ He gestured at the men scrabbling in the dirt around them. ‘Her family owned all of this! Bigger than any bleedin’ farm in England! Me uncles can spear a ‘roo two hundred yards away!’

‘You’ve met them?’

He hesitated. ‘Yes. ‘Cause Ma asked me to. ‘Cause I wanted to. They wuz gunna learn me the things to be a man. Pa, he brung me back.’

‘Did you want to stay with them?’

‘Yes. No!’ He shrugged. ‘I dunno. Hunting is better than starin’ at sheep bums, or diggin’ spuds. But I ain’t one o’ them, not really, though they treated me right. It weren’t what I wanted, neither.’

They were nearly at the Puddlehams’ camp now. She said urgently, ‘What do you want then?’ A small feather of an idea tickled her mind.

He was silent. ‘Proper book learnin',’ he said at last. ‘To go to school, like you done. You’re lucky.’

‘At least you’ve got a family. A home. My mum threw me out.’

‘You’ve got the Puddlehams now.’ He looked at her a bit anxiously. ‘Ain’t you?’

Sam nodded. ‘Mrs Puddleham really looks after me like I’m her daughter. And Mr Puddleham — well, he’s not too sure. But he likes me, I think.’ And not in the wrong way, like Gavin.

George smiled, as though genuinely relieved she had a home. He likes me too, she thought, even though he made fun of me. Even though I’m a girl.

‘Da’s right most times,’ he was saying. ‘He’s just embarrassed at having a darkie for a son when there’s other people about. Where we goin'?’ He lengthened his lope to keep up with her.

Sam grinned as she began to stride past the gully before Mr Puddleham caught sight of them. ‘You’ll see.’

There was no sign of the Professor at his campsite. Sam glanced in under his bark lean-to. His stone jug wasn’t there, either.

‘Expect he’s down there.’ George nodded at the dark hole in the ground, with its thick lips of mullock. The sail hung slack in the afternoon stillness. ‘Who is he, anyhow?’

‘He’s the man who sold your dad the book.’

George brightened. ‘Think he’d sell another? Da’s gettin’ a good price for them sheep,’ he added.

‘They’re in another language. You couldn’t read them.’

He was silent for a moment, perhaps calculating the many things he didn’t — couldn’t — know. ‘Then what are we —’ he broke off as Sam leaned over the hole. A ladder of rough branches tied together with twine was propped against one side of the mineshaft. It didn’t look like it’d bear the weight of a monkey, much less a man. A rope was tied to it — a thick, old-fashioned kind of rope that looked like it was made of twisted hair. ‘You be careful. Mine edges can crumble.’

Sam stepped back slightly. There was no sign of light down the hole. Could you mine in total darkness?

‘Professor?’

The mineshaft seemed to swallow the words. Then suddenly she heard a voice. ‘Who is it?’

‘Sam. Um, Sam Puddleham,’ she added self-consciously.

‘Don’t come down.’ It was as though the earth itself had spoken through that small dark mouth.

‘I’m not going to.’ No way would she go down there, Sam thought. The edges of the mine looked like they might collapse at any moment. It was almost like the darkness had a smell.

Footsteps sounded below, like a giant wombat in a tunnel. The ladder creaked and shook. Finally the Professor’s head emerged, his lanky hair even dirtier than usual, and then the rest of him. He blinked in the morning light, then caught sight of George. He looked back at Sam, puzzled, as he hauled himself up and stood shakily in the sunlight.

She grinned. ‘I brought George to see you. He’s the kid, I mean the boy, who’s got your book.’

‘Ah,’ the Professor wiped a grubby hand across his forehead, then glanced at George. He seems fairly sober this afternoon, thank goodness, thought Sam. ‘He wants to sell it back to me? Well, I happen to be in funds this week —’

‘No!’ said Sam impatiently. ‘He wants to talk to you about it!’

The Professor stared. ‘My dear child, the boy is a native. He’d be quite incapable —’

‘I’m going.’ George’s face was pale with rage.

The Professor peered at him with sudden interest, his eyes blinking in the daylight after the darkness of his mine. ‘I apologise. First for calling you a native —’

‘I
am
a native! Native is just as good as you!’

The Professor hesitated. ‘Apologise perhaps for my concept of “native". I admit my ignorance of what a native of this country can do. I have made the unforgivable error of accepting that what the mob says is right. A common fallacy.’

The Professor looked different, thought Sam. As though a ghost had suddenly come to life.

George frowned. ‘You talk like the coves in me book.’ He hunched his shoulders, then blurted out, ‘I can read newspapers all right. But half o’ them words in the book don’t make sense.’

The Professor lowered himself onto the ground, and sat cross-legged in the dust. Behind him the distant hills merged with the sky. ‘You want to read them?’

George looked cautious, in case the Professor was making fun of him. ‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

George sat down too, taking off his big leaf hat and fanning away the flies that clustered around his face. It was the first time Sam had seen him bareheaded. She plonked herself down next to them. Someone — his mother? — had cut George’s hair short, perhaps to disguise its curliness. ‘To get me a job as a clerk, mebbe. Sittin’ at a desk, not sweatin’ outside.’

The Professor waved his hand, but not at the flies. ‘Is that the only reason?’

‘Yes. No!’ His eagerness is almost painful, thought Sam. ‘That cove in the book — Socrates — he asks all them questions. Ain’t no one ever asks questions like that around here. It’s like … like there’s a whole different world in that book.’

‘Ah.’ The Professor’s face relaxed suddenly, like he’d had a drink of something even more powerful than the hooch in his jar. ‘Then I will teach you.’

‘What?’

‘I will teach you,’ repeated the Professor. ‘I will teach you to read more words, and write a neat hand that might get you a job. But most of all, I will teach you to ask questions.’

‘Why?’ George sounded like he’d been offered a nugget and couldn’t believe it was real.

The Professor hesitated. ‘Because questions like the ones in your book are needed now. Do you really think that the men on these diggings — the ones who call you “native” in the same way that I did so wrongly a few minutes ago — can govern wisely? How many know how to read, much less think? And if they don’t know how to think, how can they possibly rule a country justly?’

‘They can elect people who do,’ said Sam.

‘Yes,’ said the Professor patiently. ‘But how do the ignorant know who to elect? The mob killed Socrates, remember. Democracy does not mean that good decisions are made.’

George looked at him speculatively. ‘So who should do the rulin’ then?’

‘Ah, that raises an interesting question,’ said the Professor happily. ‘It is true — the present government is bad. It seems that owning one hundred pounds’ worth of property —’

‘And being male,’ added Sam.

The Professor nodded. ‘It seems that this is not an effective qualification to choose people who will govern either efficiently or morally. But it does not necessarily follow that those who want to change it would make a better job of it.’

‘How about you only let coves who can read vote?’

‘Reading does not mean that you necessarily think about what you read,’ said the Professor dryly, ‘as any teacher knows to his cost. For every hundred students who read you will find perhaps one who actually analyses what he has read.’

‘How do you ana-whatsit?’ George’s face was suddenly intent.

‘Analyse. Ah.’ The Professor grinned. ‘Now we come back to Ancient Greece again, to Socrates sitting with his students Plato and Alcibiades, just as you sit with me, though perhaps,’ he brushed away the flies, ‘in rather more salubrious surroundings.’

The Professor rubbed his hands as though he were about to sit down to a particularly good serve of Mrs Puddleham’s stew. ‘To think properly you need to be able to tell when an argument is valid. Let us say that allfish swim. A true statement, I believe. Now, if Sam here can swim, does that mean Sam is a fish?

‘O’ course not —’

‘Ah, but if Sam
were
a fish, it
would
be a true statement. Yet the argument would still not be a valid one. Most people understand the difference between something true and something false. But they can’t distinguish between an argument that is valid and one that is invalid, so they are not able to think clearly.’

George frowned. ‘I dunno —’

‘Let us take another fallacy, the one that perhaps causes more trouble than any other, the
ad verecundiam
fallacy, the appeal to an authority on a subject outside one’s expertise. Queen Victoria is a great woman, therefore everything she decides must be right.’

Sam blinked. The Professor suddenly sounded like Mrs Quant, standing in front of the class, talking about sports stars or pop idols giving opinions on everything from diets to wars. Why should anyone pay attention to what someone said, just because they were famous for something else?

She smiled. She bet nowhere else on earth was a barefoot boy sitting on the ground by a mullock heap discussing philosophy with a professor. Liz would love to be listening to this, she thought. And Nick would say …

A breeze shivered across her shoulders. She forced her mind back. The miners would be coming for their stew soon, and Mrs Puddleham had all the meat to chop up too. She got to her feet and brushed the dirt off her new trousers.

‘I’d better go.’

‘What? Oh.’ George looked up as though he’d forgotten she was there. ‘Tell Da where I am, will you? Don’t suppose he’s looking for me yet — he’ll be down the grog shop.’ He grinned at her. ‘It’s fun, ain’t it? Like siftin’ gold outta dirt.’

The Professor smiled. ‘Exactly. Once you have learned to think you have a weapon more powerful than lies.’

George shook his head. ‘I never thought any cove’d want me to argue with him. But that’s what Socrates did, weren’t it?’

‘What I used to do, too,’ said the Professor quietly. ‘When I was still a right and proper guide for the young. You will find these words in your book too: “But my dearest Agathon, it is truth which you cannot contradict; you can without any difficulty contradict Socrates.” Contradict me all you like, my boy — as long as it leads us to the truth.’

Sam began to walk down the gully, brushing the flies from her eyes, listening to the voices behind her. What she had done this afternoon was good.

Sam could hear the thud of Mrs Puddleham’s axe chopping the fresh mutton as she came up the gully. Hopefully it’d look like meat now, she thought, not like the sheep who’d bleated at her earlier. Mr Puddleham stirred the pot of old stew, mostly flour and potato now. Sweat trickled down his face from the steam and heat, but his hair was still shiny and neat.

Happy Jack was there already, waiting for his stew, his moon face smiling at the pots. His dog sat next to him, panting in the afternoon’s heat. Its wound had healed now. It glanced up at Sam as though wondering whether to cower away. She bent down and held out a hand to it. The dog sniffed it warily, but crept backwards when she tried to stroke it.

‘There you are, lovey.’ The smile on Mrs Puddleham’s face could have filled the sky. ‘I was wondering where you were. I was feeling that bad, taking you to see the sheep killed.’

‘I’m sorry,’ began Sam.

Mrs Puddleham beckoned her closer so Happy Jack couldn’t hear. ‘You did just as you ought! That weren’t no sight for a young lady.''But it didn’t make you feel sick.’

‘I ain’t no lady. But you’re going to be, just as soon as we gets our hotel. A young lady in silk and satin who faints all right and proper at blood and guts.’

‘Oh,’ said Sam. ‘Are there any scraps for the dog?’ she added, to change the subject.

‘You be careful it don’t give you fleas. Or worse.’ Mrs Puddleham handed Sam the slimy skins from the sheep tongues.

‘Here, boy. I won’t hurt you.’

The dog took a step backwards.

Sam put the scraps on the ground. The dog waited till she had backed away before it slunk forwards. It grabbed the scraps in its mouth, then retreated under Happy Jack’s knees to eat them.

Happy Jack grinned at Sam and Mrs Puddleham. ‘He’s happy now.’

Sam smiled back. ‘I’m glad he’s happy. Your stew will be ready soon, and you can be happy too.’

Happy Jack nodded. ‘Stew makes lots o’ people happy.’

‘It smells like good stew.’ It was George. He must have come up while she’d been trying to tempt the dog.

He grinned at Sam. ‘Guess what?’ he added softly, so the Puddlehams didn’t hear. ‘The Professor’s going to ask Da if I can help him dig. He’ll give me half o’ what we digs up too. I’ll be earnin’ good money. Da’ll have to say yes. Look,’ he gestured proudly to a leather-bound book tucked into the belt of his trousers. Sam squinted, trying to read the words.

‘It’s a Latin grammar.’ He pronounced the words carefully. ‘I got to memorise a hundred words by Sat’dee.’

Sam had never heard anyone so happy about homework before.

‘If I got learnin’ I can get a real good job. The Professor says ‘most all the clerks in the country have gone to the diggin’s. There’s jobs even for a darkie.’ George hesitated. ‘When Ma dies Da’s going to get himself a white wife,’ he blurted out suddenly. ‘He says he’s made enough money feedin’ the miners to get a proper wife now. I reckon a white woman won’t want a darkie son about.’