over the fathomless grey seas that tossed between, dissevering the ancient and gigantic continent from the tiny motherland, unsettling rumours ran. after close on forty years’ fat peace, england had armed for hostilities again, her fleet set sail for a foreign sea. such was the news the sturdy clipper-ships brought out, in tantalising fragments; and those who, like richard mahony, were mere birds-of-passage in the colony, and had friends and relatives going to the front, caught hungrily at every detail. but to the majority of the colonists what england had done, or left undone, in preparation for war, was of small account. to them the vital question was: will the wily russian bear take its revenge by sending men-of-war to annihilate us and plunder the gold in our banks — us, months removed from english aid? and the opinion was openly expressed that in casting off her allegiance to great britain, and becoming a neutral state, lay young australia’s best hope of safety.
but, even while they made it, the proposers of this scheme were knee-deep in petty, local affairs again. all europe was depressed under the cloud of war; but they went on belabouring hackneyed themes — the unlocking of the lands, iniquitous licence-fees, official corruption. mahony could not stand it. his heart was in england, went up and down with england’s hopes and fears. he smarted under the tales told of the inefficiency of the british troops and the paucity of their numbers; under the painful disclosures made by journalists, injudiciously allowed to travel to the seat of war; he questioned, like many another of his class in the old country, the wisdom of the duke of newcastle’s orders to lay siege to the port of sebastopol. and of an evening, when the store was closed, he sat over stale english newspapers and a map of the crimea, and meticulously followed the movements of the allies.
but in this retirement he was rudely disturbed, by feeling himself touched on a vulnerable spot — that of his pocket. before the end of the year trade had come to a standstill, and the very town he lived in was under martial law.
on both ballarat and the bendigo the agitation for the repeal of the licence-tax had grown more and more vehement; and spring’s arrival found the digging-community worked up to a white heat. the new governor’s tour of inspection, on which great hopes had been built, served only to aggravate the trouble. misled by the golden treasures with which the diggers, anxious as children to please, dazzled his eyes, the governor decided that the tax was not an outrageous one; and ordered licence-raids to be undertaken twice as often as before. this defeat of the diggers’ hopes, together with the murder of a comrade and the acquittal of the murderer by a corrupt magistrate, goaded even the least sensitive spirits to rebellion: the guilty man’s house was fired, the police were stoned, and then, for a month or more, deputations and petitions ran to and fro between ballarat and melbourne. in vain: the demands of the voteless diggers went unheard. the consequence was that one day at the beginning of summer all the troops that could be spared from the capital, along with several pieces of artillery, were raising the dust on the road to ballarat.
on the last afternoon in november work was suspended throughout the diggings, and the more cautious among the shopkeepers began to think of closing their doors. in front of the “diggers’ emporium,” where the earth was baked as hard as a burnt crust, a little knot of people stood shading their eyes from the sun. opposite, on bakery hill, a monster meeting had been held and the “southern cross” hoisted — a blue bunting that bore the silver stars of the constellation after which it was named. having sworn allegiance to it with outstretched hands, the rebels were lining up to march off to drill.
mahony watched the thin procession through narrowed lids. in theory he condemned equally the blind obstinacy of the authorities, who went on tightening the screw, and the foolhardiness of the men. but — well, he could not get his eye to shirk one of the screaming banners and placards: “down with despotism!” “who so base as be a slave!” by means of which the diggers sought to inflame popular indignation. “if only honest rebels could get on without melodramatic exaggeration! as it is, those good fellows yonder are rendering a just cause ridiculous.”
polly tightened her clasp of his arm. she had known no peace since the evening before, when a rough-looking man had come into the store and, with revolver at full cock, had commanded hempel to hand over all the arms and ammunition it contained. hempel, much to richard’s wrath, had meekly complied; but it might have been richard himself; he would for certain have refused; and then. . . . polly had hardly slept for thinking of it. she now listened in deferential silence to the men’s talk; but when old ocock — he never had a good word to say for the riotous diggers — took his pipe out of his mouth to remark: “a pack o’ tipperary boys spoilin’ for a fight — that’s what i say. an’ yet, blow me if i wouldn’t ‘a bin glad if one o’ my two ‘ad ‘ad spunk enough to join ’em,”— at this polly could not refrain from saying pitifully: “oh, mr. ocock, do you really mean that?” for both purdy and brother ned were in the rebel band, and polly’s heart was heavy because of them.
“can’t you see my brother anywhere?” she asked hempel, who held an old spyglass to his eyes.
“no, ma’am, sorry to say i can’t,” replied hempel. he would willingly have conjured up a dozen brothers to comfort polly; but he could not swerve from the truth, even for her.
“give me the glass,” said mahony, and swept the line.—“no, no sign of either of them. perhaps they thought better of it after all.— listen! now they’re singing — can you hear them? the marseillaise as i’m alive. — poor fools! many of them are armed with nothing more deadly than picks and shovels.”
“and pikes,” corrected hempel. “several carry pikes, sir.”
“ay, that’s so, they’ve bin ‘ammerin’ out bits of old iron all the mornin’,” agreed ocock. “it’s said they ‘aven’t a quarter of a firearm apiece. and the drillin’! lord love yer! ‘alf of ’em don’t know their right ‘and from their left. the troops ‘ull make mincemeat of ’em, if they come to close quarters.”
“oh, i hope not!” said polly. “oh, i do hope they won’t get hurt.”
patting her hand, mahony advised his wife to go indoors and resume her household tasks. and since his lightest wish was a command, little polly docilely withdrew her arm and returned to her dishwashing. but though she rubbed and scoured with her usual precision, her heart was not in her work. both on this day and the next she seemed to exist solely in her two ears. the one strained to catch any scrap of news about “poor ned”; the other listened, with an even sharper anxiety, to what went on in the store. several further attempts were made to get arms and provisions from richard; and each time an angry scene ensued. close up beside the thin partition, her hands locked under her cooking-apron, polly sat and trembled for her husband. he had already got himself talked about by refusing to back a reform league; and now she heard him openly declare to some one that he disapproved of the terms of this league, from a to z. oh dear! if only he wouldn’t. but she was careful not to add to his worries by speaking of her fears. as it was, he came to tea with a moody face.
the behaviour of the foraging parties growing more and more threatening, mahony thought it prudent to follow the general example and put up his shutters. wildly conflicting rumours were in the air. one report said a contingent of creswick dare-devils had arrived to join forces with the insurgents; another that the creswickers, disgusted at finding neither firearms nor quarters provided for them, had straightway turned and marched the twelve miles home again. for a time it was asserted that lalor, the irish leader, had been bought over by the government; then, just as definitely, that his influence alone held the rebel faction together. towards evening long jim was dispatched to find out how matters really stood. he brought back word that the diggers had entrenched themselves on a piece of rising ground near the eureka lead, behind a flimsy barricade of logs, slabs, ropes and overturned carts. the camp, for its part, was screened by a breastwork of firewood, trusses of hay and bags of corn; while the mounted police stood or lay fully armed by their horses, which were saddled ready for action at a moment’s notice.
neither ned nor purdy put in an appearance, and the night passed without news of them. just before dawn, however, mahony was wakened by a tapping at the window. thrusting out his head he recognised young tommy ocock, who had been sent by his father to tell “doctor” that the soldiers were astir. lights could be seen moving about the camp, a horse had neighed — father thought spies might have given them the hint that at least half the diggers from the stockade had come down to main street last night, and got drunk, and never gone back. with a concerned glance at polly mahony struggled into his clothes. he must make another effort to reach the boys — especially ned, for polly’s sake. when ned had first announced his intention of siding with the insurgents, he had merely shrugged his shoulders, believing that the young vapourer would soon have had enough of it. now he felt responsible to his wife for ned’s safety: ned, whose chief reason for turning rebel, he suspected, was that a facetious trooper had once dubbed him “eytalian organ-grinder,” and asked him where he kept his monkey.
but mahony’s designs of a friendly interference came too late. the troops had got away, creeping stealthily through the morning dusk; and he was still panting up specimen hill when he heard the crack of a rifle. confused shouts and cries followed. then a bugle blared, and the next instant the rattle and bang of musketry split the air.
together with a knot of others, who like himself had run forth half dressed, mahony stopped and waited, in extreme anxiety; and, while he stood, the stars went out, one by one, as though a finger-tip touched them. the diggers’ response to the volley of the attacking party was easily distinguished: it was a dropping fire, and sounded like a thin hail-shower after a peal of thunder. within half an hour all was over: the barricade had fallen, to cheers and laughter from the military; the rebel flag was torn down; huts and tents inside the enclosure were going up in flames.
towards six o’clock, just as the december sun, huge and fiery, thrust the edge of its globe above the horizon, a number of onlookers ran up the slope to all that was left of the ill-fated stockade. on the dust, bloodstains, now set hard as scabs, traced the route by which a wretched procession of prisoners had been marched to the camp gaol. behind the demolished barrier huts smouldered as heaps of blackened embers; and the ground was strewn with stark forms, which lay about — some twenty or thirty of them — in grotesque attitudes. some sprawled with outstretched arms, their sightless eyes seeming to fix the pale azure of the sky; others were hunched and huddled in a last convulsion. and in the course of his fruitless search for friend and brother, an old instinct reasserted itself in mahony: kneeling down he began swiftly and dexterously to examine the prostrate bodies. two or three still heaved, the blood gurgling from throat and breast like water from the neck of a bottle. here, one had a mouth plugged with shot, and a beard as stiff as though it were made of rope. another that he turned over was a german he had once heard speak at a diggers’ meeting — a windy braggart of a man, with a quaint impediment in his speech. well, poor soul! he would never mouth invectives or tickle the ribs of an audience again. his body was a very colander of wounds. some had not bled either. it looked as though the soldiers had viciously gone on prodding and stabbing the fallen.
stripping a corpse of its shirt, he tore off a piece of stuff to make a bandage for a shattered leg. while he was binding the limb to a board, young tom ran up to say that the military, returning with carts, were arresting every one they met in the vicinity. with others who had been covering up and carrying away their friends, mahony hastened down the back of the hill towards the bush. here was plain evidence of a stampede. more bloodstains pointed the track, and a number of odd and clumsy weapons had been dropped or thrown away by the diggers in their flight.
he went home with the relatively good tidings that neither ned nor purdy was to be found. polly was up and dressed. she had also lighted the fire and set water on to boil, “just in case.” “was there ever such a sensible little woman?” said her husband with a kiss.
the day dragged by, flat and stale after the excitement of the morning. no one ventured far from cover; for the military remained under arms, and detachments of mounted troopers patrolled the streets. at the camp the hundred odd prisoners were being sorted out, and the maimed and wounded doctored in the rude little temporary hospital. down in main street the noise of hammering went on hour after hour. the dead could not be kept, in the summer heat, must be got underground before dark.
mahony had just secured his premises for the night, when there came a rapping at the back door. in the yard stood a stranger who, when the dog pompey had been chidden and soothed, made mysterious signs to mahony and murmured a well-known name. admitted to the sitting-room he fished a scrap of dirty paper from his boot. mahony put the candle on the table and straightened out the missive. sure enough, it was in purdy’s hand — though sadly scrawled.
have been hit in the pin. come if possible and bring your tools. the bearer is square.
polly could hear the two of them talking in low, urgent tones. but her relief that the visitor brought no bad news of her brother was dashed when she learned that richard had to ride out into the bush, to visit a sick man. however she buttoned her bodice, and with her hair hanging down her back went into the sitting-room to help her husband; for he was turning the place upside down. he had a pair of probe-scissors somewhere, he felt sure, if he could only lay hands on them. and while he ransacked drawers and cupboards for one or other of the few poor instruments left him, his thoughts went back, inopportunely enough, to the time when he had been surgeon’s dresser in the edinburgh royal infirmary. o tempora, o mores! he wondered what old syme, that prince of surgeons, would say, could he see his whilom student raking out a probe from among the ladles and kitchen spoons, a roll of lint from behind the saucepans.
bag in hand, he followed his guide to where the latter had left a horse in safe-keeping; and having lengthened the stirrups and received instructions about the road, he set off for the hut in the ranges which purdy had contrived to reach. he had an awkward cross-country ride of some four miles before him; but this did not trouble him. the chance- touched spring had opened the gates to a flood of memories; and, as he jogged along, he re-lived in thought the happy days spent as a student under the shadow of arthur’s seat, round the college, the infirmary and old surgeons’ square. once more he sat in the theatre, the breathless spectator of famous surgical operations; or as house-surgeon to the lying-in hospital himself assisted in daring attempts to lessen suffering and save life. it was, of course, too late now to bemoan the fact that he had broken with his profession. yet only that very day envy had beset him. the rest of the fraternity had run to and from the tents where the wounded were housed, while he, behung with his shopman’s apron, pottered about among barrels and crates. no one thought of enlisting his services; another, not he, would set (or bungle) the fracture he had temporarily splinted.
the hut — it had four slab walls and an earthen floor — was in darkness on his arrival, for purdy had not dared to make a light. he lay tossing restlessly on a dirty old straw palliasse, and was in great pain; but greeted his friend with a dash of the old brio.
hanging his coat over the chinks in the door, and turning back his sleeves, mahony took up the lantern and stooped to examine the injured leg. a bullet had struck the right ankle, causing an ugly wound. he washed it out, dressed and bandaged it. he also bathed the patient’s sweat-soaked head and shoulders; then sat down to await the owner of the hut’s return.
as soon as the latter appeared he took his leave, promising to ride out again the night after next. in spite of the circumstances under which they met, he and purdy parted with a slight coolness. mahony had loudly voiced his surprise at the nature of the wound caused by the bullet: it was incredible that any of the military could have borne a weapon of this calibre. pressed, purdy admitted that his hurt was a piece of gross ill-luck: he had been accidentally shot by a clumsy fool of a digger, from an ancient holster-pistol.
to mahony this seemed to cap the climax; and he did not mask his sentiments. the pitiful little forcible-feeble rebellion, all along but a futile attempt to cast straws against the wind, was now completely over and done with, and would never be heard of again. or such at least, he added, was the earnest hope of the law-abiding community. this irritated purdy, who was spumy with the self-importance of one who has stood in the thick of the fray. he answered hotly, and ended by rapping out with a contemptuous click of the tongue: “upon my word, dick, you look at the whole thing like the tradesman you are!”
these words rankled in mahony all the way home.— trust purdy for not, in anger, being able to resist giving him a flick on the raw. it made him feel thankful he was no longer so dependent on this friendship as of old. since then he had tasted better things. now, a woman’s heart beat in sympathetic understanding; there met his, two lips which had never said an unkind word. he pushed on with a new zest, reaching home about dawn. and over his young wife’s joy at his safe return, he forgot the shifting moods of his night-journey.
it had, however, this result. next day polly found him with his head in one of the great old shabby black books which, to her mind, spoilt the neat appearance of the bookshelves. he stood to read, the volume lying open before him on the top of the cold stove, and was so deeply engrossed that the store-bell rang twice without his hearing it. when, reminded that hempel was absent, he whipped out to answer it, he carried the volume with him.
