Published: 11 Feb 2021

The boys first week as proprietary to the Golden Shovel proved to be most interesting, while realising there was more to running a hotel than owning it but Chance had learned enough from his father to obtain success. True they had managed a fair price for the establishment and believed when the time came they could on-sell at a profit, as it was never their intention to remain permanently on the goldfields but Chance still wished to find fortune in yellow metal and not again become tied to a hotel bar and attending to rooms.

For Logan it was a new experience and one he quickly accustomed. Tom came along for the ride, showing his worth as the perfect gofer and while continuing with his visits around the camp he learned much about finding gold, even finding a little for himself by going through tailings. He was also fortunate not to be discovered and charged for mining without a licence, only avoiding by faking idiocy, a trick learned from his father when forcibly used to lift property from stores.

There was an added bonus with the hotel, it came with a large back yard, almost a paddock as Stubbs so called half acre was more an acre, where the remaining sheep could be penned but it lacked a single blade of grass.

At centre of the hotel’s yard in comical array, was the lemon tree and loaded with lemons but one had to be quick as the possums were partial at removing the rind, leaving the naked fruit on the tree. What puzzled Chance was where the possums came from, as the Lead was almost void of trees and they didn’t survive long at ground level because of dogs. There were many low shrubs remaining about the diggings and they soon developed a liking for dark sheds and roof spaces, so it was believed the possums nested there. Another pest was the bandicoot, as they appeared to live freely around the Lead and at night silently went about eating what vegetables one was successful in growing within the poor soil.

It soon became obvious they would need to realise their investment in the remaining sheep, as much time was wasted and distance travelled to obtain fodder, also the hiring of a cart and draught pony was difficult and expensive. As for the cart that came with the property, it turned out to be all but useless, costing as much to put right as purchasing a new cart. It was decided to keep a ram and a few of the younger ewes for lambing and quickly sell off the others for slaughter.

Tom had taken to wandering, spending much of the day talking to diggers, taken by their stories of distant lands and strange ways of those who abode there. One of the lad’s favourites was a Scottish digger, James Scobie. It was Scobie’s Scottish accent that held Tom’s interest and the strange way he pronounced simple words, often asking him to repeat a word over and over while Tom laughed loudly. Scobie appeared to enjoy the attention given by the lad.

Also Tom had become most interested in stories told by the many American diggers, mostly on their fight for independence from the crown and how they would eventually develop a republic in Victoria, possibly becoming part of the American way. The lad was becoming a virtual republican and a rebel to boot, with riotous blood surging through his youthful sinews, only needing the striking of a match to set fire to his emotions.

“Victoria will soon be fee and a republic,” Tom joyously announced one evening, paraphrasing what he had gleaned from a meeting held that very afternoon. A storm rattled the window of the Golden Shovel’s as he spoke. ‘That was an omen,’ Logan thought as he closed the window against the developing elements. The three had just finished their evening meal and settling before Chance relieved the bar for the night’s session. It would be a slow night as the weather kept most to their camp.

“Do you know the meaning of the word?” Logan asked sensing a change in the lad’s character since mixing with the diggers.

“Freedom,” Tom gladly expressed.

“Freedom from what?” Logan softly asked.

“Freedom to do what we like?”

“There is a word for that kind of freedom and it is called anarchy.”

“From the police I guess and that lot in Spring Street.”

“I’m off to the bar; I’ll leave you two to argue the finer points of politics.” Chance gave a slight titter and departed.

“You mind yourself hanging around the diggings without a valid licence, even at your age you can be charged,” Logan warned.

“That’s what I mean, only this afternoon a trooper fired on one of the diggers who wouldn’t produce his licence. He said he left it in his tent.” Tom boisterously admitted.

“Why was he fired upon?” Logan asked doubting it was for his simple refusal to display his licence.

“Because Will Flannery legged it.”

“Was he injured?”

“No the shot was over his head as a warning but still there was intent and it’s happening more often each day.”

“I agree but you won’t change the situation with a riot. Even with your so called republic you change very little, it becomes but a swapping of hats.”

“I don’t understand,” Tom curiously answered.

“You take the law from one set of people and give it to another, in the most nothing else changes, not for common folk anyway.” As Logan concluded Chance poked his head around the door, “Tom, could you give me a hand bring up a new barrel,”

“Sure thing,”

A short time after closing down the bar Chance came into Logan’s room via a connection door from his own. They had designed having separate rooms as not to draw attention to their relationship, while Tom had his room some distance behind the bar and along a corridor leading towards the rear of the building.

“I’ve done the drawer,” Chance said as he advanced to the window, looking out over the many camp fires across the lead. “The rain has stopped.”

“There is more on the way I should think,”

“I wouldn’t like to be in a tent on a night like this.” In the distance Chance could see the dark form of their rival business, the Eureka Hotel, “I was talking to Pickles today,” Chance said.

“Who is Pickles?”

“James Bentley from the Eureka, they call him Pickles because he was a pickle maker before building the Eureka.”

“What did he want?”

“To buy us out,”

“I don’t like the man,” Logan admitted.

“Nor I, besides his offer was less than we paid for it and he said it was a good offer.”

“A lot of people around here say he is crooked and he waters down his beer.”

“Everything else as well and he is in the pocket of the establishment, sort of their eyes and ears on the Lead.”

“What was that commotion I heard earlier in the bar?” Logan asked.

“James Scobie, he wanted one last drink for the road but was tanked up to the eyebrows as it was.”

“What happened?”

“No worries, his mate Peter Martin talked him out of it and they both departed with a jolly tune.”

“Are you coming to bed?” Logan gave a cheeky smile.

“One thing first, I’ll check the lockup.”

“Where’s the kid?” Logan asked.

“Out visiting his American mates,”

“On a night like this;” Logan gave a shudder towards the thought but realised Tom was his own keeper.

“Kids don’t feel the cold,” Chance suggested.

“Do you remember when we would mind the sheep during lambing and have to cuddle under some old hessian woolsacks while the rain ran down our backs?” Logan gave a broad smile.

“With only our desires to keep us warm but I do have fond memories. As for Tom I think he’s found himself a filly.”

“If she’s from the camp she will be as rough as guts,” Logan admitted.

“No he has been hanging around Gladys Tomas from the store along from the Eureka, the girl with plats and freckles.”

“She’s a little young for Tom isn’t she?” Logan asked.

“Looks so but she is actually a year older than Tom,” Chance laughed, “getting his end in you reckon?”

Logan ignored the question, “what do you think of all this republican talk the kid is picking up?”

“Could end in grief, he is somewhat impressionable, maybe we should talk to him.”

“Has Tom got his own key,” Logan asked.

“I gave him one before he went out.”

“He is probably with that Ferguson fellow learning about the American revolution.”

“I don’t think so; Ferguson was in the bar with that black American after Tom went out,” Chance recollected.

“He is said to be a runaway slave from a tobacco plantation in Virginia and his parents were taken in chains from some country in Africa, the Kingdom of Kangaba, or something like that,” Logan offered up the full extent of his knowledge about the black man.

“So he said and Ferguson believes there is likely to be a civil war in America over slavery.” Chance acknowledged.

“Strange that,” Logan said.

“What is strange?”

“How we can serve a black American alcohol but not an aborigine.”

“At least the natives aren’t enslaved,” Chance suggested.

“Maybe not in body but in spirit they are.”

“How do you mean?”

“We treat them as they aren’t there, we come along rip the gold out of the ground, pollute the water and don’t even say move over.”

“At least we don’t say move out,” Chance argued.

“We do you know, many are shifted to other parts and placed on other native land.”

“Land is land I guess, look at us lot we’ve accustomed to another country.”

“When was the last time you pay homage to a tree spirit, a rocky outcrop or waterhole?”

“I don’t to any of that, what’s your point?”

“If you shift them from their land they lose contact with the spirits and ancestors; many pine and die.”

“I never thought of that,” Chance admitted.

Logan realised his developing rhetoric and changed subject, “anyway enough of that, I’ve found a place for you to have a go at panning but first we will need to renew our licences.”

“Where would that be?” Chance became quite animated.

“Not far from Scobie’s claim, a Chow had it but gave it up to grow cabbages and launder clothes,” a laugh, “said there is more money in washing than digging and easier work.” As Logan spoke they heard the front door.

“Tom’s back – I would think the claim is more than likely worked out, the Chinese don’t miss much,” Chance appeared a little pessimistic towards the claim.

“I am led to believe it was more from the grief he was receiving from the other miners that moved him on,” Logan assured.

“I’m looking forward in having a go. What about you?”

“Sorta’ gone off the boil, I’ve seen too many fail and leave with bent backs and empty pockets.”

“But still some interest?” Chance simply said as his expectation commenced to rise.

“Yes still and I suppose there remains a little excitement left in me but first you try your luck.”

The following morning after renewing their licences Chance hurried towards his new claim with much eagerness. On his way he purchased his needs from the general store close by the Eureka Hotel. On doing so he met Bentley supervising a work party who were building an extension to the hotel, he somewhat irritated with the work performed.

“Are you ready to sell yet Mr. Wilcox?” Bentley paused his belittling of his workers and called as Chance passed by.

“Not at all Mr. Bentley, to be truthful Logan and I were only saying last night that we could give you an offer on the Eureka.”

“Huh, Bentley dismissively grunted.”

“Must be on my way,”

“Are you taking up digging Mr. Wilcox?”

“It is but a hobby Mr. Bentley.”

“I was under the impression the Golden Shovel was your hobby.”

“Like making pickles Mr. Bentley,” Chance sarcastically answered, to which Bentley once again turned to his workmen and gave them a serving of bad language.

As chance walked to his new claim a thought came to him, did he actually know what he was doing or how to pan in the creek that ran past his claim, “well,” he softly mumbled, “I’ll have a play around but next time I’ll bring Tom along, he appears to know what to do.”

Standing beside the clouded water of the creek, Chance paused as in a dream. He gave a gentle laugh and shook his head, ‘what am I doing here?’ he thought as he looked about.

“Have you a problem Chance?”

Chance turned towards the caller whose form silhouetted against the mid morning sun. Shading his eyes he spoke, “Mr. Lalor,”

“Peter for sure, I hear you have taken over Chang’s claim,” The man said in his rich Irish brogue

“I have but now realise I’m no digger.”

“Most are not when they first arrive but you soon get the hang of it, especially if you see a little colour.”

Lalor came to Chance and took his pan, dipping it into the water he collected a measure of gravel from the bottom, “watch now and I will show you.” Lalor gently tipped the pan and slowly allowed the flow to wash away the lighter gravel and dirt. “There you go,” he pointed to the slightest speck of yellow.

“You do make it look easy,” Chance admitted.

“There isn’t much in the creeks within the Lead now and you have to dig for the veins in the stratum of rock.” Lalor nodded to his shaft close by, “are you fairdinkum about mining?”

“A little fun I guess, when we left home I foolishly expected to walk the land and kick up great nuggets.”

“That you could a matter of four years previously but with over a hundred thousand between here and Bendigo greedily searching every handful of dirt, it’s mostly found below and sometimes quite deep.” Lalor paused, “that young fellow always hanging around with Jimmy Scobie; is he your brother?”

Chance explained Tom’s situation while leaving out that relating to his father’s treatment.

“Good kid, a little cheeky but that they all are these days, although he should be more careful who he kicks around with,” Lalor warned.

“Why so?”

“Those American’s; I agree in principle with their complaint but believe they are heading for an unwinnable clash with the authorities.”

“Yes Tom has been getting a little excited about it all, do you really think it will come to anything?” Chance asked.

Lalor passed back Chance’s pan, “you have a go.”

Chance clumsy followed Lalor’s lead; but failure. Chance tried once more with success but no colour.

“That’s the way you’ve got it. I have to get cracking, this hole won’t dig itself. If you like come down the pit sometime, I’ll show you how to deep mine.”

The news of a meeting on Bakery Hill arrived at the hotel bar shortly after midday when a miner stuck his head in the main door and shouted, “Meeting at Bakery Hill, everybody is to attend.” The bar emptied within a minute, some so excited they failed to finish their drinks.

“These meetings have become somewhat regular,” Chance noted.

“And more boisterous, where is Tom?”

“More than likely with his mate Scobie, we will hear about it later I should think,” Chance said.

“I hear he has sworn alliance to the miner’s league but I don’t think he even understands what he’s swearing to.

“It is his life, we can only give a measure of guidance from there he will have to make his own decisions,” Chance softly answered.

Logan ignored his friend’s undertone of disappointment, “how did you go on the claim this morning?”

“Clueless I must admit but Peter gave me a few pointers.”

“Who is Peter?”

“Peter Lalor, he has the claim next to Tom’s friends Scobie.”

“I don’t think I know him.”

“He’s Irish or at least by his accent and came out here as a free man.”

Logan gazed into the distance as he often did while thinking. “A free man,” he quietly responded.

“What are you thinking?” Chance asked.

“Life in general, I was remembering the stories told by Uncle Edward. The hardships and squalor they endured on the ship and that was but a generation previous. Now even the convict ships have stopped and if you could go back and speak with those who arrived in the nineties and talk of steam ships, steam trains and the likes they would name you mad.”

“You haven’t seen a steam train,” Chance corrected.

“True but I know they exist and the line to Geelong has been planned.”

“Planned maybe but yet not even a single sleeper has been placed to the ground.” Chance disconcerted towards the coming of progress as he was one for the old ways, to walk slowly and contemplate.

“Will be built and running within a year they say,” Logan took a deep breath and with a warm smile continued; “this isn’t getting the work done, I’ll go check that last brew you made.”

“I think it maybe the last made on premises,” Chance offered.

“Why so?”

“It is as cheap to buy from the brewery,”

“I thought you liked brewing?”

“Not really, besides it’s a dirty job and time consuming.”

“You’re the expert,” Logan admitted.

There was a good crowd for a midweek night. In general the Golden Shovel was an orderly establishment without the rougher element that frequented the Eureka. Even so on the occasion a little muscle was necessary to regain equilibrium and the boys had leaned from Stubbs it was sapient to keep a number of strong arms on side with a little free grog.

Chance was behind the bar keeping a close eye on the new barmaid they had hired as she was inclined to talk too much with the patrons and believed to be pocketing a coin or two on the occasion. Logan was making his way from the cellar, while Tom was helping Rose with the tables. It was then all bedlam broke out.

On seeing Tom a burley man lifted from his drinking with his mates and pointed towards Tom. “That’s my kid!” he shouted and advanced towards the bar. Tom froze appearing to withdraw from reality. The man grabbed the lad at the shoulders and shook him. “I’m George Burns and this is my kid Tommy Burns,” he loudly protested.

“No da’ not any more,” Tom all but whispered as the man violently shook him.

“It’s me kid I’m telling you,” the man continued shaking the lad.

“No more da’ no more – please,”

Quickly both Chance and Logan came to the lad’s rescue and with their retainers took the man by the arms and escorted him out. He was a big man and tanked enough with grog not to be a physical problem but kept up his verbal abuse and demands on Tom.

“He’s my kid I have the right,” The man shouted as his drinking friends followed but restrained from offering assistance.

“No longer Mr. Burns, he is free from your filth now,” Chance growled and at the door the man was tossed through into the dust beyond. He staggered to his feet as his mates came to him. One of his drinking mates quietly spoke, “George, give it a miss, we can’t bring attention or the wallopers will be on us,”

“He’s my kid,” George again complained loudly.

“Not it we get the rope, you know there is bounty on our heads.” Once spoken the man calmed and with his mates moved away as two police offices came by to investigate the commotion.

Tom remained shaking as Chance took him away from the bar to the privacy of the back room, “are you alright Tom?” he asked as he held him firm from behind, his arms wrapped to comfort the trembling lad.

“What if he returns,” Tom croaked.

“Nothing, you are your own man now he can’t force you to do anything, besides you have Logan and me to protect you.” Chance promised as Logan entered the room, silently he sat close by allowing Chance to calm Tom.

Eventually the lad settled.

“I don’t want to go back to all that.”

“And you won’t,” Logan assured.

“What if I see him around the camp?” Tom asked.

“Then simply walk away, speak to your mate Scobie, or even Peter Lalor, they will soon send him on his way,” Chance suggested.

“Besides I heard his mate say if they were discovered it would be the rope, so I doubt he will linger now he has been noticed,” Logan related as the lad quietly sat with his head lowered.

There were no tears only an air of loathing as Tom took deeper breaths. Eventually his breathing became normal and he forced a half smile. “I hate him,” Tom announced with force.

“Don’t hate him Tom, it will eat you away,” Chance warned.

“I do; I hate him yet,”

“Yet what Tom?” Chance quietly asked while keeping a gentle hand to the lad’s shoulder.

“Yet I should love him but I can’t: I can’t.”

“Love him for the life he gave you, for your future and what that brings. The past is just that and can’t be revisited,” Chance promoted.

“I suppose you are right,” the lad then looked to Logan for further support.

“Yes Tom, the past is gone and you have a bright future to look towards. As Chance suggested, you look to that.” Even so Tom wasn’t truly convinced he had heard the last of his father.

Late in the evening with the bar closed and Tom in his bed neglecting his usual rounds of the diggings, Logan was found staring through the grime of his bedroom window. It was a clam night and the camp fires across the Lead were like a sky of stars. The last of the Eureka Hotel drinkers passed by his window their laughter loud but soon gone into the night.

One final volley of gaiety then silence:

Logan released a long and noisy breath as Chance approached.

“What are you thinking?”

“I was thinking about the kid,”

“He will be fine,” Chance assured.

“No I wasn’t thinking about his future but his past. It mush have been a nightmare for Tom.”

“Do you think his father is – you know?” As usual Chance stumbled on the word for sodomite.

“What a shirt lifter?” Logan abruptly answered realising Chance’s caution.

“You know what I mean,”

“Don’t rightly know, opportunistic maybe, men will often go against character when there aren’t any women around as long as they are in dominance.”

“Opportunistic you say?”

“Uncle Edward said it was common during his transportation and even said his father admitted so when he was in the army fighting against the French, it was the regiment’s drummer boy who became their release. As for Tom’s father, I think he is simply rotten to the heart and I wouldn’t waste words attempting to understand his character,” Logan explained.

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