Published: 18 Feb 2021
Chance was taking a break while thumbing through the Melbourne Argus looking for an advertisement he had placed in an attempt to promote their establishment, possibly towards a more upmarket cliental. He found the page and read the entry aloud.
“That sounds fine,” Logan admitted without showing much interest.
“Maybe,” Chance frowned and turned from the page.
“What is wrong with it?”
“The name, I’ve never liked Golden Shovel.”
“So change it but be cautious you may drive away our regulars, you know they get protective of where they drink.”
“I only meant for those wanting rooms not the bar.”
“You know the trade; I’ll leave it to you but how can you call the bar one name and accommodation by another.”
“I guess not, it would become confusing.”
“Problem solved,”
“Umm,” Chance turned another page to the court listings, “I’ll be buggered,” he offered with a satisfying grin.
“You maybe at that,” Logan took the word literally with a laugh.
“I was referring to what’s in the court listings;
“Go on,” Logan became interested.
“It refers to Tom’s father; George Burns has been found guilty of grand larceny, also wounding with intent and is to be hanged,” Chance released a slight ironic cackle.
“It’s not like you to find pleasure in another’s misfortune.”
“Where is Tom, I should let him know.”
“Cleaning the bar; then off to see his mates.”
“Then again, maybe I shouldn’t say anything.”
“He has the right to know. Besides it will one way or another release him from disquiet. I’ll go and get him.”
Moments later Logan returned with the lad, “Tom, Chance has some news that concerns you.”
The lad cocked his head to once side believing it would be about the miner’s league, or the authorities had taken notice of the digger’s complaint and were to lower the cost of a miner’s right.
“It is about your father,” Chance said and was about to offer the lad the paper to read but remembered the lad’s limited reading skill.
“I don’t have a father,” Tom forcefully declared.
Chance continued. “It appears your father has been convicted of larceny and is to be hanged.” Chance attempted to soften his words but no matter how it is conveyed, bad news is just that and can not be lightened.
“Oh,” Tom simply said.
“Does that distress you Tom?” Chance asked.
“No, it is a man called George Burns who is to be hanged and not my father. I have no father,” Tom repeated his denial.
“Even so there must be some empathy between you and your father,”
“None except relief,”
“If you wish we could take you down to Melbourne and see him?”
“No, as I said I have no father.”
“Would you like to talk about it?” Chance softly asked realising he had exhausted his full measure of empathy on the matter.
“I’ve finished the bar, is there anything else to do?”
“Not for now,”
“I’m going over to see Scobie he is going to show me where I can find some gold.”
“Off you go but you will need to see Charles Kemp about delivering fodder for the last of the sheep while you are about,” Logan suggested.
“Will do, see you later.” Tom then departed without the slightest notion of distress but Chance had one last word on the matter, “you will say if you need to talk about it.”
“I’m alright, honest. I’ll be off then.” Without further Tom departed.
“What do you think of that?” Chance asked Logan once the lad had departed.
“I think he appeared more relieved rather than distressed. I’m sure he will be fine, so don’t try and mother him, besides Scobie will soon put him straight if needed and it is always useful to speak with someone unrelated on a matter of concern.”
“Me?” Chance discredited with a smile.
“Yes you, how about finishing up for the morning, Rose can handle the bar and as we are alone for once, I have something to show you up in my room.” Logan gave a nod towards the door.
“What would that be Mr. McGregor?”
“You’ll see, come with me.” Logan took control of Chance’s trouser belt and led him away.
Tom returned early evening with much excitement, almost too much to eat his meal. When asked why, he announced they had designed a flag and hoisted it at the meeting, where everyone swore alliance to it.
“How many there?” Logan asked.
“Some say eight thousand, even as many as ten thousand.”
“What about police?”
“None but the military was close by and armed with muskets, they even had a small field gun.”
“Did you see anyone we may know?” Logan asked.
“Lots, all our regulars including Scobie as well as Charles Ferguson, he took the oath as did black Joseph, John Manning, Tim Hayes and many more,” Tom’s excitement was holding.
“What about you Tom?” Logan asked.
“Would ‘ave done so but Tim Hayes reckons I’m too young to take an oath but I silently took it anyway.”
“Eat your meal it’s getting cold,” Chance instructed.
The lad took a mouthful and continued; “there is going to be a petition to the governor about the cost of the miner’s right and how the wallopers treat the diggers.”
“Was Bentley there?” Logan asked from gossip that Bentley and his Eureka hotel were well sided with the military.
“He was but stood away with the soldiers too afraid to come any closer. Tim Hayes shouted at him and called him a dog but Bentley moved further back behind the line of troopers.”
“What did the flag look like?” Logan continued.
“The southern cross stars on a blue background. They say that a Canuck Henry Ross designed it, while Anne Duke and Tim Hayes’ wife Elizabeth stitched it out of their undergarments and were up most of the night doing so.”
Logan became serious, “for me it appears there is deep trouble ahead, don’t you think you should stand back for a while Tom?”
“Noway, next time I’m gonna’ take the oath no matter what they say.”
“I guess you are your own boss now kid but at least be careful, there is much talk of rebellion and the military don’t take lightly to resurrection.” Logan concluded.
During the following days there was quiet around the Lead while a petition was penned. Tom had been visiting his friends but returned to help in the bar as after one more rowdy meeting the regulars arrived with a thirst. Both Logan and chance were having a problem with a keg when Tom approached from talking with a group and obviously itching to share a story.
“What’s gotya’ going lad?” Logan asked as they finished with the barrel.
“Did you see that young fella’ talking with Peter Martin?”
“In passing I did,” Chance answered.
As Chance spoke Logan cut in, “I’m afraid this barrel is rooted and the grog’s off.”
“Never mind get another, I’ll talk with the brewery tomorrow. What about the young feller talking to your mate Peter?” Chance asked.
“You should change brewers,” Logan cut in on Chance.
“The problem is with the barrel not the brewer.”
“You should go back to brewing your own,” Logan suggested.
“Maybe; what about the feller Tom?”
“In my opinion he looks too young to be in a bar drinking,” Logan said before Tom could answer as he manhandled the bad barrel aside.
“He is nineteen,” Tom admitted.
“He looks much younger,” Chance sustained.
“No Barbara is nineteen,” Tom offered with a grin.
“Barbara?” Chance questioned.
“Barbara or Bob,” Tom continued.
Both Chance and Logan paused from their work displaying a measure of confusion while waiting for clarification.
“Barbara believes she is a boy imprisoned in a girl’s body.” It wasn’t clear if Tom was feeding from the peculiarity of his telling, or in sympathy with his newly found friend.
“That’s a new one,” Logan doubtingly answered.
“No truly Barbara is a boy in all but body.”
“I thought it was the body that makes the gender,” Logan suggested.
“So Barbara, or Bob, beds down with girls?” Chance asked.
“No she beds with boys, as Bob thinks he is a tosser.”
“Tosser, where did you get that word?” Chance asked.
“That is what Peter calls men who toss off other men,” Tom appeared to be enjoying Chance’s confusion on the matter of transgender.
“So Bob is a boy trapped in Barbra’s body who believes he is a tosser and likes men?”
“That’s about the strength of it all,” Tom answered with a degree of bluster.
“In my calculation that is a long way around to end up where she, no he, started from.” Chance gave a disbelieving chortle while passing a glance across the small crowd to where Tom’s new friend sat drinking with Peter Martin.
“What does Peter think of it all?” Logan asked.
“He thinks it funny.”
“You should have a word with your friend Bob and warn him away from sharing his quandary so freely.” Logan’s caution came from his understanding of men who are confronted with abnormality, especially anything that may disadvantage their masculinity.
“He will be gone by morning, has a room at the Eureka and will be on the Melbourne coach,” Tom explained.
“No wonder he isn’t drinking at the Eureka, the lot there would lynch him.”
Logan thought of his own relationship with Chance and tried to understand Bob’s physical and mental state. He gave a shudder of disbelief, more so of disapproval coming from his conservative nature as Tom returned to the table with Peter Martin. There was an exchange of words and a negative shaking of Tom’s head as Bob left the conversation. Moments later Tom retuned to the bar and still smiling approached Chance.
“What was that all about?” Chance asked.
“Nothing,”
“It didn’t appear to be so and you were in disagreement about something as Bob departed.”
“I said no to a suggestion Bob made,” Tom’s voice lowered as he feigned disinterest in Chance’s question.
“Ah Bob offered you more than you could cope with,” Chance gave a grin, “would you?”
Tom turned away from the conversation without answering, as Chance gave Logan a jab to the ribs.
“Don’t bring me into this,” Logan shook his head and walked away. Chance called Tom back, “hey come here.”
“What?”
“You didn’t answer my question – would you?” Chance was teasing the lad.
“No it would be; well I don’t know, I guess it would be strange and I wouldn’t know what position to take.”
“Where’s you sense of adventure?”
Tom gave a dismissive chortle and returned to Peter Martin while Chance continued with his humour.
“You were teasing the poor lad,” Logan said.
“Only a little, what would you do if Barbara, no Bob offered it up to you?” Chance asked.
“Run,”
Late in the afternoon of Friday 6th October, Tom went to visit his friend Scobie who he found drinking with his mate Peter Martin. Scobie was celebrating, only that morning he found an amount of gold and had taken it to the Eureka Hotel to exchange with the gold buyer. While doing so James Bentley stood jealousy over the proceedings as he held a firm dislike for Scobie and had no wish to see him succeed.
On entering the camp Scobie called Tom over and held out his hand.
“What’s this?” the lad asked.
“It’s only small, give it to your mate Chance, he’s had no luck on that claim of his.”
“Gee thanks,” Tom pocketed the small nugget.
“Don’t you go keeping it lad, I will be talking to Chance later.”
“No sir, I wouldn’t.”
“Run along now, Peter and I have some serious drinking to attend to.”
As soon as Tom arrived home he surrendered the nugget up to Chance, also that Scobie wished to have word with him on some matter.
“I will more than likely see him here this evening, being Friday it is his usual night.” Chance suggested and scrutinised the nugget. It was small but heavy and tantalising, giving Chance the urge to return to his diggings. “What do you think it is worth?”
“Scobie said it was worth at least ten shillings.”
“As much as that?”
“That’s what Scobie reckons.”
“Did he find much?” Chance asked.
“He didn’t say but sold it on at Bentley’s.”
Saturday morning was slow about the diggings; it had been raining during the night, light drizzle but enough to turn the ground to slush, so most sat about their tents waiting for the October sun to dry away the damp. It was time for quiet reflection on what may lay but one more shovel of dirt away, one pan dip in the creek, or on past joy and disappointment and time to wring out wet clothing and hang them hopefully to dry in the light morning breeze.
It was no different for Scobie and Martin who being friendly with Peter Lalor and neighbours had invited the Irishman for a drink.
“So Peter what are you intentions?” Scobie asked from a quiet moment after all else had been considered.
“In what way would that be James?” Lalor answered and finishing his drink passed over a refill, “not for me, I have to clear last night’s rain out of the pit and excess drinking doesn’t go well with deep holes, especially those filled with water.”
“What will you do once the claim has run out?” Scobie clarified his question.
“It almost has now but I’ll give it a few more months, there is a small run of colour but most likely but a few ounces.”
“Then what?” Scobie asked.
“Probably stand for a seat in government down in Spring Street.” Lalor gave an ironic chortle as he wasn’t much into politics of any nature. “I haven’t seen George around of late?” Lalor asked Scobie as the brothers had set up the claim together but it appeared to be his mate Peter Martin who mostly helped working the claim.
“He is away in Geelong setting up a transportation business,” Scobie answered.
“So Peter you a politician;” Martin showed a measure of muse with his words. Yet he could envisage Lalor as such, with he methodical thinking and balanced opinions on most matters.
“More than likely turn back to engineering, I did work on the bridges between Melbourne and Geelong for a while.”
“Your old man was a friend to the Duke of Wellington I hear and you an Irishman?” Scobie recollected, while himself a Scot contained equal disdain for the English as most Irish held.
“He was and the Duke wished me to take an army posting but fighting England’s battles wasn’t my idea of a healthy future,” Lalor quietly huffed the suggestion away.
“And what of your brother?” there was a sting in Scobie’s question as he had heard the older Lalor was a hero of an Irish uprising.
Lalor didn’t supply an answer.
“You haven’t taken the pledge towards the miner’s league Peter.” Scobie continued.
“I believe in other methods James, your way will turn to violence and that is a certainty.” Lalor stood and patted down his trousers, “I’ll be leaving you to your drinking, as I said work to do and I’m not in the mood for grog.”
“Don’t forget tomorrow’s meeting,” Scobie reminded.
“I’ll give it a miss but don’t you go overdoing it like last time, or you will have the wallopers onto ya’.”
“Be gone you Irish -,” Scobie left his insult unquantified and laughed.
“See you both later,”
Lalor then left their camp.
“A fine fella’ is he,” Scobie admitted as the two returned to their drinking.
A short while after Lalor departed Tom arrived and without invitation sat with them. It was obvious both Scobie and Martin were already four sheets to the wind and conversation was somewhat contrived. Peter Martin was usually amiable when influenced but Scobie could be a little abrupt and suggested Tom run along home and bring back a bottle of the hotel’s finest whiskey. Tom refused, declaring he couldn’t do so to his benefactors.
“What use are you kid,” Scobie growled and waved Tom away.
“Best you go for now Tom, come back in the morning when he has slept it off,” Martin warned.
Somewhat disappointed Tom rose to leave.
“Sorry kid,” Scobie slurred and reached for an empty bottle, “sees’ ya’ in the morning and did you give Chance that nugget.”
“I did Jim and he thanked you for it, he said he’d talk with you tonight.”
“Then be gone and let men drink in private.”
Tom departed feeling somewhat dejected but understood men’s moods while drinking, as his own father had been constant proof of such behaviour.
Sometime later and realising they were out of booze, Scobie suggested they go to the Golden Spade and get more. He stood to leave but was pulled back to the ground by Martin, “they are closed,” Martin said, “besides you can’t turn up after sending the kid away.”
“I’m in the mood for drinking.”
“Have a sleep mate,”
“Come on we’ll go to the Eureka,” Scobie was most determined to obtain more grog, “fucken’ Bentley will take our money at any hour.”
“It will also be closed.”
“Fuck you, I’m going anyway,” Scobie commenced to leave with Martin close behind lest his friend got himself into bother as there were a number of deep holes between their camp and the hotel, also in Scobie’s mood he was likely to become abusive with little provocation.
As Martin had suggested they found the Eureka closed but could clearly see the barman William Duncan at work through the side window and two others drinking at the bar. Scobie hammered on the glass and called, “Fucken’ open up you wowser,” he shouted and hammered with more force.
Duncan waved Scobie away as Thomas Mooney, the nightwatchman, who was talking with his mate Farrell crossed the floor to the window.
“Fuck off and come back when we are open you drunken sod,” Mooney shouted through the closed window. Scobie immediately took umbrage to the insult and smashed the window, showering Mooney with shards of glass. Mooney’s blood boiled and he threw a punch through the now glassless opening, catching Scobie on the jaw and sending him to the ground. As Scobie fell Bentley arrived on the scene demanding to know what the commotion was about.
Peter Martin lifted his friend from the ground and encouraged him to leave, somewhat dazed Scobie staggered away in the direction of their camp.
“What’s going on here Bentley demanded and noticed the broken window.”
“Scobie, the bugger is drunk and tried to break in,” Farrell called from the bar where he had been sharing an after hours drink.
“He did ay’,” Bentley became quite red faced as his temperament turned to retribution.
“Thomas got him a fair wack on the jaw for his troubles,” Duncan admitted.
“A wack on the jaw, a wack on the skull would be more suiting,” Bentley growled while watching through the broken window as Scobie staggered away being held upright by his mate Martin. Scobie stumbled and turned towards the hotel then after releasing a volley of incoherent language he continued on his way.
Why Bentley disliked Scobie was indefinable. Possibly it was the man’s carefree character, or his likable larrikin attitude being a little outside the law but never enough to encourage arrest but now Bentley’s dislike was rising through disdain and bordering on raging revenge.
As he watch Scobie stagger and fall Bentley was joined by his wife Catherine who came from working in a back room, being interrupted by the sound of breaking glass.
“What going on?” She asked while sidling up to Bentley.
“Scobie, he tried to break in,” Duncan answered as the group stepped out of the establishment, all eyes on Scobie who had advanced but a hundred yards.
“Get the bugger Jim,” Catherine gave Bentley a prod in the ribs, as she was still smarting from an insult received from Scobie on a previous day. Bentley hated being poked which added to his need for revenge. Borrowing a shovel from the adjacent tent he and his group followed in the footsteps of Scobie and Martin.
By now the morning’s alcohol was well in control of Scobie and it was doubtful if he even realised where he was, regardless that he had damaged the Eureka window. His jaw hurt but he couldn’t remember why, believing it was from a fall as he departed the hotel.
Bentley’s band quickly closed in with intent.
“Get him Jim,” Catherine shrieked as they came within striking distance and Martin was struck in the head with a fist, sending him to the ground. Somewhat dazed Martin saw the shovel, believing it to be some kind of axe, he saw it lifted and the blow that struck Scobie but could not be certain who wheeled the shovel as it had been passed from one hand to another while approaching. He believed it was Bentley himself but the incident occurred quickly and as he was still somewhat intoxicated and stunned by the blow to the head he could not be positive.
The attack soon brought Martin to sober and as the group departed the scene he came to Scobie’s side. The man was dead. Martin shouted after the attackers but they disregarded his distress and returned to the Eureka. Martin’s call brought Peter Lalor from his tent in time to see Bentley return the shovel to its owner.
Quickly Dr. Carr was called for and on arrival he pronounced Scobie dead, instructing the body be removed to the Eureka hotel for further examination, which took of all of two minutes before Carr filled out Scobie’s death certificate as death by miss adventure by person or persons unknown. Martin and Lalor, although demanding to oversee Carr’s examination, were quickly banned from the establishment, adding just one more complaint towards Bentley and government authority. The news of Scobie’s demise soon spread around the camp and although Scobie wasn’t well known or liked he was one of them, a fellow digger and that being more than enough to raise the hackles.
By the following morning the incident with Bentley to blame blazed across the Eureka Lead and further. There was now a loud shout for justice and all was directed towards James Bentley and his mates at the Eureka Hotel.
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