Published: 11 Mar 2021
It was a pleasant Sunday afternoon and with their work completed the boys decided to take a walk into town, possibly stop at a coffee house before returning home to prepare for the following morning’s opening. The walk into town was most contrasting, starting with a muddy city of tents and roughly erected timber structures, giving way to workers cottages with their small cottage gardens then town houses of some quality, leading into the well to do end of town with its estates of grand brick and stone houses, well kept gardens and high fences to keep out those bent towards crime.
Within these properties there was much contrast and lacking in subtlety as they were mostly occupied by those who had success and arrived early to the goldfields, or those who made their fortune in selling goods at inflated prices.
In most they were simple men who had come by money and in doing so found it necessary to display their new wealth in the most garish ways conceivable. People who came from rags to riches, who now looked down disrespectfully on the ranks they came from, it being possible the poor reminded them too much of their past situations and how fragile wealth can be.
Within less than a goodly stroll it was into the commercial district with its magnificent bluestone and brick edifices, with shopping arcades, equal to any one would find in Melbourne or Sydney. Also many fine hotels that made the Golden Shovel appear nothing but a hovel. A clean and comfortable hovel true but here there were brass beds, polished marble bars and fine tablecloths adorning imported tables in English oak and mahogany.
Here gentlemen consumed their drinks, their cigar smoke thick while in quiet conversation on the value of stocks and shares exchanged during week days at the Ballarat gold and stock exchange. Debating over the price of land, beef or mutton, or the progress of the war with Russia and how long the peace with France would hold, now that Britain had aligned with her old enemy for the fight in the Crimea.
Before passing through the tent city the boys came across a group of native youths wearing nothing but generous smiles, one did wear a shirt of sorts, open at the front and hanging freely over his skinny black arse, while displaying wire like pubic curls above a long thin appendage. His member, more towards purple than black, was so extended it swayed from side to side as he walked and if nothing it did draw Chances attention.
As for being naked, although it was trend with the natives to be so, they did use it somewhat to aggravate their white overlords and amused greatly when society women fanned their embarrassed faces to almost faint at such scandalous behaviour, while secretly taking a quick peek.
“That is what I call big,” Chance whispered as the group came close.
“Settle fella’,” Logan quietly laughed.
With the native lads was a tick infested dog, its emaciated ribs suggesting near starvation and on noticing the boys it ran ahead and sniffed at Logan’s crotch.
“Get out ya’ mongrel,” Logan softly growled, sending the animal back to the native lads, its tail firmly planted between its legs, once there and safely behind it bravely displayed its teeth.
The youth wearing the shirt approached and thrust his hand aggressively towards Logan.
“Gold,” he said displaying a small number of nuggets all no larger than a finger nail but pure in appearance.
Logan, remembering some words he had learnt from the natives back home attempted to communicate. The lad with the gold raised an eyebrow, gave a dispraising glance and spoke in rapid-fire to his mates. They all laughed.
The lad with the gold then spoke to Logan in language, his expression gave belief they were not of complementary nature.
“Logan it would be like you attempting French to a Dutchman, seeing you know little to nothing of either language,” Chance suggested.
“Oh I didn’t think of that, I was thinking all natives spoke the same language.” Logan shook his head and attempted to communicate in broken English, having as much success as his attempt at language.
“You buy gold – grog,” The native lad almost shoved his hand in Logan’s face.
Logan gently moved the hand away, “no gold; no grog,” Logan answered.
The native lad stamped his foot and again spoke loudly in language to his mates. Again they laughed.
Logan simply smiled and moved away while the group complained bitterly.
“When do you think we will teach them to at least put on a pair of trousers?” Logan complained.
“You must admit it was worth a look.”
“You are a right randy bugger Chance,” Logan growled while attempting to be dissuasive.
“I saw you looking.” Chance continued.
“I was, wasn’t I? Well except for the colour -,” Logan paused his sentence.
“Except for the colour – what?”
“Never mind,”
“You aren’t usually against their colour,” Chance said.
“I’m not but liking white over black in bed isn’t discrimination no more than preferring blonds over redheads. It is a preference not discrimination.”
“I must admit I do like red hair,” Chance admitted.
“I’ll have to run some henna through mine for you.”
“Don’t you dare; how come the miners allow the blacks to pick up gold?” Chance asked.
“I suppose it is really their land and once hunting country. Besides its easy pickings for the miners, they only give them a pittance and don’t have to work for it.”
“Possibly I could round up a dozen or so and get them to fossick for me.” Chance suggested.
“You’d be lucky getting them to do anything; work isn’t part of the native vocabulary.”
“Why not?”
“Thousands of years spent picking up your tucker from the ground or spearing it doesn’t evaluate the need to work. Possibly weave a few dillybags, hone a spear or throwing stick but they consider that more religious than working.”
“I should think they would if starving was the alternative.” Chance suggested.
“Wouldn’t happen, we can’t see it but the country is a larder to them, hunters and gatherers that is what I read in one of Uncle Edwards books.”
“I liked Edward,” Chance offered memory with a remorseful sigh towards the man’s passing.
“He was a fine fellow and well missed,”
“Did he know about us?”
“In the end he did, he asked me and I sort of admitted so.”
“I don’t remember his James,”
“I do but just, he died when I was only a boy but I do remember you meeting him on the occasion.”
“Yes but he is now only a name in my mind and an idea of someone who was kind and laughed a lot. If I close my eyes I can recollect an outline of James standing by the riverbank when you and I were swimming, I can hear his words but can’t picture what he looked like. He has become but an outline with a voice standing close by on the river bank.”
“You native born kids swim like fish,” Logan gave a happy huff of memory.
“Yes I do remember him saying that.”
“I should think as he grew up in England arriving in the colonies later in life after Edward was emancipated and with England’s weather, there wasn’t much swimming done back home,” Logan surmised.
“I guess not but I did see him swimming on the occasion a sorta’ clumsy dogpaddle,” Chance admitted.
“He never managed the crawl,” Logan recollected.
“Crawl?”
“It is what some call the swimming stroke we designed here in the colonies; you know left arm, right arm and bilateral breathing.”
“Fancy words where have they come from?”
“Again Uncle Edward but dad came up with the bilateral, or he takes the credit as he read it somewhere.”
“I simply call it swimming rather than dogpaddling, even so I have seen the natives swimming like you suggested, possibly we stole the stroke from them.” Chance commented.
“James and Edward had a wonderful love affair that started when they were boys in England and lasted through Edward’s trial, his transportation and into Edward’s freedom when they were once again reunited. It broke Edward’s heart when James died.”
A cart at haste passed and without concern for their safety forced the boys from the road, Logan shouted obscenities after it but they fell mute to the driver.
“That was Jock Miller, one of Bentley’s cronies,” Chance recognised as the cart hurried towards town,
“He’s as belligerent as Bentley as well,” Logan grumbled.
Chance ignored the passing of the cart, “I was thinking of Edward and James.”
“What were you thinking?”
“Do you believe we will last as long?” Chance asked but didn’t feel brave enough to quantify his question in full.
“Do you mean as long as Edward and James’ relationship? Are you feeling insecure?”
“No, more to point you could find someone better.”
“Better! You’re the best Chance and don’t you forget it.” Logan reached across the short distance between them and gave Chance a manly hug, “that’s as much as your gunna’ get in public.”
“Tis’ that I sometimes wonder as you don’t say a lot.”
“Actions speak louder than words, besides where else would I find someone as cuddly as you.” Logan released the hug and laughed, then as quickly his expression changed to serious, “don’t put yourself down Chance; you are the one with the good looks, with charisma and staying. I’m along for the ride and what a wonderful ride it is.”
“Charisma?” Chance questioned.
“Yes charisma, another of dad’s many words.”
“He did have many, I remember one such word he would use; it was tribulation. I liked the way it rolled of the tongue.” Chance smiled broadly and continued while attempting the modulation of Logan’s father’s voice, “tis’ but tribulation lad, sent to make you strong so bend with it like bulrushes in the wind and enjoy the pain.”
“Yes tribulation I also got it when my horse kicked me and put me to the ground,” Logan laughed, “bloody tribulation, it had me limping for near on a month.”
Once in town it was surprising how many new building were being constructed and all with the sense of permanency. They were proud and strong displaying all the wealth the goldfields had to offer, with shops offering a person’s every desire and more. Gadgets of every conceivable shape and size that performed work the boys hadn’t even dreamed of. It was the age of invention and it appeared everyone was doing it, England had started the industrial revolution and it was spreading across the world like a virus.
Outside the Ballarat Cash Store and furniture warehouse they paused to admire the latest in kitchen, bedroom and parlour fittings fresh from Europe, from England, from France, Italy and the United States. Chance fell in love with the so called Federation design that was instigated on the east coast of America and wished to fit out their few hotel bedrooms and diner with the like. Logan soon dissuaded the suggestion saying with their rough clientele it would become kindling within days.
A short distance past Barry and sons chaff mill, they came to McDonald’s foundry hotel and coffee rooms. Here they paused. “Coffee?” Logan suggested as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted past the entrance.
“Good idea,”
“It is said their coffee is the freshes in Ballarat and is imported from -,” Logan searched his memory, “Java,” he recollected but was uncertain, even less certain where Java could be found.
“Does that make it better?”
“Dunno’ just what I’ve heard.”
“Where do we get ours from,” Chance asked.
“The store and Morris gets it from the cheap warehouse sales in Melbourne by the twenty pound bag.”
The boys entered and immediately felt underdressed also somewhat displaced as the coffee lounge was populated with mostly women and Ballarat’s finest, quietly sipping, enjoying sandwiches with the crusts removed, fancy cakes loaded with cream and conversation kept to a hush, while fanning away the heat and gossiping behind elaborate silk fans.
“What do you reckon?” Chance nervously questioned.
“We are here now,”
A waiter dressed like an Italian organ grinder approached; “table gentlemen?” He was definitely not Italian, his Cockney voice like gravel and most unfitting for such a fine establishment.
Logan gave a gently nod while the waiter showed them it a table by a large bay window and away from the chatting ladies.
The waiter offered Logan a menu.
“Only coffee please and a couple of those cream cakes,” Logan pointed to a three tier stand of delicacies on an adjoining table.
“They look nice,” Chance admitted as the waiter left with their order.
“It’s good to pamper yourself now and then,” Logan confessed.
“I still feel like a fish out of water in here,” Chance gave a nervous shudder, feeling the eyes of Ballarat’s elite turned in their direction.
The coffee and cakes arrived. The waiter gave a knowing smile and was called away by a large woman with breasts the size of watermelons and a hat one could row as a boat across a river.
“Did you see the look the waiter gave us?” Chance said as he sipped his coffee. “Nice,” he complemented the brew, “you are correct it’s not at all like what we serve at the hotel.”
“Did you see him wink?” Logan admitted and laughed, “I winked back.”
“That’s not like you.”
“Probably the best offer he’s had all week,” Logan tried one of the cream cakes.
“Do you think he’s on to us?”
“I wouldn’t know but he sure went coy when I winked,” Logan was playing Chances cautious character.
“You shouldn’t have,” Chance protested.
“I will say one thing I’ll have to take you out more often as you are becoming somewhat stale with your panning and the hotel. Too much mixing with the rough element of the diggings in my opinion,” Logan suggested.
“And you are the dandy about town,” Chance shook his head at Logan’s implication.
“Me? A dandy? Come on eat your cream cake. I could do with another,” Logan clicked his fingers bringing the water at haste to his beckoning. “We’ll have the same again.”
“Will sir wish a refill as well?”
“Yes coffee and two of those jelly cakes the lady with the big hat is stuffing into her mouth.”
The water appeared shocked with Logan’s forwardness as Chance gave Logan a kick under the table.
“Will that be all sir?” the water asked loosing his Cockney accent but still not grand enough for the establishment. He left with the order.
“Logan that wasn’t nice,”
“We’re out and about so but a little light fun.”
With the coffee over it was decided to go for a drink but the bar at the Foundry hotel was somewhat fancy for their liking. Instead they visited the Vine a little further down the street and felt more comfortable within its rowdy atmosphere.
It was twilight when the boys eventually made their way home and quite merry. Chance in good humour but Logan wasn’t one for drinking in excess and when he did he would become even more serious than when sober.
“I think it about time we went in for fancy tablecloths and cream cakes for the hotel,” Chance suggested in an attempt to lighten their progress.
“I wouldn’t think so, the diggers would lynch us.”
“What about some good china for the dining room, possibly something with a floral motive like at the Foundry?”
Logan was about to respond negatively but observed the cheeky grin Chance was exerting, “Get out ya’ cheeky -,” before Logan could complete his response, the discharge of a gun broke the quiet of the evening.
“What was that?” Logan questioned as he spun around in time to see two diggers travelling at full pelt crossing the tailing beyond the last of the workers cottages. Close behind were a number of police. One officer knelt for better control of his weapon then fired. The discharge rang out and one of the bolters appeared to be hit but continued his flight. As the first of night fell, the miners disappeared into the shadows among the tailings.
The boys quickly sobered as the leading office abruptly called to them. “Hey you two get here!” Holding their ground they waited as the officer approached, his firearm nervously pointed in their direction. “Don’t you know there is a curfew on?”
“No I hadn’t heard,” Logan truthfully answered.
“Whereya’ from?”
“We have the Golden Shovel hotel and are on our return there at this moment.”
“Then be quick about it.” The office lowered his firearm away and returned to join his rank in pursuit of the fleeing miners.
“It’s becoming serious,” Chance suggested as they continued on their way.
“Agreed and if the commissioners aren’t careful they will have a full scale war on their hands before the year is out.”
“You’ve mentioned that before.”
“And I’ll do so again, it will be the Rum Rebellion all over but this time there will be many to bury but the miners can’t win, not in the long run. The miners may outnumber the police and soldiers but the miliary is trained for insurrection and is well equipped.”
“Surely numbers would overpower such a few.”
“Two hundred well armed soldiers aren’t a few besides it would take a great man to organise a rabble of untrained miners even if you could get them to act as a unit.”
“What about Peter Lalor, he seems capable.”
“Not in warfare, besides the 40th were awarded battle honours at Waterloo and fought in India during a rebellion but a few years back.”
“How do you know so?”
“I heard a couple of their rank talking in the hotel the other night. Come on let’s get home before they return.”
On reaching the Golden Shovel the boys encountered a number of miners returning from some clandestine meeting amongst the tailings after hearing there had been an exchange of fire between the military close by Bakery Hill. It was reported one miner was wounded and taken away by the troopers. It was also learned that the Gold Commissioner had sent to Melbourne for reinforcements.
Once inside Tom approached offering correspondence up to Logan he had collected when at the store that afternoon, while visiting his friend Gladys.
“Who is it from?” Chance asked with much interest as for anyone to received correspondence in such a remote setting was rare and on such an occasion, folk would gather around for the smallest scrap of news, especially if arrived from some distant land.
“Hamish,” Logan simply answered and opened the envelope while expecting the worst, as Hamish wasn’t one for placing pen to paper.
“Who is Hamish?” Tom asked.
“Logan’s oldest brother,” Chance answered.
“Where does he live?”
“Across the Blue Mountains,” Chance explained as Logan read his letter.
“Where’s that?”
“Never mind,” Chance turned to Logan, “what does he say?”
“Hang on; his writing is as scratchy as ever.” Logan quietly read on. He gave a smile and continued.
“Well?”
“He is at last married and to be a dad and he has remitted my share from the wool clip through the bank.”
“Is there anything about my lot?”
“Yes about Sam,”
“Come on,” Chance grew impatient.
“He hurt his leg while manoeuvring a barrel to the cellar but is alright now,” Logan folded the letter back to its envelope.
“That’s it?”
“Afraid so, Hamish was never one for words.”
“Can I read it?” Tom requested.
“I thought you couldn’t read,” Logan assumed.
“Gladys has been teaching me, I know some of the letters and their sounds.”
“Alright but put it back when you have finished.”
The lad opened the envelope and commenced but could only manage a number of the words with fewer letters. With his attempt both boys gave him credit.
“So how are you and Gladys getting along?” Chance asked.
“We have to be careful as her old man isn’t too keen.”
“Soon wedding bells I should think,” Logan gave a cheeky wink.
“Get out with ya’,” Tom blushed and returned Logan’s letter to the shelf.
“Logan you should be sending something nice to your brother for the child’s birth,” Chance suggested.
“Na, Hamish was never one for presents, I once gave him a new set of clothing I purchased while delivering wool to Sydney,” Logan gave a twisted face expression.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing pleasant I assure you, he said where do you think I’d be wearing such finery, shearing sheep, or maybe to one of the native sing-a-longs?”
“That does sound like something Hamish would say,” Chance agreed.
“Not only but when I left they were still wrapped and on top of the closet in his bedroom.”
“I like presents,” Tom came into the conversation, his face glowing with fond memory, “my uncle once gave me a sword he had whittled from wood when I was a littlie.”
“Was it your birthday?”
“My uncle was a sailor on a trading ship and made it while at sea, said the wood came from some South Pacific island and was sacred to the chief of the island,” Tom’s expression sank.
“Why the disappointing look?” Chance asked.
“My da’ threw it away, he never liked Uncle Alex as he was my ma’s brother and I never saw him again.”
“Why so?”
“I don’t rightly know, soon after he gave me the sword there was a right barney between Da’ and Uncle Alex,”
“What was the argument about?” Chance asked.
“Again I don’t know but my name was mentioned a couple of times, then Da’ threw him out.”
“We will have to get you something nice for Christmas.” Logan promised and by the lad’s expression Logan’s offer was worth more to him than the receipt of a gift.
“A gun!” Tom’s words rose with the thought.
“I don’t think so, you would more than likely shoot your foot off,” Logan discouraged.
“I could learn to shoot. Willy Clancy uses his old man’s gun for practice and he is only fifteen.”
Logan released a discouraging chortle.
“Well I could.” Tom protested.
“I’ll tell you what Tom, when you turn eighteen, come and ask again; possibly then.”
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