Published: 18 Mar 2021

It was the morning following the incident of the wounding of the digger and there was much unrest along the Eureka Lead, bringing the solders out in a show of force. Charles Pasley the Government Engineer was at that time visiting the military camp and became most concerned with what he discovered. The military camp was maned by less than a hundred troopers and was nothing more than tents and a few poorly erected timber buildings that wouldn’t prevent a shot passing through the gaps in the walls. Also worrying was the threat by some miners to attack the camp and take hostages or kill whoever was about. It may have been naught but bravado but was enough for the commanding officer to again send for reinforcements.

Within a number of days a regiment of the fortieth came up from Geelong and joined those at the camp, yet more were requested from Melbourne and a consignment of around fifty troopers of the twelfth regiment of foot was despatched, arriving tired and dishevelled late in the evening. With the troopers came a number of drays and as they approached the first of the diggings the soldiers loaded their muskets and fixed bayonets, if for no other reason than to appear prepared for any event that may occur.

The arrival of the troopers was quickly noted and soon a mob gathered with weak moonlight. At first it was but name calling and the tossing of rocks and bottles. During the excitement one of the drays overturned, badly injuring three, as shots were heard from behind the line. Returning to the rear the soldiers found two of their troop wounded one a young lad, John Egan the drummer boy of the twelfth. Before the fracas could escalate or the solders return fire some of the fortieth regiment arrive from the camp and the diggers quickly dispersed.

With the morning the goldfield was buzzing with the incident and the inspection of miner’s rights recommenced in earnest. This time it was not only the police that did the inspection but fully armed troopers with recourse in mind for the shooting of their associates. Their attitude soon turned to rough handling, one miner was pushed down his diggings, fortunately it was shallow and his injuries slight but in doing so was one more incident to append to the miners displeasure.

By the turning of the morning posters appeared around the Eureka Lead, pinned to hotel doors and other permanent establishments. It read that a reward would be offered to establish those responsible for the illegal wounding of a trooper the previous night and the killing of John Egan their drummer boy.

The death of the lad pulled strong at the heartstrings of those of more gentle character and the news soon reached the newspapers in Melbourne, being used to stir feeling against the diggers and to a degree it did so. As for those on the goldfield they became even more determined to continue their actions, even elevate them into open rebellion.

The boys had heard of the previous night’s incident as they prepared to open for the day from Jack Thomas the saddler and leather worker as he passed on his morning walk. Logan gave a shudder as it was becoming clear that it would escalate further but young Tom was thriving on the excitement and hurried away to visit his mates from the Reform League.

Late in the afternoon reverent Barry of the Methodist persuasion and one who enjoyed a drink of two, came by to lubricate his dry throat. With Chance working the bar they fell into conversation.

“Did you hear about the death of the drummer boy?” Chance asked, having Tom in mind and his association with the Reform League.

“It is a bad state of affair,” Barry admitted and accepted a free beer for his thought.

“How old was the lad?” Chance asked.

“He is fourteen I believe,” the reverend answered.

“Is, you say?” Chance asked somewhat surprised with Barry’s use of the present tense.

“I have only this moment come from the military hospital and there he is as large as life and as cheeky as a lad can be; besides the wound to his thigh was minor.”

“The poster said he was killed,” Chance quickly cut in.

“A trick of the pen to stir the minds of gently folk.”

“Where will it all end, Logan thinks it will be a full rebellion before Christmas.”

“A lovely Christmas present for the sweet Jesus,” the preacher answered and giving his empty mug a wilful glance he received a refill, “yes I think Logan maybe right but one can only hope.”

Logan came by and nodded to the reverend. “What is the topic of conversation?”

Reverend Barry saw the drummer boy in the military hospital and as alive as you or I.”

“The military is full of tricks, what was the kid’s name.” Logan asked out of simple interest.

“John Egan,”

“Has he any relationship to the Egan family over at Anakie?”

“I wouldn’t think so as he came out from England with the regiment.”

“Oh,” Logan moved away to attend to others along the bar.

“That brings me to thinking,” the reverend said.

“What would that be Mr. Barry?” Chance asked.

“Please call me Lennard; you have known me long enough not to be so formal.

“Then Lennard what are your thoughts?”

“You’re name, Chance, were your parents Quakers?”

Chance gave a gentle laugh as it was a suggestion he often heard. “No I was born late and my parents last chance in having another kid, as they had lost a boy previously and as I have an older brother I was to be the spare.”

“Your father had a sense of humour?”

“I never though he had,” Chance answered.

“Nothing meant, I like the name, I meant no rudeness by suggesting so.”

“None taken; – a refill?”

Logan returned from serving and joined the conversation. “I should think there will soon be a right scrap.”

“We were only saying so,” the reverend agreed.

“So this young fella’ is well alive and kicking.” Logan reiterated.

“As you and I,”

“I should think it was reported as fatal to keep those in Melbourne and Geelong on side,” Logan assumed.

It had been quiet about the diggings for some days, Logan believed it was the quiet that comes before a storm and during his spare time had designed shutters for the hotel windows and stored them away from sight not to cause concern.

After business hours on what was often referred to as hump night as it came midway between Sunday and the following Saturday, Logan came to Chance with an idea, “how would you like to go up to Melbourne for a couple of days?”

“What on my own?”

“No us both, we could do with a little holiday.”

“What about Tom?”

“He also if he wishes.”

Tom heard his name mentioned, “about Tom – what?”

“Would you like to go up to Melbourne for a couple of days with us?”

The lad thought for a while, “who would look after the hotel?”

“I’m sure Rose could for two days,”

“Na, there are too many meeting of the Reform League and Mr. Lalor needs me for their Gofer.”

“Logan gave a chuckle,”

“What?”

“Gofer: that is what we called you when you turned up at our camp on our way to Ballarat.”

“I like the title but Gladys thought it to be my family name and now she calls me Tommy Gofer.”

“Tommy Gofer the gofer,” Logan said.

“I don’t like being called Tommy, I’m no kid,” the lad discredited.

Logan again displayed his more serious attitude, “what do you do for the league, nothing illegal I hope.”

“Unfortunately everything that is done or said by the Reform League is considered illegal by the Commissioners, especially the meetings but Tim Hayes said there are too many of us for them to counter except stand by and watch.”

“Very astute of you but there is a thin line, you step too far over it and they will blow your head clean away.” Logan warned, “Now about our trip to Melbourne are you sure you won’t come?”

“No I’ll stay and help Rose,”

“Can we get you anything?” Chance offered.

“A gun would be nice. One of those new American sidearm with the tumble chamber like what Jim McGill has; it’s a fifty-one Navy Colt.”

“Who is McGill?” Logan asked.

“He is from the California Rangers and used to shoot red Indians and is very rich.”

“I don’t think that will be happening,” Chance quickly disclaimed against the lad’s request for the side arm.

“No harm in asking,”

“Anyway what’s the story with McGill?” Logan continued with his limited interest.

“As I said he is an American but his parents were Irish and he born there, James is descendent from an Irish king.”

“So James is it, a friend I suggest.”

“I know him as he is a friend of Mr. Lalor.”

“How old is Mr. McGill?” Logan asked.

“Twenty-one but he looks much younger.”

“Go on what else do you know about this so named Irish King?” Logan was more interested in Tom’s association that the history behind the man.

“James Martin said he was sent out on a secret mission, suppose to investigate how the British treat the American miners but some say he is a spy and wants to make Victoria a republic.”

“It all sounds like fantasy to me,” Logan dismissed.

“It’s all true,” Tom paused, “well it is said to be true.”

“So you don’t want to come to Melbourne with Chance and me?”

“Na, I’ll stay back and help Rose.”

The coach trip to Melbourne was long and arduous and the eighty miles took most of the day with creek crossings and washouts on a road that was nothing more than a clearing through the forests and rocky landscape. It was a full service and although the boys wished to sit upfront with the driver, those seats were booked earlier so they enjoyed the relative comfort of the cabin with a woman, a girl and two men, both men had the accent of someone from the Americas.

One of the Americans had an obvious limp but managed well enough to get around without support. The woman and girl were travelling to Melbourne to enrol her at a girl’s school in the newly appointed suburb of Toorak. They mostly kept their quiet, although on the occasion the girl stole a glance towards Chance, who pulled a face, sending her with a gasp to the view beyond the window.

After some distance without conversation one of the men spoke, “you boys don’t appear to be miners.”

“No sir, we have a hotel on the Eureka Lead,” Chance answered bringing the girl’s head to rise, the woman quickly gestured her eyes back towards the passing scenery.

“A hotel then we maybe able to pass some business your way,” the stranger suggested before realised his discourtesy, “I apologise for my rudeness, I am Freeman Cobb and this is my partner, James Scanlon.”

“And what is your business Mr. Cobb?” Logan asked as he returned the introduction.

“You are riding in it.”

“This coach sir?” Logan questioned realising it was of the same design he had seen some time earlier on the Geelong road before they arrived in Ballarat.

“That’s the fact; we have only this month started another service being the run from Ballarat to Bendigo to connect with Melbourne and Geelong.”

“What business do you speak off Mr. Cobb?” Logan asked.

“Coach staging, we need some well appointed clean hotels for our service.”

“Where are you from Mr. Cobb?” Chance asked finding the man’s accent somewhat alien to his ears, even for someone from North America.

“Massachusetts in the United States.”

“Oh,” Chance answered without knowledge of the location.

The coach came to a stop and the driver called into the cabin, “Bacchus Marsh, half hour while we change horses.”

“This is our stop lads,” Cobb passed Logan a small white card, “contact me and we can consider business.”

The coach arrived in Melbourne a little before dusk and made its way through the quickly growing district of Footscray, crossing the Maribyrnong River and stopping at the Punt Hotel to collect a passenger for the short run into Melbourne proper. After a brief stop it was across the new bridge, replacing the earlier punt and travelling along Flemington Road towards the city.

As they travelled a large expanse of parkland was notice beside the road. “What’s that?” Chance asked Logan, who without knowledge simply shrugged the question away.

The new passenger leant forward, “if I may not be considered rude sir that is the Flemington racecourse, are you gentlemen interested in horse racing?”

“Not as such but we do have a picnic race back home and one year I won the main event,” Chance bragged.

The stranger smiled, “ah but these are professional riders, jockeys of some renown and horses bred for the track, we even have a champion rider out from Ireland who won the Doncaster Cup.”

“It’s nothing but mowed paddock,” Chance impudently referred believing his horse riding ability was being dismissed as agrestic.

“Quite so but there is to be improvements soon, I am on the committee.” The man gave a pleasing smile before quietly settling back into his seat. He again spoke, “I heard your friend call you Chance; did you know a horse by that name won the Doncaster in Eighteen-o-one?”

Chance gave an acknowledging smile but refrained from comment.

“Yes and by half a furlong, a fine horse that was.”

Once in town the boys found their way to the Fawkner Hotel on Market Street. The coach dropped them off at the top of Market Street and from there with darkness approaching it was walker beware. The streets were not exactly inviting to pedestrians and the boardwalks beside not much better. Some businesses had boarded walkways, others a grass verge but in most it was mud in the wet and dust in the dry with a fair scattering of holes, while not excluding the waste thrown into the street attracting vermin of all kinds.

Fortunately it was easier locating the hotel as it was by law that hotels and inns display a light of sorts outside their main door. The Fawkner had two levels and was well established, being built some years earlier by John Fawkner who with John Batman founded Melbourne back in the year of thirty-five of that century.

Leading up to the hotel were two rows of proud brick and bluestone buildings, all of multiple levels, some three and one of four and well appointed and as grand as any one would find in London.

Anyone arriving in Melbourne during the fifties would be excused if disbelief was displayed for its youthful age, being hardly more than twenty years since settlement, now it was a city of over a hundred thousand soles and because of gold fast becoming the second city of the empire, even as far as suggesting it to be the world’s richest city. Yet it was a nervous city with news of the insurrection at Ballarat being front page in every daily newspaper, none of which supported the miner’s cause. To append to this nervous state was the ongoing war between Britain and Russia in the Crimea and the Russian threat to attack all British overseas colonies.

Even in the hotel lobby the topic of conversation was the rebellious miners and still the killing of the little drummer boy brought sympathy to the military cause. As the boys entered all eyes turned to them from the adjacent reading room but quiet was kept. One gentleman gave a most disrespectful glare towards their arrival, receiving but a smile and a slight nod from Logan as he made their reservation.

With the morning it was exploration time, what surprised most was how wide Melbourne streets were and straight, quite unlike those in Sydney which were narrow and twisting. All of Melbourne’s streets were designed within a square mile, which had been recently referred to as the golden mile. Outside these boundaries were the less salubrious poorer quarters being Richmond, Fitzroy and Collingwood named so after the vice admiral at the battle of Trafalgar but those with style and lined pockets took to the south, following the gentle swing of Port Phillip Bay.

“So what’s the plan for the day?” Chance questioned as the boys left the hotel.

“What would you like to do?”

“I’m easy; possibly do some shopping for the hotel and I believe they have started on a grand library building, maybe have a looksee there,” Chance suggested as Logan paused their progress and with arms akimbo surveyed their surroundings.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing – but if you stop and look about, this town is like some living animal, it appears to be growing before your eyes.”

Chance gave a slight smile.

“No really you take some time, look about, everywhere there is buildings being erected, drays with homeware, people buying, people selling, it is almost frightening to try and imagine where it will all end.”

“True but not like you to be so poetical.”

Logan laughed; “it must be the atmosphere. There is one thing I wish to do.”

“What would that be?” Chance asked.

“Buy a present for Hamish.”

“I thought you said Hamish didn’t like presents.”

“Not for him, I mean for Audrey, possible the baby when it comes. Also we should buy something for Tom.”

“New trousers, he’s through the last pair,” Chance suggested.

“More like new underwear; it’s almost impossible to get him to change them.”

“I know, I do the washing and I believe some of the stains are alive.”

“I can guess what they would be,” Logan proclaimed.

“Yes that as well, I don’t think he leaves it alone for long.”

Logan gave a laugh of irony.

“What,”

“Sounds like someone I know,”

“Are you referring to me?”

“I am,”

“Mr. McGregor, you’re as bad.”

“I know – its fun isn’t it? Come on let’s do the shops.”

What was surprising were the emporiums and the produce they offered but with the wealth of gold flooding into the city and the distance from the manufacturing hubs in Britain and Europe the prices were astronomically crippling to all but the well healed. The poor, who were numerous, kept mostly outside the golden mile and bought cheaper goods of less quality from local manufactures and made do with handcraft.

There was also another by-product of wealth, that being land-sharks and pickpocketers, also a push was developing, gangs of unemployed youth who battled each other and the establishment for no other reason but entertainment. They being the sons of failed diggers returning from the goldfields with no means of support, while their women stitched clothing or cleaned for the gentry.

The gangs came out of the slums at night to roam the streets of the city, their objective being anything of value left unguarded or to hammer their opponents into the ground with clubs and rocks, or whatever came to hand, while giving themselves names of battle hero’s of long past encounters.

The worse of the pushes was one out of the slums of Fitzroy, simply known as the Fitzroy Boys. They were a gang of young larrikins, many in their early teenage years but quite adapt to violence, with the cutthroat razor their weapon of choice. The Fitzroy Boys also ran protection rackets even against other less violent pushes.

Often casualties occurred during these encounters but as most were from the poorer class and in the main battled with their own those in authority looked away, leaving parents to quietly grieve out of sight. Not until the push became so large and obvious was anything done, even then but to collect the worse, mostly orphans and abandoned street kids, and place them up country in reform.

After shopping and lunch, Logan suggested a stroll to the newly established Botanic Gardens to the south that took advantage of a swampy area and billabong besides the river. Once across the newly erected stone bridge they became quite surprised towards the number of elaborate plantings that had occurred since the garden’s foundation in forty-six. Many of which were the instigation of a German Ferdinand Von Muller, who also travelled the district planting blackberries. These plantings soon spread and became a problem of some magnitude, chocking up the waterways and grazing lands.

Coming onto two large river red gums of great height, Logan paused, “you realise what those trees represent?” he asked of Chance.

“A lot of fire wood,” Chance answered.

“A little more than that,”

“Go on your itching to tell me.”

“They are called the separation trees, as beneath was the reading of the proclamation in fifty-one when Victoria separated from New South Wales.”

“History you would like that.” Chance gave a moderate huff of interest, “anyway how do you know that?”

“I just read the plaque to the side of the bigger tree.”

“Smart, aren’t we,”

“No only observant.”

On their second day there was much excitement about town and after enquiring it was discovered the age of steam had arrived and that very morning was to be the running of the first steam train between Melbourne and Sandridge being the port.

The boys quickly made their way down to the River and Flinders street in time to see the black steaming monster connect to two carriages, both open, one holding the dignitaries in their finery, top hats and sashes, while the other a marching band. As for the locomotive, it was an improvisation by a local engineer James Moore, as the locomotives ordered from England had not yet arrived. Moore’s contraption was a portable steam engine attached to a wagon with a drive through its wooden floor but even with its rudimentary design it looked most impressive as it built towards capacity.

Eventually the engine gathered enough steam to power away from the siding. As it did so the band struck up a soul lifting tune and the crowd cheered as the first train to run on that southern continent passed across the river and was well on its way to the port. Alas the engine lacked power and it struggled until a little past half the distance it broke down. At least it could be reported that it beat Sydney for the privilege if only by the shortest of margins.

Eventually the train arrived at Sandridge to a second cheer and a well supplied party for the dignitaries. The following day the return journey went without event but there were many future breakdowns before the required rolling stock arrived from England.

“What did you think of that?” Logan gushed with uncharacteristic excitement once the crowd commenced to depart.

“Very impressive, I’ve never seen anything so big and powerful.”

“It is like some monster in one of Uncle Edward’s books like the dragon that Saint George killed.” Logan recollected.

“There is no such thing as dragons,” Chance discredited with a titter of disbelief.

“I know that but there was a drawing of what the author believed to be a dragon on the first page and some bloke in armour lancing it. Killed it dead he did; a spear through the eye.”

“I will admit there was plenty of smoke and steam from this monster.”

“Come on the show is over; let’s do some more shopping.” Logan took Chance by the arm and directed him along Swanston Street to the better shops and arcades in Bourke Street.

As they turned into Bourke Street Chance had a puzzling question. On their way he noticed all the wide avenues were followed by narrower lanes with the title little before the same name as the previous avenue.

“I heard about that only yesterday.” Logan answered.

“Then tell,”

“Simple, the founding fathers when they were laying out what was to become the golden mile were in disagreement. Some wanted wide avenues, others wished for narrow streets to fit more development into the suggested space.”

“I think I know the answer,” Chance gave a knowing nod.

“Yep they compromised and had one of each.”

“I like the idea as it would be a long walk if they were all wide.” Chance suggested.

In Bourke Street they found an Emporium that had every conceivable convenience from the mother country, even some with a makers tag, made in Trenton-usa.

“I know where that is.” Chance admitted pointing to the tag.

“Trenton?”

“No the USA, it is America,”

“True what else do you know about America?”

“Some as Tom is always going on about those in the Reform League; he said if they aren’t American they are Irish or Italian.”

“You do know America was once under the crown?”

“That’s what Tom said and they rebelled.”

“That’s what is becoming a little worrying. Possibly they want to make the colony of Victoria a republic.”

“Would doing so be all that bad?”

“In itself no but we are a long way from anywhere and what protection would we have without the British fleet, it would then make all the other colonies alien to us and maybe cause a war with New South Wales.” Logan explained.

“It won’t come to that, it’s all talk.”

“Don’t be too sure, there are some determined people like those in the ranks of the Reform League who would like nothing better,” Logan gave Chance a shove, “come on best we get what we came for and be gone.”

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