Published: 1 Apr 2021

It was a sleepless night for Logan. He blamed the cheese he had for supper; late night cheese often played havoc on his stomach and his thoughts. It was past midnight, or so Logan believed and his tossing woke Chance.

“What’s the matter?” Chance asked from his slumber.

“The cheese I guess, no matter go back to sleep.”

Moments later Chance’s breathing again became deep and regular, he was asleep but Logan remained puzzled by a dozen thoughts, none of which made sense. ‘With the morning,’ he thought, ‘with the morning it will be alright and I will have forgotten the night.’

The same dog from earlier commenced to bark, Logan knew its sound, now it appeared closer. Had he latched the fowl house door, or was it worrying the few remaining sheep they had penned behind the hotel and to be sold by week’s end.

It couldn’t be so as the barking came from the direction of the road;

A voice;

The calling of a name, was it Jock.

Maybe Jack;

Someone gave answer followed by the sound of a whistle;

A loud thud at distance;

The tread of people walking on the road outside the hotel under the bedroom window;

Soft laughter;

Louder;

Back to silence;

Logan rolled to his side and placed an arm across Chance’s shoulder drawing him closer. Although remaining asleep Chance accepted the cuddle and Logan settled.

He was asleep.

During the previous evening the men who drifted down to their families and entertainment found comfort of their own beds and didn’t return to the stockade and by the turning of the hours more of the Irish and Americans drifted away, until there were less than two hundred encamped at the stockade.

McGill and most of his Californian Rangers had gone out on patrol, again to the Melbourne road in search of the government reinforcements, also following a lead that one of the station homesteads near Mount Clear on the Buninyong road had a field gun of some significance which would be most beneficial if the stockade was attacked. The gun was discovered to be but an old ship’s gun of some antiquity and spiked.

It was five-forty five, Sunday and the early sun portrayed the arrival of a new day with a gentle eastern glow. The campfire had died down to embers and a light mist clung to the lower gullies, while all in the stockade were asleep.

Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed, another answered, then another. The camp didn’t stir as the sound of dawn was usual to their ears.

The tranquillity of the dawn was shattered.

A warning shot; from where; unknown.

Lalor tumbled from his camp bed to perceive an attack was in progress, there were two flanks of mounted men and many troopers advancing towards the stockade. Soon those within would be outnumbered and their position vulnerable.

“To the diggings,” Lalor cried as they scrambled towards the pits. As Lalor spoke he was hit in the shoulder and fell into the dust and bleeding.

It was soon realised that those within the stockade would be overwhelmed, the troopers were already at the perimeter and tearing the overturned carts from its defence. The dazed men within were at a loss and ran about firing at anything that moved. One defender, a German, notice Captain Wise on his mount at the head of his troop, he fired and brought Wise to the ground and even as the captain lay dieing he bravely encouraged his men to continue on.

With the soldiers attacking from the front and the mounted police from the flanks, it was obvious the battle was lost even before it commenced and the diggers broke ranks and scattered. A Canadian named Ross attempted to encourage them to fight on but the men were so dazed they could not function as a unit. Noticing Lalor as he lay wounded two from the Californian Rangers pushed him into a hole and covered him with planking before deserting the battle as lost and useless.

The mounted police were through the barricade and were hacking at anyone they found without mercy. Now it was every man for his own while those who remained standing fled the stockade, others hid in the shallow workings where they were shot or ran through by bayonet.

The rebellion was at an end.

Fifteen minutes and no more;

Possibly the shortest rebellion in the history of mankind;

The sun broke the dust hazed horizon and it was Sunday.

Church bells didn’t sound and there was an unsettling silence across the diggings. The military realised it was at an end and called to cease firing but the police continued, bringing down one poor fellow as he tried to escape.

Those who had surrendered were soon brought together and marched away at bayonet point; many were wounded, dripping blood, many limping as they went.

It was the early morning of Sunday the third of December.

The rebellion had failed.

Men moved about as if in a dream.

Some went back to panning;

Some digging;

Some preparing the morning meal;

Some in disbelief, quietly staring into the distance without words;

They had none;

Now it was but to bury the dead and wait the consequences of their disobedience.

There was a call to find Tom Kennedy and George Black who were two of the Chartists insurgents but they were well absent, as was McGill the American who remained out on patrol, his name was high on their list. Father Smyth found and took charge of Peter Lalor smuggling him away to safety.

Now all that remained was to count the dead, to arrest the guilty and bring order back to the Eureka Lead.

“Did you hear that?”

The first shot in the early dawn brought Logan from his bed and to the window. He gazed into the half light but saw nothing.

“I’m sure it was gunfire,” Logan announced.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Chance answered and rolled away from Logan’s question, he loudly yawned while attempting to regain sleep.

More gunfire;

Now Chance was awake and joined Logan at the window.

“The push is on,” Logan gasped and quickly dressed.

Soon Kathleen their new barmaid joined them in her nightgown on the street while shaking violently. She remembered the day her brother was taken by the British back in Ireland. Then there were shots in the night and from his bed young Patrick was dragged into the street and executed without mercy while he cried for his mother, cried for mercy begging on the ground, on his knees, his hands in show of prayer. Patrick had just turned sixteen but in truth was guilty of insurgency, guilty of wanting freedom for his country yet not innocent of brutal violence against the establishment, some of whom were his own countrymen, some who were innocent.

“What should we do?”

“Nothing can be done,” Logan answered.

“What of Tom,”

“I don’t know, come on off the street.” Logan said as the first of the military came down from the stockade. They watched at the door as wounded men were marched passed towards the barracks. Their faces grave and lacking, their bodies bleeding, their clothes stained with blood, dirt and spent gunpowder, their feet bear of footwear. Not one of their ranks uttered a sound, not one cast their eyes upon the open door of the Golden Shovel as they passed.

Logan closed the door against their helpless plight.

During the morning there was much traffic in both directions, mostly military and by late morning the boys cautiously went to the stockade in an attempt to locate Tom as he had not returned. Had he been wounded in the battle or arrested or worse, concern was building but nothing was said.

On reaching the stockade they found it void of diggers, only military and a number of mounted police. All about was the stench of spent gunpowder and that of burning wood and canvas. Some distance from the dismantled stockade the boys were approached by a sergeant of the fortieth.

“Hey you two where do you think you are going here?’ the sergeant shouted and approached. They waited until he was close by.

“Aren’t you two from the Golden Shovel? Was demanded;

“Yes,” Chance answered.

“What’s your business here?”

“We are looking for a young lad who may have been here during the night.” Logan said but didn’t include Tom in the guard duty the lad had admitted to.

“Most have scattered or been arrested and taken to the military camp. There was casualties; about thirty in total,” the sergeant paused and pointed past the upturned carts. “They are where they fell, we are about to remove them out now.”

“May we take a look and see if our young friend is among the dead?” Chance politely asked hoping his words were negative.

“You can but don’t touch anything or be long.” The sergeant then waved to a group of soldiers guarding a break in the defences. “Let them through.”

Once inside the ruin of the stockade the boys noticed a cart holding four bodies, another body was being carried from across the compound, its arms hung limp with mouth gaped, while those carrying the poor wretch hadn’t even closed the lifeless eyes against the failure of their cause. The boys approached the cart. They knew one of the dead who frequented their bar; the others were strangers but no Tom.

Slowly they paced around the compound checking each body in its turn, viewing those shot where they hid in the shallow diggings, others run through with a bayonet, still displaying the horror of their death upon their faces.

There hopes were up as they were running out of corpses to investigate.

“There is another over there,” Logan pointed to the front of the stockade that had taken the first attack.

They cautiously approached.

“Oh no it’s Tom.”

The words choked in Chances throat. The lad displayed a deep chest wound obviously from a musket ball as he lay prostrate in the dust, still holding the broken shovel handle in his hand, he appeared to be but sleeping. Chance knelt and touched Tom’s cold lips with an outstretched finger.

“Silly little bugger and all for what?” Logan remarked then released a deep and long sigh; he shook his head towards the pointlessness of it all.

“Hey,” the sergeant called from close by.

Chance paused.

“I said no touching anything.”

Chance stood from Tom’s body.

“It is our friend; can we take him for burial?”

“You can have him from the military camp once they are all processed. Now I would like you to leave.”

The way back to the hotel was solum and now not a sole worked on their claim, the windless were silent as were the church bells. It was Sunday a new day but one that would live in history.

During the day the military gathered in strength around the Eureka Lead, much information was gleaned and many arrests made. So many that eventually it was necessary to release most on caution as there wasn’t anywhere to hold them, or enough men to guard them.

During the afternoon the boys went to the military camp to enquire about the repatriation of Tom’s body but discovered he had already been interred along with the others who had died in the battle. The count of dead was reported to be thirty-five diggers and six troopers. The troopers were given a hero’s burial while many of the diggers went silently to a common grave.

After enquiry the boys discovered Tom had been buried with his mates and that held satisfaction, as at least he was with those who had become his family. As for the count, it was believed to be much greater than reported as many were taken from the stockade and buried separately by friends, others escaped wounded into the bush where they may have later succumb to their injuries, while others, including Peter Lalor recovered in hiding.

While the boys stood silently over where those killed in the action were buried Father Smyth approached. Logan moved away, he never liked the man as he was always quick in criticizing Logan’s lack of religion. Smyth spoke for some time with Chance then placed his hand on Chance’s shoulder. Chance lowered his head and appeared to take a deep breath then with a gentle nod departed from the conversation.

“Are you alright?” Logan simply asked Chance once home. They had come from the grave in silence and remained so until that moment.

“Yes, I suppose,”

“There was nothing you could do,” Logan assured.

“True, I know that.”

“If somehow you prevented him from joining his mates, he would have held it against you for always,” Logan said.

“I realise so,”

“What a waste of a young life,” Logan gave a sigh and placed an arm across Chance’s shoulders. He drew him near.

“I’m alright – really.”

“My guilt is Tom went to his death thinking I disliked him,” Logan admitted.

“No he knew it was only your way, he respected you well and often said so,” Chance assured.

“Even so; only last night as he departed for the stockade I had the need to speak to him. I called his name and he turned but I couldn’t think of the right words and I let it go. I wish I had said something: Anything.

As I said Tom knew you thought well of him and he of you.”

“Come on time to open the bar.”

“It’s Sunday,”

“Oh I forgot.” Logan released a weak laugh, “we should open up anyway there will be those who need the comfort of alcohol.” As he spoke there was a hammering on the hotel front door. On inspection they discovered a notice had been posted and had been on most public houses in the district.

“Now the bother starts,” Logan said while reading its contents and the list of names of those wanted in relation to the uprising. Peter Lalor’s name was the first on the list.

“It is most of those who were Chartists,” Chance agreed.

“And more,”

“I suppose there is always the cleansing after any storm,” Chance said.

“It was but a puff of wind,” Logan corrected, “but a puff that will be felt right up to the halls of legislation and down through the pages of history.”

“I didn’t think you agreed with the Chartists?”

“In principal yes but I believed it should be done legally but now I realise they had no other choice.”

“I will miss Tom being around,” Chance admitted.

“Yes so will I; what did Smyth have to say?”

“He knew Tom lived with us at the hotel and spoke of him being laid to rest with the others and they were heroes in the eyes of god. Also he had prayed for them as they were unceremoniously dumped down into their common grave.”

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t answer; then he asked me if I was a Roman Catholic, if so I should pray for Tom as he was now in a better place.” Chance took a deep breath and gave an ironic tut.

“That is somewhat presumptuous of him,” Logan interjected.

“I said that I wasn’t anything while my father lost religion when his parents were drowned in the flood and possibly his people were Church of England. He didn’t appear much pleased with my answer.”

“Have you ever prayed?” Logan asked, realising that through all their years such a subject had never been discussed.

“I wouldn’t know how but once a priest said because I wasn’t of his persuasion I would go to hell,” Chance laughed, “wherever hell is.”

“My opinion is, if there is a god and I very much doubt; than by the church and its teachings, we are all made in his image and he gave us a brain to think. If I can’t believe it isn’t my fault. It is his.” Logan was most adamant.

“What will happen now?” Chance asked.

“A hunt, a rethink on regulations and then who knows, I would say after today there would be some soul searching up in Spring Street, maybe even Hotham will find a heart but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“And what of the hundred or so arrested?”

“They will pick out those who they consider most responsible and I believe try them for treason, the remainder will be issued a warning and reminded they will be under scrutiny in the future.”

“They got Tim Hayes,” Chance said.

“He will be the first; I believe they had him for it even before the fight.” Logan went to the bar and fixed himself a scotch.

“Do you want one?”

“You don’t like scotch,” Chance assumed.

“Today I need it,” Logan poured a second and passed it to Chance, “yes I will miss the silly little bugger and that is fact.”

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