Published: 15 Apr 2021

Peter Lalor’s concern about the influx of hordes of Chinese was soon realised. The very next day a band of some dozen or so walked out of the west after disembarking at Adelaide and then onto the gold fields headed directly to the Eureka Lead to join their many comrades.

Those of European persuasion on the Lead lifted from their work and leant against their tools in collective dismay, while scrutinising the new arrivals with much displeasure. The new arrivals soon advanced to gather with their fellow countrymen in the developing China Town.

Some distance to the north of the Lead on unproductive ground a camp of Chinese had grown around a small stream. It consisted of many buildings and tents surrounding an opium den and a small Taoist joss house with a most elaborate joss, decorated with their wishes for good luck and honours to their many gods and ancestors.

There were also a number of businesses selling all kinds of artefacts from ghost money for burning to appease the ancestors, to so called natural medication. Some of which had merit but rhino horn, tiger’s pizzle and snake bile along with pangolins scales to alleviate lactation difficulties, were not only suspect but even in those early days of limited medical knowledge doubtful by Europeans. Even so one should not neglect the local craft in snake oils, curing everything from dandruff to carbuncles.

One had only to pass within a hundred yards of the Chinese camp to become overpowered by the pungent scent from their joss sticks and incense bowls, filling the air with sandalwood and other exotic concoctions, pleasant maybe to the senses but no white man would agree so. The design of the joss smoke may have been to ward away evil spirits but to the disbeliever it brought about distrust without the slightest will to understand such ancient customs.

Most on the goldfields were satisfied in having the Chinese do their laundry, grow their vegetables and work as subservient coolies but it was their digging for the yellow metal that irked and that they were but transient without the will to remain within the colony, although if the truth was decanted, not allowed to do so. Diggers and takers was the call. They collected the gold and sent it home with themselves living on a pittance.

As the newcomers shuffled along in tight formation the diggers closest to their arrival began to mutter. The murmur became louder until it was a shout, followed by a shower of rocks. Fortunately there were a number of police officers present who soon put a stop to the throwing of rocks but not the discontent.

That evening at the Shovel a group of miners huddled in quiet conversation on how best to deal with the so called yellow peril. Chance had been doing the tables and overheard the complaints bringing them to Logan’s attention.

“I think the Chinese problem is about to explode,” he said.

“I agree but what can we do about it?”

“We should talk to Peter Lalor; he has a strong head and should be able to quieten them,” Chance hopefully suggested.

“True but he probably agrees with the diggers.”

“Not physically attacking them, one of the jokers over in the corner suggested cutting their little yellow throats and tossing them down a disused mineshaft.”

“What was the outcome?” Logan asked.

“They all laughed but laughter is often considered to be but another form of agreement.”

As Chance spoke Peter Lalor happened to arrive. Firstly he did the rounds of the drinkers, pausing for a moment to converse with those who spoke of attacking the newcomers. After a short conversation Lalor approached the bar.

“How about a dram of that fine Irish you have there.” Lalor placed down a coin.

Logan refused payment, “on the house Peter. What’s the go with the lot over in the corner?”

“Only letting off steam, Pat Brennan has had some bad luck of late. He had a strike and was robbed during the dark of night. He blames the Chinese.”

“Do you think it was the Chinese?” Chance asked.

“I doubt it. They are a sneaky lot but to actually rob a man while asleep in his tent. That’s definitely English.” Lalor winked and laughed.

“Now Peter,”

“Your lot have been robbing the world for centuries.” Lalor suggested.

“I should think most of Europe was worse and you lot in Ireland would have done likewise if you had the opportunity,” Logan returned the banter.

“We Irish rob folk – never.”

“If I recollect my bible classes and they were few, your Saint Patrick was the son of a Britain who was enslaved during a raid from Ireland and I would suggest they returned to Ireland with more than slaves in the holds of their ships,” Logan instructed with some pleasure.

“Ah but god deemed it so, besides you are coming from the protestant slanting.”

“Do you believe that Peter?” Logan doubted.

“No seriously Logan, I agree the situation with the Chinese is escalating but I think there are enough troopers and police to handle any problem.”

Voices rose from across the bar as an argument erupted but as quickly it died back to just audible.

“A funny situation,” Logan said.

“What would that be?”

“You Peter, only a matter of months back you were leading a rebellion, now you speak of docility.”

“You do realise Logan I always agreed with your hypothesis of laissez-faire but in the end, if I didn’t take leadership the outcome may have been much worse.”

“True,” Logan concurred, “as for laissez-faire, my dad would have loved that terminology.”

“Your old man was educated then?”

“No just a bugger for annoying people with big words.”

They both laughed as the hum from the anti-Chinese table rose again before falling back to quiet chatter but by their expressions had bother on their minds. After what appeared to be collective agreement they finished their drinks and departed.

During the night a group of diggers blackened their faces and armed themselves with shovels and axes, then quietly crept towards the Asian camp where they perceived a community in quiet leisure. The smell of joss sticks hang heavy on the breathless air exciting their resolve and as they reached the rear of the temple one of the group doused the woodwork with paraffin and struck a light. Immediately the dry timbers burst into flames bringing the community to excitement.

High pitched shrieks filled the warm November air as a bucket chain quickly developed but the structure was soon beyond saving as the diggers moved among the tents and buildings, setting fire to even more as they went.

One of the Chinese noticed the diggers’ blackened faces and at first believed the devils of old were upon him. Realising what was happening he called for help, two answered his call and all three came at the diggers, water buckets high and screaming like banshees. The first received the flat of a spade across the top of his head sending him to the ground, the two who answered his call met with equal treatment, one received the full strike from the blunt of an axe, the other a pick handle across the back.

“Quick, that’s enough outa’ here before the rest are upon us,” a digger growled as his gang turned and dissolved back into the darkness of night.

While the Chinese camp burned, many of the diggers took the high ground to amuse over the spectacle, not one lifted a finger to help, nor did the police arrive to bring order. By early morning the fire had burned itself out and the camp became quiet as the diggers quietly departed from their entertainment.

First light brought a great number of Chinese from the ruins of their camp to the office of Robert Rede the Gold commissioner and were in great voice but without the utterance of a single word in English. Rede met them at the door as one and all commenced to demand from him.

“Quiet!” Rede shouted over the rabble. It lowered to a whimper then started up again even louder.

“I said Quiet,”

Again down to a whisper.

“What do you lot want?” Obvious the attack on the Chinese camp had not yet filtered down to his office.

A rising of voices in Mandrin again lifted into the crisp morning air.

“Is there at least one person among you who can speak English?”

“I speak a little,” a young man stepped forward and gave an honourable bow of the head, then looked about for permission to speak. The crowd gave him silent consent.

“What is their problem?”

In broken English the man explained what had occurred the previous night, then the shouting commenced again.

“Tell them to go home; I will investigate later but no retaliation or there will be trouble. Do you understand?”

Those gathered remained silent then one spoke to the translator.

“They no trust you – want you to do something and now.”

Rede quietly spoke to his secretary standing close by, “get the constables.”

The standoff continued.

Once again the shout lifted from the Chinese.

“Tell them again I will look into it.” Rede repeated as the first of the police arrived carrying arms, taking up position between the Chinese miners and the Commissioner.

With continued protest the group slowly moved away.

Rede approached the first of the police, “follow them and make sure they don’t cause trouble.”

Back at China Town the mood was sombre. There were prayers for the two who had been killed the previous night and in the afternoon their burial, one of the three had survived and was prepared to be witness to the attack but when approached he could only describe their assailant as white with blackened faces. Further examination only brought about admittance that all white men looked alike to the Chinese.

Lacking information on those who committed the attack the police could only give warning to the white diggers to keep their peace and a secondary warning to the Chinese not to retaliate. Once the warnings were issued the incident was thus filed and forgotten.

Some days had passed with holding peace but then a number of fires broke out over the Eureka Lead. Mostly woodpiles and unoccupied simple timber structures but one was a business establishment, a brothel and bar owned by a David Simpson, who had an unrealistic fear of the so called yellow peril and protested against their presence at ever opportunity. Also Simpson had been one of the drinkers at the Shovel bar who had spoken loudly against them previously and a suspect for the attack on China Town, although nothing could be substantiated, or could be bothered to follow further.

Simpson quickly blamed the Chinese for the fire but found little empathy within the community as his disdain for the Chinese was equal to his shady dealings and rorting of his fellow countrymen. He protested loudly receiving a measure of sympathy but in most only from those who held the greatest dislike of the Chinese, or were as equal in their rorting of the system.

A meeting was held in the road before the blackened timbers of Simpson’s bar where he received little satisfaction but in the main it was decided although nothing could be done for his establishment a nightwatch would be performed to prevent further retaliation.

Simpson insisted it was the Chinese and wanted retribution but those in agreement for the nightwatch were of the opinion the burning of the bar was most likely the work of someone Simpson had maltreated. As for the surveillance, first approach was to the police but in doing so they were quickly informed their rounds would as usual end at midnight. Further surveillance would be the problem of the diggers and businessmen, while again being warned not to become vindictive as continued violence would not be tolerated regardless for what reason or by whom.

Chance was attending to the small kitchen garden to the side of the hotel when Jim Harris came by.

“Chance that is the most miserable excuse for a vegetable patch I have ever encountered,” Harris discredited.

Chance gave a chuckle of agreement, “I must admit Jim I’m no gardener.”

“It is the soil, too much clay, you need to mulch.”

“What is mulch?” Chance questioned.

“Leaf matter and the like,”

“As well we have the Chinese market gardeners,” Chance gave a sigh of gratitude.

“Yes I agree but you do know how they fertilize their vegetable patch?”

“I have never thought of it,” Chance said.

“Collectively they shit in it.”

“Thank you for the thought,” Chance gave a shudder of disapproval.

“Tis’ the Chinese I have come about.”

“I hope you aren’t promoting retribution,” Chance warned.

“No, a vigil against those starting fires across the Lead.”

“Are you referring to Simpson’s brothel?”

“And others, David prefers it to be called a bar,” Harris corrected with a diluted smile towards the thought.

“Did they get his storehouse?”

“Just the bar but he is concerned it will be next.”

“What other building have been burned?”

“Mostly of no significance mainly outhouses and sheds, I would say more to cause annoyance than other but it could develop further if nothing is done.”

“From what I understand that doesn’t appear like retribution from the Chinks.”

“I agree but try and convince David, he is set towards revenge and at least having some surveillance may quieten his resolve.”

“Is he helping with the surveillance?”

“Only his own at the storehouse, he said he had a lot of expensive produce there.”

Chance gave a cheeky grin, “you mean expensive in price and cheap in quality.”

“That’s a fact but still the law also protests the greedy,” Harris responded as Chance continued weeding, “you do realise that was a carrot you pulled out.”

“So it is – what is your plan for this surveillance?” Chance lifted from his weeding and joined Harris at the fence.

“A vigil from midnight to dawn made up from those more level headed and less heavy handed.”

“You wish for us to join this vigil?”

“If it pleases, we have but a dozen so far and it is a large area to cover.”

“I’m sure it will be fine, I will speak with Logan.”

A number of nights passed without reoccurrence and most of those on the vigil drifted back to the comfort of their early morning beds. The boys had taken up the challenge and on the fourth night it was their turn. Usually one or the other would join the group but this night it was Chance’s turn and approaching midnight Logan wasn’t ready for bed.

“Righto’ I’ll be on my way,” Chance collected his coat and headed out. He gave a shudder towards the turning weather.

“I’ll join you,”

The boy’s place of vigilance was to be close by Chance’s old claim, now taken up by a Chinese man named Huang who grew cabbages and worked the gold while waiting for the vegetables to grow. The boys knew him as Chow but then all the Asians on the Lead were know as Chow, even if they were not of the Chinese persuasion. Because of Huang’s pleasant disposition and his fair prices, most gave him the title of honoured white.

There was a small rise to the side of Chance’s old claim, being the tailing heap from Peter Lalor’s shaft which Lalor had long given up digging further and finding very little for his effort. From the tailing heap it gave good advantage over their surveillance and directly to the front but at some distance was Simpson’s storehouse.

“Tis’ a little nippy tonight,” Logan gave a slight shudder to support his account.

“You should have brought a coat, here share mine,”

“Na, I’m alright. What’s the go, do we sit here all night like two shags on a rock?”

“For a while, I’m waiting for Jim to arrive, he’ll assign us to a section.”

“I must be crazed to agree to this,” Logan complained but ignored.

“I don’t see Simpson tonight.” Chance gave a moonlit nod towards the storehouse, “he’s usually sat there all through with his shotgun loaded and cursing the Chinese.”

“He’s probably at some meeting stirring up strife against them,” Logan suggested.

Chance gave an ironical huff.

“What was that for?” Logan asked.

“I was remembering when we were kids and your old man had us sit the night long with the sheep,” Chance cheerfully reminisced.

“Yea I remember; it was the time when the natives were steeling the lambs for tucker.”

“But it ended up not being the natives,” Chance corrected.

“No it was Ernie Gill from the butcher shop in town and selling on to our neighbours, Edward let it be because of his large family. Ernie left the district soon after but not before visiting Edward and paying what he could for the stolen lambs.

“We were at school with his Jamie,” Chance recalled.

“Smart kid if I recollect.”

“What more do you recollect about those nights watching the sheep?” Chance asked.

“Yes that as well,”

“Do you want to?”

“What here, you’d freeze your bum off,” Logan complained.

Chance reached across the small distance between them and felt Logan’s crotch, “you are ready,”

“No,”

“Your pizzle is,”

“Shh, someone’s coming.” It was Jim Harris, his gun resting across the crook of his arm.

“Quiet night boys;”

“It seems that way, I notice Simpson isn’t guarding his storehouse tonight,” Logan said.

“I saw him on his way into town earlier,”

“Not like him to leave his store unguarded,” Chance suggested.

“That is fact for certain.”

“What section tonight Jim?” Chance asked.

“We have a full complement so if you wish you can return to the warmth of your beds.”

“We may stay a while and enjoy the brisk air,”

“Goodnight then.”

As Harris departed down the hill Chance spoke, “almost caught that time.”

“You’re a randy little bugger Chance.”

“And you’re not?”

Logan laughed it away, “it’s my twenty-first birthday next month.”

“And mine the day after yours, what should we do to celebrate?”

“I thought we could take the coach to Melbourne and spend up at some swank hotel.”

“That sounds good,” Chance broke from the thought, “look someone is moving about down the side of Simpson’s store.” He pointed towards an obvious figure moving about in the shadows.

“It’s probably Harris,”

“No I saw Jim pass by and go towards town.”

At first the prowler was in shadows then his darken form bent towards the space under the timber building and appeared to be depositing something. Moments later there was a loud whooshing and the intruder stepped back into the moonlight before quickly hobbling away towards the rear of the building and the multitude of shafts and holes.

“I know who that is, I’d know that limp anywhere,” Chance with hurried breath announced.

“Who is it?”

“It’s old Charlie Bartlett; he worked for Simpson but was sacked a few weeks back. They said he had gone to Geelong,” Chance quickly lifted and commenced down the hill towards the developing arson attack, “come on we may be able to douse it before too much damage is done.”

Logan grabbed Chance by the arm and held him back, “no let it catch a little first.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Let it burn, it serves him right,” Logan growled.

“You do have a sadistic streak.”

“No, if I was religious, I would call it divine providence,” Logan answered.

“I don’t think old Charlie is a deity.”

The boys paused for but a matter of seconds before Logan’s sensibility surfaced, “you’re right come on we better attempt to put it out.”

By the time the bucket brigade arrived the building’s dry timber was well alight and what water they were able to apply to the flames turned to steam before reaching the seat of the fire.

It was Jim Harris who gave the warning as he quickly returned, running through the pits and tailings while waving his arms about like some madman, “Everybody away,” he shouted to those on the bucket brigade, “keep your distance, the store is filled with brandy and oil barrels, they could go up at any moment.” Those gathered soon moved back from the inferno. “Whoever set it knew the best place as it was right under the brandy barrels and that’s a certainty,” Harris continued while catching his breath from the run.

As those gathered moved across the wide road there was an explosion towards the rear of the building, sending many of the wooden shingles from its roof into the air to come crashing down for a hundred yards about like incendiary bombs. Some fell on the general store across the street but were soon extinguished, others on the adjoining stables. The boys quickly brought the horses out but could do nothing to save the livery stored inside, while behind the store a number of tents succumb to the falling shingles but fortunately no one was hurt.

Moments later a blustering Simpson arrived, firstly he ran up to the front door of the building but the heat from behind the door drove him back.

“Don’t be a fool!” Harris cried out as the power of the fire blew the door from its hinges and Simpson unceremoniously to his backside in the dirt of the road.

“Who did this?” Simpson loudly cried as he stepped back from the inferno, his entire body quivering with building rage, “Who did this,” he repeated with increasing force.

No one spoke.

“Who did this, the fucken’ Chinks?” Simpson enforced even louder.

“Should we tell him,” Chance whispered to Logan.

“Wait a while; I don’t like putting old Charlie in,” Logan quickly reacted.

“We can’t let them blame the Chinks.”

“Just wait and see where it leads.”

Simpson was beyond rage and went from one to the other.

“Who did it?” He kept repeating like a madman while wrath frothed at his mouth.

“You must have seen something?” the man shouted loudly.

“You were supposed to prevent this?” Simpson demanded of those present but no one spoke.

“Bloody useless the lot of you!” he shouted.

“Bloody useless I tell you!”

“Useless, useless useless;” the reality of it all commenced to hit as his voice trailed off to but a whisper.

Still no one replied;

Eventually Simpson came to Jim Harris.

“Mr. Harris you were responsible for the nightwatch, you should have been keeping an eye on the Chinks.” Simpson found new voice and shouted into the man’s face from but a hand’s breadth, spraying him with spittle. Harris quietly stood his ground, his eyes closed against the spit.

“Possibly Mister Simpson if you offered to pay the men, then it wouldn’t need to be voluntary and we could have more that the half dozen or so we could muster,” Harris quietly explained.

“The fucken’ Chinks!” Simpson again shouted while rubbing the heat from his balding crown.

“Who said it was the Chinks?” Harris answered.

“Has to be, who else would do this?”

“It is said you were one of those who burnt down their joss house Mr. Simpson.”

Simpson ignored Jim Harris’ suggestion, “who is with me let’s burn the yellow buggers out!”

None there answered, instead commenced to drift away as the police arrived.

“As for you lot, you always arrive late, what are you going to do about it?” Simpson accused the establishment.

The leading constable sat Simpson on a barrel outside the general store. Someone brought him brandy, others showed false sympathy while the man spiralled into delayed shock and shook violently spilling his measure of brandy. He took the container with both hands and quickly consumed the contents: Then a second.

As Simpson settled into despair and realisation he was ruined, Logan approached Jim Harris. “I can’t say I’m sorry,” Harris admitted.

“Yes he did have it coming,” Logan agreed.

“You can guess the outcome of this, by tomorrow night there will be hell to pay in China Town.” Harris appeared concerned as he had an indulgence toward opium and before the den in China Town was set alight, he often frequented the establishment.

“What if I was to say it wasn’t the Chinks?” Logan suggested.

“Who else could it have been?”

“In my mind it could have been almost anyone along the Eureka Lead.”

“True Logan but -,” Harris took a deep breath as the constable lead Simpson away towards town and temporary lodgings in some hotel.

“We did see who lit the fire,” Logan quietly admitted.

“Who?”

“It was old Charlie Bartlett who worked for Simpson until a month back, Chance recognised him as he set the fire.” Logan reluctantly offered.

“It was dark and you were at distance, how can you be sure?”

“I’d know Charlie’s limp from any distance,” Chance assured.

“Divine retribution I’d say but the law.”

Harris wasn’t please with what he heard as Charlie, although somewhat simple of mind, was well liked around the Lead and now he would have to relate the information further.

“I’d forget about it Jim,” Logan said.

“Love to lad but if I do it will be the Chinks that cop it, better Charlie goes down for the fire that a dozen or more Chinese.”

“Well I’ll leave you with it. I would love to be around when you tell Simpson.” Logan gave a cheeky smile.

“Nope, I’ll hand it on to the authorities but you will be approached to relate what you witnessed.”

It was almost dawn before the last of those gathered at the fire returned home. Jim Harris walked part of the way with the boys and was mulling over what he heard about Charlie Bartlett. A greater part of him wished to forget the matter but his civil minded attitude could not allow him to do so. He was the one who suggested and ran the surveillance and could not allow the blame to fall on the Chinese.

“Then I guess it is goodnight,” Harris said as they departed company.

“Good morning I would say,” Logan corrected.

“Than good morning, I will speak to the police once I’ve had a couple of hour’s kip.” Harris gave a yawn and stretched the long night from his back, “do you have any problem relating what you witnessed?” he asked of Chance.

“No we both saw him set the fire.” Chance answered.

“Then be it so, I will relate the matter and get back to you later.”

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