Published: 29 Apr 2021

Arriving in Melbourne the coach driver went directly to the constabulary to report the hold up. In turn they all gave their account of what they had experienced but Chance wasn’t forthcoming with his belief he may know their leader. One of the women could only account they were brutes, while the gentleman who lost his watch and chain was more precise.

Once the boys were away from the police, Chance showed concern. “Did you take notice of what information the driver offered?” he asked while hailing a carriage for their hotel.

“I wasn’t listening, why?”

“His recollection appeared not only sketchy but incorrect, he said the leader was a short man of middle age and Virgil was portly, while in fact the leader was almost six feet and slender, while Virgil was also tall and slender.”

“Umm, why would he say that?”

“At one time I thought I saw the driver speak to Virgil.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“It’s only a thought but possibly the coach driver was in on the hold up.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Same reason why I didn’t acknowledge the opinion I may know the leader, besides a feeling of knowledge wouldn’t be of much use without a name.”

“Again as well,”

“Where to?” the driver roughly demanded as he paused his carriage.

“The Victoria Hotel – in Little Collins Street,” Logan instructed while retrieving his money pouch from their luggage.

“I know where it is,” the driver cut sarcastically.

The boys entered the cab. Its leather seats were shabby and the interior appeared as if it hadn’t been cleaned since conception.

“What is it with these chums always assuming I don’t know my way?” the cabbie muttered, “get along with ya’,” he cracked his whip above the horse; it tossed its head and pulled away with a jerking motion, almost throwing the boys to the cab’s floor.

“It’s a little rough down there!” Chance called through the cab’s peep hole.

“It’s the blooming roads,” the cabbie complained as they headed down Russell Street, turned into Bourke and a second turn into Swanston Street bringing Logan to make further comment.

“I thought you said you knew the way,”

“There is a hole in the road the top end of Little Collins you could lose a bullock dray in, been that way all month.”

“Alright,” Logan acknowledged then settled into the ride as the driver continued with his complaining.

“Flaming new chums,” he repeated.

“A man can’t do his flaming work without interference.”

“What’s the flaming world coming to.”

The driver turned into Little Collins when a stray dog ran across the road shying the horse, the coach lunged and bucked then settled back.

“Flaming mongrel dog,” the driver called through the peep hole, “almost there,”

“As well,” Logan complained as the cab arrived at destination. Logan paid the driver but no tip. The driver scrutinised the payment then back to Logan with a glare that could melt butter.

“No tip,” Logan admitted, “maybe next time you will curb your tongue a little.”

The Victoria Hotel stood like a shiny penny amongst its neighbours and the unpaved street. It had only opened the previous month, while its exterior remained a building site but once inside it glittered like a gem in a coronet, having the plushest of carpets, best imported timbers and candelabras of crystal glass and by report imported at much expense from France.

Logan had booked their stay through the coaching office in Ballarat after reading about the Victoria’s grand design from the local newspaper and on approaching the desk received the respect of visiting dignities.

“Will sir be wishing a room with a bath?”

“That would be nice,”

“Single rooms?” the question came with a slight smile from the young clerk.

“As booked, one would be fine,” Logan answered while signing the register.

“Beds?” the clerk softly asked with a sarcastic overtone.

“Yes we will need beds,” Logan made light.

“We have a room with a double bed if sir wishes,” the clerk offered as it was quite normal for travelling men to share a bed without suspicion but the offer appeared to come with a measure of implication.

“What do you think Chance?” Logan was playing. Chance’s face turned a bright crimson as Logan continued his sport with the obviously suggestive clerk, “I should think a room with two single beds would be fine.”

“That will be room twenty-seven, at the end of the landing on the second floor, it has a view and you can see the pool of Melbourne also the rail crossing over the river.” The clerk offered the key while giving a light touch to Logan’s hand in doing so. Logan gave a cheeky smile.

“Your first visit,” the clerk looked down to the ledger, “Mr. McGregor?”

“To this hotel – yes.”

Chance realised Logan’s game with the young man and gave him a jab in the side.

“What?” Logan said.

“Can we get a meal in the hotel at this time of night?” Chance asked taking the heat out of the exchange.

The clerk kept his eyes on Logan as he gave his answer, “the hotel kitchen is closed but there is a Chinese eatery but a hundred yards up the street to the east that is reasonably clean.”

As Logan accepted the room key the clerk rang a small bell and a lad of no more than twelve materialized from the curtained shadows between the lobby and the smoking room. Without asking he collected the bags and struggled while waiting for instructions.

“Room twenty-seven,” the clerk snapped his fingers and pointed towards the stairs without making eye contact with the lad.

Logan passed the room key back to the clerk, “we’ll leave the key here at the desk and try that eatery you suggested.”

Once outside Chance spoke, “You were teasing that poor young fellow at the desk.”

“Well he was being a little obvious so why not.”

“He was at that and fancied you.”

“I can’t help it if I’m such a handsome bloke.”

“And for the second time in one day,” Chance pretended to be excluded. It wasn’t that Logan was more handsome than Chance but he did have what was called magnetism. It was his eyes they drew a person into their deep blue depth, so deep and dangerous, giving thought that forbidden mystery lurked there. The effect couldn’t be analysed in mere words and it had been that way since he was a young boy. As for Chance if one was to take a pencil, a scrap of paper and jot down the visual statistics of both boys one would have to conclude it was Chance who was the most handsome.

“Second time you say?”

“Yes the bushranger,”

“That was more a threat than an offer.”

“Yet it was you he fancied,”

“In my mind it was more because of my cheeky attitude towards him,” Logan summarised.

“Do you think he was?”

“Was what Chance?”

“You know,”

“You could never say that word could you? Come on here’s the Chow eatery.”

They entered.

“It’s not that.”

“The word is sodomite, or arse bandit or, -”

“Alright I get your point,” Chance snapped.

A small Chinese man, his back bent so badly he couldn’t stand straight, came quickly as they entered, guiding them to a table before they could change their mind.

The boys sat.

“Chance,” Logan softly spoke.

“Yes,”

“I’m sorry, I spoke out of turn.”

It was past ten in the morning before the boys were ready to explore what was new about town, once in the lobby they were again met by their over exuberant desk clerk. “Good morning Mr. McGregor, I trust you had a pleasant night.”

“Mr. Wilcox,” Logan answered.

The clerk appeared confused.

“My associate is Mr. Wilcox, he does exist you know.”

The clerk took on a confronted expression.

“It doesn’t matter; we will be out enjoying what the town has to offer – good morning.” Without offering more Logan guided Chance out.

“What was that about?” Chance asked.

“I thought it best to put him off before he became insufferable.”

“I see your point.”

It was true the desk clerk was somewhat free with his eyes, as he was with his innuendoes but obviously quite harmless.

Chance became quite animated as they ambled along the street towards the river.

“You appear somewhat merry there Mr. Wilcox.”

“It’s your birthday – twenty-one at last.”

“And your’s tomorrow – what would you like?”

“Being here with you is enough for me.”

“Oh how sweet,” Logan laughed, “I should give you a big birthday kiss right here and now.”

“Don’t you dare!”

Logan laughed even louder and pushed Chance at the shoulder, “I do have something for you.”

“You do? I haven’t had the opportunity to get you anything.”

“No matter but it is for us both, the Queens Theatre Royal opened recently and I bought tickets when booking our coach and for tonight.”

“I’ve never been to the theatre,”

“Nor have I,”

“What is in the programme?”

“In the most I’m not sure. I believe some jugglers and things like what you see during our fairs back home and -,”

“And?”

“The singer you read about coming to Melbourne.”

“Catherine Hayes?”

“That’s her,”

“Ow,”

“And,” Logan continued.

“More?”

“Yes Lola Montez, she arrived here in Melbourne only yesterday and is performing for two nights before touring the goldfields.”

“The spider dance,”

“The very one.”

“I read her dance is very provocative, she shows her knees and higher as she dances a dance that is to displace imaginary spiders from her underwear.”

“Are you interested in what is below ladies underwear Mr. Wilcox?” Logan teased.

“As much as you but it will be entertaining.”

The boys came to the river and followed along its bank past the customs house towards the railway station and shunting yards in Flinders Street.

“I thought we may take a train ride,” Logan suggested.

“Where to?”

“Sandridge, the station is on Railway Peer with the ships lined on either side.”

“I like that idea but what I remember from our first visit the train broke down almost every day.”

“Not now as the new engines arrived last December from England. Newcastle made and the best you can find, or that is how it was written in the Age.”

In truth Robert Stephenson and company was almost the only engine works in the world but it was reported that countries everywhere were quickly taking to the iron tracks.

Two and a half miles it was from Flinders Street to Railway Peer and the speed of travel wasn’t much faster than a horse’s trot. The viaduct crossed the Yarra River a little before the turning pool and over a trestle bridge while approaching the less settle south and the swampy area that stretched inland towards the settlement of Saint Kilda, with that of Brighton a village further along the wide sweep of the bay at a half day coach trip to the south

It was a pleasant ride, if not sooty and somewhat shaky and when the wind came from the front the soot and steam covered the passengers in the open carriages behind the engine presenting an eye-stinging experience. Although the train could be well beaten by a pacing horse, it could carry more goods and people from port to city than a hundred wagons and fast proving its worth.

Fifteen minutes later after a stop for more passengers at Emerald Hill, the train came to the sandy foreshore and onto the peer, stopping half way along its length. Once on the peer the boys marvelled at the tall ships that were lined along each side, two being the newly designed Clippers for the tea run from China to England. Now it was to be wool from Melbourne to the Liverpool mills.

One of the ships was sail and steam but seeing it couldn’t hold enough coal for the entire trip the steam drive was only for times when caught without wind or manoeuvring along estuaries. There was also a number of steam ferries that crossed Hobson’s Bay to Williamstown, and south to Brighton or even as far as Geelong but that was more than a half day’s travelling, with the return the following day.

It was time for the return journey but Logan thought it would be an experience to take the coach service to Saint Kilda, before returning along the fish track that ran from the city all the way down the long peninsular, designed to bring fish to the city market, as the Yarra River and water around the port was so polluted it was advisable not to eat the fish caught there, while only the very poor and brave did so.

The trip to Saint Kilda followed the bay around a wide sweep of sand beaches with coastal grass and was a most pleasant journey. Firstly travelling along the swampy area where water birds were in numbers then on to the developing village of Saint Kilda, becoming popular for day tours with the well-to-do from Melbourne.

Arriving at St Kilda there would be afternoon tea at the many tea houses, or promenading along the foreshore towards the bluff of red land known by the local natives as Euro-Yroke. Here folk would pay homage to those who had succumbed to typhoid from the ship Glen Huntly and buried on the bluff, their graves marked but unnamed, or picnic on the bluff and watch the ships in full sail as they made their way up the bay towards port or those leaving for distant shores. A common entertainment with those gathered being to guess their destination and relate stories about such lands.

On the boys return to the city the coach paused near a small waterhole and a line of ancient eucalyptus trees where a number of aborigines were busy preparing for some traditional ceremony. It was now late in the afternoon with the setting sun accentuating their ochre and white body markings, their skin toning beneath the painted designs seemed to disappear with the fading light. Some were completely naked, some had trousers to the knees, others a platting of swamp grass around their slender waists. A woman in the coach gasped and quickly turned from the nakedness while fanning the heat from her cheeks but the boys found it most entertaining.

“Those trees are said to be sacred,” the driver called into the cab of the coach, “there are only four now, there were seven but three were fell for the timber by a local builder,” his voice carried neither sorrow nor guilt and spoken as matter of fact without the slightest empathy.

During the return to the city it was noticed there was a more than usual presence of mounted police along the fish track. When questioned the driver related there had been bushrangers working in the vicinity and only that morning the down coach had been bailed-up and two gentlemen on their way to the Saint Kilda horse races were relieved of a substantial amount of money and valuables. Sometimes bushrangers even worked in Melbourne itself but generally there it was pickpockets that were the most prevalent.

Once back at the hotel there was but enough time to refresh and change clothes before their evening meal and visit to the theatre. On leaving the lobby it was noticed their inquisitive desk clerk was once again on duty, now lacking in the forwardness he had earlier displayed but Logan reneged his previous attitude while feeling sorry for him, giving a polite smile and a good evening. The clerk brightened but refrained from displaying his previous suggestive attitude.

The Queens Theatre Royal was at the junction of Queen and Bourke Streets and most improved on the cities older venue the Royal Pavilion, which had been a ramshackle wooden structure and considered a fire trap, whose roof leaked and it was said people often opened umbrellas if it rained during the programme. It was also considered to be a den of pickpockets and patronized by the lesser class but once the Theatre Royal opened the Pavilion became less frequented, eventually loosing its licence.

As it was a special occasion Logan had purchased tickets in the dress circle at seven shillings each, in the pit and galleries it was but sixpence or to the front and closest to the action, a shilling. There were three tiers of dress circle balconies and boxes rising high above the unwashed masses, who even during the more serious productions were quite rowdy and often displayed their boredom or displeasure with loud hissing and the occasional hurling of overripe fruit.

The theatre also lacked convinces and if one needed to use the toilet during the performance it would be necessary to leave the theatre for the adjacent hotel or the laneway beside the theatre. If the weather outside was inclement, or the performance interesting, many male partons would simply relieve their bladders onto the timber flooring and if they were in the dress circle it would often soak thought and drip on those below.

The lighting in the theatre was most inadequate and with the continuous smoking from patrons the air was thick and often opaque. This night the entertainment commenced with a presentation of The Double Bedroom, followed by a comic who made much entertainment at the Governor’s expense.

Bring on Lola lifted from the stalls once the comic had concluded his run and left the stage but before Lola Montez performed they were serenaded by the sweet voice of Catherine Hayes, the Irish nightingale. This night her voice was somewhat lacking as she had caught a slight chill during the voyage from America, even so her singing was most appreciated by the audience while respecting her with almost quiet.

At last Lola Montez was given the stage and dressed more as a Spanish Flamenco dancer she commenced her performance to the cheers and whooping from the stalls and drumming of feet on the timber floor of the lower dress circle. Her short provocative red dress above the knees displayed more leg than any red-blooded heterosexual man would encounter except in a brothel or a bridal bedroom, while she played castanets and whirled about, allowing her dress to rise above the many petticoats. As she danced and kicked up her legs she lifted the dress and sensually touched her legs and flicked about the petticoats to dislodge imaginary spiders.

With Miss Montez’s performance at an end she stomped on those imaginary spiders and with a whirl and dance she left the stage, her castanets still clicking in time with the blood heating music.

“More, more,” lifted from those closest to the stage as the air filled with whistles and catcalls but Miss Montez had only performed that night as a precursor to her main event in Ballarat the following week and once gone from the stage she was replaced by a bush poet with a rendition of the shepherd’s lament, he lasted but one verse before receiving a heavy volley of overripe tomatoes.

“What did you think of that?” Logan asked Chance once they departed from the night’s entertainment.

“I liked the way she danced, it was quite provocative.”

“So it got your blood pumping.” Logan suggested.

“Upwards, not downwards but I did like the poet until he was booed off stage.”

“Back home tomorrow, if you liked Miss Montez maybe you can see her again when she performs in Ballarat next week.”

“I think once was enough,” Chance admitted,

“Come on lets go for a beer and we have to be up early for our connection.”

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