Published: 24 Dec 2020

It was dusk before the Bass Strait finally reached the port of Geelong and because of lack of dock hands and space, would need to wait to the morning before unloading. Captain Toft was somewhat peeved with the delay and grumbled excessively as he cast his eyes across the busy port. He called Logan to join him. “Didn’t you say you missed travelling on the Roslyn?” he asked and pointed to what was a converted convict ship of great age hove-to at some distance beyond Corio Bay and obviously detached from other vessels.

“That I did,” Logan agreed.

“As well lad,”

“Why is that so Mr. Toft?”

“Semaphore?”

Logan not understanding the meaning questioned the captain.

“Semaphore, see the flag flying from the jackstaff?”

“I can,”

“What is its colour?”

“Yellow I guess,”

“It is often called the yellow jack and that would have been the warning shout from the Enterprize.” The captain was toying with Logan.

“I don’t understand,” Logan answered.

“Cholera lad, you’re complaining about disembarking tomorrow, if you came with the Roslyn you would not being doing so for a couple of weeks – if at all.”

“Oh,”

“Possibly the god who looks after shepherds’ is looking out for you but the bugger who looks after my schedule must have taking a flaming holiday.”

Chance came on deck to join with them.

“Another young shepherd,” The captain spoke.

“No sir, the son of a brewer.”

“A worthy occupation, concierge to beggars, buggers, whores and thieves.”

“As well as gentlemen I should hope,” Chance rectified.

“Yes them as well – what are your intentions?”

“Try our fortune on the goldfields” Logan’s answer was becoming less confident the closer they came to the goldfields but he kept his exuberance high for the sake of Chance.

“Then I wish you luck, as now I have more passengers returning to Sydney that coming from.”

“But what I hear there is so much gold one simply needs to bend the back to find it.”Chance questioned while parroting what he had read in the Sydney Gazette some time previously.

“Was a year or so back lad and there is plenty more to be had but each month you need to dig deeper and search further to get it,” the captain gave a laugh, “dig all the way to the flaming Orient and Christ knows there is enough of the little yellow buggers out here now, without giving them a porthole to crawl through.”

Once the boy’s obligation on the Bass Strait had been obliged they went ashore to find an inn and become acquainted with their surroundings before heading out for Ballarat. The town of Geelong gave impression it was somewhat transient with people arriving and departing daily but there was a permanent population of over twenty thousand, being the fourth community in size on the southern continent.

Although Melbourne was more populous with more than forty thousand and growing with each ship arrival, there was much competition between the two cities. Melbourne had the better port at the head of the bay at a distance of thirty miles, while Geelong was closer to Ballarat and the goldfields with a more gradient of country to manage between. Being so didn’t dissuade business in Melbourne from distributing bogus maps showing Melbourne to be closer to Ballarat, as far as having them issued as folk boarded ships in Sydney or Adelaide and to passengers from distant lands progressing through other ports.

Asking for directions at the docks it was suggested the Woolpack Inn on Corio Terrace would suit requirements as it was a relatively new establishment that hadn’t had time to become a louse infected fleapit, as were many dotted around the harbour front and into the town proper.

On reaching the suggested hotel they noticed it was a sturdy bluestone structure with the name Mack’s Hotel proudly embossed above the main door. Mack’s had replaced a slab structure only a year previously but the old name of Woolpack Inn still held fancy with the locals.

Once inside the hotel was clean but conservative with a good number of rooms, with a bar of some proportion to one side and a gentlemen’s lounge beyond. It also boasted what appeared to be a well appointed dining room and bathing facilities but as an extra charge other than the room.

“What do you think?” Logan asked on entry.

“Looks expensive,” Chance answered, he being the usual pessimist when it came to money.

“We can afford it, so why not have a little luxury.”

Chance gave an uncertain nod of the head.

“What’s wrong with it?” Logan demanded as he pushed forward towards the desk.

“Nothing, only I don’t like spending your money.”

“We would like a room,” Logan spoke to the clerk as he quickly surveyed the hotel’s lobby with a glance.

“For how many sir?”

“Just us two,” Logan cheekily looked about while pretending to count his company, “yes that’s correct, for two,” he confirmed.

“We are almost full you will have to share a bed.”

“I’m sure we could manage that,” Logan gave Chance a grin that didn’t go unnoticed by the clerk.

“This is a good clean establishment,” The clerk suggested.

“As are we, or will be once we have had the opportunity to bathe and wash away the salt spray.”

“Bathing facilities are extra and must not be used past seven at night or before eight in the morning;” the clerk paused the registration, “and you will need to pay in advance – how many nights sir?”

“Don’t rightly know as yet; make it three for a start.”

“Also no female acquaintances in the rooms after eight, drinking must be kept to the bar and gentlemen’s lounge and all breakages must be paid for,” the clerk sternly added.

“I believe we can hold to that,” Logan agreed.

Once settled and in the bar the boys came across a scruffy fellow, his hair receding to the crown of his head while long behind and supporting a strange beard that neither crossed above his lip or covered his chin. He was tall well in excess of six feet, dress more like a native than a white man but his attire was for the telling of his story than from convention. The stranger was conveying a lengthy story to a small selection of patrons, while they quietly sat around sipping drinks and appearing most interested in his account of living for many years with the natives.

After ordering drinks the boys settled to listen, “what’s the old feller’ on about?” Chance asked the closest in the audience.

“He is William Buckley and for a small offering is telling his story of life with the blacks before white settlement.”

“Hey Logan, Buckley was Uncle Edwards name, do you think they were related?”

“That I doubt.”

“You never know, he said he was once a convict as was Edward.”

“I should think two people with the same name more a coincidence rather than family,” Logan replied.

The man had been an escaped convict from Sydney’s failed attempt to make settlement on the eastern side of the great bay almost a quarter of a century earlier. The settlement had been a hurried affair and not well thought out, while arranged because French ships had been sighted in the strait and there was fear of French settlement.

Soon after Buckley’s escape he attempted to walk to Sydney but lacking directional aptitude had travelled in a northerly direction, confident he would eventually reach his destination by following the shoreline. What Buckley had not considered, he was on the inside of a large circular bay therefore he may have started out in a northerly direction but had failed to allow for the western turn, nor again as it turned to the south once he reached the western side. Eventually he arrived opposite to where he had set out and in sight of the settlement he escaped from and close to the mouth of the bay. One other important factor being the shoreline, if he was walking north the water should have been east and on his right not the reverse.

By Buckley’s arrival on the western shore of the bay and now feeling somewhat isolated, he found the settlement in the throws of being evacuated, leaving him in quandary what he should do. The distance across the narrows was much too excessive to swim and if using a canoe of sorts, he would have been swept out to sea by the strong riptide or up the bay on the incoming. He had attempted to draw attention with smoke and energetically waving as a small ship took away the first of the settlers but again the distance was great and those on the ship simply waved back believing him to be a native with a friendly attitude.

Eventually Buckley met up with the Wadawurrung people who considered him the reincarnation of an Ngurundaeta or headman.

What had saved Buckley was he removed a spear that marked the grave of a native and the deceased man’s family recognising the spear, believed Buckley to be the spirit of the departed returned. After being accepted by the Wadawurrung he had taken a woman within the tribe and by his account sired a daughter.

Often during his rendition of life with the natives, the man would break into native language as living with them for so many years he had all but forgotten some English. It appeared he no longer lived on the mainland but in Tasmania, now the popular title for Van Diemen’s Land and was returning there once he had earned the fare by busking with his story.

Once the man had completed his telling he removed what appeared to be a possum skin hat and passed it around the audience, some placed a coin within but in the most he was ignored as the patrons returned to their drinking and previous conversations. He then departed company to try his luck at another hotel.

“What next?” Chance asked realising they had not thought through their little adventure to any extent and were designing their progress almost by the hour.

“In what way?”

“How do we get to the goldfields?”

“Buy horses or walk I guess,” Logan brought a scrap of paper from his pocket; “I have a map.”

“Where did you get it?”

“A fellow on the ship sold it to me for sixpence,” Logan spread the map flat as they stared blankly at its rough design.

“Well,” Chance commented.

“Well what?”

“It isn’t very instructive,” Chance complained.

“True but it shows the road north-west and the villages or hamlets along the way.”

“Yes but they appear to be mostly on the road from Melbourne and not from Geelong.”

“Umm,” Logan replied and scratched at his head.

“We will need to buy equipment,” Chance added to what was fast becoming a problem and one they had not visited while planning their travel.

“I should think there would be many merchants in town who can supply us with the necessities,” Logan assumed without appearing convincing.

“How far is it to Ballarat?”

“I was told around fifty miles and a few more,” Logan admitted. He pointed to Geelong on the map then to Ballarat. “There to there,” he said with confidence.

“It sounds easier when you say it, besides by your map it appears that Melbourne is closer.” Chance used his thumb to measure the exaggerated distance on the map.

“I guess it is an elusion.”

“Possibly we should have gone to Melbourne,” Chance suggested.

“We are here now and can’t do much about that.”

“True, we should sleep on it and see what the morning brings.”

Logan gave a smile, “I like that idea,” he answered with a wink.

Once in their room Chance approached the bed and examined its comfort, “you know something,” he said releasing a cheeky grin.

“What?”

“This will be the first time we have spent a night together in the same bed.”

“What about when on the ship?”

“I wouldn’t count that.”

“True,”

“This time it will be skin to skin.”

“I also like that idea,” Logan again agreed.

With the new morning it was easy to find the providers of mining and fossicking equipment as they were numerous; also those who were returning from the goldfields without success, hawking their equipment in order to purchase passage back to Sydney or beyond.

On finding a store the boys were quickly warned away by a returning miner with near new equipment. He called to the boys as they took a final step towards the shop’s entrance.

“Hey ya’ looking for panning equipment young fellow?” The lean man with many days growth upon his chin asked as he gently took Logan’s arm to prevent his advance.

“Could be,” Logan answered and stepped aside from the doorway.

“Going cheap,” the man assured and pointed to a hand cart parked on the dusty road in front of the adjoining establishment. The boys followed towards the cart.

“Got a licence yet?” the man asked.

“What licence?”

“You need a miner’s right to dig for gold, cost ya’ a pound and if you can’t produce it at any time, day or night and no matter where your happen to be, the wallopers will be having ya’.”

The boys gave each other a confused glance.

“You can have the lot cart and all for five quid.”

It was then the boys realised they were well out of depth and their dream of picking up a fortune in a day to return home wealthy was possibly not as easy as they had envisaged.

“So what do you reckon; the lot for a fiver cart and all.”

“I need to think about it.”

“Come on four pound ten, I can’t be any farer than that.”

“What do you think?” Chance gave Logan an enthusiastic shove to the arm. Logan was tempted but something was holding him back. After so much time spent in planning, thinking of golden pockets and adventure, now it came to the fact he wasn’t so sure and was beginning to believe they may have made a bad decision.

Logan pulled Chance aside.

“Let’s simply look around today and get a feel for it all and I have to pass something by you,” Logan returned to the failed fossicker, “I must apologise but we’re not ready to purchase as yet but I would like to know where we could purchase a miner’s right.”

“The magistrates court or the crown land office but I give warning you will not get a better price anywhere between here and Ballarat than what I am offering.”

“Again I thank you sir but not at the present,” Logan apologised.

“At least give a fella’ a shilling to buy a meal.”

Logan obliged and gave up a shilling.

“Tis’ kind of ya’ at least,” Grumbling excessively the failed miner move away with his cart and without a sale but in gratitude for the shilling he instead issued a warning. “My advice to you boys is turn about, take the next ship back to wherever you came from and give up dreaming of gold. It will ruin you and that’s a certainty.” He then moved on in hope to offload his belongings elsewhere.

“What are you thinking?” Chance asked as he followed Logan away from the Mining Emporium, its proprietor standing arms akimbo at the door, his features deeply scowled while contemplating a failed sale.

“This mining adventure, I’m no longer sure.”

“Why is that?” Chance asked.

“Do you know what gold looks like?”

“It’s yellow and heavy.”

“There lays our folly we are chasing something we know very little about or how to find it.” Logan took a deep sigh, “have you heard of iron pyrites?”

“No what’s that?”

“Fool’s gold and I should think neither of us would know the difference.”

“We will learn?”

“Did you know Uncle Edward and my father made their fortune from gold found on Elsie Downs?”

“You have never mentioned so,” Chance admitted.

“Yes it was in the days when the authorities feared a gold rush because of the convicts but Edward being associated with the Governor arranged its sale secretly through a third party.”

“Then you should know all about mining it,” Chance’s hopes began to gather.”

“It was worked out long before I was born, I never saw a nugget but mother’s wedding ring was made from what they found and Hamish now has it.”

“So are you suggesting we give up and go home with out tales between our legs?”

“Definitely not,”

“Then what?”

“Why not get the miner’s right the fellow spoke off and advance to Ballarat and get a feeling of the goldfield first, I am sure we can buy equipment once there, besides there must be others prepared to sell instead of pushing their barrow back to Geelong.”

“What of this miner’s right, it’s the first I’ve heard of it.” Chance questioned.

“I as well but let’s leave it until tomorrow, today we’ll explore Geelong.”

Finding the magistrate’s court was as easy as following the foot traffic as new arrivals lined along the dusty street outside to purchase their licence. The boys joined the line as it slowly advanced towards the heavy timber doors of the small bluestone building. At intervals the doors opened and a clerk of the court allowed a small number to advance, done as often the line became rowdy and heated, so the fewer inside at any given moment the less likely for pushing and showing of bad temper.

There was sound rationality for issuing miners rights other than raising money, that being by making the fee excessive, it would dissuade the general public from downing tools and leaving for the goldfields but the subtlety of such a thought was lost on simple folk, instead it was taken as a front against their rights.

It was said the streets of Melbourne were almost empty and the landed class had to do their own laundry and cooking, even the nightcarts were absent from the streets and nightsoil either had to be buried on property or tossed onto the roads, attracting all kinds of vermin and causing life threatening diseases. Now a gong-farmer, a terminology past down through the centuries and reborn, could earn more than a magistrate and his low position rose through the ranks of importance but not in status.

Eventually it was the boys turn to enter through the heavy doors and once inside instructed to wait their turn behind a chalk line drawn across the wooden floorboards. The line having to be renewed periodically by the clerk as the foot traffic wore it away. Before the chalk line at his desk sat a most disgruntle official and well guarded by an armed member of the second division of the twelfth regiment of foot, neither appeared ready for frivolity.

In the line ahead an altercation erupted and a tirade of what sounded like Italian broke the quiet of the room.

“What do you call this?” The official demanded as Logan cranked his head around the queue to ascertain what the dispute was about.

More foreign language rose from the front of the line.

“The licence fee is one pound and no foreign money,” the official demanded.

The man became persistent and in broken English assured what he tendered had a higher value than what was required or anything that was issued by the crown.

“One pound or leave the line.”

More foreign speak and louder as the guard stepped forward and escorted the foreigner from the building. For a moment quiet then the official lifted from his chair and spoke, “if there is anyone else with anything but coin of the realm then leave now, the rest of you quiet please, or I will close down the morning’s session.”

No one else moved or spoke.

In turn Logan stepped forward with Chance close by his side. The official gestured for Chance to move back.

“Name,” the official demanded as he dipped the nib of his pen into ink – it hovered in silent anticipation above a blank certificate.

“Logan McGregor and Chance Wilcox,” Logan politely offered.

“Either or, you can not be two people.”

“No it is for us both we are to be partners.”

“One person, one ticket,”

“Then I will be the miner and Chance my employee.”

“One person, one ticket or leave the line.” The official sharply replied as the soldier again lost his static posture and brought his weapon into play. Logan quickly agreed to the clerk’s demand and once payment was made for two licences they were quickly ushered to the rear door.

“Umm,” Chance sounded towards the price of the licence fee.

“Why the umm?”

“We better find pay dirt or it will be a very expensive exercise.”

“Are you having second thoughts?” Logan asked.

“Not so much second thought, I would say more overwhelmed by authority.”

“I asked at the hotel desk this morning about purchasing horses,” Logan said as they paused in front of the last business premises along that road. Next was a bush track with a number of rudimentary dwellings. Off in the distance was the obvious design of a native camp, with a number of young children at play while their mothers sat about in the dust working on what appeared to be fishing nets.

“What did he suggest?”

“He simply laughed and said good luck.”

“So it will be walking,”

“He suggested to contact an Edward Devine who runs a coach service but warned it was only twice weekly and always fully booked and if there has been a simple rain storm the track would become unpassable for days.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the approach of a man leading an aboriginal youth whose hands were secured behind and a length of rope fastened around his neck, the rough hemp of the rudimentary noose was obviously biting into the tender flesh beneath.

Chance stood gaping as they came close.

“What are you fucken’ looking at,” The man cursed through two rows of rotten teeth, his breath and body odour most pungent even at five paces. Chance turned away until the stranger had passed but couldn’t resist enquiry.

“What’s he done to deserve being tied like some dog?” Chance called out.

“I caught him steeling my chickens; I’m taking him to the magistrate to have him hanged.”

“For taking a couple of scrawny chickens?”

“If it were left to me I’d hang the bloody lot,” the stranger called back and without further continued towards town dragging the lad behind.

“Don’t interfere,” Logan warned.

“He should be prevented,”

“For what I’ve noticed there is little law down here and the mob rule is somewhat prejudice against blacks,” Logan nodded to the milling crowd outside the magistrate’s office, “and by the mood of that lot I think there will be a riot before too long.”

As Logan spoke group of Chinese passed by on the opposite side of the road huddled in close formation, while holding their concentration to their passage as not to draw attention but obscurity was somewhat impossible, with their Manchurian cues bobbing about like angry serpent, their shuffled feet and foreign dress but beacons for abuse.

“There appear to be a number of Orientals in town?” Logan curiously observed.

Although Logan had never encountered anyone from China he had seen pictures of them in a book Edward had in his small library at Elsie Downs. Bringing to mind the text beneath an engraving of a most frightening character with warning to beware of the hordes of yellow peril and their greed for gold and once given entry would populate at the speed of rabbits.

There were also a number of pages in Edward’s book on the strange habits of the Orient, how they bound women’s feet at an early age, consumed the flesh of dogs and snakes and other wild beasts and made medicine from tiger’s pizzle and rhinoceros horn, to mention but a few from the long list of horrors.

As the band of Orientals hurried along a small boy, with encouragement from his father, collected a stone from the road and with limited strength hurled it at the group; it harmlessly bounced off the back of the last but the man continued without complaint. “Chinky Chinky Chow,” the boy called after the group yet they continued without response while the lad was encouraged further by his father.

Again a stone was thrown by the lad, again it bounced off the back of the same man but this time he turned and issued a long high pitched sentence in mandarin. The group watching the episode laughed as the Chinese entered into a building marked by a line of Chinese characters above the entrance their representation being totally alien to the onlookers.

“Lunch,” Logan suggested attempting to dissolve displeasure arriving from the lack of humanity that he had encountered in the space of one morning.

“Good idea.”

“There is a Chinese eatery down the road that appears clean.”

“Funny that.” Chance commented.

“I don’t see the humour,”

“That lot hate the Chinese but don’t think twice about eating at their establishments.”

“Got-ya’ but you must admit they are a little scary when they get about in groups,” Logan answered.

“I would say different,” Chance corrected.

“Different, yes that is a better word; come on it will be Chow for lunch.”

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