The Gold Seekers (39 page)

“We’ll turn in now, sir,” Angus Broome said. He paused to damp down the last flickering embers of the fire and then gestured to his brother. “Lachie’s almost asleep on his feet, aren’t you, kid? But it’s Sunday tomorrow. We’ll go into the township and mail a letter to Pa, to tell him we’re coming home. Then it won’t be such a shock to him when we show up as men of substance, in the market for grazing land and a flock of prime merinos!” He grinned good-naturedly—the slight animosity he had shown earlier swiftly forgotten— bade Jasper Morgan a courteous good night, and, an arm about Lachlan’s thin shoulders, made for their tent.

Morgan was about to follow their example when he saw two dark figures approaching from the track leading to the main camp. Both of them called to him by name, and by the light of the lantern one was carrying, he recognized Peter Lalor, the man who had first broached the suggestion of a union for the protection of the diggers’ rights. With him was a slim, dark-faced Italian with flaming red hair, who introduced himself as Rafaello Carboni.

“We’d like a word with you, Captain Humphrey,” Lalor said, “if you can spare us half an hour. It’s a matter of some gravity, otherwise we would not have disturbed you.”

Lalor was a young man, still in his early twenties, who hailed from Ireland and had graduated from Trinity College, Dublin, as a civil engineer. He had come out only the previous year, Morgan knew, and initially had worked a claim at the Ovens diggings without success. The Italian was older, a handsome, engaging fellow, who had worked as a language teacher in one of the government schools before he, too, had deserted his post in search of gold.

Lalor seated himself and came to the reason for his visit in a few crisp, telling words. “You will recall, I feel sure, sir, the tragic death of one of our number in a brawl at the Eureka Hotel—James Scobie, sir, who was brutally murdered by the rogue of a proprietor?”

Morgan nodded, making an effort to remember the incident. Scobie had borne a good character, according to his

friends; the proprietor of the hotel, on the other hand, had not. An ex-convict, who had served many years in Van Diemen’s Land’s worst prisons, his name was … Ban-bury, no, Bentley—that was it. The diggers hated him, suspecting him of cheating and overcharging them, but since the Eureka Hotel was the only hostelry within easy walking distance of the camp, most of them had continued to frequent the place, for all the drunken brawls that broke out there.

Scobie’s death, though, had outraged them, and on the evidence of Scobie’s brother and a number of others, the police had arrested Bentley and charged him with the murder.

“They brought Bentley before Magistrate D’Ewes’s court earlier today,” Peter Lalor went on. “Rafaello and I were present at the hearing, hoping to see justice done. But Police Sergeant Milne botched up the evidence—deliberately, in our view, eh, Rafaello?”

His companion nodded emphatically. “Yes, indeed, Captain Humphrey, that is so. Commandant Brownlow did not call any of the witnesses who could have proved Bentley’s guilt. The trial was—oh, it was a travesty!”

“Do you mean that Bentley escaped conviction?” Morgan asked, startled. “And his roustabout Farrell?”

“That is precisely what I mean,” Rafaello asserted. “Bentley and Farrell were acquitted, and they’re now back at the hotel, celebrating their escape.”

Brownlow had run true to form, Morgan thought dispassionately; no doubt the owner of the Eureka Hotel was now entertaining him in a back room, delighted by the turn events had taken and by the aid he had received.

“Well,” he said, feeling that some comment was called for, “the result is clearly to be deplored. But why have you come to me? What can I possibly do about it?”

“We intend to take organized action,” Lalor told him. “I am making the first move. We shall form a committee and press for a fresh prosecution. A meeting is to be called for the night of the seventeenth in the hotel, and we shall summon Bentley before us.” He saw that Morgan was frowning and added, “Frederic Vern, Tim Hayes, and George Black are with us, Captain Humphrey. We have come to you, sir, in the hope that, as an influential member of our community, you will join us.”

Morgan’s frown deepened as he considered the records of the men the young Irishman had named. Vern, he knew, was a Hanoverian, a practiced rabble-rouser with a golden tongue, who was wont to wax eloquent in defense of the rights of the common man. A man, it was true, of passionate convictions, but somehow lacking in substance. Black, on the other hand, was an Englishman of considerable learning and intelligence. A man of few words, by contrast with Vern, but when he expressed an opinion, others listened with respect. Tim Hayes he knew little about, save that, like Peter Lalor, he was Irish and was believed to have republican sympathies.

“Presumably you are expecting trouble?” Morgan questioned at last.

“We are not looking for it,” Lalor assured him. “But feelings are running high where the villain Bentley is concerned. When the magistrates’ verdict is known, they’ll run a good deal higher, I’m afraid. And if our demand for a fresh trial is rejected, well—” He shrugged in a gesture of helplessness. “I, for one, can’t answer for the consequences. Much will depend on the attitude of the police. If there should be an outcry and Basher Brownlow sends his troopers in, the situation could turn dangerous, no doubt of that.”

It could also, Jasper Morgan recognized, turn to his advantage. Apart from anything else, if he were to join Lalor’s proposed committee, it would provide him with a plausible excuse for delaying his return to Melbourne with his two young partners. Like Frederic Vern, Angus Broome harbored sympathies for the downtrodden and the oppressed, and James Scobie, the murdered man, had been one of a number who had been hard put to it to raise the price of his mining license.

His frown lifted. “I will certainly attend your meeting, Mr. Lalor,” he said. “The seventeenth, you say? And at Bentley’s hotel?”

“Here at the camp first, sir,” Lalor qualified. “To elect a delegation and make clear our aims. Having done that, we

shall confront Bentley and endeavor to extract a confession from him.” He added thoughtfully, “It’s said that the new Governor has arrived—Captain Charles Hotham, of the Royal Navy. I’ve no idea what manner of man he is, but rumor has it he’s likely to be more liberal in his views than Latrobe. That would present few problems, admittedly, but —well, Captain Humphrey, we none of us want to take any action that might set His new Excellency against us. So I do not believe that you need worry that we shall cause trouble.’ For all that, Morgan decided, he would have to take the first opportunity that presented itself to meet with Brownlow and offer him a warning. The opportunity came the day before the planned meeting. The police inspector rode into camp, and after being closeted for half an hour with the gold commissioner in his tent, he made the short detour that took him past Morgan’s and then trotted off into the bush, closely followed on foot by two of his black trackers. Allowing a discreet interval to elapse, Morgan saddled up and went after them, to find Brownlow dismounted and awaiting him at the bottom of a steep gully ablaze with the golden, sweet-scented mimosa that grew freely everywhere in the vicinity of the diggings.

The police inspector—who preferred to be addressed as commandant—was a big man, heavily built but now past middle age. His once-powerful muscles, Morgan noted, were deteriorating into unhealthy fat, and he was sweating profusely in the midday heat, plying a fly whisk irritably about his moist red face as he waited.

But he greeted Morgan civilly enough and even exchanged a few coarse jests with him before pronouncing, with an abrupt change of tone, “The Jackass”—his nickname, Morgan knew, for the gold commissioner—“the Jackass tells me there’s to be a diggers’ meeting in town tomorrow night. Of course he’s not the faintest idea what it’s about —just the usual malcontents, he reckons, getting on their soapboxes to protest about the price of their blasted licenses. That’s why I wanted to see you, Captain Humphrey. I figured you’d know what’s riling them.” “Yes, I know,” Morgan confirmed. He explained with elaborate care and saw a slow smile spreading over the inspector’s face as he listened.

“Can you get into the meeting?” Brownlow asked, still smiling.

“I’ve been invited,” Morgan said with smug satisfaction. “They want me to stand for election to their committee.”

“And you will?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Good! And you’ll keep me informed?”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Brownlow, certainly.”

Brownlow took out a large handkerchief and mopped his sweating face. “God, it’s hot out here, ain’t it? And about this sodding meeting. Will they make trouble, d’you suppose?”

“It depends on Bentley, in my view. If they obtain a confession from him, then—”

“They’ll not get a fresh trial, I can promise you that. But—” The big policeman caught his breath. “You don’t imagine they’ll try to lynch him, do you?”

Morgan shrugged. “I have no idea, my friend. It’s possible, but … oh, I think it’s unlikely they’d go that far.”

“You’d warn me, if they should? I’ll have my men under arms and standing by, that goes without saying. If there is trouble”—Brownlow’s smile was unpleasant—“I’ll send them in and arrest the ringleaders. You can name ‘em, can’t you, Captain?”

“I think I’ll leave your men to pick them out,” Morgan evaded. “Except—” An idea occurred to him suddenly, and he found himself echoing Brownlow’s smile. “Let’s say there is one young hothead who’d bear watching. Angus Broome.”

“One of your lads?” Brownlow exclaimed, puzzled. “Well, I don’t doubt you’ll have your reasons, Captain Humphrey, and—one good turn deserves another, eh? You keep me posted, sir, and I’ll see my troopers know one of the troublemakers, at least. Let’s see now—young Broome’s a redhead, ain’t he? A thin, wiry lad, nigh as tall as I am?”

“That’s the one,” Morgan confirmed. He looked about him, anxious to make sure that no one had observed his rendezvous with the police commandant, and satisfied that

they were alone, he pulled his horse toward him and swung himself back into the saddle. He took his leave, only mildly disconcerted when, as he started downhill, one of the black trackers emerged from a nearby clump of trees to grin at him insolently, then loped off to rejoin Inspector Brownlow.

The meeting, when it took place the following evening, was attended by several hundred miners. Morgan took both the Broome boys with him, and though he had intended to keep carefully in the background, Lalor insisted on calling him to the makeshift platform and, after a brief speech, introduced him as a candidate for election to the committee, together with Rafaello Carboni, Black, and Hayes.

All, with Lalor himself, were duly elected. The meeting was conducted in a brisk and businesslike manner, its purpose soberly explained, and when a vote was taken, the decision to demand a new trial for the innkeeper Bentley was unanimous. Frederic Vern, speaking from the floor, made the suggestion that the delegates should proceed to the Eureka Hotel and there interrogate its proprietor.

“If we can obtain from this vile and wicked man a full confession, witnessed by us, then the Governor will have no choice, save to assent to our demand,” the German declaimed gutturally. “He has foully murdered one of our own people, as we are all aware. Let justice be done, my brothers! Let us go now to the hotel!”

A loud chorus of voices supported him, and an American miner excitedly discharged his pistol into the air, calling for Bentley to be hanged, a suggestion that also met with vociferous approval.

Peter Lalor called them to order. “No, my friends,” he shouted. “No! We are law-abiding people, and we cannot, whatever the circumstances, take the law into our own hands. There will be no shooting. Leave any weapons you possess behind you. Your elected representatives will conduct the interrogation on your behalf and, having done so, will draw up a petition addressed to Governor Hotham in our joint names.”

They obeyed him, to Jasper Morgan’s dismay, but he said nothing and, with young Angus Broome at his side, joined the long and orderly procession that formed up preparatory

to marching the short distance to the Eureka Hotel. Lalor was still marshaling them when a cry went up from some men on the fringe of their ranks.

“The police! The bloody police are coming, boys! They’ll try to break us up—they’ll try to stop us!”

Within moments, the hitherto peaceable gathering became a mob of angry, vengeful men. There were only half a dozen troopers, Morgan realized, sent, no doubt, to observe and report on the progress of the meeting. As soon as the mob turned on them, they fled, a yelling crowd hard on their horses’ heels. Reaching the Eureka Hotel, they reformed in line with the police detachment that was already in position outside the flimsy wooden building and, together with their fellows, attempted to ward off the miners’ attack.

They might as well have tried to hold back the sea, Jasper Morgan thought, his excitement growing as he watched. Although well armed, the troopers were heavily outnumbered, and their musket fire, directed over the heads of the mob, failed to deter all but a handful of fainthearts. Peter Lalor shouted in vain for order; he was ignored as the angry diggers pressed forward, screaming for Bentley to show himself. He failed to do so, and the leading ranks, egged on by those to their rear, pressed forward, cheering triumphantly as the police troopers fell back before them.

Losing sight of Angus in the melee, Morgan, too, fell back, contenting himself with the suggestion, made to several of the men in his immediate vicinity, that they should burn down the murderer’s miserable hostelry. His words were echoed at once by a score of voices, and within minutes of his having uttered them, the windows were smashed and the hotel set ablaze. Barrels of beer and kegs of spirits were hurled out through yawning gaps where the windows had once been, and the mob seized them, still deaf to Lalor’s frantic pleas, gleefully splitting them open as they fell.

It was several hours before order was restored and the mob of diggers began, at last, to disperse. Led in person by Inspector Brownlow, the police took the opportunity to make three arrests. Two of the men—apprehended with stolen liquor in their possession—were unknown to Morgan, and the third was Angus Broome.