The Gold Seekers (40 page)

In the following weeks, Jasper Morgan was foremost in urging that action should be taken to plead for the release of the three miners. The two men who had been caught with stolen liquor had, on the sworn testimony of Brownlow himself, been convicted of leading the riot; but to Morgan’s secret delight, it was Angus Broome—charged, in addition, with arson—who had received the heaviest sentence, that of six months’ imprisonment with hard labor. Twenty-five days after the arrests, at a meeting convened on Bakery Hill, Morgan found himself elected a member of the committee of the Ballarat Reform League. By common consent, he was chosen, with three others, to present a petition to Governor Hotham in Melbourne, demanding that the convictions be quashed and the men released.

On the eve of the delegation’s departure for the state capital, Lachlan Broome came to him in tears.

“I’m going home, Captain Humphrey,” the boy said. “Back to Bundilly. Maybe Pa can help to have Angus released.” He passed a shaking hand over his eyes, ashamed of the unmanly tears. “You’ll get our money for us, won’t you, sir, when you’re in Melbourne? And perhaps you’d better hold it until Angus is free or until I can come back here to fetch it.”

Although the boy’s decision to leave the diggings had taken him by surprise, Morgan’s hesitation was brief. He would have to stay and see the Ballarat crisis resolved, he thought uneasily, since he had allowed Lalor and the others to involve him so prominently in their committee and their infernal reform league. Simply to vanish, after presenting the petition to the Governor, would arouse suspicion; and in any event, he might have to wait for weeks in Melbourne before he was able to take passage in a homeward-bound ship. It was easier and wiser to finish up his business here than to risk being tracked down in Melbourne. Like Sydney at the start of the gold rush, Port Phillip and its neighboring anchorages held only crewless vessels.

He laid a hand on Lachlan’s thin young shoulder and forced a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, lad,” he said gently. “Our gold is safe where it is. Time enough to sell it and take our profit when Angus is back with us again. I’d not want the responsibility of holding a large sum in cash here at the diggings—not all the folk here are honest, you know. I could easily be robbed.”

“Yes, sir, but—” Lachlan began. “I—”

“Off with you, Lachie,” Jasper Morgan bade him. “The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back and, it’s to be hoped, your brother, too. I’ll do all in my power to persuade Governor Hotham to order his release. Trust me, boy.”

“Oh, I d-do, sir,” Lachlan stammered. “T-truly, sir, more than anyone in the world—apart from my own family, that

is.

His avowal was oddly moving, and for once Jasper Morgan could find no words in which to make reply.

Mail from England had arrived, and Jenny Broome glanced in some surprise at the letter her brother Johnny held out to her, a quizzical smile playing about his bearded lips as he did

so.

“From William De Lancey, according to the signature franking it,” he observed. “I thought he was in India with his regiment, but this came out in the Merton Castle.” His smile widened, and he added teasingly, “Well, open it, why don’t you, little sister? No doubt the gallant William is still carrying a torch for you … Edmund won’t be pleased by that,

will he?”

Jenny flushed indignantly but made no reply to her brother’s taunt. She took the letter from him and, ignoring his suggestion, thrust it unopened into the pocket of her dress. She had spent almost three weeks at Pengallon awaiting her father’s return from the Turon Valley, and a further week after that before they had gone back to Sydney, yet … for all the attention he had paid her during her stay, Edmund Tempest had not committed himself to a proposal of marriage.

Not that he could be blamed for that; the blame lay with her, Jenny readily conceded. She had been reluctant to place their relationship on an irrevocably permanent basis and, to that end, had carefully evaded Edmund’s diffident attempts to lead up to a proposal.

He had made more than one attempt, but … She stifled a sigh. She had sensed his intention and had been at pains to distract him from it—tactfully, of course, for she was genuinely fond of him and flattered by his evident affection for her. But that was all it was—affection. They had been brought up together, had been companions and friends

since childhood, for Edmund had been educated in Sydney and, while school was in term, had boarded with her family, establishing as close an intimacy with them as he had enjoyed with his own. In consequence, he held no surprises for her, no … Jenny’s brow furrowed. No romantic mystery. And … there was William. Her fingers closed about the letter in her pocket. There was William and the dream she had had about him … a dream, no, rather a nightmare, from which she had awakened with a cry on her lips and her cheeks wet with tears.

Jenny glanced across at her brother, but he was absorbed in a letter of his own, forgetful of her presence, and she moved to the window, to stare out across the blue, sunlit waters of Elizabeth Bay with eyes that saw nothing of its beauty, as memory of her nightmare returned.

Vividly, in the dream, she had seen William in a hussar’s blue, gold-frogged jacket and scarlet overalls—a uniform she did not recognize. He had been mounted on a small, shaggy horse, quite unlike a British cavalry charger, and he had been slumped in the saddle, as if severely wounded, his face white as death and his saber dangling limply from his left hand. Behind him, seemingly in pursuit, had been two strange-looking horsemen in fur caps, their lances couched, and even as she had reacted in shocked bewilderment to the vision, she had heard the distant rumble of gunfire and then the sharp, staccato crack of a pistol, discharged from close at hand. William had called her name, his voice slurred and despairing, and the sound had lingered even as the dream faded and she returned to wakefulness.

She heard it again now, her heart heavy with foreboding. India was at peace, she knew, and that knowledge had added to the bewilderment the vivid dream had engendered; but William’s letter had not come from India. Johnny had said, a few moments ago, that it had come from England in the Merlon Castle. Jenny drew in her breath sharply, wishing that she could seek the privacy of her bedroom in order to read the letter. But it was lunchtime; her father would be in very soon, and there were several letters awaiting his attention. He would think it odd if she absented herself from their meal, for he liked to comment on the news he received when mail came in, and if she opened William’s letter now, both he and Johnny would expect to be given at least the gist of whatever news it contained. Perhaps Johnny would forget it; she hoped he would. Certainly his own letter appeared to be of singular interest to him, for he was rereading it, a frown of concentration drawing his brows together.

Their father came in while Jenny was still undecided, and making an effort to hide her feelings, she bade him a smiling welcome and busied herself with the preparations for the meal.

“It appears that Captain Skinner was right, sir,” she heard Johnny say, gesturing at his letter. “There is going to be war with Russia, according to Frank Mercer of the London Mercury. You remember him, don’t you, when he was here, reporting on our gold rush?”

“Yes, I remember him,” their father responded. He left his own mail untouched, regarding Johnny with gravely searching eyes. “What does he say? Is the British government coming in on the Turkish side?”

“It seems they’ll have to,” Johnny confirmed bleakly. He spread out the pages of his letter and read from it, in a low, concerned voice. ” ‘On November thirtieth last year, a small frigate squadron of the Turkish Navy, overtaken by a severe storm in the Black Sea, was compelled to put in to the Bay of Sinope for shelter—’ Sinope, Mercer explains, is a little town situated midway between Constantinople and Trebizond, a hundred and fifty miles south of the Russian naval base of Sebastopol, on the Crimean Peninsula.” Johnny’s frown deepened as he read on. ” ‘Despite the fact that war had been declared between Turkey and Russia a little over a month before, the Turkish commander, Vice Admiral Os-man Nari Pasha, anticipated no danger to his small fleet, in spite of his proximity to Sebastopol.’ “

“Why should he suppose anything of the kind?” Justin Broome questioned.

Johnny shrugged. “Mercer says that both the Tsar and the Sultan had announced that, although reluctantly compelled to settle their differences by force of arms, each intended to confine himself to the defensive and that an unofficial truce existed between their two navies, which hitherto had been

scrupulously observed by both sides. But then”—his tone, Jenny heard, was suddenly indignant—“under cover of fog, six Russian line-of-battle ships, each mounting between eighty and a hundred and twenty guns, entered the harbor of Sinope and attacked the Turkish ships at anchor. Within an hour, all had been sunk or set on fire, and then the Russian admiral, Nachimov, opened his fire on the town. The wretched Turks lost more than four thousand men, women, and children before Nachimov called a halt to the slaughter.”

“Good God!” Justin exclaimed, visibly moved.

“Mercer says that when news of the outrage reached London, it roused a storm of public feeling, culminating in repeated demands in Parliament for the Mediterranean Fleet to be sent into the Black Sea to protect the Turks from further unprovoked attack.” Johnny turned the pages of his letter.

“Has war been declared?” his father asked.

“No, apparently not. Lord Aberdeen’s still seeking to avert a war, if he can. But a combined British and French fleet is on its way to the Bosporus—eighteen sail of the line, with escorting frigates and steamers, under the command of Vice Admiral Deans Dundas.”

Jenny’s heart plummeted, as she heard her father observe grimly, “Then it’s evident that they mean business. It can only be a question of time, I fear.”

“That is Mercer’s opinion, too, sir,” Johnny agreed. He read on, but Jenny was no longer listening. Her dream, she thought uneasily—her nightmare vision of William De Lancey seemed suddenly all too real a possibility, as if, for no reason she could understand, she had been allowed a glimpse into a hideous future. If there were to be war with Russia … William was a cavalry officer, and he was in England. Since a British fleet had been dispatched to Turkish waters, it was logical to suppose that British troops would also be sent to the Sultan’s aid. Perhaps even now William’s regiment had received orders to embark, and his letter, still unopened in her pocket, was to tell her so.

A wave of nausea swept over her, and she pushed her plate away. Her father was opening one of his own letters, she saw, exclaiming as he read an extract from it that contained the same alarming news that Johnny’s had done.

“This is from Frederick Evans—you remember, the naval surveyor? Like your friend Mercer, he seems to think that war is inevitable. The fleet is mobilizing, new vessels being fitted out and commissioned in every dockyard in the country, for service in the Baltic and the Black Sea. Sir Charles Napier has been appointed to command in the Baltic, and— damme, Johnny, Skinner’s been given a steam-screw of the line! The Orion, of ninety guns. He timed his return well, didn’t he?”

“And what news of Mr. Evans, sir?” Johnny asked.

“He’s expecting to be sent on a secret survey mission to the Gulf of Finland. He—”

Jenny did not wait to hear more. She excused herself, and her father nodded abstractedly, continuing to discuss the grave implications of the news with Johnny, his food also untouched and growing cold on his plate.

“Red won’t have heard, or James Willoughby, come to that, unless he’s received dispatches from Their Lordships. I’ll go out to Watson’s Bay this afternoon, because I suppose this raises the question of a possible Russian attack on Sydney, if war is declared. Although I don’t honestly think

Jenny slipped away, closing the door behind her, Sydney’s fate of less concern to her than that of William De Lancey. She had had no dream of Russian warships sailing, with guns blazing, into Port Jackson, as they had sailed into the Turkish harbor of Sinope. But William—dear God, the Russian armies included Cossacks in their ranks, didn’t they? Savage horsemen in fur caps, mounted on small, rough horses like the ones she had seen so vividly in her dream. Her fingers trembling in their haste, she broke the seal on her letter and, flinging herself full length onto her bed, spread out the closely written pages on her pillow and started to read.

My dearest Jenny,

I am penning these few lines to you because there seems every likelihood that by the time you receive them, I shall be going to war. The ghastly, merciless

massacre of a small squadron of Turkish frigates in a Black Sea port by the Russians has aroused public feeling to such a degree that it seems all England is demanding that war should be declared and we should dispatch naval and military aid, forthwith, to Turkey.

You will no doubt be surprised to learn that I am presently in England, serving as a captain in the 11th Hussars—a regiment recently commanded by the Earl of Cardigan, an officer of somewhat infamous repute, now promoted to the rank of brigadier general and appointed to command of the Light Cavalry Brigade. A British Expeditionary Force of 30,000 men is being formed, with Lord Raglan, master general of the ordnance and a distinguished veteran of the Peninsular campaign, named commander in chief. As soon as transport ships can be provided, this force—which will include a division of cavalry—will embark for Gallipoli and Constantinople. Already battalions of the Foot Guards have marched through London on their way to Portsmouth, and my regiment is eagerly awaiting orders to follow them.

War has not yet been declared, but I think that it is inevitable and that it will come very soon, for it is reliably reported that a Russian army is massing on the Danube River, preparatory to marching on Constantinople. The Turks can offer little resistance; their defenses consist of a few ill-manned mountain fortresses, dependent for their supplies on a port called Varna, which may be unable to hold out against superior Russian naval squadrons based only a short distance away at the Black Sea port of Sebastopol.