The Gold Seekers (51 page)

“I see. Well, I can understand why you’re anxious to find the rogue. All the same, Murphy lad, take care.” He laid a hand on Luke’s arm. “Don’t take the law into your own hands, if you’ve any sense. Turn the fellow in. Remember,

you’re a police trooper now. Your duty is to uphold the law and see justice done. You swore an oath, didn’t you?”

Without waiting for Luke’s reply, Martin turned on his heel and left him. Lying under the stars, a blanket wrapped about him, it was a long time before Luke slept. Among the conflicting thoughts that came to torment him was the thought of Elizabeth Tempest, whom he had left behind him, months ago, at her parents’ farm in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales. He had promised her he would come back, he recalled, his conscience tormenting him. But there would be no return for him if he found Jasper Morgan and— as Martin had expressed it—if he then took the law into his own hands and killed his brother’s murderer.

At her Aunt Abigail’s invitation, Elizabeth Tempest was spending a few weeks in Sydney. She had been glad enough to leave Pengallon for a spell; since Luke’s departure, close to six months ago, life on her father’s farm had begun to pall.

She was never idle, of course, for there was always much to do, particularly at shearing time, when—with so many men lured away to the goldfields—she and her mother, in addition to cooking for the depleted shearers’ crew, had been called upon to help bale the wool or even, on occasion, to assist in rounding up the sheep.

Edmund and Dickon did the work of half a dozen men, but both were, as a result, poor company in the evening, fit only to exchange a few weary words or, in Dickon’s case, monosyllabic grunts before dropping off to sleep where they sat, often with their painstakingly prepared meals barely touched. And of late, her father had been in much the same state… . Elizabeth sighed.

She had enjoyed the unusual experience of the roundup, it was true, for she could ride as well as any man, and sheep were stupid creatures, easily collected into a bleating mob by the dogs and, once the pattern was established, simplicity itself to herd down from the hills where they grazed and into the fenced enclosures bordering the shearing shed. But wherever she had ridden about her father’s land, she had thought of Luke or seen him in memory and, in consequence,

missed him the more … and she could not be sure that he would come back. He had promised he would, but that had been almost six months ago, and much could happen in six months. Much could change, save, it seemed, her feelings for him, and her sense of loss.

There had been no letters, only the scribbled note Dickon had brought her the day Luke had ridden away from Pengallon and out of her life, bound on some mission of his own, the purpose of which he had deemed of more importance than her love,

Elizabeth sighed again. Seated in her aunt’s beautifully furnished withdrawing room, she was glad that she had come to Sydney, even for a short while, for it eased the heartache, and Aunt Abigail was delighted to have her companionship. Abigail was old—white-haired now, and long-widowed—but for all the toll the years had taken on her once robust and slender body, she was still remarkably active and possessed of an indomitable spirit and a fund of fascinating stories of the past, to which it was always a pleasure to listen.

And socially, Sydney was an exciting place, offering every kind of distraction to one who, like herself, was in some need of it. There were garden parties, balls, picnics, dinners, and … the horse races. Elizabeth smiled now, her smile happily reminiscent. Aunt Abigail was an enthusiastic racegoer, and they had spent several afternoons most pleasantly at Homebush, driving there by carriage and sharing a picnic lunch in lovely surroundings, before taking their seats in the fine new stands, to watch the successive tests of speed and stamina between locally owned Thoroughbreds.

They were due to attend the Queen’s Plate meeting this afternoon, with two young officers of the garrison, Elizabeth reminded herself, and her smile faded. If her dear aunt Abigail had a fault, it was the fact that she was an incorrigible matchmaker. Lieutenant Michael Lowndes and his cousin, Ensign Peter Fowler, of Her Majesty’s 50th Regiment, were the latest of a veritable string of eligible bachelors she had invited to make the acquaintance of “her niece from the backwoods.” It was useless to protest; Aunt Abigail simply did not listen, and—

There was a knock on the door. It opened for the elderly

butler to announce, with a beaming smile, one of the same young men Elizabeth had just been thinking of, and she jumped up, taken by surprise at this premature arrival.

“Mr. Lowndes—I—I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting you till noon. The races don’t begin until twelve-thirty, and—” “Miss Tempest, I know.” Michael Lowndes bent apologetically over her hand. “I came, alas, to tell you that Peter and I will not be able to accompany you and Mrs. Dawson to Homebush. We’ve been ordered on board Her Majesty’s ship Galah, with our company, this very day. The commander in chief”—he sounded awed—“General Nickle himself is to sail with us. It’s damnably short notice, but it seems there’s serious trouble in the goldfields.”

“The—the goldfields?” Elizabeth stared at him, every vestige of color draining from her cheeks. If the soldiers and their general were going to sea, that could mean only the Victoria goldfields, she thought with sudden shock and alarm.

Lieutenant Lowndes confirmed her worst fears. “Yes, the Ballarat goldfields. The diggers there—several thousand of them, by all accounts—are in revolt. Governor Hotham has sent urgently for military reinforcements. It’s got to be put down, of course. I mean, it’s anarchy, Miss Tempest. They’re said to have hoisted the red flag and to be planning a march on Melbourne… .”

He talked on, but Elizabeth took in little of what he was saying. Ballarat, she told herself breathlessly, Ballarat had been Luke’s destination, or so he had confided to Dickon. Could Luke be among the men—the anarchists—who had hoisted the red flag and who were threatening to march on Melbourne and the Governor in open revolt?

She was thankful when, at last, Lieutenant Lowndes took reluctant leave of her and she could ring for old Thomas to show him out. Pleading a headache, she excused herself from accompanying her aunt to the races, and an hour later, unable to remain alone in the house any longer, she made her way to the Government Domain. From there, her heart close to breaking, Elizabeth watched the troops board the Galah, and the ship, her upper deck lined with redcoated soldiers, sailed slowly and majestically from the anchorage and made for the open sea.

She would go home, Elizabeth decided; as soon as it could be arranged, she would go home. It was better to wait there, where she had promised to be, and pray for Luke’s safe return.

The sun was sinking and the savage heat abating a little when the mounted troopers came in sight of the forest of tents and the smaller cluster of wooden buildings that constituted the township of Ballarat. Sub-inspector Martin had not pressed the men under his command, despite the urgency of their mission; he had let them take their time, with frequent halts to rest and feed their horses.

“We’ll be no use to God or man if we show up all tuckered out and our horses blown,” he told one of the cadets who protested at the slowness of their progress. “And you can take it from me—we shan’t miss out on the action. Mr. Brownlow wouldn’t have sent for us in such a hurry if he’d enough men to tackle the diggers, would he, now? And,” he added shrewdly, “we’re going in by a route that avoids the township. It’s best if the diggers don’t see us.”

When they finally entered the government camp, well after dark, Luke was astonished to see that it bore a close resemblance to a fortress under siege. Redcoated sentries guarded the entrance, and others, with shouldered muskets, patrolled the perimeter as if it were in imminent danger of attack. A group of officers, spyglasses to their eyes, kept watch on the miners’ camp, talking in low voices to one another, while a young man in a tight-fitting blue jacket, a revolver slung on his hip, moved from one to the other, gesturing excitedly.

The arrival of Sub-inspector Martin’s contingent was greeted with very evident relief. They rode in in threes, bridles jingling; Martin formed them up in two lines and then went forward to snap a smart salute to the thickset, red-faced officer in inspector’s insignia, who emerged from a stone building near the center of the camp to receive them.

“Commandant of Police Brownlow,” he announced self-importantly.

“Martin, sir, sub-inspector,” Martin responded, smiling. “With—”

The smile was swiftly wiped from his face when Brownlow barked at him wrathfully, “By God, man, you took your time getting here! I sent for you urgently.”

“I came as expeditiously as I could, sir,” the sub-inspector defended woodenly, “without knocking up the horses, sir.” He paused, his tanned, weather-beaten face devoid of expression. “My men are ready for inspection, if that is your pleasure.”

The young official in the bluejacket came striding across, tapping his booted leg with a cane. Despite the heavy mustache he wore, he looked only a few years older than the cadets, and Luke could scarcely believe his ears when Commandant Brownlow introduced him as Resident Gold Commissioner Rede.

They inspected the new arrivals together, the youthful Rede taking precedence, and his comments, made audibly, were, to poor Martin’s obvious chagrin, the reverse of complimentary. He announced, before returning to the group of watchers he had left, “As you may observe, men, we are prepared for any act of aggression by the rebellious diggers down below. Our women and children have been accommodated in the premises of the Commercial Bank, which, like the jail, is a stone building. The utmost vigilance is called for in the situation in which we now find ourselves, but God willing, I hope to see law and order restored within the next twenty-four hours. You will be required to support Captain Wise’s troops and Mr. Brownlow’s police, when we go into the camp to put down the seditionists and drive them from the stockade they have erected. I hope you will be up to what is expected of you.”

He walked away, still tapping his well-polished boots with his cane, and Inspector Brownlow said disparagingly, when the young commissioner was safely out of earshot, “We call that young whippersnapper the Jackass—you can see why, can’t you? All right, Martin, your men may stand down—but only long enough to tend to their horses and get some grub inside them. After that I want them ready for action. Whatever the commissioner says—and he said plenty, didn’t he?

—I’m pretty sure that we’ll make our move tonight. It just depends on what word I receive from down below.” He jerked his head in the direction of the diggers’ camp and gave vent to a dry chuckle. “Been drilling and marching like righting cocks all day, they have, the stupid bastards! Mad Irish rebels with pikes and their bloody papist priest haranguing them, Italian followers of Garibaldi, German bloody Lutherists, Scotchmen, and a mob of Yankee republicans trying to stage a colonial revolt out here! A real witches’ brew, I can tell you, and they need sorting out. But—it’s hard to believe, in the circumstances, I know—but Mr. Rede informs me that the Governor has said he’ll set up a commission to inquire into their grievances! Well, I’m going to see to it that we give ‘em something to grieve about first.”

Martin said nothing. He saluted and gave the necessary orders, adding dryly, “Get your heads down while you’ve the chance, boys. I’ll call you in plenty of time if there’s anything doing.”

The men obeyed him, stiff and saddlesore after their long ride and grateful for the opportunity to relax. But their respite was short-lived. Martin woke them, with a stentorian bellow, less than four hours later.

“Saddle up and mount! Look lively, my lads! The redcoats are sending in a storming party to take the stockade by assault. They reckon there’s only about two hundred men inside it and most of them are asleep. We’re to cover the soldiers’ left flank and cut off any diggers that try to run.”

Still dazed with sleep, Luke did as he was bidden, hating— now that it had come to the point—the prospect of engaging in armed conflict with those whom, for almost as long as he could remember, he had considered his own kind. But there was no help for it, he told himself bitterly; he had sworn an oath and must do what was now his duty. He climbed into his saddle and formed up with the others, his sheathed saber at his side, his carbine in its saddle holster, and he answered to his name when Martin briskly called the roll.

Somewhere out there in the darkness—probably within the diggers’ defensive stockade—was the man for whom he was searching. The man who had cruelly and wantonly murdered Dan and the two Australians for his own gain …

Luke moved forward, kneeing his horse into line, his mouth suddenly dry and his heart racing. He had crossed half the world in pursuit of Jasper Morgan, and now his quarry was within perhaps less than a mile of him, he thought dully. In arms against him and in rebellion against the Queen of England’s government—a legitimate target for his carbine or his saber, if, somehow, he could find and recognize him in the all-prevailing darkness.

Luke’s stomach churned. It was scarcely possible to see or recognize the blue-coated troopers riding beside him … and the other squadron of mounted constables, under Inspector Brownlow, which had taken ground to the right after leaving the camp, was only dark shapes, heard but barely seen. It was easier to pick out the file of marching soldiers directly ahead, for their red coats and white crossbelts rendered them a trifle more conspicuous against the starlit sky.

The approach to the diggers’ camp was made with caution, only the jingling of the mounted men’s accoutrements and their horses’ bits betraying their presence. Even these sounds ceased when they gained their objective behind a jumble of tents, and Martin’s raised hand and whispered command brought them to a halt.

The horizon was lightening now, the first gray hint of dawn touching the cloud-flecked sky. The stockade lay ahead and to their right, but strain his eyes as he might, Luke could see no lights burning or distinguish any sign of movement from behind the roughly constructed barricades. They looked solid enough; he could make out piled pit props and mounds of brick and earth, with more tents behind them, scattered in haphazard fashion among the trees.