Eureka - The Unfinished Revolution (77 page)

Somewhere, Vern is surely blushing with pleasure.

Four o’clock in the morning, Tuesday, 12 December 1854, in the Camp cells, bound up and Melbourne bound

Moving the manacled prisoners is far easier said than done for men who have been inadequately fed and cared for over the last nine days, some of whom are still grievously wounded. But presently it is done and they all stand as respectfully as they can – many of them still chained together – so that Captain Thomas, all spick and span in his sparkling uniform, can address them and give them the ‘Order of the Day’.

That order is very simple: they are to be transferred for trial in Melbourne, where the juries will be less inclined to be sympathetic. But the good captain needs them to understand one thing. If any of them raises a finger against this transfer or, worse still, raises his voice as they cross the diggings, they will be summarily shot.

On receipt of this piece of information, Raffaello Carboni, as downtrodden and depressed as he is, simply cannot contain himself. So reminiscent is this arrangement of the Austrian rule he long suffered under that he bursts out with, ‘God save the Queen!’

His reward is to have one of the policemen, Inspector Foster, instantly spring to him and unbearably tighten the ropes that bind him to Joseph. Then, when he is taken outside and put into one of the carts, the Italian and the American are positioned right in front with Inspector Foster, with the trooper in command given specific instructions: if they so much as turn their his heads, the two of them are to be shot.

And so, even before the sun is up, the convoy makes ready to move off. Thomas is taking no chances of a rescue attempt. At the front of the 13 prisoners on three horse-drawn carts, he has a dozen dragoons on superb horses. The soldiers are armed, dangerous and well-trained, with orders to shoot to kill at the first sign of trouble. Pressed in tightly around the carts on their own horses are no fewer than a score of the more familiar troopers of the Ballarat stamp, their swords resting on their laps, carbines cocked, ready for anything. A sharp command from Captain Thomas and – altogether now – they move off at a canter, the prisoners bouncing in the carts like rocks in a shaking bucket.

Now, despite the threat to shoot him if he so much as turns his head, Carboni does risk a quick glance at the tent he had left just over a week earlier, a snug little place where he had passed so many happy hours. There it lies, deserted and uncared for, and he simply cannot help himself – he begins to weep, and the tears will not stop.

In the first few miles they see only one digger on the main road, and some three hours later the convoy stops in Ballan to change horses and have food and refreshments. At least the horsemen and Captain Thomas have biscuits and cheese washed down with ale, served on the stump of a tree outside the public house, while the prisoners beg for water. Arriving in Bacchus Marsh, the prisoners spend the night in a dark lockup and, upon the orders of Captain Thomas, in the morning they are served plenty of damper and a gallon of porter to share. And then they are on the move again.

Finally, after a second day of no fewer than 16 hours on the track, with only the odd stop along the way, the prisoners arrive at their Melbourne gaol in Russell Street at eight o’clock on the Wednesday evening. They are exhausted, covered in dust and so thirsty it feels as though they have been licking the Lieutenant-Governor’s boots for hours. The troopers hand them over to turnkeys, and a whole new phase of their lives as prisoners begins.

After some bread and cheese, they are ordered by the prison governor to strip down to their shirts and directed to their shared cells – all stone walls and iron bars – where they see a bare board for a bed and a single blanket for protection against the night’s cold. Then the heavy metal door is shut and bolted upon them.

And then?

As Raffaello Carboni would later recount, ‘Within the darkness of our cell, we now gave vent to our grief, each in his own way.’

14 December 1854, Melbourne, let the Commission of Enquiry commence

All sit.

And so they do. It is on this day, for the first time, that the Goldfields Commission of Enquiry meets in a chamber of the Legislative Council under the chairmanship of William Westgarth – he who was the first member of the Legislative Council to visit the goldfields in 1851 – and including John Pascoe Fawkner, and Chief Commissioner of Goldfields, William H. Wright, to ‘enquire into the Laws and Regulations now in force affecting the mining population’, and to work out if they might be more fairly framed.

After that first day’s sitting in Melbourne, the Commission proceeds to visit Ballarat, Creswick, Castlemaine and Bendigo, meeting with interested parties including diggers, traders and officials. Finally, the administration is actively listening, instead of simply telling.

18 December 1854, the ante is upped on Ballarat

Posters go
up
all over Ballarat:

Colonial Secretary’s Office,

Melbourne 18th December, 1854

£400

REWARD

Whereas two persons of the names of

Lawlor & Black,

LATE OF BALLARAT,

Did on or about the 13th day of November

last, at that place, use certain TREASONABLE

AND SEDITIOUS LANGUAGE,

And incite Men to take up Arms, with a view

to make war against

Our Sovereign Lady the QUEEN!

———

NOTICE IS HERBY GIVEN

That a Reward of £200 will be paid to any person or persons giving such information as may lead to the apprehension of either of the above named parties.

DESCRIPTIONS.

LAWLOR. – Height 5 feet 11 inches, age 35, hair dark brown, whiskers dark brown and shaved under the chin, no moustache, long face, rather good looking, and is a well made man.

BLACK. – Height over 6 feet, straight figure, slight build, bright red hair worn in general rather long and brushed backwards, red and large whiskers meeting under the chin, blue eyes, large thin nose, ruddy complexion and rather small mouth.

By His Excellency’s Command,

WILLIAM C. HAINES.

Late December, 1854, Melbourne Gaol, hominy and hope

With five prisoners pressed into each tiny cell, life settles down to a dull, dark routine, interrupted only by the occasional strip-search. Breakfast at dreary dawn is not much more than slops, a dish of ‘hominy’ – boiled corn meal from which every ounce of nutrition has been removed, though it is admittedly often fattened with whatever grubs are ruling in the prison kitchen at that time.

Lunch consists of boiling water in which the turnkeys have dropped a few grains of rice, allowing them to call it ‘soup’, together with small piece of dried bullock’s flesh, a piece of sour bread and a couple of black potatoes. Dinner is anything the prisoners like on the menu, which means more hominy. The Eureka men’s companions are bushrangers, horse-thieves and common criminals.

On Sundays, at least, Carboni is let out of his cell with the other Catholics to hear Mass, such as it is. The priest is always in a hurry and on two occasions does not turn up at all. He never once comes to visit the prisoners in their cells to offer Christian consolation.

O Father, why hast thou forsaken us?

And then it happens. One bright morning, Carboni is visited in his cell by an extraordinarily distinguished-looking gentleman with a high forehead and kindly eyes. Despite looking entirely out of place among the poorly dressed prisoners and shabby uniformed officers, he still evinces an air of complete comfort and confidence.

‘My name,’ he says in the unmistakable accent of a man who is as Scottish as haggis, even as he proffers his hand to the Italian, ‘is James Grant and I am a solicitor who would like to represent you in the coming trial.’

There is a God.

After the Italian quickly agrees that he would be delighted if Mr Grant would represent him, the two engage in a detailed discussion of just what Carboni did and said at the Stockade – and when he did it and said it – all of it carefully noted down by the Scotsman’s clerk.

The older man is not long in pronouncing his conclusion: ‘You need not fear. You will soon be out, all of you.’

And God is good, yea, verily, He is great!

Dusk, 21 December 1854, in the Government Camp, a Wise last word

Easy. Easy. Steady. Steady. Big breaths. Big, rattling breaths. And now more rattle than breath. And now nothing. Nothing at all. Blackness, eternal.

Captain Wise has survived for over two weeks after the fearful wounds he suffered during the attack, but now, as the sun goes down on this 21st day of December, it takes with it the last, tortured gasps of his life.

The next day, in the shimmering heat that is now blasting the Ballarat goldfields, a large cortege of mourners, 260 strong, is seen making its way toward Ballarat Cemetery. With full military honours, which includes volleys of shots fired into the air by a guard of honour, the display of the regimental colours and the regimental chaplain delivering a eulogy recording him as ‘one of the best loved men of those who fell’, the brave English officer is laid beneath the sod. Samuel Huyghue is one who notes the occasion with great sadness.

‘He was,’ the functionary records, ‘a gentleman of good prospect, being heir to a large fortune, and had left home with his regiment contrary to the wishes of his relatives, little supposing that he was fated to fall in the civil fray so far from all he held dear.’

Around the diggings, many flags, led by the flag in the Government Camp, are lowered to half-mast in respect.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS

A mongrel crew of German, Italian and Negro rebels . . .

The Sydney Morning Herald
defines those about to go on trial for their lives, on Monday, 1 January 1855

Early January 1855, on another track winding back, between Ballarat and Geelong

It is a common thing for wagons travelling on the track between Geelong and Ballarat to have hidden contraband – usually vast quantities of grog secreted between the other supplies of flour, shovels, clothes, etc. The differences on this occasion are twofold. Firstly, this particular contraband is heading
from
Ballarat
to
Geelong and, secondly, the forbidden thing in the wagon is not grog at all, but a man – none other than Peter Lalor.

Recovered just enough to make such an arduous journey, he lies in the back of the dray of a carrier by the name of Patrick Carroll, covered by tarpaulins and feeling every bump in the track through his excruciatingly painful shoulder. Accompanying Carroll is an old Cornish digger, Thomas Marks, who acts as Lalor’s nurse, confirming from time to time that the rebel leader is still conscious.

For his part, Lalor can only wish that he were unconscious – no matter how much he wants to cry out, he knows he cannot. Any such outburst would not only risk his discovery by the troopers and result in his instant arrest, but it would also endanger the liberty of the brave men who have agreed to smuggle him to Geelong. Besides which, despite his agony, he has a rising sense of excitement. Tonight –
tonight!
–
he will see once more the love of his life: sweet Alicia. She knows he is coming, knows he needs a safe place to stay, to recuperate, to get stronger, and has passed word back that she is more than ready for him.

Alas, Lalor’s agonised reverie of what it will be like to be with her again is suddenly shattered by a shout from ahead.

‘We are looking for Lalor,’ he can now clearly hear a voice call out, belonging, he correctly presumes, to a member of the mounted police. ‘There is a £200 reward on his head – dead or alive.’

Lalor’s heart nearly stops. His every breath sounds ragged and, to him,
very loud,
as he instinctively curls into the foetal position in the corner of the dray, trying to make himself small.

‘Musha,’ replies Carroll in his thick brogue, using the Irish word for ‘indeed’ as he gets down from the wagon, slowly scratching his bushy beard. ‘The English are always liberal when they want to book a man, and that’s a real fine reward ye are offering for Lalor, and by the same token, if we get a glimpse of him, ye can depend upon us coming back and letting yez know.’

At this point, Tommy Marks, ignoring for a moment that he is a devout Methodist unaccustomed to lying, chimes in, ‘See ‘ere, you, we know Peter, and will not forget the £200 if we get a sight on him on the road to Geelong.’

A trooper doesn’t need to be experienced to know these are good, honest men who want to help, and so they are allowed to proceed on their way . . . as Lalor breathes again.