Band of Gold (2 page)

‘Well, that depends on the accommodation, don’t you think?’ she replied, raising an eyebrow. ‘Surely it would be inappropriate in the middle of a tent surrounded by our crew?’

Rian looked momentarily appalled, then realised she was teasing him. ‘Well, no, we’ll have the house.’

‘If it
is
a house. It could well be a one-roomed shanty with a dirt floor and an old blanket for a door, for all we know.’

‘I suppose,’ Rian agreed. ‘But the Widow Murphy was living in it and she didn’t seem the type to live in a hovel. Surely it won’t be that bad?’

‘We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’ Kitty replied more cheerfully than she felt, and turned away to examine a length of dress cloth. Would they sell such things at Ballarat? Or should she take all her clothing with her? Not her best, of course—she couldn’t imagine she would have any use for fancy gowns on the goldfields—but perhaps it would be prudent to take her everyday things and one or two of her nicer dresses. Just in case.

They had been warned by several shopkeepers that everything was even dearer at Ballarat than it was in Melbourne. This could have been a ruse to make them buy here, of course, but nevertheless, they intended to take a good store of provisions with them. Rian had already purchased two horses from Tattersall’s Horse Bazaar, a near-new thorough-brace wagon, and a team of six bullocks—all for an exorbitant sum—and had skimmed a few items from the
Katipo
’s cargo before handing it over to the buyer that morning, who evidently intended to sell it at either Bendigo or Ballarat anyway. As far as Rian was concerned, he had done the fellow a favour by saving him some of the cost of haulage.

He had also selected stout Wellington boots for them all, and other supplies, including pots, galvanised buckets, ropes, shovels and spades, candle moulds and oil cans—plus several barrels of lamp oil and kerosene, as they had been told both were very expensive
and hard to get on the diggings—three kettles, American axes and tomahawks, hammers and trowels, two tents, and prospectors’ belts. They always travelled armed, but as a precaution Rian had added rather a large cache of ammunition to the pile of provisions piling up in the hallway of their lodgings.

He had also found a reliable man, Charlie Dunlop, to keep an eye on the
Katipo
while they were in Ballarat; there was no point in paying good money to have her refitted only to find her stripped bare by thieves when they returned.

Kitty flipped a length of fabric off a roll and held it to her waist, admiring the sheen on the material, then sighed. She was still trim and her waist neat, but her hips had not become any smaller over the years. Her stomach had remained flat and firm because she had never given birth, and never would, but with the amount of running about she did aboard the
Katipo
, you would think her flanks and bottom would have at least stayed narrow. Rian said he loved her backside, and that her thighs were like a vice in moments of passion, which he seemed to think was marvellous, but still, why could they not be a delicate,
slender
vice? But she was strong, and very fit and healthy, so she supposed she should be grateful for that.

‘That is very nice fabric,’ Ropata said at her elbow.

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Are you looking for something for Leena?’

Ropata nodded, and rubbed the material between his fingers, feeling its weight. ‘But I was thinking more of jewellery. I have seen some earrings, made from Bendigo gold. I think she might like those.’

‘Oh, I’m sure she would,’ Kitty replied, smiling at him fondly.

He was a good man, Ropata, and handsome in the way that Maori men from Ngati Kahungunu on the east coast of New Zealand often are. He had married Leena, a tall, half-caste Aboriginal girl from Sydney, eight years ago. But she absolutely refused to sail on the
Katipo
, preferring to stay with her people, and he just as adamantly refused to give up his life at sea, for now anyway, so they lived much
of their lives apart. However, the
Katipo
harboured at Sydney Cove regularly, so he saw her and their two children, aged six and four, quite frequently; but Kitty knew he missed them, and they him.

Ropata made up his mind. ‘Ae, the earrings, I think.’ Having written to Leena and asked her to join him at Ballarat, he added, ‘Do you have any letters you would like posted?’

Kitty opened her reticule. ‘Yes, actually. One to my mother, and one to Haunui and Tahi.’

Ropata took the envelopes, tucked them inside his jacket and set off to purchase his wife’s earrings.

‘Ma, can we buy this?’ Amber pleaded, holding a wriggling puppy in her arms. ‘Look how sweet he is.’

‘Where did he come from?’ Kitty scratched the puppy under the chin. Its eyes closed in bliss.

‘A basket at the back of the store. There’s four more. The man said I can have all of them for the price of three.’

‘I’m sure he did. I don’t think so, sweetheart.’

‘But Ma, they’re
orphans!
’

‘But what about Bodie?’ Kitty countered. Amber was getting that look on her face that meant she was going to dig her toes in. ‘How do you think she’ll feel?’

Amber looked slightly chastened. ‘Cross?’

‘Yes, very cross. I expect her feelings will be quite hurt.’ And the result of that, Kitty reflected, could be rather nasty. Boadicea, known as Bodie, was Rian’s aging cat and reigning queen of the
Katipo
, and an ill-disciplined and overly enthusiastic puppy might quickly find itself missing an eye or an ear. Anyway, a ship was no place for a dog. ‘Go on, love, put it back.’

Clearly considering whether to make a fuss or not, Amber finally shrugged and headed back towards the puppy’s basket. Kitty watched her go, her heart swelling with love. Without a doubt, Amber had been spoiled over the years, but she was such a delightful child that it
was very difficult to deny her anything. Although Rian loved Amber dearly, he said that between them they had raised a right little madam, but Kitty didn’t think so. Amber was what she was always meant to be—clever, headstrong, irreverent and a little bit wild. One day she would make some young man very happy, but would probably also exasperate the hell out of him. Kitty felt sorry for the lad already; not just because he would have to meet her and Rian’s expectations for their daughter, but also because he would have to gain the approval of the
Katipo
’s entire crew.

The store’s floorboards creaked as Rian approached again, wearing a voluminous oilskin coat. ‘I thought I’d buy us one of these each. What do you think?’ He did a twirl. ‘Waterproof, and quite warm.’

‘Well, I’ve no doubt we’ll need them,’ Kitty agreed. ‘It’s freezing today.’

‘And for the next month or so, I gather. And wet.’

‘Oh, good, so we’re going to be cold, wet and covered in mud?’

Rian looked sheepish. ‘Er, yes, probably.’ From behind his back he produced a hat woven from some sort of palm leaf. ‘I’m not wearing one of these, though. There
are
limits.’

Kitty had seen plenty of men sporting them about town. ‘Yes, there are,’ she agreed. ‘I’m not wearing one, either.’

Rian laughed at the image of Kitty’s lovely face framed by the drooping brim of a cabbage-tree hat. ‘Where’s Mick?’ he asked.

Kitty nodded towards the counter running down one side of the store; Mick Doyle was leaning against it, chatting animatedly to a girl standing on the other side—the owner’s daughter, judging by the dark expression on the face of the man hovering nearby.

Typical Mick, Kitty thought. His curly black hair, flashing dark eyes and wicked smile seemed to have the girl mesmerised, which was not an unusual state of affairs. His devastating looks and smooth Irish charm ensured that he literally did have a woman in every port, sometimes several—‘Why ration meself?’ was his motto—but his
true love was the sea and he showed no inclination to settle down and take a wife.

‘I need some things from the chemist,’ Kitty told Rian.

‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘We’ll be along in a minute.’

He was forever telling her to be careful, Kitty reflected as she located Amber and headed for the door. She very seldom wasn’t, but now it had become a sort of talisman every time they parted, even if only briefly.

Daniel and Gideon sat on a bench on the general store’s verandah, their collars up against the cold. Gideon was dozing, his hat pulled low over his face, but Daniel was idly surveying the street, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

‘Does anyone need anything from the chemist?’ Kitty asked.

Gideon wasn’t asleep. ‘Not at the moment, thank you.’

‘I do.’ Daniel stood, and rubbed at the dark stubble on his chin. ‘A new shaving brush. Mine’s only got about six bristles left.’

Amber giggled at the thought, then pulled her mother into the street. ‘Hurry up, Ma, I want some barley sugars.’

‘Your teeth will rot,’ Kitty warned.

‘No, they won’t—I’ll clean them afterwards.’

‘May I come with you?’ Daniel asked.

Kitty nodded. ‘Of course.’

They walked the hundred yards or so to the nearest chemist, a small shop tucked between a butcher’s and an auction room. As Daniel opened the door for Kitty, they smelled camphor and valerian, a distinctive but somewhat overpowering scent. Wiping their boots on the mat, they entered and a bell rang somewhere in the recesses of the shop.

A woman in a house cap appeared behind the counter, and smiled at them. ‘Good day, can I be of help?’

‘Good day to you,’ Kitty replied, knocking the rain off the brim of her bonnet. ‘I’m needing English soap—about five pounds in bars
should suffice—tooth powder, antiseptic powder, half a pound of horse worm pills, and two good-sized bottles of laudanum. Oh, and two large jars of lanolin cream, thank you.’ She glanced at the knots in the ends of Amber’s rippling, rum-coloured hair. ‘And a good comb and a packet of barley sugars.’

‘Off to the goldfields, are you?’ the woman asked over her shoulder as she scanned the shelves behind her.

‘How did you know?’ Kitty asked.

‘Five pounds of English soap is a lot to buy at once,’ the woman replied. ‘You’ve picked very unpleasant weather for it. Will half a pound of antiseptic powder do you?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

Kitty examined the long row of large glass jars lined up on the counter, containing every herb, powder and plant extract an apothecary could need, from oils of amber and aniseed, to mercurial pills and mustard seed, to strychnine, tannin and zinc sulphate.

The woman placed Kitty’s order on the counter and skilfully set about folding the soap, horse pills and powders into separate paper packages, which she sealed with red wax. ‘You can take the worm tablets, too, you know,’ she said helpfully. ‘They work just as well for people.’

‘Oh, really? I’ll keep that in mind.’ Behind her Kitty heard stifled snorts of laughter—Daniel and Amber elbowing one another, no doubt.

She paid for her purchases and waited while Daniel bought his new shaving brush. She knew full well that he was infatuated with her, and had been ever since they’d first met. When he had stowed away on the
Katipo
in Sydney almost ten years ago, after having murdered a man, Walter Kinghazel, to defend her honour, she had been shocked. At the time she’d had a dreadful job calming Rian’s fear that Daniel would come between them; but he hadn’t, and he never would. But still, his ardour for her hadn’t waned, and it worried her. He was an
attractive man—tall, dark-haired with deep blue eyes, and a very appealing, if slightly introverted, character—and she was dismayed that his infatuation might preclude him from taking a wife. But he had proved his worth as a seaman and crew member, and had become a friend to all of them, even Rian. If he ever were one day to marry and leave the ship, he would be greatly missed.

In the meantime, Kitty would continue to behave towards him as she always had, with fondness and respect, and a little private compassion.

R
ian stamped his feet and blew on his hands in an ineffectual attempt to ward off the dawn’s chill. The heavy grey sky threatened drizzle, and Kitty suspected they were in for a cold and uncomfortable journey.

The wagon had departed before light, loaded with provisions, on top of which Gideon and Mick sat somewhat precariously, armed with muskets in case they encountered the highwaymen who roamed the roads connecting Melbourne and Geelong with the goldfields. Hawk and Daniel followed on the horses, while Pierre and Ropata had been perched on the driver’s seat with a caged Bodie in the middle, looking very sour at her temporary incarceration, even if she was nestled on a piece of sheepskin. Pierre had been swearing at the bullocks even before they had passed out of earshot.

‘Why are we waiting?’ Rian complained. ‘I’m getting in.’

There had been no room on the wagon, and Kitty was secretly pleased that she, Rian, Amber and Simon would be travelling to
Ballarat aboard a Cobb & Co coach. They would no doubt pass the wagon on the way and would definitely arrive at the diggings before the others. And, what’s more, they would arrive
warm
; it really was a very cold day.

She buried her hands deeper in the pockets of her cape and eyed Rian, who was leaning against the big yellow rear wheel of the coach. This morning he had dressed in a blue flannel shirt, black canvas jacket, snug grey moleskins and long boots. His dark blond hair, silvering slightly at the temples, was pulled back off his tanned and weathered face and he hadn’t bothered to shave. His eyes, bracketed by wry lines, were watchful. He looked devastatingly handsome and Kitty felt like bustling him into the coach, shutting the door and finding a way for them both to warm up.

‘Come on, it’s freezing out here,’ he said, and offered Kitty a hand to board, then climbed in and sat beside her. Amber followed and settled herself on the bench seat opposite, and Simon came last, bumping his head on the lintel and uttering a mild oath.

‘I hope it’s just us,’ Kitty said as she removed her bonnet and arranged her skirts.

Amber gave an exaggerated shiver. ‘It’s cold in here, Ma.’

In response, Simon unrolled all but one of the canvas covers on the windows, allowing just enough light to enter so that they could still see each other.

But Kitty had spoken too soon: a minute later there was thumping and scraping as several items were secured to the roof of the coach, then the door opened and everything tilted as a rather large man clambered in.

‘Good day to you,’ he said, as he removed his hat and made a small production of looking for somewhere to sit.

‘Come over here, love,’ Kitty said, and patted the seat between herself and Rian.

Reluctantly, Amber changed places.

The gentleman nodded in acknowledgement and sat down opposite, his knees creaking in protest. He produced a bright green handkerchief, honked into it, then called out, ‘Come along, Mrs Harcourt—don’t dally.’

The coach rocked again as a considerably overweight woman hauled herself up the step and squeezed inside. After a lot of manoeuvring and tsk-tsking, she thumped down onto the seat, squashing Simon rather violently into one corner.

‘My wife,’ Mr Harcourt said, to no one in particular.

They appeared perfectly matched. In their forties, both were rotund and small-eyed. His mouse-brown hair was cut short and he wore whiskers, but Mrs Harcourt’s hair was invisible beneath an ornate bonnet with a pronounced brim and layers of pleated fabric and lace, the ribbons fastened beneath her chins with a small brooch. They both wore nicely cut clothes and good-quality boots. Mr Harcourt’s waistcoat displayed a watch and chain of heavy gold, and his wife’s fingers were adorned with several rings mounted with precious stones.

Mrs Harcourt wriggled about until she was comfortable, then dug into a large tapestry holdall on her lap and withdrew a ball of wool and a pair of knitting needles. In no time at all she had cast on a row. ‘Inclement weather, is it not?’ she said eventually.

‘Yes, very,’ Kitty replied, moving her legs so that her knees wouldn’t touch Mr Harcourt’s.

Silence fell, except for the clacking of Mrs Harcourt’s needles. Outside the five horses stamped and blew air between their rubbery lips, then a window cover lifted and the driver peered in at them. ‘All set? We don’t want to get behind schedule. Keilor, Melton, Bacchus Marsh, then Ballan, Ballarat, and end of the line at Bendigo.’

There was a general mumble of assent and he disappeared. The coach rocked slightly as he climbed up onto the driver’s seat, then came a slight jerk as the five-in-hand strained in their harnesses and
set off. Beside them the Criterion Hotel, Cobb & Co’s staging post, moved out of view, and they were away.

Presently, Mr Harcourt asked Rian, ‘Setting out for the diggings, are you?’

Rian nodded.

‘First time?’

‘Yes. And yourselves?’

‘No, I’ve travelled this cursed road many a time. But I retired from gold mining last year. Well, my health isn’t the best, you know. Hellishly cold out there this time of year, on the diggings.’

Kitty gave Rian a pointed look, but he pretended not to notice.

‘We live in Melbourne now,’ Mr Harcourt went on. ‘I have a small business there.’

‘And a lovely little home,’ Mrs Harcourt interjected, her knitting needles clattering away.

‘And it was worth your while, was it?’ Rian asked. ‘The mining?’

‘Oh yes, very worth my while. I’m a rich man now,’ Mr Harcourt replied without a trace of humility. ‘I went into partnership on seven or eight claims, all at Ballarat. We had a consortium. Didn’t dig myself, of course. Too much like hard work.’ He patted his considerable belly. ‘And of course they’re all deep-sinkers now, and a man of my stature isn’t suited to that sort of toil. It’s a younger man’s game, deep-sinking.’

‘Deep-sinking,’ Kitty echoed. ‘What’s that, exactly? I realise it means digging into the ground for some distance, but what
exactly
does it entail?’

‘Well, my dear, it’s a trifle confusing. Lots of technical terms and all that,’ Mr Harcourt replied patronisingly. ‘You might not catch my drift.’

Simon winced inwardly, but Rian only smiled to himself.

Kitty stared at Mr Harcourt unblinkingly.

Mr Harcourt harrumphed. ‘Yes, well, of course, if you’d really
like to know. Deep-sinking is the technique by which a shaft is sunk below the surface of the ground to a distance of anything between twelve and a hundred feet, and sometimes even deeper. Some leads run further down than others, of course.’

‘Leads?’ Kitty asked.

‘A line of ore, shingle and rock and the like, that contains the gold. They run all over Ballarat. Or should I say,
under
Ballarat—they’re actually the beds of ancient rivers.’

‘Don’t they fall down?’ Amber asked.

Mr Harcourt frowned. ‘Don’t what fall down, dear?’

‘The shafts. On top of the men.’ She turned to her father. ‘You won’t be going down the shafts, will you, Pa?’

Rian opened his mouth to reply, but Mr Harcourt said hurriedly, ‘No, they don’t fall down. Well, hardly ever. You see, the miners line the shafts with slabs of eucalypt to hold up the sides, which is why there are hardly any trees left around Ballarat. Then, when the shaft reaches the lead, and all the ground water and sand and mullock and what-have-you has been winched out, the extraction of the gold can begin.’

‘I know what a mullock is,’ Amber said triumphantly. ‘It’s a fish.’

Rian laughed. ‘No, that’s a mullet.’

‘Mullock is the useless rock that lies above the lead,’ Mr Harcourt explained patiently.

‘How do the men working in the shafts breathe?’ Kitty asked.

Rian hoped the man wouldn’t go into detail—in his opinion, Harcourt was making the whole process sound a lot more dangerous than it was. And frightening his wife and daughter.

‘Wind-sails,’ Mr Harcourt said. ‘Erected above the shafts to direct fresh air down them. Quite ingenious, really.’

‘And they never fail?’ Kitty asked.

‘No, they don’t.’

Kitty stared at him: he’d put an emphasis on the word ‘they’, as if
other devices associated with gold mining
did
fail. But she let it pass.

Mr Harcourt shifted in his seat. ‘You’ve not been involved with gold mining previously, Mr…er…?’

Rian realised he hadn’t introduced himself. ‘Farrell, Captain Rian Farrell. And no, I haven’t. But I’ve just bought a claim, so I thought I’d try my hand at it.’

‘You’ll need a lot more hands than just your own, then. It can take up to twelve men to work a claim these days.’

‘I have my crew of seven.’

‘Crew as in labourers, or crew as in seamen?’

‘Seamen. Mr Bullock here is one of my men.’

Mr Harcourt turned to inspect Simon, who nodded politely. ‘So you’re a mariner, Captain?’

‘Sea trader,’ Rian corrected. ‘My ship is in dock at Melbourne at the moment.’

‘Ah. Well, then, I wish you luck. You’ll need it.’

It was an ominous comment, and followed by silence.

‘There are some surprisingly nice stores at Ballarat,’ Mrs Harcourt remarked suddenly. ‘A much better range of goods than you would expect of such a, well, such an uncouth settlement. Except for the town proper, of course, and the Camp.’ At Kitty’s raised eyebrows, she added, ‘Where the constabulary and government officials are emplaced. But I must warn you, my dear, that there are not very many women on the diggings themselves. Thousands of men, but far fewer women.’ She screwed up her face unbecomingly. ‘And the Celestials, of course—one should always steer clear of their camp.’

‘Why?’ Kitty asked.

‘Because, well, they’re not like us, are they? They’re immoral. They’re
Chinamen
.’

Rian frowned—the
Katipo
had docked at Canton, Shanghai and Ningbo many times over the past few years, and they had never had anything but very cordial relations with the Chinese they’d dealt with.

‘And are there many churches?’ Simon asked.

‘Well, not churches as
such
,’ Mrs Harcourt replied, smoothing out whatever it was she was knitting and checking for dropped stitches. ‘But there are certainly quite a few church
services
. The Anglicans and the Presbyterians have visiting clergy, not every Sunday I might add, but the Methodists and the Catholics are certainly well represented. The Catholics in particular, because of all the Irish. Are you a churchgoing man yourself, Mr Bullock?’

‘Not if I can avoid it,’ Simon replied, to Mrs Harcourt’s faint shock.

‘Well, you won’t be alone there,’ Mr Harcourt said. ‘They can be a godless bunch on the diggings, especially with the liquor in them.’

‘You can talk, Mr Harcourt,’ his wife said sharply. ‘You’re partial to a drop of liquor yourself.’

‘Yes, but never on a Sunday, Mrs Harcourt, and well you know it.’

Kitty and Rian exchanged amused glances while Simon carefully examined his fingernails. It could be a
very
long trip.

Kitty’s backside was completely numb, her belly rumbled cavernously, her neck and back were sore from the lurching of the coach over ruts and potholes, and boredom had driven her almost to distraction. They had been travelling for nearly four hours now, and still had another five or six to go before they reached Ballarat. They had overtaken the rest of the crew on the wagon a long time ago, Amber waving madly out of the coach window and the crew waving back. They all looked very cold, and Kitty didn’t envy them their long, and much slower, journey.

They had also overtaken numerous wagons—one on its side in a ditch and another mired axle-deep in mud, bullocks floundering and the bullocky shouting and swearing—and men pushing wheelbarrows stacked with supplies, others walking with nothing more than a swag or potato sack over their shoulders, and the occasional dray with a
family balanced atop what appeared to be an entire house-lot of goods. And dogs—almost every traveller appeared to be accompanied by a dog. The traffic went both ways, and, though it did not constitute what Kitty knew to be a ‘rush’, it was certainly busy.

Mr and Mrs Harcourt had chattered constantly for the first three hours but had fallen silent almost an hour ago, as if they only had a certain number of words at their disposal each day and didn’t want to use them up.

There had been a very brief stop at Melton, just enough time to stretch their legs and use the distinctly noisome facilities at the hotel there, and the next stop would be Bacchus Marsh, where at least there would be a hot meal. Amber was happy straining her eyes reading a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s awful book
Frankenstein
, Rian was asleep, and Simon was slowly being crushed by the combined bulks of the Harcourts. It hadn’t grown any warmer outside, but the coach was slowly filling again with the warm fug of six confined bodies.

Kitty lifted the window cover and peered out—still nothing but grey hills rising out of marshlands, eucalypts, scrub, a few sheep and leaden skies.

Rian snorted and woke himself, blinking and stretching. He checked his watch and groaned quietly. ‘God, not even halfway there.’

‘Bacchus Marsh can’t be far away, surely,’ Kitty said, with an edge of desperation. Travel by road was so tedious compared with the
Katipo
’s speedy flight across the ocean waves, leaving mile upon mile in her wake.

They lapsed into another long silence as the coach juddered and lurched along the muddy road. In the confined space Kitty awkwardly crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, remembering a long-ago warning from her mother that crossing your legs gave you bad veins.

Then, without warning, a dreadful smell began to permeate
the interior of the coach. Pierre’s highly spiced
bouillabaisse
had a lot to answer for in the confines of the
Katipo
’s mess-room, but this was
appalling
. Kitty looked accusingly at Rian, who made a don’t-look-at-me face. Then she glanced across at their travelling companions: Mrs Harcourt was studiously bent over her knitting while Mr Harcourt stared fixedly at a point just above Kitty’s head.