The Night They Stormed Eureka (23 page)

Hoofbeats again. This time Sam stood back, among the tents, as four redcoats galloped past, slashing with their sabres at the fleeing men. Then they were gone, and she ran again.

Now at least she could see the stockade — or what remained of it. Men lay in the street around the demolishedwalls, staring at the sky, blood on their faces, great slashes in their chests; a pile of what looked like logs of wood till you looked again and saw that they were human, the proud pikemen who had marched with their new weapons, piled upon the ground; a head cleaved open to show the brains …

Horses reared, tethered to tent posts or hitching rails, excited and terrified by the noise and the blood. Redcoats were all around the stockade, some pulling the barricade apart, others searching through the camp. No, not searching, for everyone they saw, it seemed, they classed as enemy, whether they had been in the stockade or not.

Even as she watched, a soldier with a flaring branch bent to set another tent alight, and then another and another. A man with a beard down to his waist shouted. He pushed through the blazing fabric and grabbed a sleeping child, rolling the boy’s clothing against his body to put out the flames.

Flames … Sam blinked. Was that daylight, or just the light of fire after fire? Would the whole diggings be set alight?

Another woman screamed in the darkness. The scream went on and on. A child shrieked, running from the shadows, from some horror Sam couldn’t see. Another group of soldiers pushed their backs against the wall of a shanty. Within seconds it had collapsed, leaving the soldiers panting and cheering by the light of burning tents.

‘Run!’ A man stumbled down the road towards her, a dog panting at his heels. Was he speaking to her, or toother men ducking and twisting their way through the fires? She shrank back into a doorway as he ran past, then recognised him.

It was Happy Jack. She had never seen him without his smile before. She ran after him and grabbed his arm. ‘Jack! The Puddlehams — have you seen them?’

‘What?’ He stared at her, not understanding. Of course, she thought, I’m dressed as a girl. She started to lift off her bonnet.

‘Here’s one!’ The redcoat had come up behind. Sam shrank, but he was paying no attention to her. She heard the bayonet strike flesh, heard the gurgle as it was pulled back, looked down as Happy Jack puddled at her feet, blood gushing from his mouth and chest. His eyes were still open, his mouth relaxing back into its customary smile.

The trooper laughed, and thrust the bayonet into the body again, then ran on.

‘No,’ she whispered. The dog whined. It licked its master’s face, then climbed onto his body. It began to howl.

She wanted to hold her hands over her ears. She couldn’t bear the anguished howls. Couldn’t bear any of it, the hatred and the blood.

She gazed up at the stockade itself again. Surely there was no one left to fight there now, only a few diggers still stumbling across the wreckage, while the soldiers in their red coats clambered after them, slashing with swords, bayoneting even the bodies on the ground.

Were the Puddlehams among the stockade’s bodies? She picked up her skirts and ran forwards, through the opening.

More bodies, on their stomachs, or curled as though they hugged the ground for comfort. A small terrier howled by the body of his master, as though it was answering the cry of Happy Jack’s poor dog as both wailed their songs of mourning. But if you ignored the dead there was strangely less damage here in the stockade than down below. The tents hadn’t been torched. The gaping mouths of mines still looked the same, surrounded by their mullock heaps. Even the store was still standing, a woman sobbing in the doorway next to the slumped body of a man. It was almost peaceful, compared to the chaos below.

She bent to look at dead faces, trying not to think what they’d looked like in life, all hope and dreams now wiped away. Black beards, grey beards, open mouths with tongues protruding, others closed round bitten lips and frozen agony.

‘Lady?’ She turned at the whisper and bent down again. The boy was still alive, though blood dribbled down his chin and through his skimpy beard like a baby’s drool. ‘Lady, did we win?’

She took his hand. It felt cold and already lifeless. ‘We will,’ she promised him.

But it was too late. He’d gone.

She stood up again.

‘You!’ For a moment she thought the young redcoat was going to shoot her or stab her with his bayonet. Her legs seemed frozen. She couldn’t even speak. But then the soldier shook his head. ‘Get out of it!’ he yelled. ‘No place for young ladies here!’

It was the dress, she thought. The stupid bright pink dress. She had been right. No rebel would wear a dress of silk and lace. Had he taken her for an officer’s daughter, come to deliver a message to her Papa? But at least he turned away, thrusting his bayonet into the wreckage to hunt for hidden rebels.

She had to put the horror from her mind. She had to think. The redcoat was right. She had no place here. There was no sign of Mr Puddleham, no dress huddled in the dirt that could be his wife. Wherever the Puddlehams were — dead, arrested, fled — they weren’t up here.

She stumbled out of the stockade, the dress dragging around her feet, and down onto the road. A few of the shanties still stood, owned by loyalists who’d paid the troopers, she supposed vaguely. The wheelwright’s hut still stood as well. Even the pots were there, the big black pots they’d left only a few hours before …

‘Lucy?’ She didn’t know how she heard it above all the noise. It was a sigh, a breath, not a call. Sam whirled, and there she was, sitting on the block of wood by her empty stew pots, half hidden behind the wheelwright’s hut, holding the ladle as though about to stir.

Sam staggered over to her. ‘Ma!’

‘Shhh. Sit by me. That’s it. Two women by our stew pots, is all we are. Just two innocent women … ‘ Mrs Puddleham’s voice slipped away to a slur.

‘Ma! What’s wrong? They haven’t shot you, have they? Stabbed you?’

The smile was faint in the dawn light. ‘No, deary. Just feel …
tired,
that’s all. Hard to breathe like. The world is shadows at the edges, going round and round — that’s what the Professor says it does, don’t he? Just round and round …’

Sam grabbed her as she swayed on her log seat, and kept her arm around her. ‘You have to lie down.’

‘No, deary. Can’t lie down. Not yet. Not safe.’

‘But what —’ Sam looked down, as a hand tugged the pink ruffle on her skirts. She stared. The hand had come from under Mrs Puddleham’s wide dress.

‘Mr Puddleham — he’s under your skirt!’

Mrs Puddleham nodded, then laid her head against Sam’s shoulder.

A cart trundled by, driven by a redcoat, piled so high with bodies it seemed like they would topple down into the road. Sam tried to look away, but it was impossible. Some of the men were still alive, blood bubbling from their mouths or wounds. Others stared at the slowly dawning sky with eyes that would never see again.

‘Yes, deary. Mr Puddleham is safe as houses. Safe as the queen.’ Sam looked back as Mrs Puddleham’s hand stroked her cheek, faint as a cobweb in a breeze. ‘I always knew you’d look like a princess in that dress. So pretty. My little Lucy. Call me
Ma
again,’ she whispered. ‘Sounds so good to hear that word.’

‘Ma …’ They had to get away. To the farm, if they could, or at least back to their tent. Could Mrs Puddleham walk, with her husband below her skirts? The big woman was adead weight against her, her breathing harsh and laboured even as she tried to whisper. No, they should wait till more of the soldiers had left …

‘Shhh,’ said Sam. ‘Save your strength! The soldiers are heading away from here. We can go soon. We can —’ She stopped, as Mrs Puddleham’s hand curled around her arm.

‘My little daughter,’ she whispered. ‘So beautiful. All I have I’d give to you.’ Her breath was like a breeze now, a cold wind through the diggings. ‘The greatest joy in all the world, a child to give things to. You’ll be safe now, Sam, lovey. No matter what happens to me or Mr Puddleham.’

She had called her
Sam.
Tears prickled her throat. Mrs Puddleham loved the real her, not just the memory of a lost daughter …

‘Got to give you back now. I called and called. Spent years praying on me knees. Sometimes it seemed me yearning could fly across the world, it were so strong. An’ then you came. The best daughter a ma could ever have. Always knew I’d have to give you back …’

A wind was rising. A strange wind that froze Sam’s flesh but made no sound.

Suddenly Mrs Puddleham gasped. She clutched at her heart. ‘Sam, lovey. Me deary … Sam … Remember …’ The wrinkled eyes grew wide.

‘Ma!’ For the first time the term came easily.

But it was too late. Mrs Puddleham slumped onto Sam’s lap.

‘No!’ Sam shook her, then tried to find a pulse on the neck that sagged across her lap. That was what you were supposed to do, wasn’t it? That’s what people did on TV when someone was dead.

Dead. Mrs Puddleham was dead. Her eyes were open, as if they still gazed at Sam. Her mouth was still curved in an almost smile. But life had gone.

‘I love you, Ma,’ whispered Sam. But she said it for herself, not the woman in her lap. For Mrs Puddleham had smiled as she died. She had known.

The wind grew even stronger. It smelled of tin and snow. How could a wind be so cold?

Did Mr Puddleham realise what had happened? Could he tell, hidden there underneath her skirts, that the woman whose body still sat on the slab of wood, propped up by Sam, was dead? She couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t risk his coming out just yet, where soldiers or troopers might still see him, and recognise him as one of the rebels. She would have to sit here, thought Sam, holding the dead woman, pretending she was asleep …

Or was it safe for them to move? Dimly, dully, she glanced around, shivering in the wind. The diggings looked like a film set everyone had deserted. Even the soldiers were gone, apart from a few on guard up by the stockade. Screams like demented bush birds still sounded from far off. Somewhere a woman cried, almost a shriek of anguish. Flames still flickered in the wreckage of the tents and shanties. But here, next to the stew pots below the stockade, where for such a short time hopes and rebellion had bloomed, it was quiet, the still centre of a spinning world.

Still … but the wind was rising even higher. She couldhear its roar, feel its fingers through her dress. She blinked. Why wasn’t the wind blowing out the flames?

Suddenly she heard sobbing, harsh and choked, from under Mrs Puddleham’s skirts.

Yes, she thought, he knew.

Something whined next to her. A wet nose poked her arm. Happy Jack’s dog, she thought. She put out a hand to pat him automatically. For the first time the dog accepted it. He whined again.

‘Sam?’

She looked up, still in a daze. ‘George!’

She hardly recognised him. His hair curled black around his face. He wore no shirt, or shoes, only his ragged pants. He kneeled by her side, staring at Mrs Puddleham. ‘Didn’t know you at first.’

‘I didn’t recognise you either.’

His mouth twisted. ‘Took off me shirt an’ hat an’ I just vanished. Whoever looks at just another native?’

‘Or at a girl. But what are you doing here? You said …’ The wind was blowing so strongly she could hardly hear his words.

He shrugged, still gazing at Mrs Puddleham. ‘I got to thinkin', back there with the spuds. It’s another fallacy, ain’t it, that it only matters if it affects you? An’ so I came.’ He looked down at the dog, resting his head on his paws next to Sam. ‘Looks like he’s your dog now.’

‘I can’t … I don’t know how …’ Why isn’t the wind blowing George as well? thought Sam dazedly. What’s happening?

George bent down to stroke the dog. ‘Where’s Mr Puddleham? We got to get him to the farm. You’ll be safe there too … Sam, what is it? Sam!’

‘The wind! George … stop it taking me!’

She grabbed his hand. But his skin felt cold, she thought, like he was hardly there.

‘What wind?’ He stared at her. ‘You get a knock on the head? Come on, we’ll keep you safe.’

‘George, don’t let me go! I can’t go now! George! Mr Puddleham! I’m sorry … I —’

The wind grew till it took up all the world. The coldness froze her body and her thoughts. Everything faded: the shanties, the burning embers of the tents, the wreckage of the stockade, the empty flagpole. She could no longer even feel the weight of Mrs Puddleham on her lap.

‘I love you —’ she tried to say again.

But they had vanished: friends, stockade, rebellion. Her whole world was gone.

The world was hard and hot. Cars purred in the distance. Sam opened her eyes.

She was huddled by the gravestone. It was late afternoon — the sun was looming from behind the supermarket, sending shadows across the road.

She looked down, expecting to see the wreckage of the pink dress. But there were only her jeans, her T-shirt and her sneakers, not the fine stout boots Mrs Puddleham had bought her.

But there was something underneath her T-shirt. She reached up. The lace camisole was still there, soft and silky, given with such love.

And the dog whined beside her. He glanced at the traffic, then back at her. A dog and a pink camisole … was that all that was left of the past?

She put her hand on the dog’s head to reassure him, and stood up unsteadily. Was it the same day she’d left? How much time had passed?

The past … She blinked, trying to understand. It was all still back there, wasn’t it? It hadn’t really gone.

Somewhere a girl called Sam sat with Mrs Puddleham in her lap as a rebel hid under the dead woman’s skirts. Somewhere men had fought on a hill they’d turned into a stockade. The past, she thought. It can’t be changed …

And she’d been part of it.

I was, she thought. It wasn’t just a dream. I have a camisole and a dog. I was there!

Tears were running down her cheeks. Tears for Mrs Puddleham, for the doomed brave men of the stockade. Tears for herself, the world she’d lost and the people that she’d loved.

And then she saw it. The headstone, grey-brown and etched by lichen, the words worn but still distinct.
Sacred to the memory of Percival Puddleham (1801–1884) and his dear wife Elsie (1814–1854) and their most beloved children …