Kiwi Wars (2 page)

‘I could buy the whole damn cow for that money,’ grum-bled Abe, ‘let alone this bit of gristle and bone.’

But there was nothing they could do about it. Demand exceeded supply. While they were eating, a man shambled in and asked if anyone wanted to buy a cheap digging licence. Abe signalled to the fellow, who was in rags and said he had not eaten for three days.

‘No luck, eh?’ said Danny, who was beginning to realize that you could not pick up gold nuggets from the ground like pebbles as they had been told by a visitor to their ship. ‘Giving up.’

‘Giving up and going home,’ said the man, who was a well-spoken and clearly educated gentleman. ‘You can dig in a thousand holes and find nothing. That’s what I’ve found, absolutely nothing. Look at these hands.’ He showed them his palms. They were raw and bleeding with split skin. ‘I’ve had it up to here.’ He drew a line across his throat.

‘Need some grub in your belly first, eh?’ Abe said. ‘Well, we could come to an arrangement . . . ;

And so the licence to mine on the goldfields was purchased.

Striker kept a keen eye out through the open doorway. The load carried by the camel was very precious and the sailors did not want it stolen. They were aware that marines from their vessel
Comet
were searching for them in the brothels of Melbourne, but it was doubtful they would reach as far as Ballarat since the ship was due to sail. By the morning the
Comet
would be on its way to Sydney and the three deserters would be relatively safe. They believed themselves safe now and drank to that fact, laughing and joking, and cursing their old captain and his officers for pigs and pi-dogs, saying they were well out of it.

All three had spent time in the brig and one of them, Abe, had felt the lash on a number of occasions. Punishment did not greatly bother Abe for very long. Oh, he got mad all right, spitting mad, and cussed and swore at the man wielding the cat, but his body seemed to absorb the hurt and pain. Abe had eyes like chips of flint. There were few who liked him as a person, but they respected his eyes.

Danny and Striker were typical seamen of low birth. As young men they had been press-ganged into the Royal Navy, and like many shanghaied sailors they subsequently made it their living. Yet they had never taken to it in the way a gentleman does who makes it his career. A young lad of a high family who becomes a midshipman, lieutenant or captain will speak of the sea reverently and of his ship as if it were the Ark of the Covenant. To sailors like Danny and Striker the sea was a wasteland of water and the ship ‘a bloody old lime barrel’. They did not hate the ocean or vessel: they were indifferent to them.

‘Well, here we are, lads,’ said Abe, looking up from his steak. ‘Down under and off to be as rich.’

Danny, the small elderly Irishman, said, ‘I’m eager to be slopin’ off to the diggings, lads, that I am.’

‘Well,’ replied Striker, a willowy Cornishman who had previously been a tin miner and knew what hard work lay ahead, ‘you can be at it soon enough, an’ we’ll stand and watch.’

Danny made a face, but he was full of humour tonight. Not far away, just a bit of a walk, were the goldfields of Sovereign Hill, where the three of them expected to make their fortune. The fact that thousands of others also expected the same, and there was only so much gold in the ground, did not dim their enthusiasm. They had the glint in their eyes, the fever as men called it, and it would take many months of hacking through clay to diminish it. They had read the reports in
The Buninyong Gazette and Mining Journal
of wild riches being found, and they believed every word. This was one chance in a lifetime and these three chancers were not going to miss it.

They finished their meal, paid for it with the last of their coin, and collected Bessie with her load. On Bessie’s hump was their stake. The spare mainsail from the
Comet
and the sail from the skiff. Canvas was at a premium in the goldfields, having its uses as tents, shaft covers, buckets and roofing for cabins. They could sell the canvas, keeping a little for their own use, and live comfortably for a good while as they set about mining. Hopefully there would be enough to purchase a shaft. There was a great deal of canvas in the mainsail of a man-o’-war.

When they reached the goldfields they were dog-tired and the sight of so many lamps dispirited them. Lights were scattered on the hillsides like fallen stars. There were shafts and winches; as many as trees in a forest. The whole landscape looked like a battlefield, with piles of earth and slag every few yards. Up on the main hill were shacks and false-fronted buildings. One of these was an alehouse which the three sailors entered, not to buy more food and beer, but to sell some of their canvas. As expected they had more buyers than canvas to sell, and very soon their pockets were lined with money. One man even sold them an old shaft he had worked for enough canvas to cover his current shaft and winch. He did not tell the sailors it had been worked down to a layer of clay beyond which gold had never been found.

‘Look at the likes of this humanity,’ Danny said, wonder-ingly, as they stared around them. ‘Every shade of people.’

There was indeed every type of person the world had to offer on the goldfields, from Chinese to African, from British aristocracy to beggars in rags, from hatchet-faced women to hussies in flounce. What amazed Danny, Abe and Striker, though, were the would-be prospectors straight out of the schoolroom. Dozens of boys still wearing school uniforms had dropped their books and headed for the glory holes of Ballarat, hoping to strike it rich. The street and surrounding landscape were seething with prospectors, all with hope in their hearts. As they left the saloon, the three sailors found the smells were ripe too, and awful, for sanitation was primitive here. And these were men who had lived in the closest proximity with humanity on shipboard.

‘I an’t goin’ to be able to sleep tonight,’ said Abe. ‘Who’s for going to our claim and tryin’ our luck right now?’

The other two men agreed.

So they found the shaft Abe had purchased and Striker winched Danny and Abe down the narrow hole to the bottom. There they lit candles and placed them carefully on the earth shelves that had been cut for the purpose. They found themselves ankle deep in water and soft mud. Striker lowered the canvas bucket and before long they had removed most of the water. Abe began clawing at the mud with his bare hands, slopping it into the bucket. Within a few inches they hit dense clay, which required more than fingernails to shift.

Striker sent them down two small shovels. Not knowing any different, for they were complete novices at the gold-digging game, Abe and Danny began to cut through the clay, slicing it with their shovels and taking out pieces as if it were a cake of marzipan. Any seasoned prospector on the fields would have stopped right there and left the mine to nature, as the previous owner had intended before he had been confronted by three gullible sailors straight off the ship. But they were ignorant of the lack of possibilities and so dug away.

Gold deposits obey certain rules, which knowledgeable prospectors are aware of. Gold is the heaviest metal on the earth and finds its way to the bottom of softer material. But, occasionally, just occasionally, there is a quirk of nature. Sometimes a nugget exceeds all others in size and weight. Sometimes it is so large that over a period of time it sinks down even further into the dense thick clay.

Danny’s shovel hit a hard object with a
clunk.

‘Somethin’ here,’ he cried.

Abe went down on his knees and began clawing again, using his sailor’s strength to work around the rock. He cleared and cleaned a single knob on the boulder, an ovoid about the size of a goose egg. Danny kneeled down with him, a candle in his hand. Together they shined it on the stone. The flame reflected a yellowish hue.

Abe could hardly get the word out. ‘G-g-gold!’ he shrieked. ‘We struck gold. We’re rich, boys, rich!’ He continued to scrape away the clay from the monster beneath.

‘No, no,’ replied a worried Danny, ‘it can’t be gold – it’s too big. It’s as big as the bosun’s head – bigger, even. No gold, this.’

‘I tell you we’ve struck rich,’ yelled Abe, angry with his partner. ‘This is a nugget. A damn giant nugget. Look – see.’

Up on the surface, Striker was running backwards and forwards, only stopping to look down into the hole every two seconds.

‘Is it really gold, lads? Are we rich, boys? Is it a nugget for sure, Abe? We’ve only been here not more than four hours. How can it be? Others have spent months! Shall I come down there and assist?’

‘Don’t be daft, man,’ cried Abe. ‘How would we get it out? Here, we’ve cleared it now. Try to lift it, Danny-boy. If you can lift it, it’s not gold, for it’s only as big as an iron bucket. Lift it, and I’ll allow it’s not gold – but lift it, man, and I’ll kill you, for I’m anxious to be rich.’

Danny could not move the thing. It was indeed a nugget. Now the elderly Irishman let out a shriek of joy that pierced the ears of distant men, who came running in the darkness, waving their lamps. Suddenly the whole region was afire with the word. Riches had been found. A nugget the size of a bullock’s head. The earth had disgorged its old wealth and paupers were suddenly elevated to the status of kings.

Only one man for ten miles around was not excited. The man who had sold the earth’s bounty for a strip of canvas. All he could do was bury his face in his hands, and curse the fact that his deal had been made in a crowded saloon with witnesses all around, into whose faces he had smirked and winked, being such a clever fellow as to outwit some stupid sailors.

Oh, that Lady Luck, she was both princess and whore.

Two

1860, New Zealand

C
aptain Jack Crossman and three soldiers of the 88th Connaught Rangers were among the landing party. They were accompanying a naval party of some 60 bluejackets. Captain Cracroft, the commander of the bluejackets, was bringing his men ashore as reinforcements to assist in the defence of New Plymouth, which it was feared was about to be attacked by Maoris. However, once there was sand under their feet, firing could be heard away from the town. Cracroft decided to divert his men in that direction. For Crossman it was a rude welcome to the recently acquired colony known as New Zealand: he and his men had been thrust immediately into fresh conflict.

‘Captain Cracroft,’ said Jack, ‘do you need us?’

Jack and his men were laden with their kit, unloaded from the
Niger,
the ship that had brought them to New Plymouth.

‘We need all the men we can get,’ replied the naval officer, who looked a little harassed. ‘Are you willing, Captain?’

‘No, we an’t,’ said Private Wynter, a one-eyed pale individual, from behind his commanding officer. ‘I’ve still got the sea sickness on me. I an’t a well body.’

Sergeant King, his NCO, snapped, ‘Keep your silence, Wynter, or I’ll bring it on you myself.’

Jack nodded at Cracroft. ‘We’re with you, of course. It sounds like quite a battle up there . . .’ He cut his sentence short as a lieutenant-colonel leading a company of soldiers emerged hurrying from a woodland area ahead of them. The firing could still be heard, so the battle was not over, yet here were soldiers heading in the opposite direction. Captain Cracroft hailed the colonel.

‘Where are you going?’

The other officer looked anxious and seemed upset.

‘I have to return to New Plymouth by dark. My orders.’

‘But isn’t there fighting up there?’

The lieutenant-colonel looked uncomfortable as he urged his officers and men, most of whom appeared disgusted with their commander, onward towards the town.

‘Yes, the Taranaki Rifles and militia are attacking the Kaipopo
pa
– but I have to get on. Colonel Gold’s orders, not mine.’ He looked anxiously at the darkening sky. ‘Not mine,’ he repeated. Then, seemingly as an afterthought, the lieutenant-colonel added, ‘I have sent some men to assist.’ Then he hurried away, waving his small force on with his sword.

‘A bunch of civilians,’ snorted a midshipman standing alongside Cracroft, ‘and he’s leaving them to it?’

‘Let’s get on,’ ordered the naval captain, ‘before we can’t see our hands in front of our faces.’

Wynter started whining again. ‘What about our kit, sir?’ he said, addressing Jack. ‘If we leave it here, it’ll get stolen for certain. You know what these darkies are like.’

Corporal Gwilliams growled, ‘Not everyone’s got your morals, Wynter. Some folk respect private property, darkies or not.’

Sergeant King said, ‘Pile it up at the base of that palm tree . . .’

‘This ain’t no palm, Sarge, this here’s a fern,’ corrected Gwilliams, dumping his kit. ‘Ancient plant, the fern. Older’n history.’

‘Thank you for that botany lesson, Corporal. Just heft your Enfield on your shoulder and we’ll be on our way,’ King said, with a touch of asperity in his tone. ‘Come on, catch up with the officer, you two. Move your backsides. And don’t give me one of your looks, Wynter, or I’ll knock it through to the back of your head.’

Sergeant King believed discipline had to come from his fists, which were indeed heavy and hammer-like objects. normal means of correction were too slow for him. His small command of two spies and saboteurs was always on the move, often in enemy territory. To place a man under arrest was not feasible when in enemy country and needed consideration of rules and laws, and required paperwork. This method was far too slow and indeed impossible when one was crawling through the bush, surrounded by insurgents. Physical threats were swifter and more effective. Sometimes King actually needed to carry them out, taking his man out of sight of the officer and flattening him with fists that had been formed in the forge of his father’s blacksmith shop. Gwilliams had been thumped soundly. So had Wynter, more than once. Gwilliams had learned quickly, but Wynter was one of those men who forgot his pain in a very short time. Moreover he seemed to be able to absorb punishment like a sponge takes in water, and still ask for more.