Read Online Band of Gold by Deborah Challinor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deborah Challinor
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he wouldn’t have married you.’
At that moment three men entered the dining room, removed their hats and sat down, their rough work clothes, unshaven faces and shaggy hair incongruous against the crisp, white cloth drapingtheir table. As one, they stared at Kitty and Flora.
Flora stared stonily back, until one by one they lowered their gazes. She sat back, satisfied.
Kitty said, ‘Flora? This Lily Pearce, what sort of woman is she?’
‘She’s spiteful, Kitty, and has very few scruples. Watch out for her.’
Impatiently, Rian looked at his watch: they’d been standing in this queue for almost an hour now.
‘Is it like this every bloody day?’ he muttered to Hawk.
They were lined up outside the office of the gold commissioner, waiting to pay the compulsory twenty shillings each for a monthly licence to ‘dig, search for, or remove gold from Crown lands’. It was enforceable by government officials via the police, and the inability to produce one could result in a hefty fine or even imprisonment.
Rian thought the fee was outright extortion, but he couldn’t risk not having a miner’s licence: Sir Charles Hotham, Victoria’s new governor, had announced that licence searches would increase from once to twice a week. Apparently it wasn’t enough to have one licence per hole in the ground—every digger working said hole had to pay for the privilege. The rest of the crew would have to come in tomorrow for theirs. He waved as he caught sight of Patrick O’Riley hurrying up the street. The Irishman waved back, and mimed the raising of a glass to his mouth. Rian signalled his agreement.
Forty shillings grudgingly handed over and their licences finally procured, Rian and Hawk met Patrick in the nearest saloon. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning, but already it was crowded, noisy and thick with pipe smoke.
‘Holy Christ,’ Patrick complained as he sat down, clamping his hands to the small of his back. ‘The rheumatiz, so it is, from workin’ waist-deep in cold water for nigh on a year. Got your licences, I see?’
Their glasses of hot brandy arrived. Hawk thoughtfully turned his around on the scarred table top, and remarked, ‘It is busy in here for the time of day. Is this usual?’
Evidently there was no rheumatism in Patrick’s elbow: he lifted his glass and half-emptied it in one draught. He nodded in approval. ‘There’s usually a good handful of diggers keepin’ the seats warm in these places any time you care to go in, but I have to admit there’s a fair few today, so there is.’
‘Any reason?’ Rian asked, his eyes watering from his first sip of brandy.
Patrick tapped the side of his nose, and Rian wondered whether one day he might actually wear a hole in it. ‘Trouble on the diggin’s,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘This Hotham business, the diggers aren’t too happy about it.’
‘Well, I’m bloody well not, either,’ Rian said hotly. ‘Twenty shillings a month!’
‘Sure, and La Trobe, the fellah before Hotham, was a fool as well. Introduced the licence fee in the first place, then was after raisin’ it to three pounds a month. Three pounds! Nothing but a tax, pure and straight! But the chums organised and the fee stayed at thirty shillings. And, to be fair, it did go down to twenty shillings in November last year. But La Trobe wasn’t just a fool, he was blind as well. Must’ve been, not to have known what a drunken, corrupt pack of Joes he had running around on the diggin’s makin’ an honest digger’s life a misery. And they still do, the thievin’ heavy-handed bastards.’
Rian raised his eyebrows. ‘“Joes”?’
‘The peelers,’ Patrick explained. ‘Coppers. Now Hotham’s supposed to be investigating’—and here he affected a braying upper-class voice—‘ “goldfields disputes and grievances”. Couldn’t investigate his own arse, if you ask me.’ He hoicked in disgust and aimed at a spittoon. ‘Oh, the bloody fanfare when he turned up
At that moment three men entered the dining room, removed their hats and sat down, their rough work clothes, unshaven faces and shaggy hair incongruous against the crisp, white cloth drapingtheir table. As one, they stared at Kitty and Flora.
Flora stared stonily back, until one by one they lowered their gazes. She sat back, satisfied.
Kitty said, ‘Flora? This Lily Pearce, what sort of woman is she?’
‘She’s spiteful, Kitty, and has very few scruples. Watch out for her.’
Impatiently, Rian looked at his watch: they’d been standing in this queue for almost an hour now.
‘Is it like this every bloody day?’ he muttered to Hawk.
They were lined up outside the office of the gold commissioner, waiting to pay the compulsory twenty shillings each for a monthly licence to ‘dig, search for, or remove gold from Crown lands’. It was enforceable by government officials via the police, and the inability to produce one could result in a hefty fine or even imprisonment.
Rian thought the fee was outright extortion, but he couldn’t risk not having a miner’s licence: Sir Charles Hotham, Victoria’s new governor, had announced that licence searches would increase from once to twice a week. Apparently it wasn’t enough to have one licence per hole in the ground—every digger working said hole had to pay for the privilege. The rest of the crew would have to come in tomorrow for theirs. He waved as he caught sight of Patrick O’Riley hurrying up the street. The Irishman waved back, and mimed the raising of a glass to his mouth. Rian signalled his agreement.
Forty shillings grudgingly handed over and their licences finally procured, Rian and Hawk met Patrick in the nearest saloon. It was only eleven o’clock in the morning, but already it was crowded, noisy and thick with pipe smoke.
‘Holy Christ,’ Patrick complained as he sat down, clamping his hands to the small of his back. ‘The rheumatiz, so it is, from workin’ waist-deep in cold water for nigh on a year. Got your licences, I see?’
Their glasses of hot brandy arrived. Hawk thoughtfully turned his around on the scarred table top, and remarked, ‘It is busy in here for the time of day. Is this usual?’
Evidently there was no rheumatism in Patrick’s elbow: he lifted his glass and half-emptied it in one draught. He nodded in approval. ‘There’s usually a good handful of diggers keepin’ the seats warm in these places any time you care to go in, but I have to admit there’s a fair few today, so there is.’
‘Any reason?’ Rian asked, his eyes watering from his first sip of brandy.
Patrick tapped the side of his nose, and Rian wondered whether one day he might actually wear a hole in it. ‘Trouble on the diggin’s,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘This Hotham business, the diggers aren’t too happy about it.’
‘Well, I’m bloody well not, either,’ Rian said hotly. ‘Twenty shillings a month!’
‘Sure, and La Trobe, the fellah before Hotham, was a fool as well. Introduced the licence fee in the first place, then was after raisin’ it to three pounds a month. Three pounds! Nothing but a tax, pure and straight! But the chums organised and the fee stayed at thirty shillings. And, to be fair, it did go down to twenty shillings in November last year. But La Trobe wasn’t just a fool, he was blind as well. Must’ve been, not to have known what a drunken, corrupt pack of Joes he had running around on the diggin’s makin’ an honest digger’s life a misery. And they still do, the thievin’ heavy-handed bastards.’
Rian raised his eyebrows. ‘“Joes”?’
‘The peelers,’ Patrick explained. ‘Coppers. Now Hotham’s supposed to be investigating’—and here he affected a braying upper-class voice—‘ “goldfields disputes and grievances”. Couldn’t investigate his own arse, if you ask me.’ He hoicked in disgust and aimed at a spittoon. ‘Oh, the bloody fanfare when he turned up
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