Oh! dear.
So far so good, for the present; because spy 'Goodenough' wants me
in the next chapter.
Chapter LXIII.
Et Scias Quia Nihil Impium Fecerim.
It was now between eight and nine o'clock. A patrol of troopers and traps
stopped before the London Hotel.
Spy Goodenough, entered panting, a cocked pistol in his hand, looking as wild
as a raven. He instantly pounced on me as his prey, and poking the pistol
at my face, said in his rage, "I want you."
"What for?"
"None of your d - - d nonsense, or I shoot you down like a rat."
"My good fellow don't you see? I am assisting Dr. Carr to dress the wounds
of my friends!" - I was actually helping to bandage the thigh of an American
digger, whose name, if I recollected it, I should now write down with pleasure,
because he was a brave fellow. He had on his body at least half-a-dozen shots,
all in front, an evident proof, he had stood his ground like a man.
Spy Goodenough would not listen to me. Dr. Carr. spoke not a word
in my behalf, though I naturally enough had appealed to him, who knew me
these two years, to do so. This circumstance, and his being the very first
to enter the stockade, after the military job was over, though he had
never before been on the Eureka during the agitation, his appointment
to attend the wounded diggers that were brought up to the Camp, and especially
his absence at my trial, were and are still a mystery to me.
I was instantly dragged out, and hobbled to a dozen more of prisoners outside,
and we were marched to the Camp. The main road was clear, and the diggers
crawled among the holes at the simple bidding of any of the troopers
who rode at our side.
Chapter LXIV.
Sic Sinuerunt Fata.
On reaching the Camp, I recognized there the identical American Kenworthy.
I gave him a fearful look. I suspected my doom to be sealed.
The soldiers were drinking 'ad libitum' from a pannikin which they dipped
into a pail-bucket full of brandy. I shall not prostitute my hand,
and write down the vile exultations of a mob of drunkards. It was of the
ordinary colonial sort, whenever in a fight the 'ring' is over.
Inspector Foster, commanded us to strip to the bare shirt. They did not
know how to spell my name. I pulled out a little bag containing some
Eureka gold-dust, and my licence; Mr. Foster took care of my bag, and just
as my name was copied from my licence; a fresh batch of prisoners
had arrived, and Mr. Foster was called outside the room where I was
stripping. Now, some accursed trooper pretended to recognize me as one
of the 'spouts' at the monster meeting. I wanted to keep my waistcoat
on account of some money, and papers I had in the breast pocket;
my clothes were literally torn into rags. I attempted to remonstrate,
but I was kicked for my pains, knocked down in the bargain, and thrown
naked and senseless into the lock-up.
The prison was crammed to suffocation. We had not space enough to lie
down, and so it was taken in turns to stand or lie down. Some kind friend
sent me some clothes, and my good angel had directed him to bury
my hand-writings he had found in my tent, under a tent in Gravel-pits.
Fleas, lice, horse-stealers, and low thieves soon introduced themselves
to my notice. This vermin, and the heat of the season, and the stench
of the place, and the horror at my situation, had rendered life
intolerable to me. Towards midnight of that Sunday I was delirious.
Our growls and howling reached Commissioner Rede, and about two o'clock
in the morning the doors were opened, and all the prisoners from
the Eureka stockade, were removed between two files of soldiers
to the Camp store-house a spacious room, well ventilated and clean.
Commissioner Rede came in person to visit us. Far from any air of
exultation, he appeared to me to feel for our situation. As he passed
before me, I addressed him in French, to call his attention to my misery.
He answered very kindly, and concluded thus:-
"'Je ne manquerai pas de parler au Docteur Carr, et si ce que vous venez
de me dire e trouve vrai, je veux bien m'interesser pour vous.'
"'Vous etez bien bon, Monsieur le Commissionaire, repondis-je.'
"'Il faut donc que j'aie eu des ennemis bien cruels au Camp! Avaient-ils
soif de mon sang, ou etaient-ils de mercenaires? Voila bien un secret,
et je donnerai de coeur ma vie pour le percer. Dieu leur pardonne, moi,
je le voudrais bien! mais je ne saurai les pardonner jamais.'"
Chapter LXV.
Ecce Homo.
On Monday morning, the fresh air had restored me a little strength.
We had an important arrival among us. It was the Editor of 'The Times'
newspaper, arrested for sedition. All silver and gold lace, blue and red
coats in the Camp rushed in to gaze on this wild elephant, whose trunk
it was supposed, had stirred up the hell on Ballaarat.
Henry Seekamp is a short, thick, rare sort of man, of quick and precise
movements, sardonic countenance; and one look from his sharp round set
of eyes, tells you at once that you must not trifle with him. Of a temper
that must have cost him some pains to keep under control, he hates humbug
and all sort of yabber-yabber. His round head of tolerable size,
is of German mould, for the earnestness of his forehead is corrected
by the fullness of his cheeks, and a set of moustachios is the padlock
of his mouth, whose key is kept safe in his head, and his heart is the
turn-key.
