They, with the exception of Vern,
were not with us, thank God; up to Saturday four o'clock any how.
Saturday morning. The night had been very cold, we had kept watch for fear
of being surprised; every hour the cry, was "The military are coming."
Vern had enlarged the stockade across the Melbourne road,
and down the Warrenheip Gully.
Suppose, even that all diggers who had fire arms had been present and plucky,
yet no man in his right senses will ever give Vern the credit
for military tactics, if that gallant officer had thought that an acre
of ground on the surface of a hill accessible with the greatest ease
on every side, simply fenced in by a few slabs placed at random,
could be defended by a handful of men, for the most part totally destitute
of military knowledge, against a disciplined soldiery, backed by swarms
of traps and troopers.
Such, however, was our infatuation, that now we considered the stockade
stronger, because it looked more higgledy-piggledy.
Non Nobis, Non Nobis, Sed Pax Vobiscum.
It was eight o'clock. Drilling was going on as on the previous day.
Father Smyth came inside the stockade: it was my watch. He looked
very earnest, a deep anxiety about the hopelessness of our struggle,
must have grieved his Irish heart.