Free Band of Gold by Deborah Challinor

here, I tell you. Just before you came, it was. People were thinkin’ he wasChrist risen, the way they were carryin’ on. But that soon changed, I can assure you.’
    ‘And the disputes, what is the cause of them?’ Hawk asked.
    ‘Well, claim-jumpin’ and claims overlappin’—or should I say under lappin’—and the like. ’Tis a real problem with deep-sinkin’. The trouble is the way the gold commissioner, that’s Robert Rede, settles the disputes. Very arbitrary, so he is, and not often fair. The grievances now, that’s all about the fees and the vote and the land and the like.’
    ‘So this Hotham’s not popular among the diggers?’ Rian said.
    ‘You could say that.’
    Rian looked thoughtful. ‘Is there any organised resistance to what he’s doing?’
    Patrick looked at him in surprise. ‘Course there is, and why wouldn’t there be?’
    ‘Is it widespread?’ Hawk asked. ‘And how organised?’
    Patrick took a moment to shred some tobacco and tamp it into his pipe, light it with a Lucifer and make himself more comfortable on his stool. ‘It’s been goin’ on for nearly three years. It all started before I got here—with the monster meeting at the Forest Creek diggin’s, up north of here, in ’51. They were agitating for the cursed licence fee to be reduced, and the right to vote—except for the blackfellahs, of course—and to purchase land. That led to the Red Ribbon Rebellion last year in Bendigo. A mass meeting, it was, more like a carnival. All the nationalities had their flags flyin’, so they did—the Americans and the Germans and the Danes, and the Irish, the Scots, and the Welsh, and the English. There was a Diggers’ Banner, and pipes and a brass band. And they all decided that they were only goin’ to pay ten shillings for their September licences. A lot did, and wore red ribbons in their hats to advertise the fact. After that they took a petition—over forty feet long, it was!—to Melbourne in a dogcart. Not that it did much good, mind.’He drew mightily on his pipe and was rewarded with a mouthful of smoke that dribbled out as he spoke. ‘These days, because of that eejit Hotham, things are getting very interestin’ here. ’Specially now that the Gravel Pits—’
    Rian interrupted. ‘That’s the leads on the other side of Bakery Hill? To the north?’
    ‘’Tis. Now that them leads are payin’ well, the Tipperary mob, who’ve staked most of the claims there, are gettin’ stirred up. And rightly so. Claims allotted are only eight feet square, as you know yourselves, and if you hit a payin’ lead beneath one, that’s all and good, but if you don’t it’s a lot of hard work for bugger-all. Bigger claims would mean more chance of strikin’ gold. ’Tis an awful waste the way it is. The tension’s becomin’ terrible. And you know what a crowd of Irishmen are like when they get riled, and there’s thousands of them on the Gravel Pits. Plenty on this side, too.’ Tap, tap, tap went Patrick’s finger against his nose. ‘You mark my words, there’ll be trouble on these diggin’s before the year’s out. Serious trouble.’
    Rian hoped not. He was itching to get stuck into his claim, which had only been driven to a depth of around fifteen feet below ground by the unfortunate Mr Murphy. Especially as two days ago, as he had been idly kicking at the mullock piled around the shaft, he had, to his utter amazement, uncovered a nugget the size of his thumbnail.
    ‘Rian?’
    ‘Mmm?’
    ‘I need to talk to you about something.’
    ‘Good,’ Rian said, who wasn’t listening. The firelight flickered on his face, sharpening the planes of his cheeks and jaw.
    ‘Can you put the paper down, please? It’s important.’
    Rian folded the Ballarat Times , then scooped Bodie from hislap and plonked her on the floor. ‘There, you have my undivided attention.’
    Kitty wasn’t sure where to start. ‘Well…you remember when Simon and I went to stay in Auckland that time,