The Eureka Stockade [52]
of Sydney, who hated all sort of rogues, because he was honest in heart. He brunted courageously the mob fury on Tuesday evening, November 28th, on the Eureka, and actually saved at the risk of his own life, the life of a soldier of the 12th regiment on its way to Ballaarat; he took up arms in the cause of the diggers in Thursday's licence-hunt, was subsequently under drill at the stockade; fought like a tiger on Sunday morning; repented not of having put on stretchers a couple of red-coats; was always cheerful, contented and kind-hearted during the four months in gaol; paid his last farthing out of the honest sweat of his brow, to Stephens his solicitor for the defence (above thirty pounds) and when put in the dock to take his trial for high-treason, lo! there was no charge against him; the prosecution was dropped. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!
We are however still in chokey at Ballaarat. We were put under the officious care of Sergeant Harris, who condescended to show some affection for Joseph, to prove that his Christian love could extend even to niggers; but the red-coat wanted to draw worms from the black rebel. We were nigh bursting for laughter, when Joseph during his two days' trial came into our yard for his meals, and related to us with such eye-twinklings, widening of nostrils, trumping up the lips, scratching all the while his black wool so desperately, and the doodle music of his unearthly whistle! "how old chappyman and a tother smart 'un of spin-all did fix that there mob of traps; 'specially that godammed hirpocrit of sergeant, I guess."
JOHN JOSEPH, a native of New York, under a dark skin possessed a warm, good, honest, kind, cheerful heart; a sober, plain-matter-of-fact contented mind; and that is more than what can be said of some half-a-dozen grumbling, shirking, snarling, dog-natured state prisoners.
Sergeant Harris took it into his head to humble Hayes--humility is also a Christian virtue--and so honoured him with the perfumery job of clearing the tub at the corner, full of urine and solids. Hayes, for the lark did it once, but found it against his principles to practise on said tub again, and thus got into disgrace with our overkind sergeant.
To be serious: Timothy Hayes, our chairman at the monster meeting, aristocratically dressed among us, had like the rest his plump body literally bloated with lice from the lock-up. Poor Manning was the worst. Myself, I was plagued with that disgusting vermin, all through those ignominious four months in gaol.
It were odious to say many, many other things.
Chapter LXXII.
Is There A Mortal Eye That Never Wept?
On Sunday afternoon, we witnessed a solemn scene, which must be recorded with a tear wherever this book may find a reader.
The sun was far towards the west. All had felt severely the heat of the day. The red-coats themselves, that were of the watch, felt their ardour flagging. Of twelve prisoners, some gazed as in 'a fix,' and were stationary; others, 'acursing,' swept up and down the prison; the rest, cast down, desponding, doing violence to themselves, to dam their flooded eyes. I was among the broken-hearted.
Mrs. Hayes, who in the days of her youth must have made many young Irish hearts ache 'for something,' had brought now a bundle of clean clothing, and a stock of provisions, to make her husband's journey to Melbourne as comfortable as possible. There she was, holding her baby sucking at her breast; her eyes full on her husband, which spoke that she passionately loved him. Six children, neatly dressed, and the image of their father, were around. Timothy Hayes forced himself to appear as cheerful as his honourable heart and proud mind would allow. He pressed his little daughter, who wanted to climb his shoulder; he pronounced his blessing on the younger of his sons. The eldest (twelve years old) was kissing his father's left hand, bathing it all the while with such big tears, that dropped down so one by one, and so after the other!
Good boy, your sorrows have begun soon enough for your sensible heart!
We are however still in chokey at Ballaarat. We were put under the officious care of Sergeant Harris, who condescended to show some affection for Joseph, to prove that his Christian love could extend even to niggers; but the red-coat wanted to draw worms from the black rebel. We were nigh bursting for laughter, when Joseph during his two days' trial came into our yard for his meals, and related to us with such eye-twinklings, widening of nostrils, trumping up the lips, scratching all the while his black wool so desperately, and the doodle music of his unearthly whistle! "how old chappyman and a tother smart 'un of spin-all did fix that there mob of traps; 'specially that godammed hirpocrit of sergeant, I guess."
JOHN JOSEPH, a native of New York, under a dark skin possessed a warm, good, honest, kind, cheerful heart; a sober, plain-matter-of-fact contented mind; and that is more than what can be said of some half-a-dozen grumbling, shirking, snarling, dog-natured state prisoners.
Sergeant Harris took it into his head to humble Hayes--humility is also a Christian virtue--and so honoured him with the perfumery job of clearing the tub at the corner, full of urine and solids. Hayes, for the lark did it once, but found it against his principles to practise on said tub again, and thus got into disgrace with our overkind sergeant.
To be serious: Timothy Hayes, our chairman at the monster meeting, aristocratically dressed among us, had like the rest his plump body literally bloated with lice from the lock-up. Poor Manning was the worst. Myself, I was plagued with that disgusting vermin, all through those ignominious four months in gaol.
It were odious to say many, many other things.
Chapter LXXII.
Is There A Mortal Eye That Never Wept?
On Sunday afternoon, we witnessed a solemn scene, which must be recorded with a tear wherever this book may find a reader.
The sun was far towards the west. All had felt severely the heat of the day. The red-coats themselves, that were of the watch, felt their ardour flagging. Of twelve prisoners, some gazed as in 'a fix,' and were stationary; others, 'acursing,' swept up and down the prison; the rest, cast down, desponding, doing violence to themselves, to dam their flooded eyes. I was among the broken-hearted.
Mrs. Hayes, who in the days of her youth must have made many young Irish hearts ache 'for something,' had brought now a bundle of clean clothing, and a stock of provisions, to make her husband's journey to Melbourne as comfortable as possible. There she was, holding her baby sucking at her breast; her eyes full on her husband, which spoke that she passionately loved him. Six children, neatly dressed, and the image of their father, were around. Timothy Hayes forced himself to appear as cheerful as his honourable heart and proud mind would allow. He pressed his little daughter, who wanted to climb his shoulder; he pronounced his blessing on the younger of his sons. The eldest (twelve years old) was kissing his father's left hand, bathing it all the while with such big tears, that dropped down so one by one, and so after the other!
Good boy, your sorrows have begun soon enough for your sensible heart!