The Night They Stormed Eureka Read online

  Mrs Puddleham gave a moan and slumped on her husband’s shoulders, her big arms around his skinny neck. The small man staggered, but kept his feet.

  The bushranger chuckled again. ‘I ain’t worried by the police. These two might escape, I grant you. But you’d be dead.’

  Sam kept her eye on the pistol. It wavered when he laughed.

  She chose the most outrageous claim she could think of.

  ‘Bet I could beat you in a fight.’

  ‘What?’ The chuckle grew to a roar of laughter. The pistol wavered again.

  Sam leaped. Her fingers grasped the pistol for a second, then slipped away as the man jerked his hand up.

  The horse reared.

  ‘Whoa, Bessie!’ The rider gripped the saddle with his legs. A shot rang out as he jerked the trigger, trying to keep his balance.

  ‘Run!’ shrieked Sam.

  Mrs Puddleham suddenly stood straight again, miraculously no longer cowering. She hitched up her skirts, showing thick legs in black stockings and men’sboots a size too large for her, and galloped into the trees. The little man sprinted after her.

  The bushranger had his horse back under control now. He glared down at Sam. ‘Look what you’ve just cost me. An’ by the look o’ your rags you ain’t got tuppence to rub together.’

  Sam glanced down at her jeans. They were the old ones she wore after school. And Gavin must have torn her shirt last night. ‘They left the wheelbarrow. You can steal that. Every horse needs a wheelbarrow.’

  The bushranger made a snuffling sound under his handkerchief. He was trying not to laugh. He sounded even more like Nick now. She felt the terror slowly wash away.

  ‘Can’t you think of something better to do? Like working for a living?’

  The laughter stopped. The blue eyes grew hard above the handkerchief. ‘And what do you know about it, brat? You ever been chained to the wheel? Let’s see your back, eh? You got any scars? You ever been lashed till yer ribs show white? They stole seven years of my life and gave me hell. So maybe I’ll give the world a little hell in return.’

  Sam clenched her fists. She wouldn’t let him scare her now. ‘I know enough, even if I don’t have scars on my back. And those two didn’t look like they’ve ever taken anything from anyone. Or hurt anyone, either.’

  The bushranger hesitated.

  Sam reached up and stroked the horse’s nose. It whickered at her and mumbled at her fingers with his thickvelvety lips. Mum had let her have riding lessons, years ago, before …

  No, she wouldn’t think of Mum. This was a new story, a story where she was triumphant.

  ‘I know what it’s like,’ she said more quietly. ‘You want to hurt back. But you need to pick your target. Besides,’ she added practically, ‘if you only hold up rich-looking people you’ll get more money with less chance of being caught.’

  ‘I should give you a walloping, that’s what I should do. A bit of spit and wind standing there arguing with a bushranger.’

  The rider raised his pistol again. But this time it was a salute, not a threat. ‘Well done, lad,’ he said quietly. ‘I hope they’s proper grateful.’

  He jigged the horse with his knees. The horse snorted again, then cantered away along the track.

  Lad?

  Sam glanced down at her jeans and sneakers, then put her hand up to her short hair.

  ‘I’m a girl, you idiot!’ she yelled.

  But the bushranger had gone.

  Chapter 3

  ‘He didn’t hurt you none?’

  ‘Girl!’

  The Puddlehams spoke at the same time. They must have hidden behind a tree, thought Sam. The trees around here were bigger than any she’d known, but it would need to be massive to hide Mrs Puddleham.

  ‘O’ course she’s a girl, Mr Puddleham!’ Mrs Puddleham marched across to Sam. There was no sign of her terror now. ‘She ain’t the first girl pretending to be a boy on the goldfields, neither.’

  ‘Goldfields?’ Suddenly Sam’s hands were shaking. But it made sense. The bushranger, the couple’s clothes. And Puddleham, the name on the gravestone. But this isn’t what the Puddlehams should be like, she thought desperately. The world swayed for a moment, the cold breeze from nowhere nibbling once again.

  The woman hugged her. Her arms felt strong as well as fat, and smelled of old sweat and sour clothes. Sam accepted it awkwardly. She never knew what to do when people hugged her. Mum wasn’t good with hugs.

  But the hug was reassuring, nonetheless. The world steadied. The breeze vanished, leaving the hot scent of gum leaves as well as sweat. She felt like she had been tugged by a hundred ropes that had suddenly been cut away. But she’d won! For the first time in her life she’d fought back properly, and she’d won.

  The fat arms released her. The big woman stood back, staring at her with an expression Sam couldn’t read: a curiously searching gaze, part hope, part something else.

  ‘We owe you our thanks, miss,’ Mr Puddleham doffed his top hat to her. Sam had never seen anyone doff a hat before, but this one was definitely being doffed.

  ‘It wasn’t anything,’ said Sam, not sure how to respond.

  ‘It were a good deal more’n that,’ Mrs Puddleham lifted her skirt. For someone who’d been so modest before, thought Sam, she didn’t mind showing her legs now. They bulged like legs of lamb, clad in what looked like black knitted stockings held up by ruffled green garters, with wobbly white flesh threaded with blue veins above the knees.

  Mrs Puddleham untied a small white drawstring bag from one of the garters. She grinned, showing the gaps in her teeth again. Had her terror been real, thought Sam suddenly, or just a show for the bushranger? ‘The joke’s on him, deary. Look at this! There’s two pounds’ worth of gold dust here!’

  ‘Mrs Puddleham!’ the little man hissed. He glanced around. ‘You don’t know who’s listening. Or who this girl is with.’

  ‘It’s obvious, Mr Puddleham,’ Mrs Puddleham spoke matter-of-factly, but there was an undercurrent of excitement too. ‘She’s by herself, ain’t you, deary? Run off disguised as a boy … and we ain’t asking why you’ve run off neither,’ she added quickly. ‘No girl runs away unless her family deserves it, that’s what I say, or ‘cause the cove she’s apprenticed to ill-treats her. An’ no one knows that better’n I,’ she said more quietly. ‘No questions, deary. No, you’ll never get no unwelcome questions from me.’

  Sam stared at her. She was a hundred years away from her own time, at least. Yet here was this woman, this strange fat woman so much older than she was, who understood. The tears prickled again.

  ‘Well, let’s have a bite to eat. It’s my belief,’ added Mrs Puddleham, stuffing the gold back into her stocking and letting her skirts fall again, ‘that everything’s better with a good lining to your stomach. An’ then we can introduce ourselves proper. An', Mr Puddleham, get that look off your face. You look like a sheep who thinks it’ll be shorn.’ She stared at Sam again, with that strange depth of yearning. ‘This is a good girl, I’ll warrant, may the devil turn my teacakes flat forever if I tell a lie.’

  Mrs Puddleham untied what looked like a floury sack dangling by her side, tied with rope to her waist. ‘Now let’s get off the track afore we has our bite to eat, in case that young varmint or one like him comes by again.’

  Chapter 4

  They sat among the shifting leaf dapples, and Mrs Puddleham opened her sack. It held lumps of what looked like dough, all stuck together and a bit hairy from the hessian. Mrs Puddleham pulled one off the others and held it out to Sam.

  ‘Here you are, deary. You get your mouth round one o’ these.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Sam cautiously. The thing looked like a soggy golf ball.

  ‘One o’ my treacle dumplings. You won’t find a lighter dumpling on the goldfields.’

  Sam bit down tentatively. There was sweetish brown sticky stuff inside. Her stomach growled appreciatively, despite the bits of hessian. Mrs Puddleham passed her another.


  ‘Good, ain’t they?’ the fat woman said proudly, her mouth full. ‘There’s precious few has as light a hand with treacle dumplings.’

  Sam nodded. She wondered suddenly if she had ever eaten anything made with such love and pride.

  ‘No one makes dumplings like yours, Mrs Puddleham,’ Mr Puddleham rose to his feet and gave his wife a small, stiff bow. It seemed as though their safety had made him loquacious. ‘Mrs Puddleham is the finest cook in the colony, no, in the entire Empire. You should taste her quince pie and custard. As for her currant buns — Her Majesty herself doesn’t have buns like that on her tea table. And I should know.’

  Mr Puddleham. Mrs Puddleham. Sam felt like giggling. It was such a formal way to talk to your husband or wife, but somehow it sounded like a caress.

  The big woman blushed with pleasure. ‘Well, it’s a knack, I admit it. So, deary, you know who we are. What’s your moniker then?’

  ‘Monica?’

  ‘Now, now, Mrs Puddleham. There is a proper way to introduce ourselves.’ The little man gave another stiff bow, this time in Sam’s direction. ‘Mr Percival Puddleham, until lately Her Majesty Queen Victoria’s butler, at your service, miss. And may I present to you my esteemed wife, Mrs Puddleham.’

  Mrs Puddleham giggled. She pulled at his hand, forcing him to sit on the grass next to her again. ‘Go on with you, Mr P. You eat your nice dumpling afore the ants get it first. He’s as thin as a hat pin, ain’t he, deary?’

  Sam stared at the skeletal Mr Puddleham sitting with his wife, his knobbly knees and elbows pressed neatly together. She couldn’t see him standing all tall and butler-like,especially at a palace. ‘Were you really Queen Victoria’s butler?’

  ‘I was. And a greater honour no man can ever have. Except of course to be married to my dear wife here.’ His elbows were still stiff, and his neck straight as a rooster’s, but there was warmth in his eyes as he looked at his wife. He lifted the dimpled hand next to him and kissed it. Mrs Puddleham giggled again.

  ‘My name’s Sam.’

  ‘Ahem.’ Mr Puddleham coughed gently. ‘Sam is not a girl’s name, if you’ll excuse me mentioning it, miss.’

  His wife nudged him. ‘Now you hush up, Mr P, and none of that miss stuff in case someone overhears. If she’s going to be a boy then Sam is a very good name.’

  ‘It’s short for Samantha,’ said Sam.

  ‘See?’ said Mrs Puddleham. She patted Sam’s hand. ‘And a very nice name it is too, deary. Like I said, we’ll ask no questions. We’re just grateful, ain’t we, Mr P?’

  Her husband nodded.

  ‘Please … if you don’t mind my asking — what are you doing here? This is a long way from Queen Victoria’s palace,’ she added.

  The Puddlehams shared a glance. ‘We are making our fortunes, miss, I mean, er, Sam,’ Mr Puddleham corrected, as Mrs Puddleham nudged him sharply.

  ‘Digging for gold?’

  Mr Puddleham glanced down at his hands. His fingers were long and white. Even the nails were neatly trimmed,though there were what looked like new calluses across each finger.

  ‘Not us,’ said Mrs Puddleham, biting happily into another dumpling. ‘We know a lark worth two o’ that, don’t we, Mr P? Here.’ She shoved another couple of dumplings towards Sam. ‘You fill your belly, deary. We got plenty. No, let them as is good for nothing else do the digging, and we’ll get the gold off them.’

  ‘Not stealing?’ Had she saved a pair of thieves from a bushranger? Suddenly the dumplings felt like mud in her stomach.

  ‘Certainly not! Stealing? The very idea.’ Mrs Puddleham looked just a bit too innocent. ‘It’s me cooking,’ she added proudly. ‘Mr P and me runs the best cook shop on the diggings. We sells the food and they gives us their gold. Stew like none of them diggers have tasted before. None o’ your rat, neither, pretending that it’s chicken. Welsh cakes so light they float off the plate, and cold puddin’ on Sundays, seeing as how it ain’t right to cook on the Sabbath, not to mention most o’ the men bein’ on the grog Saturday night and still so woozy Sunday morning they’ll pay us threepence a slice. Wish the whole month were Sundays, sometimes, we makes so much for so little.’

  ‘Um, that’s wonderful,’ said Sam.

  Mrs Puddleham nodded happily. ‘Another few months an’ we’ll have enough money to buy one o’ they fancy hotels down in Melbourne, with velvet seats in the dining room and a separate bed for every cove what wants one, with proper sheets and everything.’

  So the Puddlehams were rich? Or were going to be? A hotel with buttered toast, thought Sam. And maybe the shaggy dog …

  ‘Which is why we were headed to Higgins’s farm, miss, er, Sam,’ said Mr Puddleham, ‘when you so bravely rescued us. Mrs Puddleham and I need to buy more provisions. The prices on the diggings are scandalous, and it’s a day’s walk to the farm and back. So if you’ll excuse us we’d best be off there or we won’t be home before sundown.’

  He stood up, swept off his top hat, and bowed. ‘My utmost thanks again for our deliverance. It is an honour to have met you.’

  ‘Oh.’ Sam shivered. They were so kind. And funny. Suddenly the thought of being alone in a strange place and a strange time was almost too much. But she’d handled the bushranger, hadn’t she? She could cope …

  ‘It — it was very nice to meet you too,’ she began, trying to match Mr Puddleham’s polite tone. ‘Maybe we’ll meet again —’

  ‘Meet again! What nonsense.’ There was an almost hungry look in Mrs Puddleham’s eye that Sam couldn’t understand, but she was determined too. The woman took a deep breath. ‘You’re coming with us. Ain’t that right, Mr P?’

  The big woman looked from her husband to Sam then back again. This time her gaze was like a challenge to them both. ‘Like a daughter, seeing as how Mr P and me ain’t got no kith nor kin, nor chicks of our own, despite how much we’ve yearned for one —’

  ‘Ahem.’ Mr Puddleham coughed as though to stop any too-embarrassing confidences. ‘Perhaps we should give this some thought, Mrs Puddleham.’

  Mrs Puddleham’s red hands pressed against her bosom. ‘No, Mr P. It’s right. You got to see it’s right.’

  ‘She’s not our kin,’ objected Mr Puddleham. ‘We don’t know who she is, Mrs Puddleham, or where she’s come from. She may have family of her own.’

  ‘No, I haven’t —’ began Sam, but Mrs Puddleham interrupted. ‘She’s headin’ to the diggings to make her fortune, just like us. She ain’t dressed up like a floozy, neither, so we knows her morals is good. An’ it ain’t right for a girl her age to be alone on the diggings. You knows that, Mr P. Sometimes we all of us needs a little help from others if we’re to get by.’

  ‘But, Mrs Puddleham …’ the little man’s voice trailed off. Something was going on between them, Sam decided. Something that didn’t need words said out loud.

  ‘I ain’t asked nothing o’ you, ever, have I?’ added Mrs Puddleham softly. ‘Not a golden wedding band, nor ribbons for me hair. An’ she’ll be useful. That Professor is as much use minding the pots as one o’ Her Majesty’s lap dogs. You’ve said yourself I don’t know how many times we needs another pair o’ hands.’

  Mr Puddleham glanced over at Sam, then back to his wife, his face quite expressionless. Finally he sighed. ‘We must remember she is a son, at least until we are back in Melbourne, Mrs Puddleham.’

  He hasn’t said yes, thought Sam. He just hasn’t said no.

  ‘Son or daughter, it’s all one,’ Mrs Puddleham’s big hand grasped Sam’s even more firmly. It felt surprisingly soft, despite its scars and calluses. ‘Come on now, deary. An’ don’t you worry none. ‘Cause there’s one thing I can promise you.’ She grinned, showing the gaps in her yellow teeth. ‘You won’t be goin’ hungry. All the stew you can eat, an’ brownie and some of my good damper toasted with butter and treacle … I’ll put some meat on your bones, you’ll see.’

  Toasted damper, thought Sam. Her stomach clenched with anticipated pleasure, its hunger only just sat
isfied despite the dumplings. At least she’d got the buttered toast right.

  Chapter 5

  She walked with the Puddlehams without thinking for a while. Mrs Puddleham’s hand still held hers. It was enough to have the bell-like tinkle of the birds above them, the hush of the trees. A wallaby glanced at them, then bounded off.

  ‘Good eating on them kangas,’ remarked Mrs Puddleham. ‘Long as you gets a young ‘un, o’ course.’

  ‘That was a wallaby, Mrs Puddleham, not a kangaroo,’ Mr Puddleham puffed slightly as he pushed the wheelbarrow.

  ‘Same thing. Just ain’t as much meat. You want me to take a turn at the barrow now, Mr P?’

  ‘I am obliged to you, Mrs Puddleham, but I can manage.’

  Mrs Puddleham breathed in the air happily. ‘Smells like it’s just had its face washed, don’t it? Good to get away from the diggings for a bit. Like a walk in the park, ain’t it, Mr P?’

  Mr Puddleham said nothing as he continued to push the barrow.

  The track wound between the trees, splodged now and then with horse droppings. Long curls of bark crackled like cornflakes as Mr Puddleham pushed the barrow over them.

  They’d walked for an hour or so when they heard footsteps. A group of men strode round a corner towards them. Two were dressed in bright shirts like the bushranger’s, with hats made from what looked like palm fronds on their heads and shotguns at their sides; one wore a suit made out of stiff once-white cloth. The other man was so stooped he walked like a crab, and his clothes were so ragged it was hard to see what they had once been.

  Sam felt terror prickle up her back. Were they bushrangers too? But Mr Puddleham doffed his top hat to them.

  ‘Fine day for it, Mr Puddleham,’ said one of the men, touching the brim of his own strange hat.

  ‘It is indeed, sir,’ said Mr Puddleham majestically.

  The bent man grinned. ‘You want a few roo tails if we gets some, ma?’ he asked Mrs Puddleham, peering up lopsidedly to look into her face.

  Mr Puddleham coughed. ‘Mrs Puddleham, if you please,’ he corrected.