IT was now almost day; the fighting was over. A smart shower had fallen
during the struggle, and the wet pipeclay within the stockade was strewn
with dead and wounded diggers, and along the line of attack taken by the
three companies of infantry wounded and dead soldiers lay scattered,
their red coats dotting the white ground with curious blotches of colour,
the figures of the men still vague and indefinite in the mist and the
feeble light of the dawning day. A wounded soldier near the logs writhed
in his agony, with worm-like movements terrible to see. Confusion
remained within the stockade. The killing was ended, but the prisoners
were to be collected and guarded. Many of the insurgents had escaped,
some by hiding in the claims, others by making a run for the surrounding
diggings. A few brave friends who had hidden Peter Lalor under slabs
sloped against a log succeeded in carrying the wounded leader away under
the noses of the soldiers, and he escaped.
The fight had not lasted half an hour, and by the time the people of
Ballarat fully realized what was happening it was too late to give help
to the devoted few within the stockade; and the men gathered as near the
miniature battlefield as they were permitted to go, with white faces,
awed and penitent, many feeling the keenest pangs of remorse, knowing how
bitterly the earnest souls had paid for their neglect.
One woman had made her way into the stockade within a few minutes of the
firing of the last shot. She passed unnoticed in the confusion; her face
was hidden in a shawl, and she went quickly amongst the fallen rebels.
Some of the wounded men lay in puddles--these she helped; but it was
evident that she was seeking someone she knew as she passed from one to
another, peering into their faces, seeking to identify them in the feeble
light.
This was Aurora Griffiths, and she was seeking Jim Done, cherishing an
agonized hope that she might not find him. One wounded man dragged
himself to a puddle to satisfy his craving for drink, and died with his
face in the thick water; another, a mere boy, was sitting with his back
to a log, staring with a puzzled expression at the gory fingers he had
dipped in his wound. Presently, coming to a man lying face downward where
the soldiers had broken through, Aurora uttered a sharp cry. The figure
was familiar. Quickly she turned the face to, the light. It was pale and
bloodless; the only disfigurement was a small purple wound in a slight
depression near the temple, but the man was dead.
'It's Mike!' murmured Aurora. She knelt in the mud; her trembling hand
sought his heart. 'Dead!' she cried. She looked about her in terror,
then, rising to her feet, she ran to others lying near. They were
strangers. 'Thank God!' she cried--' thank God!' Aurora returned to
Mike's side, and, kneeling there, gazed upon him with streaming eyes.
Burton's face had assumed a Spartan dignity in death. 'Poor, poor boy!'
she said, and with her fingers upon his eyelids she whispered a prayer
for his soul. It was long since she had minded to pray for her own, but
the dead are so helpless. They invite even the intercession of the
faithless.
A soldier touched her on the shoulder.
'You'll have to get out of this, miss,' he said. Glancing at the dead
face, he corrected himself, and called her Mrs.
Aurora went with him. She looked closely at the prisoners as they passed,
but Jim Done was not amongst them. Beyond the cordon of troopers she was
liberated, and returned wearily to Mrs. Kyley's tent, for the Kyleys had
shifted their prosperous business to the vicinity of Bakery Hill a month
before. At the tent-door she was met by Mary.
'He is not amongst the dead, thank God!' said Aurora, 'and he's not with
the prisoners. Jim is safe, but poor Mike Burton--'
'Wounded, is he?'
'Dead. Shot through the head.'
Mrs. Kyley threw up her hands. 'My God!' she said. 'The poor lad! Oh,
Aurora, my dear girl, it's a bad, bad business!' The tears were trickling
down Mrs. Ben's plump cheeks.
'Why, Mary, what else has happened?'
Mrs. Kyley had set her large bulk before the girl, barring the door.
'You'd better not go in yet awhile, Joy darling.'
'What is it--is it Ben?'
'No, no, it's not Ben, but someone is in there who is hurt pretty badly.'
Somebody I know?' Aurora clutched Mary Kyley's arm, and stared into her
face with a sudden new fear.
'Yes, deary, somebody you know.'