Et Scias Quia Nihil Impium Fecerim.
It was now between eight and nine o'clock. A patrol of troopers and traps
stopped before the London Hotel.
Spy Goodenough, entered panting, a cocked pistol in his hand, looking as wild
as a raven. He instantly pounced on me as his prey, and poking the pistol
at my face, said in his rage, "I want you."
"What for?"
"None of your d----d nonsense, or I shoot you down like a rat."
"My good fellow don't you see? I am assisting Dr. Carr to dress the wounds
of my friends!"--I was actually helping to bandage the thigh of an American
digger, whose name, if I recollected it, I should now write down with pleasure,
because he was a brave fellow. He had on his body at least half-a-dozen shots,
all in front, an evident proof, he had stood his ground like a man.
Spy Goodenough would not listen to me. Dr. Carr. spoke not a word
in my behalf, though I naturally enough had appealed to him, who knew me
these two years, to do so. This circumstance, and his being the very first
to enter the stockade, after the military job was over, though he had
never before been on the Eureka during the agitation, his appointment
to attend the wounded diggers that were brought up to the Camp, and especially
his absence at my trial, were and are still a mystery to me.
I was instantly dragged out, and hobbled to a dozen more of prisoners outside,
and we were marched to the Camp. The main road was clear, and the diggers
crawled among the holes at the simple bidding of any of the troopers
who rode at our side.