IT WAS NOW SUNDAY, 3 December 1854, and, while Lalor rested, Mr Rede went to work with purposeful will. Word had come, through a spy, that the Stockade was almost deserted, and that the Americans had gone or been led forth on a wild-goose chase. It did not require much thought to conclude that the moment for positive action had arrived. With the Stockade so reduced an offensive would require only a small, well-equipped force, leaving the majority at the Camp in case a counter attack was made upon it. Rede feared for his own safety, and had drawn the Governor’s attention to information he had received which alleged that the diggers regarded both Johnston and himself as ‘doomed’ men. Clearly it would be imprudent under such circumstances to venture forth personally from the Camp, or to despatch such a large force to the Eureka as to leave the Camp undefended.
With these things in mind the Commissioner sat down with Thomas and Pasley to plan the affair. They immediately called in Amos to advise them, as he had an intimate knowledge of the physical layout of both the Eureka field and the Stockade itself. It was unfortunate that work of this kind had to be undertaken on the Sabbath, but the prospects for a decisive crushing of both men and movement were so good that such considerations paled into insignificance. Two other factors agitated the minds of those men as they reasoned it all out. Since Nickle was well on his way from Melbourne, it was up to Thomas and his troops to prove their mettle. Rede knew hat on this very afternoon the meeting of the Reform League would take place at the Adelphi, and the Commissioner had had his fill of meetings. Outside, over Ballarat, a young moon rode in a fine, still sky. The moon would set before dawn, so the work had to begin within a few hours, and later they could all rest.1
The plans were made in complete secrecy as it was thought that, within the Camp itself, there were informants who might get word to the Stockade. If so, they had been singularly unproductive hitherto, and it was unlikely that they could have been of much value to the diggers now. As a matter of fact very little had to be done to arrange matters. Everyone was in a constant state of readiness, with men awake or dozing lightly at their posts, weapons at hand, while the cavalry were alongside their horses holding onto the bridles. Once the time and method of execution were decided upon, all that had to be given was an order. With the help of Amos, a route was worked out which would not require a direct approach. Bakery Hill and Main Road had to be avoided as troop movements on them certainly would have been noticed immediately. To come along the Melbourne Road would have entailed an attack on the front of the Stockade where it was at its strongest. It was agreed that the assaulting force would go out from the back of the Camp, cross Lydiard and Mair Streets, and follow the upper course of the Yarrowee and ford it below Black Hill. With Amos to direct members of the force, they could then come down across the flat and move quietly into the general area at the rear of the Stockade.
From then on it would be a question of luck because it was unlikely that they could come directly upon the Stockade without being noticed in some way. The important thing was to get close enough to ensure that they could not be engaged on holed ground and to confine the battle, if one ensued, to the Stockade and its immediate surrounds. Above all it was necessary to fulfil Rede’s wish and come upon the diggers ‘with arms in their hands and acting in direct opposition to the laws’. Were that to happen, no matter what amount of butchery followed, no one would be able to cast blame for the affair on the representatives of the law who would always be able to claim that they were doing their duty.2 On the other hand such a plan made it clear hat the military and police were not going to issue forth in the middle of the night to engage in an interchange of honeyed words with those other citizens gathered in the Stockade. An offensive, aggressive and decidedly violent venture was afoot and the Stockade would shortly be aware of it.
When it came to the matter of who would undertake the affair it was clear that Captain Thomas had to be its leader. Pasley wanted to go also, and Hackett and Webster, as magistrates, would give some semblance of civil authority even though such niceties as reading a Riot Act might have to be ignored. Nevertheless, it was deemed wise and prudent to have them come along and, according to Thomas, they were there ‘to authorize my proceedings’. It was clear that no great numbers were required, given the depleted enemy force and their lack of weapons. At about 2.30 a.m. 182 mounted and foot soldiers and 94 police, also mounted or on foot, were quietly and suddenly ordered to fall in. Those of officer rank totalled 17, with the police under the command of Sub-Inspector Taylor. The total came to 296, which outnumbered by more than two to one the diggers in the Stockade.3 What was more important was the superior firepower of the government forces carrying weapons which made those of the diggers seem like mere toys. These arrangements also meant that a similar force under Captain Atkinson was to remain behind in the Camp in case of need.
Thomas stood before them in the pale moonlight to tell them what lay ahead and what was their role in it, after which they were given a ration of rum. The Stockade was to be attacked and only those of its inhabitants who ‘ceased to resist’ were to be spared.4 No special explanation was required as to how to treat those who chose to do otherwise. That said and the rum consumed, they set forth at about 3.30 a.m. and marched ‘in such perfect silence’ that even the birds remained undisturbed. Bakery Hill stood to their right as they wound along the Yarrowee Creek which, when they came to cross it, represented no obstacle. The only structure of any significance on the Eureka was the Free Trade Hotel, but it too was passed without incident. The morning was very still, but away to the east and beyond Buninyong and Warrenheip the faint, earliest traces of the sun could eventually be seen. Gradually the grey light of dawn began to light up first the few remaining trees and then the ground. This made easier and surer the last stages of the men’s advance. They paused under cover of a slight rise in the ground at about 300 yards’ distance, and there they took up their positions. When the first assault party was about 150 yards from the north edge, the Stockade began to take its true shape as a frail, hastily erected structure, almost like a primitive cattle yard. Inside it most of the diggers still slept or rested, while limply above the Southern Cross hung, with no wind to stir its stars.
Battles, whether long or short, all take on their own memories for both the victors and the vanquished provided they survive to tell a tale. In this case there is general agreement that the battle was short, brutal and, in its own way, final. Understandably a goodly proportion of those who came through told of it with the detail they found etched on memory or imagination. One particular matter which exercised many minds was the question as to who fired the first shot. The implications of a correct answer to that question appear clear. If the military fired first they were the aggressors. If, on the other hand, the diggers did so, they were guilty of aggression which further justified the attack on them. The argument is both pointless and sterile, and the facts reasonably clear. At a distance of some 100 or more yards it would have been absurd for the attacking party to advertise its presence by firing aimlessly at logs. On the other hand it was absolutely necessary for sentries, at or near the Stockade, to fire in order to alert their mates as to what was happening. In any case the question of who fired first mattered little to Captain Thomas and those under his command. They had come out with a specific purpose which required military force and they were intent on using it. As for the police, the years of emotional stress, their jealousy of successful diggers, their long practice of brutality and the taunting, hated call of ‘Joe’ had prepared them for the morning’s work. Both military and police could afford to forgo the pleasure of the first shot, in keen anticipation of the last.
It was now about 4.45 a.m. and the silence was suddenly shattered by the firing of one weapon, or perhaps two weapons. Harry de Longville, a sentry, had finally realized that the Stockade was about to be attacked and he fired as a signal.5 There was immediate pandemonium among the diggers. Few, if any, of them were ready to fight and they now had little time to prepare themselves, so it had to be a case of each man for himself. The government force, on the other hand, was well prepared with an exact plan of action. Thomas immediately gave the order to ‘commence firing’ and both military and police began to move forward rapidly. A small assault group of 40 men of the 40th Regiment on foot, led by Wise, went straight to the Stockade on its northern side, or to describe it more appropriately, its back. It was the position from which any assault was least expected. The men on foot were supported on their left by 30 mounted men of the 40th who approached from the northeast. The main group, consisting of 112 foot soldiers and 24 police, broke into two parties. The police came in close to the right of the initial assaulters, under Wise, and the soldiers swung around to the west, where some remained on Specimen Hill to give covering fire, while the larger portion attacked the Stockade. In a pincer kind of movement the 70 mounted police made a long half-circle to come from the southwest. Except for its southern boundary on the Melbourne road the Stockade was surrounded, but the cavalry were perfectly positioned to cut it off and prevent escape by the diggers. It was a well-conceived plan and, given the unequal balance of the opposing forces, was assured of success.6
By the time the diggers were sufficiently roused as to take stock of themselves, they were already under heavy fire, and the Stockade was breached to the north and west. Lalor was among the first to take possession of himself, as ought to have been the case. He had permitted the diggers to acclaim him as leader, he had sworn with them an oath and his hour of trial was at hand. McGill was still out, decoyed on a fruitless errand, and Vern, who had boasted long and loud of his prowess in arms, was one of the first to flee. Kennedy had decided that verbal ‘licks in the lug’ were a more appropriate method of dealing with authority and was resting elsewhere, while Carboni, to whom no blame could be attached, slept in his adjacent tent to which he had, understandably, retired each night. To his credit Lalor kept cool. He immediately realized how pitifully small a force he had under his command. It was very clear, however, that it was impossible to surrender as the butchery had already begun, and to lie down under the assault was to invite total annihilation. Quickly he ordered that no firing was to take place until the soldiers or police were at close range. He then took up a position on the mound at the top of a claim, and ordered the pikemen forward. Exposed as he was, it was inevitable that he be wounded or killed. Within minutes he was struck in the shoulder by a large musket ball, together with two bullets. His arm was shattered, but he was sufficiently clear-headed to advise flight, though refusing to flee himself. Faint from the impact of the bullets and the loss of blood, he was helped to a pile of wooden slabs and hidden under them as the battle continued around him. He had proved worthy of the words he wrote to Alicia Dunne, his sweetheart, on the Thursday night: ‘I would be unworthy of being called a man, I would be unworthy of myself, and, above all, I would be unworthy of you and of your love, were I base enough to desert my companions in danger’.7
The first return fire of the diggers was sufficiently withering to cause the troops to pause. Thomas urged them on and, when Wise fell wounded, their mettle was up and they poured in upon the diggers. Under the leadership of Patrick Curtain, the pikemen fought as though possessed. Few in number, and bearing primitive weapons, they had to fight valiantly in order to survive at all, as pikes were no match for muskets. In the event, only a handful of them lived to tell the tale of Eureka.
Carboni had been awakened by the first shots and was able to observe and subsequently record his impressions, although he took no actual part in the proceedings.8 The remaining Californians, numbering twenty or thirty, had positioned themselves in shepherds’ holes, from where they gave a good account of themselves. Their officer was a man of very considerable mettle who ‘fought like a tiger’ although shot in the thigh, and he stuck close to Ross until the end. Charles Ferguson, an American, had led a party out at 1 a.m. to look for a cache of arms and ammunition, but he had become suspicious of the information which took him out, and he and his men returned in time to help in the struggle. John Joseph, a black American of tall and powerful stature, had been there from the beginning. The ardour with which he fought was noticed by the soldiers who were particularly incensed because he was among those who fired when Wise fell. Under these circumstances, Joseph was fortunate to escape with his life.
Understandably, individual acts of bravery counted as nothing in the face of the superior firepower and numbers of the government force. They seemed to come over the flimsy ramparts like a wave, although at no time did they far outnumber the diggers. The elements that favoured them most were surprise and good, trained leadership, both of which advantages the diggers singularly lacked. Surrender became less and less possible and the carnage went on. More and more of the diggers realized that it was all up and they tried to make their escape, only to be mown down by the cavalry who by now surrounded the whole Stockade. But some fought on, and the lemonade man, Thonen, died immediately when he was shot in the mouth. Captain Ross, the Canadian, had taken up his position at the foot of the Southern Cross flagpole as its ‘bridegroom’ but, wounded mortally, he was past thought or vision when a constable named John King hauled the flag down. A vast and seething melee swirled around the Stockade, with the screams of the wounded and dying blending with the sound of firearms and the grunts of hand-to-hand combat. Within a space of perhaps fifteen minutes the engagement proper was over, at which point the real work began.9
Men in the fury of battle commit atrocities which the so-called logic of war renders inevitable. The diggers had fought hard and died harder, and unquestionably they were guilty of atrocities whether with pikes or firearms. Equally, the foot troops had done their duty, although their counterparts on horseback contributed nothing to the actual battle, with the exception of Thomas who had dismounted and come forward with the first detachment. Three privates, William Webb, Michael Roney and Joseph Wall, lay dead or dying, twelve others were injured and Wise would not live to tell the tale. The police, whether mounted or on foot, contributed little in the heat of battle, which was understandable as they had not been trained in warfare, and could scarcely be expected to enter into such dangerous work with willing hearts. But their uniformly mongrel actions towards the diggers had gone on long enough for their behaviour to remain unchanged on Sunday, 3 December, and they set to with a will.10 To some degree their atrocities were joined in by the military.
Lalor, writing three months after the event, was able to state, ‘As the inhuman brutalities practised by the troops are so well known, it is unnecessary for me to repeat them’. He calculated that there were 34 digger casualties, of whom 22 died, and explained that ‘The unusual proportion of the killed to the wounded, is owing to the butchery of the military and troopers after the surrender’. What Lalor did not seem capable of comprehending was that neither the rules of gentlemanly warfare nor any concept of chivalry applied at Eureka, and that surrender did not function. For three years the diggers had enjoyed scarcely any rights beyond begrudging toleration at the price of a licence fee. Once they took that final step of armed resistance they lost all rights. It was an idle plea on Lalor’s part to say that they were in the Stockade ‘ready and willing to use their arms in defence of their rights’ because the non-existent could not be defended.11 In any case, by about 5 a.m. on Eureka defence was over; what followed was sadistic retribution and bloody vengeance. One observer wrote a few days later that he was leaving the goldfields after seeing the behaviour of ‘the Government of Victoria’. He went on, ‘I am horrified at what I witnessed and I did not see the worst of it. I could not breathe the blood-tainted air of the diggings, and I have left them for ever’.12
The butchery, for such it was, continued in and around the Stockade up to a distance of half a mile for the ensuing hour. It was attested to by so many witnesses that its occurrence was undeniable, then or later. What was remarkable about it, to those who saw it or who read about it, was its extension to innocent bystanders who had no part whatever either in the preceding movement of protest or in the actual event of taking up arms. Within the Stockade there were men, women and children who had continued to live there because its walls embraced their homes, or their places of business. The wild scene of destruction, by burning or assault, spared nothing. But more horrifying was the series of outrages perpetrated upon persons. Bordering on frenzy, the soldiers ran about wildly, with the police behaving like dervishes in some insane ritual, calling out ‘We have waked up Joe’, while others responded ‘And sent Joe to sleep again’. Bodies were pierced by innumerable wounds, one being counted with sixteen bayonet thrusts. A digger, shot through the thighs, was fallen upon by three soldiers, one of whom knelt upon him while another tried to choke him and a third went through his pockets for money. Henry Powell, a Creswick digger who had no part in these matters at all, had spent Saturday night in a nearby tent. Having been awakened, he walked out and was accosted by twenty mounted police. One, Arthur Purcell Akehurst whose other role was that of Clerk of the Peace, struck him with a sword to the head. Powell was then fired at and ridden over several times. Shortly after he made a deposition as to these events, he died. Frank Hasleham was perhaps the most incongruous victim of all the bloody saturnalia. He was the correspondent of the Melbourne Morning Herald which had consistently taken the part of the government in its relation with the diggers. At a distance of three hundred yards from the Stockade he was accosted by a mounted policeman and was in the act of piously hoping that the diggers would soon desist from their madness when the policeman shot him through the breast.13
A. W. Crowe, a convinced advocate of moral force, witnessed the killing of two Italians, neither of whom had taken any part in the proceedings. One had his tent on Specimen Hill, some three hundred yards from the Stockade. He had come out to observe the action and was on his way back when two policemen rode after him. In fear, he ran and was shot through the body, to die a few minutes later at the entrance to his tent. Another Italian had a tent in the Stockade but had not joined in the battle. He was shot, and ‘As he lay wounded some troopers rode up to him, and he offered them some gold to spare his life. One of them took his gold and then thrust his bayonet through the poor fellow, killing him instantly’.14 Amidst all this carnage it is at least surprising that Carboni himself, with his red hair and his previous prominence in the movement, managed to survive. Clearly he did not go inside the Stockade while the actual engagement was in progress. Secondly, he was arrested by Sub-Inspector Carter soon afterwards and was safe for a while, until he was released by Captain Thomas on the grounds that he had not been taken within the Stockade. Finally, when he was called upon by Dr Carr and Father Smyth to give assistance with the wounded, he was under the protection, temporarily at least, of two citizens who had a right to be there in the name of humanity.
The priest had passed an anxious day since his last appearance in the Stockade. He had heard that, in the Camp, they had wondered whether they ought to arrest him when h e rejected their proposal that he take up a professedly pro-government stance. In the Stockade they had decided to shoot him, though he was unsure who took that decision and why. When hostilities commenced he was refused permission to attend to the wounded soldiers, some of whom were Catholics. As he entered the Stockade he was accosted by ‘an armed man’ who rode around him with pistol extended. While engaged in doing what his priestly function required for the dead and dying diggers, he was threatened with shooting and was forced to stop and go away.15 Thus were the Catholics deprived by the police of that final ministration which British justice had extended, for a century at least, to those about to die for a transgression of its laws.
By 7 o’clock all the madness, whether of victors or of vanquished, was over and a great silence reigned in the Stockade. Samuel Lazarus, who ran a business called the Criterion Auction Mart, described what he saw.
Stretched on the ground lay eighteen or twenty lifeless bodies. Some were shot in the face, others riddled throughout. One had the whole side of his body roasted by the flames from his burning tent, while another, his brains protruding through his opened head, lay in his last agony. Lazarus fervently hoped that such bloody deeds of suffering, wrought in ‘the early dawn of a Sabbath morn’, would bring remorse even to those who caused them, especially if they thought ‘on the desolation of many a widowed heart left by their work’.16 The rest was a scene of wanton destruction from which ‘a fresh swarm of troopers cleared ... all moving things with the mere threat of their pistols’.17 Men who, a few days before, had been so full of resolution in attacking the 12th Regiment as it came onto the field, now scampered off like rabbits to hide. Resistance was broken. Only its symbol in the form of a denuded flagpole remained, as a reminder of what once had been.
It was a relatively simple task to round up and arrest those who had been unable to escape or who, with a mixture of stupidity or ignorance, stood about inviting arrest. It mattered very little whether they had actually taken part in the proceedings of the morning. Rede and Thomas wanted to ensure that there be no chance of a repetition of Eureka, on Ballarat or elsewhere, so the best thing to do was to cast a wide net and, even if it brought in a few innocents, the big fish would not escape. The presence of the biggest went unnoticed. Under the pile of slabs Lalor quietly bled away, passing eventually into a coma. After the military and police had departed he was assisted into the bush and hidden until it was deemed safe to return to the town.18
Pasley, according to his assistant, had taken a plucky role in the affair even though he was naturally of an indolent disposition. Indeed, to his great credit, he had saved ‘a party of prisoners who were on the point of being bayonetted’ by those guarding them. Pasley rode up and threatened to shoot anyone who harmed them. He was, however, struck by the air of hopelessness evident among the prisoners and soon ascertained that they were beyond caring. They were firmly convinced that they would be hanged immediately they got to the Camp, and probably felt that they might as well be shot or bayonetted there and then, rather than await the drawn-out affair at the end of the rope.19 In the event, a large party of about 125 prisoners and guards set out for the Camp. Some of them were very badly wounded, but they were all urged on by bayonet thrusts. At least one of the wounded fell down and died by the roadside, while the others, upon arrival, were packed into the cramped quarters of the lock-up. It seemed, at this stage at any rate, that rights which had been denied them for so long were to be granted. Perhaps some attempt was to be made to restore a semblance of justice and due process to an affair which had been, throughout that Sunday morning, little more than slaughter dignified by official approbation. At any rate, no more killing was to take place.
Carboni, meanwhile, had gone about his business of assisting Dr Carr. They had moved some of the wounded to the nearby London Hotel and Carboni went off to get surgical instruments from Dr Glendinning who returned personally to help. At about 8.30 a.m. Carboni was attending an American digger who had at least six gunshot wounds on the front of his body when Henry Goodenough, a trooper who had been a spy at Eureka and knew the Italian well, burst in the door. Clearly Goodenough was out looking for him for he immediately arrested him at pistol point, causing Carboni to protest strongly. Carr said nothing. Carr, who had proved unhelpful to the diggers at the time of Scobie’s death, was clearly as much an agent of the government as Goodenough, and ignored Carboni’s appeal for help. Raffaello Carboni was taken outside, was ‘hobbled to a dozen more of prisoners’ and quickly found himself at the Camp where he was stripped of his clothing, kicked, knocked down and ‘thrown naked and senseless into the lock-up’.20
It was now about the time at which the monster meeting was to have been held at the Adelphi. Those who had expected to be present were in hiding, injured, dead or silenced. As Pasley said ‘the aspect of affairs has completely changed’. To him ‘in a political sense the fate of the Colony’ rested upon the successful outcome of the assault upon the Stockade. He was, of course, correct, but little did he understand the sense in which he spoke. The barbarisms perpetrated in the name of authority, once known, so revolted the community of Victoria that any return to the old ways was impossible. In all of that inhumanity one minor note of beauty was struck, and Pasley, with others, remarked upon it. One of the pikemen lay dead, with his small dog sitting, howling on his chest. The dog remained there, stricken and confused, until the burial.21 Widows and children and mates were also stricken, but their confusion was of another kind, in that they knew who had caused it all.