Henry had always wanted a dog. Or a cat, or even a canary. Back home in England he’d had a half-wild tabby kitten for a while. But here, on the Ballarat goldfields, there was no hope that he could have any sort of pet. When you lived in a bark hut with just two rooms there wasn’t much space for anything. Unless it was something very small. A pet spider, maybe.

Henry grinned. That would scare Eliza!

A hand smacked him on the ear. ‘Get on with it, boy,’ his father said in a loud voice. ‘We’ll find no gold at all if you keep daydreaming.’

Henry poured water over the sandy dirt in the gold-washing cradle, and rocked the cradle as hard as he could. Up and down, up and down. Bit by bit the water gushed out. He peered at the grit caught on the riffles at the base of the cradle. Gold was heavier than sand, so that’s where he’d find it, if there was any. Usually there wasn’t. He shovelled in more dirt, wishing he had somebody to help him.

Perhaps Eliza was having better luck. Henry looked over to the creek. Eliza was only seven, so she had the easier job of panning for gold, washing sand around and around in a shallow tin dish. Yesterday she’d found some tiny glittering specks, and she’d been so excited that she’d shown everyone working near them.

Father hadn’t had this mining claim on the Gravel Pits Lead for very long. Nowadays gold was much harder to find on the surface, and some miners were sinking shafts deep underground. Father had started to dig a grave-sized hole, and Henry’s job was to look for gold in the dirt he dug out by washing it through the cradle. It was hard, boring work, but you never knew what might be in the next load. There was gold in old buried river beds, Father said, and if they dug down far enough, they might strike it rich. Then Henry could have a dog and a cat, maybe even a horse.

There had been four people in the Bird family last year. For a little while there had been five, because Henry’s mother had had a baby, a boy called George. Then, when he was just two weeks old, George had died. Henry knew how hard it was to keep babies alive. Sickness was everywhere, especially here in Ballarat where everyone lived crowded together in tents and huts.

After the birth Mam was very ill, and a week after George’s death, she’d died too. So now there were just the three of them: Father, Eliza and Henry.

Father had changed since Mam’s death. He never smiled, and he was often angry, mostly with Henry. He was hardly ever angry with Eliza. He even forgave Eliza when she broke his favourite tobacco pipe.

Henry missed his mother. He missed her hugs, and the way she always listened when he talked to her. His father never listened. When Mam died, Henry thought, all the best bits of Father had died with her.

While he was remembering how their lives used to be, Henry heard a shout. ‘Joe! Joe!’

That meant the licence inspectors – the joes, the traps, the police troopers, whatever you wanted to call them – were on the move. It was the second time this week.

Henry felt cold with panic, then hot. His feet jiggled, ready to run. The traps were the most hated people on the goldfields. Their job was to check that all the miners had a licence to look for gold. Digger hunting, that’s what the traps called it. High on horseback, armed with rifles, they lorded it over everyone. They hadn’t shot anybody yet, but Henry was sure they would, one day.

The licence cost the same for everyone: thirty shillings a month. It didn’t matter if you’d never found any gold, or if you were so poor you didn’t even have a tent to live in – it made no difference. If you didn’t have a licence, you’d be fined or stuck in prison.

Henry’s family didn’t have the money for a licence. Most of the time they didn’t have two pennies to rub together. All they could do, when the traps came around, was run away and hide.

Eliza was already running, but Father went on digging. Did he want to be caught? Hadn’t he seen the troopers?

‘Father!’ Henry said loudly. ‘Traps!’

‘I know, boy, I know. Why are you still here? Get moving. Now!’ His father heaved himself up out of the hole and strode off after Eliza. Henry started to follow him. Then he stopped. He could hear someone actually arguing with the traps.

Henry had seen this fellow before. He wasn’t a miner. People called him Happy Jack, and some said he was a toff: an earl or a duke or something. Most said he was crazy.

There were plenty of odd-looking people on the goldfields, but Happy Jack stood out. The first thing you noticed was the way he dressed. He wore a straw hat with bright parrot feathers in the band and a dallong – a long possum-skin cloak made by the local Aboriginal people, who were called the Wathaurong. Sometimes you’d see him sitting on a rock or a mullock heap, drawing in a big book. Henry had never been close enough to see what he was drawing. Why would you want to go near a crazy person? But now he wanted to hear what the man was saying. This could be interesting.

He tiptoed closer and hid behind a stringy-bark tree, watching and listening as Happy Jack raved on. ‘The miners have a voice,’ he was shouting, ‘and it will be heard!’

The hated traps in their navy blue uniforms ignored Happy Jack. They just went on riding from claim to claim, checking licences and handing them back. Most miners offered the piece of paper politely, but some of them spat in the dirt before handing it over. Others swore. One man threw his licence on the ground, so the trap had to dismount to pick it up. That wasn’t such a good idea – the trap looked filthy angry.

Happy Jack was still shouting, even though the troopers had already moved on. ‘What you are doing is unfair and unjust!’ he yelled.

Well, that’s true enough, Henry thought. But seconds later he’d forgotten about Happy Jack. The traps had caught someone, probably a new chum who didn’t know the ropes. This time it was a Chinese man with a long pigtail hanging down his back. A lot of the other diggers looked away – some people weren’t happy about the Chinese working on the goldfields, even though most of them just fossicked in mullock heaps, looking for gold other people had missed.

The Chinese man was kneeling on the ground now. He looked terrified. The traps would be taking him off to the watch-house at the Government Camp. That was where the police barracks were, where the traps lived. It was home to the military, too: the 40th Regiment of Foot, from Melbourne.

Henry knew all about the watch-house. It was built of solid tree trunks, and it was like a dungeon. If you were taken there, the police showed you no mercy. They chained you to the wall and left you to be nibbled by rats. People said that the place smelled bad and there was blood on the floor. Henry shivered at the thought. Whippings and torture went on, most likely. It was even worse for you if you were Irish.

Henry didn’t know why English people didn’t like the Irish. Father called them bog-dwellers. Or potato-eaters. Henry thought that was a pretty silly reason for not liking somebody. What was wrong with eating potatoes? He couldn’t see that Irish people were different from anyone else, although they had a strange way of talking and he didn’t always understand what they were saying. His own family came from Birmingham. That meant they were Brummies, which was as English as you could get.

He heard a sharp crack behind him: a stick breaking beneath someone’s foot. Before he could move, his arms were seized and pulled roughly behind his back.

‘Ouch!’ he yelled. ‘That hurts!’

He turned his head and looked straight into the bloodshot eyes of one of the traps. He was a nasty-looking fellow – thin and wiry, with a straggly beard like a billygoat’s. His companion, a pig-faced loon so fat he was bursting out of his uniform, stood holding their horses.

‘Where’s your father, young sir?’ Billygoat asked Henry. He grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth. ‘Got his licence, has he?’

‘Of course he has.’ Henry wriggled, but the bony hands held him tightly. ‘Ouch! Ow! Let go, damn you!’

‘A little respect for the uniform, if you don’t mind.’ The trap gave him a shake. ‘If your father’s got his licence, why did he leave his claim vacant? That’s a rum thing to do. Anyone could take it over. What’s your father’s name?’

‘Robin Hood,’ Henry said. The minute he’d said it, he knew it was a stupid thing to say.

‘And your name, Master Hood?’ The cold eyes bored into him, unblinking.

‘Henry,’ he said. He might as well tell the truth with that, at least.

‘Right then, young Henry Hood.’ Billygoat snickered and glanced at Pig Face. ‘I think we should take you into custody until your father Mr Robin Hood shows us his licence.’

Before Henry could even try to wriggle free, his arms were dragged back around the tree trunk, and his wrists were joined with handcuffs.

He was caught.

‘Right then,’ the trap said. ‘We’ll be back soon. If Mr Hood shows up with that licence, we’ll let you go. If he doesn’t, the next stop will be the watch-house.’ He winked at Henry. ‘Don’t run away, now.’

Henry wanted to yell and swear, but he knew it would do him no good. Already his arms were beginning to ache. Worse, he was standing right next to an ant nest, and ants were starting to climb up his legs. He looked down and sideways. They were the really big ones called bull-ants. Henry stamped his feet and rubbed his shins together in an attempt to shift them. One bit him, and a little flame of pain shot up his leg. Another bit him on the ankle.

It was all Henry could do not to cry out. He closed his eyes, and waited.

People walked past him. Some laughed, but most looked sympathetic. ‘Bad luck, son,’ one man said. ‘The joes will get you no matter what. They’re like wolves hunting sheep.’

Before long he saw Eliza skipping back to the claim, swinging her bonnet in one hand. ‘Henry!’ she called. ‘Henry!’

‘Over here!’ Henry shouted.

Eliza ran up to him. ‘What happened? Why didn’t you run away when I did?’

‘Those damned traps caught me.’ Henry felt better for swearing. ‘You’ll have to fetch Father. I can’t get away – they’ve manacled me.’

Eliza went to the other side of the tree and saw the handcuffs. ‘Ooh, Papa will be ever so cross. And I’ll tell him you said that bad word, too.’

‘Tell him whatever you like,’ Henry said. ‘Just get him. The traps have to unlock the handcuffs, and they’ll only let me go if Father shows them his licence.’

‘But he hasn’t got a licence any more.’

Henry rolled his eyes. ‘I know that. But he’ll have to find the money somehow, or else I’ll be here for days. Maybe for ever.’ He imagined his skeleton, all white bones, still manacled to the tree, and at this horrible thought tears came into his eyes. Quickly he squeezed them back. ‘Hurry up and get Father, will you? Tell him what’s happened.’

‘All right.’ Eliza trotted off, and Henry sank down against the tree trunk as far as he could. The rough bark scraped his back. His breeches and shirt were full of ants. He could feel their legs tickling as they crawled around on his bare skin. He was covered with painful bites. Now there was an ant on his neck.

‘Oh God,’ Henry prayed, ‘please don’t let the ant get inside my ear.’ If it does, he thought, it will get into my brain. And then I’ll die.

On the other hand, dying might not be such a bad idea. It couldn’t be any worse than facing his angry father.