Every day was the same for Henry now. Wake up. Fetch the water. Have breakfast – always porridge and damper, and a fried mutton chop. Fight with Eliza. Load the wheelbarrow with the cradle and the bucket and the pick and the two shovels – one for Father, one for him. Go to the claim. Work the cradle. Find nothing. Go home. Eat. Fight with Eliza. Go to bed.

He missed Frank. He missed Jack.

Father’s mine grew slowly deeper and deeper, but there was never any gold. Never a trace of the ancient buried river bed Father thought must be down there. So what was the use of it all?

Henry’s days might all have been the same, but since the burning of the Eureka Hotel, life on the diggings had changed. It felt as if secret plots were being hatched. People met in groups, and Henry could hear them talking and arguing and cursing. When the inspectors came around to check the mining licences, there was so much anger in the air that Henry could almost smell it. Once he heard someone say, ‘The Governor will pay for this. That stuffed shirt Governor Hotham will pay.’

Father took no notice of what anybody said. ‘It’s all talk,’ he said. ‘The rebels will get nowhere with that sort of behaviour. The Governor won’t tolerate violence. I hear the men who burnt down the hotel have been arrested.’

Henry stopped breathing. No! he thought. They’ve caught Jack!

‘There’s three of them,’ Father went on. ‘Westerby, Fletcher and McIntyre. They’ll get what they deserve.’

Jack’s safe, then. Henry breathed again.

One day, sitting on the fallen log with Father and Eliza as they ate their midday slice of damper, Henry found himself staring at an ant nest. The ants were very busy, running in and out with crumbs. They reminded him of the diggers. They were always busy, too, running here and there, disappearing into the earth, looking for crumbs of gold. But it just needed a stick poked down into the nest for all the ants to rush out, angry and biting.

That’s what the diggings are like right now, he thought. An ant nest waiting for a stick.

‘We’ll go home through the town,’ Father said, at the end of the day. ‘I need a new pick handle – this one’s like to break again, and I’ve already bound it up twice.’

Dusk was falling when they reached the store that sold miners’ supplies, but the place was still open. Father disappeared inside, and Henry and Eliza sat on the side of the road and waited.

Henry slumped down, his head on his knees, and then sat bolt upright. ‘Can you hear something? It sounds like drums.’

‘It’s coming from over there,’ Eliza said. She pointed down the Melbourne road, where people were gathering.

The drumbeats were stronger now, and Henry could hear the shuffling of lots of feet.

‘It’s the military,’ he said, standing up. ‘They’ll be here to fight the diggers.’

‘But that’s us,’ said Eliza. ‘Why would they fight us?’

Henry remembered what Father had told him. ‘Perhaps they think there’ll be violence.’

Just then he saw Frank on the other side of the road. He hadn’t seen him for days, and he hoped that by now Frank would have calmed down, maybe even forgiven him. He waved and smiled.

Frank turned his back.

‘Oh!’ Henry said aloud. No matter how much he deserved it, the snub was like a kick in the stomach.

‘Who was that boy with the red hair?’ asked Eliza. ‘Was it your friend Frank?’

‘No,’ Henry said. He turned to his father, who had just come out of the store with his new pick handle. ‘Father, are the troops here because of the diggers?’

‘Indeed they are,’ said Father. ‘It’s the Twelfth Regiment of Foot, and they’ll be joining the Fortieth. The word is that the Government Camp is to be attacked by rebel miners. They want McIntyre and his fellow criminals to be released, and Governor Hotham has quite rightly refused. Let’s hope the military can put an end to all the nonsense.’

The soldiers were coming closer, their coats a dull red in the evening light. Following them were several loaded drays pulled by weary-looking horses.

‘They’ve come up from Melbourne,’ Father said. ‘They’ll have been on the road all day.’

The soldiers did look tired. Up close their faces were expressionless, and they marched as if they could barely lift their feet. They looked hot and uncomfortable in their high-necked uniform jackets. Some were limping. Dust coated their tall black helmets and their boots.

Marching in front of the soldiers was a drummer boy. He rapped out the rhythm of the march on a drum hung with gold braid. Tump, tump, tump, trrrrump. Tump, tump, tump, trrrrump.

He’s no older than me, Henry thought. For a few seconds he forgot about feeling tired and dispirited. That was what he should do – he should run away and join the army as a drummer boy. It would solve everything. He needn’t think about Frank or Jack any more, or worry that Father’s claim was a shicer. None of that would matter. How exciting it would be to lead a regiment of soldiers into battle! He imagined it all: horses rearing, the flash and boom of muskets and cannon, smoke everywhere, and himself the bravest of the brave. Even a musket ball in the chest wouldn’t stop him, even his arm being blown off wouldn’t stop him . . .

Suddenly a voice shouted, ‘Kill the Red Toads!’ A stone hurled by someone in the crowd struck one of the soldiers on his helmet. He flinched, but kept marching. There was jeering and shouting, and the soldiers were pelted with more stones, and with bits of rubbish.

Shots rang out from the crowd, sudden and terrifying. The drummer boy fell, hit in the leg. Blood stained his white breeches.

Henry watched in horror as the mob closed in.

Father ran towards the drummer boy. He shoved the crowd left and right with his pick handle and disappeared in the surge of people.

‘Papa!’ shrieked Eliza.

The soldiers broke ranks as the crowd charged, armed with sticks, knives and guns. Miners attacked the baggage carts and turned them over, spilling their loads on to the street. More shots were fired and fist fights broke out.

Eliza began to cry. Henry put his arm around her, trying to comfort her. He didn’t know what else to do.

Before long the regiment gave up and retreated, a rabble now, to the Government Camp.

Henry found Father lying on the road, dazed, his right arm bent beneath him.

‘Oh, Papa,’ sobbed Eliza, bending over him. ‘Don’t be dead, Papa, please don’t be dead.’

‘I’m all right, Eliza,’ Father said. ‘Don’t fuss.’ But he staggered when he got up, and flinched when Eliza took his hand.

Henry’s heart was beating faster than the drummer boy’s drum.

There’s going to be a war, he thought. It’s just like Frank said. There’s going to be a war!