By the time Henry and Frank had delivered their last load of provisions, the sun was low in the sky. After returning the wheelbarrow to its owner, they ran back to the stockade.

They found Jack sitting with a group of men beneath the starry flag. He was wearing his dallong, and a revolver was jammed into his belt. He and his companions were surrounded by stacks of firearms, which they were cleaning.

‘Look at all those guns,’ exclaimed Frank. ‘Wouldn’t I like to get my hands on them!’

‘Well, now’s your chance,’ said Mr Hunter, who was polishing the barrel of a very old musket. He threw an oily rag to Frank, and another to Henry. ‘Roll up your shirtsleeves, grab a weapon and some gun grease, and make yourselves useful.’

Frank stared at the gun Mr Hunter was holding. ‘What’s that you’ve got? I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Mr Hunter looked at him over his half-moon spectacles. ‘This is a Baker rifle. It was probably last used at the Battle of Waterloo, nearly forty years ago,’ he said. ‘Most of these guns are old, and we’re short of ammunition, but pikes won’t go far in a battle with cavalry. Nor will shovels and pitchforks, I fear.’

‘Wellington didn’t have enough fire-power at Waterloo, either,’ said an elderly digger wearing a shabby old beaver hat. ‘And he still had a glorious victory. God protects those with right on their side.’

‘Let us hope so,’ Jack said. He waved a rifle in the air. ‘Liberty, my friends!’

‘Liberty for ever,’ said another voice. The commander-in-chief, Peter Lalor, came out of a nearby tent. He smiled at Henry. ‘I know you, boy, don’t I? You once held my rogue of a horse, and as I recall you were wounded for your trouble.’

‘It wasn’t your horse’s fault,’ Henry told him. ‘He was spooked.’

‘You’re a brave lad. With fighters like you, we will achieve our ends, I’m sure of it.’

‘Liberty!’ the other men shouted as Peter Lalor walked away.

‘Liberty from our colonial masters,’ added the man in the beaver hat. ‘Those arrogant jumped-up beggars deserve everything we’re going to give them.’

‘Some of these guns haven’t been used in years,’ Jack said, going back to his cleaning. ‘We must make sure they are in working order. We don’t want one of our men to fire his musket and have it explode in his face.’

Still feeling proud because the commander-in-chief had recognised him, Henry picked up a rusty Brown Bess and squinted down the inside of the barrel. It was clogged with old gunpowder and dirt. ‘This one’s filthy! It must be at least a hundred years old.’

While Henry cleaned and polished, he listened to the men talking about battle plans and manoeuvres. It all sounded so exciting that sometimes he or Frank stopped what they were doing, and they had to remind each other, with a nudge in the ribs, to get back to work.

‘When d’you think the fighting will start, Jack?’ asked Frank.

‘Oh, not for at least another day,’ Jack replied. ‘There were more than a thousand rebels here yesterday, plenty of Germans and Italians and Yankees among them. Our Yankee friends the California Rangers are spoiling for a fight. But many people have gone home now, and today there’s only a hundred and fifty of us. Our commander-in-chief doesn’t expect the military to attack the stockade. There are women and children here, after all. The battle proper will probably take place on the Gravel Pits.’ He patted the revolver in his belt. ‘Wherever it happens, my pepperbox is ready.’

Night fell, and the moon rose. Henry and Frank continued to work by the flickering light of a campfire. The stack of rusty old guns never seemed to become any smaller.

‘You should be off home, my covies,’ Jack said at last. ‘We’ll still be here tomorrow, depend upon it.’

‘Leave? Not on your life,’ said Frank. ‘Ma says she’s happy for me to stay.’

‘And you, Henry?’ asked Jack. ‘Perhaps you should go home to your father. Won’t he be concerned about you?’

Henry knew exactly what Father’s reaction would be. For a second he missed having someone who might worry about where he was and what he was doing. But what could be more exciting than staying here with Frank and Jack, at such a time?

‘My father doesn’t care what I do,’ he said.

As he watched the sparks from the campfire fly upwards, he felt excited at the thought of what was to come – a better deal for the miners, and an end to the brutality of the traps. Whatever Father said, that was definitely worth fighting for.