Henry was dreaming. In his dream he was back in Birmingham, and Mam was still alive. It was all very real, and he felt very happy until he rolled over and half woke up.

The hard ground underneath him and the feel of the rough blanket around his chin reminded him that he wasn’t in his old bedroom in Birmingham after all. He was in a tent inside the rebels’ stockade, with Frank and Jack, all crammed together with several others.

He could hear snoring, and the soft rattle and clink of horse hobbles. One of those horses was Peter Lalor’s, the same horse that had led him a merry dance down the main road all those weeks ago. The memory made him smile.

All’s well, he thought, and immediately he went back to sleep.

He was woken by gunshots. Gunshots, directly outside the tent!

He threw off his blanket and sat up. ‘Frank!’ he said, shaking him by the shoulder. ‘Frank! Something’s happening.’

Jack was already awake. ‘The military have mounted a surprise attack,’ he said. ‘The California Rangers are on sentry duty in the rifle pits but they won’t be able to keep the soldiers at bay – ready or not, we must fight.’

‘I’m ready, Jack,’ said Frank, rubbing his eyes. ‘Just give me a gun!’

‘No, Frank, no – stay here. You and Henry, keep your heads down and pray for us.’ And Jack ran, stooping, from the tent. ‘Liberty!’ he yelled.

‘Liberty!’ came the ragged response.

Henry began to follow Jack. Then he stopped. He wasn’t dressed. He ducked back into the tent and put on his coat, checking that Father’s Derringer was still in the pocket. He pulled on his boots. Then he went outside again and stood still, shivering. Where was Frank?

‘Forward!’

Where had that call come from? Was it the military, or the rebel miners calling their men to arms? In the greyish dawn light Henry could see men running from their tents, putting on clothes as they ran, searching for ammunition, desperately priming muskets.

Now the whole camp was awake. Children were crying, dogs barking. The shooting hadn’t stopped. Just inside the barricades Henry could now make out men lying on the ground, or huddled in shapeless heaps. Some were moving, others were very still. On their clothes and pooling around them was darkness. With a chill, Henry realised it was blood.

A woman darted from one of the tents and fell on to the body of one of the wounded men. Her agonised howling filled Henry with horror.

‘Charge!’

‘What’s happening? What’s happening?’ ‘It’s but four in the morning!’ ‘The dragoons are here, Lord save us!’ ‘Great God, here come the troopers!’ People were rushing everywhere, bumping into each other in the half darkness, shouting orders and curses.

The sound of galloping hoofs made the hair stand up on the back of Henry’s neck. What could the diggers do against a cavalry charge, or against mounted police with fixed bayonets? He could see the rows of pikemen facing the Melbourne road, their weapons held ready. As he watched, several of them fell, their pikes useless against the cavalry’s bullets.

From beyond the barricade he could hear shouted orders, the whinnying of horses, and the constant rattle of musketry. ‘Fire!’ ‘Fire!’ ‘Fire!’

‘Henry!’ Frank was at his side, his eyes huge, his red hair purple in the grey light. ‘I’ve found myself a pistol. Let’s go get the beggars!’

Henry took the Derringer out of his pocket and released the safety catch. His mouth was dry with terror.

It was too late to think of promises made to Jack. Too late to think of anything. There was more firing, this time coming from inside the stockade – a quick rat-tat-tat. The air was filled with the smell of gunpowder and the moaning of the wounded.

Suddenly Henry saw Peter Lalor standing above one of the rifle-pits. ‘Retreat! Retreat!’ he was shouting. ‘Take cover!’ Another volley of shots rang out. As Henry watched, their commander-in-chief fell, clutching his shoulder, and rolled out of sight.

‘Dear Lord, he’s down,’ he heard a miner say. ‘God help us now.’

Henry swallowed, choked. This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be! He gulped air, trying to breathe. Peter Lalor was dead! It was the end of everything.

There was another burst of musketry, and more men standing at the barricades slumped into the shadows.

A bugle sounded, ripping the air apart. There was a moment when the firing stopped, followed by a rustling, clinking stampede of soldiers falling in.

It’s over, Henry thought. Thank God, it’s over.

Then his blood froze.

The soldiers, with bayonets fixed, were storming the barricade. One section was already weakened, and now it fell. With blood-curdling yells, a tide of red-coats and police troopers poured into the stockade.

And there was Jack, his tall figure outlined against the dawn sky. He was standing on top of the barricade, urging the diggers on. ‘Courage!’ he was shouting. ‘Don’t give up, men! We can win!’’

‘Come on, Henry,’ shouted Frank. ‘We have to help Jack!’ And he raced straight into the raging battle.

He’s gone mad, Henry thought. He’ll be killed!

‘Frank!’ he shouted. He ran, crouching low to the ground, aiming his pistol at the sea of red-coats. But when he pulled the trigger, all he heard was a hollow click. What? Father always said he kept the pistol loaded and ready. But it was empty, dead, no more use than a child’s toy. Despair flooded through him.

Now I’m for it, he thought. I have no weapon. I’m going to die.

Looking up, he saw a horde of soldiers bearing down, swords and bayonets flashing. Teeth bared, sweating, red-faced, they looked less than human. And Frank, struggling to re-load his pistol, stood right in their way.

Now the red-coats were so close Henry could hear their hoarse breathing. One of them was coming straight for Frank, sword raised.

‘Stop!’ screamed Henry. He ran forward and stood in front of Frank as other soldiers rushed past and around them. ‘Stop! Leave him alone – he’s unarmed!’ He pointed the useless Derringer squarely at the soldier’s face.

The man stopped. He stepped back. ‘Who in hell do you think you are?’ he yelled. ‘Out of the way, sonny, in the Queen’s name!’

‘I’m Henry Bird,’ Henry said. ‘Put down your weapon.’

The soldier stared at him for a long, long moment. Then, to Henry’s amazement and relief, he lowered his sword. ‘What are we coming to, murdering children?’ he said. ‘You boys should be home in bed.’

‘No!’ shouted Frank, pushing Henry aside. Tears were streaming down his face. ‘I want to fight!’

‘Frank, it’s too late,’ Henry said. ‘Can’t you see? It’s too late.’

‘You’d better run, boys,’ said the soldier. ‘Find somewhere safe.’ And then he was gone.

Huddled against the barricade, Henry and Frank watched the red-coats continue their rampage. They swarmed through the stockade, stabbing and slicing at anybody in their way. They plunged their bayonets into dead and wounded bodies, ripped into the fabric of tents that Henry knew still sheltered women and children.

Some thrust burning brands into the sides of the tents, setting them alight, cheering as smoke and flames drove the terrified occupants outside.

Henry saw a soldier drag the rebels’ flag from the flagstaff, and it felt as if his heart was being wrenched from his body.

The flag! The beautiful starry flag!

‘It’s all wrong,’ Frank said, over and over, between sobs. ‘It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. It’s all wrong.’

The soldier waved the flag triumphantly in the air before stuffing it under his arm like a bundle of washing. A police trooper snatched it from him and threw it to the ground, stamping it into the dirt.

It really is all over, Henry realised. It’s all over, and we’ve lost.

A few of the rebel miners stayed to face their attackers. Henry saw shovels used against swords and bayonets, pikes useless against bullets. More men fell. Others fled towards a gap at the back of the stockade fence. Troopers and soldiers followed them, shooting with pistols and rifles.

‘It’s a massacre!’ shouted a digger, running past them. ‘Get out of here, now!’

Henry pulled at Frank’s arm. ‘Come on, Frank. This is a battle we can’t win.’