That next morning — fine and clear, with the promise of heat to come — I watched them ride out from the camp.
Ned, in his fine black broadcloth and snowy linen, with his jacket open to display the gold watch chain looped across his waistcoat, could have been some prosperous farmer, even a member of the squatocracy. Oddly enough the trimming of his luxuriant beard had made him look older rather than younger. Byrne and Hart were now clean-shaven and they did look young. Hart, in his rather cheap finery, a loudly checked not very well fitting suit, was a corner boy on horseback, a mounted larrikin. Donnelly was clad in black but an air of flashiness was imparted by his white Stetson. (So he thinks that he’s one of the good guys … I thought sourly.) He looked like what he was — a Yankee traveling salesman. The other men had the appearance of what they had been before enlistment under the Kelly banner — small, struggling farmers. Small, struggling farmers now attired in their poor best for a day in town.
Red Kitty I hardly recognized. I had become so used to seeing her in mannish attire that the sight of her — long-skirted, veiled, with a smart little hat almost hiding her glossy auburn hair, riding side-saddle — seemed altogether startling. She raised her riding crop to me in salute as she passed me, standing by the carronade. And then there was Kate, bringing up the rear. She was as smartly attired as was her brother’s wife, looked just as much the great lady.
“Look after yourself, Kate!” I called.
She reined in and sat there, looking down at me gravely. Her eyes, behind the short veil, were very bright.
“And you look after your self, Johnny, Don’t go blowin’ yerself up wi’ that dirty great gun while I’m gone….”
Ned turned and came riding back to us. I think that he was suspecting that there was something between Kate and myself and that he was actuated by brotherly jealousy.
“Come on, Kate,” he said gruffly. “We’ve a train to catch. An’ you, Johnny, try to keep things in order while I’m gone. I’ve told the boys they’re to take orders from you. Don’t let ‘em go strayin’ off into the bush or goin’ out on raids o’ their own.” He laughed. “An’ don’t go firm’ that cannon ‘less ye absolutely have to. I know that ye’re just itchin’ to let the thing off!”
“I’ll fire a twenty-one gun salute when you come back,” I said.
“Ye’d better not. Where’s the powder to come from?”
He turned and rode away, followed by the others.
“Good luck, Ned!” I called after him.
“Good luck!” came the shout from the other men and women left behind in the camp. There was a ragged cheer.
I leaned against the carronade and filled and lit my pipe. I was joined by Reardon.
“What would yer orders be, admiral?” he asked. I snapped, “Don’t call me that.”
He laughed, “All the others are callin’ ye that, Johnny boy, even if ‘t’is only behind yer back.”
“As long as they obey orders while Ned’s away they can promote me all they like, I suppose.”
“It’s if Ned doesn’t come back ye’ll have to watch yerself. They hate ye, some o’ them. Ye’re English. Ye’ve been an officer. An’ … An’ …” A deep blush suffused his already ruddy face. “An’ this business between you an’ Miss Kate….”
“What business?”
“D’ye think people don’t know? This camp’s like a small village but more so, if ye get my meanin'. Ye can’t let off a fart in the middle o’ the night without wakin’ everybody up. There’s them as would ha’ been runnin’ to Ned about your carryin’s on but I’ve managed to keep ‘em quiet. But ye’ll have to watch yer step, both o’ ye, once Ellen’s here. She’ll not stand for any tamperin’ wi’ her precious daughter.”
I said, “Things will be … different.”
He said, “They’d better be, Johnny.”
I changed the subject. “Have you thought any more about making a proper carriage for this thing?”
He stood back so that he could look at the carronade.
“Yes, I’ve given the matter some thought, Johnny. But I have to get a pair o’ wheels, somethin’ like the wheels of a trap but heavier. They’ll have to be strong. Ye’ve the weight o’ the gun itself, an’ then there’ll be the recoil when ye fire it. If ye ever do fire it. I’m lookin’ forward, meself, to gettin’ some o’ those fancy quick-firin’ cannon that Donnelly promised us. The ones worked by little steam engines….”
“And meanwhile,” I said, “we have to make do with what we’ve got.”
And then, accompanied by Reardon, I strolled away from the main gate of the stockade to make my morning rounds of the camp.
Things seemed to be more or less in order. The lookout was in his post on top of the crudely constructed wooden tower. The women were reasonably busy in the kitchen hut, preparing the midday meal. The mutton stew smelled savory enough but I wished that I could have had a luncheon of cold meats and salads to look forward to Mrs. Haggerty noticed my expression and asked sharply, “Isn’t yer lordship satisfied, then?”
“Everything’s just fine, Mrs. Haggerty,” I lied.
“An’ why shouldn’t it be, when I’m doin’ the cookin'?”
To pacify her I sampled a ladleful of the stew straight from the pot and nodded my approval.
In other parts of the camp men were cleaning weapons and overhauling other equipment. I recalled what Donnelly had said about fighting today’s battles with yesterday’s arms. But that, in this day and age, wasn’t such a grave disadvantage. It was only in the latter days of the twentieth century that military technology advanced at a gallop rather than a crawl.
Most of the men ignored me; only a few acknowledged my presence with a surly nod.
I said to Reardon, “I feel as popular as a pork chop in a synagogue.”
He stared at me and then laughed loudly. “Ye do have a foine way wi’ words, Johnny boy. I must remember that one.”
We went into the hut in which our ammunition was stored, what there was of it. There were the cartridges for the fairly modern rifles and revolvers, a barrel of black powder for the muzzle loaders. I decided that it would do no harm to have the carronade loaded and ready for instant action and told Reardon of my intention.
“An’ why not?” he asked. “It takes time to load one o’ them things, doesn’t it? Even wi’ trained gunners — the like o’ which we don’t be havin’ here.”
I agreed. I looked around the store and found a small sack. As far as I could remember it was about the same size as the powder bags that we had used for loading our carronades while sailing off the China Coast. I filled it, using the wooden scoop that was handy by the powder barrel, secured its open end with a short length of ropeyarn. Accompanied by Reardon I carried it back to the gun. It went easily enough into the muzzle. I picked up the rammer, pushed the charge back as far as it would go. Shouldn’t there be wadding? That could wait for later. An old shirt would do.
“An’ what about a cannonball?” Reardon asked. “I didn’t see any o’ such in the shed.”
“I didn’t see any canister either,” I told him, “but we’ll make do.”
Back in the arsenal — if so it could be called — I found another little sack. I took it to the hut that had been converted into a smithy. Our blacksmith, a sullen giant named O’Meary, ignored Reardon and myself while he shaped a red-glowing horseshoe on his anvil. Finally he was finished, picked up the artifact with his tongs, dipped it, hissing, into a bucket of water. He lifted it out, dropped it with a clatter on to the workbench.
He turned to look at us, at me.
“An’ what are you wantin', admiral? Can’t ye see I’m busy?”
“Do you have any metal scrap?” I asked. “Or old nails?”
“Old nails I have, admiral, but I’m usin’ ‘em. There’s no hardware store just down the lane out here, ye know. Or hadn’t ye noticed?”
“What about … this?” I stirred a little heap of rusty scrap in one corner of the shed with my boot. “Surely this is no use?”
“I could be usin’ it some time.”
“Mr. O’Meary,” said Reardon, “Mr. Grimes could be usin’ it very shortly. An’ I’m remindin’ you that Mr. Kelly left Mr. Grimes in charge while he’s away in Melbourne.”
“Mr. Grimes is not in charge o’ this smithy. I am.”
“Mr. Grimes is in charge of everything, until Mr. Kelly returns.”
He took the bag from my hand, stooped down to fill it with the smaller pieces of scrap iron while O’Meary watched, glowering.
He asked, “An’ will this do, Mr. Grimes?”
“It should be just the shot, Mr. Reardon. Of course, we should include a horseshoe, just for luck.”
“Ye’ve got all ye’re gettin'!” growled the blacksmith. “An’ what ye want it for the blessed Lord alone knows …”
We loaded the carronade — an old shirt for wadding to hold the bag of powder in place, then the improvised canister shot. And then, with the assistance of a couple of loafers pressed into unwilling service, we camouflaged the weapon with bushes hacked off close to the roots. As we worked I wondered if this was the way that things actually had happened or if, once again, I was interfering with history, altering its course. (But my great-grandfather had known far more about carronades than I did and, I thought, it was his part of the shared mind that was now taking charge.)
And now all that I had to do was to await the return of Ned and his raiding party.