bank, and we’ll construct a cradle as soon as I can find some suitable planks of wood. You can wash more dirt with a rocking cradle.”
For the ensuing three weeks, aided by the two young men, Ned took gravel samples from a wide area of the Macquarie River valley, finding sufficient dust to confirm all his hopes and dreams. They encountered only a few shepherds and
stockmen in their methodical search, but for all their efforts to conceal the reason for their presence, Ned became increasingly anxious lest word of what they had found come to the ears of men lately returned from California.
“I must be the first to approach the Governor,” he confided to Susan Lister. “We’ve worked hard, the lads and me, and it’s only right that we should claim a reward for what we’ve achieved. I’ll go back to Sydney in a day or so and seek an interview with the authorities. The cradle’s finished. I’ll show Johnny and young Willie how to operate it, and they can set it up at Summer Hill Creek or on Yorky’s Corner. I guarantee they’ll find gold in considerable quantity once they start rocking—because it’s there, Mrs. Lister. I’d stake my life on it!”
Two days later, after extracting a promise of silence from the Listers and Willie Tom, Ned mounted his big gray horse and set off to retrace his steps to Sydney.
The two boys watched him go, and then, both now as confident as their mentor, they loaded packhorses with the cradle and their camping gear and left on their mission. It was well into the afternoon when they reached their destination, descending the steep slope from Lucas Gully to reach the creek half a mile from where Old Yorky’s hut still stood.
“Let’s boil the billy,” Willie Tom suggested, mopping his heated face, “before we start unloading our gear. I’m parched, I don’t know about you.”
“All right,” Johnny agreed readily, untying the blackened billycan suspended from the pommel of his saddle. “We’re on our own, ain’t we? We can take our time, without Ned Hargraves to drive us. Here—” He handed the can to Willie. “You get the water. I’ll unsaddle the horses and hobble them.”
Willie grinned and slithered down the bank to the exposed sandbar. He dipped the billycan into the water and then drew it back, smothering a gasp. In a crevice of the rock just below the surface of the water he caught a glimpse of something that emitted a faint yellowy luster. Scarcely daring to believe his luck, he thrust his hand into the crevice and drew out a nugget about the size of a hen’s egg. And it was gold! Pure, alluvial gold, just as Hargraves had described.
He turned, scarcely able to contain his excitement, and yelled to Johnny to join him.
“Look!” he exclaimed in a strangled voice. “Stone the crows, John—just look what I’ve found! Hargraves was right —there’s gold here sure enough. And to think I used to wonder if he was off his rocker!”
“He was always sure he was right, Willie,” Johnny asserted loyally. “And we’ve got to give him the credit. We’d never have found anything if he hadn’t told us how and shown us where to look, would we?”
“Maybe so.” Will shrugged and bent to dip the billycan into the creek. “But he’ll have his work cut out to convince Governor Fitzroy with the few grains o’ dust he took with him, I’ll warrant. He should’ve waited and taken this beaut with him.”
In fact, Ned experienced considerable skepticism when he was finally received by the colonial secretary, Edward Deas Thomson, after cooling his heels in the anteroom for the best part of a day. A man of fifty and the son-in-law of a previous governor, Thomson wielded considerable influence in the colony, having held office for fourteen years and served in the administration for more than twenty.
He listened to his visitor’s story in repressive silence, and when Ned produced the grains of gold dust to substantiate his claim, the secretary pointedly donned
For the ensuing three weeks, aided by the two young men, Ned took gravel samples from a wide area of the Macquarie River valley, finding sufficient dust to confirm all his hopes and dreams. They encountered only a few shepherds and
stockmen in their methodical search, but for all their efforts to conceal the reason for their presence, Ned became increasingly anxious lest word of what they had found come to the ears of men lately returned from California.
“I must be the first to approach the Governor,” he confided to Susan Lister. “We’ve worked hard, the lads and me, and it’s only right that we should claim a reward for what we’ve achieved. I’ll go back to Sydney in a day or so and seek an interview with the authorities. The cradle’s finished. I’ll show Johnny and young Willie how to operate it, and they can set it up at Summer Hill Creek or on Yorky’s Corner. I guarantee they’ll find gold in considerable quantity once they start rocking—because it’s there, Mrs. Lister. I’d stake my life on it!”
Two days later, after extracting a promise of silence from the Listers and Willie Tom, Ned mounted his big gray horse and set off to retrace his steps to Sydney.
The two boys watched him go, and then, both now as confident as their mentor, they loaded packhorses with the cradle and their camping gear and left on their mission. It was well into the afternoon when they reached their destination, descending the steep slope from Lucas Gully to reach the creek half a mile from where Old Yorky’s hut still stood.
“Let’s boil the billy,” Willie Tom suggested, mopping his heated face, “before we start unloading our gear. I’m parched, I don’t know about you.”
“All right,” Johnny agreed readily, untying the blackened billycan suspended from the pommel of his saddle. “We’re on our own, ain’t we? We can take our time, without Ned Hargraves to drive us. Here—” He handed the can to Willie. “You get the water. I’ll unsaddle the horses and hobble them.”
Willie grinned and slithered down the bank to the exposed sandbar. He dipped the billycan into the water and then drew it back, smothering a gasp. In a crevice of the rock just below the surface of the water he caught a glimpse of something that emitted a faint yellowy luster. Scarcely daring to believe his luck, he thrust his hand into the crevice and drew out a nugget about the size of a hen’s egg. And it was gold! Pure, alluvial gold, just as Hargraves had described.
He turned, scarcely able to contain his excitement, and yelled to Johnny to join him.
“Look!” he exclaimed in a strangled voice. “Stone the crows, John—just look what I’ve found! Hargraves was right —there’s gold here sure enough. And to think I used to wonder if he was off his rocker!”
“He was always sure he was right, Willie,” Johnny asserted loyally. “And we’ve got to give him the credit. We’d never have found anything if he hadn’t told us how and shown us where to look, would we?”
“Maybe so.” Will shrugged and bent to dip the billycan into the creek. “But he’ll have his work cut out to convince Governor Fitzroy with the few grains o’ dust he took with him, I’ll warrant. He should’ve waited and taken this beaut with him.”
In fact, Ned experienced considerable skepticism when he was finally received by the colonial secretary, Edward Deas Thomson, after cooling his heels in the anteroom for the best part of a day. A man of fifty and the son-in-law of a previous governor, Thomson wielded considerable influence in the colony, having held office for fourteen years and served in the administration for more than twenty.
He listened to his visitor’s story in repressive silence, and when Ned produced the grains of gold dust to substantiate his claim, the secretary pointedly donned
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