Chapter Thirty-SevenMatilda half-dragged me up the hill toward our carriage. Troopers shot and stabbed and kicked their way through the far smaller crowd of miners. The walls fell silent suddenly, plunging us into a muted world of smoke and despair. It was so achingly beautiful I wept.
Miners tumbled to the ground like leaves shaken from an autumn tree. None of the redcoats faltered. The mounted police rode over our men where they lay, crushing the wounded under their hooves.
Our broad-faced railwayman stood beneath the Southern Cross flag. Tears streaked down his face into his beard. His left arm was bright red with blood and hung useless by his side as a trooper climbed the flagpole, breaking it with his weight, and took the banner away. The railwayman shivered, though his face shone w
