My Father's Gift

The gold buyer reaches out for the couple of ounces of gold-dust, held in a matchbox in my hand. He weighs it, then gives me his price. It is not even enough to buy food for the week. And I am nearing starvation. If I don't make a substantial find soon I am not sure how I will survive. Why must I continue in this ridiculous way of living? It is not as if I don't have a choice. It is time to stop this absurdity.

"Do you have some writing materials I could borrow? I ask.

The gold buyer turns to look at me; gold flecks gathered in his hair and under his long fingernails. "Sure. Can you write?

I nod, almost laughing. Shall I tell him that not only can I read and write English, but am competent in French and excel in Latin? Why bother? The gold-buyer would not find that at all interesting. The gold fields are full of educated gentlemen”but the ranks of society are different here. Ex-convicts have become wealthy and are treated as gentry. Whereas titled men have lost all their money and are treated as scum.

"If you write yourself, that'll only be one pound.

One pound. Whatever happened to common decency? This person would make more money than most people on the diggings, yet he still considers it necessary to charge for the loan of a pen and a piece of paper.

Dear Father, I write
After much expense, energy and labour, my efforts are still fruitless. It is becoming almost impossible to continue. Could you possibly allow me to return home? If so, I will need to be forwarded money for the journey to England. It appears you were right, after all.

That last sentence hurts. I put a line through it, then another, continuing until it is one black mess. I might have well left it there. The whole letter shows my father that he was right. He will read it and realise it at once. He will send me all the money I need. Of that, I am quite certain. Yet he will never quite forgive me. Not for failing”he was certain I would fail”but for admitting my failure. My father always taught his sons to have pride.

He warned me against going. He told me I would be wasting my time. I had brushed aside his advice, seeking my chance to make good of myself; my only chance to become wealthy. My father is quite wealthy, himself. With five sons in which to distribute, it dwindles considerably. And I am the youngest. My share will be barely enough to survive. By going to the goldfields I thought I could change that.

How wrong I was.

All the stories I had read or heard told of huge findings and over-night made millionaires. These stories were told because they were interesting. I did not realise it was not the full picture. No one told me about the many people who looked and struggled, never making a substantial find. Why would they? That part of life on the goldfields was dull.

So I left, filled with ambitions and dreams. The first week left blisters on my hand that I thought would never harden into calluses. Still I persisted, sure that I would make my big find within a couple of months”at the most. Two years later, and the huge nugget of which I dreamt has still not materialised. I do not even make enough money to pay for my license. Like the many others who also cannot afford it, I hide when the troopers come, hoping they will not catch me. Already, I have sold everything I owned, just to enable me to keep going. All that is left is my Father's parting gift, a derringer pistol, still fully loaded and operational.

When I arrived in Australia, I took up an alias. Not because I was ashamed of my family name, but because I was proud of it. I did not want to use it while I was only an ordinary man on the goldfields”toiling hard amongst peasants and sons of convicts. I planned to return to my original name when I had made my fortune. Then I would be proud to use it again.

Working on the goldfields, I have to associate with ex-convicts, thieves, paupers and the lowest amongst society. I have sweated alongside of them, and have even sometimes surpassed them in bad language and behaviour. Morals and gentlemanly ways have no place on the goldfields. The others have seen me do things for which I am ashamed. That does not bother me, as long as my family name is not involved. Disgrace has come upon me many times, but never will I bring it on my father.

But won't I bring that disgrace with me when I return? How awful for my father, who is so proud, to have to tell his peers that I failed on the goldfields. It will become gossip and people will sman behind mine”and my father's”back. Hurt my father as I have in the past, I cannot”and will not”hurt his pride. My mind is changed; I will not return.

I tear the letter into little pieces. Then I take the derringer from my sack. How beautiful she looks. She shines so brightly. I spend 5 minutes memorising each detail.

"She's a beauty, the gold buyer says.

"Yes, she is. How much will you give me for it?

The gold buyer scratches his head. "Five pounds.

I fight back the impulse to hit him. One pound for the loan of a pen and a piece of paper”yet 5 pounds for my most prized possession. How could I sell my father's gift for such a meagre amount? It is impossible. How dare he even suggest it? I clench my fist, but do not raise it. I have my pride.

"May I borrow another piece of paper? I ask through closed teeth.

Reluctantly, he hands it over. I can see him deciding against asking for more money. The look on my face a few seconds ago must have scared him. And people with bad judgement die easily here.

Dear Father, I write
Just a short note to let you know that I am well. At the moment I am persisting in an area that seems sure to give me high returns. If I am lucky, which I am sure I will be, I must be alert”murder often happens here when men have found gold. Do not worry, though, I do not think that will happen to me.

I fold the letter and give the shopkeeper the last of my money to post it to England. Then I take my gun and walk far into the bush, away from this strange idea of civilisation. When I can hear no sounds of the shots from the gold-diggers, emptying their guns as they do every night, I take out the derringer. Such a beautiful piece. My father's gift. It has never been used”

But that will soon change.

It has a task before it; quick, difficult and important. It does not matter if the court finds it murder or suicide. Nobody here knows my family name.

It is time to end my father's disgrace.