This was something that affected all their futures directly.
'Let's have a look at the little brighter,' somebody yelled out at the back of the crowd, and there was a menacing growl of agreement.
'Right, let's see him.'
Zouga stood beside the tall back wheel of the wagon, hemmed in by the press of bodies, and he glanced at Ralph who stood at his shoulder.
'He no longer had to look down at his son, their eyes were on a level.
'I'll go up and face them' Ralph whispered huskily.
Under the dark tan' his skin was grey and his eyes dark green and worried. He knew as well as Zouga did how grave was his position: he was to be tried by a mob that was angry and vindictive and mostly filled with cheap liquor.
The collapse of the roadway had destroyed the value of their claims. They could no longer get the gravel out; their claims were isolated, cut off from ground level, and they were spoiling to place the blame and extract vengeance. That vengeance would be brutal.
Ralph put one hand on the spokes of the wagon wheel, ready to climb up onto the wagon body where the dozen members of the Committee were already waiting.
'Ralph.' Zouga stopped him with a hand on his arm.
'Wait here.'
'Papa-' Ralph began to protest quietly, the fear still dark in his eyes.
'Stay' ZOUGA repeated softly, and vaulted up onto the wagon body lightly.
He nodded briefly to the members of the Committee and then turned to face the mob. He was bare-headed, his beard catching the sunlight and jutting accessibly as he placed his clenched fists on his hips and' set his feet easily apart.
'Gentlemen,' he said, and his voice carried clearly to the last row of the crowd, 'my son is only sixteen years old. I am here to answer for him.'
'If. he's old enough to kill six men, then he's old enough to face the music himself.'
'He killed nobody,' Zouga answered coldly. 'If you look to place the blame, then put it on the rain. Go down to the pit, and you will see where it undercut the bank '
'He started fighting' the shaggy-headed accuser bellowed. 'I saw him use his whip on Mark Sanderson , 'There is a fight on one of the causeways every hour of every day,' Zouga shot at him. 'I've seen you throwing punches out there, and getting your arse whipped at that.'
There was a ripple of laughter, a lightening of the mood, and Zouga took his advantage.
'In the name of all that's holy, gentlemen, there is not one of us here who does not protect his rights. My son was doing that, against a man older and stronger than himself, and if he's guilty for that, then so are all of you.'
They liked that, liked being told they were tough and independent, proud of being hard fighters and hard livers.
'Are you telling me that one boy with a trek whip brought down the number 6 causeway all on his own? If so, then I'm proud that boy is my son.'
They laughed again, and on the wagon behind Zouga the tall blond untidily dressed man with the cleft chin and pale blue eyes smiled thoughtfully and murmured to the Committee member beside him.
'He's good, Pickling,' using Neville Pickering's familiar nickname. 'He talks as well as he writes, and that's well enough.'
'No, gentlemen,' Zouga changed pace. 'That causeway was a death-trap, ready to go off before the first gravel bucky went out on it Friday morning. The collapse was nobody's fault; we had just dug too deep, and there was too much rain.'
Heads were nodding now, their expressions concerned and grave as Zouga went on.
'We are too deep on the New Rush, and unless we work out a new system of getting the stuff out of our claims, then there are going to be a lot more dead men for us to bury.'
Zouga glanced down as one of the diggers shouldered his way through the crowd and climbed up onto the disselboom of the wagon.
'Now you pay attention, you bunch of dirt-hounds,' he yelled.
'The chair acknowledges Mister Sanderson,' Neville Pickering murmured sarcastically.
'Thanking you, Guv.' The digger lifted his battered Derby hat, finery that he had donned especially for this meeting, then turned and scowled at the crowd. 'This nipper of Zouga Ballantyne's is going to be a bad one to mess with, and a good one to have at your side when things get hard.' Still scowling, he turned and called to Ralph. 'You come up here, young Ballantyne.'
Still pale and worried, Ralph hung back, but rough hands pushed him forward and hoisted him onto the wagon.
The digger had to reach up to put his arm around Ralph's shoulder.
'This boy could have let me drop into the pit like a rotten tomato, and squash the same way when I hit the bottom.' He made a vaguely obscene squelching sound with his lips to illustrate his own demise. 'He could have run and left me, but he didn't.'
'That's 'cause he's young and stupid,' someone called.
