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    Blackwell Chronicles Volume 2
    Blackwell Chronicles Volume 2
    Blackwell Chronicles Volume 2
    Ebook150 pages2 hours

    Blackwell Chronicles Volume 2

    By Troy D. Smith

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    About this ebook

    Award winning author Troy D. Smith presents six stories of the Blackwell family, originally from Tennessee, in this second volume of the Blackwell Chronicles. This volume of short stories follows a set of brothers and their kinfolk on their adventures (or misadventures, in some cases) from the American West and Frontier to the Australian Gold Rush.

    The stories in this collection include: "Blackwell Down Under," Caleb Blackwell seeks gold in Australia; "Blackwell the Highwayman," Duke Blackwell decides to see what it's like on the wrong side of the law; "The Blackwell Raid," Max Blackwell meets up with brother Jake to fight Comanches; "The Blackwell Gang," After leaving the owlhoot trail, Duke Blackwell is wanted for murders he didn't commit; "Blackwell's Star," Caleb Blackwell returns to America, tired of hunting gold; and "Blackwell Unchained," Jake Blackwell is a captured Union soldier during the War Between the States.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWestern Trail Blazer
    Release dateOct 18, 2013
    ISBN9781301913428
    Blackwell Chronicles Volume 2
    Author

    Troy D. Smith

    Born in the Upper Cumberland region of Tennessee, Mr. Smith has loved books even before he could read them. In 1995 his first short story was accepted by Louis L'Amour Western Magazine, and he has been published in magazines since then on a fairly regular basis. Author of numerous award winning short stories and novels, Troy is currently a Doctoral candidate in the History Department at the University of Illinois. He says, "I don't write about things that happen to people—I write about people that things happen to."

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      Book preview

      Blackwell Chronicles Volume 2 - Troy D. Smith

      Chapter 1

      Victoria, Australia 1854

      Caleb Blackwell was a gold miner – or, as they said it in Australia, a Digger. Though still a young man, Blackwell had been mining for several years, since he and his three brothers left Tennessee for the California gold fields in 1849. He had yet to make a real strike, but was an experienced hand. He had sought gold and silver in several places in the American West, and used what little money he had squared away to board a ship in San Francisco when he heard the news of the rich strike in Australia.

      But he had never experienced anything like what he found Down Under.

      For one thing, he'd never been forced to buy a license to prospect – and paid a pretty penny, at that. It was no empty formality; any Digger caught without the requisite paperwork faced a beating or worse at the hands of the local constabulary or red-coated soldiers.

      Blackwell had arrived at the mining camps near the town of Ballarat, on the Yarrowee River, with only a few pounds left to his name after he outfitted himself. Ballarat had been little more than a sheep station when gold had been discovered back in 'fifty-one, but was now a bustling town that almost rivaled Victoria's capitol of Melbourne, sixty-five miles away. Much like the California fields, the place had been flooded by treasure seekers from around the globe.

      Blackwell struck up a friendship at a local saloon with two Irish brothers, Jack and Colin O'Connor, and their Italian partner Silvio Ruggeri.

      And have you paid your license fee yet, boyo? Jack asked him.

      License fee?

      Sure, the younger brother Colin chimed in. One pound. They tried to raise it to three, but folks nearly rioted.

      A whole pound is bad enough, Blackwell said. When you're about out of pounds, like I am. I reckon when I raise up a bit of a stake I can spare it, but not now.

      Jack shook his head. You don't have them options, he said. You better get on over to the registration office straightaway. I'll take you there myself, if need be.

      Blackwell chuckled. What are they gonna do, shoot me? He was greeted by ominous silence.

      Maybe they no shoot you, Silvio finally said. But they beat you bad, maybe.

      That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard.

      But 'tis true, Jack said. I once seen 'em beat a digger nigh to death because he was walking down the street with his hands in his pockets – vagrancy, they called it.

      Blackwell's eyes narrowed. They don't have the right to do such as that.

      Sure they do, Colin said. They can do whatever they like, especially to such as us. Migrants, they call us, with no citizenship rights. Before we came along they had transferred convicts to use as their underclass – now they treat us same as they did them.

      Jack chuckled. In other words, he said, "they treat us like we're all Irish, not just them as talks like it."

      Wait a minute, Blackwell said. If everybody has to pay this license fee – that's kind of like a tax, ain't it?

      Same thing, Jack said.

      They can't make you pay a tax if you ain't a citizen and don't have no rights, Blackwell said.

      Explain that to a bayonet, Colin said.

      Caleb Blackwell shook his head. My grandpa explained just that to a bunch of redcoats with bayonets, at a place called King's Mountain, back in 1780.

      The others grew visibly concerned. Damn, Jack said in a low voice, be careful with talk like that.

      Blackwell shrugged, and gestured to the bartender to refill his beer glass – although his coin purse dictated this must be the last time.

      Didn't mean to spook you boys none, he said. I just don't much go in for taxation without representation, or payin' some government yahoo for the privilege of workin' my ass off.

      The bartender had walked back over with a full mug, which he sat on the bar in front of the American.

      You think you have it bad, Yank, the bartender said. The digger fee ain't nothin' compared to the license I have to pay to run this place. The highest I ever seen.

      When the barman was safely out of earshot, Jack O'Connor leaned close to his new friend.

      A lot of us feel like you do, Blackwell. But we have to be careful how loud we say it. Now finish that beer, and we'll show you to the registration office – and my conscience can rest easy where you're concerned. Then we can show you around our diggings, if you're of a mind to – I like your sand, and we've been talking about taking on a new partner. If you're interested.

      One thing I learned in California, Blackwell said, is that – while it's true that the money is better when you don't have to divide it up –once the bullets and arrows start comin' in, it's good to split 'em several ways. Not that I expect bullets or arrows down here, but it's the same idea. So I'm obliged for the offer, and I reckon I'd take you up on it.

      Chapter 2

      Caleb Blackwell reluctantly handed his cash over to a bureaucrat with a pinched nose and a starched collar, then signed his name on the document the man pushed before him. Blackwell folded it up and placed it deep into his pocket before he rejoined his new partners on the street outside.

      Now you're official, and I can rest easy, Jack said. Let's retrieve our horseflesh from the stable yonder and be on our way – your animal there as well?

      Blackwell nodded. First place I saw on the way into town.

      Before they reached the stable, however, they were distracted by a commotion nearby. Half a dozen soldiers in bright red coats were manhandling citizens on the boardwalk.

      Damn, it's started already, Jack said. Looks like we got you set up just in time, Blackwell.

      Silvio spat. "They call this a digger hunt, he explained. Best take your registration out now."

      Blackwell's companions did just that. He reached back into his pocket to retrieve his own, but was distracted. One of the soldiers had grabbed a digger by the shirt collar and was yelling into his face.

      I asked for your damned papers, man!

      The digger was near tears. I was on my way to get 'em, sir, my hand to God, he said in a thick Irish brogue.

      The soldier released him, pushing the man backwards, and swore at him. "Damn your eyes, you lying mick!"

      One of the other redcoats rammed a rifle butt into the digger's midsection. When the Irishman doubled over, the one who'd been doing the talking slammed a knee into his face. The miner went sprawling into the dusty street, and the two soldiers kicked at him.

      Here now, another soldier said, looking up at Blackwell and his new friends. What are you migrant filth staring at, then?

      Nothin', sir, beggin' your pardon, Jack O'Connor said. We're just waitin' to show our papers, is all.

      The soldier nodded in their direction, staring hard at Blackwell. "What about that one, standing about with his hands in his pockets like he owned the place? Snap to, you mick bastard!"

      Caleb Blackwell slowly drew his hands out, registration clenched tightly in his right fist.

      Like my friend said, mister, we're just waitin' to get by and saddle up. We got minin' to do.

      Do you, now, the soldier snarled, and stepped forward, holding out his hand. Let's see your proof that you're going about it legal.

      Blackwell relaxed his grip on the papers and held them forth. The redcoat glanced over them.

      Lucky for you, then, he said, then snatched the proffered registrations from the O'Connors and their Italian partner.

      On your way, then, the soldier said. Else I'll smash your ugly ape faces for loitering on the Queen's streets.

      The others moved ahead, but Blackwell stood still. His eye twitched twice as he tried to maintain his temper. Jack grabbed his arm and pulled him forward. After a couple of steps, the Tennessean moved on his own steam. But he didn't like it. He cast a glance at the poor miner who'd been so mercilessly beaten – he couldn't tell if the man still had breath in him or not.

      When they reached the stable, Jack exhaled in relief. Damn, Yank, he said. I seen the smoke comin' out of your ears back yonder – I was fearful you'd get yourself run through with one of them bayonets, and us with ya.

      Blackwell shook his head, trying to clear away the shame and rage. Like I told y'uns before, he said. My grandpa fought their like at King's Mountain, and my daddy and uncles marched to New Orleans with Andy Jackson. I never seen one up close before – I always figured they was just regular folks like anybody else – but them yahoos back yonder got under my skin like a chigger. Them red outfits of theirs don't help none.

      Colin O'Connor chuckled. Our beef with 'em goes back a lot further than yours, he said. But there's a time and a place, I reckon.

      Silvio spat into the hay. A bully is a bully, he said. Don't matter what language they talk, or what clothes they wear.

      I reckon you pegged it, all right, Blackwell agreed, then took

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