of what may appear a most objectionable match, has proved quite the
reverse from what might have been expected. It would not do even now
to search too deeply into the pedigree of some of the Australians; but
I will say that some of the most honourable, best educated, and highly
refined men of the day, would, if their escutcheon was scratched, show
beneath the emblazonments, a trace of the broad arrow on some part of
it.
I do not wish, in making this statement, to say anything disparaging
of these people—quite the reverse. The history of New South Wales is
quite unparalleled in that of the world. The management of the penal
settlements of Australia is one of the most striking instances of the
thoroughly admirable system of colonisation on record. With a country
like Australia—in view of its distance—the trying and capricious
climate—the wretched poverty of the soil—it could never have been
colonised by free emigration. It needed the indomitable energy, and
the spirit of enterprise of a British Government, and the pluck of the
Anglo-Saxon race, to cope with the difficulties of such an enterprise.
See Australia now, a young country joining in friendly rivalry with
older and more favoured nations. To fully appreciate the proud
position it now occupies, one must need look back a few years. Look
at the starting point! Think of that day, barely a century ago, when
the first ship anchored in Sydney Cove. Think of the several phases
of continuous droughts where the handful of inhabitants were on the
eve of starvation from want of flour, and even water, on this immense
continent, now a populous, rich _nation_, teeming with a free and
enlightened population, possessing magnificent cities, railways,
electric communication, and _freedom_ in the most essential expression
of that word.
When I landed in 1839, as I said before, Sydney, and a few—very
few—other spots on the New South Wales coast, constituted the whole of
the British dominions in the Southern Hemisphere. It was somewhat of a
treat to join there my brother, and once more feel that I had a home.
But somehow, when one has once taken to roving, it seems difficult
to settle down. I had not been very long in Sydney, when the French
corvette—the Aube—called for stores on her way to New Zealand. Captain
Lavaud, hearing that I had been there, asked me to accompany him,
and act as his interpreter. On our way down to the Bay of Islands I
learned that his orders were to take possession of New Zealand for the
French Government.
At the Bay of Islands, at a _déjeuner_ given by the Resident
Magistrate, Mons. Lavaud indiscreetly mentioned the object of his
errand in the presence of the commander of an English man-of-war brig.
During the afternoon, whilst we were paying a visit to the French
Mission the brig sailed; and when, a few days after we reached Akaroa,
we found her at anchor, and the Union Jack flying on shore!!
So much for the diplomacy of Captain Lavaud. The French settlement of
the Campagnie, Nanto Bordelaise, which had been originated, had to be
carried on; but, like most French colonising schemes, dragged on for
a few years, and even under the English flag dwindled down, and in a
few years died a miserable death. Having witnessed Captain Lavaud’s
_fiasco_, I returned to Sydney, when, at the death of Mons. Bareilhes,
I was appointed Chancelier of the French Consulate, a position I held
until the Revolution of 1848.
My sympathies were naturally for monarchy—more especially for the
Orleans dynasty—and when the 1848 Revolution broke out, I relinquished
the diplomatic career, and proceeded to South Australia, where the
discovery of rich copper deposits at the Burra and Kapunda caused a
sudden rush to that young colony.
The extraordinary and rapid progress of the colony of South Australia
in the short space of two years, owing to the rich returns of the
Burra Burra mines, is certainly worthy of being recorded. At the first
onset the land on which the metal had been discovered was divided
between two distinct sets of applicants—one comprising the leading
merchants and men of note and social standing, the other principally
working men, and the hired servants of the former. When the ground was
broken and the mine worked, by a strange freak of fortune the ground
held by the last-named portion of speculators turned out to be the
best of the two. Shares ran up from £5 to £500! and for a number of
years paid dividends at the rate of 200 per cent. on paid up shares!
This very naturally upset the equilibrium of the social scale; and
in very many instances we saw the servant, now suddenly risen to a
millionaire, eclipsing his master in luxurious style; securing the
best cabins on board home-bound ships; and, in more than one instance,
purchasing baronial residences in Europe out of their dividends. This,
I take it, is a fair instance of the ups and downs which have occurred
in the Australasian colonies within the last half century.
[Illustration]
II.
_THE GOLD FEVER._
This copper fever, which in a few months’ time _aged_ South Australia,
and brought it from its almost infantile condition to maturity, was,
however, very soon eclipsed by the gold discovery in California,
almost immediately followed by the fabulous reports from the Turon
River in New South Wales, and the break out of the gold fever at
Forest Creek, in Victoria, at the end of 1851.
These reports spread like wild-fire throughout the length and breadth
of Australia. Adelaide became a deserted city. I had invested my all
in city lands, the construction of warehouses, offices, &c., which
in a few weeks were all closed, without the remotest likelihood of
being again tenanted. The ship was gradually sinking under my feet;
to remain in South Australia would have been courting starvation.
The only course left was to put away the garb of gentility, don the
corduroy pants, the woollen shirt, and with pick and shovel follow the
stream of diggers to Mount Alexander.
This was a new life. The landing in Melbourne of streams of humanity
from all parts of the world, the lack of accommodation for this sudden
rush, the canvas town which sprang up between the Yarra and Sandridge,
where now stands Emerald, Hill, South Melbourne, and Port Melbourne,
was a sight to remember, but difficult to depict. The motley group of
tents, the camp-fires, the various nationalities, and with it all the
orderly behaviour of tens of thousands of adventurers congregated on
that spot was inconceivable. Of course the stay at Canvas-town was but
a short one, the predominating idea with one and all being to rush to
the El Dorado. The run on the daily papers, the avidity with which all
news coming from Mount Alexander were devoured by the new arrivals, is
beyond description.
Parties were made up, and a start made. From the banks of the Yarrato
Forest Creek there was a continuous stream of carts, bullock teams,
pack horses, and pedestrians, all bending under the weight of their
“swags.” Every night the camp was pitched near creeks and water-holes,
converting these chosen spots into large townships. Improvised
stores, coffee and sly-grog shops, sprung up along the line of road.
The Black Forest was illuminated at night by a thousand camp-fires;
the reports of rifle and gun-shots, to warn evildoers, kept that
locality alive for months, until the winter of 1852 came, when the
track became an impracticable quagmire, and the roads impassable for
drays, and even laden horses. In June, 1852, the cost of carriage rose
from £10 to £200 per ton. The price of provisions on the diggings
rose accordingly; a pound of salt cost half-a-crown, and every other
necessary of life in proportion!
Gold digging was not what most of us had anticipated. The precious
metal was there, but it did not crop out of the ground. It was hard
work. While gold fetched £3 10s an ounce, it cost, in many instances,
£5 to get it.
I was not many weeks on the Mount before I learned that it would be
far easier to get the gold from the diggers than out of the ground.
It became evident that with a small capital one might do better than
by delving into the ground for auriferous sand, and trusting to the
cradle and tin-dish to secure the metal.
The setting in of winter rendered it urgent to provide for the
housing of the Government staff, hitherto living in tents. Contracts
were called for commissioners’ quarters, treasury, escort officers’
barracks, stables, Court House, gaol, hospitals, &c. A civil
engineer—Mr. Mather—secured the contract, and entrusted me with the
work.
Saw-pits had to be started wherever suitable timber could be
found; plans of portable buildings prepared, and last—though not
least—tradesmen secured to push on works, which had to be finished
within a very short time.
A month after the signing of the contract, I had some two hundred and
fifty men, and upwards of forty teams of horses or bullocks at work.
In four months we erected buildings sufficient to hold the whole of
the staff, police, and gold escort, with out-stations at Forest Creek,
Fryer’s Creek, and Bendigo, where the principal diggings then were,
as well as at various points on the Melbourne road from that city to
Kyneton, through the Black Forest—at Carlsrhue, Sawpit Gully, and
half-way from Mount Alexander to Bendigo, at a place then known as the
“Porcupine Inn.”
Having to superintend works over something like 200 miles of country
was not an easy matter, more particularly when one takes into
consideration that the men I had to manage were mostly Van Demonian
sawyers and splitters, the very scum of the convict element from
Tasmania. Moreover, I had to ride to Melbourne and back to Mount
Alexander once a week for large sums of money, which I had to carry in
specie to pay the men at their respective stations, riding through a
country infested with bushrangers of the worst description.
[Illustration]
III.
_SOME BUSHRANGERS I HAVE KNOWN._
This adventurous life, however, had its charm, and I often think that
in spite of hardships and privations, I enjoyed it thoroughly.
For eight months I was hardly ever out of the saddle. During that time
I experienced many adventures with men who since have either forfeited
their life at the hands of the public hangman, or have served long
sentences in H.M.’s gaols. Black Douglas, Thunderbolt, Donoghue,
Gilbert, Ben Hall, and many other such celebrities, have often been
my fellow-travellers. Many a night have I spent at the camp-fire
with such noted characters, yet have never been molested or stuck-up
by them. I may quote some instances which have left an indelible
impression on my mind.
In the early part of 1852 rich discoveries of gold were made at
Bendigo. A great rush set in from Forest Creek. Gold buyers and
storekeepers flocked to the new diggings. The “Porcupine Inn”—the
half-way, and only house, on that line of road—became a place of
resort for all travellers. Being the only place within range of Mount
Alexander or Bendigo where lucky diggers could have a “spree,” a
goodly number of men gathered there daily with well-filled belts. Gold
buyers and storekeepers, with plethoric purses and heavy saddle-bags,
also put up at the Porcupine. This fact soon became known to the
daring bushrangers who hovered around the diggings in search of unwary
travellers.
At Easter-tide, having to go to Bendigo, I joined a party of four
and, arriving rather late, put up at this celebrated hostelry, which,
owing to holiday times, was fuller than usual. We, however, managed to
secure a room. After supper, when I took a run into the stable to see
that our horses were duly attended to, an old crippled groom, who had
served on one of our out stations, and to whom I had then shown some
consideration, beckoned to me to follow him into the yard, where he
imparted the information that the landlord and his people were _bailed
up_ in a loft above the kitchen, and that a gang of bushrangers were
in full possession of the premises, and had been so for the last 24
hours. His parting words were—
“Keep your eyes open, and your revolvers handy.”
When I went back into the house, I found that the grog was being
lavishly served by the quondam landlord. All, or nearly all, the
men in the place were either stupidly drunk, or bordering upon that
wretched condition. I also noted that one of the “waiters” would
persist in remaining in our room—the only one in the house where
anything approaching sobriety remained. In order to get rid of the
troublesome attendant, and to remove his suspicions, I ordered a
supply of spirits, hot water, and sugar, and during the few minutes
which elapsed, warned my mates, and arranged a plan of action.
When the fellow returned we had all drawn round the table, each man
with his revolver and bowie knife before him. This array of arms,
and I daresay the determined look of the party, seemed to impress
our “waiter” that we were “up and ready.” He left us for about
half-an-hour. When he came again (it was near midnight), he had with
him two other men, who asked us if we had any further orders to give,
and rather roughly desired us to put out the lights and go to bed;
which, in the present instance, meant to roll ourselves in our rugs
on the floor. We told them that we had important matters to settle,
and did not intend to put out the lamp, which, fortunately, held
sufficient kerosene to last till daylight. Our hosts did not seem to
relish the refusal to comply with their wishes, but, however, left
us, and locked us in. In a trice we had the table, sofa, and chairs
converted into a barricade against the door; the two windows we kept
in view with revolver in hand.
The following five or six hours were the longest I ever remember.
Occasional strange noises and a few pistol shots were the only breaks
to the long monotonous watch of that eventful night. When daylight
at last made its appearance, we replaced the furniture, unscrewed
the lock of the door, and most innocently called the waiter, who had
evidently taken the sulks, and did not show up. We walked single file,
revolver in hand, through the passage to the stable—not a living
soul to be seen in any part of the premises we went through. Before
our movements could be observed we were in the saddle on our way to
Bendigo, without having had even the honesty to settle our score. We
reported the case at the camp. A detachment of mounted troopers were
at once despatched to the Porcupine Inn, where a rather hot battle
ensued before the new tenants could be dislodged and the landlord
re-instated.
I always have had my doubts as to the veracity of the old scoundrel’s
statement. My firm belief is that he was a willing party and
shareholder in the plunder, which for the four days’ occupation must
have amounted to something pretty considerable. Thanks to old Joe’s
warning, however, we escaped, literally _scot-free_.
The next adventure was of another kind. I was returning from Melbourne
with a valise in front of my saddle, containing eleven hundred
pounds in notes, gold, and silver. I had ridden seventy-three miles
since morning, changing horses at Macedon and Carlsrhue. The sun
was about setting when I reached the deep gully at the entrance of
Fryer’s Creek. My horse being pretty well knocked-up, and feeling the
effects of the day’s hard riding, I let the reins hang on the poor
fellow’s neck, put my hands in my pockets after lighting my pipe,
never for a moment thinking that the spot was quite appropriate for a
“sticking-up” business.
About mid-way through the gully, I suddenly heard a shout on my right
hand side, and, for the first time, noticed a man sitting on a log
with a gun leaning on a stump in front of him. His first call was—
“Stop, you b——! Stop, or I’ll do for you!” Very much like the beggar’s
call to Gil Blas; the adjective, of course, adding more persuasion to
the command.
I confess that my first impulse was to stick spurs into the horse’s
flanks, and show the bushranger the colour of my nag’s tail. A second,
and more courageous thought, however, prevailed. I used, in those
days, when carrying Government money, to have a couple of Colt’s
revolvers in my belt. I drew them out and covered my friend with both
barrels, when to my great astonishment he threw up both his hands
above his head, crying—
“For God’s sake don’t fire!”
Keeping him under cover, I made him come down the hill with his hands
still up in the air. Poor fellow! he was the most harmless of all
teamsters. His dray was on the top of the range, and he was watching
his half-starved cattle browsing on the other side of the ravine.
The interjection, which I had attributed to myself, was a “friendly
hint” to a brindle steer, which he told me had some rather roving
propensities, if not closely looked after.
We adjourned to the dray, and over a pannican of hot tea—with rum in
lieu of cream—had a good, hearty laugh over our mutual fright, in
which I think that the honours were equally divided.
Having, as I said before, come often in contact with some of the
most noted bushrangers, who, in the “fifties,” made a raid over the
goldfields of Victoria, I am quite prepared to say that with one or
two exceptions, they were highway robbers in every sense of the word,
but very, very few of them ever stained their hands in blood. The very
few exceptions on record, even, were caused by a spirit of revenge or
reprisal, or in self-defence when driven to bay by the police.
In one instance I happened to fall in with Black Douglas and two of
his mates half-way between the “Bush Inn” and Kyneton. I knew the man,
and he also knew who I was, having often seen me at the saw-pits,
where these men were, in very many instances, “planted” by their old
convict friends whom we employed as splitters and sawyers. The moment
I recognised the dreaded bushranger, I made up my mind for a raid
on my belongings. Fortunately, I had very little about me on that
occasion, having already paid most of the wages. So, putting on a bold
front, I rode up to Douglas, calling him by name—
“Well, Douglas, how goes it, old man? How is business?”
He took a long, hard look at me and replied—
“Hallo Frenchy! is that you? Got any Treasury yellow boys in that 'ere
valise of yourn?”
“Well,” I said, “I have only about thirty pounds; but, old man, it is
not Treasury money now. It is the hard-earned wages of old Sellicks,
and some of your pals at Sawpit Gully. Surely you would not take
_that_ money! Now, would you?”
“If that’s your game, Frenchy, we’ll ride together to the saw-pits,
and the boys will know that old Douglas is not as black as they call
him.”
We rode together across country into the sawyer’s camp, had supper and
paid the men. Next morning I left Douglas and his friends to carouse
and gamble the money I had saved from his clutches by touching his
heart in the only soft place, perhaps, it ever had.
Before I leave the reminiscences of these extraordinary times, I may
recall my again meeting Thunderbolt (Ward) at Cockatoo Island, in New
South Wales, some years later, where he was put in for life. Having
the honour to be a J.P. in New South Wales, I had to act as visiting
Magistrate at the penal settlement during the temporary absence of
the Police Magistrate. Amongst the cases to be tried was one for
attempting to escape from the island by this man Ward, _alias_ Capt.
Thunderbolt. When the case was called my brother Magistrate at once
condemned the unfortunate wretch to 21 days in the cells! The cells at
Cockatoo were holes scooped out of the solid rock, closed by a huge
flag stone on the top—a tomb! It seemed so hard to see a man sentenced
to 21 days of such a life, without even allowing him to plead or say
one word in defence, that I demurred, and begged my brother Magistrate
to allow the case to be gone into. At the moment—and owing, no doubt,
to his altered ways and worn looks—I had not recognised the prisoner
as Ward (Capt. Thunderbolt), whom I had often seen on the Victorian
diggings. I heard the charge, which I must say was plain, and most
damning.
As in duty bound, I challenged this unfortunate man to say whether he
had anything to state prior to passing the dreaded sentence. Hardened
criminal as he was, it was with a sob in his voice that he replied—
“No, your Honour, I have nothing to say. I have tried to get out of
this h—l, and I mean to try again. But I thank _you_ all the same for
your kindness. I always thought you _was_ a good sort; and although
that other cove would send me to the cells, I know you’d make it
easier if you was here alone. God bless you for it, sir!”
Ward kept his word. Within six months he made good his escape, and
went to New England, where he stuck up a German band at the Goonoo
Goonoo Gap. They pleaded hard to get some of their money back. He made
a promise that if he succeeded in bailing up the principal winner at
the Tenterfield races—for whom he was on the look-out—he would return
them their money; which promise he kept most faithfully by sending to
the post-office at Warwick, much to their astonishment, the £20 he had
taken from them.
Shortly afterwards, when in a public-house at Uralla, he was surprised
by two policemen. Instead of mounting his own horse he jumped on one
belonging to a hawker, which turned out a bad one. A chase ensued. One
constable’s horse ran away with his rider; the other (Alick Walker),
a brave fellow, now a police inspector, rode Thunderbolt down to a
water-hole, where a desperate duel ensued, resulting in the death of
the bushranger, who had sworn that he would never be taken alive to be
sent again to Cockatoo Island.
[Illustration]
IV.
_HOW MONEY USED TO BE MADE._
Our contracts were nearly finished, when the contractor—Mr.
Mather—failed, leaving us all in the lurch. Unfortunately, I was hit
harder than anyone else. After eight months of hard life, I found
myself in my slab hut at Sawpit Gully, with a very limited stock of
provisions, and—a claim on the estate!
It is not in my nature to despond or stick in the mud long. I called
together a meeting of my men, explained to them the position of
affairs, left the assets of the estate in their charge, and went to
Melbourne to fight it out with the Official Assignee. After some
trouble I managed to draw the wages due to the men, but my screw had
to be left in abeyance until the assets were realised; meanwhile the
Court placed me in charge of the valuable property, scattered over the
whole of the district, at a salary.
In such times as those one could ill afford to sit quietly awaiting
the slow process of the law.
Sawpit Gully—now Elphinstone—was the dividing point of the various
main thoroughfares to Fryer’s Creek, Forest Creek, Bendigo, M’Ivor,
and other new diggings. It struck me that, in view of the thousands
of people who daily passed through, a store might be a paying game.
Unfortunately capital was the first consideration, and it was then
“an absent friend.” Brooding over my empty purse, I mentioned my
project to my men over the camp-fire one evening, prior to going
to bed. A couple of hours later a deputation entered my hut. The
spokesman—old Sellick, an old Tasmanian “lifer”—said—
“Look you here, boss; you have been a good friend to us chaps, and
d—n it, we ain’t agoing to see you in a muck. Pick out your spot; we
mean to give you a lift. We will put up your shanty; and if you want
money—why, you shall have it.”
The offer was too good to be refused. Heartily made, heartily
accepted. The next morning the corner of the cross roads was pegged
out, and in less than a fortnight a long fifty by twenty-five
feet slab building was up—stockyards, oven, stables, and fencing
finished—and I was installed as general storekeeper, baker, butcher,
&c., thanks to the timely and willing assistance of the good-hearted
men I had often bullied and driven. A five-gallon keg of rum was used
to celebrate the opening of the Sawpit Gully General Store, where for
twelve months I carried on a roaring trade; one of the main advantages
being the position—fifteen miles from the nearest store, bakery, or
butcher’s shop. The price of the goods was guided by the state of
the weather, the roads, and the number of customers. For instance,
bread varied from half-a-crown to half-a-guinea—everything else in
proportion.