SYDNEY.--UP ANCHOR FOR HOME.--"GALWAY MIKE."
What a change in their bill of fair awaited our crew the morning after
our anchor went down in this beautiful harbor; the change from the
eternal salt junk and yams, and unrelenting hard-tack, to the luxuries
of a Sydney bumboat! The sailor, to be sure, is no great _connoisseur_
in matters of this sort; nevertheless, as our observant cook pithily
expressed it, "he likes good grub better than he does poor." A very
small sum of money was sufficient to spread a table (or a sea-chest,
either,) with baker's loaves, fresh butter and cheese, new milk, eggs,
and various other "manavelins," as Jack terms them. I write the word as
it is pronounced, but my researches in etymology, are, thus far, all at
fault. Neither Noah Webster nor Nat Bowditch throws any light on the
matter.
Prices of fresh meats, except pork, were almost nominal. Beef could be
bought at a penny a pound, mutton at three farthings; for this was long
before the gold discoveries in Australia or California. No flood-tide
of emigration had yet set in that direction; no yellow-metal fever
had yet raged to inflate prices to a fictitious standard. Australia
possessed peculiar advantages as a grazing country, and stock could be
raised almost without trouble or expense. Thousands were slain merely
for the hides, horns and tallow, and extensive shipments of these
articles, as also of wool, were made to the mother country. Several
large ships were loading at the time of our arrival, forcing the bales
of wool into their places with jack-screws, much after the manner of
our cotton-droghers in southern ports.
Sydney impressed us as rather a handsome town, though not showy or
glaring in appearance, most of the buildings being of a crumbly
sandstone, which is quarried in the immediate neighborhood, and worked
out by convict labor. We inferred, from what we saw, that stone might
be cheaper than lumber for building purposes. The convicts who worked
in quarrying stone appeared to be the most finished illustrations
of laziness reduced to a system that I have ever met with, and to
accomplish the least amount of work that it was possible for men to
perform who kept steadily at it all day. This was what they called
"working government stroke;" and they might have all taken diplomas at
the great Circumlocution Office in the science of, How not to do it.
They were not allowed to stop work entirely, nor were they ever hurried
up. Sentinels in scarlet paced back and forth near them, but this was
merely to preserve order and to prevent escape. The convicts themselves
were all in uniform of stout, coarse cloth, with the name of the gang
or division to which they belonged conspicuously stenciled on the leg
of the pants, and across the back of the frock-shirt. Thus some were
labelled "Chain Gang," others "Hyde Park Barracks," and so on. They
were scarcely ever called convicts here, I observed, being spoken of
either politely, as "government men," or else, in slang phrase, as
"lags."
One of the striking features of Sydney, as of all British seaport
towns of any size, was the taverns, or "publics," the name of which
was legion, each having its distinctive sign. Here were to be found
the Red Cross, the Blue Cross, and crosses of all hues of the rainbow;
the Red Rose and the White Rose as rivals, typical of the ancient
houses of Lancaster and York; the Thistle and the Shamrock both
rivalling the Rose, and again a more compromising publican bore aloft
a trinity of all three; Red Lions, Green Boars, Blue Elephants, and
other impossibilities in zoology, boldly asserted the reality of their
existence, while Swans and Magpies on one side of the street eyed
Crooked Billets and Wheels of Fortune on the other, and the Jolly Tar
near the landing swung his tarpaulin aloft, and kicked up his heels at
the whole 'long shore tribe' of them. The landlord of this house was
especially gracious to us all, and found his account in it, as our men
spent much of their time and money in his establishment, so that the
Jolly Tar was, for the time being, even more jolly than was his wont.
The advent of an American whaleship at Sydney was a rare occurrence at
that day, though, two or three years later, it became a fashionable
port of resort for Nor'westmen, the exorbitant port-charges to foreign
ships having been taken off, as also the duties on oil sold under a
certain quantity. As we had a good voyage in the ship, and came on
shore with substantial linings to our pockets, we were always welcome
visitors at the "publics," taking the wind out of the sails of all
wool-droghers, soldiers, and bar-room loungers generally. It was "Get
up, Jack, and let John sit down," when the Yankee whaler's men were
coming. I made the acquaintance of an intelligent seaman at the Jolly
Tar, a Philadelphian, who had been here some time, having been left
sick in the hospital from an American brig, and was anxious to ship and
go home with us if possible. Speaking of the landlord of the house,
this Ashton said to me:
"You would hardly believe, would you, that this man was sent here with
two pen'worth of lag?"
"Two pen'orth of lag!" said I, considerably mystified, "What do you
mean by that?"
"It means," explained Ashton, "in the slang phrase used here, that he
was transported for fourteen years. A term of seven years is called a
pen'orth of lag, fourteen years two pen'orth, and so on."
"But you don't mean to say that he is a convict, now?" said I.
"Certainly," he returned, "but you must not use that word here; or, if
you do, don't speak it so loud. Say a 'government man.' He is still
under sentence. I don't know what his offence was, but a few years
ago a small matter was enough to transport a man. The law is changed
now, and the system is, I think, abolished altogether. No new ones are
brought, and these you see here are old stock whose term of service has
not yet run out."
"But can a convict, then, go into business for himself?"
"Yes, after he gets his ticket of emancipation, which is generally
granted to him after two or three years of good behavior. He can then
go to work for himself, and is, to all intents and purposes, free,
except that he cannot go out of the colony. In most cases, they don't
want to, as they are infinitely better off here than they would be in
England. I am told that some of the wealthiest men in the colony are
'lags.'"
"But why was the system abolished?" I asked.
"Because, in its practical working, it proved worse than a failure.
In fact, instead of checking crime, it was setting a premium upon it.
It is said that men, who would like to emigrate to this country but
could never accumulate money enough to pay their passage, would commit
a theft, so as to be sent here at government expense. They would then
conduct themselves well, so as to get their tickets of emancipation,
go to work for themselves, and send home the means to bring their
families out. Indeed, it is said there were not a few cases where the
wife, too, committed theft in order to join her husband, for women were
transported as well as men."
"But the system, if it did not prevent crime, answered the purpose of
peopling the colony, I suppose?"
"Hardly that," said Ashton, "except with rogues and felons; for the
really honest and industrious classes who form the great bulk of those
who come to Australia, would hardly desire to emigrate to a penal
settlement, full of desperadoes and thieves. The colony has not grown
as fast in population under the system, as it would without it, or as
it will hereafter. But here comes some of the crew of that whaling bark
that got in this morning. She got seven hundred barrels, and left the
ground, with whales plenty, because the men's time was up."
"Do they ship for a fixed length of time, then?"
"Yes, it is specified in the articles; and not only the length of the
voyage, but the price they are to receive for their oil when they
arrive. I went down to see the agents of the Lady Blackwood, that
sailed yesterday. I had some idea of shipping, but they had already as
many foreigners on the articles as the law allowed. They were ready
to ship me if I would make oath that I was a British subject, but, of
course, I declined doing so, and that was an end of the negotiation. We
were to sign for eighteen months, and to have fifty pounds a tun for
our oil, to have two glasses of grog a day and lime-juice, pursuant to
the Act of Parliament, and the devil knows what else," said Ashton,
with a laugh; "but come, let's go up to the 'Royal Victoria Theatre,'
and spend the evening. The seamen will all rally there to-night, for
'Black-eyed Susan' is announced on the bills."
After the play was over, we came down to the Jolly Tar, and stepped in
to take a parting glass, as I intended going on board in one of the
wherries, several of which were moored near by, the watermen having
a little watch-house, or shanty, where they could make themselves
comfortable and where one or more of them could be found, ready for
a job, at all hours of the night. It was getting late, and the public
house was deserted and quiet, though not yet closed. There was no one
in the bar when we entered, but a single small lamp was burning on
a shelf. As Ashton was a boarder in the house, he was perfectly at
home there, and he passed through into a back room to call some one
to attend to our wants at the bar. While waiting for him, I saw the
form of a stout man pass across the doorway, and disappear by a narrow
entry or passage leading towards the back of the house. I saw that
he had on a blue flannel shirt, such as English seamen usually wear,
and supposing him to be a boarder about retiring for the night, gave
no further thought to the matter. The landlord made his appearance to
wait upon us, and, after taking our parting nip, we lingered a moment
outside under the little veranda in front.
"There's a strange sail in these waters," said Ashton. "Did you see the
man who went out at the back door while you stood in the bar?"
"Yes, I saw a man," I answered; "but thought he was one of the regular
crew of the house. I shouldn't know him again if I met him, for I only
had a glimpse of him for a moment, and that by a dim light."
"Well, that," said he, "is a runaway convict--I beg his pardon--a
government man. He doesn't know me, but his face is familiar to me,
for I have seen him several times at work; in the chain-gang, too. I
suppose our landlord is hiding him, and he will lurk round here till he
gets a chance to escape into the bush, or else to get on board of some
vessel. However, it is none of my business. If he can make his escape,
why, let him, I say."
"Well, so do I," I replied. "I don't think either of us would turn
informer for the sake of the reward that may be offered for him. Well,
good-night." I hailed a waterman, and in a few minutes was on board the
Arethusa.
We were ready for sea within a few days after this occurrence, and,
though we had enjoyed our stay at this port, we were all impatient to
lift our anchor for the last time, as we hoped, before dropping it
off Nantucket Bar. Peter, the Mani Kanaka, took his discharge here,
as he had no desire to go to America, and had been offered a chance
as boatsteerer in a Sydney whaler. I could not help feeling deeply at
parting with the brave fellow, who had stood by me so faithfully in the
adventure at Dominica, and whom I should probably never see again. My
friend Ashton was shipped to fill this vacancy.
It was a fine morning when we hove short and loosed our foretopsail,
with the stars and stripes flying at the mizzen peak, and waited for
the police-boat which we saw pushing off to board us, as is done in the
case of every vessel leaving this port. The first order of the officer
in charge of the boat was to have the crew mustered. We were all drawn
up on the quarter and main deck, our number counted, and our names
called and responded to. We remained as we had been drawn up, while
the police, armed with pistols and swords, proceeded to search the
ship. This form is always gone through with on board of every outgoing
vessel; but in our case the search was more rigidly conducted than
usual. The cabin and forecastle were examined; the hatches were taken
off, and the between decks rummaged by armed men in every direction;
the galley, the round house, the boats, and every place above deck
capable of concealing a man, were visited; and the cover was lifted off
the tryworks to get a look into the pots. The result was satisfactory
to the officer that all were on board who ought to be, and no others.
"Captain," said he, "I have detained you to make a strict search, for
the reason that a notorious criminal, known as 'Galway Mike,' made his
escape from the chain-gang a few days ago, and is still at large. He
has probably gone back into the bush, for he got away once before, and
was nearly two years a bushranger, and you know, I suppose, what sort
of a life that is. It is but a few weeks since he was captured, and
he has managed to get off again. But our search of your ship has been
thorough, and I presume that you and your officers are willing to give
your word of honor that there is no concealed man on board, to your
knowledge."
Of course they were ready to do so.
"That is sufficient," said the boarding officer. "You can take up
your anchor now, understanding, of course, that you are to hold no
communication with the shore by boats after doing so. I am sorry
to have delayed you so long, but my duty must be done. I wish you
good-morning, and a pleasant voyage."
He had hardly landed at the pier, before our anchor was being bowsed up
to the cat-head with the roaring chorus of "Time for us to go!" and,
under our three topsails and jib, we were shooting out of our berth
and threading our way among the fleet of shipping. The pilot left us
when near "the Heads," and the long Pacific waves again tossed our
noble ship along with her cutwater pointed homeward. We were busied in
securing the anchors, and getting everything in sea trim generally,
and, with a fresh breeze on our quarter, we had run the coast of New
South Wales well into the dim distance before getting our meridian
observation.
"Mr. Grafton," said the captain, as he took his quadrant from the case,
"you may set the foretopmast-staysail. It will do some good with the
wind out here on the quarter."
"Ay, ay, sir," answered the mate. "Stand by to hoist the staysail,"
said he, as he came forward. "Jump out there, Kelly, and cast that stop
off."
The staysail had been furled ever since the night we let go our anchor
in Sydney, being stowed flat down on the netting, and stopped with a
short piece of small rope. Kelly had cast off the stop, and sung out
"Hoist away!" when he nearly lost his balance and fell overboard, as
the folds of the canvas opened before him, and a powerful, sun-browned
man, with hair and beard close shaven, leaped out on the bowsprit, and
stood staring into his astonished eyes.
"Hillo!" shouted the mate; "Who the devil is this boarding us over the
bows? Here, this way, you, sir! Where did you come from?"
The strange man had by this time jumped in on deck, and casting a
glance astern at the dim outline of the land melting in the horizon,
muttered:
"All right, he wont put back now to land me."
"That's the very man who was lurking round the Jolly Tar," said Ashton
to me, as he came aft with the mate.
"Who are you?" asked Captain Upton. "A convict, I suppose, or you
wouldn't be shaved and shingled so closely. Either an escaped convict,
or a deserter from the army. Are you the man they were searching for
this morning?"
The stranger folded his arms, and answered boldly:
"Yes, sir; I'm an escaped convict, as you call it, or as I should say,
a runaway lag. I am the very man they were looking for this morning. My
name is--never mind what it really is--I am best known as Galway Mike."
I observed that there was no Irish accent in his speech. The title by
which he was known was evidently a misnomer.
"And how long have you been stowed away in the staysail?"
"Since last night, sir;" he replied.
"Did any of my crew help you, or stow you away?"
"No, sir. No one of them knew I was there until now, and you would not
have known it till to-morrow, if you hadn't had occasion to hoist the
sail."
"And what do you expect me to do with you now?" asked the captain,
who was evidently impressed by the man's speech and bearing, and who
had that repugnance that all seamen feel to delivering up to justice
any man who has thrown himself on their protection. The certainty of a
hundred pounds reward, would not, probably, have tempted a man of the
ship's company to vote for putting back to land him, though none of us
really wanted him as a shipmate.
"You'll do what you please with me, of course," answered the convict,
coolly. "I don't care much what it is, so that you don't carry me back
to the chain-gang. I hope you won't do that, sir."
"No, I'm sure I shall not do that, with a forty miles offing, a strong
westerly wind, and homeward bound;" said the old man.
"Well, sir, I'm willing to do duty and act a man's part on board the
ship," said Galway Mike. "I'm not much of a sailor, but I've been a
short time at sea, and I'm strong and willing."
"But I don't want you;" replied the captain. "My crew list is full, and
I shall not carry you to America, for no one there would thank me for
it, if what is said of your past life is true."
"Never mind what is said of my past life, now, sir," he interposed; "I
shall neither confirm nor deny anything. What is to be done with me,
then?"
"I shall be obliged to land you somewhere in New Zealand, though I
suppose that amounts to nearly the same thing as carrying you back to
Sydney," said the old man, with a shade of regret.
"Not at all, sir," said Mike, "unless you put me directly into the
hands of the authorities. If you will land me so that I can have a few
hours start of them, they may whistle for me. I'm quite willing to take
my chance among the Maories."
"All right!" returned the captain, glad to be able to compromise with
his sympathies in this way. "I shall make the land in a few days, and
will set you ashore there somewhere. How did you get on board? by
swimming?"
"Yes, sir. I swam under the bows, and climbed up the chain cable."
"Well, I must say you showed good judgment in selecting a
hiding-place," said the captain, with a laugh. "What would you have
done if we had set the staysail when we first got under way?"
"I say nothing about what I would have done under circumstances that
did not occur," answered the man quietly. "I should have done all that
could be done. It's not the first runaway business that I've had to do
with."
"I presume not;" the captain replied, laughing again, for he was amused
at the stranger's oddity and perfect coolness. "Well, go forward and
tell the cook to give you some dinner with the rest, for you must be
sharp-set by this time. I will do as well as I can by you, but I must
get rid of you at New Zealand, anyhow."
"Thank you, sir!" answered Galway, as he passed forward among the crew.
"What do you think of him, Mr. Grafton?" said the old man.
"He's no Irishman. There's no Mike about him, nor Galway either," said
the mate. "My honest belief is, that he is an American, though how he
got out here as a transported convict I expect would be a long story.
It's useless to ask _him_ about it, that's evident."
"Quite so," answered the captain. "But, come, I have lost my latitude,
talking with him, and the steward is waiting dinner for us."