LIFE IN THE BLUE MOUNTAINS—DEATH OF COMMODORE GOODENOUGH—LIFE
IN THE BUSH.
FROM A TINY COTTAGE AT THE WEATHERBOARD IN THE
BLUE MOUNTAINS, NEW SOUTH WALES, Begun _Aug. 19, 1875_.
You see I have contrived to escape from the region of fine clothes and
prolonged meals! Oh dear, what a trial it is to be invited to luncheon at
some lovely place, where you go expecting a pleasant day out of doors,
and find an immense party assembled for a stiff dinner of many courses,
which takes nearly the whole afternoon! The donors of the feast console
themselves by a quiet evening stroll and late tea; but the poor guest has
to return to undergo a second long dinner as usual. Nevertheless I have
had many delightful days in the neighbourhood of Sydney.
You have no notion what a size the harbour is, and how immense is the
amount of shipping always coming and going! Great ships, and steamboats,
and yachts, and tiny steam-launches,—sometimes I have counted eighteen
or twenty steamers in sight at once. And then the out-of-the-way creeks
are numberless. I think we have explored at least a score, sketching
and picnicing, and I flatter myself I know the beauties of the harbour
as well as the oldest Sydneyite. I learnt a good deal about it during a
most enjoyable fortnight I spent with the Wentworths, whose lovely home,
Greycliff, is close to the water, near the Heads, which are grand crags
guarding the entrance, about six miles from the town. The Wentworths and
Coopers own all the prettiest places thereabouts. We were out almost
every day from morning till night, the boatmen making a fire and cooking
our dinner in regular bush fashion,—fish just caught, potatoes and chops,
&c.; and always bush tea, boiled with milk in a kettle,—and very good
it is under the circumstances, though I do not advise you to adopt the
fashion. Steaming a snapper is the summit of culinary art—a snapper
being a large fish, which is cooked (cut up) with potatoes and scraps of
bacon and onion. I confess I prefer the various small fish fried. One
of the boatmen is Joe, a most jocular old black from Cape de Verd; the
other, Jamie Lee, a true gipsy. Of course kindred spirits fraternised at
once, and when he found I could pull a pretty strong oar, the conquest
was complete! So we had days of gipsying and evenings of melody, Mrs
Wentworth’s sister being one of the most perfect musicians I ever met. I
have also spent some pleasant days with the Morts, whose lovely house,
Greenoakes, is built as a dream of Alton Towers,—all gables outside, and
good old carved oak inside. And such a garden of camellias, pink, red,
and white—great trees of them! Amongst other things, Mr Mort owns one of
the principal docks here, and an iron foundry; also a great dairy-farm on
the coast, with 500 cows, all in milk! But his all-engrossing interest
is a great freezing establishment for conveying meat to England. He has
it killed in the mountains, brought to Sydney in iced trucks, and there
received into genuine arctic regions, into which you descend shivering,
and see innumerable carcases, all frozen as hard as stone. These are
to be conveyed, frozen, to England, about 200 tons at a time. It is a
gigantic experiment, on which Mr Mort has already sunk nearly £100,000.
Everything about it is on new principles, and it is now _all but_ in
working order. It has been the labour of years, and is now just about to
see daylight.
You perceive my writing is shaky. I am in the train, returning to Sydney,
whirling past orange orchards, and endless dull bush, all of gum-trees.
But everywhere there is an undergrowth of lovely bush flowers; and here
and there, from the crevices of the rock, there hangs a veil of creamy
blossom,— I think they are rock-lilies; and there are some scarlet
lilies, like crowns of fire; and strange blossoms of the _waratau_,
which I cannot describe, because it is so utterly unlike anything you
ever saw,—something between a scarlet dahlia and an artichoke. But the
glory of the bush is the feathery mimosa, which takes the place of
our broom, and is covered with sheets of fragrant gold. There is also
a lovely creeper (here they would say _vine_), with masses of lilac
blossom—the Kennedia—which climbs the mimosas, and droops in richest
trails of bright purply red. You can best realise the effect by picturing
a bough of lilac wistaria overhanging a golden laburnum. Even the dull
gum-trees, the eucalypti, become beautiful when covered with delicate
yellowish blossoms. The sheep-farmers glory in the dreary tracts of land,
the monotony of which is not varied by one gay flower. Happily the bush
revels in colour, and I find upwards of fifteen totally different sorts
of epacris—crimson, white, pink, and yellow. I call them heaths, but I am
rebuked for so doing. Some are so fragrant that they scent the air like
honey. But when I revel in wild flowers every one says, Oh, wait till you
see the bush a month hence! It will be one carpet of many colours.
I must account for being so much away from Lady Gordon. Captain and Mrs
Havelock have now joined us, and they were old friends in Mauritius.
Latterly Captain H. has been acting as Governor of Seychelles, but Sir
Arthur requested that he should be appointed to Fiji, where, I believe,
he is to act as treasurer. Mrs Havelock shares Lady Gordon’s taste for
remaining quietly at home with the children, so they stay together at
Sydney, while I do the sight-seeing. Mrs Havelock has one little girl,
Rachel, Lady Gordon’s god-child,—such a quaint, nice, tiny child, whom
Jack and Nevil regard as an interesting doll, requiring great care. They
are the very nicest little couple possible,—coaxy, loving little things,
and most picturesque. They are quite inseparable, and Lady Gordon has
never left them for one night. Sir William and Lady Hackett have also
arrived from Penang. He is to be judge in Fiji. Mr Maudslay, whom we
met at Brisbane, has also joined our party. He is to be Sir Arthur’s
extra secretary, and if he finds the country suits him, will perhaps get
permanent work in the Isles. He is devoted to botany, natural history,
and kindred subjects of interest. Mr Maudslay and another gentleman
escorted me to the Blue Mountains last week, where we put up at a very
cosy inn and expeditionised. The gorges with great cliffs are very
fine, and the valleys densely wooded. Sometimes we went down into deep
gullies with tree-ferns far above our heads—very beautiful. When my two
companions had to return to Sydney, I went to the tiny cottage where I
began this letter. My host was a wood-cutter, with a clean, tidy wife,
and a number of very neat children. Such nice people! More independent
and outspoken and self-respecting than English of the same class; and the
children are all so well brought up. I had spent a long day alone on the
verge of a gorge edged with great precipices, and was walking home calmly
in the clear moonlight, when I perceived a small regiment coming to meet
me. These were all the sturdy youngsters, in age ranging from five to
ten, coming in search of my remains! The lion and the mice! They escorted
me home cheerily, chatting right out on all subjects! It does seem odd
to think of my being so at home, alone in these wild mountains, sitting
all day by myself, miles from any human habitation, only seeing a pair of
great eagles soaring overhead—no other living thing.
* * * * *
_August 29, 1875._
The mails brought letters from you and your mother—both most welcome.
But alas! my pleasure in receiving them was marred by terrible tidings,
which reached us at the same moment, of a most horrible tragedy (of which
you must have heard ere now)—namely, the treacherous murder of Commodore
Goodenough, who, as you know, was the one to welcome me on my arrival in
Sydney, and to give me house-room for the first fortnight of our stay.
One of the sunniest-hearted, most genial men I ever met, universally
popular, and justly loved by all under his command. He was quite out of
the common,—clever, the noblest type of an English naval officer, and
as good as good could be. I mean, thoroughly religious,—the religion of
a life showing itself in such care for his men, and for whatever could
advance Christianity in the Isles, where he was constantly cruising
about, and of which his knowledge was very great. Personally, he had
endeared himself to us all as a genuine good friend. His last cruise was
to take Sir Arthur to Fiji, where he was present at his installation,
when King Thakombau formally made personal submission to him as the
Queen’s representative. After this the Commodore took Sir Arthur in the
Pearl to various Fijian isles; and then, dropping him, went off to look
up some other groups. And I particularly want to impress upon you that
these groups are as distinct as Russia, England, and India; and that the
people of one may be incarnate devils, while the next are positively
dove-like. Our Christianised Fijians are of the latter sort. But alas!
the Commodore’s cruise was to Santa Cruz—the same group in which, in
1871, Bishop Patteson was murdered. (I suppose you have read that most
touching story.) Those islanders have always been difficult to deal
with, not understanding good white men, and ready to avenge on them the
kidnapping practised by the scum who haunt these seas in the labour
traffic. So on this occasion the Commodore, as usual, landed unarmed,
and went among the natives in friendly conversation, as he had done on
a previous visit. Something unusual in their manner struck him, and he
proposed a retreat to the boat, when suddenly, without a moment’s notice,
one of them deliberately shot him with an arrow, which pierced his side.
He was able to walk to the boat; but a second arrow struck him in the
head, and four of his young sailors were wounded. Even then, with what
seemed mistaken kindness, he would not allow any bloodshed in revenge,
but made his men fire blank-cartridge to frighten away the people, and
then set fire to their wretched huts as a sufficient punishment. Well,
at first, none of the wounds were considered dangerous, but, as almost
invariably happens in that climate, after a few days _tetanus_ (_i.e._,
lock-jaw) set in, which means certain death in torture. The Commodore
lingered eight days. When he found he could not recover, he called each
of his officers in turn, and kissed them, and said good-bye. Then he made
them carry him on to the quarter-deck, where he said good-bye to all his
men, and prayed for them. Then came the bitter end. One young sailor died
just before him; another next day. All this time the Pearl was sailing
southward to get cooler climate for the sufferers, and so it came to
pass that they were within two days’ sail of Sydney when, on Friday, his
spirit passed away. On Monday the Pearl, with her ensign half mast, and
yard-arms topped on end,[5] in token of her burden of sorrow, re-entered
the harbour, and the terrible news spread like wildfire. I think some
blessed angel must have whispered the truth to poor Mrs Goodenough,
for she positively _knew_ the moment the Government House orderly came
to summon her cousin, Mr Stanley of Alderley, whose departure had
providentially been delayed. The only word he had to utter was “Santa
Cruz.” That afternoon she was able to go on board and sit for three hours
beside him (in the little cabin where they had spent so many happy hours,
and where they always spent most of Sunday, going on board for service
with the men). That was the one great comfort. On Wednesday she was able
to follow him to the grave, with her two little sons. It was an immense
public funeral. All the sailors, marines, naval reserve, training-ship,
N.S.W. artillery, all public men, and thousands of citizens attended. His
coffin was on one gun-carriage; those of the two sailors on another. They
were laid on either side of him. He was only forty-four, and they were
each about twenty years of age....
I don’t suppose you can fully realise how _home_ this comes to us all.
We have been so much thrown together, and we expected the Commodore
to be so valuable an ally for Sir Arthur. To him the loss is not only
that of a reliable friend, but literally of a right hand. And it is so
disheartening that this second terrible shadow should overcloud the
beginning of his work. It was bad enough before, when the awful scourge
of measles was sweeping over the Isles, which literally carried off
one-fourth of the whole population, marking the beginning of British
rule for ever as a time of misery. You see my surroundings have become
of awful earnest, instead of the merry little joke which I thought I
was taking up in coming to Fiji. Not that I regret having come. On the
contrary, I only rejoice to think that about ten days hence, if all
is well, we shall be on our way there. A company of Royal Engineers
are expected by the Whampoa in a few days, and as soon as they arrive,
the Egmont is to take them and us to Fiji. I am glad to hear they are
commanded by our old friend Colonel Pratt.
I will write again in a few days.
* * * * *
DUNTROON, NEAR THE MURRUMBIDGEE HILLS, N.S. WALES, _Sept. 2_.
DEAR EISA,—Here I am really in the Australian bush, though I find it
hard to reconcile the term with living in a fine large house, with every
appliance of the most advanced civilisation. I can assure you we were
glad to find such comfort at the end of a long and very cold journey.
The last detachment of our Fijian party started about three weeks
ago—namely, the Havelocks and Sir William and Lady Hackett. Since their
departure, Lady Gordon and the children have been living at Government
House with the Robinsons; and Mr Maudslay and I have improved our time,
first by exploring the Blue Mountains, where there is some grand scenery;
and then we joined the Bishop of Grafton and Armadale and Mr Turner, and
we came about two hundred miles, half by rail and half posting, to this
place to see a true station. It is the property of the sole descendants
of the old Campbells of Duntroon, on the Crinan Canal—most hospitable
Scots. There are about 30,000 sheep, 500 horses, and 1000 head of cattle
on the station; a most comfortable house, and everything most luxurious;
lots of horses for riding or driving; and I am getting over my belief
that all Australian horses are buck-jumpers. Yesterday we had a great
picnic to a waterfall eighteen miles off. I drove there, sketched, and
rode back over fine grassy country. It was characteristic; for, as we
went along, we picked up recruits till we numbered in all seventeen
riders—the brake with four horses, a dogcart, a buggie, and a cart. As
to roads, no one here thinks of them. Without the slightest hesitation
about springs, the brake and four will turn off into the bush, drive
in and out among the trees, grazing the old stumps which stick up in
every direction, and the felled or half-burnt timbers with which the
ground is everywhere strewn, dodging morasses, and choosing the easiest
bits of creeks (where you think you _must_ overturn), through fords,
&c., &c., for mile after mile. In short, I shall never again believe in
the possibility of breaking springs; for all carriages out here do the
same thing, and they are all English built. An English coachman would
utterly refuse to take the same carriage over a cart-road. A good deal
of the country here is open, rolling downs, which afford very pleasant
riding—miles and miles without a fence. We have just been to a ploughing
match, at which the chief noteworthy fact was seeing all the farm lasses
riding. Every lass has her pony; and a good many household servants
arrive at their new situation on their own horse, just turn it out in
their master’s paddock, and catch and saddle it whenever they want to
ride to the town. (This is necessary for fords rather than distance.)
The country is moderately pretty; but the weather is so bitterly cold
that I have been driven in almost every time I have tried to get a
sketch, generally by sleet, one day by downright snow. Doesn’t that
sound strange to you, who are basking on heathery hills? One great charm
of the bush here lies in the multitude of lovely cockatoos of every
conceivable colour, especially pure white ones with lemon-coloured
crests, or pearly-grey, “trimmed” with delicate pink. Some are very dark
and handsome; and the green parrots are legion. The gentlemen have shot
several, and given us their plumes. They have also shot several small
bears,—most harmless little beasts.
Sir Arthur writes to Lady Gordon that the house he found ready at Nasova
is very tolerable, and that he has begun to build the new rooms, so we
hope to find our Fiji home ready when we arrive. Good-bye.