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[Illustration: Dromoora.]
BLACKS AND BUSHRANGERS
_ADVENTURES IN QUEENSLAND_
BY
E. B. KENNEDY
AUTHOR OF “FOUR YEARS IN QUEENSLAND,” ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY STANLEY BERKELEY_
[Illustration]
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON
_Limited_
St. Dunstan’s House
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1889
[_All rights reserved_]
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TO
W. R. K.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Dromoora _Frontispiece_
“He, by a quick movement, bitted the animal with the rope” 24
The Wreck of the _Young Austral_ 41
The “Corroboree” 63
Climbing for Honey 67
Mat throws the Tingura 112
Mat collars the Buckjumper 142
The death of Magan 211
PREFACE.
A few words concerning the following narrative may not be out of place.
Many years ago, and before the present township of Townsville, in
Northern Queensland, was thought of, I found myself wandering in the
neighbourhood of Mount Elliott, and also about the waters of the
Burdekin river, in latitude a little south of 19 degrees.
Whilst so engaged, looking for country suitable for stock, hunting,
&c., it was my privilege to make the acquaintance of one “Jimmy
Morrill,” and through him I enjoyed the unusual advantage of
intercourse with the perfectly wild blacks.
A word about Morrill.
Many years before my meeting with him, he had been wrecked upon the
northern coast of Queensland, and when I met him he had just left the
northern tribes who had protected and cared for him for seventeen
years; his own English language he had nearly forgotten, never having
seen a white man all that time.
At the end of that period, civilization, in the shape of a handful of
white men, had crept up to him, the sole survivor of the wreck, from
the southern districts.
From Morrill I heard of customs and ceremonies of the natives which no
other white man but himself had ever been permitted to witness.
One of these “rites” I have described in my story, it is called the
“Boorah” or “Boree.”
Therefore that part of the narrative referring to the native blacks
and their habits is absolutely founded upon fact, and the statements
made concerning them I will answer for.
I spent many months amongst the Queensland natives, and at a later
period, when Morrill had journeyed farther south, and had been induced
to publish a “Sketch of his residence among the Aborigines,” he gave
me a copy of his pamphlet, which I have retained, and from which I
have refreshed my memory.
I may mention that the adventure with the big cockle, or giant clam
shell, _Tridacna gigas_, was a fact; also that the account of the
walking fish, _Ceratodus forsteri_, is true.
I am indebted to the kindness of my friend, Dr. Günther, of the
British Museum, for the scientific names.
The buckjumper, “Satan the first,” was a notorious horse, the worst of
many which I saw ridden on a northern station in 1864.
In that portion of my story where the scene is laid in New South
Wales, the bushranger “Magan,” and his coat of mail will be recognized
by many old Colonials, who will remember the great excitement caused
by the cruel crimes of this monster, and the subsequently strange
manner by which his death was brought about.
In the hopes that this little work may amuse and interest the youth of
Great Britain, and also those of my Queensland friends who may come
across it, I now offer it to the public.
E. B. K.
CONTENTS.
——————
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
The New Forest—Sampson Stanley the gipsy—Mat and Tim—A New
Forest sportsman—Braken Lodge 1
CHAPTER II.
Squire Bell—Annie’s gift of a book—Shooting a New Forest
deer—Felony—Chased by a keeper—Capture—Escape—Fight with
a bloodhound 11
CHAPTER III.
Mat bids farewell to the Forest—The _Young Austral_—Tim and
Jumper on board 26
CHAPTER IV.
Life on board the _Young Austral_—The wreck—A swim for life—Safe
ashore 35
CHAPTER V.
The island—The gigantic cockle-shell—Amongst the blacks—The
_Corroboree_ 48
CHAPTER VI.
Wild honey—They find the wreck—The Thunderstick 65
CHAPTER VII.
Spearing geese—Killing ducks with boomerangs—Possum-hunting—How
to make fire—The tribe shift camp—The Boorah—Mat and Tim’s
journal 82
CHAPTER VIII.
Gold—Hostile natives—Flight by night—The great battle—Clubs—
Fists—New Forest wrestling—“Old Joe” 99
CHAPTER IX.
After the battle—Burial rites—The Waigonda wish to make chiefs of
the white men—Our “twins” leave with Dromoora and Terebare
for the south 118
CHAPTER X.
Burns’ station—The horse-breaker—Colonial “Blow”—Satan the
First—Mat “collars” the buckjumper 137
CHAPTER XI.
An official summons—Travelling in state—Brisbane—On board
ship again—Triumphal entry into Sydney—In a church again—The
lecture—Meeting old friends—Soft reflections 147
CHAPTER XII.
Tim starts for the Darling Downs—French as spoken by Mrs.
Bell—Parson Tabor—Leichardt’s grave—The French
“professor”—Mat unmasks the “professor” 165
CHAPTER XIII.
Tim’s unpleasant reception at Bulinda—The bushranger’s camp—The
robbery—Annie kidnapped—Tim’s good Samaritans 188
CHAPTER XIV.
Mat on the trail of the bushranger—Annie’s signal—Mat tracks the
bushranger to his lair—The cave—Our hero as the black
warrior once more—A fearful fight—Dromoora’s timely
cry—Annie’s rescue—Blissful moments 202
CHAPTER XV.
Magan’s armour—Safe at Bulinda Creek again—The professor’s last
lesson on the island—Mat and Tim once more together—Tim
convalescent 221
CHAPTER XVI.
The Squire’s offer—Tim decides to go home—Our heroine’s advice
to Mat—Our forester takes to gardening—The “new chum’s”
difficulties and troubles 231
CHAPTER XVII.
English Society _v._ Colonial—Music—The “new chum’s”
letter—“Two’s company and three’s none”—Unpleasant
reflections—Parson Tabor’s advice—Mrs. Bell shows that she
has a “down” on our hero—The “Spider”—The “new chum” proves
that he is “not such a fool as he looks”—Tim returns home 249
CHAPTER XVIII.
Our hero visits the old Waigonda country once more—The
overlanding—The Golden Gully—The last sight of Dromoora 274
CHAPTER XIX.
Bulinda Creek once more—Mat again asks Tabor’s advice—The parson
“on matrimony”—Annie’s little arbour 294
CHAPTER XX.
Back in the old Forest—Jumper’s last home—Return of our hero and
heroine for good and all to Bulinda Creek—Conclusion and
farewell 306
BLACKS AND BUSHRANGERS.
CHAPTER I.
The New Forest—Sampson Stanley the gipsy—Mat and Tim—A New Forest
sportsman—Braken Lodge.
About the year ’43 there had lived for a long period in the little
hamlet of Burley, in the New Forest, a clan of gipsies of the name
of Stanley. Sampson, the head of the tribe, had commenced life as
a knife-grinder, and by tramping the Forest summer and winter,
and plying his trade in the neighbouring parishes, had collected
sufficient funds to purchase a good van, an old horse, and some
donkeys.
He was also known, in the Forest phraseology, as a “terrible” good man
with an axe, and in those days of wooden ships there was plenty of
timber to be hewn.
So Sampson always found enough to do when he chose to exert himself,
but he infinitely preferred going out with the keepers after deer,
and these men were not sorry for his company, for he was a wonderful
tracker, and could follow up a wounded buck almost like a hound.
Though nearly fifty years of age, Sampson could still hold his own
at most of the sports that took place annually in the neighbourhood.
His fleetness of foot was remarkable, and though occasionally beaten
by younger men whilst racing, at wrestling he had never yet found his
match; and so good was he in his own county of Hampshire, that one or
two of the squires proposed to send him up to London to meet some of
the famous north-country men who gathered there once every year to
exhibit their prowess; but when they suggested this, Sampson remarked
that he was “afeard he shouldn’t do no credit to the money as they
proposed to lay out on him; reckoned he warn’t man enough for them
north-country folk, as knew tricks he’d never larnt, but that if any
of the zquires liked to get a chimpion down to t’vorest, he’d ’av a
turn with ’im.”
Sampson’s appearance denoted that of an athletic wild man of the woods.
Over six feet in height, straight as a spear, a spare figure with but
little flesh on him, the muscles of arms and legs showed prominently
through his buckskin jacket and breeches, whilst his dark brown eyes
gleamed out from under a rabbit-skin cap; eyes that took in everything
around him, and were only still when fixed with a steady gaze upon the
face of any one addressing him.
Such was Sampson, the gipsy, a man who spoke little, but thought much
upon matters connected with his means of livelihood.
Some years before this story opens Sampson had married the daughter
of one of the small forest “squatters,” a hard-working, merry-eyed
woman, who owned but little gipsy blood in her veins. She had not had
much “schooling” herself, but for this very reason determined to do
her best for the children born to her, and, with the help of an old
schoolmaster, these were taught to read and write, and learned the
elements of arithmetic.
At the period of which we write there was no church in the district
of Burley, but Sampson’s wife read to her children, though with
difficulty, every Sunday out of her Bible, and explained what she
read. She taught them to say their prayers at her knee before going
to bed in the great van. Her system was not to have the young ones’
heads crammed with much learning, but, following the advice of the old
schoolmaster, to “ground” them well.
Besides this careful supervision of her children, her gentle counsels
often influenced her husband, and other men of the tribe, for the
better, when sometimes they were inclined to challenge the forest
laws, or to throw away their money by “getting on the spree;” so that
the neighbours round about came to say of the tribe, “They’re a bit
‘sobererer’ since old Sampson married.”
Two sons were born to Sampson and his wife, twins—named “Mat” and
“Tim”—and a daughter.
It is with Mat that our story chiefly deals.
Always recognized as the eldest, and at this time still in his teens,
Mat Stanley closely resembled his father in many respects, and from
having accompanied him for some years on his various expeditions he
was intimately acquainted with the Forest, its woods and glades. No
one knew better than he the haunts of the deer and blackgame, and he
alone of all the Forest youths could climb the gigantic beeches of
“Vinney Ridge” to rob the herons’ nests.
Mat could also hold his own very fairly at both boxing and wrestling
with far bigger lads than himself.
Besides these achievements he made small sums now and again by
breaking-in forest colts, and otherwise helping the squatters with
their cattle. By nature he was always ready to help any one, who
through misfortune or physical cause was not able to help himself;
though possessed of a quick temper, he was never anxious to pick a
quarrel, but when one was forced upon him, ready to show of what
determined stuff he was made.
“Tim,” the brother, was of a more retiring disposition, by reason of
his health. His constitution not being so robust, and suffering as he
did sometimes acutely from rheumatism, he was not calculated either to
join in the active pursuits of Mat, or accompany him or his father
during their expeditions; but he stayed at the camp, where he proved
useful in helping his mother and others of his tribe in looking after
the animals and pitching tents, though when the proper season arrived
he took his share at cutting and “rinding” timber.
The sister, Ruth, also assisted her mother in cooking, washing, and
other details of camp life.
Having thus shortly described the family, we must not omit to
mention the guard of the camp, a long-legged, bob-tailed, powerful,
rough-coated lurcher, named “Jumper.”
As a pup he had been brought up to mind his master’s grinding-machine
and tools, and his chief duty he thoroughly understood from that time,
namely, never to allow a stranger to approach any property belonging
to the gipsies; moreover, he would fetch in the donkeys and horse
unaided, and on many occasions proved his speed by running down a
wounded deer.
Just previous to the time we are writing of, Mat had made the
acquaintance of a young stranger, who was shooting in the forest, and
this is how it came about.
Early one morning in the month of October, Mat was looking for a colt
which he had partly broken in, when his attention was arrested by a
shot immediately outside the enclosure he was searching. Ever alive
to the chance of sport, he ran through the intervening trees, and
discovered a young man dressed in a new and rather gaudy sporting
costume, who was engaged in searching a small bog with a setter.
Seeing Mat, the stranger accosted him somewhat imperiously with,—
“Come here, youngster, and find this snipe I’ve shot, look sharp.”
“Not till I’ve found a colt I’ve lost,” responded Mat, who did not
appreciate this off-hand command.
“Do you know who I am?” demanded the stranger, standing up.
“No, and don’t care; however, if you’ll speak civil, I’ll give you a
hand.”
And not waiting for further remarks, Mat vaulted over the rails of the
enclosure, and very soon pointed out the wing of the snipe protruding
from a puddle, into which the bird had been trodden by the foot of the
gunner.
“Now,” said the latter, pleased with this quick find, “will you beat
for me homewards to Lyndhurst?”
“I don’t mind,” answered the gipsy, “if you will come into this
enclosure first, and help me to find my colt.”
“Very well, as I’m a stranger in this forest, I shall be rather
curious to see how you find a pony in that thick wood.”
So they stepped in, and Mat went back to the spot where the animal had
effected an entrance over a broken part of the fence, saying,—
“This ’ere colt’s been lost for the best part of three days, and
I’m a bit upset about him, as he’s about as good a one as I’ve ever
handled.”
“Oh! then you’re a horse-breaker?” remarked the stranger.
“Yes, and employed finding lost cattle too, as I know t’vorest; I was
born not far from where we are now.”
Thus speaking, Mat took up the animal’s tracks, and strode swiftly
through the underwood, carrying a small axe in his hand. This tracking
was all new to the stranger, who could only admire the dexterity with
which his companion kept the trail, taking no heed of numerous other
tracks, which led off in various directions; these, as Mat explained
subsequently, belonging to ponies whose feet were shod.
The colt had pursued a very zigzag course in his efforts to find food
amongst the dry “sedge.”
In an hour’s time the searchers came to a deep dyke overgrown with
heather.
“I was afeard so,” muttered Mat, as he pointed to a spot where the
animal had fallen into the ditch, and a few hundred yards further on
they found the poor colt standing benumbed, with his coat all staring,
at the bottom of the drain.
By great efforts they induced him to walk along till the banks
became less steep, and here, with his axe, Mat levelled a bit of the
edge of the drain, cut down some saplings and furze, and so built a
temporary roadway, up which they managed at length to push and drag
the exhausted beast.
“Good work,” said the stranger, as he and Mat sat down for an instant
to recover their wind. “_This_ part of the business I understand, at
all events,” and taking a flask of brandy from his pocket, he poured
the contents down the throat of the colt.
They then made him up a bed of “sedge,” and cutting a quantity of the
best herbage they could find, placed it under his nose, and left him
lying comfortably down; Mat observing that he looked brighter, and
that he hoped “to get him home afore night.”
This incident occurred in Boldre Wood, and as the day was getting on,
the stranger said,—
“Take a straight line to Lyndhurst, and we’ll get something to eat and
then go out again.”
Mat acquiesced, and, leading the way through Mark Ash, brought his new
acquaintance in an hour’s time to Braken Lodge, outside Lyndhurst.
It is now time to introduce the stranger.
His name was “Stephen Burns.”
Three months only had elapsed since he was pursuing his studies,
or rather, perhaps, his sporting instincts, at Oxford, when he was
suddenly summoned home to Braken Lodge, the paternal seat.
His father had long been ailing, but the end came suddenly, and
Stephen was only just in time to see him before he died, and to find
himself an orphan, having lost his mother during his infancy, and
alone in the world, at all events the civilized world, for his only
relative, an elder brother, had emigrated to Australia some years
previous to this.
Braken Lodge he hardly looked upon as home, for he had left it early
for a preparatory school, and his father, whose sole aim and interest
in life consisted of betting and racing, was rather relieved to get
his two sons comfortably disposed of, that he might the better indulge
his favourite pursuits, which he continued until he left the estate
heavily mortgaged, as Stephen found when he returned to the Forest.
When Burns arrived at the lodge, piloted by Mat, he showed the latter
into a dilapidated smoking-room, where he told him to make himself at
home, whilst he sought the housekeeper, and bidding her take in some
refreshments, followed her into the room, then seating himself, he
prepared to learn more of the independent young Forester. With that
end in view, he remarked, “We have not much time to spare, either for
eating or talking, but, by-the-bye, what’s your name, and where do you
live?”
“My name’s Mat Stanley,” was the answer, “and we’re camped down to
Wootton.”
“Oh! gipsies, that’s a free life, any way.”
“Yes, pretty well, but I zeem to want a freer one.”
“More liberty than gipsies have?” returned Burns, “why, how do you
mean?”
“Do you know Squire Bell?” continued Mat. “No? well, he lives t’other
zide of Wootton, been all his life forrin—in Australia—and he says
as I should get on there well. He gave me two books, which I carries
about with me, they’re all about Australia, and I know ’em pretty nigh
by heart. I’ve had the whole run of his library and museum, and bin
over ’em times without number. And Joe Broomfield, that’s he as the
colt belongs to, he’s got a brother out there whot’s getting 1_l._ for
every colt as he breaks in, and plenty of grub found him besides. Fact
is, I’d like to go out if I had the money.”
The subject evidently appeared to excite the otherwise taciturn gipsy,
and kindled a certain amount of enthusiasm in Burns, who, however,
responded,—
“What, go and leave all your tribe, and live in the Bush amongst black
fellows?”
“Oh! I don’t mind leaving my tribe, I might zee ’em again some day,
and then they’re a-going to make new laws here, and not let gipsies
camp in one place more’n a few days together. I’d like to get away,
and the squire he says I _shall_, only I want to work a bit of money
together first to pay my passage out.”