Gold—Hostile natives—Flight by night—The great
battle—Clubs—Fists—New Forest wrestling—“Old Joe.”
Though our foresters were looked upon and treated as brothers by
the Waigonda tribe, signs were not wanting to show that some of the
neighbouring blacks, who had been present at the Boorah, were envious
of their position, and of the goods which they possessed, and an
incident happened before long to prove this in an unpleasant way.
The brothers had gone on a distant hunting expedition by themselves;
they eventually reached a country of dry gullies which they knew of
old. Resting after their long march, Tim happened to scrape in the
sand for water under the roots of a tree, when he suddenly called to
his brother with a startled exclamation.
“What’s up?” answered Mat, running up, thinking he had been bitten by
a snake.
“Look here, if this ain’t gold, I never saw a sovereign!” cried Tim,
as he displayed a water-worn piece of the precious metal.
Mat could hardly believe his eyes, and whilst yet examining the
nugget, Tim brought forth another from under the bank of the dried-up
watercourse in which he was standing.
Both brothers now fell to with pointed stakes to dig in the sand,
and, before another hour had passed, had unearthed several nuggets of
various sizes.
At length this “pocket” of treasure ceased, and their digging-sticks
came on to hard rock, which, at length, laying bare and following up
the creek, they discovered was milky white, with distinct veins of
gold running through it.
“Why, the gully is full of gold! our fortune’s made!” panted Tim, as
he sat down to rest, and surveyed the beautiful rock beneath him.
“So it might be if we were away from here, Tim; as it is, it’s not so
much use to us as if ’twas a lot of lead; all the same, we’ll take the
bearings of the gully, and as it’s late, and we’ve lost the best of
the day digging, we’ll camp to-night with the Tinguras, they seemed
friendly enough with the Waigondas, though Dromoora says they’re
thieves.”
The brothers marked the trees slightly, took up their spoils, and
moved away from the “golden valley,” as they christened the spot, and
by sundown were at the camp in question, which they intended to make
their headquarters for a few days.
Upon arriving they showed the blacks one of the nuggets they had
found, but these merely remarked that such “stones” had often been
found by them, and that they were of no use.
It struck them that this tribe did not receive them very cordially
upon this occasion, for they made uncalled-for remarks, said there was
no food in the camp for strangers, never showed them where they might
sleep, and behaved generally in a rough and uncouth manner.
However, this behaviour did not trouble our lads, they merely took the
precaution to load their gun that night; this weapon, together with
ammunition, being their constant companion, when away from home.
Next evening the brothers were engaged a few yards from their
sleeping-quarters, when a black fellow took the opportunity to steal
up, with the intention of taking the gun, which was lying under
their ’possum rug, not having the respect for that weapon which the
Waigondas had, but coveting it on account of the beautiful engravings
upon the locks. Jumper had always considered the weapon as under his
especial charge, and no sooner had the black stretched out his arm to
take it than his wrist was seized in the dog’s powerful grip.
Howling and yelling, the native tried to shake off the dog, but
Jumper, who owed more than one grudge for insults put upon him by
black skins, took this opportunity to make his teeth meet in the bony
wrist, nor would he let go, until another black fellow, coming to the
rescue, hit him a violent blow on the head with his club.
Mat and Tim hurrying up at the uproar which ensued, found their
faithful dog lying half stunned and bleeding on the ground, whilst
the blacks were “jabbering” together in angry knots about the camp,
casting fierce glances towards them, and handling their weapons in a
menacing manner.
Before he appeared in view Mat distinctly caught the words, “Kill all
three.”
Upon seeing that the white men were calmly sitting down with their
gun, the natives, who had heard some rumours of the death-dealing
powers of the “Teegoora,” appeared to quiet down, and retired in a
body, discussing matters in an undertone.
But the brothers had lived long enough amongst these tribes to know
them and their ways, and turning to his brother, Mat said, in a quiet
tone, “They mean murder to-night.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” was Tim’s reply, as he attended to
the dog’s wound. “We’ll clear out.”
So directly it was dark enough to slip away unobserved, the brothers,
carrying gun and Jumper, glided silently out of the camp, and, taking
a “bee line” for the Waigonda country, never paused from a long,
slinging trot, until they drew up at midnight at a water-hole.
“It’s _something_ to know how to work yer way in the dark,” said Mat,
as he put down the dog.
The fact was that the brothers were as good bushmen as the blacks, and
in one respect even better, in that they were accustomed to travel at
night whenever there was any reason to do so, whereas the blacks had a
great horror of moving after dark.
Mat and Tim had hit off the very pool of water which they had intended
to, and now meant to take a rest, eat something, and bathe the dog’s
head.
They felt, now that they were so far safe, that a whole night’s start
would enable them to reach the country of their friends before the
Tinguras could overtake them.
The rest refreshed them all, more especially Jumper. The brothers had
carried him, up to this point, by turns, but when they started again
they found that he could follow fast enough to keep up with them.
Thus the little party of fugitives continued through the night, going
at a more leisurely pace during the greater part of the next day, and
towards evening had gained the new camp which their Waigonda friends
had formed.
No sooner were the brothers in sight than their friends turned out
with shouts of joy to receive them; but upon hearing the reason of
their sudden appearance—for they had not expected them for some days
later—they looked grave, and without more ado hastily summoned a
council of war, for they told Mat that the black which had been bitten
by Jumper was the chief of the tribe, a revengeful brute, who would
be sure to come, with all his fighting-men, after them, and that, so
far, it was lucky they had got into camp when they did.
“And they _will_ come,” said Dromoora, after he had commanded silence.
“We must fight, and we shall be glad to fight them; but you white men
must kill with the ‘thunder-stick,’ for they number two to our one.”
So the brothers consulted together, and resolved to do as the chief
had requested, and use the gun, but only at the last moment, their
intention being to fight the enemy fairly with their own wooden
weapons, in the use of which they were proficient. But they resolved
that if they saw that the Waigondas were driven back, and that the day
was almost lost, then and only _then_, at the chief’s command, would
they show the power of “Teegoora.”
So they informed the chief and his warriors of their decision, adding
that the “thunder-stick” was already prepared to strike and kill.
At this news the blacks expressed their deep sense of gratitude with
many guttural exclamations, and hoped, they said, that the white men
would “thunder” all the enemy dead, for that this tribe had often
molested them, and had even stolen their women.
Mat replied to these remarks by requesting his friends to give him
all the lead which they had kept after stripping it from the wreck.
This they joyfully agreed to do; and the brothers went away to cut
up slugs, and see that “Old Joe” was prepared to back them up at a
critical moment.
Whilst thus employed, Dromoora informed them that he and his wife
would have the honour of decorating them for the battle.
Scouts had already been sent out to bring in all stragglers, whilst
the men and women in camp were busily engaged in trimming up spears
and other weapons, and preparing food and filling many gourds with
water.
The brothers soon cut up a goodly heap of slugs, divided their one
canister of powder into exact loads, and freshly chipped the flints of
“Old Joe.” They had now reason to congratulate themselves that they
had never wasted this powder, and that, besides that, they could rely
upon its strength, having often tested its fitness.
By nightfall all preparations were completed to give the enemy a warm
reception.
None of the scouts had reported the appearance of any of them yet; and
as three sentries were to be on the alert all night, Dromoora said
that they might sleep in camp tranquilly, for that no attack would
take place before early dawn.
Besides carefully arming themselves, Mat and Tim had, with the help
of the natives, prepared a cunningly-devised trap, in the shape of
concealed kangaroo nets, the use of which we shall see further on.
In one respect Mat’s nature was a peculiar one, or, as _he_ thought,
peculiar to himself _only_; and this was, that he would shake like
a leaf when _waiting_ for a foe. It had always been the same. Once,
when a boy, a burly lad had tripped him up purposely on the ice. Mat
walked to the bank of the pond, took off his coat, and told the bully
to “come on.” But the bigger boy had walked away, having forgotten the
circumstance. Mat still remained, sending a messenger to say he was
ready. When this was known, a crowd of his companions collected around
to see the fun. The other lad was a long time coming, and it was
noticed, to the astonishment of all, that, during the whole time of
this “waiting,” Mat was trembling in every limb. But the village lads
better understood their mate when, a few minutes later, after half a
dozen rounds, they saw his antagonist lying, stunned and bleeding,
on the ice, having been knocked clean off the bank by one of Mat’s
terrific “facers.”
So it was on this eventful night before the great battle. Mat said to
his brother, “It’s no good, I can’t sleep; feel just as I did before
the bloodhound came at me.” And in fact he passed most of the night
pacing, with short, quick steps, amongst the fires.
The sun had scarcely risen next morning when two of the scouts came
rushing into camp to say that the hostile tribe was coming in full
war-paint, singing their war-chant, and that they might be expected by
the time that the sun was high in the heavens; further, that there
were no women with them, and only a couple of lads accompanied the
warriors.
Dromoora, on hearing this, ordered all the women and children to
disappear and hide in the scrub, and at the same time asked our
foresters to accompany them, “for,” said he, “if you are killed, we
cannot use the ‘thunder-stick,’ as you only know its secret; besides,
they will all try to kill _you_ first.”
Then up spoke Mat,—
“We will not obey you in this, Dromoora; I and my brother will be in
the front rank fighting the enemy, with wooden weapons; if we are all
driven in, we will retreat to the gun, and when you give the order,
but not before, we will make it speak. If we are _both_ killed, which
is not very likely, you will save the thunder-stick, and our books,
and fly with them to the white man.”
This speech was received with grunts of satisfaction; and the chief
answered in the name of the rest,—
“So be it. We have taught you how to use our own weapons; you are
brave men; when I call the word ‘Teegoora,’ but not before, give forth
the death-dealing noise, it will end the fight.”
Terebare and other of the women, before retiring to their
hiding-places, proceeded to decorate the white men, under the eyes of
the chief. When this was completed, Tim very truthfully remarked,—
“That their own mother would never know them.”
In truth our foresters, both men of splendid physique, presented a
noble, and at the same time somewhat strange appearance.
At this period they were only a shade lighter in colour than their
black brethren; their hair had been cut moderately close to their
heads, by means of tomahawks, and now it was adorned with heavy plumes
of the black and scarlet feathers of the parrot; beards black, and
reaching down over their chests; bodies painted with white, yellow,
and red ochre, in all sorts of grotesque patterns; their appearance
was calculated to inspire awe even amongst the natives themselves;
whilst, to complete their terrible appearance, Terebare insisted on
tying to the forehead of each one of the damaged old books saved from
the wreck, in such a manner that at each movement the leaves opened
and shut.
The natives gathered round the brothers when their toilet was
completed, and could not forbear a shout, and even a short corroboree
for the occasion.
This, however, only lasted a few seconds, for the enemy were now
reported as being near, and every warrior at once got into position.
But long before the hostile band appeared one of their youths, as
forerunner, hailed a Waigonda scout, and signified that he wished to
speak.
Dromoora sent a young man to ask him what he wanted, and this was the
answer brought back,—
“We, the tribe of Tingura, have come openly, not creeping in upon you,
and we intend to kill you all if you do not give up the white men,
their dog, and the white men’s stick.”
“Tell the messenger,” bellowed the enraged Waigonda chief, as soon as
he could get over this audacious threat, “that neither white men nor
stick will be given up—that the Tingura may prepare to lay their bones
here; that we shall take all their women, and that we have long wished
to see how the cowardly, thieving dingoes will fight.”
When Dromoora’s message was conveyed to the enemy, who were now quite
close, tremendous yells, mingled with derisive cries could be heard,
accompanied by the thunder of rushing feet, and the next moment, as it
seemed, a whole flight of boomerangs entered the camp.
These were dodged or warded off by the yelamans (or shields), and
Dromoora and his warriors rushed forth to meet the foe, and with clubs
and spears the battle commenced in earnest.
For the first few minutes Mat and Tim had their attention entirely
engaged in warding off or dodging the numerous blows aimed at them,
and whilst so engaged had not received a scratch, though more than one
assailant had felt the power of their arms.
At the very first onset, by sheer weight of numbers, the friendlies
were driven temporarily back a few steps, when Mat, who towered
above most of his assailants, caught sight of a stoutly-built black
fellow, wearing an enormous head-dress of emu feathers, fighting his
way through friends and foes to get at him. At the same moment he
recognized Tim’s voice, roaring out in English above the awful din,—
“Look out! the devil who the dog bit.”
And he it was, sure enough, with his wrist bound up with some animal’s
skin, and with fury gleaming out of his deep-set eyes.
The man got close enough to Mat to hurl two heavy spears at him; but
our forester was now in his element. Never taking his steady eye off
that of his adversary, he received the first spear on his shield, and
the second, which followed instantaneously, he escaped by springing
high into the air.
Recognizing the fact that two great braves had met to fight to the
death, friends and foes in the immediate vicinity suspended their
struggles for the moment, to watch the combatants.
After, as we have seen, escaping the spears, Mat rushed upon his
opponent before he could raise his club, and, profiting by a lesson
which he had learnt at home, namely, the use of his fists, he dropped
his shield, and at the same moment feinted with his left. These
tactics, evidently new to the black fellow, somewhat disconcerted him,
and for one instant he was irresolute; that moment proved fatal to
him, for Mat brought down his club with terrific force on the mass of
plumes.
Down went the Tingura chief half stunned, but the thick, stiff
feathers of the emu had deadened the force of the blow, and he was
up and on his feet again, club in hand, but before he could raise the
weapon Mat repeated the blow behind his ear, driving in his skull.
On seeing the chief fall to rise no more, the friendlies gave a loud
shout, whilst the enemy yelled with rage, and the fight waxed fiercer
than ever.
Mat was well aware that there was a concerted effort to kill him at
any price. Yet for the moment, having seen the power of his arm, and
never having thought that the white men could fight them with their
own weapons, the enemy held aloof, until, amidst loud Tingura cries,
another warrior advanced upon him. At the same moment, in an effort to
defend himself from a side blow, Mat’s club was dashed from him.
Our forester was now unarmed, but to the astonishment of his enemies
and admiration of his friends, this fact seemed not to discourage him
in the very least.
Striking out right and left with his fists, he felled a couple of his
immediate opponents, with a bound was over their prostrate forms, and
had this fresh warrior in his grasp, when, wrenching his club from him
as he seized him, but disdaining to use it, he threw it high overhead
to where he judged his Waigonda friends would be.
It now became a question of brute force between the white man and the
black, the advantage being slightly on the side of Mat as a wrestler.
Had the native been brought up in the same school as our forester, the
issue would have been doubtful as to which would have come off the
victor; for two finer proportioned men it would have been difficult to
find.
Although the battle was raging before and behind them, again were the
two combatants left to themselves for the time being. Mat had seized
his man by the wrist in disarming him, but at once found that the
black could twist this wrist round and round like an eel, no matter
how firmly he grasped it; the thin muscular arm was too slippery to
hold _still_. So, changing his tactics as the fellow “screwed” away
from him, Mat let go suddenly, got a partial grip round his loins, and
for a brief moment held him as in a vice; but a sudden wrench, and
again Mat’s hands partially slipped. Owing to this final exertion the
Tingura fell, dragging Mat with him. There they rolled together in the
thick dust, locked in a deadly embrace; but the black, not relishing
this kind of fighting, by a violent effort was on his legs again, yet
still in the partial embrace of our forester.
Thus for an instant stood the two gladiators, with quivering limbs,
their muscles standing out like cords ready to burst, when Mat got
a full grip, this time round the loins of the Tingura, and with one
tremendous heave, aided by his knee, threw him completely over his
shoulder, and left him, stunned and bleeding, a good three yards
behind him.
[Illustration: Mat throws the Tingura.]
The chief cause of Mat being at length able to give his man this
deadly fall was the fact that when they rolled together on the ground
he was enabled to secure a handful of _grit_, and thus secure a firm
grip of the black’s skin. He had never before attempted to _hold_ a
black fellow, and he now realized that when he tried to, there was a
natural sort of grease in the native skin which prevented him. He had
thus, during the struggle, been watching for an opportunity to grab
some sand; an effort which we have seen he succeeded in.
Our forester was now pretty well exhausted, and had it not been that
the Waigonda formed round him, and covered his retreat towards the
“thunder-stick,” he must have been either struck down or made prisoner.
Tim, meantime, with Dromoora and the rest of the tribe, had been
bravely fighting against overwhelming odds. They were being driven
slowly but surely back to the point at which they had previously
determined to make their final stand, but it looked as though they
could not be forced to reach it, so stubborn was their defence.
Thinking by means of a bold dash to finish the battle, the Tingura
made a rush, and Tim found himself separated from his tribe.
One assailant, who rushed at him with a “waddy,” he knocked down
with his right fist, receiving the intended blow from the club on
his shield. Whilst still staggering from the shock of this, another
native hit him a crushing blow on the ribs, which knocked Tim down.
The black was in the act of raising his club again to give him a
finishing blow on the head when a yellow form seemed to spring out
of the long grass, hurl itself on to the native’s back, and by sheer
weight bear him to the earth, and there fix its teeth firmly in his
throat. Mat, having been a witness of this act, rushed to the spot,
and shouting, “Cheer up, Tim, I’ll put this brute out of his misery,”
finished the Tingura by a blow on the head, which, seeing that Jumper
had torn the savage’s throat open, was the most humane act to perform.
But though fortune had so far befriended the brothers, yet she had
not altogether acted in like manner with Dromoora and the rest of his
tribe.
The Tinguras were so enraged at the unexpected opposition, that with a
savage yell the only surviving chief gathered his men round him, and
determined to annihilate the Waigondas by their still overpowering
numbers.
They had succeeded in driving Dromoora and all his fighting-men into
the timber, where “throwing weapons” were of no avail, so that each
side relied on their clubs only.
Many fell at this spot, both friends and foes. Blows were given and
received which would have rendered any white man _hors de combat_; not
so these wild men. During this last struggle Mat saw more than one
knocked down apparently dead, and the next instant this man would be
on his legs again, fighting more fiercely than ever.
The yells and shrieks were positively appalling. Mat and his brother,
who was on his legs again, had never heard or read of anything to
resemble this last effort for victory.
The blacks, both friends and foes, seemed literally to increase in
stature as they sprang from side to side to avoid each other’s blows,
whilst the countenances of the combatants were positively fiendish.
At this period of the battle it was evident that the Tingura were
doing their utmost to kill Dromoora, and in their efforts to
accomplish this did not now attack the brothers to the extent that
these latter had anticipated.
But numbers told; many of the Waigondas had dropped in that clump of
timber, never to rise again, whilst a devoted band rallied round their
beloved chief.
The brothers were in an agony of doubt, and Mat had more than once
said, “I’ll shoot!” as he handled the gun, which he had snatched
from its hiding-place; but Tim had begged him to wait for Dromoora’s
command.
At last Mat said, “I’ll wait no longer!”
As he uttered these words, two blacks, one of whom was the last
survivor of the Tingura chiefs, sneaked suddenly round a large tree,
behind the group of Waigonda warriors, and, with a fierce war-whoop,
threw themselves on Dromoora, who, wounded as he already had been in
the earlier part of the battle, was no match for this sudden onslaught.
One black had already knocked him against the tree by a blow, which
was luckily partly fended off by the shield of the chief; the other
was in the act of striking him with a heavy wooden sword, when
Dromoora, holding his hands high over his head, shouted,—
“Teegoora!!!”
Mat had _seen_ the signal coming, and, thundering out a loud British
“Hurrah!” to call off the attention of the attacking party, in one
bound he was up to the combatants, and, holding “old Joe” out at arm’s
length, he simply blew off the head of one of his chief’s assailants,
and with the remaining barrel scattered the entrails of the other, as
he stooped from the shock of the explosion. This happened in the very
nick of time, for Dromoora at the same instant fainted from wounds and
exhaustion, thus making it appear to all excepting the brothers that
all three men had been shot.
“Quick!” sang out Mat, as soon as he had fired; “quick, powder and
lead!”
But there was no need for such haste to load.
With the reports of the gun the weapons of the attacking party fell
from their hands, and, without looking for a way, they fled in a
frenzy of terror.
Our foresters had calculated on this final panic, had foretold it to
their friends, and had laid their plans accordingly.
At the signal of the double report up jumped a number of youths from
the grass, and, aided by the jins, “rounded up” and drove the greater
part of their bewildered enemies in a body towards a previously
prepared cutting in the scrub, whilst Mat on one side and Tim and
Jumper on the other, kept them from breaking away.
When Mat saw the fugitives fairly entering the cleared path, he gave a
loud war-whoop, and fired a dose of slugs at their retreating forms,
which, owing to the distance, did not wound them; but it had the
desired effect; for, never looking for any impediment that might be
in their path, the Tinguras fell one over the other into two rows of
kangaroo nets, which had been set there to entrap them.
Leaving the Waigondas, who had passed him in pursuit, to deal with the
prisoners, Mat and Tim returned to Dromoora.