nardoo, the latter recorded in his diary that what the food wanted
was sugar; he believed that nardoo and sugar would keep him alive.
The pioneers at the Old Port were convinced that their great want was
fat; with that their supper would have been perfect.
McClure was dying of consumption as everybody knew but himself; he
could not believe that he had come so far from home only to die, and
he joined the revellers at the camp fire. He said to kindly
enquirers that he felt quite well, and would soon regain his
strength. Before that terrible journey over the mountains he had
been the life and soul of the Port. He could play on the violin, on
the bagpipes--both Scotch and Irish--and he was always so
pleasant and cheerful, looking as innocent as a child, that no one
could be long dispirited in his company, and the most impatient
growler became ashamed of himself.
McClure was persuaded to bring out his violin once more--it had
been long silent--and he began playing the liveliest of tunes,
strathspeys, jigs, and reels, until some of the men could hardly keep
their heels still, but it is hard to dance on loose sand, and they
had to be contented with expressing their feelings in song. Davy
sang "Ye Mariners of England," and other songs of the sea; and
Pateley Jim gave the "Angel's Whisper," followed by an old ballad of
the days of Robin Hood called "The Wedding of Aythur O'Braidley," the
violin accompanying the airs and putting the very soul of music into
every song.
But by degrees the musician grew weary, and began to play odds and
ends of old tunes, sacred and profane. He dwelt some time on an
ancient "Kyrie Eleeson," and at last glided, unconsciously as it
were, into the "Land o' the Leal."
I'm wearin' away, Jean,
Like snaw wreaths in thaw, Jean,
I'm wearin' awa, Jean,
To the Land o' the Leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's nae caul or care, Jean,
The days aye fair, Jean,
I' the Land of the Leal.
At last McClure rose from his seat, and said, "I'll pit awa the
fiddle, and bid ye a good nicht. I think I'll be going hame to my
mither the morn."
He went into his tent. It was high tide, and there was a gentle
swish of long low waves lapping the sandy beach. The night wind
sighed a soothing lullaby through the spines of the she-oak, and his
spirit passed peacefully away with the ebb. He was the first man who
died at the Old Port, and he was buried on the bank of the river
where Friday first saw its waters flowing towards the mountain.
Thirty years afterwards I saw two old men, Campbell and Montgomery,
pulling up the long grass which had covered his neglected grave.
GLENGARRY IN GIPPSLAND.
Jack Shay was not sorry to leave the Old Port. The nocturnal feast
made to celebrate the repulse of the blackfellows could not conceal
the state of famine which prevailed, and he was pleased to remember
that he had brought plenty of flour, tea, and sugar as far as the
Thomson river. Davy had no saddle, but John Campbell lent him one
for the journey, and also sold him shot and powder on credit. So
early in the morning the two men took a "tightener" of roast eggs,
and commenced their journey on McMillan's track, each man carrying
his double-barrelled gun, ready loaded, in his hand. By this time
the sight of a gun was a sufficient warning to the blackfellows to
keep at a safe distance; the discharge of the nine-pounder had proved
to them that the white man possessed mysterious powers of mischief,
and it was a long time before they could recover courage enough to
approach within view of the camp at the Old Port. On the second day
of their journey Davy and Shay arrived at the Thomson, and found the
mob of cattle and the men all safe. They built a hut, erected a
stockyard, and roughly fixed the boundaries of the station by blazed
trees, the bank of the river, and other natural marks.
There were three brothers Imlay in the Twofold Bay district--John,
Alexander, and George--the latter residing at the Bay, where he
received stores from Sydney, and shipped return cargoes of station
produce and fat cattle for Hobarton. Two stations on the mountains
were managed by the other two brothers, and their brand was III.,
usually called "the Bible brand." When the station on the Thomson
was put in working order, the Imlays exchanged it for one owned by P.
P. King, which was situated between their two stations in the Monaro
district. The Gippsland station was named Fulham, and was managed by
John King. Jack Shay returned to the mountains, and Davy to the Old
Port.
Soon afterwards the steamer 'Corsair' arrived from Melbourne,
bringing many passengers, one of whom was John Reeve, who took up a
station at Snake Ridge, and purchased the block of land known as
Reeve's Survey. The new settlers also brought a number of horses,
and Norman McLeod had twenty bullocks on board. The steamer could
not reach the port, and brought-to abreast of the Midge Channel. The
cattle and horses were slung and put into the water, four at a time,
and swam to land, but all the bullocks disappeared soon afterwards
and fled to the mountains.
Next the brig 'Bruthen' arrived from Sydney, chartered by the
Highland chief Macdonnell, of Glengarry. In the days of King William
III. a sum of 20,000 pounds was voted for the purpose of purchasing
the allegiance of the Glengarry of that day, and of that of several
other powerful chiefs. On taking the oath of loyalty to the new
dynasty, they were to receive not more than 2,000 pounds
each; or, if they preferred dignity to cash, they could have any
title of nobility they pleased below that of earl. Most of them took
the oath and the cash. It is not recorded that any chief preferred a
title, but the Macdonnell of 1842 was Lord Glengarry to all the new
settlers in Gippsland. His father, Colonel Alexander Ronaldson
Macdonnell, was the last genuine specimen of a Highland chief, and he
was the Fergus McIvor of Walter Scott's "Waverley." He always wore
the dress of his ancestors, and kept sentinels posted at his doors.
He perished in the year 1828, while attempting to escape from a
steamer which had gone ashore. His estate was heavily encumbered,
and his son was compelled to sell it to the Marquis of Huntly. In
1840 it was sold to the Earl of Dudley for 91,000 pounds, and in 1860
to Edward Ellice for 120,000 pounds.
The landless young chief resolved to transfer his broken fortunes to
Australia. He brought with him a number of men and women, chiefly
Highlanders, who were landed by Davy in his whaleboat. For this
service Glengarry gave a cheque on a Sydney bank for five pounds,
which was entrusted to Captain Gaunson of the schooner 'Coquette' to
purchase groceries. On arriving in Sydney the Gaunsons went on a
pleasure excursion about the harbour, the 'Coquette' was capsized in
a squall, one or two of the family perished, and Davy's cheque went
down with the vessel. But when the schooner was raised and the water
pumped out, the cheque was found, and the groceries on the next
voyage arrived safely at the Old Port.
Glengarry's head man and manager of the enterprise was a poor
gentleman from Tipperary named Dancer, and his chief stockman was
Sandy Fraser.
By the regulations then in force in New South Wales, Glengarry was
entitled, for a fee of 10 pounds per annum, to hold under a
depasturing license an area of twenty square miles, on which he might
place 500 head of cattle or 4,000 sheep. He selected a site for his
head station and residence on the banks of the Tarra. The house was
built, huts and stockyards were erected, 500 dairy cows were bought
at 10 pounds each, and the business of dairy farming commenced.
But the young chief and his men were unused to the management of a
station in the new country; they had everything to learn, and at a
ruinous cost.
A number of young men bailed up the cows each morning, and put on the
leg ropes; then they sat on the top rails of the stockyard fence and
waited while the maids drew the milk. Dancer superintended the
labours of the men and the milkmaids. He sat in his office in a
corner of the stockyard, entering in his books the number of cattle
milked, and examining the state of their brands, which were daubed on
the hides with paint and brush. Some cheese was made, but it was not
of much account, and all the milk and butter were consumed on the
station.
At this time the blacks had quite recovered from the fright
occasioned by the discharge of the nine-pounder gun, and were again
often seen from the huts at the Old Port. Donald Macalister was sent
by his uncle, Lachlan Macalister, of Nuntin, to make arrangements for
shipping some cattle and sheep. The day before their arrival Donald
saw some blacks at a distance in the scrub, and without any
provocation fired at them with an old Tower musket, charged with
shot. The next day the drovers and shepherds arrived with the stock,
and drove them over Glengarry's bridge to a place between the Tarra
and Albert rivers, called the Coal Hole, afterwards occupied by
Parson Bean. there was no yard there, and the animals would require
watching at night; so Donald decided to send them back to Glengarry's
yards. Then he and the drovers and shepherds would have a pleasant
time; there would be songs and whisky, the piper would play, and the
men and maids would dance. The arrangement suited everybody. The
drovers started back with the cattle, Donald helped the shepherds to
gather the sheep, and put them on the way, and then he rode after the
cattle. The track led him past a grove of dense ti-tree, on the land
now known as the Brewery Paddock, and about a hundred yards ahead a
single blackfellow came out of the grove, and began capering about
and waving a waddy. Donald pulled up his horse and looked at the
black. He had a pair of pistols in the holsters of his saddle, but
he did not draw them: there was no danger from a blackfellow a
hundred yards off. But there was another behind him and much nearer,
who came silently out of the ti-tree and thrust a spear through
Donald's neck. The horse galloped away towards Glengarry's bridge.
When the drovers saw the riderless horse, they supposed that
Macalister had been accidentally thrown, and they sent Friday to look
for him. He found him dead. The blacks had done their work quickly.
They had stripped Donald of everything but his trousers and boots,
had mutilated him in their usual fashion, and had disappeared. A
messenger was sent to old Macalister, and the young man was buried on
the bank of the river near McClure's grave. The new cemetery now
contained three graves, the second being that of Tinker Ned, who shot
himself accidentally when pulling out his gun from beneath a
tarpaulin.
Lachlan Macalister had had a long experience in dealing with
blackfellows and bushrangers; he had been a captain in the army, and
an officer of the border police. The murder of his nephew gave him
both a professional and a family interest in chastising the
criminals, and he soon organised a party to look for them. It was,
of course, impossible to identify any blackfellow concerned in the
outrage, and therefore atonement must be made by the tribe. The
blacks were found encamped near a waterhole at Gammon Creek, and
those who were shot were thrown into it, to the number, it was said,
of about sixty, men, women, and children; but this was probably an
exaggeration. At any rate, the black who capered about to attract
young Macalister's attention escaped, and he often afterwards
described and imitated the part he took in what he evidently
considered a glorious act of revenge. The gun used by old Macalister
was a double-barrelled Purdy, a beautiful and reliable weapon, which
in its time had done great execution.
The dairy business at Greenmount was carried on at a continual loss,
and Glengarry resolved to return to Scotland. He sold his cows and
their increase to Thacker and Mason, of Sydney, for twenty-seven
shillings and sixpence per head; his house was bought by John
Campbell. On the eve of his departure for Sydney in the schooner
'Coquette' (Captain Gaunson), a farewell dinner was given by the
Highlanders at the Old Port, and Long Mason, who had come from Sydney
to take delivery of the cows on behalf of Thacker and Mason, was one
of the guests. But there was more of gloom than of gaiety around the
festive board. All wished well to the young chief, but the very best
of his friends could think of nothing cheerful to say to him. His
enterprise had been a complete failure; the family tree of Clanranald
the Dauntless had refused to take root in a strange land the glory
had gone from it for ever, and there was nothing to celebrate in song
or story.
Other men from the Highlands failed to win the smiles of fortune in
Gippsland. At home, notwithstanding their tribal feuds, they held
their own for two thousand years against the Roman and Saxon, the
Dane and the Norman. Only one hundred and fifty years ago (it seems
now almost incredible) they nearly scared the Hanoverian dynasty from
the throne of England, and even yet, though scattered throughout the
British Empire, they are neither a fallen nor a falling race.
Glengarry returned to his tent early, and then the buying and selling
of the five hundred cows became the subject of conversation; the
whisky circulated, and Long Mason observed that unfriendly looks
began to be directed towards himself. He was an Englishman, a
Southron, and it was a foul shame and dishonour that such as he
should pay a Highland chief only twenty-seven shillings and sixpence
for beasts that had cost ten pounds each. That was not the way in
the good old days when the hardy men of the north descended from the
mountains with broadsword and shield, lifted the cattle of the Saxon,
and drove them to their homes in the glens.
The fervid temper of the Gael grew hotter at the thought of the rank
injustice which had been done, and it was decided that Long Mason
should be drowned in the inlet. He protested against the decision
with vigour, and apparently with reason. He said:
"I did not buy the cattle at all. Glengarry sold them to Thacker and
my brother in Sydney, and I only came over to take delivery of them.
What wrong have I done?"
But the reasoning of the prosaic Englishman was thrown to the winds:
"Ye've done everything wrong. Ye should hae gin ten pund sterling
apiece for the coos, and not twenty-sen and saxpence. It's a pity
yer brither, and Thacker, and MacFarlane are no here the nicht, and
we'd droon them, too."
Four strong men, shouting in Gaelic the war-cry of Sheriffmuir,
"Revenge, revenge, revenge to-day, mourning to-morrow!" seized the
long limbs of the unfortunate Mason, and in spite of his struggles
bore him towards the beach. The water near the margin was shallow,
so they waded in until it was deep enough for their purpose. There
was a piercing cry, "Help! murder! murder!" John Campbell heard it,
but it was not safe for a Campbell to stand between a Macdonnell and
his revenge. However, Captain Davy and Pateley Jim came out of their
huts to see what was the matter, and they waded after the
Highlanders. Each seized a man by the collar and downhauled. There
was a sudden whirlpool, a splashing and a spluttering, as all the
five men went under and drank the brine.
"I think," said Pateley, "that will cool 'em a bit," and it did.
Long Mason was a university man, educated for the church, but before
his ordination to the priesthood he had many other adventures and
misfortunes. After being nearly drowned by the Highlanders he was
placed in charge of Woodside station by his elder brother; he tried
to mitigate the miseries of solitude with drink, but he did so too
much and was turned adrift. He then made his way to New Zealand, and
fought as a common soldier through the Heki war. Captain Patterson,
of the schooner 'Eagle', met him at a New Zealand port. He was
wearing a long, ragged old coat, such as soldiers wore, was out of
employment, and in a state of starvation. The captain took pity on
him, brought him back to Port Albert, and he became a shepherd on a
station near Bairnsdale. While he was fighting the Maoris his
brother had gone home, and had sent to Sydney money to pay his
passage to England. But he could not be found, and the money was
returned to London. At length Captain Bentley found out where he
was, took him to Sydney, gave him an outfit, and paid his passage to
England. Long Mason, honest man that he was, sent back the passage
money, was ordained priest, obtained a living near London, and roamed
no more.
He had a younger brother named Leonard Mason, who lived with Coady
Buckley at Prospect, near the Ninety-Mile, and became a good bushman.
In 1844 Leonard took up a station in North Gippsland adjoining the
McLeod's run, but the Highlanders tried to drive him away by taking
his cattle a long distance to a pound which had been established at
Stratford. The McLeods and their men were too many for Leonard. He
went to Melbourne to try if the law or the Government would give him
any redress, but he could obtain no satisfaction. The continued
impounding of his cattle meant ruin to him, and when he returned to
Gippsland he found his hut burned down and his cattle gone on the way
to the pound. He took a double-barrelled gun and went after them.
He found them at Providence Ponds, which was a stopping place for
drovers. Next morning he rose early, went to the stockyard with his
gun, and waited till McDougall, who was manager for the McLeods, came
out with his stockmen. When they approached the yard he said:
"I shall shoot the first man who touches those rails to take my cattle
out."
McDougall laughed, and ordered one of his men to take down the
slip-rails, but the man hesitated; he did not like the looks of
Mason. Then McDougall dismounted from his horse and went to the
slip-rails, but as soon as he touched them Mason shot him.
Coady Buckley spared neither trouble nor expense in obtaining the
best counsel for Mason's defence at the trial in Melbourne. He was
found guilty of manslaughter and sentenced to nine years'
imprisonment, but after a time was released on the condition of
leaving Victoria, and when last heard of was a drover beyond the
Murray.
After the departure of Glengarry, Dancer could find no profitable
employment in Gippsland, and lived in a state of indigence. At last
he borrowed sufficient money on a promissory note to pay his passage
to Ireland. In Tipperary he became a baronet and a sheriff, and
lived to a good old age.
WANTED, A CATTLE MARKET.
It seemed incredible to the first settlers in North Gippsland that
their new Punjaub, the land of the five rivers, which emptied their
waters into immense lakes, should communicate with the sea by no
channel suitable for ships, and an expedition was organised to
endeavour to find an outlet. McMillan had two boats at his station
at Bushy Park, but he had no sails, so he engaged Davy as sailmaker
and chief navigator on the intended voyage. The two men rode
together from the Old Port up the track over Tom's Cap, and shot two
pigeons by the way, which was fortunate, for when they arrived at
Kilmany Park William Pearson was absent, and his men were found to be
living under a discipline so strict that his stock-keeper, Jimmy
Rentoul, had no meat, and dared not kill any without orders; so
McMillan and Davy fried the pigeons, and ate one each for supper.
Next morning they shot some ducks for breakfast, and then proceeded
on their journey. They called at Mewburn Park, arrived at Bushy Park
(McMillan's own station), and Davy began making the sails the same
evening. Next morning he crossed the river in a canoe, made out of a
hollow log, to Boisdale, Lachlan Macalister's station, and went to
the milking yard. The management was similar to that of Dancer at
Greenmount. Eleven men and women were milking about one hundred and
fifty cows, superintended by nine Highlanders, who were sitting on
the toprails discoursing in Gaelic. One of them was Jock Macdonald,
who was over eighteen stone in weight, too heavy for any ordinary
horse to carry; the rest were Macalisters, Gillies, and Thomsons.
The stockmen were convicts, and they lived with the Highlanders in a
big building like the barracks for soldiers. Every man seemed to do
just what he liked, to kill what he liked, and to eat what he liked,
and it was astonishing to see so little discipline on a station owned
by a gentleman who had seen service both in the army and in the
border police.
The blacks were at this time very troublesome about the new stations.
They began to be fond of beef, and in order to get it they drove fat
cattle into the morasses and speared them. This proceeding produced
strained relations between the two races, and the only effectual
remedy was the gun. But many of the settlers had scruples about
shooting blackfellows except in self-defence, and it could hardly be
called self-defence to shoot one or more of the natives because a
beast had been speared by some person or persons unknown. John
Campbell, at Glencoe, tried a dog, a savage deerhound, which he
trained to chase the human game. This dog acquired great skill in
seizing a blackfellow by the heel, throwing him, and worrying him
until Campbell came up on his horse. When the dog had thus expelled
the natives from Glencoe, Campbell agreed to lend him to little
Curlewis for three months in order to clear Holey Plains Station.
Curlewis paid ten heifers for the loan of the dog, and Campbell
himself went to give him a start in the hunt, as the animal would not
own any other man as master. But the blacks soon learned that
Campbell and his dog had left Glencoe unprotected, and the second
night after his departure they boldly entered the potato patch near
his hut, and bandicooted the whole of his potatoes.
When the sails were made, the two boats were provisioned with tea,
sugar, flour, and a keg of whisky; the meat was carried in the shape
of two live sheep, to be killed when required. The party consisted
of eight men, and each man was armed with a double-barrelled gun.
McMillan, McLennan, Loughnan, and Davy went in one boat, and in the
other boat were William Pearson, John Reeve, Captain Orr, and
Sheridan, who was manager for Raymond at Stratford. Sheridan was a
musical man, and took his flute with him. When everything was ready
they dropped down the river to Lake Wellington, and took note of the
soundings during the whole of the voyage as they went along.
Wherever they approached either shore, they saw natives or found
traces of them. Every beach was strewn with the feathers of the
ducks, swans, and other birds they had killed, and it was difficult
to find sufficient dead wood near the water to make a fire, the
blacks having used so much of it at their numerous camping places.
The gins had an ingenious system of capturing the ducks. They moved
along under water, leaving nothing but their nostrils visible above
the surface, and they were thus able to approach the unsuspecting
birds. As opportunity offered they seized them by the legs, drew
them quickly under water, and held them until they were drowned.
When they had secured as many as they could hold in one hand they
returned to land.
One of the explorers always kept guard while the others slept, the
first watch of each night being assigned to Davy, who baked the
damper for the next day. One of the sheep was killed soon after the
voyage commenced; and the duty of taking ashore, tethering, and
guarding the other sheep at each landing place was taken in turn by
Pearson and Loughnan. At the lower end of the lakes the water was
found to be brackish, so they went ashore at several places to look
for fresh water. They landed on a flat at Reeve's River, and Davy
found an old well of the natives, but it required cleaning out, so he
went back to the boat for a spade. It was Loughnan's turn that day
to tether the sheep on some grassy spot, and to look after it; the
animal by this time had become quite a pet, and was called Jimmy. On
coming near the boats Davy looked about for Jimmy, but could not see
him and asked Loughnan where he was.
"Oh, he is all right," said Loughnan, "I did not tether him, but he
is over there eating the reeds."
"Then he's gone," replied Davy.