what my name is. I was brought up in Liverpool, but I wasn't born
there; that doesn't matter either. I used to work at the docks, was
living quite respectable, was married and had a little son about five
years old. One night after I had had supper and washed myself, I
said to th' missus, 'There's a peep-show i' Tithebarn Street, and if
you'll wash Bobby's face I'll tek him there; its nobbut a penny.'
You know it was one o' them shows where they hev pictures behind a
piece o' calico, Paul Pry with his umbrella, Daniel i' th' lions'
den, ducks swimming across a river, a giantess who was a man shaved
and dressed in women's clothes, a dog wi' five legs, and a stuffed
mermaid--just what little lads would like. There was a man,
besides, who played on a flute, and another singing funny songs. When
I went outside into the street there was little Billy Yates, as used
to play with Bobby, so I says, 'Come along, Billy, and I'll tek thee
to the show.' When we got there we set down on a bench, and, just as
they began to show th' pictures, three black-fellows came in and set
down on th' bench before us. They thowt they were big swells, and had
on black coats, white shirts, stiff collars up to their ears, red and
green neck-handkerchers, and bell-topper hats; so I just touched one
of em on th' showder and said: 'Would you please tek your hats off
to let th' lads see th' pictures?' Well, the nigger just turned his
head half-round, and looked at me impudent like, but he kept his hat
on. So I asked him again quite civil, and he called me a low fellow,
towld me to mind my own business, and the other two niggers grinned.
Well, you know, I could not stand that. I knew well enough what they
were. They were stewards on the liners running between New York and
Liverpool, and they were going round trying to pass for swells in a
penny peep-show. I didn't want to make a row just then and spoil the
show, so I said to th' lads, we mun go hooum, and I took 'em hooum,
and then come back to th' show and waited at th' door. When the
niggers come out I pitched into th' one as had given me cheek; but we
couldn't have it out for th' crowd, and we were all shoved into th'
street. I went away a bit, thinking no more about it, and met a man
I knew and we went into a public house and had a quart o' fourpenny.
We were in a room by ourselves, when the varra same three niggers
come in and stood a bit inside the door. So I took my tumbler and
threw it at th' head of th' man I wanted, and then went at him. But
I couldn't lick him gradely because th' landlord come in and stopped
us; so after a while I went hooum. Next morning I was going along
Dale Street towards the docks to work, when who should I see but that
varra same blackfellow: it looked as if th' devil was in it. He was
by hisself this time, coming along at th' other side of th' street.
So I crossed over and met him, and went close up to him and said,
'Well, what have you to say for yoursel' now?' and I gav him a lick
under th' ear. He fell down on th' kerbstone and wouldn't get up--
turned sulky like. There was soon a crowd about, and they tried to
wakken him up; but he wouldn't help hisself a bit--just sulked and
wouldn't stir. I don't believe he'd ha' died but for that, because I
nobbut give him but one hit. I thowt I'd better make mysel' scarce
for a while, so I left Liverpool and went to Preston. Were you ever
in Preston?" I said I was. "Well then, you'll remember Melling, the
fish-monger, a varra big, fat man. I worked for him for about six
months, and then come back to Liverpool, thinking there'd be no more
bother about the blackfellow. But they took me up, and gev me
fourteen year for it; and if it had been a white man I wouldn't ha'
got more than twelve months, and I was sent out to Van Diemen's Land
and ruined for ever, just for nowt else but giving a chance lick to a
blackfellow. And now I hear they're going to war wi' Russia, and--
England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales--I hope they'll all get
blooming well licked. It don't mend a man much to transport him, nor
a woman either for that matter: they all grow worse than ever. When
I got my ticket I sometimes went working in th' bush, sometimes
whaling and sealing, and sometimes stripping bark at Western Port and
Portland Bay, before there was such a place as Melbourne. I was in a
whaler for two years about Wilson's Promontory, until the whales were
all killed or driven away. I never saved any money until nine years
back; we always went on th' spree and spent every penny directly we
were paid off. At that time I went with a man from Port Albert to
the Seal Islands in a boat. I knew of a place where there was a
cave, a big hollow under the rocks, where th' seals used to go to
sleep, and a blow hole coming out of it to th' top of the island. We
hired a boat and went there, and made a kind of a door which we could
drop down with a rope to shut up the mouth of th' cave and catch the
seals inside. We killed so many that we couldn't take th' skins away
all at once in the boat to Port Albert; we had to come back again. I
thowt to myself I'd be richer than ever I was in my life; th' skins
were worth hundreds of pounds. I had agreed to go halves with th'
Port Albert man, but, you see, he'd ha' never gotten a penny but for
me, because he knew nothing whatever about sealing. It didn't look
quite fair to give him half; and then I thowt what a lucky thing it
would be for me if he were drowned; and he was drowned, but mind you,
I didn't do it. It was this way. When we got back to th' blow-hole
th' weather was bad. One o' them sou'east gales set in, and th' big
waves dashed agen the rocks, roaring and sending spray right across
th' island. We had packed away all th' seal-skins snug in th' boat
and pulled th' door up from th' bottom of th' chimney before th' gale
started. When we were taking down the rope and tackle and th'
shears, th' water began to come boiling up th' blow hole and sinking
down again. There was a big rush of wind, first up and then down
sucking you in like. It was a ticklish time, and just as we were
going to lower th' shears, th' Port Albert man made a kind of slip,
and was sucked in with the wind, and went head first into the boiling
water and out of sight. I took hold of the slack of a rope, thinking
I'd throw it to him; he might get hold of it, and then I could pull
him out. In about half a minute he was thrown up again by th' next
wave right to the top of th' chimney. I could see his face within
four feet of me. He threw up his hands for something to catch at and
looked at me, and then gave a fearful scream. I didn't throw him the
rope; something stopped me. He might not have got hold of it, you
know, anyhow. He went down again among th' white water, and I never
saw him no more--only when I am dreaming. I always dream about
him. I can see his face come up above the boiling water, and when he
screams I wake up. I can never get clear of him out of my head; and
yet, mind you, I didn't drown him; he fell in of his self, and I just
missed throwing him th' rope, that's all; and I wasn't bound to do
it, was I?
"As for the money I got for the seal skins, I could have lived
comfortably on it all my life, but it never did me no good. I
started drinking, trying to forget that Port Albert man, but it was
no use. Every shilling was soon gone, and eversince I've been doing
odd jobs and loafing about the publics. I've never done no good and
never shall. Let's have just another nobbler afore we turn in."
A HAPPY CONVICT.
"Thrice did I receive forty stripes, save one."
It was court day at Palmerston, and there was an unusual amount of
business that morning. A constable brought in a prisoner, and
charged him with being a vagrant--having no lawful visible means of
support. I entered the charge in the cause list, "Police v. John
Smithers, vagrancy," and then looked at the vagrant. He was growing
aged, was dressed in old clothes, faded, dirty, and ill-fitting; he
had not been measured for them. His face was very dark, and his hair
and beard were long and rough, showing that he had not been in gaol
lately. His eyes wandered about the court in a helpless and vacant
manner. Two boys about eight or nine years old entered the court,
and, with colonial presumption, sat in the jury box. There were no
other spectators, so I left them there to represent the public. They
stared at the prisoner, whispered to each other, and smiled. The
prisoner could not see anything to laugh at, and frowned at them.
Then the magistrate came in, rubbing one of his hands over the other,
glanced at the prisoner as he passed, and withered him with a look of
virtuous severity. He was our Black Wednesday magistrate, and was
death on criminals. When he had taken his seat on the bench, I
opened the court, and called the first and only case. It was not
often we had a man to sit on, and we sat heavily on this one. I put
on my sternest look, and said "John Smithers"--here the prisoner
instantly put one hand to his forehead and stood at "attention"--
"you are charged by the police with vagrancy, having no lawful
visible means of support. What have you to say to that charge?"
"I am a blacksmith looking for work," said the prisoner; "I ain't
done nothing, your worship, and I don't want nothing."
"But you should do something," replied the magistrate; "we don't want
idle vagabonds like you wandering about the country. You will be
sent to gaol for three months."
I stood up and reminded the justice respectfully that there was as
yet no evidence against the prisoner, so, as a matter of form, he
condescended to hear the constable, who went into the witness-box and
proved his case to the hilt. He had found the man at nightfall
sitting under the shelter of some tea-tree sticks before a fire;
asked him what he was doing there; said he was camping out; had come
from Melbourne looking for work; was a blacksmith; took him in charge
as a vagrant, and locked him up; all his property was the clothes he
wore, an old blanket, a tin billy, a clasp knife, a few crusts of
bread, and old pipe, and half a fig of tobacco; could find no money
about him.
That last fact settled the matter. A man travelling about the bush
without money is a deep-dyed criminal. I had done it myself, and so
was able to measure the extent of such wickedness. I never felt
really virtuous unless I had some money in my pocket.
"You are sentenced to imprisonment for three months in Melbourne
gaol," said the magistrate; "and mind you don't come here again."
"I ain't done nothing, your worship," replied the prisoner; "and I
don't want nothing."
"Take him away, constable."
Seven years afterwards, as I was riding home about sundown through
Tarraville, I observed a solitary swagman sitting before a fire,
among the ruins of an old public house, like Marius meditating among
the ruins of Carthage. There was a crumbling chimney built of bricks
not worth carting away--the early bricks in South Gippsland were
very bad, and the mortar had no visible lime in it--the ground was
strewn with brick-bats, bottles, sardine tins, hoop iron, and other
articles, the usual refuse of a bush shanty. It had been, in the
early times, a place reeking with crime and debauchery. Men had gone
out of it mad with drinking the poisonous liquor, had stumbled down
the steep bank, and had ended their lives and crimes in the black
Tarra river below. Here the rising generation had taken their first
lessons in vice from the old hands who made the house their favourite
resort. Here was planned the murder of Jimmy the Snob by Prettyboy
and his mates, whose hut was near the end of the bridge across the
river, and for which murder Prettyboy was hanged in Melbourne.
In the dusk I mistook the swagman for a stray aboriginal who had
survived the destruction of his tribe, but on approaching nearer, I
found that he was, or at least once had been, a white man. He had
gathered a few sticks, which he was breaking and putting on the fire.
I did not recognise him, did not think I had ever seen him before,
and I rode away.
During the next twenty-four hours he had advanced about half-a-mile
on his journey, and in the evening was making his fire in the Church
paddock, near a small water-hole opposite my house. I could see him
from the verandah, and I sent Jim to offer him shelter in an
outbuilding. Jim was one of the two boys who had represented the
public in the jury box at the Palmerston court seven years before.
He came back, and said the man declined the offer of shelter; never
slept under a roof winter or summer, if he could help it; had lived
in the open air for twelve years, and never stayed a night in any
building, except for three months, when he was in Melbourne gaol. He
had been arrested by a constable near Palmerston seven years before,
although he had done nothing, and a fool of a beak, with a long grey
beard, had given him three months, while two puppies of boys were
sitting in the jury box laughing at him.
He also gave some paternal advice to the youth, which, like a great
deal of other paternal advice, was rejected as of no value.
"Never you go to Melbourne, young man," he said, "and if you do,
never stop in any boarding-house, or public. They are full of
vermin, brought in by bad characters, mostly Government officers and
bank clerks, who have been in Pentridge. Don't you never go near
'em."
This advice did not sound very respectful; however, I overlooked it
for the present, as it was not unlikely I might have the advantage of
seeing him again in custody, and I sent to him across the road some
hot tea, bread, butter, and beef. This softened the heart and loosed
the tongue of the old swagman. It appeared from his account of
himself that he was not much of a blacksmith. He was ostensibly
going about the colony looking for work, but as long as he could get
food for nothing he did not want any work, and he always avoided a
blacksmith's shop; as soon as he found himself near one he ceased to
be a blacksmith.
When asked about his former life, he said a gentleman had once
advised him to write the particulars of it, and had promised him
half-a-crown if he would do so. He had written some of them, but had
never seen the gentleman again, so he did not get the half-crown; and
now he would take sixpence for the copyright of his work. I gave him
sixpence, and he drew out a manuscript from an inside pocket of his
coat, and handed it to me. It was composed of small sheets of
whitey-brown wrapping paper sewn together. He had ruled lines on it,
and had written his biography with lead pencil. On looking over it I
observed that, although he was deficient in some of the inferior
qualifications of a great historian, such as spelling, grammar, and a
command of words of seven syllables, yet he had the true instincts of
a faithful chronicler. He had carefully recorded the names of all
the eminent bad men he had met, of the constable who had first
arrested him, of the magistrate who had committed him for trial, of
the judge who had sentenced him, of the gaolers and warders who had
kept him in prison, of the captain, doctor, and officers of the ship
which conveyed him to Sydney, of the squatters who had forced him to
work for them, and of the scourgers who had scourged him for not
working enough. The names of all these celebrated men, together with
the wicked deeds for which they were admired, were given in detail,
after the true historic method. We all take a great interestin
reading every particular relating to the lives of notorious tyrants
and great sinners; we like to know what clothes they wore, and how
they swore. But the lives of great and good men and women are very
uninteresting; some young ladies even, when travelling by train,
prefer, as I observe, French novels inspired by Cloacina to the
"Lives of the Saints."
Some people in the colonies are said to have had no grandfathers; but
John Smithers was even more deficient in pedigree, for he had neither
father nor mother, as far as he could recollect. He commenced life
as a stable boy and general drudge in England, at a village inn owned
and conducted by a widow named Cobbledick. This widow had a
daughter named Jemima. The mischief wrought in this world by women,
from Eve to Jemima downwards, is incalculable, and Smithers averred
that it was this female, Jemima, who brought on his sorrow, grief,
and woe. She was very advanced in wordly science, as young ladies
are apt to be when they are educated in the retail liquor trade. When
Smithers had been several years at the inn, and Jemima was already in
her teens, she thought the world went slowly; she had no lover, there
was nobody coming to marry her, nobody coming to woo. But at length
she was determined to find a remedy for this state of things. She
had never read the history of the loves of the great Catherine of
Russia, nor of those of our own virgin Queen Elizabeth, but by an
inborn royal instinct she was impelled to follow their high example.
If lovers did not offer their adoration to her charms spontaneously,
there was at any rate one whose homage she could command. One Sunday
afternoon, while her mother was absent, she went to the stable and
ordered Smithers to come and take a walk with her, directing him
first to polish his shoes and put on his best clothes. She brought
out a bottle of scented oil to sweeten him, and told him to rub it
well into his hair, and stroke his head with his hands until it was
sleek and shiny. She had put on her Sunday dress and best bonnet;
she had four ringlets at each side of her face; and to crown her
charms, had ventured to borrow her mother's gold watch and chain.
Being now a perfect princess in stateliness and beauty, she took Jack
by the arm--she called him Jack--and made him march away with
her. He was rather abashed at the new duty imposed upon him, but he
had been so well kicked and cuffed all his life that he never thought
of disobeying orders. Love fooled the gods, and it gave him little
trouble to fool so sorry a pair as Jack and his Jemima. They walked
along Perkins' Lane where many of the neighbours were likely to see
them, for Jemima was anxious that all the other girls, her dearest
friends, should be filled with spite and envy at her good fortune in
having secured a lover.
When the happy youth and maid were returning with wandering steps and
slow, Jemima saw her mother pass the end of the lane on her way
homewards, much sooner than she had expected. The golden hours on
angel wings had flown away too quickly for the lovers. Miss
Cobbledick was filled with sudden alarm, and her brief day of glory
was clouded. It was now impossible to reach home in time to avoid
trouble. Her mother would be certain to miss the watch, and what was
she to do with it? What with Jack, and what with herself?
Self-preservation being the first law of nature, Jemima resolved to
sacrifice Jack in order to shield herself from her mother's rage. He
was not of much account in any respect; so she gave him the watch and
chain, telling him to keep them safely till she asked for them, and
to hurry round by the yard gate into the stable. This gave great
relief to her conscience, and enabled her to meet her mother with a
face of untroubled innocence.
Jack had not a lively imagination; but during the night he had a
clear and blissful vision of his future destiny, the only dream of
fortune his life was ever blessed with. He was to be the landlord of
the hotel, when Mrs. Cobbledick had gone to bliss, and Jemima was to
be his bride, and the landlady.
But early next morning there was trouble in the house. The watch was
missing, and nobody knew anything about it. Jemima helped her mother
to look for it, and could not find it. A constable was sent for, and
he questioned everyone in and about the house, and searched
everywhere without result. Last of all Jack was asked if he knew
anything of the missing watch. He was faithful and true. How could
he betray Jemima, his future partner in life? He said he "had never
seen no watch, and didn't know nothing whatsomever about no watch,"
and the next instant the constable pulled the watch out of Jack's
pocket.
At his trial he was asked what he had to say in his defence, and then
he told the truth, and said Jemima gave him the watch to keep until
she should ask for it. But there is a time for all things; and Jack
could never learn the proper time for telling the truth, or for
telling a lie; he was always in the wrong. The judge, in passing
sentence, said he had aggravated his crime by endeavouring to
implicate an innocent young lady in his villany, and gave him seven
years.
He was taken on board a hulk, where he found two or three hundred
other boys imprisoned. On the evening of his arrival a report was
circulated among them that they were all to be sent to another ship,
which was bound for Botany Bay, and that they would never see England
again. They would have to work and sleep in chains; they would be
yoked together, and whipped like bullocks; and if they escaped into
the bush the blacks would kill and eat them. As this dismal tale
went round, some of the boys, who were quite young and small, began
to cry, and to call for their mothers to come and help them; and then
the others began to scream and should and yell. The warders came
below and tried to silence them, but the more they tried the louder
grew the uproar, and it continued for many hours during the night.
"Britons rarely swerve
From law, however stern, which tends their strength to serve."
Discipline must be maintained; so next morning the poor little
beggars were brought up on deck in batches, stripped, triced up, and
severely flogged. Jack, and a number of other boys, said they had
not cried at all, but the officer in charge thought it was better
that a few of the innocent should suffer rather than that one of the
guilty should escape, so they were all flogged alike, and soon after
they were shipped for New South Wales.
On his arrival n Sydney, Jack was assigned as a servant to a
squatter, and taken into the bush a long way to the west. The
weather had been very hot for a long time, all the grass had withered
to dust, and the cattle were starving. The first work which he was
ordered to do was to climb trees and cut off the branches, in order
that the cattle might keep themselves alive by eating the leaves and
twigs. Jack had never been used to handle an axe or tomahawk, so he
found the labour of chopping very hard. He did his best, but that
was not good enough for the squatter, who took him to a magistrate,
and had him flogged by the official scourger.
While serving his sentence of seven years he was flogged four times;
three of the times he said he had "done nothing," and for the fourth
flogging he confessed to me that he had "done something," but he did
not say what the "something" was. In those days it seems that "doing
nothing" and "doing something" were crimes equally meriting the lash.
And now after a long life of labour the old convict had achieved
independence at last. I don't think I ever met a richer man; he was
richer than the whole family of the Rothschilds; he wanted scarcely
anything. Food and clothing he obtained for the asking for them, and
he was not particular as to their quality of the quantity was
sufficient. Property to him was something despicable; he did not
want any, and would not live inside of a house if he had one; he
preferred the outside. He was free from family cares--never had
father or mother, sister or brother, wife or children. No poor relatives
ever claimed his hospitality; no intimate friends wanted to borrow
half-a-crown; no one ever asked him to buy suburban lots, or to take
shares in a limited liability company. He was perfectly indifferent
to all danger from bush-rangers, burglars, pickpockets, or cattle
stealers; he did not even own a dog, so the dogman never asked him
for the dog tax. He never enquired about the state of the money
market, nor bothered himself about the prices of land or cattle, wood,
wine, or wheat. Every bank, and brewery, and building society in the
world might go into liquidation at once for aught he cared. He had
retired from the Government service, had superannuated himself on a
pension of nothing per annum, and to draw it he required no voucher.
And yet, notwithstanding all these advantages, I don't think there
are many men who would voluntarily choose his lot. I watched him
from the end of the verandah, and began speculating about him. What
was he thinking about during his solitary watches in the night or
while he tramped alone through the bush year after year in heat and
cold, wind and rain? Did he ever think of anything--of his past
life, or of his future lot? Did he believe in or hope for a heaven?
or had he any fear of hell and eternal punishment? Surely he had
been punished enough; in this life he had endured evil things in
plenty, and might at least hope for eternal rest in the next.
He was sitting with his back against a gum tree, and his feet towards
the fire. From time to time he threw a few more sticks on the embers,
and a fitful blaze lit up his dark weatherbeaten face.
Then to my surprise he began to sing, and to sing well. His voice
was strong, clear, and mellow, and its tones rose and fell in the
silent night air with a pathetic and wonderful sweetness. The burden
of his song was "We may be happy yet."
"Oh, smile as thou wert wont to smile,
Before a weight of care
Had crushed thine heart, and yet awhile
Left only sorrow there;
We may be happy yet."
He sang three stanzas, and was silent. Then someone said: "Poor old
fellow; I hope he may be happy yet."
Next morning he was sitting with his back against the gum tree. His
fire had gone out, and he seemed to be late in awaking, and in no
hurry to resume his journey. But his travels were finished; he never
awoke. His body was quite cold, and he must have died soon after he
had sung the last note of his song. He had only sixpence in his
pocket--the sixpence I had given him for his biography. The police
took him in charge once more and put him in his last prison, where he
will remain until we shall all be called together by the dread blast
of the Archangel's trumpet on the Judgment Day.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Book of the Bush, by George Dunderdale