machine. How he seemed hardly to pause in what he was himself saying,
to remark, “They are very pleased to hear your Excellency is here, and
wish me to say,” and then would come a message glibly disentangled from
a rapid succession of incoherent little clicks and taps. Presently came
a longer and more consecutive series of pecks and clicks, to which
the operator condescended to listen carefully, and even to jot down a
pencilled word now and then. This turned out to be a communication from
the sergeant of police in charge of the little group of white men up
in that distant spot, where no European foot had ever trodden before,
to the effect that he had lately come across a native tribe who had an
Englishwoman with them. The sergeant went on to say that this woman had
been wrecked twenty years before, somewhere on that North-west coast,
and that she and her baby-boy—the only survivors of the disaster—had
ever since lived with this tribe. She could still speak English, and
had told the sergeant that these natives had always treated her with
the utmost kindness, and had in fact regarded her as a supernatural
and sacred guest. Her son was, of course, a grown-up man by this time,
and had quite thrown in his lot with the tribe. She declared she had
enjoyed excellent health all those years, and had never suffered from
anything worse than tender feet. She hastened to add that whenever her
feet became sore from travelling barefoot, the tribe halted until they
had healed.
Naturally, we were deeply thrilled by this unexpected romance clicked
out in such a commonplace way, and the Governor at once authorised the
sergeant—all by telegraph—to tell the poor exile that, if she chose,
she and her son should be brought down to Perth at once, cared for, and
sent to any place she wished, free of all expense.
Of course we had to wait a few moments whilst the sergeant explained
this message, though he had wisely taken the precaution of getting the
tribe to “come in” to the little station as soon as he knew the line
would be open. I spent the interval in making plans for the poor soul’s
reception and comfort, promising myself to do all I could to make up
to her for those years of wandering about with savages. But my schemes
vanished into thin air as soon as the clicks began again, for the woman
steadily refused to leave the friendly tribe—who, I may mention, were
listening, the sergeant said, with the most breathless anxiety for her
decision. She declared that nothing would induce her son to come away,
and that she had not the least desire to do so either. The Governor
tried hard, in his own kind and eloquent words, to persuade her to
accept his offer, or, failing that, to say what she would like done
for her own comfort, and to reward the tribe who had been so hospitable
and good to her. She would accept nothing for herself, but hesitatingly
asked for more blankets and a little extra flour and “baccy” for the
tribe. This was promised willingly, and some tea was to be added.
My contribution to the conversation was to demand a personal
description of the woman from the sergeant, but I cannot say that I
gathered much idea of her appearance from his halting and somewhat
laboured word-portrait. Apparently she was not beautiful; no wonder,
poor soul!—tanned as to skin, and bleached as to hair, by exposure to
weather. Only her blue eyes and differing features showed her English
origin. She had kept no count of time, nothing but the boy’s growth
told that many years must have passed.
“They look upon her as a sort of Queen,” the sergeant declared, “and
don’t want her to leave them.” It was very tantalising, and I felt
quite injured and hurt at the collapse of all my plans for restoring
such an involuntary prodigal daughter to her relatives.
I fear I became rather troublesome after this episode, and got into a
way of continually demanding if there were nothing else interesting
going on up in that distant region; but, except the sad and too
frequent report of interrupted communication, which was nearly always
found to mean a burned-down telegraph pole, there was nothing more
heard of the tribe or its guest whilst we remained in the colony. But
these burned telegraph poles held a tragedy of their own; for they
were always caused by a fire lighted at their base as the very last
resource of a starved and dying traveller to attract attention. I fear
I was just as grieved when, as sometimes happened, it turned out to be
a convict, who was making a desperate and fruitless effort to escape,
as when it was an explorer who perished. The routine followed was that,
as soon as the line became interrupted, two workmen with tools and two
native police officers would set out from the hut, one of each going
along the line in opposite directions until the “fault” was found. As
the huts or stations were at least a hundred and fifty miles apart, and
the dry burning desert heat made travelling slow work, this was often
an affair of days, and I was assured that the relieving party never yet
found the unhappy traveller alive. All this is now quite a thing of the
dark and distant ages, for a railway probably now runs over those very
same sand plains, and no doubt Pullman cars will be a luxury of the
near future.
I wonder, however, if the natives of those North-west districts still
contrive, from time to time, to possess themselves of the insulators,
which they fashion with their flint tools into admirable spear-heads.
Also if they have at all grasped the meaning of those same telegraph
poles. In the days I speak of, they considered the white man “too much
fool-um,” as the kangaroos could easily get under this high fence,
which was supposed to have been put up to keep them from trespassing!
It must have been towards the end of 1889 that men began to hope the
statement of an eminent geologist, made years before, was going to
prove true, and that “the root of the great gold-bearing tree would be
found in Western Australia.” Reports of gold, more or less wild, came
in from distant quarters, and although it was most desirable to help
and encourage explorers, there was great danger of anything like a
“rush” towards those arid and waterless districts from which the best
and most reliable news came.
One of the many “gold” stories which reached us just then amused me
much at the time, though doubtless it has settled into being regarded
as a very old joke by now. Still it is none the less true.
A man came in to a very outlying and distant station with a small
nugget, which he said he had picked up, thinking it was a stone, to
throw at a crow, and finding it unusually heavy, examined it, and lo!
it was pure gold. Naturally there was great excitement at this news,
and the official in charge of the district rushed to the telegraph
office and wired to the head of his department, some five hundred
miles away in Perth: “Man here picked up stone to throw at crow.” He
thought this would tell the whole story, but apparently it did not, for
the answer returned was: “And what became of the crow?”
Diggers used to go up the coast, as far as they could, in the small
mail steamers, and then strike across the desert, often on foot,
pushing their tools and food before them in a wheelbarrow. Naturally,
they could neither travel far nor fast in this fashion, and there was
always the water difficulty to be dealt with. Still a man will do and
bear a great deal when golden nuggets dangle before his eyes, and some
sturdy bushmen actually did manage to reach the outskirts of the great
gold region. The worst of it was that under these circumstances no one
could remain long, even if he struck gold; for there was no food to
be had except what they took with them. As is generally the case in
everything, one did not hear much of the failures; but every now and
then a lucky man with a few ounces of gold in his possession found his
way back to Perth. Nearly all who returned brought fragments of quartz
to be assayed, and every day the hope grew which has since been so
abundantly justified.
It happened now and then that a little party of diggers who had been
helped to make a start would ask to see me before they set out, not
wanting anything except to say good-bye, and to receive my good
wishes for their success. Poor fellows! I often asked about them, but
could seldom trace their career after a short while. Once I received,
months after one of those farewell visits, a little packet of tiny gold
nuggets, about an ounce in all, wrapped in very dirty newspaper, with a
few words to say they were the first my poor friends had found. I could
not even make out how the package had reached me, and although I tried
to get a letter of thanks returned to the sender, I very much doubt if
he ever received it.
However, one day a message came out to me from the Governor’s office to
say H. E. had been hearing a very interesting story, and would I like
to hear it too? Nothing would please me better, and in a few minutes
the teller of the story was standing in my morning room, with a large
and heavy lump, looking like a dirty stone, held out for my inspection.
I wish I could give the whole story in his own simple and picturesque
words, but alas! I cannot remember them all accurately. Too many waves
and storms of sorrow have gone over my head since those bright and
happy days, and time and tears have dimmed many details. However, I
distinctly remember having been much struck by the grave simplicity of
my visitor’s manner, and I also noticed that, although it was one of
our scorching summer days, with a hot wind blowing, he was arrayed in
a brand-new suit of thick cloth, which he could well have worn at the
North Pole! He seemed quite awed by his good fortune, and continually
said how undeserved it was. But I suppose this must have been his
modesty, for he certainly appeared to have gone through his fair share
of hardships. He had been one of what the diggers called “the barrow
men,” and had held on almost too long after his scanty supplies had run
short.
The little party to which he belonged had been singularly unfortunate;
for, although they found here and there a promise of gold, nothing
payable had been struck. At last the end came. This man had reached
the very last of his resources without finding a speck of gold, and
although men in such extremity are always kind and helpful to each
other, he could not expect any one to share such fast dwindling stores
with him. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to turn back on the
morrow, whilst a mouthful of food was still left, and to retrace his
steps, as best he might, to the nearest port. He dwelt, with a good
deal of rough pathos, on the despair of that last day’s fruitless work
which left him too weak and exhausted to carry his heavy tools back to
the spot they called “camp.” So he just flung them down, and as he said
“staggered” over the two or three miles of scrub-covered desert, guided
by the smoke of the camp-fire. Next morning early, after a great
deal of sleep and very little food, he braced himself up to go back
and fetch his tools, though he carefully explained that he would not
have taken the trouble to do this if he had not felt that his pick and
barrow were about his only possessions, and might fetch the price of a
meal or two when it came to the last.
I have often wondered since if the impression of the Divine mercy and
goodness, which was so strong in that man’s mind just then, has ever
worn off. He dwelt with self-accusing horror on how he had railed at
his luck, at Fate, at everything, as he stumbled back that hot morning
over his tracks of the day before. The way seemed twice as long, for,
as he said, “his heart was too heavy to carry.” At last he saw his
barrow and pick standing up on the flat plain a little way off, and
was wearily dragging on towards them, when he caught his toe against
a stone deeply imbedded in the sand, and fell down. His voice sank to
a sort of awestruck whisper, as if he were almost at Confession, as
he said, “Well, ma’am, if you’d believe me, I cursed awful, I felt as
if it was too hard altogether to bear. To think that I should go and
nearly break my toe against the only stone in the district, and with
all those miles to travel back. So I lay there like Job’s friend and
cursed God and wanted to die. After a bit I felt like a passionate
child who kicks and breaks the thing which has hurt him, and I had
to beat that stone before I could be at all quiet. But it was too
firm in the sand for my hands to get it up, so in my rage I set off
quite briskly for the pick to break up that stone, if it took all my
strength. It was pretty deep-set in the ground, I assure you, ma’am;
but at last I got it up, and here it is—solid gold and nearly as big as
a baby’s head. Now, ma’am, I ask you, did I deserve this?”
He almost banged the rather dirty-looking lump down on the table
before me as he spoke, and it certainly was a wonderful sight, and
a still more wonderful weight. He told me he had searched about the
neighbourhood of that nugget all day, but there was not the faintest
trace of any more gold. So, as he had no time to lose on account of
the shortness of the food and water-supply, he just started back to
the coast, which he reached quite safely, and came straight down to
Perth in the first steamer. The principal bank had advanced him £800
on his nugget, but it would probably prove to be worth twice as much.
I asked him what he was going to do, and was rather sorry to hear that
he intended to go back to England at once, and set up a shop or a
farm—I forget which—among his own people. Of course, it was not for me
to dissuade him, but I felt it was a pity to lose such a good sort of
man out of the colony, for he was not spending his money in champagne
and card-playing, as all the very few successful gold-finders did in
those first early days. I believe the purchase of that one suit of
winter clothing in which to come and see the Governor had been his only
extravagance.
That was the delightful part of those patriarchal times—only fifteen
or twenty years ago, remember—that all the joys and sorrows used to
find their way to Government House. I always tried to divide the work,
telling our dear colonial friends that when they were prosperous and
happy they were the Governor’s business, but when they were sick or
sorrowful or in trouble they belonged to my department; and thus we
both found plenty to do, and were able to get very much inside, as it
were, the lives of those among whom our lot was cast for more than
seven busy, happy years.
IX
WESTERN AUSTRALIA—_Continued_
There had never been a bushranger in Western Australia before Bill
(I forget his “outside” name) appeared on the scene, and I don’t
suppose there will ever be another. If any one may be said to have
drifted—indeed, almost to have been forced—by circumstances into a path
of crime and peril, it was this same unlucky Bill. Until his troubles
came he was always regarded as rather a fine specimen of a colonial
youth. Tall, strong, and good-looking, apt at all manly sports and
exercises, he was adored by the extremely respectable family to which
he belonged, and who brought him up as well as they could. For Master
Bill must always have been a difficult youth to manage, and from his
tenderest years had invariably been a law unto himself.
At school he had formed a strong friendship with another lad of his
own age, who was exactly opposite to him in character, tastes, and
pursuits, but nevertheless they were inseparable “mates,” and all
Bill’s people hoped that the influence of this very quiet, sedate
youth would in time tame Bill’s wild and lawless nature. As the boys
grew into their teens it became a question of choosing a career, and
the quiet boy always said he wanted to get into the police. That was
his great ambition, and a more promising recruit could not be desired.
It came out afterwards that when the lads discussed this subject the
embryo policeman often observed: “If you don’t look out, Bill, and
alter your ways, I’ll be always having to arrest you.” Bill laughed
this suggestion to scorn, not that he had any intention of amending
his ways, but he could not believe that any one who knew his great
physical strength and utter recklessness would dare to lay a hand on
him. The ways he was advised to amend consisted chiefly in worrying the
neighbours, with whom he lived in constant feud and Border warfare. No
old lady’s cat within a radius of five miles was safe from him, and he
chased the goats and harried the poultry, and generally made himself a
first-class nuisance all round.
The strange thing was that, in spite of this strong instinct of
tormenting, Bill was universally acknowledged to be a splendid
“bushman”—that is, one familiar with all the signs and common objects
of the forests. He would have made an ideal explorer, and could have
lived in the Bush in plenty and comfort under conditions in which any
one else would have starved or died of thirst. It seemed odd to find
in the same youth this passionate love of Nature and familiarity with
her every wild bird or beast, and a certain amount of cruelty and
callousness.
Time passed on, and one of the boys at least got his heart’s desire and
was enrolled in the very fine police force of Freemantle. Bill could
not be induced to settle to any profession, though his knowledge of
bush-craft and his superb powers of endurance would have insured him
plenty of well-paid employment as an explorer or pioneer in the unknown
parts which were just beginning to be opened up in our day, for the
first faint whispers of the magic word “gold” were being brought to the
ears of the Government.
Just about this time one of the neighbours imported a special breed
of fowls, which Bill forthwith proceeded to torment in his leisure
moments. The owner of the unhappy poultry bore Bill’s worrying with
patience and good nature for some little time, but at last assured
him that he would take out a summons against him if he persisted in
harrying his sitting hens. Bill’s answer to this was buying a revolver
and announcing that he would certainly shoot any one who attempted to
arrest him. Of course, no one believed this threat, and in due time
the summons was taken out, and the task of making the arrest devolved
upon his friend and school-mate, who warned him privately that he would
certainly do his duty and that he need not hope to escape. Bill fled
a few miles off and kept out of the way for a little while. No one
wanted to be hard on the youth for the sake of his very respectable
family, and a good deal of sympathy was expressed for them; also, every
one hoped and believed that this little fracas would sober Master Bill
down, and that he might yet become a valuable member of the community.
However, one Sunday evening, just at dusk, Bill was hanging about the
poultry yard with evil intent, when he suddenly perceived his friend
in uniform and on duty the other side of a low hedge. The owner of the
fowls had asked for a constable to watch his place, and, as ill luck
would have it, Bill’s friend was sent. The two boys looked at each
other for a moment across the hedge, and then the policeman said:—
“Now, Bill, you had better come along quietly with me; there’s a
warrant out against you, and I’ve got to take you to the police
station.”
“If you come one step nearer, I’ll shoot you dead,” answered Bill.
“That’s all nonsense, you know,” the poor young constable replied, and
began pushing the hedge aside to get through it. Bill drew his revolver
and shot the friend and playmate of his whole life dead on the spot. He
then rushed back to his own place, and, hastily collecting some food
and cartridges, was off and away into the heart of the nearest “bush”
or forest, the fringe of which almost touched even the principal towns
in those days.
It is hardly possible to imagine the state of excitement into which
this crime threw the primitive little community. Murders were
comparatively rare, and I was told that they were almost always
committed by old “lags,” men who had begun as convicts perhaps
thirty-five or forty years before, and had generally only been let out
a short time before on a ticket-of-leave. But this catastrophe was
quite a fresh departure, and called forth almost as much sympathy for
the relatives of the wretched Bill as for those of his victim. The
native trackers set to work at once and picked up Bill’s trail without
any difficulty, but the thing was to catch him. No Will-o’-the-wisp
could have been more elusive, and he led the best trackers and the most
wary constables a regular dance over hills and valleys, through dense
bush and scrub-covered sand, day after day. News would come of the
police being hot on his tracks thirty miles off, and that same night
a store in Freemantle would be broken into, and two or three of its
best guns, with suitable cartridges, would be missing. As time went
on the various larders in Perth were visited in the same unexpected
manner, and emptied of their contents. Bill never took anything except
ammunition, food, and tobacco, but whenever the police came up with
his camping-ground—often to find the fire still smouldering—they
always found several newspapers of the latest dates giving particulars
of where he was supposed to be.
In the course of the many weeks—nine I think—that this chase went on,
the police often got near enough to be shot at. One poor constable
was badly wounded in the throat, so that he could never speak above
a whisper again, and another was shot dead. But Bill was never to be
seen. Sometimes they came on his “billy” or pannikin of tea, standing
by the fire, and another time he must just have flung away his pipe
lest its smell should betray him. One is lost in amazement at his
powers of endurance, for he could have had no actual sleep all that
weary while. The general plan of campaign was to keep him always
moving, so as to tire him out. What strength must he have possessed to
do without sleep all that time, and to cover such fabulous distances
day after day. The police themselves, or rather their horses, and even
the trackers, got quite knocked up, in spite of a regularly organised
system of relief; so what must it have been for the hunted boy, who
could never have had any rest at all?
It was the year of the first Jubilee, and numerous loyal festivities
were taking place during all the time of Bill’s chase. Of course,
June is the Antipodean midwinter, and cold and wet had to be reckoned
with, as well as very bad going for both horse and man, and great
fatigue for the pursuers. Bill apparently thought the Jubilee ought
in some way to do him good, and he used to stick notices up on trees
with his terms fully set forth. One proposition was that he should be
let off entirely because of the Jubilee. Another notice stated that he
would give himself up to _me_, if he was guaranteed a free pardon. The
grim silence with which all these tempting offers were received must
have exasperated the young ruffian, for after a time these bulletins
breathed nothing but melodramatic threats of vengeance, especially
against the Governor, and he began to attempt to carry them out in many
ways.
But the wickedest idea to my mind was the plan he evidently formed of
wrecking the special trains which were to convey almost all the Perth
people down to Freemantle, some thirteen miles away, in the middle
of the Jubilee week. The citizens of the Port were determined to
show themselves every bit as loyal and exultant as we were in Perth,
and had bidden the Governor and the officials, as well as the rest
of the little society, to a fine ball at their grand new Town Hall.
The railway authorities and the police were quite alive to the risks
we should all run; every precaution was taken, and especially not a
whisper was allowed to creep out as to Mr. Bill’s murderous intentions.
A pilot engine went first the night of the ball, and the best native
trackers were “laid on” the line. Next morning’s daylight showed how
much all this vigilance and care had been needed, for in numerous
places Bill’s footsteps could be tracked down to the rails, and large
branches of trees, rocks, and other handy impediments lay within a foot
of the line, and he must have been hunted off when quite close many
times during that cold wet night. I believe I was the only woman in the
long special train who knew of Mr. Bill’s intentions, and I confess
I found it somewhat difficult to conceal a tendency to preoccupation
and to start at slight sounds. However, it would have quite spoiled
the Freemantle ball if the least breath of the risk to the guests from
Perth had got abroad, so all the men bore themselves as Englishmen
do—quietly and serenely—and I had to hide my nervousness for very
shame’s sake. Especially when we were coming back, quite late, and I
saw how tired and sleepy every one was, the thought would cross my
mind of wonder if the poor watchers on the outside were as tired as
we were, and so, perhaps, not quite so much on the alert. My private
fears proved groundless, happily, but I can never forget the relief
of finding myself (and my far dearer self) safe in our beautiful home
again that night. I had felt so wretched at the ball when I looked at
my numerous pet girl friends dancing blithely away, and thought of the
dangers which might easily beset their homeward road.