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[Illustration: QUEENSLAND SQUATTERS “DISPERSING” ABORIGINES.]
THE BLACK POLICE.
_A STORY OF MODERN AUSTRALIA._
BY
A. J. VOGAN.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAP BY THE AUTHOR_
LONDON:
HUTCHINSON & CO.,
25, PATERNOSTER SQUARE.
[_All rights reserved._]
TO MY READERS.
In the following story I have endeavoured to depict some of the
obscurer portions of Australia’s shadow side.
The scenes and main incidents employed are chiefly the result of
my personal observations and experiences; the remainder are from
perfectly reliable sources.
ARTHUR JAMES VOGAN.
TAURANGA, NEW ZEALAND.
_September 1890._
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. A PENNY FOR BAD NEWS 1
II. ΣΚΥΤΑ’ΛΗ 5
III. EUREKA 13
IV. PADDY’S MARKET 19
V. THE SELVAGE EDGE OF CIVILIZATION 33
VI. TWO ESCAPES: A FALL AND A RISE 52
VII. MESSRS. WINZE AND CLINSKEEN 68
VIII. THE BLOODY SKIRT OF SETTLEMENT 85
IX. MURDER, MADNESS, AND MELODY 115
X. MISS LILETH MUNDELLA AND MR. WILSON GILES 143
XI. THE BLACK POLICE 165
XII. BILLY AND THE “HATTER” 184
XIII. CLAUDE’S LETTER TO DICK 215
XIV. HECATE AND HEBE 230
XV. THE GHOST OF CHAMBER’S CREEK 252
XVI. LILETH’S DISAPPOINTMENT 277
XVII. EN AVANT! 291
XVIII. A STATION SKETCH 326
XIX. THE GRAVE 338
XX. A “DISPERSING” PARTY 355
XXI. FATE’S AVENGING HAND 372
XXII. LAST WORDS 379
THE BLACK POLICE.
CHAPTER I.
A PENNY FOR BAD NEWS.
“Star! Ev-en’ Star! Full account o’ the fi-re!” echoes shrilly on
all sides from the throats of bare-legged, paper-laden urchins, who
after the manner of their kind are actively engaged in supplying the
passing public of Auckland, New Zealand, with the second edition of
the evening paper.
Queen Street, the principal thoroughfare of the city, is crowded at
this hour of the afternoon. Business at the banks and offices is over
for the day, and the hot pavements are crowded with homeward-bound
pedestrians of many varieties. Pale-faced daughters of the city’s
_nouveaux riches_ are there by dozens. Many are accompanied by
healthy-looking female cousins from the agricultural Waikato, and if
the former do congratulate themselves at the contrast between their
own gaudy plumes and their country relative’s more sober feathers,
what of that? It is an odd fact too, worth mentioning, that these
young ladies always require to do their shopping about this time in
the day. But look at the crowd again. There stalks a stately Maori
chief, with dark, tattooed, thoughtful face, surmounted with the
incongruous “long-sleeved hat” of Europe. Others of his race are also
there rubbing noses, and weeping with long-lost friends, or holding
consultations with sharp-eyed lawyers, who, spider-like, are sucking
the unfortunate natives’ ancestral estates into the insatiable and
unscrupulous maws of pakeha landsharks.
On hurries the crowd, and somebody points out Auckland’s richest man.
“Entirely devoted to Art,” says our informant, adding that the object
of our attention “has found gin-spinning pay better than feeling the
pulses of hypochondriacs.”
Bustling past comes a knot of loud-voiced, white-waistcoated mining
agents. One of these turns for a moment to buy a paper. Like minnows
at a worm, a shoal of newsboys make a dive at him, tumbling over
each other, and crying aloud their _alto_ battle-cry in the strange
vernacular of their kind: “Star! Ev-en’ Star! Full account of the
fi-re! Death of an Australian explorer!”
A young man, who with riding-whip in hand is standing close by on
the curb, turns at the last sentence, and hurriedly buying a paper,
glances eagerly at it.
“So it is true, after all,” he murmurs half aloud, and remains for
a moment or two in deep thought. As we want our readers to know him
when they meet him again, here is a brief description of Mr. Claude
Angland. As he stands there before us in a loosely-fitting Norfolk
jacket and Bedford cords, his dark-brown, wide-brimmed felt hat—light
as gossamer—thrown back from his honest, sunburnt face, he looks the
_beau idéal_ of what an intelligent, active pioneer in a new country
should be. Old ladies would call him “a fine young man to look at;”
younger members of the female persuasion, although denying his right
to be termed handsome, would naturally turn to him in trouble or in
danger, in preference to many a more showy individual.
Our new friend does not stand long in thought; he suddenly glances
again at the paper, and then at his watch, and turning on his heel is
soon lost to view in the crowd.
The news that has apparently so interested the young man is in the
latest telegrams’ column of the evening paper.
“(_By special wire_.)
“CAIRNS, QUEENSLAND.
“News has just been received from Georgetown confirmatory of
wire sent you last week respecting death of Dr. Dyesart. Whilst
exploring the country near the Mitchell river he met with a severe
fall, and died three days afterwards. His sole companion, a black
boy named Billy, who has accompanied him during all his later
expeditions, reached Murdaro station with the news ten days since.
An attempt will be made to find the body, when the boy, who was
also badly hurt, is sufficiently recovered.”
In smaller type, below the telegram, a few brief editorial notes
appeared eulogising the deceased explorer, and giving a short outline
sketch of his life.