MURDER, MADNESS, AND MELODY.
“On him attends the blue-eyed martial maid.”
—HOMER’S _Odyssey_.
On board the swift coastal steamer _Eidermere_, as she cuts through
the tepid waters of the Molle passage with her knife-like stem, on
her way to the northern Queensland ports. The coral-reef-sheltered
expanse of waters is quite oily in appearance, perfectly calm is
its mother-of-pearl surface, which, crimson, blue, and yellow
with evening tints, reflects a perfect topsy-turvy picture of the
purple, pine-covered, pointed islets and grand, shadowy hills of
the mainland, that make this spot the most charming point upon the
Australian coast.
There is really no excuse for even the most susceptible sufferer
from _mal de mer_ on board to remain below. Consequently the whole
“contingent” of passengers, saloon and steerage, are lolling about on
deck in various easy attitudes, enjoying the ever-changing beauties
of the glorious sunset picture before them, and revelling in the
comparative coolness of the hour.
On the raised “first-class” end of the vessel the usual specimens of
humanity one always sees on board a passenger-steamer, in whatever
part of the world you travel, are present. The over-dressed, noisy
bagmen of wine and spirit houses are there; the quiet, canny
representative of a pushing “Glascy” soft-goods manufacturer; two
or three Jewish mine-owners; a sprinkling of Scotch storekeepers;
an Irish doctor; a German innkeeper; and a select circle of
long-limbed members of those upper circles who belong to the genus
termed in Australian parlance “silver-tailed,” in distinction to the
“copper-tailed” democratic classes.
Here a thin-faced clergyman, on the way to his missionary labours
amongst the Papuans, stands by his fresh, young Victorian wife,
pointing out to her the various “outward and visible signs” that they
have at last entered the tropics, as the trembling screw hurries them
past lazy-looking turtles, long rows of algæ seed, and occasional
broken branches of mangrove and pandanus.
Over there the courteous captain of the ship, dressed in spotless
linen suit, is pointing out to a lady passenger “the identical spot
on that particular island, my dear madam, on the dark red rocks
that lift themselves out of the deep water, where Captain Cook
landed in 1770.” The gallant skipper, who is a well-known antiquary
and geologist, proceeds to promise he will some day show his fair
friend—who, by-the-bye, does not appear very interested—the cairn
erected by the same wonderful navigator near Cooktown, and lately
discovered by himself.
Down near the forecabin a few greasy-looking stewards are dawdling
over the job of emptying overboard sundry trayfuls of _débris_ from
the saloon tea table, enjoying meanwhile the fresh air, ere the
“boss” shall call them back into the stuffy atmosphere of their
principal sphere of labours.
“Golly!” says a small boy to one of these marine waiters, as the
former stands on tiptoe to look over the bulwarks, “Golly! but them
kiddies round the news office, guess they’d give ’alf of their papers
fur that lot o’ grub you chucks away, mister.”
Without waiting to see if his remark is understood or even noticed,
Don—for it is Claude’s little friend—dives down, and, seizing a fat
brown puppy that is lolling against his legs, lifts it up to see
“them gooses” that are skimming past the ship. Above the group, on
the saloon deck, is Claude, leaning against one of the boats, and
trying to listen to a dark, elderly man, dressed in a “slop”-made
grey suit and soft felt hat, as he spins him a yarn of the Palmer
diggings, commencing,—
“’Spose you’ve heard of poor Jack Straw, who was killed by the
natives under his waggon?” etc.
Claude, to tell the truth, is neither interested in the tale nor the
scenery; and when the former is finished, and the historian has been
dragged off to take a hand at “cut-throat” euchre, our young friend
relapses into a reverie.
Eager as he was to follow out the instructions of his dead uncle
until the steamer reached Brisbane, he cannot disguise from himself
the fact that since that day his enthusiasm has greatly cooled.
Something happened during the few hours he spent on shore in
the capital of Queensland which has disturbed his set purposes
considerably. Struggle as he may, he feels a longing he can hardly
understand to return to Morecombe Bay,—a mysterious tugging at his
heart strings that grows stronger as the steamer rattles its way
northwards. Any lady readers who may honour these pages with their
perusal will already have guessed correctly that young Angland has
been attacked with the same sort of complaint that caused sorrowful
young Werther to make such an egregious stupid of himself in Göethe’s
marvellous histoirette.
A pretty girl has flattered his vanity by apparently particularly
admiring him, and, man-like, he cannot help feeling that she shows
a sense above all other girls in so doing. The birth of love in man
is generally after this fashion. True admiration, whether signalled
by word or smile, is the expression of adoration by an inferior
to a superior being. And as man’s hereditary instincts teach him
unconsciously to wish to succour and protect the weaker of his
immediate species,—for it is probably owing greatly to this desire
that the human race has worried its way along to the front seat in
creation,—the usual predilection strong men (physically or otherwise)
have for mating with weak women, and _vice versâ_, is easily
explained.
So Claude develops at first a simple desire to shield this forlorn
maiden. He feels somehow that she must be forlorn, although he
does not,—and he feels ashamed to own it, even to himself,—he does
not even know her name. She may be engaged to marry a man who will
not appreciate her. What a sickening feeling comes over him at the
thought. What a pity the days of the _duello_ are over, and all that
kind of thing. Surely she could never have looked into anybody’s
soul before, as she did into his, with those deep blue orbs,—those
eyes that have floated before him day and night since his little
Brisbane adventure; her little dimpled face, flushed with excitement
and pretty pursed-lipped anger, as he first saw it; or that angel
look of mute entreaty as those glorious eyes shot burning arrows
into his brain as he turned to her assistance, that would have
spurred him to any rashness, much less knocking down a clumsy lout
of a drayman. Yes, permanently nailed upon the wall of his mind’s
photographic studio is the sunlit picture of the neatly dressed
_petite_ figure, with the halo of golden hair, that held out a tiny,
faultlessly-gloved hand to him as she said good-bye, and, thanking
him for his service, left him half-stupefied with a last glance of
those glorious eyes.
This is Claude’s first affair, and one must not be too hard on him.
Some men take love easily, as others do the measles. Some young
fellows, on the contrary, have their best natures all over one grand
eruption, which leaves their soul’s cuticle marked for ever, for
good or bad, as the circumstances of the case direct. But really the
spooney season is a more important time in a young man’s life than
it is generally considered. For there is little doubt that men (who
have “felt the pain”) look at womankind during the remainder of their
lives through spectacles that are coloured rosy or grey, according to
their happy or miserable experiences of “the sex,” as represented by
the particular cause of their _première grande passion_. But instead
of stating our own opinions upon a matter that every healthy subject
diagnoses for himself or herself in his or her own way, we had better
proceed to state at once that Claude had been “hard hit,” and that
the “pleasing punishment” was given under the following circumstances.
On the afternoon of the S.S. _Eidermere’s_ arrival at Brisbane,
where she had to stay a few hours, Claude landed, and proceeded
townwards from the region of great, busy wharves, behind which noisy
steam-cranes were rattling and puffing at the cargoes of sundry
vessels. At the gates of the steam-ship’s company’s yard the usual
crowd, that always congregates in similar places to prey upon the
freshly-arrived and perhaps sea-sick passengers, was there in force.
Porters, cabmen, van-drivers, runners, and nondescript loafers of
various sorts jostled each other and fought for the luggage of the
travellers. Pushing his way through these, he soon found himself in
the comparatively quiet neighbourhood of the public gardens, and was
just about to enter them when he heard a great “how d’ye do” close at
hand. This was occasioned by the dusty scuffling of two dogs, one of
which was shrieking as only a small dog can shriek when in fear of
immediate disintegration at the hands, or rather teeth, of a larger
canine animal. Above all rose hoarse yells of delight from a circle
of the city’s _gamin_ who were enjoying the scene. Claude would have
proceeded on his way, after turning his head to ascertain the cause
of the uproar, but for a sight that attracted his sudden attention.
The small dog evidently belonged to a young lady, who, alone and
unprotected amongst the crowd of roughs, was courageously but
injudiciously trying to save her tiny four-footed dependent by
beating the big dog with her parasol. Hurrying up to her assistance,
Angland saw a burly, red-faced man, apparently the owner of the large
animal, step forward and roughly snatch the fair one’s weapon of
attack from her vigorous little hands, giving vent to his indignant
feelings at the same time by expressing his intentions of “seein’
fair play,” and “lettin’ no blessed gal hurt ’is dawg.” Claude just
saw the little figure with clasped hands, and heard the faltering
appeal for help to the brutal bystanders, as he burst through the
crowd. To him, accustomed to wild-boar hunting in the dark Hunua
ranges near his home, the job of making a fierce pig-dog “take off”
from its quarry had often been an every-day occurrence when training
his canine hunters. It was comparatively an easy work to choke the
big, over-fed cur, and make it let go its hold of the little ball of
palpitating floss beneath it in the dust. To give the large dog a
sounding kick that lifted it half-a-dozen yards away, whence it slunk
off homewards, was the next act; and the whole thing was done ere the
disappearing mongrel’s master could recover from his open-mouthed
surprise. Claude was stooping to pick up the young lady’s dishevelled
pet, when he saw the red-faced man “coming for him,” and was just
in time to receive that gentleman’s most prominent features upon
his own large and rather bony left fist. Angland knew that in a row
with those modern mohocks, Australian larrikins, you must “hit to
kill,” as Dick, his old home chum and “tutor in pugilism,” used to
call it. So, following his defensive blow with one of attack, he
instantly brought his right fist forward, so as to knock loudly on
that thinner portion of his adversary’s skull which is situated just
above the approximation of the jaw and ear, dropping him as neatly
as the proverbial bullock. The crowd of roughs around, who would have
half-killed and afterwards robbed our hero if he had been worsted in
the encounter, drew back on seeing the big man fall, and respectfully
made way for Claude, as, holding the little dog in his arms, he
escorted the lady to whom he had been thus curiously introduced into
the gardens, where she sank trembling on one of the seats.
“Oh, how good of you! How brave of you! I can’t thank you enough!
Oh, I didn’t know _what_ to do! Poor Fluffy, you’re not hurt much,
my darling, are you?” (this to the dog). “You know I’d just landed
from the ferry-boat, and I wanted to go to the post-office; and I’m
always afraid of those horrible men and their nasty dogs when I
come over. Poor little doggie,” as the worsted ball of a creature
continues to wail softly. “How _can_ I thank you!” And all the while
the sweet little smiles, that were impartially divided between the
dog and the man, were working a state of havoc in Claude’s heart, the
completeness of which even the larrikins could hardly have imitated
upon the young man’s body.
If the young lady had been plain, or even a little less enchanting,
Claude would probably have found out a good deal about her in no
time. But the bright little maiden, with the golden hair and dark,
melting eyes, bewildered him with suppressed emotion, and when she
prayed that he wouldn’t think her ungrateful if she said he mustn’t
come with her further than the post-office, and then when they
arrived there tripped off, after giving his hand a timorous little
pressure with her tiny fingers, he felt as if he had just learned
what heaven was and had lost all chance of it for ever.
He was inclined to rush madly after her and ask sundry questions,
but by the time his thoughts had arranged themselves for action, his
goddess had disappeared, and a white-shako’d policeman was watching
him suspiciously with gin-and-watery eyes, as a possible slightly
inebriated stranger whom he could drag to durance vile.
So Claude walked vaguely about the town (noticing nothing of it),
vainly hoping all the while to see her once more, and, barely
catching his boat, became surly for the rest of the evening.
“Turning in” early, he dreamed a lot of kaleidoscopic nonsense about
fighting red-faced men with small-gloved hands, who changed into
laughing-eyed girls and scraggy clogs by turns, and finally burst
into pieces, looking like minute larrikins, with a noise resembling
the rattling of the rudder-chains, whose jangle overhead awoke him
every morning.
And this was how it came about that our young friend wasted his
time and opportunities of learning about the wonderful land he was
approaching from his fellow-passengers, and remained for a few days
in an almost perpetual state of reverie, consisting of alternate
pleasing remembrances and self-objurgations at not having ascertained
“her” name. His “maiden meditations,” however, daily became fewer
and farther between, and the particular one that cost him the loss
of his mate’s yarn, and most of the lovely scenery that lies between
Whitsunday Island and the mainland, was abruptly brought to a close
by the Irish doctor aforesaid, who, having been a quondam associate
of Claude in New Zealand, came to re-open a subject of conversation
between them that had interested our hero considerably before the
Brisbane catastrophe.
“Well, me boy, is it brooding over the mimery of the dusky daughters
of fair Ohinemuri ye’ve left far behind you in far Zealandia, you
are, or has some Australian rose
“Put your ring on her finger
And hers through your nose”?
And the gay, dapper little Dublin licentiate winds up his bit of
good-natured banter with a piece of impromptu verse, as he seats
himself by Claude’s side.
Why is it that Irish doctors are, as a class, the most fascinating
of men? Is it because in addition to their attractive mother wit and
natural kindness of heart, their glorious profession makes them also
better judges of mankind than the ordinary outside barbarian, by
teaching them the “why” of human sayings and doings, where every-day
folk only observe the “how”? We don’t know. But at any rate, Dr.
Junelle, as a representative of the class, was just the right man in
the right place to charm Claude out of his moody thoughts.
Noticing immediately, with quick medical eye, from the slight flush
of confusion that rises on Claude’s face, that his carelessly thrown
conversational fly has hooked the real cause of the young man’s
thoughts, he proceeds to cover his mistake by plunging at once into
the theme that he knows will interest his friend. Dr. Junelle has
travelled through a great deal of the little-known and less-populated
districts of Australia called generally the “outside” country.
Whilst moving amongst the frontier settlers of these parts, as the
medical referee of one of the great assurance associations, he had
ample opportunity for studying the effect of some of the wildest
forms of bush-life upon the human mind and body, and has made an
especial study of hereditary characters developed by the offspring of
Australian backwoodsmen.
“I’ve got a bit of news for you, my dear fellow,” he continues; “in
troth, that’s the reason I’m after bothering you this minute. Did
you happen to notice that tall young fellow who joined us at Mackay?
Sure it’s himself that’s standing there with his swately embroidered
forage-cap stuck on the north-east end of his face, wid a military
air an’ no mistake. You did, eh? Well, and he’s an officer in the
Corps I was telling you about. I’ll introduce you by-and-by, if it’s
to your liking. He’ll be glad to give my Royal Geologist here any
information he can, but don’t you go indulging in any of the caustic
remarks about his profession that you did to me when I told you
some of my experiences of the work of the Black Police. No, _cushna
machree_, remember the swate little Irish melody, ‘_Tha ma machulla’s
na foscal me_,’ which, being translated literally, means nothing at
all but ‘I’m ashlape and moinde ye don’t thread on me tail.’ For it’s
myself that knows what power and influence these same gentlemen have
in the north, and our friend over there would pay any grudge he had
against you on your humble servant, that’s me. Now it’s live and let
live, say I, although I _am_ a doctor, and I’m after making a fortune
as soon as ever I can, me boy, and then, hey! for the bosky dells of
scrumptuous New Zealand, and divil a bit I’ll pine any longer in
this confounded tropical climate.”
“Well, doctor,” answered Claude, laughing, “I’ll be just real glad,
as our American friends say, to have a chat with the hero of a
hundred fights over there, and I’ll promise I won’t offend him. I
don’t expect all these inspectors are the savage, Nero-like demons
you and Williams make out. He looks quiet enough, in all conscience.
By-the-bye, do you really mean to settle down in our tight little
island of the south some day or other?”
“You can lay your last dime on that, me boy, an’ sure I won’t be
long before I’m there, if the spalpeens don’t spoil me honest fields
of labour for a year or two by going in for those cursed Saxon
innovations that no medical man with an honest pride in the rights of
his profession likes to see about him,—drainage and temperance. But,
nonsense aside, just to show you that ‘it’s the truth I’m telling
you’ when I say the officers of the Black Police,—or Native Mounted
Police, as the Corps is officially termed,—that these fellows hold a
good deal of social power up north, I’ll spin you a yarn if you’ll
promise you’ll not go off to sleep. It’s all about a quandary a
friend of mine—a Dublin man—was put in, and how he had to knock under
to the powerfully persuasive police of his district.
“At a mining township not far from that ‘rocky road to Dublin’ you
will have to follow, I expect, on your way up-country, there used
to be a lot of natives employed about the houses of the miners.
There were ‘batteries,’ or something of the kind, in the place that
employed a lot of men, and some twenty natives used to come into
town every morning and work as hewers of wood and drawers of water
for the miners’ wives. These niggers were as quiet and well-behaved
as any in the colony, barring one I’ve got at home myself, who’s
always up to some divilmint. And they were all as well-known as the
_bodagh_ on me father’s own estate, which, botheration! was left
to me uncle instead when me gran’father died. Now one day—all this
happened about five years ago—an inspector of Black Police rides up
to the town, all alone but for his regiment of ‘black boys,’ who came
up some time after, and, showing a warrant for the arrest of certain
blacks for murder of a stockman, asked, as politely as you please,
of the townsfolk if they could inform him where these unauthorized
vivisectionists were at present to be found. Divil a one of them
was known in the place. But the good gentleman wasn’t going to be
beaten, and with the admirable zeal that had made an inspector of
him determined not to return home with hands full of nothing. So my
noble sends his ‘boys’ round the township, and they catch all the
aboriginals who haven’t run away the moment they saw the red-and-blue
uniforms, and these were three or four ‘buck’ niggers, a very old
chap, some native women, and a child or two. All these, mind you,
Angland, were as well-known, and better, than the Maoris that help
you with your maize at home.”
“Didn’t the miners object?”
“Yes, they did, but only a few men were about, the rest being at
work. Those whites about the place showed the inspector that the
natives he’d collared were working in the township at the time of the
murder, but it was no good. Unfortunately, the local J.P., who was
the owner of the batteries and mines in the vicinity, and had made
himself objectionable to the police of the district by doing his best
to preserve the natives of the place, was absent, and no one liked
to take the responsibility of making a stand against the law in the
matter. So the niggers were hauled off. This was bad enough, sure,
but the bitter part was to follow. I must stop for a moment to go on
to tell you that it’s a divil of a bother to bring home a conviction
of murder against an aboriginal, through some of the judges having
decided that it is illegal to try a man in a language of which he
doesn’t know a single decent word, barring a few swear words he’s
heard used by bullockies, and drovers, and the like. So, finding this
lion in the path of justice, the artful protectors of the public have
hit upon another plan for arriving at the same desired end.”
“What is that?” asks Claude.
“Sure the idea is ‘just grand,’ as my Scotch gardener says, and as
easy to carry out as falling off a greasy log, and that’s as nate as
it’s convanient. The plan is to let the prisoner have a chance of
escaping when taking him to gaol, and promptly perforate him with
bullets if he takes it or not.”
“But that wouldn’t work long. Too many witnesses, doctor. Sure to
leak out some day.”
“Not at all, me boy. The gentleman in charge, who is so anxious to
save the Crown the expense of the trial, it’s just himself that knows
what he’s about. His squad of ‘boys’ is composed of black fellows
from various parts of Australia, who belong to different tribes, or
factions, to tip it a rale Irish simile. On the top of a downright
lovely, natural animosity for each other, which is only restrained
by discipline, these savages wearing the Government livery have
been trained to commit every sort of atrocity at a word from their
‘Marmie,’ as they call the ‘boss.’ Should a ‘boy’ misbehave himself,
turn rusty because he receives a flogging, or otherwise fail to
please his master, that gentleman doesn’t trouble to rason wid him;
he has only to wink, as you may say, and it’s a case of ‘off wid
his head,’ for his black comrades are only too glad to be allowed
to steal behind the _bocaun_ of a boy and leave him pulseless, all
alone wid himself behind a bush. These ‘boys’ are the only witnesses.
But to come home to me story. The prisoners were marched off in an
iligent line, or tied to a line, it don’t much matter, and three
miles outside the town they were neatly despatched, and left to amuse
the crows and ants.”
“But what did the townsfolk do?”
“Oh, they waited till the boss of the place came back, the J.P. I’ve
been telling of, and that was the same afternoon. They told him all
about it. Holy poker! there was the divil to pay, an’ no mistake.
‘Dripping mother!’ he cried, ‘I’ve never had a single instance of
throuble wid the darkies of the place.’ And then he went on to say,
and he was telling the truth, mind ye, that he had been there, off
and on, ever since he came, the first white man, to the district.
And he told the miners how he feared the retaliation of the friends
of the murthered creatures, and the consequent vendetta warfare that
would ensue. And then the whole township, headed by the J.P., went
out together by themselves, and found the place where the murtherers
had left their victims; but divil a bit of them did they diskiver,
barring their bodies stuffed so full of bullets, I’ve bin told, that
you couldn’t see them but for the wounds outside.
“Well, a message was presently despatched to the resident magistrate
of the nearest town.”
“And with what result?” asks Claude.
“Nothing, save but that the artful police thereupon sent some of
their ‘boys’ at night, who quietly burned the bodies to prevent
identification. Next day the coroner arrives, all _dhrookin_ wid
heat, for he’d hurried a bit to oblige the J.P., who was a powerful
man and commanded a lot of votes, and, moreover, was a ‘bit of a
lad’ when vexed. Now my friend, the doctor that this tale’s about,
was a young man, just commencing practice, at the time, in the next
town, and he was sent as an independent man, and one who was family
doctor of the gentleman who might get hanged over the matter, to see
the bones and identify them as human. Before he left home, however,
the Black Police officials ‘got at him.’ ‘You’re a young man in
this same district,’ they said, ‘and you’re not the gentleman to be
afther taking the part of the black divils against your old friends
you’ve just come to live amongst, let alone the fact that you’re our
district-surgeon, and the same for the City Police. And isn’t your
bread and butter dependent on the squatters and settlers round, who
call us to do their dirty work for them and clean off the natives?
Divil a one of the same but would shut you out if you interfered wid
one of us. So, doctor _asthor_,’ they said in conclusion, ‘see what
you can do to help poor Dash out of the mess, for it’s yourself will
be called as a truthful witness at the inquest.’
“Well, this young friend of mine went and pleaded that he could
not tell if the bones were human remains or not, and the inquiry
consequently dropped through.”
“And did the inspector get off scot-free?”
“Well, not quite; ‘though very like it,’ as Mr. Pecksniff used to
say. The J.P., as I said, was an influential man, and did his best
to get the murderers punished. The inspector got sacked till the
elections were over, just to keep our J.P. and the newspaper folk
quiet. The ‘black boys’ too were brought to trial, but were released
on the ground that they could not understand English, although they’d
been years in the force, and English was the only medium employed
in their conversations with each other, and their instructions and
commands were always given in that language.”
“Well, doctor, that incident rather reflects on the judges of the
colony. But although I confess I can’t altogether believe that
such cruelty and gross miscarriage of justice does often happen in
Queensland, yet what you say just bears out what Williams, my mining
friend, says.
“He was on the Palmer gold-field, before it was the Palmer, you
know, and he tells me that the blacks were safe enough to travel
amongst till the settlers began to drive them from their water-holes
and steal their women. Why, two fellows and himself travelled from
Rockhampton to where Cooktown is now without any trouble from the
natives, three years before the Palmer broke out.”
“Yes, that’s thrue for ye, but the older school of diggers were a
mighty different lot to the rough lads that followed them. Many’s the
yarn I’ve had with the old boys in the accident ward, for it’s there
they open their hearts, as well as their mouths, for their medical
attendant to pry into. But the species is growing scarce, me bhoy,
and one may ask wid the swate poet,—
“‘Why is this glorious creature found,
One only in ten thousand?’”
And here the doctor forsakes the light Irish tone he has hitherto
assumed, which he calls his “visiting voice,” and calmly settles
down to smoke a cigar and answers his old friend’s questions in a
prosaic English conversation; honouring Claude, as he does but few,
by throwing aside, for the nonce, those scintillating surroundings
of synonyms that, like the gay flag at the live end of a lance, are
generally employed by the doctor’s countrymen in shielding the true
point of their remarks from view. He continues, after a thoughtful
pause:—
“After the first prospectors came those of whom Burns might have been
thinking when he sang,—
“‘Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn.’”
“Well, doctor, it’s true I haven’t seen much of miners yet, but the
only two I know are of the old school, and they certainly deserve
the encomium you borrowed from Wordsworth. But, by-the-bye, I wanted
to ask you, do you remember that surveyor telling us about the
permission given to a man, I forget his name, some years since, by
the Queensland government, to shoot any aboriginal he came across,
because his family had all been massacred by some tribe whose land
they had taken? Was it a fact or a yarn of our friend’s inventive
powers?”
“Not a bit of it; true as logic, and not the only case. Frazer
was the man’s name who had the permission given to him. Why, I
travelled up here only two years since with a fellow who had a
similar sort of ‘license to kill.’ He was going to some part of the
Gulf” (of Carpentaria) “to revenge his brother’s death by killing
all the blacks he might come across. This Frazer went about for
years shooting all and every native he could see, ‘station boys,’
warragals, or town blacks,—he was not very particular. It became a
kind of mania with him; and at last, having killed a favourite boy of
some influential squatter, there was a bit of trouble over it, and
he had to leave off further sacrificing to the Manes of his people,
except out of the way of newspaper folk.
“I once knew an inspector of police, who’s dead now, who asked my
advice professionally about himself. He said that after some years of
this man-hunting, he found himself suffering from a growing morbid
desire to kill everything alive he saw. He was distracted with an
idea that haunted him, that he might be unable to restrain himself
some day,—‘run amuck’ amongst the townsfolk or his own family; become
a new kind of Helene Iegado, in fact.”
“That’s an admirable peg, doctor, to hang a sensational tale on,—a
man haunted by the spectre of murder that he has raised himself,
and which he fears will some day make him turn his assassin’s knife
against his own beloved.”
“Oh, the disease is well-known,—a phase of that called cerebral
hyperæmia,” continued the doctor; “but it is rarer in the more
civilized countries than elsewhere. I consider the mere fact of an
educated, civilized man being able to continue to act the part of
wholesale exterminator of human beings, at so much a month, is a
_prima facie_ sign of insanity of the type Sir Henry Parkes mentioned
the other day to a deputation that waited upon him. Wonderful man,
Sir Henry, knows everything. Have you seen him?”
“Yes, but what did he say to the deputation? He didn’t call them
lunatics to their faces, did he?”
“Not exactly, though he did so in a roundabout way. No, the
deputation was composed of a number of good, soft-hearted, but also
soft-headed, old fogies, who wanted to obtain a reprieve for the
late-lamented murderer Hewett. ‘Sir ’Enry,’ as the _Bulletin_ calls
him, received them kindly, but sensibly refused to accede to their
request, saying, ‘There are few persons save scientific inquirers
who are aware of the number of people who take delight in acts of
deliberate cruelty.’ I think it is Dr. Marshall Hall, no, it’s Andrew
Winter, on ‘Insanity,’ says:—”
“‘It is the sustained departure from the normal condition of mind
and mode of life which should suggest a grave suspicion of impending
insanity. When we find a modest man become boastful, a lover of truth
transmitted into an habitual liar, a humane individual suddenly
become cruel, etc., we may be sure there is mental disturbance of a
very severe character.’”
“Well, how about our friend over there, doctor? It’s too dark now
to look at him, but our young inspector doesn’t seem to me either
particularly mad or cruel.”
“No, not yet, Angland, but I’d bet a thrifle, if I had it, that he
hates his work. At present he’s only a ‘sub,’ and if he’s wise he’ll
not stick to it. No, he’s not got the cruel facial-lines yet on his
‘boyish front.’”
“Whilst you’re on the subject of ‘hatred, murder, and all
uncharitableness,’ will you tell me about the hereditary part of the
business? Does a child always inherit the bloodthirsty proclivities
of its parents, say, in the case of the father having been forced by
circumstances to become a member of the Black Corps?”
“No, not always. It would be rough on the coming race of young
bush-reared Australians if that was the case. But as the history of
an animal is the history, to a great degree, of the race to which
it belongs, as Darwin says, only he puts it in rather a better way,
young humans have generally more or less savage instincts. Dr.
Hammond, the great authority upon neurology, declares, in a paper
upon the Whitechapel murders, that ‘a desire to kill exists, to a
greater or lesser extent, in the mind of every human being without
exception.’ Now civilization is the counteracting force. Parents
living in the backwoods of Australia, and accustomed to few of the
restraints of civilization and plenty of scenes of slavery and
slaughter, are hardly likely to train their offspring in the paths of
gentleness and peace.”
“You think there is more in a child’s associations and home training
in determining its character than in its parentage?”
“My experience of children I have seen grow into men certainly
points to that conclusion. But it is a somewhat difficult subject
on which to gather reliable data, for in nine cases out of ten the
child’s parents are inculcating their own ideas of right and wrong
into their youngster during the years its expanding brain is most
sensitive to permanent impressions. What an ordinary observer might
put down to hereditary characteristics of the individual, may thus
merely be due to tuition and example.”
“You think the guardians of youngsters, then, more responsible for
their children’s sins than is generally supposed?”
“Well, the young of well-bred men and animals—I mean by that of
parents whose ancestors have long been trained in and for certain
purposes and habits—have possibly less inclination to revert to the
original or wild type; but what a lady friend of mine in Auckland
said to me once upon a case in point very well expresses my opinions.
This lady told me that the mother of Hall called upon her once,
bringing the afterward notorious poisoner with her, he being then
a child. The youngster was a very spoilt child, and made a great
disturbance at first; but by-and-by he became quiet, and left the
room where the ladies were seated, to the great relief of both of
them. Presently, on Mrs. Hall leaving, the two ladies went to look
for the boy, and found him sitting on the lawn quietly watching the
agonies of my friend’s ‘harmless, necessary cat,’ all of whose paws
he had carefully disarticulated with a small axe. My lady friend in
telling me the incident said, ‘I was very shocked, of course, but I
can’t say I was very surprised, for he was a thoroughly spoilt boy,
and allowed to follow his own inclinations entirely; any child almost
would become bad and cruel under those circumstances.’ I believe, on
the whole, she was right in her reasoning.”
“And does this murdering of natives still go on, doctor? I can’t
really get my mind to believe it?”
“Come here, Angland, to the light from the captain’s cabin, and read
this.”
The doctor hereupon takes a South Queensland newspaper from his
pockets. Claude reads as follows in the _Thargomindah Herald_, of
date May 30th, 1889:
“(_From our Correspondents._)
“THE RECENT MURDER BY BLACKS.
“In connection with the recent murder of Edmund Watson, and the
attempted murder of James Evans, by blacks at Pine Tree Station,
in the Cook district, it has been ascertained that the weapons
used were a knife and axe, which were supplied by a station black
boy. The perpetrators were caught next day. Every station on the
Peninsula is contributing men to give the blacks a lesson.”
“The perpetrators, who were station-hands, were caught next day, as
the telegram says, but I suppose the excuse for the slaughter of the
whole tribe will not be missed.”
“Well, they don’t believe in Buddha’s assurance that ‘With mercy and
forbearance shalt thou disarm every foe,’ up here, evidently,” says
Claude, as the two men descend the companion ladder on their way
to “turn in.” Down below, an impromptu concert is being given by a
cluster of young men round the piano at the end of the saloon, and
the performers, who are mostly smoking, turn round constantly for
refreshments to the interesting collection of bottles and glasses
on the table behind them. A grand finale chorus, composed of a
conglomeration of “Ballyhooly” and “Finnegan’s Wake,” is just coming
to a close, and the gifted accompanist, being only six bars behind
the leading tenor, is hurrying up to be “in at the death” when Dr.
Junelle’s, entrance is noticed.
A shout of recognition hails his appearance, and he is forthwith
hauled off to the piano, where a dozen voices press him to “name
his pison.” Having refreshed himself with a foaming glass of “Irish
Liminade,” he protestingly complies with the loudly expressed
desires of the company, and throwing himself into the spirit of the
fun around him, as only an Irishman can do, at a moment’s notice,
forthwith bursts into melody.
“An’ mind you handle your tongues at the chorus, bhoys, for I’m
afther thinkin’ it’s me own will want breathing time betwane the
varses, the kays are that sticky wid lime juice and tobacco.”
Striking a few preliminary chords to silence the “bhoys” who are
all shouting for different songs, the doctor forthwith “trates” the
company to the following thoroughly “up-country” song, well-known in
Northern Queensland, which goes to the ancient air of “The King of
the Cannibal Islands.”
“THE QUEER WAYS OF AUSTRALIA.
“Dick Briggs, a wealthy farmer’s son,
To England lately took a run,
To see his friends, and have some fun,
For he’d been ten years in Australia.
Arrived in England, off he went
To his native village down in Kent,—
’Twas there his father drew his rent,
And many happy days he’d spent.
No splendid fine clothes on had he
But ‘jumper ’n boots up to the knee,
With dirty Sydney ‘cabbage-tree,’—
The costume of Australia.
_Chorus._
“Now when a fellow takes a run
To England for a bit of fun,
He’s sure to ’stonish every one
With the queer ways of Australia.
“Now Dick went home in this array;
His sister came out, and did say,
‘No, we don’t want anything to-day,’
To her brother from Australia.
Cried he, ‘Oh, don’t you know poor Dick?’
They recognized him precious quick;
The ‘old man’ hugged him like a brick.
And there was feasting there that night,
For Richard was a welcome sight,
For each one hailed with great delight
The wanderer from Australia.
_Chorus._
“The blessèd cattle on the farm
Regarded Dick with great alarm;
His swearing acted like a charm
When he gave them a ‘touch’ of Australia.
He could talk ‘bullock’ and ‘no flies,’
And when he bless’d poor Strawb’r’y’s eyes,
She looked at him with great surprise
As out of her he ‘took a rise.’
‘Fie, fie,’ his mother said one day,
‘What naughty, wicked words you say.’
‘Bless you, mother, that’s the way
We wake ’em up in Australia.’
_Chorus._
“Dick went to London for a spree,
And got drunk there, most gloriously;
He gave them a touch of ‘Coo-oo-ee!’
The bush cry of Australia.
He took two ladies to the play,
Both so serene, in dresses gay;
He had champagne brought on a tray
And said, ‘Now, girls, come fire away.’
They drank till they could drink no more,
And then they both fell on the floor.
Cried Dick, as he surveyed them o’er,
‘You wouldn’t do for Australia.’”
_Chorus._
Several other songs followed, and during the interval Claude makes
the acquaintance of the young sub-inspector of police. He appears
to be a particularly obliging kind of individual, although a little
“stand-offish” till Angland explains his present position, when, as
the doctor and Mr. Winze had both predicted, the words “Royal and
Imperial” once more assisted him in his project. How to get the young
officer to speak about his awful profession was the next question.
Would he be chary about giving any information about it? But before
Claude had time to puzzle himself much about arranging a plan of
campaign, he was saved the trouble of sapping up carefully to the
subject by the sub-inspector himself; for in response to a call for
a song, he obliged the company with a “little thing of his own,”
illustrative of the prowess of his Corps during a night attack by
natives upon a squatter’s head-station. This, as it is a lively bit
of poetry, we give in full; it was sung to the air of that best of
Whyte-Melville’s hunting songs, “A day’s ride,” having been written
in the same metre with that object in view.
“A NIGHT’S RIDE.
“When the evening sun is dying,
And the night winds o’er us sighing,
And the sad-voiced dingoes crying,
Where the dark hill’s shadows lay,
“Then the sounds of horses crashing,
Through the dark bush wildly dashing;
And bounding feet go pulsing past,
Quick beating on their way.
“Then on! blue coat, white shako!
Soon let your carbines rattle,
Where black _Myalls_ are howling round
A little force at bay!
“When we reach the station clearing,
And we hear our brothers cheering,
And our rifle-shots shout answer
O’er the yells of fear and pain,
“Knees tightly press our saddles,
As we charge the mass of devils,
And flashing red ’neath burning thatch
Our sabres clear a lane.
“Right and left the black forms reeling,
And our souls fierce pleasure feeling,
As madden’d steeds and whirling blades
Beat down the cursed crew.
“Every foe has fled, and quicker
Than he came, and in the glitter
Of half-burned sheds we gather
By the dark pool’s gloomy side;
“And we pledge the panting horses,
That are standing ’midst the corpses
Of the white-ribbed, grinning devils
That have caused our midnight ride.”
This song ended and the vocalists dispersing, Claude ventures to ask
the singer, “as a stranger in a strange land,” what the Corps may
be and what its duties. He finds that so far from the young officer
being ashamed of his profession, he evidently feels proud of his
position in the Black Police. The conversation is continued next day,
and before Claude says good-bye he discovers that the doctor was
right in his surmise.
“Yes,” the young sub-lieutenant once said to him, when they had
become somewhat confidential, “there is a good deal about the work I
don’t like. The worst part is the terrible anxiety lest any one owing
me a grudge should go in for proving a case against me. It is not a
pleasant feeling, the noose-round-your-neck idea one has at times.
I’m getting used to it, however; but there, I confess I don’t like
some of the business.”
He also told Claude a curious little incident about a young “sub,”
new in the force, who made a sad mistake in the first report he
sent into headquarters, describing a successful “rounding-up” of a
party of natives. He used the word “killed” instead of the official
“_dispersed_” in speaking of the unfortunate natives left _hors de
combat_ on the field. The report was returned to him for correction
in company with a severe reprimand for his careless wording of the
same. The “sub,” being rather a wag in his own way as things turned
out, corrected his report so that the faulty portion now read as
follows: “We successfully surrounded the said party of aborigines and
_dispersed_ fifteen, _the remainder_, some half-dozen, succeeded in
escaping.”