Mr. Charles M. Sheldon, the well-known war artist, who has done splendid
work for THE WIDE WORLD, has had several exciting experiences in the
course of his career. He was the special artist for _Black and White_
during the Dongola Campaign in 1896, and received the Khedivial medal with
two clasps awarded to the correspondents. He went through the
Spanish-American War in Cuba, was dispatched to South Africa at the time
of the Jameson Raid, and has also represented his paper in India. Mr.
Sheldon has a studio full of interesting souvenirs of his various
campaigns.
[Illustration: MR. CHARLES M. SHELDON, WHOSE JOURNEY DOWN THE HANNOCK
CATARACT ON THE SIDE OF A CAPSIZED BOAT IS HERE DESCRIBED.
_From a Photograph._]
It was during the Dongola Campaign that Mr. Sheldon met with his most
exciting adventure, and the fact that he is alive to-day is more owing to
good fortune, he says, than to any skill on his part on that occasion.
Mr. Sheldon joined the column advancing on Dongola under the command of
the Sirdar, then Sir Herbert Kitchener, at Wadi Halfa, and was present at
the Battle of Firket. After the battle, and while the railway was being
brought up, the army camped for a couple of months at Kosheh, where, in
addition to the terrible heat and sandstorms, cholera broke out, and
threatened at one time to annihilate the camp. When the railway was
completed as far as Kosheh, the force marched across an arm of the desert
to Hafir, where the gunboats drove the dervishes from their forts with
such loss that Dongola fell after very little resistance. The country
being cleared of the enemy, and the war for that year at an end, the
correspondents made hasty preparations for their journey to Cairo on their
way back to England. In order to reach rail-head, they decided to travel
by boat down the Nile to Firket, Mr. Sheldon and Mr. Seppings Wright, the
artist of the _Illustrated London News_, arranging to make the journey
together. Having sold their horses and camels and discharged their native
grooms, with the exception of one camel-man, they packed their baggage and
war-trophies on board a boat--purchased from Mr. H. A. Gwynne, now editor
of the _Standard_--and started down the river. They expected to accomplish
the journey in about six days and nights, and for the first three days the
conditions were delightful, as, floating mainly with the swift current,
they made rapid progress, enjoying to the full their enforced ease after
the hard work of the campaign. As they approached the Hannock, or third
cataract of the Nile, however, the voyage became more exciting, and
extreme caution was necessary on the part of the pilot in charge of the
boat. The Hannock cataract is, indeed, a formidable menace to navigation,
consisting as it does of about sixty miles of shelving ledges of rock and
groups of huge boulders, over and among which the water rushes headlong in
a series of whirlpools and rapids. It was here that several of the boats
taking part in Sir Garnet Wolseley’s campaign were overturned and many
lives lost.
[Illustration: THE ROUGH SKETCH OF THE RAPIDS WHICH MR. SHELDON WAS MAKING
WHEN THE DISASTER OCCURRED--IT WAS AFTERWARDS RECOVERED FROM THE WRECK OF
THE BOAT.]
The first few miles of the cataract were negotiated in safety in the early
morning, and Mr. Sheldon had just finished making a sketch of the rapids
when sudden and dire disaster overtook the party. The boat was a stoutly
built, three-quarter-decked craft, with one huge wing-like sail, and the
pilot had given the sheet into the care of the camel-man, who, to save
himself trouble, tied it, unobserved, to one of the seats. Finding it
necessary to tack across the river, to take the boat through a safe
channel between the rocks, the pilot, to bring the sail over, shouted to
the man to let go the rope. As it was securely fastened to the seat,
however, he was unable to do so, and in an instant, as the strong wind
caught the tacking boat, it capsized, flinging its occupants with
startling suddenness into the water.
Mr. Sheldon sank, but, after what seemed to him an interminable time, rose
to the surface, and, dashing the water from his eyes, found himself
battling with the full force of the seething current, which threatened
every instant to hurl him against the rocks. He realized immediately that
he would have a hard fight for his life, and at once struck out for the
boat, which was floating on her side some distance off. The only other
alternative was to swim to the nearest shore, but, as that was a quarter
of a mile or more away, Mr. Sheldon knew that he would be unable to reach
it alive in such a terrific current.
After a desperate struggle he gained the boat and pulled himself up
astride the gunwale. Mr. Seppings Wright had also managed to reach the
boat, which, under their combined weight, was floating but six inches out
of the water; while the pilot and camel-man hung on to the mast and
spar--all of them looking, as Mr. Sheldon says, more like half-drowned
rats than anything else he can think of.
It was quite evident that their position was critical, their one hope
being to cling to the boat, which was being carried down the Nile at an
alarming rate. At any moment it might go to pieces among the great masses
of rock and huge basalt boulders which projected from the surface of the
river throughout the entire length of the cataract. Indeed, their chances
of ever setting foot again on dry land appeared to be well-nigh hopeless.
It was only with extreme difficulty that they managed to cling to the
little craft as it plunged and kicked in the swirling eddies of the
cataract, and, once at the mercy of the furious torrent, they knew full
well that nothing short of a miracle could save them.
Both men discarded most of their clothing, for, as the wreck carried them
down the smooth slides over the ledges of rock--for all the world like
weirs--the boat was continually being sucked under the surface of the
water. When this happened and they were unable to retain their hold, it
was only by swimming with all their strength that they were able to
regain the boat when she rose again. Their baggage and cherished war
trophies had all been thrown into the water, and most of them went
straight to the bottom. But here and there they could see saddles,
valises, boxes, helmets, and other articles bobbing about in the current
until hurled against the rocks and destroyed, or detained far behind in
eddies.
[Illustration: “ON AND ON THE BOAT CARRIED THEM, SEEMINGLY ENDOWED WITH
HUMAN INTELLIGENCE AS IT DODGED THE ROCKS.”]
On and on the boat carried them, seemingly endowed with human intelligence
as it dodged the rocks and found a way for itself through the intricate
channels of the cataract, while the shipwrecked crew could but cling to
the gunwale with all their strength and trust to Providence for their
ultimate safety.
In this way mile after mile of the cataract was passed, with Mr. Sheldon
and his companions hoping against hope that the current would take them
near enough to the shore to swim for it. In this, however, they were
disappointed, for their craft kept well in the middle of the stream.
Presently, moreover, they drifted into another and worse rapid, where,
caught suddenly in a huge eddy, they were carried round and round until
the boat, after twisting and ducking in a manner that threatened to break
it up, incontinently sank beneath them--for good and all, it seemed. This
time it was a swim for life, and they were all but exhausted when, dazed
and spluttering, they succeeded in once more regaining the boat, which had
come up, in this instance, behind them. The principal danger they feared
was that the boat, which was continually swinging round, would drift
broad-side on to the rocks and break up completely.
Again and again, as they continued their mad career, a huge boulder would
loom up threateningly from out a smother of foam, and it looked as though
nothing could save the wreck from final disaster, but invariably the
self-navigated vessel would win a way for itself, at times actually
shaving the very side of the rock.
During their passage down the cataract the artists saw several native
villages and also some large ghyassas (native boats) drawn up on the bank,
but their frantic signals for help were either absolutely ignored, or the
natives, in their usual way, expended their energy in urging one another
to do something until the capsized boat was far out of sight.
Hour after hour they raced along--sometimes for a mile or two in
comparatively easy water, but more often struggling to retain their hold
as the vessel rolled and pitched in the rapids.
The afternoon waned at last, and with evening came a welcome abatement of
the sun’s pitiless rays, but still the anxious journey continued, with
current and rapid in long succession. The strength of the two weary
artists and the natives had by this time all but given out, and,
thoroughly exhausted and battered as they were, it was evident that if
they did not reach the shore before the rapidly-approaching darkness fell
it would certainly be all up with them. Then, providentially, a curve in
the river took the current close into the bank, carrying the boat to
within some thirty yards of the shore. The castaways realized at once that
this was a golden opportunity, but in their weak state it was exceedingly
doubtful if they would be able to swim to the bank. As luck would have it,
however, a number of natives appeared on the spot. They had been watching
the capsized craft with evident curiosity, and now, in response to urgent
signals for help, they put off to the assistance of Mr. Sheldon and his
companions. They easily reached the boat, bringing with them the curious,
wedge-shaped floats, constructed of reed-like sticks of ambatch wood,
which they use in crossing the Nile. With the timely aid of this primitive
form of river craft, Mr. Sheldon, Mr. Seppings Wright, and the natives
reached the bank in safety. Their voyage down the dangerous Hannock
cataract on the side of a derelict boat, lasting as it did from nine
o’clock in the morning until sunset, in the course of which they were
carried through some sixty miles of rock-strewn rapids, is, it is safe to
say, unique as a record of endurance and long-drawn-out peril, fraught
with possibilities of the most alarming description.
On reaching the shore they sank down dead-beat on the bank. Their
condition was most wretched, such little clothing as they retained
consisting of soaked and tattered rags. They had no means of making a
fire, which they badly needed, as, with the setting of the sun, the
terrific heat of the day was succeeded by the chill night air of the
desert. To make matters worse, the natives either could not or would not
give them anything to eat, and the only food they had of their own was a
tin of preserved ginger, found in a valise which one of the natives
rescued from the current.
The night, as may well be imagined, was passed in misery and discomfort,
but with the morning the welcome discovery was made that directly
opposite, a mile away on the farther bank, was one of the hospital camps
established by the Egyptian field force. Mr. Sheldon thereupon bribed a
native at the cost of a razor, also found in the valise, to swim the river
and obtain help for the party.
Now, at length, their troubles were ended. The commandant of the camp
signalled to a steamer, which carried them over to the other side, where
the officer provided them with dry clothes and what they most appreciated,
comfortable beds to sleep in.
* * * * *
There are but few artists, even marine artists, who have actually followed
the sea as a profession. A well-known name among the few who have done so
is that of Mr. E. S. Hodgson, whose strong, vigorous illustrations of
seafaring adventures are a familiar feature in The Wide World. A casual
glance at his drawings is sufficient to show that he has an intimate
acquaintance with the life and customs of a sailor, and they are executed
with a realistic touch that could not be attained except by personal
experience.
Mr. Hodgson, while on a voyage, once met with a serious accident which
nearly cost him his life; and it was entirely owing to the effects of this
mishap that he gave up the sea and decided to become an artist. Mr.
Hodgson has provided us with the following account of what happened to him
for inclusion in our series of “Adventures of WIDE WORLD Artists.” His
ship, the barque _Her Majesty_, six hundred tons register, sailed from the
London Docks bound for the West Indies with a cargo of bricks and rice for
the prisons in Martinique.
For some weeks nothing out of the ordinary routine of life aboard ship
occurred, _Her Majesty_ bowling along with a favourable wind and making
good headway.
The north-east trades had only just been reached, however, when bad
weather was encountered, storms and squalls succeeding each other day
after day.
[Illustration: MR. E. S. HODGSON, WHO FELL FROM THE MAST OF A SHIP TO THE
DECK BELOW, A DISTANCE OF OVER A HUNDRED FEET.
_From a Photograph._]
“All hands on deck,” was the order one bleak, dark night when a sudden
blustering gale arose, and Mr. Hodgson, with the rest of the crew who were
keeping their watch below, tumbled up, none too pleased at the prospect of
a night on deck instead of in their bunks.
“Jump up there, my lad, and make fast the fore-royal,” was the skipper’s
order to our artist.
“Aye, aye, sir,” he replied, as he made for the foot of the shrouds. The
gale was blowing at a terrific rate, causing the ship to plunge and roll
heavily, and Mr. Hodgson’s task would have been a dangerous one even for a
much more experienced sailor. The order had been given, however, and up he
had to go.
It was a perilous journey up into the blackness of the night, and he had
literally to feel his way rope by rope, hanging on by hands and toes. The
oscillation of the ship was so violent that he expected every moment to be
flung into the sea, while the thudding of the clewed-up sails threatened
to carry the masts overboard. Higher and higher he climbed until he
reached the top-gallant rigging, where the fury of the gale literally
pinned him to the ropes, but at length he managed to crawl out on to the
yard. The foot-ropes were shallow, making it necessary for him to kneel on
them, but once out on the yard Mr. Hodgson applied himself to the work of
securing the sail with all possible speed, a task which the pitch-darkness
of the night and the plunging of the ship rendered one of extreme
difficulty, perched as he was over a hundred feet above the level of the
deck. He had bent over to gather the madly-slatting canvas when suddenly
it bellied up over the yard and bore him irresistibly backwards with it.
In a flash he saw his danger and, with a frantic clutch, tried to grasp
the sail--missed it--and realized that he was falling! The accident had
happened so suddenly that for the moment he was unconscious of the full
extent of his peril; his brain was unable to take in the terrible
significance of what had occurred, and the situation seemed unreal--a
passing freak of the imagination that would presently be dispelled. Then
the blackness seemed to lessen slightly and, coming slowly towards him, he
could see the top-gallant yard and the men on it busy furling the sail.
Mr. Hodgson says the sensation he experienced was that of floating easily
and gently in the air; he did not seem to be actually falling. Next the
upper topsail yard appeared to pass him, brushing gently by him on its way
“up.” Then, with a vague sense of wonder, he noticed that he could make
out clearly all the details of the deck, which seemed to be rushing up
towards him with a gigantic leap. At once, as his brain cleared, the
appalling truth dawned on him that he was falling down, down, through the
darkness, and with a feeling of unutterable horror he realized that,
powerless to help himself, he must, in the course of the next few seconds,
be dashed to his death on the deck, or to an equally certain fate in the
roaring seas alongside.
The various objects now began to lose their shape and the darkness closed
in again; then came oblivion, for, mercifully, Mr. Hodgson lost
consciousness before he reached the deck.
“Poor laddie! I doot he’s gone. This will be sore news to send home.” This
remark, coming to him as though from far away, was Mr. Hodgson’s first
intimation that he was still alive. He recognised the skipper’s voice,
and, opening his eyes, discovered that he was lying on the deck,
surrounded by the entire ship’s crew, with the captain bending over him.
He was in such frightful agony, however, that he promptly fainted away
again, and did not recover consciousness for a week. He then found out
that his leg was fractured in three places, and as the ship was three
weeks’ journey from the nearest port, and there was no doctor on board,
Mr. Hodgson experienced a long period of excruciating agony, and, in fact,
thought that he was dying.
[Illustration: “HE TRIED TO GRASP THE SAIL--MISSED IT--AND REALIZED THAT
HE WAS FALLING!”]
What doctoring he did get was of an exceedingly rough and ready
description, and was provided by one of the fo’c’s’le hands who had at one
time had his own leg fractured, and on the strength of this claimed to
know all about broken bones. It may have been that he was specially gifted
in this respect, or it may have been sheer luck, but he certainly made a
very fair job of it, all things considered.
Three weeks later, when _Her Majesty_ reached St. Pierre, after an
exceptionally long passage out of ninety-eight days, a medical man was
sent for at once, who was not at all satisfied with the methods of his
unprofessional rival. In fact, he announced that Mr. Hodgson would never
be able to walk again, and advised the immediate amputation of his injured
limb. Mr. Hodgson, however, decided that if he was to return home at all
he would do so as a whole man, and flatly refused his consent. Fearing
that the operation would be performed against his will, he declined, for
days together, to touch any of the food offered him, in case it should
have been “doctored” and he would wake up minus his leg. After _Her
Majesty_ had unloaded her cargo and taken another on board she sailed for
home, and Mr. Hodgson went with her, but his troubles were by no means
over, as the ship foundered in a gale and the crew took to the boats. As
may well be imagined, Mr. Hodgson, in his enfeebled state, was in no fit
condition for such an experience, and during the eight days’ journey in
open boats that followed until the island of Santa Cruz was reached his
sufferings were beyond description.
Mr. Hodgson went to sea for a year or two after his accident, but as the
unskilled treatment of his amateur doctor was not entirely successful the
bones of his leg were never properly set. Although the limb was sound
enough for all ordinary purposes it was not strong enough to stand the
continual strain of a seafaring career, and he accordingly made a fresh
start in life as an artist, with what success is well known to our
readers.
Mr. Hodgson says, “Until you have known me quite a long time you would not
think that I was any the worse for my accident,” and as he fell over a
hundred feet the wonder is that he was not killed on the spot. His escape
from death was, in fact, little short of miraculous.
* * * * *
Mr. Norman H. Hardy’s record of travel is certainly as extensive as that
of any artist whose work appears in the pages of THE WIDE WORLD--or of any
other magazine, for that matter. He was for seven years in Australia as
the special artist of the _Sydney Mail_, and in the course of his
wanderings has visited the South Sea Islands, New Guinea, Solomon Islands,
New Hebrides, New Britain, China, Siam, India, and Egypt. His latest trip
was on a roving commission to Central Africa during the early part of this
year.
[Illustration: MR. NORMAN H. HARDY, WHO WAS ATTACKED BY A MOB OF
INFURIATED SHEEP-SHEARERS ON STRIKE IN AUSTRALIA.
_From a Photograph._]
While in Australia Mr. Hardy met with some exciting experiences in
connection with the New South Wales sheep-shearing strike in 1894, one
which he will always remember as an occasion on which he was lucky to
escape with his life. The strike was brought about by the union
sheep-shearers, who objected to the employment of “free” or non-union men
who were willing to work at a lower rate of pay, and caused wild
excitement throughout New South Wales. The unionists struck work in a body
and resorted to “picketing,” threatening the free labourers with violence
if they persisted in carrying on their work. This affected many thousand
men, as in New South Wales sheep-shearing is a trade of such importance
that the welfare of the entire State was involved. To such a height did
the excitement rise that the bad feeling between the opposing factions
grew to alarming proportions, resulting in serious loss of life, and the
country rang with reports and rumours of outrages perpetrated by the
incensed unionists. The seriousness of the situation was such that the
late Sir George Dibbs, then Premier of New South Wales, issued a
proclamation in which he threatened to call out the military to quell the
riots.
Burrowang station, in New South Wales, was regarded as the stronghold of
the unionists, and it was recognised that on the turn of affairs there the
ultimate issue of the strike depended.
Mr. Hardy was accordingly dispatched to Burrowang as the special
correspondent of the _Sydney Mail_, making the journey in the company of
some forty “free” men, under the charge of a Mr. Campbell. The men were a
very mixed lot, drawn from all classes of society, and were sent out by a
non union pastoral organization to take the places of the shearers who
were on strike.
A special train had been chartered, and as, at six o’clock in the evening,
the closely-packed cars left Sydney it was evident that there was a
feeling of uneasiness among the passengers, for it was well known that the
unionists were in strong force at various points along the line. Some of
the younger men had undertaken the journey from pure love of adventure,
but the older men were mostly out-of-luck miners and shearers who were
genuinely in search of work. While on their way to Sydney a number of them
had already come into contact, at Circular Quay railway station, with some
of the unionists, and a fierce fight had ensued; this fact undoubtedly
helped to increase the alarm of the rest of the men in the train.
At Emu Plains station, where the train halted, the less resolute were
seized with an attack of panic, and had literally to be driven back into
the cars when the train was ready to start again, where they sat in gloomy
apprehension of danger as they approached nearer and nearer their
destination.
The journey from Sydney to Burrowang is made, in the ordinary course, by
train to Forbes, and thence by horse-buggies. But as at the latter place
an angry mob of unionists was awaiting the arrival of the “free
labourers’” train, it was decided to resort to strategy to avoid the risk
of an ugly fight between the two parties.
Accordingly, although, as a blind, coaches and mounted police were ordered
to meet the special train at Forbes, the driver was instructed to stop at
the small station of Droubalgie, where a second contingent of four-horsed
cars, also guarded by mounted police, were waiting to convey the men to
Burrowang, thus avoiding the unwelcome attentions of the rioters at
Forbes, whose anger, when they found they had been outwitted, speedily
brought them into conflict with the police.
The men were in a tremendous state of excitement as the train drew up at
the station, and many of them were afraid to take their seats in the
buggies; but at length, when it was seen that there were no union men in
sight, Mr. Campbell and Mr. Hardy were able to induce them to take their
seats. There was scarcely room for all, and the cars were uncomfortably
crowded, but Mr. Hardy, owing to the fact that he was popularly supposed
to be a detective from Sydney, was given a box-seat. Just as they were
starting two horsemen, who turned out to be union men who had got wind of
the “blacklegs’” arrival, appeared on the scene. They tried hard to induce
the “free” men to join them, but without success, and finally galloped off
to Forbes, after having announced their intention of informing the waiting
crowds of the arrival of the train at Droubalgie and bringing them in
pursuit. The buggies containing Mr. Hardy’s party thereupon started off
with all speed, led by the mounted police. The going was bad, frequently
over long stretches of quagmire and marsh land, occasional stoppages being
necessary when one or other of the coaches became bogged, sinking
axle-deep in the mud and requiring terrific exertion to move it.
[Illustration: THE COACHES ON THE ROAD FROM DROUBALGIE TO BURROWANG,
GUARDED BY MOUNTED POLICE.
_From a Photograph._]
Another uncomfortable night was spent in the bush, the men camping out by
the side of the coaches, strict silence being enforced in order not to
attract the attention of the unionists. Following an early and meagre
breakfast a start was made, and after a journey of some hours the men
became easier in their minds, as it was thought that the pursuit had been
abandoned. Soon after, however, as the coaches emerged from a belt of
timber and scrub into open ground, it was seen that a number of unionists
were waiting for them. The strikers were all mounted and at once charged,
yelling fiercely, and started pelting the coaches with stones. It looked
as though there was bound to be serious trouble, but the mounted police,
with characteristic promptitude, drew their carbines and prepared to open
fire.
The attitude of the troopers had its effect on the strikers, who, after a
slight show of resistance, drew off and allowed the coaches to proceed on
their way. Some few of them, however, had managed to get to close
quarters, and hard knocks were exchanged, resulting in injuries to both
sides, happily none of them severe.
As it turned out, this was the only real excitement that occurred during
the journey, and a few hours later Mr. Hardy and the rest of the party
made their entry into Burrowang.
A meeting was at once held at which both sides were well represented, Mr.
Hardy attending in the ranks of the non-unionists. The conference provoked
a considerable amount of bad feeling, and was broken up in wild disorder
by the strikers when they found they could not induce the new arrivals to
join them. The presence of the police, however, prevented any serious
fighting, only one man being badly injured.
[Illustration: THE COACH ON WHICH MR. HARDY WAS RIDING WHEN HE WAS
ATTACKED BY THE STRIKERS.
_From a Photograph._]
Mr. Hardy soon discovered that he was a marked man, as it was thought that
he was either a detective or else an official of the non-unionist
organization, and for the next few days it was only by seeking police
protection that he avoided bodily harm at the hands of the mob. The whole
place was in a suppressed state of excitement owing to the attitude of the
strikers, who, it was evident, were liable to break out at any moment, and
neither life nor property was regarded as safe. Several attempts were made
to burn down the wool-sheds, but happily they were in every case
discovered before serious damage was done. Under police supervision the
new men started work, but it was at once apparent that they were, in most
cases, absolutely unfitted for the work of sheep-shearing, and as the
season was by now well advanced skilled labour was soon at a premium. The
situation was critical, and at length the union men were approached and
asked to resume work at their own terms. This offer they unanimously
refused unless every “free” man was discharged.
At length, having treated the strike from every possible point of view,
Mr. Hardy decided to return to Sydney, and accordingly booked his place on
the next mail-coach running to Forbes, as it was not possible to get a
conveyance to Droubalgie on his way back. The strike was still at its
height, and the route to Forbes and that town itself were strongly held by
the unionists. Mr. Hardy was prepared for an exciting journey, as all
coaches were subjected to the closest scrutiny, and he himself was
suspected of non-unionist sympathies.
When the Forbes coach drew up at Burrowang for the mails, and the coachman
discovered that he was to have as a passenger Mr. Hardy, who had taken an
active part in the strike, he was in an exceedingly perturbed state of
mind. In spite of his fears, however, the start was made quietly enough.
The day’s journey through bush and scrub proved uneventful, and towards
evening the coach drew up at a small bush station, where a halt was made
for the night.
In the morning three more passengers put in an appearance--all non-union
men--and also a new driver, who was to take the reins as far as Forbes,
where, the latest report had it, the strikers were in an extremely
dangerous mood. The new driver, when he had taken stock of his passengers,
appeared to be even more terror-stricken than his predecessor. He warned
them that there was likely to be serious trouble, as the only practicable
road took them close to the unionist camp just outside Forbes. He was
also particularly anxious to know whether any of the party possessed
unionist passes. These were simply small scraps of paper scrawled over in
a peculiar manner in blue pencil; but, as they enabled their holders to
pass through the camps without molestation, they were extremely useful,
and Mr. Hardy remembered with regret that he had been offered one at
Burrowang. Attaching little importance to the offer at the time, however,
he had declined it.
As the coach neared Forbes two mounted union men were seen, who on the
approach of the vehicle at once turned about and galloped back, with the
object, it was thought, of informing the strikers of its arrival. Their
action proved too much for two of the passengers, who promptly insisted on
being put down. The journey was then resumed with Mr. Hardy and the driver
on the box, and the remaining passenger inside, cowering under the seat.
As the camp came in sight an outburst of shouting gave ample proof of the
hostile attitude of the strikers, a number of whom at once made a rush to
meet the coach.
A short distance along the road was a bridge spanning a small creek, and
at this point a strong guard of strikers was posted to hold up all
traffic. On previous occasions their method of procedure had been to haul
out any passengers who were without passes, rob them of everything they
possessed, and, after treating them with the utmost brutality, set them to
work in a menial capacity about the camp. The driver of the coach, when he
found that he was in actual danger, plucked up his courage and, lashing
his horses into a gallop, made a dash for the bridge at a furious pace.
Mr. Hardy was immediately recognised by the foremost of the strikers, who,
with hoarse cries of rage, shouted to the men on the bridge to stop the
coach at all costs.
The terrific rate at which the horses were travelling showed plainly that
it was the driver’s intention to ride down any opposition, and this action
provoked such an outburst of fury among the mob that it was perfectly
clear that if they did manage to stop the coach both he and Mr. Hardy,
even if they escaped with their lives, would be treated with savage
violence.
Mr. Hardy’s presence on the coach--it will be remembered that the men
suspected him of being a detective--had the same effect on the strikers as
a red rag on a bull, and with an ungovernable fury of rage and at imminent
risk of their lives they literally hurled themselves at the horses’ heads,
meanwhile calling on the driver, with the vilest imprecations, to halt.
By way of reply the Jehu applied the whip to his team still more
vigorously, yelling at the same time at the top of his voice that anyone
who dared to stop the Royal Mail would get ten years for his trouble. His
threat, however, was ignored, and presently the sharp crack of a revolver
rang out. Mr. Hardy felt a bullet whiz past his head, missing him by
inches. The shot was followed the next instant by another, and it was only
the celerity with which he ducked down to avoid the bullet that saved his
life.
The sound of the firing caused the frightened horses to rear and kick,
knocking down the men who had seized their bridles and almost stopping the
coach.
The check, however, was only momentary, and as the horses plunged forward
again some of the more excited strikers, who, with wild curses, had
endeavoured to climb the side of the coach to get at Mr. Hardy, were flung
back into the roadway.
The panic-stricken horses in their mad struggles had dragged the coach
across the road, and nearly over the side of the bridge into the creek
below, but the driver, applying his whip freely, soon had his team under
control again, and, scattering the crowd to right and left, the flying
coach crossed the bridge, followed by a volley of sticks, bottles, and
stones. Mr. Hardy, crouching low over the seat, was struck with such
violence by a brick on the left shoulder that he at first thought it was
fractured, but happily he escaped further injury. With the horses maddened
and excited, the coach dashed at a furious pace along the short stretch of
road to Forbes, where it drew up at a small hotel. The coachman was white
to the lips from the strain, and the inside passenger alighted trembling
with fright, while Mr. Hardy confesses that he felt more than a little
shaky.
A large crowd soon collected, anxious to learn the cause of the
excitement, and the hotel-keeper, when he heard the driver’s story,
promptly dragged Mr. Hardy indoors, telling him, if he valued his life, to
keep out of sight. The presence of the police prevented an attack being
made on the place, and when things had quietened down a little our artist
was able to slip out unnoticed. After another coach ride, this time a
peaceful one, he made his way back by rail to Sydney.
In the end the unionists gained the day at Burrowang, going back to work
on their own terms, and thus virtually ending the strike throughout New
South Wales.
[Illustration: “THE FLYING COACH CROSSED THE BRIDGE, FOLLOWED BY A VOLLEY
OF STICKS, STONES, AND BOTTLES.”]
* * * * *
Mr. Inglis Sheldon-Williams is an artist with a grievance. He complains
that, although he has travelled a great deal and roughed it in various
parts of the world--and for so young a man his record is remarkable--he
has not met with a single first-class adventure of a really hair-raising
nature. That he ought to have done so is an obvious fact, he says, and,
indeed, on several occasions he has been perilously near as much
excitement as would last any man a lifetime. In fact, it may be said that
he has been out looking for trouble most of his life, and he is to be
accounted lucky in that he has never found it.
Early in his career he emigrated to Canada, where for some years he lived
the rough-and-tumble life and endured the manifold hardships that fall to
the lot of a farmer in the back-woods. At the call of art, however, he
returned to England to study, but with the longing for adventure strong
upon him he later enlisted in the Imperial Yeomanry and took part in the
South African Campaign, where he saw some considerable amount of fighting.
When the war between Japan and Russia broke out, Mr. Sheldon-Williams was
early in the field as the special artist for the _Sphere_, and was in
China and Manchuria during the earlier stages of the campaign. He has
also visited India and attended the Durbar.
[Illustration: MR. INGLIS SHELDON-WILLIAMS, SOME OF WHOSE VARIED
EXPERIENCES ABROAD ARE HERE RELATED.
_From a Photograph._]
On numerous occasions he has congratulated himself that he was at last
placed in a critical situation, only to finish up with an anti-climax.
When he was in Canada, for instance, he lost himself on the prairie while
in charge of a team of oxen. A terrific blizzard came on, and, as the snow
was absolutely blinding and the temperature many degrees below
freezing-point, all sorts of unpleasant things might easily have happened.
Mr. Sheldon-Williams had visions of wandering about for days in the snow,
starving and frostbitten, with a mere possibility of rescue when he was in
the last stages of exhaustion. But although _he_ was lost, his oxen were
not, and they took him safely home.
On another occasion he attempted to rescue a duck from the depths of a
well, but fell in himself--into sixteen feet of water. Any other man
placed in this situation would have been drowned without any bother at
all. But Mr. Sheldon-Williams had not been in the water more than a few
minutes before he was discovered and hauled out by the united efforts of
his mother and sister.
It was just the same in South Africa--no luck at all, simply a lot of
dramatic situations which fizzled out miserably. On one occasion Mr.
Sheldon-Williams’s company occupied a farm-house near Johannesburg, and
the very night on which he was absent, having ridden into town to deposit
some money in the bank, was the one selected by the Boers to attack the
place. His bed was close up against a window through which the Boers fired
volley after volley. Had Mr. Sheldon-Williams occupied it as usual, he
would undoubtedly have been shot!
On another occasion he got leave of absence from a patrol, as the
neighbourhood was supposed to be clear of the enemy, in order to do some
sketching. The patrol was, of course, ambushed, and the man who took his
place shot dead.
Another piece of particularly bad luck occurred when Mr.
Sheldon-Williams’s troop was attacking Klip River Kopje. The Boers had
actually been seen on the ridge, and in the morning he was one of the men
selected for scouting purposes. As he rode up the hill it certainly looked
as though he had a fine chance of figuring in the next list of killed and
wounded. But, as Mr. Sheldon-Williams says, “It was not my fault that the
Boers had left overnight!”
At Diamond Hill it was just the same. A mere handful of Yeomanry, Mr.
Sheldon-Williams among them, held an exposed position throughout the night
in the face of the enemy, determined to do or die. As it happened they did
neither, for the next day they were told that there had been an armistice
on all the time.
Before Pretoria Mr. Sheldon-Williams was in the firing-line, which was
strung out on the left of the advance. The Boer shell-fire had set the
grass alight, depriving them of anything like adequate cover, and in the
open the rifle-fire from the Boers was nothing more or less than a leaden
hailstorm, but he was not even wounded. Presently the order to withdraw
was given, but, having fallen asleep, he failed to notice it, and was the
last man to leave. As he thus offered himself as a suitable target for a
little individual sniping, a Boer marksman took careful aim at him and
fired. He was a remarkably good shot, but, needless to say, he missed Mr.
Sheldon-Williams, who at that precise moment stooped down to pick up a
discarded rifle, the bullet passing close over his head! All things
considered, therefore, Mr. Sheldon-Williams has certainly received
exceptional treatment at the hands of Dame Fortune, but so long as she
continues to serve him in the same way it is difficult to see that he has
any just cause for complaint.
_Hunting the Hippopotamus._