THE GOLD-FEVER IN NEW SOUTH WALES AND TASMANIA
1853-1855
During my stay in Melbourne the gold-fever was at its height. I was
particularly interested in the mines, and went to Ballarat to see how
the British managed these things. It was while I was there, as it
happened, that the great "bonanza nugget" was discovered. I shall never
forget the impression that this discovery and its tragic ending made
upon my mind. It is a story that the world has heard many times,
perhaps, and as many times forgotten; but for one who felt its terrible
lesson stamped hot upon his heart, it is unforgettable.
There were lucky and unlucky miners in Australia, as there have been
everywhere else in the world's gold-fields. Many found great nuggets
that contained fortunes--"infinite riches in a little room"--while many
more found nothing but infinite hardship and heart-breaking misery.
Among the army of broken men, there was a "hobo" named Hooligan who had
not found any gold, could no longer find even work, and was starving.
One day he went to the owners of a mine or shaft that had been worked
out, and asked permission to go down to try his luck. They consented.
The desperate fellow took his pick and descended to the bottom of the
shaft. In a few minutes he was worth a fortune. He had found the biggest
nugget ever taken out of the earth's treasure-house. Two hundred feet
below the surface of the ground, he had driven his pick, by merest
chance, against a lump of gold that would have transmuted Midas's wand
into better metal.
He came up out of the shaft, knowing that he had found a pretty big sum,
but did not realize how much it was. The nugget was brought up and
weighed. It had exactly the weight of a barrel of flour, 196 pounds. He
was rich. That morning he had been a beggar, and now he was the richest
miner in the fields. They weighed the gold carefully, and told him that
he was a rich man.
"Is--all--that--mine?" he asked, as if the words were as heavy as the
big nugget and as valuable. They told him it was. "It doesn't belong to
the Government?" "No." "All mine," he said in a whisper, and dropped to
the floor, dead.
No one knew him. His name even was not known. He was a mere restless
wanderer upon the face of the earth, and had broken his heart over the
biggest nugget, the richest piece of gold, on the globe. And so the
nugget became the property of the Government, after all.
Capt. David D. Porter, who was afterward admiral of the United States
navy, visited Melbourne while I was there, and I gave him a reception,
at which he met the prominent people of the colony. He was a relative of
mine. I was very proud of him then, though more so later. He was in
command of the Golden Age, which was afterward famous for the Black
Warrior incident. He invited my wife and myself to go with him in his
ship to Sydney, New South Wales. We had a delightful trip around the
island. The ship made as great a sensation in Sydney as it had made in
Melbourne. The American flag had rarely been seen above a man-of-war in
those waters. At Sydney we met Sir Charles Fitzroy, Governor of New
South Wales, as well as prominent people in civil and official life. Sir
Charles Fitzroy was a survival of the old "beau" days of the court of
the last of the Georges, and had the heavy courtesy of that time, when
everything said or done was accompanied by a low bow and a gracious
smile. He entertained us handsomely at Government House. We were also
entertained by Sir Charles Nicholson, at his beautiful country seat. I
had the peculiar pleasure, while in Australia, of fulfilling one of the
prophecies of Sidney Smith, made when he had been editor of the
Quarterly Review some forty years before. He said, I remembered, that in
half a century cargoes of tea--the luxury that England of his day and
ours regards as an infallible evidence of civilization--would be landed
at the docks of Sydney. He referred to Port Jackson, which is now
dominated by the thriving city of Sydney, and was then one of the most
promising ports of the South Seas. I was, at that time, receiving tea on
consignment from Nye, of Canton, China, called the "Napoleon of tea
trade," and it occurred to me that Australia should be a good market for
it. Three cargoes came from Canton, with instructions that if the market
at Melbourne proved unfavorable, one of the cargoes should be shipped to
Sydney. It was accordingly sent there, fulfilling the prophecy of Sydney
Smith, and opening the tea trade of that portion of Australia.
Sir Charles Nicholson, before we were there, entertained Commodore
Wilkes, who was visiting Australia, and who afterward stirred up Great
Britain by removing forcibly from the British mail-steamer Trent the
Confederate States' agents, Mason and Slidell. I was surprised to find
in the harbor two of our old packets, the Anglo-American and the
Washington Irving, Captain Caldwell's packet, under changed names. They
had been sold to English ship-owners.
Sydney was not a large place at this time, although it was growing fast.
It may be well to recall here that it had been founded as a penal
colony, the effects of which had not entirely passed away at the time of
my visit, although no convicts had arrived since '41, I believe. The
influence of Botany Bay had also been felt by Sydney. I was struck by
the beautiful, narrow, rock-bound entrance to the harbor. It gives to
the port many miles of seashore, and is so winding that when Captain
Cook, who discovered it, sailed in and anchored in Botany Bay, some of
his sailors reported that they saw from the masthead a large inland lake
in the interior. The "lake" proved to be only an apparent one, produced
by one of the many windings of the beautiful, sinuous arm of the sea,
eventually to hold in its embrace the fine city of Sydney.
We returned from Sydney to Melbourne after a short but delightful visit.
Shortly after leaving port we ran into one of the most terrific storms I
have ever experienced. It was the right time of the year for gales to
appear, and this one, as is characteristic of the wild nature of the
South Seas, seemed to spring from a clear sky and unruffled waters. If
our boat had been one of the usual type of merchantmen, it must
certainly have gone down. But the Golden Age was stanch and strong. She
battled with the seas as with a human foe. In spite of her
seaworthiness, however, almost every one aboard thought she could not
withstand the repeated shock of waves that tumbled in mountains against
her bows.
In the midst of the storm, I saw one of the most prominent and richest
merchants of Sydney coming across the deck, thrown hither and thither by
the tossings of the ship, and carrying in his hands a very heavy
package. "For the love of goodness, what have you there?" I asked in
amazement. He made no direct reply, and I thought him too much terrified
to speak, but he finally came close up to me and said: "Mr. Train, I
know you have some influence here on the ship. I have brought with me
one thousand sovereigns. They are here"--and he tapped the bag he
carried in his hands. "I want you to go with me to the captain and give
him this amount for putting me off in a small boat." "A small boat would
not live a minute in this sea," I said. "I am prepared," he replied, "to
take my chances, as it would be better there than here, for the ship may
go down any moment." I refused to go to the captain with so foolish a
request, and urged him to be calm, as the ship was stout and would
weather the storm. He could not calm himself, but fretted and fumed in
terror. As fortune favored us, the gale suddenly stopped, sweeping on
away from us as swiftly as it had come. The rich merchant soon took his
thousand sovereigns back to his room.
I have stated already that I was the agent for Boston insurance people.
This, of course, made me somewhat solicitous about the safety of all
vessels in those waters. One morning the entire city of Melbourne was
startled by the news that a great clipper had gone down or ashore on
Flinder's Island, off Point Nepean. Later we learned that she was
ashore, and that signals of distress were flying from her masthead and
rigging. Of course, I was much alarmed, and began at once to see what
could be done to save the ship and crew. I got a tug, and was soon
taking a rescue party down Hobson's Bay. We steamed as fast as the tug's
engines would carry her through the driving seas. As we neared the
wreck, we saw that the ship was the Whistler from Boston. She seemed to
be a complete wreck, and with our glasses we could not discover any sign
of life aboard her.
I did not give up the venture there, however, but directed the captain
of the tugboat to make directly for the island. I had a vague hope that
the crew had somehow managed to get ashore in the boats or on floating
timbers. The captain did not relish this part of his work, and his fears
were soon justified, for we very narrowly escaped shipwreck ourselves in
the wild seas. We had, finally, to wait until the waves went down a
little, before attempting to land on Flinder's Island. We got up as near
as we could, however, and then we saw signals flying from shore. We
signaled in reply, and the wrecked crew understood that we were waiting
for the sea to run less wildly before attempting to reach land.
The wind died down slowly, and it was hours before we could approach
the coast. As soon as possible, I got out with a crew in a small boat
and went to the island. We had a most difficult time in getting through
the surf and avoiding the breakers, but we finally reached shore. There
we found Captain Brown with his wife, the ship's officers and the crew,
all alive and well. They had managed to live on shell-fish and
wallaby--the small bush kangaroos. They had not been able to take
anything from the ship, and could not, of course, reach her after she
had been abandoned. We got them all aboard the tug, and carried them
safely to Melbourne. The American consul afterward sent them all home by
way of Liverpool. This was the second rescue of shipwrecked crew and
passengers that I had made, and I felt a little too proud of it, I
suppose.
About this time the British and Colonial Governments decided to settle
Tasmania with free emigrants. The idea was to pay the expenses of all
who wanted to go to that island, and the Governments made a contract
with the White Star Line to transport the settlers. The British
Government was to pay one half the expense, and the Colonial Government
the remainder. The contract was signed by Henry T. Wilson, manager of
the White Star Line, the sailing-ship pioneers of Morgan's mammoth
steamship combination, who sent all the papers to me at Melbourne, as
representing the company, to see that the terms of the agreement were
carried out. He also requested me to go to Hobart Town (now called
Hobart) to be there when the first ship-load of emigrants arrived to
collect the money for the passage. I immediately took steamer for Hobart
Town, and I shall never forget the pleasure of that voyage. It was a
revelation. The trip up the estuary to Hobart Town was delightful, and
the scenery, I think, was altogether the most charming I had seen in the
Southern world. At Hobart Town I was received by Mr. Chapman, a shipping
merchant, to whom I had written in advance, and he made me stay with him
at his beautiful bungalow, on the crest of a high hill, commanding a
fine view of the city.
The emigrants arrived in excellent condition. They were the first free
settlers of Tasmania. There had not been a death aboard ship, and the
moment the newcomers arrived they were employed, for the city of Hobart
Town was very thriving, and there was an abundance of work to be done. I
again had the pleasure of feeling that in this, as in other enterprises,
I was an argonaut and a pioneer.
I was astonished to find so many persons of prominence, especially in
the world of letters, settled in this far-away colony of England. At
Hobart Town I found the Powers, the Howitts (whose books were then
tremendously popular), and Thorne, the author of Orion. Then, as now,
this colony was regarded as the most pleasant portion of the vast
possessions of Great Britain in the South Seas. The climate and the
aspects of the country were far more pleasant than those of Australia,
some fifty miles distant across Bass Straits.
At the time of my visit the whole world was talking about the various
efforts being made to discover the remains of the ill-fated expedition
to the North Pole that had been led by the former governor of Tasmania,
the much-beloved Sir John Franklin. He had gone to the north in 1845,
and nothing had been heard of him since. His wife was supposed to be
mourning for him in solitude.
Curiosity led me to the house where this famous governor and adventurous
explorer had lived, and the janitor, a trusted old servant, showed me
over the building. It was one of those enormous structures which the
English build for the edification and amazement of the natives in their
colonies. I had heard and read a great deal about Sir John and the
lovely woman that was mourning his long absence, and I entered the
silent house with a feeling that I was trespassing upon a great and
unutterable grief. Imagine my astonishment--I may say, horror--to learn
that Lady Franklin, or Lady Jane, as she was generally called, had for
years lived at one end of the long house, while Sir John had lived at
the other, and that, as the story went, they had not spoken to each
other for years. She seemed certainly to have had the grace to assume a
virtue she did not possess, and apparently mourned her lost lord for
years, and spent much of her time in liberal charities. This is the
first time I have referred in any way to this unknown unhappiness of Sir
John Franklin. It was not known to many people in Tasmania at the time,
and I suppose that it is known now only to members of the two families,
the Franklins and the Griffins.
As I had come half around the island of Tasmania, approaching Hobart
Town from the sea, I had seen nothing of the interior of the country, so
I determined--after finishing my business in Hobart Town--to cross the
island to Launceston. There is now a railway running directly across,
but at that time there was only a stage route. Stages ran every other
day. I engaged passage in the mail-coach, the same style of coach that
had been used for hundreds of years in England and Scotland, still as
rough and cumbersome as when first devised. There, too, was the old
Tudor driver and the Restoration guard. Nothing was wanting. The coach
looked to me as if it had been taken from behind the scenes of some old
comedy--a piece of stage property.
But if the stage was antiquated and out of touch with the modern stir of
the world, the driver was not. I asked him what he thought would be the
proper thing in the way of a "tip," as I did not know the ways of
Tasmania. "That depends, sir," he said, "upon whom we are riding with."
That settled the business for me, for my tip then had to be a sort of
measure of my self-esteem. I was literally cornered, and had to give him
a big tip, in sheer self-defense.
The road to Launceston was an excellent one, a macadam built by
convicts, and the scenery was the most beautiful I had seen in
Australasia. When I arrived at Launceston I had to get a pass to leave
the country, as it had been necessary to have a passport to enter it.
The British were very particular whom they permitted to leave Tasmania,
and whom they allowed to go there.
Near Launceston I saw the room in which Francis, who was afterward a
member of the cabinet of the colony of Victoria and one of the ablest
and most energetic men of Australasia, had his famous and terrible fight
with a burglar. This fight has become a tradition all over the colonies
and is still recalled as one of the thrilling experiences of early days.
One night Francis heard a noise in his dining-room. He was up late,
studying in his library, and as the country was infested by desperate
convicts who had escaped from the camps, he at once went to the room to
see whether a burglar had broken in.
Peering through the keyhole, he saw a man with a dark lantern putting
the family plate into a bag. Francis came to a decision at once as to
what to do. He would enter the room, and fight it out with the robber.
Silently opening the door, he entered, and then quickly locked the door
and threw away the key. Immediately there was a desperate fight. The
burglar finding himself entrapped, turned upon Francis and tried to kill
him with a huge knife. Francis caught his arm, and a struggle to the
death began. Several times the burglar wrenched his hand free and
slashed at Francis, but the plucky fellow did not flinch. He fought
until he had conquered the robber, threw him to the floor, and bound his
hands behind him. Francis was himself so badly cut that he was in sight
of death for weeks.
The exploits of the convict Tracy out in Oregon remind me of a far more
terrible case in Australia that occurred while I was there. The country
was a sort of frontier, in the Western sense, from one end to the other.
It was quite possible that a desperate convict lurked in every patch of
bush, who would as soon kill you as ask for bread. But news came to
Melbourne one day that a convict had escaped in a peculiarly terrifying
manner. He was no ordinary man. He had coolly killed two jailers, or
guards, having taken from them their own weapons. Then, going to the
water, he ordered a boatman to row him out to a vessel so that he might
escape from the country. The boatman, not knowing the character of the
man he was dealing with, refused, and was shot dead instantly. The
fugitive then rowed out to the vessel in the dead man's boat, and
demanded of the captain that he take him aboard and carry him to
Melbourne. The captain refused, and he also was shot dead, and with
loaded pistol the convict then compelled the mate to take him to
Melbourne. After he landed he began a forlorn attempt to save himself
from his pursuers.
This beginning in his career of murder was sufficiently terrible to give
the entire region a shock, when it became known that he was at large and
headed for Melbourne. He was next heard of when he reached Hobson's Bay
at Sandridge. Here he found a farmer plowing in the field. The convict
needed his horse, and shooting the farmer, rode away. Another farmer
followed him, and in turn was killed.
By this time, of course, the whole country was aroused--even the
police--and parties were hurriedly formed to capture the murderers, for
no one at the time could believe that it was only one man who was
committing all these crimes. When he was last seen, he was heading,
apparently, for Ballarat, where, perhaps, he hoped to be joined by other
men as desperate as himself. Ballarat was about one hundred miles
distant, and a posse started in pursuit. Nothing was heard or seen of
the convict for fifty miles, when one of the party saw a man near a
squatter's hut carrying another man in his arms. This seemed to be a
somewhat curious proceeding, and the posse immediately closed in about
the man. Just as did Tracy, this man shot the leader of the party. The
others then pushed ahead and captured him before he could kill any one
else. In the hut they found nine men, tied with ropes. It was not
understood what use the convict expected to make of them. All were
uninjured. At the time of his capture, the convict had killed fourteen
men.