OTHER AUSTRALIAN INCIDENTS--A REVOLUTION
Once I tried to be President of the United States. Before that I had
been offered the presidency of the Australian Republic. It is true that
there was no Australian Republic at that exact moment, but it looked to
thousands that there might be one very soon. There was a revolution, or,
as it should be called, a rebellion, for it was unsuccessful, in which I
had taken no part or shown any sympathy, but the revolutionists, or
rebels, offered me the chieftaincy of their government, as soon as they
could establish it.
It came about in this way. In '54 the miners in the fields of Ballarat
and Bendigo were in a state of intense ferment. They were discontented
with existing conditions--their luck in the mines, the way they were
treated by the Government and the mine proprietors, and especially by
the utter failure of the Government to protect them in their rights
against the capitalists. The particular cause of quarrel, however, was
the licenses.
When I went to Australia, the reader may easily believe, there was very
little feeling for, or knowledge of, the United States. I at once
undertook to spread the gospel of Americanism, and introduced the
celebration of the Fourth of July. The colonists of England have always
been quite friendly to the people of the United States, having a kindred
feeling, and all of them have been looking forward to a day when they,
too, might have a free country to claim for their own, and not merely a
red spot on the map of Great Britain. For this reason, the Australians
took kindly to the idea of celebrating the independence of the United
States, as formerly a colony of Great Britain.
When the miners, who had heard of my "spread-eagleism," as it has since
been called, started their little revolt against the government of the
British, they thought of me and offered me the presidency of the
republic they wanted to create. In the meantime, they elected me their
representative in the colonial legislature of the miners about
Maryborough, where they held a great meeting. I could not have taken my
seat if I had desired it, and as I did not desire it, of course I
declined. The imaginary presidency I declined, also, as I neither wanted
it, nor could I have obtained it. The "Five-Star Republic," as it was
called, was not to be anything but a dream, and the "revolution" of
Ballarat was only a nightmare.
Soon after I declined these honors, there was a terrible riot at
Ballarat. The whole mining district had risen against the Government, as
Latrobe, the governor, had made himself most unpopular by his policy of
procrastination. Everything connected with the mining fields, he seemed
to think, could as well be looked after next year as this. The
resentment of the miners had at last become uncontrollable. But, slow as
they were about redressing the grievances of the miners, the British
were fast enough in the business of protecting themselves and in putting
down disturbances with a firm and heavy hand. Latrobe waited until the
thing had almost got beyond him. He felt that he was all right with the
old "squatters," whom he understood and who understood him; but he did
not realize that the new element, the thousands of miners that had
floated in from every nation of the globe, did not understand him or his
ways. They were accustomed to having matters attended to with despatch,
and could not tolerate the slow conservatism and unchangeableness of the
English civil office. Personally he was a good man; but otherwise, he
was as I have described.
The first fruits of the dilatory policy was the sacrifice of forty men.
Captain Wise and forty of his troops were cut to pieces by the enraged
miners, who had suddenly risen to fight for their rights. Governor
Latrobe immediately called for troops from New Zealand, Tasmania, and
New South Wales, to quell the rioters. The want of preparation of the
revolters at once became apparent, and it was known that they had sent
emissaries into Melbourne itself to buy arms and ammunition. The head of
the insurrection was James McGill, who was an American citizen. He had
disappeared from the neighborhood of Ballarat, and a reward of one
thousand pounds sterling had been offered for his capture, dead or
alive. In Melbourne there was almost a panic. Rumors were that the
forests were filled with armed men marching to the destruction of the
place. There were, it was authentically reported, 800 armed men at
Warren Heap, about eighty miles distant, who were supposed to be
meditating a raid. People hastened to secrete their jewelry, gold was
placed in vaults, the banks were guarded, and a special police force was
sworn in.
Just as the excitement was at its height, it was reported that James
McGill was in the neighborhood of the city. I was sitting in my office
one morning, during these days of fear, when a man walked in, as cool as
if he were merely going to discuss the weather or some trifle of
business. "I hear," he said, "that you have some $80,000 worth of Colt's
revolvers in stock, and I have been sent down here to get them." I
glanced up at the man, and took him in a little more closely. It came to
me in a flash who he was. "Do you know," said I, "that there is a
reward offered for your head of one thousand pounds?" "That does not
mean anything," he said, and smiled as if it were a joke. "They can not
do anything," he added, as if to allay any fears that I might have.
I again took him in, and thought of my $60,000 warehouse that we were
then standing in, of the $25,000 warehouse at the other end of the
railway, and of all my interests in Melbourne, under which we were
placing a powder mine, and playing over it with lighted torches. "This
will not do," I said. "You have no right to compromise me in this way."
"We have elected you president of our republic," he added. "Damn the
republic!" said I. "Do you mean to tell me that you refuse to be our
chief?" said he. "I do," I said. "I am not here to lead or encourage
revolutions, but to carry on my business. I have nothing whatever to do
with governments or politics; and you must get out of here, if you do
not want to be hanged yourself, and ruin me." I told him there was not
the slightest possibility of success, as Great Britain would crush the
revolt by sheer weight of men, if she could not beat its leaders in any
other way.
Just then there came a rap at the door, which I had taken the precaution
to close and lock. I hurried to the door and asked who was there, and
the reply was that it was Captain McMahon, chief of police. He said to
me: "Do you know that rascal McGill is in the city? His men are at
Warren Heap, but he himself has actually come into Melbourne! I want a
dozen of those Concord wagons of yours immediately." I made a motion of
my hand to make McGill understand that he must keep quiet. Then I began
to talk rapidly with the chief of police, and took him to the farther
end of the warehouse, shutting the door of my office behind us. No more
wagons were there, for the Government had already got all I had, but I
wanted time to think. When we had looked around, and had seen that there
were no wagons, Captain McMahon left, and I hurried back to McGill.
"Now, McGill," I said, "I am not going to betray you, but am going to
save your life. You must do as I tell you." He looked at me for a
moment, and said, "But I am not going back on my comrades." "You will
have no comrades soon, but will be in the hands of the officers
yourself, if you do not do exactly as I tell you." He finally consented
to do as I advised.
As soon as I saw that the way was clear, I took him out into the street
to the nearest barber, where I had his hair cut and his mustache shaved
off, and then made him put on a workman's suit of clothes. We then got
into my chaise, and I drove him down to the bay and took him aboard one
of our ships that was about to sail, and told the men that I had brought
a new stevedore. McGill pitched in and worked along with the men, and
there was nothing to show that he was in any way connected with the
revolution of Ballarat, much less its leader.
Three days later the ship sailed, and McGill went on through England to
America. This ended the whole affair of the revolution, the chase of the
leader, and my chance of being President of the Five-Star Republic!
One day a man, wearing a jaunty silk hat, came into my office. "I see
you bring in rum from New England," said he. "How much have you on
hand?" I went over the invoices, and told him. He then asked if I gave
the same terms as other dealers in Melbourne. "Yes," said I; "cash."
"Oh, no," said he. "I get three months' time." He showed me a contract
he had just signed with Denniston Brothers & Co., of New York,
represented in Melbourne by McCullagh & Sellars, for L3,000 payable in
three months. I was astonished. The house had branches in all of the
great cities of the world. I told the gentlemanly-looking fellow who
wanted the rum that if Denniston could afford to trust him for $15,000,
I thought we could trust him for $3,000. I took pains to see, however,
that our paper bore an earlier date than that of Denniston. But this
precaution amounted to nothing against this shrewd manipulator. He gave
his name as John Boyd.
By the end of the week, I began to grow a little suspicious, and sent my
clerk to the office of Mr. Boyd early on Monday morning. The office was
closed, and there was no Mr. Boyd there. He had gone to Sydney, and that
was the last seen of Boyd in Australia. He had "buncoed" us and
Denniston & Co. in the easiest sort of way. I really felt cheated, it
was done so smoothly. I had not got the worth of my money, as I should
have done had I been harder to deceive. There had been no sport in that.
I next heard of Boyd at Singapore; but I was to run up against him
later. In '61, when I was giving a junketing trip to some people on the
Union Pacific road, and a party of us were on the steamboat St. Joseph
going to Omaha, a man came up to me and claimed an acquaintance.
Although more than twelve years had passed, I recognized him at once as
the John Boyd who had got the better of me in that little trade in
Melbourne. I pretended not to know him. I suppose he assumed that the
matter had passed out of my mind and that his face was no longer
familiar to me. He coolly gave me his address on a card, and when I
looked at it I saw "Noble & Co., Bankers, Des Moines, Iowa." I knew him
by his broken nose, that would have betrayed him at the ends of the
earth.
Perhaps the thing I enjoyed most in Australia was the introduction of
American articles--"Yankee notions," the people there called them--into
Australia, even against the prejudice of the colonists. They would fight
hard against everything that was new or American, but I took a delight
in overcoming their bias, and forcing them to accept our ideas. I made a
calculation once of the things that I had introduced into Australia, and
they amounted to something like fifty. Among these were such common
things as the light wagon, the buggy, shovels, and hoes, and--wonderful
to think of when one hears and reads so much in these days of the "tins"
that the British army consumes--tinned, or canned, goods. These had not
been heard of, and I saw at once that there was a fine chance for some
profitable business. English packers could not begin to compete with us.
On one cargo that I brought in from New London, Conn., we made a profit
of 200 per cent. And now "Tommy Atkins" lives on the "tins" that we
introduced as a method of carrying provisions from one end of the world
to the other.
I suppose that it was from a part of the returns from this profitable
shipment that the owners of the goods founded the Soldiers' Home at
Noroton, Conn., during the civil war. I must record here a curious
incident. It was in this home that a soldier carved a most elaborate
design upon a cane which he gave to me, showing in brief outline the
whole of my history. It was a wonderful piece of work, and I have kept
it as a souvenir of the regard of this soldier in the home that was
probably founded in part with the proceeds of the first great shipment
of canned goods into Australia, and of my part in introducing this new
trade into the South Seas.
I had the opportunity of meeting some famous and curious people in
Australia. On one of the celebrations of the 17th of March, I met a
great many Irish patriots, among them Smith O'Brien, John Martin, and
Donohue. I was an invited guest, and sat down with more than two hundred
of the most prominent Irishmen of the Australasian colonies. When Smith
O'Brien was in an Irish jail in '48, I asked him for his autograph. I
have made it a point to collect the autographs of all the famous men and
women I have met, and now have, perhaps, the finest collection of
autographs to be seen in this country. O'Brien immediately wrote on a
card the following verse:
"Whether on a gallows high,
Or in the battle's van,
The fittest place for man to die,
Is where he dies for man."
This sentiment of the Irish poet was peculiarly appropriate for men,
who, like the patriots and "rebels" about me, were facing prison or
death at every hour.
I shall bring together here some incidents of my life in Australia that
are not closely connected with other events there. We made some
tremendous profits in Melbourne, the sort that makes one's blood tingle,
and transforms cool men into wild speculators. I have already mentioned
the profit of 200 per cent on the cargo of canned goods. On a cargo of
flour from Boston, 7,000 barrels, we made a profit of 200 per cent, the
flour selling for L4 sterling the barrel. This flour had been shipped to
us through John M. Forbes, of Boston, for Philo Shelton and Moses
Taylor, the millionaire of New York.
When I returned to New York in '57, during the panic, I met Taylor in
Wall Street. He must have been in terrible need of money to keep his
head above water, and he at once said to me: "Why did you charge me
7-1/2 per cent commission for handling that cargo of flour in
Melbourne?" I looked at him in astonishment. He had forgotten the
enormous profit he had made on the shipment, and remembered now only the
small matter of the commission he had been compelled to pay.
I replied that the commission was our usual charge. He told me he was
buying up his own paper in the street, and was not in temporary
distress. "I do not think you should have charged me more than 5 per
cent commission," he said. I was disgusted at this view of a transaction
that had brought him in a profit that would have been considered
marvelous even by a usurer. "All right," I said, "I will give you the
difference now." And I gave him a check for $2,500.
I met a large number of actors and actresses in Melbourne, for it was
quite the custom as early as that for stars of the stage, whether
tragedians like Edwin Booth, or dancers like Lola Montez, to make a
tour of the world and take in Australia on the circuit. I was astonished
to meet Booth and Laura Keene, "stranded," one day, although they had
made a successful tour in England. They did not appeal to the rough
audiences of Australia, and so did not have enough money to take them
back to the States. It so happened that I had just bought the City of
Norfolk to send to San Francisco as the pioneer of a new line, which is
now thoroughly established, and making rapid passages between the two
ports. I gave them free passage to San Francisco. Laura Keene frequently
mentioned the fact in "asides" on the stage, but I never received a word
of thanks or appreciation from Booth. Kate Hayes and Bushnell also
visited Australia while I was there, and I gave them a concert and
started them off on their tour.
But the greatest sensation that was created in the theatrical world of
Australia during my stay was made by Lola Montez, the dancer from
Madrid. She danced and pirouetted on the necks and hearts of men. The
rough mining element went wild over her, and she had the wealth and rank
of Melbourne at her feet. One morning she burst into my office, and
called out in her quaint accent, "Is Mr. George Francis Train here? Tell
him that I am his old friend from Boston, and that I have just arrived
from San Francisco." She had called to make a complaint against the
captain of our ship, whom she wanted us to discharge for some supposed
discourtesy to her. We patched up this quarrel, and I did everything I
could to insure her a successful season in Melbourne. She had a
tremendous vogue, and danced before crowded houses.
One night I called at the green-room of the theater to see her, sending
in my card. I had seated myself on the sofa to wait until she finished
her dancing. Suddenly the door flew open, and in rushed something that
looked like a great ball of feathers. This ball flew toward me and I was
enveloped in a cloud of lace! The bold little dancer had thrown her foot
over my head!
My life in Australia, now drawing to a close, as I had made arrangements
for leaving there to continue my business operations in Japan, had been
very charming and profitable. Everything was novel and strange to me,
and it all made a deep and lasting impression upon my mind, which was
then eagerly receptive.
I find, in recalling these impressions, that my first idea of Australia
still remains the most prominent one left in my memory. Australia was
truly the antipodes. Everything seemed to be reversed, a topsy-turvy
land. At Botany Bay I was astonished to find the swans were black,
thereby demolishing our beautiful ideas about "milk-white" swans. The
birds talked, screamed, or brayed, instead of singing, and the trees
shed their bark instead of their leaves. The big end of the pears was
at the stem, and cherry-stones grew on the outside of the fruit. I was
sitting one day in the garden of the governor-general when I thought I
felt some one tap me on the shoulder. Then my coat was wrenched off my
back, and I turned just in time to see it disappear down the throat of a
tame Australian ostrich, called an emu. The bird had taken me for a
vegetable.
Sidney Smith describes the kangaroo as an animal with the head of a
rabbit, the body of a deer, a tail like a bed-post, and which, when in
danger, puts its young into a pocket in its stomach. But the most
marvelous of all the queer things of Australia, to my mind, was the
animal that laid eggs like a hen, suckled its young like a goat, and was
web-footed, like a duck. This was the duckbill, or water-mole, which the
Australians called the Patybus.
I also saw in Tasmania, and on Flinder's Island, the race of men that
was then considered the most remarkable on the globe, the original
Tasmanian savages; and I saw, also, the most curious weapon that man has
ever invented, the boomerang. Holmes has described this weapon in one of
his humorous verses:
"The boomerang, which the Australian throws,
Cuts its own circle, and hits you on the nose."
I got one of the Bushmen to throw his boomerang for me. He threw it
around a tree and the missile came back toward us. I fully expected to
be sent sprawling. It dropped almost at the feet of the savage that
threw it. Even gold in that land is found where it all ends in our
country--in pockets!
Before closing the account of my Australian experiences, I want to
record that when I arrived in Melbourne that flourishing port was in a
horrible condition for a city of its size and importance. Its streets
were such as would not have been tolerated in an American city of half
its size or one tenth its wealth. There were practically no public
works. After I had been there for some little time, a plan was put on
foot to improve the city. It moved along very slowly, as no one seemed
to know exactly what to do, or how to do it. Finally, an elaborate
program was drawn up, and all that was needed to carry it out was the
money, which would have to be borrowed.
The chairman of the improvement committee, or whatever it was called,
came to see me to get me to undertake the floating of the necessary
loan. I suggested a number of improvements, such as fire-engines, better
office buildings, better paved streets, and new gas-works. All of these
suggestions were accepted, and I forecast the floating of the loan. They
got the money in London, and Melbourne was remodeled, so far as its
appearance was concerned, and was finally made one of the most
attractive cities in the British colonies. It now has a population of
half a million.