My mate, Jim Wilson, returned to Townsville after delivering his load at
Lyndhurst. Mr. Mytton had purchased Junction Creek Station (afterwards
called Wandovale), from Mr. Cudmore, and had left the Gilbert to take
delivery, intending afterwards to go on to Townsville to be married to
Miss Watson. As the station was short-handed, and Mr. Mytton wished to
make some alterations to prepare for his bride, he asked me if I would
stay and use my team to bring in the timber, and also to assist Childs
with the cattle. I consented to remain for a couple of months. During
this time the black boys on the station bolted, taking with them Mrs
Childs' gin, and my black boy. A carpenter named Jack Barker and myself
started with three horses in pursuit, eventually finding the absconders
where the Woolgar diggings now are. On our return we ran out of rations,
and lived on iguanas, snakes, opossums, etc. Childs induced me to take
charge of a mob of bullocks, and drove them to Wandovale, where Mr. and
Mrs. Mytton were now living.
After delivering the bullocks at Wandovale, I returned to Oak Park to
muster my bullocks and horses, and found a bay mare missing. Although
assisted by the stockmen, we failed to find her. I then determined to
start for Townsville, and again take up carrying. When I reached
Wandovale on my way down, I camped at the station. Returning from
putting my bullocks on grass, I saw a number of Chinamen with pack
horses preparing to camp at the creek. One of their horses attracted my
attention, so I rode over and recognised my mare. I rode on, and watched
the direction in which the Chinamen hobbled their horses. Mr. Mytton and
I then decided that I should go out before daybreak to bring the mare
in. He was to be at the slip rails to allow the animal to be driven into
the paddock. In the dark of the early morning I had a difficulty in
locating the animal amongst so many horses. Eventually, I found her, but
I could not catch her. At daybreak I saw she was long hobbled, and
getting near enough, struck her with the bridle, I turned her towards
the station. The Chinamen were just starting out for their horses, and
seeing me, tried to cut me off, and then ensued a race for the slip
rails. I had half-a-mile to go to reach the paddock; however, putting on
a spurt, I succeeded in reaching the slip rails first, hunting the mare
through them, but I was completely winded. In response to the Chinamen's
"Wha for," Mr. Mytton said he was a Justice of the Peace, and dared them
to interfere with anything on his property. It ended by my giving my
name and address, after stating that the mare was my property, and had
been stolen from Oak Park Station.
Some time afterwards Inspector Clohesy, who was in charge of the police
on the Gilbert, informed me that the Chinamen had come to him for
redress, but he remembered how I had helped him and his escort across
the Broken River, and assured them that he knew I would not have taken
such action unless the mare was my property. The matter ended, and I
found out afterwards the mare had been stolen and sold to the Chinamen.
Mention of Inspector Clohesy reminds me that he was a remarkable
personality, now-a-days not so common--tall, slight and wiry, he could
sit a horse as well as the best of riders and hold his own with men of
all sorts. Endowed with quick insight into the character of men who were
in many instances indifferent to law, he exercised a restraining
influence without in any way neglecting his duty as a police officer.
His presence and word alone frequently calmed excited diggers in a way
that commanded their respect and admiration. When the diggers broke into
rioting at Charters Towers, the tact, patience and courage of Clohesy
was of more use and value than a posse of police. Many a time I have
heard a witty remark, or a pithy Irish phrase from him, turn a likely
disturbance into a pleasant laughing meeting. Wherever he controlled, he
kept things in order without his hand being felt. When he died about
1879, Queensland lost a good officer, and many a northern pioneer a true
friend.
When I reached Townsville I procured a load for Ravenswood diggings,
which had just been opened. I went to load my new waggon at Clifton and
Aplin's store, accompanied by a man named Tom Hobbs, who was also
loading at the same place, and for the same destination. When I drove my
team and new waggon from Sydney through the streets toward the German
Gardens--since the war, Belgium Gardens--where we were camped, I noticed
every one laughing as I went by. After crossing the ridge where the
Anglican Cathedral now stands, I went around to the off side, and there
saw that some wag, while I was loading, had obliterated a letter on the
name of my waggon, which Fitzmaurice had christened the "Townsville
Lass." Striking the "L" out gave it a different name. I quickly procured
a paint brush and renewed the name as it should be.
At that time the road to Ravenswood was lined with vehicles and
pedestrians, making their way to the new field. Cobb and Co. were
running a coach for mails and passengers, driven by Mick Brady, who
afterwards was well and favourably known on the very bad road from
Cooktown to Maytown. After making a quick trip we returned, and loaded
again for the Gilbert diggings.
In going up Thornton's Gap, on the coast range, I had the misfortune to
lose the top of my third finger on my right hand. We had 36 bullocks on
the waggon, and a faulty chain breaking, only six bullocks were left to
hold the waggon. The near side ones being lazy, allowed the waggon to
drift down towards the steep descent of 500 feet to the bottom. I ran
with a piece of heavy log to prevent a smash, but the wheels caught the
log before I could release my hand, and completely crushed the top of
my finger until the bone protruded. That night I had to lay with my
finger in hot water to relieve the pain. The next day I started at
daylight for Townsville, had the finger dressed by the doctor, and
returned to the teams the same day, having ridden a distance of 60
miles. I was unable to yoke my team, but this my mate, Tom Hobbs, kindly
did for me. I was, however, able to drive the team the 350 miles to the
Gilbert. On returning from there, I had a bad attack of fever and ague,
which compelled me to ride on to Townsville for medical advice, having
various difficulties on the way down. I left my black boy to assist my
mate to bring down the two teams, by hitching my waggon behind his, and
yoking up sufficient bullocks drafted from each team to draw them.
My mate, Tom Hobbs, was a "white man," which means a lot, but rather
backward as regards education. In leisure moments I would assist him in
reading, writing, etc. Before he left the Bay on this trip, he had
become engaged to a young lady in the town, and enlisted my services to
write his letters for him. I remember the last I wrote before leaving
him contained the following:--
But if all goes well on my return,
We'll give the Parson some trouble,
To write the license for friends to learn
We're converted from single to double.
In a few weeks after reaching Townsville, under the doctor's care, I
regained my usual good health, and found Tom's fiancee and delivered the
messages which he had entrusted me with. The wet season of 1871 had set
in, and Tom was stuck at the Burdekin River with the teams, so I
concocted the following rhyme to send him as if they came from his
lady-love:--
Oh! Tom Hobbs, dear Tom, why don't you come back
To redeem the dear promise you gave unto me,
When you started with loading on the Gilberton track
To hail your return as my husband to be.
Oh! the days and the hours how slowly they pass,
And for me, I fear, there are plenty in store,
Since now there's abundance of water and grass,
To tempt you to spell your poor bullocks the more.
But, dear Tom, do write me a line to say
That your love is as fervent as ever it's been.
If so, on your return we'll both name the day
Which kind friends will finish with tins kerosene.
I pray my dear hopes are not born to be blighted,
By the tide of misfortune in earth's dreary life,
For you know, dear Tom, you have charms which delighted
A young girl to be your dear loving wife.
And now, dearest Tom, with a squeeze and a kiss
That would burst the staves of a six gallon barrel.
I pray God to grant you health and heavenly bliss
When united for ever to your loving E. Carrol.
When I last visited Townsville in 1917, I called on Mrs. Hobbs, who
showed me the original of the above, still in good preservation.
Tom was a very shy man, and asked me if I could arrange for his marriage
to be held by the Registrar at the Court House on a Sunday evening. This
I did, the wedding party arriving at the Court House by different routes
to avoid publicity. The Registrar had only a candle, which did not give
sufficient light, so he asked if I could obtain a lamp. I went down the
hill to Evans', afterwards Enright's, Tattersall Hotel, and borrowed a
lamp ostensibly to look for lost jewellery for a lady. Several loungers,
doubting the reason given, followed me, with the result that at midnight
Tom's house was surrounded by uninvited guests, and I had to hand out
some bottles of brandy before they could be induced to leave. We kept
things up until daylight, when I rode back to my camp at Mount Louisa,
six miles away.
About this time the carriers were challenged by the Townsville cricket
club to a match, to be played on a ground prepared at the German
Gardens. A carrier named Billy Yates took his waggon, decorated with
boughs and bush flowers, drawn by bullocks, to bring out the town team.
The principal bowler for Townsville was L. F. Sachs, of the A.J.S. Bank.
Ours were Charlie and Fred Hannaford. After a hard-fought game of two
innings each, the carriers won, I having the honour of being top scorer.
The particulars did not go into print, so I am unable to give the
details, although I remember the happenings connected with and after the
match were interesting.
I was loaded at Mount Louisa on my way to Ravenswood, when, during the
night a man wakened me, and asked if I could give him a drink. I gave
him a nip of rum from the jar. Shortly afterwards I noticed the smell of
burning, and on looking round saw a dray with a load of wool well
alight. I immediately raised the alarm, and the men from several other
teams who were camped there ran over, but all that we could save were
the bullock yokes. We then tipped the dray up, thinking the ropes had
been burnt through, and that the bales of wool would roll off, when we
could deal with them. This was not the case, and the wind getting
underneath so fanned the flame that soon the wool was burning as
fiercely as the wood. The police investigated the matter, and found that
the man I gave the drink to had travelled down with this team, and had a
grievance about the payment of his wages. The Police Magistrate
committed him to the Supreme Court for trial for arson. I was subpoenaed
as principal witness, and had to ride back some 70 miles to give
evidence. The jury found the man guilty, and he was sentenced to two
years' hard labour. As he was leaving the Court, in passing me, he said,
"You have only two years to live," but in this he did not prove a true
prophet.
About this time I first made the acquaintance of the gentleman now known
as Sir Robert Philp. He has a reputation throughout this country, to
which, if I attempted to add anything would be simply gilding refined
gold. But in 1870 the name of Bob Philp, accountant for James Burns, was
throughout North Queensland a synonym for business ability, integrity
of character, and kindness of heart. This reputation has not been dimmed
by the passing of years. It is something of a pleasure to know Sir Robt.
Philp, but it is a matter of pride to have known Mr. Philp "Lang Syne,"
when men of ability, character, and generosity were not rare or
difficult to find.
I have alluded several times to "partners," or "mates," which was the
more popular term. These partnerships were quite common amongst carriers
and diggers in bygone days. It was simply chums, owning and sharing
everything in common, and without any agreement, written or otherwise.
There were many such partnerships involving large sums of money and
valuable property which existed only on a complete trust in mates.
Among others on the Gilbert and Etheridge, were the mateship of Steel,
Hunt and O'Brien. There were several such partnerships on the Palmer,
notably that of Duff, Edwards and Callaghan. Of the high characters and
generosity of all these men many interesting stories could be told. I
doubt if their prototypes now exist. In my own case, in carrying and in
business, I carried on with partners for many years without any
agreement. The partnerships were based on mutual trust. When it was felt
between the partners for some reason or other--generally a mere liking
for a change--that the partnership might end, a friendly squaring-up
would take place; each would go his own way and probably enter into
partnership with some other party. With the exception of the partner I
had in a claim on the Cape goldfield, I found all my mates or partners
to be men in every sense of the term.
I had a very good black boy, a little fellow of about 10 years of age, a
native of Cooper's Creek, whom I called Billy. On one of my trips to the
Gilbert, when passing Dalrymple, Billy Marks, the store and
hotel-keeper, presented me with a well-bred cattle pup and a gin case to
put him in. This I placed on top of the load. We had six miles to go
over very rough basalt country to our camp. That day I had yoked a
steer for the first time, and I intended to hobble him at night. When we
reached camp I told Billy to bring up a quiet bullock called Darling,
and this I coupled to the steer, instructing the boy to hold the
whip-stick in front of the steer to attract his attention whilst I
hobbled him. I had just put the hobble on the off leg, and was preparing
to put it on the other, when the steer gave a tremendous jump, and the
old bullock knocked me on my back on the yokes lying on the ground. When
I rose I looked at the boy to see if he was laughing, but he was quite
demure. I then saw the pup on the ground. He had caused my discomfiture
by jumping on the steer's back, the box having broken open coming over
the stones. When I returned from putting the bullocks on the grass, I
saw my mate laughing, and to my inquiry he replied: "When you left with
the bullocks I inquired from the boy what the trouble was?" The boy
said, "Puppy been jump down on the steer's back, and old Darling been
throw 'em a good way." My mate said, "You been laugh?" The boy answered,
"Baal! me only been laugh alonga inside." He thought I might have beaten
him if I had detected a smile on his face. While I was camped just
outside Dalrymple, I one day told the boy if anyone wanted me, to say I
was in the township. I had just finished a game of billiards at the
hotel, when a man entered laughing. He called me on one side, and said
he had asked my boy where I was. He said "That fella along public house
playing--he got 'em spear in his hand, and knock about things all a same
like it duck egg." He added the boy had followed me and watched my
actions.