This was a bombshell with a vengeance. The anarchist, who threw it
metaphorically, would have had no scruples—except those of personal
apprehension—in casting a dynamite duplicate on the shearing floor. A
sudden confusion filled the shed. Murmurs and sullen rejoinders were
made, as the more prudent division of the men recognised that their
shearing cheques, the outcome of weeks of hard work, were doomed to
delay, perhaps to forfeiture. Some openly withstood the triumphant
delegate, others, less impulsive, were disposed to temporise, while 'I
thought this was a Union shed' remarked, with slow impressiveness, a
gigantic native, considerably over six feet in height, whose wiry,
muscular frame and tremendous reach stamped him as one of the 'ringers'
of the shed. 'Ain't the Union Rules put up there?' pointing to the copy
ostentatiously affixed at the end of the shed for reference. 'What's
this darned foolishness, stoppin' men that's only a week's work between
them and a big cheque?'
'You can read and write, I suppose,' replied Mr. Stoate contemptuously.
('Better nor you,' murmured a young fellow just within earshot.) 'Is
them words on the telegram, what I told the men of this shed, and are
you thereby ordered to come out, or are you not? That's what I want to
know. Are you a-goin' to defy the Union? Think a bit afore you chance
that and turn "scab."'
'I'm goin' to think a bit—just so,—and I hope you other chaps'll do the
same, and not rush into law, like a bull at a gate, and lose your money,
because of any second fiddle in the land. As to being a "scab," Delegate
Stoate, I'm no more one than you are, perhaps not as much, if the
truth's told. But don't you say that to me again, or I'll pitch you
through one of them skylights, with one hand too.' And here the giant
stretched forward his enormous fore-arm, and looking upward to the
skylight in the roof of the woolshed, made as though there would be no
unusual difficulty in the feat. 'Show me that telegram, please; this
step wants consideration.'
'Ain't you goin' to obey the Union?' demanded Stoate with a great
assumption of dignity. 'P'raps you ain't aweer, men, as this is a
serious act of disobedience, which I shall report accordin'.'
'That's all very well,' answered the dissenter, whose unusual height, as
he towered above his fellows, seemed to give him a certain title to
leadership. 'I'm as good a Unionist as any man here; but I see no points
in chuckin' away our money and hurtin' an employer who's been fair and
square with us. Where's he gone against our rules? I ask you all. Isn't
the rules put up at the end of the shed, all ship-shape and reg'lar?
Didn't we stop shearin' for two days last week, and the weather fine,
because the delegate here said the wool was damp? I didn't feel no damp,
nor my mate neither, and we lost two dashed good days' work—a couple of
pounds each all round. Now, I don't want to go dead against the Union,
though I can't see the fun of losin' a goodish cheque, and, as I say,
hurtin' a gentleman as never did any man here a bad turn. Let's try a
middle course. Suppose we pick a man as we all can trust, and send him
to Wagga. He can interview the Head Centre there, and _make sure_, afore
we chuck away our stuff, whether every Union shed's bound to come out,
or whether, under partic'lar circumstances like this here, we can't _cut
out the shed_ afore we go. I move a resolution to that effect.'
'And I second it,' said Bill Hardwick. 'I want to take my money home to
my old woman and the kids; I've got a lot to do with it this season, and
so, I daresay, have most of you, chaps. I don't see no sense in clearin'
out now, when we've got fifty or sixty pound a man, to take and goin'
off with neither money nor grub. Of course, we can _wait_ to be paid out
of Union funds, but we know what _that_ means. Those that votes for Jim
Stanford's motion, and fair play, hold up your hands.'
The scene that followed was hard to describe. A forest of hands was held
up, while there rose a babel of voices, some laying down the law, others
expressing a doubt of the prudence of flouting the mysterious powers of
the A.S.U., in the midst of which Mr. Stoate, standing upon the wool
table, vainly attempted to make himself heard.
The controversy continued until the dinner-bell rang, by which time it
was clear that the sense of the meeting was overwhelmingly in favour of
Stanford's amendment.
So, in spite of Stoate's threats and envious malice, a steady-going,
middle-aged shearer of known probity and experience was chosen and
despatched to Narandera, _en route_ for Wagga Wagga, for further
instructions. In the meantime, it was agreed to go on with the shearing,
to which the men addressed themselves with such energy and
determination, that when the knock-off evening bell sounded, the tallies
were larger than on any preceding afternoon of the week. Jack Macdonald
was delighted, though he refrained from open commendation, as he noticed
that all the fast shearers made a point of shearing carefully and giving
no room for disapprobation on his part.
Mr. Stoate viewed the whole proceedings with unconcealed disgust, and
talked big about taking down the names of every man in the shed, and so
reporting them that they would never get another 'stand' in a Union
shed. He found, however, that except among the young, unmarried men, and
a few reckless spendthrifts, who were carried away by the specious ideas
at that time freely ventilated, he had little influence.
Stanford and Hardwick were noted men—honest, hard-working, and respected
as 'ringers,' and as such, leaders in their profession. As Stanford bent
his long back, and lifted out a fresh sheep every few minutes from the
pen, with as much apparent ease as if the big, struggling seventy pound
wether had been a rabbit, a feeling of industrial emulation seemed to
pervade the great shed, and each man 'shore for his life,' as old Billy
Day expressed it—'and that dashed neat and careful, as if there was a
hundred pound prize at next Wagga Show hangin' to it.'
'Wait till George Greenwell comes back,' said Stoate—'and he ought to be
here inside of eight days, as he can get the rail from Narandera—and see
what you'll have to say, then.'
Of course, telegrams had been sent, and arrived with reiterated command
from the Napoleon at Wagga Wagga—to lay down their arms, or rather their
shears, as ordered.
And this was the crowning injustice and treachery of the ukase—that all
the _Union_ sheds in New South Wales, where the proprietors had
surrendered their independence, and pocketed their pride, at the bidding
of expediency, were penalised. Those squatters who 'bowed not the knee
to Baal,' and fought out the contest, with sheds half full of
'learners,' and strangers from other colonies, brought over by the
Pastoral Association, as well as the free shearers, who, intimidated by
the Union guerillas, were often injured and hindered as to their lawful
work, were now in a far better position. They were able to laugh at the
surrendering squatters.
'You have given in,' said they; 'sacrificed principle and set a bad
example for the sake of getting quickly through this season's shearing.
You betrayed your pastoral comrades, and are _now betrayed by the
Union_; you are left in the lurch. Serve you right!'
So, 'deserted in their utmost need,' with half-shorn sheep, and no hope
of fresh men—as the non-Union sheds had secured most of the available
labour—they were in a pitiable condition, neither help nor sympathy
being procurable; while many of the free sheds were shearing steadily
and comfortably, with a 'full board.'
In seven days, Mr. Greenwell was expected to appear. He could ride to
Narandera in three days; twenty-four hours would take him to Wagga
Wagga, after stopping for the night at Junee Junction. This was far and
away the finest railway station in New South Wales, perhaps in
Australia, having not only an imposing structure connected with the
railway proper, but a very fine hotel, erected by the Government of New
South Wales, liberally managed and expensively furnished.
There, the railway passenger could spend the night, or a week, if he so
decided, being sure that he would be called at the proper time, either
by night or day, to be despatched on his journey in an enviable and
Christian state of mind.
The days passed on at Tandara, the week was nearly over. Such quick and
clean shearing had never been done there before. The last day of the
allotted time approached. Greenwell had not arrived, but surely he would
turn up on the morrow.
Stoate was uneasily anxious. He hinted at treachery. But Greenwell, a
regular, downright 'white man,' could not be 'got at.' Every one scoffed
at the idea. One of the rouseabouts, who had known better times, hummed
the refrain of 'Mariana in the moated grange': 'He cometh not, she
said.' Worst of all, from Stoate's point of view, the shearing would be
finished in two more days. The shed would then be paid off—shearers,
pressers, rouseabouts, the cook and his mate, everybody down to the
tar-boy. If their emissary didn't come before then, he might just as
well not come at all. The 'might, majesty, and dominion' of the
Australian Shearers' Union, with 20,000 members in all the colonies,
which had aimed at one great 'Australian Labourers' Union' in town and
country, would be set at nought. They had planned the inclusion of every
worker—that is, muscle-worker, for brains didn't count—from the ship's
cook of the coaster to the boundary rider on the Lower Darling or the
Red Barcoo; from the gas-stoker in Melbourne or Sydney, where they hoped
to plunge the cities into darkness, to the stock-rider, behind his drove
of Queensland bullocks; and the back-block carrier, with his waggon and
team of fourteen unshod Clydesdales or Suffolks.
And now, in the case of the Tandara shed, one of the best known and
oldest stations on the Darling, this campaign against capital was to end
in defeat and disappointment.
Stoate groaned in despair, as the eighth day arrived and no messenger.
For the last forty-eight hours he had been looking anxiously for the
cloud of dust at the end of the long, straight road across the endless
plain, which heralded the approach of team, coach, or horseman.
As if to aggravate the Strike leaders, and all connected with that
beneficent institution, the weather had been miraculously fine. No
spring storms had come out of the cloudless sky, not so much as a
'Darling River shower'—four drops upon five acres,' in the
vernacular—had sprinkled the red dust of the plain, to give the delegate
the excuse to declare the sheep too wet to shear, and so lose a day.
Nothing, in fact, happened. And on the noontide hour of the fourth day
succeeding the week, Tandara shed 'cut out.' The 'cobbler,' the last
sheep—a bad one to shear, and so considerately left for 'some one else,'
by every man who picked out of the large middle pen—was lifted aloft by
Stanford, amid the jeers of the men, now preparing with stiff backs and
aching sinews to surrender their task for a full week at any rate,
before they 'struck' the next shed, lower down the river.
'I could shear him,' said he, regarding the closely wrinkled 'boardy'
fleece, 'if he was covered with bloomin' pin-wire. My word! isn't it a
pity that Greenwell didn't turn up afore? Eh, Mr. Delegate? D'ye think
the Union'll guillotine us, same as they did chaps at the French
Revolution? I'm off to Launceston in case of accidents. My cheque'll
keep me for the rest of the summer, in a country that _is_ a country—not
a God-forsaken dust-heap like this.' Thus speaking, and shearing all the
while, with punctilious precision, Mr. Stanford trimmed the 'cobbler'
with a great affectation of anxiety, and dismissing him down the shoot
of the pen with a harmless kick, said, 'Good-bye, and God bless you, old
man; you make eighty-nine—not a bad forenoon's work.'
'Come along, men, down to the office,' said Macdonald, 'your money's
ready for you—the storekeeper and I were up pretty nigh all night
getting the accounts made out. You'll enjoy your dinners all the better
for having your money in your pockets. The rouseabouts and shed hands
can come in the afternoon. They won't want to leave before morning.'
'Who's that coming along the Wagga road on a grey horse?' said a
sharp-eyed young shearer. 'By Jing! I believe it's Greenwell. Whatever
can have kep' him, Mr. Stoate?'
'Never mind him,' said Macdonald. 'John Anderson, this is your account;
look it over. £45:10:6. You'll take a cheque; here it is—sign the book.
I'll take you all by the alphabet.'
As the men stood round the little room at the side of the big store,
that served for the station office, the traveller on the grey horse rode
slowly towards them.
The men were in a merry humour. Their keen eyes had recognised horse and
rider afar off. It _was_ the messenger who had so signally failed in
coming up to time. He was received with a storm of ironical cheers and
derisive exclamations.
'Halloa, George—where yer been? To Sydney and back? Got warrants for us
all? To think as we should ha' cut out, and you on the road with an
order from the Head Centre in your pocket! Come along, Mr. Delegate, and
talk straight to him.'
These and the like specimens of humorous conversation were shouted at
the unlucky emissary, who, as he came up and wearily dismounted,
evidently knew that an explanation would be demanded of him.
Stoate walked out with a solemn and dignified air to meet him. 'Well
done, Mr. Delegate, give it to him from the shoulder. He's a jolly
telegraph, ain't he? Why, Joe Kearney the sprinter could have _run_ all
the way and beat him, hands down.'
'Will you oblige me by statin' the cause of your delay on a mission of
importance to the Union and your feller-workers?'
'Now then, George, speak up—give us the straight griffin. What was it?
Honour bright; did yer join a circus? Was there a good-looking girl in
the way? And you a married man. For shame of you!'
Between the awful visage of Mr. Stoate and the running fire of chaff
from his mates, Greenwell looked rather nonplussed.
However, girding himself for the contest, he mustered up courage, and
thus delivered himself.
'Well, boys, the long and short of it is, I was took ill at Junee, on
the return journey, and after stayin' a day, just as I was startin'
back, some old mates of mine, as had just cut out at Hangin' Rock, come
along, and—well, the truth's the truth, we all got on a bit of a spree.
Now the murder's out, and you can make the best of it. I don't see as
there's anything broke, so far.'
'Anything broke,' retorted Stoate indignantly. 'Hasn't the shed been cut
out, in direct disobedience of orders, and the Union treated with
contempt?'
'We're just gettin' our cheques,' called out a young fellow at the back
of the crowd. 'Jolly awkward, ain't it? But I'll get over it, and so'll
Dick Dawson.'
When the weighty matter of the payment was over, and the men were
finishing their 'wash and brush up,' getting up their horses and
settling their packs, one of the older men approached Stanford, who was
quietly proceeding with his preparations, and thus addressed him—
'Now, Jim, you knowed that chap afore, didn't yer? Hadn't yer no notion
as he might get on a "tear," with money in his pocket, and half nothin'
to do like?'
Mr. Stanford made no verbal answer, but drawing himself up to the full
height of his exalted stature, looked down into the interrogator's face,
with an expression of great solemnity. It is just possible that he may
have observed a slight deflection in the corner of his left eye, as he
relaxed the severity of his countenance, while he observed resignedly,
'Well, it might have been worse; I've got the boss's cheque for
£57:14s., and a few notes for the road in my pocket, this blessed
minute.'
'Mine's a shade more'n that,' replied 'Long Jim,' with deliberation.
'"All's well that ends well" 's a good motter. I've done enough for this
season, I reckon. I had a fairish fencing contract in the winter. It'll
be time enough to think about the "dignity of labour" and the "ethics of
war" (wasn't that what the Head Centre called 'em?) afore next shearin'
comes round. I'm off to a cooler shop across the Straits.'
The shearing at Tandara having ended satisfactorily to the shearer, the
sheep-washers, the rouseabouts, the boundary riders, the overseers, to
every one connected with the establishment in fact, from the 'ringer' to
the tar-boy, all of whose wages and accounts were paid up to the last
hour of the last day, in fact to every one except Mr. Janus Stoate,
whose remuneration was in the future, a great silence commenced to
settle down upon the place so lately resounding with the 'language used,
and the clamour of men and dogs.' The high-piled waggons, drawn by
bullock teams of from twelve to twenty, and horse teams of nearly the
same number, had rolled away. The shed labourers had walked off with
swags on their backs. The shearers, many of whom had two horses, poor in
condition when they came, but now sleek and spirited, had ridden off
with money in both pockets, full of glee and playful as schoolboys. The
great shed, empty save for a few bales of sheepskins, was carefully
locked up, as were also the shearers' and the other huts. Even Bower,
the grim night-guardian of the woolshed, liberally remunerated, had left
for Melbourne by Cobb and Co.'s coach. There, among other recreations
and city joys, he betook himself to the Wax-works in Bourke Street.
As with hair and beard trimmed, newly apparelled from top to toe, he
wandered around, looking at the effigies of former friends and
acquaintances, now, alas, cut off in their prime, or immersed in the
dungeon of the period for such venial irregularities as burglary,
highway robbery, manslaughter, and the like, his gaze became fixed, his
footsteps arrested. He stands before the waxen, life-like presentment of
a grizzled elderly man, in rough bush habiliments, his hat a ruin, his
clothes ragged and torn, his boots disreputable. A double-barrelled gun
rests on his shoulder, while above his head is a placard, on which in
large letters could seen by the staring spectator—
'HARRY BOWER, THE CELEBRATED BUSHRANGER.'
Cut to the heart, not so much by the heartless publicity of the
affair as by the disgraceful attempt to brand him as a dirty
disreputable-_looking_ individual, he glared angrily at his
simulacrum. 'And me that was always so tasty in my dress,' he
muttered. So saying, he seized the hapless figure by the arm, and
dragging it along with wrathful vehemence, made for the door.
'Oh, Mr. Bower, Mr. Bower!' cried the proprietress, 'ye'll ruin him—I
mane yerself. Sure ye wouldn't go to injure a poor widdy woman, and all
the people sayin' it's your dead imidge.'
'Imidge of me, is it?' shouted Bower, the furious, ungovernable temper
of the 'long sentence convict' breaking out. 'I'll tache ye to make a
laughing-stock of Harry Bower, this day. Ye might have dressed me
dacent, while ye wor about it.'
So saying, he dragged the inanimate malefactor through the door, and
casting him down upon the Bourke Street pavement, commenced to kick him
to pieces, to the great astonishment of the crowd which speedily
gathered around him. A rumour had started that 'Bower the bushranger was
killing a man outside the Wax-works,' and before many minutes the street
was blocked with men, women, and children, lured to the spot by the
expectation of seeing a real live bushranger in the exercise of his
bloodthirsty vocation.
A few minutes later—having dissevered several vital portions of the
'Frankenstein' individual, and, like Artemus Ward's enthusiastic Bible
Christian, who 'caved Judassis' head in,' more or less demolished the
victim—Mr. Bower, desisting, stalked moodily up the street, his peculiar
reputation not leading any one to volunteer pursuit. There was no
constable in sight, so the Mrs. Jarley of the establishment was left to
her lamentations, and the dubious satisfaction of a remedy by civil
process.
Next day, below startling headlines, similar paragraphs appeared in the
leading journals.
'AN EX-BUSHRANGER.
'_Assault with intent to do grievous bodily harm._
'About three o'clock yesterday afternoon, such denizens of Bourke Street
as were passing Mrs. Dooley's interesting collection of Wax-works were
alarmed by the spectacle of an aged man of athletic proportions, who had
assaulted an individual of similar age and appearance; had thrown him
down on the pavement, and was savagely kicking him about the head and
the body; indeed it was feared—such was the fury of his gestures—that he
was actually trampling the unfortunate victim of his rage to death. None
dared to interfere, every one appeared paralysed; but after one or two
public-spirited individuals had started for the Swanston Street police
station, an adventurous bystander called out, 'Why, it's a wax figure.'
Though a shout of laughter greeted the announcement, no one cared to
remonstrate with the hero of so many legends—the man who, long outlawed,
and captured after a desperate resistance, had barely escaped the
gallows for the manslaughter of the warders of the hulk _President_ in a
frustrated plot for escape—the dreaded bushranger, Henry Bower. We have
since learned that this attempt at _felo de se_ (in wax)—for the injured
individual turned out to be a fairly correct likeness of himself—can
only be proceeded for as a debt, which Bower in his cooler moments will
not be averse to liquidating, he having returned from the bush with a
reasonably large cheque, earned in the service of an old employer, who
gave him a berth at a couple of pounds a week as night-watchman of his
woolshed. In these times of disturbance and incendiary troubles, most of
our readers will concur with our opinion, that old Harry Bower, with his
double-barrel, not swayed by frivolous objection to bloodshed, was, in
such a position of trust, "the right man in the right place."'
* * * * *
When the shearers took their cash or cheques as each elected, and
departed, splitting into small parties, on different routes, division of
opinion took place likewise. Bill Hardwick openly declared his
intention, as did several others, to 'cut the Shearers' Union' and go
'on their own' for the future. 'I've had enough of this Union racket,'
said he, as, lighting his pipe, and jogging off with his two fat horses,
saddled and packed, he prepared to take the 'down river' road. 'I don't
see no points in being bossed by chaps like this Stead, and callin'
theirselves chairmen and presidents, and what not—fellers as have done
dashed little but blather this years and years. They've turned dog on
the squatters as trusted 'em and "went Union," and deuced near done us
out of six weeks' hard graft at this very shed. We've got our cash,
boys; that'll carry us on for a bit. But suppose we'd turned out when
that galoot at Wagga wanted us to, where should we be now? Travellin'
the country without a shillin' in our pockets, our shearin' money
forfeited by the next police magistrate (and serve us right, too, for
bein' such bally fools), and summonses and warrants out against every
man on the board. I'm full of Mr. Head Centre at Wagga, with his top
hat, and gold chain, and his billiards, as our money goes to pay for.
But he won't get none of mine to monkey with, nor you either, Janus
Stoate, and so you may tell him next time you wire.'
'I'll report your language to the Union secretary, William Hardwick,
never fear,' replied Stoate, fixing his snaky eye upon him. 'You'll soon
know which is the strongest—you or the Association, as protects the
workers' interests. So I warn you, and all others as is fools enough to
stand by you.'
'That'll do, Mr. Delegate,' said Bill; 'don't you go to bully me. Say
another word, and I'll give you a smack or two, that'll make a better
yarn when you're touching up the tell-tale business for the Head Centre.
I'm off to Moorara, where there's 300,000 sheep to shear, and a board
only half full. Who's comin' my way?'
There had been a hum of approbation when Bill finished his humble
oratorical effort, after which a dozen of the best and fastest shearers
announced their intention to go with him, to the wrath and despair of
Mr. Stoate.
'I'll be even with you, Bill Hardwick,' he yelled, 'and you too, Johnny
Jones—see if I don't. You'll get no stands from us this year, nor next
either.'
* * * * *
A hundred and fifty miles below Tandara. A red-walled promontory
overlooking the Darling, in this year a broad, majestic stream, with
anabranches of equal breadth and volume running out for many a mile,
where the river steamers took their course, cutting off corners, and,
because of the depth of water in this most bountiful season, almost
indifferent to obstacles. Here stood the great Head Station of Moorara.
Miles of fencing of substantial character surrounded it on all sides.
There was none of the ordinary carelessness as to finish, popularly
supposed to be characteristic of back-block stations 'a thousand miles
from everywhere,' as had been said descriptively by an imaginative
tourist. On the contrary, every hut, paling, fence, gate, wall, and roof
in that immense holding was in what old-fashioned English country people
called 'apple-pie order.'
Everything was mended and kept right, up to date. Six carpenters and
three blacksmiths lived on the premises all the year round. There was no
waiting until that pastoral millennium 'after shearing' arrived.
Everything was done at once, and done well. The 'stitch in time' was an
article of the faith at Moorara, and, as such, religiously observed. If
any superficial judging tourist, observing these things, ventured to
remark that such improvements must have cost a mint of money, or to hint
a doubt whether such a place 'paid,' he was frowned down at once and
haughtily reminded that this was Moorara, the property of the Hon. Mr.
M'Cormack, whose sheep shorn last year (this was _one_ of his long list
of stations) would total up to over a million!
Just calculate what so many fleeces come to, the average weight being
eight or nine pounds, and the value per head _rarely_ under as many
shillings. Then, of course, there are the other stations, carrying six
hundred thousand high-class merino sheep!
Now the woolshed to which Bill and his ten or twelve companions were
bound was one of which the owner had 'stood out' from the first against
the tyranny of the Shearers' Union.
As Bill and his companions journeyed down the river, rumour reached them
of serious developments of the Great Strike. This protest against the
alleged dictation of Capital had reached its culminating stage. The
o'er-vaulting ambition of the State-school educated Mr. Stead, the
originator and prime mover of the Civil War, which was now fully
recognised, had struck a blow at the State itself—that State under which
he had been bred and nurtured, fed, protected, and presented with a
'free, compulsory, and secular education.' He had justified the
forebodings of old-fashioned Conservatives, who had always doubted the
wisdom of educating the labouring classes at the expense of the
ratepayers, of breeding up an army of enemies to Capital and to the
settled order of the Government.
And now the long-threatened result _had_ come to pass—a revolt against
order and good government, a deliberate attempt to subvert the
Constitution under the specious guise of federated labour. It had
commenced with a quarrel between the cook's mate of a coasting steamer
and the so-called 'delegate' of the crew, spreading with portentous
rapidity, like the bush-fires of the land, until it enveloped the
stock-riders of the Paroo and the teamsters of 'the Gulf.' It menaced
life and property. It attempted to plunge cities into darkness by
'calling out' the gas-stokers. It essayed to paralyse commerce by
intimidating the carriers, whom it forbade to convey the wool—the staple
Australian export—to the wharves, by restraining the wharf labourers
from loading the vessels.
But, in these two instances, the common-sense of the city populations
came to the rescue. The young men of the learned professions, of the
upper classes—in the true sense of the word—came out to play a man's
part in the interests of law and order. They manned the gas-works, and,
amid furnace-heat and grime, provided the necessary labour, all unused
as they were to toil under such conditions. The cities were _not_
wrapped in darkness, and the streets were _not_ made ready for the spoil
by the burglar, the garrotter, and the thief. A line of wool teams was
driven down the principal street of Sydney by barristers and bankers, by
clerks and merchants, chiefly young men, high-couraged and athletic. But
on the foremost waggon, high-seated behind his four-horse team, which he
tooled with practised ease, might be recognised the leonine visage and
abundant beard of Winston Darling, the Explorer, the Pioneer Squatter,
the well-known Pastoral Leader and Ruler of the Waste.
The streets were crowded with yelling, blaspheming, riotous Unionists,
with difficulty kept within bounds by a strong body of police.
Stones were thrown, and foul epithets freely used. But though one
youthful driver had his head cut open, no further damage was done. And
the wool was safely conveyed to the wharves and shipped in spite of the
threatening demeanour of the assembled thousands.
These amateurs, native-born Australian gentlefolk, worked for weeks,
from six to six, in many instances galling the hands, which were wholly
unused to such rude treatment. But they kept at it till the stubborn
conflict subsided, and not till then did they fall out of the ranks of
the 'muscle-workers,' who in this and other instances have arrogated to
themselves the title of the _only workers_ in this complex and
many-sided body politic.
This demonstration was chiefly confined to the seaports. When, however,
the Ministry was sufficiently strong to call out the Volunteer
regiments, their disciplined action gained control of the disorderly
mobs, and order was regained, without discouraging delay.
But in the bush, far from help, police or military protection, matters
were far otherwise. Lonely stations were terrorised. Large camps of
armed and apparently desperate men were formed, who intimidated those
non-Union shearers and bush labourers who neither conformed to their
rules nor submitted to their dictation.
They were in many cases captured, so to speak, assaulted, maltreated,
and illegally restrained from following their lawful occupation. The
carriers' horses or bullocks were driven away or slaughtered, their
waggons, in some instances, burned.
These outrages were directed against men and their employers who had
dared to be independent, to exercise the right of free Britons to manage
their own affairs and their own property.
It may easily be imagined how bodies of two or three hundred men, well
armed and mounted, could terrorise a thinly-populated country. Specific
acts of incendiarism and other offences against property were frequent.
Woolsheds were burned with their contents, sometimes to the value of
thousands of pounds; fences were cut and demolished; bridges and
telegraph lines destroyed; in short, no lawless action which could
result in expense and loss to the pastoralist, or those of the labourers
who defied the New Tyranny, was omitted.