One of the methods which the Pastoralists were compelled to use to
defeat the attempted domination of the Shearers' Union was to import
free labour: men who were contented to work for high wages and abundant
food; to obey those who paid, lodged, and fed them well. It may here be
stated that the fare in shearing time, provided for the shearers, the
station hands, and the supernumerary labourers, was such as might well
be considered not only sufficing and wholesome, but luxurious, in any
other part of the world. Three principal meals a day, consisting of beef
or mutton, good wheaten bread, pudding, vegetables when procurable;
three minor repasts of scones and cakes, with tea _ad libitum_; the
whole well cooked, of good quality, with no limitation as to quantity.
Where is the rural labourer in Europe similarly provided?
Agencies were established in the principal towns of the colonies. Men
were hired and forwarded to such stations as were in need. The cost of
transit was paid by the associated employers. They were forwarded by
rail, by coach, on horseback, or by steamer, as such transit was
available. An unfair, even illegal system of intimidation, under the
specious name of 'picketing,' to prevent the men thus engaged from
following their lawful occupation, came into vogue. Unionists were
stationed along roads or near stations, nominally to 'persuade' the free
labourers not to fulfil their agreements, but, in reality, to threaten
and abuse, not infrequently with brutal violence to assault and
ill-treat the nonconformists.
The majority of the Unionists were well-intentioned men, led away by
specious demagogues; but among them were lawless ruffians, who,
ignorantly prejudiced against their superiors and even their equals, who
had risen in life by the exercise of industry and thrift, were capable
of any villainy, not even stopping short of arson and bloodshed. Up to
this time the Ministry of the day had been tardy and over-cautious, both
in the protection of property and in the punishment of a criminal crew.
But they were gradually coming to a determination to stop such disorders
summarily. The strong arm of the law was invoked to that intent. For too
frequently had peaceable workmen, under the ban of the Unionist tyranny,
been captured, ill-treated, robbed, and temporarily deprived of their
liberty.
Grown bold by previous toleration, the Union Camp by Moorara had
determined to make an example of this particular steamer, with her load
of free shearers and rouseabouts—to teach them what the penalty was of
withstanding the Australian Shearers' Union and bringing a load of
blacklegs past their very camp.
It was nearly midnight when a scout galloped in to announce that the
_Dundonald_ was within half a mile of the camp, on her way down river
with fifty free labourers on board.
'By the God of Heaven,' shouted a dissolute-looking shearer, 'we'll give
them a lesson to-night, if we never do it again. I know the agent well—a
d—d infernal swell, who looks upon working-men as dogs, and talks to
them like the dirt under his feet. I told him I'd meet him some day, and
that day's come.'
'Come along, lads,' shouts an evil-faced larrikin from a city lane;
'let's give it 'em hot. We'll burn their bloomin' boat, and have roast
blackleg for breakfast.'
'You'd as well mind your eye, my lad,' said a slow-speaking,
steady-going Sydney-sider, from Campbelltown. 'Seth Dannaker's the
skipper of this boat—I can hear her paddles now, and he'll shoot
straight if you meddle with his loadin'. You're not the sort to face
Seth's pea-rifle, 'nless yer got a fairish big tree in front of yer.'
Upon this discouraging statement, the product of 'a city's smoke and
steam'—under-sized, untended from childhood, grown to manhood, untaught
save in precocious villainy—slunk into the background, while from the
centre of a group emerged the man who had posed as the 'President of the
Council,' and thus addressed the crowding shearers:—
'Bring out Bill Hardwick and them other "scabs." We'll have 'em in front
when the shootin' begins. It'll do 'em good to feel what their friends'
tyranny's brought the people to.'
The sentry was directed to quit his post, and a score of eager hands
competed for the privilege of dragging out the weary, famished men, and
rushing with them to the river-bank, while with slow, reverberating
strokes the measured beat of the paddles was heard, as the dimly-lighted
hull of the steamer showed amid the ebon darkness—the throbbing of her
overpowered engines sounding like the heart-beats of some monstrous
creature, slow-emerging from the channels of a prehistoric morass.
'Boat ahoy!' shouted the President, with an accent telling of a seaman's
experiences. 'Heave to, and let us have a look at your passenger list.'
'Who the hell are you, anyway?' was returned in answer—the intonation
confirming the Sydney-sider's information. 'What's my passenger list to
you? I'm bound to Moorara, and the men on board hev' their passage
paid—that's all I've to look to. Full steam ahead!'
A derisive laugh was the only answer from the river-bank. But the
skipper's complacency was of short duration, as a violent shock almost
dislodged him from the bridge, and made every bit of loose timber, or
unsecured deck cargo, rock and rattle again. The _Dundonald_ had gone
full speed against a wire rope, or rather against two twisted together,
which had been feloniously taken from a punt higher up the river,
because the misguided lessee had carried across free labourers.
A yell of exultation burst from the excited crowd, now fully determined
to board the obnoxious steamer, while a voice from their midst, after
commanding silence, called out, 'Steamer ahoy!'
'Well, what is it? What do you want, stopping me on a voyage? You'd as
well take care; I'm a quiet man, but a bad one to meddle with.'
'We want those infernal traitors you've got aboard.'
'And suppose I won't give up my passengers?'
'Then we'll burn yer bloomin' boat, and roast them and you along with
it. Don't yer make no mistake.'
'Then you'd better come and do it.'
At this defiance, a chorus of yells and execrations ascended through the
warm, still air, as a hundred men dashed into the tepid waters of the
smooth stream, the slow current of which hardly sufficed to bear them
below the steamer's hull. Like a swarm of Malay pirates, they clambered
on the low rail of the half barge, half steamer, which had done her
share in carrying the wool-crop of the limitless levels so many times to
the sea. But her last voyage had come. The crew stubbornly resisted.
Many a man fell backward, half stunned by blows from marline-spikes and
gun-stocks—though as yet only a few shots were fired—and more than one
of the rioters narrowly escaped death by drowning. But the 'free
labourers,' disordered by the suddenness of the onslaught, fought but
half-heartedly. Outnumbered by ten to one, they were driven back, foot
by foot, till they were forced aft, almost to the rail, before the
skipper yielded.
A few shots had been fired from the bank before the charge through the
water was made, in the pious hope of hitting the captain or one of the
crew; better still, a free labourer. They were promptly returned, and
one of the men nearest the leader fell, shot through the body. But at
that moment the leader's strident voice was heard. 'Stop firin'; I'll
shoot the next man that holds up a gun. Let's catch 'em alive and deal
with 'em and their blasted boat afterwards. There's enough of yer to eat
'em!'
When the surrender was imminent, the skipper had one of the boats
lowered—a broad-beamed, serviceable, barge-like affair, in which great
loads had been conveyed in the flooded seasons—and putting a white cloth
on to the end of his rifle-barrel, called for a parley. It was granted.
'See here, yer darned pirates! I want a word or two. There's a ton of
powder on board, and the man you wounded with your cowardly first shoot
is sitting on a chair beside a coil of fuse, with a sperm candle and a
box of matches. It's a sure thing he won't live, and he don't love the
men that took his life, foul and coward-like. I'm to fire this revolver
twice for a signal, and next minute we'll all go to hell together,
sociable like. Jump into the boat, men, and take your guns, some grub,
and a tarpaulin. Those that like may stay with me—I stop with the ship.'
If there's anything that undisciplined men fear, it is an explosion of
gunpowder. They did not know for certain whether there was any on board.
But if there was, there was no time to lose. A panic seized them, one
and all. The crew descended into the boat in good order, obeying the
captain's commands. His cool, decided voice imposed upon the rioters.
They tumbled into the river by scores—knocking over their comrades and
even striking them, like men in a sinking vessel, under the influence of
fear—until the last man had reached the bank, when they even ran some
distance in their terror before they could rid themselves of the fear of
hearing _too late_ the thunderous roar of the explosion, and being
hurled into eternity in an instant.
The free labourers, on the other hand, from having assisted in the
navigation of the steamer in her slow voyage from Echuca, had made
themselves acquainted with every nook and cranny and pound of cargo on
the boat. They knew that there was no magazine, nor any powder, and,
divining the captain's ruse, made for the opposite bank with all
convenient speed. Those who could swim, lost no time; and those who
could not, escaped into the bush, undisturbed by the privateering crowd
that had been so valorous a few minutes before.
When the boat returned and not before, the captain descended with
deliberation, remarking, 'Now, lads, we've got a clear track before us.
There ain't no powder, there ain't no wounded man, and I reckon them
long-shore skunks will find themselves in an all-fired mess when the
police come. There's a big body of 'em only ten miles from here, at
Moorara Station. We'll just make camp and have a snack—some of us want
it pretty bad. We'll build fires to warm those that's wet—wood's plenty.
Leave 'em burning and make down river so's to warn the police under
Colonel Elliot. The Union army won't cross before morning, for fear of
the old tub blowing up and making a scatteration among 'em.'
The programme was carried out. The night was of Egyptian darkness.
Supper was hastily disposed of. The fires were freshly made up, and
shortly afterwards the whole contingent took the down-river road and by
daylight were miles away from the scene of the encounter.
The unusually large body of police which had been ordered up by the
Government, to join with another force on the Darling, had made
rendezvous at Moorara, having heard from a scout that mischief, rather
above the ordinary limit, was being enacted near Poliah. When, next
morning, the captain and crew of the _Dundonald_, with the greater
portion of the free labourers, arrived, a strong sensation was aroused.
This was an unparalleled outrage, and, if unchecked, meant the
commencement of _Civil War_, plain and undisguised.
What horrors might follow! A guerilla band, with its attendant
crimes—murder, pillage, outrage! Such a band of reckless desperadoes,
armed and mounted, like a regiment of irregular horse, was sufficient to
terrorise the country; gathering on the march, till every criminal in
the land that could steal a horse and a gun would be added to their
ranks in a surprisingly short time.
Once launched on such a campaign of crime, the country would be ravaged
before a military force could be organised. The proverbial snowball may
be arrested at the first movement, but after gathering velocity, it
descends the mountain-side with the force and fury of the avalanche.
The colonel in command of the Volunteers was a soldier to whom border
raids in wild lands, with a wilder foe, was not unfamiliar. 'Boot and
saddle' was sounded. Without a moment's unnecessary delay, the troop was
in full marching order along the 'river road,' a well-marked trail,
heading for Poliah.
The night was still dark, but comparatively cool. No inconvenience was
felt as the men trotted briskly along and joked as to the sort of battle
in which they would engage.
'Bless yer, they won't fight, not if there was another thousand of 'em,'
said a grizzled sergeant, 'and every man with the newest arm invented.
I've seen mobs afore. Men as ain't drilled and disciplined never stands
a charge.'
'They've got rifles and revolvers, I know,' said a younger man, 'and
they can shoot pretty straight, some of 'em. Suppose they keep open
order, and pepper us at long range? What's to keep 'em from droppin' us
that way, from cover, and then makin' a rush?'
'There's nothin' to keep 'em, _only they won't do it_,' replied the
sergeant oracularly. 'They know the law's agin' 'em, which means a lot
in Australia—so far. Besides that, they've never faced a charge, or
don't know what it's like to stiffen up in line. You'll see how they'll
cut it when they hear the colonel give the word, not to mention the
bugle-call. Why, what the devil——?'
Then the sergeant, ending his sentence abruptly, almost halted, as a
column of flame rose through the night air, sending up tongues of flame
and red banners through the darkness which precedes the dawn.
'D—d if they haven't burned the bloomin' steamer!' quoth he. 'What next,
I'd like to know? This country's going to the devil. I always thought it
was a mistake sending our old regiment away.'
'Halt!' suddenly rang out in the clear, strong tones of the colonel—the
voice of a man who had seen service and bore the tokens of it in a
tulwar slash and a couple of bullet wounds. 'These fellows have set fire
to the steamer, and of course she will burn to the water's edge. They
will hardly make a fight of it though. In case they do, sergeant, take
twenty men and skirt round so as to intercept their left wing. I'll do
myself the honour to lead the charge on their main body, always
supposing they wait for us to come up.'
The character of the resistance offered proved the sergeant's estimate
to be absolutely correct. A few dropping shots were heard before the
police came up, but when the rioters saw the steady advance of a hundred
mounted men—an imposing cavalry force for Australia—saw Colonel Elliot,
who rode at their head with his sword drawn, heard the clanking of the
steel scabbards and the colonel's stern command, 'Charge!' they wavered
and broke rank in all directions.
'Arrest every man on the river-bank with firearms in his hands,' roared
the colonel. The sergeant, with a dozen of his smartest troopers, had
each their man in custody a few seconds after the order was given—Bill
Hardwick among the rest, who was fated to illustrate the cost of being
found among evil-doers. One man alone made a desperate resistance, but
after a crack from the butt-end of a carbine, he accepted his defeat
sullenly. By the time his capture was complete, so was the rout of the
rebel array. Hardly a man was to be seen, while the retreating body of
highly irregular horse sounded like a break-out from a stock-yard.
Matters had reached the stage when the stokers at the Gas Works were
'called out,' and the city of Melbourne threatened with total darkness
after 6 P.M.
Then a volunteer corps of Mounted Rifles was summoned from the country.
The city was saved from a disgraceful panic—perhaps from worse things.
The Unionist mob quailed at the sight of the well-mounted, armed, and
disciplined body of cavalry, whose leader showed no disposition to mince
matters, and whose hardy troopers had apparently no democratic doubts
which the word 'Charge!' could not dispel.
At the deserted Gas Works, aristocratic stokers kept the indispensable
flame alight until the repentant, out-colonelled artisans returned to
their work.
This was the crisis of the struggle—the turning-point of the fight; as
far as the element of force was concerned, the battle was over. It
showed, that with proper firmness, which should have been exhibited at
the outset, the result is ever the same. The forces of the State, with
law and justice behind them, must overawe any undisciplined body of men
attempting to terrorise the body politic in defence of fancied rights or
the redress of imaginary wrongs.
The rioting in the cities of Melbourne and Sydney was promptly abated
when the citizen cavalry, 'armed and accoutred proper,' clanked along
Collins Street in Melbourne, while Winston Darling led the sons of his
old friends and schoolfellows, who drove the high-piled wool waggons in
procession down George Street in Sydney to the Darling Harbour
Warehouses.
Much was threatened as to the latter demonstration, by blatant
demagogues, who described it as 'a challenge; an insult to labour.' It
was a challenge, doubtless—a reminder that Old New South Wales, with the
founders of the Pastoral Industry—that great export now reaching the
value of three hundred millions sterling—was not to be tyrannised over
by a misguided mob, swayed by self-seeking, irresponsible agitators.
No doubt can exist in the minds of impartial observers that if the
Ministries of the different colonies over which this wave of industrial
warfare passed, in the years following 1891, had acted with promptness
and decision at the outset, the heavy losses and destructive damage
which followed might have been averted.
But the labour vote was strong—was believed, indeed, to be more powerful
than it proved to be when tested. And the legislatures elected by
universal suffrage were, in consequence, slow to declare war against the
enemies of law and order.
They temporised, they hesitated to take strong measures. They tacitly
condoned acts of violence and disorder. They permitted 'picketing,' a
grossly unfair, even illegal (see Justice Bramwell's ruling) form of
intimidation, employed to terrorise the free labourers.
The natural results followed. Woolsheds were burned, notably the
Ayrshire Downs; the Cambridge Downs shed, 4th August 1894; Murweh, with
50,000 sheep to be shorn—roll to be called that day. Fences were cut,
bridges sawn through, stock were injured, squatters and free labourers
were assaulted or grossly reviled.
Everything in the way of ruffianism and disorder short of civil war was
practised, apparently from one end of Australia to the other, before the
Executive saw fit to intervene to check the excesses of the lawless
forces which, well armed and mounted, harassed the once peaceful,
pastoral Arcadia.
At length the situation became intolerable; the governing powers, with
the choice before them of restraining bands of _condottieri_ or
abdicating their functions, woke up.
It was high time. From the 'Never Never' country in remotest Queensland,
from the fabled land 'where the pelican builds her nest' to the great
Riverina levels of New South Wales, from the highlands of the Upper
Murray and the Snowy River to the silver mines of the Barrier, a
movement arose, which called itself Industrial Unionism, but which
really meant rebellion and anarchy.
It was rebellion against all previously-accepted ideas of government. If
carried out, it would have subverted social and financial arrangements.
It would have delivered over the accumulated treasure of 'wealth and
knowledge and arts,' garnered by the thrift, industry, and intelligence
of bygone generations, to one section of the workers of the land—the
most numerous certainly, but incontestably the least intelligent—to be
wasted in a brief and ignoble scramble.
The list of outrages, unchecked and unpunished, during this period,
makes painful reading for the lover of his country.
A distinguished and patriotic member of the 'Australian Natives'
Association,' in one of his addresses before that body, declared 'that,
for the first time in his life, he felt ashamed of his native country.'
That feeling was shared by many of his compatriots, as day after day the
telegrams of the leading journals added another to the list of woolsheds
deliberately set on fire, of others defended by armed men—sometimes,
indeed, unsuccessfully.
When the directors of the Proprietary Silver Mine at Broken Hill saw fit
to diminish the number of miners, for which there was not sufficient
employment, it was beleaguered by an armed and threatening crowd of five
thousand men. A real siege was enacted. No one was allowed to pass the
lines without a passport from the so-called President of the Miners'
Committee.
For three days and nights, as the Stipendiary Magistrate stated (he was
sent up specially by the New South Wales Government, trusting in his
lengthened experience and proved capacity), the inmates of the
mine-works sat with arms in their hands, and without changing their
clothes, hourly expectant of a rush from the excited crowd.
The crisis was, however, tided over without bloodshed, chiefly owing, in
the words of a leading metropolitan journal, to the 'admirable firmness
and discretion' displayed by the official referred to—now, alas! no
more. He died in harness, fulfilling his arduous and responsible duties
to the last, with a record of half a century of official service in
positions of high responsibility, without a reflection in all that time
having been cast upon his integrity, his courage, or his capacity.
More decisive action was taken, and was compelled to be taken, in
Queensland than in the other colonies.
There, owing to the enormous areas necessarily occupied by the
Pastoralists, the immense distances separating the holdings from each
other, and, perhaps, the heterogeneous nature of the labour element, the
acts of lawlessness became more serious and menacing. A military
organisation was therefore found to be necessary. Volunteers were
enrolled. Large bodies of these troops and of an armed constabulary
force were mobilised, and many of the incidental features of a civil war
were displayed to a population that had rarely seen firearms discharged
in anger.
The nomadic population had been largely recruited from the criminals of
other colonies, who, fleeing from justice, were notoriously in the habit
of crossing the Queensland border, and evading a too searching inquiry.
These were outlaws in the worst sense of the word; desperate and
degraded, conversant with undetected crime, and always willing to join
in the quasi-industrial revolts, unfortunately of everyday occurrence.
In these, bloodshed was barely avoided, while hand-to-hand fights,
inflicting grievous bodily injury, were only too common.