After the burning of the _Dundonald_, a score of the rioters had been
arrested and imprisoned. But owing to the confusion of the _mêlée_ and
the prompt dispersion of the Unionists it had been found difficult to
procure the necessary identification and direct evidence of criminality.
Thus, after some weeks of imprisonment, all were discharged except six
prisoners, among whom, unfortunately for himself and his family, was
that notorious malefactor, William Hardwick. Fate, in his case, would
appear to have leaned to the wrong side!
His appearance and manner had so favourably impressed the Bench of
Magistrates, before whom, after several remands, he and his
fellow-prisoners had been brought, that they were on the point of
discharging him, when Janus Stoate was tendered by the Sub-Inspector of
Police in charge of the case as a material witness for the Crown. He had
kept in the background after he saw the affair well started, taking care
to be heard protesting against violence on the part of the Unionists.
Having been sworn, he admitted his connection with them, to the extent
of belonging to the camp and having acted as a delegate, appointed by
the Council of the Australian Shearers' Union. He had worked last at
Tandara woolshed. At that station the men had completed their contract
and been paid off in the usual way. He as delegate had received notice
from the President of the Union to call out the shearers before shearing
was concluded. They declined, temporarily, and a messenger, elected by
the men, was sent to Wagga Wagga for further instructions.
Before he returned, the shed had 'cut out'—finished shearing, that is.
He could not say he approved of the arrangement, but was glad that the
contract was completed and all settled amicably. He was an upholder of
passive resistance, and could bring witnesses to prove that he dissuaded
the men from violence.
'Did he know the defendant, William Hardwick?'
'Yes, very well—he was sorry to see him in this position.'
'Had he seen him inciting or assisting the men who were concerned in the
burning of the steamer?'
'No, he could not say that he had, but——'
The witness was urged to explain, which he did, apparently with
unwillingness.
'He had seen him standing by the river-bank, with a gun in his hand.'
'Did he discharge the gun?'
'Yes, he did; he saw him put the gun to his shoulder and fire.'
'Was it directed at any one of the crew of the _Dundonald_?'
'He could not say that. The night was dark—just before daylight. He
fired at or near somebody, that was all he could say.'
'That will do.'
Another Unionist witness was brought forward. This man was actuated by a
revengeful spirit towards the free labourers, and especially towards
those shearers that had opposed the Union. He therefore gave damaging
evidence against Bill and his companions. He swore that he had seen
Hardwick—that was his name, he believed—anyway he was the 'blackleg' now
before the Court—loading and firing, like some of the camp men.
He was warned not to use the expression 'blackleg,' as it was
disrespectful to the Court. Such conduct might lead to his being
committed for contempt of Court and imprisoned.
The witness had 'done time' in another colony, been before a Court more
than once or twice probably. He laughed impudently, saying, 'He didn't
mean no offence, but it was 'ard on a man, as was true to his
fellow-workers, to keep his tongue off such sneaks.'
This was one of the cases where a magistrate, not being able to deal
effectively with a witness, will take as little offence as possible, so
as to get him out of the box and have done with him. In a city or county
town such a man would be sent to gaol for twenty-four hours, for
contempt of Court, to appear next morning in a chastened frame of mind.
But as the fire-raisers were to be committed for trial and forwarded
under escort to the Circuit Court at Wagga Wagga, nothing would be
gained by delaying the whole affair for the purpose of punishing a
single witness.
So poor Bill, being asked by the magistrate what he had to say in his
defence, made a bungling job of it, as many an innocent man, under the
circumstances, has done before, and will again.
'He could only state, that though seen among the Unionist rioters, he
was there under compulsion; that he and his mates, who had come from
Tandara, had determined, after seeing the unfair way in which the sheds
that "shore Union" had been ordered out, to cut loose from the tyranny.
But they had been captured by the rioters at Moorara; made to carry arms
and stand in front, where they were nearly being shot. As God was his
Judge, he never fired a shot or meant to fire one. He would far rather
have emptied his gun at the fellows who had robbed and ill-treated
him—for his horses, saddles, and swag were "put away," he believed, his
cheque and loose money were gone, and he had nothing but what he stood
up in. What call had he to hurt the boat, or any one aboard her? It was
the other way on. The witnesses had perjured themselves, particularly
Janus Stoate, who had eaten his bread and borrowed money from him in
times past, and now was swearing falsely, to ruin him, and rob his wife
and children of their home. He had no more to say.'
Unluckily for poor Bill, several of the accused, who _were_ guilty, had
made substantially the same defence. They were proved, by the evidence
of the crew of the _Dundonald_ and the police, to have been actively
aiding and abetting in the outrage. One, indeed, who tried to look
virtuous and made a plausible speech, had been seen pouring kerosene
over the doomed steamer, preparatory to her being set on fire.
This prejudiced the Bench against all defences of the same nature as
Bill's. He might, of course, have called on his mates, who had left the
Tandara shed with him, resolving to sever all connection with the Union.
They would, of course, have been able to corroborate his story, and have
ensured his discharge. But, here again, Fate (or else blind Chance,
which she too often resembles) was against him. 'Fortune's my foe,' he
might have quoted, with reason, had such literary _morceaux_ been in his
line.
One of the shearers from Tandara, being a smart bushman, had escaped, in
the uncertain light and confusion of the _mêlée_, and discovering the
horses of the party, feeding by themselves, in an angle of the station
fence, caught the quietest of the lot, annexed a stray halter, and ran
them into a yard. He then returned to the insurgents, and mingling with
the crowd, managed to warn his comrades, except Bill, who was wedged in
between two armed men, with another at his back, by special instruction
of Stoate. Leaving unostentatiously, they escaped notice, and providing
themselves with saddles and bridles from the numbers which lay on the
ground outside of tents, or on horizontal limbs of trees, departed
quietly, and by sundown were many a mile away on the road to the next
non-Union station. They would not have abandoned their companion had
they the least idea of what he was likely to undergo at the hands of the
law; but the last thought that could have entered into their heads would
be that _he_ was liable to arrest and trial in connection with the
burning of the steamer. So, believing that they might run serious risk
by remaining among the excited, dangerous crowd, at the same time being
powerless to do him any good, they decided to clear off.
As there was sworn evidence to incriminate him without available
witnesses to testify in his favour, the Bench had no alternative but to
commit William Hardwick for trial at the next ensuing Assize Court, to
be holden at Wagga Wagga. Thither, with the other prisoners, ruffians
with whom he could neither sympathise nor associate, was poor Bill,
manacled and despairing, sent off in the up-river coach, a prey to
anxiety and despondent imaginings.
What would be Jenny's feelings when she saw in an extract from the
_Wilcannia Watchman_, too faithfully copied into the _Talmorah
Advertiser_:—
'OUTRAGE BY UNIONISTS.
'_Burning of the "Dundonald."_
'Arrest and trial before the Bench of Magistrates at Tolarno. William
Hardwick, John Jones, J. Abershaw, T. Murphy, and others, committed for
trial at next Assize Court. Severe sentences may be looked for.'
* * * * *
Jenny's distress at this announcement may be imagined. She had not heard
from Bill since he left Tandara, at which time he had written in good
spirits, mentioning the amount of his cheque, and his resolution to cut
loose from the Shearers' Union (which he was sorry he ever joined), and
more particularly from Stoate and all his works.
'It's that villain, and no one else,' cried poor Jenny. 'I knew he'd do
Bill a mischief before he'd done with him—a regular snake in the grass.
I'd like to have a crack at him with a roping pole. He's worked round
poor Bill, some road or other, who's that soft and straightforward, as
any man could talk him over—and yet I wonder, after what he wrote——'
And here Jenny took Bill's last letter out of her homely treasure-chest,
read it once more and cried over it, after which she dried her eyes and
changed her dress, preparatory to seeking counsel of Mr. Calthorpe, the
banker in the township. This gentleman received her sympathetically, and
heard all she had to say, before giving an opinion.
In small and remote centres of population such as Talmorah the bank
manager is, even more than the clergyman or the doctor, the 'guide,
philosopher, and friend' of the humbler classes, whom he chiefly advises
for their good, and, in moderation, aids pecuniarily, if he can do so,
with safety to the bank. He is often young, but, from a wider than
ordinary outlook on men and affairs, endowed with discretion beyond his
years. For Jenny and her husband he had a genuine liking and respect,
based chiefly on his knowledge of character, but partly on the
creditable state of Bill's bank account.
'It's a bad business, Mrs. Hardwick,' he said, when Jenny had concluded
her story in a fit of weeping, which she could not restrain. 'And Bill's
the last man I should have expected to be mixed up with this affair.
It's wonderful what harm this strike business is doing all over
Australia. However, it's no use thinking of that. The question is, how
to help your husband out of the trouble, now he's in it. He's only
committed now—which doesn't go for much. It's the trial before the Judge
and Jury we have to look to.'
Here Mr. Calthorpe took down a file of newspapers and looked through
them. 'Yes, I thought so; to be tried at next ensuing Assize Court at
Wagga. You'd like him to have a lawyer to defend him, wouldn't you?'
'Of course I would,' replied the loyal wife. 'We've worked hard for our
bit of money, but I'd spend the last shilling of it before Bill should
go to gaol.'
'Quite right. Bill's man enough to make more—his liberty's the main
thing. Well, I'll send a letter by this night's mail to the Manager of
our bank at Wagga and ask him to see Mr. Biddulph, the solicitor—I was
stationed there years ago—and _he'll_ get him off if any one can. Money
is wanted, though, to pay witnesses' expenses—you must be prepared for
that.'
'Whatever's wanted, let him have, in God's name,' Jenny cried
recklessly. 'You know Bill's good for it, sir, and I've butter-money
saved up of my own. Bill always let me keep that. I've got it in this
bag. It will do to begin with.'
'Never mind that,' said the banker, good-humouredly. 'I have your deeds,
you know, and the balance is on the right side of your account. So don't
be down-hearted, and I'll let you know as soon as I hear from Biddulph.
Good-bye, and keep up your spirits; fretting won't do you any good, or
Bill either. All right, Mr. Mason,' he said, as his assistant, after
knocking, looked in at the door; 'tell Mr. Thornhill I can see him in a
minute.'
'I'll never forget your kindness,' said Jenny, as she shook hands warmly
with the friend in need. 'You'll let me know directly you hear
anything.'
'You may depend on that. Good-bye till Saturday; the up-river mail will
be in then.' As she passed out, a stoutish, middle-aged man came in.
'Morning, Calthorpe. Comforting the widow or the orphan? Saw she was in
trouble.'
'Deuced hard lines,' said the Manager gravely. 'Very decent
people—selectors at Chidowla, near Curra Creek. Her husband's got into
trouble—committed for trial about that burning of the _Dundonald_.'
'Serve him right, too. Those Union fellows are playing the deuce all
over the country. If they're not stopped there's no saying what they'll
do next. The country's going to the devil. The Government won't act with
decision, while property is being destroyed and life menaced every day.
I don't blame the men so much; it's these rascally agitators that ought
to suffer, and they mostly get out of it.'
'I'll never believe that Bill Hardwick went in for the steamer-burning
business,' said the banker, 'though he seems to have got mixed up with
it somehow. There's some cur working it, I'm sure. He's got a decent
stake in the country himself. He'd never risk losing his farm and the
money that he's saved. I won't believe it till it's proved.'
'But he must have been with those Union fellows or they couldn't have
arrested him,' answered the squatter. 'What was he doing in a Union
Camp? Comes of keeping bad company, you see. I'm sorry for his wife—she
seems a good sort; but if a man takes up with such people, he must pay
the penalty.'
And then the Manager went keenly into his client's business, removing
all thought of Bill's hard luck and Jenny's sad face from his mental
vision. But after his day's work was done, and his books duly posted up,
as he took his usual walk round the outskirts of the township, the 'case
of William Hardwick, charged with arson in the matter of the steamer
_Dundonald_,' recurred again and again with almost painful iteration.
'Must be a put-up job!' he ejaculated, as he turned towards the
unpretending four-roomed cottage which served him for dwelling-place,
office, and treasure-house. His clerk and assistant, a young fellow of
twenty, in training for higher posts when the years of discretion had
arrived, slept there with him.
But both took their meals in the best hotel of the township (there were
only two)—a more interesting way of managing the commissariat than
house-keeping where servants were scarce, as well as presenting distinct
advantages from the cooking side. It may be added that they were never
absent from the bank at the same time.
In addition to the convenience of the latter arrangement a country
banker in Australia finds his account in a general suavity of demeanour.
Bits of information then fall in his way, which a less cordial manner
would not have attracted.
At the ordinary table of the Teamsters' Arms, Talmorah, being a great
'carrying centre,' all sorts and conditions of men were represented. Not
that the partially renovated swagman or bullock-driver sat at meat with
the correctly attired squatter, station-manager, or commercial
traveller. Such is not the fashion in rural Australia. Meals, except in
case of illness, are not served in private rooms—a limited staff of
servants forbidding such luxury. But a second table is provided, of
which the lower tariff practically effects a separation between the
socially unequal sections. If not, a hint is never wanting from the
prudent but decisive landlord.
At the bar counter, however, a nearer approach to democratic equality is
reached; and it was here that Mr. Calthorpe caught a few words that
decided him to ask for a glass of beer, while a rather heated argument
was being carried on.
'Heard about Bill Hardwick fallin' in, over that steamer-burnin'
racket?' queried a sunburnt teamster, whose dust-enveloped garb and
beard proclaimed a long and wearisome trail.
'We all heard of it,' answered the man addressed—an
agricultural-appearing person, not so distinctively 'back-block' in
appearance as the first speaker—'and we're dashed sorry it's true in
this quarter. Bill's a neighbour of mine, and a straighter chap never
stepped. I don't hold with that sort of foolishness that the Union's
been carryin' on lately. I joined 'em and so did Bill, and I'd be as
well pleased I hadn't now, and so'd he I reckon. But as for him helpin'
to burn a steamer, I'd just as soon believe he'd stick up this bank.'
'Banks is one thing and Union leaders is another,' decided the man from
the waste, finishing a portentous 'long sleever.' 'But a chap's fool
enough to go with his crowd now and again; he don't care about being
ticketed as a "blackleg." Why shouldn't Bill do it as well as another?'
'Because he's the wrong sort; he's married and has a couple of kids. His
wife's a hard-working, savin' kind of woman as ever you see—always at it
from daylight to dark. Besides, he's lookin' to go in for another
selection. That's not the sort of chap that goes burnin' sheds and
steamers. It's a bloomin' plant, I'll take my oath.'
'That's your notion, is it?' quoth the teamster, who, having imbibed as
much colonial beer as would have half-drowned a smaller and less
desiccated man, was disposed to be confidential. 'I wouldn't say as
you're far out. I was comin' by Quambone with Bangate wool—forty-five
bales of greasy—it's now onloadin', and I'd a yarn with a chap that was
in the Union Camp at Moorara. He kep' as far back as he could, and
cleared out first chance. Of course they was all mixed up when the
firin' came, and some of 'em, as hadn't wanted to go too far, took their
chance to cut it. But afore he went, he heard Stoate ('you know
him?'—the listener nodded) tell another of the "committy," as they
called theirselves, "that he'd fix up Bill Hardwick if it come to a
trial—if any man had to do a stretch over it, _he'd_ not get off."
'"How'll you work that?" says the other cove. "He's never gone solid
along of us; and now he'll be dead agen Unionism, and no wonder. He told
some one this morning he'd lost his shearing cheque."'
'So that's the way they nobbled him,' said his hearer. 'Infernal
bloomin' scoundrels to swear a man's liberty away. Bill's got a friend
or two yet, though, and money in the bank, though some of them spoutin'
loafers has his cheque in their pockets. So long.'
The gaunt, sun-baked teamster departed to turn out his bullocks, and
generally recreate after his journey, deferring till the morrow the
pleasant process of receiving his cheque for carriage and safe delivery
of his valuable load—over five hundred pounds' worth of merino wool.
But Mr. Calthorpe, the banker, who, without listening to the whole
conversation, had caught Bill's name occasionally, touched Donahue's arm
(for that perfunctory agriculturist it was) as he turned reluctantly
homeward, and questioned him concerning his late acquaintance's words.
Nothing loath, indeed gratified with the chance of placating the local
potentate who wielded the power of life and death (financially) over him
and others, he cheerfully disclosed all that he had heard, being,
moreover, a good-natured, obliging sort of fellow, as indeed thriftless
persons often are.
'Now, look here, Donahue!' said the great man. 'I've a liking for
Hardwick, whom I've always found a steady and industrious chap, that
it's a pleasure to help. Some men are not built that way, Dick'—here he
looked Donahue squarely in the face. 'They idle their time, and spend
the money drinking and horse-racing that ought to go to paying their
debts and keeping the wife and children.' Mr. Donahue looked
embarrassed, and gazed into the distance. 'But I want your help to take
this business out of winding, and if you'll work with me, I _might_—I
don't say I will, mind you—recommend the Bank to give you time to pay
off the arrears on your selection.'
Dick Donahue, whose cheerful demeanour covered an aching heart and
remorseful feelings whenever he thought of the possibility of the family
losing their home because of his want of steady industry, turned round,
almost with the tears in his eyes, as he said, not without a touch of
natural dignity—
'Mr. Calthorpe, I'd do what I could for Bill, who's a better man than
myself, with all the veins of my heart—as poor old father used to
say—and ask no return in the world; and for Jenny Hardwick, who's been a
good head to Biddy and the children (more shame for me that they wanted
help), I'd risk my life any day. And if you think well of givin' me more
time to pay up, I've got a fencing contract from Mr. Dickson, after the
New Year, and I'll never touch a drop till it's finished, and give you
an order on him for the lot.'
'All right, Dick, we can arrange that; you work like a man and do your
duty to your family, and you'll find a friend in me.' He held out his
hand, which the repentant prodigal shook fervently, and turned away
without another word.
Nothing more was said on that day, but in the following week Richard
Donahue, fairly well turned out, and riding a horse 'fit to go for a
man's life,' as he expressed it, started 'down river,' leaving Mrs.
Bridget in a state of mind very different from that with which she
ordinarily regarded her husband's absence from home 'on business,'
always uncertain as to return and rarely satisfactory as to
remuneration.