The inland town of Wagga Wagga, in New South Wales, historically
celebrated as the dwelling-place of the Tichborne Claimant, where that
lapsed scion of the aristocracy followed the indispensable but not
socially eminent occupation of butcher, was, if not _en fête_,
pardonably excited at the arrival of the Judge and officers of the
Assize Court to be holden on the morrow.
This traditional spectacle—almost as interesting as the Annual Race
Meeting or the Agricultural Show—was afforded to the inhabitants at
half-yearly intervals. The curiosity aroused by these unfamiliar
personages, before whom were decided the issues of freedom or
imprisonment, life or death, was concentrated and intense. The Judge who
presided, the Bar, the Deputy Sheriff, the Crown Prosecutor, the
Associate, were objects of admiration to the denizens of a city three
hundred miles from a metropolis—chiefly ignorant of other than rural
life, and to whom the ocean itself was almost unknown. To the jurymen,
culled from the town dwellers and the surrounding farms, the summons to
aid in the administration of justice was a memorable solemnity.
The compulsory withdrawal from their ordinary avocations was fully
compensated by urban pleasures, and doubtless aided their intelligent
comprehension of the laws of the land.
Among the townspeople a certain amount of social festivity was deemed
appropriate to the occasion.
It may therefore be imagined that among the young men and maidens the
infrequent procession of the Judge's carriage, escorted by the
Superintendent of Police and half-a-dozen troopers, well armed, mounted,
and accurately turned out, created a thrill of pleasurable anticipation.
These feelings were heightened by the fact that Wagga (as, for
convenience, the thriving town on the Murrumbidgee River was chiefly
designated) stood at the edge of a vast pastoral district, being also
bounded by one of the finest agricultural regions of Australia.
The cases to be tried at this sitting of the Court concerned as well the
great pastoral interest as the army of labourers, to whom that interest
paid in wages not less than ten millions sterling annually.
Punctually as the Post-office clock struck ten, the Court House was
filled, great anxiety being shown to behold the six prisoners, who were
marched from the gaol and placed in the dock, a forbidding-looking,
iron-railed enclosure with a narrow wooden seat. On this some promptly
sat down, while others stood up and gazed around with a well-acted look
of indifference. Bill Hardwick had never been in such a place before,
and the thought of what Jenny's feelings would be if she had seen him
there nearly broke his heart. He sat with his head covered with his
hands—the picture of misery and despair. He knew that he was to be
defended—indeed had been closely questioned long before the day of trial
about his conduct on the eventful morning of the burning of the
_Dundonald_.
He had asserted his innocence in moving terms, such as even touched the
heart of the solicitor, hardened as he was by long acquaintance with
desperate criminals as well as cases where plaintiffs, witnesses, and
defendants all seemed to be leagued in one striking exhibition of false
swearing and prevarication calculated to defeat the ends of justice.
'That's all right,' said the lawyer, 'and I believe every word you've
said, Bill, and deuced hard lines it is—not that I believe defendants
generally, on their oath or otherwise. But you're a different sort, and
it's a monstrous thing that you should have to spend your hard-earned
money on lawyers and witnesses to defend yourself from a false charge.
But what we've got to look to, is to make the Judge and jury believe
you. These d—d scoundrels that were on for burning the boat, saw you
with a gun in your hand while the affair was going on, and will swear to
that, back and edge. Your friend Stoate, who isn't here yet, but will be
up in time for the trial, will clinch the nail, and he can bring the
constable to back him up, who saw you holding a gun. He doesn't say more
than that, but it goes to corroborate. The jury must go by sworn
evidence. There's only your own statement, which won't weigh against
deponents, who've apparently nothing to gain on the other side.'
'It's all the spite of that hound Stoate,' cried out Bill passionately.
'He was crabbed for my belittling him in the Tandara shed. He's put
those Unionists up to ruining me, and I'll break his neck when I get
out, if I have to swing for it.'
'No, you won't, Bill! If you get a sentence, which I hope you won't,
when you come out you'll be so jolly glad to find yourself free, that
you won't want to go back even for revenge. But never mind that for the
present; we must look things in the face. It's a thousand pities you
couldn't get some of those chaps that were driven into the hut along
with you, by the Unionists, the first night. Any idea where they've
gone? Know their names?'
'They went down the river, I heard say. They're hundreds of miles away
by this time. What's the use of knowing their names?'
'That's my business. It's wonderful how people turn up sometimes. Come,
out with their names—where they came from—all you know about them.'
Thus adjured, Bill gave their names and a sketch of personal appearance,
home address, and so on. 'All of them were natives, and some of them,
when they were at home, which was not often, had selections in the same
district.' This being done, Mr. Biddulph folded up the paper, and left
Bill to his reflections, telling him that he could do nothing more for
him at present, but to 'keep up his pecker,' and not to think the race
was over till the numbers were up.
This quasi-encouragement, however, availed him but little. 'He had lost
his shearing cheque; and here was money,' he sadly thought, 'being spent
like water, to prove him innocent of a crime for which he never should
have been charged. His wife would be nearly killed with anxiety, besides
being made aware that they could not now think of buying Donahue's or
any other selection. How everything had gone wrong since he rode away
from home that morning with Stoate (infernal, blasted traitor that he
was!), and had been going from bad to worse ever since. It was against
Jenny's advice that he joined the Union. She had a knack of being right,
though she was not much of a talker. Another time—but when would that
be?'
So Bill—'a hunter of the hills,' more or less, as was the Prisoner of
Chillon—had to pass the weary hours until the day of trial, and he could
exchange the confinement of the gaol for the expansive scenery of the
dock—restricted as to space, certainly, but having an outlook upon the
world, and a sort of companionship in the crowd of spectators, lawyers,
and witnesses, finishing up with the Judge.
At this judicial potentate Bill looked long and wistfully. He had an
idea that a Judge was a ruthless administrator of hard laws, with a
fixed prejudice against working-men who presumed to do anything illegal,
or in fact to trouble themselves about anything but their work and
wages. However, he could not fail to see in this Judge a mild, serious,
patient gentleman, showing greater anxiety to understand the facts of
the case than to inflict sentences. Still, he was only partly reassured.
Might he not be one of those benevolent-seeming ones—he had heard of
such—who would talk sweetly to the prisoner, reminding him of the happy
days of childhood, and his, perhaps, exemplary conduct when he used to
attend Sunday School—trust that he intended to lead a new life, and then
paralyse him with a ten years' sentence, hard labour, and two days'
solitary in each month?
He did not know what to expect. Wasn't there Pat Macarthy, who got three
years for assault with intent to commit grievous bodily harm (certainly
he more than half killed the other man)? Well, his wife worked his farm,
and slaved away the whole time, denying herself almost decent clothes to
wear. At the end of his term, he came out to find her hopelessly insane;
she had been taken to the Lunatic Asylum only the week before.
Bill hardly thought that Jenny would go 'off her head,' in the popular
sense. It was too level and well-balanced. But if he was sentenced to
three or five years more of this infernal, hopeless, caged-in existence,
he expected _he_ would.
The prisoners that he had watched in the exercise yard didn't seem to
mind it so much. But they were old and worn-out; had nothing much to
wish themselves outside for. Others did not look as if they had worked
much in their lives—had indeed 'done time' more than once, as the slang
phrase went, content to loll on the benches in the exercise yard and
talk to their fellow-convicts—not always after an improving fashion. But
to _him_ it would be a living death. Up and out every morning of his
life at or before daylight,—hard at work at the thousand-and-one-tasks
of a farm until it was too dark to tell an axe from a spade,—how _could_
he endure this cruel deprivation of all that made life worth living?
Fortunately for him, in one sense, the day of his trial was absolutely
perfect as to weather. Bright and warm—it was late December—the sky
unflecked by a single cloud. But there was a cool, sea wind, which,
wandering up from the distant coast, set every human creature (not in
sickness, sorrow, or 'hard bound in misery and iron'), aglow with the
joy of living. It raised the spirits even of that plaything of destiny
known among men as William Hardwick, so that as the whispering breeze
stole through the open windows of the Court he held up his dejected head
and felt almost like a man again.
The proceedings commenced, the jury had been impanelled. The Crown
Prosecutor threw back his gown, and fixing his eyes on the Judge's
impassive countenance opened the case.
'May it please your Honour, you will pardon me perhaps if, before
calling witnesses, I sketch briefly the state of affairs which, more or
less connected with the strike of 1891, has developed into a condition
of matters perilous to life and property, and altogether without
precedent in Australia.
'From a determination on the part of the seamen on coasting steamers to
refuse work unless certain privileges were granted to them by the
owners, a commencement was made of the most widespread, important, and,
in its effects, the most disastrous strike ever known in Australia. Into
the question of the adequacy or otherwise of the wage claimed, it is not
my intention to enter.
'The consequences, however, of the refusal of these seamen and others to
continue at work except under certain conditions, were far-reaching, and
such as could not have been reasonably anticipated. The revolt, as it
was called by the leaders of the movement, spread from sea to land, and
throughout all kinds and conditions of labourers, with startling
rapidity.
'Many of these bodies of workmen could not have been thought to have
been concerned with the original dissentients, by any process of
reasoning. But by the leaders of the rebellion—for such it may truly be
designated—the opportunity was deemed favourable for the promulgation of
what are known as communistic or socialistic doctrines. More especially
was this observable in the conduct of a large body of workmen, members
of the Australian Shearers' Union. Guided by ambitious individuals of
moderate education but considerable shrewdness, not wholly unmingled
with cunning, the shearers, and indeed the whole body of labourers
connected with the great wool export, had been misled. They were asked
to believe that a conspiracy existed on the part of the representatives
of capital, whether merchants, bankers, or landholders—indeed of all
employers, whether private individuals or incorporated companies—to
defraud the labourer of his hire.
'Inflamed by seditious pamphlets and utterances, shearers and others
banded themselves together for the purpose of intimidating all workmen
who were unwilling to be guided by the autocratic Unions, and arranged
on their own terms with employers.
'Not only did they, by "picketing,"—an alleged method of moral suasion,
but in reality a policy of insult, annoyance, and obstruction,—forcibly
prevent other workmen from following their lawful occupations, but they
commenced to destroy the property of the pastoral tenants, believed to
be opposed to Union despotism. As a specimen of the inflammatory
language used, perhaps your Honour will permit me to read an extract
from a paper published in the (alleged) interest of the working
classes.'
His Honour 'thought that however such extracts might indicate a tendency
on the part of certain sections of workmen to engage in acts of violence
causing injury to property,—a most lamentable state of feeling, in his
opinion,—yet the Court was directly concerned to-day with only specific
evidence as to the complicity of the prisoners in the crime of arson on
which they were arraigned. He thought the extract at this stage
irrelevant.'
'After drawing the attention of your Honour and the jury to the
seditious, dishonest statements referred to, I will briefly refer to the
lamentable list of outrages upon property, not stopping short indeed of
personal violence and grievous bodily injury.
'Matters have reached such a pitch that a state of civil war may be said
to have commenced. If not only the country but the towns and cities of
Australia are not to be theatres of bloodshed, outrage, and incendiary
flames, from which, by the mercy of Providence, Australia has up to this
period been preserved, the law in its majesty must step in, and
adequately punish the actors in the flagrant criminality as to which I
have to address your Honour this day.'
The prisoners, having been duly arraigned, with one accord pleaded not
guilty. The last name was that of William Hardwick. Just before his name
was called, room was made in the crowded Court and a seat provided by
the Sergeant of Police for a woman with two children, whose travel-worn
appearance denoted recent arrival.
Bill turned his head, and in that fragment of time recognised Jenny with
their little boy and girl. His name had to be repeated a second time.
Then he drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and looking straight at
the Judge, said 'Not Guilty' in a voice which sounded throughout the
Court, and if it had not the ring of truth, was a marvellous imitation.
Poor Jenny, who had preserved a strained, fixed look of composure, broke
down at this juncture. The sight of her husband, standing in the dock
with men of crime-hardened and to her eyes of guilty appearance—one of
whom, indeed, wore leg-irons, which clanked as he moved—overcame all
attempts at self-possession. Her sobs were audible through the whole
Court.
'Wife of the prisoner, your Honour,' explained the sergeant. 'Just off
the coach; been travelling twenty hours without rest or sleep.'
'Had she not better stay in the witnesses' room?' suggested the Judge
sympathetically. 'Refreshment can be brought to her there.'
But Jenny, though temporarily overcome, was not the woman to give in at
such a time. Wiping her eyes, 'I've come a long way, if you please, your
Honour,' she said, 'to hear my man tried on a false charge, if ever
there was one; and I hope you'll let me see it out. I'll not disturb the
Court again.'
It was a piteous spectacle.
Little Billy Hardwick, a precocious, resolute youngster 'rising five,'
looked for a while with much gravity at his father, and then said, 'Is
this a church, mother? Why doesn't father come out of that pew?'
Jenny was nearly overcome by this fresh assault on her sympathies, but
accentuating her order by a shake, replied, _sotto voce_, 'It's not a
church, Billy; but you mustn't talk, or else a policeman will lock you
up in prison.' The child had heard of prisons, where bad people were
locked up, even in Talmorah, where the primitive structure was, in his
little mind, associated with the constable's children, who used to play
therein when the cells were empty. He would have liked further
explanation, but he read the signs in his mother's set face and closed
lips, and spoke no more; while the little girl, holding on to her
mother's gown, mingled her tears with those of her parent. Jenny
Hardwick was 'not much in the crying line,' as an early friend had said
of her, and was besides possessed of an unusual share of physical
courage as well as of strength of mind. So, when she had hastily dried
her eyes, she gave every indication of being as good as her word.
'Call the first witness,' said the Crown Prosecutor, anxious to get to
work. This proved to be the Captain of Volunteers, who marched into the
box accordingly.
'Your name is Gilbert Elliot, formerly of the 60th Regiment, now
commanding a mounted Volunteer force. Were you at Moorara on the Darling
on the 28th of August 1894?'
'I was.'
'Please to state what you did and what you saw then.'
'When the troop reached Poliah, at the date mentioned, I saw the steamer
_Dundonald_ floating down the river. She was on fire and burning
fiercely. Apparently no one was on board. There was a large camp of
armed men—several hundreds—whom I concluded to be Union shearers. They
were yelling and shouting out that they had just burned the —— boat and
would roast the crew and captain for bringing up "blacklegs." I called
upon them to disperse, and as they made a show of resistance I ordered
my men to charge. They commenced to retreat and disperse, upon which I
caused all the men to be arrested who had arms in their hands, and who
were pointed out to me as having fired at the crew of the steamer or
having set fire to the vessel.'
'Do you recognise the prisoners before the Court?'
'Yes; all of them.'
'Your Honour, I appear for prisoner William Hardwick,' said a shrewd,
alert-looking person, who had just then bustled into the Court and
appeared to be well known to the legal section. 'May I ask to have the
captain's evidence read over to me? Ordinarily I should not think of
troubling your Honour or delaying the business of the Court; but I have
travelled from Harden, and, being delayed on the road, have only this
moment arrived.'
'Under the circumstances, Mr. Biddulph, the evidence of Captain Elliot
may be read over from my notes.' This was done.
The witness's evidence was proceeded with.
'Was there any show of resistance by the men assembled in the camp?'
'There was a movement as if they were disposed to fight. They
outnumbered my troopers more than six to one, but at the first charge
they wavered and dispersed. They made no opposition to my arresting the
prisoners before the Court. One of them, the one now in irons, made a
desperate resistance, but was not supported.'
'Now, Captain Elliot,' said Mr. Biddulph, 'will you look at the prisoner
at this end of the dock; do you remember him?'
'Perfectly. He had a rifle in his hand when I ordered him to be
arrested.'
'Did he resist?'
'No.'
'Did he say anything? If so, what was it?'
'He said, "I'm not here of my own free-will. I've been robbed and
ill-treated by these men. I was forced to carry this gun. You can see
that it has not been discharged. My mates (there are several of them)
can prove that." I asked him where they were. He said he did not know.'
'Then you had him arrested, though he disclaimed taking any part in the
unlawful proceedings? Did you not believe him?'
'I did not. As it happened, other prisoners made substantially the same
defence who had been seen firing their guns just as we rode up.'
'That will do, captain.'
The next witness was called.
'My name is Humphrey Bolton. I am a Sergeant of Volunteers, and came up
from Moorara by a forced march as soon as we heard that the steamer was
burnt. When we struck the camp there were six or seven hundred men, most
of them armed. They appeared very excited. I saw the steamer drifting
down the river. She was on fire. I saw a barge with a number of men in
it. I noticed the Unionists standing on the bank of the river and firing
from time to time in the direction of the barge. The men in the barge
were bending down and lying in the bottom as if afraid of being hit. I
did not hear of any of them being hurt; a few shots were fired back, and
one man in the camp was wounded.'
'What happened next?' said the Crown Prosecutor.
'Captain Elliot ordered me to capture all men on the river-bank who had
arms in their hands. The six prisoners before the Court and about a
dozen others were taken in charge accordingly.'
'Did the crowd resist their capture?'
'They made a show of it at first, but as soon as we charged, they gave
way and cleared off in all directions.'
'Now, sergeant,' said Mr. Biddulph, 'look at the prisoner William
Hardwick. Had he arms?'
'He was carrying a gun.'
'Did you see him fire it?'
'No.'
'Did you examine it, when he said it had not been fired?'
'Yes, the captain ordered me to do so; it had not been fired recently.'
'Wasn't that proof that he was speaking the truth?'
'How could I tell? He might have been going to fire, or picked up one
that had not been used. Besides, my officer told me to arrest him, and,
of course, I obeyed orders. He was in company with men who had just
committed a felony, at any rate.'
'I see—evil communications. You may go down, sergeant.'
The next witness was the captain of the _Dundonald_.
'My name is Seth Dannaker, Master Mariner, out of Boston, U.S.A. I was
lately in command of the steamer _Dundonald_—now at the bottom of the
river Darling. I had come from Pooncarrie, carrying forty-five free
labourers, last Saturday, without obstruction or disturbance. I took
wood on board, and tied up, with swamp all round, a little below Poliah.
We heard that a large camp of Unionists were waiting to attack us there;
they had wire ropes across the river. We had steam up all night and a
watch was kept. About four o'clock A.M. a mob of disguised men rushed on
board the boat, and took possession of her. They knocked me about, and
put me and the crew on board the barge, now moored at Moorara. They
afterwards set the _Dundonald_ on fire. She drifted down the river, and
finally sank. They took possession of the free labourers, and counted
them. They had guns and revolvers, threatening to shoot me and all who
resisted them. I have lost all my personal effects, including money. I
thought this was a free country; now I know it isn't.'
Cross-examined by Mr. Carter, appearing for the prisoners—with the
exception of William Hardwick.
'You say you were threatened by one or more of the Unionists. Can you
recognise any of the prisoners now before the Court?'
'Yes; the man in irons. I was told his name was Abershaw. He put a
revolver to my head, swearing he would shoot me if I resisted; also that
he would burn the b——y steamer, and roast me and the Agent of the
Employers' Association for bringing up blacklegs.'
'Was he sober?'
'I cannot say. He was much excited, and more like a madman than any one
in his senses. Two or three men struck me. I cannot identify any other
prisoners. I had left my revolver in the cabin, or I should have shot
some of them.'
'Did you see any persons firing at the vessel or crew?'
'Yes; there was a line of men on the bank firing with rifles at the
crew. They wounded two of them. I cannot identify any of them.'
Cross-examined by Mr. Biddulph.
'Will you look at the man in the corner of the dock nearest to you? Did
you see him firing or carrying a gun?'
'I never saw him at all, to my knowledge. Of course there was
confusion.'
Next witness. 'My name is James Davidson. I am the Agent of the
Employers' Association. On or about the 28th August 1894, I came up in
the _Dundonald_ in charge of free labourers (forty-five) to a spot near
Poliah. The police had been sent for from Tolarno. We had heard of the
Unionists intending to obstruct the boat, and so kept watch above and
below. Next morning, just before daylight, a number of men rushed on
board. One of them pointed a gun at the man who tried to set the boat
free, threatening to kill him if he moved. They went into the
wheel-house, and struck the captain; I heard them tell him they would
kill him and burn the boat. He was knocked about badly. I got a few
blows before the leaders got the men quiet. Then they started getting my
men out.'
By the Crown Prosecutor. 'Whom do you mean by your men?'
'The free labourers.'
'Did they resist, or go quietly?'
'Some went quietly—others resisted, and were thrown overboard. A few
were only in their shirts, as they had not had time to dress. They were
then set up in a line and counted, to see if they were all there. A
guard was put over them.'
'Was the guard armed?'
'Yes. Another gang was busy unloosing the steamer, and preparing her for
the fire. They smashed in the cabins and stole everything. Nothing
escaped them when they began to pillage. I lost my portmanteau, clothes,
and money. Everything was taken out of my cabin, leaving me nothing but
the clothes I had on.'
'Were the Unionists much excited?'
'Excited?—raving mad, I should call it. We were lucky to get off with
our lives. Fortunately, few persons were injured. We received every
attention when we got to Moorara. There is a large Union Camp at
Tolarno. They have given out that they intend to burn two more steamers,
for carrying free labourers.'
'Do you identify the prisoners in the dock?'
'Two of them. The man in irons struck the captain, and said he would
burn the boat and roast him alive. The one with the large beard was the
one who said he would shoot the man who was unloosing the cable. The
others I have no knowledge of.'
By Mr. Carter. 'Did you see the prisoner William Hardwick—the one at
this end of the dock?'
'Not that I am aware of.'
'You said you lost some money?'
'Yes, ten or twelve pounds; it was in a purse in my portmanteau. I had
to draw on the Association for a few pounds, as I was left penniless and
without a change of wearing apparel.'
'I suppose that was a form of "picketing," in accordance with the
"ethics of war."'
'"Pickpocketing," I should call it.'
'One moment, Mr. Davidson,' interposed Mr. Biddulph, as the Agent turned
to leave the witness-box. 'Did you see the prisoner at this end of the
dock, carrying a gun or in any way joining in this creditable work?'
'I never saw him at all.'
'That will do.'
'Call Janus Stoate, witness for the Crown.'
As his name was mentioned, Bill turned his head towards the door where
the witnesses came in, with a look of murderous hate, such as no man had
ever seen before on his good-natured countenance.
Jenny, as she looked anxiously towards the dock, hardly knew him. By
that door was to walk in the man who had eaten many a time at his humble
but plentiful table, and in return had treacherously denounced him,
ruined his character, helped to deprive him of his hard-earned wages,
gone near to render his children paupers, and break his wife's heart. A
man of his easy-going, confiding character, easily deceived, is not
prone to suspicion, but when injured—outraged in his deepest, tenderest
feelings—is terrible in wrath. As Bill unconsciously clenched his hands,
and stared at the open door, he looked as one eager to tear his enemy
limb from limb.
But the thronged Court was disappointed, and Bill's vengeance delayed,
as no Janus Stoate appeared.
Mr. Biddulph, who had left the Court, now appeared in company with a
mounted trooper, whose semi-military attire told of a rapid ride. He
spoke in a low voice to the Sub-Inspector of Police, who thereupon
proceeded to address the Judge.
'If your Honour pleases, there will be a trifling delay before this
witness can give his evidence, owing to circumstances to which I cannot
at present allude. As the hour for your Honour's luncheon has nearly
arrived, may I suggest a short adjournment? I can assure your Honour
that I make the application for sufficient reasons.'
'I am opposed,' answered the Judge, 'to adjournments in criminal cases;
but on Mr. Sub-Inspector's assurance, I consent to relax my rule. Let
the Court be adjourned until half-past one o'clock.'
There was a gasp of relief, half of satisfaction, half of
disappointment, from the crowd as they hurried from the Court to snatch
a hasty meal and ventilate their opinions.
'It's another dodge of the Government to block our workers from gettin'
justice,' said one oratorical agitator, partially disguised as a
working-man, and whose soft hands betrayed his immunity from recent
toil. 'It's a conspiracy hatched up to block Delegate Stoate's evidence
agin that blackleg Hardwick.'
'You be hanged!' said a rough-looking bushman, who had just hung his
horse up to one of the posts in front of the Murrumbidgee Hotel. 'You
won't have so much gab when you see Delegate Stoate, as you call _him_,
before the Court, and some one as can tell the truth about him. Bill
Hardwick's as honest a cove as ever walked, and he _is_ a worker, and
not a blatherskite as hasn't done a day's work for years, and sets on
skunks like Stoate to rob honest men of their liberty. Don't you stand
there gassin' afore me, or I'll knock your hat over your eyes.'
There was presumably a majority of Mr. Stoate's own persuasion around
listening to the foregoing remarks, but the onlookers did not seem
inclined to controvert this earnest speaker's arguments—seeing that he
was distinctly an awkward customer, as he stood there, obviously in hard
condition, and eager for the fray.
'See here now, boys,' said a large imposing-looking policeman, 'sure
it's betther for yees to be gettin' a bit to ate and a sup of beer this
hot day, than to be disputing within the hearin' of the Coort, and may
be gettin' "run in" before sundown. Sure it's Misther Barker that's
sittin' the good example.' Here he pointed to the agitator, who, after
mumbling a few words about 'workers who didn't stand by their order,'
had moved off, and was heading straight for the bar of the Murrumbidgee
Hotel.
This broke up the meeting, as the Union labourers were anxious to hear
the conclusion of the case, Regina _v._ Hardwick and others, and were
not unobservant either of the unusually large force of police which the
Resident Magistrate of Wagga Wagga, a man of proverbial courage and
experience, had called up, in anticipation of any _émeute_ which might
arise as a result of this exciting trial. At half-past one o'clock the
Judge, accompanied by the Deputy Sheriff, took his seat upon the Bench,
and the Court was again formally declared open.
As the name Janus Stoate was called by the official, in a particularly
clear and audible voice, every eye was turned toward the door by which
the Crown witnesses entered, and that distinguished delegate walked in,
closely accompanied by a senior constable.
His ordinarily assured and aggressively familiar manner had, however,
deserted him; he looked, as the spectators realised, some with surprise,
others with chagrin, more like a criminal than a Crown witness.
Bill's gaze was fixed upon him, but instead of homicidal fury, his whole
countenance exhibited unutterable scorn, loathing, and contempt. As he
turned away, he confronted the spectators and the Court officials
generally, with a cheerful and gratified expression, unshared by his
companions in misfortune.
Even they regarded Stoate with doubt and disfavour. Deeply suspicious
and often envious of their fellow-workmen who attained parliamentary
promotion, and more than that, a fixed and comfortable salary, they were
skilled experts in facial expression. In the lowered eyes and depressed
look of Mr. Delegate Stoate they read defeat and disaster, not
improbably treachery.
'The beggar's been squared or "copped" for some bloomin' fake,' said the
prisoner on the other side of the man in irons. 'He's goin' to turn dog
on us, after all.'
'If I don't get a "stretch,"' growled the other, 'his blood-money won't
do him no good.'
'Silence in the Court,' said the senior Sergeant, and Mr. Stoate was
duly sworn.
'Your name is Janus Stoate, and you are a shearer and a bush labourer?'
said the Crown Prosecutor.
'That is so, mostly go shearin' when I can get a shed.'
'Now, do you know the prisoners in the dock? Look at them well. Their
names are William Stokes, Daniel Lynch, Hector O'Halloran, Samson
Dawker, Jeremiah Abershaw, and William Hardwick.'
'Yes, your Honour; I've met 'em as feller-workers. I don't know as I've
been pusson'ly intimate with 'em—except prisoner Hardwick.'
'_He does know him_, to our sorrow, the false villain!' cried out Jenny,
coming a pace forward with a child in each hand, and delivering her
impeachment before any one could stop her. 'Ask him, your Honour, if he
hasn't lived with us, lived _upon_ us I call it, for weeks at a time—and
now he's going to bear false witness and ruin the family, body and
soul.'
'Is this the person who interrupted before?' said the Judge. 'Order
_must_ be kept in the Court. Let her be removed.' Here the Deputy
Sheriff said a few words in a low tone to his Honour. 'Indeed!' said the
Judge mildly. 'She must control her feelings, however. My good woman, if
I hear another interruption, it will be my duty to have you removed from
the Court.'
'Mrs. Hardwick,' said Biddulph, when Jenny's sobs had ceased, 'don't you
make a fool of yourself, you're hurting Bill's case. I thought you had
more sense. Do you want me to throw it up?'
This settled poor Jenny effectually, and humbly begging pardon, she
promised amendment, and kept her word—only regarding Stoate from time to
time with the expression which she had assumed at times when a native
cat (_Dasyurus_) had got into her dairy.
'Were you at a place called Poliah, on the river Darling, on or about
the 28th August last?'
'Yes, I was.'
'Was there a camp there of Unionist shearers?'
'There was workers of all sorts, besides shearers, rouseabouts, and
labourers, also loafers.'
'Very likely; but what I want you to tell me is, were they chiefly
shearers? In number, how many?'
'Well, say six or seven 'underd.'
'You acted as a delegate, I believe, under rules of the Australian
Shearers' Union, at several stations during shearing?'
'I was app'inted as delegate by my feller-workers, and acted as sich on
several occasions.'
'What were your duties as a delegate?'
'I 'ad to be in the shed while shearin' was goin on, to see the rules of
the Australian Shearers' Union was carried out strickly, and that the
men got justice.'
'In what way?'
'Well, that they wasn't done out of their pay for bad shearin', when
they shore reasonable well; that they got proper food and lodgin', and
wasn't made shear wet sheep, which ain't wholesome—and other things, as
between employer and employee.'
'As delegate, did you go to Poliah? and did you see a steamer called the
_Dundonald_ on the river?'
'Yes, I did.'
'Did you see a number of men rush on board of her, and take the free
labourers out of her?'
'No. I was at the back of the camp persuadin' of the men not to use no
vi'lence. Then I heard a great hubbub, and guns fired. After that I saw
the steamer afire and drifting down river.'
'Did you see who set it on fire?'
'No.'
'Did you see who fired the guns?'
'No; I heard the reports of 'em.'
'Did you see any men on the bank with guns in their hands?'
'Yes; a line of 'em along the river.'
'Were the prisoners now before the Court there?'
'They might have been, I can't speak positive.'
'Was the prisoner Hardwick there carrying a gun?'
'I can't be sure. He might have been. I thought I saw him, but I wasn't
near him, and I can't be sure in my mind.'
'You can't be sure?' asked the Crown Prosecutor angrily. 'Didn't you
swear at the Police Court at Dilga that you saw him not only holding a
gun, but firing it towards the steamer? I'll read your deposition. "I
saw the prisoner holding the gun produced. He appeared to have been
firing it."'
'Now, Mr. Stoate, is that your signature? and how do you account for
your going back on your sworn evidence? You're intelligent enough—in a
way. I am at a loss to understand your conduct.'
'Well, I was a bit flurried at the time—confused like. The police came
down and charged the mob, and a lot of the shearers cleared out.'
'Then you won't swear that Hardwick held the gun, or fired it?'
'No; I wasn't near enough to him to be dead certain. It was a man like
him.'
'Your Honour,' said the Crown Prosecutor, 'this is a most extraordinary
change of front on the part of this witness; it amounts to gross
prevarication, if not something worse. I _may_ have occasion to
prosecute him for perjury. You may go down, sir.'
'Not yet. With your Honour's permission, I propose to cross-examine the
witness,' interposed Mr. Biddulph. 'Now, Mr. Delegate Stoate, is Janus
your Christian name?'
'Yes.'
'Janus, is it? Sounds more heathen than Christian; more suitable also,
if I mistake not. Now, Janus Stoate, you're my witness, for the
present—remember that—and I advise you to be careful what you say, for
your own good, and don't "suppose" so much as you did in your answer to
my learned friend. You and Hardwick were on friendly terms before
shearing, and came down the river together?'
'Yes, we were friends, in a manner of speakin'.'
'Were you friends or not? Answer me, and don't fence. Have you not
stayed at his house often, for more than a week at a time?'
'Yes, now and then—workers often help one another a bit. I'd 'a done the
same by him if he'd 'a come along the road lookin' for work.'
'Given him house-room, and three meals a day for a week or more, I
daresay. But, let me see—_have you a house_?'
'Well, not exactly. I live in Melbourne.'
'Where?'
'At a boarding-house.'
'You left his house, then, for the shearing, the last time you were
there. You had board and lodging for the previous night, and came down
the river to North Yalla-doora together; is that so?'
'Yes.'
'Did you say you were a delegate before the shearing began?'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'For no reason in partic'lar.'
'Did you and he have a dispute on the road, and part company before you
came to North Yalla-doora?'
'Well, we had a bit of a barney, nothing much.'
'Oh! nothing much? You were at Tandara while the shearing was going on;
and did he and others refuse to come out on strike when you produced a
telegram from the Head Centre, or whatever you call him, at Wagga?'
'He refused to obey the order of the properly app'inted hofficer of the
Australian Shearers' Union; and was disrespectful to me, pusson'ly.'
'Did you then say that you would make it hot for him at the next shed?'
'I don't remember. But I was displeased at his disloyal haction.'
'Disloyal to whom? to the Queen?'
'No, to a greater power than the Queen—to the People, as is represented
by the Australian Shearers' Union.'
'Very good; keep that for your next speech. You'll find out something
about the powers of Her Majesty the Queen before long.'
'Do you not think, Mr. Biddulph,' said the Judge, with much politeness,
'that you have tested this part of the cross-examination sufficiently?'
'It was necessary to prove malice, your Honour; but I will proceed to
the witness's acts and deeds, which are more important. Now, Mr.
Delegate, answer these few questions straightforwardly.'
'I am on my oath, Mr. Lawyer.'
'I am aware of that; I don't attach much importance to the obligation, I
am sorry to say. Did you not say to the President of the Shearers'
Committee, during the riot, which might have ended in murder, and did
end in arson—"Send a couple of men with Bill Hardwick and put him in the
front with a rifle"?'
'Nothing of the sort.'
'If it is sworn by a respectable witness that he heard you, will you
still deny it?'
'Certainly I will.'
'Call Joseph Broad. (I merely call this witness to be identified, your
Honour.) Did you see this man at the shearers' camp?' to Stoate.
'I saw him there, but that's all.'
'That will do, Broad; go out of Court for the present. Did you hear your
President speak to him?'
'Not to my knowledge.'
'Did Lynch and another man stand on each side of Hardwick on the bank of
the river, and threaten to shoot him if he didn't stop there and hold
out his rifle?'
'I didn't hear them.'
'Now listen to me, and be very careful how you answer this question. Did
_you_ stand close behind him with a revolver and say, "Don't you move
for your life"?'
'Not that I remember. We was all crushed up that close together, as the
crew of the steamer fired into us, that a man couldn't tell who was next
or anigh him.'
'Very probably. That will do. Stay,' as Mr. Stoate turned away, and left
the witness-box with a relieved expression. 'Go into the box for a
moment. How did you come here—walk or ride?'
'Rode.'
'Rode your own horse?'
'No, a police horse; I came up with Sergeant Kennedy.'
'Oh, then, he lent you a horse—very kind of him—and accompanied you
here. How was that?'
'Well, I believe there was some sort of a case trumped-up against me.'
'Oh! some kind of a trumped-up case, was there? We'll hear more about
that, by and by. That will do for the present, Mr. Delegate.'
The witness then left the Court, followed by the strange trooper, so
closely indeed, that but for the absence of handcuffs he might have been
thought to have been in custody.
'Call Sergeant Kennedy.'
John Kennedy, being duly sworn, deposed as follows: 'I am a senior
Sergeant of Police, stationed at Dilga, on Cowall Creek, which runs into
the Darling. I saw the last witness at Tandara Run on December the 20th
instant. He was given into my custody by Mr. Macdonald, the manager,
charged with wilfully and maliciously setting fire to the run. I
searched him in his presence and found on him two half-crowns, a knife,
a meerschaum pipe, a plug of tobacco, two sovereigns, a copy of Union
Shearers' rules, a letter, and a cheque. The cheque was drawn by John
Macdonald in favour of William Hardwick, dated 10th October. The amount
was £55: 17s.'
When this announcement was made an audible murmur arose from the body of
the Court, even a few hisses were heard, which were promptly suppressed.
Bill opened his eyes in wonder and amazement, and then turned to where
Jenny sat crying peacefully to herself, but not from grief. Their money
had been recovered, their traitorous enemy disgraced and confounded.
She, in her mind's eye, saw her home once more glorified with Bill's
presence—a free, unstained man. God was merciful, and she despaired no
longer of His goodness.
'You didn't observe anything in the rules of the A.S.U. as to pocketing
the cash of all shearers unfriendly to the Union? No? Then you may go
down.'
'I have no questions to ask this witness,' said the Crown Prosecutor,
with emphasis—'at present, that is to say.'
So Mr. J. Stoate, who had departed with the trooper, was for greater
safety and security lodged in the modern substitute for the dungeon of
the Middle Ages, until the Judge, after the finding of the jury, should
have pronounced sentence or otherwise on the _other_ prisoners.