This particular district has for many years been settled after a fashion

which permits of moderate-sized holdings. For a lengthened period,

therefore, have the exotic trees and shrubs, which even the humblest

farms boast, grown and flourished. The tall, columnar poplars, the wavy,

tremulous aspens, the umbrageous elms, are large of girth, stately of

height, and broad of shade. They are to be seen around the farm-house,

or near the mansion which peeps out amid wood and meadow. Here a row of

stately elms borders the roadside, affording a grateful shade to the

weary wayfarer. The season has been exceptionally humid, as when

Low thunders bring the mellow rain

Which makes thee broad and deep.

Yet the oak is not so common. Slow of growth, he does not seem to

assimilate himself to all soils, although in a few localities he may be

observed doing no discredit to his British comrades. The lime, the

Oriental plane, the ash, the willow, and the sycamore proclaim the

generous nature of the soil and climate which they have reached, so far

across the foam. Besides these are the noble _Paulownia imperialis_,

majestic with gigantic leaves and purple-scented flowers; the catalpa

and even the magnolia, beauteous and fragrant—a botanic miracle. The

olive grows rapidly, forgetting oft in eagerness to add branch to branch

to mature the fruit, which will one day furnish a valuable export.

All these with others in this last season are spreading their green

pennants to the summer breeze—grateful in shade to the traveller wearied

and adust; beautiful to the eye of the lover of all plant-life; 'things

of beauty and of joy for ever,' even to those whose sense of harmonious

landscape-arrangement is rudimentary and undeveloped.

We halt for an instant on the verdant level, hard by the little creek

whose waters, this gracious year, run yet with musical monotone, to

watch the drivers of these high-piled waggons, who are even now

unloosing their teams. There are five waggons, which, with wheels of the

adamantine iron-bark eucalyptus, are warranted to carry the heaviest

loads procurable; and heavy loads they are. Forty bales of wool in each,

or thereabouts. Sixty or seventy horses in the five teams, all 'grade'

Clydesdales or Suffolks, and averaging in value from £25 to £35 each.

The 200 bales of wool are worth, say at £20 each, £4000; £1500 for the

team horses; £300 for the waggons. A not inconsiderable total of values.

Stay! In haste we have forgotten the sixty sets of harness and the

tarpaulins,—£5000 or £6000 in all. A large property to be in the hands

of five young fellows hardly known to the proprietor of the freight. It

is fortunate that there are no robber barons at this time of day to

demand tribute, or land pirates and buccaneers, _except those who

collect the intercolonial protective duties_.

The hare which runs across the road in front of us is an introduced,

imported animal, like the deer we saw a while back. He is becoming

numerous, but, unlike his cousin and comrade, 'Brer Rabbit,' has not

been disastrously destructive. The settlers eat him at present. 'Brer

Rabbit' in some districts has commenced to reverse the process.

Among the manifold natural beauties of the season we must by no means

omit the hedgerows; in beauteous blossom these, and though, perhaps,

chiefly too wild and luxuriant, yet affording pleasing contrast to the

bare utilitarianism of rail and wire fence, and the monotony of the

barked, murdered woods. Various are they, ranging from the dark green of

the hawthorn, lovely with sweet souvenir bloom of long-past English

springs, to the pink flower-masses of the quince, the crimson showers of

the rose-hedges, and the yellow hair of the _Acacia armata_; while high,

towering, thorny, impervious, with brightest glittering greenery, grows

the Osage orange—a transatlantic importation, which in some respects is

the most effective green wall known, being a species of live barbed

wire, with an agreeable appearance of leafage, yet exuding a bitter

juice, which prevents its mutilation by live stock. All these,

interspersed occasionally with the sweetbriar, the scent and wild-rose

flower of which almost atone for its predatory habits, its illegal

occupation of Crown Lands. In one instance an economical or patriotic

farmer had permitted the fast-growing eucalyptus saplings to interlace

his 'drop' fence—an effective and not wholly unpicturesque road border.

From time to time amid the larger enclosures we came across a

half-forlorn, half-picturesque patch 'where once a garden smiled.' A

roofless cottage, a score of elms and poplars, with straggling

rose-bushes abloom among the thistles, mark the abandoned homestead. In

the 'distressful country' these would be the signs of an eviction. Here,

when Michael or Patrick unhouses himself, he does so with a comfortable

cheque in his pocket and the wherewithal to 'take up' a larger holding,

perhaps six hundred and forty acres, or even in the central district,

two thousand five hundred, by the payment in cash to the Crown—of how

much does the reader unlearned in the New South Wales land laws believe?

Two shillings per acre! The remaining balance of eighteen shillings per

acre to be paid in twenty years, with interest at five per cent, or

_ninepence_ per acre annually! The neighbouring landholder has bought

out honest Pat or Donald, or François or Wilhelm, as the case may

be—several nationalities being here represented—giving him a handsome

profit in cash for his labour and outlay. The fences are then pulled

down, the roof falls in, the elms, the poplars, with a few peach-trees

and roses, alone remain to tell the tale of the deserted homestead. As

we pass one of these, a grand cloth-of-gold bush, six feet and more in

height, hanging over a fence, tempts us with its fragrant clusters. We

choose a lovely bud and an opening flower, with its curiously-blended

shades of gold and faintest pink, and, much moralising, go our way.

In the good old days, when there was no salvation outside of vast

pastoral holdings, when small freeholds were considered not only

inexpedient but immoral, this was held to be a waterless region, unfit

for the habitation of man, away from the river frontage. Now near every

farm appears a dam or other successful method of conserving water. The

homesteads, too, are well built, and substantial for the most part,

standing in neatly-kept gardens and fruitful orchards. Milch kine graze

in the fields or stroll about the grassy roadways, sleek-skinned,

well-bred, and profitable-looking.

No indications save those of comfortable living and easy-going rural

prosperity present themselves. Buggies or tax-carts with active horses,

driven mostly by farmers' wives or daughters, trot briskly along the

high-road to the town, going to or returning from their marketing.

Occasionally a girl on horseback canters by, sometimes escorted, often

without cavalier or attendant. The road-maintenance man jogs by in his

covered cart, filling up ruts with metal here and there, or clearing a

drain where the storm-water runs too impetuously. In all this savage

land which I have described in detail, there are no lions or tigers, no

bushrangers, no Indians. In fact, but for a few varieties of vegetation,

one might fancy oneself back again in rural England.

FALLEN AMONG THIEVES

In the spring of 1867 I had occasion to travel from my station,

Bundidgaree, near Narandera, on the Murrumbidgee River, to the historic

town of Wagga Wagga, the residence of Mr. Arthur Orton, whose claim to

the Tichborne title and estates was then agitating Britain and her

Colonies. An elderly nurse returning to her home was to accompany me in

an American buggy. The roads were good; the weather fine; the horse high

in condition, exceptional as to pace and courage. Yet was the situation

doubtful, even complicated. The road was risky, the head-station lonely

and unprotected. A gang of bushrangers, under a leader popularly known

as 'Blue-cap,' was at the time I mention within twenty or thirty miles

of Narandera. There was a strong probability that I should encounter

them, or that they would visit the station during my absence. Either hap

was disagreeable, not to say dangerous. I left home with mingled

feelings. But circumstances were obdurate. I had to go. The outlaws,

five in number, were 'back-block natives,' all young men with the

exception of a middle-aged personage known as 'The Doctor.' He was

credited with having 'done time,' that is, served a sentence of

imprisonment, which apparently had not led to reformation, as he was

looked upon as the most dangerous member of the band. Not as yet

committed to acts of bloodshed, they had exchanged shots with Mr. Waller

of Kooba—a station below Narandera—who had surprised them while encamped

upon his Run. He was a determined man and a well-known sportsman. The

story was that he nearly shot 'Blue-cap,' that gentleman having slipped

behind a stock-yard post, which received the breast-high bullet. The

honours of war remained with the squatter, however, whose party forced

the robbers to retreat across the river, leaving (like the Boers)

horses, saddles, and swags behind. It was not known when I started

whether they had gone up or down the river. Meanwhile, the pair of

police troopers who _protected_ the district of Narandera, a region

about a hundred miles square, were 'in pursuit.'

The question of carrying arms had to be dealt with. I thought at first

of a double-barrelled gun and revolver. But the idea of an effective

defence against five well-mounted, well-armed men, the while embarrassed

with a frightened woman and two spirited horses, did not seem feasible.

I finally decided to trust to the probability of not meeting the

evil-doers at all, and to go unarmed rather than to carry arms which I

could not use effectively. The journey to Wagga, about fifty-five miles,

was accomplished safely. Making an early start next day, about

three-fourths of the return trip was over when I came opposite to

Berrembed, the homestead of my neighbour Mr. Lupton. I was walking the

horses over a curious formation of small mounds, provincially known as

'dead men's graves,' when I became aware of three horsemen coming along

the road towards me.

My first thought was, 'Here they are-bushrangers!' my second, 'It cannot

be the gang—these are too young; and I don't see the "Doctor."' The

foremost rider, enveloped in a poncho, decided the question by throwing

it back and presenting a revolver, at the same time calling out in what

he meant to be a tone of intimidation, 'Bail up. Stop and get out. If

yer move to get a pistol I'll blow yer brains out.' By the time he had

come to the end of this unlawful demand, he had ridden close up, and

held the revolver, into the barrel of which I could see, and also that

it was on full cock, unpleasantly close to my head. He was a bush-bred

cub, hardly of age, who had but little practice, evidently, in the

highwayman line, for his hand trembled and his face was pale under the

sun-bronzed skin.

Thus I felt (like Mickey Free's father) somewhat perturbed, as, if I

tried to bolt, he might shoot me on purpose, and if I stayed where I

was, he might shoot me by accident. Meanwhile, I secured the reins to

the lamp iron, and got down in a leisurely manner. 'I have no arms,' I

said, as I stood by the off-side horse—the celebrated Steamer; 'there's

no hurry. I can't well run away.'

'Give up yer money,' he said gruffly.

'I haven't any.'

'That be hanged! A man like you don't travel without money.'

'I generally have some, but I paid a bill at Martin's (naming an inn a

few miles nearer Wagga) and it cleaned me out.'

'Hand out them watches, then!'

He saw by the appearance of my waistcoat that I had more than one. I had

brought back a watch belonging to a relative from Wagga, where it had

been sent for repair. They were both gold watches of some value.

As he sat on his horse, I being on foot, he kept his bridle-reins and

the levelled revolver in one hand, and reached down to me for the spoil.

As he did so, I looked him in the eye, thinking that a strong, active

man might have pulled him off his horse, grabbed the revolver, and shot

one if not both of his comrades. I had no intention of trying the double

event myself, but I know a man or two who would have chanced it with

such a youthful depredator.

What I said was, 'You don't often get two gold watches from one man.'

'No. I know we don't. Turn out that portmanteau.'

'There's only a suit of clothes and my hair brushes. You don't want

them.'

At this stage of the intercourse, old Steamer, an impatient though

singularly good-tempered animal, moved on, as of one proclaiming, 'This

foolery has lasted long enough.' I walked to his head and soothed him,

upon which one of the subordinates said civilly, 'I'll hold your horse,

Mr. Boldrewood.'

I looked at him with surprise, and saw for the first time that he was

Mr. Lupton's stock-rider, and the other 'road agent' the son of that

gentleman. The mystery was explained. They were _pressed men_. We were

within sight of the home station. The rest of the gang were helping

themselves to the proprietor's best horses in the stock-yard when they

saw me coming along the road. So they had detailed this youth for my

capture, and ordered the two others to go with him to 'make a show' in

case of the traveller resisting.

However, the interview was nearly at an end. The first robber dismissed

me with a brief 'You may go now.' I drove off slowly, not desiring to

show haste, in case the capricious devil which abides in this particular

breed might prompt him to call me back. He did so indeed, but it was

only to say, 'Show us yer pipe. You might have a good 'un.' I exhibited

an old briar-root, at which he waved his hand disdainfully, and going

off at a gallop, made for the homestead with his attendants on either

side, like the wicked Landgrave in Burger's ballad.

I drove in leisurely fashion until they were out of sight, when I let my

horses out at their usual 'travelling' pace of twelve miles an hour, or

a trifle over, and was not long before I 'reached my cattle-gate.'

While the 'momentous question' was in the stage of discussion I had been

anxious and troubled—so to speak, afraid. Not for my personal safety. I

did not think any bushranger in the district would slay me in cold

blood. We were popular in our neighbourhood, for though I was the

Chairman of the Narandera Bench when the Police Magistrate of Wagga, Mr.

Baylis, was absent, and as such officially a terror to evil-doers, my

wife had endeared herself to our humbler neighbours by acts of charity

and womanly sympathy in cases of sickness or other sore need. But what I

_was_ afraid of, tremulously indeed, was lest the outlaws should

'commandeer' one or both of my horses. Eumeralla, a fine upstanding

grey, bred at Squattlesea Mere, good in saddle and harness, and carried

a lady, was most valuable, while Steamer, who died after twenty years of

priceless service, was simply invaluable. I was only saved from this

disastrous loss by the fact that Mr. Lupton's stock-yard (he was absent

from home—perhaps fortunately) was full of good station hacks, and as

his stud was of high reputation in the district, his loss on that

occasion proved my salvation. What had happened at Berrembed was simply

this. The bushrangers, with Mr. 'Blue-cap' in command, arrived in the

early afternoon unexpectedly. There were few men about the place. The

overseer and Mr. Lupton were away. Mrs. Lupton, the governess and the

children, with the eldest son, a boy of sixteen, and the stock-rider,

were at home. The master of the house had firmly expressed his intention

to defend his home, and to that end had sent to Melbourne for a

magazine-rifle, capable (it was said) of discharging sixteen cartridges

in quick-firing time. The gang, hearing of this preparation, had sworn

to pay him out for it at an early visit. In his absence they behaved

well, assuring the lady of the house that 'she need not be apprehensive;

they only wanted horses and the new repeating-rifle,' which last they

demanded at once. She was not frightened—a native-born Australian, come

of a Border family, she was not timorous, and had presence of mind

enough to deny knowledge of the rifle. The leader was better informed.

'That won't do, Mrs. Lupton. Master Johnnie shot a bullock with it last

Saturday. Better give it up. These chaps might turn rusty. They're quiet

enough now.' The lady yielded to _force majeure_. The governess was sent

to bring the rifle from the shower-bath, where it had been placed, and

the bushrangers rode off. One of the men, after roaming through the

house, appeared with the baby in his arms, which he had taken from the

nurse, alleging that 'it reminded him of his happy home.' This was

intended as a joke, and no harm came to the infant, who did not seem to

object to a change of nurses. No pillage took place other than that of

the rifle and a remount all round. Besides losing their horses and

saddles at Kooba, and being reduced to an infantry force, having to

cross the river ignominiously upon a sheep-wash temporary bridge, they

had another mischance. They called at Brookong Station on Mr. Cuthbert

Fetherstonhaugh. Here they treated themselves to grog, in which they

vainly tried to make Mr. Fetherstonhaugh join them, and finally went off

across country. Near the Urangeline Creek they were startled by the

galloping of a body of horsemen in pursuit (as they thought), and racing

desperately away, rode into the Urangeline, then in half flood. The

others got out, but the 'Doctor,' parting company with his horse, was

unfortunately drowned, thus cheating the hangman, and not improbably

preventing the commission of bloodshed, into which his evil influence

might have led his less-hardened comrades. They were next heard of near

Narandera, as to which my wife had a sensational visit from a person in

the confidence of the police.

On the morning of my departure she was told by the maidservant that a

man outside wished to speak to her. He would not come in, or dismount

from his horse. Rather surprised, but being, like our neighbour Mrs.

Lupton, Australian born, and not afraid of men or horses or anything in

a general way, she walked up to the horseman, who sat in his saddle in

the middle of the courtyard, formed by a dining-room and kitchen on one

side and store on the other. He was not anxious to be overheard, as he

leaned forward and in an agitated voice said that he had been sent by

the Senior Constable of Police at Narandera to inform her that the

bushrangers had recrossed the river, and might be expected to visit the

station on that or the following day. If there were arms in the house

she was advised to conceal them for fear of irritating the bushrangers;

that the police could not come themselves, as they were following up the

tracks in another direction.

This was not cheering news. But action was taken promptly. The armoury

consisted of a two-grooved rifle, carrying a bullet of such size that,

unlike the 'Mauser,' there was no fear of its penetrating a vital organ

without causing instant death. I used to make good practice from an

upper chamber at any mark within a hundred and twenty or thirty yards'

distance. There was also an effective double-barrel, with a couple of

revolvers. A young relative of the family lived with us and helped with

the management. We could have made a decent defence probably after

warning given. But in nineteen out of twenty cases no warning is given,

or, as in this case, too late to be of service.

It so happened that a wool-bale had been suspended in an outer room,

into which broken fleece, pieces picked up on the Run, was placed from

time to time. Under the wool, therefore, the guns were hidden for the

present.

When I returned from Wagga after my adventure I was naturally anxious to

hear if the bushrangers had called in my absence. My first words to the

châtelaine were, 'Have you seen the bushrangers?'

Answer—'No. Have you?'

'Well—ahem—I—have!'

Then the story was told in full.

This band, compared with the career and exploits of other gentlemen of

the road, hardly rose above the amateur level. They were taken by a

sergeant of police and his troopers on the Lachlan. He came unexpectedly

one morning, and marching towards them with a determined air, called

upon them in the Queen's name to surrender. 'Blue-cap' levelled his

rifle. 'What!' roared the sergeant in a voice of thunder. He had known

of him when he was a stock-rider, indifferently honest. 'You d—d

scoundrel! Would you shoot _me_?'

Whether the idea of the awful crime in the provincial mind, implied in

resisting much less attempting the life of such a magnate, overbore the

remains of his courage (they were pretty sick of the outlaw business),

or that he shrank from deliberate murder, cannot be told; at any rate,

they were disarmed, handcuffed, and conducted to the nearest

lock-up—magazine-rifle and all. Brought in due course before a bench of

magistrates, they were committed to take their trial at the next ensuing

Court of Assize, to be holden at Wagga Wagga.

I had occasion to visit the 'Place of Crows' (aboriginal name of Wagga

Wagga) some weeks after. The Assizes were coming on, and armed with the

police magistrate's order, I interviewed the captives.

When the cell door was opened, and my friend of the poncho and revolver

stood revealed, 'quanto mutatus ab illo Hectore!'—'the plume, the helm,

the charger gone'—we looked on each other with very different

expressions.

'Well, young man,' said I with careless raillery.

He grinned, as who should say 'Met afore.'

'Better have stuck to the mail-driving,' I continued.

'It's too late to think of that now,' he made answer; 'but I wish I'd

broken my leg the day I started this bloomin' racket. It was all through

the "Doctor" as they called him. He led us chaps into it, simple, with

those yarns of his. Anyway, he's dead and gone now. Serve him dashed

well right—and me too for being a fool! I was earning good money, and

had no call to turn out. And this is what it's done for me. What d'yer

think we're goin' to get? They won't hang us?'

'No,' said I; 'you'll get a dozen years' gaol. Luckily you didn't kill

any one, so the chief can let you off light. If you behave yourselves

you'll be all out again before the end of your sentence.'

'I'll behave all right—no fear!' he replied. 'I'm full up of this

"cross" work.'

With the leader, 'Captain Blue-cap,' I had a more lengthened interview.

Not a bad-looking young fellow, of the stock-rider type, it seemed

inexplicable that he should have preferred the life of a hunted outlaw

to that of the well-paid, well-fed, easy-going life of a stock-rider. A

gentleman's life, so to speak: independent, with change and variety in

fair proportion, three or four good horses always at command, and

receiving an amount of consideration far above that of any other

_employé_ under the rank of overseer; to whose orders, if the proprietor

of the station was resident, he did not always hold himself bound to

attend. And now—here he was, a fettered captive in the dungeon of the

period, awaiting trial, certain of ten years' penal servitude, and not

without fear of five years additional, before he walked out a free man

again.

We had an amicable conversation, there being 'no animosity' on either

side, apparently. It has always struck me as a favourable trait in human

nature, that criminals in a general way rarely harbour revengeful

feeling against magistrates and others, who are, officially, their

natural enemies. Nothing is more common than to hear them say, of the

police or higher officials, 'Oh, they're paid for it; it's all in the

day's work. I don't blame 'em for doin' their duty.' But the amateur

they _do_ hate with an exceeding bitter hatred, as having 'gone out of

his way' to do them injury. For which interference with the natural

order of affairs they are ready to exact, and have before now exacted,

memorable revenge.

However that may be, we chatted away, without the introduction of moral

axioms on my side or anarchical references on his. It was a lovely,

early summer day, without a solitary cloud in the bright blue sky, and

he _may_, as he watched the sunlight fleck the elm-tree within sight of

the barred window of his cell, have had a spasm of regret. For this is

what he said, gloomily: 'They call it a short life and a merry one. I

didn't see nothen jolly about it.'

'Many a man's found that out, but you're a young man. If you give no

trouble in gaol you'll not have to serve all your time. Face it, and

look forward to coming out again.'

'God knows!' he said. 'I might be dead before then; but it's the only

thing to do, I suppose.'

'Did you ever get hit,' I said, 'in a scrimmage with the police?'

'That near done for me,' he explained, pulling back his singlet and

showing a large, ragged cicatrice over the region of the heart. 'I wish

to God it had. But it wasn't the police.'

'How then?'

'Goin' up to a hut at night; the feller waited for me. Them marks are

slugs.'

'Wonder it didn't kill you,' I said. 'Must have been a good handful of

them.'

'Well, I crawled off, and some chaps I knowed nursed me till I got

round. But it was a near thing. "Born to be hanged," they say, "save you

a lot." But it won't run to _that_, d'ye think, sir, when we haven't

killed any one?'

'Not quite,' I said, 'though you fired at Mr. Waller and his men with

intent, as the Act says, to do serious bodily harm. You'll get a term of

imprisonment of course.'

'A long "stretch," I expect,' he said. 'Well; it's no use cryin'.

Good-bye, sir, and thanks very much.'

Then we parted. He went on his way and I saw him no more; circumstances

prevented that. I never met him or his companions again. They were

sentenced to twelve years' imprisonment, and as all this happened thirty

odd years ago, they must be out years and years since. Let us hope that

they reformed. It is on the cards, also, that they may have 'struck it

rich' on a Queensland or West Australian goldfield.

After this capture and disposal of our highwaymen, the land had rest for

a season. One of the consequences of the outbreak might have had an

ending calculated to surprise the European wool-buyer. Just before the

bale of broken fleece referred to was filled up and put into the press,

Mrs. Boldrewood recollected that she had never seen the box of

ammunition since the day they were huddled into the wool-bale. It was

hastily examined and the explosives hauled out, just as the press was

being put down; great was the laughter in the shed, as the men thought

of the faces of the wool-brokers in a London saleroom when the 'mixed

pieces' were turned out for inspection.

I never got my watch back, though my cousin recovered his. The police

heard that the bushrangers had, holding out a hatful of watches, invited

the stock-rider to choose one, for his noble conduct and 'moral support'

in my affair. He chose my young friend's, which he afterwards returned

to him. But mine I saw never again, having to content me with a silver

one of small value for the next decade.

A TRANSFORMATION SCENE

'Look alive, boys,' said Hugh Tressider; 'we must slog on for the next

hour or two. Pitch dark, and going to be a wet night; but if we don't

lose the road we shall pull Barallan before bedtime. There we're sure of

a yard and a welcome. A night's sleep won't do us any harm.'

'A night's sleep? Dashed if I've had any for a week,' growled the head

stock-rider. 'I'm fit to drop off my bloomin' moke this minute; and he's

just the size to kick me for falling. Them blessed B.R. cattle's like a

mob of kangaroos for breaking and rushin' if so much as a 'possum

squeals or a stick breaks. But I know Mr. Bayard's is a regular stunning

place to stop at. Gentle or simple, it's all one to him. He's a

gentleman as _is_ a gentleman; and every workin' man in the district 'll

say the same.'

'All right, Joe; then stir up those lads and the blackfellow a bit;

don't let the tail cattle struggle, whatever you do. I'll go on with the

lead; my old horse will keep the track.'

'What a thundering wild night it's going to be,' said the drover to

himself as he threaded his way through the thick-growing timber,

skirting the half-seen wildish herd, which, but a week from the pastures

where they had been bred, were still troublesome and prone to break back

at the smallest opportunity. The rain, which had held off during the

gusty, stormy day, now came down in driving sleety showers, ice-cold,

and wetting to the skin the dogged, silent horsemen, who, by the nature

of things, were incompletely clothed for resisting so serious a

downfall. The cattle, beginning to low with discomfort and uneasiness,

were with difficulty restrained from facing towards the opposite point

of the compass, away from the blinding storm, which now drove full in

their teeth. To those unacquainted with the skill, acquired by long

experience in this particular occupation, it would have seemed little

short of a miracle that four men and a black boy, who had also the

special care of a pack-horse, could guide six hundred head of unwilling,

half-wild cattle through a thickly-timbered country on so dark a night,

with rain and storm to complicate matters withal.

But it _was_ possible. It was done well and effectively. The leader's

horse, an Arab-looking grey, visible from time to time, denoted each

turn and direction of the road. The quick eyes of the stock-riders were

seldom at fault, and detecting each straggling animal, they were instant

to urge a wheel before separation from the main body took place. The

gregarious habit of cattle was in their favour, as also their

indisposition to straggle overmuch in the darkness. When they were

doubtful, the piercing organ of the man of the woods was called into

play. His decision was prompt and unerring.

It was, 'Me see 'um two fellows cow and that one red bullock yan along a

gully, likit picaninny way. You hold 'em, this one pack-horse, me fetch

'um.' And back they came accordingly. One hour, then another, had slowly

passed. The rain had ceased, but the heavens were ebon black and murky.

Still rode the man, who had first spoken, at the head of the great

drove, which, lowing from time to time, kept plodding monotonously

forward, at other times silent and all but soundless as a procession of

ghostly beeves, escorted by a company of spectre horsemen.

Wet and weary, chilled to the bone, too dispirited to speak—indeed

conversation would have been difficult under the circumstances of

compulsory separation—the jaded stock-riders moved on; the rain-drops

showering from the leaves as they brushed from time to time under the

low-growing shrubs and sapling eucalyptus, the horses' feet sinking

deeply in the clay and decomposed gravel of the forest; or splashing

shoulder-deep through the mountain streams that crossed their track;

their watchful outlook strained and concentrated to the fullest, each

man at his allotted station. It was a phase of Australian backwoods life

not always credited to the much-enduring bushman.

'By George! this is a hard life,' soliloquised the weary pioneer, for

such he had been in more than one colony, as he sat, stiff, sore, and

aching in every limb, upon his game but over-tired horse. 'Hold up, old

man, you haven't had the saddle off your back nor I my clothes for the

last six-and-thirty hours; but another half-hour will see you in a good

paddock and me in Barallan parlour, with the cattle safe inside of post

and rails, if we haven't taken a wrong track. Only for Bandah we should

have followed the old Bundoorah road, a mile back, and found ourselves

in the middle of a howling scrub, with a strong chance of losing these

confounded B.R. cattle, the worst herd to drive in the district, and no

more likelihood of bed or supper than if we were afloat on a raft.'

And here the travel-worn bushman, sodden and soaked, splashed and sleepy

as he was, laughed aloud at the absurdity of the conceit.

Managing to light his pipe again by sheltering the match with his shut

hand against the night-wind, in a manner peculiar to backwoods

Australians, he was silent for a while. Then recommenced: 'Yes, a hard

life, this of mine; work and anxiety by day and by night, wet and dry,

hot or cold, burnt up and scorched in the summer, half drowned and

starved with cold in the winter, and all for what? Just for a decent

living, with little enough chance of putting by anything for a rainy

day—I mean for a dry season,' he added, with another laugh. 'Well,

though it is a hard life, I wouldn't exchange it for everyday work in a

merchant's office, in a bank, or a Government department. These may be

very well for some people, but they wouldn't suit Hugh Tressider at all.

Give me the open air for it! And then, hard as the occasional rubs are,

you have the benefit of contrast, and enjoy it all the more, as I shall

a good supper and a good bed, which I'm morally certain to drop in for

to-night. What a trump that Arnold Bayard is! If all squatters were like

him, travelling would be a luxury and a privilege. Besides, I have the

comfort of thinking—and it does keep me from being a peg too low at

times—that all my hard work has not been for my own advantage, and that

I have benefited others. Bless all their hearts! How I wish I could do

more for them. Was that a dog's bark? Yes, by Jove! and there's the

Barallan paddock fence on the left; it makes a wing to the stock-yard.

Right you are, old man' (to his horse); 'we can't go wrong now; we'll go

back, and help a bit with the tail.'

Making back to the next horseman, Tressider shook up the leg-weary but

still game and willing hackney, and finding his way to the rear,

informed all hands of the change in their immediate prospects, with the

certainty of a speedy entrance into a haven of rest and refection. The

intelligence had a distinctly stimulating effect. The pace of the drove

was perceptibly quickened. Men, dogs, and horses seemed to have acquired

new life and spirit. In less than half an hour the cattle were safely

bestowed in a capacious stock-yard, the gates carefully secured, and the

whole party dismounted before the outbuildings of Barallan Station.

Though it had been dark for four hours by the watches of the night, it

was not more than half-past ten by the clock. Lights were still visible

in the principal building, and a glowing fire in the men's kitchen

showed that the cook was all alive, or had very lately retired.

A tall man with an abundant beard now advanced, and looked earnestly in

the face of Tressider as he advanced to meet him. 'Oh, it's you, old

man!' he said, in a voice every intonation of which bespoke kindly,

unequivocal welcome. 'I expected you yesterday. What a drenching you

must have had this miserable day. Mrs. Bayard has gone to bed, but

there's nothing to prevent you and me from being comfortable for another

hour. Of course the cattle are in the yard?'

'Yes.'

'Well, look here, you fellows, put your horses through that wicket-gate.

Capital feed inside, and not too big a paddock. Joe hasn't turned in

yet. He'll soon have supper ready for you. And, hold on, when you've

turned out your horses, come up to the back door of the house. A glass

of grog all round won't hurt any of you this cold night.'

'Thank you, Mr. Bayard,' was the reply from the oldest stock-rider.

In fifteen minutes at the outside Hugh Tressider was enabled to realise

the justice of his proposition, that from the great contrasts of

existence the essence of pleasure is extracted. His waterproof valise

had furnished a complete change of dry garments, arrayed in which he was

seated before a blazing fire, subsequent to the absorption of a glass of

hot grog. A substantial meal was imminent, and as he watched the

neat-handed Phyllis deftly covering that hospitable board, he was

confirmed in the opinion that life had but few avenues of higher

enjoyment open to him.

Arnold Bayard, the owner of the station, a wealthy and much-respected

magnate in the land, had a particular fancy for this young fellow, whom

he watched enjoying himself after his day, or indeed days, of toil and

travail, with paternal benevolence.

'A deuced hard-working, honourable, well-principled young fellow,' he

was wont to say. 'Every one ought to do him a good turn. I wish all the

young ones were like him. His father, Captain Tressider, an old Waterloo

veteran, bought that farm of theirs, on the Upper Hunter, instead of a

station in the old days, and ruined himself trying to grow oranges and

olives, and all that rot, instead of sheep and cattle. When he died,

Hugh was left with his mother and the little brothers and sisters to

look after. Quite a boy himself, too. He buckled to it then, and it has

been all against collar with him ever since. Working like a nigger, and

living like one, too, sometimes, but he has managed to keep them going,

and pay for their education, though he came off rather short himself.

Never mind that; I say he is as true a gentleman as ever stepped, and

some day he must come out right. The Tressiders are high enough in point

of birth. There's a title, too, in the family, I'm told, if the next

heir at home were cleared off, but of course Hugh's too practical a

fellow ever to bother his head about that.'

Thus far, Mr. Bayard. But this was only to strangers. Most of the people

in the district knew so much, and honoured Hugh Tressider accordingly.

Nobody could be poorer; no one could work harder. But curious as it may

seem to those people who persist in manufacturing a stage Australia for

themselves,—which is as like the country as the English milord of the

Porte St. Martin, with his _boule-dogue_, his top-coat, and the

ever-present 'god-dam,' to the real aristocrat,—there are few places

where gentle birth and the manners which chiefly accompany that

accidental circumstance are more truly honoured. So it will not be

considered as anything very wonderful by Australians that Hugh

Tressider, though only a drover by occupation, who received a certain

sum per head for the conveying of large lots of cattle from one part of

the colonies to another, known to be the son of a retired military

officer, to be proverbially just, true, and self-respecting in all his

dealings, was held in high estimation accordingly, and took rank

socially with the best people, many of whom could have counted a

thousand pounds to his every ten.

Hugh slept the sleep of the just that night, it may be confidently

stated—the delicious, dreamless, utter repose of the fatigued worker; a

luxury which the dwellers in high places of the earth very seldom taste.

The dawn of a winter's morning had, however, but faintly commenced to

tinge the lowering sky when he instinctively arose, and dressing with

expedition proceeded to stir up his men and make preparations for an

early start. The hut cook, an official whose position rarely permits of

morning slumbers, was already up, and had the fire lighted which was to

boil the huge breakfast-kettle. A restricted toilette suffices for

road-hands in winter time. In half an hour the horses were saddled, a

breakfast of beefsteak, damper, and hot tea disposed of, the packer

fully accoutred, and all was ready for the road.

'Now boys,' says Tressider, 'I'll count the cattle out of the yard.

There won't be another chance for a while. We've had a good night of it,

thanks to Mr. Bayard. Let them feed for an hour or two, as soon as they

steady to the road, and I'll overtake you somewhere about the Burnt Hut

Flat.'

Having counted out his herd, which he was gratified to find turned out

the correct number of six hundred and twenty-three—a matter which might

well have otherwise resulted after the darkling difficulties of the

previous night—and seen them straggle out over the wet green grass, the

young man betook himself with a light heart back to the 'big house,'

which he reached just in time for the family breakfast.

Here were assembled all the olive branches—from Melanie, aged sixteen,

and giving promise of general captivation, to a roly-poly three-year-old

boy, who ruled the household despotically, and sat on Hugh's knee, with

wide wondering eyes scanning his features, as if seriously considering

whether they had met in a former state of existence.

'Very glad to see you, Mr. Tressider,' said the lady of the house, a

handsome, hospitable matron, as became the châtelaine of Barallan and

the wife of Arnold Bayard; she couldn't well have been otherwise. 'We

were afraid that you were going to be one of the mysterious guests who

come after every one is in bed, and go away before they get up.'

'Like the avenger of blood in _Anne of Geierstein_, mother,' put in

Melanie, with her hand on her parent's arm. 'There is something so weird

about cattle-men. They always seem to be doing their work at unearthly

hours, or beside watch-fires, like the people in the German legends.'

'And don't they have to light fires when they travel with sheep?' asked

Jack, aged fourteen. 'Girls don't know anything about stock, do they,

father?'

'They know as much as some boys who forget to fasten gates, and let the

weaners "box" after a day's hard drafting,' returned Mr. Bayard with

mildly reproachful emphasis. Here Mr. Jack subsided, while a certain

tremulous movement of the lip showed the effect of the reminder.

'Never mind, poor old man! he'll remember next time. I'm sure he was as

sorry as any one,' said the tender mother, giving a squeeze to the boy's

hand. 'And now, breakfast is quite ready. You had better sit here, Mr.

Tressider, and you can tell me how they all were at Rimandah, and who

won the tennis match.'

'By the way,' said the Master, seating himself in a contemplative way

before a noble round of beef, 'there is an English newspaper and a

letter for you in the smoking-room; came yesterday. We were so busy

yarning over the fire last night that I forgot to tell you.'

'They'll keep till after breakfast,' said Hugh calmly. 'There isn't a

soul out of Australia that I care two straws about. I suppose some one

has sent me a _Times_ with nothing in it that can possibly concern me.

Thanks; I will take some chicken-pie. I can fall back upon corned beef

on the road, though one never seems to tire of it.'

'How are they all on the Allyn?' said Mr. Bayard. 'Have you heard from

home lately?'

'Oh, doing quite splendidly,' said the young man, his face lighting up

with an expression of tenderness which transfigured the weather-beaten

features and imparted a pathetic lustre to his dark-grey eyes. 'Elinor

was improving in her drawing—going to be quite an artist. Fairy was

taking lessons in singing; she always had a wonderful voice. Bob was

head of his class at school, and was safe for a scholarship if he kept

up the pace. Mother was stronger than she had been for years. I shall

get back there at Christmas time if I've luck on this journey, and we're

going to be no end jolly. The Armordens are coming over from Braidwood,

and we shall be as happy as kings—much happier, indeed, by late

accounts.'

'I'm sure you deserve it,' said Mrs. Bayard half-unconsciously to

herself. 'But what a terrible day you must have had of it yesterday. It

never ceased raining here. It is perishing weather even now. However you

can endure your life in such a season as this, astonishes me.'

'We get used to it, Mrs. Bayard, like the eels, you know. Somebody must

do it, or who would buy the Barallan cattle, and get them to market?'

'Yes, I see; but I can't bear to think of nice people—of one's friends,

you know—sitting in the saddle through these long, dismal, bitter

nights, or watching by fires in the forest, like demons or ghosts.'

'That's the pleasantest part of it, I assure you. When the virtuous

drover has eaten his supper, made up his fire, and lighted his pipe, he

feels—well, nearly as comfortable as Mr. Bayard here when he has locked

up the house and put out the lamp for the night. It doesn't always rain,

either.'

'Here are your letters and paper, Mr. Tressider,' said Melanie, who had

quietly arisen from the breakfast-table; 'I was afraid dad would forget

them again. Hadn't you better open them? I would if I had letters from

England.'

'You have my permission,' said the lady of the house. 'Some people are

dreadfully cold-blooded about letters. Fancy a woman leaving her letters

unread all this time!'

'Theirs are pleasanter than ours,' murmured the recipient. 'That is,

generally speaking. Ha! This seems a different hand from the last

correspondent. I thought I knew the old fellow's writing well.'

With the sleepless curiosity of youth, Melanie and Jack had kept their

eyes fixed upon their friend's face. To their great and unaffected

surprise they observed him to flush all over, bronzed cheek and

forehead, and afterwards to turn deadly pale. The letter slipped from

his nerveless hand, and his eyes assumed such a fixed and strange

expression, that the young people were alarmed. Mr. and Mrs. Bayard,

with averted heads, were discussing matters of family interest, and so

had escaped the bit of melodrama.

Mr. Bayard was recalled by Melanie's eager tones—

'Oh, father! Mr. Tressider's taken ill. He's had some bad news in his

letter.'

'Why, old fellow, what is it?' inquired Bayard, turning to him with a

face of sincere concern. 'Anything gone wrong at home? I didn't know you

heard from relatives in the old country.'

Hugh Tressider stood up and looked at his good friend with a staid and

serious expression, not by any means habitual. 'All is well; better than

well, my dear Mr. Bayard. I know it will rejoice your kind heart. But it

_was_ rather sudden, and as unexpected as an order to become

Governor-General. I'm Lord Trewartha, that's all; and there's Trewartha

Castle, with not much of an income yet, but a fair sum in cash at my

credit to support the dignity. More will fall in when another relative

dies. It rather knocked me over at first. The thought of all I could do

for the girls and Bob, and the poor Mother who has slaved her soul out

all these years for us, was too much for me—my heart struck work for a

minute or so. I nearly fainted. There's the letter.'

'And you're a lord?—Lord Trewartha—a real live lord!' said Melanie and

Jack, each taking hold of a hand, and jumping up and down with wild

excitement and the exuberant, unselfish joy of youth. 'Oh, what fun!

Isn't it splendid? And will people have to say, "Yes, my lord," and "No,

my lord," and "If your lordship please"? Of course you will send these

crawling B.R. cattle to Jericho.' This last was Master Jack's

suggestion.

'I shall carry out my engagements, even if I were made a marquis,' said

Hugh, recovering his spirits, 'which I read somewhere is ever so much

higher than a baron. And you are all to call me Hugh, without Mr. or

anything. That is all the difference. Otherwise I shall leave you

nothing in my will. And now I must go and have a smoke with your father,

or I shall have a fit.'

It was all true. Is true. For the matter of that, something very like it

happened only the other day under nearly similar circumstances. Hugh

Tressider will never more need to undertake to drive cattle from Kiandra

(let us say) to the Paroo, or from Mount Cornish to Adelaide, at per

head. Elinor and Fairy will have _such_ private lessons and masters and

general embellishment that they will do more than pass muster among

their European kinsfolk. Bob will graduate at Oxford or Cambridge, and

if ever he revisits Australia—as being a younger brother he probably

will—it will be impossible to tell him, at first sight, from the

imported Anglo-Saxon aristocrat.

And Hugh Tressider, what of him? As he smokes his pipe that evening by

the camp-fire—one of the last of the series he is likely to warm himself

by—what avenues of enjoyment, hitherto undreamed of, seem lengthening

out into vast and endless grandeur, like the Sphinx-guarded paths of

Egyptian cities, all ending in wondrous palaces, purple-draped and

gold-illumined! The hard and homely present nearly faded out of sight;

only by an effort could he recall himself to the rude primeval

surroundings he was so soon to quit for ever. A peer of England! A man

of fortune! The heir of an ancient name! Free to meet and mingle with

the world's best and fairest, bravest and most exalted, on terms of

freedom and equality. His foot slipped into a pool of ice-cold water

amid the tussocks of frosted grass as he thought of all this, and with a

light laugh at the incongruity of his situation and prospects, he

resumed his walk around the recumbent drove.

At no distant date the Tressider family sailed for England, when

doubtless most of the good things in keeping with their altered fortunes

were duly dispensed to and appreciated by them.

IN BUSHRANGING DAYS

The practice of 'intromitting with the lieges travelling on their lawful

business'—as Captain Dugald Dalgetty (sometime of Marischal College,

Aberdeen) hath it—is an ancient and fascinating, if irregular mode of

financial reconstruction. It has always commended itself as a

combination of business and pleasure to those bolder spirits who chafe

at the restriction of an over-timorous social system.

From the days of the mad Prince and Poins there were those 'for sport

sake content to do the profession some grace.' Risks of death and

dishonour were thus taken in countries boasting a high civilisation—a

short shrift and a high gallows constituting the accepted termination of

a period of riot and revelry; and though the strong hand of the law

rarely failed to bring the bold outlaw to his doom, certain alleviations

always served to cast a glamour around the pleasant and profitable, if

perilous career of the highwayman.

Brigand or bandit, pirate or smuggler, bushranger or buccaneer, as might

be, he rarely failed to enlist the feminine sympathy, which has flowed

forth in all ages towards the doer of bold deeds—the scorner of gold

save for revel and gift—the fearless withstander of the law.

The feats of these heroes of Alsatia have been sung and their valour

vaunted in the ballads of all lands and ages; indeed they have formed no

inconsiderable portion of the material. 'Yo Soy Contrabandista' never

fails to evoke a storm of applause from every Spanish audience.

They have flourished alike under the rule of kings and the co-operative

coercion of democracy. Monarchies fail to extirpate, republics to

suppress them. They apparently owe their existence to some unexplained

ordinance of Dame Nature, whose _enfans gatés_ they are. Her forest

children they. Lords of the Waste, roamers through wood and wold,

formulating thus a world-old protest against the dulness of

respectability, the greed of industrialism, the selfishness of property.

Products as well of the careless ordering of new countries as of the

stern discipline of older communities, small wonder that they should

have arisen in this brand-new, scarce century-old Austral land of ours,

hugging the South Pole and dissevered from many of the formalities of

civilisation. Small wonder, I say, that amid our pathless woods and

sea-like plains, with every natural advantage and conceivable aid from

the habits of a migratory, restless, centaur-like population, these

unlicensed tax-gatherers should have appeared. Thus the profession and

practice of what is now called 'Bushranging' occurred at a very early

period of Australian history. The term easily grew out of the natural

desire of the escaped felon, desperate from harsh treatment, or perhaps

merely averse to toil, to hide himself in the woods which then

surrounded the settlements.

The old English words 'wood' and 'forest,' 'copse' and 'thicket,' had

been superseded by the comprehensive colonial term 'bush,' doubtless

suggested by the close approximation to 'scrub' or 'jungle,' which the

interminable eucalyptus wilderness then presented to the first emigrant

Britons. 'The bush' came next, as more fully comprehensive and

explanatory, signifying something analogous to the Dutch-African

'veldt,' not necessarily woodland, but the waste lands of the Crown

generally. This nomenclature must have mystified later arrivals

considerably, much of the so-called 'bush' being composed of plains

nearly, and in some cases altogether, without timber of any description.

The wandering robber, necessarily 'a burgher of that desert city,' came

then, by general consent, to be described as a 'bushranger.' The term

was even Latinised, as the philologist may discover by reading the

description in St. James's Church, Sydney, on the tablet placed there to

commemorate the death of Dr. Wardell, of 'Wardell's Bush,' Petersham,

slain in the early thirties, 'latrone vagante' (_sic_). The first

robbers were in all cases convicts. For the small proportion of free men

employed as guards and warders, overseers and head workmen, there was

obviously no temptation to leave recognised positions, to ramble through

the terrible foodless wastes, with a price on their heads, as was the

stern usage of the period.

But in the case of the reckless felon the conditions were different. He

had been flogged—he was worked in irons for bad conduct. If returned by

his employer to the authorities as useless or stubborn, no prospect lay

before him but that of ending a wretched life in the severer penal

settlements, where incorrigibles were doomed to chains and slavery. He

declared for the open sky, the free forest. The toll levied on the drays

of the squatter, the homestead of the farmer, or the wayfarer on the

high-road, was necessarily the chief, almost the only support of

outlaws. For a time they lived and flourished. Having secured arms—the

fowling-piece, musket, or pistol of the period—they entrapped or

intimidated the unwary traveller. They made stubborn defence against the

minions of the law, unless the odds were too great. In some instances,

having discovered retreats known only to the aboriginal tribes or

outlying shepherds, mostly sympathisers, their evasion of justice was

prolonged for years. The end, however, was but delayed. Tracked down,

betrayed, slain in fair fight with police, with soldiers, with settlers

combining for self-defence, the same fate awaited all.

Found with arms in their hands, they were hanged as a matter of course.

No sentence of imprisonment afforded them hope of escape, with further

possibilities of crime. They had played the great hazard, and the

forfeit was duly paid.

Living in this condition of continual warfare—their hand against all

men, and, with rare exceptions, all men against them, the gallows or the

bullet their certain doom—it is not to be wondered at that crimes of

violence shocked and aroused the community. 'As well be hung for a sheep

as a lamb,' was the familiar proverb quoted in reference to deeds of

blood and rapine. With fancied wrongs and years of oppression to avenge,

they showed no mercy. They had received none. Fighting with the rope

round their necks, they were reckless and ruthless. And when the last

act of the grim tragedy was played, with the hangman for stage manager

and a quasi-criminal crowd for audience, the leading actor had more than

once boasted of a score of murders and kindred outrages.

At the first outbreaks the highwaymen of the period had neither horses

nor arms worthy of the name. Revolvers were unknown; pistols were far

from being 'arms of precision.' Rifles even were rare; only the

fowling-piece and the Tower musket were in common use. Horses, too, were

scarce. So that the colonial summons of 'Bail up,' or even the

old-fashioned British demand, 'Your money or your life,' came mostly

from a ragged Robinson Crusoe-like individual behind a tree, with a

rusty gun-barrel protruding therefrom.

* * * * *

Of course after the 'breaking out' of Port Phillip—as the earliest

colonisation of Victoria was disrespectfully termed—in 1837, persons of

darksome record hasted to the new settlement to hide from the law or

prey on the public. Among them were three escaped Tasmanian felons,

named Williams, Jepps, and Fogarty.

This worthy triumvirate raided the wilds of the Upper Plenty, robbing

and holding to ransom the lieges, terrorising a line of farm-houses.

They took prisoners my good friend Charles Ryan and the late Mr. Alick

Hunter, adding insult to injury by eating the breakfast prepared for the

latter gentleman and his friends. What the fashionables of the day

wanted on the banks of the Plenty Rivulet I never could make out. But it

was considered 'the thing' apparently to have a farm in that locality;

it was even surmised that these aristocratic amateurs might make money

by the practice of agriculture—a delusion long dispelled. What the solid

fact amounted to _re_ Jepps and Co. was that, like the footpads in _Don

Juan_, their first accost was 'D—— your eyes, your money or life.' So

much for the 'first robbers' in Victoria.

To them enter four gentlemen—volunteers, squatters of the period and

overlanders at that—Mr. Henry Fowler, of Fowler's Flat, near Albury; Mr.

Peter Snodgrass, M.L.A., son of the Colonel and Lieutenant-Governor of

that name, historically known as commanding the 13th Portuguese

Regiment, when on August 31, 1813, he mounted the 'imminent deadly

breach' at the siege of St. Sebastian; Lieutenant Robert Chamberlain, a

retired military man; and Mr. Gourlay, squatter. Arming in haste, they

followed hard on the tracks of the spoilers, and, as they crossed the

creek flat, discovered the bushrangers entrenched in a slab hut, fully

prepared for battle. The outlaws had the best of the position, having

cover, behind which they could fire through windows and other openings.

The attacking force did not stop to weigh probabilities, but charged up

to the fortress, the besieged returning fire with effect. Mr.

Chamberlain was slightly wounded; Mr. Fowler was shot through the jaw.

But 'blood will tell.' The volunteers were cool and determined. One of

the robbers was shot dead, and the others captured before the smoke had

well cleared from the tiny battle scene, which compared favourably as to

killed and wounded with more pretentious engagements. The prisoners were

conveyed to Melbourne, there to await trial, sentence, and execution.

Their captives, I may mention, finding themselves neglected, promptly

quitted the field, their position between two fires being eminently

unsafe.

It were tedious to follow the calendar of crime more or less connected

with the highway in old colonial days. In many instances the records

testify not less to the unflinching courage of the settlers than to the

recklessness of the robbers.

Among memorable incidents that of Mr. Charles Fisher Shepherd, of

Monaro, deserves to be recorded. On the 14th of December 1835, being

attacked by bushrangers at night, also deserted or betrayed by other

inmates of the station, he shot one robber dead and kept up a fight

against odds in the most gallant manner, until, being wounded in the

head and half-a-dozen other places, he was left for dead. He recovered,

however, as if by a miracle, and gave evidence at the trial and

conviction of the chief criminal and his abettors.

As far back as 1830 this evil, so far from being stamped out by

chain-gang and gallows, assumed alarming proportions, as may be judged

by a newspaper extract containing a letter from Mr. George Suttor to Mr.

E. B. Suttor, of Baulkam Hills. On the 27th of October in that year, a

meeting of the magistrates and inhabitants of Bathurst was called at the

Court-house to consider what steps should be taken as to a band of

bushrangers. They were led by a desperate convict, said to have been

flogged unjustly; and numbering at times from twenty to thirty, kept the

district in a state of alarm. Murder, as well as serious depredations,

was laid to their charge. A body of volunteers numbering twelve, well

armed and mounted, was at once formed, Mr. W. H. Suttor being nominated

commander by Major Macpherson.

They started at five o'clock P.M., after hearing of a fresh robbery

committed at the house of one Arkell. Mr. Suttor, always a friend of the

aboriginal race, met two aboriginal natives who knew him, and enlisted

them as guides. They ran the tracks until the robbers were descried in a

rocky glen near the Warragamba River, about an hour before sunset. The

volunteers dismounted and prepared to take them by a _coup de main_, but

a stone falling, alarmed the gang. They instantly took to the trees for

cover, and kept up an incessant fire. The volunteers stood their ground

and returned the fire. While Mr. Suttor was on the rock giving orders, a

bullet passed through his hat. The firing was kept up for about an hour.

Two bushrangers were wounded and fell, but were got to the rear. Mr.

Suttor made a feint to charge, which caused the robbers to run from

their position, though he had but an empty carbine to threaten with. He

then effected a retreat, none of his men being wounded. Mr. Charles

Suttor was the last to leave the glen. All remounted their horses, which

they had left in charge of the two blacks and a lad they had taken from

the bushrangers.

The night after the skirmish was stormy, and Mr. Suttor was vexed to

find that most of the horses had strayed; while seeking them the mounted

police were met with, eager to overtake the bushrangers. Had they but

come up sooner, their united force would have been sufficient to take or

shoot the whole gang. In the encounter which took place, two of the

troopers were shot and five of the horses lost. Lieutenant Brown did all

that a brave officer could, even carrying off the wounded men on the

back of his own horse.

The number of the robber band was between fourteen and twenty. They

escaped at that time, but were pursued by Captain Walpole and Lieutenant

Moore with separate detachments, to whom they surrendered. 'Major

Macpherson was much pleased with the brothers Suttor for going forward

in the prompt manner they did' (_sic_).

There was talk of a 'rising' at Mudgee, which did not come off; and

doubtless all the 'banditti,' by which term they are referred to in this

interesting letter signed G. Suttor, under date October 27, 1830, were

shot or taken in usual course. Let us trust that our country may never

fall short of sons of the soil ready to act with the courage and loyalty

of the Messrs. Suttor and the other Australian volunteers in the

'battle' described.

* * * * *

Although gold-mining on a large scale practically commenced in New South

Wales in the month of May 1851, when Mr. John Richard Hardy was

appointed the first Goldfields Commissioner, and, with a body of mounted

police, commenced to issue licenses and to administer the law at Ophir,

where a large number of diggers had already collected, and where an

eighteen-ounce nugget was found a day or two after their arrival, no

robberies of consequence were committed. Still, tent thefts were

frequent. Mysterious disappearances from time to time took place, while

drunken brawls, horse-stealing, unlicensed liquor selling, and

such-like, kept the police fully employed.

But no organised road robbery on a large scale occurred until 1862. Then

all Australia was thrilled by an announcement of the gold escort robbery

by Gardiner's gang, near Forbes in New South Wales. A peculiar

significance attached to this daring crime, from the fact of the

perpetrators being chiefly native-born Australians. It shook the general

belief, long held, that the sons of the soil were free from the reproach

attached to their progenitors. The New South Wales natives were

proverbially sober. Not prone to the graver crimes, reared amid

favourable surroundings, the type had developed few of the faults of

former generations. Much might be expected of the coming race. This

optimistic opinion was now unrooted. The details of the crime left but

little hope for the philanthropist, while it confirmed the cynic's

mockery of his kind.

On the 15th of June 1862, the gold escort coach from Forbes was stopped

and robbed by Gardiner's gang, eight or ten men in all, with blackened

faces, and wearing red shirts. Bullock drays had been placed across the

narrow road, and a rude breastwork constructed, at a place locally known

as 'Eugowra Rocks.' Behind this an armed band suddenly appeared. No

challenge was given, but at the word 'Fire' from the leader, a volley

was poured into the coach, on which sat the police in charge of the

gold. The sergeant and the trooper were hit. The sergeant fell, wounded

in the side. The police, taken by surprise, made no effectual defence.

The horses, left to themselves, bolted and overturned the coach. The

robbers then took possession of the escort gold and notes, packed in

four iron boxes, amounting to about fourteen thousand pounds in value.

It is in evidence that a division was made, which gave about twenty-two

pounds weight of gold to each man besides his share of the

notes—roughly, one thousand pounds or more each—a tempting booty enough

even in those days of universal plenty and comparative wealth, enjoyed

by all sorts and conditions of men throughout Australia—those colonies

which had not as yet produced gold, sharing almost equally in enhanced

profits and heightened wages with those which had.

Very soon after the robbers had packed their ill-gotten gold upon the

coach leaders and ridden hard for the gullies of the Weddin

mountainland, which had many a time and oft sheltered fugitives from

justice, the police, with that indispensable sleuth-hound the black

tracker, were on their trail.

So hot was the pursuit, that on the Thursday following, Superintendent

Saunderson's division came up with part of the gang, in one of the

fastnesses of 'the Weddin'—discovered their camp and the scales with

which the gold had been weighed and divided. They caught sight of the

outlaws, but, on their tired horses, failed to overtake them, splendidly

mounted as they appeared to be. However, they were forced to abandon a

pack-horse, which the police found to be richly laden, having in four

bags, secured to the saddle, about fifteen hundred ounces of gold.

Sir Frederick Pottinger, Mr. Mitchell, C.P.S., and Detective Lyons also

arrested two men near Narandera, one of whom had with him two hundred

and thirteen ounces of gold and one hundred and fifty pounds in notes.

These were doubtless accessories or confederates. A reward per head was

offered by the Government for information leading to capture of any of

the gang. Thus ran the proclamation:—

* * * * *

'MAIL AND ESCORT ROBBERY

'_£1000 Reward, and Pardon to an Accomplice_

'Whereas it has been represented to the Government that on the afternoon

of the 15th inst. the gold escort from the Lachlan was attacked on the

road between Forbes and Orange by a band of armed men, said to be ten in

number, and described as dressed in red shirts and caps, with their

faces blackened, who fired on and wounded the police forming the guard,

opened the mail-bags and letters, and carried off a large amount of gold

dust and money: Notice is hereby given that a reward of one thousand

pounds will be given by Government for such information as shall lead to

the apprehension and conviction, within six months from this date, of

each of the guilty parties; and a pardon will also be granted to any

accomplice in the above outrage who shall first give such information.

CHARLES COWPER.

'COLONIAL SECRETARY'S OFFICE, SYDNEY, _June 17, 1862_.'

* * * * *

The great gold robbery having been accomplished, the actors in which

were for a time uncaptured and unpunished, other enterprises of the same

nature disturbed the land.

* * * * *

More than one gang had apparently been formed, whose doings were heard

of, sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another.

Well armed and admirably mounted, they were not easily overtaken or

overpowered by the police force of the day, then recently organised on

the centralising system, which has since proved so efficacious. Before

the advent of Captain Mayne, Captain M'Lerie, and Inspector-General

Fosbery, the police in New South Wales were under the control of the

magistrates of the district, much as obtained formerly in the rural

parts of England. The system did not work well: one police magistrate

might be alert and courageous, likely to keep his men in good order;

another might be easy-going, slack of discipline—mentally even in near

resemblance to Justice Shallow. It was evident that there would be

little _esprit de corps_, each division working for its own hand.

But when the new régime came into force all was changed. The force

became at once semi-military in discipline, in prestige, in general

organisation. The officers, each in graduated rank, responsible for a

district, maintained a high standard of efficiency, while the

inspector-general at headquarters enjoyed much the same power and rank

as the military commandant of a colony. From that time forth the bush

outlaws were more easily traced, more often captured, and more

invariably punished than had been the case in former years.

Still, the circumstances of the country were so much in favour of this

particular class of offender, that from time to time society waxed

impatient at the protracted immunity of known criminals fresh from the

scene of notorious outrage. Outlying stations were attacked, and more

than one household had reason to rejoice at their narrow escape from

capture and ill-treatment. Perhaps one of the most daring outrages of

Hall and Gilbert's gang was the attack on the house of Mr. David

Campbell, of Goimbla. The story of the siege and of his memorable

defence I had from his own lips in the summer of 1869. He was then

living at Cunningham Plains, where I visited him _en route_ from

Narandera to Goulburn.

Mr. Campbell was Scottish by descent, though born in India. A keen

sportsman, a high-couraged, chivalrous gentleman, he was justly

indignant that he should be menaced by the lawless men who were then

terrorising the country. In expectation of an attack, he made more than

usual provision in the way of arms; a double supply of which were at

hand in places of concealment.

Thus his story ran:—

It was the time of the evening meal. Mrs. Campbell was a refined,

delicately-nurtured woman, but none the less fearless in time of trial,

as the event proved. Hearing a noise, Mr. Campbell went out into a

passage, at the end of which he saw an armed man, who at once fired at

him. He returned fire without effect, retiring upon his base of

operations. A volley from the front of the house crashed through the

windows. The siege had begun.

Mr. Campbell returned fire so accurately and repeatedly, having several

rifles and fowling-pieces, that the robbers believed more than one man

to be behind the defences. Mrs. Campbell carried ammunition and helped

to load. On one occasion, when crossing the line of fire, a bullet

grazed her neck. All this time the firing was kept up briskly, though

more than once a proposal came to harm nothing if the garrison

surrendered, but with ruffianly threats if the defence was continued.

One only reply was made, 'Come and take us.'

After half an hour's incessant fusillade, a new idea struck the

attacking party. The outbuildings were composed of 'pisé,' a preparation

of rammed earth, as its name implies, much favoured by Mr. Campbell, and

singularly adapted for dwellings in an arid land. Now came a lull with

fresh disposition of forces.

The stable immediately in the rear of the cottage was discovered to be

in flames. A favourite horse of Mr. Campbell's, unable to escape, was

burnt alive. As the screams of the tortured animal pierced the night

air, his owner (he confessed) felt uncommonly wolfish. 'I will have one

of you for poor Highflyer,' said he, as he ground his teeth. The burning

stable would have caused the roof of the cottage to catch fire, as there

was a dray loaded with hay standing between it and the back of the

house, had not Mrs. Campbell and the servant maid courageously covered

the hay with a tarpaulin.

During the pause in the firing which took place, after the flames

lighted up the scene, Mrs. Campbell made an important reconnaissance.

Stealing to the corner of the verandah, she examined a high paling

fence, from behind which the assailants had commenced the attack. 'I

saw,' she told her husband on returning, 'a man jumping up from time to

time, and looking over towards the house.'

Mr. Campbell awaited the next appearance, and, taking a snap-shot, sent

a bullet through the outlaw's throat. A final volley was fired and

returned. Then silence ensued. Half an hour afterwards the 'besieged

resident' walked down to the men's hut and brought up the station-hands,

who had preserved a strict neutrality during the engagement. They found

O'Malley lying dead under a tree, whither he had been dragged by his

companions through the standing oats. The siege of Goimbla had been

raised.

* * * * *

Mr. Keightley's experiences as a 'besieged resident' were not dissimilar

from those of Mr. Campbell. A Goldfields Commissioner, a sportsman, and

a determined man, he was attacked in his own house at Dunn's Plains,

near Bathurst, while the robbers of the escort were still at large.

Like Mr. Campbell, he was prepared, was a dead shot, and killed one of

his assailants. I may mention that I knew Mr. Keightley well for many

years, and had the account of the affair from himself. The gang

surrounded the house at mid-day, and finding such cover as they might,

commenced firing, after calling upon the garrison to surrender. Mr.

Keightley, on his part, kept up a brisk fire from time to time, and

dislodged several of the besiegers from their hiding-places. He himself

narrowly escaped being hit on several occasions, as his position was not

completely protected. Bourke had been the most daring and aggressive of

the party, and in gaining a nearer position, he partially exposed

himself and was laid low by a snap-shot.

Up to this stage of the affair the conditions were not unlike those of

the Goimbla siege. The robbers lost a man in each case. But here the

circumstances varied materially. The attack on Mr. Keightley's household

was during daylight—the one on Mr. Campbell's after nightfall. On the

death of O'Malley, the robbers decided upon a retreat; but soon after

Bourke fell, a discovery was made that Mr. Keightley's ammunition had

been expended. He was therefore at their mercy, and had no alternative

but to yield.

The four persons then in the house—Mr. and Mrs. Keightley, Dr. Pechey, a

relative of the lady of the house, and a servant woman—surrendered

themselves to the bushrangers, who announced their intention of shooting

Mr. Keightley in requital for their comrade's death. To this end he was

marched to some distance by two of the bushrangers, while the others

were holding a colloquy with Mrs. Keightley and the servant, who

passionately implored them to spare Mr. Keightley's life.

They retorted that he had not spared Bourke's, and also that 'he had

boasted that he would have the reward which the Government had offered

for their capture.'

Mrs. Keightley replied that he had never dreamed of a reward: he was the

last man to take blood-money; if he had shot Bourke it was in defence of

his home, which any man would do. Furthermore, if they would allow her

to ride to Bathurst, she would undertake to bring them five hundred

pounds in notes on the following day.

'How could you get that?' asked Ben Hall.

'From my father. You know that he is a wealthy man, and would gladly

give it to me for such a purpose. Surely you will not kill my husband in

cold blood before my face?'

The lady was young and beautiful. Her tears and entreaties in this dread

position were such as to have moved the sternest heart. She was a

native-born Australian, like themselves.

They had shed blood, but it had been in fair fight. They had never been

accused of inhumanity otherwise. They relented, finally agreeing to take

the five hundred pounds if brought to a certain tree, visible for a

considerable distance, by a specified hour on the next day. The

messenger was to come alone. They would hold her husband as a hostage

for the performance of the bond.

The two men told off as executioners had by this time called upon their

prisoner to turn his back towards them for the fatal shot.

'I have never done that to any man living, and will not now,' returned

he; 'fire away!'

As he folded his arms and looked his captors in the face, a voice was

heard from below—

'Hold on! There's to be no shooting; we've agreed to take the money.'

Mrs. Keightley was then suffered to depart in company with Dr. Pechey

for Bathurst, while her husband remained in the custody of the gang,

pending the arrival of the ransom. It may be imagined that his feelings

were of a mingled nature. He was assured of the safety of his wife.

Still, he could not be free from anxiety as to his own, in case of

default of payment or pursuit by the police.

But the brave woman well performed her part. As the appointed hour on

the next day drew perilously near, a horseman was seen from afar to

approach the track to the well-known fire-scathed tree. He reached it,

and throwing down a package, returned as he came. It was speedily taken

possession of, and found to contain one hundred five-pound notes.

Then Mr. Keightley was released.

Many years have elapsed since these events took place. Few of the actors

are now living. The hand of time and the Nemesis of the law have thinned

the ranks of the combatants. Their deeds and adventures are passing into

the domain of legend and tradition. In a few decades they may take rank

with Dick Turpin and Claude Duval, while the feats of Gardiner's

'Darkie' may be quoted by the 'coming race' as in rivalry with those of

Black Bess of sainted memory.

THE END

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Doctrine of Sacrifice

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The Weaker Vessel

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Thirlby Hall

Bachelor's Blunder

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Neighbours on the Green

Joyce

Kirsteen

A Beleaguered City

Hester

He that Will Not when He May

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Marriage of Elinor

Sir Tom

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A Country Gentleman

A Son of the Soil

The Second Son

The Wizard's Son

The Curate in Charge

Lady William

Young Musgrave

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Dorothy Fox

Adam and Eve

Loyalty George

Robin

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Marooned

A Strange Elopement

_By Sir WALTER SCOTT_

The Large-type Illustrated Border Edition of THE WAVERLEY NOVELS

In 24 volumes

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Guy Mannering

The Antiquary

Rob Roy

Old Mortality

The Heart of Midlothian

A Legend of Montrose, and the Black Dwarf

The Bride of Lammermoor

Ivanhoe

The Abbot

The Monastery

Kenilworth

The Pirate

The Fortunes of Nigel

Peveril of the Peak

Quentin Durward

St. Ronan's Well

Redgauntlet

The Betrothed, and The Talisman

Woodstock

The Fair Maid of Perth

Anne of Geierstein

Count Robert of Paris, and The Surgeon's Daughter

Castle Dangerous, Chronicles of the Canongate, etc.

_By J. H. SHORTHOUSE_

John Inglesant

Sir Percival

Little Schoolmaster Mark

The Countess Eve

A Teacher of the Violin

Blanche, Lady Falaise

_By W. M. THACKERAY_

Reprints of the First Editions, with all the Original Illustrations,

Facsimiles of Wrappers, etc.

Vanity Fair

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The Virginians

The History of Henry Esmond

Barry Lyndon and Catherine

Paris and Irish Sketch Books

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Book of Snobs, Miss Tickletoby's Lectures, History of the next French

Revolution, A Little Dinner at Timmins', etc.

The Yellowplush Correspondence, Diary and Letters of James de la

Pluche, History of Samuel Titmarsh and the Great Hoggarty Diamond,

and Contributions to the Constitutional [and Public Ledger]

Critical Papers in Literature and Art

The Fitzboodle Papers, Men's Wives, The Second Funeral of Napoleon, and

other Sketches

Lovel the Widower, and other Stories

Lectures on the English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century, The Four

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Sketches and Travels in London, Mrs. Brown's Letters to a Young Man

about Town, The Proser

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Leaves of a Life

Later Leaves

Round London

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The Heir of Redclyffe

Heartsease

Hopes and Fears

Dynevor Terrace

The Daisy Chain

The Trial

Pillars of the House. Vol. I.

" " II.

The Young Stepmother

Clever Woman of the Family

The Three Brides

My Young Alcides

The Caged Lion

The Dove in the Eagle's Nest

The Chaplet of Pearls

Lady Hester, and Danvers Papers

Magnum Bonum

Love and Life

Unknown to History

Stray Pearls

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The Two Sides of the Shield

Nuttie's Father

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Chantry House

A Modern Telemachus

Bywords

Beechcroft at Rockstone

More Bywords

A Reputed Changeling

The Little Duke

The Lances of Lynwood

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Two Penniless Princesses

That Stick

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Grisly Grisell

The Release

The Long Vacation

Ben Beriah

Henrietta's Wish

The Two Guardians

Countess Kate, and the Stokesley Secret

Modern Broods

_By C. M. YONGE and C. R. COLERIDGE_

Strolling Players

_By VARIOUS WRITERS_

Hogan, M.P.

Flitters, Tatters, and the Counsellor

The New Antigone

Tim

Memories of Father Healy

CUTCLIFFE HYNE.—The "Paradise" Coal-Boat

CANON ATKINSON.—The Last of the Giant Killers

R. H. BARHAM.—The Ingoldsby Legends

HAWLEY SMART.—Breezie Langton

ANTHONY TROLLOPE.—The Three Clerks

SIR H. LYTTON BULWER.—Historical Characters

RICHARD JEFFERIES.—The Dewy Morn

FRANK BUCKLAND.—Curiosities of Natural History. 4 vols.

MRS. HUMPHRY WARD.—Miss Bretherton

D. C. MURRAY and H. HERMAN.—He fell among Thieves

LUCAS MALET.—Mrs. Lorimer

LANOE FALCONER.—Cecilia de Noël

M. M'LENNAN.—MuckleJock, and other Stories

MAJOR GAMBIER PARRY.—The Story of Dick

S. R. LYSAGHT.—The Marplot

SIR H. M. DURAND.—Helen Treveryan

MARCHESA THEODOLI.—Under Pressure

W. C. RHOADES.—John Trevennick

E. C. PRICE—In the Lion's Mouth

BLENNERHASSET AND SLEEMAN.—Adventures in Mashonaland

W. FORBES-MITCHELL.—Reminiscences of the Great Mutiny

REV. J. GILMORE.—Storm Warriors

LORD REDESDALE.—Tales of Old Japan

SIR S. BAKER.—True Tales for my Grandsons

HENRY KINGSLEY.—Tales of Old Travel

W. P. FRITH, R.A.—My Autobiography

CAMILLE ROUSSET.—Recollections of Marshal Macdonald

CHARLES WHITEHEAD.—Richard Savage

F. A. MIGNET.—Mary Queen of Scots

F. GUIZOT.—Oliver Cromwell

M. R. MITFORD.—Literary Recollections

REV. R. H. D. BARHAM.—Life of R. H. Barham

—— Life of Theodore Hook

Biographies of Eminent Persons Vol. I.

" " II.

" " III.

" " IV.

" " V.

Annual Summaries. Vol. I.

" " II.

Masson's French Dictionary

Shakespeare's Works. Vol. I.

" " II.

" " III.

MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD., LONDON

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical

errors.

2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.

3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

4. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.