Part 3

Every thing in this world is judged by comparison. I did certainly find the Government fare furnished to the midshipmen’s mess “hard tack” as compared with my father’s epicurean _menus_. But there was even a more palpable difference between the Heroine’s ordinary and that of the Martha. The captain (poor fellow, he has since been murdered and eaten by the Natives at Tanna) was perfectly unconscious of the privations of his passengers. He was drunk from the day we left the Bay until we took in the pilot at the Heads of Port Jackson, after 28 days at sea, 20 of which we spent the best way we could on a biscuit and a cup of water a day—fresh pork _a discretion_, the brig being loaded with the unclean animal. It is now fifty years since I left the Martha, and I have never broken the vow I made in 1839 never again to touch pork. If I “_saved my bacon_” by eating it during those 28 days, I have given it best ever since, and intend to follow the Mosaic law to the end of my days.

EARLY AUSTRALIAN SHAVINGS.

I.

_SYDNEY IN 1839._

Even amongst Australians the Sydney people are daily “chaffed” for the pride they on all occasions evince about what they call “Our Harbour.” I must say that after Brest, Cork, Rio Janeiro, and the Bay of Islands—even the far-famed Bay of Naples, all of which I have visited, and in turn admired—I did not anticipate any very great surprise at the first glimpse of Port Jackson.

But when, at daybreak, on that beautiful summer morning, I came on the poop of the brig Martha, and, for the first time, saw as we turned round the inner South Head this vast expanse of placid blue water—North Harbour and Manly on the right, Middle Head and Middle Harbour facing us, and Port Jackson on the left, with the Blue Mountains in the distance—all other harbours dwindled down to almost insignificance. As we sailed towards Farm Cove, and each succeeding bay, inlet, or head-land were passed, my admiration increased.

I have spent many years in Sydney; very many days boating; have visited every nook and corner of that immense bay, and I must confess that the natives of Sydney have every reason to be proud of their “Harbour.”

Sydney in 1839 was, as compared to its present condition, a very small village. It was a quaint, old-fashioned township, principally occupied by Government officials—military and civil—troops and convicts—some already rich and arbitrary, the others still serving their sentence—obedient, even cringing—but holding their rich “pals” in perfect abhorrence.

It was in those days quite a common occurrence to hear of a woman arriving in the Colony as an emigrant, claiming her husband—a convict—as her assigned servant, and _vice versa_. Couples re-united in this wise have, in many instances, begun the world over again in Australia, and ended their days in affluence and respectability. Officers, public servants, in those days, when the male sex predominated, in many instances married their assigned servants, picked at random at the “factory” in Parramatta.

This may now seem outrageous, nevertheless in most cases the result of what may appear a most objectionable match, has proved quite the reverse from what might have been expected. It would not do even now to search too deeply into the pedigree of some of the Australians; but I will say that some of the most honourable, best educated, and highly refined men of the day, would, if their escutcheon was scratched, show beneath the emblazonments, a trace of the broad arrow on some part of it.

I do not wish, in making this statement, to say anything disparaging of these people—quite the reverse. The history of New South Wales is quite unparalleled in that of the world. The management of the penal settlements of Australia is one of the most striking instances of the thoroughly admirable system of colonisation on record. With a country like Australia—in view of its distance—the trying and capricious climate—the wretched poverty of the soil—it could never have been colonised by free emigration. It needed the indomitable energy, and the spirit of enterprise of a British Government, and the pluck of the Anglo-Saxon race, to cope with the difficulties of such an enterprise.

See Australia now, a young country joining in friendly rivalry with older and more favoured nations. To fully appreciate the proud position it now occupies, one must need look back a few years. Look at the starting point! Think of that day, barely a century ago, when the first ship anchored in Sydney Cove. Think of the several phases of continuous droughts where the handful of inhabitants were on the eve of starvation from want of flour, and even water, on this immense continent, now a populous, rich _nation_, teeming with a free and enlightened population, possessing magnificent cities, railways, electric communication, and _freedom_ in the most essential expression of that word.

When I landed in 1839, as I said before, Sydney, and a few—very few—other spots on the New South Wales coast, constituted the whole of the British dominions in the Southern Hemisphere. It was somewhat of a treat to join there my brother, and once more feel that I had a home. But somehow, when one has once taken to roving, it seems difficult to settle down. I had not been very long in Sydney, when the French corvette—the Aube—called for stores on her way to New Zealand. Captain Lavaud, hearing that I had been there, asked me to accompany him, and act as his interpreter. On our way down to the Bay of Islands I learned that his orders were to take possession of New Zealand for the French Government.

At the Bay of Islands, at a _déjeuner_ given by the Resident Magistrate, Mons. Lavaud indiscreetly mentioned the object of his errand in the presence of the commander of an English man-of-war brig. During the afternoon, whilst we were paying a visit to the French Mission the brig sailed; and when, a few days after we reached Akaroa, we found her at anchor, and the Union Jack flying on shore!!

So much for the diplomacy of Captain Lavaud. The French settlement of the Campagnie, Nanto Bordelaise, which had been originated, had to be carried on; but, like most French colonising schemes, dragged on for a few years, and even under the English flag dwindled down, and in a few years died a miserable death. Having witnessed Captain Lavaud’s _fiasco_, I returned to Sydney, when, at the death of Mons. Bareilhes, I was appointed Chancelier of the French Consulate, a position I held until the Revolution of 1848.

My sympathies were naturally for monarchy—more especially for the Orleans dynasty—and when the 1848 Revolution broke out, I relinquished the diplomatic career, and proceeded to South Australia, where the discovery of rich copper deposits at the Burra and Kapunda caused a sudden rush to that young colony.

The extraordinary and rapid progress of the colony of South Australia in the short space of two years, owing to the rich returns of the Burra Burra mines, is certainly worthy of being recorded. At the first onset the land on which the metal had been discovered was divided between two distinct sets of applicants—one comprising the leading merchants and men of note and social standing, the other principally working men, and the hired servants of the former. When the ground was broken and the mine worked, by a strange freak of fortune the ground held by the last-named portion of speculators turned out to be the best of the two. Shares ran up from £5 to £500! and for a number of years paid dividends at the rate of 200 per cent. on paid up shares! This very naturally upset the equilibrium of the social scale; and in very many instances we saw the servant, now suddenly risen to a millionaire, eclipsing his master in luxurious style; securing the best cabins on board home-bound ships; and, in more than one instance, purchasing baronial residences in Europe out of their dividends. This, I take it, is a fair instance of the ups and downs which have occurred in the Australasian colonies within the last half century.

II.

_THE GOLD FEVER._

This copper fever, which in a few months’ time _aged_ South Australia, and brought it from its almost infantile condition to maturity, was, however, very soon eclipsed by the gold discovery in California, almost immediately followed by the fabulous reports from the Turon River in New South Wales, and the break out of the gold fever at Forest Creek, in Victoria, at the end of 1851.

These reports spread like wild-fire throughout the length and breadth of Australia. Adelaide became a deserted city. I had invested my all in city lands, the construction of warehouses, offices, &c., which in a few weeks were all closed, without the remotest likelihood of being again tenanted. The ship was gradually sinking under my feet; to remain in South Australia would have been courting starvation. The only course left was to put away the garb of gentility, don the corduroy pants, the woollen shirt, and with pick and shovel follow the stream of diggers to Mount Alexander.

This was a new life. The landing in Melbourne of streams of humanity from all parts of the world, the lack of accommodation for this sudden rush, the canvas town which sprang up between the Yarra and Sandridge, where now stands Emerald, Hill, South Melbourne, and Port Melbourne, was a sight to remember, but difficult to depict. The motley group of tents, the camp-fires, the various nationalities, and with it all the orderly behaviour of tens of thousands of adventurers congregated on that spot was inconceivable. Of course the stay at Canvas-town was but a short one, the predominating idea with one and all being to rush to the El Dorado. The run on the daily papers, the avidity with which all news coming from Mount Alexander were devoured by the new arrivals, is beyond description.

Parties were made up, and a start made. From the banks of the Yarrato Forest Creek there was a continuous stream of carts, bullock teams, pack horses, and pedestrians, all bending under the weight of their “swags.” Every night the camp was pitched near creeks and water-holes, converting these chosen spots into large townships. Improvised stores, coffee and sly-grog shops, sprung up along the line of road. The Black Forest was illuminated at night by a thousand camp-fires; the reports of rifle and gun-shots, to warn evildoers, kept that locality alive for months, until the winter of 1852 came, when the track became an impracticable quagmire, and the roads impassable for drays, and even laden horses. In June, 1852, the cost of carriage rose from £10 to £200 per ton. The price of provisions on the diggings rose accordingly; a pound of salt cost half-a-crown, and every other necessary of life in proportion!

Gold digging was not what most of us had anticipated. The precious metal was there, but it did not crop out of the ground. It was hard work. While gold fetched £3 10s an ounce, it cost, in many instances, £5 to get it.

I was not many weeks on the Mount before I learned that it would be far easier to get the gold from the diggers than out of the ground. It became evident that with a small capital one might do better than by delving into the ground for auriferous sand, and trusting to the cradle and tin-dish to secure the metal.

The setting in of winter rendered it urgent to provide for the housing of the Government staff, hitherto living in tents. Contracts were called for commissioners’ quarters, treasury, escort officers’ barracks, stables, Court House, gaol, hospitals, &c. A civil engineer—Mr. Mather—secured the contract, and entrusted me with the work.

Saw-pits had to be started wherever suitable timber could be found; plans of portable buildings prepared, and last—though not least—tradesmen secured to push on works, which had to be finished within a very short time.

A month after the signing of the contract, I had some two hundred and fifty men, and upwards of forty teams of horses or bullocks at work. In four months we erected buildings sufficient to hold the whole of the staff, police, and gold escort, with out-stations at Forest Creek, Fryer’s Creek, and Bendigo, where the principal diggings then were, as well as at various points on the Melbourne road from that city to Kyneton, through the Black Forest—at Carlsrhue, Sawpit Gully, and half-way from Mount Alexander to Bendigo, at a place then known as the “Porcupine Inn.”

Having to superintend works over something like 200 miles of country was not an easy matter, more particularly when one takes into consideration that the men I had to manage were mostly Van Demonian sawyers and splitters, the very scum of the convict element from Tasmania. Moreover, I had to ride to Melbourne and back to Mount Alexander once a week for large sums of money, which I had to carry in specie to pay the men at their respective stations, riding through a country infested with bushrangers of the worst description.

III.

_SOME BUSHRANGERS I HAVE KNOWN._

This adventurous life, however, had its charm, and I often think that in spite of hardships and privations, I enjoyed it thoroughly.

For eight months I was hardly ever out of the saddle. During that time I experienced many adventures with men who since have either forfeited their life at the hands of the public hangman, or have served long sentences in H.M.’s gaols. Black Douglas, Thunderbolt, Donoghue, Gilbert, Ben Hall, and many other such celebrities, have often been my fellow-travellers. Many a night have I spent at the camp-fire with such noted characters, yet have never been molested or stuck-up by them. I may quote some instances which have left an indelible impression on my mind.

In the early part of 1852 rich discoveries of gold were made at Bendigo. A great rush set in from Forest Creek. Gold buyers and storekeepers flocked to the new diggings. The “Porcupine Inn”—the half-way, and only house, on that line of road—became a place of resort for all travellers. Being the only place within range of Mount Alexander or Bendigo where lucky diggers could have a “spree,” a goodly number of men gathered there daily with well-filled belts. Gold buyers and storekeepers, with plethoric purses and heavy saddle-bags, also put up at the Porcupine. This fact soon became known to the daring bushrangers who hovered around the diggings in search of unwary travellers.

At Easter-tide, having to go to Bendigo, I joined a party of four and, arriving rather late, put up at this celebrated hostelry, which, owing to holiday times, was fuller than usual. We, however, managed to secure a room. After supper, when I took a run into the stable to see that our horses were duly attended to, an old crippled groom, who had served on one of our out stations, and to whom I had then shown some consideration, beckoned to me to follow him into the yard, where he imparted the information that the landlord and his people were _bailed up_ in a loft above the kitchen, and that a gang of bushrangers were in full possession of the premises, and had been so for the last 24 hours. His parting words were—

“Keep your eyes open, and your revolvers handy.”

When I went back into the house, I found that the grog was being lavishly served by the quondam landlord. All, or nearly all, the men in the place were either stupidly drunk, or bordering upon that wretched condition. I also noted that one of the “waiters” would persist in remaining in our room—the only one in the house where anything approaching sobriety remained. In order to get rid of the troublesome attendant, and to remove his suspicions, I ordered a supply of spirits, hot water, and sugar, and during the few minutes which elapsed, warned my mates, and arranged a plan of action. When the fellow returned we had all drawn round the table, each man with his revolver and bowie knife before him. This array of arms, and I daresay the determined look of the party, seemed to impress our “waiter” that we were “up and ready.” He left us for about half-an-hour. When he came again (it was near midnight), he had with him two other men, who asked us if we had any further orders to give, and rather roughly desired us to put out the lights and go to bed; which, in the present instance, meant to roll ourselves in our rugs on the floor. We told them that we had important matters to settle, and did not intend to put out the lamp, which, fortunately, held sufficient kerosene to last till daylight. Our hosts did not seem to relish the refusal to comply with their wishes, but, however, left us, and locked us in. In a trice we had the table, sofa, and chairs converted into a barricade against the door; the two windows we kept in view with revolver in hand.

The following five or six hours were the longest I ever remember. Occasional strange noises and a few pistol shots were the only breaks to the long monotonous watch of that eventful night. When daylight at last made its appearance, we replaced the furniture, unscrewed the lock of the door, and most innocently called the waiter, who had evidently taken the sulks, and did not show up. We walked single file, revolver in hand, through the passage to the stable—not a living soul to be seen in any part of the premises we went through. Before our movements could be observed we were in the saddle on our way to Bendigo, without having had even the honesty to settle our score. We reported the case at the camp. A detachment of mounted troopers were at once despatched to the Porcupine Inn, where a rather hot battle ensued before the new tenants could be dislodged and the landlord re-instated.

I always have had my doubts as to the veracity of the old scoundrel’s statement. My firm belief is that he was a willing party and shareholder in the plunder, which for the four days’ occupation must have amounted to something pretty considerable. Thanks to old Joe’s warning, however, we escaped, literally _scot-free_.

The next adventure was of another kind. I was returning from Melbourne with a valise in front of my saddle, containing eleven hundred pounds in notes, gold, and silver. I had ridden seventy-three miles since morning, changing horses at Macedon and Carlsrhue. The sun was about setting when I reached the deep gully at the entrance of Fryer’s Creek. My horse being pretty well knocked-up, and feeling the effects of the day’s hard riding, I let the reins hang on the poor fellow’s neck, put my hands in my pockets after lighting my pipe, never for a moment thinking that the spot was quite appropriate for a “sticking-up” business.

About mid-way through the gully, I suddenly heard a shout on my right hand side, and, for the first time, noticed a man sitting on a log with a gun leaning on a stump in front of him. His first call was—

“Stop, you b——! Stop, or I’ll do for you!” Very much like the beggar’s call to Gil Blas; the adjective, of course, adding more persuasion to the command.

I confess that my first impulse was to stick spurs into the horse’s flanks, and show the bushranger the colour of my nag’s tail. A second, and more courageous thought, however, prevailed. I used, in those days, when carrying Government money, to have a couple of Colt’s revolvers in my belt. I drew them out and covered my friend with both barrels, when to my great astonishment he threw up both his hands above his head, crying—

“For God’s sake don’t fire!”

Keeping him under cover, I made him come down the hill with his hands still up in the air. Poor fellow! he was the most harmless of all teamsters. His dray was on the top of the range, and he was watching his half-starved cattle browsing on the other side of the ravine. The interjection, which I had attributed to myself, was a “friendly hint” to a brindle steer, which he told me had some rather roving propensities, if not closely looked after.

We adjourned to the dray, and over a pannican of hot tea—with rum in lieu of cream—had a good, hearty laugh over our mutual fright, in which I think that the honours were equally divided.

Having, as I said before, come often in contact with some of the most noted bushrangers, who, in the “fifties,” made a raid over the goldfields of Victoria, I am quite prepared to say that with one or two exceptions, they were highway robbers in every sense of the word, but very, very few of them ever stained their hands in blood. The very few exceptions on record, even, were caused by a spirit of revenge or reprisal, or in self-defence when driven to bay by the police.

In one instance I happened to fall in with Black Douglas and two of his mates half-way between the “Bush Inn” and Kyneton. I knew the man, and he also knew who I was, having often seen me at the saw-pits, where these men were, in very many instances, “planted” by their old convict friends whom we employed as splitters and sawyers. The moment I recognised the dreaded bushranger, I made up my mind for a raid on my belongings. Fortunately, I had very little about me on that occasion, having already paid most of the wages. So, putting on a bold front, I rode up to Douglas, calling him by name—

“Well, Douglas, how goes it, old man? How is business?”

He took a long, hard look at me and replied—

“Hallo Frenchy! is that you? Got any Treasury yellow boys in that 'ere valise of yourn?”

“Well,” I said, “I have only about thirty pounds; but, old man, it is not Treasury money now. It is the hard-earned wages of old Sellicks, and some of your pals at Sawpit Gully. Surely you would not take _that_ money! Now, would you?”

“If that’s your game, Frenchy, we’ll ride together to the saw-pits, and the boys will know that old Douglas is not as black as they call him.”

We rode together across country into the sawyer’s camp, had supper and paid the men. Next morning I left Douglas and his friends to carouse and gamble the money I had saved from his clutches by touching his heart in the only soft place, perhaps, it ever had.

Before I leave the reminiscences of these extraordinary times, I may recall my again meeting Thunderbolt (Ward) at Cockatoo Island, in New South Wales, some years later, where he was put in for life. Having the honour to be a J.P. in New South Wales, I had to act as visiting Magistrate at the penal settlement during the temporary absence of the Police Magistrate. Amongst the cases to be tried was one for attempting to escape from the island by this man Ward, _alias_ Capt. Thunderbolt. When the case was called my brother Magistrate at once condemned the unfortunate wretch to 21 days in the cells! The cells at Cockatoo were holes scooped out of the solid rock, closed by a huge flag stone on the top—a tomb! It seemed so hard to see a man sentenced to 21 days of such a life, without even allowing him to plead or say one word in defence, that I demurred, and begged my brother Magistrate to allow the case to be gone into. At the moment—and owing, no doubt, to his altered ways and worn looks—I had not recognised the prisoner as Ward (Capt. Thunderbolt), whom I had often seen on the Victorian diggings. I heard the charge, which I must say was plain, and most damning.

As in duty bound, I challenged this unfortunate man to say whether he had anything to state prior to passing the dreaded sentence. Hardened criminal as he was, it was with a sob in his voice that he replied—

“No, your Honour, I have nothing to say. I have tried to get out of this h—l, and I mean to try again. But I thank _you_ all the same for your kindness. I always thought you _was_ a good sort; and although that other cove would send me to the cells, I know you’d make it easier if you was here alone. God bless you for it, sir!”