Part 4

Ward kept his word. Within six months he made good his escape, and went to New England, where he stuck up a German band at the Goonoo Goonoo Gap. They pleaded hard to get some of their money back. He made a promise that if he succeeded in bailing up the principal winner at the Tenterfield races—for whom he was on the look-out—he would return them their money; which promise he kept most faithfully by sending to the post-office at Warwick, much to their astonishment, the £20 he had taken from them.

Shortly afterwards, when in a public-house at Uralla, he was surprised by two policemen. Instead of mounting his own horse he jumped on one belonging to a hawker, which turned out a bad one. A chase ensued. One constable’s horse ran away with his rider; the other (Alick Walker), a brave fellow, now a police inspector, rode Thunderbolt down to a water-hole, where a desperate duel ensued, resulting in the death of the bushranger, who had sworn that he would never be taken alive to be sent again to Cockatoo Island.

IV.

_HOW MONEY USED TO BE MADE._

Our contracts were nearly finished, when the contractor—Mr. Mather—failed, leaving us all in the lurch. Unfortunately, I was hit harder than anyone else. After eight months of hard life, I found myself in my slab hut at Sawpit Gully, with a very limited stock of provisions, and—a claim on the estate!

It is not in my nature to despond or stick in the mud long. I called together a meeting of my men, explained to them the position of affairs, left the assets of the estate in their charge, and went to Melbourne to fight it out with the Official Assignee. After some trouble I managed to draw the wages due to the men, but my screw had to be left in abeyance until the assets were realised; meanwhile the Court placed me in charge of the valuable property, scattered over the whole of the district, at a salary.

In such times as those one could ill afford to sit quietly awaiting the slow process of the law.

Sawpit Gully—now Elphinstone—was the dividing point of the various main thoroughfares to Fryer’s Creek, Forest Creek, Bendigo, M’Ivor, and other new diggings. It struck me that, in view of the thousands of people who daily passed through, a store might be a paying game. Unfortunately capital was the first consideration, and it was then “an absent friend.” Brooding over my empty purse, I mentioned my project to my men over the camp-fire one evening, prior to going to bed. A couple of hours later a deputation entered my hut. The spokesman—old Sellick, an old Tasmanian “lifer”—said—

“Look you here, boss; you have been a good friend to us chaps, and d—n it, we ain’t agoing to see you in a muck. Pick out your spot; we mean to give you a lift. We will put up your shanty; and if you want money—why, you shall have it.”

The offer was too good to be refused. Heartily made, heartily accepted. The next morning the corner of the cross roads was pegged out, and in less than a fortnight a long fifty by twenty-five feet slab building was up—stockyards, oven, stables, and fencing finished—and I was installed as general storekeeper, baker, butcher, &c., thanks to the timely and willing assistance of the good-hearted men I had often bullied and driven. A five-gallon keg of rum was used to celebrate the opening of the Sawpit Gully General Store, where for twelve months I carried on a roaring trade; one of the main advantages being the position—fifteen miles from the nearest store, bakery, or butcher’s shop. The price of the goods was guided by the state of the weather, the roads, and the number of customers. For instance, bread varied from half-a-crown to half-a-guinea—everything else in proportion.

My application for the pre-emptive right of purchase of the quarter-acre of ground the store occupied being granted at the rate of eight pounds per acre, I secured the title-deeds of it, and made up my mind to sell out, which I had very little difficulty in doing. Storekeeping at Mount Alexander in those days was a very profitable occupation—to wit, the success of Sargood and Sons; and more particularly the “pot” of money realised by Joshua Brothers in a few days only.

One of these young gentlemen, on his way from Melbourne, was overtaken on the road by the heavy rains of June, 1851. He at once took in the position and turned back to the city, where he found that the rate of carriage to the goldfields had risen _five hundred per cent._ He started straight for the Mount. I was the first storekeeper on the road upon whom he tried his hand. Knowing that he had interests in several stores on the diggings, I did not hesitate to sell him a large quantity of flour, sugar, tea, &c., for which he offered me what I considered a very handsome price. The contract drawn and deposit paid, he rode off at full speed to make similar bargains in every store on his way. When the news reached us that _two shillings a pound_ had to be paid for carriage, we had to _deal_ with Mr. Joshua to cancel the purchase! It was a fair and above-board transaction, but the result was a fine “haul” for that firm, the eldest of whom was hardly out of his teens.

As I remarked previously, all the money made at the diggings was not made by the gold diggers. In those days, before the discovery of quartz-reefing, the work was confined to alluvial working and simple gold-washing. Some large finds occurred—here and there large nuggets, weighing even up to one hundredweight, have been recorded—but as a rule it was hard work and poor pay. Gold buyers, storekeepers, and more especially sly-grog shops, made the most money. They certainly made it more easily than the poor diggers, who in many instances met in those dens, and under the baneful effects of drink became an easy prey of sharpers, often confederates of the people who kept the sly-grog shanties. The police made occasional raids on these places, when the owners were taken up and the shanty burnt down without judgment. In many cases the flames destroyed, besides the “stock-in-trade,” large sums of money “planted” in the tent or the bark roof of the hut.

When I returned to Melbourne I found the city in a state of transition. From a small country town it had in a couple of years grown into a thoroughly Yankee settlement. Buildings had sprung up, and were being hurriedly put up, in every direction. Canvas-town had become Emerald Hill, Sandridge was a continuation of Melbourne towards Hobson’s Bay, whilst Collingwood, Hotham, Jolimont, and Richmond on either side formed an uninterrupted line of streets with the original metropolitan thoroughfares. Everything was bustle and business. After my stay at the goldfields and rustication at Sawpit Gully, I once more craved for a ramble over the wide world, more particularly for that _Dolce far niente_ which can only be found on board ship and the broad expanse of the ocean.

NEW CALEDONIA.

I.

_TAKING POSSESSION: “TIT FOR TAT.”_

A few weeks after my return to Sydney, private news came to hand that the French Government contemplated taking possession of New Caledonia. Admiral Février Despointes made an appointment with us to meet him at Port St. Vincent at a given date, with a supply of coals, stores, live stock, &c. I chartered the Athenian, an old East Indiaman, and the Pocklington, a Newcastle collier, and sailed for the rendezvous—a fine harbour on the east coast of New Caledonia—where our arrival excited some astonishment amongst the natives, being the first ships they had seen since Captain Cook’s last visit in 1779.

We had to lay there a fortnight before the Catinat—a smart steam corvette—made her appearance with the admiral’s flag at the fore.

We sailed in company for the Isle of Pines—off the southern end of New Caledonia—where the Marists’ Catholic Mission had an established station. On the morning of the 19th of September, 1853, Sir Everard Home arrived at the Isle of Pines on board the Calliope. Visits were exchanged between the two men-of-war. During his call Sir Everard committed the same blunder which thirty years before caused the loss of New Zealand to France—he mentioned before us that his instructions were to take possession of New Caledonia in the name of Her Majesty’s Government. With the assistance of the French missionaries the chiefs of the island were mustered, a deed drawn up during the day, and at daylight on the 20th we read the proclamation, hoisted the tricolor flag on shore, and saluted it with a salvo of 21 guns from the Catinat.

Poor old Sir Everard never got over the shock. He sailed for Sydney, and died during the passage; while the French admiral steamed for Balade, a port on the N.W. coast of New Caledonia, where he repeated the ceremony enacted at the Isle of Pines, thus securing the whole group from any other Power’s aggression.

During our stay at Balade, and with a view to learn something of the new country, we formed a party to visit the interior, more particularly the extent of the “Giahot”—a broad stream which empties itself into the sea west of Balade Harbour. Duly equipped and well armed we started on our cruise. Eight officers of the French Navy, Captain Case of the Athenian, four natives belonging to the French Mission, and myself. We certainly thought that fourteen men would be a sufficient number to cope with any number of savages, more particularly in a part of the island where the missionaries had been safely established for a couple of years already.

We sailed or pulled up stream for some twelve or fourteen miles, until snags and shoals rendered the navigation tedious; and, moreover, our orders were not to keep the boat after dark. Having ascertained by observations that owing to the windings of the river we had reached a point distant from Balade six miles by land, the natives assuring us that they would guide us there in a couple of hours, we made up our minds to land, send back the boat, explore the country, and camp when night came.

The scenery was all that could be wished for; wild pigeons in abundance; and for those in the party who were bent on botanising, there was enough to engross their minds for weeks. During our journey we occasionally came across natives, who seemed most ready to assist us in every way, and at last prevailed upon us when night came on to accept the offer of one of their houses to camp in for the night. The New Caledonian dwelling is rather a peculiarly constructed hut, very much like an elongated bee-hive, the only entrance, or, indeed, opening of any kind, being a square hole—measuring about two feet each way. In order to keep away the million of mosquitos which swarm after dark, a fire is kept up all night in these huts, the apex of the roof being the only outlet for the smoke, which the unfortunate natives accept as the only alternative from being stung to death by the puny tormentor. The only way to breathe in the huts is to lie down flat on the floor, where, owing to the draft caused by the low door, about one foot or fifteen inches of space is left free from the choking effect of the smoke.

II.

“_HE WHO FIGHTS AND RUNS AWAY._”

During supper, which we took outside the hut, we were surrounded by a gaping and chattering crowd of natives of both sexes and all ages. The number increasing every moment, we began to feel that even armed as we were, fourteen men would be but a small force as compared to the hundreds around us. However, up to the time when we crept in to our hut the behaviour of the Natives was as friendly as could be. Our barter for spears, shells, necklaces, and other curios was carried on fairly, and evidently to the satisfaction of all concerned.

At about ten o’clock we closed the aperture of the crib, lit our cigars, took a stiff night-cap, and laid down to breathe as we best could in the stifling smoke which filled the place. Sailors will sleep anywhere and anyhow, so will Caledonian natives. In a few minutes the snoring all around convinced me that I was the only watcher. What with mosquitos and smoke I would certainly have kept awake all night, even had I not been aroused as I was by a rustling noise in the straw wall of the hut, and the black hand of a native trying to force his way into our quarters.

As soon as his woolly head appeared, I seized it with one hand, putting a revolver to his ear with the other. I dragged him through, in so doing waking up my mates. Through the interpretation of one of our Native catechists, we heard the boy’s story—that the Natives on whose ground we were encamped had made up a plot to fire the grass around our hut, and during the confusion into which we would be thrown by their war whoop added to the conflagration, spear or tomahawk us, in order to secure our trade goods and fire-arms, as well as the supply of fresh meat half a score of European bodies would afford them.

There was not much time left us for either reflection or planning an escape. We quickly crept out of the hut one by one, and found that the information was not only correct, but the fires were already being kindled in a large circle, of which we were the centre. The Natives could be easily seen in large numbers on the outer side of the circle of fire, the chief standing amongst a crowd—luckily for us on the land side, leaving the path to the river bank comparatively free from Natives. The chief held in his hand the insignia of office—a long spear with a white shell on the end of it, which was quite descernible by the glare of the blazing grass. We held a consultation as to the best and most likely way to startle the savages, so as to make good our retreat to the river, cross it, and make for Balade as speedily as possible. Captain Case had in his hand a double-barrelled fowling piece, with one rifle barrel. It was suggested that he should fire the first shot in the air in order to draw the natives’ attention, and with the rifle barrel take aim at the shell on the chief’s spear.

On that shot depended the lives of fourteen men, and I am bound to say our friend’s calm and deliberate aim for that momentous shot denoted a true British tar’s firmness. A crack, followed by a terrific yell, told us that the scheme had succeeded. The natives in a body gathered round their chief to see the wonderful destruction of his talismanic shell, shattered into invisibility by Captain Case’s shot.

Before they could even notice our departure, we were making hasty tracks for the water, following in the wake of our native guides, whose marvellous instinct and thorough knowledge of the locality proved quite as useful as our friend’s skill at a target. They found not only the shortest path to the Giahot, but amongst the high reeds on the banks of that stream several canoes, which we annexed to convey our party across, and cut off communication with the wretches who had so treacherously attempted to give us a warmer reception than we had contemplated. When on the top of the range dividing the river from Balade, we saw the glare of our own pyre, and heard the chattering and yells of the fiends—caused, no doubt, by the discovery of the loss of their canoes, and doubtless also that of the anticipated supper or breakfast they had purposed having at our expense.

We reached the Mission at daybreak, and the same day fifty men, under command of one of the lieutenants and one of our party, went back and gave the Kanakas a lesson they have not forgotten to this day. The boy who saved our lives was a lad of twelve or fourteen, intelligent and bright. He gave a thorough explanation of the whole plot to the Rev. Father Montrouzier, who, fearing that the boy’s life might be endangered if he stayed on the island, induced me to take him away, for a time, at all events, with the youngster’s sanction; and having christened him “Joachim,” which he at once pronounced “Sokymy,” I enlisted him in my service. A better, more useful servant, and more faithful follower, I never had, for the seven years he lived with me. Poor boy, like most of the South Sea Islanders, he died of pleurisy, accelerated by exposure.

III.

_ANOTHER NARROW SQUEAK._

Having discharged cargo, and parted from the Athenian and our gallant friend, Captain Case, I removed my belongings to the Pocklington and sailed for Sydney, intending to shorten the sail by trying a short cut through a group of islands at the north-west end of New Caledonia. Captain Oliver, who had often traded for sandal-wood in this part of the world, assured me that this route was quite safe, and that he had often sailed through the channel with vessels of deeper draught. Our first two days’ navigation were glorious—smooth sea, fine weather—sailing during the day amongst lovely islands, and anchoring at night with every appearance of safety so long as a good watch was kept on the natives’ canoes, which never failed to come alongside as soon as the anchor was dropped.

My new valet, “Sokymy,” even at that early stage proved most useful to us. Though he could not speak to us he knew well what the natives said, and could easily enough make us understand that they had better be kept at a distance.

On the second night the barometer fell considerably, and before morning the wind chopped suddenly from S.E. to N.W., blowing hard until it became almost a gale. The poor old brig began to drag towards the shore. We let go another anchor, but still at every successive wave which struck our bows we felt that sudden jerk and grating noise which indicates the dragging of the anchor. The distance between the stern of the Pocklington and the shore was visibly decreasing—a fact which evidently became quite as apparent to the natives on shore as it did to us on board, who felt by no means reassured when we noticed the exulting jubilation of the cannibals—evidently reckoning on immediate plunder and feasting! The position was critical, the danger imminent, the prospect anything but cheering.

Captain Oliver, like my friend Captain Case of the Athenian, was cast in the mould which has produced so many heroes in the British Navy—men in whom sterling worth only comes to light in moments of danger. The critical position of the brig demanded immediate action. Our crew consisted of a dozen Tanna natives, with only three Europeans on board besides the skipper, the mate, the cook, the steward, and myself. We were barely fifty yards from the beach, where hundreds of natives, already up to their waist in water, were throwing spears at any one whose head appeared above the taffrail.

Captain Oliver got us to bring up a hawser on to the deck. This was made fast round the foot of the main-mast; a freshly-ground axe was placed in my hands; orders given to get the jib and spanker ready for hoisting and sheeting home; the hawser made fast to the chain of one anchor, whilst the other was cast adrift. This hawser being amidships, the brig at once swung round; the spanker being sheeted tight gave the craft some headway; the jib being hoisted she got under way, and the order was given to chop the hawser.

Had my blow at this piece of hemp failed to sever it through, this book would never have been written. As it was, the poor old brig and its living freight had a very narrow shave. As we paid off slightly to get more way on her she grazed the coral reef on the lee side, but, however, got clear, and a few moments later we had the gratification to feel that we were in deep water, under close-reefed topsails, making headway towards Australia. We reached Sydney in a week, none the worse for having on two occasions disappointed the natives of New Caledonia, and deprived them of what might have been a three-course dinner. In both instances they would have had French, English, and native dishes—quite a _recherche_ menu for a cannibal’s feast.

IV.

_A SOUTH SEA TRIP._

“A rolling stone gathers no moss.” I am afraid I have proved the truth of the old adage. A fortnight in Sydney proved quite as much as I could stand. I always had a great desire to see Torres Straits and the islands on the northern side of it. There happened to be in Port Jackson a small French barque—Le Juste, from Havre—the captain being the owner of the vessel. I made an offer to him of a charter by the month for six months, giving him a share of the venture, my route being Torres Straits, New Guinea, Borneo, the Malay Archipelago, Mauritius, Bourbon, Madagascar, and back to Sydney. Being nearly as mad as I was, Captain Leneveu accepted my offer. We at once set to work, put on board a few brass swivel guns, some muskets and small arms, articles of South Sea Island trade; and, as was then the custom for a trip through the Straits, waited a few days until other ships bent on the same dangerous errand were ready to start.

On the 28th of June, everything being ready, we started northwards—the Scotia, one of Dunbar’s old East India ships—leading the van, followed by our barque, and two smaller craft bound for the Strait Settlements. Fine weather and smooth water brought us in eleven days to the Great Barrier Reef, which we passed safely, anchoring at night off Bird’s Island.

Captain Strickland, as commodore, entertained us gloriously on board the Scotia to commemorate our safe passage through the Barrier and bid _us_ farewell—our course being north for the coast of New Guinea at daybreak next morning.

Navigating on the west side of the Barrier Reef is quite a pleasure trip as far as sea or weather are concerned; the only trouble, at least in the “fifties,” was the very imperfect hydrography of the locality, and the great caution sailors had to resort to in order to avoid the innumerable coral reefs and submarine dangers, which can only be avoided by a very careful watch from the foretop, where a man had constantly to be on the look-out.

Our first land was at Darnley Island, where we met the first Papus, some having a smattering of pigeon English. We engaged one of them to pilot us to the mouth of the Fly river, which we made out easily without ever having recourse to our sable friend, who seemed quite happy on board so long as he could keep within range of the galley and have the lion’s share of every meal going, whether cuddy or fore-castle. The fellow seemed to have the most capacious appetite, was an inveterate smoker, and certainly anything but a total abstainer. It is a marvellous thing how all natives take naturally and _kindly_ to smoking tobacco and drinking ardent spirits.

Anchoring close to Kiwai Island, we were at once boarded by scores of natives, and did a fair amount of trading for curios, shells, and arms, but nothing of any commercial value. Some of the clubs had specs of yellow metal inlaid in the handles; treatment with _aqua fortis_ proved this metal to be gold. From inquiries made through the very imperfect interpretation of our pilot and my New Caledonian, Sokymy, we gathered that this gold was found a long way up the Fly river. All my entreaties with Captain Leneveu to sail up the river in one of the boats could not prevail upon him to concede the favour. As he very justly said, it would be unsafe both for him or I to take away one half of the crew to man the boat, leaving the other on board with only a few hands—there being always, and in spite of us, some scores of natives on our decks, besides hundreds hovering round in canoes. We had a few runs on shore, but did not dare to lose sight of the boats.