Chapter 22

"You mustn't call it cattle stealing, Neddy; that doesn't sound well," said Joshua. "I call it back pay for work and labour done. I have good reasons for it. I was sent out for stealing a horse, which I never did steal; I only bought it cheap for a couple of pounds. They sent me to the island, and I worked seven years for a settler for nothing. Now I put it to you, Neddy, as an honest and sensible man, Am I to get no pay for that seven years' work? And how am I to get it if I don't take it myself? The Government will give me no pay; they'd give me another seven years if they could. But you see, there are no peelers here, no beaks, and no blooming courts, so I intend to make hay while the sun shines, which means tallow in these times. All these settlers gets as much work out of Government men as they can get for nothing, and if you says two words to 'em they'll have you flogged. So while I does my seven years I says nothing, but I thinks, and I makes up my mind to have it out of 'em when my time comes. And I say it's fair and honest to get your back wages the best way you can. These settlers are all tarred with the same brush; they make poor coves like us work for 'em, and flog us like bullocks, and then they pretend they are honest men. I say be blowed to such honesty."

"But if you are caught, Joshua, what then?"

"Well, we must be careful. I don't think they'll catch me in a hurry. You see, I does my business quick: cuts out the brand and burns it first thing, and always turns out beasts I don't want directly."

Other men followed the example of Joshua, so that between troubles with the black men, troubles with the white men, and the want of a market for his stock, the settler's days were full of anxiety and misery. And, in addition, the Government in Sydney was threatening him with a roaming taxgatherer under the name of a Commissioner of Crown Lands, to whom was entrusted the power of increasing or diminishing assessments at his own will and pleasure. The settler therefore bowed down before the lordly tax-gatherer, and entertained him in his hut with all available hospitality, with welcome on his lips, smiles on his face, and hatred in his heart.

The fees and fines collected by the Commissioners all over New South Wales had fallen off in one year to the extent of sixty-five per cent; more revenue was therefore required, and was it not just that those who occupied Crown lands should support the dignity of the Crown? Then the blacks had to be protected, or otherwise dealt with. They could not pay taxes, as the Crown had already appropriated all they were worth, viz., their country. But they were made amenable to British law; and in that celebrated case, "Regina v. Jacky Jacky," it was solemnly decided by the judge that the aborigines were subjects of the Queen, and that judge went to church on the Sabbath and said his prayers in his robes of office, wig and all.

Jacky Jacky was charged with aiding and abetting Long Bill to murder little Tommy. He said:

"Another one blackfellow killed him, baal me shoot him."

The court received his statement as equivalent to a plea of "Not guilty."

Witness Billy, an aboriginal, said:

"I was born about twenty miles from Sydney. If I don't tell stories, I shall go to Heaven; if I do, I shall go down below. I don't say any prayers. It is the best place to go up to Heaven. I learnt about heaven and hell about three years ago at Yass plains when driving a team there. Can't say what's in that book; can't read. If I go below, I shall be burned with fire."

Billy was sworn, and said:

"I knew Jacky Jacky and Cosgrove, the bullock driver. I know Fyans Ford. I know Manifolds. I went from Fyans Ford with Cosgrove, a drove of cattle, and a dray for Manifolds. I knew Little Tommy at Port Fairy. He is dead. I saw him dying. When driving the team, I fell in with a lot of blacks. They asked me what black boy Tommy was; told them my brother. They kept following us two miles and a half. Jacky Jacky said; 'Billy, I must kill that black boy in spite of you.'"

Jacky Jacky said sharply, "Borack."

"Jacky Jacky, who was the king, got on the dray, and Little Tommy got down; a blackfellow threw a spear at him, and hit him in the side; the king also threw a spear, and wounded him; a lot of blacks also speared him. Long Bill came up and shot him with a ball. Jacky Jacky said to Cosgrove: 'Plenty gammon; I must kill that black boy.' Little Tommy belonged to the Port Fairy tribe, which had always been fighting with Jacky Jacky's tribe."

"It's all gammon," said Jacky Jacky, "borack me, its another blackfellow."

"Jacky Jacky, when with the dray, spoke his own language which I did not understand. I was not a friend of Little Tommy. I was not afraid of the Port Fairy tribe. I am sometimes friend with Jacky Jacky's tribe. If I met him at Yass I can't say whether I should spear him or not; they would kill him at the Goulburn River if he went there. Blackfellow not let man live who committed murder."

Are the aboriginals amenable to British law? Question argued by learned counsel, Messrs. Stawell and Barry.

His Honor the Resident Judge said: "The aboriginals are amenable to British law, and it is a mercy to them to be under that control, instead of being left to seek vengeance in the death of each other; it is a mercy to them to be under the protection of British law, instead of slaughtering each other."

Jacky Jacky was found guilty of "aiding and abetting." The principals in the murder were not prosecuted, probably could not be found. Before leaving the court, he turned to the judge and said, "You hang me this time?"

He only knew two maxims of British law applicable to his race, and these he had learned by experience. One maxim was "Shoot 'em" and the other was "Hang him."

There is abundant evidence to prove that an aboriginal legal maxim was, "The stranger is an enemy, kill him." It was for that reason Jacky Jacky killed Little Tommy, who was a stranger, belonging to the hostile Port Fairy tribe.

Joshua and Neddy carried on the boiling down business successfully for some time, regularly shipping tallow to Melbourne in casks, until some busybody began to insinuate that their tallow was contraband. Then Joshua took to carrying goods up the country, and Neddy took to drink. He died at the first party given by Mother Murden at her celebrated hostelry.

There were at this time about two hundred men, women, and children scattered about the neighbourhood of New Leith (afterwards called Port Albert), the Old Port, the New Alberton and Tarra Vale. Alberton, by the way, was gazetted as a township before the "village" of St. Kilda was founded. There were no licenses issued for the various houses of entertainment, vulgarly called "sly grog shops." There was no church, no school, no minister, and no music, until Mother Murden imported some. It was hidden in the recesses of a barrel organ; and, in order to introduce the new instrument to the notice of her patrons and friends, Mother Murden posted on her premises a manuscript invitation to a grand ball. She was anxious that everything should be carried out in the best style, and that the festive time should commence at least without intoxication. She therefore had one drunken man carried into the "dead room," another to an outside shed. Neddy, the third, had become one of her best customers, and therefore she treated him kindly. He was unsteady on his legs, and she piloted him with her own hands to the front door, expecting that he would find a place for himself somewhere or other. She gave him a gentle shove, said "Good night, Neddy," and closed the door. She then cleared a space for the dancers in her largest room, placed the barrel-organ on a small table in one corner, and made her toilet.

The guests began to arrive, and Mother Murden received them in her best gown at the front door. Neddy was lying across the threshold.

"It's only Neddy," she said apologetically; "he has been taking a little nobbler, and it always runs to his head. He'll be all right by-and-by. Come in my dears, and take your things off. You'll find a looking-glass in the room behind the bar."

The gentlemen stepped over Neddy, politely gave their hands to the ladies, and helped them over the human obstacle.

When everything was ready, Mother Murden sat down by the barrel-organ, took hold of the handle, and addressed her guests:

"Now boys, choose your girls."

The biggest bully, a "conditional pardon" man of the year 1839, acted as master of the ceremonies, and called out the figures. He also appropriated the belle of the ball as his partner.

The dancing began with great spirit, but as the night wore on the music grew monotonous. There were only six tunes in the organ, and not all the skill and energy of Mother Murden could grind one more out of it.

Neddy lay across the doorway, and was never disturbed. He did not wake in time to take any part in the festive scene, being dead. Now and then a few of the dancers stepped over him, and remarked, "Neddy is having a good rest." In the cool night air they walked to and fro, then, returning to the ball-room, they took a little refreshment, and danced to the same old tunes, until they were tired.

Mother Murden's first ball was a grand success for all but Neddy.

"No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet, To chase the glowing hours with flying feet."

But morn reveals unsuspected truths, and wrinkled invisible in the light of tallow candles. The first rays of the rising sun fell on Neddy's ghastly face, and the "conditional pardon" man said, "Why, he's dead and cold."

Mother Murden came to the door with a tumbler in her hand, containing a morning nip for Neddy, "to kill the worm," as the Latins say; but the worm was dead already. The merry-makers stood around; the men looked serious and the ladies shivered. They said the air felt chilly, so they bade one another good morning and hurried home.

It is hard to say why one sinner is taken and the other left. Joshua's time did not arrive until many years afterwards, when we had acquitted him at the General Sessions; but that is another story.

HOW GOVERNMENT CAME TO GIPPSLAND.

At this time there was no visible government in Gippsland. The authorities in Sydney and Melbourne must have heard of the existence of the country and of its settlement, but they were content for a time with the receipt of the money paid into the Treasury for depasturing licenses and for assessments on stock.

In 1840 the Land Fund received in New South Wales amounted to 316,000 pounds; in 1841 it was only 90,000 pounds; and in 1842 Sir George Gipps, in his address to the Council severely reprimanded the colonists for the reckless spirit of speculation and overtrading in which they had indulged during the two preceding years. This general reprimand had a more particular application to Mr. Benjamin Boyd, the champion boomer of those days.

Labourers out of employment were numerous, and contractors were informed by 'Gazette' notice that the services of one hundred prisoners were available for purposes of public utility, such as making roads, dams, breakwaters, harbours, bridges, watchhouses, and police buildings. Assignees of convicts were warned that if they wished to return them to the custody of the Government, they must pay the expense of their conveyance to Sydney, otherwise all their servants would be withdrawn, and they would become ineligible as assignees of prisoners in future.

Between the first of July, 1840, and the first of November, 1841, 26,556 bounty immigrants had been received in Sydney. The bounty orders were suspended in the autumn of the latter year, but in 1842 Lord Stanley was of opinion that the colony could beneficially receive ten thousand more immigrants during the current year.

Many married labourers could find no work in Sydney, and in November, 1843, the Government requested persons sending wool-drays to the city to take families to inland districts gratis.

A regular stream of half-pay officers also poured into the colony, and made Sir George's life a burden. They all wanted billets, and if he made the mistake of appointing a civilian to some office, Captain Smith, with war in his eye and fury in his heart, demanded an interview at once. He said:

"I see by this morning's 'Gazette' that some fellow of the name of Jones has been made a police superintendent, and here am I, an imperial officer, used to command and discipline, left out in the cold, while that counter-jumper steps over my head. I can't understand your policy, Sir George. What will my friends of the club in London say, when they hear of it, but that the service is going to the dogs?"

So Captain Smith obtained his appointment as superintendent of police, and with a free sergeant and six convict constables, taken, as it were, out of bond, was turned loose in the bush. He had been for twenty years in the preventive service, but had never captured a prize more valuable than a bottle of whisky. He knew nothing whatever about horses, and rode like a beer barrel, but he nevertheless lectured his troopers about their horses and accoutrements. The sergeant was an old stockrider, and he one day so far forgot the rules of discipline as to indulge in a mutinous smile, and say:

"Well, captain, you may know something about a ship, but I'll be blowed if you know anything about a horse."

That observation was not entered in any report, but the sergeant was fined 2 pounds for "insolence and insubordination." The sum of 60,899 pounds was voted for police services in 1844, and Captain Smith was paid out of it. All the revenue went to Sydney, and very little of it found its way to Melbourne, so that Mr. Latrobe's Government was sometimes deprived of the necessaries of life.

Alberton was gazetted as a place for holding Courts of Petty Sessions, and Messrs. John Reeve and John King were appointed Justices of the Peace for the new district.

Then Michael Shannon met James Reading on the Port Albert Road, robbed him of two orders for money and a certificate of freedom, and made his way to Melbourne. There he was arrested, and remanded by the bench to the new court at Alberton. But there was no court there, no lock-up, and no police; and Mr. Latrobe, with tears in his eyes, said he had no cash whatever to spend on Michael Shannon.

The public journals denounced Gippsland, and said it was full of irregularities. Therefore, on September 13th, 1843, Charles J. Tyers was appointed Commissioner of Crown Lands for the district. He endeavoured to make his way overland to the scene of his future labours, but the mountains were discharging the accumulated waters of the winter and spring rainfall, every watercourse was full, and the marshes were impassable.

The commissioner waited, and then made a fresh start with six men and four baggage horses. Midway between Dandenong and the Bunyip he passed the hut of Big Mat, a new settler from Melbourne, and obtained from him some information about the best route to follow. It began to rain heavily, and it was difficult to ford the swollen creeks before arriving at the Big Hill. At Shady Creek there was nothing for the horses to eat, and beyond it the ground became treacherous and full of crabholes. At the Moe the backwater was found to be fully a quarter of a mile wide, encumbered with dead logs and scrub, and no safe place for crossing the creek could be found. During the night the famishing horses tore open with their teeth the packages containing the provisions, and before morning all that was left of the flour, tea, and sugar was trodden into the muddy soil and hopelessly lost; not an ounce of food could be collected. There was no game to be seen; every bird and beast seemed to have fled from the desolate ranges. Mr. Tyers had been for many years a naval instructor on board a man-of-war, understood navigation and surveying, and, it is to be presumed, knew the distance he had travelled and the course to be followed in returning to Port Philip; but there were valleys filled with impenetrable scrub, creeks often too deep to ford, and boundless morasses, so that the journey was made crooked with continual deviations. If a black boy like McMillan's Friday had accompanied the expedition, his native instinct would, at such a time, have been worth all the science in the world.

The seven men, breakfastless, turned their backs to Gippsland. The horses were already weak and nearly useless, so they and all the tents and camp equipage were abandoned. Each man carried nothing but his gun and ammunition. All day long they plodded wearily through the bush--wading the streams, climbing over the logs, and pushing their way through the scrub. Only two or three small birds were shot, which did not give, when roasted, a mouthful to each man.

At night a large fire was made, and the hungry travellers lay around it. Next morning they renewed their journey, Mr. Tyers keeping the men from straggling as much as he could, and cheering them with the hope of soon arriving at some station. No game was shot all that day; no man had a morsel of food; the guns and ammunition seemed heavy and useless, and one by one they were dropped. It rained at intervals, the clothing became soaked and heavy, and some of the men threw away their coats. A large fire was again made at night, but no one could sleep, shivering with cold and hunger.

Next morning one man refused to go any further, saying he might as well die where he was. He was a convict accustomed to life in the bush, and Mr. Tyers was surprised that he should be the first man to give way to despair, and partly by force and partly by persuasion he was induced to proceed. About midday smoke was seen in the distance, and the hope of soon obtaining food put new life into the wayfarers. But they soon made a long straggling line of march; the strongest in the front, the weakest in the rear.

The smoke issued from the chimney of the hut occupied by Big Mat. He was away looking after his cattle, but his wife Norah was inside, busy with her household duties, while the baby was asleep in the corner. There was a small garden planted with vegetables in front of the hut, and Norah, happening to look out of the window during the afternoon, saw a strange man pulling off the pea pods and devouring them. The strange man was Mr. Tyers. Some other men were also coming near.

"They are bushrangers," she said running to the door and bolting it, "and they'll rob the hut and maybe they'll murder me and the baby."

That last thought made her fierce. She seized an old Tower musket, which was always kept loaded ready for use, and watched the men through the window. They came into the garden one after another, and at once began snatching the peas and eating them. There was something fearfully wild and strange in the demeanour of the men, but Norah observed that they appeared to have no firearms and very little clothing. They never spoke, and seemed to take no notice of anything but the peas.

"The Lord preserve us," said Norah, "I wish Mat would come."

Her prayer was heard, for Mat came riding up to the garden fence with two cattle dogs, which began barking at the strangers. Mat said:

"Hello, you coves, is it robbing my garden ye are?"

Mr. Tyers looked towards Mat and spoke, but his voice was weak, his mouth full of peas, and Mat could not tell what he was saying. He dismounted, hung the bridle on to a post, and came into the garden. He looked at the men, and soon guessed what was the matter with them; he had often seen their complaint in Ireland.

"Poor craythurs," he said, "it's hungry ye are, and hunger's a killing disorder. Stop ating they pays to wonst, or they'll kill ye, and come into the house, and we'll give ye something better."

The men muttered, but kept snatching off the peas. Norah had unbolted the door, and was standing with the musket in her hand.

"Take away the gun, Norah, and put the big billy on the fire, and we'll give 'em something warm. The craythurs are starving. I suppose they are runaway prisoners, and small blame to 'em for that same, but we can't let 'em die of hunger."

The strangers had become quite idiotic, and wou'd not leave the peas, until Mat lost all patience, bundled them one by one by main force into his hut, and shut the door.

He had taken the pledge from Father Mathew before he left Ireland, and had kept it faithfully; but he was not strait-laced. He had a gallon of rum in the hut, to be used in case of snake-bite and in other emergencies, and he now gave each man a little rum and water, and a small piece of damper.

Rum was a curse to the convicts, immigrants, and natives. Its average price was then about 4s. 3d. per gallon. The daily ration of a soldier consisted of one pound of bread, one pound of fresh meat, and one-seventh of a quart of rum. But on this day, to Mr. Tyers and his men, the liquor was a perfect blessing. He was sitting on the floor with his back to the slabs.

"You don't know me, Mat?"

"Know ye, is it? Sure I never clapped eyes on ye before, that I know of. Are ye runaway Government men? Tell the truth, now, for I am not the man to turn informer agin misfortunate craythurs like yourselves."

"My name is Tyers. I passed this way, you may remember, not very long ago."

"What! Mr. Tyers, the commissioner? Sure I didn't know you from Adam. So ye never went to Gippsland at all?"

"Our horses got at the provisions and spoiled them; so we had to come back, and we have had nothing to eat for three days. There is one man somewhere behind yet; I am afraid he will lie down and die. Do you think you could find him?"

"For the love of mercy, I'll try, anyway. Norah, dear, take care of the poor fellows while I go and look for the other man; and mind, only to give 'em a little food and drink at a time, or they'll kill their wake stomachs with greediness; and see you all do just as Norah tells you while I'm away, for you are no better than childer."

Mat galloped away to look for the last man, while his wife watched over the welfare of her guests. She said:

"The Lord save us, and be betune us and harm, but when I seen you in the garden I thought ye were bushrangers, and I took up the ould gun to shoot ye."

Mat soon found the last man, put him on his horse, and brought him to the hut. Next morning he yoked his bullocks, put all his guests into the dray, and started for Dandenong. On December 23rd, 1843, Mr. Tyers and his men arrived in Melbourne, and he reported to Mr. Latrobe the failure of his second attempt to reach Gippsland.

While the commissioner and his men were vainly endeavouring to reach the new country, seven other men were suffering famine and extreme hardships to get away from it. They had arrived at the Old Port by sea, having been engaged to strip bark by Mr. P. W. Walsh, usually known in Melbourne as Paddy Walsh. He had been chief constable in Launceston. Many years before Batman or Fawkner landed in Port Philip, parties of whalers were sent each year to strip wattle bark at Western Port. Griffiths and Co. had found the business profitable, and Paddy Walsh came to the conclusion that there was money to be made out of bark in Gippsland. He therefore engaged seven men and shipped them by schooner, writing to a storekeeper at the Old Port to receive the bark, ship it to Melbourne, and supply the strippers with the requisite stores.