CHAPTER XI.

CONCLUSION.

Coastal Formation--Animals &c.--Climate--Population--Products, Present and Future--Native Labour 263

APPENDIX.

Vocabulary of Language 283

TWO YEARS AMONG

THE

SAVAGES OF NEW GUINEA.

INTRODUCTION.

NORTH QUEENSLAND.

About seven years ago, when living in South Queensland, I happened to come across a small book on New Guinea, which I devoured with great appetite; so much so that I determined, some time or another, to visit that little-known country, with its interesting savage inhabitants.

Two years afterwards I found my way up to Cooktown, North Queensland, which is situated immediately opposite the shores of New Guinea.

I remained in the Cook district for two years, previous to embarking for the home of the Papuans.

Before taking the reader over with me, let me introduce him to Cooktown, which is a fair type of a Northern Colonial Township.

Cooktown is situated on the Endeavour River in lat. 15 deg. 30' south, and long. 145 deg. east.

It derives its name from the immortal Captain Cook, who visited the site on which it stands in or about the year 1770, and beached his vessel, named the _Endeavour_, on the north shore, which is on the opposite side of the harbour to the town.

The vessel had sprung a leak, so Captain Cook chose a suitable spot where there was little surf, in order to make the necessary repairs.

How different was its appearance from that of the present time. Then, everything was in its primeval state. Crowds of savages lined the north shore, and interfered with Captain Cook's men in their work. The sailors had often to keep them back by force of arms.

Even at the present day, blacks are living there, but their numbers are sadly reduced.

Occasionally the monotony of their existence is varied by fights with the Normanby River blacks, who are more warlike and numerous, and who periodically make raids on them. Spears are then to be seen flying in all directions, and after several days' severe fighting, in which one or two are killed, and maybe one or two wounded, peace is once more restored, and the belligerent party returns to its river haunts.

The blacks of North Queensland are, without exception, the lowest type of humanity on the face of the earth.

They are almost on a level with the brute creation. They are naturally very lazy, and it is only the pangs of hunger that induce them to make any exertion to procure food.

They are treacherous in the extreme; their principal occupation appears to consist in spearing the white man's cattle, and, when possible, the white man himself.

They are as dangerous as snakes in the grass, and, like them, should be trodden under foot.

They practise no cultivation of the soil, and are even too lazy to build houses to shelter them from the winds and heavy rains.

They just throw two or three branches of trees together, and crawl underneath.

Like the pestilential fever before the advance of settlement and civilization, they have to retire. They are fast approaching extinction, and in a century hence, one of the race will be an admired curiosity, if his existence is not already a memory.

The Endeavour is a tortuous river, and navigable for vessels of three or four feet draught for over 20 miles, after which it becomes a narrow, shallow stream.

The banks are lined with mangrove trees; beyond is a beautiful scrub, backed by mountains, with the Pacific Ocean glistening in the distance.

It is a pretty river. Every few miles you come upon a settler's homestead smiling with cultivated fields and orchards, where all kinds of tropical fruits are grown, such as the mangot, granddilla, banana, pine-apple, lemons, oranges, pomegranates, paw-paws, etc. Small herds of cattle are to be seen grazing in the bush, and there is the lovely tropical bush itself, with its variegated colours, whose silence is broken only by the mournful cry of the curlew or the peculiar weird note of the mopawk.

When sunset approaches, the beauty and tranquillity of the scene are enhanced by the exquisite tints thrown on mountain, scrub and sea. There is no twilight here. It is dark immediately after the sun has set, so there is little time to drink in the glories of the departing day.

To a stranger, the township has a peculiar appearance. It consists mainly of one long straggling street, viz., Charlotte Street, and all the houses are wooden, with roofs of corrugated iron. This, to my mind, gives to the buildings a very ugly appearance, to say nothing of the great heat engendered thereby. The shops, or "stores" as they are called, are tumble-down poky affairs. The principal and best buildings are the hotels and public-houses, of which there are many--about one to every 100 inhabitants.

The town has a municipality and Mayor, who is elected once a year.

There is a police magistrate, who presides at the court, and who is generally looked upon as the leading man of the place, a police inspector and the usual Government officials, C. P. S., land agent, etc.

There are good wharves, under the control of the municipality, also a very good harbour; the channel is well-marked by buoys and two leading lights, as there are many sandbanks, and occasionally the sand silts up in the channel, but a few months' dredging soon puts things to rights.

Vessels drawing 16 feet, moor alongside the wharves, and as Cooktown is the principal port of call for the north, and for English and China mail steamers, the shipping is of considerable importance; in fact, take the shipping away from the place, and little remains.

The town came into existence in 1873, only 17 years ago, and so short a life explains its present condition.

Large gold discoveries were made in the Palmer district, about 150 miles up country, to which flocked thousands of miners, and from which millions of ounces of gold were extracted.

This gave birth to Cooktown, as it was the nearest port to the diggings.

At that time there were only two or three tents in the place, but the Palmer diggings soon altered this state of affairs.

Wooden and iron buildings were hastily thrown up, teams of bullocks and pack-horses were all day long leaving for the Palmer district with heavy loadings of provisions, etc.

The rates of carriage were enormous, as much as L30 a ton being charged.

At times flour was dearer than gold.

This great activity and bustle gave to the town a tremendous impetus, the effects of which are still visible.

The Palmer diggings are now deserted, as they are said to be unworkable.

Of course many made their fortunes at the time of the great rush, and many likewise spent a fortune. Naturally, as in all great gold-fields, numbers were disappointed, lost what little they had, were unsuccessful, and left the place disgusted, swearing they would never attempt digging again.

Talking of the vicissitudes of gold-digging, reminds me of the strange career of Frank Stubley, whom I met in Queensland.

He was one of fortune's favourites. He was a hardworking miner in a gold claim at Gympie, one of the most permanent reefing fields in Queensland. He was working on wages, receiving about L3 10_s._ per week, that being the usual rate of pay. He saved a few pounds and invested them in a small interest in the claim in which he worked, and in one or two adjoining. Fortune smiled on him. Everything he put into turned out trumps. His shares rose tremendously in value, and in a short time he developed from a working man into one of the wealthiest capitalists of the colony.

He, by pure luck, found himself possessed of the immense sum of a quarter of a million pounds sterling.

This, judiciously invested in Australia, meant an income of L20,000 per annum for life.

What did he do with his wealth? Did he invest it judiciously? Nothing of the kind. He determined to become a large landed proprietor, bought two or three great estates, turned squatter, and purchased a number of race-horses. He invited all his friends and old mates to champagne suppers, took unto himself a wife of extravagant habits, who was a great help to him in spending money, went before the electors of the district as a candidate for parliamentary honours, and was returned as member by an overwhelming majority. He took his seat in the house of representatives at Brisbane, where, of course, his expenses were still further increased. Everything for a time went merrily as a marriage bell, but the day of reckoning was drawing near, and in the short period of four years he had wasted his substance.

His land, race-horses, etc., were sold to pay his debts, and, from a large capitalist, he once more became a working man.

Some friends subscribed sufficient funds to carry him to the Croydon gold-field, which had recently "broken out" (1885).

There he determined once more to woo the fickle goddess of Fortune and, with his proverbial good luck, retrieve his lost fortunes. But fate decreed otherwise. I saw him on the day he left Cooktown by steamer for Normanton, _en route_ to Croydon, wished him good-bye and good luck.

He arrived safely in Normanton, stayed there a couple of days, and with two or three of his mates started on the tramp to Croydon, 100 miles distant.

Poor Frank Stubley, however, never reached his destination, as, before he got half-way, he suddenly dropped down dead on the road, partly from the terrible heat of the sun and partly, no doubt, from drinking too heavily in Normanton.

Such was the sad end of a man who, owing to his many sterling qualities, was a general favourite. To him good fortune proved a curse instead of a blessing. "_Requiescat in Pace._"

The production of gold in Queensland during the last five years has been greater than ever. This is owing partly to the discovery of new rich fields, partly to the better working of old ones, to which machinery has been applied, as, from the extension of railways, the rates of carriage have been considerably reduced.

The Croydon Gold Field "broke out" in 1885, and from all appearances is likely to prove permanent.

By far the most important mine yet discovered in Australia is the celebrated Mount Morgan, a few miles from Rockhampton.

It might well be called the mountain of gold. It is the richest gold mine in Australasia, and its resources are unlimited. It derives its name from the original discoverer, Mr. William Morgan of Rockhampton.

It would not be out of place here to give a short account of its origin.

A few years ago Mr. Morgan, a prospector, who was roaming over the country in search of minerals, happened to be travelling through a small selection of 640 acres owned by a workingman, who just managed to eke out a living on it, the land being very poor. The selector, an uneducated man and ignorant of geology, was busy carting stone in his wheelbarrow. Mr. Morgan, being of an observant nature, took up one or two pieces of it, examined them, and asked the owner where he had obtained them, and of what use the stuff was. He pointed out to him a hill where there were tons of the same material, and told him he was building a fence with it. After a few more inquiries, Mr. Morgan went on his way, taking with him a few specimens of the stone, which he sent for assay, and shortly afterwards wrote to the selector asking him what he would take for his property. He was only too glad to get rid of it, worthless as the land seemed.

So the upshot of it was that Mr. Morgan bought the holding for about L600. Had this man been an intelligent mineralogist he would not have parted with it for L60,000, as the sequel will prove. The stone, which he thought only fit for building walls, was very rich quartz. The hill, or mountain, was in fact a golden one.

The transfer was duly made, and Mr. Hall, the manager of the Queensland National Bank, Rockhampton, advanced the money required to carry on the mining works, in consideration of a share or interest, and at the present time both he and Mr. Morgan, together with several others interested, are millionaires. The mine is practically inexhaustible and the output returns are enormous. The further down they go, the richer the ore proves. The mine is now worked by a large and powerful company, the value of each L1 share being about L10. Whether Mr. Morgan and his partners made the poor selector a handsome present I cannot say, but I believe they did, if not they ought to have done so. Of course such a rich prize provoked litigation, but Morgan's claim was too strong to be overthrown. The total value of the mine may be stated at L10,000,000.

It is without doubt the most extraordinary mine in all Australasia.

The country for miles round Cooktown is stanniferous. From the Annan River, four miles beyond Cooktown, as far as Herberton, the strata are continuous, with breaks here and there. The principal tin claims are at Mount Romeo and the Tableland, some 40 miles distant, and also in the Bloomfield. About three years ago I visited several of the claims at Mount Romeo, many of which were doing very well, turning out several tons a week. The tin assayed from 70 to 75 per cent. of pure ore, and at that time was worth about 18_s._ a unit. The standard is 70 per cent., and for every unit above 70 per cent. the value is threehalfpence per unit more, that is to say, the price of the standard being 18_s._ per unit, if it assays 71 per cent. it is worth 18_s._ 1-1/2_d._ per unit, and so on. Some time after, owing to a syndicate in Paris having monopolized the supply and obtained control of the market, tin rose to an abnormal value. Whilst this fictitious value held, the tin miners made a little fortune, but suddenly the syndicate burst, tin dropped 50 per cent., and many were ruined. By degrees, however, it regained its normal value or thereabouts, and at the present time, with slight fluctuations, it stands at about L90 per ton of pure ore. The supply, too, of late (within the Cook district at least) has fallen considerably, though to make up for this several new lodes have been discovered and, if systematically worked, will no doubt turn out satisfactory to the promoters. Herberton is the principal tin-mining centre in Queensland, as it has many permanent lodes, whereas in the Cook district the claims are for the most part alluvial. A rich tin claim is quite as valuable as a rich gold claim. The "stream tin" is found in the beds or banks of streams or creeks, at a depth varying from a few inches to several feet. Box drains are placed in the creek, and the dirt is placed in them. A good sluice of water is constantly brought to bear on it, and a fork or spade is continually at work stamping it, to get rid of the loose stones and dirt. The heavy matter of course remains at the bottom of the sluice box, and is afterwards cleaned and put through two sieves and dried in the sun. It is then put in sacks, after which it is packed in flour bags ready for the packer and his mules to take away to the port of Cooktown, whence it is shipped by steamer to Sydney for sale. Of course a great quantity is sold on the field to the merchants and storekeepers of the town, who, in some instances, send their own teams of pack-horses to cart it away. They also supply the miners with provisions and all requisites, such as tools, and by their stores, erected on the field, often make a rattling good thing out of the tin-miner. The latter is proverbially a hard worker, and when he has made "a big cheque" he goes into town with his mates for a spell, and spends it "like a man," which means that he never sees daylight until all his hard-won earnings are in the till of the publican. He then returns to his claim a poorer, but seldom a wiser, man, as he will, in all probability, repeat the debauch a few months afterwards. It is no use talking to him about the virtue of thrift, and the follies of a spendthrift, as it is his idea of "life," and he would enjoy no other. He prefers to live modestly, and work hard for six months, and then to come into town and live at the rate of L1,000 a year for a fortnight. "_Chacun a son gout._" It pleases him and hurts no one else, so why carp at him? Take him as a whole, he is a genial, good-hearted man, hail fellow, well met, rough in exterior, but true at heart. Though he knows how to swear and to drink, he is free from mean vices, and we must remember that he has never known refinement of manners or thought. I like his rough ways and his honest character, and I take him just as he is, with all his faults, which in many instances are but the cloak of hidden virtues.

* * * * *

Sugar growing has always been an important industry in Queensland, and was most profitable, but if the Government carry out their present intention of prohibiting the importation of Kanaka labour, the above industry will be crushed, and the immense capital sunk in mills and machinery will be irretrievably lost. In North Queensland the climate is very hot, and it is impossible for white men to work in the fields, cutting the cane, also the high rate of wages that would have to be paid them would take away most of the planter's profits. It must be borne in mind that the capital necessary to erect a sugar mill and plant, and to work a plantation properly, is very great, and naturally the planters expect to receive a fair return for their enormous outlay. Taking these facts into consideration, I consider the policy of the Government in prohibiting black labour to be suicidal and foolish. In the Cook District there are only two sugar plantations, the Weary Bay Company's and Messrs. Hislops' of Wyalla, both in the Bloomfield District. The Weary Bay has turned out some very high-class sugar, but has been unfortunate in its management. Twelve months ago it was closed, owing to some financial difficulty, but I heard that it was intended to work it again. The scenery on the Bloomfield River is superb. It is thoroughly tropical. Dense scrubs reach close to the bank's edge, and the bush is filled with the most beautiful orchids, which, when in full flower, is a sight never to be forgotten. The ferns, too, are many, and of varied species, and the clearings are covered with the succulent cane, and circling the plain stand precipitous mountains, notably Stuckey's Gap; whilst from a gentle rise can be seen, over the tops of the dense scrub, the broad and undulating bosom of the Pacific Ocean. These scrubs are rather dangerous in wet weather, as then the numerous creeks become flooded and are unfordable, and sometimes the traveller is unwillingly made a prisoner, or has to run the risk of crossing a swollen stream. Another danger is that of getting lost in the bush, which is a very simple matter, but a very difficult one to get out of. Many a good bushman even has been lost in the trackless forest, where his bones have suggested a terrible story of death by hunger or thirst. The bush has, indeed, furnished many a sad tale of woe. In some instances men have gone mad from despair, having given up all hope of extricating themselves from the trap.

Some years ago a great friend of mine, Bob S----n, went through some terrible experiences. He was a thoroughly experienced bushman and a well-educated man, and to listen to his thrilling yarns of peril and adventure by sea and by land was a never-ending source of pleasure. Of all the good fellows I have ever met, he was, without doubt, one of the most entertaining and pleasant of companions. The particular story to be related is this. He started with a small party of men, equipped with tents and all the necessary supplies of provisions, which were carried on pack-horses, on an expedition for the purpose of finding new country that would be suitable for carrying stock, _i.e._ cattle. They travelled about 400 miles west from Cooktown, pitched their camp and were fortunate in finding some good-looking country. Bob S----n went some distance away from the camp, and on returning in the evening, to his great astonishment found his friends had struck their tents and left. He now realized that he was deserted 400 miles from civilization, alone in the pathless bush, the home of wild and treacherous blacks, with nothing to protect him but a revolver, and without a morsel of food.

Fortunately he was an experienced bushman, and a plucky fellow to boot, or he would never have survived the awful ordeal. There was nothing else for it but to face the inevitable, so he started on his weary journey, often suffering the fearful pangs of hunger. Now and then he managed to get a few berries to eat, and water to drink, and so day after day, weak from privation, without a covering at night, save the trees overhead, he wearily jogged along. One morning at sunrise as he was descending a rise, to his dismay, about 50 yards beneath him, he saw a large camp of blacks. One of them had just risen, and was stretching himself immediately facing him. The black fellow was equally taken aback, but before he could recover from his surprise, Bob S----n, with two or three piercing shouts, rushed into the camp, firing his revolver. The blacks, evidently thinking that there was a large force behind, took to ignominious flight across the river. This plucky conduct saved him.

Some more days' suffering, and, on the eleventh day out, he sank to the ground faint and exhausted, unable to move. He was, although he knew it not, within a short distance of a cattle station, where, luckily, one of the stockmen, who was out riding, stumbled across him, brought him to the homestead, where he received every care and attention, and eventually quite recovered his health and strength.

Had he not been a strong and hardy man he would assuredly have perished.

* * * * *

On one occasion I, together with five others, left the port of Cooktown in a small cutter at midnight, for the purpose of fishing at D Reef. The night was fine, a fresh breeze had sprung up, and the boat sped merrily on her way. Three of the party, however, succumbed to seasickness, which interfered greatly with the sport, and after remaining at anchor for some time without enticing any fish to leave their native element, we hoisted sail and ran for the harbour, about eight miles distant, to the great relief of the sick mariners. We then went for a cruise up the Endeavour River, landing on the right hand bank. The boat here grounded, and, as it would be impossible to get her off until the evening tide, I and two others of the party determined to leave the boat and work our way through the mangroves to St. Patrick's Creek, where we could hail a boat to ferry us across and take us on to Cooktown. But "_L'homme propose et le Dieu dispose_" was exemplified in this instance. We started without food or water, taking a single-barrelled gun in the event of meeting with any hostile or hungry natives. The fateful start was made at 1 p.m., and after tearing through the dense and sickly mangroves for some miles, with a burning sun overhead, and the miasma rising from the ground beneath, it was found impossible to break the barrier of mangroves which stood in front of us like a wall. After bruising our heads against the cruel trees, we retraced our steps, and after going some distance one of us ascended a tree to take bearings, when crash, crash, down came the tree with its living burden, who received a severe shaking, but was not much the worse for his mishap. After some more of this delightful travelling, with our hands and feet cut and bruised, and darkness beginning to creep round the horizon, we turned our backs on the fetid spot, and were fortunate in coming out upon a plain or flat, covered with grass and timber. Following this up we reached the river bank. Our thirst was burning. There was "water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink." It was quite salt. There was nothing else for it, but to lie down on the grass and resign ourselves to our fate. The night was clear and cool, the heavens above studded with countless stars, and a light breeze played in the trees. Occasionally might be heard the splash of an alligator as he glided from his slimy bed into the cold and gruesome river.

The river at this point is full of these saurian monsters, seeking whom they may devour. We did not light a fire, fearing lest the blacks, who favour this camp, might pay us an evening call, as on these occasions they are apt to be rather brusque in their manners. However, we boasted one gun. There is always a day as well as a night, so at last dawn appeared, looking with astonishment at the three recumbent figures on the grass, as if wondering what on earth had brought us to this lonely place. After breakfast, consisting of salt water and grass, we followed the river up for a couple of miles thinking we should obtain fresh water, but were doomed to disappointment. It was quite brackish. Returning to our camp, with our thirst now raging, we held a consultation, the result of which was that we decided to construct a raft, capable of holding the three of us, on which we could drift down the river, and effect a landing on the opposite bank, where a settler named A---- lived. We had no appliances, so had to make the best shift we could. We humped some big logs, which we found on the flat, to the water's edge, placing them crosswise and lashing them together with our shirts and handkerchiefs torn into strips, and when finished the raft would only support one. D---- then bravely volunteered to navigate this craft down the river to A----'s, although, as I said before, the river here swarmed with alligators. We launched her a little after noon, wishing our comrade _bon voyage_. Some hours afterwards we heard a shot fired in the scrub some distance off, which we returned, and after numerous interchanges of shots, a sergeant of police, with a couple of black trackers, appeared on the scene, armed with a bottle of brandy in one hand, and a bottle of water in the other. We hastily emptied the contents of the latter, and did not neglect the former. We then accompanied the police through the mangroves, to the creek where they had moored their boat, and started for home. Our plucky mate had already reached his destination in safety, having had to walk barefoot six miles into town, had got a boat, and gone up the river to rescue us. We went up the river to overtake him if possible, and eventually we all met together at A----'s, where our jaded frames were regaled with a substantial supper, after which we steered for home, reaching town a little after 10 p.m., to the delight of our friends, lovers and acquaintances. I will conclude by saying that it will be some time before I again attempt to navigate my way through mangrove swamps, unless well provided with the necessaries of life.