III.SOME BUSHRANGERS I HAVE KNOWN.
Capital letter
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 werebailed upin 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 ofaction. 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 havinghad 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, literallyscot-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 takethatmoney! 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,aliasCapt. 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 thankyouall the same for your kindness. I always thought youwasa good sort; and although that other cove wouldsend me to the cells, I know you’d make it easier if you was here alone. God bless you for it, sir!”
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.