In Bad Company, and other Stories/In Bushranging Days
IN BUSHRANGING DAYS
THE practice of 'intromitting with the lieges travelling on their lawful business'—as Captain Dugald Dalgetty (sometime of Marischal College, Aberdeen) hath it—is an ancient and fascinating, if irregular mode of financial reconstruction. It has always commended itself as a combination of business and pleasure to those bolder spirits who chafe at the restriction of an over-timorous social system.
From the days of the mad Prince and Poins there were those 'for sport sake content to do the profession some grace.' Risks of death and dishonour were thus taken in countries boasting a high civilisation—a short shrift and a high gallows constituting the accepted termination of a period of riot and revelry; and though the strong hand of the law rarely failed to bring the bold outlaw to his doom, certain alleviations always served to cast a glamour around the pleasant and profitable, if perilous career of the highwayman.
Brigand or bandit, pirate or smuggler, bushranger or buccaneer, as might be, he rarely failed to enlist the feminine sympathy, which has flowed forth in all ages towards the doer of bold deeds—the scorner of gold save for revel and gift—the fearless withstander of the law.
The feats of these heroes of Alsatia have been sung and their valour vaunted in the ballads of all lands and ages; indeed they have formed no inconsiderable portion of the material. 'Yo Soy Contrabandista' never fails to evoke a storm of applause from every Spanish audience.
They have flourished alike under the rule of kings and the co-operative coercion of democracy. Monarchies fail to extirpate, republics to suppress them. They apparently owe their existence to some unexplained ordinance of Dame Nature, whose enfans gatés they are. Her forest children they. Lords of the Waste, roamers through wood and wold, formulating thus a world-old protest against the dulness of respectability, the greed of industrialism, the selfishness of property.
Products as well of the careless ordering of new countries as of the stern discipline of older communities, small wonder that they should have arisen in this brand-new, scarce century-old Austral land of ours, hugging the South Pole and dissevered from many of the formalities of civilisation. Small wonder, I say, that amid our pathless woods and sea-like plains, with every natural advantage and conceivable aid from the habits of a migratory, restless, centaur-like population, these unlicensed tax-gatherers should have appeared. Thus the profession and practice of what is now called 'Bushranging' occurred at a very early period of Australian history. The term easily grew out of the natural desire of the escaped felon, desperate from harsh treatment, or perhaps merely averse to toil, to hide himself in the woods which then surrounded the settlements.
The old English words 'wood' and 'forest,' 'copse' and 'thicket,' had been superseded by the comprehensive colonial term 'bush,' doubtless suggested by the close approximation to 'scrub' or 'jungle,' which the interminable eucalyptus wilderness then presented to the first emigrant Britons. 'The bush' came next, as more fully comprehensive and explanatory, signifying something analogous to the Dutch-African 'veldt,' not necessarily woodland, but the waste lands of the Crown generally. This nomenclature must have mystified later arrivals considerably, much of the so-called 'bush' being composed of plains nearly, and in some cases altogether, without timber of any description.
The wandering robber, necessarily 'a burgher of that desert city,' came then, by general consent, to be described as a 'bushranger.' The term was even Latinised, as the philologist may discover by reading the description in St. James's Church, Sydney, on the tablet placed there to commemorate the death of Dr. Wardell, of 'Wardell's Bush,' Petersham, slain in the early thirties, 'latrone vagante' (sic). The first robbers were in all cases convicts. For the small proportion of free men employed as guards and warders, overseers and head workmen, there was obviously no temptation to leave recognised positions, to ramble through the terrible foodless wastes, with a price on their heads, as was the stern usage of the period.
But in the case of the reckless felon the conditions were different. He had been flogged—he was worked in irons for bad conduct. If returned by his employer to the authorities as useless or stubborn, no prospect lay before him but that of ending a wretched life in the severer penal settlements, where incorrigibles were doomed to chains and slavery. He declared for the open sky, the free forest. The toll levied on the drays of the squatter, the homestead of the farmer, or the wayfarer on the high-road, was necessarily the chief, almost the only support of outlaws. For a time they lived and flourished. Having secured arms—the fowling-piece, musket, or pistol of the period—they entrapped or intimidated the unwary traveller. They made stubborn defence against the minions of the law, unless the odds were too great. In some instances, having discovered retreats known only to the aboriginal tribes or outlying shepherds, mostly sympathisers, their evasion of justice was prolonged for years. The end, however, was but delayed. Tracked down, betrayed, slain in fair fight with police, with soldiers, with settlers combining for self-defence, the same fate awaited all.
Found with arms in their hands, they were hanged as a matter of course. No sentence of imprisonment afforded them hope of escape, with further possibilities of crime. They had played the great hazard, and the forfeit was duly paid.
Living in this condition of continual warfare—their hand against all men, and, with rare exceptions, all men against them, the gallows or the bullet their certain doom—it is not to be wondered at that crimes of violence shocked and aroused the community. 'As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,' was the familiar proverb quoted in reference to deeds of blood and rapine. With fancied wrongs and years of oppression to avenge, they showed no mercy. They had received none. Fighting with the rope round their necks, they were reckless and ruthless. And when the last act of the grim tragedy was played, with the hangman for stage manager and a quasi-criminal crowd for audience, the leading actor had more than once boasted of a score of murders and kindred outrages.
At the first outbreaks the highwaymen of the period had neither horses nor arms worthy of the name. Revolvers were unknown; pistols were far from being 'arms of precision.' Rifles even were rare; only the fowling-piece and the Tower musket were in common use. Horses, too, were scarce. So that the colonial summons of 'Bail up,' or even the old-fashioned British demand, 'Your money or your life,' came mostly from a ragged Robinson Crusoe-like individual behind a tree, with a rusty gun-barrel protruding therefrom.
•••••••
Of course after the 'breaking out' of Port Phillip—as the earliest colonisation of Victoria was disrespectfully termed—in 1837, persons of darksome record hasted to the new settlement to hide from the law or prey on the public. Among them were three escaped Tasmanian felons, named Williams, Jepps, and Fogarty.
This worthy triumvirate raided the wilds of the Upper Plenty, robbing and holding to ransom the lieges, terrorising a line of farm-houses. They took prisoners my good friend Charles Ryan and the late Mr. Alick Hunter, adding insult to injury by eating the breakfast prepared for the latter gentleman and his friends. What the fashionables of the day wanted on the banks of the Plenty Rivulet I never could make out. But it was considered 'the thing' apparently to have a farm in that locality; it was even surmised that these aristocratic amateurs might make money by the practice of agriculture—a delusion long dispelled. What the solid fact amounted to re Jepps and Co. was that, like the footpads in Don Juan, their first accost was 'D— your eyes, your money or life.' So much for the 'first robbers' in Victoria.
To them enter four gentlemen—volunteers, squatters of the period and overlanders at that—Mr. Henry Fowler, of Fowler's Flat, near Albury; Mr. Peter Snodgrass, M.L.A., son of the Colonel and Lieutenant-Governor of that name, historically known as commanding the 13th Portuguese Regiment, when on August 31, 1813, he mounted the 'imminent deadly breach' at the siege of St. Sebastian; Lieutenant Robert Chamberlain, a retired military man; and Mr. Gourlay, squatter. Arming in haste, they followed hard on the tracks of the spoilers, and, as they crossed the creek flat, discovered the bushrangers entrenched in a slab hut, fully prepared for battle. The outlaws had the best of the position, having cover, behind which they could fire through windows and other openings. The attacking force did not stop to weigh probabilities, but charged up to the fortress, the besieged returning fire with effect. Mr. Chamberlain was slightly wounded; Mr. Fowler was shot through the jaw. But 'blood will tell.' The volunteers were cool and determined. One of the robbers was shot dead, and the others captured before the smoke had well cleared from the tiny battle scene, which compared favourably as to killed and wounded with more pretentious engagements. The prisoners were conveyed to Melbourne, there to await trial, sentence, and execution. Their captives, I may mention, finding themselves neglected, promptly quitted the field, their position between two fires being eminently unsafe.
It were tedious to follow the calendar of crime more or less connected with the highway in old colonial days. In many instances the records testify not less to the unflinching courage of the settlers than to the recklessness of the robbers.
Among memorable incidents that of Mr. Charles Fisher Shepherd, of Monaro, deserves to be recorded. On the 14th of December 1835, being attacked by bushrangers at night, also deserted or betrayed by other inmates of the station, he shot one robber dead and kept up a fight against odds in the most gallant manner, until, being wounded in the head and half-a-dozen other places, he was left for dead. He recovered, however, as if by a miracle, and gave evidence at the trial and conviction of the chief criminal and his abettors.
As far back as 1830 this evil, so far from being stamped out by chain-gang and gallows, assumed alarming proportions, as may be judged by a newspaper extract containing a letter from Mr. George Suttor to Mr. E. B. Suttor, of Baulkam Hills. On the 27th of October in that year, a meeting of the magistrates and inhabitants of Bathurst was called at the Court-house to consider what steps should be taken as to a band of bushrangers. They were led by a desperate convict, said to have been flogged unjustly; and numbering at times from twenty to thirty, kept the district in a state of alarm. Murder, as well as serious depredations, was laid to their charge. A body of volunteers numbering twelve, well armed and mounted, was at once formed, Mr. W. H. Suttor being nominated commander by Major Macpherson.
They started at five o'clock p.m., after hearing of a fresh robbery committed at the house of one Arkell. Mr. Suttor, always a friend of the aboriginal race, met two aboriginal natives who knew him, and enlisted them as guides. They ran the tracks until the robbers were descried in a rocky glen near the Warragamba River, about an hour before sunset. The volunteers dismounted and prepared to take them by a coup de main, but a stone falling, alarmed the gang. They instantly took to the trees for cover, and kept up an incessant fire. The volunteers stood their ground and returned the fire. While Mr. Suttor was on the rock giving orders, a bullet passed through his hat. The firing was kept up for about an hour. Two bushrangers were wounded and fell, but were got to the rear. Mr. Suttor made a feint to charge, which caused the robbers to run from their position, though he had but an empty carbine to threaten with. He then effected a retreat, none of his men being wounded. Mr. Charles Suttor was the last to leave the glen. All remounted their horses, which they had left in charge of the two blacks and a lad they had taken from the bushrangers.
The night after the skirmish was stormy, and Mr. Suttor was vexed to find that most of the horses had strayed; while seeking them the mounted police were met with, eager to overtake the bushrangers. Had they but come up sooner, their united force would have been sufficient to take or shoot the whole gang. In the encounter which took place, two of the troopers were shot and five of the horses lost. Lieutenant Brown did all that a brave officer could, even carrying off the wounded men on the back of his own horse.
The number of the robber band was between fourteen and twenty. They escaped at that time, but were pursued by Captain Walpole and Lieutenant Moore with separate detachments, to whom they surrendered. 'Major Macpherson was much pleased with the brothers Suttor for going forward in the prompt manner they did.' (sic).
There was talk of a 'rising' at Mudgee, which did not come off; and doubtless all the 'banditti,' by which term they are referred to in this interesting letter signed G. Suttor, under date October 27, 1830, were shot or taken in usual course. Let us trust that our country may never fall short of sons of the soil ready to act with the courage and loyalty of the Messrs. Suttor and the other Australian volunteers in the 'battle' described.
•••••••
Although gold-mining on a large scale practically commenced in New South Wales in the month of May 1851, when Mr. John Richard Hardy was appointed the first Goldfields Commissioner, and, with a body of mounted police, commenced to issue licenses and to administer the law at Ophir, where a large number of diggers had already collected, and where an eighteen-ounce nugget was found a day or two after their arrival, no robberies of consequence were committed. Still, tent thefts were frequent. Mysterious disappearances from time to time took place, while drunken brawls, horse-stealing, unlicensed liquor selling, and such-like, kept the police fully employed.
But no organised road robbery on a large scale occurred until 1862. Then all Australia was thrilled by an announcement of the gold escort robbery by Gardiner's gang, near Forbes in New South Wales. A peculiar significance attached to this daring crime, from the fact of the perpetrators being chiefly native-born Australians. It shook the general belief, long held, that the sons of the soil were free from the reproach attached to their progenitors. The New South Wales natives were proverbially sober. Not prone to the graver crimes, reared amid favourable surroundings, the type had developed few of the faults of former generations. Much might be expected of the coming race. This optimistic opinion was now unrooted. The details of the crime left but little hope for the philanthropist, while it confirmed the cynic's mockery of his kind.
On the 15th of June 1862, the gold escort coach from Forbes was stopped and robbed by Gardiner's gang, eight or ten men in all, with blackened faces, and wearing red shirts. Bullock drays had been placed across the narrow road, and a rude breastwork constructed, at a place locally known as 'Eugowra Rocks.' Behind this an armed band suddenly appeared. No challenge was given, but at the word 'Fire' from the leader, a volley was poured into the coach, on which sat the police in charge of the gold. The sergeant and the trooper were hit. The sergeant fell, wounded in the side. The police, taken by surprise, made no effectual defence. The horses, left to themselves, bolted and overturned the coach. The robbers then took possession of the escort gold and notes, packed in four iron boxes, amounting to about fourteen thousand pounds in value. It is in evidence that a division was made, which gave about twenty-two pounds weight of gold to each man besides his share of the notes—roughly, one thousand pounds or more each—a tempting booty enough even in those days of universal plenty and comparative wealth, enjoyed by all sorts and conditions of men throughout Australia—those colonies which had not as yet produced gold, sharing almost equally in enhanced profits and heightened wages with those which had.
Very soon after the robbers had packed their ill-gotten gold upon the coach leaders and ridden hard for the gullies of the Weddin mountainland, which had many a time and oft sheltered fugitives from justice, the police, with that indispensable sleuth-hound the black tracker, were on their trail.
So hot was the pursuit, that on the Thursday following, Superintendent Saunderson's division came up with part of the gang, in one of the fastnesses of 'the Weddin'—discovered their camp and the scales with which the gold had been weighed and divided. They caught sight of the outlaws, but, on their tired horses, failed to overtake them, splendidly mounted as they appeared to be. However, they were forced to abandon a pack-horse, which the police found to be richly laden, having in four bags, secured to the saddle, about fifteen hundred ounces of gold.
Sir Frederick Pottinger, Mr. Mitchell, C.P.S., and Detective Lyons also arrested two men near Narandera, one of whom had with him two hundred and thirteen ounces of gold and one hundred and fifty pounds in notes. These were doubtless accessories or confederates. A reward per head was offered by the Government for information leading to capture of any of the gang. Thus ran the proclamation:—
'Mail and Escort Robbery
'£1000 Reward, and Pardon to an Accomplice
'Colonial Secretary's Office, Sydney, June 17, 1862.'
The great gold robbery having been accomplished, the actors in which were for a time uncaptured and unpunished, other enterprises of the same nature disturbed the land.
•••••••
More than one gang had apparently been formed, whose doings were heard of, sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another.
Well armed and admirably mounted, they were not easily overtaken or overpowered by the police force of the day, then recently organised on the centralising system, which has since proved so efficacious. Before the advent of Captain Mayne, Captain M'Lerie, and Inspector-General Fosbery, the police in New South Wales were under the control of the magistrates of the district, much as obtained formerly in the rural parts of England. The system did not work well: one police magistrate might be alert and courageous, likely to keep his men in good order; another might be easy-going, slack of discipline —mentally even in near resemblance to Justice Shallow. It was evident that there would be little esprit de corps, each division working for its own hand.
But when the new régime came into force all was changed. The force became at once semi-military in discipline, in prestige, in general organisation. The officers, each in graduated rank, responsible for a district, maintained a high standard of efficiency, while the inspector-general at headquarters enjoyed much the same power and rank as the military commandant of a colony. From that time forth the bush outlaws were more easily traced, more often captured, and more invariably punished than had been the case in former years.
Still, the circumstances of the country were so much in favour of this particular class of offender, that from time to time society waxed impatient at the protracted immunity of known criminals fresh from the scene of notorious outrage. Outlying stations were attacked, and more than one household had reason to rejoice at their narrow escape from capture and ill-treatment. Perhaps one of the most daring outrages of Hall and Gilbert's gang was the attack on the house of Mr. David Campbell, of Goimbla. The story of the siege and of his memorable defence I had from his own lips in the summer of 1869. He was then living at Cunningham Plains, where I visited him en route from Narandera to Goulburn.
Mr. Campbell was Scottish by descent, though born in India. A keen sportsman, a high-couraged, chivalrous gentleman, he was justly indignant that he should be menaced by the lawless men who were then terrorising the country. In expectation of an attack, he made more than usual provision in the way of arms; a double supply of which were at hand in places of concealment.
Thus his story ran:—
It was the time of the evening meal. Mrs. Campbell was a refined, delicately-nurtured woman, but none the less fearless in time of trial, as the event proved. Hearing a noise, Mr. Campbell went out into a passage, at the end of which he saw an armed man, who at once fired at him. He returned fire without effect, retiring upon his base of operations. A volley from the front of the house crashed through the windows. The siege had begun.
Mr. Campbell returned fire so accurately and repeatedly, having several rifles and fowling-pieces, that the robbers believed more than one man to be behind the defences. Mrs. Campbell carried ammunition and helped to load. On one occasion, when crossing the line of fire, a bullet grazed her neck. All this time the firing was kept up briskly, though more than once a proposal came to harm nothing if the garrison surrendered, but with ruffianly threats if the defence was continued. One only reply was made, 'Come and take us.'
After half an hour's incessant fusillade, a new idea struck the attacking party. The outbuildings were composed of 'pisé,' a preparation of rammed earth, as its name implies, much favoured by Mr. Campbell, and singularly adapted for dwellings in an arid land. Now came a lull with fresh disposition of forces.
The stable immediately in the rear of the cottage was discovered to be in flames. A favourite horse of Mr. Campbell's, unable to escape, was burnt alive. As the screams of the tortured animal pierced the night air, his owner (he confessed) felt uncommonly wolfish. 'I will have one of you for poor Highflyer,' said he, as he ground his teeth. The burning stable would have caused the roof of the cottage to catch fire, as there was a dray loaded with hay standing between it and the back of the house, had not Mrs. Campbell and the servant maid courageously covered the hay with a tarpaulin.
During the pause in the firing which took place, after the flames lighted up the scene, Mrs. Campbell made an important reconnaissance. Stealing to the corner of the verandah, she examined a high paling fence, from behind which the assailants had commenced the attack. 'I saw,' she told her husband on returning, 'a man jumping up from time to time, and looking over towards the house.'
Mr. Campbell awaited the next appearance, and, taking a snap-shot, sent a bullet through the outlaw's throat A final volley was fired and returned. Then silence ensued. Half an hour afterwards the 'besieged resident' walked down to the men's hut and brought up the station-hands, who had preserved a strict neutrality during the engagement. They found O'Malley lying dead under a tree, whither he had been dragged by his companions through the standing oats. The siege of Goimbla had been raised.
•••••••
Mr. Keightley's experiences as a 'besieged resident' were not dissimilar from those of Mr. Campbell. A Goldfields Commissioner, a sportsman, and a determined man, he was attacked in his own house at Dunn's Plains, near Bathurst, while the robbers of the escort were still at large.
Like Mr. Campbell, he was prepared, was a dead shot, and killed one of his assailants. I may mention that I knew Mr. Keightley well for many years, and had the account of the affair from himself. The gang surrounded the house at mid-day, and finding such cover as they might, commenced firing, after calling upon the garrison to surrender. Mr. Keightley, on his part, kept up a brisk fire from time to time, and dislodged several of the besiegers from their hiding-places. He himself narrowly escaped being hit on several occasions, as his position was not completely protected. Bourke had been the most daring and aggressive of the party, and in gaining a nearer position, he partially exposed himself and was laid low by a snap-shot.
Up to this stage of the affair the conditions were not unlike those of the Goimbla siege. The robbers lost a man in each case. But here the circumstances varied materially. The attack on Mr. Keightley's household was during daylight—the one on Mr. Campbell's after nightfall. On the death of O'Malley, the robbers decided upon a retreat; but soon after Bourke fell, a discovery was made that Mr. Keightley's ammunition had been expended. He was therefore at their mercy, and had no alternative but to yield.
The four persons then in the house—Mr. and Mrs. Keightley, Dr. Pechey, a relative of the lady of the house, and a servant woman—surrendered themselves to the bushrangers, who announced their intention of shooting Mr. Keightley in requital for their comrade's death. To this end he was marched to some distance by two of the bushrangers, while the others were holding a colloquy with Mrs. Keightley and the servant, who passionately implored them to spare Mr. Keightley's life.
They retorted that he had not spared Bourke's, and also that 'he had boasted that he would have the reward which the Government had offered for their capture.'
Mrs. Keightley replied that he had never dreamed of a reward: he was the last man to take blood-money; if he had shot Bourke it was in defence of his home, which any man would do. Furthermore, if they would allow her to ride to Bathurst, she would undertake to bring them five hundred pounds in notes on the following day.
'How could you get that?' asked Ben Hall.
'From my father. You know that he is a wealthy man, and would gladly give it to me for such a purpose. Surely you will not kill my husband in cold blood before my face?'
The lady was young and beautiful. Her tears and entreaties in this dread position were such as to have moved the sternest heart. She was a native-born Australian, like themselves.
They had shed blood, but it had been in fair fight. They had never been accused of inhumanity otherwise. They relented, finally agreeing to take the five hundred pounds if brought to a certain tree, visible for a considerable distance, by a specified hour on the next day. The messenger was to come alone. They would hold her husband as a hostage for the performance of the bond.
The two men told off as executioners had by this time called upon their prisoner to turn his back towards them for the fatal shot.
'I have never done that to any man living, and will not now,' returned he; 'fire away!'
As he folded his arms and looked his captors in the face, a voice was heard from below—
'Hold on! There's to be no shooting; we've agreed to take the money.'
Mrs. Keightley was then suffered to depart in company with Dr. Pechey for Bathurst, while her husband remained in the custody of the gang, pending the arrival of the ransom. It may be imagined that his feelings were of a mingled nature. He was assured of the safety of his wife. Still, he could not be free from anxiety as to his own, in case of default of payment or pursuit by the police.
But the brave woman well performed her part. As the appointed hour on the next day drew perilously near, a horseman was seen from afar to approach the track to the well-known fire-scathed tree. He reached it, and throwing down a package, returned as he came. It was speedily taken possession of, and found to contain one hundred five-pound notes.
Then Mr. Keightley was released.
Many years have elapsed since these events took place. Few of the actors are now living. The hand of time and the Nemesis of the law have thinned the ranks of the combatants. Their deeds and adventures are passing into the domain of legend and tradition. In a few decades they may take rank with Dick Turpin and Claude Duval, while the feats of Gardiner's 'Darkie' may be quoted by the 'coming race' as in rivalry with those of Black Bess of sainted memory.
THE END
Printed by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh