Letters to Guy

Rottnest, 3d March.

Which shall I tell you about first, the natives or the pets? I think I remember promising to tell you about the natives, so I will begin with them.

There are about one hundred and fifty native prisoners over here, and it is rather curious to hear what their crimes have been. Sometimes they have committed the most causeless and senseless murders imaginable—murders so entirely without any reason that the judge has hesitated to hang them, because they appear to have acted on just a savage impulse. Last year a particularly brutal murder was committed, where the murderers had a motive and were sufficiently civilised to understand what they were doing, so they had to be hung, alas! not merely as a punishment, but as a warning. But if there is any possible chance that the culprit may not have understood the wickedness of his act, then the criminal is sent over here, where he is kindly treated, and well taken care of, and where his punishment will be made into a means of civilisation for him. So that when it is over, and the man is sent back to his own tribe, it is hoped that he may be better, and not worse, for his stay at Rottnest.

Every Sunday the prisoners are allowed to roam about at perfect liberty all over the island to get their own food, so that they may not entirely forget how to provide for themselves. They have their breakfast before they go out and their supper after they come in; but they delight in finding dinner for themselves. First of all, they fashion small spears and fishing-lines, and go and fish, and they hunt for all the snakes in the island, and lizards, and every other native delicacy. Little fires are lighted—always in a safe place, where the bush cannot catch fire,—and the natives lie down and sleep by them, and all the time are as happy and merry as schoolboys, never doing the least mischief, or touching anything which does not belong to them. I never miss any of my fowls or ducks, nor do prisoners misbehave themselves in any way. At sunset you see them trooping in, jolly as possible, laughing and chatting to each other. No warder goes out with them on Sunday, and the only things carefully guarded are boats, lest they should escape to the mainland. It is out of the question to attempt to enforce the discipline of an ordinary convict prison with these people. The natives are just like children, more or less irresponsible, and whilst we try to control and teach them the rights of life and property, we have to do so kindly, patiently, and good-humouredly.

Even after they are shut up in their prison at night in cells, which are a thousand times more comfortable than their Mia-mias, or huts, the warders do not prevent their singing, and talking, and laughing; and if they keep up the noise too long, a good-humoured “Come, come, boys; too much noise make-um” from the superintendent is enough to restore quiet and peace directly.

The natives are seldom actually lazy, though they cannot be said to like hard work; but the light tasks to which they are put generally interest and amuse them, and they behave perfectly well. Your father goes out quite alone after his ducks of an evening, with a couple of murderers as retrievers, and it is very amusing to hear their conversations. One man, Peter by name, is going out of prison next month, and is very fond of telling us what he would “Give Guvna eat-um,” if he came to see him up in his own country. “Wild turkey give-um, fish, p’raps; very good lizard, plenty worms” (I forget the unpronounceable name he has for this delicacy), “show Guvna how kangaroo spear-um,” and so forth. Peter’s little mistake consisted in spearing a woman who was wrangling with his wife. He declares he only meant to spear her leg (a spear in the leg is considered the gentlest possible hint that your company is not desired just then); but “wife knock up hand, spear go so, hit woman throat; she very sick—die. Peter nothing bad fellow, woman bad fellow, come wife talk-um.” That is his idea of the affair; but I think he has learned over here not to be quite so ready with his spear.

Then some of them are in for sheep-stealing. They pretend they don’t know why a sheep should not be as fair game for a spear as a kangaroo; but it is not possible to accept this excuse, and the juries find it equally hard to believe that the native is as ignorant as he pretends to be, specially as he shows great ingenuity in hiding the remains of the mutton-feast.

Tribal murders are another difficulty in our path of civilisation. One man, a chief, perhaps, at all events a “prominent citizen,” dies from natural causes; the tribe at once draw lots who shall go and kill another man in another tribe, as nearly as possible the equal of the dead chief in size and age and tribal importance; and he, upon whom the lot fell, would be disgraced for ever, cast out from among his own people, and probably killed, if he made the faintest objection to the task. One gentle, inoffensive-looking young man was pointed out to me as a murderer. His mother had died lately, and the remedy proposed and insisted on by his relatives, as a cure for the unusual degree of grief her death caused the youth, was to go and murder a woman of the same age of another tribe. He did so, and was quite surprised that his own sorrow for his mother was not lessened. “Me just same cry-um.”

Then they get mischievous impulses to take a life, which they don’t know how to resist, specially if they have the chance to spear a white man. I heard a story the other day of a settler, far away in the interior, who was exceptionally kind to the natives round, and they, in their turn, were thoroughly devoted to him. He was one day walking in a thick bush, with a black servant following him, armed for the chase. The native presently came up and earnestly begged leave to walk first in the narrow path, because he did not know how long he would be able to resist the impulse to fling his spear at the back of the white man walking before him.

Their endurance of pain is something marvellous; we saw many little instances of it at Rottnest, and I was much amused at our friend Peter, who hurt his foot during one of the shooting excursions I have told you about. We felt much concern at the sight of the bleeding toe, and strict orders were given that Peter should not do any work, and that his foot should be properly attended to. Next evening, however, Peter appeared, ready to walk any number of miles, with a bit of rag round the wounded toe, and scoffing at the idea of not going out to look for “big fellow,” or “’nipe”!

But here is a story I have copied for you from a delightful book by Mr. Brough Smyth.[1] It is in one of two splendid big volumes full of pictures and stories which would delight you, and half of the second volume is taken up with an account of Western Australia which I read with much interest. Mr. Smyth says this story was told him by some one else, but it is doubtless perfectly true.

“In the summer of 1852 I started on horseback from Albany, to pay a visit about 70 miles south-east, accompanied by a native on foot. We travelled about 40 miles the first day, and camped for the night in a clump of tea-tree scrub near a water-hole. After cooking and eating our supper I observed the native, who had said nothing to me on the subject, collect the hot embers of the fire together, and deliberately place his right foot in the glowing mass for a moment, and then suddenly withdraw it, stamping on the ground and uttering a long-drawn guttural sound of mingled pain and satisfaction. This he repeated several times. On my inquiring the meaning of his strange conduct he only said ‘Me carpenter make-um’ (that is, ‘I am mending my foot’), and then showed me his charred great toe, the nail of which had been torn off by a stump during the journey, and the pain of which he had borne with stoical composure. He proceeded on his journey next morning as if nothing had happened, his toe bound up in a piece of native tea-tree bark.”

When the English first began to settle in this part of Australia they found the natives fearfully burned and charred all over their bodies, from their habit of getting into the fire at night for warmth. Now that the Government provide them with blankets, and the settlers and others often give them cast-off clothes, they do not roast themselves so much, though they still love a little bit of fire in the shade, on even the very hottest day.

One evening we went, a large merry party, up to the jail at dark to see a corrobberie. It was an evening of intense delight to “the boys,” as the prisoners are called, as great a pleasure as giving a very smart ball would be to us, and they had been busy all the afternoon painting themselves, and decorating their hair. The chief adornment consisted in a streak of some white clay between each rib, and similar daubs of white and a red pigment they find among the rocks inland, smeared all over their faces, in a pattern or design; while their heads were more like a crow’s nest than anything else I can think of. A couple of large brushwood fires were lighted in the centre of the big courtyard, and a few natives stood by to feed the flames. The dancers supplied the music themselves, and the most curious part of the performance was the way they all gave the grunt or “wuff” exactly in unison. Every movement of the one hundred and twenty performers was made absolutely and entirely together, like one man, and the grunts which guided them were equally exact in time. It was a weird and striking scene; but we became weary of watching it long before the dancers grew tired. However, at one good-humoured word of dismissal, the performance instantly broke up, and “the boys” trooped off, laughing and gay, to their cells, happy in the promise of a half-holiday and a stick of tobacco apiece, as a reward for their exertions.

More wonderful and interesting, however, is it to see them throw the kylie (what is called the boomerang in other parts of Australia), a curiously curved and flat stick, about a foot long and two or three inches wide. There are heavier “ground kylies,” which skim along the ground, describing marvellous turns and twists, and they would certainly break the leg of any bird or beast they hit; but their gyrations are nothing compared to those of a good air-kylie in skilful hands. A great open space is needed to watch the flight of a well-thrown air-kylie. The eye can scarcely follow the movement of the lithe body or the deft turn of the wrist with which the kylie leaves the hand, and soars up into space, and is lost to sight for a second or two, before you catch a glimpse of what looks like a bird circling high above. The circles grow narrower, and the bird becomes a trifle larger. It turns round completely, and changes its course just at the last, and finally comes wheeling down, only a bit of flat stick and not a bird after all, near its sender’s feet. No description can possibly give you the least idea of this wonderful performance—the ease with which the kylie can be thrown, the height to which it will soar, nor the wide and varying circles it describes. There were some very good kylie-throwers among the native prisoners; and, for my part, I never wearied of watching them as they flung, in friendly rivalry, their bird-like weapons in an immense open field at the back of the house. Their aim is so astoundingly accurate. When one sees these weapons skimming through the air, high above one’s head, it requires a good deal of confidence to believe that they will not kill some one in their descent; but no accident ever happens to the scattered groups of watchers. The thrower knows exactly where his kylie will fall after it has finished its “gyres and gimbles” on its own account, and he takes up his position accordingly.

The spear-throwing is also very wonderful. The spears are so very long, and, in our hands, would be so utterly unmanageable. They will throw spears at each other for hours, each man having only a short, narrow grooved shield to protect himself—a wooden shield a couple of feet long by 5 or 6 inches wide—I could not protect myself from a skilfully thrown knitting-needle with so slender a defence; yet each spear is caught and turned aside upon this absurd buckler with the greatest ease. The war-spears have notched and barbed heads, and are cruel-looking weapons, modelled evidently from a shark’s jaw; but the light hunting-spear, sharply-pointed, with needles of flint fixed in the point by one of the wonderful gums they find in the bush, is a much more business-like affair. These they throw with a broad, flat holder, called a wammeroo, from which they propel the spear with a capital aim and great force. I have often thought how much I should like to take some of these natives home, and show you their kylie and spear-throwing performances; but the poor men never could stand the English climate, and I don’t believe you could easily find a space sufficiently clear of trees, where they would not be liable to break a cottage window, or some one’s head.

What is so wonderful in these native weapons is the skill and accuracy with which they are fashioned, absolutely without tools. I have seen a “scoop,” as they call it, hollowed out of very hard wood, in the first instance by fire, but shaped and smoothed with infinite patience and labour by means of a rude chisel made of a flint stuck into a cleft of wood. The scoop was smooth and symmetrical, quite light, and of a shape which would allow of its being carried easily on the back or on the head. It answered the purpose of either a basket or a bucket, according to what was needed. Their spears show perhaps the greatest ingenuity, and I don’t know which I find most curious; the light hunting-spear, thrown with unerring precision by means of the flat, short board I have described, and pointed with a sharp shell or a thorn or a flint, or the heavy war-spears, some 10 or 12 feet long, with elaborately carved barbs, all in pointed notches like shark’s teeth. Of course their only models are taken from nature, but their contrivances are wonderful. They weave mats very cleverly to wear, as well as to carry bundles, or to lie on; and the skins of whatever animals they hunt are carefully dried and made soft. The shields, too, are grooved in a neat and accurate zigzag pattern with alternate lines of red and white colour made out of pigments. I have seen a sort of rope or twine twisted from kangaroo fur, which was just like a rude yarn from sheep’s wool. Their hatchets are very ingenious, the centre being made of a large lump of “black-boy” gum, which is worked up when warm into a solid lump, into each end of which a sort of blade made of flint is fastened; the handle, of course, is a piece of wood, but the whole tool is admirably fitted for its work.

Perhaps the “message sticks” are the most curious, with their smooth surface on which all the news of the place is neatly and carefully drawn. It looks like etching, and is done with a finely-pointed red-hot stick; it is really the newspaper of the district. You see the long strip of land, with its post and rail fence, or the two or three rude little houses which constitute the nucleus of what is going to be a great city, perhaps; or else there is an unmistakable bit of a harbour, and the fleet of pearlers is just coming in, with every sail set and a fair wind. Here is the outline of a pathetic story, plainly told: There are some trees just indicated, men stand by an open grave, horses are picketed behind, and there is the rude cross in the corner, where a little clearing has already been made to mark a former explorer’s grave.

The natives are now giving up making weapons or household utensils, for there are few places where they cannot procure English equivalents, which are of course ever so much more convenient; and many of the people express themselves to me as being now ashamed of their primitive contrivances. The tribal feeling is, however, still very strong, and each tribe yet retains its different dialect, as well as its distinguishing marks and customs.

You can easily imagine how impossible it is to get hold of the natives after they are grown up—for they are a very debased sort of savage—and to teach or civilise them in any way. So we chiefly look to what we can do for the children, to improve the condition of the next generation; and every effort is made to take the little creatures away from their parents if there is reason to believe them to be ill-treated; but if the parents are kind, then many inducements are held out to the mother to come and settle near the children, where she can see for herself that they are happy and well-cared for. But generally the older natives soon get tired of any settled mode of life and go off suddenly, perhaps taking their little ones with them. Of course we can only persuade, not compel, but it is disappointing to lose the care of a dear intelligent little child, who might have been trained to much good. I am very fond of the Mission children, whose home, under our Bishop’s care, is in Perth, and I often go to visit them, besides seeing them every Sunday, smiling and neat and happy looking, on their way to or from church.