Volume Three—Chapter Eight.
Caught in his Own Trap.
A “claim,” adjoining the one in which my partner and I were working, was much richer than ours. The primitive rock lay farther below the surface—showing that there had been a basin in the creek, or river, that hundreds of years before had flowed over the “vale of Avoca.”
In this basin had been deposited a great quantity of earth containing gold: for the soil was thickly impregnated with the precious metal.
This claim was owned by three men. Two of them appeared to be respectable young fellows; and I incidentally learnt from them, that they had been playmates in boyhood, shipmates on their voyage to the colony, and had worked together ever since their arrival at the diggings. An old convict was the third partner of these two young men. He had first marked out the claim, and for a while kept sole possession of it; but, seeing that he would be unable to manage it by himself, he had allowed the other two to take shares in it.
They had joined the convict only for that one job; and had done so, because they could not find any other favourable opportunity for “getting on the line.”
One day, when I was standing by at the windlass of our own shaft, I saw the old convict come towards his claim—apparently after having been to his dinner.
I had observed one of the young men let himself down the shaft, but a few minutes before. Soon after, I heard his voice from below calling to the convict—who had placed himself by the windlass, after his arrival. I then saw the latter lower the rope, and hoist the young man to the surface. The old convict was then lowered down; and, as soon as he had detached himself from the rope below, I noticed that the young man hastily drew it up and in a manner that betrayed some extraordinary excitement.
“Hoist up your mate, and bring him here,” he called to me. “Quick! I’ve something terrible to tell you of.”
I called to my partner to get on the tackle; and, as soon as he had done so, I drew him up out of the shaft.
While I was doing this, the young man who had called to me, summoned some others in the same manner; and five or six men who chanced to be near, hastened up to the spot.
As soon as we were assembled around him, the young fellow began:
“I have a strange story to tell you all,” said he. “My friend has been murdered; and the man who has committed the crime is below. We have him sure. Will some one go to the ‘camp’ for the police? I shall not leave this spot, till I see the murderer in their custody, or see him dead.”
The commotion, caused by this startling announcement, brought several others to the place; and a crowd was soon collected around the claim. Two or three started off for the police encampment.
While waiting for their return, the young man, who had called us around him, gave an explanation of his conduct in having summoned us thus strangely.
“I came up out of the shaft,” said he, “about half-past eleven o’clock; and went home to cook dinner for myself and my friend. I left him along with our other mate—the murderer—who is now below, at work, stowing away some of the pipe-clay that we had finished working with. I expected him to follow me to his dinner in about half-an-hour after. I waited for him till nearly one; and as he did not come, I ate my dinner alone, and then returned here to go on with the work.
“When I came back, I could see no one. I called down the shaft, thinking both were below.
“As there was no answer, I let myself down by the rope, intending to go to work by myself. I supposed that my mates had strayed off to some grog-shop—where they might spend a good part of the afternoon. They had done this once before; and I thought they might do it again.
“After getting below, I lit the candle; and looked about to see what they had been doing, since I left them at eleven o’clock.
“The first thing that met my eyes, was the toe of a boot sticking out of the pipe-clay—where we had been stowing it away, in the worked-out part of the shaft. What, thought I, is their object in burying the boot there?
“I took hold of it—there was just enough of it protruding out of the pipe-clay to enable me to get a grasp of it. I felt that there was a foot in it. It was a boot belonging to my friend. I knew it—notwithstanding its being plastered over with the clay. I drew out the boot; and along with it the body of the man to whom it belonged. He was dead! I think it is probable he was not quite dead, when covered up; and that in his death-spasm he had somehow moved his foot, causing it to protrude a little out of the clay.
“I have no doubt,” continued the young miner, “that my seeing that boot has saved my own life: for the man who has murdered my friend, would have served me in the same way, had we both been down below, and I ignorant of what he had already done.
“Just as I was about climbing up the rope to get out, I saw the man who is now below here, preparing to let himself down. I called to him, in my natural tone of voice; and told him that I wanted to go above for a minute—to get a drink. This, no doubt, put him off his guard; and he helped me up.
“I then asked him what had become of Bill—that was my friend’s name.
“‘He did not come home to dinner,’ said I, ‘and he is not below.’
“‘When we came up to go to dinner,’ said he, ‘and were about starting away from here, I saw Bill meet a stranger, and shake hands with him. They went off together.’
“I suggested that he might probably have strayed off upon a spree; and that we were not likely to get any more work out of him that day. I added, that, after I had had my drink, we could both go below, and work without him. This seemed to please my other partner—who at once desired to be let down into the shaft.
“I lowered him at his request—telling him I should follow soon after.
“He and his victim are now in the shaft. Had he succeeded in killing both of us, he would not only have got all the gold we had obtained in the claim, but some more besides.” This story excited in the minds of all present, a feeling of horror, joined to a keen desire for retribution. Several shouted out to the old convict—commanding him to come up; that his crime was known, and escape would be impossible.
The murderer must have heard every word; but no answer was returned either to the threats or commands of those above. There was no occasion for the latter, either to be in haste, or in any way uneasy about the man making his escape. He could not possibly get clear from the trap, into which his partner had so adroitly cajoled him. He must either come out of the shaft, or starve at the bottom of it.
The policemen, soon after, arrived upon the ground; and were made acquainted with all the circumstances.
One of them hailed the convict—commanding him “in the Queen’s name” to come up.
“You are our prisoner,” said the policeman, “you cannot escape; and you may as well surrender at once.”
There was no answer.
One of the policemen then placed himself in a bowline knot at the end of the rope; and was gently lowered down into the shaft—several men standing by at the windlass.
“Hold there!” cried the convict from below. “The instant you reach the bottom, I’ll drive my pick-axe through you.”
The men at the windlass ceased turning—leaving the policeman suspended half way down the shaft.
He was a man of superior courage; and, cocking his revolver, he called to the convict: that he was going down anyhow—adding, that the first move made to molest him in the execution of his duty, would be a signal for him to blow out the brains of the man who should make it.
He then called to the miners at the windlass to “lower away.”
“Drop your pick!” shouted the policeman, as he came near the bottom of the shaft—at the same time covering the convict with his revolver.
The murderer saw the folly of resisting. It was impossible for him to escape—even could he have killed the officer, and a dozen more besides.
Some of the “Queen’s Jewellery” was soon adjusted upon his wrists; and the rope, having been fastened around his body, he was hoisted up into the light of heaven.
The policemen were going to stop, until they could examine the body of the murdered man; but they perceived that the indignation of the crowd was fast rising to such a pitch, that it was necessary for the prisoner to be carried to some place of security—else he might be taken out of their hands.
None of the spectators seemed anxious either to rescue, or kill the man. Each one appeared to be satisfied by getting a kick or blow at him. The mind of every honest miner on the ground had been shocked by the cruel crime that had been committed; and each appeared to think he had himself a score of revenge to wipe off against the perpetrator.
Each wished to calm his outraged feelings, by inflicting some chastisement upon the criminal; and still leave to the justice of God and the law, the task of punishing him for the murder.
The police did their best to protect their prisoner; but on their way to their station, they were followed by an indignant crowd of miners, who kicked and scratched the old convict, till he was nearly lifeless in their hands.
When the body of the murdered man had been brought out of the shaft, it was found that the sharp point of a pick-axe had been driven through his skull. The wound was in the back part of the head—proving that the victim had received the blow from behind, and most probably without any warning. A similar fate would undoubtedly have befallen his friend, had he not made the discovery which enabled him to avert it.
The murderer was sent down to Melbourne to be locked up, till the sitting of the Criminal Court.
The day after the funeral of the murdered man, the only one of the three partners left to work out the claim, made his appearance upon the spot.
Before commencing work, he came over to me; and we had a long conversation together.
“If I had only myself to think of,” said he, “I would have nothing farther to do with this claim. It cannot be very pleasant to me to work in it, after what has occurred. The young man who has been killed, was my playmate in boyhood, and my constant companion ever since we left home together. I shall have to carry back to his father, mother, and sisters, the news of his sad fate. His relatives are very poor people; and it took every penny they could scrape together to furnish him with the means for coming out here. My duty to them, and to his memory, is the sole cause of my continuing any longer to work the claim. However painful the task may be, I must perform it. I shall obtain all the gold it may yield; and every speck to which my murdered friend should have been entitled, shall be paid over to his relatives. I know that they had rather see himself return penniless to them, than to have all the gold of Australia; but for all that he shall not be robbed, as well as murdered.
“I have often heard him speak of the pleasure it would give him to return to his relations with his gold. I can only show my respect for his wishes, by taking them the money to which he would have been entitled, had he lived, to work out his claim. It shall be done without his aid; but his relations shall have the yield of it, all the same as if he had lived.”
Whenever the windlass was to be used in bringing up the “wash dirt” from below—or the surviving partner wanted assistance in any way—it was cheerfully rendered by the miners at work in the adjoining claims.
By the time he had completed his task, he was summoned to Melbourne, as a witness on the trial of the murderer; and, after his leaving the Avoca diggings, I saw him no more.
I afterwards learnt from the Melbourne Argus: that the old convict was found guilty of the murder, and ended his earthly existence on the gallows.
Volume Three—Chapter Nine.
A Lark with the “Licence-Hunters.”
After we had completed the working of our claim in the Avoca lead, my partner—who had told me that his name was Brown—signified his intention of returning home to England.
“I have saved between three and four hundred pounds,” said he, “and shouldn’t know what to do with it here. I’ve been thinking of going home for several years past; and now’s the time to do it.”
Instead of attempting to dissuade him, I rather encouraged him in his design, telling him that, if dissatisfied with his visit to his native country, he could return to the diggings—before they should get worked-out—and try his fortune once more.
He had heard me speak of going myself back to England some time or other; and he urged me to make the voyage along with him.
I should probably have acceded to his request,—had he not pressed me so strongly; but I have a great aversion to doing anything, that I am vehemently solicited to do.
If there is anything which will make me do the very thing I know to be wrong, it is when some one counsels me too pressingly against doing it. I have a great penchant for being guided by my own judgment; and I believe that very little good is done by giving advice, to those who are old enough to think and act for themselves.
In answer to my partner’s request, I told him that I should probably return to England in about a year; but was not then ready to go.
Though a little disappointed at my not accompanying him, Brown and I parted on good terms. He left full directions with me for finding him in Birmingham—should I ever go to that city; and warmly urged upon me to call and see him. I gave him a promise to do so.
“I believe you are a respectable, right-thinking man,” said he, as we shook hands at parting; “you have treated me, as though I was the same; and that’s more than I have been accustomed to for the last score of years.”
On leaving me, Brown proceeded direct to Melbourne, where he took ship for England.
For two or three days after he had left me, I looked about the diggings—undecided what I should next do.
One afternoon, while sauntering at a little distance, from my tent, I saw some policemen, with a squad of mounted troopers, out on the patrol. A “licensing commissioner” at their head, proved that they were looking for “unlicenced” miners.
I never went abroad without a miner’s licence in my pocket; but I felt a strong dislike to showing it—solely on account of the manner, in which the demand to do so was usually made.
I shall have something to say about “licence-hunting” in another chapter—where the subject will be introduced, and more fully discussed. My present purpose is to relate a little adventure which occurred to me at Avoca—of which the licence-hunters were the heroes. It was this episode, that first awakened within my mind some thoughts about the infamous system of drawing a revenue, from the most honest and industrious portion of the population.
It is usual for diggers—who are not provided with a licence—on seeing the police out upon their scouting excursions, either to take to the bush, or hide themselves in the shaft, or tunnel, of some mining claim. This is done to avoid being searched; and, as a matter of course, carried before a magistrate, and fined five pounds for—trespassing on the Crown lands!
On the occasion in question, when I saw the licence-hunters out on their usual errand, it came into my head to have a little amusement with them. I had been going idle for two or three days, and wanted something to amuse me—as well as give exercise to my limbs.
When the policemen had got within about a hundred yards of where I was standing, I pretended to see them for the first time; and started off at a run. They saw me, as I intended they should; and two or three of them gave chase—under the full belief that I was an unlicenced digger. They that first followed me were afoot; and they soon learnt that the farther they pursued, the greater became the distance between them and me. Two of the mounted troopers now left the side of the Commissioner; and joined in the chase—spurring their horses into a gallop.
I was running in the direction of my own tent; and contrived to reach it, before the troopers overtook me.
By the time they had got up to the tent, I was standing in the opening of the canvass; and received them by demanding their business.
“We wish to see your licence,” said one.
I took from my pocket the piece of paper, legally authorising me to “search for, dig, and remove gold from the crown lands of the colony.” I handed it to the trooper.
He appeared much disappointed, at finding it was “all right.”
“What made you run away from us?” he demanded angrily.
“What made you think I was running away from you?” I inquired in turn.
“What made you run at all?” put in the second trooper.
“Because I was in haste to reach home,” I answered.
The two then talked together in a low voice, after which one of them told me that I must go along with them.
“For what reason?” I asked; but received no answer. They were either unwilling, or unable, to give me a reason.
The two policemen, who had pursued me on foot, now came up; and all four insisted on my being taken along with them, a prisoner, to the police camp!
I refused to come out of the tent; and cautioned them not to enter it—without showing me their warrant, or some authority for the intrusion.
They paid no attention to what I said; but stepping inside the tent, rudely conducted me out of it.
I accompanied them without making resistance—thinking that when brought before a magistrate, I should get them reprimanded for what they had done.
In the afternoon, I was arraigned before, the “bench,” and charged with molesting and interfering with the police in the execution of their duty! My accusers told their story; and I was called upon for my defence.
I informed the magistrate, that I had never been an unlicenced miner for a single day, since I had been on the diggings; and I entered upon a long speech—to prove, that in moving about the gold-fields, I had the right to travel at any rate of speed I might choose; and that I had unlawfully been dragged out of my tent—which being my “castle,” should not have been invaded in the manner it had been.
This was what I intended to have said; but I did not get the opportunity of making my forensic display: for the magistrate cut me short, by stating, that I had been playing what the diggers call a “lark,” and by doing so, had drawn the police from their duty. They had been seeking for those who really had not licences; and who, through my misbehaviour, might have been able to make their escape!
In conclusion, this sapient justice fined me forty shillings!
There was an injustice about this decision—as well as the manner in which I had been treated—that aroused my indignation. I had broken no law, I had done nothing but what any free subject had a right to do, yet I had been treated as a criminal, and mulcted of my money—in fact, robbed of two pounds sterling!
After this affair, I was disgusted with Avoca; and, in less than an hour after, I rolled up my blankets, and took the road for Ballarat—this being the place to which I always turned, when not knowing where else to go.
Everyone must have some place that they look upon as a home—a point from which to start or take departure. Mine was Ballarat: for the reason that I liked that place better than any other in the colony.
I had made more money on the Ballarat diggings than elsewhere in Australia; and I had never left the place to go to any other, without having cause to regret the change. This time, I determined, on my return to Ballarat, to stay there—until I should be ready to bid a final adieu to Australia.
Volume Three—Chapter Ten.
Digger-Hunting.
Soon after my arrival at Ballarat, the mining population of the place was roused to a state of great excitement—by being constantly worried about their gold licences.
All engaged in the occupation of mining, were required to take out a monthly licence, for which one pound ten shillings had to be paid. Each miner was required to carry this licence upon his person; and produce it whenever desired to do so, by the commissioner, or any official acting under his authority.
It was not to the tax of eighteen pounds per annum that the miners objected; but to the manner in which it was levied and enforced.
The diggers did not like to be so often accosted by a body of armed men, and compelled to show a piece of paper—in the event of them not having it about them, to be dragged off to the court, and fined five pounds.
After some show of opposition to this tax—or rather to the way of enforcing it—had begun to exhibit itself, the government officials became more industrious than ever at their occupation of “digger-hunting.” A commissioner, with a band of mounted troopers, might have been seen out every day—scouring the country far and near, and commanding every man they met to produce his licence. Not unfrequently an honest miner would be required to exhibit the disagreeable document as often as four or five times a day!
The diggers soon got tired of this sort of thing, which was enough to have exasperated men of a more tranquil tone of mind, than gold-diggers usually are.
Meetings were called and attended by many hundreds of miners, at which strong resolutions were passed; to resist the arrest of any man, who should be taken up for not having a gold licence.
These resolutions could not be effectually carried into effect, without some organisation amongst those who had passed them.
This was to a certain extent accomplished; by about four hundred diggers forming themselves into an organised band, and commencing to drill and discipline in a sort of military fashion.
Thinking the wrongs of the diggers a sufficient justification for this action on their part, I joined one of the companies thus formed—with the full determination to assist, as far as lay in my power, in the removal of the injustice complained of.
I did not think there was anything in English law—properly understood and administered—that would allow thousands of men to be constantly hunted, harassed and insulted by bands of armed police, demanding to see a piece of paper; but perhaps my experience of the way “justice” was administered at Avoca, had something to do in guiding my resolution to resist it at Ballarat.
At our meetings, the diggers indignantly declared their determination to overthrow the system that made them game for the minions of the Government; and to prove that they were in earnest in what they said, many of them were seen to tear up their licences upon the spot, and light their pipes with the torn fragments of the paper!
From that time, whenever an attempt was made by the police to arrest a man without a licence, it was resisted by large mobs of diggers; and on two or three occasions both police and troopers were compelled to retreat to their encampment.
The police force on Ballarat was soon increased in number; and a large body of regular troops was sent up from Melbourne.
The diggers saw that they could no longer oppose this force, without maintaining a body of their own men in arms; and for this purpose a select number was chosen, who, having been regularly organised into companies, formed a camp on the Eureka lead.
Some of the lying officials of the government have represented this camp to have been strongly fortified—the lie being propagated to secure them greater credit, for their bravery in capturing it!
The statement was altogether untrue. The Eureka stockade was nothing more than an inclosure formed with slabs of timber—such as were used to wall in the shafts sunk on wet leads—and could no more be called a fortification, than the hurdles used by farmers for penning up a flock of sheep.
The importance attached to the movement, on the part of the government officials, was ludicrous in the extreme.
Martial law was proclaimed in Ballarat; and several hundred pounds were expended in filling bags of sand, and fortifying the Treasury at Melbourne—about one hundred miles from the scene of the emeute!
The idea of the diggers marching to Melbourne, and molesting the Government property there, was simply ridiculous. The authorities must have held an opinion of the men they governed, not very complimentary to the liege subjects of Her Majesty.
Because the miners objected to being hunted and worried for a piece of paper—proving that they had paid eighteen pounds per annum of tax, more than any other class of the population—the Government officials seemed to think that a causeless rebellion had broken out, which threatened to overthrow the whole British Empire; and which nothing but low scheming and barbarous action could quell.
Thousands of ounces of gold were lying on deposit in the Escort Office at Ballarat; yet had the mutineers taken the place, I am confident this treasure would have been protected, and restored to its rightful owners.
But there was no intention on the part of the diggers, either to touch Ballarat, or its gold. They only maintained an armed body at the Eureka Stockade, because they could in no other way resist the raids of the troopers who were sent out licence-hunting. They were as innocent of all intention to overthrow the Government; “loot” the Escort Office at Ballarat; or march upon Melbourne, as babes unborn.
Their only object was to have English law properly administered to them; or rather, to resist the violation of it by the minions who had been appointed to its execution.
This the Government might have learnt—and probably did learn—from the policemen disguised as diggers, who took part in the proceedings at the Eureka Stockade, for these communicated all they learnt, and no doubt a good deal more, to the officials in the Government camp.
Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.
A Genius in the Diggings.
When I went to join the insurgents at the Stockade, I was accompanied by a man, who had been living in a tent near my own—a German, whom I only knew by the name of “Karl.” He was as singular a man, as was to be met amongst the many incomprehensible characters found on a gold-field. He was only twenty-five years of age, though he had already travelled over much of the world, and spoke several languages fluently. He knew something of the literature, science, arts, and customs of almost every nation, ancient or modern; and having a wonderful memory, as well as a great command of language, he could be very entertaining in conversation. My attention was first called to the extraordinary power of his memory, by hearing him once talking on the relative merits of the poets.
He appeared to know all the poetical writings of the English, German, and Italian authors by heart: as he could repeat long passages from any of them, when called upon.
I remember, amongst many severe criticisms which he gave us on the poetry of Byron, his quoting the phrases of “sad knee,” “melodious tears,” “cloudy groan,” “poetic marble,” “loud hill,” “foolish flower,” “learned fingers,” and “silly sword,” all of which he mentioned were absurd expressions.
The reader may think my sketch of this individual overdrawn, when I add, that in addition to his other accomplishments, he was not only a musician of great skill, but, in my opinion, a musical prodigy; and excited more astonishment and admiration by his musical talents, than by any other of the many accomplishments he possessed.
Often would he wander alone, where nature was most lovely; and from her surrounding beauties, add inspiration to the melody that filled his soul.
The notes of birds, the whispering of the winds, and the murmuring of the streams, were all caught and combined, or harmoniously arranged in enchanting melodies, which he would reproduce on his violin, after returning to his tent, in strains that seemed enraptured.
Never did I listen to the music made by him, without thinking myself a better man: for all the gentler sentiments of my soul would be awakened, and expanded into action under its influence. For hours would the sounds echo in my memory—making me forget the sorrows of the past, as well as the cares of the future; and turning my thoughts to an ideal world, where material ugliness is unknown.
I defy any man with a soul superior to that of a monkey, to have been guilty of a mean or dishonest action, after listening to a tune composed and played by Karl the German.
I do not call myself a judge of music, or of the relative merits of different musicians, and only form this opinion from the effect produced on my mind by his performance.
I am not easily excited by musical, or dramatic representations; but Mario’s magnificent rendering of the death scene in “Lucrezia Borgia,” or the astounding recklessness Alboni is accustomed to throw into the “Brindisi,” could never awaken within my soul such deep thoughts, as those often stirred by the simple strains of Karl’s violin.
Though possessing all these great natural abilities—strengthened by travel, and experience in both men and books—Karl was a slave to one habit, that rendered all his talents unavailing, and hindered him from ever rising to the station, he might otherwise have held among men.
He was a confirmed drunkard; and could never be kept sober, so long as there was a shilling in his pocket!
Pride had hitherto restrained him from seeking professional engagement, and exhibiting his musical talents to the world, although, according to his own story, he had been brought up to the profession of a musician. He was even becoming celebrated in it, when the demon of intemperance made his acquaintance, and dragged him down to the lowest depths of poverty and despair.
Once, when in Melbourne, starvation drove him to seek an interview with the manager of a theatre, who listened with wonder and admiration to the soul-entrancing melody he produced.
A sum far beyond his expectations was offered; and money advanced to enable him to make a respectable appearance; but on the night in which his début was to have been made, he was not forthcoming! He had been found in the street, drunk and disorderly, and was carried to the lock-up—where he passed the evening among policemen, instead of exhibiting himself before a delighted audience on the stage of a theatre!
I know that he used every effort to subdue this passion for strong drink. But all proved unavailing. Notwithstanding the strength of his mind in other respects, he could not resist the fatal fascination.
Small minds may be subdued and controlled by worldly interests; but the power to curb the action of a large and active intellect may not always lie within itself.
Karl wished to join the insurgents—as they were called—at the Eureka Stockade; and although myself anxious that their number should be augmented as much as possible, I endeavoured to persuade him against having anything to do with the disturbance.
The truth was, that I thought foreigners had at that time too much to say about the manner in which the colony was governed.
Although I could not deny that the faults of which they complained, in reality existed, yet I believed that they were not the persons who had the right to correct them. Many of the foreign diggers had a deal more to say, about the misgovernment of the colony, than any of Her Majesty’s subjects; and I did not like to hear them talk treason. They had come to the colony for the purpose of making money—because Australia offered superior advantages for that purpose—and I thought that they should have been satisfied with the government found there, without taking upon themselves to reform its abuses.
I explained all this to Karl; but, while admitting the truth of what I said, he still adhered to his determination to take a part in the revolution of Eureka.
“Several times,” said he, “have I had armed men command me to show a licence, and I have also been imprisoned, because I did not have that piece of paper in my pocket. I have several times been insulted in the colony, because I am not an Englishman. I care but little which gets the worst of this struggle—the minions of the government or its subjects. Where the blood of either, or both, is to flow, there I wish to be.”
I said nothing more to dissuade Karl from following this singular wish; but permitted him to accompany me to the stockade—where he was enrolled in one of the companies.
Volume Three—Chapter Twelve.
The Eureka Rout.
I have stated that about four hundred men were kept under arms at Ballarat, to oppose the amusement of digger-hunting, so much indulged in by the government officials. The former had now made their rendezvous at the stockade on the Eureka.
They were accustomed to meet in the day, and get drilled by officers, whom they had appointed for this duty. During the night, most of them, who were residents of Ballarat, returned thither, and slept in their tents, while others, who had come from Creswick’s Creek and the more distant gold-fields—to take part in the affair—remained at the boarding houses of the township.
On the night of the 2nd of December, 1854, there were about one hundred and seventy men in the stockade.
Having entered into the cause, I determined to devote my whole time to it; and on that night I was there among the rest.
The diggers, who were present, supposed they had as much right to stay in the stockade as elsewhere.
They certainly were not interfering with the officials in the execution of their duty; nor, in any way, making a disturbance.
There was no just cause why they should have been attacked on that particular night. It is true, that during the previous week, the troopers had been opposed by the diggers they were hunting; and had in some cases been prevented from making arrests. But the authorities need not have supposed, that the men in the Eureka Stockade were the same who had offered this resistance. They could only have thought so, and acted on the belief, by a singular stretch of imagination.
About half-past eleven o’clock, an alarm was given, that the soldiers were approaching the stockade. All turned out, and were prepared to defend themselves; but the alarm proved a false one.
At one o’clock in the morning there was another alarm, which also proved to be without any just cause.
At half-past two, there was still another false report, to which only a very few paid any attention: as the men had got tired of being so often roused from their slumbers without any cause. Only about half of their number turned out at this time; and these were laughed at by the others—for allowing themselves to be unnecessarily frightened.
About half-past four in the morning—just as the first faint light of day was seen on the eastern horizon—the camp was again set in commotion by the fourth alarm.
This time there was a real cause: since soldiers and troopers could be seen through the twilight, riding towards the stockade.
On the 3rd day of December, 1854, at half-past four o’clock on that holy Sabbath morning, the people in the Eureka Stockade were attacked by English soldiers, and troopers in the pay of the Victorian Government. As the attack was altogether unexpected, they were of course unprepared to repel or resist it.
It would have been little less than folly to have attempted resistance: for the assailants numbered three hundred and ninety men, all well armed and mounted, while the diggers, were less than half that number, and most of us only provided with fowling pieces.
When the signal of attack was given, it was done in a manner that started the sleeping diggers to their legs; and these soon proved to be the most useful members of their bodies. The majority refused to obey the orders of their officers—which was to reserve their fire, until our assailants should come near.
Most discharged their guns at the enemy, while still only dimly seen through the mist of the morning. After firing once, they fled. In an instant, the troopers were upon us.
A few of the diggers upon this occasion proved themselves men of heroic courage. I saw young Ross, who commanded a company, shot dead at the head of his men—while vainly trying to induce them to stand firm.
It seemed but a minute after the signal had been sounded, before the troopers broke down the palisades; and began shooting and hacking at us with their swords.
“I’m a Rolling Stone,” thought I, “and do not like staying too long in one spot. The Eureka Stockade is not the place for me.”
After making this reflection, I sprang over the palisades; and went off at a speed, that enabled me soon to distance many of my comrades who had started in advance of me.
Amongst others passed in my flight, was Karl, the German, who still persevered in his determination not to desert his digger associates: since he was accompanying them in their retreat.
He had not fled, however, until assured that our defeat was certain: for I saw him inside the stockade, firing his revolver, shortly before I came away myself.
I did not stay to speak to him: for the troopers were closely pursuing us; and cutting down with their swords any man they could overtake.
A majority of the routed diggers fled towards a tract of ground, that had been what the miners call, “worked-out.”
This ground was so perforated with holes, that the troopers were unable to gallop their horses over it. Fortunate for the fugitives that these abandoned diggings lay so near the stockade—otherwise the slaughter would have been much greater than it was—in all probability amounting to half the number of the men who had been gathered there.
The pursuit was not continued very far. The troopers soon lost all traces of those they were galloping after. Some of the diggers succeeded in reaching the bush, while others concealed themselves in the shafts of the worked-out claims; and, after a time, the soldiers were recalled to exult over their easy victory.
The regular soldiers of Her Majesty’s army took some prisoners in the stockade; but so far as I saw, or could afterwards ascertain, the mounted policemen of the Colonial Government, made no attempt to capture a single digger. They showed no quarter; but cut down, and in some instances horribly mutilated, all with whom they came in contact.
Many of the routed diggers remained concealed in the bush, and other places of refuge, all that day; but, perceiving no necessity for this, as soon as the pursuit was over, I returned to my tent. In the afternoon, when quiet had to a certain extent been restored, I walked over to view the scene of strife, and take a look at the unclaimed corpses. Twenty-eight miners had been shot dead upon the spot; but many more were missing—of whose fate nothing was ever afterwards known. A few probably fell, or were thrown, into some of the deep holes, through which the pursuit had been carried.
Some of the dead had acquaintances and friends about Ballarat, who afterwards removed their bodies, for the purpose of burial.
I saw several corpses that had been collected in one place, and were waiting for recognition. Amongst them was that of a young Austrian, whom I had known. His body had been pierced with five gun shot wounds—any one of which would have proved fatal.
There was one corpse so mutilated and disfigured with sabre cuts, that the features could not be recognised by any with whom, when alive, the man had been acquainted. It was that of a miner who had a family in Ballarat. His body was afterwards identified by his wife, but only through some articles that were found in the pockets of his coat.
I never saw, or heard of Karl after that fatal morning. Several days elapsed; and his tent, that stood near my own, remained unclaimed by its owner. It was still guarded by his dog, which I fed on its chain—as some of my neighbours jocularly remarked—to keep it alive, for the pleasure of hearing it howl. Karl had probably fallen down one of the deep holes, on the abandoned diggings, over which we had been pursued.
At length, becoming weary of listening to the piteous howling of the dog, I set the animal at liberty, and on doing so, gave it a kick—this being the only means I could think of, to let it know that I wished to cut its further acquaintance. It was an ugly, mangy creature; and all the respect I felt for the memory of its lost master, could not induce me to be troubled with it any longer.
Four men were arrested, and tried as ringleaders in the “Ballarat rebellion.” They were charged with treason—with an intent to overthrow her Majesty’s Government, and take from Queen Victoria the Crown of England! The Governor and his ministers wished the world to be informed, that they had succeeded in quelling a revolution, that threatened destruction to the whole British empire!
They thirsted for more blood; but they did not get it. The jury, before whom the prisoners were tried, acquitted them; and they were once more set at liberty.
Not long after, the licensing system was abolished; and in its stead an export duty of two shillings and sixpence per ounce, was levied upon the gold. This was certainly a more natural method of collecting the revenue; and in every way more satisfactory. By it, the unsuccessful miner was not called upon to pay as much as one who had been fortunate; and the diggers were no longer annoyed and insulted by the minions of the Licensing Commission.
Volume Three—Chapter Thirteen.
Buried Alive.
From Ballarat, I went to the great rush at Mount Blackwood; and pitched my tent on a part of that gold-field, known as the “Red Hill.”
Mount Blackwood was more heavily and thickly timbered, than any other of the Victorian gold-fields. The surface of the ground was very uneven; and the soil on the rocks of but little depth. It was difficult to find a horizontal space, of sufficient size, for the pitching of an ordinary miner’s tent; and to see such stupendous trees growing on the steep hill-sides, with scarce soil enough to cover their roots, was matter of surprise to everybody who came to Mount Blackwood.
About three weeks after the rush had commenced—and after several thousand people had gathered there—we were visited one night by a terrific gale, or more properly speaking, a “hurricane.”
Hundreds of large trees—which owing to the shallow soil, could not take deep root in the rock underneath—were blown down.
The night was very dark; and no one could see from what side a tree might at any moment come crashing. A space of ground, out of reach of the fallen trunks, was not to be found on the gold-field. The consequence was, that thirteen people were killed for certain; and many more severely injured, all through the falling of the trees.
But the number of fatal accidents, caused by the hurricane of that night, was probably never known.
The night was one of horror and fear to more than eight thousand people—each of whom knew not the minute that death might be his portion. A miner and his wife, while endeavouring to escape to a place of safety, were crushed under the same tree. Had they remained in their tent, they would have escaped uninjured! But what was still more singular in this unfortunate incident; the woman, when struck by the tree, was carrying a child, which received not the slightest injury, while both the parents were killed on the spot!
The day after the storm, Mount Blackwood presented a very forlorn appearance. Hundreds of trees had been prostrated by the wind; and nearly every tent had been thrown down.
Ever since that night, I can understand the fear, that some sailors entertain, of a storm upon land.
I had very little success in gold digging at Mount Blackwood; but while there, an incident occurred that was interesting to me; so much so, as to be deserving of a place among these my adventures.
I expect to die some time; but fervently hope and pray, that my existence may not be terminated by suffocation—either by means of a rope, or otherwise. I profess to have a horror of that mode of death: for the simple reason that I have made trial of it, and found the sensation anything but pleasant.
While at Mount Blackwood, I worked a claim in company with three others.
I was taken into this partnership, by a man I had known at Ballarat. He went by the name of “Yorkey”—from his being a Yorkshireman—and was the only one of the “firm” with whom I formed much acquaintance.
I was at work in a tunnel of the claim, where we had not used sufficient caution in supporting the top of the tunnel with timber.
Although the shaft was not a wide one, the earth being a little damp, and composed of loose shingle, required propping up. As I had neglected this, about a cart load of the shingle fell down, burying me completely under it.
The weight upon my limbs was so great, that I could not move them; and I lay as if I had been chained to the spot.
At the time, two of my mining partners were also below, working in another part of the tunnel. Of course they heard the little earthquake, and came to my assistance.
The task of digging me out, proved more difficult than they expected: for there was not room for both my mates to work at the same time—besides, they could not handle either pick or shovel to any great effect, lest they might injure my limbs.
We had been called up for dinner; and I was on the point of climbing out of the tunnel, just at the moment the earth fell in.
Our mates above, had grown impatient at our delay; and commenced shouting for us to come up. I heard one of those below responding to them. I could not understand what he said; but afterwards learnt, that he was merely telling them what had happened.
Never shall I forget the strange sound of that man’s voice. I suppose, for the reason that I was buried in the earth, it seemed unearthly. I could form no idea of the distance the speaker was from me. His voice seemed to come from some place thousands of miles away—in fact from another world. I was sensible that some mischance had occurred—that I was buried alive, and in great agony; but the voice I heard seemed to proceed from the remotest part of an immense cavern in some planet, far down in the depths of space. It commanded me to come thither: and I thought I was preparing to obey that command, by ceasing to live; but the necessary preparation for another existence appeared to require a long time in being completed.
In my struggles for respiration, I fancied that stones and earth were passing through my lungs; and hours, days and weeks seemed to be spent in this sort of agony. It was real agony—so real as not to beget insensibility. On the contrary, my consciousness of existence remained both clear and active.
I wondered why I did not die of starvation; and tried to discover if there was any principle in nature that would enable a person, when buried alive, to resist the demands of hunger and live for ever without food. It seemed impossible for me to die. One vast world appeared to be compressing me against another; but they could not both crush out the agony of my existence.
At length the thought occurred to me that I was dead; and that in another world I was undergoing punishment for crimes committed in that I had left.
“What have I ever done,” thought I, “that this horrible torture should be inflicted on me?”
Every link in memory’s chain was presented to my mental examination, and minutely examined.
They were all perfect to my view; but none of them seemed connected with any act in the past, that should have consigned me to the torture I was suffering.
My agony at last produced its effect; and I was released from it. I gradually became unconscious, or nearly so. There was still a sensation of pain—of something indescribably wrong; but the keen sensibility of it, both mental and bodily, had now passed away. This semi-unconscious state did not seem the result of the accident that had befallen me. I thought it had arisen from long years of mental care and bodily suffering; and was the involuntary repose of a spirit exhausted by sheer contention, with all the ills that men may endure upon earth. Then I felt myself transferred from this state to another quite different—one of true physical pain, intense and excruciating, though it no longer resembled the indescribable horror I had experienced, while trying to inhale the rocks that were crushing the life out of me.
My head was now uncovered; and I was breathing fast and freely.
Though in great pain, I was now conscious of all that was transpiring.
I could hear the voice of ‘Yorkey,’ speaking in his native Yorkshire dialect, and encouraging me with the statement that I would soon be out of danger.
Notwithstanding the pain I still suffered, I was happy—I believe never more so in my life. The horrible agony I had been enduring for the want of breath had passed away; and, as I recognised the voice of the kind-hearted Yorkshireman, I knew that everything would be done for me that man could do.
I was not mistaken: for ‘Yorkey’ soon after succeeded in getting my arms and legs extracted from the shingle; and I was hoisted up to the surface of the earth.
Previous to this accident, I had but a faint idea of how much I valued life, or rather how much I had hitherto undervalued the endurance of death.
My sufferings, whilst buried in the tunnel, were almost as great as those I had felt on first learning the loss of Lenore!
This accident had the effect of sadly disgusting me with the romantic occupation of gold digging—at all events it made me weary of a digger’s life on Mount Blackwood—where the best claim I could discover, paid but very little more than the expenses incurred in working it.
I thought Mount Blackwood, for several reasons, the most disagreeable part of Victoria I had ever visited, excepting Geelong. I had a bad impression of the place on first reaching it; and working hard for several weeks, without making anything, did not do much towards removing that impression. I determined, therefore, to go back to Ballarat—not a little dissatisfied with myself for having left it. After my experience of the Avoca diggings, I had resolved to remain permanently at Ballarat—believing it to be the best gold-field in the Colony—but I had allowed false reports of the richness of Mount Blackwood to affect this resolution; and I was not without the consolation of knowing, that the misfortunes that befel me at the latter place were attributable to my own folly; in lending a too ready ear to idle exaggerations.