My Life in Many States and in Foreign Lands, Dictated in My Seventy-Fourth Year

Thus have I narrated, in this and the previous chapters, the most interesting events and experiences of my life in Liverpool. The life there was particularly varied and altogether delightful. It was, of course, a very busy time, but I managed to get a great deal of pleasure out of it. There was a constant round of entertainments, and the social life of the city was generally gay and interesting. At this period I had two portraits of my wife and myself made. They are now in the possession of my daughter, who keeps them in the room which she always has ready for me in the country.

As for my standing in the city, I may give here the opinion of Charles Mackay, the poet, author of Cheer, Boys, Cheer, and other well-known poems, who wrote, in reviewing my book, Young America in Wall Street, that I "walked up the Liverpool Exchange like a Baring or a Rothschild." I remained in Liverpool one year with my wife, and then returned to the United States. This was in '52. The best men of Liverpool had made me welcome everywhere, in all circles of business or of society.

CHAPTER X

"Would you ride over me roughshod?" he asked, almost fiercely, when I ventured to suggest a larger partnership interest. I replied that I thought I had given full value for everything that the house had done for me, and that I should be able to do so in the future. After some further discussion, in which the old gentleman was mollified, the matter was arranged. I received a partnership interest that was equal to $15,000 a year—and I was only twenty-two years old at the time.

As soon as the contract was signed, and it was in my hand, I said—because I was still nettled by the manner in which he had received my suggestion of a partnership—"Colonel, as you do not seem to care to take me into the firm, here is your contract"; and I tore it in two and handed him the pieces. "I am going to Australia."

This cool announcement astonished him. He did not know what to do. Finally, we came to terms. It was decided that I should go to Melbourne to start my own house with Captain Caldwell, one of our oldest ship-captains, the house to be known as "Caldwell, Train & Co." It was Colonel Train's view that this elderly man would act as a check upon my youthful rashness, he having no interest in the firm but good-will toward me and one of his captains.

The arrangements once completed, I was eager to be about my work in the antipodes, and prepared to sail at the first opportunity. Everything was taken from Boston—clerks, sets of books, business forms, etc. Nothing was left to the chance of finding or getting in Australia the material that we might need. And so the new house of "Caldwell, Train & Co." sailed away from Boston on the Plymouth Rock for Melbourne, Australia, on a singularly audacious venture.

Captain Caldwell went out in charge of the clerks, while I was to go by a different route a little later. I went to New York and took passage from there in the old Whitlock Havre packet, Bavaria, Captain Bailey. I had two clerks with me, and carried, also, a large amount of office supplies in duplicate. Duncan, Sherman & Co. had appointed me their agent for the purchase of gold in Melbourne, which was to be shipped to London or New York as circumstances permitted, and I had also been appointed by the Boston underwriters their agent to represent them in the South Seas. The outlook for business seemed especially bright.

I have traveled a great deal since that time, but this was the longest period I have ever been on a ship in a single voyage. We were ninety-two days from New York to Melbourne. I have twice since gone entirely around the world in less time. It was very dreary at times, and I had to resort to all manner of things in order to pass the hours. These attempted diversions were often very amusing.

I have always wanted to do things a little differently from others, partly because it has been more interesting to do them in a novel manner, but chiefly because I have found that a better way than the accepted one could be found. My desire for novelty led me to do some curious things during this long and tedious voyage to Melbourne. One day I was looking at the porpoises playing about the ship's bows, and it occurred to me that I could harpoon one of them. I asked the captain if he had a harpoon, and he brought me one. I then had a rope tied fast about me, so that I could be lowered over the bow. I had a good chance and let fly the harpoon, and, as luck would have it, succeeded in getting a fine porpoise. My successful throw astonished every one—myself more than any. The porpoise was brought aboard, and we found portions of it very good eating.

On another day I hooked a shark, a "man-eater," ten feet long, and this, also, was brought aboard, but no one proposed to eat it. A little later we passed into the zone of the albatrosses, and myriads of these exquisite birds flew over or hovered above the ship. I was desirous to have one of them, and resorted to stratagems learned years ago in the days when I used to snare rabbits and net pigeons on the old farm in New England. I baited a hook with pork, and threw it out upon the water. Instantly a great albatross swooped down upon it and swallowed the bait. I drew the bird on board, and found it a magnificent specimen, measuring twelve feet from tip to tip of its wings. Of course, I released the bird very soon. In such pastimes, we beguiled the time, until we finally swept through the great South Seas and into Hobson's Bay, passed Point Nepean, and anchored off Sandridge.

I had fancied that Melbourne was not a frequented port, off the tracks of commerce, although springing into life and prominence. Imagine my surprise when, on rounding the point where one could sweep the expanse of the bay, I saw before me some six hundred vessels that had reached the port before we arrived, and all, like ourselves, attracted there by the rumors of gold, gold, gold! For a second time within a few years, the whole world had gone wild over a gold discovery, and was now sending thousands of persons to Australia. Thousands more were deterred from going only by the fear of starvation, for very few believed at that time that Australia could feed the hungry searchers after gold, much less give them a fortune in gold nuggets.

Before I left Boston I had heard much about the perils of starvation in Australia. I was told that the country produced little, and that its scant resources would soon be overtaxed by the horde of gold-seekers. "Starve!" I said; "why there are twenty million sheep in the island." I was then told that man could not live by mutton alone. But I knew that, with these millions of sheep, there was little danger of famine.

From the anchorage at Sandridge to Melbourne the distance is about ten miles, the Yarra-Yarra winding and twisting through the tortuous channel. As this river is too shallow to admit ships of a greater burden than sixty tons, all large vessels anchor at Sandridge, or Williamstown. While the distance up the Yarra-Yarra is ten miles, across the spit of sand it is only two. I went into Melbourne at once, secured buildings for our cargo, and arranged for lighters to take it up the Yarra-Yarra.

The very first thing that impressed me in Australia was the miserable and unnecessary inconvenience of having to send everything up the twisted channel of the Yarra-Yarra by lighters. I determined to look into this and see what could be done. The method was too expensive and too slow to suit me. I immediately called on the most influential men of the city, like De Graves, Octavius Brown, Dalgetty, Cruikshank & Co., and James Henty, and said to them: "This thing of coming by way of the Yarra-Yarra, ten miles, when it is only two miles by land, is out of the question. Let us build a railway to Sandridge."

Apparently, this had not occurred to them. They had brought from England their habits of thought, and accepted things as they found them. But I kept at the railway suggestion, until the line was built. This was my first experience in organizing railways. It was not my last.

I also found that it was not possible to get suitable accommodations in Melbourne for business. There was no building there that was large enough. In order to get one sufficiently commodious, I had to build it. Accordingly, we put up at the corner of Flinders and Elizabeth Streets, opposite the railway station, the biggest structure in the city. It cost a pretty penny. The building was 140 feet deep, 40 feet wide and three stories high. The date, "1854," was cut in stone at the top. The edifice cost $60,000. I imported iron shutters from England to make it fireproof.

It was also necessary to have a building at Sandridge, a warehouse in which to store our goods until they were needed in Melbourne, or until they were shipped for America or Europe. In putting up this building, I resolved to make an experiment. This was to have the building made in Boston, and shipped out to me to be erected at Sandridge, thousands of miles away. If successful, the warehouse would cost much less and would be of better material and in better style than anything I could get in Australia. It reached Sandridge all right and was put up at the end of the little line of railway, at a cost of $25,000. It was 60 feet deep by 40 feet wide, and six stories high.

With a warehouse at each end of the line, with all the business credit that I could wish, and with the best connections in the world, we were prepared to do a big business in Melbourne. How far we succeeded may be inferred from the fact that my commissions the first year amounted to $95,000.

Melbourne was a small but promising city. It had some 20,000 population at the time of the gold-fever, and had grown tremendously in the last two or three years, so that, in '54, it must have had something like 30,000 or 40,000 inhabitants. It was, of course, a frontier town, crude and raw, with few of the advantages of civilization. The people were too busy with their search for gold and profits to think much of the conveniences or luxuries of life. The only good hotel, for instance, was the Squatters' Hotel, at Port Philip. There was not even a merchants' exchange, although one was greatly needed. The merchants had simply never heard of such a thing. I arranged with Salmi Morse, who afterward tried to introduce the Passion Play in this country, to assist him in putting up a building that could be used for a hotel, theater, and mercantile exchange. The hotel was the Criterion, and we had a hall in the building for the exchange. The latter was the means of bringing together ship captains, merchants, agents, and business men generally, and a great stimulus was given to business.

I was able to introduce into Australia a great many articles and ideas from America. I brought over from Boston a lot of "Concord" wagons, of the same type as the one that "Ben" Holliday drove across the continent, and I told Freeman Cobb, who was then with Adams & Co., that I wanted him to start a line of coaches between Melbourne and the gold-mines, a distance of about sixty miles. I advanced the money for the enterprise, and a line was established, the first in Australia, to Geelong, Ballarat, Bendigo, and Castle Maine. These were the first coaches seen in that continent. The coaches cost in Australia $3,000 apiece.

I had a chaise brought from Boston for my own use. It was so light in comparison with the great, heavy, lumbering vehicles that were in use in all English countries, that the people there said it would break down immediately. They had not heard of Holmes's "Wonderful One-horse Shay that ran a hundred years to a day," and did not, of course, know the toughness of all "Yankee" things. It didn't break down, and its lightness and general serviceableness made it a big advertisement of American goods. People urged me to import a great many vehicles from America. Every ship brought out wagons of the Concord make, chaises, and vehicles of all sorts. Our carriages and buggies attracted much attention. They were the first vehicles of the sort that had ever been seen in the country. I sold these at a great profit.

A great disappointment and loss occurred, however, through the carelessness of the American shippers, on one occasion. They had sent a cargo of carriages, and I was certain of a large profit on the shipment. What was my surprise and horror, on the arrival of the cargo, to discover that the stupid shippers had sent only the tops of the carriages! The bodies of the vehicles had actually been shipped to San Francisco!

A thing that greatly surprised me, in a land of Englishmen, Scotchmen, and Irishmen, was that there were no sports in Australia. It seems more strange now, after Kipling's fierce denunciation of the "padded fools at the wickets and the muddied oafs at the goal." As I had always been fond of outdoor sport, I at once introduced bowling and ten-pins, opened an alley and organized a club which was composed of Australian bankers—Manager Blackwood of the Union Bank, MacArthur of the Bank of Australia, Badcock of the Bank of New South Wales, Bramhall of the London Chartered Bank, O'Shaughnessy of the Bank of Australasia, and Mathieson of the Bank of Victoria. I mention these names here merely for convenience, and to bring together some of the men with whom I was associated in social and in business life in Melbourne. They represented some $200,000,000 of capital. MacArthur had a beautiful bungalow four miles out of Melbourne, where he invited me to shoot.

I found living at a hotel very dreary and very inconvenient, and decided to have a home of my own. So I got a two-story house at Collingwood, near the residence of Governor Latrobe, just out of the city. Here I accommodated my clerks, also. I took the stewardess, Undine, and the steward from one of our ships, and was able to set up quite an establishment. The United States consul, J. M. Tarleton, and his wife, lived with us for a time.

After I had been in Melbourne nearly a year I was guilty of a small piece of patriotism that has ever since seemed very amusing to me. I had been reared in the belief that every American-born boy has a chance to become President of the United States. I had also the idea that a child born out of the United States was not, in this sense, American-born. My wife expected to give birth to a child in a few months, and, like most parents, we fully expected it would be a son. So what should I do, in order not to rob my son of the chance of becoming President of his country, but send the mother across the seas to Boston, that he might be born on the soil of the United States! It was not until some little time after this that I learned that nationality follows the parents, and that Presidents may be born anywhere, if they are careful in the matter of their parents. The expected boy was a girl—if I may be pardoned an Irish bull. This was my daughter Sue, who could never be President, unless the Woman's Suffrage movement moves along very much faster than it has up to this time.

I have not mentioned my partner in the Australian venture, since I said that he and our clerks sailed away from Boston for Melbourne on the Plymouth Rock—a curious reversal of history, for the West was going to exploit the East, and it was singular that a vessel with the historic name of Plymouth Rock should have been chosen to bear this new Argonautic expedition into the South Seas. Captain Caldwell, as I have said, was an elderly man, sober and conservative. He had been a sea-captain for many years, and was a man of considerable experience. It was the expectation of the Boston shippers that his conservatism would serve as a check upon my rashness and venturesomeness.

Captain Caldwell, however, did not like Australia, but his presence did not prevent my plunging into whatever speculation or enterprise seemed inviting. The country was full of chances, and I should have been stupid, indeed, not to have availed myself of them as far as possible. But the rough life did not suit Captain Caldwell, although he was accustomed to roughing it at sea; and he wanted to return to America. So I consented to his return. He went in the same ship with my wife, the Red Jacket, which, by the way, was then to make one of the record-breaking voyages of the world. Although he had been in Melbourne only a few months, I gave him $7,500, which was the share belonging to him of the estimated profit in our business.

There was still another incident connected with this voyage of the Red Jacket which made it memorable in my experiences. I have mentioned that the phrenologist Bridges said, in England, some years before this, that I should become either a great reformer or a great pirate. In Melbourne, one day, I found myself face to face with a charge of piracy! I was accused of trying to make away with some $2,000,000 of gold, which I had put on the Red Jacket for shipment to London.

It happened in this way. It was of course customary to have all bills of lading signed by the ship's captain. But Captain Reid, of the Red Jacket, had been arrested, at the instance of one of the passengers, and the ship was libeled on account of a claim. For this reason, Captain Reid had not been present to sign the bills of lading. In Boston, I had often signed bills of lading in the absence of the captain, so I had had no hesitancy as to my course in this emergency. I considered that I had a perfect right to sign the bills, and so I did sign them for the $2,000,000 in gold, putting it "George Francis Train, for the captain."

Now, the English are a conservative people. When they see anything new it "frights" them. They can not understand why there should ever be occasion for any new thing under the sun. When the Melbourne banks saw that I had signed the papers, they were scared nearly out of their boots. They had never heard of such a procedure, and thought their insurance was gone.

But this was not all. The Red Jacket was the fastest clipper that had then visited Melbourne, and it occurred to these bankers that I was going to run off with this gold, and become a Captain Kidd or a buccaneering Morgan. They grounded their fears upon the facts that my wife was aboard, that Captain Caldwell, my partner and friend, was also a passenger, and they believed that Captain Reid was on board, although under arrest. To suspicious bankers, here was a really strong case against me.

In the meanwhile, the Red Jacket, with her trim sails bellied with the wind, and sweeping along in a way of her own that nothing in the South Seas could imitate or approach, was passing down Hobson's Bay. The Government and the Melbourne authorities despatched two men-of-war after her. There was no possibility of her being overhauled by these craft, and I gave orders to make for Point Nepean. The sheriffs from Melbourne, who thought Captain Reid was aboard, stayed on the ship, but I ordered them put off at the Point. They were furious, but could do nothing, since they could not act for Melbourne at sea under the Stars and Stripes. Accordingly, they were put on a tug and taken back to Melbourne. Immediately after the sheriffs left the boat, a little yacht, the Flying Eagle, with Captain Reid aboard, came alongside, and the captain was put on the Red Jacket, just outside the jurisdiction of Australia.

The Red Jacket caught the wind again, and showed her clean heels to the slow-sailing men-of-war giving chase. She made the run to Liverpool in sixty-four days.

The authorities and the bankers of Melbourne did not like the proceedings at all, but saw that they could do nothing. There was great anxiety in Australia for two months and more. When it was learned that the $2,000,000 of gold had been landed in Liverpool without the loss of a farthing, I was heartily congratulated, although the British spirit never forgave the taking of matters into my own hands and making the best of a bad situation. Their conservatism had received a shock.

CHAPTER XI

No one knew him. His name even was not known. He was a mere restless wanderer upon the face of the earth, and had broken his heart over the biggest nugget, the richest piece of gold, on the globe. And so the nugget became the property of the Government, after all.

Capt. David D. Porter, who was afterward admiral of the United States navy, visited Melbourne while I was there, and I gave him a reception, at which he met the prominent people of the colony. He was a relative of mine. I was very proud of him then, though more so later. He was in command of the Golden Age, which was afterward famous for the Black Warrior incident. He invited my wife and myself to go with him in his ship to Sydney, New South Wales. We had a delightful trip around the island. The ship made as great a sensation in Sydney as it had made in Melbourne. The American flag had rarely been seen above a man-of-war in those waters. At Sydney we met Sir Charles Fitzroy, Governor of New South Wales, as well as prominent people in civil and official life. Sir Charles Fitzroy was a survival of the old "beau" days of the court of the last of the Georges, and had the heavy courtesy of that time, when everything said or done was accompanied by a low bow and a gracious smile. He entertained us handsomely at Government House. We were also entertained by Sir Charles Nicholson, at his beautiful country seat. I had the peculiar pleasure, while in Australia, of fulfilling one of the prophecies of Sidney Smith, made when he had been editor of the Quarterly Review some forty years before. He said, I remembered, that in half a century cargoes of tea—the luxury that England of his day and ours regards as an infallible evidence of civilization—would be landed at the docks of Sydney. He referred to Port Jackson, which is now dominated by the thriving city of Sydney, and was then one of the most promising ports of the South Seas. I was, at that time, receiving tea on consignment from Nye, of Canton, China, called the "Napoleon of tea trade," and it occurred to me that Australia should be a good market for it. Three cargoes came from Canton, with instructions that if the market at Melbourne proved unfavorable, one of the cargoes should be shipped to Sydney. It was accordingly sent there, fulfilling the prophecy of Sydney Smith, and opening the tea trade of that portion of Australia.

Sir Charles Nicholson, before we were there, entertained Commodore Wilkes, who was visiting Australia, and who afterward stirred up Great Britain by removing forcibly from the British mail-steamer Trent the Confederate States' agents, Mason and Slidell. I was surprised to find in the harbor two of our old packets, the Anglo-American and the Washington Irving, Captain Caldwell's packet, under changed names. They had been sold to English ship-owners.

Sydney was not a large place at this time, although it was growing fast. It may be well to recall here that it had been founded as a penal colony, the effects of which had not entirely passed away at the time of my visit, although no convicts had arrived since '41, I believe. The influence of Botany Bay had also been felt by Sydney. I was struck by the beautiful, narrow, rock-bound entrance to the harbor. It gives to the port many miles of seashore, and is so winding that when Captain Cook, who discovered it, sailed in and anchored in Botany Bay, some of his sailors reported that they saw from the masthead a large inland lake in the interior. The "lake" proved to be only an apparent one, produced by one of the many windings of the beautiful, sinuous arm of the sea, eventually to hold in its embrace the fine city of Sydney.

The wind died down slowly, and it was hours before we could approach the coast. As soon as possible, I got out with a crew in a small boat and went to the island. We had a most difficult time in getting through the surf and avoiding the breakers, but we finally reached shore. There we found Captain Brown with his wife, the ship's officers and the crew, all alive and well. They had managed to live on shell-fish and wallaby—the small bush kangaroos. They had not been able to take anything from the ship, and could not, of course, reach her after she had been abandoned. We got them all aboard the tug, and carried them safely to Melbourne. The American consul afterward sent them all home by way of Liverpool. This was the second rescue of shipwrecked crew and passengers that I had made, and I felt a little too proud of it, I suppose.

About this time the British and Colonial Governments decided to settle Tasmania with free emigrants. The idea was to pay the expenses of all who wanted to go to that island, and the Governments made a contract with the White Star Line to transport the settlers. The British Government was to pay one half the expense, and the Colonial Government the remainder. The contract was signed by Henry T. Wilson, manager of the White Star Line, the sailing-ship pioneers of Morgan's mammoth steamship combination, who sent all the papers to me at Melbourne, as representing the company, to see that the terms of the agreement were carried out. He also requested me to go to Hobart Town (now called Hobart) to be there when the first ship-load of emigrants arrived to collect the money for the passage. I immediately took steamer for Hobart Town, and I shall never forget the pleasure of that voyage. It was a revelation. The trip up the estuary to Hobart Town was delightful, and the scenery, I think, was altogether the most charming I had seen in the Southern world. At Hobart Town I was received by Mr. Chapman, a shipping merchant, to whom I had written in advance, and he made me stay with him at his beautiful bungalow, on the crest of a high hill, commanding a fine view of the city.

The emigrants arrived in excellent condition. They were the first free settlers of Tasmania. There had not been a death aboard ship, and the moment the newcomers arrived they were employed, for the city of Hobart Town was very thriving, and there was an abundance of work to be done. I again had the pleasure of feeling that in this, as in other enterprises, I was an argonaut and a pioneer.

I was astonished to find so many persons of prominence, especially in the world of letters, settled in this far-away colony of England. At Hobart Town I found the Powers, the Howitts (whose books were then tremendously popular), and Thorne, the author of Orion. Then, as now, this colony was regarded as the most pleasant portion of the vast possessions of Great Britain in the South Seas. The climate and the aspects of the country were far more pleasant than those of Australia, some fifty miles distant across Bass Straits.

At the time of my visit the whole world was talking about the various efforts being made to discover the remains of the ill-fated expedition to the North Pole that had been led by the former governor of Tasmania, the much-beloved Sir John Franklin. He had gone to the north in 1845, and nothing had been heard of him since. His wife was supposed to be mourning for him in solitude.

Curiosity led me to the house where this famous governor and adventurous explorer had lived, and the janitor, a trusted old servant, showed me over the building. It was one of those enormous structures which the English build for the edification and amazement of the natives in their colonies. I had heard and read a great deal about Sir John and the lovely woman that was mourning his long absence, and I entered the silent house with a feeling that I was trespassing upon a great and unutterable grief. Imagine my astonishment—I may say, horror—to learn that Lady Franklin, or Lady Jane, as she was generally called, had for years lived at one end of the long house, while Sir John had lived at the other, and that, as the story went, they had not spoken to each other for years. She seemed certainly to have had the grace to assume a virtue she did not possess, and apparently mourned her lost lord for years, and spent much of her time in liberal charities. This is the first time I have referred in any way to this unknown unhappiness of Sir John Franklin. It was not known to many people in Tasmania at the time, and I suppose that it is known now only to members of the two families, the Franklins and the Griffins.

As I had come half around the island of Tasmania, approaching Hobart Town from the sea, I had seen nothing of the interior of the country, so I determined—after finishing my business in Hobart Town—to cross the island to Launceston. There is now a railway running directly across, but at that time there was only a stage route. Stages ran every other day. I engaged passage in the mail-coach, the same style of coach that had been used for hundreds of years in England and Scotland, still as rough and cumbersome as when first devised. There, too, was the old Tudor driver and the Restoration guard. Nothing was wanting. The coach looked to me as if it had been taken from behind the scenes of some old comedy—a piece of stage property.

But if the stage was antiquated and out of touch with the modern stir of the world, the driver was not. I asked him what he thought would be the proper thing in the way of a "tip," as I did not know the ways of Tasmania. "That depends, sir," he said, "upon whom we are riding with." That settled the business for me, for my tip then had to be a sort of measure of my self-esteem. I was literally cornered, and had to give him a big tip, in sheer self-defense.

The road to Launceston was an excellent one, a macadam built by convicts, and the scenery was the most beautiful I had seen in Australasia. When I arrived at Launceston I had to get a pass to leave the country, as it had been necessary to have a passport to enter it. The British were very particular whom they permitted to leave Tasmania, and whom they allowed to go there.

Near Launceston I saw the room in which Francis, who was afterward a member of the cabinet of the colony of Victoria and one of the ablest and most energetic men of Australasia, had his famous and terrible fight with a burglar. This fight has become a tradition all over the colonies and is still recalled as one of the thrilling experiences of early days. One night Francis heard a noise in his dining-room. He was up late, studying in his library, and as the country was infested by desperate convicts who had escaped from the camps, he at once went to the room to see whether a burglar had broken in.

Peering through the keyhole, he saw a man with a dark lantern putting the family plate into a bag. Francis came to a decision at once as to what to do. He would enter the room, and fight it out with the robber. Silently opening the door, he entered, and then quickly locked the door and threw away the key. Immediately there was a desperate fight. The burglar finding himself entrapped, turned upon Francis and tried to kill him with a huge knife. Francis caught his arm, and a struggle to the death began. Several times the burglar wrenched his hand free and slashed at Francis, but the plucky fellow did not flinch. He fought until he had conquered the robber, threw him to the floor, and bound his hands behind him. Francis was himself so badly cut that he was in sight of death for weeks.

The exploits of the convict Tracy out in Oregon remind me of a far more terrible case in Australia that occurred while I was there. The country was a sort of frontier, in the Western sense, from one end to the other. It was quite possible that a desperate convict lurked in every patch of bush, who would as soon kill you as ask for bread. But news came to Melbourne one day that a convict had escaped in a peculiarly terrifying manner. He was no ordinary man. He had coolly killed two jailers, or guards, having taken from them their own weapons. Then, going to the water, he ordered a boatman to row him out to a vessel so that he might escape from the country. The boatman, not knowing the character of the man he was dealing with, refused, and was shot dead instantly. The fugitive then rowed out to the vessel in the dead man's boat, and demanded of the captain that he take him aboard and carry him to Melbourne. The captain refused, and he also was shot dead, and with loaded pistol the convict then compelled the mate to take him to Melbourne. After he landed he began a forlorn attempt to save himself from his pursuers.

This beginning in his career of murder was sufficiently terrible to give the entire region a shock, when it became known that he was at large and headed for Melbourne. He was next heard of when he reached Hobson's Bay at Sandridge. Here he found a farmer plowing in the field. The convict needed his horse, and shooting the farmer, rode away. Another farmer followed him, and in turn was killed.

By this time, of course, the whole country was aroused—even the police—and parties were hurriedly formed to capture the murderers, for no one at the time could believe that it was only one man who was committing all these crimes. When he was last seen, he was heading, apparently, for Ballarat, where, perhaps, he hoped to be joined by other men as desperate as himself. Ballarat was about one hundred miles distant, and a posse started in pursuit. Nothing was heard or seen of the convict for fifty miles, when one of the party saw a man near a squatter's hut carrying another man in his arms. This seemed to be a somewhat curious proceeding, and the posse immediately closed in about the man. Just as did Tracy, this man shot the leader of the party. The others then pushed ahead and captured him before he could kill any one else. In the hut they found nine men, tied with ropes. It was not understood what use the convict expected to make of them. All were uninjured. At the time of his capture, the convict had killed fourteen men.

CHAPTER XII

It came about in this way. In '54 the miners in the fields of Ballarat and Bendigo were in a state of intense ferment. They were discontented with existing conditions—their luck in the mines, the way they were treated by the Government and the mine proprietors, and especially by the utter failure of the Government to protect them in their rights against the capitalists. The particular cause of quarrel, however, was the licenses.

When I went to Australia, the reader may easily believe, there was very little feeling for, or knowledge of, the United States. I at once undertook to spread the gospel of Americanism, and introduced the celebration of the Fourth of July. The colonists of England have always been quite friendly to the people of the United States, having a kindred feeling, and all of them have been looking forward to a day when they, too, might have a free country to claim for their own, and not merely a red spot on the map of Great Britain. For this reason, the Australians took kindly to the idea of celebrating the independence of the United States, as formerly a colony of Great Britain.

When the miners, who had heard of my "spread-eagleism," as it has since been called, started their little revolt against the government of the British, they thought of me and offered me the presidency of the republic they wanted to create. In the meantime, they elected me their representative in the colonial legislature of the miners about Maryborough, where they held a great meeting. I could not have taken my seat if I had desired it, and as I did not desire it, of course I declined. The imaginary presidency I declined, also, as I neither wanted it, nor could I have obtained it. The "Five-Star Republic," as it was called, was not to be anything but a dream, and the "revolution" of Ballarat was only a nightmare.

Soon after I declined these honors, there was a terrible riot at Ballarat. The whole mining district had risen against the Government, as Latrobe, the governor, had made himself most unpopular by his policy of procrastination. Everything connected with the mining fields, he seemed to think, could as well be looked after next year as this. The resentment of the miners had at last become uncontrollable. But, slow as they were about redressing the grievances of the miners, the British were fast enough in the business of protecting themselves and in putting down disturbances with a firm and heavy hand. Latrobe waited until the thing had almost got beyond him. He felt that he was all right with the old "squatters," whom he understood and who understood him; but he did not realize that the new element, the thousands of miners that had floated in from every nation of the globe, did not understand him or his ways. They were accustomed to having matters attended to with despatch, and could not tolerate the slow conservatism and unchangeableness of the English civil office. Personally he was a good man; but otherwise, he was as I have described.

The first fruits of the dilatory policy was the sacrifice of forty men. Captain Wise and forty of his troops were cut to pieces by the enraged miners, who had suddenly risen to fight for their rights. Governor Latrobe immediately called for troops from New Zealand, Tasmania, and New South Wales, to quell the rioters. The want of preparation of the revolters at once became apparent, and it was known that they had sent emissaries into Melbourne itself to buy arms and ammunition. The head of the insurrection was James McGill, who was an American citizen. He had disappeared from the neighborhood of Ballarat, and a reward of one thousand pounds sterling had been offered for his capture, dead or alive. In Melbourne there was almost a panic. Rumors were that the forests were filled with armed men marching to the destruction of the place. There were, it was authentically reported, 800 armed men at Warren Heap, about eighty miles distant, who were supposed to be meditating a raid. People hastened to secrete their jewelry, gold was placed in vaults, the banks were guarded, and a special police force was sworn in.

Just as the excitement was at its height, it was reported that James McGill was in the neighborhood of the city. I was sitting in my office one morning, during these days of fear, when a man walked in, as cool as if he were merely going to discuss the weather or some trifle of business. "I hear," he said, "that you have some $80,000 worth of Colt's revolvers in stock, and I have been sent down here to get them." I glanced up at the man, and took him in a little more closely. It came to me in a flash who he was. "Do you know," said I, "that there is a reward offered for your head of one thousand pounds?" "That does not mean anything," he said, and smiled as if it were a joke. "They can not do anything," he added, as if to allay any fears that I might have.

I again took him in, and thought of my $60,000 warehouse that we were then standing in, of the $25,000 warehouse at the other end of the railway, and of all my interests in Melbourne, under which we were placing a powder mine, and playing over it with lighted torches. "This will not do," I said. "You have no right to compromise me in this way." "We have elected you president of our republic," he added. "Damn the republic!" said I. "Do you mean to tell me that you refuse to be our chief?" said he. "I do," I said. "I am not here to lead or encourage revolutions, but to carry on my business. I have nothing whatever to do with governments or politics; and you must get out of here, if you do not want to be hanged yourself, and ruin me." I told him there was not the slightest possibility of success, as Great Britain would crush the revolt by sheer weight of men, if she could not beat its leaders in any other way.

Just then there came a rap at the door, which I had taken the precaution to close and lock. I hurried to the door and asked who was there, and the reply was that it was Captain McMahon, chief of police. He said to me: "Do you know that rascal McGill is in the city? His men are at Warren Heap, but he himself has actually come into Melbourne! I want a dozen of those Concord wagons of yours immediately." I made a motion of my hand to make McGill understand that he must keep quiet. Then I began to talk rapidly with the chief of police, and took him to the farther end of the warehouse, shutting the door of my office behind us. No more wagons were there, for the Government had already got all I had, but I wanted time to think. When we had looked around, and had seen that there were no wagons, Captain McMahon left, and I hurried back to McGill.

"Now, McGill," I said, "I am not going to betray you, but am going to save your life. You must do as I tell you." He looked at me for a moment, and said, "But I am not going back on my comrades." "You will have no comrades soon, but will be in the hands of the officers yourself, if you do not do exactly as I tell you." He finally consented to do as I advised.

As soon as I saw that the way was clear, I took him out into the street to the nearest barber, where I had his hair cut and his mustache shaved off, and then made him put on a workman's suit of clothes. We then got into my chaise, and I drove him down to the bay and took him aboard one of our ships that was about to sail, and told the men that I had brought a new stevedore. McGill pitched in and worked along with the men, and there was nothing to show that he was in any way connected with the revolution of Ballarat, much less its leader.

Three days later the ship sailed, and McGill went on through England to America. This ended the whole affair of the revolution, the chase of the leader, and my chance of being President of the Five-Star Republic!

One day a man, wearing a jaunty silk hat, came into my office. "I see you bring in rum from New England," said he. "How much have you on hand?" I went over the invoices, and told him. He then asked if I gave the same terms as other dealers in Melbourne. "Yes," said I; "cash." "Oh, no," said he. "I get three months' time." He showed me a contract he had just signed with Denniston Brothers & Co., of New York, represented in Melbourne by McCullagh & Sellars, for £3,000 payable in three months. I was astonished. The house had branches in all of the great cities of the world. I told the gentlemanly-looking fellow who wanted the rum that if Denniston could afford to trust him for $15,000, I thought we could trust him for $3,000. I took pains to see, however, that our paper bore an earlier date than that of Denniston. But this precaution amounted to nothing against this shrewd manipulator. He gave his name as John Boyd.

By the end of the week, I began to grow a little suspicious, and sent my clerk to the office of Mr. Boyd early on Monday morning. The office was closed, and there was no Mr. Boyd there. He had gone to Sydney, and that was the last seen of Boyd in Australia. He had "buncoed" us and Denniston & Co. in the easiest sort of way. I really felt cheated, it was done so smoothly. I had not got the worth of my money, as I should have done had I been harder to deceive. There had been no sport in that.

I next heard of Boyd at Singapore; but I was to run up against him later. In '61, when I was giving a junketing trip to some people on the Union Pacific road, and a party of us were on the steamboat St. Joseph going to Omaha, a man came up to me and claimed an acquaintance. Although more than twelve years had passed, I recognized him at once as the John Boyd who had got the better of me in that little trade in Melbourne. I pretended not to know him. I suppose he assumed that the matter had passed out of my mind and that his face was no longer familiar to me. He coolly gave me his address on a card, and when I looked at it I saw "Noble & Co., Bankers, Des Moines, Iowa." I knew him by his broken nose, that would have betrayed him at the ends of the earth.

Perhaps the thing I enjoyed most in Australia was the introduction of American articles—"Yankee notions," the people there called them—into Australia, even against the prejudice of the colonists. They would fight hard against everything that was new or American, but I took a delight in overcoming their bias, and forcing them to accept our ideas. I made a calculation once of the things that I had introduced into Australia, and they amounted to something like fifty. Among these were such common things as the light wagon, the buggy, shovels, and hoes, and—wonderful to think of when one hears and reads so much in these days of the "tins" that the British army consumes—tinned, or canned, goods. These had not been heard of, and I saw at once that there was a fine chance for some profitable business. English packers could not begin to compete with us. On one cargo that I brought in from New London, Conn., we made a profit of 200 per cent. And now "Tommy Atkins" lives on the "tins" that we introduced as a method of carrying provisions from one end of the world to the other.

I suppose that it was from a part of the returns from this profitable shipment that the owners of the goods founded the Soldiers' Home at Noroton, Conn., during the civil war. I must record here a curious incident. It was in this home that a soldier carved a most elaborate design upon a cane which he gave to me, showing in brief outline the whole of my history. It was a wonderful piece of work, and I have kept it as a souvenir of the regard of this soldier in the home that was probably founded in part with the proceeds of the first great shipment of canned goods into Australia, and of my part in introducing this new trade into the South Seas.

I had the opportunity of meeting some famous and curious people in Australia. On one of the celebrations of the 17th of March, I met a great many Irish patriots, among them Smith O'Brien, John Martin, and Donohue. I was an invited guest, and sat down with more than two hundred of the most prominent Irishmen of the Australasian colonies. When Smith O'Brien was in an Irish jail in '48, I asked him for his autograph. I have made it a point to collect the autographs of all the famous men and women I have met, and now have, perhaps, the finest collection of autographs to be seen in this country. O'Brien immediately wrote on a card the following verse: