Our horses were soon relieved of their saddles, and each man leading his own steed by the long tether-rope which had been carefully coiled round its neck, took it to a neighbouring pool to drink, and then proceeded in search of the best pasture. Our animals having been attended to, our next thought was of ourselves; and every one took his bundle of blankets and cloaks out of the cart, and unrolled it beneath the sloping skreen of boughs, and prepared his bed according to his particular taste or experience; testing the accommodation from time to time by flinging himself upon his couch, and ascertaining the different vents by which the wind would be likely to prove annoying during the night. These were next stopped up by handfuls of xanthorea leaves, or by strips of bark from the paper-tree.
The lodging being pronounced perfect, and the sun being level with the horizon, we hastened the preparation for our meal; and hampers and boxes soon gave forth their stores of cold fowls, tongues, hams, and meat-pies. Sausages are excellent things in bush-campaigns; and as every man toasts his own on the point of a long stick, a high degree of nervous excitement is felt by each, lest he should lose his savoury morsel in the fire.
The kettle soon boiled, and as we ate our tea-dinner, the sun went down, and night quickly swallowed up the short twilight, leaving us to depend entirely on our fire, which presented a goodly pile that shot forth cheerful flames, making the scenery around us bright with light. The ground for the space of many yards glittered beneath the flickering rays; the bowls of the tall trees seemed whiter than usual; even the brown cheeks of the natives looked less dark, as they chattered and laughed over their supper. Cold grog, or hot brandy-and-water, was leisurely sipped by those who lay on their couches in the full tranquillity of after-dinner ease; and as digestion proceeded, songs and catches awakened the echoes of the woods.
Tired at last, we sank to sleep, having first, however, visited our horses and changed their tether. During the night I woke up. All around were fast asleep in different postures; some rolling about uneasily in their dreams; others still as the dead. I heaped fresh logs upon the fire, which blazed forth anew. The natives were all huddled under their wigwams, which are about the size and shape of an open umbrella resting on its edge. The night was dark throughout the forest, and overhead; the little circle of light within which I stood, seemed like a magician's ring, sacred and safe from evil spirits that filled the air around. It was as the speck of Time amid the ocean of Eternity—as Hope, bright and solitary in the midst of unfathomable darkness. There I felt safe and secure—but without —who might tell what spirits roamed abroad, melancholy and malignant? Peering into that dark boundary of forest, the eye vainly endeavoured to pierce the gloom. Fancy peopled its confines with flitting shapes, and beheld a grinning hobgoblin in the grotesque stump of many a half-burnt tree, on which the light momentarily flickered. The ear listened eagerly for sounds in the distant solitude; and one almost expected to hear shrieks of laughter or of terror borne upon the night-wind from the recesses of the hills. Evil spirits seem peculiarly the companions of heathen savages. A wild, desert, and desolate region, traversed only in the day-time, and rarely even then, by straggling barbarians whose hearts have never known a single gentle emotion, seems naturally to be the haunt of the Spirits of Evil.
Chingi, the terror of our natives, is often seen by them, as they lie cowering under their kangaroo skins, and huddled together in the extremity of fear, stalking giant-like and gloomy along the summits of the hills, whilst the moon shrinks timidly behind her curtain of clouds.
On that night, however, there was no moon, and Chingi was not visible to me, nor did any sound break in upon the silence of the forest, save that of our horses eating their food, and giving an occasional snort as the sand affected their nostrils. Anxious to behold any spirits that might please to be visible, I walked to the spot occupied by my quadruped, with the intention of changing his quarters; but finding him comfortably stretched in repose, I left him to dream of his own distant manger and two quarterns of oats, and returned to my couch. The appearance of the bivouac, to one viewing it from the surrounding darkness, was very picturesque. Every object was lighted up by the cheerful blaze—the cart with its packages in or about it, the sleepers in their blue or red woollen shirts, under the sloping roof, their guns leaning against the uprights, their shot-belts and pouches hanging in front—the kangaroo-dogs lying round the fire, and as near to it as possible—the surrounding trees and shrubs glittering with a silvery light, their evergreen foliage rustling at the breath of the soft land-breeze—altogether formed a striking and peculiar scene.
Next morning we were up before the sun, and having breakfasted, proceeded on horseback in search of the herd of wild cattle, which we knew, from the reports of natives, to be somewhere in the neighbourhood. We rode down an extensive plain, covered plentifully with grass, and presenting numerous clumps of trees, which afforded shelter to bronze-winged pigeons and immense flights of white cockatoos. The latter screamed fearfully as we drew nigh, but did not remain long enough to allow us the chance of a shot. Many tracks of the cattle were visible, traversing these plains in every direction; but on reaching a small pool, we found such recent traces as led us to believe the animals could not be far distant. Remaining stationary for a few moments, we allowed the two natives who accompanied us to ascertain the direction in which the herd had wandered, and their signs soon led us to follow in profound silence. The natives walked rapidly ahead; the tracks were very apparent, and we were all in high glee, and growing extremely excited. The sun shone brightly, but as it was in the month of May, the air was mild and pleasant, without being hot. After proceeding along the plains for several miles we came to a thick jungle, through which the cattle had formed a path. The interior presented a rocky area of considerable extent. Fragments of rock lay jostled together, among which trees and shrubs appeared, and here and there an open space afforded room for the herbage which had tempted the cattle into this rough scene. In parts where grass refused to grow, beautiful purple flowers raised their heads in clusters—and ever in the most rugged and barren spots the gayest flowers are found to bloom. How grateful do we feel to Nature for bestowing such charms upon the wild desert! cheering our spirits with a sense of the beautiful, that else would droop and despond as we journeyed through the lone and dreary waste.
Although we sometimes proceeded over a surface of bare rock, and at others over large and loose stones, where no foot-print was visible to the eye of a white man, the natives never failed to discover the traces which they sought with unerring sagacity. After a ride of nearly two hours we observed one of the natives making signs to us to halt. "There they are!" passed in eager whispers from one to the other. Before us was a belt of wood, through which we could perceive about a dozen cattle grazing on a broad plain.
Already they had a suspicion of danger, and began to look around them. One of the natives, with my double-barrelled gun loaded with heavy ball was creeping toward them through the grass upon his hands and knees, whilst we cautiously drew up at the side of the wood.
The herd consisted of a huge mouse-coloured bull, with an enormous hunch on his shoulders, and about a dozen cows, with a few calves. The bull came slowly towards us, muttering low bellows, and shaking his fierce head and ponderous neck, on which grew a short, black mane. From some unexplained cause or other the native fired his gun before the animal was within range, and the bull, being a beast of discretion, stopped short, as though extremely surprised, and after a little hesitation, turned round and rejoined his female friends. The whole herd then began to trot off at a slow pace across the plain, which was thereabout a mile broad. We were now all eagerness for the pursuit; and Tom H——-, the most experienced of the party, calling on us to follow him, dashed off at right angles from the herd, and outside the belt of wood, in the belief that he would be able to head the animals by a little manoeuvring; but at the instant he started the old bull turned short on his course, and made across the plain in a new direction. I happened to be the last of our party, and was the only one who perceived this new disposition of the enemy. Anxious to be the first in the melee, I allowed my friends to gallop off, and dashed myself through the wood directly in pursuit of the herd. Thinking there was no time to lose, I waited not for my gun, but resolved to trust to the pistols in my holsters.
The cattle, who had begun their retreat at a steady trot, increased their speed as they saw me gallopping up to them. I was afraid of their crossing the plain, and escaping in the thick forest beyond, and so pushed my good horse to his utmost speed. He seemed to be as much excited as myself, and in a few minutes I headed the herd, and tried to turn them back; but they would not deviate from their course, and would have rushed through a regiment of foot, had it been in their way: I therefore avoided the old bull, who came charging along at the head of the phalanx, and found myself in the midst of the herd. It was a moment of delightful excitement; some skill was required to avoid the hurtling forest of horns, but I turned round and gallopped with the mass; and having perfect confidence in my horse and horsemanship, I felt that I could pick out any of the animals I pleased. My gun, however, was wanting to bring the huge bull to his bearings. He looked so enormous as I gallopped alongside of him, that I despaired of making any impression with a pistol, and resolved to limit my ambition to the slaughter of one of the cows. We were now across the plain, the bull had entered the forest, and the others were in the act of doing the same, when I rode against the outside cow, in the hope of turning her away from the thick cover, and keeping her in the open plain. She would not, however, turn aside, and I fired my first pistol at her eye, and though I only grazed her cheek, succeeded in separating her from her companions, and turning her up the long plain. At this moment four kangaroo-dogs, (a cross between a greyhound and a blood-hound, bold, powerful, and swift,) that had followed me in the chase, but had only gallopped alongside of the cattle, finding me seriously engaged with one of the number, made a simultaneous dash at the unfortunate cow, and endeavoured to impede her career by barking, and biting at her nostrils, dew-lap, and flanks.
It was a fine sight to see these four noble hounds chasing away on either side of the animal, whilst she, every now and then, stooped low her head and made a dash at them, without pausing in her career. Away she went at a slapping pace, keeping me on the gallop. Fearful of hurting the dogs, I refrained from firing for some time, but at length got a chance, and aimed a ball behind her shoulders, but it struck her ribs, and penetrated no deeper than the skin. Loading as I rode along, I delivered another ball with better success, and she began to abate her speed. The rest of the party now came up, cheering and hallooing, but the game had dashed into a swamp in which the reeds and shrubs were high enough to conceal horses and huntsmen; nevertheless, we pushed through, and found her on the bank of a muddy pool, where she stood at bay, whilst the dogs barked cautiously before her. She was covered with sweat, blood, and dirt, and perfectly furious; and the moment we approached she made a rush, trampling over several of the dogs; and darting madly against the nearest horseman, caught his charger on the flank, and steed and rider rolled together on the ground. The furious assailant stumbled over her prostrate foes, and was saluted with a discharge of fire-arms, which, however, did not prevent her from rushing against me in return for a ball in the shoulder, but I eluded the assault, and the animal fell exhausted to the ground.
All this may sound savage enough to those who read in cold blood, but it was very exciting at the time; and MAN, when a hunter, becomes for the moment ruthless and blood-thirsty. This was a very severe chase; the animal had run full five miles over a rough country at such a pace as to cover our horses with foam, and they now stood thoroughly blown, and shaking in every limb.
We returned to our home after a short rest, taking the tail with us as a trophy. A party was despatched in the evening with the cart, and a large portion of the carcase was brought in and skilfully salted by the experienced hand of Tom H.
This evening passed away as pleasantly as the last, and as we were all rather fatigued, we retired early, and slept until awakened by the sun.
A native arrived early in the morning with the intelligence that a herd of wild cattle was now grazing in a ravine of the hills about four miles distant. As we could not well follow them on horseback in that locality, we started off on foot armed with our rifles. The morning as usual was brilliant, but not too warm, and we walked along in high spirits. We had not proceeded far through the woods when one of the natives, who was in advance, stopped short on a sudden, and we all instinctively did the same. Stealing back to us, he took my rifle out of my hands without any ceremony, and telling us to remain perfectly still, crept slowly forward, stooping nearly to the ground. We now perceived a small plain about two hundred yards a-head of us, on which were six wild turkeys leisurely feeding and walking about.
The native had dived among the scrub, and we lost all signs of him. It soon, however, became evident that the turkeys suspected danger; they erected their tall brown and grey necks, and looked about them like alarmed sentinels. "They're off!" cried we—but just as they were preparing to run, which they do with great rapidity, one of them was seen to flutter his wings and tumble over, whilst the crack of the rifle proclaimed the triumph of Migo. We rushed through the brush-wood, elated as schoolboys who have shot their first throstle with a horse-pistol, and found the bustard flapping out its last breath in the hands of the native, whose dark visage gleamed with triumphant pride.
Resuming our march, we passed over the side of a hill covered with inferior Jarra trees, and soon entered the ravine in which we expected to find the cattle. They were not visible; so we crossed the valley, and passed up the other side for about half-a-mile, when we entered another valley, some distance up which we perceived a herd of cattle quietly grazing, or lying ruminating in the confidence of perfect security. We endeavoured to creep towards them as quietly as possible, but their senses of smelling and hearing were so acute that they became acquainted with their danger too soon for us, and trotted gently up the valley before we could reach them. We now dispersed in the hope of heading them. Attaching myself to Migo, who considered my rifle the most likely to prove successful, as he had killed the bustard with it, we walked for half an hour across the hill-side without seeing anything of our game. A rifle-shot and a loud shout prepared us for something, and in another minute we heard the crashing of branches and the tread of feet, and soon beheld half-a-dozen cows and two or three calves making their way up the hill at a short distance from us.
"What for you no get behind tree?" said the native in an angry whisper, and giving me a push that prevented my staring idly any longer, and sent me into a proper position.
"Oh! why will they go in that direction? Why will they not come within range? I will give everything I have on earth for one good point-blank shot!"
And sure enough a bouncing bull-calf, turning aside from a thick clump of trees, came within about a hundred yards of me apparently wild with fright, and not knowing which way to run. Just as he was turning off again, I fired, and he fell upon his knees, struck in the shoulder.
Migo was upon him in an instant, and felled him to the earth with a blow of his stone-hammer. I shouted the paean of victory, and was answered by a loud "cooey" from the valley and the voice of my friend Mr. B. calling out, "I have killed a splendid cow and dispersed the herd. The bull and several cows are gone down the valley towards the plains."
All the party, with the exception of Tom N., were soon assembled round the body of B.'s cow, which was black and fine-limbed. She was evidently in milk, and there was little doubt that the calf slain by me had belonged to her.
Every one now asked what had become of Tom, whose assistance was absolutely necessary in cutting up the carcases. B. had heard his rifle down the valley, and we now began to "cooey" for him. In a few moments we heard a faint "cooey" in reply, and started in that direction. After walking for about ten minutes towards the opening of the valley we heard distinctly, and at no great distance, the bellowing of a bull. Proceeding cautiously, with our rifles all ready, we soon arrived at the spot, and there beheld a huge bull tearing up the ground with his feet and horns, and bellowing in the most savage manner. A shout of joy directed our attention among the boughs of a low banksia tree, where our unfortunate friend Tom sat painfully perched, only just out of reach of danger. The animal below every now and then fell upon his knees, crushing and smashing something which we had great difficulty in recognising as poor Tom's rifle.
"He is badly wounded," cried Tom, "pitch into him, and don't be afraid!"
Without waiting for this exhortation, we let fly a volley, which brought the animal down upon his knees; and after a few staggering efforts to run at us, he sank to rise no more; whilst his first assailant, Tom, slipped down from his perch, and limped towards the remains of his rifle, execrating the dying bull in a furious manner, and even venting his wrath in a kick. As Tom wore a red shirt that only reached to his hips, he had no chance of concealing an enormous rent in his nether garment, through which protruded the remains of a shirt, which at the best of times was probably far from presenting the appearance of virgin purity, but now was stained with blood. As people in Tom's plight, when not seriously hurt, are usually more laughed at than pitied, the chagrin of our friend enhanced the interest with which we listened to his story.
Knowing that there was no escape for the herd of cattle up the valleys, as they terminated in steep rocks, and that therefore they would either cross over the side of the hill, or return down the first valley towards the plains, Tom hung back, leaving the rest of the party to head them. After some time had elapsed, he distinguished the bull and several cows trotting along the hill-side; and hastening to meet them, he posted himself behind a tree, close to which he saw they would soon pass.
Anxious, however, to get a view of the game, he stepped out from his ambush just as the bull had approached within fifty yards. Each saw the other at the same moment. The bull stopped short, and Tom felt rather queer. He did not like to fire at the vast head of the animal, lest the ball should glance off without effect. The bull, instead of turning aside, began to bellow and tear up the ground with his hoofs. The cows stood still, and stared at Tom, who began to think the state of his affairs looked gloomy; but he knew that his best policy was to remain stock-still; so he looked at the bull and the cows, and the bull and the cows looked at Tom. At length the bull had sufficiently nerved his resolution, and began to advance, tearing up the ground and bellowing as he came on. Tom took aim between the shoulder-blade and the neck, and fired; the enemy staggered, and roared with fury, rushing like a whirlwind upon Tom, who took to his heels, and began dodging round the trees. But the bull was in earnest; and savage with rage as a thousand lions, he tore round the trees more quickly even than Tom, carrying his head close to the ground, and his tail straight out behind, whilst his eyes, Tom said, glared with such fury, that our poor friend's heart froze up within him. Luckily he espied a banksia tree which seemed easy to ascend; but just as he reached it the bull was upon him. The bull roared, and Tom, roaring almost as loudly, made a spring at the tree but slipped down again just upon the horns of the animal. The next hoist, however, rent his garments, and lacerated a portion of his person which he had always considered especially sacred; but as the thrust heaved him upwards at the same time, and gave a fresh impulse to his agility, he succeeded in scrambling upon a bough that kept him just out of danger. No one may describe the pangs of despair by which he was assailed when he beheld the utter destruction of his only rifle. He threw his cap in the face of the bull, but he only lost his cap as well as his rifle by this rash and inconsiderate action, which was the highest proof he could have given of the extremity of his distress.
Poor Tom! he had often been made a butt of, but had never been so butted before.
The cup went merrily round that evening, and many and jovial were the songs that were sung, and witty and pleasant were the jokes that passed freely at the expense of the unfortunate 'tauricide', who, bereft of his rifle, and dilapidated in reputation and pantaloons, was heartily glad to be able to hide his sorrows in sleep.
CHAPTER 14.
WOODMAN'S POINT*
[footnote] *This is a more sentimental story than that of Michael Blake, but I owe them both to the same authority.
There is a pleasant ride along the shore from Fremantle to a little bay about seven miles distant, one side of which, covered with lofty trees, runs far into the sea, and is called Woodman's Point. The sea in this part appears to be only a few miles broad; Garden-island forming the opposite shore, the southern extremity of which seems almost to join Cape Perron, and thus presents the appearance of a vast bay. Not long ago, the blackened remains of a small house, or hovel, were to be seen on the verge of the wood, facing towards Cape Perron. Around it might be distinguished the traces of a garden of considerable extent; a few stunted vines still continued annually to put forth the appearance of verdure, which served only to tempt the appetite of the stray cattle that wandered down to this solitary spot. A large bed of geraniums had extended itself across the path which used to lead to the door of the house; and their varied and beautiful flowers, rejoicing in this congenial climate, gave additional melancholy to the scene. It was evident those plants had been reared, and tended, and prized for their beauty; they had once been carefully cultured, pruned, and watered—now they were left to bloom or to die, as accident permitted. Near to this bed of geraniums, but apart and solitary, untouched even by weeds, of which there were only few in that sandy soil, grew an English rose-tree. Its long, unpruned boughs straggled wildly on the ground. It looked the picture of desolation and despair. A few imperfect flowers occasionally peeped forth, but knew only a short and precarious existence, for the shrub being no longer sheltered behind the house, was now exposed to the daily violence of the sea-breeze.
This widowed rose, deprived of the hand which had tended it so carefully, and of the heart which its beauty had gladdened, seemed now in its careless desolation awaiting the hour when it should die. It really looked, with its drooping boughs, its torn blossoms, and its brown leaves, rustling and sighing to the breeze, like a sentient being mourning without hope. Those who have never lived in exile from their native land, can have no idea of the feelings with which a lonely colonist, long separated from all the associations of home, would regard a solitary plant which so peculiarly calls up home memories. Pardon us, good reader, this appearance of sentiment; you who will read these lines in Old England—that land which we must ever think of with pardonable emotion—will evince but little sympathy with us, who necessarily feel some fond regard for the Mother from whom we are parted, and are naturally drawn towards the inanimate things by which we are reminded of her. There is in this colony of western Australia a single daisy root; and never was the most costly hot-house plant in England so highly prized as this humble little exile. The fortunate possessor pays it far more attention than he bestows upon any of the gorgeous flowers that bloom about it; and those who visit his garden of rare plants find nothing there that fills them with so profound a feeling of interest as the meek and lowly flower which recalls to their memories the pleasant pastures of Old England.
But to return to the ruins of Woodman's Point. This plot of land, now so neglected and forlorn, was once the blooming garden of a very singular old man, who owed his support to the vegetables which it produced, and to the fish that he caught from the little cobble which danced at anchor in the bay, whenever the weather permitted the fisherman to exercise his art. No one knew his history, but his conversation and deportment told you that he was of gentle birth, and had been well educated. His manners were particularly amiable and retiring, and every one who visited the solitary old man came away impressed with a melancholy interest in his fate.
He always welcomed a visitor with gentle pleasure, and seemed glad of the opportunity of showing his crops of vegetables and the flowers in which he delighted.
The rose-tree never failed to arrest his steps for a moment. He had brought it himself from England as a cutting, and there was evidently some history attached to it; but he never shared his confidence with any one; and the history of the rose-tree, like his own, was never revealed.
There was only one point on which he betrayed any feeling of pride— and that was his name. No one else would perhaps have been so proud of it, but he himself ever seemed to regard it with veneration.
He called himself Anthony Elisha Simson; and never failed to make you observe that his patronymic was spelt without a "p".
Nothing irritated him so much as to receive a note addressed, "A. E. Simpson, Esq."
The Simsons, he would assure you, were an old family in the northern counties of England, and traced back their genealogy to the Conquest; whereas the Simpsons were of quite a different, and doubtless inferior origin. Nothing more than this did he ever relate concerning his family or his personal history.
He arrived in the colony a few years after its foundation, without any other effects than what were contained in a portmanteau and carpet-bag, and with only a few sovereigns in his purse. Without associating himself with any one, he early fixed upon the spot where he afterwards built his house, and established his permanent abode. Here he began to make his garden, and did not disdain to earn a few shillings occasionally by cutting fire-wood for a man who supplied Fremantle with that necessary article. It was this occupation that caused the settlers, who knew nothing more of him, to give him the title of "The Woodman"—a name which soon attached to the locality.
After he had been some time in the colony, Mr. Simson began to express great impatience for the arrival of letters from England. Whenever a vessel arrived at the port, he would put on his old shooting-coat, and walk along the shore to Fremantle, where, after having inquired in vain at the post-office, he would purchase a pound of tea, and then return home again.
Years went by. Every time that a vessel arrived, poor Simson would hurry to Fremantle. He would watch, with eyes of ill-repressed eagerness, the mail carried to the post-office in boxes and large sacks. Surely amid that multitude of letters there must be one for him! Patiently would he wait for hours at the window, whilst the post-master and his assistants sorted the letters; and when he had received the usual answer to his inquiry, he would return to his abode with down-cast looks.
As time passed on he grew more fretful and impatient. Receiving no intelligence from England, he seemed to be anxious to return thither. He would drop expressions which led his visitors (generally government officers who called upon him in their rides) to believe he would depart from the colony were he rich enough to pay his passage, or were he not restrained by some other powerful motive.
His mind ran altogether upon the Old Country, and it was with reluctance that he planted the vegetables and cured the fish which were essential to his support.
For many hours during the day he used to be seen standing fixed as a sentinel on the low rock which formed the extremity of the ridge called after himself—the Woodman's Point—and looking homewards.
Doubtless, thought was busy within him—the thought of all he had left or acted there. None had written to him; none remembered or perhaps wished to remember him. But home was in his heart, even whilst he felt there was no longer a home for him. A restless anxiety preyed upon his mind, and he grew thin and feeble; but still whenever a sail was seen coming round the north end of Rottnest, and approaching the port, he would seize his staff, and set out upon his long journey to Fremantle to inquire if there were, at last, a letter awaiting him.
May we imagine the growing despair in the heart of this poor old exile, as life seemed ebbing away, and yet there came no news, no hope to him from home? Frequently he wrote himself, but always to the same address—that of a broker, it was supposed, in Throgmorton-street. But no answer was ever returned. Had he no children—no friends?
Naturally weak-minded, he had now grown almost imbecile; but his manners were still so gentle, and every thing about him seemed to betoken so amiable and so resigned a spirit, that those who visited him could scarcely part again without tears. As he grew more feeble in body, he became more anxious to receive a letter from home; he expected that every one who approached his dwelling was the bearer of the intelligence so long hoped for in vain; and he would hasten to greet him at the gate with eager looks and flushed cheeks—again only to be disappointed.
At length it was with difficulty that he tottered to the Point, to look for a vessel which might bring him news. Although no ship had arrived since he last sent to the post-office, he would urge his visitor, though with hesitating earnestness, to be so good as to call there on his return, and ascertain if by chance a letter were not awaiting him. He said he felt that his hour was approaching, but he could not bear to think of setting out on that long journey without having once heard from home. Sometimes he muttered, as it were to himself, that treachery had been practised against him, and he would go and expose it; but he never allowed himself to indulge long in this strain. Sometimes he would try to raise money enough by drawing bills to pay his passage, but no one would advance anything upon them.
Daily he became more feeble, and men began to talk of sending him a nurse. The last visitor who beheld him alive, found him seated in the chair which he had himself constructed, and appearing less depressed than usual. He said he expected soon to receive news from home, and smiled with child-like glee. His friend helped him to walk as far as the rose-tree, which was then putting forth its buds. "Promise," said the old man, laying his trembling hand upon the other's arm, "promise that when I am gone you will come and see them in full blow? Promise! you will make me happy."
The next day they sent a lad from Fremantle to attend upon him. The boy found him seated in his chair. He was dead. A mound of earth at the foot of a mahogany-tree, still marks the spot where he was buried. Those 'friends' at home who neglected or repulsed him when living, may by chance meet with this record from the hand of a stranger—but it will not move them; nor need it now.
CHAPTER 15.
HOW THE LAWS OF ENGLAND AFFECT THE NATIVES.
The native population of our colony are said to be a much more peaceable and harmless race than those of any other part of Australia. In the early days of the settlement they caused a good deal of trouble, and were very destructive to the pigs and sheep of the colonists; but a little well-timed severity, and a steadily pursued system of government, soon reduced them into well-conducted subjects of the British Crown. There appears, however, to be little hope of civilizing them, and teaching them European arts and habits. Those of mature age, though indolent, and seldom inclined to be useful in the smallest degree, are peaceful in their habits; and when in want of a little flour will exert themselves to earn it, by carrying letters, shooting wild ducks with a gun lent to them, driving home cattle, or any other easy pursuit; but they appear to be incapable of elevation above their original condition. Considerable pains have been bestowed (especially by the Wesleyans) upon the native children, many of whom are educated in schools at Perth, Fremantle, and other places, in the hope of making them eventually useful servants to the settlers. Most of these, however, betake themselves to the bush, and resume their hereditary pursuits, just at the age when it is hoped they will become useful. Very frequently they die at that age of mesenteric disorders; and very few indeed become permanently civilized in their habits.
Nothing could be more anomalous and perplexing than the position of the Aborigines as British subjects. Our brave and conscientious Britons, whilst taking possession of their territory, have been most careful and anxious to make it universally known, that Australia is not a conquered country; and successive Secretaries of State, who write to their governors in a tone like that in which men of sour tempers address their maladroit domestics, have repeatedly commanded that it must never be forgotten "that our possession of this territory is based on a right of occupancy."
A "right of occupancy!" Amiable sophistry! Why not say boldly at once, the right of power? We have seized upon the country, and shot down the inhabitants, until the survivors have found it expedient to submit to our rule. We have acted exactly as Julius Caesar did when he took possession of Britain. But Caesar was not so hypocritical as to pretend any moral right to possession. On what grounds can we possibly claim a right to the occupancy of the land? We are told, because civilized people are justified in extending themselves over uncivilized countries. According to this doctrine, were there a nation in the world superior to ourselves in the arts of life, and of a different religious faith, it would be equally entitled (had it the physical power) to the possession of Old England under the "right of occupancy;" for the sole purpose of our moral and social improvement, and to make us participants in the supposed truths of a new creed.
We have a right to our Australian possessions; but it is the right of Conquest, and we hold them with the grasp of Power. Unless we proceed on this foundation, our conduct towards the native population can be considered only as a monstrous absurdity. However Secretaries of State may choose to phrase the matter, we can have no other right of occupancy. We resolve to found a colony in a country, the inhabitants of which are not strong enough to prevent our so doing, though they evince their repugnance by a thousand acts of hostility.
We build houses and cultivate the soil, and for our own protection we find it necessary to declare the native population subject to our laws.
This would be an easy and simple matter were it the case of conquerors dictating to the conquered; but our Secretaries of State, exhibiting an interesting display of conscientiousness and timidity, shrink from the responsibility of having sanctioned a conquest over a nation of miserable savages, protected by the oracles at Exeter Hall, and reject with sharp cries of anger the scurrilous imputation. Instead, therefore, of being in possession by right of arms, we modestly appropriate the land to ourselves, whilst making the most civil assurances that we take not this liberty as conquerors, but merely in order to gratify a praiseworthy desire of occupying the country. We then declare ourselves seised in fee by right of occupancy. But now comes the difficulty. What right have we to impose laws upon people whom we profess not to have conquered, and who have never annexed themselves or their country to the British Empire by any written or even verbal treaty?
And if this people and country be not subject to our rule by conquest, and have never consented or desired (but the contrary) to accept of our code of laws, and to submit themselves to our authority, are they really within the jurisdiction of the laws of England—'especially for offences committed inter se?'
Such is the anomalous position in which the native inhabitants are placed through the tender consciences of our rulers at home. A member of a tribe has been speared by one of another tribe, who happens to be patronized by a farm-settler, and is occasionally useful in hunting-up stray cattle. The friends of the dead man proceed to punish the assassin according to their own hereditary laws; they surprise him suddenly, and spear him. The farmer writes an account of the fact to the Protector of Natives at Perth; and this energetic individual, rising hastily from dinner, calls for his horse, and endowing himself with a blue woollen shirt, and a pair of dragoon spurs, with a blanket tied round his waist, fearlessly commits himself to the forest, and repairs to the scene of slaughter.
He learns from the mouth of the farm-settler, that the facts are really what he had been already apprised of by letter; and then, having left word that the offender may be caught as soon as possible, and forwarded to Fremantle gaol, he hastens back again to his anxious family; and the next morning delivers a suitable report to his Excellency the Governor of all that he has performed. In course of time the native is apprehended—betrayed by a friend for a pound of flour—and brought to the bar of justice. His natural defence would be that he certainly slew an enemy, as he is accused of having done, but then it was a meritorious and necessary act; he glories in it; his own laws required that he should slay the murderer of his relative; and his own laws, therefore, accuse him not. What are English customs, prejudices, or laws to him? He is not a British subject, for he is not the inhabitant of a conquered country (as English governors tell him), nor has he, or any of his tribe or complexion, consented or wished to be placed under the protection of our laws. Why, then, should he be violently dragged from the arms of his 'wilgied' squaws, and his little pot-bellied piccaninnies, and required to plead for his life in the midst of a large room filled with frowning white faces? Much obliged is he to the judge, who kindly tells him, through the interpreter, that he is not bound to convict himself, and need not acknowledge anything that may operate to his disadvantage in the minds of the jury.
The unfortunate savage disregards the friendly caution, and heeds it not; he maintains, stoutly, that he 'gidgied' Womera through the back, because Womera had 'gidgied' Domera through the belly. He enters into minute details to the gentlemen of the jury of the manner in which these slaughters were effected, and describes the extent and direction of the wounds, and every other interesting particular that occurs to him. The gentlemen of the jury, after duly considering the case, return (of necessity) a verdict of "Wilful murder," and the judge pronounces sentence of death—which is afterwards commuted by the Governor to transportation for life to the Isle of Rottnest.
Now if our laws had been imposed upon this people as a conquered nation, or if they had annexed themselves and their country to our rule and empire by anything like a treaty, all these proceedings would be right and proper. But as it is, we are two nations occupying the same land, and we have no more right to try them by our laws for offences committed 'inter se', than they have to seize and spear an Englishman, according to their law, because he has laid himself open to an action of 'crim. con.' at the suit of his next-door neighbour.
Look at the question in another point of view. Is jurisdiction a necessary incident of sovereignty? Do a people become subject to our laws by the very act of planting the British standard on the top of a hill? If so, they have been subject to them from the days of Captain Cook; and the despatches of Her Majesty's Secretaries of State, declaring that the natives should be considered amenable to our laws for all offences which they might commit among themselves, were very useless compositions. We claim the sovereignty, yet we disclaim having obtained it by conquest; we acknowledge that it was not by treaty; we should be very sorry to allow that it was by fraud; and how, in the name of wonder, then, can we defend our claim? Secretaries of State have discovered the means, and tell us that Her Majesty's claim to possession and sovereignty is "based on a right of occupancy." Jurisdiction, however, is not the necessary incident of territorial sovereignty, unless that sovereignty were acquired by conquest or treaty. We question, indeed, whether it is the necessary consequence even of conquest—the laws of the conqueror must first be expressly imposed. The old Saxon laws prevailed among the people of England after the Conquest, until the Norman forms were expressly introduced.
It is well known in colonies, that the laws propounded in certain despatches are more powerful, and more regarded and reverenced, than any others, human or divine. A kind of moral gun-cotton, they drive through the most stupendous difficulties, and rend rocks that appeared to be insuperable barriers in the eyes of common sense or common justice. Judges are compelled to yield to their authority, and do violence to their own consciences whilst they help to lay the healing unction to those of their lawgivers.
The most convenient and the most sensible proceeding, on the part of our rulers at home, would be to consider this country in the light of a recent conquest. Instead of declaring, as now, that the natives are to be treated in every way as British subjects—thus making them amenable to the English law in all its complexity, whilst their own laws and habits are so entirely opposite in character—it would be better to pass a few simple ordinances, in the nature of military law, which would be intelligible to the natives themselves, and which would avoid the difficulty of applying the cumbrous machinery of our criminal code to the government of savages who can never be made to comprehend its valuable properties. It is most essential that the natives who commit offences against the persons or property of the whites should be brought to punishment. At the same time it is most difficult to establish the guilt of the party accused, according to the strict rules of legal evidence. The only witnesses, probably, were natives, who understand not the nature of an oath, and who lie like the Prince of Darkness whenever they have wit enough to perceive it is their interest to do so. In general, the only chance of obtaining a legal conviction is through the confession of the prisoner; and as it is most desirable that he should be convicted, when there is no moral doubt of his guilt, as his acquittal would be looked upon as a triumph by his fellows, and make them more daring in their opposition to the law, very little delicacy is used in obtaining that confession.
Were the prisoner defended by counsel, who did his duty to his client, without regard to the interests of the public, the guilty person would escape in almost every instance. As it is, the law is outraged, and a trial by jury made an occasion of mockery and gross absurdity, in order to obtain a conviction which is necessary to the welfare of the white population. Nothing would be more easy than to legislate for the proper government of the Aborigines; but you must begin 'de novo', and throw aside with scorn the morbid sentimentality that refuses to look upon those as a conquered people, whom, nevertheless, it subjects to the heavy thraldom of laws which they are not yet fitted to endure.
CHAPTER 16.
REMARKS ON THE PHYSICAL ORGANIZATION OF THE NATIVES.
The native inhabitants of Western Australia are only superior in the scale of human beings to the Bosjemans of Southern Africa. Their intellectual capacity appears to be very small, and their physical structure is extremely feeble. In some respects the Australian peculiarly assimilates to two of the five varieties of the human race. In the form of his face and the texture of his hair he resembles the Malay; in the narrow forehead, the prominent cheek-bones, and the knees turned in, he approaches towards the Ethiopian.* There is a remarkable difference between the jaws and teeth of the Australian and those of any other existing race. The incisores are thick and round, not, as usual, flattened into edges, but resembling truncated cones; the cuspidati are not pointed, but broad and flat on the masticating surface, like the neighbouring bicuspides. This may be attributable to mechanical attrition, depending on the nature of the food which the teeth are employed in masticating. The upper does not overlap the under jaw, but the teeth meet at their surfaces. This peculiarity of teeth has been noticed by Blumenbach as a characteristic of the Egyptian mummy; but he thinks the nature of the food not sufficient to account for it, and imagines it to depend on a natural variety. He observes, that "although it seemed most easy to account for this appearance by attributing it to the nature of the food used by the Egyptians, yet the generality of its occurrence in Egyptian mummies, and its absence in other races, are remarkable; and it affords some probability that the peculiarity depends upon a natural variety."** A constant uniformity in the structure and arrangement of the teeth is an important particular in the identification of species; and if any human race were found to deviate materially in its dentition from the rest of mankind, the fact would give rise to a strong suspicion of a real specific diversity. I have examined the teeth of infants and children, and found them in every respect similar to those of Europeans of similar ages. Moreover, the process of degradation may be traced in natives of different ages up to the teeth worn to the level of the gums in the old man. I therefore consider it the effect of attrition; but it becomes an interesting question to determine what may be the nature of the food which produced the same character in the ancient Egyptian and the modern Australian. Did the fathers of science live on barks and roots, like the wretched Australian? Although attrition may cause this singular appearance of the teeth, the real question is, why does the lower jaw so perfectly and exactly meet its fellow? And is this confined to these two examples?
[footnote] *The observations in this chapter were contributed by Henry Landor, Esq., Colonial Surgeon on the Gold Coast, who resided five years among the natives of Western Australia, and is intimately acquainted with all their habits and peculiarities.
[footnote] **In a former chapter (13.) I have expressed an opinion that the natives are descended from the old inhabitants of India, which I think is exceedingly probable. It is interesting to remember, that the ancient Egyptians are supposed to have originally come from the same country.
There is no fixed law determining invariably the human stature, although there is a standard, as in other animals, from which deviations are not very considerable in either direction. Some varieties exceed, others fall short of, the ordinary stature in a small degree. The source of these deviations is in the breed; they are quite independent of external influences.
In all the five human varieties, some nations are conspicuous for height and strength, others for lower stature and inferior muscular power; but in no case is the peculiarity confined to any particular temperature, climate, or mode of life. The Australians, in general, are of a moderate stature, with slender limbs, thin arms, and long taper fingers. Although in general stature there is nothing to distinguish one variety of man from another, yet in the comparative length of the different parts of the human frame there are striking differences. In the highest and most intellectual variety (the Caucasian) the arm (os humeri) exceeds the fore-arm in length by two or three inches—in none less than two inches. In monkeys the fore-arm and arm are of the same length, and in some monkeys the fore-arm is the longer. In the Negro, the 'ulna', the longest bone of the fore-arm, is nearly of the same length as the 'os humeri', the latter being from one to two inches longer. In a Negro in the lunatic asylum of Liverpool (says Mr. White) the ulna was twelve and a half inches, and the humerus only thirteen and a half. In the Australian, the ulna in some I have measured was ten and a half, nine, ten, eleven and a half; the humerus was in those individuals respectively eleven and a half, ten and a half, eleven and a half, twelve and a half. Thus, in none of the measurements did the humerus exceed the ulna two inches, which in the Caucasian variety is the lowest number. In all the black races the arm is longer in proportion to the stature than in the white. The length of the leg of the Australian averages thirty-six inches; in one man it was only thirty-three and a half, and the tibia of that man measured sixteen and a half, leaving only seventeen to the femur—a very remarkable disproportion.
Thus in the proportion of their limbs, the Australian ranks far below the European; nay, even below the Negro, and approaches far nearer to the simiae than any of the other races of mankind. Perron, in his voyage, made an estimate of the average strength of the arms and loins of the Australian, and of some French and English; this is the result in French measures:—