Banking Under Difficulties

Front matter

Banking under Difficulties

OR

Life on the Goldfields

Chapter 1

BANKING UNDER DIFFICULTIES;

OR,

LIFE ON THE GOLDFIELDS.

Victoria.

CHAPTER I.

Arrival in 1852.—Funeral at Williamstown.—To and from Brighton.—Canvas Town.—Rag Fair.

Land ahead! The crew looked, the people ran, and all were anxious for the land of promise—“Australia Felix” was looming in the distance. The Garland passed the Heads in safety, and dropped her anchor in Hobson’s Bay on the last day of July 1852.

The officer of health and the pilot had left, and all were alone to gaze on the vast and mighty land before them; to build “castles in the air” and dream of the gold in the land so near. Until the commissioner had inspected the ship none were supposed to leave, but the morning sun found us minus half the crew. “Jack Tar” could not resist the temptation of making a rapid fortune at the mines, for the pilot had brought an Argus on board, which was read aloud for the common benefit; and many ears listened to the golden news.

During the night a child died, and as we were too near land to bury it in the sea the carpenter made a little coffin, which was conveyed on shore in one of the ship’s boats, manned by a few sailors. I went with them to bear the father and grandfather company. We were soon at Williamstown, where all was bustle and activity, and no one had time to look at the little burial party. I asked one where the grave-yard was—he did not know, and passed; another where the sexton lived—he laughed. We walked on, got out of the crowd, and at length found a man who informed us where the grave-yard was, and said that folks who wanted graves had to make them, for all the idle folks of Williamstown were digging holes elsewhere. He pointed to a shop where we could purchase a spade. The father and grandfather of the child were decent people from “Auld Scotland,” and this seemed a strange way to bury a beloved one. However, there was no help for it. A spade was purchased, and while the shopman was taking his ten shillings for it, we had time to inquire where the minister lived. One went to tell him, and the others went over the trackless waste to seek the church-yard. It was close to the seaside, a rude fence round it, and large blocks of bluestone were studded between the scattered graves. The father fixed on a spot, and began his sad work. It was the first time he had ever known a parent dig his own child’s grave, and the tears ran down his face. His anxiety was increased when he found that there were only a few inches of soil on a rocky bottom. However there were deeper patches, and he found one and dug a grave. I wandered round the grave-yard until the minister should arrive. There were a few grave-stones, and a few graves fenced in, and round one or two a little walk of sand and shells with which the beach abounds. My attention was particularly directed to one grave—an adult’s by its size—but whose, or whether male or female, I could not tell. Someone’s body doubtless, and the rude memorial left was a little wooden cross, not carved, but simply two bits of wood—one long and one short—tied together by a bit of silk, torn from a kerchief, and on the upper piece two letters rudely carved; but I was aroused from my reverie by some one saying, “The Minister, sir.” I saw a tall man dressed in black, with a bundle under his arm, and a pair of long boots on his legs, duly bespattered with mud, for he had to wade some distance through rotten, boggy ground; he got over the fence, and before I got up he had unfolded his bundle, put on his surplice, and very kindly and feelingly performed the last sad service of the Episcopal Church. This was another thing my Scotch friends had never heard, and I knew that they thought this a queer country. The minister shook hands with the bereaved mourners; it was their feelings—not their dress—that betokened them. He very kindly refused a fee, bade us “good-bye,” and returned home, we to the ship.

The second sun that dawned on us found nearly all our sailors gone. The ship’s company consisted of the captain and his wife, the doctor and his family, and two men, who were either too lame or lazy to follow the rest. When the captain had to go ashore the doctor and his sons had to pull him to the beach. Next day the doctor had some business on shore, and the captain and the doctor’s sons constituted the crew. On both, and on sundry other occasions the boat was moored, and after a “nobbler” at Liardet’s we wended our way to Melbourne—a two-mile walk, and half way nearly knee-deep in watery mud. After leaving the beach we did not pass a tent between there and Melbourne.

There were hundreds of ships in the bay, and consequently thousands of people were coming and going to Melbourne. No one had time or inclination to laugh at the dress of another, for people thought and dreamt of nothing but nuggets. When we got there, and after sundry adventures, I invested in a pair of “seven-league boots,” for I thought of the minister in Williamstown, and wished for a pair of high boots too; but the price, “Oh, tell it not in Gath!” A pair of low ones cost four pounds ten shillings.

We got on board, and after sundry trips between the ship and Melbourne it was time to consider ultimate prospects. Everybody had been, or intended to be, at the diggings; but from all accounts it was no place for the “soft sex.” So I made up my mind to leave my share (and no small one—a wife and four daughters) at some quiet suburban cottage. With this view I took the boys and a boat, and we soon found ourselves at Brighton. We got there, thanks to the tide, for our boat’s crew was not equal to one-fifth part of a sailor. We landed close to a large house—the Brighton Hotel. Here we determined to treat ourselves to a bottle of porter, and one went with a few shillings to purchase it.

The bar was full, and the boy, with bare legs (for we had to wade ashore), thought that for his three shillings he would get back sixpence and a bottle of porter. “Eight shillings!” said the barmaid. The boy was dumfounded; but there were lots of lucky diggers about, who were shouting for everybody, so the porter was soon paid for, and the bottle carried in triumph to the seaside. But we had neither corkscrew nor drinking cup. However, a sharp-edged stone sent the neck flying, and as it was not the first bottle cracked in that corner a bottle-bottom was a good make-shift for a glass.

Brighton now is one of the finest municipalities out of Melbourne. It has good roads, noble bridges throw their span wherever required, whilst magnificent villas surrounded by lovely gardens show that, to the wealth and fashion of “marvellous Melbourne,” it is a favourite resort.

Nothing of this sort met our gaze! Nought but a few scattered cottages and the bare beach was to be seen. One of these cottages was obtained at a figure weekly not much less than a yearly rental at home. It was secured, however, and we attempted to return. We got into the boat and a short way out to sea, and soon found a short way back again. We then made a fresh start, and had the same bad luck as before, and gave it up as a bad job. We then landed the boat high and dry, and trudged along the beach to Melbourne—at least to Liardet’s. We hired a boat on trust, got to the ship’s side, paid our fare, and then retired to rest.

As I had made up my mind to give the diggings a trial I had all my traps packed ready for departure, and was dreaming over the subject, when about midnight the captain came to my cabin and informed me that one of the water police wished to see me. I started up and saw one of the officers of the water police, who asked me if I was prepared, at a moment's notice, to go as a surgeon on board a steamboat that was almost ready to proceed to sea in quest of a number of people supposed to be shipwrecked on King's Island. “To be sure I am,” I replied, and at once unpacked my box, and filled my pockets with a little of this and a little of that, pills, plasters, &c. Then with a “God bless you, wife,” down the ship’s side, and off we went. Captain C—— and Captain J—— had given the officers orders to find a surgeon. The health officer had given the names of all the new arrivals and new chums, and I was one of them. “Money was no object,” said the officer. All the better, thought I, for it was to me; and after a long pull and a strong pull we were close by the boat. Someone said, “Oh, we’ve got a doctor, he’s close at hand.” However, thought I, first come first served. I was first on board, introduced by the officer to Captain C——, who turned coolly on his heel and said, “Oh, captain, I have got one already.” I then returned to the Garland.

After our kind captain had got a few hands we left in the ship’s boats, and got sately to Brighton, landed our cargo and crew on the beach there, made the best of our boxes, and went to Melbourne to purchase sundry articles for domestic use, and to provide for my departure to the diggings. We purchased a camp oven, a tea-kettle, and sundry pots and pans; but how to get them home was the question. “Why, carry them, to be sure,” everything answered; for the mode and manner of all was “I care for nobody, no, not I, since nobody cares for me.” So one took a pot, another a pan, and I took the kettle. We purchased a tent, 8 x 10, for nearly as many pounds. This was put on a pole and shouldered by two men, and off we started, Brightonwards. The tent-bearers failed by the way, left it at a house, and returned next day with more strength. On the arrival of the tent it was pitched on the green (now one of the streets of Brighton), to see how it would look, and it did look funny. However, it was to be my future house, and not to be laughed at. I afterwards saw it properly packed; then we got our swags fastened, and, after many a hearty kiss and blessing, left one fine morning to seek our fortunes.

Any notice of the early days of Victoria would be manifestly incomplete were an account of “Rag Fair” omitted. The following is from “Westgarth’s Victoria:”—

“The great influx of people attracted from Europe by the gold discovery set in about September 1852. The accommodation of Melbourne was now tried to its utmost extent; every house was filled and overflowing, and many respectable families were under the necessity of living in tents or sleeping in the open air. A large city, named ‘Canvastown,’ sprang into existence on the south side of the Yarra; it commenced on the slope of the hill just past the approach to Prince’s Bridge, and extended nearly to St. Kilda. It was laid off in streets and lanes, but the poor immigrants were not allowed to occupy even the small space necessary to stretch their limbs upon without paying for it, as the Government of the day charged five shillings per week for the accommodation; an unnecessary infliction, we admit, upon the really distressed, but which tended to operate beneficially in preventing speculators from erecting tents and leasing them out, and deriving a profit from the necessities of the immigrants. This might, however, have been prevented in some other manner, and the heavy charge for the poor privilege of occupying a few feet of ground with canvas was prejudicial to the British name, in the eyes of foreigners, and almost unworthy of a British Government.

“Could all the secrets of ‘Canvas Town’ have been collected and published they would have formed quite as romantic and extraordinary a volume as the literature of the world ever produced. Persons of all ranks, of all countries, and of all creeds, were there huddled together in grotesque confusion. The main streets were crowded with boarding-houses and stores—all of canvas—and they were said to afford a harbour for some of the most vicious scoundrels with which the colony abounded.

“The corporation—not behind in cupidity—leased out the two market reserves for similar purposes; and there were therefore two small ‘Canvas Towns’ in the centre of the city. The erections on the market reserves fronted good streets, and had a great value for business purposes. It was positively discreditable to the corporation thus to endanger the health of the citizens, and also the safety of the property around these reserves. The revenue which they wrung out of the poor distressed immigrants was apparently, the only object they had in thus deforming the city.

“The necessities of those extraordinary times also brought into existence a mart for a peculiar kind of traffic. It was held daily on the line of Flinders-street, opposite the Custom House, and was designated the ‘Rag Fair.’ There, immigrants who had not means to start for the diggings, or who had a superabundance of articles of wearing apparel, congregated to expose their property for sale. They spread their wares, or held them in their hands, and offered them to the passengers at prices so low as to entice them to become purchasers. The alarming sacrifices here made, day after day, and all day long, excited astonishment. Every article—from a needle to an anchor—could be purchased on this spot. Some went with a large amount of valuable property, which they were under the necessity of disposing of. Others had perhaps only one or two superfluities that they were positively compelled to turn into money to buy bread.

“There were every variety of characters engaged in this singular traffic. The handsome and distinguished looking scion of some good family, anxious to dispose of the best portions of his valuable outfit, bought at Silver’s, and which his fond mother or sister had taken so much pains about. The care-worn broken-down gentleman or tradesman, or his wife, endeavouring to dispose of a silver teapot or a gold snuff-box, or some other carefully hoarded up family relic, which only actual want would have compelled any of them to part with. The stalwart farmer’s son from Cumberland, or some other inward county, offering a gun or a watch, which he found useless in a country like Australia in the golden era. Some with a book, or umbrella, or a pair of boots. In a word there were every class of seller, with every kind of article to dispose of.

“The traffic in ‘Rag Fair’ became at last so considerable as to interfere with the interests of the legitimate storekeepers, and a memorial on the subject having been forwarded to the city council, that body thought it necessary to suppress it; and an order went forth to take into custody all persons guilty of offering goods for sale on the forbidden ground where ‘Rag Fair’ was held. The pretext was that it had become appropriated to the sale of stolen goods, and that persons made it a regular place of traffic, getting themselves up for the occasion as poor immigrants and catching up any unwary purchaser who might visit the scene. The contrast was very striking between the immigrant thus disposing of a few necessaries and superfluities, in order to purchase a small outfit for the diggings, and the half-fledged immigrant who had made a successful trip to Bendigo or Forest Creek, and had revisited Melbourne to dissipate a portion of the treasure he had secured. The hotels presented a singular and to a mind of any refinement, a disgusting scene. The bars, parlors, and public rooms were crowded with people in all the various stages of drunkenness—some were drowsy, some foolish, some violent, some excited, some idiotic, some positively mad. Such assemblages of the worshippers at the shrine of Bacchus could hardly have been jumbled together in any other part of the world; and the freaks of some lucky diggers were so erratic that the stranger to such scenes would hardly believe that they occurred. The great and unaccountable propensity of such as had been very successful in obtaining treasure to fly to dissipation, and to squander their wealth in extravagant profusion, astonished men of reflection; cases have been known where these men have taken up rolls of bank notes in their drunken fury and eaten or destroyed them.

“It was a common occurrence for such persons to entertain every person they could prevail upon to enter hotels with the best these houses afforded; and hundreds—nay, thousands!—of pounds were spent by many foolish and improvident gold diggers in the course of a week’s saturnalia. It too often occurred that they had good cause to repent their thoughtless behaviour, as, generally speaking, they were not again fortunate on the goldfield. A rich claim was seldom met with, and it was a very fortunate individual who happened to fall upon rich spots twice in his digging experience.”

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

Start for the Diggings.—Camping Out.—First Sabbath in the Bush.—Mistaken Capture of Bushranger.—Lucky Digger “Shouts.”

I wish I possessed a picture of the little company. The head of the house in Highland bonnet, blue guernsey, long boots, a leathern belt, and a staff for protection—for I had a horror of pistols—and a swag, fore-and-aft, to use a sailor's expression, as we were apt to do, having so recently crossed the deep sea, where one gets graduated to great perfection in seaman vocabulary, each of the party had a due equipment of some kind or another.

We were soon at the hut of a person who was to take what we could not carry. We at length reached Melbourne, the principal rendezvous, and there had to wait at the “Rob Roy” until a sufficient loading was procured. Two hours were now occupied loading a horse team and bullock dray with the swags of a party no less than forty in number—thirty-nine men and one woman. Our trysting place was Flinders-lane, and “we met, ’twas in a crowd” of diggers, anxious to start for the far-famed Bendigo, but the owner of the teams would not start without his full freight, nor would he commence loading until we all collected our swags, which were weighed as carefully as if they had been silver, and the cartage, at the rate of one shilling per pound, first paid before a single article was deposited on the drays. As we felt rather hungry, we entered an inn opposite the “Rob Roy.” I remember I looked for a servant, but soon found that “Jack was as good as his master,” and everybody dressed alike. I went into a large room where some fifty people were at dinner. After waiting a while, two women rose from the table (for the two serving-maids had taken the precaution to serve themselves first). I happened to be close to one of them, and she at once accosted me with, “This way, mate. Any more with you? The feed is four shillings. Take this seat.” Here I got my first lesson in the art of looking after myself. I overheard one of the party speak of the provision he had made for the journey, and discovered that my party had made none. However, by the time the loading was completed, I found myself with a leg of mutton under one arm, and a four-pound loaf under the other, and each of my party with something to cheapen the loading, as riding, when one would be charged at the rate of one shilling per pound, was out of the question.

At length we were ready to start, thirty-eight of the party duly armed with gun and pistols. I had my walking-stick, and our solitary lady her parasol. She had been married the day before to a lucky digger, and they were now starting on their marriage trip. We were a motley group, but there were many such, and everybody's motto seemed to be “Mind your own business.” We got safely to Elizabeth-street, at least to the last house in it then, when we encountered rut the first, and over went the horse-dray. Oh! What a row! What a rumpus! But there was no use grumbling. I knew my medicine chest was end on in the mud, but so was a digger’s fat wife, who had just been capsized into a deeper ditch in the act of laughing at us in our difficulty. “Serves her right,” said the lady in our party. Our men set their shoulders to the wheel, and the dray was soon righted, no damage being done. The master of the teams was the driver of the horse-dray on which our property was deposited. He seemed to be a quiet inoffensive fellow, but the driver of the bullock team was an old man, with a face that had not seen water for many a month, and although almost everybody had a beard of some sort, his was enough to terrify any new chum. The poor bullocks, seeing the capsize, stood still as if by instinct; but woe to their weary hides, for they had a foretaste of what was in store for them during the journey, and we had an example of the driver’s style in the shape of oaths and imprecations on Browny and Strawberry, and for what I could not tell.

As it was well on in the afternoon before we started, nightfall found us only five miles from Melbourne, and here we were to encamp for the first time. A cord was fixed between two suitable trees, and on this we slung our tent—8 ft. by 10. “All hands to the pumps”—one cutting wood, another gathering leaves to spread our beds on, a third trying to light a fire at the bottom of a gum-tree. We had no bellows, so we sent one of the party to a store close by to buy a pair. He was laughed at for his pains, and told to use his “wideawake.” I tried my bonnet, and it answered admirably, and saved a few shillings to boot. By this time the water was boiling, the pannikins distributed, and everyone had chops and bread to his heart’s content, and, according to arrangements, each had, at his option, a tablespoonful of rum in the last half of his pannikin of tea as a specific against the dangers of damp. It was now time to retire to rest. We almost left our little bush fire with regret, and indeed it was a very pretty sight to see so many fires (for our company had divided into eight or ten parties); some were singing, some laughing, and the bullock-driver was busy fixing the dray, so that the newly-married couple might sleep below it, considering it, no doubt, the best bedroom. He threw a large tarpaulin over the dray, and fixed the pole on a rest. The old man went to look after his horses, and we retired to “pack.”

My staff was called into requisition as a candlestick. A candle was duly fixed on the top, and after spreading the leaves, blankets, and oilskins, I got two of our party disposed of on one side and three on the other, blew out the candle, said ‘Good night,’ and gently wedged myself between the lot. I don’t know if we had got the length of the first snore before there was an alarm in the camp. It seemed to be the cry of a female, and we had only one. It was a wonder that in the scramble to get our weapons of defence some harm was not done. However, the old man’s voice was soon heard, “All right, lads; all right!” By daybreak we were all astir, shaking and folding blankets; kettle boiling, chops frying, and all the etceteras of a camping party. “What was up last night, old boy?” said I to the driver. “Oh, nothin’ particular” said he, turning his quid in his mouth; “Only, after I had a look at the bullocks, and saw that all was right, I went to take a snooze on the top of the dray, but it being on a balance, as I was getting up behind, the stick keeping up the pole fell, down went the dray, and the young bride fancied it was the bushrangers.”

I said, as I threw down my swag for the last time on the Saturday night, “Thank God, the morn is Sabbath.” I had never dreamt of starting at the usual hour, but the bustle of the bullock-driver made me ask him what he was after this morning, when his gruff voice, with a string of oaths, said, “A lot of lazy Scotchmen. Come, get up, and let us start.” “Why move,” said I. “This is the Sabbath.” “The better the day the better the deed,” said he “We have no Sabbaths in the bush;” and the poor bullocks got an additional share of cursing for my attempt to give us all a day’s rest. The roads were so bad that we did not even make a Sabbath day’s journey, for at the end of three miles we were fairly “stuck in the mud.” Evening came, and we camped for the night. The moon shone out in her glory, and we had a huge fire. Almost everyone had cut down a tree, taking the leaves as bush feathers for his bed, and the trunk and branches were added to the common fire. The bullock-driver was alone in his notions about a holy rest on the Sabbath, for, although we were almost all strangers to each other (for we had, like a snowball, grown larger as we had moved on), everyone seemed to feel that we had come from a Christian land. I was not the oldest, but I felt as a father, and, starting to my feet, said, “Come, let us remember that we have spent the Lord’s day in the bush. Let us sing to His praise the 23rd Psalm.” I am no singer, and the only tune I knew was “Stroudwater.” I began; a few joined in, and by the time the psalm was ended the “Black Forest” resounded with the song of praise. Bedtime came, and nearly all retired to rest. I was alone at the fire, and the only person I saw about was the driver, who was settling up for the night by looking around to see if the dray was all right. I said, “How did you like the singing?” “First rate,” said he. “You have not a church here, I suppose?” “Church!” said he, “I haven’t been in a church for twenty years.” “But you say your prayers, don’t you?” “Me pray!” said he, “I never prayed in my life.” “Oh, yes,” said I, “I heard you pray this morning, and I was so struck with the words that I wrote them down.” I took out my pocket-book—for our slow coaching gave me too much time to write memos, and, with other things, I had noted some of the oaths and imprecations of the driver. I began and read on a little, when he said, “Do you mean to say that I used those words?” I said, “Indeed, you did. I took down the very words as they fell from your lips.” “Well, then, stop—stop!” said he; “I am ashamed to hear you say them. I am ashamed of myself.” Next morning we started, and there was less cursing, but now and then a sad imprecation escaped his lips. I had almost to bite mine as the poor fellow declared that the (almost forgetting himself) bullocks would not pull without a little cursing now and then. The roads remained the same, but the cursing propensities perhaps improved. We got to the end of our journey, and I have never seen our driver since. On reaching Kyneton I called at a respectable-looking store, and to my surprise found that I was served by my late hospital assistant on board the good ship Garland. He was getting good wages, and was quite pleased with his new employment. He said that after leaving the ship he spent the last shilling he had for a nobbler, and was almost too weary to walk from “Liardet’s” to Melbourne, where he found a man in a bar of a publichouse offering a £5-note to anyone who could paint his name on a boat he had just purchased. My friend engaged to do it if his employer furnished the materials. This he promised to do, and the bargain was soon struck. The painter got a bed “on tick” and slept soundly in the prospect of getting something to do. He was accommodated with sleeping room on the top of the kitchen table, and was awakened early next morning by the boatman with a paint pot in hand and all etceteras for commencing his job.

After my late assistant had given me this account of himself, he accompanied me a short distance to where there was a disturbance taking place in the street, and we stopped to see what was the matter, for there seemed to be a general fight in front of a publichouse. At this juncture a gentleman rushed from the hotel, bawling at the top of his voice, “What's the matter? What's the matter?” “Who are you?” said a rollicking Irishman. “I’m the Chief Magistrate,” said the gentleman. “Take that, then,” giving the dignitary such a blow in the face as made him reel across the street. I presume he thought, under the circumstances, “discretion was the better part of valour,” and quietly walked on with what he got. The next instant the crowd started off, bawling out “Peeler! Peeler!” and two policemen were seen riding up to the inn in charge of a man mounted on a fine young horse. The policemen were dressed in plain clothes, and, as I understood they had just captured a bushranger, a gang of which were in the neighbourhood, I was anxious to see a real live one, and pushed my way amongst the crowd, when half-a-dozen voices called out “That’s Mr.——.” I did not catch the name. I thought by the twinkle of the man’s eye that he was all right, but at this moment one of the policemen said to the other, “Take that fellow in charge. D—— the eyes of anyone that interferes with me in the discharge of my duty,” and with that be brandished his revolver, which he threatened to discharge at the first man that dared to rescue his prisoner.