Shavings
&
Scrapes

FROM MANY PARTS

BY

Jules Joubert

There was a time when meadows, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight, to me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light—

The glory and the freshness of a dream.

It is not now as it has been of yore,

Turn wheresoe’r I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen are now no more.

Wordsworth’s “Recollections of Early Childhood.”

DUNEDIN
J. WILKIE AND CO.
Princes Street
1890

Dedicated to
The Members of the Savage Club,
Dunedin, N. Z.,
1889,
BY
The Author.

CONTENTS.

The Christening.

IN one of the first chapters of Charles Dickens’ “Nicholas Nickleby” he gives a very amusing description of the family conclave held to decide upon the name of the newborn infant.

I am now in the same dilemma.

It is very well to say that “A rose will smell quite as sweet,” &c., &c., and that there is nothing in a name. On this point I must agree to differ.

When I wrote this book I had fixed upon “Ups and Downs”—my publisher tells me that there is already in existence a book under that name. “A Random Shot” met with a similar objection. A score more attempts proved equally fruitless—“Too long,” “Too short,” “Won’t do”—until I made up my mind to translate it into French and call it “Sans nom,” which after all would be most appropriate.

Owing no doubt to perplexity, a homicidal fit came upon me. My fire was being lit: my M.S. laid before me. It struck me that after all it would serve admirably to kindle a flame.

My servant entered with the coal scuttle and some shavings. This saved my paper. “SAVED”!! I cried. I had a name at last: “Shavings and Scrapes”—original, though slightly Barberous. “Shavings” it is, and “Shavings” it shall be.

As you see, the christening was a private affair, settled au coin du feu.

But for this timely assistance the book would have made a blaze, it is true, and my literary effort would have ended in SMOKE.

J. J.

EARLY SCRAPES

I.
A STRAY SHOT.

WHAT is life? A perpetual see-saw with fortune—man at one end, the fickle jade at the other.

A feather at times turns the balance. In my case, an ounce of lead has disturbed the equilibrium of the fortunes of many lives.

Descended from men of war, I have become most essentially a man of peace.

Still, when that most popular of all toasts, “The Army and Navy,” is proposed, it stirs up the old leaven which still permeates the blood that came to me with the name I inherited from my sires.

My paternal grandfather had two sons, one a soldier, the younger a sailor. The latter is answerable for my sins—if I have ever committed any.

The vicissitudes of life are strange, bordering at times on fiction. During the war France had to wage against almost every other nation in Europe to defend her soil from the invasion instigated by a fallen monarchy against the Republican element which originated in 1789, an army, spontaneously raised from her “people,” crossed the Alps, carrying the tricolor flag into Italy, where many hard battles were fought.

These strangely composed, ill clad, badly fed, ragged hordes of French soldiers were led to victory by two young, inexperienced generals—both ambitious, energetic men—the younger, General Bonaparte, in whom the “Directoire” possessed a dangerous enemy of the Republic; the senior, my uncle, whose special mission was to watch the impetuous Corsican and counter-balance the evident sway and influence he was daily gaining over the young army by the daring of his actions and electrifying effect of those short, pithy allocutions he invariably made to the soldiers whom he sometimes so rashly led to death—but always to victory. During the Italian campaign the two young leaders vied with each other in their efforts to drill and train the undisciplined battalions, recruited and enlisted on the Champ de Mars, in Paris, during the terrible period so graphically termed the “Reign of Terror.”

From the victories gained in Italy originated that wonderful army whose glorious deeds have placed France foremost as a military Power.

During one of the most decisive battles on the fields of Novi, after a days’ hard fighting, and when the victory once more had smiled on his flag, my uncle fell, shot through the heart. When his body, carried reverently by his staff, was brought to his tent, a sealed packet was found on the General’s camp-table—a packet containing an official order from the “Directoire” to assume the supreme command of the French army!

What changes in the destinies of Europe have resulted from this stray shot! Two men then ruling the armies of France—one a staunch Republican, seeking only the welfare of his country; the other an ambitious parvenu, ever ready to sacrifice the lives of hundreds of thousands to his own aggrandisement. Who can say what might have been the result had Bonaparte fallen instead of his brother officer?

I only refer to this episode in the early history of the family whence I spring because I consider that it very likely had to a great extent a direct influence on my after life, even though it occurred a quarter of a century before I made my first appearance in this wicked world. It gave rise to a jealous feeling in my father’s heart and led him to leave the navy.

Soon after Napoleon became the ruler of the French Empire, my father, like the Roman of old, exchanged the sword for the plough. Instead of making a name in the naval engagements of Aboukir or Trafalgar he devoted his life to a quieter and perhaps better purpose—the drainage of the then pestilential morasses of Medoc, which have since acquired a world-wide fame for the production of some of the best wines in the south of France.

In some of the libraries of my native country some useful works are to be found on the culture of the vine, the drainage of land in the south of France, as well as a treatise on artesian wells, which was one of my father’s hobbies—the first of these useful perforations having been made in Medoc, and ultimately the great artesian well of Grenelle, in Paris.

II.
PEEP OF DAY.

HAVING so far established the genealogy of the author, it might be as well to bring him to the fore, and to state that on the 31st day of July, 1824, I made my entrée at Angoulême, one of the prettiest towns in France—a town now seldom visited by tourists, owing to its peculiar position on the summit of a sugar-loaf-shaped hill, almost surrounded by the river Charente—too steep for a railway. The engineers who planned the iron road in that locality avoided Angoulême, so that even in this age of progress my native town is, I may say, what it was when I left it many, many years ago—a quiet, unpretentious city, merely known by the paper mills, which afford the principal item of trade of its inhabitants. These mills, in the early part of the present century, belonged to my grandfather; and to this day the water lines on the paper manufactured at Angoulême bear the names “Laroche-Joubert,” the former family having intermarried with ours.

Earlier than it is usual now to put a youth to school, I was sent to Bordeaux, and made to plough up Latin and Greek under a most strict and overbearing taskmaster. In those days the easy hours and lazy system of education now in vogue were unknown. Strict discipline—such, indeed, as would now cause a mutiny in a penitentiary—was considered the right and proper treatment in the best regulated schools. Even Dickens has been mild in his description of scholastic comforts.

I confess that I little relished the scanty food, the corporeal punishment, and long dreary hours spent at my first school at Bordeaux.

The system of schooling now in vogue may—and I feel sure, does—bring about quite as good a result as far as education is concerned; but I still think that the discipline and hardship of the old system had its beneficial effects. I have still a strong impression of those old days, when the first bell used to wake us at 6 A.M., winter and summer; ten minutes allowed to dress; marched to a trough of iced water, in winter, for ablutions; then into a cold, dreary schoolroom—each boy provided with a tallow dip to lighten the darkness of his desk—where, with fingers benumbed with cold, he had to dive into “Æsop” or “Cornelius Nepos,” translate Homer and Virgil on an empty stomach, and with heavy eye-lids, until 8 o’clock, when a slice of dry bread and very much christened milk of doubtful origin would be handed over on our way to the playground. Thus fortified we had to wait till 11 for a déjeuner à la fourchette, worse than that I have often seen placed before vagrants in the soup kitchens of Sydney or Melbourne. Such treatment, however, was “quite the thing” fifty years ago. It not only sharpened the appetite—it sharpened the “wits” of young “gentlemen.”

Being one of the youngest and smallest of boys in Mons. Worms’ school, I had to submit to the will of my seniors. The private store of our schoolmaster was in a large room on the upper floor. The skylight of our dormitories enabled us to have access to the roof, and by dint of a clothes line a small boy could readily be lowered through the chimney into this receptacle of jam pots, tinned sardines, and other delicacies.

What my elders (whose education was more advanced) conceived, I had to execute. Being lowered into the store-room to secure “goodies” for my mates seemed quite a heroic achievement. This systematic burglary we carried on for some time, until one fine evening the line snapped. I dropped into the fireplace with a crash which brought in one of the ushers. A trial—when, all attempts to make me disclose the names of my companions having proved fruitless, I was sentenced to expulsion from the school.

This scandalous beginning in the world, and ignominious exit from my first school, though very disgraceful, have not been altogether devoid of good results. I have ever since been fully impressed with several important facts—First, that burglaries in the long run don’t pay; second, that it is safer to get into a room by the door than through the chimney; third, it is always better to lower someone else after “goodies” than to be lowered one’s self; and last, though not least, that it is not safe to trust one’s body to a hemp rope. It may have been the means of keeping me from more mischief—who knows?

I, however, hailed with delight my removal to the College Bourbon in Paris, where, as a day pupil, I could enjoy the comforts of “home” when my day’s college work came to an end.

It was there that I became personally acquainted with many whose names have since become famous in French history, having for several years sat on the same form with A. Dumas (fils), Clavel, Leon Say, Phillipeaux Brénier; and, at the annual examinations, the sons of our monarch, Louis Philippe—the Ducs d’Aumale and Montpensier—schoolmates whom I had the good fortune to meet again in Paris in 1878, after many years of a rambling life in the Southern Hemisphere.

My eldest brother took it into his head to start for Australia in 1837. I was much engrossed by the fuss all our friends made with him when he left for what was then considered the confines of the world; his letters describing the voyage, his landing, and the prospects of this new world so preyed on my mind that I at once decided to follow in his tracks.

Communications, however, were not quite as frequent in those days as they are now. Instead of a thirty-five days’ passage on board a floating palace, a trip to Australia meant close imprisonment for eleven or twelve months in a wooden tub of three or four hundred tons, with hard biscuit and salt junk, and perhaps an occasional meal of tinned beef and preserved potatoes, washed down with a draught of putrid water, often doled out in very minute portions. All these were thoroughly put before me to cool down my travelling proclivities. But, on the other hand, most of the visitors at home were old shipmates of my father’s—Dumont-Durville, Laplace, Berard—all eminent French navigators, who had followed Cook and Lapeyrouse’s ships in the Pacific—so that, whilst one ear listened to the words of caution and “Home, Sweet Home,” sung to me by the female portion of the household, the other, like gentle Desdemona’s, heard our visitors tell

Of moving accidents by flood and field;

Of hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent, deadly breach;

Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery. . . .

And of the cannibals that each other eat—

The Anthropophagi— . . .

In faith ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange.

The more welcome tales of adventures across the sea became prominent in my mind and eventually carried the day. Once my mind was set on going, I left no stone unturned to make a start. At the instigation of our sailor friends, and with their assistance, I obtained from the then Ministre de la Marine, also a friend of my father—Admiral Duperré—a passage on board the corvette Heroine, which was going to make a voyage round the world, and, en passant, to carry to the Bay of Islands some Church ornaments and ecclesiastical garments sent by the Queen of the French—the sainted wife of Louis Phillipe—to Monseigneur Pompallier, Catholic Bishop of New Zealand.

III.
CHIPS FROM AN OLD LOG

ON the 1st of May, 1839, before daybreak—having only been a few hours on board the Heroine—an unusual noise and turmoil gave me the first idea of the life of a “passager civil” on board a man-of-war.

My hammock was hung close to the gun-room in the gun-deck, where 32 caronades and 250 Jack-tars shared with me that rather close and murky dormitory, which at a given signal from the boatswain’s whistle had to be cleared of hammocks, washed, holystoned, and mopped—all before 5 A.M.

This, I may say, was an operation commenced on that first morning an hour earlier than usual, owing to the fact that “Saint Philippe” being the patron saint of the King of the French, and the first of May being the birthday of the said saint (a fact I am not prepared to vouch for), the whole of the fleet at anchor in the port of Brest would thunder a royal salute at sunrise, in which our ship could not take part, as in those benighted days it was thought that the firing of 21 guns might cause a deviation of the chronometers.

It appears that an order received during the night—to clear out before daylight—had to be obeyed, so we weighed anchor and put out to sea. It was a rough, miserable day. I had hardly managed to hurry on my clothes before the Heroine commenced to toss and pitch as only a heavily-gunned frigate can do in a short, heavy sea with half a gale blowing in her teeth.

I shall never forget an eventful night in the Bay of Biscay, when the frigate was rolling heavily from side to side. One of the racks between the caronades gave way under the weight of the eight or ten thirty-two pound shots it held. These cannon balls were of course sent rolling from starboard to port with increased velocity, threatening in their progress to knock the sides of the ship into splinters. The watch was piped down to stop this mischief, but the task was not an easy one. The men had only the dim light of lanterns to see the very lively balls, and stopping them in their mad career was fraught with much danger; indeed, before they were all secured, several poor fellows had to be carried into the hospital with bruised and broken limbs.

I must confess that had it been possible on that and the following few days to have changed places with the only brother I had left comfortably quartered under the paternal roof, these pages would never have been penned in New Zealand, and he, poor fellow, would have escaped the tragical death he met with in the trenches at Sebastopol during the Crimean war, where he fell mortally wounded at the head of his company, the 11th Artillery.

Youth and a healthy constitution soon overcame the effects of the mal de mer. The Heroine was the smartest sailer in the French navy. Our orders were to keep in the wake of an admiral’s ship—“La Gloire”—sent to Rio de Janeiro to arrange matters in connection with the intended marriage of the Prince de Joinville with the sister of Don Pedro, Emperor of Brazil. Whilst tossing in the Bay of Biscay, and in order to keep at a respectful distance astern of the admiral’s ship, our commander—a knowing old salt, well versed in seamanship—well aware that the best qualities of his frigate were under easy sail, crammed on as much canvas as she could stagger under. This manœuvre brought out a signal from La Gloire to reduce sail and “rendezvous” at the entrance of Rio harbour. This, happening at sunset, was at once acted upon. During the night, under reduced sail, we forged ahead, so that when daylight came the admiral’s ship was almost hull-down astern of the Heroine. A quarter-master came to the skipper saying that the Gloire had hoisted our number, and was signalling fresh orders. “Who told you to look astern, sir?” said the captain. “You deserve to lose a week’s grog for being so officious. Go on the fore-castle and see if there are any breakers ahead; leave it to me to watch the admiral’s signals!” The fact is the old boy wanted to call at the Azores to take in a supply of wine for his and the gun-room table; he knew well that as soon as the heavy pressure of canvas was taken off, the gallant ship would displace less water under her bows, and could give the flag-ship one mile in three.

Thanks to this dodge, we spent a few days at Madeira and Teneriffe, where I received my first idea of semi-tropical climate, vegetation, and manners.

By this time, though not much of a sailor, I had got over the nauseous feeling, and got somewhat used to the “hard tack” called food, served twice a day to the midshipmens’ mess, where I was quartered.

Two meals of half a kilogramme of biscuit, as hard as cast-iron and quite as dark in colour; half a pint of haricots or broad beans alternately, which, I should think, were bought at the sale of surplus stores of Noah’s ark after she stranded on Mount Ararat; salt beef or pork, quite as ancient; and oh! such water!—the stench of it made the washing of one’s hands in it a punishment. Yet we had to drink it, together with the Vin de campagne—a bluish mixture which would have been most acceptable to Messrs Day and Martin for the dilution of their celebrated blacking, but certainly rejected with contempt by Cross and Blackwell for pickling purposes.

What a treat it was to land at Funchal and Teneriffe! Shall I ever forget the delicious treat to rush into a cook-shop and “tuck in” a regular “burster” of white bread, fresh meat, and fruit. Of the latter I made, of course, an ample provision—returning on board with baskets of oranges, bananas, &c. Alas! I had to learn that in a man-of-war, in the year A.D. 1839, a passenger was a kind of incubus—looked upon as a nuisance—an object everlastingly in everybody’s way—without a cabin, a locker, a place to resort to, barring the hammock devoted to his use from 8 p.m. till 6 a.m. next day. The consequence was that all my stores of “goodies” were summarily seized by, and devoured in, the midshipmens’ mess, who, less favoured, had not been allowed even a scamper on shore.

Prior to embarkation my father’s last words were—“A few months on board one of His Majesty’s ships will give you an idea of the world.” Most truly had he spoken. Barely one month from the parental roof, I had already acquired some experience. I already found out that a sea life was not couleur de rose, as I had painted it in imagination. The petty tyranny of my messmates soon knocked out of me all boyish, nursery, and even college notions of self-importance.

The Peak of Teneriffe was soon lost in the far horizon; the gallant ship, once more under canvas, sped her course through lovely weather, shaping a direct course for the South American coast. Gradually getting accustomed to what at first seemed a hard life, making good friends in the gun-room—more especially with our portly head surgeon and the purser, to whose kindness I was indebted for leave to use the surgery and the clerk’s room, as well as the free run of the ship’s library—time hung less wearily. Besides, we were nearing the Brazilian shores. The land breeze every evening wafted to sea the balmy-scented air of orange groves; all eyes strained throughout the day to follow the varied indentations of distant ranges. We passed daily a number of quaintly rigged vessels and coast boats.

At last we reached our rendezvous with the Gloire, and paid the penalty of our treachery. She was not there, and for five dreary long days we had to tack off and on in view of one of the most lovely harbours in the world, scanning the blue line of the sky for the pennant of the old admiral. He came at last—his pride in finding the Heroine newly painted, scrubbed, and in every plank, spar, or rigging—a perfect picture of neat, trim beauty—made him overlook the otherwise unpardonable sin of having out-sailed his old boat.

IV.
FIRST LESSON IN FINANCE.

WE sailed into port together, simultaneously fired our royal salute, and cast anchor among several scores of ships of war of all nationalities, with whom visits of naval etiquette were exchanged for several days, keeping our poor gunners busy from daylight till dark. As I often thought at the time, if our chronometers could not withstand 21 guns on the Saint Philippe’s day two months before, their condition after our firing at Rio must have been sadly affected. But I suppose, like myself, they had by this time got their “sea-legs,” and consequently did not mind a slight jerking.

The captain did me the honour of taking me with him when he made a call on board the Gloire—to my great delight I found that the admiral was a friend of my father’s. I was kept on board to dine with the “great man,” and from that day got my “promotion” amongst my messmates and the gun-room officers of our own ship. Ahem! the friend of the admiral! The sequel was, that wherever our captain went this individual followed—aye, even to that most lovely of all royal palaces, the Emperor’s country house at San Cristopho, where the despatches of the King of the French were delivered to H.I. Majesty Don Pedro—then a fat boy of twenty odd years—who received “Us” most graciously, and introduced us to his two lovely sisters—one the Duchesse de Joinville in prospective. From that day until our departure from that charming country, every hour of the day—even very, very late at night—was taken up by parties, balls, pic-nics, excursions, visiting—a perfect and endless carnival of gaieties, on shore or on board the ships of the station.

I must not omit two incidents which even now I recall with a certain amount of amusement. It seems but yesterday that in order to seal for ever the truce my friends the middies had granted on my return from the first visit to the admiral, I invited our mess—nine young, hairbrained, jolly fellows—to dine with me on shore at Faroux’s hotel, the crack place in Rio in those days. I had still in my bag a few hundred francs left from the small store of pocket money given to me at the start. This—the largest amount of cash I had ever been blessed with—gave me sufficient aplomb to order a first-rate dinner, a variety of choice wines—even that forbidden luxury to our mess, champagne—liqueurs, coffee, and cigars!

This grand feast was a decided success—until the head waiter placed before me “the Bill,” with a total showing FIVE figures in its first column! If ever a poor boy’s digestion after a good dinner received a disturbing shock, it did on that occasion. I sat in a perfect state of amazement! As the dinner progressed I had gradually risen in the estimation of my guests, until I had with the “pop” of the last bottle of “fizz,” reached the apogee of glory. What could be done? Appeal to my guests to pay for the feast?—there was no other alternative. I put on as bold a front as I could, and went through with it. My appeal in forma pauperis was received with apparent good grace. It was proposed, seconded and carried that I should order a bedroom to be prepared and a breakfast for say five next morning, when four of the middies would attend, bringing with them the necessary funds to pay all expenses.

Relieved of my first monetary embarrassment, I retired to my solitary chamber to meditate on the extravagance of a fast life. After a long night of mature cogitations—and many grateful mental thanks to my generously-disposed messmates—the four young rascals made their appearance to share the delicate breakfast prepared at their instigation. When coffee was served, the youngest, E. Dubois (now a hoary-headed old professor of mathematics at the Naval School at Toulon) rose, and in—to them—a most amusing speech, gave me to understand that mil reis represented only 2f. 75c. (£0 2s. 3d.), so that the dinner, the bed, and the breakfast we had just despatched with true midshipman’s appetite, only absorbed a portion of my pocket-money (£6)! But, as he said in conclusion, “Dear boy, you can still face the world boldly. Though ignorant of the value of foreign coins—which proves that your mathematical education has been sadly neglected—you can pay all your creditors twenty shillings in the pound; and you have the satisfaction to think that you have treated your mess royally.” This, and the amount of “chaff” I was met with on board, had to be got over. It was soon done in the turmoil of festivities I have already mentioned.

My young madcap friends, however, having once tasted of the forbidden fruit—a dinner at a swell hotel—decided upon calling a meeting of all the middies in harbour to get up an “International Farewell Dinner.” Alas! my last coin had to be parted with. But had I not to keep up an appearance? If you can imagine a large banquet hall—between sixty-five and seventy young scapegraces, ranging from 14 to 17 years of age, promiscuously sitting around a handsomely decorated table—English, French, Germans, Americans, Dutch, Italians, Spaniards, Greeks, Egyptians—all mixed up together, not two out of the lot able to understand a word of his neighbour’s language on either side of him. For the first half hour it was very much like a Quaker’s meeting. Nothing was heard beyond the clatter of knives and forks, broken by occasional calls from one to another across the board. But what a strange power champagne has on the human intellect! We sat down at 7 sharp; at 8.30 we were all talking to one another; at 11 I was strolling down the Rua del Ovidor arm-in-arm with a Russian on the right and a Dutchman on the left, exchanging ideas on the most knotty points of international naval legislation; and next morning woke up in the swing cot of a Dutch frigate, whilst my Russian friend had somehow got into my hammock on board the Heroine.

We all suffered from intense headaches—owing, no doubt, to the great pressure on the brain caused by the “polyglot” experiment of the previous night.

The two incidents have, however, had a beneficial effect. I have learned the comparative value of the various foreign coins, and have never since attempted to understand more than one foreign language at one time, even with the assistance of Moet’s champagne.

Our stay in this lovely Brazilian capital at last came to and end. A few days after our international “spree” we were coursing for the Cape of Good Hope, where we made a stay of only three days—just enough to visit the Table Mountain and spend a night at Mr. Cloetê’s celebrated vineyard. From Cape Town to Madagascar we had it about as rough as they make it. I often thought the poor old Heroine would be swallowed up in the trough of the mountainous seas we met with, but the good old boat made pretty good weather of it on the whole.

Madagascar, being the first real “nigger” country I had seen, was a source of great interest to me; and I have often regretted that time did not admit of visiting the interior or hilly portion of that magnificent island. Unfortunately, a man-of-war’s route is mapped out in the offices of the Ministre de la Marine, and when the hour sounded for us to weigh anchor and up with the “jib” there was no “jibbing” against it; and a few days later we sighted the twin islands—Mauritius and Bourbon—and visited both.

Strange to say it struck me even then, and more so on the several visits I have paid to the two countries, the former, which has been a British possession for nearly half-a-century, is to this day more French at heart than the latter. Both charming islands, for scenery and the free-handed hospitality of their inhabitants. I doubt if they can possibly be out-done in any part of the globe.

V.
ROBINSON CRUSOE REALISED.

ONE of the principal articles of food for the black and mulatto population of these islands being salt fish, which has to be imported at great expense from Europe and Newfoundland—principally the latter—Mons. Jules de Rontaunay, a wealthy planter and shipowner in Bourbon, originated the idea of establishing on two small islands in the Indian Ocean (St. Paul and Amsterdam) a fishing and curing station; and at his instigation the Governor of Bourbon requested our captain to make a thorough hydrographic survey of those islands. We accordingly sailed straight for this small group. My friends, the doctor and purser of the Heroine, and I, being of course of no service whatever for the scientific work, applied for leave to land with a view to explore the island of St. Paul, which, besides being the most accessible of the two, was reputed to abound in wild goats and sea birds, not to mention hot springs and curious volcanic formations.

Duly equipped and provided for a few days’ stay, we landed in a small basin on the lee side, where a rough cabin was in a few hours cleaned and made habitable by the doctor’s man-servant—an able seaman, expert at such work. Having made the place snug and comfortable, we started for a voyage of discovery, which in my eyes savoured much of that most enticing story of Robinson Crusoe I had so often gloated upon. Like most youngsters, I had become imbued with an ardent wish to experience the delightfully romantic notion of a life on a desert island.

Here, then, was the long-wished-for realisation of my dream. Our first day’s excursion proved most interesting. Whilst Dr. Roland botanised, cracked rocks with his geologist’s hammer, studied to his heart’s content the floral and mineral productions of that unknown spot in mid-ocean, the purser exercised his skill on the wild goats and sea birds; my boyish propensities, assisted by the more mature knowledge of Jean, the doctor’s servant, led me to bird’s-nesting. In a few hours we made such a raid among the crags on the lee shore that we gathered as many eggs as would have fed the ship’s company. At Jean’s suggestion we turned our attention to fishing. There also we had a marked success—Monsr. de Rontaunay’s scheme was evidently based on undeniably correct information. The place abounds with fish of all descriptions and the small bay we had settled on was swarming with them. A spring of warm water trickles into this miniature harbour, which at low tide is closed by a sand-bar. At that particular time the swarms of fish it is filled with rush to the outer bank to escape the palpable change of temperature of the water. It then becomes comparatively an easy matter to haul out as much as one wishes to capture, with even the rudest appliances.

When we all met for dinner we had a stock of provisions which might have afforded a meal for the whole of our ship’s company. Being also supplied with an ample store of “medical comforts,” and having enjoyed the tough yarns so admirably told by Dr. Roland, we rolled ourselves in our blankets near the fire and slept soundly till daylight. After a bath in the tepid waters of the bay, a hearty breakfast, and a peep at the good old ship laying quietly at anchor a mile or so from the shore, we all started on our varied avocations for the day. The weather in that locality is, however, given to sudden changes. Although everything appeared calm and bright at daybreak, clouds began to rise, and before noon a strong breeze sprang up, heavy rollers broke with a roaring noise on the weather side of the island; pelting rain followed, which drove us back to our quarters. We found our faithful “tar” in a great state of excitement. He informed us that a couple of hours after our departure a gun had been fired from the frigate, a signal hoisted which he could not make out (the doctor having taken with him the spy-glass), and that shortly after the hoisting of the signal the ship had weighed anchor, and was now completely out of sight!

In spite of the encouraging words of my companions, I confess that I did not feel quite happy in my mind—the romance of the desert island seemed to assume too much reality. I would then with great pleasure have exchanged our well-filled larder for the hard biscuit, the mess of beans, and piece of salt junk of the Heroine. The idea which haunted me—that we were left deserted on the island of St. Paul—deprived me of both sleep and appetite. I was up before daylight scanning the cloudy horizon. Neither the cheering words nor the chaffing of my companions prevailed. They went their way as if nothing had happened—the only thing which seemed to prey on their minds was the short stock of biscuit and small supply of rum left in the bottle. The same climatic influence which had caused the change for the worse in the state of the weather, brought back calm and sunshine.

At about 8 p.m. we heard the distant boom of a thirty-two pounder! Never in this world did a sound produce sweeter music in my ears. Had I been alone I would certainly have left all my belongings to rush to the shore where the pinnace came to rescue us from our solitary picnic grounds—I would have embraced in one fond, grateful “hug,” the midshipman and the twelve brave fellows who came to fetch us back to the dear old ship. It appears that owing to a sudden fall in the barometer, and the threatening aspect of both wind and sea, it had been deemed prudent to stand off and on, rather than ride out the gale at anchor; this was conveyed to us by the signal we had failed to see.

Of course, the qualm I had experienced remained buried in that most sensitive portion of my body, whence it arose. I entertained my messmates with wonderful tales of sport—stretched to the uttermost. When any doubts were evinced as to the veracity of my statements, they were at once dispelled by an appeal to dear old Jean, whom I shall always declare to have been the very best “affidavit Jack” I ever met. Having, ever since Dr. Roland gave me the free run of his surgery, surrendered to Jean my daily allowance of grog, the dear old fellow would have endorsed on oath that the sun rose in the west and set regularly in the east on the island we had just left behind us in the mist of an October night, if I had ventured upon such an assertion.

VI.
MAORILAND.

LEAVING These two solitary islands, we had to settle down to the more protracted part of our journey, and I may also add, the most uncomfortable one. We were bound for New Zealand, therefore had to go south of Van Dieman’s Land. A merchant-man would naturally have shaped her course for the latitude of Cape Lewin. Not so, however, a man-of-war, whose sailing directions are based on “bureaucratic” prudence, so that we had to go well into the S.W. wind, and heavy seas of the low south. These instructions we followed most religiously. The poor old frigate had a rough time of it; for seven or eight weeks she rolled most unmercifully under close-reefed courses, until the long-wished-for day came, when we began to steer north, and gradually got into warmer and finer weather.

“Land ho!” That most welcome shout from the fore-gallant-top brought us all to the fore-castle—a speck to leeward gradually emerging from the blue waters—the long-looked-for mountain ranges on the New Zealand coast.

A few days’ coasting brought us safely in to the Bay of Islands. We dropped anchor opposite the small unpretending residence of the Catholic Mission, a short distance from the Flag-staff Hill, since rendered famous by the outbreak of Kawiti and Honi Heke. The whale boat, which brought on board the Maori pilot, was manned by Natives, all more or less tattooed—my first insight into real savage life. I had heard and read of the Maori race. Now, I, for the first time, had an opportunity to study it from life. Monseigneur Pompallier, the head of the Mission, was well acquainted with my brother in Sydney, who was acting agent and purveyor for the Catholic missionary stations in the Pacific. At his request I became a guest at the Mission, where the Native chiefs—Rewa, Kawiti, and Pomare—were daily visitors, so that I soon became a fast friend of the two former. Pomare, though friendly, was always looked upon as an unreliable neighbour, and tolerated rather than welcomed at the Mission. His pah was situated on the summit of a sugar loaf hill at the bottom of the Bay of Islands, some miles from Kororareka, being a fortified pah, accessible only by a ladder, which, when removed, rendered the stronghold impregnable.

We made up a party to visit the warrior in his fortress. Having sailed up the bay, we ascended the rough approach, and were courteously ushered by Pomare into his residence—a large bee-hive-shaped structure, with only a small, low opening to admit visitors. A huge fire, even at that time of the year, burning in the centre, filled the place with smoke, and rendered the temperature almost tropical. The Chief, his warriors, and wives appeared quite as much taken up with our appearance as we were with theirs. The conversation, as one may well imagine, was not over lively, considering our utter ignorance of each other’s language. Art, however, came to the rescue of science; one of our officers pulled out of his game bag an album, some pencils, and other drawing materials. He made Pomare understand that he would like to sketch him and his wife as a remembrance of our visit. The Chief, evidently flattered, brought to the centre of the whare a keg upon which he sat in state, holding a carved paddle in one hand, whilst the other rested on the shoulder of a handsome Native female—wife or daughter, I never knew which. The other Natives, following the Chief’s example, formed a group round the fire, each one on a keg of his own.

The sketch was proceeding most satisfactorily, so were our attempts at conversation, until, prompted by curiosity, I endeavoured to elicit from Pomare, who did understand a few words of English, what were the contents of the barrels they were sitting upon.

“Rum?” said I.

“Kahori rum,” said he.

“Water?”

“No.”

“Pork?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“Boom! Boom!” retorted the Chief.

When he perceived that I failed to understand him, he quietly pulled out the wooden plug which closed the bung-hole; a stream of black, shiny powder ran out, falling within a few inches of the burning embers. Without ever exchanging a word, or a wink even, officers, midshipmen, and sailors made a bold rush on all fours through the aperture of the whare, down the ladder, helter-skelter to the ground below, much to the amazement of our Native hosts, whose portrait remains unfinished to this day. Had one grain of powder reached the burning coals, I doubt much if Pomare and his pah would have troubled Colonel Despard, or the 99th Regiment, in 1845.

I have had many dealings with Natives of the South Seas, as well as New Zealand, since then, and have often marvelled how they escape gun-powder explosions, considering how careless they are in the handling or storing of that dangerous compound.

Amongst the sealed orders given to the Commander of the Heroine, one was, as I said before, to bring to the French Mission in New Zealand, Church ornaments and ecclesiastical vestments. Here, also, he was to open a sealed despatch, giving him further instructions—which were to proceed to China, and there take orders from the admiral in command. Having been sent for, I was asked whether I would stay on board, and trust to finding in China an Australian bound vessel to reach Sydney. I had heard at the Mission-house that an Australian schooner—the Deborah—was at Hokianga, trading with the Natives for spars. Looking at the map, the distance across did not seem to me to be very great; I therefore decided upon crossing the Island to seek a passage on board the Deborah. The Captain and Bishop Pompallier made vain efforts to dissuade me from undertaking what they considered a most dangerous trip. My friend Rewa—the next door neighbour of the bishop, and senior chief of the locality—offered to place one of his children on board our ship as hostage until a messenger from Hokianga came back to Kororareka with the news of my safe arrival at Hokianga.

This settled the matter. I started, bag and baggage, never for one moment reflecting that I was trusting my life in the hands of uncivilised cannibals, who were carrying on their shoulders valises full of articles which, in their eyes, were treasures—the appropriation of the fowling-piece I had on my shoulder, or the powder flask slung round my neck, a sufficient inducement to wring that neck, and make a meal of the small mite I then was. The idea of danger never for a minute entered my head. I had spent a couple of weeks amongst them, and had implicit faith in their hospitality and kindness.

To this day I believe firmly that with very, very few exceptions, Natives of this or any other island in the Pacific are to be trusted by those who deal fairly and kindly with them.

At all events, I must speak of the Maoris as I found them, and say that had I been in the hands of my own countrymen, I could not have been treated more kindly. When I became wearied and footsore, they carried me as if I had been an infant, as I really was when compared to those copper-coloured giants, most of them over six feet high.

We usually managed to make for some well-known Native villages at night time. When we got to the Hokianga river, I noticed an animated conversation between my escort and the Natives in whose whare we camped; at almost every alternate word they pointed at me, and often repeating the words “Oui Oui,” which I knew meant “Frenchman.” At last I was given to understand that there was in the neighborhood a “Rangatira Oui Oui”—a great French chief—and that I certainly should go and pay my respects to him. Accordingly, after our evening meal, and by a glorious moonlight, I started with a numerous escort to interview this great countryman of mine, Baron de Thierry—whose name is, I daresay, still remembered amongst the old residents of the North Island of New Zealand—as true a specimen of the Vieille Noblesse of France as one could find in the aristocratic Faubourg St. Germain. Like many other scions of noble lineage, poor de Thierry had to flee from his beloved country to save his head from the implacable guillotine. I spent the whole night with the Baron, who told me that he was going to be recognised shortly as Sovereign of New Zealand. He strongly advised me to remain with him, when he would, on his ascension to the throne, confer an office of trust upon me.

Poor, dear old gentleman, he was perfectly guileless; he thoroughly believed in all he said, and I am quite sure was quite happy in his demented notions of coming grandeur. I often heard from him since that night, but never again met with him.

On my arrival at Hokianga, I met with a sad disappointment. The Deborah had left for the Bay of Islands, so that I was compelled to turn back. The journey, however, had lost all its novelty, and certainly was anything but a treat. I brought back to the Bay the news of my own safety, and released the hostage, who had enjoyed his stay on board much more than I did my second trip across New Zealand.

A small brig from Sydney—the Martha—having called at the Bay, I embarked on board after a most affectionate parting from my old messmates, and the dear friends I had made on board the Heroine.

Every thing in this world is judged by comparison. I did certainly find the Government fare furnished to the midshipmen’s mess “hard tack” as compared with my father’s epicurean menus. But there was even a more palpable difference between the Heroine’s ordinary and that of the Martha. The captain (poor fellow, he has since been murdered and eaten by the Natives at Tanna) was perfectly unconscious of the privations of his passengers. He was drunk from the day we left the Bay until we took in the pilot at the Heads of Port Jackson, after 28 days at sea, 20 of which we spent the best way we could on a biscuit and a cup of water a day—fresh pork a discretion, the brig being loaded with the unclean animal. It is now fifty years since I left the Martha, and I have never broken the vow I made in 1839 never again to touch pork. If I “saved my bacon” by eating it during those 28 days, I have given it best ever since, and intend to follow the Mosaic law to the end of my days.

EARLY AUSTRALIAN SHAVINGS.

I.
SYDNEY IN 1839.

EVEN amongst Australians the Sydney people are daily “chaffed” for the pride they on all occasions evince about what they call “Our Harbour.” I must say that after Brest, Cork, Rio Janeiro, and the Bay of Islands—even the far-famed Bay of Naples, all of which I have visited, and in turn admired—I did not anticipate any very great surprise at the first glimpse of Port Jackson.

But when, at daybreak, on that beautiful summer morning, I came on the poop of the brig Martha, and, for the first time, saw as we turned round the inner South Head this vast expanse of placid blue water—North Harbour and Manly on the right, Middle Head and Middle Harbour facing us, and Port Jackson on the left, with the Blue Mountains in the distance—all other harbours dwindled down to almost insignificance. As we sailed towards Farm Cove, and each succeeding bay, inlet, or head-land were passed, my admiration increased.

I have spent many years in Sydney; very many days boating; have visited every nook and corner of that immense bay, and I must confess that the natives of Sydney have every reason to be proud of their “Harbour.”

Sydney in 1839 was, as compared to its present condition, a very small village. It was a quaint, old-fashioned township, principally occupied by Government officials—military and civil—troops and convicts—some already rich and arbitrary, the others still serving their sentence—obedient, even cringing—but holding their rich “pals” in perfect abhorrence.

It was in those days quite a common occurrence to hear of a woman arriving in the Colony as an emigrant, claiming her husband—a convict—as her assigned servant, and vice versa. Couples re-united in this wise have, in many instances, begun the world over again in Australia, and ended their days in affluence and respectability. Officers, public servants, in those days, when the male sex predominated, in many instances married their assigned servants, picked at random at the “factory” in Parramatta.

This may now seem outrageous, nevertheless in most cases the result of what may appear a most objectionable match, has proved quite the reverse from what might have been expected. It would not do even now to search too deeply into the pedigree of some of the Australians; but I will say that some of the most honourable, best educated, and highly refined men of the day, would, if their escutcheon was scratched, show beneath the emblazonments, a trace of the broad arrow on some part of it.

I do not wish, in making this statement, to say anything disparaging of these people—quite the reverse. The history of New South Wales is quite unparalleled in that of the world. The management of the penal settlements of Australia is one of the most striking instances of the thoroughly admirable system of colonisation on record. With a country like Australia—in view of its distance—the trying and capricious climate—the wretched poverty of the soil—it could never have been colonised by free emigration. It needed the indomitable energy, and the spirit of enterprise of a British Government, and the pluck of the Anglo-Saxon race, to cope with the difficulties of such an enterprise.

See Australia now, a young country joining in friendly rivalry with older and more favoured nations. To fully appreciate the proud position it now occupies, one must need look back a few years. Look at the starting point! Think of that day, barely a century ago, when the first ship anchored in Sydney Cove. Think of the several phases of continuous droughts where the handful of inhabitants were on the eve of starvation from want of flour, and even water, on this immense continent, now a populous, rich nation, teeming with a free and enlightened population, possessing magnificent cities, railways, electric communication, and freedom in the most essential expression of that word.

When I landed in 1839, as I said before, Sydney, and a few—very few—other spots on the New South Wales coast, constituted the whole of the British dominions in the Southern Hemisphere. It was somewhat of a treat to join there my brother, and once more feel that I had a home. But somehow, when one has once taken to roving, it seems difficult to settle down. I had not been very long in Sydney, when the French corvette—the Aube—called for stores on her way to New Zealand. Captain Lavaud, hearing that I had been there, asked me to accompany him, and act as his interpreter. On our way down to the Bay of Islands I learned that his orders were to take possession of New Zealand for the French Government.

At the Bay of Islands, at a déjeuner given by the Resident Magistrate, Mons. Lavaud indiscreetly mentioned the object of his errand in the presence of the commander of an English man-of-war brig. During the afternoon, whilst we were paying a visit to the French Mission the brig sailed; and when, a few days after we reached Akaroa, we found her at anchor, and the Union Jack flying on shore!!

So much for the diplomacy of Captain Lavaud. The French settlement of the Campagnie, Nanto Bordelaise, which had been originated, had to be carried on; but, like most French colonising schemes, dragged on for a few years, and even under the English flag dwindled down, and in a few years died a miserable death. Having witnessed Captain Lavaud’s fiasco, I returned to Sydney, when, at the death of Mons. Bareilhes, I was appointed Chancelier of the French Consulate, a position I held until the Revolution of 1848.

My sympathies were naturally for monarchy—more especially for the Orleans dynasty—and when the 1848 Revolution broke out, I relinquished the diplomatic career, and proceeded to South Australia, where the discovery of rich copper deposits at the Burra and Kapunda caused a sudden rush to that young colony.

The extraordinary and rapid progress of the colony of South Australia in the short space of two years, owing to the rich returns of the Burra Burra mines, is certainly worthy of being recorded. At the first onset the land on which the metal had been discovered was divided between two distinct sets of applicants—one comprising the leading merchants and men of note and social standing, the other principally working men, and the hired servants of the former. When the ground was broken and the mine worked, by a strange freak of fortune the ground held by the last-named portion of speculators turned out to be the best of the two. Shares ran up from £5 to £500! and for a number of years paid dividends at the rate of 200 per cent. on paid up shares! This very naturally upset the equilibrium of the social scale; and in very many instances we saw the servant, now suddenly risen to a millionaire, eclipsing his master in luxurious style; securing the best cabins on board home-bound ships; and, in more than one instance, purchasing baronial residences in Europe out of their dividends. This, I take it, is a fair instance of the ups and downs which have occurred in the Australasian colonies within the last half century.

II.
THE GOLD FEVER.

THIS copper fever, which in a few months’ time aged South Australia, and brought it from its almost infantile condition to maturity, was, however, very soon eclipsed by the gold discovery in California, almost immediately followed by the fabulous reports from the Turon River in New South Wales, and the break out of the gold fever at Forest Creek, in Victoria, at the end of 1851.

These reports spread like wild-fire throughout the length and breadth of Australia. Adelaide became a deserted city. I had invested my all in city lands, the construction of warehouses, offices, &c., which in a few weeks were all closed, without the remotest likelihood of being again tenanted. The ship was gradually sinking under my feet; to remain in South Australia would have been courting starvation. The only course left was to put away the garb of gentility, don the corduroy pants, the woollen shirt, and with pick and shovel follow the stream of diggers to Mount Alexander.

This was a new life. The landing in Melbourne of streams of humanity from all parts of the world, the lack of accommodation for this sudden rush, the canvas town which sprang up between the Yarra and Sandridge, where now stands Emerald, Hill, South Melbourne, and Port Melbourne, was a sight to remember, but difficult to depict. The motley group of tents, the camp-fires, the various nationalities, and with it all the orderly behaviour of tens of thousands of adventurers congregated on that spot was inconceivable. Of course the stay at Canvas-town was but a short one, the predominating idea with one and all being to rush to the El Dorado. The run on the daily papers, the avidity with which all news coming from Mount Alexander were devoured by the new arrivals, is beyond description.

Parties were made up, and a start made. From the banks of the Yarrato Forest Creek there was a continuous stream of carts, bullock teams, pack horses, and pedestrians, all bending under the weight of their “swags.” Every night the camp was pitched near creeks and water-holes, converting these chosen spots into large townships. Improvised stores, coffee and sly-grog shops, sprung up along the line of road. The Black Forest was illuminated at night by a thousand camp-fires; the reports of rifle and gun-shots, to warn evildoers, kept that locality alive for months, until the winter of 1852 came, when the track became an impracticable quagmire, and the roads impassable for drays, and even laden horses. In June, 1852, the cost of carriage rose from £10 to £200 per ton. The price of provisions on the diggings rose accordingly; a pound of salt cost half-a-crown, and every other necessary of life in proportion!

Gold digging was not what most of us had anticipated. The precious metal was there, but it did not crop out of the ground. It was hard work. While gold fetched £3 10s an ounce, it cost, in many instances, £5 to get it.

I was not many weeks on the Mount before I learned that it would be far easier to get the gold from the diggers than out of the ground. It became evident that with a small capital one might do better than by delving into the ground for auriferous sand, and trusting to the cradle and tin-dish to secure the metal.

The setting in of winter rendered it urgent to provide for the housing of the Government staff, hitherto living in tents. Contracts were called for commissioners’ quarters, treasury, escort officers’ barracks, stables, Court House, gaol, hospitals, &c. A civil engineer—Mr. Mather—secured the contract, and entrusted me with the work.

Saw-pits had to be started wherever suitable timber could be found; plans of portable buildings prepared, and last—though not least—tradesmen secured to push on works, which had to be finished within a very short time.

A month after the signing of the contract, I had some two hundred and fifty men, and upwards of forty teams of horses or bullocks at work. In four months we erected buildings sufficient to hold the whole of the staff, police, and gold escort, with out-stations at Forest Creek, Fryer’s Creek, and Bendigo, where the principal diggings then were, as well as at various points on the Melbourne road from that city to Kyneton, through the Black Forest—at Carlsrhue, Sawpit Gully, and half-way from Mount Alexander to Bendigo, at a place then known as the “Porcupine Inn.”

Having to superintend works over something like 200 miles of country was not an easy matter, more particularly when one takes into consideration that the men I had to manage were mostly Van Demonian sawyers and splitters, the very scum of the convict element from Tasmania. Moreover, I had to ride to Melbourne and back to Mount Alexander once a week for large sums of money, which I had to carry in specie to pay the men at their respective stations, riding through a country infested with bushrangers of the worst description.

III.
SOME BUSHRANGERS I HAVE KNOWN.

THIS adventurous life, however, had its charm, and I often think that in spite of hardships and privations, I enjoyed it thoroughly.

For eight months I was hardly ever out of the saddle. During that time I experienced many adventures with men who since have either forfeited their life at the hands of the public hangman, or have served long sentences in H.M.’s gaols. Black Douglas, Thunderbolt, Donoghue, Gilbert, Ben Hall, and many other such celebrities, have often been my fellow-travellers. Many a night have I spent at the camp-fire with such noted characters, yet have never been molested or stuck-up by them. I may quote some instances which have left an indelible impression on my mind.

In the early part of 1852 rich discoveries of gold were made at Bendigo. A great rush set in from Forest Creek. Gold buyers and storekeepers flocked to the new diggings. The “Porcupine Inn”—the half-way, and only house, on that line of road—became a place of resort for all travellers. Being the only place within range of Mount Alexander or Bendigo where lucky diggers could have a “spree,” a goodly number of men gathered there daily with well-filled belts. Gold buyers and storekeepers, with plethoric purses and heavy saddle-bags, also put up at the Porcupine. This fact soon became known to the daring bushrangers who hovered around the diggings in search of unwary travellers.

At Easter-tide, having to go to Bendigo, I joined a party of four and, arriving rather late, put up at this celebrated hostelry, which, owing to holiday times, was fuller than usual. We, however, managed to secure a room. After supper, when I took a run into the stable to see that our horses were duly attended to, an old crippled groom, who had served on one of our out stations, and to whom I had then shown some consideration, beckoned to me to follow him into the yard, where he imparted the information that the landlord and his people were bailed up in a loft above the kitchen, and that a gang of bushrangers were in full possession of the premises, and had been so for the last 24 hours. His parting words were—

“Keep your eyes open, and your revolvers handy.”

When I went back into the house, I found that the grog was being lavishly served by the quondam landlord. All, or nearly all, the men in the place were either stupidly drunk, or bordering upon that wretched condition. I also noted that one of the “waiters” would persist in remaining in our room—the only one in the house where anything approaching sobriety remained. In order to get rid of the troublesome attendant, and to remove his suspicions, I ordered a supply of spirits, hot water, and sugar, and during the few minutes which elapsed, warned my mates, and arranged a plan of action. When the fellow returned we had all drawn round the table, each man with his revolver and bowie knife before him. This array of arms, and I daresay the determined look of the party, seemed to impress our “waiter” that we were “up and ready.” He left us for about half-an-hour. When he came again (it was near midnight), he had with him two other men, who asked us if we had any further orders to give, and rather roughly desired us to put out the lights and go to bed; which, in the present instance, meant to roll ourselves in our rugs on the floor. We told them that we had important matters to settle, and did not intend to put out the lamp, which, fortunately, held sufficient kerosene to last till daylight. Our hosts did not seem to relish the refusal to comply with their wishes, but, however, left us, and locked us in. In a trice we had the table, sofa, and chairs converted into a barricade against the door; the two windows we kept in view with revolver in hand.

The following five or six hours were the longest I ever remember. Occasional strange noises and a few pistol shots were the only breaks to the long monotonous watch of that eventful night. When daylight at last made its appearance, we replaced the furniture, unscrewed the lock of the door, and most innocently called the waiter, who had evidently taken the sulks, and did not show up. We walked single file, revolver in hand, through the passage to the stable—not a living soul to be seen in any part of the premises we went through. Before our movements could be observed we were in the saddle on our way to Bendigo, without having had even the honesty to settle our score. We reported the case at the camp. A detachment of mounted troopers were at once despatched to the Porcupine Inn, where a rather hot battle ensued before the new tenants could be dislodged and the landlord re-instated.

I always have had my doubts as to the veracity of the old scoundrel’s statement. My firm belief is that he was a willing party and shareholder in the plunder, which for the four days’ occupation must have amounted to something pretty considerable. Thanks to old Joe’s warning, however, we escaped, literally scot-free.

The next adventure was of another kind. I was returning from Melbourne with a valise in front of my saddle, containing eleven hundred pounds in notes, gold, and silver. I had ridden seventy-three miles since morning, changing horses at Macedon and Carlsrhue. The sun was about setting when I reached the deep gully at the entrance of Fryer’s Creek. My horse being pretty well knocked-up, and feeling the effects of the day’s hard riding, I let the reins hang on the poor fellow’s neck, put my hands in my pockets after lighting my pipe, never for a moment thinking that the spot was quite appropriate for a “sticking-up” business.

About mid-way through the gully, I suddenly heard a shout on my right hand side, and, for the first time, noticed a man sitting on a log with a gun leaning on a stump in front of him. His first call was—

“Stop, you b——! Stop, or I’ll do for you!” Very much like the beggar’s call to Gil Blas; the adjective, of course, adding more persuasion to the command.

I confess that my first impulse was to stick spurs into the horse’s flanks, and show the bushranger the colour of my nag’s tail. A second, and more courageous thought, however, prevailed. I used, in those days, when carrying Government money, to have a couple of Colt’s revolvers in my belt. I drew them out and covered my friend with both barrels, when to my great astonishment he threw up both his hands above his head, crying—

“For God’s sake don’t fire!”

Keeping him under cover, I made him come down the hill with his hands still up in the air. Poor fellow! he was the most harmless of all teamsters. His dray was on the top of the range, and he was watching his half-starved cattle browsing on the other side of the ravine. The interjection, which I had attributed to myself, was a “friendly hint” to a brindle steer, which he told me had some rather roving propensities, if not closely looked after.

We adjourned to the dray, and over a pannican of hot tea—with rum in lieu of cream—had a good, hearty laugh over our mutual fright, in which I think that the honours were equally divided.

Having, as I said before, come often in contact with some of the most noted bushrangers, who, in the “fifties,” made a raid over the goldfields of Victoria, I am quite prepared to say that with one or two exceptions, they were highway robbers in every sense of the word, but very, very few of them ever stained their hands in blood. The very few exceptions on record, even, were caused by a spirit of revenge or reprisal, or in self-defence when driven to bay by the police.

In one instance I happened to fall in with Black Douglas and two of his mates half-way between the “Bush Inn” and Kyneton. I knew the man, and he also knew who I was, having often seen me at the saw-pits, where these men were, in very many instances, “planted” by their old convict friends whom we employed as splitters and sawyers. The moment I recognised the dreaded bushranger, I made up my mind for a raid on my belongings. Fortunately, I had very little about me on that occasion, having already paid most of the wages. So, putting on a bold front, I rode up to Douglas, calling him by name—

“Well, Douglas, how goes it, old man? How is business?”

He took a long, hard look at me and replied—

“Hallo Frenchy! is that you? Got any Treasury yellow boys in that 'ere valise of yourn?”

“Well,” I said, “I have only about thirty pounds; but, old man, it is not Treasury money now. It is the hard-earned wages of old Sellicks, and some of your pals at Sawpit Gully. Surely you would not take that money! Now, would you?”

“If that’s your game, Frenchy, we’ll ride together to the saw-pits, and the boys will know that old Douglas is not as black as they call him.”

We rode together across country into the sawyer’s camp, had supper and paid the men. Next morning I left Douglas and his friends to carouse and gamble the money I had saved from his clutches by touching his heart in the only soft place, perhaps, it ever had.

Before I leave the reminiscences of these extraordinary times, I may recall my again meeting Thunderbolt (Ward) at Cockatoo Island, in New South Wales, some years later, where he was put in for life. Having the honour to be a J.P. in New South Wales, I had to act as visiting Magistrate at the penal settlement during the temporary absence of the Police Magistrate. Amongst the cases to be tried was one for attempting to escape from the island by this man Ward, alias Capt. Thunderbolt. When the case was called my brother Magistrate at once condemned the unfortunate wretch to 21 days in the cells! The cells at Cockatoo were holes scooped out of the solid rock, closed by a huge flag stone on the top—a tomb! It seemed so hard to see a man sentenced to 21 days of such a life, without even allowing him to plead or say one word in defence, that I demurred, and begged my brother Magistrate to allow the case to be gone into. At the moment—and owing, no doubt, to his altered ways and worn looks—I had not recognised the prisoner as Ward (Capt. Thunderbolt), whom I had often seen on the Victorian diggings. I heard the charge, which I must say was plain, and most damning.

As in duty bound, I challenged this unfortunate man to say whether he had anything to state prior to passing the dreaded sentence. Hardened criminal as he was, it was with a sob in his voice that he replied—

“No, your Honour, I have nothing to say. I have tried to get out of this h—l, and I mean to try again. But I thank you all the same for your kindness. I always thought you was a good sort; and although that other cove would send me to the cells, I know you’d make it easier if you was here alone. God bless you for it, sir!”

Ward kept his word. Within six months he made good his escape, and went to New England, where he stuck up a German band at the Goonoo Goonoo Gap. They pleaded hard to get some of their money back. He made a promise that if he succeeded in bailing up the principal winner at the Tenterfield races—for whom he was on the look-out—he would return them their money; which promise he kept most faithfully by sending to the post-office at Warwick, much to their astonishment, the £20 he had taken from them.

Shortly afterwards, when in a public-house at Uralla, he was surprised by two policemen. Instead of mounting his own horse he jumped on one belonging to a hawker, which turned out a bad one. A chase ensued. One constable’s horse ran away with his rider; the other (Alick Walker), a brave fellow, now a police inspector, rode Thunderbolt down to a water-hole, where a desperate duel ensued, resulting in the death of the bushranger, who had sworn that he would never be taken alive to be sent again to Cockatoo Island.

III.
HOW MONEY USED TO BE MADE.

OUR contracts were nearly finished, when the contractor—Mr. Mather—failed, leaving us all in the lurch. Unfortunately, I was hit harder than anyone else. After eight months of hard life, I found myself in my slab hut at Sawpit Gully, with a very limited stock of provisions, and—a claim on the estate!

It is not in my nature to despond or stick in the mud long. I called together a meeting of my men, explained to them the position of affairs, left the assets of the estate in their charge, and went to Melbourne to fight it out with the Official Assignee. After some trouble I managed to draw the wages due to the men, but my screw had to be left in abeyance until the assets were realised; meanwhile the Court placed me in charge of the valuable property, scattered over the whole of the district, at a salary.

In such times as those one could ill afford to sit quietly awaiting the slow process of the law.

Sawpit Gully—now Elphinstone—was the dividing point of the various main thoroughfares to Fryer’s Creek, Forest Creek, Bendigo, M’Ivor, and other new diggings. It struck me that, in view of the thousands of people who daily passed through, a store might be a paying game. Unfortunately capital was the first consideration, and it was then “an absent friend.” Brooding over my empty purse, I mentioned my project to my men over the camp-fire one evening, prior to going to bed. A couple of hours later a deputation entered my hut. The spokesman—old Sellick, an old Tasmanian “lifer”—said—

“Look you here, boss; you have been a good friend to us chaps, and d—n it, we ain’t agoing to see you in a muck. Pick out your spot; we mean to give you a lift. We will put up your shanty; and if you want money—why, you shall have it.”

The offer was too good to be refused. Heartily made, heartily accepted. The next morning the corner of the cross roads was pegged out, and in less than a fortnight a long fifty by twenty-five feet slab building was up—stockyards, oven, stables, and fencing finished—and I was installed as general storekeeper, baker, butcher, &c., thanks to the timely and willing assistance of the good-hearted men I had often bullied and driven. A five-gallon keg of rum was used to celebrate the opening of the Sawpit Gully General Store, where for twelve months I carried on a roaring trade; one of the main advantages being the position—fifteen miles from the nearest store, bakery, or butcher’s shop. The price of the goods was guided by the state of the weather, the roads, and the number of customers. For instance, bread varied from half-a-crown to half-a-guinea—everything else in proportion.

My application for the pre-emptive right of purchase of the quarter-acre of ground the store occupied being granted at the rate of eight pounds per acre, I secured the title-deeds of it, and made up my mind to sell out, which I had very little difficulty in doing. Storekeeping at Mount Alexander in those days was a very profitable occupation—to wit, the success of Sargood and Sons; and more particularly the “pot” of money realised by Joshua Brothers in a few days only.

One of these young gentlemen, on his way from Melbourne, was overtaken on the road by the heavy rains of June, 1851. He at once took in the position and turned back to the city, where he found that the rate of carriage to the goldfields had risen five hundred per cent. He started straight for the Mount. I was the first storekeeper on the road upon whom he tried his hand. Knowing that he had interests in several stores on the diggings, I did not hesitate to sell him a large quantity of flour, sugar, tea, &c., for which he offered me what I considered a very handsome price. The contract drawn and deposit paid, he rode off at full speed to make similar bargains in every store on his way. When the news reached us that two shillings a pound had to be paid for carriage, we had to deal with Mr. Joshua to cancel the purchase! It was a fair and above-board transaction, but the result was a fine “haul” for that firm, the eldest of whom was hardly out of his teens.

As I remarked previously, all the money made at the diggings was not made by the gold diggers. In those days, before the discovery of quartz-reefing, the work was confined to alluvial working and simple gold-washing. Some large finds occurred—here and there large nuggets, weighing even up to one hundredweight, have been recorded—but as a rule it was hard work and poor pay. Gold buyers, storekeepers, and more especially sly-grog shops, made the most money. They certainly made it more easily than the poor diggers, who in many instances met in those dens, and under the baneful effects of drink became an easy prey of sharpers, often confederates of the people who kept the sly-grog shanties. The police made occasional raids on these places, when the owners were taken up and the shanty burnt down without judgment. In many cases the flames destroyed, besides the “stock-in-trade,” large sums of money “planted” in the tent or the bark roof of the hut.

When I returned to Melbourne I found the city in a state of transition. From a small country town it had in a couple of years grown into a thoroughly Yankee settlement. Buildings had sprung up, and were being hurriedly put up, in every direction. Canvas-town had become Emerald Hill, Sandridge was a continuation of Melbourne towards Hobson’s Bay, whilst Collingwood, Hotham, Jolimont, and Richmond on either side formed an uninterrupted line of streets with the original metropolitan thoroughfares. Everything was bustle and business. After my stay at the goldfields and rustication at Sawpit Gully, I once more craved for a ramble over the wide world, more particularly for that Dolce far niente which can only be found on board ship and the broad expanse of the ocean.

NEW CALEDONIA.

I.
TAKING POSSESSION: “TIT FOR TAT.”

A FEW weeks after my return to Sydney, private news came to hand that the French Government contemplated taking possession of New Caledonia. Admiral Février Despointes made an appointment with us to meet him at Port St. Vincent at a given date, with a supply of coals, stores, live stock, &c. I chartered the Athenian, an old East Indiaman, and the Pocklington, a Newcastle collier, and sailed for the rendezvous—a fine harbour on the east coast of New Caledonia—where our arrival excited some astonishment amongst the natives, being the first ships they had seen since Captain Cook’s last visit in 1779.

We had to lay there a fortnight before the Catinat—a smart steam corvette—made her appearance with the admiral’s flag at the fore.

We sailed in company for the Isle of Pines—off the southern end of New Caledonia—where the Marists’ Catholic Mission had an established station. On the morning of the 19th of September, 1853, Sir Everard Home arrived at the Isle of Pines on board the Calliope. Visits were exchanged between the two men-of-war. During his call Sir Everard committed the same blunder which thirty years before caused the loss of New Zealand to France—he mentioned before us that his instructions were to take possession of New Caledonia in the name of Her Majesty’s Government. With the assistance of the French missionaries the chiefs of the island were mustered, a deed drawn up during the day, and at daylight on the 20th we read the proclamation, hoisted the tricolor flag on shore, and saluted it with a salvo of 21 guns from the Catinat.

Poor old Sir Everard never got over the shock. He sailed for Sydney, and died during the passage; while the French admiral steamed for Balade, a port on the N.W. coast of New Caledonia, where he repeated the ceremony enacted at the Isle of Pines, thus securing the whole group from any other Power’s aggression.

During our stay at Balade, and with a view to learn something of the new country, we formed a party to visit the interior, more particularly the extent of the “Giahot”—a broad stream which empties itself into the sea west of Balade Harbour. Duly equipped and well armed we started on our cruise. Eight officers of the French Navy, Captain Case of the Athenian, four natives belonging to the French Mission, and myself. We certainly thought that fourteen men would be a sufficient number to cope with any number of savages, more particularly in a part of the island where the missionaries had been safely established for a couple of years already.

We sailed or pulled up stream for some twelve or fourteen miles, until snags and shoals rendered the navigation tedious; and, moreover, our orders were not to keep the boat after dark. Having ascertained by observations that owing to the windings of the river we had reached a point distant from Balade six miles by land, the natives assuring us that they would guide us there in a couple of hours, we made up our minds to land, send back the boat, explore the country, and camp when night came.

The scenery was all that could be wished for; wild pigeons in abundance; and for those in the party who were bent on botanising, there was enough to engross their minds for weeks. During our journey we occasionally came across natives, who seemed most ready to assist us in every way, and at last prevailed upon us when night came on to accept the offer of one of their houses to camp in for the night. The New Caledonian dwelling is rather a peculiarly constructed hut, very much like an elongated bee-hive, the only entrance, or, indeed, opening of any kind, being a square hole—measuring about two feet each way. In order to keep away the million of mosquitos which swarm after dark, a fire is kept up all night in these huts, the apex of the roof being the only outlet for the smoke, which the unfortunate natives accept as the only alternative from being stung to death by the puny tormentor. The only way to breathe in the huts is to lie down flat on the floor, where, owing to the draft caused by the low door, about one foot or fifteen inches of space is left free from the choking effect of the smoke.

II.
HE WHO FIGHTS AND RUNS AWAY.”

DURING supper, which we took outside the hut, we were surrounded by a gaping and chattering crowd of natives of both sexes and all ages. The number increasing every moment, we began to feel that even armed as we were, fourteen men would be but a small force as compared to the hundreds around us. However, up to the time when we crept in to our hut the behaviour of the Natives was as friendly as could be. Our barter for spears, shells, necklaces, and other curios was carried on fairly, and evidently to the satisfaction of all concerned.

At about ten o’clock we closed the aperture of the crib, lit our cigars, took a stiff night-cap, and laid down to breathe as we best could in the stifling smoke which filled the place. Sailors will sleep anywhere and anyhow, so will Caledonian natives. In a few minutes the snoring all around convinced me that I was the only watcher. What with mosquitos and smoke I would certainly have kept awake all night, even had I not been aroused as I was by a rustling noise in the straw wall of the hut, and the black hand of a native trying to force his way into our quarters.

As soon as his woolly head appeared, I seized it with one hand, putting a revolver to his ear with the other. I dragged him through, in so doing waking up my mates. Through the interpretation of one of our Native catechists, we heard the boy’s story—that the Natives on whose ground we were encamped had made up a plot to fire the grass around our hut, and during the confusion into which we would be thrown by their war whoop added to the conflagration, spear or tomahawk us, in order to secure our trade goods and fire-arms, as well as the supply of fresh meat half a score of European bodies would afford them.

There was not much time left us for either reflection or planning an escape. We quickly crept out of the hut one by one, and found that the information was not only correct, but the fires were already being kindled in a large circle, of which we were the centre. The Natives could be easily seen in large numbers on the outer side of the circle of fire, the chief standing amongst a crowd—luckily for us on the land side, leaving the path to the river bank comparatively free from Natives. The chief held in his hand the insignia of office—a long spear with a white shell on the end of it, which was quite descernible by the glare of the blazing grass. We held a consultation as to the best and most likely way to startle the savages, so as to make good our retreat to the river, cross it, and make for Balade as speedily as possible. Captain Case had in his hand a double-barrelled fowling piece, with one rifle barrel. It was suggested that he should fire the first shot in the air in order to draw the natives’ attention, and with the rifle barrel take aim at the shell on the chief’s spear.

On that shot depended the lives of fourteen men, and I am bound to say our friend’s calm and deliberate aim for that momentous shot denoted a true British tar’s firmness. A crack, followed by a terrific yell, told us that the scheme had succeeded. The natives in a body gathered round their chief to see the wonderful destruction of his talismanic shell, shattered into invisibility by Captain Case’s shot.

Before they could even notice our departure, we were making hasty tracks for the water, following in the wake of our native guides, whose marvellous instinct and thorough knowledge of the locality proved quite as useful as our friend’s skill at a target. They found not only the shortest path to the Giahot, but amongst the high reeds on the banks of that stream several canoes, which we annexed to convey our party across, and cut off communication with the wretches who had so treacherously attempted to give us a warmer reception than we had contemplated. When on the top of the range dividing the river from Balade, we saw the glare of our own pyre, and heard the chattering and yells of the fiends—caused, no doubt, by the discovery of the loss of their canoes, and doubtless also that of the anticipated supper or breakfast they had purposed having at our expense.

We reached the Mission at daybreak, and the same day fifty men, under command of one of the lieutenants and one of our party, went back and gave the Kanakas a lesson they have not forgotten to this day. The boy who saved our lives was a lad of twelve or fourteen, intelligent and bright. He gave a thorough explanation of the whole plot to the Rev. Father Montrouzier, who, fearing that the boy’s life might be endangered if he stayed on the island, induced me to take him away, for a time, at all events, with the youngster’s sanction; and having christened him “Joachim,” which he at once pronounced “Sokymy,” I enlisted him in my service. A better, more useful servant, and more faithful follower, I never had, for the seven years he lived with me. Poor boy, like most of the South Sea Islanders, he died of pleurisy, accelerated by exposure.

III.
ANOTHER NARROW SQUEAK.”

HAVING discharged cargo, and parted from the Athenian and our gallant friend, Captain Case, I removed my belongings to the Pocklington and sailed for Sydney, intending to shorten the sail by trying a short cut through a group of islands at the north-west end of New Caledonia. Captain Oliver, who had often traded for sandal-wood in this part of the world, assured me that this route was quite safe, and that he had often sailed through the channel with vessels of deeper draught. Our first two days’ navigation were glorious—smooth sea, fine weather—sailing during the day amongst lovely islands, and anchoring at night with every appearance of safety so long as a good watch was kept on the natives’ canoes, which never failed to come alongside as soon as the anchor was dropped.

My new valet, “Sokymy,” even at that early stage proved most useful to us. Though he could not speak to us he knew well what the natives said, and could easily enough make us understand that they had better be kept at a distance.

On the second night the barometer fell considerably, and before morning the wind chopped suddenly from S.E. to N.W., blowing hard until it became almost a gale. The poor old brig began to drag towards the shore. We let go another anchor, but still at every successive wave which struck our bows we felt that sudden jerk and grating noise which indicates the dragging of the anchor. The distance between the stern of the Pocklington and the shore was visibly decreasing—a fact which evidently became quite as apparent to the natives on shore as it did to us on board, who felt by no means reassured when we noticed the exulting jubilation of the cannibals—evidently reckoning on immediate plunder and feasting! The position was critical, the danger imminent, the prospect anything but cheering.

Captain Oliver, like my friend Captain Case of the Athenian, was cast in the mould which has produced so many heroes in the British Navy—men in whom sterling worth only comes to light in moments of danger. The critical position of the brig demanded immediate action. Our crew consisted of a dozen Tanna natives, with only three Europeans on board besides the skipper, the mate, the cook, the steward, and myself. We were barely fifty yards from the beach, where hundreds of natives, already up to their waist in water, were throwing spears at any one whose head appeared above the taffrail.

Captain Oliver got us to bring up a hawser on to the deck. This was made fast round the foot of the main-mast; a freshly-ground axe was placed in my hands; orders given to get the jib and spanker ready for hoisting and sheeting home; the hawser made fast to the chain of one anchor, whilst the other was cast adrift. This hawser being amidships, the brig at once swung round; the spanker being sheeted tight gave the craft some headway; the jib being hoisted she got under way, and the order was given to chop the hawser.

Had my blow at this piece of hemp failed to sever it through, this book would never have been written. As it was, the poor old brig and its living freight had a very narrow shave. As we paid off slightly to get more way on her she grazed the coral reef on the lee side, but, however, got clear, and a few moments later we had the gratification to feel that we were in deep water, under close-reefed topsails, making headway towards Australia. We reached Sydney in a week, none the worse for having on two occasions disappointed the natives of New Caledonia, and deprived them of what might have been a three-course dinner. In both instances they would have had French, English, and native dishes—quite a recherche menu for a cannibal’s feast.

IV.
A SOUTH SEA TRIP.”