THE BUSH-RANGERS.
“I had not been more than two or three weeks in Hobart Town, when I was assigned as a crown servant to a worthy gentleman—Mr. Allen—with whom I lived, until it pleased God to call him away from this life: I served him faithfully, and he treated me more like a relation than a slave. He failed in business as a merchant a year before his death, and I believe it preyed upon his mind. He left scarcely any property behind him, but what there was, he willed to me:—seventeen pounds was all that remained after the whole of his things were sold by auction, and his funeral expenses paid. This sum fell to me. I was very happy while Mr. Allen lived; but after that, I began to think of obtaining my liberty, in order to return home to this country, for there was nobody I cared about in the colony. I was applied to by a Mr. M’Carthy, to undertake the overseeing of his land; and I accepted the offer. I had my choice of places; for old Jack Worral—that’s my name—was well respected by every free settler in the country. Shortly after my going to Mr. M’Carthy’s, the Bush-rangers became very troublesome: there was a gang of them—about seven-and-twenty—out in the woods and wild country; and they used to come down of a night and plunder the settlers of everything—neither cattle nor corn, nor house, was secure from their depredations. Mr. M’Carthy had a fine schooner lying in the Derwent, loaded with goods; he feared that the Bush-rangers would plunder her; for his neighbour, a Mr. Carlisle, had been recently robbed by them, and he, himself, had seen some of them shooting kangaroos on the banks of the river. He therefore mentioned to me, that he would like to form a party to go in pursuit of them. I volunteered to be one; for although then near sixty years of age, I could manage the best of them. Several of the neighbours instantly joined:—there were Mr. Triffit, and Murphy, and Jemmot, and Brown, and Carlisle, and Tooms, and Hacking, and O’Berne, the master of our schooner, the Geordy, and three or four sailors. Every man had a fowling-piece or a musket—some had also pistols, and swords, and bayonets. We started on the track of the Bush-rangers, just an hour before sunrise, of a beautiful twilight-night, in the latter end of spring: our direction was towards the centre of a space, between two high hills, which was about three miles away, and where there was an open valley on the banks of a small river: we used to call it the fairy’s valley, on account of the little patches of green pasturage which every where appeared through the thick and matted brushwood?]—for you know it is said, that these are the spots where the good people[18] dance of a moonlight night.
“We travelled on after our guide, who was a native that lived in the service of Mr. Carlisle, and who had been ill-treated by the Bush-rangers but a few days before, when they were plundering his master’s house: there was no road or path, as you might see in other countries—our way was over hills, and over craggs, and through jungles of brushwood, so that we were an hour and a half before we got into the opening of the valley. The sun was up and mists disappearing; the place as silent as the grave—nothing to be heard but whatever noise ourselves made. Mr. M’Carthy now proposed that we should lie down, under cover of an overhanging rock, in a sort of green cave, thatched, as it were, with briers, bushes, and flowers, of every description: he said we had better halt and send out one or two as scouts: this we did; and the guide, with Mr. Murphy himself, after having taken a little refreshment by way of breakfast, climbed up the side of a steep hill, through the bushes, in order to get a complete view of all round from the top. While they were away we examined all our arms, and took our breakfast of cold meat and a small allowance of grog, dealt out by Mr. M’Carthy—for he kept charge of the spirits himself, lest any one should take too much. In about a quarter of an hour after Mr. Murphy and the guide went out, we heard a shot which rattled and echoed three or four times across the valley: this, as we afterwards learned, was fired by one of the Bush-rangers at a bird, and in the sight of the guide, who now came creeping down the hill with Mr. Murphy, making signs for silence. Our scouts informed us that the Bush-rangers were within shot, roasting mutton under a hill; but that to come upon them without being observed, it would require us to return and advance by an opening on the other side of them—a rising ground that was clear under-foot, but covered with immense trees. We immediately proceeded one by one to the rear, and in about ten minutes were in view of the smoke from the Bush-rangers’ fires; and by stooping so as to screen ourselves from the possible view of the robbers, we were enabled to get within about a hundred yards of them. Mr. M’Carthy ordered us to lie down, which we did. We could hear the fellows through the bushes, cursing, swearing, and laughing; some were cooking pieces of mutton, others lolling on the grass, smoking and drinking: and a pretty, interesting-looking native girl, sat playing with the long and bushy black ringlets of a stout and wicked-looking man seated by her: he had pistols in his belt—wore a fustian jacket, a kangaroo-skin cap and waistcoat, with leather gaiters, and dirty velveteen breeches. I saw him as plainly as I see any one here; and what do you think? the fellow had two watches in his fob! This turned out, as I learned afterwards, to be Michael Howe, the second in command of the robbers: at that time Whitehead was the leader—a tall, ill-looking villain as ever you saw: he was also there, asleep on the grass.
“We were now directed by Mr. M’Carthy to cock our pieces, and on a wave of his hand to rise and show ourselves, but not to fire until the word was given; and also, that if the Bush-rangers attempted to fire, to drop down so as to avoid the shot, and, if not possible to advance at once upon them, we were each to take a position behind a tree, and from thence fire upon the robbers: this was the plan of attack. Mr. M’Carthy now rose up, and with his piece at the ‘ready,’ cried out to Whitehead to surrender: the Bushmen were up in a moment, and behind a tremendous trunk of a hollow tree, through a hole in which we could see them. Whitehead replied to the summons very coolly; ‘I tell you what, M’Carthy,’ said he, ‘you will never be easy until I settle you: I spared your life last Thursday night; and if you want not to lose it, go home about your business.’
“Mr. M’Carthy now waved his hand, when we all stood up, and came to the present. Whitehead got behind the tree.
“‘Put down your guns,’ said he, ‘and I’ll speak to you.’
“Mr. M’Carthy ordered us to comply; we took them from our shoulders, but still held them with our fingers on the triggers.
“‘Now,’ said Whitehead, ‘let me advise you to leave us alone; we are well armed, and can beat you; but we don’t want blood: let us alone, I say, and go back to your homes. A man of us will not be taken alive.’
“‘If you surrender quietly, Whitehead,’ replied Mr. M’Carthy, ‘I can assure you pardon from the Government: you see my party is strong, so don’t force me to fire.’
“Michael Howe then roared out, ‘Slap at the beggars!’—a volley was fired at us through the hole in the tree; and which we returned. On looking round at our party, after I had fired, I saw Carlisle, Murphy, Jemmot, Triffet, and O’Berne, lying on the ground, but none of them quite dead.
“Whitehead now cried out to us, with an oath, to surrender; but we reloaded fast, and kept up such a hedge-firing, that one of the fellows dared not show himself, to present his piece. I called out to our party to take aim at every shot, and only two to fire at a time. Some of the sailors now led away four of our wounded party; but Mr. Murphy could not be stirred, he was shot through the belly, and remained: Mr. Carlisle died on our way home; and O’Berne, who was shot in the face, expired in four days after. We were obliged to retreat, firing as we went; but the Bushmen had no wish to follow us. The fact is, Mr. M’Carthy ought to have opened on them at first, without giving them a moment’s consideration, and then should have run right in upon the fellows.
[“To be sure,” replied Sergeant Dobson; “they should not have given them a moment.”
“Oh, faith! that’s where they put their foot in it, completely,” rejoined Corporal O’Callaghan, as he offered the horn cup to the old man. “Wet your whistle,” said he, “before you go any farther.”
This was done in due form, and the venerable soldier renewed his story with encreased energy and pleasure:—]
“It was a disastrous end to our expedition, and the death of these unfortunate men caused a panic throughout the settlement: the 73d was ordered out, in detachments, to scour the country; but the Bushmen knew too well how to avoid them—they had a world of unpopulated country, of the finest nature, to retire into. However, a party of the soldiers came so close on them one day, that they found their meat burning on the fire, where they had placed it to broil, while the sheepskin was beside it, out of which the mutton was cut; but they could not catch a man of them.
“It might well be expected, that if the Bush-rangers could, they would not let Mr. M’Carthy rest after this attempt upon their lives; and we so much expected their vengeance, that we made preparation to protect ourselves immediately. Mr. M’Carthy obtained permission to keep a party of the 46th regiment in the house, night and day; the house being situated so lonely. The robbers were not aware of this, or they would not have ventured to make the attack, which they did in a very short time after the failure of our expedition against them. I was sitting at the fire one night, along with the soldiers, talking of one thing or another, when the window was knocked in by a volley from without, and by which one of the soldiers was wounded in the arm. Mr. M’Carthy was from home at the time. Up the men jumped, and seizing their muskets, fired out instantly. I and a soldier ran down stairs and out at one of the back doors, when looking over a wall, we perceived a man at the front of the house: he was alone, and was beckoning to others to come on. I levelled at him,—fired:—he jumped off the ground, two yards at least, and then fell; but got up, and ran towards another of his comrades, crying out, ‘Howe—here, take my watch—the beggars have shot me.’ These were his last words: he then fell. Several of the soldiers now ran round, to get in the rear of the Bushmen, who, quite undaunted, were approaching the house. Several shots were fired both by and at the soldiers a little way from the gate. I now perceived a man approaching the dead body of the fellow I shot: I had no other charge for my gun, and no bayonet, so I returned into the house to load; when casting my eyes from the window, I saw the figure engaged over the body, taking his money, as I then thought. The light was out; the soldiers were gone from the house, engaged with the robbers, so I could not find either a grain of powder or a cartridge. I made up my mind in a moment to attack the fellow I saw below, with the but-end of my musket, so down I ran for that purpose, and was coming behind a ridge of dung or manure, in order to make sure of my man, when I saw the fellow—it was Howe—with the head of the dead man in his hand! he gazed a moment at the body, and then said he, ‘Poor Jack Whitehead, I swore to you, that if ever you fell near me, I’d not let your head be taken; the b——y governor won’t know you now, and no beggar shall get a rap for you, my boy: lie there, brave fellow, and I’ll bury your head for you in our own green valley—I know you would have done the same for me.’ I was petrified with astonishment; so Howe got off, and left the mutilated trunk in a pool of blood: he had cut off the head with his clasp knife. The body was taken away next day to Hobart Town, and gibbited on Hunter’s island. The soldiers, I believe, did not hit any of them—the night was too dark and the Bushmen too wary. If I could have got a cartridge when Howe was cutting off his comrade’s head, I should have settled him; and as it turned out, this Howe was the worst villain of the whole. On the death of Whitehead, he became the head of the gang, and committed the most terrible depredations every where; there was a reward of 100 guineas offered for his head; and that was twice the sum offered for any of the others. There was also a free pardon, with a passage home to England, ready for any of the crown prisoners who would take him or any of his men. The hope of getting back to my own country once more made me turn my attention particularly to this point, and as Mr. M’Carthy offered to assist me in all my projects, I set about the means of accomplishing them.
“I was once very near seizing Howe in the very centre of Hobart-Town, where he was in the disguise of a gentleman. I’ll tell you how it was: I was in a store one day, buying some powder and shot, when this fellow came in: the man’s name who kept the store was Stevens. Although Howe changed colour the moment he entered and saw me, yet I did not observe that it was he; but when I heard him speak in his peculiarly vulgar way, I remembered the voice of the fellow who cut off the head of Whitehead. Strong as Howe was, I thought I was stronger; so without hesitation I grasped him by the collar, and told him that he was my prisoner: he struggled hard with me, and held on my throat; and I had got him fast at the back part of the store, when I was knocked down by a blow on the back of my head, and became senseless. It was some minutes before I recovered myself; and when I came to my senses, I found Stevens holding some strong spirits to my lips, and otherwise kindly attending me. He told me that a strange man had rushed into the store, and with a bludgeon knocked me on the head while I was struggling with Howe; and that when I fell from the blow, Howe jumped up and both ran away: little I then thought that it was Stevens himself who struck me and released Howe. This soon was brought to light; for information was given to the governor that Stevens was a receiver of Howe’s plunder; so he was hanged on Hunter’s Island, and buried under the gibbets of three of his correspondents. The fellow confessed to me in the jail, that it was he who struck me, and said he was only sorry he had not killed me. This man was a crown prisoner, but was thought to be an industrious person who was making a fortune by his business: two youths, his accomplices, were sentenced to death along with him, but were pardoned at the place of execution, on account of their tender years. It was this man, or some of his connexions, who used to supply the Bushmen with information, and also with necessaries.—As an instance of this—the gang appeared at Port Dalrymple, where they robbed one Mr. Rose, and in only eleven days after that, when the soldiers were scouring the neighbourhood in which this robbery was committed, they appeared at Bagdad—a distance of one hundred miles from Port Dalrymple, and intercepted a waggon load of valuable property belonging to a Mr. Stocker, who traded from one settlement to another: this they never could have accomplished unless they had information from their colleagues in Hobart Town.
“I now obtained leave to accompany a party of the 46th regiment on a regular campaign against the Bush-rangers. We carried with us flour, spirits, and some live stock; the weather being fine, we wanted no tents—and even if we had we could not have carried them. My arms were a musket and two pistols; my powder-horn and bullet-bag slung across my shoulder: I did not look much unlike Robinson Crusoe, with my long beard; and I was as often called by that name as by my own. I never passed a pleasanter time than for the three weeks we were out on the excursion, except when we lost our flour in a ford; and then we were so reduced that some of our party gnawed away their mocassions, or kangaroo-skins which they wore on their feet. Although we did not destroy the gang on this campaign, we were the means of hanging four of the Bush-rangers. On the third day’s march after we started, we were close to a place called the Tea-tree Brush, and were poking our way through a thick and wide bed of briers and brushwood, in order to get over to an open and green space shaded with trees, where we proposed cooking a quarter of mutton, when we spied a smoke rising from the very trees we were approaching. We were soon on the clear ground, and the whole party advanced as quick as possible towards the smoke, determined to give no quarter to the Bushmen unless they surrendered. We now could see a hut made of boughs, and a fire before it, when out darted two men, and in a moment disappeared into a close thicket, and we lost them. In this hut we found several watches and trinkets, some cloth, twenty-five bullets, some powder, and three kangaroo dogs, all of which we took with us, first having dined heartily upon our mutton in front of the hut—and such a beautiful situation for a bivouac I never was in. It was a flat piece of green land, covered with wild flowers, and overlooking the most beautiful country that can be imagined—a precipice in our front, from which we hurled a stone that rolled over half a mile of a steep hill down to a river all studded with islands, and ornamented by the most delightfully displayed foliage on its banks—plain over plain, and wood over wood, was to be seen for twenty miles’ distance; and the blue mountains far away gave one an idea of an earthly paradise: yet no human being claimed it—none ever trod over this fine country but a few lawless brigands.
“We were now on the scent of the Bushmen, and I proposed a plan which turned out well; this was, that we should lie in ambush all the evening in a covered recess near the hut, and watch the return of some of the gang, whom we had no doubt were out hunting. This was approved by the Sergeant in command of us, and we immediately retired to the ambuscade: here we smoked our pipes:—it was so situated, that we could see all around without being ourselves perceived.
“We had been in this situation about two hours, when we espied four of the Bushmen; Howe was one of them; and the native girl, whom I saw playing with his curls before, was with him. Both were armed with pistols. Her dress was neither native nor European, but a very pretty sort of costume made up of skins, feathers, and white calico. They advanced towards the hut, until they came to within about three hundred yards of it, when the girl, who was before them, ran quickly back, seized Howe by the arm, and pointed to the hut. What was the reason of this I cannot tell: perhaps she saw something about it that excited suspicion—but, be that as it may, the whole party turned round, and fled for the valley, by an open, clear, and slanting ground which led into it. Out we ran after them, and were gaining a little upon them when we came to the bottom of the valley. They here took different directions; but Howe was our man; so after him we all went, dashing up the opposite hill from that on which the hut was; for all parties had forded—the water taking nearly up to the middle. When Howe and his girl, who followed him closely, gained the summit of the hill, he turned round, deliberately took aim at one of us with his fusee, and fired; but without effect. This was returned by three of our party, but also without effect. Our chase now was over a tolerably open country, and I dare say that we all ran at nearly full speed for about a mile—Howe before us, apparently taking it very easy; but he must have run amazingly well, to have distanced us so much in a mile, and with such seeming ease to himself. The girl, we could observe, was falling fast behind, but she still ran, and we could see Howe frequently motioning her on: at last the poor thing stopped short at once, as if overcome by fatigue. Howe roared at her, with a voice that sounded over the plain, and although five hundred yards from us, we heard it like the blast of a trumpet. What do you think he did, when he found that she could not move? the dog drew his pistol—fired at her—and the poor girl fell. I could not resist the feeling of rage which then took possession of me: I dropped on my knee, took a cool aim, and fired.”
[“Did you kill the rascal?” interrupted O’Callaghan.
“No. I suppose from the exertion of running, my aim was not as it in general was. However, we were rather far away for any thing like a certain shot.”]
“We continued the chase, and in about five minutes Howe arrived at an abrupt ravine, into which he darted; and we might as well have attempted to seek him in the bottom of the sea, as the place he sunk into; so we returned to the girl, whom we found was not dead, but severely wounded in the shoulder and neck. When we lifted her up, she trembled, and attempted to fall on her knees, to supplicate for mercy, as she expected to be shot instantly: but we soon relieved her fears, and led her to a shade, where we made a covering of branches for her, and otherwise assisted her, by tying up her arm in a sling, and washing the blood off it. The unhappy girl now offered to point us out the track of the robbers, and do every thing she could, to forward our views. We halted for the night, and at daybreak next morning proceeded on our search, guided by the girl, who was now able to walk.
“After a slow march of three hours, having passed through the ravine into which Howe went, we arrived at the verge of the river Shannon. Here were several huts which the girl said the Bushmen occasionally inhabited—that is, whenever they moved in that part of the country; nothing, however, was in these huts but beds of leaves and dry grass: there were strewed about several sheep skins, and marks of recent fires. The girl informed us that she had been there with Howe four days before. In a few minutes she ran over to the Sergeant, and pointing to the opposite bank of the Shannon, exclaimed, ‘There is Geary.’ We all looked across the river and saw one of the Bushmen with his gun levelled at us: he fired, and the ball splashed in the water close to us. It was no use to waste our powder, for the fellow disappeared. We then set fire to the huts, and guided by the girl proceeded on our march. It would astonish you to see how she discovered the tracks of the robbers; she would sometimes go on fast, and at others stop, look attentively at the grass and leaves under her, and although we could see no mark of footsteps, she declared she did: she would minutely examine each leaf and brier and blade of grass on a spot where she was ‘at fault,’ in order to see were they broken or pressed; and in this way she brought us to a creek of the river near which she said was a hut, and that very likely some of the gang were there. We had scarcely arrived on a high rock which overhung the water of the creek when we heard a shot close to us, and a desperate-looking fellow with a rifle in his hand instantly darted past us: he evidently had no expectation of meeting such friends as the soldiers at this place, for when he saw us he wheeled about and attemped to retreat, but two active fellows of our party leaped down into a hollow and completely cut him off. We were on the top of the rock, and within twenty yards of the Bushman. The fellow stopped an instant: we were just going to seize him, when he at once made a spring, and down off the rock he leaped into the water below, first having flung his gun away. The distance he fell was about a hundred feet. He sunk; but rose in a moment and commenced to swim to the opposite side. The two of our party who before had stopped him, now made for the other bank of the creek, and if they had not run extremely well and leaped a craggy ravine at the upper end of it, the Bushman would have escaped; but they were in time; and when the fellow was approaching the bank, they appeared, and pointed their muskets down at him. I almost pitied the wretch when this took place, he looked so miserable; but he did not surrender: he swam back to the centre of the creek and there cried out to us that if we would not fire he would propose fair terms: he was then below us; muskets were levelled at him from both sides, and an instant would have sent him to the bottom. The Sergeant asked what terms he wanted? He replied that he wished to be taken as an approver, and that he would discover all he knew of the gang. ‘Come ashore,’ said the Sergeant, ‘trust to the Governor for your life—I can make no terms with you: but if you refuse to submit, we’ll blow you into atoms the next instant.’ The fellow paused, and looked wildly up at both sides of the creek, there death was staring him in the face—and such a face of horror I never saw. He had nothing left him but submission; so he cried out, ‘Very well, Sergeant, I’ll submit; but I hope you’ll mention my proposal to the Governor.’ The wretch now swam to the opposite bank, and yielded himself to the custody of the two soldiers there, while we proceeded round to join them. On our way we had to go a considerable distance, unless we all leaped the ravine, which was so well done by the two of our party on the other side; this we had no motive for,—it was dangerous; and besides that, the female who was along with us could not, if we could. We were passing through very long grass and high weeds, nearly up to our heads, when the girl cried out to us to stop. She said that somebody had gone this way bleeding; and showed blood on the weeds, evidently but lately spilt. She also said, that there was a Bushman’s hut, about a hundred yards away. We therefore changed our intention of going to the other side of the creek, and sent a man to assist in bringing round to us the prisoner, while we went to the expected hut; at the same time marking the spot where the blood was. The girl pointed out the place where the hut lay,—we could not then see it; but on approaching a little further, discovered it in a hollow, beautifully surrounded with trees and close brushwood. We halted, and presented our muskets at the opening of the hut, while the Sergeant called out to know was there any body there? and threatening to fire, if they did not come out. No answer:—so we advanced—entered it—and there beheld a dead man—his head nearly severed from his body, and a bloody razor beside him—the ground and grass bed on which the body lay, soaked with blood. Without removing the corpse, we waited, until the prisoner and his escort came up. The Bushman was led to see the body: he showed no astonishment; but merely said, with an affected pity, ‘Aye, that’s poor Peter Septon: he often said he’d cut his own throat, but now I see he has done it completely.’ ‘That’s a lie, you villain,’ said I; ‘no man ever cut his own throat in that manner: this was done by you.’ The wretch’s countenance could not change much for the worse; however, his clammy lips quivered, and he wiped the sweat off his forehead, as he replied that he knew nothing about the murder. ‘Murder!’ said I; ‘then you think it is a murder?’ ‘Why,’ replied he, ‘when a man cuts his own throat—isn’t that murder?’ ‘You did it!’ cried out every one present; and the prisoner’s eyes evidently answered, ‘I did.’
“It was now proposed to trace the track of the blood, and having left four of our party at the hut to take care of the prisoner, we followed the girl, at a short distance, through various places: she of course was guided by the blood. In about ten minutes, our guide beckoned to us, and we quickly approached to where she stood; there she pointed to a man lying in the long grass, and bleeding profusely—it was a desperate Bushman of the name of Collyer.[19] We raised him up; he was weak and faint from loss of blood; his hand was shattered by a shot, and his throat partially cut. The poor wretch was then carried by the men back to the hut, and having tasted a little spirits grew something stronger. He sat leaning against a tree; and looking at the other prisoner with a scowl, he cried out to him, ‘You treacherous villain! thank God, you are taken!’ Then addressing us, he said, ‘That rascal, while I was asleep, attempted to cut my throat with a razor, after he had killed his comrade Septon, who slept beside me; and as I was trying to escape from him, he fired at me, and shattered my hand.’ The murderer now, like a fiend, roared out ‘D—n your eyes and heart, I wish I had cut your throat first, and now you would not be here to tell me of it.’ At this moment, the girl cried out to him, ‘Hillier, you killed my sister, too.’ ‘Yes, you black devil, and if I had you now in the Tallow Chandler’s Shop,[20] I’d serve you in the same way.’
“We immediately tied Hillier’s arms well, and having bound up Collyer’s wounds, and refreshed ourselves, we took the direction of home. Collyer was able to walk after he rested and took a little spirits and water. The dead man’s head we made Hillier cut off and carry—hung round his neck in a haversack.”
[“What was that for?” demanded Sergeant Dobson.
“Because,” replied the old man, “there was 50l. reward for every Bushman’s head; a hundred for Howe’s or Geary’s, and seventy-five for Collyer’s.”
“That was sufficient reason,” rejoined the Sergeant.
“By Gad! it was a very good thing, to make the rascal carry home his own work; and I hope he was paid his wages for it,” said O’Callaghan.]
“That he was,” replied old Worral; “both he and Collyer were gibbetted on Hunter’s Island, beside the whistling bones of Whitehead, and the two fellows who escaped us at the time we started them out of the hut; their names were Burne and M’Guire, and I’ll tell you how they were taken. As soon as they were off through the thicket from our party, they made their way down to Kangaroo Point—for they were completely cut off from the gang; and wishing to go to Bass’s Straits, by which they would be safe, they applied to a settler to let them have a boat, for which service they offered him a watch. The settler, who had often lost his cattle and corn by the Bush-rangers, pretended to accept their proposal, and having requested them to wait at a certain place until he returned with the boat, went to Hobart’s Town, and returned with a party of soldiers:—the robbers were surrounded and taken. Burne, a hardy old fellow, attempted to escape, and had broken his way through the soldiers, when a shot took him in the leg, and down he dropped. They were tried for the murder of Mr. Carlisle, and gibbetted.”
“[Well, how did you get on with the prisoners, Collyer and the murderer?” demanded Jack Andrews.]
“I’ll tell you. We did very well; but met with no more of the Bush-rangers. I should have mentioned that the girl, when we halted on the evening we took the two robbers, gave us a history of her treacherous paramour, Howe; and all she said about him was corroborated by both Collyer and Hillier, who were present while she told us what she knew about him. We halted in a very beautiful spot, beside a clear river, in which we could see the fish frolicking about as if they wanted us to cook them for dinner; and all sorts of curious birds were as plenty as sparrows in this country. The place was a green dry piece of flat, close to a thick wood, and at the bottom of a hill. On the opposite side of the river, hill after hill arose, covered with wood; also, at the edge of the river there were a dozen Kangaroos skipping about, but they took care to keep far enough from us. There were several giants of trees at different distances; and under one of those we lighted a fire; having first tied our prisoners together and fastened them to an immense bough, that was hanging from its parent trunk, splintered perhaps by a storm.
“We cooked the remaining meat we had by broiling it; and all ate hearty of this and some ember cakes we the day before made. All rested under the shade; for we were tolerably fatigued. It was here that Mary, the native girl, told us about Howe: she said that she first saw him at Hobart Town, where he was a crown servant to Mr. Ingle, and she a servant to another settler there: she was then only seventeen years of age, and really must have been a very good-looking young girl, for a sort of a black as she was. Howe got the better of her so, that he prevailed upon her to let him into the house to rob her master, and then elope with him to the woods. He was very kind to her, she said, whenever he was successful; but if anything crossed his temper, he was like a tiger; and then, neither she nor his men would go near him until his passion cooled. He was jealous of this girl; and Edwards—one of the gang—after they had robbed Captain Townson, gave Mary a shawl, which was part of the booty; when Howe drew his pistol deliberately, and shot him. He also killed another of his gang, Bowls, for merely firing a blank shot over his head: he deliberately tied his hands and feet first, then put the pistol to his head and fired: this he did on Salt-pan Plains. None of the men dared remonstrate with him; for he always was armed with three or four pistols ready loaded; and he often used to impress upon his gang, that every leader should be obeyed in whatever he ordered—that no murmurs should be heard; and always concluded his remarks on such subjects by a terrible oath—that life was nothing to him, and if they did not like his conduct, they might try it with him in any way they wished; ‘but,’ said he, ‘I will shoot any of my men if I think they deserve it.’ She said that he was very revengeful: he sat on one of the hills of thick wood, which rise one above the other and overlook Hobart Town, one night with Mary beside him, smoking and drinking, and more merry than ever she knew him to be, because he was to have satisfaction of Mr. Humphries, and Mr. Reardon the constable. Collyer was with him that night; and while she was telling us about the affair, he often set her right on little points, which she had forgotten. She said, that they sat in their hut, looking out over the hills below them, and the town, and the plains: they could just discern the houses through the closing twilight. As it grew dark, and the view was lost, Howe filled his goblet, and exclaimed, ‘Now, Collyer, we want light; here’s success to the hand that will give it to us.’ Collyer drank the toast, and Mary got up to strike a spark in the tinder, when Howe laughed loudly, and seizing the girl by the arm, he replied, ‘Sit down, Mary—don’t trouble yourself; Whitehead is lighting a match for us.’ She did not understand him, for Whitehead, she knew, was gone down, with the rest of the gang, to the low lands. ‘Look out,’ said he: ‘now do you see the light?’ The girl looked as he desired her:—so did Collyer and himself; and they beheld a tremendous flame, at two different points below, which threw a glare all over the plain. ‘There,’ said Howe, ‘these fires have cost a pretty penny:—that is all the corn that Humphreys reaped this season; and that, near it, is the last of Reardon’s property.’ Then said he to Collyer, ‘My boy, a toast:—Here’s success to the Bushman’s tinder-box, and a blazing fire to their enemies!’—I remember that Collyer smiled when Mary recited this before him.”
[“Well, by the powers!” observed Corporal O’Callaghan, “I never hard o’ such a divil as that same Misther Howe. What counthryman was he?”]
“A Yorkshireman: he was born at Pontefract in 1787, entered the merchant service at Hull, and then became a man-o’-war’s man; but he deserted, and robbed a miller; for which he was transported. Captain Cross of the Indefatigable, brought him out to Van Diemen’s Land: before he sailed, he tried to escape by jumping from the main deck over the vessel’s side; and Captain Cross said that he swam a quarter of a mile before he was retaken.”
[“Well, did you bring in your prisoners safe,” demanded Sergeant Dobson.]
“Yes,” replied old Worral; “we lodged them in Hobart Town jail, and they were both gibbetted along with Whitehead, Brown, and M’Guire.”
[“And was Howe ever taken?”
“I’ll tell you the end of the villain.”
“Stop,—come to the end o’ that first,” said O’Callaghan, handing old Worral the horn goblet.]
Worrel proceeded:—“After this, Howe having separated from his few remaining associates, had art enough to obtain pardon from the governor, by humbling to him, and offering not only to give himself up, but to engage in annihilating the remaining bush-rangers. He was absolutely at large in Hobart Town—or at least, only accompanied by a constable—awaiting his pardon; and every body looked upon him as reformed, when he slipped off from his keeper, and took to his old habits: but he did not join any others; he wandered about alone, without any communication with mankind, except when necessity drove him to plunder an unguarded settler: totally shut out from man, he lived the sole occupier of an immense tract of the most beautiful country, as yet untrodden by any human foot but his; for the part he selected was the distant and unknown lands: there would he wander while his powder and shot lasted, and then return to replenish his stock by plunder, committing the most wanton acts of atrocity.
“There was a determined fellow of the name of Slambow, who took care of sheep for a Mr. Williams, of Hobart Town: he lived on his land in the neighbourhood of New Norfolk: this man had frequently been accosted by Howe in his rambles, and for aught we knew, did little jobs for him, as much out of fear as love. Howe had now gone to this Slambow, to request him to carry a letter to the Governor; and the request having been complied with, an appointment was made between them to meet at an unfrequented place the following Friday, at sunrise. Slambow, in the meantime, met with a runaway, called Watts, who had been wandering about New Norfolk, and they united in a plan to take Howe when he came to give his letter. Watts was tired of his ranging life, and hoped for pardon, as well as a passage to England, if he captured him. The appointed spot was on the banks of the Derwent river; and Watts took a boat on the Thursday night, and went close up to it; when concealing his boat, he lay himself in a close thicket for the night, to await the coming of Howe and Slambow. A little before sunrise Watts arose from his lair and proceeded to fulfil his appointment, he met Slambow, who then informed him that he was to meet Howe at a place about half a mile away, called Long Bottom: Watts requested Slambow to hide his gun where he could find it on their return, because he said Howe might object to come to them, if he saw him armed—as to Watts being armed, Howe knew he was a Bushman, and would not suspect any thing wrong: this was done, and they proceeded to Long Bottom, where they arrived just as the sun was rising. I saw this very place, myself—it is a wide plain near the river, but skirted by abrupt mountains; here and there it is spread with bushes and trees, and in the centre is a creek or nook of the river. When they had come within about a hundred yards of this creek, Slambow hallooed loudly; and at the signal Howe appeared. As soon as he saw them, he requested Watts to shake the priming out of his gun, and offered to do the same himself: this was accordingly done by both, and they walked together conversing on different matters, when Howe proposed to light a fire and have some breakfast: this was agreed upon—the wood was collected, and set fire to—the haversacks opened—and they were apparently about to enjoy a Bushranger’s breakfast, when Watts, who was a strong man, came behind Howe—threw him down—and there held him while Slambow tied his hands.
“Having secured their prey, they sat down to their breakfast; and after having finished their meal, set out for Hobart Town. They had not gone more than eight miles when Howe, who had found means to loosen the cords on his hands, drew a knife and stabbed Watts, who fell from the blow, and dropped his gun. Slambow was below a bank, and thus prevented from seeing what Howe had done; nor did he suspect until he heard Watts groan, and saw Howe presenting a gun at his breast. The next moment he was dead; for Howe fired and shot him. Watts then cried out to Howe, ‘Have you shot Slambow?’ to which Howe replied that he had, and that he would serve Watts the same way as soon as he could load his gun. Upon this Watts got up and ran about two hundred yards, the blood trickling from his side as he ran: here he fell and lay for a short time, being overcome by loss of blood. Howe did not follow him, fearing an alarm from the shot he had fired; but took his way back to the wilds, happy to have yet that resource from the gallows. Watts crawled to a settler’s house, and was conveyed to the hospital, where he gave an account of the affair, and soon after expired. The inquest on both bodies brought a verdict of wilful murder against Michael Howe.
“This last violence threw the people into consternation, and an additional sum was offered for Howe, dead or alive; for he was now the only Bush-ranger abroad, and his fall most probably would put an end to that system of murder and robbery, which paralyzed trade, and terrified every inhabitant of the settlement.
“I was now determined to make a push for the capture of this villain; for which I was promised a passage to England in the next ship that sailed, and the amount of the reward laid upon his head. I found out a man of the name of Warburton, who was in the habit of hunting kangaroos for their skins, and who had frequently met Howe during his excursions, and sometimes furnished him with ammunition. He gave me such an account of Howe’s habits, that I felt convinced, we could take him with a little assistance. I therefore spoke to a man of the name of Pugh, belonging to the 48th regiment—one whom I knew was a most cool and resolute fellow; he immediately entered into my views, and having applied to Major Bell, his commanding officer, he was recommended by him to the Governor, by whom I was permitted to act, and allowed to join us; so he and I went directly to Warburton, who heartily entered into the scheme, and all things were arranged for putting it into execution. The plan was thus:—Pugh and I were to remain in Warburton’s hut, while Warburton himself was to fall into Howe’s way. The hut was on the banks of the river Shannon, standing so completely by itself, and so out of the track of any body who might be feared by Howe, that there was every probability of accomplishing our wishes, and ‘scotch the snake,’—as they say—if not kill it. Pugh and I accordingly proceeded to the appointed hut: we arrived there before day-break, and having made a hearty breakfast, Warburton set out to seek Howe: he took no arms with him, in order to still more effectually carry his point; but Pugh and I were provided with muskets and pistols.
“The sun had been just an hour up, when we saw Warburton and Howe upon the top of a hill, coming towards the hut. We expected they would be with us in a quarter of an hour, and so we sat down upon the trunk of a tree, inside the hut, calmly waiting their arrival. An hour passed, but they did not come; so I crept to the door cautiously and peeped out—there I saw them standing, within a hundred yards of us, in earnest conversation: as I learnt afterwards, the delay arose from Howe’s suspecting that all was not right. I drew back from the door to my station; and in about ten minutes after this we plainly heard footsteps, and the voice of Warburton;—another moment, and Howe slowly entered the hut—his gun presented and cocked. The instant he spied us, he cried out, ‘Is that your game?’—and immediately fired; but Pugh’s activity prevented the shot from taking effect, for he knocked the gun aside. Howe ran off like a wolf. I fired, but missed. Pugh then halted, and took aim at him, but also missed. I immediately flung away the gun, and ran after Howe. Pugh also pursued—Warburton was a considerable distance away. I ran very fast—so did Howe; and if he had not fallen down an unexpected bank, I should not have been fleet enough for him:—this fall, however, brought me up with him;—he was on his legs, and preparing to climb a broken bank, which would have given him a free run into a wood, when I presented my pistol at him, and desired him to stand: he drew forth another, but did not level it at me. We were about fifteen yards from each other—the bank he fell from between us. He stared at me with astonishment; and, to tell you the truth, I was a little astonished at him; for he was covered with patches of kangaroo skins, and wore a long black beard—a haversack and powder-horn slung across his shoulders. I wore my beard also—as I do now; and a curious pair we looked like. After a moment’s pause, he cried out, ‘Black beard against grey beard, for a million!’—and fired:—I slapped at him; and, I believe, hit him; for he staggered; but rallied again, and was clearing the bank between him and me, when Pugh ran up, and with the butt end of his firelock knocked him down again, jumped after him, and battered his brains out, just as he was opening a clasp knife to defend himself.
“This was the fate of the last and most ferocious of the Bush-rangers—a villain, who never was known to have done an act of humanity, and who had coolly murdered numbers of his fellow-creatures.”
[“Well; did you get the reward, for ridding the world of the rascal?” demanded Sergeant Dobson.]
“Yes; the reward was divided amongst Pugh, Warburton, and myself; but we got subscriptions from the settlers, to twice the amount; and I was sent home free, with the thanks of the Governor and the public.”
[“By my soul, you desarved all you got,” said Corporal O’Callaghan. “Did you carry the fellow’s body with you?”]
“No; we buried the body, but took off the head and brought it to Hobart Town, where it was exhibited to the crowd—and no wondering wild beast ever excited more curiosity. We found in his haversack a sort of book made of kangaroo skin, and his dreams written in it with kangaroo blood. There was also a memorandum of what seeds and plants he wanted, in case he established a secure residence for himself in the wild country.”
“By George! he was the most extraordinary fellow, except Three Fingered Jack, that ever I heard of,” said Dobson.
“Oh, he was the broth of a boy!” observed the Corporal.—“And have you lived long in Ireland?”
“Ever since my return from Van Diemen’s Land—that may be about fifteen years. I told you that I was born in this country, but left it very young: however, when I returned I found my only relations were a niece and her daughter; so I took them to keep my cabin for me—where we live, thank God, very comfortably.”
“What’s your grand-niece’s name?” demanded Jack Andrews.—
At this moment the officer of the rounds challenged, and the guard turned out. The night was now clear—the weather calm—so Old Worral took his parting drop from the Corporal, and trudged on towards his cabin.
As the regiment to which the guard belonged was to march at daylight, having the day before received orders to proceed to Plymouth, and there embark for Portugal, little was talked about in the guard-house after the old man went away, but the parting with acquaintances, and the forthcoming campaign in that country where they had so long toiled.
At half-past five they marched from Ballycraggen guard-house to the main street in the little town, where the regiment was already forming, and the baggage packed on fifteen or twenty cars—all pressed the day before for this service. The route had arrived very unexpectedly, owing to the invasion of Portugal by the rebel chief, the Marquis de Chaves, and the consequent energy and decision of Mr. Canning in sending out assistance to that country; on this account no regiment relieved that stationed at Ballycraggen, and the guard-house was now deserted; the old oak chair in which the sergeant of the guard usually sat, and the wooden forms, were removed—nothing remained to inform the accidental visitor of the cottage, that it once was a military occupation, but the names of sundry soldiers, and the description of their rank, delineated on the wall by a burnt stick.
Early as the hour was, the townspeople were all up, and waiting to see the regiment march off. The glass—the parting glass—of strong whisky was doing its duty briskly; the officers were bustling about; the soldiers wives sorrowful enough, mounted on the baggage, with their children—many of them were to be left behind the regiment on embarkation, and none of them knew which. Little groups were here and there detached from the ground on which the regiment was to form, generally composed of soldiers and a few of the people with whom they had been on habits of intimacy. Several couples of lovers stood interestingly conversing, or in melancholy silence: among these was a young soldier and a remarkably pretty girl—she was weeping, while he held her hand and endeavoured to sooth her almost breaking heart. This was Jack Andrews and this his sweetheart to whom he was betrothed:—they were to have been married in a few weeks, when the route came which was now about to separate them for a considerable time—if not for ever. Her mother now came up to her, and although evidently affected at her daughter’s situation, put on an appearance of gaiety which only made things worse. Andrews loved the girl, and it is but just to say she was worthy of his most tender regard: all the town, as well as the regiment, knew of their attachment. The girl had two hundred pounds fortune. Jack Andrews was to have purchased his discharge, and to have settled in Ireland, along with Ellen Hart (that was her name). All her friends highly approved of the match; for Jack was as amiable and as good-looking a man as any in the regiment to which he belonged. Corporal Callaghan, having dispatched his own affairs with those numerous acquaintances which a fellow of his peculiarly pleasant and sociable qualities must naturally possess, when domiciled for a very considerable time in an Irish country town, now came up to Andrews, and tapping him on the shoulder, exclaimed, “Blood an’ ouns! Jack, my boy, I’m sorry Ellen Hart is not coming along with us. Can’t you ax her mother, there, to let her go?—Ellen, give us your hand. By the powers! if I had such another as you, I’d have you up at the top o’ the baggage, there, with Mrs. Mullowny, in a jiffy. The divil a toe you should stay behind me.”
Andrews smiled and sighed; Ellen’s tears only fell faster, and her mother was about to reply, when her attention was arrested by another object. “Here,” said she, “is my uncle—poor old man! he hasn’t seen you this whole year, Ellen; so don’t be so sorrowful-looking.”
The uncle advanced—it was Old Worral; and the astonishment which Andrews felt at finding him the grand-uncle of his Ellen may be imagined. Things were briefly explained; and the veteran, seizing the hand of Andrews as well as that of Ellen, exclaimed, “I see you are a couple that ought not to be separated; but I know what the service is—no woman can be certain of permission to embark with her husband; therefore you must be patient, and hope to be united soon. Young man, you are going to a foreign country, to meet the dangers of the field, and I am on the verge of the grave—we may or may not meet again: but here, before we do part, let me, in the presence of her mother, give you my consent to marry my dear Ellen. I see you are a good young man, and she is worthy of you—she loves you, and, from what I hear, I have no doubt you love her;—there; I give her to you, and two hundred pounds,—the savings of a long life. If you return safe from Portugal, and marry my dear little Ellen—if you both come happily together, and that it please God to put me under ground before that time—all I ask is, that you drink poor Old Worrel’s health, and be kind to Ellen Hart.”
“That I will,” said Andrews, as he took up his musket, which he had placed against a tree—for the regiment was ordered to fall in, the drums were beating, and the parting word passing from many. After an instant’s pause, he took the hand of the old man, and with great emotion said, “O! take care of her,” then pressed once more his Ellen to his breast: neither he nor she spoke a word—they could not; but their hearts beat closely together, and right well understood each other. The old man and the mother of the girl stood gazing sorrowfully; and even O’Callaghan’s eyes were about to betray him into weakness. The lovers separated; and with the blessing of the old soldier and his niece, Jack Andrews and the Corporal hastened to fall into the ranks. All was now ready—the commanding officer gave the word “Quick, March!”—the band struck up “The girl I left behind me,”—and with three huzzas from the crowd, the gallant soldiers marched off from Ballycraggen, to take, once more, the field against the enemies of their country.
THE END.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY, DORSET STREET.
⁂ The interesting music for which the songs of this work were written, is preparing for publication, with the words attached thereto; and will shortly be ready for delivery at the music shops.