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.