“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.