The old English words 'wood' and 'forest,' 'copse' and 'thicket,' had been superseded by the comprehensive colonial term 'bush,' doubtless suggested by the close approximation to 'scrub' or 'jungle,' which the interminable eucalyptus wilderness then presented to the first emigrant Britons. 'The bush' came next, as more fully comprehensive and explanatory, signifying something analogous to the Dutch-African 'veldt,' not necessarily woodland, but the waste lands of the Crown generally. This nomenclature must have mystified later arrivals considerably, much of the so-called 'bush' being composed of plains nearly, and in some cases altogether, without timber of any description.
The wandering robber, necessarily 'a burgher of that desert city,' came then, by general consent, to be described as a 'bushranger.' The term was even Latinised, as the philologist may discover by reading the description in St. James's Church, Sydney, on the tablet placed there to commemorate the death of Dr. Wardell, of 'Wardell's Bush,' Petersham, slain in the early thirties, 'latrone vagante' (sic). The first robbers were in all cases convicts. For the small proportion of free men employed as guards and warders, overseers and head workmen, there was obviously no temptation to leave recognised positions, to ramble through the terrible foodless wastes, with a price on their heads, as was the stern usage of the period.
But in the case of the reckless felon the conditions were different. He had been flogged—he was worked in irons for bad conduct. If returned by his employer to the authorities as useless or stubborn, no prospect lay before him but that of ending a wretched life in the severer penal settlements, where incorrigibles were doomed to chains and slavery. He declared for the open sky, the free forest. The toll levied on the drays of the squatter, the homestead of the farmer, or the wayfarer on the high-road, was necessarily the chief, almost the only support of outlaws. For a time they lived and flourished. Having secured arms—the fowling-piece, musket, or pistol of the period—they entrapped or intimidated the unwary traveller. They made stubborn defence against the minions of the law, unless the odds were too great. In some instances, having discovered retreats known only to the aboriginal tribes or outlying shepherds, mostly sympathisers, their evasion of justice was prolonged for years. The end, however, was but delayed. Tracked down, betrayed, slain in fair fight with police, with soldiers, with settlers combining for self-defence, the same fate awaited all.
Found with arms in their hands, they were hanged as a matter of course. No sentence of imprisonment afforded them hope of escape, with further possibilities of crime. They had played the great hazard, and the forfeit was duly paid.
Living in this condition of continual warfare—their hand against all men, and, with rare exceptions, all men against them, the gallows or the bullet their certain doom—it is not to be wondered at that crimes of violence shocked and aroused the community. 'As well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,' was the familiar proverb quoted in reference to deeds of blood and rapine. With fancied wrongs and years of oppression to avenge, they showed no mercy. They had received none. Fighting with the rope round their necks, they were reckless and ruthless. And when the last act of the grim tragedy was played, with the hangman for stage manager and a quasi-criminal crowd for audience, the leading actor had more than once boasted of a score of murders and kindred outrages.
At the first outbreaks the highwaymen of the period had neither horses nor arms worthy of the name. Revolvers were unknown; pistols were far from being 'arms of precision.' Rifles even were rare; only the fowling-piece and the Tower musket were in common use. Horses, too, were scarce. So that the colonial summons of 'Bail up,' or even the old-fashioned British demand, 'Your money or your life,' came mostly from a ragged Robinson Crusoe-like individual behind a tree, with a rusty gun-barrel protruding therefrom.
Of course after the 'breaking out' of Port Phillip—as the earliest colonisation of Victoria was disrespectfully termed—in 1837, persons of darksome record hasted to the new settlement to hide from the law or prey on the public. Among them were three escaped Tasmanian felons, named Williams, Jepps, and Fogarty.
This worthy triumvirate raided the wilds of the Upper Plenty, robbing and holding to ransom the lieges, terrorising a line of farm-houses. They took prisoners my good friend Charles Ryan and the late Mr. Alick Hunter, adding insult to injury by eating the breakfast prepared for the latter gentleman and his friends. What the fashionables of the day wanted on the banks of the Plenty Rivulet I never could make out. But it was considered 'the thing' apparently to have a farm in that locality; it was even surmised that these aristocratic amateurs might make money by the practice of agriculture—a delusion long dispelled. What the solid fact amounted to re Jepps and Co. was that, like the footpads in Don Juan, their first accost was 'D—— your eyes, your money or life.' So much for the 'first robbers' in Victoria.
To them enter four gentlemen—volunteers, squatters of the period and overlanders at that—Mr. Henry Fowler, of Fowler's Flat, near Albury; Mr. Peter Snodgrass, M.L.A., son of the Colonel and Lieutenant-Governor of that name, historically known as commanding the 13th Portuguese Regiment, when on August 31, 1813, he mounted the 'imminent deadly breach' at the siege of St. Sebastian; Lieutenant Robert Chamberlain, a retired military man; and Mr. Gourlay, squatter. Arming in haste, they followed hard on the tracks of the spoilers, and, as they crossed the creek flat, discovered the bushrangers entrenched in a slab hut, fully prepared for battle. The outlaws had the best of the position, having cover, behind which they could fire through windows and other openings. The attacking force did not stop to weigh probabilities, but charged up to the fortress, the besieged returning fire with effect. Mr. Chamberlain was slightly wounded; Mr. Fowler was shot through the jaw. But 'blood will tell.' The volunteers were cool and determined. One of the robbers was shot dead, and the others captured before the smoke had well cleared from the tiny battle scene, which compared favourably as to killed and wounded with more pretentious engagements. The prisoners were conveyed to Melbourne, there to await trial, sentence, and execution. Their captives, I may mention, finding themselves neglected, promptly quitted the field, their position between two fires being eminently unsafe.