“ye to whose sovereign hands the fates confide
of this fair land the reins,—
this land for which no pity wrings your breast,—
why does the stranger’s sword her plains invest,
that her green fields be dyed?”
petrarch.
"h
ere’s another snob trying to get us all cashiered! confound those beastly newspapers,—just my luck!” exclaims an elderly and rather handsome man, who, sitting before his office table, has just opened an important-looking letter, headed with the royal arms printed in red ink.
“just my confounded luck. just at this time too, of all others, when my application to be appointed protector of aboriginals for the district must just have reached the chief. now i wonder what mrs. bigger will say if i don’t166 get this extra salary as protector, for i can’t send jane down south to school, as i promised, if i don’t get more than my present pay, that’s certain.”
the blue-paper letter that has occasioned inspector bigger of the n. m. police so much vexation—for it is this well-known gentleman who now sits nervously rubbing his eyeglass in the little hot office of the barracks—is dated from the bureau of the superintendent of police, brisbane, and runs as follows:—
“june 4th, 1889.
“john bigger, esq., inspector of n. m. police for townsend barracks, werandowera district.
“the colonial secretary having requested the commissioner of police to supply him with such information as lies in his power, concerning the truthfulness of an occurrence of which the enclosed newspaper article (which appeared in a recent issue of the ‘northern miner’) purports to be an account, i am directed to desire you to communicate immediately with this office upon the subject.
“i am, sir,
“p. p. commissioner of police,
“harry stocrat.”
the following is a reprint of the newspaper cutting which flutters to the floor on the letter being opened:—
“another n. m. p. atrocity.
“close to townsend, a reliable correspondent informs, the following lately took place:—
“at a mining camp where nothing had been stolen by the natives for months, three natives ran by a miner’s tent 167 one evening. going into town next day, the said miner mentioned this, but did not ask for assistance. the neighbouring sergeant of black police with four boys, however, appears at the camp in a few days. as night falls the light of a native camp-fire is sparkling away on a mountain range some four miles off. no one knows or cares if these particular natives had committed the crime of running by a miner’s tent. taking a ‘boy’ by the shoulder, the sergeant points out the fire, and soon after the four troopers steal off into the gloom, armed to the teeth, and naked save for their cartridge-belts. the sergeant remains behind, and in about an hour and a half the sound of nine shots coming rapidly one after another is heard. presently the ‘boys’ again appear with spears and dilly-bags, and tell, amongst other horrid details, that they have despatched ‘plenty fellow pickaninnie’ with their tomahawks.”
the inspector’s little office occupies half of a small weather-board erection, which is so crazy from the attacks of white ants (termites) that it can hardly support its hot, galvanised-iron roof. a rough wooden bookcase occupies one wall, standing on a rusty iron tray, which is generally kept supplied with water to defend this article of furniture from the same insect foes that are fast destroying the joints and studs of the building. on its dirty shelves a number of dusty law-books, blue summons papers, and the like, repose in picturesque disorder.
on either side of the single window of the apartment hangs a cat-o’-nine-tails,—one for the use of the refractory “boys” of the corps, and manufactured of plain leather thongs; the other having the narrow lengths of hide decorated with swan-shot artistically fastened to the cruel tongues with whipcord. this more complicated 168 instrument is used for such cases as refractory native witnesses, when a murderer has to be discovered, and has also visited many of the stations round on loan to squatters who are anxious to instil the beauties of civilization into the bosoms (and backs) of those of their native slaves who are desirous of escaping from their bondage. a number of handcuffs and leg-irons, and a few racing pictures, spotted to indistinctness by the last summer’s plague of flies, decorate the walls; and behind inspector bigger’s chair is a rack of snider carbines, whilst a pair of loaded, long-barrelled “colts” lie on the pigeon-holed letter rack before him on the table, which occupies the centre of the room.
“now what shall i do about this, i wonder?” ponders the gallant defender of frontier settlers. “i can’t say it was sergeant blarney’s fault and call him over the coals, for i have already reported the matter to the chief as if i had been present. well,” with a sigh, “it’s another proof of how careful we must be nowadays. bai jove! if any of these scribblers had seen some of the little affairs we’ve managed in the old days, between here and herberton, there would have been some ‘tall writing,’ as the yankees say, there would so. bai jove!” the inspector adds aloud, rising from his chair and peering out of the open door down the bare barrack yard to where the square, rush-covered huts of the boys stand side by side, “if that isn’t puttis back again. wonder if he’s been sent up to replace me? why, he was only ordered down to nanga district six weeks ago.”
169
officer and “boy” of black police.
170
the small, military figure of inspector puttis, to whom we have already introduced our readers half-a-dozen chapters back, dismounts quickly from the magnificent chestnut which has carried him from cairns, and, after a few rapid words to his black orderly, who has dismounted also, rapidly marches up the scrupulously neat yard towards the residence of his brother officer. the white sergeant of the local force, and two or three native constables who are standing near, stand “attention” and give the military salute as the dapper little man passes them, which he replies to by lifting his riding cane to his cabbage-tree hat.
whilst the new-comer is being welcomed by inspector bigger, let us glance at the more prominent objects in the scene before us.
two rows of weather-board iron-roofed buildings, amongst which are the white sergeant’s quarters, stretch down a slight declivity to where they meet at right angles a terrace of brown, single-roomed huts, occupied by the native constables. at the upper end of the fair-sized quadrangle thus formed, the thatched, bungalow-like home of the chief, covered with creeping plants and standing in a brilliant flower garden, looks down on the rest from the summit of the moderate rise on which the barracks are situated.
the “boy” who arrived with the inspector, and who, in company with several other natives, is now leading the two horses to the stockyard down by the heavily-timbered water-hole, is in the well-known uniform of the black police. this consists of a linen-covered shako, blue-jacket garnished with red braid, and white duck trousers; brown leather gaiters reach to the “boy’s” knees, and he wears an old pair of his master’s enormously long spurs on his “blucher” 171 boots. as he is “in marching order,” a brass cartridge-belt, containing snider cartridges, is slung, after the fashion of a sergeant’s scarf, around his body. to complete this somewhat lengthy description of a uniform to be seen only in “up-country” australia, we may add that a snider carbine hangs in its “basket” and strap from the “off” side of the “boy’s” saddle.
a few boys in the “undress” of a pair of trousers are sweeping one corner of the yard, and from the doors of the dwellings the brightly turbaned heads of a number of native women, the property of the chinese cook and white constables, are lolling out for a view of the new arrivals.
but to return to the two officers, who are now seated under the verandah of inspector bigger’s home, near a table loaded with the usual “spiritual” signs of australian hospitality.
“well, puttis, so you’re going up to murdaro again, are you?” begins the host, after the preliminary courtesies of greeting have been gone through between the two friends. “bai jove! i wish i had the influence you have, old fellow, with our lords and masters down there at brisbane. ah! you sly dog, can i congratulate you yet?” asks the smiling elder man. “there’s not the slightest doubt but miss mundella’s the handsomest, eh? and the smartest young lady this side of the clarence. did she ever tell you, by-the-bye, old man, that i knew her father?”
“never,” replies puttis, with his customary brevity, just letting his jaws open and shut to emit the word, much like a fox-terrier does when it snaps at a troublesome “blue-bottle.”
“old mr. mundella—it was young mundella then 172—was one of the first to take up-country near where you’ve just come from. and d’you know,” continues the verbose bigger in a low tone of voice, “d’you know, they used to say at the time that it was our old friend giles, that’s got murdaro now, that cleaned him out of his run, and not the ‘pleuro’ (a cattle disease) at all.”
“humph,” observes inspector puttis.
“yes, that his wife’s brother did it. well, upon my soul, i would not be surprised at anything i heard of giles doing. mundella was grand company, and i don’t think i ever saw a better shot at a running nigger in my life, except yourself.”
“hah!” snorts the little man in the black, frogged jacket, “that is nothing,” and he bows in acknowledgment of the compliment paid to him by his friend. “have lived with finger on trigger—night and day—over ten years, may say. you shot well yourself, a few years back.”
“age making me old and shaky now, me boy,” answers bigger; and if he had said a life of almost unrestrained licentiousness he would have been nearer to the truth. “but what have you done with your troop, puttis?”
“camped down creek. four miles. some niggers camped there. want my ‘boys’ to pick up some information. about man i’m after.”
“ah! a nigger?”
“yes; perhaps you can help me.”
“with pleasure, if i can,” replied the elder inspector, adding, “especially, my dear fellow, as i sha’n’t feel so diffident about asking your assistance, in that case, in a little affair of my own.”
173
the host has by this time had six “nips” to his guest’s abstemious one, so turning his head towards puttis he rattles on: “but won’t you alter your mind and have another? or, if you prefer it, i’ve some real, genuine ‘potheen.’ queensland make, of course, but just like the real stuff. one of my old constituents on the barron river, ha! ha! sent it to me.” the two men smile and wink knowingly at each other. “chinamen never forget a generous action, ha! ha!”
laughing at the remembrance of how he obtained the “potheen,” and filling his glass from the decanter on the table with a very shaky hand, the jovial inspector continues,—
“in consequence of information received from one of my ‘boys,’ i rode up to the chinky’s little scrub farm one day, two years ago. ‘john,’ said i, ‘how many bushels of corn you get off this piece of ground?’ ‘welly bad crop, missie bigger,’ answered the yellow devil, with a sly look at me to see how i took the lie he’d just uttered. ‘no goody chinaman makey garden here. twenty bushels me sell to missie brown. that all,’ and the cursed spawn of confucius kicked some of the rich soil contemptuously over with his sandal. any one could see there’d been a big crop, perhaps three hundred bushels off the land, by the heaps of husks off the heads of maize lying about the clearing. ‘well, john,’ said i, leaning over in my saddle so that some friends who were with me shouldn’t hear, ‘well, john, you can send me a little of the ‘real stuff’ you sold macduff on saturday, and then, whether you get twenty or five hundred bushels here, i sha’n’t trouble to ask you what you use 174 it for next time.’ ha! ha! how li ching (that was his name) stared! he grew green, but he never opened his lips. but what’s more to the purpose, he’s sent me a box of potatoes, regularly, every few months since, which i have carried carefully into my bedroom. i’m sure you’d like it. take a bottle or two with you for giles. he’s a good judge. what?”
“thanks, awfully,” replies inspector puttis. “do so with pleasure. but what’s your trouble? little affair you mentioned?”
the jolly smile that has illuminated inspector bigger’s face during his telling of the previous anecdote fades suddenly upon the objectionable subject of the official inquiry being recalled to his memory. he hands the red-sealed epistle and the newspaper cutting to his friend with a sigh, and watches the expressionless face of the little man as he carefully reads both with anxiety.
“well, puttis, what had i better do about that?”
“about correct?” inquires the person addressed, pointing to the clipping in his hand.
“oh, i think so. of course i wasn’t there. no good my going up those beastly hills in the wet. you see, there’s not been much doing lately in our line about here, and the ‘boys’ were getting troublesome, so i told blarney (the sergeant) to see if he couldn’t find something for them to do. he heard of niggers having been seen up mulberry creek way, and——”
“how did you word report?” interrupts puttis, lighting a cigarette.
“oh! same old style: ‘having received repeated complaints from the mulberry scrub settlers of the wholesale destruction caused by a ferocious tribe of175 dangerous myall blacks,’—and that kind of thing, you know.”
“ah! too risky nowadays!” snaps inspector puttis, again interrupting his senior. “can you get a written complaint? ‘we demand assistance,’ and that style of thing?”
“oh! there’s thompson, and that old german bauer,—he wants to sell me a couple of cows. either would do that for me, i think.”
“umph!” grunts inspector puttis, “i’d like to see sergeant. will think i’m up here about case.”
the white sergeant is summoned to the presence of the two superior officers, through the medium of a native constable who is weeding the garden close by, and, after a little word fencing, he settles down into an account of the occurrence which corresponds, in most particulars, with that of “our trustworthy correspondent.” in answer to a question put to him he continues,—
“i heard of the camp, sorr, from a young gintleman, yer honours, who kapes the stour at riversleigh, an’ he tells me, sorr, that one of them miner chaps up at high cliff had tould him as how two murthering thaves of nigger women was in the creek by their camp lately. ‘divil tax ’em, sorr,’ he said, but the varmints they got away before the miner could get his mates to help catch ’em.”
“were the miners glad to see you and the ‘boys’?” demands puttis.
“sure, sorr, it’s yourself has guessed the right words they spake, sorr. they was sulky as bandicoots, an’ never said a word till i amused ’em, with me arthful stories,—the ‘bhoys’ having started afther the fire176 on the hill. ‘we’re not afraid of the niggers,’ said one,—who i’ll kape me eyes on when he’s in town for a bit of a spree,—‘we hain’t afraid of niggers: let ’em bide.’”
“wait a bit, sergeant. how do miners get tucker (provisions) up there?”
“it’s thompson, sorr, the only settler, yer honours, on that side of the cliffs; he kills fur ’em.”
“is that thompson who trained the bloodhounds for inspector versley?”
“the same, sorr.”
“that’ll do, sergeant.” the energetic non-commissioned officer salutes and withdraws, and puttis turns towards the local chief.
“say, bigger, have you got that western ‘boy’ you lent me once? what was his name? oh! tomahawk. got him still?”
“no, accidentally shot. very sorry to lose him, for he was a good ‘boy.’ he knew every nigger’s tracks for fifty miles round. no, i lent him to versley, and you know what versley is. tomahawk gave him a piece of cheek, and—and he was accidentally shot.”
“ah! that’s a pity. fact is, i want a ‘boy’ who knows the western lingo. also knows scrub. got one?”
“yes; teapot’s a good ‘boy.’”
“i want to get hold of that educated nigger that dyesart had with him when he died. giles heard him telling other niggers. had killed dyesart. have got warrant to arrest him. served dyesart right though. educating a cursed nigger.”
“oh, you mean that fellow billy. why, i thought 177 he brought a letter or something to murdaro from dyesart. should not be surprised if the nigger wrote it himself though. those civilized blacks are up to anything.”
“he was at murdaro,” remarks inspector puttis, “but he made himself scarce.” he might have added, for he knew it to be a fact, that billy had only made himself “scarce” because he had very good reasons for believing that mr. wilson giles intended to make him altogether “extinct,”—the reason for that worthy gentleman’s inhospitable behaviour being explained and set forth hereafter for the benefit of our readers.
“shouldn’t be surprised if he was at the mission station,” observes inspector bigger, after a short pause for reflection. “if so, i can get him for you. i’ve got a little gin (girl) that will fetch him, if he’s to be fetched out of the sanctuary where all these rascals go to.” after another pause, and a “peg” at the volatile fluid on the table, the speaker continues musingly,—
“if these missionary fellows did any good i wouldn’t object, but they don’t. they just teach those black devils of theirs to think themselves better than a white man. why, one beggar they’ve reared they sent over here,—in a black coat, if you please!—who had the impudence, curse him! to give a sermon in the wesleyans’ gospel-mill down there.”
“ha! ha!” laughs puttis grimly, looking straight in front of him, his left hand unconsciously fingering the revolver pouch on his hip. “these mission stations. good preserves for us sometimes. besides missionaries prevent squatters doing our work themselves. no missionaries, no black police very soon. 178 a black war, like they had in tasmania, would soon result. no more niggers for us to disperse.”
taking a sydney paper from his breast pocket, the little man points to it, asking if his friend has “seen this?”
inspector bigger adjusts his eyeglass after some nervous, blundering attempts, and with some trouble, for he has “nipped” himself into a happy, sleepy mood by this time, makes out the following paragraph in the sydney telegraph.
“depredations by blacks.
“sweeping charges against the missions.
“(by telegraph.)
“adelaide, wednesday.
“a deputation of northern territory pastoralists to-day asked the government to send more mounted police to the territory in order to deal with depredatory blacks, who killed large numbers of stock. the majority of these natives belonged to the mission stations. the minister for education, in reply, said it seemed to him that the mission stations did more harm than good. he had official information that all the black outlaws in the territory made for the missions when hard pressed and the missionaries protected them, and that the worst cattle-killers were the mission aboriginals. he was sorry, however, that owing to the bad state of the finances of the northern territory additional police protection could not be granted.”
“yes,” murmurs the inspector, when he has got the gist of the article fairly into his slightly muddled brain. “that’s comforting. right man in right place. education’s the thing. he knows what he’s 179 talking about. as long as we’ve squatters in the ministry and on the bench we’re all right, eh?”
“yes, and when western australia is out of home government’s interference. ha! ha! something to do for squatters there, i fancy. i’ll see thompson,” puttis adds, rising, “about your affair. he knows me. never allow nonsense from cockatoos (settlers). he will send evidence you want. double quick time.”
and inspector puttis knows what he is talking about, and is not bragging when he declares himself superior to the irritations occasioned wilfully at times by settlers. there were not wanting instances where imprudent scrub-farmers and others had suddenly lost horses and cattle; had found their cottages burned to the ground on a temporary absence in the bush; had left their crops safe over night, to wake cornless and hayless next morning; and yet no trace of the ravagers and thieves was to be found when the aid of the black police trackers had been called in to help to discover the aggressors. and as such invisible pirates, it was noticed, apparently only attacked the holdings of the few persons who were publicly at enmity with the black police, ugly stories got about that pointed to the n. m. “boys” as having played the r?le of midnight marauding myalls (wild aborigines) “at the special request” of the officers of their troop.
inspector puttis now proceeds to bid his host adieu, and before he goes arranges for the neighbouring mission station to be watched for the arrival of billy.
it is growing dark when miss mundella’s fiancé 180 leaves the barracks, and he rides with loose rein at an easy canter towards his camp. the black “boy,” inspector puttis’s aide-de-camp, follows some hundred yards behind. after a couple of miles along the red clay banks of a dried-up mountain torrent, the track leads up a small ridge into an outlying portion of the dense “scrub,” or jungle, that covers the high ranges on either hand. here the way becomes far more difficult to travel, and the riders allow their clever steeds to slowly pick their own path. the clay surface of the treacherous road, worn into wave-like corrugations, a foot or more in depth, from the passing trains of pack-mules from the distant tin-mines, and ever moist with the dews of the dense tropical growth on either hand, is quite dark with the overhanging branches of buttressed fig-trees of gigantic growth, of graceful palms and pendent ferns and creepers, whilst dangerous stinging-trees and lawyer-vines to right and left render caution necessary. but the other side of the patch of scrub is safely reached, and the inspector is just about to urge his horse into another canter, when that animal suddenly snorts and bounds to the other side of the track. this impromptu action probably saved its rider’s life, for as it does so, phut! and a long kangaroo spear flies harmlessly past the inspector’s body, and goes clattering down upon the stony bottom of the watercourse in front.
puttis, although a perfectly fearless man, is one of those persons who never throws a chance away, and, knowing what good cause the aborigines of the district have to wish for his destruction, always carries a revolver in his hand when out late in the 181 scrub. almost before the spear has touched the ground, certainly before it is motionless, the active little man has swung round in his saddle, and fired a snap-shot at his cowardly assailant, whose dusky form can just be seen, as he stands, paralyzed for an instant at the escape of his victim, upon a fallen tree trunk by the wayside. a sparkling burst of flame, a crashing echo, half drowned with a yell of agony, and the inspector’s horse becomes unmanageable, and bolts with him down the track into the open land beyond.
when puttis can prevail on his horse to return into the scrub, he finds his attendant native constable standing by the side of the prostrate body of the would-be murderer, examining him by the light of a wax match he has just struck. the wounded savage, who is desperately hurt in the region of the right lung, scowls up at his enemies as they lean over him. he is quite naked, and lies on the road on his left side. the necklace of joints of yellow grass that he wears, shows him to be in mourning for a relative.
“what name this beggar, yegerie?” inquires puttis of his constable, meaning, “who is this?”
“malle beggar, marmie. him bin long a ’tation, mine think it” (bad fellow, master, has been a station-hand, i think), pointing to some half-healed scars on the man’s shoulder-blades that demonstrate to the experienced eyes looking down on him that he has recently received a flogging.
“any more black fellows about?”
“no more black beggar, marmie. this one sit down long his self,” replies the trained black, in182 whose wonderful powers of hearing, seeing, and deduction his officer has perfect confidence.
“what ’tation you belong to?” continues yegerie, kicking the wounded man with the toe of his boot.
“ah-r-r-r,” growls the wounded savage, with such angry fierceness that inspector puttis’s revolver drops into position, ready to give the sufferer his coup de grace should he attempt any mischief.
“monta karaan!” (curse you!) hisses the feeble voice, “you white devil. you kill um lubra (wife); you kill um pickaninnie; you,”—he pauses to gasp for breath,—“you kill um all about black fellow. no more brudder long a me. ah! no more brudder long a me. monta karaan!!” the sufferer’s head drops down towards the ground, and he literally bites the dust, or rather mud, in a frenzy of passion and agony. then he becomes unconscious apparently, and murmurs a few unintelligible words, followed by a groaning request for—
“kouta! kouta!” (water, water.)
“ah!” muses puttis to himself, knowing by experience that a dying man speaks his last words in the language of his childhood, however much he may have forgotten it a little while before, when in full health. “ah! kouta is a western word. he’s a runaway nigger, and has been living with some tribe about here. he will be very well out of the way.” and nodding to his black aide-de-camp, who thereupon begins to drag the wounded savage off the track into the scrub, the inspector mounts and rides off.
as he reaches the other side of the dried-up 183 river bed once more, his chestnut starts at the sound of a single carbine shot that rings out with weird, muffled suddenness from the dark glades he has just left. it is the requiem of another departed member of the fast-fading aboriginal race of australia.
