# Banking Under Difficulties/Chapter 15

CHAPTER XV.
In a previous chapter I gave an account of a funeral at Williamstown, where a father had to dig his own child’s grave. A similar case occurred about this time. One morning R———, a friend of mine, was strolling through the first burial ground on Lambing Flat, at the back of the Great Eastern, when he saw an old man digging a grave. He accosted him with “Good morning; for whom are you digging the grave?” The old man replied, “As my son, a young man about twenty-two years of age, the stay and prop of me and my wife in our declining years, was coming to the Flat with a load of produce he fell sick and died; we have brought the corpse here for burial, and it is lying under the dray yonder; I could not find anyone to dig the grave, so had to dig it myself.” R——— told him to leave off and he would find someone to finish it, at the same time recommending him to notify the circumstance to the Commissioner. On his way home R——— called at the Great Eastern, where he related the sad tale. The few persons in the bar at once subscribed a sum sufficient to defray the necessary expenses of the burial.
The following incident was related to me by an eye-witness, who at the time held a responsible position at Lambing Flat, and is described in order to give some idea of the extraordinary powers exercised by the police in trying to suppress crime. I give it in his own words:—“One morning Detective Carnes called at my hotel and gave me a pressing invitation to accompany him to Blackguard Gully, ‘to see a bit of fun.’ I readily assented, took my walking-stick as a protector, while the police officer (of course in private clothes) was armed with a small single-barrel pocket pistol. After walking for about an hour and a-half we came upon the dreaded locality, Blackguard Gully, and entered a large shanty, where it was supposed some unfortunates had been stuck up the night before. The shanty was somewhat better than the usual style of sly-grog shop, being very comfortably furnished, and containing three large rooms. As soon as we entered the landlady uttered an exclamation of horror and surprise at seeing ​the well-known face of the old detective. The officer was wonderfully cool and collected, commencing his inquiries something like this:—‘Good-day, mother! where is Jimmy?’ meaning, of course, the landlord, whom he was seeking. Tears and protestations of innocence were of no avail, neither could the detective gain any clue to the whereabouts of Jimmy. However, there were other expedients at hand, so we sallied forth among the diggers, the claims being in close proximity to the shanty. The first person interrogated was the son of Jimmy, but he no sooner said, ‘I don’t know, Mr. Carnes,’ than off he bolted among the diggers. The arrival of the detective at this place naturally raised the suspicions of the diggers that something was up, and consequently one after another called down the shaft to his mate that Carnes was there. Then one by one came up from his claim, and in the course of some fifteen or twenty minutes we were surrounded by a goodly number of diggers—most of them decent fellows, anxious to aid the police in discovering the perpetrators, as such crimes were then of very frequent occurrence in the Gully. Among the arrivals from below, Jimmy’s head at last was seen above ground. The detective hailed him with ‘Jimmy, I want you; now you might just as well tell me where you have put the plant; I am sorry to have to do it, but I must take you to the Flat.’ Jimmy, however, made the most solemn declaration of his innocence, and of his total ignorance of where the plant was secreted. All, however, to no purpose, as he (Jimmy) was at length handed over to the safe custody of about twenty diggers, while Mr. Carnes settled his reckoning with the landlady. Inside the shanty mother and children were crying and protesting against taking Jimmy to the Flat. All to no purpose, for the police officer merely said, ‘Well, mother, I am sorry to have to do it, but can’t help it; you had better pack up what duds you want, with the money you have, and clear out.’ Poor things! They soon gathered together the few bits of clothing necessary to clear out with, and left the shanty, with the furniture, bedding, grog, and fixtures, never to see it again. As soon as the inmates were outside, the police officer struck a match and set fire to the whole concern. Of course, in a few minutes not a vestige of the shanty or its contents was left standing. With the prisoner under the escort of some diggers we proceeded to the camp at Lambing Flat, where he was safely placed under lock and key, the crime for which he was arrested being laid under the Vagrant Act, as a rogue and vagabond. Next morning I went to the police court at the camp to hear the trial. Jimmy was brought in and had to answer to the charge of being a rogue and vagabond. Detective Carnes gave evidence to the effect that he had known Jimmy for some years as the associate of thieves and vagabonds, The officer called a witness to corroborate this evidence. Jimmy had no witness. The ​bench considered the case proved, and sentenced him to twelve months’ hard labour in the Goulburn gaol.”
On the evening of the 2nd January, 1862, Dr. Temple was stuck-up about eight o’clock, near the grave-yard, by two men, who took his watch, saddle, and bridle, and bound him and left him there. About twelve o’clock two men passed along and heard his cries and released him. A few days after this two men bailed up twenty people at the same place, and eased them of everything they had of any value. This was within half-a-mile of the camp, where there were over 100 soldiers, 74 marines, and 20 policemen.
On the 1st February, Captain Wilkie, who was in command of the troops, fell off his horse in an apoplectic fit, and died that night. His wife had only joined him about a fortnight when this melancholy event happened. They were living in a bark hut until their new quarters (which were in course of erection) were finished. Strange to say he had a presentiment he would not occupy them, and often said so to his wife. This sudden death cast quite a gloom over the town. The funeral, a military one, took place on the 3rd, and was well attended. There being no band connected with the regiment, the circus band volunteered their services; no Church of England clergymen residing in the district, the burial service was read by Lieutenant Morris. Mrs. Wilkie attended the funeral, and drove alongside the procession in a carriage. Three volleys were fired over the grave, which concluded the ceremony. Some short time after, Mrs. Wilkie erected a handsome monument over the grave, and since I left Burrangong has, I believe, erected a Memorial Church.
5th March.—Great excitement in town to-day, news having been received that Gardiner (the bushranger) had stuck up Messrs. Hewitt and Horsington, two storekeepers from Wombat, who were bringing in their gold purchases for the week. They took £1000 worth from Horsington, and £700 from Hewitt. M‘Carthy, agent of the Oriental Bank, went out immediately, both parties being constituents of his, to whom he had advanced the money for the purchase of gold, the loss in this case falling upon the bank.
10th April—Davis, one of Gardiner’s mates, was captured by Detective Lyons, Inspector Sanderson, and another, after a hard fight. He was shot through the thigh, and brought in by the coach. I went up to see him, in fact was present when the wound was probed and the bullet extracted. The fellow never even flinched during the operation, and it struck me he was not any too tenderly handled. Detective Lyons was wounded in the fray. He had the top of one finger shot off. Davis was well taken care of, and mended rapidly. A few months after this he was tried at Goulburn, and sentence of death was recorded, but was commuted to imprisonment for life. I was in Goulburn at ​the time of the trial. When sentence was pronounced Davis said to the judge, “I would rather be hanged, your honour, than imprisoned for life.” “No matter, what you would rather,” replied the judge, “the sentence of the court is that you be imprisoned for life.” This was all bravado on the part of Davis, who that very morning said to one of the warders he did not care how long he was imprisoned if he but escaped with his life.
29th January, 1863.—After being out the greater part of the night, Captain Battye (inspector of police) succeeded in capturing two bushrangers connected with the Bathurst mail robbery. It was currently reported that Gardiner was in the town, which turned out to be the case. I had a messenger who was for some time employed as ostler on the road between Burrangong and Forbes, at a place frequently visited by Gardiner and his satellites, and who therefore knew him very well by sight. On this evening he came to me and said, “Gardiner and one of his mates are at Deeley’s Hotel. I thought it was he, so went in to see.” He also told me two horses were tied up at the door. I wrote a note which I sent up to Captain Battye, marked “immediate,” but which, in his absence, was opened by the officer next in command, who, on reading it, ordered out four of the foot police; but, instead of going quietly to the hotel, marched into town, making a great fuss, and halting in front of the bank, came to inquire from me as to the whereabouts of Gardiner. Having given them full particulars in the note sent to the camp, I was simply disgusted at their want of tact and told them so. They then went down the street some 200 yards or so away from Deeley’s (by which time the “bush” telegraph was at work), and turning sharply round walked bravely up to the hotel, to find, no doubt much to their satisfaction, that the bird had flown. I may as well explain what I mean by saying the “bush telegraph” was at work. In the billiard-rooms of the bars of the principal hotels of Burrangong might be seen one or two young men dressed in boots and breeches, velvet-edged waistcoats, &c., neat and spruce-looking, but without any visible means of support. For a long time these fellows were a puzzle to me. They were occasionally seen on horseback, and well mounted, too. On inquiry, I found these young gentlemen were working in concert with the bushrangers, and kept them posted up as to the movements of the police, &c. In the case above referred to no doubt they knew of the police being in town, walked quietly up to the hotel, and gave the alarm.
2nd February, 1863,—Dickenson, storekeeper, of Spring Creek, was stuck up by Gardiner, Gilbert, Hall, O’Meally, and Pat Daly.
About sundown Dickenson saw five horsemen pull up at Dalton’s publichouse, which was immediately opposite his store, one of them in police uniform. It was just closing time, but a ​customer putting in an appearance, Dickenson went in to attend to him, when four men walked in presenting revolvers at Dickenson, his storeman, and the customer. Dickenson treated it as a joke, but on O’Meally's remarking, “There's no b———y mistake about it,” picked up a five-pound weight, when Hall and O’Meally presented revolvers at his head, ordering him outside, Daly being placed as guard over him. They then demanded the keys of his safe, which were given up. They took £180 in notes, about £5 worth of old coins, two or three watches, £11 in gold, and silver coin; some cabbage-tree hats, boots, breeches, &c.; in all about £250 worth. Two or three passers-by were bailed-up and placed alongside of Dickenson. The bushrangers had some trouble with one man—a trooper in plain clothes, who was returning to the camp after a leave of absence. When called upon to bail-up he rushed his horse at them, striking out right and left. He was soon overpowered, however, and his horse taken from him, and afterwards used by them as a packhorse. Daly was very nervous, and trembled like a leaf. The prisoners noticing this, rushed him, but Ben Hall coming to his assistance, and saying, “You fellows think there are only five of us, there are others within coo-ee,” they coolly submitted to their fate. The bushrangers having packed up, mounted and galloped away. Dickenson proceeded to the police camp and gave information to the police. Troopers were at once sent in pursuit, but missed them by turning off at the Stony Creek road instead of going on to Wombat, where the bushrangers had gone to stick-up Solomon’s store. They found the store closed, and Solomon fired at them. He, however, surrendered, and they helped themselves very liberally. Daly was captured soon afterwards and sentenced to fifteen years’ imprisonment. Gilbert, Hall, and O’Meally were all shot, as will be shown in a following chapter. Gardiner was sentenced to thirty-two years’ imprisonment, but after serving ten years was liberated by the New South Wales Government.
15th February.—At seven p.m. Cirkle, a storekeeper and publican at Stony Creek, was stuck-up and shot. The man Cirkle referred to was a constituent of mine; a really plucky fellow. When getting money for the purchase of gold, I often said to him, “What would you do, Cirkle, if Gardiner got hold of you?” “Do!” he said, “I would fight for my life; I would just as soon lose my life as my money.” It seemed that a little before dusk two men rode up to his store and asked the barman for drinks. While in the act of getting them one of the men walked round to the back of the counter and presented a revolver at the barman’s head, and cleared the till of its contents. At this moment Cirkle came in at the back door, saw what was up, made an attempt to get into a little room at the back of the counter, where he had his revolver, and in which Mrs. Cirkle was lying in bed seriously ill. He grappled with the man behind the counter, who ​placed the revolver behind Cirkle’s ear, pulled the trigger, and down he fell stone dead. Mrs. Cirkle, hearing the report, jumped out of bed, ran into the bar, where she saw, as she thought, a drunken man on the floor, but whom she soon discovered was her husband weltering in his own blood. The bushrangers left immediately. Next day an inquest was held on the body. Poor fellow! He was a German by birth; had travelled all over America in the roughest times, and was at last shot dead in his own house, in a miserable hole like Stony Creek. The funeral took place on the 17th; the Masons attended in full force, the service being read by Grand Master Booth. A large number of Germans were present with band, flags, &c. The German flag was lowered into the grave, when his countrymen vowed vengeance on his murderers.
18th February, 1863.—Meeting held at the Empire Hotel, the object of which was to petition the Government to increase the police force in the district.
19th February.—A storekeeper named Cullen came into town to-day, stating that he knew where the murderers of Cirkle were to be found. He succeeded in getting several volunteers (Germans) to go out with him. Mr. Pearce, our worthy P.M., was hunting all over the town for horses, revolvers, guns, pistols, &c. The “German Legion” returned the following evening, bringing with them three prisoners. It so happened that none of the men they brought in were wanted.
2nd March.—News reached town this evening that an inspector of police had been carried away by the bushrangers. Another sticking-up case to-day, or, I should say, another murder. A miner named McBride was coming into town from the Ten Mile. When about a couple of miles on the road he saw two men on horseback stick-up a man a little way ahead of him. He walked on till he came within firing distance, and placing himself against a tree, he took out his revolver and commenced to fire away. The bushrangers then turned their attention to the new comer, whom, without any fuss, they shot through the thigh, and then rode off. Some men came along, made a sort of stretcher, and started to carry him to the hospital; the poor fellow died on the road. The Ten Mile above referred to, so-called from being within ten miles from Burrangong, was visited weekly by the representatives of the different banks, their chief object being the purchase of gold. I often think of the risks we ran, and how strange it was that we were never stuck-up. I attribute it to the fact that no one knew when we would be on the road, or which road we would travel, as sometimes we would go one way, sometimes another; now by the main road, another time by the bush. We were always armed, but a man does not know what he will do till he is tried. It is very well to say I would do this, I would do that. “Circumstances alter cases.” In the ​whole of my travels I was never stuck-up, although I have seen the bushrangers and they have been on the look out for me; still I am glad to say I never got into their clutches. Oftentimes when at meals at the hotel I have been asked, “When are you going home?” Noticing the bush telegraph close to or opposite me, I would reply, “To-morrow morning early.” As soon as the meal was over I would saddle up and away, so not a soul knew when I would be on the road.