# Banking Under Difficulties/Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.
I wish I possessed a picture of the little company. The head of the house in Highland bonnet, blue guernsey, long boots, a leathern belt, and a staff for protection—for I had a horror of pistols—and a swag, fore-and-aft, to use a sailor's expression, as we were apt to do, having so recently crossed the deep sea, where one gets graduated to great perfection in seaman vocabulary, each of the party had a due equipment of some kind or another.
We were soon at the hut of a person who was to take what we could not carry. We at length reached Melbourne, the principal rendezvous, and there had to wait at the “Rob Roy” until a sufficient loading was procured. Two hours were now occupied loading a horse team and bullock dray with the swags of a party no less than forty in number—thirty-nine men and one woman. Our trysting place was Flinders-lane, and “we met, ’twas in a crowd” of diggers, anxious to start for the far-famed Bendigo, but the owner of the teams would not start without his full freight, nor would he commence loading until we all collected our swags, which were weighed as carefully as if they had been silver, and the cartage, at the rate of one shilling per pound, first paid before a single article was deposited on the drays. As we felt rather hungry, we entered an inn opposite the “Rob Roy.” I remember I looked for a servant, but soon found that “Jack was as good as his master,” and everybody dressed alike. I went into a large room where some fifty people were at dinner. After waiting a while, two women rose from the table (for the two serving-maids had taken the precaution to serve themselves first). I happened to be close to one of them, and she at once accosted me with, “This way, mate. Any more with you? The feed is four shillings. Take this seat.” Here I got my first lesson in the art of looking after myself. I overheard one of the party speak of the provision he had made for the journey, and discovered that my party had made none. However, by the time the loading was completed, I found myself with a leg of mutton under one arm, and a four-pound loaf under the other, and each of my party with something to cheapen the loading, as riding, when one would be charged at the rate of one shilling per pound, was out of the question.
​At length we were ready to start, thirty-eight of the party duly armed with gun and pistols. I had my walking-stick, and our solitary lady her parasol. She had been married the day before to a lucky digger, and they were now starting on their marriage trip. We were a motley group, but there were many such, and everybody's motto seemed to be “Mind your own business.” We got safely to Elizabeth-street, at least to the last house in it then, when we encountered rut the first, and over went the horse-dray. Oh! What a row! What a rumpus! But there was no use grumbling. I knew my medicine chest was end on in the mud, but so was a digger’s fat wife, who had just been capsized into a deeper ditch in the act of laughing at us in our difficulty. “Serves her right,” said the lady in our party. Our men set their shoulders to the wheel, and the dray was soon righted, no damage being done. The master of the teams was the driver of the horse-dray on which our property was deposited. He seemed to be a quiet inoffensive fellow, but the driver of the bullock team was an old man, with a face that had not seen water for many a month, and although almost everybody had a beard of some sort, his was enough to terrify any new chum. The poor bullocks, seeing the capsize, stood still as if by instinct; but woe to their weary hides, for they had a foretaste of what was in store for them during the journey, and we had an example of the driver’s style in the shape of oaths and imprecations on Browny and Strawberry, and for what I could not tell.
As it was well on in the afternoon before we started, nightfall found us only five miles from Melbourne, and here we were to encamp for the first time. A cord was fixed between two suitable trees, and on this we slung our tent—8 ft. by 10. “All hands to the pumps”—one cutting wood, another gathering leaves to spread our beds on, a third trying to light a fire at the bottom of a gum-tree. We had no bellows, so we sent one of the party to a store close by to buy a pair. He was laughed at for his pains, and told to use his “wideawake.” I tried my bonnet, and it answered admirably, and saved a few shillings to boot. By this time the water was boiling, the pannikins distributed, and everyone had chops and bread to his heart’s content, and, according to arrangements, each had, at his option, a tablespoonful of rum in the last half of his pannikin of tea as a specific against the dangers of damp. It was now time to retire to rest. We almost left our little bush fire with regret, and indeed it was a very pretty sight to see so many fires (for our company had divided into eight or ten parties); some were singing, some laughing, and the bullock-driver was busy fixing the dray, so that the newly-married couple might sleep below it, considering it, no doubt, the best bedroom. He threw a large tarpaulin over the dray, and fixed the pole on a rest. The old man went to look after his horses, and we retired to “pack.”
​ My staff was called into requisition as a candlestick. A candle was duly fixed on the top, and after spreading the leaves, blankets, and oilskins, I got two of our party disposed of on one side and three on the other, blew out the candle, said ‘Good night,’ and gently wedged myself between the lot. I don’t know if we had got the length of the first snore before there was an alarm in the camp. It seemed to be the cry of a female, and we had only one. It was a wonder that in the scramble to get our weapons of defence some harm was not done. However, the old man’s voice was soon heard, “All right, lads; all right!” By daybreak we were all astir, shaking and folding blankets; kettle boiling, chops frying, and all the etceteras of a camping party. “What was up last night, old boy?” said I to the driver. “Oh, nothin’ particular” said he, turning his quid in his mouth; “Only, after I had a look at the bullocks, and saw that all was right, I went to take a snooze on the top of the dray, but it being on a balance, as I was getting up behind, the stick keeping up the pole fell, down went the dray, and the young bride fancied it was the bushrangers.”
I said, as I threw down my swag for the last time on the Saturday night, “Thank God, the morn is Sabbath.” I had never dreamt of starting at the usual hour, but the bustle of the bullock-driver made me ask him what he was after this morning, when his gruff voice, with a string of oaths, said, “A lot of lazy Scotchmen. Come, get up, and let us start.” “Why move,” said I. “This is the Sabbath.” “The better the day the better the deed,” said he “We have no Sabbaths in the bush;” and the poor bullocks got an additional share of cursing for my attempt to give us all a day’s rest. The roads were so bad that we did not even make a Sabbath day’s journey, for at the end of three miles we were fairly “stuck in the mud.” Evening came, and we camped for the night. The moon shone out in her glory, and we had a huge fire. Almost everyone had cut down a tree, taking the leaves as bush feathers for his bed, and the trunk and branches were added to the common fire. The bullock-driver was alone in his notions about a holy rest on the Sabbath, for, although we were almost all strangers to each other (for we had, like a snowball, grown larger as we had moved on), everyone seemed to feel that we had come from a Christian land. I was not the oldest, but I felt as a father, and, starting to my feet, said, “Come, let us remember that we have spent the Lord’s day in the bush. Let us sing to His praise the 23rd Psalm.” I am no singer, and the only tune I knew was “Stroudwater.” I began; a few joined in, and by the time the psalm was ended the “Black Forest” resounded with the song of praise. Bedtime came, and nearly all retired to rest. I was alone at the fire, and the only person I saw about was the driver, who was settling up for the night by looking ​around to see if the dray was all right. I said, “How did you like the singing?” “First rate,” said he. “You have not a church here, I suppose?” “Church!” said he, “I haven’t been in a church for twenty years.” “But you say your prayers, don’t you?” “Me pray!” said he, “I never prayed in my life.” “Oh, yes,” said I, “I heard you pray this morning, and I was so struck with the words that I wrote them down.” I took out my pocket-book—for our slow coaching gave me too much time to write memos, and, with other things, I had noted some of the oaths and imprecations of the driver. I began and read on a little, when he said, “Do you mean to say that I used those words?” I said, “Indeed, you did. I took down the very words as they fell from your lips.” “Well, then, stop—stop!” said he; “I am ashamed to hear you say them. I am ashamed of myself.” Next morning we started, and there was less cursing, but now and then a sad imprecation escaped his lips. I had almost to bite mine as the poor fellow declared that the (almost forgetting himself) bullocks would not pull without a little cursing now and then. The roads remained the same, but the cursing propensities perhaps improved. We got to the end of our journey, and I have never seen our driver since. On reaching Kyneton I called at a respectable-looking store, and to my surprise found that I was served by my late hospital assistant on board the good ship Garland. He was getting good wages, and was quite pleased with his new employment. He said that after leaving the ship he spent the last shilling he had for a nobbler, and was almost too weary to walk from “Liardet’s” to Melbourne, where he found a man in a bar of a publichouse offering a £5-note to anyone who could paint his name on a boat he had just purchased. My friend engaged to do it if his employer furnished the materials. This he promised to do, and the bargain was soon struck. The painter got a bed “on tick” and slept soundly in the prospect of getting something to do. He was accommodated with sleeping room on the top of the kitchen table, and was awakened early next morning by the boatman with a paint pot in hand and all etceteras for commencing his job.
After my late assistant had given me this account of himself, he accompanied me a short distance to where there was a disturbance taking place in the street, and we stopped to see what was the matter, for there seemed to be a general fight in front of a publichouse. At this juncture a gentleman rushed from the hotel, bawling at the top of his voice, “What's the matter? What's the matter?” “Who are you?” said a rollicking Irishman. “I’m the Chief Magistrate,” said the gentleman. “Take that, then,” giving the dignitary such a blow in the face as made him reel across the street. I presume he thought, under the circumstances, “discretion was the better part of valour,” and ​quietly walked on with what he got. The next instant the crowd started off, bawling out “Peeler! Peeler!” and two policemen were seen riding up to the inn in charge of a man mounted on a fine young horse. The policemen were dressed in plain clothes, and, as I understood they had just captured a bushranger, a gang of which were in the neighbourhood, I was anxious to see a real live one, and pushed my way amongst the crowd, when half-a-dozen voices called out “That’s Mr.———.” I did not catch the name. I thought by the twinkle of the man’s eye that he was all right, but at this moment one of the policemen said to the other, “Take that fellow in charge. D——— the eyes of anyone that interferes with me in the discharge of my duty,” and with that be brandished his revolver, which he threatened to discharge at the first man that dared to rescue his prisoner.
At this moment a smart little gentleman came up, who I understood was the newly-appointed coroner, to give a hint to the policeman, and who seemed to be riding on the top of his commission, but was met at once by a “Stand off, sir. If you speak another word I’ll walk you off in double quick time.” The coroner walked off, muttering something to himself, which was construed into contempt of court, and the policeman nearly had him by the collar when he darted upstairs to his own room, sheltering himself behind his double-barrelled gun, and the pursuit of the constable was only hindered by the landlady, who stood on the stairs, preventing any further proceedings. By this time the peace (?) officer, who, by the way, was a new chum, discovered that his prisoner was an old and well-known squatter in the neighbourhood, whose black pipe and dirty cabbage-tree hat in some measure deceived the constables. At the same time he, not knowing the men in plain clothes, mistook them for bushrangers, and, not caring to come into contact with them, put spurs to his horse, which made the men think he was fair game, so, however, without any more to do, they pursued and “bagged” him. “By dad,” said an Irishman, “as ye’ve got off so aisy, ye cannot do better than shout for us.” “No,” said he; “no, I’ll toss the constable.” It fell to the squatter’s lot to pay for drinks for the company, and this, at the rate of 1s. 6d. a drink, was no joke. He was prevented from doing so by a digger, who was returning to Melbourne after making a pile, which he had made up his mind to “knock down,” and return to the old spot to make another. He had taken the precaution to send his gold by private escort to town. He had luckily some for present purposes, for, turning the lining of an old wideawake, he handed a £10-note to the landlord, saying, “Come, old fellow, let’s have a drink all round.” This was called a “colonial shout.”