Larrikins, Bush Tales and Other Great Australian Stories

by Graham Seal

  In the early eighties there were a good number of 200 a-day men in New South Wales; but none of those celebrated personages ventured a pilgrimage northwards until 1887, when quite a number of fast men stormed the west, and their advent started a new era in the shearing world, improved tools and methods entirely superseding the old Ward and Payne, and Serby school, and the old rum drinking ringers of the roaring days were gradually relegated to the ‘snagger brigade.’ Paddy M’Can, Jack Bird, Tom Green (‘the Burdekin ringer’), Ned Hyles, Jack Ellis (Bendigo), Mick Hoffman (‘the Peak Downs ringer’), Billy Cardham, Jim Sloane, Jack Collins, and George Taylor (‘the Native’) had to give way to the younger brigade with improved Burgon and Ball tools, and new ideas, and, with the advent of Jack Howe, Christy Gratz, ‘Chinee’ Sullivan, Billy Mantim, George Butler, Jimmy Power, Alick Miller, Jack Reid, Allan M’Callum, and others, 180 and 200 were common enough.

  Later, when machinery was introduced, tallies took a further jump. Jimmy Power shore 323 at Barenya in 1892 by machines. The same year Jack Howe shore 321 by hand at Alice Downs, his tallies for the week previous being 249, 257, 259, 263, 267, 144, a total of 1439 for the week. I doubt if this record has ever been beaten. I will say right here that Jack Howe was the best shearer I have ever seen at work. The only one approaching him was Lynch, of the Darling River, New South Wales.

  No doubt figures get enlarged in circulation, and tall tallies in the bar-room mount up with the fumes of bottled beer—there is a lot of sheep shorn there. Shearers do not lie, as a rule: they boast and make mistakes casually. Jack Howe once told me the biggest mistake he ever made was in trying to shake hands with himself in a panel mirror in an hotel in Maoriland. He had just landed, and made for the first hotel. You see, he had grown a beard on the trip over, and looked like a chap he used to know on the Barcoo. The mistake was considerably intensified by the barmaid’s smile, as she watched Jack’s good-natured recognition of an old shearing mate from Queensland.

  At Kensington Downs in 1885, a big Chinaman named Ah Fat rang the shed. He could shear all right, too. The men used to take day about to run him; but the Chow had too much pace. A shearer named George Mason made great preparations to ‘wipe him out’ one day, and, after nearly bursting himself up to dinner-time, discovered that Ah Fat was not on the board: he was doing a lounge in the hut that day. I think that Chinaman must have died; everyone loved him, and, like Moore’s ‘Young Gazelle,’ with its gladsome eye, he was sure to go—

  To that shed beyond the sky,

  Where the angel tarboys fly,

  And the ‘cut’ will last for ever, and

  the sheep are always dry.

  These records may be of interest to the survivors of the old school, and may, perhaps, stir up the dormant memories of the younger ones. They have been culled from past records, written on the backs of stolen telegram forms from almost every post office between Burketown and Barringun, and are given for what they merit.

  Bowyang Bill and the cocky farmer

  ‘Bowyang Bill’ recalled an experience of his younger days, just around the turn of the twentieth century. If Bill is to be believed, on this occasion at least, he worked very hard for one of the notoriously tight-fisted and hard-handed cocky farmers. (A ‘bowyang’ was a length of string tied around trousers just below the knee to keep them up. They were commonly worn by working men in the nineteenth century and many illustrations of swaggies feature them.)

  Bowyang Bill begins his story with a short verse that could be a memorial for the swaggies’ way of life and death:

  For they tramp and go as the world rolls back,

  They drink and gamble, and die;

  But their spirits shall live on the outback track.

  As long as the years go by.

  Remember those cockles who used to wake a fellow at 2 a.m. in the morning to start the day’s work? They are not so plentiful as they were 30 odd years back, but there’s still a few of them milking cows or growing spuds in this State.

  All this takes me back to the time when I tied my first knot in the swag and started out along the dusty tracks to make my fortune. After many weeks I came to Dawson’s place. He was a long, lean hungry sort of codger, and his bleary eyes sparkled when I agreed to work for five bob a week and tucker. I didn’t know Dawson or I would have wasted no time in re-hoisting Matilda and proceeding on my way. I worked 16 hours a day on that place, and lived mostly on damper and flybog. I used to get up so early in the morning that I was ashamed to look at the sleeping fowls when I passed their camping place. I never saw those fowls moving about their yard. They were sleeping on their roosts when I went to work, and they were snoozing on the same roosts when I returned to the house at night.

  Things went on like this until another young cove came along with a swag. It was also his first experience ‘carrying the bundle,’ and no doubt that was why he also agreed to work for Dawson. He said his name was Mullery. We had tea at 11 p.m. the day he arrived, and it was midnight when we turned into our bunks in the harness-room. Before I went to sleep I told Mullery what sort of a place it was, but he said he would stick it—until he earned a few bob to carry him along the track. In the next breath he told me he was greatly interested in astronomy. I didn’t know what that was until he explained he was interested in the stars. ‘Well, by cripes,’ I said, ‘you’ll get plenty of opportunities to examine them here.’

  That cove was over the odds. I’m just dozing off when he leans over and says, ‘Do you know how far it is from here to Mars?’ Pulling the old potato bag wagga from my face I told him I hadn’t the faintest idea, as I had never travelled along the road to the blanky place. He mentioned the millions of miles it was from here to there. ‘Did you measure the distance with a foot-rule?’ I asked as I again drew the wagga over my face.

  When old Dawson pushed his head through the door at 2 a.m. I was awake but the new chap was dead to the world. Dawson went across and yanked the blanket off him. ‘Here, hurry up,’ he growled, ‘and get those cows milked before they get sun-stroke.’ ‘What’s going to give them sunstroke?’ asked Muller, as innocent as you like. ‘Why, the blanky sun, of course,’ roared Dawson. The new chap made himself more comfortable in his bunk, then he drawled, ‘There’s no danger of that, sir, and allow me to inform you that at this time of the year the sun is 93 million miles from the earth.’

  ‘You’re a liar,’ yelled Dawson, shaking the hurricane lamp in Mullery’s face, ‘and if you come outside I’ll prove it to you. Why, the darned sun is just peeping over the tops of the gum trees half-a-mile from here, and by the time it’s well above them you’ll be on the track again. Yes, you’re sacked, so get out of here quick and lively.’

  The Mad Eight

  So far into legend have the Mad Eight faded that no one can agree on the year of their amazing feat. Depending on the sources, it occurred in 1923, 1924 or 1925. Whichever of these dates is correct, the events took place in the Gascoyne region one shearing season. In those days shearers often formed ‘teams’, work groups who travelled together from station to station hiring out as a work unit.

  In whichever year it was, the gun shearers Nugget Williams, Bob Sawallish, Vol Day, George Bence, Tiny Lehmann, Len Saltmarsh, Charlie Fleming and Hughie Munro got together and blazed their way across the country. In nine months they shore record-breaking tallies in eleven large sheds. But it was at Williambury Station where they propelled themselves into the colourful history of shearing; between them they shore nearly 18,000 sheep in two weeks—using hand shears. This was enough for the shearing team to enter shearing history. But when it was discovered that the average weight of a fleece that year was a solid 11 pounds, they moved from history into legend, where they remain firmly today.

  In 1927, the fame of the Mad Eight even reached the federal Arbitration Court. During a hearing of a pastoral industry award claim, someone brought up the feat of the ‘Mad Eight’. The Chief Judge, unaware of the intricacies of shearing culture, asked for an explanation and was
told by the counsel representing the employers that ‘the appellation was earned by the team because of the large number of sheep they shore in a day’. What the judge made of this was apparently not recorded.

  The following year, the man who actually employed the Mad Eight published his account of the event and, incidentally, provides the most reliable date for their achievement. He began by pointing out that 1927 was not a good year for high tallies:

  Therefore it is not likely that many teams this season will cut tallies such as were cut by the ‘mad eight’ which I had employed at Williambury in 1923. This was the team which came so much into prominence, and was commented on by advocates of the union. They were known as the ‘mad eight’ on account of their pace, and the team consisted of A. Williams, R. Sawallish, Vol Day, F. Lehmann, L. Saltmarsh, George Bence, C. Fleming and H. Munro.

  The tallies given for the Mad Eight were impressive by any measure and fully confirmed their claim to legendary status:

  The sheep shorn averaged 11 lb. wool, and therefore the following; figures showing the daily tallies of the eight shearers for two weeks are interesting. Commencing on September 3, the team shore 1509, 1708, 1577, 1748, 1698, 927 (Saturday, half day). Total for week, 9167.

  Resuming on the second week the same team clipped 1189 on September 10, losing one hour through engine trouble, 1432, 1740, 2800, 1806, 803 (Saturday, half day). Total for week, 8770. The highest individual tally was 250, and two men obtained this figure. The shearers’ highest daily averages were:- A. Williams, 213; R. Sawallish, 242; Vol Day, 242; F. Lehmann, 234; L. Saltmarsh, 216; George Bence, 222; C. Fleming, 226; and H. Munro, 205. Total, 1800, and average 225.

  Eye-glazing though such statistics are for most city types today, they were lovingly collated and preserved by shearers and those in the wool industry back in the roaring days when the world was wide and the country rode on the sheep’s back.

  9

  After the Kellys

  ‘I look upon him as invulnerable,

  you can do nothing with him.’

  Aaron Sherritt on Ned Kelly

  THE NED KELLY story remains an important part of Australian history and folklore. Beginning as a fairly run-of-the-mill local conflict between free selectors, squatters and police, the murders at Stringybark Creek escalated the outbreak to the country’s most serious episode of outlawry. The consequences of the Kelly saga continue to haunt us and the events, real and imagined, are continually recycled in books, films and the media. But there are many untold stories about what happened after the ironclad bushranger’s execution. All have their origins in the events of 1878 to 1880.

  The saga

  Edward, the first-born son of Ellen and James (‘Red’) Kelly, grew up in the hothouse atmosphere of a combination of clan-like Irish-Australian families, the Kellys, Quinns and Lloyds. Each of these families had their own extensive histories of trouble with the Victorian and other police forces, surviving as they did by a combination of legal pastoral activities and stock stealing, or ‘duffing’. The Kellys and their relations were by no means the only ones involved in this business. In fact, this was the normal means of existence for most free selectors at that time, the distinction between stock that had ‘strayed’ and that which had been stolen being a difficult one to make.

  By 1871, at the age of sixteen, Ned Kelly already had numerous experiences with the law behind him, and had served one gaol sentence. In that year he was convicted of receiving a stolen horse and given three years in Melbourne’s tough Pentridge gaol. He entered prison a high-spirited, ‘flash’ youth and came out a hard, bitter man in February 1874.

  Ned went straight for a while, working as a timber-getter in the Wombat Ranges and keeping out of trouble—until September 1877. He was arrested for drunkenness and on the way to the courthouse attempted to escape. The ensuing brawl with four policemen and a local shoemaker is notable only for the fact that two of those policemen, constables Fitzpatrick and Lonigan, were to play small but significant roles in the coming Kelly drama.

  Fitzpatrick was the first to make an entrance. Seven months after the fight with Ned, the constable, probably drunk, rode up to the Kelly homestead near Greta, alone and against orders, to arrest Ned’s younger brother, Dan, on a charge of horse stealing. The truth of what occurred then will never be known, but Fitzpatrick later claimed to have been assaulted and shot by the Kellys, including Ned and Mrs Kelly. The family claimed that Fitzpatrick had tried to molest one of the daughters, probably Kate, and that their actions had been justified. Six months later, Judge Redmond Barry did not agree and sent Mrs Kelly to gaol for three years, saying that he would have given Ned and Dan fifteen years apiece, if they could have been found.

  Of course, they could not be found; they were safely hidden in the rugged Wombat Ranges, accompanied by two other young friends, Joe Byrne and Steve Hart. In October 1878, a party of four policemen went into the ranges to hunt the Kellys down. In charge was Sergeant Kennedy, a good bushman and a crack shot. He was aided by constables Scanlon, McIntyre and Lonigan, the same Lonigan who had fought with Ned the year before. All these men had been hand-picked for their bush craft and general police aptitude, and they made it known that they intended to get the Kellys.

  On the night of 25 October they camped along the edge of a creek known as Stringybark. The following evening the four-strong Kelly gang bailed up Lonigan and McIntyre, who were minding the camp while Kennedy and Scanlon patrolled the bush in search of the outlaws. McIntyre surrendered immediately, saving his life, but Lonigan was brave and foolish enough to clutch at his revolver. Ned Kelly shot him dead. On their return to the camp, Kennedy and Scanlon were called upon to surrender, but they resisted too, and Ned killed them both in the ensuing gunfight. During the fighting McIntyre managed to clamber onto a stray horse and ride for his life.

  The Melbourne and provincial newspapers reacted to the shocking news, enabling the Victorian parliament to rush through an ‘Outlawry Act’ that rendered those persons pronounced outlaws totally outside the law. All rights and property were forfeit and the outlaw was liable to be killed on sight by any citizen. In addition, harbourers and sympathisers were liable to fifteen years’ imprisonment with hard labour and the loss of all their goods.

  Less than six weeks after Stringybark Creek, the Kellys struck again. This time they robbed the bank at Euroa, a busy town about 100 miles north of Melbourne, the state capital. The bushrangers escaped with around 2000 pounds in gold and cash. Ned also stole deeds and mortgages held in the bank safe, an action that endeared him to the struggling selectors of northeastern Victoria, most of whom saw the banks as ‘poor mancrushers’, as Ned himself was to describe them in his ‘Jerilderie Letter’.

  Acting on false information intentionally supplied by one of the Kellys’ ‘bush telegraphs’, or informants, the police went looking for the gang across the border in New South Wales. Meanwhile, back in the ‘Kelly country’, the bushrangers divided up the Euroa loot between themselves, relatives and sympathisers. Over the next few months, many previously impoverished selectors managed to pay off their debts, usually with crisp, new banknotes.

  Frustrated in their futile attempts to capture the outlaws, the police revenged themselves on the sympathisers. A score—including Isaiah ‘Wild’ Wright—were arrested and confined in Beechworth gaol for periods of up to three months without trial and without evidence against them. This misguided manoeuvre made the police even more unpopular in the district as many of the prisoners missed that year’s harvest, causing severe hardship for their families.

  The reward for the Kellys was increased from 2000 pounds to a total of 4000, a very large sum at that time. But this had no effect upon the loyalty of the sympathisers either. After the Kellys’ next escapade the reward sum would be doubled again.

  On 5 February 1879, the gang appeared at Jerilderie, 46 miles across the New South Wales border, where they locked the two astounded local policemen in their own cells. The Kellys spent that night and most o
f the next day in the town, masquerading as police officers in their stolen police uniforms. That afternoon they occupied the bar of the Royal Mail Hotel, handily adjacent to the bank, which they then robbed. Another 2000-pound haul was made and mortgages were burned to the accompaniment of cheers from the crowd held hostage in the hotel. Everyone was treated to drinks and a speech from Ned about the injustices he had suffered at the hands of the police, the government and the squatters. More importantly, he left with one of the bank tellers a 10,000-word statement that came to be known as ‘the Jerilderie Letter’.

  This fascinating document catalogues Ned Kelly’s and his friends’ complaints and grievances, and also gives an insight into the motives and attitudes behind their actions. Among other things, the letter complains of discrimination against free selectors and small farmers, like the Kellys, by the administration, which, it is claimed, was working hand in glove with the wealthy squatters against the poor. According to Ned, the police were:

  … a parcel of big ugly fat-necked wombat headed big bellied magpie legged narrow hipped splay footed sons of Irish Bailiffs or English landlords…

  The letter ends with a stern warning for the rich to be generous to the poor and not to oppress them:

  I give fair warning to all those who has reason to fear me to sell out and give £10 out of every hundred towards the widow and orphan fund and do not attempt to reside in Victoria but as short a time as possible after reading this notice, neglect this and abide by the consequences, which shall be worse than the rust in the wheat in Victoria or the druth of a dry season to the grasshoppers in New South Wales. l do not wish to give the order full force without giving timely warning, but I am a widows son outlawed and my orders must be obeyed.