by Graham Seal
An oft-included detail is that while the couple are doing whatever they are doing in the car, a news bulletin comes on the radio, saying that a dangerous maniac has escaped from a local lunatic asylum.
Readers familiar with the Bible will recognise the order to the girl not to turn around as similar to that given to Lot’s wife, Sarah. She was told not to look back at the doomed city of Sodom, but she did—and was instantly turned into a pillar of salt.
The sex life of an electron
This tale, a feast of electronics puns and double entendres, is particularly popular with computer geeks. As with urban legends, this story circulates the world in photocopied or email forms and is as popular in Australia as elsewhere.
One night when his charge was high, Micro Farad decided to seek out a cute coil to let him discharge. He picked up Milli Amp and took her for a ride on his mega cycle. They rode across a Wheatstone bridge, around the sine waves, and stopped in a magnetic field beside a flowing current.
Micro Farad was attracted by Milli Amp’s characteristic curve and soon had her fully charged and excited her resistance to a minimum. He laid her on the ground potential and raised her frequency and lowered her inductance. He pulled out his high frequency probe and inserted it into her socket, connecting them in parallel and short-circuiting her resistance shunt so as to cause surges with the utmost intensity. Then, when fully excited, Milli Amp mumbled, ‘Ohm, ohm, ohm.’ With his tube operating at a maximum and her field vibrating with current flow, it caused her to shunt over and Micro Farad rapidly discharged, drawing every electron. They fluxed all night, trying different connections and sockets until his magnet had a soft core and lost its field strength.
Afterwards, Milli Amp tried self-induction and damaged her solenoids in doing so. With his battery discharged, Micro Farad was unable to excite his field, so they spent the night reversing polarity and blowing each other’s fuses . . .
Authorship of this piece is often attributed to one Eddy Current.
Do not break the chain
The chain letter probably existed since postal services were first established. In its standard form, it claims that good luck and riches will be showered on the recipient if only he or she mails the letter to a number of others. Failure to do this will bring disaster. Chain letters have become chain emails, but they’ve been joined by some playful parodies, including this ‘Chain Letter for Women’:
Dear Friend,
This letter was started by a woman like yourself, in the hope of bringing relief to the tired and discontented. Unlike most chain letters, this one does not cost anything. Just send a copy to five of your friends who are tired and discontent. Then bundle up your husband or boyfriend and send him to the woman whose name appears at the top of the list.
When your name comes to the top you will receive 16,374 men, and some of them are bound to be a hell of a lot better than the one you already have.
Do not break the chain. Have faith. One woman broke the chain and got her own husband back.
At the time of writing, a friend of mine had already received 184 men. They buried her yesterday, but it took three undertakers 36 hours to get the smile off her face!!!
EVERY COUNTRY HAS its heroes, real and mythic. Australia’s include bushrangers, diggers and sportsmen. Even a racehorse can be a hero.
Though most heroes are men, Australia has heroines too, like Grace Bussell, rescuer of shipwreck victims, and Caroline Chisholm, the friend of colonial immigrant women. There are also female heroic types, such as ‘the little Irish mother’ and military nurses. One of numerous indigenous heroines is Wungala.
Wungala and the wulgaru
The story of Wungala is told by the Waddaman people, whose country is southeast of the Katherine River, in the Northern Territory. This story concerns her encounter with an evil creature known as a wulgaru, which resulted from a botched attempt by a man named Djarapa to make a man from wood, stone, red ochre and magic songs. A little like Frankenstein’s monster, it is a shambling mess of twisted limbs, with eyes that blaze like stars. Ever since its misbegotten creation, the wulgaru has menaced Waddaman people as keeper and judge of the dead. Although it is evil, however, the wulgaru is also the caretaker of the spirits and regulator of the rules governing everyday life.
Wungala took her young son, Bulla, seed gathering after the wet season. Bulla ran around happily, finding the best mounds of seeds, but when a dark cloud passed across the sun Wungala told him to be quiet. Along with the shadows might come the evil big-eyed one who lived in a cave in the nearby hills. If this being, known as a wulgaru, heard Bulla he would come out of his cave and bring evil upon them. But Bulla kept up his chatter, and a wulgaru did appear, creeping toward them through the shadows.
Wungala knew that the only way to avoid a wulgaru’s power was to ignore it and to show no fear. When Bulla ran to her in terror, pointing at the wulgaru, she told him it was only the shadows of the swaying bushes. Trusting his mother, Bulla calmed down and went on gathering seeds. This enraged the wulgaru, who gave a fierce yell. Bulla ran to his mother again, saying that he had not only seen the wulgaru but heard it. He wanted to run away, but Wungala calmed his fears again, saying that it was just a cockatoo.
She began grinding the seeds on a large flat stone to make flour for bread, as if nothing had happened. This only further angered the wulgaru, who began to jump around. He thrust his evil face into Wungala’s, but she calmly continued her baking. When the damper, or bush bread, was baked nice and hot, Bulla, who had gone to sleep, awoke and told his mother that the evil one was still there. ‘No,’ said his mother, ‘that is just the smoke from the fire.’ Hearing this, the monster pounced, its claws ready to tear Wungala apart. But she jumped straight at him, pushing the hot damper into the wulgaru’s face. It screamed in pain and tried to brush the hot mass from its mouth and eyes. That gave Wungala her chance to snatch up Bulla and to run back to camp.
Aftermath of the Eureka Stockade
The Eureka Stockade of 1854, introduced in Chapter 2, was a bloody affair. Its immediate aftermath was described by a correspondent to the local newspaper, the Geelong Advertiser and Intelligencer. The correspondent woke up on the Sunday morning after the violence and saw the condition of the defenders, some of whom were known to him. He wrote the events down and his account was reproduced in Rafael Carboni’s book, The Eureka Stockade, together with some bracketed comments from Carboni when some of his mates are mentioned.
The first thing that I saw was a number of diggers enclosed in a sort of hollow square, many of them were wounded, the blood dripping from them as they walked; some were walking lame, pricked on by the bayonets of the soldiers bringing up the rear. The soldiers were much excited, and the troopers madly so, flourishing their swords, and shouting out—‘We have waked up Joe!’ and others replied, ‘And sent Joe to sleep again!’ The diggers’ Standard was carried by in triumph to the Camp, waved about in the air, then pitched from one to another, thrown down and trampled on.
The scene was awful—twos and threes gathered together, and all felt stupefied. I went with R---- to the barricade, the tents all around were in a blaze; I was about to go inside, when a cry was raised that the troopers were coming again. They did come with carts to take away the bodies, I counted fifteen dead, one G----, a fine well-educated man, and a great favourite … I recognised two others, but the spectacle was so ghastly that I feel a loathing at the remembrance.
They all lay in a small space with their faces upwards, looking like lead, several of them were still heaving, and at every rise of their breasts, the blood spouted out of their wounds, or just bubbled out and trickled away. One man, a stout-chested fine fellow, apparently about forty years old, lay with a pike beside him: he had three contusions in the head, three strokes across the brow, a bayonet wound in the throat under the ear, and other wounds in the body—I counted fifteen wounds in that single carcase. Some were bringing ha
ndkerchiefs, others bed furniture, and matting to cover up the faces of the dead. O God! Sir, it was a sight for a Sabbath morn that, I humbly implore Heaven, may never be seen again. Poor women crying for absent husbands, and children frightened into quietness.
I, sir, write disinterestedly, and I hope my feelings arose from a true principle; but when I looked at that scene, my soul revolted at such means being so cruelly used by a government to sustain the law. A little terrier sat on the breast of the man I spoke of, and kept up a continuous howl: it was removed, but always returned to the same spot; and when his master’s body was huddled, with the other corpses, into the cart, the little dog jumped in after him, and lying again on his dead master’s breast, began howling again. ---- was dead there also, and ----, who escaped, had said that when he offered his sword, he was shot in the side by a trooper, as he was lying on the ground wounded. He expired almost immediately. Another was lying dead just inside the barricade, where he seemed to have crawled. Some of the bodies might have been removed—I counted fifteen. A poor woman and her children were standing outside a tent; she said that the troopers had surrounded the tent and pierced it with their swords. She, her husband, and children, were ordered out by the troopers, and were inspected in their night-clothes outside, whilst the troopers searched the tent. Mr. Haslam was roused from sleep by a volley of bullets fired through his tent; he rushed out, and was shot down by a trooper, and handcuffed. He lay there for two hours bleeding from a wound in his breast, until his friends sent for a black-smith, who forced off the handcuffs with a hammer and cold chisel. When I last heard of Mr. Haslam, a surgeon was attending him, and probing for the ball.
R----, from Canada, [Captain Ross, of Toronto, once my mate] escaped the carnage; but is dead since, from the wounds. R---- has affected his escape. [Johnny Robertson, who had a striking resemblance to me, not so much in size as in complexion and colour of the beard especially: Poor Johnny was shot down dead on the stockade; and was the identical body which Mr. Binney mistook for me. Hence the belief by many, that I was dead.] V---- is reported to be amongst the wounded [Oh! No his legs were too long even for a Minie rifle]. One man was seen yesterday trailing along the road: he said he could not last much longer, and that his brother was shot along-side of him. All whom I spoke to were of one opinion, that it was a cowardly massacre. There were only about one hundred and seventy diggers, and they were opposed to nearly six hundred military. I hope all is over; but I fear not: or amongst many, the feeling is not of intimidation, but a cry for vengeance, and an opportunity to meet the soldiers with equal numbers. There is an awful list of casualties yet to come in; and when uncertainty is made certain, and relatives and friends know the worst, there will be gaps that cannot be filled up. I have little knowledge of the gold-fields; but I fear that the massacre at Eureka is only a skirmish.
I bid farewell to the gold-fields, and if what I have seen is a specimen of the government of Victoria, the sooner I am out of it the better for myself and family. Sir, I am horrified at what I witnessed, and I did not see the worst of it. I could not breathe the blood-tainted air of the diggings, and I have left them forever…
A commission of inquiry was subsequently held, the results of which largely upheld the diggers’ complaints. Reforms were swiftly made and Peter Lalor became the representative of Ballarat in the Victorian parliament and, soon after, Speaker of the Legislative Assembly.
Ben Hall
The bushranger is a paradox: a criminal who is seen as a hero. Like Robin Hood, Australian bushrangers are often depicted as helping the poor against the powerful—including the police.
Benjamin Hall (1837–1865), a respected free selector smallholder in the Forbes district of New South Wales, was arrested in early 1862 on suspicion of having participated in a minor highway robbery led by the notorious Frank Gardiner. After a month in prison, Hall was acquitted, but when he returned home he found that his wife had deserted him, taking their baby son with her. The story goes that Hall then joined with the Gardiner gang. He was later arrested over a gold robbery, but soon released for lack of evidence. While he was in jail, the police burned his house and left his cattle to die, penned in the mustering yard.
Hall now became a bushranger, committing highway robbery and attacking wealthy properties. In October 1863 he took part in a raid on Bathurst. Financially it was a failure, but it panicked the population and the colonial government. The bushrangers were officially outlawed and hunted down. Hall was betrayed and shot dead by police—according to legend, while he slept—on 5 May 1865.
The many ballads and stories about Hall portray him as the victim of injustice and unfortunate circumstances. He is shown as courteous to women, even-handed and kind. He robs a wealthy squatter but reportedly gave £5 back to his victim to see him to the end of his journey. One of the ballads about him contains the line: ‘He never robbed a needy man’, and his local reputation was that of a decent man wronged by circumstances and the law.
In the 1920s, John Gale recalled meeting Hall nearly sixty years earlier, before his bushranging career began:
In the fifties of the last century I was tutor to the children of a squatter on Bland Plains. The sparse population thereabout at the time had never been visited by parson or priest, so in my spare time, from Friday evening to the following Monday morning of each week, I did what in me lay to supply this defect. Amongst the homesteads thus periodically visited was that of Bland Plains. It was here I first became acquainted with Hall, who was the station overseer—of fine physique, courteous bearing, and but newly married. Gardiner’s gang of bushrangers were disturbing the country, and had committed some of their most daring raids.
Saddle-swapping was an ordinary practice amongst stockmen in those days. Ben Hall had indulged in this saddle-swapping business. One day the police found in his possession, thus acquired, a saddle which had been stolen by Gardiner’s gang from one of their victims. It had without question passed through several hands before it came into Hall’s possession. But that possession was enough to justify the police in effecting his arrest. Justices of the peace were then few and far between out in these parts, and consequently Ben was remanded again and again until his case could be heard. This eventually took place, and resulted in his discharge from custody. But that detention was his ruin, and that of his domestic life.
His wife had been seduced during her husband’s incarceration, and lived with her paramour, who was well known to me, but whose name for obvious reasons I prefer not to disclose. Ben made it no secret that he would take the life of the betrayer of his wife’s honour. From time to time he watched his home, which was also now that of the misguided woman. One day he saw his quarry enter his home, which was on the margin of an extensive plain, overshadowed by large yellow-box trees. Ben followed his quest. He met his wife at the door.
‘Where’s —?’ he queried, ‘I’ve a bullet for him.’
‘He saw you coming, Ben, and went out into the bush through the back door-way.’
‘Tell him that I’ll do for him sooner or later. I don’t blame you, Norah, in the least; you are young and foolish, though you ought to have known better.’
Her two-years-old little boy was clinging to his mother’s skirts during the colloquy. Turning to the tall fellow conversing with his mother, and clasping him by the knees, ‘Don’t you shoot my dada,’ said he pleadingly, looking up into Hall’s face.
That was the determining factor in Ben Hall’s career. The pleading child was his own offspring—was clasping his own father’s knees—and he had spoken of his mother’s seducer as ‘my dada’. Then and there Ben broke away from all restraint from all regard for the sanctities of society, saying, ‘I’ve been accused of being in sympathy with the bushrangers: from this out I’ll play the game.’
Often and often did I earnestly wish to meet with this deluded man whilst he was operating hereabouts, for I entertained the hope that an interview with him m
ight be productive of some measure of good. But it was a forlorn hope.
Tales of Ben Hall often recount what happened after he died. The wife of the man who betrayed him was pregnant. When she heard that Hall had been shot and that it was her husband who had told the police where to find him, she took it very badly. When her baby (sometimes said to have been Hall’s) was born, he was covered in spots on exactly the same places as the shots that had killed Hall. In some versions of the story, the marked child is said to have been that of Hall’s estranged wife.
A continuation of this legend has it that the baby grew up to be ‘the Leopard Boy’, so-called because of the bullet marks on his body, from which he made a living by exhibiting himself in travelling shows.
Thunderbolt
Frederick Ward, who called himself Thunderbolt, began his bushranging exploits in 1865, less than eighteen months after breaking out of the supposedly escape-proof prison on Sydney’s Cockatoo Island. He and his fellow escapee, Frederick Britten, were helped by Ward’s wife Maryanne, a part-Aboriginal woman. Ward turned to bushranging in New England, but developed a reputation for using minimal violence—he claimed he had been driven to bushranging—and for being kind to women and the poor. On one occasion, he is said to have refrained from stealing a watch when its owner told him it was her only momento of her dead mother, and to have returned gold after stealing it from some children. A verse sometimes attributed to him goes: