Buckley's Chance

by Garry Linnell

  Stewart does not venture down to Western Port. What sort of investigator is this man? All this talk about justice and the man does not even visit the scene of the crime? Could you picture the same happening if we reverse the situation and it is whites who are attacked? Well, you won’t have to wait for very long.

  Charles Franks is a man of ‘strict integrity’ and ‘gentlemanly deportment’ who has joined this flood of sheep farmers descending on Port Phillip. It is early July 1836 when Franks and his shepherd are found dead near Mt Cottrell, 20 miles west of Melbourne, the rear of their heads struck so violently with a tomahawk their skulls have been pushed into the earth.

  Franks is the first free settler to die at the hand of Aborigines. News of his murder spreads quickly. A real gentleman, a figure who commanded enormous respect throughout the northern half of Van Diemen’s Land, dead at the hands of ruthless savages? A meeting is hastily convened at the settlement and a party of men, including several of John Batman’s Sydney Aborigines, mount their horses and head out to find the perpetrators and exact revenge.

  In Launceston, William Lushington Goodwin cannot contain his outrage. On 30 July the Cornwall Chronicle unleashes a tirade strident even by its standards. ‘We learn that a party of settlers assisted by the Sydney natives … started in quest of the murderers, whom they were fortunate to fall in with at no great distance from where the bloody deeds were perpetrated.

  ‘Many of them were clothed in the articles of dress they had plundered from their victims. A quantity of provisions and other stores were, likewise, in their possession, which left no doubt as to their identity. The avenging party fell upon the guilty about daylight in the morning, having watched them the previous night and, putting into effect a preconceived plan of attack, succeeded in ANNIHILATING THEM.’

  Is this not the sort of ruthless, strong-arm tactic of which Goodwin fully approves? He writes that the offending tribe are a particularly treacherous people, despised by the rest of Port Phillip’s Aboriginals and can now be presumed to have been ‘swept from the face of the earth’.

  ‘In the death of Mr Franks the colony has to deplore the loss of one of its brightest ornaments … his docile and compassionate disposition insured to him the respect and esteem of every one who enjoyed his acquaintance. The “ANNIHILATION” of the whole body of Port Phillip natives, in our opinion, would afford an insufficient revenge for the murder of such a man.’

  Swept aside are any suspicions that Franks was antagonistic toward the Kulin people; that he hated sharing food with them and despised the way other settlers in the area put up with their thieving and begging. Another settler, Robert Von Stieglitz, will remember how Franks shared some lead with him to help devise a few little ‘blue pills’ (bullets) to keep the nuisances away.

  Trifling details, are they not? The important thing to men like Goodwin is the swift action and retribution carried out to avenge the two men’s deaths. In the same issue as the Cornwall Chronicle’s breathless report on the murder of Franks, Goodwin also publishes a letter to the editor. It is worth examining this letter closely because it exposes a campaign that has already begun to undermine you.

  The letter coincides, not surprisingly, with the return to Launceston of John Pascoe Fawkner, who is on his way to Hobart Town for that show-and-tell session with his Aboriginal friend Derrimut. The letter is unsigned but it reeks of little Johnny. All those nice words he had to say about you at the start of this year are now history. It only took a few weeks for him to start sowing seeds of distrust. In February he recorded a dispute about possum skins, writing that he believed Henry Batman had been using you to stop the Aboriginals from trading with Fawkner and his men. ‘I find him [Buckley] forbidding the natives to sell us any skins or birds,’ Fawkner had written. ‘He wants them all himself.’

  This letter in the Chronicle announces that the author has ‘just arrived from Port Phillip’ and throws a quick punch at the Port Phillip Association: ‘Mr Franks had only a few days previous to the dreadful occurrence removed his sheep to the river Ax, being desirous not to encroach on the land claimed by what is called the “Company” who, by the bye, have no more claims to the land than you and I.’

  Jab.

  Who else but Fawkner could manage to find a way to link the unfortunate murder of a man to the massive amount of land holdings enjoyed by John Batman and his associates?

  ‘Mr Franks received one blow on the right temple with the back part of a tomahawk, the side back part of the skull presented two large cuts which must have caused instant death … The head of his shepherd was so dreadfully shattered that his brains had to be buried on the spot. Their tent was plundered of all provisions, blankets and firearms and their bodies conveyed to the settlement where coffins were prepared for them.’

  Gasp.

  But what follows is just as sinister.

  ‘I must take upon myself here to observe the disgraceful conduct of the monster Buckley: when the bodies of Mr Franks and his man were brought to the settlement he objected to them being placed in his hut; he did not attend the funeral and was observed, as it passed, laughing at the truly melancholic procession.’

  William Buckley is at the heart of it all!

  ‘He did not assist the parties who immediately had gone out in search of the murderers and it is generally believed by his best friends, namely the “Company”, that he is at the bottom of all the mischief that has taken place in the new colony and, unless he is speedily removed, I very much dread the results, he having already threatened to join the natives. It is to be lamented that the progress of colonisation in so fine a country, one so well adapted for sheep and cattle grazing, should be checked in its growth by the conduct of one man who is more savage than the Aborigines with whom he has lived and associated for thirty years.’

  What do you have to say for yourself? In your book with John Morgan you will only note that ‘an affray had taken place between the natives and some of the settlers, in which two of the latter were killed. I know nothing of the circumstances, as the affair occurred more than twenty miles from the settlement …’

  It’s entirely possible you laughed – or at least smirked – when the coffins of Franks and his servant passed by your hut. There are others who will say they heard you chuckling, standing there next to John Batman’s smithy as the cortege passed you by. These people fear you, fear what you are capable of unleashing. An erroneous newspaper report is about to appear in Van Diemen’s Land saying you have already taken to the bush and are busy organising a resistance movement. This report will be quickly quashed but it does tell us about the concerns in Port Phillip about your allegiances. One of the old settlers will quote Gellibrand as saying you told him you would prefer to go back to the Wadawurrung: ‘He said it was the white people’s fault. This latter part I heard Mr Gellibrand say myself – they thought he might go back to them; then, what mischief he could do.’

  Did you laugh as Franks’ body passed by, or were you being sarcastic as you contemplated all the hollow promises and talk about swift justice? It is now a year since you walked into Batman’s camp at Indented Head and all those early hopes you had are disappearing. Fawkner’s poison is clearly beginning to affect others. First impressions are always important and for any visitor or prospective settler arriving in Port Phillip, they are often gained by the first person who meets them off the boat. And who is often the first man waiting with open arms to welcome them? Indefatigable, tireless little Johnny, that’s who.

  Henry Hawson must have stepped from his boat on the Yarra and had Fawkner’s arms lovingly wrapped around him – that is, unless little Johnny was checking the man’s waistcoat pockets for loose change. Hawson is yet another of these pioneering types who wants to see the land for himself. He has come all the way from Newfoundland, a large island off the Canadian east coast, and has heard the new colonies of New Holland offer a magnificent return on investment. But he quickly decides Port Phillip is not for him; the land is lush and a man could p
robably make a fortune with sheep and cattle. But there is great uncertainty over whether NSW Governor Richard Bourke will send police or even a military force to give it some decent law and order. And besides, the way the land is being seized from its traditional owners leaves him feeling almost … queasy.

  Hawson will write a lengthy letter to a former colleague in Newfoundland as his ship sails out of Port Phillip Bay. The consequence of no law enforcement, he writes, is that ‘some of the stock keepers have committed offences against the blacks, who have retaliated by killing … settlers – a prelude, I fear, to constant war between the parties, until the blacks shall be exterminated, or driven far into the interior, a most horrible alternative.’

  A hastily installed form of government might convince the natives that any outrages committed against them were actions by unauthorised individuals, suggests Hawson. Only then would they gain confidence that they could find some form of protection.

  But alas, writes Hawson, there is the problem of this man Buckley. Hawson tells his colleague that Buckley was granted a free pardon on the basis that he would use his influence among the natives ‘to preserve a good understanding between them and the whites – this he agreed to; but the supreme authority refused to sanction the compact and he has consequently stirred them up to avenge the wrongs which he supposes himself to have sustained.

  ‘He is now their leader and possesses uncontrolled authority over the tribe; it is said that he has several wives of the native women and a great number of children by them.’

  There it is again – more misinformation and outright lies. William Buckley angry and bitter over not receiving his pardon? You have it. You have seen it. Why, earlier this year the King made it official and God knows the number of men you have boasted to about finally being a free man.

  Hawson’s letter is a sombre one and he raises issues few potential settlers at Port Phillip are even contemplating. ‘I fear that these occurrences will prevent my settling in this delightful country,’ he writes. ‘Can it be reconciled to the principles of the Christian religion, of common sense, or of any system of morals – that foreigners can take possession of the land of others … by murdering and exterminating the natives … I should feel like an accessory to murder and a receiver of stolen goods.’

  It is highly possible you will never learn of Hawson’s views – or even hear about that anonymous letter in Goodwin’s Cornwall Chronicle. But you do know that there are forces moving against you. Still, even if half of what they say about you is true, why would the British government offer you a job?

  29

  DEATH, BUT NO JUSTICE

  William Buckley, employee of His Majesty’s Government. Seven simple words – but who would ever have imagined them forming a sentence?

  Interpreter William Buckley. Reporting to the Chief Police Magistrate. Must be a little hard to keep a straight face and stifle the laughter building inside you. But that balding man sitting opposite you is serious. Captain William Lonsdale has been sent to Port Phillip as commandant and police magistrate, effectively taking charge of this lawless land. He is under orders from the British government to hire you and if you don’t believe that, this is what the NSW Governor Richard Bourke has told him:

  ‘It will be one of your most important duties to protect the Aboriginal natives of the District from any manner of wrong, and to endeavour to conciliate them by kind treatment and presents. You will continue to employ, as the medium of communication with them, the European named “Buckley” who has so long resided amongst them, allowing him the same salary as he now receives from Mr Batman and his associates.’

  Turns out you and Lonsdale have much in common. He was born in the Netherlands in October 1799 – in the very week those French and Dutch forces were overwhelming you and the rest of the Duke of York’s coalition army. Then, while you were off in the bush with the Wadawurrung, he was serving with the 4th (King’s Own) – your old regiment. No wonder you will always remember this day and how Lonsdale ‘enquired very particularly into my history and sufferings’.

  The man certainly wants you by his side. Bourke has made that clear. The Governor is under orders from London to start taking control of Port Phillip before the Fawkners and Batmans of the world turn it into a fiefdom of their own. Bourke has instructed Lonsdale that when it comes to the Aboriginals he must treat them kindly and ‘maintain friendly relations with them and improve by all practical means their moral and social conditions’. Of course, they will need to understand that no matter a person’s colour, everyone must obey the laws of England. But before all that, your salary needs to be arranged.

  Lonsdale says your pay will be 50 pounds a year – exactly what you are currently given by Batman, as per orders. But that’s not quite satisfactory, is it? You’ve been watching men like Batman and Fawkner over the past year and you have noticed that no-one ever accepts a first offer.

  Well, thank you very much, Mr Lonsdale. It would be an honour. But surely after the work I have already performed in this settlement I should be entitled to an increase in salary? Say, 60 pounds, with rations?

  Lonsdale agrees and, along with the salary increase, gives you a new horse. Much of this role will now involve travelling to outlying stations and regions around Port Phillip, trying to keep the peace and reporting back to Lonsdale on the frequent territorial disputes between settlers and Aboriginals. But the role will also require helping to find a site for new barracks and a storehouse. Doesn’t take long for you to get to work. Many of the local Aboriginals have been wary of going anywhere near the 30 red-coated marines who arrived on the warship Rattlesnake with Lonsdale. But Interpreter William Buckley soon has them hauling loads of building materials to various sites around the settlement, rewarding them each ‘with boiled meat and biscuit; and this sort of employ they followed with great cheerfulness’.

  Your life is settling down. In a few weeks a census of sorts will be carried out in the settlement so Lonsdale can understand the numbers. Among those surveyed is a ‘Buckley, William. Arrived: 1803. No. of horses: 2. Residence: Wattle and shingle. Under cultivation: 1 acre, garden.’

  These, however, are not times for peace and tranquillity. Barely a week after your meeting with Lonsdale comes word that one of the most prominent Wadawurrung men, Woolmudgin – head of the Wadawaurrung balug clan who took you in all those years ago – has been tied to a tree, shot at close range and his body dumped in the Barwon River near Geelong. Despite everything you have seen this news must come as a shock. You knew Woolmudgin and his people for many years. The man is an arweet whose reputation extends far beyond Wadawurrung land. He was one of the first Aboriginal leaders to meet with Batman’s group of men at the depot in Indented Head.

  Lonsdale dispatches you and two constables to investigate and apprehend John Whitehead, a convict shepherd alleged to have murdered Woolmudgin. Whitehead works for a local station manager with ties to the Port Phillip Association, Frederick Taylor, and what a cruel piece of work Taylor turns out to be. He is already earning a reputation as a notorious hater of blacks. It was Taylor who had seized Woolmudgin and tied him to the tree, claiming the man had threatened a local worker with a tomahawk. Taylor will say he left the roped-up Woolmudgin under the supervision of Whitehead while he went off to notify the authorities about the Aboriginal man’s capture. But Taylor is being disingenuous. Why would a shepherd open fire on a tied-up man unless his boss had given him the order? Everyone will suspect Taylor urged Whitehead to shoot Woolmudgin. Lonsdale will write that he ‘entertained a strong suspicion that he had given strong encouragement to the prisoner [Whitehead] to commit the murder’.

  Can you taste that sourness again? Can you swallow a little more of white man’s justice?

  Whitehead is sent to Sydney for trial but is acquitted because of a lack of evidence – and witnesses. Where is Taylor, the key witness? Why, he jumped on the first boat that would take him to Van Diemen’s Land.

  But he’ll be back. Three years later Tayl
or will lead an assault on the Tarnbeere gundidj clan of the Djargurd Wurrung people at Mt Emu Creek, near modern-day Camperdown. It will become known as the Murdering Gully massacre, a brutal and indiscriminate slaughter of more than 35 men, women and children. Armed and on horseback, Taylor and a posse of shepherds approach a gully containing an Aboriginal camp near the dormant volcano of Mt Noorat. Within minutes dozens are dead, their bodies ripped apart by musket fire. While a handful of survivors make it to a local church mission to report the crime, Taylor and others dispose of the bodies by burning some and dumping others in local water holes. As word spreads of the massacre and authorities begin to investigate, Taylor employs his usual modus operandi after committing an outrage – he jumps on an American whaling ship and makes his way to India.

  The man is untouchable, even if every damn thing he touches is left blood-stained and in pain. He will return to Victoria within a few years, this time leading a band of pastoralists into the Gippsland region where massacres of the Gunai people will take place. Teams of imported coolie labourers will desert Taylor because he treats them so harshly.

  This is the point, William, where we are supposed to bring a smile to your face and tell you how Taylor, having spent time in India, discovers there is truly such a thing as karma. That what goes around, comes around, that eventually the strongest warriors from a local clan creep into his home one night, take him into the bush and dispatch him upstairs to be judged by his own God.

  But you know it doesn’t happen like that. You’ve already seen how white man’s justice works in this new frontier. Frederick Taylor will reach a respectable age for the era, dying at home in his mansion, a wealthy 62-year-old who spends years laundering his reputation to the point where the local papers say he passed away ‘an old and respected colonist’.