Remembering the Past Australia

Between 1842 and 1844, two convicts named "Scotchey" and Witton absconded from Waugoola, and with others kept portions of the Lachlan district in a state of continual alarm by their outrages. They were wild, reckless, bloodthirsty fellows, and would stop at nothing to gain their ends. One or two of their exploits will suffice to show what manner of men they were.

At one of the stations in the district in which they were "ranging", a large company of men had assembled for the annual cattle muster, and after nightfall fourteen of them, including several "Government men", had gathered round the fire in the hut, for the evening smoke and yarn. Suddenly Scotchey and Witton stood at the door with guns presented, declaring that the first man that moved from his position would have the privilege of painting the door with his brains. A third man—Russell—was with them, and him they ordered to enter the house and search it for money and valuables, while they kept the inmates under close cover. In one large box the hunter discovered the owner's branch bank, in which there was a little money and a number of papers, including one cheque for £60. The money was secured, but the papers and cheque were cast aside as useless. One of the prisoners—the manager of an adjoining station—complained that the fire was roasting him and that he must change his position. "Then," said Scotchey, "just turn the other side and you will be nicely baked by the time we have searched the house; but if you move you are a dead man." The manager took the advice: but thinking that fourteen men were rather too many to be kept prisoners in such fashion by two, he suggested in a whisper to an old man at his side that by making a simultaneous rush they would be able to overcome the bushrangers. "I will knock one of them down with this block I am sitting on," said he, "while you tackle the other." He found that he had made his suggestion to the wrong individual. The man was an old convict himself, and had more sympathy with the robbers than with the robbed, though the latter was his own master. "By——," said he "if you move I'll tell them, and you'll get your brains in your pocket." Under such circumstances the manager deemed it prudent to remain quiet and inactive.

He was destined to meet the same gang on more than one occasion subsequently. The very next day he was in his own hut telling his wife and the station hands what had taken place, and expatiating on the power of two men with guns to make cowards of fourteen, when suddenly another voice, louder than his own, was heard enquiring "How many are there here?" This time there were only six; but on looking towards the door those six saw two men with guns pointed through it, and these the overseer recognised as Scotchey and Witton, who were evidently making a tour through the station holdings. As soon as Scotchey got an answer to his question he ordered them all to march outside on pain of having their brains blown out. Meekly they obeyed, all except the overseer's wife. With a daring that must have made her valiant-spoken husband very proud of her, she coolly walked up to the bushrangers and, "I'm sure," said she, "you would not hurt a woman, bushrangers though you are." She even went so far as to place her hand upon Scotchey's arm, and looking into his eyes she begged him not to take any of their little store, as she and her husband were only just married, and were struggling hard to save a little in order that they might start life on their own account. Scotchey would have faced a crowd of men, and shot them down without compunction, if they had resisted; but he could not withstand the appeal of a woman's soft tongue or the pathetic glance of a woman's eye. Dropping his gun, and looking the young wife steadfastly in the face, he declared by his Maker that he would not rob them; and he kept his word He called his mates, the three without another word left the place, while the overseer and his men looked on with wide open eyes of amazement.

Just a word here, by way of parenthesis, to show that this "weaker vessel" had a heart stout to meet danger and face death without dismay. Shortly after the visit of the bushrangers, she removed with her husband to another station in the same district, belonging to the same owner—a very lonely spot in the far bush, where the blacks and kangaroos, the natural denizens of the place, were wild and troublesome. One day the cattle broke away from the new camp, and the overseer and his men saddled up and went after them, sleeping on their tracks the first night of pursuit, and the next day overtaking them and bringing them back. During the first day of their absence, the lonely woman was startled by the appearance of about 40 blackfellows at the hut, painted, and without their gins—a sure sign that they meant mischief. And here I will let the brave young wife—who was a typical Australian girl of the early times, a splendid equestrienne, and able to handle a rifle or pistol as well as most men—tell her own story:–

The blacks came up and asked me—"Where white fellow?" I, of course, gave them no satisfaction. I was taking my tea, and they ordered me to give them bread ("tong-ong"), a commodity I was very short of at the time. Flour was then £5 10s per cwt., and, so far in the bush, it was not to be had for money. However, I shared what I had with them; but that did not satisfy them, and one of them threw it in the fire. This so annoyed me—knowing how glad I should be of it myself—that, in the heat of the moment, I twisted a leg out of the stool and rushed them out of the hut, striking the fellow that had thrown the bread in the fire a heavy blow between the shoulders. He turned and uttered a savage yell and said, "You be poor fella before euroka begone next night"—you'll be dead before the sun sets tomorrow night. When they were gone I shall never forget the feeling of loneliness and horror that came over me. Night came on, but no Lawrence—no white man; and I was alone in the wild back woods, in a frail bark hut without a bar or lock. And, terrible to relate, I never once looked up to "the Strong for strength"; yet, unsought and unseen, His mighty arm was uplifted to shield me from every danger. As the night advanced I extinguished both fire and candle and kept myself perfectly quiet. About twelve o'clock I heard my kangaroo dog bark and growl, and knew he smelt a black. Presently I heard a small voice softly call "Mittiss, mittiss, you let in black pickanini—mine pialla (I'll tell you) news." I took courage and unfastened the door, which I had secured as well as I could, by placing a stool and four pails of water against it. To my great relief the boy (a little blackfellow who had occasionally been employed about the place by my husband) was alone. He had stolen away when the blackfellows had gone to sleep, and had ventured his life to give me word that the blacks were going to kill me in the morning, "when the sun jump up"—for they are afraid to move, except in extreme cases, in the dark for fear of evil spirits. But for this fear, they can track in the dark, and no white person they desire to murder would be safe within their reach. The boy said it was "Gentleman Billy" I had struck, and it was he who was to kill me. I gave the poor boy some thick milk to drink, of which the blacks are fond, and we spent the night quietly crouching together. It was a night of the horror and darkness of death; and no one but such as have been in similar circumstances can tell how the heart will warm and cling even to a faithful kangaroo dog in such danger.

Just before day broke I let out the little black boy. Daylight had a wonderful effect in cheering my spirit and scattering the horror of the night. I knew the blacks so well that I knew you must never appear afraid of them, so I resolved to face the danger before it came to me. I got the double-barrelled gun (it was a little beauty Lawrence had bought me shortly after our wedding), and, looking to the caps, I set off for the blacks' camp. They were all up and seated round their camp fire cross-legged like tailors. On my approach they all held down their heads and began to jabber. I said firmly, "Good morning." None took any notice, but still talked. I said, "My men, cobbon mine been dream last night that blackfellow was going to kill me when sun jump up. Now, then, which one black fellow?" No response. I immediately levelled my gun at a tree near them and fired one barrel. They saw where the bark flew off, and all started to their feet. I again demanded which blackfellow wanted to kill me, and bade him come on now, for I had another barrel for him, and my gun never told a lie. I levelled the barrel first at one, then at another, repeating my question. They all fell back crying, "Not me, Mittiss, not me, Mittiss. No blackfellow want to kill you—you murry good woman!" So after a great many assurances, I was allowed to go back to the hut, and was not disturbed by them that day.

There were heroines in the Australian bush in the early days of settlement, and this brave overseer's wife was one of them. It was in this lonely place that she for the second time, and her husband for the third, came face to face with Scotchey and his mates. On the evening of the day after her encounter with the blacks, when she was seated at the fire with her husband, who had returned from his cattle chase wet and weary, a violent knocking was heard at the door of the hut. "Who is there?" said the overseer. The answer came in a rough voice "Police, with a warrant to search your hut." The door was opened and three men (Scotchey, Witton, and Russell) rushed in, presented their guns, and repeated the demand with a threat which the inmates had heard before. As Scotchey turned to search the bedroom, the overseer remarked to his wife, "I hope these men will behave as honourably to us as Scotchey did." "What was that I heard you say about Scotchey?" said the robber: and seeing then who his victim was, he called his mates to sit down before the fire, assuring the overseer and his wife that now they knew who they were they would not take anything from them except their firearms. To look for these Scotchey again essayed to enter the bedroom; "we can't leave arms behind," he said, "they may be used against us some day." But once more he was stayed by a woman's voice, and once more yielded to a woman's prayer. The wife told him how serviceable her gun had proved on the previous day in intimidating the blacks, and Scotchey yielded to her petition not to deprive her of so valuable a protector in her loneliness, at the same time vowing vengeance against the blacks for daring to molest a white woman. Politely requesting that a damper might be made for them, they smoked and chatted with each other and the overseer while the bread was baking in the ashes, and having had supper retired into the bush.

Next day the overseer quietly sent a message to his nearest neighbour, an Irishman who had settled in the locality, but some miles nearer the centre of civilisation, to warn him that Scotchey and his gang were about and would in all probability give him a call. This settler had at one time been a convict constable, and had earned the reputation of being a hard taskmaster. He had only recently been married, and indulged in loud boasting of the warm reception any bushranger who ventured to visit his domicile would receive. Nothing happened for a fortnight after the overseer's warning, and O'Leary was congratulating himself that he had been overlooked. But he was not to be let off so lightly. In due course Scotchey and his mates, who had evidently heard of the boasts in which O'Leary had indulged, paid him a visit. They came at night, rapped loudly at the bar door, and asked him whether he was coming to fight them or not. O'Leary made no reply, but went into another room and brought out his gun, cocking the weapon as he crept towards the window. The bushrangers heard the "click", and immediately fired a volley through the closed door. One of the bullets passed through the door into the second room where the young wife was standing, and struck her on the thigh, wounding her very severely. The poor woman screamed and fell, and O'Leary at once called out that he would open the door as his wife was shot. The door being opened and O'Leary disarmed, Scotchey lifted the wounded woman and expressed his sorrow that she should have been injured, assuring her that hers was the first blood they had shed; but they were determined to punish her husband for his cruelty in the past to men who had been placed under him. Before they left they loaded their packhorse with tea, sugar, tobacco, and flour, and scattered what they could not take, telling the erstwhile boaster before they departed that he might think himself fortunate that they left him with a whole skin. The wounded woman recovered, but was lame for a couple of years after the wound had healed.

Meanwhile the troopers had begun to press closely upon Scotchey and his mates; they disappeared from the district, and were not heard of for some time, turning up at last in the Goulburn and Crookwell districts, where they committed several robberies. While at work here they announced that there were two men in the district upon whom they intended to work revenge, not for any injury done to themselves, but for harsh treatment of their assigned servants. Nearly every convict bushranger appears to have voluntarily taken upon himself the task—a congenial one, we may be sure—of hunting out reputed hard taskmasters with a view of, to use their own words, "paying him back in his own coin"; and woe to the man, wealthy or poor, a "pure merino" or an emancipist, falling into their clutches, who had treated assigned servants harshly, or who had been what they chose to consider a severe master.

So Scotchey and Witton made no secret of their intentions with regard to at least two prominent men in the Crookwell district, one of them being Mr. Oakes, who lived at Parramatta, but had a head station on the Crookwell River; and the other a Mr. Fry, overseer of a station owned by Dr. Gibson. During their visit to the district Mr. Oakes chanced to arrive at the station, bringing with him a confidential man as overseer. Hearing of his arrival the bushrangers—there were four at this time, a man named Reynolds having joined the leaders with Russell—proceeded to the station; mistaking the overseer for the owner they shot him dead without any ceremony, and then set fire to the station, and pursued one of the stockmen into the bush unsuccessfully. Mr. Oakes managed to keep in hiding near the station until they had gone, and thus preserved his life.

Dr. Gibson's station was visited next, the bushrangers hoping to find Fry at home. The cause of their grievance against Fry was most probably his previous treatment of two bushrangers on the Western Road. The story ran that the coach travelling between Bathurst and Sydney had been "stuck-up" when Fry was a passenger. The bushrangers demanded that he should give up his money, and Fry replied that all he had was in an opossum rug which he had with him in the coach. "Then pitch it out" was the command, and Fry stooped as if to obey, but as he pulled out the rug he drew from it a revolver, and by a sudden snap shot ended the career of one robber, immediately afterwards rushing upon the second, who was covering the coach-driver, and taking him prisoner. For this Scotchey now desired to "pay him out." Suddenly appearing at the station they found him standing at the door of his log hut. They asked if he was Dr. Gibson's overseer, and he assented. "Then," said Scotchey, "we are coming to fry you in your own fat." But they had a smart man to deal with. Turning sharp into the door Fry secured it, and then commenced a regular siege. One of the bushrangers stationed himself in the calf-pen, another in the stable, and the other two in sheltered positions; they blazed away at the logs, and Fry returned their fire through the loop-holes, with the assistance of an old convict hutkeeper. A bullet struck one of the slabs above his head, and the splinter wounded him in the eye. From the sudden cry he uttered the bushrangers imagined that the shot had told, and Scotchey for the moment became less cautious. Standing out from his cover he prepared to fire again, when a bullet came whistling from Fry's rifle and struck him on the eyebrow, carrying away part of his skull. Falling mortally wounded, he called upon Witton to put an end to his pain, and Witton, in answer, put the muzzle of his pistol to Scotchey's head and pulled the trigger. Then the three others made off, not wishing to share Scotchey's fate.

Shortly afterwards, however, the local sergeant of police, with five others, brought them to bay, and took two prisoners, Russell shooting himself to avoid capture. Reynolds hanged himself in prison, and only Witton suffered the penalty of the law.

About this time there were several other small gangs at work in the Murray district. Some of them were vile scoundrels. As a rule the bushrangers, even the most bloodthirsty, carefully abstained from molesting females; but some of those at large at this period were of the stamp of Jeffries the monster. Once two of these wretches paid a visit to the house of a Scotchman who had been boasting of what he would do to them if they came near him. They had heard of his boasts and sought to punish him, but when they called at his hut he was absent. His wife was present, however, busily engaged at the washtub, and to punish the husband they carried her away with them to their hiding place in the bush. When the husband returned his nearest neighbour volunteered to go out with him and rescue the unfortunate woman, but the aforetime boaster was afraid. The woman was allowed to return to her home on the day following, and Sandy was no doubt pleased to get her back, although his courage was not capable of being screwed to the sticking-point of fighting for her. He lived in constant dread of the bushrangers after that until he heard that they had been taken, tried and hanged.

Another story is told of another gang of "woman-lifters", as they were called, but I cannot vouch for its truthfulness. This gang was in the habit of carrying off women and keeping them in the woods for a week at a time, and then conducting them to within easy distance of their homes. The story runs that there was a man to whom word was brought that the "woman-lifters" were coming. He was in bed at the time, and hurriedly rising he said to his wife, "Now, S———, I'll kill you myself before they shall take you—be quiet or die." He then ripped up the bed-tick and put her into it, leaving her a place through which to breathe, and then threw down the bedclothes, and prepared to receive the bushrangers, who came shortly afterwards. He offered them no resistance, and they did not attempt to do him any injury, and when, in answer to their enquiries, he said that his wife had gone to a neighbour's at some distance to spend the night they believed him, especially as they saw that the bed had no visible occupant. They compelled the man to make them a pot of tea, and stayed some time smoking and chatting at the fire, after which they left. The reader may imagine the feelings of the unfortunate woman as she heard from her hiding place the other than kindly enquiries which were being made concerning her by the leader of the gang. But I am inclined to think the story is one of the many which found currency in the bush in later days, and which were fiction pure and simple.

Source: The Bushrangers (1915, April 7). The Farmer and Settler (Sydney, NSW : 1906 - 1955), p. 7.