Hectic Days At White Cliffs

Riots And Robbery In Opal Field Boom

In this Real Life Story, 'Wanderer' tells of his hectic experiences at White Cliffs, when opal was first discovered there. Combats between the 'Spiders' and residents took place, and there was a remarkable opal theft as well.

I was overseer on Tarella station, situated 12 miles from White Cliffs, long before opal was discovered there by Hooley, Turner, and two brothers named Richardson. These men were kangarooing, and by mere chance pitched their camp close to the site of the first rich discovery, which they kept secret for many months. Race horses were trained at the camp, four horse teams driven to Wilcannia, a distance of 50 miles, and periodical trips were made to Melbourne before the discovery was known to the public.

My first trip to the field was on New Year's Day, 1892, when about 20 people were there. They were reticent regarding the news of the discovery. From that time the population increased by leaps and bounds. Hotels, stores, and private residences were erected, and the town, like all mining towns, grew with mushroom rapidity.

Leaseholders of mining areas, having to comply with labor conditions, employed tributors at 75 per cent. of the value of the opal won by them. The opal was sealed in packets and deposited daily in the leaseholder's safe until the arrival of a buyer. At times it meant months of waiting for cash to liquidate their liability to storekeepers. The value of opal fluctuated. At times it was practically valueless, but at others the price would soar to £40 an ounce.

Johnston's, the first hotel, did a roaring trade. A jockey, having swallowed 12 pints of beer without leaving the bar, raised himself on tiptoe to look over the counter and indignantly demanded the proprietor, whose back was turned for a moment to serve him at once, declaring he was too dry to spit.

The second hotel was The Royal, owned and run by Jack Burgess. Shortly after the opening a riot occurred between 'Spiders,' who had congregated for an approaching race meeting, and residents of the town. The leader of the 'Spiders,' 'Stumpy,' had arranged with his confederates to paint the town red on the following Sunday morning. Stumpy opened the battle by seizing a chair in the bar of the Royal Hotel, breaking off a leg with which he swept the bottles and glassware off the shelves and counters. News of the proposed attack having leaked out, the residents, laying in wait, joined in a fierce battle in the bar. Not finding sufficient scope for their energy the combatants adjourned to the street. The Spiders, finding themselves out numbered, and getting the worst of it, ran in all directions. 'Stumpy' was chased by Jack Burgess, and was tripped and fell flat on the road. He finally hid under the billiard room of Johnston's Hotel, which was raised on blocks some 18 inches above the surrounding level. Here he defended himself with gibbers until the arrival of the police, who had been on duty at the Kandy race meeting. He and his mates were hunted out of town. The town was indeed painted red, but only with the gore of the attacking party.

Soon after the riot there was an opal robbery from the claims of the discoverers. One of the tributors, disregarding the rule of meum et teum appropriated the best of the opal won by him, instead of handing it to the leaseholder, as customary. This tributor decided to take a holiday, boarded the coach bound for Wilcannia bent on having a good time. Meanwhile the leaseholders not having received the quantity of opal expected from him, informed the police and he was searched at a wayside inn and a valuable parcel of opal, of which he could not give a satisfactory account, was found on him. He was arrested and locked up in Wilcannia gaol, committed for trial, and allowed out on bail.

Walking along the street he espied a peculiar piece of opal exhibited in a jeweller's shop window which he recognised as being a portion of the contents of the stolen parcel. He informed the police, who examined the parcel and found one piece which exactly dovetailed into the piece exhibited in the jeweller's window. This was conclusive evidence, and the arresting constable was charged with robbery. After arresting the tributor and getting the parcel, he helped himself to the contents and handed the balance to the inspector of police. The piece stolen by the constable with given to a friend who arranged with the jeweller to exhibit it in his window. Both the tributor and constable got heavy sentences. It was rumored that the parcel was again stolen from the courthouse safe, but this I cannot vouch for. Anyway there were characters in the Cliffs in those days quite capable of doing so, who would glory in beating the police.— 'Wanderer.'

Bull's Mourning For His Mate

At a place where I once worked there roamed in a paddock adjoining a fruit garden six two-year-old heifers and an aged bull. One of the heifers, in trying to get through the fence on the garden side broke her leg. Not only was the leg badly broken, but a deep cut bled freely. She came down the hill, a distance of about three hundred yards, and it was there that the owner first saw her. He called for me to come over and have a look at her, and then asked me to get the gun and shoot her, which I did.

I had just finished burying her and had put the tools away when I noticed the old bull coming up a well beaten path toward the place where the heifer had broken her leg. He stopped at this place, and then began to roar in a way that I have never heard before or since. There was something pathetic in that sound; a cry as if he were in real pain. Louder and louder he roared, and the steam which came from his nostrils rose into the air like clouds of smoke. He stood thus for some time roaring, and then he walked through the fence into the garden as though no fence was there.

By this time the owner and half a dozen others had come up to where I was standing, attracted by the noise, and we stood and waited. The old bull followed the trail of blood until he came to a plum tree, which was laden with fruit, and he banged up against the butt of the tree with his head, and the plums fell over and around him like hail. This unsettled him more than ever, and he rushed at the tree until the fruit ceased to fall, and then walked down the hill until he came to the next tree. He hit that with his head and brought the fruit down, and all the while the roaring went on. and the steam rose in clouds. He followed the row of trees down, three hundred yards, to the grave.

He saw the freshly dug mound of earth, and leaving the trees he walked over to it and stood on top of it. The roaring ceased; the steam died away, and he stood on the grave of his mate with his head down on the ground. I felt really sorry for that old bull. His grief seemed so real. The time of silence was soon over, and with a mighty roar, and the steam once more coming forth in clouds, he began to tear up the earth with his fore feet. The dirt was loose, and it was thrown in all directions. I knew that I had buried the heifer deep down, but all the same I was beginning to fear that he might get down too far.

He turned round and round as he tore up the earth ; it flew all over and around him, and he seemed to have gone mad. Then there came a great change. His pawing ceased all at once; the roaring died away, and the steam from his body was no longer seen to rise. He walked off from the grave, and with a slow and solemn walk he went up to the place where he came in, and joining his mates, who were not far away, he went off with them. Of all the Jersey bulls that I have ever seen I consider him the quietest and best tempered of all under normal conditions, and yet it would have been death to anyone who had gone near him in his distress.— A.C.H.

Mason Used To Work Overtime

It was bread night at Fowler's Bay. As Mrs. Freeman was busy preparing the dough, Bob Ware, a half-caste, came into the kitchen. 'Can I have some flour, Mrs. Freeman?' he asked. 'What do you want flour for?' asked Mrs. Freeman. 'It doesn't matter what I want it for,' replied Ware. 'If you don't tell me what you want it for, you cant have it.'

'Well, there's that mason down there working overtime. He's no business to be working like that and I want to give him a fright.' ' In a few minutes Ware returned. If Mrs. Freeman had not known who it was she would have had the fright of her life. His face was covered with flour, except for the eyes, which stood out like two large red patches on a ghastly white background. Mrs. Freeman protested against his displaying himself in such a guise to any civilised person, but Ware made off.

The mason heard a slight noise, and, turning, he emitted a terrified gasp, for there at the window was a ghostly face with two large glaring eyes. With a shriek he dropped his trowel and fled to the shelter of the house where he was boarding. He told no one the reason for the change in his plans, but he did no more overtime.— C.Y.A.

Snakes Paid For His Drinks

Many years ago a roving snake charmer named Morrissey used to travel round various country towns, putting on an act that was good enough to satisfy his needs for food and shelter, if not always to quench his habitual thirst. He played with highly venomous snakes as though they were harmless pieces of string, and most of his patrons believed that the reptiles had had their fangs extracted.

On one occasion, a particularly ugly-looking tiger snake, which was included in his menagerie, quietly coiled up round his neck and slept throughout a performance in a hotel bar. One of the spectators, a substantial farmer, expressed his doubts on the point of fangs, and Morrissey challenged him to stand up to a bite. The man declined, so Morrissey asked him whether he could try on his cattle dog, a valuable animal. Smiling at Morrissev's anticipated discomfiture, the owner told him to go right ahead.

The snake-charmer flung the tiger snake straight at the dog. It bit like a flash of lightning, and the animal was dead inside a few minutes. After that incident, Morrissey's receipts went up considerably, and patrons took good care to stand further back when a performance was on.

It used to be his custom to take his bag of reptiles to the pub with him when he was on a spree. As he became more and more sunken in his cups, he developed an embarrassing recklessness in the handling of his pets. In the twinkling of an eye they would be at large all over the bar counter and the floor. The more sober customers fled for safety, as a rule; while others, who had been on a bender, formed good resolutions and hurriedly departed to consult a doctor on their symptoms. The publicans either left Morrissey to help himself while they fled to safety or sent for the police. The law made short work of Morrissey's pets, and on sobering up he frequently found himself bereft both of them and of his living. Not in the least embarrassed by a misfortune which would have broken a weaker man, Morrissey used to borrow a clothes prop and a corn sack and disappear into the bush, presumably for collections and rehearsals. Inside a week he would be back on the job with a complete cast of new performers!

One of the best tales of Morrissey deals with an occasion when he was quenching his thirst in a hotel and suddenly found himself right out of ready cash. He fished in his bag and produced a venomous tree-snake, which he threw on the counter. 'Rum and milk. Bung.' he ordered, 'and take it out of that!' The bar was clear inside ten seconds, except for the terrified landlord, who handed over the drink and seemed to have lost interest in the payment.

"It's yours," Morrissev told him. "Why don't you shove it in the till? I'm going to cut the rest out here!" The landlord lost his head altogether, told Morrissey that he was in no hurry, and served him with drinks as fast as the snake-charmer could down them. His idea was to get the man drunk as rapidly as possible and out of the way, regardless of expense. Morrissey's thirst and honesty were factors he had failed to take into account. None the worse for his liquor, apparently, he forked out a fresh snake each time he considered he had cut out the value of its predecessor, until the bar was swarming with snakes of every size and variety. The police arrived in time to save the unfortunate publican from complete insanity, but he sold out his business as soon as possible and made a present of any stray snakes around the premises to the new licensee!

Morrissey used to sell snake antidote, which was apparently quite efficacious for his purposes, but he finally found a new species of reptile which did not use the normal venom, for he passed out eventually from a bite received in the course of a performance, regretted by all who had come in contact with him, with the exception of a few hotelkeepers. — 'Fisher.'

Master And Dog Had Swollen Heads

Jim Davidson was a man of tremendous physique and as hard as iron. He was something of a bully round the district, and the bully of a sawmilling community fights like a combination of a threshing machine and a circular saw to survive the first six months. After that, only strangers ever troubled to raise their fists to him, and then only after some provocation or in sheer ignorance.

When Jim's pugilistic interests waned through lack of competition, he was compelled to fall back on the travelling shows of boxing teams that came round in Show time, and here he generally held his own. For the rest of the year, he concentrated on training his dog, Nigger, in the arts of canine combat. Nigger was of nondescript breed, but an outsize in mongrels, tough, and as brave as a dog can be made or born. Before he was 12 months old he was the terror of the district, and the flight of a pack of yelping curs usually heralded Nigger's passage through town when they came in.

At the time under discussion, both had been cocks of their respective walks too long, and were feeling the effects of swollen heads. They were lounging in the post office, waiting for the mail to come in, when a well-set-up lad rode in; a stranger, who had only arrived in the district a few days before. He was followed by a savage-looking cattle dog, yellow in color, and several pounds lighter than Nigger. Jim Davidson turned round with a sudden show of interest.

"I'll match my dog against yours for a quid a side," he suggested. The newcomer shook his head. "I never let Barney fight, if I can help it," he answered.

"Frightened he'll get hurt?" sneered Jim Davidson.

"No," the stranger explained. "He's a born killer, and I don't encourage that streak at the expense of other peoples dogs!"

"Sounds promising!" was David son's only comment. Then he picked up his own dog and threw it on top of the yellow one. In a twinkling the two animals were hard at it, and everybody in the post office gathered round to see the fun. The stranger got busy. He removed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and then sent a stinging left straight into Davidson's face. The latter flushed with anger.

"I don't fight, boys!" he bellowed; "but I'll cut your comb, young fellow, and teach you a lesson!" In a second, masters and dogs were both hard at it, but attention naturally swung to the men. To everybody's surprise, Jim Davidson was soon hard pressed, for the strange lad possessed deceptive strength beneath his youthful appearance. Neither had much science, but in a straight slogging match, the older and bigger man was fast getting the worst of it.

By the merest fluke, Davidson's fist happened to glance on to his opponent's temple, sending him unconscious to the floor, where his head struck a jagged metal doorstop, and started to bleed profusely. Instantly cooled down, and rather ashamed of becoming involved in a fight with a mere lad, Davidson went forward to help his antagonist. Before he could do anything, the stranger's yellow dog flew straight for his throat, and drove him off. While the men were fighting, the strange dog had quietly killed Nigger, wrenching out his gullet with a bite to the throat. Davidson took this in, and sent a savage kick in the direction of Nigger's destroyer. His leg was seized, and he was thrown like a steer. It took all hands to beat the dog clear, and then it was impossible to get near the prone body of his master.

Eventually the animal had to be roped, a noose being dropped over its neck from each side, and then pulled away by holders well out of reach. Half-strangled and mad with rage, it was finally locked up in a shed. The owner was in a bad way from his gash, and had to be sent to hospital for a week to recover. The doctor said that much more loss of blood could easily have proved fatal, and if the dog had not been dragged clear, his owner would have bled to death under the animal's faithful, but mis guided protection. — 'Greenhide.'