Early Days in Central Otago

Otago Witness, Issue 3994, 30 September 1930, Page 6

Early Days in Central Otago

Being Tales Ij of Times gone by I

by

Robert Gilkison

CHAPTER XIV.—COACHES AND ROADS. Coach! Coach! Coach! Oh, for a coach, ye gods! —Carey. If you had seen these roads before they were made, You’d hold up your hands and bless General Wade. —Captain Grose. By the 25th of November, 1862, that is only three months after Hartley and Reilly’s discovery, a five-horse coach began to run from Dunedin to the Dunstan. At first it took three days to accomplish the distance of 120 miles, but when stables were erected on the way and changes of horses could be made, the time was reduced to two days. .The coaches were not of the large, heavy type known as stage coaches in England, but were of the lightest and strongest material available, hung on leather springs. These were the carriages which experience in new countries had shown to be most useful, and they proved extremely serviceable and satisfactory conveyances, though it must be admitted when too lightly loaded they swayed and pitched and tossed like a vessel at sea. It was the state of the roads which limited the speed of the coaches. The Provincial Council undoubtedly performed its duties admirably in the way of constructing roads over the wilds as rapidly as possible, though some complained it was with too lavish a hand. The gold revenue which flowed into the coffers of the local body enabled this to be done with considerable rapidity, but the task was a hard one, which required the expenditure of both time and money. So, by the end of 1862, there was a fair road by the Rock and Pillar, over the ranges and valleys between Dunstan and Dunedin, and we have told some of the early coaching experiences on this road when writing of the storms of 1863. In Hartley and Reilly’s year £12,000 was voted for constructing the Main North road, Dunedin to Waikouaiti. By September, 1863, a road from Arrow to Dunstan by the Kawarau Gorge had so far advanced that it was possible, though with danger and difficulty, to take a cart through by that route. The road, however, was so bad that, the weather, being wet, drays took three months to reach Arrow by it. Referring to the looked-for arrival of goods, the newspaper reporter optimistically writes: “ After two months, speedy arrival is looked for.”

The road was certainly extremely dangerous, as shown by the fact that in August, 1863, during the great snowstorm, when the escort wagon on this road essayed to cross Roaring Meg Stream, a prisoner who was "riding handcuffed on the outside of the wagon was washed into the stream and drowned.

Contemporary local criticisms of the efforts of the Provincial Council towards providing good roads are worth quoting. The Dunstan correspondent of the Otago Daily Times wrote on Ist July, 1863: “The new bridle track from Arrow to the Dunstan is complete within a few miles. It is an improvement on the vertical movement over Gentle Annie and her tall sisters, but it is by no means a path of flowers. It abounds in sharp pinches and slippery sidelings, and its mud is unfathomable.”

The Wakatip Mail, writing of roads in September, 1863, said: “ The greatest botch of all is that from Arrow to Dunstan, appropriately called ‘ Branagan’s Folly,’ a remarkable monument of official incapacity and jobbery.” The rough track known to the diggers as “ the Gentle Annie,” which ran up the range about two miles west of the Meg, and by a most perilous route gained the Crown Terrace, remained in general use until punts were put on the Kawarau at Victoria Bridge and above Arrow Junction, and a road was cut through the Nevis Bluff, Mr G. hl. Marshall, of Earnscleugh, as a child, journeying to Clyde, was carried over the Gentle Annie track in 1864, having been made fast in a gin case which was strapped on a horse’s baek; and in 1870 the same old track was used by Rennie, the Clyde gold robber, when riding home, hoping to escape notice.

It was in 1873 that Anthony Trollope, the well-known author of “ Barchester Towers,” visited Otago, and, disregarding all well-meant advice, travelled from Queenstown to Dunedin in the dead of winter by the public coach. He found the roads very trying and the hotels far from comfortable, but the scenery was grand and the experience thrilling. The journey, which should have been performed in three days, extended over six, the weather

being very severe; the average distance in a day was only twenty-five miles, and the pace about three miles an hour. “ The tedium was great,” he writes, “ and the inns at which we stopped were not delightful. . . . “ The rooms formed of it (corrugated iron) are small, and every word uttered in the house can be heard throughout it as throughout a shed put up without divisions. And yet the owners and frequenters of these iron domiciles seem never to be aware of the fact. As I lay in bed in one of those metal inns on the road, I was constrained to hear the private conversation of my host and hostess, who had retired for the night. *So this is Mr Anthony Trollope,’ "Said the host. The hostess assented, but I could gather clearly from her voice that she was thinking much more of her back hair than of her visitor. ‘ Well,’ said the host, ‘ he must be a fool to come travelling in this country in such weather as this.’ Perhaps, after all, the host was aware of the peculiarity of his house, and thought it well that I should know his opinion. He could not have spoken any words with which at the moment I should have been more prone to agree.”

Trollope journeyed from one mining town to another, and found all in a state of prosperity, all having banks and hotels. The life, he declared, was rough, but plenteous and comfortable. He made a point of visiting the library in each place, and was surprised. “In all these towns,” he said, “ there are libraries, and the books are strongly bound and well thumbed. Carlyle, Macaulay, and Dickens are certainly better known to small communities in New Zealand than they are to similar congregations of men and women at home.”

At Tuapeka heavy snow fell; the coach travelled not by the new road in the gorge, but by the track over the hills, and on two occasions it was stopped until the passengers alighted and assisted to dig away the snow and extricate their carriage. On his reaching Dunedin he was able to congratulate himself he had acomplished a journey few visitors, if any, had ever attempted. After Trollope’s time followed the era of well-made roads and fast reliable coaches, and with the advent of these two essentials, coaching in Central Otago became generally an intense pleasure. It was a fine sensation for the hardy traveller to sit on the box seat behind a rattling team of spirited horses spanking along over the tussocky plain on a beautiful summer morning. No doubt there were drawbacks to this mode of travelling when an early winter sun set all too soon and the horses had to plough on in the dark through snow or mud to the axles or over a track frozen as hard as iron.

De Quincey, describing the luxury of driving in an English mail coach, says: “ Yes, magna vivimus, . The vital experience of the glad animal sensibilities made doubts impossible on the question of our speed; we heard our speed, we saw it, we felt it as thrilling; and this speed was not the product of blind insensate agencies, that had no sympathy to give, but was incarnated in the fiery eyeballs of the noblest amongst brutes, in his dilated nostrils, spasmodic muscles, and thunder-beating hoofs.” In New Zealand we had the speed and the horses, the hard road, the crisp morning air, and the exhilaration of rapid motion. A great part of the joy of old English coaching, however, was the staying in beautiful '’oldfashioned inns where everything was delightful and calm and sweet. The newness of Central Otago and the rough scrambles which had led to its occupation made it impossible to find in this wild, freshly-opened country the amenities or comforts of the inns of the Old Land. And so many travellers found, as Anthony Trollope also discovered, that the little hotels at which they had to stay were the serious drawback to a long coaching journey. Most of these had been hastily erected in the days of the first rushes to accommodate the largest number of people in the smallest possible space. The same buildings continued to do duty for nearly forty years, when at last the increased traffic caused by the dredging boom and the action of the new licensing committees led to their being pulled down and handsome brick houses being substituted. Many a sleepless night did the chance traveller spend in the old “ metal inns,” as Trollope called them, while women travelling alone had terrifying experiences. A rat in the ceiling of scrim and paper or a scream from a fellowpassenger in an adjoining room suffering from nightmare

or rat scare would make an unprotected female shiver. Yet, let it be recorded, Central Otago hosts were generally kindness itself: they provided an excellent table, kept roaring fires in the sitting room, and did the best they -could with the flimsy accommodation available. Funny incidents happened at these hotels. One night a man arrived by coach, and after dinner retired to his uncomfortable couch, but first put his artificial teeth in a glass of water. At 3.30 next morning he was called to, get up and catch the coach which left at 4 a.m. sharp, and was not a little surprised to find the water frozen solid with his teeth in it. There was no time to try to melt it. The driver outside was calling “ All aboard,” so the poor fellow had to carry off glass and all, getting it thawed later on.

One night a young married woman arrived from Dunedin by the up coach. She had a young baby in her arms, and was going to join her husband up country. When called in the morning she dressed and went out It was a hard frosty morning and very dark. A man held a lamp while she climbed up into the coach with the baby in her arms. There w'as no light inside, and she could only see dark forms occupying the three corners, while she took the fourth. “ All aboard,” and off they went, still very dark, and not a soul spoke. She wondered why they w r ere so silent, and longed for them to say a few words, and she ventured to talk and croon to the child, but not a word came from the dark figures around, and only grim silence prevailed. When at last, three hours after starting, daylight came streaming in, she found the three figures were only sacks of produce tied up in the corners.

An old Highlander died at Tarras, having left instruct tions his body was to be taken to Dunedin for burial. The corpse was put in a large rough box, made on the station, and put in a coach for removal. It was a coach funning on extra days, and was of simple build, resembling a long spring cart with a cover. A young lady got on the bus, and wms very pleased to get a front seat, but before long she began to tease the driver about that extraordinary box which was bumping about and knocking against her legs. The driver kept quiet about the contents of the box and made the best of things, and the lady always alleged it had been a most entertaining drive, and to this day does not know 7 what a strange fellow-passenger she had* lying cold and still under the seat.

The coach driver was the king of the road in the old coaching days. He was at one and the same time the obliging friend of the public and the autocratic monarch ruling all who travelled. To sit on the box beside him was a much sought honour, and he felt deeply insulted if offered money for the privilege.

On one occasion Ned Devine, the well-known whip was mounting the box at Pigroot when a large and selfimportant stranger demanded the seat beside him. “ No, sir. It’s promised to someone else,” said Ned. “Do you know I am the Minister of Mines? ” said the stranger, expecting immediate abasement and submission. “ No, I don’t, but it’s a damned fine billet,” replied Ned with the utmost sangfroid. “ You keep it as long as you can.” Accidents to coaches on the whole were few, considering the distances and the nature of the country traversed. An unfortunate spill near Beaumont was caused by a young bull which was being driven along the road with other cattle when the coach heaved in sight. Mr Bull at once put down his head, galloped off from his escort, and, more in fun than in anger, charged the coach. The poor horses naturally shied off the road, and over ivent the coach on its side, the driver and twelve passengers being all jumbled together, one on top of the other. The bull simply stood with his tail .up, and gazed in astonishment at the trouble he had created. As the passengers crawled out of the wreck they spied the bull waiting, and all expected a further attack, and the women screamed to a policeman who happened to be aboard to drive it away. The representative of law and order had not even a baton at hand, and, moreover, had had his collar bone broken in the fall, but, luckily, at that moment the stockriders on their horses galloped up with their whips, sending Mr Bull about his business. Aftei* all, the passengers suffered little damage beyond some bruises and fractures. A much more serious accident was that in which Mr M'lntosh, the driveb, was killed. Mack was a stern old Spartan of the old school—a good driver and a conscientious worker, but with never a pleasant word to say to his passengers. Going towards Beaumont from Roxburgh with a full coach one day, his horses took fright and bolted. He hung on to the reins like grim death, pressed on the brake, and would have come safely through, but going round a sharp bend at the gallop, a wheel struck a rock. Immediately the coach capsized, the king bolt came out (as it was intended it should in a case of a capsize), and the horses went on, but poor old Mack had the reins so wound round his hands that he was dragged from his seat, struck the rock with his head, and was killed instantaneously. He died manfully doing his duty.

Two cases are recorded where the coach and horses disappeared into the river. The following account is taken (slightly condensed) from “ The Good Old Days,” printed by the Lake Wakatip Mail: —

“ There is a spot on the Kawarau which is called Parsons’ Leap to this day. Tom Parsons was driving his four-horse coach, and crept slowly up the rise that leads where the road is cut round a bluff that is 200 ft above the river, and on the river side was a stone wall about two feet high. ... As he rounded the bluff, some men who were at work on the road did something which startled the leaders, and they turned round and sprang over the wall, followed by the wheelers and the coach. The one passenger threw himself off, but Tom Parsons went with the coach, and was found on a little sandy place. The coach and horses were never seen more, being swept away by the river. Tom was broken wherever he could be, but was mended in time, and lived to drive another coach, but never by Parsons’ Leap.”

The second accident of this nature happened in the Cromwell Gorge about fifty years ago. The coach from Cromwell to Clyde arrived one day at the Halfway House, and by good fortune had no passengers on board. The driver left his seat and went into the hotel to slake his thirst, while an ostler gave the horses a drink from a bucket of water. A sudden gust of wind caused au empty kerosene tin to commence a mad career down a gully at the back of the house, and the unexpected sound led to the horses making a bolt. Down the hill the four-horse team rushed, the coach swaying madly from side to side. On the one side of the road rose the steep rocky spurs of the Dunstan Range; on the other flowed the wide, deep Molyneux. The horses careered on their wild way to the foot of the hill, and then A unable to check themselves, took a death plunge into the' river. Coach and horses were swept away by the current.

Tom Beaufort, who drove coaches all his life and died recently at a good old age, had some extraordinary experiences. He used to tell that he had had on his coach at different times a birth, a marriage, and a death. The birth took place one day as he was driving over the Raggedy Range. Some women inside called to him to stop. He did so, and they got out on the top of the range amongst the big rocks, and in a little the baby was born. Beaufort drove on quickly to a station not far away, and very soon the mother and child were removed to the farm house, where they received every kindness. The marriage took place in this way. A young man at Roxburgh was much in love with a young woman who returned his affection, but who was sternly kept in subjection by a selfish old father who did not want to lose her services, so that there was no chance of a wedding in the usual way. One day the girl got on to the coach at Roxburgh without having said any loving farewell to her father, and soon after the young man also became a passenger. When the coach stopped at Beaumont for a change of horses, a clergyman was waiting on the veranda of the hotel. The notices had been duly given; the driver arid the passengers acted as witnesses, and while the coach waited for the horses the young couple were duly wedded gnd pronounced one. “ All aboard ” again, and off they went to town, but the twain were now one, and, let us hope, were happy ever after. AVhat the old man said is not evidence.

The death took place also at Beaumont, and the writer was a witness. The coach had left with its fresh horses, gnd -was bowling through the village when an aged miner hailed it. The horses were pulled up, and the old man, amid a little excitement, scrambled into the coach, which dashed off again. But almost immediately the man fell back in his seat. The driver pulled up, and the poor old fellow was got out of the coach and laid on the grass, but he never moved again. The excitement of leaving and climbing into the coach had been too much for his heart, and some of his friends had to be called from the village to carry back the body to the little home he had left only a few minutes before. He had started on a long journey. CHAPTER XV.—SCRAPS AND SCRAPPING. All organic beings are exposed to severe competition. ... Nothing is easier than to admit in words the truth - of the universal struggle for life.—Darwin. The subject of fights and scraps is not an attractive one. Nevertheless, human nature being what it is, they happen, and as would-be truthful recorders of phases of life in the early days, we must tell of them, for future generations will surely want to know how these wandering diggers settled their disputes. Let it be remembered these miners were a careless, light-hearted throng, in many ways resembling a parcel of schoolboys. Let it be also remembered they were removed from the usual restraining influences of civilisation; they were living with Nature, and in a natural way, and had congregated in Otago from all parts of the world with a common desire to acquire quantities of the precious metal, each more rapidly than his brother. Under such circumstances many physical struggles and occasional hard battles were to be expected, and we are not surprised to find in the history of the goldfields many references to fights and fighting.

Mr William Fraser thus describes a visit to the Dunstan canvas town in 1862:—“ Sunday -was a great day in the Dunstan. I have seen fully four thousand men congregated in the street who had come in to sell their gold and purchase stores, and a thoroughly good-humoured, well-conducted crowd they were. It was true you would probably find half a dozen rings formed, within which brawny giants, stripped to the waist, -were either wrestling or boxing. ”

It would have been very interesting had Mr Fraser told us a little more about the brawny giants and their boxing, but their story remains untold. However, it is recorded about the 23rd of September, 1863, that a free fight took place at the Dunstan. The

affair began with a quarrel between two diggers, who proceeded to fight, but for some unknown reason all the onlookers joined in. Sticks and fists ■were freely used on both sides, and a general melee resulted, until at last a charge by the police broke up the disturbance and sent the participators home to nurse their wounds.

Much disputing and fighting was caused in the early days by the insufficiency of the mining regulations. The first rules required a claim to be marked out with pegs. As no timber was available at the Dunstan, the miners had scuffles over their boundaries until the rules were amended to allow other ways of marking out. Mr Warden Robinson mentions a case which was tried before him where it appeared the claim was covered with snow, and was only marked by tussock grass on the snow, and the parties were tunnelling under the snow to get the valuable wash dirt. No wonder that the disputing parties came to blows and dyed the snow red with blood. Only the most skilfully drawn regulations could cover a case of this sort, sort.

We have seen how the diggers at Arrow in 1862 proved that they could carry on work peacefully, although all were outside the law and the Warden ruled they were outside his jurisdiction; and how a tough but kindly sergeant of police acted as the uncrowned commissioner of the diggings, and with the help of assessors chosen by the miners settled all disputed matters. We have also seen how Fox acted as both lawmaker and judge in the little community at Arrow before the rush. These incidents undoubtedly throw much light on the orderly and lawabiding character of the Otago diggers, who would thus accept decisions in civil matters from persons who admittedly had no power and no authority. But it must be remembered Fox’s laws were enforced by Fox. The penalty for breaking them was to fight Fox himself.

An “ affair of honour ” with pistols took place at Arrow. It ended in smoke, but might have had serious consequences. It was on the 30th June, 1863, about the time that the feud between Bully Hayes and the Buckinghams was drawing to a close, that two diggers met in an hotel, and a quarrel led to blows. The smaller of the two challenged the other to fight with revolvers, and the other man accepted. So the next morning on the hillside the two warriors met with their seconds and an umpire, and a large number of the public looked on. The word to fire was given, and both men discharged the pistols, and when the smoke cleared away it -was seen neither was wounded. Then the seconds intervened, and proposed that as both had proved their courage, they should shake hands and be friends, and this was promptly agreed to. Then all hands once more adjourned to the hotel, where a lively morning was spent, and let us hope no more duels ensued. Some said that the seconds had by arrangement removed the balls from the pistols. If they did so, they would be hardly likely to mention it.

Although the duel with lethal weapons ended in a bloodless way, the results of, fights with Nature’s weapons were not always so harmless. At least three fatal fights took place on the Otago goldfields, of which some of the facts should be set down.

The first took place at Gabriel’s Gully at Christmas, 1861. On Christmas Eve some jolly diggers, as they sat around their camp fire, indulged in chorus singing and play, mindful of the merry times they had enjoyed in previous years in distant lands. Unfortunately, there was in the next tent a bully named Kinnark, who bawled loudly to stop the noise. He was the kind who would prefer to dig a grave on Christmas Eve. When he was only greeted with laughter, he came forth from his tent and’ threatened them. They replied with the “ retort courteous ” if he did not like it he could go elsewhere. He responded with the “ countercheck quarrelsome ” by-say-ing if they did not go he -would pull down their tent. A strapping young fellow named Shannon interfered, and bade the bully leave them alone. Kinnark challenged him to fight. Shannon, who must have had a vein of humour, refused absolutely to fight anyone on Christmas Day, but said Boxing Day would be more suitable. And so these men arranged to fight it out on the day after Christmas. Early in the morning the men faced one another on the hillside, stripped to the waist. A great crowd of diggers was gathered round, and the police did not put in an appearance. The fight was a fair one, but very strenuous, and both combatants from time to time were knocked down. At last Kinnark fell from a blow on the forehead, and did not rise again. Shannon tried to shake his hand, and expressed regret when he saw his state, but Kinnark rapidly became unconscious. Dr Hally was called in, but the defeated man died during the day. Shannon was tried before Mr Justice Gresson in the Supreme Court, Dunedin, for manslaughter, and the two seconds were indicted for aiding and abetting. All three were found guilty and were sentenced, the former to twelve months, and the latter to

three months imprisonment. These sentences appear very severe, as Shannon was evidently forced into the fight, and was defending himself and his property, but the judge was apparently influenced more by a desire to discourage fighting in general than to punish the men. No doubt the recollection of the severity of the punishment in this case v ould for many a day help to enforce law and order in the mining camps.

_ Another fight to the death took place in 1870 at Elliott s store, Kawarau Flat, between two diggers named Burke and Millward. It appears that Millward had accused Burke of stealing his gold, a charge which naturally led to recriminations, and the two men went out to fight. There were a number of onlookers, who all agreed it was a fair fight. No mention was made in the court of seconds or supporters. Burke got the worst of the struggle for a time, until his opponent ruptured himself internally, and fell down in agony. Mill ward was removed to the hospital, where he died. Burke was tried in the Supreme Court, Dunedin, on 6th December, 1870, but the jury were satisfied the death was not caused by him, and found him not guilty.

A good many years after these events, a quarrel which arose amongst the gold miners at Ophir unfortunately had a fatal ending. The dispute began through an American named Cecil, but generally known as “ Yank,” running debris into a certain race which most of the miners required to be kept clean. An injunction was obtained from the court, but Cecil found a wav of breaking through the order. Then the miners demanded physical satisfaction, and selected their biggest man, Cameron, to administer a thrashing to the Yankee and put him in’his place. Cecil was an easy-natured man who did not want to quarrel, but was so worked upon by the others that he had no option. So it was agreed to fight on the claim on Saturday night.

As luck would have it for his side, Cameron was called away to attend an important mining meeting on that Saturday, and he had to ride on horseback seventy long miles. When he returned late in the day, he was physically tiled out, but his friends, who expected an easv win, carried him off to the claim. It was a fine summer evening’, and the whole township turned out after work was finished to see the scrap. Even the local justice of the peace could not stay away, although he wore a slight disguise; and some said the policeman was there, too. Both of the contestants were over six feet high. Cecil was strong, but clumsy; Cameron, long, lean, and wiry, but weakly”built in the body, relied on his great reach. At the first, Cameron had the best of it, and Cecil was knocked down or fell purposely once or twice. Then Cecil discovered there was a heap of debris on one side, and when pressed by Cameron, he used to retreat up this heap, and after having stepped up a few feet, would suddenly turn on his opponent. "With the aid of the higher ground, he knocked Cameron down on two occasions, the last time with a terrific blow on the throat. Cameron was plainly done. He gasped out, I give you best,” and had to be carried to his home. He never regained consciousness. Dr Ward was called in, but before anything could be done, he breathed his last.

Cecil was arrested. Later, when told of Cameron’s death, he cried like a child. He was tried in the Supreme Court in Dunedin, when the jury were satisfied the fight was not caused by him, and that he had only fought” to protect himself. Luckily for the prisoner, the doctor'failed to prove what was the cause of death, so the jury gave him the benefit of the doubt, and found him not guilty. The verdict was greeted with applause, and Cecil’s‘friends gathered round to pat his back and press his hands. He was very lucky, for the facts in his case were almost the same as in Shannon’s. The seconds in Cecil’s case were lucky also, for they were never indicted—indeed, none of the witnesses would admit that there were any seconds. Cecil’s life was one which never lacked variety. From New Zealand he went to Tasmania, and thence to Western Australia, where he struck it rich, and was reported by the bank to be worth £lO,OOO. The following month a great collapse in the values of mining property ”took place and everything he had was seized by a bailiff and sold, and he was’once more left absolutely penniless. Such are the ups and downs of the wandering gold miner. Here the curtain falls on Henry Cecil, who,, no doubt, in his calm moments ruminates on the strange mutability of human affairs, including his adventures in Central Otago, his fierce fight for victory, his trial and dramatic delivery from prison, his sudden acquisition of riches, and their equally sudden and regretted departure.

The next chapters will be “Chinamen” and “Mysteries.”

“Early Days in Central Otago” will shortly be published in book form.