THE LOST TRIBE

Taranaki Daily News, 22 July 1929, Page 17

THE LOST TRIBE

THE MATAKITAKI MONARCH ANCIENT GOLDFIELDS HISTORY. INTERESTING STORY RECALLED. The story of the Lost Tribe has had many versions and variations in different parts of the world, but the following 40 years old account, published in Murchison, following a visit of the then Premier (Mr. Seddon), to the district which was then even more isolated than to-day, makes interesting reading. Here is the true story of the Lost Tribe. ; Mr. Seddon has recently paid a visit to the Central Buller district, and the journey undertaken by him has led some of our contemporaries to a belief that the Premier has been “rubbing skirts” with the people of the “Lost Tribe.” Indeed, one journal is so sure of its ground that it says: — “The visit of Air. Seddon to the •‘Lost Tribe’ on the West Coast of the South Island recalls some interesting facts in connection with these people. In the early days a body of miners together with their wives and children retired to the hills at the back of Lyell and for years had no connection with the outside world, an occasional visit to the Lyell or Murchison districts being made only when stores were required. The children grew up uneducated and they, with their parents, received the appellation of the ‘Lost Tribe.’ ”

As it happens, those .“interesting facts” are absolutely incorrect. The territory of the Tribe was nowhere near the Lyell. The Tribe was located fully GO miles from Lyell, and practically

28 miles from Murchison, and there were

certainly no wives to share the labours and solitude of the miners, or children to grow up wild and uneducated. However, mistakes are quite pardonable in connection with this mythical people. In point of fact the real Lost Tribe has long since

become practically extinct, although a community of people living on the upper reaches of the Matakitaki River are at the present time distinguished by the name. But in a strict sense they have no more right to the title than tho other inhabitants of the Buller. Indeed, the outside world looks upon the isolated, but most beautiful portion of New Zealand, as forming the territory of the

tribe. In the district itself, however, amongst the old hands, the people of Upper Matakitaki are given in general usage the title of Lost Tribers, though they are not the descendants of the original tribe and have only become possessed of the title by the development of the locality and the extinction of the old tribe. There is no record of the men who actually formed the original Lost Tribe, for the founding of the camp is shrouded in that obscurity and wealth of manufactured history which is wholly attached to the “early days” of a gold field. Moreover, men

in those days were in almost every case known by some nick-name, such as Dick the Lion, Tommy the Robin, Taff; Yorkie, Jimmy the Rambler, Blue Duck, Rooster, The Blowfly, etc., and real names were either not known or speedily forgotten. But it is definitely known that the tribe was composed of less than a score of hardy, weatherbeaten miners, who many, many years ago pitched camp on a little alluvial flat some six or seven miles up the Glenroy River, a tributary stream of the Matakitaki, junctioning about 20 miles fr&m Murchison —which township is situated at the junction of the Buller and Matakitaki rivers. In the days before the founding of the tribe roads were un-heard-of luxuries, the miners striking out for their historic camp even in advance of the pack track. Gold was found up the Matakitaki River, and setting his face towards the fortune which awaited him amidst the soli-

Judea of the mighty rock-capped mountains, deep gullies and roaring torrents of the interior, the hardy digger fought his.way along the course of the river. Over hills, round precipices, across rivers and creeks, and through the dense forest the miners fought their way, cutting a track with their slashers. As each digger made his way up the blazed track the underscrub was cut here and there, and in time labour improved the track sufficiently for the pack-horse—that patient suffering friend of the pioneer—to get through. Before the advent of the pack-horse, however, . the digger’s sturdy back provided the sole means of transit for provisions, tools, etc. But what did a 10, 15 or 20-mile tramp through the dripping bush with a “50” of flour, a quarter of stale bacon, tea, sugar, and a well-stowed inside cargo of “chain lightning” matter in those days? Gold was plentiful. With the cradle or dish the digger could always “knock out” his ounce or two a day, and with the “great patch” always beckoning onward like a Will-o’-the-wisp, what did labour, deprivation and suffering matter? In comparison with the golden prospects of the future, pain and labour were nothing! The weak back became strong and the faint heart was cheered and filled with sanguine expectation. In time many di°’< r ers congregated in Upper Matakitaki.°° On the banks of the river the flat shingle beds, rock pockets and eddies were reaped of their golden harvest, and the solitudes . of the deep gullies of the surrounding mountains were broken by the ring of the pick and the rattle o*f the ciadle. The “pub-store” followed, and the diggers got a few more very primitive articles of civilisation, coupled with its principal curse. It was at this juncture that the men of the “Lost Tribe” set off for new territory. Not that there was any desire on their part to Hee from the baneful influences of the pub-store, or objection to the semblance of civilisation shed from its canvas windows. But on the goldfield the hand of fortune is forei beckoning onward. Bar away in the distant ranges along the bed of some mountain torrent there is always an Eldorado waiting ready with its store of golden treasure for the man who can find it. Pushing onward towards richer fields the diggers prospected their wav up the Glenroy River and, as wo stated eanier, less than a score of these men pitched their camp on an alluvial flat some six or seven miles up the Glenroy Kiver and settled down to work. These men were cut off entirely from the rest of their fellow-beings. At the township of Murchison, in those days, civilisation was primitive enough; Upper Matakitaki afforded a sort of boundary to any vestige of human existence, but ie camp of the Glenroy diggers had no place on the map. The diggers only had intercourse with other miners when they visited the pub-store for tucker, and this solitary life they led soon earned

for them the name of the “Lost Tribe.” How long the tribe enjoyed its solitude or exclusive right to the title we cannot say—it would be impossible to fix a date —but gradually the diggings spread out, and the Glenroy Junction, the tribe’s territory, Horse Terrace and Upper Matakitaki became merged, and by outsiders the title of “Lost Tribe” begun to be applied to the larger community. Here, strictly speaking, the history of the real “Lost Tribe” ends, but it was in the second era, with extended territory and added dignity that the new or assimilating tribe rose to the height of its glory and renown. In time the old tribe lost its identity, and the seat of government was removed to pub-store (which had become enlarged into a very respectable-looking place), and the proprietor thereof was duly elected king. SIGN OF WILD REVELRY.

The reign of King Tom I. was marked by wild revelry, bad book debts and worse whisky. England’s “Merry Monarch” was but a circumstance with King Tom. The glory of his court spread far and wide, and no wandering prospector -was ever driven from the palace gates with an empty stomach or clear head. King Tom’s throne was an empty beer barrel, his sceptre a pick-handle, and the fearlessness and dexterity with which ho wielded this badge of office quickly quelled all spirit of rebellion in his turbulent subjects. However, space forbids that we should refer at great length to the King, for the dramatic and humorous incidents of this man’s career would fill a volume; but the history of the tribe is incomplete, nay, impossible, without a brief outline of the chief. In private life Tom was known as Thomas May, a relative of the Mays of wax vesta fame in London. The King was expected to come in for great wealth some day, but in late years, when his kingdom was impoverished, ho only received a very small sum, practically cut off with a shilling. But in his palmy days King Tom thought little and cared less for prospective fortunes from the Old Country, He handled more gold than many a banker, and made a profit on his whisky which would make a latter-day publican weep for joy. In the course of time King Tom’s cook-groom-chambermaid-bodyguard, trainbearer-butchcr was elevated to the purple and ennobled with the title of His Royal Highness Brandy Mac. At times, also, his Majesty was moved to acts of graciousness, and conferred the honour* of knighthood on good customers, hard drinkers or distinguished pugilists. The ceremony was conducted with the greatest possible solemnity. Tho courtiers stood round with uncovered heads while the King stalked with dignity from behind the bar counter, and the candidate knelt at his feet. In lieu of a sword was the pick handle, and as the weight of the blow* across the bended shoulders depended greatly upon the quantity of -whisky under the royal waist-coat, the honoured digger felt some nervousness. But heavy or light tho pick handle was laid across the shoulders, and his Majesty would exclaim, with inspiring dignity: “Rise Sir , I dub thee Knight.” The knight, after calling down blessings on his Majesty’s august head, arose and the King retired behind the counter to serve out drinks all round at the expense of the man who had won his spurs. Thus, as years rolled on, the King gathered round him an aristocratic following who were indebted to him for much graciousness, whisky and tucker.

GAVE THEMSELVES UP TO JOY. While times were good King Tom caroused with his courtiers and delinquent debtors had no qualms of conscience or necessity to go without meat or drink. For days on end the careless diggers gave themselves up to joyous revelry at the Court. Pack horse races were held on Horse Terrace (a splendid tussock clearing at the foot of wild precipitous hills which towered their heads almost to the clouds), sports were held amidst the logs and stumps in front of the palace, and celebrations were held at every possible opportunity. But, gradually, gold became scarcer; the diggers left for other fields and .the Chinese (whose advent may be taken as an indication of waning prosperity on any gold field) made their appearance. The resources of the realm diminished somewhat, but t|ie royal coffers still held treasure, and with the Celestial came fresh honours for the King. His shrewdness in dealing with the Glows speedily earned him the title of King of the Lost Tribe and Emperor of the Chinese. The decline had set in, however. The improvement in the roads brought competition and additional civilisation; claims duffered out; the golden harvest had been reaped, and only the gleaners remained. Soon his Majesty and H.R.H. Brandy Mac were compelled to remain drunk to keep away the blues. Things went from bad to worse; the palace was destroyed by fire, and although a new one was erected by the sacrifice of the Crown jewels, the old King had soon to abdicate. Robbed of his glory, he retired to the seclusion of a one-roomed villa, where he sold stores and drank whisky with bold Brandy Mac, “first made and latest left of all the knights.” In 1901 or 1902 the old man was drowned while crossing tho river near the site of his old palace, and Brandy Mac went to end his days in the old men’s home. He may have made thousands upon thousands of pounds, but drink and thriftless revelry lost him all. Perhaps he did not care to keep it, for there was a story of another life. He was a unique specimen of humanity, and occasionally there was a momentary gleam which led one to think “This*'man was once an English gentleman.”

King Tom 11. now reigns over the tribe. Tho present monarch is a redheaded Irishman rejoicing in the name of O'Rourke. But alas, tho glory of the realm has departed. A busy Queen and maids of honour keep the palace clean; wholesome meals and good beds are provided for the traveller. The old diggers have nearly all passed away to the Great Beyond. A new generation has sprung up to replace the old, but they have neither the money nor tho inclination to rejuvenate the Court with its ancient pristine glory.