Tales of Old-Time Goldfields

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XII, Issue XIX, 12 May 1894, Page 439

Tales of Old-Time Goldfields

L-A-KZBJ WAK ATIFrr GOLDFIELDS.

- By

CRAW LINN.

MY mate Phil and I were with the first big crowd that left the Dunstan when the news arrived of Bill Fox’s find on the Arrow Biver. Our course lay up the Molyneaux some fifteen miles to the junction of the Kaiwarra and Clutha Rivers. We crossed the foaming Clutha in a whaleboat—charge half a-crown a head — climbed the steep bank and camped on the flat where the town of Cromwell now stands, which once rejoiced in that remarkable old veteran, Captain Jackson Barry, as Mayor ; but never since Cromwell has been a municipality has there been such a lively night as we diggers spent, and never was money more freely parted with, for where gold miners go there are always sure to be plenty of people ready to supply their wants, especially in the liquid way. The track to the Arrow led over the Gentle Annie and Roaring Meg—two mountains of about the same pattern as the Rough Ridge, and hundreds of men were singing, * Such a Getting Upstairs,’ as, with heavy swags on their backs, they helped themselves up some of the pinches with the aid of the long

tussock grass. One huge Dutchman carried 2001bs. of flour, half in front.and half behind, just a load for a pack horse, and he was paid a'shilling a pound from the Dunstan to the Arrow —about fifty miles. He made two trips a week till pack horses cut down the price. On arriving at the Arrow we found the prospector Bill Fox bad already started a grog shanty under a few yards of calico, and was coining money. The gold u-as in the river banks, and the miners spread themselves out for miles on both sides of the river and marked out claims. New rushes took place every day, and Phil and I having got all the gold we could out of our ground (about thirty ounces), packed up our swags one fine morning, and followed some fellows who were bound for Mr Reese’s station at Lake Wakatipu. The distance from the Arrow to Queenstown is fifteen miles, and we travelled very nearly the same track then that the coach does now ; by pretty little lake Hayes for five miles, then forded the Shotover about where the bridge is now,

and across a flat covered with spear grass, now all farms to the edge of the big lake at Frankton. This is only a branch of the lake about four miles long and one wide, but it is the only outlet for a sheet of water sixty miles long and from five to fifteen miles wide which escapes over some rocky falls into the Kaiwarra River. The building of the handsome hospital which overlooks the lake from Frankton Flat was due to Mr Reese, the squatter and pioneer of the Wakatipu district. This gentleman, in consequence of scurvy breaking out amongst the miners, exerted himself so effectually that the hospital was soon ready for patients, and in speaking of Mr George W. Reese it is only fair to say that there never was but one opinion concerning him expressed by all who knew him—a splendid fellow and thorough gentleman right through. He gave the timber for the first church in Queenstown, and was lay preacher for over a year till a parson was appointed. He had the supplying ot all the meat needed for some 20,000 men. His boats brought provisions from Kingston, at the foot of the Lake, at £lO a

ton freight; in fact, he was at the bead of everything, and ought to have made a great fortune. Why he did not perhaps a good many people who built hotels in different parts ot New Zealand afterwards might be able to explain. Any how he left Queenstown about three years after his homestead was proclaimed a goldfield with only old Buccaneer, a favourite steeplechase horse, and £l,OOO for all his rights, title and interest in the station. When Phil and I made Mr Reese’s acquaintance, which we did on the evening of the day we left the Arrow, he was engaged in sharing out flour amongst the diggers on the little jetty he had built for his own convenience. The price was five shillings a pound, not weighed out but measured in a pannikin. One scraped square off at the top was a pound, and everyone was satisfied. The first warden to arrive was Mr Nugent Wood with a small army of mounted police, and all the paraphernalia of a Government camp, then the * Inimitable Thatcher ’ put in

an appearance, accompanied by Madame Vitelli and a pianist with a small harmonium, which bad to do duty for a piano. An immense conceit room had been run up—calico of course, rough boards for reserved seats, and the bare ground to stand on for the shilling men. It is well-known that Thatcher was a success as a comic singer who wrote his own songs and stood the consequences of the personalities contained therein, and it is equally well known that be was the premier mean man ot the colonies ; he was the only really witty mean man I ever knew. He thoroughly enjoyed fun, but he would not have paid a shilling for a ton of it. He had a couple of tents fixed up at the back of the township for himself and madame to live in, and one afternoon being on the jetty waiting the arrival of the Victoria steamer from the foot of the lake, the captain of the little Nugget, which bad just come up, informed me that Thatcher’s two brothers were on board the steamer Victoria behind. Knowing Thatcher very intimately I went to his abode to convey the pleasing intelligence. He put on a horrified expression and called out, * Dolly ! Dolly 1 lock up the cupboard and let’s go to bed and have leeches on.’ The end of this mean humourist was told me some few years ago by Mr Sbadracb Jones who built the Provincial Hotel in Dunedin in *62, He left the city of Scotch mist and men, well—rather in a hurry—but he managed to square matters, and years afterwards returned ; he was a medical man by profession and this is what he said : • I was practising in Berners street, London, when one day my servant announced a gentleman to see me, and in walked Thatcher, looking the picture cf prosperity. After the usual greetings were over he invited me to drive round with him to his rooms and he would show me what he was doing. His carriage, a perfectly-equipped brougham, was in waiting, and we soon arrived at the rooms. They were

full of bric-d-brac. Said Thatcher, •• When the rage for this sort of rubbish began I thought I saw a way to make money, because I know something about it. My father was a conchologist, and had a curiosity shop at Brighton, so I went to China and Japan and bought up all the old trash I could get hold of, and shipped the cases home by the P. and O. boats. Then I took these rooms. To-morrow Christie holds a sale here. Come and see what the things realise. ” I did,’ said the doctor, * and saw vases sold for £SO and upwards —a pair that had only cost a few rupees. To cut it short, some time after Thatcher called on me to tell me he was going to make one more trip. ** I have plenty of money to live upon all my life,” he said, “ but this craze is going to last longer than I expected, and I cannot resist the opportunity of making a few more thousands.” He went, caught the yellow fever on the voyage, and they threw him overboard. His greed was the death of him after all. He was a clever fellow in his way, but he never did anyone

good tarn in hie life. He lived anreepected and died onlamented.’

Bat these memories are a slight digression. To return* Arthur caused the rash to the Shotover by his find at Arthur’s Point. The way to it was and is through a mountain gorge from Queenstown, four miles of a cheerful walk through bog and over rocks, but the miners soon made a track for pack horses, and a township sprung up at the Point and another at the Big Beach. The Shotover is a mountain stream which rises and falls very quickly. It passes through rock bound gorges and opens out into beaches for twenty miles up to Maori Point. Nearly all the men on the river were on gold, and needed it for the high prices of provisions were maintained for a long time. All the other diggings in Otago were deserted for the lake country, and Dunedin got a scare because it was believed for a time that Invercargill was going to be the great city of New Zealand, as it is only ninety miles distant from Kingston at the foot of the lake, and a canvas town quickly grew there. Dunedin business men obtained land in Invercargill and built stores, the goods arriving direct from Melbourne and Sydney. The old road from Dunedin was soon deserted by the waggoners, which was direct south through the Popotuna Gorge and on to the Matanra crossing at the long ford—now the town'of Gore. Cartage was £l2O a ton from Dunedin, but after Invercargill was established it soon fell to £4O from there to the lake. Fare by Braydon’s coaches was £lO. It was not long before there were forty licensed houses in Queenstown, land sly grog was sold everywhere, although the district possessed an army of camp officials and three gold field wardens. Mr Richmond Bee_ tham took the place of Mr Nugent Wood, and was R.M, likewise at Queenstown. Mr Lowther Broard (afterwards Judge) was appointed to the Arrow, and Mr Charles Williamson to Maori Point, and speaking of these three gentlemen, who were diametrically opposite to each other, I wil here remark that gold miners invariably assess their wardens at their full value, and I never knew them make a mistake. Lowther Broard was the pet of the Arrow, the miners at Maori Point swore by dashing Charlie Williamson (a nephew of a rich Victorian squatter, the late Mr Charles Williamson), but Mr Richmond Beetham was universally disliked both in his official and private character. In the winter of ’63 it was estimated that there were 40,000 men in and around Queenstown, and the cry was still they come. Half-a-dozen banks were represented, and there was no end to gold brokers. Mr Jackson, bank agent, arrived with an iron safe which weighed a ton. Thatcher asked him if he intended it for a potato store (the tubers were a shilling a pound), and the name caught on. He was known as Potato Jackson from that time. As it grew towards the summer the inevitable crinoline appeared, dance houses were opened, and Tom Fawcett brought up a theatrical company from Dunedin. Amongst them were Sanford Fawcett, Bob Dale, of low comedy fame, and Carey, a walking gentleman (mighty slow walker, too). The lady talent consisted of pretty Lizzie Royal (daughter of Crede Royal), Emma St. Clair, and Kitty Grant. The big canvas theatre was crammed nightly, and what became or the money no one ever knew, for finally the company broke up and left the town in debt. Queenstown was the most extraordinary place for litigation. The R.M. Court sat every day in the week but one, which was devoted to Warden’s Court cases, and the only real live solicitor was Mr Henry Elmes Campbell, a mild legal extract from Albuiy, in New South Wales. There was one other limb of the law —Thomas Lather Shepherd—who represented Mr W. W. Wilson, of Dunedin, to whom be was articled, and Mr Beetham allowed him, with the consent of Mr Campbell, to conduct cases in the Warden’s Court, and civil cases in the R.M. Court; but Campbell

barred him from appearing in criminal eases, consequently the old fox had the assault business, which was good, all to himself. Mr T. L. Shepherd became a notoriety in New Zealand, and was returned to Parliament as member for the Dunstan afterward. He was known as * Tommy the Smiler,’ and earned the cognomen in Melbourne when a young man. The law clerks made him a present of it because be never met a pretty woman in the street but be posed and smiled. He fancied himself a ladies’ man, and his egregious vanity got him into a bit of trouble one winter evening in Melbourne. It was just getting dusk when young Hyam Godwin, a smart young articled clerk, noticed Shepherd in Bourke street, and followed him out of curiosity. At the great drapery shop of Buckley and Nuns, a lady came hurriedly out, looked round her, and accidentally knocked against the smiler. He, instead of taking the blame to himself, caught the lady in his arms, and looking in her face, said, * very pretty indeed.’ The next moment be was a confused mass of arms and legs in the gutter. He had not noticed a tall fellow who had been smoking his cigar and cooling his heels while his wife was glove-hunting. He happened to be Mr C , the well-known squatter and athlete, and the lady was Mrs C . Her carriage stood at the kerb, and Mr C handed her in, and said • home.’ Young Godwin picked the unhappy smiler out of the gutter, and told him how sorry he was. He told every clerk the same thing in the courts next morning, and they were all sorry because they all loved the smiler. Poor Tommy, he was not a good lawyer, and he was a bore in the House of Representatives. He died in Dunedin hospital. There never was any goldfield town in New Zealand that made such progress in the time as Queenstown. There were four boat clubs on the lake. Some of the boats were built in Dunedin and carted up ; the two steamers were cut in half and carted up on timber waggons, fourteen horses to each half. Those little boats cost something hauling close on two hundred miles and putting together again. The fare from Kingston to Queenstown, about 25 miles, was ten shillings ; cheap enough. Mining operations extended to Skipper’s Creek, a tributary of the Shotover some thirtyfive miles from Queenstown, right up in the snowy mountains. Yankee Louis was the first man that ever took pack horses to Skippers, and when he returned to Queenstown he was asked what he thought of the track. * Track, you call it !’ said Louis. * Well, my bosses kin climb like cats, and I don’t care if a track is only perpendicular, but I’ll be crucified if this one don’t hang over.’ The description of Skippers seemed to charm my mate Phil to such a degree that we sold out of a river beach claim a little above Arthur’s Point one wet afternoon with the intention of starting the next day for the mountain diggings, but were prevented by a flood. All hands knocked off work and the shanties were full of poker and euchre players. In one place a party played pretty high, one of the players was the owner of a foot bridge across the Shotover, a little below the Gorge at Arthur’s Point, and he staked the bridge against a hundred pounds of George Bond’s, and lost it. George went home to his pretty little Victorian wife, who lived in a comfortable hut he bad built for her up the side of the mountain, and told her. He was an American and had been a young fellow in the Forty-nine in California. * Beck,’ said be, * I guess you’ll have to shift down to the river and take the tolls. You always want new harness for yourself, and you can stick to three pounds a week out of the takings.* It was agreed. The next morning George went out of the hut, but soon came back. * Didn’t I win a bridge last night. Beck ?’ he asked. * You said so, anyway, George.' ‘ Well, there ain’t no bridge now.’

And there was not, it had been swept clean away in the night.

* I don't care, Beck, you shall have a bridge,’ said he, * and I’ll throw it across the gorge from rock to rock put of the reach of any flood.’ And he did. It was a pack horse bridge, and he built a small house at one side to live in. the tolls, which amounted to £6O or £7O a week. New harness was plentiful, and pretty Mrs Bond drove half the women of Queenstown crazy. It was splendid fun, then, but for all that we bid the Point good-bye for a time, and when the weather cleared up started for Skippers with two loaded pack horses and provided with all we thought we should want for three months.