Tom Petrie
Andrew Petrie Moreton Bay in the Thirties
Petrie’s Bight
First Steamer in the River
Tom’s Childhood
Kabon-Tom
Brisbane or Turrbal Tribe
North Pine Forty-five years ago
Alone with the Blacks
Their Trustworthiness and Consideration
Arsenic in Flour Black Police Shooting the Blacks Inhuman Cruelty
St. Helena Murder
Bribie Island Murder
Perhaps no one now living knows more from personal experience of the ways and habits of the Queensland aborigines than does my father- Tom Petrie. His experiences amongst these fast-dying-out people are unique, and the reminiscences of his early life in this colony should be recorded; therefore I take up my pen with the wish to do the little I can in that way. My father has spent his life in Queensland, being but three months old when leaving his native land. He was born at Edinburgh, and came out here with his parents in the Stirling Castle in 1831. He is now the only surviving son of the late Andrew Petrie, a civil engineer, who, as every one interested knows, had much to do with Queensland’s young days.
The Petrie family landed first in New South Wales, but in 1837 (about twelve years after foundation of Brisbane) came on to Queensland in the James Watt, “the first steamer which ever entered what are now Queensland waters.” The late John Petrie, the eldest son, was a boy at the time, and “Tom”, of course, but a child. Their father, the founder of the family, was attached to the Royal Engineers in Sydney, and was chosen to fill the position of superintendent or engineer of works in Brisbane. The Commandant in the latter place had been driven to petition for the services of a competent official, as there seemed no end to the blunders and mistakes always being made. The family came as far as Dunwich in the James Watt, then finished the journey in the pilot boat, manned by convicts, and landed at the King’s Jetty-the present Queen’s Wharf-the only landing place then existing. Although my father cannot look back to this day of arrival, he remembers Brisbane town as a city of about ten buildings. Roughly speaking it was like this: At the present Trouton’s corner stood a building used as the first Post Office, and joined to it was the watchhouse; then further down the prisoners’ barracks extended from above Chapman’s to the corner (Grimes & Petty). Where the Treasury stands stood the soldiers’ barracks, and the Government hospitals and doctors’ quarters took up the land the Supreme Court now occupies. The Commandant’s house stood where the new Lands Office is being built (his garden extending along the river bank), and not far away was the Chaplain’s quarters. The Com- missariat Stores were afterwards called the Colonial Stores, and the block of land from the Longreach Hotel to Gray’s corner was occupied by the “lumber yard” (where the prisoners made their own clothes, etc.). The windmill was what is now the Observatory, and, lastly, a place formerly used as a female factory was the building Mr. Andrew Petrie lived in for several months till his own house was built. The factory stood on the ground now occupied by the Post Office, and later on the Petrie’s house was built at the present corner of Wharf and Queen Streets, going towards the Bight (hence the name Petrie’s Bight). Their garden stretched all along the river bank where Thomas Brown and Sons’ warehouse now stands, being bounded at the far end by the salt-water creek which ran up Creek Street.
Kangaroo Point, New Farm, South Brisbane, and a lot of North Brisbane were then under cultivation, but the rest was all bush, which at that time swarmed with aborigines. So thick was the bush round Petrie’s Bight that one of the workmen (a prisoner) engaged in building the house there was speared; he wasn’t much hurt, however, and recovered. While living at the Bight when a boy my father remembers watching the first steamer which ever came up the river (the James Watt stayed in the Bay). When she rounded Kangaroo Point, with her paddles going, the blacks, who were collected together watching, could not make it out, and took fright, running as though for their lives. They were easily frightened in those days. Father remembers another occasion on which they were terrified. His father one night got hold of a pumpkin, and hollowing it out, formed on one side a face, which he lit up by placing a candle inside, the light shining through the openings of the eyes and mouth. This head he put on a pole, and then wrapping himself in a sheet with the pole, he looked to the frightened blacks’ imagination for all the world like a ghost, and they could hardly get away fast enough.
From early childhood “Tom” was often with the blacks, and since there was no school to go to, and hardly a white child to play with, he naturally chummed in with all the little dark children, and learned their language, which to this day he can speak fluently. A pretty, soft-sounding language it is on his lips, but rather the opposite when spoken by later comers; indeed, I do not think that any white man unaccustomed to it from childhood can ever successfully master the pronunciation.
“Tom,” and his only sister, when children used to hide out among the bushes, in order to watch the blacks during a fight; and once when the boy had been severely punished by his father for smoking, he ran away from home, and after his people had looked everywhere, they found him at length in the blacks’ camp out Bowen Hills way. There was one blackfellow at that time these children used to torment rather unmercifully a very fierce old man, feared even by the blacks, who believed he could do anything he choose in the way of causing death, etc. He was called “Mindi- Mindi” (or “Kabon-Tom” by the whites), was the head of a small fishing tribe who generally camped at the mouth of the South Pine river, and was a great warrior. One day the children found him outside their home. They teased and called him names in his own tongue till the man grew so fierce that he chased the youngsters right inside. The girl got under a bed, and “Tom” up on a chair, where the blackfellow caught him, and taking his head in his hands started to screw his neck. One hand held the boy’s chin and the other the top of his head, and in a few minutes more his life would have ended, but the screams brought the mother just in time. Father’s neck was stiff for some time after this, and the children never tormented old “Kabon-Tom” again. They declared always that this man had a perfectly blue tongue, and the palms of his hands were quite white. It was said that he screwed his own little daughter’s neck, and thought nothing of such things. However, he and “Tom” were generally friends, indeed this is about the only occasion on which the boy fell out with a blackfellow. “Kabon-Tom ” must have been about ninety when he died, and was a very white-haired old man. He was found lying dead one day in the mud in the Brisbane river.
Later on in life, when my father employed the blacks, they were always kind and considerate about him. They are naturally an affectionate people, and he with his good and kindly disposition, and his fun-for the blacks do so enjoy a joke was very popular with them all. Nowadays it is seldom one sees an aboriginal, but some years ago, when they would come at times and camp round about here (North Pine), it was amusing to see the excitement when they found their old friend in the mood for a yarn. To watch their faces was as good as a play, and to hear Father talk with them!- it seemed all such nonsense, and many a time has some one looking on been convulsed with laughter. A good-natured people they surely are, for amusement at their expense does not call forth resentment; rather would they join in the laugh.
Queensland is a large country, and the tribes in the North differ in their languages, habits, and beliefs from the blacks about Brisbane. Father was very familiar with the Brisbane tribe (Turrbal), and several other tribes all belonging to Southern Queensland who had different languages, but the same habits, etc. The Turrbal language was spoken as far inland as Gold Creek or Moggill, as far north as North Pine, and south to the Logan, but my father could also speak to and understand any black from Ipswich, as far north as Mount Perry, or from Frazer, Bribie, Stradbroke, and Moreton Islands. Of all the blackfellows who were boys when he was a boy there is only one survivor; most of them died off prematurely through drink, introduced by the white man.
On first coming, nearly forty-five years ago, to North Pine, which is sixteen miles by road from Brisbane, the country round about was all wild bush, and the land my father took up was a portion of the Whiteside run. The blacks were very good and helpful, lending a hand to split and fence and put up stockyards, and they would help look after the cattle and yard them at night. For the young fellow was all alone, no white man would come near him, being in dread of the blacks. Here he was among two hundred of them, and came to no harm.
When with their help he had got a yard made, and a hut erected, he obtained flour, tea, sugar, and tobacco from Brisbane, and leaving these rations in the hut, in charge of an old aboriginal, went again to Brisbane, and was away this time a fortnight. Fifty head of cattle he also left in the charge of two young blacks, trusting them to yard these at night, etc; and to enable the young darkies to do this, he allowed them each the use of a horse and saddle. On his return all was as it should be, not even a bit of tobacco missing! And those who know no better say the aborigines are treacherous and untrustworthy! Father says he could always trust them; and his experience has been that if you treated them kindly they would do anything for you.
On the occasion just mentioned during his absence, a station about nine miles away ran short of rations, and the stockman was sent armed with a carbine and a pair of pistols to see if he could borrow from Father. Arrived at his destination, the man found but blacks, and they simply would give him. nothing until the master’s return. The hut had no doors at the time, and yet they hunted for their own food, touching nothing.
A further refutation of the treachery and untrustworthiness of the blacks is the following:-One young fellow, learning to ride in those days, was thrown several times. My father, vexed with the mare ridden, mounted her himself, and giving the animal a sharp cut with his riding whip, sent her off at full gallop. He carried a revolver in his belt, which he always had handy, as often the blacks would get him to shoot kangaroos they had surrounded and hunted into a water-hole. The mare galloped on, then, stopping suddenly, somehow threw her rider in spite of his good seat. The first thing he remembered afterwards was seeing a company of blacks collected round him, crying, and one old man on his knees sucking his back, where the hammer of the revolver had struck. They then carried him to his hut, and in the morning he was nothing but stiff after his adventure. And there was no white man about!
Many a time when the blacks wished to gather their tribes together for a corrobboree (dance and song), or fight, they would send on two men to inquire of Father which way to come so as not to disturb his cattle. This was more than many a white man would do, he says. To him they were always kind and thoughtful, and he wishes this to be clearly understood, for sometimes the blacks are very much blamed for deeds they were really driven to; and of course they resented unkindness. For instance, the owner of a station some distance away used to have his cattle speared and killed. Father would remonstrate and ask the why, and the blacks would answer: It was because if that man caught any of them he would shoot them down like dogs! Then they told this tale: A number of blacks were on the man’s run, scattered here and there, looking for wild honey and opossums, when the owner came upon them and shooting one young fellow, first broke his leg, then another shot in the head killed him. The superior white man then hid himself to watch what would happen. Presently the father came looking for his son, and he was shot; the mother coming after met the same fate.
My father knew the blacks well who told him this, and was satisfied they spoke truthfully. It may strike the reader why did he not make use of his information and bring punishment
to the offender? Well, because in those days a blackfellow’s evidence counted as nothing, and no good would therefore be gained, but rather the opposite, as the bitterness would be increased, and the blacks get the worst of it. You see, the white men had so many opportunities for working harm; at that time several aboriginals were poisoned through eating stolen flour, it having been carefully left in a hut with arsenic in it.
To show that the aborigines were not unforgiving, here is an example: The squatter before mentioned, who shot the blacks, went once to Father to see if he would use his influence with the aborigines and get them to go to his station and drive wild cattle from the mountain scrub-a difficult undertaking. He agreed to see what could be done, on condition that the blacks were considerately treated, and advised the man to leave all firearms behind, and accompany him to their camp, where he would do his best. “Oh, no! I can’t do that,” was the reply. “If you won’t come to the camp,” replied Father, “they will not understand, and won’t go; you need fear nothing; they will not touch you while I’m there.”
After some discussion, the man was persuaded, though he evidently was in fear and trembling during the whole interview. The blacks agreed to go next day, which they did, leaving their gins and pickannies under Father’s care till their return. In three days they were back, and reported they had got a number of cattle from the scrub, and that the man” John Master” they called him-had killed a bull for them to eat, and was all right now, not “saucy” any more. They added that they had agreed to go back again, and strip bark for him.
This second time the blacks took their women folk and children, and were away for two or three weeks working for the squatter, cutting bark, etc., and were evidently quite contented and happy. However, in the meantime a report was got up on the station to the effect that the blacks were killing some of the cattle; so a man was sent to where Sandgate now is to ask assistance from the black police, who were stationed there.
These black police were aborigines from New South Wales’ and distant places, and they, with their white leader, came and shot several blacks, the remaining poor things returning at once to their friend in a great state, protesting they had not touched a beast. Father met the squatter soon after, and said to him: “You’re a nice sort of fellow; how could you cause those poor blacks to be shot like that? You know perfectly well they did not kill your cattle.” The man excused himself by saying that it was done without his knowledge, that he had a young fellow learning station work who got frightened over the blacks, and went for the police on his own account.
Another time, while out riding in the bush, my father heard a great row, and a voice calling, “Round them up, boys!” And on galloping up he came upon a number of poor blacks-men, women, and children-all in a mob like so many wild cattle, surrounded by the mounted black police. The poor creatures tried to run to their friend for protection, and he inquired of the officer in charge what was the meaning of it all. The officer-a white man, and one, by the way, who was noted for his inhuman cruelty-replied that they merely wished to see who was who. But Father knew that if he hadn’t turned up, a number of the poor things would have been shot. Can one wonder there were murders committed by the blacks, seeing how they were sometimes treated? This same police officer (Wheeler, by name), later on was to have been hanged for whipping a poor creature to death, but he escaped and fled from the country. It is possible he is still alive. His victim was a young blackfellow, whom he had tied to a verandah post, and then brutally flogged till he died.
Three men were once murdered at St. Helena Island by aboriginals, and this is the side of the question given by “Billy Dingy” (so called by the whites), one of the blacks concerned. Billy said that he and two other young men, each with his young wife, were taken in a boat by three white men, who promised to land them at Bribie Island, as it was then the great “bunya season,” and the aborigines always met there before travelling to the Bunya Mountains (or, to be correct, Bon-yi Mountains-the natives always pronounced it so). Of the “bon-yi season” I will speak later on.
Well, these men, instead of doing as they had promised, landed at St. Helena, and there set nets for catching dugong, acting as though they had not the slightest intention of going near Bribie. They also took possession of the young gins, paying no heed to Billy, who pleaded for their wives and to be taken to Bribie as promised. So Billy, poor soul, didn’t know what to do, and at last bethought him to kill the men. He did it in this way: Some distance from where they were camped a cask was sunk in the sand for fresh water, and Billy, in broken English, called to one of the men, Bob Hunter by name: “Bob, Bob, come quick, bring gun, plenty duck sit down longa here.” Bob went to Billy all unthinking, and, passing the cask in the sand knelt to drink. There was Billy’s chance, and he took it, striking the man from behind with a tomahawk on the back of the head. Bob threw up his arm to save himself, only to be cut on the arm, and then again on the head, and was killed. Billy then dragged him down to the water; and that was the end of that man. On returning to the camp after this “deed of darkness,” Billy told the gins in his own language of what had happened, and that he meant to finish by killing the other two, and they then could all get away together. The gins begged of him not to kill the others, but his mind was fixed, and remained unmoved. Fortune favoured him surely, for he found one man alone sitting by a camp fire smoking, and, creeping up stealthily behind him, cut open his head with the tomahawk; and this man’s body was in turn dragged to the water.
There now remained but one other, and he at that time away in the scrub shooting pigeons. Billy followed, and, watching his opportunity, struck the white man as he stooped to go under a vine. This last body was also dragged to the water, and that was the end of the three; and who can say the blacks were wholly to blame?
After the white men were thus disposed of, the natives all got into the boat and came to the mouth of the Pine River, where they left the boat, and walking round on the mainland opposite Bribie, swam across to the island. Bob Hunter’s body was afterwards recovered, and it had a cut on the arm even as Billy described to my father. The other bodies were never found, and it was thought they were eaten by sharks.
My father had these three men Billy and the others- working for him afterwards till their death, and found them all right. He was also alone for days with Billy in the forest looking for cedar timber.
An old man called Gray was killed at Bribie Island (July, 1849). This is the blacks’ version as told to their friend: Gray used to go to Bribie with a cutter for oysters; he had a blackboy as a help when gathering the oysters on the bank, and he imagined this boy wasn’t fast enough in his work, so beat him rather unmercifully, being blest with a bad temper. The boy escaped and ran away from the oyster bank, swimming to the island, and he told the blacks of his ill-treatment. They were worked up to resentment, and went across and killed Gray. Father says of the latter: “I knew poor old Gray well; he was a very cross old man, and many a slap on the side of the head I got from him when a boy.”