A Trip in 1862 to Mooloolah and Maroochy
Tom Petrie the First White Man on Buderim Mountain
Also on Petrie’s Creek
A’Specially Faithful Black Tom Petrie and his “Big Arm”
Twenty-five Blacks Branded
King Sandy one of them
The Blacks Dislike to the Darkness
Crossing Maroochy Bar Under Difficulties
Wanangga “Willing” his Skin Away
Doomed
A Blackfellow’s Grave Near “Murrumba”
In 1862 my father started from the North Pine River in a ship’s longboat with about ten blacks (a few having their wives with them), to go to Mooloolah and Maroochy, to look for cedar timber. Calling at Bribie Island on their way, more blacks were picked up, four being murderers of white men. One of these was “Billy Dingy,” of whom I have spoken, and the other three were the natives who had attacked the two men at Caboolture, killing one and leaving the other for dead.
Crossing to the mainland, some of the party walked along the beach, while the rest of the natives occupied the boat with my father; they thus journeyed to Mooloolah. Arriving there, they camped for the night, and next morning made for Buderim Mountain, and, having climbed it, the blacks informed Father that he was the first white man who had ever set foot on the mountain. He had a good look round through the scrub, escorted by the blacks, and saw forests of fine timber, then had the satisfaction of being the first to cut a cedar tree there. However, he saw that it would not be possible to get timber from the locality to the water without the assistance of a bullock team, as the Mooloolah River is some distance from the mountain, so he decided to leave it till a more convenient time. The party then started back to the boat at the river’s mouth, and remained there all night, leaving next day for Maroochy. Maroochy Bar is a difficult one at times to cross, but they got in all right, shipping a little water. After landing and refreshing them- selves, they went up the river for some miles, turning at last up a creek on the left, which is now known as Petrie’s Creek, as my father was the first white visitor there.
Continuing on their way some distance, they came upon a large gathering of blacks, and this was the gathering I have spoken about, when some natives from the interior were so amazed at the sight of a boat. Among the blacks (twenty- five) who accompanied my father to cut cedar was a man from the Pine called “Wanangga,” which meant in English “Left it.” He was also called Jimmy. He was a specially faithful black, and was Father’s right-hand man in everything. He had great talks with the natives assembled, telling them all sorts of wonderful things about the white man, whom, he said, was a “turrwan.” In his dealings with the blacks, my father was always looked up to as a “turrwan,” or great man. As I have stated, he first got the honour when a boy. So “Wanangga” only told these strangers of what he himself believed. He spoke of the white man’s power of killing, etc., and declared that he had taken many a stone from a blackfellow’s body, and so made the sick one well. They believed everything, did these simple-minded people, and he was allowed to sleep in peace that might in the boat with “Wanangga,” while the rest of the party camped ashore. Next morning he was interested in the corrobborees, etc., which, by the way, were very different to what one sees nowadays, when the blacks perform for the amusement of onlookers, for they will do anything now just to please the white man.
When my father went off that day with his party of blacks to cut cedar, he left ” Wanangga” to keep an eye on the boat, and to cook some salt beef and make a damper, so that all would be ready on his return. This blackfellow always did the cooking. A damper, I may mention for the information of those who have not lived in the bush, is made from flour mixed with water and a little salt, into the shape of a round cake, which is then put into hot ashes, well covered up, and left till cooked. If made properly it is quite eatable, even nice, but it is difficult for inexperienced people to make it properly. My father used to bake very good ones for us when we were children, just to show what he had often to eat in those early times. Nowadays soda is used, and simplifies matters.
Going into the scrub, where there were lots of cedar trees, my father had some cut down near the bank of the creek, so that they could easily be rolled into the water. Then, returning early in the evening to camp, he found that the strange blacks there were about to move off two or three miles down the creek to hold another corrobboree. They wanted his men to accompany them, and these latter wished to do so, too, asking if all hands could not just go and take the boat. Father replied that they could go, but he and “Wan-angga” would remain where they were with the boat, as it was too far to come back to work in the morning. This the men declared would not be safe-it would not do; the strange blacks would be sure to kill the two camping alone, and they did not want that. He answered they would be all right, he was not afraid to stay with “Wanangga,” and he told them to go, and come back in the morning. Still they said they did not like it, and they persisted in their objections, though evidently wishing to go themselves.
At last in desperation my father got up, and said he would show he wasn’t afraid, and off he went into camp among them all, where he picked up a waddie and shield, and declared in the blacks’ language that he would fight everyone of them, one at a time if only they came to him face to face, and not behind his back. They looked at him, and some laughed, and one man remarked, “I would not like a hit from him, he has got too big arm.” After that no more was said, and “Wanangga” and his master had their way, the rest returning again in the morning quite ready for their work.
These twenty-five blacks, with their white leader, moved further up the creek that day, and made a permanent camp, where they stayed about a fortnight cutting cedar. The blacks made their huts in a half-circle round the front of Father’s, so that they might be a protection to him. On Sundays they would hunt or rested, and yarned away the time, as they weren’t required to work.
These twenty-five blacks, with their white leader, moved further up the creek that day, and made a permanent camp, where they stayed about a fortnight cutting cedar. The blacks made their huts in a half-circle round the front of Father’s, so that they might be a protection to him. On Sundays they would hunt or rested, and yarned away the time, as they weren’t required to work.
One Sunday the blacks got talking of getting branded as the cedar logs were, with a P, so that it would be known to whom they belonged. Their white friend thought it would be bullock, and another cut on their arms, and in the end this idea was carried. So going up to their master they said to him, “We want you to cut a mark like that on the logs, on our arms; so that when we go to Brisbane, every one will know we belong to you.” Father said no, that he would just mark the brand, and they could do the cutting themselves; but this did not please them, and he had perforce to fall in with their suggestions.
He started to draw the brand on the arm on one fellow with a small sharp-pointed stick like a pencil, and this left a white mark on the dark skin. They then gave him a prepared piece of glass, and he commenced to cut with this, but as the blood came, he felt turned, and his hand shook. However, they asked him to cut deeper, so after one was finished, he didn’t care any more, but went ahead and did the whole twenty-five of them. They were delighted, and as proud as possible; and went off and got some of the outer bark-chips from a bloodwood sapling, which they burned in the fire, and then rubbing the burnt part up in their hands, it became a fine powder called “kurrun,” which they rubbed into the brand. (This is how charcoal was prepared for wounds.) In a week their arms were healed, and the brand had risen up showing a splendid
.
The last of these twenty-five blacks (King Sandy) died at Wynnum (“Winnam,” meaning bread-fruit) in May, 1900. A little before his death the writer got him to show her his arm, and the mark was still there, and he proud of it even then.
Father frequently visited the locality again in quest of cedar timber. Mr. Pettigrew’s steamer conveyed the timber to Brisbane. The blacks worked splendidly. They did all the work in making the roadway and getting the logs into the water. Sometimes while rolling a log along they would just roar with laughter. As my father chaffed them now and again, they were quite happy at work, and worked like tigers. He says they could never be persuaded to do any good by bouncing, but were almost like a lot of children-they needed to be coaxed and considered. They would get very hot at times, and then a jump into the river refreshed them, and on they went again.
One night my father remembers having a laugh. He was resting while the blacks were “jabbering” away among themselves, when he began to feel mischievous, so flicked an oak cone into their midst. There was silence instantly, and they listened intently. Of course, the white man “laid low” until their suspicions were quietened, then repeated his trick. They were positive this time something was wrong, and jumped up, catching hold of him and wakening him as they thought, saying there were strange blacks- enemies at hand. After that some of them sat up all night watching, for they are very suspicious in that way. In the morning, he told them what he had done, and they good-naturedly burst out laughing.
In travelling to and fro Father always left some of the natives at Bribie Island on the homeward trip, till he returned to pick them up again, for they were afraid to go to Brisbane or the Pine because of having been connected with several murders. The blacks he took right on, he always allowed to go to Brisbane for a day or two, giving each some few shillings to spend there, and also a suit of clothes. They used to make more coins by exhibiting their brands some one would give them a penny, and others perhaps a sixpence- and so they went back to their master quite delighted and proud of themselves. To please the natives left on the island he took back presents to them.
As an instance of how the blacks disliked being disturbed at night, my father tells me that when up on Petrie’s Creek, getting cedar timber with his twenty-five natives, one day he told them that that night he would call them when the tide was full, in order to move a raft which had got stuck on a bank. When the time came it was very cold; he called, but in vain; they were all deaf apparently, and lay still like logs. So after a time he gave up trying to make deaf creatures hear, and, saying he would go off alone and do it himself, got hold of a firestick, and off he walked. He hadn’t gone far, however, when, looking back, he saw dark forms coming, all armed with firesticks. When they found he really would go alone, they went to his help, putting aside their dislike of the dark and the cold. They were awfully good to my father always, and stuck like leeches to him.
On another occasion, while still on Petrie’s Creek, having been there for some time, he had run out of provisions, and the blacks, thinking he would suffer through living just on fish and what they could bring him, urged him to leave and get some of his own food. However, he had a raft he wished. to get down the river first, and nothing they said moved him. Seeing he was determined to do as he said, they turned to and worked their hardest, working, too, with that generous and ungrudging spirit one does not always come across.
On yet another occasion, when about to return to the Pine, the mouth of the Maroochy River was reached, but the sea was so rough and the breakers were running so high that it was impossible to cross the bar; so the party were forced to wait over a week till the sea went down. Meanwhile they lived on fish and oysters, as the rations had run out, but that was no hardship to my father. He enjoyed his meals as much as any of them. The natives always carried three or four hand-nets for catching fish, as well as their weapons.
After the sea had abated somewhat, my father, who had waited long enough, started to cross the bar, but the first breaker struck the boat, and turned her broadside on, half- filling her with water, and breaking the rudder. However, they managed to right her before the next breaker struck, and getting back to smooth water, retired to the shore to bail out and fix up. While in danger some of the blacks called out for their mother, and some began spitting at the waves, for it was a superstition of theirs that to spit on waves when the water was rough would still the sea.
Father rigged up a steer oar, and again they started, the natives calling out to turn back, when the breakers faced them, but their leader said to stick to it, and they would get through all right, and he kept the boat’s head straight to the waves. Then, as a breaker struck, the native at the bow oar was thrown nearly on top of the white man, who sang out to him to take the stroke oar, and all hands to pull with all their might.
When all danger was passed and smooth water gained, the blacks simply yelled with laughter, mimicking each other in the frightened way they had called out, also my father how he stood with the steer oar in his hand, and the spray dashing up in his face. In writing of corrobborees, I mentioned that the blacks once composed one about my father, and this was the incident then alluded to.
After bailing out the water the party put up the sail, and with a fair wind steered for Caloundra Heads, which they reached safely, and crossed that bar all right, camping for the night in Bribie Passage. Father says they had a grand supper of oysters, crabs, and fish, which made up for everything, for he had nothing to do but eat while they roasted and brought the food to him. Next day they left for home.
A few days after this return from Maroochy and Mooloolah, my father’s faithful blackfellow, Jimmy (“Wanangga”), complained of his throat being very bad. He had spoken of it some time before, and his master had doctored him, thinking though, that there was nothing more serious than a cold. However, this day the man called his master into the outside kitchen, where he always slept before the fire, evidently having something on his mind he wished to speak of. Father went to him. “Well, Jimmy,” he said, “what is the matter?”
“I want you to get another blackfellow to go with you and look after you, as I won’t be able to do so any more. My throat is worse, and I shall die in three days.” (This all in his own tongue.)
“Nonsense, Jimmy,” was the reply,” does not my medicine do your throat good?”
“No, master,” answered the poor soul. “You ask me several times if I could not get you a blackfellow’s skin; well, when I die in three days, you get the blacks to skin me, and you keep my skin; if you don’t want it, don’t let them eat me, but make a hole and bury me; then when my sister comes, show her my grave, and she can get my bones to carry about.”
Father said he would do as was requested. “But,” he said, “you are not going to die yet, you will be all right before we start again.”
However, the third day in the evening Jimmy asked if he could go to the camp; he would like to sleep there, he said, with his companions that night. Father answered, of course he could, never dreaming that the poor fellow’s death was really near, and expecting to see him again in the morning. The camp was some three hundred yards from the Petries’ garden, and when the master visited it the first thing next morning he was greatly surprised to find that “Wanangga” had died two hours earlier. There the others were all crying over his body, so Father got them to dig a grave in a quiet place, and “Wanangga” was laid to rest. His body was rolled up in tea-tree bark, tied round with wattle bark string, the feet being left exposed, and so, crying all the time, they carried him to the grave. There they put a sheet of bark in the bottom of the hole, and another on top of the body-to keep the earth off, they said-and the grave was filled in.
As I have shown, the natives about here never buried their dead in the ground, but if not eaten would place them up on trees. So this burial of “Wanangga” was unusual. The other blacks wished to eat him, as he was in good order, but my father would not hear of this; he told them the poor fellow had wished to be buried, and buried he must be. So there he lay, till his sister came to dig up his bones.
Often, my father says, a blackfellow died in this fashion; the idea would possess him that he was “doomed,” and then nothing could save him-he made no effort, but would just sulk and die.
“Wanangga” was a faithful blackfellow, and a very useful one; he could split and fence as well as any white man, and could turn his hand to almost anything. He was the especial one who always stuck to my father when no white man would go near him, being all so afraid of the blacks.
So poor Jimmy was missed when they journeyed back to Maroochy, but his name was never mentioned among the others. It was “dimmanggali “–that is, “sacred to the dead.” The blacks never ever refer to the dead, in their wild state. You could hardly do anything worse, in the old days, than mention a dead man’s name-they would be more likely to kill you for that than for anything. If, as on rare occasions (for they had a great variety to choose from), another person bore the same name as the dead man, it was changed at once to “dimmanggali.” In later years, when the white people’s names began to be used, a blackfellow’s called “Tom” died, and so my father was dubbed “dimmanggali.”
About four months after Jimmy’s death his sister came to inquire where his resting place was. She had three or four old gins with her, and they opened up the grave and took out the bones, separating them from each other. Then, making a great fire, they burnt everything with the exception of those bones which were always kept and cleaned. These they put into a dillybag and carried to within fifty yards of where the other blacks were camped, waiting, and sitting down on the ground, the others all gathered round in a circle, and the ceremony already described took place. The sister then put the bones carefully back into the dilly, and they all started off to the camp, crying as they went along. They said to their white friend, “You see now who caused his death, and you shoot him when you come across him.” For months the sister carried these bones about wherever she went, and they were cried over every night and morning. In the end she put them in a hollow tree, hanging out of sight in the dilly on a forked stick, and there they were left for good. My father never heard whether the particular blackfellow who was blamed for killing “Wanangga” was done to death or not, but he knew of many cases where an unfortunate was murdered when he probably knew nothing whatever of the death he was blamed for.
Any one walking below the “Murrumba” orchard even now could, if they cared to be sentimental, drop a tear of sympathy on the exact spot where “Wanangga’s” body once lay. However, the hole is gradually filling up. As a child the writer used to wonder why a blackfellow had just a big, open hole for a grave, not realising that it had been opened up for the sake of the bones.