Characters in the Way of “Old Hands”
Material for a Charles Dickens
“Cranky Tom “”Deaf Mickey”
Knocked Silly in Logan’s Time
“Wonder How Long I’ve Been Buried “
Scene in the Road Which is Now Queen Street
A Peculiar Court Case
First Brisbane Cemetery
Mr. Andrew Petrie had several old hands,” who had served their time and were free, working for him, in different ways. One, “Cranky Tom,” was quite a character, and would have served as material for a Charles Dickens. used to do odd jobs, such as cutting firewood, loading drays, etc., and the poor man was not quite in possession of his senses in all things. He would never sleep in a bed, but would “camp” beside the kitchen fire, or, if a limekiln were burning, there for a certainty would he be found, rolled up in a blanket, surrounded by dogs. When asked, “Tom, what were you sent out to this country for?” he invariably answered, “For pulling the tail out of a donkey, and beating him with the bloody end of it.”
One day a dray loaded with timber entered the yard, and the drayman called to “Cranky Tom” to chock the wheel. The stupid man, instead of getting a stone or stick, ran and used his foot as a stop, but it quickly came out again, and its owner danced about crying, “Oh, my country, what I’ve suffered for you!” The wheel had given him a nasty squeeze, but did not go over the foot.
Another time, one Sunday morning, when Jimmy Porter, one of the ‘prentice boys, got up to light the fire, and put the kettle on, he was surprised to find all the kitchen utensils gone, pots, pans, kettle, cups and saucers, plates, knives-everything even the long iron rake for the ashes! Before the family could breakfast, a messenger had to be sent across for fresh things to the general store then kept at Kangaroo Point it, talking all the time. He made quite a plain beaten track to the tree, and “go when you liked,” says my father, “you would see Mickey walking up and down and fighting with the gum tree.”
Mickey had a quart pot and pint for his tea, and also a bag to hold his rations. When the latter were finished he would go back to his master and say, “Be the Lord I have been walking about this long time looking for work and can’t get any; please will you give me a job?” Then he would work again for another week. He was not a bad worker, but could never be depended on for more than a fortnight at a time before he was off again to fight the trees. It was “as good as a play,” my father says, to see Mickey and “Cranky Tom” crosscutting a log-many a time he watched the pair. The latter would call, “Mickey, pull the saw you are not pulling it,” and laugh at him. His companion would stare with not a smile on his face, then say, “I think you’re cranky,” and Tom would reply, “Oh, my country, I think you’re gone in the head-you can’t hear.” Father would sometimes watch the two unseen, and sometimes from pure “devilment” would egg them on to one another. Once Mickey was sent to Moreton Island to work at a build- ing there. It was thought that being away from stores, he would keep on longer. However, at the end of a fortnight he took it into his head to walk to Sydney, and disappeared for that purpose. No one troubled over him, all feeling sure that he would turn up again when the rations he had taken were finished. It was said that in a week’s time he came back, having evidently walked about the island, and going to his former employer, said, “Be the Lord I have been walking all over the country looking for work, and can’t find any; please will you give me a job?” He was put to work, but the manager took the first opportunity of sending him back to Brisbane, fearing something might happen the man when he took it into his head to go off again. Poor Mickey’s end was also the asylum. “I think,” says my father,” that both Deaf Mickey’ and Cranky Tom’ had been knocked silly in Logan’s time with the punishment they got in those days. They both seemed harmless poor chaps.” There is much which is indeed pathetic in this world, mixed side by side with the comical.
Another of these “Old Hands” was a man called Daley, who was fond of “going on the spree.” One night the Petrie boys found this man, very far gone, lying in the yard, so what did they do after some discussion but go to the carpenter’s shop and get a coffin, and this they carried to Daley and put him in it. In the morning the young jokers got up early to see the fun, and going to where they had left the coffin, found the man sitting up in his grue- some bed talking to himself. They heard him say before they burst out laughing and roused his anger—” Oh, Henie, I wonder how long I’ve been buried.” “Henie ” was a favourite word with him, and the boys called him nothing else. Many a bit of fun they had with this man. At another time they nearly frightened him out of his senses by stuffing his old clothes with shavings, and hanging the figure to a beam in his doorway. Coming home half drunk, “Henie” thought, of course, some one had committed suicide, and he bolted. The boys had made the figure most natural looking, with boots and hat and all complete.
Strange things happened in those days. Old Bob, a sawyer (one-time convict or “old hand “), lived at Kangaroo Point with his wife-they had no children. The wife used to “go on the spree” now and then. One day she was the worse for drink near her home, and making a great noise, so two policemen secured her to take her to the lockup. A ferry punt was pulled across the river by a rope in those days, and the police got the woman into this punt to take her to the north side. When about to land, the man who held Mrs. Bob let go. to hold the rope, and the woman immediately jumped over into the water. However, she was dragged back again, and lay down in the punt a wet heap, saying, “If you want to take me to the lockup, you will have to carry me, for devil the foot will I walk.” The instruments of the law were compelled to take her at her word, and carry her ashore, then, finding her still obstinate, one of them went up to Mr. Andrew Petrie’s for a wheelbarrow! Picture the scene!
The old woman was lifted into the barrow, then one man held her while the other wheeled, and there she sat blessing the police and calling them all manner of nice names; and following up this procession, which wended its way up the road which is now Queen Street, came boys and men, laughing and having great fun-my father among them. Can one imagine such a procession now in Queen Street? The policemen took turns to hold and to wheel, and so they went on till they got about to where the Town Hall is now-to the lockup, and then the three, the victim and the victimised, disappeared from the eyes of the crowd, Mrs. Bob being detained some twenty-four hours for being “jolly.”
Some time after this event Bob made a bargain with Bill, another sawyer. He handed over his wife to Bill in exchange for a horse and dray. So Bill had some one to cook and wash for him, while Bob had a horse and dray. Prehistoric times, surely! All went well for some months, then Bill came to Bob, who was carting wood and water for sale, and told him he wanted his property back again. Bob refused flatly, saying it was a fair bargain, and the end of it was he was summoned to court. My father remembers the case well. The court was held in a room in the old Government building, a little above the old archway that stood then in Queen Street. After the evidence was taken on both sides, the Police Magistrate said that Bob had to give up the horse and dray, and take his wife back. “Yer worship,” Bob said to him, “I don’t think it’s right that I should have to give up the horse and dray, as it was a fair, honest bargain.” The magistrate replied, “Man, you are not allowed to sell your wife, and you must do as I say.” So it was done. And, strange to relate, the pair seemed to live very happily together for years after this. A kinder and cleaner woman one could meet nowhere when away from drink, and no one who called at Bob’s humpy was allowed to pass without a meal. She was a good cook and an excellent washerwoman, and could do up shirts with any one. However, the curse of drink on both sides told its tale, and when old age came the couple had to repair to Dunwich, where they died some years back, taking their story with them.
Before leaving these days, I should like to mention a peculiar habit the “old hands,” sawyers, etc., had when boiling their tea in the bush. There were no “billies” then, but quart pots were used, and invariably two little sticks were placed crosswise across the pot. This was done to draw the tea, they said, and the men saw nothing strange in the habit.
Milton graveyard (where Grandfather Petrie was buried) seems a thing of the far past now, but there was a cemetery older still. It was on the opposite side of the street to where the coal shoots are now at Roma Street Station. There the prisoners and soldiers were buried. Before that again North Quay had been used, but not sufficiently to be called a cemetery. When the place at Roma street was disused four or five men were set to dig up. the graves, and the bones were moved to Milton. One of these men (his companions related after- wards), a little stout Irishman, coming to a coffin lid, raised it, and exposure to the air caused an old gray cap on the skeleton to fall to pieces. Throwing up his hands, the frightened Pat exclaimed, as he recovered himself, “My good soul, keep your cap on; I’m a poor man like yourself.” This Pat, it was said, used to take the coffin boards home to his cottage in the Valley, and with them he put up a fine skillion. The boards were cedar, and quite sound, although some had been underground for a number of years. And so the big place we now call the Valley had its beginning.
THE END