“Andy’s” Cooking
Andrew Petrie’s Walking Stick as a Warning
Tobacco-making on the Quiet
One Pipe Among a Dozen
The Floggings “Old Bumble “
Gilligan, the Flogger, Flogged Himself
His Revenge
“Bribie,” the Basket-maker
Catching Fish in Creek Street
Old Barn the Prisoners Worked In-Hand carts
Andy had an instrument he called a fiddle, made (in the shape of a grater) from a piece of tin, with holes punched in it with the end of a file, and nailed on to a piece of flooring board. This be used to grate down cobs of corn for meal to cook and eat on the sly. If he were caught at this he would be flogged, he said. He had a small bag in which he carried this meal. In those days the creek which ran down Creek Street, existed of course, and a bridge spanning it opposite Messrs. Campbell and Sons’ warehouse, entered with its northern end the Petrie’s garden. Under this part of the bridge there was a nice flat bank, which always kept dry as the tide did not reach it, and here Andy used to cook his maizemeal and the other eatables he got hold of. “Tom,” with his brothers Andrew and Walter, used to take him tea and sugar and flour on the quiet, and one boy kept guard while the cooking was going on, so that Andy would not be taken unawares and flogged. In this out-of-the-way place the prisoner made round things which passed as doughboys, and when the peaches were ripe the youngsters brought him some from their father’s garden, which he stewed and cooked up. (This garden, which I have before mentioned, often contained lots of fruit. Mr. Knight speaks of it in his book as “a large area of cultivation, with groves of luxuriant orange, lemon, lime, and guava trees.”) The boys thought Andy’s cooking far better than what they got at home, and when they watched him and then joined in the eating part, everything tasted most delightfully sweet and delicious.
“Stolen waters are sweet,” I suppose.
Many a time “Tom’s” mother gave her boys tea and sugar, and meat and bread for the prisoners, unknown to anyone else. It was against the rules, of course. And through her intercession, the prisoners afterwards used to say, they were saved many a punishment. Grandfather himself, though kind, was strict, but yet during all his reign, according to his son “Tom,” he never had one man flogged. “He used to threaten them whenever he caught them doing anything wrong,” my father says, “then after a little, would think no more about it. He always carried a walking stick, and when going into any of the workshops in the lumber yard never forgot to make a noise on the floor with this stick. The prisoners hearing, knew who was coming, and had time to put anything aside and be on their best behaviour. They used to make little tubs and other things on the sly for the soldiers, and these were smuggled out by means of the sentry, and in exchange tobacco was smuggled in. The prisoners were not allowed to smoke, so if they got hold of a pipe and tobacco, they hid them in their workshops, and waited a chance, or some of them preferred chewing the tobacco.”
The plant known as the tobacco plant came up and grew like a weed on all the cultivated ground in those days. Whether the seed was originally set or not, my father does not know. It grew in the Petries’ garden, and old Ned the gardener used to make tobacco from the leaves. He proceeded in this way: After drying the plant well, he took all the big stalks from the leaves and boiled them in a pot for a certain time, with some water and black sugar (in those days sugar was black and no mistake). When this mixture was cold he soaked the leaves in it for a while, then taking them out, folded them into a square, flat cake, and wrapping a cloth (also wet in the juice) around this cake, he put it between two flat, heavy stones and left it to become pressed. The prisoners in the lumber yard also made tobacco in this way. Father says, “I have many a time taken the leaf to them on the sly from our garden, and have seen them make the tobacco, sometimes pressing the cake in a vice instead of between stones.”
Sometimes the chain gang got hold of a piece of tobacco made like this, but very seldom. They got it through the crow minder, who would bury a piece for them in the field where their work lay with the corn. He hid it in a certain place, and marked the spot that it might be easily found. At night, when they were all shut up together, he would tell them about this, and next day when they went to work they had no trouble in finding it. The bother was to smoke it, for the only chance was the dinner hour, when the overseers were away for an hour or so. There would very likely be only one pipe among a dozen of them, so one man filled and lit the precious object and had a few draws, then passed it on to another man, and so on till all had had a turn. It went from one to another till finished just as the blacks’ “honeyrag” did in camp. The soldiers looked on and said nothing so long as the overseers were away. Father has often sat with the convicts while they indulged in this sort of smoke, and seeing their enjoyment, was what first made him learn the habit when quite a tiny chap. He used even to make tobacco in their way for his own use.
Captain Logan met his death in 1830, and my grandfather arrived in Brisbane in 1837, so the latter’s son, “Tom,” did not witness the worst of the convicts’ sufferings. However, the sights he saw were bad enough. Many a time he has seen members of the chain gang flogged in Queen Street in the old archway at the prisoners’ barracks. They got from fifty to two hundred lashes at a time. They were stripped naked, and tied to the triangle by hands and feet, so that they could not move. Some were flogged for a very small offence, and on the backs of others were unhealed marks of a previous flogging. The rest of the prisoners were arranged round in order to get the benefit of the sight, and a doctor stood by in case the unfortunate fainted. Then the punishment began, and as each stroke fell the chief constable counted aloud the number. Out of all those he has seen flogged, Father does not remember even one man fainting, though sometimes the blood flew out at every lash. Some poor wretches cried aloud in their agony for mercy, or to their mothers and friends to save them, others cursed and swore at the flogger and all the officials, and others again remained perfectly still and quiet. At times the lash went too far round the side of the victim’s body, and as it hurt more then, he swore and called to the flogger to “hit fair on the back.”
In Logan’s time a man called ” Old Bumble” was the flogger. He was an inhuman wretch from all accounts, and was hated by the prisoners. The man who succeeded him was Gilligan, the flogger, and my father remembers this man once being flogged himself. Gilligan was the Commandant’s gardener, and lived apart from the other prisoners in a little hut near his work, where he cooked his own meals of hominy, and the vegetables he was allowed from the garden. The Commandant’s quarters were situated where the new Lands. Office is being built now, and his garden extended down along the river bank. It was a nice one, well laid out and well kept, and contained vegetables of all sorts, also fruit trees and flowers galore.
Once Gilligan was caught doing something very wrong in the eyes of the law, and he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to one hundred lashes. The day for his punishment was fixed, but it was found difficult to get a prisoner to volunteer to flog him. However, at last a black man named Punch (from the Isle of France) came forward. Father remembers the incident well, and can almost now see Gilligan brought forth from the cells and stripped and tied to the triangles. Then a number of other prisoners were marched up and placed in line to look on, and the chief constable (Fitzpatrick) stood close by to count the strokes aloud, while another constable jotted them down with a pencil on a piece of paper. The doctor was also there. When the word was given, Punch, who was left-handed, was ready with his shirt off and the “cat” in his left hand. He flourished it round his head and came down so severely that blood showed the first time, and got worse afterwards, and Gilligan cried out for the mercy which was not shown. Indeed, the prisoners stood round grinning with delight to see the man who had so often flogged them getting it himself. Punch hit nearly always on the same cursed and swore at the flogger and all the officials, and others again remained perfectly still and quiet. At times the lash went too far round the side of the victim’s body, and as it hurt more then, he swore and called to the flogger to “hit fair on the back.”
In Logan’s time a man called ” Old Bumble” was the flogger. He was an inhuman wretch from all accounts, and was hated by the prisoners. The man who succeeded him was Gilligan, the flogger, and my father remembers this man once being flogged himself. Gilligan was the Commandant’s gardener, and lived apart from the other prisoners in a little hut near his work, where he cooked his own meals of hominy, and the vegetables he was allowed from the garden. The Commandant’s quarters were situated where the new Lands. Office is being built now, and his garden extended down along the river bank. It was a nice one, well laid out and well kept, and contained vegetables of all sorts, also fruit trees and flowers galore.
Once Gilligan was caught doing something very wrong in the eyes of the law, and he was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to one hundred lashes. The day for his punishment was fixed, but it was found difficult to get a prisoner to volunteer to flog him. However, at last a black man named Punch (from the Isle of France) came forward. Father remembers the incident well, and can almost now see Gilligan brought forth from the cells and stripped and tied to the triangles. Then a number of other prisoners were marched up and placed in line to look on, and the chief constable (Fitzpatrick) stood close by to count the strokes aloud, while another constable jotted them down with a pencil on a piece of paper. The doctor was also there. When the word was given, Punch, who was left-handed, was ready with his shirt off and the “cat” in his left hand. He flourished it round his head and came down so severely that blood showed the first time, and got worse afterwards, and Gilligan cried out for the mercy which was not shown. Indeed, the prisoners stood round grinning with delight to see the man who had so often flogged them getting it himself. Punch hit nearly always on the same place, which grew raw, and his unfortunate victim was covered with blood from shoulder to heel at the finish.
Some five months after this. Punch got into trouble and was sentenced to fifty lashes. Now was Gilligan’s revenge! Father remembers how Punch’s black skin shone when he was stripped and tied up, and how Gilligan rolled up his sleeves and spat on his handle of the “cat” so that it would not slip. But the hit he gave only made a brown mark on the man’s dark skin, and even at the end very little blood came; his skin was too thick for Gilligan. The latter’s shirt was ringing wet with perspiration, and one could see he tried his best to give it hard to Punch, who, however, stood all like a brick, and made no sound nor movement, though his back was well marked. The prisoners standing by understood, and they seemed to enjoy the “fun.”
Some time after this, Punch ran away, and got into the bush, and the poor fellow’s body was found floating on the Bremer by John Petrie on his way to Limestone. It was supposed he took cramps while swimming across the river.
In those days there was a prisoner among the others who made baskets for the Government called “Bribie, the basket maker.” He was not chained, and was allowed to go about in a boat to get cane from the scrubs for his work. He only had a short sentence, and it was not worth his while to run away. Indeed, if any of these prisoners with liberty to go and come, attempted escape or misbehaved, they were put back into the chain gang, and it was known too well what that meant. Some who worked in batches (like the sawyers) had an overseer (also a prisoner) always with them, and he reported behaviour. It was from this man Bribie, my father thinks, that Bribie Island got its name. He cannot remember distinctly on this point, but has some vague recollection of a connection between the man and the island- whether he was blown ashore there, or what, he does not know.
At the mouth of the creek which formerly ran up Creek Street, just where the steam ferry landing is now, a place was built by the prisoners for the catching of fish and crabs. Two beams were put side by side across from bank to bank at highwater mark, and they were flat on top, so that one could walk on them. Between these beams slabs were supported, which extended down into the mud. They were close together, but in the middle an opening was left about six feet wide, which was bound by two piles standing some nine feet above the beams. These piles were joined across the top with a piece of timber, and this had a ring bolt in the centre for a block and tackle, by which a light frame-work made of wood was worked up and down. To this frame work was attached a large basket (Bribie’s handiwork) made so that the fish and crabs which entered were caught, and it had a square hole (with a cover) on top by which they could be taken out.
When the water was high, and just on the turn, the basket was lowered, then when the tide had gone down, it was hoisted up level with the beams. Fish were plentiful in the river then, there being nothing much to disturb them, and sometimes the basket contained a great supply. Old shank bones, with a little meat attached, were thrown into the creek to encourage the fish to come in, and the basket trap was only worked two or three times a week, so that the fish did not grow afraid, having several days of undisturbed comings and goings. A prisoner had charge of the working of this trap, and he took the fish caught to the Commandant, Mr. Andrew Petrie, and all the other officials in turn.
Just at the corner of Elizabeth and Albert Streets, where a public house now stands, there used to be a large building erected for holding and thrashing the maize grown by the prisoners. This barn was built with walls of tea-tree logs notched into one another, the roof was thatched with blady grass, and it had a wooden floor. Bags were nailed all round the walls to prevent grain flying through the openings when the corn was thrashed. The thrashing was done by six men at a time working in pairs, each man with a flail, and they kept very good time, swinging their instruments round their heads and coming down one after the other on the cobs hit for hit. Other prisoners shovelled the corn up, and sifting it in sieves, put it into bags ready for cartage to the windmill, where it was ground into meal. Alongside this barn a short-sentence prisoner lived in a hut; he was a sort of clerk, and kept books which showed the quantity of grain coming and going.
The corn in cobs was taken from the fields to the barn in what was called a hand-cart. These carts were something after the style of a small dray with low wheels, and a pole instead of shafts. Each pole had two bars across, one at the end and another three feet from it, and four prisoners dragged the cart, two on either side of the pole holding to the bars. The bars reached about to the men’s waists, who as they walked, thus pulled the cart. Other two prisoners helped by shoving, and a red-coat walked along behind with a gun on his shoulder-the bayonet shining brightly in the sun. Thus the poor fellows, chained as they were, had to drag the empty carts down to the river bank where the corn grew, then after loading up they dragged them back to the barn. When full the carts held nearly as much as a dray would, and generally four of them were kept busy-two going and two coming when the corn was ripe. As they passed, one would hear the click, click of the chains on the prisoners’ legs. Sometimes these hand-carts were utilised for carrying the grain from the barn to the windmill, but mostly bullock drays were used for that purpose.