are not to be theatres of bloodshed, outrage, and incendiary flames, from which, by the mercy of Providence, Australia has up to this period been preserved, the law in its majesty must step in, and adequately punish the actors in the flagrant criminality as to which I have to address your Honour this day.'
The prisoners, having been duly arraigned, with one accord pleaded not guilty. The last name was that of William Hardwick. Just before his name was called, room was made in the crowded Court and a seat provided by the Sergeant of Police for a woman with two children, whose travel-worn appearance denoted recent arrival.
Bill turned his head, and in that fragment of time recognised Jenny with their little boy and girl. His name had to be repeated a second time. Then he drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and looking straight at the Judge, said 'Not Guilty' in a voice which sounded throughout the Court, and if it had not the ring of truth, was a marvellous imitation.
Poor Jenny, who had preserved a strained, fixed look of composure, broke down at this juncture. The sight of her husband, standing in the dock with men of crime-hardened and to her eyes of guilty appearance—one of whom, indeed, wore leg-irons, which clanked as he moved—overcame all attempts at self-possession. Her sobs were audible through the whole Court.
'Wife of the prisoner, your Honour,' explained the sergeant. 'Just off the coach; been travelling twenty hours without rest or sleep.'
'Had she not better stay in the witnesses' room?' suggested the Judge sympathetically. 'Refreshment can be brought to her there.'
But Jenny, though temporarily overcome, was not the woman to give in at such a time. Wiping her eyes, 'I've come a long way, if you please, your Honour,' she said, 'to hear my man tried on a false charge, if ever there was one; and I hope you'll let me see it out. I'll not disturb the Court again.'
It was a piteous spectacle.
Little Billy Hardwick, a precocious, resolute youngster 'rising five,' looked for a while with much gravity at his father, and then said, 'Is this a church, mother? Why doesn't father come out of that pew?'
Jenny was nearly overcome by this fresh assault on her sympathies, but accentuating her order by a shake, replied, sotto voce, 'It's not a church, Billy; but you mustn't talk, or else a policeman will lock you up in prison.' The child had heard of prisons, where bad people were locked up, even in Talmorah, where the primitive structure was, in his little mind, associated with the constable's children, who used to play therein when the cells were empty. He would have liked further explanation, but he read the signs in his mother's set face and closed lips, and spoke no more; while the little girl, holding on to her mother's gown, mingled her tears with those of her parent. Jenny Hardwick was 'not much in the crying line,' as an early friend had said of her, and was besides possessed of an unusual share of physical courage as well as of strength of mind. So, when she had hastily dried her eyes, she gave every indication of being as good as her word.
'Call the first witness,' said the Crown Prosecutor, anxious to get to work. This proved to be the Captain of Volunteers, who marched into the box accordingly.
'Your name is Gilbert Elliot, formerly of the 60th Regiment, now commanding a mounted Volunteer force. Were you at Moorara on the Darling on the 28th of August 1894?'
'I was.'
'Please to state what you did and what you saw then.'
'When the troop reached Poliah, at the date mentioned, I saw the steamer Dundonald floating down the river. She was on fire and burning fiercely. Apparently no one was on board. There was a large camp of armed men—several hundreds—whom I concluded to be Union shearers. They were yelling and shouting out that they had just burned the—— boat and would roast the crew and captain for bringing up "blacklegs." I called upon them to disperse, and as they made a show of resistance I ordered my men to charge. They commenced to retreat and disperse, upon which I caused all the men to be arrested who had arms in their hands, and who were pointed out to me as having fired at the crew of the steamer or having set fire to the vessel.'
'Do you recognise the prisoners before the Court?'
'Yes; all of them.'
'Your Honour, I appear for prisoner William Hardwick,' said a shrewd, alert-looking person, who had just then bustled into the Court and appeared to be well known to the legal section. 'May I ask to have the captain's evidence read over to me? Ordinarily I should not think of troubling your Honour or delaying the business of the Court; but I have travelled from Harden, and, being delayed on the road, have only this moment arrived.'
'Under the circumstances, Mr. Biddulph, the evidence of Captain Elliot may be read over from my notes.' This was done.
The witness's evidence was proceeded with.
'Was there any show of resistance by the men assembled in the camp?'
'There was a movement as if they were disposed to fight. They outnumbered my troopers more than six to one, but at the first charge they wavered and dispersed. They made no opposition to my arresting the prisoners before the Court. One of them, the one now in irons, made a desperate resistance, but was not supported.'
'Now, Captain Elliot,' said Mr. Biddulph, 'will you look at the prisoner at this end of the dock; do you remember him?'
'Perfectly. He had a rifle in his hand when I ordered him to be arrested.'
'Did he resist?'
'No.'
'Did he say anything? If so, what was it?'
'He said, "I'm not here of my own free-will. I've been robbed and ill-treated by these men. I was forced to carry this gun. You can see that it has not been discharged. My mates (there are several of them) can prove that." I asked him where they were. He said he did not know.'
'Then you had him arrested, though he disclaimed taking any part in the unlawful proceedings? Did you not believe him?'
'I did not. As it happened, other prisoners made substantially the same defence who had been seen firing their guns just as we rode up.'
'That will do, captain.'
The next witness was called.
'My name is Humphrey Bolton. I am a Sergeant of Volunteers, and came up from Moorara by a forced march as soon as we heard that the steamer was burnt. When we struck the camp there were six or seven hundred men, most of them armed. They appeared very excited. I saw the steamer drifting down the river. She was on fire. I saw a barge with a number of men in it. I noticed the Unionists standing on the bank of the river and firing from time to time in the direction of the barge. The men in the barge were bending down and lying in the bottom as if afraid of being hit. I did not hear of any of them being hurt; a few shots were fired back, and one man in the camp was wounded.'
'What happened next?' said the Crown Prosecutor.
'Captain Elliot ordered me to capture all men on the river-bank who had arms in their hands. The six prisoners before the Court and about a dozen others were taken in charge accordingly.'
'Did the crowd resist their capture?'
'They made a show of it at first, but as soon as we charged, they gave way and cleared off in all directions.'
'Now, sergeant,' said Mr. Biddulph, 'look at the prisoner William Hardwick. Had he arms?'
'He
