from
these disagreeable inhabitants of the Bush, during the next ten or
twelve days; after which an event happened, which, though sad and
unfortunate in itself, was yet calculated to fill the minds of these
impudent savages with some respect and awe for the power of the
Europeans. Joseph Jones,--the man who attended the flock of sheep, which
accompanied Major Mitchell's party in their wanderings in the interior
of New Holland,--had been sent for some water; and the tea-kettle he
carried with him was the sole cause of the quarrel that ensued. As he
was getting up the river bank with the water, another man being
stationed (as usual) at the top to protect him with his pistol, one of
the natives, with others in his company, met him half way up, and with
a smile took hold of the pot which he was carrying, together with the
kettle. This was done under pretence of helping Jones, but, on reaching
the top of the bank, the savage, in the same jocose way, held it fast,
until a woman said something to him; and then, letting the pot go, he
seized the kettle with his left hand, and at the same time struck Jones
senseless to the ground by a violent blow on the forehead, inflicted
with a club which he held in his right. On seeing this the other man,
who was stationed by way of protection, fired, and wounded the savage,
who swam across the river, and made off as well as he could; but the
rest of the tribe were now advancing. The Englishman fired twice at
them, and the second time, unfortunately, he shot the woman already
mentioned, who, with her child fastened to her back, slid down the bank,
and lay, apparently dying, in the water. At this moment three other
Englishmen arrived, who had been sent off from the camp when the noise
of fire-arms was heard, and one man among the natives was shot in the
breast, but little more mischief was done, for the tribe speedily
dispersed, having dragged away the dead body of the woman; while Joseph
Jones returned, wounded and bleeding, to the camp of the explorers. When
night arrived, "a death-like silence," says Major Mitchell, "prevailed
along the banks of the river; no far-heard voices of natives at their
fires broke, as before, the stillness of the night, while a painful
sympathy for the child bereft of its parent, and anticipations of the
probable consequences to us, cast a melancholy gloom over the scene. The
waning moon at length arose, and I was anxiously occupied with the
observations, which we