chapter 67: 1854

Below are some extracts from a letter written in 1854 from John Robertson to the Governor of Victoria. The topic was the land around Portland and how it was being settled and farmed.

Why am I posting this?

Because John Robertson talks about his neighbours James Gibson and Bridget Watt.    

Who were they?

James Gibson was born in Beith Scotland in 1816.

Migrated in 1849. 

Bridget Watt born in Milltown Ireland about 1833.

Migrated in 1849.

In 1851 they married in Portland. 

They had the farm for about 24 years and had 12 children.

I am a direct descendent of one of these 12 children. Number 7.

Does their behavior matter?

The Gibsons became farmers in 1852/1853 on previously unfarmed land. They were squatters. They had no previous experience of sheep farming in Australia. Their most productive crop was humans. In the time they had the farm they had 12 children.

The land was previously occupied by aborigines.  I am well aware that as a society we took the land off the original inhabitants of the land and treated them badly. This letter brings it closer to home. It gives glimpses of how my direct antecedents interacting with the original inhabitants.

As I read their story I alternated between feeling proud of the Gibson’s achievements and guilty of their behavior?  I am proud that despite being born in Scotland and Ireland they farmed sheep in very strange conditions and raised 12 children.  At times I am proud of their relaxed attitude towards the original inhabitants.

I was raised on mum’s breast milk and stories of how brave and courageous the Gibsons were settling in a new home in a foreign country and raising 12 children.

There was a time when the original inhabitants and the recent arrivals became openly violent and hostile towards each other. These are the stories I was never told.

From what I can tell this interaction between the settlers and the local original inhabitants was typical of the society in which they lived. It is not typical of my society and sickens me. I was not proud of my antecedents being in the vicinity.

When feeling guilty I find it very difficult to go back and alter the past. What I can do is acknowledge that this is what happened.

Recently I went to an event where the MC began by acknowledging the traditional owners. I thought that’s a really good thing to do. She’s not guilty or proud. Just acknowledging.  Too me that’s they main message from this letter. Acknowledge the past. Be aware of what happened. Know the truth and it will set you free.

To His Excellency C. J. La Trobe, Esq.,

Lieutenant-Governor, Victoria.

Dear Sir,

Gibson from Melbourne settled on the remaining unoccupied land on the east bank of the Glenelg called Roseneath. In the Gibson family there were two ladies, one of them an old lady of 70 years of age. The ladies, Mrs. Gibson and Mrs McFarlane, lived in tents for ten months. Soon after they arrived they congregated a large number of natives about their place, whom they kept hanging about, doing and undoing, to keep them employed. The ladies were anxious to get a garden formed, as they had a quantity of English seeds. They got the natives to work in the garden for them, but they were expensive labour.

I wonder what English seeds they had. Were they vegetables of ornamental plants?

I have gone to the station and found as many as 20 natives round the place and not one white man near the station, Mr. Gibson and his men being away splitting or doing something from home. I used to expostulate with them about the impropriety of allowing the natives to remain about the place when there was no one about but the two females. Mr. and Mrs. Gibson just laughed, and said they were poor harmless creatures, and the only precaution used was, Mrs. Gibson carried a broken three - barreled pistol in a leather belt which she wore round her middle; this formed part of her toilet.

I like Mrs Gibson relaxed attitude and dislike her reliance on a gun.

On one occasion Mr. Gibson and his only available men were making hurdles, and they were in want of nails that were at the Dergholm Station, six miles off. Mrs. Gibson who was fond of riding, offered to go for the nails, as they were so much wanted, and to take one of the black men for a guide. They arrived at Dergholm - the six miles, Mrs. G. riding; the black man, Yarra, walking; they got 6 lbs. nails in a leather bag, which Yarra had to carry. On the way back, in a thick forest, Yarra, who was a little before on a dray track, stopped suddenly, caught the bridle of Mrs. Gibson's horse' ordered her to get off and walk and he would ride. Mrs. Gibson had presence of mind to pull out her pistol from her belt under her shawl, and presented it at the man, who let go the bridle in a moment. With her whip she struck her horse, which dashed off, and saved her life. Some days after, Yarra brought home the nails, and they all laughed at the affair (which they told me some nights after), though there was nothing there to laugh at.

They laughed about what happened. What does that mean?

A few days after this, Mrs. McFarlane was in the garden with some of her poor black creatures (as she called them), and she was reproving, one of them for pulling up the young potatoes. Yarra came running at Mrs. McFarlane with an uplifted rake, evidently to strike Mrs. McFarlane when Mrs. Gibson heard the scream, and rushed out with the pistol in her hand. All the natives, nine or ten of them, leaped over the fence and were no more seen.

In the evening, the shepherd at the home - station did not come home; his dog brought about 300 sheep long after dark. Mr. Gibson the only man about the place, next morning went in search of his shepherd and sheep; the poor dog went direct to the dead shepherd, about a mile from home. Mr. Gibson had to walk about six miles to Bell's, for his own horses were away. Mr. Bell had one man, and Mr. Gibson tracked the sheep through a long heath towards the Wando, and they found about 500 sheep coming back again, which they had to return with. Mr. Bell rode 21 miles for me and two others; we all got to Roseneath about three in the afternoon

Mr. Gibson returned with the 500 sheep about the same time; still 700 away. Five of us started, leaving Mr. Gibson to take care of the ladies, as they had been thus without the least protection all day, and now became afraid to stop by themselves all night with the dead shepherd. After a smart ride of fourteen miles we came on the main body of the sheep, but no natives. The sheep were nearly all dead; such wanton destruction no one but those who saw it can imagine. There were 610 fine ewes just about to lamb, for which 42s. a head had been paid the year before - all dead; some skinned; others skinned and quartered; some cut open and the fat taken out and piled in skins, but most of them just knocked on the head with a stick; meat, fat, and all mixed with the fine sand of the stringy-bark forest.

An example of life at the time. One dead shepherd (an employee) and hundreds of dead sheep.

It was quite evident the natives had left in the morning, for all was cold, and we saw no cooking or cooked meat. We agreed to all ride back for two miles, taking the few living sheep with us, and one man being left with the horses, to creep back after dark, and shell all remain; but no natives came. We returned to Roseneath in the morning, buried the shepherd, and six of us started in search of the natives, but never found any of them for two days. I was out on the third night; two of our horses got away; one of them was mine, and I had to walk home, which I was afterwards very glad of, for the party fell in with an unfortunate native and ran him down, and I believe shot him in retaliation (and I now have no doubt he never heard of Mr. G.'s sheep).

On my way home I came to an out-station hut of my neighbour's for a drink of water, and there was our friend Yarra, the native, chopping wood for the hut-keeper. I looked at him closely, and I saw a pair of Mr. Gibson's old trousers he had on at the time all smeared with blood, whether the poor shepherd's or the sheep's I know not. I was only a mile from home, and there I found Mr. Gibson's bullock- driver with his team and two men, splitters, returning from Portland on his way home. I told the bullock-driver what had happened, and that I saw Yarra at the hut, and if he could take Yarra on with him in the morning in his dray, he might perhaps tell who had killed the shepherd. They called friend Yarra, and easily induced him to go with them, but when he came in sight of the station he got off the dray and was running away, when one of the splitters shot him. So ended poor Yarra.

Another example of the times. One dead aborigine.

After this, there was a constant war kept up between the natives and the stations - Bell's and Gibson's - and, I regret to say, a fearful loss of life to the poor natives by two young heartless vagabonds Gibson and Bell had as overseers when they left.

I was shocked and stunned when I read this.  These are the stories I was never told.  I don’t know why the Gibsons spent so much time away from the property. Maybe it had something to do with Mrs Gibson’s ever-growing family.  

Your most obedient servant,

JOHN GEORGE ROBERTSON, Of Wando Vale; April 6th, 1854.