Tag: Williamstown

Spotlight: Melville’s Defence and Charges Against the Convict Superintendent (1857)

Perth Gazette and Independent Journal of Politics and News (WA : 1848 – 1864), Friday 30 January 1857, page 4

MELVILLE’S DEFENCE AND CHARGES AGAINST THE CONVICT SUPERINTENDENT.

The great interest which the trial of Melville has excited in Victoria, and the astounding character of his statements, induce us to give his defence at length —

Gentlemen of the Jury — It is now necessary that I should take you by the hand, and lead you step by step through all the circumstances (commencing a considerable time ago) which have at last placed me in the position in which I now stand before you. From the first I have been the victim of a system of irritation and espionage. I was put under the hands of a doubly and trebly convicted felon — a man named Graham — who tried everything in his power to abuse, ill-use, and exasperate me, and make me insubordinate, that he might reap the reward of appearing more vigilant and meritorious than others by reporting me to his superiors. On more than one occasion he even laid his hands on me, and on one occasion violently pushed me. I seized him, not with violence or with a blow, but to complain of him; and instantly I was clutched by 12 able-bodied men, who dragged me, stuck me, beat me with bludgeons, leaped on me, trampled on me, and, dragged me by the heels to a dungeon, five feet, six inches by two feet, and one foot six inches. They handcuffed me, hoisted me up to, and fixed me, so as, to leave me on but the tips of my toes, and in this position of torture they held me for five day and six nights. They brought my food to the door within my sight to tempt me; but nothing passed my lips, The prisoners, my companions in confinement, men hardened to ill-usage cried out for me. They petitioned for me, and when unsuccessful on my behalf, they groaned, yelled, and howled to show their abomination of the treatment to which I was submitted. They even threatened to release me. These horrible noises were maintained for half an hour. The prisoners said they would liberate me themselves, and the guards feared and retreated. The prisoners lifted their soil tube, weighing twenty or thirty pounds, and with them beat against the door for twenty minutes making marks half an inch deep. .The authorities thought it prudent to make a concession, and they let me down; but it was only that they might get the prisoners safely stowed, for as soon as that was done they hung me up again. They propped me with supports placed under me, and there I remained twenty days. I was sent to a cell. For two years I remained where I never saw the sun rise or set — a cell six feet six inches by three feet three inches, and 10 feet high, with but one aperture of six inches for ventilation and light. Here I was kept with my body almost naked, exposed to the cold beams, and heavily ironed. Within hearing of obscene conversation and horrible imprecations, I remained without moral or religious help. I asked for books to beguile my weary hours, they were most brutally refused. One of them who so refused me said malignantly that he did know that I should ever get a book. A Presbyterian minister came to me, and offered me consolations, and he pressed my petition for books; but they were still refused. I saw him but once in two months. His occupations at last required him elsewhere, and he at last left.

Graham gets my own companiod [sic], the man transported with me, into his plots. They plant their spies — they make other men their tools. Among them is a superfine villian [sic], William Pitt. This man concerts a plan — he lays a scheme — he has a stratagem to make a target of the bodies of 13 of his fellow men, that he may get his own liberty for merit. I was fortunate enough to pick up a note which hinted his plans to me. From that note I guessed they were concocting my ruin, slowly, stealthily, but surely. From that note it appeared they calculated “it would all fall on the captain’s shoulders.” They had watched the minister on board, and observed the kind interest he took in me, and I overheard one of them whisper to the other, “One flat and one flat makes two flats.” I pricked my ears, and was on my guard, and said to myself, ‘Two flats and one flat make three flats.’ They found means, in spite of the regulations, to communicate constantly, but I was aware of them. After a time they gained over 15 or 20 men, including, as they supposed, myself, and the word was passed that I was “quite well,” meaning that I was willing. This man so ingratiated himself into all their good graces that he obtained their confidence perfectly; in fact, they at last regarded him as their demigod. But I knew the character of the man, for he had robbed me his companion; and I knew he would betray for his own gain. One word was passed — “there’s a push coming off.” I said to the man who told me so, “If it takes place when I am in my cell, it’s no good to me.” One question, was pointedly put to me, “Will you be in it?” I answered, “I have looked at it, and see no good in it; such a thing may be, but I don’t know the men, and therefore cannot advise it; nevertheless, if it comes off, I dare say I shall be somewhere about;” and I go on to say, “You take to that old man and leave the man that’s armed to me to deal with him.” Well, the thing goes on; they think I’m like a barracouta that will bite every rock in pursuit of freedom, and they therefore feel sure that I’ll be “there.” The morning comes; this traitor is not in the post where he ought to be — he seems to be giving the opportunity required. But I look at his eye closely; I look again, and see that his sword is newly sharpened, and that he has two pistols in place of one. My suspicions are confirmed. He is pretendedly drawn away; I hear the word passed, “Tell Frank to collar the old bloke.” That was to be the beginning, but it was not done; and they wait for me to begin. Desmond pretends to search me; I pass on; I see treachery in features which nobody suspects but myself: I go to wash, and return to be searched. The watch steps back, and I say, ” Mr.——, will you be so good as to give me a rub down” [the action of searching]. He says, “I am poorly this morning.” I say, “If you are never worse, there will be little ailing you in ——” Instead of acting as they have plotted for me, I walk off, and the are taken aback. Presently, seeing themselves outwitted, a multitude of warders start from their places of concealment on board with arms in their hands, and the chief warder says, “Its a good job for you it didn’t come of, for you see we were ready for you.” I tell all the prisoners what is the real case, and thus the scoundrels is exposed to them, and defeated of his promotion; at least, gentlemen, he is defeated for that time. Some six months after this, Greenfield, a Van Diemen’s Land constable and detective, comes among us. He gets the confidence of the other prisoners. After a time he says it will be better to have another “shracking” a display of remonstrance by hisses, groans, &c.], to bring our state under the notice of the authorities, I dissuade. He presses again and again; and then I suspect. After a time I found it was about to come to pass, and again I am to be the victim. What am I to do in this dilemma? I saw twenty or thirty men who are about to do a thing that can only worsen their position, and will most likely increase the severities practised on them; if I oppose, there are those among them who will say that I wish to get favour with the authorities; if I join with them, I make their condition worse. E [sic] man is yut [sic] in heavy irons in “the box:” if he is not taken out of “the box” it is to take place. I warn the authorities, without going into particulars, that if that man is taken out of the box it will be better for the subordination of the prisoners; if not there will be trouble. On this I am myself put in heavy irons in a box two feet by one foot two inches, and that is done to me for endeavouring to do good and to prevent evil. Patrick Sullivan comes on board the hulk. He makes a complaint about his food, and gets into an altercation with Cameron, which ends in his being, struck two blows. He returns blows, and is instantly beset, knocked down and jumped upon. His prison dress is torn off in the scuffle, and he is dragged out naked, and thrown into a cell like a dog. He is sickly and diseased; this treatment confirms his illness, and he dies. The day before his death he petitions to be liberated; but the overseer who is set over him, tells him —”If you’re too ill to work tell the doctor that; but while under me you shall work. I’m no doctor, but a working overseer, and, by God, so long as you are under me I’ll make you work.” His disease is of a scrofulous nature, and he is discharging from more than one place. His fellow-prisoners pity him, and remonstrate on his behalf. He petitions again, and ten of the men remonstrate again, and the overseer at last lets him off. Next morning, at the breakfast table, he died. (Sensation) Another man, a soldier of the —th regiment, a man who has fought the battles of his country, and has afterwards in this colony yielded to the attractions of the gold fields and deserted, is refractory. They put him in “the box;” there they drench him with water. He is furious and frantic. They put him in “the bath,” where the sea rushes in upon him. The man then becomes cranky. He is changed to the Success hulk. There the officers do not know him, and it is all gone over again. In the Success, the sea always comes in in rough weather. He cries out against his cell, and says he has a right to be put in another one, as long as there is a dry one in the ship. He raises a great disturbance at his grievances. For this they beat him, and put him in another cell, less, and wetter, and more miserable. He continues his outcry. Mr. Gardiner comes and beats him. They cut his head in three places. They gag him. He moans, and makes a stifled sound. Mr. Gardiner gives him blows again. They pour water into his mouth above the gag, and over his nostrils. He is then tried and sentenced — months of heavier punishment. There sits, under the Judge, Dr. Wilkins, the humane doctor, who had to take that poor cranky being out of his cell before half his sentence was out to save his life by wine, and diet, and indulgences. But it is too late — he dies! (A thrill of horror testified by audible murmurs throughout the Court). Another man devised a new plan of escape, but fails in carrying it out. he digs himself a grave, and, his companions cover him up. But it is ill-done; he is missed; search is made, and his place is discovered. Some of the warders beat him so cruelly that a warder — a man of no kind feeling — has to interfere, and say that he’ll report them if they go on. He is brought in — Mr. Gardiner turns to him and says — “Why don’t you run, that I may have a shot at you?” Irons weighing 40lbs are placed upon him, and at last he becomes one of the prisoners you have now to try. Eockey [sic] had some irons weighing 28lbs for two years; he prayed for lighter irons, and had heavier ones put upon him. Duncan remonstrated against the continuance of irons upon him after the time which they ought to remain on him, and then he had his irons continued and increased. Duncan was a man of bad temper, and I certainly think of very little sense; perhaps it may be allowed that be was a troublesome man; he is pushed, irritated, till he breaks out; and for that he gets solitary confinement in heavy irons for twelve months. He is put to the pump; one of his superiors considers that he is shrinking his work there, and says to him he’ll see if he can’t get more work out of him, which leads to words between them. He is up for insolence; they resort to violence with him; he scuffles, and they drive him headlong down a ladder fifteen feet long, and set at an angle of about thirty degrees, and then down a second ladder. At the bottom of that they beat him and jump on him. Another man sees what is going on, and does something which they will not have. They call him out; he will not come out to be served as he had seen the other served. They drag him out, they beat him, throw him down, and jump on him. They then take him up and try him; and they give him two years’ extension of his punishment. What has all this to do with me here? Gentlemen, I have, read the regulations of Norfolk Island, under which the worst criminals are placed who come from England. Twelve months of ——, then six years of ——, and then a ticket-of-leave, under which those men who are deemed the worst have the means, by good conduct and merit under their sentences, of enjoying a certain degree of liberty. Gentlemen, that system is a paradise to our case. The prisoners who come out from England there are gentlemen compared with prisoners in Victoria, and are the consequences of the system, as you see them in me any my companions, who will follow in this place. Better than those of the system of Norfolk Island and Sydney! In Sydney the men are allowed to go free one hundred miles into the bush while, I get twelve months where I never see the sun rise or set. For good conduct I am put in a cell, where I am compelled to break a pot for a reflector to increase the light to read. To preserve my health and life in this weary system I have endeavored to take exercise by making for myself a system of gymnastics, which I have regularly gone through. In this cell there was so little room to move, that I was only able to take a massive bolt, and work as if I were in the act of sawing. I appeal against my position, and I am put down on the lower deck. After a time, for good conduct, I am let out to work. I am even allowed to go and break stones. There I am put into the go-cart, and am made to drag that through mud over the ankles. I ask if I may not cut stone for mason-work. A man in authority says I may do so, as he has the intention to place me under the water, to work there at foundations as a diver. I say that I will only go to reduce my sentence one half. I thought it no great favor, after never seeing the sun for two years, that for good conduct I should only be allowed, by working all the hours of the day under water, able to reduce my time from 28 years to 14. Again you will ask me what has all this got to do with the charge that is now before you? Why this shows you that the prisoners are by the treatment they meet with brought to that state of mind that they will, seize upon anything for freedom. And, gentlemen, you can easily see that having so many years of captivity before me, they all actually think that I will be willing and ready for any attempt. In me you see a man, however, who would scorn to tell a lie even to save his life; but I have on premier motives. I never was a murderer or a ruffian, though I have been a robber. I have been branded, as a robber. I have robbed; I allow that, and I suffer for it; but no living being can say that ever I did a cruel or cowardly action; and if I had twenty necks to lose for this cowardly crime with which I am charged, and if all of them were to be broken for this crime, they would not atone for it. It is not to save my life that I desire, for at the best it is most likely that I shall finish my existence in a gaol. What, then, is the true statement of my share in what happened at the murder of Owen Owens. I was down towards the wharf, and see a crowd of men at the light-house. A man points out two cutters, lying convenient, with sails spread; and he says, “There is a chance for liberty; there is a strong fair wind; we must take one of those cutters, and, if we can, escape in it.” I see instantly how the case stands. I see the constables in one direction; I see the ships with armed wardens on the other side. But I see that, with the wind then blowing, if we get those cutters, we are out of fire in three minutes. I know that if there is any attempt to escape I shall be the mark for every bullet fired. I see the chances are nine to one against me, but I instantly resolve I go on board the launch with the intention not to kill a man, but to hold up my own body as a special mark for the aim of hired murderers, in hopes of liberty. In the launch I see the men hesitate to haul up the tow-boat till we were advanced about 200 yards. I think Mr. Jackson is not wrong there; we were too far. At last we haul up the tow-boat. I think I was about the first into it; and I held her on while others entered. Mr. Jackson then says that I and another knocked him overboard; he tells a lie. I certainly should have done it if necessary for our object, but I did not, for he was not there to make it necessary. Nor did I “push,” or, as he afterwards says, ”hold” him under. It’s an arrant lie; I am incapable of it; but I pass that with contempt. I saw the deceased stowed away in a passive position. We got under way. I heard Hyland cry out to the warders to fire. I stood up, and said to him, ” Good-bye,” as much as to say, “do your worst.” The wind was blowing hard that day, and the management of our boat was bungled; she got foul of the towing warp, and could not cross it and head towards the cutters laying under sail; we abandoned that purpose, and went “about” in hopes of rowing off dawn wind and tide. I heard the fire, and said, “Now they are delivering their murderous volley!” Immediately after I saw one of my companions lying down. I said, ” Get up Dick; this is no time for cowardice or slinking.” He said, “I can’t, I’ve got two balls in me” I saw the blood coming out of him, and said, “Oh, if you are hit, I’ll do all I can for you;” and I look off my cap, and dipped it m the sea, and put it to his wound to stop the bleeding. While so engaged I heard the boy Macdonald (who was at the bow-oar, double-bank with another), cry out, “Oh, my God!” or some such words. I turned round and saw the second blow struck at Owen Owens by Stevens. Presently he said, “I’ve done it. I prefer this,” and he dived overboard. The police were then coming up with us fast, and sooner than be captured again that man gave up his life. I appeal to men who certainly would not be the most willing to speak in favour of one whom they may consider has done much towards sacrificing themselves. The whole of their evidence will point to the man who was the most likely to have done this deed. We are taken back and placed in dungeons. I was put in irons which are called 36-pound irons, but which I should certainly say weighed 40 pounds. We do not know how the case is to appear against us at the inquest. The inquest is held on the Deborah (hulk). The witnesses are examined in one room and we are in another. I am called in once. We are committed without being allowed to hear the evidence. I hear that I am the man who is to be charged with striking the blow. I send for the visiting magistrate and the clergyman. I told him I was not the man, and that it would be better for him to test the truth of that by examining all the prisoners successively. Barker, and some other witnesses at the inquest, have stated, in the presence of the Inspector and others, that I was not the man. I appeal to have the depositions of these witnesses, and to have subpoenas for these men, but get no redress. At last, when I come here I appeal to Mr. Farie, the Sheriff, and he immediately grants me everything I am entitled to have. I was allowed to subpoena witnesses. But how am I to do that? I am in a dungeon shut out from the world. No kind friend comes to me — no man who knows the truth says to himself, “It’s a lie, and I will come forward to testify to the truth;” so I am left without help. But I for some of the very men who were employed shortly before in shooting at me, and for the men on the launch, who did not join in the attempt at escape, but who may have suffered severely on account of these occurrences; for I say to myself some of these men will speak the truth, and the truth is all I want. I send also for Pavey, and for all other man, whose evidence I hear was in my favour, and one of them spoke in direct opposition to Jackson (the first witness for the Crown at this trial), and also for a warder that has been dismissed because he “would not stand to see men shot like dogs.” But some of these, as I have said, are dismissed, and gone where I cannot find them; others have leave of absence given to them, and those I cannot bring forward. Two of the warders are out of the way. With regard to my defence, I said that I knew none of the gentlemen at the bar, and I had been so long shut out from the world that I had neither friends nor finances to engage counsel for me. I know it was most likely I should fail in defending myself, but I must attempt it. I was told that many gentlemen of the bar would willingly take up my case to distinguish themselves, and at last — said he would write to Mr. Ireland. Things were dilatory; and at last I was told counsel are engaged. Still I am unable to bring forth the warders. I am informed in the hulks that three copies of the depositions at the inquest have been sent to me; but two only have come to us. I suspected that the other copy would be used to our disadvantage, in concocting and agreeing upon a case against us, and I pressed for the third copy; but I am answered that I am only cavilling, and we are all enjoined strictly that the two copies must be left out of our cells each night, I again make an appeal for the witnesses, but am told that one is dismissed. I ask Hyland what he is dismissed for and he barks in my face like a native wild dog, and asks me what business is that of mine. I say to that most respectable person that it is business of mine, for that the man who has not feared to incur the displeasure of his superiors by saying that he would “not stand by and see men shot like dogs,” will not fear to speak the truth now, and the truth is all I want. And so, gentlemen, I am left without witnesses and without counsel for my defence. And what, gentlemen, is there left for me to struggle for? A life such as I have lately lived is valueless to me, and my only motive now to struggle is to clear myself from the charge of this cowardly, this dastardly crime — for I say that to take the life of a man when there are ten to one against him, and he is in a passive position, would have been the crime of cowards. The men who are now charged with this crime were not guilty of it, and if they suffer for it they are judicially murdered. It is not the Judge nor the Jury who now try them that will be responsible; their duty is to fulfil their oaths according to the evidence before them; and if that evidence costs us our lives, it is those who make this evidence who are our murderers.

The prisoner then adverted to the paragraphs which lately appeared in a newspaper, describing a pretended attempt of Melville to escape, by changing his dress with a Roman Catholic priest. He read the paragraph with bitter emphasis, and with striking comments on each sentence. We have heard Mr. Farie, the Sheriff, state that the whole affair is a pure invention, not even founded upon one fact. Having finished the paragraph. Melville went on generally in reference to it thus — What does the insertion of such an article as this in the papers mean, when we come to recollect that officers of the Government, and of the departments write in the press? It appeals to a religious sentiment, and arouses a religious, prejudice; the most sensitive of all prejudices — the most easy to make and the most difficult to remove. And it was to work secretly; for where I was shut up from the world they judged it would never come to my ears in a dungeon, but would act as a slow, secret, and insidious poison in the minds of a large portion of the public, from which the Jurymen to try me would be chosen. Gentlemen, I never was a coward, and I feel nothing out the meanness of convicting myself in the judgment of the public by any such an act as that. When I die I will not die by my own hands, but will die as a man and as a Christian; and to have done such a thing as that would have been signing my own death-warrant. I see that as the case has been laid before you, the evidence is calculated to convict me. But can you not see the motive and spirit of that case? On the other hand, can you not see the motive of the case which I wish to prove to you by the evidence which I would lay before you in my favour, if I had the liberty to do it. If you can question the motive of a man who would call on the men hired to shoot him to death, on other men who saw all, and have no motive to speak in his favour but only the motive of speaking the truth, and on others who are also the men to stand their trial for the same crime I have done. I must submit to die, and I shall be happy to leave a life where no justice can be done to me. I call Heaven to witness that the others, like myself, mere spectators: and I say that if you take the evidence of men who saw me only now and then, and then only among a crowd of others, who on this occasion were at a great distance, and who differ from each other in their accounts, although they have had every opportunity of agreeing on their case, and if you do not receive the evidence of men who have known me intimately, and my every action, for years, and who were on the spot, then I complain of the law, but yet submit to my fate. But if I remove the impression from the minds of the public, I am content to he a martyr. I complain not of the Jury nor the Judge, but of the witnesses, who are my judicial murderers, and who sacrifice me to keep up appearances, and conceal the works which they have carried on for so long a time. I can forgive the Judge and Jury, and, like Steyhen [sic], ask pardon for them. Gentlemen, I forgive you; the fault is not yours, but theirs who bring me here * * *

You cannot see so clearly as I can that the evidence for the Crown shows combination and concoction. As I stand before God, I say to you that I can see that the evidence is made up to agree.

Posted on by AJFPhelan56 0

Captain Melville: an overview

Francis MacNeiss McNeil McCallum, better known as Captain Melville, is one of Australia’s most intriguing bushrangers. He at once bears the tropes of the traditional bushranger – a charming, adventurous highwayman and escapologist with a flair for drama – while also being something unique. His story is one punctuated by misadventure and violence and ends gruesomely.

McCallum was born in Inverness, Scotland, in 1822. On 3 October, 1836, he was tried in Perth for housebreaking. While he was on trial he admitted to having served 22 months in gaol for thievery prior, starting his criminal career at the age of 12. Found guilty, he was sentenced to 7 years transportation but was forced to serve almost two years in prison in England as Edward Mulvall before he could be sent out. On 25 May, 1838 he began his journey with 160 other convicts to Australia on the Minerva, and on 28 September 1838 he arrived in Van Diemens Land. The sixteen year-old McCallum”s sentence was to be served at Point Puer boys’ prison at Port Arthur. Point Puer was a landmark in British history as the first juvenile prison. Prior to this all convicts, regardless of age, were kept together and in the same conditions. Given that under British law a child as young as 8 years old was able to be tried as an adult, this resulted in many children being brutalised alongside hardened criminals and adult offenders. Point Puer provided an environment for wayward youths to learn skills and a trade, with emphasis on trades such as shoemaking, timber work, masonry, gardening and construction. McCallum served 18 months at Point Puer whereupon he was assigned to the timber yards in Hobart. It was here that McCallum first took to the bush, taking another boy named Staunton with him. They were quickly apprehended and sentenced to 5 years at Port Arthur where McCallum promptly received 36 lashes. This would not be the last time.

Port Arthur ca.1830 (Point Puer and the Isle of the Dead are visible across the middle of the image)

On 20 September, 1840, McCallum was absent from work and displayed insolence towards his guards, receiving 20 lashes. Later that year his insolence got him another 36 lashes and 7 days in solitary. On 22 February the following year his misbehaving saw him slapped with an additional 2 years into his sentence. During this time he was given 12 months probation during which time he performed a burglary that saw his sentence amended to transportation for life.

For the next few years McCallum continued to be a fly in the ointment of the authorities. He was frequently flogged and frequently absconded, apparently spending time in local Aboriginal camps, resulting in months and months added to his sentence and most of that in leg irons. By the end of 1850 McCallum had finally made good his escape, and now as a scarred and bitter 27 year-old, he made his way to the mainland and assumed the name Edward Melville.

Port Arthur ca.1840s

Since the discovery of gold in Victoria in 1851, the population had exploded and with this came increased struggles and conflict. The Australia McCallum found himself in was one where there was particularly huge conflict between Europeans and Chinese immigrants, usually over gold claims. The difficulty in mining enough gold to make a living was enormous and thus tensions were high. The goldfields were subject to riots, lynchings, murder and robbery. The villages on the goldfields were rudimentary but diggers were still able to satiate their vices. The police force was largely staffed with ex-convicts who were paid embarrassingly meagre wages with bonuses for arrests. This resulted in widespread police harrassment and lots of questionable arrests. Such a hotbed of tension and corruption was perfect breeding ground for bushrangers.

As with most prospectors, McCallum did not fare well on the diggings and sought alternative means of supporting himself. He set his sights on the highways and plunged into the dangerous career of highway robbery. In 1852 McCallum went bush, adopting the moniker, “Captain Melville”. Operating between Melbourne and Ballarat, particularly in the vicinity of the Black Forest and Mount Macedon, Captain Melville gained a reputation as a man not to be trifled with.

It was during this time that a story oft attributed to Melville was supposed to have taken place. As the story goes, Melville rode to the station of a squatter named McKinnon as the sun was setting and let himself in. He summoned the maid then asked to see the man of the house. When McKinnon responded, Melville stated that he had heard the man’s daughters were accomplished musicians and requested an impromptu performance. McKinnon protested that the girls were dressed up ready to go to a ball that evening and refused to summon the girls. Melville levelled his pistol at McKinnon who quickly reconsidered his answer. The girls were brought down and compelled to play piano with Melville singing along. However, word had reached the local constabulary and by dawn a party of troopers was on the doorstep. Melville, quick as a hare, made a hasty exit via a window.

“Gold taken via Bendigo or elsewhere, dangerously suspicious, contributions insisted on, voluntary principles despised” by S. T. Gill, 1852 [Source: NLA]

On 18 December, 1852, Melville, in company with a mate named William Roberts, stuck up Aitcheson’s sheep station near Wardy Yallock. After rounding up the sixteen staff and imprisoning them in the barn, Melville bailed up Wilson, the overseer, and Aitcheson then added them to the prisoners. After Melville cut a length of rope into pieces, they proceeded to call the men out one by one and tie them up to the fences outside. When Wilson asked what they wanted, Melville replied, “Gold and horses, and we are going to get them.” With the men secured, the bushrangers went to the homestead. Melville told the women not to fear them as they would not interfere with women more than necessary. He then ordered them into a room and instructed them to prepare food, which was taken with two bottles of brandy to the men. Melville and Roberts indulged in a meal themselves then ransacked the house, taking any valuables they could grab. After this, the pair stole two of Aitcheson’s finest horses and gear then, as they were leaving, they informed the prisoners that Mrs. Aitcheson would be down to untie them once the coast was clear.

Melville and Roberts took up residency on a spot on the Ballarat road where they could stop travellers on the way to and from Geelong. The day following their raid on Aitcheson’s farm, the pair struck again from their new spot. Two diggers, named Thomas Wearne and William Madden, were bailed up on the Ballarat road. Melville and Roberts took £33 from the pair before asking where they were headed. The victims stated that they had been heading to Geelong to spend Christmas with friends, but now they would have to go back home as they had no money. After a brief consultation, the bushrangers returned £10 to their victims and hoped it would enable them to enjoy the festive season.

Geelong, By Edward Gilks, 1853 [Source: SLV]

The takings were good on the Ballarat road in the lead up to Christmas as travellers went to and fro with the intention of visiting friends and family for the holiday. Soon a reward of £100 was issued for their capture. Their last victim on the road was bailed up at Fyans Ford, five miles from Geelong, on Christmas Eve. After completing the transaction, the bushrangers rode into Geelong and booked in at a hotel in Corio street where they had their horses attended to. Elated by the recently ill-gotten gains and seemingly feeling in the Christmas spirit, Melville and Roberts went to a house of ill-repute nearby to spend Christmas Eve indulging in wine, women and song.

Fyans Ford, Geelong, 1852 [Source: SLV]

The booze must have loosened his lips as much as his breeches for when he was engaged in the affections from one of the girls he let slip who he was. The women promptly kicked into action, keeping the bushrangers occupied while one of them snuck out to alert the police. Melville, despite being drunk, became suspicious of the women and ordered Roberts to fetch the horses. Roberts, however, was passed out drunk on a table. Unable to rouse Roberts, Melville decided to cut his losses and bolt. When he opened the front door he saw the working girl entering the front gate with police. Slamming the door shut, Melville raced to the back of the house, smashed open a window with a chair and jumped out of the window. He ran across the yard and hurled himself over the fence, knocking over one of the constables that was arriving to apprehend him. Barely breaking his stride, Melville continued to run through a vacant lot, but changed direction when he realised that the police lockup was between him and his horse. He continued to run, with police in pursuit, towards the old dam where he came across a young man named Guy who was returning from a ride on a horse he had borrowed from his lodgings at the Black Bull Inn. Melville saw his chance to gain a mount and yanked Guy out of the saddle. Guy was quick as a flash and returned the favour, copping a punch while restraining Melville. In moments the police arrived to properly arrest their target. They complimented the civilian on his having pinned the fugitive down. Guy simply replied that he wasn’t going to lose a horse like that.

Melville and Roberts were licked – their lucky streak officially at an end. They were imprisoned in the South Geelong gaol, then conveyed by dray to the courthouse, while heavily manacled. They were surrounded by police and had no hope of escape. The trial was speedy, and Melville and Roberts were convicted on three charges of highway robbery. Melville was sentenced to thirty two years hard labour: twelve years for one crime, ten apiece for the other two.

Hobson’s Bay 1853 [Source: SLV]

Melville was sent to do his time on the prison ships moored at Hobson’s Bay, Williamstown. These imposing maritime structures were referred to as hulks, but were actually converted cargo ships that had been abandoned by sailors who ditched their jobs to strike it rich on the goldfields. Now, rather than hauling goods they were places of incarceration as well as cruel and unusual punishment. McCallum was imprisoned on President, the place reserved for the worst of the worst, on 12 February, 1853. Here inmates were frequently denied all comforts, including the ability to read the Bible, and were often subjected to a myriad of inventive and inhumane punishments in response to misbehavior. This was not enough to quell Melville’s insatiable appetite for rebellion and on 26 January, 1854, he was given a month in solitary confinement in heavy irons for attempting to incite a mutiny.

The Black Hole was the solitary confinement cell aboard Success. Even this was tame compared to some of the punishments aboard President.

Melville was transferred to Success in February of 1856. Success was lower security, and in addition to now being taken to the shore to work in the stone quarry, Melville managed to pick up a job translating the Bible into Indigenous languages, which he claimed to speak fluently. It was honest work, even if the person doing it wasn’t equally as honest.

On 22 October, 1856, things took a startling turn. As the launch boat was towed from Success carrying fifty convicts to the stone quarry for the day’s labour, the convicts began to push forward, crowding the bow. Jackson, the overseer, ordered the men back, but the orders were disregarded and a group of the convicts grabbed the tow rope, pulling it until they brought the launch close enough to the tugboat to enable transfer. Ten of the convicts jumped across: Melville, John Adams, Matthew Campbell, Henry Johnstone, Patrick Ready, Terence Murphy, John Fielder, Matthew McDonald, Richard Hill, and William Stevens (alias Butler).

Jackson tried to force the prisoners back as they began leaping into the tugboat but he was struck and fell into the water. At that moment things spun out of control. The guards on Success began firing at the mutineers, one of the shots hitting Richard Hill in the neck. Corporal Owen Owens, a seaman attached to Lysander, was struck by Melville and thrown overboard by two other mutineers. The blows continued to rain down as he attempted to climb back in. Several prisoners, including Melville, attempted to hold him under the water until a blow from what was believed to be a mallet or a boat-hook penetrated his brain, killing him. The mutineers would state that it was Stevens who had struck the lethal blow using a mallet that had been smuggled on board to break their chains with. The instrument was thrown overboard. One of the rowers, John Turner, was also plunged into the bay as were James Hunter of Lysander, who jumped into the water out of fear, and Peter Jackson, the ship-keeper for Lysander, who was turfed out but had managed to rise to the surface of the water in time to see the tail end of the struggle. The rowers realised that it would be folly to resist and dishonorable to comply with the mutineers so they evacuated. The mutineers took control of the tug boat. Melville stood triumphantly on the tug, apparently brandishing the mallet. One of the mutineers, Stephens, at this point exclaimed “All is lost!” He then jumped off the boat into the water, leaving the others to their fate. The irons around his ankles caused him to immediately drown.

This waxwork statue was on display in the Success to demonstrate prison life on the ship when it was turned into a museum.

The mutineers attempted to steer the boat towards a cluster of cutters (fishing boats) near the shore but were unable to reach them. Melville playfully blew a kiss to Thomas Hyland, the chief warder of Success, as they began to make good their escape. Instead of heading for the cutters they changed course, hoping they would eventually be able to row downstream in the river. The escapees were soon intercepted and captured by a police boat. When the corpses of Owens and Turner were fished out of the water, Turner appeared to have drowned, but the coroner stated that Owens had a hole in the left side of his head that was big enough to fit three fingers into. In the recovered boat Tristram Squire, the shipkeeper of Success, found two makeshift knives made out of and old pair of sheep shears.

Melville was tried in November before Justice Molesworth. While the other mutineers were acquitted of murder by construction on the 26th, owing to Owens’ death not being clearly a result of the escape plot, Melville had the charge of murder lumped squarely upon his shoulders. As was usual by now, Melville defended himself, charged with murdering Owens. Melville argued that as the warrant for his detention referred to him as Thomas Smith, which was not his name, he was being detained unlawfully. The session concluded at midnight with the jury finding him guilty, but it was not unanimously agreed upon that it was he that struck the killing blow, bringing into question the extent to which he could be charged with murder. In his closing speech to the jury, Melville went to pains to disclose the injustices he felt had been perpetrated against him, claiming he had been bullied, beaten and oppressed by corrupt prison staff, leading him to such desperation that he would be prepared to kill in pursuit of freedom. Melville’s attempts to defend himself were in vain, however, and on 21 November, 1856, he was sentenced to death.

Melville was returned to Success to serve out his sentence. Such was his desperation that he began to act completely unruly either to be transferred off Success, presumably to a lunatic asylum, or to be given the sweet release of death. When he attacked a guard, almost biting the hapless man’s nose off, he was given solitary confinement. Needless to say this was less than adequate and Melville continued his depredations in captivity.

Melbourne Gaol was to be Melville’s home for the remainder of his life. The prospect of thirty-five years in prison was not a life that Melville was willing to endure. His behaviour became erratic and uncontrollable, frequently refusing food. On one occasion in July 1857, Melville attempted to stop the prison guards from removing his night tub from his cell in order to clean it. He armed himself with a sharpened spoon and the lid from the tub as a shield and threatened to kill anyone that attempted to removed the night tub. During a scuffle with three of the guards, Melville attacked the governor of the gaol, George Wintle, and cut his head open behind his ear using the sharpened spoon. After this Melville was restrained and kept in solitary confinement where he could be monitored and assessed for mental illness. It was assumed that Melville was feigning madness in the hope of getting relocated to Yarra Bend Asylum so he could escape.

Melbourne Gaol ca.1861 [Source: SLV]

Melville was clearly despondent and sought the ultimate escape. On 11 August that year, when Melville failed to respond to the turnkey, guards entered his cell to find him dead. There was blood and foam coming from his ears and mouth, his face was contorted and there was a coiled handkerchief tightened around his neck. It was later determined that Melville had crafted a makeshift rope put it around his neck as tight as possible then simply slumped his head to the left until he was strangled to death. Prior to this he had scrawled a message on his wall in pencil declaring that he would leave the world on his own terms. An inquest deemed the death a felonious suicide. Melville’s body was buried in the prison grounds in an unmarked grave. In the end, it seems, Melville finally got the defiant freedom he had craved since he was a boy convict.

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Captain Moonlite: Guilty Until Proven Innocent

After his release from Pentridge Prison, Andrew George Scott struggled to get back on his feet. While he may have been determined to right the wrongs of his past, the police were seemingly determined to stifle those efforts. Scott was kept under constant police surveillance in the hope that at some point he would slip up. This harassment came to a head in several well publicised incidents.

[Source: “NEWS OF THE DAY.” The Age (Melbourne) 16 July 1879: 2.]

On 9 July, 1879, it was claimed that three men attempted to instigate an escape from the Williamstown battery of 19 year-old William Johnson, alias Andrew Fogarty, who was doing a two year sentence for housebreaking. Scott, Nesbitt and Johnson had done time together in Pentridge, their sentences overlapping from 5 April to 11 April, 1878, whereupon Nesbitt was transferred to Williamstown where convicts were housed in the old military barracks at Fort Gellibrand and employed upgrading the batteries. After Nesbitt was transferred, Johnson and Scott remained in Pentridge together until Scott’s release on 18 March, 1879. It was alleged that one of the men broke open a window and tried to give Johnson two revolvers to help him escape. Ultimately, the men disappeared and no escape was ever undertaken, but police immediately assumed Scott’s guilt. The press, naturally, leaped upon the story as evidence that the notorious Captain Moonlite was preparing a gang.

The Williamstown Timeball Tower c.1870s [Source: State Library of Victoria]

At the time, Scott and Nesbitt were in town looking for a venue in which Scott could give a presentation of one of his lectures on the need for prison reform. The lecture series had been a source of both pride and humiliation for Scott as audiences had responded overwhelmingly positively, but as the performances grew in popularity the police began to crack down on them, causing several events to be cancelled. There remained a question over the motivation for such a heavy-handed response to the lectures – was it merely an effort to prevent slanderous lies from being given a platform or was it censorship to obscure the truth of the allegations?

“Life in Pentridge. The prisoners’ school”, The Australasian sketcher, November 1, 1873

Scott was keenly aware of something of a smear campaign being launched against him and he was being touted as the murderer of an actor named Francis Marion Bates, who was found dead and looted in Melbourne. A man supposedly fitting Scott’s description had been seen following Bates shortly before he disappeared. After an inquest was held, it would be established that Bates had not been murdered at all, but had died of congestive heart and lung failure. Unfortunately for Scott, the general public had already been led to believe it was an open and shut case with blood on Scott’s hands. All he could hope for was that the public’s notoriously short memory would see the claim forgotten once his name was cleared in the matter.

William Johnson [Source: PROV]

The Williamstown battery was not much of a gaol by any stretch, only holding 18 prisoners at the time (one of which acted as the cook) and was merely a wooden building with plastered interior walls. The barracks had never been intended to house convicts and its rather flimsy construction had not weathered the conditions on Hobson’s Bay well at all. At night there was no guard on duty, but there were three warders on staff: Henry Steele, the senior warden; Turner and Robert Durham. At 8pm Steele headed off to his home on Twyford Street, leaving Durham in charge. The gaol was separated into three parts: the warder’s room, where the staff slept; the prisoner’s dormitory; and the kitchen, where the cook resided. Durham did the final inspection at 10pm and saw nothing awry. When Turner returned on the last train from Melbourne, he arrived at the barracks at 12:30am and went straight to bed. Durham retired soon after. At 1:30am Durham and Turner heard a knocking at the warder’s room and prisoner’s dormitory. Durham got up to investigate and was informed by William Johnson that there was rain coming in through a window about three feet above ground level. Durham got onto Johnson’s bed and saw that the window appeared to have been jimmied open, but not enough to allow a person in or out, and the fastenings appeared to have been cut with a knife. It was at this point that Durham recalled that he had seen a group of four men or boys loitering around the railway station and battery reserve at 2pm the previous afternoon, which he later asserted had looked like they were up to no good. He would swear that he recognised Andrew Scott and James Nesbitt walking to the beach and out of view. The prisoners had, at that time, been working on the reserve and Durham would recall seeing Johnson leave his cart to go to where the two men had disappeared. Durham was on it like a fly on a fresh cowpat, but could not reach them before Johnson returned to work. Durham spoke to the two men and said they had no right to speak to the prisoners, to which the man he identified as Scott replied, “This is a public road, is it not?” Durham had reported the incident to Steele when he had returned at 6pm but until the apparent attempted break in he had put it out of his mind.

With things settling down at the barracks, Henry Steele learner of the incident and reported it to the Williamstown police. The suggestion that the notorious Captain Moonlite was involved prompted a speedy response and a warrant was quickly issued. At the time the offence was being reported, Scott and Nesbitt were on foot and travelling to Clunes via Buninyong. When they arrived in town on the 17th they turned themselves in. Two revolvers Scott had allegedly disposed of had been found and were kept by the police as evidence. At the same time police had been warned to make sure their weapons were in good working order and arrangements were being made to send Johnson back to Pentridge.

Scott and Nesbitt, safely in custody, were sent to Melbourne to await trial with a supposed associate named Frank Foster, alias Croker, and kept in the Swanston Street lock-up. Foster had been named during initial investigation and was arrested at Talbot the day after Scott and Nesbitt turned themselves in. Foster had been serving a six year sentence in Pentridge for housebreaking at the same time as the others, but had gained his freedom in 1878 after a petition from the people of Talbot had been lodged to the government. Foster, it appeared, had been wrongfully imprisoned for the preceding five years after being framed. Yet, as far as the police were concerned Foster was guilty, they just hadn’t found a crime to pin on him yet. Associating him with Scott meant they finally had an opportunity to put him away without any pesky interference from do-gooders setting him free.

When questioned after his arrest, Scott’s name was cleared in relation to the Bates case when the two key witnesses actually saw Scott in person and emphatically denied he was the man they had seen. Typically, this was a fact most of the press tried to gloss over, eager to foster the image of Scott as an arch-fiend. Scott requested that he be furnished with the evidence supposedly collated against him and his associates in the Williamstown incident, but Detective Mackay, who was in charge of the investigation, refused to do so. The trio were remanded to Williamstown on Wednesday, 23 July, and a hearing was set for the Friday. No doubt it was an anxious wait for the men.

Frank Foster [Source: PROV]

On 25 July, Scott, Nesbitt and Foster appeared at Williamstown Police Court, charged with unlawfully conveying a pistol into the gaol at Williamstown battery. They were represented by Mr. Read, with Sub-Inspector Larner appearing for the prosecution. Henry Steele, Robert Durham, Edwin Robinson (son of the battery-keeper), and a prisoner named William Baker appeared to give evidence for the prosecution. Baker stated in his evidence that Scott, accompanied by Nesbitt and another man, had knocked on a window asking for Fogarty (Johnson’s alias) and was directed to the correct spot, whereupon he opened the window and gave Johnson a revolver. Johnson then allegedly refused to take it out of fear and Nesbitt spoke threateningly about the guards before they left. An interesting element of Baker’s testimony was that while all other witnesses claimed that it was raining that night, Baker claimed the weather was clear and dry.

Johnson also provided evidence. He confirmed that on the afternoon of the 9th he absconded work to speak to Scott and Nesbitt, but couldn’t confirm that they had any involvement with breaking open the window. More compelling was Johnson’s confession that his previous evidence to Detective Mackay was a string of lies that he was under pressure from his charges to swear, being constantly threatened while the investigation was occurring. He claimed that the fear of reprisals from the warders at the gaol was what motivated him to perjure himself, and it was a gang of larrikins that had jimmied his window open, and no revolver was ever passed through. As important as the evidence was, the bench determined that Johnson was an unreliable witness and he was removed from the box.

Further thickening the plot was the testimony of a fellow inmate named McIntosh, whose bed was closer to Johnson’s than Baker’s, in which he stated he could not verify who the men outside were and that the object passed through was a chisel, not a revolver. A pawnbroker named Ellis also testified that he had sold two revolvers to Scott, but they were larger than the ones produced as evidence. A lad named Patrick McMullen testified that Scott had asked for a form to give him permission to see Johnson, which had been presented when the encounter at the Battery Reserve occurred. Rev. Lewis, a clergyman from Blackwood, testified that Scott had given him a pair of revolvers, and a Blackwood Senior Constable named Young also testified that he had seen the defendants in the area on 13 July, corroborating the reverend’s evidence.

James Nesbitt, alias Lyons [Source: PROV]

The hearing was over quickly with Mr. Read addressing the court by stating that as the object allegedly passed through the window could not be verified, and since the Williamstown Battery was not an official gaol in the legal sense, and there being no compelling evidence that an escape had actually been attempted, the complaint could not be sustained. The bench was inclined to agree and the defendants were acquitted. The result caused a response from onlookers that the men, and indeed the furious prosecution, could hardly have expected – applause. If ever there was a sign that the general public in Victoria were becoming disenfranchised with the police, surely this was it. Yet, however much the hoi polloi had their distrust of authority, it was incomparable to that of Scott, who had endured insult and injury at the hands of the police, and with two charges they had laid against him having fallen through he knew it was only going to get worse.

The economic depression in Victoria proved to be a sore point for the Berry government, with calls made for action to help those affected, and the press being forced to admit that unemployment was not merely the result of lazy people refusing to work. [Source: Mount Alexander Mail, 25/06/1879, page 2]

For months civil unrest had been brewing due to an economic depression that was hitting Victoria hard. Rallies in the cities were held and workers battled for their rights. Outside the cities, swagmen tramped the countryside looking for work, and now Andrew Scott – former engineer, soldier, and clergyman – found himself in that same sinking boat along with James Nesbitt, Thomas Williams and Gus Wernicke. No doubt it came as no big surprise that when a bank robbery was carried out in Lancefield, Scott and Nesbitt were blamed, despite being nowhere nearby.

“THE BANK ROBBERY AT LANCEFIELD”, Illustrated Australian news, August 30, 1879.

At 10:10am on 15 August, two men entered a branch of the Commercial Bank of Australia at Lancefield. One presented a revolver and ordered Arthur Morrison, the accountant, to stay quiet or he would be shot claiming that the two robbers were members of the Kelly Gang and had locked up the police. Morrison was then bound with ropes and gagged with a piece of wood. With one robber keeping watch, the other took as many coins and notes as he could carry. When a customer named Charles Musty accidentally interrupted the robbery, he too was bailed up. Ironically, had the robbers ordered Musty to hand over his cash they would have gained an additional £200. While all this was happening, Zalmonah Wallace Carlisle, the manager, was blissfully unaware as he enjoyed the fresh air in the garden in his way to the post office. Within a few moments the damage was done and the robbers had fled with £866 9s 4d. The initial report to the police stated that the two offenders matched the description of the outlaws Ned Kelly and Steve Hart. In response to this Superintendents Hare and Sadleir, who were in charge of the hunt for the Kelly Gang, were sent out to Lancefield accompanied by Sub-Inspector O’Connor and his Queensland native police. It soon emerged that the crime had not been committed by the Kellys at all and there were only two other men that police suspected of the crime.

Once again, Andrew Scott and James Nesbitt were hauled in by the police. They were questioned about their whereabouts during the robbery. Scott and Nesbitt had no hesitation in stating they had been in Melbourne the whole time. Upon further investigation the alibi was solid and, much to the chagrin of the police, the pair were released.

Andrew George Scott

This was the last straw for Scott. He decided that Victoria was only a place of misery for him and his companions and their fortunes lay north in New South Wales. He informed police that he intended to leave the colony in the hope that they would cease haranguing him. Taking all he could carry in a swag, Andrew George Scott, the man popularly known as Captain Moonlite, headed off in search of greener pastures accompanied by his partner James Nesbitt and their friends Frank Johns, alias Thomas Williams, and Augustus Wernicke. They would never return.

As for William Johnson, the young man at the centre of the Williamstown incident, immediately following the acquittal of Scott, Nesbitt and Foster he was transferred to Pentridge. He would remain in and out of prison until January of 1883.

Regarding the Lancefield bank robbery, it would later transpire that the robbery had been undertaken by two men named Cornelius Bray and Charles Lowe. Bray would claim he was desperately seeking work and fell in with Lowe who told him he could guarantee him employment. He then claimed he was forced to participate in the robbery on pain of death if he refused. Lowe responded that Bray was merely trying to paint him blacker than he was in order to gain sympathy. The pair were found guilty, Bray receiving five years hard labour and Lowe receiving eight years, the first to be carried out in irons.

***

“Numerous petty insults were given us by the police. I honestly felt I was unsafe in Victoria. I feared perjury and felt hunted down and maddened by injustice and slander. I left Melbourne with my friends, carrying my blankets, clothes and firearms. I felt rabid and would have resisted capture by the police. Though I knew I had committed no crime, bitter experience had taught me that innocence and safety from accusations were different things. My life and liberty had been endangered by perjury and … they would be endangered till I could secretly escape from those who seemed to hunger, if not for my blood, for my liberty and safety.”

– Andrew Scott

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Spotlight: The Trial of Captain Melville

[This report of the trial of one of the most infamous bushrangers of the 1850s, Francis McCallum aka Captain Melville, gives a brief run down of the charge and the trial. McCallum was a Scottish convict who used a myriad of aliases and preyed upon the goldfields of Victoria. After his conviction his behaviour was erratic and violent, at one point he tried to bite off a guard’s nose. He was eventually found in his cell having choked himself to death with a makeshift rope.]

a14941.jpg
Prison ship Success
THE case of Melville and his fellow-prisoners, charged with murder committed in an attempt to escape from the hulks – or rather from the boat that was conveying them back to the hulks from labour on shore – is exciting the deepest interest among all classes of the community. The disclosures, says the Herald, made by Melville-corroborated by the other prisoners, unshaken in cross-examination and uncontradicted by any evidence tendered by the crown-have excited perfect horror and consternation. People say that if only one tenth or one twentieth,—or, indeed, if any part of it be true, the balance of guilt is against those who have perpetrated or tolerated such enormities. The feelings of human nature are aroused to sympathy with fellow-men; and, whatever crimes they may have committed, it is felt that nothing can justify the cruelties which remind us of those ascribed to the dungeons of the Inquisition. It is monstrous indeed, that within sight of Melbourne such floating hells should have been suffered to exist, and that men who are of the same flesh and blood with ourselves, and who will have to stand with us before the same Almighty Judge, should be treated as if they were already consigned to final torment, and we the executioners of their doom.
The trial of Thomas Smith, better known as “Captain Melville,” commenced on the 20th, before Mr. Justice Molesworth, and terminated at midnight, when the jury found the prisoner guilty of murder, but were not unanimous that it was he who actually struck the blow. The “Captain” was indicted for the wilful murder of Owen Owens, in Hobson’s Bay, on the 22nd October last, the prisoner then being in custody, and serving a sentence for felony. He defended himself, Dr. Mackay watching the proceedings on his behalf. Melville during the day displayed much coolness, effrontery and intelligence, but in his cross-examination, as is frequently the case with those who act as their own lawyer, he occasionally overshot the mark. The evidence against him seemed conclusive, but a point of law, viz., that he was not in legal custody when the offence was committed, has been reserved in his favour. Every available nook and corner of the Court was densely crowded, and the police experienced some difficulty in keeping in order numbers whose admission was impossible.
—
Source:
“VICTORIA.” The Courier (Hobart, Tas. : 1840 – 1859) 27 November 1856: 2.
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