The Dog Guard

THERE are lonesome places upon the earthThat have never re-echoed a sound of mirth,Where the spirits abide that feast and quaffOn the shuddering soul of a murdered laugh,And take grim delight in the fearful start,As their unseen fingers clutch the heart,And the blood flies out from the griping pain,To carry the chill through every vein;And the staring eyes and the whitened facesAre a joy to these ghosts of the lonesome places.

But of all the spots on this earthly sphereWhere these dismal spirits are strong and near.There is one more dreary than all the rest,—'Tis the barren island of Rottenest.On Australia's western coast, you may—On a seaman's chart of Fremantle Bay—,

Find a tiny speck, some ten miles from shore:If the chart be good, there is something more,—For a shoal runs in on the landward side,With five fathoms marked for the highest tide.You have nought but my word for all the rest.But that speck is the island of Rottenest.

'Tis a white sand-heap, about two miles long,And say half as wide; but the deeds of wrongBetween man and his brother that there took placeAre sufficient to sully a continent's face.Ah, cruel tales! were they told as a whole,They would scare your polished humanity's soul;They would blanch the cheeks in your carpeted room.With a terrible thought of the merited doomFor the crimes committed, still unredrest.On that white sand-heap called Rottenest.

Of late years the island is not so bareAs it was when I saw it first; for thereOn the outer headland some buildings stand.

And a flag, red-crossed, says the patch of sandIs a recognized part of the wide domainThat is blessed with the peace of Victoria's reign.But behind the lighthouse the land's the same,And it bears grim proof of the white man's shame;For the miniature vales that the island ownsHave a horrible harvest of human bones!

And how did they come there? that's the word;And I'll answer it now with the tale I heardFrom the lips of a man who was there, and sawThe bad end of man's greed and of colony law.

Many years ago, when the white man firstSet his foot on the coast, and was hated and cursedBy the native, who had not yet learned to fearThe dark wrath of the stranger, but drove his spearWith a freeman's force and a bushman's yellAt the white invader, it then befellThat so many were killed and cooked and eaten,There was risk of the whites in the end being beaten

So a plan was proposed,—'twas deemed safest and bestTo imprison the natives in Rottenest.

And so every time there was white blood spilled,There were black men captured; and those not killedIn the rage of vengeance were sent awayTo this bleak sand isle in Fremantle Bay;And it soon came round that a thousand menWere together there, like wild beasts in a pen.There was not a shrub or grass-blade in the sand,Nor a piece of timber as large as your hand;But a government boat went out each dayTo fling meat ashore—and then sailed away.

For a year or so was this course pursued,Till 'twas noticed that fewer came down for foodWhen the boat appeared; then a guard lay roundThe island one night, and the white men foundThat the savages swam at the lowest tideTo the shoal that lay on the landward side,—

'Twas a mile from the beach,—and then waded ashore;So the settlers met in grave council once more.

That a guard was needed was plain to all;But nobody answered the Governor's callFor a volunteer watch. They were only a few,And their wild young farms gave plenty to do;And the council of settlers was breaking up,With a dread of the sorrow they'd have to supWhen the savage, unawed, and for vengeance wild,Lay await in the wood for the mother and child.And with doleful countenance each to his neighborTold a dreary tale of the world of laborHe had, and said, "Let him watch who can,I can't;" when there stepped to the front a manWith a hard brown face and a burglar's brow,Who had learned the secret he uttered nowWhen he served in the chain-gang in New South Wales.And he said to them: "Friends, as all else fails,

These 'ere natives are safe as if locked and barred,If you'll line that shoal with a mastiff guard!"

And the settlers looked at each other awhile,Till the wonder toned to a well-pleased smileWhen the brown ex-burglar said he knew,And would show the whole of 'em what to do.

Some three weeks after, the guard was set;And a native who swam to the shoal was metBy two half-starved dogs, when a mile from shore,—And, somehow, that native was never seen more.All the settlers were pleased with the capital plan,And they voted their thanks to the hard-faced man.For a year, each day did the government boatTake the meat to the isle and its guard afloat.In a line, on the face of the shoal, the dogsHad a dry house each, on some anchored logs;And the neck-chain from each stretched just half way

To the next dog's house; right across the BayRan a line that was hideous with horrid soundsFrom the hungry throats of two hundred hounds.

So one more year passed, and the brutes on the logsHad grown more like devils than common dogs.There was such a hell-chorus by day and nightThat the settlers ashore were chilled with frightWhen they thought—if that legion should break away,And come in with the tide some fatal day!

But they 'scaped that chance; for a man came inFrom the Bush, one day, with a 'possum's skinTo the throat filled up with large pearls he'd foundTo the north, on the shore of the Shark's Bay Sound.And the settlement blazed with a wild commotionAt sight of the gems from the wealthy ocean.

Then the settlers all began to packTheir tools and tents, and to ask the track

That the bushman followed to strike the spot,—While the dogs and natives were all forgot.In two days, from that camp on the River Swan,To the Shark's Bay Sound had the settlers gone;And no merciful feeling did one retardFor the helpless men and their terrible guard.

It were vain to try, in my quiet room.To write down the truth of the awful doomThat befell those savages prisoned there,When the pangs of hunger and wild despairHad nigh made them mad as the fiends outside:'Tis enough that one night, through the low ebb tide.Swam nine hundred savages, armed with stonesAnd with weapons made from their dead friends' bones.Without ripple or sound, when the moon was gone.Through the inky water they glided on;Swimming deep, and scarce daring to draw a breath,While the guards, if they saw, were as dumb as death.

'Twas a terrible picture! O God! that the nightWere so black as to cover the horrid sightFrom the eyes of the Angel that notes man's waysIn the book that will ope on the Day of Days!

There were screams when they met,—shrill screams of pain!For each animal swam at the length of his chain,And with parching throat and in furious moodLay awaiting, not men, but his coming food.There were short, sharp cries, and a line of fleckAs the long fangs sank in the swimmer's neck;There were gurgling growls mixed with human groans,For the savages drave the sharpened bonesThrough their enemies' ribs, and the bodies sank,Each dog holding fast with a bone through his flank.

Then those of the natives who 'scaped swam back;But too late! for scores of the savage pack,Driven mad by the yells and the sounds of fight,Had broke loose and followed. On that dread night

Let the curtain fall: when the red sun roseFrom the placid ocean, the joys and woesOf a thousand men he had last eve seenWere as things or thoughts that had never been.

When the settlers returned,—in a month or two,—They bethought of the dogs and the prisoned crew.And a boat went out on a tardy questOf whatever was living on Rottenest.They searched all the isle, and sailed back agenWith some specimen bones of the dogs and men.