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A Bushranger’s Confessions.
In a third article on the Pentridge Stockade, the
Argus “ Vagabond” gives the following statements
made to him by Harry Power, the once noted Vic-
torian bushranger: “ I’ve led a very wicked life sir,”
said Power, in one of his many conversations, “and
God is now punishing me for it. If I’d been wise I’d
be a rich man now. I’d £1700 once—money all
honestly come by, which ought to have lasted me
for life, but I’ve always been a fool, I knocked it
down in a year. You know the Bull and Mouth in
Bourke-street ? Well, I was nearly buying the plot of
ground for £50 once. There was nothing but a water-
hole and a gum tree on it then, but like a fool I spent
my money. See the fortune that would be to me now.
But I little thought I’d have to die in Pentridge hos-
pital then. Yes, I’ve been a bad man, and I am
sorry for my sins, but here on my dying bed I can
swear that no woman was ever the worse for me.
And the devil has tempted me at times. Don’t I
mind how one day I was up at the hut, the Quins, I
mean, they who sold me. First and last, they’d
heaps of money from me, for I paid the whole
family well. This morning the old woman was out,
and there was no one in but the daughter. And
she’s a beautiful girl ; there isn’t a finer in Australia.
She was a good girl, too, for all I knew.
She was making a ’possum rug, and as I
sat smoking my pipe and watching her,
the devil came to me. There was no one
round for miles, hadn’t I lots of money, and couldn’t
I tempt the girl ? Besides, although I was old and
she young, she liked me in a friendly way. And
the devil fixed my eyes on her, and she sat twisting
about and saying ‘ Harry this, and Harry that.’ I
got up and went out, and the devil followed me. ‘ I’ll
best you yet, Mr. Devil,’ said I. ‘ It shall never be
said that my mother’s son wronged any girl.’ I
walked up and down, and we fought hard. I was
afraid he’d get the better of me there, so I jumped
on my horse. Then the girl came to the door and
said, “ Harry where are you going ?’ and the devil
nearly pulled me back. But I stuck the spurs in
deep, and off we went, I rode round the country
for many a long mile, till my horse was all in a lather
and as I came back I dropped the devil. ‘ I got the
better of ye that time,’ says I, and when I got to the
hut again the old woman was home, as I knew she
would be. ‘ Have a pannikin of tea, Harry,’ says the
girl. ‘ Thank ye,’ says I, boldly, for I’d killed the
devil for once. The Quins are bad blood, and I
dare the girl has come to no good, but lying here
on my dying bed may be, I’m thankful I’ve no such
sin on my soul.”
I believe this story is true. I do not think the
man could invent it, and the mode of narration
stamped it genuine. As a rule prisoners will boast
of their crimes, and such an incident as this is en-
tirely out of the line of a criminal’s thoughts unless
it had happened. Harry Power, too, is an Irishman,
and the chastity of the peasant girls of Erin is only
equalled by the respect of the males for such. I
think I could have discovered if the man was lying
to me. When I heard this graphically narrated I
believed it, and I honoured and respected Harry
Power bushranger though he is. When the tempta-
tion of my life comes I hope I may be able to fight
the devil as gallantly. In the many long conversa-
tions I had with Harry, I discovered a fund of good,
a greatness of heart and soul perverted by vicious
training and mode of life. But if men are to be
judged, not by their deeds alone but by the circum-
stances influencing them, I reckon Harry Power will
stand a good show at the finish. His descriptions
of life on the ranges was most interesting and
poetical. “ Yer were never there, sir, you say, well
I hope y’ll go some day,” said Harry. “ It’s there
ye’ll see the finest sights in the word. Ay ! it’s
grand to be on the ranges, and to breathe the beauti-
ful pure air, and to see Mount Feathertop far above
ye, and down below, for miles and miles, the beautiful
country. There’s water all the year round, and it’s
always cool and pleasant. That’s the place for a man
to live ; and if I was out and well, I wouldn’t wish
for anything better than to end my days there. Ay,
I’ve led a bad life, but I only wanted a mate to help
me make a big haul, and then I meant to go to
America, and live an honest man.” The regretful
manner in which Power lamented that he had not
been able to pull off a big event to enable him to live
honestly afterwards, was most amusing. He evi-
dently felt that fate had dealt hardly with him in
this respect. “ I always was stuck for want of a
mate,” said he. “ There’s young Kelly was with me
for a time, but he was no good, and helped to sell me
at last. They say that he or one of the Quins was
dressed up as a black tracker to deceive me. God
will judge them for taking blood-money. I mind
the time I stuck up the Beechworth coach. There
I was all alone on a public road, with twenty-four
around me. Well, I couldn’t do it properly, and I
lost no end of money there. Many times like that,
for want of a mate, I lost money. Then there was
the bank at Stawell. I was going to stick that
up, but could not do it without a mate, and I
lost over £5,000 there. The naiveté with which
Power lamented his losses was charmingly comical.
He really seemed to believe that he was a badly
used man. “ How did you manage in bailing up ?”
I asked. “You see, sir, I always liked a double-
barrelled gun. I’d always lots of pistols, too, but
the gun covering any one was awkward. You may
miss with a pistol, but the gun was sure, and then,
sir,” a flash of the old fire lighting into his eyes,
“ every one was frightened at Harry Power. I’d got
a bad name, but it was worth a good deal to me.
You wouldn’t think it to see me lying here with a
voice like a child’s that I could cooey louder than
any man in the bush. But that’s so. I frightened
the people with my voice, and of course I cursed
and swore, and everyone thought I was going to
kill them. But lots of money slipped through my
fingers fer want of a mate.”
“ Did you stick up many stations ?” I asked. “ A
good few, maybe ; but you can’t get much money
at stations ; it’s all cheque business. But when I
wanted a horse I always knew where to get it, and
I’ve got arms and ammunition at stations. I always
tried to see all the men off, and then I’d ride up to
the house, and hitch up my horse, and walk in.
When I saw a lady, I’d say, ‘ Good morning, ma’am.
I’m Mr. Power, and I’d like some breakfast.’ Some
would be frightened, but some behaved very well,
and they were very polite to me, and called me
‘ Mister Power.’ I remember once, as I was having
some ham and eggs, the lady came and read the
Bible to me, and afterwards prayed for me. I felt
it was very kind of her, but it wouldn’t do to let
her see it, so I got up when I’d done my breakfast,
and says I, ‘ Thank ye kindly, ma’am, but it’s some
of those bad wretches down at Pentridge want the
prayers and the book, and not I. I’ll trouble ye for
what money ye’ve got in the house.’ I only once,
I think, behaved badly to a lady ; it was the last
time I got out, over seven years ago, and I was
chased, and had nothing. When I got to the sta-
tion I thought there were men concealed in the
house, so I points my gun, God forgive me, at the
baby in the cradle, and says I, “ If ye’ve any men
waiting to take me, I’ll blow out the child’s brains.’
The poor lady went on her knees, and swore there
was no one there, and I felt easy.” “ Harry,” said
I, “ that wasn’t like a man.” “ No,” said Power, “ I
was sorry for it then and after, but I was mad after
being here so long. I had some fun at a station
once though. I wanted some meat, and had killed
and was skinning a sheep, when Mr. —— and
another man rode up. ‘ You infernal scoundrel,’
says he, ‘ how dare you kill a sheep of mine ?
Get up at once, and come to the station.’
I said never a word, but eyed his horse,
and it was a good one. ‘ Don’t you hear me, you
blackguard ?’ says he. ‘ What’s your name? I’m a
magistrate. I will send you to prison. Give me
your name, you ——.’ I’d come to the conclusion that
his horse was better than mine, so, picking up my
gun, I covered them, kneeling as I was by the sheep.
Mr. ——,’ says I, ‘ my name’s Power, and I’m not
ashamed of it. Just get off that horse.’ Ye never
saw a man so taken back in your life. ‘ Oh ! cer-
tainly, Mister Power,’ says he, ye’re welcome to a
sheep whenever ye want it. I wouldn’t think of
saying a word about it. Take whatever ye like and
welcome, Mister Power.’ ‘ Thank ye for nothing,’
says I ; ‘ none of your blarney, come off that horse,’
and I stuck up the station, which I shouldn’t have
done if he’d left me alone, as I only meant to get a bit
of meat at first. I’ve lost lots of money, but I’m tell-
ing ye true as I lie here, sir, I’ve let many a man
pass when I didn’t want money myself, and thought
that he did. I mind once, on the road between Bal-
larat and Bacchus Marsh, myself and young Kelly
had halted near the road, the police being all out
in the bush after us. We were on the top of the hill,
and could see for miles around. A buggy
with a man and boy in it came up. I
took stock of them. ‘ A bagman with a large
family,’ I thought. ‘ That’s his eldest son, a smart-
looking lad. Not many notes, all cheques ; no use
robbing him of a few pounds.’ As the buggy was
walking past us I asked if anyone was on the road,
and about the police. The gentleman gave me fair
answers, and began loading his pipe. I think he
knew us, but he was a cool hand. I asked for some
matches, and got some, and then I asked the time,
though I’d a couple of gold watches in my pocket.
His watch was silver, and I didn’t want it. After a
few words he drove on, and I daresay he was glad to
get off. But what did he do when he got to Bacchus
Marsh ? Why, he set the police after us, and I don’t
think he ought to have done that when I let him go
by, I’m sorry I didn’t stick him up.”
“ How did you manage to get out the last time ?”
I asked. “Well, sir,” said Power, “I was ill, and
not working in the gang. They were making the
wall down there, and the men outside were all num-
bered in by the warder in charge. I had hidden in a
hole just by the wall, and the minute they passed me
coming in I stepped out, and was over the Merri
Creek in a minute. They say they missed me at
once, but in the bush they could never find me,
although the country was raised on me. I
was out all that night, and had nothing to
eat, and the only weapon I had was a little
tomahawk. The next day I got round into
the Sydney road, and stopped some draymen, asking
them for some tucker. They knew me by the dress
and the hue and cry being out, and they wanted to
arrest me and take me back to Pentridge. But I
swore I’d brain the first who’d touch me, and they
daren’t do it. I tell you, sir, if I had the chance, I
meant to live on the square this time, but I could
see I was getting into it. Ill and hungry, I had to
drag through the bush to the hut of a man I knew.
I got some tucker, clothes and a gun there. The
next morning I started out again. On the road I
heard the troopers were after me, and I saw I was
getting into it. I must have a horse, so I waited for
a mark. At last a man on a likely-looking mare
came along. ‘ Bail up, you ——,’ says I, ‘ I’m Power.’
He’d heard of me, and was off in a second, and gave
me £17 he had. I could see I was getting in for it
badly. Well, then I rode away, and stuck up a sta-
tion, and got £70 and two rifles and revolvers,
besides those I broke. I could see I was in for it
worse than ever, and in another day or two I was in
for it altogether.” The comical manner in which
Power explained how he “ got in for it” was most
amusing “ Well, you see you got taken again,” said
I, “and might just as well have stopped and done
your time out.” “Ay, sir, but all the troopers and black
trackers out of hell would not have taken me if I
hadn’t been sold—sold for the £500 by them I trusted
and paid well. And then I shouldn’t have been
taken if I hadn’t been a fool. I was warned. I
mind well I was sitting in the hut, and the old wo-
man was peeling pertaters for supper. ‘ Harry,’ said
she, ‘ I dreamt as ye was took last night.’ I thought
nothing of it, and she went on afterwards. “ Harry,
I dreamt as ye was taken ; it might be to-morrow.”
If I hadn’t been a natural born fool, I should have
known she meant to warn me, but I rode off. I
camped up the gully, in a spot I thought no
one would ever find out. This night, as
I got near the mimi, my horse neighed.
If I hadn’t been a born fool I’d have known
another horse was near. The troopers were
there, waiting for me. I mind me it was a beautiful
night, the last I ever saw as a free man. I was dead
tired, and, turning out my horse, I rolled myself up in
my blankets, and went to sleep at once. And then
they took me, and all through my want of sense to
take the old woman’s warning. But they had to
take me when asleep, and perhaps its best as it is,
for I should only have fought, and got into further
trouble.”
Such is Harry Power, as drawn by himself, and
from inquiries amongst the warders and the outside
world I think that in the main his narrative is cor-
rect. Let no one think that I mean to make a hero
of him. In his day he was a most dangerous ruffian,
but compared to many who are now in Pentridge he
is a saint. Power is now an old man, dying gradu-
ally. He is afflicted with an incurable complaint,
which necessitates many painful operations, which
have to be performed under chloroform. Every
care and attention is shown to him in the hospital,
and I calculate that he is costing the Government
about £200 a year ; at least his treatment is fully
worth that. He has a special nurse, he has brandy
and gin allowed him, he has extra delicacies prepared
in the hospital kitchen. Dr. Reed also, with a kind-
ness which cannot be too highly commended, will
often send Power some fish for dinner from his own
table, and the last thing at night a mug of hot tea
and some tempting toast or bread and butter is
always brought over by the doctor’s servant. His
lot is certainly not a hard one now, yet the man
yearns to be free, to be enabled to die outside the
prison walls.
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