Twelve years ago in a North Queensland town I was told the story of “The Man in the Buffalo Hide” by Ned D——.  He (D——­) was then a prosperous citizen, having made a small fortune by “striking it rich” on the Gilbert and Etheridge Rivers goldfields.  Returning from the arid wastes of the Queensland back country to Sydney, he tired of leading an inactive life, and hearing that gold had been discovered on one of the Solomon Islands, he took passage thither in the Sydney whaling barque Costa Rica packet, and though he returned to Australia without discovering gold in the islands, he had kept one of the most interesting logs of a whaling cruise it has ever been my fortune to read.  The master of the whaleship was Captain J.Y.  Carpenter, a man who is well known and highly respected, not only in Sydney (where he now resides), but throughout the East Indies and China, where he had lived for over thirty years.  And it was from Captain Carpenter who was one of the actors in this twice-told tragedy, that D——­heard this story of Chinese vengeance.  He (D——­) related it to me in ’88, and I wish I could write the tale as well and vividly as he told it.  However, I wrote it out for him then and there.  Much to our disgust the editor of the little journal to whom we sent the MS., considered it a fairy tale, and cut it down to some two or three hundred words.  I mention these apparently unnecessary details merely that the reader may not think that the tale is fiction, for two years or so after, Captain Carpenter corroborated my friend’s story.

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It was after the Taeping rebellion had been stamped out in blood and fire by Gordon and his “Ever Victorious Army,” and the Viceroy (Li Hung Chang) had taken up his quarters in Canton, and was secretly torturing and beheading those prisoners whom he had sworn to the English Government to spare.

Carpenter was in command of a Chinese Government despatch vessel—­a side-wheeler—­which was immediately under the Viceroy’s orders.  She was but lightly armed, but was very fast, as fast went in those days.  His ship had been lying in the filthy river for about a week, when, one afternoon, a mandarin came off with a written order for him to get ready to proceed to sea at daylight on the following morning.  Previous experience of his estimable and astute Chinese employers warned him not to ask the fat-faced, almond-eyed mandarin any questions as to the steamer’s destination, or the duration of the voyage.  He simply said that he would be ready at the appointed time.

At daylight another mandarin, named Kwang—­one of much higher rank than his visitor of the previous day—­came on board.  He was attended by thirty of the most ruffianly-looking scoundrels—­even for Chinamen—­that the captain had ever seen.  They were all well armed, and came off in a large, well-appointed boat, which, the mandarin intimated with a polite smile, was to be towed, if she was too heavy to be hoisted aboard.  A couple of hands were put in her, and she was veered astern.  Then the anchor was lifted, and the steamer started on her eighty miles trip down the river to the sea, the mandarin informing the captain that he would name the ship’s destination as soon as they were clear of the land.