Williamstown amateur historian Barb McNeill is Star Weekly’s history columnist. This week she tells the tale of marital antics on the Maribyrnong River that could have caused an innocent man to hang.
On Friday, 24 February 1893, Mr and Mrs Horner of Yarraville decided that a moonlit summer night called for a gentle boat trip. They hired a craft fitted with oars, and, for some unfathomable reason, chose the malodorous Saltwater River (now called the Maribyrnong) for the evening’s romantic voyage.
As Mr Horner rowed through the detritus of the boiling down works, they noticed a fire on Coode Island sending a sinister red gleam onto the murky waters of the Saltwater. His attention thus diverted, he ran the boat into a sandbank, and his wife screamed in mock terror, “Jack! Are you trying to kill me?”
An equally impish soul, Mr Horner shouted at her, “If you don’t mind your mouth, I’ll throw you into the river!”
Getting well and truly into her stride, his wife screamed even louder, at which her husband lost his balance and toppled towards her, sending both into the hellish waters. Mrs Horner, thoroughly enjoying this impromptu acting performance, spat the mud from her teeth and, unaware that they had an audience, screeched, “Don’t, Jack! Don’t kill me! Please, don’t do it!”
On the opposite bank, under the railway bridge and in the shadows of the abattoir, John Ralston and his mate Tommy Sheehan, aged 13 and 11 respectively, were angling. The only adult nearby was an elderly fisherman, who being completely deaf and intently focused on catching eels, had heard and seen nothing. The lads decided that it was their job to inform the authorities and rushed off to find a policeman. They found Senior Constable McGrath walking his beat in Hopkins Street and gasped out their dreadful story.
They were taken to Footscray Police Station where Sergeant Routledge spoke to them separately. Vividly they described the murderer’s brutal threats and the desperate screams for mercy from the terrified woman as she begged for her life. The inhuman beast, impervious to her cries, had held her under the water until she drowned.
Police raced to the spot and spent the entire weekend dragging the waters with grappling irons. Crowds gathered to gawk and amongst the ghouls was Andrew Young a 28-year-old groom who worked for Kirk’s Bazaar, horse sellers. Shortly before the excitement in Footscray, he had had his fingers badly bitten by a horse and, ever an opportunist, charged into the Apollo Hotel, waving his injured digits and claiming to have fought with the killer. In florid terms, he informed his audience how he had tried but failed to affect a citizen’s arrest and save the victim. The saga of his desperate struggle went on and on as he chugged down glass after glass, regaling the boozers with his amazing bravery. Nobody noticed that he wasn’t wet.
Police, meanwhile, visited the Ralston and Sheehan homes for further questioning of the only eyewitnesses. John Ralston, overwhelmed by the whole business, said it was all made up, and he didn’t know why they had done it. Sheehan was contemptuous of his sissy older mate and stuck to his story. Nothing would shake his testimony.
Then word reached police that a brave fellow was in the Apollo, and had not only witnessed the murder, but had actually fought with the killer. In the muck and stench of the river, attempting to affect a citizen’s arrest, he had sustained badly bitten fingers.
The Apollo Hotel, formerly on the corner of Dynon and Kensington roads, had earned itself a fearsome reputation over the years for cock-fighting, landlords who bashed payment-evading patrons, Sunday trading and other heinous crimes.
There in the notorious bar, the police found Andrew Young, regaling his pop-eyed audience with tales of his heroic fight with the murderer. Every time he paused for breath, his glass was refilled, and his story promptly expanded with fresh exaggerations. The licensee, Bridget Murphy, shrewdly thought that he was laying it on a bit thick, describing the vile oaths of the ruffian, and the last, pitiful shrieks for mercy from the dying victim. He continued, relating how he and the killer had engaged in desperate combat, until the cowardly crook plunged his fangs into Andrew’s fingers, thereby escaping the hero’s grasp. Mrs Kelly said nothing, however. As long as money changed hands, she wasn’t voicing any doubts about his yarn.
Andrew Young was lugged off to Footscray Police Station and subjected to a frightful grilling. His description of the murderer was vague, he couldn’t describe the woman, he had no idea where he had gone after watching the dragging of the river, where he’d been drinking or how he’d got home to South Yarra. Maybe by train, maybe by cab, or perhaps by walking. He really didn’t know.
Accustomed to interrogating dodgy characters, the police knew a guilty person when they had him in their clutches .This they happily demonstrated by charging him with wilful murder of an unknown woman. Andrew Young nearly had a fit.
“Arrest those two boys,” he screamed at the detectives.
“You’ve got the wrong man. They’re the ones who did it!”
The detectives laughed rudely in his face and informed him that he’d soon be swinging on the gallows. In vain did Andrew Young protest that he had been bitten by a horse, not a murderer, but the police just repeated their remarks about capital crimes and what happened to those who committed them.
Meanwhile, Mr and Mrs Horner, dry and comfortable in their Yarraville home, read about the murder in the papers.
“How strange, “ said Mrs Horner to her toast-munching spouse.
“This happened when we were there. At the same time, too. How dreadful!”.
Then they stared at each other in consternation, realising that the boys on the opposite bank had witnessed their tomfoolery. Greatly embarrassed, they popped into Footscray police station to explain that their marital antics had caused all the drama, and they didn’t want an innocent man to hang.
Their statements were taken, signed and witnessed, and Sergeant Routledge squashed down his laughter until they were well on their way home.
He then summoned the detectives and went to the cells. Andrew Young’s fingers were again examined; his injuries were found to be consistent with the choppers of a nag’s bite and the murder charge was quietly dropped.
Vowing never again to tell lies, Andrew Young skipped off, a free man.
Knowing that the Apollo’s tough patrons who had shouted him dozens of beers would soon be on the warpath for a refund, he avoided that pub for the rest of his life.
