The Ghost Camp

There was not much need for pushing ahead the concerns of the Great Tasmanian Comstock, by which name it was chiefly known and designated. The whole island seemed to be in a ferment. The public and the share market only needed restraining. It was, of course, only in the hurry and crush of applications for scrip, in resemblance to the South Sea – well, we’ll say, Excitement of old historic days. The blocks of silver ore, “native silver,” malachite, and other specimens exhibited behind a huge plate glass window in Davey Street, had driven the city wild. Crowds collected around it, and a couple of stalwart policemen were specially stationed there by the inspector to prevent unseemly crushing and riot. In addition well-armed night watchmen were provided at the expense of the Comstock Company for the nocturnal safety of the precious deposits. The Pateena was to leave for her customary conflict with the rough waves of Bass’s Straits at 12 a.m. So, after a hard night’s work, the “popular director” took a parting smoke and retired for what sleep was likely to visit him by 8 a.m., when the two partners were to breakfast together. Mr. Blount had not a tranquil experience of “tired nature’s sweet restorer.” “Little-River-Jack,” the Sergeant, and Sheila Maguire pursued one another through the Bunjil forest, accompanied by the doomed mail-boy and Mr. Bruce. Sergeant Dayrell had apparently come to life again, and was standing pistol in hand with the same devilish sneer on his lips, face to face with Kate Lawless and Ned. Then the melancholy cortège moved across the scene, with the police riding slowly, as they led the spare horses upon which was tied the dead inspector and the wounded trooper. All things seemed sad, funereal, and out of keeping with the enforced gaiety and cordial hospitality which he had lately enjoyed. It was a relief on awakening to find, all unrefreshed as he was, that he had ample time in which to recruit, by means of the shower bath and matutinal coffee, his hardly-taxed mental and physical energies. However, all was ready to respond to the breakfast bell, specially ordered and arranged for, and when Mr. Tregonwell, looking as if he had gone to bed early and was only anxious about the Hobart Courier, entered the breakfast room, all tokens of despondency vanished from Mr. Blount’s countenance.

Then only he realised that a creditably early start was feasible – was actually in process of operation.

“Look here!” exclaimed that notoriously early bird, producing two copies of the Courier, of which he handed his friend one, “Read this as a preliminary, and keep the paper in your pocket for board-ship literature.”

It was, indeed, something to look at, as the supplement displayed under gigantic headlines this portentous announcement —

“The Tasmanian Comstock and AssociatedSilver Mines Company, Limited

“Acting under legal advice, the Directors have decided to close the share list of this unparalleled mine, of which the ore bodies at greater depths are daily disclosing a state of phenomenal richness. All applications for shares not sent in by the fifteenth day of the present month will be returned. If over-applied for – of which information will be furnished by the incoming English mail – applicants will have shares allotted to them in the order of their priority.”

This was to Mr. Blount sufficient information for the present. The future of the mine was assured, and he was merely nervously anxious that no malignant interference with the normal course of events should prevent his arriving in Melbourne on the following day, in time to take his berth in the Sydney Express that afternoon – which indeed he had telegraphed for the day before. The partners had arrived on board the Pateena, now puffing angrily, with full steam up, a full half hour before the advertised time, owing to Mr. Blount’s anxiety not to be late, and were walking up and down the deck, Tregonwell in vain attempting to get his fellow director to listen to details, and Blount inwardly fuming at the delay and cursing the Tasmanian lack of punctuality and general slackness, when two shabbily-dressed men stepped on board, one of whom walked up to the friends, tapped Mr. Blount on the shoulder, and producing a much crumpled piece of paper, said shortly, “I arrest you in the Queen’s name, by virtue of this Warrant!”

To describe Mr. Blount’s state of mind at this moment is beyond the resources of the English language – perhaps beyond those of any language. Rage, mortification, surprise, despair almost, struggled together in his mind, until his heart seemed bursting.

For a moment it seemed, as he threw off his captor with violence, and faced the pair of myrmidons with murder in his eye, as if he intended resistance in spite of law, order, and all the forces of civilisation. But his companion, cooler in situations of absolute peril as he was more impetuous in those of lighter responsibility, restrained him forcibly.

“Nonsense! keep calm, for God’s sake, and don’t make a scene. Just allow me to look at the warrant,” he said to the apprehending constable. “I wish to see if it is in order. I am a magistrate of the territory. I can answer for my friend, who, though naturally disgusted, is not likely to resist the law.”

The men were placated by this reasonable treatment of the position.

“The warrant seems in order,” said Tregonwell. “The strange part of it is that it should not have been cancelled all this time, as we know that no proceedings were taken by the police at Bunjil in consequence of the non-appearance of the prosecution for the Crown. How this warrant got here and has been forwarded for execution is the astonishing part of the affair. Do you know,” he said, addressing the peace officer, “how this warrant came into the hands of the Department here?”

“Forwarded for execution here, sir,” said the man civilly, “with a batch of New South Wales warrants, chiefly for absconders, false pretences men, and others who have a way of crossing the Straits. It oughtn’t to have been allowed to run, as the case wasn’t gone on with. The acting clerk of the bench there is a senior constable, not quite up in his work; he has made a mistake, and got it mixed up with others. Most likely it’s a mistake, but all the same, the gentleman must come with us for the present.”

“All right, constable, we’ll go with you, and make no attempt to escape. Bail will be forthcoming – in thousands, if necessary.”

The steamer’s bell began to sound, and after a few minutes, and a hurried colloquy with the captain, who promised to see his unlucky passenger’s luggage delivered at the Imperial Club, the friends descended into the boat, and Tregonwell read out the warrant in his hands. It was apparently in order: —

“To Senior Constable Evans and to all Police Officers and Constables in the Colony of Victoria. – You are hereby commanded to arrest Valentine Blount – known as ‘Jack Blunt,’ at present supposed to be working in the ‘Lady Julia’ claim, forty miles from Bunjil, on the Wild Horse Creek, in company with Phelim and Patrick O’Hara, also George Dixon (known as Lanky), and to bring him before me or any other Police Magistrate of Victoria. This warrant is issued on the sworn information of Edward Hamilton Bruce, J.P. of Marondah, on the Upper Sturt, and for such action this shall be your warrant.

“(Signed) H. Bayley, P.M.”

The sorely-tried lover felt much more inclined to fling himself into the waters of the Derwent, and there remain, than to occupy for one moment longer this ignominious position at the hands of the myrmidons of the law. However, the next step, of course, was to interview the police magistrate of Hobart at his Court House, and after having explained the circumstances, to apply for bail, so that the period of detention might be shortened as much as possible. This process of alleviation was effected without unnecessary delay, the magistrate being a reasonable, experienced person, and as such inclined to sympathise with the victim of malign fate, obviously not of the class with which he had been for years judicially occupied.

The officer briefly stated the case, produced the warrant, and delivered up his prisoner, who was permitted to take a chair. Mr. Parker, P.M., scanned the warrant with keen and careful eye before committing himself to an opinion. After which he bestowed a searching glance upon Mr. Blount, and thus delivered himself:

“It appears,” he said, “that this warrant was issued, with several others, upon the sworn information of Edward Hamilton Bruce, J.P., of Marondah, Upper Sturt, who had reason to believe that the person named – viz., Valentine Blount – generally known as ‘Jack Blunt,’ was concerned with Phelim O’Hara, Patrick O’Hara, George Dixon (otherwise Lanky), and John Carter, known as ‘Little-River-Jack,’ in stealing and disposing of certain fat cattle branded E.H.B., the property of the said Edward Hamilton Bruce. It is now the 20th of November,” said the worthy P.M., “and I note that this warrant was signed on the 10th of September last. By a curious coincidence I have this morning received a communication from the Department of Justice in Victoria informing me that separate warrants were issued for the persons named in the information, but that, owing to deficiency of proof and difficulty of identification of the stock suspected to have been killed or otherwise disposed of, the Crown Solicitor has ordered a Nolle Prosequi to be entered. ‘In accordance with which decision, notices of such action were signed by the bench of magistrates at Bunjil, Victoria, and the warrants, in the names of Phelim O’Hara, Patrick O’Hara, George Dixon (alias Lanky), and John Carter (alias Little-River-Jack), were cancelled. But through inadvertence, the warrant in the name of Valentine Blount (otherwise Jack Blunt) had been mislaid, and, with other documents, forwarded to James Parker, Esq., P.M., Hobart. He is requested to return the said warrant to the Department of Justice, and if the said warrant has been by misadventure executed, to release at once the said Valentine Blount, known as “Jack Blunt.”

“‘I remain, sir,

“‘Your obedient servant,

“‘George B. Harrison,“‘Under Secretary of Justice.’

“That being the case, I have the pleasure to congratulate you, sir, on your escape from a very unpleasant position, and to apologise on behalf of the Department with which I am connected, for the unfortunate mistake, as well as for all consequences to which it may have led in your case. Sergeant, let the accused be discharged.”

Thus, after undergoing tortures, as to which the same time spent on a rack of the period – say in the time of His Most Christian Majesty, Philip of Spain – would have been a trifling inconvenience, was our unlucky détenu restored to liberty.

After bowing to the genial P.M., who had seen so many discomfitures, disasters, and disorders, that nothing was likely to cause him surprise or disturb his serenity, the friends returned to their club to lunch, as well as to make such arrangements for the morrow as might suffice for clearing out to Melbourne with the least possible delay and public disturbance. Fortunately, another steamer on a different line, just arrived from Callao and the Islands, was due for an early start in the morning. Mr. Blount resolved, after dining at the club, to spend the night on board of her so as to have no bother about getting ready before daylight, at which time the skipper promised departure. Frampton Tregonwell, the friend in need, would bear him company and help to keep up his spirits so rudely dashed until the time arrived for the partial oblivion of bed, which, indeed, it was long before he found.

Next morning, however, the excitement of a gale took him out of his self-consciousness for a few hours, and the unfamiliar companionship of the passengers aided the cure. He was only partially recovered from a state of shock and annoyance, but could not help being attracted by the men and women; they were of rare and striking types, such as were around him, in all directions.

They were certainly cosmopolitan – grizzled island traders, sea-captains, and mates out of employment at present. Adventurers of every kind, sort, and degree, with their wives and families of all shades of colour and complexion. Speaking all languages indifferently ill, Spanish and Portuguese, French, German and Italian, and, of course, English more or less undefiled. The men were fine specimens physically, bold, frank, hardy-looking, such as might be expected to reply with knife and revolver to adverse argument. Handsome dark women and girls, with flashing eyes and unrivalled teeth, who seemed perfectly at home, and regarded the wildest weather with curiosity rather than with apprehension. Sydney seemed familiar to many as their port of arrival and departure, which, having reached, they were more free to find passage to the ends of the earth.

Such a happy-go-lucky unconventional crowd of passengers, it had rarely been Mr. Blount’s lot to encounter, far-travelled though he was. The captain, mates and ship’s crew were, in their way, equally removed from ordinary personages. One could imagine the captain – a spare, saturnine American – a pirate, suddenly converted by a missionary bishop – bearing his captives of the lower hold, previously doomed to torture and spoliation, to a free port, there to be released, unharmed, with all their goods and chattels scrupulously returned. Here was an opportunity altogether unparalleled, presented to “an observer of human nature.”

But it was like many other gifts of the gods, presented to the dealer in the souls and bodies of his fellow creatures (intellectually regarded), at the precise time and place, when, from circumstances, he could make no use of the situation. A banquet of the gods, and not the ghost of an appetite wherewith to savour it!

In his present mood, had Helen of Troy, accompanied by Paris and Achilles, with Briseis as “lady help,” been one of the strangely assorted crowd (there were half a dozen modern Greeks on board, miners returning from an inspection of an alleged “mountain of tin”) – even then he would not have listened with interest to their respectful cross-examination of the “goddess moulded” as to her adventures since the fall of Troy, or her well-grounded apprehension of her probable fate under adverse feminine rule.

All romance, sympathy, curiosity even were dead within him for the present. Fate had counter-checked him too often. He expected nothing, hoped nothing, but feared everything – until his arrival at the homestead on the Upper Sturt, when he could see Imogen, pale, perhaps, and more fragile than when last she turned her impatient horse’s head homeward – but infinitely lovely and dearer than all, as having proved her loyalty to him, from their first meeting by the waters of the Great River, in despite of doubt, calumny, and unjust accusation.

All these were gone and disposed of; now was the season of faith and fruition – the reward of her love, and truth – of his constancy. Here his complacent feeling of perhaps scarcely justified self-laudation faltered somewhat. Yes! he had been true – he had been faithful – any other feeling was merely involuntary deflection from his ideal, and he was now going to claim his prize!

The wind stilled. The sea went down. The stars came out. The soft air of the Great South Land, hidden away from the restless sea-rover for centuries untold, until the keel of the great English captain floated into the peerless haven, enveloped the wave-worn bark, as with a mantle of peace and forgiveness; their voyage was practically, virtually, at an end. Mr. Blount remained on deck smoking with the more hardened of the foreign passengers, who apparently needed not sleep at all, until the midnight hour; then wearily sought his cabin. Cabin indeed, he had none, for, determined to get away at all hazards, he had expressed his total indifference to such a luxury, and his willingness to sleep under the cabin table, if necessary, only provided that he got a passage. The captain said if that were so he could come, taking his chance of a bed or sofa. However, he had been to sea before. A judicious douceur to the head steward procured him, after a certain hour, one of the saloon lounges, and the privilege of dressing in that important functionary’s cabin. Awake with the dawn, he found himself just in time to witness the safe passage of the Donna Inez through the tumultuous harbour entrance of the “Rip,” and after a decent interval, to arrive, undisturbed by anxiety about luggage, at the ever open door of the Imperial Club.

Here, with his property around him – apparently safe and uninjured – he began to find himself an independent traveller of means and position again. He had been relieved of the horrible uncertainty of delay – the doubt and fear connected with a trial for a criminal offence, and all the other disagreeables, if not dangers, of a discreditable position. His railway ticket had already been taken for Waronga, whence the coach on the ensuing morning, after a daylight breakfast, would take him on to Marondah.

All went well. He saw again the rippling river, the friendly face of Mrs. Bruce – he had always delighted in that dear woman – so refined, so ladylike, and yet practical and steadfast. The ideal wife and mother – remote from the metropolis, and the frivolous slaves of fashion – yet how infinitely superior to them all. He saw the fair Imogen coming to meet him, shyly repressing her joy and gratitude for the turn which their fortunes had taken, but only refraining on account of the spectators from throwing herself into his arms. This she confessed afterwards, after a decent interval of explanation, and full confessions on both sides. Neither of them would own to have been the most overjoyed at the meeting, delayed as it had been by an apparent conspiracy of all the powers of darkness.

Mr. Bruce had not as yet returned from the “Ultima Thule” of Western Queensland, where he had a share in an immense cattle station. His stay had been protracted and unsatisfactory. A dry season had set in – had followed several rainless years, in fact – nothing could exceed the frightful position of the squatters in that district.

The destruction of stock was awful, unparalleled. Never since the first white man’s foot had touched Australia’s shore, had there been such loss, and probable ruin (he wrote to his wife).

He should be glad to get back to Marondah, to see some decent grass again, and hear the river rippling through the calm still night, and the river-oaks murmuring to the stars. That was something like a country. He would take the first chance to sell out of Mount Trelawney, and never go out of Victoria for an investment again.

So Edward Bruce had written in a peaceable mood. He supposed a general amnesty must be declared, and all be forgiven and forgotten. By the way, he met Jack Carter (Little-River-Jack) at a place not a hundred miles from Roma (he wrote). “He was in a position to do me a service at a critical juncture, and did it heartily and effectively. So all scores are cleared between him and me. You mustn’t suppose, however, that I am in danger of my life, or that bushranging, cattle-stealing, and an occasional interchange of revolver shots, is part of the order of the day. What I mention is exceptional, and I don’t wish it to go further for several reasons.

“The Manager, Mackenzie, and I were riding along rather late one evening, and a good twelve or fifteen miles from home. The weather (of course) was fine, but the hour was late, and the sun, which had been glaring at us all day, only just about to set.

“‘By George! that’s a big mob of horses,’ said Mac., ‘going fast too. Coming from the back of Goornong and heading for Burnt Creek. Six men and a black boy. Depend upon it, there’s something “cronk.” They might see us yet. Yes, they do! They’ve halted. Left two men and the boy with the mob, and the rest, four men, are coming across the plains to us.’

“‘Do you know who they are?’

“‘I can pretty well guess,’ he said. ‘They’re a part of that crowd that we broke up last year, a very dangerous lot! The big man with the beard is Joe Bradfield, the best bushman in all Queensland, and perhaps Australia, to boot. The chap alongside him is “Jerry the Nut.” He’s a double-dyed scoundrel, if you like, twice tried for murder, and ought to have been hanged years ago, if he’d got his rights. Supposed to have shot “Jack the Cook,” who quarrelled with him, and started in for Springsure to give the lot away, but never got there. Found dead in the Oakey Creek with two bullets in him. Jerry was proved to have overtaken him on the road; was the last man seen with him alive. Put on his trial – a strong case against him, but not sufficient evidence. Here they come. We’ve seen them in possession of stolen horses. I expect they’ve duffed them from that Bank station, that was taken over last week. They may think it safer to “rub us out.” They’re villains enough for anything. You’re armed, and my “navy, No. 1” is pretty sure at close quarters. Cut off by – ! we may have to ride for it too – ’ As he spoke, three men emerged from a clump of brigalow at an angle from the line at which the ‘horse thieves’ were riding. They also made towards us, and riding at speed, seemed as if they desired to reach us at about the same time as the others. Such, it appeared, would be the case.

“The four men that had left the mob of horses, rode at the station overseer and me as if they would ride over us. Then pulled up with the stock-horses’ sudden halt, not brought up on their haunches, like those of the gaucho of Chile or the cowboy of the Western States, by the merciless wrenching curb, but with the half pull of the plain snaffle, the only bit the bushman knows, when with loose rein, and lowered head, the Australian camp horse drives his fore-feet into the ground, and stops dead as if nailed to the earth.

“‘What the h – l are you two doing here?’ shouted the tall man, a Hercules in height and breadth of shoulder, yet sitting his horse with the ease and closeness of early boyhood, though his beard and coal-black hair were already streaked with grey. Tracking us down? My God! it’s the worst lay you was ever on. Isn’t a man to ride across a plain in the blasted squatters’ country without he has a pass from a magistrate? That’s what it’s coming to. Well, you’re on the wrong lay this trip. Come along back with us, or we’ll make yer.

“‘And look dashed quick about it, or ye’ll not come back at all. Bring up the darbies, Joe! We’ll see how the bloomin’ swells like ’em.’

“As the last speaker uttered this threat, he and the other men raised their revolvers.

“‘I’ll see you d – d first,’ I replied (excuse bad language). ‘We’re from Trelawney this morning, and on our lawful business.’ Here I drew my revolver.

“The encounter looked doubtful, when the three new arrivals rode up, and, like the other bushmen, stopped dead, with their horses side by side.

“‘No, yer don’t!’ said one of the new arrivals, a man as tall and massive as the first ‘robber’ (for such he seemed). ‘I’m not goen’ to stand by and see Mr. Bruce, of Marondah, double-banked by you Queensland duffers while I’m round. There’s been trouble between him and our crowd; but he’s a man and a gentleman, and I’m here to stand by him to the bitter end. It’s five go four now, so fire away, and be d – d to you!’

“‘Who the devil are you?’

“‘I’m Phelim O’Hara, and this is Little-River-Jack, and my brother Pat. We’ve come up, like the Proosians at Waterloo, rather late in the day; but “better late than never.” You’re Joe Bradfield, that we’ve heard of, and Jerry the Nut that murdered his mate, I suppose. So you’d better go back to the French, and let the allies go their own way. No one’s goen’ to give you away, if your own foolishness doesn’t. We’re on our own ground, so hear reason and clear out. I heard a big lot of police, and Superintendent Gray, of Albany, was on yer track.’

“‘When did you hear that?’

“‘No later than yesterday. And you’re ridin’ straight into their bloomin’ arms, if yer don’t get back the way yer kem’ in. Take a fool’s advice, and get into the ranges again. This country’s too open for your crowd, and you’ll have to do the gully-raker’s racket for a month or two, till the “derry’s” toned down a bit.’

“This apparently reasonable advice seemed to have weight with the troop of highly irregular horse, as, after a short colloquy, they rode back to their companions in charge of the horses, and heading them towards the distant ranges, disappeared shortly from sight.