The Ghost Camp

“Ah! me, these things are fearsome at the doing and but little better in the telling. He wadna hae been sae blithe had he seen anither face that peered o’er the shaft just as he turned at the angle of the road and struck into a canter with his troopers ahint him. It was the face of a haggard, clean-shaved man, with hair cut close to the head, and a wild, desperate look like a hunted beast – only one miner on the field knew who the strange man was, and he would never have kent him, but for hearin’ a whisper the night before of a ‘cross cove’ having come late at night to ‘Mrs. Jones’s’ tent.

“Dead beat and half starved to boot was he, but word went round the little goldfield that it was Ned Lawless, the famous horse and cattle ‘duffer’ who’d been arrested by Inspector Dayrell, and ‘put away’ for five years.

“Miners are no joost attached to thae kind o’ folk, and for this one, believed to have stolen wash-dirt cart-horses at Ballarat, they certainly had no love, but, as for layin’ the police on the hunted wretch, even though the reward was tempting, not a man, working as they were on a poor field, but would have scorned the action, and been vara unceevil to him that suggested it. No! that was the business of the police – they were paid for it – let them run him down or any other poor devil that was ‘wanted,’ but as for helping them by so much as raising a finger, it was not in their line.

“Anyhow, an hour before dawn, one man who had reasons for airly rising thought he saw Dick with his sister, ‘Mrs. Jones,’ and the stranger, ride down the gulley which led towards Buckley’s Crossing; the woman was on a roan pony mare, which she brought with her when she came on ‘Tin Pot,’ a year ago. The stranger had an old grey screw Dick had bought for a note, which would let any one catch him, night or day. The fog was thick, and he couldn’t say on his oath which way they went, but they took what was called the ‘mountain track.’”

“A nice crowd, as they say in these parts,” said Mr. Blount. “Where did they go and what did they do, Sergeant?”

“They were ready for any de’il’s wark, ye may believe,” said the old man, impressively, “and, as I heard frae one that daurna speak me false, they were no lang ere they were at it.

“The day after they were seen leaving ‘Tin Pot,’ they called at a small settler’s place and took his twa best horses. He was a man that had good anes, wad win races at sma’ townships.

“The wife and her sister were at hame, the man was awa’.

“They loaded up a packhorse with rations, more by token a rug and twa pairs blankets. The younger man told them the horses wad maybe stray back. He paid for the rations and the blankets, but said they must have them. It was a lonely place. The woman sat on her horse, and wadna come ben, though they asked her to have a cup of tea. She shook her head; they couldna see her face for a thick veil she wore.

“This information didna come in for some days later, when the man won hame; the women were afraid to leave the place, ye may weel believe. The raiders rode hard, maistly at nicht, keepit aff the main road, and took ‘cuts’ when they could find them. Dick Lawless knew them a’, could amaist smell them, his mates used to say.

“They got the Inspector’s trail and never lost it; if they were off it for a while, they could always ‘cut’ it again. They had telegraphs plenty (bush anes) but there were nane to warn Dayrell o’ them that thirsted for his life-bluid, and were following on through the snaw, like the wolves on a Russian steppe, as the buiks tell us. He was joost ‘fey,’ in the high spirits that foretell death or misfortune, as we Hielanders believe. He had the chance o’ a capture that would ring through three colonies. It did that, but no in the way he expeckit.

“He heard tell frae a bushman, a brither o’ the man that the gang shot before he had time to do more than threaten to ‘give them away,’ that they were to be at the ‘Ghost Camp’ aboot the twentieth o’ the month. An auld fastness this, at the edge o’ broken, mountainous country, where the wild blacks cam’ to hide after killing cattle or robbing huts, when Queensland was first ta’en up by squatters. A place no that easy to ride to, maist deeficult to discover, amang the great mountain forests o’ the border. Battles had there been, between the black police and the wild native tribes that were strong and bold in the pioneer days, no kenning, puir bodies, the strength o’ ceevilised man. It was there they halted after the massacre of Wild Honey Bank, where they killed after nightfa’ the haill family, men and women, wives and weans, an awfu’ spectacle they were as they lay deid in the hot sun, unshaded, uncovered. I was tauld it by a man, was ane of the pairty that helped bury them. The pursuers slew and spared not. Wha shall judge them after the fearsome sights they saw? There’s but few of that tribe left alive, and sma’ wonder.

“An eerie, waesome spot, they tell me. The gunyahs hae na been leeved in this mony a year. The few fra-agments o’ the tribe conseeder it to be haunted, and winna gang near. It’s a’ strewed wi’ skulls, and skeletons of whites and blacks mingled, nane having been at the pains to bury them. The grass grows rank abune the mouldering relics o’ baith races. The banes gleam white when the moon is at her full, lying matted thegither amaist concealed by the growth of years.

“Weel, aweel! I’m just daundering on toward the eend, the sair, sorrowfu’ eending o’ a fearsome tale. The twa pairties, that wad be the Queensland gang, and the Sydney-side lot, were nigh hand to the ‘Ghost Camp’ aboot the same time.

“That’s sayin’ the three Lawless bodies had ridden night and day – picking up fresh horses for the men, as they came along. Kate rode the roan pony mare all through, a grand little crater she was, and weel she earned her name ‘Wallaby,’ sae ca’ed after the kangaroo beastie that wad hop frae rock to rock, like ony goat o’ the cliffs.

“The Inspector reckoned that Bradfield’s gang wad show up in the gloaming o’ the appointed day. No kenning that they had been betrayed, they wad camp careless like. Dayrell’s tracker creepit oot and lay ahint a rock while they unsaiddled and turned loose their horses. Bradfield he knew – a tall powerfu’ chiel, with a big beard, a Sydney-side native, and if he wasna the best bushman in Queensland, he wasna that far aff. Of the four men with him, twa had ‘done time,’ and were worse after they cam’ oot o’ gaol, than when they gaed in. They had grog in them; they made a fire – not a black fellow’s one – and talked and laughed and swore, as they didna care wha might hear them.

“So far, a’ went weel. Dayrell’s party lay close – made no fire – prepared to deleever attack at dawn, when dootless Bradfield’s men wad be asleep or all unsuspeecious. But were they? By no manner of means. The twa Lawless brithers and Kate had won to Wandong Creek i’ the nicht – Ned and Kate had lain them doon, joost dead beat and like to dee wi’ sheer exhaustion. Dick stowed the horse away in the gulley. It’s deep, and amaist covered in wi’ trees and fern. Then being a tireless crater and in hard work and training, he thocht he would tak’ a wee bit look oot, to make a’ safe. It was weel thocht on – though not for the police party. It wasna lang ere he heard a horse whinnie. Not the nicher o’ a brumbie, either. Then cam’ the tramp o’ anither and the jingle o’ a hobble chain. Could it be the police? He would soon know. Creeping frae tree to tree, he came on the mob. Six riding horses, and two ‘packers’ all with the Crown brand on. Dayrell’s dark chestnut, he knew him again. And a light bay with two white hind fetlocks. Police horses all, well fed and groomed. Now where was the camp?

“Keeping wide and crawling from log to log, like a night-wandering crater o’ the forest, he thought he saw a glimmer o’ a fire – not a small one either. What d – d fool had lighted that, with a hot trail so close? So he walkit, ye ken, till what suld ail him to come ram-sham on six sleeping men. Police in plain clothes? Never! It was Bradfield’s gang, believing that Dayrell was no within a colony o’ them. And now to get speech. Their revolvers were under their hands, their rifles handy ye ken. If an alarm was given it might spoil the whole plan. With two other rifles, not counting Kate (and she was a fair shot at short range), they might turn the tables on Dayrell and his blasted police.

“Keen and ready witted as are the de’il’s bairns at their master’s wark, Dick Lawless wasna lang in conseedering the pairt he was to play. Crawling on hands and knees, he got as near Bradfield as was wise like without awaking him. He then gave a low whistle, such as stockriders give to tell of cattle in sight.

“‘Who the hell’s that?’ growled Bradfield, awake and alert.

“‘All right, Jim, only Dick Lawless. Cattle going to break camp. (They had been droving in old days.) Quite like old times, isn’t it?’

“‘Wish I was back again behind a thousand Windorah bullocks,’ said the bushranger.

“‘I wouldn’t mind either, Jim. But all that’s behind us now – worse luck! Where do you think Dayrell is? Give it up? D’ye see that black ridge, with three pines on it? Well, he’s there, waiting for daylight. He’s not fool to make a fire you can see miles off. You’ve nearly been had, Jim. He came up on purpose to collar you. T’other side the black ridge, he’s planted men and horses, six of ’em and a packer.’

“‘Who’s with you?’

“‘Just Ned and Kate. They’re lying down in Wandong Creek. Kate’s goin’ dotty now, poor thing, but she would come with us. Thinks she’ll see the last of Dayrell.’

“‘Strikes me it’s a case of “Just before the battle, mother,”’ said Bradfield. ‘I’ll wake these chaps. We must have a snack and fix up the Waterloo business. It’s an hour to daylight yet.’

“Thus speaking he touched the man on his left, who awoke and touched the next. Without a spoken word the five men were aroused.

“‘Now, chaps!’ said the leader, in low but distinct tones, ‘Dick Lawless is come to give in the office. He’s on the job too. Dayrell’s behind the black ridge, with his five fancy troopers. He’s come to collar us. Dick here and Ned have come to pay off old scores. With us to help he’s like enough to do it. We’re nigh about equal members, not countin’ Kate, but the surprise they’ll get’s as good as two men.’

“‘How’s that?’ asked one of the gang.

“‘It’s this way, we’ll have first go. He thinks we don’t know he’s here. We’ll take cover, and as soon as he shows out to surprise us, we roll into him. Dick here, Ned and Kate, go at him from Wandong Creek side. That’ll put the stuns on him. Ned and Dick, both dead shots, will account for Dayrell. If he goes down the other traps won’t stand long. Dick, you’ll have a snack? No? Then, so long.’

“The faint line of clearer sky was slowly making itself veesible in the east as Dayrell at the head of his troopers moved towards Bradfield’s camp. The black tracker had showed him the position. The glimmering fire did the rest. ‘Now for a rush, men, we’ll catch them asleep.’ Saddles and swags were strewn around the fire, billy and frying-pan were there, not a man to be seen. But from five rifles at short range came a volley at the troopers, well-aimed and effective, and Dayrell’s right arm fell to his side broken or disabled.

“Three shots immediately followed from the Wandong Creek timber, on the left flank of the police. Confused at finding themselves between two fires, their leader wounded – for Dayrell’s right arm still hung useless – the troopers, after a second ineffectual volley, wavered. Just then three figures appeared, standing on a rock which ran crossways to the narrow outlet by which alone could the police party mak’ retreat.

“At the second volley two troopers dropped, one mortally, the other severely, wounded. ‘Hold up your hands, if you don’t all want to be wiped out,’ shouted Bradfield.

“‘By the Lord! that’s Kate Lawless,’ said one of the troopers, pointing to a tall woman who waved a rifle and shouted defiance after the first volley was fired.

“‘And that’s Ned, or his ghost,’ said another. ‘I thought he was safe in Ballarat Gaol. How the h – l did they get here?’

“As he spoke, the two men on the rock took deliberate aim and fired, the Inspector in return firing his revolver with the left hand.

“The clean-shaved man dropped dead, wi’ a bullet through his head; Dayrell staggered for a few seconds and making an attempt to recover himself, sank to the earth. The woman sprang down from the rock, and rushing across the line of fire raised the dying man’s head from the ground and gazed into his face, in which the signs of fast-coming death were apparent.

“‘So this is the end of Inspector Frank Dayrell,’ she said, ‘trapped like a dingo by the poor devils he was hunting down. I told you you’d repent it, if you didn’t let us alone. And now my words have come true; the Lawless family gang’s broke up, but the bloodhound hasn’t much life in him neither. I sha’n’t last the year out, the old lot’s close up dead and done for, that was so jolly, and worked hard and straight, when we first came on Ballarat. Pity we took to ‘cross’ work, wasn’t it? Love – as they call it – ’ here she smiled a strange, sad smile, ‘then jealousy, revenge, false swearing, murder – Poor Lance! I did him cruel wrong, and but for you, you, Francis Dayrell, I’d never have sworn a word to harm him. It’s driven me mad – mad! do you hear, Frank Dayrell? Good-bye, till we meet in – in – the other place!’

“The firing was o’er, Dick Lawless now showed himself between the rock and the clear space where lay the dead trooper and Dayrell. The Inspector raised himself on one arm and with the last glimmer o’licht in his glazing e’en, looked full in the woman’s face, as he drawled out the words, ‘Au revoir! Kate, pleasant journey, inner circle of mine with the left, eh?’ The light faded out of his eyes with the last word, and falling back, he was dead when his head touched the ground. The woman gazed for one moment on the still face; then in obedience to a sign from her brother, walkit over to him, and, mounting their horses, they rode away into the forest thegither. The police couldna but see they were ootnummered. Their leader and one trooper dead; anither was badly wounded. Four men – one barely able to sit on a horse – were no match for six.

“‘See here, men,’ said Bradfield, a tall, powerful native chiel wi’ a black beard, a grand bushman, too; ‘this here battle’s over, you’re euchred, your boss expected to catch us on the hop, and he’s been took himself. He was a game chap, and we don’t owe him no grudge, nor you either, though he went a bit out of his way in leavin’ his own district to collar another officer’s game. He didn’t reckon on Ned and Dick Lawless, and it’s them that knocked over his wicket. A fair fight’s righto, but it don’t do even for a policeman to get hisself disliked.’

“‘I say, Jim, the horses are up; are yer goin’ to preach here till the military’s called out?’

“‘All right, Jack, there’s no hurry. What’s to be done with the dead men? There’s Inspector Dayrell, our poor cove, and Ned Lawless. We can’t leave ’em here.’

“‘The police must pack their mates,’ said the second in command, ‘we’ll take away ours. Where’s the nearest township, or graveyard, if it comes to that?’

“‘We can make Warradombee in twenty mile’; here spoke one of the police troopers. ‘It’s close to Grant’s head station.’

“‘All right, you’ve got your packers; strap on the Inspector, and that Goulburn native, and let ’em be buried decent. We’re not black fellows. We’ll carry our man, and bury him first chance. Ned must stay where he is – he’s better there than under the gaol yard. Like as not Dick and Kate’ll come back to him. They’ve not gone far. Well, you’d better load, and clear – we’ll give you a lift, as you’re short handed. Don’t sing a bigger song than you can help. Give us a day’s law, and then we don’t care what you do. We haven’t acted so bad to you.’

“‘No, by George, you haven’t,’ said the senior constable, ‘except killin’ the two of us, and you couldn’t help that, seein’ you was fightin’ for your lives, as the sayin’ is.’

“So the enemies (as I’m tauld) helped to raise the fallen men, and fasten them on their horses. It was a sad-looking troop, as they moved off, with their dead legs tied underneath, and at the knees, to the saddles, their heads bowed low on the horses’ necks, so that they couldna fall off. But the upper bodies, with heids swaying aboot in that dreadful guise, lookit awfu’ ghaistly. Little thocht Frank Dayrell that he wad ride his last ride in siccan a fashion. But nane can foretell his eend, nor the manner o’t.

“Bradfield’s lot cleared without loss o’ time, carrying with them their dead and wounded, until a convenient burial place was reached. This duty completed, they separated, to meet in the ‘Never Never Country,’ between Burke Town and ‘The Gulf,’ a ‘strange, vain land’ (as one has written) where ‘night is even as the day,’ and the decalogue is no that sariously regairded, as in longer settled communities.

“Although the tither ootlaws wadna chairge themselves with Ned Lawless’ funeral, it is no’ to be infaired that he was buried without a prayer, or that tears werena shed o’er his lonely unhallowed grave. As had been surmeesed, Kate and the younger brother returned after nightfall.

“It was nearly midnight, the moonrays lighted up the weird shadows of the ‘Ghost Camp,’ lately throbbing wi’ gunshots, oaths, cries and exclamations. Blood had been shed; life had been taken; now all was still and deserted looking.

“Tribe had met tribe in the old, old days, and with spear-thrust, nulla nulla and boomerang, had fought oot their conflicts, waged for pride, ambition or revenge. And always to the bitter end! Then came the white invader, with his iron axes, fine clothes and magical weapons, which slew before they touched. The sheep and cattle, such delicate morsels but which except a price was paid, too often that o’ bluid – they dared na’ take. Battles then were fought in which their bravest warriors fell; or if by chance they slew stockrider or shepherd, a sair harryin’ o’ the tribe followed.

“Those days were past; and now, how strange to the elders of the tribe, the white strangers fought amang themselves, wounding, killing, and carrying away captive their brithers in colour and speech. These things were hard to understand. The rays of the lately risen moon lit up the sombre glades of the battlefield as a man and woman rode in frae the forest track, and tied up their horses. They came to the rock where the dead man lay. He had fallen back when Dayrell’s bullet pierced his brain, and was lying with upturned face and dreadful staring eyes. The woman knelt by his side, and while she closed them, said, ‘Poor old Ned! I never thought to lay you out in a place like this. God’s curse on them that drove you to it; but he’s gone that we have to thank for our ruin; that debt’s paid, anyhow! You were always a soft-hearted chap, and none of us, when we were little, had a hard time with you. Not like some brothers, who’d knock about the poor kiddies as if they were dingo pups.’

“‘I’ve nothing to say agen him,’ said the man, ‘he was always good to me, I’d ’a done anything for him. It’s hard to see him here lying dead, and with that infernal prison crop, not even a beard on his face, and what a jolly one he used to have. Here’s where the irons hurt him; I expect he tried to break out afore, and they made him work in these.’

“‘My God!’ cried the woman, passionately; ‘don’t talk of it any more. I shall scream out directly, and go more off my head than I am now, and that’s bad enough. To think of him that used to come out of a morning so fresh and jolly, well dressed, and always with a good horse under him, and couldn’t he ride? And now to see him lying here, starved and miserable, like a beggar; it’s enough to break a heart of stone – ’

“‘It’s too late now, Kate, too late; but we’d better have taken Tessie’s warning and started a square trade, carrying or something, when the digging broke out,’ said the man. ‘We were all strong and full of go. I could do a man’s work, young as I was; the money would have run into our pockets – yes, regular run in – if we’d made a square start and stuck to it. Look at Benson and Warner, see where they are now! They couldn’t read and write neither, no more than us. Then there was that infernal Larry Trevenna. Poor Lance! I was sorry for him. They did us all the harm in the world; Larry with his gambling ways, and Lance setting you up to think you were good enough to marry him, and putting Dayrell’s back up agen the family. Our luck was dead out from start to finish, and now they’re all gone except you and me. I’d better set about the grave.’

“‘Where’d ye get the pick and shovel?’

“‘Some fossicker left them outside his camp. I saw them when I went to the spring for a drink.’

“‘For God’s sake take them back, no use making more enemies than we can help. There’ll be a row if he misses ’em!’

“‘All right! I’ll drop them as we pass,’ said her brother, as he drove the pick into the hard, stony soil.

“The woman took the short mining shovel, and with feverish energy cleared the narrow shaft as often as required. An hour’s work showed a cavity of the necessary width and depth, wherein the brother and sister laid the wasted body of the eldest son of the family – once its pride as the best horseman, shearer, reaper, cricketer, stockrider, and all-round athlete of the highland district of New South Wales. The pity of it, when misdirected energies hurry the men along the fiend’s highway, leading to a felon’s doom, a dishonoured grave!

“The pity of it! The man now lowered into the rude sepulchre, amid that ill-omened, blood-stained wild, might, under happier circumstances, and at a later day, have been receiving the plaudits of his countrymen, the thanks of his Sovereign, as the fearless, resourceful scout, whose watchful eye had saved a squadron, or whose stubborn courage had helped to block an advance until the reinforcement came up.

“It was not to be. Sadly and silently, but for the exclamation of ‘Poor Ned! good-bye! God have mercy on your soul!’ from the woman, the brother and sister rode away into the night.

“A rude cross had been fashioned and placed in a cairn of stones piled upon the grave. ‘The moonbeam strook, and deepest night fell down upon the heath’ as the hoofstrokes died away in the distance, deepening the sombre solitude of the spot, which had long worn the appearance of a place accursed of God and man!”

The far back, and by no means busy township of Dumbool was, if not enlivened, aroused from its normal apathy (when a race meeting, or a shearer’s carouse was not in full operation), by the return of a party of mounted police. The leading inhabitants, always well informed in such matters, had received notice of them passing through the district, heading towards the border. The township was not so insignificant or the two hotels so unimportant, as not to provide “Our Own Correspondent” of the Weekly Newsletter. This gentleman, who was Rabbit Inspector, Acting Clerk of the Bench, Coroner, and Honorary Magistrate, held all the minor appointments, not incompatible with the ends of justice, and the dignity of the Post Office, of which he was the present acting head, the Government Official of the branch being away on leave. He performed these various duties fairly well, delegating the Postal work to the leading storekeeper, and the Bench work to a neighbouring squatter, who, coached by the senior constable, was capable of getting through a committal without blundering. But the work of Special Correspondent was the one which he really enjoyed, and on which he chiefly prided himself.

He had often murmured at the poverty of the journalistic resources of his surroundings, which afforded no field for literary ability. Even when Nature seemed kindly disposed, by reason of abnormal conditions, he was restricted in efforts to improve the occasion by the vigorously expressed local censorship of the pastoralists. Did he draw a harrowing picture of the stricken waste, denuded of pasture, and strewn with dead and dying flocks, and herds, every one was “down on him,” as he expressed it, for taking away the character of the district. Did he dilate on the vast prairies waving with luxuriant herbage, after a phenomenal rainfall, he was abused as “inviting every blooming free-selector in the colony to come out and make a chess-board of their runs, directly they had a little grass.” There was no pleasing them. Even the editor of the Weekly Clarion, mindful of influential subscribers, had admonished him to be careful in good seasons, as well as bad.