The Ghost Camp

“Well, here’s the fortnight’s clean up, close on twelve ounces, I should say. Might be better, but it’s more than tucker, three ounces a man, say £40 for two weeks’ work. The month before it was £60, and of course, there’s a chance of a nugget, or a make in the lead, any day!”

“A nugget’s a lump of gold, isn’t it? What size are they?” queried the new partner.

“Any size from a pound to a hundredweight. A Chinaman turned up one worth £230 just after we came, at Back Creek,” answered the big miner; “in old ground, too. Of course, they’re not everyday finds. But there’s always a chance. That’s what makes digging so jolly excitin’, a party can always keep themselves if they work steady, and then there’s the off-chance of a big slice of luck comin’ their way.”

“I should think it did,”, assented the stranger, heartily. “A free life, perfect independence, healthy occupation. It will suit me down to the ground.”

“Early to bed and early to rise is another of the advantages given in with the honest miner’s business,” said the young man called Dick. “A feller’s so jolly tired if he’s been amusin’ himself with a pick and shovel all day, or even the cradle, that by the time he’s had tea, and a smoke, he’s glad to get to his bunk for fear he should go to sleep, like a trooper’s horse, all standin’. So Mr. Blount had better collar my bunk, which I hereby make over to him, along with my share of the ‘Lady Julia’ claim and tools, cradle, and one-fourth interest in the perlatial residence, as the auctioneers say. I’ll doss near the fire along with Jack. Mr. Blount’s got his own blankets, so that’ll be all right.”

Suiting the action to the word, Dick dragged his blankets and a few articles of attire from the bunk indicated, including a weather-worn leather valise into which he stuffed the smaller matters.

Arranging his blankets near the fire, he made a pillow of the valise, and removing his boots and coat, lit his pipe, and lay down on the earthen floor, pulling the blankets over him, and apparently quite prepared for a sound night’s rest. “Good-night all!” were his parting words.

“I’ll say good-night, too,” said Little-River-Jack, undoing the swag, which he had carried in the front of his saddle during the day’s journey, and which seemed chiefly composed of a pair of serviceable blue blankets. “Dick and I’ll take the claim by the chimney. I’ll put on a back log, to keep us all warm, and do to boil the billy to-morrow morning. So I’ll say good-night, Mr. Blount, and wish you luck now, as I’ll be off before daylight. I’d not get up, if I was you, it’s shivering cold till the sun’s up.”

The three men who were now Mr. Blount’s “mates” (or partners) in the claim lost no time in depositing themselves in their separate sleeping places, removing only the more necessary articles of clothing.

Mr. Blount sat before the fire for half an hour, lost in thought, before arraying himself in a suit of pyjamas, which would have excited the admiration of his companions had they been awake. Their regular breathing, however, denoted that such was not the case, and he, too, after a decent interval, abandoned his unwonted environment for the land of mystery and enchantment which men call sleep.

Next morning the clatter of tin plates, and other accompaniments, upon the literal “board” which stood for the table and all appurtenances, aroused the new partner from a profound slumber.

The dim light of a cloudy dawn was struggling with the smoky flame of a tallow lamp of rude shape. The “billy” full of hot tea had just been placed upon the table by the acting cook, who had previously disposed a tin dish containing fried beef steaks beside it.

Snatching up his towel and sponge bag, the stranger made a rush for the creek bank, where a rude stage permitted him to indulge in a copious sluicing of his head, neck and shoulders.

Ice-cold as was the water, he achieved a glow after a vigorous application of his rough towel, and dressing in haste, was able to dispose of his share of the meal more or less creditably.

With more consideration than might have been expected, the dish of steaks had been put down by the fire and kept warm in his absence.

“I shall not over-sleep myself another morning,” he said, apologetically, “but I suppose the long day did tire me a bit. It was awfully slow too, stumbling over those rocky tracks. I shall be in better trim shortly.”

“Expect you will,” said the big digger, “a man’s always soft for the first week, specially if he hasn’t been used to the life. We’ll start for the claim, soon’s you’re through with breakfast; Jack and Dick’s off hours ago. There were cattle to take back, left here for the butcher.” He now remembered as in a dream having heard a dog bark, and a whip crack, in the middle of the night, as it seemed to him.

“Early birds,” he remarked sententiously; after which, finishing his second pannikin of tea, he expressed himself as ready for the road.

The mists were clearing from the mountain-side, which lay dark and frowning between the little party and the East, but ere long the curving shoulders of the range became irradiated. A roseate glow suffused the pale snow crown, transmuting it gradually into a jewelled coronet, while the mountain flanks became slowly illumined, exhibiting the verdant foot-hills, in clear contrast with the sombre, illimitable forest. As the sun’s disc became fully apparent, all Nature seemed to greet with gladness the triumph of the Day-god. The birds chirped and called in the dense underwoods through which the narrow path wound.

Flights of water-fowl high overhead winged their way to distant plains and a milder air. A rock kangaroo, cleared the streamlet with a bound and fled up the hillside like a mountain hare. A cloud of cockatoos flitted ghost-like across the tree-tops, betraying by an occasional harsh cry the fact that a sense of harmony had been omitted, when their delicately white robes were apportioned to them. As the sun gained power and brilliancy, Mr. Blount found the path easy to follow and his spirits began to rise.

“How far to the claim?” he asked.

One of the miners pointed to a hillock of yellow and red earth by the side of which a rude stage had been erected, and a rope wound around, from which depended a raw hide bucket.

Moving up, he was aware of a shaft sunk to a depth of fifty or sixty feet; from appearances, the precious metal had been extracted by rude appliances on the bank of the creek, still running briskly through the little flat.

“I’m the captain of this claim,” said the big miner, “elected by a majority of the shareholders, so, till I’m turned out, I’ll have all the say.” The other diggers nodded. “You’re new to the game, mister, so I’ll give you the easiest show to begin with. Later on, you can tackle the pick and shovel. We three go below, one at a time, you see how it’s done, and be middlin’ careful: there’s a man’s life on the rope every time, and if you let the windlass run away with you, out he goes! Next man in.”

Sitting down on the “brace,” the miner took hold of the hide rope above his head with both hands, while one of the others at the windlass began to lower him slowly down, a short strong piece of pointed timber, referred to as the “sprag,” being inserted into the roller, through which the hide rope ran, in order to check its velocity, and give the man at the windlass control.

Blount looking down, saw him gradually descend, until the bottom of the shaft was reached. The second man was lowered. When the third with his foot in a bight of the rope prepared to descend, he felt a little nervous, which the miner was quick to observe. “Don’t be afraid of killin’ me, mate! just hold on to the windlass-handle like grim death. It’ll come easy after a bit.” He laughed as he commenced to descend, saying, “When you hear this tin arrangement clap together, it means ‘haul away.’”

Mr. Blount was most careful, and finding that he could manage the windlass easily, with the help of the “sprag” aforesaid, became more confident. The next excitement was when the clapper sounded, and he began to haul up. But the weight below seemed to be too great. The rope refused to draw up the bucket. Then he noticed that the “sprag” was still in the roller.

Smiling at his mistake he took it out, and immediately began to haul up. Though a good pull it was not a difficult task for an athletic young man, in high health and spirits. So he bent his back to the work, and presently the hide bucket, filled with yellow and red clay, came to the surface; this he drew on one side, and tilted over on to the “tip” or “mullock” heap, having to that extent been instructed. Lowering it again he continued the somewhat monotonous work, without cessation, till noon, when a double note on the clapper warned him that his mates desired to revisit upper air. This ascent accomplished safely, the billy was boiled, and dinner, so called, notwithstanding the early hour, was disposed of.

“My word! you’re gettin’ on fine, mate,” said the big miner, “and that reminds me, what are we to call you? You needn’t trouble about your real name, if you want to keep it dark. Many a good man’s had to do that hereabouts. Anyway, on a goldfield it’s no one’s business but the owner’s, but we must call you somethin’!”

“Call me Jack Blunt. It’s near enough for the present.”

“All right, Blunt; now you’re christened,” said the big miner. “Phelim O’Hara’s mine, and these other chaps are my brother Pat and George Dixon; we’re all natives, only as he’s Lancashire by blood we call him ‘Lanky’ for short; we may’s well go down now, and you can do a bit of pick and shovel work for a change.”

Mr. Blount considered it to be a change in the fullest sense of the word when he found himself dangling between earth and sky, with his leg in the loop of a rope, having a great inclination to turn round and round, which he combated by thrusting his leg against the side of the shaft. He realised a feeling akin to that of being lowered over a cliff, which he had read of in boyhood, reflecting, too, that he had no more real security than a man in that embarrassing position. Still the narrow shaft had an appearance of safety, which in his case prevented vertigo. The pick and shovel work was not hard to comprehend. He did his best, though easily outpaced by his mates.

In a week’s time he found himself quite au fait at the work, while improving daily in wind and muscle. “Capital training for a boat-race,” he said, “only there’s no water hereabouts, except this little brook, but we don’t seem to be getting rich very fast, do we, George?”

George was sententious. He had been a navvy. The best worker of the party, he was slow of speech, and disinclined to argue on abstract matters.

“Forty or fifty pound a fortnight for four of us ain’t so bad,” he growled out.

Not only was Mr. Blount himself becoming accustomed to this unfamiliar mode of life, but his cob, though he did not take kindly to the mountaineering work, as we have seen, became familiarised to being turned out with the claim horses and foregathered with them amicably. However, one afternoon, when they were brought in for a ride, as it was too wet to work, the cob, now fat and frolicsome, was reported missing.

His master was much annoyed and alarmed at this state of affairs. However, Phelim O’Hara volunteered to stay at home, and moreover to lend him his horse on which to search for the defaulter. Mr. Blount eagerly accepted the offer, and lost no time in going off to hunt for “John Gilpin” as the cob was facetiously named. Unlike a bushman, he rode hither and thither, not troubling himself about tracks, or keeping a course in any given direction.

The consequence was that towards nightfall he found himself several miles from camp, or indeed any landmark which he had passed in the early part of the day. He was, however, sensible enough to follow a creek, which eventually led him to the river; between which and the hilly country he had been traversing, he saw a piece of level country on which several wild horses were grazing.

He was attracted by the appearance of a handsome grey stallion, who appeared to be the leader and, so to speak, commander of the “manada,” around which he trotted or galloped, driving in the mares and colts, and indeed, with open mouth and threatening heels, forcing them to keep within bounds.

Suddenly there was the sound of a rifle shot from the side of the forest nearest to the troop. The leader gave a sudden bound forward, then dropped on his haunches. He made several unavailing attempts to rise.

Struck in the region of the spine, he was evidently paralysed. He reared himself on his fore-legs but was unable to move forward, more than once neighing piteously. The mares and foals had fled like a herd of deer at the sound of the gun, but following the habit of these steeds of the mountain parks, though “wild as the wild deer, and untamed,” came timidly back, and stood near their lord and master. As the hinds and fawns are unwilling to leave the death-stricken stag, so these descendants of man’s noblest servant refused to quit the spot where the monarch of their kingdom lies wounded to the death. They circled around him until another shot from the invisible marksman pealed forth, and a fine black mare, with a young foal, dropped dead near the wounded sire.

They scattered afresh at this new stroke of fate; Mr. Blount wondering much whether they would return. But the grey whinnied from time to time, making frantic efforts to reach the dead mare – all vainly. He swung round on his fore-legs but was unable to do more.

His struggles became tremendous, his agonised distress piteous to behold. Bathed in sweat and foam he seemed ready to succumb with terror and exhaustion, as he sunk sideways till his head, lying prone upon the grass, nearly touched that of his dead mate. Then again the deadly weapon rang out, and another victim, this time a frolicsome chestnut filly, fell to the unerring aim of the marksman, as before, invisible. Mr. Blount felt a disinclination to move from his position, not knowing exactly how near he might be to the concealed hunter’s line of fire.

At length, as nearly all the “mob” were down, a tall man in a Norfolk jacket of tweed with knickerbockers and gaiters to match, walked forth from behind an immense eucalyptus. He was plainly dressed, though Mr. Blount discerned a distinction in his air and bearing which convinced him that the man was no stockrider. He carried a Winchester magazine rifle, from which he sent a bullet into the head of the wounded horse, thus putting an end to his sufferings, and leaving him lying dead amid the females of his court.

The accost of the hunter was not markedly cordial as Mr. Blount stated that it was a lovely morning, and that the scene before him reminded him of a battlefield.

“Indeed!” he replied, with a certain amount of hauteur. “May I ask the favour of your name? and also what you are doing on this part of my run?”

“Your run! I was led to believe that I was on the area of Crown land, open, as such, to all travelling on lawful business. My name is Blount. May I ask in return for yours? As to my business, I am at present looking for a strayed horse.”

“Was he a bay cob with a short tail and hogged mane, a letter and number on the near shoulder?”

“That is his exact description.”

“Then he is safe,” said the stranger. “He had joined the station horses and was run in with them this morning. He is now in my paddock, as I assumed that he had strayed from his owner, and was making his way down to the river. My name is Edward Bruce of Marondah, which is not more than fifteen miles distant. You had better come home with me; I shall be happy to put you up for the night, and you can take your horse back in the morning.”

The day was drawing to a close. It was a long way to the claim, and Blount was by no means sure that he could find his way back or even pick up his own tracks.

“I think,” he replied, “that I can’t do better than accept your offer, for which I feel most grateful.”

“There is no real obligation, believe me,” said Mr. Bruce.

“But where is your horse?” said Blount, looking at the stranger’s serviceable leggings.

“Not far, you may be sure, and in safe keeping; my gillie is pretty handy.” Putting two fingers to his mouth, he gave the drover’s whistle, with such volume and shrillness that it might have been heard at a considerable distance. After a short interval, a high wailing sort of cry (the Australian aboriginal call) came floating through the forest, and a black boy galloped up, riding one horse, and leading another of such superior shape and action that Blount thought it criminal to run the risk of injuring him in such rough country.

The black boy led the horse to his master, but did not offer to dismount, or hold the stirrup, as an English groom would have done. Nor did such attention appear necessary, as Mr. Bruce mounted with alacrity, and motioning the boy to ride ahead followed at a brisk trot through the forest and along the rocky cattle tracks, which, though occasionally running in different directions, converged, and appeared to lead almost due south. All the while, the son of the forest sitting loose-reined and carelessly on his horse, never deviated apparently from his course, or was in doubt for a moment.

In less than two hours, when the light was becoming uncertain, and the chill evening air of these Australian highlands apparent, a chorus of baying dogs of all ages, sizes and descriptions announced the vicinity of the homestead. At the same time, the winding course of a full fed mountain stream was revealed.

On a promontory which seemed to have dissociated itself from the forest glades, and been arrested just above the broad river meadow, stood a roomy bungalow protected by wide verandahs from sun and storm.

“This is Marondah!” said Mr. Bruce, not without a certain air of dignity – “allow me to welcome you to my home.” A black girl came running up at the moment, who showed her enviably white and regular teeth in a smile of greeting, as in a matter-of-fact way she unstrapped the guest’s valise, and led off his horse.

“You put ’em yarraman longa stable,” commanded the squatter – for such he was. “Your horse will be all right. Polly is as good a stable hand as Paddy – a turn better, I sometimes think. She’s a clever ‘gin’ all round. Ah! I see Mrs. Bruce.”

As they walked forward, a lady came through the garden gate, and met them – receiving the guest with cordiality – then turning to her husband.

“You’re rather late, Ned! What kept you? I’m always nervous when you’re out at that end of the run!”

“Well, if you must know, I found the grey horse’s mob, which I’ve been tracking for some time – and got them all – a real bit of luck. Then I fell in with Mr. Blount, who was looking for that smart cob that came in with our horses this morning. Luckily for him, as it turns out.”

“So it was. Did you shoot the poor things? I always feel so sorry for them.”

“Of course I did; they’re more trouble than all the other ‘brumbies’ on the run, galloping about, smashing fences, destroying dams, and wasting grass, for the use of which I pay the Crown rent.”

“Yes, a farthing an acre!” laughed the lady. “All the same, it’s very cruel – don’t you think so, Mr. Blount? What would they say in England of such barbarous work?”

“It would raise a scandal, Mrs. Bruce; but everything depends on the value of the animal, apart from the sentiment.”

Thus conversing, they walked through the garden, which was encompassed by an orchard of venerable age. It stretched to the river bank, along which a line of magnificent willows partly over-arched the stream with graceful, trailing foliage, while the interlaced roots performed valuable service in supporting the banks in time of flood.

Passing along the broad verandah, vine and trailer-festooned, they entered a hall, of which the door seemed permanently open.

The walls were garnished with whips, guns on racks (where Mr. Bruce carefully placed his redoubtable Winchester), the great wings of the mountain eagle, the scarlet and jet tail-feathers of the black macaw, and the sulphur-coloured crests of his white relative. These, and other curios of the Waste, relieved the apartment of any appearance of bareness, while avoiding incongruity of ornamentation. Passing into a large, comfortably-furnished room, where preparations for the evening meal were in evidence, the host pointed to a spirit-stand on the sideboard, and suggesting that a tot of whisky would not be inappropriate after a long day, invited his guest to join him. This offer Mr. Blount frankly accepted, as, besides being tired with a long, dragging ride, he felt nearly as cold as if he had been deer-shooting in the Scottish Highlands, instead of this southern mountain land.

He had donned the riding-suit in which he had arrived at Bunjil, and had also packed necessaries of travel in his valise, in case he might have to stay a day at a decent house. This sensible precaution (never needless in the wildest solitudes of Australia) now stood him in good stead. And he felt truly thankful, after being ushered into a comfortable bedroom, that he had resisted the temptation to start off without them. He was enabled, therefore, to issue forth reasonably fitted for the society of ladies, and the enjoyment of the hospitality of the period. So that, when shown into another room smaller than the first he had entered, but more ornate as to furniture, he felt comparatively at ease, notwithstanding the roughness of his late surroundings.

Mrs. Bruce was already there, and, rising from a sofa, said —

“Allow me, Mr. Blount, to introduce you to my sister Imogen.”

A tall girl had at this moment arisen, not previously referred to by his host or the lady of the house.

It was not an introduction – it was a revelation, as Blount subsequently described the interview. Mrs. Bruce was a handsome woman, tall and stately, as are many Australians, possessing, withal, fine natural manners improved by travel, and she might reasonably have been expected to possess a good-looking sister. For so much Blount stood prepared. But this divinity of the waste – this Venus Anadyomene – was above and beyond all expectation, all imagination or conception. He gazed at her, as he confessed to himself, with an expression of unconventional surprise; for Imogen Carrisforth was, indeed, a girl that no man with the faintest soupçon of taste or sentiment could behold without admiration.

Mrs. Bruce was dark-haired, with fine eyes to match, distinctly aristocratic as to air and carriage; her sister was fair, with abundant nut-brown hair shot with warmer hues, which shone goldenly as the lamplight fell across it. It was gathered in masses above her forehead and around her proudly-poised head, as she smiled a welcome to the stranger with the hospitably frank accost which greets the guest so invariably in an Australian country home. While looking into the depths of her brilliant hazel eyes, Blount almost murmured “O, Dea certe!” while doubting if he had ever before beheld so lovely a creature.

Mrs. Bruce attributed his evident surprise to the fact of his not having been informed of the fact of a second lady being at the house. “Ned ought to have told you,” she said, “that my sister was staying with us. She has just come from town, where she has been at school. She is so tall that really it seemed absurd to keep her there any longer.”

“You forget that I am eighteen,” said the young lady under observation. “My education should be finished now, if ever.”

“Indeed, I’m afraid you won’t learn much more,” said her brother-in-law, paternally, “though I’m not sure that another year under Miss Charters would not have been as well.”

“Oh! but I did pine so for the fresh air of the bush – the rides and drives and everything. I can’t bear a town life, and was growing low-spirited.”

“How about the opera, balls, the Cup Day itself, at your age too?” interposed Blount.

“All very well in their way. But society in town seems one unmeaning round with the same people you meet always. One gets dead tired of it all. I must have gipsy blood in me, I think, for the gay greenwood has a fascination, which I feel, but can’t explain.”

During dinner, Blount found Mrs. Bruce most agreeable, and, indeed, entertaining. He learned something too about the neighbours, none of whom were nearer than ten miles. Some, indeed, much farther off. It was also explained to him that the region of the Upper Sturt was not all rock and forest, swamp and scrub, but that there were rich tablelands at “the back,” which might be north or north-east. Also that the country became more open “down the river,” as well as, in a sense, more civilised, “though we don’t call ourselves very barbarous,” she added, with a smile.