Australian Hauntings: A Second Anthology of Australian Colonial Supernatural Fiction

by James Doig

  “Tom was a sure shot with a revolver, and always carried one. So did the other man it appeared, for we found the two pistols close by, just a little way off each body.

  “But though there was only one barrel of the alleged murderer’s pistol discharged, Tom’s had two, and the wound Tom had died from was in the right temple. Apparently he had shot himself. I was terribly cut up. The whole affair was so awfully sudden and unexpected that I could scarcely collect my wits together. We had the bodies brought carefully back to the hotel, and despatched a special messenger for the police, 100 miles away. But we had to bury all the bodies next day on account of the heat. I stayed to give my evidence, of course, but I put on two more hands, and could trust my head cattleman to look after the ‘mob’.

  “It came out that the man who had committed the murderous assault upon the poor young jackeroo was not well known. He was a stranger, but was named, according to his merits, ‘Flash Jack,’ and was reputed to be up to any blessed thing, from petty larceny to cattle-duffing, according to my informants. The story went that the jackeroo had several one-pound notes knocking about. One of them was a new one. They were all pretty well boozed, and Flash Jack had got hold of this new note somehow. The new chum accused him of stealing it, and threatened to strike him with a hunting crop he carried. The man swore horribly, and in the scuffle which ensued he wrenched the hunting crop from the young fellow, and hit him such an awful crack on the head with the heavy brass handle of it that he just collapsed to the floor and never spoke again. The heavy end of the whip had sunk right into his brain! The police came at last, a sergeant and a constable, and went carefully over every ‘in’ and ‘out’ of the case; after which they put all the witnesses who remained, and myself, upon our oaths before Mr Fielding, the police magistrate, and owner of Yankalilla station. (Good brand that—J. F. conjoined—was in those days.) Gone off colour since the old man died, and left the property to his son. He’s too fond of town, and leaves the station too much to others. Never knew that game pay, unless the manager is a partner, or the overseer is a real worthy man.

  “Well, it was all finished fair and square, and what is left of those three bodies, whirled to their death in a sudden gust of passion, lies there to this day. I don’t suppose the bones would come out of the ground, even if their ghosts wanted to walk, and say a few things they hadn’t time for on this earth, eh? We buried them on the rise of the big pine ridge. There’s a much bigger cemetery there now, for I passed it only last year.

  “Tom’s cattle dog, Joker, would not leave the grave until I led him away on a chain, but after a day or two I began to get the poor beggar to eat a little, but I had to keep him on the chain, or he would have gone straight back and most likely died there at the grave.

  “When I had delivered the cattle all right I found myself down in Sydney for a spell. I of course made my first visit to Miss Imrie, as I was in duty bound to do. She was Tom’s sister, and used to keep a home for him all ready when he came down from the bush to town. She lived at the top of Woolloomooloo, in one of those quiet streets on the left going out to Pott’s Point. Nice comfortable little cottage, with a diminutive garden in front. I rang the street-door bell, and was shown into the drawing-room. Miss Imrie appeared. Nice lady-like girl. I had written the sad news to her myself from up country, so that she had had some considerable time to get over it, for I had been two months on the road with cattle since I wrote that letter. She was dressed in deep mourning, and knew me at once, and we commenced to talk over matters. I knew, of course, that her affairs would not be so comfortable for her after the loss of her brother. Sort of unprotected like. But she had many good friends in Sydney, and I knew that they thought a lot of her. She had a small legacy of her own, just enough to live on. I had brought all Tom’s money that was owing to him with me, having got it from our employers, and I handed it over to Miss Imrie then and there.

  “‘And do you think my poor brother, Tom, shot himself?’ said she. I told her ‘yes,’ but that it might have been by accident (I did not think so myself). What could I say? But if he had, I couldn’t tell the reason, any more than the man in the moon.

  “So ran my thoughts. I knew well enough that Tom meant to lake the man so as to hand him over to justice, fight or no fight. He was a most determined chap. But he would never have shot him unless the other had been so desperate as to fire at him first. And then perhaps he might have had to do so to save his own life. But the other shot, the one which killed him—a shot from his own weapon apparently—that was inexplicable. Miss Imrie broke in upon me at this point in my reflections.

  “‘Will you describe the man who was supposed to be shot by my brother, Mr McIlwaine?’ she asked.

  “I nodded, and described him exactly. She got paler and paler as I went on, but when I described what was undoubtedly a birthmark, which I had seen on his chest, and which bore an exact similarity to a fallen autumn leaf, she slid off her seat and fainted!

  “I rang the bell at once, and the housemaid came, and between us we brought her back to consciousness. The girl, of course, had heard of Tom Imrie’s sudden death, though her mistress would naturally enough conceal the real facts. She (the housemaid) would probably think that we had been talking over the matter, and that that had been the cause of her mistress’ indisposition. She knew me, too, as I had been there on one occasion to tea during Tom’s lifetime. I took my hat and my departure, feeling that I could be of very little use, but I gave the girl a tip as I left, requesting her to give Miss Imrie a message, saying that I would call again if she wished, on hearing from her that she felt sufficiently well to receive me. I also asked the maid to express to Miss Imrie my very great sympathy for her in her sorrow, which I shared also.

  “I went to my hotel, and two days afterwards received a letter from Miss Imrie telling me the most awful thing you can think of. I remember the words well enough. They burnt themselves into my brain!

  * * * *

  “That man you described was my other brother! We hadn’t heard of him for years. Poor Tom! Now I can see the reason for his own rash act. Please don’t call again. I can’t bear it. And may I ask you, on your honour as a gentleman, never to mention this subject to a living soul, for my sake, and for the sake of those who are gone?”

  * * * *

  “Of course, I complied with her wishes, but it was as equally plain to me now as it had been to Tom’s sister after the dread revelation of the fatal birthmark. The man’s shirt was open at the breast when we found the two bodies, and I saw the mark then and afterwards.

  “Strange to say, the refrain of an old drinking song came into my head the moment I saw that fallen leaf mark, and there it droned away in my head, pathetically, in the presence of the dead:

  Fades as the leaves do fade,

  Fades as the leaves do fade,

  Fades as the leaves do fade,

  And dies in October.

  “But the result had not been brought on by the ‘small beer,’ the prelude to this particular part of the chorus. It was strong liquor, and much of it, which had been the prominent cause of the whole thing. And that tune that droned in my head, the man himself, ‘Flash Jack,’ had played on the concertina in the hotel verandah, the others joining in the chorus, on the previous interlude to the ghastly tragedy.

  “And there he lay himself, and another, both cut off like the leaf, and—Alas, poor Tom!

  “Tom must have seen this mark in a far worse and more awful light than ever I did. His own brother! He must have opened his shirt to feel if the heart beat, after the first deadly shot in self-defence and in the heat of passion.

  “He probably would know nothing at first. His brother would be altered with a long beard on. They had been parted for long. He had, at the time he started after him from the hotel, no knowledge of his whereabouts, or even existence. What ‘Flash Jack’s’ antecedents may have been,
of course, I do not know, but it may be taken for granted that no idea of fratricide had ever entered Tom’s head. The man’s altered looks, after a long lapse of years, his unrecognised appearance, with long hair and bush clothes, his face twitching with evil passions, the wish to shoot Tom probably working in his mind. So the shots had been exchanged, Tom’s with sudden and deadly effect. Then can you fancy the awful reaction, the terrible conviction, and the dread confirmation of the appalling horror of the unwitting deed? Then the sudden despair and anguish, amounting to a passion, a fury, a morbid madness, and culminating at the last in a quick self-annihilation? God knows what he thought! I knew the poor fellow’s character pretty well—good ideas, kind heart, but stubborn and determined, moved too much by sudden impulse. A man who, once having decided his course, would carry it out unflinchingly, never thinking of the consequences. And he took his own life, after all! I thought he would have lasted for many happy and prosperous years.

  “I left Sydney and started up country, as I had another cattle-droving job from O’Hooligan’s on the Tarcoo. I should have a chance of seeing to poor Tom’s grave, and, strange to say, it had been arranged for me to take delivery of O’Hooligan’s cattle at Bylo, the very place where the whole unfortunate affair had happened.

  “This new duty was much more satisfactory in detail, to my mind. Four hundred prime fat cattle for the Adelaide market. It paid better, but took a long time on the road. But there is not the anxiety, if the season is good, that one experiences with ‘stores’. I had two of my best men with me, and would have to purchase an American waggon and a pair of horses.

  “The three of us made Belala, on the Gunyahgo, and we were lucky enough to complete our purchase of waggon and horses there.

  “I found, on arrival, a letter awaiting me from Harper of Fassifern, asking me as a favour to travel fifty merino rams, very valuable animals out of the Belala stud flock, from thence to his place, Fassifern, on the head waters of the Tarcoo, the next station but one from O’Hooligan’s. Luckily, I had plenty of time to spare. It had been a dry season, but all my horses were in good order.

  “One of the Fassifern black boys had ridden in with the letter. His name was ‘Boro’. I sent the wagon with my head cattleman down the Gunyahgo and across from Brandyville to Bylo, to await O’Hooligan’s draft. I had a clear fortnight, and I didn’t want to disoblige Harper, as he had drafts of cattle in prospect from Fassifern, and he always gave me a job of droving when he could.

  “So I accepted the rams willingly enough, the more especially as, after having delivered them safely at Fassifern, I could go down the Tarcoo to Bylo, see O’Hooligan on the way for final instructions, take over the cattle, and make a fair start from Bylo. Also there was the welcome prospect of putting a few more pounds into my pocket.”

  “Always there or thereabouts when ‘dibs’ are served out!” muttered Jemmy from his corner.

  “Ma certie, ye heathen, a thocht ye were deid,” snapped McIlwaine en parenthèse, and went on.

  “I took the Fassifern black boy, ‘Boro,’ with me of course. He might just as well work for his ‘tucker’ instead of crawling back, and stopping a night or two at the blacks’ camp. That was the worst bit of work I did on the trip.

  “I thought he might be useful tracking in case of mishap, as the rams were worth over £1000. Well, this black boy, ‘Boro,’ I did not cotton to. He was all a ‘waddygalo,’ but a ‘waddygalo’ of the worst tribe—Eepai. You can pick out ‘Combo,’ ‘Eepai,’ ‘Murral,’ and ‘Cubbai’. They have the same types of face, that is to say, a ‘Combo’ resembles a ‘Combo,’ a ‘Murrai’ a ‘Murrai,’ and so on; but a ‘Combo’ is the best of all for physique and good intentions. If an ‘Eepai’ learns anything it is roguery or devildom.

  “But with regard to this ‘Eepai’—‘Boro’—I reckoned I would smarten him up a bit before I had done with him.

  “He needed it. One boot, one spur, about a yard of torn blanket for his ‘swag,’ no shirt, a fearful and wonderful hat with no top to it.

  “You know the way some of these ‘myalls’ ride. So did ‘Boro’; one big toe on one side of the stirrup iron—the inside—next toe on the other, and the foot and all the other toes outside; the one boot thrust well home into the opposite iron. Doesn’t look pretty. But then old Harper never did have any ideas about black fellows, never kept them neat and tidy, never had them properly clothed. If one doesn’t keep some sort of hold on these ‘nigs’, and train them properly, they never will be fit to be seen. I’m particular about it, but the untidiness is in them, and therefore, if you don’t keep a good look out on a trained ‘nig’, he will disgrace your teaching if he gets a chance. Why, one of my own boys, ‘Tommy,’ a Tarcoo black, about fifteen, broke out on one occasion—lapsed into savagery, as I should term it. I got him from his mother. She was old Biddy from the station camp. It was my first trip with him and he’s all right now.

  “I was in at Brandyville. Tommy was in charge of my horses. Used to run them up to the town stockyard every morning. I had him nice and neat, riding-breeches and boots, cabbage-tree hat, spurs regular, not one-sided, and a very nice little darkie he looked. Hair properly dressed by the barber, too. He got his meals at the hotel and a small glass of ale with his dinner. He preferred to sleep, however, the first night, at the blacks’ camp without my leave.

  “Next morning up he comes at breakfast time. ‘Horses all right, Tommy?’ ‘Yowi’ (yes). He had someone else’s hat and shirt on—nothing else. Positively indecent. Dirty too. Hair anyway. Face all over wood-ash.

  “‘Where are your breeches, Tommy?’ ‘Mine been break him trous belongin’ to mine!’ Quite a new state of things. The little brute was entirely demoralised. Never had any morals until I took the trouble to instil them. This wouldn’t do. Was I to go about the country with a nigger in this untidy state? Certainly not. ‘Whose hat and shirt have you got on now, Tommy?’ ‘Nother pfeller, black pfeller, Charlie, cousin belongin’ to mine.’ ‘Where are your own clothes?’ ‘Mine been give ’em alonga ’nother pfeller, black pfeller!’

  “Tableau! ‘Give ’em away.’ The suit had cost me about three guineas, and the cabbage-tree hat another ten-and-sixpence, to say nothing of the spurs and boots. But you know their horribly irresponsible style, and how it riles one.

  “I took him straight down to the blacks’ camp by the car, and demanded instant reparation, under a threat to the old chief that, unless he complied with my wishes immediately, I should ‘yabber alonga policeman’. That ‘fetched’ him!

  “He collared half a dozen youngsters, and brought them up, yelling fit to wake the dead. One had had Tommy’s hat, another his boots, and another his spurs, at one time or another, but had halved or given away the articles to others, every one of the kids wishing to wear something belonging to my black boy.

  “So these young ‘nigs’ were sent to collar the others, and a furious hullabaloo then took place, mixed, with chivies round the gunyahs, over and through the fires, and in and out of the creek; and it wasn’t until we had collared every kid in camp, with the assistance of old Jimmy and his harem, that we found the missing articles—a boot on one, a spur on another, and so on. I don’t know whether they thought I should be willing to take Tommy out of the town in a state of nudity or not, or whether I should just get him some more outfits, until I had clothed the lot of them, but my determined move euchred them all together. So I made Master Tommy put on his duds one by one, ’til he arrived at hat and boots, with a circle of worshippers round him, telling the frightened youngsters that if I caught them again dividing my black boy’s raiment amongst them I should have them all hung by the policeman on the big windmill at the town stockyard, concluding:

  ‘Then you baal jump up white fellow, hang alonga sky, wokkaratchies (crows) eat ’em up.’

  “You never saw such a scare. And old Jimmy, the chief, quite believed it, and yabbered
and howled like blazes to all the ‘gins’ within a quarter of a mile. Then they began to bring in the rest of the missing articles, but two little wretches had torn Tommy’s good Crimean shirt in half to make, as they explained after much browbeating and threatening, ‘two little pfeller blankit’. And one of the junior members of Jimmy’s seraglio appeared with the collar worn as a necklet. That collar was her sole apparel. However, things simmered down after a bit, and I gave old Jimmy half a stick of Barrett’s twist, and bought Tommy another shirt. I made him sleep in an outhouse near the stable in the back-yard after this, but one morning early I caught two other urchins ‘coiled’ with him, the whole lot under his blanket. They were also ‘cousins,’ and had arranged to work with him in relation to the horses, hoping, I have no doubt, to get stray bits from the breakfast that my lord did not want himself.

  “But it ended in these two others having a separate ‘mess,’ which I paid for. The hot tea with their breakfasts must have comforted their small ‘tums,’ and I never like to put obstacles in the way of praiseworthy energy. So Tommy slept warmer at night, and I was the richer by two first-class trackers.

  “Eventually I took these boys with me, and they turned out well, and were very useful. And my boy, Tommy, never dared to speculate after this with his clothes. Everything depends upon how you bring them up.

  “But, as I was saying before my digression, this boy, ‘Boro,’ of Harper’s, was to come with us, and I did not like the look of him one little bit. He was a holy terror of uncleanness and carelessness.

  “We left the Gunyaligo with the rams, and I meant to cross the dividing range with them, straight to Fassifern, steering about north-north-east by the sun.

  “Mick Brady was my white man, a regular old stodger with cattle, slow, but sure and steady, well up to every wrinkle on the roads.