by James Doig
One of the stockmen turned upon his employer with a hysterical laugh, “what do you think of the headless rider now, boss?”
But the super could only shake his head dubiously, as if the matter were altogether beyond his comprehension.
We returned back to the tent, and found old Mike cowering in the corner, the same as we had left him. With one of those inspirations which so often fall upon men in situations like the present, I sprang forward and seized him by the arm.
“We have found the remains of Warfield!” I almost shouted. “Confess, you villain, that you murdered him.”
He turned his stricken eyes upon us, gave a few gasps, and struggled to his knees.
“You’ve found him, have you? Well, I’m mighty glad of it. Yes, I killed him.”
Notwithstanding my question, I confess to being somewhat taken aback at this straightforward answer to it.
“Yes,” he continued, “I confess it. I killed him on this swamp: cut off his head with the axe whilst he was asleep and buried him in the swamp. And now I feel better than I have done for the last fifteen years—since the moment I done it, I’ve suffered dreadful,” he continued. “He was here last night. I thought he ’u’d have killed me; I wish he had. Perhaps he has, though, for I feel mighty weak.”
The self-confessed murderer sank back on his blankets, and shivered from head to foot; and the blood again oozed from his mouth and nostrils.
We stood at the tent entrance, regarding him in dismay.
“What did you kill him for?” I at length inquired.
“Well, he was going to run away with my wife. I stopped a letter he wrote to her. Don’t you mind seeing part of it? I tore of the other part. I told you I found the letter in my hut after I came back, but I got it before I started with the cattle. They were going off together after he should come back from Victoria, but I determined he never should come back. That’s why I killed him. But she never waited for him, but went away with the boundary-rider.”
A fresh flow of blood here interrupted him, and we drew off to consider the best course to pursue.
We decided to leave the guilty man in the tent, whilst we went back and brought up the cattle in one mob.
We notified this intention to Mike, but he protested against the arrangement with hysterical vehemence.
“For God’s sake, don’t leave me alone,” he said. “If you do, I’ll run away.”
We smiled at this, for the man was too weak even to rise himself upon his feet.
“I’ve suffered already,” he said, “more even than I deserve. But don’t leave me alone, for God’s sake.”
The super suggested that I remained on the ground whilst he and his riders would bring up the boxed mob.
This was agreed to, and they departed for the cattle.
I carried up a billy of water for Mike, who, in reply to a question of mine, stated that he had also killed the bald-faced cob.
“I couldn’t get the animal,” he said, “away from the spot where I buried Warfield so I was obliged to kill him, too, for fear of his betraying me;” and, beyond a few delirious mutterings, he spoke no more during the whole of that day.
The double mob of cattle were safely landed on the Black Swamp camp before sundown, and all hands agreed to sit up that night and keep a general watch.
Leaving the wretched Mike in sole possession of the tent, we made a fire outside of “cattle chips,” the only fuel procurable on these plains, and laid in a supply of the same material; and we filled all the billies with water, and spread our rugs around the fire, and in this way prepared to keep vigil; but it was an understood thing that, in the event of the cattle breaking away, no pursuit should be made.
I shall never forget that watch on those midnight plains. It was a most lovely night, and the soft lustre which the stars shed around seemed to hallow even that desecrated spot.
Our conversation, which was confined for the most part to the startling revelations of that day, and of many events connected with that revelation, was carried on in semi-hushed tones. Our pipes were in constant requisition, and the billies of scalding tea simmered around the smouldering fire, whose familiar presence there served to reassure us.
The super was a remarkably intelligent man, and his conversation for some time past had been directed in the endeavour to disrobe the events of the past night of their apparent supernatural garb.
He boldly maintained that when my horse reared at sight of the “will-o’-the-wisp,” and fell over on me, I must have been terribly shaken, and was probably, although unknown to myself, unconscious for a short time; as for the shrieks of the guilty Mike, on sight of the “will-o’-the-wisp,” they were, of course, true enough; but those shrieks, he further pointed out, were only heard by me when the presence of the spectre left me, or, in other words, when thorough consciousness returned.
As for the apparition dragging Mike from the tent, and the trail of blood which led us to the discovery, he accounted for that by stating his opinion that the conscience-stricken murderer, really believing that the victim had been present with him, had actually crawled down to the grave to ascertain if the sod had been disturbed.
“I really believe,” continued the super, “that this wretched man, whilst under the influence of terrified fascination, crawled after the receding ignis fatuus down to the swamp. Owing to the relative positions occupied by yourself and the tent, your line of sight struck the course taken by them diagonally, and not at right angles, or you would have seen they were not close together—one dragging the other apparently—but some distance apart.”
It is needless to say that this plausible reasoning was stoutly combatted by everyone there present with, perhaps, the exception of myself.
The half-dozen stockmen were by no means content to have the terrible spectre, which for so many years had reigned over the Black Swamp camp, so easily disposed of.
“The only remarkable thing I see about the affair,” continued the super, “is the manner in which the guilty man himself led us on to the discovery.”
But his audience was not appreciative, and still murmured their dissent.
The super, the better to enforce his argument, rose upon his feet.
“Now, look here,” said he, “I trust this thing, whatever it is, will show up tonight. I’ll investigate it anyhow.”
“Well,” said I, drawing forth my watch, “it wants but a few minutes to midnight, and that’s the time, you know.”
The watchers looked nervously over their shoulders, but not the least sight or sound disturbed us, and the super continued, “I intend to face it—no matter in what aspect it comes.”
At this moment a tremendous commotion shook the tent and the wretched Mike rushed out from it with the wild cry of—
“Here he comes!”
The miserable man was bent nearly double, his hair was literally standing on end, his eyes darting from their sockets, and in blind terror, was rushing right into the fire.
The super was standing with his back towards the tent, and when that dreadful cry burst upon him he vacated his position with amazing celerity; clearing the fire, the billies, and the men lying beyond it with the agility of a kangaroo.
I started up just in time to save the guilty Mike from plunging headlong in the fire, but so great was his onset that I stumbled and fell with him, and as we fell I felt that convulsive twitching of his limbs, and heard that choking-rattle which always precedes dissolution, but even in that dread moment my eyes were riveted upon the tent; and so, indeed, were those of all the party, and thus we stood, sat, or kneeled—each in the attitude in which we had been surprised, without moving a muscle for the full space of a minute.
The super was the first to recover himself and move towards the tent. We all followed, but saw nothing. We looked around in every direction
, but neither sight nor sound disturbed the deathlike stillness of the plains. The cattle were lying quiet upon their distant camp, everything around us was quiet—as quiet, indeed, as the man we had left by the fire.
We continued our vigil until daybreak, but nothing disturbed us.
The following day the remains of the self-confessed murderer were interred by the aide of his victim, and we drew up a rough statement of the affair—minus the few apparent supernatural surroundings—and forwarded it to the authorities.
But the Black Swamp is no longer haunted. The unquiet spirit is now at rest, and the overlanders hail the camp as the best on the southern cattle trail.
CHRONICLES OF EASYVILLE, by Patrick Shanahan
The Australian Journal, 1 March 1875; 1 October 1875
Patrick Shanahan is known only for his “Chronicles of Easyville”, a series of short stories set in the fictional Victorian town of Easyville that were serialized in The Australian Journal in 1875.
Easyville! The beauteous, the romantic! So far away from the busy turmoil of the city, and yet not too far for the rusticated student who may desire to visit the Victorian metropolis occasionally. Who first planned thy limits? Who first arranged thee into streets and byways? Who first built for himself a habitation within thy limits, thou paragon of Victorian villages?
It is five o’clock p.m. The coach from Melbourne comes grinding over the flinty highway, laden with passengers and luggage. What a grand sight the antiquated mail coach is, thundering along the hard stony ways with its steaming horses, its dandy driver, its motley cargo of passengers. The clashing of iron-shod hoofs, and the loud rumbling of wheels!
But it has passed, and I turn me within the walls of my hotel, to hear the loud voices of drunken quarrymen, farmers, cattle-dealers, and such like, “blowing” in the best colonial style. I pick up a newspaper, ‘tis a bound copy of yesterday’s Argus. I have no taste for politics, little for news, and so disregard the “leading daily.” I perambulate my room, for I am a lodger of a week’s acquaintance with Easyville folks, and have retained a room solely for myself. I examine the chamber and the pictures which decorate the walls, and finally settle down on a sofa, to drown my ennui in sleep. But what is the packet which attracts my attention as I lie reclined, at the farthest end of my chamber. In a dark nook I first beheld it, a dried, crumpled fold of papers tied with stained and faded pink silk ribbon. What can it be? Probably some title deeds! lost by some former tenant of this chamber! Perhaps it might be a draft for £10,000 on some of the banks. I will see. I open it carefully—slowly—and what do I find?
A bundle of MSS. containing sketches of Easyville, written by some lounger for amusement, and entitled “Chronicles of Easyville,” by a visitor. The first paper which attracts my eye is this:
The Strange Unknown
What a charming little town is this Easyville! How compact; how nicely arranged into streets; and, above all, what an enlightened population it possesses. I have been “taking stock” of them as I stroll along Gossip-street, and I confess that I have seldom, if ever, met with a more intellectual lot of mortals. I watch them every day, as group after group passes beneath my window; and, sooth to say, they are a rare galaxy of “stars.” We have the bush politician, the bush lawyer, the bush doctor. We have poets (male and female) and artists ditto. We have musicians galore, and—well, I must not omit to say we have a few clergymen; but they are certainly in the minority, although Easyville possesses three churches and two schools.
There goes a local J.P., with his hat set jauntily on one side of his neatly-combed head. Behind him, puffing a cigarette, and walking as hurriedly as if the safety of the Easyville folks depended upon his speed, struts a coxcomb of the first water—a new arrival from the Victorian metropolis, and by all exterior appearances, an ass!
But I see today a new arrival at Easyville. I have been noticing him as I sat at breakfast this morning. He passed by my window twice or thrice, as if in meditation, and he seems to be a strange individual.
And I—pardon this fault—am a curious personage: I am on fire to know who this stranger is, albeit this curiosity of mine is a sin against courtesy. I must know him; he seems so totally unlike the common folks of Easyville. I put on my surcoat—for the day is cold and inclined to be rainy—and walk abroad. I seek out this “strange unknown”, and meet him at the Hotel Square.
Of course, the meeting is accidental. I bow. He returns the salute; and I stop to ask some questions relative to the place, being a stranger. He replies as best he can; and I am convinced that he is an extraordinary individual; and, after surveying him closely for ten minutes, I invite him to my lodgings. He acquiesces; and so, kind reader, we become acquainted.
Now, dear reader, I cannot introduce you to this individual, because I know not his name or nation. He wished to preserve an incognito, and the “strange unknown” is the only name he bestowed upon himself. To all appearances, he is a Frenchman—a fine handsome fellow, with dark hair and whiskers, and an eye of that deep penetrating sort that looks through its objects, and is never off its guard.
I will detail an account of our first acquaintanceship, as nearly as possible.
We had tea and demolished a bottle of port. My friend became a little more talkative, and told me his business at Easyville. He was a travelling artist, and painted well. Some of his pictures might have graced the walls of our colonial picture galleries, and have met with few equals from colonial artists. One especially—“The Love Test”—which he showed me, was really a masterpiece of colouring and expression. It represented a young Tyrolese and his maiden lover standing beside the mouth of the black ravine, overhung with trails of ivy and fern. The maiden stood, or rather clung, to her lover’s neck, imploring him to remain at home; for he was about to go abroad. He pointed to the bleak, cold ranges of his native country, as if asking, “What was to be done there to gain a decent living.” He was a fine, handsome youth, and from his belt hung a dagger, which his fair partner essayed with hand to grasp, in order to put herself to death rather than part with him, while with the other she clung to his neck. A glance sufficed to show what idea the picture meant to convey, and I confess I was charmed with it.
“You see, monsieur,” he said, addressing me, “that picture is expressive of a passion, which, though I painted the ideal on canvas, I never believed to exist in one-half of human nature.”
“You do not think, then,” I replied, “that there is such a thing as love capable of standing a test like that represented in your picture?”
“Parblieu! No monsieur, I know it.”
“You have had experience then?” I continued, hoping to draw him out further.
He shrugged and looked vacantly at the window for some time, but made no response.
“I have a reason for preserving an incognito,” he said, after a few moments silence; “but though brief our acquaintance, monsieur, I confess I like you better than any of your species that I have met with in my life.
“My species! What do you mean?”
“You are a man are you not?”
“I hope so. So are you, I presume?”
“Pardieu! No, I am a—”
“A what?” said I, in surprise.
“A demon!” he yelled, and in an instant he had gone.
“My God!” I exclaimed, after I recovered myself thoroughly. “The fellow is a lunatic; and yet I never saw aught so strange! This is a sort of madness not easily explained.”
I went to bed, and remained all night awake, thinking of this mysterious stranger. There was something unearthly about his looks, I thought, after one surveyed him closely.
Next morning I was strolling through Gossip-street square, and I met the Strange Unknown. He smiled and seemed as placid and cool as if we had parted in the most courteous manner on the previous night.
I confess th
at I did not half relish his acquaintance this time; but before I could offer an excuse for going, he took my arm and led me along the street, saying, “You see, monsieur, I am a strange character altogether.”
I confess that I thought him such.
“Well, monsieur, I wish to ask you one question. Will you be kind enough to reply and trust to my honour. I can hold your secrets (as you think they are) for I know them already if I choose to tell them to others. You love a young lady not twenty yards from here?” and he pointed with his forefinger to the house, where I confess dwelt the object of my love.
Thunderstruck at his supernatural knowledge, for so I deemed it, I replied that I did, and asked him how he learned it.
“You slept none last night, monsieur,” he continued, without replying to my query, “and tonight you will meet with a mishap.”
“You have a rival in that quarter, and your ‘lady love’ knows not that you love her, otherwise.…” Here he paused.
“Go on,” I exclaimed, breathless with agitation.
“You will learn the rest, monsieur, soon enough. I shall be with you when you expect me not. I trust you will be fortunate. Bon jour!” And he left me.
I went to my lodgings ruminating over my adventures with this strange individual. Who could he be? No doubt he was a human being. I never believed in the supernatural, but here my unbelief got a home-thrust. This man, whom I never saw ’til I arrived in Easyville, could tell me secrets of my past life, and point out the very girl whom I loved. I went to bed, and tossed to and fro in hope of sleep, but it fled my eyes. I rose up in desperation and dressed; I walked into the street. “Some fatal fascination is about the fellow,” thought I; “I will cut his acquaintance;” and such I intended to do. But imagine my horror at beholding the individual—the mysterious stranger of three days’ acquaintance, again. He came up to me as I strolled up and down the street. It was about midnight.
