Great Australian Stories

by Graham Seal

  The Scots folklorist Andrew Lang made an exhaustive investigation of the evidence in the early twentieth century, by which time, he wrote ‘Everybody has heard about “Fisher’s Ghost”. It is one of the stock “yarns” of the world . . .’ Through some impressively researched comparisons between the Fisher’s Ghost tales (whose origins had by then been lost in time), and a number of similar British cases, Lang convincingly argued that the story of the ghost developed rapidly in the locality of the murder. The tale was probably included in the initial evidence put before local magistrates but suppressed, for sound legal reasons, when the case was tried in the Sydney criminal courts. Despite this official silencing (for which Lang also provides some interesting British parallels), the story of the ghost leading authorities to its own murdered body continued to enthral common folk and scholars alike, chiming as it did with other tales and ballads involving ghostly messengers. Campbelltown hosts an annual Fisher’s Ghost Festival and enthusiastically promotes the area’s connections with the tale. There have also been more plays, an early Australian feature film, even an opera televised by the Australian Broadcasting Corporation in 1963.

  The ghost on old Pinjarrah Bridge

  One of Western Australia’s earliest recorded ghosts died of an apoplectic fit some time during the 1860s. This account is from the early-1870s journal of settler Thomas Scott.

  I had occasion during my stay in Pinjarrah to see Mr. C. on some small business transactions. Mr. C. was a near relation of the nocturnal visitant of which we are about to speak. On the third evening of our stay at Mr. Greenacre’s Mr. C. paid me a visit. He was a man of firm resolution and would laugh trifles in the face. And a thorough unbeliever in such things as disembodied spirits. On my remarking how unwell he looked he only shook his hand and said, ‘No wonder, Sir, for we have seen her again. And this makes the sixth time of her reappearance, and more distinct she appeared than she has on the former occasions.’

  ‘Seen who? may I ask,’ said I.

  ‘Seen who?’ reiterated Mr. C. ‘Why surely, Mr. Margrave, you have not been in Pinjarrah these three days and heard nothing of the Ghost of the old Bridge?’

  ‘Indeed then I have,’ I replied. ‘But you really don’t mean to tell me that you believe in the story? Why, it was only last night, rather late that I came across the old Bridge and met none save one solitary individual, an elderly lady to all appearance who was attired in a light loose dress.’

  ‘My poor Aunt, Mrs. C.,’ exclaimed my friend, ‘who has been dead for the last seven years, and this is the anniversary of her mysterious death. Why, Mr. Margrave this is the veritable ghost of the old Bridge of which I was just speaking to you, and which makes its nocturnal appearance on the old Bridge every year about this time. Whether it is the disembodied spirit of my aunt, which carries her feature and is recognised by us all, or whether it is but a phantom of the mind, God only knows, for it is very mysterious.’

  ‘Strange, no doubt, as you say,’ I ejaculated, ‘but I rather think you are labouring under some illusion.’

  ‘No illusion whatever,’ said Mr. C., ‘it is too true. She walks that old Bridge towards midnight nine days in each year just before and after the anniversary of her death. She has been recognised by her two sisters, her brother John, and Mr. Koil, my uncle.’

  ‘You say she has been dead for the last seven years. May I ask in what manner she met her death?’

  ‘Certainly, Sir,’ answered Mr. C. ‘She was found dead seven years ago on the old Bridge. She was supposed to have died from an apoplectic fit, but whatever the cause of death was she was interred next day as the weather was too oppressive to keep her any longer than that short time. On the 1st July, one year from the date of her demise, she, or rather her apparition, for I cannot be convinced to the contrary, was first seen by my uncle at midnight walking the old Bridge like a silent sentinel from the place of departed spirits.

  ‘My uncle came home—I remember the night well—just as he had finished telling us what he had seen, three distinct, loud knocks were heard at our back door. It was a beautiful moonlit starry night—not a cloud was seen in the vast blue firmament; and bewildering stillness seemed to reign supreme. There was no time for anybody to have made off nor was there any place of concealment near at hand, as instantaneously we all ran to the door—but there was nothing to be seen and there was not a breath of air stirring. With palpitating hearts and big drops of perspiration on our foreheads we returned to the house. The door was hardly closed when three more knocks louder than the first was heard again, and at the same time we heard as distinctly as possible my uncle’s Christian name repeated two or three times outside the door. The sound or voice was that of my aunt, which was recognised by all present. We all stood looking at each other in mute fear and astonishment—terror seemed to sway every heart now beating thrice three times as fast.

  ‘My uncle was the first to break the spell. He rushed to the door, closely followed by myself, as if ashamed of his momentary fear, to behold a tall stately figure of a female clad in a light loose dress similar to that she had on at the time she was found dead on the old Bridge. ‘Yes,’ said my uncle, in a tremulous hoarse voice, ‘Yes, that is my sister Kate or her apparition which I saw on the old Bridge.’ She was walking or rather slowly gliding as it were in the direction of the old Bridge, which is about a quarter of a mile from our farm. My uncle instinctively shouted out ‘Kate,’ his sister’s name. But, as if by magic, on her name being called she immediately disappeared from our view. We all proceeded to the old Bridge with the expectation of seeing the apparition there, for we were all fully convinced now that the figure was nothing else, but we were disappointed. None of us slept that night but kept a vigil till morning.

  ‘On the third night after this the apparition was seen again but could not be approached by my uncle. Finally it disappeared altogether until the following year, about the same time, it made its reappearance again. Each succeeding year to the present one has brought us the ghostly visits of my deceased aunt, and for what purpose is to us as yet a mystery.’

  ‘You say’, said I, ‘that the apparition is to be seen on the old Bridge but will not be approached; must I understand by that it disappears on your approach to it?’

  ‘Precisely so,’ answered Mr. C. ‘And’, he went on, ‘if you, Mr. Margrave, have no objection you are welcome to join our little private party who are going to watch for it to-night.’

  ‘I shall be too glad to accept your offer,’ I replied; ‘and I only hope I shall have a glimpse of your nocturnal visitant. May I bring a friend?’

  ‘Certainly, with pleasure—half a dozen if you like—the more the merrier.’

  The hour appointed by the C. party for apprising the apparition was fixed at midnight, that being the accustomed time of its first appearance. On my informing Mr. M. of our midnight adventure and the object it had in view, he most readily assented to accompany me, saying at the same time, ‘And, by my soul, if it were a ghost we’d better be after letting the poor creature rest, faith, or may be it will be giving us a turn as well as its own people, sure. But no matter, go we will and if it should turn out to be some spalpeen night-walking, that wants waking, faith an’ we’ll give him a good ducking in the river that runs under the old Bridge.’

  According to previous arrangements, half-past eleven that night found our small midnight party, comprising five in all, at our respective positions. The night was beautifully starlit with a full moon coursing in the heavens above. To the right of the Bridge was a burying ground and on either side of this lay nothing but the dark, dense forest, that looked in this lonesome hour the very place for a ghost scene. Twelve o’clock came and—no apparition appeared—a quarter-past twelve—half-past—and now five-and-twenty minutes to one and yet no appearance. We were literally counting the minutes after twelve but to no effect.

  ‘Bad luck to it,’ exclaimed Mr. M. ‘I believe af
ter all it will turn out nothing more than a hoax, sure.’

  ‘Well,’ said I, ‘never mind, Mr. M., we will keep it up till one o’clock, then we’ll give it up as a—————.’

  ‘Hist. Look!’ interrupted Mr. M. ‘By my soul, but there’s somebody coming over the Bridge.’

  On looking at my watch I found it was just twenty minutes to one. Scarcely had the last word died on Mr. M’s lips when from four different quarters we advanced as previously arranged, with stealthy step (like ‘stealing a march’) toward the Bridge. A slight thrill ran through me as I clearly recognised the same figure I had seen the night previous. The old Bridge was a wooden construction about 50 yards long, with railing on each side as a protection to the dark waters beneath. We were not twenty yards from the apparition when on the deathly stillness of the surrounding dark-looking forest broke the prolonged and mournful howl of a dingo or native dog, causing us to fairly start. But it was only momentarily. Mr. M. and myself arrived at one end of the Bridge whilst at the other end appeared at the same time the C. party.

  The apparition was in the centre of the Bridge and seemed to be on the move. It was quite recognisable by all parties and the same that has already been described. We instinctively stopped to watch it for a few minutes. The signal was given by the other party to apprise it, and simultaneously we all rushed to the spot where the apparition stood, visible as plain as day, and—aghast, we stood gaping at each other scarcely believing our own eyes. The figure whether earthly or spiritual had vanished. Five men whom I am in a position to prove were in their sane senses witnessed the mysterious—what shall we call it?—a delusion?—a phenomenon?—or what the world in the nineteenth century laughs at as gross superstition, viz., a ghost or spirit of the departed.

  Although Scott doesn’t say, it seems this was the last time that Kate was seen walking the old bridge, which was washed away in a flood some years later.

  A Vice-Regal haunting

  Yarralumla, the Governor-General’s official residence in Canberra, was already said to be haunted when it became government property in the early twentieth century. As the recounter of this chronologically confused version of the tale puts it, ‘Here is all the material for a five-reel movie drama.’

  When the Governor-general goes into residence at Yarralumla House, his temporary home at Canberra, he will find that with the old house goes a tale of mystery. According to more or less conflicting versions of the tale, a ghost, a real Australian blackfellow ghost, has been known to walk, but—well, ghosts are rather out of date, anyway.

  The story begins with a jewel robbery, tells of a big diamond passed to the robber’s friend, and afterwards to the friend’s son, and ends with bushrangers, and the murder of a trusty blackfellow. Here is all the material for a five-reel movie drama.

  The skeleton of the blackfellow, so the story goes, lies at the foot of a big deodar, nearly a hundred years old, which is the pride of Yarralumla.

  The record of the mystery is an old letter or manuscript, unsigned, dated 1881, ‘written near Yarralumla’, and it was left, no doubt overlooked and forgotten, by the former owners when the place was handed over to the Government. The homestead has been a hostel for members of Parliament, Government officials, and approved visitors, since the Canberra project has been in hand and many visitors have read the tale. It is a rambling story, and you may believe or not, as you like. Here it is :—

  ‘In 1826, a large diamond was stolen from James Cobbity, on an obscure station in Queensland. The theft was traced to one of the convicts who had run away, probably to New South Wales. The convict was captured in 1858, but the diamond could not be traced; neither would the convict (name unknown) give any information, in spite of frequent floggings. During 1842 he left a statement to a groom, and a map of the hiding-place of the hidden diamond.

  ‘The groom, for a minor offence, was sent to Berrima gaol. He was clever with horses, and one day, when left to his duties, plaited a rope of straw and then escaped by throwing it over the wall, where he caught an iron bar. Passing it over, he swung himself down and escaped. He and his family lived out west for several years, according to the Rev. James Hassall who, seeing him live honestly, did not think it necessary to inform against him. I have no reason to think he tried to sell the diamond. Probably the ownership of a thing so valuable would bring suspicion and lead to his re-arrest.

  ‘After his death his son took possession of the jewel, and with a trusty blackfellow set off for Sydney.

  ‘After leaving Cooma for Queanbeyan they met with, it was afterwards ascertained, a bushranging gang. The blackfellow and his companion became separated, and finally the former was captured and searched, to no avail, for he had swallowed the jewel.

  ‘The gang, in anger, shot him. He was buried in a piece of land belonging to Colonel Gibbes, and later Mr. Campbell. I believe the diamond to be among his bones. It is of great value.

  ‘My hand is enfeebled with age, or I should describe the trouble through which I have passed. My life has been wasted, my money expended, I die almost destitute, and in sight of my goal.

  ‘I believe the grave to be under the large deodar-tree. Being buried by blacks, it would be in a round hole. I enclose my dwindling fortune . . .’

  It is said that the ghost of the murdered Aboriginal haunts the grounds of Yarralumla looking for the lost diamond. Some accounts claim that he has been seen digging at the roots of the ancient deodar tree, thought to be the finest example of its type in the country.

  The Black Lady of Mount Victoria

  In 1841 Caroline Collits, of Little Hartley in the New South Wales Blue Mountains, left her husband William and went to live with John Walsh and his wife. Caroline and Walsh had been lovers before her marriage and, with the apparent blessing of Walsh’s wife, resumed their relationship. Early the next year, Caroline and the two men met for a drink at a local tavern in an attempt to reconcile their differences. But the meeting did not go well. The men fought, and William ran off into the night, leaving Walsh and Caroline alone together. The next morning the postman found her battered body by the roadside, her skull smashed in with a large rock. Walsh was arrested and protested his innocence, but he was hanged for the crime at Bathurst a few months later.

  Caroline’s ghost has since been seen many times near Mount Victoria. She is said to be dressed in black, often with blazing eyes and outstretched arms and is sometimes followed by a hearse drawing four black horses. At least one report claimed the ghost had laid a curse upon the village of Mt Victoria. Today, the ghost is often sighted by truck drivers on the Victoria Pass road.

  Henry Lawson became well acquainted with the story of the Black Lady when he lived in the area during the 1880s, and used it in his poem ‘The Ghost at the Second Bridge’. His tongue-in-cheek tone, however, suggests he was more than a little sceptical. The ‘Second Bridge’ refers to a convict-built, stone-lined section of the road through Victoria Pass.

  You’d call the man a senseless fool,

  A blockhead or an ass,

  Who’d dare to say he saw the ghost

  Of Mount Victoria Pass;

  But I believe the ghost is there,

  For, if my eyes are right,

  I saw it once upon a ne’er-

  To-be-forgotten night.

  ’Twas in the year of eighty-nine—

  The day was nearly gone,

  The stars were shining, and the moon

  Is mentioned further on;

  I’d tramped as far as Hartley Vale,

  Tho’ tired at the start,

  But coming back I got a lift

  In Johnny Jones’s cart.

  ’Twas winter on the mountains then—

  The air was rather chill,

  And so we stopped beside the inn

  That stands below the hill.

  A fire was burning in the bar
,

  And Johnny thought a glass

  Would give the tired horse a spell

  And help us up the Pass.

  Then Jimmy Bent came riding up—

  A tidy chap was Jim—

  He shouted twice, and so of course

  We had to shout for him.

  And when at last we said good-night

  He bet a vulgar quid

  That we would see the ‘ghost in black’,

  And sure enough we did.

  And as we climbed the stony pinch

  Below the Camel Bridge,

  We talked about the ‘Girl in black’

  Who haunts the Second Bridge.

  We reached the fence that guards the cliff

  And passed the corner post,

  And Johnny like a senseless fool

  Kept harping on the ghost.

  ‘She’ll cross the moonlit road in haste

  And vanish down the track;

  Her long black hair hangs to her waist

  And she is dressed in black;

  Her face is white, a dull dead white—

  Her eyes are opened wide—

  She never looks to left or right,

  Or turns to either side.’

  I didn’t b’lieve in ghosts at all,

  Tho’ I was rather young,

  But still I wished with all my heart

  That Jack would hold his tongue.

  The time and place, as you will say,

  (’Twas twelve o’clock almost)—

  Were both historically fa-

  Vourable for a ghost.

  But have you seen the Second Bridge

  Beneath the ‘Camel’s Back’?

  It fills a gap that broke the ridge

  When convicts made the track;

  And o’er the right old Hartley Vale