Ghost Stories and Mysteries (3 page)

The country through which we had been travelling for the last three days had been of a poor, sandy description, covered with forest tea-trees and stunted ironbark. The ridges were badly grassed, but here and there, on small flats on the banks of the creeks, we got good picking for the horses; and it was on such a small flat, situated in the bend of a sandy creek, that we turned out on this particular day. After unpacking, Davy took the billies and went down to the creek to get water; he was some time away; when he came back he put the billies down, and said:

“I saw fresh horse tracks in the bed of the creek.”

Hawthorne, who was kneeling down lighting a fire, looked up eagerly, but did not speak.

“Many?” I asked.

“Seems only two,” he replied; “one of them has been rolling in the sand.”

“Who on earth can it be?” I conjectured. “People prospecting or looking for country, I suppose. But if so, there must be more tracks about, for they would have more than two horses.”

“They may have left or lost them higher up the creek; they seem to have come down, and cannot be far off, for the tracks were only made this morning.”

Hawthorne had not before spoken; he now remarked, in a strangely conciliatory tone, that “Davis was doubtless right—the horses must have come up the creek, and that if we followed the creek up, we should find the camp of their owners.”

Davy, who at any other time would have opposed any proposition emanating from Hawthorne, on principle, now seemed struck by the altered tone of Hawthorne, and agreed with him that it might be as well to spend the rest of the day as proposed; I gave my consent to the proposed vote, and in an evil hour we started on our fatal errand.

Davy and Hawthorne went to gather the horses together when our meal was over; they found two strange horses had joined in with them—a bay and a chestnut, —both poor and saddle-marked. As we expected to overtake the owners of them, we drove them on with our spare horses.

We proceeded about five miles up the creek, the country getting more broken and barren. Small white sandy hills, covered with low wattle scrub, and here and there huge piles of granite boulders, were on either side of the creek. The creek itself had grown considerably deeper and narrower during the last two miles, the bed of it being full of holes of white, milky looking water. The tracks of the two horses were plainly to be seen the whole way, crossing and recrossing the creek.

Hawthorne was riding ahead, Davy and I were driving the horses after him; presently we saw him pull up, beckon to us, and then point ahead. We looked, and saw in the distance a rough humpy. We drove the horses up to within a few hundred yards, and then left them, to feed about; the three of us rode on to the camp. No fire was burning; a few crows rose up as we approached, and flew away, cawing loudly. Davy rode his horse up close to the gunyah and peered through the boughs.

“There’s someone asleep inside,” he said, and dismounted; Hawthorne and I did the same. Davy entered the rude place unceremoniously.

“Asleep, mate!” he called out.

No answer. “Hi!” he cried; then stooped and looked into the sleeper’s face.

“By God, he’s dead!”

Hawthorne and I crowded in, and saw a man lying upon a blanket spread over some dried grass, his head pillowed upon some articles of clothing folded neatly up. He was lying upon his back, his eyes half open, no trace of decomposition visible; life seemed to have but lately fled. Lifting my eyes from the dead man, I happened to notice Hawthorne and was startled by the look of combined joy and recognition visible in his face. Again I looked upon the corpse, and the dread fancy seized me that the dead and senseless body was aware of the evil glance directed upon it, and that a fearful, haunted, terrified look was now visible in the glazed eyeballs. I could stay no longer; calling to Davy, I hurried outside, Hawthorne, with a half concealed smile, following.

What were we to do? was our next question. Examine the camp, and see if we could find any clue as to his name, was the unanimous opinion. We did so. Outside the humpy were a riding saddle and a pack saddle, also a bridle and halter; inside were some ration bags, containing a little flour, tea, and sugar, an empty phial labelled “Laudanum,” a quart pot with some tea leaves in it, and a pint pot smelling strongly of laudanum. That the man had poisoned himself was self evident; his body was well nourished, and free from any marks of violence. We next removed the articles of clothing from underneath his head, and in the pockets found about thirteen pounds in notes and silver, and two horse receipts in favor of George Seamore; underneath the pillow, as though pushed underneath, was a Letts’ Diary, scribbled all over with writing in pencil; there were also such slight articles as tobacco, pipe, and matches. We then carefully examined the body, and made perfectly certain of the absence of life. He had been a tall man, with a fine determined face, fair chestnut beard, and gray eyes; the eyelids would not remain closed, and the eyes still seemed to me to wear a startled, shrinking look.

We now unpacked our horses, arranged our own camp, and proceeded to dig a grave, this of course being easy with our prospecting tools. That task finished, it was growing dark, and we carried the body to the grave. I had a prayer book in my swag, and read a part of the burial service over the body; the sandy soil had proved easy digging, and the grave was about four feet deep. The body was laid at the bottom, rolled in the blanket on which we found it lying. We filled in the grave just as it fell dark; I can see the whole scene before me as I write, the desolate looking hills, an unnaturally large red moon rising from behind them, and making the fantastic looking piles of boulders show black and grim against its light, my two companions and myself standing silent beside the mound of earth, ere we turned away.

Now, during the time that we had been digging the grave, Hawthorne left us and went down to the camp where the body was then lying; soon afterwards I called to him to ask him to bring some water when he came back. Receiving no answer, I went down myself, being thirsty from digging; on passing through the camp I saw Hawthorne inside the bough humpy bending over the body, making what looked like mesmeric passes. I called out sharply to know what he was doing; he started, and stammered out that he was only making sure that there were no indications of breathing. I said crossly that there seemed to be no occasion for that, and he went back to the grave.

After our supper was finished I tried to decipher the writing in the diary, but it was too illegible to read without a great deal of trouble, so I put it away under my head when I turned in. From the little that I had been able to make out, it seemed to be an account of the life of the man whom we had just buried, written by himself during his last hours. We talked for some time of the strange affair, dropping off to sleep one by one; we were sleeping round the fire, having been too busy to pitch our tent.

About the middle of the night, the moon then shining very brightly overhead, I was awakened by feeling something moving beneath my head; on lifting my head I saw Hawthorne feeling with his hand underneath my pillow. Angrily, I asked him what he was doing. He made no reply at first, but glared savagely at me, looking straight into my eyes, and seeming as though he would awe me by the very fierceness of his gaze; but my nerves were strong, and I looked back boldly and defiantly, and saw his eyes drop baffled; but his strange superhuman look had affected me more than I was then aware of.

“I was feeling for your matches, mine are all used; I am sorry that I disturbed you,” he said.

I handed him my match-box without a word, and he went back to his blankets and lit his pipe. After a short time I again fell asleep, first feeling for the dead man’s diary, as I felt certain that that was the object of Hawthorne’s search; it was there where I had placed it. Once more was I disturbed; Davy shook me by the shoulder, and called me by name. I raised myself and looked around. The cold breath of the coming dawn was making itself felt; the moon sinking low in the west gave but a dim half light, and threw long shadows of the I stunted trees upon the white sandy soil around us; a few tall gum trees on the bank of the creek standing out white and spectral like. Davy was standing beside my bed, evidently greatly excited. “What do you think,” he said in a frightened whisper; “Hawthorne has gone away with the dead man!”

I stared at him in astonishment. “I saw him, saw him go, and as I live, the dead man rode with him.”

My courage has been put to the test in many lands, and I do not think I have been found wanting; but I must confess that when this weird communication was whispered into my ear in the ghastly failing moonlight, in the desert far from our fellow men, I felt a thrill of abject fear run through me. I laid my hand upon my companion’s shoulder, and at the human contact the cowardly superstitious feeling that I had weakly given way to left me.

“What can you mean? How could he take a
dead
man with him?” I asked.

“I tell you that I saw them go. Listen! Can you hear anything?” We both listened, holding our breath, but the dead silence was unbroken; not even the scream of a curlew or the howl of a native dog could be heard.

“No,” said Davy, “they are out of hearing now. A short time ago I awoke and thought that I heard the horses galloping about in their hobbles away down the creek. I put on my boots, and taking my revolver, went down to see what was up, as I thought the blacks might be knocking about. When I got near where the horses were I heard a strange noise, and was on the point of turning back to call you, but changed my mind, and went a little closer, sneaking along under cover as much as possible. I saw two men amongst the horses, catching and saddling some of them, saw them mount and come straight towards where I was hidden. I had my revolver ready to fire, when I saw that it was Hawthorne and—” He pointed towards the grave.

“The man could not have been dead.”

“What time is it?” said Davy, in reply. I looked round; the dawn in the east was growing bright and clear.

“Half-past four or so,” I said, and stooped for my watch.

“And what time was it when we buried the man?” my companion went on.

“About six o’clock.”

“Say then that he was in a trance when we buried him, would not the weight of earth have killed him? Would he not have been suffocated in less than an hour?

I could only answer, “Yes.” “But,” I was going on to say, “could not Hawthorne have dug him up directly we went to sleep;” and then I remembered that I had seen Hawthorne in the camp in the middle of the night.

I looked for the book, and found it still under my pillow. I told Davy of the occurrence; he was on his knees, busy making up the fire; the bright cherry blaze seemed partly to scare away the dismal horrors that lingered round the haunted camp.

All Hawthorne’s things were gone; he and his unearthly companion must have carried them down to the horses. We both shuddered at the thought of the living corpse moving about the silent tamp, and stepping perhaps over our sleeping bodies. Our horses were all there, Hawthorne’s four and the two strangers being away.

“Shall we track them up?” I asked, when we were ready to start.

“No, no!” said Davy. “Let us get away from here. I don’t feel myself; I feel quite nervous and cowed.”

So we started, first inspecting the grave, which we found empty. We pushed on during the ensuing few days; and in my spare hours I managed to make out the blurred manuscript. The history revealed by it coincided so strangely with the scene that we had witnessed, that we could doubt the evidence of our senses no longer. It was so unheard of and incredible, and it brought back all the horrors of that night so forcibly and vividly, that our only wish was to reach a settlement of fellow beings, in hope that our minds would cease to dwell and brood upon what we had seen.

In a little more than a fortnight we reached the overland telegraph line, and following it along, we came to a working party; and then Davy fell sick and could not travel. He rapidly grew worse; everybody was most kind, but we could do but little. I could see the end not very far off.

I was watching by his side one evening, when he turned and spoke to me.

“I have told you all that I want you to do for me, excepting one thing, old fellow, and that is that when I die that you will watch over my grave for at least a week; promise that you will save me from that horrible fiend; make sure of it before you leave me.”

I pressed his hand, and told him, “Yes.”

“Good-bye, old friend; it’s hard to die like this, but I feel easier since your promise.”

That night he died, and I was left alone, the sole possessor of the horrible secret. I dared not tell the others, for they would only have laughed at me; but I determined not to break my word to the dead.

We buried him the next morning near the line; all hands knocked off work, and attended; and then my watch commenced.

They thought me mad thus to carry out a whim of my dead comrade’s; and had they known against what I sought to guard his body, they would have been sure of my insanity; but I did not tell then. With snatches of broken rest during the day time, I kept my promise for more than a week, until all semblance of life must have departed from the body underground; and then, when my time expired and I could relinquish my armed watch (for man or ghoul, living being or ghost, I had determined that he should not make an attempt unscathed), I left poor Davy in his lonely grave, with the silent messages that had travelled so many thousand miles flashing past his resting place, and hastened to port. I went to Melbourne to recruit, and for a while forgot to a certain extent my hideous experience; until, after three years, I found myself here in Brisbane, and the other day it was all brought home to me again.