INTERVIEWED BY A BUSHRANGER.
I was staying in Sydney for a few weeks, and had put up at the Polynesian Club. There I made the acquaintance of a young colonial journalist, by name Alison Fellgate, a frank, clever, easy-going fellow, who had compressed a good deal of life into his forty years. One evening after dinner we sat smoking under the broad veranda that ran round three sides of the Club building. Presently, Fellgate took out his watch and held it in his hand for a few moments. ‘I have an engagement this evening, but there is plenty of time yet,’ he said.
‘I have several times noticed what a particularly handsome watch that is of yours, Fellgate,’ I said.
‘Ah, that watch has a story,’ he replied.
‘I have observed some sort of inscription on it. A presentation, I suppose?’
‘Right. It was a presentation, but of a somewhat unusual sort.’
‘I grow curious. Let us have the story.’
‘Very good. It is a story I have had to tell more than once. You must know, then, that I began my journalistic life in the colonies as editor of that able and distinguished organ of public opinion, the Burragundi Beacon. I had been conducting it for some six months, to the satisfaction, I am always proud to remember, of the proprietors, when that outbreak of bushranging which was headed by the notorious Frank Gardiner began to keep the country in a state of continual excitement and terrorism. I need not tell you that of all the knights of the bush, Frank Gardiner was in prowess and achievement second to none. For several years, he and his gang eluded all efforts at capture on the part of the government, until the country-people began to think that Frank, like his illustrious forerunner and prototype, Dick Turpin, bore a charmed life. At last, two thousand pounds was set on his head, alive or dead.
One morning I received a short letter something like the following, addressed to the editor of the Beacon:
Sir—I observe a statement in the Sydney Morning Herald of to-day to the effect that myself and my mates last Monday night attempted an attack upon Lawson’s Station, Woonara. Will you allow me the use of your widely-read columns to say that this announcement is entirely erroneous, from the simple fact, that on that night I and my party were busily engaged elsewhere.—I am, yours, &c.,
Frank Gardiner.
I was so tickled with this letter—there was something so funny in its cool audacity, and the whole circumstances—that I at once inserted it in the Beacon.
About a fortnight later, I received a second letter, which ran pretty much like:
Sir—It must necessarily be the fate of all public men to encounter much misrepresentation, and I must just submit, I suppose, like others. At the same time, when there is a remedy at hand, a man is merely doing himself justice in availing himself of that remedy. I appeal, therefore, simply to your sense of right and fair-play in requesting you to publish my flat and emphatic denial to a paragraph which appeared in the Sydney papers of last Friday—namely, that in the recent encounter with troopers, one of my mates was wounded in the arm. Nothing of the sort took place, thanks to the clumsy shooting of our opponents. The same paragraph also states that in the last sticking-up of the Binda Flat mail we treated our prisoners with much harshness. The very reverse of this was the actual case, and this statement can only have emanated from persons wilfully and maliciously determined upon prejudicing myself and my comrades in the public mind.—I remain, yours, &c.,
Frank Gardiner.
That letter also found a place in the Beacon. Afterwards I received in all some half-a-dozen communications from the notorious bushranger, varying in details, but all of a similar purport—their object to correct some blunder or misrepresentation on the part of the public press. All these communications found a place in the paper. I saw no harm in thus inserting them. Some of my readers did not hesitate to accuse me of aiding and abetting the bushrangers by the publication of Frank Gardiner’s letters, alleging that they were merely blinds to lead the police off the real track. But I reasoned that, even if this were the case, the ruse was so simple and transparent a one, that the police were not in the least likely to fall into it. But I did not think that Gardiner had any such purpose in sending the letters. I believed that their meaning was on the surface, though it sometimes struck me that, over and above this, the bushranger was himself aware in some degree of the humour of the situation, and that his sense of this sometimes shaped the wording of his letters. Most of the townspeople took my view of the matter, and laughed at the thing; and the circulation of the Beacon in nowise suffered.
I had received, I say, about half-a-dozen of Mr Gardiner’s communications, covering a space of ten or twelve weeks, when an event occurred. I was sitting in my little room about eleven o’clock at night; I had just finished some correspondence-work connected with the paper, and had just lighted a cigar and settled back into my chair with a Homeric sigh of relief, when there was a knock at the door; and the next moment, without waiting for the least countersign of any sort, a figure entered. I tipped my chair back until I very nearly lost my balance at the unexpected aspect presented by my unceremonious visitor—a tall, athletic man with a shaggy, light-coloured beard, dressed in ordinary bushman’s garb, pistols in his belt, and a carbine at his back, his face hidden by a mask. Such outwardly was my visitor—a sufficiently awkward and disquieting figure thus suddenly to present itself at the dead of night to a harmless country editor armed with no fire-weapon more deadly than a cigar. My first thought was how the fellow had got into the house; but this and all other thoughts were quickly dispersed by my new friend addressing me: “Good-evening, Mr Fellgate.”
“Good-evening, Mr—— I beg your pardon; you have the advantage of me.”
“I’ve a little bit of business with you—never mind my name. I would have sent up my card, but I’ve forgotten my card-case.”
This symptom of a vein of humour—thin as it was—in my guest, reassured me a little.
“I am very much at your service, I am sure,” I replied. “Anything I can do to”——
“That’s it, boss. I was sure you wouldn’t cut up anyway rough about the business; and we on our side ’ll try to make it pleasant all round for you. Well, the business simply is that you’re to come along with me, Mr Fellgate; and the sooner we’re off, the better for all parties.”
I did not quite expect this, and my visitor’s proposal had no great charms.
“You mean that I am to accompany you, wherever you are going to, now—at once?”
“That’s it. That’s my order. So hurry up, Mr Editor; and just think of others besides yourself. My neck’s half-way in the halter at this blessed moment.”
The man spoke in the coolest and most determined manner, and I at once saw that any further attempt at resistance would be worse than useless.
“One word more, Mr Fellgate,” my companion continued. “If you follow me quietly and without any row, no harm will come to you. I promise you that, on my word as between gentlemen.”
This should perhaps have been completely reassuring. Nevertheless, it was with some considerable feeling of doubt and disquiet that I prepared to accompany the bushranger, for such and nothing short the man evidently was. We left the house noiselessly. The aged lady who acted for me in the capacity of housekeeper had long since retired, and our cautious footsteps did not disturb her. Outside, tethered to a rail-fence at a little distance from the house, stood two horses.
My companion then blindfolded me, and I mounted one of the two horses. This blindfolding again I did not much fancy; but caution and discretion seemed now to be my safest cue. When the bushranger had himself mounted, he caught my horse’s rein, and we started. For about a quarter of an hour we pursued the high-road at a quick walk, a jogging, uneasy half-amble, that was anything but a comfortable pace, the uneasiness seeming to be increased by my being blindfolded. Then we suddenly diverged from the highway, and in a little had entered the bush, as I could easily judge from the fall of my horse’s feet on the soft sand-track. I should have mentioned that the night was a very dark one, without either moon or stars.
We rode on for the best part of a couple of hours, very few words passing between us. I knew the time to be about that length afterwards; but in reality it seemed much longer to me, partly, perhaps, from the fact of my being blindfolded; partly, without doubt, from the whole conditions of my ride being in no sense what could be called lively or inspiriting.
At the end of two hours, then, my leader suddenly tightened my rein, and we drew up. He bade me descend, which I did, still with the bandage on my eyes. The next moment my friend had removed the handkerchief which he had used for blindfolding me, when a strange sight met my eyes. I was standing in the middle of a small clearing in the heart of the forest. The darkness was lit up by half-a-dozen flaming torches and the light of a small fire, round which five or six men were reclining on the short sparse grass. The man nearest the fire at once caught my attention. He was about the middle height, and of a very active and well-proportioned figure; black-bearded, with particularly bright and alert eyes, and of not an unprepossessing cast of features. A few minutes’ scrutiny of the man confirmed me in my identification of him. He was no other than my correspondent of the past three months—the notorious bushranger who had been harrying the country right and left for nearly two years, levying black-mail on all whom he encountered without the slightest respect to persons or dignities—the redoubtable outlaw, Frank Gardiner. Various portraits of the man were abroad throughout the country, all sufficiently like to enable me to recognise the original, now that he was before me.
All the men, from the leader downwards, were armed to the lips, so to speak; and as the light of the fire and the wavering torches gleamed from the bright steel of the carbines and pistols to the bronzed faces of the highwaymen, tanned almost black by constant exposure to a semi-tropical sun, I could not but be reminded of the old familiar stories of Italian banditti and the old pictures one had seen of the same.
The leader of the gang was the first to speak. “Good-evening, Mr Fellgate; or rather, good-morning. You recognise me, I daresay?”
“Yes; I think I do.”
“From the several flattering portraits of me that are about, eh? I wonder you do recognise me from them, that’s a fact. If ever I catch that blackguard of a photographer who has so abominably burlesqued me in those pictures, I engage to make it lively for him!”
It was generally understood that personal vanity was one of Gardiner’s weaknesses, and remembering this, I could not help smiling a little at the speaker’s words.
“You may smile, Mr Editor; but no public man likes to have such a vile caricature of himself scattered broadcast over the country; you know that well enough, and you wouldn’t care about it yourself.”
“Perhaps not; but I haven’t yet attained enough distinction to be very well able to judge how I should feel,” I answered.
“Yes; I daresay that makes a difference.—But to come to business. You’re wondering, I suppose, why you’ve been brought here in this somewhat unceremonious fashion?”
“I am a little puzzled.”
“But not afraid, I hope. You don’t look that way much.”
“No; not now. I was just a little startled at first, I must confess. But I am not aware of any wrong I have ever done you, Frank Gardiner.”
“That’s it, my boy—that’s it. On the contrary, it has been all the other way; and that’s why I wanted to have a word with you personally. I wanted to make the nearer acquaintance of my editor, you know.—How do you think they read? I mean those letters. Not so bad for a young aspirant in literature, eh? I’m positively thinking of getting them reprinted in a small book, if I can get any of those Sydney publishing sharps to undertake it. Epistles of a Bushranger. Taking title, eh?—a fortune in the very name. Would fetch the public no end, don’t you think?—But I beg your pardon for keeping you standing all the time, Mr Editor. Just bring yourself to anchor; and have a drink, will you?—Young Hall, hand the editor your flask.”
A young man, considerably the youngest-looking of the party, handed me his flask, which I put to my lips, merely touching the liquor.
“You drink mighty shallow, Mr Fellgate. One finger’s about your mark, I judge. Well, please yourself.—Now, look here. There’s a cool two thousand set on my head; you know all about that. Well, there’s a carbine by your side, as pretty a piece as you’ll find this side the range. Now’s your chance. Take up the gun, and you can hardly miss me, if you were to try.”
Of course such a thing was totally out of the question, for more reasons than one. But even if it had been possible for me to do as the highwayman suggested, I should have been a fool to have attempted his life under the existing and peculiar circumstances.
“Just try the weapon, Mr Fellgate. Put it to your shoulder, and see how it lies as prettily in rest as a baby asleep. Let it off overhead there.”
I raised the gun and attempted to fire it, when I discovered that I was quite unable to do so. I could not move the trigger a hairbreadth. It was some kind of trick-lock, the secret of which was probably known to the owner alone.
Gardiner laughed quietly. “A pretty thing, ain’t it? But I don’t believe you would have used the weapon against me just at present, even if you could—I’ll do you that credit.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” said I, half jocularly.
“Shoot me down like a dingo in a trap? No, no! A fair field and a chance for his hair even to an outlaw. That would be more your motto, Mr Fellgate, I’m sure. Why, I’d grant that myself even to a trooper, unless the case was very pressing.—But now, I must really come to the point.”
During all this colloquy, none of the rest of the gang had put in a word, but smoked silently on, regarding me with stolid gravity.
“I have always had a considerable admiration for the press as an institution,” Gardiner resumed, “but never so much as since making your acquaintance as an editor, Mr Fellgate. You have acted towards me in the most honourable and gentlemanly manner; and while those wretched and ignorant Sydney rags the Herald and Empire have refused to insert my letters contradicting the many lying and libellous statements they have published regarding myself and my mates, you have vindicated the claims of the press to being a free and impartial organ of public expression. Now, no man who knows Frank Gardiner ever accused him of forgetting a friend or a service. I consider, Mr Fellgate, that you have done me a real service in this matter, and acted like a gentleman all round, and I would like to show you that I am not insensible of this. Though I am a bushranger, I am not a blackguard. If you will be good enough to accept this trifle, just in recognition of my admiration for you as an editor, and of my personal regard, you will do me a favour, Mr Fellgate.” As he spoke, Gardiner took from his breast-pocket a small morocco case and handed it to me. I opened the case, and found inside a handsome gold watch.
Seldom, I venture to think, in the history of presentations was any one made under more singular circumstances. It seemed to reverse all precedent. Tradition was being read backwards; for instead of a highwayman taking a watch from me, I was getting one from him. To devise such a situation in fiction were, of course, easy enough; but I am relating a true incident, and as such I am inclined to think that the case was unique.
Of course, I accepted the watch. What else could I do? Sticklers for morality may refuse to indorse my conduct in so doing; but these same stern moralists would have probably acted precisely as I did under the same circumstances. I was by no means so sure of my position that I could afford to affront or offend my strange friends in any way. Under that easy sang-froid, careless banter, and studied politeness which Gardiner had shown throughout our conversation, I knew that there remained a will that brooked no contradiction, and that had never yet been thwarted. Under circumstances like these, where personal danger enters as a large factor in determining our ultimate action, the majority of us are apt to give an easy and liberal interpretation to the minor ethics.
I took the watch, uttering some commonplace words of acceptance in doing so.
“And now, Mr Fellgate, I think our interview is at an end. I am glad you like the watch, and I think you will find that it is as good as it looks. In all probability, you and I will never meet again. But if ever you hear any of those snivelling city counter-jumpers maligning me and my brave fellows here, you at least may kindly think that we’re perhaps not so black as they paint us.—Jim, take care of the editor.—Good-night.”
I was once more blindfolded, and Jim and I returned as we had come. When we reached the confines of the forest, however, we dismounted, and my companion removed my bandage. The first gray glimmer of the dawn was stealing through the bush.
“You’ll have to walk the rest of the way home, Mr Fellgate. I’m like the ghost in the play, you understand—must hook it with the first light. Sorry I can’t take you to your door.”
“Don’t mention it; I know every inch of the road,” I said, bent upon answering him in the same vein.
“You’re a pretty cool hand, Mr Editor. Didn’t think you scribbling chaps were that sort. No offence. Adieu!”
When I reached my rooms, I found my landlady already astir. She had not been much surprised to find my bedroom empty, for it had once or twice happened that I had to spend the night at the office, although that was not a frequent occurrence, the Beacon being only a bi-weekly issue. I lay down on the sofa in my sitting-room and took a couple of hours’ sleep. When I awoke, the events of the night had for a little all the feeling of a dream; but that fancy quickly passed away. Over my morning coffee I examined my newly and so strangely acquired gift at greater leisure. I may say in conclusion that it has been my constant companion ever since that night, and I don’t think there is a better time-keeper out of London. Would you like to look at it closer?’
Fellgate handed me the watch. It was a remarkably handsome hunting-watch, very finely finished, and bearing the name of a famous London maker. Inside, I read this inscription:
Presented to Alison Fellgate, Esquire,
by
Frank Gardiner.
‘You know all about Gardiner’s ultimate fate, of course,’ my companion resumed, ‘though you were not in the colonies at the time—how he and nearly all his gang were at last taken, and how Frank himself got a long term. It could never be proved against him that he had actually killed any one, and so he escaped the gallows. He is serving out his time now in Darlinghurst up there, and behaving himself very decently, they say.’
Gardiner, the most notorious highwayman, on the whole, that ever ranged the Australian bush, only served a portion of his allotted term. At the end of that period, Sir Hercules Robinson, the then governor of New South Wales, exerted himself to obtain Gardiner’s release from further imprisonment, believing that the prisoner’s good conduct from the beginning of his incarceration deserved this. Many persons thought this course on the part of Sir Hercules somewhat hasty and injudicious; and it was not without considerable opposition and difficulty that the governor had his way, as he finally did. On his release, Gardiner betook himself to California, where it was generally understood that he became the proprietor of a drinking-bar—a somewhat inglorious finish to his career.