It was a long, long night, but we were so excited and anxious that no one felt weary, much less inclined to sleep. Mr. Telford was in the house with Mr. M'Pherson, and he chaffed Morgan (they told me afterwards) about having his revolvers out in the presence of ladies. However, he couldn't get him to put them away. He was always most suspicious. Never gave a man a chance to close with him. He was well-behaved and civil enough in the house, and, I believe, only wished one of the young ladies to play him a tune or two on the piano. He drank spirits sparingly, and always used to call for an unopened bottle. He was afraid of being poisoned or drugged. Some of his friends wouldn't have minded much about that even, as there was a thousand pounds reward for his capture, alive or dead. I have good reason for thinking, however, that one or two of the 'knockabouts' would have given him 'the office,' if we hadn't got them all under hatches, as it were.
Daylight came at last. I've had many a night watching cattle in cold and wet, but none that I was so anxious to end as that. Of course I knew our man wouldn't stop till sunrise. He was too careful, and never took any risks that he could help.
And at last, by George! out he came, and walked down towards the yard where his horse was. I had pretty well considered the line he was likely to take, and was lying down, the men on each side of me, as it happened. But, cunning to the last, he made M'Pherson and Telford come out with him, one on each side, not above a yard away from him. As he passed by us we couldn't have fired without a good chance of shooting one of the other two. So we let him pass—pretty close too. However, when he'd passed Quinlan, the track turned at an angle, which brought him broadside on; it wasn't to say a very long shot, nor yet a very close one. It was a risk, too, for of course if he had been missed, the first thing he'd have done would have been to have shot M'Pherson and Telford before any one could have stopped him. But Quinlan had a fair show as he thought, and let drive, without bothering about too many things at once. That shot settled the business for good and all. His bullet struck Morgan between the shoulders and passed out near his chin. He fell, mortally wounded. In an instant he was rushed and his revolvers taken from him. He lay helpless; the spine had been touched, and he was writhing in his death agony, as better men had done before from his pistol.
The first thing he said was, 'You might have sent a fellow a challenge.' One of the men called out, 'When did you ever do it, you murdering dog?' He never spoke after that, and lived less than two hours.
The police didn't come up in time to do anything; no doubt they would have been ready to help in preventing his escape. But I was only too glad the thing had ended as it did. The news soon got abroad that this man—who had kept the border stations of two colonies in fear and trembling, so to speak, for years—was lying dead at Peechelbah. Before night there were best part of two hundred people on the place. I can't say exactly how much whisky they drank, but the station supply ran out before dark, and it was no foolish one either. 'All's well that ends well,' they say. We've had nobody since who's been such a 'terror' to settlers and travellers. But I don't want to go through such a time again as the night of Morgan's death.
HOW I BECAME A BUTCHER
I was wending my way to Melbourne with a draft of fat cattle in the spring of 1851, when the public-house talk took the unwonted flavour of gold. Gold had 'broken out,' as it was expressed, at a creek a few miles from Buninyong. Gold in lumps! Gold in bushels! All the world was there, except those who were on the road or packing up. A couple of hundred head of fat cattle were not, perhaps, the exact sort of impedimenta to go exploring with on a goldfield, but it was hard to stem the tidal wave, now rolling in unbroken line towards Ballarat. Men agreed that this was the strange new name of the strange new treasure-hold. I incontinently pined for Ballarat. I sold one-half of my drove by the way, purchased a few articles suitable for certain contingencies, and joined the procession; for it was a procession, a caravan, almost a crusade.
The weather had been wet. The roads were deep. Heavy showers, fierce gales, driving sleet made the spring days gloomy, and multiplied delays and disasters. None of these obstacles stayed the ardent pilgrims, whose faith in their golden goal was daily confirmed, stimulated ever by wild reports of luck. The variety of the wayfarers who thronged that highway, broad as the path to destruction, was striking. Sun-tanned bushmen, inured to toil, practised in emergencies, alternated with groups of townspeople, whose fresh complexions and awkward dealings with their new experience stamped them as recruits. Passengers, who had left shipboard but a week since, armed to the teeth, expectant of evil. Mercantile Jack, whose rolling gait and careless energy displayed his calling as clearly as if the name of his ship had been tattooed on his forehead. Other persons whose erect appearance and regular step hinted at pipe-clay. Carts with horses, ponies, mules, donkeys, even men and women, in their shafts. Bullock drays, heavily laden, in which the long teams at fullest stretch of strength were fairly cursed through the slough, to which the army column ahead and around had reduced the road. Bells! bells! bells! everywhere and of every note and inflexion, dog-trucks, wheel-barrows, horsemen, footmen, lent their aid to the extraordinary mélange of sights and sounds, mobilised en route for Ballarat.
Slowly, 'with painful patience,' as became experienced drovers, we skirted or traversed the pilgrim host. We drove far into the night, until we reached a sequestered camp. A few days of uneventful travelling brought us to the Buninyong Inn. This modest hostelry, amply sufficient for the ordinary traffic of the road, was now filled and overflowed by the roaring flood of wayfarers. The hostess, in daily receipt of profits which a month had not formerly accumulated, was civil but indifferent. 'I might get supper,' she dared say, 'but could not guarantee that meal. Her servants were worked off their legs. She wished indeed that there was another inn; she was tired to death of having to provide for such a mob.'
When I heard a licensed victualler giving vent to this unnatural wish, as I could not but regard it, I recognised the case as desperate, and capitulated. I managed to procure a meal in due time, and mingled with the crowd in hope of gaining the information of which I stood in need. My assistants were a white man and a black boy. The former was a small, wiry Englishman, formerly connected with a training stable. He called himself Ben Brace, after a famous steeplechaser which he had trained or strapped. Hard-bitten, hard-reared, mostly on straw and ashplant, as goes the nature of English stable-lads, to Ben early hours or late, foul weather or fair, fasting or feasting were much alike. Of course he drank, but he had enough of the results of the old stable discipline left to restrain himself until after the race was run. I had therefore no feeling of apprehension about his fidelity.