When the Forbes coach drew up at Burrowang for the mails, and the coachman discovered that he was to have as a passenger Mr. Hardy, who had taken an active part in the strike, he was in an exceedingly perturbed state of mind. In spite of his fears, however, the start was made quietly enough.
The day’s journey through bush and scrub proved uneventful, and towards evening the coach drew up at a small bush station, where a halt was made for the night.
In the morning three more passengers put in an appearance—all non-union men—and also a new driver, who was to take the reins as far as Forbes, where, the latest report had it, the strikers were in an extremely dangerous mood. The new driver, when he had taken stock of his passengers, appeared to be even more terror-stricken than his predecessor. He warned them that there was likely to be serious trouble, as the only practicable road took them close to the unionist camp just outside Forbes. He was also particularly anxious to know whether any of the party possessed unionist passes. These were simply small scraps of paper scrawled over in a peculiar manner in blue pencil; but, as they enabled their holders to pass through the camps without molestation, they were extremely useful, and Mr. Hardy remembered with regret that he had been offered one at Burrowang. Attaching little importance to the offer at the time, however, he had declined it.
As the coach neared Forbes two mounted union men were seen, who on the approach of the vehicle at once turned about and galloped back, with the object, it was thought, of informing the strikers of its arrival. Their action proved too much for two of the passengers, who promptly insisted on being put down. The journey was then resumed with Mr. Hardy and the driver on the box, and the remaining passenger inside, cowering under the seat.
As the camp came in sight an outburst of shouting gave ample proof of the hostile attitude of the strikers, a number of whom at once made a rush to meet the coach.
A short distance along the road was a bridge spanning a small creek, and at this point a strong guard of strikers was posted to hold up all traffic. On previous occasions their method of procedure had been to haul out any passengers who were without passes, rob them of everything they possessed, and, after treating them with the utmost brutality, set them to work in a menial capacity about the camp. The driver of the coach, when he found that he was in actual danger, plucked up his courage and, lashing his horses into a gallop, made a dash for the bridge at a furious pace.
Mr. Hardy was immediately recognised by the foremost of the strikers, who, with hoarse cries of rage, shouted to the men on the bridge to stop the coach at all costs.
The terrific rate at which the horses were travelling showed plainly that it was the driver’s intention to ride down any opposition, and this action provoked such an outburst of fury among the mob that it was perfectly clear that if they did manage to stop the coach both he and Mr. Hardy, even if they escaped with their lives, would be treated with savage violence.
Mr. Hardy’s presence on the coach—it will be remembered that the men suspected him of being a detective—had the same effect on the strikers as a red rag on a bull, and with an ungovernable fury of rage and at imminent risk of their lives they literally hurled themselves at the horses’ heads, meanwhile calling on the driver, with the vilest imprecations, to halt.
By way of reply the Jehu applied the whip to his team still more vigorously, yelling at the same time at the top of his voice that anyone who dared to stop the Royal Mail would get ten years for his trouble. His threat, however, was ignored, and presently the sharp crack of a revolver rang out. Mr. Hardy felt a bullet whiz past his head, missing him by inches. The shot was followed the next instant by another, and it was only the celerity with which he ducked down to avoid the bullet that saved his life.