Australian Hauntings: A Second Anthology of Australian Colonial Supernatural Fiction (4 page)

Conclusion

While often derivative, the stories considered here are interesting in the way in which the Gothic form has been transposed to a new, alien environment. The outback, the desert, the bush are imbued with forces that are inimical to European explorers and fossickers. Colonists struggled to cope in the harsh landscape and climate and were frequently claimed by it; most famously the explorers Burke and Wills in 1861, and Ludwig Leichhardt, whose expedition to traverse Australia from east to west disappeared without trace in 1848. The land itself seemed a malignant force that exacted a terrible revenge on those who challenged it or wandered thoughtlessly into it. Thus, in many of the stories described here, characters range across a landscape in which the supernatural can erupt at any time. Characters frequently fall victim to the bush; indeed, often it is children, symbols of innocence and European naïveté, who are claimed.

Most Australian writers of the supernatural followed the model of the English ghost story, which had reached a standard form by the middle decades of the nineteenth century: a ghost interacts with the living in order to exorcise or ameliorate past sins or unrealised promises. A consequence of this limited dynamic is that the vast majority of ghost stories are conventional and unremarkable, and Australian colonial ghost stories are no exception—most are commercial offerings of little literary merit. However, some writers were able to extend the form and make a genuine contribution to the genuine; Ernest Favenc for example was particularly conscious of the Gothic
possibilities inherent in the Australian landscape and its heritage (Doig, 2012). His interest in and knowledge of Australian history and legend coupled with his first hand experience of the remote outback gave him unique insights into the colonial experience. In stories like “Spirit-Led,” “A Haunt of the Jinkarras,” “The Boundary Rider’s Story,” and “Doomed” he modernised the Australian supernatural tale. This anthology reprints a number of powerful vignettes that he wrote for
the Bulletin
during the 1890s.

Bibliography

Challis and Young, 2010: Angela Challis and Marty Young,
Macabre
(Brimstone Press, 2010)

Doig, 2007: James Doig,
Australian Gothic: An Anthology of Australian Supernatural Fiction 1867-1939
(Equilibrium Books, 2007; reprinted Borgo Press, 2013)

Doig, 2008: James Doig,
Australian Nightmares: More Australian Tales of Terror and the Supernatural
(Equilibrium Books, 2008; reprinted Borgo Press, 2013)

Doig, 2010: James Doig,
Australian Ghost Stories
(Wordsworth Editions, 2010)

Doig, 2011: James Doig,
Australian Hauntings: A Second Anthology of Australian Colonial Supernatural Fiction
(Equilibrium Books, 2011; reprinted Borgo Press, 2013)

Doig, 2012: James Doig.
Ghost Stories and Mysteries
, by Ernest Favenc (Borgo Press, 2012).

Gelder, 1994: Ken Gelder,
The Oxford Book of Australian Ghost Stories
(Oxford University Press, 1994)

Gelder, 2007: Ken Gelder and Rachael Weaver,
The Anthology of Colonial Australian Gothic Fiction
(Melbourne University Press, 2007)

Stewart, 1978: Neil Stewart,
Australian Stories of Horror and Suspense from the Early Days
(Australasian Book Society, 1978; reprinted Hale & Iremonger, 1983)

Wannan, 1983: Bill Wannan,
Australian Horror Stories
(Currey O’Neil, 1983)

JERRY BOAKE’S CONFESSION, by Ernest Favenc

The Bulletin
, 8 March 1890

Ernest Favenc was born on 21 October 1845 at 5 Saville Row, Walworth, Surrey, the son of Abraham George Favenc, and his wife, Emma, née Jones. His father was a merchant by trade and his occupation appears to have sent him to different locations, as Favenc was educated at Temple College, Cowley, in Oxfordshire, and in Berlin. With his two sisters, Edith and Ella, and his brother, Jack, Favenc came to Australia in 1863. After a few months working in Sydney, Favenc moved to a cattle station owned by his uncle in north Queensland where he worked as a drover. He spent the next sixteen years in north and central Queensland working on stations, usually as a superintendent. By 1871 he was writing fiction and poetry for the
Queenslander
, and in 1878 Favenc was placed in charge of an expedition, financed by Gresley Lukin, the proprietor and literary editor of the periodical. The expedition, which became known as the
Queenslander
Transcontinental Expedition
, was tasked with surveying a route for a railway line from Brisbane to Port Darwin.

Favenc’s journalism and his successful land speculations in the Northern Territory in the early 1880s allowed him to marry and settle down in Sydney. On 15 November 1880, Ernest Favenc married Bessie Mathews, whom he had first met in Brisbane in the mid-1870s, at St John’s Baptist Church, Ashfield, Sydney. The 1890s were Favenc’s most productive period as a writer, and his best tales of mystery and the supernatural were published between 1890 and 1895, five of which are printed here. By this time he was working mainly for
The Bulletin
, which was edited by J. F. Archibald whose preference for the short, unadorned bush yarn influenced Favenc’s style. Favenc continued writing into the new century, but his alcoholism affected his productivity and the quality of his work. By May 1905 Favenc was seriously ill in Royal Prince Albert Hospital, and later in the year a bad fall that broke his thigh confined him to St Vincent’s Hospital. He died on 14 November 1908 in Lister Hospital in western Sydney.

Perhaps one of the most popular fellows on the then newly-opened H— Goldfield, in Far North Queensland, was Jack Walters. Everybody knew him, and everybody liked him, and there was great chaff and much popping of corks ’ere he started down to C— with the avowed intention of getting married. Walters had shares in one or two good mines, and had a tidy sum of money with him when he left the field amidst the congratulations of ‘the boys’ on his approaching nuptials. Jack was a friend of mine; when he was temporarily crippled by a blasting accident I used to write his love-letters for him.

Three days after he left, Inspector Frost and his black troopers, who all knew Walters, rode into the township. Naturally, the first question asked was, had they met Jack, and how far he’d got on the road?

“Never saw or heard of him,” was the unexpected reply, “perhaps he was off the road.”

“No, he said he was going down easy and expected to meet you.”

“Hum!” said the inspector, “I’m going back tomorrow, and I’ll keep a sharp lookout for him.”

Fifty miles from H— was a creek with permanent water and a good feed, a favourite camping-place. Frost, who had told the troopers to watch for signs of Jack, had almost forgotten the matter, to which, after all, he did not attach much importance, when a shrill whistle from one of his boys a short distance off the road to the right attracted his attention. The boy had dismounted, and was standing gazing at something on the ground. Frost rode up, and had almost anticipated what it was before he reached the spot. Screened by a few bushes from any chance traveller lay the body of a dead man—Jack Walters. His head was pillowed on his riding-saddle, his blanket was thrown over the lower part of his body, and his packsaddle and bags were close by, where they had evidently been put overnight. He had been shot through the temple, and in his hand he still held a revolver. To all appearances it was one of those motiveless cases of suicide that now and again puzzle everybody.

A careful examination was made, but nothing seemed to have been disturbed; no money save some loose silver was found. Frost collected all the camp paraphernalia, took careful notes of the position of the body and all the surroundings; then, leaving one trooper to guard the remains, despatched a boy back to H— with the news, and instruction to the police there to come out and take the body—he himself had to proceed on his journey. Casting one more glance around, he noticed a newspaper lying some distance away. Such things were commonly found on old camping grounds, but he walked over and picked it up. It was the
H— Express
, the journal of the mining township he had left. He looked at it idly for some time, thinking more of the sight he had just witnessed than of the paper in his hand, when he instinctively noticed the date, which suggested a train of thought. Walters had left the field three days before Frost’s arrival there. The Inspector remembered that fact well, because there had been some debate as to the spot where they should have passed each other. Three days would make it Monday, and this paper was issued on Tuesday. How had it come into the dead man’s camp?

Frost went back and looked at the corpse before the troopers had covered it up with boughs. The revolver taken from the stiffened fingers, he remembered, was but loosely held—it was not in the iron grasp of a dead man’s hand, clutched hard at the moment of death. No doubt remained that the case was not one of suicide, but cowardly, cold-blooded murder. Somebody had left the diggings the next morning, had ridden hard and overtaken Walters at the creek, had shared the hospitality of his camp, and had shot him for the sake of the money he had with him. Where was the murderer now?

Frost, who had gold to take down to the port, did not tarry long between the scene of the murder and C—. The second day saw him closeted with the police magistrate, who had just received a telegram from H— informing him of the arrival of the native police with the news of Frost’s discovery. Hardly had Frost told his tale before another telegram arrived—“Jerry Boake left here after Walters. See if he is in C—.”

Jerry was a pretty notorious character, and, strange to say, Walters was one of the few men who had befriended him when everybody else had thrown him over.

A very short inquiry elicited the fact that Jerry was in town; also that Jerry was in funds, and had given the barmaid at the ‘Rise and Shine’ a gold watch and chain. Interviewed, the barmaid produced the gold watch and chain, which were at once recognised as the property of Walters, who had bought them as a present for his fiancée. Jerry was arrested, and, absurd as the statement may seem, was actually wearing a ring well known to belong to Walters. He denied his guilt stoutly, stated that Walters had given him the ring and the watch and chain to bring down, and that when he was drunk he gave it to the barmaid. Jerry was remanded to H—, and Frost himself started up in charge of him.

The dusk was setting in when they reached the bank of the creek where the dead body had been found. The party from H— had been there and removed it. Frost pulled up, and looked round. The prisoner, manacled to a trooper, was close to him.

“You’re not going to camp here, are you?” stammered Jerry Boake, with pallid lips.

“Why not?” said Frost, sternly. “
You
know nothing about this place, do you?” And without another word he rode straight to the scene of the murder, and got off his horse.

“Turn out,” he said briefly.

The troopers dismounted, and began unpacking and unsaddling. Frost undid the handcuff from the trooper’s wrist, and refastened it on the prisoner’s.

There is only one way in the bush of securing a criminal charged with such a crime as Jerry’s, and who would stick at nothing to escape. A light trace-chain is used, and the prisoner tethered securely to a tree. Without a word, Frost, chain in hand, walked to the tree beneath which the body had been found, and beckoned to the troopers to bring the prisoner. Jerry approached; he had summoned up all his hardihood, and called up a look of defiance on his face, but he couldn’t control the trembling of his now pallid lips. Frost secured him, and the black trooper brought him his blankets, and sat down a short distance off to watch him.

Darkness closed in, the camp fires blazed up, food and tea were given to the prisoner, and with an air of bravado he pretended to eat; but though the food passed his lips not a bite could he swallow. The tea he drank greedily, and asked for more. The day’s journey had been a long one, and the tired men soon dropped off to sleep one after another—but for one man there was no sleep that night. For all that the camp was so quiet, he had an idea that he was being watched, and it gave him a miserable kind of moral support to think that there was someone else awake as well as himself. It would be an awful thing to be the only waking man in that camp.

He had got to the full length of the trace-chain, and must have lost consciousness for a few moments, for, while his heart beat until it nearly choked him, he saw a black shadow under the tree—a dark shadow that was not there before. With an effort he stilled his trembling nerves, and forced himself to gaze at the object. Pah! The moon had risen higher and changed the position of the shadows, that was all. But supposing a man with a bloody smear on his forehead and half-closed dull eyes were really to come and lie down on that spot, while he himself was chained there not able to get away, what an awful thing it would be!

Would morning never come? he thought. Why must he think, think, think, and all about the one thing; his own incredible folly? A few pounds in gold, a few days of drunken ‘shouting’ and now—it must be a nightmare, surely—he could not have been led away to do such a madly insane deed. He disliked the man mostly because he owed him many kindnesses, but that was not why he killed him. No, it was for the few miserable pounds he was carrying. That horrible black shadow seemed to stop there, although the moon’s position had changed. Why did it stop there? Perhaps there was a stain of blood on the ground; he would force himself to go over and see. No, he couldn’t do that, he would stop where he was and try to think of other things; but he couldn’t. Always the same thought, the same hideous picture—a man asleep with his head on a saddle, and another standing over him with a levelled pistol. And then—well, then, a sight that would never leave him; the moon was young and sickly then, but its light was strong enough to show the dead body of the murdered man, with the bloody smear on his face. Would morning never come? Presently the moon would set, and then the darkness would be horrible. Who knows what hideous thing might not creep on him unawares. The air seemed thick with an awful corpse-like smell; had they buried the body there, where it was found? But this thought was too maddening—he would go frantic if he entertained it. Why did not the bleak shadow shift; the moon was getting low now?

Just before daylight Frost was awakened by one of the boys at the door of his tent. “Marmee, that fellow Jerry sing out along of you!” Frost got up and went over to the place. The moon had set, and the night was dark; he told the boys to make the fire.

“My God! Mr Frost,” said a piteous voice, “take me away from here, and I’ll tell you everything.” Frost undid the chain, and led him to the fire. He afterwards said that the look on the wretch’s face haunted him for months. Jerry Boake made a full confession—and was hanged a few weeks afterwards.