They said that Harry Chatswood, the mail contractor would do anything
for Cobb & Co., even to stretching fencing-wire across the road in a
likely place: but I don't believe that--Harry was too good-hearted
to risk injuring innocent passengers, and he had a fellow feeling for
drivers, being an old coach driver on rough out-back tracks himself. But
he did rig up fencing-wire for old Mac, the carrier, one night, though
not across the road. Harry, by the way, was a city-born bushman, who
had been everything for some years. Anything from six-foot-six to
six-foot-nine, fourteen stone, and a hard case. He is a very successful
coach-builder now, for he knows the wood, the roads, and the weak parts
in a coach.
It was in the good seasons when competition was keen and men's
hearts were hard--not as it is in times of drought, when there is no
competition, and men's hearts are soft, and there is all kindness and
goodwill between them. He had had much opposition in fighting Cobb &
Co., and his coaches had won through on the outer tracks. There was
little malice in his composition, but when old Mac, the teamster, turned
his teams over to his sons and started a light van for parcels and
passengers from Cunnamulla--that place which always sounds to me
suggestive of pumpkin pies--out in seeming opposition to Harry
Chatswood, Harry was annoyed.
Perhaps Mac only wished to end his days on the road with parcels that
were light and easy to handle (not like loads of fencing wire) and
passengers that were sociable; but he had been doing well with his
teams, and, besides, Harry thought he was after the mail contract: so
Harry was annoyed more than he was injured. Mac was mean with the money
he had not because of the money he had a chance of getting; and he
mostly slept in his van, in all weathers, when away from home which was
kept by his wife about half-way between the half-way house and the next
“township.”
One dark, gusty evening, Harry Chatswood's coach dragged, heavily though
passengerless, into Cunnamulla, and, as he turned into the yard of the
local “Royal,” he saw Mac's tilted four-wheeler (which he called his
“van”) drawn up opposite by the kerbing round the post office. Mac
always chose a central position--with a vague idea of advertisement
perhaps. But the nearness to the P.O. reminded Harry of the mail
contracts, and he knew that Mac had taken up a passenger or two and some
parcels in front of him (Harry) on the trip in. And something told Harry
that Mac was asleep inside his van. It was a windy night, with signs of
rain, and the curtains were drawn close.
Old Mac was there all right, and sleeping the sleep of a tired driver
after a long drowsy day on a hard box-seat, with little or no back
railing to it. But there was a lecture on, or an exhibition of hypnotism
or mesmerism--“a blanky spirit rappin' fake,” they called it, run by
“some blanker” in “the hall;” and when old Mac had seen to his horses,
he thought he might as well drop in for half an hour and see what was
going on. Being a Mac, he was, of course, theological, scientific, and
argumentative. He saw some things which woke him up, challenged the
performer to hypnotize him, was “operated” on or “fooled with” a bit,
had a “numb sorter light-headed feelin',” and was told by a voice
from the back of the hall that his “leg was being pulled, Mac,” and by
another buzzin' far-away kind of “ventrillick” voice that he would make
a good subject, and that, if he only had the will power and knew how
(which he would learn from a book the professor had to sell for five
shillings) he would be able to drive his van without horses or any
thing, save the pole sticking straight out in front. These weren't the
professor's exact words--But, anyway, Mae came to himself with a sudden
jerk, left with a great Scottish snort of disgust and the sound of heavy
boots along the floor; and after a resentful whisky at the Royal, where
they laughed at his scrooging bushy eyebrows, fierce black eyes and his
deadly-in-earnest denunciation of all humbugs and imposters, he returned
to the aforesaid van, let down the flaps, buttoned the daft and “feekle”
world out, and himself in, and then retired some more and slept, as I
have said, rolled in his blankets and overcoats on a bed of cushions,
and chaff-bag.
Harry Chatswood got down from his empty coach, and was helping the yard
boy take out the horses, when his eye fell on the remnant of a roll of
fencing wire standing by the stable wall in the light of the lantern.
Then an idea struck him unexpectedly, and his mind became luminous. He
unhooked the swinglebar, swung it up over his “leader's” rump (he was
driving only three horses that trip), and hooked it on to the horns
of the hames. Then he went inside (there was another light there) and
brought out a bridle and an old pair of spurs that were hanging on the
wall. He buckled on the spurs at the chopping block, slipped the winkers
off the leader and the bridle on, and took up the fencing-wire, and
started out the gate with the horse. The boy gaped after him once, and
then hurried to put up the other two horses. He knew Harry Chatswood,
and was in a hurry to see what he would be up to.
There was a good crowd in town for the show, or the races, or a stock
sale, or land ballot, or something; but most of them were tired, or at
tea--or in the pubs--and the corners were deserted. Observe how fate
makes time and things fit when she wants to do a good turn--or play
a practical joke. Harry Chatswood, for instance, didn't know anything
about the hypnotic business.
It was the corners of the main street or road and the principal short
cross street, and the van was opposite the pub stables in the main
street. Harry crossed the streets diagonally to the opposite corner,
in a line with the van. There he slipped the bar down over the horse's
rump, and fastened one end of the wire on to the ring of it. Then he
walked back to the van, carrying the wire and letting the coils go
wide, and, as noiselessly as possible, made a loop in the loose end and
slipped it over the hooks on the end of the pole. (“Unnecessary detail!”
my contemporaries will moan, “Overloaded with uninteresting details!”
But that's because they haven't got the details--and it's the details
that go.) Then Harry skipped back to his horse, jumped on, gathered up
the bridle reins, and used his spurs. There was a swish and a clang, a
scrunch and a clock-clock and rattle of wheels, and a surprised human
sound; then a bump and a shout--for there was no underground drainage,
and the gutters belonged to the Stone Age. There was a swift clocking
and rattle, more shouts, another bump, and a yell. And so on down the
longish main street. The stable-boy, who had left the horses in his
excitement, burst into the bar, shouting, “The Hypnertism's on, the
Mesmerism's on! Ole Mae's van's runnin' away with him without no horses
all right!” The crowd scuffled out into the street; there were some
unfortunate horses hanging up of course at the panel by the pub trough,
and the first to get to them jumped on and rode; the rest ran. The
hall--where they were clearing the willing professor out in favour of a
“darnce”--and the other pubs decanted their contents, and chance souls
skipped for the verandas of weather-board shanties out of which other
souls popped to see the runaway. They saw a weird horseman, or rather,
something like a camel (for Harry rode low, like Tod Sloan with his long
back humped--for effect)--apparently fleeing for its life in a veil
of dust, along the long white road, and some forty rods behind, an
unaccountable tilted coach careered in its own separate cloud of dust.
And from it came the shouts and yells. Men shouted and swore, women
screamed for their children, and kids whimpered. Some of the men turned
with an oath and stayed the panic with:
“It's only one of them flamin' motor-cars, you fools.”
It might have been, and the yells the warning howls of a motorist who
had burst or lost his honk-kook and his head.
“It's runnin' away!” or “The toff's mad or drunk!” shouted others.
“It'll break its crimson back over the bridge.”
“Let it!” was the verdict of some. “It's all the crimson carnal things
are good for.”
But the riders still rode and the footmen ran. There was a clatter of
hoofs on the short white bridge looming ghostly ahead, and then, at
a weird interval, the rattle and rumble of wheels, with no hoof-beats
accompanying. The yells grew fainter. Harry's leader was a good horse,
of the rather heavy coachhorse breed, with a little of the racing blood
in her, but she was tired to start with, and only excitement and fright
at the feel of the “pull” of the twisting wire kept her up to that
speed; and now she was getting winded, so half a mile or so beyond the
bridge Harry thought it had gone far enough, and he stopped and got
down. The van ran on a bit, of course, and the loop of the wire slipped
off the hooks of the pole. The wire recoiled itself roughly along the
dust nearly to the heels of Harry's horse. Harry grabbed up as much of
the wire as he could claw for, took the mare by the neck with the other
hand, and vanished through the dense fringe of scrub off the road, till
the wire caught and pulled him up; he stood still for a moment, in
the black shadow on the edge of a little clearing, to listen. Then he
fumbled with the wire until he got it untwisted, cast it off, and moved
off silently with the mare across the soft rotten ground, and left her
in a handy bush stockyard, to be brought back to the stables at a late
hour that night--or rather an early hour next morning--by a jackaroo
stable-boy who would have two half-crowns in his pocket and afterthought
instructions to look out for that wire and hide it if possible.
Then Harry Chatswood got back quickly, by a roundabout way, and walked
into the bar of the Royal, through the back entrance from the stables,
and stared, and wanted to know where all the chaps had gone to, and what
the noise was about, and whose trap had run away, and if anybody was
hurt.
The growing crowd gathered round the van, silent and awestruck, and some
of them threw off their hats, and lost them, in their anxiety to show
respect for the dead, or render assistance to the hurt, as men do, round
a bad accident in the bush. They got the old man out, and two of them
helped him back along the road, with great solicitude, while some walked
round the van, and swore beneath their breaths, or stared at it with
open mouths, or examined it curiously, with their eyes only, and in
breathless silence. They muttered, and agreed, in the pale moonlight
now showing, that the sounds of the horses' hoofs had only been
“spirit-rappin' sounds;” and, after some more muttering, two of the
stoutest, with subdued oaths, laid hold of the pole and drew the van to
the side of the road, where it would be out of the way of chance night
traffic. But they stretched and rubbed their arms afterwards, and then,
and on the way back, they swore to admiring acquaintances that they felt
the “blanky 'lectricity” runnin' all up their arms and “elbers” while
they were holding the pole, which, doubtless, they did--in imagination.
They got old Mac back to the Royal, with sundry hasty whiskies on
the way. He was badly shaken, both physically, mentally, and in his
convictions, and, when he'd pulled himself together, he had little to
add to what they already knew. But he confessed that, when he got under
his possum rug in the van, he couldn't help thinking of the professor
and his creepy (it was “creepy,” or “uncanny,” or “awful,” or “rum” with
'em now)--his blanky creepy hypnotism; and he (old Mac) had just laid on
his back comfortable, and stretched his legs out straight, and his arms
down straight by his sides, and drew long, slow breaths; and tried
to fix his mind on nothing--as the professor had told him when he was
“operatin' on him” in the hall. Then he began to feel a strange sort
of numbness coming over him, and his limbs went heavy as lead, and
he seemed to be gettin' light-headed. Then, all on a sudden, his arms
seemed to begin to lift, and just when he was goin' to pull 'em down the
van started as they had heard and seen it. After a while he got on to
his knees and managed to wrench a corner; of the front curtain clear
of the button and get his head out. And there was the van going
helter-skelter, and feeling like Tam o'Shanter's mare (the old man
said), and he on her barebacked. And there was no horses, but a cloud of
dust--or a spook--on ahead, and the bare pole steering straight for it,
just as the professor had said it would be. The old man thought he was
going to be taken clear across the Never-Never country and left to roast
on a sandhill, hundreds of miles from anywhere, for his sins, and he
said he was trying to think of a prayer or two all the time he was
yelling. They handed him more whisky from the publican's own bottle.
Hushed and cautious inquiries for the Professor (with a big P now)
elicited the hushed and cautious fact that he had gone to bed. But old
Mac caught the awesome name and glared round, so they hurriedly filled
out another for him, from the boss's bottle. Then there was a slight
commotion. The housemaid hurried scaredly in to the bar behind and
whispered to the boss. She had been startled nearly out of her wits by
the Professor suddenly appearing at his bedroom door and calling upon
her to have a stiff nobbler of whisky hot sent up to his room. The
jackaroo yard-boy, aforesaid, volunteered to take it up, and while he
was gone there were hints of hysterics from the kitchen, and the boss
whispered in his turn to the crowd over the bar. The jackaroo just
handed the tray and glass in through the partly opened door, had a
glimpse of pyjamas, and, after what seemed an interminable wait, he came
tiptoeing into the bar amongst its awe-struck haunters with an air of
great mystery, and no news whatever.
They fixed old Mac on a shake-down in the Commercial Room, where he'd
have light and some overflow guests on the sofas for company. With a
last whisky in the bar, and a stiff whisky by his side on the floor, he
was understood to chuckle to the effect that he knew he was all right
when he'd won “the keystone o' the brig.” Though how a wooden bridge
with a level plank floor could have a keystone I don't know--and they
were too much impressed by the event of the evening to inquire. And so,
with a few cases of hysterics to occupy the attention of the younger
women, some whimpering of frightened children and comforting or
chastened nagging by mothers, some unwonted prayers muttered secretly
and forgettingly, and a good deal of subdued blasphemy, Cunnamulla sank
to its troubled slumbers--some of the sleepers in the commercial and
billiard-rooms and parlours at the Royal, to start up in a cold sweat,
out of their beery and hypnotic nightmares, to find Harry Chatswood
making elaborate and fearsome passes over them with his long, gaunt arms
and hands, and a flaming red table-cloth tied round his neck.
To be done with old Mac, for the present. He made one or two more trips,
but always by daylight, taking care to pick up a swagman or a tramp
when he had no passenger; but his “conveections” had had too much of a
shaking, so he sold his turnout (privately and at a distance, for it
was beginning to be called “the haunted van”) and returned to his
teams--always keeping one of the lads with him for company. He reckoned
it would take the devil's own hypnotism to move a load of fencingwire,
or pull a wool-team of bullocks out of a bog; and before he invoked the
ungodly power, which he let them believe he could--he'd stick there and
starve till he and his bullocks died a “natural” death. (He was a bit
Irish--as all Scots are--back on one side.)
But the strangest is to come. The Professor, next morning, proved
uncomfortably unsociable, and though he could have done a roaring
business that night--and for a week of nights after, for that
matter--and though he was approached several times, he, for some
mysterious reason known only to himself, flatly refused to give one more
performance, and said he was leaving the town that day. He couldn't get
a vehicle of any kind, for fear, love, or money, until Harry Chatswood,
who took a day off, volunteered, for a stiff consideration, to borrow
a buggy and drive him (the Professor) to the next town towards the then
railway terminus, in which town the Professor's fame was not so awesome,
and where he might get a lift to the railway. Harry ventured to remark
to the Professor once or twice during the drive that “there was a rum
business with old Mac's van last night,” but he could get nothing out of
him, so gave it best, and finished the journey in contemplative silence.
Now, the fact was that the Professor had been the most surprised and
startled man in Cunnamulla that night; and he brooded over the thing
till he came to the conclusion that hypnotism was a dangerous power
to meddle with unless a man was physically and financially strong and
carefree--which he wasn't. So he threw it up.
He learnt the truth, some years later, from a brother of Harry
Chatswood, in a Home or Retreat for Geniuses, where “friends were
paying,” and his recovery was so sudden that it surprised and
disappointed the doctor and his friend, the manager of the home. As it
was, the Professor had some difficulty in getting out of it.