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.