Marngrook and Other Award-winning Stories from the Stringybark Australian History Award

by David Vernon

  I heaved him over my back, and tried to pull him somewhat over my shoulders. A dead weight, he wheezed in pain. I began to crawl.

  Heavy fire split the air. I locked my jaw and desperately hoped God could hear my prayers. Judging by the stuttering gunfire, however, God was elsewhere.

  Dragging myself back to the trench seemed impossible, particularly with the added burden of the soldier. With barely enough strength to haul my wasted body along, I felt as if the trench remained distant, however hard I strained to reach its safety. It was only when I reached the wire, felt the weight lifted off my shoulders by willing hands and my own body pulled into the trench by my mates, that I realised I had made it home.

  Historical note: Elsewhere revolves around the 1916 Battle of Fromelles. The Australian 5th Division suffered over 5,000 casualties in 24 hours of fighting; it was the worst day in Australian military history. In relation to the reference to ‘white feathers’; these were often given to conscientious objectors — men who refused to fight on moral or religious grounds — as a mark of cowardice. Stretcher bearers were traditionally members of the regimental band, or trained volunteers and, at times, conscientious objectors.

  Rosalind Moran is a Canberra-based student who recently graduated from year 12. While still unsure of what to do with her future, she hopes to continue writing‬ while studying English and History at university. Her personal interests include art, foreign languages, horse-riding, and reading excessively.

  Upon the Flat

  — Julian Howard

  In my heart it feels as though I stood alone that morning upon the flat; as though mine were the only shot that counted. Some said he had given the game up and was heading for the open seas, to the promise of retribution and the anonymity of a foreign shore. Perhaps if he had set his mind to this notion but a day earlier, he could have been away and still running from us even now.

  As it stands today, on this date of October 12th 1873, I retire from the New South Wales police a Senior Constable and a well-respected one by all of my peers and gentry. It has been eight years now since I last fired a rifle and I choose, upon all things permitting, never to fire one again. I will look now to the solace of my wife and daughter’s affections and to the promise of a new life in a town and district away from the memories of that day and the guilt that plays heavily upon me. Yet, as far as I travel I will never rid myself of the nagging knowledge that I, Thomas Hipkiss, am a murdering bastard.

  We were each to receive £50 in reward upon capture or elimination of the gang. I was a Constable at the time and although my wage was sufficient enough, Mary and I were left wanting on more than a few things. As dangerous as it would be, I took up the offer to join the party with hardly a second thought. That amount of money is hard to come by and would see me and my family through many years of our lives without fear of hardship.

  There were six officers in total, consisting of four Constables (myself being one) and also Sergeant Condell and sub-Inspector Davidson who was the leader and mastermind of the party. Davidson had also employed two native trackers who knew in expert detail the area in which we would be trekking. He was well organised and had planned everything out to the letter.

  “Expect a shoot-out,” he told us. “And do not waver upon doubt — all three are desperate criminals and must be brought down as such.”

  We all knew of the gang’s desperation when cornered, and coupled with this was the knowledge that each rode stolen racehorses and were expert riders. Given a start, they would be uncatchable and their knowledge of the land and unwavering local support would see them disappear yet again. But the public offer of reward for the gang’s capture — ten times that of our own — had lured a traitor from their ranks. We now had knowledge of a well-used rendezvous point and knew this to be a chance unequalled in possibility of success.

  An arsenal was prepared. In addition to our Colt percussion revolver and rifle we were also offered the choice of using a twin-barrelled 12 gauge shotgun. Each shotgun had been loaded with Eley green-wire cartridges, not standard police-issued weaponry, a design by the Sub-Inspector’s cold ruthlessness in which to cause the most devastating of wounds. I chose to refuse this horrid weapon, as did my fellow Englishman and equal in rank, John Caban. Five shots from the Colt rifle instead of just two from the shotgun could prove to be the difference between life and death, and I knew there would not be time for reloading. I wanted every chance I could at surviving this encounter and with its added accuracy from afar, it seemed to be the best choice. The other two Constables, Irish both, took up the last shotguns with ill-concealed glee. In the short hours leading to our departure I went about preparing myself the best that one can do when expecting to face their own demise. I could not bear to think of what might become of my family if I did not return. So I promised myself I would — for their sakes much more than my own. After setting my affairs in order I said my goodbyes and placed my fate in the hands of the Lord.

  We camped out near Billabong Creek for four long days, waiting to hear from our informant as to the gang’s location. Let it be said that towards the end our patience, sanity and food had reached a desperate minimum. It was winter and every night we lay huddled closely together in the scrub for warmth, unable to make fire or sound for fear of the gang spotting us.

  When the time finally came to move we were fortunate for we faced not three desperate men, but one. Two of the gang’s members, Gilbert and Dunn, were spooked by some local cattlemen and had taken flight, but the gang’s leader had now been spotted pulling up camp alone and the decision was made by Davidson to move in. There would not be another chance at him.

  We removed our shoes and stole towards the camp under the cover of an especially dark winter’s night. Having no torches and only broken moonlight above us, we relied on the two native trackers to help us find our way. There was a cold wind blowing that evening and by the time we reached the outskirts of the camp we were all shivering visibly in the dim moonlight.

  “We break apart now,” Davidson whispered to us above the wash of the wind and leaves. “I must identify him before we move in. Do not waver, and remember — if we get him, we end the gang.” Then he disappeared into the darkness with the Sergeant and both trackers closely behind him.

  It wasn’t too long after this that I saw our quarry for the first time.

  We were lying hidden amongst a long belt of dense grass as he broke slowly through the bushes. He was tall and quite robust. Dressed thickly against the cold, he wore a long duster coat and a high felt hat whose brim very nearly covered his entire face. Beneath the shadow of the hat I spotted the short, fine hair of a thin beard and knew even in that dim light that it was the bushranger, Ben Hall.

  With each step he limped a little, favouring his right leg as he trod unevenly toward us. I am told this is the result of having a leg badly broken when he was a younger lad. When he passed by me he was so close I felt I could almost have reached out with the barrel of my rifle and touched that leg. Although his attire leant him a stern and foreboding look, his demeanour was of complete relaxation and calm self-assurance. He collected both his horses from their hobbled places not far from us and returned past me and my group once more, murmuring softly to each animal as he led them along on either side. This could be the habit of any good stockmen after a long day of riding; one who thinks himself alone and safe and erring a little on the side of loneliness.

  The papers I read told of a ruthless vagrant — a merciless outlaw and a cur who set upon the helpless and terrorised the Lachlan. But in his presence I felt nothing but an evenness of spirit and temperament. Certainly nothing about him seemed malicious or terrible in any way. I found myself wondering then and there how much truth the papers had told of him. From my dark position in the grass, I watched him vanish with his horses into the brush once again and felt a long breath escape me. Someone moved beside me in the gloom.

  “Was it him?” asked the voice. I looked across and saw the vague outline of John
Caban’s shivering body curled up three feet from my own. I whispered that I wasn’t sure. It would be dawn when we saw him next.

  The morning’s first light touched down upon the dewy grass of the flat and Hall emerged from the cover of his camp within the thick pine-scrub. He called out cheerfully to his horses as he moved out into the open to where both of them stood grazing peacefully in the quickening light.

  It was at that moment that Davidson made his move. He sprang from the bushes at a run, shotgun levelled and yelling for the bushranger to stand. Hall’s head spun towards Davidson and, realising his misfortune, the bushranger turned away from his horses and made a run for the flat.

  The thunder of 12 gauge fire sounded across the dawn air and there came a sickening slap as the vicious Eley cartridge hit Hall high on his shoulder. For a moment he looked to fall forward from the shot, almost being lifted off his feet by the sheer force of it. But uncannily he regained his footing and after a desperate look back at the fast approaching lawman he hobbled onwards.

  Next came the double-pounding of Sergeant Condell and the tracker Billy Dargin’s shotguns as they both appeared out of the bushes and gave chase. Hall lurched as each terrible charge of wire-clustered shot ripped through him — but he didn’t stop. As he looked ahead, across the open flat and over the distant plains at his freedom, his eyes found me and my companions as we appeared from the trees to his left. His face fell flat and a final comprehension came across him.

  It was then that I lifted the 0.56 Colt revolving percussion rifle to my cheek, aimed down the barrel and shot Ben Hall in the small of his back.

  Almost instantly I saw the ball hit him. It struck him like a shove from a bullock, tearing cleanly through his gun-belt and doubling him over. Immediately there came a storm of fire from my three companions and soon they were firing every shot they had into him. I watched with strange detachment as the neatly severed belt dropped from his waist and fell to the ground at his side, the revolver within unfired and untouched. He lumbered on under the torrent of fire taking hold of a young gum tree for support. Shot after shot struck into his back and neck and head until finally he fell forward and lay still.

  I will never forget how his hand clung to that sapling trunk. Even in death we had to pry his fingers away from it, as though he planned still to get up and keep running some more. In the end I don’t think he could bear knowing he had been caught. As the blood gathered thickly around him, he looked up at us and frowned.

  “Shoot me dead,” he told us.

  So we did.

  Historical note: In all his bushranging years Ben Hall never once took a life, but became the most wanted man in NSW.

  Julian Howard has been writing short stories for a year or so now and is hoping to get better soon. He lives in Darlinghurst, Sydney, with his lovely girlfriend and a cat the size of a small pony. He has previously been published in the Stringybark Anthology, The Umbrella’s Shade.

  Act of Defiance

  — Harold Mally

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the Lieutenant Governor of Van Diemen’s land, Sir John Franklin and Lady Jane Franklin.”

  The Lieutenant Governor entered the room dressed in an ornate military uniform, his wife resplendent in a flowing gown. The dignitaries seated at the table all stood and applauded politely as the guests of honour moved to their places at the centre of the table.

  This may have been a penal colony but those in attendance were conversant with the formalities of protocol. The official gathering waited until Sir John and Lady Jane were seated before they again sat themselves at the table, which was already set with fine china plates and silver cutlery.

  Wine was poured; the Governor sampled his glass and nodded approval. The others then politely sipped their wine.

  A servant entered the room carrying a serving dish, its contents hidden by a silver cover. The room descended into silence. The waiter placed the dish in front of the Lieutenant-Governor, paused for a moment, then with a flourish removed the silver cover.

  The room burst into riotous laughter as a boiled (or possibly steamed) boot was revealed on the plate. Sir John smiled thinly. The guests were in a jaunty mood for the remainder of the meal, but the victim of the prank appeared to be in poor humour throughout.

  After the dinner, back at their residence Lady Jane questioned her husband about his dour mood.

  “People don’t understand how desperate you have to be to eat a boot,” he replied. “Exploration of uncharted territory is very demanding, especially in the arctic. They don’t realise what we went through: the bitter cold, the scurvy, the unknown. Men died of starvation out there; they did desperate things. These were good men reduced to scraping moss from rocks to survive. Yes, we ate boot leather as well, but it was an act of desperation, a last ditch attempt at survival. They act like I ate my boots as a matter of choice.”

  Franklin had led three expeditions to the Arctic. On the first he had found the straits impenetrable due to pack ice and had returned. On the second, twelve of his twenty crew had died, most of starvation. It had been on this expedition that the survivors had dined on their boots. While the third expedition was deemed to be more of a success, no new discoveries were actually made, so in a sense, Franklin had not fulfilled his ambition to discover new worlds or at least a new passage through the arctic.

  “It was a joke, John. You used to have a sense of humour about these things.”

  “Well, maybe it was funny the first couple of times, but it’s been over ten years now. I thought I’d be held in some kind of regard for my explorations, but I’m only known as the man who eats boots. I don’t know why I agreed to come to this penal colony.”

  “I seem to recall that it involved a desire to do some good,” replied his wife.

  “And how much good have I been able to do? Every time I try to help these poor creatures I’m thwarted by civil servants. The civil servants here don’t display an ounce of humanity in their dealings with the convicts.”

  As a man of action, Franklin was frustrated by the internecine machinations of administrators and officials. He just wanted to get things done.

  “Sounds like you need some spiritual uplifting,” replied Jane with a cheeky grin. “Good thing we’re going to a sermon tomorrow.”

  “Oh no. That pompous oaf Bedford preaching at that women’s factory.” He hears his wife laugh at the prospect. “I wonder what convict women will make of his portentous oratory.”

  Franklin was soon to find out. The next day they travelled to the tranquil hills overlooking Hobart, where the Cascades Prison, euphemistically called a Female Factory was situated.

  On their arrival, the vice-regal party was welcomed by an obsequious committee consisting of the warden and a variety of local dignitaries. They helped Lady Jane from the coach and led the couple onto a red carpet decorated with flower petals towards the Female Factory.

  Franklin marched regally along the red carpet, but could not help contrast his reception with the way the women were treated when they arrived at the Female Factory. They suffered the indignity of being stripped of their possessions and clothes and issued with standard drab prison garb. Those considered the most intransigent were classified as criminals and had a ‘C’ sewn into their petticoats. Some of the more co-operative women were treated with better food rations and the privilege of working in domestic service which, if they were very lucky would not degenerate into enforced prostitution. He had known hardship himself and tried not to think about it as he trod the flower strewn carpet into the Cascades Female Factory.

  The Reverend William Bedford stood on the elevated dais behind a sturdy pulpit at the Factory. The guests of honour, Lieutenant-Governor Franklin and his wife stood behind the preacher, who was determined to impress the vice-regal guests with his eloquence and piety.

  Most of the women in the factory had not been professional criminals. They had been transported to the colonies for committing crimes imposed on them by their economic circumstances in thei
r native England or Ireland: petty theft or prostitution. They had been subjected to the Reverend’s haranguing sermons before, where he castigated them for their evil ways and with the smug self-righteousness of one who had been born into a life of opportunity rather than hardship, scolded them for their wickedness and besought them to repent their ways lest they be forced to suffer the torments of fire, brimstone and eternal damnation.

  While his congregation was the women, the Reverend Bedford’s words for today were meant to impress only the Lieutenant-Governor and his wife.

  Franklin felt the discomfort of his stiff-collared military uniform as he stood on the platform. He was here as a part of his duty to represent the King, but having suffered exposure and starvation while leading exploratory expeditions in the arctic, he tended to relate somewhat more to the disadvantaged women in the congregation than to the empty rhetorician preaching his hollow pieties as he berated the poor women for their licentious ways.

  Suddenly, the chapel erupted into pandemonium. As Franklin looked out on the congregation, the three hundred women had turned their backs on the Reverend, lifted their prison issue skirts to reveal their bare posteriors, and commenced to slap their buttocks loudly with their hands.

  Obviously the women had heard the Reverend Bedford’s moralising once too often and had decided to demonstrate what they thought of him with their own peculiarly idiosyncratic act of defiance.

  It was difficult for Franklin to avert his gaze from the sight of three hundred women slapping their bare behinds, but he found the strength to look over at his wife, who was laughing uncontrollably. He looked at her sternly, but this only seemed to induce further hysterical merriment.

  He averted his gaze from his wife, but where to look? His gaze was drawn inexorably to the sea of bare buttocks, if for no other reason than the almighty din created by the repetitive clapping of hands against pale flesh. He tried looking at the preacher, but his outraged blustering appeared no less ridiculous than the expanse of bare buttocks.