How Dr. Mulhaus Got Bushed in the Ranges, and what Befel Him There.
I must recur to the same eventful night again, and relate another circumstance that occurred on it. As events thicken, time gets more precious; so that, whereas at first I thought nothing of giving you the events of twenty years or so in a chapter, we are now compelled to concentrate time so much that it takes three chapters to twenty-four hours. I read a long novel once, the incidents of which did not extend over thirty-six hours, and yet it was not so profoundly stupid as you would suppose.
All the party got safe home from the picnic, and were glad enough to get housed out of the frosty air. The Doctor, above all others, was rampant at the thoughts of dinner, and a good chat over a warm fire, and burst out, in a noble bass voice, with an old German student’s song about wine and Gretchen, and what not.
His music was soon turned into mourning; for, as they rode into the courtyard, a man came up to Captain Brentwood, and began talking eagerly to him.
It was one of his shepherds, who lived alone with his wife towards the mountain. The poor woman, his wife, he said, was taken in labour that morning, and was very bad. Hearing there was a doctor staying at the home station, he had come down to see if he could come to their assistance.
“I’ll go, of course,” said the Doctor; “but let me get something to eat first. Is anybody with her?”
“Yes, a woman was with her; had been staying with them some days.”
“I hope you can find the way in the dark,” said the Doctor, “for I can tell you I can’t.”
“No fear, sir,” said the man; “there’s a track all the way, and the moon’s full. If it wasn’t for the fog it would be as bright as day.”
He took a hasty meal, and started. They went at a foot’s pace, for the shepherd was on foot. The track was easily seen, and although it was exceedingly cold, the Doctor, being well wrapped up, contrived, with incessant smoking, to be moderately comfortable. All external objects being a blank, he soon turned to his companion to see what he could get out of him.
“What part of the country are you from, my friend?”
“Fra’ the Isle of Skye,” the man answered. “I’m one of the Macdonalds of Skye.”
“That’s a very ancient family, is it not?” said the Doctor at a venture, knowing he could not go wrong with a Highlander.
“Very ancient, and weel respeckit,” the man answered.
“And who is your sheik, rajah, chieftain, or what you call him?”
“My lord Macdonald. I am cousin to my lord.”
“Indeed! He owns the whole island, I suppose?”
“There’s Mackinnons live there. But they are interlopers; they are worthless trash,” and he spit in disgust.
“I suppose,” said the Doctor, “a Mackinnon would return the compliment, if speaking of a Macdonald.”
The man laughed, and said, he supposed “Yes,” then added, “See! what’s yon?”
“A white stump burnt black at one side — what did you think it was?”
“I jaloused it might be a ghaist. There’s a many ghaists and bogles about here.”
“I should have thought the country was too young for those gentry,” said the Doctor.
“It’s a young country, but there’s been muckle wickedness done in it. And what are those blacks do you think? — next thing to devils — at all events they’re no’ exactly human.”
“Impish, decidedly,” said the Doctor. “Have you ever seen any ghosts, friend?”
“Ay! many. A fortnight agone, come tomorrow, I saw the ghost of my wife’s brother in broad day. It was the time of the high wind ye mind of; and the rain drove so thick I could no see all my sheep at once. And a man on a white horse came fleeing before the wind close past me; I knew him in a minute; it was my wife’s brother, as I tell ye, that was hung fifteen years agone for sheep-stealing, and he wasn’t so much altered as ye’d think.”
“Some one else like him!” suggested the Doctor.
“Deil a fear,” replied the man, “for when I cried out and said, ‘What, Col, lad! Gang hame, and lie in yer grave, and dinna trouble honest folk,’ he turned and rode away through the rain, straight from me.”
“Well!” said the Doctor, “I partly agree with you that the land’s bewitched. I saw a man not two months ago who ought to have been dead five or six years at least. But are you quite sure the man you saw was hung?”
“Well nigh about,” he replied. “When we sailed from Skye he was under sentence, and they weren’t over much given to reprieve for sheep-stealing in those days. It was in consequence o’ that that I came here.”
“That’s a very tolerable ghost story,” said the Doctor. “Have you got another? If you have, I shouldn’t mind hearing it, as it will beguile the way.”
“Did ye ever hear how Faithful’s lot were murdered by the blacks up on the Merrimerangbong?”
“No, but I should like to; is it a ghost story?”
“Deed ay, and is it. This is how it happened:— When Faithful came to take up his country across the mountains yonder, they were a strong party, enough to have been safe in any country, but whether it was food was scarce, or whether it was on account of getting water, I don’t know, but they separated, and fifteen of them got into the Yackandandah country before the others.
“Well, you see, they were pretty confident, being still a strong mob, and didn’t set any watch or take any care. There was one among them (Cranky Jim they used to call him — he as told me this yarn — he used to be about Reid’s mill last year) who always was going on at them to take more care, but they never heeded him at all.
“They found a fine creek, with plenty of feed and water, and camped at it to wait till the others came up. They saw no blacks, nor heard of any, and three days were past, and they began to wonder why the others had not overtaken them.
“The third night they were all sitting round the fire, laughing and smoking, when they heard a loud co’ee on the opposite side of the scrub, and half-a-dozen of them started up, and sang out, “There they are!”
“Well, they all began co’eeing again, and they heard the others in reply, apparently all about in the scrub. So off they starts, one by one, into the scrub, answering and hallooing, for it seemed to them that their mates were scattered about, and didn’t know where they were. Well, as I said, fourteen of them started into the scrub to collect the party and bring them up to the fire; only old Cranky Jim sat still in the camp. He believed, with the others, that it was the rest of their party coming up, but he soon began to wonder how it was that they were so scattered. Then he heard one scream, and then it struck him all at once that this was a dodge of the blacks to draw the men from the camp, and, when they were abroad, cut them off one by one, plunder the drays, and drive off the sheep.
“So he dropped, and crawled away in the dark. He heard the co’ees grow fewer and fewer as the men were speared one by one, and at last everything was quiet, and then he knew he was right, and he rose up and fled away.
“In two days he found the other party, and told them what had happened. They came up, and there was some sharp fighting, but they got a good many of their sheep back.
“They found the men lying about singly in the scrub, all speared. They buried them just where they found each one, for it was hot weather. They buried them four foot deep, but they wouldn’t lie still.
“Every night, about nine o’clock, they get up again, and begin co’eeing for an hour or more. At first there’s a regular coronach of them, then by degrees the shouts get fewer and fewer, and, just when you think it’s all over, one will break out loud and clear close to you, and after that all’s still again.”
“You don’t believe that story, I suppose?”
“If you press me very hard,” said the Doctor, “I must confess, with all humility, that I don’t!”
“No more did I,” said Macdonald, “till I heard ’em!”
“Heard them!” said the Doctor.
“Ay, AND SEEN THEM!” said the man, stopping and turning round.
“You most agreeable of men! pray, tell me how.”
“Why, you see, last year I was coming down with some wool-drays from Parson Dorken’s, and this Cranky Jim was with us, and told us the same yarn, and when he had finished, he said, ‘You’ll know whether I speak truth or not to-night, for we’re going to camp at the place where it happened.’
“Well, and so we did, and, as well as we could reckon, it was a little past nine when a curlew got up and began crying. That was the signal for the ghosts, and in a minute they were co’eeing like mad all round. As Jim had told us, one by one ceased until all was quiet, and I thought it was over, when I looked, and saw, about a hundred yards off, a tall man in grey crossing a belt of open ground. He put his hand to his mouth, gave a wild shout, and disappeared!”
“Thank you,” said the Doctor. “I think you mentioned that your wife’s confinement was somewhat sudden?”
“Yes, rather,” replied the man.
“Pray, had you been relating any of the charming little tales to her lately — just, we will suppose, to while away the time of the evening?”
“Well, I may have done so,” said Macdonald, “but I don’t exactly mind.”
“Ah, so I thought. The next time your good lady happens to be in a similar situation, I think I would refrain from ghost stories. I should not like to commit myself to a decided opinion, but I should be inclined to say that the tales you have been telling me were rather horrible. Is that the light of your hut?”
Two noble colley dogs bounded to welcome them, and a beautiful bare-legged girl, about sixteen, ran forth to tell her father, in Gaelic, that the trouble was over, and that a boy was born.
On going in, they found the mother asleep, while her gossip held the baby on her knee; so the Doctor saw that he was not needed, and sat down, to wait until the woman should wake, having first, however, produced from his saddle two bottles of port wine, a present from Alice.
The woman soon woke, and the Doctor, having felt her pulse, and left some medicine, started to ride home again, carrying with him an incense of good wishes from the warm-hearted Highlanders.
Instead of looking carefully for the road, the good Doctor was soon nine fathoms deep into the reasons why the mountaineers and coast folk of all northern countries should be more blindly superstitious than the dwellers in plains and in towns; and so it happened that, coming to a fork in the track, he disregarded the advice of his horse, and, instead of taking the right hand, as he should have done, he held straight on, and, about two o’clock in the morning, found that not only had he lost his road, but that the track had died out altogether, and that he was completely abroad in the bush.
He was in a very disagreeable predicament. The fog was thicker than ever, without a breath of air; and he knew that it was as likely as not that it might last for a day or two. He was in a very wild part of the mountain, quite on the borders of all the country used by white men.
After some reflection, he determined to follow the fall of the land, thinking that he was still on the water-shed of the Snowy-river, and hoping, by following down some creek, to find some place he knew.
Gradually day broke, cold and cheerless. He was wet and miserable, and could merely give a guess at the east, for the sun was quite invisible; but, about eight o’clock, he came on a track, running at right angles to the way he had been going, and marked with the hoofs of two horses, whose riders had apparently passed not many hours before.
Which way should he go? He could not determine. The horsemen, it seemed to him, as far as he could guess, had been going west, while his route lay east. And, after a time, having registered a vow never to stir out of sight of the station again without a compass, he determined to take a contrary direction from them, and to find out where they had come from.
The road crossed gully after gully, each one like the other. The timber was heavy stringy bark, and, in the lower part of the shallow gullies, the tall white stems of the blue gums stood up in the mist like ghosts. All nature was dripping and dull, and he was chilled and wretched.
At length, at the bottom of a gully, rather more dreary looking, if possible, than all the others, he came on a black reedy waterhole, the first he had seen in his ride, and perceive............