# In Bad Company, and other Stories/Morgan the Bushranger

MORGAN THE BUSHRANGER
For several years the announcement 'I'm Morgan,' uttered in the drawling monotone which characterises one section of Australian-born natives, sufficed to ensure panic among ordinary travellers, and if it did not cause 'the stoutest heart to quail' in the words of the old romancers, was seldom heard without accelerated cardiac action. For the hearer then became aware, if he had not earlier realised the fact, that he was in the power of a merciless enemy of his kind—blood-stained, malignant, capricious withal, desperate too, with the knowledge that the avenger of blood was ever on his trail, that if taken alive the gallows was his doom, beyond doubt or argument. A convicted felon, who had served his sentence, he bore himself as one who had suffered wrongs and injustice from society, which he repaid with usury. Patient and wary as the Red Indian, he was ruthless in his hour of triumph as the 'wolf Apache' or the cannibal Navajo exulting with a foe, helpless at the stake.
An attempt has lately been made to rehabilitate the memory of this arch-criminal, so long the scourge and terror of the great pastoral districts lying between the Upper Murray and the Murrumbidgee rivers. We are not disposed to deny that there were individuals not wholly abandoned among the misguided outlaws who ravaged New South Wales in the 'sixties.' There was usually some rude generosity in their dealings with victims. They encountered in fair fight, and bore no ill-will to the police, who were paid to entrap and exterminate them. They were lenient to the poorer travellers, and exhibited a kind of Robin Hood gallantry on occasion. Among them were men who would have done honour to their native land under happier auspices. For, with few exceptions, they were sons of the soil. But Daniel Morgan differed from ​Gardiner, Hall, and Gilbert, from the Clarkes and the Peisleys, from O'Malley and Vane, from Bourke and Dunn. He differed as the wolf differs from the hound, the carrion vulture from the eagle. His cunning on all occasions equalled his malignity, his brutal cruelty, his lust for wanton bloodshed. Rarely was it, after one of his carefully-planned surprises, when he swooped down upon a defenceless station, that he abstained from injury to person or property.
He was skilful and persevering in discovering his 'enemies,' as he called them,—a not too difficult task,—for he had abettors and sympathisers, scoundrels who harboured and spied for him, as well as those who, fearing the vengeance of an unscrupulous ruffian, dared not refuse food or assistance. Those whom he suspected of giving information to the police or providing them with horses when on his trail he never forgave, often wreaking cruel vengeance on them when the opportunity came. He would reconnoitre from the hill or thicket for days beforehand. When the men of the household were absent or otherwise employed, he would suddenly appear upon the scene, to revel in the terror he created; certain to destroy valuable property, if indeed he did not imbrue his hands in blood before he quitted the spot.
It was, for the most part, his habit to 'work' as a solitary robber; he rarely had a companion, although in the encounter with Mr. Baylis, the Police Magistrate of Wagga Wagga, when that gentleman showed a noble example by bravely attacking him in his lair, it is supposed that his then companion was badly wounded. Mr. Baylis was shot through the body, but that man was never seen alive again. The popular impression was that Morgan killed him, so that he might not impede his flight or give information. The tale may not be true, but it shows the quality of his reputation.
It seems wonderful that Morgan should have been so long permitted to run the gauntlet of the police of two colonies. It may be doubted whether, in the present efficient state of the New South Wales force, any notorious outlaw would enjoy so protracted a 'reign,' as the provincial phrase goes. He had great odds in his favour. A consummate horseman like most of his class, a practical bushman and stock-rider, with a command of scouts who knew every inch of the country, and could thread at midnight every range and thicket between ​Marackat and the Billabong, Piney Range and Narandera, it was no ordinary task to capture the wild rider, who was met one day on the Upper Murray and the next morning among the pine forests of Walbundree. Horses, of course, cost him nothing. He had the pick of a score of studs, the surest information as to pace and endurance. In a horse-breeding district every animal showing more than ordinary speed or stoutness is known and watched by the 'duffing' fraternity, fellows who would cheerfully take to the road but for fear of Jack Ketch. It may be imagined how easily the hackney question is settled for a bushranger of name and fame, and what advantages he has over ordinary police troopers in eluding pursuit.
I was living on the Murrumbidgee during a portion of his career, in the years 1864 to 1869. He was seen several times within twenty miles of my station, and I have had more than one description from temporary captives, of his appearance and demeanour. There is not an instance on record of his having been taken by surprise, or viewed before he had been employed in reconnoitring his antagonist.
Some of his adventures were not wholly without an element of humour—although the victim well knew that the turn of a straw might change the intent, from robbery to murder. The late Mr. Alexander Burt, manager of Tubbo and Yarrabee, was riding on the plains, at a distance of ten or twelve miles from the head station, when a horseman emerged from a belt of pines. He wore a poncho, but differed in no respect from ordinary travellers. Without suspicion he rode towards the stranger. As he approached and, bushman-like, scrutinised horse and man, he observed the JP brand, and recognised the animal as one stolen from the station. A tall, powerful Scot, Mr. Burt ranged alongside of the individual in the poncho and reached over to collar him. At that moment a revolver appeared from under the poncho, and a drawling voice uttered the words 'Keep back!'
It was unsafe to try a rush, and the snake-like eye of the robber told clearly that the least motion would be the signal for pulling the trigger.
'What's yer name?' queried the stranger.
'My name is Burt.'
'Then Burt—you get off—that—horse.'
​Being unarmed, he had no option but to dismount.
'Give—me—the—bridle. So—you—tried—to—take—my horse—did—yer? I've—a dashed—good—mind—to—shoot—yer. Now—yer—can—walk home. I'd—advise—ye—to—make—a—straight—track.'
And with this parting injunction he rode slowly away, leading Mr. Burt's horse, while that gentleman, cursing his hard fate, had to tramp a dozen miles before relating the foregoing adventure.
At another time he surprised the Yarrabee Station, 'bailing' Mr. Waugh the overseer, Mr. Apps, and others of the employés of Mr. John Peter, but beyond placing the JP brand in the fire, and swearing he would put it on one of them, as a suitable memento, he did nothing dreadful.
At Mr. Cochran's of Widgiewa, as also at Mr. M'Laurin's of Yarra Yarra, preparations were openly made for his reception; yet, though he made various threats of vengeance, he never appeared at either place.
At Round Hill Station, near Germanton, he enacted one of his murderous pranks. Suddenly appearing in the shed at shearing time, he terrorised the assembled men, fired on, wounded and threatened the life of the manager. After calling for spirits and compelling all to drink with him, he turned to ride away, when, incensed by a careless remark, he wheeled his horse and fired his revolver at the crowd. A bullet took effect in the ankle of a young gentleman gaining shearing experience, breaking the bone, and producing intense agony. Appearing to regret the occurrence, Morgan suggested to another man to go for the doctor. Having started, Morgan followed at a gallop, and overtaking him, said with an oath, 'You're not going for the doctor—you're going for the police.' With that he shot the unfortunate young man through the body, who fell from his horse mortally wounded.
About the same time he was seen by Police Sergeant M'Ginnerty riding near the Wagga Wagga road. Having no suspicion, he galloped alongside, merely to see who he was. Without a moment's hesitation Morgan fired through his poncho. The bullet was but too sure—it may be noted that he rarely missed his aim—and the ill-fated officer fell to the ground in the death agony. He coolly propped up the dying man in a sitting posture, and there left him.
​When it is considered that he killed two police officers, besides civilians, Chinamen, and others, and that he shot a police magistrate through the body (inflicting a wound nearly fatal, the consequences of which were suffered for years after), it will be admitted that he was one of the most formidable outlaws that ever roamed the Australian wilds.
He is said to have encountered a pastoral tenant, of large possession, whom he thus accosted—
'I—hear—you've—been—pounding—the—Piney—boys'—horses—haven't—you?'
The witness was understood to deny, or, at any rate, shade off the unpopular act.
'Piney Range,' near Walbundree, was understood to be at one time the robber's headquarters. Here he was harboured in secret, and more comfortably lodged than was guessed at by the public or the police. The 'boys' were a horse- and cattle-stealing band of rascals now fortunately dispersed who generally made themselves useful by misleading the police, as well as by giving him notice of hostile movements. Towards subsidising them the spoils of honest men were partially devoted.
But this did by no means satisfy the 'terrible cross-examiner.'
'You look here now! If yer don't drop it, the—very—next—time—I—come—over I'll—shoot—yer. For—the—matter—of—that—I—don't—know—whether—I—won't—shoot—yer now.'
And as the dull eyes fastened with deadly gaze upon the captive's face he looking meanwhile at the mouth of the levelled weapon, held in the blood-stained hand of one who at any time would rather kill a man than not be sure Mr. Blank's feelings were far from enviable.
To one of his victims he is reported to have said—
'I—hear—you're—a—dashed—good—step-dancer. Now—let's—have—a—sample—and—do—yer—bloomin'—best—or—yer—won't—never—shake—a—leg—no—more.'
Fancy performing on the light fantastic before such a critic!
A cheerful squatter (who told me the tale) was riding through his paddocks one fine afternoon, in company with his family and a couple of young friends of the 'colonial experience' ​persuasion. They were driving—he riding a handsome blood filly. In advance of the buggy, he was quietly pacing through the woodland—probably thinking how well the filly was coming on in her walking, or that fat stock had touched their highest quotation—when he was aware of a man sitting motionless on his horse, under a tree.
The tree was slightly off his line, and as he approached it the strange horseman quietly rode towards him. He noted that he was haggard, and dark-complexioned, with an immense bushy beard. His long, black hair hung on his shoulders. His eyes, intensely black, were small and beady; his air sullen and forbidding. He rode closely up to the pastoralist without word or sign. Their knees had nearly touched when he drew a revolver and pointed it at his breast, so quickly that there was hardly time to realise the situation.
'Which—way—are—yer—goin'?'
'Only across the paddock,' was the answer.
'You—come—back—with—me—to—that—buggy.'
By making a slight detour, they came in front of the vehicle, the occupants of which were perfectly unsuspicious of the strange company into which the head of the house had fallen.
Then he suddenly accosted them, levelling the revolver, commanding them to stand, and directing the young gentleman who was driving to jump to the ground. He was famed for his activity, it is said, but the spring made on that occasion, at the bidding of Morgan, beat all former records. The other young gentleman, though of limited colonial experience, was not 'devoid of sense,' as he dropped two five-pound notes from his pocket into a tussock of grass, whence they were afterwards recovered.
After relieving all of their watches and loose cash, the bushranger asked the proprietor whether he had seen any police lately.
'Yes, two had passed.'
'And—you—fed—'em, I expect? I'm half—a—mind—to blow—the bloomin'—wind—through—yer.'
'What am I to do?' queried the perplexed landholder. 'I should feed you if you came by. I can't deny them what I give to every one that passes.'
'D'ye—know—who—I—am?'
​'I never met you before, but I can pretty well guess. I've never done you any harm that I know of.'
'It's—a—dashed—good—thing—yer haven't. What's—that—comin'—along the road?'
'The mail coach.'
'How d'ye know that?'
'Well, it comes by every day about this time, and of course I know it.'
'Well—I'm—just—goin'—to—stick—it—up. Don't—yer—tell—no—one—yer—saw—me—to-day—or—it'll—be—a—blamed—sight—worse—for—yer.'
And with this precept and admonition the robber departed, to the infinite relief of all concerned. In a few minutes they heard the pistol shot with which he 'brought-to' the mail-coach.
'Blest if I seen a speck of him till he fired the revolver just over my head,' said the driver afterwards. 'I was that startled I wonder I didn't fall off the box.'
No harm was done on that occasion, save to Her Majesty's mails, and the correspondence of the lieges. My informant gathered up the strewed parcels and torn sheets into a large sack next morning, and forwarded them to the nearest post-office.
In Morgan's whole career there is not recorded one instance of even the spurious generosity which, if it did not redeem, relieved the darkness of other criminal careers. He had apparently not even the craving for companionship, which makes it a necessity with the ordinary brigand to have a 'mate' towards whom, at any rate, he is popularly supposed to exhibit that fidelity which he has forsworn towards his kind. Rarely is it known that Morgan pursued his depredations in concert with any one. He may have had confederates, harbourers he must have had, but not comrades.
He was never known to show mercy or kindness towards women. When they were present at any of his raids, he seems either to have refrained from noticing them or to have derided their fears. There is no record of his having suffered their entreaties to prevail, or to have ceased from violence and outrage at their bidding.
Subtle, savage, and solitary as those beasts of prey which have learned to prefer human flesh, and once having tasted to renounce all other, Morgan lurked amid the wilds, which he had made his home, ever ready for ruffianism or ​bloodshed—a fiend incarnate—permitted to carry terror and outrage into peaceful homes, until his appointed hour of doom. This was the manner of it.
Morgan's Death, told by the Manager.
Peechelbah Station, on the Murray, was a big scattered place, a regular small town. There was the owner's house—a comfortable bungalow, with a verandah all round. He and his family had just come up from town. My cottage was half a mile away. I was the Manager, and could ride or drive from daylight to midnight, or indeed fight, on a pinch, with any man on that side of the country. I was to have gone up to the 'big house' to have spent the evening. But it came on to rain, so I did not go, which was just as well, as matters turned out.
I was writing in my dining-room about nine o'clock when a servant girl from the house came rushing in. 'What's the matter, Mary?' I said, as soon as I saw her face. 'Morgan's stuck up the place,' she half whispered, 'and he's in the house now. He won't let any one leave the room; swore he'd shoot them if they did. But I thought I'd creep out and let you know.'
'You're a good lass,' I said, 'and have done a good night's work, if you never did another. Now, you get back and don't let on you've been away from your cups and saucers. How does he shape?'
'Oh, pretty quiet. Says he won't harm nobody. They're all sitting on the sofa, and he's got his pistols on the table before him.' And back she went.
Here was a pretty kettle of fish! Many things had to be done, so I pulled myself together, and set about to study the proper place for the battle. It was no use trying to rush the house. There were a lot of hands at work on the place and in the men's huts. But in those days you couldn't be sure of half of them. I had a few confidential chaps about, and I intended to trust entirely to them and myself. I was a good man in those days, as I said before.
But here was Morgan in possession—one of the most desperate, bloodthirsty bushrangers that had ever 'turned out' in New South Wales or Victoria. Nothing was surer than, if we made an attempt to besiege the house, he would at once ​shoot Mr. M'Pherson, and his partner Mr. Telford, who happened to be there with him.
So I had to be politic or all would go wrong.
I first thought of the money. For a wonder I had four hundred pounds, in notes, in my desk. I had got them from the bank to buy land, which was to be sold that week. I didn't often do anything so foolish, you may believe, as to keep forty ten-pound notes in a desk.
The next thing, of course, was to 'plant' it. I made it into a parcel, and taking it over to the creek, hid it under the overhanging root of a tree, in a place that Mr. Morgan, unless he was a thought-reader, like the man we had staying here the other night, would not be likely to find.
This done, I sent my body-servant down to the men's hut, to tell them all to come up to my place—that I wanted to give them a glass of grog. Grog, of course, is never allowed to be kept on a station by any one but the proprietor or manager. But I used to give them a treat now and then, so they didn't think it unusual.
I mustered them in my big room and saw they were all there. Every man had his glass of whisky, as I had promised. Then I said: 'Men! There's a d—d fellow here to-night that you've often heard of—perhaps seen. His name's Morgan! He's stuck up the big house, with Mr. and Mrs. M'Pherson and the family. Now, listen to me. The police will be up directly. I intend to surround the house. But I don't want any of you fellows to run into danger, d'ye see? It's my order—mind that—that you all stop in here, till you have the word to come out. Antonio!' I said—he had been with me for ten years and was a determined fellow; a sailor from the Spanish main, half-Spanish, half-English, and afraid of nothing in the world—'Antonio, you stand near the door. My orders are that no one leaves this room to-night till I tell him. The first man that tries to do so, shoot him, and ask no questions.'
'By ——! I will,' says Antonio, showing his white teeth and a navy revolver.
The men looked queer at this; but they knew Antonio, and they knew me. They had had a glass of grog, besides, and I promised them another by and by. This pacified them so they brought out some cards and set to at euchre and ​all-fours. They were safe. I had made up my mind what to do. I never intended Morgan to leave the place alive. I had sent off for the police, and among the men I could trust was a smart fellow named Quinlan, a dead shot and a steady, determined man. He had several times said what a shame it was that a fellow like Morgan should go about terrorising the whole country, and what fools and cowards people were to suffer it. He had his own gun and ammunition, and, when I told him, said he wanted nothing better than to have a slap at him.
We weren't so well off for firearms as we might have been, for I had hid a lot of loaded guns in an empty hut, ready to get hold of in case of sudden need. Confound it, if some of the boys hadn't taken them out the day before to go duck-shooting with. However, we rummaged up enough to arm the picked men, and kept watch.
It was a long, long night, but we were so excited and anxious that no one felt weary, much less inclined to sleep. Mr. Telford was in the house with Mr. M'Pherson, and he chaffed Morgan (they told me afterwards) about having his revolvers out in the presence of ladies. However, he couldn't get him to put them away. He was always most suspicious. Never gave a man a chance to close with him. He was well-behaved and civil enough in the house, and, I believe, only wished one of the young ladies to play him a tune or two on the piano. He drank spirits sparingly, and always used to call for an unopened bottle. He was afraid of being poisoned or drugged. Some of his friends wouldn't have minded much about that even, as there was a thousand pounds reward for his capture, alive or dead. I have good reason for thinking, however, that one or two of the 'knockabouts' would have given him 'the office,' if we hadn't got them all under hatches, as it were.
Daylight came at last. I've had many a night watching cattle in cold and wet, but none that I was so anxious to end as that. Of course I knew our man wouldn't stop till sunrise. He was too careful, and never took any risks that he could help.
And at last, by George! out he came, and walked down towards the yard where his horse was. I had pretty well considered the line he was likely to take, and was lying down, ​the men on each side of me, as it happened. But, cunning to the last, he made M'Pherson and Telford come out with him, one on each side, not above a yard away from him. As he passed by us we couldn't have fired without a good chance of shooting one of the other two. So we let him pass—pretty close too. However, when he'd passed Quinlan, the track turned at an angle, which brought him broadside on; it wasn't to say a very long shot, nor yet a very close one. It was a risk, too, for of course if he had been missed, the first thing he'd have done would have been to have shot M'Pherson and Telford before any one could have stopped him. But Quinlan had a fair show as he thought, and let drive, without bothering about too many things at once. That shot settled the business for good and all. His bullet struck Morgan between the shoulders and passed out near his chin. He fell, mortally wounded. In an instant he was rushed and his revolvers taken from him. He lay helpless; the spine had been touched, and he was writhing in his death agony, as better men had done before from his pistol.
The first thing he said was, 'You might have sent a fellow a challenge.' One of the men called out, 'When did you ever do it, you murdering dog?' He never spoke after that, and lived less than two hours.
The police didn't come up in time to do anything; no doubt they would have been ready to help in preventing his escape. But I was only too glad the thing had ended as it did. The news soon got abroad that this man—who had kept the border stations of two colonies in fear and trembling, so to speak, for years—was lying dead at Peechelbah. Before night there were best part of two hundred people on the place. I can't say exactly how much whisky they drank, but the station supply ran out before dark, and it was no foolish one either. 'All's well that ends well,' they say. We've had nobody since who's been such a 'terror' to settlers and travellers. But I don't want to go through such a time again as the night of Morgan's death.