In the Bush

Soon after my arrival in Australia, I obtained, through the influence of some friends in Melbourne, a berth in the mounted police. The service there differs very much from what it is in other countries, nearly all the members of the corps being well-educated gentlemen, many the younger scions of noble houses, who like the adventurous life they lead.

I was stationed up country, near Ballarat, and the chief duty upon which that branch of the force was engaged, was protecting the squatters from the depredations of bush-rangers.

A rough and often blood-thirsty lot these fellows are. The leader of one of the most powerful gangs was a man named Morgan, a wild and desperate fellow, whose very name was a terror to peaceable settlers.

One spring—spring there, by the way, is about October—we received information at head-quarters that the mail had been ‘stuck up’ between Avoca and Mt. Alexander, and that many squatters’ shanties had been despoiled by a large body of mounted bush-rangers, and, from the description given of the leader, little doubt remained but that the gang was comprised of Morgan and his satellites. Our chief detailed off eight of us to scour the country, and, if possible, bring the marauders to justice; and, as a large reward was offered for Morgan—dead or alive—we set out full of zest for the chase. The inspector heading our party was Harry Buller, the second son of an English baronet, a frank, genial, open-hearted fellow, brave as a lion.

It was Sunday evening when we arrived at a little store, kept as a sort of half-way house for journeying diggers, and there we concluded to stop for the night. We picketed our horses in the kraal outside, made a hearty supper, rolled ourselves up in our opossum-rugs, and wearied by our long ride, sank quickly to sleep. In the middle of the night I was aroused by a little aborigine, who… Read More