Murphy's Run

10th November 1853 – Wimmera District, Victoria.

Alfred tugged at the leash, but the sheep refused to continue. Instead, it began to lower itself onto a bed of fallen leaves. Alfred yanked the rope and forced the creature upright. The two of them carried on downstream, Alfred almost dragging the ewe behind him. When they reached a silt bank at a bend in the river, he tied up the sheep and fetched his pan.

He filled the pan with water and a few handfuls of silt. As he shifted and stirred it, he stopped to prod at the dirt here and there. Occasionally, a grain of sand or flake of quartz caught the sun. Each time, Alfred isolated the piece and examined it. Each time, he was disappointed. He had been in the area for several days and still he had found no gold.

A few weeks earlier, he had been drinking whiskey in a tent on the diggings at Ballarat. There he met a young man who had come from Van Diemen’s Land. He claimed to have an uncle who kept a few thousand sheep in the Grampians. The family name was Murphy. The lad had drunk more than his fill and he swore to God, Queen, and Mother Mary that there was gold to be had on Murphy’s run. He said that nobody had prospected it, not even the old man himself. He said it would only take a few days to get there by foot.

The sheep began to bleat and Alfred led it to the water. He had captured it that morning and led it all day under the pulsing sun. The lapping ewe at his side, Alfred caught a flash of movement. A man was crossing the river a hundred yards downstream. Alfred squatted beside a nearby rock and watched the man. He carried a heavy pack with a spade, shovel, and pan. In his hand was a long walking stick. Alfred led the sheep to the shrubs on the riverbank. He tied it to a tree and hid his belongings. He took only his flax water bag and trailed after the man.

Murphy’s run was marked with wide stretches of open land, occasional bushy thickets, and stands of tall but sparsely placed gum trees. Alfred stayed well behind the man as he tracked him. Though they passed scattered groups of sheep, Murphy and his hands were nowhere in sight.

They came to a dry gully on the west face of a tall hill. The man climbed up the gully until it led him to the base of an insurmountable escarpment. Alfred stayed in the shrubland below. After an hour, the clanging of a pickaxe began to echo against the looming cliffs.

It was evening when Alfred returned to the river. As he came close, he heard voices through the bush and over the sound of the running water. He stopped and listened. Their words were not English. He crept forward carefully, but when he finally caught sight of them, they already had their eyes on him. There was an old man and a boy on the opposite bank of the river. Aboriginals.

They stood mostly naked over the carcass of Alfred’s stolen sheep. The old man’s hands and forearms were lathered with blood. Both he and the boy held one of the sheep’s hind legs. They watched the Englishman squatting in the bushes as he watched them in return. When Alfred rose to his feet, the man spoke to the boy and they fled into the bush. Alfred did not pursue them.

He had planned to smoke the sheep’s meat, but now he would not have time. Instead, he cut strips from the shoulder and spent the evening roasting them over a fire. Some of it he boiled in his billy can to make a crude soup. He habitually reached for his last bottle of whiskey. On his way out of Ballarat, he had pilfered it from the tent of a known drunk. He turned it over in his hands, examined the label, and rather than open it, he returned it to his bag.

In the morning, his tea tasted of mutton fat. He left the rest of the sheep to rot in the heat and went with all his belongings to the gully he had visited the day before. There he sat among the low ferns and hid himself in the shade of a large acacia tree. All through the day there came the sound of the pickaxe. Alfred wondered if the man might have already found gold. Perhaps he was returning to a vein he had been working for some time.

Late in the afternoon, the man approached with two water bags and his long walking stick. Alfred watched him without making himself known. The man was familiar to Alfred. He had been in the tent when they had all heard the story about Murphy’s run. Alfred was surprised the man had remembered the details; he had stumbled out of the tent to vomit up his whiskey. An hour later the man returned with his water bags full. It was then that Alfred crossed his path in a manner that by all appearances seemed to be perfectly by accident.

The man had washed his ruddy face and calloused hands, but his ragged clothes were still covered in the local ochre-red soil. His matted red hair was not so different in colour. Now close at hand, Alfred perceived that the man’s walking stick was a spear of aboriginal manufacture. Its maker had carved a barbed point directly from the shaft. When he spoke, the man revealed himself as a native of Yorkshire.

“What’s it you’re doing out here, then? What are you, a swagman?” the man asked. It was clear that he did not recognise Alfred in the least.

When Alfred spoke, he did so in a voice that was not strictly his own, but which he had practised during his time in London. He mimicked the refinement and poise of a better educated man. It did not matter that he was stinking and filthy after walking several days across open country from Ballarat.

“Yes, I’m just travelling through the area,” said Alfred. “I’m crossing these hills on my way to Pleasant Creek. I’m going to meet an old friend there.”

“You’ll have an easier time of it going around. This isn’t easy country. You go a little farther and you’ll see there’s a second ridgeline to the east.”

Alfred smiled. “You’re quite right. It isn’t easy country. In fact, I was looking to take a little break. I’ve been walking too long. I’ve a pint of whiskey. Scotch, as it happens. Happy to share it.”

The Yorkshireman’s eyes widened. “A whole pint?”

They ascended the gully together. The man introduced himself as Paul as he beat at the ferns and shrubs with his spear. He had arrived from Leeds only a year before.

“In Yorkshire we have some mountains that aren’t all that different from these. There are decent hills in the Peaks, you know. But it’s all easy green country. Not like this.”

“At least here there are no stinging nettles and no brambles. No barbed gorse to scratch you up,” said Alfred.

Paul laughed. “Quite right. I prefer a snake over gorse barbs. That’s the truth.”

The trail led to a small area of flat ground nestled in among the cliffs. Paul had set his bedroll by a fire pit ringed with stones. A short distance beyond were several shallow trenches. The air was damp and cool.

Paul motioned to a large flat rock and invited Alfred to take a seat. They sat beside one another and Paul looked almost pleadingly at Alfred. Alfred retrieved the whiskey from his bag and at the sight of it Paul bit his lower lip. Alfred unstopped the bottle and raised it to his mouth. He allowed in barely enough drink to cover his tongue, but he made a show of swallowing, as if he had gulped down a real mouthful. He encouraged Paul to take a deep, deep drink, and the Yorkshireman keenly obliged.

Alfred pointed to the trenches and said, “Had any luck with your diggings?”

Paul fingered a pouch that hung from his belt and said, “No, no, none at all, in fact. Not one bit. Unfortunately. Quite unfortunately.”

Alfred faked another gulp from the bottle and passed it on. The Yorkshireman took one swig, and then another. He shook his head and exhaled sharply.

“You’ve had some luck finding whiskey, haven’t you?” said Alfred, taking back the bottle. “Not easily done out here.”

“That I have. That I have.”

Alfred motioned to the trenches with the bottle. “A man who has luck in one domain often has luck in many, wouldn’t you say?”

“Any man who fears God will have his share of luck.”

Alfred raised the bottle in agreement. With a hearty cheers, he took another feigned gulp. Paul again fiddled with the pouch on his belt as he took the bottle in hand once more.

When sundown came, Paul had long since begun to slur his words. An hour after dark, he could no longer stand. It was only with Alfred’s help that he stumbled away from camp to urinate. When they were back at the fire, Paul placed a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. He slouched forward and his head hung slack. His red hair drooped over his face.

“Why… Why is it that you help a man like this, give him whiskey?” said Paul.

Alfred took the man’s hand in his own. “This is hard country. We need a mate or two here. Don’t you think?”

Paul smiled and loosely nodded his head. “I… I… I’m going to sleep.”

Alfred helped Paul down to his bedroll. In the sun’s absence, a cool breeze had begun to blow, and Alfred tucked the man’s woollen blanket over him.

“My spear…,” said Paul. “Bring me my spear, please. I keep it with me.”

Alfred placed the spear by the man’s side. Paul proceeded to mumble to himself, but after a few minutes he began to snore. Alfred crept over to Paul’s swag and opened it. He searched through its contents in the firelight. There was nothing of value, and certainly no gold.

Alfred knelt over Paul and lifted back the blanket. When the breeze caught his side, the sleeping man instinctively yanked the blanket back. Alfred tried a second time to lift the blanket, and met with the same response. He then lay beside Paul and reached under the blanket without removing it. He grasped for the pouch hanging from the Yorkshireman’s belt. Despite his drunken sleep, Paul held it tightly in his right hand.

Alfred poked gently between Paul’s fingers to gauge the contents of the pouch. It certainly held several small objects, each of them dense, heavy, and irregularly shaped. He began to pry loose Paul’s grip.

The sleeping man shifted. “Wh… What are you doing?”

Alfred withdrew his arm and shot to his feet. Paul looked up at him with gnarled teeth. He tossed off the blanket and his anger cut through his drunkenness. “You… You were having a go at my gold, weren’t you now?”

Alfred smiled. “But Paul, I thought you hadn’t found any gold?”

“You bloody well were, you buggering bastard.”

Alfred was already collecting his things and preparing to flee. Paul took the spear in hand and staggered to his feet.

“You should put that thing down,” said Alfred.

Paul let out a haggard war cry and thrust the spear at Alfred’s chest. Alfred leapt aside and Paul almost lost his footing. The Yorkshireman steadied himself as best he could and thrust the spear again. He slipped in the loose dirt and fell forward. All his weight was behind the spear when its tip drove into Alfred’s thigh.

Alfred screamed into the night. As Paul struggled to pull himself up, Alfred took a nearby stone in hand. He brought it down on Paul’s head and with a dull sound the man went silent. Despite the pain of the long spear lodged firmly in his leg, Alfred immediately turned Paul over and snatched the pouch from his belt. He loosened the drawstring and held it to the firelight. There were three small gold nuggets, several ounces in all.

Alfred gritted his teeth and tugged gently at the spear. With even a small motion, its barbed tip pulled and tore at his flesh. He scanned over the camp in search of a large rock with a sharp edge. As he hobbled over to a suitable stone, he grunted and gasped with each step. He took the rock in hand and brought its sharp edge down on the spear. With a great flash of pain he split the spear’s tip from its shaft.

As if in response to Alfred’s howling, Paul began to mumble incoherently where he lay in the dirt. Alfred watched him writhe. At last he made for the shadows. He followed the course of the gully through the starlit bush, the speartip grinding against his flesh with every step. At the bottom, he sat among the ferns and listened for any sign of Paul’s approach. None came. He could not find his way further on in the darkness and so he waited for dawn without sleep. At first light, he struggled back to his feet and pushed on in the direction of the Murphy homestead.

He limped on his bloody leg out of the hills and in the clear morning light he entered the open country below. He crossed a field where there loitered many sheep, and there he spotted a horseman riding perpendicular to him. He called out and waved until the man turned the horse and caught him up. The rider was a young man in a clean shirt, with golden hair and a wide-brimmed hat.

“G’day there. What happened to your leg? Are you alright?”

“This is a spear that belongs to one of the savages,” said Alfred. “I came across him as he was carving up one of your sheep. It looked like the black had stolen it himself. He attacked me when he realised I’d caught him in the act.”

The young man nodded. “One of the hands said he’d spotted one of those bastards carrying two legs of mutton. You can always trust a savage to steal an honest man’s sheep. I came out looking for the thief. I’m sorry I didn’t find him sooner.”

Alfred hobbled one step closer and told him that was quite alright.

The young man adjusted his hat against the low sun. “My father is Graham Murphy. You can call me Matthew. Come with me. We’ll get you to my mother and see if she can treat that wound. We might need to ride you out to Portland. There’s a good doctor there.”

Alfred agreed, took the man’s hand, and with a cry of pain he used his good leg to pull himself onto the horse. They rode for some time before they reached a creek that was meagre even by the standards of that country. Its course curved through large boulders that had tumbled down from the adjacent hills long ago. Murphy pulled the reins and stopped. He pointed downstream and said, “Is that the bugger just there?”

Not very far off knelt the aboriginal man and boy where they had been drinking from the creek. Alfred confirmed the old man’s identity and Matthew directed the horse over to them. The old man did not retreat as he understood that to flee would confirm whatever charge was to be levelled against him. Matthew stopped the horse just before him. He sat there watching them.

“I’m certain this is the man who attacked me,” said Alfred.

Matthew continued to sit where he was. The horse began nuzzling at the dirt and stones underfoot.

“There’s no use dawdling,” said Alfred.

Matthew grunted his agreement. He raised his chin and asked the old man what his name was. No response came.

“He doesn’t speak a lick of English,” said Alfred.

The old man looked silently back at the two immigrants, blank and fearful. Matthew lowered himself from the horse and the child took a small step back.

“It pains me to do this, but this is my father’s land,” said Matthew. “We are obliged by common decency to punish thieves. And God forbid I let anybody walk free who has tried to kill an innocent man.” His face softened and he looked up at Alfred, “That is, unless you have any objections.”

“Go on. Settle it.” said Alfred.

“Very well.”

Murphy pulled a shotgun from its holster on the saddle. The child knew well enough what kind of weapon it was. Without hesitation, he ran off downstream. The old man watched the boy go. He flashed the armed Scotsman a fearful look and then turned to follow the boy. Matthew cursed them both and jogged after them. One after the other, all three rounded a bend in the river and disappeared behind the heavy boulders that lined its banks. Alfred stayed on the horse and listened.

One shot echoed against the open country and the nearby hills. The horse startled and shifted and the movement sent new flashes of pain through Alfred’s leg.

When Matthew returned, he held the unloaded shotgun in the crook of his arm. He slipped the weapon into its holster and climbed back upon the horse.

“You can count that matter as settled. Now, let’s get you home.”

The Murphy homestead was still in its infancy. The house was roughly built from local timber and sheets of corrugated iron. Around it were a few modest vegetable patches. Matthew assured Alfred that in a few years they would bring in the materials to build the largest house in the district.

Mrs. Murphy received the men at first with curiosity and then with urgency. She had served as a nurse in Geelong before marrying Graham Murphy and she had seen similar wounds before. In order to extract the barbed point, she had no choice but to give Alfred whiskey and then widen the wound with her sharpest knife.

He was allowed one of the children’s beds in which to rest. Graham visited him after his surgery. He was a tall and quite slender man who very much resembled his son. “Matthew told me about what happened. I’m sorry that such a thing occurred on my land. You strike us all as a good and honest man. You are most welcome to stay here as you recover. When you’re feeling ready, there’ll be work for you at a good wage.”

At sundown the next day, Alfred shuffled out to the verandah. He took a seat that looked over fields that shimmered in the heat, and the craggy hills that enclosed them. On a distant ridge outlined against the evening sky, he spied a man’s silhouette. There was not much Alfred could tell from the man’s outline alone, but he could clearly see the man’s head of matted red hair. Alfred’s heart quickened as he understood that the man was closely watching both the house and its inhabitants.

Before dawn and in spite of his bloody bandages, Alfred stole Matthew’s horse and began the long journey south to Portland. He carried with him Paul’s three gold nuggets.