No hope arose of being freed
And my dim eyes of death had need.
About noon the band of bushrangers and their unwilling companion crossed the Cowpasture river upon a rude catamaran, made of apple tree boughs tied together with vines, and in a short time had gained the rough broken country at the foot of those lofty mountains that traverse the whole of the centre of New Holland, then even more solitary than it is now, the poverty of the sod forbidding any cultivation whatever; while the natural grasses are so scanty that they do not afford pasturage even for the indigenous animals of Australia. Through such sterility as this they journeyed during three days without seeing a single habitation or even a human being. Their provisions again began to grow short, when, on the fourth morning from the death of O’Leary, a few hours after they had quitted the spot of their past night’s sojourn, they came to the summit of a lofty range, where a prospect equally unexpected as it was beautiful and varied burst upon the sight of the enraptured Rashleigh, whose tormenting feelings, induced by the fear of what fate might have in reserve for him as punishment of his involuntary association with the desperate and blood-stained ruffians who now formed at once his guard and his masters, all gave way before the majesty of nature, and he drank in large draughts of delight in contemplating the lovely scene now expanded before him.
Immediately in front of his present position was a precipice some hundred feet in height, whose ragged breast sank sheer down to the broad expanse of the low country; but immediately at its base the Nepean river, here narrowed to about the distance of a hundred yards between its banks, rushed with tumultuous force around the greater part of the hill on which they stood, from which immense masses of rock had apparently been detached by some long past convulsion of nature, and now lay in the bed of the torrent, causing the rapid waters to flash around them in sheets of snowy foam. Far to the right and left the winding convolutions of the stream might be seen at intervals appearing through the foliage, here in magnificent sheets of water, and anon, beyond a projecting promontory forming a low range of hills, the river seemed contracted into the semblance of a dazzling silvery riband that sparkled in the beams of the morning sun.
In the background rose the lofty heights of gloomy mountains, whose variously undulating sides were chiefly clad with the dark evergreen foliage of New Holland, though here and there might be seen upreared the giant form of some rude and fantastically shaped peak or rifted cliff whose grey bosoms were boldly exposed in naked sublimity. As far as the eye could reach in front was an expanse of nearly level woodland, broken here and there by cultivated patches of a greater or less extent, and thinly studded with solitary farmhouses, cots and one or two hamlets with their churches.
The houses were for the most part embosomed in peach orchards, whose leaves of more delicate green contrasted well with the sombre hue of those that clad the neighbouring indigenous trees. The maize fields, too, which were now in full blossom, and gracefully waved their lofty tasselled tops over many an acre of the rich soil on the river bank, formed no inconsiderable item in the charms of the landscape, the appearance of which Rashleigh surveyed in a reverie of pleasure, until the iron hand of Foxley smote upon his shoulder, and his deep harsh voice demanded, “Are you dreaming?”
Aroused to a sense of the dull and dread realities of his present condition, Rashleigh turned mechanically and followed the party, who struck more deeply among the hills. At an early hour in the afternoon Foxley warned his mates that they were approaching the Great Western Road, leading over the mountains to Bathurst, which it was necessary they should cross, and therefore it behoved them to keep a sharp look-out, that they were not surprised by any straggling party of constables or mounted police, which were frequently much on the alert just on the edge of the highlands in order to prevent the escape of any of the prisoners — who at that time were employed working in irons, in order to form the new line of road — as the latter frequently absconded in large or small parties, carrying plunder and havoc into the settled districts during their brief career wherever they came.
The warning had scarcely been given by the leader, whose two companions reloaded their fire-arms, when they heard a shrill cry of a peculiar kind, which is in the Colony called a cooee, and which is chiefly used by parties in the bush to denote their positions or make known their desire of help, guidance, etc. The bushrangers halted and listened attentively; the cry was two or three times repeated, apparently by the same voice. At length, after a brief consultation, McCoy went towards the place from where the sound proceeded, while Foxley, Ralph and the other plunged into the heart of a thicket a little apart, and in a short time the voice of their companion who had gone to reconnoitre was heard hard by. They now got up and went to meet him.
He was accompanied by a short stout man seemingly past the middle age, rather decently dressed, who carried a thick walking-stick, and was introduced to the party by the name of “Mr Huggins, the overseer of No. 1 Iron Gang, who had lost his way while looking after bushrangers”. This introduction was made in a very peculiar manner by his companion to Foxley, who received it with a most significant look, in which Rashleigh fancied he could observe traces of malignant and ferocious satisfaction that made him shudder; while Huggins glanced apprehensively from one to the other of the party who now stood before him.
Silence was broken in a few minutes by Foxley, who said briefly that he thought he could put Mr Huggins in the right way to find some bushrangers very soon; at any rate he’d “be sure to put him into a way that would be certain to take him home”.
Satisfied by this ambiguous speech, Huggins placed himself under the treacherous guidance of his foe, and they all moved on towards the west. Ralph could hear fits and snatches of conversation between Foxley and the newcomer, by which it appeared the former described the party as bush constables belonging to Campbelltown, who were in search of Foxley and his gang of bushrangers, then supposed to be lurking somewhere in the fastnesses of the Blue mountains. Imbued with this idea, Huggins talked much and long of the necessity of putting a period to the depredations of this notorious horde of daring scoundrels and wound up his speech by declaring that if he (Huggins) should come across the rascal in question, he’d never change a word with him, but shoot him down like a dog. Upon this declaration of his sentiments by the overseer, Foxley turned his head to McCoy and Smith, who marched last of the five — Rashleigh being kept in the centre — and shot forth a glance of sarcastic contempt, twisting his naturally coarse features into a truly Satanic as well as sardonic grin, at the effusion; while the other two responded to the gesture by gripping their guns more closely, with expressively grim looks at their leader’s companion.
After they had thus walked about an hour, Huggins began to be alarmed at the duration and tendency of their journey, as they did not reach any road. He repeatedly asked Foxley if he were certain of being in the right direction, to which the other replied, as before, ambiguously, that they would be “as safe as the bank directly”!
In a few minutes more, as they were descending a very deep and rugged glen, or gully, Foxley placed his foot before Huggins, who of course fell some feet forward; and in order to prevent any resistance, Foxley secured him by falling on his back. In his overthrow, Huggins had struck his head with some force against a stone, and before he could recover the effects of this blow his treacherous assailants had firmly bound both his hands and feet.
When the captive regained his senses, his astonishment could only be equalled by his affright; and now, too late perceiving the real character of his captors, he begged in the most moving terms for mercy, abjectly supplicating for heaven’s sake that they would not harm him; but he might have spared this humiliation of himself, for no tiger was ever more pitiless to his prey than the fiend in human shape into whose power he had now fallen. No reply whatever was vouchsafed by Foxley, who seized him by the collar, and assisted by one of his confederates, they thus between them partly led and partly dragged their captive to the bottom of the narrow valley, which was a dreary spot almost inaccessible to the light, and looking as if in fact it were a mere rift, or chasm, in the range, formed by an earthquake, each side being chiefly shut in by naked and jagged rocks, some of which were blackened by age until it appeared as if they had been split by the agency of fire.
A small space, level and clear from obstructions having with some difficulty been found, Foxley seated himself upon a fallen rock, while his companions stood before him with Huggins between them; and now, with a smile of malignant cruelty about to be gratified, the bushranger informed his captive, “As you have such a mighty great wish to see Philip Foxley, I think ’tis a pity so reasonable and harmless a desire should not be granted; and as you’re a nice sort of a man, you shall have your own way . . . I am Foxley. What do you think of me, eh? You won’t speak. Well now, that’s what 1 call being very ungrateful. However, it’s no odds. As it’s a very great favour to see me and my mates, I mean to take care you shan’t tell anybody you have done so!”
As these words were spoken with cool and concentrated malignity which left no doubt of the fell meaning they implied, the hapless wretch to whom they were addressed gave himself up for lost, but endeavoured to move his iron-hearted captor by supplications for mercy.
“Silence!” said one of the bushrangers. “Don’t you know me? Ay, look! What! Not know Sandy McCoy?”
Huggins looked at him, but shook his head and burst out into a fresh paroxysm of lamentations and entreaties.
“Ah,” resumed McCoy, “You know me too well! It is not twelve months ago since I was under you in your infernal gang, and one day when I wanted to go and see the doctor, you put me in the lock-up. You left me there thirty-six hours, handcuffed over a beam, both wrists twisted above my head, all my weight hanging on my hands, and my t............