The Curse of Taradale House

By Jane Riddoch

It was the beginning of the nineteenth century in Australia, and a number of early settlers, bringing some wealth with them from the old country, took up holdings in various parts of the region on what appeared to be good grazing land. These early settlements were created with minimal resistance from the original Aboriginal owners of the land, because they usually moved their campsites further away into the bush to escape detection. Aboriginal people were not very numerous in the area where this story began, and certainly presented no real threat to anyone. But because some of the settlers were becoming increasingly annoyed with the disappearance of a few of their sheep, they eventually decided to hold a meeting to discuss what could be done about it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Dec 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781742842790

Book preview

The Curse of Taradale House

PROLOGUE

It was the beginning of the nineteenth century in Australia, and a number of early settlers, bringing some wealth with them from the old country, took up holdings in various parts of the region on what appeared to be good grazing land. These early settlements were created with minimal resistance from the original Aboriginal owners of the land, because they usually moved their campsites further away into the bush to escape detection. Aboriginal people were not very numerous in the area where this story began, and certainly presented no real threat to anyone. But because some of the settlers were becoming increasingly annoyed with the disappearance of a few of their sheep, they eventually decided to hold a meeting to discuss what could be done about it.

They met for dinner at one of the homesteads, and after a satisfying meal of roast lamb and vegetables, washed down by large tankards of ale, they were now seated around a table, their flushed faces lit by the light of a kerosene lamp, and with their tankards refilled, were now prepared to get down to the business in hand. This was to discuss their urgent problem of the thieving bastards who stole our sheep, and, hopefully, to come to a successful conclusion on the matter.

Fueled by the large amount of alcohol consumed during the evening, soon tempers began to flare, and the meeting continued on with very few valid suggestions on what was to be done about the theft. The ale was flowing freely and was readily consumed by the angry and now shouting settlers.

‘Come on now blokes, a bit of quiet. I can’t hear myself think.’ The owner of the homestead tried to calm things down a bit when he could see that things were getting out of hand. The meeting eventually ended in a state of general frustration for everyone. ‘Hunt the bastards away’ and ‘We should kill them all,’ was a common cry among the men. So the meeting broke up with a lot of angry shouting and grumbling. But no valid suggestions or conclusions had been reached on the matter of the theft.

A few of the men, on returning to their properties later that night and very drunk, had by then worked themselves up into a great frenzy about the theft, and, on seeing a campfire in the distance, made their way towards it. It was quite late at night so the camp was very quiet with only the light from the dwindling campfires presenting a soft glow. The moon had retreated behind the lowering clouds. Everything was silent. Only an owl could be heard in a distant treetop repeating its mournful tune into the soft night air.

On this particular night, the leader of the Aboriginal tribe, together with his most able men, was away hunting for food in the bush. There was no one left on guard at the camp because there had never needed to be. The settlers tethered their horses some distance from the campsite and crept silently towards it, only their breath visible as they made their way through the bush. On arriving at their destination, and with no warning, the angry and very drunk men lifted their rifles, and began firing at everything they could see. They fired on the old men and the women and children who were sleeping in their mia-mias, and then, having become incensed with their terrible anger and fuelled by the heavy drinking, they went about killing everyone they could find. They even began pursuing those who had managed to run away in fear down to the creek in their endeavour to escape the carnage. Soon the waters of the creek ran red with blood.

All the people at the camp died that night, including the camp dogs; no life was spared. Death and blood were everywhere. The screams of the dying filled the air as the perpetrators fled the horrific scene. The other station owners who had been at the meeting were said to have been shocked when they heard of this escapade, but nothing was done to bring the murderers to justice, except that those who had taken part were said to have eventually left the district.

The area where the massacre had taken place became known as the Fighting Waterhole. A more appropriate name may have been Cowards’ Creek. It was a horrible indictment of man’s cruelty, and the men who inflicted it on innocent, unarmed people were certainly cowards. It is said that on arriving back at the campsite the leader of the tribe raised his spear high and cursed the white population both past and present, and also all those who would come in the future to settle on the bloodied land. The headman, and what was left of his tribe, moved away far into the bush and were never seen again.

Part 1

Chapter 1

Cedric

Duncan McPherson was sent out from Scotland to Australia in disgrace. He was what was known as a remittance man. That is, he had been sent out to the colonies in order to protect his aristocratic family from the stigma of his disgrace and dishonour as a deserter from the Royal Navy. But they didn’t send him out alone. Fortunately for him, his family was a very wealthy one, so he came out to Australia in great style at the age of twenty-five, accompanied by a very large amount of money and a very young and innocent bride of only eighteen years. With the wherewithal to purchase a large parcel of land on which to build a colonial mansion, he chose an excellent site on the side of a large hill with a small creek running at its base. He named the house Taradale, presumably after a favourite village back in the country of his birth.

At the time of Duncan McPherson settling on this very sizeable parcel of land, it seems that he was quite aware that the location had a rather nasty reputation. There had been stories of a large massacre of Aboriginal people on the land he had purchased and he knew that some settlers believed the land thereabouts was cursed. It would appear that he thought this story was absolute rubbish, and was completely happy with his purchase. He then proceeded to acquire a lifestyle of luxury for himself that he thought appropriate to his station in life and also evidently felt to be his due. This included filling the large house he had built with good furnishings shipped at great expense from abroad. A number of servants were also brought out, and enough farm workers to ensure that he didn’t have to be bothered to work on the land he had acquired so easily. In fact he didn’t have to work at all. He was a wealthy landowner, and on his Taradale property his word was law. If he felt that his way of life had been violated in any way, his vengeance was swift and final.

‘Well woman, out with it now, what do you have to say? Did the wretch force himself on you?’ Duncan spat the words into the face of the woman cringing in the bed. A timid ‘Yes’ came between sobs.

‘You better have not encouraged the lout, or I will have to deal with you too.’ With this threatening statement, his hand tightened around the thin neck of his wife, Mary. She screamed. ‘No, no Duncan I did nothing to encourage the boy. Please believe me.’ And then she started sobbing again.

‘Shut up woman! You know I’m inclined to believe you. You are God fearing and you often make me sick with your complaining ways, but you’re not a slut. If you were I would have got rid of you long ago. Now stop your sniveling woman and get out of bed and go and wash your face for God’s sake. I have something I must do, but I’ll be back soon.’ With this rather doubtful promise, the poor woman proceeded to do as she was told, grateful to be released from a punishment worse than death itself from her furious husband.

The sun had long slipped behind the western hills and the darkened sky was beginning to welcome the myriad of stars that were soon to appear in full blaze, when Duncan McPherson walked up the path towards the stable. He moved swiftly and silently for such a tall man, only stopping for a moment when he had reached his destination. He saw the stable door open to reveal a horse and rider. There was no doubt in his mind who it was as he lifted his right hand to strike.

The stallion heard the crack of the whip almost before it had left the turn of the wrist that held it. Short, sharp and direct, it found its target. The terrified animal, with ears back and flaring nostrils, reared in fear on to its back legs. The frightened rider clutched desperately at the reins and then choking, he grabbed at the empty air with his hand, dumbly trying to dislodge the cutting curl of leather from around his slender neck, then falling backwards into the dust of the stockyard, he gave one last cry. No words were spoken, but a hand patted the shivering horse’s side and soft footsteps gently led him back to the stable as the moon slipped silently behind a cloud. Death had come swiftly to Wilfred Jenkins. Then, with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders, Duncan McPherson closed the stable door. He smiled, murmuring softly to himself, because it was obvious to him that ‘justice has now been done.’

Early next day, dawn was just breaking in the eastern sky when a small boy walked through the garden gate and up the steep dusty path to the stable where his father’s thoroughbred horses were housed. He was struggling to keep up with the wide steps of his father. He was small for his age; you could say that he even looked a bit sickly, with a pale complexion, a shock of fair curly hair falling across his forehead, and with the softest of big blue eyes. On first sight, you may have mistaken him for a rather frail but pretty little girl, although you would be quite wrong in coming to this conclusion. Cedric McPherson was an extremely wiry little fellow. He had to be, to survive being in the middle of a family of four girls, nearly all of whom thought it their solemn duty to instruct him in his manners, daily. But this day was a special one for him, and even the girls had to show him a little respect. For, you see, it was his tenth birthday and he was up bright and early and was now endeavouring to follow his father up the steep path to the stable in order to receive his surprise birthday present.

Although the birthday present was supposed to be a surprise, Cedric actually knew what it was going to be, because his sisters had let him in on the secret several days ago. But he wasn’t quite sure whether he believed them or not, for they were often trying to play tricks on him, and then collapsing in shrieks of laughter when he realized that they were only having a joke at his expense. This time he was hoping against hope that it wasn’t one of their tricks. For they had let it out that his birthday present was to be his very own pony. So Cedric was trying desperately to keep up with his father as they neared the stables, although he was finding it increasingly hard to breathe, but he kept on doggedly because he knew of his father’s ready temper if you didn’t obey him at once when he requested it, and he had already been warned not to dawdle.

‘Hurry on Cedric, there’s a good fellow. I haven’t got all day.’ His father called to the puffing little boy.

Duncan McPherson, Cedric’s father, was a big man. He stood six feet four inches tall in his stocking feet and was really quite an imposing figure, with a thin but fairly robust physique and a handsome but rugged face. He also prided himself greatly on his looks. In consequence, the man was actually rather vain and self-centered in his disposition. He believed that he was always right in decision making; in fact, in his own opinion, he was never wrong. Everyone knew that he had a heavy hand with his whip when he failed to get his own way with the servants, which, fortunately for them, wasn’t very often. The events of last night came fleetingly to his mind. ‘The wretched fellow deserved what he got. I’ve fixed him for good. I doubt that he’ll bother me again.’ He said softly to himself, smiling.

Duncan McPherson was not an unattractive man for his thirty-seven years, with his curly black hair slightly graying at the temples, and he also sported extremely luxurious side whiskers that, in his own opinion, were not to be matched anywhere in the country. But he failed to see that his small and deep-set brown eyes were a little bit too close together, or that his mouth was a little too thin and was slightly turned down at the corners. Also that he was in fact too imperfect for the complete perfection he desired for himself, and thought that he had now attained.

As he walked up towards the newly-built stables where he housed his six champion horses, and also a new horse-drawn carriage resplendent with pure leather seats and bright red wheels – which was considered by everyone who saw it to be the very latest thing in the country – Duncan stroked his long black mustache with the back of his well-manicured hand. Yes, it could be said that he was indeed an extremely proud man. Proud of himself, that is, and all that he had achieved in the past twelve years since arriving in this God-forsaken country in 1845, at the age of twenty-five, from his native Scotland. He was also completely unaware that the small boy following behind him was finding it difficult to keep up with his brisk pace.

‘Hurry up there boy, don’t dawdle,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you once, boy, I won’t tell you again.’ Cedric tried to make a sound like ‘I’m coming, Papa,’ and tried to lengthen his pace a bit, but found this feat almost impossible. Fortunately they had both arrived at the stable gate by this time so he was able to stop for a bit and try to regain his breath.

Duncan McPherson liked making grand gestures, so with a ‘stay there son, and close your eyes,’ he disappeared into the interior of the stable and without further ado appeared in the aperture leading a small grey pony. ‘Happy birthday son,’ he said grandly, as little Cedric stood transfixed, still trying to regain his breath. Of course he had known he was going to get his very own pony. He really wouldn’t have minded what it had looked like, but this one was really a beauty, with its shining, dappled grey coat and deep grey mane and tail. Both of his older sisters had their own ponies and had let him know in advance that theirs were both superior to the one that he was getting, so this present was not the surprise that his father thought it was going to be. But that didn’t take away from the extreme joy Cedric felt at this moment.

The pony turned to him as if he knew who was going to be his new master. Cedric stood close to the small horse and put out his hand to pat its head, though he was soon brought down to earth sharply by his father’s voice: ‘Come on boy, wake up. Aren’t I going to get any thanks? It certainly cost me enough. How about it now, I want to hear your gratitude quick-smart, young man.’ Cedric looked at his father and was suddenly filled with intense gratitude.

‘He is a really beautiful pony, Father. Thank you very, very much for giving him to me. May I ride him now please?’

Cedric was quite a good little rider already. That is, when he was allowed to ride one of his sisters’ horses on his own and not as just for piggyback rides behind one of them. His elder sisters, Agatha and Ann, both rode on school days to the newly-built convent school in the nearby township, which incidentally also carried the name of Taradale: Duncan McPherson owned most of the town-site land and donated it to the Taradale township which now sported a newly-formed shire council, of which, Duncan McPherson was the dominant member. Most of the money for the small Catholic school beside the church came from his coffers, too. He was a very rich man and could well afford it. But Cedric was still taught his lessons with his younger sisters, Mary and Barbara, by their live-in governess, Miss French, at home in the school room. And so he was looking forward to the New Year very much when he too would go to a proper school. In consequence, his present wasn’t all kindness of heart on his father’s part, but more of a necessity for his son to be able to get to school in the New Year with his two older sisters. Cedric was far too young at this stage to be aware of this artifice, so he was extremely grateful for his present and proceeded to give his reluctant father a big hug around the knees. This completely unexpected show of affection causing the tall man to become rather embarrassed in the process and to push him away quickly in order to ascertain if his shining long boots had been marked by his son’s probably grubby little hands. A silk handkerchief was produced and quickly applied to the offending area.

It needs to be stated here that little Cedric was really a very nice little boy, if a bit dreamy, but certainly not his father’s favourite child; that place, if there was a place in his heart for anyone other than himself and his horses, was filled by his eldest daughter, Agatha. She was an extremely conceited child who took after her father in both looks and character. Cedric was really rather afraid of his father, although the parent had gone up heaps in his small son’s estimation in the past few minutes. The gift of his pony had sealed that opinion.

‘Right you are my boy; up you go now on your pony. Hold the reins correctly, as you have been instructed. Off you go now.’ With a quick slap on the horse’s rump, Duncan watched Cedric turn the pony and trot off up the dusty track into the distance. Then, shutting the gate of the stable yard, he walked back down the path to the house and completely forgot about him, as was his way.

Young Cedric sat proudly on the pony’s back. He was in his seventh heaven at this moment, and he couldn’t have been happier, sitting up on his new pony, he thought that this was the best birthday present in the whole world. It was a beautiful morning, the sky was very blue with not a cloud in sight and the sun had now risen and was shining down on them brightly. Although there was a slight breeze, it was behind the little grey pony and his small companion as they sped away down the hill over the lush green pasture.

‘Good boy, Toby,’ Cedric shouted enthusiastically as they cantered along. Cedric had decided to call the pony Toby when he was lying in his bed one night over a week ago after his sisters had let the cat out of the bag about his forthcoming birthday present. He really didn’t know why he chose that special name but he thought it sounded right somehow. When he first caught sight of him this morning, he knew for sure that Toby it was going to be.

Cedric trotted Toby along the path past the newly-painted wool shed and the holding pens for the sheep. Only when he had left the path that ended by the sheep yards