Phelps - Australian Heist

For Peter Phelps,

the Baryulgil Bushwhacker

I spent part of my childhood in a place called Baryulgil, a tiny Aboriginal settlement located 72 kilometres north-west of Grafton in northern New South Wales. I was a bush boy. I swam in creeks with my mates, shot fruit bats with my dad and roamed the wild. The Australian bush was always alive, full of wonder and seemingly infinite. My backyard was brimming with life: kangaroos bouncing, red-bellied blacksnakes lurking, kookaburras singing. And there were four bushrangers living in my house.

Each morning I would grab my breakfast mostly jam on toast and stare at them. They lived above the fireplace in a painting. One was leaning over his horse, gun pointed at the ground. Was he asleep? Another was pointing his revolver, at no one apparently. Or was he? The third was having a casual conversation with a woman sitting in a horse-drawn cart, a shotgun dangling between his legs. What were they talking about? The fourth had his back turned. I could never see his face. I always wondered who these men were and what they were doing.

Recently, while searching for my latest non-fiction project, I stumbled across a story about a stick-up in an old newspaper clipping. It was an epic tale of gold and guns, of heroes and villains, of love and hate. And at the bottom of the story there was a picture of a painting: Bailed Up, by Tom Roberts. I was once again looking at the four bushrangers who had lived on my wall. With the print long lost in a house move, I had not seen the Tom Roberts masterpiece since I was eight. The caption on the article said that one of the many tales that inspired the 1895 painting was a gold heist that had occurred in western New South Wales in 1862. A gang of bushrangers, which included the infamous Ben Hall and Frank Gardiner, had stolen 77 kilograms of gold. When I read that, I had my next book. All my childhood questions would soon be answered.

Six months later, Id got to know a group of men just like the ones whod lived on my wall. And now, after digging up every available resource on what is known as the Eugowra Rocks Heist, I am able to tell the full and complete story of Australias biggest-ever robbery for the first time.

The events in the following pages have been pieced together from primary and secondary sources, including court records, police reports, newspaper articles and eyewitness accounts. I have also drawn on a number of previously published books, which I have listed in the bibliography. I have taken few liberties with the narrative the places, people, dates and events are all accurate according to the resources available. Where there were conflicting reports, I went with the most plausible version. I have also used and re-created historically accurate dialogue, based on court transcripts and police reports where available. Some details and scenes have, however, been re-imagined, with a deliberately modern spin.

So now its time to learn about the gold and the guns, the heroes and the villains, the love and the hate. Welcome to Australian Heist.

James Phelps, 2018

Southern Colorado, 1903

The old man turned his head, the simple movement a strain. Frail and fading fast, he now found speaking an effort.

Get the boys, he said. I need to tell them about the gold.

Order issued, he closed his eyes, and his mind, mostly muddled these days, went to wondering.

Gold. Guns and gold. Australia.

He smiled, sunshine on a storm-ravaged face. He opened his eyes and looked towards the open window, the freshly cleaned curtains already collecting desert dirt.

King of the Road, he said. You know thats what they used to call me? Prince of Thieves...

Ive heard stories, said the elderly woman, moving towards his bed. We all have. And I have no doubt they are all true. She leaned down and gave him a kiss. Ill go fetch the twins.

He closed his eyes again.

Yep. King of the Road. Prince of Thieves. Australias greatest bushranger.

And again he smiled, for now this old man was young. Frank Darkie Gardiner was back in Forbes, no longer seventy-two, no longer on his Nevada deathbed. Frank was thirty-three, gun in hand, bum in saddle, galloping through gum trees after losing the law. On his way to drink beer at the sly shanty, bounty divided, bellies full. A heros welcome in wait.

A coughing fit brought him back to San Luis Valley.

A young man rushed into the room. Dad, are you okay?

He wasnt. Gardiner hacked, heaved and spat. His throat smoked, his lungs burnt.

Gardiners son smacked him twice in the middle of his back. The coughing continued.

Whats wrong with him? Lilburn looked to his mother. You didnt tell us he was sick.

She didnt have to answer.

Its the old mans friend, said Gardiner, gritted teeth and a gulp of hot air killing the cough. He has come to take me home.

At that moment Lilburns twin brother entered the cramped room. Pneumonia? William asked. The captain of death?

Gardiner nodded before slumping back into his pillows. Should have been a bullet, boy, he said. I have been bloody blessed. Always thought it would be a bullet...

Cough subdued, Gardiner summoned his strength. He grabbed Williams elbow, his hand a vice.

Boys, he said, looking first at William, then Lilburn. You might have heard a thing or two about me over the years. You know what they would say back in San Francisco?

His sons nodded.

Well, its true, he said. All of it. And then there is more. Some of it, well, you might struggle to believe. But you have to. Its my legacy and your future.

And then Frank Gardiner, the King of the Road, Prince of Thieves, told his boys a tale of treasure. Of stagecoaches, shotguns and saddles. Of bandits called bushrangers, a bloke called Ben Hall, and a bounty that has never been beaten.

It was Australias biggest heist, he said. Gold. Cash. Banknotes. And most of it was lost. Or so they say.

And then he gave them a map.

Sandy Creek, south of Forbes, New South Wales, 11 June 1862

Gardiner sat in the corner, feet up, holding a book. With a gas lantern by his side, unlit but ready and waiting, he repositioned the page to find the setting sun, the winter rays now limping through the frosted window above the wood stove.

John McGuire walked through the open door and pulled out a chair beside the two men already seated at his kitchen table before turning towards Gardiner. What time are the rest of them coming? he asked.

Gardiner did not take his eyes away from the page, a study of concentration. Soon, he said.

McGuire stared at the book being read by the man who had sequestered his house for this meeting, squinting in the fading light until the title became clear: Dream Book and Fortune Teller. The book had an orange cover and looked old and tattered. On the front cover an old woman in a cap pointed her finger at a girl wearing her hair in a bun while a gentleman in a suit looked on.

Whats your future like, Frank? McGuire asked. You going to live long and be happy? Is it going to be suits and sheilas, or just hags pointing fingers?

Gardiner looked up from the book and raised his eyebrows, the one on the left parted by a lumpy red scar. Im going to be rich, he said. And Ill run off with the girl of my dreams. A girl called Kitty.

The two men sitting at the kitchen table with McGuire laughed knowingly.

Johnny Gilbert had been the first to arrive, at about seven that evening. Gilbert was a famed horse thief, born in Canada before moving to Australia to be raised by conmen. McGuire knew Gilbert and had been told by his brother-in-law, Ben Hall, to let him and a few other boys in for a meeting, just a chat and a drink. Worth your while, hed said.