Fisher's Ghost

Constable Crichton noted Fisher’s disappearance but didn’t quite know how to act. Freddie Fisher had been a convict, sure, but he was now a free man. Did he have family as convicts or settlers, elsewhere? All who know him know he’s now a law-abiding man so it’s not likely he ‘did something’ to abscond from.

The Constable looked around the neat stone hut where Fisher is – was – living. His breath fogged the crisp clean air as Fisher’s absence meant no fire to warm this hearth. Nothing looked packed up. Nothing looked tossed. He came outside to his patient nag. And as he hauled his bulk into the saddle he heard the distinct cry of a kingfisher. He turned his head towards the cry and a grove of ghost-gums not far off towards the creek.

Folklore says there’s rain in three days of a kingfisher’s cry.

The road from Fisher’s to Campbelltown ran alongside the creek. It only serviced the wagons of the local farmers. Constable Crichton followed the road out to Fisher’s neighbours for a chat. And only decided to head back to town when he realized too late that he’d be travelling by night.

Soon, the constable couldn’t make out his hand in front of his face. He let his nag take the lead hoping the old gal wanted the warmth of home as he did. He knew they were on track by the rushing creek to his left. The creaking limbs of the gums reached out to blot out the stars until the Constable reached the bridge. Then the starry sky and waning moon illuminated everything.

As the Constable brought his gaze back down to his road he saw the outline of a man sitting on a pylon. Pointing out to the running creek. Out of all the darkness, Constable Crichton could make out this man. It was Freddie Fisher.

“Ahoy Freddie!” the Constable called ahead, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Fisher did not respond. His pointing arm did not waver.

The Constable’s nag shied then refused to budge. He did not urge her on. For a moment the Constable took his eyes off the man to see what he was pointing to. But saw only water. When he looked back at Fisher, Fisher was gone.

Constable Crichton told the truth to his Sergeant. The truth as he knew it: Frederick Fisher was dead and the evidence for it was meeting the silent man. Sitting and pointing towards God-knows-what. The Sergeant challenged the Constable to lead him out to the bridge. To the exact spot where Freddie had been sitting.

In the chill, clear morning air the Sergeant leaned over the bridge’s pylon and saw blood stained on the stonework. He righted himself to gaze in the same direction as Freddie had. And could only guess where the dead man had been pointing to. The creek itself.

The two policemen formed a search party brave enough to wade the frigid waters in winter. They burned bonfires on the shore to warm themselves. Sooner rather than later they hauled out Frederick Fisher’s mottled body with the back of his skull caved in.

The rains began on the third day from the kingfisher’s cry. Both the Constable and Sergeant rode out in the downpour to visit Fisher’s neighbours. It was important to find a possible lead in the man’s violent death before the murderer left the colony. But, questioning possible suspects was always turned to questioning the Constable. Will the ghost bother anyone now Fisher’s got a decent burial?

Both authorities knew the body was still at the station. But agreed that the ghost will not bother anyone crossing the bridge at any time.

They got the same line of questioning at the property of George Worrall. But George wouldn’t accept the reassurance the ghost would be at rest. He was quite uneasy and quite serious about the whole thing. On a hunch, the Constable bluffed an idea, ‘I imagine… if the murderer crossed that bridge…Fisher will be there to point…’ And the Constable didn’t need to go on. George broke down and confessed.

He had to confess because he needed to cross that bridge at least once a week.

The Constable and the Sergeant took George Worrall back into Campbelltown. The Constable had George on his nag while he led her home. As the three men crossed the bridge it was only George who squirmed. Turning this way and that trying to see if Freddie Fisher was pointing at him. It wasn’t until they passed the bridge that George settled again. Realizing the Constable might have had him on.

‘There was no ghost’ George accused him.

‘Oh, there was a ghost. You don’t see them in daylight. Even on a bloody miserable day like today.’ The Constable replied.

The creek was renamed Fisher’s Ghost Creek by the local colonists. Their little ghost story put them on the map, for a while.

George Worrall confessed guilty at his trial but the judge made everyone tell the ghost story again before condemning the man to death.

He died by hanging, 1827.