Published: 11 Sep 2025
Curious? true but Tate hadn’t pushed further into Ben Morgan’s past, now as he returned to the camp refreshed from his bathing he was becoming interested in the man who called himself Ben Morgan, if for no other reason than to assure his own safety. By the man’s confession he had a troubled past and nefarious enough to have changed his name and as Morgan now appeared at least upright and mobile, possibly Tate should continue with his journey before becoming too involved in something he may regret.
Something is holding Tate from his journey.
Is there an attraction towards Morgan’s mysterious past, his presumed innocent, or is his interest emotional. It is often suggested crime and wickedness can be magnetic, a moth to a flame. It was his dear mother who shared the adage along with a tale from her families past.
She had a cousin Gladys Mortimer and Gladys became emotionally involved with a criminal with a heinous personality but that was back in the old country. Even after the man had been hanged Gladys pined for his company. Eventually Gladys was found guilty by association, the only thing that saved the young woman from further torment was the consideration she must have been mazed towards such emotions, therefore instead of the gallows or transportation to the other end of the earth, Gladys was locked away in a mental asylum.
On his return to the camp Tate finds Morgan seated by the remnants of their breakfast fire appearing to be deep in though. The man’s athletic presence now appeared somehow smaller, his dark unkempt hair fell across his brow while his powerful hands clasped almost in prayer about his knees. Morgan was a picture of innocence, a boy in a man’s body who appears to be lost in a cruel world he did not understand. That could not be Morgan, he had a past and knew how to become obscure within a crowd, if not, how could he have avoided detection for such a lengthy period.
Tate approaches;
“I see you are up and about?”
Morgan jumps at the sound of Tate’s voice.
“Oh you startled me,” he says in anger but as quickly his annoyance subsides.
“Sorry,”
“It matter’s not, how was your swim?”
“You should have joined me.”
Morgan collects a stick from his side and commences to prod at the coals, quickly a single fire devil leaps and dies.
“You appeared to be deep in thought,” Tate suggests.
“I was.”
“Have you come to any conclusion?”
“About what?”
“What you will do seeing you can’t go back to Cairns where you would be arrested.”
“That is stating the bleeding obvious, kid.”
“The name is Tate.”
Morgan laughs;
“Then Tate that is bleeding obvious isn’t it?”
“I can stay with you for a few days then I’ll need to travel. While I’m here I can show you some ways of the forest.”
“Huh,” Morgan sighs, “you’ll turn me into a blackfella’.”
“You could do worse.”
Morgan appears to brighten;
“I think I will take that swim you suggested and yes my clothes are now even offending me.”
“I’ll show you the best spot and a few fruiting trees close by.”
Once at the pool Morgan appears hesitant becoming seated on the bank, his eyes appear fixed on a small leafy branch moving with the slow current along the lesser arm of the river.
“What appears to be the matter Ben?”
“I can’t swim.”
“You said you could swim enough not to drown.”
“I didn’t want to appear weak.”
“Every animal can swim, with us it’s the fear of drowning that drags us down.”
“So says you.”
“The water is only neck deep here in the billabong.”
“What is a billabong?”
“It is what the natives call an arm of a river that is almost cut from the main flow, or only flows during the wet.”
Morgan remains hesitant;
“You’ll be alright; I’ll come in with you and do your washing,” Tate displays his soap and laughs, “washer-women eh?”
“There’s something about you Tate I can’t work out.”
“I don’t have any secretes Ben.”
“Maybe.”
Morgan stands and slowly undresses as his strength hasn’t fully returned.
‘O‘nce naked he passes his clothes to Tate, “there you go washer-woman, do you chore.”
With a deep breath Morgan stretches his arms above his head to his full height; he gives a huff and lowers them to cove his crotch.
“Modest as well,” Tate says.
“I’m not use to being naked in company, I feel somewhat vulnerable.”
Tate quickly undresses, “feel better now?”
“I would say more confused than better.”
“Why confused.”
“As I said there is something about you I can’t rightly place a finger on.” Morgan’s eyes linger on Tate’s nakedness, those soft eyes express the will to comment further but his lips remain firmly closed.
“Yes?” Tate says.
“Yes what?”
“It is as if you wish to speak but think better of the words.”
Ben gives a chortle as he steps waist deep into the water being sure not to stray too far from the safety of the bank. “Not deep,” he says with relief.
“I told you so.”
Tate joins Morgan and commences to wash the soiled clothing, leaving them on the bank for the suds to do their work.
Holding the soap in view he speaks, “would you like me to wash your back?”
Morgan doesn’t reply.
“Turn around.”
Although appearing hesitant Morgan turns his broad back towards Tate.
Tate notices a scar on Morgan’s side; gently he places a finger on the scar.
“A bullet wound; it went right through without hitting anything of importance.”
“It is from your shady past I expect.”
“It was an accident when I was twelve; me and the bloke I worked for were hunting wild dogs that were attacking his sheep and his gun discharged.”
Tate avoids further and commences to gently lather Morgan’s back down to his waist, with his washing he could feel tension fall away from Morgan’s shoulders.
“I’ve never been touched like that before,” Morgan confesses.
“Surely at twenty-five you have had the soft touch of a woman?”
“The only thing whore’s touch is your pocket and even then it was infrequent. Have you been with a woman Tate?”
Tate laughs as he returns to washing of Morgan’s clothes, after a quick rinse they are spread on the bank to dry.
“Why do you laugh?”
“I suppose I’ve never had opportunity although there was one time that is if it could be considered being with a woman.”
“Are you going to share your experience?”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“It’s a little personal.”
It is now Morgan’s turn to laugh.
“I promise not to tell,” he says.
“I was with one of my brothers and -.”
“Do you have many brothers?”
“Five.”
“Continue.”
“I was with my brother Wilson; we were only boys visiting a mate Tom Palmer from Stratford. Tom had a sister Violet, we called her one hand Palmer; Violet would have been more Wilson’s age. To cut the story to the chase she had me and my brother lay down in the scrub behind their house and pull down our pants. She then took hold of us, one stiff prodder in each of her soft white hands then giggling she worked on us.”
“How old were you?”
“I was possibly twelve, Wilson a year and a bit older than me but as nothing was developed down there not a lot happened.”
“You must have got a woody?’
“I did.”
“Did you spurry?”
“Spurry, what the hell is that?”
“You know, throw your wad, it’s a word we use down south.”
“Na, firing blanks, the old musket went off with only twitching,” Tate laughs as it is the first time he had spoken intimately with anyone, not even Wilson spoke of such things, or if he did he gave the subject such a crude slant one could do nothing but divert to a more favourable matter.
“Not much of a story,” Morgan scoffs.
“It is all I have to offer.”
Tate is interrupted, “someone is coming,” he whispers.
He stands to face the direction of the sound then quickly dresses.
“Blacks,” Morgan nervously answers being well aware they remained about and active against lone travelling foreigners.
“If it was natives you wouldn’t hear them – quickly grab your clothes and hide yourself in that clump of undergrowth.”
No sooner had Morgan reached the stand of bushes a man steps into the clearing, by his expression is most surprised to spy Tate standing by the water.
“Hello stranger,” the man calls.
His eyes are all about searching for others as even in his advancing years he could handle one if attacked but not more.
The stranger settles, “lad, you appear to be a long way from home.”
He is a tall man with snowy hair and an equal beard, his face is deeply furrowed from sun and years but has bright and beady eyes.
The stranger is carrying all he owns on his back, while using a honed sapling as a crook to support his gait over the rough terrain.
“I am sir but like you do have destination.”
The man approaches then placing down his pack offers his hand, the arthritic fingers knotted and bent remained powerful.
“Jack Munro – a tin scratcher on my way to Irvinebank. I hear the tin ore is like black sand in the creeks, all you need is to shovel it into bags.”
Tate gives introduction and invites the traveller to rest awhile.
“If you are expecting riches Mr. Munro, you may be disappointed as most of the alluvial ore has been found; now you have to dig deep. I hear some of the holes go down almost to hell.”
Munro shakes his head with laughter at Tate’s expression. “Therefore lad I will dig down to the devil himself and take his hand if necessary, as I am well accustomed to such toil.”
“Are you a miner Mr. Munro?”
“As fact I am lad and from Wales, where the tin ore has been dug from the earth for more than three thousand years but now the digging is scarce and the call from your fine country draws many Welshmen to try their luck.”
“I know nothing about your Wales, only of those monsters that live in the ocean I have seen passing by of Trinity Beach in the summer season,” Tate admits.
Munro laughs towards the lad’s ignorance; that would be whales and may sound similar off the tongue, Wales is a small country dominated by your lot.”
“My lot Mr. Munro?”
“You would be English I suppose.”
“No sir I am Australian.”
“What of your parents, I expect they are from the old country.”
Tate wishes to conclude the conversation, doing so with a solum statement, “my parents are dead.”
The playfulness dries from the man’s expression, “commiserations and please accept my apology, I was making light and as a stranger I should have been more compassionate.”
“Their passing was long ago and I have a large family. I would offer you refreshments but as I travel I live of the land and have little to naught to offer you.”
“Would you accept some dried beef as an apology for my rudeness?”
Munro retrieves his pack bringing out a small package wrapped in a copy of the Cairns Post newspaper, its headlines reporting the murder of the road gang’s paymaster while canvassing information on his killer Ben Morgan. He offers up a small portion, “there you go lad, I must be on my way and put the miles behind while there is daylight.”
Tate accepts the offer, “I would advise you to follow the river until you reach Mareeba as you will find the going easier. From Mareeba there are many coach services across the tableland but if you wish to return to Cairns, it is either the way you came, or a coach further north arriving at the coast near the village of Port Douglas.”
“I am surprised that one so young would be so well acquainted with these parts.”
“I have been travelling the forest since I was a boy.”
The tin scratcher gives a slight smile, a nodding of the head and without further he continues, despite his advancing years there is a youthful skip in his step.
Once gone from sight Tate beckons for Morgan to come from hiding. Morgan’s eyes are on the path towards the river, “he’s gone,” Tate ensures.
“What did the old fella’ want?”
“I would think nothing more that some conversation with a fellow traveller, he did offer some dried meat from his hamper.” Tate offer’s most to Morgan, “your need is grater than mine.”
“Did he see me?”
“I would say not but it is a certainty he knows of your existence as his meat supply was wrapped in a page from the Cairns Post telling your story, giving your likeness at length and by the description you could not be mistaken.”
“Oh,” was all Morgan could muster in reply.
“Never mind he is gone, you are not discovered but your future discovery can’t be certain as day by day the road is coming west with travellers through the forest more frequent.”
“I am well aware of my position.”
“What will you do?”
“As I said I may travel west to Perth.”
“Do you feel strong enough to travel?”
“Almost; although I will need fresh clothing also a new pair of shoes as I made the dash for cover the sole came away. Possibly I should grow whiskers as a disguise. What of you Tate, I should think you would wish to be on your way.”
“I’m in no hurry to be anywhere, if you like I’ll stay awhile and as I have already suggested teach you the ways of the natives.”
“You’re a good kid Tate, possibly one day I will be able to repay you for your kindness.”
“No need but for now I’m off to the river for a spot of fishing,” Tate laughs, “have to build your strength for the travelling.”
Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com
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