Lake Cargelligo

The Adventures of Will Jones by Greg Barron

Will and Clarkie rose with the moon, catching horses and loading up as silently as possible, avoiding the clink of harness and hobble chain, keeping away from the firelight and not allowing themselves to be silhouetted against the sky. There was a trooper on watch, but he was asleep on the other side of the track, sitting with his back against a pile of canvas packs and panniers, head lolling to one side.

When all was ready, Will and Clarkie led the horses back west for half a mile, before angling cross-country, eventually intersecting the southern road. Clarkie led the way without speaking, using hand signals and low whistles.

It struck Will as interesting that his new mate would want to take the road south – the direction from which the traps had just come – the least likely direction in which to meet them again. Once they had a good mile down, and had begun to move freely, Will expressed that opinion.

‘I just reckoned it were a good idea,’ Clarkie replied. ‘We’ll ride dang-square south ‘til we strike the Lachlan, and we can ride upstream from there.’

It was a good enough plan, and Will was happy to stay the course, though he was starting to have suspicions about his new mate. He remained wary of the man until the following evening, then let himself be won over by the humour and the yarns.

They’d reached the river by then, and it was a welcome distraction after a long ride in the dry. Australia’s fourth-longest river, the Lachlan rose far to the east, on the Breadalbane Plain near Goulburn, flowing nine hundred miles to the Great Cumbung Swamp and the mighty Murrumbidgee.

As well as being a very long waterway, the Lachlan wound in lazy arcs, its flood plain littered with ancient ox-bow lakes and marshland. This made for an interesting journey. Will had a cat-gut line wound on a cylinder of cork in his packs, and by baiting his hook with a grasshopper or frog, had little trouble catching a tasty golden perch or cod in their evening river camps.

Following the riverbank would have made their trip many times longer, so during the day they cut across the loops, often following wagon tracks. They sometimes encountered bands of foraging Ngiyampaa family groups, or droving teams with stock. The bosses of shorthanded crews begged for a week or two of their time, but Clarkie was adamant that a fortune in gold was their aim, and they would not settle for less.

The journey took on a pendulum-like slowness, until finally they followed a winding dry flood channel down from the main river, and gazed upon the fair expanse of Lake Cargelligo. It was, Will noted, more than three-quarters full. He had not expected this. His experience of lakes west of Bathurst was that most were no more than flat depressions in the earth. This one, however, was worthy of the long journey. On the foreshore were the shells of long-dead mussels, and thousands of birds, both on the littoral, or on the water itself. The largest were pelicans, but there were multiple varieties of ducks, avocets, herons and spoonbills.

On the far side of the lake were some low cliffs of white clay, clusters of tents along the shore, and the houses and businesses that made up the town. A number of boats lay serenely at anchor. One was much larger than the others, an impressive craft even at that distance.

‘I wonder what they do wif all them boats,’ said Will. But he didn’t, at that point of his life, know much about watercraft, and neither did Clarkie, so they put it down as a mystery and moved on, heading around the northwestern shore of the lake, where the gold diggings were concentrated along a line of hills. Mine headgear was located at intervals.

There were not, as they’d expected, crowded creek beds of men panning and sluicing. In fact, the gullies were mostly dry, and adjacent to more shafts, with their mullock heaps and rudimentary equipment. The numbers of diggers at work above ground seemed to Will to number less than one hundred in all.

The winding nature of the track, and the occasional slow wagon carrying ore, meant that skirting around the lake occupied the remainder of the day, and the two men were pleased to ride into town before sunset. They saw only one two-storey building—Jackson’s Hotel, which offered stabling and accommodation. That became their destination.

‘You pay for the first night,’ said Clarkie, ‘I’ll see us fixed for the second.’

That sounded like a fair arrangement to Will, and he agreed, eager to enjoy the pleasures of town life for the first time in some years: the feeling of a hot bath after years of cold dams and rivers; a fresh shirt, trousers and underwear, purchased off the peg at the general store.

They ate in the dining room, then retired to the bar, which by that stage of the evening was lit by oil lamps, with a miasma of pipe smoke and the sight of glowing bowls moving through the dim light. It was still warm enough, and a steady breeze off the lake invited itself through the wide doors, bringing relief inside.

An attentive barman, wearing a three-piece suit and a bow tie, kept three barmaids busy, sending them out around the tables with trays of drinks, and bowls of salty treats.

‘Greetings,’ said Clarkie to the barman. ‘Me and me mate will be havin’ a few. Pour us two of your finest ales and put them on our room tab. Don’t be slow,’ he lowered his voice as if sharing a secret, ‘for we have a terrible thirst.’

The drinks came – pots of dark ale – brewed in the cellars of the hotel, fruity and hoppy and with a kick to boot. Will and Clarkie emptied the first in quick time, and ordered a second. Will was already feeling the stirring effect of alcohol on his psyche. He had not had too much opportunity for pub drinking since he left home – and most of the station bosses he had worked for kept dry camps. His experiences of alcohol were mostly tightly-rationed tots on the road. Tonight he had both the opportunity and mood for a blow-out, and he matched Clarkie sip for sip.

Clarkie, however, hadn’t forgotten their aim of finding gold. He said to the barman, ‘My business partner and I are interested in trying our hand for gold in the fields here. Is there anyone, of the non-partisan type, we could talk to about our prospects on the field?’

The barman said, ‘Cyril Lowe, one of the owners of the big mine, normally comes in about now for a gin. Grab yerselves a table, and I’ll send him over when he arrives.’

‘Sounds fair,’ said Clarkie. ‘Send a couple more ales too, an’ tumblers of rum for good measure.’

The two men retired to a table, and more drinks arrived. When those were gone, they ordered another round. By the time they were on their fourth beer, and second rum, Will had a smile fixed on his lips, and he was feeling friendly towards the world and everyone in it.  

A man walked in shortly afterwards. He had one of those figures, encased in a tightly buttoned waistcoat, where it was impossible to tell where his stomach ended and his chest began. The barman called out, ‘You fellows, this is Cyril Lowe. He probably knows more about the fields here than anyone else.’

Lowe turned around, and regarded Will and Clarkie with mild brown eyes. ‘Well, I’m not sure that’s true, but I’ve been here since not long after the fields started up. New chums to mining are you? Not new to the bush by the look of you though.’

‘Pleased to meet you sir,’ said Clarkie, leaping from his chair and seizing the man’s hand. ‘Will you have a drink with us? On our account of course.’

‘Well certainly, I’ll take a small gin.’

The barman retreated to his station, whistled to one of the barmaids who brought the gin and loitered, simpering, for a tip, which Will provided in the form of a penny.

‘My partner and I,’ said Clarkie, ‘are looking for an opportunity on the fields here. Would you be so kind as to give us an overview of the diggings and how we might get a piece of the action?’

Will, keen to show that they were not mugs, said, ‘Me partner has a patented machine for getting alluvial gold.’ This earned him a hard stare from Clarkie, and a finger raised to the lips.

‘Well,’ said the mine manager imperiously. ‘If you’re looking for alluvial you’ve come to the wrong place. There’s precious little here, on the surface, at least. A few of the shafts have found it at thirty feet, but that’s a long way to dig for the right to pan six or seven ounces to the ton.’

‘Is that so?’ asked Clarkie.

‘Yes. This field is auriferous – just two quartz reefs that wind through the hills. Every bit of it – every possible direction they might wander, has been pegged. It’s a small field, and just about everything about it was known in the first few weeks. There’s gold, absolutely, but only companies with capital are finding good quantities.’

The miner took a meerschaum pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket and extracted a good pinch, which he used to pack the bowl. Clarkie had a vesta out in a flash, striking it on the floor, holding the match for their informant.

‘You’d be better off heading for Forbes or Bathurst, or Sofala,’ said Lowe. ‘Come to think of it, I own a claim back on the Turon with good alluvial gold if you’re interested. Might consider selling it.’

‘Them fields was worked out twenty year ago,’ said Will.

‘Not all of it, not by a long shot, and more gold washes in out of the hills every time it rains – my claim hasn’t been touched since the early sixties. I’ve had some mates with a claim nearby shepherding the lease to keep things legal.’

‘If it’s so good, why aren’t you there?’

‘I’ve got my fingers in quite a few pies. But I’m more interested in running a mine than shaking a pan. Anyhow, I’m not even sure if I want to sell it or not, and no offence, but neither of youse look like you’re flush with cash.’

‘Oh, looks can be deceiving,’ said Clarkie, with a mysterious twinkle in his eye. ‘But anyway, the Turon’s two hundred miles away.’

‘That’s one of the reasons I want to sell. I’m making a tidy profit here, and I like it. My wife and I have a steady social life – a tennis club – sailing on the weekends.’

‘We seen the boats,’ said Will. ‘Which one is yours?’

‘The biggest,’ said Cyril simply. ‘Our local undertaker builds ‘em, when he’s not making coffins. Does a creditable job too.’

‘I’d love to go out for a sail,’ said Will, ‘if you’re goin’ sometime.’

‘If you lads are early risers I could take you out before I go to work in the morning – I’m pretty sure this westerly will puff all night and give us a breeze to work with. We could talk about the lease then, if you’ve a mind to.’

‘How much do you want for it?’ asked Clarkie.

‘A hundred quid – and if you don’t pull your money out in gold in the first month, I’ll be very surprised.’ He called to the barman for a sheet of paper and a pencil. Once these were furnished, he sketched the lease, showing how it combined two well-known gold traps: a bend and a rock bar. He drew four crosses, showing where the hotspots would be. ‘That’s where you’d start, and if you have a better way than pans and cradles – this patented machine of yours – you’ll only make it easier on yourself.’

‘Food for thought,’ said Clarkie. ‘Let’s go for that sail then. Bring the documents with you. If we decide to go ahead, we could wander down the bank afterwards and arrange the funds.’

Will was distracted by that stage. He’d heard some yelling outside on the verandah. One of the barmaids had, in order to help the drinkers to entertain themselves, produced a half a dozen rope quoits and a hob. The drinkers were lining up to try their luck. He hated missing a bit of sport, and had always fancied himself at the game. He stood up and drained his pot.

‘I’ve a mind to head out and try me luck wif them quoits,’ said Will. ‘But it were good to meet you, Mr Lowe, and thanks for taking us sailin’.’

‘I’m off home myself,’ said Lowe. ‘I only ever pop in for one gin. My wife can’t abide strong spirits in the house. Shall we meet at dawn, down by the jetty?’

‘Suits me,’ said Will.

‘And me,’ agreed Clarkie.

There were handshakes all round, and Cyril Lowe walked out the side door, away from the ruckus out the front.

‘Well come on,’ said Will. ‘Let’s get another drink and have some fun.’

Clarkie shook his head. ‘I might just head up to bed, if you don’t mind. But you enjoy yourself.’

Pot in hand, Will went outside, where the game was in full swing. Bets were changing hands and the air was filled with the smell of sweat, beer, and the rattle of quoits striking the hob.

‘Are you playin’ sweetheart?’ the barmaid yelled at Will, her cleavage wobbling as she collected the quoits in order to carry them back to the next participant.

‘My bloody oath I am,’ he cried, then joined the line and tipped half his ale down his throat in one go.

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© Greg Barron 2026

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