This website is designed, researched and written by Mark Matthews. It may alter with updated information and research as it comes to hand. This section is a work in progress...
"Ben Hall! Stockman, Squatter, Bushranger, from these personas, his character has remained an enigma. From a man held in high regard by all who knew him to a man through his own actions became one of the most hunted in colonial history, and who would ultimately die a violent and bloody death at the hands of his pursuers."- Mark Matthews.
This website aims to provide a comprehensive, chronological account of Australian bushranger Ben Hall's calamitous life. Gathered through the accounts of eyewitnesses, former gang members, government documents, as well as the reproduction of historical newspaper and N.S.W. Police Gazette records of Ben Hall and his associates' bushranging activities. (All related articles incorporated into the narrative are coloured and transcribed as originally published.)
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| "Hall is the only one of the three who cultivates any moustache or whiskers, and he is getting fat." |
The Sydney Morning Herald of the 1st January 1864 looked anxiously to the year ahead, warning that the political difficulties and financial contusions of the past twelve months had been compounded by the unchecked depredations of the bushrangers. It observed with alarm that the colony had grown dangerously accustomed to violence, as if pillage and bloodshed were the natural accompaniments of settlement. Unless firmly checked, it cautioned, the marauders would turn an exceptional outrage into the accepted condition of colonial life.
Those words proved prescient. For even as 1864 dawned, Ben Hall—already notorious across the disturbed districts—was about to rebuild his power. With a new swath of unsavory characters gathering around him, Hall prepared to renew the campaign of terror that had filled the colony with dismay.
We enter 1864 burdened by the political difficulties and financial contusions of the past year, and face the utter uncertainty of legislation yet to come. More pressing still, however, is the violence and spoliation of those men whose careers have filled the colony with dismay. Several have already gone to their account, leaving behind them only the miserable record of wasted lives and the prodigal squandering of their opportunities.
We have grown so familiar with their crimes that we are almost tempted to treat them as the ordinary and inevitable accompaniments of colonisation. Yet the contrast between our own colony and our neighbours is humiliating. The grand cause of these continued disorders lies in the timid or corrupt connivance of too large a section of the people. Crime has not been treated as a curse in itself; violent marauders are not considered detestable. Murder and pillage are excused as the rough excesses of “fine, manly fellows,” generous in their way, who spend recklessly what they have obtained with audacity.
This is the great rock ahead. No country can hope to be secure while men travel with dread in their hearts—fear for those they leave behind, and fear of insult and pillage along the road. If the bushrangers hold sway for another year, the mischief will deepen; what is now an exception will harden into a permanent condition.
It may not be amiss to remember that 1863 closed under the shadow of political, financial, and social confusion, each element strengthening and inflaming the other.1
And so, as 1863 faded and Christmas approached, Ben Hall’s young son Henry, then five years old, was sent to William Hall’s hut at the Pinnacle Range. Despite the continuing animosity between William, his wife Anne, and Henry’s mother Bridget, the boy remained there during the holiday season. Whether by demand or mutual agreement, the arrangement allowed Ben Hall to retreat from the bushranging field and spend rare, untroubled time with his son. (Henry’s own recollections of his father were never recorded.)
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| Earn presented to Mrs Campbell for Bravery. |
Following the testimony to their bravery, public admiration for the Campbells did not rest with words alone. In recognition of Mrs. Campbell’s steadfast courage—standing shoulder to shoulder with her husband against the bushrangers’ onslaught—a local jeweller crafted a fine coffee urn, presented as a mark of respect. It was more than a household ornament; it stood as a symbol of the colony’s gratitude, and of the belief that ordinary settlers, when resolute, could confront and overcome the menace of outlawry.
Yet such honours did little to dispel the deeper anxiety of the time. For every tale of resistance and triumph, there remained the uneasy truth that men like Ben Hall were still abroad, gathering strength for fresh depredations. (See right.)
Despite his reputation for cruelty and vindictiveness, it was generally acknowledged that Morgan did not mistreat women. The report of his involvement in the attack on a lady, therefore, was met with scepticism. Many suspected exaggeration, or that the true assailant remained undisclosed—perhaps to shield the woman’s honour. Still, Morgan’s notorious career left little room for doubt in the public mind. On January 10th, 1864, the New South Wales Government placed a reward of £500 upon his capture, underscoring the growing urgency to rid the colony of so violent a scourge.
Amid this rising anxiety, speculation flourished in the country press of a potential alliance between Morgan and the bushrangers of the Lachlan—Hall and Gilbert. Such rumours proved baseless; no evidence ever suggested that the Riverina outlaw crossed paths with Hall’s circle. Yet the very notion of such a union—two fronts of terror combined—was enough to chill the public imagination.
Gilbert himself, more literate than many of his companions, kept well-informed of these rumours. He followed the newspaper columns eagerly, reading not only of his own exploits but also of the wider fraternity of crime across the colonies. In this way, the bushrangers themselves became both subjects and consumers of the news cycle that sustained their infamy.
During this interlude, Ben Hall took refuge at his brother’s place, while John Gilbert slipped from view. The pair parted ways, their partnership briefly dissolved. Following the earlier confrontation at Coffey’s at Burrowra, Gilbert vanished from the public eye altogether, and rumour placed him back in Victoria spending Christmas with his family. Whatever the truth of those whispers, Gilbert would not re-emerge until the opening months of 1864.
At the same time, the lingering shadow of the great Eugowra robbery of 1862 was brought again before the public. On January 9th, 1864, a memorandum from the Inspector General of Police exposed in clear terms the extent of the bushrangers’ gain. For the first time, monetary details were officially set forth, laying bare the magnitude of the haul that had emboldened Hall and his confederates and left so deep a wound on colonial confidence.
In the final reckoning, Gardiner, Fordyce, and Charters were cheated of their reward, their shares seized by Sanderson; Manns, too, was deprived, his portion recovered by the relentless pursuit of Sir Frederick Pottinger. Thus, of the original conspirators, only Bow, Gilbert, O’Meally, and Ben Hall managed to retain their part of the spoils. For all Frank Gardiner’s planning and audacity, he was left empty-handed—a bitter irony for the man hailed as the architect of the scheme.
As for Gilbert, his whereabouts during the opening weeks of 1864 remained a matter of speculation. Had he journeyed south to Victoria? Had a quarrel divided him from Hall? The truth was uncertain. What was plain was that the two were not seen together for some time. Gilbert’s lone figure was reportedly glimpsed in February at Burrowa, entering a local store to procure supplies. It was a fleeting sighting, but enough to remind the colony that one of the most dangerous outlaws was still abroad, biding his time until the bushranging scourge flared once more.
From all accounts, Gilbert lingered for a time at his former stockman’s home, Marengo, where he was held in good regard by the district’s folk—none more so than the young women, among whom he was a favoured figure.
Upon his separation from Ben Hall, conjecture ran rife. One tale, often repeated in the colony, claimed that the two bushrangers had quarrelled over a lady’s favour, the dispute ending in the grievous rumour that Hall himself had fired a fatal shot at Gilbert. Another version, equally popular in the telling, held that Gilbert’s own revolver had gone off by accident while he was indulging in a flourish of reckless display before his female admirers. Such stories, embroidered with every retelling, captivated the public imagination.
The truth, however—as so often in bushranging affairs—was more complex and far less sensational than rumour allowed. Gilbert had not rejoined Hall; his absence was genuine. Meanwhile, Hall pressed on alone, committing a string of daring robberies that left no doubt as to his continued audacity. The separation only deepened the colony’s intrigue, for every solitary act of Hall’s served to sharpen speculation as to when—and under what circumstances—his dangerous confederate might return.
Yet all these rumours bore the stamp of a canard, a convenient ruse no doubt encouraged by Gilbert’s local friends to turn police attention aside. Such tales of fatal quarrels and accidental shootings were more useful than true, distracting the authorities while Gilbert quietly kept to ground.
Meanwhile, Hall’s own movements betrayed the reality: he was acting alone. A series of bold robberies attributed solely to his hand confirmed that the two bushrangers had not yet reunited. In this way, the legend of their supposed estrangement continued to grow, while in truth it served as little more than a smokescreen for the outlaws’ designs.
Despite the absence of “Happy Jack,” a most curious tale surfaced half a century later, in 1913, drawn from the recollections of a venerable local of the Lachlan district. According to this account, Gilbert had neither perished nor quarrelled fatally with Hall, but rather succumbed to grievous illness. Far from travelling to Victoria, as rumour held, Gilbert was said to have sought refuge in one of the gang’s favoured haunts—the wild, desolate country about Bogan Gate, northwest of Forbes.
This lonely region, defined by vast reaches of bush and the rugged spines of Monumea Gap, the Nelungaloo Range, and the Jemalong or Garland Range, offered perfect concealment. Caverns and ridges abounded, while the mountainous spine stretched from the present Carawandool State Forest northward to Bogan Gate. Here the outlaws could vanish from pursuit, shielded by the very bones of the land.
The district also offered strategic advantage. Nearby stations—Bundaburrah, Billabong, and Carrawobbity—lay within reach, while Forbes itself and the notorious Dog and Duck Hotel were but a short ride away. The Dog and Duck, kept by Tom Higgins, a close confidant of Hall and the very man who had once tended his boyhood leg injury, became a crucial supply point. Higgins provided provisions and, more importantly, intelligence on the movements of the police. Thus the bushrangers, when pressed, could refresh their stores and, as whispers told, even lend their hand to local graziers in the herding of cattle, blending their outlawry with the rhythms of station life.
Yet, according to the old-timer’s reminiscence, the tale took a different turn. While Hall passed Christmas quietly at the Pinnacle with his young son, Gilbert rode north, some forty miles distant. There, stricken with typhoid fever, he was nursed back to health by a kindly drover named Botfield. In this telling, Gilbert’s disappearance from the record was no matter of quarrel or death, but of illness endured in the hidden corners of the bush—an episode that only deepened the aura of mystery which for so long clung to his name.
'The Forbes Advocate' Friday 28th February 1913:A BOTFIELD EPISODE. There is a little siding out on the Parkes to Bogan Gate railway line called Botfield, and when I was out that way a couple of weeks ago I little dreamt that the peaceful little railway siding was once the spot on which a great act of "man's humanity to man" was enacted. A drover named Botfield was taking a mob of sheep across that part of the country and coming to a creek that contained good water, he decided to camp to rest his mob. He camped on there for such a long time that people began to speak of it as Botfield's Creek. One day Gilbert, one of Ben Hall's gang, rode up to the camp, suffering from typhoid fever, and Mr and Mrs Botfield made a bunk under their wagon and nursed him right through his illness. The police often rode up making inquiries about the bushrangers and even went so far as to look under the wagon round which the tarpaulin was hung, but Botfield put them off by telling them that it was only a sick drover under there.
Yet Gilbert’s whereabouts in those weeks remained the subject of endless conjecture. While one venerable Lachlan source decades later insisted he had lingered about Bogan Gate, another trail of inquiry pointed northward. A correspondent, canvassing local testimony, was given to understand that Gilbert had indeed travelled further afield—into Queensland itself.
Such speculation was never confirmed. No firm evidence placed him there, but the very suggestion that he had crossed the colonial border only added to the mystery. Was it a deliberate attempt to throw off pursuit, a brief exile until the heat subsided, or merely another tale woven from rumour? Whatever the truth, Gilbert’s absence from Hall’s side in early 1864 fed the press with speculation and left the public imagination restless.
At length, the mystery surrounding Gilbert’s absence was dispelled by the outlaw himself. Late in 1864, Gilbert openly admitted that he had indeed gone north into Queensland. His own words silenced months of conjecture and rumour, confirming what correspondents and settlers had long suspected but could never prove. For a time, then, Gilbert had withdrawn from the Lachlan, leaving Hall to carry the burden of notoriety alone.
Empire 20th December 1864:
Gilbert has not the fresh, clear expression of countenance he used to have. His features are now much embrowned by the sun, and the skin in many places is peeling off. He, in the course of conversation, admitted that he had not long returned from Queensland, and that when there he was three times chased by the police; and furthermore, that on one of these three occasions, upon his horse knocking up, he jumped off and challenged his two pursuers to come on, whereupon they halted and jawed a bit, and then turned tail.
Sydney Mail 15 September 1937: A Centenarian Looks Back.
"I got through to Queensland. In
Queensland I came across a farmer living alone and he gave me a job
as a ploughman, and I thought I was all right.
"One
day we were in the field and a man came along and talked to my
master. The stranger looked at me and turned away as if he hadn't
seen me. Then the master said to me: 'We're going up to the house to
have a cup of tea. Coming along, Johnny?' I said: 'No, thanks. I'll
stop and look after the horses.'
I had my own opinions
about the man, so I waited till they got inside the hut and cut for
my life. I was nine days without food, and when I got to Pring's
station (twenty miles from Burrangong) I was in rags and my boots
just hanging to my feet; but I met my pal there and he soon supplied
me with clothes, horse, and food."
Hall’s brief reunion with his son ended abruptly on January 22nd, 1864. Bridget Hall, determined to reclaim young Henry, sought the intervention of the Forbes Court. In company with Jim Taylor, she issued a summons against William Hall for the unlawful detention of the boy. Yet the case never came before a magistrate. The quarrel was resolved outside the courtroom, and Henry was restored to his mother and Taylor.
For Ben Hall, the episode marked a bitter close to a rare interlude of domestic peace. His attempt to spend the holiday season in quiet company with his child collapsed under the weight of old enmities and strained relations. With his son taken from him once more, Hall was left adrift—his ties to family life slipping further beyond his reach, while the road back to outlawry opened wide before him.
By mid-January 1864, reports began to surface of Hall being sighted once more at Burrowa, one of his familiar haunts. He was said to be suffering from a fever, which accords with accounts that he had recently endured the lingering effects of a centipede bite.
Yet the Burrowa sighting may have owed more to personal than medical reasons. It was here, at Tangamaroo, that Susan Prior resided. In 1864, Susan was again with child—a son later named Alfred—raising a strong likelihood that Hall was the father, as his daughter Mary was scarcely a year old at the time. Thus, Hall’s presence in the district may well have been bound up with domestic ties rather than bushranging pursuits.
The reports of his indisposition only deepened the fog of rumour. At a time when Gilbert’s absence was fuelling tales of illness and retreat, it was in fact Hall himself who was unwell. In this way, the confusion of early 1864 blurred the lines between truth and conjecture, leaving the public uncertain as to which of the outlaws was stricken, and to what extent.
'The Sydney Morning Herald' Friday 5th February 1864:Before January 26th became officially recognised as Australia Day—marking the arrival of the First Fleet in 1788—it was known as Anniversary Day. It served as a commemoration of the colony’s foundation, a day to reflect on beginnings shaped by convicts, among them men and women like my own ancestors who arrived in 1822. Though they earned their freedom, they were forbidden ever to return to the “Old Dart.” Severed from their homeland, they built new lives in a harsh country and in so doing laid down the rough-hewn foundations of the nation to come.
Anniversary Day in 1864 was no exception to this spirit. Across the colonies towns staged celebrations in honour of perseverance and progress. Horse racing, that favoured sport of colonial festivity, drew large and spirited crowds, and Burrowa was alive with excitement. Lavish preparations were made, and townsfolk appeared in their finery to mark the occasion.
Yet not all eyes were fixed upon the races.
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| NSW Police Gazette Feb 1864. |
Ben Hall, calculating as ever, saw opportunity in the day’s gaiety. Knowing the roads would be crowded with revellers, he and an unidentified accomplice took up position along the approach to Burrowa. Their first encounter was with a party of young women in a buggy, dressed in Anniversary finery and accompanied by men on foot. A little further on they intercepted a traveller, one Mr. Dwyer, bound for the racecourse.
What had begun as a proud display of colonial achievement was thus shadowed by outlawry. In the Australian bush, even on a day of celebration, danger could ride close at hand—an unsettling reminder that progress and peril often moved together.
Still nursing the pain of his centipede bite and limping from discomfort, Ben Hall returned on February 13th, 1864, to a place once familiar and dear—his former station at Sandy Creek. Once the scene of domestic hopes, the property had long since passed from his hands, sold with John Maguire to John Wilson in September 1862 (see Ben Hall, Part I).
Hall rode into the homestead in search of Wilson. Their meeting was cordial enough. Hungry and in need of new horseshoes, Hall made his requests with an ease born of confidence. For several days he lingered about the property, making himself at home once more. On the last morning, as he sat down to breakfast, the quiet was suddenly broken by the frantic barking of dogs.
Moments later, Inspector Shadforth and a party of police descended on the station. With a composure bordering on the surreal, Hall rose from the table, stepped to the doorway, and, seeing his pursuers, calmly walked to his horse. He mounted within yards of the police, who opened fire. Hall returned their shots as he spurred through the rail gates o the cleared hill nearby watching the floundering troopers whose bravado soon evaporated. Shadforth, humiliated at the escape, turned his frustration upon John Wilson, charging him with harbouring.
Wilson was hauled first to Bogolong, then to Forbes, but the charge was ultimately dismissed. The law could prove nothing.
The most remarkable detail came only after the dust had settled. Station hand William Roebuck later recalled that, once the police had withdrawn with Wilson in tow, Hall returned as if nothing had occurred, sat himself once more at the table, and without fear stated, "they have taken my cook," and prepared a hearty breakfast. It was a display of cool audacity that would only add to the outlaw’s legend.
For Sub-Inspector Frederick Shadforth, the affair had serious consequences. By allowing Ben Hall to slip so brazenly through his fingers, he drew the ire of his superiors. The Government, unwilling to overlook so public a humiliation, acted swiftly. On the order of Colonial Secretary William Forster, Shadforth was suspended from duty pending a formal inquiry into his conduct.
The incident not only tarnished Shadforth’s reputation but also underscored the growing frustration of the authorities. Each escape by Hall seemed to mock the constabulary, feeding the impression that the bushrangers held the advantage in daring, mobility, and popular sympathy.
The inquiry into Shadforth’s conduct was set to be held at Forbes under the direction of Sir Frederick Pottinger. Yet, among those who observed the proceedings, there was a strong sense that the scrutiny reached far beyond the narrow matter of Ben Hall’s escape. As one contemporary commentator noted, the examination of Shadforth’s actions appeared less concerned with the practical business of pursuing bushrangers than with exposing the wider failings and factional disputes within the police force itself.
In this view, Shadforth’s lapse served as a convenient pretext—a symbol of inefficiency upon which the Government could fasten blame—while deeper questions of discipline, competence, and leadership in the constabulary went unaddressed. For Hall, it was another indirect triumph: the failure to capture him not only preserved his freedom, but sowed fresh discord among those sworn to bring him down.
We have seen, only the other day, Sir F. Pottinger holding an inquiry on Inspector Shadforth, for doing everything but trying to catch Hall; and they have been all alike in their results equally unsatisfactory. In none of them have the public ever known the truth. Every opportunity has been afforded for the suppression of disagreeable facts, for the hushing up of acknowledged delinquencies, for the crushing of the subordinate scapegoat, and, the escape of the powerful culprit.- Empire 4th April 1864.Now under suspension, and against the counsel of his fellow officers, Sub-Inspector Frederick Shadforth submitted his resignation. The Government, unwilling to prolong the embarrassment, accepted it at once. Thus ended his service in the colonial police, not through misadventure in the field, but under the shadow of censure.
The public reception was mixed. In some quarters, particularly among the settlers who had long despaired of police effectiveness, Shadforth’s removal was hailed as overdue proof that the Government would no longer tolerate incompetence. In others, sympathy was expressed for a man who, many believed, had been made a scapegoat for failures far greater than his own.
The colonial press reflected this division. Certain newspapers seized upon the case to criticise the constabulary as riddled with poor discipline and divided loyalties; others insisted that no force could hope to succeed while bushrangers enjoyed covert support from sections of the population. In either case, the lesson was clear: every escape by Hall and his ilk was not only a blow to law and order in the bush, but a wound to the very reputation of colonial authority.
By 1865, Shadforth had already fallen foul of the law himself, serving a month in prison at Gundagai for obtaining money under false pretences. The stain of that conviction followed him, and his fortunes continued to ebb. In 1873, his decline reached its nadir when he was sentenced to three years at Beechworth Gaol in Victoria for forgery.
Thus, the man who once rode at the head of a police party in pursuit of Ben Hall became undone not by bushrangers’ bullets, but by his own misjudgment.
Shadforth’s decline never truly reversed. After his release from Beechworth Gaol, he drifted once more through a succession of posts and petty employments, unable to regain the respectability he had lost. Eventually, he settled in Queensland, where his fortunes ebbed into obscurity.
In 1891, his troubled life met a sorrowful end. Alone and despondent, Shadforth cut his wrists and bled to death. For a man who had once worn the uniform of the New South Wales constabulary, his fall from grace was complete—a tragic footnote in the larger story of the bushranging wars, where not only outlaws but also their pursuers could be destroyed by the relentless pressures of the age.
The once-prosperous squatter, Ben Hall, now wandered through the familiar landscapes of his earlier life, though under far different circumstances. No longer a grazier but a carrier of fear, he was often seen alone, separated from Gilbert, and compelled to recruit fresh companions from among local sympathisers. Who these men were—beyond the presence of newcomer John Mount—remains uncertain, the secrecy of the bush world guarding their names from record.
The pressure from law enforcement was mounting. Patrols were more frequent, rewards more widely posted, and settlers more wary of harbouring the notorious fugitive. To sustain himself, Hall was forced to widen his net. By the end of March 1864 he had ventured south of Cootamundra, moving into the Berthong district, where the traffic of wealthy officials and gold buyers promised rich returns as they recovered debt and gold from the adjacent goldfields of Young and attended local country horse races.
But word of Hall’s presence travelled swiftly. Almost as soon as he appeared, reports reached the authorities, who lost no time in organising a pursuit. Yet, as so often before, Hall’s intimate knowledge of the scrub, his horsemanship, and the tacit support of scattered sympathisers allowed him to vanish before the net could be drawn tight. The chase ended in failure, leaving police frustrated and the bushranger’s reputation for elusiveness burnished yet again.
Sydney Mail, April 2nd 1864:Ben Hall again,— The Wagga Wagga Express of 26th March, says information was received in town on Sunday evening, that the mail had been stuck up between Bathungra and Cootamundry the previous night, it was believed by Ben Hall (although at Cootamundry itself the supposition is otherwise). From what we hear he (being alone and armed with a rifle and two revolvers stuck-up the mailman and detained him for some short time, and subsequently Mr. Hurley, of Cootamundry; but taking nothing from either of them, and letting them soon depart unmolested.
He stated in the course of conversation with them, that he intended to stop Messrs. Clarke Gold Commissioner), Macarthur, and Copeland, of Lambing Flat (who were here at the races) and take their horses. lt may be remembered that Mr. Clarke's horse, Foxhunter, was once before in the possession of the bushrangers for some time, being recovered by the police. He also spoke of his engagement with sub-inspector Shadforth, and said the latter was not at all to blame, for he had behaved well, and did his best to take him.
Two police parties in disguise were patrolling the roads at this time, having been placed on such duty during the races. One party heard of the sticking up near Bethungra, and immediately started in pursuit, getting on the tracks of two horses by the moonlight, and following them up towards Cootamundry, losing them within about three or four miles of that place, the tracks being lost In the bush.
This party informed the Cootamundry men, who then also started in pursuit, beating round the Levels and Cummings' (Ben Hall's old country), but without avail, hearing nothing of him. The second patrolling party meeting with the first, near Bethungra, the two started again on Monday, beating all about, and making every enquiry but still unfortunately with no result, hearing nothing of him.
It is now believed that he must at once have made back to his own part of the country, learning from various sources of information of the numbers of police then patrolling the road in disguise; it having been otherwise his declared intention of sticking up everybody he came across on the road.
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| James 'The Old Man' Mount |
Gilbert’s absence remained an enigma, but Hall, now joined by James Mount/Gordon Aka 'the old man', pressed on undeterred. Together they embarked upon a fresh spree of robberies, haunting the district around Bethungra, a locality already well acquainted with their depredations. From there the pair rode north once more, ranging from Marengo to Burrowa, their confidence swelling with each success. They took whatever caught their fancy—watches, horses, saddles, bridles, clothing, and, above all, money. Each theft was a reminder that the bushrangers could strike at will, mocking both property and authority.
The local “traps” remained perpetually a step behind. Though mounted parties were dispatched in haste, their quarry always slipped away. Time and again police arrived at the scene of a robbery only to find the culprits gone, leaving behind a trail of indignant victims and humiliated lawmen. With every escape, Hall and Mount’s notoriety grew, their legend strengthened by the very inability of the constabulary to lay hands upon them.
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| Frederick Chisholm |
Among the townsfolk, whispers persisted that the local traps were half-hearted in their pursuit of Hall and Mount. Some said it was indifference; others insisted it was fear—that the bushrangers’ growing reputation had struck dread even into the hearts of mounted troopers. Whether cowardice or simple incompetence, the effect was indistinguishable.
Hall and Mount, unchecked, carried on their spree. With every raid their audacity deepened. They struck where they pleased, stripped travellers of horses and valuables, and vanished again into the scrub. Each unpunished outrage chipped away at public confidence in the law, while the bushrangers themselves seemed only to grow more untouchable, feeding on both the fear and the fascination they inspired.
ROBBERY BY BEN HALL: - Intelligence is to hand that on Friday last Ben Hall went to Mr F Chisholm's station, Grogan, in the Binalong district, and finding the owner alone proceeded to tie him up. He threatened him with further punishment for riding about the country with bad characters— meaning the police. He then went outside, and securing two of the servants; took the race-horse Troubadour, two other horses, and some trifling articles, and went away.— Goulburn Herald and Chronicle.
The Burrangong Times says: — On the evening of Friday last the celebrated Ben Hall unceremoniously introduced himself to the presence of Mr. Chisholm in that gentleman's residence, at Bland, and, after enquiring for the master of the house, was told that he was addressing him. No sooner was this said than Hall presented two revolvers at Mr. Chisholm's head, and demanded of a female who was present to bring him some coat straps. These being furnished, Hall put one of the revolvers in his belt, in which four more were fixed and with the unoccupied hand bound Mr Chisholm's hands behind his back. He then demanded the key of the store, which was complied with. From the store he filled up three-bushel bags with clothing, bridles, &c., and took from Mr Chisholm his gold watch and chain, valued at £11. Hall then addressed himself to Mr. Chisholm thus : — "Now, Sir, I want your race-horse Troubadour." Mr. Chisholm begged of him to take anything he liked, but to leave him his horse, remarking that having left him so long unmolested, he thought that he (Hall) would not have troubled him now. "Damn you," Hall replied, "you ought not to have been so flash, assisting to escort the horse Union Jack to the Wagga Wagga races. I was watching you from the ridges while I was lying in wait for Commissioner Clarke and Tom Coupland."
Troubadour was then brought from the stable, Mr Chisholm's new saddle and bridle was put on him, and the two crammed bags of plunder were strapped on. On proceeding out of the yard, Troubadour, not relishing the humiliation of being converted into a packhorse, commenced bucking, and quickly relieved himself of his freight. Other horses were then brought into requisition, which were, along with Troubadour, led away. Hall only appeared in the robbery, but, by the signals he at times gave, it was evident he was not alone, and had several accomplices at hand. Mr Chisholm rode to Young next morning and laid an information to the police, who went in search after Hall. Mr. Chisholm has had information since that Troubadour has been set adrift near M'Kay's station, at Mimagong.
The following is a somewhat more circumstantial account of the same event from the Young Daily Tribune of the 6th instant. That Journal says :— On Friday, the 1st instant, Ben Hall paid a visit to Groggan station, Bland Plains, 30 miles from Young, the property of Mr. Frederick Chisholm — a gentleman well known in this district It appears that Hall had a great longing to become possessed of 'Union Jack,' the celebrated race-horse, who ran third in the Champion Race at Wagga Wagga; but the horse being closely escorted by some troopers from Junee he was disappointed. Mr Chisholm came part of the way with the police escort, which annoyed Hall and Co. ; and, to be revenged for their not obtaining ' Union Jack,' they honoured Mr. Chisholm with their company between seven and eight o'clock on the above evening. In the house, besides Mr. C, were a man and a boy, who are in his service, a traveller stopping for the night, and Mr. Peter Woods, a neighbouring squatter, who was in bed at the time, and whom they did not molest in any way.
Hall came into the house by himself, and, after bidding good evening, proceeded to tie everyone up, with their hands behind their back, civilly saying, 'he came for the race-horse Troubadour, and have him he would.' Mr. Chisholm asked, "What he wanted with the horse after having left him alone so long? Hall replied, "That he (Mr C.) was too bloody flash coming from Wagga Wagga; if lie had returned home by himself he would not have interfered with him but, if he chose to keep company with troopers, he must be taught better manners." Hall then untied and marched them all before him to the stable where the horse was, which he took out, brought back to the house, and put a bridle and saddle on. He then filled two three-bushel bags with property from. Mr. Chisholm's station store, consisting of clothing of various kinds, tobacco, saddles and bridles, and quietly asked for Mr Chisholm's gold watch and chain, which cost twenty-five guineas. These having been handed to him, he coolly pocketed, remarking that the watch looked a good one. He also took two other horses — a chestnut and a bay; and, having secured his booty safely on the horses, he kindly wished them all good evening, saving — "I dare say you are not sorry I am going." Hall did not disguise himself in any way, but appeared quite cool and jolly. Mr Chisholm did not know Hall personally ; but some of his men did, and enlightened their master as to the character of his disagreeable visitor. Mr. Chisholm estimates his loss at about £270. It is supposed that Hall's companions waited a short distance for him, and aided him to carry off the plunder; although none of them but Hall was seen. Such are the particulars, as far as we can at present learn, of the outrage, alike disgraceful to our civilisation and Government. It is reported that 'Troubadour' has been turned loose by the bushrangers ; but we doubt the truth of it. The bay draught horse which was stolen has been recovered, having been picked up on the station by a stock-keeper.
The Yass Courier Saturday 16th Apr 1864:
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| Percy Scarr |
The Goulburn Herald and Chronicle Saturday 16th April 1864: - BEN HALL IN OUR MIDST:- On Monday about one o'clock p.m., Ben Hall and another stuck up Messrs. Percy and Richard Scarr, on the Marengo road, and after making them dismount, Hall took possession of their horses, saddles and bridles. Both horses were valuable, especially one for which £50 was given lately, which is a fine, showy beast, having
formerly been a racer.
It appears Hall was on his way to Broughtonsworth for this horse, when, it is supposed, by the intervention of a bush telegraph, he had his wish gratified with less trouble. Hall commented to Mr. Scarr and swears that his new gang shall be the best mounted rangers that over "took the bush for it."
Mr. Percy Scarr's, which is a fine, showy beast, having formerly been a racer. This highway robbery took place not far from where Mr. Scarr was stuck-up before, and very near to the spot where the unfortunate mail man, Crotty, was shot dead. The Marengo police are now in pursuit.
Leaving the Scarrs fifty pounds poorer, Hall, accompanied by Gordon, rode on with the intention of recovering a horse from a neighbouring station once connected to his own. Along the way he was intercepted by a bush-telegraph, who brought news certain to stir his temper: Michael Sheedy, discoverer of the Lambing Flat goldfield, was presently at his public house at Back Creek.
Hall still smarted from his earlier encounter with Sheedy, as well as from the failed attempt to seize the prized racehorse Black Diamond. Fuelled by this resentment, he resolved to make Sheedy pay. Spurring his horse toward Back Creek, Hall arrived at the inn determined to exact retribution.
Late on the evening of the same day, the inmates of Mr Sheedy's public-house, Back Creek, were alarmed by Hall and his companion entering and bailing them up in the usual way. Hall's mate-an elderly man aged about fifty, kept them in a corner, while Hall went and searched for Sheedy, on whom he says he will have revenge, on account of having reported his having been stuck up while returning from Burrowa races. For this and to get possession of, Mr. Sheedy's race-horse, Black Diamond. Hall stated that this was the object of his visit. However, Hall ransacked the place, took possession of the bar, and became landlord pro. tem,, serving out nobblers ad libitum, and gratis. He then ordered supper, of which he and his coadjutor heartily partook. They then left, and went and stick-up another store. He is supposed to be now in the bush near Marengo. The bush telegraphs render him almost safe, among whom he distributes money most profusely. Fortunately Mr. Sheedy was from home, and Diamond removed to a distance. It is pretty well known that Hall and his accomplice rode through the township of Young at an early hour next morning. - Burrangong Times.
Leaving Sheedy’s hotel in high spirits, Hall and his accomplice scarcely considered that word of their antics had already reached the authorities. News travelled swiftly, and Sub-Inspector Singleton, apprised of the outrage, immediately set out in pursuit with a party of mounted troopers.
The chase, however, was true to form. Hall and his mate had already vanished into the scrub, their movements shielded by the ever-watchful “bush telegraphs” who relayed warnings at every turn. Singleton’s men pressed hard along the tracks leading toward Marengo, but their quarry always seemed a step ahead. By the time the police arrived at likely haunts, they found nothing but the lingering traces of fresh horse prints and the exasperated testimony of recently robbed settlers.
Immediately on the Marengo police being informed of the robbery, they started in pursuit and dispatched information to Young. Mr. sub-inspector Singleton took prompt measures to intercept the ruffians. He started a party of police and a black tracker for the "Black Ranges" and Currawang. On the at arrival at Sheedy's inn, at Back Creek, they found that Hall and his mate had been there, and give their horses a feed of oats, and left in the direction of Wombat. The police then followed on their track, but to a late hour on Wednesday evening they had not returned. It appears that Hall wanted to obtain Mr. Sheedy's well-known race horse Black Diamond, but was disappointed. The ruffian who aided Hall was a tall, elderly man, clean shaved, and dressed in breeches and boots. A second party was like wise dispatched to Wombat by sub-inspector Singleton.- SMH 18th April.By April 17th, 1864, Ben Hall had eclipsed all rivals to become the Central West’s most notorious figure. For six consecutive days, the district’s police scoured the scrub in desperate pursuit, yet every effort proved fruitless. The urgency was keenly felt: unless Hall was brought to heel, the people of the Lachlan and beyond would have to endure the grim certainty that the bushranging era was not waning but renewing itself, with Hall firmly at the helm.
It was at this juncture that a correspondent for the Yass Courier filed a vivid local report, swiftly reprinted in newspapers across the colony. The article spoke of Hall’s recent depredations and the troubling signs that he was stringing together a new band of confederates. His exploits were no longer those of a solitary rider or a fleeting partnership with James Mount, but of a leader once again weaving the threads of a gang that could rival the terror once wielded with Gilbert and O’Meally.
BUSHRANGING.- For these last six days nearly all this district's police have been scouring the bush in search of Hall; but it is unnecessary to comment upon the result. Suffice it to say that if Master Benjamin is not taken within a month, the public in general, and of this district in particular, may make up their minds to have the whole bushranging programme of these last two years re-performed under a different leader, i.e., Ben Hall captain--vice Mr. John Gilbert, retired, and Francis Gardiner, Esq., "twitched." For a gentleman from the Levels this day told me that Hall and his exploits--more particularly his apparent contempt of, and escape from, the police-are sources of almost endless conversation and ill-concealed delight to far too many of that numerous corps of youthful and agile stock riders which inhabit the extensive plains of Bland.
My respected informant also stated that he knew for a fact that Hall was rapidly re-organising another gang-some of the neophytes to which could not sufficiently screw their courage up to take an active part in his late attack on the Grogan station; so their experienced commander (making every allowance for the novelty of their position) considerately allowed them to act as scouts. It is probable, upon their next raid, that he will induce them to "cross the Rubicon." If so, the honest settlers around may anticipate, during the ensuing winter, a succession of sports more animated than agreeable.
Undoubtedly our district's and the Forbes police are to blame for this, as this "hydra-headed" state of things would never exist were not their captures so miserably few and far between that before one gang is exterminated another is ready to take its place.
Had Shadforth's party arrested Hall at Sandy Creek station (Wilson's), as they ought to have done, they would not only have had the profit of £1000, but they would also have had the honor of crushing out the fag end of Gardiner's gang. But the lame and semi-bootless robber makes a dash at the thoroughly armed police, runs the gauntlet, escapes, and so becomes the germ of another ruffian band, which, if report speaks truly, is now in the saddle, ready, if not impatient, for action. I'm informed that the plunder taken from Mr. Frederick Chisholm's by Hall, on the 1st instant, is considerably more than at first supposed. However, it may be a source of feeble gratification to that gentleman and the public to know that our gallant police still hold, with regard to Ben Hall, the same proud position that they have hold for these last two years, i.e., they are after him! There was a rumour afloat that the stolen racer, Chisholm's Troubadour, was recovered by the police: it is not true. The horse has not since been heard of. - Marengo correspondent of 'Yass Courier.
Amid the rising panic of April, the police, straining for a capture, pounced upon a man camped along the banks of the Murrumbidgee River. Convinced they had at last run down Ben Hall, they surrounded him and hauled the stranger into custody. In truth, their supposed prize was in a pitiable state—ragged, gaunt, and far removed from the figure of the notorious bushranger.
Dragged into Young and lodged in the lockup, the unfortunate fellow was soon identified not as Hall but as a man named Lame. His dilapidated appearance bore little resemblance to the outlaw they so desperately sought. The blunder only heightened public amusement and further undermined confidence in the constabulary, whose eagerness to seize any shadow of Hall seemed now to border on farce.
Wrong Apprehension. — Not Ben Hall. — With the usual acuteness which characterises the majority of the police of this colony, an elderly man, Lame, and very much dilapidated in his garments, was apprehended on the Murrumbidgee River and escorted to Young as the notorious Ben Hall. On his arrival there on Saturday he was immediately liberated, his personnel agreeing in no one particular with that of the celebrated bushranger. The old man's hair and beard were fair, while those of Hall are very dark. There appears to be something not only stupid but heartless in dragging an old man such a distance without the remotest possibility of his turning out to be the real "Simon Pure."
John Gilbert had yet to reappear at Hall’s side, his whereabouts known to none—save, perhaps, Ben Hall himself. Frank Gardiner, who once dominated the Lachlan like a spectre before vanishing into the scrub of Queensland with Catherine Brown in late 1862, had at last been captured in Queensland. With Gardiner removed, it was Hall who steadily rose to fill the void, his influence among the colony’s restless youth becoming undeniable. If his capture were not soon effected, many feared, a new generation of bushrangers would rise in his wake.
Rumour kept pace with fact. Tales of Hall’s exploits—his brazen contempt for authority, his uncanny gift for eluding pursuit—spread with wildfire intensity across the districts. One gentleman from the Levels (the Bland Plains) remarked that Hall’s escapades were the constant talk of Forbes. His repeated escapes at the very moment of seeming capture were both a humiliation for the police and a source of admiration for the young stockmen who may have considered throwing their hand into bushranging and the easy pickings rode the Lachlan and Bland. To them, Hall was more than a thief: he was a man who embodied freedom, courage, and resistance to authority. Although his true motivation was lesser known.
Thus did myth gather around the outlaw’s name. To some he was a villain; to others, a captain of bushrangers. With each passing week, his legend grew, reinforced as much by gossip and print as by pistol and raid. By late April, the newspapers acknowledged this disturbing ascendancy. As one report of April 23rd, 1864, noted:
Those new to his gang were a lad Hall had known since his childhood and whose family kept Hall appraised of the police movements from their station call Tinpot. He was James Dunleavy along with an old hand and longtime goal confinee on ticket of leave, The Old Man James Mount/Tom Gordon from the Cowra district. However, by the end of 1863 Ben Hall’s gang had been reduced and unsettled. O’Meally was dead, Vane had surrendered, Hall had lately been moving with lesser-known companions. Yet any hope that Hall’s career was declining was soon dispelled. Early in June it was reported that Johnny Gilbert had again appeared on the road, and the news was quickly confirmed by events.
Johnny Gilbert’s Reappearance at Bang However, during the early months of 1864, Johnny Gilbert was more rumour than presence. Hall was again upon the roads, but Gilbert was not consistently seen beside him. Newspapers and correspondents speculated about his whereabouts, and after Gardiner’s arrest in Queensland the question became sharper: where was Gardiner’s former lieutenant? One Marengo correspondent, after making enquiries among those said to know Gilbert’s movements, could offer no certainty, only a vague indication that the young bushranger had gone “northward.” It was precisely the sort of half-knowledge on which bushranging rumour thrived.
There was, however, later support for the Queensland story. In December 1864, while Hall, Gilbert were again active near Young, a captive reported that Gilbert admitted he had not long returned from Queensland. Gilbert claimed that while there he had been chased by police three times, and that on one occasion, when his horse failed, he dismounted and challenged his pursuers to come on. The story has the ring of Gilbert’s own bravado: not impossible, but plainly told in the swaggering manner of a man performing his reputation before prisoners.
The difficulty is that this admission does not prove every detail of his absence. It confirms that Gilbert himself wanted it known he had been in Queensland, but it does not supply dates, places, witnesses, or official confirmation. Later summaries have sometimes placed him in Victoria instead, and it is possible that his movements included more than one colony, or that different rumours attached themselves to different parts of the same absence. Queensland also had a particular imaginative force at the time: Gardiner had fled there, had lived for a period near Rockhampton, and had only recently been captured. To say Gilbert had also gone north was therefore both plausible and dramatic.
What can be said with confidence is that Gilbert was not publicly and securely restored to Hall’s side until the Bang Bang affair in late May 1864. The report of that encounter was explicit: “Ben Hall’s Gang at Bang Bang — Re-appearance of Gilbert.” There, at last, the uncertainty gave way to action. Hall, Gilbert and the older man attempted to seize valuable racehorses on the Burrangong road, only to meet armed constables and be driven off after a sharp exchange of shots. Whether Gilbert had spent his separation in Queensland, Victoria, or moving between both, Bang Bang marked his unmistakable return to the road.
Therefore, after some months of uncertainty concerning his movements, Johnny Gilbert again showed himself upon the road. His return was not a rumour whispered through the diggings, but a public act of violence, carried out in company with Ben Hall and the older bushranger then known simply as “the old man.” The place was Bang Bang, near Koorawatha, upon the road to the Burrangong races.
The object of the attack was not ordinary plunder. The bushrangers had their eyes upon valuable racehorses being taken toward the Burrangong meeting. These included Alec Wilson’s Dick Turpin and Jemmy Martin, Mr Skillicorn’s Duke of Athol, and Harry Croft’s Hollyhock and Bergamot. They were first-class horses, precisely the kind of mounts Hall’s gang prized. A good horse could mean the difference between capture and escape, and the bushrangers understood the value of blood stock better than most.
Shortly after five o’clock in the afternoon, Mr Ayliffe and several others were sitting beneath the verandah of the Bang Bang hotel when three splendidly mounted men rode down upon them. The strangers were armed with revolvers and carbines. They ordered the party to throw up their hands, and the command was obeyed. Ben Hall, already known to some of those present, remained near the hotel and held the household, bystanders, and others about the premises under guard. In all, about twenty people were bailed up.
Gilbert and the older man then moved toward the gate leading into the yard and stables. There, by chance, stood two mounted constables: Senior Constables Scott and Macnamara. They were on special duty, not in uniform, and their own horses were feeding unbridled. The constables had come from Bathurst by way of Carcoar, Canowindra and Cowra, and, having no further orders, had decided to escort the racehorses a short distance along the road.
The bushrangers evidently had not expected armed resistance. Gilbert and his companion came to the gate, one presenting a carbine and the other a revolver, and ordered the police to leave the horses. When Scott and Macnamara did not immediately comply, the order was repeated more threateningly. The troopers reached for their revolvers. Gilbert, seeing the movement, threatened to shoot them and fired first.
Three shots cracked out from Gilbert’s weapon, but none took effect. The constables returned fire with their revolvers. The range was about thirty yards. Though outgunned by men carrying carbines as well as pistols, Scott and Macnamara advanced rather than gave ground. Hall and the older man began to fall back, while Gilbert maintained a cross-fire from near the fence.
When the police reached the fence, Gilbert drew back and joined his companion. Macnamara held these two in check at the gateway, while Scott pursued Ben Hall up the road. Hall fired repeatedly as he retreated, resting his revolver against his thigh between shots. Scott answered more deliberately, taking aim from his left arm. One of Scott’s shots came close enough to knock Hall’s hat from his head. Hall clutched at his head and swore, giving the impression that the shot had either grazed him or passed dangerously near.
Hall succeeded in getting out of range, and Scott returned toward the hotel. The fight was not yet finished. The older bushranger, with Gilbert still hovering nearby, dismounted behind a fence some hundreds of yards away and fired coolly at Scott with a carbine. The ball struck the ground near the constable and ricocheted into the public house, but caused no injury. After one more shot the bushrangers withdrew altogether.
The exchange had been sharp and dangerous. The bushrangers fired between twenty-five and thirty shots; the constables, conserving their ammunition, fired only nine. Hall called out as he left that they would return, and the police believed the threat. The doors of the hotel were barricaded, an old double-barrelled gun was loaded with slugs, and a message was sent to Cowra for assistance. A watch was kept until midnight, when Sir Frederick Pottinger arrived with four troopers.
At daylight, Scott and Macnamara resumed their duty and escorted the racehorses safely to Young, arriving about five in the evening. Pottinger searched the surrounding bush but found no trace of Hall, Gilbert or their companion.
The affair was a failure for the bushrangers, but historically it was important. Gilbert’s presence was unmistakable. The newspapers described him as youthful and foppish in appearance, but his conduct at Bang Bang showed the same audacity that had made him notorious under Gardiner and then Hall. He had rejoined the road, well mounted, well armed, and willing to exchange fire with police at close range.
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| Old Bang Bang hotel c. 1920 |
The affair at Bang Bang, near Koorawatha and the Burrangong road, marked Gilbert’s re-entry into Hall’s operations. Hall, Gilbert, and another accomplice attempted to secure valuable racehorses, apparently believing the police would be occupied elsewhere. Instead, they encountered mounted constables. Shots were exchanged, Hall narrowly escaped, and the bushrangers were forced to retire without the prize they had sought. The failure mattered less than the fact itself: Gilbert, Gardiner’s former lieutenant and Hall’s most daring associate, had returned.
Note: Daniel Ryan who was longtime friend of John Dunn prior to Dunn breaking out into bushranging with Ben Hall and John Gilbert was probably about Hall’s orbit immediately after Bang Bang, and may have been confused with Gilbert in some subsequent reports; but the primary Bang Bang account itself presents the attackers as Hall, Gilbert, and the Old Man/Gordon. Ryan’s presence at the actual gunfight remains unproven.
Daniel Morgan June 1864
While Ben Hall, Johnny Gilbert, and their associates were reviving their operations in the central-western and southern districts late 1864, Daniel Morgan was conducting a separate but equally alarming campaign farther south in the Riverina and border country. Newspaper coverage of 25 June 1864 reported that Mr McLean, shot by Morgan at Round Hill Station, belonging to Mr. Henty, about forty miles from Albury had died, and that the Mayor of Albury with several volunteers had joined the police in pursuit. Superintendent McLerie, arriving only minutes after Morgan had left the station, immediately took up the chase, though without success.
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| 'Mad Dog' Morgan |
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| Sgt McGinnity, shot by Morgan |
Meanwhile, from that point the depredations resumed in a steadier pattern. On 13 June, the house of Mr D. C. Clement near Billibong was robbed of firearms and other property. The taking of guns was not incidental; arms were the working capital of the bushranger.
After several months’ absence, Ben Hall and his associates reappeared in the Canowindra district and resumed their depredations with calculated boldness. Their first target was the store of Messrs Pearce and Hillier, where they bailed up John Pearce, searched the premises for money, and, finding only £3, vented their frustration by mistreating him, burning the store ledgers, and carrying off valuable property. Pearce was then marched several miles into the bush, tied securely to a tree, and left there for hours before he could free himself. Hall sought a ransom putting Pearce in bodily fear with a view to extort £300 as a ransom. Hall ultimately failed to seek the money.
The attack was especially damaging because the same stores had already suffered repeated robberies at the hands of Hall, Gilbert, and their gang the previous winter. The proprietors, though conducting a good trade, were reportedly considering abandoning the premises altogether—a stark measure of the economic and psychological toll bushranging inflicted on isolated communities.
The outrage was made more galling by the proximity of the police barracks, only about 250 yards away across the Belubula River. The troopers stationed there heard nothing until the robbery was long over. At about eight o’clock the following evening, Ben Hall and his companions approached Mr Rothery’s residence, apparently intending to force their way into the house. Inside were the family, but Rothery was prepared to resist, and the bushrangers, unwilling to risk a confrontation, abandoned the attempt. Instead, they turned their violence upon his property: taking four horses, setting fire to a stack of hay, and burning both it and a large shed to ashes. Police left Carcoar that night in pursuit, but, as so often in Hall’s career, the gang vanished before they could be overtaken.
The episode is telling because it shows both sides of Hall’s bushranging: the boldness to menace a household, but also the caution to withdraw when met with firm resistance. The burning of the haystack and shed gave the raid a vindictive character, transforming a failed house invasion into an act of intimidation and rural destruction.
The final complaint was pointed to the remoteness of life in the outlying districts: without telegraphic communication, police response depended on mounted messengers, leaving districts like Canowindra dangerously exposed. Superintendent Liddiard himself only learned of Hall’s renewed activity upon reaching Carcoar, and even then could issue instructions only by sending a man on horseback. That alone highlights that captures not merely another bushranging raids, but the wider failure of distance, communication, and police mobility that allowed Hall’s gang to humiliate authority and terrorise rural settlers.
These actions supplied the gang while reminding storekeepers, settlers, and travellers that ordinary business could be overturned at the pleasure of armed men.
The winter country did not favour pursuit. Heavy rains made roads and creeks difficult, and the bushrangers used distance, weather, and local knowledge to their advantage. On 13 July, Mr Grant’s station on the Belubula River was visited and a horse taken. By August, further offences were reported around Wheogo, Hall’s old district, including the theft of horses and saddlery and an exchange of fire with pursuing police. The pattern was plain: the gang lived by movement. They required fresh horses, saddles, firearms, food, and information, and they obtained them from exposed houses, roadside stores, and isolated runs.
For a time rumours circulated that the gang had scattered. Such reports were understandable, for Hall and Gilbert often vanished after a burst of activity, leaving police and newspapers to guess whether they had crossed into another district or merely lain quiet in friendly country.Consenses seemed possible that Hall’s gang had broken apart. The newspapers heard little with certainty, and in the absence of fact rumours multiplied. Gilbert was even reported to have drowned in the Barwon. Hall, too, seemed to have slipped from view, and some correspondents believed the gang had scattered after its run of failures and narrow escapes.
This was why the press wrote of food, shelter, and even “munitions of war.” Hall’s gang was repeatedly well mounted and well armed. Their cartouche-boxes did not fill themselves. Some weapons and ammunition were stolen outright, including from police and travellers; some were taken during robberies; but reports increasingly suspected that supplies also came through friendly hands. The anxiety was not merely that Hall had pistols and carbines, but that he had access to a countryside able to replenish him. A long-time friend and the man who mended Hall’s broken leg as a youth, Tom Higgins, who owned the Dog and Duck Hotel, and Forbes, was well known to harbour Hall.
His companions were less secure. The “Old Man” quarrelled with Hall and left him, only to be quickly taken once he no longer enjoyed the protection of Hall’s orbit. Young Dunleavy also dropped out, reportedly because his wounded bridle-hand was still too swollen for active service. For a moment Hall appeared almost alone. But the same reports warned that recruits were easily found among the young roughs of the district, and before long John Dunn had taken his place beside him.
When Hall, Gilbert and Dunn reappeared in October, the rumours were answered. Gilbert himself told Frederick Chisholm that he had merely been “lying by for a time,” but was now coming out again. The phrase is revealing. The gang’s silence had not meant surrender. It had meant concealment, recovery and reorganisation. By the time they stopped the Yass mail near Gunning, Hall had passed from temporary retreat into the most dangerous phase of his career.
Furthermore a new and dangerous element had joined Hall: John Dunn, young, reckless, and well suited to the violent company he had chosen.
Therefore, by late 1864, the two of Ben Hall’s lesser but significant associates had disappeared from the road. James Mount, alias Gordon, better known as “the Old Man,” was captured in October after a pursuit that carried police from the Forbes country towards the Murrumbidgee. Newspaper recollection has him tracked down by Sgt Sanderson the Hero of Wheogo and Tracker Billy Dargin, caught ignominiously asleep in a public house after drinking. It was an unromantic end for a man who had ridden with Hall as an older, hardened auxiliary — useful not for glamour, but for guard duty, intimidation, and the practical work of armed robbery.
Young James Dunleavy’s withdrawal followed soon after. Young, impressionable, and reportedly of good previous character, he surrendered through the intervention of Father M‘Guinn, who brought him into Bathurst and handed him over to the authorities. His defence later emphasised his youth, his short career in crime, and the claim that he had been led astray by older men. The court accepted that he had given himself up, but Justice Wise refused to treat the act as deeply mitigating, remarking that Dunleavy and others were already so closely pressed that capture was likely in any case.
Their removal marks an important transition in the history of Hall’s gang. Gordon represented the older criminal world: a seasoned offender, already familiar with gaol and colonial punishment. Dunleavy represented the younger local recruit, drawn into Hall’s orbit through proximity, sympathy, and youthful bravado. With both gone, the loose and shifting company around Hall narrowed. Into that gap came John Dunn, younger, fiercer, and more reckless. Known as the Terror of the Colony. The result was the final formation of the gang — Hall, Gilbert, and Dunn — and almost immediately the tempo darkened into repeated mail robberies and, at Jugiong, the killing of Sergeant Parry.
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AI image of Dunn based on Police description 1864. |
Thus, between June and October 1864, Hall’s gang moved from apparent decline to renewed strength. Gilbert’s return restored the old daring; the robberies at Billibong, Canowindra, Belubula, and Wheogo kept the party supplied. By the end of that month the gang had not merely survived police pressure. It had reorganised, remounted, and entered the most dangerous phase of its career.
Rumours that Ben Hall’s gang had broken up were proved false. The addition of young John Dunn gave Hall and Gilbert a more reckless third hand. What followed was not merely a return to highway robbery, but a sharper and more systematic assault upon communication itself: travellers were bailed up on the Breadalbane Plains, mails were stopped near Gunning and Goulburn, stations were entered, and mail-bags were cut open and rifled with growing confidence. A later contemporary summary placed Dunn’s joining with Hall and Gilbert in October 1864 and listed the rapid succession of robberies that followed, including Chisholm near Goulburn, Macansh’s station, the Albury mail, Rossi’s station, the Goulburn mail, the Yass mail, and finally the Gundagai mail near Jugiong. Hall was cutting a swathe through southern and cental NSW.
The pattern was unmistakable. Hall, Gilbert, and Dunn were no longer content simply to surprise isolated travellers; they were making the main southern road unsafe and exposing the weakness of police protection across a vital colonial artery. In the path of Hall, blocked from his safe heavens of the Bland and Lachlan stood Sir Frederick Pottinger. With Pottinger and his wide field of informers made any ability for Hall to use his wide circle friends. However, settlers were fearful and newspapers prepared as the district awaited for the next outrage.
RECEIVING STOLEN PROPERTY. 4th November 1864 Sydney Mail: Ellen Maguire, of Wheogo, was brought before the court charged with feloniously receiving a stolen watch, the property of Joseph Schmidt. The watch was alleged to have come from Ben Hall, who had presented it to her after it had been stolen. When Mr Sheppard applied for a postponement on account of the absence of a material witness, the Crown did not oppose the application, and Maguire’s bail was extended. Schmidt, however, objected strongly to the delay, claiming that his life had been threatened, that the coach by which he was expected to travel had been bailed up, and that Maguire was connected with Ben Hall, being his sister-in-law.Maguire later failed to appear, resulting in her sureties forfeiting more than £100. She was described as twenty-five years of age, 5 feet 2 inches in height, of fair complexion, with brown hair and hazel eyes, smart in appearance, and good-looking. This demonstrates that during Hall's lying low he maintained contact with his kin and close freinds.
Account of The Death of Sergeant Edmund Parry near Jugiong, 16 November 1864.
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| John Gilbert c. 1862 |
Earlier that fateful day, the gang had effectively taken possession of the road. They bailed up a considerable number of travellers, including teamsters, carriers, Chinese travellers, local residents, and others, forming a captive roadside camp. Constable McLoughlin, who had gone ahead of the coach with a packhorse, was also intercepted. He resisted and fired his revolver, but after exhausting his ammunition and being hard pressed by the bushrangers, he was forced to surrender and was added to the prisoners already held by the gang.
As O’Neill and Parry moved forward, Hall, Gilbert, and Dunn realised that only two mounted police were immediately opposing them. Seeing this, they drew their revolvers and rode back to meet the escort, “screaming like madmen,” one of the bushrangers remarking that the "bobbies"' were with the coach, Gilbert said "there are only two of them; come on, let us rush the --------." They then darted towards the coach, and on getting near the police called out "come on you ------ wretches; we will fight you like men." as one newspaper account put it. The first shot was the signal for Constable Roach to abandon his place on the coach and bolt into the bush, leaving O’Neill and Parry to face the gang almost unsupported.
Parry’s contest with Gilbert was fatal. He was first wounded in the head but refused to surrender. Having fired every shot in his revolver, he was in the act of unslinging his carbine when Gilbert again fired. The ball entered Parry’s back on the left side, passed through his body, and the brave sergeant fell from his horse dead. The mail grabbed and believed to be a was a very heavy one, and it is supposed they secured a large amount of money. From Constable McLaughlin they took £7 10s; from Mr Rose, a watch and chain.
We have not heard what was taken from Mr Hayes, but he was searched; the lady who accompanied him they did not molest.
Hall then turned to the mail bags while Dunn and Gilbert mounted guard on the road. The bags were thrown out, cut open, and searched for valuables. During this interval Hall asked O’Neill where the other constable had gone. On being told that Roach had bolted, Hall reportedly replied that the man should be dismissed at once, calling him a coward and a wretch for leaving O’Neill and Parry to fight alone. Yet Hall added, with a grim bushranger’s respect, “I will say this for you both, you are two game men.”
Hall next addressed Mr Rose and asked his name. Rose answered plainly and told him that he was the Police Magistrate of Gundagai. Hall replied that Rose was “as bad as the traps.” Rose’s answer was calm and fearless: “That may be; I am what I am.” The exchange is striking, for Rose had not only witnessed the encounter but had helped bring the police forward at the crucial moment. He survived the attack, but only narrowly, and later presided over the inquest into Parry’s death.
After searching the mail and disposing of their booty, the bushrangers decamped, taking the police horses and arms with them. Parry’s body was removed to Jugiong, where an inquest was held the following day before Mr Rose. The jury returned a verdict of wilful murder against John Gilbert, Benjamin Hall, and John Dunn, and warrants were issued for their arrest.
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| Jugiong Monument |
At Constable Roche’s later hearing for deserting his post, Sub-Inspector O’Neill stated that Roche had arrived at Gundagai on 14 or 15 November 1864 in charge of the English mail. O’Neill had received telegraphic notice from Yass that Roche was coming, but no direct instruction to guard the return mail. As the mail had been robbed the previous day, he decided on his own responsibility to provide an escort as far as Jugiong.
Before the coach left Gundagai, O’Neill explained the arrangement in Roche’s presence. O’Neill and Sergeant Edmund Parry would ride mounted behind the coach, while Roche would sit armed on the box. O’Neill gave Roche no special instructions in the event of an attack.
The coach left at about eleven o’clock in the morning. Some four and a half miles south of Jugiong, near Pring’s Paddock, it came upon an alarming scene: drays and people gathered on the hillside, evidently bailed up by bushrangers. Police Magistrate Alfred Cyrus Spencer Rose, travelling only as a private passenger, saw the danger first from the coach. He had boarded at his farm outside Gundagai and said that, had he known the coach was guarded, he would not have travelled by it.
At first Hall, Gilbert and Dunn appeared to retreat. Then they suddenly wheeled and came down upon the police, yelling and brandishing their firearms. The fight split in two. Gilbert engaged Parry, while Hall and Dunn bore down upon O’Neill from either side. Hall called to Dunn to help him take O’Neill, saying, “Let us take this fellow.” Hall and Dunn opened fire at close range; O’Neill returned fire with his carbine, and at one point struck at Hall as the encounter closed. Hall was heavily armed, and boasted that the bushrangers had spare cylinders in their pockets.
During the exchange, O’Neill saw Sergeant Parry fall dead. Rose, watching from beside the coach, did not see Parry fall, but saw his riderless horse galloping away. Parry had fallen about a hundred yards from the coach.
While the fighting held Rose’s attention, Constable Roche disappeared from the box. Rose did not notice him go and later asked the driver where he had gone; the driver did not know. When O’Neill returned to the coach, Roche was absent.
After the shooting, Hall came down to the coach, fired in front of it, and threatened Rose with a revolver at his head. The coachman dissuaded him from shooting. O’Neill then came down dismounted and without arms, Rose believing him to be for the moment a prisoner. Hall ordered the mailbags to be thrown out. When the driver said he had to attend to the horses, Hall pointed to Rose and said, “Let this man do it.” Rose kicked out the bags.
O’Neill did not see Roche again until later that night, when he heard his voice at Sheahan’s public-house. Roche wished to speak with him, but O’Neill refused until morning. The next day O’Neill suspended him, took his arms from him, and accused him of rank cowardice, saying he was not worthy to carry them.
Parry’s death altered the public meaning of Hall’s campaign. Mail robbery had already humiliated the authorities, but the killing of a police sergeant under escort turned that defiance into open bloodshed. Gilbert emerged from the encounter directly stained with murder, while Hall and Dunn, though not the men who fired the fatal shot, were fixed by the inquest as accomplices. The affair near Jugiong became one of the clearest demonstrations that Hall’s gang had moved beyond theatrical robbery into armed confrontation with the state itself. |
| Reward Police Gazette |
Within days, they were credited with plundering Clarke’s station at Bolero, an offence later included in summaries of Dunn’s bushranging career. The report is brief, but useful in the sequence: it shows the gang not lying low after Jugiong, but continuing to use stations as sources of food, horses, stores, and ready plunder. The killing of a police sergeant had not broken their movement through the country. It had merely changed the stakes.
A further outrage followed on the Binalong road. The Yass to Binalong mail was stopped near Bowning by two armed men, the bags taken from the packhorse, opened, and rifled. Some of the letters and newspapers were then burned, one of the robbers reportedly saying that they would stop all the English correspondence. The lad in charge of the mail, young Ryan, could not identify the men in the dark, but another report attributed the robbery to Hall and Gilbert, adding that Dunn had declined to join in because he knew Ryan and did not wish to interfere with him. If true, it gives a rare glimpse of Dunn’s local entanglements: a young outlaw already deep in violent company, yet still checked by personal acquaintance.
The gang’s return to the Forbes district was even more brazen. Hall, Gilbert, and Dunn appeared at Higgins’s Dog and Duck Inn, “armed to the teeth,” obtained refreshments, Here one of the workers took exception to being told what to do and stood his ground. The bushrangers riding in and holding the house in their usual fashion. When Hall’s party took possession of a place, those employed there were expected to remain under the eye of the gang until the outlaws chose to leave.
On the occasion a groom, known only as “Towny,” refused to submit. Instead of standing quietly with the others, he seized or threatened Gilbert with a pitchfork. Gilbert drew his revolver. Towny, rather than backing down, taunted him, saying that he was brave enough when he had the right end of a shooting iron, but that without it he might prove a different man.
Hall then intervened in a manner characteristic of the rough sporting code that sometimes appeared beneath the gang’s violence. He told Gilbert to put the pistol away and try the “mitts.” Gilbert, who had a reputation for being handy with his fists, accepted the challenge. The two men fought fairly, and Gilbert won the day.
The ending was almost convivial. Having beaten Towny, Gilbert bore him no further malice. “Drink, all hands, and I will pay,” he said, and the company drank at his expense. No one at the Dog and Duck was robbed that day, and Higgins himself was not molested. The incident shows the strange double character of Hall’s company in the Forbes district: armed intimidation on one hand, rough familiarity and tavern fellowship on the other. A pitchfork could bring out a revolver, but Hall could still insist that the matter be settled by fists.
Next they were reported at Spencer’s Bridge, then at Newell’s Inn near Bandon, where they stabled their horses and slept for the night. Newells were relations of Daniel Charters infromant and close mate of Ben Hall. From there they went to Young’s Inn, drank champagne, and subscribed to the local races. Hall and Dunn even put their names down on the subscription list; Gilbert contributed, though without entering his name. These were not the actions of men skulking in fear. They were moving through familiar country with confidence, relying on speed, reputation, and the hesitation of those around them.
By mid-December, they had turned again from social bravado to organised road work. On the road between the Fourteen Mile and the Sixteen and Seventeen Mile, Hall, Gilbert, and Dunn took up a position at daylight and began bailing up everyone who passed. Their real object was not the ordinary traveller, but the gold-buying bankers expected from the Flat. Prisoners were gathered out of sight of the road, guarded in batches, and brought in one by one as Dunn, Hall, or Gilbert rode down upon fresh victims. Storekeepers, diggers, children, and passers-by were held together for hours. Eggs, butter, tea, sugar, and bread were commandeered from a storekeeper’s cart, fires were lit, and a captive meal was improvised under armed supervision.
The scene had the strange character that marked Hall’s later robberies: half terror, half theatre. The prisoners were kept under control, but the gang talked freely. Hall spoke of the recent encounter near Jugiong, commented bitterly on the police, and showed irritation when the expected bankers failed to appear. At one point he remarked that, since the bankers were not coming, “there will be no one shot this time.” The comment is chilling because it places Parry’s death still fresh in the air. The gang were not merely robbing; they were waiting for an armed escort and anticipating another fight.
When the expected prey did not arrive, they left the captives and rode to Brumler’s public-house at the Seven Mile. There they ordered tea, took refreshments, and pressed a fiddler into service. Again, the robbery dissolved into rough festivity. Police passed nearby while the entertainment was in progress, but the gang, well mounted and heavily armed, remained at large.
Their most vivid Goulburn appearance came at Rossiville, about three and a half miles from the town. On a Tuesday evening in November, Hall and Gilbert rode up to the property while Mr and Mrs Rossi were absent. They ordered supper, searched the house, and found little beyond some trinkets and articles of clothing. Gilbert appropriated Rossi’s breeches and boots, but the more important prize was in the stable. After eating, the bushrangers took a grey horse and a pair of valuable carriage horses, one pair having been sold for 120 guineas. They then crossed the Wollondilly, threatening those left behind not to send word to Goulburn for half an hour. The warning was ignored, and police were sent out, but once again without success. The Rossiville episode is valuable because it shows Hall and Gilbert not merely as highway robbers but as men acting with the assurance of temporary masters. They searched, ate, judged the quality of the bread, joked with the servants, and talked with a man named Dixon, who challenged them to put aside their revolvers and settle matters with fists. Hall and Gilbert laughed and declined. More revealing still was their answer when the servant woman reproved them for their course of life. They admitted the evil of it, but said retreat was now impossible. That remark captures the moral condition of the pair at this stage: not yet without self-awareness, but already committed to a road from which they believed there was no return.
The next morning they were on the road near Towrang. Mr T. Parr, returning from Sydney with Mrs Avery, passed the Towrang toll-bar and was soon halted by Hall, who presented a carbine while Gilbert appeared on the other side. Parr was driven into the bush, searched, and relieved of two one-pound notes, though his silver and watch were returned. A young man named Nye was also brought in; when the bushrangers learned he was the brother of a man once wrongly apprehended on suspicion of being Gilbert, the money taken from him was returned as a kind of rough compensation. The scene then took on the strange domestic character often present in Hall’s robberies: Mrs Avery complained she had had no breakfast, so a fire was lit, tea was made from the bushrangers’ saddle-bags, and food was produced from the prisoners and robbers alike.
When the Sydney mail came in sight, the robbery became more serious. Hall ordered the coach into the bush. The male passengers were searched, money was taken, and the mail-bags were opened. Letters were cut open, bank-notes removed, cheques rejected, and jewellery found in a small packet. The bushrangers joked that people should have known better than to send cheques when “they” were going to stop the mail. They spoke of waiting for the gold escort and threatened, probably in bravado, that they would march prisoners in front of them to receive police fire. In this Goulburn road episode, Hall and Gilbert appear as both opportunists and performers: violent enough to command the road, theatrical enough to turn the robbery into conversation and display.
When parlimentary member William Macleay, returning from Wagga Wagga to Sydney, came upon the scene, he was warned that Hall, Gilbert, and Dunn were ahead near the hill overlooking Plum’s Inn.
William Macleay went on armed with a Tranter revolver and a Tranter revolving rifle. Near Plum’s Inn, he found them ransacking cases taken from drays. Instead of yielding, he got out of his buggy and advanced on foot with his rifle. The bushrangers mounted and retreated into the scrub. Later, two of them rode after him and fired without effect, but Macleay reached the inn and prepared to resist.
Macleay’s encounter mattered because it briefly broke the spell of submission on which the gang depended. The press praised him precisely because Hall, Gilbert, and Dunn had repeatedly bailed up groups of thirty, forty, or fifty people without resistance. The bushrangers mounted and retreated into the scrub. Later, two of them rode after him and fired without effect, but Macleay reached the inn and prepared to resist.
The newspaper’s complaint was blunt: so long as travellers allowed themselves to be penned up like sheep, sticking-up would remain the order of the day. Macleay did not capture the gang, but he forced them to abandon the road and showed that their power depended as much on fear as on firearms.
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| William John Macleay |
This run of incidents leads directly into Binda. By Boxing Day, Hall, Gilbert, and Dunn had already shown the full pattern of their late career: mail robbery, station plunder, road occupation, public-house theatre, armed bravado, and retaliation against resistance. At Binda these elements came together in one notorious affair. They entered Morriss’s Flagstaff Store, compelled Morriss and his wife to accompany them to the Flag Hotel, and bailed up the Boxing Day gathering. The ball was ordered to continue; the bushrangers drank, danced, searched for money, and mixed with the captives as though the town itself had become their stage.
Morriss, formerly of the police, tried to organise resistance. When the attempt failed, Hall turned the affair from revelry into punishment. Morriss later testified that after he was fired upon he heard Hall declare that he would make the place pay for it and burn it down. The store was set alight and destroyed. Binda was therefore not an isolated frolic, but the culmination of the weeks after Parry’s death: a public demonstration that the gang could still ride, drink, rob, command, and punish whole communities despite being wanted for murder.
By Christmas 1864, Hall, Gilbert, and Dunn had become more than highway robbers. They were travelling theatre, armed intimidation, and revenge in the saddle; and at Binda, on Boxing Day, all three elements would be displayed before almost the whole village.
Go to Ben Hall pt 5.
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