The White Lady
Tradition had it that tenderfoot scouts, on their first
official camp out, were paid a rather unwanted visit by some ghostly crone
known simply as The White Lady. Invariably the visit took
place late on the first night of the camp and despite all doubts expressed by
the novices as to the credentials of the ghost, novices were quickly reassured
of her existence. Legend had it that a scout had once refused to help an old
lady cross a road and she was knocked down by a car. She subsequently came to
every camp to satisfy her need for revenge.
At 15, on my fist camp, my brother and another 14 year old,
were the designated 'targets'. All day long as we made camp in a paddock by the
steep banks of the Wollombi River, we were reminded of the imminent visitation.
"Sometimes you can hear her howl around the hills and
valleys especially just after sunset," volunteered one fellow camper.
"She can get really vicious too," said another. "She dragged one
scout out of his sleeping bag I heard."
All the stories sounded implausible, all of them figments of fertile
young imaginations. The irksome part was the ever present smugness on the faces
of the initiated. They were taking great delight at our squeamishness.
The camp itself was some thirty metres from the river bank,
next to a gravel road which led over an old wooden bridge. Between our tents
and the river was our roped off kitchen area where we had constructed grease
pits, fireplaces, knife and fork racks and all manner of inventions that
required eager 14 year olds to chop down a branch from the plentiful supply of
eucalyptus trees nearby.
After dinner that night we all sat around the campfire and
sang the usual songs. We were getting tired after a long hard ride on our bikes
to the camp site and setting up the tents but the frequent reminders of our
date with destiny kept us alert all the same.
About 11.30 it was decided that we should all turn in for
the night. Thinking we may have slipped through the net, we headed for the
tents. Strangely enough, all of the tenderfoots were in separate tents and our
Scoutmaster reminded us that our last duty was to fill the large billy cans
with water from the river. "That's a bit of a coincidence!" I thought
to myself, but without argument we all grabbed our torches and billies and set
off through the 'kitchen' for the river.
Once there, we stood nervously on the bridge and looked
anxiously in all directions. To this day, I do not know how I managed to talk
my brother, Bruce, into going down to the stream to fill the billies while I 'stood
guard'. He always had guts, Bruce. I was nearly irrigating my pants! Pecker stood with me on the bridge,
slightly in front of me nearer the camp.
Bruce scurried down the embankment, took two quick scoops
to fill the billies and scuttled back up again in less than thirty seconds. We
all took a billy (half full at best) and turned to head back to camp. Just as
we did so, we heard the most ungodly bellow. I guess we all have our own
concept of how ghosts shriek or howl but this little lady had the larynx of a bull.
"That sounds like our Scoutmaster's voice," I thought to myself and
when we looked up the road past the camp to a tree some 100 metres away, we
could see a white figure with a light shining from its forehead. It bellowed
again, but by then we were already bolting for the camp with Bruce having left
the contents of the billies all over the bridge.
I was seized by panic - no point in denying it! My first
instinct was to make a dash for the camp but Pecker was in front of me and I couldn't get around him on the
narrow track. Suddenly he fell prostrate in the middle of the path. I leaped
straight over the length of his body and headed for my tent. In the kitchen
area I suddenly came to grief when I tripped over one of the carefully prepared
grease traps and sprained my ankle. Pecker
had been too scared to regain his feet and Bruce had ducked down behind a bush
to take stock of proceedings. In a brief and panic ridden ten seconds, the
visitation was over. Out from behind the tents and trees popped all the other
scouts laughing till their sides split. Our scoutmaster emerged from his sheet
and revealed the torch he had used to create the dramatic effect. I couldn't
move, my leg was killing and my heart was pounding.
Some two months later on my second camp, we brought along
two new tenderfoots. "You beauty," I thought, "White Lady and
our turn to laugh!" 'Peely' and
'Gears' made their way down to the river to get the regulation billies of
water. Bruce and I picked out a strategic spot behind the fence where we could
see the bridge. Both of the tenderfoots made their way down to the water and a
minute later they re-emerged, billies in hand.
From behind us up the road came the deepest of bellows once
again.... and then a second time. We looked at the two initiates, billies still
in hand. "You can cut all the crap, we know it's you Bill," said
'Gears' and they walked calmly up the road.
I felt flat.
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