Bruce Simpson

The rain swept down on the streaming bush as the lightning lit the road,
Where the big truck sped like a charging bull, head down with its two-tier load.
Young weaner steers from a basalt run en route to the southern sales,
A day and night on the Queensland roads then on into New South Wales.
The downpour lashed at the cabin glass and the wheel spray billowed wide
From the run-off water across the road that spread like a rising tide.

The lights of a township gleamed and neared through the wipers' frantic beat,
And the truckie eased on the brakes and stopped by the pub in the only street.
He checked his load in the driving rain then ran from his big machine,
As he crossed the floor the barman saw he was built like a brick latrine.
He shook the rain from his shaggy head as he called for a pot of beer.
‘It's nasty weather,' the barman said, ‘are you thinking of camping here?'

‘Just a couple of drinks,' the truckie said, ‘and then I'll be on me way,
These weaners are wanted in New South Wales and I don't mean yesterday.
The rain won't worry this rig of mine, when I'm hauling a livestock load,
She'll plough through water a metre deep as long as there's still a road.'
Then take it easy,' the barman said, ‘when you get down to Rocky Creek,
It's been raining back in the ranges now for almost a flaming week.

‘It's one of those creeks you can never trust, as most of the locals know,
The last of the packhorse mailmen drowned in a flood there years ago.
The mails were a sacred trust to him and a duty he'd never fail,
I've heard it said you could set your watch on time with the packhorse mail.
He lost his life on a night like this, he'd battled through miles of mud,
With never a qualm or a backward glance he tackled the Rocky flood.

‘It was running a banker then, I'm told, and it swept with a sullen roar
As the mailman swam with the Royal Mail as-often he'd done before.
He was halfway over the raging stream, the current was running strong,
When a tree came rolling down Rocky Creek as a flood crest swirled along.
The man and his horses had no chance, it was curtains for Tom McHugh,
He drowned upholding the service code: “The mail must be taken through.”

They say his ghost can be often seen when the stars wink cold and pale,
As he rides the reaches of Rocky Creek still trying to save the mail.'
The truckie grinned at the barman then: That's a damn good yarn, no sweat,
'I've seen some sights on the flamin' road, but a ghost I have never met.
Well, I'm out of here and I won't pull up till I meet with the morning light,
And I won't be swimming that flamin' creek, I will cross by the bridge tonight.'

The truckie settled behind the wheel for a night that would hold no sleep,
The miles slipped by and the rain eased off, but the gullies still ran deep.
The big rig cruised from the timbered ridge to the scrublands down below
As the truckie tapped on the steering wheel in time with the radio.
The airwaves carried a country song, on life ‘neath the western sky,
When a man rode out of the scrub ahead with his right arm held on high.

The truckie gasped as he hit the brakes and sounded a warning blast,
But the horseman turned to the speeding truck, with the gap now closing fast.
The truckie cursed as he dropped a gear, then he dropped a cog again,
The gear box heaved as it took the load and it howled like a thing in pain.
He rode the brakes till the trailer slewed and some of the weaners fell,
But the horseman rode at the swaying truck like a figure straight from hell.

With the trailer skidding behind the rig and a madman right ahead,
The truckie knew that all hope he had of avoiding a crash had fled.
He braced himself for the coming prang, but the high beam headlights shone
Through the ghostly face of a man long dead, then the rider and horse were gone.
The blood ran chill in the truckie's veins and the cold sweat wreathed his brow,
But he eased the brakes on the slowing truck and he kept control somehow.

He kept control with his mind a-whirl. If the barman's tale was true,
Then the bearded rider who blocked his path was the spirit of Tom McHugh.
He drove on slowly around a bend, to be met with a chilling scene,
For a raging torrent in Rocky Creek roared past where the bridge had been.
He hit the brakes till the tyres planed, and he thought of his kids and wife,
And he prayed as the trailer jack-knifed round, for another chance in life.

The truck slid on as the truckie's hands froze stiff on the wheel with fright,
But the big rig stopped on the very brink with the trailer still upright.
The truckie looked at the cold, grey flood that almost had been his shroud,
Then his head dropped onto the steering wheel and the big man sobbed aloud.
He landed down at the sales at last, though he got there three days late,
And well he knew he'd been guided there by more than the hand of fate.

He may have imagined the ghost, he owns, for hallucinations can
Play wilful tricks in the dead of night on the mind of a weary man.
He stays down south of the border now, but at times he will quietly speak
Of the fateful night when his big rig stopped by the torrent in Rocky Creek —
How he fought the wheel as the tyres planed and he cursed at his slewing load
When the ghost of a mailman saved his life in the rain on a northern road.

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