Old inhabitants of the Hawkesbury still speak in hushed tones of the weird spectre of a young woman who terrorised the menfolk of Mangrove Creek forty, fifty and sixty years ago. She was known as the Ghost of Greenman's Inn.
There are many still living who claim to have seen the ghost. They say it takes the form of a young woman in night attire carrying a new-born infant in her arms. Unlike other ghosts this spectre appears in broad daylight.
Mangrove Creek, one of the most picturesque tributaries of the Hawkesbury, wends its way to the main river through sheer sandstone cliffs over 800 feet in height. In the early days of the settlement at Mangrove Creek a quaint-looking hotel, known as Greenman's Inn, nestled at the foot of the cliffs. The inn was built by convicts, and its walls of massive stone were three feet in thickness. A crumbling mass of masonry overgrown with blackberries, the haunt of black snakes and death-adders, is all that remains of Greenman's Inn nowadays.
In the heyday of its fame the Inn was a notorious place, and sinister stories are woven around its banquet hall. Knife play and cowardly assaults were only too common and more than one murder is alleged to have been committed within its jail-like precincts.
There were few woman visitors, though it is said that the girls -barmaids and chambermaids - who waited upon the rough customers, were brought to Mangrove Creek, drugged and kidnapped.
Lynch law was the order of the day, and a youth from up the river, for an alleged serious offence upon one of the girls of the Inn was tied down to the rocks by the river bank at low water and gradually drowned by the incoming tide. His dying struggles were watched by an interested group of bush lawyers.
Mysterious disappearances were quite frequent and there is ample evidence to support the theories that men were murdered and their bodies weighed down with stones and cast into the Creek for the hordes of ravenous sharks to devour.
The strange death of a girl, barely out of her teens, excited unprecedented interest. She was found dead with her newly born infant in her arms. What became of her body no one seems to know. It disappeared before it could be buried. Perhaps, like other corpses, it was weighed down with stones and cast to the sharks.
Although the girl died nearly eighty years ago, the menfolk of the Hawkesbury were never allowed to forget it.
For forty years, her ghost - so the old pioneers of the River will tell you - haunted Mangrove. Dozens of men claim to have seen it, and the remarkable part about the story is that most of these people were once revellers at the Inn. Of course, there are exceptions - Russian Bill, for instance. Russian Bill, well-known as a timber getter on the creeks - one who worked for Mr. B. Crossland, father of the present proprietor of Crossland Flats, Berowra Creek. One day he left Berowra Creek with his heavy pulling boat, laden with provisions and tree-felling tackle, and set for Mangrove Creek, with the intention of camping there for a week and cutting a supply of boats' knees. He had heard that the Creek was haunted, but told his employer that he was not afraid of ghosts and insisted on camping by the creek instead of rowing down the main river every night to the recognised timber cutters' camp.
Five days later Russian Bill came back from his Mangrove Creek camp. He did not mention ghosts but said he wanted a rest, he was not feeling too well.
Refreshed, he returned to the creek, and camped for another three days, and then came back a physical wreck.
"What's the matter, Bill? ", asked Mr. Crossland.
"My God, I can't stand that woman with her kid walking about with me all day long", burst out the timber getter. "When I turn in at night I see her standing over me with her baby. I wouldn't mind if she'd been a live woman, but she's a ghost woman in a pink nightdress."
Russian Bill would never go near Mangrove Creek again, and up to the time of his death turned pale whenever the ghost of Greenman's Inn was mentioned.
A couple of years later a boatload of tourists from Windsor to Newport by river, put in at the creek for an overnight camp. The young women were left to prepare the camp whilst their parents went across the river to obtain some sugar and flour. Their own supply had become damped by the salt water spray in the run down from Windsor.
Scarcely had the other people left than a young woman walked towards the girls carrying the baby. Surprised at seeing a stranger in those parts the girls called out a greeting, but shrieked when they saw that their visitor was an apparition. Both girls fled to the water and dragged a heavy 25-ft. whaleboat through the rushes and slime for nearly fifty yards before they were able to launch their craft and escape from the locality.
It is not on record as to whether the party returned and collected their camping equipment.
Mr. T.H. Crossland, a son of the employer of Russian Bill, has spent many a weekend encamped at Mangrove Creek waiting for the ghost to put in an appearance but he has always met with disappointment. Those who claim to have seen it, and included is the name of a well-known city solicitor, have told him that the ghost appears without making the slightest sound. It walks about nursing the baby, and when one's attention is attracted slowly raises its hand and points at the baby. Then the shade disappears.
But Mangrove is not the only settlement along the Hawkesbury to boast of supernatural tales. Strange happenings are said to have taken place at the old inn at Wiseman's Ferry. One hundred years ago the inn was the home of Solomon Wiseman, who established a ferry service, incidentally providing a connecting link for the northern districts with the south. He put the quaint little riverside village of Wiseman's Ferry on the map.
Villagers will tell you - if you get them in the right mood - that the inn was once the most famous haunted house in Australia. Associated with its early history are stories of ghosts including women spectres who hurried through the echoing stone rooms and along draughty corridors in trailing gowns, and scared residents swear that they heard the swish of silken dresses as a woman ran to look over the balcony. Sometimes the rustle was accompanied by a scraping of feet and a faint gasping cry like the coughing of a woman with asthma. The story of the shadowy form that rose from the old vault in the neglected garden and hurried towards the old house is history. Those who tell it argue that the spirit was that of Wiseman's first wife, and whose nocturnal visits were an attempt to draw public attention to treasure hidden in her bedroom. Several years after the ghost was last seen a box of sovereigns was found under the floor of the old room.
One of the most picturesque legends is the story of the young convict whose ghost periodically visits the old house to beg a ticket-of leave of "Governor" Wiseman.
In the twenties and thirties it was the custom to grant a ticket-of leave to a convict serving seven years' sentence if on the expiration of four years of sentence the convict held a good conduct report. The story goes that a young convict, anxious to see his sweetheart in Sydney, begged Wiseman to give him a permit. This the "Governor" refused and instead put him under a cruel taskmaster, who had him chained to the roadmaking gang. He attempted to escape by swimming the river, but his leg-irons hampered him and he was drowned. For years the ghost of the young boy was supposed to come to the house and the clank, clank of his chains sent a shiver down the spine of travellers who claim to have heard it.
A swagman who was on his way to Sydney put in at the old house for a night's camp. Telling of his adventures afterwards he said that he was awakened shortly after midnight by the most unearthly noises. The screams of a woman as if she were being choked was followed by the slamming of a door. Footsteps echoed along the stone corridor, and a shadowy form seemed to flit past him.
All was quiet for a while and the troubled swagman turned over and tried to sleep. He could not. The clanking of leg-irons accompanied by the slow halting steps of a man drove away all attempts at sleep. He sat bolt upright and hearing the clank of metal approaching his room, grabbed his Matilda and fled out of the door. There are dozens of similar stories.
The old house is now a flourishing hotel, and the ghost stories are of the past. Many years have elapsed since the rattle of leg-irons, the rustle of silken garments, and muffled screams and asthma coughs were last heard but the stories are still fresh in the memories of the old inhabitants, as fresh as the grim tales of Old Mangrove are with the fishermen of the Lower Hawkesbury.
(Windsor and Richmond Gazette - 17th January, 1928)
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