The Prospector who dug his own grave-

The Prospector Who Dug His Own Grave

The story of Franz Horneg (AKA Franz ERDMAN), a German and Anthon Johansen, called ‘The Swede’ (but was Norwegian), is a true story, yet if it had occurred to a fiction writer, the author would have probably rejected it as too improbable. But for one chance, one chance so slender as to be impossibility’s closest relation, the story would never have been divulged, the secret of it would have moldered away forever among all the other undiscovered secrets of our far North-west.

In 1886 Horneg and Johansen swigged their last drink with their friends in Derby, tramped their gear, and pressed into the Never-Never, looking for gold. Many saw them go, walking together down the little street of the embryo town, with packhorses trailing; Horneg, compact imperturbable, taciturn; Johansen a towering blonde Swede, kindly, simple, friendly, and, unfortunately, trusting.

They mushed through sand dunes and trekked into the scrub until dancing heat waves on the horizon twitched their disappearing forms, two distant dots seeking their destiny where there were no fellow men to see, to remember, or tell.

The heat-dazed town returned to its stupor. –  A breeze ruffled the imprints of the prospectors trudging feet, smoothed the swales, and destroyed the prospector’s last link with swiftly forgetting Derby.

TORRID weeks drifted over the northern port, torrid weeks which brought a brief pattering of rain, endless, roving dust, heat, flies, then, finally, Horneg and his pack-horses. Someone saw the black speck of him seemingly motionless in the desolation. Within a few minutes, a little knot of prospectors had gathered outside the pub. watching him, hungry for the news of his success. If he had struck it rich there would be a minor gold rush into the interior, if his shammy bags were empty they would go back to the solacing barrels.

“It’s Horneg. I think.”  “Can’t be. He went out with Johansen.”  “Looks more like old Bluey to me. “Lay you three to one it’s Horneg. I can tell by his walk.” The speck growing out of the heat waves was magnified by proximity. “You’re right,”  Horneg crawled from a dot into a man, issued steadily from the scrub, and trudged unemotionally into the township. Prospectors hurried forward. His “shammy” bags were full. “Where’d you get it?”

His hand gestured vaguely. “Out there.”

He was a close one was Horneg. A human oyster. Then someone, less mercenary than the rest, remembered Johansen. “Where’s the Swede?” From the expressionless eyes. Not a falter from the still marching feet. “He’s gone on to Queensland”. They forgot Johansen. “Come and have a drink”. They wanted to know where he’d found the gold, not where he’d farewelled the Swede.

A party of prospectors was creeping through the Never-Never, belts drawn, throats tight with hunger; pack-horses bereft of provisions. They had made a miscalculation, fallen behind schedule, and now they were famished. Suddenly the leading man halted, waved the others on. They hurried to him, staring; down at a black smirch of charred sticks on the bone dry plain.

“Thank God!, Don’t count your chickens.”

It was the custom for prospectors well ahead of their supplies to deposit some in a cache. If necessary they would disinter the stores on the return journey. When another party chanced upon them, it was an unwritten rule of the bush that, upon arriving at the town of departure, restitution would be made.

Spades were soon searching for the promised food, gouging deep and eagerly. Suddenly one of the men sniffed. “Jack,” he said, straightening, “can tinned stuff go bad?” “Smells like it” The spades cleared away a little more of the barren soil. The men stared into the pit, a human foot, they were silenced by horror.

Let us return to the beginning.

of the story, to Horneg and Johansen, minute in the wilderness, fossicking, dollying, pouring the finely beaten gold dust into their shammy bags. Then onwards, growing leaner, harder, skins leathery from the sun, hands calloused, with the pack-horses mooching behind.

It was hard work, lonely work, but they did not regret their privations or their solitude. Especially Horneg did not quibble about the solitary scene of their explorations. One day they halted at sundown, Horneg went to the horses, loosening the girths of the packs.

“No need to carry all this, now,” he said, letting a minor avalanche of tinned food tumble to the ground. “Dig: a hole, will you, while I hobble the horses?” “Going to plant some provisions ?” “Yes. We’ve got plenty”. The Swede nodded and took up a spade. He sought a spot where the digging was soft. His broad back bent and straightened tirelessly. Horneg took his time with the horses, never looking at Johansen. The sun was dark, mottled, and intense, half beneath the horizon. “Say Horneg — Is this deep enough?” He came over, looked at the hole, and then at the Swede’s huge body. “No. Make it longer and deeper.” “Aw, it should be deep enough now, Horneg. We’re not burying a corpse.”

The watchful eyes narrowed in the half-light “Might be some dingoes about. I’ve heard about them digging things up before”. The shovel sank, urged by a battered boot. The Swede smiled. “Won’t be much good to them without a tin-opener.”

Back at the horses Horneg finished hob-bling and let the remaining packs fall. He undid the flap of one. burrowed within and withdrew something dark and small still warm from the departed sun. Keeping his right hand behind his back he strolled leisurely towards the still digging Johansen. “How is she now?” “Deep enough.” said the Swede. “I can tell, by my sweat.”

Horneg looked thoughtfully at the gaping pit, then his eyed looked up calmly, meeting Johansen’s. The smile smoothed from the Swede’s cheeks. He bent swiftly for the spade. Horneg, moving only his right forearm, shot him through the back of the skull. Johansen’s trunk was whipped forward by the impact of the bullet. He fell, spread-eagled into the grave he himself had dug. Horneg stood there a long time, seeming to bear the echo of his shot. Then he stepped into the pit, eased his victim from the spade, and climbed out again. A shovelful of dirt reposed upon the spade before a queer spasm of compassion stayed his hands.

He went to the pack-horses, which were still trembling from the shock of the revolver report, took a blanket, and tramped slowly back to the pit. He wrapped the Swede in the warm binding sheet, covered him with soil.

The odds were microscopical. Yet, by some remorselessness of fate, a party ran out of provisions and sought for more where Johansen’s body rotted within Horneg’s blanket. Still, Horneg could have eluded justice. But he proffered information under pressure; information he need never have given and information which finally hanged him.

Murder will out !!!

When the body was discovered, Horneg was immediately suspected and the police went in pursuit of him. On the 10th of December, he was arrested at McDonald’s Crossing in the Kimberley. They found in his possession the following items belonging to the victim: his 5 horses, his gold watch, 114lbs of tea, 10 shillings in silver, a bank receipt for £100, 12 ozs of gold, and several other items. When called upon to surrender he tried to shoot himself, but Inspector Troy intervened. Later while in custody he again tried to take his own life by cutting a vein in his arm with the handle of a pannikin. He was again prevented from allowing the course of the law to proceed. He was removed to Perth, tried and condemned to death in the Perth Supreme Court, without mercy. He was placed in leg irons in the condemned cell at the Perth Gaol and placed on a round-the-clock watch by warders.

Throughout his time awaiting execution, he readily confessed to shooting Johansen, but claimed it was at Johansen’s request after a failed suicide attempt. The authorities had suspicions that he was involved in the murders in Roebourne of bank officials, Anketell and Burrup, but had no proof.

Horneg remained calm and composed and spent his time reading novels. He ate all his meals and slept soundly. He refused the attention of a clergyman of any denomination. The only thing he was concerned about was hiding his history so no word should ever get back to his family in Germany. He maintained he was innocent of murder and spent the day and night before his execution calmly reading. At 7:30am on the 4th April 1897 the shackles were struck from his ankles and at 10 minutes to 8 the death bell began to toll. The prisoner placidly proceeded to the scaffold. Before ascending, he stopped and said to Gaoler Wigget ‘Goodbye old Chap”. This was the last word he spoke before being launched into eternity. The crowd outside the gaol waited until the black flag had been hoisted to show that justice had been done.

The grisly blanket could not be proven as Horneg’s, nor could the bones be definitely decided as Johansen’s. But confronted with the suspicions of the police he panicked, said Johansen had shot himself. The late Dr. Langdon inspected the skull, saw that the bullet had entered the base, and had issued from above the eyes, betraying an angle of fire impossible for a self-inflicted wound, and so Horneg walked to his death.

ERDMAN Franz alias Frank HORNEG or HORNIG was executed on the 4th April 1887. He was 35yrs old. This was a year before executions were carried out at Fremantle Gaol. He was executed at the Perth Gaol.