Featherston Ghost Story: The Ballad of Swagman Magee

Artwork by Tee ood

Last year, I produced an event called Featherston Ghost Stories for the inaugural Featherston Heritage Festival. The event was a late-night live reading at the Dickensian Bookstore featuring four original horror stories set in Featherston (the Wairarapa town I live in) by Tee Wood, Ricky Dey and me.

In anticipation of this year's event taking place on Saturday 14 November at The Dickensian Bookstore (TICKETS HERE), I am sharing my story from last year's event The Ballad of Swagman Magee. This story is based on the song of the same name by Featherston musician Chris Miller from his album Bush, Bog, Brine and Bugle: Yestermusic of Featherston County. The album isn't currently available on streaming services, but if you can hunt down a copy, it is well worth a listen. Many thanks to Chris for allowing me to expand on his amazing song.

Featherston Ghost Story:

The Ballad of Swagman Magee

By Denver Grenell.

Adapted from the song by Chris Miller.

Beneath a rising three-quarter moon, the Swagman shuffled his weary bones down Featherston’s main street. His bulging swag bounced and bobbed on his back with each lilting step. In the night’s gloom, it looked as if two upper torsos were sharing a single pair of legs.

A half bottle of whisky hung from his swag on a loop of twine, sloshing pleasantly as he walked. He patted it with one hand as if to say: Soon, my friend, soon. It would have to keep till he got down to the river. There he would park himself beneath his favourite kauri tree (Magee’s Tree as it has since become known), twist the cap and toast the Tauherenikau and her cool, calming waters.

He’d also toast the moon, the stars, Lady Luck—for it was she that got him through the Great War in one piece— and whatever else he could think of to drink to. In these post-war days, just being alive was enough of a reason for a celebratory taste.

The moon hung directly above the Swagman as he propped himself up against the tree, his swag still strapped to his back. As was the way of the wanderer, he slept with his pack on in case a light-fingered sneak tried to lift his prized belongings.

The steel trench knife tucked inside his jacket would make short work of any light-fingered scallywags. The blade had spilled a drop or two of Jerry’s blood in the Great War, and while it hadn’t tasted the flesh of the living since, Swagman Magee had no qualms about breaking its fast if need be.

Swagger tilted the bottle and welcomed the flow of whiskey into his eager gullet. He belched loudly and licked the spirit from his chapped lips.

Before long, the bottle lay empty beside him. And on this warm, still night, the ache in Swaggers’s legs, the warmth of the whisky and the gentle trickle of the river conspired against him, pushing him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he couldn't sleep by the river, if he had wandered too far or drunk too much whiskey to make the journey home, he would wake in the night to the anguished screams of dying men, convinced that he was back in the blood-soaked trenches of the Somme. But on the banks of the Tauherenikau, all was good; he slept well, and the howls of the dying bothered him none.

So deep was the Swagman’s slumber that he didn’t stir when the sun rose and bathed him in its golden light. Nor did he wake at the sound of the two giggling boys who had come to the river to skim stones and happened upon his snoring body.

Had one ear been cocked, he might have heard one boy whisper to the other, “Swaggy smells frightfully bad; let’s give the old scruff a nice cold bath.” Swagger might have heard their barely contained laughter and felt their cheeky hands rolling him gently down the riverbank. But it wasn’t until Swagman hit the water that he was slapped awake by its icy grip, lent an extra chill from the melting snow on the peaks of the Tararuas, which fed the river. It was only then that he saw the two boys, bent over on the riverbank, pointing and laughing at his misfortune.

“He’s smelling better already,” laughed Archie Gunton, a freckled twelve-year-old with hair the colour of fire. The other boy, George Roberts, held his stomach as if trying to keep his insides from spilling out. Both boys were known to Swagger. They would often hold their noses when passing him in town. Once, they had even thrown stones at him as he trudged along the main street, heading towards the Royal Hotel. Their taunts came back to him now: “Pooh-eee. It’s Swagman Magee. Get down to the river and bathe unto thee.”

The Swagman knew how to swim and swim he tried, but the weight of his swag, his whole life’s possessions, had a grim hold and dragged him to the bottom of the river.

On the bank, the boys’ laughter ceased. They bickered over who was the better swimmer and who should try to fish the poor swagman out.

Through the blur of the water, the Swagman saw them shake their heads, turn and run away, away from the scene of their crime. Air exploded from the Swagman’s mouth—a futile attempt at a cry for help. But he only succeeded in swallowing water and hastening his demise. White fingers desperately clawed at the straps of his swag, but the water had tightened them.

Swagger hit the riverbed with a small explosion of silt, his limbs flailing skyward like an upturned spider. Though he couldn’t see them, Swagger knew eels lurked under the banks, eyeing him with some curiosity, waiting patiently to gorge on this new fine feast. His muddled mind went back to when he was a lad, sitting in that very spot beneath the big kauri, transfixed by the sight of a swarm of eels hungrily devouring a duck in a cloud of blood, feathers and squirming black tails.

Oh, the indignity of it all! He survived the trenches at the Somme, gave Jerry a right whipping, only to perish at the bottom of his beloved Tauherenikau, the very river he learned to swim in and by rights should be able to swim out of now. As he faded from this world, the Swagman silently cursed his murderers and swore they would suffer for their crime, by his hand or by that of the Lord God. And if Mr High and Mighty didn’t play ball, then the Devil himself would have to do.

It was cattle farmer Bill Madison who found poor old Swaggy. Well, to be clear, it was his dogs that found him, bloated and pale, jammed up in the roots of an old willow tree. The eels had made a good mess of his face—his eyes and most of his cheeks had been nibbled away, but it only took a cursory glance at the Swag on his back for the local constabulary to identify the unfortunate Mr Magee. No foul play was suspected. It was generally agreed that Magee had fallen into the river, drunk most likely, and drowned. Case closed.

But the case was far from closed. Not for the two boys responsible for Swagman’s death, and not for the deceased himself. Within a week of his death, rumours began to blow through Featherston, like leaves on the strong spring winds. Some spoke of seeing a black, shiny figure limping down the main road on a night. There was hushed talk of fresh wet footprints seen in the street, following the Swagman’s regular trail from the river up to the Royal Hotel. James Burling, the barman at the Royal, counted one less bottle of whiskey during his weekly inventory, but blamed it on one of his regular customers, who no doubt pilfered it when his back was turned.

One night, just a week on from Swagger’s demise, a haunted Archie Gunton dreamt he was at the bottom of the river, trapped there by the weight of a large swag on his back. A thick, dark cloud of eels approached him from all sides, their yellow eyes glowing unnaturally in the murk. He awoke to find a live eel slithering around his legs, wet and rubbery. His screams woke half the village. They dismissed it as a prank, likely carried out by his chum George Roberts. But when Archie disappeared the following night, all talk of pranks ceased. A search party spent most of a day hunting for the lad. They tramped to the top of One Tree Hill and down again, a common spot for the youth to traipse to, calling the lad’s name.

They found him face down in the Tauherenikau, not far from where the Swagman met his end. The boy had been split from groin to gullet. It’s said they had to beat the eels off the boy’s corpse with sticks, so reluctant were they to give up their second big meal of the month. Foul play was unanimously decreed, and the constabulary rounded up all the drifters they could find, but their questioning amounted to naught.

George Roberts was certain he would be next, convinced that the vengeful Swagman was coming for him. Fearing for his life, he paid a frantic visit to Father Brannigan at St. Theresa’s Church to confess his sins.

“Dear father, forgive me my sins. Please forgive me, I beg. Archie and I, we didn't mean anything by it. Just a prank, you see. We wanted to give old Magee a bath. And now he’s come for us. Already got poor Archie. It was his idea, which is why Swagger got him first. But now it’s my turn, Father, and I need to confess and make myself right with God if I can before, before….Oh god, the eels. They ate old Swagger, and they ate poor Archie, too. Big and fat now they are. Been coming up onto the riverbank, looking for more meat, so’s Jimmy Sutherland tells us. I don’t want to wake up with one in me bed. I’ll never swim in the Tauherenikau again, I swear. If Swagger doesn’t get me, that is. God forgive me, god forgive Archie, and god rest Old Swagger. Ten thousand Hail Mary’s! And ten thousand more.”

George tore out of the church before the befuddled priest could offer any conciliatory words.

George’s next stop was to be the Police Station. Surely he would be safe in a guarded prison cell. But the lad never made it to the station. Something spooked him en route. He was seen running through town, screaming for his life, offering up apologies and entreaties to the Lord God to save him.

No one can say for sure if he threw himself in front of the 5:40 train from Wellington or if, in his fearful state, he blindly ran into its path. Either way, there wasn’t enough of the lad left to warrant a full-size casket, so the boy’s parents saved themselves a few bob there—small mercies and all that.

Before long, the sightings of a dark, wet figure at midnight ceased, as did the damp footprints throughout town. But the legend of the Swagman lived on, often used as a cautionary tale to frighten young boys and keep them on the path of a pious life:

When I was a young lad, my Da’ said to me


If I behave poorly, then Swagman Magee


Will come round tonight for a word in my ear


And Swagger Magee had been dead for a year

So listen my boy, don’t play the joker


Treat all with respect and dignity too


Or one of these nights, a face half-eaten


With swag on its back will come hunting for you

Old mate (me) reading at Featherston Ghost Stories in 2025