After weeks of close watching and waiting, information was passed along the coast that a landing would take place close to the spot where Turnbull now lived with his wife and children.  Men from all the stations extending over a radius of fifty miles were summoned to meet at a certain point at eleven o’clock on a certain night.  Trusted civilians had been drafted into the service for the occasion; and so accurate was the information given, that within a couple of hours of the time several boat-loads of contraband were landed above high-water mark.  Three carts came along, and while the process of transhipping into them was going on, the “Preventer” men, led by Turnbull, quietly came from their concealment, and with a sudden rush surrounded the smugglers.  Those of their accomplices who had smelt the scent of battle fled behind the hills, and got clean away.  One of the carts attempted to bolt, but a shower of shot targeted into the horses peremptorily stopped that move, and the drivers were easily captured.  The smugglers fought like polecats, but received no help from the few accomplices who had not escaped.  These, either from fear or policy, or both, did not attempt to extricate themselves or lend their support to a lost cause.  It was common knowledge that smugglers drew lots as to who had to escape if severe fighting or capture became inevitable, and the battle became the more fierce in order to cover the escape of those few.  They did not all succeed in getting off in their boat, but it was estimated half a dozen might have done so.  The rest, something like a score, were ultimately overpowered, sent to prison and tried in the good old style, and sentenced to transportation to the criminal dumping-ground of Western Australia.

The notorious Jimmy Stone on that memorable moaning night was disguised, but that did not prevent him being detected while rendering assistance to land and convey the contraband on to the beach and into the carts.  One of the Government men was indiscreet enough to shout “James Stone, you are my prisoner!” and almost before the words were out of his mouth Jimmy dropped a keg of gin on to him and fled.  The companions of the stunned man were too busy with the other cut-throats to follow Jimmy, or to see in what direction he had gone.  It was only after the conflict was over that they were reminded that this lawless fisherman had escaped, and must at all costs be captured and brought to justice.  A party was selected to search for him.  They knew that he must be hiding in some of the hollows where the thick clusters of bents and bracken would give him cover.  Some of the party had strayed from the central group, and were talking of Jimmy’s prowess and astuteness, and wondering where he was concealed, when they suddenly came across a man with his head and part of his body up a rabbit-hole.  He was asking in subdued tones, “Are the ——­ gyen yet?” and one of the party, in the same tone of voice and the same dialect and language as he had used, cautioned him not to speak too loud, as they were still hovering about.