A DIP in the creek, and a careful if hasty toilet, produced a complete
change of ideas. The morning was almost too fine, the leaves of the
great poplars were unstirred, which gave an unnaturally calm and eerie
appearance to the landscape. This was not dispelled by the red sun
shedding a theatrical glare over the snow-peaks and shoulders of the
mountain range.
“My holiday’s over, Sheila!” said he, moving from the fire front to the
table upon which was such an appetising display that he wished he had
gone to bed a little earlier. However, the savour of the devilled turkey
reassured him, and he felt more drawn towards the _menu_ which was to
form the sustaining meal of the day. “Now, what do _you_ think of the
weather? Shall I have a safe journey to the station?”
“Well, you may, and you may not, sir. We all think there’s a big storm
coming; if it’s wind, it may blow a tree down on the coach and horses;
if it rains hard, there’ll be a flood, which will rise the Kiewah and
the Little River in a few hours, so as they can’t be crossed under a
week.”
“That’s a bad look out!” said the traveller, making good time with the
scrambled eggs and toast, which succeeded the devilled turkey, “but
we’ll have to go straight at it, as your friend and philosopher, Gordon,
has it. By the way, I bought a copy at the post-office store, so I can
read it on the way down and think of you when I come to the lines
‘Kindness in another’s trouble,’ and so on.”
“Oh! I daresay,” replied the girl, “a lot you’ll think about me when
you’re on the road to Melbourne and wherever else you’re bound for. But
we’ll all remember _you_ here, never fear! And if you ever come back,
you’ll see how glad all hands will be to welcome you.”
“_You’re_ only too good to me, but why should the other people have this
sort of feeling towards me?”
“Well, one reason is that you never put on any side, as they call it.
You’ve been free and easy with them, without being too familiar. The
country people hereabouts, and in the bush generally, may be rough, and
haven’t seen much, but they know a gentleman when they see one, and
besides, there’s another reason—” And here she seemed to hesitate.
“And what might that be?”
“Well, it came out somehow, I don’t know how, that when you were
‘pinched’ (that is, nearly arrested and tried for being ‘in’ with the
O’Haras and Little-River-Jack in the cattle racket), that you wouldn’t
give them away; never let on that you’d been with them in the claim, or
seen cattle in their yard or anything.”
“But, my dear Sheila! I heard nothing and saw nothing that the
town-crier at the market-place (is there one in this droll country, I
wonder?) might not have proclaimed aloud. I didn’t know there was any
‘cross’ work (is that right?) going on. I certainly guessed after I
visited Mr. Bruce that I might just as well not advertise the O’Haras,
and as Little-River-Jack certainly saved my life on Razor Back, how
_could_ I give him up to the law? Now, could I?”
“Not as a gentleman, sir, I should say. I suppose Mr. Bruce is pretty
wild about it, after you being at his house and all that. He’s a fine
man, Mr. Bruce; all he’s got he’s earned. His brother and he worked like
niggers when first they came from home. Now they’re well off, and on the
way to be richer still. But no man likes to be robbed, rich or poor.
He’ll have Jack yet for this if he don’t mind, sharp as he is.”
“Well, I suppose it serves him right.”
“I suppose it does,” said the girl, hesitatingly; “but I can’t help
feeling sorry for him, he’s so pleasant and plucky, and such a bushman.
He can find his way through those Wombat Ranges, they say, the darkest
night that ever was, and drive cattle besides.”
“‘’Tis pity of him, too, he cried,
Bold can he speak, and fairly ride,’
as the Douglas said about Marmion, who, though more highly placed than
poor Jack, was but indifferent honest after all. Do you read Walter
Scott?”
“Well, I’ve read bits of the _Lady of the Lake_ and _Marmion_ too. We
had them to learn by heart at school. Only I haven’t much time to read
now, have I? It’s early up and down late. But you’d better finish your
breakfast; it’s getting on to six o’clock, and I see Josh walking down
to the stable.”
“So I will; but tell me, how do you write out a receipt for a horse when
you’ve sold him?”
“Oh! easy enough. ‘This is to certify that I have sold my bay horse,
branded “J. R.” (or whatever he is) to Job Jones for value received.’
That’s enough; you’ve only to sign your name and put a stamp on.”
“Nothing could be simpler. Get the landlord to receipt my bill while I
write out a cheque, and ask George if he’s put my saddle and bridle into
the coach.”
The girl ran out. He wrote the cheque for the account, which he had seen
before breakfast. Then more carefully, a receipt for the cob in the name
of Sheila Maguire, in which he enclosed a sovereign. “Isn’t that your
side-saddle? Where’s your horse? You haven’t got one, eh? Why, I thought
every girl in this country had one.”
“Mine got away; I’m afraid I’ll never see him again.”
“What will you give me for the cob? he’s easy and safe if you don’t try
the Razor Back business with him?”
“I wouldn’t mind chancing a tenner for him, sir.”
“Would you, though? Well, I’ll take it. There’s the receipt. You can pay
me when I ask for it.”
At that moment, the coachman having drawn on his substantial gloves,
mounted the box and called out “All aboard!” Mr. Blount pressed the
receipt and the sovereign into the girl’s reluctant hand, who came out
of the room with rather a heightened colour, while the driver drew his
lines taut as the passenger mounted the box and was whirled off, if not
in the odour of sanctity, yet surrounded with a halo (so to speak) of
cheers and good wishes.
Once off and bowling along a fairly good road behind a team of four fast
horses, specially picked for leaving or approaching towns, a form of
advertisement for the great coaching firm of Cobb and Co. (then, as now,
famed for speed, safety and punctuality throughout the length and
breadth of Australasia), Mr. Blount’s spirits began to improve, keeping
pace, indeed, with the rising of the sun and his own progress. That
luminary in this lovely month of early spring was seen in his most
favourable aspect.
The merry, brawling river, now rushing over “bars” gleaming with quartz
pebbles, the boom of the “water-gun,” the deep, reed-fringed reaches, in
which the water-fowl dived and fluttered, alike engaged the traveller’s
alert interest. The little river took wilful, fantastic curves, as it
seemed to him through the broad green meadows. Sometimes close-clinging
to a basaltic bluff, over which the coach appeared to hang perilously,
while on the other side was the mile-wide, level greensward, thickly
covered with grazing kine and horses. The driver, a wiry native from the
Shoalhaven gullies, was cheerful and communicative.
He was in a position to know and enlarge upon the names and characters
of the different proprietors of the estates through which they passed.
The divisions were indicated by gates in the fences crossing the roads
at right angles, at which period Mr. Joshua Cable requested his
passenger to drive through while he jumped down and opened the gates and
shut them after the operation was concluded. As this business was only
necessary at distances varying from five to ten miles apart, the
stoppages were not serious; though in one instance, where the enclosure
was small and the number of gates unreasonably large, his temper was
ruffled.
“D—n these gates,” he said; “they’re enough to ruin a chap’s temper.
They put up a new cross fence here—wire, too—since I was here last. This
is a bother, but when a man is driving by himself at night it’s worse.
And they can summons you, and fine you two pounds and costs for leaving
a gate open, worse luck!”
“How do you manage then?” asked the passenger, all unused to seeing a
coach and four without groom or guard.
“Well, it’s rather a ticklish bit of work, even with a pair, if they’re
at all touchy, as I’ve had ’em, many a time. You drive round before you
come to the gate and tie your leaders to the fence as close as you can
get ’em. I carry halters, and that’s the best and safest way; but if you
haven’t ’em with you, you must do the best you can with the lead reins.
You’re close enough to jump to their heads and muzzle ’em if they’re
making a move. No chance to stop four horses _after_ they’re off. When
you’ve opened the gate and driven through, you have to turn your team
back and let ’em stand with the leaders’ heads over the fence till
you’ve shut the gate. If it’s a gate that’ll swing back to the post, and
you’ve only a pair, you may manage to give it a shove just as it clears
the hind wheels, but it’s a chance. It’s a nuisance, especially at night
time and in rainy weather, but there’s nothing else for it, and it’s
best always to keep sweet with the owners of the property the road runs
through. Now we’ve five miles without a gate,” said Josh Cable as he led
his horses out and proceeded to make up time, with three horses at a
hand gallop, and the off-wheeler, a very fast horse, trotting about
fourteen miles an hour; “the road’s level, too. We’ll pull up in another
hour at the Horse and Jockey for dinner.” It may be explained that in
Australian road-travel, whatever may be the difference of climate, which
ranges indeed from sunshine to snow, the “dinner” so called, is the meal
taken at or about mid-day—an hour or two, one way or another, not being
regarded of importance. The evening meal at sundown, allowing for
circumstances, is invariably “tea,” though by no means differing in
essentials from the one at mid-day. It is at the option of the traveller
to order and pay extra for the orthodox “dinner,” with wine, if
procurable, as an adjunct.
The Horse and Jockey Hotel was duly reached, the half-hour dinner
despatched, and, at sunrise, the railway station at Warongah reached,
into which, after a hurried meal, Mr. Blount was enabled to hurl himself
and luggage, the train not being crowded. Long before this hour he had
ample time to admire the skill used in driving on a road never free from
stumps and sidelings, creeks, and other pitfalls. Certainly the _seven_
lamps, which he had never seen before on a coach, assisted the pilot’s
course, with the light afforded by the great burners, three on high
above the roof of the composite vehicle, a sort of roofed “cariole”
defended as to the sides by waterproof curtains; while four other lamps
gave the driver confidence, as they enabled him to see around and for
some distance ahead as clearly as in the day.
In sixteen hours from the terminus Mr. Blount was safely landed per cab
at the Imperial Club, Melbourne, in which institution he enjoyed the
privileges of an honorary member, and was enabled to learn that the
_Pateena_ would leave the Queen’s Wharf at four o’clock p.m. next day
for Launceston. Here he half expected to have one or more letters in
answer to his appeal to the mercy of the Court as represented by Mrs.
Bruce and Miss Imogen, or its justice, in the shape of Edward Hamilton
Bruce of Marondah, a magistrate of the Territory. But none came. Other
epistles of no importance, comparatively; also a fiery telegram from
Hobart, “Don’t lose time. Your presence urgently needed.” So making
arrangements for his correspondence to follow him to the Tasmanian Club,
Hobart, he betook himself to the inter-colonial steamship, and at
bed-time was sensible that a “capful” of wind was vexing the
oft-turbulent Straits of Bass.
* * * * *
Hobart—the peaceful, the picturesque, the peerless among Australian
summer climates, whether late or early. Hither come no scorching blasts,
no tropical rains. Nestling beneath the shadow of Mount Wellington,
semi-circled by the broad and winding Derwent, proving by
old-fashioned—in many instances picturesquely ruinous—edifices, it
claims to be one of Britain’s earliest outposts. Mr. Blount, from the
moment of his landing, found himself in an atmosphere about as
peacefully secluded as at Bunjil.
From this Elysian state of repose, he was routed immediately after
breakfast by the tempestuous entrance of Mr. Frampton Tregonwell, Mining
Expert and Consulting Engineer, as was fully set forth on his card, sent
in by the waiter.
“Bless my soul!” called out this volcanic personage, as soon as he
entered the door which he shut carefully behind him. “You are a most
extraordinary chap! One would think you had been born in Tasmania,
instead of the Duchy of Cornwall, whence all the Captains of the great
mining industry have come from since the days of the Phœnicians and even
earlier. Lucky you picked up a partner who is as sharp, excuse me, as
you are—ahem—Blount!”
“When I’m told what all this tirade is about, ending with an atrocious
pun, perhaps I may be able to reply,” answered the object of the attack,
complacently finishing his second cup of tea.
“Did you get my telegram? Answer me that, Valentine Blount.”
“I did, and have come over to this tight little island at great personal
inconvenience, as you may have observed, Mr. Tregonwell!”
“Have you any recollection of our buying a half share in a prospecting
silver claim, of four men’s ground, in the West Coast?”
“I do seem to recall some such transaction, just before I left for
Australia. All the fellows I met in the Hobart Club told me it was a
swindle, and advised me not to put a pound in it.”
“That was the reason that you _did_ invest in it, if I know you.”
“Precisely, I’ve rarely taken advice against my own judgment that I
haven’t regretted it. Did it turn out well?”
“Well! Well? It’s the richest silver lode in the island, in all
Australasia—” almost shouted Tregonwell—“fifty feet wide; gets richer,
and richer as it goes down. I’ve been offered twenty thousand pounds,
cash down, for my half; you could get the same if you care to take it.”
“I’ve a great mind to take it,” said Blount languidly “—mines are so
uncertain. Here to-day, gone to-morrow.”
“Take it?” said his partner, with frenzied air, and trembling with
excitement, “_take_ it! Well!”—suddenly changing his tone—“I’ll give you
a drive this afternoon, capital cabs they have here, and the best horses
I’ve seen out of England. The way they rattle down these hills on the
metal is marvellous! We can’t start for the mine till to-morrow morning;
I suppose you’d like to see it? But if you’re determined to sell, I’d
like you to see a friend of mine first. He has a magnificent place a few
miles out. He’d be charmed to meet you, I’m sure.”
“Certainly, by all means. What’s your friend’s name? Is he a squatter or
a fruit-grower? They seem to be the leading industries over here.”
“Neither; he’s a medical man in large practice. His name is Macandrew.
Medical superintendent of the new Norfolk lunatic asylum.”
“Well, really, Tregonwell, this is too bad,” answered the other partner,
roused from his habitual coolness. “Has it escaped your memory that
_you_ wished to sell out before I left for Australia, that I stuck to
the claim, and have been paying my share of expenses ever since?”
“Quite true, old fellow; it was your confounded obstinacy and luck
combined, a sheer fluke, which has landed us where we are, not a
particle of judgment on either side; and now, then, let’s get through
business detail before lunch. I have it all here.”
Mr. Tregonwell was a thoroughbred Cornishman, short, square set, and
immensely powerful. His coal-black, close-curled hair, with dark,
deep-set eyes, short, upright forehead, and square jaw proclaimed him a
“Cousin Jack” to all who had ever rambled through the picturesque Duchy,
or heard the surges boom on castle-crowned Tintagil. In one way or other
he had been interested in mines since his boyhood; had, indeed, delved
below sea level in those stupendous shafts in his native place of Truro.
An off-shoot of a good old Cornish family, he had worked up to his
present position from a penniless childhood and a youth not disdaining
hard manual labour as a miner, when none better was to be had. This gave
him a more thorough knowledge of the underground world and its
inhabitants than he could otherwise have obtained. As a mining “Captain”
therefore, his reputation had preceded him from the silver mines of Rio
Tinto in Mexico and the great goldfields of California. A noted man in
his way, a type worthy of observation by a student of human nature, like
Valentine Blount, who, having added him to his collection, had drifted
into friendship, and a speculative partnership which was destined to
colour his after life.
As there remained a couple of hours open to such a task before lunch,
the partners settled down to a “square business deal,” as Mr. Tregonwell
(who had possessed himself of trans-Atlantic and other idioms) phrased
it; in the course of which the following facts were elicited. That the
stone, in the first place accidentally discovered as an out-drop in one
of the wildest, most desolate, regions of the West Coast of Tasmania,
was the richest ever discovered in any reefing district “South of the
Line,” as Mr. Tregonwell magniloquently expressed it. On sinking, even
richer ore came to light, “as much silver as stone” in some of the
specimens. He, Tregonwell, had taken care to comply with the labour
conditions, and the necessary rules and regulations, according to the
Tasmanian Mining Act, in such case made and provided. He had satisfied
the Warden of their _bona fides_, and this gentleman had supported him
in all disputes with the “rush crowd” which, as usual under such
circumstances, had swarmed around the sensational find, as soon as it
was declared. Everything, so far, had been plain sailing, but there was
sure to be litigation, and a testing of their title on some of the
technical points of law which are invariably raised when the claim is
rich enough to pay the expenses of litigation. The great thing now was
to float the discovery into a company, exhibit the specimens in the
larger cities and in England, and offer half the property in shares to
the public. This was agreed to. Tregonwell, with practised ease, drew
out the prospectus, explaining the wondrous assays which had already
been made, the increasing body of the lode, its speculative value and
unrivalled richness as it descended to the hundred and fifty feet level.
The prospectors had invited tenders for a fifty head stamp battery to be
placed on the ground. Abundance of running water was within easy reach;
timber also, of the finest quality, unlimited in quantity. Carriage, of
course, in a rough, mountainous country, must be an expensive item. The
directors were anxious not to minimise the cost in any way, and all
statements might be regarded as absolutely truthful. The stone, if it
kept up quality and output, would pay for _any_ rate of carriage and the
most up-to-date machinery. When a narrow-gauge railway had been
completed to the Port, where the Company had secured wharf
accommodation, the transit question would be comparatively trifling.
Mr. Blount retired for lunch to the hotel in which Tregonwell had
engaged rooms—a quiet, old-fashioned house of highly conservative
character, selected by his partner as specially adapted for privacy. The
family had inherited the business and the house from the grandfather,
who had made the business, and built the house in the early days when
the island was still known as Van Diemen’s Land. Mr. Polglase, whose
portrait in oils still ornamented the dining-room, in company with that
of Admiral Rodney, in whose flagship he had been a quartermaster, had
reached Tasmania in a whaler from New Zealand.
The _Clarkstone_ having made a successful voyage, and Mr. Polglase’s
“lay” as first mate amounting to a respectable sum, he decided to quit
the sea, and adopt the more or less lucrative occupation of
hotel-keeping. In those days when the convict population outnumbered the
free, in the proportion of fifty to one, when the aboriginal tribes and
far more savage convict outlaws terrorised the settlers at a
comparatively short distance from Hobart, it was not altogether a
peaceful avocation. But Mark Polglase, a man of exceptional strength and
courage, who had enforced discipline and quelled mutiny among the
turbulent whaling crews hailing from Sydney Cove, was not the man to be
daunted by rioters free or bond. The small, but orderly, well-managed
inn soon came to be favourably known both to the general public and the
authorities, as a house where comfortable lodging was to be procured,
and, moreover, where a strict system of orderliness was enforced. When
the coaching system came to be developed, for many years the best in
Australasia, after admirable roads had been formed by convict labour,
the Lord Rodney was the headquarters of the principal firm. From the
long range of stabling issued daily in the after-time the well-bred,
high-conditioned four-horse teams, which did the journey between Hobart
and Launceston (a hundred and twenty miles) in a day. To be sure the
metalled road was perfect, the pace, the coaches, the method of driving,
the milestones even, strictly after the old English pattern. So that the
occasional tourist, or military traveller, was fain to confess that he
had not seen such a turn-out or done such stages since the days of the
Cottons and the Brackenburys.
The pace was equal to that of the fastest “Defiance” or “Regulator” that
ever kept good time on an English turnpike road. Here the erstwhile
Cornish sailor settled himself for life. To that end he wrote to a young
woman to whom he had become engaged before he left Truro on his last
voyage, and sent her the wherewithal to pay her passage and other
expenses. She was wise enough to make no objection to a home on “the
other side of the world,” as Jean Ingelow puts it, and had no reason to
regret her decision. Here they reared a family of stalwart sons, and
blooming lasses—the latter with complexions rivalling those of
Devonshire. They married and spread themselves over the wide wastes of
the adjoining colonies, with satisfactory results, but never forgetting
to return from time to time to their Tasmanian home, where they could
smell the apple blossoms in the orchards and hear the bee humming on the
green, clover-scented pastures.
The parents in the fulness of time had passed away, and lay in the
churchyard, near the Wesleyan meeting house, which the old man had
regularly attended and generously supported. But his eldest son, lamed
through an accident on a goldfield, reigned in his stead. He too had a
capable wife—it seemed to run in the family. So the name and fame of the
Lord Rodney remained good as of old.
The prospectus and plan of operations being now regarded as “shipshape”
by Mr. Tregonwell, he proceeded to sketch the locality. “It’s an awfully
rough country—nothing you’ve ever seen before is a patch on it. We shall
have to walk the last stage. A goat could hardly find footing, over not
_on_, mind you, the worst part of the track. How Charlie Herbert, who
discovered the show, got along, I can’t think. He was more than half
starved, ‘did a regular perish,’ as West Australians say—more than once.
However it was a feat to brag about when he _did_ come upon it, as
you’ll see when we get there.”
“Herbert’s in charge now, I suppose?”
“Yes! he and his mate. You won’t find him far off, unless I’m handy. It
doesn’t do to leave such a jeweller’s window to look after itself. There
are two wages men, Charlie takes one and Jack Clarke the other, when
they work. They get lumps and lumps of ‘native silver’ worth £50 and £60
apiece.”
“Is it as rich as all that?”
“Rich! bless your heart, nothing’s been seen like it since Golden Point
at Ballarat, and that was alluvial. This is likely to be as rich at 200
feet as on top—and ten years afterwards—as it is now.”
“We may call it a fortune, then, for us and the other shareholders.”
“A fortune!” said Tregonwell, “it’s a dozen fortunes. You can go home
and buy half a county, besides marrying a duke’s daughter, if your taste
lies in the direction of the aristocracy.”
“H—m—ha! I’m not sure that one need go out of Australia for the heroine
of this little romance.”
“What! already captured!—that’s rapid work,” said his partner, throwing
himself into a mock heroic attitude. “You’re not a laggard in love,
whatever you may be in practical matters. However, it’s the common lot,
even I—Frampton Tregonwell—have not escaped unwounded.” Here he heaved a
sigh, so comically theatrical, that Blount, though in no humour to jest
on the subject, could not forbear laughing.
“Whatever you may surmise,” he replied, “we have something more serious
to think about at the present time. After I have handled this wonderful
stone of yours, and knocked a few specimens out of the ‘face’—you see I
have gained some practical knowledge since we parted—then we can discuss
the plan of the future. In the meantime, I am with you to the scaling of
the ‘Frenchman’s Cap,’ if that forms any part of the programme.”
The journeying by land or sea to Hobart had been comparatively plain
sailing. From Hobart to the west coast of Tasmania inaugurated a
striking change. The tiny steamer, _Seagull_, to which they committed
themselves for a thirty hours’ trip, was dirty, and evil smelling. The
shallow bar at Macquarie Harbour forbade a larger boat. Crowded also,
her accommodation was necessarily restricted. The twelve male passengers
had one cabin allotted to them. The women shared another, where berths
like those at a shearer’s hut were arranged at the sides. On a coast, by
no means well lighted, where no shelter from the fierce gales is found
nearer than the South Pole, the passage, performed at night, is
invariably a rough one. All honour is due to the hardy seamen commanding
the small coast fleet. They lose no time on the trip—overladen with
freight, more also to follow—full passenger lists for a month in
advance. That there are not more accidents seems a miracle to the
passenger, as they thread their course in and out, among the numberless
islands and frequent reefs, with marvellous accuracy. Tregonwell, who
was half a sailor, by reason of his manifold voyages, was loud in
admiration.
“The skipper _must_ chance it, now and then,” he remarked, “but he
doesn’t show it, and certainly will not confide in the ordinary
passenger.” They bumped on the bar at Macquarie Harbour, and also had a
narrow escape at “Hell’s Gates,” formed by the rocky point which runs
abruptly northward. They touched bottom in the double whirlpool formed
by the island in the very jaws of the current, where the heavy seas
breaking over the tiny _Seagull_ would not have taken long to turn her
into matchwood. Here the skipper showed himself resourceful in such
trifling matters. Rough though the water, and dark the night, a man
would dash along a spar, laying out a sail to keep her head straight, or
bring her round, if broadside on and steering way was lost. Then “full
speed astern” perhaps, when not being jammed in too tightly, she glided
back into smooth water, ready for another attempt. In an hour, however,
the tide rose until the requisite depth of water, in the harbour bar,
enabled them after the grim, ghostly night, to glide up the smooth
surface of Macquarie Harbour.
It was early morning. They looked out on a sea of mist, walled in by
basaltic cliffs, wherein Mounts Heemskirk and Zeehan kept watch over
that dreary, wreck-lined coast.
Declining breakfast on board, Messrs. Blount and Tregonwell made for the
chief “hotel” of the Macquarie Harbour township, where on a clean white
beach, a friendly host, with comely daughters, made them welcome to an
excellent meal.
What a change from the days when a few fishermen or prospectors
constituted the entire population!
Strahan was now crowded with eager, anxious men, all of whom had money
to spend. Vessels were arriving all day long—sailing craft, as well as
steamers, loaded with supplies of all kinds, for the “silver field” of
Zeehan, so named after one of the vessels of Abel Tasman.
It was a scene of hopeless confusion, as far as the freighting was
concerned. Mining machinery, groceries, drapery, blankets, axes, picks
and shovels were all dumped upon the sand, with scant ceremony and no
regularity.
Day after day they had been passing historic landmarks, were actually on
the scene of Marcus Clarke’s great novel, _His Natural Life_. They could
afford to wait: “Hell’s Gates” lay behind them.
In the distance rose “The Isle of the Dead,” to which they promised
themselves a visit some day, with a ramble among the ruined
prison-houses, where so many tortured souls had languished.
One pictured the wretched officers in charge. How dull and aimless their
lives! Small wonder if they grew savage, and vented the humours, bred of
_ennui_ and isolation, upon the wretched convicts.
The walls of the little stone church are standing still. Tregonwell had
camped there for a few days once, with some fishermen, shooting ducks at
night, and fishing in the long, still, silent days. What a lonely place
for men to be stationed at! The interminable forest walled it in on all
sides, to the very shore. They pulled for miles up the Gordon River, a
grand and picturesque stream, but the land on either bank was absolutely
barren of herbage. Nothing grew for miles but the unfriendly jungle of
undergrowth, above which waved the mournful pines and eucalypts of the
dark impenetrable forest. The distracted owners toiled and wrangled to
separate their goods from the ill-assorted mountain of heterogeneous
property.
After that, came the more important question of carriage to the rich,
but ill-ordered mining camp of Zeehan, where, of course, showy wooden
edifices, of calico, or hessian architecture were being erected. The
land transit was wholly dependent upon pack horses and a few mules.
Drays and waggons were then unknown on that coast. The roads were bad
for pedestrians, utterly impassable for wheel traffic. The busiest men
were the Customs officers, stationed to watch the goods shipped from
other colonies, and to collect the duties exacted thereon. Forwarding
agents also had a careworn look. In the midst of the turmoil, a
pretentious two-storied hotel was being run up. Stores and warehouses
rose like mushrooms from the rain-soaked, humid earth, while town
allotments were sold, and resold, at South Sea Bubble prices.
By dint of Mr. Blount’s persuasive powers, now fully exerted, and
Tregonwell’s abnormal energy, conjoined with reckless payments, they saw
their personal luggage strapped on to a horse’s back, and confided to a
packer, who started with them, and contracted to deliver it when they
arrived on the following day.
They thus commenced the fifteen mile walk to Trial Bay. This was the
nearest port. It lacked, however, any description of harbour, shelter,
or roadway. Small craft could deliver freight in fine weather.
The pedestrians carried their blankets and a change of underclothing.
That was the recognised fashion on the West Coast. If men didn’t start
in the rain, they were certain to be wet through before long. Mr. Blount
was pleased to admit that their day of commencement was fine; more
grateful still to see Trial Bay the same night. Their condition was
fairly good, the walking distinctly heavy. A few miles of sandy beach,
then came the track through the bush proper.
* * * * *
Now commenced the stern realities of the expedition, necessary before
Mr. Blount could have personal cognisance of his strangely acquired
property. After some experience of the forests which lay between Bunjil
and the “Lady Julia” claim, he had thought himself qualified to judge of
“rough country.” To his astonishment, he found that all previous
adventure had given him no conception of the picture of dread and awful
desolation which the Tasmanian primeval wilderness presented. The
gigantic, towering trees, (locally known as Huon River pines), the awful
thickets, the rank growth of a jungle more difficult to pass through,
than any he had known or realised, contributed an appalling _carte du
pays_. The peculiarity of this last forest path was, that without a
considerable amount of labour being expended upon it, it was impassable
for horses, and not only difficult but dangerous for men. The
“horizontal scrub,” locally so termed, was the admixture of immense
altitudes of forest timber, with every kind of shrub, vine, and
parasitic undergrowth. Stimulated by ceaseless rain it hid even the
surface of the ground from the pedestrian’s view. For centuries, the
unimpeded brush-wood beneath the gigantic forest trees, which, shooting
upwards for hundreds of feet, combined by their topmost interlacing of
branches to exclude the sunlight, had fallen rotted, and formed a
superincumbent mass, through which the traveller, passing over a filled
up gully, once falling through the upper platform, so to speak, might
sink to unknown depths. From these indeed, a solitary wayfarer might
find it difficult, if not impossible, to return.
“What a track!” exclaimed Blount, toilsomely wading through waist-high
bracken, and coming to a halt beside a fallen forest giant, eight feet
in diameter, and more than two hundred feet to the first branch. “It
ought to be a prize worth winning that tempts men to penetrate such a
howling wilderness. Hardly that indeed, for there’s an awful silence:
hardly a bird or beast, if you notice, seems to make known its presence
in the ordinary way.”
“I heard this region described by an old hand as exclusively occupied by
shepherds, blacks, bushrangers, tigers and devils,” replied Tregonwell.
“The blacks killed the shepherds, who in their turn harboured the
bushrangers, when they didn’t betray them for the price set on their
heads. The ‘tigers’ and ‘devils’ (carnivorous marsupials) killed the
sheep and occasionally the sheep-dogs. They were the only other
inhabitants of this quasi-infernal region.”
“_Facilis descensus_, then, is another quotation which in this land of
contradictions has come to grief. I suppose we ought to try and cross
this sapling which bars our path?”
“I will go first,” said Tregonwell, “and report from the other side,”
and he prepared to climb the huge and slippery trunk.
The outward appearance of Mr. Blount had undergone a striking and
material change, from the days of Bunjil, and even of the “Lady Julia”
alluvial claim. A blue serge shirt, considerably torn, even tattered
from encounters with brambles, had replaced the Norfolk jacket and tweed
suit. His gaiters were mud-covered to the knees. His boots, extra-strong
and double-soled, were soaked and wrenched out of shape. To add to his
“reversal of form,” he carried on his back a heavy “swag,” in which
under a pair of coarse blue blankets, all his worldly goods immediately
indispensable were packed.
“This is something like ‘colonial experience,’” said he. With a slight
twist of the shoulders, and a groan expressive of uneasiness, he shifted
the weight of the burden. “I never carried a swag before, though now I
come to think of it, our knapsacks of the old days on walking tours were
much the same thing, though more aristocratically named. This confounded
thing seems to get heavier every mile. There is a touch of John Bunyan
about it also.”
The partners found Trial Bay in a worse muddle than Strahan. Tents had
been pitched everywhere; men were working hard to get their own and
other peoples’ loading away.
The small inn was in the usual independent state that obtains when there
is too much custom. “They could sleep there, if they had luck,” said the
landlord airily, but “he didn’t know as there was any beds vacant.”
Accommodation for the travelling public was a secondary matter, in his
estimation. The bar paying enormous profits, was filled to overflowing
the whole day through—the night also. Here Tregonwell’s colonial and
other experience stood him in good stead—an all-round “shout” or two,
combined with an air of good fellowship, and judicious _douceurs_ to the
maid-servants, resulted finally in permission to sleep in No. 5—which
haven of rest, after a South African sort of meal, largely supported by
“bully beef,” the tired partners bestowed themselves. After forcibly
ejecting several volunteer bedfellows, they slept more or less soundly
until daylight.
Certainly no fitter habitat could have been chosen for the desperate
irreclaimable convicts, who alone were exiled there. The dense, gloomy,
barren forests provided sustenance neither for man nor beast.
No birds—no animals—with one exception, the so-called “badger” (or
wombat) which was snared, and eaten by the convicts. The endless rain,
priceless in other lands, was valueless here, save to change the mood of
the outcast from depression to despair.
The Gordon River pine is the most valuable of the enormous growth of
timber in proximity to its banks; a beautiful, soft, red wood, not
unlike the cedar of Australia. It can be split into excellent palings
and will, fortunately, burn well, either in a wet or dry state. The
dense undergrowth, closely intertwined with climbers, renders it
impossible even for a man to get through, unless with an axe to clear
his way before him. And the locally named “horizontal scrub” is a study
in forestry.
It is possible to progress for a quarter of a mile at a stretch, without
being nearer the ground than eighteen or twenty feet. This curious
shrub, growing as it does at a considerable angle less than forty-five
degrees, with its intertwined branches made the jungle all but
impenetrable. A stage of fifteen miles was no child’s play therefore,
and meant a hard day’s work for strong men, if unused to walking. Even
slow walking on the Corduroy, demoralised by the heavy traffic, was
exasperating. Many logs were missing altogether. This meant extra danger
for the pack-horses and mules. These horses were wonderfully sure-footed
and sagacious. Though carrying two hundred pounds (dead weight too) they
were fully as clever at this novel species of wayfaring as the mules.
The pack tracks were cleared just wide enough for the animals to travel
in single file—and with the exception of a few places they could not get
off them, as the forest timber, with dead wood and undergrowth, was
impossible for any horse to get through, until a track was cut.
No deviations were possible; in a climate where the rainfall was ninety
inches per annum, one could imagine into what a condition these tracks
would get.
From time to time a pack horse would sink down behind, irretrievably
bogged. In such a case he would wait patiently, knowing that struggling
made matters worse, until the packer and his mate came to his
assistance. They would lever him up with poles, and whenever they
shouted, he would make his effort.
Sometimes they would unload, to give him a chance to extricate himself.
Then the packs were put on again, and a general start made. Such men
would probably have ten or twelve horses and mules walking loose—often
with not even a bridle on.
The charge made was at the rate of threepence a pound—roughly
twenty-five pounds a ton—from Strahan to the “field,” in those early
days. The only variation from the dense forest was that of the “button
grass” country. This was composed of open flats covered with a tufted
plant, similar to the Xanthorrhea or grass tree—only wanting the
elongated spear-like seed stalk. No animal eats the button grass; it is
worthless for fodder alive or dead.
What sights on the road they saw! Men and boys, with an odd woman or
two, struggling through the mud in the soaking, drizzling rain! Men
wheeling barrows with their tools, swags and belongings generally. Men
harnessed to small carts, tugging them along. Four Germans drew a small
wheeled truck, which they had made themselves, and a staunch team they
were. So practised had some of the early prospecting parties become that
(Tregonwell said) they plied a paying trade of packing on _their own
backs_ to outside claims, where pack tracks for horses had not yet been
cut. These men would carry from eighty to a hundred pounds, walking the
journey of thirty miles in two days. The charge was a shilling a pound.
They would walk back “empty” in one day. If it seemed high pay, it was
hard work. Climbing hills of fifteen hundred feet and going down the
other side with that crushing weight of bacon or flour taxed a man’s
strength, condition and pluck. Tregonwell said you could always pick out
the packers in a crowd after they had been a year or two at it. They
invariably “stood over” at the knees, like old cab horses, from the
strain of steadying themselves down hill with heavy weights up.
“Many a time, when the field first opened” (said Tregonwell), “have I
walked beside one of these men the day through, carrying only my
blankets and a change, not weighing more than fifteen pounds; my packer
companion would carry his fifty to eighty pounds up the long hills with
comparative ease, passing me, if I didn’t look out, pulling up, too,
quite fresh at night, while I could scarcely stagger into camp; yet I
could outdo, easily, any other amateur on the field.”
Some original inventions Blount noted outside of his gradually extending
colonial experience. Each camp had a “fly” pitched permanently over the
fire-place to keep the endless rain from putting it out. “Kindling” wood
was kept under this fly, so that it was always in readiness. After the
fire was well started, green or wet wood could be put on and would burn
well.
Tregonwell, having once started, said that he soon got into form,
improving in pace and condition daily. He expatiated on the keen
enjoyment of the hot meal at the end of the day’s journey, rude as might
be the appliances and primitive the cookery. The meal was chiefly
composed of tinned meat, stewed or curried, with bacon added for
flavour; and freshly-made damper, or “Johnny cakes,” to follow. The
change of garments was to dry pyjamas, with a blanket wrapped round the
wearer.
It was, he stated, a luxurious, half-tired, languorous but
fully-satisfied feeling, the sensation of mind and body essential to the
fullest enjoyment of tobacco. Then the yarns of the old prospectors,
grizzled, sinewy, iron-nerved veterans! Where had they not been?
California in ’49, Ballarat in ’51, pioneers of Lambing Flat, at the big
rush, Omeo, Bendigo, New Zealand, West Coast, 25,000 men on the field in
a week; those were the times to see life! Queensland, Charters Towers,
Gympie, New Guinea, the Gulf, ah! “This Zeehan racket’s a bit of a
spirt; but talk of mining! It’s dead now, dead, sir, and buried. Those
were the days!” The dauntless pioneer fills another pipe and falls into
a reverie of cheap-won gold, reckless revelry, wherein perils by land or
sea, danger, ay, and death, would seem to have been inextricably
mingled.
A strange race, the prospectors, _sui generis_. Hardly a spot on the
globe was there which these men had not searched for the precious
metals. Distance, climate, are nothing, less than nothing, in their
calculations, once let the fact be established of a payable silver or
gold “field.” Landing in Australia in the early fifties, they had worked
on every field before mentioned, and are still ready to join the rush
for any country under heaven should gold happen to “break out.”
Klondyke, Argentina, South Africa, all equally eligible once the ancient
lure is held out. They often put together a few thousand pounds in the
early days of a rich goldfield, their wide experience and boundless
energy making some measure of success certain. They may not drink, but
all live luxuriously, even extravagantly, while the money lasts,
possibly for a few years, then go back to their roving, laborious life.
They generally make enough on each field to carry them to the ends of
the earth, if necessary, and it is mostly so from their point of view.
When funds are low, they can, and do, live cheaply; will work hard and
do long journeys on the scantiest fare. Natural bushmen, often
Australian-born; from this type of man, above all others, a regiment
might be formed of “Guides” or “Scouts,” ready to fight stubbornly in
any war of the future; would hunt, harry, and run to earth De Wet, or
other slippery Boer, if given the contract and a “free hand.”
Harking back to his experiences—“That wild West Coast,” continued
Tregonwell, “was a place to remember—the wooded ranges piled one upon
another, as far as eye could reach, in shape, height, timber, or
colouring hardly differing in any essential particular; yet the noted
prospectors never lost themselves. Stopping for weeks at a likely
‘show,’ as long as the bacon and flour held out, they avoided all
settlements or mining centres on the way. The first prospector, George
Bell, carried a lump of galena of forty pounds’ weight in his swag right
through from Zeehan to Mount Bischoff. For a distance of fifty miles he
went straight between the two points without a road or track being cut
for him.”
When the partners arrived at Zeehan, it certainly appeared to Mr. Blount
a place of peculiar and unusual characteristics. The excitement was
naturally great; stores, hotels, dwellings, lodging-houses going up in
all directions. Timber was plentiful to excess, luckily such as split
into slabs and palings easily.
Tents were beginning to be voted hardly equal to so vigorous a climate.
No one, however, stayed under cover for that reason. They were wet all
day and every day, but the rule was to change into dry things at night.
No harm, strange to say, came to anybody. There was less sickness,
certainly less typhoid, on that field than any since reported.
Less, certainly, than at Broken Hill and the West Australian Goldfields.
The hotels, quickly run up, were rough both in appearance and
management. About fifty men slept in the billiard room for the first few
nights. Then, as their importance as “capitalists” began to be
recognised, beds were allotted. Over these they had to mount guard for
an hour or more before bedtime, as a rule, or else to “chuck out” the
intruder. Here the personal equation came in. The landlord had no time
to support the legal rights of his guests. He merely went so far as to
allot each man a bed. He had to keep it and pay for it.
The term “capitalist” on a mining field is understood to apply to people
with money of their own, or substantial backers who are prepared to pay
down the deposit on mines, sufficiently developed or rich enough to
“float”; worth securing the “option” of purchase for a month, so as to
give time to raise the necessary funds.
The Tregonwell party had secured the “fancy show” of the field (_i.e._,
the next richest in reputation to the Comstock) by promptness in
agreeing to all the owner’s conditions, as he named them, thus giving
him no chance to change his mind. Other offers had been made from Hobart
and elsewhere. However, they paid a liberal deposit, and, after
thoroughly sampling and examining the ore body, agreed to float the mine
in a fortnight. Very short terms! Also to place £10,000 to its credit as
a working capital, and to give the owner £5,000 cash as well as a
certain number of shares.
They knew the market, however, and their business. Tregonwell _walked_
to Strahan in a day and a half, being then in high condition, and got
off to Hobart by steamer that night. Had the transfers signed and
registered in the Mines Department in his name, subject to the
conditions being fulfilled. Wired to their Melbourne brokers, and in
twenty-four hours the shares were applied for three times over, and the
stock quoted at a premium. It seems easy, but such is not always the
case. The boom must be on. The buyers must be well known to the public
as having the necessary experience, and being reliable on a cash basis.
* * * * *
A shout from a tall, well-dressed man—comparatively, we may say—greets
them at the long-desired camp. He comes forward and shakes hands with
Tregonwell, more heartily than even the occasion demands, it would seem.
“By Jove! old fellow. I _am_ so glad to see you. Would have sent a line
to Hobart to hurry you up, if I could have found a man to take it. But
most of the fellows have gone to Marble Creek, so we’re a small
community. But we’re forgetting our manners. Introduce me.”
“Mr. Valentine Blount, permit me to present Mr. Charles Herbert, one of
our partners. You mustn’t swear at the place, the roads, the climate,
the people, or anything belonging to Tasmania, as it’s his native land,
to which he is deeply attached. In all other respects he may be treated
as an Englishman.”
“He certainly looks like one,” said Blount, glancing over the fine
figure and regular features of the tall, handsome Tasmanian. “If the
other gentleman who makes up the syndicate is a match for him, we should
be an efficient quartette.”
“Clarke is a light-weight,” said Tregonwell, “but as wiry as a dingo,
besides being the eminent mining expert of the party (of course, when
I’m away); but he’s perhaps more up to date, as when he went to
California he learned the latest wrinkles in silver-mining. He’s rather
an invalid at present, having jarred his right hand with a pick, and
sprained his left ankle in taking a walk through this ‘merry greenwood,’
as old writers called the forest.”
“I thought I had seen some rough country in New South Wales,” said
Blount, “but this tops anything I have ever seen or indeed heard of,
except an African jungle.”
“Climate not quite so bad, no fever yet,” replied Herbert, “but can’t
say much for the Queen’s Highway. However, the silver’s all right, and
where that’s the case, anything else follows in good time. But, come
inside—no horses to want feeding, luckily, as the oats which came in
advance, cost a guinea a bucket.”
So saying, he led the way to a small but not uncomfortable hut, at one
side of which a fire of logs was blazing in a huge stone chimney. The
walls of this rude dwelling were composed of the trunk of the black fern
tree, placed vertically in the ground, the interstices being filled up
with a compost of mud and twigs, which formed a wind and waterproof
wall, while it lasted. On one of the rude couches lay a man, who excused
himself from rising on the score of a sprained ankle.
“It’s so confoundedly painful,” he said, “that even standing gives me
fits. Of all the infernal, brutal, God-forsaken holes, that ever a man’s
evil genius lured him into, this is the worst and most villanous. In
California, the Tasmanians and Cornstalks were looked on as criminals
and occasionally lynched as such, but you _could_ walk out in daylight
and were not made a pack-horse of. If I were this gentleman, whom I see
Tregonwell has enticed here under false pretences, I should hire a
Chinaman to carry me back to Strahan, and bring an action against him as
soon as I reached Hobart.”
“I’m afraid he’s delirious, Mr. Blount,” said Herbert, soothingly, “and
as he’s lost a leg and an arm, so to speak, we can’t hammer him at
present, but he’s not a bad chap, when he’s clothed and in his right
mind. In the meantime, as a fellow-countryman, I apologise for him.”
“Don’t believe a word these monomaniacs tell you, Mr. Blount,” said the
sufferer, trying to raise himself on one arm, and subsiding with a
groan. “Herbert’s an absurd optimist, and Tregonwell—well, we know what
Cousin Jacks are. However, after supper, I daresay I shall feel better.
Do you happen to have a late paper about you?”
“Several,” said Blount, “which I hadn’t time to read before we left,
including a _Weekly Times_.”
“In that case,” said the pessimist, “I retract much of what I have said.
I have read everything they have here, and thought I was stranded in the
wilderness without food, raiment, or _pabulum mentis_. Now I descry a
gleam of hope.”
“I brought a packet of wax candles,” observed Blount. “Thought they
might be useful.”
“Useful!” cried the invalid, “you have saved my life, they are
_invaluable_. Fancy having to read by a slush lamp! Mr. Blount, we are
sworn brothers from this hour.”
“For Heaven’s sake let us have supper,” interposed Tregonwell. “Is the
whisky jar empty? I feel as if a nip would not be out of place, where
two tired, hungry, muddy travellers are concerned.”
“Not quite so bad as that,” replied Herbert, who had been spreading tin
plates and pannikins over the rude table on trestles, with corned beef
in a dish of the same material, and baker’s bread for a wonder. A
modicum of whisky from the jar referred to was administered to each one
of the company, prior to the announcement of supper.
When the primitive meal had been discussed with relish, Mr. Jack Clarke
considered himself sufficiently restored to sit up against the wall of
the hut, and begin at Mr. Blount’s newspapers with the aid of one of
that gentleman’s wax candles in a bottle, by way of candlestick. The
others preferred to sit round the fire on three-legged stools provided
for such purpose, and smoke, carrying on cheerful conversation the
while.
The discovery of the Comstock as a deeply interesting subject, commended
itself to Mr. Blount; so Tregonwell persuaded Herbert, who was the
pioneer, to sketch the genesis of this famous property, destined to
exercise so important an influence on their future lives.
“Come, Charlie,” said he, “you’re the real prospector, Clarke wouldn’t
have gone into it but for you, and I shouldn’t have taken a share but
for Blount, who knew nothing about mines, having just come from England.
I wanted to chuck it, but Blount, who is obstinate (not a bad virtue, in
its way), determined, for that very reason, to stick to it.
“So he paid his share of the expenses, went away, met all kinds of
adventures and all sorts and conditions of men—with, of course, a girl
or two, not wholly unattractive, and forgot all about it. I kept an eye
on it, so did Charlie; complied with the labour condition, kept up the
pegs, according to the Act, did a little work now and then. And now,
Charlie! it’s your turn.”
Mr. Herbert put down his pipe carefully and began the wondrous tale.
“You know I was always fond of mooning about—wallaby-shooting, fishing,
and collecting birds and plants in mountain country. We had a sheep
station on the edge of this horizontal scrub country in old times; and I
used, when I had leave, to get away and spend a week or two of my
Christmas holiday there. One of the shepherds was a great pal of mine.
Like many of the prisoners of the Crown in old days, he had been
transported wrongfully, or for very slight offences (as much to get rid
of Britain’s surplus population as for any other reason it really would
seem). He was fairly educated, and was a very decent, well-behaved old
chap, with a taste for geology and minerals.
“When his sheep were camped in the middle of the day I would find out
his flock, and we would boil the billy and have lunch, with ever so much
talk.
“‘Look here, Master Charles!’ he said one day, as he took out a dull,
grey-looking stone from his ‘dilly bag,’ ‘do ye know what that is?’ I
did not, and like most youngsters of my age, looked upon it as rubbish,
and showed that I would rather have had a shot at one of the ‘tigers’ or
‘devils’ that came every now and then and killed the sheep at the
stations than all the silver ore in the country.
“‘It’s silver ore,’ said he in a solemn voice; ‘and there’s enough where
that came from to buy all your father’s stations ten times over, if I
could only find my way back to the place where I found it.’
“‘And why can’t you?’ said I; ‘you know all the country round here.’
“The old man looked very sad, and pointed out towards the Frenchman’s
Cap, which was just being covered with mist, while a heavy shower began
to fall, and a thunderstorm roared and echoed among the rocks and caves
of the ‘Tiers,’ at the foot of which we managed to get shelter.
“‘It was a strange day and a strange sight I saw when I picked up this
slug,’ he said. ‘I was never nearer losing my life!—but I’ll tell you
all about it another day. You’d better get back to the station now, or
you’ll get wet through, and maybe catch cold, and then the master won’t
let you come here again.’
“So I was obliged to leave the telling of the story to another day. I
forgot all about the silver ore, and, chiefly remembering the strange
part of the story, was determined to hear about it from the old man
another day.
“It was the late spring-time when we had this talk, old Chesterton and
I; but a month or so afterwards I got a holiday, and as the weather was
warm and fine I cleared out to his out station, and never rested till I
bailed up the old man for another yarn. It is sometimes hot in the
island, though you mightn’t think so.”
“Don’t believe him,” growled Mr. Clarke; “it’s a popular error. The
seasons have changed. Listen to that!” The rain was certainly falling
with a sustained volume, which discredited any references to warmth and
sunshine.
“However,” continued Herbert, paying not the slightest attention,
“remember, it was at the end of the Christmas holidays, and the rocks
felt red hot; there had been bush fires, but the young feed, such as it
was, was lovely and green. The air was clear, the sky for once hadn’t a
cloud on it, and the old man was in a wonderful good humour for a
shepherd.
“‘Well, Master Charles,’ he said, ‘if ye must have it, ye must. I don’t
know that it can do you any harm, though it kept me awake for weeks
afterwards, and every time the dog barked I felt my heart beat like, and
would wake me up all of a tremble. Well, to come to the story, I was
sitting on a log half asleep with the sheep camped quiet and comfortable
under a big pine, when I heard my old dog growl. He never did that for
nothing, so I looked up, and the blood nearly froze in my veins at what
I saw. It wasn’t much to scare the seven senses out of me, but I knew
how I stood.
“‘A man and a woman were coming down a gully from the direction of the
mountain; they were near enough to see me, and it was no use making a
bolt of it. I should only lose my life. Anyhow, I couldn’t leave the
flock. I should get flogged for that. No excuse was taken for anything
of that sort in those days. Following the man was a young gin with a lot
of things on her back as if they had been shifting camp. She was much
like any other black girl of her age, sixteen or thereabouts, maybe
less; they grow up fast and get old fast, too, specially when they are
worked hard, beaten, and brutally treated, as most of them are, and this
one certainly was. Poor Mary! The man had no boots, and his trousers
were ragged, he was mostly dressed in kangaroo skins, and had a fur cap
on.
“‘He had a long beard down to his chest; his black hair fell in a mat
over his shoulders. He carried a double-barrelled gun, and had a belt
with a pouch in it round his waist. He looked like the pictures of
Robinson Crusoe, but I didn’t feel inclined to laugh when he came close
up and stared me in the face. I had seen, ay, lived with criminals of
all sorts since I first came to Tasmania, but such a savage,
blood-thirsty-looking brute as the man before me, I had never come
across before. He saw that I was afraid; well I might be—if he had shot
me there and then, it was only what he had done to others. With a
fiendish grin that made him, if possible, more beast-like in appearance,
he said: “Did ye ever see Mick Brady afore? No! Well, ye see him now.
Maybe ye won’t live long enough to forget him!”
“‘“I’ve heard of you,” I said, “of course.” I tried to look cool, but my
teeth chattered, for all the day was so hot. “I’m a Government man, like
yourself. I’ve never done you any harm that I know of.”
“‘“No harm!” he shouted, “no harm! Aren’t ye one of old Herbert’s
shepherds—a lot of mean crawlers that work for a bloody tyrant, and
inform on poor starving brutes like me that’s been driven to take to the
bush by cruelty and injustice of every kind. I came here to shoot you,
and shoot you I will, and your dog too; the dingos and the tigers may
work their will on the flock afterwards. He’ll feel that a d—d sight
more than the loss of a shepherd. I know him, the hard-hearted old
slave-driver!” God forgive him for miscalling a good man and a kind
master.
“‘“Don’t shoot the dog,” I said, “he’s the best I ever had—a prisoner’s
life’s not much in this country, but a dog like him you don’t see every
day.”
“‘“Kneel down,” he said, “and don’t waste time; ye can say a short
prayer to God Almighty, or the devil, whichever ye favour most. Old
Nick’s given _me_ a lift, many a time.”
“‘He stood there, with the death-light in his red-rimmed, wolfish eyes,
and no more mercy in them than a tiger’s, lapping the blood of a Hindoo
letter-carrier. When I was a soldier I’d seen the poor things brought in
from the jungle, with their throats torn out, and mangled beyond
knowing. Surely man was never in a worse case or nearer death.
Strangely, I felt none of the fear which I did when I saw him first. I
had no hope, but I prayed earnestly to God, believing that a very few
moments would suffice to place me beyond mortal terrors.
“‘The girl meanwhile had crept closer to us and stood with her large
eyes wide open, half in surprise, half in terror—as she leaned her laden
back against one of the rock pillars which stood around. She murmured a
few words in her own language—I knew it slightly—against bloodshed, and
for mercy. But he turned on her with a savage oath, and made as though
he would add her murder to the long list of his crimes.