THE PEAK OF BEN ATHOL
By rolling plain and rocky shelf,
With stock-whip in his hand,
He reached at last, oh, lucky elf,
The Town of Come-and-help-yourself,
In Rough-and-ready Land.
—_A. B. Paterson._
“OH!” said Jean, despairingly. “I wish to goodness I hadn’t been born
fat!”
“Very possibly you were not,” Jim’s voice said. “Don’t lay all the blame
on your parents; it seems to me more an acquired habit on your part.”
His cheerful face came over the edge of a boulder, and peeped down upon
her.
“’Tisn’t my fault at all!” said Jean, indignantly. “You know very well I
hardly ever eat butter or potatoes, and I love them both. We’re all fat;
and Dad and Mother are the fattest!”
“It must be the New Zealand air,” said Jim, regarding her with interest.
“Perhaps, if we turned you out into a poor paddock for a while, you’d
come down in condition. Not that I’d advise it, because we like you as
you are—but I hate to see you worried.”
“Oh, don’t be an ass!” responded the harassed Jean. “This isn’t a time
for polite conversation—I want to get over that horrid old rock. And
I’m so hot!”
“Well, didn’t I hear your bleat of woe, and come back to help you,
though I was making for the peak like the gentleman in ‘Excelsior,’ you
ungrateful woman?” asked Jim. He swung his long legs over the boulder,
and came scrambling down to where she stood. “Poor old thing! It’s
pretty steep, isn’t it?”
“I’m not a poor old thing, and I won’t be pitied,” retorted Jean with
indignation. “I haven’t got long legs like all of you, but I can climb
hills, for all that. I only want a leg-up over this boulder.”
“Of course you do,” said Jim, in his best soothing manner—which was
wont to have anything but a soothing effect. “Lend me your foot, Miss
Yorke, and be prepared to put some spring into your portly frame. One,
two, three—up you go!” He hoisted her deftly, and with a quick movement
Jean had scrambled to the top of the rock.
It was one of a hundred similar sandstone boulders scattered over the
side of the hill. Sometimes, by dodging through crevices and under
jutting points of rock, it was possible to avoid them; but often they
lay so thickly that to skirt them was impossible except by a detour too
long to be practicable. There was not much vegetation to be seen. Grass
was practically non-existent, but tough young gums grew here and there
among the rocks, with twisted stems, finding a foothold in some
mysterious manner by thrusting deep twining roots into the crevices.
There leafage was too sparse and stunted to give any real shade, and the
sun beat down with blinding force; though it was not yet noon, the rocks
were hot under the touch.
Ahead, straggling forms could be seen pushing their way upward. Wally
and Norah were in the lead, by virtue of long legs and tough muscles;
then came Mr. Linton, with whom Jim had been climbing until he heard
Jean’s small “bleat” of distress, and turned back to help her. The camp
was far below: for a long time they had lost even the faint curl of the
smoke of their fire, where Billy had been left disgustedly washing up
the breakfast things, and with strict orders to remain on guard
throughout the day.
Mr. Linton and the boys carried valises strapped across their shoulders,
containing food and water. Already it had been found necessary to
husband the latter, since climbing on such a day was thirsty work, and
the supply of water bottles was not large. To brew tea at the Peak was
considered out of the question; that was a luxury to be anticipated on
getting back to the camp. Even now, Jean looked longingly at Wally’s
diminishing burden, and solaced herself indifferently by chewing an
exceedingly dry gum leaf, which tasted very strongly of eucalyptus, and
made her, if anything, thirstier than before.
There were scarcely any small birds in this high region—cover was too
scarce, and food supply correspondingly low. Once they caught sight of
an eagle-hawk, sailing leisurely across a path of blue sky, visible
between two hills; and, even as they looked, his wings ceased to beat,
he hovered, motionless, for a moment, and then fell like a stone,
swooping on some prey descried in a distant gully. Occasionally there
were holes that looked like rabbit-burrows, and sometimes an opening
that marked the entrance to a wombat hole: but of wild life they saw
nothing, save here and there a lizard sunning itself on a patch of warm
rock, and sliding off with incredible rapidity at the unfamiliar sound
of voices.
“As for the blacks,” said Jean, resentfully, “I believe it was only a
yarn about them—or they’re all gone. We haven’t seen even a trace of a
camp.”
“Well, there’s a good deal of room for a camp or so to exist without our
coming across them,” Jim answered, wisely. “But I think it’s quite
likely there are none left—why on earth should they stay in country
like this when they can be fed and housed decently at one of the
settlements? Of course, the gentle black is a peculiar sort of chap, and
hates to be shut up within four walls. Still, I think this sort of thing
would scare even a native back to civilization.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Jean made answer. “I did want to see some.”
“There’s old King Billy at the Darrells’ station,” Jim told her, kindly.
“He lives there, and reckons he owns it. If you like, we’ll get him
trotted out for your inspection. He’s our Billy’s father, and I’ve no
doubt he’d be glad to call on his loving son, especially if he thought
his screw had just been paid.” Which handsome offer did very little to
appease Jean’s longings, even when Jim supplemented it with a further
proposal to make the monarch appear in war-paint and utter horrifying
tribal yells. After having been acquainted with William, junior, it was
difficult to expect any romantic attributes in his royal father.
Ben Athol was a deceptive mountain. Often the summit seemed quite near,
as if but a few yards more would land them at their destination. This
was cheering, and led them to climb with great ardour, each striving to
be first over the toppling edge that appeared to be the margin of the
crest. But when it was surmounted, it was found to be only a shoulder,
and the actual Peak loomed high above them yet. This occurred so often
that it moved Wally to wrath and eloquence.
“I never saw anything rummier than the anatomy of this blessed hill,” he
said. “It’s got as many shoulders as an octopus ought to have, only
they’re all on the same side! I think we’ll be climbing it like this
till the end of time, and never getting any forarder. Do you think it
would pay to cut round and try to climb up its chest instead?”
Jim said, “Don’t be personal!” and patted him on the shoulder with such
friendly force that the orator, who chanced to be sitting on the extreme
edge of a boulder, slid off, and continued sliding until he found Mother
Earth—which happened with some force. This led to reprisals, and by the
time that the combatants, somewhat dusty, had adjusted their
differences, the remainder of the expedition was some distance up the
Peak.
It was the Peak itself, and the last pull was a steep one. All the
ground was heaped with stones, great and small. To dodge them was out of
the question, and every foot of the way had to be climbed. There were no
trees here, though on the very summit a few clung amid the rocks. It was
hot work, crawling, climbing, slipping—the rough sandstone grazing the
hands that clung to it and the knees as they scrambled across. But it
was the top. Jean and Norah raced for the last few yards—a contest
abruptly ended by the latter’s catching her foot in a crevice and
falling headlong. Jean arrived at the Peak by herself, and looked round
in some astonishment, to behold her chum rising from the earth and
ruefully surveying a hole in her skirt.
“Oh—I’m sorry!” said the victor, laughing and flushed. “Are you hurt,
old girl?”
“Only my feelings—and my skirt!” laughed Norah, inspecting a grazed
hand as a matter of lesser moment. “It’s a good thing we packed needles
and cotton.” She came up beside Jean, and caught her breath in quick
ecstasy. “Jeanie! what a view!”
The ranges lay beneath them, rolling east and west. Darkly green, their
clothing of timber hid all ruggedness and inequalities, and only that
waving expanse of foliage rippled softly from their feet. Here and there
a peak, higher than its fellows, reared its crest, or a giant tree flung
a proud head skywards; but there was little to break the softly-rounded
masses of green. But out beyond the hills, the plains lay extended, mile
on mile, spreading away illimitably. Dark lines winding sinuously over
their bosoms showed the timber bordering the courses of creeks and
rivers. Once a sun ray caught a glint of blue where a lake rippled
thousands of feet below. On one lonely plain a belt of pines made a dark
mass, easily distinguishable, even at so great a distance. On all was
silence—so profound that it was easy to imagine that the green country
lying below was as desolate and uninhabited as the rugged Peak where
they stood.
David Linton, coming up silently, looked out long over the country he
loved, one hand on Norah’s shoulder. Then he sat down on a boulder and
lit his pipe, still watching and silent, as the blue smoke trailed away.
The boys arrived hastily, flushed and panting.
“Beat you!” gasped Wally.
“Dead heat, you old fraud!” Jim retorted.
“Be quiet, you duffers,” said Norah, affectionately. “Come here and look
across the world!”
So they looked—and were impressed even into silence for three minutes,
which is a remarkable tribute to be exacted by any landscape from any
boy. Then Nature reasserted itself.
“I could drink in that view for hours,” said Wally, with fervour, “if I
weren’t so thirsty!” He undid his bundle in haste, and looked longingly
at the water bottle. “May we all moisten our lips just once, Mr.
Linton—one little moist?”
“We’d better take stock,” responded that gentleman, coming out of his
reverie, and proceeding to unstrap his load. “Jim, how much have you got
left?”
They inspected the supply, which was found to be barely sufficient to
assist in washing down luncheon. This once settled, they threw care to
the winds, and demolished all, since going down hill would be a quicker
matter, and the heat less than on the journey up. “Horses travel well
when there’s water ahead, so perhaps I may expect the same from you!”
remarked Mr. Linton, to the just indignation of his party, who averred
that his willingness to allow the water to be finished proceeded solely
from anxiety to have no load to carry down.
It was still hot when they left the summit. Resting there was scarcely a
comfortable business; there was little shade, and the rocks were uneasy
places for repose. “Better to have another spell on the way down, when
we strike a good place,” said the leader; and the others chorussed their
agreement. So they went down, slipping and sliding on the
boulders—digging their heels into a patch of earth whenever one was
discovered soft enough to act as foothold. It was not without risk, for
the Peak was steep, and a false step among the stones would probably
have resulted unpleasantly. David Linton was free from minor anxieties
concerning his irresponsible clan, holding the happy-go-lucky Australian
belief that worrying does not pay; still, he breathed more freely when
the descent of the Peak itself was accomplished, and a slightly easier
slope lay before them. Broken legs are at all times awkward—but to
carry a broken leg down a mountain side is not a performance to be
lightly contemplated.
He pulled up an hour later.
“Well, I have no idea as to the views of the clan,” he remarked. “But I
am going to have a spell. It is borne in upon me that I am getting old,
and that I have not had a smoke for a long time.”
“You’re not old, at all, but we’ll all have a spell,” Norah responded.
They had halted in a shady spot, where native grass tried to grow, and
there were stones of a convenient shape to serve as seats. The Peak
loomed far above them, grim and remote, although they were yet on its
side. They had climbed down so far that the view all round was blotted
out, since now they were below the level of the timber-crowned hills
that clustered round Ben Athol. Already the fierceness of the sun had
gone, and there was even a breath of chill in the shady stillness where
they rested.
They lay on the ground or found stony seats, and for half an hour talked
lazily or did not talk at all, as the spirit moved them. Jim and his
father were deep in a discussion of bullocks. Suddenly Norah, who had
been industriously biting the tough grass stems, as an aid to thought,
scrambled to her feet.
“I want to go and explore,” she said. “Who will come?”
“Me,” said Jean and Wally, simultaneously, and with painful disregard of
the King’s English.
“Not I, I think,” said her father. “I want to finish my pipe.”
“Then I’ll keep you company,” Jim said. “Don’t get lost, you kids!”
“Kid yourself!” remarked Wally. “Then we’ll meet back at the camp, sir?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Don’t get far off the track, Wally,” said Mr.
Linton; “and take care of my daughters!” He smiled at Jean.
“I’ll keep ’em well in order, sir,” said Wally. “Observe, children, Papa
has put you under my charge!” Whereat Norah tilted her nose
disdainfully, and they scrambled off among the rocks.
The prohibition against getting far from the path made exploration
limited—not that there was much to be gained by exploring, since one
part of the hill seemed precisely the same as another. Very rarely, a
lean mountain sheep appeared, to scurry off among the timber in bleating
affright at the strange apparitions; but in general the scrub and the
rocks were monotonously alike, and travelling, once off the sheep track,
was considerably more difficult. So they made their way back to it,
resolving that exploration was a mistaken ideal, and journeyed down hill
cheerfully.
Wally paused when they were beginning to think that the camp must be
close at hand.
“Cease your foolish persiflage!” said he, severely. “I’ve an idea.”
“Never!” said Jean, with open incredulity. “Where?”
“It’s this,” said Wally. “Somewhere in my bones it is borne in upon me
that young Billy is asleep. Let’s see if we can’t take him by surprise.”
“All right,” Norah said, twinkling. “But why you should think poor old
Billy is snoring at the post of Duty is more than I can say, unless
you’re thinking that in similar circumstances you’d be sleeping
yourself!”
“There may be something in that,” said Wally, regarding the supposition
with due consideration. “If Billy has kept awake all day he’s a hero and
a martyr, and I should like to crown him with a chaplet of ‘prickly
Moses,’ laurel leaves being unobtainable. Anyhow, let us creep upon him,
and make him think he’s attacked by sable warriors, clad principally in
ferocity.”
They went on softly, in single file. The path was easier, as the slope
became less acute; an hour earlier, quiet walking would have been
impossible, owing to shifting stones that had a way of rattling down
hill at a touch; but now they could prowl, soft-footed, through the
scanty undergrowth. It was, perhaps, five minutes later when the first
glimpse of the green plateau came into view, and at a signal from Wally
they stole forward noiselessly, halting in the shadow of the scrub that
fringed its edge.
It was immediately evident that Wally’s instinct had been entirely
correct. Black Billy had succumbed to the heat, or the soporific effect
of the eucalyptus scents, or his own loneliness—or, very possibly, to a
combination of all three. He lay on his back under a little tree, his
battered old felt hat pulled over his eyes, and his skinny limbs flung
carelessly in the abandonment of sleep. His mouth was wide-open, and
snores proceeded from him steadily.
“Sweet child,” said Wally admiringly. “Nothing lovelier than a sleeping
cherub, is there? What did I tell you, young Norah Linton? Grovel.”
“I grovel,” whispered Norah, laughing. “Poor old Billy, he must have
been horribly dull.”
“Not he, lazy young nigger. Plenty to eat and nothing to do is a
blackfellow’s heaven,” responded Wally, in an energetic whisper. “Hold
on until I collect my breath for a yell.”
Norah caught his arm.
“Wally! Look there.”
From behind the tent suddenly emerged a figure, looking round
cautiously. As she straightened up they could see her face plainly—a
black woman, shapeless and bent as in the manner of all black “gins,”
when their first youth is passed. Her broad face, hideous in its dark
ugliness, shone with the peculiar polish of black skins. She was dressed
in rags, principally of sacking, amidst which could be seen the remnant
of an old print frock that had once been red; a man’s felt hat covered
her matted hair ineffectually, since here and there stray locks stuck
out of holes in the crown.
“Great Scott,” Wally whistled. “And that young beggar, Billy, snoring.
Well, Jean, there’s your noble savage, anyhow, and I hope you like her.”
“Why, she got a picaninny,” Norah whispered eagerly.
As the woman moved they could see a tiny form clinging to her skirts on
the other side. She faced round presently, and they saw the small
aboriginal—a queer mite, in rags of sacking also, and a piece of the
same elegant material tied over its head.
No one could have said off-hand that it was boy or girl—it was merely
picaninny. Elfish eyes looked out from a tangle of black hair under the
sacking. One little dark hand clung to the black gin’s skirts; the other
grasped a tiny boomerang that was evidently a toy. There was something
uncanny in its perfect silence and caution of the little thing.
“Rum little beggar!” Wally whispered. “Fine Australian native in the
making! Jean, are you impressed?”
“The woman’s awful,” Jean murmured back. “But the baby’s a jolly little
chap. I wonder if he’s a boy or girl”—a confusion of genders which sent
Wally off into a fit of silent laughter that was almost alarming, since
it made him apoplectic in appearance.
“Do be quiet!” Norah whispered. “She’s certain to hear you.”
But the black gin was quite unsuspicious of the watching eyes. She poked
about the camp, here and there picking up some trifle and concealing it
somewhere about her rags. Billy’s recumbent form she avoided carefully,
and her eyes never left him for more than a moment. She wandered softly
about the tent, longing, yet fearing, to untie the flap and make more
detailed investigations. And always at her side trotted the picaninny,
clinging to her skirt and entirely unconcerned by the adventure, except
in its silence and stealthy movements.
Presently, however, it stopped suddenly, released its hold, and sat down
on the ground with a comically knitted brow. The gin looked down, an
impatient frown on her heavy features. The little creature was evidently
concerned with a thorn or splinter its bare black foot had picked up; it
was searching for it, twisting itself to try to get a view of its
case-hardened sole. The gin cautioned it with uplifted finger, and
leaving it on the ground, stole off on a further tour of exploration.
The black baby was evidently very cross. It frowned and twisted over its
foot, and seemed to be telling the splinter, under its breath, its
unbiassed opinion of it. Meanwhile, the lubra was lying flat on her face
beside the tent, groping under the canvas with one hand, and her soul
apparently charged with hope. Norah and Jean watched her, choking with
laughter, since, so far as they knew, she could only encounter a bunk.
“You’ll have to take steps if she tries another spot, Wally,” Norah
whispered.
“Right-oh!” was the noiseless response, given somewhat absently. Wally
was watching the picaninny. He turned to Norah in a moment.
“That’s a rum little blackfellow,” he said. “See its foot; I’ve never
seen a darky with a foot like that, and we used to live amongst ’em in
Queensland. They’re all just as flat-footed as a—a platypus. But look
at the instep that rum little black coon has got; it’s as high an instep
as I’ve ever seen, and the foot’s quite pretty.”
Norah looked as desired. The dusky baby was still contorting on the
grass, fishing vigorously in its foot for the offending splinter. Its
face was turned towards them, but bent so intently over its task that
they could scarcely see it. There was no doubt that the small foot was
pretty—a slender foot, with arched instep, incongruous enough, sticking
out of the sacking rags.
Then, as they watched, success rewarded the picaninny’s efforts. The
hard little fingers, with talonlike nails, found the head of the
splinter, and drew it carefully out. The child looked up triumphantly, a
smile breaking out suddenly and illuminating all its dark face. And at
sight of the smile Norah gave a great start, and cried out aloud:
“Wally—did you see! It isn’t a picaninny at all! It’s Mrs. Archdale’s
baby!”
[Illustration: “The little creature was evidently concerned with a thorn
or splinter its bare black foot had picked up.”]