WILLIAM SMITH'S AMBITION.
Merrily worked the William Smith quartz-crushing machine. Day and
night the stampers kept thumping and pounding. The first rest given to
it was when the first fifty tons of stone had been passed beneath the
stampers. Then the iron baby was quiet for awhile.
The iron cradles were emptied of their treasure in strong
washing-tubs--hogsheads sawn in two, and made stronger by the
blacksmith with additional belts of iron. The treasure consisted of
finely-pounded stone and water, amongst which rolled three or four
hundred weight of quicksilver. No gold was to be seen; it was hidden
in the quicksilver.
Now commenced the process of washing-up. The deposit in the tubs was
panned off in ordinary gold-washing dishes, the quicksilver with its
precious treasure being put into a separate tub, and the waste earth
which the quicksilver refused to embrace thrown aside in a little
heap, as though it were of no account. This waste refuse was
considered to belong, by right, to the proprietor of the crushing
machine, and consisted chiefly of iron pyrites; it was a valuable
privilege, producing a good many ounces of gold to the ton sometimes.
The quicksilver, having all been extracted, lay in a silky white mass
in the large tub. The strongest man could not have lifted it. The
precious liquid was ladled carefully into skins of chamois leather,
which, when fairly filled, were squeezed tight over buckets of clear
water. The quicksilver which did not contain gold oozed out in silver
tears, and wept into the water; it might truly be said that it was
alive, _argentum vivum_. There then remained a thick solid mass of
white metal. If you took up a handful of it, you could feel the beaten
lumps and nuggets of gold which it concealed from view. The last
process was the retorting of the metals. The quicksilver and the gold
were deposited in the retort, a spherical vessel, to the cover of
which was fixed a slender curved tube, up which the heated quicksilver
ascended, as smoke ascends a chimney. This retort, with its precious
treasure, was plunged into a fiery furnace, and heated to a white
heat. Through the curved tube the boiling quicksilver rose in a silver
stream, and rained into the tub of water which lay to receive it;
gradually the stream grew less, and when the last few globules of
pretty silver spray had fallen, the retort was unscrewed, and a large
mass of molten gold, lit up by the most lovely colours, that seemed to
flash and play upon its breast with fairy's touch, was exposed to
view.
When Margaret, who was present, saw the pretty sight, she clasped her
hands, and cried, "O! O! O!" which round circles stand for as much
delight and admiration as could be expressed in three pages.
Philip and the rest looked on with sparkling eyes. "What's the weight
of it?" asked William Smith. Philip, who was a novice in the matter of
cakes of gold, guessed it at four hundred ounces.
"At four pounds an ounce," said William Smith, ever ready for a
bargain, "that's sixteen hundred pounds. I'll give two thousand pounds
for it as it stands."
Philip would have consented right away, but his more experienced mate
laughed at William Smith, and with a knowing look said it would be a
thousand pities to make him a loser by his enterprise. William Smith
nodded cheerfully, and winked at the shrewder man, as much as to say,
"We two are a match for each other!" Then they stood in silence about
the retort, waiting for the metal to cool, and gazing at it with an
interest as great as that of a fond father who gazes at the cot in
which his child is sleeping. When all the rainbow-colour had died out
of the gold, and it had become solidified, the cake was put into the
scales. It turned fifty-six pounds troy--six hundred and seventy-two
ounces. Deducting one hundred and fifty ounces, that being William
Smith's payment for crushing the fifty tons of stone, at three ounces
per ton, there remained five hundred and twenty-two ounces of pure
gold, which Philip sold at sixpence less than four pounds an ounce,
receiving in hard cash two thousand and seventy-four pounds nineteen
shillings. William Smith obtained threepence an ounce more for his
hundred and fifty ounces.
This business being satisfactorily concluded, Philip went to the Rose,
Shamrock, and Thistle, and made out a fair statement, showing the
value of Mr. Hart's share in the gold obtained, Margaret looking over
his shoulder the while.
"Just listen to me, Margaret," said Philip.
They laid their heads together for five minutes, at the expiration of
which Margaret ran away, and returned enveloped in a large overcoat,
which reached to her heels, and with a billycock hat slouched over
her head. In that disguise she, followed by Philip, went in search of
Mr. Hart. They found him on the stage, giving directions to the
property-man.
"Rowe _versus_ Hart," said Margaret, in a gruff voice, tapping him on
the shoulder, and thrusting the balance-sheet into his hand in the
form of a writ, "suit for two hundred and fifty pounds. If not paid.
in five minutes, instant execution is ordered."
Mr. Hart peered beneath the slouched hat, and recognised Margaret. His
lips being very close to Margaret's laughing face, he took an unfair
advantage of her, and kissed her.
"What's the fine for that, Philip?" cried Margaret. "This," replied
Philip, shaking a bag of money vindictively at Mr. Hart. "Here you
are, old fellow;" and he handed Mr. Hart two hundred and fifty-nine
pounds odd, being an eighth share of the gold. "For this unwarrantable
assault, you will instantly pay me the two hundred and fifty you owe
me. I don't intend to wait three minutes for the money."
Mr. Hart paid Philip with a grateful sigh; he knew that it would be
useless to remonstrate with the young man. Had Mr. Hart been alone in
the world, with no ties, he would not have accepted Philip's
generosity; he would have quarrelled with him first. But you see how
it was with him, and you will not blame him, I am sure.
The theatre was open again, and was thronged as usual. The actors and
actresses were much concerned as to the fate of the missing treasurer;
none of them, with the exception of Mr. Hart, suspected him. (Mr. Hart
had enjoined secrecy upon Philip and Margaret, and no one but the
three knew of his loss.) As they never received any tidings of him,
they settled that he had been lost in the storm, and they mourned him
as one who had come to an undeserved end.
Silver Creek township throve and flourished. New discoveries were made
every week, and new leads of gold found in gullies and plains. William
Smith, always playing his cards well, knew that now the township was
becoming a settled thing, there must soon be a Government land sale,
and he began to build and let, and to buy up rights of land wherever
he could. Depend upon it, he bought in the proper places, having
settled, after careful survey, where it was imperative that the
streets would be laid out. You would have thought he had enough to do,
what with one thing and another, but he seemed never to have his hands
full. He was not of an envious disposition, but he did covet one
thing: Philip's quartz claim. It was yielding finely, and he believed
he saw a colossal fortune in it. Not to be made out of it in the way
Philip and his mates were working it. No; he would put up machinery.
He would sink new shafts. The stone should be drawn from the bottom of
the shafts not by hand, but by steam-power; the men should be lowered
by steam; he would have a steam-engine below, if it was necessary;
everything should be done by steam, and labour should be economised.
Would that reduce the number of men necessary to work the claim? Not
at all. Where there were a hundred men at work now William Smith would
have five hundred. What he would do really would be to get ten times
as much gold. He would open the claim to its fullest extent; he would
buy up as many claims as he could get hold of north and south of
Philip's land, and would pay for them all liberally.
You may ask why William Smith wanted to do this. He was making so
rapid a fortune, that if things continued as they were for twelve
months, he would be at least a fifty-thousand-pounds man. And in three
years these figures would be doubled. A hundred thousand pounds! When
he was a bricklayer at home working for a bare pittance, on high
scaffoldings at the risk of his life, the very idea of possessing such
a sum would have been enough to take away his breath. Now he thought
nothing of it. But he wanted Philip's claim. For this reason: he
burned to be a master of men, not of twenty, or fifty, or a hundred.
He wanted to be a master of not fewer than five hundred men, all doing
well under him, all living comfortably and being well paid, and if he
had Philip's claim he saw his way to it. Then when he went home to the
old country, he could say to his old master, "You thought it a great
thing to have eighty men under you, each of whom could earn about a
guinea and a half a week. Why, I, one of those eighty, went into a new
country and employed five hundred men, and every one of them had a
house of his own and was well clothed, and could give his family meat
for breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper; and after paying for
everything, and more besides, could put by thirty shillings a week in
the savings bank--in the savings bank, which I started and am trustee
of!" You see, the master used to cry out that working men in the old
country were better off than they were in any other part of the world.
William Smith wanted to show him that he was wrong.
So William Smith yearned to be king of five hundred men, and the
proper complement of women and children--to be master of five hundred
pairs of hands--to see peace and plenty and industry all about him--to
walk among his workmen, and chat and smile with them--to walk among
the women and children, and pat the youngsters on the head, and pass
kind words with the mothers. He had all these thoughts. It was not a
bad ambition.
He offered money for Philip's claim--a large sum. Philip and his mate
shook their heads. Mr. Hart would have been glad to sell his share; if
he had one-eighth of what William Smith offered, the white sails
should spread for him over the seas, for Home, dear Home! But he
decided that it would be base to sell; it would be like deserting
Philip. "I'll wait yet a little while," he thought. "A few months will
soon pass."
William Smith tempted him. Philip stood by.
Mr. Hart declined, and saw in the look of joy which flashed into
Philip's face what pleasure his refusal had given the young man.
The largest retorted cake of gold that had been produced for many a
score of miles round was produced from a great crushing out of
Philip's claim. It weighed no less than two thousand two hundred
ounces. It was exhibited in the principal gold-broker's window on a
Saturday, which was the busiest day in the township. On that day all
the gold-diggers and their wives and children came in from the hills
and gullies, and made their purchases. A more bustling scene of its
kind could not be witnessed in any other part of the world. All day
long the diggers and the women poured in, from east, from west, from
north, from south. Where a storekeeper took ten pounds on another day,
he took fifty on a Saturday. You should have seen the theatre on
Saturday nights.
The people stood round and about the gold-broker's window, and those
who were nearest stared and stared, and those who were farthest away
peeped over their neighbours' shoulders, at the great beautiful cake
of gold, duly labelled. Two thousand two hundred ounces It made every
one's mouth water.
But on the Monday morning following this splendid exhibition, Philip
arriving at his claim--he had spent the Sunday with Margaret--found
the miners standing about in idleness: which was not the way of the
men. A part of the shaft had fallen in, and they were waiting to know
what to do.
"Do!" exclaimed Philip. "Go down, of course."
And down he went, and made an anxious and critical examination. When
he came up again he decided to get the Government mining surveyor to
report upon the condition of the shaft. This was done, and the
surveyor gave certain directions. The shaft would have to be slabbed
round all its sides for fifty feet from the surface--boxed in as it
were. Until then it was not safe to work below. The slabbing was done;
it occupied a week, and cost some money.
Philip fretted at the delay, and no one was glad but William Smith. He
rejoiced. He had not one particle of malice in his nature, but he said
quietly to himself, "I'd like that shaft to cave in from top to
bottom. Perhaps they'd sell it to me then."
Margaret heard of the disaster--from William Smith's lips, I think.
She turned white, and clung to Philip on the night she heard the news.
He was annoyed that she knew, but what was there to be frightened at?
he asked.
"Frightened at!" she cried. "Oh, Phillip! how can you ask? The shaft
will fall in again----"
"How do you know that?"
"I know it--I feel it! And you will be underneath, perhaps!----"
She could not proceed for her terror. He could not but feel glad at
this solicitude for him, and he used lover's arguments to prove that
there was no danger. These arguments were sweet and delicious to her,
but they had a contrary effect from that which he intended. Making her
love him more, they made her more anxious for his safety.
"Promise me not to go down," she begged. "Promise me to work at the
top.
"And let another man be crushed in my place?" he said proudly. She
shuddered, and held him closer to her. "Not if I know it!"
"Then you don't value my life?" she cried, with womanly tact and
womanly unreason.
"Your life, my dearest! not value your life, when a single hair of
your head is more precious to me than all the gold in Silver Creek!"
"No," she persisted, "you don't value my life, when you are determined
to risk it in this way."
"What are you talking about, Margaret? _I_ risk _your_ life!"
"Yes," she cried, "you are about to do it. For if anything happens to
you, I shall die."
To pacify her he was compelled to promise that he would not go down
below, but he did not keep his word. It was not often he broke it, but
here his manhood was in question. He was not going to shirk his fair
share of risk. He did not deceive Margaret long, however. She coaxed
Mr. Hart to take her to the Reef one day, and did not scruple to say
that Philip expected her. When they arrived at the shaft, she was told
that Philip was below. White from apprehension, she walked a few yards
away, and sat down upon a trunk of a tree, while the workmen from a
distance gazed at her lithe and graceful form with respectful
admiration.
"Phil Rowe's a lucky fellow," they said.
Mr. Hart passed the word down for Philip to come up, and up he came,
strong and handsome, with the veins standing out on his bare arms and
throat: a fair sight for a woman who loved him. But Margaret turned
from him, and repulsed him, secretly admiring him all the while for
his courage.
"This is the way that men deceive women," she said--"promising one
thing and doing another!"
Had she been a scholar, she might have flung at him the proverb,
"False in one thing, false in all," but she was only a woman in love.
Besides, she would have known that there would have been no truth in
the proverb, in this case. Perhaps that would not have mattered,
though. Women are queer logicians; their logic comes from the heart,
not from the head.
"What can I do?" he asked, after listening to her reproaches. "You
don't want people to think me a coward, do you?"
"If they dared to say so!" she exclaimed, with a motion which implied
that she would defend him.
"They will say so if I do as you wish," he said; her hand was in his
now: he did not mind the workmen seeing. "No, no, Margaret. Your word
shall be law in everything but this, Women don't understand these
matters." She tossed her head disdainfully. "Besides, don't I want to
get rich for my Margaret's sake?"
"Rich!" she exclaimed. "Why, you have thousands of pounds!"
"I want thousands more to throw into your lap."
She wavered a little, for just three seconds.
"No," she said then. "You don't want thousands more, if your life is
to be risked in the getting of them, Philip," and she looked at him
earnestly, "if you were a beggar, I should not care."
"Do you mean to say you would love me all the same?"
"Yes; and work for you, if it was necessary."
She meant it. However, she did not persuade him to act as she wished.
But things were working in her favour.
Within a few hours of this conversation, Philip, still working below,
made a disheartening discovery. They were preparing for a blast. He
was holding the gad, while a workman was striking it on the head with
his hammer. Half an inch this way or that, and Philip would have been
maimed for life, but it was seldom a man was so unskilful as to cause
an accident in this way. The hole for the gunpowder was two feet deep,
and Philip lifted up the gad and spooned out the dust. It came up in a
liquid state; Philip looked anxious, and more anxious still, when the
whole was cleared, to see water bubbling up. They had struck a small
stream. It was not very serious at first. They continued working
during the day, and fired the blast the last thing in the evening,
before knocking off work. When Philip went down the shaft the next
morning, he stepped up to his waist in water. They set to manfully,
and baled it out; more than half the working hours of the day were
lost in this necessary labour. They dug a shaft within the shaft, to
serve as a well, and so managed to keep themselves tolerably dry; but
the water came in faster and faster.
William Smith smiled and rubbed his hands. The claim was already as
good as his; he began already making bids for other claims, north and
south. In his mind's eyes he mapped everything out. He saw himself
king of this great range. He saw a happy village springing up. Here
should be this; there should be that. Tents for the gold-diggers here;
a wooden house for himself there. On this spot should be a church; on
that a school-house. He saw a well-dressed and happy congregation, his
workmen and their families, walking from the church on the Sabbath
day, smiling and talking together: he saw the children trooping out of
the school-house after school hours, and the schoolmaster standing in
the porch, with his cane under his arm: joy stirred in his heart as he
fancied these things, and as he heard the shouts and hurrahs of the
youngsters. There should be gardens too; yes, every tent should have
its garden. He saw the cabbages and peas coming up; flowers also. He
went to the highest point of the range, and folding his arms, looked
down upon his kingdom. It had been a pleasure to him hitherto to make
money, but he had not thought much of it. He had made it so easily,
that his heart had scarcely been fluttered by the success of his
speculations. But now, as he contemplated the realisation of his pet
scheme, money was really sweet to him for the first time.
The quartz-crushing machine hammered away as steadily as ever, the
water in Philip's claim increasing in volume every day. It served one
good purpose. A race was made from the shaft to the dam, and a
continual stream of water was running down it.
"You ought to pay us for the water," said Philip's mate.
"You ought to pay me for taking it," said William Smith.
Matters were growing serious. Out of every twelve hours they could
work in the quartz but three.
Yet I do not think that William Smith would have obtained the claim,
if it had not been that a woman was on his side.