“So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will ean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece.”—_King Henry VI._
Jack had soon quite enough upon his hands to occupy him for every waking
hour and moment, to fatigue his body, and, consequently, to lay to rest
any obtrusive doubts or fears as to the ultimate success of his
undertaking. The stores began to arrive, and he had to fix a site for
the new cottage and the indispensable wool-shed. The former locality he
selected at Steamboat Point, before alluded to by Mr. Hawkesbury, which
was a bluff near a deep reach of the river, shaded by couba trees and
river-oaks of great age, and at an elevation far above the periodical
floods which from time to time swept the lowlands of the Warroo, and
converted its sluggish tide into a furious devastating torrent.
Sawyers were engaged, carpenters, splitters, and labourers generally.
With these, as, indeed, with all the station _employés_, much conflict
had to be gone through as to prices of contract and labour. A new
proprietor was looked upon as a person of limited intelligence, but
altogether of boundless wealth, which, in greater or less degree, each
“old hand” believed it his privilege to share. It was held to be an act
of meanness and unjustifiable parsimony for one in his position to
expect to have work done at the same rate as other people. Jack had much
trouble in disabusing them of this superstition. Eventually it came to
be admitted that “the cove knew his way about,” and “had seen a thing or
two before;” after which matters went more smoothly.
Then letters came from Drawe and Backwell stating that a large operator,
with a million of acres or so of new country, where “the blacks were too
bad for sheep,” had bought the whole of the herd, after Rooney had done
drafting, and was ready to take delivery without delay.
In due time all this hard and anxious work was accomplished. Mr. Joe
Best returned and possessed himself of every fat bullock and every
decent cow “without incumbrance” on the place. And then the
long-resident Gondaree herd—much lowing, and fully of opinion, judged by
its demeanour, that the end of the world was come—was violently evicted
and driven off from its birthplace in three great droves by a small army
of stockmen and all the dogs within a hundred miles.
So the cattle were “cleared off,” at low prices too, as in after days
Jack had occasion to remember. But nobody bought store cattle in that
year except as a sort of personal favour. Nothing better could be
expected.
“Well—so they’re mustered and gone at last,” said Hawkesbury, the day
after the last engagement. “Blest if I didn’t think some of us would
lose the number of our mess. Those old cows would eat a man—let alone
skiver him. The herd came up well to their number in the books, didn’t
they? There was more of those Bimbalong cattle than I took ’em to be.
Well, there’s been a deal of money took off this run since I came—next
to nothing spent either; that’s what I look at. I hope the sheep-racket
will do as well, sir.”
“I hope so, too, Hawkesbury,” answered Jack. “One good season with sheep
is generally said to be worth three with cattle. I had a letter to-day
from M‘Nab to say that he was on the road with the ewes, and would be
here early next month.”
“Well, then, I’ll cut my stick; you won’t want the pair of us, and I’m
not much to do with sheep, except putting the dogs on old Boxall’s
whenever I’ve caught ’em over their boundary. You’ll have to watch
_him_, if you get mixed, or you’ll come short.”
“Every sheep of mine will be legibly fire-branded,” said Jack, with a
certain pride; “there’s no getting over that, you know.”
“He’ll fire-brand too,” said Hawkesbury, “in the same place, quick. And
as his ear-mark’s a close crop, and he’s not particular what ear, his
shepherds might easy make any stray lots uncommon like their own.”
“By Jove!” said Jack, rather startled at the new light thrown on sheep
management on the Warroo. “However M‘Nab will see to that; he’s not an
easy man to get round, they say. Then, would you really prefer to leave?
If so, I’ll make out your account.”
“If you please, Mr. Redgrave. I’ve been up here five years now; so I
think I’ll go down the country, and see my people for a bit of change.
It don’t do to stay in these parts too long at a time, unless a man
wants to turn into a black fellow or a lushington.”
On the very day mentioned in his latest despatch, Mr. M‘Nab arrived with
his ten thousand ewes; and a very good lot they were—in excellent
condition too. He had nosed out an unfrequented back track, where the
feed was unspoiled by those marauding bands of “condottieri,” travelling
sheep. Water had been plentiful, so that the bold stroke was successful.
Pitching his tent in a sheltered spot, he sat up half the night busy
with pen and pencil, and by breakfast time had every account made out,
and all his supernumeraries ready to be paid off. The expenses of the
journey, with a tabulated statement showing the exact cost per sheep of
the expedition, were also upon a separate sheet of paper handed up to
his employer.
From this time forth all went on with unslackening and successful
progress. M‘Nab was in his glory, and went forth rejoicing each day,
planning, calculating, ordering, and arranging to his heart’s content.
The out-stations were chosen, the flocks drafted and apportioned, a
ration-carrier selected, bush-yards made, while, simultaneously, the
cottage walls began to arise on Steamboat Point, and the site of the
wool-shed, on a plain bordering an ana-branch sufficient for water, but
too inconsiderable for flood, was, after careful consideration, finally
decided upon. The season was very favourable; rain fell seasonably and
plentifully; grass was abundant, and the sheep fattened up “hand over
hand” without a suspicion of foot-rot, or any of the long train of
ailments which the fascinating, profitable, but too susceptible merino
so often affects.
The more Jack saw of his new manager the more he liked and respected
him. He felt almost humiliated as he noted his perfect mastery of every
detail connected with station (_i.e._ sheep) management, his energy, his
forecast, his rapid and easy arrangement of a hundred jarring details,
and reflected that he had purchased the invaluable services of this
gifted personage for so moderate a consideration.
“We shall not have time to get up a decent wool-shed this year, Mr.
Redgrave,” he said, at one of their first councils. “We _must_ have a
good, substantial store, as it won’t do to have things of value lying
about. A small room alongside will do for me till we get near shearing.
We must knock up a temporary shed with hurdles and calico, and wash the
best way we can in the creek. Next year we can go in for spouts, and all
the rest of it, and I hope we’ll be able to shear in such a shed as the
Warroo has never seen yet.”
“It’s a good while to Christmas,” said Jack. “How about the shed if we
put more men on? I don’t like make-shifts.”
“Couldn’t possibly be done in the time,” answered Mr. M‘Nab, with prompt
decision. “Lambing will keep us pretty busy for two months. We _must_
have shearing over by October, or all this clover-burr that I see about
will be in the wool, and out of your pocket to the tune of about
threepence a pound. Besides, these sawyers and bush-carpenters can’t be
depended upon. They might leave us in the lurch, and then we should
neither have one thing nor the other.”
“Very well,” said Jack, “I leave that part of it to you.”
All Mr. M‘Nab’s plans and prophecies had a fashion of succeeding, and
verifying themselves to the letter. Apparently he forgot nothing,
superintended everything, trusted nobody, and coerced, persuaded, and
placed everybody like pawns on a chess-board. His temper was wonderfully
under command; he never bullied his underlings, but had a way of
assuring them that he was afraid they wouldn’t get on together,
supplemented on continued disapproval by a calm order to come in and get
their cheque. This system was found to be efficacious. He always kept a
spare hand or two, and was thereby enabled to fill up the place of a
deserter at a moment’s notice.
Thus, with the aid of M‘Nab and of a good season, John Redgrave, during
the first year, prospered exceedingly. His sheep had a capital increase,
and nearly eight thousand gamesome, vigorous lambs followed their
mothers to the wash-pool. The wool was got off clean, and wonderfully
clear of dirt and seed; and just before shearing Mr. M‘Nab exhibited a
specimen of his peculiar talents which also brought grist to the mill.
It happened in this wise:—Looking over the papers one evening he
descried mention of a lot of store sheep then on their way to town, and
on a line of road which would bring them near to Gondaree.
“This lot would suit us very well, Mr. Redgrave,” said he, looking up
from his paper, and then taking a careful transcript in his pocket-book
of their ages, numbers, and sexes. “Seven thousand altogether—five
thousand four and six tooth wethers, with a couple of thousand ewes; if
they are good-framed sheep, with decent fleeces, and the ewes not too
old, they would pay well to buy on a six months’ bill. We could take the
wool off and have them fat on these Bimbalong plains by the time the
bill comes due.”
“How about seeing them?” quoth Jack; “they may be Queensland sheep, with
wool about half an inch long. They often shear them late on purpose when
they are going to start them on the road. ‘They’re a simple people,’ as
Sam Slick says, those Queenslanders.”
“Of course I must see them,” answered M‘Nab. “I never buy a pig in a
poke; but they will be within a hundred miles of us in a week, and I can
ride across and see them, and find out their idea of price. Shearing is
always an expensive business, and the same plant and hands will do for
double our number of sheep, if we can get them at a price.”
M‘Nab carried out his intention, and, falling across the caravan in an
accidental kind of way, extracted full particulars from the owner, a
somewhat irascible old fellow, who was convoying in person. He returned
with a favourable report. The sheep were good sheep; they had well-grown
fleeces, rather coarse; but that did not matter with fattening sheep;
they were large and would make good wethers when topped up. The ewes
were pretty fair, and not broken-mouthed. They wanted eleven shillings
all round, and they were in the hands of Day and Burton, the stock
agents.
“Now, I’ve been thinking,” said Mr. M‘Nab, meditatively, “whether it
wouldn’t pay for me to run down to Melbourne by the mail—it passes
to-morrow morning—and arrange the whole thing with Day and Burton.
Writing takes an awful long time. Besides, I might knock sixpence a head
off, and that would pay for my coach-fare and time, and a good deal
over. Seven thousand sixpences are one hundred and seventy-five pounds.
Thirty pounds would take me there and back, inside of three weeks.”
“That will only allow you two days in town,” said Jack, “and you’ll be
shaken to death in that beastly mail-cart.”
“Never mind that,” said the burly son of the “black north,” stretching
his sinewy frame. “I can stand a deal of killing. Shall I go?”
“Oh, go by all means, if you think you can do any good. I don’t envy you
the journey.”
M‘Nab accordingly departed by the mail next morning, leaving Jack to
carry on the establishment in his absence, a responsibility which
absorbed the whole of his waking hours so completely that he had no time
to think of anything but sheep and shepherds, with an occasional dash of
dingo. One forenoon, as he was waiting for his midday meal, having
ridden many a mile since daylight, he descried a small party approaching
on foot which he was puzzled at first to classify. He soon discovered
them to be aboriginals. First walked a tall, white-haired old man,
carrying a long fish-spear, and but little encumbered with wearing
apparel. After him a gin, not by any means of a “suitable age” (as
people say in the case of presumably marriageable widowers), then two
lean, toothless old beldames of gins staggering under loads of blankets,
camp furniture, spare weapons, an iron pot or two, and a few puppies;
several half-starved, mangy dogs followed in a string. Finally, the
whole party advanced to within a few paces of the hut and sat solemnly
down, the old savage sticking his spear into the earth previously with
great deliberation.
As the little group sat silently in their places bolt upright, like so
many North American Indians, Jack walked down to open proceedings. The
principal personage was not without an air of simple dignity, and was
very different of aspect from the dissipated and debased beggars which
the younger blacks of a tribe but too often become. He was evidently of
great age, but Jack could see no means of divining whether seventy years
or a hundred and twenty would be the more correct approximation. His
dark and furrowed countenance, seamed with innumerable wrinkles,
resembled that of a graven image. His hair and beard, curling and
abundant, were white as snow. His eye was bright, and as he smiled with
childish good humour it was apparent that the climate so fatal to the
incisors and bicuspids of the white invader, had spared the larger
proportion of his grinders. On Jack’s desiring to know his pleasure, he
smiled cheerfully again, and muttering “baal dalain,” motioned to the
younger female, as if desiring her to act as interpreter. She was
muffled up in a large opossum-rug which concealed the greater part of
her face; but as she said a few words in a plaintive tone, and with a
great affectation of shyness, Jack looking at her for the first time
recognized the brilliant eyes and mischievous countenance of his old
acquaintance Wildduck.
“So it’s you?” he exclaimed, much amused, upon which the whole party
grinned responsively, the two old women particularly. “And is this your
grandfather, and all your grandmothers; and what do you want at
Gondaree?”
“This my husband, cooley belonging to me—ole man Jack,” explained
Wildduck, with an air of matronly propriety. “Ole man Jack, he wantim
you let him stay long a wash-pen shearing time. He look out sheep no
drown. Swim fust-rate, that ole man.”
“Well, I’ll see,” replied Jack, who had heard M‘Nab say a black fellow
or two would be handy at the wash-pen—the sheep having rather a long
swim. “You can go and camp down there by the water. How did you come to
marry such an old fellow, eh, Wildduck?”
“My fader give me to him when I picaninny. Ippai and Kapothra, I s’pos.
Black fellow always marry likit that. White girl baal marry ole man, eh,
Mr. Redgrave?”
“Never; that is, not unless he’s very rich, Wildduck. Here’s a fig of
tobacco. Go to the store and get some tea and sugar, and flour.”
Old man Jack and his lawful but by no means monogamous household, were
permitted to camp at the Wash-pen Creek, in readiness for the somewhat
heavy list of casualties which “throwing in” always involves. A sheep
encumbered with a heavy fleece, and exhausted by a protracted immersion,
often contrives to drown as suddenly and perversely as a Lascar. Nothing
short of the superior aquatic resources of a savage prevents heavy loss
occasionally. So Mr. Redgrave, averse in a general way, for reasons of
state, to having native camps on the station, yet made a compromise in
this instance. A few sheets of bark were stripped, a few bundles of
grass cut, a few pieces of dry wood dragged up by old Nanny and Maramie,
and the establishment was complete. A short half-hour after, and there
was a cake baked on the coals, hot tea in a couple of very black quart
pots, while the odours of a roasted opossum, and the haunch of wallaby,
were by no means without temptation to fasting wayfarers with
unsophisticated palates. As old man Jack sat near the cheerful fire,
with his eyes still keen and roving, wandering meditatively over the
still water and the far-stretching plain, as the fading eve closed in
magical splendour before his unresponsive gaze, how much was this poor,
untaught savage to be pitied, in comparison with a happy English
labourer, _adscriptus glebæ_ of his parish—lord of eleven babes, and
twelve shillings per week, and, though scarce past his prime, dreading
increased rheumatism and decreasing wages with every coming winter!
For this octogenarian of one of earth’s most ancient families had
retained most of his accomplishments, a few simple virtues, and much of
his strength and suppleness; still could he stand erect in his frail
canoe, fashioned out of a single sheet of bark, and drive her swift and
safely through the turbulent tide of a flooded river. Still could he
dive like an otter, and like that “fell beastie” bring up the impaled
fish or the amphibious turtle. Still could he snare the wild fowl, track
the honey-bee, and rifle the nest of the pheasant of the thicket. Upon
him, as, indeed, is the case with many of the older aboriginals, the
fatal gifts of the white man had no power. He refused the fire-water; he
touched not the strange weed, by reason of the magical properties of
which the souls of men are exhaled in acrid vapour—oh, subtle and
premature cremation!—or sublimated in infinite sneezings. He drank of
the lake and of the river, as did his forefathers; he ate of the fowls
of the air and of their eggs (I grieve to add, occasionally stale), of
the forest creatures, and of the fish of the rivers. In spite of this
unauthorized and unrelieved diet, lightly had the burning summers passed
over his venerable pate. The square shoulders had not bowed, the upright
form still retained its natural elasticity, while the knotted muscles of
the limbs, moving like steel rings under his sable skin, showed
undiminished power and volume.