“So farre, so fast the eygre drave,
The heart had hardly time to beat,
Before a shallow seething wave
Sobbed in the grasses at our feet;
The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,
And all the world was in the sea.”—_Jean Ingelow_.
The days passed pleasantly in excursions to Bimbalong, to the back
paddocks, and in rides and drives along the perfect natural roads
peculiar to the locality. In the long excursions, the twilight was upon
them more than once before they reached home. Jack did not altogether
neglect his opportunities. When he rode close to Maud’s bridle-rein, as
they flitted along in the mild half-light between the shadowy pines, or
the avenues of oak and myall, words would become gradually lower in
tone, more accented with feeling, than the ordinary daylight converse.
“And so you think,” said Jack, on one of these pleasant twilight
confidentials—Stangrove, who was driving, being rather anxious to get
home before the light got any worse—“that I am not playing too hazardous
a game in spending freely now, with the expectation of being so largely
recouped within a year or two.”
“It is exactly what I should do if I were a man,” said the girl,
frankly. “How men can consent to bury themselves alive in this
wearisome, never-ending, bush sepulchre I cannot think. I should perish
if I were compelled to lead such a life without possibility of change.
When we think of the glorious old world, the dreamland of one’s spirit,
the theatre of art, luxury, war, antiquity, which leisure would enable
one to visit—how can _one_ be contented?”
“I never thought _I_ should feel contented on the Warroo,” said her
companion; “yet now, really, I don’t find it so awfully dull, you know.”
“Not just at present,” answered Maud, archly. “Well, I am candid enough
to own that, our families having joined forces since your visit, things
are a shade more bearable. But fancy growing gray in this life and these
surroundings. Twenty years after! Fancy us all at that date, here!”
“I can’t fancy it. What should we be like, Miss Stangrove?”
“I can tell you,” pursued the excited girl. “Mark much the same, gray
and more silent—strongly of opinion that the Government of the day were
in league with free selectors, and generally robbers and murderers. His
opinions are pretty strong now. _Then_, of course, they would have
ripened into prejudices. My sister-in-law, frail, worn out by servants
and household cares; just a _little_ querulous, and more indisposed to
read.”
“And yourself?” asked Jack.
“Oh! I should have been quietly buried under a couba tree before that
impossible period. Or, if I unhappily survived, would have become
eccentric. I should be spoken of generally as a ‘little strong-minded,’
slight dash of temper, and so on; very fond of riding, and, they say,
can count sheep and act as boundary-rider when her brother is short of
hands. How do you like the picture?”
“You have not paid me the compliment of including me on the canvas.”
“I don’t possibly imagine you within thousands of miles of Gondaree or
Juandah at such a time. You will be dreaming among the ‘Stones of
Venice,’ lounging away the winter in Rome, or settled in a hunting
neighbourhood in a pleasant English county, making up your mind, very
gradually, to return to Australia, and to devote the rest of your days
to model farming and national regeneration.”
“There is only one thing absolutely necessary to render my existence
happy under the conditions which you have so accurately sketched,”—here
he leaned forward, and placing his hand upon her horse’s mane, saw a
softened gleam in her marvellous eyes—as of the heart’s farewell to
unacknowledged hope—“and that is——”
“We are really riding shamefully slow,” said she suddenly, as she drew
her rein, and the free horse tossed his head and went off at speed.
“Mark must have nearly reached home, and Jane, as usual, will be
fancying all kinds of impossible accidents—that dear old Mameluke has
tumbled down, positively tumbled down and broken my arm in three places.
I tell her she’ll suspect me of taking a ‘bait’ next. How still the
plain looks, and how exactly the same—north and south, east and west!
But even in this light you can distinguish the heavy, dark, winding line
of the river timber.”
In due time the guests departed, and Mr. Redgrave was left to the
consideration of the loneliness of his condition, a view of life which
had not presented itself strongly before his introduction to Miss
Stangrove. He had been contented to enjoy the society of wife, widow,
and maid in the most artless, instinctive fashion, without any fixed
plan of personal advantage. Not that this unsatisfactory general
approbation had escaped criticism by those who felt themselves to be
sufficiently interested to speak. He had been called selfish, conceited,
fastidious, fast, uninteresting, and mysterious. Many adjectives had in
private been hurled at his devoted head. But he “had a light heart, and
so bore up.” Besides, he had a reserve of popularity to fall back upon.
There were many people who would not suffer Jack Redgrave to be run down
unreasonably. So up to this time he had eluded appropriation and defied
disapproval.
Now matters were changed. The slow, resistless Nemesis was upon him. In
his ears sounded the prelude to that melody—heard but once in this
mortal life—in tones at first low and soft, then rich and dread with
melody from the immortal lyre. At that summons all men arise and follow.
Follow, be it angel or fiend. Follow, be the path over vernal meads,
through forest gloom, or the drear shades of the nether hell.
No woman, Jack soliloquised, had ever before commended herself to his
tastes, his senses, his reason, and his fancy. She was in his eyes
lovely in form and face; original, cultured, tender, and true. He would
make her his wife if his utmost efforts might compass such triumph, such
wild exaggeration of happiness. She might not care particularly about
him. She might merely have whiled away a dull week. Now, many a time had
_he_ done likewise, with apparent interest and inward tedium. Were it
so, he felt as if he could bestow a legend on Steamboat Point by casting
himself into the rapid but not particularly deep waters which flowed
beneath. At any rate he would try. He would make the great hazard. He
would know his fate after shearing. Meanwhile, there was nearly enough
to do until that solemn Hegira to put the thought of Maud Stangrove out
of his head.
Having made up his mind, Mr. Redgrave dismissed the fair Maud with
philosophical completeness. Master Jack was extremely averse to holding
his judgment in suspense, that process involving abrasion of his
peculiarly delicate mental cuticle. He was prone, therefore, to a speedy
settlement of all cases of conscience. Judgment being delivered, he bore
or performed sentence unflinchingly. Yet his friends asserted that
during any stay of proceedings he could amuse himself as unreservedly,
as free from boding gloom, or “the sad companion, ghastly pale, and
darksome as a widow’s veil,” as any sportive lambkin on his way to mint
sauce and deglutition. Thus, having settled that the subjugation of Miss
Stangrove could not be undertaken until after shearing, he went heart
and soul into the arrangements for that annual agony, to the total
exclusion of all less material considerations.
To a healthy man, in the full possession of all mental and bodily
faculties, perhaps a state of perfect employment is the one most nearly
approaching to that of perfect happiness. It is rarely conceded at the
time; but more often than we wot of do men recall, when in the lap of
ease, that season of comparative toil and strife, with a sigh for the
“grand old days of pleasure and pain.” Each nerve and muscle is at
stretch. The struggle is close and hard; but there is the glorious
sensation of “the strong man rejoicing in his strength.” The very
fatigue is natural and wholesome. The recovery is sure and complete;
and, if only a reasonable meed of success crown those unsparing efforts,
the heart swells with the proud joy of him round whose brow is twined
the envied crown in the arena. Let who will choose the dulled sensation
with which, in after life, the successful merchant notes his dividends,
or the politician accepts the long-promised leadership.
Mr. Redgrave, then, having girded himself for the fight, in company with
M‘Nab, drank delight of battle with his peers, that is, with the
shearers, washers, and knockabout men, who struck repeatedly, and gave
as much trouble as their ingenuity could manage to supply during the
first week of shearing.
* * * * *
Suddenly—as is the custom of all Australian weather-wonders—clouds
charged with heavy driving showers came hurtling across the fair blue
sky. This abnormal state of matters on the Warroo was succeeded by a
steady, settled rainfall, pouring down heavily, and yet more heavily on
several successive days, as if heaven’s windows were once more opened,
and the dry land was again to be circumscribed. Without loss of time,
down came the river, “tossing his tawny mane,” foam-flecked, and bearing
on his broad brown bosom all sorts of goods and chattels not intended
for water carriage. The anabranch surrounding a large portion of the
river paddock, wherein were the weaners, was simultaneously filled by
the turbid torrent, which dashed into its deep but ordinarily dry bed
from the brimming river. At the present level no danger was to be
apprehended for the unconscious weaners; but M‘Nab was unwilling to
trust to the probabilities, and decided upon getting them out. A bridge
was extemporised, of a sort laid away in the well-stored chambers of his
practical brain, and thrown across the narrowest part.
With a heavy expenditure of patience, and the efficient leadership of
certain pet sheep, which M‘Nab had reared and trained for shearing
needs, the whole lot were mustered and safely crossed over the
newly-born water-course.
“I am not sure now,” said M‘Nab, “that we have not had all our trouble
for nothing. I believe the river will be low again in a week.”
“All the same,” affirmed Jack, “it’s well to be on the safe side,
especially of a back creek in flood-time. Nobody knows what these
confounded rivers are capable of doing when no one wants them.”
“Well, they can have the No. 2 paddock, and the dry ewes can have No. 3.
I wanted No. 2 for the shorn sheep, though. It’s just a nuisance the
water coming down now.”
The mild excitement of the spate, as Mr. M‘Nab called it, died away. The
sun came out; the waters returned to nearly their former limits, and a
wide, half-dried surface of mud, alone denoted where the deep and turbid
waters had rolled over the broad channel of the anabranch.
The wool-shed and wash-pen had been correctly placed upon the borders of
a creek so conveniently humble as never to attain to any measure of
danger or discomfort in the highest flood. So, directly the rain ceased,
the great yearly campaign went on rapidly and smoothly.
Weeks passed; the season was advancing; the sun became hotter; there was
not a day of broken weather; everything was in capital gear, and worked
with even suspicious smoothness.
“We are getting on like a house afire,” said M‘Nab; “that is,” as he
suddenly bethought himself of the awkwardness of the allusion, “much
faster than I expected. We have a good lot of men. There is no dust. The
wash-pen is just grand. I never saw wool cleaner and better got up,
though I say so.”
“Our luck has turned,” said Jack; “no more accidents; though it’s
strange that, when all is unnaturally successful, something is sure to
happen. If the engine was to smash, a valve or some small trouble to
happen, I should feel that the ring of Polycrates had been thrown into
the Warroo, and not returned by an officious codfish.”
“I don’t know about Polly Whatsyname’s ring,” said Mr. M‘Nab, whose
education had not included the classics; “but things couldn’t be better.
I shall put those weaners back into the river paddock again. The grass
is all going to waste.”
“Just as you like,” said Jack, who had forgotten his caution now that
the emergency was over. “I suppose we shall have the dust blowing in
about a fortnight.”
“By then we shall be done shearing. I don’t care what comes after,”
answered the manager. “And now I must go back to the shed.”
* * * * *
“Thank God, it’s Saturday night!” said Jack, as they sat down to their
dinner at the fashionable hour of nine p.m. “I enjoy a good bout of
work; it’s exciting, and pulls one together. But one wants a _little_
sleep sometimes; likewise something to eat.”
“This has been a middling hard week,” graciously admitted M‘Nab, who
rarely would concede that any amount of labour constituted a _really_
laborious term. “One more week, and every dray will be loaded up, and
the wool off our hands.”
“Do you think the weather will hold good? It had rather a lowering, hazy
look to-day.”
“That means that it’s raining somewhere else,” said M‘Nab,
uninterestedly. “It’s very often our share of it on the Warroo here.”
“Don’t know—somehow I have had a queer feeling all day that I can’t
account for. Hard work generally goes to raise my spirits in view of the
splendid appreciation of food and sleep that follows. But I have felt
what the teller of tales calls a ‘presentiment’—a foreshadowing of
evil—if such a thing can be.”
“Take a glass of grog extra to-night, sir; you’ve caught cold at the
wash-pen, or the influenza the men had before shearing has fastened on
you. Some of them got a great shaking with it, and lay about like a lot
of old women.”
“I suspect the vagabonds considered it a favourable time to be ill,”
laughed Jack, “as they were not paying for their rations, and thought we
might put them on at a little gentle work. However, we won’t pursue the
subject.”
No one can have an adequate comprehension of the value of the Sabbath as
a day of pure rest who has not worked at high pressure, with brain or
hand, the week-time through. Well and wisely was the Lord’s Day
ordained—well and wisely is it maintained—for the needful recovery of
the wasted powers of the wondrous, miraculous machine called Man. In
this age, above all others, it is vitally necessary that a weekly truce
should be proclaimed, when the life-long conflict may cease and the
fever-throbs of the “malady of thought” may be stilled.
But for this anodyne, how many a brow, hot with the electric currents
that flash ceaselessly through the brain, would pass swiftly from pain
to madness! How many a stalwart frame, the unguarded, yet precious,
capital of the son of labour, would stagger and fall by the wayside of a
life which was one endless, monotonous martyrdom of unrelieved toil! But
the eve, the blessed herald of the coming holy day, arrives; the worn
craftsman rests, enjoys, and sinks into a dreamless sleep. The modern
Alchemist, he who painfully coins his brain into gold, relinquishing
crucible and furnace, walks forth into the pure air of heaven, and
thanks the Great Ruler for the respite—the sweet moments of a charmed,
untroubled day.
John Redgrave, as he awoke at dawn, and turned over for an hour or two
of rare repose, had some such glimmerings of thankfulness. He had
nothing to do or to think about until late in the afternoon, when the
sheep for Monday’s shearing would have to be packed into the shed, and
the next contingent due for the somewhat trying lavation by spout placed
near their tubbing apparatus. All the morning—what an amazing quantity
of time!—absolutely free. A leisurely calm breakfast, with the glorious
“nothing to do” for ever so long afterwards. It was the reign of Buddha,
the classic Elysium. He would sit on high like broad-fronted Jove, and
meditate, and read and write, and be supremely happy.
From the tenor of Mr. Redgrave’s thoughts, it will not escape the acute
reader that he had forgotten his presentiment. But scarcely had he
concluded his solitary, luxuriously-lingering meal—(M‘Nab of course was
miles away on some indispensable work, which he kept for Sundays and
holidays)—than the Eidolon stole forth from the curtains of his soul,
and confronted him with disembodied but ghastly presentment. Down went
the register of Jack’s animal spirits—down—down. The very face of heaven
darkened—the sky became overcast. The breeze became chill and moaned
eerily, without any assignable reason—for what were clouds in Riverina
but the heralds of prosperity, or its synonym, the Rain-King, but the
lord and gold-giver of all the sun-scorched land?
Thus he reasoned. But his logic was powerless to dislodge the demon. The
necessary evening work was formally proceeded with; but the sun set upon
few more depressed and utterly wretched mortals than John Redgrave, as
he moodily smoked for an hour, and retired early to an uneasy couch.
More than once he half rose through the night, and listened, as a
strange sound mingled with the blast which roared and raved, and shook
the cottage roof in the frenzied gusts of the changeful spring. But an
hour before dawn he sprang suddenly up and shouted to M‘Nab, who slept
in an adjoining room.
“Get up, man, and listen. I thought I could not be mistaken. The river
has got us this time.”
“I hear,” said M‘Nab, standing at the window, with all his senses about
him. “It can’t be the river; and yet, what else can it be?”
“I know,” cried Jack; “it’s the water pouring into the back creek when
it leaves the river. There must be an awful flood coming down, or it
could never make all that row. The last time it filled up as smoothly as
a backwater lagoon. Listen again!”
The two men stood, half-clad as they were, in the darkness, ever deepest
before dawn, while louder, and more distinctly, they heard the fall, the
roar, the rush of the wild waters of an angry flood down a deep and
empty channel. A very deep excavation had been scooped of old by the
Warroo at the commencement of the anabranch, which, leaving the river at
an angle, followed its course for miles, sometimes at a considerable
distance, before it re-entered it.
“My conscience!” said M‘Nab, “I never heard the like of that before—in
these parts, that is. I would give a year’s wage I hadn’t crossed those
weaners back. I only did it a day or two since. May the devil—but
swearing never so much as lifted a pound of any man’s burden yet. We’ll
not be swung clear of this grip of his claws by calling on _him_.”
With this anti-Manichæan assertion, M‘Nab went forth, and stumbled about
the paddock till he managed to get his own and Jack’s horse into the
yard. These he saddled and had ready by the first streak of dawn. Then
they mounted and rode towards the back of the river paddock.
“I was afraid of this,” said Jack, gloomily, as their horses’ feet
plashed in the edge of a broad, dull-coloured sheet of water, long
before they reached the ridge whence they usually descried the
back-creek channel. “The waters are out such a distance that we shall
not be able to get near the banks of this infernal anabranch, much less
throw a bridge over any part of it. There is a mile of water on it now,
from end to end. The sheep must take their chance, and that only chance
is that the river may not rise as high as Stangrove says he has known
it.”
“I deserve to be overseer of a thick run with bad shepherds all my
life,” groaned M‘Nab, with an amount of sincerity in his abjectly
humiliated voice so ludicrous that Jack, in that hour of misery, could
scarcely refrain from smiling. “But let us gallop down to the outlet; it
may not have got that far yet.”
They rode hard for the point, some miles down, where the treacherous
offshoot re-entered the Warroo. It sometimes happens that, owing to the
sinuosities of the watercourses of the interior, horsemen at speed can
outstrip the advancing flood-wave, and give timely notice to the
dwellers on the banks. Such faint hope had they. By cutting across long
detours or bends, and riding harder than was at all consistent with
safety to their clover-fed horses, they reached the outlet. Joy of joys,
it was “as dry as a bone.”
“Now,” said M‘Nab, driving his horse recklessly down into the hard-baked
channel, “if we can only find most of the sheep in this end of the
paddock we may beat bad luck and the water yet. Did the dog come, I
wonder? The Lord send he did. I saw him with us the first time we pulled
up.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Jack; “we’ve ridden too hard for any mortal dog
to keep up with us, though Help will come on our tracks if he thinks
he’s wanted.”
“Bide a bit—bide a bit,” implored M‘Nab, forgetting his English, and
going back to an earlier vernacular in the depth of his earnestness.
“The dog’s worth an hour of time and a dozen men to us. Help! Help!
here, boy, here!”
He gave out the canine summons in the long-drawn cry peculiar to drovers
when seeking to signal their whereabouts to their faithful allies. Jack
put his fingers to his mouth and emitted a whistle of such remarkable
volume and shrillness that M‘Nab confessed his admiration.
“That will fetch him, sir, if he’s anywhere within a mile. Dash’d if
that isn’t him coming now. See him following our tracks. Here, boy!”
As he spoke a magnificent black and tan collie raised his head from the
trail and dashed up to Jack’s side, with every expression of delight and
proud success.
Mr. Redgrave was one of those men to whom dogs, horses, children, and
others attach themselves with blind, unreasoning confidence. Is it
amiability? Has mesmerism any share in the strange but actual
fascination? There were many far wiser than he unsought and unrecognized
by the classes referred to. In his case the fact, uncomplimentary or
otherwise, remained fixed and demonstrable. The sheep-dog in question
was introduced to him by an aged Scot, who arrived one day at Gondaree
followed by a female collie of pure breed and unusual beauty. Jack,
always merciful and sympathetic, had comforted the footsore elder, who
carried a large bundle upon his back, at which the dog cast ever and
anon a wistful glance. Lowering the pack carefully to the ground before
he drained the cheering draught, he wiped his lips, and, untying the
knapsack, rolled out, to his host’s wild astonishment, _five blind
puppies_!
“Ye ken, sir, the auld slut here just whelpit a week syne, maist
unexpectedly to me. I was sair fashed to make my way doon wi’ sax
doggies. But I pledged my word to Maister Stangrove to gang back to
Juandah before shearing, and I wadna brak my word—no, not for five
poond.”
“But are you going to carry the whole litter another fifty miles?”
“Weel, aweel, sir, I’ll not deny it’s a sair trial; but I brocht lassie
here from the bonnie holms o’ Ettrick, where my auld bones will never
lie. The wee things come of the bluid of Tam Hogg’s grand dog Sirrah.
Forbye they’re maist uncommon valuable here. I never askit less than a
pund for ilka ane o’ them yet, and siller’s siller, ye ken.”
“I’ll give you a sov,” said Jack, “for the black and tan pup—him with
the spot between the eyes. I suppose we could rear him with an old ewe?”
“He’s the king of this lot, but ye shall have the pick of them a’ even
withoot the siller, for the kind word and the good deed you’ve done to
the auld failed, doited crater that ance called himsel’ Jock Harlaw of
Ettrick. May the Lord do so to me and mair, if I forget it.”
The next day the old man came up, and solemnly delivered over the plump,
roly-poly dogling, which, being fostered upon an imprisoned ewe, throve
and grew into one of the best dogs that ever circumvented that deceitful
and wicked quadruped called the sheep, the measure of whose intelligence
has ever been consistently underrated.
The judicious reader will comprehend that, even on a fenced run, a good
sheep-dog is valuable, and even necessary. The headlong, reckless system
of driving, the cruel, needless terrorising under which “shepherded
sheep” have for generations suffered in Australia may be as strongly
repudiated as ever. But under certain conditions, it is well known to
all rulers of sheep stations that there is no moving sheep without the
aid and conversation of a dog. Therefore, though much of the occupation
of the ordinary half-trained sheep-dog be gone, a really well-bred and
highly-trained animal is still prized.
The collie “Help,” then, as he grew up, showed great hereditary aptitude
for every kind of knowledge connected with the “working” of sheep. He
was passionately fond of Jack, whom he recognized as his real and true
master; but he would follow and obey M‘Nab, appearing to know by
intuition when work among the sheep was intended. From him, as a man of
sheep from earliest youth, he learned all the niceties of the
profession. At drafting and yarding he was invaluable. Lifted into a
yard crammed with panic-stricken or unwilling sheep, he would run along
on their bodies or “go back through them” in a manner wonderful to
observe—this last practice being known to all sheep-experts as the only
way hitherto invented for prevailing on sheep to run up freely to a
gate. He would bark or bite (this last with great discretion) at word of
command. He would stay at any part of the yard pointed out to him, and
though among the station hands it was commonly, but erroneously,
reported that he could “keep a gate,” and had been seen drafting “two
ways at once,” still it was so far near the truth that he had many times
been posted at the entrance of sub-yards, and had prevented any sheep
from entering during the whole duration of the drafting. For the rest,
he was affectionate, generous, and brave, a good watch-dog, and no mean
antagonist. In his own branch of the profession he was held to be
unequalled for sagacity and effectiveness on the whole river.
In the hour of sore need this was the friend and ally, most
appropriately named, who appeared on the scene. With a wave of the hand
from Jack, he started off, skirting the nearest body of sheep. The
well-trained animal, racing round the timid creatures, turned them
towards the outlet, and followed the master for further orders. This
process was repeated, aided by M‘Nab, until they had gone as far from
the outlet of the creek as they dared to do, with any chance of crossing
before the flood came down.
“We must rattle them in now,” said M‘Nab. “I’m afraid there is a large
lot higher up, but there’s five or six thousand of these, and we must
make the best of it.”
As the lots of sheep coalesced on their homeward route, the difficulty
of driving and the value of the dog grew more apparent. Large mobs or
flocks of sheep are, like all crowds, difficult to move and conduct. By
themselves it would have been a slow process; but the dog, gathering
from the words and actions of his superiors that something out of the
common was being transacted, flew round the great flock, barking,
biting, rushing, worrying—driving, in fact, like ten dogs in one. By
dint of the wildest exertion on the part of the men, and the tireless
efforts of the dog, the great flock of sheep, nearly six thousand, was
forced up to the anabranch. Here the leaders unhesitatingly took the as
yet dry, unmoistened channel, and in a long string commenced to pour up
the opposite bank.
“Give it them at the tail, sir,” shouted M‘Nab, who was at the lead, “go
it, Help, good dog—there is not a moment to lose. By George, there comes
the flood. Eat ’em up, old man!—give it ’em, good dog!”
There was fortunately one more bend for the flood water to follow round
before it reached the outlet. During the short respite Jack and M‘Nab
worked at their task till the perspiration poured down their faces—till
their voices became hoarse with shouting, and well-nigh failed. Horses
and men, dog and sheep, were all in a state of exhaustion and despair
when the last mob was ascending the clay bank.
“Two minutes more, and we should have been too late,” said M‘Nab, in a
hoarse whisper; “look there!”
As he spoke, a wall of water, several feet in height, and the full
breadth of the widest part of the channel, came foaming down, bearing
logs, trees, portions of huts and haystacks—every kind of _débris_—upon
its eddying tide. The tired dog crawled up the bank and lay down in the
grass. A few of the last sheep turned and stared stolidly at the close
wild water. There was a hungry, surging rush, and in another minute the
creek was level with the river, and the place where the six thousand
sheep had crossed dryshod (and sheep resemble cats very closely in their
indisposition to wet their feet) was ten feet under water, and would
have floated a river steamer.
Jack returned to the homestead rather comforted by this present bit of
success, and hopeful that the sheep left in the river paddock might yet
escape. They had no further anxiety about those which they had plucked
out of the fire—that is to say, the water—for they were in a secure high
and dry paddock, and they were not likely to attempt to swim back again.
It was very provoking to think, however, that only a week previous the
whole lot had been absolutely safe if they had been sufficiently
cautious to let well alone till after shearing.
On the morrow such a sight met John Redgrave’s eyes as they had not
looked upon since he entered into possession of Gondaree. The cottage
was built, as has been before related, upon a bluff, and was believed to
be impregnable by the highest flood that ever came down the Warroo. When
Jack walked into the verandah, and saw by the pale dawn-light the angry
waters, deep, turbulent, and wide as his vision went, rushing but a few
feet below the floor on which he trod, he felt as if he were at sea, and
trusted that the older residents had made no miscalculation. It was
certainly a novel experience in that dry and thirsty land to hear the
“roar of waters” so closely brought home to one’s bed and board. On the
other side of the river, far as the eye could see, the vast flats were
as an inland sea, the trees standing in the water like pillars in a vast
aqueduct, their stems forming endless colonnades.
This augured badly for his own river-paddock, and, breakfast hastily
concluded, he started down to see if any of the sheep were visible from
the opposite bank of the anabranch. He managed to get near enough to
sweep the flats with a field-glass, and at last made out the greater
part of the weaners, huddled together upon a small rise, surrounded by
water, and not much above the general level. Here, though cold and
hungry, they might remain in safety till the flood fell, if the waters
rose no higher. But there lay the danger. The waters surrounded them for
a long stretch on every side. Even if they could get near them, nothing
would induce young sheep to face a much less expanse of water. The
current was too rapid to work any species of raft. If the river
continued rising through the night, there would not be a sheep of these
three thousand and more alive by daylight.
Jack turned sick at heart with the bare idea. Good heavens! was he to be
eternally the sport of circumstance and the victim of disaster? Was
there such a thing as Bad Luck, an evil principle, in which he had
steadfastly disbelieved, but which he did not doubt in other cases had
hunted men to their doom? Could it possibly happen in his own case? How
rarely do men accept any of life’s evils as possibilities in their own
cases! Here, however, he was again face to face with an unsolved
difficulty, a peril imminent, deadly, and well-nigh hopeless of escape.
Three thousand some hundreds of beautiful young sheep, with fourteen
months’ wool on. Another two thousand pounds gone at one blow! It was
enough to make a man hang himself.
He had a long consultation with M‘Nab, who had settled in his own mind
that nothing could be done, except drown a man or two, in trying
conclusions with such a waste of water, with large logs and uprooted
trees whirling madly down the stream, which indeed looked like a lake
dislodged from its moorings, and mad for a view of the distant sea.
So he calmly waited the issue, hoping for a fall during the night, and
cursing himself, as deeply as a sound Presbyterian could afford to do,
for having brought this loss upon his employer by over-greed of grass.
The river did not fall. Indeed, it rose so rapidly that on their last
visit to the place of observation they could hear the continuous
bleating of the hapless sheep—a token that they were alarmed and
endangered by the rising tide.
All that night the sound was in Jack’s ears as he listened at intervals,
or tossed restlessly on an uneasy bed.
With the earliest dawn he was astir and down at the look-out. There had
evidently been a considerable rise during the night. He saw that the
water had made a clean breach over the spot occupied by the flock—of the
whole number, there was not a solitary sheep to be seen. He would have
been saved a few days of anxious expectation—a feeling between utter
despair and trembling hope—had he known that his friends at Juandah,
that very day, had seen scores of their carcases floating past their
windows, but were happily unconscious of their particular ownership.
For nearly a week Jack was inconsolable—he took no interest in the
remaining portion of the shearing, which M‘Nab finished with his
customary exactness, paying off the shearers, washers, and extra hands,
and despatching every pound of wool and every sheepskin as if the last
of the clip—like a cow’s milk—was the richest and most valuable.
The floods had rolled away, and the sun shone out hotter than ever upon
miles of blackened clover and mud-covered pasturage, entirely ruined for
the year by the unseasonable immersion. When they rode over the paddock
the sight was pitiable in the extreme. By far the greater proportion of
the drowned sheep had been floated away bodily, as the “cruel, crawling
tide” rose inch by inch in the darkness, till they were swept from
footing. But many were found entangled in drift-wood, carried into large
hollow trees—as many as fifteen or twenty, perhaps, in one cluster—black
and decomposing, with the wool bleaching in great strips and masses. A
miserable sight for John Redgrave, in truth, who, but a fortnight since,
had considered that wool almost in his pocket, and every shorn weaner
good value for half a sovereign all round. Then the confounded _fama
clamosa_ of the affair. The local papers had quick and fast hold of the
tale:
“We are deeply grieved to hear that Mr. Redgrave of Gondaree, who has
spared no cost in improving that valuable property, has lost ten
thousand sheep in the late disastrous flood.” Next week—“We have much
pleasure in stating that Mr. Redgrave has had only five thousand sheep
drowned, but we had not then learned that his wool-shed and wash-pen,
with a portion of the clip, were entirely washed away.” And so on.
The quickest way to escape condolences and local sympathy would be to
make tracks for Melbourne. This he accordingly did, having, like the
preceding season, had a sufficiency of salt-bush life for a while.
Matters in some respects were more favourable to his mental recovery
than on his former visit. Wool was up. The season, bar floods, had been
good on the whole. Everybody connected with sheep was disposed to be
cheerful and make allowances. Most of the people he met had not heard of
the trifling overthrow of the remote Warroo, and the incidental “natural
selection” of his lamented weaners. Others, who had heard, did not care.
The joyous squatters, on the strength of a good twopenny rise in the
home market, made light of his sorrows. One man said, laughingly, that
he knew of a station, about a thousand miles lower down, which the same
flood had treated even more scurvily.
“Wallingford, you know, had overstocked that run of his with store
cattle; all the back country dry as a bone; no rain for two years; five
or six thousand head of cattle all but starving; poor as crows, give you
my word. Everything depending upon the river and the lake flats for the
clover, as soon as it was ripe. Well, the flood comes down, smothers his
clover; river twenty miles wide for nearly a month; lake overflowed too.
Droll predicament, wasn’t it? Quite antipodean. Half the run too dry;
t’other half too wet. No rain; clover of course black as your hat when
the water went down. Wallingford heaps of bills to meet, too.”
The salient points of humour which Mr. Wallingford’s ingeniously
complicated calamities evolved under artistic treatment served
indirectly to comfort our victim. The misfortunes of others, especially
of the same profession, are soothing, benevolists notwithstanding. Jack
felt ashamed of howling over his few sheep, and recollected the still
imposing numbers of the last count, and returned to his normal state of
contentment with to-day, and rose-coloured anticipation of to-morrow.
His interview with Mr. Mildmay Shrood was pacific and encouraging. That
gentleman congratulated him upon the name and fame to which the Gondaree
clip had attained, prophesying even greater distinction. He listened
with polite sympathy to the account of the loss of the weaners, but
observed that such accidents must occasionally happen in wet seasons,
and that, as he was informed, the country generally had received immense
benefit from the late rains.
“Your clip is one of the best in the whole of Riverina, my dear
Redgrave, and your number of sheep—‘52,000,’ thank you—has on the whole
kept up admirably. Management, my dear sir, is everything—everything.
Good-morning. Good-morning.”