“Fickle fortune has deceived me:
She promised fair, and performed but ill.”—_Burns._
Events were following in quick succession across John Redgrave’s life,
like the presentments of a magic lantern; and it seemed to him at times
with a like unreality. But reason, in hours of compulsory attention,
proved with cold logic that they were only too harshly true.
A little while, as he could not help owning to himself, and he would be
driven forth from the Eden of “the potentiality of wealth” and luxury,
into the outer world of dreary fact, poverty, and labour. Fast sped the
melancholy, aimless, half-anxious, half-despairing days, following upon
the advertisement which took all the pastoral and commercial world into
his confidence, and stamped him with the stigma of failure. Thus, one
fine day, a stranger, a shrewd-looking personage, redolent of capital,
from his felt wide-awake to his substantial boots, arrived by the mail,
and presented the credentials which announced him a Mr. Bagemall
(Bagemall Brothers and Holdfast) and the _purchaser of Gondaree_. It was
even so. That “well-known, fattening run, highly improved, fenced and
subdivided, with 65,794 well-bred, carefully-culled sheep, regularly
supplied with the most fashionable Mudgee blood, the last two clips of
wool having averaged two shillings and ninepence per lb.,” &c., &c., as
per advertisement, had been sold publicly, Messrs. Drawe and Backwell
auctioneers. Sold, and for what price? For eight shillings and
threepence per head, half cash and half approved bills at short dates!
Well, he had hoped nothing better. In the teeth of such a season, such a
panic, such a general loosening of the foundations alike of pastoral and
commercial systems, what else was to be expected as the proceeds of a
forced sale, with terms equal to cash? The murder was out. The hazard
had been played and lost—let the stakes at least be handed over with
equanimity.
So Mr. Bagemall was received with all proper hospitality, and
courteously entreated, he being apparently bent more upon the
refreshment and restoration of the inner man, after a toilsome and
eventful journey, than upon information regarding his purchase. He made
no inquiries, but smoked his pipe and enjoyed his dinner, talking in a
cheery and non-committal manner about the state of politics, and the
last European news by the mail. He went early to bed, pleading urgent
want of a night’s rest, and postponed the serious part of the visit
until the morrow.
When the morning meal and the morning pipe had been satisfactorily
disposed of, he displayed a willingness, but no haste, to commence
business.
“I suppose we may as well take a look round the place, Mr. Redgrave,”
said he; “everything looks well in a general way; nothing like fencing
to stand a bad season. Monstrous pity to put such a property in the
market just now. Can’t think what the banks are about. Sure to be a
change for the better soon, unless rain has ceased to form part of the
Australian climate, and then we shall all be in the same boat.”
“I shouldn’t have sold if I could have helped it, you may be sure,”
answered Jack; “but the thing is done, and it’s no use thinking about
it. The sooner it’s over the better.”
“Just as you please—just as you please,” said the stranger. “You will
oblige me by considering me in the light of a guest during my short
stay. I must go back the end of the week. I don’t know that I need do
anything but count the sheep, in which our friend here (turning to
M‘Nab) perhaps will help me. Everything being given in, I sha’n’t bother
myself or you by inspecting the station plant. The wash-pen and shed
speak for themselves.”
“Thank you very much,” said Jack; “delivering over a station is
generally a nuisance, especially as to the smaller matters. I remember
being at Yillaree, when Knipstone was giving delivery to old M‘Tavish.
They had been squabbling awfully about every pot and kettle and
frying-pan, all of which Knipstone had carefully entered—some of them
twice over. To complete the inventory he produced a brass candlestick,
saying airily, ‘The other one is on the store table.’ ‘Bring it here,
then, you rascal,’ roared M‘Tavish. ‘I wouldn’t take your word for a box
of matches.’”
“The purchase-money was somewhere about eighty thousand pounds,”
remarked Bagemall, who seemed to remember what every station had brought
for the last ten years. “A paltry fifty pounds couldn’t have mattered
much one way or the other.”
The next morning the counting began in earnest. A couple of thousand
four-tooth wethers had been put in the drafting yard, for some reason or
other, and with this lot they made a commencement. Now, except to the
initiated, this counting of sheep is a bewildering, all but impossible
matter. The hurdle or gate, as the case may be, is partially opened and
egress permitted in a degree proportioned to the supposed talent of the
enumerator. If he be slow, inexperienced, and therefore diffident, a
small opening suffices, through which only a couple of sheep can run at
a time. Then he begins—two, four, six, eight, and so on, up to twenty.
After he gets well into his tens he probably makes some slight
miscalculation, and while he is mentally debating whether forty-two or
fifty-two be right, three sheep rush out together, the additional one in
wild eagerness jumping on to the back of one of the others, and then
sprawling, feet up, in front of the gate. The unhappy wight says “sixty”
to himself, and, looking doubtfully at the continuous stream of animals,
falls hopelessly in arrear and gives up. In such a case the sheep have
to be re-yarded, or he has to trust implicitly to the honour of the
person in charge, who widens the gate, lets the sheep rush out
higgledy-piggledy, as it seems to the tyro, and keeps calling out
“hundred”—“hundred” with wonderful and almost suspicious rapidity. Yet,
in such a case, there will rarely be one sheep wrong, more or less, in
five thousand. Thus, when arrived at the yard, M‘Nab looked inquiringly
at the stranger, and took hold of one end of the hurdle.
“Throw it down and let ’em rip,” said Mr. Bagemall. “You and I will
count, and Mr. Redgrave will perhaps keep tally.”
Keeping tally, it may be explained, is the notation of the hundreds, by
pencil or notched stick, the counter being supposed only to concern
himself with the units and tens.
M‘Nab, who was an unrivalled counter, relaxed his features, as
recognizing a kindred spirit, and, as the sheep came tearing and
tumbling out, after the fashion of strong, hearty, paddocked wethers, he
placed his hands in his pockets and reeled off the hundreds, as did Mr.
Bagemall, in no time. The operation was soon over. They agreed in the
odd number to a sheep. And M‘Nab further remarked that Mr. Bagemall was
one of those gifted persons who, by a successive motion of the fingers
of both hands, was enabled (quite as a matter of form) to check the
tally-keeper as well. Paddock after paddock was duly mustered, driven
through their respective gates, and counted back. In a couple of days
the operation, combined with the inspection of the whole run, was
concluded.
Sitting in the veranda after a longish day’s work, all smoking, and Jack
looking regretfully at his garden, which, small and insignificant
compared with the exuberant plantation of Marshmead, was very creditable
for the Warroo, and indeed was just about to make some small repayment
for labour in the way of fruit, Mr. Bagemall remarked—
“I didn’t know you had any blacks about the place. Does this lot belong
here?”
“It must be old man Jack and his family,” answered M‘Nab. “I have been
wondering what had become of them for ever so long. I heard Wildduck was
very ill. Yes, this is our tribe, sir; not a very alarming one, but all
that brandy and ball-cartridge have left.”
“What has the old fellow got on his back?” inquired Mr. Bagemall; “the
men carry nothing if they can help it.”
“Poor Wildduck,” said Jack, half to himself, “I had forgotten all about
her of late, with the allowable selfishness of misfortune. By Jove! it’s
she that the old man is carrying. She must be ill indeed.”
The old savage, followed by his aged wives at humble distance, marched
on in a stately and solemn manner, until he reached a mound near the
garden gate. Here the little procession halted; one of the gins placed
an opossum rug upon the earth, and upon this the old man, with great
care and tenderness, placed the wasted form of the girl Wildduck. She it
was, apparently in the last stage of consumption, as her hollow cheeks
testified, and the altered face, now lighted by eyes of unnatural size,
brilliant with the fire of death. The three men walked over.
“Ah, Misser Redgrave,” said she, while a dreamy smile passed over her
wan countenance, “stockman say you sell Gondaree and go away. Old man
Jack carry me from Bimbalong—me _must_ say good-bye.” Here a frightful
fit of coughing prevented further speech, while the old man and the gins
made expressive pantomime, in acquiescence, and then, seating themselves
around, took out sharp-edged flints, and, scooping a preliminary gash on
their faces, prepared for a “good cry.” Strangely soon blood and tears
were flowing in commingled streams adown their swart countenances.
Wildduck lay gasping upon her rug, and from time to time sobbed out her
share of the lament for the kind white man who was about to leave their
country.
Jack leaned over the ghastly and shrunken form of what had once been the
agile and frolicsome Wildduck. The dying girl—for such unquestionably
she was—looked up in his face, with death-gleaming and earnest gaze.
“You yan away from Gondaree, Misser Redgrave?” she gasped out. “No come
back?”
Jack nodded in assent.
“Me yan away too,” she continued; “Kalingeree close up die, me thinkum;
that one grog killum, and too much big one cough, like it white fellow.
You tell Miss Maudie, I good girl long time.”
“Poor Wildduck,” said Jack, genuinely moved by the sad spectacle of the
poor victim to civilization. “Miss Maudie will be very sorry to hear
about you. Can’t you get down to Juandah? I’m sure she would take care
of you.”
“Too far that one place, now. Me going to die here. Old man Jack bury me
at Bimbalong. My mother sit down there, long o’ waterhole—where you see
that big coubah tree. Misser Redgrave!” she said, with sudden
earnestness, trying to raise herself; “you tell me one thing?”
“What is it, my poor girl?”
“You tell me”—here she gazed imploringly at him, with a look of dread
and doubt piteous to mark in her uplifted face—“where you think I go
when I die?”
“Go!” answered Jack, rather confused by this direct appeal to his
assumed superior knowledge of the future. “Why, to heaven, I believe,
Wildduck. We shall all go there, I hope, some day.”
“I see Miss Maudie there; she go, I know. You go too; you always kind to
poor black fellow.”
“I hope and trust we shall all go there some day, if we’re good,” said
he, unconsciously recalling his good mother’s early assurances on that
head. “Didn’t Miss Maudie tell you so.”
“Miss Maudie tell me about white man’s God—teach me prayer every
night—say, ‘Our Father.’ You think God care about poor black girl?”
“Yes, I do; you belong to Him, Wildduck, just the same as white girl.
You say prayer to Him. He take care of you, same as Miss Maudie tell
you.”
“She tell me she very sorry for poor black girl. She say, why you drink
brandy, Wildduck? that wicked. So me try—no use—can’t help it. Black
fellow all the same as little child. Big one stupid.”
“White fellow stupid too, Wildduck,” said John Redgrave; “you have been
no worse than plenty of others who ought to have known better. But
perhaps you won’t die after all.”
“Me die fast enough.” Here the merciless cough for a time completely
exhausted her. “I believe to-morrow. You think I jump up white fellow?”
“I can’t say, Wildduck,” answered he. “We shall all be very different
from what we are now. You had better cover yourself up and go to sleep.”
“I very tired,” moaned the girl, feebly; “long way we come to-day. You
tell new gentleman he be kind to old man Jack. You say good-bye to poor
Wildduck.” Here she held out her attenuated hand. It had been always
small and slender, as in many cases are those of the women of her race.
In the days of her health and vigour, Jack had often noticed the curious
delicacy of her hands and feet, and speculated on the causes of such
conformation among a people all ignorant of shoe and stocking. But now
the small brown fingers and transparent palm were like those of a child.
He held them in his own for a second, and then said, “Good-night,
Wildduck.”
“Good-bye, Misser Redgrave, good-bye. You tell Miss Maudie, perhaps I
see her some day, you too, long big one star.” Here she pointed to the
sky. Her eyes filled with tears. Jack turned away. When he looked again,
she had covered her face with the rug. But he could hear her sobs, and a
low moaning cry.
“Strange, and how hard to understand!” said Jack to himself, as he
strode forward in the twilight towards the cottage. “I wonder what the
extent of this poor ignorant creature’s moral responsibility may be.
What opportunities has she had of comprehending her presence on this
mysterious earth? Save a few lessons from Maud, she has never heard the
sacred name except as giving power to a careless oath. As to actual
wickedness she is a thousand-fold better than half the white sinners of
her own sex. Her sufferings have been short. And perhaps she lies
a-dying more happily circumstanced than a pauper in the cold walls of a
work-house, or a waif in a stifling room in a back slum of any given
city. As far as the children of crime, want, and vice are concerned, all
cities are much on a par, whether Australian, European, or otherwise.”
The night was boisterous, yet, mingled with the moaning of the blast,
Jack fancied that at midnight he heard a cry, long-drawn, wailing, and
more shrill than the tones of the wind-harp, or the sighing of the bowed
forest.
The pale dawn was still silent, ghostly gray. No herald in roseate
tabard had proclaimed the approach of the tyrant sun—lord of that
stricken waste—when John Redgrave walked over to the camp. He saw at
once, by the attitudes of the group, that they were mourners of the
dead. Each sat motionless and mute, gazing with grief-stricken
countenances towards the fourth fire—in the equally divided space—by
which lay a motionless figure, covered from head to foot with furs. He
looked at old man Jack, but he moved not a muscle of his disfigured
countenance, while in his eyes, fixed with a strong glare, there was no
more speculation than in those of the dead.
The women sat like ebon statues; down their shrivelled breasts and bony
arms the dried rivulets of blood made a ghastly blazonry. Jack knew
enough of the customs and ceremonies of this fast-fading people to be
aware that no speech, or even gesture, was possible during the two first
days of mourning. He walked over and raised the covering from the face
of the dead girl. Her features, always delicate and regular (for, though
rarely, such types unquestionably do exist among most aboriginal
Australian tribes), were composed and peaceful. The closed eyes were
fringed with lashes of extraordinary length. The heavy waving locks,
rudely combed back, were not without artistic effect. The pallor of
death bestowed a fairer hue on the clear brown, not coal-black, skin.
The lingering shadow of a smile remained upon the scarcely closed lips,
which half recalled the arch expression of the merry forest child,
dancing in the sunshine like the swaying leaflets. Now, like them in
autumn-death, she was lying on the breast of the great earth-mother. One
hand pressed her bosom, in the shut fingers of which was a small cross,
hung round the neck by a faded ribbon, which he remembered to have been
a present from Maud Stangrove. “He whose word infused with life this
ill-starred child of clay will He not recall the parted spirit?” thought
Jack, as he reverently replaced the fur cloak. “God bless her,” he said,
softly.
He turned and looked back as he entered his dwelling. There sat the
three figures—rigid, sorrow-denoting, motionless as carvings on a
mausoleum. For two days they watched their dead—soundless, sleepless,
foodless. Ere the third day broke, the mourners and their charge had
disappeared.
* * * * *
Gondaree had been sold. The stock and station had been “delivered,” in
squatting parlance; the meaning of which is, that the purchaser had
satisfied himself that the actual living, wool-bearing sheep coincided
in number, sex, age, and quality with the statement of Messrs. Drawe and
Backwell. Also that the run comprised about the specified number of
square miles; that the fences were tangible, and not paper delineations;
that the wool-shed and wash-pen were not ideal creations of the poet, or
that synonymous son of romance, the auctioneer; lastly, that the great
Warroo itself was a perennial summer-defying stream, and not a dusty
ditch—a river by courtesy, full-tided only in winter, when everybody has
more water than he knows what to do with. In the great pastoral
chronicles it is written that serious mistakes as to each and all of
these important matters have been made ere now.
None of these encounters between the real and the probable had occurred
with respect to Gondaree. Mr. Bagemall had expressed himself in terms of
unbusinesslike approval of the whole property both to Mr. Redgrave and
M‘Nab. The run was, in his opinion, first class; the improvements
judicious and complete; the stock superior in quality, and in condition
really wonderful, considering the season.
“Nothing the matter, my dear sir,” said he to Redgrave, “but want of
rain and want of credit. Both of these complaints have become chronic,
worse luck. I remember, some years since, when we were nearly cleaned
out from the same causes. However, if I had not bought the place, some
one else would. I feel ashamed, though, of getting it such a bargain.
Fortune of war, you know, and all that, I suppose. Horses? Certainly—not
mentioned in terms of sale. But any two of the station-hacks you choose.
I suppose you will go in for back blocks. Take my advice, don’t be
down-hearted. This is the best country that ever was discovered for
making fresh starts in life. As long as a man is young and hearty, there
are chances under his feet all day long. Think so? Know it. Why, look at
old Captain Woodenwall, turned sixty when he was stumped up ten years
ago, and look at him now. Warm man, member of the Upper House, drives
his carriage again. Got every one’s good word too. Never give in. _Nil_
whatsy-name, as the book says. Good-bye, sir, you have my best wishes. I
have made my arrangements with your super-smart fellow, quite my sort,
rising man. Sha’n’t be here for years, I hope. Good-bye, sir.”
After this somewhat lengthened address, protracted beyond his custom,
Mr. Bagemall departed by the mail. He had previously entered into an
arrangement with M‘Nab, continuing to that energetic personage, whose
talent for organization he fully appreciated, the sole management of
Gondaree. He had furthermore admitted him to a partnership, the
estimated value thereof to be “worked out” of future profits. Mr.
Bagemall had not now to learn that this was the cheapest and surest way
of securing the permanent services and uttermost efforts of a man of
exceptional brain and energy, as he very correctly took Alexander M‘Nab
to be.
“Well, all is over now,” said Jack to his late manager; “everything
seems to be much as it was before—except that Hamlet will be played
without the unlucky beggar of a prince. I’m glad Bagemall took you in—he
showed his sense; he’s not a bad fellow by any means.”
“I’m glad, and I’m sorry, Mr. Redgrave. It was too good an offer for me
to refuse; but I’ve saved a couple of thousand pounds, and I had a
notion that if you could have raised as much more—which would have been
easy enough—I should say we might have gone in together for some back
country with a little stock on it. There are lots of places in the
market, and it’s a grand time for investing. There will never be a
better, in my opinion.”
“Thank you very much, old fellow,” said Jack, moved by the generosity of
his ex-lieutenant, the more so as M‘Nab was very careful of his money,
all of which he had hardly earned; “but I intend to make tracks, and go
on my path alone. I have hardly settled what I shall do yet. I think I
shall travel and look about me for a few months. I am heartily tired of
this part of Australia.”
“Better by far nip in now, while the chance is good,” argued the shrewd,
clear-sighted M‘Nab. “Depend upon it, there will be no such
opportunities this time next year. The first forty-eight hours’ rain
will make a difference. All kinds of good medium runs are hawked about
now, and if Mr. Bagemall hadn’t been so quick I should have been in
Collins Street this week with half-a-dozen offers in my pocket. But what
I want to say is this—there’s two thousand lying to my credit in the
London Bartered. Take my advice, run down to Melbourne and get two or
three more to put to it, and Drawe and Backwell will give you a dozen
runs to pick from. It’s heartily at your service. If you don’t like the
saltbush, there’s Gippsland, a splendid country, with good store
cattle-stations going at three pounds a head.”
John Redgrave grasped the hand of the speaker and wrung it warmly.
“You’re a good fellow, M‘Nab,” said he, “and you have justified the
opinion which I formed of you at the beginning of our acquaintance. I
shall always remember you as a true friend, and a much cleverer fellow
than myself. I should almost have felt inclined to have gone in with you
as managing partner, but I cannot take your or any other friend’s money,
to run the risk of losing it and self-respect together. It cannot be;
but I thank you heartily all the same.”