“I loved him well; his gallant part,
His fearless leading, won my heart.”—_Scott._
For several days they had an average measure of privation only. The
resources of Doorival were found equal to supplying them with food and
water. From the course pointed out to him he had never varied, and Jack
was, from observation and calculation, perfectly certain that it would
bring them, if carried out, well within the line of the settled
districts.
But as to one condition of success he felt undecided. For some weeks
there had been no rain, and a stretch of country lay yet before them in
which, according to the rainfall, they might, or might not, find water;
in the language of explorers, signifying that they might, or might not,
perish. Desperate from the death of Guy Waldron, he had been too
reckless to take this risk into the account. He would dare the hazard,
and put his last chance upon the die.
So it fared that, after leaving the last watercourse and entering upon
the wide untrodden system of plain, scrub, and sand-hill—scrub and
sand-hill and plain—which divided the rivers, Jack was compelled to
admit, after two days’ short allowance of water, and one with none at
all, that he had been foolhardy. The third day passed without the
slightest appearance of moisture. It was inexpedient to diverge from the
line for more than a short distance in search for fear of wasting their
failing strength. The boy, strong in passive courage, held out
unflinchingly. John Redgrave had the fullest faith in the accuracy of
his reckoning. They must, without the shadow of a doubt, strike the
waters of the Wondabyne, _if they could hold out_. But that was the
vital question. By his closely-examined and re-examined calculation they
should sight the great eucalypti that towered above those deep and
gleaming waters (oh, thought of Paradise!) hurrying beneath the carved
limestone cliffs on the following sunset, or at least before midnight.
Were but one day longer necessary, then were they both lost. The boy was
failing now in spite of his courage. For himself, he would not, could
not, consciously yield as long as he could stand or crawl on hands and
knees. Yet a certain swelling of his parched throat, a murmur in his
ears, a disposition to talk aloud and unbidden, all these signs
announced to him, as a practised bushman, that the fourth day, if passed
without water, would find them delirious and dying. Shutting out these
thoughts as far as his volition availed, he strode on, followed feebly
by the boy, during the long terrible day.
At sunset they halted for a few minutes upon the inevitable sand-hill,
with pine and shrub and long yellow grass, the exact fac-simile of
scores which they had crossed since they had left Raak. Jack faced the
west and gazed for a few moments upon the gorgeous blazonry of
scroll-like clouds, the rolling wavelets of orange, splashed with
crimson and ruddy with burning gold, which rose and fell in shifting
masses, as if rent by Titans from the treasure-house of Olympus. Far
away northward, far as the eye could see, lay the dim green desert,
measureless, lifeless, and life-denying.
“It is the last sunset that I shall see, possibly. It seems hard, as
poor Guy said; but when he and better men had gone on the battle-field
and elsewhere with the sound of victory in their ears, John Redgrave may
well go too. It is a fitting end of the melodrama of life. Doorival,
shoot that crow.”
This highly inconsequent concluding remark was occasioned by the
alighting of the bird of ill-omen, which had been following them since
dawn with the strange instinct of its kind, on a branch almost
immediately above them. The boy, wayworn almost to the death, and
looking well-nigh lifeless as he lay at Jack’s feet, could not resist
the irony of the situation, and, noiselessly sliding his carbine into
aim, sent a bullet through the breast of the unlucky “herald of the
fiend,” who dropped down before them, like the raven at the feet of Lucy
Ashton and her fateful, fascinating companion.
“To tear the flesh of princes
And peck the eyes of kings.”
Murmured Jack, “If one ever could smile again, it would be at this
transposition of situations. A minute since this unprejudiced fowl had a
well-grounded expectation that he was about to dine or sup upon us. Now
we are going to eat _him_.”
“Stupid fellow this one waggan,” said Doorival, taking a long and
apparently satisfactory suck at the life-blood of the incautious one;
“he think we close up dead.”
“He wasn’t far wrong either,” answered Jack, grimly. “Now light a fire,
and let us roast him a little for the look of the thing.”
Stimulated by even this unwonted repast, the forlorn creatures struggled
on till midnight. The night was comparatively cool, and with parched
throats and fevered brain John Redgrave judged it better, in spite of
the increasing weakness of the boy, to press forward and make their last
effort before dawn.
The Southern Cross, burning in the cloudless azure, with, as it appeared
to the despairing wayfarer, a mocking radiance and intensity of lustre,
had shown by its apparent change of position that the night was waning,
when the boy, who had been going for the last hour like an over-driven
horse, fell and lay insensible. Jack raised him, and after a few minutes
he opened his eyes and spoke feebly.
“Can’t go no furder, not one blessed step. You go on, Misser Redgrave,
and leave me here. I go ’long a Misser Waldron.” Here his dark eyes
gleamed. “He very glad to see Doorival again. I believe Wondabyne ahead;
you make haste.”
Jack’s only reply to this was to pick the boy up and to stagger on with
him across his shoulder. For some distance he managed by frantic effort
and sheer power of will to support the burden; but his failing muscles
all but brought him heavily to the earth over every slight obstruction.
He was compelled to halt, and, placing the lad at the foot of a tree, he
extemporized a sort of couch for him of leaves and branches.
“Now look here, Doorival,” he said; “you and I are not dead yet, though
close up, I know. I will go on, and if I get to the water before
daylight I will come back and bring you on. I will keep the same track
till I drop. I know the river is ahead, perhaps not very far. I break
the branches and leave track. You come on to-morrow morning if you don’t
see me. Now, good-night. I’ll leave Help with you.”
The boy’s dull eye glistened as he placed his arm round the neck of the
dog, who, with the wondrous sympathy of his race, sat in front of the
exhausted lad, looking wistfully into his face. Famishing as was the
brute himself, he had made no independent excursions for the water he so
sorely needed, but had followed patiently the feeble steps of his
comrades in misfortune. At his master’s word he lay down in an attitude
of watchfulness by the fainting boy, and remained to share a lingering
death, as Jack’s steps died away in the distance.
John Redgrave shook the boy’s hand, parting as those who, in a common
adventure, have been more closely knit together by the presence of
danger and of death. Then he strode on—weak, weary, alone, but still
defiant of Fate. For more than two hours he pressed forward
unwaveringly, though conscious of increasing weakness of mind and body.
The timber became more dense, and his progress was retarded by small
obstacles which still were sufficient to entangle his feeble feet. Then
his brain began to wander. Sometimes he thought he was at Marshmead. He
heard plainly the musical cry of the swans in the great meres, and the
shrill call of the plover, circling and wheeling over the broad marshes.
If he could only get through this timber he would see the reed-brake
ahead, and, falling into the knee-deep water, would lap and lave till
his fevered soul was cooled. Then a white shape walked beside him, and
extended a hand pointing towards that bright star. It was Maud
Stangrove, though her face was turned away—and the Shape was misty,
transparent, indistinct—he knew every curve and outline of that
faultless figure, the poise of her head, the swaying grace of her step.
She had come to tell him that her pure spirit had passed from earth,
that _his_ hour was come—that they would be united for ever beyond yon
fair star—that toil and weariness, hope, fear, and mordant anxiety, the
fierce pangs, the evil dreams of this vain life, were over. Be it so—he
was content. Let the end come.
Then the fair shape floated onward, gazing on him with sad, luminous
eyes, as of farewell. The look of despairing fondness, of unutterable
pity, was more than his overwrought senses could bear. He threw up his
arms, and calling on the name of his lost love dashed madly through the
dense undergrowth. Suddenly he was sensible of a crushing blow, of
intense pain, then of utter darkness, and John Redgrave fell prone, and
lay as one dead.
He awoke at length to full consciousness of his position and
surroundings, more clear, perhaps, from the loss of blood which had
followed the blow against his brow from the jagged limb of a dead tree
against which he had staggered and fallen. The moon shone clearly, the
night was cool almost to coldness. He felt revived, but full of
indignation. It was the ingenious cruelty which restores the fainting
man to the dire torments of the rack. His swollen tongue, which all that
day his mouth had been unable to contain, was covered, as were his face
and throat, with ants. His throat was parched still, but his brain was
revived. He rose to his feet, sternly obstinate while life yet
flickered. Onward still. He would die with his face to the river. He
would crawl when he could no longer walk. He would die as a man should
die.
Onward—still onward; he remembered his course, and the star which
Doorival called Irara. Weak at first, but gradually rallying, he walked
steadily and more cautiously forward. An hour passed. The temporary
feeling of excitement has subsided, and overpowering, leaden drowsiness
is pressing heavily upon his brain. Again he sinks to the earth, half
fearing, half wishing to rise no more. Suddenly he hears the whistling
wings of a flight of birds which sweep overhead. His languid senses are
aroused; he watches mechanically the dark, swift forms cleave the air in
relief against the clear sky. They are wild-fowl, on their way, no
doubt, to distant waters. His gaze follows them as they glide forward in
swaying file, and suddenly, with the plummet-like fall, drop and
disappear.
Merciful Heaven! can it be? Versed in all the habits of fur and feather,
as becomes a sworn sportsman, well he knows that when such birds drop
they drop in water, in _water_! He staggers to his feet, and stumbling,
reeling, tottering like a drunken man, makes for the place where they
became invisible. One glance, one hoarse broken cry of joy, pain,
rapture mingled in one utterance, and he is on his knees beside a
gleaming, rushing stream. He hears the gurgling, whistling note of the
delighted birds that are diving and splashing and chasing one another in
ecstasy of enjoyment. It is the Wondabyne! He remains upon his knees
looking for some seconds at the starry heavens; then, slowly and
sparingly, he drinks at intervals; he laves his brow and parched and
bleeding lips again and again in the cool waters. Then he carefully
fills the tin cup which hangs from a leather strap at his waist, and
turns on his track to the boy Doorival. Him he finds still sleeping,
with the dog beside him, who barks joyously at his approach. He wakes
him, and pointing to the tin cup, of which the boy drinks eagerly,
repeats but the single word “Wondabyne.”
It is enough; Doorival arises, staggers off with him, as one risen from
the dead.
Once more he sees the reedy shore—the gleaming river into which Help
plunges incontinently. He has much difficulty in preventing Doorival
from “drinking himself to death.” Both assuage the fiery thirst which
has been burning up brain and marrow. Both throw themselves upon the
warm sandy turf, and sleep till the sun is far on his path on the
morrow.
The battle is won—the standard is planted—all is plain and easy
journeying for the future. They are close to the mail track; another
day’s journey will bring them to the actual settled country.
On the morrow, just before sunset, they reach The Pioneers’ Royal Hotel,
a palatial weather-board edifice, apparently dropped down like an
aerolite upon the bare red soil of the plain. If it has no other
advantages, it possesses the inestimable one of being the mail depot.
That invaluable custodian of her Majesty’s correspondence, the mailman,
passes the door daily. To-morrow, if need be, John Redgrave may put
himself, his followers, and his tenders “on board” of this unpretending
express waggon, which bears the fortunes, the passions, the emotions,
the whole abstract life of the interior, to the metropolis.