PELICAN POOL
Kaloona Homestead lies distant from Surprise fifteen Queensland miles,
and the traveller by that road learns a Queensland mile is a mile and
anything you wish beyond. The red track runs all the way--over outcrops
of rock, across grassy levels and through dry creek beds, nearly to the
gateway of the homestead. Kaloona Homestead stands among timber on one
of the big holes of the river.
All the traffic of the neighbourhood takes this direction, and keeps
safe the roadway from the teeth of the waiting bush. Once a week the
mine buggy journeys to outlying shafts. Out of the distance crawl a
pair of horses, an ancient four-wheeled carriage, two men seated up
there in collarless shirts and khaki trousers, a swinging waterbottle
and a following of dust. Once a month Mr. Carroll, timekeeper, armed
with revolver and sustained with thoughts of a peg at the farther end,
bumps along in the back seat of the buggy with the pay for the smaller
mines. Along this path the horse-driver bullies a groaning load to the
mine furnaces, and wins the plain by ready tongue and a generous hand.
His dogs shuffle in the shade of the waggon. The copper gougers come
in from labours in the far places, and follow the red way to store and
hotel; and the kangaroo shooter, astride his shabby beast, arrives
with empty provision bags from lonely hunting grounds. But commonly
you travel all day under a greedy sun, and meet none of these things.
The plain rolls away, and no wayfarer appears, unless there leap up a
kangaroo startled in his bed chamber.
Power took the homeward road with never a thought to its emptiness.
He was no apprentice to the bush. He could read the signs of the way,
be the time day or night. Now a moon was in the middle of the sky,
the path was well trodden, a fair mount carried him, and the night
cooled--the journey would be done in the turning of his thoughts. He
rode with loose rein, idle spur, and seat easy in the saddle. Yet a
clever horse might not have got the better of him.
The mare carried him at a fast walk, asking neither check nor spur.
Single tents, tents in twos and threes, and rickety lean-tos rose up
among the gullies on both hands, and quickly a score of them had fallen
behind. In none burned a light, and no greeting arrived other than the
quick bark of curs. A bend of the road and the base of the hill cut off
the camp. From now forward the journey would prove a lonely business.
The creak of a saddle and the brief pad of hoofs in the dust were to be
the song of voyage.
Afoot or on horseback, Power was a wide-awake man. He saw most of what
was worth seeing. He could see, realize and do on the instant. But he
had his moments of reflection. He was aware of the tents, the lean-tos
and the rubbish on the ground. But he had fallen into thought before
going far on the way. Were he devout lover, now was the scene and now
the hour to delight in the virtues of his lady.
He loosened his feet in the stirrups to the tips of his toes, and
lifted his hat from his head. A vague breeze moved across his cheek,
and he turned gratefully to it; but it was dead as soon as it was born.
Still, the night was cooling, and the plain was wide and free after the
verandah at Surprise. The moon had taken station in the middle of the
sky, frighting all but a few stars which gleamed wanly here and there.
She was a lamp to all that great red country--by day full of majesty,
now touched to beauty by her genius. The walk of the mare soothed him
strangely.
Power was a man of fair learning and experience. He was a bushman
born, but the South had given him education of some width. He had had
a share of travel. He could remember other lands and fair cities. Men,
now forgotten, had rubbed shoulders with him; and one or two women had
passed in and out of his life with a few laughs and sighs. Seldom he
called them to mind. Maud Neville only had brought him to captivity.
Her brain was mate for his brain, her heart was mate for his heart:
there would be bonds to bind them when passion had passed away.
His thoughts went back to her, where he had seen her last following
the old man towards the house. He found himself thinking very tenderly
of her. Soon now she would come across to brighten the old homestead,
and life would never be quite the same again. He must pull his habits
into shape. He must remember freedom would have to go in harness, and
the curb might chafe at first. He must be abroad at dawn and home by
nightfall, and give up this riding over the country as the humour took
him. The cattle camp must see him less, the hearth must see him more;
others could do the rough work, and they would do it as well as he.
There came to mind the first time he had seen Maud Neville, a day
or two after the coach had brought her from the South. He had not
discovered her charm in the beginning. He put a high price on beauty
always, and here was a girl but poorly favoured. But that she made
the old man's home bright there was no denying, and now he walked in
willing captivity. He loved her, and she loved him almost too well. She
read him to the last word, while her own face was covered with a veil
which he had not the skill to pluck aside. She had said a little while
ago that he had much to learn in the art of loving, and perhaps she had
spoken the truth. His affection only had his spare time, and was shabby
exchange for a spiritual love like her own. Yet she seemed content.
Well, she should teach him in the days to come, and she would find him
a ready student. Just now he was on the way home, and to-morrow was
bringing a long day with cattle. There were other things for a man to
do besides making love.
He tumbled back to everyday matters when the mare whinnied loudly. He
looked about him. He found he had been carried into the plains. Behind,
and on the left hand, ranges filled the horizon; ahead ran the dark
belt of timber which followed the river. Power guessed at it rather
than saw it. Pelican Pool was four miles away in a straight line; but
the road bent in a little distance, and met the river several miles
lower down.
All at once Power grew alert. The sight of a riderless horse called for
more than a meander of thoughts. The animal stood a long way off in the
shadow of a small tree near the track. It was saddled, and the reins
hung to the ground. Power looked about the neighbourhood for the rider,
and quickly found him, spread out in the middle of the road. At once he
shook the mare into life and trotted forward. The horse under the tree
whinnied at their approach; but there was no movement from the form in
the path. At the last moment the mare took fright, and Power was hard
employed to bring her to reason. He jumped presently to the ground and
bent over the body. He found a heavy man in middle years lying on his
back, breathing with deep snores. It was a matter for proof if the
man were hurt; but there was no doubt of his drunkenness. A bottle of
whisky filled a pocket. The fellow's head was cut, and blood had dried
on it; but search discovered no other injury, and Power took him by the
shoulder and shook him--firmly at first, afterwards roughly. The snores
turned into chokes, the chokes became groans. Power tired of such a
tardy cure, and exchanged hand for foot. The fallen man opened his eyes.
"Day, mate. Wot do you think you're doing to a cove?"
"Are you all right?" Power said.
"Right enough to stop a cove going through me pockets." The fellow
licked his lips. "It's flamin' hot, mate!"
"Get up," said Power.
"Wot's got you so blooming anxious?"
"I found you on the road just now. There's the horse under the tree.
It's midnight. You'll have to hurry some to be anywhere by morning."
"I'm stayin' here."
"You'll perish when the sun gets up." There was a silence while they
looked at each other. Then the man swore, struggled a little and sat
up. "Have you far to go?" Power said.
"Pelican Pool."
"Are you Gregory?"
"That's me when I'm home."
Power lost patience. "Well, what the devil are you doing? Are you
coming or staying?"
"You're a nice bloke to help a sick cove." Gregory came across the
whisky bottle. He dragged it from his pocket, and waved it in the
moonlight. "I reckon I've a thirst you couldn't buy; no, not fer
ten quid. Have one at the same time? No! I reckoned as much from a
long-faced coot like you!"
"Get up," Power said, "and I'll give you a hand with the horse."
The beast waited for Power to catch it. Gregory had found his feet,
and stood in the middle of the path looking at the whisky bottle.
He proved very groggy; but recourse to the bottle put him in braver
spirit, and he fell to cursing Surprise and all that lies within its
gates.
"Here you are," Power said. "Go steady. I'll leg you up."
It took trouble and a pretty play of oaths to bring about the lifting
up. The horse stood like a rock. Gregory swore his leg was broken; but
he gained the saddle, and afterwards kept balance in a surprising way.
Power, in no good temper, turned things over, and decided to take him
to the Pool. It meant a journey longer by five miles--bad luck which
swearing wouldn't mend.
"Come on," he said. "I'm going your way. Shake up that beast of yours.
I don't want to be all night."
He turned the mare's head to Pelican Pool, and she started the journey,
walking fast. The other horse kept company at a jog-trot. Gregory began
a rough ride. But he held his attention to the whisky bottle, and had
spilled a big part of it before they were a mile on the way. The empty
bottle was thrown grandly to the ground. As time went by he turned very
friendly.
"I'll be showing you something in a mile or two--my oath! yes--the
best copper show in the Gulf, or in Queensland for that matter. There's
a fortune there, I say. D'yer hear me? I'll be driving my buggy and
pair yet. I'll be buying more grog in a day than that cove at the pub
sells in a year. No more blanky shovelling for me, you make no error.
I'll have all the buyers in the country there 'fore the week's out. Old
Neville down at Surprise, he'll be on his knees prayin' me to sell it
him. 'Ear me?"
"I hear you," Power said. And with the last bit of good temper left he
added, "Are you far down?"
"Matter o' thirty foot, and ore all the way. I tell yer I'll be the
richest man this side of Brisbane. 'Ear wot I say?"
With spells of talk and spells of silence, they made the rest of the
journey. Gregory was more master of himself on a horse than on the
ground, and at the hour's end the travelling was done. Where they
approached it the river ran in the rains with a two-mile span; but now
the bed was dry and filled with stones and sand. Many mean trees grew
in this country. Over stones and sand the riders passed, and under
trees bearing in their branches the rubbish of forgotten floods. As
they went on, the timber became dense and grew to a noble size; and
presently here and there among distant laced branches showed the
surface of Pelican Pool. The water was lit by the light of the moon.
The Pool was shrinking every day; but it still covered a mile of
country, and its breadth was a fair swimmer's journey.
"Where's the camp?" Power said.
"By the castor-oil bush."
Thereupon they inclined to the right hand. Large reaches of the Pool
were now plainly to be seen--very fair they showed in the moonlight,
with weeds trailing about the water, and here and there a large white
lily a-bloom. Small fishes leaped in the shallows. Trees leaned
patiently over both banks, spreading knotted arms. Now the camp came
out of the trees. Two tents were rigged side by side; and not very
far off had been built a room of poles and hessian. About an open-air
fireplace were the ashes of the day's fire. A dog tied near the tents
uncurled at their coming, and fell to barking with great good will.
"We're here," Gregory said. "The old woman must have turned in."
"Better quiet the dog, then," Power answered. "Go steady there. I'll
see you down."
He jumped to the ground and threw a stone at the dog, which dropped its
tail and stopped barking. He held Gregory's horse, and Gregory climbed
down. The man was fairly on his legs, when a keen voice called from
one of the tents--"Is that you, boss? Boosed, I suppose?"
"There's a gen'leman here to see yer," Gregory shouted.
"Wot?"
"A gen'leman to see yer."
"Aw, blast yer, come to bed an' don't wake me up."
"I tell yer a gen'leman's here."
"Can't yer shut it?"
"Gen'leman. I say. Gen'leman."
A pause followed on this. At last the voice from the tent cried--"Get
up, Moll, and see wot dad's after. I've not had a square sleep fer a
week."
"Aw," said somebody in the second tent.
But in that tent a person stirred. Gregory shouted again. "Be quick,
Moll. Light a lantern. The moon's no good to me in these durned trees."
"Wait a minute, can't yer?"
Power picked up the reins and remounted the mare. He had had his fill
of the affair, and was riding away. "You're right now," he said to
Gregory. "Good night." The gleam of a lantern appeared through the
canvas of the tent. "Good night," Power called out a second time. The
tent door was pushed aside, and a girl came into the open, holding a
lighted lantern above her head.
Power pulled up his beast. The girl that stood there was scantily
dressed. Her hair fell down her back. She was very near him, and she
held the lantern that she might look him over; but the rays of light
fell all about her own head and shoulders. She stared at him, not a
whit disturbed at the sudden meeting.
A moment had brought Power face to face with the great experience of
his life. The girl's beauty was beyond any imagining. He sat astride
the mare with dropped reins, staring at her.
There, in a broken tent, in that forgotten place by the river, was one
of those women who have commanded the tears and prayers of men since
the world began to turn. The girl stood with the light of the lantern
falling about her, with that in the carriage of her head for which a
sage would forget his learning, with that in her eyes for which a saint
would forego his hope of Paradise, with that in her form for which a
poet would break the strings of his lyre. To look a moment on her was
to grow hungry, to look long on her was to banish peace.
For that most cunning work of a great craftsman was a chalice holding
the poisoned potion of desire; that rich body was an altar whereon
burned the fires of longing; that loveliness was doomed to linger as
midwife to men's tears. The spirit of all that is untamed made home in
that form, and beside it dwelt the spirit of all that shall not find
rest. And sight of that fairness brought taste of what man reaches for
and may not touch, of what man climbs after to fall from with bruised
knees.
Her figure was quick and strong and supple; her hair lay about her head
as an aureole; her eyes were great and bright and deep; her feet were
slender and without blemish; her lips waited on the coming of some
supreme adventure.
Quite suddenly Power found the girl speaking to him. She held her head
a little sideways and was looking over him.
"Are you camping here, Mister?" she said.
Power was startled out of his words. He sat up straight again. "No,
thanks. I came along with your father. I'm going on now."
"We can give you a shake-down. It's no worry."
"No, thanks. I must get home. I'm mustering to-morrow. Good night."
"Good night, Mister."
Power rode home at a foot pace. He thought of the girl all the way. Her
beauty had moved him more than anything he had known.
Midnight had chimed at Surprise, and the camp was asleep. The party
telling stories from their long chairs outside the staff quarters had
been broken up an hour since in a last "A-haw." Mr. Wells had forgotten
his cornet, and Mr. Horrington, rather muddled, had found his stretcher
and blown out the light. Houses, humpies and tents were in the dark.
But outside, the pallor of the moon fell, making filigree work of the
leaves on the trees, and staring coldly into the eyes of sleepy curs,
which blinked back from their beds in the grasses.
The camp was asleep; but one person had stayed awake. The slight figure
of a woman sat at the top of the steps leading down from the verandah
of Neville's house. She sat crouched up, chin in hands, so still as to
be unearthly. She had sat thus with hardly a movement for a long time.
Maud had said good night to her father on their return. The house had
seemed stifling. She went into her bedroom, drew the curtains wide from
the window so that the room was filled with light, opened the door
leading to the verandah, undressed, and went to bed. For more than an
hour she lay awake, counting the moonbeams on the wall, and listening
to the song of the mosquitoes. Then she gave up pretence. She sat up in
bed, slipped a wrap round her, and crossed to the window on bare feet.
The night looked very charming outside, and soon she left the room,
crossed the bare boards lightly as a night spirit, and came to a little
balcony at the head of the steps leading down from the verandah. She
sat down on the top step, putting her naked feet on the one below.
Yes, the night was charming out here--calm, empty and cooled by the
ghosts of little breezes, which fluttered an instant on her face and
fainted. There was pleasure in believing that she was the only one
awake. It was strange to look on this slumbering camp, bearding the
wilderness. She might have been a sentry watching that the hungry
bush did not devour it in the hours of night. This habit of keeping
the night watch had become a custom lately. The hour brought her more
profit than any other of the twenty-four. She was not hot and fagged;
she spoke the truth to herself; she could trust her judgments. The
calm watered her soul as a shower of rain, so that it swelled up, and
flowers broke from it. It was wonderful this growth of soul which
lately had been her portion, this serenity brought about by losing
herself in another. Sitting here, she told herself how thankful she
ought to be. Night was very kind, like some nurse who whispers her
child into sweet dreams.
This comprehension of life, this sureness of decision, had all grown up
in two years. This renouncing of oneself that another might profit was
the fountain from which gushed the purest waters at which the spirit
could drink. Yet how many drank at that fountain? Instead, they sat
at the windows of their houses in the streets of life, and remarked
indifferently the pale faces glued to the panes across the way. Unless
it happened that someone, sick with the bloodless silence, broke down
one of those bolted doors and pushed inside, the faces sat always
staring down the street, and the winds of desolation sweeping down the
chimney at even, scattered the flames upon the hearth, and starved the
watchers at their seats.
A good love was a wonderful thing, like the fire of the refiner,
burning away the dross and leaving the pure metal. She had found it a
philosopher's stone, making life golden, giving her humour to laugh
when her father was tiresome, leaving her proof against the little
annoyances of the day. And better than that. No shortcomings in the
man she loved caused her misgiving now. He was easy to anger; a little
selfish sometimes; he was thoughtless often. But love had brought
understanding of him, and understanding meant forgiveness. She blessed
him as she thought of him on his way across the plain, rejoicing that
she might serve him, thankful to him for the growth of spirit he had
caused in her.
The little breezes sighed, fanned her a moment and passed on, a few
leaves turned on the trees; but she sat wrapped in the serenity of her
contemplation.