The struggling squatter is to be found in Australia as well as the
“struggling farmer”. The Australian squatter is not always the mighty
wool king that English and American authors and other uninformed people
apparently imagine him to be. Squatting, at the best, is but a game of
chance. It depends mainly on the weather, and that, in New South Wales
at least, depends on nothing.
Joe Middleton was a struggling squatter, with a station some distance
to the westward of the furthest line reached by the ordinary “new chum”.
His run, at the time of our story, was only about six miles square, and
his stock was limited in proportion. The hands on Joe's run consisted
of his brother Dave, a middle-aged man known only as “Middleton's Peter”
(who had been in the service of the Middleton family ever since Joe
Middleton could remember), and an old black shepherd, with his gin and
two boys.
It was in the first year of Joe's marriage. He had married a very
ordinary girl, as far as Australian girls go, but in his eyes she was an
angel. He really worshipped her.
One sultry afternoon in midsummer all the station hands, with the
exception of Dave Middleton, were congregated about the homestead door,
and it was evident from their solemn faces that something unusual was
the matter. They appeared to be watching for something or someone across
the flat, and the old black shepherd, who had been listening intently
with bent head, suddenly straightened himself up and cried:
“I can hear the cart. I can see it!”
You must bear in mind that our blackfellows do not always talk the
gibberish with which they are credited by story writers.
It was not until some time after Black Bill had spoken that the
white--or, rather, the brown--portion of the party could see or even
hear the approaching vehicle. At last, far out through the trunks of the
native apple-trees, the cart was seen approaching; and as it came nearer
it was evident that it was being driven at a break-neck pace, the horses
cantering all the way, while the motion of the cart, as first one
wheel and then the other sprang from a root or a rut, bore a striking
resemblance to the Highland Fling. There were two persons in the cart.
One was Mother Palmer, a stout, middle-aged party (who sometimes did the
duties of a midwife), and the other was Dave Middleton, Joe's brother.
The cart was driven right up to the door with scarcely any abatement of
speed, and was stopped so suddenly that Mrs. Palmer was sent sprawling
on to the horse's rump. She was quickly helped down, and, as soon as
she had recovered sufficient breath, she followed Black Mary into the
bedroom where young Mrs. Middleton was lying, looking very pale and
frightened. The horse which had been driven so cruelly had not done
blowing before another cart appeared, also driven very fast. It
contained old Mr. and Mrs. Middleton, who lived comfortably on a small
farm not far from Palmer's place.
As soon as he had dumped Mrs. Palmer, Dave Middleton left the cart and,
mounting a fresh horse which stood ready saddled in the yard, galloped
off through the scrub in a different direction.
Half an hour afterwards Joe Middleton came home on a horse that had been
almost ridden to death. His mother came out at the sound of his arrival,
and he anxiously asked her:
“How is she?”
“Did you find Doc. Wild?” asked the mother.
“No, confound him!” exclaimed Joe bitterly. “He promised me faithfully
to come over on Wednesday and stay until Maggie was right again. Now
he has left Dean's and gone--Lord knows where. I suppose he is drinking
again. How is Maggie?”
“It's all over now--the child is born. It's a boy; but she is very weak.
Dave got Mrs. Palmer here just in time. I had better tell you at once
that Mrs. Palmer says if we don't get a doctor here to-night poor Maggie
won't live.”
“Good God! and what am I to do?” cried Joe desperately.
“Is there any other doctor within reach?”
“No; there is only the one at B----; that's forty miles away, and he is
laid up with the broken leg he got in the buggy accident. Where's Dave?”
“Gone to Black's shanty. One of Mrs. Palmer's sons thought he remembered
someone saying that Doc. Wild was there last week. That's fifteen miles
away.”
“But it is our only hope,” said Joe dejectedly. “I wish to God that I
had taken Maggie to some civilised place a month ago.”
Doc. Wild was a well-known character among the bushmen of New South
Wales, and although the profession did not recognise him, and denounced
him as an empiric, his skill was undoubted. Bushmen had great faith in
him, and would often ride incredible distances in order to bring him
to the bedside of a sick friend. He drank fearfully, but was seldom
incapable of treating a patient; he would, however, sometimes be found
in an obstinate mood and refuse to travel to the side of a sick person,
and then the devil himself could not make the doctor budge. But for all
this he was very generous--a fact that could, no doubt, be testified to
by many a grateful sojourner in the lonely bush.