The months went on till I began to think it was a long time since
anything had been heard of father. I didn't expect to have a letter or
anything, but I knew he must take a run outside now and again; and so
sure as he did it would come to my ears somehow.
One day I had a newspaper passed in to me. It was against the
regulations, but I did get it for all that, and this was the first thing
I saw:--
STRANGE DISCOVERY IN THE TURON DISTRICT.
A remarkable natural formation, leading to curious results, was last
week accidentally hit upon by a party of prospectors, and by them made
known to the police of the district. It may tend to solve the doubts
which for the last few years have troubled the public at large
with respect to the periodical disappearance of a certain gang of
bush-rangers now broken up.
Accident led the gold miners, who were anxious to find a practicable
track to the gullies at the foot of Nulla Mountain, to observe a narrow
winding way apparently leading over the brow of the precipice on its
western face. To their surprise, half hidden by a fallen tree, they
discovered a difficult but practicable track down a gully which finally
opened out into a broad well-grassed valley of considerable extent, in
which cattle and horses were grazing.
No signs of human habitation were at first visible, but after a patient
search a cave in the eastern angle of the range was discovered. Fires
had been lighted habitually near the mouth, and near a log two saddles
and bridles--long unused--lay in the tall grass. Hard by was stretched
the body of a man of swarthy complexion. Upon examination the skull was
found to be fractured, as if by some blunt instrument. A revolver of
small size lay on his right side.
Proceeding to the interior of the cave, which had evidently been used
as a dwelling for many years past, they came upon the corpse of another
man, in a sitting posture, propped up against the wall. One arm rested
upon an empty spirit-keg, beside which were a tin pannikin and a few
rude cooking utensils. At his feet lay the skeleton of a dog. The whole
group had evidently been dead for a considerable time. Further search
revealed large supplies of clothes, saddlery, arms, and ammunition--all
placed in recesses of the cave--besides other articles which would
appear to have been deposited in that secure receptacle many years
since.
As may be imagined, a large amount of interest, and even excitement,
was caused when the circumstances, as reported to the police, became
generally known. A number of our leading citizens, together with many
of the adjoining station holders, at once repaired to the spot. No
difficulty was felt in identifying the bodies as those of Ben Marston,
the father of the two bush-rangers of that name, and of Warrigal, the
half-caste follower always seen in attendance upon the chief of the
gang, the celebrated Starlight.
How the last members of this well-known, long-dreaded gang of
freebooters had actually perished can only be conjectured, but taking
the surrounding circumstances into consideration, and the general
impression abroad that Warrigal was the means of putting the police upon
the track of Richard Marston, which led indirectly to the death of his
master and of James Marston, the most probable solution would seem to
be that, after a deep carouse, the old man had taxed Warrigal with his
treachery and brained him with the American axe found close to the body.
He had apparently then shot himself to avoid a lingering death, the
bullet found in his body having been probably fired by the half-caste as
he was advancing upon him axe in hand.
The dog, well known by the name of Crib, was the property and constant
companion of Ben Marston, the innocent accomplice in many of his most
daring stock-raids. Faithful unto the end, with the deep, uncalculating
love which shames so often that of man, the dumb follower had apparently
refused to procure food for himself, and pined to death at the feet of
his dead master. Though the philanthropist may regret the untimely
and violent end of men whose courage and energy fitted them for better
things, it cannot be denied that the gain to society far exceeds the
loss.
When the recesses of the Hollow were fully explored, traces of rude but
apparently successful gold workings were found in the creeks which
run through this romantic valley--long as invisible as the fabled gold
cities of Mexico.
We may venture to assert that no great time will be suffered to elapse
ere the whole of the alluvial will be taken up, and the Terrible Hollow,
which some of the older settlers assert to be its real name, will
re-echo with the sound of pick and shovel; perhaps to be the means
of swelling those escorts which its former inhabitants so materially
lessened.
With regard to the stock pasturing in the valley, a puzzling problem
presented itself when they came to be gathered up and yarded. The
adjoining settlers who had suffered from the depredations of the
denizens of the Hollow were gladly expectant of the recovery of animals
of great value. To their great disappointment, only a small number
of the very aged bore any brand which could be sworn to and legally
claimed. The more valuable cattle and horses, evidently of the choicest
quality and the highest breeding, resembled very closely individuals of
the same breed stolen from the various proprietors. But they were either
unbranded or branded with a letter and numbers to which no stock-owners
in the district could lay claim.
Provoking, as well as perplexing, was this unique state of
matters--wholly without precedent. For instance, Mr. Rouncival and his
stud-groom could almost have sworn to the big slashing brown mare, the
image of the long-lost celebrity Termagant, with the same crooked blaze
down the face, the same legs, the same high croup and peculiar way of
carrying her head. She corresponded exactly in age to the date on which
the grand thoroughbred mare, just about to bring forth, had disappeared
from Buntagong. No reasonable doubt existed as to the identity of this
valuable animal, followed as she was by several of her progeny, equally
aristocratic in appearance. Still, as these interesting individuals had
never been seen by their rightful owners, it was impossible to prove a
legal title.
The same presumptive certainty and legal incompleteness existed
concerning Mr. Bowe's short-horns (as he averred) and Mr. Dawson's
Devons.
'Thou art so near and yet so far,'
as a provoking stock-rider hummed. Finally, it was decided by the
officials in charge to send the whole collection to the public pound,
when each proprietor might become possessed of his own, with a good and
lawful title in addition--for 'a consideration'--and to the material
benefit of the Government coffers.
So it was this way the poor old Hollow was dropped on to, and the
well-hidden secret blown for ever and ever. Well, it had been a good
plant for us and them as had it before our time. I don't expect there'll
ever be such a place again, take it all round.
And that was the end of father! Poor old dad! game to the last. And the
dog, too!--wouldn't touch bit or sup after the old man dropped. Just
like Crib that was! Often and often I used to wonder what he saw in
father to be so fond of him. He was about the only creature in the wide
world that was fond of dad--except mother, perhaps, when she was young.
She'd rather got wore out of her feelings for him, too. But Crib stuck
to him to his end--faithful till death, as some of them writing coves
says.
And Warrigal! I could see it all, sticking out as plain as a fresh track
after rain. He'd come back to the Hollow, like a fool--in spite of me
warning him--or because he had nowhere else to go. And the first time
dad had an extra glass in his head he tackled him about giving me away
and being the means of the other two's death. Then he'd got real mad and
run at him with the axe. Warrigal had fired as he came up, and hit him
too; but couldn't stop him in the rush. Dad got in at him, and knocked
his brains out there and then. Afterwards, he'd sat down and drank
himself pretty well blind; and then, finding the pains coming on
him, and knowing he couldn't live, finished himself off with his own
revolver.
It was just the way I expected he would make an ending. He couldn't do
much all alone in his line. The reward was a big one, and there would be
always some one ready to earn it. Jim and Starlight were gone, and I
was as good as dead. There wasn't much of a call for him to keep alive.
Anyhow, he died game, and paid up all scores, as he said himself.
. . . . .
I don't know that there's much more for me to say. Here I am boxed up,
like a scrubber in a pound, year after year--and years after that--for I
don't know how long. However, O my God! how ever shall I stand it? Here
I lie, half my time in a place where the sun never shines, locked up at
five o'clock in my cell, and the same door with never a move in it till
six o'clock next morning. A few hours' walk in a prison yard, with
a warder on the wall with a gun in his hand overhead. Then locked up
again, Sundays and week-days, no difference. Sometimes I think they'd
better have hanged me right off. If I feel all these things now I've
only been a few months doing my sentence, how about next year, and the
year after that, and so on, and so on? Why, it seems as if it would
mount up to more than a man's life--to ten lives--and then to think how
easy it might all have been saved.
There's only one thing keeps me alive; only for that I'd have starved to
death for want of having the heart to eat or drink either, or else have
knocked my brains out against the wall when one of them low fits came
over me. That one thing's the thought of Gracey Storefield.
She couldn't come to me, she wrote, just yet, but she'd come within the
month, and I wasn't to fret about her, because whether it was ten years
or twenty years if she was alive she'd meet me the day after I was free,
let who will see her. I must be brave and keep up my spirits for her
sake and Aileen's, who, though she was dead to the world, would hear of
my being out, and would always put my name in her prayers. Neither
she nor I would be so very old, and we might have many years of life
reasonably happy yet in spite of all that had happened. So the less I
gave way and made myself miserable, the younger I should look and feel
when I came out. She was sure I repented truly of what I had done wrong
in the past; and she for one, and George--good, old, kind George--had
said he would go bail that I would be one of the squarest men in the
whole colony for the future. So I was to live on, and hope and pray God
to lighten our lot for her sake.
. . . . .
It must be years and years since that time as I last wrote about. Awful
long and miserable the time went at first; now it don't go so slow
somehow. I seemed to have turned a corner. How long is it? It must be a
hundred years. I have had different sorts of feelings. Sometimes I feel
ashamed to be alive. I think the man that knocked his head against the
wall of his cell the day he was sentenced and beat his brains out in
this very gaol had the best of it. Other times I take things quite easy,
and feel as if I could wait quite comfortable and patient-like till
the day came. But--will it? Can it ever come that I shall be a free man
again?
People have come to see me a many times, most of them the first year
or two I was in. After that they seemed to forget me, and get tired of
coming. It didn't make much odds.
But one visitor I had regular after the first month or two. Gracey, poor
Gracey, used to come and see me twice a year. She said it wouldn't do
her or me any good to come oftener, and George didn't want her to. But
them two times she always comes, and, if it wasn't for that, I don't
think I'd ever have got through with it. The worst of it was, I used to
be that low and miserable after she went, for days and days after, that
it was much as I could do to keep from giving in altogether. After a
month was past I'd begin to look forward to the next time.
When I'd done over eleven years--eleven years! how did I ever do it? but
the time passed, and passed somehow--I got word that they that I knew
of was making a try to see if I couldn't be let out when I'd done twelve
years. My regular sentence was fifteen, and little enough too. Anyhow,
they knock off a year or two from most of the long-sentence men's time,
if they've behaved themselves well in gaol, and can show a good conduct
ticket right through.
Well, I could do that. I was too low and miserable to fight much when
I went in; besides, I never could see the pull of kicking up rows and
giving trouble in a place like that. They've got you there fast enough,
and any man that won't be at peace himself, or let others be, is pretty
sure to get the worst of it. I'd seen others try it, and never seen no
good come of it. It's like a dog on the chain that growls and bites at
all that comes near him. A man can take a sapling and half kill him,
and the dog never gets a show unless he breaks his chain, and that don't
happen often.
Well, I'd learned carpentering and had a turn at mat-making and a whole
lot of other things. They kept me from thinking, as I said before, and
the neater I did 'em and the more careful I worked the better it went
with me. As for my mats, I came quite to be talked about on account of
'em. I drew a regular good picture of Rainbow, and worked it out on a
mat with different coloured thrums, and the number of people who came to
see that mat, and the notice they took of it, would surprise any one.
When my twelve years was within a couple of months or so of being up I
began to hear that there was a deal of in-and-out sort of work about my
getting my freedom. Old George Storefield and Mr. Falkland--both of 'em
in the Upper House--and one or two more people that had some say with
the Government, was working back and edge for me. There was a party on
the other side that wasn't willing as I should lose a day or an hour of
my sentence, and that made out I ought to have been hanged 'right away',
as old Arizona Bill would have said, when I was first taken. Well,
I don't blame any of 'em for that; but if they could have known the
feelings of a man that's done a matter of twelve years, and thinks he
might--yes, might--smell the fresh air and feel the grass under his feet
in a week or two--well, they'd perhaps consider a bit.
Whatever way it came out I couldn't say, but the big man of the
Government people at that time--the Minister that had his say in all
these sort of things--took it into his head that I'd had about enough of
it, if I was to be let out at all; that the steel had been pretty well
taken out of me, and that, from what he knew of my people and so on, I
wasn't likely to trouble the Government again. And he was right. All I
wanted was to be let out a pardoned man, that had done bad things, and
helped in worse; but had paid--and paid dear, God knows--for every pound
he'd got crooked and every day he'd wasted in cross work. If I'd been
sent back for them three years, I do r'aly believe something of dad's
old savage blood would have come uppermost in me, and I'd have turned
reckless and revengeful like to my life's end.
Anyhow, as I said before, the Minister--he'd been into the gaol and had
a look once or twice--made up his mind to back me right out; and he put
it so before the Governor that he gave an order for my pardon to be made
out, or for me to be discharged the day my twelve years was up, and to
let off the other three, along of my good behaviour in the gaol, and all
the rest of it.
This leaked out somehow, and there was the deuce's own barney over it.
When some of the Parliament men and them sort of coves in the country
that never forgives anybody heard of it they began to buck, and no
mistake. You'd have thought every bush-ranger that ever had been shopped
in New South Wales had been hanged or kept in gaol till he died; nothing
but petitions and letters to the papers; no end of bobbery. The only
paper that had a word to say on the side of a poor devil like me was
the 'Turon Star'. He said that 'Dick Marston and his brother Jim, not to
mention Starlight (who paid his debts at any rate, unlike some people
he could name who had signed their names to this petition), had
worked manly and true at the Turon diggings for over a year. They were
respected by all who knew them, and had they not been betrayed by a
revengeful woman might have lived thenceforth a life of industry and
honourable dealing. He, for one, upheld the decision of the Chief
Secretary. Thousands of the Turon miners, men of worth and intelligence,
would do the same.'
The Governor hadn't been very long in the colony, and they tried it
on all roads to get him to go back on his promise to me. They began
bullying, and flattering, and preaching at him if such a notorious
criminal as Richard Marston was to be allowed to go forth with a
free pardon after a comparatively short--short, think of that,
short!--imprisonment, what a bad example it will be to the rising
generation, and so on.
They managed to put the thing back for a week or two till I was nearly
drove mad with fretting, and being doubtful which way it would go.
Lucky for me it was, and for some other people as well, the Governor was
one of those men that takes a bit of trouble and considers over a thing
before he says yes or no. When he says a thing he sticks to it. When
he goes forward a step he puts his foot down, and all the blowing, and
cackle, and yelping in the world won't shift him.
Whether the Chief Secretary would have taken my side if he'd known
what a dust the thing would have raised, and how near his Ministers--or
whatever they call 'em--was to going out along with poor Dick Marston,
I can't tell. Some people say he wouldn't. Anyhow, he stuck to his word;
and the Governor just said he'd given his decision about the matter,
and he hadn't the least intention of altering it--which showed he
knew something of the world, as well as intended to be true to his own
opinions. The whole thing blew over after a bit, and the people of the
country soon found out that there wasn't such another Governor (barrin'
one) as the Queen had the sending out of.
The day it was all settled the head gaoler comes to me, and says he,
'Richard Marston, the Governor and Council has been graciously pleased
to order that you be discharged from her Majesty's gaol upon the
completion of twelve years of imprisonment; the term of three years'
further imprisonment being remitted on account of your uniform good
conduct while in the said gaol. You are now free!'
I heard it all as if it had been the parson reading out of a book about
some other man. The words went into my ears and out again. I hardly
heard them, only the last word, free--free--free! What a blessed word it
is! I couldn't say anything, or make a try to walk out. I sat down on my
blankets on the floor, and wondered if I was going mad. The head gaoler
walked over to me, and put his hand on my shoulder. He was a kind enough
man, but, from being 'took in' so often, he was cautious. 'Come, Dick,'
he says, 'pull yourself together. It's a shake for you, I daresay, but
you'll be all right in a day or so. I believe you'll be another man when
you get out, and give the lie to these fellows that say you'll be up to
your old tricks in a month. I'll back you to go straight; if you don't,
you're not the man I take you for.'
I got up and steadied myself. 'I thank you with all my heart, Mr.----,'
I said. 'I'm not much of a talker, but you'll see, you'll see; that's
the best proof. The fools, do they think I want to come back here? I
wish some of them had a year of it.'
As soon as there was a chance of my going out, I had been allowed to
'grow', as they call it in there. That is, to leave off having my face
scraped every morning by the prison barber with his razor, that was
sometimes sharp and more times rough enough to rasp the skin off you,
particularly if it was a cold morning. My hair was let alone, too. My
clothes--the suit I was taken in twelve years ago--had been washed and
cleaned and folded up, and put away and numbered in a room with a lot of
others. I remember I'd got 'em new just before I started away from the
Hollow. They was brought to me, and very well they looked, too. I never
had a suit that lasted that long before.
That minds me of a yarn I heard at Jonathan Barnes's one day. There was
a young chap that they used to call 'Liverpool Jack' about then. He was
a free kind of fellow, and good-looking, and they all took to him. He
went away rather sudden, and they heard nothing of him for about three
years. Then he came back, and as it was the busy season old Jonathan put
him on, and gave him work. It was low water with him, and he seemed glad
to get a job.
When the old man came in he says, 'Who do you think came up the road
to-day?--Liverpool Jack. He looked rather down on his luck, so I gave
him a job to mend up the barn. He's a handy fellow. I wonder he doesn't
save more money. He's a careful chap, too.'
'Careful,' says Maddie. 'How do ye make that out?'
'Why,' says Jonathan, 'I'm dashed if he ain't got the same suit of
clothes on he had when he was here three years ago.'
The old man didn't tumble, but both the girls burst out laughing. He'd
been in the jug all the time!
I dressed myself in my own clothes--how strange it seemed--even to the
boots, and then I looked in the glass. I hadn't done that lately. I
regularly started back; I didn't know myself; I came into prison a big,
stout, brown-haired chap, full of life, and able to jump over a dray and
bullocks almost. I did once jump clean over a pair of polers for a lark.
And how was I going out? A man with a set kind of face, neither one
thing nor the other, as if he couldn't be glad or sorry, with a fixed
staring look about the eyes, a half-yellowish skin, with a lot of
wrinkles in it, particularly about the eyes, and gray hair. Big
streaks of gray in the hair of the head, and as for my beard it was
white--white. I looked like an old man, and walked like one. What was
the use of my going out at all?
When I went outside the walls by a small gate the head gaoler shook
hands with me. 'You're a free man now, Dick,' he says, 'and remember
this--no man can touch you. No man has the right to pull you up or lay
a finger on you. You're as independent as the best gentleman in the
land so long as you keep straight. Remember that. I see there's a friend
waiting for you.'
Sure enough there was a man that I knew, and that lived near Rocky Flat.
He was a quiet, steady-going sort of farmer, and never would have no
truck with us in our flash times. He was driving a springcart, with a
good sort of horse in it.
'Come along with me, Dick,' says he. 'I'm going your way, and I promised
George Storefield I'd call and give you a lift home. I'm glad to see you
out again, and there's a few more round Rocky Flat that's the same.'
We had a long drive--many a mile to go before we were near home. I
couldn't talk; I didn't know what to say, for one thing. I could only
feel as if I was being driven along the road to heaven after coming from
the other place. I couldn't help wondering whether it was possible that
I was a free man going back to life and friends and happiness. Was it
possible? Could I ever be happy again? Surely it must be a dream that
would all melt away, and I'd wake up as I'd done hundreds of times and
find myself on the floor of the cell, with the bare walls all round me.
When we got nearer the old place I began to feel that queer and strange
that I didn't know which way to look. It was coming on for spring, and
there'd been a middling drop of rain, seemingly, that had made the grass
green and everything look grand. What a time had passed over since I
thought whether it was spring, or summer, or winter! It didn't make much
odds to me in there, only to drive me wild now and again with thinkin'
of what was goin' on outside, and how I was caged up and like to be for
months and years.
Things began little by little to look the way they used to do long and
long ago. Now it was an old overhanging limb that had arched over the
road since we were boys; then there was a rock with a big kurrajong tree
growing near it. When we came to the turn off where we could see Nulla
Mountain everything came back to me. I seemed to have had two lives; the
old one--then a time when I was dead, or next door to it--now this new
life. I felt as if I was just born.
'We'll get down here now,' I said, when we came near the dividing fence;
'it ain't far to walk. That's your road.'
'I'll run you up to the door,' says he, 'it isn't far; you ain't used to
walking much.'
He let out his horse and we trotted through the paddock up to the old
hut.
'The garden don't look bad,' says he. 'Them peaches always used to bear
well in the old man's time, and the apples and quinces too. Some one's
had it took care on and tidied up a bit. There, you've got a friend or
two left, old man. And I'm one, too,' says he, putting out his hand and
giving mine a shake. 'There ain't any one in these parts as 'll cast it
up to you as long as you keep straight. You can look 'em all in the face
now, and bygones 'll be bygones.'
Then he touched up his horse and rattled off before I could so much as
say 'Thank ye.'
I walked through the garden and sat down in the verandah on one of the
old benches. There was the old place, mighty little altered considering.
The hut had been mended up from time to time--now a slab and then a
sheet of bark--else it would have been down long enough ago. The garden
had been dug up, and the trees trimmed year by year. A hinge had been
put on the old gate, and a couple of slip-rails at the paddock. The
potato patch at the bottom of the garden was sown, and there were
vegetables coming on in the old beds. Some one had looked after the
place; of course, I knew who it was.
It began to get coldish, and I pulled the latch--it was there just the
same--and went into the old room. I almost expected to see mother in her
chair, and father on the stool near the fireplace, where he used to sit
and smoke his pipe. Aileen's was a little low chair near mother's. Jim
and I used to be mostly in the verandah, unless it was very cold, and
then we used to lie down in front of the fire--that is, if dad was away,
as he mostly was.
The room felt cold and dark as I looked in. So dreadful lonely, too. I
almost wished I was back in the gaol.
When I looked round again I could see things had been left ready for me,
so as I wasn't to find myself bad off the first night. The fire was all
made up ready to light, and matches on the table ready. The kettle
was filled, and a basket close handy with a leg of mutton, and bread,
butter, eggs, and a lot of things--enough to last me a week. The bedroom
had been settled up too, and there was a good, comfortable bed ready for
any tired man to turn into. Better than all, there was a letter, signed
'Your own Gracey,' that made me think I might have some life left worth
living yet.
I lit the fire, and after a bit made shift to boil some tea; and after
I'd finished what little I could eat I felt better, and sat down before
the fire to consider over things. It was late enough--midnight--before
I turned in. I couldn't sleep then; but at last I must have dropped off,
because the sun was shining into the room, through the old window with
the broken shutter, when I awoke.
At first I didn't think of getting up. Then I knew, all of a sudden,
that I could open the door and go out. I was in the garden in three
seconds, listening to the birds and watching the clouds rising over
Nulla Mountain.
. . . . .
That morning, after breakfast, I saw two people, a man and a woman, come
riding up to the garden gate. I knew who it was as far as I could see
'em--George Storefield and Gracey. He lifted her down, and they walked
up through the garden. I went a step or two to meet them. She ran
forward and threw herself into my arms. George turned away for a bit.
Then I put her by, and told her to sit down on the verandah while I had
a talk with George. He shook hands with me, and said he was glad to see
me a free man again. 'I've worked a bit, and got others to work too,'
says he; 'mostly for her, and partly for your own sake, Dick. I can't
forget old times. Now you're your own man again, and I won't insult you
by saying I hope you'll keep so; I know it, as sure as we stand here.'
'Look here, George,' I said, 'as there's a God in heaven, no man shall
ever be able to say a word against me again. I think more of what you've
done for me almost than of poor Gracey's holding fast. It came natural
to her. Once a woman takes to a man, it don't matter to her what he is.
But if you'd thrown me off I'd have not blamed you. What's left of Dick
Marston's life belongs to her and you.'
. . . . .
That day week Gracey and I were married, very quiet and private. We
thought we'd have no one at the little church at Bargo but George and
his wife, the old woman, and the chap as drove me home. Just as we
were going into the church who should come rattling up on horseback
but Maddie Barnes and her husband--Mrs. Moreton, as she was now, with a
bright-looking boy of ten or eleven on a pony. She jumps off and gives
the bridle to him. She looked just the same as ever, a trifle stouter,
but the same saucy look about the eyes. 'Well, Dick Marston,' says she,
'how are you? Glad to see you, old man. You've got him safe at last,
Gracey, and I wish you joy. You came to Bella's wedding, Dick, and so I
thought I'd come to yours, though you kept it so awful quiet. How d'ye
think the old horse looks?'
'Why, it's never Rainbow?' says I. 'It's twelve years and over since I
saw him last.'
'I didn't care if it was twenty,' said she. 'Here he is, and goes as
sound as a bell. His poor old teeth are getting done, but he ain't the
only one that way, is he, Joe? He'll never die if I can keep him alive.
I have to give him corn-meal, though, so as he can grind it easy.'
'I believe she thinks more of that old moke than me and the children all
put together,' says Joe Moreton.
'And why shouldn't I?' says Maddie, facing round at him just the old
way. 'Isn't he the finest horse that ever stood on legs, and didn't he
belong to the finest gentleman that you or any one else looked at? Don't
say a word against him, for I can't stand it. I believe if you was to
lay a whip across that old horse in anger I'd go away and leave you,
Joe Moreton, just as if you was a regular black stranger. Poor Rainbow!
Isn't he a darling?' Here she stroked the old horse's neck. He was
rolling fat, and had a coat like satin. His legs were just as clean as
ever, and he stood there as if he heard everything, moving his old head
up and down the way he always did--never still a moment. It brought
back old times, and I felt soft enough, I tell you. Maddie's lips were
trembling again, too, and her eyes like two coals of fire. As for Joe,
he said nothing more, and the best thing too. The boy led Rainbow over
to the fence, and old George walked us all into the church, and that
settled things.
After the words were said we all went back to George's together, and
Maddie and her husband drank a glass of wine to our health, and wished
us luck. They rode as far as the turn off to Rocky Flat with us, and
then took the Turon road.
'Good-bye, Dick,' says Maddie, bending down over the old horse's neck.
'You've got a stunning good wife now, if ever any man had in the whole
world. Mind you're an A1 husband, or we'll all round on you, and your
life won't be worth having; and I've got the best horse in the country,
haven't I? See where the bullet went through his poor neck. There's no
lady in the land got one that's a patch on him. Steady, now, Rainbow,
we'll be off in a minute. You shall see my little Jim there take him
over a hurdle yard. He can ride a bit, as young as he is. Pity poor old
Jim ain't here to-day, isn't it, Dick? Think of him being cold in his
grave now, and we here. Well, it's no use crying, is it?'
And off went Maddie at a pace that gave Joe and the boy all they knew to
catch her.
. . . . .
We're to live here for a month or two till I get used to outdoor work
and the regular old bush life again. There's no life like it, to my
fancy. Then we start, bag and baggage, for one of George's Queensland
stations, right away up on the Barcoo, that I'm to manage and have a
share in.
It freshens me up to think of making a start in a new country. It's a
long way from where we were born and brought up; but all the better for
that. Of course they'll know about me; but in any part of Australia,
once a chap shows that he's given up cross doings and means to go
straight for the future, the people of the country will always lend him
a helping hand, particularly if he's married to such a wife as Gracey.
I'm not afraid of any of my troubles in the old days being cast up to
me; and men are so scarce and hard to get west of the Barcoo that no one
that once had Dick Marston's help at a muster is likely to remind him of
such an old story as that of 'Robbery Under Arms'.
THE END
Notes on the text:
General:
The original serial of this story had roughly 29,000 more words than
the version given here, but it should be noted that this version is the
standard text that has been widely available since then.
The combination of this story being a serial, with cuts from the
original which may not have been perfectly executed, has led to a few
discrepancies. Thus, in Chapter 2 it is mentioned that Patsey Daly
was hanged, but in Chapter 44 the same character is shot to death. In
Chapter 42, Starlight (as Mr. Lascelles) dances with Maddie Barnes one
night, and the next day (in the same disguise) she does not recognise
him. And then there are some gaps: In Chapter 24, the story line
suddenly jumps from a scene where the characters are riding to the
Hollow, to a discussion about selling horses. In Chapter 31, Dick
Marston says “I did live to do her [Maddie Barnes] a good turn back...”
but there seems to be nothing later in the story worth mentioning in
this line. In Chapter 35, a reference is made to “old Mr. Devereux's
box”, which was apparently discovered in Chapter 22 or 23, but cut out
from this edition.
The story is still quite readable and enjoyable despite these things,
but they are mentioned so that the interested reader may look further
(if they desire) into obtaining an edition which includes the complete
text in the original Newspaper serial; and to give a general idea what
sort of things might have been cut.
“Captain Starlight” was the name used by a real bushranger, Frank
Pearson (1837-99), but Boldrewood claimed that his “Starlight” was a
composite based in part on “Captain Midnight” and Harry Redford (ca.
1842 to 1901), the latter of which stole a herd of cattle in a
similar manner to that described in the book. The factual events
that contributed to the story took place in the late 1860's and
other periods; but Boldrewood set his story in the 1850's. The name
“Starlight” is also used in Adam Lindsay Gordon's famous poem, “The Sick
Stockrider”.
“Warrigal”, the name of the half-caste character, is also an Australian
term for the Dingo, or native dog.
A couple other famous highwaymen are alluded to in the story.
Dick Turpin, who is mentioned twice, was an English
highwayman, 1706-39. There is apparently a legendary ride
from London to York that is popularly attributed to him, the
idea being that he established an alibi by covering the
distance so swiftly after a robbery.
Claude Duval was famous for being gallant to women. Born in
France, he came to England with the Duke of Richmond about
1660 (the Restoration), and turned out shortly afterwards.
Terms:
-----
There are a number of Australian terms in the text, which may not be
listed in non-Australian dictionaries--even unabridged ones. Here are a
few:
bail up: To stick up. According to Boldrewood, from the term used with
cows, where “bail up” means to secure a cow's head in a bail, a type of
frame, before milking.
bunyip: (pronounced bun-yup) A large mythological creature, said by the
Aborigines to inhabit watery places. There may be some relation to an
actual creature that is now extinct.
dinkum: Now means honest or genuine, but used by Boldrewood in its
obsolete sense, work, or an amount of work. (In fact, one major
Australian dictionary quotes this very book for an example of this
obsolete sense.)
forester: The eastern gray kangaroo.
gin: An Aboriginal woman--from an aboriginal word for “woman” or “wife”.
(Considered derogatory in current usage.)
jerran: Afraid. From an aboriginal language. Now obsolete.
mallee scrubber: “Mallee”, a variety of Eucalyptus, or a remote, wild
area (like “bush”); “Scrubber”, a farm animal that has gone wild; hence,
“mallee scrubber”, a wild farm animal in this environment.
shout: To buy drinks for a group, or the act of buying drinks.
store cattle: Cattle that are not ready for market, but need to be
fattened first. Hence, they are “in store” for future use, or for use as
stock.
skillion: A lean-to or outbuilding.
turkey: Probably Eupodotis (Otis) australis, the Australian Bustard.
(Also “native turkey”, “wild turkey”.)
Corrections:
-----------
The following errors were corrected from the original text:
Chapter 8:
“I flung down my note, and Jim did his, and told them that we owed to to
take” changed to
“owed to take”.
Chapter 19:
“and the look of a free man gone out of his face for over--” changed to
“out of his face for ever--“.
Chapter 28: (1st paragraph)
“But that's neither here not there.” changed to
“But that's neither here nor there.”
Chapter 52:
“'right away', as old Arizona Bill would have said when I was first
taken.” changed to
“'right away', as old Arizona Bill would have said, when I was first
taken.”
Technical:
---------
Chapter headings have been changed from Roman to Arabic numerals, for
ease of use.
Due to the limitations of ASCII, the British “Pounds” symbol, a crossed
L, where it comes before a figure, has been replaced by “Pound(s)” after
the figure(s). When this substitution has been made, the word “Pound” is
always capitalised. Examples: “L1” is “1 Pound”; “L6 or L8” is “6 or 8 Pounds”.
This text was transcribed from the Second Edition, which was first
printed in June of 1889.
A few foreign words had accents in the original edition. The most common
was “depo^t”, which has since become standardized in English as “depot”.
The others are “ame damnee” for “ame damne\e”; “cause celebre”
for “cause ce/le\bre”; and “vis-a-vis” for “vis-a\-vis”. In the
advertisements listed below, “Athenaeum” was originally “Athen(ae)um”.
From the original advertisements:
POPULAR NOVELS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
THE MINER'S RIGHT. A Tale of the Australian Gold-Fields.
Athenaeum--“The picture is unquestionably interesting, thanks to the
very detail and fidelity which tend to qualify its attractiveness for
those who like excitement and incident before anything else.”
World--“Full of good passages, passages abounding in vivacity, in the
colour and play of life.... The pith of the book lies in its singularly
fresh and vivid pictures of the humours of the gold-fields,--tragic
humours enough they are, too, here and again....”
Manchester Examiner--“The characters are sketched with real life and
picturesqueness. Mr. Boldrewood accomplishes the very difficult feat of
enabling his readers not only to understand the bewildering complexities
of mining law, but to be interested in the situations which arise out of
their operation, while his fund of incident seems to be large enough
to meet all the demands made upon it. Indeed, the book is lively and
readable from first to last.”
THE SQUATTER'S DREAM.
Saturday Review--“It is not often that stories of colonial life are
so interesting as Mr. Boldrewood's 'Squatter's Dream'. There is enough
story in the book to give connected interest to the various incidents,
and these are all told with considerable spirit and at times
picturesqueness.”
Field--“The details are filled in by a hand evidently well conversant
with his subject, and everything is 'ben trovato', if not actually true.
A perusal of these cheerfully-written pages will probably give a better
idea of realities of Australian life than could be obtained from many
more pretentious works.”
A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON.
Glasgow Herald--“The interest never flags, and altogether 'A Sydney-Side
Saxon' is a really refreshing book.”
Anti-Jacobin--“Thoroughly well worth reading.... A clever book,
admirably written.... Brisk in incident, truthful and lifelike in
character.... Beyond and above all it has that stimulating hygienic
quality, that cheerful, unconscious healthfulness, which makes a story
like 'Robinson Crusoe', or 'The Vicar of Wakefield', so unspeakably
refreshing after a course of even good contemporary fiction.”
A COLONIAL REFORMER.
Athenaeum--“A series of natural and entertaining pictures of Australian
life, which are, above all things, readable.”
Glasgow Herald--“One of the most interesting books about Australia we
have ever read.”
Saturday Review--“Mr. Boldrewood can tell what he knows with great point
and vigour, and there is no better reading than the adventurous parts of
his books.”