BLACK DARNLEY'S VILLANY.--THE CONVICT STOCKMAN.
A brighter sun never shone upon the barren plains and fertile valleys of
Australia, than that which appeared above the horizon on the morning
after the murder and deed of violence committed by Black Darnley and his
gang of bushrangers. Our party had not closed their eyes in sleep during
the night, yet not one of us felt the least fatigue or desire to rest,
until the woman, who was under our protection, had been placed beneath
the shelter of her father's roof, humble as it was, and removed from all
society and scenes of civilization.
As we supported the unhappy woman towards the habitation of the convict,
and spoke words of encouragement which fell upon listless ears, we
thought of a parent's love, and how strong it must exist in the heart of
that old man, who had grown morose under his wrongs, yet still clung to
the recollection of his child, and fancied her a girl, instead of a
full-grown woman, and the mother of a family.
We had no doubt that her reception by her father would be warm; but we
dreaded to know how he would deport himself upon the news of the harsh
treatment which she had received being explained to him. He was
represented to us by Smith as a man of quick passions--bold and
fearless, or he would never have accepted the situation to which he was
attached--surrounded, as he was, with dangerous neighbors--convicts, who
cared no more about shedding the blood of a man than they did for the
lamb which they slaughtered when hungry--wild beasts, who prowled around
the fields at night, and skulked near during the day, and who, if urged
by starvation, would attack the shepherds, provided they interposed
between them and their prey.
This was the kind of man that was to be told that his daughter had
suffered at the hands of men whom he had spoken with weekly for months,
and who respected him only because they knew him to be no coward, and a
convict like themselves.
Our walk across the prairie was slow and laborious. We were compelled to
govern our pace with that of the woman, and as she was half-dead with
grief, and insensible to our words of encouragement, we concluded to let
her cry without hindrance on our part, and only hoped that our wagon
might escape pillage during our long absence.
It was about nine o'clock when we reached the place where we were camped
the night before. The wagon remained where we had left it; but it needed
no tongue to tell that it had been visited, while we were away, and that
a portion of the load was removed. Boxes of goods were overturned, and
tops wrenched off, bales were cut open, and their contents scattered
upon the ground; and, upon a near examination, we found that the
impudent robbers had used our dishes to feast from, and that there were
still smoking brands upon the fire where they had boiled their coffee,
as though they knew we should be absent all night, and had plenty of
time to enjoy themselves before our return.
For a few minutes, after Smith had seen the havoc which the bushrangers
had made with his cargo, he seemed to need as much comforting as the
unfortunate female under his charge. But he was a man, and had seen too
much of the world's trials to get discouraged, so he proceeded to gather
up his goods in the most philosophical manner, although an occasional
oath did escape him as he missed some article of value which he knew
could not be replaced except in Melbourne.
While Smith was occupied with his cargo Fred and myself proceeded to
cook breakfast, a meal which we stood very much in need of, considering
the labors of the night; but before we did so, our female friend was
placed upon blankets and screened from the hot sun. She refused all
offers of nourishment, and would not drink even a cup of strong tea
which we proffered her. Coffee, we unfortunately had none, as the
bushrangers had taken a fancy to the few pounds which were on the cart,
and carried it with them, rejecting with seeming contempt the green
leaves of China, of which there was a large box undisturbed.
Even the flesh of the kangaroo which we had hung upon the limb of a tree
was saved; but our store of salt pork was gone, also the few vegetables,
worth almost their weight in gold at the mines, which had been treasured
until we should arrive at our destination.
Fred uttered a curse when he found that there was not a single potato
left; but, after he had vented his displeasure, he applied his energies
to the matter before him with all his usual determination.
Fred's clothing and my own, contained in one small canvas bag, was gone,
and we stood in all that we owned. That did not distress us, however,
for we were not likely to go into society where a change of dress was
expected, but we did growl when we found that the scamps had carried off
all our powder, excepting what our flasks contained.
"Whose work is this?" asked Fred, who was broiling a piece of kangaroo
on a stick, and in a very artistic manner, for the purpose of tempting
the poor woman's appetite.
Smith, to whom the question was addressed, straightened his stout form,
and held up a number of flannel shirts, which he was taking to the mines
on a venture. They had been cut with knives in the most wanton manner,
and hardly a square inch had escaped.
"There is evidence enough of the perpetrator," replied Smith, pointing
to the holes.
"Well, who is he?" cried Fred, sprinkling a little salt upon the burning
flesh.
"There is but one gang of bushrangers in these parts who inflict wanton
injury upon the goods of carriers. That gang is Darnley's!"
"And yet you pardoned him once when he was in your power," I said.
"True; and had I been here my cargo would have escaped molestation. He
little thought that he was injuring me. I will do him the justice of
saying that."
"He and his gang should be swept from the face of the earth," cried
Fred, who, having cooked and seasoned the meat to his satisfaction, now
approached the woman, who was lying upon a blanket, apparently
unconscious of what was going on around her.
He had but uttered the words when she started to her feet, grasped his
arm with a vehemence utterly at variance with her previous docility, and
exclaimed,--
"You are right, Kill the monster! Kill him, for he is unfit to live.
Kill him, for he has wronged an unprotected woman, and committed
outrages that will condemn him to eternal punishment in the next world."
She released her grasp of Fred and fell to the ground, where she sat
rocking her body to and fro, uttering moans of anguish. But she no
longer shed tears, and her eyes looked wild and threatening, as though
her troubles had affected her reason.
"Who talks of killing?" cried a deep voice. "That is God's prerogative,
not man's nor vain woman's."
We started, and turning saw that the convict stockman had approached us
unawares, and was leaning on his long gun, keenly scanning the features
of the unfortunate woman.
"There are some crimes which God designs man to punish," answered Smith,
desisting from his occupation of gathering up his traps. "I think that
the scoundrels who robbed my team deserve hanging, and I don't want to
wait until they are dead to know that they are receiving punishment in
the next world."
"The world to come is one of darkness to us mortals, and who can pierce
its blackness. But God has promised light, and behold the angel of the
Lord will reveal all things, for so sayeth the Book of all books."
"I don't know what you mean," replied Smith, who had listened
attentively to the wild, rambling speech of the convict without
comprehending its import; "but this I do know, that I would mash the
heads of the bushrangers who robbed my cart, if they were within the
reach of my axe."
"Trust in God for vengeance, for to him does it belong," exclaimed the
convict, drawing a dirty looking and well-thumbed Testament from his
pocket, and turning over leaf after leaf as though seeking for a
particular chapter.
"We must get him to put up his book, or he'll read from now till
sundown," cried Smith, with visible alarm at the idea of being compelled
to listen.
"Here is an unfortunate woman that needs your assistance," said Smith,
laying a hand upon the old man's arm, and calling his attention to his
child.
"Does she need spiritual assistance, or only food for the body? Her
looks are like those of a person who has been suffering."
"She has suffered much within twenty-four hours, and her only friend now
is that dog that keeps so close to her."
"Let her be comforted," the convict cried, approaching her; "if her
sorrow is ever so deep, it can be healed."
He closed his book as he spoke and approached his child, who sat with
downcast eyes, and apparently unconscious of his presence.
"Daughter," he began; but at the sound of his voice so near, she raised
her eyes hastily, and on her face could be seen the emotions and
struggles to recollect where she had before heard his tones. She
pressed her hand to her forehead as though forcing memory to reveal its
secret, but suddenly the truth was revealed to her.
"Father," she cried, starting to her feet, and throwing her arms around
that white-headed man's neck, venerable before his time. "Father! O God,
is it you?"
She laid her aching head upon his bosom, and, with her arms around his
neck, shed tears as freely as she did the day that she was separated
from him, as she thought, forever.
The convict staggered back, and would have fallen, had not Fred's strong
arm supported him. He glanced from face to face as though trying to read
the meaning of the surprise, and then he turned his looks upon his
daughter.
"Mary," he cried, after pushing the hair from her forehead, "can it,
indeed, be my child--has the little girl whom I left in England grown to
be a woman!"
He held her close in his embrace as though he feared that something
would happen to prevent his seeing her again. He kissed the tears from
her cheeks, and begged her to be calm, and to tell him about her voyage,
and lastly to speak about her husband and children.
Her sobs were her only response. He grew impatient at her refusal to
answer his interrogations, and then suspicions of foul play entered his
imagination.
"There has been some wrong done you," he cried, appealing to his
daughter.
She answered with tears and moans.
"Speak, and tell me who has dared to injure you," he cried vehemently.
"Was it your husband?"
His brow grew threatening and black, as he put the question.
There was no reply, but his daughter clung to his neck with a more
convulsive grasp, as though she feared to lose her parent also.
He glanced from Smith to Fred, and from the latter to myself, as though
debating whether we were the guilty party.
"Tell me," he cried, lifting her head from his shoulder, and seeking to
get a glimpse of her face, "who has wronged you?"
There was no response. He placed her gently upon the blankets, and then
with a face that was livid with rage, grasped his musket which had
fallen to the ground.
"Which of you has dared to do this?" he asked, and the ominous click of
the lock of the gun proved that he was in earnest, and that all of his
worst passions were aroused.
No one answered. I looked towards Smith, expecting to hear him explain
every thing; but, to my surprise, he was silent; evidently too much
astonished at the unexpected turn which the affair had assumed, to
speak.
My look was misconstrued by the indignant convict, for before I could
speak, the long gun was levelled at the breast of Smith, and in another
moment all his hopes and fears would have been at an end, had not his
child started up and rushed towards him.
"Not him!" she shouted, wildly. "O God, not him!"
He dropped the muzzle of his gun, but his fierce eyes still glared from
Fred to me.
"Which of these two?"
He indicated us with a motion of the hand that held the gun, and looked
in his child's face for confirmation.
"Neither, father--so help me Heaven, neither. Without the aid of these
friends I should have perished."
He dropped the muzzle of the gun, and each of us felt thankful as he did
so, for we had witnessed the accuracy of his aim the day before, and
while the muzzle of the musket was pointed towards us, one of our lives
was not worth insuring.
"You are tired and distressed," the convict said, addressing his
daughter with a degree of tenderness that I thought wonderful after his
late outbreak.
"My head," she murmured, "feels as though it would burst; while my heart
is broken already."
"Rest a while, until I confer with your new-found friends, and then you
shall accompany me to my home. It is a hut, but it is all I have to
shelter you."
It was singular to witness how soon the recluse had once more become an
active man of the world, and for a while forgotten his Bible and
religious fanaticism.
"Tell me all that has happened," the convict said, motioning for us
three to follow him a short distance from his daughter, so that our
conversation could not be overheard by her.
Smith related the strange visit of the hound, and his leading us to the
scene of the murder--our finding his child in an insensible
condition--the story of her wrongs, and our surprise at finding that she
was in search of him. He listened with clinched teeth, and only
interrupted the narrative with groans of rage and anguish. When he knew
all, we waited to see what course he would pursue.
To our surprise, he did not speak, but turned away as though about to
seek his home.
"Stay one moment," cried Smith, laying his hand upon his shoulder.
"Well," cried the convict, impatiently.
"What do you propose to do?" we asked.
"Are you Americans, and ask that question?" he demanded.
"You think of seeking Black Darnley?" Smith continued.
"I do."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
"You shall not," cried Smith, with sudden energy. "You are no match for
him and his gang."
"My daughter's injury must be avenged. I go alone to consummate it."
"Stay until to-morrow, and we will accompany you," Fred and myself cried
with one accord.
The convict hesitated for a moment, then suddenly extended his hands,
and while he wrung ours, promised a compliance. The next instant he had
lifted his daughter in his arms, and was walking with the burden towards
his hut.
We saw no more of him until towards night, and then he was in front of
the hut cleaning his long, heavy musket.