THE FIRST CAMP
Whatever may be the loss or injury inseparable from misfortune, no one
of experience denies that the pain is lightened when the blow has
fallen. The shuddering terror, the harrowing doubts, which precede an
operation, far outrun the torture of the knife. Worse a thousandfold to
endure than actual misery, poverty and disgrace, is the dull sense of
impending doom, the daily anxiety, the secret dread, the formless,
unhasting, unsparing terror, which each day brings nearer to the victim.
Howard Effingham had, for weeks past, suffered the torments of the lost.
An unwise concealment of the coming ruin which his reserved temperament
forbade him to announce, had stretched him upon the rack. The acute
agony was now past, and he felt unspeakably relieved as, with increasing
completeness, the preparations for departure were accomplished.
After the shock of the disaster he commenced the necessary duties with
an unwontedly tranquil mind. He had despatched a bank draft for the
amount mentioned by his friend and counsellor the Rev. Harley
Sternworth. Prior to this needful act, he held various conferences with
the trustees of Mrs. Effingham’s settlement. In many instances such
authorities are difficult, even impracticable, to deal with, preferring
the minimum interest which can be safely procured in the matter of trust
money, to the slightest risk. In this instance, the arbiter of destiny
was an old gentleman, at once prudent yet liberal-minded, who did not
disdain to examine the arguments in favour of the Australian plan. After
reading Mr. Sternworth’s letter, and comparing the facts therein stated
with colonial securities, to which he had access, he gave in his
adhesion to the investment, and converted his coadjutor, a mild,
obstinate personage, who could with difficulty be induced to see any
other investment legally open to them but the ‘sweet simplicity of the
three per cents.’
Long was the last day in coming, but it came at last. Their stay in the
old home was protracted until only time was given for the journey to
Southampton, where the staunch, old-fashioned wool-ship lay, which was
to receive their condensed personal effects and, as it seemed to them,
shrivelled-up personalities.
Adieus were said, some with sore weeping and many tears; some with
moderate but sincere regret; some with the half-veiled indifference with
which any action not affecting their own comfort, interest, or
reputation is regarded by a large class of acquaintances. The minor
possessions—the carriages, the horses, the library, the furniture—were
sold. A selection of the plainest articles of this last requisite,
which, the freight being wonderfully low, their chief adviser had
counselled them to carry with them, was alone retained.
‘It will sell for next to nothing,’ his last letter had said, ‘judging
from my experience after the regiment had “got the route,” and you will
have it landed here for less than the price of very ordinary
substitutes. Bring all the small matters you can, that may be useful;
and don’t leave the piano behind. I must have a tune when I come to see
you at Warbrok, and hear Mrs. Effingham sing “Auld Robin Gray” again.
You recollect how our old Colonel broke down, with tears rolling over
his wrinkled cheeks, when she sang it?’
All was now over. The terrible wrench had been endured, tearing apart
those living fibres which in early life are entwined around hearth and
home. They had gazed in mournful farewell upon each familiar thing which
from childhood’s hour had seemed a portion of their sheltered life. Like
plants and flowerets, no denizens of hothouse or simulated tropic clime,
but not the less carefully tended from harmful extremes, climatic or
social, had the Effingham family grown and flourished. Now they were
about to be abandoned to the elemental forces. Who should say whether
they would wither under rude blasts and a fiercer sun, or, from natural
vigour and inherent vitality, burgeon and bloom beneath the Southern
heavens?
Of the whole party, she who showed less outward token of sorrow, felt in
her heart the most unresting anguish. To a woman like Mrs. Effingham,
reared from infancy in the exclusive tenets of English county life, the
idea of so comprehensive a change, of a semi-barbarous migration, had
been well-nigh more bitter than death—but for one source of aid and
spiritual support, unendurable.
Her reliance had a twofold foundation. The undoubting faith in a Supreme
Being, who ordered aright all the ways of His creatures, even when
apparently remote from happiness, remained unshaken. Firmly had she ever
trusted in that God by whom her former life had been guided. Events
might take a mysteriously doubtful course. But, in the wilderness, under
leafy forest-arches, beneath the shadow of the gathering tempest, on
land or ocean, she would trust in God and her Redeemer. Steadfast and
brave of mien, though with trembling lip and sickened heart, she
marshalled her little troop and led them on board the stout ship, which
only awaited the morrow’s dawn to spread her wings and sweep
southward—ever southward—amid unknown seas, until the great island
continent should arise from out the sky-line, telling of a land which
was to provide them with a home, with friends, even perhaps a fortune.
What a mockery in that hour of utter wretchedness did such hope
promptings appear!
After protracted mental conflict, no more perfect system of rest can be
devised than that afforded by a sea-voyage. Anxiety, however mordant,
must be lulled to rest under the fixed conditions of a journey, before
the termination of which no battle of life can be commenced, no campaign
resumed.
Toil and strife, privation and poverty, labour and luck, all the
contending forces of life are hushed as in a trance. As in hibernation,
the physical and mental attributes appear to rally, to recruit fresh
stores of energy. ‘The dead past buries its dead’—sorrowfully perchance,
and with silent weeping. But the clouds which have gathered around the
spirit disperse and flee heavenwards, as from a snow-robed Alp at
morning light. Then the roseate hues of dawn steal slowly o’er the
silver-pure peaks and glaciers. The sun gilds anew the dark pine forest,
the purple hills. Once more hope springs forth ardent and unfettered.
Endeavour presses onward to victory or to death.
To the Effingham family came a natural surprise, that, under their
circumstances of exile and misfortune, any cheerfulness could occur. The
parents possessed an air of decent resignation. But the younger members
of the family, after the first days of unalloyed wretchedness, commenced
to exhibit the elastic temperament of youth.
The seamanship displayed on the staunch sailing ship commenced to
interest them. The changing aspects of sea and sky, the still noon, the
gathering storm-cloud, the starry midnight, the phosphorescent
fire-trail following the night-path of their bark—all these had power to
move the sad hearts of the exiles. And, in youth, to move the heart is
to lighten the spirit.
Wilfred Effingham, true to his determination to deliver himself over to
every practical duty which might grow out of their life, had procured
books professing to give information with regard to all the Australian
colonies.
With difficulty he managed, after an extended literary tour involving
Tasmania, Swan River, and New Zealand, to distinguish the colony to
which they were bound, though he failed to gather precise information
regarding the district in which their land was situated. He made out
that the climate was mild, and favourable to the Anglo-Saxon
constitution; that in mid-winter, flowering shrubs and delicate plants
bloomed in spite of the pretended rigour of the season; that the heat in
summer was considerable, as far as shown by the reading of the
thermometer, but that from the extreme dryness of atmosphere no greater
oppressiveness followed than in apparently cooler days in other
climates.
‘Here, mother,’ he said, having mastered the latter fact, ‘we have been
unconsciously coming to the exact country suited to your health and
pursuits. You know how fond of flowers you are. Well, you can have a
winter garden now, without the expense of glass or the trouble of
hothouse flues; while you can cheat the season by abstaining from colds,
which you could never do in England, you know.’
‘I shall be happy to have a little garden of my own, my son,’ she
replied, ‘but who is to work in it? We have done for ever, I suppose,
with head and under gardeners. You and Guy and everybody will always, I
suppose, be at farm-work, or herding cattle and sheep, busy from morning
to dark. How glad we shall be to see your faces at night!’
‘It does not follow,’ replied Wilfred, ‘that we shall never have a
moment to spare. Listen to what this author says: “The colonist who has
previously been accustomed to lead a life, where intervals of leisure
and intellectual recreation hold an acknowledged place, must not
consider that, in choosing Australia for his home, he has forfeited all
right to such indulgences. Let him not think that he has pledged himself
to a life of unbroken toil and unremitting manual labour. On the
contrary, he will discover that the avocations of an Australian country
gentleman chiefly demand the exercise of ordinary prudence and of those
rudimentary business habits which are easily acquired. Intelligent
supervision, rather than manual labour, is the special qualification for
colonial success; and we do not err in saying that by its exercise more
fortunes have been made than by the rude toils which are supposed to be
indispensable in the life of an Australian settler.”
‘There, mother!’ said the ardent adventurer. ‘That writer is a very
sensible fellow. He knows what he is talking about, for he has been ever
so many years in Australia, and has been over every part of it.’
‘Well, there certainly seems permission given to us to have a
flower-garden for mamma without ruining ourselves or neglecting our
business,’ said Rosamond. ‘And if the climate is so beautiful as they
say, these dreadful February neuralgia-martyrdoms will be things of the
past with you, dearest old lady.’
‘There, mother, what do you say to that? Why, you will grow so young and
beautiful that you will be taken for our elder sister, and papa would be
ashamed to say you are his wife, only that old gentlemen generally marry
young girls nowadays. Then, fancy what a garden we shall have at The
Chase—we _must_ call it The Chase, no matter what its present name is.
It wouldn’t feel natural for us to live anywhere but at a Chase. It
would be like changing our name.’
* * * * *
On board ship there is always abundant leisure for talk and recreation,
especially in low latitudes and half calms. The Effinghams, after they
had been a month out, began to feel sensibly the cheering effects of
total change of scene—the life-breathing atmosphere of the unbounded
sea. The demons of Regret and Fear, for the most part, shun the blue
wave and lie in wait on land for unwary mortals. The ship was seaworthy
and spacious, the officers capable, the few passengers passably
agreeable. Gradually the tone was restored of Captain Effingham’s
nervous system. He ceased to repine and regret. He even beheld some
grains of hope in the future, black as the outlook had until now
appeared. While the expression of sweet serenity and calm resignation
which ever dwelt upon the features of Mrs. Effingham became heightened
and assured under the concomitants of the voyage, until she appeared to
radiate peace and goodwill sufficient to affect beneficially the whole
ship’s company. As for the two little ones, Selden and Blanche, they
appeared to have been accustomed since infancy to a seafaring life. They
ran about unchecked, and were in everybody’s way and every one’s
affections. They were the youngest children on board, and many a rough
sailor turned to look, with something like a glistening in his eye, on
the saucy brown-eyed boy, and the delicate little five-year-old fairy,
whose masses of fair hair floated in the breeze, or were temporarily
confined with an unwilling ribbon.
It seemed but the lengthening limit of a dream when the seaman at the
good ship’s bow was commanded to keep a lookout for land; when, yet
another bright blue day, fading into eve, and a low coast-line is seen,
rising like an evening cloud from out a summer sea.
‘Hurrah!’ said Wilfred Effingham, as the second mate pointed out the
land of promise, ‘now our life begins. We shall belong to ourselves
again, instead of being the indulgently treated slaves—very well
treated, I confess—but still the unquestionable bond-slaves of that
enlightened taskmaster, Captain Henry Fleetby of the _Marlshire_.’
‘We have been very happy, my dear,’ said Mrs. Effingham, ‘happier than I
should have thought possible in a ship, under any circumstances. Let us
hope our good fortune will continue on land. I shall always look back to
this voyage as the most wonderful rest that our poor wounded hearts
could have enjoyed. Your papa looks quite himself again, and I feel
better than I have done for years. I shall remember our captain, his
officers, and his ship, with gratitude, as long as I live.’
‘I feel quite attached to the dear old vessel,’ said Annabel, ‘but we
can’t go sailing about the world all our lives, like respectable Flying
Dutchmen. I suppose the captain must turn us out to-morrow. Who would
have thought we should regret coming to the end of the voyage?’
How calm was that last day of the long, but not too long, voyage, when
they glided for hours on a waveless sea, by a great wall of sandstone
cliffs, which finally opened, as if by magic, and discovered the portal
of an Enchanted Haven! Surely the prospect could not all be real, of
this wondrous nook, stolen from the vast, the limitless Pacific, in
which they discerned, through the empurpling eve, villas, cottages,
mansions, churches, white-walled and fantastic to their eyes, girt with
strange shrubs and stately forest trees of unknown aspect. As the
_Marlshire_ floated to her anchorage, threading a fleet of skiffs, which
made the waters gay with many a sail, the full heart of the mother and
the wife overflowed.
Involuntarily a fervent prayer of thanksgiving went up to that Being who
had safely guarded them o’er the waste of ocean; had permitted their
entrance into this good land, which lay ready to receive them in their
need.
Passengers concluding a short voyage are nervously anxious to land, and
commence the frantic enjoyment of existence on _terra firma_. Not so
with the denizens of the good ship _Marlshire_, which had been their
home and dwelling-place for more than a quarter of a year. Having grown,
with the strange adaptiveness of our nature, to love the gallant bark,
you revere the captain, respect the first officer, and believe in the
second. Even the crew is above the average of the mercantile Jack-tar
novel. You will always swear by the old tub; and you will not go on
shore till to-morrow morning, if then.
All things considered, the family decided to stay quietly on board the
_Marlshire_ that night, so as to disembark in a leisurely way in the
morning, when they would have the day before them in which to make
arrangements.
They talked of staying quietly on board, but the excitement of being so
near the land was too much for them. The unnatural quietude of the ship,
the calm water of the bay, the glancing lights, which denoted the
thousand homes of the city, the cries and sounds of the massed
population of a seaport, the warm midnight air, the woods and white
beaches which denoted the shore-line, the gliding harbour-boats, all
seemed to sound in one strangely distinct chorus: ‘Land, land, land at
last.’ All magically exciting, these sounds and scenes forbade sleep.
Long after the other members of the family had gone below for the night,
Wilfred and Rosamond paced the deck, eagerly discussing plans for the
future, and, with the sanguine temper of youth, rapidly following each
freshly-formed track to fortune.
No one was likely to indulge in slumber after sunrise. A babel of sounds
announced that the unlading of cargo had commenced. Their last ship
breakfast prefaced the actual stepping upon the friendly gangway, which
now alone divided them from the other side of the world. Before that
feat was performed, a squarely-built, grey-headed personage, in clerical
garb, but withal of a somewhat secular manner, walked rapidly from the
wharf to the deck and confronted the party.
‘Here you are at last, all safe and sound, Howard, my dear fellow!’ said
he, shaking hands warmly with Mr. Effingham. ‘Not so much changed
either; too easy-going for that. Pray present me to Mrs. Effingham and
the young ladies. Your eldest son looking after the luggage?—proper
place for him. Allow me to take your arm, my dear madam, and to conduct
you to the hotel, where I have engaged rooms for you. May as well set
off—talk as we go along. Only heard of the _Marlshire_ being signalled
the day before yesterday. Came a long journey—slightly knocked up this
morning, but soon recovered—splendid climate—make a young man of you,
Earl Percy, in a year or two. We always called him Earl Percy in the
regiment, Mrs. Effingham. Perhaps he told you. And all this fine family
too—two, four, six, seven. I can hardly credit my senses. Plenty of room
for them in this country—plenty of room—that’s one thing.’
‘We have every reason to be thankful for the comfortable way in which we
have voyaged here,’ said Mrs. Effingham; ‘and now that you have so
kindly come to meet us, I feel as if half our troubles were over.’
‘Your troubles are just commencing, my dear madam, but with Harley
Sternworth’s help something may be done to lighten them. Still I feel
sure that these young ladies will look upon difficulties in a sensible
way, not expecting too much, or being discouraged—just at first, you
know.’
‘Your country, my old friend, will have to look bad indeed if my wife
cannot find a good word to say for it,’ said Mr. Effingham, roused to
unwonted cheerfulness. ‘At any rate, it suits you well; you look as hard
as a west country drover.’
‘Never was better. Haven’t had a dose of medicine for years. Ride fifty
miles a day if necessary. Finest climate—finest country—under the sun.
Lots of parish work and travelling, with a dash of botanising, and a
pinch of geology to fill up spare time. Wouldn’t go back and live in a
country town for the world. Mope to death.’
All this time the reverend gentleman was pressing forward up a gentle
incline, towards the lower end of George Street, and after walking up
that noble thoroughfare, and discreetly refraining from mention of the
buildings which ornament that part of it, he turned again towards the
water and piloted his party successfully to Batty’s Hotel.
‘Here, my dear madam, you will find that I have secured you pleasant
apartments for a week or ten days, during which time you will be able to
recruit after the voyage, and do justice to the beauties of the city.
You are not going up country at once. A few days’ leisure will be
economy in the end.’
‘So we are not to start off hundreds of miles at once, in a bullock
dray, as the captain told us?’ said Rosamond.
‘No, my dear young lady, neither now nor, I hope, at any time will such
a mode of travelling be necessary. I cannot say too much for your
conveyance, but it will be fairly comfortable and take you to your
destination safely. After that will commence what you will doubtless
consider to be a tolerably rough life. Yes—a rough life.’
‘These young people have made up their minds to anything short of living
like Esquimaux,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘I don’t think you will frighten
them. You and I saw curious backwoods places when we were quartered in
Canada, didn’t we? You will hardly match them in Australia.’
‘Nothing to be compared to it,’ said Mr. Sternworth earnestly. ‘We have
no winter here, to begin with; that is, none worth speaking about for
cold. Moreover, the people are intensely British in their manners and
customs, in an old-fashioned way. But I am not going to explain
everything. You will have to _live_ the explanation, which is far better
than hearing it, and is sure to be retained by the memory.’
It was decided that no move was to be made for the interior until the
baggage was landed, and arrangements made for its safe carriage by dray.
‘If you leave before all is ready,’ said their mentor, ‘you run risk of
the loss of a portion, by mistake or negligence; and this loss may never
be repaired. You will find your furniture of immense value in the new
abode, and will congratulate yourself upon having brought it. It is
astonishing with what different eyes you look upon a table or sideboard
here and in England.’
‘I was anxious to bring out some of our old possessions,’ said Mrs.
Effingham. ‘But I had hard work to persuade my husband that we might not
be able to procure such here. Your advice was most opportune. I feel
more pleased than I can say that we were able to act upon it.’
At lunch they were joined by Wilfred, who had discovered that there was
no chance of all the furniture coming ashore that day. He had arranged
with the captain that Andrew and his family should remain on board, as
also Daisy the cow, until everything was ready to load the drays with
the heavy baggage.
Andrew had expressed himself much pleased with the arrangement,
regarding the ship as ‘mair hamelike’ than the busy foreign-looking
city, to the inhabitants of which he did not take kindly, particularly
after an exploring stroll, which happened to be on the Sunday after
arrival.
‘A maist freevolous folk, given up to mammon-worship and
pleesure-huntin’,—walkin’ in thae gairdens—no that they’re no just
by-ordinar’ for shrubs and floorin’ plants frae a’ lands—walkin’ and
haverin’ in the gairdens on the Sawbath day, a’ smilin’ and heedless,
just on the vairge o’ happiness. Saw ye ever the like? It’s juist
fearsome.’
Upon the lady portion of the family, the city with its shops, parks, and
inhabitants made a more favourable impression.
Mr. Sternworth was untiring in showing them, in the excursions which
Mrs. Effingham and the girls made under his guidance, the beauties of
the city. They wandered much in the lovely public gardens, to Mrs.
Effingham’s intense delight, whose love of flowers was, perhaps, her
strongest taste. They drove out on the South Head road, and duly noted
the white-walled mansions, plunged deeply in such luxuriant
flower-growth as the Northern strangers had rarely yet beheld.
Wonderfully gracious seemed the weather. It was the Australian spring
with air as soft and balmy as that of Italy in her fairest hours.
How enjoyable was that halt between two stages of existence! Daily, as
they rose from the morning meal, they devoted themselves to fresh
rambles around the city, under the chaperonage of the worthy person.
They commenced to feel an involuntary exhilaration. The pure air, the
bright days, the glowing sun, the pleasant sea-breeze, combined to cause
an indefinable conviction that they had found a region formed for aid
and consolation.
The streets, the equipages, the people, presented, it is true, few of
the contrasts, to their English experience, which a foreign town would
have afforded. Yet was there the excitement, strong and vivid, which
arises from the first sight of a strange land and an unfamiliar people.
‘This town has a great look of Marseilles,’ said Wilfred, as they
loitered, pleasantly fatigued, towards their temporary home in the
deepening twilight. ‘The same white, balconied, terraced houses of pale
freestone; the southern climate, the same polyglot water-side
population, only the Marseilles quay might be stowed away in a hundred
corners of this wonderful harbour; and the people—only look at them—have
a Parisian tendency to spend their evenings in the streets. I suppose
the mildness of the climate tends to it.’
‘This kind of thing, I suppose, strikes you sharply at first,’ said Mr.
Sternworth; ‘but my eyes have become so accustomed to all the aspects of
my little world, that I cannot see much difference between it and many
English places I have known in my day. The variations noted at first
have long since disappeared; and I feel as much at home as I used to do
at Bideford, when I was quartered there with the old regiment.’
‘But surely the people must be different from what they are in England,’
said Beatrice. ‘The country is different, the trees, the plants—how
beautiful many of them are!—and the climate; surely all this must tend
to alter the character or the appearance of the people.’
‘It may in a few centuries have that effect, my dear young lady,’ said
the old gentleman, ‘but such changes are after the fashion of nature’s
workings, imperceptibly slow. You will agree with me in another year,
that many old acquaintances in men and manners are to be met with out
here, and the rest present only outward points of divergence.’
The days of restful peace had passed. The valuable freight—to them
invaluable—having been safely loaded, Mr. Sternworth unfolded the plan
which he had arranged for their journey.
‘You are aware,’ he said, ‘that Warbrok Chase, as the young ladies have
decided to call your estate, is more than 200 miles from Sydney. It lies
40 miles beyond Yass, which town is distant 180 miles from the
Metropolis. Now, although we shall have railways in good time, there is
nothing of the sort yet, and the roads are chiefly in their natural
state. I would therefore suggest that you should travel in a roomy
horse-waggon, comfortably fitted up, taking a tent with you in which to
sleep at night. I have procured a driver well acquainted with the
country, who knows all the camps and stopping-places, and may be
depended upon to take you safely to your journey’s end.’
‘No railways, no coaches,’ said Mr. Effingham; ‘yours is rather a
primitive country, Harley, it must be confessed; but you know what is
best for us all, and the weather is so mild that none of us can suffer
from the bivouac.’
‘I should not have hazarded it if there had been any risk to health,’
said the old gentleman, bowing courteously. ‘There are coaches, however,
and you might reach your destination in four days, after hurried
travelling. But the tariff is expensive for so large a party; you would
be crowded, or meet unsuitable fellow-travellers, while you could take
but little of your luggage with you.’
‘I vote for the overland journey,’ said Rosamond. ‘I am sure it will be
quite refreshingly eastern. I suppose Andrew and Jeanie and poor dear
Daisy and the dogs and everything can go.’
‘Everything and everybody you please but the heavy luggage. Your
servants will be able to sleep under a part of the waggon-tilt, which
will be comfortable enough at night. The cow will give you milk for your
tea. Even the greyhounds may catch you a wallaby or two, which will come
in for soup.’
‘There could not be a better scheme,’ said Wilfred exultingly. ‘My dear
sir, you are a second father to us. How long do you think it will take
us to get to Warbrok altogether?’
‘You will have to make up your minds to ten or twelve days’ travelling,
I am afraid—say, twenty miles a day. I really believe you will not find
it tedious, but, as with your water journey, get quite to like it.
Besides, there is one grand advantage, as far as the young ladies are
concerned.’
‘What is that?’ said Annabel, with added interest, but somewhat doleful
countenance. ‘Is there _any_ advantage in travelling like gipsies?’
‘It is this, then, my dear girls,’ said the old man, bending upon them
his clear, kindly beaming eyes, ‘that you will make acquaintance with
the rougher habitudes (and yet not unduly so) of country life in
Australia by this primitive forest journeying. When you arrive at your
destination you will therefore be proportionately satisfied with your
new residence, because it will represent _a settled home_. Your daily
journey will by that time have become a task, so that you will hail the
prospect of repose with thankfulness.’
‘Is that all?’ asked Annabel with a disappointed air. ‘Then we are to
undergo something dreadful, in order that something only disagreeable
may not look so bad after it. Is all Australian life like that? But I
daresay I shall die young, and so it won’t matter much. Is the lunch
nearly ready? I declare I am famishing.’
Every one laughed at this characteristic sequence to Annabel’s prophecy,
and the matter of the march having been settled, their friend promised
to send up the waggon-driver next morning, in order that the proper
fittings and the lamps—indispensable articles—and luggage might be
arranged and packed. A tent also was purchased, and bedding, cooking
utensils, provisions, etc., secured.
‘You will find Dick Evans an original character,’ said the parson, ‘but
I do not know any man in the district so well suited for this particular
service. He has been twenty years in Australia, and knows everything,
both good and evil, that can be known of the country and people. He is
an old soldier, and in the 50th Regiment saw plenty of service. He has
his faults, but they don’t appear on the surface, and I know him well
enough to guarantee that you will be wholly ignorant of them. His
manners—with a dash of soldier servant—are not to be surpassed.’
At an hour next morning so soon after dawn that Andrew Cargill, the most
incorruptible of early birds, was nearly caught napping, Mr. Dick Evans
arrived with two horses and his waggon. The rest of the team, not being
wanted, he had left in their paddock at Homebush. He immediately placed
the waggon in the most convenient position for general reference, took
out his horses, which he accommodated with nose-bags, and with an air of
almost suspicious deference inquired of Andrew what he could commence to
do in the way of packing.
The two men, as if foreseeing that possible encounters might henceforth
take place between them, looked keenly at each other. Richard Evans had
the erect bearing of which the recipient of early drill can rarely
divest himself. His wiry figure but slightly above the middle height,
his clean-shaved, ruddy cheek, his keen grey eye, hardly denoted the
fifty years and more which he carried so lightly.
A faultless constitution, an open-air occupation with habits of great
bodily activity, had borne him scatheless through a life of hardship and
risk.
This personage commenced with a request to be shown the whole of the
articles intended to be taken, gently but firmly withstanding any
opinion of Andrew’s to the contrary, and replying to his protests with
the mild superiority of the attendant in a lunatic asylum. After the
whole of the light luggage had been displayed, he addressed himself to
the task of loading and securing it with so much economy of space and
advantage of position, that Andrew readily yielded to him the right to
such leadership in future.
‘Nae doot,’ he said, ‘the auld graceless sworder that he is, has had
muckle experience in guiding his team through thae pathless
wildernesses, and it behoves a wise man to “jouk and let the jaw gae
by.” But wae’s me, it’s dwelling i’ the tents o’ Kedar!’
Dick Evans, who was a man of few words and strong in the heat of
argument, was by no means given to mixing up discussion with work. He
therefore kept on steadily with his packing until evening, only
requiring from Andrew such help and information as were indispensable.
‘There,’ said he, as he removed the low-crowned straw hat from his
heated brow, and prepared to fill his pipe, ‘I think that will about do.
The ladies can sit there in the middle, where I’ve put the tent loose,
and use it as a sofy, if they’ve a mind to. I can pitch it in five
minutes at night, and they can sleep in it as snug as if they had a
cottage with them. You and your wife can have the body of the waggon to
yourselves at night, and I’ll sleep under the shafts. The captain and
the young gentlemen can have all the room between the wheels, and nobody
can want more than that. I suppose your missis can do what cooking’s
wanted?’
‘Nae doot,’ Andrew replied with dignity, ‘Mistress Cargill wad provide a
few bits o’ plain victual. A wheen parritch, a thocht brose, wad serve
a’ hands better than flesh meat, and tea or coffee, or siccan trash.’
‘Porridge won’t do for me,’ said the veteran firmly, ‘not if I know it.
Oatmeal’s right enough for you Scotchmen, and not bad stuff either, _in
your own country_, but beef and mutton’s our tack in Australia.’
‘And will ye find a flesher in this “bush,” as they ca’ it, that we’ve
to push through?’ demanded Andrew. ‘Wad it no be mair wiselike to keep
to victual that we can carry in our sacks?’
‘Get plenty of beef and mutton and everything else on the road,’ said
Mr. Evans, lighting his pipe and declining further argument. ‘Don’t you
forget to bring a frying-pan. I’ll take the horses back to the paddock
now and be here by daylight, so as we can make a good start.’
It had been arranged by Mr. Sternworth that the boys, as he called them,
should set forth in the morning with Evans and the waggon, as also
Andrew and Jeanie, taking with them the cow, the dogs, and the smaller
matters which the family had brought. No necessity for Captain Effingham
and the ladies to leave Sydney until the second day. He would drive them
in a hired carriage as far as the first camp, which Evans had described
to him.
They would thus avoid the two days’ travel, and commence their journey
after the expedition had performed its trial trip, so to speak.
‘What _should_ we have done without your kind care of us?’ said Mrs.
Effingham. ‘Everything up to this time has been a pleasure trip. When is
the hard life that we heard so much of to begin?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Rosamond, ‘Mr. Sternworth is going to be like the
brigand in the romances, who used to lure persons from their homes. I
have no doubt but that there are “hard times” awaiting us somewhere or
somehow.’
‘My dear young lady, let me compliment you on your good sense in taking
that view of the future. It will save you from disappointment, and fill
your mind with a wholesome strength to resist adversity. You may need
all your philosophy, and I counsel you to keep it, like armour, well
burnished. I do not know of any evil likely to befall you, but that you
will have trouble and toil may be taken as certain. Only, after a time,
I predict that you will overcome your difficulties, and find yourselves
permanently benefited.’
The old gentleman, whose arrangements were as successfully carried out
as if he had been the commissary instead of the chaplain of his former
regiment, made his appearance on the following day in a neat barouche
drawn by a pair of good-looking bay horses, and driven by a highly
presentable coachman.
‘Why, it might pass muster for a private carriage,’ said Annabel. ‘And I
can see a crest on the panels. I suppose we shall never own a carriage
again as long as we live.’
‘This _is_ a private carriage, or rather was, once upon a time,’ said
Mr. Sternworth; ‘the horses and the coachman belonged to it. Many
carriages were put down last year, owing to a scarcity of money, and my
old friend Watkins here, having saved his wages, like a prudent man,
bought his master’s carriage and horses, and commenced as cab
proprietor. He has a large connection among his former master’s friends,
and is much in demand at balls and other festivities.’
The ex-coachman drove them at a lively pace, but steadily, along a
macadamised turnpike road, not so very different from a country lane in
Surrey, though wider, and not confined by hedges. The day was fine. On
either side, after the town was left behind, were large enclosures,
wherein grazed sheep, cattle, and horses. Sometimes they passed an
orangery, and the girls were charmed with the rows of dark green trees,
upon which the golden fruit was ripe. Then an old-fashioned house, in an
orchard, surrounded by a wall—wall and house coloured red, and rusty
with the stains of age—much like a farmhouse in Hertfordshire. One town
they passed was so manifestly old-fashioned, having even _ruins_, to
their delight and astonishment, that they could hardly believe they were
in a new country.
‘Some one has been playing Rip Van Winkle tricks upon us,’ said
Rosamond. ‘We have been asleep a hundred years, and are come back
finding all things grown old and in decay.’
‘You must not forget that the colony has been established nearly fifty
years,’ said Mr. Sternworth, ‘and that these are some of the earliest
settlements. They were not always placed in the most judicious sites;
wherefore, as newer towns have passed them in the race for trade, these
have submitted to become, as you see them, “grey with the rime of
years,” and simulating decay as well as circumstances will permit.’
‘Well, I think much more highly of Australia, now that I have seen a
_real_ ruin or two,’ said Annabel decisively. ‘I always pictured the
country full of hideous houses of boards, painted white, with spinach
green doors and windows.’
The afternoon was well advanced as the inmates of the carriage descried
the encampment which Mr. Evans had ordered, with some assistance from
his military experience. So complete in all arrangements for comfort was
it—not wholly disregarding the element of romantic scenery—that the
girls cried aloud in admiration.
The streamlet (or creek) which afforded the needful water meandered
round the base of a crag, jutting out from a forest-clothed hill. The
water-hole (or basin) in the channel of the creek was larger than such
generally are, and reflected brightly the rays of the declining sun. The
meadow, which afforded space for the encampment, was green, and fertile
of appearance. The waggon stood near the water; the four horses were
peacefully grazing. At a short distance, under a spreading tree, the
tent had been pitched, while before it was a wood fire, upon which
Jeanie was cooking something appetising. Wilfred and his brother were
strolling, gun in hand, up the creek; the cow was feeding among the
rushes with great contentment; Andrew was seated, meditating, upon a box
which he had brought forth from the recesses of the waggon; while Dick
Evans, not far from a small fire, upon which stood a camp-kettle at
boiling-point, was smoking with an air of conscious pride, as if not
only the picturesque beauty, but the personages pertaining to the
landscape, belonged to him individually.
‘I could not leave you more comfortably provided for,’ said their
‘guide, philosopher, and friend.’ ‘Old Dick may be trusted in all such
matters as implicitly as the Duke of Wellington. I never knew him at
fault yet in this kind of life.’
‘You must positively stay and have afternoon tea with us,’ exclaimed
Annabel. ‘It is exactly five, and there is Dick putting a tin cupful of
tea into the teapot. What extravagant people you colonists are! I never
drank tea in the open air before, but it seems quite the right thing to
do. I see Jeanie has made griddle-cakes, like a dear old thing. And I
know there is butter. I am so hungry. You _will_ stay, won’t you?’
‘I think, sir,’ said the ex-family coachman, looking indulgently at the
special pleader, ‘that we shall have time to get back to the Red Cow Inn
to-night, after a cup of tea, as the young lady wishes it. I’ll run you
into town bright and early to-morrow.’
‘Very well then, Miss Annabel, I shall have the honour to accept your
invitation,’ bowed the old man. ‘I go away more cheerfully than I
expected, now that I leave you all so comparatively snug. It will not be
for long. Be sure that I shall meet you on the threshold of Warbrok.’
The _al fresco_ meal was partaken of with much relish, even gaiety,
after which civilisation—as personified by the reverend gentleman and
the carriage—departed. Annabel looked after it ruefully, while Jeanie
and Mrs. Effingham took counsel together for the night. It was for the
first time in the family history. Never before had the Effinghams slept,
so to speak, in the open air. It was a novel adventure in their
uneventful lives—a marked commencement of their colonial career. It
affected them differently, according to their idiosyncrasies. Rosamond
was calmly resolute, Annabel apprehensive, and Beatrice indifferent; the
boys in high spirits; Mr. Effingham half in disapproval, despondently
self-accusing; while Mrs. Effingham and Jeanie were so fully absorbed in
the great bedding question that they had no emotions to spare for any
abstract consideration whatever.
The moon, in her second quarter, had arisen lustrous in the pure, dark
blue firmament, fire-besprinkled with ‘patines of bright gold,’ before
this important matter (and supper) was concluded. Then it was formally
announced that the tent was fully furnished, and had turned out
wonderfully commodious. The mattresses were placed upon a layer of
‘bush-feathers,’ as Dick Evans called them, and which (the small twigs
and leaf-shoots of the eucalyptus) he had impressed Wilfred and his
brother to gather. There was a lantern secured to the tent-pole, which
lighted up the apartment; and sheets, blankets, coverlets being brought
forth, Annabel declared that she was sure they would all sleep like
tops, that for her part she must insist on going to bed at once as the
keen air had made her quite drowsy. A dressing-table had been
improvised, chiefly with the aid of Mr. Evans’ mechanical skill. When
the matron and her daughters made their farewell for the night, and
closed their canvas portal, every one was of the opinion that a high
degree of comfort and effective lodging had been reached.
Mr. and Mrs. Cargill and family retired to the inmost recesses of the
upper waggon, where the ends of the tilt, fastened together, protected
them. Mr. Effingham and his sons joined Dick Evans at his briskly
burning fire, where the old man was smoking and occasionally indulging
in a refresher of tea as if he had no intention of going to bed till he
reached Warbrok.
‘We are having glorious weather to travel in, Evans,’ said Mr.
Effingham. ‘You have been in the service, Mr. Sternworth tells me; what
regiment?’
‘I was in the old 50th for many a year, Captain,’ he said, unconsciously
standing erect and giving the salute. ‘I served under Sir Hugh Gough in
India, where I got this slash from a Mahratta sabre. Didn’t seem a hard
cut neither; the fellow just seemed to swing his wrist, careless-like,
as he rode by, but it was nigh deep enough to take the “wick” out of me.
Their swords was a deal sharper than ours, and their wooden scabbards
kept ’em from getting blunt again. I had a great argument with my
sergeant about it once,’ continued the old man. ‘I couldn’t a-bear to
see our poor chaps sliced up by them razor-edged tulwars, while our
regulation swords was a’most too dull to cut through a quilted cotton
helment. Ah! them was fine times,’ said the old soldier, with so genuine
a regret in his tones that Howard Effingham almost believed he had, for
the first time in his life, fallen across a noble private, pleased with
his profession, and anxious to return to it.
‘I have rarely heard a soldier regret the army,’ said he. ‘But you still
retain zeal for the service, I am pleased to find.’
‘Well, sir, that’s all very well,’ said the philosophical man-at-arms;
‘but what I was a-thinking of was the “loot.” It’s enough to bring tears
into a man’s eyes that served his Queen and country, to think of the
things as we passed over. Didn’t Jimmy O’Hara and two or three more men
of my company get together once and made bold to stick up the priest of
one of them temples. No great things either—gold earrings and bangles,
and a trifle of gold mohurs, the priest’s own. There was a
copper-coloured, bronze-looking idol—regular heathen god, or some such
cretur—which the priest kept calling out “Sammy” to, or “Swammi.” The
ugly thing had bright glittering eyes, and Jim wanted to get ’em out
badly, but the priest said, “Feringhee wantee like this?” and he picked
up a bit of glass, and smiled contempshus like. At last we left him and
“Swammi,” eyes and all. I don’t ever deserve to have a day’s luck, sir,
agin, as long as I live.’
‘Why so?’ said Mr. Effingham, astonished at the high moral tone, which
he had not been used to associate with the light infantry man of the
period. ‘Not for taking the image away, surely?’
‘No!’ shouted the old man, roused from his ordinary respectful tone.
‘But for leavin’ him behind! That Sammy, sir, was pure gold, and his
eyes was di’monds, di’monds! Think o’ that. We left a thousand pound a
man behind, because we didn’t know gold when we seen it. It will haunt
me, sir, to my dying day.’
The boys laughed at the unsentimental conclusion of the veteran’s tale.
Their father looked grave.
‘I cannot approve of the plunder of religious edifices, Evans; though
the temptation was too great for soldiers, and indeed for others in
those days.’
The chief personages having retired, Mr. Effingham and his sons essayed
to make their couch under the waggon.
‘It is many a year since I had any experience in this kind of thing,’
said he; ‘but, if I remember rightly, it was in Spain that I bivouacked
last. This locality is not unlike Estramadura. That rocky ravine, with
the track running down it, is just where you would have expected to see
the muleteer stepping gaily along beside his mules singing or swearing,
as the case might be; and they do both with great vigour.’
‘I remember Don Pedro, Captain,’ said Dick. ‘I mind the wine-skins putty
well too. It wasn’t bad stuff; but I don’t know as dark brandy doesn’t
come handier if ye wants a stir up. But there’s one thing you can’t have
forgot, Captain, that beats this country holler.’
‘You must mean the fleas,’ said Effingham; ‘_they_ certainly could not
be surpassed. I hope you don’t mean to rival them here.’
‘Well, I don’t deny, Captain, that in some huts, where the people aren’t
particular, in a sandy country, in summer you will find a few, and
likewise them other reptiles, ’specially where there’s pine slabs, but
in a general way we’re pretty clean in this country, and you’ve no call
to be afeard to tackle your blankets.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Evans,’ said Effingham, yawning. ‘I have no doubt
that your camp is always fit for inspection. I think we may say
good-night.’
Between the keen air of the forest, and the unwonted exercise, a
tendency to drowsiness now set in, which Mr. Effingham and his sons
discovered by the time that the blankets were drawn over them. The sides
of their apartment, represented by the wheels of the waggon, were
covered by the canvas tilt, the ceiling was low but sufficient. It was
the ideal chamber in one respect. Ventilation was unimpeded, while
shelter was secured.