A GREEN HAND
Matters were well advanced for the road. The thousand-and-one trifles
that are so easily forgotten before the commencement of a long journey,
and so sorely missed afterwards, were nearly completed under the
tireless tendance of Dick Evans. The three young men were chatting in
the verandah, after a long day’s drafting, when a strange horseman came
‘up from the under world.’
‘I wonder who it is,’ said Guy. ‘Not any of the Benmohr people, for they
have no time to spare until they come to say good-bye. I should say all
the other fellows were too hard at work. It’s a chance if Churbett and
the D’Oyleys will be ready for a fortnight. He looks like a gentleman.
It must be a stranger.’
‘It is a gentleman, as you say,’ replied Hubert Warleigh, ‘and not long
from home, by the cut of his jib.’
‘How can you tell?’ asked Wilfred. ‘He is a tall man and has a gun,
certainly, which last favours your theory.’
‘I see,’ said Hubert, ‘a valise strapped to the back of his saddle;
holsters for pistols, and top-boots. He is a “new chum,” safe enough;
besides, when he got to the slip-rails, he took the top one down first.’
‘You must be right,’ said Wilfred, smiling. ‘I used to disgrace myself
with the slip-rail business. Who in the world can it be? He has come at
the wrong time for being shown round, unless he wants an exploring
tour.’
The horseman rode up in a leisurely and deliberate fashion; a tall,
fresh-complexioned man, whose blue eyes and dark hair reminded Wilfred
of many things, and a half-forgotten clime. The lower part of the
stranger’s face was concealed by a thick but not fully-grown beard; and
as he advanced, with a look of great solemnity, and inquired whether he
had the honour to see Mr. Wilfred Effingham, that gentleman, for the
life of him, could not remember where he had set eyes upon him before.
‘That is my name,’ said Wilfred. ‘Will you allow us to take your horse,
and to say that we are very glad to see you? Guy, take this gentleman’s
horse to the stable.’
‘I thank you kindly. I believe that I have a letter of introduction
somewhere to you, sir, from an acquaintance of mine in Ireland—a
dissipated, good-for-nothing fellow, one Gerald O’More. I thought it
might be as useful in Australia as the writing of a better man.’
‘Gerald O’More was a friend of mine,’ said Wilfred coldly, with a frown
unseen by the stranger, busily engaged in unfastening his multifarious
straps and buckles. ‘There must be some mistake about the reputation.’
‘It’s little matter,’ said the stranger coolly. ‘There’s hundreds in
Ireland it would suit to the letter, and proud of it they’d be. Maybe it
was Tom Ffrench I was thinking of—but it’s all as one. It’s thinking he
was of coming out here himself, the same squireen.’
‘I wish to Heaven he had,’ said Wilfred, with so hearty an accentuation
that the stranger raised his head, apparently struck by the sudden
emotion of his tone. ‘There is no man living I would as soon see this
moment.’
‘So this wild counthry hasn’t knocked all the heart out of ye, Wilfred,
me boy,’ said the stranger, holding out his hand, while such a smile
rippled over his face as only a son of mirth-loving Erin can produce.
‘And so ye didn’t know your old chum because he had a trifle of hair on
his face, and he coming ten thousand miles to make an afternoon call. I
trust the ladies are well this fine weather, and haven’t had their
bonnets spoiled by the rain lately.’
Wilfred gazed for one moment at the now well-known features, the bright
fun-loving eyes, the humorous curves of the lips, and then grasping both
hands, shook them till his stalwart visitor rocked again.
‘Gerald, old man!’ he exclaimed in tones of the wildest astonishment,
‘is it you in the flesh? and how in the name of everything magical did
you ever manage to leave green Rathdown and come out to this burned-up
land of ours? But you are as welcome as a week’s rain—I can’t say more
than _that_. To think that a beard should have altered your face so! But
I had no more thought of seeing you here than our old host of Castle
Blake.’
‘True for you! What a brick he was! God be with the days we spent there
together, Will. Maybe we’ll see them again, who knows? Didn’t I find my
way here like an Indian of the woods? ’Tis a great bushman I’ll make,
entirely. And, in truth, there’s no life would suit me better. An
Irishman’s a born colonist, half made before he leaves old Ireland. Was
that your young brother that I used to make popguns for? What a fine boy
he has grown!’
‘Yes, that was Guy; he’s anxious, like you, to be a bold bushman. Let me
introduce my friend Mr. Warleigh, the leader of an expedition we are all
bound upon next week.’
‘Very glad to meet Mr. Warleigh, I’m sure, and I hope he’ll be kind
enough to accept me as a supernumerary—cook’s mate, or anything in the
rough-and-ready line. I’m ready to ship in any kind of craft.’
‘You don’t mean to say you would like to go with us, Gerald? We are
bound for “a dissolute region, inhabited by Turks,” as your illustrious
countryman expressed it. For Turks read blacks,—in their way just as
bad.’
‘Pardon me, my dear fellow, for the apparent disrespect; but you don’t
fancy people come out to this unfurnished territory of yours to amuse
themselves? What else did I come for but to work and make money, do you
suppose?’
‘Now I won’t have any explanations till I’ve shown you to my mother and
the girls. How astonished they will be!’
They were certainly astonished. So much so, indeed, that Mr. O’More
began to ask why it should be so much more surprising that he came than
themselves.
‘But we were ruined,’ said Annabel, ‘and would not have had anything to
eat soon, or should have had to go to Boulogne—fancy what horror!’
‘And am I, Gerald O’More, such a degenerate Irish gentleman that I can’t
be ruined as nately and complately as any ancestor that ever frightened
a sub-sheriff?’ (Here they all laughed at his serio-comic visage.) ‘In
sober earnest, I _was_ ruined, not entirely by my own fault, but so
handily that when the old place was sold there was nothing left over but
the lodge at Luggie-law, where you and I used to fish and shoot and
drink potheen, Wilfred, in cold evenings.’
‘Why not live there, then? I’m sure we were snug enough.’
‘Why not?’ said O’More—and as he spoke his features assumed a sterner,
more elevated expression—‘because I wouldn’t turn myself into a poor
gentleman, with a few hangers-on, and a career contemptibly limited
either for good or evil. No! I’d seen many a good fellow, once the
genial sportsman and boon companion, change into the lounger and sot. So
I packed my gun and personal possessions, put the lodge in my pocket,
and here I am, with all the world of Australia before me.’
‘A manly resolve,’ said Mr. Effingham, ‘and I honour you for it, my dear
boy. You find us in the midst of a disastrous season, but those who know
the land say that the next change must be for the better. You will like
all our friends, and enjoy the free life of the bush before you are a
month at it. Australia is said, also—though we have not found such to be
the case lately—to be an easy country to make money in.’
‘So I have found already,’ said O’More.
‘How?’ said everybody in a breath. ‘You can’t have had any experience in
money-making as yet.’
‘Indeed have I,’ said the newly-arrived one. ‘Why, the first day I came
to Sydney I bought a half-broke, well-bred colt for a trifle, and as I
came through Yass I exchanged him for the horse I am now riding and a
ten-pound note.’
‘What a wonderful new chum you must be!’ said Guy impulsively. ‘I’ve
heard of lots that lost nearly all the cash they had the first month,
but never of one who made any. You will be as rich as Mr. Rockley soon.’
‘Amateur horse-dealing doesn’t always turn out so well. But I always buy
a good horse when I see him. I shall get infatuated about this country;
it suits me down to the ground.’
The evening was passed in universal hilarity. Mr. O’More’s spirits
appeared to rise in the inverse proportion to the distance which
separated him from the Green Isle. Every one was delighted with his
_naïveté_ and resolves to do great things in the way of exploration. The
expedition he regarded as an entertainment for his special benefit,
declaring that if it had not been finally settled he would have got one
up on his own account.
As good luck would have it, the Benmohr cattle escaped from the
mustering paddock after they had been collected, and having ‘made back’
to fastnesses, which they had been permitted to occupy in consideration
of the season, took some days in recapturing. So that yet another week
of respite, to everybody’s expressed disgust but secret relief, was
granted. Besides, Fred Churbett was not quite ready—he seldom was—and
the D’Oyleys were just as well pleased to scrape up a few more of their
outliers. There remained then ‘a little season of love and laughter’ for
Mr. Gerald O’More to utilise in improving the acquaintance.
And he was just the man to do this. He won old Dick’s good-will by the
hearty energy with which he threw himself into the small labours
which, of course—for who ever knew an overland journey quite provided
for, or a ship’s cargo stowed away, on the appointed day of its
departure?—remained to be got through. He had devoted himself _en
amateur_ to the duties of third mate on the voyage out, and, being a
yachtsman of experience, entitled himself to the possession of a
certificate, should he ever require, as he thought seriously was on
the cards, to work his way home. In matters connected with ropes and
fastenings he showed an easy superiority. Sailors are proverbially the
most valued hands in Australia, from their aptitude to make the best
kind of bushmen. Their adaptiveness to every kind of labour, grounded
on the need for putting out their strength at the orders of a despotic
superior, is a fine training for bush life. Having nautical tendencies
superadded to recent experiences, Gerald O’More fulfilled these
conditions, and was rated accordingly.
‘He’s the makings of a fust-rate settler, that young gentleman is,’ said
Dick Evans. ‘He’s a man all over, and can ketch hold anywhere. He’s got
that pluck and bottom as he don’t know his own strength.’
His exuberant spirits by no means exhausted themselves during the labour
of the day, when in check shirt and A.B. rig he was in the forefront of
the drafting, branding, loading, or packing which still went on. In the
evening, after a careful toilette, he was equally tireless in his
society duties, and kept all the lady part of the family entertained by
his varied conversation, his songs, jokes, and tales of many lands. He
struck up a great alliance with Annabel, who declared that he was a
delightful creature, specially sent by Providence to raise their spirits
in this trying hour.
It was well enough to talk lightly of the Great Expedition, but as the
day approached for the actual setting out of the Crusade, deep gloom
settled upon the inmates of The Chase.
Wilfred Effingham had never before quitted home upon any more
danger-seeming journey than a continental trip or a run over to Ireland.
He was passionately devoted to his mother and sisters, whom at that
period of his life he regarded as the chief repositories, not only of
all the virtues, but of all the ‘fine shades’ of the higher feminine
character. By no means deficient of natural admiration for the unrelated
daughters of Eve, he regarded his sisters with a love such as only that
relation can furnish. With them he was ever thoughtful, fond, and
chivalrous. For their comfort and advantage he was capable of any
sacrifice. Rosamond, nearest to him in age, had been from childhood his
close companion, and for her he would have laid down his life. These
feelings were reciprocated to the fullest extent.
And now he was going away—the dutiful son, the fond brother, the kindly,
cheerful companion—away on a hazardous journey into an unknown,
barbarous region, exposed to the dangers of Australian forest wayfaring.
Guy, too, was on the march—the frank, fearless boy, idolised, as is the
younger son ofttimes, with the boundless love with which the mother
strains the babe to her bosom.
He was the last of all, yet none
O’er his lone grave may weep.
He was not the _very_ last, Selden and Blanche coming after, as was
pointed out to Mrs. Effingham, when her tears flowed at Selden’s
accidental quotation from ‘The Graves of a Household,’ for these lines
referred to one beneath the lone, lone sea, and even in the recesses of
the bushland mourning over his grave would be possible.
‘Oh, my darling,’ said the tender mother, ‘do not jest on such a
subject. How could I live were either of you to die in the wilderness?
Why did this terrible season come to rob me of my sons? But promise me,
promise me, both of you, as you love your mother, not to run unnecessary
risks. Danger, ah me! I know there must be, but you will think of your
poor mother, and of your father and sisters, and not needlessly court
danger. Guy, you _will_ promise me?’
‘Don’t be so frightened, mother,’ said the younger son. ‘I won’t go
running after risks and dangers. Why, it’s ten to one nobody gets hurt.
There are only blacks; and there’s no water to drown us, that’s one
consolation.’
When did generous youth perceive the possibility of danger until forced
upon him by sudden stroke of fate? ‘Whom the gods love die young’ is
true in one sense, inasmuch as they escape the melancholy anticipations
which cloud the joys of maturer life. For them trains never collide, nor
coaches upset; sword-strokes are parried, and bullets go wide; ships
founder not; disease is only for the feeble; they are but the old who
die!
Wilfred more truly understood the matron’s tender dread, and her
reasons.
‘Don’t fret, my darling mother,’ he said as he clasped her hand, ‘I’ll
look after Guy. You know he obeys me cheerfully, so far; and you know I
am pretty careful. I will see he does nothing rash, and he will be
always under my eye.’
‘Remember, dear, I trust him to you,’ said Mrs. Effingham, returning her
son’s fond clasp, but not wholly reassured, being of the opinion that
what Wilfred considered careful avoidance of danger other people
characterised as unflinching though not impetuous determination to get
through or over any given obstacle.
* * * * *
Off at last! The tearful breakfast is over. The long string of cattle
has poured out of the mustering paddock gates, followed by Hubert
Warleigh, with Duncan Cargill and Selden, who were permitted to help
drive during the first stage; Mr. O’More, in cords and top-boots, with a
hunting-crop in his hand, wisely declining a stock-whip for the present.
His horse bears a cavalry headstall bridle, with a sliding bridoon
rein—‘handy for feeding purposes,’ he says. He has yet to learn that,
after a week’s cattle-driving, most horses may be trusted to graze with
the reins beneath their feet, which they will by no means tread upon or
run off with.
A couple of brown-faced youngsters, natives of Yass, have been hired, as
road hands and to be generally useful, for the term of one year. These
young persons are grave and silent of demeanour; have been ‘among
cattle’ all their lives, and no exception can be taken to their
horsemanship. They afford an endless fund of amusement to O’More, who
forces them into conversation on various topics, and tries to imitate
their soft-voiced, drawling monotone.
Dick Evans drives the horse-dray, destined to go no farther than the
Snowy River, after which the camp equipment will be carried on
pack-horses, the road being closed to wheels. They are now being driven
with the cattle, accoutred with their pack-saddles and light loads to
accustom them to the exercise.
Dick has had a characteristic parting with Mrs. Evans, who saw him
prepare to depart without outward show of emotion.
‘Now mind you behave yourself, Evans, while you’re away, and don’t be
running off to New Zealand, or the Islands, or anywheres.’
‘All right, old woman,’ said Dick, cracking his whip. ‘You’ll be so
precious fond of me when I come back that we shan’t have a row for a
year afterwards.’
‘No fear; not if you was to stop away five year!’ retorted his spouse,
with decision. ‘Take care as I don’t marry again afore you come back, if
you hang it out too long.’
‘Marry away and don’t mind me, old woman,’ returned the philosophical
Dick; ‘_I_ shan’t interfere with the pore feller. Leave us the old mare,
that’s all. A good ’oss, that you can’t put wrong in saddle or harness,
ain’t met with every day.’
Here Mrs. Evans, seeing a smile on the faces of the listeners, began to
think she was occupying an undignified position. Putting her apron to
her eyes, with a feeble effort at wiping a few tears away, she solemnly
told her incorrigible mate that she hoped God would change the wicked
old heart of him, as wasn’t thankful for a good wife, as had cooked and
worked for him, and been dragged about the country all these years, and
now to be told she was worse than a brute beast! Here _real_ tears came.
‘The mare can hold her tongue, at any rate,’ quoth Dick; ‘and where’s
the woman you can say as much of, barrin’ Mrs. Wilson of Ours, as was
born deaf and dumb? But come, I didn’t mean to fret ye, and me on the
march. Give us a buss, old woman! Now we part all reg’lar and military
like. You know women’s not allowed with the rigiment in war time. Mind
you take care of the missus and the young ladies, and keep a civil
tongue in your head.’
With this farewell exhortation and reconciliation Dick shook off his
spouse, and walked briskly away by the side of the team. The cattle,
glad to feel themselves unchecked, struck briskly along the track.
Wilfred and Guy came up at a hand-gallop, and took their places behind
the drove. The first act of the migratory drama was commenced, with all
the actors in their places.
The first day’s stage was arranged to reach only to a stock-yard near
Benmohr. It was a longish day’s drive, but, being the first day from
home, all the more likely to steady the cattle. Having got so far, and
secured them inside the rails, with Dick and his team camped by the dam,
Wilfred left Guy in charge and rode over, with O’More and Hubert
Warleigh, to spend a last civilised evening at Benmohr. It was necessary
for the latter, now recognised as the responsible leader of the
expedition, to give Argyll, Hamilton, and the others instructions as to
the route.
A fair-sized party was assembled around that hospitable board. All the
men present had been actuated by the same feelings, apparently, as
themselves, viz. with a trustworthy person in charge of the camp, they
might as well enjoy themselves once more at dear, jolly, old Benmohr.
‘Hech! sae ye’re here to look at a body ance mair, Maister Effingham;
and whatten garred you to list Maister O’More, and him juist frae hame,
puir laddie, to gang awa’ and be killed by thae wild blacks?’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t mind _my_ being rubbed out, Mrs. Teviot,’ said
Hubert. ‘It’s only gentlemen from England that are valuable. Imported
stock, eh?’
‘Noo, Maister Hubert, ye ken weel I wad be wae eneugh if onything
happened to yer ain sell, though ye hae nae mither to greet for ye,
mair’s the peety, puir lady! But your hands can aye keep your heed; and
they say ye can haud ane o’ thae narrow shields and throw a spear as
weel’s ony o’ the blacks. They’ll no catch _you_ napping; but this young
gentleman will maybe rin into ambushes and sic-like, like a bird into
the net o’ the fowler.’
‘Then we must pull him out again,’ said Hubert gravely. ‘I hope you are
not going to be rash, Mr. O’More. See how you will be missed.’
‘I am aware, as I have not had the good fortune to live much in
Australia,’ said Gerald, ‘that I must be made of sugar or salt,
warranted to melt at the first wetting. But my hands have kept my head
in an Irish fair, before now; and I think half-a-dozen shillelahs at
once must be nearly as bad as a blackfellow’s club.’
‘They are deuced quick with the boomerang and nullah,’ said Hubert; ‘you
can hardly see the cursed things before they are on to you.’
‘And a barbed spear is worse than all the blackthorns in Tipperary,’
said Wilfred; ‘so look out and don’t cast a gloom over the party by your
early death. Mrs. Teviot, give me a parting kiss and your blessing, for
that _is_ the dinner-bell.’
‘Maister Effingham!’ said the old dame, in accents of such unfeigned
surprise and disapproval that all three men burst out laughing. ‘Eh,
ye’re jist laughin’ at the auld woman, ye bad laddie; but ye ken weel
that ye hae my blessing; and may the mercy and guidance o’ the Lord God
of Israel bring ye a’ safe hame to your freends and relations—my
gentlemen and a’, as I’m prayin’ for’t—and a bonnie day it will be when
we see ye a’ back again—no forgetten that daft Neil Barrington, that
gies me as muckle trouble as the hail o’ ye pitten thegither.’
At the conclusion of this farewell ceremony with Mrs. Teviot, who indeed
took a most maternal interest in the whole company, they hied themselves
at once to the dining-room.
‘So you are to join our party, Mr. O’More?’ said Hamilton. ‘You could
not have come at a better time to understand our bush life.’
‘Awfully glad of the chance, I assure you,’ said that gentleman. ‘It was
the hope of something of the sort that brought me out. If this affair
had not been on, I should have fancied I had been induced to come to a
new country under false pretences.’
‘Why so?’ asked Forbes.
‘Because you are all so unpardonably civilised. I expected to sit upon
wooden stools and eat biscuits and beef, to sleep in the open air, and
to be returning fire with my pistols as I came up from the wharf.
Instead of which (I will take turkey, if you please) I find myself here,
at The Chase, and half-a-dozen other houses in the lap of luxury.’
‘Oh, come!’ said Forbes deprecatingly, ‘are you not flavouring the
compliment a little too strongly?’
‘I think Mr. O’More comes from the Emerald Isle,’ said Ardmillan. ‘May I
ask if you have ever kissed the Blarney stone?’
‘Of course; all Irishmen make a point of it. It abates their naturally
severe tendencies. But joking apart, all you people live as well as most
of us in the old country. Wilfred here can bear me out. If claret was a
little more fashionable, I don’t see a pin to choose.’
‘There will be a change of fare when we’re on the road,’ said Fred
Churbett. ‘Who knows when we shall see pale ale again? The thought is
anguish; and those confounded pack-horses carry so little.’
‘But think of the way we shall enjoy club breakfasts, clean shirts,
evening parties, and all that, when we _do_ get back,’ said Neil
Barrington. ‘We shall be like sailors after a three years’ cruise. I
must say I always envied _them_.’
‘I think, if the company is unanimous,’ said Hamilton, ‘that we might as
well have a serious talk about the route. Captain Warleigh, as we must
now call him, will be off early to-morrow, so the greater reason for
proceeding to business.’
‘I was going to remind you all,’ said Hubert, ‘that we ought to agree
about our plans. It’s plain sailing across Monaro, though the feed is
bad until we come to the Snowy River. Of course, we all go on
to-morrow.’
‘Which way?’ asked Hamilton.
‘Past Bungendore, Queanbeyan, and Micalago. We cross the Bredbo and the
Eumeralla higher up, and go by the Jew’s flat, and Coolamatong.’
‘We shall follow in a couple of days,’ said Argyll.
‘And I in three,’ said Forbes.
‘You needn’t follow in a string, unless you like,’ said their guide;
‘the feed will be cut up if one mob after the other goes over it. All
the stock-riders hereabouts know the Monaro country, so you can travel
either right or left of me, as long as you fetch up at Buckley’s
Crossing, of the Snowy River.’
‘What sort of a ford is it?’ inquired one of the D’Oyleys.
‘It’s always a swim with the Snowy,’ said the captain, ‘summer and
winter, and a cold one too, as I can witness. But the grass is better,
though rough, after you cross, and we have an old acquaintance waiting
there to join the party. He knows the country well.’
‘Who the deuce is he?’ said Argyll. ‘We shall be well off for guides.’
‘Not more than you will want, perhaps,’ said the leader. ‘We’re not over
Wahgulmerang yet. But the man is old Tom Glendinning—and a better
bushman never saddled a horse. He has been living for some time at one
of the farthest out stations, Ingebyra, and wants to join us. He asked
me not to mention his name till we had actually started.’
‘So,’ said Wilfred reflectively, ‘the old fellow is determined to make
his latter days adventurous. I see no objection, do you, Argyll? He and
his history will be probably buried among the forests of this new
country we are going to explore.’
‘It cannot matter in any way,’ answered Argyll. ‘He will, as you say,
most likely never return to this locality.’
‘Many of the old hands have histories, if it comes to that,’ said
Hubert, ‘and very queer ones too. But they have paid the price for their
sins, and old Tom won’t have time to commit many more—if shooting an odd
blackfellow or two doesn’t count.’
‘Have we any more general instructions to receive?’ inquired Hamilton,
who was, perhaps, the most practical-minded of the party.
‘Only these: we must all be well armed. Pistols are handy, and a rifle
or a double barrel is necessary for every man of the party. We _may_
have no fighting to do; but blacks are plentiful, big fellows, and
fierce too. We must be able to defend ourselves and more, or not a man
will come back alive. After we cross the Snowy River, I shall halt till
you all come up; then we can join the smaller mobs of cattle, so as to
be close together in case of trouble. Everything will have to be packed
from the Snowy; so it will be as well not to take more than is
required.’
‘You are fully prepared for all the privations of the road, Mr. O’More?’
asked Argyll. ‘They may strike you as severe after your late life at
headquarters.’
‘That is the very reason, my dear fellow. You surely haven’t forgotten
that when you were at home you fancied all Australian life to be
transacted in the wilderness. I expected the wilderness; I demand the
desert. With anything short of the wildest waste I shall be
disappointed.’
‘That’s the way to take it,’ said Fred Churbett. ‘I had all those
feelings myself when I arrived, but I was betrayed into comfort when I
bought The She-oaks, and have hardly gone nearer to roughing it than a
trip to the Tumut for store cattle.’
There was a laugh at this, Fred’s tendency to comfort being proverbial;
though, to do him justice, he was capable of considerable exertion when
roused and set going.
‘Is this Eldorado of yours near the coast, Warleigh?’ inquired Forbes.
‘If so, there will be sure to be good agricultural land, and some kind
of a township will spring up.’
‘I believe there’s a passage from the lakes to the sea, near which would
be a grand site for a township. I hadn’t time to look it out. It gave me
all I knew to get back.’
‘What does any one want a town for?’ growled Argyll. ‘Next thing, people
will be talking about _farms_. Enough to make one ill. Are we going to
risk our lives and shed our blood, possibly, for the benefit of
storekeepers and farmers, to spoil the runs after we have won them?’
‘Don’t be so insanely conservative, Argyll,’ said Forbes. ‘Even a farmer
is a man and a brother. We shall want some one to buy our raw products
and import stores. We might as well give Rockley the office if we found
a settlement. _He_ would do us no harm.’
Here there was a chorus of approbation.
‘Of course I except Rockley—as good a fellow as ever lived. But he holds
peculiar views upon the land question, and might induce others to come
over on that confounded farming pretence, which is the ruin of
Australia.’
‘The country I can show you, if we reach it, is large enough to hold all
your stock and their increase for the next twenty years, with
half-a-dozen towns as big as Yass.’
‘If this be the case, the sooner we get there the better,’ said
Hamilton. ‘You start in earnest to-morrow, and we shall follow the day
after. I shall keep nearly parallel with you. Ardmillan comes next, then
Churbett, lastly the D’Oyleys. We shall be the largest party, as to
stock, men, and horses, that has gone out for many a day.’
‘All the more reason why we should make our mark,’ said O’More. ‘I
wouldn’t have missed it for five hundred pounds. I might have stayed in
Ireland for a century without anything of the kind happening. I feel
like Raymond of Antioch, or Godfrey of Bouillon. I suppose we shan’t
meet to drink success to the undertaking every night.’
‘This is the last night we shall have _that_ opportunity,’ said Argyll.
‘Here come the toddy tumblers. The night is chilly, but it will be more
so next week, when we are on watch or lying under canvas in a teetotal
camp.’
‘We can always manage a good fire, unless we are in blacks’ country,’
said Hubert; ‘that is one comfort; there’s any amount of timber; and you
can keep yourselves jolly in a long night by carrying firewood.’
Long before daylight Hubert Warleigh arose and awakened Wilfred. Their
horses had been placed so as to be easily procurable, and no delay took
place. The stars were in the sky. A faint, clear line in the east yet
told of the coming dawn, as the friends rode forth from Benmohr gate and
took the track to the scene of the last night’s camp.
When they reached the spot the sun had risen, and no one was on the
ground but Dick Evans, who was in a leisurely way packing up the camp
equipage, including the tent and cooking utensils.
‘Here’s the breakfast, Mr. Wilfred,’ he said cheerily; ‘the cattle’s on
ahead. I kept back the corned beef, and here’s bread and a billy of tea.
You can go to work, while I finish packing. I’ll catch up easy by
dinner-time, though the cattle’s sure to rip along the first few days.’
‘This is a grand institution,’ said Gerald. ‘I wouldn’t say a toothful
of whisky would be out of place, and the air so fresh; but sure “I feel
as if I could lape over a house this minute,” as I heard a Connemara
parlour-maid say once.’
‘Nothing is more appetising,’ said Wilfred, ‘than a genuine Australian
bush meal. A slice or two of meat, a slice of fresh damper, and a pot of
tea. You may travel on it from one end of the continent to another.’
‘He was a great man that invented that same,’ said O’More. ‘Would there
be a little more tay in the canteen? Beef and bread his unaided
intellect might have compassed; but the tay, even to think of that same
in the middle of the meal, required inspiration. When ye think of the
portableness of it too. It was a great idea entirely!’
‘Bushmen take it morning, noon, and night,’ said Warleigh. ‘The doctors
say it’s not good for us—gives us heartburn, and so on. But if any one
will go bail for a man who drinks brandy and water, I’d stand the risk
on tea.’
‘So I suspect. Even whisky, they do say, gets into the head sometimes. I
suppose you never knew a man to kill his wife, or burn his house, or
lame his child for life, _under the influence of tay_?’
An hour’s riding brought them to the cattle, which had just been
permitted ‘to spread out on a bit of rough feed,’ as the young man at
the side next them expressed it. A marshy creek flat had still remaining
an array of ragged tussocks and rushy growths, uninviting in ordinary
seasons, but now welcome to the hungry cattle. They found Guy sitting on
his horse in a leisurely manner, and keeping a sharp look-out on the
cattle.
‘What sort of a night had you?’ said Wilfred. ‘Were they contented?’
‘Oh, pretty fair. They roared and walked round at first; then they all
lay down and took it easy. Old Dick roused us out and gave us our
breakfast before dawn. We had the horses hobbled short, and were on the
road with the first streak of light. This is the first stop we have
made.’
‘That’s the way,’ said Hubert. ‘Nothing like an early start; it gives
the cattle all the better chance. Some of these are very low in
condition. When we get over the Snowy, they’ll do better.’
‘Shall we have a regular camp to-night,’ asked Guy, ‘and watch the
cattle?’
‘Of course,’ said Hubert; ‘no more yarding. It is the right thing after
the first day from home.’
‘And how long will the watches be?’ asked Guy, with some interest. ‘If I
sleep as soundly as I did last night, I shan’t be much good.’
‘Oh, you’ll soon come to your work. Boys always sleep sound at first,
but you’ll be able to do your four hours without winking before we’ve
been a week on the road.’
The ordinary cattle-droving life and times ensued from this stage
forward. They passed by degrees through the wooded, hilly country which
lies between Yass and Queanbeyan, all of which was so entirely denuded
of grass as to be tolerably uninteresting.
By day the work was tedious and monotonous, as the hungry cattle were
difficult to drive, and the scanty pasture rendered it necessary to take
advantage of every possible excuse for saving them fatigue.
At night matters were more cheerful. After dark, when the cattle were
hemmed in—they were tired enough to rest peacefully—Guy had many a
pleasant talk by the glowing watch-fires. This entertainment came, after
enjoying the evening meal, with a zest which only youth and open-air
journeying combined can furnish.
As for Gerald O’More, he examined and praised and enjoyed everything. He
liked the long, slow, apparently aimless day’s travel, the bivouac of
the night, the humours of the drovers. He ‘foregathered’ with all kinds
of queer people who visited the camp, and learned their histories. He
felt much disappointed that there were no wild beasts except the native
dog and native bear (koala), neither of which had sufficient confidence
in themselves to assume the offensive.
The next week was one of sufficient activity to satisfy all the ardent
spirits of the party. In the first place, the cattle had to be driven
across the river, the which they resisted with great vehemence, never
before having seen a stream of the same magnitude. However, by the aid
of an unlimited quantity of whip-cracking, dogging, yelling, and
shouting, the stronger division of the herd was forced and hustled into
the deep, swift current. Here they bravely struck out for the opposite
side, and in a swaying, serpentine line, followed by the weaker cattle,
struggled with the current until they reached and safely ascended the
farther bank.