A COACH ACCIDENT.
The coach from Tarrong railway station to Emu Flat, and then on to
Donohoe’s Hotel, ran twice a week. Pat Donohoe was mailman, contractor
and driver, and his admirers said that Pat could hit his five horses in
more places at once than any other man on the face of the earth. His
coach was horsed by the neighbouring squatters, through whose stations
the road ran; and any horse that developed homicidal tendencies, or
exhibited a disinclination to work, was at once handed over to the
mailman to be licked into shape. The result was that, as a rule, Pat
was driving teams composed of animals that would do anything but go
straight, but under his handling they were generally persuaded, after a
day or two, to settle down to their work.
On the day when Hugh and Mrs. Gordon read Mr. Grant’s letter at
Kuryong, the train deposited at Tarrong a self-reliant young lady of
about twenty, accompanied by nearly a truck-full of luggage—solid
leather portmanteaux, canvas-covered bags, iron boxes, and so on—which
produced a great sensation among the rustics. She was handsome enough
to be called a beauty, and everything about her spoke of exuberant
health and vitality. Her figure was supple, and she had the clear pink
and white complexion which belongs to cold climates.
She seemed accustomed to being waited on, and watched without emotion
the guard and the solitary railway official—porter, station-master,
telegraph-operator and lantern-man, all rolled into one—haul her
hundredweights of luggage out of the train. Then she told the
perspiring station-master, etc., to please have the luggage sent to the
hotel, and marched over to that building in quite an assured way,
carrying a small handbag. Three commercial travellers, who had come up
by the same train, followed her off the platform, and the most gallant
of the three winked at his friends, and then stepped up and offered to
carry her bag. The young lady gave him a pleasant smile, and handed him
the bag; together they crossed the street, while the other commercials
marched disconsolately behind. At the door of the hotel she took the
bag from her cavalier, and there and then, in broad Australian
daylight, rewarded him with twopence—a disaster which caused him to
apply to his firm for transfer to some foreign country at once. She
marched into the bar, where Dan, the landlord’s son, was sweeping,
while Mrs. Connellan, the landlady, was wiping glasses in the midst of
a stale fragrance of overnight beer and tobacco-smoke.
“I am going to Kuryong,” said the young lady, “and I expected to meet
Mr. Gordon here. Is he here?”
Mrs. Connellan looked at her open-eyed. Such an apparition was not
often seen in Tarrong. Mr. and Mrs. Connellan had only just “taken the
pub.”, and what with trying to keep Connellan sober and refusing drinks
to tramps, loafers, and black-fellows, Mrs. Connellan was pretty well
worn out. As for making the hotel pay, that idea had been given up long
ago. It was against Mrs. Connellan’s instincts of hospitality to charge
anyone for a meal or a bed, and when any great rush of bar trade took
place it generally turned out to be “Connellan’s shout,” so the hotel
was not exactly a goldmine. In fact, Mrs. Connellan had decided that
the less business she did, the more money she would make; and she
rather preferred that people should not stop at her hotel. This girl
looked as if she would give trouble; might even expect clean beds and
clean sheets when there were none within the hotel, and might object to
fleas, of which there were plenty. So the landlady pulled herself
together, and decided to speed the parting guest as speedily as
possible.
“Mr. Gordon couldn’t git in,” she said. “The cricks (creeks) is all up.
The coach is going down to Kiley’s Crossing to-day. You had better go
with that.”
“How soon does the coach start?”
“In an hour or two. As soon as Pat Donohoe, the mailman, has got a
horse shod. Come in and have a wash, and fix yourself up till breakfast
is ready. Where’s your bag?”
“My luggage is at the railway-station.”
“I’ll send Dan over for it. Dan, Dan, Dan!”
“’Ello,” said Dan’s voice, from the passage, where, with the wild-eyed
servant-girl, he had been taking stock of the new arrival.
“Go over to the station and git this lady’s bag. Is there much to
carry?”
“There are only four portmanteaux and three bags, and two boxes and a
hat-box, and a roll of rugs; and please be careful of the hat-box.”
“You’d better git the barrer, Dan.”
“Better git the bloomin’ bullock-dray,” growled Dan, quite keen to see
this aggregation of luggage; and foreseeing something to talk about for
the next three months. “She must ha’ come up to start a store, I
reckon,” said Dan; and off he went to struggle with boxes for the next
half-hour or so.
Over Mary Grant’s experiences at the Tarrong Hotel we will not linger.
The dirty water, peopled by wriggling animalculae, that she poured out
of the bedroom jug; the damp, cloudy, unhealthy-smelling towel on which
she dried her face; the broken window through which she could hear
herself being discussed by loafers in the yard; all these things are
matters of course in bush townships, for the Australian, having a soul
above details, does not shine at hotel-keeping. The breakfast was
enlivened by snatches of song from the big, good-natured bush-girl who
waited at table, and who “fancied” her voice somewhat, and marched into
the breakfast-room singing in an ear-splitting Soprano:
“It’s a vilet from me”—
(_spoken_.) “What you’ll have, there’s chops, steaks, and bacon and
eggs”—“Chops, please.”
(_singer continues_.) “Sainted mother’s”—
(_spoken_.) “Tea or coffee”—“Tea, please.”
(_singer finishes_.)—“grave.”
While she ate, Miss Grant had an uneasy feeling that she was being
stared at; all the female staff and hangers-on of the place having
gathered round the door to peer in at her and to appraise to the last
farthing her hat, her tailor-made gown, and her solid English
walking-shoes, and to indulge in wild speculation as to who or what she
could be. A Kickapoo Indian in full war-paint, arriving suddenly in a
little English village, could not have created more excitement than she
did at Tarrong. After breakfast she walked out on the verandah that ran
round the little one-story weatherboard hotel, and looked down the mile
and a-half of road, with little galvanised-iron-roofed cottages at
intervals of a quarter of a mile or so, that constituted the township.
She watched Conroy, the policeman, resplendent in breeches and polished
boots, swagger out from the court-house yard, leading his horse to
water. The town was waking to its daily routine; Garry, the butcher,
took down the clumsy board that passed for a window-shutter, and
McDermott, the carter, passed the hotel, riding a huge rough-coated
draught-horse, bare-backed. Everyone gave him a “Mornin’, Billy!” as he
passed, and he returned the greeting as he did every morning of his
life. A few children loitered past to the little school-house, staring
at her as though she were some animal.
She was in a hurry to get away—English people always are—but in the
bright lexicon of the bush there is no such word as hurry. Tracey, the
blacksmith, had not by any means finished shoeing the coach-horse yet.
So Mrs. Connellan made an attempt to find out who she was, and why she
was going to Kuryong.
“You’ll have a nice trip in the coach,” she said. “Lier (lawyer)
Blake’s going down. He’s a nice feller.”
“Yes?”
“Father Kelly, too. He’s good company.”
“Yes?”
“Are you staying long at Kuryong?”
“Some time, I expect.”
“Are you going to teach the children?”
“No, I’m going to live there. My father owns Kuryong. My father is Mr.
Grant.”
Mrs. Connellan was simply staggered at this colossal treasure-trove,
this majestic piece of gossip that had fallen on her like rain from
Heaven. Mr. Grant’s daughter! Going out to Kuryong! What a piece of
news! Hardly knowing what she did, she shuffled out of the room, and
interrupted the singing waitress who was wiping plates, and had just
got back to “It’s a vilet” when Mrs. Connellan burst in on her.
“Maggie! Maggie! Do you know who that is? Grant’s daughter! The one
that used to be in England. She must be going to Kuryong to live, with
all that luggage. What’ll the Gordons say? The old lady won’t like it,
will she? This’ll be a bit of news, won’t it?” And she went off to tell
the cook, while Maggie darted to the door to meet Dan, and tell him.
Dan told the station-master when he went back for the next load, and
when he had finished carting the luggage he got on a horse and went
round telling everybody in the little town. The station-master told the
ganger of the four navvies who went by on their trolly down the line to
work. At the end of their four-mile length they told the ration-carrier
of Eubindal station, who happened to call in at their camp for a drink
of tea. He hurried off to the head-station with the news, and on his
way told three teamsters, an inspector of selections, and a black boy
belonging to Mylong station, whom he happened to meet on the road. Each
of them told everybody that they met, pulling up and standing in their
stirrups to discuss the matter in all its bearings, in the leisurely
style of the bush; and wondering what she had come out for, whether the
Gordons would get the sack from Kuryong, whether she would marry Hugh
Gordon, whether she was engaged already, whether she was good-looking,
how much money she had, and how much old Grant would leave her. In
fact, before twenty-four hours were over, all the district knew of her
arrival; which possibly explains how news travels in Africa among the
Kaffirs, who are supposed to have a signalling system that no one has
yet fathomed; but the way it gets round in Australia is just as
wonderful as among the Kaffirs, in fact, for speed and thoroughness of
information we should be inclined to think that our coloured brethren
run a bad second.
At last, however, Tracey had finished shoeing the coach-horse, and Miss
Grant, with part of her luggage, took a seat on the coach behind five
of Donohoe’s worst horses, next to a well-dressed, powerfully-built man
of about five-and-twenty. He looked and talked like a gentleman, and
she heard the coachman address him as “Mr. Blake.” She and he shared
the box-seat with the driver, and just at the last moment the local
priest hurried up and climbed on the coach. In some unaccountable way
he had missed hearing who the young lady was, and for a time he could
only look at her back-hair and wonder.
It was not long before, in the free and easy Australian style, the
passengers began to talk to each other as the coach bumped along its
monotonous road—up one hill, through an avenue of dusty, tired-looking
gum-trees, down the other side through a similar avenue, up another
hill precisely the same as the last, and so on.
Blake was the first to make advances. “Not much to be seen on this sort
of journey, Miss Grant,” he said.
The young lady looked at him with serious eyes. “No,” she said, “we’ve
only seen two houses since we left the town. All the rest of the
country seems to be a wilderness.”
Here the priest broke in. He was a broth of a boy from Maynooth, just
the man to handle the Doyle and Donohoe congregation.
“It’s the big stations is the roon of the country,” he said. “How is
the country to go ahead at all wid all the good land locked up? There’s
Kuryong on ahead here would support two hundthred fam’lies, and what
does it employ now? Half a dozen shepherds, widout a rag to their
back.”
“I am going to Kuryong,” said the girl; and the priest was silent.
By four in the afternoon they reached Kiley’s River, running yellow and
froth-covered with melting snow. The coachman pulled his horses up on
the bank, and took a good, long look at the bearings. As they waited,
the Kuryong vehicle came down on the other side of the river.
“There’s Mr. Gordon,” said the coachman. “I don’t think he’ll try it. I
reckon it’s a trifle deep for me. Do you want to get across particular,
Mr. Blake?”
“Yes, very particularly, Pat. I’ve told Martin Donohoe to meet me down
here with some witnesses in a cattle-stealing case.”
“What about you, Father Kelly?”
“I’m go’n on to Tim Murphy’s dyin’ bed. Put ’em into the wather,
they’ll take it aisy.”
The driver turned to the third passenger. “It’s a bit dangerous-like,
Miss. If you like to get out, it’s up to you to say so. The coach might
wash over. There’s a settler’s place up the river a mile. You can go
and stay there till the river goes down, and Mr. Gordon ’ll come and
meet you.”
“Thanks, I’ll go on,” said the lady.
Preparations for crossing the river were soon made. Anything that would
spoil by getting wet, or that would float out of the coach, was lifted
up and packed on the roof. The passengers stood up on the seats. Then
Pat Donohoe put the whip on his leaders, and calling to his two
wheelers, old-seasoned veterans, he put them at it.
Snorting and trembling, the leaders picked their way into the yellow
water, the coach bumping over the rubble of the crossing-place. Hugh
Gordon, watching from the far-side of the river, saw the coach dip and
rock and plunge over the boulders. On it came till the water was
actually lapping into the body of the coach, roaring and swirling round
the horses’ legs, up to their flanks and bellies, while the driver
called out to them and kept them straight with voice and reins. Every
spring he had a similar crossing, and he knew almost to an inch at what
height it was safe to go into the river. But this time, as ill-luck
would have it, the off-side leader was a young, vicious, thorough-bred
colt, who had been handed over to him to be cured of a propensity for
striking people with his fore-feet. As the horses worked their way into
the river, the colt, with the courage of his breeding, pulled manfully,
and breasted the current fearlessly. But suddenly a floating log
drifted down, and struck him on the front legs. In an instant he reared
up, and threw himself heavily sideways against his mate, bringing him
to his knees; then the two of them, floundering and scrambling, were
borne away with the current, dragging the coach after them. In a few
yards they were off the causeway; the coach, striking deep water,
settled like a boat, and turned over on its side, with the leaders
swimming for their lives. As for the wheelers, they were pulled down
with the vehicle, and were almost drowning in their harness.
Cool as a cucumber, Blake had turned to the girl. “Can you swim?” he
said. And she answered him as cooly, “Yes, a little.”
“Well, put your hands on my shoulders, and leave everything to me.”
Just then the coach settled over with one final surge, and they were in
the water.
Away they went with the roaring current, the girl clinging fast to his
shoulders, while he gave his whole attention to dodging the stumps and
snags that were showing their formidable teeth above water. For a while
she was able to hold on. Then, with a sickening sense of helplessness,
she felt herself torn from him, and whirled away like a leaf. The rank
smell of the muddy water was in her nostrils, the fear of death in her
heart. She struggled to keep afloat. Suddenly a blood-streaked face
appeared, and Blake, bleeding from a cut on the forehead, caught her
with a strong grip and drew her to him. A few more seconds of whirling
chaos, and she felt land under her feet, and Blake half-carrying her to
the bank. They had been swept on to one of the many sand-banks which
ran out into the stream, and were safe.
Half-hysterical, she sat down on a huge log, and waited while Blake ran
up-stream to give help to the coachman. While the two had been battling
in the water, the priest had stayed with the coachman to cut the horses
free, till at last all four got clear of the wreck, and swam ashore.
Then the men followed them, drifting down the current and fighting
their way to shore at about the same place.
Hugh Gordon drove the waggonette down to pick up the party when they
landed. The scene on the bank would have made a good picture. The
horses, dripping with water and shaking with cold, were snorting and
staring, while the coachman was trying to fix up some gear out of the
wreck, so that he could ride one of them. The priest, his broad Irish
face ornamented by a black clay pipe, was tramping up and down in his
wet clothes. Blake was helping Miss Grant to wring the water out of her
clothes, and she was somewhat incoherently trying to thank him. As Hugh
drove up, Blake looked up and caught his eye, and there flashed between
the two men an unmistakable look of hostility. Then Hugh jumped from
the waggonette, and walked up to Miss Grant, holding out his hand.
“I’m Hugh Gordon,” he said. “We only got your father’s letter to-day,
or I would have been down to meet you. I hope you are not hurt. Jump
into the trap, and I’ll run down to the Donohoes’, and get you some dry
things.” Then, turning to Blake, he said somewhat stiffly, “Will you
get in, Mr. Blake?”
“Thanks,” said Blake, equally stiffly, “I can ride one of the mail
horses. It’s no distance. I wont trouble you.”
But the girl turned and put her hand into Blake’s, and spoke with the
air of a queen.
“I am very much obliged to you—more than I can tell you. You have saved
my life. If ever I can do anything to repay you I will.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Blake, “that’s nothing. It was only a matter of
dodging the stumps. You’d better get on now to Donohoe’s Hotel, and get
Mrs. Donohoe to find some dry things for you.”
The mere fact of his refusing a lift showed that there was some
hostility between himself and Hugh Gordon; but the priest, who had
climbed into the Kuryong vehicle as a matter of course, settled the
matter off-hand.
“Get in the trap,” he said. “Get in the trap, man. What’s the use for
two of ye to ride the mail horses, and get your death o’ cold? Get in
the trap!”
“Of course I’ll give you a lift,” said Hugh. “Jump in, and let us get
away before you all get colds. What will you do about the coach and the
luggage, Pat?”
“I’ll borry them two old draught horses from Martin Donohoe, and
they’ll haul it out. Bedad, some o’ that luggage ’ll be washed down to
the Murrumbidgee before night; but the most of it is strapped on. Push
along, Mr. Gordon, and tell Martin I’m coming.”
With some reluctance Blake got into the waggonette; before long they
were at Donohoe’s Hotel, and Mary Grant was soon rigged out in an
outfit from Mrs. Donohoe’s best clothes—a pale-green linsey bodice and
purple skirt—everything, including Mrs. Donohoe’s boots, being about
four sizes too big. But she looked by no means an unattractive little
figure, with her brown eyes and healthy colour showing above the
shapeless garments.
She came into the little sitting-room laughing at the figure she cut,
sat down, and drank scalding tea, and ate Mrs. Donohoe’s cakes, while
talking with Father Kelly and Blake over the great adventure.
When she was ready to start she got into the waggonette alongside Hugh,
and waved good-bye to the priest and Blake and Mrs. Donohoe, as though
they were old friends. She had had her first touch of colonial
experience.