Mrs. Macdougal shook her head ominously. The thought of the chagrin of
the cabins, deprived of a satisfactory climax to their little romance,
filled her with gravest apprehension. Her strong belief was that Done and
Lucy owed it as a sacred duty to the eternal verities, as set forth in
popular fiction, to marry. If they failed to conform, they gave people
good grounds for a grievance.
Lucy Woodrow's spirit was up in arms. The girl who had feared nothing so
much as to find herself at variance with her fellows, and had believed
the affection and the goodwill of those about her to be the first
essentials to happiness, felt no weakness, no lack of self-reliance, now
that she was in some measure pitted against the many. She resented the
conduct of the passengers in making her the subject of their
tittle-tattle with a bitterness she had never felt before. In overlooking
her actions and assuming a right to influence her in a purely personal
matter, these people were guilty of an insolence to which she would not
submit. She thought she discovered a certain antagonism amongst those
with whom she presently came into contact, and the opposition developed
character. Pride came to her aid. No doubt some peeping Tom or prying
woman had been witness to the theft of kisses. In that case the incident
would now be a theme of conversation in the cabins. She could not trust
Mrs. Macdougal to withhold from the gossips a single word of their
conversation. Lucy's determination was to show herself superior to the
ship's opinion; she would not have it thought she was influenced one way
or the other, and for that reason it was necessary that there should be
no appearance of a quarrel between herself and Done.
She found him sitting on a gun-carriage, and seated herself by his side,
having offered her hand in token of amity.
Jim's heart had never been so light; his cherished animosities were fled
for the time being. But conversation was difficult. He detected a
difference in the girl that was not explicable to him, and imagined that
she was still angry. He realized, too, that she was at a disadvantage,
because of the service he had rendered her, and presently blurted
something like an apology.
'I suppose I oughtn't to have done that the other night?' he said.
'No,' she murmured. Her head was bowed, and her foot tapped tremulously
on the deck.
'It's the sort of thing the respectables pretend to be shocked at, isn't
it? Well, I regretted it immediately.' His voice had grown softer. 'I
did, upon my word!'
'Please don't speak of it,' she pleaded. In truth, the apology troubled
her deeply where the offence had left no pain. She wished it had never
been spoken The thought of it had power to provoke tears long after.
The Francis Cadman sailed majestically through the Heads into Port
Phillip on a beautiful Sunday morning in November, when the beneficent
spring was merging into a fiery Southern summer. The sun blazed with
tropic splendour in a sky of unspotted sapphire; the blue, translucent
waters danced in unison with the hearts on deck, rippling into gold and
silver and the sparkle of a myriad diamonds. Eager eyes saw the symbols
of wealth in all things, and a fever of exultation and expectancy burned
in the ship. Done was like a man drunken. It was as if sunshine were a
strange, new thing to him, as if he had never breathed deeply and truly
the good air of God till now. He had big affectionate impulses; he felt
that the sailors were fine fellows, his shipmates cheerful souls. He
would have liked to shake hands all round and assure them of his
friendship, but sailors and passengers were full of their own affairs,
and took no notice of him. For two days past there had been much
whispering amongst the crew and the men under contract to work the ship
that had been left crewless in Australian waters. Done detected an
undercurrent of excitement, and noticed many guarded consultations. That
there was some conspiracy afloat he was convinced, but the plotting was
conducted in so cheerful--even hilarious--a spirit that he suspected no
evil.
The ship was anchored off Queenscliff to bide the coming of the noisy,
grimy, paddle-tug engaged to tow her wearily into Hobson's Bay, and up to
her berth by the primitive river wharf. And now speculation and curiosity
were awakened in the cabins by the peculiar conduct of Captain Evan in
stationing armed sailors along the ship, larboard and starboard.
Shortly after, Done, who was watching developments with keen interest,
saw a Scandinavian seaman named Jorgensen steal over the side, and slip
into the sea like a porpoise. Jorgensen struck out for the shore,
swimming under water for the most part, till he had covered a distance of
about two hundred yards from the ship. Others, including the armed
sailors, had witnessed Jorgensen's escape, but no one spoke.
Nearly an hour passed, and then Jim saw that two boats were coming
towards them from a distant point. At the sight of these there was a rush
of sailors. No orders had been given, but a score of men busied
themselves lowering the Francis Cadman's boats, laughing at their work
and joking uproariously. Others came singing and yelling from the
forecastle and up through the hatchways, with bundles which they piled on
the deck. All order was abolished; the jubilant cries of the sailors were
echoed back from the shores over the placid sea.
Captain Evan stood upon the deck, pale with passion, gesticulating
furiously, shouting orders that no one heard. Every time he opened his
lips the sailors responded with louder yells of cheerful derision. Evan
rushed at one of the armed sailors, cursing heroically.
'Fire on them! Fire, I tell you!' he cried.
The man paid not the slightest heed, and Captain Evan, snatching the gun
from his hands, levelled it at the boatswain.
'Down on your knees, you mutinous dog!' he thundered.
The boatswain grinned amiably, and thrust his finger into the barrel of
the piece.
'By the holy, we've spiked your gun, Captain!' he said.
Evan pulled the trigger. The cap snapped and nothing more, and now,
worked into an ungovernable passion, he clubbed his gun, and bringing the
stock down upon the boatswain's head, stretched him upon the deck with a
cracked skull. Swinging his weapon, the Captain dashed at the men, but a
dozen pair of hands were on him, and he was dragged down. Bently, the
first mate, who went to his assistance, was served similarly. In a few
moments they lay helpless, trussed like turkeys ready for the roasting.
The cabin passengers gathered about, white-faced, full of terror,
thinking of piracy and all its attendant horrors. Some of the women were
screaming. The sailors lifted Evan and Bently; and Done, who was watching
the turn of events, greatly agitated, was startled into a new train of
thought by a woman who had thrown herself at his feet, clinging to his
knees, crying:
'Help him! help him! They are going to do murder!'
It was Mrs. Macdougal. Done started forward, and half a dozen sailors
moved to intercept him.
'You don't mean mischief?' he said.
'Devil a bit!' replied a big Irishman. 'We'll stow them out of harm's way
till we're safe on shore, an' never a mischief will be done to annywon at
all. Come along, Captain darlin',' he added. 'Ye'll rist aisier in yer
cabin. We're goin' diggin' fer the gould, an' not all the fiends out iv
Connaught could shtop us.'
Captain and mate were bestowed under lock and key, and, like a band of
schoolboys at breaking-up, the men continued their mutinous work. One
section had started a quaint chanty; the rest caught it up presently, and
with the rhythm of the song came something like order among the
mutineers. Singing lustily, they piled their baggage into the boats, and
Done, who had recovered the feeling of annoyance his impulsive
interference had occasioned him, watched them, rejoicing in sympathy. He
had brought no particular respect for law and order from the Old Land,
and this happy revolt delighted him. He would have loved to join the
merry adventurers in their defiance of authority. It was grand! Lustily
he sang the chanty, and as the boats, loaded down with sailors and their
traps, and towing astern in the warm sea strings of deserters for whom
there was no room aboard, moved off, he leaned over the bulwarks waving
his hat, and shouted with all the power of his lungs:
'Good luck to you, boys!'
They answered with a cheer, forgetting all differences in their present
robust animal spirits. Ryan sprang up in one of the boats.
'Come wid us, man; why don't you?' he cried.
Jim had a strong impulse to follow, but a small hand seized his.
'No, no--please, no!' whispered Lucy at his side.
He shook his head at the men. After all, there was no occasion for him to
run away; he was bound to no man.
The sailors had taken the key of the Captain's cabin with them, and by
the time Evan and the mate were liberated the crew of the Francis Cadman
and all the sailors under contract to the distracted owners of vessels
riding idle and helpless on Corio Bay and Hobson's Bay had disappeared
amongst the ti-tree fringing the shore, leaving the ship's boats afloat.
Five sailors remained aboard--one, the boatswain, was temporarily
disabled; two of the others were sick and bedridden. Captain Evan stood
on the main hatchway and reviewed the situation, and in his manner of
expressing himself there remained no trace whatever of the suave autocrat
of the cabins. In less than an hour his voyage had been converted into an
utter and ignominious failure.
The journey from the Heads to the river mouth in the wake of the tug-boat
Platypus, slow and toil some, set Jim in an itch of impatience. He was
longing to feel land under his feet once more, and was leaning over the
side, his awkwardly-packed canvas bag of belongings at his feet, watching
the line of Liardit Beach, with its few dingy buildings standing back
from the sea, apprehensive lest this, after all, should prove to be
Melbourne, his brave city of refuge, when Lucy Woodrow approached him to
say farewell.
'They tell me we are very near our journey's end,' she said. 'I wish to
ask you a favour before you go.'
She looked strong and confident, and he was grateful there were to be no
tears, having anticipated something like a scene. She had prepared to
land, too, and wore a dark dress he had not seen before, and a quaint
little hat that became her well. He thought her beautiful. The idea of
parting with her hurt now, and his pulse stirred impatiently. The
admiration in his eyes caused a flush to relieve the pale olive of her
cheeks.
'I'll do anything you ask,' he said,
'It is a very little thing. This is Mrs. Macdougal's address. I want you
to promise to write to me.'
'I will.'
'Your life in this new land will be active and adventurous, I'm sure, but
some day, in one month, or two, or perhaps a year, you will find time to
send me a letter to say how you are, and how the strange country pleases
you?'
'You are the only human creature I have met in friendship,' he said,
betrayed into warmth by her unaffected concern. 'I can never forget you,
Lucy.' He used her Christian name for the first time.
'Thank you, James,' she answered simply.
'No, no--Jim! Jim!' He had been called James only by the parson and the
magistrates of Chisley, and he despised the unctuousness that seemed to
cling to the name.
'Thank you, Jim,' she said, smiling. 'You see,' she continued gravely,
'what you have done for me makes it impossible that I can ever be
careless about your welfare. I shall always want to know where you are,
and if you are well and happy.'
'I'm not used to this sort of thing,' he stammered.
I bear it badly.' And, indeed, he had a most amazing disposition to lapse
into tears The disposition was never near to mastering him, but there it
was.
She saw his agitation, and it warmed the mothering feeling which, though
still a child in heart and years his junior, she had long felt for the
big, strong, friendless youngster.
'You will take this, won't you? I intend it as a little keepsake.'
She proffered a small gold locket somewhat shyly, and blushed deeply when
he opened it and discovered a tiny miniature of herself. He was pleased
to have it, and told her so in a graceless way.
'Do you mean to go ashore at once?' she asked presently.
'Yes; just as soon as I can.'
'Mrs. Macdougal is ready, and I suppose we leave the ship immediately.'
He took her small hand in his. 'Good-bye,' he said. He longed to hold her
in his arms again.
'Good-bye,' she whispered.
'I hope you'll find things easy for you out there, and that you will be
happy.'
'I think I shall. I am going to try hard for happiness--to be as happy as
I once was. Say you will try too.'
He looked at the wide sweep of blue sky, and the new land swathed in a
golden atmosphere of glorious sunshine and more glorious hopes, and did
not smile at her idea of happiness recoverable by distraint.
Mrs. Macdougal bustled up. She had brought dresses from Europe with the
object of prostrating what little feminine society there was in the
neighbourhood of Boobyalla, and wore one of them now. If her colour was
not all natural, it was a very excellent imitation. She looked charming.
'Sure you are quite ready, my dear?' she said. 'Macdougal will be
waiting. Macdougal of Boobyalla, you know.' This to Jim: 'And he's a most
impatient wretch. Saying au revoir?' she queried archly, after a pause.
'I was bidding Mr. Done good-bye,' said Lucy.
'It is very sad, parting with old friends,' murmured Mrs. Macdougal, with
veiled eyes.
'Sadder parting with new ones,' replied Jim, glancing towards Lucy.
'Oh yes, it is, is it not? But you will come and visit us some time at
Boobyalla. We are shipmates, and that's a sort of relationship in
Australia.'
Done thanked her, but equivocated. He could not see himself as the guest
of the great Donald Macdougal, J.P., of Boobyalla. The lady experienced a
glow of impatience. Only a hobbledehoy could prefer Lucy Woodrow's
immature charms to the ripe perfections of a woman of her years.