IN the morning the sun was up before Ess was, and she came from her
tent to find the sheep out of sight over the horizon, and the plains
empty and silent. Two or three of the men had just finished their
breakfast, and were mounting to ride on and overtake the mob, and
Blazes told her he had been feeding them in relays for the past three
hours. Ess found him in the full flight of one of his outbursts of rage.
“I’m sick o’ the ’ole thing,” he declared, “expeck a man to cook chops,
and bile gallons o’ tea, an’ wood as scarce as snowballs in ’ell—beg
pardon, Miss—” and he subsided as suddenly as a pricked toy balloon.
“Go on, Blazes,” she said cheerfully; “you once told me it did you good
to work your tempers off, you know. Don’t mind me.”
“Ah,” he said, solemnly shaking his head. “But a temper’s no good to me
if I can’t swear. An’ ’ere’s your breakfast, Miss.”
“What are you going to do this morning?” she asked.
“Drive right through to the Ridge,” he said. “There’s no water this
side of it, so I can’t do anything.”
“And will the men have to go on all day without tea?” she said.
“They will so,” he said, “an’ all night too, if they don’t get the
sheep to the ’ills. It’s tough, in that dust an’ all, but wot’s to be
done for it?”
“Couldn’t we carry some water from here,” she suggested, “and at least
make tea somewhere on the road for them?”
“Nothing to carry it in,” he said; “a pail or two, and a keresone tin
bucket, an’ we’d spill most of it in the cart.”
“Let me take them in the buggy,” she said eagerly. “I could drive
slowly, and the plain is level and smooth enough. You could fasten my
horse behind, or to your cart.”
Blazes seemed inclined to grumble at the suggestion, but she cut short
his objections. “Do let me, Blazes—please,” she said earnestly; “I know
it will mean work for you boiling the water, but I would so like you
to—won’t you, _please_?”
“Right you are, Miss,” he said, suddenly cheerful. “And won’t it be a
surprise to the boys when they comes up to us and we sings out
‘Tea-oh’? They won’t ’arf jump for it wi’ their tongues hangin’ out.”
So the buckets and tins were filled to the brim and carefully loaded on
the buggy, and they drove quietly off. They passed wide out on the
plain, clear of the moving sheep that were strung out for long dusty
miles. At a point which Blazes reckoned the men would reach by noon
they swung in to the line of the march, which by now was running along
close to the hills.
“Why don’t they let the sheep up on the hills here,” Ess asked,
“instead of taking them so much further?”
“Too steep, an’ bare o’ feed, an’ not a drop o’ water for miles,” said
Blazes. “They’d only do a perish there. The only chance is to get them
to the valley to the Ridge. It’s easier going for ’em there, and it
leads into some gullies, where they’ll scrape up a mouthful o’ feed an’
a chance o’ a drink. But we’ll get some sticks for the fire off the
’ills ’ere.”
They halted and lifted down the precious water, and Blazes had to
confess that not nearly as much of it had been spilt as he had
expected. They gathered firewood, Ess insisting on helping, and got all
ready to boil up the buckets as soon as the men began to come within
reach.
But it was a couple of hours after Blazes had expected before the first
of the mob went drifting past. Their heads were hanging, and they were
moving at a snail’s pace, in spite of the efforts of the men and the
dogs. The mob was split into several lots, each with two or three men,
and dogs driving.
The first of these men came eagerly across at the hail from Blazes.
“Tea,” said one, smacking his lips; “my oath, this _is_ good.”
“Thank Miss Ess ’ere for it,” Blazes said; “it’s ’er notion to cart the
water along.”
“Luck to you, Miss,” said the man, “an’ may you never need a drink as
bad’s I do now.”
Blazes went through the same formula to each of the men who came
up—“Thank ’er—it’s ’er notion,” and the men thanked her with rough but
eloquent speech, or with even more eloquent silence, and eyes that
glistened at her over the steaming tea.
They were gone as soon as they could swallow their tea, and the next
men were just as hurried in their movements.
It was this haste and hurry that struck Ess as the dominating tone of
the whole picture. In spite of the slow dragging of the tired sheep,
the lazily floating dust clouds, the weary, staggering, halting pace of
the march, at the back of it all Ess could see the fierce unflagging
energy, the remorseless cruel driving haste. It was plain in the
whistle and crack of the stockwhips, the yelping rush and snap of the
dogs, even in the little spurts the sheep were roused to as whip or dog
came on them.
Scottie and Steve came over to the fire at a hard canter and flung
themselves from their horses.
“What’s this, lass?” said Scottie, “acting the cook, eh?”
“Acting the good Samaritan,” said Steve. “I don’t know if angels are
supposed to serve out hot tea, but if so, you and Blazes can put in an
application for an outfit of wings right away.”
“Thank ’er,” murmured Blazes. “It’s ’er notion.”
The two men gulped the tea down. They were caked with red dust from
head to toe, the sweat was smearing and streaking their faces, their
eyes were red rimmed, and their lips dry and cracking, and bodily
weariness was plain in every line of their figures. But they swallowed
the scalding tea and leaped for their horses again as if their lives
hung on the passing moments.
Then the boss flashed up to them out of the smother and dust of the
rear guard.
“They tell me you’ve tea, Miss Lincoln,” he cried. “May I—ah, thank
you,” as she handed up a pannikin to him where he sat in his sulky.
“How are they going, Mr. Sinclair?” asked Ess.
“Slowly, slowly,” he said; “they’re beginning to lie down to it, and
it’s harder each time to get them on their feet and moving again. But
I’ve hopes yet—I’ve hopes yet.”
“Will you get them in to-night, do you think?”
“To-night—or never,” he said grimly. “Another day will finish them
clean out. We might save the skins of some of them, but I’m staking on
getting them through. Thank you for the tea, my dear. It freshens a man
up—freshens a man up,” and he settled himself back in his seat, and
clucked to the trotters, and was off to the rear of the drive again.
It was here, as the rear trailed past, that Ess saw the full extent of
the battle between the tired sheep and the tireless men. At different
points along the column she had noticed some of the sheep, where the
men or dogs had drawn off a little, lie down to rest. She had seen the
men have to come right up to them and push them, and the dogs leap and
bark in their faces, before they would struggle to their feet again.
She had even seen the men stoop and lift them and push them forward,
and at times when the brute simply dropped again the man might lift it
and carry it clear of the line, and leave it lying to gather up a few
more ounces of strength from its rest.
And here in the rear were the weakest and slowest of all the mob, the
ones that had given in, or dragged behind, and dropped back from one
bunch to the other till they came to the men of the rear-guard. Most of
these were on foot. One or two horsemen still rode from flank to flank
swinging their whips, but the others were wading into the blocked
masses and pushing them into motion, running out to lift the ones that
had been left lying on the wayside, back again to urge on the harrying
dogs, up and down, back and forth, shouting, stooping, lifting, and
pushing.
And behind them again came the two carts and the sweating butchers. The
sheep that were too far gone to offer any chance of picking up strength
for another effort were killed swiftly. They were slain in bunches of
half a dozen to a score, and before the whistling breath was out of the
last one the skin was being stripped and torn from the first. The men
were coated with the red dust, and splashed and spotted with the deeper
red. Their boots and legs were soaking despite the dust, their arms
dripped red from the elbow, and their hands were almost too wet and
slippery to hold the blunted knives. They worked doggedly, and with
swift machine-like motions, slashing and ripping, heaving the carcase
over, wrenching and tearing the skin off the quivering flesh. The cart
drove up, the skins were hastily flung on, the men wiped their hands a
couple of times across the wool of the last, drew a hand across a
streaming brow, and ran to the next group that lay huddled awaiting
their coming.
Blazes carried the last of the tea to these men. They would not leave
their work even to walk the few score yards to the fire, and when the
tea was brought to them they set the pannikins beside them to cool
instead of waiting to sip at them, and went on with their stab, slash,
rip, with the sweat dripping off their chins and noses, and their faces
grimed with a horrible mask of blood, and sweat, and dust.
Then Ess and Blazes drove on again, past the long straggling column,
and on across the heat-quivering silent plain, till they came to the
gate of the valley, and on up to the Ridge.
They drove in silence. Blazes had been up half the night, and was
drooping half asleep over the reins, and Ess, driving the buggy behind
him, simply let her horses follow the cart he drove.
She felt deadly tired; her head ached with the heat and dust, and sun,
and, long after they had passed the head of the drive, her ears
throbbed to the pitiful wavering cry of the sheep.
When she reached her room she lay down on her bed to rest, but she
could not sleep. In her mind she could still see those limping sheep
struggling across the hot sand, the looming figures of the men toiling
in the dust-fog, the blood-stained butchers at their gruesome work, and
the heaped piles of dripping skins on the carts. Her ears still echoed
to the monotonous scuffling of feet, the bark and rush of the dogs, and
scurry of the driven brutes, the thudding hoof-beats and the hoarse
shouts of the men, and reports of the whip-cracks and—steady,
unceasing, and unbroken—the long-drawn quavering bleat of the sheep.
She rose at last, and went to find Blazes. He was busy in the
cook-house preparing meat and boiling water. “Likely the men’ll take it
in turns to ride up when they gets as far as the gate. I thought some
o’ them would ’ave been ’ere by now. It’s near sundown, an’ they’ll
’ave to come up to water their ’orses.”
“I think I’ll ride down to the gate and see if they are near there,”
said Ess; “I feel I can’t wait here, I’m so anxious to know if they’re
going to get through.”
“I ’ears someone comin’ now,” said Blazes, and presently she too heard
the rattle of stones on the track, and three or four of the men came in
sight. They rode their horses straight down to the little dam, and Ess
went out and watched the poor brutes wade into the water up to their
girths, and bury their muzzles almost up to the eyes. She saw them
drink, and drink, and drink again, and reluctantly lift their dripping
muzzles and stand, and dip them again and drink till they could drink
no more, and even then stand, unwilling to leave the water.
As the men rode up again, Whip Thompson grinned to Ess.
“Decent sort o’ drink they takes when they’re at it,” he said. “Reckon
they was pretty near what you might call thirsty then.”
Ess thought to herself that the men themselves must be “pretty near
thirsty,” but she noticed that they had sat patiently on the horses
till they were satisfied they would drink no more, and that they gave
them their feed after it, before ever they thought of drinking or
eating themselves.
“How far are the sheep?” asked Ess, anxiously.
“’Bout a mile from the gate,” said Whip. “But they’ll take all of an
hour to get to it, an’ some more hours ’fore they’re all through it,
and fit to start climbin’ the hills. We’re puttin’ them up the slope
across the road if they’ll climb. There’s some feed an’ a few trickles
o’ pools beyond there. They’ll have to come on up the valley else, and
that’ll be further, though it’s an easier grade.”
“Are you going back now?” asked Ess.
“Yes, we’re takin’ turns to ride up. The ’orses is near doin’ a perish.
We won’t do much ridin’ now though, after we’re back. It’ll be foot
work mostly, to get ’em up the hill.”
When their horses had finished feeding, the men rode clattering over
the Ridge and down the track, and presently another batch came up. It
was dark when they came, and they said the sheep were almost at the
gate when they left.
“When will my uncle be up?” asked Ess.
“’E’s not comin’ up,” said Jack Ever. “We led up ’is ’orse an’ Steve
Knight’s, and we’re to carry ’em down a bite an’ a billy o’ tea when we
go down again.”
“Will one of you drive me down in the buggy?” asked Ess. “I’ll take
down some food for them and Mr. Sinclair, and some tea.”
So it was arranged, and Jack drove her down in the buggy.
Half-way down they met a man flogging his horse up the track at a hand
gallop. Jack shouted at him as he passed, and “Goin’ for axes” the man
shouted back over his shoulder.
“Axes,” said Ess to Ever. “What do they want axes for?”
“Lord above knows,” said Ever. “An’ they wants ’em in suthing’ of a
hurry, too, evidently.”
They were driving slowly and carefully so as to avoid jolting and
spilling the tea, and just as they came to the gate the horseman came
tearing down the road again with the axes balanced across his pommel.
They pulled off the road, and Ess took the reins. “I’ll wait here,” she
said, “if you’ll find them and tell them I have some tea.”
Jack Ever jumped down and disappeared in the darkness, and she sat on
patiently, although for long there was no sign of the other men.
The first of the sheep were crowding through the gate now, with
half-a-dozen men trying to force them through and avoid blocking it.
Outside the gate the mob was spreading slowly along the fence, and she
noticed that the moment they stopped they lay down with their heads
hanging. Then Ess heard the ring and thud of axes, and, driving
cautiously, found some of the men furiously hacking at the fence posts.
The staples were being hammered and wrenched out of others, and, as
fast as it could be done, lengths of the high fence with the close-set
rabbit-proof meshes along the foot and the wide dingo-stopping net
above, were wrenched down and hauled away to leave a wide opening.
Immediately it was down the men started to rouse the sheep and hustle
them over the line, and towards the hill.
Then her uncle and Steve Knight cantered up, with Mr. Sinclair driving
close behind.
“Feeding the firing line again, Miss Lincoln,” he called cheerily. “No,
I won’t get down, thanks. If you’ll just hand me up a bite and a
pannikin of tea. We left a mob a mile or two back that were too dead
beat to come on, and I want to see if we can rouse them up again now
the sun’s off them. Must save all we can, y’ know—save all we can,” and
the trotters pounded off into the darkness.
“Doesn’t spare horseflesh,” said Steve, “and doesn’t spare himself.” He
dropped wearily on the ground.
“So you’ve got them here?” said Ess.
“Aye,” said Scottie; “question is, will they stick here?”
“There’s the hill to get them up yet, Miss Ess,” explained Steve.
“That’s going to be the worst of the lot. The brutes are done—can
hardly hobble. It’s a mile or two of rough going over the hill to
water, and we can’t carry ’em in our arms.”
“Oh, and I thought you’d won when you got them to here,” cried Ess, in
dismay. “Don’t say we’re beaten after all.”
“Mebbe no just beaten,” said Scottie, cautiously, “bit I’m no sayin’
we’ve won.”
“There’s whole bunches of them strung out for a couple of miles back,”
said Steve. “We might let them go if we could push these up. If not,
we’ll have to kill them to save them, as the Irishman said. And the
skins are all we’ll get for our trouble.”
Scottie rose stiffly to his feet and climbed into the saddle. “Ye’d
better go home, Ess,” he said. “This is goin’ tae be an all-nicht job.
We’ll be there by sun-up. If they’re no ower the hill by that, we’re
beat.”
“I’ll wait here for a bit, uncle,” she said. “I couldn’t rest not
knowing how it’s going to finish.”
Steve stood for a moment before mounting, while Scottie moved away.
“Looks like Buckley’s chance for my spec., Miss Ess,” he said.
“I’m so—so sorry,” she said.
“We’ll fight it out to the finish, anyway,” he said. “The boys are
keeping at it good.”
“They must be more dead beat than the sheep,” she said, “but they still
go on working. I do wish that bleating would stop for a minute. It
sounds so pitiful—as if they were crying to us to save them, and
wailing with the torment of thirst and fatigue.”
“The wail of the lost,” he commented grimly; “they’ve lost, and we’ve
lost—or nearly.”
All through the long night the men slaved, and toiled, and fought the
unwilling brutes. But it was no good; they could not be stirred to
another effort. The men even carried some of them up the slope of the
first hill in their arms, in the hopes that they might lead the others
to follow and join them. They dragged, and pushed, and hauled, they
“sooled” the dogs on to them, they tried to drive them with noise, and
blows, and kicks; they built fires and carried the whirling brands
amongst them, but even the fear of fire—the deepest rooted and most
awful of animal’s fears—failed to rouse them, or put a last spurt of
energy into the tired limbs, and sore feet, and parched bodies. All
night long the men fought on savagely and stubbornly, drenched with
sweat, and aching to the finger-tips with sheer bodily fatigue.
Then the word passed round, and one by one they ceased their efforts,
and stumbled clear of the sheep, and dropped to the ground.
A figure leading a horse limped up in the starlight, and Ess spoke
eagerly, “What is it—what next?”
Steve Knight flung himself down on the ground.
“The dawn,” he said briefly, and nodded to the faint grey in the
eastern sky. “The dawn—and we’re done. The poor old boss has just
passed the order to let go. We can do no more—we’re beat.”
Ess said nothing. She felt there was nothing she could say.
Scottie and Mr. Sinclair came up, steering for the little fire one of
the men had lit for her beside the buggy.
Ess looked at the old man with her heart swelling. It was so hard—so
hard. He had done everything, spent his all, and fought, and borrowed,
and fought again, and now he was beaten, and those sheep lying there,
instead of a mile or two over the hill, meant Coolongolong slipping
from his hands, and himself and his wife and girls left penniless to
face the world and begin anew.
Ess could not trust herself to speak, and when the old man clambered
heavily down from his sulky, she moved over to him, and slipped a hand
inside his arm.
“Well, well, my dear. So you had to stay to see it out? I’m sorry we
couldn’t show you a better finish; but never mind, we made a fight for
it—we made a fight for it.”
She brought a cushion from the sulky and put it for him to sit on by
the fire. He sank slowly on it. “So,” he said quietly. “And that’s the
last of Coolongolong—the last of....” His voice trailed off into
silence—a silence unbroken except for the baa-ing of the sheep that had
slackened, but never stopped.
“Is’t as bad as that, sir?” said Scottie.
“Ay, Mackellar—it’s the finish. I’ve plunged to the hilt on saving
them. The skins won’t pay off enough to clear me, even letting the
station go. But I’m sorrier for——” he was looking at Steve, but he
checked himself and glanced at Ess.
“I’m sorry for yourself only, sir,” said Steve, quietly.
“Thank’ee, lad, thank’ee. That’s kindly said,” said the old boss.
“Well, well, maybe they will leave me in charge as manager, when they
take over Coolongolong.”
“I’m sure we a’ hope that, maist airnestly, sir,” said Scottie.
The silence fell again, and they could hear in it the faint hiss and
spurt of the flames of the tiny fire.
Ess shivered, and sat closer to the warmth.
“Are you cold, Miss Ess?” said Steve.
“It’s the dawn win’,” said Scottie, “an’ you bein’ up a’ night.”
Ess had lifted her head, and was listening intently.
“What’s the matter?” she said. “The sheep—don’t you hear? They’ve
stopped crying.”
The men stared at her, and at one another. She was right—the sheep had
stopped calling, and the silence after that night-and-day unceasing cry
was eerie and strange.
Then high up the slope from the few sheep that had struggled there came
a faint “baa-a-a.” The dense masses of sheep on the flats below raised
their heads and answered the call—a few of them staggered to their feet
and stumbled feebly towards the slope.
Scottie leaped to his feet, and his voice shook with excitement.
“It’s the win’,” he said hoarsely. “The dawn win’. It’s frae the east,
and blawin’ ower the hills and the water, an’ they’ve smelt it. Eh,
thank God, sir—ye are saved Coolongolong.”
Less than an hour later Steve stood on the track beside Ess.
“Your uncle sent me to drive you home,” he said. “There’s nothing more
to do to-day. It’s not driving they’ll need now. They’ve winded the
water, full scent, and while they’ve a breath of life or a drain of
strength in their bodies they’ll go on till they reach it.”
“They’re crying again,” said Ess, and they stood and listened. The last
of the sheep were trailing over the skyline, and the quavering call
came faint and thin down wind to them.
“Does it sound different now to you?” said Steve. “Hark—did you ever
hear a crowd of men in the distance cheering ... like that
‘Hoo-ray-ay-ay’?”
“It is,” she said, “exactly that. And we’ve won—we’ve won.”
And over the hill a stronger puff of wind sighed gently, and brought
the pulsing waves of sound back clear to them—“_ray-ay-ay-ay_.”
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