“I DO WISH HE WOULD COME!”
On the Monday morning Harry came home as usual, and, as usual, went
to bed after his breakfast. “I wouldn’t care about the heat if it
were not for the wind,” he said to his wife, as he threw himself
down.
“The wind carries it so, I suppose.”
“Yes; and it comes from just the wrong side--from the northwest.
There have been half a dozen fires about to-day.”
“During the night, you mean.”
“No; yesterday--Sunday. I can not make out whether they come by
themselves. They certainly are not all made by incendiaries.”
“Accidents, perhaps.”
“Well, yes. Somebody drops a match, and the sun ignites it. But the
chances are much against a fire like that spreading. Care is wanted
to make it spread. As far as I can learn, the worst fires have not
been just after midday, when, of course, the heat is greater, but in
the early night, before the dews have come. All the same, I feel that
I know nothing about it--nothing at all. Don’t let me sleep long.”
In spite of this injunction, Mrs. Heathcote determined that he should
sleep all day if he would. Even the nights were fearfully hot and
sultry, and on this Monday morning he had come home much fatigued. He
would be out again at sunset, and now he should have what rest nature
would allow him. But in this resolve she was opposed by Jacko, who
came in at eleven, and requested to see the master. Jacko had been
over with the German; and, as he explained to Mrs. Heathcote, they
two had been in and out, sometimes sleeping and sometimes watching.
But now he wanted to see the master, and under no persuasion would
impart his information to the mistress. The poor wife, anxious as she
was that her husband should sleep, did not dare in these perilous
times to ignore Jacko and his information, and therefore gently woke
the sleeper. In a few minutes Jacko was standing by the young
squatter’s bedside, and Harry Heathcote, quite awake, was sitting up
and listening. “George Brownbie’s at Boolabong.” That at first was
the gravamen of Jacko’s news.
“I know that already, Jacko.”
“My word!” exclaimed Jacko. In those parts Georgie Brownbie was
regarded almost as the Evil One himself, and Jacko, knowing what
mischief was, as it were, in the word, thought that he was entitled
to bread and jam, if not to a nobbler itself, in bringing such
tidings to Gangoil.
“Is that all?” asked Heathcote.
“And Bos is at Boolabong, and Bill Nokes was there all Sunday, and
Jerry Brownbie’s been out with Bos and Georgie.”
“The old man wouldn’t do any thing of that kind, Jacko.”
“The old man! He knows nothing about it. My word! they don’t tell him
about nothing.”
“Or Tom?”
“Tom’s away in prison. They always cotches the best when they want to
send ’em to prison. If they’d lock up Jerry and Georgie and Jack! My
word! yes.”
“You think they’re arranging it all at Boolabong?”
“In course they are.”
“I don’t see why Boscobel shouldn’t be at Boolabong without intending
me any harm. Of course he’d go there when he left Gangoil. That’s
where they all go.”
“And Bill Nokes, Mr. Harry?”
“And Bill Nokes too. Though why he should travel so far from his work
this weather I can’t say.”
“My word! no, Mr. Harry.”
“Did you see any fires about your way last night?”
Jacko shook his head.
“You go into the kitchen and get something to eat, and wait for me. I
shall be out before long now.”
Though Heathcote had made light of the assemblage of evil spirits at
Boolabong which had seemed so important to Jacko, he by no means did
regard the news as unessential. Of Nokes’s villany he was convinced.
Of Boscobel he had imprudently made a second enemy at a most
inauspicious time. Georgie Brownbie had long been his bitter foe. He
had prosecuted and, perhaps, persecuted Georgie for various offenses;
but as Georgie was supposed to be as much at war with his own
brethren as with the rest of the world at large, Heathcote had not
thought much of that miscreant in the present emergency. But if the
miscreant were in truth at Boolabong, and if evil things were being
plotted against Gangoil, Georgie would certainly be among the
conspirators.
Soon after noon Harry was on horseback and Jacko was at his heels.
The heat was more intense than ever. Mrs. Heathcote had twisted round
Harry’s hat a long white scarf, called a puggeree, though we are by
no means sure of our spelling. Jacko had spread a very dirty fragment
of an old white handkerchief on his head, and wore his hat over it.
Mrs. Heathcote had begged Harry to take a large cotton parasol, and
he had nearly consented, being unable at last to reconcile himself to
the idea of riding with such an accoutrement even in the bush. “The
heat’s a bore,” he said, “but I’m not a bit afraid of it as long as I
keep moving. Yes, I’ll be back to dinner, though I won’t say when,
and I won’t say for how long. It will be the same thing all day
to-morrow. I wish with all my heart those people were not coming.”
He rode straight away to the German’s hut, which was on the
northwestern extremity of his further paddock in that direction. From
thence the western fence ran in a southerly direction, nearly
straight to the river. Beyond the fence was a strip of land, in some
parts over a mile broad, in others not much over a quarter of a mile,
which he claimed as belonging to Gangoil, but over which the
Brownbies had driven their cattle since the fence had been made,
under the pretense that the fence marked the boundary of two runs.
Against this assumption Heathcote had remonstrated frequently, had
driven the cattle back, and had exercised the ownership of a Crown
tenant in such fashion as the nature of his occupation allowed.
Beyond this strip was Boolabong; the house at Boolabong being not
above three miles distant from the fence, and not above four miles
from the German’s hut. So that the Brownbies were in truth much
nearer neighbors to the German than was Heathcote and his family. But
between the German and the Brownbies there raged an internecine feud.
No doubt Harry Heathcote, in his heart, liked the German all the
better on this account; but it behooved him both as a master and a
magistrate to regard reports against Boolabong coming from the German
with something of suspicion. Now Jacko had been introduced to Gangoil
under German auspices, and had soon come to a decision that it would
be a good thing and a just to lock up all the Brownbies in the great
jail of the colony at Brisbane. He probably knew nothing of law or
justice in the abstract, but he greatly valued law when exercised
against those he hated. The western fence of which mention has been
made ran down to the Mary River, hitting it about four miles west of
Medlicot’s Mill; so that there was a considerable portion of the
Gangoil run having a frontage to the water. As has been before said,
Medlicot’s plantation was about fourteen miles distant from the house
at Boolabong, and the distance from the Gangoil house to that of the
Brownbies was about the same.
The oppressiveness of the day was owing more to the hot wind than to
the sun itself. This wind, coming from the arid plains of the
interior, brought with it a dry, suffocating heat. On this occasion
it was odious to Harry Heathcote, not so much on account of its own
intrinsic abominations, as because it might cause a fire to sweep
across his run from its western boundary. Just beyond the boundary
there lay Boolabong, and there were collected his enemies. A fire
that should have passed for a mile or so across the pastures outside
and beyond his own farm would be altogether unextinguishable by the
time that it had reached his paddock. The Brownbies, as he knew well,
would care nothing for burning a patch of their own grass. Their
stock, if they had any at the present moment, were much too few in
number to be affected by such a loss. The Brownbies had not a yard of
fencing to be burned; and a fire, if once it got a hold on the edge
of their run, would pass on away from them, right across Harry’s
pastures and Harry’s fences. If such were the case, he would have
quite enough to do to drive his sheep from the fire, and it might be
that many of them also would perish in the flames. The catastrophe
might even be so bad, so frightful, that the shed and station and all
should go; though, in thinking of all the fires of which he had
heard, he could remember none that had spread with fatality such as
that.
He found Karl Bender in his hut asleep. The man was soon up,
apologizing for his somnolence, and preparing tea for his master’s
entertainment. “It is not Christmas like at home at all; is it, Mr.
’Eathcote? Dear, no! Them red divils is there ready to give us a
Christmas roasting.” Then he told how he had boldly ridden up to
Boolabong that morning, and had seen Georgie and Boscobel with his
own eyes. When asked what they had said to him, he replied that he
did not wait till any thing had been said, but had hurried away as
fast as his horse could carry him.
“I’ll go up to Boolabong myself,” said Harry.
“My word! They’ll just about knock your head off,” suggested Jacko.
Karl Bender also thought that the making of such a visit would be a
source of danger. But Heathcote explained that any personal attack
was not to be apprehended from these men. “That’s not their game,” he
said, arguing that men who premeditated a secret outrage would not
probably be tempted into personal violence. The horror of the
position lay in this--that though a fire should rise up almost under
the feet of men who were known to be hostile to him, and whose
characters were acknowledged to be bad, still would there be no
evidence against them. It was known to all men that, at periods of
heat such as that which was now raging, fires were common. Every day
the pastures were in flames, here, there, and every where. It was
said, indeed, that there existed no evidence of fires in the bush
till men had come with their flocks. But then there had been no
smoking, no boiling of pots, no camping out, till men had come, and
no matches. Every one around might be sure that some particular fire
had been the work of an incendiary, might be able to name the culprit
who had done the deed; and yet no jury could convict the miscreant.
Watchfulness was the best security, watchfulness day and night till
rain should come; and Heathcote calculated that it would be better
for him that his enemies should know that he was watchful. He would
go up among them and show them that he was not ashamed to speak to
them of his anxiety. They could hear nothing by his coming which they
did not already know. They were well aware that he was on the watch,
and it might be well that they should know also how close his watch
was kept. He took the German and Jacko with him, but left them with
their horses about a mile on the Boolabong side of his own fence,
nigh to the extreme boundary of the Debatable Land. They knew his
whistle, and were to ride to him at once should he call them.
He had left the house about noon, saying that he would be home to
dinner--which, however, on such occasions, was held to be a feast
movable over a wide space of time. But on this occasion the women
expected him to come early, as it was his intention to be out again
as soon as it should be dark. Mrs. Growler was asked to have the
dinner ready at six. During the day Mrs. Heathcote was backward and
forward in the kitchen. There was something wrong she knew, but could
not quite discern the evil. Sing Sing, the cook, was more than
ordinarily alert; but Sing Sing, the cook, was not much trusted. Mrs.
Growler was “as good as the Bank,” as far as that went, having lived
with old Mr. Daly when he was prosperous; but she was apt to be
downhearted, and on the present occasion was more than usually low in
spirits. Whenever Mrs. Heathcote spoke, she wept. At six o’clock she
came into the parlor with a budget of news. Sing Sing, the cook, had
been gone for the last half hour, leaving the leg of mutton at the
fire. It soon became clear to them that he had altogether absconded.
“Them rats always does leave a falling house,” said Mrs. Growler.
At seven o’clock the sun was down, though the gloom of the tropical
evening had not yet come. The two ladies went out to the gate, which
was but a few yards from the veranda, and there stood listening for
the sound of Harry’s horse. The low moaning of the wind through the
trees could be heard, but it was so gentle, continuous, and unaltered
that it seemed to be no more than a vehicle for other sounds, and was
as death-like as silence itself. The gate of the horse paddock
through which Heathcote must pass on his way home was nearly a mile
distant; but the road there was hard, and they knew that they could
hear from there the fall of his horse’s feet. There they stood from
seven to nearly eight, whispering a word now and then to each other,
listening always, but in vain. Looking away to the west every now and
then, they fancied that they could see the sky glow with flames, and
then they would tell each other that it was fancy. The evening grew
darker and still darker, but no sound was heard through the moaning
wind. From time to time Mrs. Growler came out to them, declaring her
fears in no measured terms. “Well, marm, I do declare I think we’d
better go away out of this.”
“Go away, Mrs. Growler! What nonsense! Where can we go to?”
“The mill would be nearest, ma’am, and we should be safe there. I’m
sure Mrs. Medlicot would take us in.”
“Why should you not be safe here?” said Kate.
“That wretched Chinese hasn’t gone and left us for nothing, miss, and
what would we three lone women do here if all them Brownbies came
down upon us? Why don’t master come back? He ought to come back;
oughtn’t he, ma’am? He never do think what lone women are.”
Mrs. Heathcote took her husband’s part very strongly, and gave Mrs.
Growler as hard a scolding as she knew how to pronounce. But her own
courage was giving way much as Mrs. Growler’s had done. “We are bound
to stay here,” she said; “and if the worst comes, we must bear it as
others have done before us.” Then Mrs. Growler was very sulky, and,
retreating to the kitchen, sobbed there in solitude. “Oh, Kate, I do
wish he would come,” said the elder sister.
“Are you afraid?”
“It is so desolate, and he may be so far off, and we couldn’t get to
him if any thing happened, and we shouldn’t know.”
Then they were again silent, and remained without exchanging more
than a word or two for nearly half an hour. They took hold of each
other, and every now and then went to the kitchen door that the old
woman might be comforted by their presence, but they had no
consolation to offer each other. The silence of the bush, and the
feeling of great distances, and the dread of calamity almost crushed
them. At last there was a distant sound of horse’s feet. “I hear
him,” said Mrs. Heathcote, rushing forward toward the outer gate of
the horse paddock, followed by her sister.
Her ears were true, but she was doomed to disappointment. The
horseman was only a messenger from her husband--Mickey O’Dowd, the
Irish boundary rider.
He had great tidings to tell, and was so long telling them that we
will not attempt to give them in his own words. The purport of his
story was as follows: Harry had been to Boolabong House, but had
found there no one but the old man. Returning home thence toward his
own fence, he had smelled the smoke of fire, and had found within a
furlong of his path a long ridge of burning grass. According to
Mickey’s account, it could not have been lighted above a few minutes
before Heathcote’s presence on the spot. As it was, it had got too
much ahead for him to put it out single-handed; a few yards he might
have managed, but--so Mickey said, probably exaggerating the
matter--there was half a quarter of a mile of flame. He had therefore
ridden on before the fire, had called his own two men to him, and had
at once lighted the grass himself some two hundred yards in front,
making a second fire, but so keeping it down that it should be always
under control. Before the hinder flames had caught him, Bender and
Jacko had been with him, and they had thus managed to consume the
fuel which, had it remained there, would have fed the fire which was
too strong to be mastered. By watching the extremities of the line of
fire, they overpowered it, and so the damage was for the moment at an
end.
The method of dealing with the enemy was so well known in the bush,
and had been so often canvassed in the hearing of the two sisters,
that it was clearly intelligible to them. The evil had been met in
the proper way, and the remedy had been effective. But why did not
Harry come home?
Mickey O’Dowd, after his fashion, explained that too. The ladies were
not to wait dinner. The master felt himself obliged to remain out at
night, and had gotten food at the German’s hut. He, Mickey, was
commissioned to return with a flask full of brandy, as it would be
necessary that Harry, with all the men whom he could trust, should be
“on the rampage” all night. This small body was to consist of Harry
himself, of the German, of Jacko, and, according to the story as at
present told, especially of Mickey O’Dowd. Much as she would have
wished to have kept the man at the station for protection, she did
not think of disobeying her husband’s orders. So Mickey was fed, and
then sent back with the flask--with tidings also as to the desertion
of that wretched cook, Sing Sing.
“I shall sit here all night,” said Mrs. Heathcote to her sister. “As
things are, I shall not think of going to bed.”
Kate declared that she would also sit in the veranda all night; and,
as a matter of course, they were joined by Mrs. Growler. They had
been so seated about an hour when Kate Daly declared that the heavens
were on fire. The two young women jumped up, flew to the gate, and
found that the whole western horizon was lurid with a dark red light.