One hot, steaming morning, a young man, named Harry Monk, was riding
along a desolate stretch of seashore on the coast of North Queensland,
looking for strayed cattle. He had slept, the previous evening, on the
grassy summit of a headland which overlooked the surrounding low-lying
country for many miles, and at dawn had been awakened by the lowing of
cattle at no great distance from his lonely camping-place, and knew
that he would probably discover the beasts he sought somewhere along the
banks of a tidal creek five miles distant. Although the sun was not yet
high the heat was intense, and his horse, even at a walking pace, was
already bathed in sweat. The country to his right was grim, brown,
forbidding, and treeless, save for an occasional clump of sandal-wood,
and devoid of animal life except the ever-hovering crows and a wandering
fish-eagle or two. To the left lay the long, long line of dark,
coarse-sanded beach, upon which the surf broke with violence as the
waves sped shoreward from the Great Barrier Reef, five leagues away.
The track along which the man was riding was soft and spongy sand,
permeated with crab-holes; and at last, taking pity on his labouring
horse, he dismounted, and led him. Half a mile distant, and right ahead,
a grey sandstone bluff rose sheer from the water's edge to a height of
fifty feet, its sides clothed with verdure of a sickly green. At the
back of this headland, Monk knew that he would find water in some native
wells, and could spell for an hour or so before starting on his quest
along the banks of the tidal creek.
It was with a feeling of intense relief that he at last gained the
bluff, and led his sweltering horse under an acacia-tree, which afforded
them both a welcome shade from the still-increasing heat of the tropic
sun. Here for ten minutes he rested. Then, taking off the saddle, Monk
took his horse through the scrub towards the native wells, after first
satisfying himself that there were no natives about, for the wild
blacks upon that part of the coast of North Queensland were savage and
treacherous cannibals, and he knew full well the danger he was running
in thus venturing out alone so far from the station of which he was
overseer. As yet, he had seen neither the tracks by day nor the fires
by night of any myalls (wild blacks), but for all that he was very
cautious; and so as he emerged from the scrub, holding his bridle and
carrying his billy-can, he kept his Winchester rifle ready, for above
the native wells were a mass of rugged sandstone boulders, thrown
together in the wildest confusion and covered with straggling vines
and creepers--just the sort of place to hide the black, snaky bodies
of crouching niggers, waiting to launch their murderous spears into
the white man as he stooped to drink. For a minute or so he stood and
watched the boulders keenly, then he dropped his rifle with a laugh and
stroked his horse's nose.
“What a fool I am, Euchre! As if you wouldn't have smelt a myall long
before I could even see him! Stand there, old boy, and you'll soon have
a drink.”
He soon clambered down to the bottom of the ravine, and found to his joy
that two of the three wells contained water, sweet, pure, and limpid.
After satisfying his own thirst he thrice filled his billy-can and gave
his patient horse a drink, then, leaving him to crop the scanty herbage
that grew about the wells, he climbed to the top of the bluff and sat
down to rest under a lofty ledge of rock.
Taking out his pipe and tobacco he began to smoke. Below him the surf
beat unceasingly against the base of the bluff and sent long swirls of
yellow foam high upon the desolate beach beyond.
An hour had passed, and then, rising and descending to the wells, he
filled his canvas water-bag. Then, giving Euchre another drink, he
saddled up again and led him through the scrub to the summit of the
bluff. Here for a moment he stood to enjoy the first breaths of the sea
breeze which had sprung up during his rest, and to scan the coast to the
southward, which was rather high and well-wooded. Suddenly he uttered an
exclamation of astonishment, and, springing into his saddle, rode down
the steep descent at a breakneck pace--a white man was running for
his life along the beach towards the bluff, pursued by six blacks.
Un-slinging his Winchester as he galloped over the sand he gave a loud
cry of encouragement to the man. But neither the man nor his pursuers
heard it. Dropping his reins, but urging his horse along with the spur,
Monk levelled his rifle at the foremost native, fired, and missed,
and then he saw the white man fall on his hands and knees with a spear
sticking in his back. But ere the black had time to poise another spear
the overseer's rifle cracked again and the savage spun round and fell,
and the other five at once sprang towards the short thick scrub that
lined the beach at high-water mark. Then Monk, steadying himself in the
saddle, set his teeth and fired again and again, and two of the naked
ebony figures went down upon the sand.
“The other four won't trouble me any more,” he muttered, as he rode back
to the wounded man; “and I'm no native police-officer to shoot black
fellows for the pleasure of it, though I'd like to revenge poor Cotter
and his murdered children “--a settler and his family had been murdered
a few weeks previously.
The wounded man was lying on his left side, unable to rise, and Monk,
jumping off his horse, saw that the long, slender spear had gone clean
through his right shoulder, the sharp point protruding in front for
quite a foot.
The man was breathing hard in his agony, and Monk, before attempting to
draw the spear, placed the nozzle of his water-bag to his lips. He drank
eagerly, and then said--
“Now, comrade, pull the cursed thing out.”
Taking a firm grip around the shaft of the weapon, the overseer
succeeded in drawing it, and then began to staunch the flow of blood by
plugging the holes with strips of his handkerchief, when the man stayed
his hand, and said calmly--
“Let it bleed awhile, my friend; it will do good. So; that will do. Ah,
you are a brave fellow!”
Supported on Monk's arm, the stranger, who was a powerfully-built,
black-bearded man, dressed in garments which were a marvel of rags and
patches, walked slowly with him to the foot of the bluff and sat down
under the shade of a tree.
“My good friend,” he said, with a smile, “you were just in time. Now,
tell me, what are you going to do with me?”
“Carry you up this bluff, and then put you on my horse and take you to
Willeroo Station as soon as the heat of the sun has passed. 'Tis only
thirty miles.”
He shook his head. “I was never on the back of a horse in my life, and
I am weak. I have not had food for nearly two days, and no water since
last night. Ah, heaven! give me that water-bag again.”
He drank deeply, and Monk pondered as to what had best be done. He soon
made up his mind. He would carry him to the top of the bluff, leave him
food and water and his Winchester, and then ride as hard as he could to
the station for assistance. But, to his astonishment, the man implored
him not to do so.
“See, my friend. You have saved my life and I am grateful. But I shall
be doubly grateful to you if you do not bring assistance--I want none.
This spear-wound--bah! it is nothing. But I do want food.”
His words, few as they were, rang with earnest entreaty, and then it
flashed through Monk's brain who the man was. He was Kellerman, the
notorious escapee from New Caledonia, for whom the North Queensland
police had been seeking for the past six months, after his breaking out
of Cooktown gaol. For the moment Monk said nothing; but, with sudden
sympathy, he lit his pipe and handed it to his companion. “Take a smoke,
old man, and we'll see presently what is best to be done.”
The story of Kellerman's escape from that hell upon earth, the prison
of He Nou, in New Caledonia, was well known to Monk, and had filled him
with pity, for the man before him was the only survivor of a party of
five escapees who had landed at Cape Flattery; the others were killed
and eaten by the blacks. Kellerman, who was a man of powerful physique,
had succeeded in reaching a beche-de-mer station on the coast, where
for six or eight months he worked steadily and made a little money. From
there he went to a newly-discovered alluvial goldfield north of Cooktown
with a prospecting party, who all spoke well of him as “a plucky,
energetic fellow, and a good mate.” Then, one day, two mounted troopers
rode into camp; and Kellerman, with despair in his eyes, was taken in
handcuffs to Cooktown. He was at once identified by a French warder from
Noumea, and was placed in prison to await transhipment to the terrors of
Noumea again. On the third night he escaped, swam the alligator-infested
Endeavour River, and hid in the dense coastal scrubs. What horrors the
man had gone through since then Monk could well imagine as he looked at
his gaunt frame and hollow, starved-like eyes. The overseer made up his
mind.
Carelessly picking up his rifle he strolled over to where his horse was
standing, and placed the weapon on the ground. Then he came back, and,
sitting on a rock in front of the convict, he leant his chin on his hand
and looked him in the face.
“I'll tell you what I will do,” he said quietly, “I shall take you to
a place on the top of this bluff, make you a damper and a billy of tea,
give you my blanket, and stay with you till daylight. Then I shall
ride to Willeroo Station and return early the next morning with more
provisions and some clothing and a razor--your beard is too long. And
perhaps, too, I can get you a horse and saddle. Then, as soon as you are
better, you can travel towards New South Wales. You speak English well,
and New South Wales is the best place for you.”
The Frenchman sprang to his feet, his face blanched to a deathly white,
and his limbs trembled.
“Why do you---- who are you? Ah, my God--you know me!”
“Yes, I know you; sit down. You are Kellerman, but I will not betray
you.”
“You will not betray me?”
The anguished ring in his voice went to the overseer's heart, and rising
he placed his hand on the convict's arm. “Sit down. I will give you a
proof that I harbour no evil intentions to you.” Then he walked away to
where his Winchester lay, picked it up, and returning placed it in the
convict's hands.
“In that rifle there are left twelve cartridges. I have thirty more in
my saddle-pouch. They and the rifle are yours to defend yourself from
the blacks on your way down the coast. If you use it against white men
you will be a murderer.”
Kellerman clutched the weapon convulsively for a moment, and his eyes
flashed. Then he thought a moment.
“I promise you that I will not use it against a white man--even to save
myself.”
In less than an hour Monk had fixed the wounded man comfortably under
the overhanging ledge of rock, boiled him some tea, and made him a
damper, of which he ate ravenously. His wound troubled him but little,
and as he lay on the overseer's blanket he talked freely of his past
life. His earlier life had been spent in England and America. Then came
the Franco-German war, and from America he had returned to France to
take part in the struggle, and when the dark days of the Commune fell
upon Paris, Kellerman was one of its warmest adherents, and paid the
penalty with worse than death--he was sentenced to transportation for
life. His only relatives were a brother and a sister, both of whom were
little more than children when he was transported.
Monk listened with deep interest, and then bade him try and sleep. The
Frenchman at once laid his head upon his pillow of leaves and was soon
slumbering. At dawn Monk rose and saddled his horse; then, making some
fresh tea, he was about to bid his companion goodbye till the following
morning when Kellerman asked him if he had a pencil and paper with him.
The overseer pulled out an old pocket-book which he used when out
mustering cattle to note down the brands of any strange cattle on
Willeroo run.
“Before you go, my friend, I want you to write down something in that
book,” said the convict. “Do you know a little creek about fifteen miles
from here?”
“Yes, I do; there is a lot of heavy timber on it, pretty fer up.”
“Exactly. Now, there is gold in the headwaters of that creek, and it has
not yet been prospected by anybody, except myself. And if I had had a
dish with me I could have washed out ten, twenty, aye, thirty ounces a
day. It is easy to get. I lived on the headwaters of that creek for six
weeks. Then the water dried up, but still I got gold. But thirst drove
me away, and knowing these native wells were here I made up my mind to
come and camp on this hill till rain fell; and, but for you, I would
now be being eaten in a blacks' camp. Now, write as I tell you. You must
work that creek, my friend, and send me some share of all the gold
you get. If I am dead you must seek out my brother and sister. No, no;
to-morrow may never come; write now.”
Then he gave Monk explicit directions as to the locality of a
particularly rich “pocket,” which the overseer wrote carefully down.
The sun had just risen when Monk, bidding the convict goodbye, turned to
lead his horse down the hill. Suddenly he stopped, and, walking back, he
carefully put out the fire.
“You need have no fear from blacks,” he said, “but there is a detachment
of native police at Willa Willa, thirty-five miles from here, inland.
Possibly they _may_ be out on patrol now, and if so, might come to the
wells to water their horses. Therefore it is best to take precautions,
though you are safe out of sight up here.”
“Thanks, my good friend,” said the Frenchman, with a sigh, as he laid
his head upon his pillow again.
Once more filling his water-bag at the wells, the overseer mounted, and,
pushing through the scrub, soon emerged upon the open beach, and struck
into a canter. Suddenly he pulled up sharply--a number of horse tracks
were visible on the hard, dark sand, just above water-mark, and leading
round the back of the bluff. Turning his horse's head he followed
cautiously.
“It must be Jackson and his black troopers,” he muttered; “and, by
heavens, they have gone through the back scrub to get to the top of the
bluff!”
For some minutes he hesitated as to the best course to pursue, when
suddenly he heard a voice from the summit above him, “Surrender in the
Queen's name!” There was a moment's silence, then he heard a laugh.
“_Peste!_ I could shoot you all if I cared to, Mr. Officer, but, being a
fool, I will not break a promise to a friend.” Then the sharp crack of
a rifle rang out.
Spurring his horse through the scrub, Monk dashed over the rough ground
and up the hill. In front of the cave were a sub-inspector of black
police, a white sergeant, and eight black troopers. They were looking at
Kellerman, who lay on the ground with a bullet through his heart--dead.
“Confound the fellow!” grumbled the sergeant; “if I'd ha' known he meant
to play us a trick like that I'd ha' rushed in on him. I wonder how he
managed it? I could only see his head.”
“Leant on the muzzle and touched the trigger with his naked toe, you
fool!” replied his superior officer, sharply.
*****
Twelve months afterward Monk left North Queensland a rich man, and
went to Europe, and spent quite a time in France, prosecuting certain
inquiries. When he returned to Australia he brought with him a French
wife; and all that his Australian lady friends could discover about her
was that her maiden name was Kellerman.