THE FIGHT AMONG THE FERN-TREES.
Then Desborough cried aloud to ride at them, and spare no man. And, as
he spoke, every golden fernbough, and every coigne of vantage among the
rocks, began to blaze and crackle with gun and pistol shot. Jim's horse
sprung aloft and fell, hurling him forcibly to the ground, and a tall
young trooper, dropping his carbine, rolled heavily off his saddle, and
lay on the grass face downward, quite still, as if asleep.
"There's the first man killed," said the Major, very quietly. "Sam, my
boy, don't get excited, but close on the first fellow you see a chance
at." And Sam, looking in his father's face as he spoke, saw a light in
his eyes, that he had never seen there before--the light of battle. The
Major caught a carbine from the hands of a trooper who rode beside him,
and took a snap shot, quick as lightning, at a man whom they saw
running from one cover to another. The poor wretch staggered and put
his hands to his head, then stumbled and fell heavily down.
Now the fight became general and confused. All about among the fern and
the flowers, among the lemanshrubs, and the tangled vines, men fought,
and fired, and struck, and cursed; while the little brown bandiroots
scudded swiftly away, and the deadly snake hid himself in his darkest
lair, affrighted. Shots were cracking on all sides, two riderless
horses, confused in the MELEE, were galloping about neighing, and a
third lay squealing on the ground in the agonies of death.
Sam saw a man fire at his father, whose horse went down, while the
Major arose unhurt. He rode at the ruffian, who was dismounted, and cut
him so deep between the shoulder and the neck, that he fell and never
spoke again. Then seeing Halbert and the Doctor on the right, fiercely
engaged with four men who were fighting with clubbed muskets and
knives, he turned to help them, but ere he reached them, a tall,
handsome young fellow dashed out of the shrub, and pulling his horse
short up, took deliberate aim at him, and fired.
Sam heard the bullet go hissing past his ear, and got mad. "That young
dog shall go down," said he. "I know him. He is the one who rode first
yesterday." And as this passed through his mind, he rode straight at
him, with his sword hand upon his left shoulder. He came full against
him in a moment, and as the man held up his gun to guard himself, his
cut descended, so full and hard that it shore through the gunbarrel as
through a stick, and ere he could bring his hand to his cheek, his
opponent had grappled him, and the two rolled off their horses
together, locked in a deadly embrace.
Then began an awful and deadly fight between these two young fellows.
Sam's sword had gone from his hand in the fall, and he was defenceless,
save by such splendid physical powers as he had by nature. But his
adversary, though perhaps a little lighter, was a terrible enemy, and
fought with the strength and litheness of a leopard. He had his hand at
Sam's throat, and was trying to choke him. Sam saw that one great
effort was necessary, and with a heave of his whole body, threw the
other beneath him, and struck downwards, three quick blows, with the
whole strength of his ponderous fist, on the face of the man, as he lay
beneath him. The hold on his throat loosened, and seeing that they had
rolled within reach of his sword, in a moment he had clutched it, and
drawing back his elbow, prepared to plunge it in his adversary's chest.
But he hesitated. He could not do it. Maddened as he was with fighting,
the sight of that bloody face, bruised beyond recognition by his
terrible blows, and the wild fierce eyes, full of rage and terror,
looking into his own, stayed his hand, and while he paused the man
spoke, thick and indistinctly, for his jaw was broken.
"If you will spare me," he said, "I will be King's evidence."
"Then turn on your face," said Sam; "and I will tie you up."
And as he spoke a trooper ran up, and secured the prisoner, who
appealed to Sam for his handkerchief. "I fought you fair," he said;
"and you're a man worth fighting. But you have broken something in my
face with your fist. Give me something to tie it up with?"
"God save us all!" said Sam, giving him his handkerchief. "This is
miserable work! I hope it is all over."
It seemed so. All he heard were the fearful screams of a wounded man
lying somewhere among the fern.
"Where are they all, Jackson?" said he.
"All away to the right, sir," said the trooper. "One of my comrades is
killed, your father has had his horse shot, the Doctor is hit in the
arm, and Mr. James Brentwood has got his leg broke with the fall of his
horse. They are minding him now. We've got all the gang, alive or dead,
except two. Captain Desborough is up the valley now after the head man,
and young Mr. Hawker is with him. D--n it all! hark to that."
Two shots were fired in quick succession in the direction indicated;
and Sam having caught his horse, gallopped off to see what was going on.
* * * * *
Desborough fought neither against small nor great, but only against one
man, and he was George Hawker. Him he had sworn he would bring home,
dead or alive. When he and his party had first broken through the fern,
he had caught sight of his quarry, and had instantly made towards him,
as quick as the broken, scrub-tangled ground would allow.
They knew one another; and, as soon as Hawker saw that he was
recognised, he made to the left, away from the rest of his gang, trying
to reach, as Desborough could plainly see, the only practicable way
that led from the amphitheatre in which they were back into the
mountains.
They fired at one another without effect at the first. Hawker was now
pushing in full flight, though the scrub was so dense that neither made
much way. Now the ground got more open and easier travelled, when
Desborough was aware of one who came charging recklessly up alongside
of him, and, looking round, he recognised Charles Hawker.
"Good lad," he said; "come on. I must have that fellow before us there.
He is the arch-devil of the lot. If we follow him to h-ll, we must have
him!"
"We'll have him, safe enough!" said Charles. "Push to the left,
Captain, and we shall get him against those fallen rocks."
Desborough saw the excellence of this advice. This was the last piece
of broken ground there was. On the right the cliff rose precipitous,
and from its side had tumbled a confused heap of broken rock, running
out into the glen. Once past this, the man they were pursuing would
have the advantage, for he was splendidly mounted, and beyond was clear
galloping ground. As it was, he was in a recess, and Desborough and
Charles, pushing forward, succeeded in bringing him to bay. Alas, too
well!
George Hawker reined up his horse when he saw escape was impossible,
and awaited their coming with a double-barrelled pistol in his hand. As
the other two came on, calling on him to surrender, Desborough's horse
received a bullet in his chest, and down went horse and man together.
But Charles pushed on till he was within twenty yards of the
bushranger, and levelled his pistol to fire.
So met father and son the second time in their lives, all
unconsciously. For an instant they glared on one another with wild
threatening eyes, as the father made his aim more certain and deadly.
Was there no lightning in heaven to strike him dead, and save him from
this last horrid crime? Was there no warning voice to tell him that
this was his son?
None. The bullet sped, and the poor boy tumbled from his saddle,
clutching wildly, with crooked, convulsive fingers at the grass and
flowers--shot through the the chest!
Then, ere Desborough had disentangled himself from his fallen horse,
George Hawker rode off laughing--out through the upper rock walls into
the presence of the broad bald snow-line that rolled above his head in
endless lofty tiers towards the sky.
Desborough arose, swearing and stamping; but, ere he could pick up his
cap, Sam was alongside of him, breathless, and with him another
common-looking man--my man, Dick, no other--and they both cried out
together, "What has happened?"
"Look there!" said Desborough, pointing to something dark among the
grass,--"that's what has happened. What lies there was Charles Hawker,
and the villain is off."
"Who shot Charles Hawker?" said Dick.
"His namesake," said Desborough.
"His own father!" said Dick; "that's terrible."
"What do you mean?" they both asked, aghast.
"Never mind now," he answered. "Captain Desborough, what are you going
to do? Do you know where he's gone?"
"Up into the mountain, to lie by, I suppose," said Desborough.
"Not at all, sir! He is going to cross the snow, and get to the old
hut, near the Murray Gate."
"What! Merryman's hut?" said the Captain. "Impossible! He could not get
through that way."
"I tell you he can. That is where they came from at first; that is
where they went to when they landed; and this is the gully they came
through."
"Are you deceiving me?" said Desborough. "It will be worse for you if
you are! I ain't in a humour for that sort of thing. Who are you?"
"I am Mr. Hamlyn's groom--Dick. Strike me dead if I ain't telling the
truth!"
"Do you know this man, Buckley?" said Desborough, calling out to Sam,
who was sitting beside poor Charles Hawker, holding his head up.
"Know him! of course I do," he replied; "ever since I was a child."
"Then, look here," said Desborough to Dick; "I shall trust you. Now,
you say he will cross the snow. If I were to go round by the Parson's I
shouldn't get much snow."
"That's just it, don't you see? You can be round at the huts before
him. That's what I mean," said Dick. "Take Mr. Buckley's horse, and
ride him till he drops, and you'll get another at the Parson's. If you
have any snow, it will be on Broadsaddle; but it won't signify. You go
round the low side of Tambo, and sight the lake, and you'll be there
before him."
"How far?"
"Sixty miles, or thereabouts, plain sailing. It ain't eleven o'clock
yet."
"Good; I'll remember you for this. Buckley, I want your horse. Is the
lad dead?"
"No; but he is very bad. I'll try to get him home. Take the horse; he
is not so good a one as Widderin, but he'll carry you to the Parson's.
God speed you."
They watched him ride away almost south, skirting the ridges of the
mountain as long as he could; then they saw him scrambling up a lofty
wooded ridge, and there he disappeared.
They raised poor Charles Hawker up, and Sam, mounting Dick's horse,
took the wounded man up before him, and started to go slowly home.
After a time, he said, "Do you feel worse, Charles?" and the other
replied, "No; but I am very cold." After that he stayed quite still,
with his arm round Sam Buckley's neck, until they reached the
Brentwoods' door.
Some came out to the door to meet them, and, among others, Alice. "Take
him from me," said Sam to one of the men. "Be very gentle: he is
asleep." And so they took the dead man's arm from off the living man's
shoulder, and carried him in; for Charles Hawker was asleep indeed--in
the sleep that knows no waking.
* * * * *
That was one of the fiercest and firmest stands that was ever made by
bushrangers against the authorities. Of the latter five were shot down,
three wounded, and the rest captured, save two. The gang was destroyed
at once, and life and property once more secure, though at a sad
sacrifice.
One trooper was shot dead at the first onset,--a fine young fellow,
just picked from his regiment for good conduct to join the police.
Another was desperately wounded, who died the next day. On the part of
the independent men assisting, there were Charles Hawker killed, Doctor
Mulhaus shot in the left arm, and Jim with his leg broke; so that, on
that evening, Captain Brentwood's house was like a hospital.
Captain Brentwood set his son's leg, under Dr. Mulhaus' directions, the
Doctor keeping mighty brave, though once or twice his face twisted with
pain, and he was nearly fainting. Alice was everywhere, pale and calm,
helping every one who needed it, and saying nothing. Eleanor, the cook,
pervaded the house, doing the work of seven women, and having the
sympathies of fourteen. She told them that this was as bad a job as
she'd ever seen; worse, in fact. That the nearest thing she'd ever seen
to it was when Mat Steeman's mob were broke up by the squatters; "But
then," she added, "there were none but prisoners killed."
But when Alice had done all she could, and the house was quiet, she
went up to her father, and said,--
"Now, father, comes the worst part of the matter for me. Who is to tell
Mrs. Hawker?"
"Mrs. Buckley, my dear, would be the best person. But she is at the
Mayfords', I am afraid."
"Mrs. Hawker must be told at once, father, by some of us. I do so dread
her hearing of it by some accident, when none of her friends are with
her. Oh, dear! oh, dear! I never thought to have had such times as
these."
"Alice, my darling," said her father, "do you think that you have
strength to carry the news to her? If Major Buckley went with you, he
could tell her, you know; and it would be much better for her to have
him, an old friend, beside her. It would be such a delay to go round
and fetch his wife. Have you courage?"
"I will make courage," she said. "Speak to Major Buckley, father, and I
will get ready."
She went to Sam. "I am going on a terrible errand," she said; "I am
going to tell Mrs. Hawker about this dreadful, dreadful business. Now,
what I want to say is, that you mustn't come; your father is going with
me, and I'll get through it alone, Sam. Now please," she added, seeing
Sam was going to speak, "don't argue about it; I am very much upset as
it is, and I want you to stay here. You won't follow us, will you?"
"Whatever you order, Alice, is law," said Sam. "I won't come if you
don't wish it; but I can't see----"
"There now. Will you get me my horse? And please stay by poor Jim, for
my sake."
Sam complied; and Alice, getting on her riding-habit, came back
trembling, and trying not to cry, to tell Major Buckley that she was
ready.
He took her in his arms, and kissed her. "You are a brave, noble girl,"
he said; "I thank God for such a daughter-in-law. Now, my dear, let us
hurry off, and not think of what is to come."
It was about five o'clock when they went off. Sam and Halbert, having
let them out of the paddock, went in-doors to comfort poor Jim's heart,
and to get something to eat, if it were procurable. Jim lay on his bed
tossing about, and the Doctor sat beside him, talking to him; pale and
grim, waiting for the doctor who had been sent for; no other than his
drunken old enemy.
"This is about as nice a kettle of fish," said Jim, when they came and
sat beside him, "as a man could possibly wish to eat. Poor Cecil and
Charley; both gone, eh? Well, I know it ain't decent for a fellow with
a broken leg to feel wicked; but I do, nevertheless. I wish now that I
had had a chance at some of them before that stupid brute of a horse
got shot."
"If you don't lie still, you Jim," said Sam, "your leg will never set;
and then you must have it taken off, you know. How is your arm, Doctor?"
"Shooting a little," said the Doctor; "nothing to signify, I believe.
At least, nothing in the midst of such a tragedy as this. Poor Mary
Hawker; the pretty little village-maid we all loved so well. To come to
such an end as this!"
"Is it true, then, Doctor, that Hawker, the bushranger, is her husband?"
"Quite true, alas! Every one must know it now. But I pray you, Sam, to
keep the darkest part of it all from her; don't let her know that the
boy fell by the hand of his father."
"I could almost swear," said Sam, "that one among the gang is his son
too. When they rode past Alice and myself yesterday morning, one was
beside him so wonderfully like him, that even at that time I set them
down for father and son."
"If Hamlyn's strange tale be true, it is so," said the Doctor. "Is the
young man you speak of among the prisoners, do you know?"
"Yes; I helped to capture him myself," said Sam. "What do you mean by
Hamlyn's story?"
"Oh, a long one. He met him in a hut the night after we picnic'd at
Mirngish, and found out who he was. The secret not being ours, your
father and I never told any of you young people of the fact of this
bushranger being poor Mrs. Hawker's husband. I wish we had; all this
might have been avoided. But the poor soul always desired that the
secret of his birth might be kept from Charles, and you see the
consequences. I'll never keep a secret again. Come here with me; let us
see both of them."
They followed him, and he turned into a little side room at the back of
the house. It was a room used for chance visitors or strangers,
containing two small beds, which now bore an unaccustomed burden, for
beneath the snow-white coverlids, lay two figures, indistinct indeed,
but unmistakeable.
"Which is he?" whispered the Doctor.
Sam raised the counterpane from the nearest one, but it was not
Charles. It was a young, handsome face that he saw, lying so quietly
and peacefully on the white pillow, that he exclaimed--
"Surely this man is not dead?"
The Doctor shook his head. "I have often seen them like that," he said.
"He is shot through the heart."
Then they went to the other bed, where poor Charles lay. Sam gently
raised the black curls from his face, but none of them spoke a word for
a few minutes, till the Doctor said, "Now let us come and see his
brother."
They crossed the yard, to a slab outbuilding, before which one of the
troopers was keeping guard, with a loaded carbine, and, the Sergeant
coming across, admitted them.
Seven or eight fearfully ill-looking ruffians lay about on the floor,
handcuffed. They were most of them of the usual convict stamp, dark,
saturnine looking fellows, though one offered a strange contrast by
being an Albino, and another they could not see plainly, for he was
huddled up in a dark corner, bending down over a basin of water, and
dabbing his face. The greater part of them cursed and blasphemed
desperately, as is the manner of such men when their blood is up, and
they are reckless; while the wounded ones lay in a fierce sullen
silence, more terrible almost than the foul language of the others.
"He is not here," said Sam. "Stay, that must be him wiping his face!"
He went towards him, and saw he was right. The young man he had taken
looked wildly up like a trapped animal into his face, and the Doctor
could not suppress an exclamation when he saw the likeness to his
father.
"Is your face very bad?" said Sam quietly.
The other turned away in silence.
"I'll tie it up for you, if you like," said Sam.
"It don't want no tying up."
He turned his face to the wall, and remained obstinately silent. They
perceived that nothing more was to be got from him, and departed. But,
turning at the door, they still saw him crouched in the corner like a
wild beast, wiping his bruised face every now and then with Sam's
handkerchief, apparently thinking of nothing, hoping for nothing. Such
a pitiful sight--such an example of one who was gone beyond feeling
pity, or sorrow, or aught else, save physical pain, that the Doctor's
gorge rose, and he said, stamping on the gravel,--
"A man, who says that that is not the saddest, saddest sight he ever
saw, is a disgrace to the mother that bore him. To see a young fellow
like that with such a PHYSIQUE--and God only knows what undeveloped
qualities in him, only ripe for the gallows at five-and-twenty, is
enough to make the angels weep. He knows no evil but physical pain, and
that he considers but a temporary one. He knows no good save, perhaps,
to be faithful to his confederates. He has been brought up from his
cradle to look on every man as his enemy. He never knew what it was to
love a human being in his life. Why, what does such a man regard this
world as? As the antechamber of hell, if he ever heard of such a place.
I want to know what either of us three would have been if we had had
his training. I want to know that now. We might have been as much worse
than him as a wolf is worse than an evil-tempered dog."
A beautiful colley came up to the Doctor and fawned on him, looking
into his face with her deep, expressive, hazel eyes.
"We must do something for that fellow, Sam. If it's only for his name's
sake," said the Doctor.
* * * * *
That poor boy, sitting crouched there in the corner, with a broken jaw,
and just so much of human feeling as one may suppose a polecat to have,
caught in a gin, is that same baby that we saw Ellen Lee nursing on the
door-step in the rain, when our poor Mary came upon her on one wild
night in Exeter.
Base-born, workhouse-bred! Tossed from workhouse to prison, from prison
to hulk--every man's hand against him--an Arab of society. As hopeless
a case, my lord judge, as you ever had to deal with; and yet I think,
my lord, that your big heart grows a little pitiful, when you see that
handsome face before you, blank and careless, and you try, fruitlessly,
to raise some blush of shame, or even anger in it, by your eloquence.
Gone beyond that, my lord. Your thunderbolts fall harmless here, and
the man you say is lost, and naturally. Yet, give that same man room to
breathe and act; keep temptation from him, and let his good qualities,
should he have any, have fair play, and, even yet, he may convert you
to the belief that hardened criminals may be reformed, to the extent of
one in a dozen; beyond that no reasonable man will go.
Let us see the end of this man. For now the end of my tale draws near,
and I must begin gathering up the threads of the story, to tie them in
a knot, and release my readers from duty. Here is all I can gather
about him,--
Sam and the Doctor moved heaven, earth, and the Colonial Secretary, to
get his sentence commuted, and with success. So when his companions
were led out to execution, he was held back; reserved for penal
servitude for life.
He proved himself quiet and docile; so much so that when our greatest,
boldest explorer was starting for his last hopeless journey to the
interior, this man was selected as one of the twelve convicts who were
to accompany him. What follows is an extract which I have been favoured
with from his private journal. You will not find it in the published
history of the expedition:--
"Date--lat.--long.--Morning. It is getting hopeless now, and to-morrow
I turn. Sand, and nothing but sand. The salsolaceous plants, so long
the only vegetation we have seen, are gone; and the little sienite
peak, the last symptom of a water-bearing country, has disappeared
behind us. The sandhills still roll away towards the setting sun, but
get less and less elevated. The wild fowl are still holding their
mysterious flight to the north-west, but I have not wings to follow
them. Oh, my God! if I only knew what those silly birds know. It is
hopeless to go on, and, I begin to fear, hopeless to go back. Will it
never rain again?
"Afternoon.--My servant Hawker, one of the convicts assigned to me by
Government, died to-day at noon. I had got fond of this man, as the
most patient and the bravest, where all have been so patient and so
brave. He was a very silent and reserved man, and had never complained,
so that I was deeply shocked on his sending for me at dinner-time, to
find that he was dying.
"He asked me not to deceive him, but to tell him if there was any truth
in what the gaol-chaplain had said, about there being another life
after death. I told him earnestly that I knew it as surely as I knew
that the earth was under my feet; and went on comforting him as one
comforts a dying man. But he never spoke again; and we buried him in
the hot sand at sundown. The first wind will obliterate the little
mound we raised over him, and none will ever cross this hideous desert
again. So that he will have as quiet a grave as he could wish.
"Eleven o'clock at night.--God be praised. Heavy clouds and thunder to
the north.--"
So this poor workhouse-bred lad lies out among the sands of the middle
desert.