ACROSS THE SNOW.
Hawker the elder, as I said, casting one glance at the body of his son,
whom he knew not, and another at Captain Desborough, who was just
rising from the ground after his fall, set spurs to his noble chestnut
horse, and, pushing through the contracted barriers of slate which
closed up the southern end of the amphitheatre where they had been
surprised, made for the broader and rapidly rising valley which
stretched beyond.
He soon reached the rocky gate, where the vast ridge of schist,
alternating with the limestone, and running north and south in high
serrated ridges, was cut through by a deep fissure, formed by the never
idle waters of a little creek, that in the course of ages had mined
away the softer portions of the slate, and made a practicable pass
toward the mountains.
He picked his way with difficulty through the tumbled boulders that lay
in the chasm; and then there was a cool brisk wind on his forehead, and
a glare in his eyes. The chill breath of the west wind from the
mountain--the glare of the snow that filled up the upper end of the
valley, rising in level ridges towards the sky-line.
He had been this path before; and if he had gone it a hundred times
again, he would only have cursed it for a rough, desperate road, the
only hope of a desperate man. Not for him to notice the thousand
lessons that the Lord had spread before him in the wilderness! Not for
him to notice how the vegetation changed when the limestone was passed,
and the white quartz reefs began to seam the slaty sides of the valley
like rivers of silver! Not for him to see how, as he went up and on,
the hardy Dicksoniae, still nestled in stunted tufts among the more
sheltered side gullies, long after her tenderer sister, the queenly
Alsophylla had been left behind. He only knew that he was a hunted wild
beast, and that his lair was beyond the snow.
The creek flashed pleasantly among the broken slate, full and turbid
under the mid-day sun. After midnight, when its fountains are sealed
again by the frosty breath of night, that creek will be reduced to a
trickling rill. His horse's feet brushed through the delicate
asplenium, the Venus'-hair of Australia; the sarsaparilla still hung in
scant purple tufts on the golden wattle, and the scarlet correa lurked
among the broken quartz.
Upwards and onwards. In front, endless cycles agone, a lava stream from
some crater we know not had burst over the slate, with fearful clang
and fierce explosion, forming a broad roadway of broken basalt up to a
plateau twelve hundred feet or more above us, and not so steep but that
a horse might be led up it. Let us go up with him, not cursing heaven
and earth, as he did, but noticing how, as we ascend, the scarlet
wreaths of the Kennedia and the crimson Grevillea give place to the
golden Grevillea and the red Epacris; then comes the white Epacris, and
then the grass trees, getting smaller and scantier as we go, till the
little blue Gentian, blossoming boldly among the slippery crags, tells
us that we have nearly reached the limits of vegetation.
He turned when he reached this spot, and looked around him. To the west
a broad rolling down of snow, rising gradually; to the east, a noble
prospect of forest and plain, hill and gully, with old Snowy winding on
in broad bright curves towards the sea. He looked over all the beauty
and undeveloped wealth of Gipp's Land, which shall yet, please God, in
fulness of time, be one of the brightest jewels in the King of
England's crown, but with eyes that saw not. He turned towards the
snow, and mounting his horse, which he had led up the cliff, held
steadily westward.
His plans were well laid. Across the mountain, north of Lake Omeo, not
far from the mighty cleft in which the infant Murray spends his youth,
were two huts, erected years before by some settler, and abandoned.
They had been used by a gang of bushrangers, who had been attacked by
the police, and dispersed. Nevertheless, they had been since inhabited
by the men we know of, who landed in the boat from Van Diemen's Land,
in consequence of Hawker himself having found a pass through the
ranges, open for nine months in the year. So that, when the police were
searching Gipp's Land for these men, they, with the exception of two or
three, were snugly ensconced on the other water-shed, waiting till the
storm should blow over. In these huts Hawker intended to lie by for a
short time, living on such provisions as were left, until he could make
his way northward, on the outskirts of the settlements, and escape.
There was no pursuit, he thought: how could there be? Who knew of this
route but himself and his mates? hardly likely any of them would betray
him. No creature was moving in the valley he had just ascended; but the
sun was beginning to slope towards the west, and he must onwards.
Onwards, across the slippery snow. At first a few tree-stems, blighted
and withered, were visible right and left, proving that at some time
during their existence, these bald downs had either a less elevation or
a warmer climate than now. Then these even disappeared, and all around
was one white blinding glare. To the right, the snow-fields rolled up
into the shapeless lofty mass called Mount Tambo, behind which the hill
they now call Kosciusko,--as some say, the highest ground in the
country,--began to take a crimson tint from the declining sun. Far to
the south, black and gaunt among the whitened hills, towered the
rounded hump of Buffaloe, while the peaks of Buller and Aberdeen showed
like dim blue clouds on the furthest horizon.
Snow, and nothing but snow. Sometimes plunging shoulder deep into some
treacherous hollow, sometimes guiding the tired horse across the
surface frozen over unknown depths. He had been drinking hard for some
days, and, now the excitement of action had gone off, was fearfully
nervous. The snow-glint had dizzied his head, too, and he began to see
strange shapes forming themselves in the shade of each hollow, and
start at each stumble of his horse.
A swift-flying shadow upon the snow, and a rush of wings overhead. An
eagle. The lordly scavenger is following him, impatient for him to drop
and become a prey. Soar up, old bird, and bide thy time; on yonder
precipice thou shalt have good chance of a meal.
Twilight, and then night, and yet the snow but half past. There is a
rock in a hollow, where grow a few scanty tufts of grass which the poor
horse may eat. Here he will camp, fireless, foodless, and walk up and
down the livelong night, for sleep might be death. Though he is not in
thoroughly Alpine regions, yet still, at this time of the year, the
snow is deep and the frost is keen. It were as well to keep awake.
As he paced up and down beneath the sheltering rock, when night had
closed in, and the frosty stars were twinkling in the cold blue
firmament, strange ghosts and fancies came crowding on him thick and
fast. Down the long vista of a misspent, ruined life, he saw people
long since forgotten trooping up towards him. His father tottered
sternly on, as with a fixed purpose before him; his gipsy-mother,
Madge, strode forward pitiless; and poor ruined Ellen, holding her
child to her heart, joined the others, and held up her withered hand as
if in mockery. But then there came a face between him and all the other
figures which his distempered brain had summoned, and blotted them out;
the face of a young man, bearing a strange likeness to himself; the
face of the last human creature he had seen; the face of the boy that
he had shot down among the fern.
Why should this face grow before him wherever he turned, so that he
could not look on rock or sky without seeing it? Why should it glare at
him through a blood-red haze when he shut his eyes to keep it out, not
in sorrow, not in anger, but even as he had seen it last, expressing
only terror and pain, as the lad rolled off his horse, and lay a black
heap among the flowers? Up and away! anything is better than this. Let
us stumble away across the snow, through the mirk night once more,
rather than be driven mad by this pale boy's face.
Morning, and the pale ghosts have departed. Long shadows of horse and
man are thrown before him now, as the slope dips away to the westward,
and he knows that his journey is well-nigh over.
It was late, afternoon, before, having left the snow some hours, he
began to lead his horse down a wooded precipice, through vegetation
which grew more luxuriant every yard he descended. The glen, whose
bottom he was trying to reach, was a black profound gulf, with
perpendicular, or rather over-hanging walls, on every side, save where
he was scrambling down. Here indeed it was possible for a horse to keep
his footing among the belts of trees, that, alternating with
precipitous granite cliff, formed the upper end of one of the most
tremendous glens in the world--the Gates of the Murray.
He was barely one-third of the way down this mountain wall, when the
poor tired horse lost his footing and fell over the edge, touching
neither tree nor stone for five hundred feet, while George Hawker was
left terrified, hardly daring to peer into the dim abyss, where the
poor beast was gone.
But it was little matter. The hut he was making for was barely four
miles off now, and there was meat, drink, and safety. Perhaps there
might be company, he hoped there might,--some of the gang might have
escaped. A dog would be some sort of friend, anything sooner than such
another night as last night.
His pistols were gone with the saddle, and he was unarmed. He reached
the base of the cliff in safety, and forced his way through the tangled
scrub that fringed the infant river, towards the lower end of the pass.
Here the granite walls, overhanging, bend forward above to meet one
another, almost forming an arch, the height of which, from the
river-bed, is computed to be nearly, if not quite, three thousand feet.
Through this awful gate he forced his way, overawed and utterly
dispirited, and reached the gully where his refuge lay, just as the sun
was setting.
There was a slight track, partly formed by stray cattle which led up
it, and casting his eyes upon this, he saw the marks of a horse's feet.
"Some one of the gang got home before me," he said. "I'm right glad of
that, anything better than such another night."
He turned a sharp angle in the path, just where it ran round an abrupt
cliff. He saw a horseman within ten yards of him with his face towards
him. Captain Desborough, holding a pistol at his head.
"Surrender, George Hawker!" said Desborough. "Or, by the living Lord!
you are a dead man."
Hungry, cold, desperate, unarmed; he saw that he was undone, and that
hope was dead. The Captain had an easier prey than he had anticipated.
Hawker threw up his arms, and ere he could fully appreciate his
situation, he was chained fast to Desborough's saddle, only to be
loosed, he knew, by the gallows.
Without a word on either side they began their terrible journey.
Desborough riding, and Hawker manacled by his right wrist to the
saddle. Fully a mile was passed before the latter asked, sullenly,--
"Where are you going to take me to-night?"
"To Dickenson's," replied Desborough. "You must step out you know. It
will be for your own good, for I must get there to-night."
Two or three miles further were got over, when Hawker said abruptly,--
"Look here, Captain, I want to talk to you."
"You had better not," said Desborough. "I don't want to have any
communication with you, and every word you say will go against you."
"Bah!" said Hawker. "I must swing. I know that. I shan't make any
defence. Why, the devils out of hell would come into court against me
if I did. But I want to ask you a question or two. You haven't got the
character of being a brutal fellow, like O----. It can't hurt you to
answer me one or two things, and ease my mind a bit."
"God help you, unhappy man;" said Desborough. "I will answer any
questions you ask."
"Well, then, see here," said Hawker, hesitating. "I want to know--I
want to know first, how you got round before me?"
"Is that all?" said Desborough. "Well, I came round over Broad-saddle,
and got a fresh horse at the Parson's."
"Ah!" said Hawker. "That young fellow I shot down when you were after
me, is he dead?"
"By this time," said Desborough. "He was just dying when I came away."
"Would you mind stopping for a moment, Captain? Now tell me, who was
he?"
"Mr. Charles Hawker, son of Mrs. Hawker, of Toonarbin."
He gave such a yell that Desborough shrunk from him appalled,--a cry as
of a wounded tiger,--and struggled so wildly with his handcuffs that
the blood poured from his wrists. Let us close this scene. Desborough
told me afterwards that that wild, fierce, despairing cry, rang in his
ears for many years afterwards, and would never be forgotten till those
ears were closed with the dust of the grave.