It was about a fortnight after Hubert's call at the cottage that a
bullock-driver, dusty and bronzed, came into the office at King William
Street, and asked to speak to Mr Oliphant's nephew.
"I suppose, sir, you're Mr Hubert Oliphant," said the man.
"I am."
"Well, I've just come in from the bush. It's four days now since I left
Tanindie--it's a sheep-station down on the Murray. Thomas Rowlands, as
shepherds there, asked me to come and tell you that there's a young gent
called Scholfield, or Oldfield, or some such name, as is dangerously ill
in a little log-hut near the river. The chap as came down with him has
just cut and run, and left him to shift for himself; and he's likely to
have a bad time of it, as he seems to have some sort of fever, and
there's no doctor nearer than forty miles."
Hubert was greatly shocked.
"And how came the shepherd to think about sending to _us_?" he asked.
"Oh, the poor young man's been raving and talking about you scores of
times; and Mr Abraham's name's well-known all over the colony."
Hubert went to his uncle with the information.
"What can we do?" he asked; "I'll gladly go to him, if you can spare me
for a few days."
Jacob Poole, who was in the office, and had heard the conversation, now
interposed,--
"Oh, Mayster Oliphant, let me go to him. I'm more used to roughing it
nor you. I'll see to poor Mayster Frank. I can't forget what he's done
for me; and maybe, if God spares him, and that rascal Juniper Graves
keeps out of the road, he'll do well yet."
This plan commended itself to Mr Oliphant and his nephew, and it was
resolved that Jacob should go at once. His master furnished him with
what he needed, and bade him send word to him if he should find himself
in any trouble or difficulty.
"You'll find him out easy enough," said the bullock-driver to Mr
Oliphant, "for there's a party of mounted police setting off this
afternoon for the Murray, and the crossing's only about two miles lower
down than the hut. If he as goes joins the police, he'll be there in
half the time it took me to come up."
So it was arranged that Jacob should start immediately.
"And never mind," said Mr Oliphant, "about the time of your coming
back. If you can be of any service to your poor young master by staying
on with him, do so. And keep with him altogether if he wishes to take
you again into his service. It may keep him from the drink, now that
vagabond's taken himself off, though I'll be bound he hasn't gone empty-
handed. Should you wish, however, Jacob, to come back again to me,
either now or at any future time, I'll find you a place, for I can
always make an opening for a stanch total abstainer."
Jacob's preparations were soon made. He furnished himself with all
necessaries, and then joined the party of police on a stout little bush
horse, and started that afternoon on his journey. It was drawing
towards the evening of the second day after their departure from
Adelaide, when they came in sight of the river Murray, where a long
shelving bank of reeds, like a small forest, intervened between
themselves and the river. The country all round them was wild and
wooded, with little to remind of civilised man except the tracks of
bullock-drays.
"And here we part," said the leader of the police. "I've no doubt
you'll soon reach the hut you're seeking if you keep along the bank of
the river; but be sure you don't lose sight of that."
"Perhaps," said one of the men, "there may be some one not far-off who
could show him his way, so that he'd lose no time. Shall I cooey?"
"Ay, do," said the captain. So the man uttered a prolonged "Coo-oo-oo-
ee!" and all paused. A faint answering "Cooey" was heard in the
distance. Then a second "Cooey" was answered by a nearer response, and
soon after a stout-looking bushman made his appearance.
"Can you take this young man to a hut about two miles up the river,
where there's a young Englishman lying sick?" asked the captain.
"Ay, surely I can," was the reply. "I've only left it an hour since."
So Jacob took a hearty farewell of his escort, and in another minute was
following his new guide.
"A relation of the young gent's, I guess?" asked the bushman.
"No, only an old servant. He saved my life, and I want to help save
his, please God."
"You'll not do much towards saving it if you give him the same sort of
medicine the last chap did," remarked the other drily.
"The drink, you mean," said Jacob. "No; I'm not likely to do anything
of the sort, for I'm an out-and-out total abstainer."
"I'm right glad to hear it; give me your hand, friend," cried the
bushman, treating him, at the same time, to a grip which made his
fingers tingle. "I wish we'd more of your sort among us. It'd be
better for 'em, body and soul."
"Then, of course, you're an abstainer yourself."
"To be sure I am. I've four brothers, and not one of us has ever tasted
any intoxicating drink."
"And do you live hereabouts?" inquired Jacob.
"Yes; my father's head-shepherd at Tanindie. We all live together, my
mother and all."
"And you find you can do your work without the drink?"
"Look there," said the other, stopping short, and baring his arm. "Feel
that; some muscle there, I reckon. That muscle's grown on unfermented
liquors. Me and my four brothers are all just alike. We never trouble
the doctor, any of us."
"Ah!" said Jacob; "I've heard strange talk about `can't do without
wine;' `can't do without beer;' `can't do without spirits;' `heat of the
climate makes it needful to make up for wear and tear of body,' and so
on. And then, I've seen a many shake their heads and say as young
people can't do without a little now and then `to brace up their
nerves,' as they call it, `and give a tone to the constitootion.' I've
heard a deal of this talk in the old country."
"`Plenty gammon, plenty gammon,' all that, as the black fellows say,"
replied the other. "Truth is, people makes artificial wants, and then
they must have artificial stimulants. We're no great scholars in our
house, but we gets a good many books even out here in the bush, and
reads them at odd times; and we've read a great deal of nonsense about
young people wanting beer and wine, and such things. If people gets
themselves into an unnatural state, they wants unnatural food. But
where's the real need? I don't believe the world would suffer a pin if
all the intoxicating drinks were thrown into the sea to-morrow. Indeed,
I'm sure it would be a thousandfold better."
"I'm sure of the same," said Jacob. "But I suppose it isn't all of your
trade as thinks so."
"No, indeed; more's the pity. There's plenty about us that loves their
drink a vast deal too well. I can tell you strange tales about some of
them. I've known hardworking fellows, that have kept sober all the
year, go up at the year's end, with all they have saved, to Adelaide,
and put it into the publican's hand, telling him, `There, you keep that,
and give me drink, as I calls for it, till I've drunk it all out.'"
"And I'll warrant," said Jacob, "as publicans'll not be particular as to
a gallon or two about giving them the full worth of their brass."
"Not they, you may be very sure; and as soon as the publican has
squeezed them dry, out they go, neck and crop."
"And don't that larn 'em better?" asked Jacob.
"Not a bit of it," replied his companion; "for there's no fool like a
drunken fool. They'll do anything for a spree. They're like madmen
when they go off with their wages. You may find three or four shepherds
clubbing together. They'll call for champagne, and then for a pail.
Then they'll knock the necks off the bottles, pour the champagne into
the pail, and ladle it out with their pannikins as they sit round. And
if that don't satisfy them, they'll add a bottle of brandy, or rum, or
some other spirit. I think they're fairly crazy after the drink in this
colony."
"I shouldn't be surprised," said Jacob. "It's much the same in most
places in the old country."
"Here we are," said the young bushman, shortly after, as they made their
way through the tangled trees and shrubs, and came upon a large-sized
log-hut.
How strange it was, that solitary hut in that lone wilderness, and in
view of the shining river! All around was wild and primitive; and fair
in its negligent beauty as though it had never been disturbed by the
hand of man. The hut was large and well-constructed, though now a
little falling to decay. It was built of logs laid horizontally in
order one above another, and rendered tolerably wind-proof by the moss
and clay which served to fill up the crevices.
Into this primitive dwelling Jacob followed his guide. He was surprised
at the air of comfort presented by the interior. Not that there was
much to boast of in the way of furniture, but great pains and skill had
evidently been used to give an air of snugness to the one long, desolate
apartment of which the hut consisted. On a low, roughly-made bedstead
lay poor Frank Oldfield, judiciously shielded from draughts by hangings
of carefully arranged drapery. His various possessions lay around him,
neatly piled up, or hung on the walls. And what struck Jacob with both
pleasure and surprise, was a text in large printed characters on the
wall--opposite the foot of the bed. The words of the text were: "The
blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin." Oh, what a marvellous
power have the words of the blessed Bible to prove their own heavenly
origin in circumstances like these! In a moment it was clear to Jacob
that his master was in good hands. These words out of that volume which
is the revelation of the God of love to poor guilty sinners, told him so
with a force which no eloquence or assurance from human lips could
strengthen. Yet there were other, and very pleasing, proofs also, for
at the bed's head sat a middle-aged, kindly-looking woman, who was
acting the part of nurse to the poor emaciated figure that lay on that
couch of sickness.
"Who is it?" asked a feeble voice, as the newcomers entered the hut.
"An old servant, mother, of the gentleman's," answered the young
bushman.
"What, Jacob Poole!" exclaimed Frank, raising himself up.
"There, don't worry or excite yourself," said the kind woman. "I'll
prop you up a bit, but you mustn't talk too much. It'll only make you
bad again."
Jacob came forward.
"Mr Frank," he said, "I've come over, as soon as I heard as you was
badly, to do whatever I can for you. Mr Oliphant's let me come; and he
and Mr Hubert's rare and vexed as you're so ill. So I'm to see as you
want for nothing, and to let them know how you're coming on. And I'm
bound to stay with you till you gets round again."
The poor patient held out his hand to Jacob, while the tears streamed
down his face.
"You're all very good to me," he said; "too good, far better than I
deserve. But I hope God may spare me to reward you, if I can. You see,
Jacob, I'm brought very low. That rascal Juniper robbed me of fifty
pounds, and deserted me when I was getting ill. He would have taken all
my money, I've no doubt, if he'd only known where to find it. If it had
not been for my kind nurse here, and her husband, I should not have been
alive now."
Here he sank back, exhausted with the effort of speaking. He was sadly
altered. His fine features were sunk and pinched, his cheeks blanched,
and his lips cracked and swollen; while his beautiful hair, once his
mother's pride, had fallen under the scissors of the shepherd's wife.
He was about to speak again, when his nurse motioned Jacob to be seated,
and said to her patient,--
"Now, sir, you must just keep silent, and let me tell all about your
troubles to this young man. You see, it seems that Mr Oldfield and
that man of his, who appears to be a regular scoundrel, came down and
settled in this hut, to try a taste of `bush' life, fishing and
shooting, and the like. But, dear heart, it was all well enough for a
day or two; but after a bit the young gentleman got weary of it. So
they took to passing a good deal of their time in drinking and playing
cards, I'm afraid. I hope, young man, you're not given to anything of
the sort?"
"Me!" exclaimed Jacob; "no, ma'am; that's not in my line, I can assure
you. It's the drink as parted my poor mayster and me afore. I'm a
gradely total abstainer, and mean to be all the days of my life, please
God."
"I'm heartily glad to hear it," said the good woman. "You'll do the
young gentleman no harm then, I hope, but good. Well, as I was saying,
when they'd been a long time at this drinking and card-playing, what
with the heat, and what with the change in his way of living, the poor
gentleman took ill; so what did that man of his do? Why, he looked
after him for a day or so, and then he made pretence that he'd take one
of the horses, and go and look for a doctor, or for some one who could
come and give a help. But, bless you, he never cared about doctor, but
went straight off with both the horses, and one of the guns, and all the
powder and shot as was left, and whatever else he could carry; and it
seems too, from what the gentleman says, that he's taken and robbed his
master of fifty pounds."
"And how did you happen to light on him, and find out he was sick?"
asked Jacob.
"Why, I was just going to tell you. My master and Dick--Dick's our
youngest boy, you know--was looking after a stray sheep, when they comes
up to this hut, and hears a strange moaning noise. They went in at
once, and there was this young gentleman in a high fever, raving, and
talking all sorts of wild things, and half dead for want of water. So
my master goes back at once to our cottage and fetches me, and here I've
been, off and on, ever since. It's a mercy my master found him when he
did, or he must have died afore long."
Frank Oldfield nodded his head in assent, and held out his hand, first
to the shepherd's wife, and then to Jacob. "And so you've come to stay
a bit with your old master, Jacob. Thank God for that."
"Ay, that's right," said the good woman; "thank Him--you've cause to do
so, I'm sure God seems nearer to us who live out in the bush, in one
way. I mean, our mercies and blessings seem to come straighter like
from his own hand when we've so few of our fellow-Creatures about us."
"Jacob," said his master earnestly, "I trust, if I'm spared, that I
shall really turn over a new leaf, gradely, as you'd say. The drink has
been my curse, my ruin, and almost my death. I'll give it up
altogether, and sign the pledge, if God raises me up to health and
strength again."
"Ay, do, mayster," replied the other; "it'll be the best thing you ever
did in all your life."
The shepherd's wife was now able to delegate many of her kind offices to
Jacob, who proved a most loving and tender nurse. In a few days their
patient was able to sit up without difficulty, and, after a while, to
leave the hut for the shepherd's comfortable cottage, to which he was
conveyed on a litter of boughs by the stout arms of the shepherd and his
sons. Here it was agreed that he should remain as a regular lodger, at
a moderate remuneration for himself and Jacob, which his host and
hostess were rather loath to accept, but the refusal of which they saw
would give Frank Oldfield much pain. Jacob was his master's devoted
attendant, watching over him as a mother over her child.
It was one fine afternoon, when Frank was better than usual, that he
turned to Jacob in the midst of a walk, and said abruptly, "Jacob,
should you like to go to the diggings?"
"Why, Mayster Frank," was the reply, "I've often thought I should just
like to try my hand at it, for I was trained as a lad to pit-work. But
I should never think of leaving you till you're all right again, nor
then either, unless you'd wish it yourself."
"What made me ask you," said his master, "was this. My kind landlord's
three eldest sons are going, as you know, to try their hands for three
months or so at gold-digging. Now, if you'd like to go with them, it
would be a real pleasure to me. You would go in capital company, as
they are all stanch teetotallers, like yourself; and nothing would
rejoice me more than to find you coming back with a bag full of
nuggets."
"But what'll _you_ do while I'm off, Mr Frank?"
"Oh, that's easily answered. My kind hostess, and her husband, and two
youngest sons will be able to do all I want, as I'm getting well so
fast; and I shall be glad of an excuse to stop here in this quiet place
for a while, and not return to Adelaide. I can say, and say with truth,
that I am waiting till you and your party come back from the diggings."
Jacob Poole had no objections to make; so in a few days the four young
men had crossed the Murray, and were on their way to the gold-fields.
It is not necessary to describe in detail the history of the party from
Tanindie during their stay at the diggings, but one or two scenes must
be introduced which will further our story.
It was a calm Sabbath evening; the click of the pick, the rattle of the
cradle, the splashing of the water-buckets--all were still. Outwardly
the day had been kept strictly as a day of rest by all. Beneath a tall
tree stood, in the dress of a minister of the gospel, a middle-aged but
grey-headed man. A rough stool served him for a seat, and a few
upturned buckets, supporting some loose planks, were appropriated to the
few women and children, while the men stood behind these in various
attitudes, but all very attentive; for in such a congregation as this
there were none but willing listeners. Those who had no mind to the
preaching simply pleased themselves, and stayed away. After the singing
of a hymn, given out two lines at a time, for the minister alone
possessed a hymn-book, a fervent prayer was offered up by the good man,
at the commencement of which almost all the little company sank gently
on their knees. A few stood, but all remained bareheaded till its
conclusion. Then he drew forth his pocket Bible, and read the first
chapter of the First Epistle of Peter, and took from it as his text the
third, fourth, and fifth verses: "Blessed be the God and Father of our
Lord Jesus Christ, which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten
us again unto a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the
dead, to an inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth
not away, reserved in heaven for you, who are kept by the power of God
through faith unto salvation ready to be revealed in the last time."
From these words he addressed his earnestly attentive congregation in
the simplest language, but every word came from the heart, and made his
hearers feel that he was not standing himself on one side, and bidding
them go forward, but was beckoning to them to follow along the path on
which he was already going before them. He spoke of the uncertainty of
life, and they knew that he spoke the truth; for many who had come there
to search for gold had been cut off in the midst of their labours. He
spoke of the uncertainty of earthly gain and prosperity, and they knew
that he spoke the truth; for many who had left home, and had sold all to
come to these diggings, had returned beggars. He spoke of the emptiness
of the earthly compared with the fulness of the heavenly inheritance,
and bid them set eternity against time, the riches of heaven against the
gold of the earth, the house of glory against their shifting tents, the
rest of a home with God against their present wanderings, and many a
sigh and tear escaped from lips and eyes that seldom spoke or looked
except for earthly things. And then he told them of the blood of Christ
that was shed for their souls, and must be infinitely more precious than
corruptible silver or gold, and urged them never to rest satisfied till
they could feel that they were truly the children of God and followers
of Jesus; for what would it profit them if they gained the whole world
and lost their own souls? Lastly, he pleaded with them to lose no time,
but to come at once just as they were, and not any of them to hang back
through fear or doubt; for the love of Jesus Christ was deep enough to
swallow up the sins of them all, and was, like himself, "the same
yesterday, to-day, and for ever." The simple service concluded with
another hymn and prayer, and then all dispersed, silent and thoughtful.
On Jacob Poole, who had been one of the congregation, the sermon of the
good minister made a deep impression. He had often heard the gospel
preached before, but it had never hitherto come home to his heart as a
personal concern, as it did now. There was to him a reality about it
such as he had never understood before. His heart was yearning for
something; he felt that the gospel was that something, that it could
satisfy his heart's cravings. All through the service, but for about
half a minute, he had kept his eyes fixed on the preacher. He withdrew
them for that half minute to glance round at a man who brushed past him
and walked on. As he turned, the man averted his face. He thought it
was a face not altogether strange to him, and yet he could not recall
where he had seen it. But his eyes returned to the preacher, and other
thoughts occupied his mind and heart. During the rest of that week he
was ill at ease. Many thoughts came crowding in upon him as he worked
vigorously in the hole assigned to him. Hitherto he had believed men
sinners in the gross, and himself as bad but not worse than the general
average. Now he began to know that he was really himself a sinner,
whose transgressions of God's holy laws would bring upon him eternal
death, unless he sought and found the only refuge. But was the gospel
message really for _him_? Would Jesus, whom he had so long reverenced,
yet never hitherto really loved, be still willing to receive him? He
waited impatiently for the return of the Sabbath. It came at last, and
Christ's ambassador was at his old place under the tree with words full
of love and encouragement. At the end of his sermon, before retiring,
he said,--
"If there is any one of you, my dear hearers, who is in any way troubled
in conscience, or for any other reason would wish any conversation with
me on religious subjects, I shall be only too happy to talk with him now
in my tent."
No one spoke, and the good man went his way. But in a little while
Jacob Poole followed him, and asked to be allowed to speak with him for
a few minutes. He entered the minister's tent with a distressed and
anxious countenance; but when he came away from the interview in which
he had unburdened his sorrows, and laid open all his difficulties, there
was a bright and happy look on his features, which spoke of a mind
stayed on God and a heart at peace. Just as he was leaving the
minister's tent, a swift, quiet step came behind him; he turned very
quickly, and again his eyes fell on the same countenance which he had
seen when a person brushed by him at the previous Sunday's service.
Another moment, and the man had vanished in the dusk. Again he was
puzzled. He could not at all remember where he had seen that face, and
yet certainly he _had_ seen it before. There was something forbidding
and malicious in it, and a sort of dread crept over him. And yet he
could not tell why he should fear. However, he resolved to be on his
guard, for strange things had often happened at the diggings, and there
were men prowling about the colony who would care nothing about shedding
blood, if they could secure thereby the gains of a successful digger.
He said nothing, however, to his companions; for it seemed an absurd
thing to trouble them with his vague impressions and misgivings,
especially as the man who had thus twice been near him had done nothing
more than approach him and pass on.
It was some ten days later, and violent winds with heavy rains had
driven the most ardent diggers early to their tents. Jacob was
revolving in his mind what he had heard at the last Sunday's preaching,
and thoughts of home, and duties left undone there, made him very sad.
Then he thought of his young master at Tanindie, and wondered how he was
progressing, and whether he would at length really take the one decided
step and become a pledged abstainer. Thus he mused on, till the
twilight melted rapidly into darkness. Then, having lifted up his heart
to God in prayer, he threw himself down on his bed. But he could not
sleep, though weary enough with the exhausting labours of many days.
Suddenly he half raised himself; he thought he heard a strange noise
like some one breathing not far from his head. Then the wind, which had
lulled for a second or two, resumed its violence, and flapped the canvas
of his tent backwards and forwards. Again he lay down, but shortly
afterwards thought he heard the breathing again--or was he only
deceiving himself? It was difficult to hear anything else distinctly
for the noise made by the flapping of the tent and the creaking of its
supports. Still, he did not feel easy. And now in the dusk it seemed
to him that the lower part of the folds of the tent near his bed's head
moved in a peculiar manner, such as the wind could not cause. Without
rising, he silently and cautiously rolled himself over from the bed till
he could lay his hand on a large rug;--this he quietly folded up, and,
creeping back, laid it in his own place on the bed itself. Then,
drawing himself round noiselessly, he lay at full-length on the ground,
at right angles to the bed, with his face not far from the bolster. Not
a sound, except the flapping and creaking of the tent, was heard for
some time, till Jacob, feigning to be asleep, began to breathe hard, and
then to snore louder and louder. Suddenly he was aware that the canvas
was lifted slowly a few feet from where he was stretched along. He
continued, however, still to breathe hard, as one in a deep sleep.
Another moment, and a man was stealthily raising himself to his knees
inside the tent. Then the intruder raised his arm. Jacob, concealed by
a fold of the tent, could just make out that the man's hand grasped some
weapon. The next instant there was a plunge downward of the hand, and a
suppressed exclamation of surprise. But Jacob waited to see and hear no
more. Catching up a spade, which he knew was close by, he aimed a
furious blow at the intended assassin. He did not, however, fully reach
his mark--the blow fell partly short, yet not altogether; there was a
cry of pain and terror, and then the murderous intruder rushed from the
tent, and made his escape, before Jacob could recover his balance, which
he had lost in the violence of his stroke. And now conjecture and
suspicion were changed to certainty. He could not doubt whose was the
voice that uttered that cry; it was too hateful to him ever to be
forgotten; he was now sure that his surmises were true, and that the man
whom he had twice seen so near him was the same who had just been
attempting his life, and was none other than Juniper Graves. He must
have blackened his hair and cultivated a moustache, which would account
for Jacob's being puzzled to identify him. As soon as he could recover
from his surprise, Jacob armed himself with a revolver, and cautiously
examined the ground outside his tent, thinking that perhaps his enemy
might be lurking about, or might have been disabled by the blow of his
spade.
"I'm certain I marked the villain," he said to himself. "I'm sure, by
the way he hollered out, he's got summat with him as he'll remember me
by." But all was still, except the howling of the wind and the
pattering and splashing of the driving rain. Then he made his way to
the large tent which the brothers, his companions, all occupied in
common. He told his story, which, of course, excited both the sympathy
and indignation of his hearers. But what was to be done?
"No use looking for him to-night," said one; "he's bolted off far enough
by this time, you may depend on't. As good look for a black fellow in
the Murray reeds, as search for this precious scoundrel in the dark.
Here; one of us'll come and share your tent to-night, and to-morrow
we'll raise a hue and cry."
But hue and cry were raised in vain. Juniper Graves, if he were the
culprit, was gone, and had left no trace behind. Nothing more was seen
or heard of him; no such person was to be found at the diggings, and no
one seemed to know anything about him. So Jacob was left in peace till
the three months were gone, and then returned to Tanindie, the party
having met with rather more than average good fortune.
When the first greetings were over, and Jacob had expressed his delight
at the thorough restoration of his master's health, Frank turned to his
faithful servant and said,--
"Well, Jacob, you've brought me good news, as you've come back safe, and
a rich man; and, indeed, if you'd only brought yourself it would have
been good news to me. But I am not quite so sure that you'll think my
news good news, when you hear what I have to tell you."