‘I see it! Look! On top of that wave!’ But even as he spoke it
disappeared.
The starboard watch had been called aft by the second mate to try and
jam the main-yards still further into the slack of the lee-rigging.
The men now remained together with the eager knot of passengers
staring over the quarter.
All at once, and with startling unexpectedness, there bobbed up on a
sea almost level with the taffrail, a nude figure, nearly upright. One
arm, by some eccentric working of the water, was jerked backwards and
forwards from the face with an awfully grotesque motion of throwing
kisses to the horrified watchers.
The notion was intensified by the grin on the lifelike features,
startlingly distinct in the sunlight, as the embalmed figure, kept
erect by the greater weight of its extremities, rose up and down, now
in a hollow, now on a crest, not ten yards away.
‘It’s IT, by G—d!’ shouted Nestor, who happened to be at the wheel.
But no one took any notice of him in the general confusion.
The male passengers stood stock still, fascinated by the spectacle.
The female ones shrieked, and a couple fainted. But louder and higher
than any of them shrieked the widow, who had got both arms around the
skipper’s neck, to which she hung, half choking him, whilst her feet
rattled frantically on the deck.
‘Let go, ma’am!’ he gurgled. ‘Damn it, let go, can’t you?’
‘It’s his ghost!’ she screamed, taking another horrified glance at the
bobbing, grimacing thing as it travelled slowly across the broad wake.
‘What have I done, James, that you should appear like this?’ she
moaned. ‘I’m sure I thought you’d be comfortable down there!’ And here
she began to laugh hysterically; and, held forcibly on the deck by the
sorely-tried skipper, went off into a succession of violent fits.
‘Main topsail braces there, some of you!’ roared the mate, who,
aroused by the cry of ‘Man overboard!’ uttered by one of the boys, had
rushed on deck. ‘Come here, four hands, and clear away the
life-boat.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Mr Sparkes!’ shouted the skipper, still struggling
with the widow, who had got one hand in his long beard and was pulling
it out by the roots.
‘Never mind the boat!’ he panted, for the real state of the case had
broken upon him. ‘But come and take this she-devil away! Let _It_ go
to blazes as fast as it likes! It’s got a fair wind, seemingly, and
that’s more’n we have!’
* * * * *
Anchor watch off Geelong, Victoria.
Apparently the whole thing had quietly blown over. When the mate, with
a terribly long face, had reported to the captain, as nearly as he
could, the amount of cargo missing, and proposed as a set-off, to put
one-half of each watch in irons until arrival, the skipper had only
laughed.
He obviously enjoyed the responsible man’s dismay.
‘Nothing of the sort,’ he replied. ‘We can’t do without ’em. We’re
bound to get a good blow or two ’tween here and Port Phillip Heads,
and where would we be with half the men in irons, and the rest
sulking? You’re a fool, Sparkes. I’m goin’ to smooth ’em down. They’ll
have cabin biscuits and plum-duff three times a week from this out.
And you knock off hazing ’em about so much’—chuckling heartily at the
other’s stare of amazement—‘till we get abreast of Sandridge Pier.
Then up goes the police flag. I’ll surprise the varmin, or my name
ain’t John Flett! Meanwhile, let a couple of the hard-bargains[6]
sling their hammocks in the after-hold. That’ll stop any more larks
with the cargo. Has she been up in your watch since?’
[Footnote 6: Apprentices.]
‘Never seen a rag of her,’ answered the mate, who knew well to whom
the skipper referred. ‘Kept her cabin ever since, I do believe.’
‘Damned good job too!’ said his superior, as he tenderly felt his
face. ‘Who’d have thought that _It_ was hers anyhow!’
But ‘hard-bargains’ have long ears. One of them overheard the above
conversation, and, reporting it to the crew, they got ready.
Also, on making the land, everything went wrong. Twelve hours vain
signalling for a pilot made a big hole in the skipper’s temper. So
when, at last, one came off, and, to his astonishment, got soundly
rated, with a promise of report, he, in revenge, box-hauled the
_Sardanapalus_ about until dark, and then brought-up with every link
of hawse out, in a particularly muddy spot opposite Geelong.
Anchor watch had been set; and as old Nestor struck four bells in the
chill morning and croaked hoarsely out his ‘All’s well!’ the stars saw
a crowd of men in stockinged feet, and bearing bundles, slipping
silently aft.
The gig was hanging at the stern-davits. Noiselessly as greased falls
could slide over greased sheaves she was lowered without a creak or a
splash.
The man who had been standing over the cuddy companion with a
handspike joined his fellows. Fortunately—for themselves—no one had
shown up. The boat pushed off, Bill sculling. The _Sardanapalus_ was
crewless.
Half-an-hour afterwards, the great Australian Bush took to itself
sixteen hairy-breasted able seamen and this story.
‘MO-POKE!’
‘Yes, I’m from out back,’ said a dark, wiry little man, as he
dismounted from his horse at a Queensland frontier-township hotel, in
answer to a question from one of a knot of bushmen and drovers
assembled in the verandah. ‘Out back beyond the Warburton, an’ a nice
warm time I’ve had of it, too!’
‘My eye!’ exclaimed the first speaker. ‘Been right away in that new
country we been hearin’ of, eh? What like a shop is it, mate?’
‘Oh, the country’s right enough; lots o’ grass an water,’ replied the
newcomer, as, giving his horse to the groom, he strode into the bar,
‘only the mopokes is so cussed bad an’ thick in them parts that
there’s no livin’ for a quiet man. Roll up, lads, an’ give it a name!
It’s a long time since I felt so dry!’
‘What did yer mean by “mopokes,” just now, mate?’ queried an elderly,
grizzled overlander, as, lighting their pipes, the party sat down on
the wide wooden bench. ‘Was it snakes?’
‘No, friend, it weren’t snakes. Wusser—a heap. Howsomever—I reckon
it’s a hour or more till supper, so I’ll just tell you how it all
happened. Gosh!’ he exclaimed emphatically, ‘what a comfort it is to
git into a Chrischin place agin!’
‘Well, boys,’ commenced the stranger, ‘last April, I ’greed with ole
Davies—him as owns “Tylunga,” not far from this—to go out an’ herd
cattle for him on his new Adelaide country. Wages was good, three
notes a week—I reckoned it were worth thirty afore I left—but as for
the tucker, well, a feller never knows what he can live on till he
tries it.
‘Howsomever, out we goes—him an’ me an three others; an’ in time we
gets there all right, an’ musters the cattle, which was bein’ tailed
at the head station—as they calls ’arf-a-dozen bark humpies on a
waterhole. Then we drafts ’em into four mobs, an’ each on us takes one
away out to blazes into the bush, where the old chap shows us our
runs, which was about six or seven mile apart.
‘Us herders had each a little hut to himself; so you see, mates, a
feller warn’t likely to quarrel with his neighbours.
‘“Now, Wilson,” sez old Davies, as he gits ready to start, arter
puttin’ the things out o’ the waggonette at my hut—sez he, “Now,
Wilson, take good care of them cattle in your charge, an’ mind none o’
them black rascals come sneakin’ about ’em. If you sees any, pepper
’em well. You’ve got a gun, an’ lots of ammunition.”
‘You’ll obsarve, mates, that, like a good many more of his sort, he
never thinks o’ the man. It’s only the dashed stock as troubles ’em.
‘Howsomever, off he drives, an’ presently I catches a horse, as it was
gettin’ close to sundown, an’ roun’s up the mob an’ puts ’em on camp,
ties the dog up, lights a fire, an’ tries to make myself at home ’s
well ’s I could.
‘So a week or two slips away quiet enough, an’ I was gettin’ awful
tired of the game. The cattle didn’t hardly want any lookin’ after,
an’ all I could find to do was cuttin’ up green-hide an’ plaiting
whips. I thought that the month ’d never go by till rations—such as
they was—was due from the head station on Wild Horse Lagoon, nigh on
thirty miles away.
‘Up to this I’d never heard a bird singin’ out after dark. But one
night, as I was just a-fallin’ off to sleep, mopokes begins cryin’
like anything in the scrub close to the clear patch where the hut was.
Suddently the dog starts barkin’ like mad, an’ I gets up an’ gives him
a cut with the whip. Back I goes to the bunk, an’ lies down
a-listenin’ to them birds, an’ thinkin’ to myself as all the mopokes
in Australy had got roun’ the hut that night. Well, I cussed an’ swore
at ’em no end for kickin’ up such a shine; an’ Towzer a-growlin’, an’
a-snappin’, an’ pullin’ at his chain all the time. In a bit, up I gets
agen, and catches hold of the ole gun, opens the door, an’ lets her
off, both barrels. It was a moonlight night, an’ I could see the backs
of a few of the cattle from where I stood, as, scared by the row, they
gets off their camp, an’ I hears the horse-bell just over in the
scrub. No more mopokes that night. But the next, at it they goes agen.
Now one’d call, it seemed like close to the chimbly, then another,
right at the head o’ my stretcher—outside, o’ course—“mopoke!”
“more-pork!” “mo-po!” till I’m blessed if I didn’t get properly on my
tail, an’ takin’ the gun, I lets Towzer off o’ the chain, and runs out
an’ bangs away, as fast as I could load her, at the scrub, where I
reckoned them blasted fowls was a-roostin’. An’ Towzer, he tears away
into the bushes, barkin’ most furious. No more mopokin’ that night,
but Towzer he never comes back agen. Thinkin’ he’d took arter a
kangaroo-rat, I goes inside, makes up the fire, boils a quart o’ tea,
an’ waits for daylight, which I know’d couldn’t be long.
‘“I never did hear yet,” I says to myself, “of a feller bein’ harnted
by a pack o’ birds; but I’m blessed if this game don’t ’pear somethin’
like it.”
‘You see, mates, I never dropped to the meanin’ o’ the racket; for
though I’ve been stock-keepin’ an’ drovin’ pretty near five-an’-twenty
year now, I never had no experience afore o’ the kind o’ gutter-snipes
as was disturbin’ me these last two nights.
‘At bird-twitter, out I goes, ’spectin’ to see Towzer under his sheet
o’ bark. I seen no Towzer; an’, what’s more, I seen no cattle neither.
They never moved off camp afore sunrise; an’, fearin’ les’ they’d made
a clean break of it, I runs into the hut, collars my bridle, an’ off
after the mokes.
‘When I gets into the scrub, I hears the bell just ahead, an’ I hears,
too, a few o’ them cussed birds a-strainin’ their throats, callin’
about, as if they hadn’t done enough through the night.
‘Well, I follers the bell back’ards an’ for’ards, without seemin’ to
get any nearer to the horses, till I was nigh sick o’ stumblin’ over
logs; an’ o’ swearin’ what I wouldn’t do to ’em when I gets ’em, an’
o’ singin’ out for Towzer.
‘All of a suddent, the bell sounds not ten yards away in a patch o’
thick dogwood scrub, an’ as I makes off full trot, I nearly falls over
somethin’ soft. Lookin’ down, I sees poor ole Towzer lyin’ there with
his head caved in, and a bit o’ broken spear stickin’ in him.
‘My Colonial, mates! I tumbles fast enough then, when it were too
late. Jumpin’ through the scrub to where I last heard the bell, I runs
slap up agen six ugly black beasts o’ niggers, an’ one on ’em was just
a-startin’ to shake the dashed bell, which was hangin’ roun’ his neck.
Close to ’em lies my best horse, ole “Cossack,” dead’s a herrin’.
‘I takes it all in in a flash; an’ afore you could say “knife” I’d
slung the bridle in their faces, and was makin’ tracks for the hut at
the rate o’ sixty miles a hour—leastways it seemed so to me.
‘Whizz, whizz! come the spears; but the scrub was too thick, and ne’er
a one touches me. Yellin’ like ole Nick, after me they tears, full
split, but I show’s ’em good foot for it till I comes in sight o’ the
hut, a-standin’ there so quiet-like, with the chimbly smokin’ away,
an’ the door wide open.
‘Now, mates, what should make me, insted o’ rushin’ in an’ gettin’ the
gun, an’ lettin’ the darkies know what o’clock it was, rip right past
the hut an’ shin up a big gum tree about twenty yards away? I can’t
make out what come over me to do sich a thing. But so it were. An’ up
I swarms to nearly the top limb as the murderin’ willians comes out on
to the open. In another minute eight or nine others tumbles out o’ the
hut, where they’d been waitin’ on chance I might git away from the
fust gang, an’ they all gathers roun’ the ole gum, a-lookin’ up, for
all the world like a lot o’ hungry dogs at a ’possum.
‘“Mo-poke, mo-poke!” sings out one, an’ another lot comes runnin’ up
from the back scrub, just about where I should ha’ hit if the Lord
hadn’t put it into my mind to take the tree for it.
‘But this pitchin’s terrible dry work, lads,’ suddenly broke off the
narrator. ‘Come inside, an’ let’s have another long-sleever apiece,
an’ then I’ll finish the yarn. Spite o’ them “mopokes” I’ve got a bit
o’ stuff left yet.
‘Well, mates,’ went on Wilson, as the party resumed their seats, ‘the
darkies throwed their spears, an’ slings their bommerangs, but it
weren’t no use, I was too high up for ’em, and the nighest spear as
come out of a couple o’ dozen, sticks in a good six foot below my
limb. Seein’ this, one beggar gets the axe from the wood-heap. But she
were old an’ blunt like her owner, ole Davies, an’ I soon see by the
way they shapes as it’d take ’em a couple o’ years to fall me. For a
while they niggles away at the big butt, turn an’ turn about, then
jacks the contract, gruntin’ like a lot o’ pigs.
‘Next move were, one gets the gun out o’ the hut, an’ I scwoushes down
into a six-inch heap, till I remembers she weren’t loaded; an’ I
didn’t give ’em credit for knowin’ how to do that.
‘The mopoke as got her points her most careful, with the stock agen
his belly, an’ with a grin at his mates, as much as to reckon, “You
watch me pot him,” he shouts “Bung!” an’ as true’s I’m sittin’ here, I
bursts out larfin’ to see them black fools a-starin’ up so hard, and
wonderin’ why I didn’t fall down dead man.
‘Presen’ly, ’bout half way up my tree, they spots a good-sized pipe,
an’ bringin’ a fire-stick from the hut, up one comes like a
lamplighter. I knowed the ole gum was sound an’ green enough at the
butt, but I sees by the pipe that some of the top limbs must be
holler, an’ I didn’ fancy this last move a little bit. So, as he’s
busy straddled-out, a-blowin’ and a-puffin’ to raise the flame, I nips
down, pulls out the spear, an’ lets drive at him ’s hard ’s I could.
You never see such a thing in your lives! It hit him just acrost the
loins, an’ goes more’n half way through him. He just gives a wriggle
or two and twists over into a fork and lies there, a proper stiff ’un.
‘You bet, lads, I was proud’s a dog with a tin tail; an’ sez I, “One
for poor Towzer, you pot-bellied willian!” By gosh! didn’t they yell,
an’ dance, an’ carry on when they sees this, an’ me safe agen back in
the ole perch.
‘Runnin’ to the hut, they tears out the slabs in a wink, piles ’em up
at the butt of the ole gum, and sets fire to ’em.
‘In a minute or two, I couldn’t see a stem for smoke; but, as they was
green belar, not a blaze could they get out of ’em.
‘Well, I was squattin’ up there, a-peepin’ down through the smoke for
the next feller as wanted to show off his climbin’ abilities, when I
hears a noise of horses gallopin’, an’ men shoutin’, an’ shots
a-poppin’ off like Billy-ho.
‘Down I comes through the smoke, an’ just clear o’ the tree was five
darkies a-lyin’ stretched out as would never cry “mo-poke!” no more.
Not another soul, dead or alive, could I see. But presen’ly back
canters ole Davies, an’ says he, cool as you like, “Hello, Wilson,”
says he, “is that you? Where’s the rest o’ the cattle? There’s eight
head short yet!” Darn his ole skin, an’ all bosses like him, as thinks
more of a few head o’ stock than a man’s life!
‘You see, lads, when the cattle, disturbed by poor Towzer a-barkin’,
and me a-firin’, moves quietly off afore daybreak, one lot of nigs
follers ’em up, an’ one lot stops to ’tend on me.
‘Them with the cattle, after they’d gone a little way, starts
a-spearin’ ’em, an’ the mob breaks, an’ never stops till they gets to
the fust seven-mile hut, where the other lot was; and the chap there,
seein’ some with spears stickin’ in ’em, gallops off to the head
station, and out comes ole Davies an’ all hands.
‘No; no more new country for me—not if I knows it! I’m a-gettin’ too
old now for such a little game as they played on me out there. Is that
the supper-bell a-ringin’? Well, it’s the finest sound I’ve heard for
five ’underd miles an’ more.’