‘Mr Fortescue is highly connected; and as he not only brings
introductions from the London office, but also possesses an interest
in several properties out here, we hope you will do your best to make
him comfortable, and to give him that insight into the business that
he seems desirous of acquiring at first hand.’
‘Why, daddy!’ she exclaimed, ‘you ought to think yourself
honoured—“highly connected,” not merely “well,” remember—by such a
charge! As for myself, I am all anxiety to see him.’
‘I don’t think anything of the sort, then, Daisy,’ said her father.
‘And if I could afford to do so, I should like to tell them that I
consider it a piece of impertinence on their part to ask me to receive
a perfect stranger, knowing how I am situated alone with you, how
small the place is, and how roughly we live. But one can’t ride the
high horse on a hundred and fifty pounds a year!’
And the Manager of Tarnpirr sighed, and stared thoughtfully into his
cup.
In the general sense of the word, Daisy Barton was not a pretty girl,
inasmuch as she possessed not one regular feature. But it was such a
calm, quiet, pleasant face, out of which dark blue eyes looked so
tenderly and honestly at you, that one forgot to search for details in
the charm of the whole. Add to this, one of the neatest, trimmest,
most loveable little figures imaginable, and you may have some faint
idea of the pleasant picture she made as she sat thinking which of the
two spare rooms should be got ready for the new inmate. Mrs Barton was
never at the station. She was a confirmed invalid, and resided
permanently in a far southern town. Daisy and an old Irishwoman kept
house.
In due course the ‘highly connected’ one arrived, bringing with him as
much luggage as sufficed to fill the extra room.
He was a tall, good-looking Englishman, and he gazed around at the
small bare house with its strip of burnt-up, dusty garden, and
background of sombre eucalypti; at the squalid ‘hut;’ the sluggish,
dirty river; and the barren forlornness of everything, with a look on
his face that caused Mr Barton to chuckle, and think to himself that
the new-comer’s stay would be short. The manager had expected a
youngster, not a grown man of five or six and twenty, and he was
rather puzzled.
This self-possessed, languid sort of gentleman, with well-cut
features, long moustache, and slow, pleasant-sounding, if rather
drawling, speech, wasn’t by any means the sort of creature that
Mr Barton was accustomed to associate with the term ‘jackaroo,’ and
its natural corollary, ‘licking into shape.’
‘A fellow with lots of money, I expect,’ he said to Daisy that night
after their guest, pleading fatigue, had retired. ‘One of those chaps
who just come out to have a look around, and then off home again with
wonderful stories about the wild Australian Bush.’
‘Yaas; shouldn’t wondah, now, Mistah Barton, if you ah not quaite
correct,’ laughed Daisy, mischievously. ‘Oh, papa, do all the folk in
England talk as if they were clean knocked up?’
‘Only the highly-connected ones, my dear,’ replied her father,
smiling. ‘It’s considered quite fashionable, too, amongst our own
upper ten. He’ll lose it after he’s been bushed a few times. I
shouldn’t imagine from his looks, however, that he’s got much
backbone. He’ll be away again presently—too rough a life.’
And, in fact, poor Fortescue at first often did get bushed.
Luckily for him, perhaps, a camp of blacks settled at Tarnpirr shortly
after his arrival, and these made a regular income by hunting for and
bringing him back. And he was very considerate.
Once, when he had been missing for three days, and Mr Barton and Daisy
were half out of their minds with fright, he made the blacks who were
bearing him home, tattered and hungry, and faint from exposure, go
ahead for clean clothes and soap and water before he would put in an
appearance. This incident only confirmed Mr Barton the more in his
idea that he had to do with a man lacking strength of character—a
dandy willing to sacrifice everything to personal outward show. His
daughter thought quite otherwise.
However, in time, ‘Barton’s Jackaroo,’ as he was called throughout the
district of the lower rivers, became a favourite, not only at
Tarnpirr, but on the neighbouring runs. Even old Bridget admitted
that ‘he was a good sort ov a cratur, barrin’ the want ov a bit more
life wid him.’
But he was always calm and self-possessed; and the Manager was
accustomed to swear that a bush fire at his heels wouldn’t make him
quicken his pace by a step.
And once Daisy, in a moment of irritation, confided to her father that
she felt inclined to stick a needle into his jackaroo for the sake of
discovering whether that provoking air of leisurely languor was
natural or assumed.
‘He’s got no backbone, my dear,’ said the Manager, laughing. ‘But try
him by all means. I’ll bet you ten to one he only says what he did
last week, when that old ram made a drive at him in the yard, and
knocked him down and jumped on him.’
‘And what did he say to that?’ asked Daisy eagerly.
‘Well,’ replied Mr Barton, laughing again, ‘when he’d cleaned the mud
out of his eyes and mouth, he looked surprised and said “Haw!”’
‘Oh,’ said Daisy, disappointedly. ‘But what ought he to have said to
show that he had a backbone, papa?’
‘Well,’ replied her father vaguely, ‘you know, Daisy—er—um—well, that
is—um—a great many people, my dear, your father amongst them, perhaps,
would be apt to say a good deal on such an occasion.’
‘I have a better opinion than ever of Mr Fortescue,’ cried Daisy
indignantly at this. ‘Because he keeps his temper, and doesn’t go on
like Long Jim or Ben the Bullocky when any little thing happens, he’s
got no pluck or resolution! I own he exasperates one sometimes with
his calm, dawdling ways. But if he were pushed, I shouldn’t be
surprised to find more in him than he gets credit for after all!’
‘Umph!’ said Mr Barton glancing kindly, but with rather a troubled
face, at the flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes upturned to his own.
And as he rode over the run that day the burden of his thoughts was
that the sooner his serene-tempered jackaroo got tired of the Bush the
better it would be for all of them.
* * * * *
‘Ned, if the river ain’t a-risin’, an’ risin’ precious quick, too,
call me a Dutchman! ’Arf-an-hour ago the water warn’t near them
bullocks, and now it’s right agin their ’eels!’
‘Well,’ replied his mate, glancing towards the brown stream slowly
spreading over the flat, ‘we’re safe enough. I’ll forgive it if it
comes over this. Tell you what, though, you might catch the pony an’
canter up to the station, an’ tell ole Barton as there’s some water
a-comin’. He might have some stock he’d like to git out o’ the road.
An’ you might’s well git a lump o’ meat while you’re there.’
So Ned, of the travelling bullock team, went with the news to
Tarnpirr, lower down.
But Mr Barton that very morning had been to Warrooga township, and the
telegraph people had said no word of floods or heavy rain at the head
of the river. Around Tarnpirr and district the weather had been dry
for weeks, so the Manager was not in the least uneasy.
‘It’s only a bit of a fresh, Brown,’ said he. ‘It’ll soon go down
again. Thanks all the same, though. Meat? Yes, of course. And now
you’d better go over to the kitchen and get your dinner.’
‘Boss reckons it’s nothin’,’ said Ned, returning that evening. ‘No
rain fall’d up above.’
‘We wouldn’t need shift anyhow,’ replied the other, preparing to cook
the meat given them by Mr Barton, who little dreamt how welcome it
would be to some people later on. ‘We’re a lot higher here than they
are at the station. I saw “Barton’s Jackaroo” just now, out ridin’
with Miss Daisy. He’s a rum stick, he is.’
‘But ain’t she a little star!’ exclaimed Ned enthusiastically.
‘She are; all that!’ replied his mate. ‘Finest gall on the rivers. Too
good by sights for any new-chum.’
And so the pair sat and yarned and watched the treacherous water of
what was to become the biggest flood since ’64 stealthily eating its
way up amongst the long grass of the sandridge, sneaking quietly into
little hollows, then pretending to creep back again, then with a rush
advancing a miniature wave further than ever. Sat and talked and
watched the brown expanse broaden until the tall oaks that bordered
the banks were whipping the fierce current with their slender tops,
sole mark now to show where lay mid-stream.
‘It’s a darned big lump of a fresh!’ quoth Ned doubtfully.
‘It’ll be down afore mornin’,’ replied his mate. ‘And anyhow it can’t
do us real bad, seein’ what we’ve got in the loadin’. But there’s no
danger ’ere on this ridge.’
So they turned in under their tarpaulins, and never heard how the
water hissed at midnight as it crept, little by little, advancing,
receding, but always gaining, into their carefully covered-up fire.
* * * * *
In the snug sitting-room at Tarnpirr, with lamps burning brightly, and
curtains drawn against the lowering dusk, sat Herbert Fortescue and
Daisy Barton, their heads pretty close together over a chessboard.
‘I’m going across to the Back Ridge out-station this afternoon,’ had
said Mr Barton. ‘I sha’n’t be home before to-morrow; I want to see how
Macpherson’s getting on with those weaners. Needn’t bother about the
river. It’s only a fresh, or Warrooga would have sent us word.’
Alas for dependence on Warrooga with its absent trooper, and
absent-minded operator, who was warned, just after Manager Barton left
him, that masses of water were coming down three rivers towards
Tarnpirr!
Had he but taken horse and galloped out the few miles, or sent, things
might have happened very differently, and this story would never have
been written. But as it was—
‘There!’ exclaimed Daisy, ‘my king is in trouble again. I feel out of
sorts to-night. It’s very close. Shall we go on to the verandah?’
‘With pleasure,’ said the young man rising. ‘But it’s as dark as pitch
outside. Give me your hand, please, for fear you stumble.’
Hesitating for a moment, their eyes met, and with deepening colour she
placed her hand in his, and they went out through the long window into
the night. It was very quiet, and the darkness felt woolly and warm.
No light glimmered anywhere, and the only sound was the cry of a
solitary mopoke coming from amongst the spectral boles of the box
trees.
‘The men are in bed, I suppose,’ said Daisy, glancing towards their
hut.
‘They are away on the run,’ replied Fortescue, ‘drawing fencing stuff
for the new line. But it’s a wonder we don’t see the blacks’ fire.’
As they stood leaning against the garden fence a soft continuous
ripple, mingled with a sound like the sighing of wind through tall
belars fell on their ears.
‘It’s only the river,’ said Daisy, ‘I’ve often heard it making that
mournful noise when it’s rising over its banks. Shall we walk as far
as the camp?’
It was a rough track, and more than once, but for the sustaining arm
of her companion, Daisy would have come to grief over log or tussock.
But they got there at last, guided by a few dim sparks from expiring
fires.
‘Why, it’s deserted,’ exclaimed Daisy, as they found themselves
amongst the empty gunyahs. ‘They’re gone, dogs and all.’
‘Off on some hunting expedition, I expect,’ replied Fortescue,
laughing. ‘They look at me in a comically disgusted manner of late
since I left off getting bushed so regularly.’
It was too dark to see the water, but they stood for a long time
listening to the swish of it as it ran full-lipped from one steep high
bank to the other, telling with eerie mutterings and whisperings, and
curious little complaining noises, and low hoarse threatenings of what
it would presently do, and the mischief it would work, but in language
all untranslatable by its hearers.
‘What a sweet little lady it is,’ said Fortescue to himself as, later,
he sat on the edge of his bed staring straight before him into a pair
of tender, steadfast eyes conjured out of the darkness. ‘I wonder if
she does? I’m nearly sure of it, thank heaven! Why, she is worth
coming here and roughing it like this, and being called “Barton’s
Jackaroo” twenty times over for!’ and he laughed gently. ‘Fancy a
prize like that hidden away amongst these solitudes. I wonder what her
father will say? Anyhow, I won’t put it off any longer. I’ll ask him
to-morrow.’
With which resolution he laid down and went to sleep, still thinking
on Daisy Barton.
He awoke with a start, and lay listening to noises in his room, the
remnants, as he imagined, of some grotesque dream.
Gurglings there were, and agonised squeakings and scrapings, with,
now and then, ploppings and splashings as of many small swimmers. Then
something cold, wet and hairy, crawled over his hand.
Shaking it off with an exclamation, he jumped out of bed, and with the
shock of it, stood stock still for two minutes up to his knees in
water.
Then, striking a match, he saw that his room was awash, and that all
sorts of articles were floating about it, drawn hither and thither by
the current which swelled and eddied between the old slabs. Up a
corner of blanket, touching the water, swarmed a great host of ants,
tarantulas, beetles and crickets, whilst drowning mice, lizards, and
heaven knows what else, swam wildly round and round and gratefully
hailed his bare legs as a harbour of refuge. Hastily rubbing them off,
and getting into some wet clothes, he opened the window and looked
out. A wan moon shed a feeble light upon one vast sea of turgid water.
Nothing in sight but water—water, and the tops of the trees quivering
above the flood! No wonder the river talked to itself last night! The
scene was enough to make even a man with a backbone quail and feel a
bit nervous.
As for Barton’s Jackaroo, his first astonishment over, he forgot
himself so far as first to whistle, and then to swear, but very softly
and tentatively, as one trying an experiment.
You see, this was a different matter altogether to being butted of
rams, or even being badly bushed without a drink for three days and
three nights.
Brushing off his sleeve the head of a column of sugar-ants that had
effected a lodgment _via_ the window-sill, he waded into the
sitting-room and lit the lamp. Then, making for Daisy’s room, he
called and tapped until she answered.
‘It’s me—Fortescue. Don’t be alarmed, Daisy—Miss Barton,’ said he.
‘The water’s in the house. Get up and dress, and come out as quickly
as possible.’
As he finished speaking a wild yell rang through the place, and
Bridget’s voice from near by exclaimed, punctuated by screams,—
‘Howly Mother av Moses! Ow! Blessid Vargin an’ all the saints purtect
us! Ow! the divvle be wid me! but it’s drowned I am this minnit! an’
the wather up me legs, an’ niver a soul comin’ next anigh me! Och!
wirras-thru! it’s a lost woman I am, wid all the mices and bastes
atin’ away at me! Ow! ow! ow!’
With difficulty suppressing a desire to laugh, Fortescue shouted to
her to get her clothes on and join him. One little cry of dismay he
heard from Daisy as she lit her candle, and then he returned to the
dining-room.
Here he was startled to notice a burst of dull moonlight coming in
through the front of the house where already were gaps caused by the
slabs being displaced and carried away by the water.
Clearly the building, old and rotten, was going to pieces.
Presently Daisy, pale, but silent and composed, entered. Taking her in
his arms, he placed her on a sideboard, grieving the while to see how
the water poured from her clothes.
‘I am afraid the whole house will go, Daisy,’ he said. ‘It’s shaky and
decayed. I was thinking of making a stage on the wall-plates up there.
But I’m sure now that our only hope is in a raft of some kind.’
At this moment in floundered Bridget, clasping a large bottle to her
breast, and muttering at every stride objurgations, entreaties, and
fag-ends of prayers.
‘Ochone!’ she cried, ‘may the saints an’ the Howly Mother av all hould
us in their kapin’ this night!’ Then, uncorking the bottle, ‘Sure,
Misthur Fortyskeu, sorr, if ye _are_ a haythen, ye might have a thry
for purgathory itself. It’s better nor the other place, so it is.
Here’s the howly wather, avick, that Father Dennis give me lasht
chapel at Warrooga—if ye’ll let me sprinkle a weeshy dhrop—’
‘Come, come, Bridget; stop that nonsense!’ exclaimed Fortescue
sternly, as he knocked down slabs and pulled them inside. ‘Isn’t there
water enough about, without any more. Take the candle and get me some
ropes—clothes-lines, saddlestraps, anything you can find!’
Bridget opened her mouth with astonishment. She had never been spoken
to in such manner before. Then putting down her precious bottle, she
waddled off.