Chapter Five.
Outward Bound.
“But why not go on board to-night?” asked Nic.
“Because,” said Lady O’Hara drily, “it will be better to leave it till to-morrow.”
Nic wondered, and said nothing, but he knew afterwards. The fact was, he did not think about anything for long. There was too much to see and do. One thought crowded out another. This minute he would be wondering how the dogs were, the next whether cows were ever sea-sick, and this made him wonder whether Dominic Braydon, off on his first voyage, would suffer from that most unpleasant ailment. There were the new clothes to think about, and the guns. It happened, too, that while he was thinking about them Lady O’Hara, looking worried and tired, entered the hotel room.
“I hope that man sent the guns all right,” said Nic.
“He did, for I received a note from him and a receipt for their delivery.”
“I’m glad of that,” said Nic. “I was anxious about them.” Lady O’Hara looked amused. Then, watching the boy closely, she said:
“By the way, Dominic, I don’t think I told you I meant that gun with the short stock for you.”
“For me?” cried Nic, flushing with excitement. Then hastily, “Oh no, I don’t want to shoot people.”
“You may if they want to kill you or those whom you love, my boy. But in any case you may want to shoot snakes and the wonderfully beautiful birds which you will see in the bush. A gun is a necessity for a settler, and so are those.”
She pointed to a parcel on a side table.
“Fetch those here, and open the paper.”
Nic fetched the strongly done-up packet, opened it with trembling fingers, and laid bare a beautifully finished axe and a sheath knife of the finest steel, with stout buckhorn handle and leathern belt.
“Not drawing-room presents, my boy,” said the lady, smiling, “but suitable for a young settler. There, you can squeeze those in your portmanteau; the gun you can have when we get over the sea.”
“But, Lady O’Hara!” faltered Nic; “the gun—such an expensive one.”
“Of course it is. Who’d buy cheap rubbish to take abroad? You want the plainest and the best that money can buy.”
“Yes, but I meant—”
“That they were too costly to accept? Not a bit, my boy. We owe your father a deep debt. Didn’t he doctor and save both our lives? And he’s a dreadfully obstinate man to deal with; but I can do as I like with you, so now hold your tongue.”
“But I must thank you, Lady O’Hara.”
“No, you needn’t. Now then, Dominic—dear, dear! three syllables to say every time I speak to you. What a tiresome, long name, though it does sound Irish.”
“Latin,” said Nic.
“Irish; and don’t contradict me, sir. Sure I had an uncle in Galway, who was Dominick O’Hara, with a k to it. I shall call you Nic.”
“Yes, do, please.”
“I will. So now then, Nic, you haven’t a husband to meet when you get over yonder—a fierce-looking governor, who barks at people; and when I get back he’ll be asking me what I forgot to bring. Now, my dear boy, do tell me what I’ve failed to get.”
“I can’t,” said Nic laughingly; “you seem to have bought nearly everything.”
“Ah, ye’re no use to me at all, at all, boy. I’m sure there’s something I ought to have bought, and I shall remember it when we’re hundreds of miles from land. I know: it was another pair of razors for Sir John!”
“But you bought those seven in a case, with the days of the week on them, Lady O’Hara.”
“Sure, and I did, Nic. Good boy. You are of some use, after all. My poor head’s nearly worn out with thinking, and I’m bothered entirely. Nic, I mean to go to sleep for a week as soon as we get on board by way of a good rest. Now then, do try and think for me, Nic; what was the other thing I forgot?”
Nic shook his head.
“I could think of hundreds of things that might be useful out there.”
“No, you couldn’t,” said the lady shortly. “You’ve never been there, and you’d be taking out all kinds of things that would be just of no use at all, the same as I did when I first went. I’ve got something on my brain, only it’s buried under a heap of other things. Well, never mind; it will shake up to the top at last when it’s too late.”
Lady O’Hara’s head was bothered till the last moment, when the hotel bill was paid, the hackney coach and driver in his coat of many capes at the door, and landlord, landlady, and servants all waiting to bid the amiable, bluff-spoken Irish lady God-speed in her long journey to the other side of the world. Then the door banged; and, followed by a cheer, the coach was driven off, Nic feeling in a peculiar state of mind, a mixture of high spirits, low spirits, and pain; for Lady O’Hara plumped herself back in her corner, took out a handkerchief, covered her face, and burst into a fit of sobbing, rocking herself to and fro as she cried aloud till Nic could bear it no longer. He had been fidgeting and wondering what to say or do, growing more and more wretched, till, at the end of ten minutes, he laid his hand upon his companion’s, and said simply:
“Oh, Lady O’Hara, pray, pray don’t cry.”
“Sure, and I won’t,” she exclaimed impetuously, as she hastily wiped her eyes; “but I couldn’t help it, Nic. It hurts me when people are so kind and sorry to part from you, and ye feel that ye may never see them again. I’m afraid I’m a very silly old woman. Give me a kiss, my dear, and I won’t cry another drop. There, it’s all over now, and that’s cleared my head. It doesn’t feel bothered a bit. What’s forgotten’s forgotten, and I don’t think my darlin’ will be very cross with me. If he is, I shall call you to witness that I’ve worked very hard.”
“That you have,” cried Nic.
“There, the work’s done, and we’ll have a rest, and enjoy our voyage. And do you know what sort of a ship we’re going in, Nic?”
“Yes; the Northumbrian.”
“Of course; but do you know what she is?”
“East Indiaman.”
“That’s true enough; but has nobody told you what we shall have on board?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll tell you now. We might have waited for the next, but that would have been for a month, and I want to get back home again, Nic; so, as Sir John’s name was enough to get me what I wanted, I settled we’d go in the Northumbrian, which is taking out a lot of convicts.”
Nic’s brow grew rugged.
“But there’s a big draft of the 300th Regiment and their officers too, and they’ll take care of us, boy, so you won’t mind.”
“Oh! no,” cried Nic, “I shall not mind.”
In fact, he failed to see what there would be to mind, for it did not occur to him that it might be unpleasant and awkward for the governor’s wife.
The bustle of departure had commenced when they reached the dock, and the quay swarmed with the friends and relatives of the company of infantry off on foreign service, while dock officials were busy issuing the orders which began to take effect a few minutes after Nic had seen Lady O’Hara into her cabin and hurried back on deck to gaze on the novel scene.
For hawsers were being secured round posts, men were leaving, a couple of boats were out ahead ready to tow, and soon the great three-masted vessel began to move slowly along by the quay to the great gates, with the soldiers cheering and waving their caps, and shouts and cries rising from those being left behind, till the gates were passed, and the long narrow channel between stone walls gave place to the river, with its tide at the height; the faces began to grow smaller and smaller, and soon the Northumbrian, with her littered decks and bustle and confusion, began to drop slowly down with the tide.
There was plenty to see as well as plenty to learn. The first thing was to be able to see in peace, and to do this Nic found he had to learn to get out of the way of the men busy lowering down packages, getting rid of the litter of the deck, and blunderingly making matters shipshape—blunderingly, for the crew, almost without exception, were suffering from the effects of their holiday ashore, and were working the mate and boatswain into a state of red-hot indignation at the slow progress made. The latter, too, a big, burly, red-faced man with stiff whiskers, was every now and then asking people how he could be expected to have clear decks when his ship was being turned into a farmyard.
This recalled the live stock on board, and Nic went forward to have a look at the cattle in their pens, where they were contentedly enough munching away at the hay placed ready for them, while the dogs, which recognised Nic, began to tug furiously at their chains, and made their eyes seem ready to start from their heads as they tried to strangle themselves by straining at their collars.
Nic was leaning over the pen in which they were chained up, patting and caressing them, when a gruff voice cried fiercely:
“Those dogs yours?”
“Not exactly. They’re for Sir John O’Hara.”
“Then I wish he’d got ’em. Who’s to move with all these things on board?”
“What’s, the matter, Buller?” said a bronzed man, coming up.
“Matter, sir? everything. There isn’t a man aboard fit to pull a rope, and I can’t move without breaking my shins over cats and dogs, and all this here Tower mynadgery. Is the skipper going to start a farm?”
“Get on, man, and don’t make so much noise.”
“Noise, sir!” growled the boatswain, for it was he; and he looked hard at a couple of officers in undress uniform, whose attention had been taken by the dogs.
“It’s enough to make any one grumble. I’m ’customed to tea and rice and a few passengers. I don’t understand all this—ship turned into a live-stock show, a barracks, and a farm all in one.”
He went off growling, and the mate turned to the officers.
“A bit rusty, gentlemen,” he said, smiling. “It will soon wear off, as we get shipshape.”
“Sooner the better,” said one of the officers, who turned to the dogs, and had a look at them before speaking to Nic.
“Yours?” he said.
“I have charge of them.”
“Then you are a passenger?”
“Yes; I’m going out with Lady O’Hara.”
“The governor’s wife! Well, how do you think you will like the sea?”
“Oh, very well,” said Nic. “Of course I shan’t like it when it’s rough.”
“Nor anybody,” said the officer, “eh, Harvey?”
“I shall not,” said the gentleman addressed, as he pulled the setter’s long ears.
“So long as it isn’t rough. Well, as we are to be fellow-passengers all through the voyage, we may as well be friends and go through our introductions. Who are you?”
Nic told him.
“Going to join your people, eh? Well, that’s pleasant. We are going to leave ours.”
“Who are you?” said Nic, taking his new acquaintance’s tone.
“I?” said the officer, laughing at the manner in which the question was put. “Lieutenant Lance, His Majesty’s 300th Light Infantry. This is Ensign Harvey of my company. Both at your service, sir, and our company too.”
“Thank you,” said Nic, laughing; “but I’m not likely to need it.”
“Unless the birds want to take flight,” said the ensign.
Nic looked at him inquiringly.
“He means the gaol birds, youngster,” said the elder officer, laughing, “if they rise against us. Not a very nice arrangement for your lady coming out in a ship like this.”
“Is there any danger?” said Nic anxiously.
“No,” said the ensign, rather importantly; “we shall see that there’s not.”
“Then you are here to guard them?” asked Nic.
“Bah, no! We are going to join our regiment. There is a warder guard. Of course, if there was any necessity—”
Nic looked rather startled, and the lieutenant said, smiling:
“There’ll be nothing to mind, my lad. The winds and waves will trouble you more than the convicts; but they’re not pleasant fellow-passengers to have, on board.”
Nic did not think so the next morning, when, after guard had been mounted under the lieutenant’s charge, just as they were getting well out of the mouth of the river, with the soldiers stationed at intervals with loaded muskets and fixed bayonets, orders were given, and the stern-looking warders ushered up the convict gang of fifty men from below to take their allotted amount of air and exercise in the forward part of the deck; for almost without exception they were a villainous-looking lot, their closely cropped hair and ugly prison garb adding to the bad effect.
Talking was strictly forbidden, every movement being carefully watched, and not least by Nic, at whom the prisoners looked curiously as they passed, one man putting on a pleading, piteous aspect, as if asking for the boy’s compassion, and twice over his lips moved as if he were saying something.
But somehow, though the man was not bad-looking, and formed one of the exceptions to the brutally fierce faces around, his pleading look did not excite Nic’s pity, but caused a feeling of irritation that he could not explain.
This happened again and again, when, attracted by the daily coming up of the men on deck, Nic found himself watching them, unconscious of the fact that he was watched the while.
Every now and then the chief warder, a stern, fierce-looking man with a cutlass in his belt, shouted out some order; and as it was obeyed by this or that man the boy soon began to know them as Number Forty-nine or Hundred and eighty, or some other number. One particularly scoundrelly-looking fellow, who made a point of catching his eye whenever he could, for the purpose of winking, thrusting his tongue in his cheek, or making some hideous grimace, and following it up with a grin of satisfaction if he saw it caused annoyance, was known as Twenty-five; a singularly brutal-visaged man with a savage scowl, who never once looked any one full in the face, was Forty-four; and the mild, pleading-looking man, who annoyed Dominic by his pitiful, fawning air, was Thirty-three.
“Well, sir, what do you think of them?” said a familiar voice one day; and turning sharply, Nic found himself face to face with the chief warder.
“Think? I hardly know,” said Nic. “I feel sorry for them.”
“Just what a young gent like you would do, sir. Pity’s a good thing, but you must not waste it.”
“But it seems a terrible thing for these men to be sent out like this.”
“Seems, sir. But is it? You see, they needn’t have been sent out. They only had to behave themselves.”
“But some of them may be innocent.”
“Yes, sir,” said the warder drily; “but which of ’em? Look at that fellow coming round here now, slouching along, and never looking at anything but the deck. He’ll never look you in the face.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”
“Wouldn’t pick him out for an innocent one, would you?”
“Well, no,” said Nic; “one seems to shrink from him.”
“And right enough too, sir. He got off with transportation for life; but I’m afraid he deserved something worse.”
“Did he kill anybody?” said Nic in an awe-stricken whisper.
“Yes; more than one, I believe, sir: sort of human wild beast. I never feel safe with him, and we all take care never to have Forty-four behind us. Try again, sir.”
“Well, this one coming now,” said Nic. “He’s rather common-looking, but he doesn’t seem so very bad. One would think he could be made a better man.”
“Twenty-five, sir. Well, he’ll have every chance out yonder. He has only got to get a good character over his work, and the governor and them will soon let him go up country as a signed servant, and when he has served his time he can start farmer on his own account. Makes faces at you, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” cried Nic eagerly.
“Ah, he won’t now I’m here.”
Nic smiled, for the man screwed one side of his face as he passed, thinking that the chief warder would not see, but he did.
“You, Twenty-five! How dare you? Extra punishment for that. Pass by, sir.”
“No, no, don’t punish him,” whispered Nic. “He did not mean any harm.”
“Not going to, sir,” said the warder drily; “but one must keep them in their places. He’s a comic sort of blackguard. Not much harm in him.”
“I thought not,” said Nic eagerly.
“And precious little good, sir,” added the warder. “But he may turn out right. Housebreaking, I think, was his offence. When he gets out to the convict lines they’ll teach him to know better; and some day he’ll have a house of his own, if it’s only a bark hut—gunyah they call ’em out there—and then he’ll know the value of it, and be ready to upset any one who tries to break in.”
“Then you have been out before?”
“Oh yes, sir. I know the country pretty well, specially the part where your father is. I’ve been there.”
“And you know my father?”
“Oh no, sir. I never saw him. But it’s a fine place, and you’ll like it. I wish I was you, and going to begin life out there in the new land.”
“Then you think I shall like it?” said Nic.
“You can’t help it, sir. But if I was you I should be careful. You’ll have a deal to do with the convicts.”
“Oh no,” cried Nic. “I am going straight up the country to my father’s place.”
“Yes, sir, I know; and that’s why I was presuming to give you a bit of advice—that is, as a man who has had twenty years’ experience.”
“I don’t understand you.”
The warder laughed.
“I suppose not, sir. Well, it’s like this. Your father has taken up land, and keeps sheep and cattle, I suppose?”
“Yes, thousands.”
“And employs men?”
“Of course. He has said so in his letters. He is obliged to have several.”
“And if he was in England he could engage farm labourers easily enough.”
“Yes.”
“How’s he going to engage them out there, sir?”
“The same as he would in England.”
“When there are none, or only a few, and they all want to be masters themselves? No, sir; you’ll find there—with perhaps a black or two who can’t be trusted to work, only to do a bit of cattle driving or hunting up strayed stock—that your father’s men are mostly convicts, ’signed servants, we call them—that is, assigned servants.”
“What?”
“That’s it, sir: men who are assigned by the prison authorities to gentlemen.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Nic; and the warder smiled at his surprise.
“That’s it, sir, and I say a good thing too. Here’s a new country with plenty of room in it, and the judges and people at home sentence men to be transported for fourteen or twenty-one years, or perhaps for life.”
“Yes, I know all that,” said Nic, nodding his head.
“Then, sir, the law says lots of these men are not all bad, and they’re sorry for what they’ve done; so if they are, and show that they want to lead a new life, we’ll give ’em a chance. Then all those who have earned a good character in the convict lines and mean work are assigned to settlers who want labourers and shepherds and stockmen; and if they behave themselves, and show that the punishment has cured them of their bad ways, all they’ve got to do is to report themselves from time to time; and so long as they don’t try to escape out of the country they can do pretty well as they like, and plenty of them out there are doing far better than they would have done at home.”
“That’s very good,” said Nic.
“To be sure it is, sir; and that’s why I say to you, be a little careful, and not be ready to trust the convicts. Plenty of them you’ll find good fellows; but there are plenty more who are very smooth and artful, and only waiting their time. But you’ll soon learn which are sheep and which are goats. Now, here’s a chap coming round here—Thirty-three, sir. What do you say to him? He’s got fourteen years for robbing his employers. Embezzlement they call it. Now, he’s been a well-brought-up sort of man—good education, always well dressed, and lived on the fat of the land. He looks at you, I suppose, when I’m not here, as much as to say, ‘Isn’t it cruel to shut me up with these ruffians and murderous wretches? I’m a poor, innocent, ill-used man!’”
“Yes, that is how he always does look at me,” cried Nic. “Yes, sir, and at everybody else; but if he was an innocent, ill-used man, he’d wrinkle up his forehead and look bitter and savage-like, ready to treat everybody as his enemy. That chap’s a sneak, sir, and I’ve no hesitation in saying he deserves all he has got. Don’t you listen to him if ever he speaks, and don’t you break no rules by petting him with anything good from the cabin.”
“I certainly shan’t,” said Nic. “I don’t like him.”
The warder turned sharply, and looked hard at Nic, as he said, smiling:
“You’ll do sir. Dame Nature’s made you a bit of a judge of men, and what you’ve got to do is to sharpen up that faculty, as people call it. I’m not bragging, but I’ve got it a little, and I’ve polished and polished it for twenty years, till I’m not such a very bad judge of convicts. You give me a gang, and in a week’s time, if there’s an innocent man, or a man who wants to do the right thing, or one who’s been always wrong and could be worked up into the right, I’ll pick him out. Here you, Twenty-five, I’ve got my eye on you, and you’d better make an end of those monkey faces, unless you want the cat.”
“The cat?” said Nic.
“Yes, sir, with nine tails. That’s the punishment for convicts who won’t behave themselves, assigned servants and all. You’ll soon know all about the lash when you get out to your father’s station.”
“I’m sure I shall not,” said Nic indignantly. “My father is too humane a man.”
“That’s right, sir. You always believe in and stick up for your father; only recollect you’re going to a new country, where there are thousands of convicts, the scum of our own land, and the lash is part of the law, and the law is very strict. It’s obliged to be, for the protection of the settlers. See how stern we are here where we have them all under our eye. You’re obliged to be harder where they’re free like and scattered all over the country.”
“Yes, you’re stern enough,” said Nic indignantly, “threatening to give a man the cat-o’-nine-tails for making faces.”
The warder smiled, his hard, stern face lighting up as he gazed admiringly at Nic.
“Bah! that was only talk, sir, just as one would threaten a boy. Twenty-five’s a man of five-and-thirty, but he’s only got brains like a boy. I could make anything of him.”
The warder nodded good-humouredly, and then his face grew hard-looking as an iron mask, as he shouted out orders to first one and then another of the men under his charge; while the soldiers, standing here and there, rested on their muskets, and looked grimly on at the evil-looking prisoners pacing the deck.
Nic walked aft with his forehead puckered up and his mind hard at work thinking of the home that he was going to, and feeling somewhat damped by the warder’s words; and as he reached the quarter-deck he went to the side, after noticing that Lady O’Hara was talking to the officers, and resting his arms upon the bulwark he leaned there gazing away at the sunlit sea, flecked by the flying-fish which flashed out, skimmed along for some distance, and then dropped back into the water.
“Convicts—convicts,” he thought. “What a place for Lady O’Hara it is here with these men aboard! Suppose they should rise some night—suppose they should rise at home where mother is, and the girls—suppose—”
“Why, how now, my thoughtful young philosopher? What are you thinking about?”
Lady O’Hara had laid her hand upon his shoulder, and the boy was silent for a few moments.
“Well, what is it? Not going to turn sea-sick, after behaving so well all across the bay.”
“No,” said Nic; “I’m quite well.”
“Then what makes you look so glum?”
“I was thinking about the convicts.”
“And a very unpleasant subject too, Nic. Don’t think about them, boy. They used to make me ill when I first went out yonder. It seemed so horrible to have them mixed up so with one’s daily life.”
“Yes, that’s it,” cried Nic; “that’s what I’ve been thinking. I suppose father will have some at his station?”
“Not a doubt about it.”
“Well, it seems so shocking, and—and unsafe.”
“Not a bit of it, my boy. That’s just what I used to think, but I don’t now.”
“But I shall never get hardened to it, Lady O’Hara.”
“Sure, I hope not, Nic. I don’t like hardened people. You think by my words that I’m hardened to it. There, don’t turn red, boy. I can read what you thought. I’m as soft as you. Sure, I wept all night when that poor boy died over there, and kept crying out for his mother when he was delirious; and it was no use to say to myself, he should have thought more of his mother and her teachings when he grew wasteful and dissipated and stole his master’s money, for I couldn’t help thinking that he was back in the old days and felt in trouble, and called for his mother; and who should a boy call to but his mother at a time like that?”
Nic sadly thought of how little he had seen of his, and the governor’s wife went on.
“No, Nic, I’m not a bit hardened; I only look now at things from a sensible point of view, and say to myself, ‘Here are these men who have done wrong, and the law has sent them out for a punishment; those who are very bad will be unable to do any more mischief, while those who have any good in them have chances given them to lead a new life.’ Why some of them are getting to be well-to-do bodies, Nic, and married and have children, who will grow up better people in a new land. Don’t you fret about the convicts, boy; but take them as you find them. When you have to do with the bad ones, keep them at a distance; and when you have to do with the good and repentant, just shut your eyes to the past and open them as wide as you can to the future. Sure, Nic, I’m the governor’s lady with a title, and everybody’s glad to be my friend, yourself included, my boy; but how do I know what I might have been if I hadn’t been tenderly cared for when I was young? You’ll like some of the transported people, Nic, my boy. I’ve got some out there whom I look upon as friends, and just because I see that they’ve put the past behind, and are doing what these sailor lads do here, keeping a bright look-out ahead. Yes, Nic, they’re looking to the future, and so am I and you. What a place this world would be if we hadn’t a future before us every one! There, you will not fret nor worry yourself about any dangers we are likely to meet with from the convicts now.”
“Oh no,” said Nic eagerly; “you have done me no end of good, Lady O’Hara. But—”
“Well, but what, boy? Out with it, and don’t hesitate.”
“Are they ever likely to rise against us over there, or here aboard ship?”
“Sure, I don’t know, Nic,” said Lady O’Hara coolly. “Very likely, my boy. They are always thinking about it, I know.”
“But if they do?”
“Well, we shall just have to rise too, and teach them manners. We’ve got right on our side, and they haven’t; so we are sure to win.”
“But you don’t seem at all alarmed, in spite of all that I have said.”
“Sure, and why should I be, Nic, or you either? They may rise, and a hole may burst out in the bottom of the ship, and we may run upon a rock, and there may be a storm, and there are plenty of other maybe’s, Nic. But let them be, my dear boy. You and I have got our duty to do, and let’s do it, and while we’re doing that, leave all the rest. Nic, boy, faith’s a grand thing. I’m full of it, and ye’re just a little wanting; so get it as fast as ye can; it’s a fine thing in the making of a true man.”
Chapter Six.
On the other Side.
The voyage was long but uneventful. They sailed on, in fine weather, down and down into hot inter-tropical sunshine, and reached the Cape, took in fresh stores, and then sailed on south, so as to get into the region where the winds are chill, but blow strongly in the right direction, carrying the big ship onward in its course.
Week succeeded week in slow monotony, broken by a little rough weather, but that was all. The soldiers were drilled on deck till Nic pretty well knew the ordinary routine, and Lieutenant Lance laughingly asked him if he would like to take command. The convicts came up morning by morning and had their exercise in the old monotonous way; and Nic went round with the doctor to see the men in their quarters and visit patients. But there was no rising or mutiny, nothing to break the even course of the voyage but a little tossing among the huge waves that came rolling from the south-west, threatening to engulf the ship, but only dived beneath it, raising it upon a rolling bill, and then gliding onward to give room to the next. Nic saw the albatross till he was tired of watching its gliding flight. He fished and had very bad fortune, but better when he joined in with the sailors, who good-humouredly made room for him to help haul after they had hooked a shark, drawn the fierce fellow alongside, sent a loop down over its head right to the narrow part in front of the tail, and so got a double hold.
Then came the evening when all was excitement, for the skipper announced at supper that in all probability they would see land next morning, and a thrill ran through every breast.
He was correct: land was in sight at daybreak, and Nic was standing on deck to see it, hardly willing to be dragged away to breakfast, and back again with Lady O’Hara and the officers, all eager after their long, long voyage—for ships did not reach Australia in less than six weeks in the days of King George the Third—to see the land that was to be their home for many months, in some cases years, to come.
That afternoon they sailed out of the rough water between the great headlands into the lake-like expanse of the glorious harbour; and before long, after signalling, boats were seen approaching, their white sails glistening in the clear air.
“Smell, Nic,” said Lady O’Hara, “home at last, boy! What do you think of the sunny land?”
“Think?” cried Nic huskily—“it is glorious! I never saw the sky so blue, the land so green, and everything so beautiful. But pray, pray don’t talk to me. I want to try and make out whether my father is in any of those boats.”
“I should say yes: in that,” said Lady O’Hara, who spoke in a deep, subdued voice.
“Which—which?” cried Nic.
“That one, with the union jack at the stern.”
“What, with the men in white?”
“Yes; it is the boat from the man-o’-war yonder. The governor is in it, please God; and your father, as his friend, will most likely be with him.”
Just then one of the officers handed her a telescope, and went forward to order up a guard of men to receive the governor.
Lady O’Hara did not seem herself. She was no longer the bluff; outspoken woman, but appeared trembling and nervous, as she stood resting with one hand upon the rail.
“I can’t use it to-day, Nic, boy,” she said. “You try the glass.”
Nic took it, rested it on the rail, had a long look, and focussed and re-focussed it, without avail.
“I—I can’t see with it,” he said huskily. “It is so dim. The glass is not clear.”
“Try again,” said Lady O’Hara; and Nic looked at her sharply, her voice was so changed.
But he raised the glass once more, and this time brought it steadily to bear upon the boat rowed by the man-of-war’s men.
“Now, Nic, tell me what you see,” said Lady O’Hara. “Some soldiers with muskets and bayonets. I can see the scarlet quite plain.”
“Yes, yes: the marines. What else?”
“There’s an officer just in front of the flag.”
“One officer?”
“Stop a minute. Yes, there’s another: he seems to me a bigger man.”
“Look—look again.”
“It’s so far off that I can’t quite make out, and the glass won’t keep steady; but I think he has a big white beard. Yes, and he has taken off his hat. His head is white.”
Lady O’Hara half closed her eyes, and the captain, who was near, saw that a smile came upon her lip.
“But you see some one else, Nic?” she said faintly.
“Yes,” said the boy in a very husky voice; “but it must be a seaman: there is some one in a straw hat.”
“And who will that be, Nic?”
“A sailor, I suppose.”
“I do not say. Your father generally wore a straw hat. Can’t you make out his face?”
“No,” said Nic, taking his eye from the glass quickly, and gazing at the boat, which seemed to have suddenly gone back some distance.
“I want to look without the glass,” he added, after a minute or so; and then, forgetful of the glorious panorama spread around beyond the blue lake-like harbour, he held on by the rail, gazing hard at the approaching boat, seeing neither of the others, only that one with the white jacketed men who made the water flash at each dip of the oars.
Then by degrees Nic began to make out the faces, which grew clearer and clearer, till the figure wearing the straw hat rose up and waved it, and the officer in uniform rose up then and took off his hat.
At that moment Nic was conscious of the fact that Lady O’Hara was close by him, waving a white handkerchief.
Then he seemed to see nothing but a blurred picture of boats drawing nearer, as the great Northumbrian, with her sails hanging almost motionless, glided slowly onward through the calm water.
He was conscious, though, of the gangway being manned, and of a guard of soldiers being drawn up to receive the governor, the officers and the captain and mates being ready too.
At last the boat came close in alongside; a sharp order was shouted, the guard presented arms, and a big burly grey officer stepped easily on board, raised his hat to the officers, and then took Lady O’Hara’s hands in his, gazed at her for a moment, and then quietly drew her arm through his, while she drew a deep, long breath, and stood there proud and happy.
Nic just saw her, but only as it were out of the corner of his eye, for he was tremblingly watching the gangway for the next comer—a tall, spare, grey, aquiline-looking man with face of a warm sun tan, and eyes that seemed to pierce the boy through and through, as he held out his hand and cried “Father!”
“Yes, my boy. Then you knew me again? Why, Nic, lad, what a great fellow you have grown! Lady O’Hara, welcome back.”
“And glad to be back,” cried the lady, shaking hands, and after a glance at Nic, asking the question hovering on his lips, “And how are they at the Bluff?”
“All well, and send loving greetings.”
“Which I’ll answer for myself, and very soon,” cried the lady.
“And all well?” said the governor, with a look round as if addressing every one.
Lady O’Hara answered.
“Yes, all well. An excellent voyage, and you’ll thank the officers for their kindness to me and Dominic Braydon here. Gentlemen, I am going ashore in the boat, but I shall not say good-bye. My husband bids me say that he will be glad to see every one who can leave the ship this evening at dinner. What time, my dear?”
“Six, gentlemen,” said the governor; and after a little official business the party descended into the boat, and, feeling as if it were all a dream and impossible, Nic sat there being rowed ashore toward Government House, holding his father’s hand for the first few minutes till he fancied that he was noticed, and then listening to him as he pointed out the various buildings ashore, and the vessels afloat, two of them being men-of-war, whose rigging was gay with bunting in honour of the governor’s lady’s return.
“Well, Nic,” said his father at last, as they gazed searchingly in each other’s eyes, and with the most satisfactory result, “do you think you will like Australia?”
“Like it?” cried Nic. “Why, of course, father: isn’t it home?”
“Yes, but rather a rough, unpolished place.”
“What does that matter!” said Nic proudly. “Shan’t I be with you all again?”
Chapter Seven.
Preparing to Start.
In those days it did not take long to see the town. There were some shabby-looking stores and shops, a few settlers’ houses, the hotel, taverns, and plenty of tents. The substantial parts were the buildings erected for the soldiery and convicts. But these latter were busy enough, gangs of them being marched out every morning under a strong guard to work at road making, quarrying, and other tasks; and as Nic, boy like, went round everywhere during the few days of his stay at the governor’s house, he ran up eagerly, as soon as a convict gang appeared, to see if he could encounter his old shipboard friend the head warder, and whether he could recognise any of the convicts who came out in the Northumbrian.
But they and the soldiers seemed to have been absorbed in the large body of men in the convict lines and barracks, and he looked in vain for the fierce, swarthy ruffian, his comic, grimace-making friend Twenty-five, and the pitiful, pleading countenance of Thirty-three.
Still, there was a great deal to see, and the time went rapidly as he watched the convicts at work with their armed guard always on the qui vive to shoot down any man who attempted to resist their warders or make for the bush.
There were the blacks too, fairly plentiful in those days, hanging about the place ready to help drive sheep or cattle, or do any light work which did not entail much labour.
The hospitality at Government House was everything that could be desired, and here the lieutenant and ensign were welcomed again and again during their stay.
The last day came, when, after making all his preparations, the doctor announced that they would start at dawn the next morning.
“Why not stay another week?” said Lady O’Hara.
“You know,” said the doctor: “those at home are eager to see us back; and Nic here is longing to find out what home is like. When shall we see the governor and you?”
“Before many months are over. That road is begun, you see, and we shall work up in your direction. Perhaps we may run over for a flying visit before.”
That evening Nic accompanied his father to where the various goods purchased for him by Lady O’Hara had been stored at a kind of warehouse; and here Nic found a large, light waggon in the course of being loaded by a couple of fierce-looking, bearded men, whose bare arms were burned of a reddish tan.
The elder of the two, a man of about fifty, was standing up in the waggon pulling at a great packing-case, while his companion, a well-built fellow, who looked strong and active as could be, was hoisting up the case, helped by a shaggy-haired native, whose face shone as if it had been blackened and polished like a boot. The white, or rather the reddish-brown, man attracted Nic’s attention at once, as he stood there with his muscles standing out, making him resemble an antique statue; but it was the embittered, proud, and resentful look in his face which struck the boy.
It was quite evident that he was attempting a task for which he was not equal, and that, instead of the case being deposited in the waggon, it would the next minute go down with a crash to the ground; and, as soon as this was seen, Nic involuntarily ran to help, and his father shouted as he, too, ran and seized one side of the case, with the result that the black grinned and made way, to stand looking on.
“Jump down, Brookes!” cried the doctor. “You ought to know better. Get the case up first, and then put it in its place.”
“Know better?” growled the man. “I know how to load a waggon; but who’s to do it with a fellow like that and a nigger? One’s got no muscle, and t’other’s like a black-pudd’n.”
“Get down—quick!” cried the doctor.
“I’m a-comin’,” growled the man; and he descended slowly, placed a shoulder under the end of the chest, and it was turned over on to its side.
“Jump in, Leather, and work it into its place.”
“Oh, I can do that,” grumbled the elder man; but his companion sprang up lightly, hoisted one end of the case, and walked it bit by bit to where it was to stand, before leaping down again.
“Is this our waggon, then?” asked Nic.
“Yes, boy. We take the load back with us. I think we shall just get all up in one load.”
“Are the roads good?” asked Nic, as he gazed at the heavy packing-cases; and the elder man grinned, while the labourer addressed as Leather, (a name which accorded well with his tanned skin), glared at the speaker once with a frown, and then told the black to help him with the next case.
“Neither good nor bad,” said the doctor, smiling.
“But I mean for the horses to draw the load?”
“There are no roads, my boy, and there will be no horses to draw the load. We have only a rough track through the bush, and our men use draught-oxen in yoke.”
This was the first hint to Nic of the place being very wild. He said no more for some time, but readily set to work trying to help where he could, his father nodding approval as he noted his eagerness.
Under the master’s eye and in accordance with his suggestions the loading went on better now, though from time to time little matters kept showing that the elder man lost no opportunity for finding fault with the younger, who was either weak, stupid, unwilling, or clumsy in the other’s eyes. But the man worked steadily and well, and Nic began to feel annoyed and ready to tell the elder servant that if he would only work as well as his fellow the waggon would be laden much sooner.
“I dare say father will give it to him soon, though,” said Nic to himself; “I’ve no right to interfere.”
The intended short visit to the waggon lasted three hours before the doctor was satisfied to leave his men to rope everything on securely.
“And it will not be done, Nic,” he said, as they walked away. “That’s where I want you, my boy, to grow up into a sort of lieutenant—to act as my second pair of eyes, and see that the men do not shirk things. I’m sorry to say that they will do it if I am not looking on. Now then, I’m going to show you the horses that draw our waggon.”
He led the way to a fenced-in pen, where a dozen fine, healthy-looking bullocks were grazing; and upon Nic looking up wonderingly, his father laughed.
“Yes,” he said, “those are our draught animals. They are terribly slow, but very sure. By the way, though, Nic—I never thought of that—can you ride?”
“Not bullocks, father,” said the lad proudly. “I’ll walk.”
“Rather a long walk, Nic,” said the doctor quietly. “Well, I can walk part of the way, and ride on the waggon the rest. But will it take us more than a day?”
“Yes,” said the doctor dilly; “it will take us more than a day. But come here.”
He led the way to a rough, shed-like building, entered, and a couple of sleek, well-bred horses turned their heads from the posts to which they were haltered, and whinnied.
“Will one of these do for your lordship to ride?” said the doctor, smiling, as he went up to and patted the horses in turn.
“Yes!” cried Nic. “What beauties, father!”
“Glad you like them. I bought that sorrel nag for you. He isn’t up to my weight.”
“But—”
“Well, but what, boy?”
“I’ve never been on a horse, father,” said Nic, with a shamefaced air.
“Never learned to ride? No, of course not,” said the doctor. “Riding was not included in the range of studies at the Friary.”
“But we boys used to catch the donkeys on the common of an evening, and mount them.”
“Oh, come,” cried the doctor; “then you can ride a donkey?”
“Sometimes, father,” said Nic, laughing. “They often used to send us off.”
“Kicking?”
“It was hardly kicking, father. One I used to try and ride would stand perfectly still till I was on and tried to make him go, and then he used to bring all his legs close together, put his head down, arch up his back, and somehow or other, when he began to dance about, we always got shot off, and came down on our backs. You never saw anything so queer.”
“Oh! yes, I have,” said the doctor drily, “often. Our horses here have that bad habit, and we call it buck jumping, for it is very much the action of a bounding deer. Have you been pitched off like that more than once?”
“Oh! yes, father; scores, perhaps hundreds of times,” said Nic, laughing.
“Come then, you will not be afraid to mount this horse, and I dare say I can soon teach you to ride. It’s too late now, or I’d give you a lesson.”
He closed the door of the shed, went back to the waggon, where the younger man was on the top straining at a rope, and the elder giving orders, while the black was squatting down and looking on. Here a few words of instruction were given, and a question or two asked about the flour barrels and bacon.
These being answered satisfactorily, the doctor led the way back to the Government House, where they had just time to prepare for dinner and meet the two officers and the captain and ship’s doctor, who had been asked to meet them by way of farewell.
Bed was sought early, the doctor laughingly telling his son to make much of it, for he would have to make shift for some time to come.
“It’s good-bye to civilisation when we leave here in the morning,” said the doctor, looking hard at his son.
“And he won’t mind it a bit,” said Lady O’Hara. “He’s just the boy to take to a bit of rough work in the bush.”
“I’m glad of it,” said the doctor drily, “for we rough it in the bush, and no mistake.”
Nic lay down that night in his comfortable bedroom after a long look out of his window at the beautiful moonlit harbour, with its shipping bathed in the soft, silvery light, and a feeling of melancholy came over him. He was sorry to leave frank-spoken, motherly Lady O’Hara, and the thought of going right away into the wilds, though fascinating, would inspire him with a shrinking feeling of awe.
For during the few days he had been ashore he had picked up some information, and not always of the pleasantest nature. People about had not been backward in telling him that the blacks were rather fond of spearing people who entered the bush. They had some ugly stories, too, about tiger-snakes, which lay waiting for unwary passers-by, and then struck them, the bite being so venomous that the sufferer would survive only a few hours at most, possibly only a few minutes.
There were other terrors and dangers, too, in the bush, they said; but when asked what, they shook their heads very strangely, as if the subject were not to be mentioned, for fear of ill befalling those who talked lightly. So one way and another Nic was pretty well primed, and consequently only slightly buoyed up by the knowledge that he was going to his real home, he fell asleep to dream of all kinds of mysterious horrors, among which was one that was terrible in the extreme. He was lost in the bush, and nothing was left for him to do but lie down and die; and the first part of this he had, he thought, just achieved, when a loud voice came out of the blackness and cried:
“Now, Nic, boy, it’s time to get up. And I want you to see to the dogs. They know you.”
Chapter Eight.
To the Bush.
For some moments Nic acted involuntarily as he scrambled on his clothes, feeling, as he did, in a confused way that it was his duty to dress, but why and wherefore, he had not the most remote idea.
It was cold and raw, and everything went wrong; and as he could not get himself quite dry, his shirt stuck to him and refused to go on. Those things which ought to have been in one place had got into another; and even when the cold water had thoroughly wakened him he did not get on very well, and felt ill-humoured, stupid, and out of sorts.
“It’s so vexatious starting so soon,” thought Nic, as lie thrust brush, comb, and nightshirt into the bag he had nearly packed over night; and at last he opened the door, just as his father called up the stairs:
“Come, Nic, my boy: they didn’t teach you at school to be quick.”
“Hush! you’ll wake Lady O’Hara,” protested the boy.
“I should be puzzled to,” replied his father shortly. “Come in here.”
“In here” meant the dining-room, where the first person he saw, by the light of the candles standing on the white breakfast-cloth, was their hostess.
Nic was quite awake now, and the last trace of ill-temper passed away as he shook hands.
“I did not expect to see you this morning,” he said.
“And did you think I was going to let old friends start without a comfortable breakfast? Why, it will be days, boy, before you get another.”
“Days?” said Nic.
“To be sure, boy. There is no stage coach for you, and you’ll have to keep with your waggon. These bullocks go about two miles an hour.”
This was news to Nic, who had been imbued with some kind of notion that he was going to get home that same evening, and that was why his father had started so early.
Sir John entered the room directly after, and the meal was just as if it had been nine o’clock instead of four in the morning; so that the travellers were well prepared, when the doctor rose, to say good-bye, for the cracking of a stock whip and sundry ejaculations and apostrophes to the bullocks to “come on,” and “get over,” and “pull,” were heard outside, where a couple of horses freshly brought round were stamping and pawing the dust, impatient to be off.
The dogs were hurried round from the stables—these being the two collies intended for the doctor—and after many frantic dashes at the horses, they were taken forward toward the waggon, where the bullocks were immediately driven into a state of commotion, and faced round to lower their horns and receive their enemies.
Finally, however, the two excited animals were safely chained to the back of the waggon, which started at once with a great deal of whip cracking and shouting on the part of Brookes, his fellow, Leather, being perfectly silent, and the black nowhere to be seen.
This start having been accomplished, the doctor returned with his son to say their final farewells to the governor and his lady.
“There, good-bye, Nic,” cried the latter; “it’s only a little way off you live. We think nothing of a few hundred miles here, and we shall be coming to see you, or you will us before very long. Are you a good horseman? That’s a spirity-looking thing I see you’re to ride.”
Nic was nonplussed, and his father came to his help:
“Nic hasn’t had time to practise much; he’ll be a better rider next time he comes down to the front.”
“That’s right,” cried Lady O’Hara. “There: goodbye, and bless you, my boy! Give my dear love to your mother, and tell her I shall want to steal you for a visit first time I come.”
“I shall not be able to spare him,” said the doctor, who had mounted, and now held the rein of the second horse. “Come, Nic, boy, up with you.”
Nic nervously raised his foot to the stirrup, made a desperate spring as he clung to the pommel and cantle of the saddle, and somehow came down in his seat; but the horse started, and nearly threw him on to its neck.
“Steady!” cried the doctor sharply, as he held the rein firmly; and, nervous and startled, Nic shuffled back and nipped the saddle with all the force of which his knees were capable.
“Are you all right, boy?” cried the governor.
“Yes, sir,” said Nic, as firmly as he could, though he was wondering how long it would be before he was all wrong.
“Good-bye, O’Hara,” cried the doctor. “You will hear from me when I get home.”
“Good-bye,” cried the governor; and, leaning toward his old friend, he whispered:
“I’d take care: that boy can’t ride a bit.”
“I know,” said the doctor. “Don’t let him see that you do. Good-bye.”
He touched his horse’s sides, and the beautiful beast started to go off at a canter, but was checked instantly, to keep it in a walk, with the result that it began to fret and dance. Nic’s lighter steed followed suit, and the boy’s position grew moment by moment more desperate. Now he lost one stirrup, then the other; and it was only by getting a good grip of the pommel with one hand that he was able to stay on.
Finally, though, the horses were quieted down, and paced together in a walk, when the doctor said quietly:
“Why, Nic, it’s a good thing that it is still dark. I’m afraid we should have had some remarks made if people had been about.”
“I—I never said I could ride, father,” said Nic, in a reproachful tone.
“I’m glad you did not, boy. It’s a good thing that you have no spurs.”
“Is it, father?”
“Of course,” cried the doctor; “if you had, Sour Sorrel would have soon pitched you off.”
“I’m very sorry, father,” faltered Nic, who felt very miserable as well as uncomfortable. “Had I better get down and lead him?”
“If you feel so much afraid that you dare not stop on, my boy,” said the doctor drily.
The dawn was coming, and Nic turned to glance at his father’s thin, cleanly cut profile, to see that he was gazing straight before him towards where the waggon could be dimly seen in front.
“Well, are you?” continued the doctor, without turning his head.
Nic was silent, and the horse stumbled through putting a foot into a deep rut of the unkept road.
“Hold up, sir—steady, steady!” cried the doctor, drawing more heavily upon the rein he still held, as well as his own; and then, after Nic had shuffled back into the seat from which he had again been shaken, “I said, are you too much alarmed to stop on?”
These words sounded very stern, and stung and hurt the boy to the quick.
“I have never learned to ride, father,” he said reproachfully; “and it is all fresh to me to be mounted upon a spirited horse like this.”
“Of course it is: perfectly fresh. Then you feel afraid?”
“Yes, of falling off, father. I have nearly been down three times.”
“Six, Nic. Well, get off and climb on to the waggon.” Nic drew a deep breath as his father checked the horses; and, stung more than ever, the boy kicked his nag with his heels and sent it forward.
“Well, why don’t you get down, sir?”
“Because I’d rather keep on and ride, father,” said Nic huskily.
“Do you mean that, sir?”
“Yes, father.”
“Thank you, Nic,” said the doctor, turning to him with a smile. “I like the boy who is not afraid to own that he is alarmed; and better still to hear you say through your teeth that you will not be beaten—metaphorically, of course. Now, then, we understand our position. This is not boasting, mind—look at me. You see me here?”
“Yes, father,” said Nic, feeling envious of the easy, upright position of his father in the saddle.
“Let me tell you, then, that I feel as easy and comfortable here as if I were seated upon a cushion in a carriage. More so, for this noble beast knows me as I know him, and after a fashion we are as one together in going over the ground. Do you understand what that means, Nic?”
“Yes, father; but you have learned to ride.”
“Yes, and more, boy. It means the confidence which comes of knowledge. When I came out here, years ago, I had not been on horseback for twenty years; I was a miserable invalid, and when I mounted my horse—a necessity out in a wild country like this—I suffered a martyrdom of nervous dread. But I did what you have just done, made up my mind that I would master my fear and ride, and I won. It took me a whole year. As for you, it will not take you a month.”
“So little time?” cried Nic excitedly.
“Or less. We have about a week’s journey before us; and from what I have just learned, I shall be greatly surprised if you do not canter up to the station with me, a little stiff and sore about the knees, but good friends with Sour Sorrel there, and ready to think riding a delightful accomplishment.”
Nic shook his head.
“You don’t know me yet, father,” said the boy sadly.
“Better than you know yourself,” replied the doctor. “But don’t let’s waste time. You want to learn?”
“Horribly, father,” cried Nic.
“Very well, then. I’ll give you a lesson at once.”
“Not faster, to begin with?” said Nic quickly.
“No,” said the doctor, laughing. “I want to give you confidence, not destroy it. So now then, to begin with, you shall learn what danger you run. I am an experienced horseman, I have tight hold of your rein, so that your horse cannot bolt, and I have promised you not to go faster than a walk. You see, then, the utmost that could happen in that way would be that the nag might caper a little.”
“Or kick and throw me off.”
“He will not kick, boy. He is too well broken. Secondly, you might lose your seat and come off: If you did, how far would you have to fall?”
“About four feet, father.”
“Say four. Suppose you were on a see-saw at school, would you be afraid of falling, off four or five or six feet?”
“No, father, of course not.”
“Then why should you be afraid of falling that distance from the horse?”
“I don’t know,” said Nic. “It is because it is all so fresh, I suppose. Yes, I do: my foot might hang in the stirrup and the horse gallop away with me, kicking me every time he strode.”
“When I am holding him? The stirrups, then: take your feet out.”
“Out of the stirrups, father? Is it safe to do so?”
“You were alarmed lest your foot should hang in one. Quick! out with them. That’s right: now draw them up, cross the leathers, and let the irons hang over on each side. Now how do you feel?”
“As if I must go off on one side or the other, father. The saddle is so dreadfully slippery.”
“Take tight hold of it, then, with your knees, and keep your balance. That’s not right: I said take hold with your knees, not the calves of your legs.”
“That way, father?”
“Yes, that’s better. Let your legs go well down, your heels too, and whatever you do don’t touch the pommel with your hand.”
That last order was hard, for it was very easy to make a catch at the pommel so as to hold on.
“Sit up, boy. Don’t bend forward. It hurts you a little at first, but you get more and more used to it every hour. Now, then, we’ll walk gently past the waggon. Don’t let the men think you have never been on a horse before.”
The horses’ pace being so much faster than that of the bullocks, they were soon by, after the doctor had spoken in a friendly way to the dogs, given his men an order or two, and then cast a critical eye over the sleek, patient oxen, which trudged along with swinging tails and horns giving a smart rap now and then as they encountered their yoke-fellows.
The track was plainly marked, but it had no pretence of being a road as it went on and on, to be lost in the distance of the bright grey morning. Away to their left was the harbour, with its shipping, and beyond it the ocean; the town lay behind them, and on either side of the track with its lines of ruts there were plenty of green pasture and trees scattered here and there—monsters some seemed to be—and in the openings were great patches of short, scrubby growth.
All at once, as Nic was thinking how peculiar the trees looked in colour, there came a loud musical series of notes from a grove-like patch, in which the boy immediately concluded there must be a house.
“Hear that?” said the doctor.
“Yes, father, plainly.”
“Well, what do you make of it?”
“Some one playing a kind of flute.”
“No, Nic. That is our Australian magpie.”
“Magpie?” cried Nic, forgetting his uncomfortable seat; “but magpies at home in Kent have a harsh kind of laugh.”
“Like that?” said the doctor, as a loud, hoarse chuckle arose.
“No: harsher and noisier. Was that the magpie?”
“No, Nic; that was our laughing jackass.”
“What! A donkey?”
“No; there he sits, on that bare limb,” cried the doctor, pointing up to a big, heavy-headed, browny-grey bird, which seemed to be watching them, with its great strong beak on one side.
Nic examined the bird carefully.
“You would not think that was a kingfisher?” said the doctor.
“No,” cried Nic; “though the shape is something like, all but the tail, which is so much bigger.”
“But it is a kingfisher all the same, though he does not fish as his ancestors may have done. He lives on beetles, lizards, mice, and frogs, and that sort of game. There’s your flute-player again.”
For the sweet, melodious, whistling notes arose once more, sounding somewhat as if a person were running the notes of a chord up and down with different variations.
“It’s very sweet,” said Nic.
“Yes. The colonists call it the magpie, but it is the piping crow of Australia. It is one of the earliest singers, and if we’d been here at daybreak I dare say we should have heard quite a long solo.”
Farther on Nic had a good look at one of the piping crows in the black-and-white jacket which had obtained for it the familiar name of magpie; but it was far from being like that handsome bird the British magpie, with its long tail glossed with metallic reflexions of golden green and purple, and with wing feathers to match.
Two or three times over, out in the open country, the horses startled Nic by their disposition to go off at a canter, but after being checked they calmly settled down to their walking pace, which was fast enough to leave the bullock team behind; consequently Dr Braydon drew rein from time to time at the summit of some hill or ridge, so that his son might have a good view of the new land which was henceforth to be his home. Here he pointed out the peculiar features of the landscape and its resemblance to an English park, save that, instead of the grassy land being dotted with oak, beech, elm, or fir, the trees were always what the doctor called “gum,” with their smooth bark and knotted limbs, but gum trees of several varieties. Here and there a farmstead could be seen, but they were few and far between; still, where they did show, with the roughly built houses and their bark or shingle roofs, flocks of sheep and droves of cattle could be seen scattered widely over the plain.
“Did you say we should be about a week getting home?” said Nic, after one of these halts.
“Perhaps longer,” said the doctor. “Everything depends on those crawling gentlemen behind. They have a heavy load: you see there is no road, and if rain comes, as it is sure to before long, the load will seem twice as heavy to the patient beasts, and I can’t afford to hurry them and get them out of condition. Rain falls very seldom here, Nic; but when it does come there’s no nonsense about it. There’s a river on ahead which we shall have to cross.”
“Then you have bridges,” said Nic naïvely, “if you have no regular roads?”
“Bridges? No; we shall have to ford it if we were going across to-day, it would be a few inches deep; if one of our big rain storms comes, it might be forty or fifty feet. I have seen it sixty.”
Nic glanced at his father.
“Simple truth, my boy,” he said. “The river is in a deep trough between two ranges of hills; and if there have been rains we might be detained on the bank for days or weeks.”
“And whereabouts does home lie?” asked Nic.
“Yonder,” said his father, pointing toward the north-east. “The air is wonderfully clear now, and perhaps you can see what I do—that faint blue ridge that looks like a layer of cloud low down on the horizon.”
“Yes, I can see it,” said Nic eagerly; “but surely it won’t take us a week to ride there. It looks quite close.”
“Yes, in this clear atmosphere, Nic; but it is a long way off, as you will find before we get there. Of course if we could canter our thirty or forty miles a day we should soon be there, but we are an escort only. We want to take care of the waggon.”
“But couldn’t the men take care of that?”
“Perhaps; but a good master looks after his valuables himself. Brookes is a pretty trusty man, but the other is a new hand, whom I have lately had from my neighbour Mr Dillon, the magistrate, and I have not tried him yet sufficiently to trust. That load contains things that will be of great value to me, things Lady O’Hara bought me: seeds and implements, guns, ammunition, powder, and endless odds and ends wanted by your mother and sisters, who cannot send into the next street to buy what they want.”
“But surely in this wild, open place no one would interfere with the waggon?”
“Think not? Why, Nic, we have bushrangers—escaped convicts—beside plenty of people less desperate but more dishonest, without counting the blacks.”
“Are there any of them about here?” asked Nic, with a glance round.
“Perhaps. We hardly know where they may be. You see they belong to wandering tribes which roam about in search of food. They are here to-day and gone to-morrow. We never know when they may come.”
“Are they dangerous?”
“Yes and no, my boy. We always have to be on our guard, especially in such a lonely place as ours.”
“But why did you go and live in such a lonely spot, father?” said Nic.
“Because the place suited me, my boy. I rode over hundreds of miles of country before I pitched upon the Bluffs and took up the land. It was beautiful, the pasture was good, and there was that more than great necessary we look for in this droughty country—a good supply of water. I have known squatters out here lose hundreds of cattle and thousands of sheep in a dry summer, when everything is burnt up.”
By this time the bullocks had dragged their load close by, and for the first time Nic stared at a black figure, dressed in a strip of cloth and a spear, walking behind the waggon.
“There’s one of the blacks, father,” whispered Nic, staring at the shock-headed fellow, who turned a little on one side, and displayed a short club with a large knob at one end.
“Only the fellow who helped to load,” said the doctor.
Nic looked hard, for he had not recognised the man.
“He has got rid of his shirt and trousers, Nic, for the march home. These blacks are eager to get clothes, but it always seems a misery to them to wear anything but a bit of cloth.”
“But is it never cold here?”
“Very, sometimes—frosty; but they make a bit of a shelter and a tiny fire, and linger over it till the hot sun comes out, and then forget the cold. The old people here never even built a hut, Nic—only a shelter—a rough bit of fence.”
In the middle of the day, when the sun came down with tremendous power, a halt was called beneath the shade of a gigantic gum tree, and Nic for the first time realised why this name was applied to the one great family of trees peculiar to the land, for drops of gum which had oozed out were gleaming red like carbuncles in the hot sunshine.
The doctor sprang from his horse, but Nic sat quite still.
“Dawn with you, my boy,” cried his father; but, instead of obeying, Nic screwed up his face into a peculiar shape.
“I don’t feel as if I could, father.”
“Oh! Stiff. Down with you, boy. You must work that off.”
Nic set his teeth, and rolled off his horse in a most ungraceful way, to stand feeling as if the ground was unsafe and all on the move.
“Hurt?” said his father, smiling.
“Yes, father. It’s as if my legs had been dragged wide apart and stretched.”
“Getting in shape for your saddle, my boy. You’ll soon get over this. Now look here.”
Nic did look there, and was shown how to hobble his nag’s fore legs to keep it from straying, and how to unbridle and take off the saddle.
“Always give your horse a good rub down where the saddle has been, Nic,” said the doctor. “Horses are delicate animals. They deserve good treatment too. Your nag carries you well, and he looks to you for payment in food, rest, and good treatment. These make all the difference in the way a horse will last on a journey. Now, my lads, come along. Water.”
The doctor led the way, and the horses followed like a couple of dogs. Nic was following too, with the sensation strongly upon him that he should like to go down on all-fours and follow like a dog, for walking seemed to be a mode of progress to which he was not accustomed.
“Wait a moment, Nic,” said his father. “Unfasten the dogs and lead them here. They must want water too.”
Nic went to where the dogs were chained to the tail of the waggon, trying to walk firmly and erect, but it was hard work, for his legs seemed to be independent of his body, and there were moments when he felt as if he had none at all.
But he tried not to show it, and while the men were unyoking the oxen, which immediately began to graze on the rich, succulent grass, Nic proceeded to unchain the dogs.
The task was not so easy as it looked, for the collies were frantic at the thought of being unfastened, and barked and leaped about wildly. To make matters worse, they had been hard at work trying to strangle one another on the way by leaping over their chains, and tying them up in an almost inseparable knot, one which refused to yield to his fingers; and after many tries Nic appealed to Brookes.
“I wish you’d come and unfasten this,” he said. “I want to take the dogs to water.”
“Take the dogs to water!” grumbled the man. “Why can’t they take themselves? Hi! Leather! Come and untie these dogs.”
The younger man left the oxen he was loosening, and approached Nic in a surly way, hardly glancing at him; but for a few moments the chain-knot baffled him, while the dogs bounded about wildly.
“Hold them by the collars for a minute,” said Leather harshly.
Nic obeyed, feeling mentally lower now, for he seemed to be the servant instead of the other.
Then he felt better, for the man softened a little in his manner.
“Poor brutes!” he said: “prisoners and thirsty. Steady, my lads, steady!”
“Oh, they won’t be prisoners long,” said Nic. “Father’s afraid that they’d run back and try and get on board the ship or to the governor’s house.”
“There you are,” cried the man, placing the chains in his hand, when, as if scenting out the water, the two collies started off, with eyes starting and tongues hanging out of their mouths, tugging and striving to get on, and forcing Nic to follow at a trot, his legs hurting him for the first few moments horribly.
They were not long reaching the shady pool where the horses were now standing in a shallow, with the drops falling from their muzzle.
“Poor beasts! they are thirsty,” cried the doctor, as Nic was literally dragged to the edge of the pool, the dogs striving to plunge right in. “Don’t let them go, Nic.”
“But they’ll have me in, father.”
“Don’t let them, boy. Ah!”
Nic had not the least intention of letting them, but as the dogs had tugged at their chains the boy was forced from a hobble into a trot, and then, before the doctor could help, he caught one foot in the tough herbage, tripped, went down, and was dragged a yard or two, and then, with a rush and tremendous splash, he followed the dogs’ plunge off the bank into deep water, to be towed here and there by the delighted animals, which swam about, barking, drinking, and threatening to tangle their chains in a worse knot than before—to wit, round Nic.
But after the first few moments’ confusion the boy touched bottom, and began to wade back, finding it easier to master the dogs in the water than out.
“Well, that’s a nice beginning, Nic!” said the doctor.
“Isn’t it horrid?” cried the boy.
“Wet?” said his father laconically. “There, it might have been worse. Let them drink, and then bring them back to the waggon and tie them up. We must keep them on the chain till we get them home. Poor fellows, then!” he cried, reaching down to pat the dripping heads. “There! you’ve had as much as is good for you. Come along.”
A tug or two at the chains brought the dogs out, to let themselves off, as it were, and scatter glistening water drops from their shaggy hides, after which they broke out into a duet of barks, and danced about on the bank, wagging their tails, evidently inviting Nic to cast sticks into the water for them to fetch, but they followed quietly enough, with the horses behind them, lowering their heads to bite playfully at the collies’ waving tails.
“You can get at your portmanteau; it’s on the top,” said the doctor, as soon as the dogs were secured. “Get out some dry things. You can make a dressing-room behind the tree.”
All this the boy proceeded to do, and by the time he had changed he felt none the worse for his involuntary bath, and hung his wrung-out garments on the scorching waggon-tilt to dry.
This done, he obeyed his father’s summons, and found him seated in the shade, waiting with a basket of provisions, which Lady O’Hara had provided for their use, while the two men were seated beneath another tree eating, the black standing on one leg a short distance away, resting upon his spear and holding the sole of his right foot flat against his left knee so as to form a peculiar angle. And every now and then one of the men pitched him a piece of bread, which he caught deftly and proceeded to eat.
“Just as if he were a dog,” thought Nic, as he sat down by his father and began his al fresco dinner.
And how good it was! He forgot all about the stiffness in his legs in the pure enjoyment of those moments. No school picnic had ever approached it, for everything was so gloriously new and fresh. The beautiful land stretched undulating right away to the blue-tinted mountains, the water-pool sparkled in the sunshine, the horses and cattle grazed in the thick rich grass, and the waggon helped to form a picture against a clump of shrubs, half-covered with yellow flowers, while a delicious scent of musk filled the air.
Never had repast tasted so delicious; and, with two exceptions, every living creature seemed to be partaking of this enjoyment in the midst of the peaceful repose in that lovely spot. The exceptions were the dogs, which kept on watching them and uttering an uneasy bark now and then, for the rich grass in which they stood was not to their taste.
Nic went on eating in silence for a few minutes, and then, breaking a loaf in two, rose and went off to the dogs, which readily attacked the bread, a long diet of biscuit on board ship having made them fairly vegetarian in their tastes.
The doctor nodded approval as Nic returned wondering whether he would receive a reproof, and the wayside meal went on till the doctor spoke.
“Well, Nic,” he said, “how do you like the beginning of your rough life?”
“It’s glorious, father,” cried the boy eagerly.
“Humph! In spite of the first lesson in riding, the ducking, and this muddly way of eating—no table-cloth, no chairs or table?”
“Oh, I like it.”
“Because it’s new and the sun shines?”
“I know that the sun doesn’t always shine, father,” cried Nic. “I shall like it, I know.”
“That’s right. But look: here come some visitors that you have only seen in cages at home.”
Nic had already sprung to his feet, and he walked out from beneath the tree to gaze excitedly at a flock of white birds that came sailing up, evidently to alight in the grove, but the sudden appearance of the boy made them turn off, shrieking harshly, to find a resting-place farther on, and Nic returned disappointed.
“Legs seem to be better, Nic?” said the doctor.
“Yes; I had forgotten them, father. But those birds!”
“Well, you scared them. You saw what they were?”
“Not white pigeons or gulls?” said Nic. “I could almost have fancied that they were cockatoos.”
“No fancy about it, Nic. They were sulphur crests. You’ll see thousands in the groves down by the river.”
“Is there a river about here?”
“Your wet clothes seemed to suggest something of the kind,” said the doctor, laughing.
“But that was a pond,” said Nic.
“A water-hole—a deep place in the river. That depression is a river, Nic,” continued the doctor, pointing; “there it runs yonder. You can trace it by the trees which cluster along its course. It is dried up now, all but a hole here and there; but after rains it is a rushing stream, and I dare say a little water is always trickling along its course from hole to hole a few feet under ground. Now then, pack up the basket. We shall want it for supper. Have a nap afterwards if you are tired. I shall not go on for an hour and a half yet.”
But Nic wanted no nap—there was too much to see; and it did not seem to be long before the order was given to yoke the oxen and saddle up.