Chapter Twenty Five.
Nic Takes the Helm.
“Bad news,” said the doctor, about a couple of months’ shepherding and track riding later, as he held a letter out to his wife before coming to where a couple of men were carefully rubbing down the heated horses they had hitched up to the fence kept for the purpose.
“Come in, my lads,” he said. “I’ll have your horses seen to. They must have a couple of hours’ rest. There’ll be a meal ready for you directly.”
“What is it, mother?” said Janet and Hilda; and Nic looked at her eagerly.
“It is bad news indeed,” said Mrs Braydon. “The letter is from Lady O’Hara, who is in the deepest distress about Sir John. She says he is dying, and that there is only one man in the colony she believes able to cure him.”
“Father!” cried Hilda, flushing.
“Yes, my dear; and she begs that he will come to her in her great distress. Here he is.”
For the doctor, after showing the men round to the stable, where they preferred to attend to their horses themselves, re-entered the room.
“Well, my dear, what do you think? Lady O’Hara forgets that I have not practised for so long.”
“Lady O’Hara knows that she has spoken the truth,” said Mrs Braydon proudly.
“Then you wish me to go?”
“No,” said Mrs Braydon sadly; “but it is a duty you must fulfil.”
“It means going and leaving you all in a couple of hours’ time,” said the doctor.
“Yes, you must go at once,” sighed Mrs Braydon.
“Yes, I must go,” said the doctor. “Perhaps I can save him.” Then cheerfully, “Now, Nic, my boy, you must step into my shoes and play the man. I leave the Bluff and all that is dear in your charge. You manage old Samson and Brookes better than I do, and as for Leatherhead he has become twice the man he was since you have been here.”
Nic flushed a little, for the secret pricked him.
“And I am glad to see, my lad, that you keep him in his place with a tight rein. I was afraid at first, and Brookes dropped a few unpleasant hints about the way he said that you were making friends with him. I am glad to see, however, that all this is at an end.”
“But, father—” began Nic, whose conscience was uneasy.
“No, no: I don’t want to hear any explanation. You will do your best, I know. Now help me to pack my saddle-bags, all of you. See to the gun and ammunition, Nic; hobbles for the horse, and what is necessary. Hilda, my dear, haul the meal bags in, and see that we have plenty of flour, tea, and sugar for our ride, What’s the matter, mamma dear?”
“I—I was thinking about the blacks,” said Mrs Braydon nervously; and then, in an apologetic tone; “You made me speak, dear.”
“Yes, and I’m glad you have. The blacks for miles and miles are friendly to us, for we have done them no harm. There is not the smallest likelihood of any evil-disposed tribe coming near. If one did, you have a brave son and trusty men to defend you till one of our own fellows went over to Mr Dillon’s for help. Now are you satisfied?”
“Yes, my dear, quite.”
“And Janet and Hilda, both of them to fight for their mother, if there is need.”
“Of course,” said Hilda merrily.
“Janet had better use the poker,” said the doctor, taking his cue from his younger daughter, and laughing too, so as to hide the pang he felt at the near-at-hand parting.
“You know I can fire a gun, father,” said Janet.
“To be sure: yes,” said the doctor. “But, Hilda, my dear,” he continued, “if you have to shoot at a blackfellow, be sure and remember that it is the wooden stock you hold to your shoulder, not the muzzle of the gun.”
“Oh, father, what a shame!” cried Hilda. “Did I point the stock at that big hawk I shot for coming and stealing my beautiful little chickens?”
“No: I remember now. But bustle! those men want a good tea meal.”
Two hours had not elapsed when, with the two government messengers well refreshed, and their horses dry and ready for a long afternoon’s work, saddle-bags and blankets strapped on, guns and ammunition ready, the doctor sprang upon his horse, and Nic moved toward Sorrel, whose rein was thrown over a post, the boy meaning to ride a few miles of the way.
But the doctor took his hand.
“No,” he said; “your place is here. Keep about the station, except when you take your daily rides round to see to the stock. I leave you in charge, my boy, so take care. I’ll be back at the earliest moment I can.”
The next minute he had embraced Mrs Braydon, touched his horse’s sides, and cantered off after the men, turning twice to wave his hat to the watchers by the door.
Chapter Twenty Six.
“When the Cat’s Away.”
The girls, seeing how pale and depressed Mrs Braydon looked at breakfast next morning, began by way of a diversion to banter their brother by solemnly asking him for orders—whether he was going to be very strict and severe in his rules; whether he intended to put the station in a state of defence, and drill them or train them in the use of their weapons.
Nic took it all in good part, as he made an excellent breakfast, his appetite being sharpened by two hours’ busy work with the men and inspecting some of the stock, ending by finding for the three Englishmen tasks that required performing close about the house, and others for the three blacks, who had promised to be very industrious while the master was away, were also found close at hand.
“They’ll all be here if wanted,” Nic confided to his sister Janet; “for I must go a very long round to drive in some of the cattle on the far run. Father meant to have gone with me to-day.”
“It is hardly necessary to be so particular, dear,” said Janet; “but it will make mother more comfortable. I don’t think I would say that you are going far.”
“No, I did not mean to,” replied Nic. “I shall go round and see that the men are at work all right, and then mount and be off just as if I were only going a little way.”
“When will you be back?”
“About three or four o’clock at the latest.”
Directly after breakfast he went and saw that the men were at work, said a word or two of praise to the blacks, whose faces shone with satisfaction; then going to the stable he saddled his horse, led it to the fence while he fetched his gun, mounted and rode off, unconscious of the fact that Brookes, who was busy in the wood-shed, was watching him.
Samson also rested upon his spade in the garden, and gazed with a smile at the lithe, active lad as he cantered easily away, looking as if he and the beautiful little highly bred horse were one.
Then Leather caught sight of the lad, and his face darkened, as he felt low-spirited and had an intense longing to go with him somewhere far away from the work about the station.
Just at the same moment Bungarolo, who had been busy weeding, raised his keen eyes, noted the direction Nic had taken, gave his trousers a hitch, grinned, dropped upon his chest, and began to creep rapidly like a slug toward the gate in the fence, through which he passed, and continued his way to where the other two blacks were busy cleaning out the cow-shed.
What followed did not take long. There was a whispered jabbering, a happy grin upon each face, and then, as if by one consent, the three blacks stripped off their shirts, unbuttoned and kicked off their trousers, and stood up in their native costume of a waistcloth.
The clothes were bundled together into a corner, three spears and as many nulla-nullas and boomerangs drawn from where they were tucked in the rafters, and the trio astonished a cow tied up in a corner with her tender calf by going through a kind of war dance, and all in silence.
Then the cow felt better in all probability, for there was no sign of the calf being stunned with a club to be cooked for a holiday, the performers of the dance stepping lightly to the door, out of which Bungarolo peered cautiously before dropping down upon his breast and crawling rapidly off to the garden fence, without disturbing the two collies, though Nibbler, who lay as if asleep, opened one eye, lifted his tail, and brought it down with a rap and closed the eye again.
He opened it, though, twice more as the other two blacks passed him in the same way, gave two more sharp raps with his tail, and then sniffed at the last black as if wondering how he would taste. But as he had had a pretty good piece of a drowned sheep, he subsided and closed the eye, not even turning his head to gaze after the three blacks as they glided on right under the fence on the side farthest from the house, and close by where old Sam was contentedly digging, in perfect unconsciousness that the three great children were off to the bush for a jovial day, hunting for fat grubs, honey, snakes, and other picnic delicacies in the glorious open wilds.
Half an hour had passed, during which Brookes went to the door of the wood-shed three times to scowl at Leather; but the convict was hard at work at the end of the wood-yard, chopping away at rails which he was splitting, tapering at the ends and piling on a heap, ready for some fencing that was to be done as soon as there was a little time.
Brookes felt ill-used. He would have liked to find the assigned servant yawning and doing nothing, or taking advantage of the master’s absence to have a nap, and give him cause, as he was in his own estimation head man now, to let loose his tongue at the man he hated intensely.
But there was no excuse, and Brookes went back into the shed.
“I shall catch him yet,” he muttered. “Only let him give me a chance.”
But Brookes could not rest. He pitched the soft bundled-up fleeces about irritably, for they annoyed him. He wanted something hard, and growing more restless from a desire to show his authority, he went to where the two blacks should have been cleaning out the cow-shed.
Brookes had come out of the blinding sunshine, and the shed was dark and cool. He did not see the blacks, but he was not surprised, for their faces would naturally assimilate with the gloom.
“Here, you two,” he growled, “nearly done?” an unnecessary question, for he knew that their task to be done thoroughly would take them some hours at their rate of working.
“Do you hear, you charcoal-faced beggars?” he shouted; but of course all was still, and satisfying himself, by picking up a manure fork, that they were not asleep in a heap of straw by jobbing the handle in savagely, after making an offer with the tines, he uttered a low growl, and, fork in hand, went out to look sharply round about the yards; but not a soul was in sight.
“Ah!” muttered Brookes, “that’s it, is it? Cuss ’em, I might have known.” Then, urged by a sudden thought, he went back into the long cow-shed, and looked round till he caught sight of the old trousers and shirts lying in a heap.
“Hah!” he ejaculated, shaking the fork handle, “just wait till they come back. I’ll make them see stars.”
Then, striding out, he made for the garden, where, with his sleeves rolled up and the neck and breast of his shirt open, old Samson was digging away, turning over the moist earth, and stooping every now and then to pick out some weed that was sure not to rot.
“Hi, Sam!” cried Brookes.
“Hullo!” said the little old fellow, going on with his digging, whistling softly the while.
“Where’s Bungarolo?”
“Down yonder weeding.”
“Nay,” he cried.
“Yes, he is. I saw him ten minutes ago.”
“He’s started off with the other two.”
“Nay!”
“He has, I tell you!” cried Brookes. “They’ve left their rags in the cow-shed, and all gone.”
Samson showed his yellow teeth and chuckled.
“Just like ’em,” he said; “just like ’em.”
“I don’t see anything to grin at,” growled Brookes.
“Nay, you wouldn’t, my lad; but I do. ‘When the cat’s away the mice will play.’ I wonder they’ve stopped steady at work so long.”
“What?”
“They’re on’y big savage children, lad,” said the old man, “and you can’t alter ’em. ‘’Tis their natur’ to.’”
“Natur’ or no natur’, they shan’t play those games while I’m master here.”
“Eh? Didn’t know you was, Brooky.”
“Then you know it now. P’r’aps you’re going to give yourself a holiday.”
“Having one,” said the old man, breaking a refractory clod.
“And going to take yourself off to the bush to have a corroborree with the blackfellows.”
“And if I was I shouldn’t ask your leave, Snaggy,” said the old man, showing more of his teeth. “There, let ’em go. They’ll come back and work all the better after.”
“Heugh!” cried Brookes, giving vent to a final grunt; and he turned away and stalked out of the garden, striking the fork-handle down at every step.
“Lookye here,” said old Samson, taking up a spadeful of earth, and addressing it as if part of the dust of the earth of which he was made, and therefore worthy of his confidence: “sooner than I’d have old Brooky’s nasty temper I’d be a kangaroo or a cat. I’m sorry they sloped off, though. Hang the black rascals! Master Nic’ll be so wild, an’ nat’rally, when he comes back.”
Brookes turned and glared once at old Samson, who occupied the position about the place that he felt ought to be his; and, going straight back past the various sheds, he looked round toward the wood-yard, and then his eyes glistened with satisfaction. Short as the time had been, Leather had left his work.
He paused for a moment or two, to make sure that there was no regular chop-chop at the end of the rails, and with a grin of satisfaction he walked quickly to the spot where he had seen the convict at work.
He looked about the stacks of wood, stepping softly and peering round into shady corners, expecting and hoping to see his fellow-servant asleep; but he was disappointed, and five minutes elapsed before the convict came back, axe in hand.
“Seen either of the blacks about, Mr Brookes?” he said.
“Why?” snarled Brookes.
The convict looked surprised, but he said gently: “I want one of them to come and turn the grindstone handle. This axe is getting very dull.”
“You lie, you lazy hound!” roared Brookes. “I’ve had my eye upon you. Your master’s out, and so you think you’re going to skulk, do you? If there’s any more of it, over you go to Dillon’s for a taste of the cat.”
The blood flushed through the convict’s bronzed skin and his eyes glistened, but only for a moment, and he said quite gently, for he saw Nic in his mind’s eye: “It was the simple truth. I was wasting time.”
“Yes, I know you were wasting time!” roared Brookes. “You’re always wasting time, and I won’t have it. Your master’s out, and I won’t have it. Get on. I’ll have that pile o’ rails done before you leave off to-night; so no more shirking, do you hear?”
A feeling of fierce resentment made the convict’s nerves quiver; but he thought of Nic, and, controlling his anger, he took a step or two to the block on which he cut the rails, picked up one, and gave it a couple of chops.
“Quicker there, lout!” roared Brookes; “and none of your sulky looks with me.”
The convict took up another rail, while Brookes stood over him with the fork-shaft playing up and down in his hand; while, emboldened by the other’s meekness, he went on with a brutal tirade of abuse, calling up every insulting expression he could think of, and garnishing them with bad language, till the convict winced as if under blows.
“Trying to humbug me with your lying gammon about the axe. It’s as sharp as sharp.”
“It is not, sir,” cried the convict, angrily now. “Take it and judge for yourself.”
He held it out so quickly that Brookes started back, and brought down the fork-handle with all his might, striking the axe from the man’s hand.
“What!” he roared. “Would you, you murderous dog? Take that—and that—and that!”
As he spoke he struck again savagely with the stout ash handle, the second blow falling heavily upon the convict’s shoulder, the third coming sharply upon his head and making the blood spurt forth from a long deep cut.
Then the fork was raised for another blow; but, quick as lightning, the convict flung himself forward, and his fist, with all the weight of his body behind it, caught his assailant full in the face, sending him down to strike the back of his head against the edge of the wood block, and lie there yelling for help.
“Murder! help! Sam!” he roared, as he lay there, a ghastly object, with the convict’s foot planted upon his chest, he too bleeding freely from the wound in his head.
At one and the same time Mrs Braydon, her daughters, and old Samson came running up in alarm.
“Here! what’s the matter?” said the latter, while Mrs Braydon turned sick at the horrible sight, and caught at her elder daughter’s hand.
“Can’t you see what’s the matter?” cried Brookes. “Get a gun, Sam, quick! He tried to murder me.”
“No, no!” cried the convict, startled by the charge, and shrinking from the horrified and indignant-looking Mrs Braydon and the two girls.
“He did, missus,” cried Brookes, struggling to his feet. “I had to speak to him for idling, and he struck at me with the axe. There it lies, and if I hadn’t had this fork he’d ha’ killed me. You see, he’s most mad: why don’t you get a gun, Sam?”
“I don’t want no gun,” said old Sam snappishly. “He didn’t cut your head like that with the chopper, did he?”
“Yes, yes: look! I’m bleeding ’most to dead.”
“Looks more as if you’d gone down on the block. There, missus: hadn’t you and the young ladies best go indoors?”
“No; not yet,” cried Mrs Braydon indignantly. “In my husband’s absence too! Man, man, have you not been well treated here?”
“Yes, madam,” said the convict hoarsely.
“Such an outrage—such a cruel outrage on Dr Braydon’s trusted servant!”
“What he said, madam, is not true,” cried the convict, recovering himself now from the giddiness produced by the stunning blow. “I did not, I could not raise the axe to him.”
As he spoke he turned his eyes from Mrs Braydon to her daughters, and he shivered as he saw Janet’s indignant look.
“I tell you he did,” cried Brookes, holding the fork now threateningly, as soldiers would bayonets. “He tried to murder me. Sam, are you going to fetch a gun?”
“Yah! I’m going to fetch a bucket o’ water if you won’t do it yourself. Missus—young ladies, why don’t you go? This ain’t the place for you.”
“No,” said Mrs Braydon, taking Hilda’s hand. “Come in, Janet.”
But for a moment Janet did not stir, held as she was by the convict’s imploring look as he said, addressing Mrs Braydon, though as if for her:
“Indeed, madam, it is not true. This man struck me brutally: I forgot myself—I did strike him in return.”
“Yes,” said Mrs Braydon coldly; and; uttering a sob, Janet gave the convict a reproachful look and followed her mother into the house.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
Brookes Strikes Back.
“That’s better!” said old Sam. “The masters both out, and we’re having a nice day here.”
Leather stood as if turned to stone.
“Let’s look at you,” continued the old man, as he roughly spun Brookes round. “Where’s yer ’ankycher?”
Brookes made a movement to seize the axe, but old Sam kicked it away.
“Let it alone, stoopid! What did you want to tell that lie for? He didn’t hit you wi’ that.”
“I swear he did,” cried Brookes fiercely.
“Then you’d swear anything,” said Sam, binding up the rough cut. “But do you think I’m a fool? Any one can see that wasn’t made with the edge of a chopper. Did he give you that lovely crack in the mouth with the chopper too?”
“I’ll let him see—I’ll let him see!”
“I wouldn’t till I’d washed my face. Sarves you right: you’re allus letting out at somebody. If I warn’t a nat’ral angel in temper I should ha’ let you have it years ago.”
“I’ll let him see—I’ll let him see,” muttered Brookes savagely.
“Better shake hands like a man,” said old Sam.
“Convict or no convict, he’s only give you what you asked for.”
“I’ll let him see,” snarled Brookes; and he went off toward the stable.
“Gone there to one of the buckets,” growled old Sam. “I was going to take you there. Here, let’s have a look at your head.”
“Oh, it’s nothing—nothing,” said Leather hastily.
“Nothing! when you’re bleeding like a pig. Come along to the bothy, and let’s bathe and tie it up. Why, Leather, this looks as if he’d used the axe! Reg’lar clean cut.”
“No, it was with the fork handle. There, it will do me good. Let out some of the hot, mad blood.”
“Ay,” said old Sam, guiding him, for he staggered, to the men’s bothy, and bathing and tying up the wound. “It’s a pity, my lad. I wish you hadn’t hit back, for you see if he should turn nasty and complain—”
Leather looked at him wildly.
“And him like that, there’s no knowing what might come.”
The convict uttered a groan, and caught the old man’s arm.
“I’ll say all I know, my lad; but you see—”
“Yes, yes,” said Leather hoarsely, “I know”; and he sat there on a block of wood which served as a stool, while the old gardener finished the dressing.
“There, that’s a spontanous bit o’ grafting,” he said, “and— ’Ullo! what’s that mean?”
He turned to the doorway, through which they could see Brookes mounted upon one of the horses and cantering straight away.
“Leather, my lad,” said the old man sharply, “he’s our fellow-servant, but he’s a cur. What’ll you do, my lad? He’s gone to Dillon’s, for a silver pound; he’ll make up his tale, and it means the cat.”
Leather sank back against the wall, and gazed wildly toward the house.
“If it was me I’d take to the bush, and—”
“What! not face it out!” cried the convict fiercely. “Own that I was in the wrong! Not if they flog me and send me back to the gang.”
The sudden excitement passed away, and the convict sank sidewise to the floor, perfectly insensible, for he had fainted dead away.
“And I thought I was going to have a good quiet day’s gardening!” said old Sam. “There’s hundreds o’ things wants doing badly, and I’m ’bliged to give up my time to cultivate convicts. I wish to goodness the master was at home; then all this mess wouldn’t ha’ took place.”
But as the old man muttered he kept on acting. Taking some fresh water, he bathed the convict’s temples and tried hard to revive him.
“Give you a clean face if it don’t give you a clean character, my lad. I don’t like you because you’re a convict, that’s all. You’re a good, manly sort o’ chap, and if you’d ha’ been a honest man I should ha’ said you were as good a fellow to work as ever was. Nothing never comes amiss to you, and you and me never had a word in our lives. But you see you are one of the gang and a blackguard and a thief; not as you was ever a blackguard here, nor stole so much as one o’ my taters, which I will say has been big enough and fine enough to tempt any man as was digging ’em, as you was. I know they tempted me, Leather, for I took a dozen nubbly ones and roasted ’em three at a time in a bit o’ fire as Bungarolo made for me; but then I did grow them taters and had a sort o’ right in ’em.”
Old Sam left off talking to the insensible man, and looked at him anxiously as he kept on bathing his face.
“I don’t want to be hard on you, my lad, even if you are a convict. ‘Temptation sore long time you bore,’ p’r’aps before you took it, and your head maybe wasn’t as strong as your hands. But I say, are you a-coming to? None o’ that nonsense! Here! Hi! Leather! Don’t die! Don’t be so stoopid as that just for a whack on the head as’ll heal up in a fortnit.”
He gave the insensible man a shake in his excitement, but it made no impression.
“What am I to do? If I goes and tells ’em at the house it’ll frighten the women, and they can’t do no good. They’d want to burn feathers under his nose. Here, Leather, rouse up, man; don’t be a fool! D’yer hear? Wait till you get back to town, where you can be buried properly; don’t die here!”
Sam began to mop and splash the water almost frantically, as the motionless features before him seemed to grow hard and stem.
“Well, I thought you had more good stuff in you, Leather—that I did,” said the old man piteously. “I don’t wish no harm to nobody, but I wish to goodness you were old Brookes lying here instead o’ yourself, for he’s the wiciousest warmint as ever lived. I never see things go so orkard: it’s worse than locusts or blight. Master going off like that, too, just when he’s wanted. Poor lad! and I can’t do nothing for you, or I would. There, I don’t care what you done, Leather,” he said, “convict or no convict, I forgive you, whatever you did, and here’s my fist.”
He took the strong labour-hardened hand in his, and then dropped it hastily, for just as he pressed it there was a deep sigh and the convict opened his eyes to stare blankly in the old man’s face. Then, as recollection came back, he struggled up into a sitting position, rose to his feet, and stood with one hand resting against the boarded side of the bothy.
“Come, that’s better,” said old Sam. “You’re a-coming round now. I tell you what you do: just you lie down in your bunk and get a good sleep; you’ll be all right then. I began to think as you’d had a lob just a bit too hard. Here, what are you going to do?”
“Go on with my work,” said the convict.
“Yah! That’s foolishness; you can’t do it, Leather.”
“I must,” said the man gravely. “Thank you for what you’ve done, Samson. It was not true. I did not raise the axe against Brookes.”
“I know that, my lad. He’d say anything when he’s nasty. But I’m sorry you hit back—very sorry.”
“Yes, I know,” said the convict; and he walked slowly out of the low wooden building, and five minutes later the regular chop, chop of the axe was heard, and the rattle of rails as they were laid back in a heap.
“Well,” said old Sam, “that’s better than him being as I thought I suppose I may go on with my work now, and get that garden in a bit of order. Well, all I’ve got to say is this: if Brooky’s gone to lay a complaint before the magistrate he’s no man.”
Man or no man, midday had not long passed before old Sam, as he raised himself up from his digging to give his back a bit of a rest, caught sight of a flash of something bright, and there was another flash—the sun glinting from the barrel of a gun; and turning his eyes, there about a mile away, spurring across country, he made out a party of five mounted men advancing at a trot.
The old man drove his spade savagely into the ground and trotted out of the garden and round to the wood-yard, where Leather was going on slowly and laboriously with his rail trimming.
“Leather, my lad,” he said, in a quick whisper, “they’re a-coming over the hill: hadn’t you better go off for a month or two?”
“To be hunted down by the dogs and blacks?” said the convict bitterly. “No, old man; I shall get Justice Day, here or—in the next world.”
“But, my lad,” pleaded the old fellow, “they’re close here.”
“I am ready,” said the convict quietly; and there was a pause.
Then he spoke again.
“Perhaps I shall be sent somewhere else, old man. I shall be marked as dangerous now, and not fit to be at a station where there are ladies. But you’ll tell young Mr Nic the whole truth?—you know what I’ve had to bear.”
“Ay, my lad, I do know.”
“Thank you, Samson. You’ve always been a good fellow to me. Good-bye.”
He passed the axe into his left hand and held out his right, but quickly placed the axe back and stood up firmly, as a heavily built, florid-looking man, mounted upon a fiery horse covered with foam, cantered up, followed by four more men, three of whom, like their leader, bore guns, while the fourth was Brookes with his head tied up, his face swollen, distorted, and still smeared with dried blood—altogether a horrible-looking object—but he sat his horse firmly enough.
As the leader rode up he lowered the gun he carried and spurred his hesitating horse close up to the convict, as if fully prepared to drive in the spurs and ride him down.
“Surrender!” he shouted. “Down with that axe, quickly, or I’ll send a charge of buckshot through you.”
Leather looked him straight in the eyes and threw down the axe.
“Here, Belton: handcuffs.”
One of his men dismounted, handed his gun and rein to a companion, took a pair of heavy handcuffs from the strap which held his blanket to the saddle, and advanced to where the convict stood with folded arms.
These were dragged roughly apart, and click!—one iron was about a wrist. Then the other arm was seized, dragged downward, and click! the convict’s wrists were secured behind his back, just as Mrs Braydon and her two daughters came hurrying out; and seeing what had taken place, Janet uttered a low cry, and would have fallen but for her sister’s arm.
The convict saw it, and his lips quivered for a few moments. Then he stood up with his head erect, gazing straight before him.
“Mr Dillon!” cried Mrs Braydon.
“Your servant, my dear madam,” said the new arrival, raising his hat as he rode forward. “Young ladies, yours. Don’t be alarmed, Miss Braydon: there is no danger now. I am very sorry that this outrage has taken place in the doctor’s absence. Your poor man rode over, and I came instantly.—Too glad to have been of service.”
Mrs Braydon’s lips moved, but no word was heard.
“Where is the young squire?” continued the visitor.
“My brother has gone out on a round, I suppose, Mr Dillon,” said Hilda quickly. “But—but what are you going to do?”
“What a neighbour should, my dear young lady. What your father would do for me or any of our friends. See that wives and daughters are protected in every way.”
Then, turning quickly, he rode back a few yards.
“Go on, my lads,” he said to his followers. “I’ll overtake you directly.”
The man who had handcuffed Leather loosened one end of a hide rope from his saddle-bow, and secured it to the irons on the convict’s wrists.
“Say, Mr Dillon, sir,” said old Sam, who had been dividing his time between scowling at Brookes and watching what was going on. “That there poor chap can’t walk ten mile over to your place. He’s only just come out of a swound.”
“Indeed!” said the visitor, with a laugh. “We shall see. Now forward!”
The little procession moved off; Belton first, with his prisoner, and the two others with their guns across their saddle-bows following.
Then Mr Dillon rode back to the ladies.
“I am very sorry, Mrs Braydon. I wish you had kept away from this painful scene.”
“Yes, it is very terrible,” said the trembling woman. “But—it was in a fit of passion, I suppose, Mr Dillon. You will not be very severe?”
“I have a duty as a magistrate to perform, ladies, and I must be just. Your man has been barbarously attacked; and living as we do with these convict servants about, more in number in places than we are ourselves, any hesitation would be stamped by them as weakness, and our very existence would be at stake.”
“But he has always been a good, hard-working man, Mr Dillon,” pleaded Janet.
“And so long as he behaved, my dear Miss Braydon, the government said, ‘You can have almost your freedom.’ He and other assigned servants know the bargain with the government. Good behaviour—liberty; bad behaviour—punishment.”
“But till my husband returns,” faltered Mrs Braydon, “you will wait?”
“These things cannot wait, madam. The law here must be administered firmly and sharply.”
“But you will investigate the case?”
“It has been investigated, Mrs Braydon,” said Mr Dillon stiffly. “Your man came to me, with witnesses who cannot lie, branded upon his face. Ladies, I respect your gentle, merciful feelings; but if you had the governance here, in a short time the Crown Colony would be a pandemonium, ruled over by a president too vile to live.”
“Hear him!” growled Brookes.
“D’yer want me to kick yer?” whispered old Samson savagely.
“But you will wait? Keep him a prisoner for a time, Mr Dillon,” pleaded Mrs Braydon, as she saw her elder daughter’s agonised look.
“My dear madam, I must study your husband and the commonweal of this colony,” said the magistrate firmly. “Good morning.”
“But—you wish refreshments?” faltered Mrs Braydon.
“Some other time, madam. My visit now must be very painful to you all.”
He raised his hat, spurred his horse, and galloped off after his men; while, as Mrs Braydon stood gazing after him, Janet uttered a low wail, flung her arms about her sister’s neck, and whispered, “Take me in, dear. I cannot bear it, take me in.”
“Janet, my child!” cried Mrs Braydon; and in an agony of suffering she helped to lead the agitated girl into the house, while old Sam trotted off into the stable, and came back with a halter in his hand to where Brookes stood, shading his swollen-up eyes with one hand, holding the rein of his horse with the other.
“Thank ye, mate,” he said, as he saw the halter, “but I dunno as I want it. Take the horse in for me; I want a wash. Don’t s’pose Mr Leatherhead’ll hit at me again.”
“Yes,” said old Sam in a husky voice, “I’ll take the poor horse. Here, ketch hold. How are you a-going to face Master Nic when, he comes back?”
“Face him!” cried Brookes savagely: “I’ll face him and show him what his fav’rite has done. He shall see my face, and then he may go and look at his convict’s back and see how he likes that.”
“Here, ketch hold,” cried old Sam, shaking the rope.
“Tell you I don’t want it,” cried Brookes savagely.
“And I tell you you do,” said the old man fiercely. “Take it and go right off to the first big green bough in the bush.”
“What for?” cried Brookes, with his swollen eyelids opening wide.
“To use it—on yourself; for such a man as you ain’t fit to live.”
Chapter Twenty Eight.
And all in Vain.
“Cooey—cooey!” shouted Nic, as he came cantering up over the soft, fine grass a couple of hours later toward the house; but no one was in sight, and he turned off toward the stables just as Brookes came out of the wool-shed.
“Why, hullo! What’s the matter? Had a fall?”
“Had a fall!” cried the man savagely. “Look here.” But old Sam had been watching for his young master’s return, and he hurried up.
“Won’t you listen to me, Master Nic?” he cried. “Let me tell the tale.”
“Nic! Nic! come here quick!” cried Hilda, running from the house.
The boy looked wildly from one to the other, threw the rein to old Sam, and ran to his sister.
“Hil dear, what is the matter?—mother?” For answer she threw her arms about her brother’s neck, and sobbing out told him all.
“And Janet—fits of hysterics?”
“Yes; I don’t understand her, Nic. Mother can’t leave her. What shall you do?”
“Go in to them!” said Nic firmly; and giving his sister a push toward the house, he ran back to where the two men stood growling at each other and the horse impatiently stamping as it stood between them and tugged to get away.
“Here you, Brookes,” cried Nic imperiously, “tell me how it happened.”
“He was as nasty as nasty, because the blacks—” began old Sam.
“Silence!” roared Nic. “I did not speak to you.” Old Sam started in amazement, for it seemed to be a strong man speaking, not a boy.
“Now you, Brookes.”
Brookes told the same tale he had told Mr Dillon when he rode over to Wattles Station, embellishing it with cuts—that is to say, showing his wounds.
“No chopper would make a place like that!” cried Nic fiercely. “I don’t believe a word of it, you brute. It’s a lie.”
“So it is, Master Nic,” cried Sam, showing his teeth. “He give it to the poor fellow brutal.”
“Tell me, then—all you know. Quick, man, quick!”
“Oh, if father had been at home!” as soon as he had heard the old man’s tale. Then snatching the rein, he threw it over Sorrel’s head, touched the beautiful little creature’s sides and went off at a gallop.
“Who’s that?” cried Janet, starting up wildly as the hoofs were heard beating on the turf.
“Nic!” cried her sister, running to the window to look out. “He has gone off at a gallop.”
“Gone!” cried Mrs Braydon—“and at a time like this!”
“He has galloped off. I know: he has gone over to save that poor fellow.”
Janet uttered a low sigh, and as Mrs Braydon turned to her wonderingly the poor girl fainted away.
Meanwhile, urged now as he had never been urged before, by voice and heel, Sorrel forgot his long morning’s ride, and stretching out like a greyhound skimmed over the soft turf like a swallow in its flight.
Nic rode on with his heart a prey to varying emotions. He knew perfectly well that the convict’s fate would be that of all unruly assigned servants. He had heard it from old Sam again and again,—how that if Jack did not behave well, he was sent by his master to another station, where he would have so many dozen lashes of the cat-o’-nine-tails and be sent back; while another time Joe, who had behaved ill at that next station, was sent across to the first. So the masters avoided the administration of punishment to their own men, but punished those of their neighbours. It was the rough-and-ready custom in the early days of the colony, and common enough for small offences. Where a convict servant’s offence became a crime, he was returned to the prisons—marked.
To Nic, then, it was horrible that the man for whom he had gradually grown to feel a warm sense of friendship should suffer this horrible indignity. It would be, he felt, an outrage; for he was as fully convinced as if he had been present that Leather had been maddened by Brookes’s ill usage until he struck him down.
The boy felt old as he galloped on in the direction of the Wattles Station. He had never been there, but he knew it lay some ten or a dozen miles away to the north, and he hoped to find it by riding on and on till he came upon flocks of sheep, and then going up some one or other of the eminences, and looking about till he caught sight of white buildings, which would be the place. This would come the easier from the fact that stations were built close to water, but high enough up to be beyond the reach of floods.
When he had gone three or four miles he began to repent not bringing Nibbler, who would, in all probability, have been there in his time, and consequently might take it for granted, when going in that direction, that his young master was aiming at this place. But in his excitement he had thought of nothing but getting over there; and faint, hungry and hot, he began now to find that he had done a foolish thing.
A chill ran through him at the idea of missing the place, and he was about to change his direction and ride up a hill to his left; when it suddenly struck him that after once starting he had done nothing in the way of guiding his horse, which kept right on in one direction, merely deviating to avoid great trees or patches of scrub.
Then he uttered a joyful cry, for gazing down he could see hoof marks faintly on the thick grass, and it dawned upon him that these were quite fresh, and the horse was following them as steadily as if going along a main road.
Elated by this he slackened the rein just sufficiently to feel the horse’s mouth, and left it to itself. And then it galloped in its easy, swinging pace, with its rider leaning forward, heart-sick where the footprints were invisible, and exultant as he caught sight of them again and again, after feeling that all was over and the trail entirely lost.
“If I only were clever as one of the blacks,” he thought. “Bungarolo, Rigar, or Damper would follow the faintest trail.”
But their services were needless here. The sorrel nag had been to the Wattles more than once before its young master’s time, and, besides, its natural instinct led it to gallop along where its fellows had been before.
Two great ostrich-like birds started up from right and left, and though he had not come across them before Nic knew that they must be emus; but he only glanced at them as they raced away, with the rapid motion of their legs making them almost as invisible as the spokes of a running wheel. Twice over, too, he saw a drove of kangaroos, which went flying over the bushes in their tremendous leaps; but they excited no interest now. He must get to the Wattles soon, or he would be too late.
It was a long ten miles—more probably twelve—and Nic’s heart was low, for he seemed to have been riding three hours, and he began to fear that the horse would go on following tracks until rein was drawn, so he stopped; when all at once, as they turned a clump of magnificent gum trees standing alone upon a beautiful down, there below him, and not a mile away, was the place he sought—a group of buildings, with the sheep and cattle dotting the country as far as his eye could range.
And now he checked his horse’s speed to a gentle canter, and thought of what he should do.
He knew that he would be most welcome as a stranger, much more so as Dr Braydon’s son; so he rode straight up to the fence, leaped down, and hitched his rein over a post close to where several saddles rode upon a rail, and was going up to the door of the house, when Mr Dillon himself appeared, and came to meet him with a friendly nod.
“Dr Braydon’s son, for a wager!” he cried.
“Yes,” said Nic; and before he could say another word the big, bluff-looking squatter shouted:
“Hi, Belton! Come and rub down and feed Mr Braydon’s nag. Now, my lad, come in. We’re just going to have a meal, and you must be hungry after your ride.”
Nic was hungry after his ride, which was a far longer one than Mr Dillon guessed, for the boy had had nothing since the morning, and the mention of food struck a responsive chord in his breast. But he had not come to visit, and, flushing slightly, he spoke out at once, plunging boldly into the object of his coming, though he felt that the magistrate knew.
“Thank you, no, Mr Dillon,” he said. “I have come over about our man.”
“So I supposed,” said Mr Dillon, smiling; “but we can talk as we eat.”
“I can’t at a time like this, sir,” said Nic. “I’ve come for him, please, to take him back with me.”
“Indeed!” said Mr Dillon, smiling. “Do you know all that happened?—while you were out, I presume?”
“Yes, everything, sir, and how you were misinformed.”
“Misinformed, was I?” said Mr Dillon pleasantly. “I think not.”
“But you were, sir, indeed. I know both the men so well.”
“I suppose so, my lad. Let me see, you have been in the colony quite a short time?”
“Yes; but I’ve seen a great deal of them,” cried Nic, whose face burned with annoyance at the magistrate’s look of amusement.
“And you are, of course, a good judge of convict servants?”
“I know nothing about any but our own men, sir. But I have heard everything, sir, and I am sure that our man Leather does not deserve to be punished. It would be unjust.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, sir: I’m sure of it.”
“And you want to take him back with you?”
“If you please, sir—now. I know the man so well, and I am certain that I can answer for there being no more trouble.”
“That’s speaking broadly, my boy,” said Mr Dillon, slapping Nic on the shoulder; “but comes tea—dinner’s ready, and we can continue our argument as we have it.”
Nic shook his head.
“I couldn’t eat, sir, with that poor fellow in such trouble,” he said.
“Well, that’s very kind and nice of you, my boy,” said Mr Dillon, “and I like you for it; but come now, let’s be reasonable. You see, I am the magistrate of this district, but I want to talk to you, not like a man of law, only as your father’s friend and neighbour.”
“Yes, I felt that you would, sir,” said Nic, who was encouraged.
“Your father has, I suppose, left you in charge of his station?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, boys out here have to act like men, and I like your manly way about this business. You came back, found out the trouble, and rode over directly to set it right?”
“Yes, sir—exactly.”
“That’s all very right and just; only as a man of long experience, young Braydon, you see, I know better how to manage these troubles than you possibly can—a lad fresh over from school.”
“Yes, sir, I suppose so,” said Nic, “in most cases; but I do know our man better than you.”
“You think so, my lad; but you are wrong. He was my servant first.”
“Still, you will let our man come back with me, sir?”
“In your father’s absence, my boy, I have too much respect for him, too much interest in the safety of your mother and sisters, to send back unpunished a desperate man.”
“Don’t say that, sir. You don’t know Leather indeed.”
“‘Nothing like Leather,’” said Mr Dillon, smiling. “Yes, I should think he was a great favourite of yours. But, come now, my boy; you have done your part well. Here, come in and have a good meal. Your man has done what many more of these fellows do—broken out in a bit of savagery. He is shut up safely in yonder, too much done up for me to say anything to him to-night; but tomorrow morning he will be tamed down a bit, and kept for three or four days to return to his senses, and then he will come back and go on with his work like a lamb.”
“Mr Dillon, you don’t know him, sir!” cried Nic earnestly. “Such a cruel act would drive the poor fellow mad.”
“I know him, and I know you, my boy. There, you are young and enthusiastic; but I see, plainly enough, you have been too much with this fellow. There, frankly, you have been with him a good deal?”
“Yes, sir,” said Nic.
“Precisely. And he has not corrupted you, but he has made you believe that he is an injured, innocent man. Frankly, now, is it not so?”
“Yes, and I do believe,” said Nic quietly.
“Exactly. Well, my dear boy, you see I do not; and if you will take my advice you will have nothing to do with him in the future.”
“Mr Dillon, you are mistaken,” cried Nic. “Pray—pray do not punish him!”
“My dear young friend, pray—pray don’t you interfere with a magistrate’s duties.”
“Then you will not let him come, sir?”
“Certainly not, for at least a week.”
“But, Mr Dillon, promise me that—that you—you will not flog him,” said Nic, in a husky whisper.
“I promise you, my good lad, that tomorrow morning I shall have him out in front of my men and my four assigned servants—convicts, and have him given a good sound application of the cat. Now that business is settled in a way that ten years hence you will agree is quite just; so come in like a sensible young neighbour, have a good feed, and I’ll ride part of the way back with you after.”
“Do you mean this, sir?” said Nic hoarsely.
“I always say what I mean, boy, and act up to it. Once more, come in.”
Nic walked straight to where the man was rubbing down his horse, stopped him, picked up and girthed his saddle, saw to the bridle, and then mounted, while Mr Dillon stood watching him, half amused, half angry.
Then a thought struck Nic, and he bent down as if to reach the cheek-piece of the bit, and slipped a shilling into the man’s hand.
“Where’s our man shut up?” he whispered.
“In the big shed behind the house,” said the man, staring.
Then at a touch Sour Sorrel started off.
“Going now?” shouted Mr Dillon.
Nic raised his hand to his hat as he galloped off, but he did not turn his head.
“The conceited young puppy!” cried Mr Dillon angrily, as he watched the boy’s receding form; “and he wouldn’t eat bread and salt. He deserves to be flogged himself for his obstinacy. I don’t know, though: I wish I’d had a boy like that.”
He re-entered the house, and Nic rode on homeward, the slowest, saddest ride he had had since he entered the colony, for as soon as he was out of sight of the house he drew rein and let Sorrel walk.