Camp Fire Yarns of the Lost Legion Part 9

I stuck to the tiller until the boat turned turtle, when I was, of course, thrown out, and was swimming at her stern as the keel rose from the water. The boat had a very deep false keel, and I saw that everyone had got hold of it. Just as the squall was thinning the boat rolled over and righted herself, and in the lull I shouted to the men to leave go their hold on the gunwale and join me, so that we could try and swing the stern to the wind, when perhaps one man could get in and bail her out. But they would not listen. They all tried to scramble into her at once, and over she went again. This happened twice, and I could not get the men to obey me, or try to do anything to save themselves. They all seemed to be mad with fright; one even kicked savagely at me as I tried to get him to leave go his hold on the keel. I saw the only chance to save my own and their lives was to try to swim ash.o.r.e, and get help and another boat from the station.

I had at least two miles to swim; and that in the teeth of a southerly buster, which I could see was now coming on in full force. I was dressed only in a thin flannel shirt and trousers; the latter I easily tore off, but I determined to keep on my canvas shoes, as I would have a long run round the beach to get to the house--that is to say, if I ever got on sh.o.r.e. This was very problematical, as not only had I the gale to contend against, but I knew the bay and sound swarmed with sharks; and the evening before I had sat on a rock and shot at the brutes as they were tearing to pieces the bodies of a lot of old and worthless sheep that had been killed and thrown into the sea.

Well, the sharks would have their chance at me now, and turn and turn about is only fair play. In tearing my trousers off I sank a bit, and on coming up I shouted to the men I would try to bring them help, and started. Just then down came the true gale. The wind rushing through the tops of the mountains struck the water as if forced through a funnel, and tore it into foam and spray, which not only blinded me, but simply drove me under the water, and I quickly saw I must dodge the fierce blasts by diving. I was a very powerful swimmer and had the lungs and wind of an ostrich, so that, whenever I saw a cloud of water dust coming at me, down I went and swam under water for all I was worth. Then, when I had to come up for air, if there was a lull in between the squalls, I would strike out with a good long side-stroke, and make all the way I could.

This sort of thing went on for a long time, and I thought of and used every dodge I had ever learned or heard of to save my strength and use it to the very best advantage. My long experience in scouting and despatch-riding had trained me to think quickly and to act decisively.

I was as cool as a cuc.u.mber and as hopeful as a boy setting out to rob an orchard. The water was warm. I was in splendid fettle, and I had a wild feeling of elation, as I dodged the squalls, that was simply grand, although my eyes ached and smarted with the spray. If it had not been for the danger of my helpless mates I should have simply revelled in my struggle against the elements. As I rose for air, during a lull, I took a good look at the land, and was surprised at the very rapid progress I was making.

For a minute I could not understand it. I was certainly drawing more under the lee of the land, and the squalls were not so fierce as at the first start, but still I was quite a mile off, and they were bad enough; but all at once I understood what was befriending me; it was the tide.

It had been slack water when the accident had happened, and the tide had turned and was simply helping me all it knew; now I felt certain of getting ash.o.r.e, bar accidents. Yet, bar accidents, I was all right; but there were other things also, as I quickly discovered, for when I determined it was no longer necessary for me to dodge the squalls, and had settled down to a long, steady side-stroke, I glanced to my right, and there, not thirty feet from me, was a long, triangular fin sticking out of the water, which I knew belonged to a shark of the largest size. Instinctively I turned to the left. There was another one; and as I raised myself in the water and looked astern of me, there was a third.

To say I was in a funk is not to tell the truth; funk does not fully describe my feelings. I knew what funk was; I had been in a funk before, plenty of times. I had been in many a tight and hot corner before. I had often looked at what might be certain death, but then I had weapons in my hand and the prospect of a good fight before I went under; but now I was helpless. There was to be no fight, there could be no fight. I had not even a knife, and had I possessed one I was outnumbered and outcla.s.sed.

As I trod water for a few moments I knew what real fear was. I had never felt it before, and, thank heaven! I have never felt it since. I can't describe my feelings, and I would not if I could. Certainly it was not the fear of death that caused these sensations; but it seemed so hard that I, who had almost overcome my danger, should be turned into long pig for a beastly shark.

But my cowardice did not last long. I was still at least three-quarters of a mile from sh.o.r.e; the good tide was still sweeping me in, and my wild Irish blood all at once boiled up in me. My duty to myself and mates required me to get on sh.o.r.e, and get on sh.o.r.e I would. If a shark took me, well and good, kismet. Stick to my work I would, shark or no shark; so I fell into my stroke, and swam as if there had not been a shark within a degree of lat.i.tude of me, escorted by a guard of honour I never want again.

Yes, I got ash.o.r.e, those d--d sharks keeping company all the way; and when my foot hit bottom and I stumbled through the shallow water and fell on the sand there they still were, cruising about, not a stone's-throw away, as if they were the most harmless beasts in the ocean. Why did they not go for me? I don't know; certainly my time had not yet come, kismet. As soon as I had taken a few breaths I looked for the boat, but could not see her for the dense spray which the gale, now at its worst, was kicking up; so I started to run the four miles round the bay to the station. The rough beach and rocks soon cut my soaked shoes to pieces and, as the soles became detached, I had to run with bare feet, and suffered awfully. Fain would I have halted and rested, but my mates' danger spurred me on, and I ran as if a Maori, with his tomahawk, were after me.

I came to the head of the bay and suddenly remembered that between me and the house there was another very deep indent of the sea. At the mouth it was not more than 250 yards across, but it ran very far inland, and with my feet in the state they were it would take me hours to get round. No, I must swim it; and I was just plunging in, notwithstanding the squalls, which were tearing the surface of the water into dust, when I was struck with the horrid thought of sharks, and for a moment I paused like a coward on the brink.

It was only for a moment. Curse the sharks! my mates were on the boat; and in I went and crossed after a hard swim. To get to the house, rouse up the other partner and the one remaining man, and to get out a small whale-boat did not take many minutes. We manned the boat, peaked the oars and ran before the gale. We came up to the derelict in mid-sound, rolling over and over, but not a sign of a man was on her, nor was a single body ever found. We ran across the sound, beached the boat, and, when the gale subsided, pulled back.

This is, I think, the nearest call I have ever had, and if there is any moral in my yarn it is to leave drink alone, keep in training, do your duty by yourself and mates, and trust to your luck while doing so. Since then I have always hated sharks. The curse of Cromwell be on them.

CHAPTER IX

HELD UP BY A BUSHRANGER

(_Told by the Old Ident.i.ty_)

It took place in the early seventies. I was in Australia, and was temporarily in command of a body of Mounted Police, doing duty as gold escort--a very necessary precaution in those days. On one occasion I was travelling up-country, accompanied by four troopers, when a big squatter, a friend of mine, asked leave to ride with my small party, as he was carrying a quant.i.ty of gold up-country with him to his station. Of course I was delighted to have his company, and we set out.

All along the road there were plenty of shaves (rumours) of bushrangers, but for three days we never saw one. At noon on the fourth day we halted at a bush shanty to feed, water and rest our horses.

The bush shanties, in those days, were as a rule vile poison shops, the owners and their employees being usually hand in glove with every scoundrel, cattle thief and bushranger in the country, giving them information as to the movements of the police, and in many cases sharing with them their plunder.

However, with a party like ours there was nothing to fear, at least so I thought; so when we dismounted and handed over our horses to the troopers to lead to the stockyards, some little distance from the house, myself and my friend entered. It was a long, one-roomed building, with a bar running the whole length of it, and the only door at one end.

There was no one inside but the bar-tender, as hang-dog-looking a ruffian as I have ever set eyes on. Foolishly, as it proved, as I entered I unbuckled my belt with sword and revolver attached and threw them on a bench by the door. Then we strolled together to the far end of the bar and, hot and thirsty with our long ride in the burning sun, called for drinks.

Gla.s.ses in hand, we stood with our backs to the door, and were just about to sample our poison when we heard the ominous words: "Bail up!"

Turning round, I saw a wicked-looking devil standing in the doorway.

He had me covered with the heavy revolver he carried in his right hand, while its mate, ready for action, was gripped in his left by his side.

He was a well-made, tough-looking chap, very muscular and strong, without carrying an ounce of superfluous flesh, and dressed in the ordinary up-country dress. His face, clean-shaven, was covered by a black mask, but I noticed a well-cut mouth, a determined chin, and his eyes gleamed through the holes of his visor with a glint there was no mistaking, while the hand that held the gun was as steady as a rock.

Then I realised that he was between me and my weapons, which lay on the bench by the door.

A man who has pa.s.sed years in bush-fighting, scouting and despatch-riding thinks quickly and acts decisively. Had there been the slightest tremor in wrist or lips I should have slung my gla.s.s at him, and risked a rush; but there was not a sign of a tremble, and I knew that the slightest hostile movement on my part would not only lead to my certain death, but would be quite useless.

My friend and the villainous bar-tender, the latter with a broad grin on his ugly mug, had at once bailed up, and as there was no chance of help from my troopers, who by that time must have off-saddled and be attending to the horses at the stock-yard, some way off, I knew we were cornered and beaten.

"Captain," said the bounder, "I guess I've got you. Bail up."

"I'll see you d----d first," I replied.

"I've got you," he retorted, "and I'm on the shoot. Sling your money on the counter, and"--this to my friend--"sling that bag down too."

The squatter was standing with his hands above his head, so evidently could not do so, and the bushranger said to me: "Captain, sling that bag over here."

"Rot!" was my discourteous reply; so he turned to the blackguard behind the bar, who was probably in league with him, and said, "Joe, you do it." And the bag was promptly thrown to him.

Then he said to me, and I noticed he changed his voice, dropping the Yankee slang and idiom he had previously used, and speaking with a well-modulated and refined accent: "Captain, I don't want anything from you." (This was just as well, as I had nothing.) "But," he continued, "how long start will you give me?"

I said: "Five minutes."

"Word of honour?"

"Yes."

"So long." And with that he backed out, and in a moment I heard the beat of a horse's hoofs starting at a gallop. My friend was raving mad, and wanted me at once to alarm my troopers, but I said: "No; you'd got your gun with you just now, why did you not use it?" When five minutes had pa.s.sed I gave the order to saddle up; but of course the man had got clear away. I never knew who he was, but a man shot shortly afterwards by one of my troopers was believed to be he, and most probably was.

CHAPTER X

ON THE SCOUT IN NEW ZEALAND

(_Told by the old Kai Tongata_)

It was in June 1869 that Te Kooti, chief of the rebel Hau Haus, caught a party of mounted volunteers on the hop, at a place called Opepe, on the high plateau near Lake Taupo. The men, worn out by a long march, and soaked through by the cold winter rain and sleet, had taken shelter on some old whares (huts) and were trying to dry themselves when a few Maoris came up, and, declaring themselves to be friendlies, joined them at their fires.

More and more of them gradually arrived, until the volunteers were outnumbered, and then, on a signal being given, the natives sprang on their unsuspecting victims, and the tomahawk did the rest. The victors did not stay long at the blood-stained spot. They knew that Colonel McDonnell, Colonel St John and, worse than anyone, Major Ropata Te Wahawaha, with his friendly Ngatiporou, were not far away, and that it behoved them to hump themselves and travel before the avengers could reach them. Some of the volunteers had escaped, and two of them joined up with Colonel St John's column, with which I was serving, the same evening as the ma.s.sacre took place.

It was at once boot and saddle, and before nightfall we had marched to Opepe.

Colonel St John had reached the spot before us, in fact the men cut up belonged to his column, and he had only left them the morning of the ma.s.sacre to rest themselves and horses, while he went on to visit a Maori chief about ten miles away.

Next morning we were on the spoor, and followed it through rough pumice-stone gullies for some miles, in pouring rain and sleet, then lost all trace of them in a dense scrub of manuka bush, so we returned to Opepe for the night.