Such Is Life Part 45

"Poor Dan! He walked behind the wagonette all the way, crying softly, like a child, and never taking his eyes from the little shape under the soaking wet blanket. Hard lines for him! He had heard her voice calling him, not an hour before; and now, if he lived till he was a hundred, he would never hear it again.

"As soon as we reached the station, I helped Andrews, the storekeeper, to make the little coffin. Dan would n't have her buried in the station cemetery; she must be buried in consecrated ground, at Hay. So we boiled a pot of gas-tar to the quality of pitch, and dipped long strips of wool-bale in it, and wrapped them tight round the coffin, after the lid was on, till it was two ply all over, and as hard and close as sheet-iron.

Ay, and by this time more than a dozen blackfellows had rallied-up to the station.

"Spanker arranged to send a man with the wagonette, to look after the horses for Dan. The child's mother wanted to go with them, but Dan refused to allow it, and did so with a harshness that surprised me. In the end, Spanker sent Ward, one of the narangies. I happened to camp with them four nights ago, when I was coming down from Kulkaroo, and they were getting back to Goolumbulla. However," added Thompson, with sublime lowliness of manner, "that's what I meant by saying that, in some cases, a person's all the better for being uncivilised. You see, we were nowhere beside Bob, and Bob was nowhere beside the old lubra."

"Had you much of a yarn with the poor fellow when you met him?" I asked.

"Evening and morning only," replied Thompson, maintaining the fine apathy due to himself under the circ.u.mstances. "I was away all night with the bullocks, in a certain paddock. Did n't recognise me; but I told him I had been there; and then he would talk about nothing but the little girl.

Catholic priest in Hay sympathised very strongly with him, he told me, but could n't read the service over the child, on account of her not being baptised. So Ward read the service. His people are English Catholics.

Most likely Spanker thought of this when he sent Ward. Dan didn't seem to be as much cut-up as you'd expect. He was getting uneasy about his paddock; and he thought Spanker might be at some inconvenience. But that black beard of his is more than half white already. And--something like me--I never thought of mentioning this to Bob when he was here. Absence of mind.

Bad habit."

"This Dan has much to be thankful for," remarked Stevenson, with strong feeling in his voice. "Suppose that thunderstorm had come on a few hours sooner-- what then?"

There was a silence for some minutes.

"Tell you what made me interrupt you, Thompson, when I foun' fault with singin'-out after lost kids," observed Saunders, at length. "Instigation o' many a pore little (child) perishin' unknownst. Seen one instance when I was puttin' up a bit o' fence on Grundle--hundred an' thirty-four chain an' some links--forty-odd links, if I don't disremember. Top rail an' six wires. Jist cuttin' off a bend o' the river, to make a handy cattle-padd.i.c.k. They'd had it fenced-off with dead-wood, twelve or fifteen years before; but when they got it purchased they naterally went-in for a proper fence. An' you can't lick a top rail an' six wires, with nine-foot panels "----

"You're a bit of an authority on fencin'," remarked Baxter drily.

"Well, as I was sayin'," continued Saunders; "this kid belonged to a married man, name o' Tom Bracy, that was workin' mates with me. One night when his missus drafted the lot she made one short; an' she hunted roun', an' called, an' got excited; an' you couldn't blame the woman. Well, we hunted all night-me, an' Tom, an' Cunningham, the cove that was engaged to cart the stuff on-to the line. Decent, straight-forrid chap, Cunningham is, but a (sheol) of a liar when it shoots him. Course, some o' you fellers knows him. Meejum-size man, but one o' them hard, wiry, deepchested, deceivin' fellers. See him slingin' that heavy red-gum stuff about, as if it was broad palin'. Course, he was on'y three-an' twenty; an' fellers o' that age don't know their own strenth. His bullocks was fearful low at the time, on account of a trip he had out to Wilcanniar with flour; an' that's how he come to take this job "

"Never mind Cunningham; he's dead now," observed Donovan indifferently.

"Well as I was tellin' you," pursued Saunders, "we walked that bend the whole (adj.) night, singin' out 'Hen-ree! Hen-ree!' an' in the mornin' we was jist as fur as when we started. Tom, he clears-off to the station before daylight, to git help; an' by this time I'd come to the conclusion that the kid must be in the river, or out on the plains. I favoured the river a lot; but I bethought me o' where this dead-wood fence had bin burnt, to git it out o' our road, before the gra.s.s got dry. So I starts at one end to examine the line o' soft ashes that divided the bend off o' the plain--an' har'ly a sign o' traffic across it yet. Had n't went, not fifteen chain, before I b.u.mps up agen the kid's tracks, plain as A B C, crossin' out towards the plain. Coo-ees for Cunningham; shows him the tracks; an' the two of us follers the line o' ashes right to the other end, to see if the tracks come back. No (adj.) tracks. So we tells the missus; an' she clears-out for the plain, an' me after her. Cunningham, he collars his horse, an' out for the plain too. Station chaps turns-up, in ones an' twos; an' when they seen the tracks, they scattered for the plain too.

Mostly young fellers, on good horses--some o' them good enough to be worth enterin' for a saddle, or the like o' that. Curious how horses was better an' cheaper them days nor what they are now. I had a brown mare that time; got her off of a traveller for three notes; an' you'd pa.s.s her by without lookin' at her; but of all the deceivin' goers you ever come across"----

"No odds about the mare; she's dead long ago," interposed Thompson.

"About two o'clock," continued Saunders cheerfully, "I was dead-beat an' leg-tired; an' I went back to the tent, to git a bite to eat; an', comin' back agen, I went roun' to have another look at the tracks.

Now, thinks I, what road would that little (wanderer) be likeliest to head from here? An' I hitches myself up on a big ole black log that was layin'

about a chain past the tracks, an' I set there for a minit, thinkin'

like (sheol). You would n't call it a big log for the Murray, or the Lower Goulb'n, but it was a fair-size log for the Murrumbidgee.

I seen some whoppin' redgums in Gippsland too; but the biggest one I ever seen was on the Goulb'n. Course, when I say 'big,' I mean measurement; I ain't thinkin' about holler sh.e.l.ls, with no timber in 'em. This tree I'm speakin' about had eleven thousand two hundred an' some odd feet o' timber in her; an' Jack Hargrave, the feller that cut her"----

"His troubles is over too," murmured Baxter.

"Well, as I was tellin' you, I begun to fancy I could hear the whimper of a kid, far away. 'Magination, thinks I. Lis'ns fit to break my (adj.) neck. Hears it agen. Seemed to come from the bank o' the river. Away I goes; hunts roun'; lis'ns; calls 'Hen-ree!'; lis'ns agen. Not a sound. Couple o'

the station hands happened to come roun', an' I told 'em. Well, after an hour o' searchin' an' lis'nin', the three of us went back to where I heard the sound. I hitches myself up on-to the log agen, an' says I:

"'This is the very spot I was,' says I, 'when I heard it.' An' before the word was out o' my mouth, (verb) me if I did n't hear it agen!

"'There you are!' says I.

"'What the (sheol) are you blatherin' about?' says they.

"'Don't you hear the (adj.) kid?' says I.

"'Oh, that ain't the kid, you (adj.) fool!' says they, lookin' as wise as Solomon, an' not lettin'-on they could n't hear it. But for an' all, they parted, an' rode roun' an' roun', as slow as they could crawl, stoppin' every now an' agen, an' listening for all they was worth; an' me settin' on the log, puzzlin' my brains. At last I hears another whimper.

"'There you are again!' says I.

"An' one cove, he was stopped close in front o' the b.u.t.t end o' the log at the time; an' he jumps off his horse, an' sticks his head in the holler o' the log, an' lets a oath out of him. Fearful feller to swear, he was.

I disremember his name jis' now; but he'd bin on Grundle ever since he bolted from his ole man's place, in Bullarook Forest, on account of a lickin'

he got; an' it was hard to best him among sheep; an' now I rec'lect his name was d.i.c.k--d.i.c.k--it's jist on the tip o' my (adj.) tongue"----

"No matter hees name," interposed Helsmok; "he have yoined der graat mayority too."

"Well, as I was sayin'," continued the patient Saunders, "we lis'ned at the mouth o' the holler, an' heard the kid whinin' inside; an' when we sung-out to him, he was as quiet as a mouse. An' we struck matches, an' tried to see him, but he was too fur along, an' the log was a bit crooked; an' when you got in a couple o' yards, the hole was so small you 'd wonder how he done it. Anyhow, the two station blokes rode out to pa.s.s the word; an' the most o' the crowd was there in half-an-hour. The kid was a good thirty foot up the log; an' there was no satisfaction to be got out of him.

He would n't shift; an' by-'n'-by we come to the impression that he could n't shift; an' at long an' at last we had to chop him out, like a bees' nest.

Turned out after, that the little (stray) had foun' himself out of his lat.i.tude when night come on; an' he'd got gumption enough to set down where he was, an' wait for mornin'. He'd always bin told to do that, if he got lost. But by-'n'-by he heard 'Hen-ree! Hen-ree!' boomin' an'

bellerin' back an' forrid across the bend in the dark; an' he thought the boody-man, an' the bunyip, an' the banshee, an' (sheol) knows what all, was after him. So he foun' this holler log, an' he thought he could nt git fur enough into it. He was about seven year old then; an' that was in '71-- the year after the big flood--an' the shearin' was jist about over.

How old would that make him now? Nineteen or twenty. He left his ole man three year ago, to travel with a sheep-drover, name o' Sep Halliday, an' he's bin with the same bloke ever since. Mos' likely some o' you chaps knows this Sep? Stout b.u.t.t of a feller, with a red baird. Used to mostly take flocks for truckin' at Deniliquin; but that got too many at it--like everything else--an' he went out back, Cooper's Creek way, with three thousand Gunbar yowes, the beginnin' o' las' winter, an' I ain't heard of him since he crossed at Wilcanniar"----

"No wonder," I observed; "he's gone aloft, like the rest."

There was a pause, broken by Stevenson, in a voice that brought constraint on us all:

"Bad enough to lose a youngster for a day or two, and find him alive and well; worse, beyond comparison, when he's found dead; but the most fearful thing of all is for a youngster to be lost in the bush, and never found, alive or dead. That's what happened to my brother Eddie, when he was about eight year old. You must remember it, Thompson?"

"Was n't my father out on the search?" replied Thompson. "Tom's father, too.

You were living on the Upper Campaspe."

"Yes," continued Stevenson, clearing his throat; "I've been thinking over it every night for these five-and-twenty years, and it seems to me the most likely thing that could have happened to him was to get jammed in a log, like that other little chap. Then after five years, or ten years, or twenty years, the log gets burned, and n.o.body notices a few little bones, crumbled among the ashes.

"I was three or four years older than Eddie," he resumed hoa.r.s.ely "and he just worshipped me. I had been staying with my uncle in Kyneton for three months, going to school; and Eddie was lost the day after I came home.

We were out, gathering gum--four of us altogether--about a mile and a half from home; and I got cross with the poor little fellow, and gave him two or three hits; and he started home by himself, crying. He turned round and looked at me, just before he got out of sight among the trees; and that was the last that was ever seen of him alive or dead. My G.o.d!

When I think of that look, it makes me thankful to remember that every day brings me nearer to the end. The spot where he turned round is in the middle of a cultivation-paddock now, but I could walk straight to it in the middle of the darkest night.

"Yes; he started off home, crying. We all went the same way so soon afterward that I expected every minute to see him on ahead. At last we thought we must have pa.s.sed him on the way. No alarm yet, of course; but I was choking with grief, to think how I'd treated the little chap; so I gave Maggie and Billy the slip, and went back to meet him. I knew from experience how glad he would be.

"Ah well! the time that followed is like some horrible dream. He was lost at about four in the afternoon; and there would be about a dozen people looking for him, and calling his name, all night. Next day, I daresay there would be about thirty. Next morning, my father offered 100 reward for him, dead or alive; and five other men guaranteed 10 each. Next day, my father's reward was doubled; and five other men put down their names for another 50. Next day, Government offered 200. So between genuine sympathy and the chance of making 500, the bush was fairly alive with people; and everyone within thirty miles was keeping a look-out.

"No use. The search was gradually dropped, till no one was left but my father.

Month after month, he was out every day, wet or dry, and my mother waiting at home, with a look on her face that frightened us--waiting for the news he might bring. And, time after time, he took stray bones to the doctor; but they always turned out to belong to sheep, or kangaroos, or some other animal. Of course, he neglected the place altogether, and it went to wreck; and our cattle got lost; and he was always meeting with people that sympathised with him, and asked him to have a drink--and you can hardly call him responsible for the rest.

However, on the anniversary of the day that Eddie got lost, my mother took a dose of laudanum; and that brought things to a head. My father had borrowed every shilling that the place would carry, to keep up the search; and there was neither interest nor princ.i.p.al forthcoming, so the mortgagee-- Wesleyan minister, I'm sorry to say--had to sell us off to get his money.

We had three uncles; each of them took one of us youngsters; but they could do nothing for my father. He hung about the public-houses, getting lower and lower, till he was found dead in a stable, one cold winter morning.

That was about four years after Eddie was lost."

Stevenson paused, and restlessly changed his position, then muttered, in evident torture of mind:

"Think of it! While he was going away, crying, he looked back over his shoulder at me, without a word of anger; and he walked up against a sapling, and staggered--and I laughed!--Great G.o.d!--I laughed!"

That was the end of the tank-sinker's story; and silence fell on our camp.

Doubtless each one of us recalled actions of petty tyranny toward leal, loving, helpless dependents, or inferiors in strength--actions which now seemed to rise from the irrevocable past, proclaiming their exemption from that moral statute of limitations which brings self-forgiveness in course of time. For an innate Jehovah sets His mark upon the Cain guilty merely of bullying or terrifying any brother whose keeper he is by virtue of superior strength; and that brand will burn while life endures.

(Conversely--does such remorse ever follow disdain of authority, or defiance of power? I, for one, have never experienced it).