In Bad Company and other stories

'I'll never forget your kindness,' said Jenny, as she shook hands warmly with the friend in need. 'You'll let me know directly you hear anything.'

'You may depend on that. Good-bye till Saturday; the up-river mail will be in then.' As she passed out, a stoutish, middle-aged man came in.

'Morning, Calthorpe. Comforting the widow or the orphan? Saw she was in trouble.'

'Deuced hard lines,' said the Manager gravely. 'Very decent people – selectors at Chidowla, near Curra Creek. Her husband's got into trouble – committed for trial about that burning of the Dundonald.'

'Serve him right, too. Those Union fellows are playing the deuce all over the country. If they're not stopped there's no saying what they'll do next. The country's going to the devil. The Government won't act with decision, while property is being destroyed and life menaced every day. I don't blame the men so much; it's these rascally agitators that ought to suffer, and they mostly get out of it.'

'I'll never believe that Bill Hardwick went in for the steamer-burning business,' said the banker, 'though he seems to have got mixed up with it somehow. There's some cur working it, I'm sure. He's got a decent stake in the country himself. He'd never risk losing his farm and the money that he's saved. I won't believe it till it's proved.'

'But he must have been with those Union fellows or they couldn't have arrested him,' answered the squatter. 'What was he doing in a Union Camp? Comes of keeping bad company, you see. I'm sorry for his wife – she seems a good sort; but if a man takes up with such people, he must pay the penalty.'

And then the Manager went keenly into his client's business, removing all thought of Bill's hard luck and Jenny's sad face from his mental vision. But after his day's work was done, and his books duly posted up, as he took his usual walk round the outskirts of the township, the 'case of William Hardwick, charged with arson in the matter of the steamer Dundonald,' recurred again and again with almost painful iteration.

'Must be a put-up job!' he ejaculated, as he turned towards the unpretending four-roomed cottage which served him for dwelling-place, office, and treasure-house. His clerk and assistant, a young fellow of twenty, in training for higher posts when the years of discretion had arrived, slept there with him.

But both took their meals in the best hotel of the township (there were only two) – a more interesting way of managing the commissariat than house-keeping where servants were scarce, as well as presenting distinct advantages from the cooking side. It may be added that they were never absent from the bank at the same time.

In addition to the convenience of the latter arrangement a country banker in Australia finds his account in a general suavity of demeanour. Bits of information then fall in his way, which a less cordial manner would not have attracted.

At the ordinary table of the Teamsters' Arms, Talmorah, being a great 'carrying centre,' all sorts and conditions of men were represented. Not that the partially renovated swagman or bullock-driver sat at meat with the correctly attired squatter, station-manager, or commercial traveller. Such is not the fashion in rural Australia. Meals, except in case of illness, are not served in private rooms – a limited staff of servants forbidding such luxury. But a second table is provided, of which the lower tariff practically effects a separation between the socially unequal sections. If not, a hint is never wanting from the prudent but decisive landlord.

At the bar counter, however, a nearer approach to democratic equality is reached; and it was here that Mr. Calthorpe caught a few words that decided him to ask for a glass of beer, while a rather heated argument was being carried on.

'Heard about Bill Hardwick fallin' in, over that steamer-burnin' racket?' queried a sunburnt teamster, whose dust-enveloped garb and beard proclaimed a long and wearisome trail.

'We all heard of it,' answered the man addressed – an agricultural-appearing person, not so distinctively 'back-block' in appearance as the first speaker – 'and we're dashed sorry it's true in this quarter. Bill's a neighbour of mine, and a straighter chap never stepped. I don't hold with that sort of foolishness that the Union's been carryin' on lately. I joined 'em and so did Bill, and I'd be as well pleased I hadn't now, and so'd he I reckon. But as for him helpin' to burn a steamer, I'd just as soon believe he'd stick up this bank.'

'Banks is one thing and Union leaders is another,' decided the man from the waste, finishing a portentous 'long sleever.' 'But a chap's fool enough to go with his crowd now and again; he don't care about being ticketed as a "blackleg." Why shouldn't Bill do it as well as another?'

'Because he's the wrong sort; he's married and has a couple of kids. His wife's a hard-working, savin' kind of woman as ever you see – always at it from daylight to dark. Besides, he's lookin' to go in for another selection. That's not the sort of chap that goes burnin' sheds and steamers. It's a bloomin' plant, I'll take my oath.'

'That's your notion, is it?' quoth the teamster, who, having imbibed as much colonial beer as would have half-drowned a smaller and less desiccated man, was disposed to be confidential. 'I wouldn't say as you're far out. I was comin' by Quambone with Bangate wool – forty-five bales of greasy – it's now onloadin', and I'd a yarn with a chap that was in the Union Camp at Moorara. He kep' as far back as he could, and cleared out first chance. Of course they was all mixed up when the firin' came, and some of 'em, as hadn't wanted to go too far, took their chance to cut it. But afore he went, he heard Stoate ('you know him?' – the listener nodded) tell another of the "committy," as they called theirselves, "that he'd fix up Bill Hardwick if it come to a trial – if any man had to do a stretch over it, he'd not get off."

'"How'll you work that?" says the other cove. "He's never gone solid along of us; and now he'll be dead agen Unionism, and no wonder. He told some one this morning he'd lost his shearing cheque."'

'So that's the way they nobbled him,' said his hearer. 'Infernal bloomin' scoundrels to swear a man's liberty away. Bill's got a friend or two yet, though, and money in the bank, though some of them spoutin' loafers has his cheque in their pockets. So long.'

The gaunt, sun-baked teamster departed to turn out his bullocks, and generally recreate after his journey, deferring till the morrow the pleasant process of receiving his cheque for carriage and safe delivery of his valuable load – over five hundred pounds' worth of merino wool.

But Mr. Calthorpe, the banker, who, without listening to the whole conversation, had caught Bill's name occasionally, touched Donahue's arm (for that perfunctory agriculturist it was) as he turned reluctantly homeward, and questioned him concerning his late acquaintance's words.

Nothing loath, indeed gratified with the chance of placating the local potentate who wielded the power of life and death (financially) over him and others, he cheerfully disclosed all that he had heard, being, moreover, a good-natured, obliging sort of fellow, as indeed thriftless persons often are.

'Now, look here, Donahue!' said the great man. 'I've a liking for Hardwick, whom I've always found a steady and industrious chap, that it's a pleasure to help. Some men are not built that way, Dick' – here he looked Donahue squarely in the face. 'They idle their time, and spend the money drinking and horse-racing that ought to go to paying their debts and keeping the wife and children.' Mr. Donahue looked embarrassed, and gazed into the distance. 'But I want your help to take this business out of winding, and if you'll work with me, I might– I don't say I will, mind you – recommend the Bank to give you time to pay off the arrears on your selection.'

Dick Donahue, whose cheerful demeanour covered an aching heart and remorseful feelings whenever he thought of the possibility of the family losing their home because of his want of steady industry, turned round, almost with the tears in his eyes, as he said, not without a touch of natural dignity —

'Mr. Calthorpe, I'd do what I could for Bill, who's a better man than myself, with all the veins of my heart – as poor old father used to say – and ask no return in the world; and for Jenny Hardwick, who's been a good head to Biddy and the children (more shame for me that they wanted help), I'd risk my life any day. And if you think well of givin' me more time to pay up, I've got a fencing contract from Mr. Dickson, after the New Year, and I'll never touch a drop till it's finished, and give you an order on him for the lot.'

'All right, Dick, we can arrange that; you work like a man and do your duty to your family, and you'll find a friend in me.' He held out his hand, which the repentant prodigal shook fervently, and turned away without another word.

Nothing more was said on that day, but in the following week Richard Donahue, fairly well turned out, and riding a horse 'fit to go for a man's life,' as he expressed it, started 'down river,' leaving Mrs. Bridget in a state of mind very different from that with which she ordinarily regarded her husband's absence from home 'on business,' always uncertain as to return and rarely satisfactory as to remuneration.

CHAPTER VII

The inland town of Wagga Wagga, in New South Wales, historically celebrated as the dwelling-place of the Tichborne Claimant, where that lapsed scion of the aristocracy followed the indispensable but not socially eminent occupation of butcher, was, if not en fête, pardonably excited at the arrival of the Judge and officers of the Assize Court to be holden on the morrow.

This traditional spectacle – almost as interesting as the Annual Race Meeting or the Agricultural Show – was afforded to the inhabitants at half-yearly intervals. The curiosity aroused by these unfamiliar personages, before whom were decided the issues of freedom or imprisonment, life or death, was concentrated and intense. The Judge who presided, the Bar, the Deputy Sheriff, the Crown Prosecutor, the Associate, were objects of admiration to the denizens of a city three hundred miles from a metropolis – chiefly ignorant of other than rural life, and to whom the ocean itself was almost unknown. To the jurymen, culled from the town dwellers and the surrounding farms, the summons to aid in the administration of justice was a memorable solemnity.

The compulsory withdrawal from their ordinary avocations was fully compensated by urban pleasures, and doubtless aided their intelligent comprehension of the laws of the land.

Among the townspeople a certain amount of social festivity was deemed appropriate to the occasion.

It may therefore be imagined that among the young men and maidens the infrequent procession of the Judge's carriage, escorted by the Superintendent of Police and half-a-dozen troopers, well armed, mounted, and accurately turned out, created a thrill of pleasurable anticipation.

These feelings were heightened by the fact that Wagga (as, for convenience, the thriving town on the Murrumbidgee River was chiefly designated) stood at the edge of a vast pastoral district, being also bounded by one of the finest agricultural regions of Australia.

The cases to be tried at this sitting of the Court concerned as well the great pastoral interest as the army of labourers, to whom that interest paid in wages not less than ten millions sterling annually.

Punctually as the Post-office clock struck ten, the Court House was filled, great anxiety being shown to behold the six prisoners, who were marched from the gaol and placed in the dock, a forbidding-looking, iron-railed enclosure with a narrow wooden seat. On this some promptly sat down, while others stood up and gazed around with a well-acted look of indifference. Bill Hardwick had never been in such a place before, and the thought of what Jenny's feelings would be if she had seen him there nearly broke his heart. He sat with his head covered with his hands – the picture of misery and despair. He knew that he was to be defended – indeed had been closely questioned long before the day of trial about his conduct on the eventful morning of the burning of the Dundonald.

He had asserted his innocence in moving terms, such as even touched the heart of the solicitor, hardened as he was by long acquaintance with desperate criminals as well as cases where plaintiffs, witnesses, and defendants all seemed to be leagued in one striking exhibition of false swearing and prevarication calculated to defeat the ends of justice.

'That's all right,' said the lawyer, 'and I believe every word you've said, Bill, and deuced hard lines it is – not that I believe defendants generally, on their oath or otherwise. But you're a different sort, and it's a monstrous thing that you should have to spend your hard-earned money on lawyers and witnesses to defend yourself from a false charge. But what we've got to look to, is to make the Judge and jury believe you. These d – d scoundrels that were on for burning the boat, saw you with a gun in your hand while the affair was going on, and will swear to that, back and edge. Your friend Stoate, who isn't here yet, but will be up in time for the trial, will clinch the nail, and he can bring the constable to back him up, who saw you holding a gun. He doesn't say more than that, but it goes to corroborate. The jury must go by sworn evidence. There's only your own statement, which won't weigh against deponents, who've apparently nothing to gain on the other side.'

'It's all the spite of that hound Stoate,' cried out Bill passionately. 'He was crabbed for my belittling him in the Tandara shed. He's put those Unionists up to ruining me, and I'll break his neck when I get out, if I have to swing for it.'

'No, you won't, Bill! If you get a sentence, which I hope you won't, when you come out you'll be so jolly glad to find yourself free, that you won't want to go back even for revenge. But never mind that for the present; we must look things in the face. It's a thousand pities you couldn't get some of those chaps that were driven into the hut along with you, by the Unionists, the first night. Any idea where they've gone? Know their names?'

'They went down the river, I heard say. They're hundreds of miles away by this time. What's the use of knowing their names?'

'That's my business. It's wonderful how people turn up sometimes. Come, out with their names – where they came from – all you know about them.'

Thus adjured, Bill gave their names and a sketch of personal appearance, home address, and so on. 'All of them were natives, and some of them, when they were at home, which was not often, had selections in the same district.' This being done, Mr. Biddulph folded up the paper, and left Bill to his reflections, telling him that he could do nothing more for him at present, but to 'keep up his pecker,' and not to think the race was over till the numbers were up.

This quasi-encouragement, however, availed him but little. 'He had lost his shearing cheque; and here was money,' he sadly thought, 'being spent like water, to prove him innocent of a crime for which he never should have been charged. His wife would be nearly killed with anxiety, besides being made aware that they could not now think of buying Donahue's or any other selection. How everything had gone wrong since he rode away from home that morning with Stoate (infernal, blasted traitor that he was!), and had been going from bad to worse ever since. It was against Jenny's advice that he joined the Union. She had a knack of being right, though she was not much of a talker. Another time – but when would that be?'

So Bill – 'a hunter of the hills,' more or less, as was the Prisoner of Chillon – had to pass the weary hours until the day of trial, and he could exchange the confinement of the gaol for the expansive scenery of the dock – restricted as to space, certainly, but having an outlook upon the world, and a sort of companionship in the crowd of spectators, lawyers, and witnesses, finishing up with the Judge.

At this judicial potentate Bill looked long and wistfully. He had an idea that a Judge was a ruthless administrator of hard laws, with a fixed prejudice against working-men who presumed to do anything illegal, or in fact to trouble themselves about anything but their work and wages. However, he could not fail to see in this Judge a mild, serious, patient gentleman, showing greater anxiety to understand the facts of the case than to inflict sentences. Still, he was only partly reassured. Might he not be one of those benevolent-seeming ones – he had heard of such – who would talk sweetly to the prisoner, reminding him of the happy days of childhood, and his, perhaps, exemplary conduct when he used to attend Sunday School – trust that he intended to lead a new life, and then paralyse him with a ten years' sentence, hard labour, and two days' solitary in each month?

He did not know what to expect. Wasn't there Pat Macarthy, who got three years for assault with intent to commit grievous bodily harm (certainly he more than half killed the other man)? Well, his wife worked his farm, and slaved away the whole time, denying herself almost decent clothes to wear. At the end of his term, he came out to find her hopelessly insane; she had been taken to the Lunatic Asylum only the week before.

Bill hardly thought that Jenny would go 'off her head,' in the popular sense. It was too level and well-balanced. But if he was sentenced to three or five years more of this infernal, hopeless, caged-in existence, he expected he would.

The prisoners that he had watched in the exercise yard didn't seem to mind it so much. But they were old and worn-out; had nothing much to wish themselves outside for. Others did not look as if they had worked much in their lives – had indeed 'done time' more than once, as the slang phrase went, content to loll on the benches in the exercise yard and talk to their fellow-convicts – not always after an improving fashion. But to him it would be a living death. Up and out every morning of his life at or before daylight, – hard at work at the thousand-and-one-tasks of a farm until it was too dark to tell an axe from a spade, – how could he endure this cruel deprivation of all that made life worth living?

Fortunately for him, in one sense, the day of his trial was absolutely perfect as to weather. Bright and warm – it was late December – the sky unflecked by a single cloud. But there was a cool, sea wind, which, wandering up from the distant coast, set every human creature (not in sickness, sorrow, or 'hard bound in misery and iron'), aglow with the joy of living. It raised the spirits even of that plaything of destiny known among men as William Hardwick, so that as the whispering breeze stole through the open windows of the Court he held up his dejected head and felt almost like a man again.

The proceedings commenced, the jury had been impanelled. The Crown Prosecutor threw back his gown, and fixing his eyes on the Judge's impassive countenance opened the case.

'May it please your Honour, you will pardon me perhaps if, before calling witnesses, I sketch briefly the state of affairs which, more or less connected with the strike of 1891, has developed into a condition of matters perilous to life and property, and altogether without precedent in Australia.

'From a determination on the part of the seamen on coasting steamers to refuse work unless certain privileges were granted to them by the owners, a commencement was made of the most widespread, important, and, in its effects, the most disastrous strike ever known in Australia. Into the question of the adequacy or otherwise of the wage claimed, it is not my intention to enter.

'The consequences, however, of the refusal of these seamen and others to continue at work except under certain conditions, were far-reaching, and such as could not have been reasonably anticipated. The revolt, as it was called by the leaders of the movement, spread from sea to land, and throughout all kinds and conditions of labourers, with startling rapidity.

'Many of these bodies of workmen could not have been thought to have been concerned with the original dissentients, by any process of reasoning. But by the leaders of the rebellion – for such it may truly be designated – the opportunity was deemed favourable for the promulgation of what are known as communistic or socialistic doctrines. More especially was this observable in the conduct of a large body of workmen, members of the Australian Shearers' Union. Guided by ambitious individuals of moderate education but considerable shrewdness, not wholly unmingled with cunning, the shearers, and indeed the whole body of labourers connected with the great wool export, had been misled. They were asked to believe that a conspiracy existed on the part of the representatives of capital, whether merchants, bankers, or landholders – indeed of all employers, whether private individuals or incorporated companies – to defraud the labourer of his hire.

'Inflamed by seditious pamphlets and utterances, shearers and others banded themselves together for the purpose of intimidating all workmen who were unwilling to be guided by the autocratic Unions, and arranged on their own terms with employers.

'Not only did they, by "picketing," – an alleged method of moral suasion, but in reality a policy of insult, annoyance, and obstruction, – forcibly prevent other workmen from following their lawful occupations, but they commenced to destroy the property of the pastoral tenants, believed to be opposed to Union despotism. As a specimen of the inflammatory language used, perhaps your Honour will permit me to read an extract from a paper published in the (alleged) interest of the working classes.'

His Honour 'thought that however such extracts might indicate a tendency on the part of certain sections of workmen to engage in acts of violence causing injury to property, – a most lamentable state of feeling, in his opinion, – yet the Court was directly concerned to-day with only specific evidence as to the complicity of the prisoners in the crime of arson on which they were arraigned. He thought the extract at this stage irrelevant.'

'After drawing the attention of your Honour and the jury to the seditious, dishonest statements referred to, I will briefly refer to the lamentable list of outrages upon property, not stopping short indeed of personal violence and grievous bodily injury.

'Matters have reached such a pitch that a state of civil war may be said to have commenced. If not only the country but the towns and cities of Australia are not to be theatres of bloodshed, outrage, and incendiary flames, from which, by the mercy of Providence, Australia has up to this period been preserved, the law in its majesty must step in, and adequately punish the actors in the flagrant criminality as to which I have to address your Honour this day.'

The prisoners, having been duly arraigned, with one accord pleaded not guilty. The last name was that of William Hardwick. Just before his name was called, room was made in the crowded Court and a seat provided by the Sergeant of Police for a woman with two children, whose travel-worn appearance denoted recent arrival.

Bill turned his head, and in that fragment of time recognised Jenny with their little boy and girl. His name had to be repeated a second time. Then he drew himself up, squared his shoulders, and looking straight at the Judge, said 'Not Guilty' in a voice which sounded throughout the Court, and if it had not the ring of truth, was a marvellous imitation.

Poor Jenny, who had preserved a strained, fixed look of composure, broke down at this juncture. The sight of her husband, standing in the dock with men of crime-hardened and to her eyes of guilty appearance – one of whom, indeed, wore leg-irons, which clanked as he moved – overcame all attempts at self-possession. Her sobs were audible through the whole Court.

'Wife of the prisoner, your Honour,' explained the sergeant. 'Just off the coach; been travelling twenty hours without rest or sleep.'

'Had she not better stay in the witnesses' room?' suggested the Judge sympathetically. 'Refreshment can be brought to her there.'

But Jenny, though temporarily overcome, was not the woman to give in at such a time. Wiping her eyes, 'I've come a long way, if you please, your Honour,' she said, 'to hear my man tried on a false charge, if ever there was one; and I hope you'll let me see it out. I'll not disturb the Court again.'