Babes in the Bush

CHAPTER XX

AN UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENT

An expedition was to be organised in spring, and the stock removed, no matter where. It would be the only chance for their lives. As it was, the winter was fast coming upon them. Every blade of the ordinary herbage had disappeared. The nights commenced to lengthen. Frosts of unusual severity had set in. Even now it seemed as if their last hope might be destroyed and their raft dashed on the rocks ere it was floated.

But one morning Dick Evans came up to Wilfred, sadly contemplating the attenuated cows which now represented the once crowded milking-yard. He was riding his old mare, barebacked, with his folded coat for a saddle, and spoke with unusual animation.

‘I believe we’re right for the winter after all, sir. I never thought to see this, though old Tom told me he’d know’d it happen once afore.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I took a big walk this morning to see if I could find tracks of this old varmint. I thought she might be dead, but I warn’t satisfied, so I took a regular good cruise. I found some tracks by the lake, where I hadn’t been for some time, and there sure enough I finds my lady, as snug as a wallaby in a wheat patch. Look how she’s filled herself, sir.’

Wilfred replied that the old mare appeared to have found good quarters.

‘When I got to the lake, sir, I was reg’lar stunned. It was as dry as a bone, but through the mud there was a crop of “fat hen” comin’ up all over, miles and miles of it, as thick as a lucerne field on the Hunter. The old mare was planted in a patch where it was pretty forrard. But it’s growin’ so’s you can see it, and there’ll be feed enough in a week or two for all our cattle and every hoof within twenty miles of the lake.’

‘Wonderful news, Dick; and this “fat hen,” as you call it, is good and wholesome food for stock?’

‘Can’t beat it, sir; first-chop fattening stuff; besides, there’s rushes and weeds growin’ among it. You may pound it, we’ll have no more trouble with the cattle for the winter, and they’ll be in good fettle to start south in the spring.’

This was glorious news. It was duly related at the breakfast-table, and after that meal Wilfred and Guy betook themselves to the lake. There they beheld one of Nature’s wondrous transformations.

The great lake lay before them, dry to its farthermost shore. The headlands stood out, frowning in gloomy protest against the conversion of their shining sea into a tame green meadow. Such, in good sooth, had it actually become. Through the moist but rapidly hardening mud of the lake-surface millions of plants were pushing themselves with vigour and luxuriance, caused by the richness of the ooze from which they sprang. Far as the eye could see, a green carpet was spread over the lately sombre-coloured expanse. The leaves of the most forward plants were rounded and succulent, while nothing could be more grateful to the long-famished cattle than the full and satisfying mouthfuls which were in parts of the little bays already procurable.

Even now, guided by the mysterious instinct which sways the hosts of the brute creation so unerringly, small lots had established themselves in secluded spots, showing by their improved appearance how unusual had been the supply of provender.

‘What a wonderful thing,’ said Guy; ‘who would ever have thought of the old lake turning into a cabbage-garden like this? Dick says this stuff makes very good greens if you boil it. Why, we can let Churbett and the Benmohr people send their cattle over if it keeps growing – as Dick says – till it’s as high as your head. But how in the world did this seed get here? That’s what I want to know. The lake hasn’t been dry for ten years, that’s certain, I believe. Well, now, did this seed – tons of it – lie in the mud all that time; and if not, how was it to be sowed, broadcast, after the water dried up?’

‘Who can tell?’ said Wilfred. ‘Nature holds her secrets close. I am inclined to think this seed must have been in the earth, and is now vivified by the half-dry mud. However it may be, it is a crop we shall have good cause to remember.’

‘I hope it will pull us through the winter and that’s all,’ said Guy. ‘I mustn’t be done out of my trip down south. I want to find a new country, and make all our fortunes in a large gentlemanlike way, like Mr. St. Maur told us of. You don’t suppose he goes milking cows and selling cheese and bacon.’

‘You mustn’t despise homely profits, Guy,’ said the elder. ‘Some of the largest proprietors began that way, and you know that “Laborare est orare,” as the old monks said.’

‘Oh yes, I know that,’ said the boy; ‘but there’s all the difference between Columbus discovering America, or Cortez when he climbed the tree in Panama and saw two oceans, and being the mate of a collier. I must have a try at this exploring before I’m much older. There’s such a lot of country no one knows about yet.’

‘You will have your chance, old fellow, and your triumph, like others, I hope. But remember that obedience goes before command, and that Captain Cook was a boy in a collier before he became a finder of continents.’

Wilfred found it necessary to ride over to Benmohr to arrange definitely about the time of departure. He had nearly reached the well-known gate when a horseman rode forward from the opposite direction. He was well mounted, and led a second horse, upon which was a pack-saddle. Both animals were in better condition than was usual in this time of tribulation.

Effingham was about to pass the stranger, whose bronzed features, half concealed by a black beard, he did not recall, when he reined his horses suddenly.

‘You don’t remember me, Mr. Effingham. I am on my way to the old place. I’ve got something to tell you.’

It took more than another glance to enable him to recognise the speaker, and then it was a half-instinctive guess that prompted him to connect the bold black eyes and swarthy countenance with Hubert Warleigh.

‘The same,’ said the horseman. ‘I saw you did not know me; most likely took me for a station overseer or a gentleman. I was a swagman when you saw me last, so I’m getting on, you see.’

‘I beg you a thousand pardons,’ said Wilfred, shaking his hand cordially. ‘I did not know you at first sight; the beard alters your appearance, you must admit. I hope you are coming to stay with us. My father will be delighted to see you. He often speaks of you.’

‘I thank him, and you too. If my father had been like him, I should have been a different man. But I had better tell you my business before we go farther. They say you are going to shift the cattle; is that true?’

‘We start almost at once. But we haven’t settled the route.’

‘That’s just as well. I’ve found a grand country-side away to the south, and came to show you the way – that is, if you believe my story.’

‘Look here,’ cried Wilfred excitedly, ‘come with me to Benmohr to-night, and we’ll talk it over with Argyll and Hamilton. We must hold a council over it. It’s near sundown, and I intended to stay there.’

Hubert Warleigh drew back. ‘I don’t know either of them to speak to. The fact is, I have lived so much more in the men’s huts than the masters’ until the last few months, that I don’t fancy going anywhere unless I’m asked.’

‘Come as my friend,’ said Wilfred impetuously. ‘It is time you took your proper position. Besides, you are the bearer of good tidings – of news which may be the saving of us all.’

He allowed himself to be persuaded. So the two young men rode up to the garden gate, at which portal they were met by Argyll. Ardmillan and Neil Barrington were playing quoits on the brown lawn. Fred Churbett (of course) was reading in the verandah.

‘Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Hubert Warleigh,’ said Wilfred. ‘He has just come in from a journey, and I have prevailed on him to accompany me.’

‘Most happy to see you, Mr. Warleigh,’ said Argyll, with cordial gravity. (He knew all about ‘Gyp’ Warleigh, and had probably said contemptuous things, but accepted Wilfred’s lead, and followed suit.) ‘The man will take your horses. Effingham, you know your way to the barracks.’

Hubert Warleigh followed his newly-acquired comrade into the building, where the appearance of matters indicated that some of the other habitués had been recently adorning themselves. Mrs. Teviot, however, promptly appeared on the scene with half-a-dozen towels, and supplies of warm water.

‘Weel, Maister Effingham, this is a sair time and a sorrowfu’. To think o’ a’ the gentlemen gangin’ clean awa’, and a’ the milch kye, puir things, into thae waste places o’ the yearth, and maybe deein’ o’ drouth or hunger, and naebody to hae a crack wi’ but thae fearsome saavages ‘It’s very hard upon all of us, Mrs. Teviot, but if it won’t rain, what are we to do? We can’t stay at home and let the cattle die. You know the Israelites used to take away their beasts in time of famine, and they seem to have had them pretty often.’

‘How do you do, Mrs. Teviot?’ said Warleigh. ‘How’s Wullie this dry weather? I suppose you forget me staying a night in the hut with old Tom Glendinning, three or four years ago.’

‘Gude sake, laddie!’ said the old woman in a tone of deep surprise, ‘and is that you, clothed and in your right mind, like the puir body in the Book? And has some one casten oot your deevil? Oh, hinnie! but I’m a prood woman the day to see your father’s son tak’ his place amang gentlefolk ance mair. The Lord guide ye and strengthen ye in the richt path! Man, ye lookit sae douce and wiselike, hoo was I to ken ye, the rantin’ dare-deevil that ye were syne?’

‘I have been living among the blacks, Mrs. Teviot,’ said the prodigal, with a transient glance of humour in his deep eye; ‘perhaps that may have improved me. But I am going to try to be a gentleman again, if I don’t find it too dull.’

‘Aweel! The denner is dishen’ up the noo; dinna wait to preen yersels ower muckle,’ added the good old dame as she vanished.

In despite of her warning, her old acquaintance produced several articles of raiment from the large valise, which had been unstrapped from his led horse, and proceeded to change his dress. When they walked into the house Wilfred thought he had rarely seen a handsomer man.

His clear, bronzed complexion, his classically cut features, his large dark eyes, with, what was then more uncommon than is the case now, a bushy, coal-black beard, made the effect of his countenance picturesque and striking in no ordinary degree.

His tall and powerful frame, developed by toil and exercise into the highest degree of muscular strength, was perfect in its symmetry as that of a gladiator. His very walk showed the effect of years of woodcraft, with the hunter’s lightness of footstep, and firm, elastic tread. As he entered the dining-room there was a look of surprise, even admiration, visible on every face.

‘Mr. Warleigh,’ said Argyll, ‘allow me to make my friends known to you. Hamilton, my partner – Ardmillan – Forbes – Neil Barrington – Fred Churbett. Now, you are all acquainted. Dinner and Mrs. Teviot won’t admit of further formalities.’

In despite of his former preferences for humble companionship, and his depreciation of his own manners and habitudes, Wilfred was pleased and interested by the unaffected bearing of his protégé during the dinner ceremony. He well knew all the men present by reputation, though they had no previous acquaintance with him, except, perhaps, as a stock-rider on a cattle-camp.

Without attempting to assume equality of language or mingle in discussion, for which his lack of education unfitted him, he yet bore himself in such self-possessed if unpretending fashion as impressed both guests and entertainers.

When the dinner was cleared away, and pipes were lit, in accordance with the custom of bachelor households (O’Desmond’s always honourably excepted), Wilfred Effingham thought the time favourable for opening the serious business of the evening.

‘I take it for granted,’ he said, ‘that we are all agreed to start for “fresh fields and pastures new” in a few days. Equally certain that we have not settled the route. Is that not so? Then let me take this occasion of stating that Mr. Warleigh has arrived from the farthest out station on the south, and that he is in possession of valuable information as to new country.’

‘By Jove!’ said Argyll, ‘that is the very thing we were discussing when you rode up, and are as far from a decision as ever. If Mr. Warleigh can give us directions, we ought to be able to keep a course moderately well – I mean with the aid of an azimuth compass.’

‘Argyll would undertake to find the road to Heaven with that compass of his,’ said Ardmillan.

When the laugh had subsided, which arose from this allusion to a well-known habit of Argyll’s, who always carried a compass with him – even to church, it was asserted – and was wont to state that no one but an idiot could possibly lose his way in Australia who had sense enough to comprehend the points of that invaluable instrument – Hubert Warleigh said quietly, ‘I’m afraid the road to my country is a good deal like the road to h – ll, that is, in the way of being the most infernal bad line for scrub, mountain, and deep rivers I ever tackled, and that’s saying a good deal. But I promised Captain Effingham to do him a good turn when I got the chance, and when I heard of this dry season I came prepared to show the way, if he liked to send his stock over, and go myself. As you all seem to be in the same box, equally hard up, I don’t mind acting as guide. We’ll be all the better for going as a strong party, as the blacks are treacherous beggars and the tribes strong.’

‘The road, you say, is as bad as bad can be,’ said Hamilton. ‘I suppose the good country makes up for it when you get there?’

‘I’ve seen all the best part of New South Wales,’ said the explorer. ‘I never saw anything that was a patch on it before. Open forest country, rivers running from the Snowy Mountains to the sea, splendid lakes, and a regular rainfall.’

‘The last is better than all,’ said Hamilton. ‘One feels tired of working up to a decent thing, and then having it knocked down by a change of season. I, for one, will take the plunge. I am ready to start at once for this interesting country, where the rivers don’t dry up, the grass grows at least once a year, and rain is not a triennial phenomenon.’

‘The same here! – and – I, and I,’ came from the other proprietors.

‘I suppose there’s room enough for all of us; we needn’t tread on each other’s toes when we reach the land of promise?’ said Ardmillan.

‘Enough for the whole district of Yass and something to spare,’ said their guest. ‘I was only over a portion of it, but I could see no end of open country from the hill-tops. It’s a place that will bear heavy stocking – thickly grassed and no waste country to speak of. After you leave the mountains, which are barren and rough enough, you drop down all of a sudden upon thinly-timbered downs – marshy in places, but grass up to your eyes everywhere.’

‘I like that notion of marshes,’ said Fred Churbett pensively. ‘I feel as I should enjoy the melody of the cheerful frog again. His voice has been so long silent in the land that I should hail him as a species of nightingale, always supposing that he was girt by his proper surroundings of the “sword-grass and the oat-grass and the bulrush by the pool.”’

‘How was it you managed to drop across this delightful province, Warleigh?’ said Wilfred. ‘I should like to hear, if you don’t mind telling us, how you crossed the mountains towards the south. Old Tom and Dick Evans said they were inaccessible; that there was no good country between them and the coast.’

‘Old Tom knew better,’ said their guest quietly. ‘We had a long talk the last time I was at Warbrok; he said then if any one could find a road for cattle the other side of the Snowy River, after you pass Wahgulmerang, he was dead certain there was any amount of fine country beyond, between it and the coast.’

‘How did he get to know?’

‘It seems he was stock-keeping once on one of the farthest out runs, and a mate of his, who was “wanted” for some cross work or other, came along and asked him to put him away for a bit, till the police got tired of hunting him. The old man gave him some rations, and told him of a track through the gullies, which took him to the leading spur, by which, of course, he could get on to the table land. Only an odd white man or so had ever been there. After a week he got “tired of looking at forty thousand blooming mountains” (as he told Tom afterwards), and being a resolute chap, with gun and ammunition, he thought he would make in towards the coast. Anyhow he was away all the winter. When he came back he told Tom that he had dropped in with a small tribe of blacks, who had taken to him. They spent the winter by the side of a great lake, fishing and hunting. There was plenty of fine grass country in all directions when you got over the main range.’

‘And why did he come away from Arcadia?’ asked Argyll.

‘From where?’ asked the unclassical narrator. ‘No; that wasn’t the name. It was Omeo. A grand sheet of water on a kind of hill-plain, with ranges all round, and one tremendous snow-peak you could see from anywhere. Well, he got tired of the whole thing – didn’t know when he was well off, like most men of his sort – so he made tracks back again. Old Tom didn’t believe all the story. But he thought afterwards that there must be something in it, and that it would be worth while some day to have a throw in and find the lake at any rate.’

‘Then we are to suppose that you made the attempt and succeeded?’ said Ardmillan. ‘I confess that I envy you. But how did you manage by yourself?’

‘You remember the day I left your place?’ said Gyp Warleigh, nodding to Wilfred. ‘I felt so savage and ashamed of myself that I determined to do something, or get rubbed out in the attempt. So I made through Monaro, crossed the Snowy River near Buckley’s crossing, and made straight for the foot of the big range. I was well armed, and had as much rations as I could carry. I knew the blacks were bad, but I had lived with more than one tribe, and thought I could manage them. I set myself to track the man old Tom spoke of. Of course, I’m a fair bushman,’ he added gravely. ‘I’ve never done anything else much all my life, so there’s no great credit in it.’

‘Had you no compass with you?’ inquired Argyll. ‘No? Then I differ from you in thinking there was nothing extraordinary in the adventure. Not one man in ten thousand would have risked it, or come out with his life.’

‘What does a man want with a compass who can see the sun now and then?’ asked the Australian. ‘He can steer by the lie of the country, the course of the water, if he has the bushman’s eye. I tracked up the old man’s mate, and found his first camp on the table land. It was easy after that. He couldn’t help but follow the leading range. It wasn’t such rough country after the first day. Game was plenty, so I lived well.’

‘How about the niggers?’ asked Churbett. ‘I should have felt too nervous to sketch or make any use of my opportunities. Fancy going to sleep at night and thinking you mightn’t want any breakfast!’

‘I had a better chance than most men. I’m half a blackfellow myself in the way of knowing their language and most of their ways. I did one of their old men a service, and he taught me a secret that saved my life more than once. Still, I didn’t want to run across them if I could help it.’

‘I should have thought you couldn’t avoid them,’ said Hamilton. ‘They are great trackers, and have eyes like hawks.’

‘I know that, but I could see their smokes a long way. I lay by during the day and travelled late and early. One day I climbed a tree on the top of a range, when I saw a cluster of snowy mountains, and on the far side of them the waters of a lake. I had found Omeo.’

‘You must have felt like Columbus or Cortez gazing upon the two oceans,’ said Ardmillan. ‘What a grand sensation.’

‘Columbus discovered America, didn’t he? The other chap I don’t remember hearing about. Well, I partly discovered Omeo, I suppose, and a bitter cold morning it was. I crawled down to the shore, and before I got there could see miles and miles of splendid open country, stretching away to the west. There were no more mountains; and as I pulled up next day, on the bank of a big river, I found myself surrounded by a tribe of blacks.’

‘They slew you, of course,’ said Fred Churbett. ‘Lights half turn, and slow music from the orchestra. What a dramatic situation! If they didn’t do that, Warleigh, what did they do?’

‘It was a close shave, I tell you,’ said the hero of the adventure. ‘But they had just lost a fellow of about my age; so they adopted me, as luck would have it. I could patter their lingo a bit, for they talked a sort of Kamilaroi, in which I could make myself understood. Anyhow I lived three or four months with them, and wandered nearer the coast. The country kept getting better, and the grass was something to see after this brickfield of a place. Towards spring my friends drew back to the Monaro side again, and one fine day I gave them the slip, and here I am now, good for the return trip. All I can do for any of you in the way of showing new country, you’re welcome to. I’m bound to Mr. Effingham and his father first of all. I’m their man till the exploring racket’s finished.’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Argyll, rising to his feet oratorically, ‘friends, countrymen, and fellow-pastoralists, I feel assured that you are all grateful for the unexpected turn our plans have taken, owing to the valuable information conveyed to us this night by my gallant and honourable friend, Mr. Hubert Warleigh. If he carries out his promise of acting as guide to us as far as this fair unknown land, I know you too well to think for one moment that he will be suffered to confer this benefit upon us gratuitously, the power to do which he has acquired at peril of his life. (Hear, hear.) I beg to move that every man present at this meeting pledges himself to contribute in kind, say at the rate of ten per cent of his number, with the object of forming a herd with which Mr. Warleigh may begin squatting life in the fine district he has been fortunate enough to discover.’

The proposition was carried by acclamation. Further suggested by Neil Barrington, ‘that this meeting do drink Mr. Warleigh’s health,’ and Mrs. Teviot appearing with the ‘materials,’ which included a bottle of Glenlivet, the suggestion was forthwith carried out.

Mr. Warleigh quietly declined the cheering beverage, and after a mild request that he would change his mind, no notice was taken of the eccentric proceeding. When at a tolerably late hour Wilfred and Hubert retired to the barracks, the greatest unanimity prevailed. They were provided with a goal and a guide. Nothing could be more satisfactory. From the first they would have a course, and when the difficulties of the road arose, they could, as a strong and united band, overcome ordinary obstacles, and protect themselves from known dangers.

On the following morning Wilfred returned to The Chase, having persuaded his newly-acquired friend to accompany him, not, however, without some difficulty.

‘You have no notion,’ he said, ‘how queer and strange I felt at Benmohr last night. I am the equal of any man there by birth, yet I could see that they were helping me not to feel out of place, knowing what they did. I couldn’t help thinking that I was like a stock-rider that comes in and stands twisting his cabbage-tree hat before the master and his friends, when he’s asked if everything will be ready for the muster next day, and if he’ll have a glass of grog.’

‘But, my dear fellow, you could never look like that; your appearance – excuse me for alluding to it – gives you a great pull in society. After all, how many men are there who have had every advantage that education can give them, who chiefly hold their tongues, or say nothing worth listening to when they do speak.’

‘Ah, but they understand things if they don’t talk; a poor ignorant devil like me, when he hears matters touched on, as happened last night, without any of them intending it, for they tried not to talk above me, knows no more than the dead what they are at. I feel as if I could cut my throat when it comes across me that, by other people’s neglect and my own folly, I have lost the best part of my birthright.’

‘There’s time yet,’ said Wilfred, deeply touched by the sadness of the tone, in which this grand stalwart cadet of a good house bewailed the fate which had reduced him, mentally, to the condition of a bullock-driver.