Babes in the Bush

A man on a grey horse came down the track which led from the station huts to the deep, sluggish-looking creek. Such a watercourse often follows the windings of the outer edge of a forest, defining the geological formations with curious fidelity.

A few minutes brought the withered features of the ancient stock-rider into full view. He looked years older, and his eyes seemed unnaturally bright. His figure was bowed and shrunken since they had seen him last, but he still reined the indomitable Boney with a firm bridle-hand; and not only did Crab follow him, but two large kangaroo dogs, red and brindled as to colour, followed at his horse’s heels.

‘My sarvice to ye, Mr. Wilfred,’ he said, touching his hat with a gesture of old days. ‘So ye were bet out of Lake William and the Yass country at last. Well, ’tis a grand place ye’re bound for now. To thim that gits there, it’s a fortune – divil a less!’

‘Very glad to have you again, Tom. I hope the country will bear out its character. What a fine pair of dogs you have there!’

‘’Tis thrue for ye, Master Wilfred; they’re fast and savage divils – never choked a dingo. ’Tis little they care what they go at, from a bull to a bandicoot, and they’d tear the throat out of a blackfellow, all the same as an old-man kangaroo.’

‘Formidable animals, indeed,’ said Wilfred. ‘Gerald, here are a couple of dogs warranted to fight like the bloodhounds of Ponce de Leon.’

‘The situation is becoming dramatic,’ said O’More. ‘I shouldn’t mind seeing the wild man of the woods coursed by these fellows, if we could be up in time to stave off the kill. But what splendid dogs they are! taller and more muscular than the home greyhounds, with tremendous chests and shoulders – very fine drawn too. They must have a cross that I don’t know of.’

‘Thrue for you, sir. I heard tell that their mother – a great slut entirely – came from a strain of Indian dogs that was brought to Ingebyra by the ould say-captain that took it up. He said it was tigers they hunted in India.’

‘Polygar dogs, probably,’ said Wilfred. ‘There is a fierce breed of that name used by the Indian princes; the packs, in their wild state, worry a tiger now and then. However that may be, they are fine fellows. How did you get them, Tom?’

The old man attempted a humorous chuckle as he replied:

‘Sure, didn’t they nearly ate the super himself last week, and him comin’ in on foot after dark, by raison that his horse knocked up at the four-mile creek. “Tom,” he says, “as you’re goin’ out to this new country, you can take them two infernal savages with you. I’d a good mind to shoot the pair of them. But the blacks will likely kill the lot of you, so it will save me the trouble.” “All right,” says I, “my sarvice to ye, sir. Maybe we’ll show the warrigals a taste of sport before they have the atin’ of us.” So here we are – ould Tom Glendinning, Boney and Crab, Smoker and Spanker – horse, fut, and dthragoons. ’Tis my last bit of overlanding, I’m thinkin’. But I’d like to help ye to a good run before I go, Mr. Wilfred, and lay me bones where ye’d have a kind word and a look now and agen at the grave of ould hunstman Tom.’

The camp was always early astir. The later watchers took good care to arouse the rest of the party at the first streak of dawn. Dick Evans and Tom were by that time enjoying an early smoke. Hubert Warleigh, tireless and indefatigable, needed no arousing. In virtue of his high office, he was absolved from a special watch, as more advantageously employed in general supervision of the party.

Argyll, wonderful to relate —

Whose soul could scantly brook,E’en from his King a haughty look,

was so impressed by the woodcraft of this grand-looking, sad-voiced bushman, that to the wild astonishment of his friends he actually submitted to hear his opinions confuted.

As they plunged into the sombre trackless forest, where the tall iron-bark trees, with fire-blackened stems, stood ranked in endless colonnades, they seemed to be entirely at the mercy of their lately-gained acquaintance. He it was who rode ever in the forefront, so that the horsemen on the right and left ‘lead’ could with ease direct their droves in his track. He it was who decided which of two apparently similar precipices would prove to be the ‘leading range,’ eventually landing the party upon a grassy plateau, and not in a horrible craggy defile. He it was who gauged to a quarter of an hour the time for grazing, and so reaching a favourable corner in time to camp. He saw the pack-saddles properly loaded, apportioned the spare horses, and commanded saddle-stuffing. Did a tired youngster feel overcome by the desire of sleep, so strong in the lightly-laden brain of youth, allowing his side of the drove to ‘draw out,’ he was often surprised on waking to see them returning with a dark form pacing silently behind them. Did a tricky stock-rider – for they were not all models of Spartan virtue – essay to shirk his just share of work, he found a watchful eye upon him, and perhaps heard a reminder, couched in the easily comprehended language of ‘the droving days.’

Before they had been a week on the new division of their journey, every one was fain to remark these qualities in their leader.

‘I say, Argyll,’ said Fred Churbett, who, with Ardmillan and Neil Barrington, had ridden forward from the rearguard, leaving it to the easy task of following the broad trail of the leading herd, ‘how about going anywhere with that compass of yours? Could you steer us as Warleigh does through this iron-bark wilderness?’

‘I am free to confess, Fred, that it does good occasionally to have the conceit taken out of one. You must admit, however, that he has been over the ground before. Still, he seems to have a kind of instinct about the true course when neither sun nor landmarks are available, which travellers assert only savages possess. You remember that dull, foggy day? He had been away only an hour when he said we were making a half-circle, and so it proved.’

‘And the confounded scrub was so thick,’ said Ardmillan, ‘that I tore the clothes off my back hunting up a pack-horse. But for the tracks, I knew no more than the dead where I was.’

‘This half-savage life he has lived has developed those instincts,’ said Churbett. ‘He could do a little scalping when his blood was up, I believe. I saw him look at that cheeky ruffian Jonathan as if he had a good mind to break his neck. Pity he missed the education of a gentleman.’

‘He is ignorant, of course, poor chap, from no fault of his own,’ said Argyll; ‘but he is not to be called vulgar either. Blood is a great, a tremendous thing; though he doesn’t know enough for a sergeant of dragoons, yet there is a grand unconsciousness in his bearing and a natural air of authority now that he is our commanding officer, which he derives from his family descent.’

That night they reached the base of a vast range, which, on the morrow, they were forced to ascend; afterwards, still more difficult, to descend. This meant flogging the reluctant cattle every step of the downward, dangerous track. Above them towered the mountain; below them the precipice, stark and sheer, three hundred feet to the granite boulders over which the foaming Snowy rolled its turbulent course to the iron-bound coast of a lonely sea.

Mr. Churbett and others of the party had a grievance against Destiny, as having forced them from their pleasant homes to roam this trackless wild, but no such accusation was heard from the lips of Gerald O’More. His spirits were at the highest possible pitch. Everything was new, rare, and delightful. The early rising was splendid, the droving full of enjoyment, the scenery enthralling, the watching romantic, the shooting splendid, the society characteristic. He made friends with all the men of the party, but the chosen of his heart was old Tom, who discovered that O’More had known of his old patron in Mayo. He thereupon conceived a strong liking and admiration for him, as a ‘rale gintleman from the ould counthry.’

Daily the old man recounted legends of the early days of colonial life, and instructed him in the lore of the sportsmen of the land. So when the cattle were ‘drawing along’ quietly, or feeding under strict guardianship, Tom and he would slip off with the dogs, which generally resulted in a kangaroo tail baked in the ashes for the evening meal, a brush turkey, or a savoury dish of ‘wallaby steamer’ for the morning’s breakfast.

Wilfred’s watch was ended. He was anxious enough to find his couch in the tent, where he could throw himself down and pass instantly into the dreamless sleep which comes so swiftly to the watcher. But he saw their leader move off on his round, with his usual stately stride, as if sleep and rest were superfluous luxuries.

The morn arose, tranquil, balm-breathing, glorious. As the cattle followed the course of a stream through the still, trackless forest, a feeling of relief, amounting to exhilaration, pervaded the whole party. It was generally known that the outskirts of the wilderness would be reached that evening – that ere another day closed they might have a glimpse of the long-sought land of promise.

Every one’s wardrobe was in a dilapidated and unsatisfactory condition. The horses were jaded, the cattle leg-weary, the men tired out, with the dismal monotony of the wilderness.

The stage of this day was unusually short; indeed, not above half of the usual distance. The leader, Hubert, wished the rearguard to close up, in case of accidents. In the event of a surprise, they must have their whole available force within call.

As is customary, there were dissentients. ‘Why lose half a stage?’ ‘Why not send a scout forward? The wild men of the woods might, after all, be peaceably inclined.’ This last suggestion was Argyll’s, who, always impatient, could with difficulty brook the slow, daily advance of the leading drove. The impetuous Highlander, who had not hitherto had experience of hand-to-hand fighting with the wild tribes of the land, was inclined to undervalue the danger of an attack upon a well-armed party.

But Hubert Warleigh, in this juncture, showed that he was not disposed to surrender his rights as a duly appointed leader. ‘I am sorry we don’t agree,’ he said; ‘but I take my own way until we reach the open country. As to the blacks, no man can say I was ever afraid of them (or of anything else, for that matter), only I know their ways. You don’t, of course, and I think it the right thing to be well prepared. Old Tom saw a heavy lot of tracks yesterday – all of fighting men too, not a gin or a picaninny among them. He didn’t like the look of it. We must camp as close as we can to-night, and keep a bright look-out, or Faithfull’s men won’t be all they’ll have to brag about.’

Argyll thought these were groundless fears; that they were losing time by remaining in this hopeless wilderness longer than was necessary. But he was outvoted by the others.

Meanwhile the first drove, after having been fed until sundown, was camped in a bend of the sedgy creek, and the usual watch-fires lighted. This spot was peculiarly suitable, inasmuch as the long line of an outcrop of volcanic trap, which ran transversely to the little watercourse, closed one side of the half-circle. This was not, of course, an actual fence, but being composed of stone slabs and enormous boulders, did not invite clambering on by the footsore cattle.

The other contingent was camped a short distance in the rear, in an angle of the lava country, also thickly timbered.

With the lighting of the watch-fires and the routine attention to the ordinary duties of the camp, a more tranquil spirit pervaded the party. Argyll’s impatience had subsided, and, with his usual generosity, he had taken upon himself the task of making the round of the camps, and seeing that the order as to each man having his firearms ready, with a supply of cartridges, was carried out. Fred Churbett grumbled a good deal at having to take all this trouble for invisible or problematical savages.

‘By me sowl, thin, Mr. Churbett,’ said old Tom, ‘if ye had one of their reed spears stickin’ into ye for half a day, as I had wanst, you’ld never need twice tellin’ to have yer gun ready, like me, night and day. ’Tis the likes of me knows them, and if it wasn’t for Gyp Warleigh, it’s little chance some of yees ’ud have to see yer friends agin.’

‘Don’t you think he’s frightening us all?’ said Gerald O’More, with a careless laugh. ‘They must be wonderful fellows, by all accounts. They have no bows and arrows, not even wooden swords, like Robinson Crusoe’s savages. Surely they don’t hit often with these clumsy spears of theirs. Warleigh’s anxiety is telling upon his nerves.’

Old Tom glared wrathfully into the speaker’s eyes for a little space before he answered; when he did, there was an air of bitter disdain, rarely employed by the old man in his intercourse with gentlemen.

‘Sure ye don’t know the man, nor the craytures yer spakin’ about, half as well as ould Crab there. Why would ye, indade, and ye jist out of the ship and with the cry of the Castle Blake hounds still in yer ears. It’s yerself that will make the fine bushman and tip-top settler in time, but yer spoilin’ yerself, sir, talkin’ that way about the best bushman between this and Swan River, I don’t care where the other is. Take care of yerself then, Mr. O’More, when the spears begin flyin’, and don’t get separated from the party, by no manner of manes.’

‘You may depend upon me, Tom,’ said O’More, with a good-humour that nothing was apparently able to shake. ‘My hands were taught to keep my head. I have been in worse places than this.’

‘Bedad, if ye seen a blackfellow steadyin’ his womrah to let ye have a spear at fifty yards, or comin’ like a flash of lightning at ye wid only his nullah-nullah, ye’d begin to doubt if ye iver wor in a worse place.’

‘There’s something in this country that alters the heart of an Irishman,’ said O’More, ‘or I’d never hear one talk of a scrimmage with naked niggers as if it was a bayonet charge at a breach.’

‘There’s Irishmen that’s rogues. I’m never the man to deny there’s fools among them,’ said the old man sardonically. ‘Maybe we’ll know who’s right and who’s wrong by this time to-morrow. My dogs has had their bristles up all day, and there’s blacks within scent of us this blessed minit, if I know a musk-duck from a teal.’

How fades the turmoil and distraction of daily thought beneath the cool, sweet, starry midnight! As each man paced between the watch-fires, gazing from time to time towards the recumbent drove, the silent, dark, mysterious forest, the blue space-eternities of the firmament, a feeling of calm, approaching to awe, fell on the party. High over the dark line of the illimitable forest rose towering snow-clad pinnacles, ghostly in their pallid grandeur. The rivulet murmured and rippled through the night-hush, plainly audible in the oppressive silence.

‘One would think,’ said Argyll to O’More, as they met on one of their rounds by a watch-fire, ‘that this night would never come to an end. What possesses me I can’t think, but I have an uncanny feeling, as Mrs. Teviot would say, that I cannot account for. If there was a ghost possible in a land without previous occupation, I should swear that one was near us this minute.’

‘Do you believe in ghosts then?’ asked O’More.

‘Most certainly,’ said Argyll, with cheerful affirmation; ‘all Highlanders do. We have our family Appearance – a spectre I should recommend no man to laugh at. But that something is going to happen I will swear.’

‘What on earth can happen?’ said O’More. ‘If it be only these skulking niggers, I wish to Heaven they would show out. It would be quite a relief after all this humbug of Warleigh’s and that old fool of a stock-rider.’

‘The old man’s no fool,’ said Argyll gravely; ‘and though I felt annoyed with Warleigh to-day, I never have heard a word against his courage and bushmanship. Here he comes. By Jove! he treads as silently as the “Bodach Glas” himself. What cheer, General?’

Hubert held up a warning hand. ‘Don’t speak so loud,’ he said; ‘and will you mind my asking you to stand apart and to keep a bright look-out till daylight? Old Tom and I and the dogs are agreed that the blacks are not far off. I only hope the beggars will keep off till then. I intend to get out of this tribe’s “tauri” to-morrow. In the meantime have your guns handy, for you never can tell when a blackfellow will make his dart.’

‘I shouldn’t mind going into half-a-dozen with a good blackthorn,’ said O’More. ‘It’s almost cowardly to pull a trigger at naked men armed with sharp sticks.’

Hubert Warleigh looked straight at O’More’s careless, wayward countenance for a few seconds before he answered; then he said, without sign of irritation:

‘You will find them better at single-stick than you have any idea of. You are pretty good all round, but you can’t allow for their wild-cat quickness. As for the sharpened sticks, as you call them, if you get one through you, you won’t have the chance of saying where you would like another. Don’t go too near the rocks; and if they make a rush, we must stand them off on that she-oak hill.’

‘And what about the cattle?’ asked Argyll.

‘Let them rip. Blacks can’t hurt them much. They may spear a few, but we can muster every hoof again inside of ten days. There are no other herds for them to mix with, and they won’t leave the water far. I must move round now, and see that the men are ready.’

CHAPTER XXIII

THE BATTLE OF ROCKY CREEK

‘By Jove!’ said Argyll, ‘this looks serious. I must get away to my fire. We must stick to his directions. I’m in good rifle practice; they’ll remember me in days to come!’

As O’More shrugged his shoulders and moved off, a shower of spears whistled through the air, while a chorus of cries and yells, as though from a liberated Inferno, rang through the woods along the line of the broken, stony country, though no human form could be seen.

The commotion created by this sudden onslaught, in spite of Hubert Warleigh’s precautions, was terrific. The startled, frantic cattle dashed through the watch-fires, scattering the brands and almost trampling their guardians underfoot. Then the heavy-footed droves rolled away, madly crashing through the timber, until the echo of their hoofs died away in the distance. Several head, however, had been mortally wounded, well-nigh transfixed in some cases. They staggered and fell.

At the first surprise of the onset, guns were fired with an instinctive desire of reprisal, but no settled plan of defence seemed to be organised. Then amid the tumult was heard the trumpet-like voice of Hubert Warleigh.

‘Every man to his tree; don’t fire till you are sure; look out for the rocks! Keep cool. We have only to stand them off for an hour. It’s near daylight.’

His words reassured all. And a shot which came from his double-barrelled rifle apparently told, as a smothered yell was heard from the cover.

‘Take that, ye murdtherin’ divils!’ said old Tom, who had crawled behind a fallen log, and now raising himself, poured three shots from a gun and a brace of horse-pistols into the enemy. ‘I seen one of ye go down thin, and it’s not the only one we’ll have this blessed night.’

‘There’s number two,’ said Gerald O’More, as he rolled over a tall man with stripes of white and red pigment, who had dashed out for an instant.

‘Well done, O’More!’ cried Hubert, with a cheery ring in his voice. ‘Make as much noise as you like now, but don’t give away a chance. Look out!’ – as three spears hissed dangerously close – ‘you’ll be hit if you don’t mind, and – ’

‘Hang the brutes!’ shouted O’More. ‘We could charge if we could only see them. What do you think of it, Hamilton?’

‘We shall come out straight,’ said that gentleman, with his customary coolness, ‘if we behave like disciplined troops and not like recruits. Pardon me, O’More, but this impetuosity is out of place. If one of us get hurt it may demoralise the men and give the blacks confidence.’

‘Never fear,’ said the excited young man. ‘It’s not the front rankers that drop the fastest. By George!’ This half-ejaculation was elicited by a spear-point which, passing between the arm and body, grazed his side.

‘I told you so,’ said Hamilton. ‘Why the deuce can’t you behave reasonably! These imps of darkness can see us better than we see them. How they are yelling in the rear!’

‘That’s to draw us off,’ said Gerald. ‘I won’t go behind a tree now, if I was to be here for seven years. But that spear didn’t come far. It’s one they throw with the hand – old Tom taught me that much; I’ll have the scoundrel if I see the night out.’

A sustained volley along the line from the main body of stock-riders at the rear, headed by Ardmillan, Neil Barrington, and Argyll, appeared to have told upon the enemy. More than one dying yell was heard. The spears were less constant, and though several blows and bruises had been inflicted by thrown boomerangs and nullahs, no serious casualty had occurred among the white men.

On the right wing of the advanced guard old Tom had ensconced himself behind a huge fallen tree, which hid both himself and his dogs. These last growled ominously, but took no further part, as yet, in the fray.

From behind his entrenchment the old man fired rapidly, from time to time loudly exulting, as a death-cry rang out on the night air or a spear buried itself in the fallen tree.

‘Throw away, ye infernal black divils!’ shouted the old man; and after the cautious stillness it was strange to hear the reckless tones echoing through the forest shades. ‘I’ll back the old single-barrel here against a scrubful of yees – always belavin’ in a little cover.’

‘Tek it cool, full-private Glendinning,’ said Dick Evans, who had advanced in light-infantry skirmishing order from the rear. ‘Not so much talking in the ranks, and mark time when ye’re charging the inimy; it looks more detarmined and collected-like – as old Hughie Gough used to say. Please God, it’ll soon be daylight; perhaps they’d gather thick enough then to let us go at ’em with the bayonet like.’

‘Maybe ye won’t be so full of yer pipeclay if ye gets one of thim reed spears into ye – my heavy curse on them! Mr. Hubert says he catched a sight of that divil’s-joynt of a Donderah; the thribe says he was niver known to lave a fight without a dead man’s hair.’

‘He don’t know white men yet,’ said Dick, ‘’ceptin’ he’s sneaked on to a hut-keeper. He’ll be taken down to-night if he don’t look out! Well done, Master Guy!’

This exclamation was due to the result of a snapshot from Guy, who had drawn trigger upon a savage, who, bounding forward, had thrown two spears with wonderful rapidity, and bolted for his cover, his whole frame quivering with such intensity of muscular action, that the limbs were scarcely visible in the dim light. However, the keen eyes and ready aim of youth were upon him; he reached the scrub but to spring upward and fall heavily back, a dead man.

Although none of the whites had as yet been wounded, while several of their savage enemies had been disabled or killed outright, still the contest was unsatisfactory.

They were uncertain as to the number of their enemies, who, concealed in the scrub, sent forth volleys of spears. Occasionally an outburst of cries and yells arose, so fiendishly replete with hatred, that the listeners in that sombre forest involuntarily felt their blood curdle. For aught they knew, the tribe might be gradually surrounding them. Indeed, an attempt of this kind was made. But it was frustrated by their watchful leader, who charged into the darkness with a few picked men, and drove the wily savages back to the main body.

On this occasion he had caught a glimpse of the giant Donderah, whose cruelty had been a chronicle of the tribe.

‘I can’t make out where the big brute got to,’ he said to old Tom, ‘or I should be easier in my mind. He’s a crafty devil, though he’s so big and strong, and he has some superstition, they told me, about never going out of a fight without a death to his credit. He knows about me, too, though we never met. It wasn’t his fault that I got back alive. A black girl told me that. They named him after the mountain. There’s not a blackfellow from here to the coast that can stand before him, they say. If O’More doesn’t take care, he’ll have him as sure as a gun. I have half a mind to see if he has dropped flat in that stone gunya.’

It happened just then that one of the lulls, common in savage warfare, took place. Hubert Warleigh flitted, noiseless and shadow-like, to another part of the camp, lest a diversion should be effected in a weaker spot.