The Tale of Timber Town

Scarlett gave a gasp. “Ah – really, I wasn’t thinking of marrying – yet.”

Amiria smiled. “You don’t understand,” she said. “But never mind; if you love me, that’s all right. We will talk of marrying by and by.”

Scarlett stood astonished. His mind, trained in the strict code of a sternly-proper British parish, failed to grasp the fact that a Maori girl regards matters of the heart from the standpoint of a child of Nature; having her code of honour, it is true, but one which is hardly comprehended by the civilised Pakeha.

Jack felt he was standing upon the dizzy abyss that leads to loss of caste. There was no doubt of Amiria’s beauty, there was no doubt of her passionate affection, but there was a feeling at the back of his mind that his regard for her was merely a physical attraction. He admired every curve of her supple shape, he felt his undying gratitude go out to the preserver of his life, but that was all. Yet a weakness was stealing over him, that weakness which is proportionate usually to the large-heartedness of the individual.

Suddenly relinquishing Amiria’s clasp, he went to the broken port-hole of a dilapidated cabin and looked out upon the incoming sea.

“We must be quick,” he cried, “or we shall be caught by the tide.”

“What matter?” said the girl, lazily. “I have stayed here a whole night when the sea was not as calm as it is now.”

“But I have to get back to town – I start for the gold-fields to-morrow, before daylight.”

“Why do you go to the stupid gold-fields? Isn’t there everything a man wants here? The pa is full of food – you shall want for nothing.”

“I suppose it is the Pakeha way to want to grow rich. Come along.”

He clambered down to where the broken keelson lay, and regained the rocks. Amiria followed him slowly, as though reluctant to leave the scene of her confession, but presently she stood beside him on the slippery seaweed.

He led the way to where the barrel lay floating in the rising tide. That the ignominy of being ferried by a girl might not be repeated, he had brought from the wreck a piece of board with which to propel himself.

Perceiving his intention so soon as he was sitting cross-legged on the top of his strange craft, Amiria dashed into the water, seized the improvised oar, and threatened to drag it from his grasp.

“I’ll take you across myself,” she almost screamed. “Why should you think I don’t want to take you back?”

“All right,” said Jack, dropping his piece of wood, “have it your own way. I hand myself over to you, but let us get across quickly.”

Again the Englishman felt how mean are the conventions of the white man, how petty his propriety; again the Maori girl felt nothing but pleasure and pride in the part she played.

When they reached the further side, Amiria picked up her mat and threw it over her glistening shoulders, and Scarlett floundered over the slippery rocks towards the beach.

“You’ll come to the pa?”

“You’re too kind. I must get back to town.”

“But you’ve had nothing to eat.”

“I have my lunch in my wallets.”

Amiria’s face fell. “You’re very unkind,” she said.

“I’ll stay all day, next time I come.”

“When will that be?”

“As soon as I can. Ah, here’s my horse, under this birch tree. Well, good-bye, Amiria. Thank you for taking charge of me to-day. My word, how you can swim: like a mermaid.”

His hand touched hers for a brief moment; the next he was in the saddle. His spur lightly touched the horse’s flank, and the springy turf yielded to the iron-shod hooves; there was a waving of a disappearing hand, and the brown girl was left alone.

“You will come back,” she called through the leaves.

“I’ll come back.”

Then, slowly, sadly, she walked towards the pa, talking to herself in Maori, listless and sorrowful.

By the time that Scarlett had reached the outskirts of Timber Town the night had begun to close in. Leaving the main road, he passed along a by-way to a ford, where a foot-bridge spanned the river. As his horse bent its head to drink, Jack heard a woman scream upon the bridge above him. In a moment he had dismounted, and his heavy boots were resounding on the wooden planks. In the middle of the bridge he came upon a girl struggling in the grasp of a thick-set ruffian, who was dragging her towards the bank further from the town. Grappling with the brutal fellow, Jack released the girl, who ran past him in the direction of the horse.

The scoundrel cursed and kicked, but Jack, who had him by the throat, almost squeezed the life out of him, and then heaved him over the bridge into the dark and gurgling water. Returning to the girl, who was standing at the bridge-head, crying and, seemingly, deprived of power to run further, Scarlett led her to where the horse stood beside the water.

“Which way shall I take you?” he asked.

“I live at the other side of the town,” she replied. “I was going home when that brute met me on the bridge.” Again she lost control of her powers, and Jack was obliged to support her.

When she had recovered, he swung her into the saddle and led the horse across the river.

“I was just in time,” he said. “How do you feel now?”

“Better.”

“It’s lucky I didn’t kill the brute. Do you know who he is?”

“I never saw him before. But I think he’s a digger: lots of them have come into the town since this discovery of gold was made. Oh, I’m so frightened! Do you think he will come again?”

“It’s hardly likely. I think he must have had enough trouble for one night.”

“Suppose you have drowned him – ”

“There’s no chance of that – the water is only deep enough to break his fall. He’ll be all right.”

“I think I had better get down, if you please: it would be rather an unusual thing to ride through the town in this manner. I think I can walk.”

She slid limply to the ground, and Jack supported her.

“Whom must I thank for helping me?” she asked.

“I’m a digger, too,” said Jack; and he told her his name.

“Are you the man who discovered the new field?”

“Some people give me the credit of it. I start back to-morrow. It was lucky I was crossing that stream when I did. You haven’t told me whom I have had the pleasure of rescuing.”

They were passing a street lamp, and for the first time Jack could see the girl’s face. She was pretty, with black hair, an oval face, and a dark complexion.

“I’m Miss Varnhagen,” she said. “My Dad will be awfully grateful to you.” She looked at her preserver with eyes which expressed all the gratitude that Scarlett could desire.

“I’ll see you safely home,” he said; “and when you tell your father, perhaps he will repay me by letting me see you again.”

“He’ll be only too pleased. He says the town owes you more than it can ever pay you for discovering this gold, which, he says, will mean thousands of pounds to him and the other merchants.”

They passed through the town and paused before a great wooden mansion, painted a light colour, which made it conspicuous even in the dark. Here Rachel said she lived. Between the gate and the house grew a plantation of palms, camellias, and rare shrubs, which were displayed by the lights which shone above the gate and the door.

“Won’t you come in and see my father?”

“Nothing would please me more, but I’m wet, and my horse is tired and needs a feed. Some other time I’ll call and tell your father how pleased I was to be of service to you. Good-night.”

Rachel gave his hand a tender squeeze. “Thanks awf’lly,” she said, looking up at him with seraphic eyes. “Thank you awf’lly much. I think you’re just the nicest man I ever met. Be sure you come to see us when you return. Good-night.” Another tender squeeze of the hand, another affectionate look, and she disappeared among the palms and camellias.

Jack mounted his horse, and rode it to its stables. Then he went to The Lucky Digger, where he changed his clothes and had dinner, after which he directed his steps towards the house of Pilot Summerhayes.

His knock was answered by Rose herself, who conducted him into the quaint dining-room, where, upon the polished table, lay the materials for a dress which she was making, and beside them the hundred-and-one oddments which are necessary for such a task.

“Father’s out. He has gone to fetch a steamer in.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jack. “I should like to see him before I go back to the bush.”

Rose sat silent. She was very demure, and her manner was somewhat stiff; therefore, seeing that his experiences had exhilarated him, Jack said, “I’ve had a great day. Two of the prettiest girls I ever saw almost devoured me.”

“Where have you been, Mr. John Scarlett? You want watching.”

Rose’s bashfulness had entirely disappeared, but she was blushing profusely.

“I went out to see the wreck,” said Jack, “and met your little Maori friend.”

“Your life’s preserver.”

“My life’s preserver. She ferried me across an impassable strip of water on a barrel, and almost captured my heart in the saloon.”

“Don’t play any games with Amiria’s heart, or I shall cut you dead. I tell you that plainly.”

“I assure you I have no intention whatever of playing with Amiria’s heart. It was she who played with mine, and nearly won. But I saved myself by flight. It was fortunate I had a good horse.”

Rose laughed. “One would imagine you were hardly big enough to look after yourself. That’s the kind of young man they generally send out from England. Well?”

“As I was coming home I met a digger molesting another friend of mine, a Miss Varnhagen.”

“You’d better be careful – she’s a flirt.”

“Then I rather like flirts. I threw the digger into the river, and took her home. She has the most lovely eyes I ever saw.”

“And she knows how to use them.”

“You’re jealous, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t you want to look at the man who had saved you from an ugly brute, who met you in the dark on a narrow bridge from which you couldn’t possibly escape?”

“Perhaps. But why don’t you feel a little sentimental over the girl who saved you from a watery grave? You’re callous, I’m afraid, Mr. Scarlett.”

“Not at all: I’m merely flattered. It seems a pity I can’t stop in Timber Town, and see more of such girls; but I must be off to-morrow to get more gold. Gold is good, Miss Summerhayes, but girls are better.”

“Fie, fie. Gold and a good girl – that’s perfection.”

“They always go together – I quite understand that.”

“Now you’re frivolling. You’re making yourself out to be blasé and all that. I shall tell my father to forbid you the house.”

“In which case I shall call on Miss Varnhagen.”

“That would be all right – you would meet with the punishment you deserve. Marry the Varnhagen girl, and you will be grey in two years, and bald in five.”

“Well, I’m going to the gold-fields to-morrow.”

“So you said. I hope you will have the same luck as before.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“What more do you want?”

“Any amount.”

“You’ve got gold: you’ve got feminine adoration. What more is there, except more gold?”

“More feminine adoration.”

“I should have thought you had to-day as much affection as is good for you.”

“You’re in high spirits to-night.”

“I am. It’s jolly to think of people succeeding. It’s jolly to know somebody is growing rich, even if my old father and I are poor, that is too poor for me to go to assembly balls and private dances and things like that. So I sit at home and sew, and make puddings, and grow roses. Heigh-ho! I’m very happy, you know.”

Jack looked at her closely. Her cheeks were pink-and-white, her crisp, brown hair formed a becoming setting to her face, and her blue eyes sparkled as they watched him.

“It seems to agree with you,” he said. “I feel inclined to recommend a course of sewing and cooking to all my plain girl-friends.”

“Mr. Scarlett!”

“I mean it.”

“Then go, and tell Rachel Varnhagen to use your recipe.”

“She’s beautiful already.”

Just at this point of the conversation, there was the sound of heavy steps somewhere in a remote part of the house, and presently the Pilot of Timber Town tramped into the room.

“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Scarlett! Making love to my dar’ter, when I thought you was on your way to the diggings? Come, come; you’re losing your opportunities; you’re wasting time in gallivanting, when you might be growing rich. There’s great news abroad. They’ve issued a writ against that chap Tresco for the robbery of those mail-bags.”

“Tresco?” said Scarlett.

“Aye, Tresco the goldsmith. He’s wanted by the police.”

“Then I’m afraid they won’t find him,” said Jack. “He’s safe, I reckon.”

“Indeed. How do you know that?”

“He was in the bush with his prospector friend, when I left Bush Robin Creek. But he robbed no mails, bless you, Pilot. What would he want with other people’s letters?”

“I don’t pretend to know. There’s money in mail-bags, I suppose. Perhaps he was after that.”

“He’s after gold, right enough, and he’ll get it, if I’m not mistaken.”

Jack had risen to go.

“We leave early in the morning,” he said. “I must get some sleep. Good-bye, Pilot; good-bye, Miss Summerhayes.”

“Good luck, lad. Come back rich.”

Rose was silent till Jack was near the door. Then she said, “I shall remember your recipe – I shan’t neglect home duties: I shall attend to them regularly.”

Jack laughed, and the Pilot went with him to the front door.

“Eh, lad, there never was such a gal for minding a house. She can make a batter-puddin’ with anyone, and I don’t care who the next is. Good night, lad, good night. There’s never no need to tell her to look after her old father, none at all. And it’s a good test – as good as you can have, Jack, my lad. If a gal looks after her old father well, she’ll look after her husband, too, when he comes along. Good night, Jack; good night. Eh, but you’re in a lucky streak. You’ll die rich, Jack. Good night, Jack; good night.”

CHAPTER XXIII

Forewarned, Forearmed

Tresco and the Prospector were eating their “tucker” beneath the boughs of a spreading black-birch. In front of them burned brightly a fire of dead branches, suspended above which was the “billy,” black and battered externally, but full of fragrant tea.

“I shall go home to England,” said Benjamin; his mouth half-filled with cold bacon. “I shall visit my widowed mother, and be the comfort and support of her declining years. There must be over 200 ounces in the tent, and hundreds more in the claim.”

“I ain’t got a widowed mother,” said the Prospector. “I shall go into Timber Town and make The Lucky Digger open house – come when you like, have what you like, at the expense of Mr. William Wurcott. That’s my style. I like to see a man free with his dollars.”

They had pegged out their claim at a spot where the corrugations in the rocky bed of the creek stretched from bank to bank and a beach of soft sand spread itself along the water’s edge.

The first “prospect” that they had “panned off” resulted in a return of a couple of ounces. Next they had “fossicked” with sheath-knives in the crevices of the rocks, and had quickly got something more than half a cupful of gold, in shape and size like pumpkin seeds. The day following, they continued to “pan off” the sands in front of their tent; each dish yielding a handsome return. But as Benjamin found this process difficult in his unskilful hands, he directed his attention to looking for new patches. Wading about in the shallows with a dish in one hand and a shovel in the other, he overturned loose bits of rock which he found lying on the sand. Sometimes he would find an ounce or two, sometimes nothing at all; but upon turning over a flat slab of rock, to raise which needed all his strength, he gave a whoop of delight, for a yellow mass lay glittering in the rippling waters. With a single scoop of his shovel he had won 80 ozs. of gold.

This rich spot was where the water was but two feet deep, and above it and below it gold could be seen shining amongst the sand and gravel. When the cream of the claim, so to speak, had been skimmed off with the tin dish, the men began to set up sluice boxes, by means of which they might work the whole of their ground systematically.

In constructing these boxes they received every help from Moonlight, who lent them tools, and aided them in cutting out the slabs. Left mateless during Scarlett’s visit to Timber Town, the veteran miner frequently exchanged his lonely camp for the more congenial quarters of Tresco and the Prospector.

It was during one of the foregatherings round the camp-fire, when Night had spread her sable mantle over the sleeping earth, and only the wakeful wood-hen and the hoarsely-hooting owl stirred the silence of the leafy solitude, that Moonlight was “swapping” yarns with the Prospector. As the flames shot up lurid tongues which almost licked the overhanging boughs, and the men sat, smoking their black tobacco, and drinking from tin pannikins tea too strong for the urban stomach, Bill the Prospector expectorated into the flames, and said:

“The biggest streak o’ luck I ever had – barring this present field, you understand – was at the Diamond Gully rush. There weren’t no diamonds, but I got over 100 ounces in three days. Gold was more plentiful than flour, and in the police camp there was two safes full of gold belonging to the Bank, which was a twelve by eight tent, in charge of a young feller named Henery. A more trusting young man I never met. When I went to sell my little pile, he had over 12,000 ounces in a old leather boot-trunk in his tent, besides more in a sugar-bag. He’d even filled one of his top-boots with gold, and its feller stood waitin’ to receive my contribution. ‘Good morning,’ I says. ‘Are you the boss o’ this show?’ ‘I’m in charge of the Bank,’ he says, just as grand as if he was behind a mahog’ny counter with brass fixings. ‘Then weigh my pile,’ I says, handing over my gold. Then what d’you think he done? ‘Just wait till I get my scales,’ he says. ‘I’ve lent ’em to the Police Sergeant. Please have the goodness to look after the business while I’m gone.’ With that he leaves me in the company of close on £100,000, and never a soul’d have bin the wiser if I’d helped myself to a thousand or two. But the reel digger don’t act so – it’s the loafers on the diggings gets us a bad name. I’ve dreamed of it, I’ve had reg’lar nightmares about it when I’ve bin stone-broke and without a sixpence to buy a drink.”

“What?” said Tresco. “Gold littered about like lumber, and you practically given the office to help yourself? It’s wonderful, Bill, what restraint there is in an honest mind! You can’t ever have been to Sunday School.”

“How d’you know?” asked the Prospector.

“Because, if you’d ha’ bin regular to Sunday School when you were a boy, and bin told what a perfect horrible little devil you were, till you believed it, why, you’d ha’ stole thousands of pounds from that calico Bank, just to prove such theories true. Now I was brought up godly. I was learnt texts, strings of ’em a chain long; I had a red-headed, pimply teacher who just revelled in inbred sin and hell-fire till he made me want to fry him on the school grate. I couldn’t ha’ withstood your temptation. I’d most certainly have felt justified in taking a few ounces of gold, as payment for keeping the rest intact.”

“You’re talking nonsense, the two of you,” said Moonlight. “To rob on a gold-field means to be shot or, at the very least, gaoled. And when a man’s on good gold himself, he doesn’t steal other people’s. My best luck was on the Rifle River, at a bend called Felix Point. It had a sandy beach where the water was shallow, just like this one here. My mate and I fossicked with a knife and a pannikin, and before the day was over we had between 30 and 40 ounces. The gold lay on a bottom of black sand and gravel which looked like so many eggs. After we’d put up our sluice we got as much as 200 ounces a day, and thought the claim poor when we got no more than fifty.”

“I ’xpect you had a rare ole spree when you got to town,” said the Prospector. “How much did you divide?”

“Between twenty and thirty thousand,” replied Moonlight. “I handed my gold over to the Police escort, and went to town as comfortable as if I was on a turnpike road. I didn’t go on the wine – I’m almost a teetotaler. A little red-headed girl got most of my pile – a red-headed girl can generally twist me round her thumb. That must have been ten years ago.”

“You’ve grown older and, perhaps, wiser,” interjected Benjamin. “Wonderful thing, age.”

“This time I’m going to take a draft on Timbuctoo, or Hong-kong, or some place where red-headed girls are scarce, and see if I can’t get away with a little cash.”

“Most probably you’ve got a widowed mother, like me,” said Benjamin. “Go, and comfort her declining years. Do like me: wipe out the recollection of the good times you’ve had by acts of filial piety. A widowed mother is good, but if you can rake up a maiden aunt and keep her too, that’ll be a work of supererogation.”

“Of how much?” asked Bill.

“It’s a word I picked up in my College days – I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the precise meaning.” Benjamin’s face lit up with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. He lifted his pannikin to his lips, nodded to his companions, said, “Here’s luck,” and drank the black tea as though it had been nectar. “That’s the beauty of turning digger,” he continued; “the sobriety one acquires in the bush is phenomenal. If you asked me to name the most virtuous man on this planet, I should say a prospector in the bush – a bishop is nothing to him. But I own that when he goes to town the digger becomes a very devil let loose. Think of the surroundings here – innocent twittering birds, silent arboreous trees, clear pellucid streams, nothing to tempt, nothing to degrade.”

Tresco might have amplified his discourse as fully as a bishop, but that at this point there was a shouting and the noise of dry boughs cracking under advancing feet. In a moment the three men were standing, alert, astonished, in various attitudes of defence.

Moonlight had armed himself with a pick, the Prospector had grasped a shovel, Tresco drew a revolver from inside his “jumper.”

The shouting continued, though nothing could be seen. Then came out of the darkness, “What-ho there, Moonlight! Can’t you give us a hand to cross the river?”

“It’s my mate,” said Moonlight. “I know the voice. Is that you, Scarlett?”

“It’s Scarlett, all right,” called back the voice, “but how am I to cross this infernal river?”

The three men walked to the edge of the water, and peered into the darkness.

“Perfectly safe,” said the Prospector. “She’s barely up to your middle.”

There was a splashing as of some one walking in the water, and presently a dark object was seen wading toward them.

“Now, what the deuce is all this about, Scarlett?” It was Moonlight who thus expressed his wonderment. “The man who travels here at night deserves to get bushed. That you reached camp is just luck.”

“Camp?” replied the dripping Scarlett. “I’ve been waiting for you at our camp since nightfall with twenty other devils worse than myself. Don’t you ever sleep in your tent?“

“Of course ’e does,” the Prospector answered for Moonlight, "but mayn’t a digger be neighbourly, and go to see ’is friends?

“Come, and dry yerself by the fire, and have a bit of tucker.”

“But Great Ghost!” exclaimed Moonlight, “all the gold’s in my tent, in the spare billy.”

“Quite safe. Don’t worry,” said Scarlett. “All those twenty men of mine are mounting guard over it, and if one of them stole so much as an ounce, the rest would kill him for breach of contract. That’s the result of binding men to go share and share alike – they watch each other like ferrets.”

Jack took off his clothes, and wrapped in a blanket he sat before the fire, with a pipe in his mouth and a steaming pannikin in his hand.

“Well, happy days!” he said as he drank. “And that reminds me, Tresco – you’re wanted in Timber Town, very badly indeed – a little matter in connection with the mails. ’Seems there’s been peculation of some sort, and for reasons which are as mad as the usual police tactics, the entire force is searching for you, most worthy Benjamin. The yarn goes that you’re a forger in disguise, a counterfeiter of our sovereign’s sacred image and all that, the pilferer of Her Majesty’s mails, a dangerous criminal masquerading as a goldsmith.”