Tom Gerrard

“Hansen’s,” in addition to the several bark-roofed drinking shanties of bad reputation, also possessed a combined public house and general store, kept by a respectable old digger named Vale, who was doing a very thriving business, the “Roan Pack-Horse Hotel” being much favoured by the better class of men on the field. The loafers, rowdies, and such gentry did not like Vale, who had a way of throwing a man out if he became objectionably drunk and unduly offensive.

One afternoon, about five, three men entered the “hotel” part of Vale’s establishment, and entered what was termed “the parlour.” They were very good customers of Vale’s, although he did not much care about them, being somewhat suspicious as to their character and antecedents. The three men were Forreste, the Jew Barney Green, and Cheyne.

The former had grown a thick beard, and looked what he professed to be—a digger pure and simple; and Green and Cheyne also had discarded the use of the razor, and in their rough miners’ garb—flannel shirts, moleskin pants, and slouch felt hats—there was nothing to distinguish them from the ordinary run of diggers at Hansen’s Rush. They had, Vale knew, a supposedly paying claim, but worked it in a very perfunctory manner, and employed two “wages men” to do most of the pick and shovel work. Their esteemed American confrère was not with them this afternoon—one of them always remained about their claim and tent on some excuse, for it contained many little articles which, had they been discovered by the respectable diggers at Hansen’s, would have led to their taking a very hurried departure from the field.

“What’s it to be?” said Vale, coming to the door of the room.

“Oh, a bottle of Kinahan,” said Forreste, tossing the price of it—a sovereign—upon the table. “Got any salt beef to spare?”

“Not a bite. Wish I had. But that mob of cattle can’t be far off now. They were camped at the Green Swamp two nights ago. There’s a hundred head—all fine, prime young cattle, I hear.”

“Are you buying the lot?”

“Every hoof—at ten pound a head. Plenty of fresh beef then—at two bob a pound. No charge for hoofs, horns, and the end of the tail,” and with this pleasantry, the landlord of the “Roan Pack-Horse” withdrew, to bring the whisky.

A step sounded outside, and Randolph Aulain entered and nodded to the three men. He had been at Hansen’s for some months, and had one of the richest “pocket” claims on the field, but most of the gold it produced went in gambling. He had made the acquaintance of Forreste and his gang, and in a way had become intimate with them, although he was pretty certain of their character. But he did not care.

“Have a drink, Aulain?” said Barney Green.

Aulain nodded, and sat down, and then a pack of cards was produced, and the four men began to play—Aulain as recklessly as usual, and drinking frequently, as was now habitual with him.

Night had fallen, and the diggers’ camp fires were everywhere blazing among tents and humpies, as the ex-officer and his villainous acquaintances still sat at their cards, too intent upon the game to think of supper. Vale’s black boy, however, brought them in some tea, damper, and a tin of preserved meat, and they made a hurried meal. Just as they had begun to play afresh, they heard a horseman draw up outside, and a voice say “Good-evening, boss,” to Vale.

All four men knew that voice, and Aulain’s dark face set, as turning down his cards, he held up his hand for silence.

“I’m Gerrard from Ocho Rios,” went on the voice as the rider dismounted, and, giving his horse to the black boy, followed Vale into the combined bar and store. “I’ve camped the cattle five miles from here, and pushed on to let you know. Can you take delivery tomorrow morning pretty early, as I want to get down to the coast again as soon as I can?”

“You bet!” said Vale with a laugh; “I’m all ready, and so is the money—not in cash, but in nuggets at four pounds the ounce. Is that right?”

“Quite,” was the answer, and then the four listeners heard Vale drawing the cork of a bottle of beer—a rare commodity at Hansen’s Rush. “Come round here, Mr Gerrard, and sit down. There’s another room, but just now there are four chaps gaffing there, and so if you don’t mind we’ll sit here, and talk until my nigger gets you some supper.” Then they began to talk about the cattle, Vale frankly telling Gerrard that if he had asked another five pounds per head, he would have paid it, as the diggers had had no fresh meat for nearly five months.

“Well, I’ve been very lucky,” said Gerrard, and Forreste saw Aulain’s teeth set, and wondered. “We—three black boys and myself—started out from the station with a hundred and ten head, and have not lost a single beast—no niggers, no alligators, no poison bush, nothing of any kind to worry us for the whole two hundred miles.”

“I’ll give him something to worry over before long,” said Green viciously to Forreste.

“And so shall I,” said Aulain in a savage whisper.

“Do you know him?” asked Forreste eagerly.

Aulain replied with a curt nod, and then again held up his hand for silence.

“Curse you, keep quiet; I want to hear what he is saying.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you, Mr Gerrard,” went on Vale. “I’ve heard a lot about you, and was sorry to hear of your loss in the big fire. I wish you luck.”

“Thank you, Mr Vale. And I’m glad to meet you, and sell you my cattle. Every one that I have heard speak of you says that you will never try to ‘skin’ a digger over the price of his liquor and ‘tucker.’”

Vale was pleased. For a bush publican and store-keeper he had an unusual reputation for honesty—and well deserved it, for all his roughness and lurid language when aroused to wrath. He asked Gerrard to stay for the night.

“No, I cannot. I must get back to the cattle to-night, and do my watch. But I think I shall spell here at Hansen’s for a day or two, have a look at the field, and see if I can buy a share in one of the claims. As I’m getting my money out of the diggings I ought to put something back, even if I strike a rank duffer.”

“Ah, you’re one of the right sort of men, Mr Gerrard. I daresay I can put you on to something that won’t displease you in the end. But I’m sorry you can’t camp here to-night.”

“No, I must not. It would not be fair to my men to leave them with a mob of cattle out in the open all night in such thunder-stormy weather. If they broke away they would clear off into the ranges.”

Then he added that whilst two of his black stockmen were returning to Ocho Rios after they had had a spell at “Hansen’s,” he was striking across country to the coast—seventy miles distant—to the mouth of the Coen River.

“You see, Mr Vale, my luck is coming in, ‘hand over fist,’ as the sailors say. I’m going to be married at Ocho Rios next month by the Gold Commissioner, and there is a pearling lugger bringing me a lot of stores round from Somerset, and I have arranged to meet her at the Coen on the 22nd, and sail round in her. I’m taking one black boy with me, who will take my horse back with him to the station, and I’ll get the benefit of a short sea-trip of a few days, or perhaps a week.”

Vale opened another bottle of beer—more valued at Hansen’s than even whisky at a sovereign a bottle.

“Here’s to your very good fortune and happiness, Mr Gerrard! Will you mind my mentioning it to the boys here to-night? You see, I arranged to give a sort of a shivoo as soon as the cattle got here, and I had killed and dressed a couple of beasts.”

Gerrard laughed. “I don’t mind. And I’ll come to the shivoo myself, and eat some of my own beef. Now, I must be getting back to the cattle.”

Aulain and the other three men waited until they heard his horse brought. And then the dark-faced ex-inspector turned to Forreste.

“Come outside. I want to talk to you.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

The news that a small mob of cattle had been bought by Vale, and were to arrive on the following day, caused great satisfaction to the diggers, and that night the “Roan Pack-Horse” was crowded with diggers, who had not for many months tasted meat of any kind, except now and then a scrub wallaby. Game of any kind was scarce, and hard to shoot, and the diggers, although they cheerfully paid adventurous packers three shillings for a small tin of sardines, and five for a tin of American salmon, wanted beef of some kind—even if it were that of a worn-out working bullock—if such a treasure could have been found. Vale, for business and other purposes, had carefully avoided telling any one until the last moment that he had sent a letter to Gerrard, offering him ten pounds per head for one or two hundred young cattle, delivered to him in fair condition. A “cute” man of business, he had the idea of forming the nucleus of a herd with which to stock some adjacent country to “Hansen’s Rush,” and being also in his rough way a sentimentalist, he meant to give the diggers a surprise—for a satisfactory quid pro quo. He would sell them fresh beef at two shillings a pound, when they were willing to pay double, instead of eating “tinned dog,” as they termed the New Zealand and American canned beef and mutton they bought from the packers at exorbitant prices, and often cast aside with disgust and much vivid language.

At nine o’clock on the following morning, Gerrard and his three black stockmen appeared, driving before them the mob of young cattle—steers, young heifers, and a few bulls; and the diggers gave him an uproarious welcome, for work on the claims had been stopped for that day at least, and they had been waiting for him.

“Good morning, boys,” cried Gerrard, as the mob of cattle was rounded up by his black stockmen, and he, swinging his right foot up out of the stirrup, sat sideways on his saddle. “Just show me those you want for killing, Vale, and I’ll cut them out for you right away. Then I’ll turn the rest over to you to tail.7 I’ve had enough of ‘em, and want a drink.”

“Here you are, Mr Gerrard,” cried a big, hairy-faced digger, who was holding a bottle of beer in one hand, and a tin pannikin in the other; “a bottle of genuine Tennant’s India Ale, acceptable to the most tender stomach, and recommended by the faculty for nuns, nurses, bullock drivers, and other delicate persons.”

The crowd laughed, and then Gerrard, after satisfying his thirst, “cut out” (separated from the rest of the mob) three fat steers indicated by Vale; they were at once taken to the killing yard, and the remainder of the animals driven down to the creek to drink, and Gerrard’s responsibility ceased.

Amongst those who watched the arrival of the cattle were Aulain and Forreste. They were on the outskirts of the crowd, leaning against the rough “chock and dog leg” fence which served to enclose an acre or so of ground used as a horse-paddock by the diggers. Early in the day as it was, Aulain’s sallow face was flushed from drinking. He and Forreste had come to an understanding the previous night. The gentlemanly “Captain” did not take long to discover the cause of Aulain’s hatred of Gerrard, and he inflamed it still further by telling him a well-connected series of lies about his frequently having seen Kate Fraser clasped in Gerrard’s arms on the deck of the Gambier, when they imagined that they were unobserved, and Aulain, who was now hardly sane, believed him implicitly.

“Let me deal with him first,” he had said; “you can have your turn after I have finished with him.”

“You don’t mean to kill him?” asked Forreste; “if you do, I’m out of it I have a score to settle with him, but not in that way.”

“Settle it in any way you like,” said Aulain savagely, “but don’t interfere with me. I’m not going to kill him, but I am going to make him suffer for his treachery to me. But,” and he turned to Forreste with a sneer, “you seem very diffident in the matter of killing any one just now. Perhaps you and your friends acted rather impulsively in the matter of Trooper Angus Irving.”

“What do you mean?” cried Forreste hoarsely, and his face blanched with mingled rage and terror.

“I have not been five years in the Native Police without gaining some experience. And when you and your friends galloped after the black tracker, one of your number lost his moleskin saddle-cloth, did he not?”

Forreste made no answer, though his lips moved.

“I found that saddle-cloth two months ago, and recognised it as belonging to your mate Cheyne, for he once lent it to me. It was a great mistake of his to gallop over rough country with loose girths—especially upon such an occasion as that. Fifty ounces of gold was not worth it.”

Forreste, a coward at heart, collapsed. “We could not help it We were trying to unbuckle his valise from his saddle when he awoke, and–

“And—I understand. So please say no more of what followed. It does not concern me, and you need not look so ghastly white.”

Then he walked away to his tent, for he did not wish to be seen by Gerrard—at that time.

But a few hours later the latter learnt quite accidentally from Vale that his one-time friend was at Hansen’s, and had been one of the card-playing party of the previous night Vale was speaking of the great yields from some of the claims on the field, and mentioned that “Aulain, who had been in the Nigger Police,” had a pretty rich one. Gerrard was surprised to hear of his being at Hansen’s, for he and the Frasers thought he had gone to the new rush at Cape Grenville on the east coast. Of her quarrel with him Kate had told Gerrard but little, but her father had given him the story in detail, and it had angered him greatly.

“Would you care to go over to his claim, and have a yarn with him?” said Vale; “it’s only about a mile away. I think he wants to sell out.”

“No, I don’t want to see him. I know him very well, and he was once a great friend of mine, but he is not now, and I don’t think it would be advisable for us to meet. He nurses an imaginary grievance against me.”

Vale nodded. “He’s a queer fellow, and I am sure he’s not quite right in the upper story. Sometimes he won’t speak to a soul for a week at a time; then he has a drinking bout, and goes off his head entirely. I feel sorry for him, for it is a pity to see a gentleman come down so low, and associate with spielers and card-sharpers. The men he was playing with last night are a shady lot—a man called Forreste, and his mates Cheyne and Capel–”

“Ha!” cried Gerrard, “so that gang is here? I know a good deal about them,” and he told Vale of what had occurred on board the Gambier when Fraser had thrown Capel across the deck.

“I thought they were a fishy crowd, and there are lots of men here who believe they are gold-stealers, but so far they have been too clever and have escaped detection.”

“Well, I can tell you that Capel, otherwise Barney Green, is one of the most notorious gold thieves in Australia, and served a sentence in New South Wales.”

“Can I make that known?”

“Certainly. It should be known. You can call upon me to repeat what I have told you to the whole camp.”

“Very well, but not to-day. They’ll be sure to be here to-night at the shivoo, and as some of the boys are certain to be pretty groggy they might half-kill the whole gang. But I’ll go for them in the morning, if you’ll back me up.”

“Of course I will. But I don’t think they will show up to-night, if they know I am here.”

In this surmise Gerrard was correct, for Forreste and his companions kept away, being particularly anxious not to come into personal contact with him, and in pursuance of a plan of their own. After the cattle had been killed, they sent a neighbouring digger to buy some beef, and remained at their claim for the rest of the day. Forreste, however, went to several of the other claims, and told the owners that he and his mates thought of clearing out in a day or so, and would sell their claim cheap.

In an hour or two he came back, and found Cheyne outside the tent, repairing their saddles. Green and Pinkerton were busy at the claim, cradling the last of the wash-dirt taken out.

“What luck?” asked Cheyne.

“Better than I expected. Old Sandy MacParland and his party are coming here to-morrow morning, and are going to give the claim a day’s trial. If they like it, they will buy us out for one hundred pounds.”

“Pity we haven’t got time to salt it,8 and get a bigger price.”

“MacFarland is too old a hand to be got at that way,” replied the captain, as he walked on to the claim to tell Green and Pinkerton his news.

“We can get away to-morrow evening before sunset,” he said, after he had told them the result of his negotiations with MacParland. “Cheyne says we can camp at Leichhardt Ponds that night, push on early in the morning, and wait for our man at Rocky Waterholes, where he is sure to camp for the night.”

“He’ll want a good rest if Aulain does him up to-night,” said Capel with an evil grin.

CHAPTER XXIX

Nearly a hundred noisy but contented diggers filled Vale’s hotel and store, all talking at once; and outside in the yard, seated on boxes, barrels, etc., were as many more, equally as well satisfied as those within. The impromptu and “free feed” of freshly-killed beef had been a great success, and now at seven o’clock, what Vale called “the harmony” began—to wit, music from a battered cornet, an asthmatic accordion, and a weird violin. There were, however, plenty of good singing voices in the company, and presently a big, fat-faced American negro, with a rich fruity voice, struck up a well-known mining song, “The Windlasses,” and the diggers thundered out the chorus:

“For I love the sound of the windlasses, And the cry, ‘Look-out, below.’”

At its conclusion there was much applause, and then the negro, who was an ex-sailor, was pressed, very literally, for another song. One digger gripped him around the waist, and another seized his woolly poll and shook him.

“Sing, you beggar, sing! Give us the ‘Arctic Fleet.’”

“Don’ you be so familiar, sah! You common digger pusson! How dah you take liberties with a gentleman!” and the negro laughed good-naturedly as he was forced on his feet again. “And don’ se singist get some refreshment fust?”

It was at once supplied, and then “Black Pete’s” rich tones sounded out in their full strength as he began the whaleman’s ditty:

“Oh, its advertised in Noo York town,Likewise in Alban-ee,For five hunder and fifty Yankee boys,To join de whaling fleetSinging, blow ye windy mornin’s,And blow ye winds, heigho,Clear away de marnin’ dews,To de Arctic we mus’ go,To de Arctic we mus’ go.”

The song was a lengthy one, and when it was finished, there was a pause; then some digger called out through the cloud of tobacco smoke that filled the room:

“Won’t you give us a song, Mr Gerrard?” Gerrard, who was talking to Vale, and some other men, turned and shook his head smilingly, when suddenly there was a slight commotion near the open door, and Randolph Aulain pushed through the crowd into the centre of the room. He was booted and spurred, and carried a short, heavy whip of plaited greenhide.

“I should like to have a few words with you, Mr Gerrard, before you sing.”

In an instant there was a dead silence—the diggers saw that Aulain meant mischief, for his usually sallow features were now white with ill-concealed fury. Gerrard kept his seat, but leant back a little so as to look Aulain full in the face.

“I am not going to sing,” he said quietly. “If you have anything to say to me, say it.”

“This filthy den is somewhat too crowded for a private discussion—unless you wish to let every one here know what you are. Come outside.”

“You want me to fight you, Aulain, do you?” The steady, unmoved tone of his voice sounded clearly through the crowded room.

“Yes, you treacherous hound, I do. I’ll make you fight.”

“You shall not. I do not fight with lunatics—and you speak and act like one. Come here to-morrow morning—or I will come to you if you wish.”

Vale put his hand on Aulain’s arm, with rough good-humour. “Get back to your tent, my lad, or sit down and keep quiet This is my house. You can see Mr Gerrard in the morning. I’ll engage he won’t run away.”

Aulain thrust him aside with savage determination, and again faced Gerrard. “Are you coming outside?” he asked hoarsely.

“No, I am not. But don’t try my patience too long, Aulain.”

“Will you come or not?” he almost shouted, and he drew back a step, amidst a hot, expectant silence.

“No, you are not in a condition to speak to any one, let alone fighting,” was the contemptuous answer.

“Then take that, you wretched cur!” and he swung his heavy whip across Gerrards face, cutting the flesh open from temple to chin, and sending him down upon the earth floor.

In an instant the maddened man was seized by Vale and another man, and borne to the ground. Then amidst oaths and curses, he was dragged outside, struggling like a demon, and carried to his horse, which was tied up to the fence. He was hoisted up into the saddle, and at once tried to take his pistol from its pouch, but the diggers took it away, and then seized his Winchester carbine.

“Here, take your reins, you murderous dog!” cried Vale, putting them into his hands.

“Stand back, boys, and well start him off to blazes.”

“He has a Derringer inside his shirt,” cried one of the men, “I’ve seen it.”

“Let him keep it,” and Vale raised the whip which he had torn from Aulain’s hand, and gave the horse a stinging cut on the flank, and with a snort of pain and terror the animal leapt forward into the darkness.

Never again was Randolph Aulain seen alive, but weeks afterwards his horse wandered back to Hansen’s Rush, and began to graze outside his master’s tent. And all that was left of Aulain was found long after in a gully in the ranges, with a rusted Derringer pistol lying beside some bleaching bones.

Gerrard had a great send-off when he left Hansen’s for the coast. The terrible cut on his face had been sewn up by a digger known as “Pat O’Shea,” who, ten years before, had had on his brass door-plate in Merrion Square, Dublin, the inscription, “Mr Vernon O’Shea, M.R.C.S.”

“Take care of yourself, boss,” cried Vale, as Gerrard swung himself up into the saddle, and made a grimace intended for a smile as he waved his hand to the assembled diggers, and trotted off, followed by his black boy, a short, wiry-framed aboriginal from the Burdekin River country, who was much attached to his master, and eyed his bound-up face with much concern. He, like Gerrard, carried a revolver at his saddle-bow, and a Snider carbine in a becket—Native Police fashion. Gerrard, in addition to his revolver, had a 44° Winchester carbine slung across his shoulder.

“Well, Tommy, here we are off home again. How do you feel? Drunk last night?”

“Yes, boss. Last night and night before, too. Mine had it fine time longa Hansen’s.”

Gerrard laughed, and began to fill his pipe, though smoking just then gave him as much pain as pleasure. Then he and Tommy rode on in silence for many hours, until they came to where the beaten track ended at a lagoon, known as Leichhardt Ponds. Here they noticed that a party had been camped the previous night, and had evidently been shooting and eating duck, for the ground was strewn with feathers.

From Leichhardt Ponds there was not even a blazed tree line, but both he and the black boy kept steadily on, their bushmen’s knowledge guiding them in a bee line for the particular part of the coast they wished to reach.

As they rode along, Tommy’s eyes scanned the ground, which was strewn with a thick carpet of dead leaves and bark from the forest gum trees.

“Four fellow men been come along here yesterday, boss,” he said, as he pulled up and pointed downward.

Gerrard bent over in his saddle, and looked at the tracks indicated by Tommy.

“Some fellow stray horse perhaps, Tommy?”

The black boy grunted a disapproval of the suggestion. No horses would stray so far from Hansen’s, where there was good grass country, into “stunted ironbark” country where there was none. And presently to prove his contention, he pulled up and pointed to a small white object on the ground.

“Look, boss. Some fellow been light pipe and throw away match.”

In an instant Gerrard’s suspicions were aroused. What could a party of four men be doing so far away from Hansen’s—and making towards the coast? Vale had told him that there were scores of notoriously bad characters on the field, and that it was known that he (Vale) was paying him for the cattle in gold, and had advised him to keep a sharp look-out for any strangers.