That night John Redgrave and the wailing Doorival buried him at the foot of a mighty sighing pine, covering up their traces as completely as the boy’s woodcraft enabled them to do, and marking the spot in a sure but unobtrusive manner, so that in days to come the burying-place of Guy Waldron should not be suffered to remain undistinguished. This duty being performed, Jack gathered up the small personal treasures of the dead man, and long before dawn, steering by the southern stars, they pursued their mournful progress towards the settlements.
CHAPTER XXII
“I loved him well; his gallant part,
His fearless leading, won my heart.” —Scott.
For several days they had an average measure of privation only. The resources of Doorival were found equal to supplying them with food and water. From the course pointed out to him he had never varied, and Jack was, from observation and calculation, perfectly certain that it would bring them, if carried out, well within the line of the settled districts.
But as to one condition of success he felt undecided. For some weeks there had been no rain, and a stretch of country lay yet before them in which, according to the rainfall, they might, or might not, find water; in the language of explorers, signifying that they might, or might not, perish. Desperate from the death of Guy Waldron, he had been too reckless to take this risk into the account. He would dare the hazard, and put his last chance upon the die.
So it fared that, after leaving the last watercourse and entering upon the wide untrodden system of plain, scrub, and sand-hill – scrub and sand-hill and plain – which divided the rivers, Jack was compelled to admit, after two days’ short allowance of water, and one with none at all, that he had been foolhardy. The third day passed without the slightest appearance of moisture. It was inexpedient to diverge from the line for more than a short distance in search for fear of wasting their failing strength. The boy, strong in passive courage, held out unflinchingly. John Redgrave had the fullest faith in the accuracy of his reckoning. They must, without the shadow of a doubt, strike the waters of the Wondabyne, if they could hold out. But that was the vital question. By his closely-examined and re-examined calculation they should sight the great eucalypti that towered above those deep and gleaming waters (oh, thought of Paradise!) hurrying beneath the carved limestone cliffs on the following sunset, or at least before midnight. Were but one day longer necessary, then were they both lost. The boy was failing now in spite of his courage. For himself, he would not, could not, consciously yield as long as he could stand or crawl on hands and knees. Yet a certain swelling of his parched throat, a murmur in his ears, a disposition to talk aloud and unbidden, all these signs announced to him, as a practised bushman, that the fourth day, if passed without water, would find them delirious and dying. Shutting out these thoughts as far as his volition availed, he strode on, followed feebly by the boy, during the long terrible day.
At sunset they halted for a few minutes upon the inevitable sand-hill, with pine and shrub and long yellow grass, the exact fac-simile of scores which they had crossed since they had left Raak. Jack faced the west and gazed for a few moments upon the gorgeous blazonry of scroll-like clouds, the rolling wavelets of orange, splashed with crimson and ruddy with burning gold, which rose and fell in shifting masses, as if rent by Titans from the treasure-house of Olympus. Far away northward, far as the eye could see, lay the dim green desert, measureless, lifeless, and life-denying.
“It is the last sunset that I shall see, possibly. It seems hard, as poor Guy said; but when he and better men had gone on the battle-field and elsewhere with the sound of victory in their ears, John Redgrave may well go too. It is a fitting end of the melodrama of life. Doorival, shoot that crow.”
This highly inconsequent concluding remark was occasioned by the alighting of the bird of ill-omen, which had been following them since dawn with the strange instinct of its kind, on a branch almost immediately above them. The boy, wayworn almost to the death, and looking well-nigh lifeless as he lay at Jack’s feet, could not resist the irony of the situation, and, noiselessly sliding his carbine into aim, sent a bullet through the breast of the unlucky “herald of the fiend,” who dropped down before them, like the raven at the feet of Lucy Ashton and her fateful, fascinating companion.
“To tear the flesh of princes
And peck the eyes of kings.”
Murmured Jack, “If one ever could smile again, it would be at this transposition of situations. A minute since this unprejudiced fowl had a well-grounded expectation that he was about to dine or sup upon us. Now we are going to eat him.”
“Stupid fellow this one waggan,” said Doorival, taking a long and apparently satisfactory suck at the life-blood of the incautious one; “he think we close up dead.”
“He wasn’t far wrong either,” answered Jack, grimly. “Now light a fire, and let us roast him a little for the look of the thing.”
Stimulated by even this unwonted repast, the forlorn creatures struggled on till midnight. The night was comparatively cool, and with parched throats and fevered brain John Redgrave judged it better, in spite of the increasing weakness of the boy, to press forward and make their last effort before dawn.
The Southern Cross, burning in the cloudless azure, with, as it appeared to the despairing wayfarer, a mocking radiance and intensity of lustre, had shown by its apparent change of position that the night was waning, when the boy, who had been going for the last hour like an over-driven horse, fell and lay insensible. Jack raised him, and after a few minutes he opened his eyes and spoke feebly.
“Can’t go no furder, not one blessed step. You go on, Misser Redgrave, and leave me here. I go ’long a Misser Waldron.” Here his dark eyes gleamed. “He very glad to see Doorival again. I believe Wondabyne ahead; you make haste.”
Jack’s only reply to this was to pick the boy up and to stagger on with him across his shoulder. For some distance he managed by frantic effort and sheer power of will to support the burden; but his failing muscles all but brought him heavily to the earth over every slight obstruction. He was compelled to halt, and, placing the lad at the foot of a tree, he extemporized a sort of couch for him of leaves and branches.
“Now look here, Doorival,” he said; “you and I are not dead yet, though close up, I know. I will go on, and if I get to the water before daylight I will come back and bring you on. I will keep the same track till I drop. I know the river is ahead, perhaps not very far. I break the branches and leave track. You come on to-morrow morning if you don’t see me. Now, good-night. I’ll leave Help with you.”
The boy’s dull eye glistened as he placed his arm round the neck of the dog, who, with the wondrous sympathy of his race, sat in front of the exhausted lad, looking wistfully into his face. Famishing as was the brute himself, he had made no independent excursions for the water he so sorely needed, but had followed patiently the feeble steps of his comrades in misfortune. At his master’s word he lay down in an attitude of watchfulness by the fainting boy, and remained to share a lingering death, as Jack’s steps died away in the distance.
John Redgrave shook the boy’s hand, parting as those who, in a common adventure, have been more closely knit together by the presence of danger and of death. Then he strode on – weak, weary, alone, but still defiant of Fate. For more than two hours he pressed forward unwaveringly, though conscious of increasing weakness of mind and body. The timber became more dense, and his progress was retarded by small obstacles which still were sufficient to entangle his feeble feet. Then his brain began to wander. Sometimes he thought he was at Marshmead. He heard plainly the musical cry of the swans in the great meres, and the shrill call of the plover, circling and wheeling over the broad marshes. If he could only get through this timber he would see the reed-brake ahead, and, falling into the knee-deep water, would lap and lave till his fevered soul was cooled. Then a white shape walked beside him, and extended a hand pointing towards that bright star. It was Maud Stangrove, though her face was turned away – and the Shape was misty, transparent, indistinct – he knew every curve and outline of that faultless figure, the poise of her head, the swaying grace of her step. She had come to tell him that her pure spirit had passed from earth, that his hour was come – that they would be united for ever beyond yon fair star – that toil and weariness, hope, fear, and mordant anxiety, the fierce pangs, the evil dreams of this vain life, were over. Be it so – he was content. Let the end come.
Then the fair shape floated onward, gazing on him with sad, luminous eyes, as of farewell. The look of despairing fondness, of unutterable pity, was more than his overwrought senses could bear. He threw up his arms, and calling on the name of his lost love dashed madly through the dense undergrowth. Suddenly he was sensible of a crushing blow, of intense pain, then of utter darkness, and John Redgrave fell prone, and lay as one dead.
He awoke at length to full consciousness of his position and surroundings, more clear, perhaps, from the loss of blood which had followed the blow against his brow from the jagged limb of a dead tree against which he had staggered and fallen. The moon shone clearly, the night was cool almost to coldness. He felt revived, but full of indignation. It was the ingenious cruelty which restores the fainting man to the dire torments of the rack. His swollen tongue, which all that day his mouth had been unable to contain, was covered, as were his face and throat, with ants. His throat was parched still, but his brain was revived. He rose to his feet, sternly obstinate while life yet flickered. Onward still. He would die with his face to the river. He would crawl when he could no longer walk. He would die as a man should die.
Onward – still onward; he remembered his course, and the star which Doorival called Irara. Weak at first, but gradually rallying, he walked steadily and more cautiously forward. An hour passed. The temporary feeling of excitement has subsided, and overpowering, leaden drowsiness is pressing heavily upon his brain. Again he sinks to the earth, half fearing, half wishing to rise no more. Suddenly he hears the whistling wings of a flight of birds which sweep overhead. His languid senses are aroused; he watches mechanically the dark, swift forms cleave the air in relief against the clear sky. They are wild-fowl, on their way, no doubt, to distant waters. His gaze follows them as they glide forward in swaying file, and suddenly, with the plummet-like fall, drop and disappear.
Merciful Heaven! can it be? Versed in all the habits of fur and feather, as becomes a sworn sportsman, well he knows that when such birds drop they drop in water, in water! He staggers to his feet, and stumbling, reeling, tottering like a drunken man, makes for the place where they became invisible. One glance, one hoarse broken cry of joy, pain, rapture mingled in one utterance, and he is on his knees beside a gleaming, rushing stream. He hears the gurgling, whistling note of the delighted birds that are diving and splashing and chasing one another in ecstasy of enjoyment. It is the Wondabyne! He remains upon his knees looking for some seconds at the starry heavens; then, slowly and sparingly, he drinks at intervals; he laves his brow and parched and bleeding lips again and again in the cool waters. Then he carefully fills the tin cup which hangs from a leather strap at his waist, and turns on his track to the boy Doorival. Him he finds still sleeping, with the dog beside him, who barks joyously at his approach. He wakes him, and pointing to the tin cup, of which the boy drinks eagerly, repeats but the single word “Wondabyne.”
It is enough; Doorival arises, staggers off with him, as one risen from the dead.
Once more he sees the reedy shore – the gleaming river into which Help plunges incontinently. He has much difficulty in preventing Doorival from “drinking himself to death.” Both assuage the fiery thirst which has been burning up brain and marrow. Both throw themselves upon the warm sandy turf, and sleep till the sun is far on his path on the morrow.
The battle is won – the standard is planted – all is plain and easy journeying for the future. They are close to the mail track; another day’s journey will bring them to the actual settled country.
On the morrow, just before sunset, they reach The Pioneers’ Royal Hotel, a palatial weather-board edifice, apparently dropped down like an aerolite upon the bare red soil of the plain. If it has no other advantages, it possesses the inestimable one of being the mail depot. That invaluable custodian of her Majesty’s correspondence, the mailman, passes the door daily. To-morrow, if need be, John Redgrave may put himself, his followers, and his tenders “on board” of this unpretending express waggon, which bears the fortunes, the passions, the emotions, the whole abstract life of the interior, to the metropolis.
CHAPTER XXIII
“I, the sport of Fortune.” —Duke Charles of Orleans
Jack, “ragged and tanned,” half-starved, and a “footman” (as a person not in possession of a horse is termed in Australian provincial circles), was not for the moment regarded with special favour by the landlord of the Royal Pioneer.
However, the first few words led to immediate “class legislation.” The landlords of Australian inns, I may observe, are tolerably good judges of “who’s who,” and, to their honour, are more regardful of gentlemanlike bearing than of money and good clothes.
So Jack was inducted into the front parlour, and invited to repair the inroads upon his outward man in a bedroom of comparative grandeur. He first of all arranged for the purchase of an entirely new rig-out from the affiliated store, also in possession of the landlord, and a bath. After indulgence in the latter luxury, he made up the whole of his former wearing apparel in a package, and desired that they might be given to the poor, or otherwise disposed of. He then decided that he would transact the imposing ceremony of dinner, and afterwards draw up his tenders for twenty five-mile blocks on the River Marion, and be ready for a start to the metropolis next morning.
Entering the parlour in a suit of rough tweed, he felt much more like a shepherd king of the future than the death-doomed pioneer – half hunter, half savage – of the preceding few days. As he came in, a well-dressed, strongly-jewelled personage arose from the sofa on which he had been sitting, and greeted Jack with much cordiality.
“Mr. Redgrave, I believe, I have the honour of addressing. I’ve heard of your heroic feats, sir. I hope you will give me the pleasure of your company at dinner. Took the liberty of ordering it the moment I heard of your arrival. No denial, sir, if you please. You are Frank Forestall’s guest to-night, whatever happens.”
There was no resisting the dash and pertinacity of his entertainer, so Jack quietly subsided into the position, and permitted the strange gentleman to make himself happy in his own way. The dinner, after a rather unreasonable delay, arrived, by no means so indifferent as to cuisine as might have been imagined. Mr. Forestall insisted on “Piper, No. 2,” and pressed Jack to do him justice in huge glasses, which he seemed to have magical powers of emptying.
It must be remembered that Jack had been many months without the taste of spirits, much less of decent wine. His recent experiences, the total change of scene, the hope of a happy sequel, now near and tangible, to the volume of his life, all these things tended to produce a general feeling of exhilaration, tending, as the evening wore on, to entire loss of caution and self-control. Mr. Forestall described himself as an extensive mail-contractor, who visited the far interior from time to time with a view to comprehensive contracts, in which he intended, at no distant period, to rival, if not to overshadow, the foreign element, as represented by the potentate Cobb. He artfully led the conversation to explorations, privations, and the adventures of Jack and his hapless comrade, mingling sympathetic flattery with acute inquiries, until, after successive beakers of “hot stopping” and pipes of negrohead, Jack was in no humour to conceal any portion of his intentions and discoveries. How and when he had retired for the night John Redgrave was, next morning, unable to remember; but awaking, long after sunrise, with a splitting headache and a disordered system, he had a confused recollection of having imparted much information which he had never intended to reveal except in the sealed tenders of Redgrave and Waldron, passing in due course through the Department of Lands.
Dressing and shaking himself together with no inconsiderable effort, he found by inquiring of the landlord that the mail had come and gone, and that his genial host of the preceding evening had departed with it. Wroth with himself for the loss of even one day, he adhered sternly to the drawing out of the tenders in proper form.
After a subdued and decorous meal, he retired early, and at the appointed hour deposited himself, Doorival, and Help in the unpretending conveyance which bore the toilers of the midmost plateaux to the breeze-swept cities of the “kingdom by the sea.”
Here, in due time, he was deposited as one who re-enters Paradise, after rejoicing in the as yet unforgiven outer world, amid the rayless toil of ungrateful labour, amid the briars and thorns of Earth – accursed and unreclaimed.
He lost not an hour after his arrival in despatching the inestimable “Tenders for (20) twenty five-mile blocks, situated on the River Marion, west of Daar Creek, and bearing south-west from the Camp No. XL. of Mr. Surveyor Kennedy.”
Having done this, Jack awaited impatiently the time when a reply might reasonably be expected to arrive. He sought the agents of Guy Waldron, and deposited with them the relics and the few lines in which the dying man had traced the record of his last wishes. He found these gentlemen kindly disposed, and grateful to him for the manifest sympathy which he exhibited.
“How the old squire will bear it I can’t think,” said the senior partner. “I am the son of a tenant on his estate, and I can remember him since I was that big. He was a terrible man when he was crossed, and Mr. Guy was always a wild youngster, but he was prouder of him, I used to think, than of all the rest put together. It will be a comfort to them all to see this lad here. I dare say he wrote about him; and as he saw him at the very last, it may please them to hear of his last moments.”
So the heroic Doorival was despatched, accompanied by poor Guy’s big outfit in a chest full of all his unused property, books, papers, &c., and arriving safely in Oxfordshire was installed as prime favourite, and second in command to the butler. Let us hope that he behaved better than one anglicised aboriginal, who was for some slight offence chastised by the butler. That official was solemn and awe-inspiring of aspect. But the wolf-cub had grown and strengthened; he turned fiercely to bay, and smote suddenly and so shrewdly his superior officer that a coroner’s inquest appeared imminent. Sentence of deportation went forth against him, afterwards commuted. But the son of the waste was respected after this outbreak, and in the servants’ hall was permitted to possess his soul in peace.
There was a balance of something over £300 remaining in the hands of Guy Waldron’s agents, and this sum, in the terms of his note, they paid over to Jack, as representative of the firm of Redgrave and Waldron. He had nothing now to look forward to but the acceptance of his tenders. He found that with the weighty and responsible task before him he was unable to interest himself in the ordinary frivolities of town life. He was deeply anxious to get his first lot of store cattle on the way; and to this end these tenders must be accepted and returned to him with but little delay.
Day after day he haunted the Lands Office, and by dint of pertinacity and daily application he managed to get his papers “put through” that excellent and long-suffering department. It is hinted that from press of work or other causes delay has become chronic in that much-maligned, calm-judging branch of the public service. Whether they pitied his manifest impatience, or whether the lives of certain officials were made a burden to them during the passage of the papers, certain it is that some weeks before the ordinary routine Jack had reason to believe that an acknowledgment of his communication would reach him in advance of the ordinary official period. Before the impatiently expected official communication arrived, Jack had made several important arrangements depending upon this contingency, so that no more time than was absolutely necessary might be lost. He was feverishly anxious to be again on the war-path.
He thought of joyous Guy Waldron lying beneath the solitary pine-tree, on the far sand-hill, swept now in the advanced season by the burning desert blast; and he pined for the moment when he could recommence his labour, and make some progress in fulfilment of his pledge to his dead comrade.
He thought of fair Maud Stangrove, lonely, weary with vigil and orison, enduring her prosaic, unrelieved life at Juandah; and his heart stirred with an unaccustomed throb as he pictured her wild joy upon receiving his letter, telling of the acceptance of the tenders, and his departure to stock the Wonder-land so dearly-bought, so hardly wrested from Nature and from man. He had arranged with certain stock and station agents for the placing of a certain number of the blocks in their hands for sale, upon the receipt of which security they were willing to advance the cash necessary for the purchase of a couple of thousand head of cattle.
In pursuance of these plans he had determined, after extracting a solemn pledge from one of the higher officials that within a very short space of time he should receive the necessary reply to his proposals, to proceed at once to the station where the cattle were on approval. He authorized the momentous despatch to be delivered to his agents, to be by them forwarded to him at the cattle-station.
The cattle were mustered, counted, and approved of. The price was very low, the quality reasonable – it was not necessary to be too fastidious under the circumstances. The time Jack had calculated upon expending had just expired, when lo! the expected despatch, “On Her Majesty’s Service,” with her Majesty’s envelope and her Majesty’s Lion-and-Unicorned seal, arrived.
“Just as I calculated, to a day,” quoth Jack. “This reminds one of old times, when I used to be rather proud of ‘fitting my connections’ in business matters, as Americans phrase it. Now for the first Act of Victory in Westminster Abbey!” He opened the missive hastily. How neat and decided were the characters of this long-looked-for epistle! Jack read it twice over, as his vision after one glance was temporarily obscured.
This was the wording of the important document: —
“Department of Lands,”October 15, 186 —.
“Sir – I have the honour to acknowledge the receipt of tenders for unoccupied Crown lands, as noted in the margin, bearing date September 10th ultimo, and to inform you that tenders on the part of F. Forestall and Co. and others, which would appear to be for the same blocks, were received at this office upon the 9th September ultimo.
“I have the honour to be, sir,
“Your obedient servant,
“J.M. Ingram,
“Under Secretary.
“John Redgrave, Esq.,
“Care of Messrs. Thornbrook and Bayle,
“Stock and Station Agents.”
Jack read more than once the fatally clear and concise announcement, with the blank, expressionless countenance of a man perusing his death-warrant, unexpectedly received. Was it credible, possible, that an overruling Providence could permit such hellish treachery? Now he understood all the artful inquiries, the feigned bonhomie and hospitality, the sudden departure of the double-dyed traitor Forestall. Was this to be the recompense for the deadly perils, the hunger, the thirst, the blood of Guy Waldron, his own passage through the Valley of the Shadow? It could not be! Again and again he showered wild curses upon his own weakness, on the heartless villain who had taken advantage of him, the feeble survivor of the desperate conflict waged with the malign powers of the desert.
Again he assured himself that such monstrous injustice before high Heaven could not be carried out. He would return at once to the metropolis, and if such base theft, worse a thousand times than the comparatively straight-forward and manly robbery under arms by the wandering outlaw, who risked his life upon the hazard, were confirmed, he would shoot Forestall in midday, in the public streets, before he would submit to be mocked and plundered of the prize for which he and his dead comrade had shed their blood. He felt compelled, to his deep mortification, to explain to the owner of the partly-purchased herd that unforeseen circumstances prevented his completing his bargain, and necessitated his instant presence at head-quarters. Deeply disappointed, and with a host of doubts bordering upon despair preying upon his very vitals, he abjured rest and sleep, almost food, until he once more found himself in the streets of – .
Without an instant’s delay he presented himself at the office of Messrs. Thornbrook and Bayle, to whom, haggard and fierce of mien, he at once presented the official letter.
“I see the whole thing,” said the senior partner, “and I feel as indignant as yourself at the vile deception which has been practised upon you. I know the scoundrel well, and it is far from his first crime in the same direction. I will go with you to the Minister for Lands, and we will see what we can do. But first have some breakfast, and calm down your excitement a little. We may manage to arrange matters, surely.”
Jack took the well-meant advice, and before long they were in the ante-chamber of the Minister for Lands, the arbiter of fate, he who gives or withholds fortune, decreeing affluence or ruin, “according to the Regulations under the Land Act.”
After waiting about an hour for the return of a glib gentleman who went in just before them, with the assurance that his business could be settled in ten minutes, they passed into the presence of the great man. They found a quiet-looking personage seated before a very comfortable writing-table, on which lay piles of official-looking papers in envelopes of every gradation of size, some of them apparently constructed to receive a quire or two of foolscap without inconvenience. They were received with politeness, and Mr. Thornbrook introduced Jack, who at once stated his grievance.
“Your tenders were sent to this department on or about the – ?”
“The tenth of September,” said Jack. “I came down at once, after returning from the new country applied for.”
The minister rang a bell, and a clerk appeared.
“Send up the tenders, signed John Redgrave for Redgrave and Waldron, for unoccupied Crown lands, and any others for the same blocks.”
In a few minutes several large envelopes were laid upon the table, upon one of which was marked “Redgrave and Waldron. – Tenders for Raak new country.”
“I understand you to complain,” said the minister, blandly, but not without a tone of sympathy, “that, whereas you and your partner – since dead, I regret to hear – were the actual discoverers and explorers of this Raak country, other persons have put in tenders for apparently the same blocks.”
“That is my complaint,” said Jack; “and not an unreasonable one either I should fancy. My partner and I, at the risk of our lives, he, poor fellow, did lose his, found and traversed this country, never seen or heard of by white men, with the sole exception of the stockman who told us. I came to town with hardly a day’s loss of time, put in formal tenders, and now, to my utter astonishment, I find that tenders for the same country are in before mine. I certainly did speak unguardedly about the affair to a fellow named Forestall, and he, it appears, has planned to rob me of my very hardly-earned right to the run.”
“It appears to be a very bad case,” answered the minister; “but you will, I am sure, concede that the department can only deal with tenders or applications for pastoral leases of unoccupied Crown lands as brought before it, without reference to the characters or motives of applicants. I may point out to you that these tenders (here he gathered up a sheaf of the octavo envelopes) appear to have been put in on the ninth of September, one day before yours. You and your friend can examine them.”
Jack and Mr. Thornbrook did look over them. There were a large number. They were prepared evidently by skilled and experienced hands. Some were in the name of Francis Forestall and Co., many in other names, of which Jack had no knowledge. They offered a shade above the yearly rental and premium which Jack had put down, never dreaming of a competitor. Then, again, they were geographically most accurate. Close calculations evidently had been made, charts studied, and the nearest possible approximation as to latitude and longitude around it. Nor was this the worst. Every square mile of the Raak country was of course included. But the tenders in the strange names took in the whole available country above, below, around that desirable oasis, so that there it was hopeless, if the hostile tenders were accepted, to find even a decent-sized run anywhere within a week’s ride of Mount Stangrove and Lake Maud.