Part 5

We hurried down to the gully. Once on the spot we saw that Teddy was original in his mining. He had cut a series of short trenches which grew deeper and finally terminated in an irregular hole, into which we all crowded, though unable to stand upright, so low was the pit. Teddy lit a candle and pointing to the pick said to Phalin, “dig, dig,” then he gave me the shovel. The ground was very hard, of a dull yellow color and interspersed with small grey, broken quartz crystals. We filled a wash-tub which Teddy deftly lifted to his head and balanced with his hands, then marched out and up to the cabin. In the kitchen we began to pan out the contents of the tub with the aid of some water and a tin wash-dish. Teddy stood aloof leaving Phalin and McLeod to do the work. The earth was literally full of coarse gold. In all of our experience at Ballarat and Bendigo we had never seen its equal.

“I want yez gintlemen to float a Company,” said O’Flynn.

“What shall we call it?”

“The Saint Patrick.”

“No,” said Rosa, “I dreamed it out and I must name it.”

“What shall it be?”

“Call it the Garden Gully.”

Then and there it was christened and baptised in the wash-tub.

“How much shall we float it for?” inquired Phalin.

“Fifty thousand pounds at a pound a share. Give all the boys a chance.”

The following morning the notice was on the door of the Commissioner’s office and within two hours every rod of land for half a mile on each side of the cabin had been staked out. The camp went mad, hundreds of good claims were abandoned and as promptly jumped by the unlucky. Before the sun went down Phalin and I had more cases than had ever fallen to us before in our lives. When questioned about the Garden Gully we related the story of the wash-tub. That day every share was sold and half a crown paid down. For two days it was almost impossible to get near the cabin. The earth swarmed with miners but not a spec of gold was found.

On the morning of the third day Phalin and I found our huts besieged by an angry mob. During the excitement Teddy had been transformed into Teddy O’Flynn, Esq., a personage who held high carnival at the Golden Fleece and who, during that time, had ordered and helped drink one hundred bottles of champagne at twenty dollars a bottle. The situation was serious. Phalin and I were marched up to the Golden Fleece where O’Flynn was secured and the trio, followed by thousands, proceeded to the Garden Gully where Rosa was mounting guard over the entrance to the mine. She was armed with an antiquated musket and resolutely kept the men at bay. A fierce light burned in her blue eyes which enhanced her beauty a thousand fold. At our suggestion two miners were let into the pit to secure some wash-dirt. Our lives hung upon the issue. If the miners did not find gold our fate was sealed. Phalin, McLeod and Teddy would dangle from the limb of the nearest gum tree within ten minutes. The dirt was brought out and panned off in the presence of the mob. I shall never forget the silence which fell upon the men till my dying day. When the miner turned and flashed the gold in the pan in our faces a cheer for O’Flynn broke forth, and such cheers as Bendigo had never heard before. The very hills rang again and again. Rosa was the heroine of the hour. Dirty and greasy miners clasped her in their arms and kissed her with frantic joy. O’Flynn and his solicitors were escorted in a triumphal march back to the Golden Fleece where Teddy made a speech and ‘shouted’ for all who cared to drink. In the confusion Phalin and I made our escape. The next day shares in the Garden Gully advanced to two pounds each. A week later the mine was turned over to the share holders and work commenced. Teddy O’Flynn was entertained that night at a banquet at which it was declared that he was the gold king of the land of the Southern Cross. At midnight Teddy sank a limp mass under the table and was carried to bed with the honors of a dead Pharoah.

For a few hours the Garden Gully realized the wildest dreams and then just as suddenly stopped. Not even the colour could be found. Shares dropped to a shilling and no takers. The gold Commissioner ordered an investigation. During the inquiry it was clearly shown that the mine had been salted. The plan had been to first dig the hole and then charge a gun with powder and coarse gold and fire it into the earth. Rosa, who was innocent of the fraud, testified that at night she had heard many shots and that O’Flynn had explained that he had been shooting at kangaroos, which came to gnaw the rose bushes. When confronted by the evidence, O’Flynn refused to confess maintaining a dogged silence, save that if the mine was salted Rosa and his solicitors were innocent. The money received was returned to the share holders, except a few hundred pounds which O’Flynn had squandered. O’Flynn was committed to stand his trial.

The following night Phalin and I repaired to the little cabin where, much to our surprise, we found Rosa, apparently in the best of spirits. When we asked her for an explanation she said:

“I tell you there is plenty of gold in the Garden Gully and it was not put there by Teddy O’Flynn. I saw it again last night in my dreams. It is down deeper and runs away out there,” pointing toward the range. “Will you dig for it or shall I do the work myself.”

We suggested hiring two miners.

“No,” she said, with a toss of her pretty head, “it must be found without any outside help and Teddy set free.”

Instantly we both agreed with her. We would have agreed to any proposition falling from the same lips. Without a moment’s delay she produced two miner’s caps, into the peaks of which she thrust two candles, then marched us out to the pit. The candles were lighted. Rosa took a seat on the tub, we seized the pick and shovel and began to dig. Rosa chatted and laughed, the hours flew by, at midnight she brought us a lunch and two bottles of ale, but it was not until near dawn that our taskmaster called a halt. Rosa explained that during the day she would wash some of the dirt and report the result the next night. Worn out and completely exhausted Phalin and I staggered to our huts. Not a word was exchanged as we stumbled down the path. Our hands were covered with blisters, our clothes bedaubed with yellow clay, our faces streaked and seared with soot and grease from the dripping candles. Two such melancholy objects could not be found in all Bendigo. Each was determined not to yield. It was a contest of Scotch grit and Irish pluck. All day long we slept or nursed our lacerated hands, each recuperating for the second struggle. We were animated by no hope that gold would be found, a more powerful influence was at work and bade us continue the struggle. At night we were again at the cabin. Rosa reported “No gold.” Then we renewed our labors, with the same hardships and the same results. For eight nights in succession the struggle went on. Our legal business went by the board, rumor said we were drinking ourselves to death and appearances confirmed the rumor. On the ninth night imagine our surprise when Rosa informed us that we had struck the lead and in proof exhibited fully an ounce of the yellow metal. No miner ever gazed upon a great nugget which he had found, with joy equal to ours. It was a drawn battle. When will it end? was the query in our minds. Rosa gave no sign but served an excellent supper, prepared to celebrate our success. It was then arranged that Rosa was to pay the gold Commissioner a visit the following morning and inform him that the lead had again been found in the Garden Gully and that consequently Teddy O’Flynn had committed no fraud and should be released. Our offices was opened that day, but no attention was paid to our reformation so great was the excitement. An investigation of the mine proved the truth of Rosa’s statement. Once more the tide turned in favor of Teddy O’Flynn and for the second time he became the gold king of Bendigo. Teddy had sold the Garden Gully for a rich mine and it was rich. The shareholders demanded the return of their stock, paid in their money and gave Teddy a second banquet at the Golden Fleece, with the same results, save that Teddy went under the table at ten thirty instead of at twelve, a weakness attributed to his confinement in the caboose and consequently condoned by his friends.

Three days later Phalin and Sandy McLeod each received a note from Rosa requesting them to be present at the cabin at eight p.m., and also stating, in post script, that it was an important occasion, therefore we were to be dressed in our best. Phalin inferred from the word ‘important’ that he was the lucky man, while I drew the same inference from the same word. Walking on the air, for our happiness made us oblivious of Bendigo, its dust and its wretchedness, we approached the cabin at the same time, punctual to a minute. We passed compliments of the day and then surveyed each other. Phalin was dressed in a pair of black trousers, a white shirt and a collar, a yellow vest, but no coat. Sandy boasted an antideluvian dress coat, blue trousers and a red shirt. We were met at the door by Rosa, clad in a white muslin gown, with a great bunch of roses at her belt. I had never seen her look lovelier. So great was my happiness at securing the prize that the words died on my lips. Phalin was equally overcome and for precisely the same reasons. Teddy received us with genuine Irish hospitality and a glass of whiskey. Entering the cabin we were face to face with a young English curate who had been sent up from Melbourne as a missionary. It was evident that the hour had come, we were confronted by our destiny. The curate remarked in a languid drawl, “This is a happy occasion.” Rosa smiled her sweetest. Then she went out to the kitchen and came back blushing and leaning on the arm of Dennis McCarthy, a young Irish miner.

“My dear friends,” she said, “I have bid you to my wedding. Dennis is the lucky man, we pledged our troth in dear old Kerry.”

The ceremony proceeded and each kissed the bride. It was the first and last time. How we spent the next hour I shall never know and Phalin can furnish you with no fuller particulars. I have a confused recollection of Rosa, the curate, Teddy, a bunch of roses and McCarthy, that is all. At last we got away, heaven only knows what we said. Once out on the path we stalked along in moody silence. When we came to the Golden Fleece we both turned in, entered the private parlor and ordered whiskey, straight. Two hours later we were sent home by the landlord in barrows. When I awoke the next morning I found myself in Phalin’s hut and in Phalin’s bed. Phalin found himself in my hut and in my bed. How the thing happened we have never been able to explain. The following day when we met we concluded to enter into partnership and the sign reads to this day, Shea & McLeod, solicitors.

“No, we have never married.”

“What about the Garden Gully?”

“The mine is running yet and has paid the shareholders many handsome dividends.”

“Rosa?”

The day following the wedding, the bride, McCarthy and Teddy took a special stage for Melbourne en route for the old sod. A week later my partner and I each received a letter, precisely the same, written in Rosa’s best hand, containing a certified cheque on the Bank of Australia, drawn in our favor, for five hundred pounds.

THE GREEN DOOR. A Night in Melbourne.

A winter night in Melbourne; it had been raining all day, the wind from the south blew chill and raw. As I wandered down Great Bourke street I saw, drawn up in a line some fifty men standing in the gutter. Each man had his eyes fastened on a green baize door directly in front of them, as if their last hope depended upon its opening. The men were of all sorts and conditions, the sundowner from the back blocks, the costermonger without a barrow, the new chum who had deposited with his gracious uncle, the professional free lunch rounder and the decayed gentleman. One wretched creature in particular drew my attention. At one time, some time, heaven knows how long distant, he had been a gentleman. The fragments of a Prince Albert coat were buttoned tightly up to his very chin. I should have said pinned, for every button was gone. His hands blue with the cold were clean and there was something in his very attitude which said, ‘I am not to this manor born.’ I beckoned to him and when he came up I said, “Come with me my friend.” He followed at my side but spoke not a word. Entering a private room in the Coffee House I called for a glass of hot beef tea. While he was drinking the tea greedily but shivering between each gulp I ordered a hot dinner. He ate the dinner with the voracity of a starving man. Then I handed him a cigar. I closely watched him and saw, written on his face an unsatisfied longing. “What is it?” I said.

“Opium,” came in a hoarse tremolo from his throat.

“I have it,” I said drawing a half ounce bottle of laudanum from my pocket. I had purchased it for a prospective trip.

“Quick, six glasses,” he whispered.

The waiter brought the glasses. My strange companion placed them in a line and then said, “Divide it into six parts,” pointing to the laudanum.

I complied with his request. He seized the first glass, drained it and closed his eyes. Taking up the _Herald_ I waited. After the lapse of five minutes I turned to my guest, his eyes were wide open, almost staring, while the ghost of a smile played around his mobile mouth.

“What is your name,” I asked.

“John Lilburn,” he answered slowly, as if he were struggling to recall his own name.

“Where from?” I queried.

No reply, only a puzzled expression on his face. Then he croaked out, “Time for number two.” Immediately he swallowed the contents of the second glass and again closed his eyes. This time the interval was not so long. A tinge of colour stole into his thin cheeks, his hands ceased to tremble, the creature began to look like a man.

“How long have I been here?” he inquired, as if surprised at his surroundings and the complaisant mood in which he found himself. Then his eyes fell upon the glasses and he nodded his head as much as to say, “I see it all now.”

“You came with me from in front of the green door,” I replied.

“What does the green door signify?”

“Supper,” he answered, “supper for all who stand in the line at eight o’clock and are sober.”

“A good Samaritan on Bourke street, a Christian in a new quarter and in a strange guise.”

“That depends upon your standpoint of view,” murmured my companion. “The man conducts, side by side, a drinking place and the restaurant. In the restaurant, every night for half an hour he cares for some of the finished product turned out by his other establishment.”

“Has he turned you out as finished?”

“I never drink,” he said, a trace of hauteur coming into his manner.

“Worse,” said I, pointing to the glasses.

“My last remaining friend,” was his reply, and he raised the third glass to his lips and drank it off with the dignity of a gentleman of the old school. He brushed back his tangled hair with a nervous energy, his very presence grew upon me, then he unpinned and threw back his coat exposing his bare chest, for he wore no shirt, arose and paced the room with a decided step which betokened a man used to command. The homeless beggar had vanished and in his stead stood God’s noblest work.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but whom have I the honor of meeting?”

I gave him my name and he bowed with courtly grace.

“We are brothers,” he said, “all men are brothers but unfortunately our pride prevents us from acknowledging the truth.”

Then we drifted into conversation and I learned that he belonged to an excellent family in the north of Ireland. He had obtained his degree at Trinity College, Dublin, taken orders and proceeded to South Australia where the Bishop gave him a large parish in the pastoral country. Suddenly the relator became reticent and relapsed into silence. I divined the cause and pointed to the glasses. He hesitated and then drank off another but with the disgust shewn when one is compelled to take medicine. The effect of this potion was unexpected. The parson, for such I must call him, burst into song, at first sentimental and then comic. They were certainly not acquired at a divinity school. He fairly rollicked in the patter songs, so famous years ago in the London music halls. When he drew a comparison between a monkey and a dude, in which the monkey had the best of it, he was irresistible and I laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks. The reckless abandon, the rollicking gaiety, the quip and quirk,—all were perfect. I forgot who he was and what he was.

As the last patter song died on his lips he turned ashy pale and began to tremble violently. I handed him another glass but he dashed it from my hand and poured out upon me such curses as I had never heard before. They froze my blood and gave me a sight of the very soul of the man, reeking with blasphemy and hatred and a savage malevolence so vindictive that a fiend from the bottomless pit would have turned and fled. As I darted to the door he seized me and with the strength of a mad man hurled me into a chair, his horrible laugh ringing out with sardonic glee, piercing the ears and running into a mocking refrain. Turning to the table he swallowed all the laudanum which remained. Two minutes later he was another man. His mouth was that of a child with the pathetic pucker always seen before an infant bursts into tears. I forgot his violence, his obscenity, everything, in the new character before me, I felt that the curtain was up for the last act, when it fell there would be darkness, the light would fail and the green door come back.

“I have never told the story,” he exclaimed, “but the time has come when it must be told.” His voice was so low that I was compelled to bend forward and listen as the words fell from his lips. Then he dashed into the recital startling in its intensity.

“In my parish was one great squatter who made his home upon the estate, the other squatters living at Adelaide or Melbourne. John Bond held by the good old English practice and lived upon his estate. ‘If the land did so much for him,’ he said, ‘then he was bound to stand by the land.’ At my first visit I fell in love with John Bond’s daughter Helen. Up to that moment I had been bound up in the work of the church. Men called me an enthusiast, a dreamer. I believed and acted upon my belief. I know that I had a mission, tidings to impart, hope and comfort to offer. I was a priest consecrated to the work, not an interpreter. I believed that a priest should not marry. Twenty-four hours spent at John Bond’s house made me a new man. I looked back on the past as a dream. I saw myself a phantom, a church instrument, but for the first time I felt myself a man. I had been a slave, I became a living fire. I had dreamed of happiness for mankind, mankind were swallowed up in Helen Bond. She constituted the universe, my universe. I pouted out my passion and found my love returned, what more could priest or man demand? Half the summer I lived in a dream, an ecstasy, a delirium. I had not saved a sovereign, for my creed was, ‘Give all to the poor,’ that is, it had been my creed before I met Helen. She took absolute possession of my heart, my emotions. My first pang came when my would-be bride told me that the dream of her life had been Melbourne, when we married there we must live. I implored the Bishop of Adelaide to secure for me a parish in the great metropolis and received in reply to my letter a curt refusal, with an admonition relative to neglected duties. Helen was adamant, the condition was Melbourne. She suggested that I should appeal to her father for assistance but my pride revolted. At this juncture the news came describing the new gold fields of Western Australia. Helen whispered in my ear, it was but a hint. I caught at it and drove to Adelaide and tendered my resignation. The bishop refused to accept it and told me that I was mad and upbraided me for deserting a sacred cause for mammon. Stung by his reproaches I confessed my secret. I painted Helen as I saw her, her beauty, grace, sweetness, but nothing moved the ecclesiastic. I flung all to the winds and sailed for Perth on the next steamer. The terrible march to Coolgardie did not abate my ardour. At the mines I was one of the few successful. In four months I wrung out three thousand pounds, but at a fearful cost. The toil, the damp earth, the coarse food and the delirium which drove me on by day and harassed me by night, sapped the very springs of my life, ate up my imagination, devoured my sympathies, obliterated my faith, and planted in their stead a greed for gold behind which I saw the smiling face of Helen. The mail brought me no tidings, though I sent letter after letter down to the coast. Sleep forsook me. I resorted to opiates. My luck deserted me and this increased my fury. I was soon known as the mad miner. I laughed at the taunts. Was not a priceless reward before me? Helen ever beckoning me on. I saw her face in every nugget, her form in the little smoke clouds as they rolled away from the candle in my miner’s cap, her smile in the water running over the ripples. I could endure the torment no longer. With my treasure I started for the coast. I watched it by day and slept beside it at night. A thousand times I woke with a horrible start believing that it was gone. How much opium I used on that journey I shall never know. I landed at Larges Bay and hurried into Adelaide. The green belt which girts the city, the blue sky above, the camellias bursting into bloom made no appeal to me. I had burned up my capacity for enjoyment. I was no longer a man but a husk, a mere cinder, a bit of scoria sucked up by a mighty tempest and driven forward. At the Bank of Australia I drew up and as I did so Helen came tripping down the steps and smiling as only Helen could smile. I rushed forward and caught her in my arms, the next instant I was hurled half senseless into the gutter. The bishop, my bishop, stood towering over me in a rage.”

“‘How dare you sir, how dare you affront my wife in such a manner, you hair-brained?’ he exclaimed. He raised his hand to strike me, but Helen interposed. ‘Your grace, my dear, forgive him, we both know that he is not always responsible for his actions.’”

“Then they entered a carriage and drove away. When I turned and saw my box of gold how I cursed it. Once to-night I saw it again, pardon me if I shocked you. The box lies in the bank vaults at Adelaide, it has been there for five years, I shall never touch it again, never, never.”

“How have I lived?”

“As the birds live, on the crumbs. I have begged, the opium fiend has me, you know it, sir, but here take this,” and he thrust into my hand a sealed paper. He lived for a week after, I went out daily to see him at the Alfred Hospital, St. Kilda Road.

The Lilburn wing of the new Adelaide Hospital was built with the treasure and the Lord Bishop delivered a most eloquent address upon the occasion of the laying of the corner stone, but that was many years before the present bishop arrived in the colony.

THE THREE GREAT PEARLS. A New Guinea Story.