Chapter 14

"I was to say nothing, indeed, was I? And what call had I to say nothing? Is that what you ask? Was I to stand here all day and say never a word for myself until they were ready to hang me? Tell me now, did I murder poor Baldy or did you? Was it not you who struck him down with the axe without saying as much as 'by your leave,' either to me or to him? Did you say a word to me until you finished your bloody work? And then you threatened to cut me down, too, with the axe, if I didn't hold my tongue, and help you to lift the man on to your horse. It is this day you should have remembered before you began that night's work. Sorrow's the day I ever met you at all, with the miserable life you led me; and you know I was always the good wife to you until you gave yourself entirely to the devil with your wicked ways. Wasn't I always on the watch for you every evening looking for you, and the chop on the fire, and the hot tea, and everything comfortable? And is it to hang me now you want to pay me back for the trouble I took for you and all the misery I suffered these long years? And the death of my poor father, who found me in gaol, is at your door too, for he would have been alive and well this day but for the deed you done, which broke his poor old heart; the Lord have mercy on him. And who is to blame but your own self for being in this place at all? You not only done the man to death, but you must go about the bush bragging of it to strangers, and twisting the halter for your own neck like a born idiot; and that's what you are, in spite of your roguery and cunning."

And so on for two hours of hell until the jury came back. They acquitted Julia and found her husband guilty. She left the court without once looking back, and he faced the jury alone.

Judge Pohlman had never before sent a man to the gallows. He made the usual little moral speech, and bewailed his own misfortune in having to perform so disagreeable a duty. Then he put on the black cap and passed sentence. At the concluding words, "May the Lord have mercy on your soul," the condemned man responded with a fervent "Amen," adding, "And that's the last of poor Nosey." He seemed greatly relieved when the ceremony was over, but it was not quite the last, there was another to follow.

For ten days he remained in his cell, and no one visited him except the priest. His examination of conscience was not difficult, for he had often rehearsed it, and much of it had been done for him in public.

He made his last journey between two priests, joining fervently in their prayers for the dying. His step was firm, and he showed neither fear nor bravado. The hangman quickly drew down the cap, but he seemed more flurried than his victim. The sheriff, without speaking, motioned him to place the knot in the correct position under the ear. Then the bolt was drawn and the story of "The Two Shepherds" was finished.

The man whom Philip met at Bendigo had farms in the country thinly timbered. North, south, east, and west the land was held under squatting licenses; with the exception of the home paddocks it was unfenced, and the stock was looked after by boundary riders and shepherds. To the south, between Nyalong and the sea--a distance of fifty or sixty miles--the country was not occupied by either the white or the black men. It consisted of ranges of hills heavily timbered, furrowed by deep valleys, through which flowed innumerable streams, winding their way to the river of the plains. Sometimes the solitary bushman or prospector, looking across a deep valley, saw, nestled amongst the opposite hills, a beautiful meadow of grass. But when he had crossed the intervening creek and scrubby valley, and continued his journey to the up-land, he found that the deceitful meadow was only a barren plain, covered, not with grass, but with the useless grass-tree. There is a little saccharine matter in the roots of the grass-tree, and a hopeful man from Corio once built a sugar-mill near the stream, and took possession of the plain as a sugar plantation. There was much labour, but very little sugar.

In the dense forest, cattle had run wild, and were sometimes seen feeding in the thinly-timbered grass land outside; but whenever a horseman approached they dashed headlong into the scrub where no horseman could follow them. Wild boars and their progeny also rooted among the tall tussocks in the marshes by the banks of the river, where it emerged from the ranges into the plains.

Blackfish and eels were plentiful in the river, but they were of a perverse disposition, and would not bite in the day-time. The bend nearest to Nyalong was twelve miles distant, and Philip once spent a night there with Gleeson and McCarthy. A fire was kindled and some fish were caught, but Philip took none home. Gleeson and McCarthy reserved their catches for their wives and families, and Philip's fish were all cooked on the fire at sunrise, and eaten for breakfast. Fishing was sport, certainly, but it was not profitable, nor exciting, except to the temper. Sometimes an eel took the bait, and then twisted himself round the limb of a tree at the bottom of the river. He then pulled all he was able until either the line or the hook was broken, or his jaw was torn into strips.

After midnight Philip was drowsy, and leaned his back against a tree to woo sweet sleep. But there were mosquitos in millions, bandicoots hopping close to the fire, and monkey-bears, night hawks, owls, 'possums and dingoes, holding a corroboree hideous enough to break the sleep of the dead.

After breakfast the horses were saddled for home. Philip carried his revolver in his belt, and Gleeson had a shot-gun. A kangaroo was seen feeding about a hundred yards distant, and Gleeson dismounted and shot at it, but it hopped away unharmed. A few minutes afterwards, as the men were riding along at an easy walk, three other horsemen suddenly came past them at a gallop, wheeled about, and faced the fishermen. One was Burridge, a station manager, the other two were his stockmen. The six men looked at one another for a few moments without speaking. Both Gleeson and McCarthy had the Tipperary temper, and it did not remain idle long.

"Well," asked Gleeson, "is anything the matter?"

"I dinna ken yet," said Burridge. "Did na ye hear a gunshot just now?"

"Yes, I fired at a kangaroo."

"A kangaroo, eh? Are you sure it was a kangaroo?"

"Yes, it was a kangaroo. What of that? Oh, I see, you think we are after shooting your cattle. Is that it? Speak out like a man."

"Sometimes a beast is shot about here, and I'd like to find out who does it."

"Oh, indeed! you'd like to know who does it, would you? I can tell you, anyway, who is the biggest cattle duffer round here, if you'd like to know!" Gleeson touched one flank of his horse with his heel, and rode close up to Burridge with the gun in his right hand. "His name is Burridge, and that's yourself. Everybody knows you, you old Scotch hound. You have as many cattle on the run with your brand on them as your master has. There is not a bigger cattle thief than old Burridge within a hundred miles, and you'll be taken off the run in irons yet. Get out of my way, or I'll be tempted to send you to blazes before your time."

Burridge did not go off the run in irons; he left it honourably for another run which he took up, and stocked with cattle bearing no brand but his own. Evil tongues might tattle, but no man could prove that Burridge ever broke the law.

One fishing excursion to the bend was enough for Philip, but a pig hunt was organised, and he joined it. The party consisted of Gleeson, McCarthy, Bill the Butcher, Bob Atkins, and George Brown the Liar, who brought a rope-net and a cart in which all the game caught was to be carried home. Five dogs accompanied the party, viz., Lion and Tiger, crossbred bull and mastiffs, experienced pig fighters, Sam as a reserve, and three mongrels as light skirmishers.

The first animal met with was a huge old boar, the hero of a hundred fights, the great-grandfather of pigs. He stood at bay among the tussocks, the dogs barking furiously around him. Bill the Butcher said, "Keep back, you men, or he'll rip the guts out of your horses. I know him well. He has only one tusk, but it's a boomer. Look out sharp till the dogs tackle him, he might make a rush at some of us."

The boar was a frightful-looking beast, long, tall, and slab-sided, in perfect condition for fight, all bone, muscle, and bristles, with not an ounce of lard in his lean body. He stood still and stiff as a rock watching the dogs, his one white tusk, long and keen sticking out above his upper lip. The loss of the other tusk left him at a disadvantage, as he could only strike effectively on one side. Lion and Tiger had fought him before, and he had earned their respect. They were wary and cautious, and with good reason. Their best hold was by the ears, and these had been chewed away in former wars, till nothing was left of them but the ragged roots. Bill the Butcher dismounted, dropped his bridle, and cheered on the dogs at a prudent distance, "Good dogs; seek him Lion; hold him Tiger."

The dogs went nearer and nearer, jumping away whenever the boar made an attack. At last they seized him by the roots of his ears, one on each side, and held on. Bob Atkins and Bill approached the combatants, carrying some strong cord, of New Zealand flax. A running noose was secured round the hind legs of the boar; he was then thrown on his side, and his forelegs were tied together.

Lion and Tiger stood near panting, with blood dripping from their open jaws. Philip could not imagine why Bill did not butcher the beast at once; it seemed impossible that a leathery old savage like that could ever be transformed into tender pork. For the present he was left prone on the field of battle, and the pig hunt proceeded. There was soon much squealing of pigs, and barking of dogs among the tussocks. Gleenson's dog pinned a young boar, and after its legs were tied Philip agreed to stand by and guard it, while Gleeson fetched the cart. But the boar soon slipped the cord from his legs, and at once attacked his nearest enemy, rushing at Philip and trying to rip open his boots. Philip's first impulse was to take out his revolver, and shoot; but he was always conscientious, and it occurred to him that he would be committing a breach of trust, as he had undertaken to guard the game alive until Gleeson came back with the cart. So he tried to fight the pig with his boots, kicking him on the jaws right and left. But the pig proved a stubborn fighter, and kept coming up to the scratch again and again, until Philip felt he had got into a serious difficulty. He began to think as well as to kick quickly.

"If I could only throw the animal to the ground I could hold him down."

The dogs had shown him that the proper mode of seizing a hog was by the ears, so at the next round he seized both ears and held them. There was a pause in the fight, and Philip took advantage of it to address his enemy after the manner of the Greeks and Trojans.

"I have got you at last, my friend, and the curse of Cromwell on you, I'd like to murder you without mercy; and if Gleeson don't come soon he'll find here nothing but dead pig. I must try to throw you somehow." After examining the pig narrowly he continued, "It will be done by the hind legs."

He let go one ear and seized a hind leg instead, taking the enemy, as it were, both in front and rear. For some time there was much kicking and squealing, until one scientific kick and a sudden twist of the hind quarters brought the quarry to earth.

Philip knelt on the ribs of his foe, still holding one ear and one hind leg. Then he proceeded with his speech, gasping for breath:

"And this is what happens to a poor man in Australia! Here have I been fighting a wild beast of a pig for half an hour, just to keep him alive, and all to oblige a cockatoo farmer, and small thanks to me for that same. May all the curses--the Lord preserve us and give us patience; I am forgetting the twelve virtues entirely."

Gleeson came at last with the cart and George Brown the Liar; the pig's legs were again tied together, he was lifted into the cart and covered with the rope net. Four other pigs were caught, and then the hunters and dogs returned to the place in which the old boar had been left. But he had broken or slipped his bonds, and had gone away. He was tracked to the river, which was narrow but deep, so he had saved his bacon for another day.

At the division of the game Philip declined to take any share. He said:

"Thanks, I have had pig enough for the present."

So there were exactly five pigs for the other five men.

Having been satiated with the pleasures of fishing and pig-hunting, Philip was next invited to try the pursuit of the kangaroo. The first meet of men and hounds took place at Gleeson's farm. McCarthy brought his dogs, and Philip brought Sam, his revolver, and a club. Barton was too proud to join in the sport; he despised inferior game. It might amuse new chums, but it was below the notice of the old trooper, whose business had been for many years to hunt and shoot bushrangers and black-fellows, not to mention his regular duty as flagellator.

Gleeson that morning was cutting up his pumpkin plants with an axe.

"Good morning, Mr. Gleeson," said Philip. "Is anything the matter? Is it a snake you are killing?"

Gleeson began to laugh, a little ashamed of himself, and said, "Look at these cursed pumpkins. I think they are bewitched. Every morning I come to see if the fruit is growing, but this is what they do. As soon as they get as big as a small potato, they begin to wither and turn yellow, and not a bit more will they grow. So I'm cutting the blessed things to pieces."

Philip saw that about half the runners had been already destroyed. He said, "Don't chop any more, Gleeson, and I'll show you how to make pumpkins grow."

He picked up a feather in the fowl-yard, and went inside the garden.

"Now look at these flowers closely; they are not all alike. This flower will never turn into a pumpkin, but this one will if it gets a little of the dust from the first flower. The bees or other insects usually take the dust from one flower to the other, but I suppose there are no bees about here just now?"

Philip then dusted every flower that was open and said: "Now, my friend, put away the axe, and you will have fruit here yet." And the pumpkins grew and ripened.

The two men then went towards the house, and Philip observed the fragments of a clock scattered about the ground in front of the verandah.

"What happened to the clock?" said Philip.

"Why," replied Gleeson, "the thing wasn't going right at all, so I took it to pieces just to examine it, and to oil the wheels, and when I tried to put it together again, the fingers were all awry, and the pins wouldn't fit in their places, and the pendulum swung crooked, and the whole thing bothered me so that I just laid it on the floor of the verandah, and gave it one big kick that sent it to smithereens. But don't mind me or the clock at all, master; just come inside, and we'll have a bit o' dinner before we start."

Gleeson was the kindest man in the world; all he wanted was a little patience.

The kangaroo gave better sport than either the fish or the pig, and Philip enjoyed it. His mare proved swift, but sometimes shied at the start, when the kangaroos were in full view. She seemed to think that there was a kangaroo behind every tree, so she jumped aside from the trunks. That was to kill Philip at last, but he had not the least idea what was to happen, and was as happy as hermits usually are, and they have their troubles and accidents just like other people.

The kangaroos when disturbed made for the thick timber, and the half-grown ones, called "Flying Joeys," always escaped; they were so swift, and they could jump to such a distance that I won't mention it, as some ignorant people might call me a liar. Those killed were mostly does with young, or old men. Any horse of good speed could round up a heavy old man, and then he made for the nearest gum tree, and stood at bay with his back to it. It was dangerous for man or dog to attack him in front, for with his long hind claws he could cut like a knife.

Philip's family began to desert him. Bruin, as already stated, sneaked away and was killed by Hugh Boyle. Joey opened his cage-door, and flew up a gum tree. When Philip came home from the school, and saw the empty cage, he called aloud, "Joey, Joey, sweet pretty Joey," and whistled. The bird descended as far as the lightwood, but would not be coaxed to come any nearer. He actually mocked his master, and said, "Ha, ha, ha! who are you? Who are you? There is na luck aboot the hoose," which soon proved true, for the next bird Pussy brought into the house was Joey himself.

Pup led a miserable life, and died early. The coroner suspected that he had been murdered by Maggie, but there was no absolute proof.

Maggie had really no conscience. She began to gad about the bush. In her girlish days she wore short frocks, as it were, having had her wings clipped, but the next spring she went into society, was a debutante, wore a dress of black and white satin which shone in the sun, and she grew so vain and flighty, and strutted about so, that it was really ridiculous to watch her. She began also to stay out late in the evening, which was very improper, and before going to bed Philip would go under the lightwood with a lighted candle, and look for her amongst the leaves, saying, "Maggie, are you there?" She was generally fast asleep, and all she could do was to blink her eyes, and say, "Peet, peet," and fall asleep again. But one night she never answered at all. She was absent all next day, and many a day after that. October came, when all the scrub, the lightwood, and wattle were in full bloom, and the air everywhere was full of sweetness. Philip was digging his first boiling of new potatoes, when all at once Maggie swooped down into the garden, and began strutting about, and picking up the worms and grubs from the soil newly turned up.

"Oh, you impudent hussy!" he said. "Where have you been all this time?" He stooped, and tried to stroke her head as usual with his forefinger, but Maggie stuck her bill in the ground, turned a complete somersault, and caught the finger with both claws, which were very sharp. She held on for a short time, then dropped nimbly to her feet, and said, "There, now, that will teach you to behave yourself."

"Why, Maggie," said Philip, "what on earth is the matter with you?"

"Oh, there's nothing the matter with me, I assure you. I suppose you didn't hear the news, you are such an old stick-in-the-mud. It was in the papers, though--no cards--and all the best society ladies knew it of course."

"Why, Maggie, you don't mean to say you have got a mate?"

"Of course I have, you horrid man, you are so vulgar. We were married ages ago. I didn't invite you of course, because I knew you would make yourself disagreeable--forbid the banns, or something, and scare away all the ladies and gentlemen, for you are a most awful fright, with your red hair and freckles, so I thought it best to say nothing about the engagement until the ceremony was over. It was performed by the Rev. Sinister Cornix, and it was a very select affair, I assure you, and the dresses were so lovely. There were six bridesmaids--the Misses Mudlark. The Mudlarks, you know, have a good pedigree, they are come of the younger branch of our family. We were united in the bonds under a cherry tree. Oh! it was a lovely time, it was indeed, I assure you."

"And where are you living now, Maggie?"

"Oh, I am not going to tell you; you are too inquisitive. But our mansion is on the top of a gum tree. It is among the leaves at the end of a slender branch. If Hugh Boyle tries to kidnap my babies, the branch will snap, and he will fall and break his neck, the wretch. Oh, I assure you we thought of everything beforehand; for I know you keep a lot of boys bad enough to steal anything."

"And what sort of a mate--husband, I mean--have you got?"

"Oh, he is a perfect gentleman, and so attentive to me. Latterly he has been a little crusty, I must admit; but you must not say a word against him. If you do, I'll peck your eyes out. A family, you know, is so troublesome, and it takes all your time to feed them. There are two of them, the duckiest little fluffy darlings you ever saw. They were very hungry this morning, so when I saw you digging I knew you wouldn't begrudge them a breakfast, and I just flew down here for it. But bless my soul, the little darlings will be screaming their hearts out with hunger while I am talking to you, and himself will be swearing like a Derviner. So, by-by."

Philip found Maggie's mansion easily enough; for, in spite of all her chatter, she had no depth of mind. The tallest gum-tree was on Barlow's farm which adjoined the forty-acre on the east. Barlow had been a stockman for several years on Calvert's run, and had saved money. He invested his money in the Bank of Love, and the bank broke. It happened in this way.

A new shepherd from the other side was living with his wife and daughter near the Rises, and one day when Barlow was riding over the run, he heard some strange sounds, and stopped his horse to listen. There was nobody in sight in any direction, and Barlow said, "There's something the matter at the new shepherd's hut," and he rode swiftly towards it. As he approached the hut, he heard the screams of women and the voice of a blackfellow, who was hammering on the door with his waddy. He was a tame blackfellow who had been educated at the Missionary Station. He could write English, say prayers, sing hymns, read the Bible, and was therefore named Parson Bedford by the Derviners, after the Tasmanian Missionary. He could box and wrestle so well that few white men could throw him. He could also drink rum; so whenever he got any white money he knew how to spend it. He was the best thief and the worst bully of all the blacks about Nyalong, because he had been so well educated. I knew him well, and attended his funeral, walking in the procession with the doctor and twenty blackfellows. He had a white man's funeral, but there was no live parson present, so king Coco Quine made an oration, waving his hands over the coffin, "All same as whitefellow parson," then we all threw clods on the lid.

So much noise was made by the women screaming and the Parson hammering, that the stockman was able to launch one crack of his stock-whip on the Parson's back before his arrival was observed. The Parson sprang up into the air like a shot deer, and then took to his heels. He did not run towards the open plains, but made a straight line for the nearest part of the Rises. As he ran, Frank followed at an easy canter, and over and over again he landed his lash with a crack like a pistol on the behind of the black, who sprang among the rough rocks which the horse could not cross, and where the lash could not reach him.

Then there was a parley. The Parson was smarting and furious. He had learned the colonial art of blowing along with the language. He threw down his waddy and said:

"You stockman, Frank, come off that horse, drop your whip, and I'll fight you fair, same as whitefellow. I am as good a man as you any day."

"Do you take me for a blooming fool, Parson? No fear. If ever I see you at that hut again, or anywhere on the run, I'll cut the shirt off your back. I shall tell Mr. Calvert what you have been after, and you'll soon find yourself in chokey with a rope round your neck."

The Parson left Nyalong, and when he returned he was dying of rum and rheumatism.