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Title: Castle VaneAuthor: J H M Abbott* A Project Gutenberg Australia eBook *eBook No.: 1306151h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: November 2013Date most recently updated: November 2013Produced by: Maurie MulcahyProject Gutenberg Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg AustraliaLicence which may be viewed online.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.—THE MAJOR'S NOSE
CHAPTER II.—THE BOOKSELLER
CHAPTER III.—THE RECRUIT
CHAPTER IV.—THE FREE COMPANY
CHAPTER V.—THE NIGHT RIDE
CHAPTER VI.—AT CASTLE VANE
CHAPTER VII.—THE JEWBOY
CHAPTER VIII.—THE JEWBOY'S JEST
CHAPTER IX.—THE TRIAL
CHAPTER X.—THE DEEP SEA
CHAPTER XI.—To THE MOUNTAINS
CHAPTER XII.—THE JEWBOY'S LAIR
CHAPTER XIII.—AT THE BOOKSHOP
CHAPTER XIV.—THE STORY OF RICHARD DELANE
CHAPTER XV.—CAROLINE
CHAPTER XVI.—THE ATTACK
CHAPTER XVII.—THE COUNTER-STROKE
CHAPTER XVIII.—A DAY WITH THE OUTLAWS
CHAPTER XIX.—ON THE TRAIL
CHAPTER XX.—DOUGHBOY HOLLOW
CHAPTER XXI.—ALL'S WELL
MAJOR JOHN HILARY VANE, of Her Majesty's One Hundred and Forty-sixthRegiment of Foot, strode angrily up George Street.
If a man ever wore that expression of feature which is known as "ablack look," it was worn by the senior major of the old "Perishers" onthis sunny morning in the year of Our Lord one thousand eight hundredand forty. So black was it that a child ceased its play at the cornerof Hunter Street, and howled dismally, as it caught sight of thelowering countenance of the tall field-officer. A top-hatted constablehad paled to the roots of his red whiskers as he saluted him; and oldDanny Burke, a First Fleeter, tottering along the sidewalk with thehelp of two sticks, had tripped over one of them, and sprawled into thegutter, in an access of sudden terror, when he beheld the major closeupon him.
"Glory be!" the old man muttered, as a kindly passer-by assisted him tohis feet. "Glory be! 'Twas warse than Guv'nor Bligh he do be looking.Shure, 'tis flogging dayfaulters he'll be doin' this same morning. 'Tisthe black wrath—the black, black divil—he has roused in him. God hilpthe 'Perishers' this day!"
People turned to look after the handsome, hard-faced man in fullregimentals, as he crossed the street towards the barrack gates.
There was always something about John Vane that commanded attention.The strong, stern, well-featured face, almost swarthy in complexion,the straight line of black eyebrows overshadowing bright and piercingblack eyes—it was a face that compelled regard, that aroused a feelingof respect in the average man, not untinged with fear. It was not thekind of face that is soon forgotten, nor the sort that is lost in anymerging with other faces. It would be as easily forgotten as is theface of the great Duke of Wellington.
The sentry inside the gateway saw him coming, and stiffened like aramrod.
"Guard, turn out!" he bawled.
The stout sergeant, lounging under the verandah of the guard-room,wheeled hastily, and caught the sentry's hoarse stage-whisper:—"Quick,sergeant! 'Tis the major."
"Guar-rd, tur-rn out!" he bellowed into the open door of theguard-room, and as Major Vane passed through the gate, the mainguard, with the sergeant behind it and corporal upon its right flank,red-coated and pipe-clay belted, stood rigidly to attention.
"Present ar-rms!" cried the sergeant, and the little guard of soldiersaccorded Major John Hilary Vane the compliment that was his due astemporarily commanding the 146th. He stiffly acknowledged the salute,and was striding on, when something caught his eye and brought himabruptly to a halt.
"Sergeant!" he rasped out, in the barrack-square voice which the"Perishers" knew so well and loved so little.
"Sir!"—and the anxious sergeant doubled round to the front of theguard, and stood to attention before the great man.
"A —— dirty guard, sergeant. Look at this man! He is not dressed." Hepointed with his white gloves to a tall young private—a fine-lookingman, who was on the left flank of the guard.
"No, sir," promptly agreed the sergeant, searching the soldier withhis eyes in an almost vain attempt to detect anything amiss with hisappearance. "No, sir—a dir-rty soldier, sir."
The tall young private gazed immovably to his front, over the head ofthe anxious sergeant.
"Two buttons of his jacket are undone. Make him a prisoner, sergeant.And send him under escort to the orderly-room immediately. I will dealwith him this morning. Consider yourself fortunate that I do not reduceyou to corporal. Damnably careless! A disgrace to the army."
The black-browed major strode on across the barrack-square to theorderly-room, where it was his immediate duty to dispense the dailydose of justice, injustice, and tyranny which was considered essentialto the well-being, discipline, and efficiency of any regiment of theBritish Army, at home and abroad.
And so, by reason of two unbuttoned buttonholes in the scarlet jacketof Private Richard Delane, as detected by his commanding officer on amorning of January, 1840, does this story have its beginnings.
Out in the barrack square the band of the regiment was forming up forpractice, and, in the street without the wide gateway, a little rag-tagcompany of idlers and passers-by, that always complimented it bylistening to the performance which Bandmaster Bernstein put it through,was gathered in force. The band of the 146th was a popular institutionin Sydney in the forties of the last century. But this morning, becauseof the displeasure of the acting-commander of the regiment, theaudience was doomed to disappointment. Hardly had the first strains ofthe regimental quick-step saluted the sunny morning when a corporalcame running from the orderly-room with uplifted, forbidding hands. FatMr. Bernstein saw him coming, and immediately stopped the music.
"The adjutant's orders, Mr. Bernstein, and you're to take the band intothe Domain, an' practise there."
"Ach—for why is this, Corporal Hall?" demanded the scandalizedbandmaster in astonishment.
"Begad, Mr. Bernstein, 'tis because th' major's ragin' like a maddevil."
"With me—with the musicians?"
"No. God only knows. 'Send th' dam band to hell,' he says to CaptainClare. Oh, we're in for it to-day."
So, silently, the band moved off across the parade ground and out intoGeorge Street, followed towards the Domain by its assorted audience.
"Clare," said the major, as he took his seat with a frown behind thetable in the orderly-room. "Clare—it is my opinion—my very deliberateopinion, that his Excellency is an unconscionable ass. An ass, a ———fool!"
"Major!" exclaimed the adjutant, scandalized by this treasonableutterance on the part of his commanding officer. "How? Why? What has SirGeorge Gipps done, may I ask?"
The adjutant of the 146th had in his aspect less of the man of warthan one would have looked for in so responsible an officer of sucha truculent regiment as the "Perishers." A mild man, a man who wasconstitutionally a neutral, an enemy of strife, a deplorer of harshmeasures—Captain Clare's appearance did not belie his gentle nature.It was easy for his friends to understand why, ten years later, hisgovernment of that outpost of hell at Norfolk Island was such a dismalfailure. He was too gentle for a soldier, they said, too mild for aconvict disciplinarian, too much of a gentleman, too scrupulous andfair for an official position that demanded ruthless and unscrupulousdetermination. Now, as chaplain of the 146th he might have been anunqualified success; as a bishop, even, he would have been admirable.But as adjutant, or gaoler, he was clearly the wrong man in the wrongplace. You had but to look at him to realize so much as this. It wasobvious in his very appearance.
A grave and serious face of a peculiar plainness was his. It hadhonesty and lack of humour writ clear over its homely features. Acertain air of primness almost suggested some old-maidish habit ofmind, some faculty for scandalization and disapproval that in thesedays would have not altogether deservedly earned for him in Sydneythe title of "wowser." He was clearly a good man, and just as clearlya dull, narrow man, to whom dullness was congenial and altogethernatural. For his epitaph he would have desired nothing better than thesimple and noble words, "He did his duty." By the addition of one wordto it his whole biography might have been written, "He did his dutydrearily" would have summed up the life story of Captain William Clare,of H.M. 146th Foot, to a nicety. All the tale of his sojourn on earthmight have been told in those five words.
Such an expression of forceful opinion as Major Vane had just givenvent to seemed to the adjutant to savor of little less than blasphemy.
"My dear major!" he exclaimed. "The Governor! Dear me."
"Yes," went on Vane. "He is an imbecile, a dolt. He does not understandthe essentials of colonial government. Damme, Clare, he has had theeffrontery, the incapacity, the unparalleled short-sightedness torefuse me confirmation of the grant of land on the Hunter River whichhis predecessor, a truly wise and far-seeing pro-consul—excellent SirRichard Bourke—had promised me, and where, mark you, I am alreadyestablished and settled. I may purchase from the Crown on favourableterms, he says; but he sees no reason why I should obtain the land fornothing. For nothing, mark you. Is all my pioneering work nothing? HaveI purchased my stock for nothing? Am I nothing myself? Is my enterpriseof no value to this country? He is unfit to conduct this government,I say. He will ruin the colony. Mark my words. He will bring it toruination."
"Dear me! His Excellency will not confirm your occupation of CastleVane, then, major? Do I understand you alright? Will he not reconsiderthe matter?"
The major laughed harshly.
"Reconsider! No. He is explicit on that point. He even gives me a datein which to pay for the land or to evacuate it. Under no circumstanceswill he reopen the matter, he writes, I have his letter, received thismorning, in my pocket."
"And have you come to any decision?"
"Yes. As you know, I have sent in my papers, and in a few weeks atmost I shall have left the regiment. ——— the Governor. I thank GodI have the means to purchase, and will not be baulked by his ignorantmaladministration. I shall lodge the purchase money to-day. We will seewhether his Excellency can hinder the development of the colony. Butcome, Clare—have the defaulters brought in."
Six drunks, one resister of the picket, two insubordinations, threeleave-breakers, and a deserter were duly paraded in turn before theacting commanding officer of the 146th, and had grim and unpleasantreason to remark the fact that his temper was ruffled. Each and allof them received the maximum punishment, even to courts-martial,which it was in the power of the irate officer to award summarily orto recommend. In no instance was the slightest excuse available, andthe sentences were savagely severe. It seemed that the O.C. had nodesire to leave pleasant memories behind him in the old regiment. Witheach successive case his ill-humour grew more pronounced. Even theprovost-sergeant, parading the prisoners, narrowly escaped arrest, andthe adjutant himself, mercifully putting in a word as to the deserter'sgood record, was abruptly and peremptorily rebuked.
"That, sir, ends the defaulters' list," said Captain Clare, closing thebook of fate with a sigh.
"And a ——— lot of scoundrels, too," growled the major. "But wait amoment, Mr. Adjutant—here is one more. A prisoner of my own, I think.Bring him in, sergeant," he cried to the little group on the verandah.
Between his escort of two soldiers of the guard, with bayonets fixed,Private Richard Delane was paraded before the tribunal of justice,to answer the charge of being improperly dressed upon guard duty—torender account of himself over the hideous sin of offending hiscommander's eye with two unbuttoned buttons of his jacket. Truly aterrific crime, and unforgivable.
The young soldier stood erect between his guardians, and faced themajor's scowling stare with an air of defiance.
He was a handsome youth, of somewhere about twenty-four—tall,clean-limbed, and athletic—with a face that expressed some indicationof a temper that might be as fiery as that of the man who sat andglared at him. But it lacked the ill-humour that was all too evident inthe older man's habitual expression.
"Private Delane, sir," said the provost-sergeant. "Improperly dressedon guard duty; dirty, sir."
The major eyed him for a few seconds in silence, before taking up hispen to record the sentence. No explanation was asked of the soldier,no record of character was inquired into. His sentence was prompt andterrible. It was a sentence which Major John Hilary Vane was inflictingupon his Excellency Sir George Gipps, Governor and Captain-Generalin and over His Majesty's Territory of New South Wales. Even theprovost-sergeant gasped as he heard the words. The adjutant turnedpale. Even in those days of iron discipline it was a fearful sentencefor such a trivial crime.
"Fifty lashes!" said the major.
For a moment the young soldier glanced at him. Then, swiftly, andbefore the astonished escort could intervene, he took a step forward tothe table, shot out his clenched fish, and smote his commanding officerupon the nose, as he leaned across his papers.
Instantly he turned, and, with a sweep of his strong arms, pushed theastonished escort apart, leaped to the door, and ran out into thesunshine, sprinting across the barrack square towards the gate. Hisaction was so startingly sudden as temporarily to paralyse those in theroom. He was already half-way to the gate before the provost-sergeantand the escort came racing after him from the orderly-room.
The sentry at the guard-room, pacing down towards the street, withhis back to the square, was a man of slow comprehension, and gaped atthe oncoming flying figure, when the shouts of the escort drew hisattention, in bewilderment. As Private Delane sped near him, he aimedhis musket at him, but, for the luck of Delane, it only flashed in thepan, and the next moment the young soldier was racing diagonally acrossGeorge Street. He dived into the open door of a little book-shop.
And from that moment Private Richard Delane, of the 146th, disappearedfrom the face of the earth—at any rate so far as that thoroughlymystified, and not altogether displeased, regiment could make out.There were few of the rank and file who grudged him his liberty. Themajor's broken nose buttoned a multitude of buttons.
IT was a quiet, unobtrusive, dark little shop with small and dingywindows, and it stood not far from where a great grey trachyte buildingof an American insurance office stands to-day in George Street. Aplain and unadorned stone cottage of the Macquarie regime, without averandah, but having a sort of low stone pavement, a couple of yards inwidth, dividing it from the building alignment of the street—it wasone of scores of little primitive dwellings, solid and substantial, andexceedingly ugly, that gave shelter to the majority of the citizens ofSydney in 1840.
It was not until the goldfield days that the capital of the Australiasbegan to adorn itself architecturally by means of private enterprise.Nearly all the imposing buildings, scattered here and there throughthe towns, were official before the fifties—gaols, barracks,churches, stores, and Government offices. Up on the Rocks, and outby Woolloomooloo, were some fine mansions of the merchants and richemancipists, but in Sydney itself the streets were for the most partrows of cottages, broken here and there by larger buildings that werestill severely simple in design.
In one of the two small-paned windows of the cottage were displayed thebacks of several dingy rows of books, and over the door was a sign thatintimated that Jacob Losky conducted within a Subscription Library,and sold Books, Prints, and Periodicals. Also that the establishmentrejoiced in the patronage of his Excellency the Governor and his Honorthe Chief Justice.
The provost-sergeant and his two men, blocked by a broken-down haywaggon, and a gathering crowd about it, reached the door of the shop agood forty seconds after Private Richard Delane had dived through itsnarrow portals into the dim interior.
"In there he went," directed a small and eager boy. "I see him run in."
But within the dark little book-shop the pursuers drew a blank.
"Where is he?" demanded the sergeant. "Where's the man who ran in herejust now?"
A girl, reading behind the low counter, seated upon a stool, put herbook down and rose to her feet. She was a black-haired handsome Jewess,about eighteen years old, shapely and well developed, and with amagnificent pair of flashing, dark eyes, that the sergeant noted andadmired, as she turned their wondering gaze upon him.
"What man, sir? There has been no one here this last half-hour. Indeed,I have not yet had a customer this morning."
"Nonsense, my gal," shouted the sergeant, impatiently. "Nonsense! Oneof our men ran in here this very minute. He was seen to. Come, where ishe?"
"No one has been here. How should I have missed seeing him? I have beenhere since we opened the street-door at nine o'clock. There has been noone, sergeant. I am sure of it. There could not have been anyone. It isyou who talk nonsense."
There was an inflection of impatience in her speech. But the sergeantwas not impressed by it. He turned to the two soldiers standing in thedoorway. The tousled head of the small boy thrust itself between them.
"Come in here, you!" he cried, seizing the urchin by the hair. "You sayyou saw the man run in here—a soldier? Come—speak up!"
"O-o! Leggo my hair!" the boy squealed. "Yes, I did. 'E came runnin'across from th' barrack gate, when t'other sojer fired 'is gun off. Iseen 'im. An' 'e jumped in 'ere. Seen 'im do it. My colonial oath, so Idid."
"There, miss—what have you to say to that? This boy saw him run inhere just now. Where is he? Where has he gone? He must be hiding here."
There was anger in the girl's voice as she replied: "He is not here.I tell you no one has been here. The boy is mistaken. He is a littleliar."
"I ain't no liar!" the small boy protested shrilly. "'E come in 'ere. Iknows 'oo it was. It was Mister Delane. I knows 'im all right."
"I'll search the house," cried the wrathful provost-sergeant. "Stayyou at the door, Jenkins. Marshall, you come with me. The beggar'slistening to us now, I'll be bound. And laughing at us."
One of the soldiers entered the room, and the sergeant took a stridetowards the door at the back, over which hung a pair of heavy greencurtains. As he did so they were drawn aside, and an old, white-beardedman appeared in the opening—a little old man, who stooped somewhat,but in whose bright eye and alert appearance there was nothing offeebleness.
"Who are you who will search my house?" he demanded of the sergeant."What is this disturbance? What—it is you, Mr. Baylis! What do youwant—and what are these armed soldiers doing here?"
"A prisoner has escaped from over yonder, Mr. Losky, and I'm after him.He's badly wanted. He bolted from my custody, after assaulting MajorVane, cleared through the guard at the gate, and ran across the streetinto your shop. I must have him. Stand aside while I search the place."
"Softly, Sergeant Baylis—softly! How can you search my house? Where isyour authority? Have you a warrant?"
The sergeant spluttered, but fell back a pace.
"Rachel," continued the old man, "did any soldier come in here? It isuseless my asking, for if he had I should have heard him. I have beenin the back room since opening the shop half an hour ago. But did yousee anything of this man?"
"No, grandfather," replied the girl. "No one has been here—soldier,bond, or free—since you opened the door. I have told the sergeant so."
"This boy saw him," said the sergeant doggedly.
The old man smiled.
"Then the boy has wonderful powers, which he should cultivate. He cansee the invisible. Sure, it must have been a ghost he saw."
"Will you let me see for myself, Mr. Losky?" demanded the sergeant.
"At your request, willingly, Mr. Baylis. But it is not your right. Youcould not force an entrance legally without a search warrant. However,to humour you, and to convince you that no soldier has been here thismorning—pray, come this way."
The old man bowed, and waved his arm towards the back of the house.
"Look first, however, in this front room," he went on. "'Tis mygranddaughter's. You do not object, Rachael?"
"No, grandfather. But the sergeant might spare himself the trouble. Hewill find no soldier beneath my bed."
The old man conducted the sergeant into the girl's bedroom. In a fewseconds they came out, and he led the way to the back of the cottage.The two rooms and the kitchen, which made up the rest of the premises,yielded no better results. Nor the garden and outhouses at the back.So presently they returned, the sergeant crestfallen and anxious as tothe anger of the major when he should return empty-handed; the old mansmiling.
"The boy has been mistaken, you see, Mr. Baylis. I wish you goodmorning. Perhaps you will have better luck elsewhere."
Withdrawing his men, the provost-sergeant braced himself to face thewrath to come, and marched back, empty-handed, to the barracks.
The old Jew smiled a farewell as he stood in the middle of the littleshop. Then he turned to his granddaughter. She was laughing too.
"Well, Rachel," he said softly, "It is a good get-away. That was a fairtest. And now we must dispose of our guest."
"It will not be easy," answered the girl; "but I've no doubt you willfind a way, grandfather."
"Yes, yes—it is simple enough. But watch how well it works; how easilyI vanish. The thing was well worth the trouble."
He walked through the door, and halted just inside the inner room. Overhis head, within easy reach, a metal vase, with handles at either side,in which grew a flourishing cluster of maiden-hair fern, was suspendedby three brass chains from a ring-bolt in the painted wooden ceiling.It was an innocent-looking and graceful ornament. The old man turnedabout, and glanced at the street door to make sure that no one waslooking in.
"See, my Rachael," he laughed—"our disappearing trick!" He reached upand tugged at a handle of the vase. The next instant the floor openedand the old man disappeared into a yawning pit. At once the trap-doorssprang back into place, and the floor was apparently sound and solidagain. The handsome Jewess clapped her hands and laughed musically.
"Oh, but he is clever," she murmured. "The cleverest man on earth! Itwas well for Dick Delane that he knew the trick of it. I wonder whatgrandfather means to do with him—what use he will put him to. Hesurely has him now—body and soul. And such a man should prove useful.Ah, well—I will know in good time, I suppose."
She picked up her book and resumed her reading, as she awaited thecoming of custom.
It was a strange place into which the old man had so suddenly vanished,as the young soldier had done not ten minutes before him—a strange andcunning place.
There was a deep cavern hollowed out beneath the floor of the cottage,and at its bottom coarse sacking covered a great pad of straw some 3ft.deep. The sides of the pit were padded also to a height of about 5ft.The drop was a good 10ft., but so soft was the landing that no manmight injure himself who fell through the trap-doors. In a far cornerwas a narrow opening, through which a man might squeeze himself, andthrough it shone a dim light, as from a candle or lantern, in somecavity beyond.
The old man picked himself up and made towards the gleam of light,squeezing through the opening, and emerging into a wider tunnel, where,in the light of a ship's lamp, he found the soldier seated upon a bench.
"What ho, Father Jacob!" The young man stood up to greet him, graspingboth his hands, and wringing them vigorously. "I salute my preserver!"
"Gently, gently, my pretty fellow," cried the old man. "So you arethe first to benefit by my invention! It seems that it made a mightyconvenience to you. Sergeant Baylis was eagerness itself to lay hishands upon you. What does it mean? Why were you in such a hurry toleave the army?—for that is what I presume you have done?" His voicesank to a murmur, and he eyed the young man narrowly.
"Is it murder?" he whispered hoarsely, laying his hand upon thesoldier's knee. "Come—tell me. I am your friend—else I would not havemade you free of this—convenience."
The private laughed.
"Murder! Good God—no! 'Tis not so bad as that. But I have broken BlackJack's nose for him, I think. I have spoiled his beauty for a day ortwo. Like this!"
He doubled up a great fist and smashed it into the open palm of theother hand.
"Black Jack! Major Vane—you have beaten him?"
"Well—not exactly 'beaten him.' Just a tap, that is all. But a hardenough tap to land me with the iron gang for longer than I care tothink about."
"How—why?"
"I was on the main guard when he came into barracks this morning. Thatblundering clown, Roarty, turned us out when he was almost between thegate-posts. I missed two buttons in my jacket, and he saw it, cursedme, and made me a prisoner, had me up before him at orderly-room on theinstant, and—what think you?—sentenced me to fifty lashes. Good God!Me at the triangles. Me, Dick Delane—as smart a soldier as is in the'Perishers.' For a thing like that! Something had made him mad withrage. You could see it in his face as he inspected the guard. So I leftthe army," he laughed defiantly.
"Yes—but to strike him! Why, 'tis almost a hanging matter!"
"It would be so—if we were upon active service."
"And now?"
"Well, now, I suppose, I am in your hands, Father Jacob. Will you sellme to the floggers and the road gang's overseers?"
"No, no. But Dick, lad,"—the old man leaned forward and peered into hisface—"will you join us now? Is there anything else you can do? Willyou not be one of us?"
The soldier remained silent for a time, his arms folded across hisgreat chest, staring into the lamp. At last he sighed and shruggedhis shoulders. He held out his right hand to the Jew, and the lattergrasped it eagerly.
"All right, Father Jacob. There is nothing else for it. I am with you.'Tis my fate, I suppose. I am with you. I can do no otherwise."
The Jew wrung his hand.
"Good!" he cried joyfully. "You will not regret it, Dick."
"And what's to be done now?"
"You must lie low here until after dark. I will find some clothesfor you. Your red jacket will be found upon the cliffs at South Headto-morrow. And to-night I will send you to a safe enough place. Myson—I am glad that you are with us in the Free Company. We could haveno better recruit. Give me your hand again!"
ALL through the long day the refugee remained in Jacob Losky's strangesubterranean hiding-place.
It was an interminable day, and the first part of it, before he hadbecome a little accustomed to his situation, seemed to Richard Delaneto be the most wearisome and dreary of it all. The hours dragged withheavy feet, and he had nothing to do but pace up and down the tunneland consider the somewhat unpromising outlook that was his. There wasa strange collection of all manner of odds and ends stored along thesides of the passage, and he whiled away part of his captivity byexamining it.
The old Jew seemed to be a veritable human jackdaw—so diverse anddissimilar were the contents of the cavern. Boats' sails and oars,firearms, bales of cotton goods, furniture, doors and window frames,tools of all description, old boots, pictures, and rolled carpets werea few items of the strange jumble. There were heavy iron-bound chestsand tin deed boxes, and an immense accumulation of faded yellow paperstied in bundles. He seemed to have overlooked in his collection nothingthat was portable, and what use much of it might be to him was morethan his guest could imagine.
A wooden door closed the further end of the tunnel, which wasalmost thirty feet long by ten feet wide and high. It was securelylocked—apparently on the other side. Delane took the ship's lampdown from its hook to explore the place, and it was while he wasexamining the closed door that it opened, and Rachel, the old man'sgranddaughter, appeared on the threshhold.
"Thank you, Mr. Delane," she laughed, picking up a tray of food anddrink, which she had placed upon the ground while manipulating theheavy padlock. "How did you know I was coming."
"'Twas but chance, Miss Losky. I was exploring this queer place," hereplied, a little startled by her sudden appearance.
"Rachel, if you please," she smilingly corrected him. "Grandfathertells me you are going to join the Free Company. We are all Tom, Dick,Harry, and Rachel to one another in the Company. So you are Dick, orDicky, to me, and I am Rachel to you. It is just as well. We will getto know one another's—weaknesses—pretty well, I've no doubt."
Dicky Delane (he was a young man) looked into her splendid eyes—deep,dark pools of mystic depth—and realized that he would be a boldman who would seek to fathom Rachel Losky's weaknesses. Strengthand beauty—the handsome, over-beautiful beauty of the youngJewess—were in every curve of her face and every line of her lissomebody. There was in her regard of him something that was entirelyfrank and fearless, nothing of a kind that would earn Mrs. Grundy'sclassification of "bold." There was friendliness in it, combined with acertain you-be-damnedness and utter independence.
"And are you of the Company too—Rachel?" He baulked a little at thename. "I hardly thought it had women in its membership."
"I am no lady, Dick—or Dicky, I think. I am my father's daughter—andmy father was hanged outside Newgate. And I am Jacob Losky'sgranddaughter—and maybe Father Jacob will hang some day. But I am theonly woman in the Company. The only one of my sex who has its freedom.And sometimes I think that, but, for my grandfather, I am the best manin it."
She laughed in his face.
"I know I am a better man than you," she continued.
He looked down at her in a puzzled fashion.
"How then? You are but a girl," he began.
"Aye, a girl—but nevertheless a better man than Dick Delane. I wouldnot go mad, and break the major's nose, and ruin my own life, and bedriven into the earth—into the depths—as you are driven—because ofmy bad temper. I would do better than that."
"But to be flogged—for two buttons!"
"You might have escaped, as you did, without making an active enemy ofJohn Vane."
She laughed again, and changed her tone to one of business-likeinstructions.
"But come—you must eat. It is past mid-day. And then you must fillin the afternoon. Sleep, I should. You have a rough night beforeyou. Later on, my grandfather will come down to prepare you for yourjourney."
"A journey?"
"Yes. You do not think you can stay here. You are to take the fieldto-night. Take to the bush, as they put it in New South Wales."
"To the bush!"
"Yes, my friend. There is nothing for you now but the bushrangingprofession. People of your violence of nature generally come to ithere—and the gallows. You see, I hold out no hope to you of retiringon a competence. We are all gallows-birds in the Company—and most ofus will find our perch below the cross-beam one of these fine days.Even I—perhaps. You—for certain!"
"But where am I to go to-night—what to do?"
"You will go where I take you, and you will do what the Jewboy says."
"The Jewboy!" he exclaimed. It was becoming a well-known name. "TheJewboy—is he of the Company?"
"The very soul of it. But good-bye for the present," and she was gonebefore he could question further, slamming the door behind her.
Delane sat down, and attacked the food and wine with eager appetite.After his meal he stretched himself upon the floor of the tunnel andslept the afternoon away.
How long he slept he did not know, but he was awakened by hearing hisname pronounced. The old Jew was bending over him, and shaking him bythe shoulder.
"You are a sound sleeper, Richard," he grumbled. "But come now, it istime you were moving. I am going to dress you for a new part."
The soldier rose, and stretched himself, yawning. "Egad, Father Jacob,"he said, "it seems years to me since I played in my last one. What isthis to be?"
"Strip off those regimentals, and put these clothes on. I have to getyou away from Sydney to-night, and it would not be easy to get you offin that costume. Sydney is being scoured for you. There has been asoldier at my door all day, and Major Vane himself came to see me. Heis a pretty sight. Both eyes are black, and his nose is all stickingplaster. I think he would dearly love a sight of you, Dicky. Shall Isend for him?" he asked banteringly.
"What had he to say?"
"He said that if he ever found that I had harbored you he would have mehounded out of Sydney. And he would, too. But there is no chance."
"He is a devil," growled the young soldier, "I wish it was his neck Ihad broken, instead of his nose."
He busied himself changing his clothes, and when he had put on therough countryman's suit which the Jew had provided for him, the lattermade him sit down while he completed the disguise.
"Now I will make you so that your mother would not know you. I was adresser at Drury Lane in my young days, Dicky—you may count that asone of the favours Providence has dispensed to you to-day. I don'tthink I've lost my skill. Why, I made the Jewboy into a Christian whenI got him away!"
He rubbed some dark stain into Delane's face and hands, and completedhis metamorphosis by adorning him with beard, whiskers, and moustache.It was skilfully done. The old man had not forgotten the art oftheatrical make-up. When he was finished he held a hand mirror up tohis subject, and the latter was startled by the change.
"You'll do for to-night, at any rate," said Losky. "By the nextdaylight you should be where you won't want a disguise. And now we'llstart—come. Supper is waiting above."
He opened the door, and led the way down a very long, dark passage,carrying the ship's lamp in his hand. At its further end they mounted ashort flight of steps, and the old man opened a door at their top. Theycame into a lighted room in which was a table spread with a substantialsupper. Seated at the table was a boyish-looking young man, whose faceseemed strangely familiar to Delane.
"Be seated," said Losky, "and eat your fill. You have a long nightbefore you. This is your travelling companion," he said, with a smile,motioning with his hand towards the young man.
Delane stared in a puzzled fashion at the latter. He was a fair-hairedyouth, with reddish mutton-chop side whiskers adorning a handsome face.He was dressed in riding costume, and he smiled at Dick in a friendlyand quizzical fashion.
"Good evening," he said. "I think Mr. Delane and I have met before."
"I'm puzzling about that," returned Delane. "Where was it—and when?"
"Twice to-day. Once in Father Jacob's shop, and once in the placewhence you have just arrived. Don't you know me, Dicky?"
"Good heavens! Is it Rachel?"
"Well—it was. It's Jimmy Smith, or Jacky Jones—anyone you please inthis costume. How do you like it?"
"It's a marvellous disguise!"
"Not so good as yours, though. Father Jacob is an artist, isn't he? Butmake a start—we must be off soon."
The soldier set to willingly, and whilst they supped Jacob Loskyexplained the plans he had formed for getting Delane out of the way.
"I am sending you to join the Jewboy, Dick, as I have told you. He willfind you something to do. Rachel here will be your guide. To-nightyou must ride to the Hawkesbury, and there you will be handed overto another guide, who will conduct you to where the Jewboy—EdwardDavis—has his headquarters."
"What part of the Hawkesbury?" asked Delane, looking up from his plate."There is a detachment of the regiment at Windsor?"
"No, no—not to Windsor. That would be from the frying pan to the fire.I am sending you to the mouth of the river at Broken Bay. A boat willcarry you across the bay into Brisbane Water, and there you will comeinto touch with the Free Company. Fine fellows they are, Dick, livinga venturous, open life, full of excitement, such as a soldier shouldlove, and gaining rich rewards. You will be a welcome addition to theirnumber. In time you will be rich, and can find a means of leaving thecountry and getting back to England."
"But they are outlaws—bushrangers!"
"True. But what are you yourself but an outlaw? What else is there foryou? Nothing—but the road gangs. There is your choice. Make what youcan of it. Join in with us, or join the canaries—the poor devils, whoare lashed, and driven, and starved. Give yourself up to the militaryauthorities, and you will be put in the way of joining them—with acouple of hundred lashes to begin with. It should not be a difficultchoice. You will join us?"
Delane stared gloomily at the table for a little while before hereplied. At last, with an angry shake of the head, he answered:—
"Yes—there is no choice. I must. I can never go back now. And I see noway of getting clear except this. But I tell you, Father Jacob, thatwhenever an opportunity offers I mean to get away. I have been outafter bushrangers myself, and I know that the life of a hunted dog isnot an agreeable one. Let it be clearly understood that I leave yourgang."
"Company, Richard—the Free Company," murmured the old man.
"Your Company, then—as soon as it is safe to do so."
"Of course—that is what they all aim at. The Company, of which I ampresident and Sydney agent—ha, ha—the Company was formed in orderto assist the deserving to escape from servitude, and to enable themto pay themselves back for the slavery that society has inflictedupon them. They make war upon society—but it is only that they mayrecompense themselves for the outrages that society has inflicted uponthem. That is all. Compensation, Richard, compensation—and escape."
"Well—I join you. Here is my hand upon it," said the young man.
"Good. You will not regret. And now you had better start. You will beback to-morrow evening, Rachel. Good-bye, Richard. You will hear ofme often, but I don't think we will meet for many months. Rachel willdeliver you safely."
"But how do we get away from here?"
"You are in a house in Pitt Street that the tunnel connects with myshop. You have but to cross the harbour to Sirius Cove, and you willfind horses waiting for you. Rachel has everything arranged. Good-bye."
He opened the street door, and the soldier and the girl slipped outinto a wet and windy night, and made their way towards the harbour side.
IN the year 1840, there were living in Sydney and New South Walesmany quite respectable, and a good many quite disreputable, freecitizens of the State, who had not always been free citizens. Some ofthem, a few, were men and women who had not deserved at all, or, atthe most, only half deserved the loss of liberty and endurance of anultra-slavery which had been their sad lot. Some of them, the fiercefires through which they had passed had purged of all dross. On some ofthem their sufferings had impressed the significance of the EleventhCommandment—"Thou shalt not be found out"—without cleansing themin any way. And some of them had been utterly ruined, body and mind,by the terrible system which, claiming to be reformative, was onlyvindictive, aggravating, and soul-destroying. Taken together, theEmancipists comprised as strange and diverse a class of human beings,as had ever been in the world. They were good, and half good, and badand superlatively bad. But there were few amongst them who combinedeach of these qualities in his own being.
Jacob Losky did. He was good and moderately good, bad and incrediblybad, in turn and simultaneously. It was as impossible to define hischaracter exactly as it would be to count the sands of the sea-shore.He was a wicked and dangerous man, and a good and benevolent one, inthe same minute of the same hour. He could coolly carry out a terriblecrime at the same time that he was making some self-sacrificing effortfor the betterment of a fellow-creature. For many things he deserved tobe hanged; for many others he almost merited canonization. He had everygood quality, and every bad quality, and they did not always manifestthemselves in turn. He was such a man as the world is mercifully sparedfor age-long intervals. When the Creator was constructing him, italmost seemed as if He must have done so in some spirit of sarcasticrebuke to man—as though He should have said:—"Who are you, to judgeyour fellows by your own standards of right and wrong? Judge Me thisone."
Jacob Losky never was judged quite adequately by his fellows. Butit was not the fault of his fellows that they were not divine andomniscient.
By extraction, Losky was a Russian Jew—by birth a Londoner of thesecond generation. He had begun life as a call-boy at Drury LaneTheatre, had become a dresser, had even acted minor parts, andat twenty-six years of age was secretary to the great Mr. BarryO'Shaughnessy, the Irish tragedian, who, until the memorable occasionof his falling foul of the Prince Regent, over a lady of the theatre,had enjoyed a somewhat remarkable vogue in the English dramatic world.A year or so before the downfall of the O'Shaughnessy, the clever youngsecretary had, for the only recorded time in his life, broken theabovementioned Eleventh Commandment. He had forged the signature ofhis employer, and, by one chance in a hundred, which it is needless toexplain here, the forgery had been detected.
Jacob Losky was sentenced to death, but—by the active effort of theeminent actor, and the intervention of the First Gentleman in Europe,still delighting in the society of the witty Irishman—had escapedthe gallows, and been transported for life to His Majesty's penalsettlement of New South Wales. He arrived in Sydney not very longafter Captain William Bligh, late ofH.M.S. Bounty, had assumed thegovernment of the young colony.
From the first, the clever young Jew had done well in the new worldin which he found himself. In twelve months he had received histicket-of-leave as a reward for his share in bringing to justicethree robbers of the Government stores. And almost one of the lastacts of Captain Bligh, before his deposition, had been to grant hima conditional pardon, on account of his single-handed apprehensionof a notorious escapee, who had terrorized the district of the GreenHills—as Windsor was then styled—in a fashion both gallant anddiplomatic. Through the troublous interregnum that succeeded the Blighrebellion, he had managed to keep in favour with the usurping officersof the New South Wales Corps, and was easily able to demonstrate toGovernor Macquarie, upon his arrival, that he had been entirely loyalto Governor Bligh in his misfortunes. In the meantime, he had prosperednot a little.
Macquarie found in the handsome young Jew just the type of man whichhe deemed it his duty to encourage by every means in his power—thecriminal who was to be redeemed. The good Governor looked upon thecolony as being designed before everything else, as a place in whichthe outcasts of society were to be given a chance, and every assistancein rehabilitating themselves. This was the reason of its foundation,he maintained, and in making good and useful citizens of those who hadtemporarily fallen from grace its chief function lay.
The progress of Jacob Losky was an interesting and fascinating studyto him. He encouraged it in every possible way—now by a judiciousgrant of land, now by the sanctioning of some trading venture, and nowby a gift of breeding stock. And always he was careful to emphasise,in his personal dealings with such Emancipists as Losky, that theirpast counted for nothing, that socially they were as good as anyone inthe colony, and that they might ever regard him as their friend andsympathiser whilst they continued in such courses as made for their owngood and the advancement of the settlement.
By the end of Macquarie's reign Jacob Losky was so entirely establishedthat no one even thought of him as ever being anything other than theestimable citizen he undoubtedly was. And in the eighteen years thatfollowed, and that brings his history down to the time of our story, hehad established himself so firmly that his good character was easilysufficient to cover and conceal any of the doings that his bad one wasresponsible for.
He had married at eighteen, and left his wife and infant son with herpeople in England when he came to the colony. The son had inherited allthe bad side of his father's composition, and had died outside Newgate,to the tolling of St. Sepulchre's bell, in his twenty-fifth year, as anunrepentant highwayman. He had left behind him a wife, and a daughterthree or four years old. Her mother dying soon after, Jacob Losky hadsent home for his granddaughter, and had brought her up himself inSydney. She was Rachel Losky.
Such, briefly, is an outline of the career of the founder of the FreeCompany, up to the time when this story begins.
Jacob Losky was a rich man. No enterprise in which he had beenconcerned had ever been anything but a success. He had farms on theHawkesbury, a cattle station out in the new country of the LiverpoolPlains, a coal-mine near Newcastle, and a couple of schooners whichtraded up and down the coast, and sometimes further oversea, to NewZealand and the South Sea Islands. The book-shop in George Street,opposite to the barrack gates, was a hobby—one that paid its way, butstill only a hobby.
He had many irons in the fire, and some of the fires in which theyglowed were fed with very questionable fuel. Some of the enterpriseswere honest and open, and some were, not too openly, dishonest.He would dabble in almost anything that did not seem to him to befoolishly risky of his own personal liberty. All was fish that came tohis net, and his net was a wide one with narrow meshes. Nearly everycondition of life in the new country seemed to him to be worthy ofexploitation. And so, regarding the great bushranging industry whichflourished so openly in the first half of the last century in New SouthWales, he saw that it was a form of activity which, properly organized,might be well rewarded.
He therefore founded and organized the Free Company. The Free Companywas a band of cattle stealers, bushrangers, and outlaws, that wasalmost wholly recruited from the ranks of the convict class. The activetoilers who collected the spoil were desperate men with a price upontheir heads. Jacob Losky was the agent and manager, who planned mostof the larger enterprises, and saw to the disposal of the booty andthe realization of the profits. Between him and them were a host ofgo-betweens—ships' captains, corrupt officials, and storekeepers andpublicans in the country districts. He had planned an elaborate systemof intelligence throughout the regions in which the Company operated,mainly in the districts of the Hunter River and the plains of thenorth-west. News of the Company's transactions came to him througha score of channels. Wonderful codes existed by whose use perfectlyinnocent people would be made to carry information from place to placein entire innocence. Elaborate get-away arrangements—of such a kind aswas exemplified in the trap-door and tunnel at his headquarters—hadbeen perfected in many places. A cave in a Blue Mountain gully, alittle mangrove-hidden creek in the Hawkesbury, a drinking-shop nearthe waterside, a sailors' boarding-house in Sydney or Newcastle—insuch had he established secret meeting places, and outlets of escapefor those of the Company upon whom the law pressed too hard. In noaspect of the lawless organization which he controlled did he takegreater delight and interest than in that of making good the escape ofits members from the tight corners in which they found themselves fromtime to time. He was an expert in dramatic disappearances.
The Free Company only had an existence of less than three years, from,say, the beginning of '39 to the middle of '41. But in that time itsrevenues must have been enormous. New South Wales was literally overrunwith bushrangers. They varied in calibre, from the scum of Van Diemen'sLand and Port Arthur to the petty thieves of a few ewes and lambs,or the occasional robbery of a farmer returning from market. Whetherindividually controlled directly by Jacob Losky or not, it was almostcertain that the Company would be called upon to act the profitablepart of receiver of their stolen goods. There was no safer method forbig or little robber to dispose of his booty than through its agency.
And now, having outlined the inception and the scope of theextraordinary organization with which this story has to do, we willproceed with our narrative of the adventures of Richard Delane, latelyof H.M. 146th Regiment of Foot.
RACHEL and her charge hurried down Pitt Street with the wind and rainat their backs. A stiff southerly was blowing and it promised to bea wild night. It was a little after nine o'clock as they came to theshores of Sydney Cove.
Once they passed a picket of the 146th, under charge of a corporal,strolling perfunctorily along the sidewalk, the moisture gleaming ontheir high shakoes as they swung by lighted windows. They took nonotice of the tall, bearded countryman and his youthful companion, andDick felt that his disguise was complete. They were men of his owncompany.
At the end of the street stood an inn, the Seaman's Rest—its frontdistinguished by a great red oil-lamp. From its interior came adiscordance of drunken choruses—old sea chanteys, and obscene songsof the wide world, blended with pathetic ballads of poor sailor ladswho find themselves upon lee shores. Half a dozen singers seemed to befavouring the company together, each according to his individual fancy.
"Some ship just in," said Rachel in a low tone.
As they passed before the open door, a tall figure emerged, and stoodfor a moment in the strip of glare that shone out into the wet street.It was a woman's figure, and Delane noticed that she seemed to swaya little, as if intoxicated. Suddenly she threw her arms up with awild gesture, and plunged out into the muddy causeway, running, in thedarkness, towards the water's edge. With some half-defined notion thatthe woman sought her own destruction, Delane followed her.
"You fool!" called the young Jewess, "You fool—let her alone!" As she,too, hurried after them, she heard a splash, and came to the water'sedge just as Delane, hastily divesting himself of his top-coat, spranginto the water.
"Oh—the idiot, the numskull!" muttered Rachel, striving to pierce thedarkness and to make out what had become of them. Then she uttered anexclamation, and ran to the wharf-side. She knew that she was close towhere a boat was awaiting their coming, in charge of old Tom Higgins,one of her grandfather's wharfmen.
Yes—just below her lay the boat, with a lantern in the stern-sheets.She turned back, and picked up Delane's discarded overcoat.
"Quick, Tom—is that you?"
"Aye, aye, Miss Rachel!—bin 'ere this quarter-hour or more."
There was another man in the boat with him.
"Hurry," she said, "and cast off." She lowered herself down from thewharf. "Our man has jumped in to save a woman. We must get him out. Didyou hear the splash?"
"Thought I 'eard something," he answered in a surly tone, as theypulled the boat round. "But 't'warn't our business."
The girl stood up.
"Dick!" she called, and the wind carried her voice across the waters."Dick—where are you."
"'Tis all right!" came his voice, quite close to them. "I've got her."
Rachel held up the lantern, and in the edge of its radiance caughtsight of Delane, supporting a white-faced woman above the surface. Ina moment the boat was beside them, and in a few seconds they were bothaboard.
"We must land her, and take her to the inn," said Delane, bending overthe unconscious figure in the boat. "She's half drowned."
"No!" cried Rachel, angrily. "You fool—do you want to be taken?Pull, Tom—pull across to Sirius Cove. She will take no harm—'tis awarm night, in spite of the rain. You cannot risk it, Dick. You'll becertain to be recognized. She must come with us to the other side. Tom,here, will bring her back."
The two oarsmen bent their backs to their task, and soon the boat wasout in the stream opposite Fort Macquarie. The night was as black aspitch, and the southerly wind pressed hard on their beam. Rachel wasat the tiller, but she took all her steering directions from Tom, theboatman.
That worthy seemed to be gifted with a supernatural faculty ofdirection. He was never wrong as to his position in the harbour, andhis short, terse advices to the girl kept them well up the stream untilthey were beyond the island of Pinchgut. Then he swung the boat's prowto the north, and the wind drove them up into the mouth of Great SiriusCove—round which the red-roofed suburb of Mosman clusters to-day. Itwas not long before the keel grounded on the sandy beach at the head ofthe bay.
Dick had been studying the features of the unconscious woman at hisfeet in the dim light of the ship's lantern. They were regular and wellcut, and he judged that she might have been a handsome enough girlnot so long ago. But there were unmistakable and disfiguring tracesof dissipation and drink—tell-tale lines and wrinkles that spoke ofreckless living and despair. As the boat grounded, she opened her eyesand stared up at the dimly-lit faces that bent over her.
"Where am I?" she gasped, in a weak voice. "Oh, why didn't you let mego? I wanted to go. I've had enough."
She fell to sobbing bitterly, and hid her face in her arm. Dick lookedat Rachel, but there was no sign of pity in her handsome face—onlycontempt and disgust.
"What's to be done with her?" he asked hopelessly.
"We can do nothing," answered the girl. "She must go back to Sydney.Tom will take her back. She is not our business. You'll land her, Tom?"
"Aye—I knows her!" growled the boatman. "All the waterside men knowsher—an' many others. 'Tis Sal Devine. She's—savin' y'r presence,Miss Rachel—not what she ought to be. She's a hout-an'-houter, Salis. Bin drinkin' a bit extra, I s'pose—to try an' cut 'er lucky likethis 'ere. Ho—I'll take 'er back. There's some as'll give 'er shelter,maybe. She can doss in th' boatshed if there's nowhere else."
"Come," said Rachel. "She will be all right. We have no time to waste,Dick. The horses will be waiting for us up here."
But Delane lingered by the boat. He could not help pitying the poorcreature whom he had saved from death.
"See here, you Tom Higgins," he said, putting his hand in his breechespocket. "See, here's a crown piece. Take it, and do what you can forher. Think if it were your own daughter. Poor devil! See to her, willyou?"
"I'll land her, y'r honor, and see to it she gets lodgings to-night.But y'd have done her a kindness to let her go the way she wanted."
"Is he to be trusted?" Dick asked Rachel, in an undertone.
"Yes—if I tell him to. See to her, Tom. And now—we must hasten. Come."
She almost dragged him up to the edge of the flat beach. The tide wasout, and there was a wide expanse of sand left bare. At its shorewardside, under the trees, beside a little brook, they came to where a manheld two horses.
"Is everything right, Tim?" asked the girl.
"Yes, Miss Rachel—they knows you're coming down to Pittwater.Billy-the-boy took word this afternoon. Ye'll find all ready. Ye've abad night. But th' rain will blow itself out."
"I'll be back to-morrow night, Tim," she said, as she took the reinsfrom him and mounted. "Up with you, Dick. We must be moving. We'vewasted too much time over that trollop already."
"Thank God I was able to save the poor creature," said Dick.
Rachel led the way unerringly, along a narrow track that took them upthe gully, down which a little streamlet trickled into the Cove. Theydid not go near the buildings of the whaling station that stood at oneside of the beach, but reached the ridge behind it, and followed it upby a winding bridle path through the wet and dripping bush, until theygained the higher ridge that divides the waters of Port Jackson properfrom Middle Harbour. Every inch of the way seemed familiar to the girl,and Delane, an indifferent horseman, and no bushman, marvelled at theunerring instinct that guided her in the blackness of the night, amidstthe dense forest of scrub-covered rock and boulder through which theirtrack seemed to lie.
Dimly, he could see her ahead of him at intervals. As a rule, however,it was only by the clatter of her horse's hooves amongst the stonesthat he could make out her position. Often she was obliged to haltuntil he caught her up.
"Leave your reins alone, Dick," she said to him once, when he hadpulled his steed off the track and wandered away to the left, so thatshe had to ride back looking for him. "Your horse will follow mine.They both know the road."
He took her advice, and found that it was sound.
There was little settlement at that time in the wild country that layabout Middle Harbour. Opposite to Sydney itself, in the vague districtknown as the North Shore and St. Leonards, there was the beginning ofa scattered village whose villagers were still pioneers of a wild andinhospitable country. Settlement thinned out towards Gordon and thehead of the Lane Cove River into a rugged No Man's Land that stretchedto the creeks and ravines of the estuary of the Hawkesbury. But betweenSirius Cove and the Spit, the land was hardly occupied at all. Therewas the whaling station beside the Cove, and one or two country housesthat overlooked Sydney from the northern heights—the residences ofretired military officers and holders of grants from the Crown. Beyondthe dividing ridge, along which the Military Road leads to Middle Headto-day, there was hardly a single dwelling. Only cunningly hidden,little, rough stone huts were planted, here and there, at the head ofsome rivulet emptying its tiny stream into the great landlocked lake ofMiddle Harbour.
They were mere squattages—as often as not the centre of somecontraband trade, such as the illicit distillation of spirits. It wasalmost as wild a country as might be explored in the Blue Mountainsthemselves. Delane found it hard to believe that only a journey of anhour or so separated them from the capital of Australia.
It was past midnight when, descending from the heights, they stumbleddown on to a long, level point of sand—the Spit, which they followedto its end, and found themselves on the southern shore of the greatharbour's narrowest part. Here there was a tiny hut, on whose doorRachel, dismounting, knocked with the butt of her riding crop.Presently a light glowed within, and the door opened.
A burly and bearded man shaded the flickering light of a tallow candlewith his hand, as he peered out into the darkness.
"Is it Miss Rachel?" he growled. "They told me to expect ye to-night.Billy-the-boy left word this afternoon. Ye're goin' across?"
"Yes, Isaac—and be quick. We have a long way to go yet; we are to beat Pittwater by daylight."
"Well, Miss Rachel, wait till I light my lantern, an' I'll be with you."
In a few moments he came out, and led the way down to the waterside,where a flat-bottomed boat was moored to a post driven into the sand.It was just about large enough to accommodate a cart and horses.Without much trouble—they were evidently used to it—the horses wereled aboard, and, manipulating a pair of sweeps from the forward endof the boat, the ferryman slowly transported them across the narrowwaters. The boat grounded on a little sandy beach, and presently, witha rough "Good-night" from Isaac in their ears, they were again in thesaddle, and climbing up a tortuous zig-zag cart track leading to thetop of the further hillside.
Through the dark hours they pressed on at a steady walk. They hardlyspoke at all. Rachel always rode some yards in advance of Delane, andhe, letting his horse have its head, was content to follow blindly inher tracks.
The tiny settlement at Manly Beach they left far on their right, andfollowed a bridle path that took them round the head of the lagoon tothe north of it. Every inch of the way seemed to be familiar to thegirl. Though the path she took was narrow and rough, it was evidentlya well-used one. She told him that her grandfather made much use ofBroken Bay in connection with his shipping enterprises, and that thisbridle track was his nearest and most direct means of communicationwith his agents at Pittwater.
Round the ends of rough, jutting tongues of land, across little creeks,past still lagoons, they travelled through the small hours of themorning. About two o'clock the weather began to clear, and towardsdaylight—as they passed along by gleaming white beaches beyond theNarrabeen Lakes, which they skirted round through the foot-hills—adeclining fragment of moon lit them on their way.
Just as the dawn was coming, the girl reined in her horse, and waitedfor Delane to ride up beside her.
"Dick," she said, as he drew level with her, "a mile from here, andwe will be at our journey's end. You've travelled far in the lasttwenty-four hours. But 'tis but a little way compared with the distanceyou have to go yet."
"Well, it's not far off in miles, is it," he replied, wondering at theseriousness of her tone and look. "We are hardly twenty miles fromSydney?"
"I don't mean that. What I mean is, since you ran through the barrackgates yesterday morning you have travelled all the distance that liesbetween Honest Town and Rogue City. You've become a rogue—and you werean honest man. Do you see? You were of the world yesterday, and now youare out of it—an outcast, a vagabond. You are one of Father Jacob'sbargains."
"What choice had I? What was there between this and the lash? But foryour grandfather, and for you, I'd have been in the cells by now,awaiting a trial at which I was condemned beforehand. Then I'd havebeen cut to pieces at the triangles, and drummed out of the regiment tothe tune of the 'Rogues' March.' A rogue! I think I am less of a rogueas a free man than I'd have been as a convict in irons on one of theroad-gangs. There was not much choice, Rachel."
"And yet, I don't know," she said, looking at him thoughtfully withher great black eyes, in which there was a gleam of pity. "You areyoung—you might have lived through it all. But once you make thisjourney into the bush as an outlaw, you begin a journey that only hasone ending—death. The bullet, or the gallows—most likely the gallows."
She looked very handsome, as she rode beside him in the early morningin her manly costume—a well-built, active stripling. But there wassomething of the woman in the way she regarded him, despite herbreeches, and boots, and whiskers. He felt full of gratitude towardsher, and of an interest in her, that might not altogether have been dueto gratitude alone.
"They'll never catch me!" he cried, a little boastfully.
"Maybe, maybe," she said. "Others have felt that too, Dicky—others whohave been caught and hanged."
For a time they rode on in silence. She was deep in thought, whilst hebreathed in the fresh morning air, as they jogged along, and thankedhis good fortune that he was free, and not an unwilling guest of theprovost-marshal.
Presently she drew rein.
"Here, Dick, I leave you. I take the horses to a place I know of, andrest for the day. You must go on alone. Follow this path down, and itwill take you to where you are expected, hardly half a mile from here.Give me your reins."
He dismounted, and handed the reins to her. He walked round to the nearside of her horse.
"Rachel," he said, "I thank you. You have saved me—you and yourgrandfather both."
"My grandfather has not saved you, Dick. He has sentenced you. But Imay be able to. God knows! Take this packet, and when you reach theJewboy, give it him unopened."
She looked at him with a strange wistfulness. Suddenly she leaned overtowards him until her face was close to his, and he could feel her warmbreath upon his cheek.
"Kiss me, Dick," she said.
More in astonishment than fervor, his lips met hers. Instantly shestraightened up in the saddle, crimson-faced, wheeled her horse, andtrotted off through the trees, leading his. His eyes followed herwonderingly.
"Well, I'm blowed!" he said, as he turned, when she was out of sight,to follow the path along which she had directed him.
FOUR months after that unhappy morning in the orderly-room of theBarracks at Sydney, Major John Hilary Vane duly and completelyestablished himself in his principality upon the Upper Hunter River.That is to say that, having retired from the active list of the army,he came to settle down upon his freehold estate of Castle Vane, whichwas situated not very far from the little village of Scone.
He had been in occupation of Castle Vane, or rather his duly appointedrepresentative, Mr. Overseer McNab, had been in occupation, for sometwo years before this date, as a lessee of the Crown at an almostnominal rent. Having vainly besought his Excellency Sir George Gippsto confirm his title to the estate as a grant from Her Majesty'sGovernment—in fulfilment of a promise which he maintained had beenmade to him at the time of his first occupation—he had, with an illgrace, paid the purchase money for some 3,000 acres of splendid landwith a frontage to the river, which consisted for the most part ofrich alluvial flats and gently rising ridges that ran up towards thefoot-hills of the ranges. And he got it at a figure much below its valueeven then, three-quarters of a century ago.
It was, nevertheless, a bitter grievance to John Vane, until the dayof his death, that he had had to pay anything at all for Castle Vane.He remained a deeply injured man—until he left the colony in disgust,ten years, exactly, after he had come to the Hunter to establish hisdynasty.
Although he possessed the freehold of only 3,000 acres, his cattleand horses had a countryside as large as an English county for theirpasturage. In common with his neighbours, up and down the river,he had the use of the whole district that lay between and abouttheir holdings. Only by their brands did they set boundaries to thewanderings of their cattle and horses. Fences—save around the homepaddocks and the fields of cultivation—there were none. The cattlerunning in the hills and ranges were mustered periodically for brandingor for sale. The sheep were shepherded in the most suitable localities.And nearly all the labour was supplied, by the assignment system, fromthe ranks of the very large convict population of the colony.
It was meant to be a great day when the lord of the manor drove up toCastle Vane. The fine new house which he had built—it is old, anda dairy farm, now—was decorated with flags, and green boughs, andferns from the mountains. Mr. McNab wore his best broadcloth, hisancient beaver top-hat, and his least appalling look. The convictlabourers—between fifty and sixty of them—were paraded in front ofthe house, and made a demonstration that was ostensibly one of welcome,but in reality was an utterance of ribaldry and loathing that did notdare to express itself openly.
Mr. McNab rode to meet the major's cavalcade as it forded the crossingbelow the house.
There was the major, his lady—the beautiful woman who made his lifesuch a hell—and his daughter Caroline. The major and Mrs. Vane hadboth enjoyed previous matrimonial experience before venturing upon theunited experience—a disastrous one—of one another. His daughter wasthe child of his first marriage—a fair-headed English girl, with asweet face, but not so lovely as her handsome stepmother's. She wasprettily conscious of this, and her stepmother was not the kind oflady who would ever be likely to permit her to forget it. The threetravelled in a light phaeton, drawn by a magnificent pair of dapplegreys.
Behind them came a large conveyance, containing Major Vane'ssoldier-servant, John O'Toole, whose discharge from the 146th he hadpurchased on his own retirement; his French chef, Louis Pinaud, andthe two maids in attendance upon the ladies. Further behind was atwo-horsed cart, transporting the travelling equipment and personalbaggage of the party; and far back on the Great Northern Road, aheavily-laden bullock dray toiled up the river from Morpeth, at thehead of navigation in the Hunter, piled with furniture and luxuries forthe equipment at Castle Vane.
The major sat very erect, beside his handsome wife—his grim, cold,austere face relaxing a little as he greeted his dour deputy.
"How d'ye do, Mr. McNab? My dear—allow me to present to you Mr. McNab,my overseer."
The raw-boned Scot removed his ancient beaver, and bowed low over thepommel of his saddle.
"Ye're varra welcome, me leddy. Ah hope ye'll find Castle Vane to yourliking. 'Tis a bonny place, or 'twill be when all's set in or-der. Theview's fine, d'ye no ken? An' 'tis a braw hoose his Honor's builded forye. We'll be layin' oot a bit garden the noo."
Mrs. Vane nodded disdainfully at him. The girl in the back seat smiledin such a way as to win his heart at once—and the heart of DonaldMcNab was not easily won.
"Drive on, John," commanded the major's lady. "Who are those dreadfulcreatures before the house? What a noise they are making! It positivelymakes my head ache. Do, please, send then away immediately."
The sorry rabble of ill-clad convicts was rejoicing, as duly ordered bythe overseer.
"Send them about their business, McNab," said the major. "Send themback to work. It spoils such scum as these people to indulge them withholidays."
A little crestfallen, Mr. McNab rode ahead of the procession, andcursed the servants into the background.
One of them—a sturdy fellow—had been a soldier of the 146th. Hemuttered as they slunk back to their tasks:—
"'Tis the same hell-hound of a Johnny Vane. By heavens you chaps willfind McNab was a grandmother compared to this fellie. I'll bet any oneof ye a fig of tobacco he sends some of ye into Scone to the justicesfor a floggin' before the twenty-four hours is out. I know the wretch!"
"Sure—but it might be y'silf he'll be sendin', Miles, me lad!" growledan old convict near him. "How'd ye like that, me pebble?"
"I'm goin' to do all I can to keep out of his eyesight. He's had meflogged once, d——n him. If it comes again—'tis Miles Marvel for thebush. But I'll kill him if he does. He's a devil—a devil out of hell."
"To-morrow morning, McNab," said the major that evening, as if issuingRegimental Orders of the Day, "at seven o'clock, you will hold a paradeof the servants on the estate, when I will make an inspection of them.This will be a daily affair. You will attend yourself, with a nominalroll and a written statement of each man's task for the day. You willthere report to me all breaches of discipline, which I will deal withafter breakfast at my office. I shall leave it to you to see that mypunishments are carried out. Discipline, discipline, McNab. Disciplineis the thing for these creatures. I will discipline them. We will carryon in this fashion from henceforth, if you please. I rather think thatthe servants have become too used to your easy-going ways."
"Ma certes," murmured McNab grimly, as he returned to his quarters, "heca's my ways 'easy-goin'!' I wonder how yon prees'ner bodies will findhis."
In the morning—just as the sun was peeping over the indigo line ofranges, and sending golden gleams sparkling across the frosty grasson the river flats—the major held his first parade. A great bellclanged out its summons hard by the overseer's quarters, and presentlythe ill-clad wretches came shuffling and slouching from their huts tothe front of the homestead. There, being duly ordered in some kind ofdouble rank formation by McNab, and the roll being called, the masterof their souls and bodies stepped down from the verandah, high stockedand closely buttoned, to speak a little of his mind to his assembledserfs. His address is so characteristic of the man that it may be givenin full.
He stood before them in the morning sunlight—the very personificationof the martinet of a period in British military history when notto be a martinet was to confess oneself a weakling. It had not yetbeen discovered that the British soldier was amenable to kindness,and the disciplinary reputation of the Great Duke, together withhis unflattering opinion of the private, was still a tradition ofregimental messes. The major proposed to keep the tradition aliveamongst his assigned servants.
"Stand at 'attention!' Damme, Mr. McNab, you should call them toattention when I appear on the verandah. Now, listen to me, youprisoners. I have an idea that you have been having altogether too easya time of it, and I intend to smarten you. Who is that man in the rearrank chewing tobacco? Fall out—you I mean," pointing at a little oldman who wore brass ear-rings. "What is your name? Cassidy? Mark Cassidyfor punishment, Mr. McNab. I will have no nonsense. If you behave youwill get—what you are entitled to under my agreement with Government.If you are insubordinate or insolent, you will be chastised. For graveroffences, the Law will deal with you. I remind you that, although youare not in gaol or labouring in the road-gangs, you are still prisonersof the Crown, and still amenable to prison discipline. See that youbear it in mind. I will have no shirking of work. If a man does notcarry out his task to my satisfaction, or that of my overseer, Mr.McNab, his diet will be reduced. If he shams illness as an excuse,he will be sent in to the justices in Scone. If he should proveincorrigible, he will be returned to Hyde Park Barracks, in Sydney,with a full recommendation. You understand—there will be no excuses atCastle Vane. Now be off to your work—and remember what I have said.Stay a moment, though. Come here—you."
He had caught sight of the ex-soldier. With a scowl on his face, butthe effects of the drill still strong in him, the convict Marvel tookthree military strides to the front, saluted the major, and stoodrigidly to attention.
"I have seen you before. You were drummed out of the regiment, and sentto prison. What is your name?"
"Miles Marvel."
"Why do you not say 'sir'? Mr. McNab, this man for punishment also.I will cure your insolence, my man. Mr. McNab, you may dismiss theparade," and he strode inside to breakfast.
"Get to h—l out of this," was Mr. McNab's curt way of issuing theorder deputed to him. "And ye'd best mar-rk what the major said to ye.He's no the mon for triflin'. You two—Cassidy and Marvel—come to theoffice at nine o'clock. Ye fools, ye—t' get into the major's blackbooks already. Ye'll repent it—or me name's not Donald McNab."
By ten o'clock, Messrs. Cassidy and Marvel, bearing a letter to thebench of magistrates in Scone—in the which their brother justice,Major John Hilary Vane, begged for them the award of twenty-five lashesapiece for "gross insolence and misbehaviour"—were tramping sullenlyto their punishment. By sunset, with raw and bleeding backs, and rawsouls that were filled with bitter hatred, they had reported themselvesto the overseer at Castle Vane.
It was an expeditious and useful business, this interchange ofcourtesies by brother justices in the country districts. Every largeland-holder was a Justice of the Peace, and nearly every one—savethose rare and wise exceptions who recognized its costliness—availedthemselves of the assigned servant system. To prevent injustice andtyranny a paternal government had ordained that no master shouldinflict corporal punishment upon the prisoners in his care. He hadto send them for trial before a duly constituted court of summaryjurisdiction. So Mr. A, the neighbour of good Mr. B, when sitting injudgment, saw to it that Mr. B's delinquents paid for their digressionswith their skins, and Mr. B, in his turn, duly attended to thedisciplinary interests of the worthy Mr. A. There was a delightfulgive-and-take about the arrangement. And there was an element of humourin the mere fact that the man who was to do the taking quite oftencarried a letter which was something after the following style:—
"Dear A,—Please give bearer fifty lashes, and oblige. Yours tocommand—B."
LATE in the afternoon of the third day after his arrival at CastleVane, the major, strolling up and down a pathway of what was to be,in time, the garden, beheld a man on horseback riding up from theriver-crossing towards the house. The stranger was too far off forrecognition, but as he drew closer to him, the major perceived that hewas a well-appointed person, of evidently some importance, and that hewas exceedingly well mounted. Furthermore, he decided that, whoever hemight be, the stranger was not unwelcome to Castle Vane—for the simplereason that its overlord was beginning to suspect himself of being indanger of becoming bored with too much of his own society.
For days the handsome mistress of the establishment had been in one ofthose moods which puzzled and disquieted her husband. Nothing he coulddo could please her. She maintained an almost unbreakable silence, or,if she did speak, it was only in complaint about the conditions ofexistence in the colony, and her unfortunate lot in finding herselfsituated in such an out-of-the-way corner of the world. He dideverything that he could imagine would divert her mind and occupy herfancy, but to no purpose. Sometimes she sulked. At others she supposedherself to be ill, and kept her room. He could arouse her to nointerest in the affairs of Castle Vane. And she had been like this eversince they had left Sydney.
Between his daughter, Caroline, and himself there was not muchsympathy. They had seen little of one another since the death ofCaroline's mother, when she was a child five years old, and hergirlhood had been passed at a school in Belgium, where he had left herduring his services abroad, in India and New South Wales. Last year hehad returned to England on leave, with an intention of bringing herback with him to preside over his establishment in Sydney, had foundher almost a stranger, and, falling desperately in love with the youngwidow of a retired naval captain who had committed suicide after ashort and disastrous career on the Stock Exchange, had brought thatlady instead, with his daughter as a somewhat unwilling member of theirhousehold.
Neither daughter nor stepmother appreciated the position over-much, andthere was little enough of friendliness, not to speak of affection,wasted between the two. Caroline was a warm-hearted, impulsive, merry,and sweet-natured girl. With her beautiful stepmother—selfish, vain,and luxury-loving to a degree—she was altogether out of relationship.Her father was almost a stranger to her, and his cold, precise,somewhat pompous manner rather overawed her. She could see, too, thather father was a friendless man, through his own unlovable character,and that he was bitterly hated by all who were beneath him for histyrannous and overbearing demeanour. The family could hardly bedescribed as a happy one.
So it was almost with a sense of relief that, this evening, the majorwalked down the garden to meet the new arrival.
The latter was a tall and good-looking man, athletic, healthy, andbright-eyed. The valise strapped in front of the saddle marked him as atraveller, if the dust upon his well-cut clothes and Wellington bootshad not done so too. Obviously he was of Hebraic extraction, but hisfeatures were not aggressively Jewish, even if there was no mistakingtheir cast.
The major and the newcomer reached opposite sides of the garden gate atthe same time. The latter lifted his hat, and bowed politely, withoutalighting—a courtesy which the major stiffly acknowledged.
"Good evening, sir,"—the man spoke pleasantly, and in the tone of aneducated and well-bred person—"have I the honour of addressing MajorJohn Vane, late of Her Majesty's 146th Regiment?"
"You have, sir,"—replied the major, bowing. "Pray what can I do foryou? And may I enquire whom you may be, sir?"
"I carry a letter of introduction to you, Major Vane, from your agentsin Sydney. Allow me to present it you."
He got down from his horse, and, taking a letter from an inside pocketof his coat, handed it to the major. He stood flicking his boots gentlywith his riding whip, whilst the latter opened and read it. His eyestravelled over the house in a swift, comprehensive glance, and a smiletwitched his lips as the major studied the letter with knitted brows.
He seemed to become aware of the open-mouthed, gaping stare of aconvict, who was digging up a flower bed a few yards away. The manhad paused in his work for a moment to take stock of the stranger—alook of astonishment and apprehension in his face. The stranger made asign with his hand—a peculiar sign, that might have been merely madeto brush away a fly from his nose, or to convey a hasty signal. Theconvict knew what it conveyed.
"Howly saints!" he muttered to himself. "'Tis the Jewboy—and that'sthe 'lie low' sign he's give me. Sure—there's something in the wind."
The major looked up from the paper and opened the little gate. He heldout his hand to the stranger.
"I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Davis," he said, with as much delightin his cold tone as he was able to express. "My agents inform me ofyour journey's object, and it gives me pleasure to offer you thehospitality of Castle Vane. Will you come inside?"
He looked round, and saw the convict. It was the unfortunate oldCassidy, who had had his twenty-five lashes the day before, but was notfor that reason excused from labour.
"Here you—prisoner!" called the major sharply. "Take this horse to thestables, and tell the groom to water and feed him and rub him down.Ah—it is Cassidy, is it? Well, Cassidy—I trust your manners areimproved."
The old man touched his hat.
"Yis sorr! 'Tis that they are."
He hobbled painfully to the gate. The dried blood made a pattern on theback of his coarse cotton shirt. He led the horse round to the stables,muttering to himself as he went.
"The Jewboy! Thin 'tis the divil Vane is goin' to suffer. I must getword wid him—for to tell him not to shpare th' hell-hound."
"A taste of the cat?" remarked the visitor, airly and pleasantly, ashis host led the way indoors.
"Yes," replied the major. "He was lacking in respect. I consider itnecessary—most necessary—to enforce discipline upon these creatures.They are quite worthless."
"Quite, major, quite," agreed the other. "It does 'em good."
The major pulled the bell-cord, and in a few moments his butler, JohnO'Toole, appeared in the door of the dining-room.
"Glasses, O'Toole. You will take a little refreshment, Mr. Davis? Wedine at five o'clock. Have you ridden far to-day?"
"Only from Muswellbrook. I spent the night at the inn there—inexcellent company. You know Mr. Denny Day—the police-magistrate fromMaitland? He was there too. Delightful company—such reminiscences."
"By repute only. I have not yet met him. What is he doing in theseparts?"
"He has been after a certain notorious character, a highwayman, whom Idaresay you have heard something of. He is known as the Jewboy."
He took the glass of brandy and water which Vane had mixed for him."Your health, Major! The scoundrel is a namesake of mine." He laughed.
The major bowed.
"I fancy that my overseer has mentioned the ruffian to me. I can assurehim of a warm welcome if he comes onto my estate. And did he elude Mr.Day?"
"Yes, he escaped to the ranges. Perhaps Mr. Day will have better lucknext time."
"'Tis to be hoped so!" replied the major. "And now, sir, will you allowme to show you to your room. I will send for your valise. Dinner willshortly be served. Will you come with me?"
He led the way to the guest-room, and after seeing that the visitor hadall that he required for his toilet, left him alone.
Mr. Davis sat down on the side of the bed and laughed silently. "Ah,my fine bird," he soliloquized in a low tone—"you little realize theangel you are entertaining unawares. It is an amusing adventure—Iwonder will he see the joke of it to-morrow? I doubt much if a sense ofhumour is amongst my worthy host's characteristics. But we will put himto the test to-morrow. There is one of my band, at any rate, whom thesituation will divert. Dick Delane will enjoy it. By George—I think wemight put a little honest amusement in the way of old Cassidy too. Itwill take his mind off his sore back." He laughed silently as he threwoff his coat and waistcoat. A knock came to the door.
It was the old Irish convict with his valise. The Jewboy held up hishand warningly.
"Not a word, Denis—'twill be your turn to-morrow."
The old man grinned slyly, nodded his head twice, and took himself off.Opening his valise, the visitor brought to light a small bundle ofclean linen and a pair of horse-pistols with their ammunition—a flaskof powder and a bag of bullets. There were also a formidable-lookingknife and a small hatchet. He rapidly completed his toilet and fastenedup his valise.
In the dining-room he found the major with his daughter, and was dulypresented. The major apologized for the absence of his wife.
"Mrs. Vane is indisposed, and is keeping her room, sir. She begs to beexcused from receiving you, Mr. Davis, but hopes to have the pleasureof meeting you in the morning."
"The loss, I am sure, is mine, Major Vane. But there is someconsolation in the presence of your charming daughter."
Their guest proved to be an agreeable companion, and, gradually, themajor's frozen and formal politeness thawed a little, and he foundhimself listening with appreciation to the anecdotes and recollectionsof the stranger.
The latter was evidently a man of wide reading and extensive travel. Hewas a Londoner, and knew the other European capitals—Paris, Berlin,St. Petersburg, Rome, and Madrid—almost as well as he knew the Englishmetropolis. He talked to Caroline of Belgium and France, and of Bruges,where she had been at school, and made himself altogether agreeable.She was quite sorry when the time came for her to withdraw and leavethe gentlemen sitting over their wine.
"And so, Mr. Davis, you propose to settle down across the ranges?"began the major, when they had lighted their cigars.
"Yes—if the run which I am going up to inspect suits me. I have greatconfidence in the future of this country, major. It will be a rich onesome day. Not in our time, perhaps—but our children will reap what wesow."
"I agree with you."
"You are fortunate in the property which you have acquired, sir," wenton the other. "I admired it greatly as I rode through it to-day. Youwill find it a good investment."
"Do you think so? I hope it may be. I have paid a fair price for it."
"Ah—I should have supposed it had been a grant from the Crown, major,as some reward for your distinguished services. Surely they haveentitled you to so much."
Whereupon, as Mr. Davis was not altogether unexpectant, he wastold much concerning the ungratefulness of those in power, theirshort-sightedness, and the disastrous effects which their misguidedpolicy would inevitably bring about with regard to the welfare of thecolony. Also, he heard some plain-spoken criticism of his ExcellencySir George Gipps. He sympathized feelingly with the major, agreedthat he had been treated with gross unfairness, and that it was ashameful thing that persons of his sort, being desirous of settlingin the country, for its good and their own, should not receive moreconsiderate treatment.
"It is a fine house that you have built here, sir," he said, castinghis eyes round the handsome room in which they sat. "I perceive thatyour furnishings are not altogether complete, though. On their way,doubtless?"
"No," replied his host, "they are not complete. But they soon will be.Some heavy baggage, together with all my plate, has been coming fromMorpeth this week past. I am bringing the goods up by bullock dray—aslow but sure method. They are only a few miles from here to-night. Infact, I am riding out early in the morning to meet them."
"Ah—then perhaps I may ride with you? I must return to Muswellbrook tocomplete some business before I pursue my journey northwards. I am tomeet a gentleman—with a view to inspecting some cattle which he has atPage's River. May I have the pleasure?"
"Delighted," said the major. "I will order an early breakfast, andshall be glad of your company. It is indeed a pleasure to meet withone who has had so extensive an experience of the world, and hasobserved it so well as yourself. And now, shall we join my daughter inthe drawing-room? We may persuade her to favour us with some music.She sings a little, and numbers a knowledge of the guitar amongst heraccomplishments."
"With pleasure," murmured Mr. Davis.
They spent a pleasant evening, during the course of which Mr. Davisfurther impressed himself upon the major and Miss Caroline as acharming acquaintance. When bed-time came, the major pressed him tostay over a few days.
"No—I thank you. Much as I should like to, my business undertakingsdemand my immediate attention. Perhaps you will welcome me some othertime?"
Major Vane was almost genial in his invitation to his new friend tocome whenever it might suit him?
"Perhaps," murmured Mr. Davis, as he got between the sheets and blewhis candle out—"perhaps, my worthy big-wig, you will not feel soinclined to welcome the Jewboy by to-morrow night."
THE major and his guest rode away from Castle Vane soon aftersunrise. It was a beautiful, clear morning of early winter, and allnature seemed to rejoice in the glorious keenness of the air and thebrightness of the sunshine. Magpies sang in the high timber along theriver, and the rustling of the breeze through the dark she-oaks thatfringed its winding course made a soft music in their ears.
"That is a fine horse you are riding, Mr. Davis," remarked the major,casting an approving and discriminating eye over the splendid blackgelding upon which his companion was mounted. "May I, without seemingimpertinent, ask you what you gave for him?"
"Yes, he is a fine animal, major—but as to what I gave for him,that is no criterion of his value. I gave nothing for him. He was apresent—from a man I know." He might have added that the price of himwas the escape from death of his late owner, which had been gladlyaccepted by that unfortunate person in exchange for the horse—but didnot do so. "Your own is not a bad animal, sir. Is he imported—may Iask?" Mr. Davis approved of the brown stallion the major rode.
"Yes. I brought him out with me, on my return from England last year.He, also, was a present—from my uncle, the Earl of Marshford."
"Lord Marshford! Are you, then, related to his lordship?"
"My father was his youngest brother. But did you know him?"
"I often encountered him in the European capitals, at most of which hewas ambassador in turn. I knew him fairly intimately—as intimatelyas a humble individual like myself may become acquainted with sodistinguished a character. A great man, sir! Are you in favour withhim, may I ask? Have you expectations?"
The major laughed grimly.
"No, I think not. I fancy that the old man regarded the gift of thishorse as discharging any claims I may have had upon his affectionateremembrances. I fear that I can look for nothing further in the way offavour from the Earl. However, the horse is rather more than I expectedfrom him. He was never notorious for his liberality to his kinsmen."
They rode along through the pleasant morning, chatting of manythings—of Sydney and its people, official and otherwise; of themajor's war services in India; of his companion's travels; of theprospects of the pastoral industry in New South Wales—until they werebetween three and four miles from Castle Vane.
They had followed the dray-track which led from the station to theGreat Northern Road, and which was all the approach there was as yet tothe major's homestead. Just here it led through the bush in a straightavenue of half a mile or so in length. In the distance they beheld abullock dray standing in the middle of the road, without its team. Itseemed to be deserted.
"By heavens!" cried the major, "I believe that is my dray!" He checkedhis horse. Then he heard his companion, a few feet in his rear, sayquietly:
"Major Vane. One moment, if you please."
The major half turned in his saddle, and found himself looking downthe barrel of a formidable horse-pistol. At the same instant, arough-looking man jumped from behind a tree, and seized his bridlereins. His late guest smiled at him along the barrel of the pistol.
The major was a brave man, but the suddenness of the thing bewilderedhim.
"Good heavens, Mr. Davis! What does this mean?" was all he was able togasp in his astonishment.
"It simply means, major, that I think you had better get out of thesaddle. It also means—this loaded pistol of mine—that if you movea hand towards your pockets you are a dead man. It means it verysincerely, I assure you."
Furious with rage and mortification, the major got off his horse, andstood in the track, glaring at the visitor.
"Put your hands above your head, if you please, my dear major," suavelyrequested the latter. "Morris," he called, "come along. Take my horse."
Two more men, armed with muskets, came out of the bush. One of themtook their leader's horse by the bridle, the other covering Major Vaneas Mr. Davis dismounted. As soon as he was on the ground he againpresented his pistol at the major.
"Search him, Albert," he said. "See if he has any weapons." With athoroughness that bespoke some familiarity with the process, theother man searched the major, taking from one of his pockets a smalldouble-barrelled pistol. When he had handed it to Mr. Davis, the latterlowered his weapon, and bowed ceremoniously to his captive. "Permitme to introduce myself, Major Vane. It is true that you are alreadyacquainted with my real name, but I am not sure that you know me as theJewboy. A rather undignified title, perhaps, for a man of my parts—butit is tolerably well-known and respected, and does well enough. Now,will you kindly walk beside me to the dray? Bring the horses, lads.Albert—shoot the major if he tries to bolt into the bush. I should notattempt it if I were you, sir—the young man is an excellent shot."
The major was a picture of misery and futile anger. It was not of theleast use his offering any resistance to his captors—that he knew—butto walk quietly in order to look over the looting of his own propertywas a terribly hard trial to his dignity. He turned to the Jewboy.
"Davis," he said, "you seemed to me last night to be a gentleman—youhad a letter that vouched for you from my agents. How did you come byit?"
The robber laughed.
"My dear major, the letter was forged in Sydney, and sent up to me hereon the Hunter, in case I should wish to use it. It was done by a manwho can imitate any writing. I confess that I wanted to reconnoitreCastle Vane, and to be your guest before you became mine. It was apleasant enough thing to drop the bushranger for one evening, and sleepunder a gentleman's roof. I am not quite a gentleman, perhaps—but suchlittle polish as I may have was imparted to me in your own family.You look surprised. I was valet to the Earl of Marshford for eightyears. Few men know him better. I am glad to gain possession of a horsethat was bred at Marshford. You see, the whole little comedy has beenprettily played, major, has it not? A little farce before the mainperformance, eh? Let us hope that we have to stage no tragedy."
"What do you mean to do with me?"
"Personally, my dear major, I would set you at liberty, once our ownliberty was assured—when we had made good our escape—but I am notaltogether a free agent. There are two or three members of my companywho wish to transact a little business with you. I am afraid that theywill hold different views from my own as to what should be done withyour person. But here we are—let us see what you have been so good asto bring from Sydney for our benefit. Sit down on the grass, will you?Albert, attend to the major. I wish to look over the spoil."
The attentions of Albert did not relax for a single instant. Hesquatted down opposite to the unfortunate gentleman and kept himcovered with his musket, the butt resting on his thigh, and the hammerat full-cock.
"Move, ye devil, an' I'll let daylight into you!" was his pleasantcaution to his charge.
For more than half an hour the unhappy owner of Castle Vane remainedin this humiliating position. His back was to the bullock-dray, andhe could not see what was going on, but from the occasional burstsof laughter that broke upon his hearing, it seemed that the gang wasenjoying itself over the investigation of his property. At last theJewboy called to his guardian to bring the prisoner up.
"Git up," growled the amiable Albert, and the major rose to his feet,and faced about. A queer spectacle met his astonished vision. They hadbroken into the boxes containing his clothes—indeed, they had brokenopen everything—and finding his uniforms in one of them, four of thebushrangers stood arrayed in all his military splendours, so far asthey would go round. One man, a grotesque individual with a flamingred beard, had donned his full dress frock coat. Another had on hisgold-laced mess jacket and his cocked hat. Two more had blended variousincongruous articles of military clothing in a ridiculous fashion, andwere strutting about among the trees. A couple of open cases of winerevealed the source of this humour.
"Fall in th' gyard of honor!" shouted the individual in the frock coat,and the other three unsteadily arrayed themselves in line.
"Do not, I pray you, regard this buffoonery too severely, my dearmajor," said the Jewboy. "We lead a strenuous life, with onlyinfrequent relaxation. I am obliged to loosen the reins of discipline alittle when such an opportunity as this presents itself."
The major said nothing. He did not know what to say. Never in his lifebefore had he been a butt for the entertainment of others. But he knewwell that this foolery was not to prove the worst of the experiencesthat were to be his this morning. His only consolation lay in the factthat none but this motley crew of runaway convicts was present towitness his discomfiture. That was something. And, at any rate, hishands were free. If it came to the worst he would sell his life dearly.
But even this small comfort was snatched away from him.
"There is a dangerous look in your eye, I think, major," remarkedthe leader of the gang—"I think we will secure our persons from theexercise of your prowess. Bind his hands behind him."
It was promptly done, and then he was shoved and led through the treesto a little circular open space, which had evidently been prepared forhis reception.
Another group of men stood waiting here. They seemed to have beenarranging the appointments of the place.
Much of his furniture had been taken from the dray. A small tablehad been placed at one side of the clearing, with a high-backedchair behind it. A semi-circle of his dining-room chairs—part of anexpensive suite which he had brought from England—was arranged infront of it. In the spaces between, an empty packing case had beenplaced. And, very ominously, from the branch of a great tree thatprojected over the spot, there dangled a rope with a noose at the endof it. The situation, truly, looked alarming enough. These scoundrelswere going to exercise their feeble humour upon him before they tookhis life. They designed to make his end as ridiculous as they knewhow. Well, all that he could do would be to remain as unmoved aspossible under the ordeal that was inevitable, and, if he had to dieridiculously, he would not let any act of his own contribute to theenjoyment of this riff-raff. He kept his eyes fixed upon the ground.
At a sign from the Jewboy he was partly lifted onto the box, amidst thejeers of the convicts. Then they tied his ankles together, and put thenoose about his neck.
He lifted his eyes once, and surveyed the characters in this strangedrama. The three men who had been in charge of the bullock-dray werebound to saplings at the side of the little sylvan amphitheatre, withgags in their mouths. His grotesque guardians had arranged themselvesbehind him. Several others of the gang lounged about on the grass. Asmall group of three took his attention particularly.
Could he believe his eyes? Yes—there was no doubt about it—that tallman who looked at him with so much of dislike in his handsome face wasthe young soldier who had smitten him in the orderly-room that morningfour months ago. He was talking to the convict Marvel, whom he hadrecently sent into Scone to be flogged. And with them was old DenisCassidy, who had also recently suffered through his caprices. If thesemen were to be his judges, his shrift would be a short one. The Jewboystood beside the table, smiling at him. And then he heard him speaking.
"Major Vane," he began, "you may have surmised, from the proceedingsof the last hour, that your position is a delicate one—an extremelydelicate one. But for my influence with these gentlemen, you wouldalready have been a dead man. But I have persuaded my brave comradesto accord you the benefit of a trial. You will be accorded nothing butjustice. I do not mean justice as the word commonly has its meaningunderstood. What I mean is the kind of justice that these men are usedto seeing served out to themselves and their fellows in misfortune inNew South Wales, by you and your class. You stand exactly in the sameposition that many a man has stood in before, in this land of bondage.Your hands are tied, and your feet. Your punishment—symbolized by therope about your neck—is arranged before you come to your trial. So itis with nearly every unfortunate prisoner who faces the bench in thiscolony, upon any charge of conduct indulged in as a protest againstthe intolerable tyranny of such men as yourself. You will experiencethe consolation of such a trial—just as many better men than you haveexperienced it before. It will surely be a great consolation indeed.Your judge will be a partial and prejudiced one, and the jury of twowho will decide your fate will be selected on account of their biasagainst you. So you see that it will all be quite fair—as the word'fair' is understood in this part of the world. And now his Honor thevenerable Mr. Justice Cassidy will take his seat upon the bench. Come,Denis. And the jury, both lately of your old regiment, will take theirseats. There are a dozen chairs for them to occupy, as they reallyrepresent twelve good men and true, and I have no doubt that they willdo their duty towards the honorable court, yourself, and the community."
A burst of cheers greeted this deliverance, mingled with oaths andribald jests upon the major's appearance. Old Cassidy shuffled into theseat of justice, and the two soldiers sprawled over the chairs behindthe impromptu gallows.
"You hound!" the major burst out—"you shall pay for this outrage."
"Yes, my dear major—but not so soon as you will pay for some of yourown outrages."
IT was a grotesque scene—grotesque and horrible.
The tall, angry, black-browed gentleman on the packing case, withthe rope about his neck, and his hands tied behind him, was, insome respects, a legitimate source of a grim kind of amusement. Thescowling countenances of the half-drunken outlaws who made up themajority of the audience, their ferocious delight in the unfortunatemajor's jeopardy, the hideous taunts which they flung at him, andtheir gestures of fierce hatred, turned the farce into a terrible andrevolting tragedy. But most terrible of all was the smiling, cynicalpoliteness of their leader, the cruel cat-like playing with hisvictim in which he indulged, and his obvious enjoyment of the wholeproceedings. It was only the dignity and courage of the major himself,under such fearful circumstances, that lent a touch of the heroic to ascene that was bestial and savage to an extremity.
But there was one man who found little satisfaction in this torture ofthe victim—Dick Delane. The young soldier was of a different stamp tohis companions. He was not a polished "swell-mobsman," like Davis—ahighly cultivated "crook," with a capacity for refined cruelty, anda perverted sense of the ridiculous. He could not share the Jewboy'sexquisite enjoyment of the scene. He had no love for Major Vane, but hehad a hatred of all devilry of this kind; even though circumstances—ofwhich the major's own malignant temper, and his hasty one, were thechiefest and most active—had driven him into outlawry. He had notconsented to taking refuge with the bushrangers in order to be a partyto such performances as this. Whatever might be done, he made up hismind to have no share in it. But he did not see how he could hinder it.
The other ex-soldier, Marvel, was bitter with the rage of his recentflogging. He entertained no feeling of mercy towards the tyrant whohad sent him to the triangles in such a wanton fashion. His torn andbruised back, swollen and raw from the laceration of the day beforeyesterday, was too present a torture to allow him to feel at allgently disposed towards the cruel devil who had been instrumental ininflicting it upon him. They might do what they liked, so far as he wasconcerned—and he wasn't sure that he wouldn't help them in whateverthey might do. Nothing was too hard for such a tyrant. He deserved allthat he was getting.
As for the old Irish convict, Denis Cassidy—such a deed as he foundhimself participating in was an unadulterated pleasure, a festival,the reward and compensation for years of misery and woe. He had beenflogged, and flogged again, through almost half a century of hisgaol-bird career. All that they had not scourged out of his man's soulwas the native Irish wit that was of his very flesh and bones. Theycould only take that from him with his life.
In his fiercest moments of bitter resentment of the hideous existencethat had been his, when he wondered vaguely what could pay him forall that he had had to endure, he had never risen to the height ofimagining that such a recompense as this would be vouchsafed to him.He would some day soon close his old eyes when his time came—on thegallows, as he always supposed—with resignation, and gratitude for thefact that such an opportunity as this had come his way. It was morethan he had ever hoped.
"Now, major," said the Jewboy, "your judge takes his seat—do you notthink that you ought to bow to him? Most prisoners who are being triedfor their lives—as, of course, you are—deem it a wise precaution toendeavour to propitiate the judge. But please yourself. Denis, I thinkyou ought to show the gentleman your commission to try him. He maydoubt the justice of it. Up on the chair, and show him your parchment."
Davis had evidently rehearsed the old man for this. Shakily he climbedupon the seat of the chair, with his back to the major, and pulledhis shirt tail's out of his breeches. The Jewboy stepped forward, andlifted the blood-caked cotton garment up to the old man's roundedshoulders, exposing his torn and still bleeding back.
It was a fearful and sickening sight. The white flesh was mottled in adreadful blue and green and red pattern of crossed cuts. It must havelooked like a blood-soaked sponge when the flagellator had finishedhis task. Now, it was still oozing little thick gouts of blood inplaces, and the bruised and torn flesh seemed to be almost ready toputrefy. It was healing, no doubt, as well as might be expected—but itdid not look like it. Of course, to the old man, who had in his timeexperienced floggings that were reckoned by the hundreds of lashes, amere 25 was a bagatelle—but its effects were not pleasant to look upon.
"You see, major," jeered the Jewboy, "the venerable judge has hiswritten authority to preside at your trial—written on the parchment ofhis own hide. Such authority is hardly questionable, is it? You wouldnot gainsay it, would you, my dear major?"
The major had paled a little, as the disgusting exhibition was madebefore him, but he said nothing.
There was something fine in his almost contemptuous scorn of therabble that surrounded him, with its jeering taunts, and its gloatingrevelling in the misery of his situation. Much as he hated him, DickDelane could not feel anything but admiration for the man he hated. Hehad pluck, at any rate—courage of the highest sort.
"And now, my lord, will it please your lordship if I open theprosecution of the prisoner?" mockingly inquired the Jewboy.
"Aw—ye're the fine fellie for th' talkin', so ye are, Misther Jewboy,"responded the old man, leering his admiration of the outlaw, andlicking his cracked lips in a sort of animal enjoyment. "Shure—letth' coort hear what ye've got to say. Soilince in th' coort, yewine-swabbin' blackgyards there foreninst me! Is it none of ye've gotth' dacincy to pass th' joodge a bottle for his own comfort?"
One of the correctly-described audience came forward with a half-emptybottle of port, and the Bench refreshed itself.
"Git on wid ye, me Jewboy. Th' coort is dyin' t' see th' ropestretched."
"Well—my lord, and gentlemen—I have very little to say." The Jewboywas enjoying himself immensely, smiling all the time at his disdainfulvictim. "The prisoner is charged with being a tyrant of tyrants, ablack-hearted devil, a persecutor. He has driven men to crime by hisover-bearing demeanour. He has driven Dick Delane, for an instance, todesert from his regiment, to join in with us who are beyond the law,to place himself in peril of the law—for what? Why, for not havingtwo buttons buttoned in his jacket when his august highness chanced tocast his evil eye upon him. He has flogged an old man for having a quidof tobacco in his mouth when he looked at him. He has flogged an oldcomrade-in-arms for not addressing him as 'sir.' Shall I call evidence,my lord, to prove what I say?"
"We don't want any ividence," screeched the old man, banging a gnarledfist on the table. "Luk at th' black face of him! 'Tis ividince enough,so it is. The on'y ividence th' coort is afther wantin' to take isat th' inquist. An th' sooner that's got to th' betther. Th' coortsintinces ye, ye black-faced villain, to be hanged where ye shtand. Gitalong wid it, bhoys, an' shwing him high."
"Ain't hangin' too good for th' dog, Dinny?" cried one of the gang. "Hedon't feel it long enough. Give him a taste of his own medicine—th'cat—before we turn him off. Flog th' courage out of him. Leave himjust enough life in him so as he'll taste th' pleasure of bein' turnedoff. Spread it out a bit—make him feel it."
A chorus of approval greeted this happy suggestion.
"Aye—skin th' varmint!" yelled one.
"Give him a taste of fire!" howled another.
"Crucify the carrion!" gently suggested a third.
"Yis, yis," cried old Cassidy eagerly, shaking his fist at the major.The idea pleased him immensely. "That's it, b'ys! We'll flog th' dogtill he howls. An' 'tis me an Moiles as'll do th' floggin'. 'Tis onlyright an' just it should be so. We'll give him a sore back—t' showwhin he parades afore Ould Nick! So we will!"
"You hear, my dear Major? The court proposes to add to your enjoyment.Take him down, boys. It is a good notion," said the Jewboy. "We willpostpone his execution for half an hour or so."
Half a dozen of them, yelling and cursing, lifted the major from thepacking case. They handled him roughly. One cur smacked him across themouth with the back of his hand. They tore his coat, waistcoat, andshirt from his back, slashing the clothing with their knives in orderto get it free from his bound arms. One of them cut the lashing roundhis wrists, remarking that his elbows would save his skin if they wereleft in that position.
"Tie him to a tree," cried the Jewboy. "His arms round the trunk. Hereis one that will just fit him."
They dragged him to where their leader pointed, and bound him to abox-tree that was a little more than a foot in diameter. His feet theysecured to it at the ground, and about the buttocks they set anotherlashing, to assist in keeping him in an upright position.
"There, now, Major, I think you are quite comfortable," laughed theJewboy. "My only regret is that we have not some of your friends hereto witness your enjoyable situation. I am sure it would entertain them."
In all this rough handling they had not succeeded in drawing a wordfrom John Vane. Trussed up to the tree, with a little trickle of blood,drawn by the ruffian who had struck him, running down over his chin,stripped to the waist, and in as degrading a situation as a man couldbe, this undaunted victim of their savagery would not give them thesatisfaction of letting them see him falter. He was deadly pale, butthat was the only sign of an appreciation of his position that he gave.His face was black and set, and the rage that tortured him was evidentenough—but by no word, no plea for mercy, would he seek to savehimself.
Dick Delane sat through the wretched business without taking any sharein it. It had gone further than he had bargained for. Davis had toldhim that all that was to be done to the major was to humiliate him, tomake him a ridiculous butt for the pleasantries of the gang—maybe togive him sufficient whipping to enable him to understand that therewere two aspects to a flogging—that of the flogged as well as of thefloggers. But it was evident that the ruffians who had him at theirmercy were carried away by their desire for revenge against the systemunder which they had suffered, as personified in their prisoner. Theywould know no restraint. They would not understand that the major hadalready suffered more agony than he had ever experienced before. Theirown feelings lay in their skins. They would not be satisfied withanything less than physical torture and death.
He turned to Marvel, when the crowd had surged across to the tree thatwas to serve as whipping post, and spoke to him in a low tone.
"By heavens, man, we can't stand this!"
"For why not?" growled the other. "Don't the dog deserve it?"
"He deserves a good deal—but, by heavens, this is going too far. Why,these fellows mean to kill him. There is no play about this!"
"Did you think there was?" said the other hoarsely. "Did you think thatthe Jewboy meant anything less? It was me who put him on to it. Thenight I had my flogging I was down at the riverside seeking to coolmy back, when I came across him reconnoitrin' Castle Vane. I tellshim about the devil Vane. 'Well,' he says, 'will ye join in with usif I punish him for ye?' An' so 'twas all arranged. The dray was tookyesterday afternoon, as you know. You'd time enough to say your saywhen Davis was explainin'. Sure, you were never soft enough to thinkthat we were goin' to let him off with a talkin' to an' a whippin', didye? What's come to ye, man? Wouldn't he have cut the back off you, too;for less than nothing? Let them flog him to pieces, and hang him after.Old Dinny may do my share—he'll give him all I would."
Hardly knowing what to do, Delane looked up to see what was happening.
One man was busy with the great green-hide bullock whip—unravellingits coarse strands—whilst another was whittling down a stick to make ashort handle. They were fashioning an impromptu cat-o'-nine tails. Theconvict crew crowded about the bound, half-naked figure of the major,shrieking insults at him and indescribable obscenities and filth. Oneman set a fashion by spitting in his face, another kicked him behind,and they all followed suit. Old Cassidy danced and raved round the tree.
"Hurry up b'ys—hurry up!" he howled. "Me arm's itchin' to be at him.I'll cut th' heart out av him! I'll do Marvel's share as well—sure, hewon't be grudgin' an ould man his little bit of divarshin. Oh, be th'saints, me name's not Dinis Cassidy if I leave him wid more than jistenough life in his carcase to be squazed out av him wid th' rope!"
They cut the thongs of the bullock whip into lengths a yard long, andbound nine of them to the short handle that had been improvised. Thethongs were hard and twisted, and made a fearful weapon of punishment.They passed it to the Jewboy for approval. He handled it smilingly, andnodded his head, then gave it back to them, and moved into a positionwhere he could watch the major's face.
Never a word of protest or plea for mercy issued from that inflexiblemouth.
"He's game enough!" muttered the ex-soldier beside Delane.
The little, bent old man, trembling with excitement, and his handshaking as with a palsy, eagerly grasped the "cat" when they passed itto him. Someone passed him a bottle of brandy.
"Take a swig for luck, Dinny—'twill strengthen y'r arm!" He took agreat gulp of the raw spirit, and stepped back from the major. With ashort run, and a little jump, he brought the fearful lash down on thewhite back.
"Hooroo!" he yelled. "Wan for ye, ye dog!"
Dick could stand it no longer. With an oath, he jumped to his feet,and dashed into the little crowd about the tree, scattering it leftand right. He sprang straight at the Jewboy, and dealt him a mightyknock-out blow on the point of the jaw, so that he collapsed in a heapwhere he stood, and lay insensible on the turf.
IN an instant there was a wild uproar. For a second or two the littlemob of half-drunken scoundrels stood still, bewildered by this suddendiversion. The only quick wit amongst them was incapable of exertingitself, and there was no one in the band, save Delane, who could directthem as a leader. They were slow and dull animals naturally, and thelife that each of them had led, before tasting the liberties of theirbushranging career—as cattle under the goads of the merciless driversof the convict system—had not added anything to the quickness oftheir perceptive faculties. It took time for them to grasp what washappening. When they saw the Jewboy go down under Delane's blow, itparalysed them momentarily.
Tearing a clasp knife from the pocket of his jacket, Dick ran to themajor, and, in less time than it takes to tell it, he had severed thecords that bound him to the tree, and had thrust a pistol into hishands.
"Quick, sir! We must fight. Tackle them at once. They are nearly drunk,most of them."
The moment that he felt himself free the major dashed at histormentors. He was a tough and powerful man, in the prime of life, andhe was maddened and infuriated by the treatment he had received at thehands of the gang. With a passing blow at old Cassidy, that brought theaged instrument of convict vengeance to his knees, he jumped in amongstthe startled men, making straight for the fellow who masqueraded withhis sword. In an instant he had snatched the sword from his falteringgrasp. Then he drew back a pace, and deliberately ran the man throughthe body. With the still unused pistol in his left hand, he laid abouthim in so effective a fashion as speedily to drive the astonishedoutlaws back a few paces, some with wounds, leaving their dying comradegrovelling in a pool of blood formed from the stream that gushed fromhis distorted mouth.
Dick had charged too, armed only with his fists. But he knew how to usethem, and his vigour and activity were such that none of the bewilderedcrew could stand up to him. The man Albert dropped on one knee, andfired point blank at him with his musket, but in a moment Delane wasupon him, had wrested the piece from his hold, and stretched him outupon the grass with the butt across his temple.
Miles Marvel had sat, dazed, upon the chair after Dick had jumped up,hardly realizing what the latter was about. When it came to him thathis fellow-soldier was seeking the deliverance of his persecutor hewas minded for a moment to side with the members of the gang againsthim, and jumped to his feet with every intention of doing as much.But a sudden revulsion of feeling swept over him, and only realizingthat he was either to fight with the old regiment or against it, hedecided to cast in his weight on the side of his late comrades in arms,even though one of them was the bitterly-hated major. With a shoutof "Perishers! Perishers to the rescue!"—a slogan known in many anEnglish and Irish garrison town and Indian cantonment—he jumped intothe fray, picking up the handle of the mutilated bullock whip, andlaying about him with its butt. He took the bushrangers in flank.
The convicts broke and gave ground before the fury of this three-sidedattack, and ran back to the bullock dray, where most of them had lefttheir muskets.
"To the horses, major—to the horses!" yelled Dick.
He ran to where the three men who had been bailed up with the dray werelashed to the trees, and in a few seconds had cut their bonds.
"Run for your lives! Make for Castle Vane," he cried to them. "Theywill rally presently."
The three free men needed no urging. They dived into the bush, and werelost to sight in an instant. What became of Marvel, Delane had no timeto observe.
He and the major ran to where the Jewboy's horse and the major'sstallion were tethered to some bushes, hastily unfastened theirbridles, clambered into the saddles, and, flogging them into a gallop,fled through the trees in the direction of the homestead. A spatteringfire of musketry followed them, and a few bullets whistled by, but didno damage. They raced a full mile before the major drew rein, and Dickchecked his horse and rode beside him.
"I thank you, Delane," said the major. "It was more than I expected ofyou."
"It was no more than I could help doing," replied Dick coldly. "I amnot a murderer—or a brutal savage."
"Yet you connived at my capture by that blackguard Jew?"
"I did so because I had a score against you, sir. You drove me from theregiment—you sentenced me to torture and disgrace. For a trivial pieceof carelessness, you ruined my life. It is ruined now—but not in thedegrading fashion that you would have brought about. I have not beenscourged like a beast. No thanks to Major John Vane for that, though.You'd have cut the manhood out of me if I'd not run away—just as it'sbeen cut out of any of that pack we've but just escaped from."
The major was silent. It came to him that this youngster was a betterman than himself. For the first time in many years, John Vane felt aglow of generosity—of humble admission to himself that all things werenot shaped to the glory of John Vane. He put out his hand, and laid itupon the younger man's arm.
"Delane," he said—more softly than the soldier had ever heard himspeak before, "Delane—it may be that I am a hard man—have been ahard, perhaps a cruel, man all my life. But this last hour, when I wasin the hands of those ruffians, has taught me something. How does itgo? 'Judge not that ye be not judged'—that is the lesson that I thinkI have learned. I ask your forgiveness for the wrong I have done you.Will you give it me?"
It was a strange scene, there in the sunlit bush, between these twomen—the one young, handsome, athletic; the other strong, stern,carrying his native dignity in spite of the disarray of his clothing,his bleeding, lacerated body, and his blood-stained face.
Delane felt something of pity for John Vane. It was no easy thing forsuch a man to abase himself to one whom he had but yesterday lookedupon as the smallest cog in the military machine—a cog that might bebroken carelessly, without doing harm to anybody, or without givinghimself any concern at all. He knew that the words he had just heardwere genuine enough—that nothing but very real and deep feeling couldhave prompted their utterance.
And yet he felt that he owed Vane still another grudge for havingbeen compelled to come to his rescue. It was hideously ironical thathe should be forced by his own action into a friendship with this manwhom he had schooled himself to hate and to regard as the evil geniusof his life. It was unfair. He would have tried to save anyone in suchcircumstances. That the man he had saved should have been his bitterestenemy gave him no satisfaction at all.
He looked the major in the face, and in his own was a dislike andantipathy which the latter could not fail to remark.
"Sir," he said, "I am sorry that I struck you that morning in Sydney.You give me to understand that you regret having ordered me to thetriangles for a paltry offence. Well, then—let it rest at that. Whatis done can't be done over again. You can no more give me back my redcoat and clean sheet—for I had a clean sheet before that morning—thanyou can raise from the dead that man whom you killed back there ashort while since. I am a deserter. I have committed one of the mostserious crimes that exist in the military calendar—that of striking mysuperior officer. The facts remain—that I am an outcast and an outlaw,and that you are my natural enemy. Forget, if you will, that you owe meanything, and if we should meet again, only remember that it is yourduty to apprehend a deserter, and to run an outlaw to earth. I ask forno recognition of what I have done this morning. I am sorry that I hadto do it."
Major Vane flushed, and his face set into the hard lines that those whoknew him were used to.
"Well—so let it be, Delane. I can offer no more." He shook his bridlereins, wheeled his horse about, and cantered through the timber, backtowards Castle Vane.
Dick Delane sat staring after him, a prey to his own gloomy thoughts.He was aroused from his semi-stupor by hearing his name called. Heturned his head, and saw Miles Marvel running towards him.
"Quick, Dick," he called; "they are after us. The Jewboy has come to,and swears he will cut your heart out for the blow you gave him. Canyou take me up behind you? Remember, I came to your help. By heavens!It will go hard with us if we fall into the hands of that gang. I'mfor the bush myself—but it will have to be in other company than theJewboy's."
Dick roused himself, and recognized that Marvel was right.
He laughed bitterly.
"By thunder," he said, "I'm out with all of them now. Come along,Miles. Put your foot in the stirrup"—he withdrew his own. "This is agood mount of Davis's. I think he'll carry us both out of danger."
The other climbed up behind him, and Dick urged the horse through theforest. They could hear the shouts of their pursuers, but knew thatthey had not yet been seen, and before long, after a smart gallop overthe undulating, well-wooded country, they came out on the river flats,a couple of miles below Castle Vane. They halted to consider a plan ofaction.
"The Jewboy was making down the country," said Dick, as they sat ona log at the edge of the steep, alluvial bank. "He has some notionof paying a visit to Sydney, and leaving the gang to operate, as hecalls it, from the mountains about the Wollombi. What he wants to goto Sydney for I've no notion. I fancy there's a woman in the case. Butthere's one thing—if he's away for any length of time, and leaves thatprecious collection of his to their own devices, he'll find very littleof it left by the time he comes back. They're the worst collection oflouts I've ever come across—crawlers, loafers, boozers. That littleCockney, Albert Hogg's the only one of them with half a notion ofsense. The rest are a hopeless lot. It's only the personal influenceof Davis that keeps them together. He's rather a remarkable man, thatfellow, but a cruel brute. Some of the things he brags of doing aredamnable. This is the first active service I've seen with them. They'vebeen laying low for the last three months, up in the mountains to thenorth of here—living on the proceeds of some robberies of stationstores they'd looted just before I joined them, after I got away fromSydney. It's going to be the last, too, for I've got heartily sickof them. They're a poor lot, Miles, and it's a poor life. You've notmissed much by falling out with them at the start. The bold bushrangermay boast that the life's a free and merry one—but there's very littleromance in it, as far as I could see. It's saying the most of it whenyou class it as just a degree better than life in a chain-gang."
"Well, it seems to be the only choice that we've got left—bushrangingor roadmaking," said the other, dejectedly. "Even if we never bail upman, woman, or child, and live honestly on 'possum and wild honey,we're still classed as bushrangers. I'm a runaway convict, and you're adeserter. And now we've chucked the other side, too. Seems to me we'rebetween the devil and the deep sea."
"There isn't a very bright look-out for us, and that's a fact. Butone thing's pretty certain. We've got to get away from here. If theJewboy's fellows get hold of us it won't be too healthy for us, andif the police should round us up it'll be pretty well as bad. We'llsimply have to wait and see how things shape, and in the meantime getaway from here. But I've got an idea about what we'd better do for astart—a sort of plan of campaign, such as it is."
"Let's hear it."
"You see that big mountain up there—the one with the round hump and asort of neck, and then another big hump?"
He pointed northward to the ranges sleeping in the morning sunlight,deep blue against the lighter azure of the cloudless sky.
"The one that looks like the outline of a big cat lying down andlooking this way. That's Mount Murulla—or the Murlow, as they callit. Well, up in one of the creeks that run down from there is wherethe Jewboy has had his headquarters for some months past—ever sinceI joined the gang. It's about twenty miles from here as the crowflies—say thirty as we have to travel. He has left two fellows incharge—one an old man, and the other crippled. Got a bullet in hisleg six months ago. Our best notion, I think, is to get up there,surprise his caretakers, and fit ourselves out from his plant. It'sstolen property, of course, but it's our only show. And then we mightcross the ranges, and make out across the plains to the north-west.Plenty of new stations are being formed there, and we ought easily topick up a couple of jobs that suit us. There won't be much chance ofour being identified out there. They don't ask many questions as to aman's antecedents, I believe. What do you say? It's a vague kind ofprogramme, but as far as I can see it's our only one. We'll take turnswith this horse of the Jewboy's. There are some others at his depot,and we can help ourselves. I've got a few pounds, and can slip intoScone to-night and purchase some provisions. Nobody knows me there. Howabout it?"
"It's about all we can do, Dick. I'm with you. Come along, then, thesooner we're away from here the better."
They crossed the river, and commenced their journey northward, takingMount Murulla as a guiding landmark.
As Dick remarked to his companion, they were making a choice of thedeep sea rather than the devil.
THE two soldiers kept on through the bush until they were opposite tothe little settlement which some good Scot had named after the ancientroyal burgh of his native land.
Scone was a primitive little bush township in 1840—one of thosemilestones of the colonization that was rapidly spreading north andnorth-west of the head of the Hunter Valley. Already the valley hadbecome a highway to the wide lands beyond—lands watered by theNamoi and the Barwon, and their tributaries—that stretched away infertile and virgin splendor into Queensland, and out into the vast andunexplored territories of the huge continent of Australia. Settlementof a sort had quickly followed in the tracks of Major Mitchell, theSurveyor-General, and the little villages along the valley, besidesbeing the centre of the rich districts surrounding them, flourishedalso by reason of the ever-growing traffic that passed through to thenorth.
They halted in a clump of timber, half a mile to the eastward of thetownship. Dick handed the reins of the Jewboy's horse to his companion.
"Listen," he said. "I will go into the place on foot, and you must waitfor me here. I don't think there's any chance of my being recognizedas one of the gang. I've never been out with them before, and I onlyconsented to come this time because I wanted to help despoil MajorVane, and to assist in making some sort of fool of him. I littlethought I'd be compelled to save his life. But I know this horse is awell-bred one, and was taken from some station down the river. Theremay be someone in the town who would know him. We won't want very muchin the way of provisions—only sufficient for three or four meals atthe outside. There is plenty, and to spare, at the gang's hiding-placein the ranges. I'll see whether I can hear anything about the gang. Ihardly think it is likely that they will make back again. More likely,I should think, to keep away along the line of rough country to thewestward, giving a wide berth to the settlements. There's no doubtthat this attempt upon the major's life will set the whole countrysidebuzzing. They will have to take cover for a while."
"How long do you think you'll be?" asked Marvel.
"Perhaps two hours—maybe less. It depends on circumstances. But don'tyou move from here. Remember, you are a runaway convict, and there mustbe several people hereabouts who would recognize you as an assignedservant at Castle Vane. My face isn't known—except to the major andthe Jewboy gang—and they're hardly likely to come looking for me inScone."
He left his companion in the timber, and walked across the flatstowards the outskirts of the township.
Dick rapidly reviewed the situation as he made his way cautiouslytowards the small cluster of houses that peeped through the trees. Themore he studied it the more puzzling it seemed to grow. He had hastilyoutlined the only plan he could think of, a little while before, forthe benefit of Marvel, but as to its merits or chances he had toconfess himself uncertain.
It was a queer position that he found himself in. Delane was not veryold, but he was old enough to have a "past." It was the "past" thathad driven him to enlist in the 146th, then under orders for India,four years before. What it was we will keep to ourselves until wereach a later stage in this veracious narrative. The only thing aboutit is that it is necessary to chronicle the fact of its existence,and the further fact that the only person in the colony who had anyknowledge of it was the old Jew, Jacob Losky. How he knew, Dick couldonly surmise, but that he did know he had very plainly given him tounderstand.
For his own reasons, Delane desired that his whereabouts should remaina mystery in England. He had hoped for a long time that his deathmight have been presumed by all who had had anything to do with him.And he felt, instinctively, that the reason why the old man took somuch interest in him as to have shown him the secret of the trap-doorin the shop, and to have assisted in his escape from Sydney, wasbecause of his knowledge as to who he really was. Even when he had beenwaiting in the tunnel beneath the Jew's house, on that eventful day atthe beginning of the year, he had had his doubts about the wisdom ofputting himself into the power of the old man to any further extent.But the certainty of his terrible fate, had he been re-taken by themilitary authorities, had left him no alternative to act otherwise thanby availing himself, as he had, of the refuge of the Free Company.
What he had seen of the last-named organization had opened his eyesas to the real character of the bookseller of George Street. The oldman was a master craftsman in crime. For years he had been a receiverof stolen property, an agent and promoter of all sorts of robbery andswindling. There was no pie, however unwholesome, into which he wouldnot put his fingers—provided that the pie contained plums which hecould pull out for himself, and was not so hot as to burn him in theprocess. Losky had no scruples as to sharing in its distribution. Hewas a wily and cunning criminal, with a truly marvellous capacity forcovering up his operations.
The Free Company was nothing else than a consolidation of his manyillegal interests. He saw how he might exploit the crime into whichescaped convicts and all sorts of unfortunates were driven bynecessity. He realized the profits of roguery on a wholesale scale. Buthe took care that, save to a very few, he was unknown as the head andbrains of his curious organization. And only two or three of them fullyunderstood the lines upon which he ran it.
It had not taken long for Dick Delane to find himself altogetherdisgusted with the fact that he had placed himself in Jacob Losky'spower so completely, nor was he long in the society of the Jewboy andhis associates before he began to cast round for some means of escapingfrom all connection with the gang. He had resolutely refused to take anactive part in their bushranging exploits, and his presence with themon the present occasion had only been due, as he had told Miles Marvela short time before, to a desire to witness the discomfiture of theman who had driven him from the army. And now the events of the lasttwenty-four hours had solved his perplexities, and he found himselfcut adrift from the gang—even in actual hostility to it, and the FreeCompany as well.
But he was also in hostility with the forces of law and order. AsMarvel had put it, he was truly between the devil and the deep sea.He could not take his place amongst honest men, and he would not be arogue. The more he thought over his position the more difficult did itbecome. However, he told himself, sufficient unto the day was the evilthereof. Just now his business was to procure some food. The futurewould have to remain an uncertainty for a few days.
He came into the little township, and found it agog with excitement.Word had just been brought in from Castle Vane of the outrage upon themajor. The latter had despatched a messenger to the police-magistratewith news of the affair and an urgent request for assistance infollowing up the gang.
It had been ascertained that they were making across the mountainsbehind Muswellbrook, Major Vane was all for a hot pursuit. He wouldcome in himself, in an hour or two, as soon as he had had his injuriesattended and had taken a little rest after the rough handling he hadreceived. In the meantime, he begged that a party might be raised inScone to assist in the chase of the outlaws.
But the police-magistrate was hardly a man of action. He was aneasy-going official of somewhat staid and decorous habit. He held itto be no part of his duty to lead an armed posse in pursuit of thebushrangers. There was only one mounted constable in the town, and itwould be obvious folly to send him out after such a party as the oneDavis had with him. He would await the arrival of Major Vane, and, inthe meantime, make out warrants for the apprehension of the Jewboy,and such of his following as might have been identified, either by themajor or his three employees who had been in charge of the dray. Thatwas all, the worthy police-magistrate contended, that he could do forthe present.
So Mr. McNab, who was himself the bearer of the major's message, hadnot scrupled to call the police-magistrate "a ——- ijeet," and hadridden back to acquaint his master with the hopelessness of stirringhim up towards taking any energetic measures against the outlaws.
Dick obtained some tea, sugar, flour, and bacon at the little storethat was kept by the proprietor of the only inn, one Wilkie. He alsobought a small billy-can and a couple of pannikins, together witha supply of tobacco, and a clean shirt for his companion. He wasfortunate enough to espy some pots of healing ointment on the shelves,and purchased one for the benefit of Marvel's lacerated back. He filleda sack with his stores, and, after looking about the township, andtalking to one or two of the inhabitants in order to allay suspicion,turned his steps towards the place where he had left his fellow refugee.
He had hardly got beyond the last cottage when he ran into Major Vanehimself, riding into the town, with a face black with anger againstthe easy-going police-magistrate. He had met McNab a little way out,who, having acquainted him with the unsatisfactory slackness of thatofficial, had been sent back to Castle Vane to organize and arm a smallparty of such of the servants who could be trusted, in order to givechase to the Jewboy. The major would see what he could do in the wayof raising a small force of the townspeople to avenge the insults andviolence which had been offered to him that morning.
The major drew rein when he recognized the man who was carrying thesack.
"Delane!" he exclaimed. "Where are you going?"
Dick halted, and looked up at his interrogator doubtfully. He hardlyknew how to answer him.
"You are not going to rejoin the bushrangers?" asked the major.
"No, I have cut loose from them," replied Dick, realizing that he mustsay something.
"Come with me and help to capture them! I need a man like you with me."
"You forget that I am a deserter and an outlaw myself!"
"No, I do not. But here is a chance for you to earn a pardon. Why nottake it? The capture of that gang would wipe out everything for you. Iwould see to that. Come! It is the best you can do."
Dick thought for a while, looking down at the ground, whilst the majorcontinued to urge him to take the course he suggested. At last theyoung man looked up. He shook his head.
"No, sir. I doubt if you and I would suit one another, Major Vane. Wehad better part. I hope you will be successful—I have no liking forthat band of blackguards. But I will not join you."
"Is that final, Delane?" asked the major, frowning down at him.
"Yes—I will go my own way."
"As you will. You need never fear that I will seek to interfere withyour freedom. I am too grateful for what you have done for me to-day.Come to me if you think better of it. I want to be your friend."
With a gesture that almost indicated dislike for any such idea, Dickshouldered his load and walked into the bush. The major put spurs tohis horse, and galloped into the town. There was a bad quarter of anhour in store for the police-magistrate. And he experienced it.
It was well past midday by the time that Dick rejoined his companion,and they were very ready for a meal. So, leading the Jewboy's horse,they travelled on slowly, intending to halt when they should reachthe first water. They had not gone half a mile before they came to asmall watercourse that trickled down from a long mountain spur endingabruptly just opposite to Scone, on the right hand side. Here theysecured the horse to a sapling, and set about the preparation offood. Dick carried flint and steel, and it was not long before theyhad the billy over the fire, whilst Miles mixed a small damper, andDick attended to the broiling of some slices of the bacon. They madea hearty meal, and afterwards rested for an hour or so, smoking anddiscussing their route in the immediate future.
The valley up which they were making has its head beneath the shadow ofthe high dome of Mount Murulla. It is a rich strip of more or less flatcountry, stretching in a narrowing fashion into the Liverpool Ranges.A little creek, the Kingdon Ponds, runs down its midst, and emptiesinto the Hunter a few miles below Scone. Over a spur of Mount Murullathe northern road leads into the valley of the Page, another and longertributary of the main river, that joins it further to the east. At thehead of that valley, beyond Murrurundi, the Main Dividing Range iscrossed, and the western watershed entered.
Dick's plan, which he imparted to Marvel as they lay smoking theirpipes after dinner, was to cross the valley diagonally, and followthe Kingdon Ponds up towards Mount Murulla, along its further side.They would thus avoid the traffic up and down the road, which keepsto the eastward of the creek. It was a dozen miles—possibly nearerfifteen—to the wild part of the jumble of rugged mountains where theJewboy had his northern outpost. They could hardly make the placethat night, and, indeed, Dick was not sure that he could find his waythrough the narrow gorges and wild approaches that led to it in thedarkness.
They would camp somewhere within a few miles of the place, andreconnoitre it at daylight. He hoped that they would be able tosurprise the old man who had been left in charge. They could easilyoverpower, and make prisoners of, both him and the injured man who hadbeen left behind.
So, all the afternoon, they pressed on up the valley, after they hadcrossed over to its further side. It was long after sunset when theydecided to make their camp for the night. Dick said that he was surethey were within a mile or so of the creek that ran down the gorge inwhich the bushrangers' hiding-place was situated. They lit a fire, andsettled themselves down until morning. And being, of course, withoutblankets, they passed a cold and comfortless night.
LONG before dawn they had rekindled the fire into a dancing blaze. Itwas bitterly cold, and they greatly appreciated the hot billy of teawhich was their first consideration.
Dick decided, with some regret, to let the horse go. He was a splendidanimal, and it seemed a wasteful business to turn him loose. He couldonly hope that some honest man might come across him in the valley, whowould recognize his brand, and restore him to his rightful owner. Theycould not take him with them this morning. If they were to approachthe bushrangers' retreat unobserved, they would have to make their waythrough the scrubs and rocky defiles that lay between them and it, overcountry through which they could not possibly lead a horse.
After they had breakfasted, and just as the first coming of the dawnwas paling the stars in the east, they started off, keeping parallelwith the direction of the line of sandstone and conglomerate cliffswhich skirted the lower slopes of the mountains, and through whichnumerous streams from the high country behind have cut precipitouspassages. It was for the mouth of a certain one of these gorges thatDick was keeping a look-out. There was little difference between any ofthe entrances to the range, and Marvel asked him how he was going totell when he came to the right one.
"There is a big blue-gum tree standing below a high white bluff, wherethe rock has been broken down," he replied. "The tree is on the rightbank of the creek, as you face towards its source. If we were oppositehere, out in the valley, you would be able to see the white face of therock. The members of the gang use it to shape their direction when theyare making for their hiding-place. We can't very well miss it."
"And when we get up to these fellows, what do you reckon we're goingto do? I suppose they have firearms. How are we going to tackle themwithout any?"
"We must get close up to the hut, and see how the land lies. It may bethat we'll have to wait until night before we tackle them. But we'llknow soon enough. We've got to get the best of them somehow—unless wewant to starve."
"And what then, Dick?"
"Then we'll fit ourselves out, and make over the ranges. It's all wecan do. We've got to give the slip to police and bushrangers both. Acheerful outlook—but it's our only one."
They crossed the mouths of two ravines that broke the wall of rock,and, just as the sun rose over the high broken country oppositeacross the valley, Dick, who was a little way in front, called to hiscompanion:—
"Here we are—here's the blue-gum. See the white rock above it there,just catching the sunlight."
There was no mistaking the two landmarks, and they sat on a fallen rockto rest for a few minutes before starting up the creek—a larger one,with a greater volume of water, than the two they had passed by, butstill only a swiftly-running brook, with here and there a pool perhapsthree or four feet deep.
"What's that smoke rising away over there, across the valley—on theside of that hill? Look—where that bare red place is."
Marvel pointed to where a great scar appeared in the blue ridgesopposite, and a faint eddy of thin smoke drifted up into the sunlight,about three miles away.
"Oh that—that's the Burning Mountain—Wingen."
"What—a volcano?"
"No—only burning coal seams near the surface. It's a queer place.I walked over to it once, with the Jewboy. That bare strip is theburnt-out track of the fire. It's burning on the slope of a ridgethat's away from us here. But come on—we'd better be moving."
He led the way into the dark gorge through which the little mountainrivulet tinkled out of its parent hills. They followed a faintly seenfootpath, that crossed and recrossed the stream continually. The narrowgorge was deeply carpeted with ferns, and from the trees that archedoverhead, great supple-jack vines, as thick as a man's wrist, hungdownwards. In many places they had almost to force a way through thescrub—for the path was little better than a wallaby track. It was acold and gloomy passage—almost dark in places, where the tree topsinterlaced overhead—and dripping with moisture from the melting frostupon leaves and limbs.
Great stag-horns grew on the rock faces and in the forks of deadand damp old forest giants. Every now and again a little brown rockwallaby scuttled up from the water, interrupted at his morning drink.Up above them, the wild hullabaloo of the laughing-jackasses, noisilycelebrating the coming of a new day, echoed and re-echoed amongst thecrags and hills. And high overhead the tree tops were turned to greenand gold by the climbing sun. Every now and again they could catchglimpses of the higher mountains before them, their crests changingfrom a cold dark indigo into a sort of golden purple as the sunlightcrept down their steep slopes.
They penetrated almost a mile along this gloomy rift in theconglomerate, shivering with the cold, and almost wet through by reasonof the continual dripping from the leaves and the dampness of the fernsthat grew knee-deep all along the track. Dick held up his hand as asignal to his companion to halt.
"We're nearly at the end of the gully now," he said. "It opens out intoa sort of basin in the mountains. The entrance is not more than aboutthirty feet wide, and they've built a fence, with slip-rails, acrossit, to keep their horses and cattle from straying out of the hollow.It's an ideal place for such a purpose as theirs. The hills rise upsteeply on every side, and though there are one or two places whereyou can ride or lead a horse up over the ranges, this is really theonly entrance to it that's of any use. The stock never stray up to thesummits—simply because there is any amount of feed in the hollow, andon the lower slopes. The creek always runs as strongly as it does now,even in the driest weather. It has its source in a spring at the footof the opposite side to this."
"Do we go in through the mouth of the passage, then?" asked Marvel.
"No—we'd better not. When the Jewboy's here he always insists upona watch being kept upon the entrance, and, for all I know, the oldman Gately might have some sort of a look-out. There is a little barkshelter for the look-out, near the slip-rails, and he might have campedthere during the night. I heard Davis telling him to keep a carefulguard when we left here three days ago. We'll climb over here to theleft. It's pretty rough, but there's a way over."
They scrambled up the left side of the creek, between great moss-grownboulders and through clinging shrubs. In one place they had to climba sapling in order to negotiate a little impassable precipice, andseveral times they had to slip off their boots and clamber up overalmost perpendicular rock face's. At last, however, they foundthemselves on the flat, scrub-covered crest of a spur that formed oneof the walls of this mountain fastness. They forced a way through thebushes, and lay down on the edge of a steep declivity to reconnoitre.
It was a magnificent piece of mountain scenery into which they gazed.They were on the edge of a vast amphitheatre—a place that would havemade an ideal arena for some great series of athletic games. On allsides the mountain walls towered up for a thousand feet and more—steepand wall-like, and densely clothed with timber. The place was almost acircle, and was about half a mile in diameter, the creek dividing itinto two nearly equal portions. Immediately below them, not one hundredyards from where they lay peering over the rim of the great basin, weretwo substantial slab huts with bark roofs, well and strongly built, andnot far away from them was a stockyard, in one corner of which was akilling pen, with a gallows for hoisting up the carcases of cattle fordressing.
Marvel looked over to where Dick lay, after they had examined the placeintently for a minute or so, and noted a puzzled expression in his face.
"Seems pretty quiet down there, Dick, don't it? Those two must be laterisers."
"I can't make it out," replied Delane. "No smoke from the chimney—nosign of life anywhere. Gately would be about by now, ordinarily. It'swell after seven o'clock. They've cleared out, or something's happenedto them. Come—we'll crawl down and investigate. Keep under cover asmuch as you can. He's a queer-tempered devil, old Gately, and he'd bequite likely to take a pot-shot through one of the loop-holes, if hesaw anyone creeping up towards the hut from behind."
They scrambled down through the rocks without much difficulty, andpresently were walking quietly through the trees, across a gentleslope, towards the rear of the buildings. Suddenly Marvel trod on a drystick, which broke with a crack that sounded startingly clear and loudin the stillness of the place. Almost instantly, the loud barking of adog broke the uncanny quiet, and a blue cattle-dog raced round the endof the hut nearest them. The dog saw them, but ran round the end of thehut for a moment, and then came back, and set up his lamentation again.
"There's something wrong," said Dick. "That's old Gately's dog, Bluey.Let's go down."
As they came closer, the dog rushed out at them, snarling and snapping,but, suddenly recognizing Delane, came jumping about him, looking as ifhe felt relieved at seeing someone whom he knew. Every now and then hewould whimper and crouch down, with his ears pricked, as if listeningfor something. Dick patted the dog, and spoke soothingly to him, andthe two men walked round to the front of the hut. Here a strange sightmet their horrified gaze.
Sitting on the ground, with his back against the slabs of the hut, hishead sunk on his chest, and with his legs sprawled out in front, was anold, white-bearded, bald-headed man—apparently asleep. Beside him wasa two-gallon spirit-keg, and, with his left forefinger crooked throughits handle, a tin pannikin half full of rum rested on the ground besidehim.
"Good heavens!" said Dick. "It's old Gately—drunk!"
He stepped forward and put his hand on the old man's shoulder.
"Hi—Micky!" he cried. "Come—wake up!" He shook him gently.
The old man tumbled over on his right side, stiffly keeping in thesitting posture. The left arm stuck up in the air, and the pannikinrolled on the ground.
"By Jove! He's dead!" said Marvel hoarsely. "Dead as Aaron—and stiff."
Dick stooped over, and felt for the old man's heart-beat, inside hisshirt. He wore no coat. He straightened up immediately.
"Yes—he'd dead, right enough. Quite cold. By Jove's he's brokeninto their grog store, and got a skinful, and gone to sleep outhere—probably in the sunshine yesterday, and slept into the night, andthe frost's finished him. That's about what it is. That's probably thesize of it. Look—the door of the other hut's open. That's the store.I know the Jewboy had it locked up when we came away. He handed out amonth's supply of provisions to the old man, and locked it up again.Gately's broken in, and helped himself to the rum. But I wonder wherethe wounded man is? Let's get inside."
The door of the living hut was ajar, and they went in. It was a largehut, with a big open fire-place, and canvas bunks, stretched onsaplings, were arranged round three walls. There was a long white tablein the middle, with some unwashed tin plates and pannikins upon it. Theashes in the fire-place were quite cold. Tumbled blankets in two of thebunks testified to their recent occupation. But there was no sign ofthe other man.
"Maybe he's drunk—or dead—in the storehouse," suggested Marvel.
"We'll go and see," said Dick, stepping to the door.
They walked across to the other hut, Dick in the lead. He put one footacross the threshold, and then started back.
"Look here!" he gasped.
Marvel came behind, and peeped over his shoulder.
Just inside the door, lying in a pool of blood, was the body of theother man—his head beaten to a pulp, and his face smashed in withblows that had disfigured it beyond recognition. A rudely fashionedcrutch lay across the body.
"Murdered—by George!" whispered Marvel. "Holy Sarah! What a doing thepoor devil's had!"
Dick gazed at the corpse for a moment or two, morbidly fascinated bythe horror of the spectacle. Then he stepped back into the sunshine andspat on the ground.
"Phew!" he whistled. "That's the story, in three words. Grog, a drunkenquarrel, and then murder. The old fellow, Gately, was a perfect devilin drink. Did you see how he'd hacked at the fellow? There's a tomahawkbeside the body, in the blood. That's it. I suppose they'd beendrinking ever since we left the place the other day."
"What'll we do with them?" asked Marvel.
"We'll have to set to and dig a grave, I suppose," replied Dick. "Nota pleasant job—but it's got to be done. There are some tools in theother hut. Go and get them, and we'll finish the job at once. We'llhave to stay here a day or two—and it won't be pleasant with these twogentlemen lying about. They're not a pretty sight, either of them, arethey?"
"By Jove—they're not. It's made me sick to look at them," repliedMarvel in disgust. "The sooner we get away from this God-forsaken spot,the better I'll be pleased. Yes—we'd better get it over."
By mid-day they had finished their gruesome task. They found plenty ofprovisions in the store, and cooked themselves a good dinner.
As they sat smoking afterwards, Dick outlined his ideas as to what theyhad better do.
"We'll fit ourselves out with everything we want. There are muskets andpistols—a regular armory—in the store. Then, to-morrow, we'll run inwhat horses they have left, and take our choice. There are a coupleof saddles under that corner bunk. And then we'll set fire to the twohuts, and get away from the infernal spot. You've seen what that gangis. We may be outcasts from society ourselves, but we can at leastdo it the good turn of destroying this stronghold and arsenal of theJewboy's. Maybe it will atone a little for our ever having been mixedup with the ruffians."
ON the evening of the first week in June, soon after Mr. Jacob Loskyhad put up the shutters of his book-shop, and was seated with hisgranddaughter at supper, a loud knocking on the street door resoundedthrough the little house in George Street that was opposite to theBarrack gates. The old man got up from his seat, and, taking one of thecandles, went to see whom his visitor might be.
The door was strongly barred, and it took some little time to undo allthe fastenings that secured it. In the meantime the knocking repeateditself. Losky called out impatiently, "All right, all right! Who areyou that is in so great a hurry to come into my house?"
The reply somewhat startled him.
"Police!"
Losky hastened to open the door. On the threshold stood a tall man inthe quaint costume of a constable of the period—glazed top hat, whitepantaloons, and blue, swallow-tailed coat complete. He was a tall,well-made man, with reddish side-whiskers, and, as the old man droppedback to permit his entrance, he stepped across the threshold, holdingout a folded paper to the Jew.
"For you," he said. "Read it!"
The Jew—his hand shaking a little—put down the candle on the counter,and, taking the paper from the constable, unfolded it, and held it upto the light to read.
"Read it aloud," ordered the policeman.
The old man hastened to comply.
"To Jacob Losky," he read. "Take notice, at your peril, that you arehereby commanded to receive into your house, for safe keeping, the bodyand soul of Ned Davis."
Losky stopped, and looked up in surprise.
"Why, I declare, if it's not Ned himself! Well, of all the jokes toplay upon an old friend!" He took up the light again and examined hisvisitor critically from head to foot. "'Tis a good disguise, Ned," hesaid admiringly, "and you carry it off well. But, in the name of FatherAbraham, what are you doing here in Sydney? Have you said good-bye tolife, then, that you must come putting your head into the noose likethis? Man, I think you must be mad, to come to Sydney! But come in,come in. Rachel," he called into the other room, "here is an old friendof yours come to supper. Set another place, my girl—'tis Ned Davis,come from Hunter's River to spend the evening with us."
"Ned Davis!" exclaimed the girl in surprise—"The Jewboy!"
"No; only Police-constable X," laughed the outlaw, "come to court thecook."
They went into the back room, and the girl put out her hand to him byway of greeting. He took it, and sought to draw her to him, but shedrew back.
"What—not a kiss, my Rachel, after all these months?"
"Not now, Ned," she murmured hurriedly. "Later on, perhaps."
"Ha, ha! She is shy about her old grandfather," laughed the old man."Or maybe she is shy of having too much to do with the police, Ned.'Tis a sound instinct, my children—a sound instinct."
"Well, well!" said the Jewboy, sitting down and looking at the girlwith admiration in his handsome face. "Afterwards must suffice, Isuppose. And how does Father Jacob do? Prospering as ever, no doubt.Growing rich upon the labours of us poor field workers. Tell me,Jacob—does the company prosper too? How are its other ventures turningout? I think you have little reason to complain of the part that ourbranch on the Hunter has played in advancing its fortunes. Have you?"
"None whatever, Ned. You have been industrious, and your labours wellrewarded. It is a profitable district, the Hunter. From no other partof the colony have we done nearly so well as in the stretch of it overwhich you exercise supervision and levy taxation. Long may it continueso. We had two of our men hanged in Goulburn Gaol last week—mostunfortunate!"
"Ah—who were they?" He sat himself at the table and began to eat.
"Long Tom Allan and Paddy the Ram. They murdered a shepherd at GoulburnPlains, and all they took from him was a tin tobacco-box—empty!"
"A cheap business, indeed. But the game has its risks. Even your ownneck is not absolutely safe, Father Jacob. We cannot always be upon ourguard."
"That is so. But it is safer than yours is, I think, Ned. Especiallyhere in Sydney. Tell me—what is it brings you to town? It is not forthe mere sake of a holiday that you have taken such a fearful risk.There is some better reason than that behind it. What is it?"
"I will tell you—over our pipes and some hot grog. I am hungry now. Ihave had nothing to eat since I left Broken Bay this morning, and it'snearly nine o'clock. Give me a chance."
"Eat your fill, my son—we have the night before us."
The Jewboy made a hearty meal, his wants attended to by Rachel. At lasthe heaved a sigh of satisfaction, pushing his plate aside.
"The best I have eaten in months, my dear Rachel. We live fairly wellup in our mountain home, but it is the pleasure of feeding at your fairhands that gives a sauce to the victuals. And now, Father Jacob, aglass of grog, a churchwarden pipe, and your good attention—and we'llget to business. I have plenty to tell you."
"Good, my son."
He got up and went to a shelf, on which were a box of long clay pipesand a tobacco jar. He placed the latter on the table, together with acouple of the churchwardens.
"Brew us a bowl of punch, Rachel. She knows how to mix it to yourliking, I think, Ned. I'll warrant she's not forgotten the proportions."
They filled and lit their pipes, and the Jewboy smoked for a couple ofminutes in silence. Then he turned in his chair, and looked across thetable at the old man.
"Jacob," he began, "I've some bad news for you."
"Bad news!" said the old man. "How? What has happened? I thought thatthings had been going well with you. The last letter from you told meso. What is the matter?"
"The matter is simply this—that the gang has had a set-back. Tellme—you got our last consignment safely? It was a valuable one. Thesilver, I mean—Major Vane's silver."
"Yes. I have it in the vaults beneath us. It all reached me safely. Theschooner picked it up in Broken Bay. It was all as you had said in yourletter."
"What do you estimate its worth to be?"
"Five hundred pounds—if a penny. 'Twas a fine haul, Ned—the best andcheapest we have made so far."
"It might be the best, but it wasn't the cheapest."
"How? Why do you say that? A man's life was but a small price to payfor it."
"It will have cost more than one man's life by the time that it is paidfor. It may cost yours, and mine, too—which is more important, thoughI daresay you don't hold with that."
"Tell me what you mean."
"We paid more for that dray of Major Vane's and its contents than Iquite like to reckon on or to think about. It is like this," he began,laying down his half-smoked pipe. At that moment Rachel entered theroom, bearing a steaming bowl of punch.
"Ah, that is good." He sniffed the vapour of the fragrant brew as thegirl placed it on the table between them. She brought glasses from thesideboard, and a ladle for filling them. "Fill us each a glass, Rachel.You have not forgotten my recipe, I see."
They drank in silence, the old man anxiously awaiting what thebushranger had to say.
"Go on!" he said, impatiently. "Tell me what you are driving at."
"Only this, Father Jacob—that I begin to see the beginning of the end."
"The end? How the end? Of the gang, do you mean?"
"Yes."
"Nonsense," snorted Losky. "If you are careful, it should be a longtime yet before you begin to think of the breaking up of your command.I look to you to last for a year or two yet."
"Maybe. But I don't."
"What has made you doubtful of yourself? You used not to lack inconfidence."
"This, then. In my letter I told you how we had bailed up the dray inwhich Major Vane was conveying his household goods from Morpeth to hisstation on the Hunter River, and how we lost a man in the affair. But Idid not tell you everything."
"And why not? Had I not the right to know all?"
"Yes, yes—but this part of it was outside the actual business. Itwas a little whim of my own. You remember the letter of introductionyou wrote for me in the character of a wealthy investor in stationproperty, using my own name and the name of Major Vane's agents—I hadasked for it in case I should ever wish to meet the redoubtable major,with a view of levying a distress upon him?"
"I do," replied the old man, a little proudly. "'Twas a fine piece ofpenmanship."
"Well, some devilment prompted me to make use of it on the night wetook the dray. We intercepted it quite close to Castle Vane, and,with the letter in my pocket, I rode in to the station and introducedmyself to the major. With the excellent address for which you haveoften given me credit, Father Jacob, and your letter of introduction,my little bit of play-acting was altogether successful. He received memost cordially, and we spent a really pleasant evening. That was asfar as I had meant it to go, but in the course of my visit I learnedthat this bloody-minded tyrant had, but the day before, sent in twoof his Government men to the magistrates in Scone, and had themcruelly scourged—the one for chewing tobacco when paraded before hishigh-mightiness, and the other for omitting to 'sir' him when replyingto a question of some trivial sort. This angered me more than perhapsI can make you understand. I have told you how I myself was unjustlyflogged at Norfolk Island; and how I have always vowed that, wheneverit was in my power to do so, I would punish the users of the lash inthe severest manner I could. I determined to exact a penalty uponthis man Vane that would be a lesson to his brother scourgers. Afterretiring to my room for the night, and when the household was asleep,I sought out these two men whom he had had flogged, and told them ofmy plan. I offered them the freedom of the gang, and sent them offthat night to join it and to tell the men whom I had left camped withthe dray to have everything ready to carry out the performance which Iintended for the next morning. I sent a note with them to that fellowDelane, apprising him of the fact that he might expect the major asa prisoner on the morrow, and that I intended submitting him to somehumiliation as a punishment for his cruelty. But I did not hint to himhow far I intended to go with the business."
"Yes—and I suppose he agreed? Though I have no approval for thesedramatic touches of yours, Ned. The business is the main thing."
"He seemed to approve when I appeared with the major in the morning.I had ridden with him when he went to meet his caravan, under thepretence that I had to return to Muswellbrook over a matter of somecattle. But Delane is a treacherous dog. I arranged a mock trial, inwhich the major was to be judged by the oldest of the two men he hadpunished, and was, as a result, to be flogged by both of them. Then Ihad intended to swing him to a tree, and let him down almost at hislast gasp, to recover as he might, while we fled with the booty. I didnot intend to take his life, only to go as near to doing so as I could."
"And you did this?"
"No. As soon as the old man began the flogging this Delane interfered.He took me by surprise, knocked me unconscious with a blow of hisfist—the fellow is as strong as an ox—released the captive, andhis three men, whom we had bound to trees to witness the punishment,drove back my cowardly followers, and escaped with the major. And theother man who had been flogged escaped with them. We got away with thebooty—as you are aware from the fact that it is in your possessionnow—but were chased hard for a day and a half by a party raised bythat black devil, Vane."
"And Delane—what became of him?" the old man asked eagerly.
"We made for the Wollombi, and finally to the depot in the mountainsbehind Brisbane Water. It seems that the two soldiers went back to thehiding-place which we use, just on this side of the mountains fromPage's River. There they fell upon the two men I had left in charge,murdered them, helped themselves to whatever they were in need of fromour storehouse, and set fire to the huts. Where they made for afterthat I know not, but suspect it was over the ranges, into the plainscountry to the north-west. I sent a man back to the northern depot afortnight ago, and he brought me word at the Hawkesbury, only a fewdays since, that things were as I have said. That is all I know. But Iam uneasy about it. I fear that this fellow means to put us away—thathe will bring about the destruction of the gang. I have an idea, as Ihave said, that this is but the beginning of the end. If ever I laymy hands upon him, he dies. Damme, I was but giving him satisfaction,also, upon the major. Did ever you hear of such ingratitude?"
"Do you think you can lay your hands upon him?" asked the old manexcitedly. "Do you think it will be possible to find him?"
"It might be—if he has not gone too far afield. Our organization isa good one, as you know. We have men out in the new country whom Ican rely upon. I may have word from them. As a matter of fact, I havealready despatched a messenger over the ranges to see whether he canfind tidings of them. But why do you want the fellow? Once I have himhe will not be much use to anyone. I'll burn the hound alive for thatblow he gave me!"
"Listen to me, Ned. You must find that man Delane—and you must notinjure a hair of his head. He is too valuable. You must find him, andkeep him safely until I can see him."
"In the name of God—why?"
"It is for a strange reason. Listen to me, and I will tell it you. Thisis the story of that young man. When you have heard it, you will agreewith me that we must have him safely in our power again, and that noharm must come to him."
"IN the first place," said the old man, "I may as well tell you thathis name is not Richard Delane at all."
"Not Delane! Then what is it?" asked the Jewboy.
"Marsh."
"What! Not one of the——"
"Yes. One of the Marshfords of Marshford, with whom, my friend, youhave had something to do."
The bushranger laid down his pipe, and stared at the old man for a fullhalf minute, before he spoke.
"Then he is——"
Losky interrupted him with uplifted hand.
"He is not one of the family of whom you have any knowledge,Ned,—intimately acquainted though you be with the affairs of thepresent earl. He is altogether outside your knowledge. You could notguess correctly who this young man is if you tried for a month to doso. You would never guess. There is no man outside or inside the familywho knows his lordship so well as you—who has had greater opportunitythan yourself of becoming acquainted with the details of his privatelife—and yet there is one part of it that was as closely hidden fromyou as from the rest of the world. Indeed, it was a thing that happenedbefore your time—although the consequences of it were still activeenough in his life, during the years that you were with him."
"Strange if I did not know anything that there was to be known!"
"It is strange—but it is a fact that you did not know this."
"Are you sure that it is not some mare's nest that you have discovered?"
The old man laughed.
"No, it is no mare's nest. Of that you may rest assured. It is as mucha reality as that you and I sit here to-night, drinking punch andsmoking our pipes—you, Edward Davis, the bushranger, and I, JacobLosky, the—ah—bookseller and dealer in antiques—and other things."
"Especially other things," said the Jewboy, with a smile. "And do youmean to tell me what this mystery is that has been hidden from me?"
"Yes. But you must give me your assurance that you will believe me.I cannot show you proof—at least, not proof absolute—this side ofLondon."
"You have my assurance. Proceed."
"But will you agree to act in accordance with what I tell you—withregard to this young man Delane?"
"What is there for me in it? Do I stand in with you in whatever is tobe gained? I know that there must be something, or you would not be sointerested in the fellow. Father Jacob does little for nothing."
"Yes—there is much to be gained," said the old man slowly. "And youwill share with me on equal terms."
"Well, Father Jacob, I have always known you to be honest in yourdishonest capacity—as you are dishonest in your honest one. I willagree to smother my own inclinations as to this fellow, and to acttowards him in accordance with your direction. Come, now—the story. Iconfess I am as anxious to hear of this unfamiliar side of the Earl ofMarshford as I am to learn the origin of Dick Delane."
The old man leaned back in his chair and folded his hands, looking atthe Jewboy over the top of his glasses.
"You have heard of Fanny Delane?"
"The actress—who used to play at Drury Lane?"
"Yes."
"She was before my time, of course—but all who know anything of thehistory of the British stage have heard of her. It is a famous name."
"She was this boy's mother."
"Well?"
"Can you guess who his father was?"
"Of course not—tell me. Maybe Fanny Delane could not guess herself."
The old man sprang to his feet, trembling with passion. He shook hisfist at the Jewboy.
"Dog!" he shouted. "No better woman ever lived. She was pure andvirtuous and unsullied until the day of her death."
"Gently, gently—old man," said the Jewboy. "Calm yourself. What doesit matter whether she was or not? There is no need to excite yourself.What was she to you?"
"She was my daughter," said the old man, subsiding into his seat. Itwas the Jewboy's turn to show excitement.
"Good heavens!" he said. "Then this fellow is your grandson—andRachel's brother?"
"No. Rachel is the daughter of my son Abe—him that was hanged atNewgate. They are cousins."
"But there is no trace of our race in this Dick Delane's features?"
"None whatever. But neither was there in his mother's face. My wife wasa Christian. And Dick is the living image of what his father was as aman of his age."
"Ah, yes—his father. Who was his father?"
"The Earl of Marshford."
For a long time the Jewboy stared at Jacob Losky with wondering eyes,without speaking.
"Well, well," he said at last. "Tell me about it. I think you will tellme the truth. Tell me the story."
The old man emptied his glass, and began.
"As you know, Ned, I began life as a call boy at Drury Lane Theatre.Then I became assistant to the stage carpenter, and a sort of generallyuseful man about the theatre. I was sometimes a scene-shifter, andsometimes in the box-office. For a little time I went on the boardsmyself—but I never had more than minor parts to play. I am a betteractor off the stage than on it. Finally I became a dresser—the bestin all the theatrical world of London. I was a sort of Joshua Reynoldsin my branch of art—had a genius for making up faces. No one coulddisguise a face, or alter it, as I could—a thing that has often stoodmy friends in good part since I came to this side of the world. Myservices commanded high fees, since there was keen competition for themamongst the heads of the theatrical profession, and in course of time,being always a careful and methodical man, with the frugal instinctsof our race strongly developed, I became fairly well to do. My clientswere numbered not only amongst those who trod the boards, but in thehouses of the aristocracy as well. I was a wonderful hairdresser, andcould generally name my own fee for attendance upon ladies of thenobility who required my services in the arrangement of their coiffuresfor some important society function or other. I became a sort offashion—just as a doctor becomes one. More than once my assistancehas been invoked towards the adornment of his late Royal Highness, thePrince Regent. Not a little of his taste in dress was my taste.
"I married a lady's maid in one of the rich houses where my serviceswere often called in. She bore me two children—that fool Abe, thefather of Rachel, and my daughter Fanny, who became the mother ofRichard Delane, and was the celebrated actress of her day, whom all theworld flocked to see and hear.
"Fanny was a beauty. She inherited all her mother's good looks, andcleverness, and virtues—and all my brains. From a little child she wasin love with the stage. She would come with me to Drury Lane, and sitin a corner of the dressing-rooms, whilst I attended to the make-up ofthe most notable actors and actresses of the day. The atmosphere ofthe theatre became essential to her. She was a beautiful child, andattracted notice everywhere. Before she could read or write, she hadacted children's parts at Drury Lane. As you know, she was a leadinglady when she was eighteen. I had given her a good education, withall the accomplishments. Many of my patrons delighted in the tuitionof such a pupil as she was. She worked hard to perfect herself, andall the world knows how well she succeeded. She went from triumph totriumph. But it did not turn her head. She always remained the samesweet-natured, kind-hearted girl, with not a trace of vanity or offrivolity in her conduct, either in the theatre or out of it.
"I was immensely proud of her, and of the admiration she evoked. Hermother died while she was yet a child, and she was all I had. I was anhonest man then, Ned. My collecting of curios—to put it politely—camelater, when she had gone from me. Her brother Abraham was a gracelessyoung scoundrel from his boyhood. A born criminal. That did not comefrom his mother—it was my gift to him, I suppose. The pity is he wasnot hung earlier than he was. It was not because he did not deserve it.
"Women are deep mysteries to us, Edward. I never knew anything untilafter it was over. You have heard how suddenly she disappeared fromthe theatre? I had suspected nothing—knew nothing, until I received aletter from her, written from Dover on her way to Paris, acquainting methat she had run away with young Richard Delane, Lord Marsh, the sonand heir to Lord Marshford. It never came out. It was never a nine-dayswonder in London. She only lived a year after. She died giving birth toa son. And that son is our friend, the ex-soldier of the 146th."
"Then he would be the heir to the earl—if he were not illegitimate,"interrupted the Jewboy.
"He is the heir, my friend. His parents were married in Dover. There isno doubt about that. They were properly married, according to the ritesof the Anglican Church. I have seen the record, and it still exists.There is no doubt that my girl was the wife of Lord Marsh—that she wasthe Countess of Marshford before her death. The old earl died within amonth of the elopement, but his son did not return to England, to takeup his title and estate, until after my daughter's death and the birthof his son.
"But he never acknowledged his son—he always lived as a bachelor, andposed as a woman hater."
"He did—for some strange whim. He hated the boy, because his comingwas the death of his mother. But he saw to his bringing up and hiseducation. He might have done something for him—if the lad hadn't runaway to sea. He was a wild young imp, full of a longing for adventure.Somehow he found out the truth about his parentage, and became filledwith anger against his father for his treatment of his mother'smemory—suffering it to remain to the world as that of his mistress,and not of his wife—and swore that he'd have nothing to do withhim. So he lost himself about the world, from his eighteenth to histwentieth birthday. He was here in a ship once, and I became acquaintedwith him. He was always fond of books and reading, and I was able toassist him in satisfying his literary appetites, so we became friends.In a burst of boyish confidence, on the eve of his departure, he toldme his story. I communicated with friends in England, and was able toconfirm it. But he was away in the ship before I could form any planabout him for the advantage of anyone. The next thing is that he turnsup here as a full private in the 146th Regiment. As for the latter partof his story—you know as much as I do."
"It is a strange business," said the Jewboy. "So this fellow isproperly Lord Marsh—that is the title of the heirs to the Marshfordearldom—and the son of my old master. And to think that I, who knew somuch of the earl, had no suspicion of this! I always felt that the oldman had depths in his character which might not be easily fathomed. ButI never dreamed of anything of this kind. He would have been much olderthan your daughter, of course?"
"Nearly twenty years," replied the old man. "Let me see. My daughterwas twenty-three when they ran away—he was forty-two. Dick is abouttwenty-five or twenty-six now. That makes the old man nearly seventy."
"He seemed to be that when I knew him," the Jewboy said, "but he was aman who had aged prematurely. And now, tell me, Father Jacob, what isall this worth to you? And—more to the point—how does it affect me?"
"There are two alternatives, Ned. Of course, as you probablyunderstand, I only look at the affair from the point of view of how itmay be turned to our material benefit. It does not matter a straw tome, or to you, who becomes the next Earl of Marshford. But there isthis about it."
He paused a moment, and was lost in thought.
"Well, what, Father Jacob? What is there in it?" the other exclaimedimpatiently.
"Lord Marshford might reward us handsomely for finding his heir. Wemight make terms with him. We should have to approach him carefully.Or the man who is at present his heir might, when he comes into hisinheritance, be glad to remain uninterfered with. He might be made topay handsomely for the—shall we say—suppression of the rightful heir.In any case, you see that Richard Delane is a valuable asset to us. Youmust find him, Ned. He is too good to lose. Do you think that you cantrace him in the north?"
"I can try. I think it is possible. But for my own sake—apart from hisvalue to us financially—I would rather find him dead than alive. Itwould gratify me to be able to assist him to a better world."
"No, no! You must not think of that. Find him, and then we must keephim safely. You do not think I assisted him to escape the consequencesof his assault upon his superior officer, and sent him up to join yourparty, for his own sake, do you?"
"Well, I confess I could not understand your motive, Father Jacob. ButI do not always pretend to understand your motives. I hardly thoughtthat your interest in Delane was wholly of an unselfish kind."
"No, it was not. You see what it is. It is to your interest to assist.I am sure you will?"
"I will do my best."
SINCE the fortunate escape which he had had from the murderousattentions of the Jewboy gang, Major Vane had taken many precautions toensure his own safety, and that of his household at Castle Vane, fromfurther attack by the outlaws.
The station itself had been turned into a veritable fortress. Roundthe back of the house he had set his assigned servants, under thedirection of the capable McNab, to the building of a high stone wall,that completely shut in the kitchen and offices in a compound, the soleentrance to which was a small postern gate made of hardwood timber, andstrongly clamped and bound with iron. He had had heavy iron shuttersmade for the front windows, and the walls pierced with loop-holes formusketry. In some junk store in Sydney his agents had picked up twosmall ship's cannon, of the swivel pattern, which were mounted on theverandah, and protected by low stone turrets on either side of theshort flight of steps leading up to the entrance to the house.
Nearly three months had gone by since he had entertained—to hiseverlasting chagrin—the leader of the gang upon the occasion of hisimpudent and nearly disastrous visit to Castle Vane, and matters hadprogressed quietly enough in the district. The chase of the outlaws,which the major had organized on the day of his experience of theirmurderous intentions towards himself, had been fruitless. The startof several hours which they had obtained, and the excellence of thehorseflesh with which they were provided, had enabled them to reach thecover of the ranges, and, although for several days their pursuers hadbeen close upon their trail, they finally succeeded in eluding capture.
They were, it was said, lying low in the rough and wild country at theback of Brisbane Water, only committing occasional robberies of stockthat were being driven overland to the Sydney market, and bailing upan unfortunate traveller here and there, for what he had upon him.They had not attempted anything, recently, upon a large scale, and thedistrict of the Upper Hunter was beginning to congratulate itself uponbeing left in peace by the murderous band of ruffians.
The major's domestic affairs were not of the happiest. His beautifulwife was altogether a misfit in her present situation. A cold, vain,selfish, and incapable woman—she was as little suited to the life ofthe bush in which she found herself as a delicate hot-house flowerwould have been suited to the climate of the Antarctic. Her husbandsurrounded her with every luxury he could procure for her in Sydney,sought to study and satisfy her every whim and caprice, but to nopurpose. She declared that the country bored her to death, thatshe could not bear the conditions of life she was called upon toface—finally, that if the major insisted upon her remaining at CastleVane, he might just as well prepare a grave for her, for she would beready to occupy it in six months. At last, in despair, he took herto Sydney, installed her in a suite of rooms at the Royal Hotel, andreturned to the Hunter without her.
To finish the history of the lady, without much regretting her fate, itmay be recorded that in less than six months she had run away with anAmerican merchant captain, leaving a legacy of debts for settlement bythe major—a circumstance which by no means added to the sweetness ofhis temper.
At the time of which we are writing, the major had just returned fromsettling his wife in Sydney.
Caroline was now installed as mistress of Castle Vane. From McNab downto the youngest pickaninny in the blacks' camp pitched on the riverflat at the back of the house, she was beloved and respected by everysoul about the place. Even the worst of the convict servants gave hertheir nearest approach to a blessing. Louis Pinaud, the French cook,delighted in teaching her his art. The dour McNab would do anythingfor her. And John O'Toole, the taciturn butler, an old soldier-servantof the major's, silent and stern automaton as he was, was occasionallyseen to smile as he looked after her when she passed by.
"If her mother had lived—shure, it's a lady she was—an' his honor hadnot gone off his head over that jade indoors—what with such a daughteras Miss Carry, 'tis the happier man he'd be to-day," he confided to M.Pinaud, one afternoon, before the departure of his mistress.
"A —— —— good riddance!" he observed when that event took place.
Caroline was happy in her new home—that is to say, after the departureof her step-mother. She loved the freedom and spaciousness ofstation life, and the many interests of the new land appealed to hertremendously.
It is true that she was almost completely cut off from the societywhich is indispensable to most girls of her age. Nearly all theirneighbours were hard-working, hard-living people, who had little timeto spare from the carving out of their fortunes, and the development oftheir lands, for the lighter aspects of life. Such visitors as they hadwere, for the most part, cattle buyers and commercial men. Very rarelythe major had invited an officer of his old regiment up from Sydney,to spend a few weeks of his leave. But he was not a man who had manyintimate friends, and those who enjoyed his hospitality were most oftenmiddle-aged and of little interest to the young girl.
The major spoke of seeking out some companions for her of her ownsex, or of sending her to Sydney again, to live with Mrs. Vane. Butshe answered him that she was perfectly contented, had no need ofcompanionship, and could find plenty to interest her in Castle Vane andher household duties. So she stayed on at the station, happy enough inthe novelty and undoubted charm of the beautiful country in which herhome was situated.
McNab saw to it that she was provided with two or three excellentmounts, which he had broken in himself, and schooled to the ridinghabit. She often made long, solitary excursions up and down theriver and into the mountain country to the east, accompanied only byher dogs. She had no fear of any danger. The blacks about the placewere harmless enough, and the convicts were either too terrified ofher father, or too grateful to Caroline herself for the many littlekindnesses she was constantly doing them, to think of harming orannoying her.
One beautiful afternoon, she had ridden away from the station with herdogs, on one of these excursions, intending to ride around by Scone, inorder to carry out some necessary small shopping, and to call at thepost-office for the mail.
It was a glorious day in late September. The sky was cloudless, and theblue mountains that lay round and about the top of the valley sleptin a flood of sunshine that was the beginning of summer, and yet hadthe mildness and balm of spring in its pleasant warmth and bracingfreshness.
She crossed the river, and rode over the flats opposite to the house,passing through the tall belt of river timber, and coming out beside awide strip that a gang of convicts was clearing for the plough.
McNab had just ridden up from the other side, and sat upon his horse inthe middle of the clearing, giving directions concerning the work tothe overseer whom he had left in charge of that particular gang. Shewaved a salutation to him with her riding whip, and he took off his hatto her as she rode past. Two or three of the men nearest did the same,and she smilingly nodded a greeting to them as she passed by.
"There goes a —— angel!" remarked Big Peter, one of the "hardestcases" in the gang, and the man who was cock of the walk amongst therest of them. She had nursed him through an attack of pneumonia sixweeks before, and Heaven help the man who had anything to say of herthat was not all it should be, while Big Peter was within earshot.
She cantered along the track, singing to herself, and calling to herdogs, as they raced and gambolled in and out amongst the tree trunks,chasing each other in play, and sometimes, with a chorus of yelps,dashing off in pursuit of a kangaroo-rat or a scrub-wallaby thatinvariably out-distanced her two fat pets.
She was a couple of miles from the homestead when, skirting a clump oftimber, in an open piece of country, she heard a man's voice calling toher, and looked round in surprise.
She became aware of a tall, handsome young man standing beneath a tree,holding the reins of his horse in one hand, and with his hat in theother, who looked as if he wished to speak to her. She pulled up herhorse, wondering who it could be, and what he wanted.
He was dressed in the ordinary garb of a bushman—riding breeches,top-boots, and a dark-blue flannel shirt open at the neck. The hat inhis hand was a wide brimmed cabbage-tree. His coat was strapped acrossthe pummel of the saddle.
He looked up at her with a serious face.
"Is it Miss Vane?" he asked.
"Yes—I am Miss Vane," she replied wonderingly. It never occurred toher to be frightened of this stranger. "May I ask who you may be, sir?"
"Miss Vane," he said hurriedly, disregarding the last part of heracknowledgment, "wheel your horse about, and ride slowly back towardshome. Don't go out of a walk until I tell you to do so. But be readyto gallop your horse as fast as he can go. I'll tell you what is thematter as we ride along."
He gathered up his own reins, and swung easily and lightly into thesaddle.
Something about him impressed her, and she did as he had suggested.
"Miss Vane," he asked, as he drew up beside her, "is the major—is yourfather at home?"
"Yes," she said. "But, tell me, what is the matter? Is it some dangeryou are warning me to avoid, that you bid me ride back the way I havecome."
"Yes—the very gravest danger. You remember the Jewboy and hisgang—the ruffians who sought your father's life a few months ago?"
"Of course I do. What of them?"
"They are surrounding the station even now—drawing in to attack itfrom this side and the others. They mean that they will have yourfather's life, this time, without any chance of failure, and they meanto burn Castle Vane to the ground. The Jewboy himself is with them."
"How did you learn this?"
"By the merest chance, as I came down the Northern Road to-day. Ichanced upon a messenger of the Jewboy's, who was riding to summonsome of his men who have been hiding in the mountains at the head ofthe valley. His horse had fallen with him, and his leg was broken.I knew him, and he boasted to me that they were going to do for themajor thoroughly this time. He was a little drunk, I think. Therewas an empty bottle of rum on the ground beside him. He was to havebrought those others down from Mount Murulla to assist in the sackingof the place to-morrow, and in carrying off the spoil. The Jewboy has alarge party with him this time—a choice collection of blackguards andcut-throats. As I came across the flat, I saw you in the distance, andwaited by these trees to warn you to go back. You would be a welcomehostage in their hands, and the brutes would stick at nothing in usingyou to force your father to surrender."
"But who are you, please?" asked the girl. "You know the gang, andare apparently on familiar terms with the Jewboy's messenger—so muchso that he trusts you with their plans—and yet you come to warn usagainst them."
He looked at her for a moment before he replied.
"Maybe you have heard your father speak of one Richard Delane."
She looked up into his face with sudden interest.
"The soldier—the deserter—the man who saved him from the Jewboy inMay last? The man who broke his nose in the barracks? Yes. I thank youfor doing your last good turn to my father—though the first was rathera severe measure, wasn't it?" she laughed.
"Yes, I am the man who broke your father's nose, Miss Vane. And I savedhis life against my own will. I am doing it again. There is little lovelost between your father and myself. But I can do no less. I have nosympathy with the bushrangers."
As he was speaking a shot rang out behind them.
"Ah!" he cried, "I thought they were not far away. Ride, MissVane—ride your hardest. I will come and help. We have a good start ofthem, and can warn the men in the fields."
Side by side they raced back through the timber to the river crossing.
HALTING for a moment to acquaint Mr. McNab, superintending theforest-clearing gang near the river, with the news of the coming of theJewboy and his men, Caroline and Dick rode through the crossing and upto the house.
Major Vane was standing in front of his homestead, when he saw the twoof them coming up from the river at a fast canter. He was puzzled,at first, to think whom the young man might be who accompanied hisdaughter. To say that he was astonished when he realized that it wasDelane is to put it mildly.
Delane was the last man whom he had expected to receive at CastleVane. The recollections of the almost contemptuous manner in whichthe ex-soldier had taken the expression of his gratitude, when hehad offered it to him after his escape from the Jewboy's hands, anda few hours later in the same day, when he had met him coming out ofScone, was still a sore point with the major. To owe his life to theman who had struck him whilst seated upon his own particular throne inthe orderly-room in Sydney was humiliating enough. To feel compelledto acknowledge his indebtedness was, truly, an act of grace to beaccounted to him. To have his friendly advances repulsed with what wasnothing else but scorn and insolence, was the most galling thing thathad ever occurred to him in all his military career—indeed, in all hislife.
It would have been contrary to human nature if he had felt any pleasurein their meeting. However, to do him justice, Major Vane was, afterhis own peculiar definition, a gentleman. As Dick dismounted, he camedown to the gate and held out his hand. To his bitter mortification,which pride forbade him to exhibit, Dick seemed to make a point of notnoticing it. The major turned to Caroline.
"Why, what is the matter, Carry? Has anything happened?"
The girl's face was flushed, and her eyes shone with excitement.
"This gentleman will tell you, father—what he has told me."
Major Vane turned to Dick again, eyeing him coldly.
"Delane—you have seen fit to reject my advances of reconciliationtowards you. I do feel inclined to make them afresh. May I ask to whatcause I owe the honour of this visit?"
"Sir," said Dick, "It is not my fault that I cannot find any affectionfor the man who would have flogged me over two buttons—and neither isit my fault that circumstances always seem to force me into a positionof coming to your assistance. But there is not much time to bandywords. I thank God that it was my good fortune to meet your daughtera short while ago, in time to save her from falling into the hands ofthose brutes. Major Vane, that cursed scoundrel Davis—the Jewboy—iscoming to attack Castle Vane, to seek to destroy you and yourhousehold. We had to ride hard to keep ahead of them. They are closingin on all sides. It is the purest accident that I learned of theirintentions—only owing to my having met one of the Jewboy's messengers,lying injured on the Northern Road, did I hear of it. I should say thatthey will be here within the hour. Make what preparations you can for adefence—I beg of you. They mean mischief—bad mischief."
The old soldier in the major had stiffened at the prospect of a fight.His face set in determined lines. Again he held out his hand. Thistime, with a little hesitation, Dick grasped and shook it.
"I thank you, Delane," was all the major said, simply. "And I thank Godwe are well prepared. Caroline!"
"Yes, papa," said the girl eagerly.
"You know what to do. Get O'Toole, and close all the shutters. Tell himand Louis to bring the horses in out of the stables into the courtyard.See to the muskets."
She ran inside.
"Delane, we will lead these horses round the back, and put them intothe yard too. Did my daughter warn the overseer as you came in? Youmust have passed close to where the gang was working, if you came alongthe track from Scone."
"Yes—Miss Vane thought of it. Ah—here he comes now—up from theriver."
The major turned and looked. Mr. McNab was riding up the hill at agallop—alone.
"Ah—as I thought. The servants have deserted us. Well—one couldhardly expect more from them. Though I think some of them will hide,rather than join the bushrangers. Wait a moment, and we will hear whatMcNab has to tell us."
The Scotch overseer, with a white and startled face, reined inhis horse at the gate, and flung himself from the saddle. He wastremendously excited.
"By heavens, sir—th' dom wretches hung back. Refused tae come up toth' hoose for tae defend it, as I called on 'em to do. One fellie—thatIrishman Clancy—came at me with an axe, and I shot him. They werehowling after me that they'd join the Jewboy."
"All right—all right, McNab. Don't excite yourself. We will beat theblackguards off, I have no doubt. Get your horse round to the back.Delane, come along—we must see to our armory."
He walked round to the back of the house, leading his daughter's horse.McNab and Delane followed. Delane noted with relief the high wall thatentirely surrounded the back premises of the homestead, the massivedoor that blocked the entrance to it after they had passed through, andthe loop-holes in the wall. Clearly, the major was not a general to becaught napping.
All the windows of the house—a large stone cottage, massivelyconstructed—were closed with their iron shutters, which Caroline hadbeen fastening whilst they secured the horses. Four valuable animalsfrom the stables were tied up in the court-yard to ringbolts in thewalls. There was a well in the centre of the yard, and a shed wellstored with hay. It looked as though the place had been prepared tostand a siege—as indeed it had, since the major's experience with thebushrangers early in the year.
All told, the garrison of Castle Vane numbered nine rank and file.These were the major, Dick, Mr. McNab, O'Toole the butler, the Frenchcook, Louis Pinaud, Caroline, and three convicts—trustworthy men—whowere employed about the house. It was not a strong garrison, but Dickjudged that it was one that would be disinclined to surrender.
The major disposed of his little force.
"McNab," he said, "you remain at the front of the house. There iscommunication between every room, and you can keep an eye on themthrough the loop-hole by the hall door. Grice and Jenkin"—naming twoof the convicts—"you will take the east end of the house. Pinaud, youand Jones"—the other convict—"will take the other end. O'Toole—youstay in the yard. You and I, Delane, will remain unattached, ready toreinforce where we are required. Caroline, you will load the guns, andhand them to us. We shall beat the ruffians back, if they attack us, Ihave not the slightest fear. We have plenty of arms and ammunition. NowI will attend to the two guns. Delane, help me to bring them inside.They are only ornaments in their present positions."
They were only small pieces, able to throw a three-pound shot; and theylifted them from their swivels, and brought them into the house. Themajor pointed out where mountings had been prepared for them in thehall, so that they commanded the doorway from a short distance insideit. The major explained that he would presently load them with heavyslugs, and that, if they decided to use them, they would throw open thefront door and fire across the threshold.
Down towards the river, seen through the still opened door, thelandscape as yet contained no sight of the attackers. They could hear,now and again, faint cheering from beyond the river. It was the audiblemanifestation of rebellion among the servants, no doubt, observed McNabin broad Scots.
An hour passed slowly by, and there was still no sign of the attack.Down by the river all was quiet. Once they heard a single shot, faraway beyond the trees, and were at a loss to account for it.
"Perhaps," said the major, "the fellow finds it necessary to urge hisbrave troops on. He may have had to make an example."
Evening drew on, and the green tops of the river trees were bathed withgold. It was a lovely, clear evening, and so still that any sound ofvoices would have travelled miles through the quiet atmosphere—butthey heard nothing.
The major and Dick stood on the verandah, smoking, and gazing towardsthe quarter whence they expected the raiders to make an appearance. Forthe most part they were silent. There was a constraint between the twomen, which neither of them found easy to lessen. But at last the majoraddressed a direct question to his companion.
"Delane," he said, "do you mind my asking what became of you after youleft here in May? I do not seek to pry into your affairs, but I wouldbe interested to hear. Anything you tell me is, I need hardly say,confidential. Where did you go after I saw you outside Scone? You didnot continue in the freebooting line of business, I presume?"
Dick laughed, and shook his head.
"No, Major Vane—I fear I was not cut out for a bushranger. There islittle to tell you. Miles Marvel——"
The major interrupted him.
"Ah, yes. The young man who was to have flogged me, butwouldn't—Delane, I wish I could ask his pardon."
"You'll never be able to do that. He was drowned in the Namoi, twomonths ago."
The major made a gesture with his hand, that might have been someindication of regret. He said nothing.
"Marvel and I went, first of all, to the Jewboy's lair in theranges—up there yonder, below Mount Murulla, opposite to the BurningMountain at Wingen. We had determined to overpower the man he had leftin charge of it, together with another one who had been wounded. But wefound them both dead. They had broken into the spirits, and the injuredman had been murdered by the other. We buried them, fitted ourselvesout from the Jewboy's store, and then set fire to the huts that thebushrangers had built.
"You are not much in sympathy with such ruffians—I am glad to hear it."
"I am not a criminal—nor do I come of a criminal stock," said Dickcoldly.
"Pardon. Proceed, if you please."
"Then we crossed over the mountains down into the valley of thePage. We had taken horses from the Jewboy's mob, and fire-arms andprovisions. We led a pack-horse, with our effects on his back. From thePage we crossed over the Liverpool Range, and struck out across theplain country. It was not long before we obtained employment on a newstation that was being formed on the Namoi, I was made an overseer,and Marvel became stockman. There I have been ever since. As I saidjust now, my companion was drowned whilst swimming his horse across theriver when it was in flood."
"And how came you back into this district?"
"I had been sent down to Maitland to take charge of a mob of cattlewhich Boyce Brothers—my employers—had purchased. I went to hiredrovers and travel them up to the station. Today, on the other side ofScone, I came across the Jewboy's messenger lying in the road with abroken leg, half-drunk beside. He bragged to me of what was on foot—soI came to warn you."
"A thousand thanks, Delane. But for your—your kindness andforgiveness, I should have been caught napping."
Dick looked up, and was about to speak—when suddenly the major grippedhis arm.
"Look, Delane—look! They are coming."
He pointed to a little group that had appeared on the flat along theriver bank—perhaps two hundred yards from where they stood.
"What is that? They've got a white flag hoisted," exclaimed Dick.
"Some d——d treachery, no doubt," said the major. "However, we'll letthem open the ball. We'll see what terms of capitulation they offer."He laughed grimly.
The sun was just setting as half a dozen men, one of them mounted, cameslowly across the narrow flat, and up the gentle slope that led toCastle Vane. They had a white handkerchief affixed to a slim sapling,which they waved from side to side, as if desirous of attractingattention.
"That's the Jewboy, himself, on the horse," said Dick. "I wonder whatthe little game is? Some piece of extravagant posing, I've no doubt.The fellow always loves to act the role of some great commander. Hecalls himself 'Captain' Davis."
"I wonder at his modesty," commented the major. "He might have madehimself a general as easily. However, it is time he was halted. We willsignal him to heave to, with a shot across his bows."
He picked up a double-barrelled gun, and fired over the heads of theadvancing group. They stopped instantly. They were not more than ahundred yards from the house by this time.
"A flag of truce," bawled one of them. "Would ye fire on the whiteflag?"
"We will hear what they have to say," said the major quietly. "Haveyour gun ready, Delane. It may be some trick." He shouted to thebushrangers:—
"Let your leader come to the gate, unarmed—the rest of you stay whereyou are. We will open fire if you advance."
Slowly the Jewboy rode up the slope. He reined in his horse justoutside the wicket fence of the garden.
The handsome bushranger was most handsomely arrayed. He wore a tallcabbage-tree hat. A crimson silk shirt, over which he wore a brownvelvet coat, fawn riding-breeches, and top-boots shiningly polished,completed his costume. He saluted the major, who looked sternly at him,without making any acknowledgment.
"I have the honour, Major Vane, to call upon you to surrender tosuperior force," he began grandiloquently. "We outnumber you ten toone. The party which you see behind me is but the advance guard of mylittle army, which has been considerably reinforced by the defection ofyour own servants. I call upon you to surrender, in order to save theuseless effusion of blood." He noticed Dick for the first time.
"Ah, Delane," he said, "so this is where you are! I have been seekingyou for months. You need have no apprehensions as to your own safety.I have forgiven your hasty action—your extremely ill-consideredaction—in turning upon me last May, long ago. Your place in ourcompany is still open to you."
"To hell with you and your company," growled Dick.
"And I say Amen to that," cried the major. "Turn your horse about, andjoin your precious 'army,' you blackguard. If you are not off at once,I will give you a charge of buckshot. I make no terms with such as you."
"Very well then, major. The consequences be upon your own head."
"Go!" roared the major. "You have half a minute."
Just as the sun sank to rest, and the cold half-lights of the shortevening swallowed up the last of the golden glow on tree-tops andhill-tops, the Jewboy turned his horse's head, and rode slowly down theflat.
"Just a piece of his theatrical posturing," said Dick. "He can't dowithout it. What now, major?"
"We will sound the 'commence fire,'" replied the major. "Let them haveit lads."
He fired the second barrel of his piece in the direction of the groupof bushrangers. Dick followed suit. From his loop-hole McNab didlikewise. The men who were the target fell flat on the ground. Thedefenders could not tell whether their shots had done any execution.
"Come on and be d——d to you!" cried the major.
He and Dick retired inside, and closed the iron door. Half a dozenmuskets spoke from in front, and as many bullets flattened harmlesslyon the stone front of the house.
FOR a little while the firing continued from both sides. Bulletscracked on the stone walls and clanged on the iron shutters. Whetherthey did any damage to the bushrangers, the defenders were unable totell. The fast gathering dusk made it difficult to see them, and themajor, Dick, and McNab could only fire at the flashes of the outlaws'muskets.
Then they heard a shot at the back of the house. O'Toole, the butler,had come into action. Telling the overseer to keep a sharp look-out,the major called to Dick to follow him, and ran through the house intothe courtyard.
A chorus of yells and threats came from outside. O'Toole was calmlyreloading his double-barrelled gun.
"I bagged one of the men, yer honor," he said to the major. "They'vetaken cover behind the stables. This buckshot is a fine thing at closequarters."
The major and Dick each established himself at a loop-hole. Theyoccasionally caught a glimpse of a man, who would step out from behindthe corner of the stables, fire a shot, and hastily retreat. Wheneverthey did so, one or other of them would fire—not with much hope ofdoing any execution, but as a sort of defiance of the attackers.
After a little of this exercise, the major hailed Dick.
"Delane," he said, "it is almost dark now, and I think that as soonas the light is all gone they will try and rush the front—probablywith some sort of a battering-ram to break in the front door. Will youremain here with O'Toole and keep these fellows occupied? I will goin and get the little swivels ready, so that we can give them a warmwelcome. Keep up your firing, so that they may think we expect the mainattack from the rear. I will send out for you if they come on. I thinkthat our artillery ought to be rather a surprise for General Jewboy. Hecan hardly have expected to face cannon! I fancy the attack will comesoon, for the moon rises in an hour or so, and it will be almost asbright as day."
He went inside, and Dick and O'Toole continued their desultory mode ofwarfare in which no great harm was done on either side.
It was difficult to see how the outlaws could hope to capture CastleVane by any means short of artillery. The stone walls and iron doorsand shutters made the place impregnable. Their only possible hope ofgaining an entrance would be by battering down either of the doors, atfront or rear. There was no other method available. And for this, as hehad announced, the major was prepared.
Half an hour and more had slipped by, when Dick felt a touch upon hisarm. He looked round. It was the major's daughter.
"Mr. Delane," she said, in a low tone, "father wishes you to join him.He thinks that they are coming up in the dark. Quickly, he says."
Dick followed her indoors. He spoke to the girl as they crossed thecourtyard.
"You have no fear, Miss Vane?" he said.
"Fear—no!" she laughed. "I am a soldier's daughter, you know, Mr.Delane. I am not permitted to indulge in the luxury of fear."
In the hall, in absolute darkness, Dick found the major.
"Can you find your way, Delane?" he said. "We cannot show a light. I amsure they are creeping up to the garden-gate—McNab heard them sneakingabout, a little while ago, as if to reconnoitre. And I think I did too.Now, what I am going to do is this. This little gun ought to settlethe business. When we are certain that they are near the fence, I willget you to swing the door open. They will not be able to see that itis open; the doorway only shows as a black oblong against the whitesandstone. Feel—here is the gun, all primed and ready, with the otherone beside it. I think one will be enough. Caroline has a slow-matchburning in the drawing-room. When I call to her, she will bring it out,and we will touch off our little beauty here. I rather fancy that thisshould damp their ardour."
"Hist!" came from McNab, at the door of the next room. "They'regathering round the gate, major. I can hear them whispering."
Dick and the major applied their ears to the loop-holes on eitherside of the door. Yes—there was no doubt. They could hear whisperedconversations down on the other side of the low fence.
"We'll give it to them now!" said the major. "I don't want to blow themto pieces. This stuff will scatter pretty well. At any rate, it oughtto terrify them a little. They hardly expect it. Come, Caroline, thematch!"
She came out of the drawing-room, with the glowing match in her hand,and passed it to her father.
"Back—out of the passage, my dear," he said. "Now, Delane—just pullthe door towards you—all the bolts and bars are unfastened—and stepback here beside me."
Dick pulled the door towards him as the major had requested. It swungback noiselessly. The major kept the match hidden behind his back. Dickstepped to the rear of the little cannon.
The major applied the match to the touch-hole.
There was a flash and a bang, and the little gun jumped back off itsstand. The hall was filled with white smoke. From the garden there camea pandemonium of sound. Yells, curses, howls succeeded the explosion.A few shots cracked against the front of the house. Then there wassilence, broken only by the moans of wounded men.
"Now for the counter-stroke!" cried the major. "Delane! McNab! Chargethem. Come, Jenkin, Jones, Grice," he shouted to the three convictservants who had remained faithful. "Charge. Give it to them, my lads!Ten pounds to the man who takes the Jewboy!"
Surprised and stunned by the roar and flash of the little gun, and manyof them injured by the pellets which it scattered amongst them, thebushrangers broke and ran, leaving several of their number stretchedupon the ground. The six defenders of Castle Vane followed them to thelittle gate, firing after the dark figures that ran into the darkness.
Suddenly they heard Caroline's voice from the verandah behind them.
"Father—Mr. Delane! Come back; they are breaking into the court-yard.Quick! They are smashing down the gate."
Calling off his men, the major dashed back to the house, crying: "Shutthe door, Delane. Into the yard, lads. They are making their realattack there. This was only a feint."
They were just in time.
As they entered the yard, the door in the wall crashed inwards. Inthe flashes of the muskets and pistols which were being discharged oneither side, and which momentarily lit the yard, they had glimpses ofsavage faces pressing inwards through the opening. The horses wererearing and plunging in their fright. Dick caught a momentary view ofthe tall figure of O'Toole, fighting valiantly to stop the rush of theoutlaws. A second or two afterwards, as he ran to his assistance, hesaw him go down. He fired a pistol over his body, and the flash lit upthe pale face of the Jewboy. With a shout, Dick hurled his pistol athim, jumped over the prostrate butler, and closed with the leader ofthe gang. The two men swayed for a moment, and then, coming down to theground, rolled over and over upon one another, in a fierce struggle formastery.
They were both powerful men, in the pink of good condition, and theirfierce contest might have gone either way in its result—had it notbeen for a strange mishap, which gave the advantage to the Jewboy. Dickhad wrenched an arm loose from the strangling hold which the other hadround his body, and had flung it out for a moment, in his struggles,so that it was stretched upon the ground. As he did so, McNab, runninghaphazard into the scrimmage, trod with his heavy boot across thewrist. Dick felt the bones of his fore-arm snap. As it happened,the Jewboy scrambled up, drew a pistol from his pocket, and firedpoint-blank into the face of his adversary. Dick saw the flash—andthat was all he saw, beyond a fleeting impression of the Jewboy's face,white and distorted with rage.
When he came to, the light of the risen moon was flooding thecourt-yard, and he had a dim consciousness of water on his face, and ofgentle fingers, that did something—he hardly knew what—that tendedto relieve him of a throbbing pain in the head. The bright moonlightdazzled him, and the quietness seemed strange and unreal. He closed hiseyes again.
After a long time he became newly conscious of things, and opened hiseyes once more. He was really conscious this time, and saw the majorstanding near him with a candle in one hand and a bottle in the other.But he was most conscious of the fact that Caroline was supporting hishead, and washing the blood from his face. Somehow—why he did notknow—her gentle ministration, and the touch of her hands, did him aworld of good and gave him strength. Painfully, he managed to sit up.And then he became aware of his broken right arm. Caroline said tohim:—
"There now. How do you feel?"
"Oh—better!" He laughed at the strange weakness of his own voice.
"By Jove!" the major said, "you've had a narrow escape, Delane. TheJewboy's bullet just grazed the side of your head. You're minus theleft ear, I'm sorry to say—but it might have been the left side ofyour skull."
"Did you beat them off?"
"Yes—they're gone. We have given them a bad time of it. Three or fourdead in the front of the house, and one here—besides three woundedmen."
"And ourselves?"
"Poor O'Toole is killed. McNab is slightly wounded in the leg, andGrice, one of the servants, in the chest—dangerously, I'm afraid."
"What of the Jewboy? Did you get him?"
"He escaped. Led the retreat immediately after he had fired at you.They have all gone. Louis Pinaud crept down to the riverside just now,and saw them riding away in the moonlight. I think they have had alesson that they won't forget in a hurry. But, here, take a pull atthis brandy and water, and see if you can get inside. We must put youto bed. I'll send in to Scone in the morning for Dr. Morgan, and we'llget that arm of yours attended to."
Assisted by Caroline, Dick scrambled to his feet. She supported himinto the house, where the major helped him to undress, and presently hewas between the sheets, with a bandage round his head, and his injuredarm supported on a small table at the side of the bed.
The rest of the night passed quietly enough, though there was littlesleep for anyone. The major insisted that a careful watch should bekept, in case the bushrangers should possibly take it into their headsto return. He sent one of the servants down to keep a look-out at theriver. Caroline busied herself in attending to the wounded. The dead,with the exception of O'Toole, were carried into the stables, to awaitthe inevitable inquest.
It was a welcome dawn, when day broke over Castle Vane.
A curious feature of the affair was the return of the convictservants on the following morning. With the exception of somehalf-dozen—probably those who had been injured in the attack, andtherefore bore wounds whose evidence alone would have been sufficientto hang them—they all returned. Their excuse for their defectionwas, of course, that they had been terrorized by the bushrangers intojoining them, and could not help themselves.
"Well," said the major, "I'll give you the benefit of thedoubt—although I don't believe you. However, you will all be sentback to the Hyde Park Barracks, in Sydney, as soon as possible. Someother master may have the benefit of your faithful services. I intend,for the future, to work Castle Vane with free men. Your sort are notworth their rations. I will begin with three free men, Grice, Jones,and Jenkin. They have earned the absolute pardon for which it is myintention to apply to his Excellency the Governor on their behalf."
The major came into Dick's room that afternoon, and sat down. For awhile he seemed to be at a loss for something to say.
At last, clearing his throat, he began.
"Delane, I am come humbly to beg your pardon for the unjust and wickedprovocation I gave you to strike me, in the beginning of the year. Ithink I am a changed man, since the morning in May, when you saved mefrom the terrible fate which those scoundrels intended for me. In ameasure, I can realize that I have deserved to incur the resentful furyof such men. I have been a hard man—too hard and severe towards thosebeneath me. I think I have to thank you for first bringing me into aframe of mind that enables me to understand this. I hope I may ask yourforgiveness this time without fearing your refusal of it?"
There was something almost plaintive in his tone. Dick looked into hiseyes for a moment, and saw that they were brimming with tears. He putout his uninjured left hand across the bed, and the major took it.
"It is not the proper hand, major, to clench a bargain with, but itmust do until the right is available. I do, indeed, forgive you, as Ihope you forgive my hasty blow. May we remain friends always! You willalways have my respect as a brave man." (He might have added, "With acharming daughter," but did not).
"Good. Then you will stay here until your bones are mended?"
"I thank you, major. It is very good of you."
"And then, Delane, if you will think over it, we might arrange for youto remain in my service. I do not ask for a reply to this proposalyet—take your time to consider it. I think I can condone yourdesertion from the army—in fact, I am sure I can. There are, youunderstand, wheels within wheels. At any rate, I mean to try. I feelpretty sure that I can succeed."
"Thank you again, Major Vane. I am glad to escape from being abushranger," laughed Dick.
THE first cold light before the dawn was climbing the eastern sky andswallowing up the stars, as Edward Davis, the Jewboy, aroused hisfollowers. He had thrown a dry branch or two on the embers of thecamp fire, and the flickering light lit up in spasmodic gleams theblanket-shrouded forms of the bushrangers lying in a circle about it,with their heads pillowed on their saddles, their firearms beside them,and their effects scattered about on the grass below the great treesthat overshadowed them.
"Come, Ruggy—hullo there, Marshall—show a leg, show a leg. Time wewere moving, boys. There's business afoot this morning. Come—up withye! We must be on the road by sunrise."
The Jewboy went from heap to heap, stirring up the sleeping bushrangerswith his foot, and sometimes stooping down to shake too sound a sleeperroughly by the shoulder.
"Rouse yourselves, my brave lads," he cried. "Rouse up for the road.We've work to do to-day!"
One by one the sleeping men unwillingly crawled from their blankets,and grouped themselves about the fire, shivering in the dampness of themorning.
"Now then, boys," he urged them mercilessly, "ye can't stand warmingyourselves all day long. See to the horses some of you. Saddle up,and make ready for the road. Fill the pots and boil some tea—you,Chitty. You know we've got an appointment to keep on the main road thismorning. Look lively, now!"
Before long, urged by their leader, the outlaws had saddled theirhorses, and were seated round the fire, drinking tea and devouringmutton and damper.
"'Tis poor rations we're having lately, Ned," grumbled theunprepossessing person whom the Jewboy had addressed as Ruggy. "Isthere no place hereabouts where they live on better fare than this?That was a poor concern we struck last night. We ought to have punishedthe people for not treating us better."
"We got all they had," replied the Jewboy. "But never mind, Ruggy—twoor three hours will see us in the midst of full and plenty."
"What is it this time?" asked one of the men. "Is it a public-house ora store?"
"Both, Johnny. There's both bite and sup in store for you. But not toomuch of the sup, mind. Our business is to get out across the rangesinto the plains. This country's becoming too hot for us, and we'll haveto seek pastures new. Now, mind what I say, lads! There's to be no harddrinking at to-day's crib. Those fellows from Sydney are too closeupon our trail to permit of any risks. If any of you get drunk—drunkenough to be helpless, I mean—he'll be left behind. But he'll be leftbehind dead. We can't chance anything. I'll shoot the man myself, whoendangers the safety of the band. There's no sense in drinking when weare on duty. We'll take enough with us for a good old spree when we getto a place of safety—but there's to be nothing like a spree until wedo that. Now, mind what I say—every man Jack of you!"
As they rode away from their camping place, the sun was just rising.Behind them lay the rugged mountain country between the Wollombi andthe Hawkesbury, and they were coming out into the flats of the LowerHunter, a little above the town of Maitland. They were making a forcedmarch towards the north, driven out of their down-country haunts byreason of the pressure of a special party of mounted police which hadbeen sent up from Sydney and had been altogether too persistent in itspursuit of them, from place to place, to suit the Jewboy's liking.
As he had said, they were bound for the more recently opened up countryout in the north-west. He had come to a conclusion that there wasnothing for it but to lead his little command further afield. Thehiding-place below Mount Murulla was, he knew, watched too closelyto permit of his making further use of it. It was with regret thathe came to this decision, for the place was an ideal one for theirpurposes—sheltered, well watered, and easily defended. But he knewthat, if there was no one else who cared to interfere with him, theowner of Castle Vane would be ever remorselessly upon his tracks, if heremained in the district. He had a wholesome distaste for Castle Vane,since the defeat which the major had inflicted upon him a couple ofmonths before, and had no intention of calling upon that gentleman, ashe passed by on this occasion.
The band of robbers was well mounted and well equipped. Each man led apack-horse, and only three of them were loaded, so that the remainingthree were available for what booty they might pick up during theirnorthward march. They were well armed, and had plenty of ammunition.Every man carried a double-barrelled gun and a brace of pistols. Assome sort of badge of office, Davis himself had a sword—looted fromsome outlying Sydney residence—hanging to his saddle.
Mr. Thomas Denison, of the Rest Inn, on the Great Northern Road, tenmiles, or thereabouts, outside West Maitland, had just finished hisbreakfast, and was filling his pipe before his front door, when heobserved a party of horsemen riding up the long hill, upon the crest ofwhich stood his inn, his store, and his blacksmith's shop. They made aconsiderable cloud of dust as they travelled along the dry highway, andMr. Denison reflected pleasantly that such dust, in conjunction withthe heat of the day, was by no means a bad selling agent for the veryexcellent ale with which his cellars were stocked. He prepared himselfto extend a genial welcome to the, no doubt, thirsty travellers whom hebeheld approaching.
To his surprise, however, the party halted about three hundred yardsaway, and appeared to be holding a consultation of some sort. For a fewminutes they seemed to be deliberating among themselves.
Then he saw them separate. Two men remained with the led horses, andthe remainder rode on towards the inn. They had not progressed a fewyards before they set spurs to their horses, and came galloping up theroad, yelling and shouting, and making a prodigious clatter in thestill, sunny morning. For a moment he stared at them, astonished. Then,suddenly realizing the situation, he dropped his jaw and his clay pipe,threw his arms above his head, and ran inside, calling out at the topof his voice:—
"By heavens! The bushrangers!"
He slammed the door, as the howling cavalcade pulled up before the inn,but it was too late. Several gunshots cracked out, and bullets piercedthe door and broke a window.
"Surrender!" cried the Jewboy.
Being a man of discretion, Mr. Denison very promptly did so, andindicated as much by hastily reopening the door, and appearing on thethreshold with his hands extended, palm outward, above his head.
"Good morning to you, sir," said the Jewboy, in mock politeness."That's right—keep your hands so. It is the safest plan. Who isinside? Stay—I will see for myself."
He dismounted, and advanced, gun in hand and ready cocked, towards theterrified Mr. Denison.
"Who are you, sir, and wh-what do you want?" trembling inquired thatunhappy gentleman.
"You may have heard of me, landlord. I'm known as the Jewboy—and theseworthy fellows are my troopers."
"The Jewboy!"
"Yes—the only plucky Jew I've ever known. I'm the Jewboy. I can seeyou've heard of me. Now, Mr. Landlord, just step out here, while I seewhom else we have to deal with."
Pulling the scared host out of the doorway, he went inside.
One of the outlaws had ridden past the inn, up the road, to act asan outpost, and another made his way round the house to the back.Another entered the store that stood beside the inn, and another rodeto the front of the blacksmith's shop, and speedily had the scowlingblacksmith, with his assistant, standing in the roadway.
Presently the Jewboy drove the inmates of the house out through theopen door—the buxom Mrs. Denison, a female cook, and an old man.The bushranger who had gone to the back of the inn returned with thestableman, and the storekeeper, a young man, was haled from behind thecounter. The little group was marched out across the road, and eachindividual of it made fast to separate trees—with the exception of thelandlord himself.
"We will need you, Mr. Denison. You must do the honours of your housefor us," pleasantly remarked the Jewboy.
The poor landlord said nothing. He appeared to be utterly overcome bythe sudden audacity of the business.
The Jewboy marched him inside.
"Now, Mr. Denison," he said. "We want your money. Where do you keep it?"
With an ill grace, the landlord opened the till.
"Here you are," he said; "this is all I have in the place. I just sentin to the bank in Maitland yesterday all the takings of the last month."
The Jewboy went behind the counter and emptied the drawer. He countedout the coins.
"Five pounds seventeen and sixpence! Well, now, that's not much, Mr.Denison. Are you quite sure you've no little nest-egg stowed awayanywhere—up the chimney, or under the bed, or in your good woman'sstocking? Come now!"
"That is every penny," said the landlord, hesitating. "There is nothingmore—if I die for it."
The Jewboy looked at him suspiciously. He was not satisfied. He had anotion that the stout landlord was lying stoutly, and all the instinctsof his race were aroused. He thought for a few moments, and then movedtowards the door.
"Jack Shea," he called out into the roadway. "Come in here, I wantyou." One of the men entered the bar-room.
"Jack, do you keep watch on this fat liar. I think he's hidingsomething from us. I'll soon find out."
He walked across the road towards the prisoners. Taking off his hat, hebowed to the terrified Mrs. Denison.
"Madam," he asked, "did any of your household go to Maitland yesterday?"
The frightened woman regarded him fearfully, as she replied, in a weakvoice:
"No, sir—'tis over a month since any of us went to town. Oh, sir—Ibeg you to have mercy on us. We've always been good friends to thegentlemen of the road, so we have. Why, only last week——"
He interrupted her.
"Mrs. Denison," he said sternly, "do you see that limb above your head?Do you think it will support the weight of your husband? Because he'svery likely to be hung up to it soon."
The poor woman screamed.
"Oh, sir! Oh, no, no, no!"
The Jewboy looked at her savagely for a few moments, allowing her tosteep herself in terror. Then he pulled out her husband's watch.
"He has five minutes to live, Mrs. Denison—unless you tell me whereyour money is hid. Come—tell me at once to save trouble. Where is it?"
The unfortunate landlady blubbered wildly that it was all in a bagbeneath the mattress of their bed. She was not a lady of even suchmoral fortitude as her husband.
"Thank you," said the Jewboy, and went inside.
He passed by the landlord without addressing him, and went into thebedroom of the couple, whence he speedily emerged, carrying a heavycanvas bag in his hands, the sight of which caused the landlord to turnwhite.
"How much is in it?" asked the Jewboy.
"Two hundred and twenty pounds in gold, silver, and notes," sulkilyreplied the landlord.
"Now then, Mr. Denison, don't you think you're a bit of liar?" said theJewboy. "I think you must be punished. Jack, take him outside and floghim."
With sheer delight the enthusiastic Shea shoved his prisoner throughthe doorway.
"Here, boys!" he cried. "Come and hold this fellie while I belt him.The Captain's caught him lying about his money. He says, I'm to floghim."
In spite of his appeals for mercy, and the screams of his franticspouse, the unhappy landlord was soundly thrashed.
When this little ceremony was finished, the Jewboy called the gangtogether, telling them to take what they wanted from the store, and tobring him one of the packhorses, which he would load up with liquor. Hewould not permit any of them to have more than a glass of ale in thebar.
"We must get out of this," he said, "and away from the road. It's amiracle no one has come by as yet. We'll find a suitable spot, my lads,and have a picnic with the grog. We've not done so badly—and canafford to spend an hour or so in drinking one another's healths."
They presently rode away, leaving the unhappy Denison family tied tothe trees, to await release at the hands of the first passer-by alongthe highway.
It was a much relieved and very tearful Mrs. Denison, who saw them rideaway from the Rest Inn.
IT was a warm evening in December, and again a round moon floodedCastle Vane with its pale radiance as it had done on that memorablenight three months before, when the Jewboy and his gang had attackedthe station. Major Vane, his daughter, and Dick Delane sat in theverandah after dinner, talking idly, and gazing out up the moonlitvalley to the distant sleeping mountains in the north.
Caroline had revived the topic of the bushrangers, by remembering thatit was on just such a night as this that the battle with the Jewboy'sgang had been fought.
"So it was," said the major. "I wonder what has become of thecut-throats? They have been keeping pretty quiet, Delane. Do you thinkthey can have left the country?"
"I hardly think so, sir," replied Dick. "But there can be no doubtthat they have left this part of it again. The constant watch which wehave kept on their hiding-place, up yonder, has discouraged them. No;they have not gone. I rather fancy that they may be found somewherebetween the Wollombi and Brisbane Water, in their old, original haunts,which they used to frequent before they ever intruded into the valleyof the Hunter. The Jewboy is probably preparing for some big raid. Healways lies low for a while, so as to lull people into a false sense ofsecurity, before he breaks out. I don't doubt but that we shall hear ofhim again before long."
"I had a letter the other day from Clare—you remember him, theadjutant of the 146th—in which he told me that a large andwell-equipped party of mounted police, under the command of asubaltern officer of that body, had been organized in Sydney. Theywere to proceed—almost immediately, he said, and his letter is afortnight old—to the Brisbane Water district, and had orders to devotethemselves to rooting out and destroying the band. I should think it isnot at all unlikely that, if they are driven out of their fastnessesdown there, they may again pay us a visit. Well, if they do come, andintend to honour Castle Vane with another attack, I fancy we will beable to give them as warm a reception as the last one. What do you say,Delane?"
"I think so, sir. But this time we ought to make sure of them byfollowing them up, and wiping them out altogether."
A servant came out on to the verandah.
"What is it, Casey?" asked Caroline. "Do you want to see me?"
"No, miss. 'Tis a letter for th' major. A young man from Muswellbrookhave just been afther bringin' it. He's in the kitchen, awaitin' for ananswer."
"For me, Casey?" said the major, rising from his chair, and taking thenote which the man held out to him. "Excuse me a moment, my dear. Imust go into the light to read this."
In a few minutes the major came back. His step was brisk, he spokeeagerly, and in a tone of subdued excitement.
"By jove, Delane—'talk of the devil!' Listen to this. It is from Mr.Day, the police-magistrate from the next district. Come into the light,will you, while I read it."
Caroline and Dick followed the major into the lamp-lit drawing-room.
"Is it about the bushrangers, father?" asked Caroline, growing a littlepale. "Those dreadful men! How I hate to hear of them. What have theydone now?"
"Listen. Mr. Day has sent this over to me to-night."
"My dear Vane," he read. "Can you join me here at once? The gang ofbushrangers led by the ruffian Davis has once again invaded the HunterRiver district, and I am organizing a party to hunt them down. Comewell mounted, and bring any assistance that may be available. It willbe a stern chase, but I intend to follow them up, and force them to afight. I am, yours obediently, Edward Denny Day."
"Denny Day! I know of him," said Dick; "he has a great name in hisdistrict down the river, as a fearless and determined magistrate. He isa strong contrast with that duffer in Scone. Mr. Day evidently knowshim, and is determined to ignore him. I'm with you, major. We'd betterstart at once."
"Yes, the sooner the better. Caroline, you will be quite safe here withMcNab and the other men. No; on second thoughts, you had better comeinto Muswellbrook with us. There is just a possibility that they maypay Castle Vane a visit. I would be easier in my mind if I was certainthat you were in safety. You can stay at the parsonage until we return.By jove, I'm delighted with this chance. Come along, Delane, it's bootand saddle. Put on your riding habit, Caroline, and we will see to thehorses. You had better bring clothes enough to last you for a week orso. We ought to be back by that time, if fortune favours us."
It was a little short of midnight when they reached Muswellbrook. Theyrode straight to the inn whence Mr. Day had dated his letter.
He and the major were old friends, having known one another in India,before the 146th had come to New South Wales. The police-magistrate wasan ex-army officer, who, coming to the colony in the first place onsick leave, had liked it so well that he had resigned his commission,and settled down in a civil position. He had been police-magistrate forthe Maitland and Port Macquarie districts for a year or two before thistime.
The major introduced his daughter and Dick to Mr. Day, and, when theformer had retired to her room, the police-magistrate outlined his planof campaign.
"I am determined, Vane, to keep on the tracks of these fellows untilI can bring them to account. They have committed one or two robberieson their way up here, close to the Wollombi, and I have an idea that,finding the more closely-settled districts becoming too hot for them,they intend to make across the Liverpool Ranges into the plainscountry. We are fairly close to them now, and by morning, when I haveassembled a party for their pursuit, they should not have a very longstart of us. I have sent out messengers to several gentlemen of theneighbourhood, who can be depended upon to do their best to bring theseruffians to justice, and whom I know personally, and we should be readyto start as soon as we know for certain what direction they have taken.In the meantime, I think we had better get to bed. We have several harddays in front of us."
The following day was Sunday, and the police-magistrate lost no timein making his preparations. Several landholders of the neighbourhoodhad ridden into Muswellbrook in the early morning, before breakfast,in answer to the police-magistrate's summons, and, although thatsomewhat autocratic personage, had rejected the services of two orthree, as being too old for what was likely to be a somewhat severetest of endurance, he was able to form a compact little party of seven,including the major and Dick, and two troopers of the Border Police, asthe mounted arm of the constabulary service was then entitled in thebush.
Each member of the party was well horsed, and every man had adouble-barrelled gun and a brace of pistols. They were to ride light,carrying nothing but their ammunition and a little food. Mr. Dayannounced it as his intention, once he was sure of the direction thebushrangers were taking, to keep on after them without a halt, in thehope of forcing them to give battle.
"If you once compel those fellows to stand and fight," he said, "theyare as good as captured—for each man knows that he fights with a ropeabout his neck, and so he fights with a heavy heart."
"The fellows have sworn never to be taken alive," said one of the party.
"Yes, I know. But when it comes to the pinch, it's a different matter.They see quite a lengthy period between themselves and the gallows,when they surrender peacefully. However, if the villains are not forgiving in, we must destroy them. That is all."
Early in the morning the police-magistrate had sent out scouts in alldirections, to seek tidings of the gang. All day long the party ofpursuit awaited some definite information in Muswellbrook as to whichway the bushrangers had gone. There was little use in starting out onany trail but the one that would bring them up with the outlaws inthe quickest possible time. They had looted a store on the afternoonbefore, but since then had disappeared, and whether they had gone east,north, or west was a moot point.
Midday passed without any word being brought back, and the afternoonwore into evening, and still there was no news. Mr. Day chafed at thedelay, as they all did, but there was no help for it; they had to wait.It was not until 2 o'clock in the morning that anything definite waslearned.
It seemed that the gang had taken shelter in a secluded spot not veryfar from the scene of their last crime, in the broken country to thewest of the town. It was not until after dark on the Sunday eveningthat they were seen moving camp towards the north.
As soon as he received word, Mr. Day lost no time in rousing up hisparty. They were saddled up, had breakfasted, and were ready to startin less than an hour. Caroline came down, hastily dressed, to saygood-bye. Perhaps the major did not hear her say, as she wished Delane"farewell" in the softest and shyest of voices, "Good-bye, Dick. Godkeep you!"
It was nearly four o'clock when the party started, and day was justbreaking as they rode out of Muswellbrook. They little realized how farand hard they were to ride before dark should overtake them again. Itwas the morning of December 21.
News travelled slowly in those days. Six days later a Sydney newspaperpublished the following from its correspondent in Scone. It is quotedhere as a specimen of the journalism of the "forties." It accountsfor the doings of the gang in the early part of the day, whilst theirpursuers were picking up their tracks.
"The Rubicon is past, and human blood is again shed by one of the mostlawless gangs of bushrangers that ever infested the Hunter. Blood thatcries aloud for retribution at the hands of our vacillating Government.Blood—yes, blood—the first of a long list which it is anticipatedwill mark the career of the Hunter River bushrangers. My last letterfeebly narrated the career of this gang at the Wollombi, of theirassault on the late Constable McDougall, and the murderous attackon one of Mr. Crawford's men; of their rencontre at the Red House;and other particulars of their misdeeds. This, though not so full ofparticulars, will be more full of horror. It appears that on leavingthe Wollombi they were joined by six others, thus making their number10, when they proceeded to Scone, simultaneously attacking the innof Mrs. Chivers and the stores of Mr. Thomas Dangar; their approach,however, was observed by a young man, clerk to Mr. Dangar, namedGraham, who injudiciously armed himself with a pistol, which he firedat the advancing party, when one of them (Marshall, it is thought)levelled his gun and shot him dead at the door of his master's house,whose property he was defending. Davis, the chief of the robbers, onhearing the report, came forward; he seemed to regret it much, but Iwill quote his own words: 'I would give a thousand pounds that this hadnot happened, but as well a hundred now as one.' We may, therefore,expect that this one murder mentioned is the precursor of others, eachmore sanguinary than the other. The last report we have heard of themis at the Page."
Mr. Day led his little party first of all to the spot where thebushrangers had camped. The man who had seen them estimated roughlythat they numbered about half a dozen, and the leader of the pursuitfelt that the tracks of such a large body would not be difficult tofollow, even though they were without the services of a tracker.
They found the place where the outlaws had passed the night—in adeep gully, in some broken country a little to the north-westward ofMuswellbrook. The remains of a slaughtered sheep and an assortment ofempty bottles littered the ground. It was evident that they had restedthemselves and their horses in this place, securely, all through theSunday, whilst the police-magistrate's scouts were seeking to determinetheir line of march.
It was early in the afternoon when the pursuers rode into Scone, andbecame aware of the further crime which was to be charged against thegang.
It was a pitiable business. The young storekeeper was a fine specimenof the immigrant who was beginning to come into Australia. It was overhis body that Mr. Day delivered himself of sundry forcible expressionsof opinion concerning his brother-magistrate—to whom he did not extendthe courtesy of an apology for trespassing on his district—and thepeople of Scone generally.
"It is people like these," he said to the major, in the hearing of agroup of the townspeople, "who encourage crime. If half a dozen of themhad the manhood of this young fellow, we might have had the Jewboy andhis gang in irons by this time."
Mr. Day permitted no long halt in Scone. They waited not more than halfan hour, to water and feed the horses and to snatch a few mouthfulsof food themselves. Then he had them into the saddle once more, andthey started up the valley of the Kingdon Ponds in hot pursuit of thebushrangers.
ALL through the warm afternoon they pressed on up the valley, sparingneither their horses nor themselves.
The hunters were hot on the trail—the bushrangers could scarcely bemore than three hours ahead of them, and they were evidently ridinghard and fast to escape the vengeance which the Jewboy realizedthat their last murder would call for. He was not deceived by thecowardice which had been displayed in Scone. He must have known, at anyrate—whether he was aware of Mr. Day's pursuit or not—that, as soonas he heard of it, Major Vane, for one, would turn out in chase of him.It was imperatively necessary for him to get out of the circumscribedarea of the narrowing valley, and to place the Liverpool Ranges betweenhimself and the men who would surely by this time be hunting him andhis band to destruction.
The knowledge of this, also was an incentive to Mr. Day to press thepursuit hard. While the bushrangers were in the valley of the Hunter'stributaries—the Kingdon Ponds and the Page—they must necessarily keepmore or less close together. The nature of the country itself ensuredas much as this. But once over the pass above Murrurundi they couldscatter out along the western slopes of the range, or into the plains,until it suited their purpose to come together again. He must try andcatch up with them before they got to the head of the Page valley.
The major remarked once that he thought there was little chance ofpicking the gang up before they reached the pass. Mr. Day laughed, andshook his head.
"I don't agree with you there, Vane," he said. "It is true that theyhave some hours' start of us, and that their horses have had some rest,and have not travelled so far as ours have—but we have one greatadvantage over them."
"What is that, sir?" asked Dick, as they cantered along side by side.
"A very important one, Mr. Delane. We do not require to pull up atevery public-house we come to along the road. These fellows willnever pass one—though I am told that the Jewboy is an abstemiousman, especially when he is what he calls 'on duty.' Now, there isan excellent inn at the Page—Atkinson's—and I would not be at allastonished if that very tavern was not the means of their capture. Markmy words, and see whether I am right."
By the time that they had reached the foot of Warland's Range—thedividing range between the valley of the Kingdon Ponds and thePage—their horses were beginning to feel the distance and the pacewhich they had maintained since early morning. It was well over thirtymiles from Muswellbrook to this place by the road, and they had riddenconsiderably more than that distance, when the first stage of the marchround by the outlaws' last camping-place is considered. They werecompelled to slacken their pace as they climbed up the heavy gradientsof the range, and at the top they took a few minutes' rest, in order tobreathe the horses.
"Look round, Major," cried Mr. Day. "I'll engage you have seldom seena more beautiful view than this. Isn't it shameful that such a lovelycountryside should be polluted by such scum as these fellows we areafter?"
"It is indeed a glorious view," enthusiastically assented the major.
"Ah—but there's better to come," said Dick. "Wait until we are able tolook back along the Page."
Presently they pushed on, down the long slope that leads to the prettyriver in the beautiful valley. They were obliged to walk their tiredhorses more frequently now, and the five or six miles that lay betweenWarland's Range and the little settlement of Murrurundi, further up thevalley, was the slowest stage of the journey. It was after five o'clockbefore they came to Atkinson's Inn.
Here they found a great commotion and the most intense excitement.Mr. Atkinson, seeing the armed party coming up the road, had first ofall retired into his house, closing the door. He came fearfully to awindow, in answer to Mr. Day's furious knocking and loud demands foradmission. When he was convinced that the party was not another relayof bushrangers, his satisfaction was immense. He opened the front door.
"But, by h—l, Mr. Day, saving your presence—you're too late. TheJewboy has been gone but twenty minutes or half an hour. And the dogswere here a good two hours."
"Can you supply us with remounts, Atkinson?" asked thepolice-magistrate. "Our horses are about done. We have ridden sincedaylight, and from Muswellbrook."
"From Muswellbrook!" cried their host, almost incredulous. "Why, Mr.Day—let me see—'tis forty-three miles from here to the 'Brook, ifit's a yard."
"We have done it, at any rate. Come—have you any horses? We shouldcatch up with them by dusk—if we can get fresh mounts."
"The brutes have taken every hoof of horseflesh I had in my stables,Mr. Day. They've left four knocked-up mokes that are as badly used upas your own. But perhaps, by an hour's time, say, we might be able tohunt up something in the neighbourhood. Come in and rest, gentlemen.You've surely earned it. And what will you all be pleased to take?It is with the house this time. No one has ever been so welcome asyourselves."
"Thank you for the refreshment, Mr. Atkinson," said thepolice-magistrate. "We shall be most grateful for it. But we cannotwait an hour. Ten minutes' rest is all we can afford. We must push on,even if our horses drop under us. Don't you think so, Major?"
"I agree with you, Day—if it is possible. But would it not be betterto wait for remounts?"
"No, I will explain why. I know this country fairly well. Just overthe range, a few miles from here, there is a fine camping-place calledDoughboy Hollow, with good grass and water. I feel certain that thegang will halt there, for a few hours, if not for the night. If wecan come on them there, we have them. If we fail to do so, we mustinevitably lose them. I say push on, at whatever cost—even if we haveto finish the last mile on hands and knees. It is worth while, I assureyou."
"I am agreeable, Day—and I have no doubt these other gentlemenalso see the force of what you say. A drink for the horses, one forourselves—and a forced march. What say you, gentlemen?"
There was a chorus of willing assent, and, after a short rest, thepursuers stumbled wearily forward, worn out in all but spirit anddetermination.
The road led up the narrow valley between steep mountain sides. Totheir left lay the great pile of Mount Murulla, with the SquareMountain west of it, and Warland's Barn beyond. Immediately ahead ofthem there was a gap in the encircling ranges, and it was over thisthat the route lay to the Liverpool Plains and the north-westerncountry. Until they came almost to the foot of the pass, the road wasfairly level, but when it began to wind up the spur it was too much forthe weary horses, and Mr. Day called a momentary halt.
"We must save the horses," he said, "Dismount, and lead them. It ispretty clear they cannot carry us up here. We have not far to go now,gentlemen. I hope and trust that we will find our men below us, when wereach the crest of the Divide."
They straggled slowly up the winding roadway, each man towing hisdejected charger, Mr. Day, the major, and Dick leading the way.
The sinking sun was nearly behind the ridge above them by this time.The major joked about it to Mr. Day.
"Well, Day, we are favoured in one respect, at least. We are notpermitted to delay the sunset, as Joshua was whilst he finished hisbattle, but we have the longest possible use of the luminary. You havearranged it excellently. If our men are here, daylight is all we want."
"How so, Major? What have we to do with the sun?"
"Don't you recollect the date—December the twenty-first? It's thelongest day in the year. By Jove—if we were in England, we'd have hadto yield to darkness before we reached the Page."
"I'm not so sure that I'd have given up the chase with darkness," saidMr. Day, setting his determined jaws. "The only way with these fellowsis to give them no rest. I feel certain that we will find them here. Idon't know why I am so sure of it—but I am."
"Let us hope you are right. We deserve some reward for our toil. Inever felt so tired in my life—or so desirous of battle," said themajor.
With the red sun just above the far horizon they topped the pass.
"What fools—not to leave an outpost up here," said Dick. "This wouldhave been an ideal place for their defence. I suppose they think thatthey have outdistanced us."
"Most likely," said the police-magistrate. "Now, gentlemen, will youplease tie your horses to the trees. Delane, if you will come with me,we will form an advance guard and seek what we may find. Major, I leaveyou in command of the main body. Should you hear firing, hurry in thedirection of its sound. But unless we are discovered first, I will sendDelane back to you."
"Very good, Day," replied the major. "I hope you will find them there.We will be all ready to attack."
Leaving their horses with the others on the ridge, Mr. Day and Dickmade their way stealthily down the western side of the dividing range.The neck of land that separates the waters of the Darling from those ofthe Hunter is so narrow at this point that it is almost literally truethat if a man spits towards the rising sun he adds to the Tasman Sea,and if to the westward, swells the waters of the Southern Ocean.
They had not a great distance to go. Mr. Day was a little way inadvance, when Dick saw him halt and raise his arm as a signal. He waspeering down at something. Presently he beckoned to Dick to come downto where he stood, partly under cover, behind a big iron-bark tree. Asnoiselessly as possible, Delane made his way down to the edge of thesteep slope.
The sun had now set, and the short twilight lay over the spurs of themountains. In the west was the crimson and orange afterglow, and awayfrom them stretched a vast, vague expanse of country, mistily blue inthe summer evening.
Down below was Doughboy Hollow, a little dip, or bay, in the ranges,through which ran a mountain brooklet. The thin blue smoke of campfires curled up into the evening air. There were waggons camped there,their fires just beginning to show redly amongst the trees. For amoment Dick felt a pang of disappointment, in the belief that theoutlaws were not before them.
"Where are they?" he whispered to Mr. Day.
"There—by that larger fire," said the police-magistrate in a lowvoice. "Do you see them—on this side of the drays. Hurry back, Mr.Delane, and acquaint the major, will you? Tell him to come at once, onfoot, and to be careful to make no noise. We will rush them from here."
Dick departed quickly, to bring up the main body. In ten minutes theywere all with the police-magistrate, gazing down upon the unsuspectingbushrangers.
"Look," whispered the major to Mr. Day. "There is the Jewboy. Byheavens, they are careless! Not even a sentry—and see how far offtheir horses are hobbled. Why, there's not a man of them has his gunbeside him!"
The laughter and talk of the outlaws carried plainly to them in thestill air of evening. Some of them were engaged in cooking, others weredrinking from bottles and flasks which had, no doubt, recently been thestock-in-trade of Host Atkinson. A smell of frying meat whetted theappetite of the hungry attackers.
Mr. Day made a speedy disposition of his little force. They were tocharge down the steep slope, each one picking his quarry, and toendeavour to shoot or capture his man. Two of them he told off to runthrough the camp to try to secure, or, if that was impossible, tostampede, the horses. He looked round to see that every man was ready,and then yelled out, at the top of his voice: "Hurrah—my lads! Charge!"
The startled outlaws sprang to their feet, and, picking up theirweapons from the ground, each of them made for the cover of a tree,from which they opened a scattering fire upon the attackers. The latternever hesitated in their rush, but came on through the timber, firingas they ran into the bushrangers' bivouac.
Mr. Day made straight for the Jewboy. The latter promptly fired athim without effect. He fired his second barrel, and again missed.The police-magistrate, from a distance of a few yards, sent a bulletthrough the leader's shoulder, and then, dropping his gun, jumpedforward, and closed with him, desirous of taking him alive. Theywrestled fiercely for half a minute or so, and then the old soldierthrew his man, and stunned him with a blow from the butt of a pistolwhich he wrested from the Jewboy.
Dick had been one of those who were deputed to look after the horses,and beyond firing, as he passed, at a man whom he saw taking aim at themajor, had no part in the brief struggle. He and his assistant reachedthe horses, and, as they were hobbled, had no difficulty in controllingthem.
Major Vane slightly wounded the man whom he tackled, and who turned outto be one Ruggy, an accomplished villain, and the Jewboy's second incommand—and then, rushing him, overpowered him, and bore him to theground.
Seeing their leader go down, the remainder of the gang lost heart, andspeedily surrendered. One man escaped, but was afterwards taken by someof the carriers, who handed him over to Mr. Day.
In a short time the outlaws were all handcuffed in pairs, and, withsentries over them, sullenly submitted themselves to the inevitable.
The Jewboy, however, affected a certain jauntiness that seemed to behis idea of the behaviour suitable to a brave and unfortunate commandercompelled to capitulate to a superior force. As he stood handcuffedbetween Mr. Day and Major Vane, he saw Dick approaching.
"Good evening, my lord!" he saluted him.
"What did you say? What did you call him?" exclaimed the major, inastonishment.
"I merely saluted the gentleman, my dear major, by his proper title."
Dick paused and reddened as he looked at the bushranger. "Be quiet!" hesaid.
"Oh, not at all, my lord. Your lordship is too modest."
"What is this?" said the major, puzzled. "Why do you address Mr. Delanein this fashion?"
"I merely accord him his right. You will find that I am correct, mydear major. I have the honour to address my compliments to Richard VaneTemple Delane, Earl of Marshford."
IT was late in the afternoon, and the trial of the bushrangers wasdrawing to a close. The court was crowded, for it was some little timesince so many as seven men had been tried for their lives together—notsince the participants in the crime of Myall Creek, a year or twobefore, had faced judge and jury—and Sydney was always fond of thesejudicial proceedings—en masse, so to speak. There was somethingintensely fascinating in the contemplation of a penful of men whofaced the grim fact that unless a great amount of good fortune andinconceivable luck came their way, they would before long danglefrom the same beam. It was entertaining to compare the demeanour ofthe individuals who made up the company assembled together in thenarrow, spike-fenced arena, in which they were not only the principalperformers, but also the most interested audience in this edifying andinstructive drama.
For the most part, interest centred in the trial as it affected theleading man in the drama—Edward Davis, the celebrated Jewboy. Therewas nothing very uncertain about the fate of his companions. As thecourt crier had put it, "they would hang, as surely as God made littleapples." Nobody was to be found who would dispute either proposition.
But the case of the Jewboy was different. It seemed that he had manyfriends, who were not only able to provide funds for the feeing of thebest available counsel for the defence, but who also stoutly believedand maintained that his death at the hands of the hangman would be adistinct loss to the world, something of an injustice, and a whollyregrettable miscarriage of the judicial process.
The Jewish community had rallied to his salvation, and nothing at allhad been left undone that might secure his acquittal for the charge ofmurder, or of attempted murder, or any other of the several capitalcharges under which he was arraigned at the bar. It was evident thathis co-religionists found something in the man that redeemed him,that they were genuinely anxious to save his life, if they could nothope to obtain his liberty. That was, of course, out of the questionaltogether—since he was indisputably a runaway convict.
But it was a very noticeable fact that at least one prominent SydneyHebrew, whom everyone knew and most people respected—Mr. Jacob Losky,the bookseller and curio dealer of George Street—did not take any partwhatever in the attempt to save Davis from the consequences of hiscareer as a freebooter. It was a fact that was widely commented upon,and was little understood, but which, nevertheless, remained a veryobvious fact.
Counsel for the defence—a very eloquent and pathetic gentleman, with arich endowment of ready tears—had pleaded hard with the jury. He hadwept for the jury. He had extolled the high perception and the divinesense of justice of that common-place dozen of Sydney's citizens. And,being a very eminent counsel, with undoubted gifts in the swaying ofjuries, it looked not at all unlikely that his efforts, his eloquence,and his tears might be rewarded with some small measure of success.Apparently that was the opinion of the smiling, well-dressed, and notunprepossessing subject of his discourse.
"Gentlemen," he concluded, "I leave it to you. I leave the fate ofmy unfortunate client in your hands. I resume my seat with everyconfidence that you will fairly and courageously administer justice inthe case of this perhaps misguided man, who has practised folly, hasbeen guilty of crime—but who, gentlemen, is not a murderer either bydeed or intent. By no means, it has been proved to you, can he be heldto have had a share in the killing of the young man Graham, at Mr.Dangar's store, at Scone. You have heard how he always counselled hisassociates towards the avoidance of bloodshed. You have evidence beforeyou that, at the time of the capture of the gang by Mr. Day and hisparty, he deliberately refrained, when it was in his power to furtherhis escape by so doing, from taking the life of that gentleman or anyof his companions. I leave his fate to you, gentlemen. I leave it toyou."
He sat down, with bowed head, and all the court could see theglittering tears that bedewed his fat and florid jowl.
He had made a deep impression. But the prosecutor made a deeper one.The Solicitor-General arose quietly and said:
"Recall Mr. Day."
Mr. Day was recalled, and took his stand in the witness-box.
"Mr. Day, I will ask you one question only," said the Crown LawOfficer. "When the prisoner fired upon you at the time of his capture,did he point his gun at you?"
"Yes," briefly replied Mr. Day.
"That will do—you may go down, Mr. Day."
And very speedily it became known that on the morning when the companyin the dock was to make its final appearance, it would not be lackingthe support of its leading member.
"Well—I am glad that is over," said the major, as he, Delane, andCaroline sat at dinner in the evening in his private apartment atPetty's Hotel, up on Church Hill. Mr. Day was not present, havingpleaded, as an excuse for not accepting the major's invitation, that hehad to catch the steam-packet for Morpeth at nine o'clock, and had somebusiness to attend to in the meantime.
"So am I," said Dick. "They all deserved their sentence, but there issomething beastly about seeing men cast for death whom you have foughtwith in the open. The Jewboy took it pretty coolly, didn't he? They saythat he still expects to get off."
"Little chance, I think," the major said. "And he doesn't deserveit. Those fellows who are to suffer with him were only stupid louts,or half-witted criminals. He it was who worked upon their ignorance,with his posings and his fanciful notions—which, mind you, I think hehalf believed himself—of the glorious freedom of a bushranger's life.The only wonder is that he did not do more harm. He is a persuasivefellow—a clever rogue. And a taking way with him, too—I mean not'taking' in the sense of annexing one's property, so much as one'sliking and esteem. Do you know, I conceived quite a regard for thescoundrel that evening when he came to Castle Vane, on the night beforeyou rescued me? He was as pleasant a casual acquaintance as ever I met.How did you find him, Carry?"
"Oh—I found him charming, papa. I used to think that I did not likeJews until I met him. Nobody could have been more pleasant than he was.And then to propose to torture you to death in the morning—the wretch!How did he appear in court?"
"Oh, very jaunty indeed," answered Dick. "You know, I think the fellowquite enjoyed himself as the centre of attraction. His speech, whenthey asked him if he had anything to say against sentence of death,was a little masterpiece. He knew it was no use, but none the less hethoroughly enjoyed making it. The man is full of conceit of himself."
"Delane," said the major, after a pause, "you have never yet told uswhy, on that evening when we took the gang in Doughboy Hollow, headdressed you as Lord Marshford. You have always fought shy of thissubject whenever I tried to reopen it. But you can't escape now—canhe, Caroline? You know, we are interested immensely. I am a nephewof his lordship—a nephew without expectations, it is true, butnevertheless a close relation. What did he mean by it?"
"Yes, tell us, do!" pleaded Caroline.
Dick found escape difficult. He looked from one to the other, and readno mercy in their eyes. It seemed, at last, that it must all comeout—what he thought was his closely guarded secret, known to no one inthe colony save the old Jew, Losky.
His eyes turned to Caroline. He knew that he loved her. He knew thatone day he would ask her father for her. He had entirely lost thatdread and hatred for Major Vane which had possessed him so strongly.It had changed into liking and genuine esteem—just as the major'shardness and disregard for the rights and opinions of those beneath himhad changed. And Dick felt a sincere pity for the major—the pity ofreal friendship. It was only a month since the worthless wife, whom hehad idolized so much, had sailed away with her Yankee sea-captain. And,although he showed it little, Dick knew how deeply miserable his friendreally was.
He made up his mind to tell his story—only stipulating that he shouldbe allowed to remain Richard Delane.
But, in a strange fashion, the story was told otherwise. These thingsreally do happen so sometimes.
A knock came to the door.
"Come in," called the major.
It was the stiff and pompous head waiter of the hotel. He bowed tothe company, coughed deferentially behind his hand, and made a littlespeech.
"Major Vane, sir—there his two persons hin the hentrance 'all as isdesirous of a-comin' up, sir—to hinterview you and Mr. Delane. Hihin-formed the two persons that such was him-possible. They wouldnot be—ahem—prewailed hupon, 'owever—and so I 'ave made bold,your honors both, to make you acquainted with the fack that thesetwo—persons—is desirous of comin' hupstairs."
Mr. Sims did not mention that he had been 'prewailed hupon' with asmall gold coin of the realm, upon which was stamped the image ofEngland's young Queen.
"Two persons, Sims. Who are they—what are they like?" asked the major,smiling a little as he contemplated the grave magnificence of Mr. Sims.
"Her—won is a lady, your honor, and the other is—ahem—a female."
"Oh, show them up. Don't go, Caroline. We may need all the assistanceyour sex can give us, in dealing with two mysterious persons oflady-like and female appearance. Yes, we will see them, Sims. Be goodenough to ask them to step up here."
The grave Mr. Sims bowed again, and withdrew. A minute afterwards heopened the door, and announced the visitors:
"Miss Rachel Losky—hand Mrs. Davis."
The major rose in astonishment, and Dick, no less surprised, rosealso. He stepped round the table, and placed chairs for the two women.Caroline sat wonderingly surveying the scene.
"Miss Losky?" said the major, bowing.
The beautiful Jewess inclined her head. Dick thought he had neverbefore seen her looking so handsome. He had never seen her looking sadbefore. He sat down again, and left the talking to the major.
"May I inquire, Miss Losky, what I—what we—can do for you? Will yoube so good as to state your business?"
The other woman was heavily veiled. She raised it now, as if the betterto take part, and Dick recognized her face with a start. It was thewoman whom he had rescued from the harbour on the night when he hadfled from Sydney to join the Jewboy!
Rachel began to speak, evenly and clearly; but with a note of misery inher voice that went to the soft heart of the major's daughter.
"Major Vane, I have come to see you and Dick Delane here,because—because I had to. I do not come for my own sake—only for thesake of an unhappy woman who has something to tell you, and a boon tocrave of you. I do not need your help, but this poor woman does. All Iask for myself is your promise that I shall be let alone—I mean thatthe law will not be set in motion against me—for what I have to say."
The major looked grave.
"Miss Losky," he said, "you are, no doubt, the daughter of Mr.Jacob Losky, who keeps the book shop in George Street, opposite tothe Barrack gates? Could not your father, who has a reputation forbenevolence as well as acumen—could he not better assist you than I?"
"My father is dead, sir."
"Dead?"
"Yes, he took his own life, but three hours ago—as soon as he heard ofthe verdict against my husb——against the gang of bushrangers."
The major was startled, and so was Dick. They looked from one toanother. There was a pause, and presently the major signed to Rachel togo on.
"He took poison," she continued. "He left a note for me. It was onlya few words. Shall I read it? It concerns those present—I meanyourselves."
The major nodded.
"Do, if you please, Miss Losky."
Rachel took a folded paper from her bosom, and opened it.
"Go to Major Vane," she read, "and see him in the presence of RichardDelane. Give him the papers that concern Dick, and tell him everything.That is all. Farewell, my daughter. I take the course that is leastdisagreeable to myself, and of most benefit to you. With my death,nothing will come out. The Jewboy will hang, and he will talk beforehe hangs, if I am still alive. But if I am dead, he will not seek toinjure you. Lose no time. Go to Major Vane this evening."
The major looked around. Caroline sat with wondering eyes fixed uponthe handsome daughter of the bookseller. Dick leaned forward, staringat her too, his face pale, and a frown contracting his brow.
"Pray, Miss Losky, then—what have you to tell us? We are allattention. Please proceed."
"It is this, Major Vane; Dick—Mr. Delane I mean—is the Earl ofMarshford, and my cousin. He is also your cousin, and the secondcousin, I take it, of this lady here. These papers—which I am to leavewith you—prove it."
The major turned to Dick.
"Delane, what have you to say to this? Please explain."
Dick was startled, but calm and collected. He cleared his throat,looked appealingly at Caroline, and replied.
"I am not the Earl of Marshford," he said, "so far as I am at presentaware. It is true I was his son. But I have yet to learn of his death."
"Have you seen the English newspapers which arrived by the mail thatwas landed in Sydney to-day?" asked Rachel, turning her dark and lovelyeyes upon him. "I have the 'Morning Post' here. The passage is marked.Read it aloud."
She took a newspaper from her reticule. Dick rose and took it from her,and unfolded it. He bent over the table, and read the passage that wasmarked. He looked up, and found the major's questioning eyes upon him.
"Shall I read it, sir?" he said, a little shakily.
"If you please, Delane," replied Major Vane.
Dick began.
"The paper is dated August the 10th, of last year," he said. ''This iswhat it says:
'We regret to announce the death at his country seat of Marshford, inHampshire, of the Right Honourable Richard, Seventh Earl of Marshford,P.C., K.C.B., etc., in his sixty-ninth year. The late Earl was for manyyears in the Diplomatic Service of his country, and successively filledthe positions of British Ambassador at Madrid and St. Petersburg.Since his retirement, he has lived quietly at his country seat, seldomcoming to town, and then only for short visits. It was during one ofthese that he was taken ill at his London residence, 42 Clarges Street,Mayfair. He returned home to die. The late Earl was unmarried, and theestate, which is not entailed, goes to his nephew, Major John HilaryVane, late of Her Majesty's 146th Regiment, who is at present residentin New South Wales.'
He laid the paper down and stared at the major. Caroline broke thesilence that ensued.
"Dick," she said, "then we are cousins?"
"But these papers," said the major to Rachel. "You say they proveit. How came they into the possession of your father, and why was heinterested?"
"Mr. Delane is my cousin also. His mother was my father's daughter—theactress, Fanny Delane. They were secretly married, and she died a yearafterwards," said Rachel.
"Well—I am—thunderstruck!" said the major. "And you my cousin,Delane—and I came near flogging you! How strange it all is. If itis true, then I do you the injury of robbing you of your estate, andleaving you only the title."
Dick looked up.
"That may be compensated for, sir," he said in a low voice.
"How? In what way?"
"I will speak of it with you afterwards, sir," said Dick, lookingat Caroline, who blushed and lowered her eyelids. "Had we notbetter inquire of these ladies what it is that they wish concerningthemselves?"
"Perhaps so," said the major. "Will you enlighten us, Miss Losky?"
"There is not much," said the Jewess, "and I think, myself, that youcan do nothing for us. But I have said to her that I would plead withyou for him. This woman is the wife of Edward Davis. He married her inLondon, spent her money, and abandoned her. Mr. Delane rescued her fromthe harbour on the night that he escaped from Sydney, last year. Shethinks that you might have sufficient influence to secure his reprieve.I tell her that nothing can save him, but she clings to any hope.Can you do anything, sir? I beg you, also—for I thought that he wasmy husband too—and indeed I love him." The Jewboy's wife was cryingsoftly. There were tears in the eyes of the beautiful girl who wasspeaking.
The major was silent for a long time. At last he shook his head.
"Madam," he said, "nothing can save him from his fate. I beg you to putit out of your hopes, and to help this poor woman to bear your commongrief. He has dealt hardly with you both—but you are a good woman,Miss Losky, and I respect you. However, come to me in the morning, andI will go with you to the Governor. He is no friend of mine, but it isthe best I can do. I hold out no hope."
Rachel rose, bowed to the major, and the two women left the room.
"And now, Delane—or I suppose I should say Marshford—let mecongratulate you. Of course, I shall not touch the estate. But what wasthe compensation you mentioned? I owe you much already."
Dick looked at Caroline. Caroline looked up at the major, and a littlesmile dimpled her blushing cheeks. She rose up from her chair, andstood beside Dick. He took her hand and held it out towards the major.His eyes spoke.
"This!" he said.
For a moment the major seemed bewildered. He gazed at them both for afew seconds. Then he sat down in his chair at the head of the table.
"Dick," he said, "I think if you will pull the bell-cord we willrespectfully request Mr. Sims to bring in a bottle of wine. I feelthat I should like to drink the health of the future Countess ofMarshford—and I have no doubt that you will join me in doing so."
Dick turned to the happy girl beside him and kissed her. "God blessyou. Major," he said huskily. "All's well."
Extract fromSydney Herald, March 17th, 1841:—
"The gang of ruffians recently convicted in the Supreme Court ofbushranging and murder, and who for several months previously hadinfested the Hunter's River district (even extending their depredationsto Brisbane Water), paid the forfeit of their lives on the scaffold,in the rear of Sydney Gaol, yesterday. The malefactors were alltransported felons from the Mother Country, and their names, ages,etc., were as follows:—
"Edward Davis, aged 26, arrived in 1833, per shipCamden; RobertChitty, 37, arrived in 1829, perSophia; James Everett, 25, arrivedin 1832, perMangles; John Marshall, 27, arrived in 1832, perClyde; Richard Glanville, 31, arrived in 1831, perLord Lyndoch;and John Shea, 27, arrived in 1837, perCalcutta.
"These men terminated a long series of systematic burglaries andwholesale plunder by the more heinous crime of deliberate murder. Theyattacked, on the 21st of December last, the station of Mr. Dangar, atScone, and meeting with some opposition from Mr. Graham (Mr. Dangar'sstorekeeper), one of the ruffians followed the unfortunate young maninto the bush and deliberately shot him.
"The notoriety which the crimes of these men have attained drew togethera large concourse of spectators to witness their execution. Theentrance to the gaol, in George Street, was besieged for admissionlong before the arrival, at nine o'clock, of a strong military guardfrom the barracks, and so great was the pressure of the crowd that itrequired the unremitting exertions of Captain Innes to preserve order.
"At ten past nine the culprits were strongly pinioned and conductedfrom the cells to the area in front of the drop, where they kneltdown. Chitty, Everett, Marshall, and Glanville were attended by theRev. William Cowper and the Rev. John Elder. Rev. Mr. Murphy, Catholicpriest, accompanied Shea; and Davis (being of the Jewish persuasion)was attended by Mr. Isaacs, minister of the Jewish congregation in NewSouth Wales. All the culprits (if we except Everett) deeply lamentedtheir having committed the crimes for which they were about to die,and acknowledged the justice of their sentences. Everett ascended thescaffold hurriedly, and in an evident state of excitement. He wasfollowed by Chitty, Marshall, and Glanville, all three of whom, onreaching the scaffold, sang the first verse of the Morning Hymn, tobe found in many editions of the Book of Common Prayer, commencing,"Awake, my soul, and with the sun."
"This act of devotion, we have since heard, was entirely spontaneous,not having been suggested or even expected by either of the reverendgentlemen who attended to administer the consolations of religionaccording to the rites of the Protestant Church.
"The ropes were speedily adjusted, and the white caps drawn over thefaces of the wretched criminals. In the short interval which elapsedbefore the withdrawal of the fatal bolt, Marshall and Glanville wereengaged in loud and apparently fervent prayer, and we observed theculprit Davis (who was attired in a suit of mourning) thank the Jewishminister for the attention paid him in his last moments. The strugglesof all the men were of short duration.
"The immense crowd dispersed peaceably. It will be remembered that thesemen were apprehended chiefly through the active exertions of Mr. Day,Police Magistrate, Maitland."
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