The head station. A novel of Australian life

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THE HEAD STATION.

A NOVEL OF AUSTRALIAN LIFE.

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THE HEAD STATION.

Chapter 1. A Bush Family

Thebe could be no pleasanter place in which to dream away the hours of a hot December afternoon than the veranda of Doondi Head-Station, on the Eura River, in the colony of Leichardt's Land, Australia.

This veranda was very broad, and extended round three sides of the one-storied bungalow-like house. The bark roof slanted downward, and projected its ragged edge beyond the log-posts, which were festooned with climbingplants, peculiar to a sub-tropical climate — the orange begonia, the Cape jasmine, the delicate white-flowered rinka-sporum — while one side was completely covered in by a large-leaved vine of the Isabella grape, which temptingly displayed its purpling fruit.

There were a great many French windows leading from the house on to the veranda. Through these might be caught glimpses of low rooms, cedar-lined, canvas-ceiled, with rugs and skins spread upon the white boards; in the center one, a piano, chintz-covered chairs and couches, and a litter of books and work; in another, the spotless drapery and white daintinesses of a woman’s bed-chamber, left open to the general gaze, with that careless simplicity which is the charm of an Australian household.

From the slab walls, branching stag-horn ferns stretched out their green antlers; mossy baskets hung from the rafters; here and there were ranged stands of calladiums and such exotic plants as require shade and damp. Squatters’ chairs and canvas-covered lounges seemed to invite the indolent and weary; a sewing-machine stood in the coolest corner with a large basket of work by its side. Books, newspapers, and children’s toys were scattered about in de-

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lightful confusion; a water-melon cut in half, and a dish of figs and guavas, were waiting to be eaten. It was very evident that the veranda was more lived in than the sitting-room. Here lay a knife of the kind which bushmen love, there a stray saddle-strap, and a dirty cabbage-tree hat. A loosely coiled stock-whip looked at first sight like a big brown snake basking upon the boards. Two kangaroohounds blinked and yapped at the bees which flitted from one deep-scented flower to its neighbor, and at the yellow mason-flies seeking their mud nests in the eaves.

Through the leaf-framed arches might be seen views of wild, uninhabited country. A vine-trellised garden sloped gently down to a scantily timbered plain, where clumps of eucalyptus afforded meager shade to groups of browsing cattle, and where gaunt trunks of trees, which had been

rung and allowed to die slowly, stood like white skeletons waiting to be felled and burned.

In the middle distance lay undulating tracts of pasture and forest, gray-green in tint, with here and there a patch of scrub or dark line of creek or gully. Beyond, were mountains invading the south-eastern horizon — an irregular chain forming the boundary between two colonies — jagged bowlders, peaks, hump like hills, covered at the base with dense jungle and eucalyptus forests, the summits rock-bound and weather-scarred. Here stood Mount Oomongin with its rampart of granite, and the curious depression on its crown, said by geologists to be the crater of an extinct volcano, but where, according to the blacks^ tradition, there dwelt in a lake that was fathomless the great Bunyip, father of all the minor Bunyips, that haunted lagoons and water-holes. From the Hoondi veranda, Oomongin was an important feature in the landscape. Standing in the foreground, every crag distinct, every fissure traceable, the sentinellike gum-trees showing white lines against the dull background, Oomongin held his own among his more lofty brethren. To the right, there was Knapp ^s Oliff, the half of a pyramid cleft in twain, its naked side, straight as a razor, gleaming in the sun. Then came a gap in the jagged outlines of more distant mountains, filled in by a blue sea of billowy hills, which spread to the horizon. Nearer, the twin peaks of Mount Tieryboo raised their virgin spires, which, within record, had never been scaled by either white man or aboriginal. And aw^ay to the left.

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another crag, a mighty citadel of Nature, bastions, towers, fortifications, all complete to the eye of Fancy, reared upon a gigantic wall of rock, in which were caves that might be the abode of giants, and clefts that seemed to lead into the very bowels of the earth.

It was a wild region. Here, in these fastnesses, rose the Eura River, which, after passing through Doondi, Gunda^ lunda, and many other cattle-stations, - swept downward through the southern corner of Leichardt^s Land to the ^ ocean. Here also lay the sources of the Doonbah. This stream flowed in another direction, thundering down the rocks, threading the Wild Manx’s Gorge, watering Captain Clephane^s station, Tieryboo, and joining a greater river in New South Wales.

There was a dreamy stillness hi the air verging upon op^ press] on. Though afternoon had begun to wane, the heat was too intense for bird or insect to be noisy. A white haze clung to the hills telling of distant bush-fires. The wind was scorching, and the parched lawn and sun-baked walks seemed to be yearning for moisture. The more tender flowers drooped their heads, while flaming tiger-lilies, red hibiscus, and cripison verbenas flaunted their glaring colors aggressively. It was a relief to turn The eyes from a pomegranate- tree in full bloom to a well- watered and shaded rockery, where scrub-plants flourished, and maidenhair fern grew luxuriantly.

On this side of the house, a flight of log-steps led to a grove of orange-trees, under which the ground was strewn by ^ rain of fallen petals. This was apparently a favorite resort. Beneath the perfumy branches a hammock was slung, and here was a lady seated at work, with a baby sleeping in her lap, and two children, a girl of seven and a boy of five, playing by her side.

The lady was Mrs. Clephane, the second daughter of Duncan Reay, owner of Doondi. She was married to a neighboring squatter, and with her children was now on a visit to her father. She was a placid, fair-faced woman of thirty, handsome, after the Scotch type, with a straight rather thick nose; prominent cheek-bones, benevolent lips, which receded, showing the gums, and full dark-lashecl eyes.

She was stitching at a child’s frock, but every now and then would pause and look out into vacancy with her soft

THE HEAD STATION?’.

\iolet eyes. Her eyes belied her character and the rest of her face. They suggested a romantic turn of mind, whereas she was only thinking, “ I wonder whether there will he a mob of fat cattle ready for the butcher next month, for we shall want some extra comforts for Jack^s niece — English people are so particular;^ ^ or, “I do wish that father would take up with politics again, and get into the Ministry. It would be so nice to have a few weeks at Leichardt^s Town, especially now that there is going to be a new governor;^ ^ or, “ Unless the drays come soon we shall not be able to make any mincemeat for Christmas,^ ^ etc. Mrs. Clephane was perhaps a trifle uninteresting, but she was admirably adapted to her position as the wife of an ex-hussar, now a squatter, who presumably required a certain amount of common sense in his helpmate.

The boy was like his mother in face, and probably in temperament, to judge by the contented manner in which he pursued a somewhat monotonous occupation. He was scooping up the earth with his dimpled hands and a tin pannikin, and rearing a series of hillocks along the pathway, a proceeding which discomfited a tribe of wandering ants, and excited the remonstrances of his more enterprising sister.

She was an elf-like creature with solemn dark eyes, a mop of short black hair, and skinny arms and shoulders, which were perpetually poking themselves out of her lownecked brown-holland blouse.

‘‘ Barty, I want to play. Get up, Barty. , Let us jflay at imagining something.

I^’se playing, stolidly answered Barty.

Barty, are you making graves?^ ^

No,^' said Barty; “ I^se making dampers.

“ But, Barty, me and you will play at burying. Wefll try to find a mantis to say the prayers. Barty, clasping her little hands in excitement, “ it^s bootiful to play at graves. Let us bury Moses.

Barty suspended Ins operations with the pannikin. “ Oo hasnT got Moses, Jinks; God deaded him. DoiUt want to play at Moses.

“ He was took to the top of a high mountain,^ ^ said Jinks, reflectively. I just ^spect it was Mount Comongin, for nobody never goes there except the blacks when its bunya-time. Barty, let us ^magine the blacks are the chil-

THE HEAD STATION.

dren of Israel, and they brought him down, and we went to the camp and fetched him out. Barty,^^ she added, reflectively, for the suggestion did not appear to stimulate Barty’s prosaic fancy, ‘‘ if this was Moses^'s grave, shouldn't you like to see him come out and go into another?^ ^ in an awe-struck whisper, “ He^d have wings, Barty.^^-

“ Don^t want to,” steadily repeated Barty. “ Go away. Jinks. Oo is a bad girl. Oo^s trod on my dampers.

“ I wish there was some grown-up people here to play with me,” said Jinks, with dignity. “ Children is so tiresome. I think you must be cutting a tooth, Barty, yoiCre so scotty. ” After this scathing remark. Jinks turned to her mother: Mamma, when is grandfather coming home?”

‘‘ I don^’t know to a day. Jinks,” placidly replied Mrs^ Olephane.

“ Mamma, when are we going back to Tierybbo?”

‘‘ Gracious! how can I tell, child? When the mustering is done, and the drays have come up, and when we^’ve got a new cook.”

“ CanH father^ s niece cook?-”

That’s certain she can’t. Jinks.”

But why? You and Aunt Hester can. And Aunt Gretta makes the butter. ”

‘‘ Well, England is different from Australia,” said Mrs. Clephane, smoothing the gusset she was stitching. There are plenty of servants to do things, and Isabel Gauntlett — that’s father’s niece — has been used to grand ways. Just you remember that. Jinks, and keep quiet and don’t mess about, or else she’ll go back again. ”

' ‘‘She wants a lot of people to bring her here,” said Jinks, contemptuously. “ There’s father and grandfather and Combo and Billy. I expect she’s got a lot of things. New chums always have a big pack. Is she going to stop at Gundalunda with Aunt Judith and Mr. Ferguson?”

“ She’ll stop there while grandfather goes over to Nash’s for the cattle,” said Mrs. Clephane. “ Now don’t bother, child; you’re always asking foolish questions.”

“ Some things is true and some things isn’t,” said Jinks, oracularly, “ and little girls must ask to be told.”,

“ Where’s England?” inquired Barty, roused by Jinks’s statement to a sense of his own deficiencies.

“Dunce!” cried Jinks, with scorn. “Miss Barham showed it to you on the map. It’s where father lived when

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lie was a little boy; and it’s all on the Christmas cards, lied berries grow out of the plum-puddings^, and the grass is covered with a white table-cloth. ’ ’

“ Snow, Jinks/’ amended her mother. Snow is soft like cotton- wool, and it melts like ice. ”

If it is like wool it isn’t ice,” argued Jinks. Did you ever see snow, mother?”

No,” admitted Mrs. Clephane. “ I am a Leichardt’s Land native — like you. ”

‘‘ Nor Aunt Gretta, nor Maafu, nor Uncle Sib, nor nobody else has ever seen snow except father, and he does sometimes tell crackers,” continued Jinks, weighing the question of evidence. Cockamaroo is a cracker. If he did live on Comongin, and had his dinner off stewed children, he’d have eaten up all the piccaninnies; and there are lots in the blacks’ camp. Perhaps snow is gammon; Uncle Sib says Christmas cards are gammon. I wish Isabel Gauntlett would put some snow in an envelope and send it to me to look at. I’d like to see England. When Patrick Desmond asks me again to marry mm I’ll tell him yes if he’ll promise to take me to England. That’s what Aunt Gretta answers. Mother,” added Jinks, suddenly, ‘‘ Eed Dick, from Guudalunda, says that Mr. Ferguson is courting Aunt Gretta. And when they are engaged will she get like Miss Barham and say everything is ‘ so sweet

Jinks threw herself into a mincing attitude, and was sternly reproved for mimicking her governess, and for listening to the stockmen’s talk. Whereupon she moved loftily away, and began to interrogate a Kanaka boy who was digging a few paces off.

“ Maafu,” said Jinks, “ do you ever go courting?”

The Kanaka paused in his work and turned upon the child a puzzled black face, round which the crisp wooly hair, artificially lightened by the use of lime-wash, stood out like a dull aureole. Then he laughed with the fatuous chuckle of the South Sea Islander, which differs considerably from the impish merriment of the aboriginal, and resumed his digging.

‘'I dare say,” observed Jinks, condescendingly, ‘‘that you have a different word for it in your language. What do you call the place you come from, Maafu?”

“ Tanna Island, Missee Jinks.”

“ And did you like leaving your home, Maafu? Or did

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they kidnap you like the man in Mr. Desmond^s song?^^ And Jinks rolled out in unmel odious falsetto, with a fair attempt at a brogue,

“ Set every stitch of canvas,

To woo the freshening wind,

Our bowsprit points to Cuba,

The coast lies far behind;

Filled to the hatches full, my boys,

Across the sea we go.

There’s twice five hundred niggers In the stifling hold below.”

My word. Miss Jinks, dat lubly,’^ said Maafu, admiringly.

• “ No, Maafu, it isn^t lovely, replied Jinks, impelled to

candor by the consciousness of superior knowledge. “ I am afraid you are not a judge of music. My father says the only song I can sing is ‘ the tune the old cow died of and that means something nasty. Tell me, Maafu, why did you leave your island? WerenT you afraid of being beaten and of having a master, like Legree, you know? But perhaps you have never read ‘ Uncle Tomb’s Cabin, ^ Maafu ?^^

The Kanaka shook his head incomprehendingly.

It^s a nice story,^'said Jinks. ‘‘I think we might play at Eva and Uncle Tom — you and me. YouTe black, and I^'m — no, Eva was a good girl, and Jinks is most always naughty. Jinks takes a lot of whopping. The devil gets inside of her,” here Jinks tragically struck her breast — and heM never go out unless he was whopped. It^s an awful pit}’, Maafu. Did you come in a ship from Tanna?^^

‘ ‘ Big ship, Missee Jinks, sailors white, all the rest Tanna and Leefoo men,” replied Maafu, becoming animated.

‘ ‘ White captain say, ‘ You come to Leichardt^s Land and work, one, two, three year; then you come back again — • massa give you clothes — give you money — you buy tools — • you build good house — make your wife like white woman. Missionary — he say ‘ go.-’ ”

“ Oh, you’ve got a wife, Maafu!” interrupted Jinks, deeply interested. Does she wear a wedding-ring like mother and Aunt Hester?”

The question seemed a serious difficulty to Maafu. He sighed, hung his head, and let his spade drop. Missee Jinks,” he said, “every white missees wear ring. My

THE HEAD STATION.

wife, she not haye ring — no ring — no good marry. In one year Maafu^’s time up, and *lie go back to Tanna. Massa Keay, he very kind to Maafu. He lub Missee Jinks, You ask Massa Keay to .give Maafu wedding-ring, so that he make his wife real missus,, like white' woman

Jinks reflected, then nodded approvingly, the idea commending itself to her sense of propriety. ‘‘ That^s very right of you, Maafu; I’ll ask grandfather. And you mustn’t ever be scotty with your wife, or hit her over the head with a nulla-nulla, like Combo. But, as you’re married, you can’t ask any one else. I don’t think girls would want to marry you,” continued Jinks, impartially, as she surveyed the Kanaka from head to toe, “ though a white woman di^ marry Jack Nutty, our black stockman at Tieryboo; and I’d rather marry you than Combo, Maafu. However, there’s no use in thinking of it, for you mustn’t even court. You’re like Aunt Hester.”

Mrs. Murgatroyd?” asked Maafu, thoughtfully, not at once perceiving the aptness of the comparison.

“ She has got a husband, you know, Maafu, only nobody will say where he is. I heard Red Dick telling Mrs. Baynes that it was of no use for people to come courting Aunt Hester, for that she was worse than married already. ”

‘‘ Jinks!” Mrs. Clephane called sharply from under the orange-trees. ‘‘Come here. What is that you are saying?”

“ Maafu wants to see the baby, mother,” promptly replied Jinks. She was well aware that it was treason to talk to the servants of her Aunt Hester, who had married unhappily, and was separated from a bad husband. ‘ ‘ Come, Maafu. ”

Maafu grinned delightedly; and, led by Jinks, stepped modestly toward the white bundle lying on Mrs. Clephane ’s lap. He stared at it with tender, round, black eyes for a minute, then said, solemnly, “ Dat child a very nice baby, missus,” and went back to his digging.

The Kanaka reverences women and adores children. He is loyal in heart, affectionate of disposition and domestic in his habits. He has implicit faith in the master who is kind to him, though his soul will rise in passionate revolt against ill-treatment or betrayal of confidence.

The native black, on the other hand, knows that honor and fair dealing, like clean nails, are among the absurd

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peculiarities of the gentleman ; and draws a sharp line between the squatter who keeps his word and cleans his nails and the bullock-driver who does neither. But he has no real appreciation of the virtues in point, and does not resent their absence. Far less culpable would it be to .meet a black’s guile with treachery, or to cheat a wide-awake white man, than to abuse the child-like confidence of the Kanaka. Praise and sympathy are life to him. Harshness stupefies, and, if carried to excess, kills him, for the Kanaka has no great vitality, and dies when life seems no longer a thing to be desired.