“What! do you mean to say the climate has really any such influence?”
said Lady Helena.
“Yes, Madam, both on animals and men.”
“You are not joking, Monsieur Paganel?”
“I am not, Madam. The horses and the cattle here are of incomparable
docility. You see it?”
“It is impossible!”
“But it is a fact. And the convicts transported into this reviving,
salubrious air, become regenerated in a few years. Philanthropists know
this. In Australia all natures grow better.”
“But what is to become of you then, Monsieur Paganel, in this privileged
country--you who are so good already?” said Lady Helena. “What will you
turn out?”
“Excellent, Madam, just excellent, and that’s all.”
CHAPTER X AN ACCIDENT
THE next day, the 24th of December, they started at daybreak. The heat
was already considerable, but not unbearable, and the road was smooth
and good, and allowed the cavalcade to make speedy progress. In the
evening they camped on the banks of the White Lake, the waters of which
are brackish and undrinkable.
Jacques Paganel was obliged to own that the name of this lake was a
complete misnomer, for the waters were no more white than the Black Sea
is black, or the Red Sea red, or the Yellow River yellow, or the Blue
Mountains blue. However, he argued and disputed the point with all the
-amour propre- of a geographer, but his reasoning made no impression.
M. Olbinett prepared the evening meal with his accustomed punctuality,
and after this was dispatched, the travelers disposed themselves for
the night in the wagon and in the tent, and were soon sleeping soundly,
notwithstanding the melancholy howling of the “dingoes,” the jackals of
Australia.
A magnificent plain, thickly covered with chrysanthemums, stretched
out beyond the lake, and Glenarvan and his friends would gladly have
explored its beauties when they awoke next morning, but they had to
start. As far as the eye could reach, nothing was visible but one
stretch of prairie, enameled with flower, in all the freshness and
abundance of spring. The blue flowers of the slender-leaved flax,
combined with the bright hues of the scarlet acanthus, a flower peculiar
to the country.
A few cassowaries were bounding over the plain, but it was impossible to
get near them. The Major was fortunate enough, however, to hit one very
rare animal with a ball in the leg. This was the jabiru, a species which
is fast disappearing, the gigantic crane of the English colonies. This
winged creature was five feet high, and his wide, conical, extremely
pointed beak, measured eighteen inches in length. The violet and purple
tints of his head contrasted vividly with the glossy green of his neck,
and the dazzling whiteness of his throat, and the bright red of his
long legs. Nature seems to have exhausted in its favor all the primitive
colors on her palette.
Great admiration was bestowed on this bird, and the Major’s spoil would
have borne the honors of the day, had not Robert come across an animal
a few miles further on, and bravely killed it. It was a shapeless
creature, half porcupine, half ant-eater, a sort of unfinished animal
belonging to the first stage of creation. A long glutinous extensible
tongue hung out of his jaws in search of the ants, which formed its
principal food.
“It is an echidna,” said Paganel. “Have you ever seen such a creature?”
“It is horrible,” replied Glenarvan.
“Horrible enough, but curious, and, what’s more, peculiar to Australia.
One might search for it in vain in any other part of the world.”
Naturally enough, the geographer wished to preserve this interesting
specimen of monotremata, and wanted to stow it away in the luggage;
but M. Olbinett resented the idea so indignantly, that the SAVANT was
obliged to abandon his project.
About four o’clock in the afternoon, John Mangles descried an enormous
column of smoke about three miles off, gradually overspreading the
whole horizon. What could be the cause of this phenomenon? Paganel was
inclined to think it was some description of meteor, and his lively
imagination was already in search of an explanation, when Ayrton cut
short all his conjectures summarily, by announcing that the cloud of
dust was caused by a drove of cattle on the road.
The quartermaster proved right, for as the cloud came nearer, quite
a chorus of bleatings and neighings, and bel-lowings escaped from it,
mingled with the loud tones of a human voice, in the shape of cries, and
whistles, and vociferations.
Presently a man came out of the cloud. This was the leader-in-chief
of the four-footed army. Glenarvan advanced toward him, and friendly
relations were speedily established between them. The leader, or to
give him his proper designation, the stock-keeper, was part owner of the
drove. His name was Sam Machell, and he was on his way from the eastern
provinces to Portland Bay.
The drove numbered 12,075 head in all, or l,000 bullocks, 11,000 sheep,
and 75 horses. All these had been bought in the Blue Mountains in a
poor, lean condition, and were going to be fatted up on the rich pasture
lands of Southern Australia, and sold again at a great profit. Sam
Machell expected to get pounds 2 on each bullock, and 10s. on every
sheep, which would bring him in pounds 3,750. This was doing good
business; but what patience and energy were required to conduct such a
restive, stubborn lot to their destination, and what fatigues must have
to be endured. Truly the gain was hardly earned.
Sam Machell told his history in a few words, while the drove continued
their march among the groves of mimosas. Lady Helena and Mary and the
rest of the party seated themselves under the shade of a wide-spreading
gum-tree, and listened to his recital.
It was seven months since Sam Machell had started. He had gone at the
rate of ten miles a day, and his interminable journey would last three
months longer. His assistants in the laborious task comprised twenty
dogs and thirty men, five of whom were blacks, and very serviceable in
tracking up any strayed beasts. Six wagons made the rear-guard. All the
men were armed with stockwhips, the handles of which are eighteen inches
long, and the lash nine feet, and they move about among the ranks,
bringing refractory animals back into order, while the dogs, the light
cavalry of the regiment, preserved discipline in the wings.
The travelers were struck with the admirable arrangement of the drove.
The different stock were kept apart, for wild sheep and bullocks would
not have got on together at all. The bullocks would never have grazed
where the sheep had passed along, and consequently they had to go first,
divided into two battalions. Five regiments of sheep followed, in charge
of twenty men, and last of all came the horses.
Sam Machell drew the attention of his auditors to the fact that the
real guides of the drove were neither the men nor the dogs, but the oxen
themselves, beasts of superior intelligence, recognized as leaders by
their congenitors. They advanced in front with perfect gravity, choosing
the best route by instinct, and fully alive to their claim to respect.
Indeed, they were obliged to be studied and humored in everything, for
the whole drove obeyed them implicitly. If they took it into their heads
to stop, it was a matter of necessity to yield to their good pleasure,
for not a single animal would move a step till these leaders gave the
signal to set off.
Sundry details, added by the stock-keeper, completed the history of
this expedition, worthy of being written, if not commended by Xenophon
himself. As long as the troop marched over the plains it was well
enough, there was little difficulty or fatigue. The animals fed as they
went along, and slaked their thirst at the numerous creeks that watered
the plains, sleeping at night and making good progress in the day,
always obedient and tractable to the dogs. But when they had to
go through great forests and groves of eucalyptus and mimosas, the
difficulties increased. Platoons, battalions and regiments got all mixed
together or scattered, and it was a work of time to collect them again.
Should a “leader” unfortunately go astray, he had to be found, cost what
it might, on pain of a general disbandment, and the blacks were often
long days in quest of him, before their search was successful. During
the heavy rains the lazy beasts refused to stir, and when violent storms
chanced to occur, the creatures became almost mad with terror, and were
seized with a wild, disorderly panic.
However, by dint of energy and ambition, the stock-keeper triumphed
over these difficulties, incessantly renewed though they were. He kept
steadily on; mile after mile of plains and woods, and mountains, lay
behind. But in addition to all his other qualities, there was one higher
than all that he specially needed when they came to rivers. This was
patience--patience that could stand any trial, and not only could hold
out for hours and days, but for weeks. The stock-keeper would be himself
forced to wait on the banks of a stream that might have been crossed
at once. There was nothing to hinder but the obstinacy of the herd.
The bullocks would taste the water and turn back. The sheep fled in all
directions, afraid to brave the liquid element. The stock-keeper hoped
when night came he might manage them better, but they still refused to
go forward. The rams were dragged in by force, but the sheep would not
follow. They tried what thirst would do, by keeping them without drink
for several days, but when they were brought to the river again, they
simply quenched their thirst, and declined a more intimate acquaintance
with the water. The next expedient employed was to carry all the lambs
over, hoping the mothers would be drawn after them, moved by their
cries. But the lambs might bleat as pitifully as they liked, the mothers
never stirred. Sometimes this state of affairs would last a whole month,
and the stock-keeper would be driven to his wits’ end by his bleating,
bellowing, neighing army. Then all of a sudden, one fine day, without
rhyme or reason, a detachment would take it into their heads to make
a start across, and the only difficulty now was to keep the whole herd
from rushing helter-skelter after them. The wildest confusion set in
among the ranks, and numbers of the animals were drowned in the passage.
Such was the narrative of Sam Machell. During its recital, a
considerable part of the troop had filed past in good order. It was time
for him to return to his place at their head, that he might be able to
choose the best pasturage. Taking leave of Lord Glenarvan, he sprang on
a capital horse of the native breed, that one of his men held waiting
for him, and after shaking hands cordially with everybody all round,
took his departure. A few minutes later, nothing was visible of the
stock-keeper and his troop but a cloud of dust.
The wagon resumed its course in the opposite direction, and did not stop
again till they halted for the night at the foot of Mount Talbot.
Paganel made the judicious observation that it was the 25th of December,
the Christmas Day so dear to English hearts. But the steward had not
forgotten it, and an appetizing meal was soon ready under the tent, for
which he deserved and received warm compliments from the guests. Indeed,
M. Olbinett had quite excelled himself on this occasion. He produced
from his stores such an array of European dishes as is seldom seen
in the Australian desert. Reindeer hams, slices of salt beef, smoked
salmon, oat cakes, and barley meal scones; tea -ad libitum-, and whisky
in abundance, and several bottles of port, composed this astonishing
meal. The little party might have thought themselves in the grand
dining-hall of Malcolm Castle, in the heart of the Highlands of
Scotland.
The next day, at 11 A. M., the wagon reached the banks of the Wimerra on
the 143d meridian.
The river, half a mile in width, wound its limpid course between tall
rows of gum-trees and acacias. Magnificent specimens of the MYRTACEA,
among others, the -metroside-ros speciosa-, fifteen feet high, with long
drooping branches, adorned with red flowers. Thousands of birds, the
lories, and greenfinches, and gold-winged pigeons, not to speak of the
noisy paroquets, flew about in the green branches. Below, on the bosom
of the water, were a couple of shy and unapproachable black swans. This
-rara avis- of the Australian rivers soon disappeared among the
windings of the Wimerra, which water the charming landscape in the most
capricious manner.
The wagon stopped on a grassy bank, the long fringes of which dipped
in the rapid current. There was neither raft nor bridge, but cross over
they must. Ayrton looked about for a practicable ford. About a quarter
of a mile up the water seemed shallower, and it was here they determined
to try to pass over. The soundings in different parts showed a depth of
three feet only, so that the wagon might safely enough venture.
“I suppose there is no other way of fording the river?” said Glenarvan
to the quartermaster.
“No, my Lord; but the passage does not seem dangerous. We shall manage
it.”
“Shall Lady Glenarvan and Miss Grant get out of the wagon?”
“Not at all. My bullocks are surefooted, and you may rely on me for
keeping them straight.”
“Very well, Ayrton; I can trust you.”
The horsemen surrounded the ponderous vehicle, and all stepped boldly
into the current. Generally, when wagons have to ford rivers, they have
empty casks slung all round them, to keep them floating on the water;
but they had no such swimming belt with them on this occasion, and they
could only depend on the sagacity of the animals and the prudence of
Ayrton, who directed the team. The Major and the two sailors were some
feet in advance. Glenarvan and John Mangles went at the sides of the
wagon, ready to lend any assistance the fair travelers might require,
and Paganel and Robert brought up the rear.
All went well till they reached the middle of the Wimerra, but then the
hollow deepened, and the water rose to the middle of the wheels. The
bullocks were in danger of losing their footing, and dragging with
them the oscillating vehicle. Ayrton devoted himself to his task
courageously. He jumped into the water, and hanging on by the bullocks’
horns, dragged them back into the right course.
Suddenly the wagon made a jolt that it was impossible to prevent; a
crack was heard, and the vehicle began to lean over in a most precarious
manner. The water now rose to the ladies’ feet; the whole concern began
to float, though John Mangles and Lord Glenarvan hung on to the side. It
was an anxious moment.
Fortunately a vigorous effort drove the wagon toward the opposite shore,
and the bank began to slope upward, so that the horses and bullocks were
able to regain their footing, and soon the whole party found themselves
on the other side, glad enough, though wet enough too.
The fore part of the wagon, however, was broken by the jolt, and
Glenarvan’s horse had lost a shoe.
This was an accident that needed to be promptly repaired. They looked at
each other hardly knowing what to do, till Ayrton proposed he should
go to Black Point Station, twenty miles further north, and bring back a
blacksmith with him.
“Yes, go, my good fellow,” said Glenarvan. “How long will it take you to
get there and back?”
“About fifteen hours,” replied Ayrton, “but not longer.”
“Start at once, then, and we will camp here, on the banks of the
Wimerra, till you return.”
CHAPTER XI CRIME OR CALAMITY
IT was not without apprehension that the Major saw Ayrton quit the
Wimerra camp to go and look for a blacksmith at the Black Point Station.
But he did not breathe a word of his private misgivings, and contented
himself with watching the neighborhood of the river; nothing disturbed
the repose of those tranquil glades, and after a short night the sun
reappeared on the horizon.
As to Glenarvan, his only fear was lest Ayrton should return alone. If
they fail to find a workman, the wagon could not resume the journey.
This might end in a delay of many days, and Glenarvan, impatient to
succeed, could brook no delay, in his eagerness to attain his object.
Ayrton luckily had lost neither his time nor his trouble. He appeared
next morning at daybreak, accompanied by a man who gave himself out as
the blacksmith from Black Point Station. He was a powerful fellow,
and tall, but his features were of a low, brutal type, which did not
prepossess anyone in his favor. But that was nothing, provided he knew
his business. He scarcely spoke, and certainly he did not waste his
breath in useless words.
“Is he a good workman?” said John Mangles to the quartermaster.
“I know no more about him than you do, captain,” said Ayrton. “But we
shall see.”
The blacksmith set to work. Evidently that was his trade, as they could
plainly see from the way he set about repairing the forepart of the
wagon. He worked skilfully and with uncommon energy. The Major observed
that the flesh of his wrists was deeply furrowed, showing a ring of
extravasated blood. It was the mark of a recent injury, which the
sleeve of an old woolen shirt could not conceal. McNabbs questioned the
blacksmith about those sores which looked so painful. The man continued
his work without answering. Two hours more and the damage the carriage
had sustained was made good. As to Glenarvan’s horse, it was soon
disposed of. The blacksmith had had the forethought to bring the shoes
with him. These shoes had a peculiarity which did not escape the Major;
it was a trefoil clumsily cut on the back part. McNabbs pointed it out
to Ayrton.
“It is the Black-Point brand,” said the quartermaster. “That enables
them to track any horses that may stray from the station, and prevents
their being mixed with other herds.”
The horse was soon shod. The blacksmith claimed his wage, and went off
without uttering four words.
Half an hour later, the travelers were on the road. Beyond the grove of
mimosas was a stretch of sparsely timbered country, which quite deserved
its name of “open plain.” Some fragments of quartz and ferruginous
rock lay among the scrub and the tall grass, where numerous flocks were
feeding. Some miles farther the wheels of the wagon plowed deep into
the alluvial soil, where irregular creeks murmured in their beds,
half hidden among giant reeds. By-and-by they skirted vast salt lakes,
rapidly evaporating. The journey was accomplished without trouble, and,
indeed, without fatigue.
Lady Helena invited the horsemen of the party to pay her a visit in
turns, as her reception-room was but small, and in pleasant converse
with this amiable woman they forgot the fatigue of their day’s ride.
Lady Helena, seconded by Miss Mary, did the honors of their ambulatory
house with perfect grace. John Mangles was not forgotten in these daily
invitations, and his somewhat serious conversation was not unpleasing.
The party crossed, in a diagonal direction, the mail-coach road from
Crowland to Horsham, which was a very dusty one, and little used by
pedestrians.
The spurs of some low hills were skirted at the boundary of Talbot
County, and in the evening the travelers reached a point about three
miles from Maryborough. The fine rain was falling, which, in any other
country, would have soaked the ground; but here the air absorbed the
moisture so wonderfully that the camp did not suffer in the least.
Next day, the 29th of December, the march was delayed somewhat by a
succession of little hills, resembling a miniature Switzerland. It was a
constant repetition of up and down hill, and many a jolt besides, all of
which were scarcely pleasant. The travelers walked part of the way, and
thought it no hardship.
At eleven o’clock they arrived at Carisbrook, rather an important
municipality. Ayrton was for passing outside the town without going
through it, in order, he said, to save time. Glenarvan concurred
with him, but Paganel, always eager for novelties, was for visiting
Carisbrook. They gave him his way, and the wagon went on slowly.
Paganel, as was his custom, took Robert with him. His visit to the town
was very short, but it sufficed to give him an exact idea of Australian
towns. There was a bank, a court-house, a market, a church, and a
hundred or so of brick houses, all exactly alike. The whole town was
laid out in squares, crossed with parallel streets in the English
fashion. Nothing could be more simple, nothing less attractive. As the
town grows, they lengthen the streets as we lengthen the trousers of a
growing child, and thus the original symmetry is undisturbed.
Carisbrook was full of activity, a remarkable feature in these towns of
yesterday. It seems in Australia as if towns shot up like trees, owing
to the heat of the sun. Men of business were hurrying along the streets;
gold buyers were hastening to meet the in-coming escort; the precious
metal, guarded by the local police, was coming from the mines at Bendigo
and Mount Alexander. All the little world was so absorbed in its own
interests, that the strangers passed unobserved amid the laborious
inhabitants.
After an hour devoted to visiting Carisbrook, the two visitors rejoined
their companions, and crossed a highly cultivated district. Long
stretches of prairie, known as the “Low Level Plains,” next met their
gaze, dotted with countless sheep, and shepherds’ huts. And then came a
sandy tract, without any transition, but with the abruptness of change
so characteristic of Australian scenery. Mount Simpson and Mount
Terrengower marked the southern point where the boundary of the Loddon
district cuts the 144th meridian.
As yet they had not met with any of the aboriginal tribes living in
the savage state. Glenarvan wondered if the Australians were wanting
in Australia, as the Indians had been wanting in the Pampas of the
Argentine district; but Paganel told him that, in that latitude, the
natives frequented chiefly the Murray Plains, about one hundred miles to
the eastward.
“We are now approaching the gold district,” said he, “in a day or two
we shall cross the rich region of Mount Alexander. It was here that
the swarm of diggers alighted in 1852; the natives had to fly to the
interior. We are in civilized districts without seeing any sign of
it; but our road will, before the day is over, cross the railway which
connects the Murray with the sea. Well, I must confess, a railway in
Australia does seem to me an astonishing thing!”
“And pray, why, Paganel?” said Glenarvan.
“Why? because it jars on one’s ideas. Oh! I know you English are so used
to colonizing distant possessions. You, who have electric telegraphs and
universal exhibitions in New Zealand, you think it is all quite natural.
But it dumb-founders the mind of a Frenchman like myself, and confuses
all one’s notions of Australia!”
“Because you look at the past, and not at the present,” said John
Mangles.
A loud whistle interrupted the discussion. The party were within a mile
of the railway. Quite a number of persons were hastening toward the
railway bridge. The people from the neighboring stations left their
houses, and the shepherds their flocks, and crowded the approaches to
the railway. Every now and then there was a shout, “The railway! the
railway!”
Something serious must have occurred to produce such an agitation.
Perhaps some terrible accident.
Glenarvan, followed by the rest, urged on his horse. In a few minutes he
arrived at Camden Bridge and then he became aware of the cause of such
an excitement.
A fearful accident had occurred; not a collision, but a train had gone
off the line, and then there had been a fall. The affair recalled the
worst disasters of American railways. The river crossed by the railway
was full of broken carriages and the engine. Whether the weight of the
train had been too much for the bridge, or whether the train had gone
off the rails, the fact remained that five carriages out of six fell
into the bed of the Loddon, dragged down by the locomotive. The sixth
carriage, miraculously preserved by the breaking of the coupling chain,
remained on the rails, six feet from the abyss. Below nothing was
discernible but a melancholy heap of twisted and blackened axles,
shattered wagons, bent rails, charred sleepers; the boiler, burst by
the shock, had scattered its plates to enormous distances. From this
shapeless mass of ruins flames and black smoke still rose. After the
fearful fall came fire, more fearful still! Great tracks of blood,
scattered limbs, charred trunks of bodies, showed here and there; none
could guess how many victims lay dead and mangled under those ruins.
Glenarvan, Paganel, the Major, Mangles, mixing with the crowd, heard the
current talk. Everyone tried to account for the accident, while doing
his utmost to save what could be saved.
“The bridge must have broken,” said one.
“Not a bit of it. The bridge is whole enough; they must have forgotten
to close it to let the train pass. That is all.”
It was, in fact, a swing bridge, which opened for the convenience of the
boats. Had the guard, by an unpardonable oversight, omitted to close
it for the passage of the train, so that the train, coming on at full
speed, was precipitated into the Loddon? This hypothesis seemed very
admissible; for although one-half of the bridge lay beneath the ruins of
the train, the other half, drawn up to the opposite shore, hung, still
unharmed, by its chains. No one could doubt that an oversight on the
part of the guard had caused the catastrophe.
The accident had occurred in the night, to the express train which left
Melbourne at 11:45 in the evening. About a quarter past three in the
morning, twenty-five minutes after leaving Castlemaine, it arrived at
Camden Bridge, where the terrible disaster befell. The passengers and
guards of the last and only remaining carriage at once tried to obtain
help. But the telegraph, whose posts were lying on the ground, could not
be worked. It was three hours before the authorities from Castlemaine
reached the scene of the accident, and it was six o’clock in the
morning when the salvage party was organized, under the direction of
Mr. Mitchell, the surveyor-general of the colony, and a detachment of
police, commanded by an inspector. The squatters and their “hands” lent
their aid, and directed their efforts first to extinguishing the fire
which raged in the ruined heap with unconquerable violence. A few
unrecognizable bodies lay on the slope of the embankment, but from that
blazing mass no living thing could be saved. The fire had done its work
too speedily. Of the passengers ten only survived--those in the last
carriage. The railway authorities sent a locomotive to bring them back
to Castlemaine.
Lord Glenarvan, having introduced himself to the surveyor-general,
entered into conversation with him and the inspector of police. The
latter was a tall, thin man, im-perturbably cool, and, whatever he
may have felt, allowed no trace of it to appear on his features. He
contemplated this calamity as a mathematician does a problem; he
was seeking to solve it, and to find the unknown; and when Glenarvan
observed, “This is a great misfortune,” he quietly replied, “Better than
that, my Lord.”
“Better than that?” cried Glenarvan. “I do not understand you.”
“It is better than a misfortune, it is a crime!” he replied, in the same
quiet tone.
Glenarvan looked inquiringly at Mr. Mitchell for a solution. “Yes, my
Lord,” replied the surveyor-general, “our inquiries have resulted in
the conclusion that the catastrophe is the result of a crime. The last
luggage-van has been robbed. The surviving passengers were attacked by
a gang of five or six villains. The bridge was intentionally opened, and
not left open by the negligence of the guard; and connecting with this
fact the guard’s disappearance, we may conclude that the wretched fellow
was an accomplice of these ruffians.”
The police-officer shook his head at this inference.
“You do not agree with me?” said Mr. Mitchell.
“No, not as to the complicity of the guard.”
“Well, but granting that complicity, we may attribute the crime to the
natives who haunt the Murray. Without him the blacks could never have
opened a swing-bridge; they know nothing of its mechanism.”
“Exactly so,” said the police-inspector.
“Well,” added Mr. Mitchell, “we have the evidence of a boatman whose
boat passed Camden Bridge at 10:40 P. M., that the bridge was properly
shut after he passed.”
“True.”
“Well, after that I cannot see any doubt as to the complicity of the
guard.”
The police-officer shook his head gently, but continuously.
“Then you don’t attribute the crime to the natives?”
“Not at all.”
“To whom then?”
Just at this moment a noise was heard from about half a mile up the
river. A crowd had gathered, and quickly increased. They soon reached
the station, and in their midst were two men carrying a corpse. It was
the body of the guard, quite cold, stabbed to the heart. The murderers
had no doubt hoped, by dragging their victim to a distance, that the
police would be put on a wrong scent in their first inquiries. This
discovery, at any rate, justified the doubts of the police-inspector.
The poor blacks had had no hand in the matter.
“Those who dealt that blow,” said he, “were already well used to this
little instrument”; and so saying he produced a pair of “darbies,” a
kind of handcuff made of a double ring of iron secured by a lock. “I
shall soon have the pleasure of presenting them with these bracelets as
a New Year’s gift.”
“Then you suspect--”
“Some folks who came out free in Her Majesty’s ships.”
“What! convicts?” cried Paganel, who recognized the formula employed in
the Australian colonies.
“I thought,” said Glenarvan, “convicts had no right in the province of
Victoria.”
“Bah!” said the inspector, “if they have no right, they take it! They
escape sometimes, and, if I am not greatly mistaken, this lot have come
straight from Perth, and, take my word for it, they will soon be there
again.”
Mr. Mitchell nodded acquiescence in the words of the police-inspector.
At this moment the wagon arrived at the level crossing of the railway.
Glenarvan wished to spare the ladies the horrible spectacle at Camden
Bridge. He took courteous leave of the surveyor-general, and made a sign
to the rest to follow him. “There is no reason,” said he, “for delaying
our journey.”
When they reached the wagon, Glenarvan merely mentioned to Lady Helena
that there had been a railway accident, without a hint of the crime that
had played so great a part in it; neither did he make mention of the
presence of a band of convicts in the neighborhood, reserving that
piece of information solely for Ayrton’s ear. The little procession now
crossed the railway some two hundred yards below the bridge, and then
resumed their eastward course.
CHAPTER XII TOLINE OF THE LACHLAN
ABOUT two miles from the railway, the plain terminated in a range of
low hills, and it was not long before the wagon entered a succession of
narrow gorges and capricious windings, out of which it emerged into a
most charming region, where grand trees, not closely planted, but in
scattered groups, were growing with absolutely tropical luxuriance. As
the party drove on they stumbled upon a little native boy lying fast
asleep beneath the shade of a magnificent banksia. He was dressed
in European garb, and seemed about eight years of age. There was no
mistaking the characteristic features of his race; the crisped hair,
the nearly black skin, the flattened nose, the thick lips, the unusual
length of the arms, immediately classed him among the aborigines of the
interior. But a degree of intelligence appeared in his face that showed
some educational influences must have been at work on his savage,
untamed nature.
Lady Helena, whose interest was greatly excited by this spectacle, got
out of the wagon, followed by Mary, and presently the whole company
surrounded the peaceful little sleeper. “Poor child!” said Mary Grant.
“Is he lost, I wonder, in this desert?”
“I suppose,” said Lady Helena, “he has come a long way to visit this
part. No doubt some he loves are here.”
“But he can’t be left here,” added Robert. “We must--”
His compassionate sentence remained unfinished, for, just at that moment
the child turned over in his sleep, and, to the extreme surprise of
everybody, there was a large label on his shoulders, on which the
following was written:
TOLINE.
To be conducted to Echuca.
Care of Jeffries Smith, Railway Porter.
Prepaid.
“That’s the English all over!” exclaimed Paganel. “They send off a child
just as they would luggage, and book him like a parcel. I heard it was
done, certainly; but I could not believe it before.”
“Poor child!” said Lady Helena. “Could he have been in the train that
got off the line at Camden Bridge? Perhaps his parents are killed, and
he is left alone in the world!”
“I don’t think so, madam,” replied John Mangles. “That card rather goes
to prove he was traveling alone.”
“He is waking up!” said Mary.
And so he was. His eyes slowly opened and then closed again, pained by
the glare of light. But Lady Helena took his hand, and he jumped up
at once and looked about him in bewilderment at the sight of so many
strangers. He seemed half frightened at first, but the presence of Lady
Helena reassured him. “Do you understand English, my little man?” asked
the young lady.
“I understand it and speak it,” replied the child in fluent enough
English, but with a marked accent. His pronunciation was like a
Frenchman’s.
“What is your name?” asked Lady Helena.
“Toline,” replied the little native.
“Toline!” exclaimed Paganel. “Ah! I think that means ‘bark of a tree’ in
Australian.”
Toline nodded, and looked again at the travelers.
“Where do you come from?” inquired Lady Helena.
“From Melbourne, by the railway from Sandhurst.”
“Were you in the accident at Camden Bridge?” said Glenarvan.
“Yes, sir,” was Toline’s reply; “but the God of the Bible protected me.”
“Are you traveling alone?”
“Yes, alone; the Reverend Paxton put me in charge of Jeffries Smith; but
unfortunately the poor man was killed.”
“And you did not know any one else on the train?”
“No one, madam; but God watches over children and never forsakes them.”
Toline said this in soft, quiet tones, which went to the heart. When he
mentioned the name of God his voice was grave and his eyes beamed with
all the fervor that animated his young soul.
This religious enthusiasm at so tender an age was easily explained. The
child was one of the aborigines baptized by the English missionaries,
and trained by them in all the rigid principles of the Methodist Church.
His calm replies, proper behavior, and even his somber garb made him
look like a little reverend already.
But where was he going all alone in these solitudes and why had he left
Camden Bridge? Lady Helena asked him about this.
“I was returning to my tribe in the Lachlan,” he replied. “I wished to
see my family again.”
“Are they Australians?” inquired John Mangles.
“Yes, Australians of the Lachlan,” replied Toline.
“Have you a father and mother?” said Robert Grant.
“Yes, my brother,” replied Toline, holding out his hand to little Grant.
Robert was so touched by the word brother that he kissed the black
child, and they were friends forthwith.
The whole party were so interested in these replies of the little
Australian savage that they all sat round him in a listening group.
But the sun had meantime sunk behind the tall trees, and as a few miles
would not greatly retard their progress, and the spot they were in would
be suitable for a halt, Glenarvan gave orders to prepare their camp for
the night at once. Ayrton unfastened the bullocks and turned them out to
feed at will. The tent was pitched, and Olbinett got the supper ready.
Toline consented, after some difficulty, to share it, though he was
hungry enough. He took his seat beside Robert, who chose out all the
titbits for his new friend. Toline accepted them with a shy grace that
was very charming.
The conversation with him, however, was still kept up, for everyone
felt an interest in the child, and wanted to talk to him and hear his
history. It was simple enough. He was one of the poor native children
confided to the care of charitable societies by the neighboring tribes.
The Australian aborigines are gentle and inoffensive, never exhibiting
the fierce hatred toward their conquerors which characterizes the New
Zealanders, and possibly a few of the races of Northern Australia. They
often go to the large towns, such as Adelaide, Sydney and Melbourne,
and walk about in very primitive costume. They go to barter their few
articles of industry, hunting and fishing implements, weapons, etc., and
some of the chiefs, from pecuniary motives, no doubt, willingly leave
their children to profit by the advantages of a gratuitous education in
English.
This was how Toline’s parents had acted. They were true Australian
savages living in the Lachlan, a vast region lying beyond the Murray.
The child had been in Melbourne five years, and during that time had
never once seen any of his own people. And yet the imperishable feeling
of kindred was still so strong in his heart that he had dared to brave
this journey over the wilds to visit his tribe once more, scattered
though perchance it might be, and his family, even should he find it
decimated.
“And after you have kissed your parents, are you coming back to
Melbourne?” asked Lady Glenarvan.
“Yes, Madam,” replied Toline, looking at the lady with a loving
expression.
“And what are you going to be some day?” she continued.
“I am going to snatch my brothers from misery and ignorance. I am going
to teach them, to bring them to know and love God. I am going to be a
missionary.”
Words like those, spoken with such animation from a child of only eight
years, might have provoked a smile in light, scoffing auditors, but they
were understood and appreciated by the grave Scotch, who admired the
courage of this young disciple, already armed for the battle. Even
Paganel was stirred to the depths of his heart, and felt his warmer
sympathy awakened for the poor child.
To speak the truth, up to that moment he did not care much for a savage
in European attire. He had not come to Australia to see Australians
in coats and trousers. He preferred them simply tattooed, and this
conventional dress jarred on his preconceived notions. But the child’s
genuine religious fervor won him over completely. Indeed, the wind-up of
the conversation converted the worthy geographer into his best friend.
It was in reply to a question Lady Helena had asked, that Toline said he
was studying at the Normal School in Melbourne, and that the principal
was the Reverend Mr. Paxton.
“And what do they teach you?” she went on to say.
“They teach me the Bible, and mathematics, and geography.”
Paganel pricked up his ears at this, and said, “Indeed, geography!”
“Yes, sir,” said Toline; “and I had the first prize for geography before
the Christmas holidays.”
“You had the first prize for geography, my boy?”
“Yes, sir. Here it is,” returned Toline, pulling a book out of his
pocket.
It was a bible, 32mo size, and well bound. On the first page was written
the words: “Normal School, Melbourne. First Prize for Geography. Toline
of the Lachlan.”
Paganel was beside himself. An Australian well versed in geography. This
was marvelous, and he could not help kissing Toline on both cheeks, just
as if he had been the Reverend Mr. Paxton himself, on the day of the
distribution of prizes. Paganel need not have been so amazed at this
circumstance, however, for it is frequent enough in Australian schools.
The little savages are very quick in learning geography. They learn it
eagerly, and on the other hand, are perfectly averse to the science of
arithmetic.
Toline could not understand this outburst of affection on the part of
the Frenchman, and looked so puzzled that Lady Helena thought she
had better inform him that Paganel was a celebrated geographer and a
distinguished professor on occasion.
“A professor of geography!” cried Toline. “Oh, sir, do question me!”
“Question you? Well, I’d like nothing better. Indeed, I was going to
do it without your leave. I should very much like to see how they teach
geography in the Normal School of Melbourne.”
“And suppose Toline trips you up, Paganel!” said McNabbs.
“What a likely idea!” exclaimed the geographer. “Trip up the Secretary
of the Geographical Society of France.”
Their examination then commenced, after Paganel had settled his
spectacles firmly on his nose, drawn himself up to his full height, and
put on a solemn voice becoming to a professor.
“Pupil Toline, stand up.”
As Toline was already standing, he could not get any higher, but he
waited modestly for the geographer’s questions.
“Pupil Toline, what are the five divisions of the globe?”
“Oceanica, Asia, Africa, America, and Europe.”
“Perfectly so. Now we’ll take Oceanica first; where are we at this
moment? What are the principal divisions?”
“Australia, belonging to the English; New Zealand, belonging to the
English; Tasmania, belonging to the English. The islands of Chatham,
Auckland, Macquarie, Kermadec, Makin, Maraki, are also belonging to the
English.”
“Very good, and New Caledonia, the Sandwich Islands, the Mendana, the
Pomotou?”
“They are islands under the Protectorate of Great Britain.”
“What!” cried Paganel, “under the Protectorate of Great Britain. I
rather think on the contrary, that France--”
“France,” said the child, with an astonished look.
“Well, well,” said Paganel; “is that what they teach you in the
Melbourne Normal School?”
“Yes, sir. Isn’t it right?”
“Oh, yes, yes, perfectly right. All Oceanica belongs to the English.
That’s an understood thing. Go on.”
Paganel’s face betrayed both surprise and annoyance, to the great
delight of the Major.
“Let us go on to Asia,” said the geographer.
“Asia,” replied Toline, “is an immense country. Capital--Calcutta. Chief
Towns--Bombay, Madras, Calicut, Aden, Malacca, Singapore, Pegu, Colombo.
The Lacca-dive Islands, the Maldives, the Chagos, etc., belonging to the
English.”
“Very good, pupil Toline. And now for Africa.”
“Africa comprises two chief colonies--the Cape on the south, capital
Capetown; and on the west the English settlements, chief city, Sierra
Leone.”
“Capital!” said Paganel, beginning to enter into this perfectly
taught but Anglo-colored fanciful geography. “As to Algeria, Morocco,
Egypt--they are all struck out of the Britannic cities.”
“Let us pass on, pray, to America.”
“It is divided,” said Toline, promptly, “into North and South America.
The former belongs to the English in Canada, New Brunswick, New
Scotland, and the United States, under the government of President
Johnson.”
“President Johnson,” cried Paganel, “the successor of the great and
good Lincoln, assassinated by a mad fanatic of the slave party. Capital;
nothing could be better. And as to South America, with its Guiana, its
archipelago of South Shetland, its Georgia, Jamaica, Trinidad, etc.,
that belongs to the English, too! Well, I’ll not be the one to dispute
that point! But, Toline, I should like to know your opinion of Europe,
or rather your professor’s.”
“Europe?” said Toline not at all understanding Paganel’s excitement.
“Yes, Europe! Who does Europe belong to?”
“Why, to the English,” replied Toline, as if the fact was quite settled.
“I much doubt it,” returned Paganel. “But how’s that, Toline, for I want
to know that?”
“England, Ireland, Scotland, Malta, Jersey and Guern-sey, the Ionian
Islands, the Hebrides, the Shetlands, and the Orkneys.”
“Yes, yes, my lad; but there are other states you forgot to mention.”
“What are they?” replied the child, not the least disconcerted.
“Spain, Russia, Austria, Prussia, France,” answered Paganel.
“They are provinces, not states,” said Toline.
“Well, that beats all!” exclaimed Paganel, tearing off his spectacles.
“Yes,” continued the child. “Spain--capital, Gibraltar.”
“Admirable! perfect! sublime! And France, for I am French, and I should
like to know to whom I belong.”
“France,” said Toline, quietly, “is an English province; chief city,
Calais.”
“Calais!” cried Paganel. “So you think Calais still belongs to the
English?”
“Certainly.”
“And that it is the capital of France?”
“Yes, sir; and it is there that the Governor, Lord Napo-leon, lives.”
This was too much for Paganel’s risible faculties. He burst out
laughing. Toline did not know what to make of him. He had done his best
to answer every question put to him. But the singularity of the answers
were not his blame; indeed, he never imagined anything singular about
them. However, he took it all quietly, and waited for the professor to
recover himself. These peals of laughter were quite incomprehensible to
him.
“You see,” said Major McNabbs, laughing, “I was right. The pupil could
enlighten you after all.”
“Most assuredly, friend Major,” replied the geographer. “So that’s the
way they teach geography in Melbourne! They do it well, these professors
in the Normal School! Europe, Asia, Africa, America, Oceanica, the whole
world belongs to the English. My conscience! with such an ingenious
education it is no wonder the natives submit. Ah, well, Toline, my boy,
does the moon belong to England, too?”
“She will, some day,” replied the young savage, gravely.
This was the climax. Paganel could not stand any more. He was obliged
to go away and take his laugh out, for he was actually exploding with
mirth, and he went fully a quarter of a mile from the encampment before
his equilibrium was restored.
Meanwhile, Glenarvan looked up a geography they had brought among their
books. It was “Richardson’s Compendium,” a work in great repute in
England, and more in agreement with modern science than the manual in
use in the Normal School in Melbourne.
“Here, my child,” he said to Toline, “take this book and keep it. You
have a few wrong ideas about geography, which it would be well for you
to rectify. I will give you this as a keepsake from me.”
Toline took the book silently; but, after examining it attentively, he
shook his head with an air of incredulity, and could not even make up
his mind to put it in his pocket.
By this time night had closed in; it was 10 P. M. and time to think of
rest, if they were to start betimes next day. Robert offered his friend
Toline half his bed, and the little fellow accepted it. Lady Helena and
Mary Grant withdrew to the wagon, and the others lay down in the tent,
Paganel’s merry peals still mingling with the low, sweet song of the
wild magpie.
But in the morning at six o’clock, when the sunshine wakened the
sleepers, they looked in vain for the little Australian. Toline had
disappeared. Was he in haste to get to the Lachlan district? or was he
hurt by Paganel’s laughter? No one could say.
But when Lady Helena opened her eyes she discovered a fresh branch of
mimosa leaves lying across her, and Paganel found a book in his vest
pocket, which turned out to be “Richardson’s Geography.”
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