Chapter XVIII: An Adventure

ON the afternoon of an early day in an Australian spring, a solitary horseman was leisurely enough passing over a longish stretch of plain, bounded behind him by a forest from which he must have emerged some half an hour or more, and in advance by a range of hills looking blue by reason of distance. On either hand the ground rose irregularly, so as to hide any distant prospect.

The traveller was a tall young man, strongly built, with an open countenance, somewhat sunburnt, expressive of unsuspiciousness and general good humour, though with a dash of determination in some of the features—especially the firmly-set lips, which, to a physiognomist, might have denoted a certain amount of obstinate determination. An old colonist would, moreover, have discovered at the first glance that the stranger was but a recent importation from the old country.

The horse on which he rode was a serviceable, rough-coated animal, strong-limbed and long-winded, as it had need to be, seeing that though it had already made several days' journeys, on scant fare and with little stable luxury, it had yet to bear its rider many other days before a day's rest could be granted. The steed was plainly accoutred, well-bitted, however; and the saddle, though it had seen service, was sufficiently comfortable for both man and beast.

The traveller was clad in homely garb, such as indicated a probable connection with farming and grazing, and behind him was strapped a tolerable-sized portmanteau, most likely containing necessary or desirable conveniences for his journey; while a haversack suspended over his shoulder showed that he had provisioned himself against one of the inconveniences of desert travelling—a lack of hospitality on the road. This was likely enough to be his experience.

He had left a township where he had passed the preceding night, some forty miles behind him, with the expectation of having to camp out after sundown, or when his horse and himself should be too tired to proceed further; and he had journeyed on all day without any signs of human life. He had been told, indeed, that there was a station near the road where he might possibly obtain accommodation; but the character given of its owner was not sufficiently inviting to induce him to turn aside from his course.

He had only recently rested on the bank of a narrow creek, or streamlet, or irregular watercourse, where he had refreshed himself and his steed, and guided partly by the direction of that stream, partly by a pocket compass, was steadily renewing his journey, when a loud, long-continued cry smote suddenly upon his senses. New as he evidently was to bush life in the colony, the young man might have mistaken the sound for the far-off call of some strange bird or beast if it had not been repeated with greater distinctness, which enabled him to recognise in it the far-extending call of a human voice, peculiar, we believe, to the Australian world in the prolonged shout of "Coo-ee."

A tightening of the bridle brought the obedient horse to a standstill, while the rider listened again to hear the sound, but this time in fainter tones, and accompanied by a shriller shriek, as of one in agony or bodily fear. The traveller did not hesitate any longer, but turning his horse's head in the direction whence the sounds seemed to come, he applied spurs and whip, and was the next minute galloping towards the summit of the irregular incline on the left hand, which, as we have said, had, shut out any distant prospect in that direction.

Arriving at the summit, he beheld, at the distance of some quarter mile beyond, a scene which quickened at once his pulse and his movements. Two horses were running loose on the open plain, others were hobbled near a clump of trees, and were consequently unable to enjoy the same liberty. Close by this clump of trees, also, a desperate struggle seemed to be in progress—as far as the stranger could make out—between three men, one of whom was desperately resisting the combined efforts of the other two to bear him to the ground. Besides these a female appeared to have been taken captive by a fourth man, who was dragging her by the arm towards the hobbled horses.

In much less time than it has occupied in telling, the young traveller had taken in the whole of these details, and was hastening to the rescue as rapidly as the impetus of whip and spur could act upon the frightened animal he bestrode.

Fast as he rode, however, the changes in the strange drama on which he kept his eye fixed were outstripping him. In one of these changes, the report of a pistol-shot reached his ear; and a puff of smoke for a moment veiled the woman and her assailant. Only for a moment, and when it had passed, greatly to his astonishment, the spectator perceived that the man was staggering backward and falling, and that the female, instead of making her escape, was in the act of springing forward to the help of the one who, in the part of the scene first described, was evidently on the point of being overcome in the odds that were against him.

There was no time for reflection; and once more applying the spur, the traveller, ere three minutes had passed away, added another to the fierce conflict. What occurred then, he never afterwards remembered consecutively.

He knew only that, first throwing himself off his horse and then into the fray, he received a heavy blow on his head, which, thanks to the felt that he wore, did not stun, though for an instant it confused him; that by this time, one of the two men—who might be rogues or honest men for anything he knew, all his knowledge being that they were two to one—had been stricken by him to the ground, and that the female, whoever she might be, was calling to him for help, but impeding his free action by her unconsciously clinging to him for protection; and that, in a short space of time, as it seemed to him, he and this unknown fair one in distress were apparently master and mistress of the field—two of the combatants having retreated to the trees, unhobbled two of the horses, mounted, and ridden fast away, while two others lay on the turf, at a little distance apart, hors de combat, at any rate for the time being.

We left the bush traveller in a rather awkward state of confusion, but he had sufficient gallantry to commence offering some respectful attentions to the female he had rescued, and whom he perceived to be young, though her countenance—now that the excitement was over—had become deadly pale, when she pointed to one of the men on the sward, and hurriedly begged the unknown to render any aid in his power. He therefore turned his attention to this benevolent purpose, and while thus employed, the young woman stood at a little distance, watching his proceedings with anxiety, but apparently without fear; for her colour soon returned, and she stood firm, and even employed her hands in readjusting some disordered folds in her stout riding dress, still keeping her gaze fixed on the stranger.

"Badly hurt, this one," said the stranger, as he raised the head of the man in whose cause he himself had received the blow which made him still feel dizzy, and who was a tall, well-made fellow, thirty years old or thereabout, in the ordinary dress of a labourer or shepherd of those parts. He had been not only savagely beaten, but had received an apparently deep knife-wound above the collar-bone during the scuffle.

"Badly hurt, he seems to be," the stranger repeated.

"Oh, I hope not!" said the anxious watcher, stepping forward and stooping down to observe more closely.

And then, without showing any signs of weakness or affectation, she rendered such assistance as time and place allowed, much as a nurse in a hospital would have done, the traveller thought, and with equal skill and presence of mind.

In a moment or two the man revived sufficiently to open his eyes and to say, faintly—

"Thank you, Miss Helen; and thank God you are safe. I was afraid it was all up with us both."

"It would have been, Styles, but for this good man who came to our help," said the young woman.

"He has done a good deed to-day, if he never did before," said the wounded man. "I suppose you knew who those fellows were?"

Yes, she knew two of them well enough, the girl answered. They were the men she had witnessed against.

"But do not say any more—it only hurts you" (this was manifestly true, for the man drew his breath thick and painfully)—"we must get you home as soon as we can. Do you think you can mount your horse?" she asked, forgetting her own injunction of silence.

"I doubt if I shall ever ride again," groaned the man. "The knife has done its work, I guess; and it is only what I might have expected. It has come home to me—my own—"

"Don't speak of it."

"Well, what's done can't be undone. But I am glad 'twas in defending you that I got it."

While this conversation was going on, brokenly, the stranger was busy in completing the binding up of the wound as carefully and quickly as he was able, remembering that a few yards off another was needing his help. This done, he allowed the female to take his place by the head of the patient, so as to give the needed support, and turned towards the clump of trees behind which that other had fallen. But, to his astonishment, when he reached the spot, no man was there. In another minute, the mystery was explained by a hoarse shout of derision, as it seemed, from the direction in which the hobbled horses had been; and glancing thitherward, the young man perceived that the ruffian, as no doubt he was, had so far recovered from the effects of the bullet wound as to crawl to the remaining horse, which he had managed to unhobble and mount.

"A pretty enough shot," he hallooed, laughing, as he rode away; "but it would take more than a popgun like that to—" The remainder of the sentence was lost in the distance.

The "popgun" lay at the stranger's feet. It was a small pocket-pistol, but sufficiently venomous-looking, he thought, as he picked it up, and retraced his steps to the wounded man still on his hands.

"The fellow has got off without serious damage, it seems," he said to the young woman. "I don't know whether I ought to be glad or sorry that you did not kill him outright," he added.

"Oh, I did not want to hurt him much," she replied, gravely. "I only shot him in the knee. I judged that the shock would make him let me go then, and I knew that he would not be able to run after me. If I hadn't done that, I might have been beyond the reach of help."

("You are a cool hand, at all events," thought the stranger, but he did not speak.)

"And now, if you will be so good as to help me home with poor Styles; but must you be getting forward with your own affairs?"

He could not leave his present work unfinished, said the traveller; and as to his own affairs, they were in no such great hurry. Was the home of which the Amazon (as he began to think the young woman)—of which she spoke very far-away? He might very well ask this, for no habitation, nor sign of habitation, had he seen in that day's journey.

"Only half an hour's ride; and if we could but get poor Styles on his horse—"

"You must get the horse to come to him first, and yours too," thought the traveller once more, though he did not say it, when he saw them still capering wildly in the distance. As to his own steed, it had trotted and galloped too many miles that day to take advantage of the confusion, or care for making the most of its liberty. The question, however, was soon set at rest by the young horsewoman rising and uttering a peculiar cry, which first caused the stray animals to prick up their ears, and then to quietly trot back to their mistress's side.

By this time, the man Styles had somewhat rallied, and his returning strength being for the time still further recruited by the contents of a flask which the stranger had in his haversack, he declared himself, though still faint, not beyond the power of necessary exertion. Aided, therefore, by the stranger, he remounted; the Amazon doing the same without assistance. The young traveller then sprang on to his horse, and placed himself on the bridle-hand side of the wounded man, so as to render help, if his strength were to fail.

As the cavalcade proceeded slowly—for the wounded man was manifestly unequal to rapid motion—there was opportunity for a few hurried explanations. For instance, the stranger told how he had recently landed at Sydney, and had been advised—as being used to land-surveying—to join a company of explorers some distance up the country, and was thus far on his journey with that intention, when the opportunity of rendering this slight service was thrown in his way.

On the other hand, the young horsewoman explained that she was the daughter of a bush farmer and grazier, whose station they were now approaching; and that, because of her father's age and infirmities, she had occasionally to visit an out-station; that, in consequence of recent alarms, she had of late, for her protection, been attended by the faithful man-servant, and had also chosen to carry with her the bosom-companion which had fortunately conduced to her deliverance. She knew two of her assailants, she repeated: they were men of bad character, who had formerly been employed at her father's station, and who, having been defeated in an atrocious plot, and sent to the barracks at Sydney for punishment, had escaped, and, as bushrangers, were spreading terror around, at all stations within a widespread area.

These explanations, which the circumstances of the case rendered natural, opened the way for other topics of conversation, relating principally to life in the bush. And this, together with the necessary assistance which the stranger had to give to the disabled man, whose faintness scarcely permitted him to keep the saddle, brought them to Sedley Station, where it was arranged that the traveller should lodge, at any rate till the following morning.

Our readers will have known from the first that the bush traveller in the scene just described was none other than the Walter Wilson of the early part of our narrative. Arriving at Sydney with sufficient means to equip himself, as we have narrated, and learning there that a good chance of getting on in the colony presented itself in joining the band of adventurers who were pushing their way into the interior, he had not hesitated in proceeding in the direction in which they were likely to be found. It was otherwise determined for him, however, that he should stop short in an expedition which eventually proved to be a failure, attended with much physical suffering and some loss of life to those concerned in it.

New as Walter was to bush life, he was not sorry to find himself between clean sheets in a tolerably comfortable chamber, instead of having to roll himself up in his poncho on the bare ground, and under a canopy of sky, as he had anticipated. And we may suppose that his rest that night was as free from unquiet thoughts as it was untroubled by actual alarms. In other words, he slept soundly, and it was not till broad daylight, streamed in upon him in his resting-place that he opened his eyes wonderingly, and then, when he had collected his senses, sprang from his comfortable couch.

On entering the living-room of the log-house, Walter found that the heroine of the preceding evening was not so Amazonian as he had thought her. She was, in fact, so unnerved, he was told, as to be unable to make her appearance at the breakfast-table. Also, he was concerned to hear that the wounded man was in a more critical state than had been suspected. The weapon had not indeed penetrated to any vital part, so as to make the stab immediately fatal; but the internal bleeding had been considerable, and the man was consequently so weakened and faint, and evidently in so critical a state, as to make it necessary to despatch a messenger for surgical assistance.

All this was told to Walter Wilson by the infirm and easily alarmed host, who supplemented the recital of his troubles by inviting the stranger to remain at the station for at least a few days.

We have already intimated that Wilson had received a somewhat unfavourable impression concerning the owner of this station—principally, however, turning on his suspiciousness and want of hospitality to chance travellers. And it may be understood that the circumstances under which the greater part of his family had been swept off, might have accounted for his unwillingness to entertain strangers. On the present occasion, however, this unwillingness had given way to fear of another character; and he so earnestly made his request, that it would have been almost cruel in Wilson to refuse the favour asked. Though, at the same time, he was amused by the evident attempt to give the invitation the appearance of an offered favour.

"You see," said Mr. Sedley, in urging his plea, "the fellows who attacked my daughter are most likely hanging about in the bush not very far-off; and if you should fall into their hands, you will have no mercy shown to you. They are desperate men, as I know full well; and your having interrupted them in their designs of yesterday will have made you a marked man. It will not be safe for you to be travelling alone through the bush for days, and perhaps weeks, to come."

Walter thanked the old colonist for his concern on this account, but added that he was pretty well prepared to defend himself, if attacked. And he showed, what he had not produced on the field of action, one of those formidable tools, not then so common as they have since become—a six-barrelled revolver.

"I carry the lives of six men in my belt, you see, sir," said he, as the old gentleman handled the weapon curiously but cautiously. "I think," he added, "that this gives the odds in my favour against any three such scoundrels as those that were sent to the right-about yesterday—especially as they seemed to have no firearms."

Finding that this argument did not avail him, Mr. Sedley shifted his ground by acknowledging some apprehension that an attack might be made upon the station; "and now that Styles is in his present state, he would be of no use to me. As to myself, you see I am no fighting man; and the labourers about the station would take care not to endanger their lives to save my property nor my life either, even if they should not take part with the scoundrels. And then there is my daughter—"

Wilson cut short this plea by saying that it mattered little to him where he might be; and as to his own safety, or life even, he did not value it much—he had no particular reason to do so. And as he might be of some use where he was, he would remain, at any rate until the danger his host apprehended should have blown over. And so, therefore, it was finally arranged.

In the course of the day, the surgeon arrived and examined the wounded man, who was evidently sinking. The knife, as Styles himself had said, had done its work, and on the following day, it was manifest that he was dying. By this time, Helen Sedley had so far recovered from the effects of her alarm as to be able to resume her active and multiform duties. Among these were those devolving on her as the manager-general of the station; and another, of which I must now write a few words.

It is one of the great drawbacks, and one of the saddest features, properly looked at, of life in the bush (it was so in the days of which I write, and it is so now), that Sunday, with all its spiritual associations, is almost forgotten; it is looked upon, at best (with some exceptions), as a day of rest from physical toil. "God-forsaken" seems to be written on, at least, a large number of the wilderness homes which so-called Christians have planted. The isolated character of the settlements, or stations, or townships, and their distance apart, make it impossible for congregations of families to meet for weekly public worship; and except in those few instances in which the settler is under the influence of strong and abiding religious principle, the Bible is generally neglected, if it is possessed; and even a decent respect for the outward observance of family piety ceases to be paid. This the writer has been given to understand by those who ought to be better informed on the subject than himself. It would give him devout satisfaction to be convinced that the charge, as regards the present race of colonists, is unfounded—that a change for the better has taken place.

In the first years of the Sedleys' emigrant life, they had gradually sunk down from a form of religion, which it had been considered decent to keep up in the old country, to no religion at all in the new. It was not to be wondered at, for the form of godliness without the power is a dead thing, after all.

But when the great trial of which I have spoken fell upon the family, old associations were brought to mind, and new thoughts and feelings sprang up; so that the almost forgotten Bibles (each member of the family had his or her own pocket Bible in England, as a matter of course, and these Bibles were among the books which were taken out to Australia) were brought out from their long repose. This is not the place to tell at large (even if it could be known) how the gracious influences of the Divine Word smoothed the passage to the grave of those who were taken away, or sanctified and softened the grief of those who were left behind. It is enough to say that on the mind of Helen Sedley, at least, a striking change took place, so that from being first of all shocked to think of her own past carelessness and ignorance, she came to the conclusion that the great object of her life should thenceforth be, resting on Divine help, the care of her own soul and that of others.

From this time, she had sought diligently to use the opportunities she had; and, as far as lay in her power, she became not only a learner, but a teacher of Christianity. Showing piety at home, she could recommend it to the few with whom she came into daily contact. With her father's consent, she made a not unsuccessful attempt to initiate what may be called a "Lord's Day Observance Society" on Sedley Station; and she prevailed on the rough human materials around her to yield to the magic influence of her earnest desire to do them good.

We have seen how, in a conversation with the broken-spirited Styles, she had reminded him of the great Burden-bearer of the sorrowful and distressed; and that these were not words of course, and without meaning to her, he quite well knew. So far, indeed, had her influence extended over this unhappy man, that a kind of chivalrous spirit of devotion to her service had sprung up in his soul, in consequence of which he had not only endured with patience the peculiar hardships of his lot, but had sought and obtained the privilege of being her body-guard, as we have seen, in her periodical excursions to the out-station.

If any of our lady readers think the character I have here briefly sketched of Helen Sedley inconsistent with her not only carrying a pocket-pistol, but of putting it to use, I beg to say that, placed in similar circumstances, the fair impugner, if of sufficient pluck, would probably have been disposed to carry a brace of pistols; and that, in shooting her assailant's knee-cap, instead of sending a bullet through his head, Helen displayed not only admirable presence of mind and sound judgment, but also exercised much Christian charity.

This slight sketch of Helen Sedley, which, if the reader pleases, may be called a parenthesis within a parenthesis, is not only, as the present writer is fain to believe, sufficiently interesting in itself, but it is needful to our story. At any rate, it will make plain why poor Styles (to go back to him) desired in moving terms to see his young mistress, and why Helen, as soon as she knew of this request, passed over the compound to the hut where he lay dying.

It was a wretched sort of habitation for one who, in earlier life, had known not only the comforts but the luxuries of comparative affluence; but it had been reckoned good enough for a convict on ticket-of-leave. Moreover, small and scantily furnished as it was, Styles had shared it with two others whose lower origin and coarser natures, or habits, had added to his consciousness of degradation. But all this was passing away now; and something like a smile of triumph flickered on his pale countenance as the young mistress entered the apartment, or loft, and, seating herself by the couch, placed one of her hands in the pair of his which were outstretched to receive it.

"I would have come sooner, Styles, if I had known you were so bad," she said, gently. "But I only heard just now the doctor's report. They kept it from me till only a few minutes ago. You do not know how sorry I am to feel that we must lose you."

"It is best so, Miss Helen. I told you a while ago that there was not much in life to make me loth to leave it. I would say the same now, only that my poor services to you are over. And it is worth something to think about as long as I lie here, that it was in trying to protect you, I got my hurt. But this is not what I have mostly to say. I want to thank you for all you have done, and for having turned me back from thoughts of hate and vengeance to different and better feelings and wishes."

"I have brought my Bible with me, Styles; would you like me to read a little to you?" Helen whispered falteringly.

"Please do."

"Is there anything I can do for you first? Are you easy? Do you feel pain?"

"The pain is nothing. No, I want nothing. I have done with wants for this world. Please read."

And so the gentle ministrant soothed and comforted the dying man, pointing his weak and feeble faith to Him who came to seek and to save the lost, and who is able to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by Him.