Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

‘Rank as ever was bottomed!’

‘Seventy-five feet hard delving, and not a colour!’

The speakers were myself, the teller of this story, and my mate, Harry Treloar.

We were sitting on a heap of earth and stones representing a month’s fruitless, dreary labour. The last remark was Harry’s.

‘That makes, I think,’ continued he, ‘as nearly as I can guess, about a dozen of the same species. And people have the cheek to call this a poor man’s diggings!’

‘The prospectors are on good gold,’ I hazard.

‘So are the publicans,’ retorts he, ‘and the speculators, and the storekeepers, and, apparently, everybody but the poor men—ourselves, to wit. This place is evidently for capitalists. We’re nearly “dead-brokers,” as they say out here. Let’s harness up Eclipse and go over to old Yamnibar. We may make a rise there. It’s undignified, I allow, scratching amongst the leavings of other men and other years; dangerous, also, but that’s nothing. And many a good man has had to do the same before us.’

No life can equal that of a digger’s if he be ‘on gold,’ even moderately so; if not, none so weary and heart-breaking.

It’s all very well to talk, as some street-bred novelists do, of ‘hope following every stroke of the pick, making the heaviest toil as nought,’ and all that kind of thing; but when one has been pick-stroking for months without seeing a colour; when one’s boots are sticking together by suasion of string or greenhide; when every meal is eaten on grudged credit; when one works late and early, wet and dry, and all in vain, then hope becomes of that description which maketh the heart sick, very sick, indeed. Treloar was, in general, a regular Mark Tapley and Micawber rolled into one. But for once, fate, so adverse, had proved too much for even his serenely hopeful temper.

He was an Anglo-Indian. Now he is Assistant Commissioner at Bhurtpore, also a C.S.I.; and, when he reads this, will recollect and perhaps sigh for the days when he possessed a liver and an appetite, and was penniless.

Our turnout was rather a curious one. The season was dry, and, feed being scarce, Treloar had concluded that, at such a time, a bullock would be better able to eke out a living than a horse. Therefore, a working bullock drew our tilted cart about the country.

‘You see, my boy,’ said Treloar, when deciding on the purchase, ‘an ox is a beggar that always seems to have something to chew. Turn a horse out where there’s no grass, and he’ll probably go to the deuce before morning. But your ox, now, after a good look around, seeing he’s struck a barren patch, ’ll draw on his reserves, bring up something from somewhere, and start chewing away like one o’clock. That comforts his owner. I vote for the ox. He may be slow, but he generally appears to have enough in his stomach to keep his jaws going; and, in a dry time, that is a distinct advantage.’

So Eclipse was bought, I merely stipulating that Treloar should always drive.

I have an idea, that, after a while, as the old ‘worker’ sauntered along, regarding the perspiring Harry, and his exhortations and exclamations, often in Hindustani, with a mild stare of surprise, as he slowly stooped for a dry tussock, or reached aloft for an overhanging branch, the latter somewhat repented him of his experiment. But he never said so. And, to do him justice, Eclipse was not a bad ‘ox’; and, when he could get nothing better, justified Harry’s expectations by seeming able to chew stones. But his motto was decidedly _festina lente_.

Yamnibar, ‘Old Yamnibar,’ at last. Behind us, on the far inland river, we had left a busy scene of activity. Hurrying crowds of men, the whirr of a thousand windlasses, the swish of countless cradles, and the ceaseless pounding by night and by day of the battery stamps. And now what a contrast!

A wide, trackless valley, covered with grave-like mounds, on which grass grew rankly; with ruined buildings and rotting machinery, and, here and there, pools of stagnant water, whilst the only thing save the sweep of the wind that reached our ears was a distant rhythmical moaning, coming very sadly in that desolate place—the sounding of the sea on the rock-bound coast not far away.

The only signs of life, as Eclipse, pausing now and again, and taking a ruminative survey of the valley, drew us by degrees down the sloping hills, were the buglings of a squad of native companions flying heavily towards the setting sun.

‘What a dismal hole!’ I muttered, as the ‘ox,’ spying some green rushes, bolted at top speed—about a mile an hour—towards them.

‘Let’s try and find a golden one,’ laughed my mercurial friend. ‘Here we have a whole gold-field to ourselves. Just think of it! “Lords of the fowl and the brute”—Eclipse and _Kálee_ and the bralgas. Take the old chap out of the _gharri_, and we’ll pitch our camp.’

I ought to have spoken of _Kálee_ long ago. Indeed, when one comes to think of it, I ought to have called this story after her. But man is an ungrateful animal—worse than most dogs. Not that the great deerhound with the faithful eyes, who might have stepped out of one of Landseer’s pictures, was forgotten—far from it. But for her we should possibly now, both of us, be bundles of dry bones, with all sorts of underground small deer making merry amongst them.

She ought, according to her merits, to hold pride of place here. But she was quiet and unobtrusive as she was faithful and affectionate, whereas Eclipse was nothing of the kind, only a noisy blusterer, thinking of no one but himself. Therefore, as happens so often with us, has he stolen a march on a failing memory for prior recognition. But the ‘ox’ is grass, and _Kálee_ still lives in the great Eastern Empire, and has two servants to wait upon her. _O Dea certe!_

‘Behold!’ said Treloar, as we lay and smoked in the moonlight, after supper, in front of our tent, which we had pitched between the door-posts of what had evidently been a building of some size, but of which they were the sole remains. ‘Behold, my friend, the end of it all! But a few years are passed, and where, now, are the busy thousands that toiled and strove and jostled each other, below there, in earth’s bowels, in the fierce race for gold? Look at it now! Think of the great waves of human hopes and disappointments and joys that have rolled to and fro across this miserable patch of earth! Think of the brave hearts that came hot with the excitement of the quest, and departed broken with the emptiness of it. Also, of those others, who never departed, but lie at rest beneath that yellow clay. Just a little while, in the new-born one, is centred alike the glow of success and the cold chill of failure; all the might of swift fierce endeavour, every passion, good and bad, that convulses our wretched souls. And then, after a brief season, its pristine form defaced and scarred, comes the rotting solitude of the tomb! Why ’tis, in some sort, the story of our corporal life and death!

‘“Over the Mountains of the Moon,
Down the Vale of Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,” the shade replied,
“For there lies El Dorado.”

Behold, my friend, the Valley of the Shadow that has passed, wherein many a bold soul has gone down to Hades, “unhouselled, disappointed, unaneled.” Do their ghosts wander yet, I ask?’

‘O, bother!’ I mutter sleepily. ‘I’m tired. Let’s turn in.’

Fortunately such outbursts were rare. But when the fit came on, I knew too well the uselessness of attempting to stop it.

Awakened towards the small hours by the roarings of Eclipse, triumphantly apprising the world at large that his belly was full, I found the lantern still burning, and could see Treloar’s eye ‘in a fine phrenzy rolling,’ as he scribbled rapidly. Years afterwards I read in the _Bombay Pioneer_ ‘How the Night Falls on Yamnibar,’ and thought it passable.

It was anything but pleasant work, this groping about old workings. It was also very dangerous. Many were the close shaves we had of being buried, sometimes alive, at others flattened out.

The soil, for the first twenty or thirty feet, was of a loose, friable description. Thence to the bottom, averaging eighty feet, was ‘standing ground,’ _i.e._, needed no timbering. But, in many cases, the slabbing from the upper parts had rotted away and fallen down, followed by big masses of earth, which blocked up the entrance to the drives where our work lay.

Then after, with great trouble, clearing the bottom, generally yellow pipeclay, and exploring the dark, cramped passages for pillars, we had, before beginning to displace these, to support the roof by artificial ones. Timber had at the time of the rush been plentiful; as a consequence pillars were scarce. Also, the field, having in its prime been a wonderfully rich one, it had been repeatedly fossicked over. This made them scarcer still.

Often after a heavy job of clearing out and heaving-up mullock, water, and slabs, all the time in imminent peril of a ‘fall’ from some part of the shaft, would we discover, on exploring the drives, that they were simply groves of props—not a natural support left standing.

Such a network of holes and burrows as the place was! I can compare it to nothing but a Brobdingnagian rabbit-warren.

The flat had been undermined, claim breaking into claim, until the wonder was that the whole top crust didn’t cave in. In some places this had happened, and one looked down into a dismal chaos of soil, rotten timber, and surface water.

As I have remarked, it was risky work this hunting for the few solitary grains amongst the rotten treasure-husks left by others, especially without a local knowledge of the past, which would have been so invaluable to us. But there came to be, nevertheless, a sort of dreary fascination in it.

We had heard that, on this same field, years after its total abandonment, a two hundred ounce nugget had been found by a solitary fossicker in a pillar left in an old claim.

Very often, I believe, did the picture of that big lump rise before us as we crawled and twisted and wriggled about like a pair of great subterranean yellow eels, not knowing the moment a few odd tons of earth might fall and bury us.

One day an incident rather out of the common befell. Lowering Treloar cautiously down an old shaft to, as usual, make a preliminary survey, I presently heard a splash and a cry of ‘Heave-up!’ Up he came, a regular Laocoon, in the close embraces of a thumping, lively carpet snake, whose frogging ground he had intruded upon.

He had, by luck, got a firm grip of the reptile round the neck, and was not bitten. He was, however, badly scared.

Doubtfully he listened as, while releasing him from the coils, I assured him that the thing was perfectly harmless.

Was I quite certain on this point? he wished to know. Of course I was; and I quoted all the authorities I could think of.

Then, before despatching it, would I let it bite me? As an ardent ophiologist, he took the utmost interest in such a fact, and would like to become as confident as myself of it.

But I pointed out earnestly that this was simply trifling, and that we had no time to spare. Practical demonstration is a very capital thing in many cases. But _ver non semper viret_, and our friend of the curiously-patterned skin might not be _always_ innocuous.

We took three ounces out of a pillar in Snake Shaft. That night, on returning to our camp, we found an old man there. He was the first person we had seen for a month; and so were inclined to be cordial. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the new-comer, except that he had a habit of tightly shutting one eye as he looked at you.

I have called him old because his hair was grey; but he was still a very powerful man, and likely to prove a tough one at close quarters.

‘Come and have some supper, mate,’ said Treloar.

‘Call me Brummy, an’ keep yer dorg orf,’ replied the other, as he poured out a pannikin of tea. ‘I don’t fancy a big beast like yon a-breathin’ inter the back o’ a feller’s neck.’

And, indeed, _Kálee’s_ attentions were marked. She sniffed around and around the new-comer, bristled all her hair up, and carried on a monologue which sounded unpleasant.

‘No,’ he resumed in answer to a question, as Treloar sent _Kálee_ to her kennel. ‘I was never on this here field before. Down about the Lachlan’s my _towri_. Everybody theer knows Brummy. I’m goin’ to do a bit of fossickin’ now I got this far. Ain’t a-thinkin’ o’ interferin’ wi’ you. Surfiss is my dart—roun’ about the old tailin’s and puddlers. Down below’s too risky in a rotten shop like this. I leaves that game to the young ’uns. An’’ (with a sly grin) ‘old Brum does as well as the best on ’em in the long run.’

Soon after this he went away and pitched a ragged fly further along the flat.

Next day, as we were having a smoke and a spell after rigging two new windlass standards, he came up to us, and in a furtive sort of manner, began to try and discover the position of those claims which we had already prospected. Having no motive for concealment, we told him as well as we could, also pointing out most of them from where we sat.

He appeared quite pleased as we finished, and marched off with his old tin dish banging and rattling against the pick on his shoulder.

‘That old man,’ remarked Harry presently, ‘is a dangerous old man. Moreover, he is a liar.’

‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

‘The first,’ he replied, ‘I feel—as _Kálee_ did. Now for the second count in the indictment. Did you not hear him tell us that this was his first visit to Yamnibar? Well, when he asked so carelessly if we had tried the big shaft over yonder—the one where you can see the remains of a horse-whim—and you said that we had not, a momentary gleam of satisfaction passed across his face. We’ll try that hole to-morrow morning. Luckily, our new standards are finished.’

‘Pooh!’ I said. ‘My dear fellow, your legal training has made you too suspicious. The poor old beggar may have an idea of prospecting that very shaft himself.’

‘He probably has,’ replied Treloar quietly. ‘Only don’t forget that he doesn’t like underground work.’

However, my companion had his own way, which, except in such matters as that of the snake-test, he generally did; and next morning saw us fixing our windlass at the summit of the big heap of mullock which towered above its fellows.

We seldom got anything in such claims. They had mostly been worked by rich companies, and every ounce of wash-dirt removed.

It was pretty late by the time we had removed sufficient of the _débris_ from the bottom of the shaft—too late to do more that night.

As we walked over to our camp, we caught a glimpse of ‘Brummy’ following us.

‘He’s been watching,’ said Treloar.

‘Nonsense!’ I replied impatiently. ‘You’re becoming a monomaniac.’

That evening our neighbour came over to our fire; and in consequence _Kálee_, in low threatening communion with herself, had to be put upon the chain.

‘Goin’ to try the big un?’ he asked presently.

‘Yes,’ said Harry; ‘there may be something there. One can never tell.’

‘Not much danger!’ he blurted out. ‘The coves as worked Number One North Rainbow weren’t the chaps to leave much behind ’em. Leastways’—he quickly added, seeing his mistake, ‘so I’ve heerd say.’

Treloar gave me a look which meant ‘How now?’ but neither of us took further notice.

‘I’ve heard tell, too,’ he continued, ‘as that claim’s häänted.’

‘Oh!’ said Treloar airily, and as if in constant association with them, ‘we don’t mind ghosts. It’s the living, not the dead, that force us betimes to keep a sharp look-out.’

‘Well, mates,’ retorted Brummy, rather sulkily, ‘I ain’t quite cunnin’ enuff yet to chew tacks, but I ain’t not altogether a born hidjiot; an’ if anybody was to offer me a thousand poun’ to go down that ’ere shaft, where you got your win’less rigged, an’ up them drives, I wouldn’t do it.’

‘I was down it to-day,’ I remarked, ‘and didn’t notice anything out of the common.’

‘Mebbe not, mebbe not—yet,’ said he. ‘But the yarns I’ve listened to—on the Lachlan, over yander—consarning that ’ere Rainbow claim ’d make your ’air stick up stiff.’

During the night, feeling restless and unable to sleep, I got up and went outside. The weather was very hot, and, for some time, I sat and listened to the faint wash of the sea, longing for a plunge in its cool depths. Suddenly, in the great expanse of gloom, my eyes caught the glimmer of a light. As nearly as I could guess, it was moving slowly towards the shaft we were to descend in the morning.

‘There goes your aged friend,’ said a voice at my shoulder, which made me start with the unexpectedness of it.

‘Too hot and close to sleep,’ explained Treloar. ‘Come out for a breath of air.’

‘Let’s shepherd the old chap, and see what his little game is. Bring the lantern. Needn’t show a light. We know the way well enough. I expect he’s after ghosts.’

As, breathless, we arrived at our windlass, Treloar gave a grunt of disappointment on seeing that everything was exactly as we had left it—rope coiled neatly round the barrel, green-hide bucket hanging over the mouth.

‘It must have been a Jack-o’-lantern,’ said he; ‘or perhaps the old sinner’s gone down some other shaft. Yes, by Jingo! look there!’ he exclaimed, pointing to where, a couple of hundred of yards distant, a flash of light was visible for a moment. ‘He’s gone down the Snake Shaft! Those ladders are as rotten as pears; and he’ll break his wicked old neck if he isn’t careful. I wish him joy of all he’ll find there, even if he gets to the bottom safely. What came we out for to see? Let’s make back.’

It was my turn down next morning, and when I got to the end of the hundred and odd feet of the häänted shaft, I lit my candle, and, at random, entered one of the four roomy drives that had been put in so many long years ago.

So extensively had it been quarried, that I was only obliged to stoop slightly. Not a trace of earthen pillar here. A valuable property this, and a clean-swept one. Travelling warily along, I suddenly stumbled over a ridge of mullock, into what was evidently another drive altogether.

My course, so far, had been downwards. The new tunnel sloped slightly upwards.

Evidently both claims had been driving for a ‘gutter.’ One of them had got to the end of its tether before reaching it. The surface limits of ‘golden holes’ are pretty strictly defined; but roguery, as well as miscalculation, has been known to produce curious effects in adjoining claims. Not that, just then, I bothered myself with any such speculations. I was on the look-out for a lump of that rich water-worn conglomerate which had made Yamnibar, in the days of its youth, the talk of the world. Sitting down to rest a minute, the candlelight fell brightly on the shining steel of a pick.

I had noticed how freshly the earth smelled, and wondered thereat. The pick was fresh too. One could swear that it had not left its owner’s grip five minutes. Without a doubt it had been used to remove the thin curtain of earth between the rival drives.

Looking more closely, fresh knee and footprints were plentiful.

What the deuce did it mean?

Crawling along the new drive, which was much smaller than the Rainbow’s, I at length emerged into a shaft that struck me as familiar.

The ‘Snake,’ or I was a Dutchman!

I knew it by the ladders, for one thing; for another, by a piece of timber at the entrance to the opposite drive—the one in which we had made our three-ounce rise.

I tried the rungs of the rude ladders. Not half so rotten as we had taken them to be. Also covered with fresh earth left by recent boots.

Only fifty feet to the top, and up I went safely enough. Treloar was sitting smoking, with his back towards me as I approached.

I startled him finely when I spoke.

‘This is the hole the old man wants,’ he remarked, after hearing my story. ‘He knew he couldn’t very well get down our rope and climb up it again. But he knew that one of the ‘Snake’ drives ran nearly into one of these. I suspect he must once have been employed in one or other of the claims. Either that, or he’s been fossicking here before. You know we’ve come across plenty of traces of such. Cunning old dodger! But what _can_ he be after? I tell you what. We’ll both go down and try another of the drives. We’ll leave _Kálee_ on top to watch. I’ll bet you she’ll sing out pretty soon.’

I said nothing, for I was beginning to have doubts respecting ‘Brummy’s’ veracity.

This time I lowered Treloar first. Then, whilst he held the rope taut, I slipped comfortably down.

We chose the opposite drive to the one I had explored, and moved in, Treloar leading.

‘Hello!’ said he presently, ‘someone’s been here before us. See, there’s been a good-sized pillar taken out. Why, here’s some of the dirt left yet! And—good God!’ he suddenly exclaimed, ‘what’s this?’

Pushing up alongside him, and holding my candle forward, I saw, lying at full length, a human skeleton. And yet it was not a complete skeleton. Here and there, rags and tatters of flesh, dry and hard as leather, stuck to the frame. A pair of heavy boots, with the ankle bones protruding, lay detached, and remnants of clothing were still visible. But the head was what fixed our gaze, the first horror of the thing over. The fore part of the skull had been smashed completely in. Near by lay a small driving-pick, thickly encrusted as with rust.

‘Neither rats, nor mice, nor snakes did that,’ whispered Treloar, pointing to the awful fracture.

‘Surely,’ I replied, with a shiver, ‘this can’t be the thing old Brummy’s searching for. No wonder he insisted on the place being haunted.’

‘Not that poor valueless shell,’ answered my friend, who was now kneeling, ‘but this! and this! and this!’ holding up, as he spoke, three fine nuggets, whose dull gleam had caught his eye in the heap of loose drift on which the skeleton partially lay.

‘Never!’ I exclaimed. ‘He never would have had the pluck to face back again if _that_ is some of his work.’

‘If it is,’ said Treloar, quickly springing to his feet, thereby bumping the roof with his head, ‘we shall soon hear of it. Back, man! Back for your life! Hark! By G—d! there’s _Kálee_ now. Good dog, hold him!’ as if it were possible for her to hear at that depth.

Pushing and scrambling along, we got to the entrance of the drive, where the muffled sounds resolved themselves in a furious hullaballoo of barks and curses. Then, as we paused for a moment, swish, swish, down came the windlass rope, falling all of a heap. Just as we were on the point of pushing out, what feeble light there was at the bottom changed into total darkness, and, with a terrific smash, a heavy mass fell at our feet. Then silence, broken only by low groans and hoarse fierce growls.

With trembling hands we relit our candles, and saw more distinctly.

Upon the rope coils lay ‘Brummy,’ quite still. Squatted on his breast, the great hound watched him narrowly—so narrowly that her lolling red tongue nearly touched the face of the prostrate man. Blood oozed slowly from his mouth and ears.

With reluctance the dog obeyed her master’s call, and, apparently uninjured, crouched in a corner, panting loudly, while we examined Brummy.

‘_Habet!_’ said Treloar, as we turned him over. ‘Back’s broken! See here’ (producing a loaded revolver from a hip-pocket), ‘the old man meant business. It’s only guessing, mind. But he probably thought we should attempt to escape up the Snake Shaft, and would have shot us off the ladders like magpies. Well done, Goddess _Kálee_. You’ve proved yourself worthy of your name for once, anyhow.’

With a good deal of trouble we got the rope through the drive into the Snake Shaft and on to our windlass again. It had been cut clean off with a tomahawk. We hove the man and the dog up. We let the other thing alone for a while. But the one we had thought dead was still alive, with a little life. As the cool air blew on his face he opened his eyes. It was all he could do. Black, beady eyes, once sharp and piercing, now fast dulling with the death-film. And he lay there and watched me, staring fixedly. It was a bright sunshiny day, the birds were singing cheerily about us, and the wash of the sea was very faint. From the expression on his face I thought he was listening to it. Presently Treloar returned from the camp with some brandy, and poured a spoonful between the clenched teeth.

The spirit revived him a little, and he spoke. He said,—

‘Curse you!’

More brandy, and he spoke again.

‘Is he there yet?’

‘He’s there yet,’ answered Treloar. ‘How long ago was it?’

‘Ten year.’

‘What did you kill him for?’

More brandy; and then, as his eyes brightened, he laughed, actually laughed up at us, saying, in a strong voice,—

‘Why, you fool, for the big lump, o’ coorse! A ’underd an’ eighty ounces! Too big to share, I reckon. I’d a-smashed a dozen men for it in them days, let alone a poor softy like Jim.’

‘There must be thirty or forty ounces down there,’ I remarked. ‘Why didn’t you take that too?’

‘Never you mind,’ he said. ‘I come back for it now. And if it hadn’t been for that theer infernal dorg I’d ha’ had it.’

‘And how about us?’ asked Treloar, as, obeying the look in his eyes, he gave him another drink.

The dying man smiled significantly, but said nothing. There was a long pause, during which Brummy shut his eyes, and breathed stertorously, whilst _Kálee_, drawing herself noiselessly along on her belly, came closer, and looked into his face, but with no anger in her gaze now.

‘There’s one thing I can’t understand,’ said Treloar, in a low voice, ‘and that is how he contrived to get up this shaft again with the gold.’

Quietly as he spoke, Brummy heard him, and muttered—

‘Would ye like to know?’

‘No, no!’ exclaimed Treloar earnestly. ‘We have wasted far too much precious time already in vain talk. Can we do anything to make your mind easier? You know you can’t last much longer. In God’s name try and prepare yourself to meet Him.’

Very slowly came the reply, in short gasps,—

‘I’m easy enough. If I could choke the pair o’ ye by winkin’ I’d do it. I’m gittin’ cold a’ready. But I’m cursin’ ye to mysen all the time. If I kin git back I’ll häänt ye.’

Another long silence, and then he murmured,—

‘Take that dorg away, Jim, or I’ll put the pick into yer! There, you got it now, ole man! Ah, would yer?’

Then the flickering light in the eyes failed altogether, and, I take it, a very defiant, murderous old soul went forth to meet its Maker.

_Kálee_, smelling at the body, sat upon her haunches and wailed loudly and dismally after the manner of her kind, answered from the flat by Eclipse, marvelling at the disturbance of his friend, with sonorous bellowings.

This was the requiem of him as he passed to join the other shades of Yamnibar. Slain by a dog and the cunning of his own hand.

As for the gold that ‘Jim’ had lain by so quietly, and watched so patiently through the years, we never got any of it.

The three nuggets figured in the police-court inquiry, with other things, under the title of ‘Exhibit A.’

That was the last glimpse we had of them.

Departmental red tape enwrapped them so closely that no amount of solicitation could render them visible again—to us.

Easier would it be to draw leviathan from the waters with a bit of twine and a crooked pin than to draw ‘treasure trove’ from the coffers of a treasury—colonial or otherwise.

To this day they are possibly accumulating dust, pigeon-holed with the depositions in the case. But I doubt it, I doubt it.

THE PROTECTION OF THE ‘SPARROWHAWK.’

Many people have their special antipathies. There are instances on record of one fainting at the scent of heliotrope; of another becoming hysterical at the mewing of a cat; and so on, and so on, _ad infinitum_. The Scotch, as a rule, are anything but a nervously susceptible nation, taken either collectively or individually. Nor have I heard that those members of it who follow the sea as a calling are more so than their shorekeeping compatriots.

Still, to the present day, and probably to the day of his departure, John M‘Cracken, retired master mariner, of Aberdeen, becomes signally and powerfully moved by the cry of the domestic duck, rendered universally and approximately as ‘Quack!’ His red face grows redder, his light blue eyes glower menacingly, and his hands open and close nervously, as if longing for some missile wherewith to annihilate the unconscious fowl—or its human imitator.

The _Sparrowhawk_, barque, M‘Cracken master, was chartered to convey returning Chinese passengers from Singapore to Amoy.

I think the regulations as to space, numbers, etc., etc., could not, in those days, have been very strict. Be this as it may, Skipper M‘Cracken filled up until he could fill no more. The ’tween deck was like a freshly-opened sardine tin; on the main deck they lay in double tiers. Many roosted in the tops. The boats on the davits and the long-boat on the skids swarmed with the home-going children of the Flowery Land. The better class, merchants, tradesmen, etc., had secured everything aft, from the captain’s cabin to the steward’s pantry, for which accommodation fabulous sums found their way into the pockets of M‘Cracken and his mates. For’ard, the crew had vacated the forecastle in consideration of sundry handfuls per man of dollars, which they had subsequently discovered to be ‘chop.’

The mild-eyed heathen in his leisure moments had amused himself by punching pellets of good silver out of them, and filling the holes up with lead. From taffrail to bowsprit-heel, from waterways to keelson, the _Sparrowhawk_ seethed and stank with a sweltering mass of yellow humanity. Every soul had a square of matting and a water-jar, also an umbrella. They also all had money—more or less. The fellows aft, with the flowing silk gowns and long finger-nails, owned chests of it, all in silver specie, stowed snugly away in the lazarette. The herd carried their little fortunes, hardly earned by years of incessant toil as _sampan_ men, porters, or what not, in the great border city on the sea, hidden upon their persons.

The vessel looked grotesque to a degree. She was flying light, and towered loftily out of the water. Upon her deck, amidships, rose two big arrangements after the nature of boilers. These were for cooking rice, and were occasionally the scenes of fierce fighting, during which the Europeans would clamber into the rigging, leaving a clear field, and applaud vociferously. They were a harmless people, and fought like sheep-dogs, rarely doing one another much harm.

From the barque’s side protruded curious cage-like structures connected with the sanitary affairs of the multitude. This last lay everywhere, pervaded everything. If you wanted a rope you had to dislodge half-a-dozen grunting, naked bodies. Trimming the yards o’ nights the watches tripped and fell amongst the prostrate ranks.

The passengers, however, bore it all placidly. They had paid M‘Cracken so many dollars per head for a piece of his deck, and the situation of it was quite immaterial. Moreover, were they not homeward bound after years of separation from wives and little ones with fortunes made beyond the sea? Men in such circumstances are apt to be good-tempered. A heavy squall would probably have caused the loss of the _Sparrowhawk_ and all on board. But Captain M‘Cracken took the risk—and the dollars. He slept on an old sail folded across the cuddy skylight. His mattress he had leased along with his state-room to one of the merchants who, he understood, was a convert to Christianity. The wind kept light, with showers at intervals. At the first drop, up would go every umbrella; and, looking from aloft, the sight was a queer one.

On leaving Singapore the skipper had been warned that pirates were still to be met with in Chinese waters, and, short though the passage was, advised to arm, at all events in some sort, his ship and crew. This he did. At a marine store he bought, second-hand, a couple of cannon—three pounders—also several dozen of grape shot. In exchange for a worn mizzen-topsail and the fat saved by the cook (of usage the latter’s perquisite) on the passage out, he procured some old Tower muskets, a few boarding-pikes, and three horse-pistols for his own and his officers’ especial use. These last had flintlocks and mouths like a bell. Thus equipped, he declared himself ready for any piratical attack.

The ship’s agents smiled meaningly, and winked at each other; but, knowing their man, forbore further advice, well recognising the inutility of it. A Scotchman who owns a full half interest in his ship, who hails from Aberdeen, and habitually comes ashore in latitude 0 with a Glengarry cap on, no umbrella, and naked feet, is not a being to stand argument.

One night the moon rose full, and right aft. She rose, too, with a big black spot in her disc that had no right to be there.

There was too much _samshoo_ aboard for a very sharp look-out to be kept for’ard. That native spirit gets into men’s eyes and weakens them. But aft the skipper caught sight of the object.

‘It’ll be a junk, I’m thinkin’!’ he said presently, after working away for a while with his glass; ‘an a muckle ane at that. She’s fetchin’ a breezie wi’ her, whilk’s a comfort.’

Some of the long-nailed aristocrats were lounging about the poop. They needed no glass to make out the approaching vessel. Gathering in a group, they cackled noisily, pointing and gesticulating among themselves.

Then, coming up to the captain, one—it was his Christian friend—plucked him by the arm and uttered laconically, with extended digit, ‘Prat!’

‘Weel, Johnnie,’ replied old M‘Cracken coolly, as he gathered the other’s meaning, ‘pireet, or no pireet, gin he come a wee closer, we’ll just pepper the hide o’ him wi’ cauld airn.’

Without more ado, the Chinaman dived into his cabin and in a minute or two reappeared with a most hideous idol and a bundle of perfumed paper. Placing the thing right under the skipper’s nose, he lit a yard of paper and began to screech an invocation. As of good Presbyterian stock, M‘Cracken was irritated and shocked.

‘Mon, mon,’ he exclaimed, ‘what wad ye be at! Hae ye niver been tauld that a’ graven eemages is an abomination in the sicht o’ the Lord? An’ I thocht ye was a Christian.’ So saying, he seized the joss and flung it far overboard into the silvery water, just rippling under the coming breeze. The worshipper uttered a yell of dismay. But there was no time to lose, and, rushing below, he brought up another god, ten times as hideous as the first one, and, descending to the main deck, aroused the ship with his devotions.

Then arose the sound of a multitude waking in fear—an impressive sound and a catching. Up the open hatchways from the steaming, fœtid ’tween decks they streamed in hundreds, like disturbed ants, with cries of alarm and grief, and strong callings upon their gods. In a minute the ship was alive with lights burning before idols of every description. A thousand half-naked figures crouched cowering from the break of the poop right for’ard. Aft, a handful of rugged Scotch seamen gazed quietly at the black spot over the water. Presently the two little guns were crammed half up to the muzzle with powder and grape, and placed each in a socket cut out for it after leaving Singapore. The remainder of the weapons were, with a stock of ammunition, divided amongst the crew. Hot irons were put in the galley fire; and the skipper, having thus placed his ship in a thorough state of defence, felt complacent, and half-inclined to shorten sail, wait for the pirates to come up, and then give them a lesson. Old seaman though he was, he was a new hand in these Eastern waters.

Confiding his notion to the second mate, who was also carpenter, also sailmaker, a grizzled ancient shellback of much experience and endless voyaging, the other laughed aloud, but not mirthfully.

‘If,’ said he, ‘yon’s a “prat,” as Johnnie there ca’s it, we’ll a’ be meat for the fishes afore the sun’s risen!’

‘Hoots!’ exclaimed the skipper angrily, ‘whaur’s yer pluck, Davie, mon! I didna think ye’d be for showin’ the white feather a’ready, an’ ye a Newburgh lad as weel’s mysel’! What’s a handfu’ o’ naked salvages like yon, in compare wi’ us an’ oor arteelery?’

‘An’ hoo mony men micht she carry yonder, div ye think?’ queried the other, taking a squint at the junk, whose huge oblong sails shone whitely under the moonbeams.

‘Mebbe a score or sae,’ replied M‘Cracken, ‘airmed maistley wi’ spears, an’ skeens, sic, as I’ve been tauld, bein’ their usual weepons.’

The other chuckled hoarsely as he said, ‘If she’s a pireet, she’ll hae at the vera leest a guid twa ’unnered aboord, a’ airmed wi’ muskets an’ swords, forbye things they ca’ gingals, takin’ a sax-ounce ball, to say nothin’ o’ stinkpots an’ ither deviltries. Mon, I’ve seen ’em wi’ guns they cannonies there wadna mak’ rammars for. But if that chap has ony, I doubt we sud ha’ heard frae him ere the noo.

‘I was ance,’ continued he, ‘lyin’ in Hongkong Harbour, when they cut oot the _Cashmere_, a bouncin’ ocean steamer, in the braid daylicht, an’ murthered ivery soul on boord o’ her. Na, na, skipper; let her but get a haud on us, and ye’ll see the deil gang o’er Jock Wabster sure aneuch.’

The skipper listened silently. Then, wetting his finger and holding it up, he said,—

‘Perhaps, after a’, Davie, mon, ye might ’s weel set they t’g’nt stun’s’ls, gin ye can get them up, wi’ sic an awfu’ rabble as is aboot the deck.’

The breeze had died away again. There was only just enough of it to keep the sails full. The fresh canvas, however, sent the _Sparrowhawk_ through the water half a knot faster, and she was beginning to perceptibly leave the junk astern, when suddenly out from her sides flashed a long row of sweeps, under whose impulse she recovered her lost ground very quickly. If there had been any doubt about the character of the stranger, there remained none now; and the uproar, which had partially ceased, arose with tenfold vigour.

Some of the passengers went down into the lazarette and commenced to stow as many dollars as they could about their clothing. Others divided their attention between their idols and the skipper, running frantically from one to the other. Curiously enough the junk appeared satisfied to maintain her distance, although, had she so desired, she could with her sweeps have easily overhauled the barque.

Now, from away on the port hand, where lay the outline of the Chinese coast, black beneath the moon, came a gentle mist hanging low and thick upon the water. As it gradually enveloped the ship, hiding all but close objects from view, she was kept away three or four points. But, presently, with the haze, what wind there was left her, the sails gave a few ominous flaps, and then hung limply down. At this moment a Chinaman, uttering a loud yell of fright, pointed over the starboard quarter. There, close aboard, loomed up a dark mass almost, high as she was, on a level with the _Sparrowhawk’s_ poop-railing. It was the junk.

‘The het poker, quick!’ shouted the captain. Some one brought it and, unheeding the skipper, dabbed it straightway on the touch-hole of the little cannon pointing directly, as it happened, at the pirate.

The powder being damp, fizzed for a minute, and, just as M‘Cracken sung out, ‘More pouther; she’s fluffed ’i the pan!’ with a roar the thing went off. Off and up as well, for it sprung six feet in the air, and descended with a crash into the binnacle.

‘Fetch the ither ane,’ shouted M‘Cracken, ‘an’ gie ’em anither dose i’ the wame. Hear till ’em,’ he continued, as a most extraordinary noise arose from the junk now just abreast of the mizzen-rigging. ‘Hear till ’em scraighin’, the thievin’ heathen pireets. They havena muckle likin’ for sic a med’cin’. It gives them the mirligoes. Pit yer fut on her, Tam Wulson, whiles I send her aff,’ he went on, addressing a sailor, as the other gun was brought over and shipped.

‘Pit yer ain fut on her, captain,’ answered the man. ‘I dinna a’thegither like the notion. She’ll lat oot like ony cuddy, judgin’ frae her mate.’ But the skipper was too excited to argue, and, applying the hot iron, spit—fizzle—bang, and the piece went up, and, this time, clean overboard.

A thousand capering madmen were yelling at the top of their voices on board the _Sparrowhawk_; but high and shrill above even that clamour could be heard the screech from the junk at that last discharge. The fog was still thick around the latter, and the ship’s sails being aback, she was making a stern board towards the enemy, to whom M‘Cracken, exulting, determined to administer a _coup de grâce_.

‘Noo then, a’thegither,’ he cried, and the old muskets and the bell-muzzled pistols roared and kicked and sent a leaden shower somewhere, while, amidst an indescribable medley of yells and cheers, the defeated pirate vanished into the mist.

Someone cried out that she had sunk. But presently the sound of her sweeps could be heard in the distance.

Then the skipper, flushed and elated with victory, snapped his fingers in the second mate’s face, as he exclaimed,—

‘That for yer Chinese pireets, Davie M‘Phairson! Whaurs a’ their muskets an’ gingals an’ sic-like the noo? Gin they had ony, they were ower frichted to make use o’ them I expeck! But,’ growing serious, ‘my name’s nae Sandy M‘Cracken gin I dinna chairge Tam Wulson two pun ten shillin’—whilk is the price o’ her at cost—for lettin’ the wee bit cannonie gang overboord. I tellt him to keep her down wi’ his feet, and he wadna.’

* * * * *

Swatow at last; and the _Sparrowhawk_ surrounded with a thousand _sampans_ whose occupants welcomed their returned friends and relatives by trying to emulate Babel.

M‘Cracken was deified. His cabin could not hold the presents—mostly in kind—that he received. Also, his grateful passengers, having set apart a day for special rejoicing and thanksgiving, returned, and, willy nilly, decorated the _Sparrowhawk_ after the manner of their land with banners and lanterns, and had a high old time on board under the leadership of the convert, who bewailed his backsliding, and privately asked M‘Cracken to baptise him anew.

The story of the fight ran all up and down the seaboard. Hongkong heard of it, or a version of it, and the _Gazette_ published a long story headed in big caps: ‘Another Piratical Outrage.—The _Sparrowhawk_ turns on her Pursuer—Conspicuous Bravery of the Captain and Crew—The Pirate Beaten off with Great Loss.’ Singapore heard it, and the _Straits Times_ followed suit with ‘Four Junks and Terrible Slaughter.’ This latter item, as we shall presently see, being pretty near the mark.

* * * * *

But what cripple is this that, in a couple of days, comes staggering up to the Swatow anchorage with her mat sails full of holes and her decks covered with scarcely dry blood, and whose crew dance and screech a wild defiance at the _Sparrowhawk_ as she passes on to the inner harbour?

Presently off comes a mandarin and a guard of soldiers and hales M‘Cracken ashore, protesting and threatening.

The British Consul is just dead of enteric fever. There is, however, a French one, and in his room the complaint of Sum Kum On, master of the _Delight of the Foaming Seas_, is heard. The tribunal is a mixed one, consisting of two mandarins and the Consul. The first witness called is Sum Kum On. He states that his vessel is a coaster, engaged mostly in the poultry trade. That, on the present trip, he left Kin Fo, a small port four days’ sail from Swatow, laden with a deck cargo of ducks for the Swatow and Chee Foo markets. Had on board one passenger, a wealthy tea-grower of Honan, who, carrying with him many dollars, was naturally nervous, and afraid of pirates. Sighting the big vessel, the tea-grower, now in court, and prepared to give evidence, prayed him (Sum Kum On) to keep close to it for protection from said pirates.

He did so. But in the calm and mist he unwittingly, and without evil intent (being, as their Highnesses could see, only a poor trader) came too near, when to his amazement showers of bullets and great cannon balls tore his sails to pieces; and, but for the coops being piled high on deck, assuredly every soul must have perished.

In spite of explanations and shouts for mercy he was repeatedly fired into, all his cargo killed, sixty new coops of the best bamboo knocked to atoms; one of his crew desperately wounded, his vessel irretrievably damaged. His claim was for five hundred dollars; and he retired, secure in the knowledge that the Heaven-Born Son of the great foreign nation who, that day, with the Twin Lights of Justice, occupied the judgment-seat, would mete out compensation with an unsparing hand.

The dealer gave evidence much to the same effect. Then the wounded sailor, whose scalp had been furrowed by a ball, ghastly with bandages and the gore which he had liberally smeared over his features, told his tale. To wind up with, the unlucky jumping cannon, which had pitched on to the deck of the junk, was produced as evidence of identity. Outside, in piles, lay other witnesses—hundreds of fine fat ducks, stiff and ‘high.’

Around the building the fickle crowd could be heard raging for the blood of the unfortunate M‘Cracken, so lately their hero. The Consul, who spoke English well, was obviously ill at ease. The two mandarins glared sourly at the poor skipper.

‘I think, captain, you’d better pay at once,’ said the Consul. ‘Evidently a most unfortunate mistake has been made; and that is the only way out of it that I can see.’

‘I’ll see him dom’d afore I do!’ exclaimed the skipper. ‘Five hundred dollars! Why, it’s a hundred pun sterlin’ o’ oor money! An’ a’ for a wheen dukes an’ a crackit heid! Na, na! Tell the skirlin’ fule I’ll gie him fifty dollars, and that’s mair than a’ his gear’s worth. I’ll gang to preesin suner than pay as muckle siller as he’s askin’!’

Outside the ‘Children of far Cathay’ could be heard yelling louder than ever for the heart, liver, and entrails of the white devil. The Consul’s face grew graver as he listened to the wounded sailor, just below the open window haranguing the crowd.

‘What’s a’ that claver aboot?’ asked the skipper.

‘They are demanding,’ replied the Consul, ‘that these gentlemen’—indicating the mandarins—‘should have you crucified at once. And, upon my word, captain, if you don’t soon make up your mind, they’ll do it. I am powerless to assist you in any way beyond finding you the money.’

M‘Cracken turned blue. It was like parting with his life, the parting with that hundred pounds. But he could see no escape. As the Consul quickly told him, this was no question of imprisonment, but one of cash down. So he paid; and, presently, followed by a coolie carrying the little cannon, made his way to the boat between lines of grinning soldiery, over whose shoulders the rabble, derisive now, quacked itself hoarse. And amongst the noisiest of them he caught sight of his Christian passenger.

The _Sparrowhawk_ took no freight from Swatow. She sailed for Rangoon speedily; but there it was just as bad. The joke was too good not to circulate. In every eastern port she and her people were greeted with volleys of ‘quacks’ by the native population both on land and water. Legions of imps, black and copper-coloured, and all quacking with might and main, formed the skipper’s retinue if he went ashore anywhere between Yokohama and Bombay.

Native masters of country _wallahs_, lying within hail, would grin, and ask him for the protection of the _Sparrowhawk_ to their next port of call. It became unbearable. India, China and Japan seemed to turn into duck-pens at his approach.

So he took the _Sparrowhawk_ out of those waters altogether, and shortly afterwards gave up the sea. But, although there are no ducks within a mile of his house on the Aythen, there are urchins—Scotch urchins—and he has not perfect peace. The story is too well known.

As for his crew, even yet, if one should, with intent, imitate the cry of that fowl disastrous where two or three of them happen to be foregathered, they will come at you with the weapons nearest.

THE DUKE OF SILVERSHEEN.

_Quæ amissa, salva._

The parlour of the ‘Woolpack’ was full of men in from their stations for ‘Land Court Day.’ A babel of talk was toward—mostly ‘shop.’ ‘Footrot!’ shouted a small energetic looking man, ‘I’ll tell you how I cure my sheep! You boil vinegar, and arsenic, and blue-stone up—No, Polly, I ordered lager. And then—’ ‘Worms,’ my dear fellow, another was saying, ‘You can’t cure ’em! Don’t tell me! You go and make an infernal chemist’s shop of your sheep’s stomach, ruin the wool and constitution; and, after all your trouble, up bobs the little worm serenely as ever.’ ‘Strike,’ came from another corner of the big room. ‘No fear! No strike this year if we hang together like we mean to do. I think we’re pretty right in this district, anyhow. Everybody’s joined, bar M‘Pherson, and he’ll come-to presently. By jingo, here he is! Touch the bell, Bob, and let’s have ’em again.’ As the speaker finished, a burly, grey-whiskered man entered with, in his wake, another person who had evidently been closely pressing his companion with argument and persuasion, for the latter was saying irritably,—

‘Once for a’, I tell ye, no. I’ll nae join. I’ll just stan’ on my ain bottom, an’ employ wha I like. When I want my wool aff, aff it comes; an’ wha takes it aff I dinna care a damn, so it’s taken off to my satisfaction! Will that do ye?’

‘The gospel of selfishness according to M‘Pherson,’ said a voice from out the smoke-clouds. ‘The assessment ’d drive him mad.’ ‘Bang went saxpence!’ sang out someone else, as the Scotch squatter turned angrily round with a dim idea that he was being baited.

But the older men quietened the youngsters who threatened to break bounds.

They still hoped—stubborn and untouchable, except by way of his pocket, though he was—to gain M‘Pherson to the cause.

He was the largest sheepowner in the district, and that was saying a good deal when the smallest shore 40,000. Palkara shed was one of the shearing prizes of the colony, and the A.S.[7] Union officials viewed the defection of its owner with joy.

[Footnote 7: Australian Shearers’.]

‘So I hear you bought the “Duke” down at the sales, Mac?’ said one presently, as the old man, his wrath subsiding, sipped his whisky and water.

‘Ay,’ responded he, ‘it was a stiff price to gie, but I’m no regrettin’ it. He’s a wonnerfu’ fine beast.’

They were sitting with their backs to the open windows, which gave on to a many-seated crowded verandah, and from this came,—

‘That you may lose him before you’ve had him a week, unless you join the Association!’

‘If I do, I’ll join, and ask it to help me find him,’ retorted M‘Pherson angrily into the hot outside night, and would fain have risen and gone in search of the speaker, but that his friend, whose name was Park, a neighbouring squatter, pulled him back, saying,—