And what of the watchers on South Head? Wal Jessop’s summons had been obeyed, and a small knot of men, and one or two women, stood looking out to sea at the doomed ship.
‘What is she, Wal?’ said one man. ‘Do you know her name?’
‘Not for certain; but I’m afraid it’s the Distant Shore,’ replied Jessop.
‘Captain Manton? I hope not,’ was the reply.
‘She’s helpless,’ said Jessop. ‘There’s no control over that ship. It’s awful! Here we are, and cannot lend a helping hand. No boat could live in such a sea; no man could swim near those rocks.’
They saw the ship lifted upon the top of the waves, and then sink out of sight again. The large vessel was no more to the merciless sea than a mere cork.
‘It will not be many minutes now,’ said Jessop to his wife; and she shuddered, and stepped back from the cliffs. ‘Go home, Mary,’ he said; ‘this is no place for you.’
‘I’ll face it now I’m here,’ she said; ‘the crash will be awful. Can nothing be done to save them?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘We must wait and see what the morning brings forth; the sea may have gone down by then. There’s very little hope that anyone will be saved.’
They crowded dangerously near the edge of the cliffs, and strained their eyes in the direction of the ship.
Suddenly the vessel shot upright under them, deep down below. She was heaved forward with tremendous force on the waves, and then came the crash, which seemed to shake the rock upon which they stood. It was an awful sound, this rending of timbers, the grinding and splitting to pieces of a fine ship, with her living freight, within a few yards of the harbour.
Cries came up from this abyss and made strong men tremble and weep. Cries for help, and they could not help, although there was not a man amongst them but would have risked his life cheerfully had he thought there was the slightest hope of saving those on board.
They heard the ship grinding on the rocks, they heard groans and shrieks, and in a few moments there came an awful stillness. Even the waves seemed awed by this terrible disaster, and there was a lull in the storm. The wind dropped quickly and moaned dismally.
Wal Jessop lay flat down, and, while a man held his legs, peered into the depths below, but he could see nothing but the white foam from the waves. There was not a trace of the vessel, so far as he could make out.
‘We must wait till morning, but it’s weary work,’ he said. ‘Would to God we could do something to help them! They’re beyond help now, I’m afraid. Poor Manton!’
‘Then, you feel sure it’s the Distant Shore?’
‘I have a presentiment it is. She’s due shortly, and Manton always liked to make a quick passage. If it is the Distant Shore, it will be the last trip he will ever make,’ said Jessop.
‘What shall we do as soon as it’s light?’
Wal Jessop was always the man addressed; the others recognised him as the guiding hand in this trouble.
‘We must have ropes ready,’ he said. ‘I’m going down the rocks as soon as it’s light.’
‘No, no,’ said his wife; ‘you must not, Wal. It will mean death to you, and then to me. If the rope broke you would be dashed to pieces. Wait until you can row round through the Heads.’
‘Nay, my lass,’ he said kindly; ‘even if the gale drops, the sea will be too rough for any boat to reach the rocks below. I must go down. There’ll be no danger, with a stout rope and sturdy arms to hold me. Think of it, lass—I might save a life. It’s worth the risk, if only for the chance.’
She knew it would be useless to try and dissuade him; but she determined to remain and watch.
It was weary work waiting for the light to come. Ropes had been procured, and a heavy crowbar driven firmly down.
‘No danger of them breaking,’ said Wal Jessop as he handled the ropes. ‘You must keep the rope well away from the rock as you lower me down; if it frays on a jagged sharp edge it might break.’
At last daylight began to appear, and in these climes there is not long to wait before it is quite light.
As the men looked over the cliffs they could see no sign of any living creature. Spars and timbers had been dashed upon the rocks, and remained there, but they were the only signs of the wreck.
‘If timber can lodge there,’ said Jessop, ‘maybe some poor fellow has managed to be cast up out of reach of the waves. Make ready quickly; we must lose no time.’
The men set to work with a will. The stoutest rope was not long enough to reach to the foot of the rocks, and another long one had to be fastened on. The end was made fast to the iron bar, bags were put along the edge of the cliff to prevent the rope fraying, and, when Wal Jessop had inspected everything, and found all right, he tied the rope round his waist, and stood ready to make the descent. It was a perilous task, for the wind was still high and the face of the rocks dangerous, having so many sharp projections against which he might be knocked as he was lowered down.
He kissed his wife, and bade her think only of the duty he had to perform; and if there was a spice of danger in it, why, so much the better, and the more credit to a man for undertaking it.
‘You ought to be proud I’m going to do it,’ he said; ‘there’s not a man here who does not envy me the job, and would like to take it on himself.’
‘That’s so,’ said one of the men. ‘It’s because we have such respect for your husband that we’re letting him have first turn. If he wants to go down a second time, I reckon there’ll be a dispute about it.’
Wal Jessop crawled to the edge of the rocks, and then, taking a firm hold of the rope, slipped quickly over. Two men held the rope near the edge, the others were behind, and one man stood watching Jessop, giving the signal when to stop and when to lower.
The wind was blowing strong from the sea, and it took Wal Jessop all his time to keep himself clear of the rocks. He dared not push off with his feet because the wind swung him back violently. He was bruised and scratched, and his clothes were torn, when he reached a rock above the level of the waves, and signalled to stop lowering.
‘He’s down,’ said the man giving orders to the others, ‘and in a safe place, too.’
Mary Jessop felt thankful for this, but she would not be at rest until her husband reached the top again.
Wal Jessop unfastened the rope and left it dangling. He then sat down and looked around him. Those above could merely see a small figure contemplating the scene. On all sides there was ample evidence of a wreck, but it seemed to Wal Jessop the vessel had been shattered to atoms.
‘Not much chance of anyone being saved,’ he thought sadly. ‘How could they be dashed against these rocks and live?’
He scrambled along from rock to rock and found very little. A hat or a coat he came across, lodged high up on some projection. There was plenty of timber and odds and ends, but not a sign of any living soul. He searched in one direction, towards the Heads, for about an hour, and then began to make his way in the opposite direction. It was hard work, for the sea was still rough and the wind high, and it was difficult for him to obtain a firm foothold on the slippery slabs and slanting rocks.
He was about to give up his search, when he caught sight of something white lying on a high level piece of rock some distance away.
‘Wonder what that is?’ he thought. ‘A white jacket, or something of the sort, I expect. Anyhow, now I am here, I may as well go and see.’
He scrambled along, and as he neared the object that had attracted his attention, his heart began to beat fast. The white garment he fancied covered a human form. Could it be possible? Had some poor fellow been cast up by the sea on to a ledge of safety? He hurried on, in the hope that after all he might be able to save a human life. What a feeling of exultation comes over a man when he snatches a fellow-creature from the jaws of death! Wal Jessop had saved men’s lives before this time, but he was anxious to save someone from this fearful wreck if possible.
As he struggled on over the uneven rocks, he saw that the ledge upon which the white object lay was out of the reach of the waves. His practised eyes saw at a glance that, if a man had been cast up on to this ledge, he would not be washed back by the receding waves. He reached the foot of the rock, and found it a difficult matter to get up the side. He walked round and found a better foothold on the other side. It was not long before he reached the top, and there he saw a sight that brought tears to his eyes.
Stretched on the rock lay a youth, calm and still—so still that Wal Jessop thought him dead. It was a comely face he looked upon, a face he knew would be fair, indeed, if life still remained to bring back light to the closed eyes. Clasped in the left arm of the youth was a child, and she also lay insensible.
Wal Jessop looked down upon them with great sorrow in his heart.
‘A brave lad this,’ he thought. ‘He must have fought hard to save that little lass—a brave lad, indeed, to risk his life for a little child.’
He stooped over them. He had a flask of brandy in his coat-pocket. He placed his hand on the youth’s heart and felt there was a slight pulsation. He could not resist a loud cry of joy.
‘He’s alive yet!’ he shouted. Then he felt the child’s heart. Yes, it still beat faintly.
‘Both alive!’ he cried. ‘Thank God, they may be saved!’
He forced some brandy into the youth’s mouth, and a few drops he gave to the child. Then he pulled off his coat, wrapped the little girl in it, and began to rub the youth’s limbs and body to try and restore animation.
‘Not a case of half-drowned,’ he said. ‘They’ve been thrown up on to this ledge and stunned. They must have been insensible for some hours. He’s got a nasty cut at the back of his head, and the little one has a big bruise on her temple.’
After rubbing the youth’s hand for some time Wal Jessop saw signs of returning life. The sight gladdened him, and he redoubled his efforts. Presently he heard a faint sigh, the youth’s eyes opened, and he gazed wildly about him as though thinking of and looking for something. In a few minutes he gasped:
‘The child! Little Eva—where——’
‘Safe, my lad. She’s here,’ said Wal Jessop.
A satisfied smile passed over the youth’s face, and he sank again into insensibility.
‘A brave lad,’ muttered Wal Jessop again. ‘Thinks of naught but the saving of that little one.’
A faint cry made him turn his head, and he saw a movement under his coat.
‘The warmth has brought her round,’ he thought. ‘I’ll attend to her first. He won’t come round again yet awhile.’
He took up the girl and she opened her eyes wide.
‘Where is I?’ she lisped. ‘Where’s my daddy and my mammy? Where’s Eddy? Who is you?’ Then, as she caught sight of the sea and the rocks, she began to cry.
‘I’ll take care of you, my lamb,’ said Wal Jessop. ‘Eddy’s asleep—look.’
The girl looked at him and said quickly:
‘No wake him. Eddy very tired. He carried me long way.’
‘Then, I’ll take you home and come back for him,’ said Wal. ‘Give me a kiss, little one.’
She put up her face and he kissed her tenderly. Then he took her up in his arms and carried her as gently as possible over the rocks back towards the rope. Tired and worn out, the child was soon fast asleep.
‘That’s well,’ said Wal Jessop as he hurried on; ‘she’ll not be frightened as we are hauled up. There’ll be something for Mary to do here. We’ve no young one of our own. Perhaps we are to have this one from the sea. We’ll see about it when the lad can tell us all.’
When Wal Jessop reached the rope he gave a loud hallo, and held up the sleeping child. He could hear the ringing cheers from those on the top.
Having made the rope fast and tied the child firmly round the waist, he gave the signal to haul up, and soon reached the top without any mishap.
‘Here, lass, there’s a present for you,’ said Wal, as he laid the sleeping child in his wife’s arms.
Mary Jessop kissed it fondly, and could find no words to express her feelings.
‘There’s a lad down yonder,’ said Wal Jessop. ‘I must go back for him. You take the child home, Mary. I’ll not be long. There’s no danger. It’s a safe trip. I’ve been once, and I know the way. Now, lads, lower me down again, and we’ll soon have the young fellow up here. He’s a fine-looking chap, and I’m glad I’m the one to rescue him. Lower away, boys!’
When Wal Jessop reached Edgar Foster—for it was our hero who had been so miraculously saved from sudden death—he found him sitting with his back to the rock, and gazing out to sea with wistful eyes. Edgar smiled faintly as he approached, and held out his hand, which Wal Jessop seized in a hearty clasp. Edgar began to talk, but Wal Jessop told him not to excite himself, and to leave anything he had to say until they were safe and sound on the top of the rocks.
‘The little one is safe,’ said Wal. ‘It was easy enough to take her up, but it will be more difficult with you, and I shall want you to help me all you can.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Edgar, ‘but I feel very weak. What an awful night it was!’ And he shuddered as he spoke.
‘You’ll be able to tell me about it later on,’ said Wal Jessop. ‘Try and walk a bit; put your arm round my neck, and lean on me heavily.’
Edgar managed to stand on his feet, but he felt so weak he almost fell down again. However, he succeeded in dragging along, with Wal Jessop’s assistance, as far as the dangling rope. Edgar saw how long it was, and said:
‘Will it bear us both? You ought not to run any risk.’
It’s strong enough to hold an elephant,’ said Wal; ‘and there’s plenty of good sturdy fellows on top to haul us up.’
Without further delay he proceeded to make preparations for the ascent. He tied the rope firmly under Edgar’s arms, then made a loop lower down in which he could fix his feet. When Wal had put his feet in the loop, Edgar put his feet on the top of Wal Jessop’s, and, facing each other, they were ready to be hauled up. Wal Jessop also had his arms round Edgar, in case the rope was not sufficient support for him.
‘Do you feel firmly fixed?’ said Wal.
‘Yes,’ replied Edgar; ‘but it will be a stiffish pull for those on the top.’
‘Never you fear!’ said Wal. ‘They’ll manage it. It’s what they have been at all their lives, hauling in ropes either on board or ashore.’
He gave the signal, and they commenced slowly to ascend.
It was with a hearty cheer the men hauled them out of danger, and when Wal Jessop and Edgar stood on the top of the rock the good fellows capered with delight like so many schoolboys. They surrounded Edgar, and were so boisterous in their expressions of goodwill towards him, that Wal Jessop felt he ought to interpose, or else the excitement would be too much for the lad.
‘Hold hard, boys!’ he shouted, forcing them back. ‘This is my prize, and I’m going to carry him off home. A rest will do him good, and we shall hear all about his escape later on.’
‘What ship was it?’ asked one of the men.
‘The Distant Shore,’ said Edgar sadly.
‘And the skipper?’
‘Lost—all lost, I am afraid, but myself and the little one,’ said Edgar.
Good-natured Wal Jessop, wishing to prevent more painful questions, hurried Edgar Foster away from the scene as quickly as he could walk.
‘Where are we going to?’ asked Edgar.
‘My cottage,’ said Wal. ‘The wife has taken the young one, and has probably put her in bed ere this.’
‘You are very kind to us,’ said Edgar.
‘I shouldn’t be much of a man if I didn’t do all I could for you,’ said Wal. ‘I’ll bet you’d have done as much for me.’
‘I should have done my best,’ said Edgar.
‘I know it, lad, and therefore there is all the more pleasure in helping you. Mind the path here, it’s a bit rough and steep,’ said Wal.
When they reached Wal Jessop’s cottage, Edgar felt exhausted, and sank helplessly into the easy-chair Mrs. Jessop placed ready for him. Tears stood in her eyes as she looked at Edgar’s youthful face, and thought of those who would mourn him as lost until they learned the truth.
‘Poor lad!’ she said in a whisper to Wal. ‘He’s worn out, and no wonder. You must get him into bed, and I’ll make something hot for him.’
‘He’ll be best there,’ said Wal. ‘Here goes!’
He lifted Edgar out of the chair, and carried him into a small bedroom. He helped him off with his clothes, such as they were, all ragged and torn, and wrapped him in the blankets. Mrs. Jessop brought him a bowl of beef-tea and bread, and after Edgar had done justice to it, he fell into a sound sleep.
‘Wonder who he is?’ said Mrs. Jessop. ‘He’s a fine lad.’
‘And a brave one,’ said Wal. ‘He’ll sleep a good many hours, I guess. I’ll go up to Sydney by the boat, and give what information I can about the wreck. I’ll hurry back as quickly as possible. If he asks for me, tell him I shall not be long away. Where’s the child?’
Mrs. Jessop, with her finger on her lips to ensure silence, noiselessly opened their bedroom door.
Fast asleep in his own bed Wal Jessop saw the child he had rescued from a cruel death. How calm and peaceful she lay; not a thought of trouble haunted her as she slept! One tiny hand peeped out from the coverlet, and Wal Jessop could not resist covering it with his large hand. The little one returned the pressure, but did not awake.
‘I wish she belonged to us,’ he said to his wife.
‘So do I,’ was her reply. ‘Who knows but what she may do, if she has lost her father and mother?’
‘We shall find out all about them when I return,’ he said. ‘Rest is what they want now, poor things. I’ll bring some clothes back for him. You can get the little one some when you go out. It will be a bit of fresh shopping for you,’ he added with a smile that brought the colour into his wife’s cheeks.
When Wal Jessop reached Sydney, he found everyone in a state of excitement about the wreck, so many different accounts having been given by irresponsible persons. But he did not stay to gratify mere idle curiosity. He went direct to the offices of the Marine Board, and gave all the evidence he could about the wreck of the Distant Shore. His story was listened to with rapt attention, for Wal Jessop was a man who could be depended upon in all he did or said.
At the conclusion of his story, Captain Fife, President of the Board, complimented him upon his bravery, and asked him to bring the youth he had rescued to the offices of the Board as soon as he was in a proper state to give his version of the disaster.
‘By the way, what sort of a lad is he, Jessop?’ asked Captain Fife.
‘If looks go for anything, he’s one of the right sort,’ said Wal; ‘and that he’s brave goes without saying, after what I have told you.’
‘Then, I dare say I can find him something to do,’ said Captain Fife; ‘that is, I mean, if he has no friends out here to help him.’
‘I’m sure it is very kind of you,’ said Wal. ‘I don’t know who or what he is, at present; but he’s been brought up a cut above me, I guess.’
‘That may be,’ said Captain Fife, smiling; ‘but if he turns out as good a man as Wal Jessop, his father will have reason to be proud of him.’
Wal Jessop’s honest face shone with pleasure at this remark, and he said:
‘If I can be of any use to him, he’s welcome to all I know about Australia.’
‘And that is more than most of us,’ said Captain Fife. ‘He is in good hands, at any rate. Bring him here as soon as you can.’
Wal Jessop made the best of his way home. He avoided the busy shipping quarters, but was waylaid by several of his acquaintances, who knew he could tell them more about the wreck than anyone. The pressmen were also on his track, and, in order to quiet them, Wal Jessop gave them a short account of what had occurred.
‘It’s not all I know,’ he said at the conclusion of his remarks; ‘but it is quite enough for you chaps with vivid imaginations to work upon. I reckon, when I read the accounts, they’ll be equal to anything that could have been strung together on the spot. Some of you have fathered stirring yarns on to me before now. Give me a rest this time, and I’ll forgive you.’
‘We can’t let you off so easily, Wal,’ said one pressman. ‘If I don’t get your photo for my paper I shall have to find another shop to work in.’
‘You’ll get no photo from me,’ said Wal. ‘I’m not a particularly good-looking man, but I draw the line at those outrages in your paper, Billy.’
When Wal Jessop arrived home, he found Edgar had just awoke out of a refreshing sleep, for which he felt much better.
‘I have brought you some new clothes,’ said Wal; ‘your garments were rather knocked about with rough usage. How do you feel now, my lad?’
‘Excepting the pain in my head, I am all right,’ said Edgar. ‘It is very good of you to purchase me clothes. I have lost all I had on board the ship. I put a draft in my coat-pocket, but I had to get rid of my coat to save our lives. I must let my father know I am saved, as he will be anxious about me when he hears of the wreck.’
‘I’ll send a cablegram,’ said Wal. ‘We can manage to advance you cash enough,’ he added, smiling. ‘Now put on your clothes and come and have a chat with the lassie.’
‘She’s a dear little child,’ said Edgar, ‘and the captain’s daughter.’
‘Poor Manton!’ said Wal; ‘I fancied as much. She’s got the look of her father about her.’
When Edgar appeared in the cosy room, he saw Eva quietly sitting on Mrs. Jessop’s knees. The child cried out, and slipping down, toddled towards him, holding out both hands.
Edgar clasped her in his arms and kissed her fondly.
‘Poor little Eva,’ he said. ‘I promised to save you if I could, and, now I have done so, I will look after you.’
Eva commenced to prattle in her childish way, and asked for her mother.
‘She’s gone a long way off,’ said Edgar. ‘You will stay with me, won’t you, dear?’
‘Yes. Stay till mamma comes back,’ said Eva. ‘Where’s daddy?’
‘Gone with mamma,’ said Edgar. ‘He said you must be a good girl.’
‘Always good girl with Eddy,’ she said, snuggling up against him.
This was more than Mrs. Jessop’s motherly heart could stand, and she beat a hasty retreat.
‘Me go too,’ said Eva; and Edgar let her patter after Mrs. Jessop.
‘Now,’ said Wal Jessop, ‘we may as well introduce ourselves. I’m Pilot Walter Jessop, and am as well known along this coast as a good many sailors.’
‘Edgar Foster is my name,’ said Edgar, who proceeded to relate how it came about he was on board the Distant Shore. He also told Wal Jessop about his school-days and life at home. Wal Jessop was a man who inspired confidence, and Edgar felt it would be good for him to make a friend of the man who had rescued him from a watery grave.
‘We had a splendid passage,’ said Edgar, ‘until we were somewhere off the coast of Tasmania, I believe. It was then the storm commenced to brew, and Captain Manton became anxious. We could not have had a better skipper, and no blame can be attached to him for the loss of the ship. It was a pure accident. The rudder chains snapped at a critical moment, and the ship was not under control. It was a terrible time, and I shall never forget it. Captain Manton asked me to do what I could to save his wife and child, as he had to try and look after the ship and those on board. The last I saw of him he was standing as cool and collected as though sailing calmly into port. What the agony of his mind must have been I fail to imagine. When the crash came I snatched Eva from Mrs. Manton’s arms, and directly afterwards I was hurled against the side of the vessel, and the support almost immediately gave way. I was pitched into the seething waves, with the child in my arms. For a moment I was stunned, but when the dazed feeling passed I caught hold of a floating spar, which I managed to grasp with one hand and to hold Eva with my other arm. The child was insensible from the shock, and luckily for us she did not know what happened.
‘After a few minutes I scrambled on the spar, which was tossed up and down by the waves in a fearful manner. I expected every moment would be my last, and that we should be dashed to pieces on the rocks. How we escaped is really marvellous, and God must have been very near us at that time. One huge wave lifted the spar on to the rocks, and as I felt it roll backwards I slipped off and clung to a jagged edge of rock. Another wave came rushing over us, and must have rolled me higher up the rocks, for I remember nothing more until I saw you bending over me. I can hardly realize I am saved, and can still hear the roar of the waves, and seem to feel the water dashing over me.’
‘When you see the place where you were cast up by the sea,’ said Wal, ‘you will wonder still more that you were not dashed to pieces. I see you are tired now. In the morning we can talk over what is best to be done.’
Edgar Foster accompanied Wal Jessop to Sydney, in order to give evidence before the Marine Board as to the cause of the disaster to the Distant Shore. He found he was the cynosure of all eyes on the ferry-boat, for the morning papers had given a glowing account of his bravery in saving Eva.
Wal Jessop felt proud of the fine lad by his side, who had so quickly recovered from his exertions, and seemed to have almost forgotten the horrors of the wreck in looking at the beautiful scene he now saw for the first time.
As the ferry-boat left the landing-stage at Watson’s Bay, Wal Jessop pointed out the narrow passage through the Heads, and Edgar saw with wondering eyes how near the ill-fated ship had been to the harbour of refuge.
‘If we could only have been driven through that passage instead of on to the rocks,’ said Edgar, ‘we might all have been alive now.’
‘It was a terrible thing to go down so near home,’ said Wal Jessop. ‘This is one of the best and safest harbours in the world.’
‘I have heard a good deal about it,’ said Edgar, smiling, ‘but I am not surprised at the enthusiastic way in which people praise its beauties. All I have heard or read gave me a very faint idea of the reality, which is far beyond any expectation I had formed.’
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ replied Wal Jessop. ‘People at times are apt to consider we “blow” too much about our harbour.’
‘Too much praise cannot be bestowed upon a scene like this,’ said Edgar.
When they arrived at Circular Quay, Wal Jessop took his companion to the Marine Board offices, where he left him, and went to send a cablegram to Edgar’s father.
Edgar gave his account of the wreck in a manner that at once won the respect of Captain Fife and the members of the Board. He modestly put his own courageous conduct in the background, and spoke of Captain Manton in such a manner that it left no doubt upon the minds of his hearers that everything had been done that was possible to save the ship. Edgar’s description of the wreck and the bravery of Wal Jessop was given in a simple, straightforward style.
Captain Fife watched Edgar narrowly, and came to the conclusion he was a lad to be trusted, and also a lad who had received a good education. After the Board meeting he took Edgar into his private office, and asked him what he intended to do.
‘I hardly know at present,’ replied Edgar, ‘but I have no doubt I shall be able to obtain some kind of work until I can look round.’
‘Your name seems familiar to me,’ said Captain Fife.
‘Probably,’ said Edgar, smiling, ‘if you are a lover of cricket.’
Captain Fife jumped up from his chair, and said in astonishment:
‘Surely you are not the son of Robert Foster, who captained the last English eleven against our team at Lord’s?’
‘I am,’ said Edgar, ‘and proud of it.’
‘And well you may be, my lad,’ said Captain Fife. ‘The son of such a sterling, manly cricketer as Robert Foster will not lack friends in Australia. I suppose it is needless to ask if you play?’
‘I am very fond of the game,’ said Edgar, ‘and was captain of my school when I left.’
‘We must give you a trial here,’ said Captain Fife, ‘but in the meantime I must try and find you something to do.’ He thought for a few moments, and then said: ‘How would you like to go up country for a time? I have an interest in a station in the West, and I think you would enjoy the life. It is very quiet, but the change would in itself be a novelty to you.’
‘I should like it immensely,’ said Edgar; ‘I do not care much for a town life.’
‘I believe you lost everything in the wreck?’ said Captain Fife.
‘Yes,’ replied Edgar. ‘Wal Jessop has sent a cablegram to my father, stating I am safe, and also that I lost all, so I have no doubt he will send me out a draft by an early mail to cover expenses. I do not wish to draw upon my father continually, and I came out here to earn my living if possible.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Captain Fife. ‘We have too many young fellows out here who live upon money sent them from home. It is a mistaken kindness, as it causes them to rely upon others instead of themselves, and self-reliance a man must have to get on in this world.’
Edgar was much impressed with what Captain Fife said, and knew it was sound advice he gave.
‘My father always taught me to hold my own,’ said Edgar, ‘and to do what is right. Of course I got into scrapes sometimes at school, but I never shirked the consequences. I fought a lad called Bully Rakes, and beat him, the first week I was at Redbank. I was in the right, and therefore I felt confident of success, although he was a much stronger lad.’
‘So you can box as well as play cricket,’ said Captain Fife, smiling; ‘you’ll get on all right here, I can see. Can you ride well?’
‘Fairly well,’ said Edgar. ‘I followed the hounds during the holidays when I had an opportunity. I should like to have a chance in the cricket-field here.’
‘So you shall,’ said Captain Fife. ‘I will take care your going up country does not injure your prospects in that line. We have a very good team on the station, and you will have plenty of practice to keep your hand in. Some of our best men have been drawn from up country.’
It was decided that Edgar, after a week’s stay in Sydney with Wal Jessop, should go up to Yanda, and try how the life suited him.
‘I will advance you enough money to keep you going,’ said Captain Fife, ‘and you can repay me when you have “knocked up a cheque,” as we say here.’
Edgar left Captain Fife’s office feeling he had been most fortunate. His heart was heavy when he thought of the Distant Shore and those on board who had lost their lives. He could hardly realize, as he walked the streets of Sydney, how near he had been to death, and that only a day or two ago. He met Wal Jessop, and told him what Captain Fife had done.
‘He’s a good sort,’ said Wal—‘a regular out-and-outer. You’ll have a real good time at Yanda. It’s different to many stations, for the hands up there all pull together, and, my eye! don’t they turn out some good sports. Why, Tom Trundle, one of the best fast bowlers we ever had in the New South Wales team, came from Yanda. How he learned to bowl up there, blest if I know! but that he had learned he quickly proved when he tried his hand on the Association Ground. I’ll never forget that match,’ went on Wal, warming to his work, as this was one of his favourite topics. ‘Tommy was picked to play for the country against the town, and the way he made some of the crack players’ stumps fly was a caution. Frank Rarey was a good bat—about our best—but the country chap sent Frank’s middle stump turning summersaults in the air like a clown in a circus. It was as good as a pipe of ‘bacca after a day’s hard graft to see the expression on Frank’s face when he saw that stump fly. He looked at Tom, and he looked at the shattered wicket. Then he walked into the dressing-room and meditated. When the innings was ended Frank went up to Tom and said:
‘“You’re a wonder, Trundle. You’ll have to play for the colony next time.”
‘Sure enough he did,’ added Wal; ‘and bless me if he didn’t come off first pop. He took seven of the Victorian wickets in the very next match we had against that colony.’
‘Something like a triumph,’ said Edgar, who listened to Wal’s recital with all the ardour of a schoolboy. ‘I only hope I may come off as well as he did when I have the luck to play for the colony.’
‘Did Captain Fife say anything about it?’ asked Wal. ‘He’s a rare one for cricket, and, in fact, all sorts of sport.’
‘He said if I went up country it would not prejudice my chance in the cricket-field,’ said Edgar.
‘Nor will it,’ said Wal. ‘It will be far better for you to go up country than remain hanging about town.’
‘I shall have to leave Eva behind until some of Captain Manton’s friends have been communicated with. My father will probably see to that when he learns the news. I must write him a long letter by the next mail, and tell him all about the wreck and how bravely Pilot Jessop acted.’
‘Ay,’ said Wal, with a smile, ‘and if I were you I’d just send him a few papers in order to let him see how well his son behaved. That would only be fair. As for the little lass, she’s welcome to stop with us as long as she’s allowed. It will be a sore trial to my wife to part with her. You see, we have no bairn of our own,’ added Wal, with a wistful sigh.
‘She could not be in better hands,’ said Edgar. ‘I suppose,’ he asked, as a sudden idea occurred to him, ‘there is no possible chance of anyone being saved from the wreck? I mean, do you think it possible anyone could have drifted out to sea on a portion of the wreck and been picked up by a passing boat?’
‘That’s not possible, I think,’ said Wal. ‘No boat left the harbour next day, and the storm was so bad, I hardly think anyone could have lived through it out at sea.’
‘It was just a thought occurred to me,’ said Edgar. ‘I know every search has been made, but one clings to hope, even after all hope has gone.’
Wal Jessop took Edgar round Sydney, and showed him several sights. The more Edgar saw of the city, the more he marvelled at its wondrous growth. He had been taught much at school about the colonies, but he had no idea such vast cities as Sydney lay on the other side of the world. Young though he was, he saw at once how greatly such possessions as Australia must enhance the power and importance of the mother-country. He saw how widespread the influence and example of England was, and every name and building tended to revive some association with the old country.
As he sat in the Botanical Gardens with Wal Jessop, looking over the lovely expanse of harbour before them, and the hills and bays of the opposite shore, he said:
‘It is only a lad’s opinion, but I think we are not taught sufficient about our country’s great possessions abroad when we are at school.’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Wal; ‘but on this side of the world our youngsters are taught more about old England than Australia.’
‘That should not be,’ said Edgar. ‘Every child ought to have a thorough knowledge of his own country, and, from what little I know of it, the history of Australia must be vastly interesting.’
‘It is,’ said Wal, ‘and I have managed to scrape together a good deal about it. The early settlers here had no easy time, but they did well, and laid the foundation of a promising colony upon a lot of bad material. You would hardly think to look at it now that Sydney, a century ago, was a convict settlement of only a few huts, and inhabited by desperate criminals, many of whom were more like fiends than human beings.’
‘There are not many traces of those days left?’ said Edgar questioningly.
‘No,’ said Wal, ‘and it is far better they should be obliterated. Now, in Tasmania you see more of it. You would find Port Arthur a curious old place. It gave me the horrors the first time I saw it.’
They chatted on for some time. Wal Jessop was a good talker, and interested a lad of Edgar’s age. Edgar Foster was a manly boy, not a boy developed into a man before his time by a forcing process, as too often is the case in this age of rapid progress.
On reaching home again, Wal Jessop explained to his wife how Edgar had been received by Captain Fife.
‘You’ll not object to keep the little lass here,’ said Wal, ‘while Edgar goes up country for a few months?’
‘I should like to keep her for my own,’ said Mrs. Jessop. ‘She is a dear child, and will be a joy to our home.’
‘She is a lovable little thing,’ said Edgar, ‘and I am sure will give you no trouble. I do not know whether Captain Manton had any relations in England, but I imagine he had. In any case, we shall hear something before very long. I know I shall leave her in safe hands.’
‘That you may rest assured of,’ said Mrs. Jessop; ‘and I hope you will have a good time up country. Captain Fife has evidently taken a fancy to you, and he’s a man worth knowing.’
‘That he is, Mary,’ said her husband; ‘and many’s the good turn he’s done me.’
‘Which you thoroughly deserved,’ said Edgar, with a smile.
Yanda Station was situated in a wild country, and when Edgar Foster arrived there he thought he had never seen such a dreary spot. Accustomed to the green fields of old England and her charming rural landscapes, Edgar found the barren plains and scraggy trees monotonous. Instead of miles upon miles of green, undulating pasture-land, he saw brown, hard-baked ground, the stunted grass growing in patches, and looking parched and dry for want of water.
Although the first glimpse of Yanda disenchanted Edgar of the ideas he had formed of ‘up-country’ scenes, the reception he met with from the station hands reconciled him to the prospect before him. Captain Fife had written to Benjamin Brody, the manager at Yanda, informing him who Edgar Foster was, and how he had behaved at the wreck of the Distant Shore. He also stated that Edgar was the son of the famous cricketer, Robert Foster. This was quite sufficient to ensure Edgar a hearty reception, and his arrival was quite an event on the station.
Ben Brody was a born colonial, a man accustomed to take the rough with the smooth of life and weld them into an even existence. Brody’s temper was none of the best, but he kept it under control. He was a sober man in the accepted sense of the word; that is, he never took more liquor than he could conveniently carry. There was no better rider at Yanda than Ben Brody, and the toughest buck-jumper generally found he had met his match when Brody got on to his back.
Fearless and determined, he was the very man to manage the somewhat mixed lot of hands on Yanda Station. They had some ‘queer customers’—Brody’s expression—on Yanda. It was a wild country, and far out of the beaten track. The wonder to most people who took the trouble to think about such an outlandish place as Yanda was how it was kept going, for they would never have been so rash as to argue that Yanda paid its way.
But Yanda, thanks to good management, did pay its way, and Captain Fife and others were perfectly satisfied with their investment. Yanda was bought cheap at a time when station property in the far West was going begging, and the installation of Ben Brody as manager had resulted in its turning out a good bargain. Brody was a great believer in sheep, but he had not much faith in cattle on Yanda. The hands firmly believed that Ben Brody had been reared from a very early age upon lean mutton, and that the taste for any other kind of meat was foreign to him.
Ben Brody had a horror of fat sheep. He preferred sheep “all wool,” because wool was worth considerably more than flesh. The slaughtering of a bullock at Yanda was the signal for much joy on the part of the hands. When Ben Brody received the news that Edgar Foster would arrive on a certain day at Yanda, he resolved to duly celebrate the event, just to give the ‘new chum’ a better idea of the country.
‘What’s come over Brody?’ asked Will Henton. ‘He’s actually ordered the slaughtering of a bullock. I am overwhelmed with joy.’
Will Henton was a young fellow who discovered town life too fast for him, so had found his way to Yanda, and turned out a useful man.
‘There’s a new hand coming,’ said Harry Noke. ‘Brody’s told me about him. He’s the young fellow who rescued that little lass at the wreck of the Distant Shore, and he’s a son of Robert Foster the cricketer.’
‘No!’ said Will Henton. ‘You can’t mean it. What a slice of luck! He’s sure to play cricket well, and we’re short of a man or two.’
‘You know the reason of the slaughter now,’ said Harry. ‘I must confess beef will be a change from Brody’s everlasting mutton.’
‘We must give young Foster a good reception,’ said Will.
‘He deserves it,’ said Harry, ‘and he’ll be able to spin us some yarns about the wreck.’
‘Plucky young beggar,’ said Will. ‘I’m open to bet you a trifle he can box.’
‘You’re mad on boxing,’ said Harry. ‘It would be a blessing if some disguised fighting-man came here to knock the conceit out of you.’
The hands at Yanda talked the matter of Edgar’s arrival over, and agreed to make things pleasant for him; occasionally they made matters rather rough for a new hand, until he paid a substantial footing.
So it came about that there was much feasting and rejoicing when Edgar arrived, and he thought them a set of jolly good fellows.
‘The hospitality makes up for the barrenness of the land,’ thought Edgar.
There were a good many blackfellows about Yanda, and they were as keen on the scent of fresh-killed meat as a hound after a fox. Towards night, when the feasting was over, and Ben Brody, Edgar, and several of the hands were sitting on the wide veranda running round the homestead, dusky forms were seen advancing across the open plain.
‘Have you black men about here?’ asked Edgar in some surprise.
‘Thousands of ’em,’ said Brody, without moving a muscle of his face.
Edgar looked at him, smiling, and said:
‘They must be pretty tame if there are thousands of them. I suppose when you first arrived here you brought an army to conquer the country.’
‘We’ll say hundreds,’ said Brody; ‘I must have been thinking of sheep.’
‘Mutton again!’ whispered Will to Harry Noke. ‘He lives on mutton, consequently he thinks of sheep.’
‘How many hundred blacks have you on Yanda?’ said Edgar, who had been somewhat prepared for Ben Brody’s exaggerations by Wal Jessop.
‘Well, really, I couldn’t say for certain,’ replied Brody; ‘I’ve not had ’em mustered lately. When we’ve a bit of spare time I’ll have ’em counted for you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Edgar; ‘it is always interesting to ascertain what likelihood there is of the original inhabitants of a country becoming extinct.’
A roar of laughter greeted Edgar’s reply, and Will Henton said:
‘The young un’s a bit too much for you, Brody. You had better not spin him any of those well-seasoned aboriginal yarns of yours, for I fancy they won’t wash.’
‘You swallowed some of them, anyway,’ said Ben Brody.
‘Merely to oblige you,’ said Will.
Ben Brody glared at him, and then said:
‘Meat is bad for you, Will; I must in future restrict you to a mutton diet.’
‘What are these fellows coming for?’ asked Edgar, as about thirty blacks, including a few females, advanced to within a dozen yards or so of the veranda.
‘They are on the war-path,’ said Will Henton. ‘The slaughtering of a bullock at Yanda is an event of such magnitude that even the natives of the country assemble to give thanks on the occasion.’
‘Never mind his chaff,’ said Ben Brody to Edgar; ‘you will have plenty of it if you remain here very long. Would you care to see these fellows dance, hold a “corroboree” as they call it?’
‘Yes,’ said Edgar, ‘I should very much like to see it.’
‘Then you shall. They have not given us anything in that line lately,’ said Brody.
He called a big, powerful-looking black, and spoke to him, and made signs.
‘I’ve promised them a good square meal if they give us a dance,’ said Brody.
Edgar thought it a wild scene as he looked at the dusky forms in the moonlight. As far as he could see the endless plain stretched out before him. The white, gaunt trees were ghostly and weird, and the hum of many insects was in the air.
In a few minutes Edgar heard a low, crooning sound, which gradually swelled into a hoarse roar, and then, with a loud shout from their leader, the black fellows commenced to dance. They stamped upon the hard ground with bare feet until the sound became like the tramp of soldiers. Having worked themselves up to a proper pitch of excitement, the wild fellows threw their limbs about in the most extraordinary fashion. Some of them leaped high into the air, and the women sat and clapped their hands and beat them on the ground.
The black men whirled their arms, and waved heavy sticks over their heads. Their faces became most repulsive. Most of them had thick, curly black hair, which hung down in shaggy locks. Their noses were big, coarse, and wide, and their cheek-bones high, while their mouths were of great size, and their lips thick.
As Edgar watched them dancing in this strange fashion in the moonlight he thought it was the wildest scene he had ever looked upon.
‘Do they never get tired?’ he asked, as the dance continued, and the efforts of the blacks did not relax.
‘They have great powers of endurance,’ said Ben Brody. ‘You see the big fellow there, to the right? I’ve known him go ninety miles between sunset and sunrise without so much as a halt. They are treacherous fellows, some of them, but Yacka is a cut above the others. He’s a strange fellow. He hails from South Australia, and the blacks around here seem afraid of him. Strange to say, he speaks English well, and is far better looking than the others. My own impression is that there’s a bit of white blood in his veins, although his skin is black. Eh, Yacka, come here!’ he shouted.
The black, who was standing alone looking at the dancers, who were now slowing down, stepped quickly on to the veranda without an effort.
‘This is Yacka,’ said Brody to Edgar, and then turning to the black, he said: ‘A new hand, only arrived to-day. You’ll be able to show him a thing or two about Yanda, I reckon.’
Yacka nodded and, holding out his hand towards Edgar, said:
‘He says true. I know much about this country. Much about other country far off. Ah, you shake my hand! Good fellow! Yacka your friend.’
Edgar had taken the black’s proffered hand, giving it a hearty shake; this he did without a moment’s hesitation.
‘You’ve made friends with Yacka,’ said Brody; ‘that is the way he tests a man. I’ve known fellows come here and refuse to shake hands with Yacka. Not a blessed black in the whole tribe would help the man who declined Yacka’s hand. I dare say it’s quite as clean as a good many white men’s hands.’
‘I like the look of him,’ said Edgar, ‘and how well he talks! Have you ever tried to make him work as a hand on the station?’
‘Bless you, he wouldn’t demean himself to work like these fellows, and if he did they’d buck against it,’ said Brody.
‘Quite right, too,’ said Harry Noke; ‘we don’t want a lot of infernal blacks doing station work; they are good for nothing but thieving and every sort of iniquity.’
‘Perhaps white men have driven them to it,’ said Edgar; ‘I dare say they managed very well before Australia was discovered by Captain Cook.’
‘You cannot make these black fellows understand what civilization means,’ said Brody.
‘Rum,’ grunted a quiet-looking man, who had scarcely spoken during the evening.
‘When Jim Lee offers a remark, which you may have observed is seldom,’ said Brody, ‘it is generally to the point. Undoubtedly rum and civilization go hand in hand where the blacks are concerned. Apart from rum, however, the beggars are too infernally stupid to learn anything.’
‘Yacka seems fairly intelligent,’ said Edgar.
‘I make an exception of Yacka,’ said Ben. ‘He’s sharp enough, and the way he carves emu eggs and boomerangs is a caution. The ideas that chap can put on an emu egg beat creation. But he’s a thorough wild man, although he does talk English well, and has ideas above his fellows. You could no more get Yacka to conform to our idea of civilized behaviour than you could train a monkey to keep out of mischief. Yacka is full of mischief, but it’s a humorous sort of mischief, and does not do much harm.’
‘Yacka’s the only useful black we have around here,’ said Will Henton. ‘He’s a splendid fag in the cricket field, and when he’s extra good we let him handle a bat. He shapes well, too, and I’m inclined to think Yacka might be developed into a decent cricketer. He rides well, and that’s more than the other fellows do; and when he’s handled my gun I’ve seen him make some fair shots. The rummy part of the business is that Yacka won’t be civilized, as Ben says, and you can’t get him to leave the camp.’
Edgar Foster thought a good deal about Yacka that night, and resolved to try and make friends with him, and learn something of his past life, which he felt sure would be interesting.
Edgar Foster, after six months’ experience on Yanda Station, liked the life very much. He was popular with the hands, and Ben Brody had taken to him in a manner that caused men to marvel. It was seldom Brody made a chum of anyone, but he had done so of Edgar, who was young enough to be his son.
It was an intense relief to Edgar when he received letters from his father and sister. They were letters such as might have been expected from them, and the way in which they referred to the terrible loss of the Distant Shore brought tears into Edgar’s eyes. His father enclosed him a draft, and said he was proud of his son, and knew he had risked his life to save Captain Manton’s child. Inquiries had been made in every direction, but no relations had been found to claim little Eva. Captain Manton had not saved much money, and what he had was in the hands of the shipping company to which the Distant Shore belonged.
Robert Foster wrote that he had consulted the chairman of the company, and it had been arranged that if no relation claimed Eva she was to remain in charge of Wal Jessop and his wife, and a sum of money would be paid annually to them. In concluding his letter Robert Foster gave his son good advice, telling him to go on as he had commenced, and to brave dangers if by doing so he could help others.
Doris Foster wrote Edgar a loving letter, in which she gave him the news that Will Brown had sailed for Australia, and also that she had heard Raymond Rakes had turned out badly, and been sent to sea:
‘Will has promised to try and make a small fortune in Australia,’ she wrote, ‘and when he has done so he is to return to England and ask me a certain question which I leave you to guess. Please do not tell him, if you see him, that under any circumstances the answer will be “Yes.” It might make him lazy if he knew the capture was certain. You are a dear, noble, brave brother, and we are very proud of you. I am posting you a Graphic. You will see therein a portrait of a certain young fellow who is styled “The Distant Shore Hero,” which is no more than he deserves. Give little Eva a lot of kisses from me. I long to see the child you saved so splendidly. I am sure Wal Jessop must be a grand man, and his wife a dear, good woman. Please do not marry a black lady, and come home as civilized as when you left.’
Edgar read these letters again and again until Ben Brody said:
‘You are a lucky beggar to have such interesting letters. Those I get are never worth reading twice. They’re mostly about sheep, and the price of wool, and you cannot knock much romance out of those articles.’
Before he had been at Yanda a month, Edgar had shown them how he could bat, and also use his fists; and, much to Will Henton’s surprise, he had found his match with the gloves on.
‘You’re a hard hitter,’ he said to Edgar; ‘no wonder you made Bully Rakes sing small.’
Edgar related many tales about his schooldays, and worked the hands up to a pitch of enthusiasm over the celebrated match with Fairfield.
‘Blest if I don’t feel as though I’d seen it!’ said Ben Brody.
‘Good yarn!’ exclaimed Jim Lee, the silent one.
‘What a brute that Rakes must be,’ said Will Henton. ‘Fancy a fellow going against his own side. You say he’s gone to sea? I hope he won’t come over here; we want none of his sort.’
‘I’d like to meet Will Brown,’ said Ben Brody. ‘Suppose you ask him to come up here and try his luck? He’ll not make a fortune very quick, but it will keep him out of mischief.’
‘I’ll write to his ship in Sydney when she arrives, and ask him,’ said Edgar; ‘I think it would just suit him.’
‘We can always find room for an extra hand or two on Yanda,’ said Brody, with a wink, ‘provided they’re the right sort.’
‘You’ll find Will all right,’ said Edgar.
‘If he comes up to your standard he’ll do,’ replied Brody.
There was not much variety in the life at Yanda, but it was new to Edgar, and he found much to interest him. He had the usual experience with a buck-jumper, and felt the peculiar sensation of being hurled into the air, with no certainty as to where he would come down. This is how Edgar described his first throw from a buck-jumper to his father:
‘You suddenly feel his back arch, and it nearly cuts you in two. Then you discover he has all four legs off the ground at the same time. Finally you are shot into space, much in the same way as you would go if a gigantic catapult propelled you. The sensation is not pleasant, and the knowledge that all your mates are enjoying the undignified manner in which you are unseated adds to the general discomfiture. However, I am a fair rough-rider now, although there’s one horse—“Brody’s buck-jumper,” he’s called—I cannot tackle, and no other man on the place with the exception of Brody himself. There’s a history attached to this animal which you may hear some day. Brody once got him into a horse-box, I believe, and the passengers on the train sent a deputation to the guard at the first stopping-place to have the horse removed. Someone suggested the animal ought to be shot, but Brody’s wrath was so great when he heard this that no further mention was made of it. Anyhow, Brody’s buck-jumper had his own way, as he always has, for the remainder of the journey.’
Yacka the black had taken to Edgar Foster from the moment he took his hand, and during the six months that had passed he was constantly about the homestead asking what he could do for him.
‘Bless me if I don’t think you’ll civilize Yacka in time!’ said Brody. ‘I never knew him come round here so much before. It’s all that handshake did it.’
‘He’s a good fellow, although he is black,’ said Edgar. ‘I’m very fond of Yacka, but I cannot quite make him out. He seems to have something on his mind. I hope he has done nothing very dreadful.’
‘You never know what these black fellows are up to,’ said Brody; ‘but I do not think Yacka is deceitful. Revengeful they all are, and if anyone harmed Yacka or others belonging to him, I believe he would make it particularly warm for him.’
Yacka followed Edgar about with dog-like devotion, and never tired of doing odd jobs for him. Edgar watched the black carve wonderful scenes on emu eggs, and it was extraordinary the faithfulness with which he depicted birds and beasts on these brittle shells.
After taking particular care to carve one egg, Yacka, with a look of fear in his eyes, handed it to Edgar.
‘Why, it’s a cave surrounded by rocks and shrubs,’ said Edgar. ‘Where did you see it? There is nothing at all like that about here.’
‘No,’ said Yacka, ‘long way off. Tramp, tramp, for miles. Lonely desert where no white man ever been—wonderful place. Like to see it?’
The black spoke eagerly, and Edgar saw there was something he had left hidden, which he did not care for him to know.
‘It would be no good going such a long journey, Yacka,’ he replied, ‘because there are no people, and what is to be found when we get there? We might starve on the way, or die from want of water.’
‘Plenty water,’ said Yacka. ‘I know the track; no one else knows it. There!’ he exclaimed, as he smashed the emu egg he had been at so much trouble to carve, ‘no one find it now, not even you.’
‘I should remember the place if I saw it,’ said Edgar. ‘You carve so well, and I am sure what you carved on that egg is true to Nature.’
‘Come with Yacka, and I will show you much,’ said the black. ‘Make you rich—richer than Master Fife, richer than your Queen; but you must go alone with Yacka.’
The black spoke earnestly, and his eyes glistened.
‘I don’t see much chance of making a fortune or finding riches in a desert,’ said Edgar. ‘Where is this wonderful cave that contains so much wealth?’
‘Many miles,’ said Yacka; ‘over Great Desert in Northern Territory. It is not all sand. No white man has been there; but Yacka has, and knows there is grass and water, and food, plenty food.’
‘Are you certain no white man has ever been there?’ asked Edgar.
Yacka hesitated a few moments, and then said:
‘No white man.’
‘And no white woman?’ laughed Edgar, who noticed the stress Yacka laid on man.
Yacka sprang to his feet, and waved his arms about wildly.
‘Come and see!’ he cried. ‘Come to the White Spirit’s Cave! I am the son of Enooma!’
The last word he said in a soft, liquid tone, far different from his usual rather harsh mode of speech; and he lingered over the name with evident fondness.
Edgar became interested, and the spirit of adventure began to stir within him.
‘Who is Enooma?’ he asked, endeavouring to speak the word as Yacka pronounced it.
‘The White Spirit of the Great Desert,’ said Yacka, in a solemn voice. ‘She rests in the cave in the land I came from. She is beautiful and white as clouds; and I am black as the thunder-makers—and her son.’
‘How can that be?’ asked Edgar. ‘Yacka must be mistaken; he cannot be the son of Enooma the White Spirit. How can I trust him if he deceives me?’
The black looked round, and, seeing no one about, said:
‘Yacka speaks true, else how would he know the cave where no white man has been?’
‘Suppose I promise to go with you to the cave,’ said Edgar, ‘how would it be possible for us to go alone?’
‘We have guns,’ said Yacka, relapsing into ordinary speech, ‘and there is much to shoot where I go. We follow tracks through big white man’s country, and cross rivers. I came from there, and can return. Yacka knows a track once he has followed it.’
‘Give me time to think it over,’ said Edgar. ‘I trust you, Yacka, but I have others to think about. I have a good sister, and a kind father, in far-away England, and there will be dangers to encounter on our journey.’
‘Yes,’ assented Yacka, ‘dangers, but we shall not die. The White Spirit will watch over us when she knows we are coming towards her. Enooma rests and waits for us. Speak no words to them,’ he added, and pointed towards the homestead.
‘All you have told me I promise to hold sacred,’ said Edgar.
‘It is good,’ said Yacka, and calmly commenced to carve a snake on one of the boomerangs, which he picked up from the ground where he had thrown them.
Edgar Foster felt he was about to embark upon strange adventures. He knew Yacka was no ordinary black, and Ben Brody had said he believed Yacka had white blood in his veins. Who could this White Spirit Enooma be, whom Yacka called his mother? Could it be possible a white woman had penetrated to the unknown parts of the Northern Territory? If so, how had she reached there? and how could it be that Yacka the black was her son? Probably it was some superstition Yacka had inherited from his tribe.
Edgar pondered over the story of riches Yacka had related. Gold was dug out of the earth in most unlikely places. Barren wastes had been found to teem with the precious metal. The possibilities of the country Edgar felt were not yet known, and in a new and unexplored part of the vast land he was now in what might not happen? He knew he could trust Yacka, but he would have preferred to take a mate with him. Will Brown would be just the one, and if he could persuade Yacka to take Will along with them it would be glorious. He thought over the excuses he could make to Captain Fife and Ben Brody for leaving Yanda. If he stated he was prompted by a love of adventure they would believe him, and it would be the truth. There would be no difficulty in getting away, and no time for returning need be named.
Eagerly Edgar awaited the arrival of Will Brown in order to give Yacka a chance of making friends with him.
In due course Will Brown arrived at Yanda, and he was only too glad to have the opportunity of meeting his chum, Edgar Foster, in the new country to which he had come. As for Edgar, it was with unbounded delight he welcomed Will Brown. They had much to talk about, and it was a source of much joy to Edgar that he could listen to one who had so recently seen those dear to him in the home he loved so well, on the banks of the Thames.
When Edgar made known to Ben Brody his intention of leaving Yanda for a time in search of adventures, the manager evinced no surprise.
‘I didn’t expect you would be here long,’ he said. ‘Young ‘uns like to roam, and I don’t blame you. I’ve had enough wandering about to last me a lifetime, and I’m settled for good here, so long as they will have me. I shall be sorry to lose you, and I wish you had chosen to remain. You have picked a good guide in Yacka. What that black chap knows is beyond credit. He’s never said where he came from, but if I’m a judge it is somewhere in the region of the MacDonnell Ranges. There are some powerful savage tribes over there, and I’d advise you to steer clear of them, that is, if you get so far; but you are a precious long way from there, you bet.’
‘I do not know where we are going,’ said Edgar; ‘but Yacka has made great promises, and if he fulfils them there will be something to talk about when we return.’
Yacka, with some show of reluctance, agreed to Will Brown accompanying them. He yielded when Edgar said he would not go without Will, for the black was determined Edgar should undertake the journey.
The night before their departure they had a great ‘send off,’ all hands coming into the homestead for the occasion.
The general opinion seemed to be that Edgar and Will were about to follow Yacka purely for the sake of adventure, and the good fellows thought all the better of them for their pluck and spirit.
Ben Brody had given each of them a good horse, and they had the pick of the best guns on the station. Will Henton gave them a revolver each, expressing the hope that they would clear the country of a few blacks.
‘I hope we shall not have to use them for any such purpose,’ said Edgar; ‘but if it comes to a fight we shall be all there.’
‘You are going on a fool’s errand,’ said Harry Noke; ‘much better remain where you are. I would not trust Yacka, or any other blackfellow. It’s like enough he’ll lead you into danger out of pure devilment.’
‘You are wrong,’ said Jim Lee; ‘Yacka’s square.’
‘Jim’s right,’ said Brody. ‘You’re riled, Harry, because you have not pluck enough to go with them. As it is the last night, we must have Yacka in and give him a drink.’
Ben Brody went into the veranda and gave a peculiar whistle, which sounded shrilly on the still night air. In a few minutes Yacka appeared.
‘That’s fetched him,’ said Will Henton; ‘Brody’s a wonder at all sorts of signals. I believe he’s a different call for every man on the place.’
‘Have a drink, Yacka,’ said Ben Brody. ‘What’s it to be, rum or beer?’
Yacka smacked his lips, and said, ‘Beer.’
‘That’s better,’ said Jim Lee; ‘rum’s a curse.’
Yacka drank the beer with evident relish.
‘Like a square meal?’ said Brody.
The black nodded, and Brody helped him plentifully to the remains of the feast.
‘Where are you going to take these youngsters?’ said Ben Brody.
‘Long way,’ replied Yacka. ‘Bring them safe back.’
‘I hope so,’ said Brody. ‘Going in search of the lost tribes?’
Yacka grinned, showing his gleaming teeth.
‘All tribes lost since the white men came,’ he replied.
‘Guess you’re about right there,’ said Brody. ‘Black and white cannot live side by side; one of them’s bound to go, and it’s the black. Now, if they were all like you, Yacka, we could get on well together. Bless me if I don’t believe you are half a white man!’
A peculiar look came into Yacka’s eyes.
‘Think so?’ he said. ‘Black skin, white man’s heart.’
‘Bravo!’ shouted Brody. ‘You shall have another glass for that. Fill up, lads! Here’s to our mates, and a safe journey along with Yacka!’
All hands were becoming hilarious, and began to sing ‘For they are jolly good fellows.’
When the noise subsided, Brody said:
Do you want a horse, Yacka?’
The black shook his head, and slapped his legs.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Brody; ‘your legs will carry you quite as far as any of our station nags. You’ll accept a gun, eh?’
The black sprang to his feet, and said:
‘A gun for my own! Very good, Master Brody; I like a gun.’
‘Then you shall have one,’ said Ben. ‘I know you can shoot.’
Yacka went through a performance of shooting an imaginary object in such a realistic manner that everybody laughed.
It was a merry night, and all slept soundly. In the morning Edgar and Will made a start from Yanda with Yacka, who was on foot, and the black looked the picture of a trained athlete.
Yacka had discarded his ordinary loin-cloth, and wore instead a peculiar arrangement in which he could stow away a variety of articles. He declined to wear any other clothing, and his body shone in the sunlight, and the muscles stood out on his arms, chest, and lower limbs. His curly hair was sufficient protection to his head from the burning sun, and it was in much better condition than the shaggy locks of the blacks who were looking on. Yacka had evidently told the blacks he was leaving Yanda, and they looked as disconsolate as their expressionless faces would permit.
As for Edgar and Will Brown, they were in high spirits, and, mounted on two very fair horses, thoroughly equipped for a journey, they looked a fine pair of young fellows.
‘You’ll strike a station about sundown, I reckon,’ said Ben Brody. ‘They’ll be glad to see you if you say where you hail from, although it makes very little difference about that round here. Take care of yourselves, my lads, and I hope Yacka will bring you back to Yanda soon.’
After hearty handshakes all round, the trio set off amidst cheers and the loud, peculiar cries of the blacks. Ben Brody watched them for a long time, and waved his hat in response to the salutes of Edgar and Will.
‘Lads of mettle, both of ’em,’ said Brody. ‘Such a wild-goose chase as they are on would just have suited me in my young days. Good luck go with you, my lads! You’ll always have a warm corner in Ben Brody’s heart.’
As the homestead they had left behind became fainter and fainter in the distance, Edgar and Will turned round in their saddles and waved a parting salute to Ben Brody, whose figure was just discernible on the veranda.
As the morning wore on, the heat became intense, and in the afternoon it was so hot they decided to camp under the shade of some trees. Towards evening they went on again, and that night slept in the open, with their saddles for pillows and the bare ground for a bed. Had it not been for the constant singing and stinging of the mosquitoes, they would have had a pleasant night, as the air was soft and warm, and they needed no covering.
Yacka stretched himself out near them, and slept like a dog—half awake and ready to spring to his feet at the slightest sound. At daybreak they made a slight meal, and then proceeded on their journey. Yacka went ahead, and at such a pace that the horses often had to break into a canter to keep up with him. They arrived at Bardo Station that night, and met with a hospitable reception.
Charles Brunt, the manager, was rather amused at the idea of a couple of lads going in search of adventure, with a blackfellow as guide and companion. He knew Yacka, and was of the same opinion as Ben Brody, that the black had white blood in his veins.
‘This is a hospitable land, anyhow,’ said Edgar, when they had been away from Yanda for about a fortnight, and had managed, through Yacka’s guidance, to fall in with comfortable quarters almost every night.
As they went on, however, Edgar saw they were gradually getting into a wilder country, and farther away from the beaten track. Yacka said, when questioned, he was taking a short cut, and that he knew the way.
‘Where are you steering for?’ asked Edgar.
‘South Australian border,’ said Yacka. ‘Then we work up to the MacDonnell Ranges, past Alice Springs. You’ll see wild country then, when we get through the ranges.’
‘How long will it take us to reach the ranges?’ asked Will.
‘Long time yet,’ said Yacka. ‘Many miles’ tramp a day. Horses will knock up, but not Yacka, then you have to walk it.’
‘A pleasant prospect,’ said Edgar. ‘We may have to tramp hundreds of miles. However, we are in for it, and we may as well see all Yacka has to show us. I shall be sorely cut up if he has deceived us.’
‘Do you think he would do so?’ asked Will.
‘Not intentionally,’ replied Edgar; ‘but what may appear wonderful to him may be commonplace to us.’
Having got out of the beaten track, they had to rely upon their guns for food. They had an ample supply of ammunition, preferring to load up their horses in this way to carrying provisions. Edgar was a good shot, and seldom missed his mark.
‘We must be careful and not miss,’ he said, ‘for every shot is of importance.’
One afternoon they had an exciting chase after kangaroos, and Edgar and Will thought it excellent sport. Yacka followed the hunt, and when he suddenly vanished, Edgar in a few minutes saw him ahead, waiting for the kangaroos to pass.
‘By Jove! how Yacka can run!’ said Edgar. ‘Look where he is now. He’ll get a kangaroo sure enough, without firing a shot.’
They reined in their horses, and watched him. When the kangaroos found the chase was not so hot, they slackened their speed, and leapt along at a steadier pace. Yacka was concealed behind a huge tree, and as a large kangaroo went past he slipped quickly round and dealt it a terrific blow with a heavy knobstick he carried in his hand. The kangaroo fell down stunned, and with a whoop Edgar and Will rode forward, in case any of the herd should make an attack on Yacka. When they pulled up, they found Yacka had cut the animal’s throat, and was contemplating it with satisfaction.
Will, having dismounted, picked up the stick Yacka had struck the kangaroo with. It was smooth, hard wood, with a notched handle, and gradually swelling larger until, at the end, there was a sharp, smooth knob, which was so heavy it might have been weighted with iron.
‘A formidable weapon,’ he said, holding it out to Edgar.
‘That is a nulla-nulla,’ said Yacka. ‘Crack a man’s skull easily.’
‘What is it weighted with?’ asked Edgar.
‘Nothing,’ said Yacka. ‘Very hard, heavy wood, all smoothed down with sharp stone and rubbed with coarse sand. Never break it. Hard as iron.’
‘Are they used in your tribal wars?’ asked Will.
Yacka nodded and said:
‘Terrible blows from them. Split a man’s head right open. See!’ He took the weapon from Edgar, and with one blow shattered the dead kangaroo’s skull. It split in two, and Yacka scooped out the brains. He then cut off the tail, and said, ‘Have good soup to-night. This fellow make better soup than ox-tail.’
They shook their heads sceptically; the tail did not look very inviting then.
Yacka selected a spot to camp in near a small spring of water. He then proceeded to make a fire, collecting sundry dry pieces of wood and a kind of moss for the purpose. He filled the large ‘billy’ can he carried during the day slung across his back with sundry other articles, and, having skinned the kangaroo’s tail, cut it up into small pieces, and put it in the can.
How he managed to make it so tasty Edgar could not imagine, but it was delicious, and they voted Yacka was right when he said it was better than ox-tail.
‘Yacka’s a capital cook,’ said Will, ‘and the beauty of him is that he wants so little to cook with.’
‘He’d rather surprise some of the modern cooks,’ said Edgar. ‘They appear to contrive to do away with the genuine flavour of everything they cook, and Yacka makes a point of retaining that flavour.’
How they did enjoy this wild life! and, so far, their powers of endurance had not been severely tested.