Such is Life

J >> Joseph Furphy >> Such is Life

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"Poor old Rory!" I interposed. "Much excited?"

"Well--no. But there was a look of suspense in his face that was worse.
And his dog--a dog that had run the scent of his horse for hundreds of miles,
all put together--that dog would smell any plain track of the little
stocking-foot, only a few hours old, and would wag his tail, and bark,
to show that he knew whose track it was; and all the time showing the greatest
distress to see Dan in trouble; but it was no use trying to start him
on the scent. They tried three or four other dogs. with just the same
success. But Bob never lost half-a-second over these attempts. He knew.

"Anyway, it was fearful work after that; with the thunderstorm hanging over us.
Bob was continually losing the track; and us circling round and round in front,
sometimes picking it up a little further ahead. But we only made another
half-mile or three-quarters, at the outside--before night was on.
I daresay there might be about twenty-five of us by this time, and eighteen
or twenty horses, and two or three buggies and wagonettes. Some of the chaps
took all the horses to a tank six or eight mile away, and some cleared-off
in desperation to hunt for blackfellows, and the rest of us scattered out
a mile or two ahead of the last track, to listen.

"They had been sending lots of tucker from the station; and before the morning
was grey everyone had breakfast, and was out again. But, do what we would,
it was slow, slow work; and Bob was the only one that could make any show
at all in running the track. Friday morning, of course; and by this time
the little girl had been out for forty-eight hours.

"At nine or ten in the forenoon, when Bob had made about half-amile,
one of the Kulkaroo men came galloping through the scrub from the right,
making for the sound of the bell.

"'Here, Bob!' says he. 'We've found the little girl's billy at the fence
of Peter's paddock, where she crossed. Take this horse. About two mile--
straight out there.'

"I had my horse with me at the time, and I tailed-up Bob to the fence.
He went full tilt, keeping the track that the horse had come, and this fetched
us to where a couple of chaps were standing over a little billy, with a lump
of bread beside it. She had laid them down to get through the fence,
and then went on without them. The lid was still on the billy,
and there was a drop of milk left. The ants had eaten the bread
out of all shape.

"But Bob was through the fence, and bowling down a dusty sheeptrack,
where a couple of fellows had gone before him, and where we could all see
the marks of the little bare feet--for the stockings were off by this time.
But in sixty or eighty yards this pad run into another, covered with
fresh sheep-tracks since the little girl had passed. Nothing for it
but to spread out, and examine the network of pads scattered over the country.
All this time, the weather was holding-up, but there was a grumble of thunder
now and then, and the air was fearfully close.

"At last there was a coo-ee out to the left. Young Broome had found three
plain tracks, about half-a-mile away. We took these for a base, but we didn't
get beyond them. We were circling round for miles, without making
any headway; and so the time passed till about three in the afternoon.
Then up comes Spanker, with his hat lost, and his face cut and bleeding
from the scrub, and his horses in a white lather, and a black lubra sitting
in the back of the buggy, and the Mulppa stock-keeper tearing along in front,
giving him our tracks.

"She was an old, grey-haired lubra, blind of one eye; but she knew
her business, and she was on the job for life or death. She picked-up
the track at a glance, and run it like a bloodhound. We found that
the little girl had n't kept the sheep-pads as we expected. Generally
she went straight till something blocked her; then she'd go straight again,
at another angle. Very rarely--hardly ever--we could see what signs
the lubra was following; but she was all right. Uncivilised, even for
an old lubra. Nobody could yabber with her but Bob; and he kept close to her
all the time. She began to get uneasy as night came on, but there was no help
for it. She went slower and slower, and at last she sat down where she was.
We judged that the little girl had made about seventeen mile to the place
where the lubra got on her track, and we had added something like four to that.
Though, mind you, at this time we were only about twelve or fourteen mile
from Dan's place, and eight or ten mile from the home-station.

"Longest night I ever passed, though it was one of the shortest in the year.
Eyes burning for want of sleep, and could n't bear to lie down for a minute.
Wandering about for miles; listening; hearing something in the scrub;
and finding it was only one of the other chaps, or some sheep. Thunder
and lightning, on and off, all night; even two or three drops of rain,
toward morning. Once I heard the howl of a dingo, and I thought of
the little girl, lying worn-out, half-asleep and half-fainting--far more
helpless than a sheep--and I made up my mind that if she came out safe
I would lead a better life for the future.

"However, between daylight and sunrise--being then about a mile,
or a mile and a half, from the bell--I was riding at a slow walk, listening
and dozing in the saddle, when I heard a far-away call that sounded like
'Dad-dee!'. It seemed to be straight in front of me; and I went for it
like mad. Had n't gone far when Williamson, the narangy, was alongside me.

"'Hear anything?' says I.

"'Yes,' says he. 'Sounded like 'Daddy!' I think it was out here.'

"'I think it was more this way,' says I; and each of us went his own way.

"When I got to where I thought was about the place, I listened again,
and searched round everywhere. The bell was coming that way, and presently
I went to meet it, leading my horse, and still listening. Then another call
came through the stillness of the scrub, faint, but beyond mistake,
'Dad-de-e-e!'. There was n't a trace of terror in the tone; it was just
the voice of a worn-out child, deliberately calling with all her might.
Seemed to be something less than half-a-mile away, but I could n't fix
on the direction; and the scrub was very thick.

"I hurried down to the bell. Everyone there had heard the call,
or fancied they had; but it was out to their right--not in front.
Of course, the lubra would n't leave the track, nor Bob, nor the chap
with the bell; but everyone else was gone--Dan among the rest.
The lubra said something to Bob.

"'Picaninny tumble down here again,' says Bob. 'Getting very weak
on her feet.'

"By-and-by, 'Picaninny plenty tumble down.' It was pitiful; but we knew
that we were close on her at last. By this time, of course, she had been
out for seventy-two hours.

"I stuck to the track, with the lubra and Bob. We could hear some of the chaps
coo-eeing now and again, and calling 'Mary!'"----

"Bad line--bad line," muttered Saunders impatiently.

"Seemed to confuse things, anyway," replied Thompson. "And it was
very doubtful whether the little girl was likely to answer a strange voice.
At last, however, the lubra stopped, and pointed to a sun-bonnet, all dusty,
lying under a spreading hop-bush. She spoke to Bob again.

"'Picaninny sleep here last night,' says Bob. And that was within
a hundred yards of the spot I had made-for after hearing the first call.
I knew it by three or four tall pines, among a mass of pine scrub.
However, the lubra turned off at an angle to the right, and run the track--
not an hour old--toward where we had heard the second call. We were crossing
fresh horse-tracks every few yards; and never two minutes but what somebody
turned-up to ask the news. But to show how little use anything was
except fair tracking, the lubra herself never saw the child till she went
right up to where she was lying between two thick, soft bushes that met
over her, and hid her from sight "----

"Asleep?" I suggested, with a sinking heart.

"No. She had been walking along--less than half-an-hour before--and she had
brushed through between these bushes, to avoid some prickly scrub
on both sides; but there happened to be a bilby-hole close in front,
and she fell in the sort of trough, with her head down the slope; and that was
the end of her long journey. It would have taken a child in fair strength
to get out of the place she was in; and she was played-out to the last ounce.
So her face had sunk down on the loose mould, and she had died
without a struggle.

"Bob snatched her up the instant he caught sight of her, but we all saw
that it was too late. We coo-eed, and the chap with the bell kept it
going steady. Then all hands reckoned that the search was over, and they were
soon collected round the spot.

"Now, that little girl was only five years old; and she had walked nothing less
than twenty-two miles--might be nearer twenty-five."

There was a minute's silence. Personal observation, or trustworthy report,
had made every one of Thompson's audience familiar with such episodes
of new settlement; and, for that very reason, his last remark came
as a confirmation rather than as an over-statement. Nothing is more
astonishing than the distances lost children have been known to traverse.

"How did poor Rory take it?" I asked.

"Dan? Well he took it bad. When he saw her face, he gave one little cry,
like a wounded animal; then he sat down on the bilby-heap, with her
on his knees, wiping the mould out of her mouth, and talking baby to her.

"Not one of us could find a word to say; but in a few minutes we were brought
to ourselves by thunder and lightning in earnest, and the storm was on us
with a roar. And just at this moment Webster of Kulkaroo came up
with the smartest blackfellow in that district.

"We cleared out one of the wagonettes, and filled it with pine leaves,
and laid a blanket over it. And Spanker gently took the child from Dan,
and laid her there, spreading the other half of the blanket over her.
Then he thanked all hands, and made them welcome at the station,
if they liked to come. I went, for one; but Bob went back to Kulkaroo direct,
so I saw no more of him till to-night.

"Poor Dan! He walked behind the wagonette all the way, crying softly,
like a child, and never taking his eyes from the little shape under
the soaking wet blanket. Hard lines for him! He had heard her voice
calling him, not an hour before; and now, if he lived till he was a hundred,
he would never hear it again.

"As soon as we reached the station, I helped Andrews, the storekeeper,
to make the little coffin. Dan would n't have her buried in the station
cemetery; she must be buried in consecrated ground, at Hay. So we boiled
a pot of gas-tar to the quality of pitch, and dipped long strips of wool-bale
in it, and wrapped them tight round the coffin, after the lid was on,
till it was two ply all over, and as hard and close as sheet-iron.
Ay, and by this time more than a dozen blackfellows had rallied-up
to the station.

"Spanker arranged to send a man with the wagonette, to look after the horses
for Dan. The child's mother wanted to go with them, but Dan refused
to allow it, and did so with a harshness that surprised me. In the end,
Spanker sent Ward, one of the narangies. I happened to camp with them
four nights ago, when I was coming down from Kulkaroo, and they were
getting back to Goolumbulla. However," added Thompson, with sublime lowliness
of manner, "that's what I meant by saying that, in some cases, a person's
all the better for being uncivilised. You see, we were nowhere beside Bob,
and Bob was nowhere beside the old lubra."

"Had you much of a yarn with the poor fellow when you met him?" I asked.

"Evening and morning only," replied Thompson, maintaining the fine apathy
due to himself under the circumstances. "I was away all night with
the bullocks, in a certain paddock. Did n't recognise me; but I told him
I had been there; and then he would talk about nothing but the little girl.
Catholic priest in Hay sympathised very strongly with him, he told me,
but could n't read the service over the child, on account of her not being
baptised. So Ward read the service. His people are English Catholics.
Most likely Spanker thought of this when he sent Ward. Dan didn't seem
to be as much cut-up as you'd expect. He was getting uneasy about his paddock;
and he thought Spanker might be at some inconvenience. But that black beard
of his is more than half white already. And--something like me--I never
thought of mentioning this to Bob when he was here. Absence of mind.
Bad habit."

"This Dan has much to be thankful for," remarked Stevenson, with strong feeling
in his voice. "Suppose that thunderstorm had come on a few hours sooner--
what then?"

There was a silence for some minutes.

"Tell you what made me interrupt you, Thompson, when I foun' fault with
singin'-out after lost kids," observed Saunders, at length. "Instigation
o' many a pore little (child) perishin' unknownst. Seen one instance
when I was puttin' up a bit o' fence on Grundle--hundred an' thirty-four
chain an' some links--forty-odd links, if I don't disremember. Top rail
an' six wires. Jist cuttin' off a bend o' the river, to make a handy
cattle-paddick. They'd had it fenced-off with dead-wood, twelve or fifteen
years before; but when they got it purchased they naterally went-in for
a proper fence. An' you can't lick a top rail an' six wires,
with nine-foot panels "----

"You're a bit of an authority on fencin'," remarked Baxter drily.

"Well, as I was sayin'," continued Saunders; "this kid belonged to
a married man, name o' Tom Bracy, that was workin' mates with me. One night
when his missus drafted the lot she made one short; an' she hunted roun',
an' called, an' got excited; an' you couldn't blame the woman. Well,
we hunted all night-me, an' Tom, an' Cunningham, the cove that was engaged
to cart the stuff on-to the line. Decent, straight-forrid chap, Cunningham is,
but a (sheol) of a liar when it shoots him. Course, some o' you fellers
knows him. Meejum-size man, but one o' them hard, wiry, deepchested,
deceivin' fellers. See him slingin' that heavy red-gum stuff about,
as if it was broad palin'. Course, he was on'y three-an' twenty; an' fellers
o' that age don't know their own strenth. His bullocks was fearful low
at the time, on account of a trip he had out to Wilcanniar with flour;
an' that's how he come to take this job "

"Never mind Cunningham; he's dead now," observed Donovan indifferently.

"Well as I was tellin' you," pursued Saunders, "we walked that bend the whole
(adj.) night, singin' out 'Hen-ree! Hen-ree!' an' in the mornin' we was jist
as fur as when we started. Tom, he clears-off to the station before daylight,
to git help; an' by this time I'd come to the conclusion that the kid
must be in the river, or out on the plains. I favoured the river a lot;
but I bethought me o' where this dead-wood fence had bin burnt, to git it out
o' our road, before the grass got dry. So I starts at one end to examine
the line o' soft ashes that divided the bend off o' the plain--an' har'ly
a sign o' traffic across it yet. Had n't went, not fifteen chain,
before I bumps up agen the kid's tracks, plain as A B C, crossin' out towards
the plain. Coo-ees for Cunningham; shows him the tracks; an' the two of us
follers the line o' ashes right to the other end, to see if the tracks
come back. No (adj.) tracks. So we tells the missus; an' she clears-out
for the plain, an' me after her. Cunningham, he collars his horse,
an' out for the plain too. Station chaps turns-up, in ones an' twos;
an' when they seen the tracks, they scattered for the plain too.
Mostly young fellers, on good horses--some o' them good enough to be worth
enterin' for a saddle, or the like o' that. Curious how horses was better
an' cheaper them days nor what they are now. I had a brown mare that time;
got her off of a traveller for three notes; an' you'd pass her by without
lookin' at her; but of all the deceivin' goers you ever come across"----

"No odds about the mare; she's dead long ago," interposed Thompson.

"About two o'clock," continued Saunders cheerfully, "I was dead-beat
an' leg-tired; an' I went back to the tent, to git a bite to eat; an',
comin' back agen, I went roun' to have another look at the tracks.
Now, thinks I, what road would that little (wanderer) be likeliest to head
from here? An' I hitches myself up on a big ole black log that was layin'
about a chain past the tracks, an' I set there for a minit, thinkin'
like (sheol). You would n't call it a big log for the Murray,
or the Lower Goulb'n, but it was a fair-size log for the Murrumbidgee.
I seen some whoppin' redgums in Gippsland too; but the biggest one I ever seen
was on the Goulb'n. Course, when I say 'big,' I mean measurement;
I ain't thinkin' about holler shells, with no timber in 'em. This tree
I'm speakin' about had eleven thousand two hundred an' some odd feet o' timber
in her; an' Jack Hargrave, the feller that cut her"----

"His troubles is over too," murmured Baxter.

"Well, as I was tellin' you, I begun to fancy I could hear the whimper
of a kid, far away. 'Magination, thinks I. Lis'ns fit to break my (adj.)
neck. Hears it agen. Seemed to come from the bank o' the river. Away I goes;
hunts roun'; lis'ns; calls 'Hen-ree!'; lis'ns agen. Not a sound. Couple o'
the station hands happened to come roun', an' I told 'em. Well, after an hour
o' searchin' an' lis'nin', the three of us went back to where I heard
the sound. I hitches myself up on-to the log agen, an' says I:

"'This is the very spot I was,' says I, 'when I heard it.' An' before the word
was out o' my mouth, (verb) me if I did n't hear it agen!

"'There you are!' says I.

"'What the (sheol) are you blatherin' about?' says they.

"'Don't you hear the (adj.) kid?' says I.

"'Oh, that ain't the kid, you (adj.) fool!' says they, lookin' as wise
as Solomon, an' not lettin'-on they could n't hear it. But for an' all,
they parted, an' rode roun' an' roun', as slow as they could crawl,
stoppin' every now an' agen, an' listening for all they was worth; an' me
settin' on the log, puzzlin' my brains. At last I hears another whimper.

"'There you are again!' says I.

"An' one cove, he was stopped close in front o' the butt end o' the log
at the time; an' he jumps off his horse, an' sticks his head in the holler
o' the log, an' lets a oath out of him. Fearful feller to swear, he was.
I disremember his name jis' now; but he'd bin on Grundle ever since he bolted
from his ole man's place, in Bullarook Forest, on account of a lickin'
he got; an' it was hard to best him among sheep; an' now I rec'lect his name
was Dick--Dick--it's jist on the tip o' my (adj.) tongue"----

"No matter hees name," interposed Helsmok; "he have yoined
der graat mayority too."

"Well, as I was sayin'," continued the patient Saunders, "we lis'ned
at the mouth o' the holler, an' heard the kid whinin' inside; an' when we
sung-out to him, he was as quiet as a mouse. An' we struck matches,
an' tried to see him, but he was too fur along, an' the log was a bit crooked;
an' when you got in a couple o' yards, the hole was so small you 'd wonder
how he done it. Anyhow, the two station blokes rode out to pass the word;
an' the most o' the crowd was there in half-an-hour. The kid was a good
thirty foot up the log; an' there was no satisfaction to be got out of him.
He would n't shift; an' by-'n'-by we come to the impression that he could n't
shift; an' at long an' at last we had to chop him out, like a bees' nest.
Turned out after, that the little (stray) had foun' himself out of his
latitude when night come on; an' he'd got gumption enough to set down
where he was, an' wait for mornin'. He'd always bin told to do that,
if he got lost. But by-'n'-by he heard 'Hen-ree! Hen-ree!' boomin' an'
bellerin' back an' forrid across the bend in the dark; an' he thought
the boody-man, an' the bunyip, an' the banshee, an' (sheol) knows what all,
was after him. So he foun' this holler log, an' he thought he could nt git
fur enough into it. He was about seven year old then; an' that was in '71--
the year after the big flood--an' the shearin' was jist about over.
How old would that make him now? Nineteen or twenty. He left his ole man
three year ago, to travel with a sheep-drover, name o' Sep Halliday,
an' he's bin with the same bloke ever since. Mos' likely some o' you chaps
knows this Sep? Stout butt of a feller, with a red baird. Used to mostly take
flocks for truckin' at Deniliquin; but that got too many at it--like
everything else--an' he went out back, Cooper's Creek way, with three thousand
Gunbar yowes, the beginnin' o' las' winter, an' I ain't heard of him since
he crossed at Wilcanniar"----

"No wonder," I observed; "he's gone aloft, like the rest."

There was a pause, broken by Stevenson, in a voice that brought constraint
on us all:

"Bad enough to lose a youngster for a day or two, and find him alive and well;
worse, beyond comparison, when he's found dead; but the most fearful thing
of all is for a youngster to be lost in the bush, and never found, alive
or dead. That's what happened to my brother Eddie, when he was about
eight year old. You must remember it, Thompson?"

"Was n't my father out on the search?" replied Thompson. "Tom's father, too.
You were living on the Upper Campaspe."

"Yes," continued Stevenson, clearing his throat; "I've been thinking over it
every night for these five-and-twenty years, and it seems to me the most likely
thing that could have happened to him was to get jammed in a log,
like that other little chap. Then after five years, or ten years,
or twenty years, the log gets burned, and nobody notices a few little bones,
crumbled among the ashes.

"I was three or four years older than Eddie," he resumed hoarsely "and he
just worshipped me. I had been staying with my uncle in Kyneton for three
months, going to school; and Eddie was lost the day after I came home.
We were out, gathering gum--four of us altogether--about a mile and a half
from home; and I got cross with the poor little fellow, and gave him two
or three hits; and he started home by himself, crying. He turned round
and looked at me, just before he got out of sight among the trees;
and that was the last that was ever seen of him alive or dead. My God!
When I think of that look, it makes me thankful to remember that every day
brings me nearer to the end. The spot where he turned round is in the middle
of a cultivation-paddock now, but I could walk straight to it
in the middle of the darkest night.

"Yes; he started off home, crying. We all went the same way so soon afterward
that I expected every minute to see him on ahead. At last we thought
we must have passed him on the way. No alarm yet, of course; but I was choking
with grief, to think how I'd treated the little chap; so I gave Maggie
and Billy the slip, and went back to meet him. I knew from experience
how glad he would be.

"Ah well! the time that followed is like some horrible dream. He was lost
at about four in the afternoon; and there would be about a dozen people
looking for him, and calling his name, all night. Next day, I daresay
there would be about thirty. Next morning, my father offered £100 reward
for him, dead or alive; and five other men guaranteed £10 each. Next day,
my father's reward was doubled; and five other men put down their names
for another £50. Next day, Government offered £200. So between
genuine sympathy and the chance of making £500, the bush was fairly alive
with people; and everyone within thirty miles was keeping a look-out.

"No use. The search was gradually dropped, till no one was left but my father.
Month after month, he was out every day, wet or dry, and my mother waiting
at home, with a look on her face that frightened us--waiting for the news
he might bring. And, time after time, he took stray bones to the doctor;
but they always turned out to belong to sheep, or kangaroos, or some
other animal. Of course, he neglected the place altogether, and it went
to wreck; and our cattle got lost; and he was always meeting with people
that sympathised with him, and asked him to have a drink--and you can hardly
call him responsible for the rest.

However, on the anniversary of the day that Eddie got lost, my mother
took a dose of laudanum; and that brought things to a head. My father
had borrowed every shilling that the place would carry, to keep up the search;
and there was neither interest nor principal forthcoming, so the mortgagee--
Wesleyan minister, I'm sorry to say--had to sell us off to get his money.
We had three uncles; each of them took one of us youngsters; but they could
do nothing for my father. He hung about the public-houses, getting lower
and lower, till he was found dead in a stable, one cold winter morning.
That was about four years after Eddie was lost."

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