From Squire to Squatter: A Tale of the Old Land and the New

Chapter Twenty Four
A New Arrival

Winslow made months of a stay in the Bush, and his services were of great value to the young squatters. The improvements he suggested were many and various, and he was careful to see them carried out.

Dams were made, and huge reservoirs were dug; for, as Winslow said, their trials were all before them, and a droughty season might mean financial ruin to them.

“Nevertheless,” he added one day, addressing Bob, “I feel sure of you; and to prove this I don’t mind knocking down a cheque or two to the tune of a thou or three or five if you want them.

“I’ll take bank interest,” he added, “not a penny more.”

Bob thanked him, and consulted the others that evening. True, Archie’s aristocratic pride popped up every now and then, but it was kept well under by the others.

“Besides, don’t you see, Johnnie,” said Harry, “this isn’t a gift. Winslow is a business man, and he knows well what he is about.”

“And,” added Bob, “the fencing isn’t finished yet. We have all those workmen’s mouths to fill, and the sooner the work is done the better.”

“Then the sheep are to come in a year or so, and it all runs away with money, Johnnie. Our fortunes are to be made. There is money on the ground to be gathered up, and all that Winslow proposes is holding the candle to us till we fill our pockets.”

“It is very kind of him,” said Archie, “but – ”

“Well,” said Bob, “I know where your ‘huts’ will end if you are not careful. You will give offence to Mr Winslow, and he’ll just turn on his heel and never see us again.”

“Do you think so?”

“Think so? Yes, Archie, I’m sure of it. A better-hearted man doesn’t live, rough and all as he is; and he has set his mind to doing the right thing for us all for your sake, lad, and so I say, think twice before you throw cold water over that big, warm heart of his.”

“Well,” said Archie, “when you put it in that light, I can see matters clearly. I wouldn’t offend my good old Uncle Ramsay’s friend for all the world. I’m sorry I ever appeared bluff with him. So you can let him do as he pleases.”

And so Winslow did to a great extent.

Nor do I blame Bob and Harry for accepting his friendly assistance. Better far to be beholden to a private individual, who is both earnest and sincere, than to a money-lending company, who will charge double interest, and make you feel that your soul is not your own.

Better still, I grant you, to wait and work and plod; but this life is almost too short for much waiting, and after all, one half of the world hangs on to the skirts of the other half, and that other half is all the more evenly balanced in consequence.

I would not, however, have my young readers misunderstand me. What I maintain is this, that although a poor man cannot leave this country in the expectation that anybody or any company will be found to advance the needful to set him up in the business of a squatter, still, when he has worked hard for a time, beginning at the lowermost ring of the ladder, and saved enough to get a selection, and a few cattle and sheep, then, if he needs assistance to heave ahead a bit, he will – if everything is right and square – have no difficulty in finding it.

So things went cheerily on at Burley New Farm. And at last Winslow and Etheldene took their departure, promising to come again.

“So far, lads,” said Winslow, as he mounted his horse, “there hasn’t been a hitch nowheres. But mind keep two hands at the wheel.”

Mr Winslow’s grammar was not of the best, and his sentences generally had a smack of the briny about them, which, however, did not detract from their graphicness.

“Tip us your flippers, boys,” he added, “and let us be off. But I’m just as happy as if I were a father to the lot of you.”

Gentleman Craig shook hands with Mr Winslow. He had already helped Etheldene into her saddle.

Archie was standing by her, the bridle of his own nag Tell thrown carelessly over his arm; for good-byes were being said quite a mile from the farm.

“I’ll count the days, Etheldene, till you come again,” said Archie. “The place will not seem the same without you.”

Craig stood respectfully aside till Archie had bade her adieu, then, with his broad hat down by his side, he advanced. He took her hand and kissed it.

“Good-bye, Baby,” he said.

There were tears in Etheldene’s eyes as she rode away. Big Winslow took off his hat, waved it over his head, and gave voice to a splendid specimen of a British cheer, which, I daresay, relieved his feelings as much as it startled the lories. The “boys” were not slow in returning that cheer. Then away rode the Winslows, and presently the grey-stemmed gum trees swallowed them up.

Two whole years passed by. So quickly, too, because they had not been idle years. Quite the reverse of that, for every day brought its own duties with it, and there was always something new to be thought about or done.

One event had taken place which, in Bob’s eyes, eclipsed all the others – a little baby squatter saw the light of day. But I should not have used the word eclipsed. Little “Putty-face,” as Harry most irreverently called her, did not eclipse anything; on the contrary, everything grew brighter on her arrival, and she was hailed queen of the station. The news spread abroad like wildfire, and people came from far and near to look at the wee thing, just as if a baby had never been born in the Bush before.

Findlayson dug the child with his forefinger in the cheek, and nodded and “a-goo-ed” to it, and it smiled back, and slobbered and grinned and jumped. Findlayson then declared it to be the wisest “wee vision o’ a thing the warld ever saw.” Sarah was delighted, so was the nurse – a young sonsy Scotch lass brought to the station on purpose to attend to baby.

“But,” said Findlayson, “what about bapteezin’ the blessed wee vision.”

“Oh,” said Bob, “I’ve thought of that! Craig and I are going to Brisbane with stock, and we’ll import a parson.”

It so happened that a young missionary was on his way to spread the glad tidings among the blacks, and it did not need much coaxing on Bob’s part to get him to make a détour, and spend a week at Burley New Farm. So this was the imported parson.

But being in Brisbane, Bob thought he must import something else, which showed what a mindful father he was.

He had a look round, and a glance in at all the shop windows in Queen Street, finally he entered an emporium that took his fancy.

“Ahem!” said Bob. “I want a few toys.”

“Yes, sir. About what age, sir?”

“The newest and best you have.”

“I didn’t refer to the age of the toys,” said the urbane shopkeeper, with the ghost of a smile in his eye. “I should have said, Toys suitable for what age?”

“For every age,” replied Bob boldly.

The shopkeeper then took the liberty of remarking that his visitor must surely be blessed with a quiverful.

“I’ve only the one little girl,” said Bob. “She fills the book as yet. But, you see, we’re far away in the Bush, and baby will grow out of gum-rings and rattles, won’t she, into dolls and dung-carts? D’ye see? D’ye understand?”

“Perfectly.”

It ended in Bob importing not only the parson in a dray, but a box of toys as big as a sea-chest, and only Bob himself could have told you all that was in it. That box would have stocked a toyshop itself and Harry and Archie had the grandest of fun unpacking it, and both laughed till they had to elevate their arms in the air to get the stitches out of their sides.

The amusing part of it was that innocent Bob had bought such a lot of each species.

A brown paper parcel, for example, was marked “1 gross: gum-rings.”

“That was a job lot,” said Bob, explaining. “I got them at a reduction, as the fellow said. Besides, if she has one in each hand, and another in her mouth, it will keep her out of mischief for a month or two to begin with.”

There was no mistake about it, baby was set up; for a time, at all events.

Not only did visitors – rough and smooth, but mostly rough – come from afar, but letters of congratulation also. Winslow said in a letter that Etheldene was dying to come and see “the vision,” and so was he, though not quite so bad. “Only,” he added, “as soon Eth is finished we’ll both run up. Eth is going to Melbourne to be finished, and I think a year will do the job.”

“Whatever does he mean,” said stalwart Bob, “by finishing Eth, and doing the job?”

“Why, you great big brush turkey,” said Sarah, “he means finishing her edication, in coorse!”

“Oh, I see now!” said Bob. “To be sure; quite right. I say, Sarah, we’ll have to send ‘the vision’ to a slap-up lady’s school one of these days, won’t us?”

“Bob,” replied Sarah severely, “tell that lazy black chap, Jumper, to dig some potatoes.”

“I’m off, Sarah! I’m off!”

Both Harry and Archie had by this time become perfect in all a squatter’s art.

Both had grown hard and hardy, and I am not sure that Harry was not now quite as bold a rider as Archie himself, albeit he was a Cockney born, albeit he had had to rub himself after that first ride of his on Scallowa, the “Eider Duck.”

Well, then, both he and Archie were perfectly au fait at cattle work in all its branches, and only those who have lived on and had some interest in farming have an idea what a vast amount of practical work breeding cattle includes. One has really to be Jack-of-all-trades, and a veterinary surgeon into the bargain. Moreover, if he be master, and not merely foreman, there are books to be kept; so he must be a good accountant, and a good caterer, and always have his weather eye lifting, and keeping a long lookout for probable changes in the markets.

But things had prospered well at Burley New Station. One chief reason of this was that the seasons had been good, and that there was every prospect that the colony of Queensland was to be one of the most respected and favourite in the little island.

For most of his information on the management of sheep, Archie and his companions were indebted to the head stockman, Gentleman Craig. He had indeed been a Godsend, and proved himself a blessing to the station. It is but fair to add that he had sacredly and sternly kept the vow he had registered that night.

He did not deny that it had been difficult for him to do so; in fact he often referred to his own weakness when talking to Archie, whose education made him a great favourite and the constant companion of Craig.

“But you don’t feel any the worse for having completely changed your habits, do you?” said Archie one day.

Craig’s reply was a remarkable one, and one that should be borne in mind by those teetotallers who look upon inebriety as simply a species of moral aberration, and utterly ignore the physiology of the disease.

“To tell you the truth, Mr Broadbent, I am both better and worse. I am better physically; I am in harder, more robust, muscular health; I’m as strong in the arms as a kicking kangaroo. I eat well, I sleep fairly well, and am fit in every way. But I feel as if I had passed through the vale of the shadow of death, and it had left some of its darkness on and in my soul. I feel as if the cure had mentally taken a deal out of me; and when I meet, at Brisbane or other towns, men who offer me drink I feel mean and downcast, because I have to refuse it, and because I dared not even take it as food and medicine. No one can give up habits of life that have become second nature without mental injury, if not bodily. And I’m more and more convinced every month that intemperance is a disease of periodicity, just like gout and rheumatism.”

“You have cravings at certain times, then?”

“Yes; but that isn’t the worst. The worst is that periodically in my dreams I have gone back to my old ways, and think I am living once again in the fool’s paradise of the inebriate; singing wild songs, drinking recklessly, talking recklessly, and looking upon life as but a brief unreality, and upon time as a thing only to be drowned in the wine-cup. Yes, but when I awake from these pleasantly-dreadful dreams, I thank God fervidly I have been but dreaming.”

Archie sighed, and no more was said on the subject.

Letters came from home about once a month, but they came to Archie only. Yet, though Bob had never a friend to write to him from Northumbria, nor Harry one in Whitechapel, the advent of a packet from home gave genuine joy to all hands.

Archie’s letters from home were read first by Archie himself, away out under the shade of a tree as likely as not. Then they were read to his chums, including Sarah and Diana.

Diana was the baby.

But they were not finished with even then. No; for they were hauled out and perused night after night for maybe a week, and then periodically for perhaps another fortnight. There was something new to talk about found in them each time; something suggesting pleasant conversation.

Archie was often even amused at “his dear old dad’s” remarks and advice. He gave as many hints, and planned as many improvements, as though he had been a settler all his life, and knew everything there was any need to know about the soil and the climate.

He believed – i.e., the old Squire believed – that if he were only out among them, he would show even the natives (white men born in the Bush) a thing or two.

Yes, it was amusing; and after filling about ten or twelve closely-written pages on suggested improvements, he was sure to finish up somewhat as follows in the postscript:

“But after all, Archie, my dear boy, you must be very careful in all you do. Never go like a bull at a gate, lad. Don’t forget that I – even I – was not altogether successful at Burley Old Farm.”

“Bless that postscript,” Archie would say; “mother comes in there.”

“Does she now?” Sarah would remark, looking interested.

“Ay, that she does. You see father just writes all he likes first – blows off steam as it were; and mother reads it, and quietly dictates a postscript.”

Then there were Elsie’s letters and Rupert’s, to say nothing of a note from old Kate and a crumpled little enclosure from Branson. Well, in addition to letters, there was always a bundle of papers, every inch of which was read – even the advertisements, and every paragraph of which brought back to Archie and Bob memories of the dear old land they were never likely to forget.

Chapter Twenty Five
The Stream of Life Flows Quietly on

One day a grand gift arrived from England, being nothing less than a couple of splendid Scotch collies and a pair of Skye terriers. They had borne the journey wonderfully well, and set about taking stock, and settling themselves in their new home, at once.

Archie’s pet kangaroo was an object of great curiosity to the Skyes at first. On the very second day of their arrival Bobie and Roup, as they were called, marched up to the kangaroo, and thus addressed him:

“We have both come to the conclusion that you are something that shouldn’t be.”

“Indeed!” said the kangaroo.

“Yes; so we’re going to let the sawdust out of you.”

“Take that then to begin with!” said Mr Kangaroo; and one of the dogs was kicked clean and clear over a fern bush.

They drew off after that with their tails well down. They thought they had made a mistake somehow. A rabbit that could kick like a young colt was best left to his own devices.

The collies never attempted to attack the kangaroo; but when they saw the droll creature hopping solemnly after Archie, one looked at the other, and both seemed to laugh inwardly.

The collies were placed under the charge of Craig to be broken to use, for both were young, and the Skyes became the vermin-killers. They worked in couple, and kept down the rats far more effectually than ever the cats had done. They used to put dingoes to the rout whenever or wherever they saw them; and as sometimes both these game little animals would return of a morning severely bitten about the face and ears, it was evident enough they had gone in for sharp service during the night.

One curious thing about the Skyes was, that they killed snakes, and always came dragging home with the loathsome things. This was very clever and very plucky; nevertheless, a tame laughing jackass that Harry had in a huge cage was to them a pet aversion. Perhaps the bird knew that; for as soon as he saw them he used to give vent to a series of wild, defiant “ha-ha-ha’s” and “hee-hee-hee’s” that would have laid a ghost.

The improvements on that portion of Burley New Farm more immediately adjoining the steading had gone merrily on, and in a year or two, after fencing and clearing the land, a rough style of agriculture was commenced. The ploughs were not very first-class, and the horses were oxen – if I may make an Irish bull. They did the work slowly but well. They had a notion that every now and then they ought to be allowed to go to sleep for five minutes. However, they were easily roused, and just went on again in a dreamy kind of way.

The land did not require much coaxing to send up crops of splendid wheat. It was a new-born joy to Bob and Archie to ride along their paddocks, and see the wind waving over the growing grain, making the whole field look like an inland sea.

“What would your father say to a sight like that?” said Bob one morning while the two were on their rounds.

“He would start subsoiling ploughs and improve it.”

“I don’t know about the improvement, Archie, but I’ve no doubt he would try. But new land needs little improving.”

“Maybe no; but mind you, Bob, father is precious clever, though I don’t hold with all his ways. He’d have steam-ploughs here, and steam-harrows too. He’d cut down the grain to the roots by steam-machines, or he’d have steam-strippers.”

“But you don’t think we should go any faster?”

“Bob, I must confess I like to take big jumps myself. I take after my father in some things, but after my Scottish ancestors in others. For instance, I like to know what lies at the other side of the hedge before I put my horse at it.”

The first crops of wheat that were taken off the lands of Burley New Farm were gathered without much straw. It seemed a waste to burn the latter; but the distance from the railway, and still more from a market-town, made its destruction a necessity.

Nor was it altogether destruction either; for the ashes served as a fertiliser for future crops.

As things got more settled down, and years flew by, the system of working the whole station was greatly improved. Bob and Harry had become quite the home-farmers and agriculturists, while the cattle partially, and the sheep almost wholly, became the care of Archie, with Gentleman Craig as his first officer.

Craig certainly had a long head on his broad shoulders. He did not hesitate from the first to give his opinions as to the management of the station. One thing he assured the three friends of: namely, that the sheep must be sent farther north and west if they were to do well.

“They want higher and dryer ground,” he said; “but you may try them here.”

I think at this time neither Bob nor Archie knew there was anything more deadly to be dreaded than foot-rot, which the constant attention of the shepherds, and a due allowance of blue-stone, served out from Harry’s stores, kept well under.

They gained other and sadder experience before very long, however.

At first all went as merrily as marriage bells. The first sheep-shearing was a never-to-be-forgotten event in the life of our Bushmen.

The season was October – a spring month in Australia – and the fleeces were in fine form, albeit some were rather full of grass seed. They were mostly open, however, and everyone augured a good clip.

Sarah was very busy indoors superintending everything; for there was extra cooking to be done now. Wee Diana, who had developed into quite a Bush child, though a pretty one, toddled about here, there, and everywhere; the only wonder is – as an Irishman might say – that she did not get killed three or four times a day. Diana had long since abjured gum-rings and rattles, and taken to hoops and whips. One of the collie dogs, and the pet kangaroo, were her constant companions. As previously stated, both collies had been sent to Craig to be trained; but as Bounce had a difference of opinion with one of the shepherds, he concluded he would make a change by the way of bettering himself, so he had taken French leave and come home to the steading. He would have been sent off again, sure enough, if he had not – collie-like – enlisted Sarah herself on his behalf. This he had done by lying down beside little Diana on the kitchen floor. The two kissed each other and fell asleep. Bounce’s position was assured after that.

Findlayson, who did not mean to commence operations among his own fleeces for another month, paid a visit to Burley, and brought with him a few spare hands. Harry had plenty to do both out of doors and in his stores; for many men were now about the place, and they must all eat and smoke.

“As sure as a gun,” said Findlayson the first morning, “that Joukie-daidles o’ yours ’ill get killed.”

He said this just after about three hundred sheep had rushed the child, and run over her. It was the fault of the kangaroo on one hand, and the collie, Bounce, on the other. Findlayson had picked her off the ground, out of a cloud of dust, very dirty, but smiling.

“What is to be done with her?” said Bob, scratching his head.

“Fauld her,” said Findlayson.

“What does that mean?”

Findlayson showed him what “faulding” meant. He speedily put up a little enclosure on an eminence, from which Diana could see all without the possibility of escaping. So every day she, with her dog and the pet kangaroo, to say nothing of a barrow-load of toys, including a huge Noah’s ark, found herself happy and out of harm’s way. Diana could be seen at times leaning over the hurdle, and waving a hand exultingly in the air, and it was presumed she was loudly cheering the men’s performance; but as to hearing anything, that seemed utterly out of the question, with the baa-ing and maa-ing of the sheep.

When the work was in full blast it certainly was a strange sight, and quite colonial. Archie had been at sheep-shearings before at home among the Cheviot Hills, but nothing to compare to this.

There was, first and foremost, the sheep to be brought up in batches or flocks from the distant stations, men and dogs also having plenty to do to keep them together, then the enclosing them near the washing-ground. The dam in which the washing took place was luckily well filled, for rain had fallen not long before. Sheep-washing is hard work, as anyone will testify who has tried his hand at it for even half a day. Sheep are sometimes exceedingly stupid, more particularly, I think, about a time like this. The whole business is objected to, and they appear imbued with the idea that you mean to drown them, and put every obstacle in your way a stubborn nature can invent.

The sheep, after being well scrubbed, were allowed a day to get dry and soft and nice. Then came the clipping. Gentleman Craig was stationed at a platform to count the fleeces and see them ready for pressing, and Archie’s work was cut out in seeing that the fellows at the clipping did their duty properly.

It was a busy, steaming time, on the whole, for everybody, but merry enough nevertheless. There was “lashins” of eating and drinking. Findlayson himself took charge of the grog, which was mostly rum, only he had a small store of mountain dew for his own special consumption.

Harry was quite the Whitechapel tradesman all over, though you could not have told whether the grocer or butcher most predominated in his appearance.

The clipping went on with marvellous speed, a rivalry existing between the hands apparently; but as they were paid by the number of fleeces, there was evident desire on the part of several to sacrifice perfection to rapidity.

When it was all over there was still a deal to be done in clearing up and getting the whole station resettled, one part of the resettling, and the chief too, being the re-establishing of the sheep on their pasturage after marking them.

The wool was pressed into bales, and loaded on huge bullock-waggons, which are in appearance something between an ordinary country wood-cart and a brewer’s dray. The road to the distant station was indeed a rough one, and at the slow rate travelled by the bullock teams the journey would occupy days.

Craig himself was going with the last lot of these, and Archie had started early and ridden on all alone to see to business in Brisbane.

He had only been twice at the town in the course of three years, so it is no wonder that now he was impressed with the notion that the well-dressed city folks must stare at him, to see if he had any hay-seed in his hair.

Winslow was coming round by boat, and Etheldene as well; she had been at home for some time on a holiday.

Why was it, I wonder, that Archie paid a visit to several outfitters’ shops in Brisbane, and made so many purchases? He really was well enough dressed when he entered the town; at all events, he had looked a smart young farmer all over. But when he left his bedroom on the morning of Winslow’s arrival, he had considerably more of the English Squire than the Australian Squatter about his tout ensemble. But he really looked a handsome, happy, careless young fellow, and that bit of a sprouting moustache showed off his good looks to perfection. He could not help feeling it sometimes as he sat reading a paper in the hotel hall, and waiting for his friends, and was fool enough to wonder if Etheldene would think him improved in appearance.

But Archie was neither “masher” nor dandy at heart. He was simply a young man, and I would not value any young man who did not take pains with his personal appearance, even at the risk of being thought proud.

Archie had not long to wait for Winslow. He burst in like a fresh sea-breeze – hale, hearty, and bonnie. He was also a trifle better dressed than usual. But who was that young lady close by his left hand? That couldn’t be – yes, it was Etheldene, and next moment Archie was grasping a hand of each.

Etheldene’s beauty had matured; she had been but a girl, a child, when Archie had met her before. Now she was a bewitching young lady, modest and lovely, but, on the whole, so self-possessed that if our hero had harboured any desire to appear before her at his very best, and keep up the good impression by every means in his power, he had the good sense to give it up and remain his own natural honest self.

But he could not help saying to himself, “What a wife she will make for Rupert! And how Elsie will love and adore her! And I – yes, I will be content to remain the big bachelor brother.”

There was such a deal to ask of each other, such a deal to do and to say, that days flew by before they knew where they were, as Winslow expressed it.

On the fifth day Gentleman Craig arrived to give an account of his stewardship.

Etheldene almost bounded towards him.

But she looked a little shy at his stare of astonishment as he took her gloved hand.

“Baby,” he exclaimed, “I would hardly have known you! How you have improved!”

Then the conversation became general.

When accounts were squared, it was discovered that, by the spring wool, and last year’s crops and bullocks, the young squatters had done wonderfully well, and were really on a fair way to wealth.

“Now, Archie Broadbent,” said Winslow that night, “I am going to put you on to a good thing or two. You are a gentleman, and have a gentleman’s education. You have brains, and can do a bit of speculation; and it is just here where brains come in.”

Winslow then unfolded his proposals, which were of such an inviting kind that Archie at once saw his way to benefit by them. He thanked Winslow over and over again for all he had done for him, and merely stipulated that in this case he should be allowed to share his plans with Bob and Harry.

To this, of course, Winslow made no objection.

“As to thanking me for having given ye a tip or two,” said Winslow, “don’t flatter yourself it is for your sake. It is all to the memory of the days I spent as steward at sea with your good old uncle. Did you send him back his fifty pounds?”

“I did, and interest with it.”

“That is right. That is proper pride.”

Archie and the Winslows spent a whole fortnight in Brisbane, and they went away promising that ere long they would once more visit the station.

The touch of Etheldene’s soft hand lingered long in Archie’s. The last look from her bonnie eyes haunted him even in his dreams, as well as in his waking thoughts. The former he could not command, so they played him all kinds of pranks. But over his thoughts he still had sway; and whenever he found himself thinking much about Etheldene’s beauty, or winning ways, or soft, sweet voice, he always ended up by saying to himself, “What a love of a little wife she will make for Rupert!”

One day, while Archie was taking a farewell walk along Queen Street, glancing in here and there at the windows, and now and then entering to buy something pretty for Sarah, something red – dazzling – for her black servant-maid, and toys for Di, he received a slap on the back that made him think for a moment a kangaroo had kicked him.

“What!” he cried, “Captain Vesey?”

“Ay, lad, didn’t I say we would meet again?”

“Well, wonders will never cease! Where have you been? and what have you been doing?”

“Why I’ve gone in for trade a bit. I’ve been among the South Sea Islands, shipping blacks for the interior here; and, to tell you the truth, my boy, I am pretty well sick of the job from all I’ve seen. It is more like buying slaves, and that is the honest truth.”

“And I suppose you are going to give it up?” The captain laughed – a laugh that Archie did not quite like.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ll give it up after – another turn or two. But come and have something cooling, the weather is quite summery already. What a great man you have grown! When I saw you first you were just a – ”

“A hobbledehoy?”

“Something like that – very lime-juicy, but very ardent and sanguine. I say, you didn’t find the streets of Sydney paved with gold, eh?”

“Not quite,” replied Archie, laughing as he thought of all his misery and struggles in the capital of New South Wales.