Chapter XI A Squatter Patriot
It was eleven o’clock before Mortimer reached home, not that Coolooli lay two hours and a half distant from the selection, but that he was trying to ride and ride till the raw edges of his wound had closed together somewhat.
Finally he remembered his father would be waiting up for him—one of the old man’s fixed customs was to be the last one up in his house—and he turned his mare’s head in the direction of the sleeping station. He rode up through the moonlit paddocks and the belts of bush, and wondered a little, as he looked at his home, that the sadness of the place had never struck him before.
The house rose on the crest of a hill, convict-built, most of it, in the very early days of the colony, and with a wing or two added here and there. Large, thoroughly comfortable, yet it stood there with a certain air of sternness, as if it knew what unhappy hands had laid its strong foundations, what human misery built up its plain thick walls.
No creepers clung to it and wooed it with their grace; no fluttering muslins, fashioned by women’s hands, blew about its plain windows. In the wide garden that encircled it trees grew, and handsome shrubs, but the flowers seemed to know themselves for strangers there, and came not. Mortimer’s eyes went to the twin hill, half a mile away.
How often had he raised a house on that! Not a grim, plain one, like this his home, but a large sunny cottage, with wide verandahs and large bright windows, and a garden where all the sweet flowers in the world ran mad.
Near enough the big house for the old man, left to himself, not to feel lonely; far enough away for Hermie to be unquestioned queen, and free as the winds that blew.
Oh, the happy hours he had wandered on that farther hill, raising that happy home to receive his love! There had even been a moonlight night or two when he had furnished it—furnished it with deep chairs and wide sofas and delicious hammocks, all for the little light-haired girl who worked so hard on that wretched selection to nestle into and rest. He had begun to work harder and give deeper thought than was his wont to the management of the station; there would be plenty of money for an income, he knew, but he wanted even more than plenty; he wanted the little hands that had always been so afraid to spend sixpence, to revel in the joy of flinging sovereigns broadcast. He had been waiting—waiting to tell her, it seemed for years—waiting till she was just a little older and a little older.
But the long frock to-day had told him she was a woman, and he had rushed to know his fate; and now all was over.
He put his saddle in the harness-room, and turned the horse out into the moonlit paddock. He went in through the side door, down the wide hall where the lamps still burned for him, and into the dining-room.
His father was sitting at the big table drinking very temperately at whiskey and water, and reading a paper.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you up, dad,’ Mortimer said.
‘That’s all right,’ said his father, ‘it’s not often you do it.’
‘No,’ said Mortimer.
The old man pushed the spirit-casket across the table.
‘You look as if you’ve got a chill,’ he said; ‘take a nip.’
The son poured himself a finger’s depth, and drank it off, his father watching him from under his shaggy eyebrows.
‘Did Luke or Jack come up this afternoon?’ asked Mortimer.
‘Jack and his wife,’ said the old man. ‘Luke went to Sydney yesterday, Jack says, to watch the sales himself.’
‘Take Bertha with him?’
‘I rather think the young woman took him. Don’t believe she’s the wife for any squatter; Macquarie Street’s the only run she’ll ever settle on, with the theatres and dancing halls within cooey.’
‘Oh, well,’ sighed Mortimer, ‘Luke can afford it, and he seems happy enough. Anything fresh about the war? You seem to have all the papers there.’
The old man’s eyes gleamed, his hand trembled as he reached for an evening paper, and opened it.
‘See here,’ he said, ‘Buller’s made a fatal mistake, a fatal mistake. He’s advancing on Ladysmith by this route, wheeling here and doubling there, and having a brush or two on the way. Now, what he ought to have done is plainly to have gone along by night marches up here, and taken up a strong position here. See, I’ve marked the way he ought to have gone with those red dots. You don’t look as if you agree.’
‘Oh,’ said Mortimer, ‘I don’t know anything about it. But I should say those Johnnies at the head of things know what they’re about better than we can out here.’
‘Not a bit, not a bit,’ said the old man excitedly; ‘it’s always the looker-on who sees the most. He’s just rushing on to his doom, and those brave chaps shut up in that death-trap’ll never get as much relief from this attempt as they would if I sent old Rover out. You mark my words and see. This range of hills is the key of the position, and until those thick-headed generals can be brought to see it, there’ll be defeat after defeat. Did I tell you Blake and Lewis and Walsh and Simons came to me, and asked to volunteer?’
‘Whew!’ said Mortimer. ‘I don’t see how we’ll get along without Blake. Did you give your consent?’
‘Consent!’ cried the old man. ‘If the place went to ruin, d’ye think I’d keep the fellow back? I gave him a cheque, and I promised to look after his wife and brats if he fell; that’s what I did.’
‘But it’s unlucky Walsh wants to go too,’ said Mortimer; ‘he’d have been the very fellow to take Blake’s place. We could have better spared Doherty.’
‘That mean-spirited dog! A lot of volunteering there is in him. He’ll take good care to keep his cowardly carcase out of bullet range.’
Mortimer looked thoughtful, and poured a little more whiskey into his tumbler.
‘I suppose we must get fresh men on in their places straight away,’ he said; ‘we don’t want the place to suffer.’
‘Hang the place!’ shouted the old man; ‘let it go to ruin if it likes. Every man that has the pluck to come and tell me he’ll go and shoot at them scoundrels out there, hang me, it’s a cheque I’ll give ’im, and be a father to his brats if he’s got any, and keep his place open till he comes back. And a horse to each—the best I’ve got on the place—hang me, two horses.’
‘It’s very generous of you, father,’ Mortimer said, a little unsteadily. ‘I see, too, by yesterday’s paper, you are giving five thousand pounds to the fund. I—hardly knew you felt as strongly about it as this.’
The old man sprang up, and began to thunder about the room.
‘Feel strongly about it—strongly! If I was only ten years younger, I’d do more than feel strongly! Me very bed’s like stones the nights the cables show no victories; the food in me mouth turns to dust. Feel strongly!’
Mortimer left the table, and stood at the window looking out at the moonlight that made snow of the twin hill. He did not know he drummed on the window pane until his excited father roared to him to stop. Then he turned and went across the room to where his father was sitting again at the table, gazing with furious eyes at the cables that told of Buller’s line of march.
‘Father,’ he said, and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder, ‘will you give me a couple of horses? I don’t know that I want the cheque.’
Old Stevenson trembled. ‘You’re fooling me,’ he said.
‘I wouldn’t fool when you’re so much in earnest,’ Mortimer said. ‘I’m afraid I’m a slow-witted chap. It never occurred to me before to-night to volunteer. Now it seems the one thing I’d care to do in all the world.’
The old man breathed hard.
‘I’m not as young as I was, Morty,’ he said quaveringly; ‘I—can’t take disappointments easy. You’re not just saying this lightly? You’ll abide by it?’
‘The only thing that could stand in my way,’ said Mortimer, ‘would be your objection. That is removed, since it never existed; so it only remains to find out the date of the sailing of the Bush contingent. Thanks to your subscription, there’ll be no difficulty in getting me in, for I know my riding and shooting will pass muster.’
‘Morty,’ the old man was clinging to the young one’s arm, ‘Morty, I’d given up the hope of ever seeing this day. Six sons I had—six, and not a puny, poor one among them. That’s what held me up when the war got into me veins first, and I had to face it that seventy was too old to fight. It took some facing, lad. After that I just waited and waited. And none of you spoke. I kep’ reading the Sydney news, to find that my sons there was going. None of their names was in. Dick, I could ha’ forgave him—p’r’aps—as he’s six childers and a wife; but James, a doctor, no end of chances to get in. And Walter, the best shot and best horseman ever come from out back. Never a word that Walter had blood in his veins. I thought it might be funds stoppin’ ’em—they might be feared to leave their businesses, thinking they’d suffer. No need of that, I thinks, and sends them a cheque a-piece—a solid thousand each. Does that fetch ’em? Not it. They writes back, very useful, come in nicely. Jack here, married to a wife, wouldn’t mind going—see some life; but wife cries and clings, and he gives in. Luke! No son of mine. Oh, I’ll not cut him out my will, or do anything dirty by him, but don’t never let him give me his hand no more. Cries down his own people, upholds the dirty scoundrelly Boers, and hopes they’ll win their fight; dead against the Britain that his own father comed from. My only lad left at home——’
‘Well, that laggard at least is off to shoot his best,’ said Mortimer lightly.
‘Morty,’ said the old man, and pressed his hand, ‘you’ll ha’ to forgive me. I’ve had hard thoughts of you, Morty.’ His faded eyes were suffused.
‘Don’t let’s think of that, dad,’ said Mortimer. ‘What horses do you think I’d better take?’
‘In the morning, in the morning,’ said Stevenson. ‘I only want to sit still to-night, and thank God I’ve got one son that’s a man.’
Mortimer looked at the creased, illumined face, the wet eyes, the old, working mouth. His heart swelled towards him.
‘Dad, old fellow,’ he said, ‘I’m hard hit. I love a girl, and she won’t have me.’
His father gripped his hand.
‘Poor chap, poor chap!’ he said. ‘I know, I’ve been through it. I loved a girl before I married your mother, and I met her daughter the other day, and it was the same as if it had been yesterday.’ He looked at his big son with new eyes. ‘The girl’s got hanged bad taste,’ he said.
‘You’d have liked her, dad,’ Morty said. ‘Not like the girls round here, big, strapping women; very slender and sweet-looking, her skin’s as pink and soft as that baby of Jack’s.’
‘Happen I know her?’ said his father.
‘Her name is Hermie Cameron,’ Mortimer said.
‘That thriftless beggar’s daughter!’ was on the old man’s lips, but the look on his son’s face checked him.
‘Yes—a pretty child,’ was what he said instead, and thanked Heaven that her taste had been so bad.
‘See here, dad,’ Mortimer said awkwardly, ‘of course it’s not in the least likely I shall get hit—-but of course war’s war, and there’s a chance that one may get knocked over.’
‘I don’t need telling that,’ said the old man quickly.
Mortimer pressed his shoulder. ‘It’s this, dad,’ he said. ‘I want to ask you a favour The Camerons—they’re so hard up, it—it makes me fairly miserable.’
‘A cheque, lad,’ said the father eagerly, ‘of course, of course. Would a thousand pounds do? You shall have it to-night—this minute.’
He was moving to get his cheque-book, but Morty detained him.
‘No, no, dad,’ he said, ‘you don’t know poor Cameron; he’s the most unfortunate fellow in the world, but he’s the last man who would take a present of money.’
‘I could offer it as a loan,’ suggested the old man.
‘No, he wouldn’t have even that, I’m positive,’ Mortimer said. ‘I’ve tried a time or two myself, but he’s choked me off jolly quickly.’
‘Then what can I do, boy?’ the father said helplessly. ‘Believe me, I’m willing enough.’
‘I know, I know, dad. All I want to ask you is to keep an eye on them, and if you can do them a turn, do it. The mother’s coming from England in a month or so, and I’d give my head to be able to make the place look up a bit. Cameron and his boy are fairly killing themselves to do their best, but you can guess what their best is when there’s only labour and not a sixpence to spend.’
‘You leave it to me, leave it to me,’ said Stevenson.
‘And one other thing,’ said Morty. ‘Of course I won’t, dad, but if I should come a cropper, will you let some of my share go to the little girl I wanted?’
‘She shall have every penny of it,’ cried the old man; ‘hang me, it’s the least I can do.’
They gripped hands.
‘Good-night, boy!’
‘Good-night, dad!’