FICTION.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1211, 17 May 1895, Page 8

FICTION.

THE CHUMP'S SACRIFICE.

We were resting for the night. Round about us the cattle were lying or standing, those nearest to us tossing their broad, sharp horns, and glaring with wild eyes at the fire. Through the stark gum-trees bordering the river stretched a sea of brown or dappled backs. It overflowed into the plain beyond, and, like the sea, was never still; the stamping of hundreds of hoofs, the swishing of tails, and the continuous bellowing made up a confused noise, strange, I doubt not, to the ears of the dwellers in the towns, but familiar enough to us who had already been three months on the track, and were, most of us, professional drovers. It was a big mob ; we started with three thousand head of stores, and had been singularly fortunate so far, having lost only a couple of hundred ; and, as we were to be paid proportionately to the number we brought to market, we were consequently hilarious. I was in charge. There were ten of us all told, and sufficiently picturesque we looked, I make no question, as the ruddy firelight, sprouting from the roaring logs, lit up bronzed faces, corded necks and hairy chests. We had finished our tea and damper. Our pipes were lit. Mr Lester, an English swell, j who was travelling to see a new side of life, as he said, smoked a big briarwood, with handsome silver mounting and a curious and beautiful amber mouthpiece. I never saw anything like it before. Enclosed in the translucent amber was a delicate little lizard, through which the smoke was drawn. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of years before the lizard had become entangled in the amber, then a liquid gum flowiug down the trunk of a tree in some old forest, long since overwhelmed by the sea, and had lain in its lustrous prison, unbroken and perfect, like a miraculous relic in some old-world shrine, until the hand of man had rifled it to ornament Mr Lester’s pipe. It was the admiration of the whole camp, for next to a good horse the drover likes a good pipe, and whether a pretty girl comes first, second or third, I do not like to say. When Mr Lester told the histoiy of his pipe, it was received with openmouthed astonishment. We had never dreamt that the amber of our pipes—we all sported amber, of course —was of such antiquity. ‘ But you never know,’ said Bill Thompson, with a shake of the head, ‘ what curious ; things have happened in the world. I was at a place in Eiverina a few years ago when they were boring for- water, and down nearly three hundred feet they struck an old riverbed, and went through the trunk of a gum tree, five feet thick, which was buried in that old channel. Now, who can tell how long it was since the river ran which brought that log down in flood-time ? Nearly as-long as it is since that lizard in your pipe ran about, eh, Mr Lester?’ ‘ Perhaps,’ said Lester, with a smile. ‘Aye!’ Andy chimed in; ‘there’s curious things happened in Australia. A rum thing occurred to me in the mud-springs up near the Paroo, and, if nobody feels inclined to roost, I’ll tell it to you.’ A disposition to ‘roost’ being generally disclaimed, Andy, a very old drover, with lean limbs and a sharp face, and a personality as redolent of the soil as the flesh of the opossum, removed the pipe from his mouth. ‘ It was about five years ago,’ he said. ‘ Me and Charley Jawkins were hired to take five hundred head of cattle from Mclndoe’s station in Southern Queensland down to Bourke, where they -would be trucked on to the Homebush cattle yards. The weather was fine, and there was plenty of feed and water on the route for the first fortnight, and we had nothing to do but to jog along quietly. Over the New South Wales border things, however, were a bit sultry, and water was getting low, but we managed without losing a single beast to strike the Paroo. That’s a queer river. I’ve seen it nearly ten miles wide in floodtime, and other times I’ve made my camp in its bed. It was pretty full on this trip with the Queensland waterrand wo followed along the banks, just taking our time and keeping our stock in as good condition as possible, Along the stock route, where we had to travel from tank to tank before spelling, there was a, little more anxiety ; hut here, on the river, there wasn’t any. We thought we could follow the river right down to the Darling .; but before we got near ft, I’m blowed if the water didn’t peter right opt. It sank into the ground just as it it was a sponge. Now, I had heard tell of this kind of thing before, but I didn’t believe a bit of it j but there it was before our very eyes. The Paroo ended in a kind of swamp, and beyond that gwnmp there wasn’t a sign of water, though the white bed of the river, all dry sand now, was plain enough. There never was such a suckin. Now., I thought that a strange thing. There was a respectable deep river just burying itself in the sand like a wombat or a badger, and losing itself altogether. I was puzzled, and I’m puzzled yet. Where d’ye think it went to, Mr Lester ?’ ‘ Underground to the Darling,’ said Mp Lester, ‘by some subterranean channel. You know,that some geologists say that there is a whole system of rivers running underground in this country. The question, however, has not yet been settled.’ . ‘ Well, perhaps it is just as you say,’ Andy went on; ‘ but, anyway, the river was gone, and there was nothing for it hut to cross country and pick up the tanks on one of the etock routes. Charley had been travelling fhiß country before, and he knew that the river might give out, but he gave in to me. Well, w@ camped by the river that night, and next day we struck. a station tank, and the overseer let »« water there. Next day we travelled as fast as we could. You can bet that wo didn't think now of sparing the stock, as we were out of tbe usual road, and a day or two of had luck would have cost us the whole mob. It was a blazing hot day, and about 11 o’clock we came to a sort of dry swamp, with a pool of water in the middle. The cattle rushed for this and began to drink. And in we went after them to water -our horses. There was about one hundred yards of dry mud between the sand and the water when the cattle made their rush. But whether it was the trampling of the mob or _ their weight, I don’t know, but in a few minutes water began to bubble up through the whole extent of the mud, and in a few minutes more it was as soft as butter. The cattle scented the danger first, and began to snort and plunge, but it was all too late. A few, indeed, managed to'get within about twenty feet of the safe ground, but the majority were bogged in the middle. In one place there was a straggling line from the centre of the quagmire to within about six or seven yards of the good country. The noise made by the captured beasts was awful. They ramped and roared and plunged and spattered the black mud in showers overhead, but every movepent mired them deeper. Before on? very

eyes, as fine a mob of stores, and in as good condition as any you saw, were sinking slowly. Tbe agony was all the worse because it was so slow. At arough guess, three thousand pounds was going down into that infernal pit. It was seething and bubbling before us like a lake of boiling pitch, and 1 never saw a more dreadful sight. We were so occupied with watching the cattle that we forgot all about ourselves; but you can imagine how my hair stood on end when I looked down and saw that my horse was over his fetlocks in mud. Charley’s was the same. He was just beside me, and when I pointed it out to him he nodded his head. ‘ “I’ve been watching it, Andy,” he said, quietly. He was always a quiet sort of a chap. The boy 3 used to consider him a bit of a chump ; but I know now that a bolder man never crossed a saddle.

‘“What’s to he done, Charley?” I said, with a sinking heart, for I thought of the old woman and youngsters down there at Warrnambool, and what would come of them if I sank in this horrible place. ‘ “ There is only one thing,” Charley said, coolly. “ We’ve got to leave the horses, and jump from beast to beast along that road there till we get to the last one.” ‘ “But,” T said, “that one is too far from the bank. We can never jump it.” ‘“Oh,” said he, “the mud might be be shallower there. Perhaps we can bottom it.” ‘ I felt a creeping all over me at the thought of having to jump all that distance from one back to another. I tell you, mates, I used to think a bullock’s back pretty broad, but it looked small as an island in the midst of that devilish sea. But it was better to risk anything than to stay quietly by and be sucked down inch by inch, like the cattle, till the horrible black mud filled eyes and ears and throat, and stifled us. It was an ugly thought, I can tell you, with nobody ever to know where we had met our fate. The place was bubbling and spurting little jets of black water and mud all over ; and by this time the cattle had given up struggling, and were quiet as mice. There was only a low, deep moan every now and then from the poor beasts; but their eyes were wild, and anybody could see that they knew their fate, and were dreadfully frightened. Our horses were neighing and shivering. They, too, knew what was in front of them. By this time, the horses were mired nearly to their girths, and we had no time to lose if we meant to carry out our plans. Charley noticed that I was a bit white and trembling.

‘“I’ll go first, Andy,’’ he said, quietly, “and lend you a hand in case you jump short. You’ll see it’s easy enough.” ‘ Charley was very active, and so was I. Many a time I’ve cleared eleven feet six in a standing jump, but that was on solid g-round. Jumping from beast to beast, with that stinking sea of mud ready to swallow a fellow up if he missed, was a different thing altogether. Charley stood up on his saddle, and jumped lightly on to the nearest broad back. He alighted safely, but I can never forget the terrible cry that tbe poor brute gave. _lt wasn’t an ordinary bellow; it was more like the scroam of a drowning man. There was something human in it. Good cause for it, too, because Charley’s weight drove it down a good six inches further into the mud. The next beast was only a few feet off, and he stepped easily on to it, and turned round, waiting to see how I got on. The jump from my horse was a clear eight feet, and my heart was in my mouth as I took it. But I negotiated it safely, although the poor brute screamed again in the same fearful way. There was a pretty simple run of jumps then for about fifty yards, some of the oattlo being packed so close that we could walk over their backs quite easily. Alter a time they began to straggle off again, and we had to take to jumping once more, and nervous work it was. But Charley took it all as coolly as if the stake we were jumping for was not dear life itself. This g-ave me more heart, and I followed in his track pretty successfully. Generally, after a long jump, we dropped down on to the bullock’s back, and caught its horns, to steady ourselves, and to prevent the impetus from shooting us into the mud. We were helped by the steadiness of the bullocks, ’syhieli could not move, excepting downwards, pqop brutes. To this day their strange heartbroken cries are ringing in my ears, as they felt our weight drive them down. Charley kept encouraging me whenever we came to a stiff place, and wliat with that, and. the knowledge that I was leaping for my life, I was so strung-up that I felt ready to follow him anywhere. At last we came to within about thirty feet of the dry land, and never did eyes gaze so longingly at it as mine did. I would have given my two legs to have been there instead of where I was. How I envied the black crows that were already pulling out the eyes of the unfortunate bullocks, in spit© of their bellowing threats and tossing horns. I'd have given a good deal for a pair of wings just then. It was not that there were no more bullocks. About ten feet from us there were three lying together, broadside on to the land ; hut ten feet seemed more than I could do then. I felt that I would jump short, and my heart died within me. Bpt Charley took it like a bird, landing square and fajr 051 the rump of the nearest beast. .... ‘“Come on, Andy«’’ he said, in his cool way, “you can’t miss it.” And ho held his hands out to me. ‘ “ Charley, I can’t,” I raved. “ I’ll jump short, and be eaten up by that dreadful stuff.” ‘“You’ll be eaten up by it if you stop where you are,” he said. “Jump, and I’ll catch you.” ‘ I think I must have yelled like a lunatic when I took the jump. Had I been cool, as he was, I might have succeeded, but I was reckless, and jumped a foot short. Splush ! up to my middle I went in the filthy, treacherous slime. I thought I was lost. What things went through my head in that terrible moment I don’t know now, but the records and the very thoughts of life were squeezed into it. Before another moment could pass, however, Charley, stretched along the bullock’s hack, had me by the collar. He was no chicken, let me tell you. His back was like a door ; it was that broad, and his arms were thick with muscle. He pulled with all his might, and I grabbed the bullock’s rump, and tried to draw myself up. I felt as if a dozen giant bands were holding me down, or trying to tear my legs from my body. Our united efforts, however, were successful, and up I came with a noise as if you were to draw a big cork from a bottle as big as a barrel. ‘ We had a little rest on the three bullocks after this. Indeed, there seemed little elso to do. It was eighteen feet clear from these three bullocks to the spot where we would find a firm foothold. How was that extent of mnd to be crossed ? We were not birds, and, consequently, flying was out of the question. A cold sweat stood out on my forehead in great drops. It comes now, mates, when I think of that dreadful journey.’

Here Andy lifted his hat, and’fpassed his hand across his forehead.

‘ For my part,’ he went on, ‘ I gave up all hope when I looked across that dreary Space of greedy, black filth. It would have been just as well, I thought, to have gone down without moving from our saddles as to have undertaken that mad and dangerous journey, I to die, after all, within a running jump of safety, and I felt almost angry with Charley for having pulled me out of the mud. I could have gone to a sudden death then with pleasure, or something like it, rather than to have had my mouth filled with the juices of that fearfui pit. I looked at Charley. His face was just as cool as ever, but had gone quite white in spite of its bronze. ‘“Have you got any nerves left, Andy?” he asked, looking at me in a kind way, “ because, if so, we may be saved yet.” ‘ I looked at him sharply. I thought first that his brain must have given way, but his face looked quite sensible and serious. ‘“How?” I asked, jumping at the chance of life as a man dying of thirst out in the scrub might snap at a billy of water. ‘“Well,” Charley said, “we can’t stop here. Our floor is sinking under our feet, and in half an hour, or perhaps a quarter, only the horns of these beasts will be above the mud. Now, one of us must jump as far out towards the bank as he can. Perhaps he may find bottom, perhaps not. In the last case, he won’t sink more than up toliis waist. You didn’t, you know, when you went in. Then he must bend over and offer his back to the other chap to jump on. That will enable him to reach the hard ground with another jump. Then,” he said, slowly, “he can help the other one out by making a rope of his clothes. What do you think of my plan, Andy ?” ‘ What did I think of it ? I, who had been stuck in that hellish mixture ? I refused to think, and remained silent. One thing was certain —I couldn’t deliberately jump into that slimy pit. So I answered nothing, and turned my face away from Charley. ‘“Look here, Andy,” he said, suddenly, “ there’s no use wasting time. You’ve got a I wife and little ones, and I am as lonely as a man can be. Nobody will miss me much; even the hoys don’t care much for me. You’re different. So I’ll jump, and you jump on my shoulders. It’s as easy to jump on a man’s back as a bullock’s —easier. It’s narrower, but it’s flatter, and my shoulders are pretty broad.” ‘lt was a desperate venture—almost like suicide. I think Charley felt that, but his face was quite calm. ‘“Shake hands, Andy,” he said ; and we gripped hands like giants. I noticed that there was a bright look in his eyes that I have never seen since in any others. ‘ Without the waste of another second, he turned and jumped far out into the channel of slime which slept between us and safety. My heart stood still as I saw him fall with a sudden splash into the mud, and sink to his waist. There he stuck. ‘ “ There’s no bottom, Andy,” he said, “ so jump quick.” ‘ With this he bent over till his broad back lay before me like a table. There was no time for hesitation. His life and mine hung on my coolness and quickness. With a desperate prayer I jumped and landed fairly on his broad shoulders. I’m a light weight, you know, but I felt him sink under me as I took a despairing leap to the bank, only to feel my feet sink in the fatal ooze. Not far, however, for a foot beneath was solid ground, and with a gasp of joy I scrambled out and turned round to look for Charley. ‘ God help him! he was gone—swallowed up in that fearful grave. Only a few black bubbles showed where the life-breath of the man who had given his life for mine was being choked out of him. And I was helpless, but safe, while his lungs were filled with the broth brewed in that underground hell. What my feelings were, lying on the bank and watching that savage pool, I can’t describe. The afternoon sun was midway down to the west, and glaring with an awful shimmer on the shivering mud before I could stand upright again. As soon as my strength returned I left the fearful spot. As I went away only the heads of the cattle were above the mud, and the forest of horns reminded me for all the world of a mob swimming a river. I never brought a single head to Bourke, but worse than the loss of all the bullocks in Australia was that of my poor chum. A qhump they used to call Charley, but a braver man never was born,’ Then there was silence, save for the noise of the oattle and an ocoasional neigh from the drovers’ horses,— By P. E. Quinn, in The Idler.