SURPRISE CREEK.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIX, Issue 2412, 24 December 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

SURPRISE CREEK.

By Roi-.hut Riciiaudsox. Author of “Rouge Gagne,” “Beneath the Southern Cross,” &c.

Uncle Yorke’s Yarn.

I have spent some strange Christmases in my time, in my salad days, that is, when I was poor and careless and comparatively happy, and before I became rich and beset, with the cares of riches and livery, and doubtfully happy (Uncle Ralston always began his yarns in some such formula as this), but the strangest Yule time I think I over spent was one Christmas Eve in the far wild north-west. Who could have dreamed that in little more than a generation the iron horse would be rushing through the country where, at the time I am speaking of, we could find such little feed for our flesh and blood ones. Boheah was, the name of nur station—old Ben Transome’s place, who made so tall a pile at last that he went mad, and died believing himself a pauper. We wore on an outstation, five of ns, in two bark shanties, when the dry weather set in. First, there was Tom Field (Long Field we called him by reason of his superfluous inches) who bossed the camp; Kenneth Baird, who bailed from tbe kingdom of Fife, and bad never quite got over that circumstance, as Dr. Johnson.' might have said ; Willie Pairfortb, the “native,” born somewhere Illawarra way, and never out of the colony ; Dick O'Hara, our Irish .storekeeper, who bad also a wife and bairns in the camp ; and lastly and leastly, myself, Ralston Yorke, the teller of this true narrative, who bad been at this time some three years in Australia, and had come before that straight from Haylebury school, equipped for life’s battle with a little Latin and less Greek, a whole storehouse of inexperience of anything beyond English Public school life, a fairly stout heart, and a feet 9 of inches. Well after we had been at Blackburn Gully—such was tbe name of the little out-station—dry weather set in. I am not going to dwell on tbe tale that has been a thousand times told in Australian literature of protracted drought and its attendant dreary evils. It is enough for my purpose to say that when things had got as bad as they well could be, and the country round about ns was beginning to crack and gape, as though panting for water, and the cattle were dying daily, we resolved to set out and look for better country. O’Hara was to he left in charge of the hut. It was three days before Christmas that, fully equipped for at least a fortnight’s absence, we four set out on our expedition. It was exceedingly hot weather, of course; how could it he anything else after so long a draught? The air was as dry and rnoistureless as the earth itself On the evening of the second day wc reached a tract of country that was almost a Sahara in its drear desolation and dearth of all signs of vegetation. The sun went down that night over the sand-cursed wilderness like a ball of angry molten fire and we stretched ourselves ou the grassless, inhospitable plains, with a feeling that was nearly despair. All next morning we rode through aburning treeless plain, but towards sun dowu we gradually emerged upon a different country. Short spare grass sprang up in patches here and there, which gradually increased in luxuriance and greenness, until at last, no less to our surprise, than to our unspeakable delight, we struck a small creek of beautifully clear water fringed with mimosa and green apple. We could scarcely restrain our exhausted and tongue-parched horses from carrying us headlong into the stream. Here at last was what we were seeking. The grass round about was not exuberant in its abundance to he sure, but the country was as the plains of Paradise compared with what we had left behind and would keep cattle alive for two or three months to come, even should no rain fall during that time. Moreover, though the creek w'as much below its usual level, there was still plenty ol water in it. We pitched our tent not far from the bank of our stream, and discussed our supper with lighter hearts and brighter anticipations than we had felt for months, for continued drought depresses all hands on a station, from the boss to the youngest jackaroo. It was Christmas Eve. “ Boys,” said Keuueth Baird, after we had smoked our after-supper pipe, “Well tak’ a chapter. It’s Christmas Eve, and we’ve struck luck at last, an’ it’s ua mair than common thankfulness to think o’ the giver o’ good luck and bad, drought and rain, heavy clip and light, at such a time. Ye’re a pretty heathenish set, the lot o’ ye, but I was brought up strict, and though I backslide whiles, I stand by the old lines, fall fair or foul. We’ll just road the yarn o’ the first Christmas. It’s fine reading, forbye the moral o’t.” Kenneth produced a small dingy Bible, and read the story as told by St. Matthew. with good emphasis and expression, despite his marked Lowland Scotch accent. Kenneth was a strange mixture, hut by no means an exceptional character, rather a typo not uncommon in his native land and elsewhere. When he kept away from the liquor, Baird was the raoralest man in Christendom. His morality at times was something portentous. As Fairforth used to say, with the small show of reverence characteristic, I am sorry to say, of many Australian as well as American youth, ho “ panned out on the prophets and worked the Pentateuch for all it was worth.” Kenneth’s faith was of the most uncompromising colour. He believed the darkest fate awaited the majority of men, including himself; and so far from this belief rendering him hopeless or miserable it

seemed to afford him considerable comfort and satisfaction. When ho left tbe station and daily hard work for a holiday, he drank hard all the time, but when he got back again and was removed from temptation lie seemed to have no difficulty in keeping straight. After recovering from each bout ho was invariably more strict than ever in coudcmuation of himself and others. He used to remind me of Dick Steele, trooper, journalist, and moralist, toper and pietist, as you will find him described in “Esmond.” We listened to Kenneth in silence and with attention. None of us were what would be called, I suppose, religious men, but, at tbe same time, no one of us was insensible to the beauty and simplicity of the story which centuries have revered and hallowed. Very shortly after Baird had ended his reading we all rolled ourselves in our rugs and went to sleep. That is, my three comrades were asleep in five minutes. With myself it was otherwise. For sonic reason I could not go to sleep with my accustomed facility. The recollection that it was Christinas Eve fired my brain, and my thoughts went drifting backward across the long leagues of ocean that divided me from the home of my boyhood. Memories of old Christmases came crowding baek to memory, effectually banishing slumber. I saw an old manor-house in a green Devonshire valley ; the rooms are aglow with light that falls softly on masses of glossy green holly that deck the walls and wreathe the old brown pictures. The light falls too softly on a merry company of old and young, old men and women with hair white as silver; fair girls with the Devonshire roses in their cheeks, and golden-haired children in troops. And among all those happy and handsome faces one stands out distinct and vivid by reason of its beauty; a face fresh as the hawthorn buds “ that open in the month of May,” in its pure unspoiled loveliness and delicate young beauty ; and close by tbe face stands a boy, flushed aud eager, trembling and half abashed, yet proud in the thought that the fair companion at his side is not deaf to the shy awkward words he is uttering, and does not shrink from his touch in the dance. Was it any marvel that the memory of that beautiful face, and the vague wondering thought whether I should ever look upon it again, should banish sleep ? At last physical weariness overcame all feelings. Soft strains of dance music were echoing in my ear, and I seemed to be floating out upon tbe wave of an old, well-remembered waltz, when tbe soft dreamy sound changed to one that was short, sharp and strident. The sudden change roused me to wakefulness again. In my perturbed and confused imagination tbe noise seemed an ominous one. I raised myself upon my elbow and looked out through the flap of the tent. It was a singularly beautiful night, even for Australia, where the nights are a theme for tbe poet’s song. The heavens shed a soft yet clear and luminous glow upon tbo earth, in which all surrounding objects stood out distinct and clearly defined. The forest came down to within about 30 yards of the river’s edge—a dark solid mass, silent and sombre, its edges rimmed with pale light. A deep hush reigned everywhere. Nothing broke the stillness of the wilderness save now and then the low whinnying of the horses, and the slow wash of the river among it’s reeds. I was beginning to pursuade myself that I had heard nothing but the sounds of dreamland, when a sharp, short noise again fell on my car—a simple enough noise to hear near a forest under most circumstances, hut disturbing and ominous now in tbe intense prevailing stillness. It was the sound of a breaking twig. In a moment my whole spirit seemed to be drawn towards tbo spot whence the noise came and my every sense to Vie absorbed in that of heaving, and I listened with held breath for a return of the sound. Perhaps it was a lizard or some other such creature among the brushwood. There ! once more I caught the sound, this time not so short and sharp—a slight rustling rather. I crept forward to the door and gazed out. For a few minutes I could sec nothing but the white stems of the gums gloamiug ghostly in the moonlight. My suspended breath was growing painful, my ears were beginning to ring with the strain of listening'. Then—could in bo my excited imagination, or did I see something moving among the trees ? No, it was not fancy ; one, two, three dark forms were gliding sbadow-like from out of the forrest, aud then a line of dusky phantoms rose from the long grass and bushwood. For one instant I beheld a vision of a semicircle of painted savages revealed in their every uncouth feature by the moonlight, and then 1 turned to my sleeping comrades, and, with a cry, hastily roused them. In a moment they were on their feet, each grasping his weapons as hy instinct. At the same Instant a yell rent the air and sent a shudder of horror through the very forest. We were now all outside the tent, and, standing in a row, prepared ourselves for the attack. The blacks came on in a confused rabble, perhaps a score of them or more, and when they got well within range of our shot, Tom Field gave the word, and the report of our four weapons rang out on the night almost simultaneously. We could not make out the exact effect of our firing, but could see that some of the enemy had gone down. On they aarae, however, undismayed, their yells now ringing in our very ears. We had each a revolver besides our fowlingpieces, which carried heavy buckshot. We had just time to discharge our revolvers once, bringing down three more of the black men, when they were fairly down upon ns, and the battle became a hand-to-hand one. In a few moments I lost all knowledge of how the general fight went, and how my comrades fared, for my whole attention was taken up by my immediate opponent. A tall and stalwart savage had singled me out as his especial prey ; his spear was Hashing down upon me; I could sec the cruel hate gleaming in his eyes that were hut a few yards from my own, and 1 had levelled the second barrel of my revolver at his head, when I felt I was suddenly struck from behind. A sudden sharp pang shot through my right leg, and I fell forward to the ground, grovelling among the grass and bushes. The earth and starlit sky swam together, the soft music of a familiar old waltz sounded in my ears, mingled with horrid demoniacal shrieks and yells : and I knew no more. When I returned to consciousness the sun was “standing tip-toe on the misty hills,” and my companions were around me. Here my story virtually ends. I had received a rather nasty flesh-wound, but nothing serious. In a few days I was able to mount a horse again. My comrades had effectually beaten back the blackfellows, and we feared no immediate renewal of the attack. Christmas Day and the two following we spent in our new camp, and then returned to our old one. In a day or two more we had permanently established ourselves with tiie cattle on the banks of wliat we christened “Surprise Creek. ’