THE PEAK OF BEN ATHOL
By rolling plain and rocky shelf,
With stock-whip in his hand,
He reached at last, oh, lucky elf,
The Town of Come-and-help-yourself,
In Rough-and-ready Land.
—A. B. Paterson.
OH!” said Jean, despairingly. “I wish to goodness I hadn’t been born fat!”
“Very possibly you were not,” Jim’s voice said. “Don’t lay all the blame on your parents; it seems to me more an acquired habit on your part.” His cheerful face came over the edge of a boulder, and peeped down upon her.
“ ’Tisn’t my fault at all!” said Jean, indignantly. “You know very well I hardly ever eat butter or potatoes, and I love them both. We’re all fat; and Dad and Mother are the fattest!”
“It must be the New Zealand air,” said Jim, regarding her with interest. “Perhaps, if we turned you out into a poor paddock for a while, you’d come down in condition. Not that I’d advise it, because we like you as you are—but I hate to see you worried.”
“Oh, don’t be an ass!” responded the harassed Jean. “This isn’t a time for polite conversation—I want to get over that horrid old rock. And I’m so hot!”
“Well, didn’t I hear your bleat of woe, and come back to help you, though I was making for the peak like the gentleman in ‘Excelsior,’ you ungrateful woman?” asked Jim. He swung his long legs over the boulder, and came scrambling down to where she stood. “Poor old thing! It’s pretty steep, isn’t it?”
“I’m not a poor old thing, and I won’t be pitied,” retorted Jean with indignation. “I haven’t got long legs like all of you, but I can climb hills, for all that. I only want a leg-up over this boulder.”
“Of course you do,” said Jim, in his best soothing manner—which was wont to have anything but a soothing effect. “Lend me your foot, Miss Yorke, and be prepared to put some spring into your portly frame. One, two, three—up you go!” He hoisted her deftly, and with a quick movement Jean had scrambled to the top of the rock.
It was one of a hundred similar sandstone boulders scattered over the side of the hill. Sometimes, by dodging through crevices and under jutting points of rock, it was possible to avoid them; but often they lay so thickly that to skirt them was impossible except by a detour too long to be practicable. There was not much vegetation to be seen. Grass was practically non-existent, but tough young gums grew here and there among the rocks, with twisted stems, finding a foothold in some mysterious manner by thrusting deep twining roots into the crevices. There leafage was too sparse and stunted to give any real shade, and the sun beat down with blinding force; though it was not yet noon, the rocks were hot under the touch.
Ahead, straggling forms could be seen pushing their way upward. Wally and Norah were in the lead, by virtue of long legs and tough muscles; then came Mr. Linton, with whom Jim had been climbing until he heard Jean’s small “bleat” of distress, and turned back to help her. The camp was far below: for a long time they had lost even the faint curl of the smoke of their fire, where Billy had been left disgustedly washing up the breakfast things, and with strict orders to remain on guard throughout the day.
Mr. Linton and the boys carried valises strapped across their shoulders, containing food and water. Already it had been found necessary to husband the latter, since climbing on such a day was thirsty work, and the supply of water bottles was not large. To brew tea at the Peak was considered out of the question; that was a luxury to be anticipated on getting back to the camp. Even now, Jean looked longingly at Wally’s diminishing burden, and solaced herself indifferently by chewing an exceedingly dry gum leaf, which tasted very strongly of eucalyptus, and made her, if anything, thirstier than before.
There were scarcely any small birds in this high region—cover was too scarce, and food supply correspondingly low. Once they caught sight of an eagle-hawk, sailing leisurely across a path of blue sky, visible between two hills; and, even as they looked, his wings ceased to beat, he hovered, motionless, for a moment, and then fell like a stone, swooping on some prey descried in a distant gully. Occasionally there were holes that looked like rabbit-burrows, and sometimes an opening that marked the entrance to a wombat hole: but of wild life they saw nothing, save here and there a lizard sunning itself on a patch of warm rock, and sliding off with incredible rapidity at the unfamiliar sound of voices.
“As for the blacks,” said Jean, resentfully, “I believe it was only a yarn about them—or they’re all gone. We haven’t seen even a trace of a camp.”
“Well, there’s a good deal of room for a camp or so to exist without our coming across them,” Jim answered, wisely. “But I think it’s quite likely there are none left—why on earth should they stay in country like this when they can be fed and housed decently at one of the settlements? Of course, the gentle black is a peculiar sort of chap, and hates to be shut up within four walls. Still, I think this sort of thing would scare even a native back to civilization.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Jean made answer. “I did want to see some.”
“There’s old King Billy at the Darrells’ station,” Jim told her, kindly. “He lives there, and reckons he owns it. If you like, we’ll get him trotted out for your inspection. He’s our Billy’s father, and I’ve no doubt he’d be glad to call on his loving son, especially if he thought his screw had just been paid.” Which handsome offer did very little to appease Jean’s longings, even when Jim supplemented it with a further proposal to make the monarch appear in war-paint and utter horrifying tribal yells. After having been acquainted with William, junior, it was difficult to expect any romantic attributes in his royal father.
Ben Athol was a deceptive mountain. Often the summit seemed quite near, as if but a few yards more would land them at their destination. This was cheering, and led them to climb with great ardour, each striving to be first over the toppling edge that appeared to be the margin of the crest. But when it was surmounted, it was found to be only a shoulder, and the actual Peak loomed high above them yet. This occurred so often that it moved Wally to wrath and eloquence.
“I never saw anything rummier than the anatomy of this blessed hill,” he said. “It’s got as many shoulders as an octopus ought to have, only they’re all on the same side! I think we’ll be climbing it like this till the end of time, and never getting any forarder. Do you think it would pay to cut round and try to climb up its chest instead?”
Jim said, “Don’t be personal!” and patted him on the shoulder with such friendly force that the orator, who chanced to be sitting on the extreme edge of a boulder, slid off, and continued sliding until he found Mother Earth—which happened with some force. This led to reprisals, and by the time that the combatants, somewhat dusty, had adjusted their differences, the remainder of the expedition was some distance up the Peak.
It was the Peak itself, and the last pull was a steep one. All the ground was heaped with stones, great and small. To dodge them was out of the question, and every foot of the way had to be climbed. There were no trees here, though on the very summit a few clung amid the rocks. It was hot work, crawling, climbing, slipping—the rough sandstone grazing the hands that clung to it and the knees as they scrambled across. But it was the top. Jean and Norah raced for the last few yards—a contest abruptly ended by the latter’s catching her foot in a crevice and falling headlong. Jean arrived at the Peak by herself, and looked round in some astonishment, to behold her chum rising from the earth and ruefully surveying a hole in her skirt.
“Oh—I’m sorry!” said the victor, laughing and flushed. “Are you hurt, old girl?”
“Only my feelings—and my skirt!” laughed Norah, inspecting a grazed hand as a matter of lesser moment. “It’s a good thing we packed needles and cotton.” She came up beside Jean, and caught her breath in quick ecstasy. “Jeanie! what a view!”
The ranges lay beneath them, rolling east and west. Darkly green, their clothing of timber hid all ruggedness and inequalities, and only that waving expanse of foliage rippled softly from their feet. Here and there a peak, higher than its fellows, reared its crest, or a giant tree flung a proud head skywards; but there was little to break the softly-rounded masses of green. But out beyond the hills, the plains lay extended, mile on mile, spreading away illimitably. Dark lines winding sinuously over their bosoms showed the timber bordering the courses of creeks and rivers. Once a sun ray caught a glint of blue where a lake rippled thousands of feet below. On one lonely plain a belt of pines made a dark mass, easily distinguishable, even at so great a distance. On all was silence—so profound that it was easy to imagine that the green country lying below was as desolate and uninhabited as the rugged Peak where they stood.
David Linton, coming up silently, looked out long over the country he loved, one hand on Norah’s shoulder. Then he sat down on a boulder and lit his pipe, still watching and silent, as the blue smoke trailed away.
The boys arrived hastily, flushed and panting.
“Beat you!” gasped Wally.
“Dead heat, you old fraud!” Jim retorted.
“Be quiet, you duffers,” said Norah, affectionately. “Come here and look across the world!”
So they looked—and were impressed even into silence for three minutes, which is a remarkable tribute to be exacted by any landscape from any boy. Then Nature reasserted itself.
“I could drink in that view for hours,” said Wally, with fervour, “if I weren’t so thirsty!” He undid his bundle in haste, and looked longingly at the water bottle. “May we all moisten our lips just once, Mr. Linton—one little moist?”
“We’d better take stock,” responded that gentleman, coming out of his reverie, and proceeding to unstrap his load. “Jim, how much have you got left?”
They inspected the supply, which was found to be barely sufficient to assist in washing down luncheon. This once settled, they threw care to the winds, and demolished all, since going down hill would be a quicker matter, and the heat less than on the journey up. “Horses travel well when there’s water ahead, so perhaps I may expect the same from you!” remarked Mr. Linton, to the just indignation of his party, who averred that his willingness to allow the water to be finished proceeded solely from anxiety to have no load to carry down.
It was still hot when they left the summit. Resting there was scarcely a comfortable business; there was little shade, and the rocks were uneasy places for repose. “Better to have another spell on the way down, when we strike a good place,” said the leader; and the others chorussed their agreement. So they went down, slipping and sliding on the boulders—digging their heels into a patch of earth whenever one was discovered soft enough to act as foothold. It was not without risk, for the Peak was steep, and a false step among the stones would probably have resulted unpleasantly. David Linton was free from minor anxieties concerning his irresponsible clan, holding the happy-go-lucky Australian belief that worrying does not pay; still, he breathed more freely when the descent of the Peak itself was accomplished, and a slightly easier slope lay before them. Broken legs are at all times awkward—but to carry a broken leg down a mountain side is not a performance to be lightly contemplated.
He pulled up an hour later.
“Well, I have no idea as to the views of the clan,” he remarked. “But I am going to have a spell. It is borne in upon me that I am getting old, and that I have not had a smoke for a long time.”
“You’re not old, at all, but we’ll all have a spell,” Norah responded. They had halted in a shady spot, where native grass tried to grow, and there were stones of a convenient shape to serve as seats. The Peak loomed far above them, grim and remote, although they were yet on its side. They had climbed down so far that the view all round was blotted out, since now they were below the level of the timber-crowned hills that clustered round Ben Athol. Already the fierceness of the sun had gone, and there was even a breath of chill in the shady stillness where they rested.
They lay on the ground or found stony seats, and for half an hour talked lazily or did not talk at all, as the spirit moved them. Jim and his father were deep in a discussion of bullocks. Suddenly Norah, who had been industriously biting the tough grass stems, as an aid to thought, scrambled to her feet.
“I want to go and explore,” she said. “Who will come?”
“Me,” said Jean and Wally, simultaneously, and with painful disregard of the King’s English.
“Not I, I think,” said her father. “I want to finish my pipe.”
“Then I’ll keep you company,” Jim said. “Don’t get lost, you kids!”
“Kid yourself!” remarked Wally. “Then we’ll meet back at the camp, sir?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Don’t get far off the track, Wally,” said Mr. Linton; “and take care of my daughters!” He smiled at Jean.
“I’ll keep ’em well in order, sir,” said Wally. “Observe, children, Papa has put you under my charge!” Whereat Norah tilted her nose disdainfully, and they scrambled off among the rocks.
The prohibition against getting far from the path made exploration limited—not that there was much to be gained by exploring, since one part of the hill seemed precisely the same as another. Very rarely, a lean mountain sheep appeared, to scurry off among the timber in bleating affright at the strange apparitions; but in general the scrub and the rocks were monotonously alike, and travelling, once off the sheep track, was considerably more difficult. So they made their way back to it, resolving that exploration was a mistaken ideal, and journeyed down hill cheerfully.
Wally paused when they were beginning to think that the camp must be close at hand.
“Cease your foolish persiflage!” said he, severely. “I’ve an idea.”
“Never!” said Jean, with open incredulity. “Where?”
“It’s this,” said Wally. “Somewhere in my bones it is borne in upon me that young Billy is asleep. Let’s see if we can’t take him by surprise.”
“All right,” Norah said, twinkling. “But why you should think poor old Billy is snoring at the post of Duty is more than I can say, unless you’re thinking that in similar circumstances you’d be sleeping yourself!”
“There may be something in that,” said Wally, regarding the supposition with due consideration. “If Billy has kept awake all day he’s a hero and a martyr, and I should like to crown him with a chaplet of ‘prickly Moses,’ laurel leaves being unobtainable. Anyhow, let us creep upon him, and make him think he’s attacked by sable warriors, clad principally in ferocity.”
They went on softly, in single file. The path was easier, as the slope became less acute; an hour earlier, quiet walking would have been impossible, owing to shifting stones that had a way of rattling down hill at a touch; but now they could prowl, soft-footed, through the scanty undergrowth. It was, perhaps, five minutes later when the first glimpse of the green plateau came into view, and at a signal from Wally they stole forward noiselessly, halting in the shadow of the scrub that fringed its edge.
It was immediately evident that Wally’s instinct had been entirely correct. Black Billy had succumbed to the heat, or the soporific effect of the eucalyptus scents, or his own loneliness—or, very possibly, to a combination of all three. He lay on his back under a little tree, his battered old felt hat pulled over his eyes, and his skinny limbs flung carelessly in the abandonment of sleep. His mouth was wide-open, and snores proceeded from him steadily.
“Sweet child,” said Wally admiringly. “Nothing lovelier than a sleeping cherub, is there? What did I tell you, young Norah Linton? Grovel.”
“I grovel,” whispered Norah, laughing. “Poor old Billy, he must have been horribly dull.”
“Not he, lazy young nigger. Plenty to eat and nothing to do is a blackfellow’s heaven,” responded Wally, in an energetic whisper. “Hold on until I collect my breath for a yell.”
Norah caught his arm.
“Wally! Look there.”
From behind the tent suddenly emerged a figure, looking round cautiously. As she straightened up they could see her face plainly—a black woman, shapeless and bent as in the manner of all black “gins,” when their first youth is passed. Her broad face, hideous in its dark ugliness, shone with the peculiar polish of black skins. She was dressed in rags, principally of sacking, amidst which could be seen the remnant of an old print frock that had once been red; a man’s felt hat covered her matted hair ineffectually, since here and there stray locks stuck out of holes in the crown.
“Great Scott,” Wally whistled. “And that young beggar, Billy, snoring. Well, Jean, there’s your noble savage, anyhow, and I hope you like her.”
“Why, she got a picaninny,” Norah whispered eagerly.
As the woman moved they could see a tiny form clinging to her skirts on the other side. She faced round presently, and they saw the small aboriginal—a queer mite, in rags of sacking also, and a piece of the same elegant material tied over its head.
No one could have said off-hand that it was boy or girl—it was merely picaninny. Elfish eyes looked out from a tangle of black hair under the sacking. One little dark hand clung to the black gin’s skirts; the other grasped a tiny boomerang that was evidently a toy. There was something uncanny in its perfect silence and caution of the little thing.
“Rum little beggar!” Wally whispered. “Fine Australian native in the making! Jean, are you impressed?”
“The woman’s awful,” Jean murmured back. “But the baby’s a jolly little chap. I wonder if he’s a boy or girl”—a confusion of genders which sent Wally off into a fit of silent laughter that was almost alarming, since it made him apoplectic in appearance.
“Do be quiet!” Norah whispered. “She’s certain to hear you.”
But the black gin was quite unsuspicious of the watching eyes. She poked about the camp, here and there picking up some trifle and concealing it somewhere about her rags. Billy’s recumbent form she avoided carefully, and her eyes never left him for more than a moment. She wandered softly about the tent, longing, yet fearing, to untie the flap and make more detailed investigations. And always at her side trotted the picaninny, clinging to her skirt and entirely unconcerned by the adventure, except in its silence and stealthy movements.
Presently, however, it stopped suddenly, released its hold, and sat down on the ground with a comically knitted brow. The gin looked down, an impatient frown on her heavy features. The little creature was evidently concerned with a thorn or splinter its bare black foot had picked up; it was searching for it, twisting itself to try to get a view of its case-hardened sole. The gin cautioned it with uplifted finger, and leaving it on the ground, stole off on a further tour of exploration.
The black baby was evidently very cross. It frowned and twisted over its foot, and seemed to be telling the splinter, under its breath, its unbiassed opinion of it. Meanwhile, the lubra was lying flat on her face beside the tent, groping under the canvas with one hand, and her soul apparently charged with hope. Norah and Jean watched her, choking with laughter, since, so far as they knew, she could only encounter a bunk.
“You’ll have to take steps if she tries another spot, Wally,” Norah whispered.
“Right-oh!” was the noiseless response, given somewhat absently. Wally was watching the picaninny. He turned to Norah in a moment.
“That’s a rum little blackfellow,” he said. “See its foot; I’ve never seen a darky with a foot like that, and we used to live amongst ’em in Queensland. They’re all just as flat-footed as a—a platypus. But look at the instep that rum little black coon has got; it’s as high an instep as I’ve ever seen, and the foot’s quite pretty.”
Norah looked as desired. The dusky baby was still contorting on the grass, fishing vigorously in its foot for the offending splinter. Its face was turned towards them, but bent so intently over its task that they could scarcely see it. There was no doubt that the small foot was pretty—a slender foot, with arched instep, incongruous enough, sticking out of the sacking rags.
Then, as they watched, success rewarded the picaninny’s efforts. The hard little fingers, with talonlike nails, found the head of the splinter, and drew it carefully out. The child looked up triumphantly, a smile breaking out suddenly and illuminating all its dark face. And at sight of the smile Norah gave a great start, and cried out aloud:
“Wally—did you see! It isn’t a picaninny at all! It’s Mrs. Archdale’s baby!”
“The little creature was evidently concerned with a thorn or splinter its bare black foot had picked up.”