Little by little the horror of Black Sunday came to be known; in that wild and scattered district it was impossible at once to discover the full extent of the havoc the fires had wrought. Polly’s was not the only one whose life had gone out as a sacrifice. There were men who had been killed by falling trees: who had died fighting for their homes: wives who had perished battling beside their husbands, and whole families whom the fire had trapped in the forest. There were communities in which every living soul was blind from smoke. Hundreds were homeless and penniless; townships were blotted out, farm-houses reduced to a heap of ashes and twisted iron. Starving stock roamed the blackened country, seeking vainly for food. In the towns where they could gather, the refugees huddled, clutching the few poor possessions they had been able to save—dazed and bewildered, while the doctors worked day and night, tending their burns, and kindly homes gathered in the sick who had fallen by the way.
And then, with the spreading of the news, came the swift response of the country. After the first gasp of horror the rush of help followed. Women ransacked their homes to send clothing, linen, blankets; children gave their toys for the children who had lost their all: the tide of money poured into the coffers of the relief funds until it mounted day by day in a wave of gold. Men who were slow to give in ordinary circumstances gave gladly now. The whole world heard the pitiful story, and shouted its sympathy: there were offers of help from every State, and from far beyond Australia. From the King’s whole-hearted message of grief to the quick help of the Chinese in Victoria, there was no heart that was not wrung by the story of the fires. The sufferers, dazed and homeless, as they squared their shoulders to begin anew could feel that, at least, their country stood behind them to help.
In the neighbourhood of Hill Farm many houses had escaped, the fury of the gale having swept the flames along too swiftly to let them fasten on homes where gardens were green or where fire-breaks had been made and undergrowth cleared. Merritt’s farm was safe, and O’Rourke’s, and Sanders’: and to the joy of everyone, Danny appeared, badly burned, but safe, having ridden through five miles of fire in time to rescue his brother. Merri Creek village had been reduced to a heap of ashes, and for miles the new railway showed nothing but blackened and twisted rails; but no lives had been lost, and no one despaired. In the hearts of everyone was the same quiet determination—to build up all that had been lost.
Dr. and Mrs. Lane appeared on the third day and took firm possession of Mrs. Hurst and Robin, carrying them bodily off to Melbourne. Mrs. Hurst did not resist. She knew that the terror of Black Sunday, and the shock of Polly’s death would cling to Robin until her full strength returned; while she herself longed to be out of sight of the blackened hills and valleys, with their fearful memories. Only one consideration held her—Mrs. Ryan, who went about whatever work she could find to do, or tended her children, in tight-lipped silence. No word had come from the lonely sawmill she had left in the forest. It was almost beyond hope that any good news could ever come.
But on the fourth day, sitting on the veranda, she glanced up to see two gaunt and ragged men walking up the hill: and at the same moment a dish clattered to the floor in the kitchen, and Mrs. Ryan, clutching the baby, fled past her, racing down the blackened slope; with Micky and Joe at her heels, yelping joyfully. Big Mick Ryan gathered his family into his arms.
“You were awful good to ’em, Missus,” he told Mrs. Hurst, a little later.
“Good?” she said: and laughed. “We were all in the same box: it was a comfort to be able to help. But I’m so sorry your mill has gone!”
“Oh—darn the ol’ mill!” said little Mrs. Ryan.
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[From a letter from Robin Hurst, Hill Farm, to Barry Lane, Melbourne.]