Читать книгу Bertha Shelley - Aubrey Burnage - Страница 10

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"Look to the waters! asleep on their breast,

Seems not the ship like an island of rest?

Bright and alone on the shadowy main,

Like a heart cherished home on some desolate plain.

Who as she smiles in the silvery light

Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,

Alone on the deep, as the moon on the sky,

A phantom of beauty, could deem with a sigh,

That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,

And souls, that are smitten, lie bursting within?

Who, as he watches her silently gliding,

Remembers that wave after wave is dividing

Bosoms, that sorrow and guilt could not sever,

Hearts that are parted and broken for ever?

Or dreams that he watches, afloat on the wave,

The death-bed of hope, or the young spirit's grave?"

—T. K. HERVEY.

Four months had passed since the convict transport Southern Cross left her moorings in the Thames, and started on her long and perilous voyage to New South Wales. She had experienced changeful weather since leaving England—now stormy now still: nearly lost in the Bay of Biscay through the heavy gales, considerably endangered on the line by the protracted calm. But she had passed safely through these perils of the deep, and was now sailing in the Great Southern Ocean before a gentle breeze, three-fourths of her journey done.

Midnight upon the sea! The waning moon, rising upon the wide circle of waters, was shedding a softened splendour upon the vast scene, and illuming the white sails of the lonely vessel till she glistened in its silvery rays like a floating iceberg. Above, the dark blue sky, gazing down with its million eyes upon the foam-flecked waves; below, the dark blue waters, proudly bearing the vessel onward upon her course. No imagination of poet, or painter can create a scene of such glowing, such wondrous beauty, as this presented by Nature to those who traverse, the vast wilderness of the deep.

All but the watch were in their berths, and, excepting one prisoner, were quietly sleeping. But one in this silent hour was brooding over his wrongs—hope and despair at war in his weary heart. Nearer and nearer, as day succeeded day, he approached the land of his exile. His heart was filled with a vague dread. Had he foreseen the dangers and troubles awaiting him there, could he have borne up? His feelings were well expressed by the lines he had that morning written upon a piece of rough paper that he had picked up:—

"God doth impart

His blessings, oft disguised in charity.

Then, aching heart,

Cease brooding o'er thy matchless misery!

There is no sense

In troubling for the future, when we have

Omnipotence

Of watchful love in all extremes to save!"

It had been well for Percy Sinclair, could he have exchanged the delicate sensitiveness of the poet for the callous indifference of the felons around him—at least as far as concerned his mental suffering. The novelty of their position past, they settled down to their degraded situation readily, as if it were natural to them: It was so to most. But he—never shall the iron leave his soul—never shall he know a moment's rest till he can walk erect again upon God's earth a free man, all taint of crime removed. Shall that day ever come? Who can peer beyond the dark veil into the future? All caged in that floating prison may again be free; none may. Time and time's Master may alone tell what is in store for each, for all!

From the lonely vessel speeding through the moonlit waters, we turn to the then almost unknown continent of Australia.

On the eastern coast a large river (large at least for Australia) meandered through an extensive valley, and, after a course of upwards of a hundred and fifty miles, flowed into the Pacific Ocean. Upon the dark foliage of the dense cedar bushes, and primeval forests of gums and ironbarks that clothed the valley, shone the same moon, in her universal power and splendour, tipping the topmost boughs with a silver radiance. Could they of to-day, glancing back over a period of forty years, look from a bird's-eye view upon this Valley of the Hunter, as it appeared under the moon on the night of our story, what an almost incredible change would they perceive. Now, through its entire length can be seen, in the presence of towns and villages, of cultivated fields, and meadows dotted over with sheep and cattle, and in the extermination of the beautiful cedar bushes, and wholesale destruction of other timber, the progress of civilization. Then, but in small settlements, at distant intervals along the river, where adventurous sheep and cattle farmers had pushed forward their flocks and herds in search of new pastures, the mighty forest was undisturbed, save by the native wild beasts and wilder man. Where now stand the growing centres of white population, were the encampments of the indigenous proprietors of the soil. Where now stands Newcastle, the second city of the colony (and, in the eyes of the world, the first in the southern hemisphere) was a small village, numbering less hundreds than now it does thousands. Maitland, another village of forty years ago, has since expanded into a populous and wealthy town. Barely in any country has the face of nature been so completely transformed in so brief a period.

As we gaze back (in imagination, of course) upon the moonlit valley, we can discern a new-built homestead, standing upon a slope, about half a mile from the river, and facing an extensive and partially-cleared "flat." The farm appears as if snatched from the forest that presses round it on all sides, as though jealous of the intruder's presence. The house was erected in the style of architecture prevalent at the time—a wooden building with a passage running through, and a broad verandah in front and on two sides. The droop of the roof was steep, and the material employed in covering the house was shingles, or thin boards split from gum or ironbark billets. Near the river was a row of huts for the Government men, and, about half-way between them and the house, were the yards and pens for the cattle. We cannot now stay to describe the farm or station in detail, but must turn to the real object of our visit—to introduce to our readers the "Lily of the Hunter Valley," the loveliest girl that Australia (in the year 1835) could produce. We do do not pretend that our heroine was fairer than some of the lilies now blooming upon the banks of our noble river; but if all women were only as beautiful as she, and as good as they looked, what a terrestrial paradise our world would be.

Late as it was, a candle was burning in a small, but tastefully arranged bedchamber, and an open book was lying upon the carpet by the bedside. These links of circumstantial evidence were sufficient to convict the occupant of the room of the dangerous practice of reading in bed. But a glance at the sweet beauty of the sleeper would disarm any but a misogynist of all thought of reproof. It is useless to attempt a description of her loveliness. The rich colour of her cheeks, the dazzling whiteness of her brow, the exquisite contour of her whole features would baffle the brush of an artist, and no pen can portray the luxuriant wealth of her lightbrown tresses. Her ruby lips were parted—the sweetest of sweet smiles wreathing them ('tis said, they dream of heaven who smile in sleep), and they disclosed a set of teeth—to what may we liken them? Twin rows of tiny pearls! The similie is too hackneyed, and yet there is nothing else in nature at all resembling them. Her eyes—well, of course, being asleep, her eyes were out of sight; but we will tell our readers (in confidence) that they were of heaven's own hue—a rich and pensive blue. She appeared, in her gentle slumber, more like an exquisite piece of Grecian sculpture, than a breathing, human being. Never yet had trouble cast its baleful shadow upon her young life. Looking at all that is in store for her in this veritable vale of tears, one could almost wish that she might escape it by passing away before the dark side of the world ("the beautiful world" as she called it) should appear to her. If they so young, so fair, so good, must meet with bitter trial, how can we expect our journey to the grave to be through a path of roses? But away; let her sleep on. She shall awake to the stern reality of life soon enough—too soon!

And now, back over forest and flood, to the lonely ship. We left her in all the glory of moonlight. No moon now visible. We left her (and not half-an-hour since) gliding along before a gentle breeze, all sail set. She is now dashing along under bare poles, the heavy seas pursuing her, overtaking her and leaping upon her trembling bulwarks, as if bent upon thrusting her and her load of shame down, down beyond the light of heaven. Dark the scene as the lowest depths of Tartarus, save ever and anon, red flashes of lightning illuminated it with momentary and ghastly brightness, and revealed to the terrified mariners the vast expanse of black and surging waters. Stealthily as a beast of prey approaches its victim, came the hurricane upon the ship. A cloud, a little cloud, rose upon the distant horizon. It was followed by others, till a vast mass of moving vapor encompassed the southern sky, and, advancing upon the wings of the storm, soon blotted out the light of the moon, and changed the bright scene to one of gloomy darkness. Among the wretched prisoners in the hold, there were more prayers (if prayers they may be called) offered for the destruction of the transport than their own safety, and even Percy Sinclair, as the rolling of the ship caused his chains to bruise and chafe his limbs, felt so despondent that he almost hoped the night would prove his last.

Bravely the vessel bore on through the struggle of wind and wave, her creaking timbers witnessing to the terrible force of the storm. Hour after hour passed, as she plunged along in her mad career, the issue still uncertain—now settling down in the black trough of the seas, as if abandoning herself in despair to the seemingly inevitable, now springing upon the crest of the mountain rollers, as if inspired with new life, and, shaking the salt spray from her quivering sides, dashing forward through the darkness—fleeing before the rude breath of the storm-fiend. The blackness of night, chequered by the intermittent glare of the thundercloud, gave place to the dull light of morning—the hurricane unabated. At daybreak the foremast went by the board, and in cutting away the wreckage, several men were washed overboard by the heavy seas that continually swept the ship.

Fortunately for the plot of our story, the weather moderated about noon, or one of our principal characters had been lost to us. At mid-day the wind began to lull, and gradually subsided into a steady breeze; and the bruised and battered Southern Cross, victorious in the late direful struggle, lay helpless upon the waves, a sad witness to its terrible violence. If any earthly situation could shadow forth, however faintly the horrors of the gloomy, nether world, the hold of that floating prison during the continuance of the storm was a foretaste of the tortures of a lost hereafter. Shut down by battened hatches that precluded ventilation, and almost smothered the unhappy wretches confined below, lying in pitchy darkness, and dashed from side to side by the rolling of the ship, the intervals of the startling crashes of thunder filled by the shrieks of the timid and maniac laughter and blasphemies of the hardened—it seemed a very pandemonium to Percy Sinclair.

Soon after two o'clock the hatches were lifted, admitting to the almost stifled prisoners the inestimable blessing of pure air. With a will worked the crew and some of the more handy among the guard, and before night the Southern Cross was sailing under a jury foremast; and at midnight, when the moon again shone brightly upon the waters, none could have observed a trace of the storm, save in the heavy swell of the waves. On she sped before the favoring wind toward that land to be the grave of most of her motley living freight.