Читать книгу In the Wake of fortune - Ivan Dexter - Страница 10

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Tens of thousands of voluntary exiles from their native land have stood upon vessel's decks and looked with dimmed eyes on the receding shores, even as Edward Trenoweth did.

Few, perhaps, had more cause for grief than the young Cornish miner.

He was leaving all that were dear on earth behind him. Mother and promised bride were all in all to him, and, in addition, dear old Cornwall, inhospitable as it was in many respects, was his country, and a pang smote him as he thought he might never look upon the rugged coast again.

Then a sense of his utter loneliness and isolation forced itself upon him and for a moment he regretted he had not taken the advice of Inez and brought her along as his wife.

The weakness was only momentary, for his native resolution and courage came to his rescue and he felt almost ashamed of himself for giving way, even for a moment, to what he considered selfish thoughts.

"Why should I drag her with me to a life of hardship," he mused. "Mother would have had to come too, and I think it would kill her to leave the old village. I could not leave her alone and I am sure I have done the best under all the circumstances."

Still, the uncomfortable thought would obtrude itself that he had not done the wisest thing he might have done, but he always stifled the idea.

As he was standing thus preoccupied and mentally oblivious to his surroundings he felt a hearty slap on his back, and, turning, encountered the cheery face of Captain Telfer.

"Your first voyage, my lad, I can see. You cannot keep your eyes off Old England and I'll bet you'll be looking in this way until we cross the Biscay—that is if you are able to stand up in a day or two," the skipper concluded, with an ominous twinkle in his eyes.

Before Edward could reply he went on, "It's rough over there,"—pointing with his right thumb across his shoulder—"and if it's your first voyage, my lad, I'm afraid you'll know what seasickness is. But it won't do you any harm—perhaps good; unless you die," he continued quite seriously, "and then there'll be a burial at sea. Worth seeing if you're not the principal performer."

Trenoweth by this time knew that the Captain was thus talking to distract his thoughts, and he could not help feeling grateful for the well meant attempt, though it took a somewhat gruesome form.

"I don't think my time has yet come, Captain," he answered.

"No, my lad, I hope you'll see many a long year of life yet. But you look so lonely, and I think are alone, as there was no one to see you off—that I thought I would come to your aid. Let us take a walk round and I'll show you the good craft that has to carry you to far."

The young man felt extremely pleased at this mark of the Captain's regard. There were over one hundred other passengers on board, and to be thus singled out was no slight honour.

During the tour Edward briefly told Telfer the circumstances under which he was leaving his native land. The Captain had heard or read something about the disaster in the Wheal Merlin Mine and he deeply sympathised with the young fellow in his misfortune.

Edward did not omit to tell him about his love affair—it was uppermost in his thoughts, and the bluff old salt did not hesitate to give his opinion on the point.

"If I had been you, lad, I would have married her and brought her out. You could have left your mother and your wife in Melbourne, or some other civilised place, while you went to where you pleased. I have seen a good deal, lad, in my time, and my advice is always to marry a woman when the chance comes. If she loves you no amount of 'roughing it' will shake that love, and if she is afraid of a little hardship then my advice is never to marry her at all."

The old captain looked as wise as Solon as he gave this advice and he appeared so preternaturally serious that Edward could scarce forbear to laugh outright.

As it was he checked himself, and replied:——

"I hope everything will turn out all right, and I did it for the best."

"Oh, I hope so too, my boy; but you know, 'There's many a slip between the cup and the lip.'"

With this rather Job-like answer he turned away to attend to some routine duty, and Edward, left to himself, sauntered amongst his fellow passengers.

It was quite natural that he desired to see those with whom he would have to associate for two or three months. Unless a man is an absolute misanthrope he cannot avoid making acquaintances on shipboard during a voyage from Liverpool to Australia.

A quarter of a century ago it was even more difficult to do so than today, for the time occupied on a voyage was twice as long. The ocean greyhounds of today make a great difference in this respect, and the tedium of the long trip is immensely relieved.

Yet those old three month voyages had their compensations. Acquaintances were struck up that produced lifelong friendships and led to important results.

As Edward sauntered carelessly up and down he noticed the usual mixed crowd that makes up every passenger list. Old men, with the weight of their years plainly stamped on their wrinkled features, rubbed shoulders with young men in the first flush of vigorous manhood, to whom the future seemed full of promise.

A close observer would have noticed that some of the passengers at least were not making their first voyage. Their businesslike actions and matter-of-fact way made this evident.

Others, again, by their cheerful expression, were setting out to rejoin the loved ones, but there was a goodly number—like Edward himself—who were evidently leaving home and kindred. It was the usual motley crowd to be met with in any assemblage either on or off a ship's deck.

He had not been strolling round more than a quarter of an hour when he came face to face with a young man whose good nature seemed to beam out of his countenance.

He was of stout build, about the medium height, clean shaved, and about 27 years of age. He seemed thoroughly at his ease, and as the two young men met he stopped and said, as he extended his right hand——

"It seems to me that you and I are not only sailing in the same ship but also in the same boat, so to speak, as neither of us appear to have relatives or friends on board. At least I have not, and I am glad to meet one in the same position."

Trenoweth took the proffered hand and shook it warmly, for there was something in the man's face which attracted him irresistibly.

"I am indeed like yourself. I do not know a soul on board, except the Captain. I am leaving kindred and friends behind me," Edward answered.

"Well, I am more fortunate than you, at any rate, for I am on my way to my native land and to my home. My name is John Barr, and I live in Melbourne," replied the jolly stranger.

"My name is Edward Trenoweth, and my destination is Melbourne, but I do not know a single person in that place. This is the first time I have left England."

"You know me," said Barr warmly, "and you will not be without a friend when you reach Victoria. I am glad to hear you are going to the same part as myself, as we can 'chum up.'"

It is a remarkable fact that hastily formed friendships—like love at first sight—are generally the most enduring, and so it was destined to be in the present case.

When John Barr and Edward Trenoweth thus made each other's acquaintance on the deck of the Celtic King they little knew how important the meeting was to be to at least one of them.

The veil of the future is not often lifted in these days to ordinary humanity, and the race of prophets seems to have died out.

The two shipmates strolled away together and with little difficulty managed to secure a cabin to themselves.

The Captain was, in fact, quite pleased that Trenoweth should have found so good a mate.

He knew Barr, for he had sailed from Melbourne to Liverpool on board the Celtic King, and was now returning by the same vessel.

Barr soon informed his companion that he was general manager of one of the largest firms in Melbourne, and he had been compelled to visit England on business connected with the firm.

It was of an important and delicate nature or he should have sent some one else, as he could ill be spared from the Melbourne management.

He also gave the young Cornishman a detailed description of the country he was going to, and dispelled some of the daydreams which Trenoweth had indulged in.

"It was a land," said Barr, "where there was room for everybody, and where the clever and industrious man in any line was bound to succeed and distance his fellows."

A great portion of the Continent was practically unknown, though intrepid explorers had for more than half a century pushed into the heart of the great unknown. Their tracks were, however, infinitesimal lines on the broad bosom of the land, and if the explorer ever did return his information was of little practical value. These researches were something like that of a flying column through an enemy's country. They made little impression even when they did succeed.

Now, however, the great army of settlements were moving steadily forward, and each year a portion of the terra incognita was being laid bare to the ken of man. From the regular settlements outposts were being thrown out and places which a few years previously had proved the graves of intrepid explorers were now the sites of squattages and homesteads.

Reports were frequently coming to the centres of population concerning the alleged finding of rich mineral treasures in remote and unsettled parts, but, as a rule, nothing came of the statements.

Barr expressed his opinion—though not as an expert—that in portions of the Continent immense gold, silver, tin, and copper fields would sooner or later be discovered. This, he said, was a very general belief among Australians.

This recital fired the imagination of the young miner, and he eagerly enquired how it was none of the deposits had yet been found in the interior.

Barr laughed as he explained what the interior of Australia really meant.

Without permanent water, practically unexplored, and devoid of means of communication, the isolated miner had little or no chance to compel nature to reveal her buried treasures.

He illustrated the difficulties by the tragic story of Burke and Wills, and Trenoweth little dreamt how near he would be in the not distant future to sharing the fate of the ill-starred members of the Burke and Wills expedition and almost in the same locality.

When Trenoweth told Barr his history—which he soon did—the Melbournite, with that keen discernment for which he was famous, at once saw that his companion intended to follow the life to which he had been trained in Cornwall.

Knowing this, Barr devoted all his efforts to describing the mineral resources and possibilities of the Continent, Tasmania, and New Zealand.

He was not, of course, a practical miner, but he had a large general fund of information on the subject. He had been born in Victoria, and lived in Australia all his life and was, therefore, a capable mentor of the hopes and fears of mining.

It was no doubt fortunate for Trenoweth that he met with such a companion, for during the voyage he acquired an excellent theoretical knowledge of the land whither he was going to seek his fortune.

Barr could have given him good employment in his warehouse, but that was not what Edward required.

Dull, plodding industry in that line would not make his fortune in a couple of years and enable him to go back to Cornwall and claim his bride.

The voyage passed as uneventful as it was possible so long a sea trip could pass.

On the morning of the 16th June, 1870, as Trenoweth and Barr came on deck they found a Port Phillip pilot in the act of boarding the Celtic King, and an hour after they were making their way through the dangerous "Rip."

A heavy mist had the previous day obscured the Otway, so that the first sight Trenoweth caught of Victoria was the Port Phillip Heads.

At 11 o'clock the same day the ship was berthed at the Port Melbourne Pier, and Barr insisted on his friend accompanying him to his pretty home at Essendon.

His arrival in Victoria was therefore a much happier one than he had anticipated.

His first act was to sit down and write a long letter to St. Columb's Cove, telling the loved ones there of his safe arrival in Melbourne.

As a mail vessel was sailing that night he had no time to describe the city in which he found himself.