Читать книгу A Miner's Million - John Monk Foster - Страница 9

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Christmastide—but what a Christmas! No fields snow-covered, no lakes and streams ice-roofed, nor hedges and trees glistening with delicate starry frost flowers; but plenty of ferns, an abundance of beautiful palms, wondrous-lined and curiously-shaped plants and flowers, bright-feathered, songless birds, and the thermometer standing at 85° in the shade.

An Englishman's notions of Christmastide are indissolubly associated with frosty winds and roaring coal fires—for the Yule log has gone out of fashion—overcoats, and plenty of good fare, and an Australian summer strikes him as strangely strange.

Urrariro Creek was a small mountain stream in New South Wales, far away from any town or settlement. A prettier spot than the Creek one could hardly imagine. Situated in a region where rain was not so very rare even in summer, the banks of the creek held within them a lazy flow of clear water even at the hottest season of the year.

Plant and vegetal life of the rarest and most beautiful kinds bloomed and blossomed in great luxuriance down to the water's edge, and animals curious as interesting passed their existence midst the still life about them. Mighty gumtrees reared their summits hundreds of feet in the clear air, and under them and about their base lesser trees flourished. A group of cabbage-palms reared their magnificent mass of fronds a score of yards overhead, and through their leafage a host of birds fluttered and chattered; the bronze cuckoo distinguishable by its melancholy whistle, the bell-bird by its clear tinkling note, and the regent-bird by its brilliant plumage of golden yellow and deep velvety black. Above the cabbage-palms a jabiru was winging its way towards some favourite salt marsh, his long legs pressed flat under him, and his glossy green neck ablaze in the sunshine. Two or three Christmas-trees stood on the margin of the creek, their deep-green tongue-shaped leaves contrasting vividly with their great clusters of red flowers, and 'neath the sheltering shade of these trees stood a clump of waratah, or tulip-trees, each one on fire with scarlet blossoms. Between a fine specimen of a pampas grass plant and a rice-paper tree rose a magnificent plant with a towering spike on which were bunches of big crimson lilies. Ferns of all sizes, from delicate filmy specimens a few inches in length to splendid plants twelve and even fifteen feet high, feasted the eye with their cool, delicious green; and amongst the rank grasses and ferns fronds death adders and yellow snakes lay coiled up asleep till the footfall of some unwary animal should rouse them to ireful wakefulness. On the bosom of the stream, far away down where it joined the Campaspe, a black swan was gracefully gliding through the water, and in a small cove amongst the tall bulrushes a pair of platipi were playing. Lemon verbena, acacia, orange, citron, and myall trees exuded their delicate fragrance, and the air was heavy with perfume.

But the beauty of Urrariro Creek was already beginning to disappear in places. The hurried feet of men eager for gold had trampled the green sward black, and many of the beautiful trees had been cut down to build dwellings and fires. A "prospector" had found gold in the vicinity of the Creek, and this discovery had caused a great rush to the place.

The southern bank of the Creek was already dotted with numerous habitations of man—dwelling-places far more picturesque than the every-day brick house, but much less comfortable. Drinking booths and gambling saloons had sprung up quickly as mushrooms, and an enterprising firm of Sandhurst bankers had opened a branch establishment at the Creek to purchase the gold unearthed by the diggers.

A "gold diggings" ranks even higher than a racecourse as an edifying and interesting spectacle. The power that impels men towards both places is the same, namely, lust of gold; but the influence of the auriferous fields covers a much larger area than the racecourse, and consequently presents a more varied and extensive picture of humanity and all its moods, passions, and vices.

The Derby or St. Leger draws men from every shire in Britain. The throng on Epsom Downs is composed of every kind of being the land boasts, or derides, or ignores. In the crowd the greasy rags of the pauper rub against the fashionable habiliments of the prince; the ill-fed workman who has slaved all his life and is deeper in the mire than ever crushes under his hobnailed shoes the patent leather boots and tender toes of the well-fed, sleek-skinned millionaire, who never did a hard day's work in his life.

The racecourse presents numerous extremes and strangenesses to the philosophic and observant mind, still it must yield to the gold diggings, for while the first collects an audience from the shires of Britain alone, the latter attracts men from every country on the face of the earth.

Teuton, Celt, Mongolian, negro, and every other branch of the human race possess at least one common feeling, namely, love of gold. Gold is the only god who has worshippers in every corner of the world. The Arab in the desert and the savage Zulu join hands with the cultured aesthete, philosopher, and scientist—the highest products of civilization—in their reverence of the yellow ore. There is but one magnet that attracts all men and repels none, and the vulgar name is "tin."

Every nation had sent a representative to Urrariro Creek. Jews, as a rule, do not love to dig for money; they are masters in the craft of huckstering, yet beak noses, olive-skins, and raven hair denoted that one or two descendants of Abraham had turned diggers. Gay, moustached Frenchmen, quick of word and profuse of gesture; bilious-looking Germans, slow of utterance and hard working; Spaniards, tawny-skinned, passionate and lazy; humourous Paddies; shrewd miserly Scotchmen; and stubborn John Bulls made up the colony on the bank of the creek; digging for gold; drinking maddening drinks, singing, gambling, and occasionally fighting.

"Rather warm, Sam, isn't it? It's enough to melt a fellow nearly. Can't say that I ever felt as warm in all my life."

"It's werm ernuff, Bob, but I've felt it o gud deol hotter when I was in 'Mericay. Tawk abeawt it bein' werm neaw, why, it's nothin'."

"Warm isn't the word for it Sam, if it was worse than this. It's like being shut up in an oven. I'm completely knocked up; I don't know how you feel. Suppose we knock off for to-day?"

"Just as yo' like, mate. Ah'm willin'. Win dum weel to-day, Bob."

"Pretty tidy, Sam. How much dust is there?"

"Abeawt four eynces. Wot time has it getten, Bob; ah'm feelin' peckish?"

"It's half-past 6."

"We'll finish fur to-day, then. Mooist o' tothers han gin o'er, too."

"Come along, then. We'll wash the rest of it to-morrow."

The speakers were two gold-diggers, engaged in washing alluvial deposits at Urrariro Creek. Bob Wilson and Sam Yates were chums. They worked a claim together and shared the dust found. These two diggers had little in common save their desire for gold, which actuated their delving and washing of the soft earth about the creek. Bob Wilson was handsome and well spoken, and men believed him when he claimed to have known "better days." Sam Yates was uncouth in appearance, and his speech was the broadest and quaintest of Lancashire dialects.

Sam Yates had come to the diggings to amass, if possible, sufficient money to take him back to Bolton, his native place, and enable him to become the landlord of some snug public-house. Why Bob Wilson turned digger no one knew, nor did he ever venture any information on that point. The hardy Lancashire pitman placed his earnings in the safe keeping of the Sandhurst Bankers, whilst his chum melted his dust at the bar and card tables at Mulligan's Hotel.

Gold digging is a very uncertain vocation in the way of wages. Often enough—too often, I daresay—not an ounce of yellow metal rewarded a week's delving. At other times the turning of a spadeful of dirt would disclose a goodly piece of gold. Bob Wilson and Sam Yates had their lucky days, but nuggets worth scores of pounds' sterling were not heavy enough to sink to the bottom of Bob's pocket and remain there. They melted away even faster than the dust, for when a "find" came in Wilson's way, he seldom left Mulligan's hostelry till the last coin had vanished, either in the Irishman's till or his fellow gambler's pocket.

And honest Sam never even thought of dissolving the partnership with his reckless chum. While Bob was gambling and drinking Sam worked on, always sharing all he found with his mate, and when Bob's exchequer "gave out" Sam kept him till fresh dust was revealed in the cradles.

The hut inhabited by Bob Wilson and Sam Yates stood a score of yards from the water on the top of a green shelving bank. Four trees formed the four corners of their dwelling, and the sides were composed of branches nailed from tree to tree. Roof there was none save that made by the branches and leafage of the corner trees through which glimpses of a bright blue sky could be seen in the day.

'Twas a light, airy, summer-house-sort of a dwelling, pleasant enough so long as no rain fell and frosty winds and snow kept away. Ferns and flowers and bright-leaved plants grew close by and luxuriant creepers hung about the hut's rough sides. The spot would have delighted the sight of romantic youth or maid who longed for some boundless contiguity of shade wherein to dwell apart from the "madding crowd."

Bob and Sam left their claim and turned into their hut. Bob lit his pipe, threw himself on a chump of wood and puffed away contentedly, and Sam began to prepare tea; lighting a fire in front of the hut on which he boiled a can of water into which he had thrown a handful of tea.

The rough meal was soon ready, as quickly dispatched, then pipes were filled with tobacco rather strong and the chums smoked in silence, Bob thinking what sort of luck he would have at cards that night, and Sam thinking of storing away a few more pounds and seeing the public-house coming nearer.

"How many ounces did you say, Sam?" queried Bob as he knocked the dust out of his pipe.

"There's abeawt four ah dersay," Sam replied, tumbling the gold found that day into his horny hand and weighing it. "Ah don't need tek it tut bank to-neet ah recken, do ah!"

"Why not?" Bob asked sharply.

"Well, ah thowt o' keepin' it till wa geet sum moour, that's aw."

"Oh, change it to-night, Sam, as soon as you can do so conveniently. Somehow or other I fancy my luck will change to-night."

"Yo' thowt so last neet, Bob."

"So I did, Sam, but I never felt so sure of it before. I mean to sweep out the pockets of the whole lot to-night."

"Ah'd chuck gammin' up aw't'gether if ah were yo', Bob. Yo'll ne'er win owt wi' it."

"I'll give o'er when I've made a fortune," Bob answered laughing. "And now, Sam, you go like a good fellow and sell the dust at once. I'm going to have a bit of a splash in the creek. I'll meet you at Mulligan's in half an hour or so."

"Aw reet," Sam answered, and, rising, they left the hut together.

"I shall clean out Riley, Buchner, and Montelle to-night, as sure as fate," Bob thought as he swung carelessly along up the creek. "A dip in the creek will freshen me up and cool my brain. I feel that I shall hold plenty of trumps to-night."

Bob Wilson had often bathed in the stream before and mostly at one spot where a magnificent tree fern grew close to the edge of the water. That evening he strolled further up the creek. He had re-filled his pipe and, determining to finish it before he bathed, he went further up the creek than he had ever been before.

By the time his pipe was empty Bob found himself about a mile or so from the camp. He paused at a spot where the gently shelving banks of the stream suddenly merged themselves into quartz cliffs rising sheer from the water for 20 or 30 feet. In the course of ages the stream had cut a path for itself clean through the rock, and the tall banks almost shut out the hot sunlight from the water.

Undressing, Bob plunged into the cool water, and it seemed delicious to cleave the clear sparkling liquid after his hot walk. 'Twas shady up the stream where the high banks rose from the water, and he swam leisurely along against the slowly flowing current.

About 50 yards ahead he saw the sunlight gleaming on the water where the cliffs again shelved down to the level of the stream. He swam right through the rocky channel and into the sunshine beyond. After plashing about for a while he turned upon his back and floated slowly along with the current, glancing as he drifted downwards at the ragged side of the gorge and the trees which overhang the top.

Half-way through the channel Bob suddenly twisted round and swam to the side.

What was amiss! What was the cause of his sudden stoppage and apparent apprehension?

Had he seen some loathsome water beast, or was one of the o'erhanging cliffs about to crumble into the creek and crush him to a pulp?

Swimming to the side Bob dropped to his feet and waist in deep water he stood closely examining the rocky sides of the gorge. Then he glanced around apprehensively like a thief who had found something and was afraid of being detected.

Great beads of sweat stood on Bob's brow, and he trembled like a wind-shaken leaf. And well might he tremble with excitement. What a discovery he had made.

There in the cliff side, close to where he stood lay a thick vein of pure gold, all tarnished and black, and scarcely distinguishable in many places from the surrounding rocks, but bright at one spot where a fragment had evidently been broken away quite recently.

Where was the fragment?

He would try to find it. Feeling about the rocky bottom with his feet he touched some object heavy and sharp cornered, and bending down he fished up a heavy piece of quartz, through which there ran a thick streak of gold.

Bob Wilson was not a praying man, but something as near a prayer as he could make came from his heart, and was moulded into half inarticulate words by his lips. But his face was white, and the blood jumped fiercely through his veins. Dreams of sudden wealth filled his brain. There in the rocks beside lay a fortune's worth of gold waiting for him. If that thick vein ran right through the cliff he might become a millionaire. A mountain of gold would hide all the errors of his youth, and he might return to his native land were he only rich enough.

A thought rushed through his hot brain and almost paralyzed him. Did any one else know of the existence of the gold? For a moment or two he felt prepared to murder any one who possessed that knowledge. So potent is the influence of gold that in a space of time comprising half a dozen moments Bob Wilson had uttered holy words and honest thoughts had filled his mind, then in a sudden revulsion of feeling he felt cruel enough to perpetrate the greatest of all crimes.

A moment's reasoning showed Bob that the gold was probably known to himself alone. From the cliff top no one could have perceived the glittering spot which had attracted him, and none of the diggers ever thought of swimming through the gorge as they bathed near the camp. And even he himself would never have discovered the existence of the gold had the fragment of quartz not been broken away.

Bending down Bob scooped up a handful of mud from the bed of the stream and dashed it against the bright yellow spot. It should attract no one else as it had attracted him. All the diggers at Urrariro Creek might invade the gorge now and never discover the precious vein of ore.

Would he know the exact spot again? Yes. Right over his head a great gum tree had fallen; the recumbent trunk gripping each cliff, making a rude kind of bridge. Yes, he would remember the exact spot.

Taking with him the piece of quartz, Bob waded along the cliff side till he reached his clothes, and hastily donning them he made towards the camp, but first looking round carefully to see if any one was about. But all was still, save a pair of laughing jackasses, who made the spot noisy with their shrill cries.

Reaching the hut Bob deposited the piece of quartz in his box, and went in search of his chum. In the canvas hostelry, dignified by the name of Mulligan's Hotel, Bob found his mate seated among some twenty or thirty miners, all of whom were drinking, many playing at cards, and two at billiards. Sam Yates was watching two rich diggers, who were playing at "all fours," £5 a game, and seven up.

"Bin a gud while, Bob, ha'n't yo'?"

"Rather, Sam. I felt a bit tired so I took time over my bath."

"Here's yer money—six peynd two an' sixpunce. There was jus' three eynces an' o hoff. If ah were yo' ah wodn't play wi' Riley to-neet, fur he's winnin' aw afoor him."

"I don't intend to play to-night, Sam."

"Yo' dunnut?"

"No!"

"Ah'm fain to hear yo' sey so, mate. Are yo' gooin' to gie gammin' up aw'together?"

"Perhaps, Sam," Bob replied pleasantly. "Suppose we have a stroll; this place is infernally hot."

"Will you play me, Wilson? It's my table, and I'll take ten from you for a sov'rin."

"Not in form to-night, Dawson. Come on, Sam, I want to speak to you."

They passed out together.

"Summut purtic'lar, Bob?"

"Rather, old fellow. I've found something which I wish to show you."

"Unother funny annaymul like t'other yo' fond?"

"Something even more interesting than a platypus. Ask no more questions. You can handle the thing in another minute."

Bob half dragged Sam into the hut, and lifting the piece of rock from his box he placed it in his mate's hand saying—

"What do you think of that, old fellow? Doesn't it make your teeth shoot water, Sam? Wouldn't you like to own a hundred lumps like it?"

Sam's eyes glistened with avaricious fire as they fastened themselves on the thick streak of metal running through the stone, and he blurted out—

"Wheerever did yo' ger it, Bob? Why, It's wuth twenty sov'rins if it's wuth o penny!"

"Nearer fifty, Sam. If I'm not mistaken there's a dozen ounces in that piece, and it's worth three pound ten an ounce."

"But wheer did yo' ger it. Bob? Is there anny moor wheer yo' geet it?"

"Enough to make us both rich," Bob replied, laughing at Sam's vehemence. Then he related how he had found the gold whilst bathing, and when he finished Sam begged to be taken to the spot. As there was still an hour or two of daylight Bob revisited the gorge, and his mate feasted his eyes on the vein of gold which could be traced for several yards along the face of the rock.

"An' wot do yo' inten' dooin', Bob?" Sam asked, as they walked slowly back in the gathering darkness.

"That is just what I am considering."

"Yo' mon be careful, lad, or somebody else will ger owd on't."

"You may trust me to be careful, Sam, I understand the value of the discovery, and I intend us to reap all the benefit of it."

"Yo' connot work it on't quiet, con yo', beawt tother diggers knowin'?"

"Certainly not. To get the gold out of the rock we shall have to hire a quartz-crushing machine, such as you have seen at work at Sandhurst."

"There's men at Ur'i'o Creek as wud kill us booath fur wot we know. How'll yo manage to keep it to yersel'?"

"Oh, easily enough. You know—at least it is the case whether you know it or not—that any one who comes across gold in a new locality is bound to make the discovery known to the proper authority. Well, to-morrow I shall go to old Ben Gotch, as he is the proper Government officer, and tell him of my find. We'll take him to the place and get him to recognise our sole claim to the discovery."

"There'll be a rush when the news gets out, Bob."

"So there will; but it won't make much difference to us. As 'prospectors' we can claim double ground, and pitch our claim where we like. I think you know, Sam, what spot we shall select?"

"Yiss. But, Bob, do yo' meean to say we're to share an' share alike? Yo' fo'nd it, an' yo' owt to ha' biggest share on't."

"We have worked together, and shared fairly for five months now, Sam, and we'll continue to do so. When you found that lump you didn't try to dodge and keep it to yourself, and when I was ill that week you shared every penny you'd got with me. You were a trump, old fellow, and we are going to go halves as long as we are chums."

"But, Bob," Sam stammered.

"Shut up, Sam, that's a good fellow. I've made up my mind, and it's settled. And Sam?" said Bob, pausing suddenly on the bank of the creek, and looking straight into his comrade's rough honest face.

"Wot, Bob?"

"I mean to be a better man. Among the rocks up yonder there's a fortune for us both if I can only keep my lips from the whisky and my hands from the cards, and I mean to do so. Drinking and gambling have made a sad ruin of my life up to this time, but it seems I am to have another chance. I've friends in England who would welcome me, I daresay, were I to show myself. Six months of manly self-denial, and we may leave this side of the world rich men. I'll master my follies, crush my vices if I can, and be no longer one of passion's slaves!"

"An ah expec' yo' keep yer word, Bob," Sam answered fervently, and two strong hard hands met in a fast grip.

"Remember, Sam, that you mention this matter to no one till I have brought Gotch to the creek, and our claim as 'prospectors' has been fully acknowledged. A word might cause us much trouble, perhaps lose us a fortune. The inhabitants of Urrariro Creek are not remarkable for a high code of ethics."

"I'll keep my jaws shut, yo'll see. Who's that! By God! Bob, sumbuady's bin watchin' us."

"Where is he? Who is it? I can't see any one! You are mistaken, Sam," Bob cried out.

"Ah'm not!" the other replied, doggedly and lowly, "theer he is gooin past that gumtree—don't yo' see him?"

Sam pointed excitedly towards the setting sun, and, following his extended finger, Bob perceived the distinct outline of a man's figure moving rapidly along in the direction they were going.

"I see him now, but I hardly think he has been following us. Some of the diggers who, having no money to gamble or drink away, has been having a quiet walk by himself."

"P'r'aps," Sam replied, "but diggers ar'nt o'er fond o' quiet wawks. Let's follow and see who he is?"

"Perhaps we had better do so; we can't be too careful, for if any one gets to Gotch before us he will not recognise our claim to the discovery."

The faint light of sunset still lit up the woodland, and they were able to follow the man easily enough. Whoever the man was, and whatever the object of his walk, he made straight for the camp, went past the scattered dwellings and into Mulligan's Hotel. Bob and Sam were not far behind when he entered that hostelry, and they followed him in. They saw the man pause in the middle of the one big room and look round. Then they recognised him.

"It's Dan Jolley!" Bob whispered.

"An' he's scamp unuff fur owt!" Sam answered in a low tone. "He's watched us sure unuff, and ah'll watch him."

They took seats in the quietest corner of the crowded and noisy saloon and called for drinks, never taking eyes for a moment off the big ugly-looking fellow Bob had called Dan Jolley. They saw him cross the room and talk to a little man with a face as cruel-looking and repulsive as his own. The smaller man was Mike Shehan, and the pair had the worst reputations of all the men at Urrariro Creek.

After a few words the two men left the room, and, without a word, Bob and Sam drained their drinks and followed him.

"The'r gooin' to their hut, Bob, and ah don't inten' gooin' to eaurs till ah see um o' sleep. Let's go past Tom Sharrock's claim an' they'll not see us if they look back. This way—mahnd that hole."

Even the suspicion of danger had aroused all the dormant strength of Sam Yate's character. He took the lead, and Bob Wilson followed quietly at the heels of his resolute chum.

Dan Jolley and Mike Shehan were mates. They lived together in a miserable shanty some diggers had deserted. They were too lazy to delve and dig for dust, so they gambled, cheated, and stole when they could, and somehow managed to live without washing any dirt. Jail birds both, they were ripe for any kind of knavery from cardsharping to murder, and the taking of a man's life would have caused them no more uneasiness than the taking of his money.

"This is the shanty, Bob—hush, they're in. Let's heeur wot the're tawkin' abeawt."

They knelt down and looked through the cracks in the hut's sides. An old oil lamp burnt with a faint flaring red light inside, and showed Dan Jolley and Mike Shehan talking earnestly. With fast throbbing pulse they listened, and heard the following dialogue:—

"An' ye are shure it's gowld, Dan?"

"As sure as there's a devil in hell, Mike."

"Did yez tist it fur yersilf?"

"I did. When I sees 'em go into the creek at that time o' night I sees somethin' was up, so I watches 'em, an' when they'd gone I goes myself, an' sees gold enough to fill a cart."

"An' what'll ye do, Dan, now. They'll be off in the mornin' to see old Gotch, an' thin all's up."

"One o' us must be there before 'em. You must be off to-night."

"It's a long tramp, Dan."

"There's a hoss in the stable behind the Bank. S'pose you borrow it Mike, an' off with you."

"An' I will, Dan. Shure yez lick the devil himsilf for cliverniss. An' I'll 'ave ould Gotch here in the mornin' by the time the're thinkin' o' goin' for him. Be the hooly Mary, there'll be great tares whin the pore devils foind thimselves licked. Let's take the lind of the baste immediately."

"Knock out the lamp, Mike—by God! who's that?"

"Owd Gotch!" cried a voice, and the door was dashed open, disclosing Sam Yates and Bob Wilson, each stern-faced and fearless, barring all egress.