By Blow and Kiss
Then the word passed round, and one by one they ceased their efforts, and stumbled clear of the sheep, and dropped to the ground.
A figure leading a horse limped up in the starlight, and Ess spoke eagerly, “What is it – what next?”
Steve Knight flung himself down on the ground.
“The dawn,” he said briefly, and nodded to the faint grey in the eastern sky. “The dawn – and we’re done. The poor old boss has just passed the order to let go. We can do no more – we’re beat.”
Ess said nothing. She felt there was nothing she could say.
Scottie and Mr. Sinclair came up, steering for the little fire one of the men had lit for her beside the buggy.
Ess looked at the old man with her heart swelling. It was so hard – so hard. He had done everything, spent his all, and fought, and borrowed, and fought again, and now he was beaten, and those sheep lying there, instead of a mile or two over the hill, meant Coolongolong slipping from his hands, and himself and his wife and girls left penniless to face the world and begin anew.
Ess could not trust herself to speak, and when the old man clambered heavily down from his sulky, she moved over to him, and slipped a hand inside his arm.
“Well, well, my dear. So you had to stay to see it out? I’m sorry we couldn’t show you a better finish; but never mind, we made a fight for it – we made a fight for it.”
She brought a cushion from the sulky and put it for him to sit on by the fire. He sank slowly on it. “So,” he said quietly. “And that’s the last of Coolongolong – the last of…” His voice trailed off into silence – a silence unbroken except for the baa-ing of the sheep that had slackened, but never stopped.
“Is’t as bad as that, sir?” said Scottie.
“Ay, Mackellar – it’s the finish. I’ve plunged to the hilt on saving them. The skins won’t pay off enough to clear me, even letting the station go. But I’m sorrier for – ” he was looking at Steve, but he checked himself and glanced at Ess.
“I’m sorry for yourself only, sir,” said Steve, quietly.
“Thank’ee, lad, thank’ee. That’s kindly said,” said the old boss. “Well, well, maybe they will leave me in charge as manager, when they take over Coolongolong.”
“I’m sure we a’ hope that, maist airnestly, sir,” said Scottie.
The silence fell again, and they could hear in it the faint hiss and spurt of the flames of the tiny fire.
Ess shivered, and sat closer to the warmth.
“Are you cold, Miss Ess?” said Steve.
“It’s the dawn win’,” said Scottie, “an’ you bein’ up a’ night.”
Ess had lifted her head, and was listening intently.
“What’s the matter?” she said. “The sheep – don’t you hear? They’ve stopped crying.”
The men stared at her, and at one another. She was right – the sheep had stopped calling, and the silence after that night-and-day unceasing cry was eerie and strange.
Then high up the slope from the few sheep that had struggled there came a faint “baa-a-a.” The dense masses of sheep on the flats below raised their heads and answered the call – a few of them staggered to their feet and stumbled feebly towards the slope.
Scottie leaped to his feet, and his voice shook with excitement.
“It’s the win’,” he said hoarsely. “The dawn win’. It’s frae the east, and blawin’ ower the hills and the water, an’ they’ve smelt it. Eh, thank God, sir – ye are saved Coolongolong.”
Less than an hour later Steve stood on the track beside Ess.
“Your uncle sent me to drive you home,” he said. “There’s nothing more to do to-day. It’s not driving they’ll need now. They’ve winded the water, full scent, and while they’ve a breath of life or a drain of strength in their bodies they’ll go on till they reach it.”
“They’re crying again,” said Ess, and they stood and listened. The last of the sheep were trailing over the skyline, and the quavering call came faint and thin down wind to them.
“Does it sound different now to you?” said Steve. “Hark – did you ever hear a crowd of men in the distance cheering … like that ‘Hoo-ray-ay-ay’?”
“It is,” she said, “exactly that. And we’ve won – we’ve won.”
And over the hill a stronger puff of wind sighed gently, and brought the pulsing waves of sound back clear to them – “ray-ay-ay-ay.”
CHAPTER VIII
“Connor’s Leap” the little township called itself, and was deeply indignant with the men of Coolongolong for twisting it into “Gone-Asleep” – a name which stuck more closely than its own, and had more than once been the gage of battle between the men of the town and the men of the stations.
And at any rate there was to be little enough sleep this night for the township or its inhabitants, for it was Saturday night and the station men were up and out in full force – the men from Coolongolong and its back station of Thunder Ridge, and even the boundary riders from the lonely huts on the back paddocks.
The sheep were in the hills, and Sinclair, the boss, had said that the men had earned a night’s spree, and had given them leave for the trip to Connor’s Leap.
Trooper Dan Mulcahy, the red-faced Irish constable and sole representative of the law in Connor’s Leap, left his peaceful dinner hurriedly and ran out into the drowsy heat at the sound of the first long yell and the roaring thunder of hoofs across the planks of the bridge that led to the town. Then he went straight to the cells and turned out two sleepy and half-sobered townsmen and pushed them into the road.
“Go home,” he said; “go home an’ sober yersilves. ‘Tis willin’ enough I am to help a man in disthress an’ put him where the shnakes won’t get at him. But it’s no room there’ll be for the likes o’ you this night, wid the station bhoys ragin’ through the township like flame through a grass paddock. Go home wid ye, an’ don’t be sthandin’ there like a pair o’ trussed owls wi’ th’ blind staggers. D’ye take this for an Orphin Asyl-i-um or a Soberin’ Home for Insoberables?”
He went back and finished his cooling dinner, and took off his boots, and stretched himself on an easy chair with his feet up on another.
“Lave me shleep for an hour or two,” he said to his wife. “They won’t be burnin’ the town down, or horse-racin’ in the main street, or tearin’ the hotel bar out b’ the roots for a two-three hours, so I’ll shleep whoile there’s a chance.”
The station men wheeled off the bridge and pounded down to the river edge and watered their horses, and then rode them round to the hotel stable and fed them, and sent the horse boy with them stringing down to the hotel paddock.
“An’ now that’s off our minds,” said Whip Thompson, “I reckon I can put some severe punishment on a long beer.”
“Coolongolong-go-long-long-beer,” chanted one of the men softly, and the crowd surged for the bar and pounded it, and demanded long beers of the publican with clamorous threats to come and help themselves if he didn’t hurry his fingers.
“’Nother one – quick,” said Darby the Bull, thumping his empty glass back on the bar. “That sizzled an’ dried out ’fore it reached my throat.” He lifted and tilted the next one, and it slid down between breaths. “I can feel myself beginnin’ to irrigate,” he said complacently. “That got half-way, an’ another should reach the back paddocks inside me.”
“It’s a long dry spell,” said Cookie Blazes. “But if the rain don’t come, be thankful the beer does.”
“Tap another barrel, for the well’s gone dry,” sang Jack Ever, and the men took the chorus up and yelled it till the tin roof above them danced again.
“Hit ’er up and fill ’em up,” cried Ned Gunliffe. “Come on, Never-Never Jack – next verse” – and again the chorus was bellowed in the ancient and accepted fashion, with the long-drawn up-running note on the “We” and the boot-stamped emphasis on the “must.”
We-e-e must have a long wet wash and bath,We’ve got to drink or die;So tap another barrel o’ beer,For the well’s gone dry.“That’s it,” laughed Steve Knight. “Tap us another barrel, boss. We’re out to irrigate to-night, as Darby says.”
A boundary rider from the back paddocks was the first to show the bite of the drink. He was a slip of a lad with the face of a schoolgirl, and he stood swaying uncertainly on his legs and called for silence.
“Silence,” yelled Whip Thompson. “Silence f’r a speech from Dolly Grey.”
“Fren’s, Romans, hic – Countrishmen,” “Dolly Grey” began solemnly, “an’ townsmen,” he added as an afterthought. “Thish meet’n oughtave a chair – mushave a chair – hic. I beg t’move – I wantsh move…”
“Come on then,” said Darby the Bull; “move if y’ want. We ’aven’t a chair for ye, but ye can sit on the floor,” and he hauled Dolly Grey, protesting feebly, into a corner, and compelled him to sit down by the simple method of leaning all his weight on his shoulders.
“Here, let’s move down to the other hotel,” suggested Steve Knight. “Distribute trade; encourage home industries; advance Australia.”
There was a chorus of approval, and the men poured out and marched up the street to the other hotel.
“Glory be,” said Trooper Dan, waking suddenly and reaching hastily for his boots. “Are they at it already?” The tramp, tramp, of heavily marching feet passed up the street, a chanting chorus marking the time – “Coolongolong go-long-long-beer,” and Trooper Dan settled back with a sigh. “’Tis early to tackle them,” he sighed; “’twould only be the sthartin’ av a foight, an’ there’ll be enough o’ that in its own good time. They’re barely ripe yet.”
With a good deal of argument the men counted back the number of drinks they had had in the first hotel, and set themselves industriously to level the tally in the second one. That accomplished, they commenced to march from one hotel to the other, and have one drink in each. The procession got noisier each time, and took longer and longer to cover the journey, and Trooper Dan, an hour after dark, thought it time to make an attempt to try peaceable persuasion.
He broke into the ring that had been formed in the middle of the street for a station man and a townsman to settle an argument on the pronunciation of the township’s name.
Steve Knight caught his arm as he pushed through.
“Let ’em alone, Dan,” he said; “they’re both fighting drunk, and there’ll be no peace or quiet till they’ve had a hammering. Like enough, they’ll both go and sleep it off quiet after.”
“’Tisn’t Dan Mulcahy that ud be afther spoilin’ a good foight,” said the trooper; “but there isn’t light enough for ’em to see to foight proper.”
“Thas ri’,” said Jack Ever, catching at the words. “They mush ’ave a light t’ see to kill eash other. Wait a minnit – lesh ’ave a light.”
“That’s right,” chorused the others, “let’s have a light. Pull the post an’ rail fence down an’ make a fire.”
“Hold on, bhoys, now,” said Trooper Dan. “Ye want a light. Wait now and I’ll give ye a light. Wait a bit.” He fumbled long and slow in one pocket after another. “Ye want a light. Never-Never wants a light now, mind ye. Well, I can give him a light. Here ye are now, Jack,” and he pulled a match out, and struck it, and held it out to Jack, who blinked owlishly at it.
“Thanksh,” he said, and stretched out his hand and took the match with clumsy fingers. “But wh-whersh m’ pipe?” he said suddenly. The men roared. “Hasn’t got ’is pipe. Got a light an’ hasn’t got a pipe – silly fool – ”
The two fighters had completely forgotten their fight, but they were quickly reminded of it, and proceeded to stagger round and aim violent blows at one another.
In the midst of the uproar Jack Ever suddenly remembered what he wanted the light for, and tried to stop proceedings again, but the men would have nothing to do with him, so he borrowed the constable’s matches and stood there lighting match after match, and holding it over his head so that the fighters could “see proper.”
The men had drunk too much to do any great amount of damage, and when they clutched each other and wrestled staggering round the circle, Trooper Dan slipped a foot out quietly in the darkness and tripped the pair up. They lay still for a moment with the breath bumped out of them, and Trooper Dan hurriedly ran over “the count.” “One – two – three,” he called solemnly, standing over the pair. “Lie sthill, ye fool, till I finish countin’.” The men obediently lay still, and “five – six – seven – ” he put his foot heavily on one man who made another attempt to rise, and rattled off “eight, nine, ten – OUT.”
“Out,” yelled the ring; “he’s out – he’s out.”
“They’re both out,” said Trooper Dan. “Now who’ll help me put ’em to bed?” There was a rush of volunteers, and the townsman was picked up and hauled off to his house, his late assailant doing his best to help.
“Here’s yer man. Take ’im an’ put ’im to bed, or it’s a plank bed he’ll slape on this night,” said Trooper Dan to the astonished woman who came to the door. Her husband was shot in, and the slam of the door cut off the stream of abuse the woman was commencing.
“Now where’s the other man?” said Trooper Dan. “We said he was to go to bed too. He’s far an’ far from his own bed; but is it Dan Mulcahy would see a man want for a bed to rest his battered bones? I’ll take him in me own house.”
“Don’ wanner gorrobed,” grumbled the fighter.
“Hear that, boys – won’t do what ye tell ’im,” said Dan.
That settled it. He had to do what they told him, and off he was hauled to the police station. Trooper Dan helped him over the door and shut it in the faces of the others, telling them he’d see the man to bed. Inside the cell door clanged on the man before he realised what was happening.
“Shut your door and put all yer lights out,” said Dan to the hotel-keeper ten minutes after. “They’ll never notice the place in the dark.”
The men marched past the hotel on their next visit, and to their astonishment found themselves on the bridge outside the town.
“What’s this?” cried Whip Thompson. “We haven’t come t’ the middle o’ the town where the pub is, an’ we’ve come to the bridge that’s outside it.”
“The town’s inside out,” said Darby the Bull, gravely. “Inside out an’ outside in. We’ve come to the outside ’fore we’ve lef’ the inside – I mean we’ve lef’ – we’ve come – we’re outside in.”
“Darby,” said Dolly Grey, who had revived enough to join the processions, “I do b’lieve you’ve – hic – been drinkin’. Thash norra bridge – thash fensh roun’ hotel horsh paddock. I’ll – hic – show y’.”
He proceeded to climb the bridge rail, and was restrained with difficulty.
“You’re all drunk,” he asserted positively. “All drunk – I’m thonly man can drink ‘thout gettin’ drunk – Harrow on th’ Hill f’rever.”
A cautious return to the town was made, and the closed hotel discovered. Steve Knight had been drinking with the rest all night, but he was one of the sort whose wits never drown. He was enjoying the sport and didn’t mean to be cheated of it. “Come on, boss,” he shouted gaily, hammering the door. “If you don’t open, something ’ll get broken down.”
Trooper Dan came up and tried to persuade them it was after closing time.
“Run away, Dan,” said Steve. “We haven’t begun yet. Don’t make trouble.” So Dan wisely advised the publican to open again and went off. The men started for the other hotel again after a few more drinks, and, in order to make sure the door would not be shut when they returned, they took it off its hinges, carried it down to the bridge, and threw it over into the river.
The fun was waxing furious by now, and there were several fights, which, however, usually ended in the combatants halting between the rounds and going off for a freshener.
Then Trooper Dan got to work. One man he captured by simply stepping out of the darkness round the police station, grabbing his man by the arm, and gently shunting him into the open door of the station. His wife quietly shut the door, and, after that, Dan’s experience, knack, and sobriety combined made short work of the prisoner.
“That’s wan,” he said to his wife after the cell door clanged to. He went into the street again, and when the revellers went past – they were keeping strictly to their drinking hotel about – he took Whip Thompson aside. “Will ye come an’ have a drink wi’ me, Whip? Ye’re the only wan sober enough for me to be safe offerin’ it, so say nothin’ t’ the rist.”
Whip accepted the invitation and disappeared into the station – and thereafter into a cell.
Trooper Dan made haste to the Stockman’s Arms, and found Cookie Blazes in a raging storm of anger.
“He called me drunk,” he vociferated. “Ye’re drunk yershelf, Bardy the Dool. Me drunk – me that’s been roastin’ the skin off me face an’ the flesh off m’ bones cooking chops for you an’ th’ likes. Look at them chops – where’s the shops – gimme the shops – I’ll cook ’em. Drunk am I?” he grabbed his hat and flung it on the floor. “I’ll fight anyone shays I’m drunk.”
“Shut up, Blazes,” said Steve. “You are drunk.”
“Hear that,” yelled Blazes, waving his arms. “Says I’m drunk – I ’peal to ev’ryone – am I drunk?”
“Yes – you’re drunk,” shouted the men, laughing.
“’Course he’s drunk,” said Trooper Dan, quietly. “Don’t ye think ye’d better help him along to my place an’ let him sober off a bit? I’ll help ye if ye need help.”
The others protested they didn’t need help. “Yes, ye do,” said Dan. “Ye could never put him in yerself.” The men said they’d show him if they couldn’t, and Blazes, who had listened in some bewilderment to the argument, found himself seized, hoisted up and carried, kicking violently, to the cells. There were three of these, and all the other prisoners were crammed in the first. Each had obligingly gone to sleep as soon as he was shut in, and roused too late as each newcomer intruded.
“Wait a bit, Ned,” said Dan, as the men were leaving the station. “Hadn’t ye better bring back a bottle for Blazes? He’ll want a drink, an’ ye wouldn’t see a mate do a perish.”
Ned went off post haste for a bottle, and when he brought it back, Dan ushered him into Blazes’ cell and shut them both in.
“Four,” said Dan. “If I could get that Darby in I’d be aisy in me mind. He’s too big an’ bullocky to handle be force.”
A fight between Dolly Grey and “Cocky” Smith gave him his next chance. Dolly Grey was climbing on the bar and calling for cheers for Harrow. “Harrow on th’ Hill,” he cried, waving a glass and showering beer in circles, “Harrow on th’ Hill f’rever.” Cocky Smith objected, saying he was a farmer and had ploughed and harrowed before Dolly Grey was pupped. “Ye couldn’t harrer no ’ills roun’ ’ere,” he asserted positively. “They’re that steep th’ harrer ’ud fall off ’em, t’ say nothing o’ bein’ too stony for a plough t’ touch.”
“Fines’ Hill in th’ worl’,” said Dolly, angrily. “Don’ you ’nsult Harrow – you never saw Harrow – y’ wouldn’t know Harrow if…” Cocky Smith violently cursed him and all his harrows together, and Dolly attacked him instantly.
“Now ye wouldn’t let that poor lad be gettin’ the pretty face of him spoilt,” insinuated Dan, and with very little persuasion he had the men carrying the pair to the cells.
“Six,” said Dan. “Two at a time’ll soon thin ’em out.” He caught another of the station men by the shoulder as he left the station, pulled him inside and shut the outer door quickly. He was the last man going out, and the others never missed him, and Dan was too expert for a single man to give him more than a slight scuffle.
“Seven,” he said. “If only I had Darby the Bull I cud handle the rest.”
But Darby refused to be caught. The more he drank the more stolid and bull-like he became, and he clung to the others like a leech. “Can’t leave ’em,” he said to Dan’s persuasions to come and have a quiet drink, and come and see something he had to show him, and that a girl outside wanted to speak to him. “Can’t leave ’em. Y’ see I’m lookin’ arter ’em. They might get drunk an’ get into trouble wi’ the polis.”
Of the Thunder Ridge men there were only Darby, Aleck Gault, and Steve Knight left, and two or three of the station men kept them company.
Dan managed to detach two of these on different excuses and get them under lock and key, and the others were invited by the publican to come and have a game of cards in a back room. Two or three of the townsmen went with them, and they settled down to a rather noisy game of euchre.
“Where are all the others gone?” said Steve, suddenly, looking round. “Seen any of them, Darby?” Darby shook his head and looked round. “Room’s full,” he said. “Must be all here.” He tried to count, but gave it up, as even the figures in the chairs kept moving and had a puzzling way of multiplying themselves.
Dan went out to the bar, where the remaining few of the station hands were drinking with men of the town – hangers-on who, Dan knew, would keep them quietly there as long as they would pay for the drinks. Darby the Bull came out and went up to Trooper Dan. “D’you think them others have got into trouble wi’ the polis?” he said confidentially.
“Shouldn’t wonder if they might,” said Dan, gravely. “S’pose we just walk quietly up to the police station and ask about them.”
Darby agreed, and they went off together.
Ten minutes after, Steve and the others heard a pandemonium of noise break out up the street. They hurried out, and met a wild crowd whooping and cheering and laughing, stamping down the street, and giving vent to long-drawn chorus-yells “Coolongolong-go-long-long-beer.”
They swarmed into the bar and shouted again for beer, and called for three cheers for Darby the Bull. Darby had slouched in at the rear of the throng, blood trickling from a cut lip, and one eye slowly closing in a purple swelling.
“What is it – where have you been?” shouted Steve, through the uproar. He got the tale by degrees. All the men were there – Never-Never and Whip Thompson, Dolly Grey, Cocky Smith, Blazes, and everyone of the others. Darby the Bull had gone unsuspectingly with Trooper Dan to the station, and Dan had opened a cell door to show him a Thunder Ridge man who’d been locked up. But from there the Trooper’s plans had miscarried. His push had not sent Darby right in, and the rest of the prisoners woke to the sound of a murderous scuffling and stamping and shouting, and, after this had been brought to a full stop by a door-slam that shook the building, their doors were unlocked and – here they were.
“I let ’em out,” said Darby, simply, in answer to Steve’s questions. “They’d got inter trouble wi’ the polis – so I got ’em out. That’s all right, isn’t it?”
“We’d better clear,” said Steve. “Trooper Dan’ll be round raising Cain, and we don’t want to hurt him.”
“No, he won’t,” said Darby. “I locked ’im in where ’e tried to shove me. ’E ’ad the keys with ’im.”
“You didn’t hurt him much?”
“No,” said Darby. “I just bumped ’is ’ead on the wall once or twice.”
More cheers were called for Darby, more drinks were swallowed, the crowd stormed up the street to the police station, where they stood in the road and passed remarks which they hoped Trooper Dan would hear, and Never-Never serenaded him with “We will meet, but we will miss him,” and a vociferous chorus requested him to “Tap another barrel, for the well’s gone dry.”
“Now, then, all together,” cried Never-Never. “The Long Yell, an’ then we’ll go an’ go a long beer. Take the time from me… One – two – three – Coolongolong go long long BEER.”
Steve Knight got the keys from Darby and slipped away to the police station and saw the trooper’s wife.
“Ah, Steve,” she said, “let him out, please. I’m afraid he’s hurt, though he says No. But you know the strength of that Darby…”
“He won’t make a fuss?” said Steve.
“I’ll promise you that,” she said. “He’ll keep out of the way – I’ll give you my word for that, and tell him I’ve given it.”
So Steve unlocked the door, and Dan emerged ruefully.
“That Darby – him,” he said. “It’s the wise man I’d ’ve bin to have lave him be. Kape them quiet as ye can, Steve. I’ll not come near unless it gets too bad and there’s risk o’ life.”
But there was little quiet in the township that night. The men from the cells had partly sobered, and hastened to make up for the lost drinks, and the others kept pace with them. They took off their boots and ran foot-races, and thereafter at intervals through the night had to keep changing boots, each to find his own; they pulled a buggy from the hotel yard and piled themselves into it, and had shoot-the-chute rides down the hill to the bridge, till the buggy cannoned the post and dissolved in splintered wreckage; they went then for the stage coach, but instead brought out the coach horses and captured a pair of stray bullocks, and held handicap races down the main street; and then by the light of blazing bonfires of straw from the hotel stable held a buck-jumping competition with the coach horses and bullocks. The horses put up a creditable performance after wisps of smoking straw were flourished under their noses, but they were easily outclassed by the bullocks after knots had been tied in their tails.
