Chapter Fourteen.Adventure with a Python—Moondah’s House—“The Tiger! The Tiger!”—Panthers—Hunting with the Cheetah—The Panther and the Boar.“Do you really think there are pythons or boa constrictors in the forest?” asked Frank next day at dinner.“I haven’t a doubt of it,” replied Lyell. “At the same time I cannot quite swallow all the tracker says about the enormity of the serpent he saw when following up your trail in the woods.”“No,” said Chisholm, “fifty feet of snake is rather more than most men can swallow; but had you seen the tracker’s eyes when he saw the tiger, you’d have been willing to admit that they were big enough to accommodate a very large amount of boa constrictor.”“It puts me in mind of an adventure I once had in South Africa,” said Lyell. “One doesn’t like speaking much of one’s self, but I think, on the occasion I refer to, I exhibited a fair amount of firmness and presence of mind in a moment of deadly peril to one of my men. I had been out for a fortnight’s shoot, beyond and to the nor’ard of the Natal provinces. There were four of us—our doctor, our purser, marine officer, and myself. Our sport was good, and the fun we had fairish. We were seated at lunch one day in an open glade in the forest, when suddenly we were startled by hearing the most terrific yells; and on looking up beheld one of our Caffres speeding towards us, pursued by an enormous python. There was no time for escape, had escape been honourable, which it was not. I seized the rifle and bayonet from one of our attendant marines, and next moment the python was impaled. Oh, don’t think for a moment that that would have killed him! In half a second he had almost wriggled clear; but in doing so he turned the rifle round so that the muzzle pointed almost down his throat. It was a terrible moment—thank Heaven that rifle was loaded, and that I had the presence of mind to pull the trigger! It was a case of ‘all hands stand clear’ now. The python’s head was shattered, but the convulsions of his body, ere death closed the scene, were fearful to witness. I don’t want to see the like again. His body measured five-and-thirty feet; the gape of his jaws measured over a yard. I can understand a monster like this swallowing a goat or even a deer itself.”A day or two after this the camp was struck, and a move made nearer to the mountains, the tents being erected close to the river as before, but still on elevated ground. Here they were, then, in the very centre of what might be called the home of the wild beasts, and both sport and adventure might reasonably be expected in any quantity. Herds of elephants roamed in the deep forests, tigers and wild pigs were in the thickets; bears, too, would be found, and birds everywhere. They formed no particular plan of attack upon the denizens of this wilderness; they were bold hunters every one of them; they carried their lives in their hands, but they omitted no precaution to defend and protect them. They always went abroad prepared for anything.Chisholm called the spot where the camp was now fixed—and where it remained until the commencement of the south-west monsoon warned them it was time for departure—his Highland home. It was indeed a Highland home, and the scenery all around was charming. And yet a walk of some eight or nine miles brought them to what might be called the lowlands. Here were great stretches of open country, interspersed with lakes and streams, immense green fields of rice or paddy and maize, with groves of cocoa-nut palms, and gardens where grew the orange-tree and the citron, and where the giant mango-trees hid completely from view the primitive huts of the villagers.Moondah was head-man of one of these villages, and our heroes, while returning home after a day’s promiscuous shooting, used to stop to refresh themselves at his house. Moondah was a kind of a feudal lord among his people. He had built himself a house on the outskirts of his village, just under the shadow of a vast precipice. Indeed, it was quite a castle compared to the frail huts of mud and wood in which the villagers dwelt. Moondah’s castle was built of solid stone and lime, the walls were of great thickness, and the roof was flat and surrounded by embattlements; and it was very pleasant to sit here for half an hour, while the sun was declining in the west, and sip the fragrant coffee, which nobody could make so well as Moondah, and which he always presented to them with his own hands. The five miles that intervened between his house and their encampment, seemed a trifle to them after that.It was, strange to say, at this head-man’s house, and not in the jungle, that they formed their first acquaintance with a tiger. Close by the walls ran a rapid stream, by no means large at the time of which I write, but in the rainy season it mast have been swollen into quite a broad and mighty river. The day had been unusually warm, and the sport very exciting. Moondah was extremely pleased to see them; perhaps the contents of Jowser’s howdah, which had been left at Moondah’s garden gate, had something to do with his delight, for they seldom called upon him without leaving a souvenir of some kind. Moondah was in no wise particular, so long as it was not buffalo or cow’s flesh; but pigs and deer pleased him much, and neither wild-cat, jackal, nor iguana lizards, came wrong to him.“Well, Moondah?” said Lyell.“Salaam Sahib,” replied Moondah, leading the way up-stairs to his darkest and coolest room. “I dessay you tired after your ’xertions; you squat dere on de skins, and munch de fruit my little boy bring you. I fetch de coffee quick enough, you see. Hallo! what is de matter now?”This was addressed to the above-mentioned little boy, who had just rushed in with the fruit-tray, which he dropped at his master’s feet.“Hooli! hooli!” was all the boy could gasp. “The tiger! the tiger!”“What!” cried Lyell, starting up, “a tiger in the very village?”But it was easily explained: a dead bullock lay in a bit of bush only a stone’s throw up the stream, and on this the beast had doubtless come to regale himself. He was there now; and it was resolved to wait quietly on the top of Moondah’s house, and watch.It was a long watch. Daylight faded away, twilight faded into darkness; the stars shone out; a great red round moon rose slowly up from behind the trees, paling as it went, till at last it shone out high above them, bright, and white, and clear. But still no tiger made his appearance. At last though, there was a crackling noise amongst the bushes, then a stealthy footstep, and out into the open stalked the majestic beast. He stood for a moment as if to listen, then moved onwards to the river to drink. He presented a splendid shot. Seeing Lyell’s rifle at the shoulder, Chisholm, who was of a chivalrous nature, withheld his fire. But Lyell only wounded the brute in the leg. He was staggered, and emitted a roaring cough that seemed to shake Moondah’s house to its very foundation. Now it was Chisholm’s chance; he had knelt, and ere the crack of his rifle had ceased to reverberate among the rocks the tiger was stretched lifeless on the river’s brink.One day Moondah came to the camp. It was evident he had something on his mind, for he never came without good news of some kind.“Twenty mile from here,” he began, “lives a man who married two or tree of my sister.”“Well done,” said Lyell, laughing.“But that is nothing,” continued Moondah; “in the scrub around his village are antelope plenty; and my brodder he keep cheetah. There are also panther in the scrub; and dere are,”—here Moondah’s eyes sparkled, and his mouth seemed to water—“dere are wild pigs in de woods.”“Oh, bother the pigs!” said Lyell. “Let us go to the village and see the cheetahs hunting. Let us go for two or three days, and make a regular big shoot of it.”Accordingly, next day they set out, and Moondah and his merrie men went too. The camp was not broken up, but elephants were taken—Jowser among others—and horses, with plenty of ammunition and plenty of the good things of this life, both to eat and to drink. Their road led through jungle, scrub, and moorland, and just skirted the great forests. At noonday they stopped for luncheon, and the usual siesta. Chisholm and Frank strolled off together, while it was getting ready; they walked with caution, as usual, for there was cover enough about for anything. They soon discovered that there was some one not far off who did not belong to their party at all, and that he too was going in for a siesta. An immense tiger! Stretched on the grass by the river side, what a lovely picture he made. Chivalrous Chisholm O’Grahame! he would not have fired at the beast thus for the world. He admired him fully a minute in silence, then—“Pitch a cartridge at him,” he whispered to Frank.The result may easily be guessed.“Wough, woa, oa!” roared the beast, springing up. Chisholm gave him both barrels. He was quiet enough after that. But had Chisholm only wounded the creature, it might have interfered materially with the continuation of my story, for Frank had no arms.That evening found them encamped near the village of Chowdrah. They were duly introduced to Moondah’s much-married brother-in-law, and to the cheetahs. Frank was a little afraid of these animals at first, especially when one of them made a kind of a playful spring at him and brought him down, but this the much-married man assured Frank was all in fun. Next minute the same cheetah sat down by Frank’s side, and purred to him, like a monster cat. In shape of body they were not unlike a mastiff, long-tailed, spotted, loose in the loins and leggy; they had none of the grace and beauty of the panther.Next day and for several days our heroes enjoyed the sport of antelope hunting, and the enjoyment was very real. They did not always find, but when they did it was interesting to watch the movements of the now-unhooded cheetah. How lightly and cautiously he springs to the ground, flopping at once behind a bit of cover; how slowly but carefully he crawls towards the herd. Ah! but they see him now, and off they bound. Frank strikes spurs into his charger, and, wild horseman that he is, follows the chase. Chisholm and Lyell and Fred are not very far behind.But that bounding antelope and that fleet-footed cheetah distanced them all. They were never once in at the death. Moondah and his men used to go wild with joy when the antelopes were brought in. They could do nothing but clap their hands and sing, “Hoolay-kara! Hoolay-kara!” till they were tired.Frank so set his heart upon those cheetahs, that he determined to beg for a young one. Ay, and he got one too; but for the life of him he could not make up his mind whether to term it “kitten” or “puppy.”Greatly to the joy of Moondah they managed to kill not a few wild pigs.In a bit of scrub or bush about an acre in extent they were told one day that a panther was hid. This was a chance not to be missed. Stake nets were planted at the side next to the hill where doubtless the beast’s cave lay, the guns were well positioned, and the beaters began their work. Mr Panther, however, did not see the fun of going into that net. Disturbed at last, he quitted cover by making a wild rush at the beaters themselves; two were rolled over, and one severely lacerated in the leg. Fred was the nearest gun, and he wounded the panther in the shoulder, without stopping his way however. Well, a wounded panther must attack whatever with life in it happens to come his way. In this instance it was an old grey boar, who was coming round a corner, wondering to himself what all the row meant. The panther repented his rashness next minute, when the boar’s tusks were fleshed in his neck. It was a curious battle, brought to a speedy termination by Chisholm’s bone-crusher. His monster bullet whizzed through the panther’s body, and pierced the breast of the huge boar, and they fell as they fought.“Now,” said Lyell, “I do call that a good shot. Bravo! Chisholm.”
“Do you really think there are pythons or boa constrictors in the forest?” asked Frank next day at dinner.
“I haven’t a doubt of it,” replied Lyell. “At the same time I cannot quite swallow all the tracker says about the enormity of the serpent he saw when following up your trail in the woods.”
“No,” said Chisholm, “fifty feet of snake is rather more than most men can swallow; but had you seen the tracker’s eyes when he saw the tiger, you’d have been willing to admit that they were big enough to accommodate a very large amount of boa constrictor.”
“It puts me in mind of an adventure I once had in South Africa,” said Lyell. “One doesn’t like speaking much of one’s self, but I think, on the occasion I refer to, I exhibited a fair amount of firmness and presence of mind in a moment of deadly peril to one of my men. I had been out for a fortnight’s shoot, beyond and to the nor’ard of the Natal provinces. There were four of us—our doctor, our purser, marine officer, and myself. Our sport was good, and the fun we had fairish. We were seated at lunch one day in an open glade in the forest, when suddenly we were startled by hearing the most terrific yells; and on looking up beheld one of our Caffres speeding towards us, pursued by an enormous python. There was no time for escape, had escape been honourable, which it was not. I seized the rifle and bayonet from one of our attendant marines, and next moment the python was impaled. Oh, don’t think for a moment that that would have killed him! In half a second he had almost wriggled clear; but in doing so he turned the rifle round so that the muzzle pointed almost down his throat. It was a terrible moment—thank Heaven that rifle was loaded, and that I had the presence of mind to pull the trigger! It was a case of ‘all hands stand clear’ now. The python’s head was shattered, but the convulsions of his body, ere death closed the scene, were fearful to witness. I don’t want to see the like again. His body measured five-and-thirty feet; the gape of his jaws measured over a yard. I can understand a monster like this swallowing a goat or even a deer itself.”
A day or two after this the camp was struck, and a move made nearer to the mountains, the tents being erected close to the river as before, but still on elevated ground. Here they were, then, in the very centre of what might be called the home of the wild beasts, and both sport and adventure might reasonably be expected in any quantity. Herds of elephants roamed in the deep forests, tigers and wild pigs were in the thickets; bears, too, would be found, and birds everywhere. They formed no particular plan of attack upon the denizens of this wilderness; they were bold hunters every one of them; they carried their lives in their hands, but they omitted no precaution to defend and protect them. They always went abroad prepared for anything.
Chisholm called the spot where the camp was now fixed—and where it remained until the commencement of the south-west monsoon warned them it was time for departure—his Highland home. It was indeed a Highland home, and the scenery all around was charming. And yet a walk of some eight or nine miles brought them to what might be called the lowlands. Here were great stretches of open country, interspersed with lakes and streams, immense green fields of rice or paddy and maize, with groves of cocoa-nut palms, and gardens where grew the orange-tree and the citron, and where the giant mango-trees hid completely from view the primitive huts of the villagers.
Moondah was head-man of one of these villages, and our heroes, while returning home after a day’s promiscuous shooting, used to stop to refresh themselves at his house. Moondah was a kind of a feudal lord among his people. He had built himself a house on the outskirts of his village, just under the shadow of a vast precipice. Indeed, it was quite a castle compared to the frail huts of mud and wood in which the villagers dwelt. Moondah’s castle was built of solid stone and lime, the walls were of great thickness, and the roof was flat and surrounded by embattlements; and it was very pleasant to sit here for half an hour, while the sun was declining in the west, and sip the fragrant coffee, which nobody could make so well as Moondah, and which he always presented to them with his own hands. The five miles that intervened between his house and their encampment, seemed a trifle to them after that.
It was, strange to say, at this head-man’s house, and not in the jungle, that they formed their first acquaintance with a tiger. Close by the walls ran a rapid stream, by no means large at the time of which I write, but in the rainy season it mast have been swollen into quite a broad and mighty river. The day had been unusually warm, and the sport very exciting. Moondah was extremely pleased to see them; perhaps the contents of Jowser’s howdah, which had been left at Moondah’s garden gate, had something to do with his delight, for they seldom called upon him without leaving a souvenir of some kind. Moondah was in no wise particular, so long as it was not buffalo or cow’s flesh; but pigs and deer pleased him much, and neither wild-cat, jackal, nor iguana lizards, came wrong to him.
“Well, Moondah?” said Lyell.
“Salaam Sahib,” replied Moondah, leading the way up-stairs to his darkest and coolest room. “I dessay you tired after your ’xertions; you squat dere on de skins, and munch de fruit my little boy bring you. I fetch de coffee quick enough, you see. Hallo! what is de matter now?”
This was addressed to the above-mentioned little boy, who had just rushed in with the fruit-tray, which he dropped at his master’s feet.
“Hooli! hooli!” was all the boy could gasp. “The tiger! the tiger!”
“What!” cried Lyell, starting up, “a tiger in the very village?”
But it was easily explained: a dead bullock lay in a bit of bush only a stone’s throw up the stream, and on this the beast had doubtless come to regale himself. He was there now; and it was resolved to wait quietly on the top of Moondah’s house, and watch.
It was a long watch. Daylight faded away, twilight faded into darkness; the stars shone out; a great red round moon rose slowly up from behind the trees, paling as it went, till at last it shone out high above them, bright, and white, and clear. But still no tiger made his appearance. At last though, there was a crackling noise amongst the bushes, then a stealthy footstep, and out into the open stalked the majestic beast. He stood for a moment as if to listen, then moved onwards to the river to drink. He presented a splendid shot. Seeing Lyell’s rifle at the shoulder, Chisholm, who was of a chivalrous nature, withheld his fire. But Lyell only wounded the brute in the leg. He was staggered, and emitted a roaring cough that seemed to shake Moondah’s house to its very foundation. Now it was Chisholm’s chance; he had knelt, and ere the crack of his rifle had ceased to reverberate among the rocks the tiger was stretched lifeless on the river’s brink.
One day Moondah came to the camp. It was evident he had something on his mind, for he never came without good news of some kind.
“Twenty mile from here,” he began, “lives a man who married two or tree of my sister.”
“Well done,” said Lyell, laughing.
“But that is nothing,” continued Moondah; “in the scrub around his village are antelope plenty; and my brodder he keep cheetah. There are also panther in the scrub; and dere are,”—here Moondah’s eyes sparkled, and his mouth seemed to water—“dere are wild pigs in de woods.”
“Oh, bother the pigs!” said Lyell. “Let us go to the village and see the cheetahs hunting. Let us go for two or three days, and make a regular big shoot of it.”
Accordingly, next day they set out, and Moondah and his merrie men went too. The camp was not broken up, but elephants were taken—Jowser among others—and horses, with plenty of ammunition and plenty of the good things of this life, both to eat and to drink. Their road led through jungle, scrub, and moorland, and just skirted the great forests. At noonday they stopped for luncheon, and the usual siesta. Chisholm and Frank strolled off together, while it was getting ready; they walked with caution, as usual, for there was cover enough about for anything. They soon discovered that there was some one not far off who did not belong to their party at all, and that he too was going in for a siesta. An immense tiger! Stretched on the grass by the river side, what a lovely picture he made. Chivalrous Chisholm O’Grahame! he would not have fired at the beast thus for the world. He admired him fully a minute in silence, then—
“Pitch a cartridge at him,” he whispered to Frank.
The result may easily be guessed.
“Wough, woa, oa!” roared the beast, springing up. Chisholm gave him both barrels. He was quiet enough after that. But had Chisholm only wounded the creature, it might have interfered materially with the continuation of my story, for Frank had no arms.
That evening found them encamped near the village of Chowdrah. They were duly introduced to Moondah’s much-married brother-in-law, and to the cheetahs. Frank was a little afraid of these animals at first, especially when one of them made a kind of a playful spring at him and brought him down, but this the much-married man assured Frank was all in fun. Next minute the same cheetah sat down by Frank’s side, and purred to him, like a monster cat. In shape of body they were not unlike a mastiff, long-tailed, spotted, loose in the loins and leggy; they had none of the grace and beauty of the panther.
Next day and for several days our heroes enjoyed the sport of antelope hunting, and the enjoyment was very real. They did not always find, but when they did it was interesting to watch the movements of the now-unhooded cheetah. How lightly and cautiously he springs to the ground, flopping at once behind a bit of cover; how slowly but carefully he crawls towards the herd. Ah! but they see him now, and off they bound. Frank strikes spurs into his charger, and, wild horseman that he is, follows the chase. Chisholm and Lyell and Fred are not very far behind.
But that bounding antelope and that fleet-footed cheetah distanced them all. They were never once in at the death. Moondah and his men used to go wild with joy when the antelopes were brought in. They could do nothing but clap their hands and sing, “Hoolay-kara! Hoolay-kara!” till they were tired.
Frank so set his heart upon those cheetahs, that he determined to beg for a young one. Ay, and he got one too; but for the life of him he could not make up his mind whether to term it “kitten” or “puppy.”
Greatly to the joy of Moondah they managed to kill not a few wild pigs.
In a bit of scrub or bush about an acre in extent they were told one day that a panther was hid. This was a chance not to be missed. Stake nets were planted at the side next to the hill where doubtless the beast’s cave lay, the guns were well positioned, and the beaters began their work. Mr Panther, however, did not see the fun of going into that net. Disturbed at last, he quitted cover by making a wild rush at the beaters themselves; two were rolled over, and one severely lacerated in the leg. Fred was the nearest gun, and he wounded the panther in the shoulder, without stopping his way however. Well, a wounded panther must attack whatever with life in it happens to come his way. In this instance it was an old grey boar, who was coming round a corner, wondering to himself what all the row meant. The panther repented his rashness next minute, when the boar’s tusks were fleshed in his neck. It was a curious battle, brought to a speedy termination by Chisholm’s bone-crusher. His monster bullet whizzed through the panther’s body, and pierced the breast of the huge boar, and they fell as they fought.
“Now,” said Lyell, “I do call that a good shot. Bravo! Chisholm.”
Chapter Fifteen.Elephant Hunting—The Elephant and Tiger—The Tusker’s Charge—The Runaway Elephant—The Man-eating Tigress.Those of my readers who have followed me so far in my history of the wanderings and adventures of our heroes cannot but have observed that in the character of Frank Willoughby there was a certain amount of what, to give it the right name, must be called foolhardiness. But poor Frank’s last adventure in the Indian jungle taught him a lesson which he is not likely to forget while life lasts.Elephant shooting seemed at first, to Frank and Fred at least, very cruel and unnecessary sport. Elephants are so sagacious and wise.“Just think, for instance,” said Frank, “of shooting a noble beast like poor old Jowser!”“Ah, but,” Lyell explained, “it isn’t every elephant you’ll find equal to Jowser. Moondah there will tell you of the immense destruction elephants cause to the maize and rice crops.”“Yes, yes, dat is so,” said Moondah; “if they are not kill, and plenty kill too, they soon conquer all de country worse dan de Breetish.”Well, apart from the apparent cruelty of killing the elephant, which Sir Samuel Baker calls the “lord of all created animals,” there is no sport in the world so exciting and dangerous as this, and none that requires greater hardihood or daring. No wonder then that our heroes spent over a month at it, meeting of course with many other wild adventures, butseekingnone other. Moondah it was who organised for them their army of beaters and trackers, and the scenery through which these men led them, was oftentimes grand and beautiful in the extreme; not that they had much time during the chase to admire the loveliness of nature, it was while riding homewards to their temporary camp in the cool of the evening, or stretched beneath the trees when dinner was over, that they could thoroughly enjoy quietly gazing on all things around them. This was indeed thedolce far niente.Our heroes one day had an opportunity of witnessing a curious encounter, between an elephant and a tiger. They themselves were within fifty yards of the herd when it took place, and under cover; the elephants were quietly browsing on the plain, and evidently not suspecting that danger lurked on either hand. One young calf had strayed some little distance from the parent.“So capital a chance as this,” said a tiger to himself, “is seldom to be found; I would be a fool to miss it.”There was a scream from an elephant in the rear, and a wild rush from one in the van. The tiger seemed quite unable to check his speed in time, and next moment he was crushed to atoms under the terrible feet of the furious tusker. There was a crash and a scream, and a cloud of dust. Then the elephant could be seen gathering himself up from where he had literally fallen upon his foe.Fred Freeman used to chaff Chisholm O’Grahame about the immensity of his rifle.“I wouldn’t carry such a tool as that for the world,” Fred said one day.“No,” said Chisholm, laughing, “for, my dear boy, you couldn’t. Besides, its kicking would kill you.”Now, early next morning a rogue elephant was to be tracked, and if possible bagged. He was a wily old rascal this, who seldom cared to go with the other herds; he doubtless thought he fared better when all by himself. He was a murderous old rascal too; for on two separate occasions he had attacked men, and more than one death could be laid at his door. It was not the first time that some or other of our heroes had gone out against this Goliath. But though he had been wounded several times, he did not seem to mind it; it evidently did not spoil his appetite, for on this particular morning they tracked him for miles through a bamboo brake, and at last could hear him on ahead, browsing on the branches as he marched.“Now give me this shot,” cried Fred, “all to myself.”“Have a care, then,” said Lyell.“Never fear for me,” said Fred, and next minute he had crept into the bush and was out of sight; and his companions with a portion of the people sat down near a pool, left by some recent rain, to wait. Presently the ring of a rifle was heard, then a shout, then back rushed Fred, faster far than he had gone away, and far less buoyant too, for behind him was the monster tusker, eyes aflame and ears erect, bent on revenge—bent on doing some one to death. Yes, but the pen has never yet been dipped in ink that can describe the fury of an angry tusker’s charge.Lyell fired quickly. Lyell missed. Now Chisholm’s mighty rifle made the welkin ring, and down rolled the elephant on his head, raising a sheet of water that drenched every one of the party as a green sea would have done on ship-board.“I took a temple shot at him,” said Fred.Lyell roared with laughter. “Yes,” he said, “and you hit him through the nose. Ha! ha! ha! that accounts for the beggar charging with trunk in air, instead of curled close.” (As they almost invariably do.)“What do you think of my rifle now?” said Chisholm, quietly.Fred smiled, but said nothing.Tiger-shooting from howdahs they found excellent sport—just a little slow for Frank though, who would rather have been on horseback. But one day he had a ride he little expected; he was all by himself in Jowser’s howdah. The grass was long and rough, but there were bushes about. From one of these an enormous tiger tried to steal away. Chisholm, handy though he was in times of danger, wounded but didn’t kill. Next moment the beast had settled on Jowser. “Come, come, none o’ that,” roared Jowser, setting off at the gallop. The tiger fell next moment, with a bullet from Frank’s Express through his head. But Jowser was off; fairly off. Who would have thought it of Jowser? Two hours of that wild ride, ere Jowser brought up to rub his rump against a tree, and for a week after Frank felt as if he had no more bones than a jelly-fish.A tigress had been fired at by a party of horsemen, and wounded; but man and horse went down before that fearful charge. Next moment she had seized the rider, and borne him away into the bush. It was her first taste of human blood; but not the last, for long after this she was known and feared by the natives as the most daring man-eater ever known. She would even enter villages by night and carry people away.Poor Frank! he seemed destined, although the youngest of the three, to have all the hard knocks and blows. He was one night asleep beneath a banian-tree when the man-eater entered, and attempted to seize a man. Frank,with unloaded rifle, rushed to the rescue. Well it was for him that Fred Freeman was close at hand: that man-eating tigress drank no more blood. But Frank, how frightfully still he lay! Was he dead? All but, reader.This was, indeed, a sad ending to their adventures in India; but life cannot be all sunshine. When camp was broken up a week after, and our heroes turned their faces once more seaward—Frank on a litter—one sorrowing heart at least was left behind. It beat in the breast of honest Moondah.
Those of my readers who have followed me so far in my history of the wanderings and adventures of our heroes cannot but have observed that in the character of Frank Willoughby there was a certain amount of what, to give it the right name, must be called foolhardiness. But poor Frank’s last adventure in the Indian jungle taught him a lesson which he is not likely to forget while life lasts.
Elephant shooting seemed at first, to Frank and Fred at least, very cruel and unnecessary sport. Elephants are so sagacious and wise.
“Just think, for instance,” said Frank, “of shooting a noble beast like poor old Jowser!”
“Ah, but,” Lyell explained, “it isn’t every elephant you’ll find equal to Jowser. Moondah there will tell you of the immense destruction elephants cause to the maize and rice crops.”
“Yes, yes, dat is so,” said Moondah; “if they are not kill, and plenty kill too, they soon conquer all de country worse dan de Breetish.”
Well, apart from the apparent cruelty of killing the elephant, which Sir Samuel Baker calls the “lord of all created animals,” there is no sport in the world so exciting and dangerous as this, and none that requires greater hardihood or daring. No wonder then that our heroes spent over a month at it, meeting of course with many other wild adventures, butseekingnone other. Moondah it was who organised for them their army of beaters and trackers, and the scenery through which these men led them, was oftentimes grand and beautiful in the extreme; not that they had much time during the chase to admire the loveliness of nature, it was while riding homewards to their temporary camp in the cool of the evening, or stretched beneath the trees when dinner was over, that they could thoroughly enjoy quietly gazing on all things around them. This was indeed thedolce far niente.
Our heroes one day had an opportunity of witnessing a curious encounter, between an elephant and a tiger. They themselves were within fifty yards of the herd when it took place, and under cover; the elephants were quietly browsing on the plain, and evidently not suspecting that danger lurked on either hand. One young calf had strayed some little distance from the parent.
“So capital a chance as this,” said a tiger to himself, “is seldom to be found; I would be a fool to miss it.”
There was a scream from an elephant in the rear, and a wild rush from one in the van. The tiger seemed quite unable to check his speed in time, and next moment he was crushed to atoms under the terrible feet of the furious tusker. There was a crash and a scream, and a cloud of dust. Then the elephant could be seen gathering himself up from where he had literally fallen upon his foe.
Fred Freeman used to chaff Chisholm O’Grahame about the immensity of his rifle.
“I wouldn’t carry such a tool as that for the world,” Fred said one day.
“No,” said Chisholm, laughing, “for, my dear boy, you couldn’t. Besides, its kicking would kill you.”
Now, early next morning a rogue elephant was to be tracked, and if possible bagged. He was a wily old rascal this, who seldom cared to go with the other herds; he doubtless thought he fared better when all by himself. He was a murderous old rascal too; for on two separate occasions he had attacked men, and more than one death could be laid at his door. It was not the first time that some or other of our heroes had gone out against this Goliath. But though he had been wounded several times, he did not seem to mind it; it evidently did not spoil his appetite, for on this particular morning they tracked him for miles through a bamboo brake, and at last could hear him on ahead, browsing on the branches as he marched.
“Now give me this shot,” cried Fred, “all to myself.”
“Have a care, then,” said Lyell.
“Never fear for me,” said Fred, and next minute he had crept into the bush and was out of sight; and his companions with a portion of the people sat down near a pool, left by some recent rain, to wait. Presently the ring of a rifle was heard, then a shout, then back rushed Fred, faster far than he had gone away, and far less buoyant too, for behind him was the monster tusker, eyes aflame and ears erect, bent on revenge—bent on doing some one to death. Yes, but the pen has never yet been dipped in ink that can describe the fury of an angry tusker’s charge.
Lyell fired quickly. Lyell missed. Now Chisholm’s mighty rifle made the welkin ring, and down rolled the elephant on his head, raising a sheet of water that drenched every one of the party as a green sea would have done on ship-board.
“I took a temple shot at him,” said Fred.
Lyell roared with laughter. “Yes,” he said, “and you hit him through the nose. Ha! ha! ha! that accounts for the beggar charging with trunk in air, instead of curled close.” (As they almost invariably do.)
“What do you think of my rifle now?” said Chisholm, quietly.
Fred smiled, but said nothing.
Tiger-shooting from howdahs they found excellent sport—just a little slow for Frank though, who would rather have been on horseback. But one day he had a ride he little expected; he was all by himself in Jowser’s howdah. The grass was long and rough, but there were bushes about. From one of these an enormous tiger tried to steal away. Chisholm, handy though he was in times of danger, wounded but didn’t kill. Next moment the beast had settled on Jowser. “Come, come, none o’ that,” roared Jowser, setting off at the gallop. The tiger fell next moment, with a bullet from Frank’s Express through his head. But Jowser was off; fairly off. Who would have thought it of Jowser? Two hours of that wild ride, ere Jowser brought up to rub his rump against a tree, and for a week after Frank felt as if he had no more bones than a jelly-fish.
A tigress had been fired at by a party of horsemen, and wounded; but man and horse went down before that fearful charge. Next moment she had seized the rider, and borne him away into the bush. It was her first taste of human blood; but not the last, for long after this she was known and feared by the natives as the most daring man-eater ever known. She would even enter villages by night and carry people away.
Poor Frank! he seemed destined, although the youngest of the three, to have all the hard knocks and blows. He was one night asleep beneath a banian-tree when the man-eater entered, and attempted to seize a man. Frank,with unloaded rifle, rushed to the rescue. Well it was for him that Fred Freeman was close at hand: that man-eating tigress drank no more blood. But Frank, how frightfully still he lay! Was he dead? All but, reader.
This was, indeed, a sad ending to their adventures in India; but life cannot be all sunshine. When camp was broken up a week after, and our heroes turned their faces once more seaward—Frank on a litter—one sorrowing heart at least was left behind. It beat in the breast of honest Moondah.
Chapter Sixteen.Part VI—Australia.Convalescent at last—A Run to Australia—Set out for the Interior—The Scenery—A Queer Mistake—Frank’s Cousins.Poor Frank Willoughby—for two long weeks his spirit hovered ’twixt life and death. It was a happy hour for his friends when he was pronounced out of danger; and for Frank himself, when he was told that he had nothing now to do in the world but just to get well again. For many weeks longer he had to lie on his back, however. But he was in that weak, dreamy kind of a state, that he did not mind the confinement. Every morning Chisholm brought him all the news, and read to him for hours. But how shall I describe the joy he felt the first day he went out for exercise? This getting well after a long illness in a foreign land is a pleasure that few ever know; but the joys of convalescence are sufficient reward to the invalid for all he has previously suffered.Frank was borne about in a palanquin. He wondered whether he would ever again bestride a fiery steed, and go bounding along over the plains, as had been his wont. But he grew so rapidly strong and well, after he began to walk, that he ceased to wonder at anything; and when he and his friends embarked on board a saucy clipper bound for distant Australia, he felt nearly as strong as ever he was in his life.Frank had cousins in Australia. They farmed sheep or something, Frank was not quite sure it mightn’t be kangaroos; but they were good people, and had ornithorynchus soup and cockatoo pie for dinner as often as not, with cold black swan on the sideboard. So one of the boys had written him to say. Frank had the letter in his portfolio, and showed it to Lyell, and there was a deal of laughing over it. If I had that letter now I would just print itin extenso, to save myself the trouble of writing this chapter. Such a glowing account of Australian life was surely never penned before; and, if it could only be credited, what a life of wild adventure Frank’s cousins must have led! Here were wonderful stories about emigrants and convicts, and settlers and savages, serpents and snakes, mixed up with emus, and kangaroos, and cockatoos, and any amount of otheroos. And here were tales about bushrangers, and bush-riding, and buck-jumpers, and bullock-hunters; and the allusions to woomeras, and spears, and boomerangs, were as numerous as though they had been sprinkled in from a pepper-box.Frank was himself again long ere the clipper reached Sydney, but he felt doubly himself when, a few days afterwards, mounted on a goodly horse, with valise strapped on the saddle, he and his friends, with guides and guards, left the smoke of Sydney far behind them, and cantered merrily away bushwards.It was a long journey to the station or village where Frank’s cousins lived. It took them quite a week to get there. They travelled principally in the morning, and again at eventide, resting in the shade near their hobbled horses, during the time the sun was high.They had not gone far from the capital ere they plunged into a deep, dark, silent forest—silent save for the strangely monotonous song of the cicala, and so for miles, and so for many leagues. Our heroes felt they would have given anything to listen, sometimes, to the cry of a bird, or even the howl of a wild beast. The inns at which they stayed at nights were rough in the extreme, but they soon got worse, then they gave them up, and preferred camping out, and whenever of an evening they reached some open glade, there they took up their abode. But forests grew less dense at last, and the scenery most charming. The blue gum-trees, with stripes of pendent bark, that Fred and Frank used to admire and marvel at, gave place to lighter timber. By night the whole air was alive with strange sounds and strange sights, especially when the camp was near the water. The snoring sound of the bull-frog, the cry of the flying fox and opossum, mingled with the cooing of wild birds.But now they were nearing the home of Frank’s cousins. They inquired one day at an inn if the Thompsons lived near.“Certainly,” said the man. “Jack,” calling to an old black, “show these gentlemen where the Thompsons live.”“I’ll go and prepare dem,” said Jack.And off he went. He was back again in half an hour, and then led the way through the wood.“What sort of people are they?” asked Frank of Jack, the guide.“Oh! ever so nice,beautifulpeople, b-be-beautiful?”“The old gentleman is my uncle,” continued Frank.“Oh!” said the guide, “he is a beautiful old man. Bea-utiful!”Now there were two families named Thompson, one white and the other black; the family old Jack took them to was the black; but judge of the amusement of Frank’s friends when old Jack, standing stick in hand on the right of the group, introduced them to the Thompsons at home. Of course Chisholm, on the spot, demanded an introduction to Frank’s prettiest cousin, who was nursing a pickaninny (a baby), and Fred must go up and shake hands with the old man and call him uncle, and Lyell, not to be outdone in politeness, squatted down beside the old “jin,” his wife, and got into conversation right pleasantly. Poor Frank hardly knew what to do, but when Jack said the old couple liked grogs, he sent for some, and Jack shared it with the Thompsons, and there was such laughing and merriment, and talking and fun, that it isn’t any wonder that after they had left, Lyell laughingly declared he never remembered spending such a pleasant time in his life.Frank found the right Thompsons next day, and nicer nor braver boys never lived.
Poor Frank Willoughby—for two long weeks his spirit hovered ’twixt life and death. It was a happy hour for his friends when he was pronounced out of danger; and for Frank himself, when he was told that he had nothing now to do in the world but just to get well again. For many weeks longer he had to lie on his back, however. But he was in that weak, dreamy kind of a state, that he did not mind the confinement. Every morning Chisholm brought him all the news, and read to him for hours. But how shall I describe the joy he felt the first day he went out for exercise? This getting well after a long illness in a foreign land is a pleasure that few ever know; but the joys of convalescence are sufficient reward to the invalid for all he has previously suffered.
Frank was borne about in a palanquin. He wondered whether he would ever again bestride a fiery steed, and go bounding along over the plains, as had been his wont. But he grew so rapidly strong and well, after he began to walk, that he ceased to wonder at anything; and when he and his friends embarked on board a saucy clipper bound for distant Australia, he felt nearly as strong as ever he was in his life.
Frank had cousins in Australia. They farmed sheep or something, Frank was not quite sure it mightn’t be kangaroos; but they were good people, and had ornithorynchus soup and cockatoo pie for dinner as often as not, with cold black swan on the sideboard. So one of the boys had written him to say. Frank had the letter in his portfolio, and showed it to Lyell, and there was a deal of laughing over it. If I had that letter now I would just print itin extenso, to save myself the trouble of writing this chapter. Such a glowing account of Australian life was surely never penned before; and, if it could only be credited, what a life of wild adventure Frank’s cousins must have led! Here were wonderful stories about emigrants and convicts, and settlers and savages, serpents and snakes, mixed up with emus, and kangaroos, and cockatoos, and any amount of otheroos. And here were tales about bushrangers, and bush-riding, and buck-jumpers, and bullock-hunters; and the allusions to woomeras, and spears, and boomerangs, were as numerous as though they had been sprinkled in from a pepper-box.
Frank was himself again long ere the clipper reached Sydney, but he felt doubly himself when, a few days afterwards, mounted on a goodly horse, with valise strapped on the saddle, he and his friends, with guides and guards, left the smoke of Sydney far behind them, and cantered merrily away bushwards.
It was a long journey to the station or village where Frank’s cousins lived. It took them quite a week to get there. They travelled principally in the morning, and again at eventide, resting in the shade near their hobbled horses, during the time the sun was high.
They had not gone far from the capital ere they plunged into a deep, dark, silent forest—silent save for the strangely monotonous song of the cicala, and so for miles, and so for many leagues. Our heroes felt they would have given anything to listen, sometimes, to the cry of a bird, or even the howl of a wild beast. The inns at which they stayed at nights were rough in the extreme, but they soon got worse, then they gave them up, and preferred camping out, and whenever of an evening they reached some open glade, there they took up their abode. But forests grew less dense at last, and the scenery most charming. The blue gum-trees, with stripes of pendent bark, that Fred and Frank used to admire and marvel at, gave place to lighter timber. By night the whole air was alive with strange sounds and strange sights, especially when the camp was near the water. The snoring sound of the bull-frog, the cry of the flying fox and opossum, mingled with the cooing of wild birds.
But now they were nearing the home of Frank’s cousins. They inquired one day at an inn if the Thompsons lived near.
“Certainly,” said the man. “Jack,” calling to an old black, “show these gentlemen where the Thompsons live.”
“I’ll go and prepare dem,” said Jack.
And off he went. He was back again in half an hour, and then led the way through the wood.
“What sort of people are they?” asked Frank of Jack, the guide.
“Oh! ever so nice,beautifulpeople, b-be-beautiful?”
“The old gentleman is my uncle,” continued Frank.
“Oh!” said the guide, “he is a beautiful old man. Bea-utiful!”
Now there were two families named Thompson, one white and the other black; the family old Jack took them to was the black; but judge of the amusement of Frank’s friends when old Jack, standing stick in hand on the right of the group, introduced them to the Thompsons at home. Of course Chisholm, on the spot, demanded an introduction to Frank’s prettiest cousin, who was nursing a pickaninny (a baby), and Fred must go up and shake hands with the old man and call him uncle, and Lyell, not to be outdone in politeness, squatted down beside the old “jin,” his wife, and got into conversation right pleasantly. Poor Frank hardly knew what to do, but when Jack said the old couple liked grogs, he sent for some, and Jack shared it with the Thompsons, and there was such laughing and merriment, and talking and fun, that it isn’t any wonder that after they had left, Lyell laughingly declared he never remembered spending such a pleasant time in his life.
Frank found the right Thompsons next day, and nicer nor braver boys never lived.
Chapter Seventeen.The Corobory—Native Arms—Quiet Life in the Australian Bush—Chisholm and Eros—A Day with the Kangaroo Hounds.A corobory is a war dance by native savages. Our heroes had the pleasure of gazing at more than one, before they finally left Australia in search of new adventures. But very terrible those savages look, dancing madly round the fire in the depths of the gloomy forest, and wildly brandishing their war weapons, their boomerangs, their woomeras, their waddies, and their spears, while the flickering flames light up their naked painted bodies, and their yells and cries re-echo through the woods.Very expert are these New Hollanders with the use of the few weapons they carry. They can hurl their spears with terrible effect for a hundred yards or more, with the assistance of the woomera, a piece of wood which is retained in the hand, and acts as a lever. The boomerang is apparently a magical instrument. Its actions, when thrown by the hand of a native, are marvellous; the thing does his bidding as if it were one of the fabled genii under the control of a magician.The uncle and cousins of Frank were right glad to see him and his friends. They did not know how kind to be to them.“You see,” said Mr Thompson, “you find us all in the rough.”“But I’ll be bound all in the right as well,” said Lyell.“Well, well, well,” he said to Frank, “who would have thought of seeing you out here, and do you know, my boy, I would hardly have known you, you are wonderfully changed.”“Well,” replied Frank, laughing heartily at his uncle’s pleasantry, “seeing that I was only a year and a half old when you left England, you cannot wonder there is a little change.”“How do you like your welcome?” Frank asked of Chisholm on the morning of the second day.“It’s a Highland welcome, Frank; a Highland welcome.”Chisholm thought he could not say more than that.Old Mr Thompson was greatly amused at the mistake of Jack, the native guide, and their adventure with the other Thompsons, but he added he really believed Jack had done it on purpose, for the humour of the Australian native is of a very strange order, but none the less genuine for all that.The house where our heroes now found themselves billeted was somewhat after the bungalow stamp—a widely-spread comfortable house, all on one flat, but it was altogether pleasant to live in. The gardens around it formed one of its principal charms; so cool they were, so green, so shady and scented.Frank and Lyell and Fred went everywhere about the great farm; a farm so big, so wide, and wild, that it not only took days and days to ride across; but when they went out of a morning, with their horses and kangaroo hounds, they never knew what might turn up before they returned. It might be a warragh hunt (the wild dog of the interior), or a scamper after the emu or kangaroo, or they might settle down to hours and hours of quiet fishing, or try to shoot theornithorynchus paradoxus. Then there were wild-fowl in abundance, quails and snipe and pigeons, and all were just tame enough to afford what might be called decent sport.I have not mentioned Chisholm as taking much part in these sporting adventures, and must I tell you why? “Well, he was very fond of a game of whist, and also of smoking under the honeysuckles and the green mimosa trees; and Frank’s uncle was such a genuine old fellow, and Frank’s aunt such a delightful, and kindly, thoroughly English lady. Oh! but I feel that I am only beating about the bush, so I must confess the truth at once, though for Chisholm’s sake I’d rather have concealed it. One of Frank’s cousins there was a young and charming girl; and—and—and Chisholm had fallen over head and ears in love. It is with much reluctance I tell it; and it is strange, too, that one by one my heroes, my mighty hunters, whose hearts, like their sinewy arms, ought to have been hearts of oak or steel, should fall into the power of the saucy little god Eros. But it is the truth, and there is no getting away from it. As soon, however, as Chisholm knew and felt he was conquered at last, he confessed the same to his companions.“But I’m not going to make any engagement, you know,” he added. “I’ve never been in love before, so I don’t know much about it; but if I’m not cured by the time we get back to old England, why then I’ll return to this lovely place just to see if Edith will know me again.”Sly Chisholm! He felt sure that he would not be forgotten.Many, many miles from the farm where lived the Thompsons, on a certain day there was to be a grand meet, and thitherwards went our heroes with Frank’s cousins, starting on the day before. What a difference, they thought, from an English meet, where after an early breakfast one can mount his horse and ride leisurely away, along well-paved roads and green lanes to the appointed rendezvous, and after a scamper of hours return to a comfortable dinner. Here there were no roads; their way lay across the plains, through the deep dark forest, over lofty mountains, and through rivers; and it was very late ere they arrived at their camping-ground. Then their saddles were their pillows, a blanket the bed, and the star-spangled dome of heaven their roof-tree.But they were none the less fresh next morning, and were early astir; it would be a delightful day, they felt sure of that, for the sun was already up, and there was hardly a cloud in all the mild blue sky. Neither too hot nor too cold: it was quite a hunter’s morning. The scenery, too, through which they rode all day was ever varying, but ever beautiful. Frank said when the day was done, and they once more stretched their tired limbs around the camp-fire, that he had never enjoyed himself so much in his life.“What, not down in Wales?” said Fred, quietly.“Circumstances alter cases,” said Frank.The hunters on this occasion mustered strongly, there being a field of little under fifty, principally settlers and settlers’ sons. They brought their own dogs—strong-built hounds, just suited for the wild work they have to accomplish. More and more exciting grew the chase as the day wore on; and it ended in such a finale as can only be witnessed in one country in the world, and that is Australia. Kangaroos, wild horses, bullocks, emus, hounds and men, mixed in apparently inextricable confusion.Now it was all very well for Frank to boast about the grand day he had enjoyed. He had been lucky: his horse and he seemed made for each other. He was in at the death. Fred was not; but Fred’s horse was. Chisholm and his horse were both there; but, alas for glory! Chisholm’s horse’s heels were all in the air, and Chisholm himself—why, he was down under somewhere.
A corobory is a war dance by native savages. Our heroes had the pleasure of gazing at more than one, before they finally left Australia in search of new adventures. But very terrible those savages look, dancing madly round the fire in the depths of the gloomy forest, and wildly brandishing their war weapons, their boomerangs, their woomeras, their waddies, and their spears, while the flickering flames light up their naked painted bodies, and their yells and cries re-echo through the woods.
Very expert are these New Hollanders with the use of the few weapons they carry. They can hurl their spears with terrible effect for a hundred yards or more, with the assistance of the woomera, a piece of wood which is retained in the hand, and acts as a lever. The boomerang is apparently a magical instrument. Its actions, when thrown by the hand of a native, are marvellous; the thing does his bidding as if it were one of the fabled genii under the control of a magician.
The uncle and cousins of Frank were right glad to see him and his friends. They did not know how kind to be to them.
“You see,” said Mr Thompson, “you find us all in the rough.”
“But I’ll be bound all in the right as well,” said Lyell.
“Well, well, well,” he said to Frank, “who would have thought of seeing you out here, and do you know, my boy, I would hardly have known you, you are wonderfully changed.”
“Well,” replied Frank, laughing heartily at his uncle’s pleasantry, “seeing that I was only a year and a half old when you left England, you cannot wonder there is a little change.”
“How do you like your welcome?” Frank asked of Chisholm on the morning of the second day.
“It’s a Highland welcome, Frank; a Highland welcome.”
Chisholm thought he could not say more than that.
Old Mr Thompson was greatly amused at the mistake of Jack, the native guide, and their adventure with the other Thompsons, but he added he really believed Jack had done it on purpose, for the humour of the Australian native is of a very strange order, but none the less genuine for all that.
The house where our heroes now found themselves billeted was somewhat after the bungalow stamp—a widely-spread comfortable house, all on one flat, but it was altogether pleasant to live in. The gardens around it formed one of its principal charms; so cool they were, so green, so shady and scented.
Frank and Lyell and Fred went everywhere about the great farm; a farm so big, so wide, and wild, that it not only took days and days to ride across; but when they went out of a morning, with their horses and kangaroo hounds, they never knew what might turn up before they returned. It might be a warragh hunt (the wild dog of the interior), or a scamper after the emu or kangaroo, or they might settle down to hours and hours of quiet fishing, or try to shoot theornithorynchus paradoxus. Then there were wild-fowl in abundance, quails and snipe and pigeons, and all were just tame enough to afford what might be called decent sport.
I have not mentioned Chisholm as taking much part in these sporting adventures, and must I tell you why? “Well, he was very fond of a game of whist, and also of smoking under the honeysuckles and the green mimosa trees; and Frank’s uncle was such a genuine old fellow, and Frank’s aunt such a delightful, and kindly, thoroughly English lady. Oh! but I feel that I am only beating about the bush, so I must confess the truth at once, though for Chisholm’s sake I’d rather have concealed it. One of Frank’s cousins there was a young and charming girl; and—and—and Chisholm had fallen over head and ears in love. It is with much reluctance I tell it; and it is strange, too, that one by one my heroes, my mighty hunters, whose hearts, like their sinewy arms, ought to have been hearts of oak or steel, should fall into the power of the saucy little god Eros. But it is the truth, and there is no getting away from it. As soon, however, as Chisholm knew and felt he was conquered at last, he confessed the same to his companions.
“But I’m not going to make any engagement, you know,” he added. “I’ve never been in love before, so I don’t know much about it; but if I’m not cured by the time we get back to old England, why then I’ll return to this lovely place just to see if Edith will know me again.”
Sly Chisholm! He felt sure that he would not be forgotten.
Many, many miles from the farm where lived the Thompsons, on a certain day there was to be a grand meet, and thitherwards went our heroes with Frank’s cousins, starting on the day before. What a difference, they thought, from an English meet, where after an early breakfast one can mount his horse and ride leisurely away, along well-paved roads and green lanes to the appointed rendezvous, and after a scamper of hours return to a comfortable dinner. Here there were no roads; their way lay across the plains, through the deep dark forest, over lofty mountains, and through rivers; and it was very late ere they arrived at their camping-ground. Then their saddles were their pillows, a blanket the bed, and the star-spangled dome of heaven their roof-tree.
But they were none the less fresh next morning, and were early astir; it would be a delightful day, they felt sure of that, for the sun was already up, and there was hardly a cloud in all the mild blue sky. Neither too hot nor too cold: it was quite a hunter’s morning. The scenery, too, through which they rode all day was ever varying, but ever beautiful. Frank said when the day was done, and they once more stretched their tired limbs around the camp-fire, that he had never enjoyed himself so much in his life.
“What, not down in Wales?” said Fred, quietly.
“Circumstances alter cases,” said Frank.
The hunters on this occasion mustered strongly, there being a field of little under fifty, principally settlers and settlers’ sons. They brought their own dogs—strong-built hounds, just suited for the wild work they have to accomplish. More and more exciting grew the chase as the day wore on; and it ended in such a finale as can only be witnessed in one country in the world, and that is Australia. Kangaroos, wild horses, bullocks, emus, hounds and men, mixed in apparently inextricable confusion.
Now it was all very well for Frank to boast about the grand day he had enjoyed. He had been lucky: his horse and he seemed made for each other. He was in at the death. Fred was not; but Fred’s horse was. Chisholm and his horse were both there; but, alas for glory! Chisholm’s horse’s heels were all in the air, and Chisholm himself—why, he was down under somewhere.
Chapter Eighteen.Part VII—The Pampas.Swallowed up in the Forest—Buenos Ayres—Away to the Wilds—A Colony of Highlanders—Frank to the fore.There is no word in the world your true British sailor better knows the meaning of than that little nounduty. Lyell’s time was up; he must hurry back to Sydney, and thence to England, by very quickest boat; and so he did, and his last words to our heroes were these:—“Don’t think of returning without having a look at the Pampas; to be sure you might go straight to San Francisco and away home by train and steamer. That would be going round the world in one sense—a landsman’s not a sailor’s sense. Whenever I meet a man who says he has been round the world, I just pull him up sharp by asking him some such question as, ‘Did you ever drink tea in Pay-San-Du?’ That usually settles him. By-bye. We’ll meet again.”And away went merry-hearted Lyell, leaving sadder hearts behind him. Yes, but sad only for a time. There was a deal to be seen in Australia yet, and Chisholm was not sorry to spend a few months longer in this queer country, where everything seems topsy-turvy. But their last day in the kind and hospitable home of the Thompsons came round, and all too soon to one at least; and so adieus were spoken and whispered, hands were pressed, ay, and foolish tears were shed by pretty eyes, and handkerchiefs waved; then the great forest seemed to swallow them up.The great green and gloomy forest has swallowed our heroes up; but, hey presto! what is this we see? A blue, blue sea in which a brave ship has just dropped anchor—a bluer sky that makes the eyes ache to behold; other ships at anchor and boats coming and going from a distant town, only the spires and steeples of which can be seen with the naked eye. On the deck of this ship stand Chisholm, Fred, and Frank, and beside them a smart naval officer in blue and gold and white.Yes, you have guessed right. Lyell was the first to greet them when the anchor rattled down into the shallow waters off Buenos Ayres. He had been appointed to a South American station, and here he was, looking as happy and jolly and red as ever.“And at present,” said Lyell, “I am my own master; so for six weeks I’m at your service.”There was little encouragement for stopping in this city of straight streets and tame houses, and heat and dust, so they jumped at Lyell’s suggestion to get on land as soon as possible. Lyell knew some folks, he said, that would “show them a thing or two.”A long journey first in a comfortless train, through a country as level and lonesome as mid-ocean itself. Hot! it was indeed hot, and they were glad when the sun went down; for the carriages in which they rode were over-upholstered, and the paint stood up in soft boiling blisters on the wood-work.Now the journey is changed to one by river. Not much of a boat, to be sure; but then it is comparatively cool, and the scenery is sylvan and delightful. On once more next day, this time by diligence. This conveyance had none of the comfort of the Hyde Park canoe-landau. It was just what Lyell called it in pardonable slang, “a rubbly old concern—a sort of breed betwixt an orange-box, a leathern portmanteau, and a venerable clothes-basket. They paid a hawser out from its bows, and bent the nags on to that.” Frank thought of his elephant ride.But the country grew more hilly and romantic as they proceeded, and the inns, sad to say, worse and worse. Their beds were inhabited—strangely so; our heroes did not turn in to study natural history, or they might have done so. Indeed they had to rough it. The country grew wilder still; they had left the diligence with nearly broken bones; bought hones, hired guides, and now they found themselves on the very boundaries of a savage land. Ha! the fort at last, where Lyell’s friends lived. Their welcome was a regal one. Half a dozen Scotchmen lived here, four of them married and with grown-up families—quite a little colony.They shook hands with Lyell a dozen times. “Oh, man!” they cried, “but you’re welcome.” Then they killed the fatted calf.These good people were farmers; their houses all rough, but well furnished; their flocks and herds numerous as the sands by the sea-shore. A wild, lonely kind of a life they led with their wives and their little ones, but they were content. There were fish in the streams and deer in the forest. You had but to tickle the earth with a toasting-fork, and it smilingly yielded uppommes de terrewhich would grace the table of a prince.Every soul in the colony was a McSomebody or other; so no wonder Chisholm was in his glory, no wonder—“The nicht drive on wi’ sangs and clatter.”When our heroes heard their principal host call out, “Send auld Lawrie McMillan here (his real name was Lorenzo Maximilian) to give us a tune,” they had expected to see some tall old Highlander stride in with the bagpipes, not an ancient, wiry Spaniard, guitar-armed. Is it any wonder Chisholm burst out laughing when this venerable ghost began to sing—“Come under my plaidie, the night’s gaun to fa’.”Well, getting such a welcome as this in the midst of a wilderness was enough to make our heroes forget all former hardships. The dinner was a banquet. There were many dishes that were new to them; but had Frank, who was fastidious as regards eating, known thatlagarto soupwas made from the iguana lizard, a perfect dragon; that curriedpotrowas horse, and thatpeludo-pie was made of armadillo, I don’t think he would have sent his plate twice for either.Frank trod on the tail of an iguana next day. The dragon, seven feet long, and fearful to behold, turned and snapped. Frank, armed with a stick, would not fly, but fought. The Scotchmen were delighted. They tossed their bonnets in the air, and shouted “Saint George for merrie England!” Never mind, they might laugh as they pleased; but Frank killed the dragon.Saint George, as Chisholm now dubbed him, quite won the affection of the llama hunters next day; he was the only one of our heroes who kept alongside the Indians in their furious gallop at the heels of the fleet pacos.(Thelama pacos, hunted for its wool, chiefly used in rope and cloth-making.)All day long Frank was well to the fore, and how he was wishing he could throw the lassoo or bolas.Sweet Lizzie McDonald was the prettiest girl in the fort; she was the wildest huntress as well. She and her brothers “rigged out,” as Lyell called it, young Frank in native dress; and he rode by her side to the hills next day, presumably in the capacity of cavalier, but really as pupil. And Frank was an apt pupil; he didn’t think the time long.“Lucky dog you,” said Lyell, “if I wasn’t a sailor, I’d throw myself at Lizzie’s feet. I wouldn’t mind being lassooed by a girl like her. Heigho!”
There is no word in the world your true British sailor better knows the meaning of than that little nounduty. Lyell’s time was up; he must hurry back to Sydney, and thence to England, by very quickest boat; and so he did, and his last words to our heroes were these:—
“Don’t think of returning without having a look at the Pampas; to be sure you might go straight to San Francisco and away home by train and steamer. That would be going round the world in one sense—a landsman’s not a sailor’s sense. Whenever I meet a man who says he has been round the world, I just pull him up sharp by asking him some such question as, ‘Did you ever drink tea in Pay-San-Du?’ That usually settles him. By-bye. We’ll meet again.”
And away went merry-hearted Lyell, leaving sadder hearts behind him. Yes, but sad only for a time. There was a deal to be seen in Australia yet, and Chisholm was not sorry to spend a few months longer in this queer country, where everything seems topsy-turvy. But their last day in the kind and hospitable home of the Thompsons came round, and all too soon to one at least; and so adieus were spoken and whispered, hands were pressed, ay, and foolish tears were shed by pretty eyes, and handkerchiefs waved; then the great forest seemed to swallow them up.
The great green and gloomy forest has swallowed our heroes up; but, hey presto! what is this we see? A blue, blue sea in which a brave ship has just dropped anchor—a bluer sky that makes the eyes ache to behold; other ships at anchor and boats coming and going from a distant town, only the spires and steeples of which can be seen with the naked eye. On the deck of this ship stand Chisholm, Fred, and Frank, and beside them a smart naval officer in blue and gold and white.
Yes, you have guessed right. Lyell was the first to greet them when the anchor rattled down into the shallow waters off Buenos Ayres. He had been appointed to a South American station, and here he was, looking as happy and jolly and red as ever.
“And at present,” said Lyell, “I am my own master; so for six weeks I’m at your service.”
There was little encouragement for stopping in this city of straight streets and tame houses, and heat and dust, so they jumped at Lyell’s suggestion to get on land as soon as possible. Lyell knew some folks, he said, that would “show them a thing or two.”
A long journey first in a comfortless train, through a country as level and lonesome as mid-ocean itself. Hot! it was indeed hot, and they were glad when the sun went down; for the carriages in which they rode were over-upholstered, and the paint stood up in soft boiling blisters on the wood-work.
Now the journey is changed to one by river. Not much of a boat, to be sure; but then it is comparatively cool, and the scenery is sylvan and delightful. On once more next day, this time by diligence. This conveyance had none of the comfort of the Hyde Park canoe-landau. It was just what Lyell called it in pardonable slang, “a rubbly old concern—a sort of breed betwixt an orange-box, a leathern portmanteau, and a venerable clothes-basket. They paid a hawser out from its bows, and bent the nags on to that.” Frank thought of his elephant ride.
But the country grew more hilly and romantic as they proceeded, and the inns, sad to say, worse and worse. Their beds were inhabited—strangely so; our heroes did not turn in to study natural history, or they might have done so. Indeed they had to rough it. The country grew wilder still; they had left the diligence with nearly broken bones; bought hones, hired guides, and now they found themselves on the very boundaries of a savage land. Ha! the fort at last, where Lyell’s friends lived. Their welcome was a regal one. Half a dozen Scotchmen lived here, four of them married and with grown-up families—quite a little colony.
They shook hands with Lyell a dozen times. “Oh, man!” they cried, “but you’re welcome.” Then they killed the fatted calf.
These good people were farmers; their houses all rough, but well furnished; their flocks and herds numerous as the sands by the sea-shore. A wild, lonely kind of a life they led with their wives and their little ones, but they were content. There were fish in the streams and deer in the forest. You had but to tickle the earth with a toasting-fork, and it smilingly yielded uppommes de terrewhich would grace the table of a prince.
Every soul in the colony was a McSomebody or other; so no wonder Chisholm was in his glory, no wonder—
“The nicht drive on wi’ sangs and clatter.”
“The nicht drive on wi’ sangs and clatter.”
When our heroes heard their principal host call out, “Send auld Lawrie McMillan here (his real name was Lorenzo Maximilian) to give us a tune,” they had expected to see some tall old Highlander stride in with the bagpipes, not an ancient, wiry Spaniard, guitar-armed. Is it any wonder Chisholm burst out laughing when this venerable ghost began to sing—
“Come under my plaidie, the night’s gaun to fa’.”
“Come under my plaidie, the night’s gaun to fa’.”
Well, getting such a welcome as this in the midst of a wilderness was enough to make our heroes forget all former hardships. The dinner was a banquet. There were many dishes that were new to them; but had Frank, who was fastidious as regards eating, known thatlagarto soupwas made from the iguana lizard, a perfect dragon; that curriedpotrowas horse, and thatpeludo-pie was made of armadillo, I don’t think he would have sent his plate twice for either.
Frank trod on the tail of an iguana next day. The dragon, seven feet long, and fearful to behold, turned and snapped. Frank, armed with a stick, would not fly, but fought. The Scotchmen were delighted. They tossed their bonnets in the air, and shouted “Saint George for merrie England!” Never mind, they might laugh as they pleased; but Frank killed the dragon.
Saint George, as Chisholm now dubbed him, quite won the affection of the llama hunters next day; he was the only one of our heroes who kept alongside the Indians in their furious gallop at the heels of the fleet pacos.
(Thelama pacos, hunted for its wool, chiefly used in rope and cloth-making.)
All day long Frank was well to the fore, and how he was wishing he could throw the lassoo or bolas.
Sweet Lizzie McDonald was the prettiest girl in the fort; she was the wildest huntress as well. She and her brothers “rigged out,” as Lyell called it, young Frank in native dress; and he rode by her side to the hills next day, presumably in the capacity of cavalier, but really as pupil. And Frank was an apt pupil; he didn’t think the time long.
“Lucky dog you,” said Lyell, “if I wasn’t a sailor, I’d throw myself at Lizzie’s feet. I wouldn’t mind being lassooed by a girl like her. Heigho!”
Chapter Nineteen.Chasing Wild Horses—Ostrich-Stalking—A Moonlight Ride—A Deed of Blood—Los Indios!—The Fight—Victory and Pursuit.Knowing, as we do, how good a horseman Frank was, it is almost needless to say that before he was one month in this country he was as handy with bolas or lassoo as one of the natives. The former he preferred: it quitted his hands like stone from a sling, next moment the llama or guanaco was down; there was no dragging, no cruelty.The battue he did not like. But chasing wild horses was quite another thing. This was a manly and a useful sport; the very hunted horses themselves seemed to like it, and used to stand in herds on heights sniffing the air, as much as to say, “catch me if you can, but I don’t mean to be caught napping.” Nor were they; and a chase of this kind was sometimes most exciting. The poor colts that were lassooed were broken in speedily enough, it must be allowed, but in a manner that was cruel in the extreme; but brutality to animals is the order of the day in the Pampas. The bullocks are treated horribly; so, too, are their dogs, and every animal that comes under the native’s domination. The estancia, where our heroes dwelt, was about two hundred yards square; there was a fort at one end of it, surrounded by a strong wall covered with a ditch filled with water—the whole of the little village being near the river. In case of trouble with the Indians, all the colony could take refuge here, and draw up the bridge. The servants were Gauchos. On the arrival of Mr McDonald and his kinsmen, there had at first been many broils with Los Indios. These treacherous Indians are a flat-faced copper-hued race, with most forbidding countenances; and lying and thieving seem really to be part and parcel of their education. At all events, they are adepts at both.Chisholm wanted one day to go ostrich-stalking, or rhea-hunting you might better term it. These curious birds are as fleet as the wind, you cannot ride them down in the open; but you can approach them near enough with mules, to get a shot when fires are lit here and there on the plain, and the creatures get confused. It had been a long day’s sport; and the moon had arisen, and was flooding all the beautiful country with its soft and mellow light, ere the party had got within two leagues of the estancia. But they knew the welcome that there awaited them, and so on they rode, slowly but cheerfully, singing as they went. There would have been less music at their hearts, had they seen the expression of mingled hate and cunning on the faces of those fiends behind the cactus bush. What were they lurking there for? Why did they not come boldly forth?Lizzie and her sister met them at the garden gate. They had been watching for the cavalcade for fully an hour, and were rejoiced when their song fell upon their listening ears. Everyone was extremely happy and lively that evening; and it was quite ten o’clock before any one thought of retiring. Silence at last fell on the estancia. Higher and higher rose the moon, flooding the land with light; there isn’t a sound to be heard, save the buzz of insect, the call of wild drake, or the mournful cry of the owl.And the night wore on.It must have been considerably past midnight when suddenly from down the glade where the horses were grazing, there arose a shriek so piercing, so full of wild imploring grief, that it found a response in every heart in the estancia sleeping or awake. While they listened it was repeated only once, but this time it died away in a moan, that told the terrible tale that a deed of blood had been done.“Los Indios? Los Indios?” That was the shout from the Gaucho camp.“To arms, men, to arms!” roared patriarchal old McDonald, rushing sword in hand into our heroes’ bed-chamber.There was bustle and hurry now, but no confusion. The women were got into the fort first, the men covering their retreat, and hardly was this effected ere there was a headlong rush of a dark cloud that swept upwards from the river’s brink.“Fire, men!” cried McDonald. “Give it ’em.”There was a rattling volley, and the cloud fell back with shouts and groans. In five minutes more every man was inside, and the drawbridge was up.Foiled in their attempt to seize and occupy the estancia by a surprise, the Indians, who were over a hundred strong, would hardly dare to attack the fort before morning. Nor did they seem to want to, but twice they made attempts to creep towards the houses, intent on plunder, but such a contingency as this had been well considered while building the fort, and those who now made the attempt bitterly repented their rashness the very next moment.The men in the fort were thirty in all; their rifles were twenty. Twenty rifles against a hundred spears, the odds were not so overwhelming; but those Indians are terribly cunning in their mode of warfare, as our heroes soon found out, for small balls of burning grass, thrown sling-fashion, attached to a stone and rope of skin, soon began to fall thick and fast into the garrison.McDonald made up his mind he would wait no longer. The drawbridge was suddenly lowered, and out rushed the defenders. The surprise was sudden, the rout complete.“To horse, to horse!” cried McDonald, who seemed to be everywhere in the fight. Then followed a wild stampede of the Indians, numbers of them bit the sod, and the rest scattered and disappeared. They seemed indeed to melt away.When the victors returned it was so nearly day that no one would think of retiring, so breakfast was got ready.This night’s adventure did not interfere in the least with the sport our heroes enjoyed, during the remainder of their stay. But the Indians never showed face again.
Knowing, as we do, how good a horseman Frank was, it is almost needless to say that before he was one month in this country he was as handy with bolas or lassoo as one of the natives. The former he preferred: it quitted his hands like stone from a sling, next moment the llama or guanaco was down; there was no dragging, no cruelty.
The battue he did not like. But chasing wild horses was quite another thing. This was a manly and a useful sport; the very hunted horses themselves seemed to like it, and used to stand in herds on heights sniffing the air, as much as to say, “catch me if you can, but I don’t mean to be caught napping.” Nor were they; and a chase of this kind was sometimes most exciting. The poor colts that were lassooed were broken in speedily enough, it must be allowed, but in a manner that was cruel in the extreme; but brutality to animals is the order of the day in the Pampas. The bullocks are treated horribly; so, too, are their dogs, and every animal that comes under the native’s domination. The estancia, where our heroes dwelt, was about two hundred yards square; there was a fort at one end of it, surrounded by a strong wall covered with a ditch filled with water—the whole of the little village being near the river. In case of trouble with the Indians, all the colony could take refuge here, and draw up the bridge. The servants were Gauchos. On the arrival of Mr McDonald and his kinsmen, there had at first been many broils with Los Indios. These treacherous Indians are a flat-faced copper-hued race, with most forbidding countenances; and lying and thieving seem really to be part and parcel of their education. At all events, they are adepts at both.
Chisholm wanted one day to go ostrich-stalking, or rhea-hunting you might better term it. These curious birds are as fleet as the wind, you cannot ride them down in the open; but you can approach them near enough with mules, to get a shot when fires are lit here and there on the plain, and the creatures get confused. It had been a long day’s sport; and the moon had arisen, and was flooding all the beautiful country with its soft and mellow light, ere the party had got within two leagues of the estancia. But they knew the welcome that there awaited them, and so on they rode, slowly but cheerfully, singing as they went. There would have been less music at their hearts, had they seen the expression of mingled hate and cunning on the faces of those fiends behind the cactus bush. What were they lurking there for? Why did they not come boldly forth?
Lizzie and her sister met them at the garden gate. They had been watching for the cavalcade for fully an hour, and were rejoiced when their song fell upon their listening ears. Everyone was extremely happy and lively that evening; and it was quite ten o’clock before any one thought of retiring. Silence at last fell on the estancia. Higher and higher rose the moon, flooding the land with light; there isn’t a sound to be heard, save the buzz of insect, the call of wild drake, or the mournful cry of the owl.
And the night wore on.
It must have been considerably past midnight when suddenly from down the glade where the horses were grazing, there arose a shriek so piercing, so full of wild imploring grief, that it found a response in every heart in the estancia sleeping or awake. While they listened it was repeated only once, but this time it died away in a moan, that told the terrible tale that a deed of blood had been done.
“Los Indios? Los Indios?” That was the shout from the Gaucho camp.
“To arms, men, to arms!” roared patriarchal old McDonald, rushing sword in hand into our heroes’ bed-chamber.
There was bustle and hurry now, but no confusion. The women were got into the fort first, the men covering their retreat, and hardly was this effected ere there was a headlong rush of a dark cloud that swept upwards from the river’s brink.
“Fire, men!” cried McDonald. “Give it ’em.”
There was a rattling volley, and the cloud fell back with shouts and groans. In five minutes more every man was inside, and the drawbridge was up.
Foiled in their attempt to seize and occupy the estancia by a surprise, the Indians, who were over a hundred strong, would hardly dare to attack the fort before morning. Nor did they seem to want to, but twice they made attempts to creep towards the houses, intent on plunder, but such a contingency as this had been well considered while building the fort, and those who now made the attempt bitterly repented their rashness the very next moment.
The men in the fort were thirty in all; their rifles were twenty. Twenty rifles against a hundred spears, the odds were not so overwhelming; but those Indians are terribly cunning in their mode of warfare, as our heroes soon found out, for small balls of burning grass, thrown sling-fashion, attached to a stone and rope of skin, soon began to fall thick and fast into the garrison.
McDonald made up his mind he would wait no longer. The drawbridge was suddenly lowered, and out rushed the defenders. The surprise was sudden, the rout complete.
“To horse, to horse!” cried McDonald, who seemed to be everywhere in the fight. Then followed a wild stampede of the Indians, numbers of them bit the sod, and the rest scattered and disappeared. They seemed indeed to melt away.
When the victors returned it was so nearly day that no one would think of retiring, so breakfast was got ready.
This night’s adventure did not interfere in the least with the sport our heroes enjoyed, during the remainder of their stay. But the Indians never showed face again.
Chapter Twenty.Part VIII—The Backwoods.Rounding Cape Horn—Storm and Tempest—San Francisco—Guides for the Backwoods—The Group around the Camp-fire—A Wild Hunter’s Story.Two months after the adventures related in last chapter, our wandering trio of friends found themselves bivouacked in one of the forests of the far West, just as the shades of evening were beginning to deepen into night. They had bade adieu to kind-hearted Captain Lyell at Monte Video, finding a passage in an American ship to San Francisco. Heavy weather had been experienced while rounding the Horn, weather that put them in mind of the old days up north in the ice-fields: strong head-winds snow-laden, against which they could scarcely stand, far less walk; tempestuous grey seas, foam-fringed, that often broke aboard of them with sullen roar, or went hurrying astern with an angry growl, like a wild beast disappointed in its prey. But the good barque had borne herself well. And when at length her head was fairly north, clouds, and gloom, and storm fled away; the sun shone down on a sea of rippling blue; reefs were shaken out, stu’n’sails set alow and aloft; and in a few weeks they were safely at anchor not far off that busy world’s mart, that mighty mushroom city called San Francisco. Here they had lazed for a whole week, then wended their way towards the wilderness. Yet am I loth to call it a wilderness, this beautiful tract of country in which they now found themselves. Savage and wild it was; its woods more often rang with the war-whoop of the Indian, or the roar of the grizzly bear, than echoed to the sound of the white roan’s rifle; savage in all conscience. But no one who has not wandered in its great and interminable forests, roamed over its mountains, or embarked on its thousand and one rivers and lakes, could imagine that such sublime scenery could exist anywhere out of a poet’s dream or an artist’s fancy.Now, although as the historian of their adventures, I am quite willing to admit that our heroes were, after nearly three years of wandering and hair-breadth ’scapes, and adventures in almost every land the sun shines upon, both good travellers and sportsmen in the true sense of the word, still, I think, it was lucky for them they met with two experienced hunters, who consented to guide them on their expedition to the northern backwoods of America. They met them, as they had met Lyell, at a table d’hôte, in the Palace Hotel in San Francisco; and in a few days a friendship was cemented between them, which none of the party had ever reason to repent of, because they were men of the world.And here we have the five of them, mostly intent on the preparation of the evening meal. Lyell is cook to-night; and he evidently cooks from no badly-stored larder. Yonder hangs a lordly deer; wild-fowl they have in prolusion; and in a short time they will, doubtless, enjoy theiral frescodinner as only sportsmen can.Dugald McArthur, one of their pioneers, is standing with his arms folded, and his brawny shoulders leant against a tree, while honest John Travers is carefully examining the mechanism of Chisholm O’Grahame’s bone-crusher. Chisholm himself is gazing dreamily at the log-fire, and so, too, is Frank. But Dugald is the first to break the silence. He bends down, and lays a hand on Chisholm’s shoulder.“I say,” he remarks, “you wouldn’t think to look at me that there was much the matter with me, would you?” Chisholm smiled by way of reply.“But there is, though,” continued Dugald. “I’m suffering from a disease the doctors call nostalgia, and I oftentimes dream o’ the bonnie hills and glens of dear auld Scotland.”(Nostalgia, home-sickness; an irresistible longing to return to one’s native land, which sometimes becomes with the Swiss a fatal disease.)“Well, you don’t look very bad, I must say,” said Chisholm. “But if going back will cure you, why not go with us?”“It is just what Jack and I mean to,” said Dugald. “Now wait a wee until we have eaten supper, and sit down to toast our toes, and John and I will tell you what brought us out.”“Now,” said Dugald, when the time had come, “it is ten long years, and begun again, since Jack there and I came to the conclusion that civilisation was a grand mistake, that broad Scotland wasn’t big enough to hold us, and so turned our eyes to the West, to seek for adventures and fortune. What determined our choice? Why this, we both fell in love with the same lass. John and I always rowed in the same boat. We were both orphans, and had been at school and college together; and had, on coming to age, both put our monies into the same grand scheme. The grand scheme was a bubble; and, like all bubbles, it burst. While we were still rich and fortunate, neither Jack nor I could ever tell which of the two of us was most regarded by the beautiful, accomplished, but heartless Maggie Rae. As soon as we became poor, however, Maggie didn’t leave us much longer in doubt; she ended our suspense by marrying the wealthy old laird of Drumliedykes. That was a sad blow for me; and, I believe, for Jack too, though it wasn’t his nature to say very much. But I took to moping. I used to wander about the woods and lonely glens, longing for peace, even if it were in the grave.”“I met Jack one evening as I was returning from one of these rambles; and I suppose I looked very lugubrious. I addressed him in the words of our national poet—“‘Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care,A burden more than I can bear,I sit me down and sigh:O life! thou art a galling load,Along a rough and weary road,To wretches such as I.’”But Jack pulled me up sharp.“‘Havers,’” (Scottish for absurd nonsense) said Jack, in a bold, manly voice. “I tell you, Dugald, man was never made to sit on a stane and greet (weep); man was made to work. You envy the rich? Bah! Carriages were made for the sick and the auld. A young man should feel the legs beneath him, should feel the soul within him. Let us be up and doin’, Dugald; there’s no pleasure on earth, man, can equal his, wha can look up to God, fra honest wark.“Well, gentlemen, after this I was just as anxious to get away from England as Jack was, so we made our preparations; and in a month’s time we had crossed the wide Atlantic, and journeyed as near to the Rocky Mountains as cars would take us. I don’t think we had either of us any very definite notion of what we should do, or what adventures we should meet with. We were not unprepared, however, for anything. We had not gone abroad with our fingers in our mouths, so to speak; but we had read books on travel, and taken the best advice on everything. We had good horses, good waggons, good guns and compasses, and a fair supply of the necessaries of life, to say nothing of a trusty guide. So we just set a stout heart to a stiff brae (hill), and began the march. ‘To the west’ was our watchword; and there was in all our wanderings, ever in our hearts, the reflection of a sweet dream, which we firmly believed would one day become a reality, namely, that we would fall in with some land of gold, make riches in time, and then return to our own country.“For many months after we had once crossed the prairie-lands, and the terrible alkali flats, we followed the course of a broad-bosomed river, so that our compasses were of but little use to us, for one day this stream would take us right away up north, the next day west or south-west. It certainly was in no great hurry to reach its destination; but neither were we, so it just suited us. We were contented, nay, more, we were perfectly happy; we slept at night as hunters sleep, and we awoke at early dawn fresh as the forest birds that flitted joyously around us, and quite prepared for another day’s work. Itwaswork sometimes, too, and no mistake; work that many a British ploughman would have considered toil, for we had our waggons to fetch along, and that sometimes entailed long journeys round, to avoid a forest too dense, or river banks too rocky.“For months we never came across the trail of a living soul, so that we were not afraid to picket our horses, leaving them plenty to eat and drink, and go off pleasuring for days at a time in our birch canoes, after the deer and wild-fowl by the river, or the swans by night. We knew, or we could generally guess, where their haunts were. Erecting a bit of canvas in the stern sheets, by way of cover, we would light a bundle of hay, and throw it overboard, then drop slowly down stream before it. If they were anywhere about, they were sure to be out soon; and as they came sailing towards us, wondering what was up, one or two of them was sure to pay for his curiosity with the forfeiture of his life.”
Two months after the adventures related in last chapter, our wandering trio of friends found themselves bivouacked in one of the forests of the far West, just as the shades of evening were beginning to deepen into night. They had bade adieu to kind-hearted Captain Lyell at Monte Video, finding a passage in an American ship to San Francisco. Heavy weather had been experienced while rounding the Horn, weather that put them in mind of the old days up north in the ice-fields: strong head-winds snow-laden, against which they could scarcely stand, far less walk; tempestuous grey seas, foam-fringed, that often broke aboard of them with sullen roar, or went hurrying astern with an angry growl, like a wild beast disappointed in its prey. But the good barque had borne herself well. And when at length her head was fairly north, clouds, and gloom, and storm fled away; the sun shone down on a sea of rippling blue; reefs were shaken out, stu’n’sails set alow and aloft; and in a few weeks they were safely at anchor not far off that busy world’s mart, that mighty mushroom city called San Francisco. Here they had lazed for a whole week, then wended their way towards the wilderness. Yet am I loth to call it a wilderness, this beautiful tract of country in which they now found themselves. Savage and wild it was; its woods more often rang with the war-whoop of the Indian, or the roar of the grizzly bear, than echoed to the sound of the white roan’s rifle; savage in all conscience. But no one who has not wandered in its great and interminable forests, roamed over its mountains, or embarked on its thousand and one rivers and lakes, could imagine that such sublime scenery could exist anywhere out of a poet’s dream or an artist’s fancy.
Now, although as the historian of their adventures, I am quite willing to admit that our heroes were, after nearly three years of wandering and hair-breadth ’scapes, and adventures in almost every land the sun shines upon, both good travellers and sportsmen in the true sense of the word, still, I think, it was lucky for them they met with two experienced hunters, who consented to guide them on their expedition to the northern backwoods of America. They met them, as they had met Lyell, at a table d’hôte, in the Palace Hotel in San Francisco; and in a few days a friendship was cemented between them, which none of the party had ever reason to repent of, because they were men of the world.
And here we have the five of them, mostly intent on the preparation of the evening meal. Lyell is cook to-night; and he evidently cooks from no badly-stored larder. Yonder hangs a lordly deer; wild-fowl they have in prolusion; and in a short time they will, doubtless, enjoy theiral frescodinner as only sportsmen can.
Dugald McArthur, one of their pioneers, is standing with his arms folded, and his brawny shoulders leant against a tree, while honest John Travers is carefully examining the mechanism of Chisholm O’Grahame’s bone-crusher. Chisholm himself is gazing dreamily at the log-fire, and so, too, is Frank. But Dugald is the first to break the silence. He bends down, and lays a hand on Chisholm’s shoulder.
“I say,” he remarks, “you wouldn’t think to look at me that there was much the matter with me, would you?” Chisholm smiled by way of reply.
“But there is, though,” continued Dugald. “I’m suffering from a disease the doctors call nostalgia, and I oftentimes dream o’ the bonnie hills and glens of dear auld Scotland.”
(Nostalgia, home-sickness; an irresistible longing to return to one’s native land, which sometimes becomes with the Swiss a fatal disease.)
“Well, you don’t look very bad, I must say,” said Chisholm. “But if going back will cure you, why not go with us?”
“It is just what Jack and I mean to,” said Dugald. “Now wait a wee until we have eaten supper, and sit down to toast our toes, and John and I will tell you what brought us out.”
“Now,” said Dugald, when the time had come, “it is ten long years, and begun again, since Jack there and I came to the conclusion that civilisation was a grand mistake, that broad Scotland wasn’t big enough to hold us, and so turned our eyes to the West, to seek for adventures and fortune. What determined our choice? Why this, we both fell in love with the same lass. John and I always rowed in the same boat. We were both orphans, and had been at school and college together; and had, on coming to age, both put our monies into the same grand scheme. The grand scheme was a bubble; and, like all bubbles, it burst. While we were still rich and fortunate, neither Jack nor I could ever tell which of the two of us was most regarded by the beautiful, accomplished, but heartless Maggie Rae. As soon as we became poor, however, Maggie didn’t leave us much longer in doubt; she ended our suspense by marrying the wealthy old laird of Drumliedykes. That was a sad blow for me; and, I believe, for Jack too, though it wasn’t his nature to say very much. But I took to moping. I used to wander about the woods and lonely glens, longing for peace, even if it were in the grave.”
“I met Jack one evening as I was returning from one of these rambles; and I suppose I looked very lugubrious. I addressed him in the words of our national poet—
“‘Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care,A burden more than I can bear,I sit me down and sigh:O life! thou art a galling load,Along a rough and weary road,To wretches such as I.’”
“‘Oppress’d with grief, oppress’d with care,A burden more than I can bear,I sit me down and sigh:O life! thou art a galling load,Along a rough and weary road,To wretches such as I.’”
But Jack pulled me up sharp.
“‘Havers,’” (Scottish for absurd nonsense) said Jack, in a bold, manly voice. “I tell you, Dugald, man was never made to sit on a stane and greet (weep); man was made to work. You envy the rich? Bah! Carriages were made for the sick and the auld. A young man should feel the legs beneath him, should feel the soul within him. Let us be up and doin’, Dugald; there’s no pleasure on earth, man, can equal his, wha can look up to God, fra honest wark.
“Well, gentlemen, after this I was just as anxious to get away from England as Jack was, so we made our preparations; and in a month’s time we had crossed the wide Atlantic, and journeyed as near to the Rocky Mountains as cars would take us. I don’t think we had either of us any very definite notion of what we should do, or what adventures we should meet with. We were not unprepared, however, for anything. We had not gone abroad with our fingers in our mouths, so to speak; but we had read books on travel, and taken the best advice on everything. We had good horses, good waggons, good guns and compasses, and a fair supply of the necessaries of life, to say nothing of a trusty guide. So we just set a stout heart to a stiff brae (hill), and began the march. ‘To the west’ was our watchword; and there was in all our wanderings, ever in our hearts, the reflection of a sweet dream, which we firmly believed would one day become a reality, namely, that we would fall in with some land of gold, make riches in time, and then return to our own country.
“For many months after we had once crossed the prairie-lands, and the terrible alkali flats, we followed the course of a broad-bosomed river, so that our compasses were of but little use to us, for one day this stream would take us right away up north, the next day west or south-west. It certainly was in no great hurry to reach its destination; but neither were we, so it just suited us. We were contented, nay, more, we were perfectly happy; we slept at night as hunters sleep, and we awoke at early dawn fresh as the forest birds that flitted joyously around us, and quite prepared for another day’s work. Itwaswork sometimes, too, and no mistake; work that many a British ploughman would have considered toil, for we had our waggons to fetch along, and that sometimes entailed long journeys round, to avoid a forest too dense, or river banks too rocky.
“For months we never came across the trail of a living soul, so that we were not afraid to picket our horses, leaving them plenty to eat and drink, and go off pleasuring for days at a time in our birch canoes, after the deer and wild-fowl by the river, or the swans by night. We knew, or we could generally guess, where their haunts were. Erecting a bit of canvas in the stern sheets, by way of cover, we would light a bundle of hay, and throw it overboard, then drop slowly down stream before it. If they were anywhere about, they were sure to be out soon; and as they came sailing towards us, wondering what was up, one or two of them was sure to pay for his curiosity with the forfeiture of his life.”