The Book of the Bush by George Dunderdale (christmas read aloud .TXT) 📕

each other during the trial, and Nosey now said in a low voice:

"You had no call, Julia, to turn on me the way you did. What good could it do you? Sure you might at least have said nothing against me."

The pent-up bitterness of seventeen years burst forth. The constable standing near tried to stop the torrent, but he might as well have tried to turn back a south-east gale with a feather.

"I was to say nothing, indeed, was I? And what call had I to say nothing? Is that what you ask? Was I to stand here all day and say never a word for myself until they were ready to hang me? Tell me now, did I murder poor Baldy or did you? Was it not you who struck him down with the axe without saying as much as 'by your leave,' either to me or to him? Did you say a word to me until you finished your bloody work? And then you threatened to cut me down, too, with the axe, if I didn't hold my tongue, and help you to lift the man on to your horse. It is this day you should have remembered before you began that night's work. Sorrow's the day I ever met you at all, with the miserable life you led me; and you know I was always the good wife to you until you gave yourself entirely to the devil with your wicked ways. Wasn't I always on the watch for you every evening looking for you, and the chop on the fire, and the hot tea, and everything comfortable? And is it to hang me now you want to pay me back for the trouble I took for you and all the misery I suffered these long years? And the death of my poor father, who found me in gaol, is at your door too, for he would have been alive and well this day but for the deed you done, which broke his poor old heart; the Lord have mercy on him. And who is to blame but your own self for being in this place at all? You not only done the man to death, but you must go about the bush bragging of it to strangers, and twisting the halter for your own neck like a born idiot; and that's what you are, in spite of your roguery and cunning."

And so on for two hours of hell until the jury came back. They acquitted Julia and found her husband guilty. She left the court without once looking back, and he faced the jury alone.

Judge Pohlman had never before sent a man to the gallows. He made the usual little moral speech, and bewailed his own misfortune in having to perform so disagreeable a duty. Then he put on the black cap and passed sentence. At the concluding words, "May the Lord have mercy on your soul," the condemned man responded with a fervent "Amen," adding, "And that's the last of poor Nosey." He seemed greatly relieved when the ceremony was over, but it was not quite the last, there was another to follow.

For ten days he remained in his cell, and no one visited him except the priest. His examination of conscience was not difficult, for he had often rehearsed it, and much of it had been done for him in public.

He made his last journey between two priests, joining fervently in their prayers for the dying. His step was firm, and he showed neither fear nor bravado. The hangman quickly drew down the cap, but he seemed more flurried than his victim. The sheriff, without speaking, motioned him to place the knot in the correct position under the ear. Then the bolt was drawn and the story of "The Two Shepherds" was finished.


The man whom Philip met at Bendigo had farms in the country thinly timbered. North, south, east, and west the land was held under squatting licenses; with the exception of the home paddocks it was unfenced, and the stock was looked after by boundary riders and shepherds. To the south, between Nyalong and the sea-a distance of fifty or sixty miles-the country was not occupied by either the white or the black men. It consisted of ranges of hills heavily timbered, furrowed by deep valleys, through which flowed innumerable streams, winding their way to the river of the plains. Sometimes the solitary bushman or prospector, looking across a deep valley, saw, nestled amongst the opposite hills, a beautiful meadow of grass. But when he had crossed the intervening creek and scrubby valley, and continued his journey to the up-land, he found that the deceitful meadow was only a barren plain, covered, not with grass, but with the useless grass-tree. There is a little saccharine matter in the roots of the grass-tree, and a hopeful man from Corio once built a sugar-mill near the stream, and took possession of the plain as a sugar plantation. There was much labour, but very little sugar.

In the dense forest, cattle had run wild, and were sometimes seen feeding in the thinly-timbered grass land outside; but whenever a horseman approached they dashed headlong into the scrub where no horseman could follow them. Wild boars and their progeny also rooted among the tall tussocks in the marshes by the banks of the river, where it emerged from the ranges into the plains.

Blackfish and eels were plentiful in the river, but they were of a perverse disposition, and would not bite in the day-time. The bend nearest to Nyalong was twelve miles distant, and Philip once spent a night there with Gleeson and McCarthy. A fire was kindled and some fish were caught, but Philip took none home. Gleeson and McCarthy reserved their catches for their wives and families, and Philip's fish were all cooked on the fire at sunrise, and eaten for breakfast. Fishing was sport, certainly, but it was not profitable, nor exciting, except to the temper. Sometimes an eel took the bait, and then twisted himself round the limb of a tree at the bottom of the river. He then pulled all he was able until either the line or the hook was broken, or his jaw was torn into strips.

After midnight Philip was drowsy, and leaned his back against a tree to woo sweet sleep. But there were mosquitos in millions, bandicoots hopping close to the fire, and monkey-bears, night hawks, owls, 'possums and dingoes, holding a corroboree hideous enough to break the sleep of the dead.

After breakfast the horses were saddled for home. Philip carried his revolver in his belt, and Gleeson had a shot-gun. A kangaroo was seen feeding about a hundred yards distant, and Gleeson dismounted and shot at it, but it hopped away unharmed. A few minutes afterwards, as the men were riding along at an easy walk, three other horsemen suddenly came past them at a gallop, wheeled about, and faced the fishermen. One was Burridge, a station manager, the other two were his stockmen. The six men looked at one another for a few moments without speaking. Both Gleeson and McCarthy had the Tipperary temper, and it did not remain idle long.

"Well," asked Gleeson, "is anything the matter?"

"I dinna ken yet," said Burridge. "Did na ye hear a gunshot just now?"

"Yes, I fired at a kangaroo."

"A kangaroo, eh? Are you sure it was a kangaroo?"

"Yes, it was a kangaroo. What of that? Oh, I see, you think we are after shooting your cattle. Is that it? Speak out like a man."

"Sometimes a beast is shot about here, and I'd like to find out who does it."

"Oh, indeed! you'd like to know who does it, would you? I can tell you, anyway, who is the biggest cattle duffer round here, if you'd like to know!" Gleeson touched one flank of his horse with his heel, and rode close up to Burridge with the gun in his right hand. "His name is Burridge, and that's yourself. Everybody knows you, you old Scotch hound. You have as many cattle on the run with your brand on them as your master has. There is not a bigger cattle thief than old Burridge within a hundred miles, and you'll be taken off the run in irons yet. Get out of my way, or I'll be tempted to send you to blazes before your time."

Burridge did not go off the run in irons; he left it honourably for another run which he took up, and stocked with cattle bearing no brand but his own. Evil tongues might tattle, but no man could prove that Burridge ever broke the law.

One fishing excursion to the bend was enough for Philip, but a pig hunt was organised, and he joined it. The party consisted of Gleeson, McCarthy, Bill the Butcher, Bob Atkins, and George Brown the Liar, who brought a rope-net and a cart in which all the game caught was to be carried home. Five dogs accompanied the party, viz., Lion and Tiger, crossbred bull and mastiffs, experienced pig fighters, Sam as a reserve, and three mongrels as light skirmishers.

The first animal met with was a huge old boar, the hero of a hundred fights, the great-grandfather of pigs. He stood at bay among the tussocks, the dogs barking furiously around him. Bill the Butcher said, "Keep back, you men, or he'll rip the guts out of your horses. I know him well. He has only one tusk, but it's a boomer. Look out sharp till the dogs tackle him, he might make a rush at some of us."

The boar was a frightful-looking beast, long, tall, and slab-sided, in perfect condition for fight, all bone, muscle, and bristles, with not an ounce of lard in his lean body. He stood still and stiff as a rock watching the dogs, his one white tusk, long and keen sticking out above his upper lip. The loss of the other tusk left him at a disadvantage, as he could only strike effectively on one side. Lion and Tiger had fought him before, and he had earned their respect. They were wary and cautious, and with good reason. Their best hold was by the ears, and these had been chewed away in former wars, till nothing was left of them but the ragged roots. Bill the Butcher dismounted, dropped his bridle, and cheered on the dogs at a prudent distance, "Good dogs; seek him Lion; hold him Tiger."

The dogs went nearer and nearer, jumping away whenever the boar made an attack. At last they seized him by the roots of his ears, one on each side, and held on. Bob Atkins and Bill approached the combatants, carrying some strong cord, of New Zealand flax. A running noose was secured round the hind legs of the boar; he was then thrown on his side, and his forelegs were tied together.

Lion and Tiger stood near panting, with blood dripping from their open jaws. Philip could not imagine why Bill did not butcher the beast at once; it seemed impossible that a leathery old savage like that could ever be transformed into tender pork. For the present he was left prone on the field of battle,