CHAPTER XIII
A SMOKING CONCERT
Simons was toasting Naomi Pryse. It took Engelhardt some moments torealize this. The language he could stand; but no sooner did he graspits incredible application than his self-control boiled over on thespot.
"Stop it!" he shrieked at the shearer. "How dare you speak of her likethat? How dare you?"
The foul mouth fell open, and the camp-fire flames licked the yellowteeth within. Engelhardt was within a few inches of them, with a doubledfist and reckless eyes. To his amazement, the man burst out laughing inhis face.
"The little cuss has spunk," said he. "I like to see a cove stick up for'is gal, by cripes I do!"
"So do I," said Bo's'n. "Brayvo, little man, brayvo!"
"My oath," said Bill, "I'd have cut 'is stinkin' throat for 'alf as muchif I'd been you, matey!"
"Not me," said Simons. "I'll give 'im a drink for 'is spunk. 'Ere,kiddy, you wish us luck!"
He held out the pannikin. Engelhardt shook his head. He was, in fact, ateetotaler, who had made a covenant with himself, when sailing from oldEngland, to let no stimulant pass his lips until his feet should touchher shores again. The covenant was absolutely private and informal, asbetween a man and his own body, but no power on earth would have madehim break it.
"Come on," said Simons. "By cripes, we take no refusals here!"
"I must ask you to take mine, nevertheless."
"Why?"
"Because I don't drink."
"Well, you've got to!"
"I shall not!"
Simons seemed bent upon it. Perhaps he had taken a drop too muchhimself; indeed, none of the three were entirely above such a suspicion;but it immediately appeared that this small point was to create moretrouble than everything that had gone before. Small as it was, neitherman would budge an inch. Engelhardt said again that he would not drink.Simons swore that he should either drink or die. The piano-tunercheerfully replied that he expected to die in any case, but he wasn'tgoing to touch whiskey for anybody; so he gave Simons leave to do whathe liked and get it over--the sooner the better. The shearer promptlyseized him by his uninjured wrist, twisted it violently behind his back,and held out his hand to Bo's'n for the pannikin. Engelhardt was nowhelpless, his left arm a prisoner and in torture, his right lyinguseless in a sling. Bo's'n, however, came to his rescue once more, byrefusing to see good grog wasted when there was little enough left.
"What's the use?" said he. "If the silly devil won't drink, we'll makehim sing us a song. He says he tunes pianners. Let him tune up now!"
"That's better," assented Bill. "The joker shall give us a song beforewe let his gas out; and I'll drink his grog. Give it here, Bo's'n."
The worst of a gang of three is the strong working majority alwaysobtainable against one or other of them. Simons gave in with a curse,and sent Engelhardt sprawling with a heavy kick. As he picked himselfup, they called upon him to sing. He savagely refused.
"All right," said Bill, "we'll string him up an' be done with him. I'mfairly sick o' the swine--I am so!"
"By cripes, so am I."
"Then up he goes."
"The other beggar's got the rope," said Bo's'n.
"Then cut him down. He won't improve by hanging any longer. We ain'ta-going to eat him, are we? Cut him down, and sling this one up. It'syour job, Bo's'n."
Bo's'n was disposed to grumble. Bill cut him short.
"All right," said he, getting clumsily to his feet, "I'll do it myself.You call yourself a bloomin' man! I'd make a better bloomin' man thanyou with bloomin' baccy-ash. Out of the light, you cripple, an' thething'll be done in half the time you take talking about it!"
Engelhardt was left sitting between Simons and the ill-used Bo's'n. Thelatter had his grumble out, but Bill took no more account of him. As forthe shearer, the ferocity of his attitude toward the doomed youth wasnow second to none. He sat very close to him, with a hellish scowl and agreat hand held ready to blast any attempt at escape. But none was made.The piano-tuner stuck his thumbs into his ears, covered his closed eyeswith his palms, and tried both to think and to pray. He could not think;vague visions of Naomi crowded his mind, but they formed no thought. Norcould he pray for anything but courage to meet his fate. Within a fewyards of him was the body of a dead man murdered by these thieves amongwhom he himself had fallen. He could not but doubt that they were aboutto murder him too. His last hour had come. He wanted courage. That wasall he asked for as he sat with plugged ears and tight-shut eyes.
He was aroused by a smart kick in the ribs. As he got up to go to hisdoom, Bill seized him by the shoulders and pushed him roughly toward thehanging rope; it hung so low, it bisected the rising moon.
"Let me alone," he cried, wriggling fiercely. "I can get there withoutyour help."
"Well, we'll see."
He got there fast enough. A little deeper in the scrub he could see ashapeless mass of moleskin and Crimean shirting, with a spurred boothalf covered by a stiff hand. He was thankful to turn his face to theblazing camp-fire, even though the noose went round his neck as he didso.
"Now then," said Bill, hauling the rope taut, "will you give us a songor won't you?"
He could not speak.
"If you sing us a song we may give you another hour," said the Bo's'nfrom the ground. Simons and he had been whispering together. Bill shookhis head at them.
"That rests with me," said he to Engelhardt. "Don't you make anymistake."
"Another hour!" cried the young man, bitterly, as he found his voice."What's another hour? If you're men at all, put an end to me now and bedone with it."
"How's that?" said Bill, hauling him upon tip-toe. "No, no, sonny, wewant our song first," he added, as he let the rope fall slack again.
"Sing up, and there's no saying what'll happen," cried the Bo's'n,cheerily.
"What shall I sing?"
"Anything you like."
"Something funny to cheer us up."
"Ay, ay, a comic song!"
Engelhardt wavered--as once before under the eyes and ears of a maleaudience. "I'll do my best," he said at last. And Bo's'n clapped.
A minute later the bushrangers' camp was the scene of as queer aperformance as ever was given. A very young man, with a pallid,blood-stained face, and a rope round his neck, was singing a "comic"song to a parcel of cut-throats who were presently to hang him, as theyhad hanged already the corpse at his heels. Meanwhile they surrenderedthemselves like simple innocents to a thorough enjoyment of the fine funprovided. The replenished camp-fire lit their villanous faces with arich red glow. They grinned, they laughed, they displayed their pleasureand satisfaction each after his own fashion. The fat man shook in hisfat; the long man showed his grinning teeth; the sailor-man slapped histhighs and rolled on the ground in paroxysms of spirituous mirth. Itmust have been the humor of the situation, rather than that of the song,which so powerfully appealed to them. The former had the piquant charmof being entirely their own creation. The latter was that poeticparaphrase of the early chapters of the Book of Genesis which the singerhad tried upon another back-block audience but a few nights before. Ofthe two, this audience, as such, was decidedly the better. At any ratethey let him get to the end. And when that came, and Bo's'n clappedagain, even the other two joined in the applause.
"By cripes," said Simons, "that's not so bad!"
"Bad?" cried the enthusiastic Bo's'n. "It's as good as fifty plays.We'll have some more, and I'll give you a song myself."
"Right!" said Bill. "The night's still young. Stiffin me purple if wehaven't forgot them weeds we laid in at the township! Out with 'em,mateys, an' pass round the grog; we'll make a smokin' concert of it. Abloomin' smoker, so help me never!"
The cigars were unearthed from the pockets of Bill himself. He andSimons at once put two of them in full blast. Meantime, Bo's'n wastrying his voice.
"Any of you know any sailors' chanties?" said he.
A pause, and then--
"Yes, I do."
The voice was
none other than Engelhardt's.
"_You?_ The devil you do! How's that, then?"
"I came out in a sailing ship."
"What do you know?"
"Some of the choruses."
"'Blow the land down?'"
"Yes--best of all."
"Then we'll have that! Messmates you join his nibs in the chorus. I singyarn and chorus too. Ready? Steady! Here goes!"
And in a rich, rolling voice, that had been heard above many a gale onthe high seas, he began with the familiar words:
Oh, where are you going to, my pretty maid?-- _Yo-ho, blow the land down!_ Oh, where are you going to, my pretty maid?-- _And give us some time to blow the land down!_
The words were not long familiar. They quickly became detestable. Thefarther they went, of course, the more they appealed to Simons, Bill,and the singer himself. As for Engelhardt, obviously he was in noposition to protest; nor could mere vileness add at all to hisdiscomfort, with that noose still round his neck, and the rope-end stilltight in Bill's clutch. Then the refrain for every other line was no badthing in itself; at all events, he joined in throughout, and at theclose stood at least as well with his persecutors as before.
It now appeared, however, that sailors' chanties were the Bo's'n'sweakness. He insisted on singing two more, with topical and impromptuverses of his own. As, for instance:
The proud Miss Pryse may toss 'er 'ead-- _An' they say so--an' we hope so_-- The proud Miss Pryse will soon be dead-- _The poor--old--gal!_
Or again, and as bad:
Oh, they call me Hanging Johnny-- _Hurray! Pull away!_ An' I'll soon hang you, my sonny-- _Hang--boys--hang!_
These are but opening verses. There were many more in each case, andthey were bad enough in all respects. And yet Engelhardt chimed in athis own expense--even at Naomi's--because it might be that his life andhers depended upon it. He was beginning to have his hopes, partly fromthe delay, partly from looks and winks which he had seen exchanged; andhis hopes led to ideas, because his brain had never been clearer andbusier than it was now become. He was devoutly thankful not to have beentwice forced to sing. The second time, however, was still to come. Itwas announced by a jerk of the rope that went near to dislocating hisneck.
"This image is doing nothink for 'is living, an' yet we're letting 'imlive!" cried Bill, in a tone of injured and abused magnanimity. "Sing,you swine, or swing! One o' the two."
"What sort will you have this time?" asked Engelhardt, meekly. Hismeekness was largely put on, however. The black bottle had been goinground pretty freely; in fact, it was quite empty. Another had beenbroached, and the men were both visibly and audibly in their cups.
"Another comic!" cried Simons and the Bo's'n in one breath.
"No, something serious this trip," Bill said, contradictiously. "Youknow warri mean, you lubber--somethin' soothin' for anight-cap--somethin' Christy-mental. Go ahead an' be damned to ye!"
Engelhardt had no time to consider, to reflect, to choose. The signal tostart instantly was given by a series of sharp, throttling jerks at therope. Almost before he was himself aware of it, he was giving them thewell-known "Swannee River." It was the first "Christy-mental" song thathad risen to his mind and lips. Moreover, he gave it with all the pathosand expression of which he was capable, and that, as we know, was notinconsiderable. They did not join in the chorus. This made it theeasier. He tried to forget that these men were there, and, throwing hisgaze aloft, sung softly--even sweetly--to the stars. Doubtless it wasall acting, and by a cunning instinct that he went so slow in the finalchorus:
Oh, my heart is sad and weary, Everywhere I roam; Oh, darkies, but my heart is weary, Far from the old folks at home.
And yet one knows that it is possible to act and to feel at one and thesame time; and, incredible as it may seem in the circumstances,Engelhardt found it so just then. He _did_ think of the dear old womanat home; and being an artist to his boots, he gave his emotions theirhead, and sang to these blackguards as he would have sung to Naomiherself. And the effect was extraordinary--if in part due to thewhiskey. When the young man lowered his eyes there was the maudlinBo's'n snivelling like a babe, and the other two sucking their cigars tolife with faces as long as lanterns.
"Lads," said Bill, "the night's still young. What matter does it makewhen we tackle the station? It'll keep. We on'y got to get there beforemornin'. 'Tain't midnight yet." His voice was thickish.
"If the moon gets much higher," hiccoughed the Bo's'n, "we'll never getthere at all. We'll never find it!" And he dried his eyes on his sleeve.
Bill took no notice of this. But he shook up his companions, linked armsbetween the two, and halted them in front of Engelhardt. They all threeswayed a little as they stood, yet all three were still dangerouslysober; and the second bottle was empty now; and there was no third.Engelhardt confronted them with hope, but not confidence, and listened,more eagerly than he dared to show, to Bill's harangue.
"Young man," said he, "you're not such a cussed swine's I thought. Singor swing, says I. You sings like a man. So you sha'n't swing at all--notyet. No saying what we'll do in an hour or two. P'r'aps we're going totake you along with us to the station, to show us things, an' p'r'aps weain't. You make your miseral life happy, to go on with. You bloomin'beggar, you, we respite you! Bo's'n, take the same rope an' lash thejoker to that tree."
Bill stopped to see it done. He was quite sober enough to besufficiently particular in this matter; as was Bo's'n, to perform hispart in sailor-like fashion. In five minutes the thing was done.
"What do you think of that?" cried the seaman, with a certain honestsort of deep-sea pride.
"It'll do, matey."
"By cripes, he'll never get out of that!"
In fact, from his chin to his knees, the poor piano-tuner was encased ina straight-waistcoat of rope--the rope that had been round his neck forthe last half-hour. Even the injured arm was inside. Nor could he movehis feet, for they were tied separately at the ankles. Otherwise therewas only one knot in what was indeed a masterpiece of its kind.
"I hope you'll be comfortable," said the Bo's'n, with a quaint touch ofremorse, "for split me if you didn't sing like a blessed cock-angel! Andnever you fear," he added, under his breath, "for we ain't agoin' tohang you. Not us! And if there's anything we can do for you afore wetake our spell, say the word, messmate, say the word."
The piano-tuner shook his head.
"Then so long and----"
"Stop! you might give us a cigar."
It was given readily.
"Thanks; and now you might light it."
This also was done, with a brand from the dying fire.
"Good-night," said Bo's'n.
"And thank you," added Engelhardt.
The sailor stopped to give a last admiring glance at his handiwork; thenhe joined his companions, who were already spread out upon the broad oftheir backs; and Engelhardt was left to himself at last--unable to movehand or foot--with a corpse at hand and the murderers under hiseyes--with the risen moon shining full upon his face, and the vilest ofvile cigars held tight between his teeth.
And he was no smoker; tobacco made him sick.
Nevertheless, he kept that bad weed alight, and very carefully alight,for ten minutes by guess-work. Then he depressed his chin, knocked offan inch of ash against the top-most coil, applied the red end to therope, and sucked and puffed for his life and Naomi's.
The Boss of Taroomba Page 13