The usual clanking and hammering was prevalent upon the stone jetty ofPort Arthur when the schooner bearing the returned convict, Rufus Dawes,ran alongside. On the heights above the esplanade rose the grim frontof the soldiers' barracks; beneath the soldiers' barracks was the longrange of prison buildings with their workshops and tan-pits; to the leftlay the Commandant's house, authoritative by reason of its embrasuredterrace and guardian sentry; while the jetty, that faced the purplelength of the "Island of the Dead," swarmed with parti-coloured figures,clanking about their enforced business, under the muskets of theirgaolers.
Rufus Dawes had seen this prospect before, had learnt by heart eachbeauty of rising sun, sparkling water, and wooded hill. From thehideously clean jetty at his feet, to the distant signal station, that,embowered in bloom, reared its slender arms upwards into the cloudlesssky, he knew it all. There was no charm for him in the exquisite blueof the sea, the soft shadows of the hills, or the soothing ripple of thewaves that crept voluptuously to the white breast of the shining shore.He sat with his head bowed down, and his hands clasped about his knees,disdaining to look until they roused him.
"Hallo, Dawes!" says Warder Troke, halting his train of ironedyellow-jackets. "So you've come back again! Glad to see yer, Dawes! Itseems an age since we had the pleasure of your company, Dawes!" At thispleasantry the train laughed, so that their irons clanked more thanever. They found it often inconvenient not to laugh at Mr. Troke'shumour. "Step down here, Dawes, and let me introduce you to your h'oldfriends. They'll be glad to see yer, won't yer, boys? Why, blessme, Dawes, we thort we'd lost yer! We thort yer'd given us the slipaltogether, Dawes. They didn't take care of yer in Hobart Town, Iexpect, eh, boys? We'll look after yer here, Dawes, though. You won'tbolt any more."
"Take care, Mr. Troke," said a warning voice, "you're at it again! Letthe man alone!"
By virtue of an order transmitted from Hobart Town, they had begun toattach the dangerous prisoner to the last man of the gang, riveting theleg-irons of the pair by means of an extra link, which could be removedwhen necessary, but Dawes had given no sign of consciousness. At thesound of the friendly tones, however, he looked up, and saw a tall,gaunt man, dressed in a shabby pepper-and-salt raiment, and wearing ablack handkerchief knotted round his throat. He was a stranger to him.
"I beg yer pardon, Mr. North," said Troke, sinking at once the bully inthe sneak. "I didn't see yer reverence."
"A parson!" thought Dawes with disappointment, and dropped his eyes.
"I know that," returned Mr. North, coolly. "If you had, you would havebeen all butter and honey. Don't trouble yourself to tell a lie; it'squite unnecessary."
Dawes looked up again. This was a strange parson.
"What's your name, my man?" said Mr. North, suddenly, catching his eye.
Rufus Dawes had intended to scowl, but the tone, sharply authoritative,roused his automatic convict second nature, and he answered, almostdespite himself, "Rufus Dawes."
"Oh," said Mr. North, eyeing him with a curious air of expectation thathad something pitying in it. "This is the man, is it? I thought he wasto go to the Coal Mines."
"So he is," said Troke, "but we hain't a goin' to send there for afortnit, and in the meantime I'm to work him on the chain."
"Oh!" said Mr. North again. "Lend me your knife, Troke."
And then, before them all, this curious parson took a piece of tobaccoout of his ragged pocket, and cut off a "chaw" with Mr. Troke's knife.Rufus Dawes felt what he had not felt for three days--an interest insomething. He stared at the parson in unaffected astonishment. Mr. Northperhaps mistook the meaning of his fixed stare, for he held out theremnant of tobacco to him.
The chain line vibrated at this, and bent forward to enjoy the vicariousdelight of seeing another man chew tobacco. Troke grinned with a silentmirth that betokened retribution for the favoured convict. "Here," saidMr. North, holding out the dainty morsel upon which so many eyes werefixed. Rufus Dawes took the tobacco; looked at it hungrily for aninstant, and then--to the astonishment of everybody--flung it away witha curse.
"I don't want your tobacco," he said; "keep it."
From convict mouths went out a respectful roar of amazement, and Mr.Troke's eyes snapped with pride of outraged janitorship. "You ungratefuldog!" he cried, raising his stick.
Mr. North put up a hand. "That will do, Troke," he said; "I know yourrespect for the cloth. Move the men on again."
"Get on!" said Troke, rumbling oaths beneath his breath, and Dawes felthis newly-riveted chain tug. It was some time since he had been in achain-gang, and the sudden jerk nearly overbalanced him. He caught athis neighbour, and looking up, met a pair of black eyes which gleamedrecognition. His neighbour was John Rex. Mr. North, watching them, wasstruck by the resemblance the two men bore to each other. Their height,eyes, hair, and complexion were similar. Despite the difference inname they might be related. "They might be brothers," thought he. "Poordevils! I never knew a prisoner refuse tobacco before." And he looked onthe ground for the despised portion. But in vain. John Rex, oppressed byno foolish sentiment, had picked it up and put it in his mouth.
So Rufus Dawes was relegated to his old life again, and came back tohis prison with the hatred of his kind, that his prison had bred in him,increased a hundred-fold. It seemed to him that the sudden awakeninghad dazed him, that the flood of light so suddenly let in uponhis slumbering soul had blinded his eyes, used so long to thesweetly-cheating twilight. He was at first unable to apprehend thedetails of his misery. He knew only that his dream-child was alive andshuddered at him, that the only thing he loved and trusted had betrayedhim, that all hope of justice and mercy had gone from him for ever, thatthe beauty had gone from earth, the brightness from Heaven, and that hewas doomed still to live. He went about his work, unheedful of the jestsof Troke, ungalled by his irons, unmindful of the groans and laughterabout him. His magnificent muscles saved him from the lash; for theamiable Troke tried to break him down in vain. He did not complain, hedid not laugh, he did not weep. His "mate" Rex tried to converse withhim, but did not succeed. In the midst of one of Rex's excellenttales of London dissipation, Rufus Dawes would sigh wearily. "There'ssomething on that fellow's mind," thought Rex, prone to watch the signsby which the soul is read. "He has some secret which weighs upon him."
It was in vain that Rex attempted to discover what this secret might be.To all questions concerning his past life--however artfully put--RufusDawes was dumb. In vain Rex practised all his arts, called up all hisgraces of manner and speech--and these were not few--to fascinate thesilent man and win his confidence. Rufus Dawes met his advances witha cynical carelessness that revealed nothing; and, when not addressed,held a gloomy silence. Galled by this indifference, John Rex hadattempted to practise those ingenious arts of torment by which Gabbett,Vetch, or other leading spirits of the gang asserted their superiorityover their quieter comrades. But he soon ceased. "I have been longer inthis hell than you," said Rufus Dawes, "and I know more of the devil'stricks than you can show me. You had best be quiet." Rex neglected thewarning, and Rufus Dawes took him by the throat one day, and would havestrangled him, but that Troke beat off the angered man with a favouritebludgeon. Rex had a wholesome respect for personal prowess, and hadthe grace to admit the provocation to Troke. Even this instance ofself-denial did not move the stubborn Dawes. He only laughed. ThenRex came to a conclusion. His mate was plotting an escape. He himselfcherished a notion of the kind, as did Gabbett and Vetch, but by commondistrust no one ever gave utterance to thoughts of this nature. It wouldbe too dangerous. "He would be a good comrade for a rush," thought Rex,and resolved more firmly than ever to ally himself to this dangerous andsilent companion.
One question Dawes had asked which Rex had been able to answer: "Who isthat North?"
"A chaplain. He is only here for a week or so. There is a new onecoming. North goes to Sydney. He is not in favour with the Bishop."
"How do you know?"
"By deduction," says Rex, with a smile
peculiar to him. "He wearscoloured clothes, and smokes, and doesn't patter Scripture. TheBishop dresses in black, detests tobacco, and quotes the Bible like aconcordance. North is sent here for a month, as a warming-pan for thatass Meekin. Ergo, the Bishop don't care about North."
Jemmy Vetch, who was next to Rex, let the full weight of his portionof tree-trunk rest upon Gabbett, in order to express his unrestrainedadmiration of Mr. Rex's sarcasm. "Ain't the Dandy a one'er?" said he.
"Are you thinking of coming the pious?" asked Rex. "It's no good withNorth. Wait until the highly-intelligent Meekin comes. You can twistthat worthy successor of the Apostles round your little finger!"
"Silence there!" cries the overseer. "Do you want me to report yer?"
Amid such diversions the days rolled on, and Rufus Dawes almost longedfor the Coal Mines. To be sent from the settlement to the Coal Mines,and from the Coal Mines to the settlement, was to these unhappy men a"trip". At Port Arthur one went to an out-station, as more fortunatepeople go to Queenscliff or the Ocean Beach now-a-days for "change ofair".
CHAPTER XIII. THE COMMANDANT'S BUTLER.
For the Term of His Natural Life Page 43