‘Yes, Peter, no doubt they’re a couple of fine colts, and should make good steppers. I hope you’ll have them well broken in for the drag by the time I return. Then, with the other pair of browns, they ought to turn out about the smartest four-in-hand in the district.’
‘Goin’ away, sir?’ asked Peter Barlow, Head Stockman and Chief of Horse at Wicklow Downs.
‘Yes, Peter; I’m thinking of taking a trip to the Old Country,’ replied Mr Forrest, owner of the big cattle station on the border. ‘I mean to take Mrs Forrest and the children, and be away twelve months; so you’ll have plenty of time to fix up a team. We start in three weeks from to-day.’
‘Well, sir,’ said Peter, ‘afore you goes I shouldn’t mind takin’ a spell down country myself, if you haven’t no objection.’
His employer turned sharply round from the horse-yard rail, and looked at the young fellow.
Twenty-five, born on the station, an orphan2, fairly steady, very useful, the best rough-rider in the district, 21never more than fifty miles away from home in his life. Such was the record of Peter Barlow, who chewed a straw, and smiled as he noticed his master’s surprise.
‘Why, what’s bitten you, my lad,’ said the latter, ‘that you want to get away amongst the spielers and forties of the big smoke? Isn’t Combington large enough for a spree?’
‘Well, sir,’ replied Peter, rather sheepishly, ‘you see, they’re always a-poking borack an’ a-chiackin’ o’ me over in the hut because I’ve never seed nothin’. There’s chaps there as has been everywheres, an’ can talk nineteen to the dozen o’ the things they’ve gone through, an’ me a-settin’ listenin’ like a stuffed dummy3.’
‘I see, Peter,’ said Mr Forrest, laughing, ‘you want to travel. “Home-keeping youths have ever homely4 wits,” eh, Peter? Believe me, my lad, for all that, you’re better off as you are, notwithstanding the gas of those other fellows. However, you may take a month if you like. I think, though, that you’ll be glad to get back in the half of it. But how would it do for you to come down with us? I shall be staying in town for a week or so, and could often see you, and that you didn’t get into any mischief5.’
‘You see, sir, I’d like to git back in about a fortnight or so. There’s that lot o’ calves7 in the heifer paddock to be weaned, an’ that last lot o’ foals ’ll want brandin’, an’—’
‘All right, Peter, my boy,’ interrupted the squatter8, laughing again. ‘Put money in thy purse, go forth9 and 22see the world. Only, when you’re tired, don’t forget the track back to the old station.’
So, after a day or two, Peter rode 150 miles to the railway terminus, and, leaving his horse in a paddock, embarked10 on a very strange adventure, and one that will be handed down with ever-increasing embroidery11 to each generation of Barlows, until, in time, the narrative12 overshadows that of Munchausen. It would be tedious to attempt to depict13 Peter’s astonishment14 at the first sight of steam. As a matter of fact, he was not a bit surprised—or, if he was, he didn’t show it. It takes more than the first sight of an express train to upset the marvellous stoicism, or adaptability—which is it?—of the Native-Born. It takes all that subsequently befel to do so. Peter arrived in safety at the first large inland town. Here he tarried awhile and enjoyed himself after the manner of his kind. He stared into shop windows; went to a race meeting, and there lost five pounds to a monte man. With a dim notion percolating15 under his cabbage-tree that he had been cheated, he made a furious attack on both man and table. Sequel—five shillings or twenty-four hours. This, now, was something like life! Would he not soon be able to ruffle16 it with the loudest of them on his return?
His first emotion of expressed surprise was displayed at sight of the sea. As the train ran along the embankment, and the stretch of water studded with ships’ masts caught his eye, he exclaimed,—
‘By Jinks! that’s a thunderin’ big lagoon18 if yer likes. 23But what’s all that dead timber a-stickin’ up in it? Must ha’ been a good-sized flood hereabout!’
Then his fellow-travellers laughed; and Peter, abashed19, withdrew into himself, but stared steadily20 over that wondrous21 expanse of water whose like so far exceeded his imaginings.
At the port Fate led him—of all people in the world—to put up at a sailors’ boarding-house. And here, for the first time in his life, he found himself an oracle22.
Many sailors ‘go up the Bush.’ But those who get so far as where Peter hailed from seldom or never return to the sea.
Therefore, no one criticising, wondrous were the yarns24 he spun25 to an ever-shifting audience of all nations. Wondrous yarns of fierce blacks, of men perishing of thirst and hunger in the lonely bush, of wild cattle, of bucking26 horses, of the far inland life. And, in return, they told him tales of the stormy seas, and drank heartily27 at his expense. The port was busy, wages high, and men scarce. But Peter’s audience never failed him. The fame of the ‘Jolly Bushman down at Gallagher’s’ had spread about the shipping28, and whole crews used to drop in of an evening to listen to Peter and drink his beer and rum.
It would have taken a longer purse than Peter’s to stand this kind of thing.
He had put aside enough money to take him back, and now he resolved to travel no further. He had heard and seen sufficient; and, above all, been listened to with deference29 and attention.
Besides, had he not been on board of ships and there 24drank rum of such strength as made his very hair stand on end; and eaten biscuits and salt junk.
Moreover, once his friends had taken him out and away upon the ‘lagoon,’ away so far, than when he looked for his native land he beheld30 it not. Then the water, hitherto smooth, gradually began to heave and swell31 into hills as tall as the Wonga Ranges, and, presently, he fell deadly sick and lay in the salt water in the boat’s bottom, feeling as if the very soul-bolts were being wrenched32 out of him.
Afterwards his friends had apologised, and said something about ‘a squall.’ But Peter would venture no more.
These things, and many others, would he have to tell. Also the time was approaching for the weaning of calves and branding of foals. He had spent nearly all his money. But that did not trouble him. For the future he must be a bold man who, in the hut, or on the run, could snub Peter Barlow. One last jovial33 evening he and his sea-friends would have together, and then, hey for the far-inland scrubs and rolling downs.
So far as Peter recollected35, it was a jovial evening. He had sung his famous ballad36 of ‘The Wild Australian Boy,’ applauded to the echo as he had never been at home. He had drunk healths innumerable in divers37 liquors; had accepted as much strong ‘niggerhead’ in parting gifts—it was all they possessed38—as would have stocked a tobacconist’s shop, and seen the last guest lurch39 out into the night.
Then Gallagher had proposed one more drink, ‘for luck!’ After that—oblivion.
25. . . . . . . . . .
When Peter awoke, his first thought was that he must have fallen asleep in the saddle, as he had done before now when camping out with cattle from the back of the run.
But, on this occasion, his throat was hot and dry, and his head full of ringing bells. Raising himself, he bumped his nose sharply, and fell back to consider.
It was almost dark, and he could hear a noise of wind and of rushing waters. Also he felt a rocking motion which assuredly was not that of a feeding horse.
He had heard the same sounds and felt the same motion recently, but he could not recollect34 when. Presently a door slid open, and a flood of sunshine came in, with a black face in the midst of it.
‘Ahi,’ said a voice, as Peter blinked at its owner. ‘You ’wake now, eh? Copper40 hot, I ’spect? Have drink?’ and the speaker handed up a hook-pot full of water.
‘Where the blazes am I?’ he exclaimed, weak and trembling all over, as his feet touched the deck.
‘Barque John F. Harkins, o’ Boston, State o’ Maine. I’m de doctor. Guess you’ve been shanghaied. Best come out afore de greaser gets mad.’
This was Greek to poor Peter. But, stumbling over the door-sill, he gazed about him with a wildly-amazed look, which made the negro cook grin more widely than ever.
All around was blue water, blue water from where it touched the sky-line to where, close to him, it rushed 26swiftly past, curling, white-tipped. Above his head acres of snowy canvas bellied43 in graceful44 curves aloft into a blue sky; everywhere a maze42 of ropes and gear, crossed and re-crossed like the threads of a spider’s web.
Peter gasped45. He was astonished and dismayed too deeply for words; and at the expression of his face the darkey laughed outright46.
The ship giving a sudden lurch, he staggered, slipped over to leeward47, and clutched a belaying pin. Then he heard a bell strike somewhere. Then men came out of a hole in the deck near by, and one, staring hard, exclaimed,—
‘Why, damn my rags, if this ain’t the Jolly Bushman come to sea!’
‘What!’ shouted the mate, walking for’ard to meet his watch. ‘Isn’t he a sailor-man?’
‘Nary sailor-man,’ replied the other. ‘He’s a fellow from the country—a good sort o’ chap—but as green’s they make ’em as regards o’ salt water.’
‘Damn that Gallagher!’ exclaimed the officer. ‘He brought the coon aboard, an’ got the bounty48, swearin’ he was a shellback all over—blood Stockholm tar1, and every hair on his head a rope yarn23! If ever we fetch Coalport again I’ll skin that Irish thief!’
So also affirmed the captain of the John F. Harkins, who was out of pocket a month’s advance, besides two pounds “head money,” to the crimp who had netted poor Peter.
Luckily, very luckily for Peter, he had not fallen into the hands of a set of ‘white-washed Americans,’ half Irish, half anything, proficients49 in the art of 27sea-bullying, and in the use of revolvers and knuckle-dusters.
The officers and most of the men of the John F. were genuine Down-Easters, natives of Salem, Martha’s Vineyard, and thereabout, shrewd and kindly50 people; and, though all naturally indignant at the trick played upon them, too just to visit their wrath51 on its unfortunate object.
Presently Peter was recognised by the steward52, who had tasted of his hospitality ashore53, and who now, seeing the poor fellow still suffering from the effects of the narcotic54 administered in that last ‘for luck’ drink of scamp Gallagher’s, put him to bed and brought him restoratives. So, in due course, Peter became his own man again, and got fine-weather sea-legs upon him, and would have been comparatively happy but for thoughts of those far-away calves and foals, and the clumsy fingers of a certain assistant stockman. They taught him how to sweep decks, coil up ropes, and make sinnet. They also coaxed55 him aloft; but he never could get further up the rigging than the futtock-shrouds. There he stuck helplessly, and over them he never went. He was young and light and active; but, somehow, he couldn’t bend his body outward into empty air and trust its weight to a little bit of rope no thicker than a clothes-line. It didn’t seem natural. One cannot make a sailor at twenty-five.
The John F. was bound for Colombo, thence to Hamburg, and, so far, everything had been fine sailing. But one day a dead-ahead gale56 arose and blew fiercely for three days.
28Then it was that Peter began to realise earnestly what he had before but dimly suspected, viz., that on such an occasion one foot of dry land is worth ten thousand acres of foaming57 ocean. Easier by far would it have been for him to sit the roughest colt that ever bucked58 than to stand a minute erect59 on the barque’s deck.
Of such jumping and rearing, plunging60 and swerving61, Peter had possessed no conception before, except in the saddle. There, however, he would have been comparatively safe. Here he was tossed about apparently62 at the pleasure of the great creature beneath him—one minute on to the back of his head, the next in the lee-scuppers. When he arose, dripping and grasping blindly for support, the rushing past of big seas, the wild, stern hum in the strained rigging, the roar of the blast in the bellies63 of the tugging64 topsails, and the swirling65 of green water round his legs, so bewildered him that he was unable to distinguish one end of the ship from the other.
Under the circumstances, he did the wisest thing he could, and turned into his bunk66. There he lay, and wondered with all his might why men should go to sea.
On the fourth day, the gale moderating, they made sail again. During this operation an unfortunate A.B. fell from the main-yard, and broke his leg. The captain did his best, but he was, like the rest, quite unskilled, and the poor fellow lay in agony. Two days after this, when nearly a calm, the mate roused the skipper out of a nap with,—
29‘Here’s one of them big packet boats a-overhaulin’ us, sir.’
‘Well,’ replied the skipper sleepily, ‘what about it? Let her rip. I don’t want her. Wish we had her wind, that’s all.’
‘Poor Bill’s leg, sir,’ answered the other.
‘Why, of course; I forgot,’ said the skipper. ‘Stop the beggar, by all manner of means. She’ll have a doctor, an’ ice, an’ all sorts o’ fixin’s on board. Run the gridiron half-mast, Mr Stokes. They packets don’t care much about losin’ time for sich a trifle as a broken leg, but thet oughter ease her down.’
And so it did. No sooner was the American flag seen flying half-way up the signal halliards than the steamer kept away, and came thundering down upon the barque.
‘What’s the matter?’ shouted someone, as she slowed nearly alongside.
‘A doctor!’ roared the mate. ‘Man very bad with a broken leg!’
‘Send him on board, and look smart,’ was the reply.
So a boat was lowered, and amongst its crew was Peter Barlow, who, from the first, had been told off to attend the injured man, and who assisted to carry him up the gangway-ladder of the R.M.S. Barcelona.
‘Umph, umph,’ said the surgeon; ‘he’ll have to stay here if he wants to save his leg.’ Then to Peter, ‘Off you go back, my lad, and get his kit67 and what money’s coming to him. It’ll be many a long day before he sails the sea again.’
But Peter, whose eyes had been roving over the 30surrounding crowd, suddenly, to the medico’s astonishment, shouting,—‘The boss, by G—d!’ rushed through the people, and, regardless of appearances, seized a gentleman’s hand and shook it frantically68, exclaiming,—
‘Oh, Mr Forrest, sir, don’t you know me? I’m Peter, sir—Peter Barlow, from the ole station. I’ve been shanghaied an’ locussed away to sea, an’ I wants to git back home again!’
Mr Forrest was more astonished than Peter at such a meeting. Matters, however, were soon arranged.
Peter went on to Colombo in the Barcelona, and, in a fortnight, joining another boat, duly arrived at Wicklow Downs, whence he has never since stirred.
And, if the reader chance one day to journey thither69, he may hear at first hand this story, embellished70 with breezy Bush idioms and phrases that render it infinitely71 more graphic72 and stirring a version, but which, somehow, do not read well in type.
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1
tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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dummy
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| n.假的东西；(哄婴儿的)橡皮奶头 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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squatter
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| n.擅自占地者 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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percolating
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| n.渗透v.滤( percolate的现在分词 )；渗透；（思想等）渗透；渗入 | |
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ruffle
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| v.弄皱，弄乱；激怒，扰乱；n.褶裥饰边 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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26
bucking
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| v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的现在分词 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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30
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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40
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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42
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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43
bellied
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| adj.有腹的，大肚子的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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45
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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leeward
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| adj.背风的；下风的 | |
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48
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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proficients
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| 精通的，熟练的( proficient的名词复数 ) | |
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50
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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51
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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52
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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53
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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54
narcotic
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| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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55
coaxed
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱 | |
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56
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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57
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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bucked
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| adj.快v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的过去式和过去分词 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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61
swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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63
bellies
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| n.肚子( belly的名词复数 )；腹部；（物体的）圆形或凸起部份；腹部…形的 | |
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64
tugging
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| n.牵引感v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的现在分词 ) | |
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65
swirling
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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66
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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67
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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68
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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69
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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70
embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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71
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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72
graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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