nearly a month afterwards ted was driving me to the camp.
the wind had worked up into half a gale, and much of the way clouds of dust swept into our faces. the ponies faced the weather unwillingly, and ted did not spare the whip. i crouched back in the buggy, with hat hard over my eyes, and for minutes together neither of us said a word, unless it was to curse our luck. sometimes the gale dropped, the dust lay down, the sun shone again; and then we found ourselves in grassy country, hilly and also flat. up once more jumped the wind, and the dust sprang after it. it was damnable, nothing less.
at last, at a level crossing, we turned sharply to the right, and the buggy hood afforded some shelter. between the dust storms, the camp was to be seen, ahead and to the left hand. tents stretched over many acres. also i caught a glimpse of paddocks filled with man?uvring infantry and occasional artillery teams. then we were passing a long row of pines. opposite them[14] were open paddocks, with melbourne in the distance.
“it’ll be somewhere about here,” ted said, moving his head my way, and he pulled the horses into a slow trot.
the road began to fill up. half-companies of infantry passed us in an opposite direction, made up of uniformed men and men in civilian dress. the whole moved to the shouts of sergeants and lesser fry. a gun team and ammunition waggon rumbled by. the horses were awkward, the harness stiff, the drivers at sea. a mounted n.c.o. called the wrath of heaven on the whole affair. we steadied to a walk, and the team ambled past.
“this must be the place,” ted said again, and stopped the ponies. i pushed my head round the buggy hood to find us at an opening in the fence, with a sentry on guard there. the other side of the fence was a paddock filled with tents in rows, and between each row ran horse-lines. between the tents and the road were drawn up guns and ammunition waggons.
“yes, this must be the place.”
ted drew into the footpath while i got out. “i’ll wait somewhere about here,” he said, moving up on the road at a walk and calling back.
the sentry challenged me; but my pass let me in. i asked for the colonel, and was directed straight ahead. inside the lines, much was going on. men ran, trotted, and walked; joked, argued, and shouted. tents were going up, horses were being picketed; things were topsy-turvy. and of uniform, some men possessed military hats[15] only, others had on military shirts, others military breeches; but the majority wore their civilian clothes. busy men were to be seen; but just as many loafed round. outside the quartermaster’s store, equipment of every sort was piled: all painfully new. a score of men lingered round it, and there seemed to be four or five unwilling sorters. in the middle stood the q.m. with store lists in his hands.
i passed up a line of tents with horses picketed on the left hand, and at the top asked the way again of an individual balancing himself on a tentpeg. he pointed to a large tent not far away, and stared hard after me when i left him.
outside the big tent was a notice—headquarters field artillery brigade. an orderly stood in the doorway, lighting a cigarette. him i asked for the colonel. “d’you want him?” the orderly said. he pushed up the flap of the tent. i stooped and went in. the tent was furnished with a table and several chairs; at the table three officers sat. table and chairs were covered with papers and books, and all three men were writing. round the walls stood packing cases, filled to overflow with strange instruments, odds and ends of harness, and signalling flags. i came to a full stop.
two of the men went on with their work, but the third—the youngest of them, a lieutenant about twenty—looked up, eyed me, and yawned. when he had finished, he picked up pen again, and remarked casually: “what do you want?”[16] when he spoke, the other men stopped writing and lifted their heads.
the centre man was a big man, and by cap and shoulder strap i knew him as the colonel. the third man was small and sharp featured, by rank captain—the adjutant, i guessed.
“i would like to see colonel jackson,” said i.
the big man put down pen. “i am colonel jackson.”
i looked him over as he spoke. he was a middle-aged man—nearly fifty, i thought, and rather handsome. his hair was turning grey, his complexion was high, and i warrant he knew how to enjoy life. he looked me straight in the face. a good soldier, i thought: a man worth following. the captain started writing, and only paused from time to time to run a pen through his close-clipped moustache.
“yesterday i received notice from the commandant at victoria barracks to report to you,” i began. “i volunteered, and have passed the medical examination.”
“what is your name?”
“lake.”
“have you had any military training?”
“i am sorry, none; but i can ride and shoot.” and i added, “i hope this won’t stand in my way. i am very anxious to get in.”
the colonel drummed his fingers on the table a moment or two, and all the while looked at me. in the end he spoke gravely.
“you know, lake, a soldier’s life is a hard life, a very hard life—bad food, the ground for[17] a bed, exposure to all weathers, work all hours. the officer is no better off than the man.”
“i have not rushed into it,” i said. “i have thought it over and hope you will take me.” to this he answered nothing. “i have some horses,” i went on, “which would suit a gun team. i shall be glad to give them if they are of any use.”
he misunderstood me. “oh,” he said, “we have enough now. in any case the government does not give a high price. what do you want for them?”
“i don’t want to sell,” i said. “i make an offer of them. they are plough horses, and, should i go away, i shall not plough this year. i am glad to offer them.”
“lake, i don’t think there is any need for that. as long as a man gives his own services, it is all that can be expected. keep your horses. if you join, when can you come into camp?”
“i can come now; but i should like first to go back to gippsland. i have a place there.”
“that can be arranged.” he turned to the lieutenant who first had spoken to me. “sands, take lake to the doctor and afterwards swear him in.”
i noticed sands got up rather hurriedly when the colonel’s eye reached him; but he recovered himself outside the tent. he pushed his hat on to the back of his head, stuffed both hands in his pockets and led the way all over the place. the doctor was not in his tent and seemed to have died or deserted. we wandered about endlessly,[18] without any obvious plan of campaign. now and then sands would stop some one and ask when the doctor had last been seen; and always he finished by swearing in a bored kind of way. then off we moved again.
at last we found ourselves where we had started—outside the big tent. “stay there,” sands said suddenly, and disappeared inside. he came out with a large printed paper, a book, a pen, and a bottle of ink. the bottle of ink he balanced on a post, the pen he put between his teeth. next he began to open out the sheet; and the wind took hold of it, shook it and wrestled with it; and he bungled it, crumpled it, and finished by swearing again. but in the end he won, and we took up opposite positions and made a start on our business. he asked endless questions, which i answered, and we came to the oath. “take off your hat,” he said. he became solemn in a moment with an ease entirely his own and took off his hat. next he held out a bible. i took it and we began the oath. the wind blew, sands mumbled; and there was difficulty in following what he said. more than once he eyed me sternly, and repeated the sentence. but we came through it safely, the signatures were made, the ceremony was ended. there was still the doctor’s signature to get; but sands was sick of me. he pushed the paper into my hand, waved in the direction of the doctor’s tent, and departed.
i journeyed anew after the doctor, and this time found him in his tent. he was alone, reading a long letter and smiling over it. he asked what[19] i wanted, told me to strip, and went on reading. he read still when i was ready; but presently put the letter away and started to tap me. he tried my teeth, tried my eyes, said i would do, and, while i dressed, filled in the papers.
i took the papers to the brigade office, and gave them to sands. the colonel was there, talking to an officer i did not know. “captain knight, i am giving lake to you,” he said. “he will be coming on sunday or monday; in the meantime he is going down to gippsland. make him out a railway pass, will you?”
the captain swung round. he was a clean, rather well dressed man, with a restless manner. “yes, sir,” he said, saluting. he told me to follow him, and marched off down a row of tents and across horse-lines, until we came to a tent with a notice board in front. a sergeant-major and a couple of clerks were inside writing: sundry other fellows hung round the door. knight bounced into the tent with me at his heels.
“this man has been given to us, sergeant-major. he wants to get down to gippsland to-morrow. make a pass out, please.” he turned to me. “when can you come, lake?”
“sunday or monday,” i answered.
“then come here sunday morning. we have not much time, and you ought to get in all the drills you can. i can’t wait. the sergeant-major will give you your pass.” he went off at full speed.
i was given the railway pass, and left the tent with mixed feelings. there was no drawing back;[20] but—yes—i was glad. i walked fast, guessing ted would be bored, and in truth he was at the gate, passing time by cracking his whip.
“i’m in!” i called out. ted grinned and drew the reins together.
next day i went home for the last time. ted was with me, and we drove in a hired buggy the eight miles from the station. scottie, who burnt off near the road, met us at the gate. the sun was shining; the day was very mild.
we had come over long, rutty roads with scarcely a word spoken between us, and when scottie opened the double gates we turned in with as little remark, following at a walk the track to the house. here and there stood up thick patches of hoary bracken; and charred logs lay this way and that way to bar the path. while the plough lay idle, scottie and i had thinned and trimmed the wilderness on the hillside; but much still remained to be done. at it i looked and said: “this is my last day here. when i return, this will be clean and green with grass. i shall be glad; but i shall remember affectionately times which have gone.”
soon we were at the house. the dogs jumped at their chains and greeted us frantically, so that i stepped down from the buggy and for the last time set them free. we unharnessed the horses, taking them to the yards behind the buggy shed; and while i stooped to pat the dogs, ted walked a few paces away, spread apart his legs, took off his hat, and scratched slowly the[21] centre of his head. i pushed aside the dogs and got up.
“you have a look over the place,” i called out, “and i’ll fix up things inside. if i finish in time, i’ll come and look for, you; otherwise you’ll find me here.”
he nodded in a dreamy way, and went on scratching his head. when finally he came out of the brown study, it was to wander off at a snail’s pace towards the la trobe flats. i had waited by the garden gate for him to say something, but he went off without a word and i made for indoors.
i threw open the kitchen door, the sitting-room door, the bedroom door, the front door, and the sunlight tumbled into the house. hat and coat went on to the table, and that was all the ceremony before business. out came every drawer and open came every box; and in a heap on the floor fell papers and old letters. one or two bills which turned up i filed; all else travelled to the fireplace, where match and poker were sole mourners at the funeral. it took time, for i was thorough, and in the end it was too late to look for ted. instead, i went on to the verandah and sat down on the step, looking towards the river. the sun shone over the paddocks; but the afternoon had grown cooler.
there was little or no wind, so that things had become very still. a few birds whistled to one another in the trees behind the house; but the sheep were camped out of sight on the flats, and the bullocks fed in the scrub far away. across[22] the river, small figures moved to and fro. the browns cut chaff by the willows, the smithsons mended a fence by their cultivation. over the hilltop, down the road, ran children home from school.
“thus it was yesterday,” i said, “thus will it be to-morrow, but i shall not look on. i watch this for the last time. my kingdom is passing into other hands. a stranger will sit at the fire at night. a stranger will read my books. a stranger will watch the rabbit-fence, will count the cattle and muster the sheep. a stranger will hear the parrots whistling, the jackass laughing, the magpie jodeling. a stranger will see the floods rise and fall, will feel the heat of summer and winter’s bitter grip. a stranger will mark the changing seasons and count the stars sailing through the skies. round and round time’s wheel will go. so be it.”
after half an hour ted wandered back. i chained the dogs up, kneeling to say a long goodbye to them. maybe they understood, for they barked and scratched and jumped wildly. we put the horses in the buggy, and in climbed ted and i climbed after him. he picked up the reins and flicked the whip across their shoulders, moving them forward at a walk. there we were, following for the last time the track to the gate. behind us the dogs were crying.
old scottie waited at the gate to give me a dirty hand.
“goodbye, guv’nor,” he said. “come back again.”
[23]
“goodbye, and good luck, scottie. look after things,” i answered.
that done, we were through the gate, rattling down the road. beyond the rabbit-fence the sheep in the rape gazed up with stupid eyes; a turn, and we were beneath the gums spreading vast arms above the river; another turn, and we bumped over the wooden bridge, where dead wattle blossoms fell upon us. then i looked back for the last time—and next the trees came between.
