Louis Becke - Tom Gerrard

“But I don’t want her to come, Tom. I’ve always urged her to stay there for three months—or six, if she liked.”

“Bosh! What pleasure would she have in being there alone; for although a woman may have lots of women friends, she’s practically alone if her husband isn’t with her. Tumble?”

Westonley nodded. “Go on, Tommy, go on to a dead finish. I am beginning to see I’m in fault.”

“Of course you are. And if you don’t give her a long change in Sydney, and stay there with her, you’ll feel sorry for it; she’ll become a religious monomaniac, and go in for High Church, auricular confession, and an empty stomach on Fridays. She’s got a turn that way, remember. A conventual education in a High Church school in England isn’t a very healthy preparation for a girl who afterwards marries a hulking, horse-racing, hard-riding Australian squatter.”

“What am I to do?” asked Westonley.

“Take her to Sydney next week. We’ll all go together, little Mary included, and I’ll stay with you for a couple of months. I’ll stand half the racket.”

“Shut up! Do you think I can’t run Lizzie, little Mary, and myself without you chipping in?”

“All right!” and Gerrard, secretly delighted, but showing no sign of it, went on placidly: “you see, Ted, you have a good man in Black” (head stockman at Marumbah). “What he doesn’t know about cattle isn’t worth knowing, and there’s no need for you to come tearing back for mustering, and branding, and attending to things generally. D’ye think that if you died to-morrow the cattle would go into mourning, and would refuse ‘to increase and multiply’? No one in this world is indispensable, although everyone thinks he is, and that, when he pegs out, the Universe is going to fall into serious trouble. Now, that’s all I have to say. Are you satisfied I’m talking sense?”

“Sonny, it’s all right. I’ll do any blessed thing you want, although I hate the idea of leaving Marumbah to loaf about in Sydney for six months,” and the big man gripped Gerrard by his pointed beard, and tugged it affectionately. “I can see that I have thought too much of myself and too little of others.”

“Not a bit; you were only thinking of Marumbah. Ted, old man, I think I’ll come back next year, and well see the Melbourne Cup together, hey?”

“Its a deal! If you don’t come, I’ll–”

“Kick me when I do come. Time we were off home, fatty.”

Just about midnight, as Gerrard lay on his bed reading, he heard a low sound of sobbing from little Mary’s room, which adjourned his own. He rose quietly, stepped to her door, and gently opened it.

The child was in her nightdress, leaning out of the window, with her hands outstretched to the night.

“Oh Jim, Jim, dear Jim! I wish Uncle Tom had never come to Marumbah. He must be a godless and wicked man to take you away from me when I love you. I hate him, I hate him!”

Gerrard went back to his room, lit his pipe and walked out on to the verandah, and paced slowly up and down, thinking.

“I wish I had ‘em both,” he said to himself.

The charming little town of Bowen, on the shores of the beautiful harbour named Port Denison, was in the zenith of its glory and prosperity. There were certainly other towns in the north of Queensland—Mackay for instance—which enjoyed the advantage of being nearer the capital, and so obtaining more consideration from the Treasury; but Bowen, although six hundred miles from Brisbane, was the most thriving town in the north, and affected a haughty indifference to her rivals for supremacy, such as the “sugar” growing towns of Bundaberg and Mackay to the south, and the vulgar, upstart, and newly-founded Townsville to the north.

“With our matchless harbour, surpassed only on this island continent by that of Sydney,” said the Port Denison Clarion , in one of its inspired and lofty-languaged leaders, “we can regard with a serene, yet not discourteous or contemptuous indifference, the statements of our esteemed, though hasty contemporary, the Mackay Planters’ Friend , that Bowen may yet find that the newly-founded hamlet of Townsville on the shores of Cleveland Bay will ere long usurp the claim of beautiful Bowen to be the natural entrepôt for all that vast extent of territory to the northward and the westward of Port Denison, and which, ere many decades have passed, will, through its marvellous agricultural, pastoral, and auriferous resources, add not a jewel but a confiscation of blazing and lustrous gems of the most priceless value to the already glorious crown of that noble lady upon whose Empire the sun never sets. Townsville is simply a collection of humpies and shanties built upon an ill-smelling mud bank. We have personally satisfied ourselves that unless some enterprising British capitalist can convert the only available possession of Townsville (which is mud, and bad mud at that) into bricks, which, perhaps, may be used for the minor classes of buildings which must of necessity soon be built for the accommodation of the poorer classes of working men who, in their thousands, will soon be established in Bowen, Townsville will no more prove a factor towards the development of this great country of North Queensland than the numerous alligators in the Burdekin River will be employed by the municipality of Bowen as paid scavengers, and be provided brass badges, dust shovels, and other such implements to denote their vocation. As for the other assertions of the editor of the Planters Friend , we, with all kindliness, should like to point out that the Friend is the organ of the Sugar Planters; it sees nothing beyond Sugar; Sugar is its God, its Mokanna, and (incidentally) we may remark that Rum is a product resulting from the manufacture of the saccharine plant, and we fear that many samples of this aromatic liquid may have found their way into the editorial sanctum of our esteemed and valued contemporary in Mackay. At least, we judge so when a dirty, ill-smelling mud bank is compared with one of the most noble evidences of God’s handiwork—Port Denison!”

To such a courteous reproof as this, the Planters’ Friend would invariably make the same reply in the form of a leaderette of ten or twenty lines, enclosed in a square of black to denote mourning:

“Our esteemed Bowen contemporary has ‘got ‘em’ again. We are sorry we cannot #do any more than again, in the most kindly spirit, urge him to try the Dr Jordan cure, an advertisement of which will be found on page 3. We have personal knowledge of a case of the rescue from utter wreck and degradation of one of the brightest intellects of the present century by the use of the Jordan system; and as the price is but trifling, it should be within easy access of our squatter-adoring contemporary.”

To these vaguely-worded, funereal-encompassed remarks, the Clarion would retort:

“No one who believes in the trite but, nevertheless, all-powerfully true assertion that the Press is the Archimidean lever which moves the world, cannot but regret the unblushing statement of the editor of our esteemed contemporary, the Planters’ Friend , that he has been the victim of a soul-destroying, home-wrecking, and accursed habit, which that gifted American, Colonel Robert Ingersoll, has, in words of fiery eloquence, called ‘the treacherous, insidious murderer of home and happiness; the Will-o’-the-Wisp that draws honour, genius, and all that is good into its fatal, deadly quagmire.’ To the assertion that our valued contemporary is ‘the possessor of one of the brightest intellects of the present century’ (as he so modestly informs us) we do not cavil at for one moment. But even the patients under the Jordan (American quack) system may have relapses; and, when the Planters’ Friend can calmly publish two columns of leaded matter insinuating that a mud bank on the shores of Cleveland Bay is to become the leading port of North Queensland, we can but regretfully infer that the Jordan cure is not entirely satisfactory, and that even the ‘brightest intellects’ suffer terrible and deplorable relapses.”