For the Term of His Natural Life Part 19

"The old trick. Ha! ha! don't I know it?" says Mr. Frere, emitting a streak of smoke in the air, expressive of preternatural wisdom.

"Well, we caught him, and gave him fifty. Then he was sent to the chain-gang, cutting timber. Then we put him into the boats, but he quarrelled with the c.o.xswain, and then we took him back to the timber-rafts. About six weeks ago he made another attempt--together with Gabbett, the man who nearly killed you--but his leg was chafed with the irons, and we took him. Gabbett and three more, however, got away."

"Haven't you found 'em?" asked Frere, puffing at his pipe.

"No. But they'll come to the same fate as the rest," said Vickers, with a sort of dismal pride. "No man ever escaped from Macquarie Harbour."

Frere laughed. "By the Lord!" said he, "it will be rather hard for 'em if they don't come back before the end of the month, eh?"

"Oh," said Vickers, "they're sure to come--if they can come at all; but once lost in the scrub, a man hasn't much chance for his life."

"When do you think you will be ready to move?" asked Frere.

"As soon as you wish. I don't want to stop a moment longer than I can help. It is a terrible life, this."

"Do you think so?" asked his companion, in unaffected surprise. "I like it. It's dull, certainly. When I first went to Maria I was dreadfully bored, but one soon gets used to it. There is a sort of satisfaction to me, by George, in keeping the scoundrels in order. I like to see the fellows' eyes glint at you as you walk past 'em. Gad, they'd tear me to pieces, if they dared, some of 'em!" and he laughed grimly, as though the hate he inspired was a thing to be proud of.

"How shall we go?" asked Vickers. "Have you got any instructions?"

"No," says Frere; "it's all left to you. Get 'em up the best way you can, Arthur said, and pack 'em off to the new peninsula. He thinks you too far off here, by George! He wants to have you within hail."

"It's dangerous taking so many at once," suggested Vickers.

"Not a bit. Batten 'em down and keep the sentries awake, and they won't do any harm."

"But Mrs. Vickers and the child?"

"I've thought of that. You take the Ladybird with the prisoners, and leave me to bring up Mrs. Vickers in the Osprey."

"We might do that. Indeed, it's the best way, I think. I don't like the notion of having Sylvia among those wretches, and yet I don't like to leave her."

"Well," says Frere, confident of his own ability to accomplish anything he might undertake, "I'll take the Ladybird, and you the Osprey. Bring up Mrs. Vickers yourself."

"No, no," said Vickers, with a touch of his old pomposity, "that won't do. By the King's Regulations--"

"All right," interjected Frere, "you needn't quote 'em. 'The officer commanding is obliged to place himself in charge'--all right, my dear sir. I've no objection in life."

"It was Sylvia that I was thinking of," said Vickers.

"Well, then," cries the other, as the door of the room inside opened, and a little white figure came through into the broad verandah. "Here she is! Ask her yourself. Well, Miss Sylvia, will you come and shake hands with an old friend?"

The bright-haired baby of the Malabar had become a bright-haired child of some eleven years old, and as she stood in her simple white dress in the glow of the lamplight, even the unaesthetic mind of Mr. Frere was struck by her extreme beauty. Her bright blue eyes were as bright and as blue as ever. Her little figure was as upright and as supple as a willow rod; and her innocent, delicate face was framed in a nimbus of that fine golden hair--dry and electrical, each separate thread s.h.i.+ning with a l.u.s.tre of its own--with which the dreaming painters of the middle ages endowed and glorified their angels.

"Come and give me a kiss, Miss Sylvia!" cries Frere. "You haven't forgotten me, have you?"

But the child, resting one hand on her father's knee, surveyed Mr. Frere from head to foot with the charming impertinence of childhood, and then, shaking her head, inquired: "Who is he, papa?"

"Mr. Frere, darling. Don't you remember Mr. Frere, who used to play ball with you on board the s.h.i.+p, and who was so kind to you when you were getting well? For shame, Sylvia!"

There was in the chiding accents such an undertone of tenderness, that the reproof fell harmless.

"I remember you," said Sylvia, tossing her head; "but you were nicer then than you are now. I don't like you at all."

"You don't remember me," said Frere, a little disconcerted, and affecting to be intensely at his ease. "I am sure you don't. What is my name?"

"Lieutenant Frere. You knocked down a prisoner who picked up my ball. I don't like you."

"You're a forward young lady, upon my word!" said Frere, with a great laugh. "Ha! ha! so I did, begad, I recollect now. What a memory you've got!"

"He's here now, isn't he, papa?" went on Sylvia, regardless of interruption. "Rufus Dawes is his name, and he's always in trouble. Poor fellow, I'm sorry for him. Danny says he's queer in his mind."

"And who's Danny?" asked Frere, with another laugh.

"The cook," replied Vickers. "An old man I took out of hospital. Sylvia, you talk too much with the prisoners. I have forbidden you once or twice before."

"But Danny is not a prisoner, papa--he's a cook," says Sylvia, nothing abashed, "and he's a clever man. He told me all about London, where the Lord Mayor rides in a gla.s.s coach, and all the work is done by free men.

He says you never hear chains there. I should like to see London, papa!"

"So would Mr. Danny, I have no doubt," said Frere.

"No--he didn't say that. But he wants to see his old mother, he says.

Fancy Danny's mother! What an ugly old woman she must be! He says he'll see her in Heaven. Will he, papa?"

"I hope so, my dear."

"Papa!"

"Yes."

"Will Danny wear his yellow jacket in Heaven, or go as a free man?"

Frere burst into a roar at this.

"You're an impertinent fellow, sir!" cried Sylvia, her bright eyes flas.h.i.+ng. "How dare you laugh at me? If I was papa, I'd give you half an hour at the triangles. Oh, you impertinent man!" and, crimson with rage, the spoilt little beauty ran out of the room. Vickers looked grave, but Frere was constrained to get up to laugh at his ease.

"Good! 'Pon honour, that's good! The little vixen!--Half an hour at the triangles! Ha-ha! ha, ha, ha!"

"She is a strange child," said Vickers, "and talks strangely for her age; but you mustn't mind her. She is neither girl nor woman, you see; and her education has been neglected. Moreover, this gloomy place and its a.s.sociations--what can you expect from a child bred in a convict settlement?"

"My dear sir," says the other, "she's delightful! Her innocence of the world is amazing!"

"She must have three or four years at a good finis.h.i.+ng school at Sydney.

Please G.o.d, I will give them to her when we go back--or send her to England if I can. She is a good-hearted girl, but she wants polis.h.i.+ng sadly, I'm afraid."

Just then someone came up the garden path and saluted.

"What is it, Troke?"

"Prisoner given himself up, sir."