Babes in the Bush. Rolf Boldrewood
The ship was seaworthy and spacious, the officers capable, the few passengers passably agreeable. Gradually the tone was restored of Captain Effingham’s nervous system. He ceased to repine and regret. He even beheld some grains of hope in the future, black as the outlook had until now appeared. While the expression of sweet serenity and calm resignation which ever dwelt upon the features of Mrs. Effingham became heightened and assured under the concomitants of the voyage, until she appeared to radiate peace and goodwill sufficient to affect beneficially the whole ship’s company. As for the two little ones, Selden and Blanche, they appeared to have been accustomed since infancy to a seafaring life. They ran about unchecked, and were in everybody’s way and every one’s affections. They were the youngest children on board, and many a rough sailor turned to look, with something like a glistening in his eye, on the saucy brown-eyed boy, and the delicate little five-year-old fairy, whose masses of fair hair floated in the breeze, or were temporarily confined with an unwilling ribbon.
It seemed but the lengthening limit of a dream when the seaman at the good ship’s bow was commanded to keep a lookout for land; when, yet another bright blue day, fading into eve, and a low coast-line is seen, rising like an evening cloud from out a summer sea.
‘Hurrah!’ said Wilfred Effingham, as the second mate pointed out the land of promise, ‘now our life begins. We shall belong to ourselves again, instead of being the indulgently treated slaves – very well treated, I confess – but still the unquestionable bond-slaves of that enlightened taskmaster, Captain Henry Fleetby of the Marlshire.’
‘We have been very happy, my dear,’ said Mrs. Effingham, ‘happier than I should have thought possible in a ship, under any circumstances. Let us hope our good fortune will continue on land. I shall always look back to this voyage as the most wonderful rest that our poor wounded hearts could have enjoyed. Your papa looks quite himself again, and I feel better than I have done for years. I shall remember our captain, his officers, and his ship, with gratitude, as long as I live.’
‘I feel quite attached to the dear old vessel,’ said Annabel, ‘but we can’t go sailing about the world all our lives, like respectable Flying Dutchmen. I suppose the captain must turn us out to-morrow. Who would have thought we should regret coming to the end of the voyage?’
How calm was that last day of the long, but not too long, voyage, when they glided for hours on a waveless sea, by a great wall of sandstone cliffs, which finally opened, as if by magic, and discovered the portal of an Enchanted Haven! Surely the prospect could not all be real, of this wondrous nook, stolen from the vast, the limitless Pacific, in which they discerned, through the empurpling eve, villas, cottages, mansions, churches, white-walled and fantastic to their eyes, girt with strange shrubs and stately forest trees of unknown aspect. As the Marlshire floated to her anchorage, threading a fleet of skiffs, which made the waters gay with many a sail, the full heart of the mother and the wife overflowed.
Involuntarily a fervent prayer of thanksgiving went up to that Being who had safely guarded them o’er the waste of ocean; had permitted their entrance into this good land, which lay ready to receive them in their need.
Passengers concluding a short voyage are nervously anxious to land, and commence the frantic enjoyment of existence on terra firma. Not so with the denizens of the good ship Marlshire, which had been their home and dwelling-place for more than a quarter of a year. Having grown, with the strange adaptiveness of our nature, to love the gallant bark, you revere the captain, respect the first officer, and believe in the second. Even the crew is above the average of the mercantile Jack-tar novel. You will always swear by the old tub; and you will not go on shore till to-morrow morning, if then.
All things considered, the family decided to stay quietly on board the Marlshire that night, so as to disembark in a leisurely way in the morning, when they would have the day before them in which to make arrangements.
They talked of staying quietly on board, but the excitement of being so near the land was too much for them. The unnatural quietude of the ship, the calm water of the bay, the glancing lights, which denoted the thousand homes of the city, the cries and sounds of the massed population of a seaport, the warm midnight air, the woods and white beaches which denoted the shore-line, the gliding harbour-boats, all seemed to sound in one strangely distinct chorus: ‘Land, land, land at last.’ All magically exciting, these sounds and scenes forbade sleep. Long after the other members of the family had gone below for the night, Wilfred and Rosamond paced the deck, eagerly discussing plans for the future, and, with the sanguine temper of youth, rapidly following each freshly-formed track to fortune.
No one was likely to indulge in slumber after sunrise. A babel of sounds announced that the unlading of cargo had commenced. Their last ship breakfast prefaced the actual stepping upon the friendly gangway, which now alone divided them from the other side of the world. Before that feat was performed, a squarely-built, grey-headed personage, in clerical garb, but withal of a somewhat secular manner, walked rapidly from the wharf to the deck and confronted the party.
‘Here you are at last, all safe and sound, Howard, my dear fellow!’ said he, shaking hands warmly with Mr. Effingham. ‘Not so much changed either; too easy-going for that. Pray present me to Mrs. Effingham and the young ladies. Your eldest son looking after the luggage? – proper place for him. Allow me to take your arm, my dear madam, and to conduct you to the hotel, where I have engaged rooms for you. May as well set off – talk as we go along. Only heard of the Marlshire being signalled the day before yesterday. Came a long journey – slightly knocked up this morning, but soon recovered – splendid climate – make a young man of you, Earl Percy, in a year or two. We always called him Earl Percy in the regiment, Mrs. Effingham. Perhaps he told you. And all this fine family too – two, four, six, seven. I can hardly credit my senses. Plenty of room for them in this country – plenty of room – that’s one thing.’
‘We have every reason to be thankful for the comfortable way in which we have voyaged here,’ said Mrs. Effingham; ‘and now that you have so kindly come to meet us, I feel as if half our troubles were over.’
‘Your troubles are just commencing, my dear madam, but with Harley Sternworth’s help something may be done to lighten them. Still I feel sure that these young ladies will look upon difficulties in a sensible way, not expecting too much, or being discouraged – just at first, you know.’
‘Your country, my old friend, will have to look bad indeed if my wife cannot find a good word to say for it,’ said Mr. Effingham, roused to unwonted cheerfulness. ‘At any rate, it suits you well; you look as hard as a west country drover.’
‘Never was better. Haven’t had a dose of medicine for years. Ride fifty miles a day if necessary. Finest climate – finest country – under the sun. Lots of parish work and travelling, with a dash of botanising, and a pinch of geology to fill up spare time. Wouldn’t go back and live in a country town for the world. Mope to death.’
All this time the reverend gentleman was pressing forward up a gentle incline, towards the lower end of George Street, and after walking up that noble thoroughfare, and discreetly refraining from mention of the buildings which ornament that part of it, he turned again towards the water and piloted his party successfully to Batty’s Hotel.
‘Here, my dear madam, you will find that I have secured you pleasant apartments for a week or ten days, during which time you will be able to recruit after the voyage, and do justice to the beauties of the city. You are not going up country at once. A few days’ leisure will be economy in the end.’
‘So we are not to start off hundreds of miles at once, in a bullock dray, as the captain told us?’ said Rosamond.
‘No, my dear young lady, neither now nor, I hope, at any time will such a mode of travelling be necessary. I cannot say too much for your conveyance, but it will be fairly comfortable and take you to your destination safely. After that will commence what you will doubtless consider to be a tolerably rough life. Yes – a rough life.’
‘These young people have made up their minds to anything short of living like Esquimaux,’ said Mr. Effingham. ‘I don’t think you will frighten them. You and I saw curious backwoods places when we were quartered in Canada, didn’t we? You will hardly match them in Australia.’
‘Nothing