Chapter 5. Outward Bound

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_ CHAPTER FIVE. OUTWARD BOUND

"But why not go on board to-night?" asked Nic.

"Because," said Lady O'Hara drily, "it will be better to leave it till to-morrow."

Nic wondered, and said nothing, but he knew afterwards. The fact was, he did not think about anything for long. There was too much to see and do. One thought crowded out another. This minute he would be wondering how the dogs were, the next whether cows were ever sea-sick, and this made him wonder whether Dominic Braydon, off on his first voyage, would suffer from that most unpleasant ailment. There were the new clothes to think about, and the guns. It happened, too, that while he was thinking about them Lady O'Hara, looking worried and tired, entered the hotel room.

"I hope that man sent the guns all right," said Nic.

"He did, for I received a note from him and a receipt for their delivery."

"I'm glad of that," said Nic. "I was anxious about them." Lady O'Hara looked amused. Then, watching the boy closely, she said:

"By the way, Dominic, I don't think I told you I meant that gun with the short stock for you."

"For me?" cried Nic, flushing with excitement. Then hastily, "Oh no, I don't want to shoot people."

"You may if they want to kill you or those whom you love, my boy. But in any case you may want to shoot snakes and the wonderfully beautiful birds which you will see in the bush. A gun is a necessity for a settler, and so are those."

She pointed to a parcel on a side table.

"Fetch those here, and open the paper."

Nic fetched the strongly done-up packet, opened it with trembling fingers, and laid bare a beautifully finished axe and a sheath knife of the finest steel, with stout buckhorn handle and leathern belt.

"Not drawing-room presents, my boy," said the lady, smiling, "but suitable for a young settler. There, you can squeeze those in your portmanteau; the gun you can have when we get over the sea."

"But, Lady O'Hara!" faltered Nic; "the gun--such an expensive one."

"Of course it is. Who'd buy cheap rubbish to take abroad? You want the plainest and the best that money can buy."

"Yes, but I meant--"

"That they were too costly to accept? Not a bit, my boy. We owe your father a deep debt. Didn't he doctor and save both our lives? And he's a dreadfully obstinate man to deal with; but I can do as I like with you, so now hold your tongue."

"But I must thank you, Lady O'Hara."

"No, you needn't. Now then, Dominic--dear, dear! three syllables to say every time I speak to you. What a tiresome, long name, though it does sound Irish."

"Latin," said Nic.

"Irish; and don't contradict me, sir. Sure I had an uncle in Galway, who was Dominick O'Hara, with a _k_ to it. I shall call you Nic."

"Yes, do, please."

"I will. So now then, Nic, you haven't a husband to meet when you get over yonder--a fierce-looking governor, who barks at people; and when I get back he'll be asking me what I forgot to bring. Now, my dear boy, do tell me what I've failed to get."

"I can't," said Nic laughingly; "you seem to have bought nearly everything."

"Ah, ye're no use to me at all, at all, boy. I'm sure there's something I ought to have bought, and I shall remember it when we're hundreds of miles from land. I know: it was another pair of razors for Sir John!"

"But you bought those seven in a case, with the days of the week on them, Lady O'Hara."

"Sure, and I did, Nic. Good boy. You are of some use, after all. My poor head's nearly worn out with thinking, and I'm bothered entirely. Nic, I mean to go to sleep for a week as soon as we get on board by way of a good rest. Now then, do try and think for me, Nic; what was the other thing I forgot?"

Nic shook his head.

"I could think of hundreds of things that might be useful out there."

"No, you couldn't," said the lady shortly. "You've never been there, and you'd be taking out all kinds of things that would be just of no use at all, the same as I did when I first went. I've got something on my brain, only it's buried under a heap of other things. Well, never mind; it will shake up to the top at last when it's too late."

Lady O'Hara's head was bothered till the last moment, when the hotel bill was paid, the hackney coach and driver in his coat of many capes at the door, and landlord, landlady, and servants all waiting to bid the amiable, bluff-spoken Irish lady God-speed in her long journey to the other side of the world. Then the door banged; and, followed by a cheer, the coach was driven off, Nic feeling in a peculiar state of mind, a mixture of high spirits, low spirits, and pain; for Lady O'Hara plumped herself back in her corner, took out a handkerchief, covered her face, and burst into a fit of sobbing, rocking herself to and fro as she cried aloud till Nic could bear it no longer. He had been fidgeting and wondering what to say or do, growing more and more wretched, till, at the end of ten minutes, he laid his hand upon his companion's, and said simply:

"Oh, Lady O'Hara, pray, pray don't cry."

"Sure, and I won't," she exclaimed impetuously, as she hastily wiped her eyes; "but I couldn't help it, Nic. It hurts me when people are so kind and sorry to part from you, and ye feel that ye may never see them again. I'm afraid I'm a very silly old woman. Give me a kiss, my dear, and I won't cry another drop. There, it's all over now, and that's cleared my head. It doesn't feel bothered a bit. What's forgotten's forgotten, and I don't think my darlin' will be very cross with me. If he is, I shall call you to witness that I've worked very hard."

"That you have," cried Nic.

"There, the work's done, and we'll have a rest, and enjoy our voyage. And do you know what sort of a ship we're going in, Nic?"

"Yes; the _Northumbrian_."

"Of course; but do you know what she is?"

"East Indiaman."

"That's true enough; but has nobody told you what we shall have on board?"

"No."

"Then I'll tell you now. We might have waited for the next, but that would have been for a month, and I want to get back home again, Nic; so, as Sir John's name was enough to get me what I wanted, I settled we'd go in the _Northumbrian_, which is taking out a lot of convicts."

Nic's brow grew rugged.

"But there's a big draft of the 300th Regiment and their officers too, and they'll take care of us, boy, so you won't mind."

"Oh! no," cried Nic, "I shall not mind."

In fact, he failed to see what there would be to mind, for it did not occur to him that it might be unpleasant and awkward for the governor's wife.

The bustle of departure had commenced when they reached the dock, and the quay swarmed with the friends and relatives of the company of infantry off on foreign service, while dock officials were busy issuing the orders which began to take effect a few minutes after Nic had seen Lady O'Hara into her cabin and hurried back on deck to gaze on the novel scene.

For hawsers were being secured round posts, men were leaving, a couple of boats were out ahead ready to tow, and soon the great three-masted vessel began to move slowly along by the quay to the great gates, with the soldiers cheering and waving their caps, and shouts and cries rising from those being left behind, till the gates were passed, and the long narrow channel between stone walls gave place to the river, with its tide at the height; the faces began to grow smaller and smaller, and soon the _Northumbrian_, with her littered decks and bustle and confusion, began to drop slowly down with the tide.

There was plenty to see as well as plenty to learn. The first thing was to be able to see in peace, and to do this Nic found he had to learn to get out of the way of the men busy lowering down packages, getting rid of the litter of the deck, and blunderingly making matters shipshape-- blunderingly, for the crew, almost without exception, were suffering from the effects of their holiday ashore, and were working the mate and boatswain into a state of red-hot indignation at the slow progress made. The latter, too, a big, burly, red-faced man with stiff whiskers, was every now and then asking people how he could be expected to have clear decks when his ship was being turned into a farmyard.

This recalled the live stock on board, and Nic went forward to have a look at the cattle in their pens, where they were contentedly enough munching away at the hay placed ready for them, while the dogs, which recognised Nic, began to tug furiously at their chains, and made their eyes seem ready to start from their heads as they tried to strangle themselves by straining at their collars.

Nic was leaning over the pen in which they were chained up, patting and caressing them, when a gruff voice cried fiercely:

"Those dogs yours?"

"Not exactly. They're for Sir John O'Hara."

"Then I wish he'd got 'em. Who's to move with all these things on board?"

"What's, the matter, Buller?" said a bronzed man, coming up.

"Matter, sir? everything. There isn't a man aboard fit to pull a rope, and I can't move without breaking my shins over cats and dogs, and all this here Tower mynadgery. Is the skipper going to start a farm?"

"Get on, man, and don't make so much noise."

"Noise, sir!" growled the boatswain, for it was he; and he looked hard at a couple of officers in undress uniform, whose attention had been taken by the dogs.

"It's enough to make any one grumble. I'm 'customed to tea and rice and a few passengers. I don't understand all this--ship turned into a live-stock show, a barracks, and a farm all in one."

He went off growling, and the mate turned to the officers.

"A bit rusty, gentlemen," he said, smiling. "It will soon wear off, as we get shipshape."

"Sooner the better," said one of the officers, who turned to the dogs, and had a look at them before speaking to Nic.

"Yours?" he said.

"I have charge of them."

"Then you are a passenger?"

"Yes; I'm going out with Lady O'Hara."

"The governor's wife! Well, how do you think you will like the sea?"

"Oh, very well," said Nic. "Of course I shan't like it when it's rough."

"Nor anybody," said the officer, "eh, Harvey?"

"I shall not," said the gentleman addressed, as he pulled the setter's long ears.

"So long as it isn't rough. Well, as we are to be fellow-passengers all through the voyage, we may as well be friends and go through our introductions. Who are you?"

Nic told him.

"Going to join your people, eh? Well, that's pleasant. We are going to leave ours."

"Who are you?" said Nic, taking his new acquaintance's tone.

"I?" said the officer, laughing at the manner in which the question was put. "Lieutenant Lance, His Majesty's 300th Light Infantry. This is Ensign Harvey of my company. Both at your service, sir, and our company too."

"Thank you," said Nic, laughing; "but I'm not likely to need it."

"Unless the birds want to take _flight_," said the ensign.

Nic looked at him inquiringly.

"He means the gaol birds, youngster," said the elder officer, laughing, "if they rise against us. Not a very nice arrangement for your lady coming out in a ship like this."

"Is there any danger?" said Nic anxiously.

"No," said the ensign, rather importantly; "we shall see that there's not."

"Then you are here to guard them?" asked Nic.

"Bah, no! We are going to join our regiment. There is a warder guard. Of course, if there was any necessity--"

Nic looked rather startled, and the lieutenant said, smiling:

"There'll be nothing to mind, my lad. The winds and waves will trouble you more than the convicts; but they're not pleasant fellow-passengers to have, on board."

Nic did not think so the next morning, when, after guard had been mounted under the lieutenant's charge, just as they were getting well out of the mouth of the river, with the soldiers stationed at intervals with loaded muskets and fixed bayonets, orders were given, and the stern-looking warders ushered up the convict gang of fifty men from below to take their allotted amount of air and exercise in the forward part of the deck; for almost without exception they were a villainous-looking lot, their closely cropped hair and ugly prison garb adding to the bad effect.

Talking was strictly forbidden, every movement being carefully watched, and not least by Nic, at whom the prisoners looked curiously as they passed, one man putting on a pleading, piteous aspect, as if asking for the boy's compassion, and twice over his lips moved as if he were saying something.

But somehow, though the man was not bad-looking, and formed one of the exceptions to the brutally fierce faces around, his pleading look did not excite Nic's pity, but caused a feeling of irritation that he could not explain.

This happened again and again, when, attracted by the daily coming up of the men on deck, Nic found himself watching them, unconscious of the fact that he was watched the while.

Every now and then the chief warder, a stern, fierce-looking man with a cutlass in his belt, shouted out some order; and as it was obeyed by this or that man the boy soon began to know them as Number Forty-nine or Hundred and eighty, or some other number. One particularly scoundrelly-looking fellow, who made a point of catching his eye whenever he could, for the purpose of winking, thrusting his tongue in his cheek, or making some hideous grimace, and following it up with a grin of satisfaction if he saw it caused annoyance, was known as Twenty-five; a singularly brutal-visaged man with a savage scowl, who never once looked any one full in the face, was Forty-four; and the mild, pleading-looking man, who annoyed Dominic by his pitiful, fawning air, was Thirty-three.

"Well, sir, what do you think of them?" said a familiar voice one day; and turning sharply, Nic found himself face to face with the chief warder.

"Think? I hardly know," said Nic. "I feel sorry for them."

"Just what a young gent like you would do, sir. Pity's a good thing, but you must not waste it."

"But it seems a terrible thing for these men to be sent out like this."

"Seems, sir. But is it? You see, they needn't have been sent out. They only had to behave themselves."

"But some of them may be innocent."

"Yes, sir," said the warder drily; "but which of 'em? Look at that fellow coming round here now, slouching along, and never looking at anything but the deck. He'll never look you in the face."

"Yes, I've noticed that."

"Wouldn't pick him out for an innocent one, would you?"

"Well, no," said Nic; "one seems to shrink from him."

"And right enough too, sir. He got off with transportation for life; but I'm afraid he deserved something worse."

"Did he kill anybody?" said Nic in an awe-stricken whisper.

"Yes; more than one, I believe, sir: sort of human wild beast. I never feel safe with him, and we all take care never to have Forty-four behind us. Try again, sir."

"Well, this one coming now," said Nic. "He's rather common-looking, but he doesn't seem so very bad. One would think he could be made a better man."

"Twenty-five, sir. Well, he'll have every chance out yonder. He has only got to get a good character over his work, and the governor and them will soon let him go up country as a signed servant, and when he has served his time he can start farmer on his own account. Makes faces at you, doesn't he?"

"Yes," cried Nic eagerly.

"Ah, he won't now I'm here."

Nic smiled, for the man screwed one side of his face as he passed, thinking that the chief warder would not see, but he did.

"You, Twenty-five! How dare you? Extra punishment for that. Pass by, sir."

"No, no, don't punish him," whispered Nic. "He did not mean any harm."

"Not going to, sir," said the warder drily; "but one must keep them in their places. He's a comic sort of blackguard. Not much harm in him."

"I thought not," said Nic eagerly.

"And precious little good, sir," added the warder. "But he may turn out right. Housebreaking, I think, was his offence. When he gets out to the convict lines they'll teach him to know better; and some day he'll have a house of his own, if it's only a bark hut--gunyah they call 'em out there--and then he'll know the value of it, and be ready to upset any one who tries to break in."

"Then you have been out before?"

"Oh yes, sir. I know the country pretty well, specially the part where your father is. I've been there."

"And you know my father?"

"Oh no, sir. I never saw him. But it's a fine place, and you'll like it. I wish I was you, and going to begin life out there in the new land."

"Then you think I shall like it?" said Nic.

"You can't help it, sir. But if I was you I should be careful. You'll have a deal to do with the convicts."

"Oh no," cried Nic. "I am going straight up the country to my father's place."

"Yes, sir, I know; and that's why I was presuming to give you a bit of advice--that is, as a man who has had twenty years' experience."

"I don't understand you."

The warder laughed.

"I suppose not, sir. Well, it's like this. Your father has taken up land, and keeps sheep and cattle, I suppose?"

"Yes, thousands."

"And employs men?"

"Of course. He has said so in his letters. He is obliged to have several."

"And if he was in England he could engage farm labourers easily enough."

"Yes."

"How's he going to engage them out there, sir?"

"The same as he would in England."

"When there are none, or only a few, and they all want to be masters themselves? No, sir; you'll find there--with perhaps a black or two who can't be trusted to work, only to do a bit of cattle driving or hunting up strayed stock--that your father's men are mostly convicts, 'signed servants, we call them--that is, assigned servants."

"What?"

"That's it, sir: men who are assigned by the prison authorities to gentlemen."

"Oh!" ejaculated Nic; and the warder smiled at his surprise.

"That's it, sir, and I say a good thing too. Here's a new country with plenty of room in it, and the judges and people at home sentence men to be transported for fourteen or twenty-one years, or perhaps for life."

"Yes, I know all that," said Nic, nodding his head.

"Then, sir, the law says lots of these men are not all bad, and they're sorry for what they've done; so if they are, and show that they want to lead a new life, we'll give 'em a chance. Then all those who have earned a good character in the convict lines and mean work are assigned to settlers who want labourers and shepherds and stockmen; and if they behave themselves, and show that the punishment has cured them of their bad ways, all they've got to do is to report themselves from time to time; and so long as they don't try to escape out of the country they can do pretty well as they like, and plenty of them out there are doing far better than they would have done at home."

"That's very good," said Nic.

"To be sure it is, sir; and that's why I say to you, be a little careful, and not be ready to trust the convicts. Plenty of them you'll find good fellows; but there are plenty more who are very smooth and artful, and only waiting their time. But you'll soon learn which are sheep and which are goats. Now, here's a chap coming round here-- Thirty-three, sir. What do you say to him? He's got fourteen years for robbing his employers. Embezzlement they call it. Now, he's been a well-brought-up sort of man--good education, always well dressed, and lived on the fat of the land. He looks at you, I suppose, when I'm not here, as much as to say, 'Isn't it cruel to shut me up with these ruffians and murderous wretches? I'm a poor, innocent, ill-used man!'"

"Yes, that is how he always does look at me," cried Nic. "Yes, sir, and at everybody else; but if he was an innocent, ill-used man, he'd wrinkle up his forehead and look bitter and savage-like, ready to treat everybody as his enemy. That chap's a sneak, sir, and I've no hesitation in saying he deserves all he has got. Don't you listen to him if ever he speaks, and don't you break no rules by petting him with anything good from the cabin."

"I certainly shan't," said Nic. "I don't like him."

The warder turned sharply, and looked hard at Nic, as he said, smiling:

"You'll do sir. Dame Nature's made you a bit of a judge of men, and what you've got to do is to sharpen up that faculty, as people call it. I'm not bragging, but I've got it a little, and I've polished and polished it for twenty years, till I'm not such a very bad judge of convicts. You give me a gang, and in a week's time, if there's an innocent man, or a man who wants to do the right thing, or one who's been always wrong and could be worked up into the right, I'll pick him out. Here you, Twenty-five, I've got my eye on you, and you'd better make an end of those monkey faces, unless you want the cat."

"The cat?" said Nic.

"Yes, sir, with nine tails. That's the punishment for convicts who won't behave themselves, assigned servants and all. You'll soon know all about the lash when you get out to your father's station."

"I'm sure I shall not," said Nic indignantly. "My father is too humane a man."

"That's right, sir. You always believe in and stick up for your father; only recollect you're going to a new country, where there are thousands of convicts, the scum of our own land, and the lash is part of the law, and the law is very strict. It's obliged to be, for the protection of the settlers. See how stern we are here where we have them all under our eye. You're obliged to be harder where they're free like and scattered all over the country."

"Yes, you're stern enough," said Nic indignantly, "threatening to give a man the cat-o'-nine-tails for making faces."

The warder smiled, his hard, stern face lighting up as he gazed admiringly at Nic.

"Bah! that was only talk, sir, just as one would threaten a boy. Twenty-five's a man of five-and-thirty, but he's only got brains like a boy. I could make anything of him."

The warder nodded good-humouredly, and then his face grew hard-looking as an iron mask, as he shouted out orders to first one and then another of the men under his charge; while the soldiers, standing here and there, rested on their muskets, and looked grimly on at the evil-looking prisoners pacing the deck.

Nic walked aft with his forehead puckered up and his mind hard at work thinking of the home that he was going to, and feeling somewhat damped by the warder's words; and as he reached the quarter-deck he went to the side, after noticing that Lady O'Hara was talking to the officers, and resting his arms upon the bulwark he leaned there gazing away at the sunlit sea, flecked by the flying-fish which flashed out, skimmed along for some distance, and then dropped back into the water.

"Convicts--convicts," he thought. "What a place for Lady O'Hara it is here with these men aboard! Suppose they should rise some night-- suppose they should rise at home where mother is, and the girls-- suppose--"

"Why, how now, my thoughtful young philosopher? What are you thinking about?"

Lady O'Hara had laid her hand upon his shoulder, and the boy was silent for a few moments.

"Well, what is it? Not going to turn sea-sick, after behaving so well all across the bay."

"No," said Nic; "I'm quite well."

"Then what makes you look so glum?"

"I was thinking about the convicts."

"And a very unpleasant subject too, Nic. Don't think about them, boy. They used to make me ill when I first went out yonder. It seemed so horrible to have them mixed up so with one's daily life."

"Yes, that's it," cried Nic; "that's what I've been thinking. I suppose father will have some at his station?"

"Not a doubt about it."

"Well, it seems so shocking, and--and unsafe."

"Not a bit of it, my boy. That's just what I used to think, but I don't now."

"But I shall never get hardened to it, Lady O'Hara."

"Sure, I hope not, Nic. I don't like hardened people. You think by my words that I'm hardened to it. There, don't turn red, boy. I can read what you thought. I'm as soft as you. Sure, I wept all night when that poor boy died over there, and kept crying out for his mother when he was delirious; and it was no use to say to myself, he should have thought more of his mother and her teachings when he grew wasteful and dissipated and stole his master's money, for I couldn't help thinking that he was back in the old days and felt in trouble, and called for his mother; and who should a boy call to but his mother at a time like that?"

Nic sadly thought of how little he had seen of his, and the governor's wife went on.

"No, Nic, I'm not a bit hardened; I only look now at things from a sensible point of view, and say to myself, 'Here are these men who have done wrong, and the law has sent them out for a punishment; those who are very bad will be unable to do any more mischief, while those who have any good in them have chances given them to lead a new life.' Why some of them are getting to be well-to-do bodies, Nic, and married and have children, who will grow up better people in a new land. Don't you fret about the convicts, boy; but take them as you find them. When you have to do with the bad ones, keep them at a distance; and when you have to do with the good and repentant, just shut your eyes to the past and open them as wide as you can to the future. Sure, Nic, I'm the governor's lady with a title, and everybody's glad to be my friend, yourself included, my boy; but how do I know what I might have been if I hadn't been tenderly cared for when I was young? You'll like some of the transported people, Nic, my boy. I've got some out there whom I look upon as friends, and just because I see that they've put the past behind, and are doing what these sailor lads do here, keeping a bright look-out ahead. Yes, Nic, they're looking to the future, and so am I and you. What a place this world would be if we hadn't a future before us every one! There, you will not fret nor worry yourself about any dangers we are likely to meet with from the convicts now."

"Oh no," said Nic eagerly; "you have done me no end of good, Lady O'Hara. But--"

"Well, but what, boy? Out with it, and don't hesitate."

"Are they ever likely to rise against us over there, or here aboard ship?"

"Sure, I don't know, Nic," said Lady O'Hara coolly. "Very likely, my boy. They are always thinking about it, I know."

"But if they do?"

"Well, we shall just have to rise too, and teach them manners. We've got right on our side, and they haven't; so we are sure to win."

"But you don't seem at all alarmed, in spite of all that I have said."

"Sure, and why should I be, Nic, or you either? They may rise, and a hole may burst out in the bottom of the ship, and we may run upon a rock, and there may be a storm, and there are plenty of other maybe's, Nic. But let them be, my dear boy. You and I have got our duty to do, and let's do it, and while we're doing that, leave all the rest. Nic, boy, faith's a grand thing. I'm full of it, and ye're just a little wanting; so get it as fast as ye can; it's a fine thing in the making of a true man." _

Read next: Chapter 6. On The Other Side

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