Two Men and a River

by Morley Roberts

TWO MEN AND A RIVER.

By MORLEY ROBERTS.

SUCH a man as Simon Gardiner, who held more land than any other squatter on the Murrumbidgee, is often fairly popular. For he was civil to all whom he fancied might help or hinder him, and servile in an offhand kind of way to such as could do both. His servility said bluffly, "Now with any other man I should be on equal terms, but I frankly acknowledge that it is a different matter with you." So the men who had more sheep in the present, or who possessed greater credit as the beautiful result of sheep in the past, were inclined to think Gardiner a good sort, even if his grandfather had come out to New South Wales in a ship with soldiers. For that is the satiric colonial euphemism for a convict.

But, all the same, he was a beast, and as mean as mud to those who were down, who couldn't get up, or who were obviously of no use to him.

He had no traveller's hut on his station, and travellers—that is, men looking for a job—fared badly at his hands.

"Save this bag of weevilly flour for swagsmen," he said to his storekeeper. "Let them cook it at night and think it's seed-cake."

That was his humour.

He always paid the lowest wages, and often screwed a week's work out of a man down on his luck for ten shillings and bad tucker.

That was his economy.

He starved out a free selector, and then bought the man up at a ridiculous price, when the poor devil had been drowning his troubles at a bush grog-shanty.

This he called generosity.

So the men did not love him, and when they left his employment often said so in the frankest, freest, and most delightfully adjectival manner. Every time he sacked a hand the bush reeked with long-suppressed opinions, which were obviously earnest and probably true.

But this Gardiner could never understand. He continued to believe in his own comparative goodness, perhaps by dint of imagining how much worse he could be if he dared. He said he held strong political views, and any form of meanness looks better when it poses as stemming the flood of democratic progress. To give sufficient sugar in a pannikin of good tea was to pander to the multitude. They wanted too much.

But then Gardiner had not enough, and meant having a good deal more.

His great grief was that his station boundaries did not include the land occupied by Jimmy Morgan, who was in many ways Simon Gardiner's absolute antithesis. They mixed like oil and vinegar, only in this case the vinegar was on the top. Yet nothing, not even financial stress, could induce Morgan to part with his place, not even an entirely inadequate price, which Gardiner swore was ruinously generous when he offered it.

And just then the Great Flood happened, which solved the problem in its own way.

At Grong Grong and thereabouts—that is, let us say, from fifty miles south of the Murrumbidgee to fifty miles north of it—the country is as flat as a flapjack. It is true there are a few pieces of rising ground known to the innocents born in the locality as hills. If a station happens to be reasonably free of scrub and oak-belts, such may be easily discerned at a mile and a half; indeed, anything noticeable at a further distance would be called a range, and be looked on as a notable obstacle to intercourse. And yet over all this country there must be a tilt somewhere, for the river really does run south-west. But not when a flood comes. Then the slope of drainage is manifestly inadequate. The water rises incredibly until there is a Deluge.

When Morgan first took up his land it had just been surveyed. When the black fellows were asked how high the waters ever rose, those simple and dirty children of nature declared with naïveté that it sometimes got halfway up the riverside trees. The surveyors laughed, and told them plainly, in idiomatic English, that they lied. As an Australian aboriginal has no fine objection to mere good-natured abuse, the tribe merely shook their foul heads and departed, curiously wondering what the white fools were doing with a long chain and painted sticks. But ten years later came a convincing rain, sufficient to wash an unwilling black fellow and make it not unpleasant to stand on the lee side of him.

"There will be a flood—a bit of a flood," said Simon Gardiner, chuckling. "And if there's any spot where it's likely to run deep, it will be at Morgan's."

He rubbed his hard and bony hands in keen anticipation. For—"If he's flooded out, and his old gunyah tumbled down about his ears, and his wife and kids washed out, he'll be glad to sell," said Simon. "And I'll buy at my own price."

But Morgan never thought about a flood. He was just delighted with the rain. His wife and the girls were glad too, for they knew what a narrow shave it had been with them in the past hot summer.

"The oaks pretty near came to an end, didn't they, Nellie?" said Edith, the younger of the two, "and then we should have been out of it—and the jumbucks would have died."

For at the end of the summer Morgan only kept his sheep alive by felling trees for them to browse on.

So they gladly put up with ceaseless rain and muck inside and out, and when the inside of their house got mildew they bore with it for the grass outside, and one good year at the very least, and probably two or three. That meant Melbourne for a long visit, and new dresses and gay times. In spite of living in the bush, they were just getting to feel that new frocks meant a good deal to them; for there were many young men about, entirely ineligible and very interesting, who found Grong Grong a short cut whichever way their business led them.

But they did not reckon on the flood—neither, we are told, did Noah's neighbours; and Simon Gardiner looked on himself as a wiser Noah. He was quite ready to take his neighbours in, yet he was taken unawares in spite of his foresight.

The ancient quiet Murrumbidgee was now running a banker and still rising. It carried down many horses, cattle, and sheep that it had picked up on the way, and they drifted huggermugger with unnumbered trifles from a thousand miles of deep-cut banks. Logs from some low-lying huts went to swell the sordid trash; and perhaps if one could have sorted out all the corpses that went down the red drift, some human bodies- might have been found among them; for men will get drunk and lie round careless of the River Serpent which lifts his head in a dark night and crawls glittering on the flat and sucks them down. And if Gardiner could have had his way he would have presented the River Snake with Morgan's body most cheerfully, or his wife's and daughters' too, if need be.

And now the sky was for ever dark and low and heavy; it rained unceasingly, and with an awe-inspiring most perpetual steadiness. The few aboriginals preserved, by the belated care of a Government on which they had been fathered, from poison and shot, hugged their kangaroo robes and retreated carefully to higher ground. But before they cleared out a Mirrool black fellow came to Morgan.

"Missa Morgan," said he, standing bare-shanked in mud, "you mucha budgeree to poor black fellow. Bimeby allasame as creek evlywhere. You sendee jumbucks to Arria, and bimeby you give King Moses some bacca."

But Morgan gave him at once a pound of twist strong enough to make a dead man cough, for the half-intelligible tip, and sent the sheep off after him. They got through Mirrool Creek just in time, and reached Arria's rocky hill after going through miles of water a foot deep. They were even then hardly beyond the jurisdiction of the river, and soon every yellow creek yielded its identity in the turbid universal deluge.

Gardiner, in his pleasing anticipations of the flood's work, had made one error at least, and Destiny, if it was hard on Morgan, was harder on him. When the flood was a foot deep at Grong Grong it was two feet deep at the other station, and the waters drowned ten thousand sheep of Gardiner's the very day they spoke clearly as to what the distant hills meant and the rains of the hills portended. Who could believe these things in that bare, brown land of almost perpetual drought, where any rain was rare that did more than give the grasses' roots a chance to perpetuate their difficult lineage? Yet day by day half-drowned men brought in the news of heavier floods in the cast and an unceasing downpour. The night the sheep were drowned it rose three feet on the level. The Murray joined hands with the Murrumbidgee, and the Murrumbidgee acknowledged its kinship with the roaring Lachlan, and the triple flood mowed a heavy swathe in a submerged land.

The same midnight that Morgan hitched up his scared team to escape out of the plain, old Gardiner desperately harnessed his, and they went towards the dry land that was left; but as Morgan drove through the glimmering waste with his wife and children there was ringing in his cars something out of his childhood's days in England when he sat and listened to the clergyman—

"And he said, Go up and say unto Ahab, Prepare thy chariot and get thee down, that the rain stop thee not."

So he drove furiously in his mind, but had to let the horses go slow; for the water was to their knees and they trembled and were afraid.

His wife sat beside him, and the two girls behind them clung to each other fearfully. Don, the best beloved of their dogs, crouched under the seat. The other dog was at Arria. But Don whined pitifully. To him this universe of pale dark water was something even more incredible than it was to the others. They had heard of strange and awful floods, but for him, pupped in a drought and trained in a thirsty land of dust, it was a nightmare that made him tremble. But the poor girls encouraged him, and warmed his cold paws in shaking hands.

"I am afraid we shall never get through, Mary," said Morgan in a low voice to his wife. She clutched his left arm.

"Don't despair, Jim," she said softly.

"We get deeper now," he said after a few minutes as they entered a dark, bull-oak forest. "But we must go deeper yet."

The water lapped about their feet and the horses lifted their heads; and Don sprang up between the girls as though the water had bitten him and left him no courage.

"It's deeper than I reckoned on," said Morgan, "and I believe it rises every minute. We must go for the Pine scrub. It's our only chance."

For where a thin patch of pine grew was the highest land about them. But it was a mile's drive, and the waters rose and rose.

In that strange and awful midnight everything seemed unreal and ghastly. There were odd and pitiful cries from the sunk bush. In the dark glimmer of the moving water they sometimes saw a white patch that marked a dead floating sheep; once they heard the roar of a terrified bull and the low of a swimming cow. They knew that the snakes were swimming loo, and the girls created out of their minds innumerable serpents gliding like eels for the buggy as a refuge. A lizard that had taken shelter under the seat made Nellie scream. Then Don barked and gave a mournful howl which echoed dully in the moving bush.

And now the horses almost swam. They snorted and stopped. Morgan urged them, and at last, with a plunge that nearly upset the huggy, they went in, and the water rose a foot. Then it gradually grew shallower, and the pines showed above the water. They had just entered the patch of scrub when the near-side horse neighed loudly.

"What did he do that for?" asked Nellie, and the answer was given by an answering neigh from the far side of the pines, among which were a few loftier box-trees.

"Is there anyone else here?" said Mrs. Morgan, who hoped for succour where none could be.

"It looks like it," answered Morgan; "for if the other horse was loose, he would most likely come to ours."

"Cooey!" said his wife; and Morgan cooeyed. His cry was returned from near at hand, and they heard other horses splashing within a hundred yards.

"Who is it?" shouted Morgan.

"Simon Gardiner," replied a quavering voice; and Nellie made a mouth. "Who are you?"

"Morgan and the whole family," answered Morgan with a cheerfulness which surprised himself; for the presence of another human being inspirited him, even if it was Gardiner. "What do you think of it?"

"I don't know what to think," said Gardiner; "but if it rises much we shall all be drowned."

He had to speak loudly to be heard, and he found it difficult to make his voice sound as bad-tempered as he felt, for it is not easy to shout sulkily.

"This is the only chance," said Morgan. "Are you by yourself?"

It appeared that Gardiner was. His men had taken themselves off on his horses, which he denied them permission to do, as soon as things began to look really serious, even leaving him to harness his own buggy. He meant to make it warm for them when the waters went down and they came in for their cheques. They would get none, and if they went to court he would fight them while he had a pound of wool left to raise money on.

He told the Morgans so in a high, querulous voice. But they were thinking of other things. For the water still rose.

"Kitty," said Morgan, "this is the highest ground I know of for miles round. If it rises more we shall have to take to the tree here. I'm going to get out and cut the horses adrift and give them a chance. Any moment they might take fright and upset us."

He opened his knife and slipped quietly into the water, which reached his chest. What he could not loose he cut. He noticed with apprehension that as soon as they were free they moved off to the northwards and were soon swimming. It was as if they knew they could not stay there long. Yet they would have to swim five miles at least for much higher ground. Morgan called to Gardiner—

"You'd better let your horses go." And Gardiner, seeing the necessity, loosed them, though he swore horribly at having to get into the water. When his pair were free they followed Morgan's, and two black hours slowly passed.

As the night began to wane hope grew once more in the hearts of all. It seemed impossible that such a flood could last. They could have prayed with Ajax to be destroyed in the light. But when the dim dawn broke there was no mitigation in the remorseless downpour. And the flood still crept up inch by inch, when every visible increase seemed a new and worse disaster.

An hour after dawn the buggy was no longer possible, and Morgan, crouching against the near tree, made Nellie climb upon his shoulders, and get to the lowest big branch. She was followed by her sister, and with great labour Mrs. Morgan took her place by them. Morgan tried his best, but was unable to raise himself. Though strong he was a heavy man of his years. But if he could not climb the waters could.

"Don't trouble about me," he said. "If it rises much more I can swim to an easier tree. I wonder how Gardiner is doing."

But Gardiner had had a bit of better luck than they. He was on a spot at least two feet higher. His buggy, too, was bigger. But when he was sitting down the water reached his waist.

Even as he sat there in the lukewarm, turbid flood which moved sluggishly about him, though he knew that his flat world was underwater, he still ached for the possession of Naboth's vineyard. Not even the terror which walks by night nor the ghosts that moved upon the face of the flood could scare the greediness out of him.

And besides, he said, it was a chance—a good chance. Though the waters receded Morgan's house would be ruined, his flocks destroyed. He might sell now.

At the thought Gardiner rose. He drank out of a bottle and called to Morgan.

"Morgan," he said, "how goes it?"

"It rises still," answered Morgan, who was standing on the buggy seat with his back against the tree on which his wretched family sat.

"Will it ever go down?"

Morgan did not answer, and Gardiner drank again.

"Will you sell out now, Morgan?" he cried.

Morgan looked across to him in surprise.

Who was this, ready to huxter in the face of death?

"No," he said.

But Gardiner persisted.

"Take my last offer," he cried again.

Morgan shook his head.

"This is no time to buy and sell. We may be dead before the morning."

Gardiner laughed, and sat down, but rose again choking. The water was over his lips. He looked at the tree under which he stood. But he was sixty years of age, and he knew that ten feet of smooth trunk would beat him, if, indeed, the flood could rise so far as to make him try it. He stood on the seat and cursed the warm treacherous liquid covered with dead leaves and pine-needles. It made no noise, and did what it had to do very quietly. The only sound was the sound of the Great Rain, though every now and again a stick loosed out of mud rose like a fish leaping for a fly. Yet he heard Morgan's dog howl.

For Don was standing on the seat with his fore-paws against the tree. He looked pleadingly at the girls above him.

"Couldn't we lift poor Don up, papa?" asked Nellie. But Morgan shook his head.

"Before this is over you may have enough to do to hold on, my child," he answered. And then Don had a fit; he fell back, and went under and kicked dreadfully. The girls screamed, and covered their eyes. But presently Don recovered and regained his old position. He suffered terribly, and several times seemed like to die.

And so they passed the whole silent day—the sombre, black-skied day. They could not talk, and only once did Gardiner speak. His voice sounded very odd and thick to the Morgans.

"Won't you sell out now?" he cried; and he laughed terribly. They heard him chuckling when the night fell once more.

By midnight the women had been twenty-four hours in the tree. They had eaten nothing, and had drunk the flood-water out of Morgan's hat. Presently Mrs. Morgan moaned and fainted. But her husband could do nothing. He had nothing to give her, and he might not even take her in his arms. Then he heard old Gardiner talking to himself or to the River and the Flood.

"Gardiner!" he called.

"Ha! you'll sell now, will you?" cried Gardiner.

"Have you any brandy, Gardiner? My wife is ill."

Simon laughed.

"More than a bottle," he cried.

"Thank God!" cried Morgan; and, kicking off his boots and hanging his coat on a knot in his tree, he swam out through the darkness. He came at last to the buggy, and was trying to climb the seat when Gardiner shouted angrily to him—

"Keep off!" he cried; "don't you come close!"

And Morgan laid hold of a pine sapling. He could see the old man's head and shoulders out of the water.

"Will you sell out now, Morgan?" said Gardiner.

"No," said Morgan.

"Then go back to your perch," answered Gardiner, supping brandy.

"I'll give you ten pounds for it," said Morgan.

And Gardiner jeered him till Morgan loosed his hold of the pine and swam towards him.

"Keep off!" cried the old man thickly, "or I'll brain you and break the bottle at the same time!"

So Morgan swam back again to the sapling and heard Gardiner still pulling at the bottle. What could he do to get the brandy from a drunken old man doomed surely by his own folly? How could he circumvent him? At last he loosed his sapling and swam towards his own tree. But when he was halfway he turned quietly to the right and, swimming right round a thick piece of scrub, came up behind Gardiner, paddling very softly. If he could but swim in close enough to grip hold of him before he was himself seen! And just as he was within four yards, Gardiner turned. He threw the empty bottle which was floating by him very viciously at Morgan. But the swimmer ducked, and the missile struck the water harmlessly.

"You would, would you?" said Gardiner. "I thought as much."

But Morgan was about done for.

"Give me the brandy, and I'll sell out," he cried.

"I'll not trust you."

"For God's sake, Gardiner," said Morgan, "give me the brandy and come down to Grong Grong when the flood's done and name your price."

"Swear on your honour," said Gardiner, "and then I'll trust you." And Morgan swore.

"And if you go back on it," said Gardiner, "I'll track and hunt you out of the country if it cost me my last pound. And I'll never let up on you till I'm dead."

So Morgan got the brandy.

"Bring back a little," said Gardiner, quite cheerfully.

But Morgan did not answer, and swam on. If he had had the breath to spare he would have laughed.

When he reached the tree he found his wife half-conscious and moaning. He gave the bottle to Nellie and cursed himself that he could not reach them.

And presently Gardiner cried in a loud voice, "Remember, you've sold out, Morgan."

A little while after he spoke again.

"Give me the brandy, Morgan; I'm cold, and the water's over my heart."

But Morgan laughed and gave him no answer. He heard the old man crying at intervals, and the terrified girls asked him what it meant; for in such a night to hear that cold, deathly voice was horrible, most horrible.

But Morgan only said the man was drunk. Who could help him in any way?

"The waters are to my chin, Morgan," he cried again; "they are to my chin! Help! help!"

They were at Morgan's lips, and had not a log floated near him he would have had to swim. He called to Nellie, who held out her hand. Her father sprang from the sunken buggy seat, and, scrambling on the log, laid hold of his child's wrist and a branch. He was soon sitting in the cramped tree-fork with his wife's head upon his breast. And Gardiner cried—

"They are to my lips—to my lips."

But Morgan did not answer. For the horror of it came over him, and he could see the old man choke.

Once more he cried in a very lamentable voice for help. Then he laughed a harsh, crackling laugh, and spoke for the last time.

"I've sold out," was all he said.

And then the River took him, and floating him out over the land which he had so yearned for, rolled him in the mud, to let him taste its very savour. He went down the slow current which led towards Morgan's homestead with the bodies of dead sheep which had once been his own. And now the waters stayed, for they had come to their most ancient marks, and were slowly subsiding. The rain ceased upon the plain as it had ceased before upon the hills, and the day broke very wonderful in a golden dawn.

When at last the Morgans descended from their tree of refuge upon the desolation which was the cause of many fat years, they went back to a ruined home. But they were not the first there. They found Gardiner trying to grasp his own by the wrecked gate.