XLV
Whatever put it into their heads I don’t know, but they started straight off, and never pulled rein till they got to a station belonging to a Mr. Hamilton. They were that savage at missing their tip with Mr. M’Crea that they thought they’d pay off scores with the next swell they could drop on to. Mr. Hamilton was a man that Moran hated, because he always went armed and kept his house ready to stand a siege night and day. He’d been in India a good deal, and was a great hunting man, and a dead shot, everybody said. Anyhow, most people thought there was no change to be got out of him, but Moran was in one of his black tempers and swore he’d burn the house about his ears if he didn’t hand out and be dashed civil over it too.
There was a shanty about five miles off. They stopped there drinking till it was dark, and then started off and rode over to Kadombla, as the station was called. All the people in the house that night were Mr. Hamilton and his wife and children, the housemaid and a man-cook in the kitchen. The men’s hut was near a mile off, where the station-buildings were. Moran, Burke, Daly, and Wall were in this racket; they thought they were quite able for the job, particularly as it was a night surprise.
They rode into the paddock in front of the house, where there was a field of growing oats that came right up to the garden fence, and tied up their horses down by the creek. Then they walked up through the oats and looked at the house in at the lighted windows. Mr. Hamilton was sitting reading, and his wife sewing near the fireplace. It looked all right, but they knew that he had a gun in every room of the house, with ammunition handy. He never sat down without a revolver about him, and could pick a bird off a bush with it. After a bit it was settled that Daly, who was the quickest on his pins, should get round by the back door and the rest threaten to fire through the windows at Mr. Hamilton as soon as he was well inside the house, so that he’d be attacked on two sides. As it turned out Mr. Hamilton was too quick for them, for his wife heard Daly’s footsteps; and as soon as Daly showed at the back door Mr. Hamilton stood ready for him at the end of the passage with his revolver in his hand. Both let drive at the same moment, and neither hit. Daly went out the way he came, and Mr. Hamilton draws back into his parlour just as the other three let fly through the windows and smashed half the glass. He returned their fire half a dozen times over—so quick and true that they began to think he must have some else in the house with him. He had two double-barrels and his rifle. Mrs. Hamilton brought him his cartridges from time to time, so he kept such a rattle going they had enough to do to mind themselves and durst’nt make a rush like they thought at first.
They called out to him that if he didn’t give in they’d burn the house down and roast every living soul in it. He shouted back for them to do their worst—to come on like men and not crawl about behind cover. They swore and cursed that they’d make it a warning to him; but they didn’t see their way just at first, it wasn’t good enough, with his bullets pitching in among ’em close and sharp. One ball went through Burke’s hat, and another made a hole in Moran’s poncho, which he’d just hung on a tree. After a bit Moran crawls up and manages to set fire to the stable that had a good lot of hay in and the master’s favourite horse. It blazed up at once and made everything as bright as day. The poor brute of a horse screamed and made a horrid sort of cry, roasted alive, by degrees, but through it all they heard Mr. Hamilton’s shout that he would have one of their lives for this. Moran, they say, laughed like a devil all the time, and said Hamilton would be frizzling himself in another half hour. Just as he said this he looked out from behind his tree, and I’m blest if a bullet from Hamilton’s rifle didn’t knock the revolver slap out of bis hand; it gave his wrist a jar he didn’t get over for a bit and spoiled the turn-round arrangements, so that he couldn’t load again. After a bit he couldn’t move his arm, so he was out of it as far as the shooting went. There was a chance that the burning stable might catch the house. There was a load of straw in a dray halfway between it and the cottage. If they could have set this alight, Hamilton would have had to come out and beg for mercy, when, I don’t believe, he’d have found any that night. But Mrs. Hamilton behaved like a heroine that night, if ever a woman did in this world. She went out with the servant girl—a regular plum too for pluck and coolness—and these two managed to drag a tarpaulin over the cart, and so stopped any stray sparks from catching.
By George, that was a game action, and no mistake; it wasn’t the only thing the misses and the maid did that night. Once Mr. Hamilton got to the end of his cartridges—he blazed away at such a tearing rate, and it’s well he did or they’d have jumped the house long before. As I was saying (it was one of themselves told me all about the whole racket afterwards), they saw Mrs. Hamilton cross the room just in the line of their fire, over she walked as steady as a soldier. Not that they intended to fire at her, they weren’t quite bad enough for that, but she went across just as they’d pulled trigger, and they heard afterwards that one of the bullets just grazed her shoulder. Anyhow she didn’t seem to mind, and as it happened, one of them very cartridges she handed her husband carried a man’s life in it. The next thing they saw it half riled ’em and half made ’em laugh was the servant girl walk in with a tray with wine and glasses and biscuits on it, just as if this was the regular family way of spending the evening. Shows how people differ from one another. Here was this girl and her missus as cool and steady as the Guards at Waterloo, and there was the man-cook in the kitchen—a lying under the table, flat on his face, cryin’ and prayin’ and swearin’, all in a breath, frightened out of his miserable life. He ought to have been taken out and stuck before one of the windows. He was worse than a blackfellow I consider.
I daresay Mr. Hamilton felt better after a glass of grog. I should think he wanted it, after burning all that powder. It’s a dry thing fighting at the best of times. Anyhow, now the stable was burnt down pretty low, Burke thought he’d get a better chance over one corner of the garden fence, so he crawled up and popped his head over the fence at a place where he could see through a side window that led into the veranda. If he could burst this window open when Mr. Hamilton was firing the other way, he’d take him in the flank, and Moran and Daly they’d made it up to rush for the front as soon as they heard the glass smash in the side window.
It wasn’t a bad notion, but Burke didn’t know that Mrs. Hamilton had watched him from a dark corner in the veranda. I believe that brave lady heard everything and saw everything that happened that night, and was as good as two men. She that had been brought up in Sydney and never saw any bush ways till she followed her husband to Kadombla. Anyhow, when she told him about Burke he slips out, stands behind an angle, and the next time Burke pops up his head he lets him have it. Burke drops on his lack with a rifle-bullet slap through his throat. He never stirred again, and Mr. Hamilton was firing another broadside from the windows of the parlour before they knew he was down.
When they went over to him they found him as dead as a doornail. Things didn’t look over bright now, one man dead, one man hurt, for Moran’s arm was swelling up and giving him fits. The other two came to think it wasn’t good enough. So they dragged Burke—he wasn’t the worst of ’em by a long way—under a she-oak tree, took his revolver, and left him there. Then they went down to the creek, where they’d tied the horses, and rode off.
Mr. Hamilton waited for about an hour, so as to be sure they weren’t stringing him on to go into the open, to be potted at. Then he went down to the men’s hut and roused them up. The police came over in the morning, but beyond identifying Burke and getting a coroner’s inquest held on him, there wasn’t anything else they could do. They left a man in charge of the body, and one to look after the house and came away.
So was the end of the famous Kadombla battle. Mr. Hamilton lost a good stable and a good horse, and had all the front of his house riddled and smashed with bullets; but he scared off the other side, and had a long way the best of it.
A line from Jim came a fortnight afterwards. He got safe down all the way to Melbourne, and met Jeanie and his baby all right at St. Kilda. Nobody ever tumbled that he wasn’t Joe Moreton, and the old Mr. Watson was particular pleased with his steadiness and good conduct, as he said. He made him a present over and above his contract money, and said he should always feel obliged to him, Jim said he wasn’t obliged to him at all, it was the other way; which was true enough, if he’d only known why, but, of course, he didn’t. It was the best thing that could have happened to Jim, the police getting on to us and firing at Joe Moreton, because it kept them sure and certain that Jim was still in the country and not far from his old beat, consequently they never looked anywhere else for him.
Jim wrote he was as happy as a king down in Melbourne with Jeanie, and there wasn’t much fear of anyone remembering him down there. They’d got money enough to live comfortable on, and the only thing that troubled him was that the ships that were outward-bound were all that closely watched that he didn’t like to chance taking his passage. Just for something to do, he had taken a billet as a store man at three pound a week. It was steady work and suited very well. He kept up his Yankee beard and ways, and everyone took him to be one. The best thing we could do was to slip over quietly to Queensland, if we could manage, and get a ship from there. He wished we could clear out from where we were anyhow, and be as happy as he was. If anything happened to mother, Aileen ought to come down and live with him and Jeanie.
So Jim was all right, that was so much to the good; but it was a deal harder matter our getting away.
We were too well known altogether, and had no mercy to expect if we were caught. We knew that, and didn’t want to throw away a chance by trying to get out of the country before we were ready. We didn’t think the proper time was come.
We hadn’t been long at home, just enough to get tired of doing nothing, when we got a letter from Bella Barnes, telling us that she was going to get married the day after the Turon races, and reminding Starlight that he had promised to come to her wedding. If he didn’t think it was too risky, she hoped he’d come. There was going to be a race ball, and it was sure to be good fun. It would be a good windup, and Maddie was coming out a great swell. Sir Ferdinand would be there, but there’d be such a crowd anybody would pass muster, and so on.
“Well done, Bella!” says Starlight. “I vote we go, Dick. I never went to a hop with a price on my head before. A thousand pounds too! Quite a new sensation. It settles the question. And we’ll enter Rainbow for the handicap. He ought to be good enough for anything they’re likely to have.”
“Captain Starlight’s Rainbow, 9 st. 8 lb.,” I said, “with Dick Marston to lead him up to the judge’s box. How will that wash? And what are the police going to be about all the time? Bella’s gone out of her senses about her marriage and thinks we are too.”
“You’re a good fellow, Richard, and stanch, but you’re like your father—you haven’t any imagination. I see half-a-dozen ways of doing the whole thing. Besides, our honour’s concerned. I never made a promise yet, for good or for evil, that I didn’t carry out, and some have cost me dearly enough, God knows. Fancy running our horses and going to the ball under the noses of the police—the idea is delicious!”
“I daresay you’re about tired of your life,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I am; but why we should ride straight into the lion’s mouth, to please a silly girl, I can’t see. I haven’t over much sense, I know, or I shouldn’t be here; but I’m not such a dashed fool as all that comes to.”
“My mind is made up, Richard—I have decided irrevocably. Of course, you needn’t come, if you see objections; but I’ll bet you my Dean and Adams revolver and the Navy Colt against your repeating rifle that I do all I’ve said, and clear out safe.”
“Done!” I said. “I’ve no doubt you’ll try; but you might as well try to pull down the walls of Berrima Gaol with a hay-rake. You’ll make Sir Ferdinand’s fortune, that’s all. He always said he’d die happy if he could only bag you and the Marstons. He’ll be made Inspector-General of Police.”
Starlight smiled in his queer, quiet way.
“If he doesn’t rise to the top of the tree until he takes me—alive, I mean—he’ll die a sub-inspector. But we’d better sleep on it. This is an enterprise of great pith and moment, and requires no end of thought. We must get your sister to come over. That will crown all.”
“Good night,” I said, rather hasty. “We’d better turn the Hollow into Tarban Creek, and advertise for boarders.”
Next morning I expected he’d think better of it—we’d had a glass or two of grog; but no, he was more set on it than ever, and full of dodges to work it to rights. He certainly was wonderful clever in all sorts of ways when there was any devilment to be carried out. Half as much in the straight way would have made a man of him. But that’s the way of the world all over. He ain’t the only one.
As for father, he was like me, and looked on the notion as rank foolishness. He swore straight on end for about twenty minutes, and then said he expected Starlight would have his own way as usual; but he’d play at that game once too often. He supposed he’d be left in the Hollow all by himself, with Warrigal and the dog for company.
“Warrigal goes with me—might want him,” says Starlight. “You’re losing your nerve, governor. Perhaps you’d like to go to the ball too?”
Father gave a sort of growl, and lit his pipe and wouldn’t say no more. Starlight and I regular talked it out, and, after I’d heard all he had to say, it didn’t look quite so impossible as it did at first. We were to work apart. He was to get in with some of the betting men or sporting people that always came to country races, and I was to find out some of our old digger mates and box up with them. Warrigal would shift for himself and look after the horses, and have them ready in case we had to clear at short notice.
“And who was to enter Rainbow and look after him?”
“Couldn’t we get old Jacob Benton; he’s the best trainer I’ve seen since I left home? Billy the Boy told us the other day he was out of a job, and was groom at Jonathan’s; had been sacked for getting drunk, and so on. He’ll be all the more likely to keep sober for a month.”
“The very man,” I said. “He can ride the weight, and train too. But we can’t have him here, surely!”
“No; but I can send the horse to him at Jonathan’s, and he can get him fit there as well as anywhere. There’s nearly a month yet; he’s pretty hard, and he’s been regularly exercised lately.”
Jacob Benton was a wizened, dried-up old Yorkshireman. He’d been head man in a good racing stable, but drink had been the ruin of him—lost him his place, and sent him out here. He could be trusted to go right through with a job like ours, for all that. Like many men that drink hard, he was as sober as a judge between one burst and another. And once he took over a horse in training he touched nothing but water till the race was run and the horse back in his box. Then he most times went in an awful perisher—took a month to it, and was never sober day or night the whole time. When he’d spent all his money he’d crawl out of the township and get away into the country more dead than alive, and take the first job that offered. But he was fonder of training a good horse than anything else in the world; and if he’d got a regular flyer, and was treated liberal, he’d hardly allow himself sleep or time to eat his meals till he’d got him near the mark. He could ride, too, and was an out-and-out judge of pace.
When we’d regular chalked it out about entering Rainbow for the Grand Turon Handicap, we sent Warrigal over to Billy the Boy, and got him to look up old Jacob. He agreed to take the old horse, the week before the races, and give him a last bit of French-polish if we’d keep him in steady work till then. From what he was told of the horse he expected he would carry any weight he was handicapped for and pull it off easy. He was to enter him in his own name, the proper time before the races. If he won he was to have ten percent on winnings; if he lost, a ten-pound note would do him. He could ride the weight with some lead in his saddle, and he’d never wet his lips with grog till the race was over.