Chapter XVII. The Camp Fire.

Far away in the interior of New South Wales ten or twelve men were sitting round a camp fire. It was a deep glen, the sides of which were clothed in kurrajong and chestnut trees, through the thick foliage of which the rays of the moon could scarcely penetrate; but the scene was lighted up by the blazing logs, in the flickering light of which could be seen a number of bullock drays and American waggons drawn up on each side of a considerable lagoon. The tinkling of bells from different parts up and down the banks of the creek told that the horses and bullocks had been turned out for the night to forage for themselves, and the men having finished supper and piled up fresh logs, were sitting around, or lying down smoking, in the enjoyment of that most delightful of all repose, the rest by the camp fire, after a day's weary toiling through the bush—fanned by the balmy air of an Australian summer's night, and with only the blue canopy of Heaven above as a covering over them. Yarn, and song, and jest succeeded one another, and tales of bushrangers and hairbreadth escapes by flood and field whiled away the time till tired nature would assert itself and one after another should lay himself to sleep where he was, with his head on a saddle or swag and his feet to the fire.

They were rather a rough and boisterous lot, but there was one among them who did not enter so fully as the others into the conversation, and who, from his manner, and reticence, and the respect that was shown him when he took part in the conversation, was evidently not of the party. He had been travelling by himself, and having been invited by the draymen to join their party, he had gladly accepted the invitation, and having hobbled and turned out his horse, he became their guest for the night.

In appearance, he differed little from the rest of them. In a loose shirt and trousers, with a sash bound round his waist, with cabbage-tree hat and puggaree, he seemed to them a stockman, or a squatter on his way to the city. But although unknown to any of those among whom he found himself on this occasion, William Melville was well-known over a wide district further inland as a successful travelling trader, who had been accustomed for several years to traverse the country, visiting the outlying districts, disposing of his wares to the families and the hands on the stations. He had altered considerably since we last knew him as William Dillon, and with his bronzed face and flowing beard he might have passed without being recognised by those who had known him in other days. Three years had now elapsed since he effected his escape from Ireland, and as a trader he had been fairly successful. Whether the police authorities had entirely lost sight of him, or given over the pursuit, he had not been molested during all this time, nor had he encountered any suspicions identifying him with the fugitive from justice that had escaped. He had, it was true, read detailed accounts of his escape in the colonial papers, but there had been nothing to indicate suspicion that he had found his way to the colonies; so that he had come to the conclusion that now at last it would be safe for him to take out his family to rejoin him in the land of his adoption; and he was at this hour on his way to Bathurst to meet them, page 44 in accordance with arrangement. The Hampshire, in which they had sailed, had arrived at Sydney, and he had calculated that in two days they would reach the place indicated, from which he intended to take them up with him to the remote district on the Darling, in which he had been trading since his arrival in the colony.

He had frequently received letters from his wife of the most cheering kind, although she expressed a conviction that her movements were still watched, and in consequence of this she had some reluctance in acquiescing in his request that she should join him in the colony. Through her he had heard sometimes about Manson, but though he knew Man-son's address, and heard of his station on the Murrimbidgee, he deemed it unsafe to visit him, lest their former relationship might suggest to the authorities the probability of his going there, and so put the police on his track.

Filled with the pleasant anticipations of so soon meeting with his family, he had not entered so fully into all that was passing round the camp-fire as he otherwise might; but having fixed himself for the night at a little distance from the fire and from the rest of the travellers, his mind was engaged in planning out the future for his wife and children.

The evening had pretty far advanced, and most of the party had laid themselves down for the night, when the barking of the dogs at the drays announced the arrival of some other travellers coming up country.

Several of those who had not yet gone to sleep raised themselves to see who were the newcomers. They were two gentlemen apparently, not of the bushmen class, but with rather the appearance of city men, and they were accompanied by a servant leading a pack-horse.

With true bush hospitality they were at once invited to accept of the rough fare and accommodation of the camp, with which the gentlemen complied, saying that they felt too tired to go any further; and while two or three of the bushmen piled up the logs and swung the billies for the inevitable tea, and the two travellers seated themselves by the fire, the servant unpacked their baggage and taking out a small tent proceeded to set it up some little distance from the camp fire. When the two travellers had finished tea they sauntered about for a little, smoking before turning in for the night. They seemed to casually pass among the sleepers, but Dillon noticed that they glanced at each face as they passed, and this as well as an indescribable something in their appearance revived in his breast some of the old fears which seemed to have passed away before the pleasant anticipations of meeting in a day or two with his wife and children.

But little conversation had passed between them, and at last, throwing away their cigars, they entered the tent. The servant as well as the last of the bushmen had fallen asleep, the camp fire had gone down, and all was silence and darkness. The place where Dillon had lain down was near to the tent, and as his fears had again awakened he was eager to catch any conversation between the strangers. After they had entered the tent they spoke to one another in a subdued tone, but the word ‘Hampshire,’ falling on his ear aroused his most eager attention. He drew himself a little closer to the tent and listened. They scarcely spoke above a whisper.

‘Then she has started for the country?’

‘Yes, she booked for Bathurst on Tuesday for herself and the children. On the voyage she had said she was going up to the Darling; and so, when I found her started I thought I would push ahead.’

‘And did you hear anything about him?’

‘I think so; there is a man of the name—a sort of a hawker—away up on the Darling; and when I heard that she was going to the Darling, I knew that was my man. There's a thou, sticking out of it, my boy. Worth while coming from England for that, eh?’

‘But he is likely to go down to meet her, don't you think?’

‘Oh, that's all right. She is well watched. There's a fellow on the coach with her. He'll spot her all the way. I mean to push on to the Darling, hoping to meet him on the track. Darn these fellows! he may be among them. I couldn't get a look at them. Must be up betimes and have a peep.’

‘But, tell me, where has she been all this time?’

‘Why, over in France; but we had her watched, and as soon as we heard she was on the move, I was tailed off to escort her.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Found out the ship she took passage in, and took passage by the same. Got in tow with some of the old cronies on board, who wormed out of her where she was going. Soon as I heard she had booked as Mrs Melville, I knew I was on the straight track to his lair.’

‘Well, it does seem pretty straight sailing. Though I guess you will have to be pretty spry if you nab him. He is pretty wide awake, I fancy.’

‘Yes; but he's off his guard now, I dare say, or he would not have sent for the wife.’

‘Poor devil; he has affections like other people.’

‘I suppose so. Murder hardens them perhaps, but he must be fond of his family all the same, or he would not have run the risk of turning up to them again. And such nice children as they are too. It went to my heart to be watching them. The eldest little girl, one of the prettiest, sweetest little things ever you saw. A perfect little beauty, and so good to her mother and her little brothers. She's like a little mother herself, I heard her one evening teaching them their prayer, and how she page 45 told them to pray for “poor dear father;” I tell you it went to my heart.’

‘Poor things. It will take something to save the father I am afraid. Do you know Dillon?’

‘Yes, well. I was there when he was tried and saw him make the bolt. I knew him before, besides.’

‘Oh, then you will have no difficulty in recognising him.’

‘Not a bit. But let us get to sleep. Knock me up at daylight if you are awake. I suppose these bush people move early and I want to have a good look at them. Good night.’

It was barely above a whisper, but Dillon heard it all. It was the dashing down of all his hopes in an instant. For three years he had never had cause for a moment's fear. Now, when he had thought all had ended, danger as great as he had ever known was before and around him. His heart had almost ceased to beat, as with his senses quickened to the utmost intensity he had drunk in every word. What waa he to do? To go on to meet his wife he durst not. He was in instant danger where he was. He hardly thought it worth the trouble to make another effort. Better end his life of misery at once. To be so near to those so very dear to him, and yet unable to look upon their faces, to speak to them a word; to not be able even to explain to them his absence. He felt utterly prostrate. He might have known a trap would be laid for him. This was what his wife had feared. She thought she had been watched. She dreaded the venture. He had urged her to come; and now she had come with the representatives of the law actually accompanying her.

He drew himself stealthily away from the tent. Everything was silent save the rustling of the leaves, and now and then the tinkling of a bullock-bell. The whole camp was asleep, except the two travellers, and they would soon be in the same state. Sick at heart, he yet felt he must break the net that had been laid for him. He thought he could not have been saved so long, and saved so wonderfully, to perish at the last; and the singular fact that he should have overheard such a conversation seemed a warning from Providence, and an assurance that he would not even now be abandoned.

With every fibre of his body instinct with animation, he lay still and silent as the night. He was determined to make another dash for life and liberty; but he felt chained to the spot until he should feel assured that the two travellers were asleep. At last, after an hour, which seemed to him an age, he slowly arose; he quietly crept further into the shadow of the trees. He carefully clambered we the bank to the flat above. Fortunately it was there that he had unsaddled and hobbled his horse. He was now out in the bright moonlight, and if anyone was abroad his movements could be clearly seen.

Without much difficulty he found his horse; to saddle and mount was the work of a few minutes. He turned his hors's head at right angles to the road they had been travelling and dashed into the bush. The clatter of the horse's feet startled the other horses and the cattle; there was a general ringing of bells; it startled the watch-dogs at the drays, and for many miles Dillon could hear the baying of the dogs behind him in the distance as he flew through the forest.