Part 8

The baby in the cradle had wakened up at the shot, had cried uneasily, and now not having been noticed was wailing pitifully, but its mother dared not move. She stood by the window, the two youngest children hanging on to her skirts, a strong-minded, capable woman, who had all her wits about her, but she too saw clearly they were caught in a trap. She looked across at Hollis, but he could only shake his head. There was nothing to be done, nothing.

A man stood on guard at each door, while the other four went through the house; they could hear them yelling and shouting to one another, pulling the furniture about, and every now and then firing off a shot in simple devilment, as if to show their prisoners that they had made sure of their prey and feared no interruption. The baby cried on, and the sunshine stole gradually up the wall; up and up it crept to the ceiling, and the clock ticked noisily on the mantelshelf--but there was no change, no hope for them. A crash of broken wood and glass told them that the bushrangers had found the store-room, and had made short work of bolts and bars. There were spirits stored there, brandy in plenty, as Bessie and her stepmother knew full well, and Hollis scanning their faces read clearly their thoughts--what chance would they have once these men began to drink! Ghastly stories of the bushranging days of Van Diemen’s Land rose before him, of innocent children murdered, of helpless women, and a groan burst from his lips as he thought that the woman he loved was in the power of men like these.

Bessie started forward, though the man at the door pointed his pistol straight at her.

“Oh, Tom,” she cried, “oh, Tom!”

“You go back,” ordered the guard angrily.

“Don’t be so hard,” said Bessie, suddenly. “You’ve got us safe enough. What can a lot of women and a wounded man do against you? You look kind,” she added, “do let me give baby to his mother, it’s wearying to everybody to hear him crying like that, and let me bind up Mr. Hollis’s hand, oh, please do.”

Her voice trembled at first, but she gained courage as she went on. She looked the man straight in the face, and she was very pretty.

He told her so with a coarse oath that sent the shamed blood to her face, and then crossed the room and spoke to the other man.

They whispered for a moment, and then curtly told the woman they intended to hold Hollis surety for them. If any one attempted to escape, they would, they said, “take it out of his skin.” Then one rejoined his comrades, while the other lolled against the doorpost, his pistol in his hand.

Lydia Warner crossed the room and gathered her baby in her arms, and Bessie stepped to Hollis’s side.

“Oh, Tom,” she whispered, “oh, Tom--” “Hush, dear, hush--here they come.” They came trooping in with coarse jokes and rough horseplay, bearing with them spoils from Lydia Warner’s well-filled storeroom, among them an unopened case of battle-axe brandy. This was the centre of attraction. For a moment even the man on guard craned his neck to watch, as the leader of the gang, the man they called the Mopoke, produced a chisel and a hammer and proceeded to open it.

Their prisoners took the opportunity to whisper together, Mrs. Warner joining her stepdaughter and Hollis.

“What can we do, Tom, oh, what can we do? They are beginning to drink now, and--”

“Slip away if you can, you and Bessie.” “No, no, they will shoot you--besides, we can’t.”

Bessie was binding up his wrist, and Mrs. Warner, bending over it, seemed to be giving her advice. The bushrangers had opened the case and were knocking off the heads of the bottles and drinking the brandy out of tea-cups, but the Mopoke looked over his shoulder almost as if he had heard them, and briefly reminded them that he held Hollis responsible, and that if any of them “sneaked off” he ‘d shoot Hollis “an’ make no bones about it, for we ain’t a-come here to be lagged.”

“Nevertheless,” muttered Hollis, “one of you must go--Bessie, I think. They’ll be mad with drink soon, and once drink’s in them there’s no knowing what they ‘ll do to any of us--go, dear, go--”

“I can’t, I can’t.” The girl’s hands were trembling, as she bound her handkerchief round his wrist, and the tears were in her eyes. Creep away to safety and leave him to die--how could she!

He said again, “Go, Bessie, go, they’ll never miss you; it’s really our only chance--you don’t know what they’ll do by and by.”

“Lydia, you go.” Bessie slipped her hand into Hollis’s uninjured one and held it tight. Even in his anxiety and misery he felt in her clasp, he read in her eyes, a something that had not been there half an hour ago. Oh, to be safe once more, to be free to woo and win her.

“I can’t leave the children,” said Mrs. Warner; “the Campbell girls are no good, and besides, Tom wants you to go, don’t you, Tom?”

He nodded. It was true enough; he was wild with anxiety to get her away. He would risk his life gladly--thankfully lay it down, if only he could be assured that Bessie was across the ranges safe in the Commissioner’s camp at Tin-pot Gully, and for the other women, their danger would be the same whether she went or stayed.

Bessie clasped his hand tighter and leaned her face against his arm for one brief second, while her stepmother went on.

“As soon as it’s dark slip out, and I must try and keep them amused. Dora can sing a little and I can play. Go straight across the ranges, and if--and if--I mean, tell your father. Oh, Bessie dear, make haste.”

She left them and joined the others, pausing a moment like a brave woman to speak to the leader of the band, and so give Bessie a chance of a last word with Hollis.

The sun had gone down now and darkness had fallen. The room was wrapped in gloom, and Bessie mechanically watched her stepmother draw down the blinds and light a couple of candles on the table, which, while they illuminated the circle of bushrangers, only threw into deeper darkness the corners of the room.

“You will go, dear,” muttered Hollis, “if only for the sake of that plucky woman.”

“I will do what you tell me,” she whispered. “I can’t bear to leave you, Tom; if they should find out they will kill you. Oh, Tom, Tom!”

“They won’t find out,” he said soothingly. “They haven’t counted you, nor noticed you much yet. And Mrs. Warner is wonderfully plucky. You ought to try and save her and those girls. Bessie, you don’t know what fiends those men can be.”