Robbery Under Arms, Rolf Boldrewood [pdf e book reader txt] 📗

alongside, and very proud I was. My legs stuck out straight on the old pony’s fat back. Mother had ridden him up when she came⁠—the first horse she ever rode, she said. He was a quiet little old roan, with a bright eye and legs like gateposts, but he never fell down with us boys, for all that. If we fell off he stopped still and began to feed, so that he suited us all to pieces. We soon got sharp enough to flail him along with a quince stick, and we used to bring up the milkers, I expect, a good deal faster than was good for them. After a bit we could milk, leg-rope, and bail up for ourselves, and help dad brand the calves, which began to come pretty thick. There were only three of us children⁠—my brother Jim, who was two years younger than I was, and then Aileen, who was four years behind him. I know we were both able to nurse the baby a while after she came, and neither of us wanted better fun than to be allowed to watch her, or rock the cradle, or as a great treat to carry her a few steps. Somehow we was that fond and proud of her from the first that we’d have done anything in the world for her. And so we would now⁠—I was going to say⁠—but that poor Jim lies under a forest oak on a sandhill, and I⁠—well, I’m here, and if I’d listened to her advice I should have been a free man. A free man! How it sounds, doesn’t it? with the sun shining, and the blue sky over your head, and the birds twittering, and the grass beneath your feet! I wonder if I shall go mad before my time’s up.

Mother was a Roman Catholic⁠—most Irishwomen are; and dad was a Protestant, if he was anything. However, that says nothing. People that don’t talk much about their religion, or follow it up at all, won’t change it for all that. So father, though mother tried him hard enough when they were first married, wouldn’t hear of turning, not if he was to be killed for it, as I once heard him say. “No!” he says, “my father and grandfather, and all the lot, was Church people, and so I shall live and die. I don’t know as it would make much matter to me, but such as my notions is, I shall stick to ’em as long as the craft holds together. You can bring up the girl in your own way; it’s made a good woman of you, or found you one, which is most likely, and so she may take her chance. But I stand for Church and King, and so shall the boys, as sure as my name’s Ben Marston.”

II

Father was one of those people that gets shut of a deal of trouble in this world by always sticking to one thing. If he said he’d do this or that he always did it and nothing else. As for turning him, a wild bull halfway down a range was a likelier try-on. So nobody ever bothered him after he’d once opened his mouth. They knew it was so much lost labour. I sometimes thought Aileen was a bit like him in her way of sticking to things. But then she was always right, you see.

So that clinched it. Mother gave in like a wise woman, as she was. The clergyman from Bargo came one day and christened me and Jim⁠—made one job of it. But mother took Aileen herself in the spring cart all the way to the township and had her christened in the chapel, in the middle of the service all right and regular, by Father Roche.

There’s good and bad of every sort, and I’ve met plenty that were no chop of all churches; but if Father Roche, or Father anybody else, had any hand in making mother and Aileen half as good as they were, I’d turn tomorrow, if I ever got out again. I don’t suppose it was the religion that made much difference in our case, for Patsey Daly and his three brothers, that lived on the creek higher up, were as much on the cross as men could be, and many a time I’ve seen them ride to chapel and attend mass, and look as if they’d never seen a clearskin in their lives. Patsey was hanged afterwards for bushranging and gold robbery, and he had more than one man’s blood to answer for. Now we weren’t like that; we never troubled the church one way or the other. We knew we were doing what we oughtn’t to do, and scorned to look pious and keep two faces under one hood.

By degrees we all grew older, began to be active and able to do half a man’s work. We learned to ride pretty well⁠—at least, that is we could ride a barebacked horse at full gallop through timber or down a range; could back a colt just caught and have him as quiet as an old cow in a week. We could use the axe and the crosscut saw, for father dropped that sort of work himself, and made Jim and I do all the rough jobs of mending the fences, getting firewood, milking the cows, and, after a bit, ploughing the bit of flat we kept in cultivation.

Jim and I, when we were fifteen and thirteen⁠—he was bigger for his age than I was, and so near my own strength that I didn’t care about touching him⁠—were the smartest lads on the creek, father said⁠—he didn’t often praise us, either. We had often ridden over to help at the muster of the large cattle stations that were on the side of the range, and not more than twenty or thirty miles from us.

Some of our young stock used to stray among