“You see the commander of that ’ere wessel what has got one of its masts a still sticking up, was in such a devil of a hurry to get to Melbourne, that he was a-crossing the bar at night in a storm, with the wind a-blowing hurricanes in his teeth. The men was all took off the wessel safe enough next morning, but the boat they put the women and the children into wer’n’t seaworthy, so it killed and went down clean, that did.”
“What, with all the women and children in it?” said a lady, in an agonised tone of voice.
“Well, I s’pose as how they floated about a bit at first, marm; howsomdever, they was all drowned, that I does know,” said the man.
Suddenly we withdrew our heads from the porthole, for a long boot was coming down just above us; the sole rested for a second on the outside shutter—it had made a mistake—and missed the appointed step. A moment after, and—
“God bless you all,” said a red face, looking in at us with an old straw hat on the top of it. “You’ve made a splendid voyage, that you have.”
The face and hat disappeared below now.
“You’ll see your names in the ‘Argus’ tomorrow, depend on it,” said the same voice, but in a much higher key; and we, looking out of the portholes again, saw the stout little man and his friend, who had been electrifying the people on deck with their accounts of the doings at Ballarat, descending the steps outside the ship, and soon after they were settling themselves in the boat below.
A few minutes more, and the boat, with the seven men in it, was a long distance off from us again, and on its way back to Melbourne.
It was five o’clock; the whole sky appeared inflamed by the sun’s mighty beams while he was sinking to rest.
Our ship was in Hobson’s Bay now, and 265 fine large vessels were lying at anchor in its sparkling waters.
We had arrived just opposite William’s Town, when the captain, in an authoritative tone of voice, called out:
“Let go the anchor.”
Three deafening cheers, that might have been heard miles off, at once testified the joy all felt at hearing those words.
Our deck was crowded with passengers, some clinging to the rigging, others standing on whatever would raise them high enough to catch a glimpse of the land they had chosen for their future home.
Exclamations of wonder and delight burst forth from all around; as the glorious sunset, the magnificent ships, the pretty town, the high rocks, and extensive bay came in for their share of admiration, there was such a clatter, such a din of voices! But, in the midst of this great excitement, every one was suddenly struck dumb, seemingly, for a military band on board a ship a long distance off from ours in the bay, commenced playing “Home, sweet Home;” and the beautiful melody stole over the waters in so soft, so melancholy a strain, that it filled our minds with memories of the past, and of those we might never see again, so that tears now were dimming the eyes of nearly all present.
“The Irish Emigrant” and “God save the Queen” were performed next, while the troops of the 40th Regiment were disembarking from the ship that had brought them from England, and getting into boats waiting to convey them to the shore.
About nine o’clock in the evening several gentlemen who had been to Melbourne returned to the ship.
“There is not a house or lodging to be got anywhere,” they exclaimed; “and the streets are crowded with riotous, drunken people.”
“What will become of us?—Why did I think of coming to Australia!—Why didn’t my husband leave me at home!” exclaimed the ladies. Some thought they had better remain on board the ship and go back to England again on her homeward voyage; but our ship was going to Calcutta first, so that arrangement would be awkward as well as expensive.
One of the gentlemen was reading aloud a list he had brought with him of the enormous prices charged for provisions, when another little mob of passengers returned to the ship, and these turned upside down all the others had said. These were elated with all they had seen and heard. Money was plentiful, they said, amongst all classes. They had seen an organ-boy pelted with half-crowns. They had been told by a man breaking stones in the road that he was only earning three pounds ten per week.
“Ooray!” said a poverty-stricken man to his dejected-looking wife; “I say, Mary-yan, there’s luck for you.”
“Champagne is drunk in public-houses instead of gin,” said another; “and oh my! don’t the ladies dress out a bit here; beautiful China-craps shawls with fringe a half-yard long! Shovels, picks, and cradles made of the purest gold are quite the fashion for rings, earrings, brooches and bracelets; and there’s lots of fun going on everywhere.”
“Hurrah! hurrah!” shouted the men: the ladies seemed pleased, too, and all retired to their cabins for the night in a happy frame of mind.
“How comfortably we shall sleep to-night, ma,” said Frederica, as she was clambering up into her berth; “no jolting, no tossing about to-night, you know.”
“I wonder what sort of a room we shall have to sleep in to-morrow night, ma?” said little Josephine.
“Oh, master, master, save me, I’m sinking; for God’s sake help me!” exclaimed a man in the water, just under our cabin-window, in a most piteous tone of voice.
I looked out, but could not see him; the moon had not yet risen. Josephine clung to me in fright, and Frederica sat straight up in her bed, exclaiming, “There’s a man drowning, ma! I’m sure there is, ma!” And in an instant she down out of her berth, put on a petticoat, clutched hold of a shawl, and rushed out of the cabin.
Josephine and I hastened to the captain’s cabin, which was near ours; but the captain was already
