Sally: The Tale of a Currency Lass

By J H M Abbott

Sally: The Tale of a Currency Lass by J.H.M. Abbott is about the tale of a young native-born Australian, and a flood bursting in upon Old Isaiah Tillottson and delivering a half-drowned infant with a mischievous personality. Excerpt: "THE rain came pelting down in drenching sheets, and a cold, bleak wind scurried the grey waves of driving clouds across the great wall of the Blue Mountains, until, from the high ground at the Green Hills—where the old town of Windsor, in New South Wales, has stood since Governor Macquarie's day…"

• Language: English
• Publisher: DigiCat
• Release date: Nov 22, 2022
• ISBN: 8596547407300

Book preview

J H M Abbott

Sally: The Tale of a Currency Lass

EAN 8596547407300

DigiCat, 2022

Contact: [e-mail]

Table of Contents

CHAPTER I.—THE GREAT FLOOD.

CHAPTER II.—THE CURRENCY LASS.

CHAPTER III.—THE FIVE OF HEARTS.

CHAPTER IV.—THE SECRET.

CHAPTER V.—CAPTAIN CROSSTHWAITE.

CHAPTER VI.—THE BUSHRANGERS.

CHATTER VII.—GOVERNOR MACQUARIE.

CHAPTER VIII.—THE ATTACK.

CHAPTER IX.—HELD BY THE BUSHRANGERS.

CHAPTER X.—THE BATTLE OF PROSPECT HILL.

CHAPTER XI.—FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

CHAPTER XII.—THE MOON CALF TAVERN.

CHAPTER XIII.—MR. MAINWARING.

CHAPTER XIV.—NEW DARTMOOR.

CHAPTER XV.—THE LITTLE SALLY.

CHAPTER XVI.—CAPTAIN CROSSTHWAITE'S CLAIM.

CHAPTER XVII.—GRANDFATHER.

CHAPTER XVIII.—PISTOLS FOR TWO.

CHAPTER XIX.—EXIT CROSSTHWAITE.

CHAPTER XX.—THE DUEL.

CHAPTER XXI.—OFF HUNTER'S RIVER.

THE END

CHAPTER I.—THE GREAT FLOOD.

Table of Contents

THE rain came pelting down in drenching sheets, and a cold, bleak wind scurried the grey waves of driving clouds across the great wall of the Blue Mountains, until, from the high ground at the Green Hills—where the old town of Windsor, in New South Wales, has stood since Governor Macquarie's day—it sometimes became impossible to tell whether they existed, or were merely the water-laden shapes of blacker and wetter clouds that were bursting down from the moisture swollen Heavens in overwhelming destructiveness upon the settlement at the Hawkesbury.

It was the time of the Great Flood of March, 1806, which devastated the granary of New South Wales, and brought ruin and disaster to so many of the settlers upon the rich flats and fertile meadows that lie between Emu Plains and the Lower Hawkesbury. There are people in sleepy old Windsor to-day who remember hearing of it first-hand from their grandparents, and to whose childhood the possibilities of a Big Flood, like THE Big Flood, were curiously blended with the story of Noah's Ark, and the problematical future destruction of the world. They have not forgotten the inundations they themselves have seen, but nothing that has happened since has ever been worthy of mention in the same breath with the flood of 1806, which the old people told them all about when they were little. The fine faculty of memory which is peculiar to any ancient Australian—the faculty of remembering things that did not happen—has done much to enhance the value of the reminiscences which those old Hawkesbury pioneers handed down to the Hawkesbury natives of the second generation. Many things that never took place will never be forgotten in the traditions of 1806—in Windsor and Richmond, and down by Sackville Reach.

It had rained at the beginning of the month, and on the 1st of March Surgeon Thomas Arndell begged leave to inform His Excellency, Captain Philip Gidley King, that the river has risen as high as at any time since I have been at the Hawkesbury River. And on the next day he wrote, I have the pleasure to inform your Excellency that the waters are abating. Though not a general deluge, much corn is lost on all the low lands. On the 9th, Mr. Arndell informed the Governor that he was engaged in estimating the damage done by the late floods. But on the 23rd he has to inform His Excellency of the dreadful damage inflicted on the district by such a flood as was never before known, even by the black men.

It was on that flood that the heroine of this story came floating into historical record. It was because March, 1806, was such a wet month that this story comes to be told. Because of that, and one or two other circumstances.

It was on Thursday when the wet weather recommenced. There were several heavy showers during the day, and by nightfall the rain seemed to have set in. All day Friday the downpour was incessant. The whole watershed of the Hawkesbury collected the deluge, and poured it into the river. Every little gully and every dark gorge in the mountains sent its stream of muddy water down towards the sea. All the creeks running into the eastern side of the river were bankers on Friday night. When the grey daylight came on Saturday, the Big Flood was in full being.

The Sydney Gazette of March 30—four pages of foolscap size—devoted three columns to the letter of its Hawkesbury correspondent, and here follows some of it. A contemporary account is worth quoting, for that quaint little parent of the Australian press is not easily accessible to every reader of this veracious narrative.

In the course of this dreadful day upwards of 200 wheat stacks were swept into the stream, and carried down the river with incredible velocity; stock of all descriptions were seen floating about, and on the tops of the stacks, but could not be saved for want of boats, those of Messrs. Thompson, Biggers and others being constantly employed taking the settlers' families from the roofs and ridges of the houses, where many had for whole hours clung despairing of assistance, and expecting to be shortly washed into the watery waste. Towards Richmond Hill it seemed to abate on Saturday evening; down the River it still rose—the distress and horror of that evening can neither be described or imagined. The day heavy and gloomy, the night fast approaching, torrents of rain pouring with unabating fury; and not a house except at the Green Hills to be seen, the roofs of one or two on the opposite side of the water being then only visible. Muskets were discharged by the settlers from trees and roofs all day, and great numbers had been taken up and left in safety on the higher grounds; but many were compelled to undergo a night of horror the most inexpressible; in the evening the dismal cries from distant quarters, the report of firearms dangerously charged in order to increase the noise of the explosion; the howling of dogs that had by swimming got into trees, all concurred to shock the feelings of the few that were out of the reach, but were sorrowful spectators of the calamity they could not relieve. On Sunday morning the rigor of the weather abated; and in the course of the day the water on the high lands showed a disposition to run off. Nearly 300 persons, saved from the deluge by the humane perseverance and incredible exertion of their rescuers were released from a state of actual famine by a supply sent from the Green Hills in consequence of His Excellency's request to Mr. Arndell to afford the sufferers every assistance and relief.

Our story opens on the Saturday afternoon, and its opening scene is set on the top of the hill upon which, a year or two subsequently, Governor Macquarie built the cottage, still standing in ruinous condition, which did duty as Government House for so many years, whenever the Vice-Regal court betook itself to Windsor.

Old Isaiah Tillotson stood near the top of the little island in the rain, and gazed across the wide yellow sea that stretched towards the mountains. Below him huddled a damp and unhappy flock of sheep, with their backs to the pelting rain, and in their patient, foolish faces a look of dull, uncomprehending pessimism that was startlingly similar to the expression of melancholy manifested by the countenance of Isaiah himself. They looked as if they knew that nothing worse could happen to them. Isaiah looked like that, too, with an additional air of being fully prepared for any further miracle of disaster that might accentuate the miseries of that disastrous day. Near by stood a man and a woman, who were deeply interested in the welfare of two calves, five pigs of assorted sizes, and some fowls. With them was an abnormally wet sheep-dog, whose drooping appearance indicated a state of dejection that was altogether in keeping with the involuntarily dejected bearing of his human associates. The day and the deluge were sufficiently depressing to make any dog dull.

It be a proper flood, bean't it? observed the old man, squeezing his dripping beard in a gnarled fist. So like th' flood in th' Good Book, as ever was, I'll go bail.

Happen the Ark'd coom a-sailin' by, laughed the woman softly, with all them pairs of animals in it, an' Father Noah a-steerin' like a old Dawlish skipper.

Her wet garments clung to her strong, rounded form, and her black hair blew out in the wind. She had a rosy, comely face, and might have been thirty years old, and that was about what she was.

The younger man—a great, red, deep-chested fellow—turned and looked at her admiringly. The inflection of her brave humour touched him. He grunted a deep kind of laugh that echoed her own.

Doan't 'ee be fulish, 'Lizbeth. How can Father Noah coom a-sailin' by when he be a-standin' here on the hill with me? If Uncle Issy bain't Father Noah, I be a black feller.

He pointed up at the old man, who indeed might well have stood for the patriarchal navigator of the Deluge, after a wet night on the upper deck of his strange ship.

You uns oughter be thankfuller than what ye be, grumbled old Tillotson; 'stead of jestin' an' makin' merry over th' Good Book, an' thishyer visitation, and all. Happen it hadn't been for my little place, y'd had no shelter this night, no roof for to keep th' rain often ye. Ain't ye best coom up along now, my dears, outen this a'mighty down pourin' of Heaven's wrath?

'Tes all raight, Uncle Issy, said the woman. We be main thankful to ye, an' all th' marcy of God. We'm lost our whoam, 'tes true, an' 'tes true that ye've give us shelter an' fire, an' 'tes true ye be a good old man, an' main comfortin' to such castaways as we uns. Iss, I'm thinkin' we'd be better inside your hut than out here in th' cold an' wet. Joe, laad, do'ee see th' boat's safe, an' coom indoors. We can do no more for these poor creatures that what we have. 'Tes not much, but it might be less. We've saved zummat, howsomever. Our two lives, an' these dumb beasts. Come, Roarer, she patted the dog's wet head, and he wagged his dripping tail, and licked her hand. We'll do as Uncle Issy says.

They followed the old man up to the crest of the hill, and over it, and came to a little hut, made of wattle and daub, and roofed with sheets of bark, kept in place by heavy saplings. Down below it, one aide of a brush sheep fold stood just above the yellow flood water, whilst the other two sides ran down a few yards and disappeared in the almost motionless tide of devastation that covered the fourth.

They came to the door, and the old man had his hand upon the fastenings, when suddenly the woman uttered a quick cry. The two men turned, to see her, with outstretched arm, pointing down to the little fold.

See there, Joe! Uncle Issy! Down in the sheep-fold—see it floating there! 'Tes a woman—a woman in th' water. God ha' mercy—how did she coom there?

She ran down to the waterside, her hair streaming behind her, and the men followed. Gathering up her skirts, and displaying a pair of substantial, shapely, and stockingless legs, she took the low fence in a flying leap, and, as her companions reached it, was stooping over a prostrate female form that lay half in and half out of the water.

What now! 'Lizbeth? said the red man, as he came beside her. Be she alive?

No life there, lad, murmured old Tillotson, shaking his grey head. But pick her up, an' carry her into my place—then we'll see for sartain. But what be this here? He pointed a horny forefinger at a black box, something like a small sea-chest, that was grounded a foot or so from the water's edge, and close beside the woman's body.

Pick her up, Joe, and carry her in—th' poor creature. Oh, but she be a beautiful one—th' poor dead dear, said the woman.

Stooping, the man took the limp form—so light and so water sodden—in his strong arms, and lifted her up as if she had been a child.

Come ye an' tend to her, said he. She may have some life in her yet.

Glory be! exclaimed Isaiah, look what's here! Glory be, glory be! Look i' th' box! Dang my buttons—look-ee here!

He had unfastened the simple catch, and opened the lid. Inside, almost quite dry, and warmly wrapped up in a blanket, lay a fat and healthy baby, fast asleep. It woke, as the cold rain beat down upon it when the lid was opened, and set up a lusty crying that sounded strangely cheerful in that desolate, drenched place.

Give it to me! cried the woman, snatching the baby out of the box, blanket and all, and pressing it to her sheltering bosom. Bring th' chest, Uncle Issy. Come, Joe, quickly—in out of the wet.

She ran up the hill, and was already seated by the fireside, when the red man laid his burden down upon the hearth, and old Isaiah came bumping in through the door with the square box in his arms.

Shet th' door. An' make the fire blaze, Joe, lad, she cried, as she took the wrappings from the child. We must see if there is life in th' poor woman. Strip her, strip her, Joe. 'Tes no shame where life's consarned. An' make ready your bed, Uncle Issy. Move yourselves. Oh, you men! Set th' fire blazing first.

Clumsily, the red man tore off the dripping garments from the inanimate body, and held her, white and naked, before the fire. The old man busied himself with the bed, and they laid her between his blankets. He lit a tallow candle and held it to her face. He sighed and shook his head.

No use, Joe Garledge, no use. See, her eyes are half-open, an' her lips are blue. She be dead, 'Lizbeth. She be as dead as ever she'll be.

Pressing the baby to her breast, the woman came to look. Ah me! she murmured softly. Iss, Uncle Issy—she be gone. An' her so pretty an' sweet. 'Tes cruel, cruel. Cover her up. But stay a moment. Here, Joe, hold ye th' babby.

The red man awkwardly received the child in his great arms, whilst 'Lizbeth closed the eyes of the dead woman, folded her limp hands across her breast, and drew the blanket up over the white and lovely face.

God rest th' poor soul of her, she murmured softly, turning to nurse the baby before the fire. Tears ran down her rosy