Ken Wilder, the Managing Director of William Collins in Australia at the time of Poor Fellow My Country’s publication, could hardly believe that a renowned anti-colonialist and diehard Anglophobe such as Xavier Herbert would even consider publishing with a British publisher such as theirs. Capricornia had been famously rejected by a number of British publishers before being taken up by Stephensen and published independently by the Publicist Publishing Company. Angus & Robertson had taken over after that, publishing not only Capricornia but also Seven Emus (1959) and Soldiers’ Women (1961). They expected and desperately wanted Poor Fellow My Country as well. But the old company had changed, and Herbert had grown increasingly dissatisfied with them, and was determined to prevent them from publishing it. Sir William Collins was a Scot, and his company had been Scottish-owned for 160 years. To Herbert, that made all the difference, because Australia and Scotland shared a colonial condition. He took comfort too that, in the ’60s, when Sir Frank Packer sold his 25 per cent sharehold in Angus & Robertson, it had been Collins that stepped into the breach, taking up 20 per cent; and it was Wilder who had replaced Packer on the board. In fact, it was while working at Angus & Robertson that Wilder had become convinced of the need to publish Australian material. It was he who had coaxed George Johnston back to Australia in 1964 to promote My Brother Jack. That event, and Collins’ publishing of Poor Fellow My Country ten years later, marked the undoubted high points of Wilder’s career. In 1980 Collins merged with the US publisher Harper and Row to form HarperCollins, and in 1989 the company acquired Angus & Robertson. So it is with some appropriate irony that Poor Fellow My Country now appears alongside Capricornia in the A&R Classics series under the HarperCollins masthead.
Poor Fellow My Country has inspired filmmakers (Baz Luhrmann), artists (Ray Crooke, Robert White, Clyve Elliot), poets (John Kinsella, Ouyang Yu), songwriters (Ted Egan) and photojournalists (PJ Hoggers). It has been transcribed into Braille and produced as a sound recording for print-disabled readers. It has been translated into Japanese. When a new Japanese ambassador was appointed to Australia in 1982 he prepared for his posting by reading Poor Fellow My Country. The denunciation of Australia as a ‘community of thieves’ continues to resonate; in 1984 protesters carried a sign with the relevant quotation at a land rights rally at Oyster Cove in Tasmania, the unmarked grave site of the forty-seven survivors of the Wybalenna settlement on Flinders Island who were taken there and left to die. The land claim initially was unsuccessful. Not until 1995 was the site transferred to the Aboriginal community. They had already erected a marker at the site by that time with Herbert’s words inscribed on the colours of the Aboriginal flag. According to Cassandra Pybus, however, in her 1991 family memoir — again titled Community of Thieves — the marker is regularly pockmarked with bullet holes and defaced with graffiti. It’s hard to imagine a stronger reason for reissuing Poor Fellow My Country than this.
Professor Russell McDougall,
School of Arts, University of New England
2014
Principal Characters
Ah Loy, Willy husband of Nelyerri
Barbu Ram (‘Ali Barba’) Indian hawker
Bickering, Mr Justice Judge of the Supreme Court
‘Bloke’ official of Free Australia Movement
Bobwirridirridi (‘Cock-Eye Bob’, the Pookarakka) Aboriginal witch-doctor of the Rainbow-snake Cult
Brew, Billy donkey teamster
Bullco Superintendent of police
Bundy stipendiary magistrate
Burrows, Oz railway porter
Cahoon, Dinny police sergeant
Candlemas, Aelfrieda (‘Alfie’) authoress and reformer
Candlemas, Frank husband of Aelfrieda
Chase, Chas railway guard
Chief founder of Free Australia Movement
Cobbity, Dr Cuthbert Protector of Aborigines
‘Cock-Eye Bob’ see Bobwirridirridi
Collings, Col station master
Cootes, Fabian anthropologist
Cullity, Con publican, son-in-law of Shamus Finnucane
Cullity, Bridie daughter of Shamus Finnucane
Curry, Mick publican, son-in-law of Shamus Finnucane
Curry, Colleen daughter of Shamus Finnucane
Delacy, Jeremy father of Martin and Clancy, lessee of Lily Lagoons
Delacy, Martin elder son of Jeremy. Manager of Beatrice River Station, father of Prindy
Delacy, Clancy younger son of Jeremy. Manager of Catfish Station
Delacy, Jumbo halfcaste brother of Jeremy
Dickey, Denzil aide to Sir Mark Esk
Doscas, Dicky Clerk of Court
Eaton, Rhoda ex-wife of Jeremy Delacy, mother of Martin and Clancy
Esk, General Sir Mark British-appointed C-in-C of the Australian Army
Ferris, Fergus anthropologist and pilot
Finnucane, Shamus (‘Shame-on-us’) Irish proprietor of the Beatrice River Hotel
Fox, Dr Felix Flying Doctor
Glascock, Father missionary at the Leopold Islands
Hannaford, Pat engine driver and Communist agitator
Hoff, Dr Kurt Jewish refugee
Jinbul police tracker for Dinny Cahoon
Jones, Porky railway fireman
‘King George’ (Njorjinga) Aboriginal tribal uncle of Prindy
Knowles, Nat founder of Lily Lagoons
Knowles, Ned son of Nat Knowles
Lilyponds, Phyllis schoolteacher at Port Palmeston Aboriginal Compound
Lyndbrooke-Esk, Lady Lydia daughter of Sir Mark Esk, fiancée of Lord Vaisey
Maltravers (‘Malters’) aide to Sir Mark Esk
Maryzic, Monsignor missionary priest
McCusky, Eddy Administration officer of Aborigines
McFee, Fay a journalist
McQuegg, Dr Government medical officer
Nanago Jeremy Delacy’s second wife, a halfcaste
Nelyerri halfcaste mother of Prindy
Njorjinga see ‘King George’
Okada, Capt. Japanese pearler
Pickles Naval Chief Petty Officer, later Lieutenant
Prindy quarter-caste son of Nelyerri and Martin Delacy
‘Queeny Peg-leg’ ‘queen’ of the Aboriginal Compound. Tribal sister of Nelyerri
Rosen, Rifkah refugee Jewess
St Clair Professor of Anthropology
Sakamura Japanese pearler
Shane, Capt. Vic pearling master
‘Silver Tongue’ a conservative Prime Minister
Sims, Sergeant Army Signal Corps
‘Storm-the-barricades’ a socialist Prime Minister
Stunke, Herbert police constable
Tasker, Rev. Mr Protestant missionary
Tinball, Jack railway engine driver
Toby, Capt. naval officer
Toohey, Tom railway ganger, husband of Possum, father of Brumby and Micky
Tripconny, Silas politician, father of Alfie Candlemas
Turkney, ‘Tubby’ Superintendent of Aboriginal Compound, Port Palmeston
Vaisey, Lord Alfred British ‘beef baron’
Wyndeyer, Kitty court reporter and telephonist
BOOK ONE
TERRA AUSTRALIS
1
I
The small boy was Aboriginal — distinctly so by cast of countenance, while yet so lightly coloured as to pass for any light-skinned breed, even tanned Caucasian. His skin was cream-caramel, with a hair-sheen of gold. There was also the glint of gold in his tow-tawny mop of curls. Then his eyes were grey — with a curious intensity of expression probably due to their being set in cavernous Australoid orbits where one would expect to see dark glinting as of shaded water. His nose, fleshed and curved in the mould of his savage ancestry, at the same time was given just enough of the beakiness of the other side to make it a thing of perfection. Likewise his lips. Surely a beautiful creature to any eye but the most prejudiced in the matter of race. Indeed, but for knowing the depth and breadth of prejudice against the very st
rain that gave him perfection, one might well be amazed to know that such a thing could stand up to the sight of him. Yet most people, at least of this remote northern part of the Australian Continent, would dismiss him as just a boong. He was aged about eight.
He was squatting beside a waterhole alone, fishing. He wore only khaki pants, the rent stern of which exposed a piece of his behind so cloosely matching the bleached cloth as to be scarcely noticeable. In one delicate truly Aboriginal hand he held a fishing line, in the other a fish-spear. As the Aboriginal fisherman or hunter must to ensure his catch, he was singing, softly:
Kowee, Tjala!
Long o’ me come, Old Catfish
I sing you . . . Kowee, kowee, kowee!
Old Catfish, must you come . . .
It was not the mere monotone that mostly goes for Aboriginal singing, but oddly tuneful, and especially sweet as the only sound in all the small world thereabout, because everything else was sleeping out the midday heat, even the wind, so that the pool — emerald, silver, blue-enamel, gold — lay still as glass.
The pool was rockbound; by a sloping tumble on the side where the boy squatted amongst roots of a banyan that made the ruddy sandstone look as if crawling with grey snakes; on the other by a sheer wall grown with ferns and other clinging vegetation and topped with trees of which the branches mingled with those of the banyan.
I sing you . . . Kowee, kowee, kowee!
Old Tjala, you got ’o come . . .
A golden flicker in the emerald depths. The slack line quickened. The grey eyes fairly blazed with intensity. The golden-brown hand drew the line. Up came the shadow. The fish-spear was poised. But the line fell slack and the shadow drifted down and vanished. The line came up without bait. The perfect lips moved to a soft throaty growl: ‘Bloody bastard!’
He turned, to reach for a grubby cotton flour-sack hanging in the roots — to stiffen in that attitude. Only an eye of extraordinary sharpness could so quickly have discerned anything untoward, so much a part of the background was that which had intruded into it — or materialised out of it, as seemed as likely.
It was of human shape, greyish, or blackish made grey with dust and ashes and ancient body hair, so as to appear kindred to the crawling roots. It had stick legs, with shapeless lumpy feet and knobby knees, arms like a mantis, a tuft of grey hair sticking up like the crest of an angry bird out of a grubby ochred head-band, and whiskers plaited into a long goatee about slivers of cane or grass, an almost flat nose with slit septum dangling loosely from enormous nostrils. It seemed to be sightless as a death’s head — till suddenly there burnt within the black caverns what looked like live coals.
The seeming apparition wore no clothing, except the ceremonial loin-covering called the Hair Belt, a wide belly-band made of cord woven from human hair with a narrow pubic apron falling to the knees. The band was no mere covering, but also served for carrying numerous objects — gungu, or fire-lighting kit, quartz knife, minga-minga sticks for clicking accompaniment to singing, and a couple of boomerangs. Other articles were carried in dilly-bags of woven fibre slung round the scrub-turkey-like neck back and front, while the skeleton left arm was crooked about an assortment of spears, and the claw-like right hand held a womera. But what was of first importance in the rigout, from an Aboriginal point of view, were the cicatrised markings in the slaty skin. Ridges were cut and brands burnt into upper arms, shoulders, breast, belly, thighs, some of very intricate design. From these a knowledgeable eye would read the wearer’s status, which in this case must have been considerable.
Not a move from either. Both might have been spellbound.
The spell was broken by slight movement of the claw holding the womera — raising of the index finger. In common sign-language that meant ‘Who are you?’
It was the proper way of greeting between strangers, for the elder to ask and the younger to respond, not with personal names, but the sign for his Skin, meaning his place in the relationship system, literally his Substance — although nothing could be more literal than the native interpretation, Skin. This was his eternal identity with the Dream Time and the factor determining his behaviour towards others, strangers or not. However, whatever the proprieties, there are strangers and strangers, and the wisdom of declaring one’s identity to be considered. A stranger who seemed to have materialised out of nothing might well be a Moomboo or Devil-devil, wanting to know your Skin only to judge the propriety of eating you. The only response to the sign was a blink of grey eyes and slight quiver of lovely lip.
The grey whiskers parted in a wide grin, then jerked to cackling speech: ‘Koyada kumeri.’
Still no response. A moment of intense exchange of staring. Then the burning coals flicked to the pool. The grey glance followed. Again the golden shadow. The fair head turned, to see the mantis claws divesting themselves of dunnage. Rather like a grey spider, the unencumbered figure came slipping through the roots, to step into the shallow water a few feet from the boy, who stood as if ready to bolt. The mantis was intent now only on what was below. Swaying, and with claw to mouth, he began to chant, thin and nasal of tone, true blackfellow singing, C-sharp, E, C-sharp, each repeated four times, to accompaniment of slapping the water:
Mah-nah, mah-nah, mah-nah, mah-nah
Gu-dah, gu-dah, gu-dah, gu-dah
Mah-nah, gu-dah, mah-nah, gu-dah
Yuk!
A resounding slap went with the last note; then up an octave to repeat; down again. All the while the shadow circled and rose. Suddenly the claw left the mouth to make the gesture of spearing, while the red eyes shot a significant glance at the watchful grey eyes — without pause in chanting and slapping: ‘Mah-nah, gu-dah, mah-nah, gu-dah — Yuk!’
The boy caught on, raised the spear, stood poised to strike.
The long dorsal fin cut the surface.
Zip! The spear flew, struck, wobbled, spun violently, vanished into a bloody whirlpool. As grey eyes glanced again at the death’s head, the latter split to cackle, ‘Yakkarai . . . Properlee . . . Numberr-one!’
Eyes back to the pool as the haft of the spear popped up to cut wild capers through the stained emerald, at last to collapse, to reveal its whiskery victim convulsing weakly on the barbs. The boy looked at the Master of Magic, received a nod, hesitated a moment, then slipped into the water, seized the spear, flung the fish ashore. It was a beauty, a good ten pounds in weight. Again the wide grin and the cackled comment: ‘Properlee!’
The boy looked as wary as before on coming out. The death’s head cackled at him, ‘No-more fright!’ The index finger rose again.
Again hesitation. Then a small hand gave the sign Julama.
Along with a still wider grin, the claw came up to give the same sign. This meant they were tribal brothers — or, because of the difference in age, paternal grandsire and grandson. Bond of blood wouldn’t enter into it, not even had they been truly related, because theirs was a matrilinear social system, with male authority vested primarily in mother’s brothers. Their bond would be one more of affection, no less strong for having its basis solely in tradition, their responsibility to each other simply exchange of the wisdom of age for the physical advantages of youth. This matter of responsibility was raised at once, when one of the claws reached to smooth a plump golden-brown shoulder in the Aboriginal way of expressing affection, while the cackle took on the whine customary in asking favours: ‘Plenty beef you got him, eh? Goot tucker long o’ dat place you sit down.’ Curl of the perfect lips in a slight smile. ‘Which way you sit down, Kumija?’ At a questioning look in the grey eyes, the cackle added: ‘Kumija . . . dat one Granny. Wha’ nam’ you call-yim?’
The answer was given in a whisper, but with breath inhaled in the native way: ‘Mora.’
‘Ah! Where you sit down, Mora?’
To tell a stranger where one camped was to accept him. Likewise to use his language. A blink of the grey eyes first, then: ‘Catfish Station . . . Kumija.’
A long red tongue flashed over whiskered lips:
‘Ah . . . teeshum tucker!’ The whine again: ‘Too-much me hungry long o’ dat one . . . bre’millik me like him. No-goot long o’ binji.’ A claw rubbed the brand-burnt stomach that seemed so hollow as to reveal the backbone.
Young Granny nodded understanding of what was required of him. Both looked at the fish gasping its last. Old Granny said, ‘You tek him long o’ teeshun, give him cook.’ He pulled the quartz knife from his belt, slit a length of bark from a root, gave it to the boy. The boy slipped it through the fish’s gills. Then he picked up his three small spears and the gunny-sack, and the fish, which he tossed over his shoulder. Old Granny nodded for him to go ahead. He climbed through the roots to the top of the tumble of rock. He stopped and looked back. No sign of Old Granny. He peered down. He looked around wide-eyed. Old Kumija had vanished the way he had appeared — as if by magic. The grey eyes rolled in wariness. Then with a swift movement he started away from the rocks and banyans, got out into the open. Still no sign. After a moment he set out southward, following the bank of a deep dry creek. He went with the swift easy lope of a blackfellow, but with the swift uneasy glances about of one travelling alone. In a land largely peopled by spirits one must be vigilant always. They had to materialise to do you harm. You had to be a jump ahead of them. It was probably concession to the boy’s non-Aboriginal heritage that, Aboriginal enough as he seemed otherwise, he dared to be travelling alone.
The sandstone of the locality, projection of a distant Plateau to be just glimpsed through the ragged open forest to northward, and the dark red sandy soil and forest, soon gave way to grey plain with meaner growth and a profusion of small spiked grey termites’ nests, or Ant Beds, as called in these parts, except along the creek-bank, where water-gums and coolibahs and the like grew stoutly, despite the dryness that would obtain for most of the year. The bed of the creek, now of white sand, blazed silver. So the boy travelled for about a mile and a half, when he came to a sharp bend in the creek, round which was revealed a very different vista. From a wide bar of rock that was the determining factor in the change of direction, shimmering blue water stretched away southward to vanishing point in the dense greenery of its banks. A ruddy smudge on the blue enamel of the sky in that direction told of dust blowing on the rising afternoon wind.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 2