Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Dr Cobbity said, ‘Being interested in snakes and things in bottles is no criterion of intelligence. Young apes show a lively interest in everything. The point is, has he talked to you?’

  ‘Well, no . . . I can’t say I’ve heard him say a word.’

  Then there at Jumbo’s one morning, instead of Barney with the Compound truck, was Mr McCusky with his car, and a neat little outfit in galatea for him to put on in place of those too-big khakis Daddy Christmas Cahoon had given him. They were going to Court, said McCusky. From Jumbo’s they went on to the Hospital to pick up Nell, who was already dressed up, in the pretty Cahoon dress, which fitted her much better now. Evidently she had been instructed to be ready, but thought she was merely leaving hospital, because she looked scared when Court was mentioned. Doubtless McCusky had experience of losing Aboriginal witnesses through too early talk of Court. As it was he delivered them into the Courtroom a matter of minutes before the proceedings of the Inquest began.

  So many eyes leaping to challenge the grey eyes — blue eyes, green, grey, brown, black — and the grey widening to meet them but never flinching. So intense was the staring at him in that moment of his appearance that he might have been seen for what he really was if only he chose to be, the star witness. He looked first to the left, since when entering from the verandah fronting the street that was the side where the assemblage was most dense, packed as it seemed to be by reason of the limited capacity of the place. There were, in fact, only three rows of seating forms, long church-like things with backs to them, six in all, since there was an aisle between them leading from a door at the rear. The aisle served also as division between those concerned with Prosecution and Defence, who were seated in the front row, with desk-like tables before them, the former being the further in, seeing that Daddy-o Cahoon was there, with his long legs stuck out under a desk and arms folded, and others of his khaki-clad kind with him, and seeing that the newcomers were halted at the first bench and pushed into places there with several strangers. Daddy-o waved and smiled at them. They only stared their recognition. There was another familiar face in the bench behind them, ruddy and grey-eyed and grey-haired, near enough to lean forward and say, ‘Hello, sonny.’ Prindy looked into those eyes so like his own, the Mullaka’s, but could do no more.

  And then in being seated, they were confronted with the other so different aspect, the reared bench, above it the Royal Arms, below the desk of the Clerk of Court, Mr Doscas, so vast of girth as to take up the room of three ordinary persons and breathing like a stranded dugong, at the inner end of the desk another presence, a familiar one, Miss Kitty Wyndeyer, the Court Reporter, seated at her typewriter, nodding and smiling to her little friend. These were directly in front. To the left was the Dock, ranged along the pale green wall, also elevated, and fully occupied, with forms in uniform prison grey, above which soon to be made out were familiar black faces; Uncle Splinter, Father-in-law Green-ant and others of the station staff — but that gaunt face at the far end, clean-shaved, topped with a fuzz of clipped grey hair, beneath it the clothes, surely unrecognisable to one who knew it looking so different, yet the eyes, those burning coals of eyes, unforgettable, and seizing now the grey eyes and with their intensity surely reading the mind behind. A slight twist of the crack of a mouth perhaps to show that what was read was good. Then the red eyes flicked away, to concentrate on the Royal Arms of England. The grey eyes were drawn with them. A great garish thing, it was as flamboyant as the Kings of England must have been in their truly kingly beginnings — white and red and blue and gold, the Lion and the Unicorn, a’fighting for the Crown — Honi Soit Qui Mal y Pense on a princely buckler, Dieu et Mon Droit on a ribbon of royal blue — the alien totem, the symbol of the kuttabah, the white stranger in all his ruthless might.

  The burning eyes came back to meet the grey, as if to read again. Again the twist of smile. Then they looked straight ahead, over the bald dome of Fatty Doscas, over the tables of Miss Kitty and the two newspaper reporters, a fair fat woman and a lean dark man, over the empty jury pews, out through the wide open windows giving perfect view of the harbour, right across and to include almost all of the western shore. Again the grey eyes turned as if by order. Their view was through the wide doorway. The tide was out, so that some of the near shore with its careened vessels of many sorts could clearly be seen over the edge of the cliff across the road from the Court House. There was the jetty, there another steamboat, another flying boat; but what was most striking of all by far and surely was what was ordered to be looked at was Rainbow Head standing high out of water and fairly blazing in the morning sunlight, with behind it, straggling away southward out of view, a line of jagged rocks past which the incoming tide was seething with such force that, aided by mirage, the whole thing looked like a mighty monster swimming. That was the treacherous Rainbow Reef, one of the few geographical features in the land named by the whiteman after the geography of the blackmen, who believed it to be one of the Shades, and perhaps the most dangerous, of the Rainbow Snake. But there was no time for another exchange of glances to show whether the significance was understood. Scarcely had Prindy set eyes on the amazing thing when there was a shout: ‘Silence in Court . . . be upstanding!’ And the grey eyes, startled, turned to be arrested by the sight of an old whiteman, white-haired and white-moustached and wearing a black silk gown, come through a small door directly under the English King’s totem, and to be hauled to his feet by Mr McCusky. The old man bowed slightly to the assembly, some of whom returned the gesture, including Mr Doscas, who in the process exposed the outlines of a prodigious arse and what must have been veritable pack-bags of testicles dangling between his legs. The old man seated himself on his throne. The assembly sank down again, with the exception of Mr Doscas, doubtless through knowing that he would soon have to rise again and what the effort would cost.

  The enthroned old gentleman was Mr Bundy, Stipendiary Magistrate, and Coroner. He began proceedings by lowering his head to take a look at his audience over his spectacles, a long and searching look, as if wanting to know whom he had to deal with. Certainly it was not a mere gesture of authority, that is to say an act put on to give weight to his personal insignificance, like the bright insignia hanging above his bleached old head, because it was clear that he looked at Jeremy Delacy with recognition, and with curiosity at the men beside him, one a plump dark little fellow, Dr Fabian Cootes, noted Anthropologist, and a fair young man with the suggestion of a harelip, Dr Cootes’s assistant, a Mr Fergus Ferris. It was also evident that Prindy caught his eye. Having thus apprised things for himself, he then gave a tap with his gavel and said in a thin old man’s voice but with a ring to it from long use of it in such circumstances, ‘This Coronial Inquiry is sitting . . . proceed.’

  Mr Doscas then stated, reading from a paper of official blue, what they were there for, in the name of His Most Gracious Majesty, his Peace and Dignity, concluding by naming as first witness Constable Stunke. Stunke rose from the form across the way and came stomping past in his policeman’s riding boots, climbed into the Witness Box, to which the Court Usher, another policeman, he who had shouted for silence, went to present him with the Bible. ‘Take the Bible in your right hand . . .’ Stunke went through it all like drill, going on to affirm that he was Herbert Stunke, Constable of Police, stationed at Beatrice River, and how on such and such a day he received certain information, all in measured sentences so that Miss Wyndeyer could get it down on her clacking typewriter, to the wonderment of Prindy watching her long white fingers flying over the little keys as when they had been extracting sweet droning sounds from the bigger keys of the harmonium — and to the apparent boredom of the Pookarakka up there at the head of the line of prisoners who shut his eyes and dropped his hairless bony chin into the grey collar of his shirt, surely showing himself to be a wise one by sleeping through what he had experienced several times and still had not the slightest understanding of or respect for. At last Herbert Stunke stood down and stomped away.

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nbsp; Next witness was Dr Fox, revealed as being first-named Felix. He said this, and that, and identified something extracted from a large envelope and handed to him as the object he had withdrawn from the stomach of the corpse of one Willy Ah Loy, who in his opinion had died from haemorrhage caused by the said exhibit. Next was Clancy Francis Delacy, who told something of the truth about his part in the affair, despite his having started off by declaring: ‘I swear before Almighty God to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’ Then it was Dennis Aloisius Cahoon, Sergeant of Police, telling how he had done this, that, and the other, leading to the arrest of certain persons he could see there in the Dock, one of them, to wit Cock-Eye Bob, also known as Bobwirridirridi, on a charge of wilful murder, the others that of being accessories before and after the fact. He submitted statements made by the six accessories. Cock-Eye Bob had declined to make a statement. He also submitted a statement made by Nelly Ah Loy, wife of the deceased, who was at the scene of the crime. As Dennis Aloisius stepped down, the Coroner asked for Nelly Ah Loy. Dinny paused momentarily in passing her to give her a grin of encouragement and to extend the grin to Sonny Boy and reach to give a rumple to the golden hair, perhaps not an act in strict accordance with court procedure; but whoever might have objected would be stuffy indeed.

  The Usher had to come for Nell and guide her reluctant feet, wobbly in high heels, to the Witness Box. There began a discussion between Coroner and Clerk whether this witness need be sworn. Mr McCusky rose to submit respectfully that the swearing be foregone, only to have Sergeant Cahoon shoot up with his own respectful submission that the witness had to his personal knowledge received religious instruction. Thereupon Mr Bundy asked the witness: ‘Do you understand the nature of an oath?’ Nell drooped her head.

  The Coroner snapped, ‘Forego the swearing.’

  Then Mr Doscas spoke to her in kindly tone: ‘You understand Nelly, you got to talk true-feller, no-more tell lie, only properly what you been see with rown eye, and what you been hear with rown ear?’

  She muttered, ‘Yas.’

  Prindy staring at her, as she had the story dragged out of her almost word by word by the Coroner, with the assistance of Mr Doscas, Mr McCusky, and Sergeant Cahoon, became aware of another pair of pale blue eyes under frizzy fair hair regarding him almost as intently as had Miss Wyndeyer until duty called her to her typewriter. Had he but known it, he was drawing the attention of one whom most people preferred to be ignored by, the redoubtable Fay McFee, special writer for The Palmeston Progressive and local representative of several radical southern newspapers. Across the table from her, the gaunt dark male was the reporter from the rival conservative Northern Times. Miss McFee nodded to Prindy and smiled, perhaps to show that she understood and sympathised with him in the terrible business he had endured according to his mother. Poor pretty little boy, at the mercy of a horde of sadistic savage blackmen!

  Prindy kept trying to look past her at the shade of Old Tchamala gradually vanishing beneath the glittering flow of jade and silver. Then he found that he was being nudged to attend to the business of the Court. He had to stand, to stare at the old whiteman under the blazing animal thing.

  Coroner Bundy had a note that had been handed to him by Mr McCusky. He said, ‘Whatever Dr Cobbity says about the boy’s mentality, I’d still like to examine him. Call him, please.’

  The Usher called, ‘Prendegast Alroy, otherwise known as Prindy Ah Loy.’

  Sergeant Cahoon’s grin was so wide as the boy was ushered to the box that Mr Bundy asked, ‘Is there some joke, Sergeant?’

  Dinny’s grin vanished: ‘Ahem . . . no, Your Worship, no.’

  But His Worship was not satisfied: ‘I take it the Aborigines Department has renamed him . . . for obvious reasons. But why Alroy? Is he connected with the Alroy family?’

  McCusky rose: ‘No, Your Worship. I just used the name of their station, Alroy Downs.’

  ‘Did you consult them?’

  ‘Well . . . no, Your Worship.’

  ‘I would if I were you, Mr McCusky . . . lest you find yourself in legal difficulties.’

  Very red, McCusky muttered, ‘Yes, Sir,’ and sat down, but with eyes on Fay McFee writing rapidly. The Coroner also gave her a sharp glance, thus permitting the indulgence of another wide grin on the part of Dinny Cahoon, out of his line of vision.

  Mr Bundy concentrated on Prindy, who stood high because the Usher had put a small stool in for him. ‘What’s your name, young man?’

  Prindy stared at the bits of blue behind the twinkling glasses.

  ‘They call you Prindy, don’t they?’

  No answer. ‘Haven’t you got a tongue, boy?’

  Apparently not. ‘Put out your tongue to show me.’

  Just that wide grey stare.

  Mr Bundy looked at a loss. But he tried again. ‘Where you come from?’ A moment longer of suffering the stare. Then Mr Bundy sighed, looked away, at Mr McCusky again, saying, ‘Perhaps the doctor’s right. He may stand down.’

  In that moment of release Prindy looked at the Pookarakka, who looked very much awake and whose crack of a mouth moved ever so slightly in a grin. The Usher lifted Prindy down. Both Miss Wyndeyer and Miss McFee looked sadly at him as he resumed his seat.

  Then began the examination of the witnesses in custody, beginning with Green-ant. There was immediate diversion resulting from the Coroner’s asking the witness what was his blackfellow name. Green-ant promptly replied, ‘Da’s him, Boss . . . Green-ant . . . make him whitefeller name from blackfeller name.’

  The Green-ant would probably be his Dreaming.

  ‘Ah,’ said Mr Bundy. ‘A literal translation.’

  That caused a general titter, but Green-ant to answer promptly, ‘Da’s right, Boss.’

  Bundy stared at him. ‘Do you understand the word translate?’

  Green-ant furrowed his brow for a moment, then replied, ‘Yas, Boss.’

  Everybody was staring now.

  ‘Well . . . what’s it mean?’

  ‘Long o’ railway . . . spone injin bugger-up . . . tra’ns late . . .’

  The laughter started like the rustle of the little wind in trees that suddenly becomes the whirling force which rips the leaves off. Everybody laughed, even Bobwirridirridi. The Coroner had had to remove his glasses. Then he rapped; and the Usher got control of himself and cried, ‘Silence in Court!’

  But there was one man in the body of the Courtroom standing, as the Coroner saw when he replaced his glasses and then looked over them, Jeremy Delacy. The Coroner asked, ‘You wish to say something, Mr Delacy?’

  Jeremy cleared his throat. ‘Yes, Sir . . . I’d like to point out that it’s a sad reflexion on our attitude to the Aborigines that such ignorance after a hundred and forty-nine years of our civilising influence can be treated as a joke.’

  Clackety-clack went Miss Wyndeyer’s flying fingers. Mr Bundy, flushing perceptibly, glanced down at her, then up again at Jeremy, swallowed, spoke somewhat throatily: ‘Are you by any chance rebuking me, Mr Delacy?’

  Clackety-clack-clack-clack!

  ‘No, Sir. I confess I laughed myself, until I realised the anomaly. If my remark suggests rebuke, then it’s for the Australian Nation.’

  Clack-clack-clackety!

  Mr Bundy withdrew his spectacles from the grey eyes and swept them over the gaping gathering, then came back to Jeremy to say dryly, ‘This is a Coroner’s Inquest, Mr Delacy, not a public meeting where anyone can chip in. I’ll ask you to refrain from making any more remarks, unless they’re pertinent to the inquest.’

  Mr Bundy was bending over to speak to Miss Wyndeyer, whose eye he had caught, when Jeremy said, ‘With all due respect, Sir, I regard my remark as very pertinent.’

  The spectacles came up flashing. ‘Do you indeed!’

  Clackety-clackety-clack!

  ‘Yes, Sir. The joke was due to the witness’s poor grasp of English, the language of the Court. His testimony without an interpreter makes a travesty of it.�
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  Clackety-clack-clackety!

  The white head with the now burning red face bent to Miss Wyndeyer again: ‘Miss Wyndeyer!’

  ‘Yes, Your Worship?’

  ‘Kindly refrain from including this interruption of proceedings in the record.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  The head came up again with glasses glinting, but not to look at the interrupter, instead at Miss McFee scribbling in her notebook for her very life, so intent upon her task that a tip of her tongue protruded from one corner of a fair moustachioed lip. Then the glasses hit the grey eyes again. ‘Are you capable of acting as interpreter in this case, Mr Delacy?’

  Jeremy swallowed: ‘No, Sir . . . I regret to say.’

  Mr Bundy’s voice became a little shrill: ‘Then leave the Court!’

  Jeremy stood for a moment as if in defiance of the authority beneath the Alien Totem, then bowed slightly, reached for his hat. But as his head came up again he glanced at the dock, down the line of black faces above the grey shirts, from standing Green-ant to sitting Bobwirridirridi at the end, and met the red coals, held them as if trying to convey a message, a silent Mummuk Yawarra. Then he turned and blundered out over legs that surely expressed the disapproval of most of their owners by their reluctant giving Way.

  The proceedings resumed, without further interruption, without further laughter, indeed without even another titter, although there was scope for mirth aplenty in the black simpletons’ quaint expression of themselves in self-committal: as for instance, when Splinter, describing the shooting of Bobwirridirridi, said, ‘Poom . . . yeel . . . dat old-man him go arse-overhead now . . .’ — and Green-ant, on being asked why, when requested by Ah Loy on the authority of Mr Clancy Delacy to return the boy at once, having first agreed to do so, he still complied with Cock-Eye Bob’s insistence on completing the initiation: ‘Too many bloody boss give rorder, mek belong me ’ead go roun’-’roun’ . . .’ because it still seemed as if that spoil-sport with the grey eyes and the grey head stood there ready to declare what sane men thought funny to be injustice.