Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Then movement again. The trucks sounded their horns. The red men gathered slowly. All aboard. Then off again; and only the drone of their going; and at length again the roaring of their machine-monsters gouging the way to progress.

  Dogs and birds in the camp came hurtling to squabble over the buckets of scraps being dumped in a hole behind the kitchen. More empty cans and bottles came rolling down the river bank. The kitchen people dispersed to separate tents. George said he would go see if he could get tobacco. When Queeny took money from her drawers and offered it he ignored her.

  George was in no hurry. First he explored the river bank further up, then came back to cross by a shallow stretch, to saunter into the camp. The dogs bailed him up, until someone’s head appeared at the fly of a tent. With the dogs called off, he went to speak with the head. After some minutes, he went on to another tent, remote from the rest, closest to the kitchen and beside a tin shed. Here he stopped for some time, evidently talking with someone inside who eventually passed him out a tin of tobacco. Rolling a cigarette, he then went to the woodheap, and after some luxurious puffing and surrounded by the dogs, he took up an axe and began, in leisurely style, to split skillets off sawn blocks. He was on the job long enough to take three spells and smoke three cigarettes, to the annoyance of Queeny, who kept saying, ‘Bloody black bastard . . . mekin’ me-feller do perish!’ Prindy offered to go over and get a pinch for them, but to be quickly told no-more! What if George had taken a job there, intending to stay on? Then, the women said, they would clear out tonight and head down the railway. But Queeny sighed and moaned, ‘By crise, I like him smoke too-much!’ As if to taunt them, George kept a haze of smoke about him.

  The Sun was halfway down the sky, when out of that end tent came a bulky red man wearing white singlet and khaki pants. The first thing he did was to scan the opposite bank as looking for something there, evidently through having been told about the presence of the others, which caused them to withdraw further into cover, muttering, ‘Wha’s matter him tell-him-’bout we?’ He didn’t see them. Then he went to the shed next door and opened it, and after a while reappeared carrying a sugar-sack containing something. From there he went to the kitchen, to be seen again heading for the woodheap with a sack now looking quite bulky. He gave the sack to George, who set down the axe and turned with him in another glance across the way. Then waving farewell, they parted, the man to go back to the kitchen, George to come strolling out of the camp. But instead of heading back to those awaiting him, George went the very opposite way, over the road and up the slight incline to the railway siding. He stopped at the water-tank to drink from a tap, then stood for a while in the shade, looking about, but never across the river. Queeny boiled over with annoyance: ‘Dat bloody bastard all-day he been mek him sumpin trouble! I glad time I finish long o’ him for bloody puggin goot.’

  Behind the siding was a wall of rock, hacked out of the hill that there sloped southwestward, diverting the river sharply. The railways vanished into cuttings on either side. George set off down the railway southward, sack on his back, disappeared into that cutting. ‘Where he go now?’ moaned Queeny.

  Now the road-camp was astir again, with those people beginning to bustle about the Renchouse. The party divided its attention between them and looking for George. First indication of George was a squeak from Mungus, who was promptly slapped by Queeny. Mungus had smelt him. Then Prindy heard him. Soon he was seen coming through the timber on their side of the river. George said they would go down the river a bit and back from it, so as to light a fire and eat. When they were settled down, he brought some of the stuff out of the bag: bread and beef and tea and sugar, tobacco, matches, cigarette papers. Queeny settled back in deep content to smoke while the billy boiled.

  As they ate, George related through Prindy what, ostensibly, had passed between him and the big red man, who it seemed was the Boss of the Renchouse. Today was Friday. Tonight most of the road-workers would be leaving camp, to spend the weekend at either the Beatrice or the Caroline townships. The red man himself would be going to Beatrice, but later than the others, because he had to see to the cleaning up after their meal and other things. George had asked him for a lift, explaining that he had a couple of wives, one a young halfcaste, whom he didn’t want the mob of whitemen to see, because he’d heard they were a no-goot lot; not that he minded one goot whiteman having her. So the man had said, all right, bring her down tonight, and he would take them all down the line and drop them off where they liked.

  Nell snapped at him, ‘You been sell him me like lubra!’

  George said to Prindy, ‘Wha’ two-feller you Mumma, Aunty, goin’ ’o do? Dat long way yet long o’ Beatrice. Plenty road-camp. Plenty motor car come. P’liceman, too. Dat man been talk p’liceman been come look-about you. One young colour boy, got him halfcaste mumma, he reckon . . .’

  Nell gasped, ‘You been tell him dat man ’bout my boy?’

  George said patiently, still addressing Prindy, ‘Nutching I been tell him dat man . . . on’y ’bout woman wan’ lift. Spone dat two-feller go long o’ man tonight, get in truck, you’n-me two-feller meet him dere long o’ crossing. You stop behind lil bits. He can’t see you motor car light. All right, when he stop for pick me hup, you come out, jump up in truck behind. Man can’t see you. I black him you face . . . Here!’ He took up a lump of charcoal, crushed it in his fist, and as Prindy, grinning, thrust his face to him, daubed his cheek. Prindy chuckled. His mother scowled. Queeny was expressionless.

  Just then their attention was diverted by a sound coming from northward, from amongst the hills. Prindy quickly identified it, ‘Motor trolley belong to railwayman.’ Soon, with engine popping and wheels howling, a section trolley burst from the cutting, to go right by. Prindy cried, ‘Mist’ Toohey!’ It was, indeed, Tom Toohey, riding with one of his gang. They vanished into the southern cutting, in a moment were heard clanging over the little railway bridge, then lost in the din of the road machines. Nell said with a sigh that Tom Toohey was a goot man, with a coloured family, who would have given them a lift and not betrayed them.

  ‘No matter,’ said Queeny. ‘We go long o’ dis man, eh?’

  Again Nell sighed.

  Then that sudden silence fell again to southward. And soon the influx of the dusty men began, not merely two truckloads this time, but seven or eight, or nine or ten, it was impossible to see through their dust. Now there was a clamour of voices and banging of cans. The yellow men were darting about, lining up at a long shed where showers were streaming, and emerging from it as red-and-whitemen with towels about their waists.

  The Sun went down. The sky behind the watchers blazed red, while that before them turned mauve against which the hills reared violet. Acetylene lights began to prick the gathering gloom. Some of the tents glowed with the light of lanterns. Then an iron clangour called the mob to mess; and they came like scurrying ants, khaki, white, blue.

  After the meal the lights of trucks and cars blazed in the gathering gloom. The vehicles roared into life, went off with men in back and front, southward, northward. By the time it was fully dark, two-thirds of the men were gone and all but a couple of the motor vehicles. Obviously the others were remaining, sitting lounging at the mess table, or retired to lighted tents.

  The light went out in the kitchen. Light came on in the Boss’s tent. The silence that had hung for a long while over the watching party was broken by George’s saying to Prindy, ‘Come on . . . I mek him properly blackfeller you . . . den we go long o’ crossing.’

  The pale glow of Prindy’s face and hair disappeared under charcoal, while the women watched. Then, taking up their belongings, the two set out the way George had come from up river.

  Queeny called, ‘Wha’ ’bout dog?’

  George answered without looking back, ‘You tek him . . . put him truck.’

  Mungus raised his voice in a thin howl as the males disappeared. ‘Kai-atulli!’ snapped Queeny, and slapped him. He fell to sobbing softly to himsel
f. ‘We go, eh?’ said Queeny, and heaved herself up, untied Mungus, but held the leash, took up her own sack of belongings. Sighing heavily, Nell also rose.

  They went down and across by the way George had gone in the afternoon, but instead of heading straight for the Boss’s tent, skirted the camp by going almost to the railway. Thus they got upwindward of the dogs, which came to them roaring. Mungus yapped in terror. Someone in the camp yelled, ‘Shut up yo’ bloody mongrels . . . lie down, there!’ The dogs fell silent, let the intruders pass.

  They came round by the wash-house and the stinking dunnies, struck back to the place they sought, came slowly up to it. For a moment they stood staring at the glowing canvas. Then Queeny coughed. A deep voice growled inside, ‘Who’s ‘at?’

  Queeny gave Nell a little shove. Approaching the fly, Nell said softly, ‘Boss.’

  Sound of creaking canvas and bare feet slapped on the ground, and the voice: ‘Yeah . . . what is it?’

  Nell hesitated: ‘We . . . we come, Boss.’

  A deep inhalation: ‘All right . . . come on in.’

  Slowly Nell lifted the fly, to behold the red man, redder than ever at close quarters and by contrast with his white sleeveless singlet, a fleshy biggish man, seated on the edge of a high camp stretcher, the round face tight with cautious expectancy. The wide slit of mouth opened, revealing teeth in a grin: ‘Ullo!’

  Nell replied with a breath. The man said, ‘Well, come on in . . . don’ be shy.’

  As Nell came in, she looked back at Queeny. The man asked, ‘Who’s out there?’

  ‘My tchister.’

  ‘Well, tell her to piss off . . . I don’ wan’ two yo.’ When Nell hesitated, he raised his voice slightly: ‘Go on, you out there. Your sister’ll be all right. You go back your old man.’ Then to Nell, as he rose, ‘Come’n’ sit down . . . we’ll ’ave a drink . . . whisky.’

  There was only the bed to sit on. The one chair was cluttered with smoking gear and an alarm clock. For the rest the place was packed with boxes, cartons, suitcases. A pressure lantern hung from the ridge pole. He took a bottle and glasses from one of a stack of kerosene cases serving as a cupboard. ‘Sit down,’ he said again. She sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. He filled a glass, handed it to her, saying, ‘Good lookin’ girl, all right. Wha’s yo’ name?’

  She breathed, ‘Nelly,’ taking the glass.

  He filled his own glass, set the bottle on the chair, sat beside her. ‘Here’s fun,’ he said, taking a swig. She took a sip. ‘Come on, drink up!’ She took another sip.

  ‘Where’d you come from, Nelly?’

  ‘Bush.’

  ‘Wha’s a pretty girl like you doin’ livin’ out’n the bush . . . and with’n old bloke like that? Come on . . . drink it up!’ He swigged his off.

  She muttered, ‘Too sitrong.’

  ‘Drop o’ water, eh?’ He reached for a water-bag also hanging from the ridge pole. ‘’Alf an’ ’alf, eh?’ He filled his own, swigged heavily. Looking at her worn and rumbled dress he said, ‘Need new dress. I got some there. Take that one off.’ He leapt up again, to open a suitcase and rummage, and bring out several print dresses. ‘Try ’em for size . . . and style, eh?’ He chuckled. ‘Take that one off, anyway.’

  She muttered, ‘No-more.’

  ‘Gawn . . . don’ be silly. S’pose yo’ run naked roun’ the bush. What yo’ gettin’ coy for now? Drink that up and then see what dress you wan’.’

  ‘I don’ wan’ him dress, Boss.’

  ‘Well, wha’ yo’ wan’ . . . money?’

  ‘On’y wan’ go long o’ Beatrice.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You tek him me Beatrice, eh?’

  ‘I’ll take you some time . . . Races . . . but they ain’t for long while yet . . . couple o’ months.’

  ‘I wan’ ’o go tonight, Boss?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You been promised old-man, ain’t it?’

  ‘I never promised him nothin’. I give him a swag o’ tucker and tobacco for a lend o’ you.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘What’s wrong’t you?’ he asked irritably. ‘Come on . . . get your dress off . . .’

  ‘No-more, Boss!’

  As she made to rise, he pushed her down again: ‘No, you don’,’ he snapped. ‘I paid for it . . . I get it.’

  ‘You tek me Beatrice . . .’

  ‘I’ll take you bloody nowhere . . . ’ere!’ He grabbed her. Then his voice changed, to wheedling, ‘Come on, be sensible girl. Take off yo’ clothes. I look out for you. I give you job in kitchen. Your old man can work on the wood’eap . . . come on, come on!’ He dragged up her skirt. She had nothing under it. ‘Oh!’ he cried, and chuckled, and pulling the dress up about her waist, pushed her back on the bed. ‘Oh!’

  ‘No-more, no-more . . .’

  He was panting now, holding her down by a red hand on her chest, while, goggling at her, he tore open his fly.

  ‘You tek me . . .’

  Her voice was smothered by the weight of him, his walloping about on top of her, so that the timber of the stretcher cracked.

  Then he lay panting: ‘Jesus . . . Jesus Christ!’ He was slobbering. Now he giggled, ‘Tha’s good . . . eh, tha’s bes’ poke I ever ’ad. You goin’ ’o be my girl, eh? My girl. I look after you good.’ He heaved up from her, panting, quivering, reached for the tobacco. She sat up, pulling down her dress.

  ‘Don’ cover it up,’ he said, licking a cigarette. He gave her the cigarette, lit it, turned to make one for himself, chuckling all the while. ‘You work for me, eh? I look out for you good. You sleep with me tonight, eh?’

  She said desperately, ‘I wan’ ’o go Beatrice, Boss.

  ‘Not tonight, sweetheart. ’Ere, ’ave some more grog.’

  ‘Tomorro’ you tek me?’

  ‘No, I can’t take you yet. I got to stay ’ere.’

  ‘Old-man been say . . .’

  ‘If he said I was takin’ you, he’s a bloody liar. He asked me if I was goin’ . . . and I said, No. I said I can’t leave this place with all these thievin’ bastards ’ere. I give him all that stuff for lend of you for the night. He said okay. Now, take off that dirty rag of a thing and I’ll give you a new dress . . . and we’ll ’ave a bit of a party, and then another naughty, eh? Yaahhhhh!’

  She leapt up, eyes wide, mouth open. ‘Eh . . . wha’s matter?’ he asked.

  ‘I got ’o go,’ she panted.

  ‘No you don’!’ He made a grab at her. But she jerked out of his grip, burst out of the tent.

  The dim figure of Queeny could be seen sitting on a box nearby. Nell rushed at her: ‘Dat old man . . . he talk liar,’ she said urgently. ‘Come on!’

  ‘Wha’ nam’?’ hissed Queeny.

  The Boss was at his tent-fly, peering out. In a lowered voice he called, ‘Wha’s goin’ on?’

  Nell seemed not to notice him, dragged Queeny to her feet: ‘Dat old-man been steal him my boy.’

  Queeny cried, ‘Eh, look out! Then, as she swung along after Nell, with Mungus pulling at his lead, she asked, ‘Wha’ for you talk like o’ dat? Old-man say meet him long o’ road.’

  ‘Him talk liar . . . dat man been tell him me. I been all-day fright’ dat bloody bastard goin’ ’o tek my boy sometime . . . I been tell him you . . . I been tell him you . . . Now he gone!’

  ‘Wha’ you goin’ ’o do, Tchister?’

  ‘I got ’o run-him-up.’

  ‘You can’t gitchim dat-lot.’

  ‘I gitchim all right. Where dat dog. Here, dog, you foller-him-up!’

  Mungus gave a yap as if he understood, and straining on the leash, and with the other dogs roaring in the rear, took them back to the point where they had come from, then up along that bank of the creek where his other friends had gone. Easy going for a couple of hundred yards. Then they had to go down to the stream through a tumble of rocks where it swung towards road and railway, the foot of the hill across the way. It was slow going because of Queeny’s disabilities a
nd the deep darkness in there. They might as well have saved themselves the trouble, because that was the end of the trail as far as poor Mungus’s faculties were concerned. It was lost in the water. He ran up and down either side of the star-streaked fluid blacker blackness that chuckled over and around the rocks, squeaking apologies for his limitations as more and more fiercely charged with them. Going on up further brought them to the concrete causeway on which the road, coming down through a cutting, crossed. Here things livened up for a minute or two when, a few yards up in the mud on the camp side, Mungus found evidence that took him through another tumble of rocks to the railway. But evidently that was the way George had come during his leisurely walkabout of the afternoon. Mungus seemed to know it, and dragged Nell, the only one who could get through those rocks with him, back to the road crossing. They tried going up the other side, along the bank on top to right and left of the road. They came back and tried the rocky banks of the biggish pool spanned by the railway bridge. Mungus gave up with a dingo howl, in which Nell joined him: ‘Oh, ow . . . where my lil boy . . . where you go, boy . . . where, where, where?’ The camp dogs, not so far from the crossing, raised an echoing clamour.