Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Rifkah told Kurt about the plan for tonight. That was evident, because Kurt told Jeremy when they gathered for lunch and asked him could he do something to stop it. Jeremy said that he rather liked the idea, although he didn’t like those who were planning it; but since Kurt was obviously worried about it, saying that his people didn’t want to start off with the prejudice that taking sides in politics would cause, he promised to tip off the General, who could be relied upon to warn the Kruppsers; and if they were arrogant enough to show up, then good luck to those who were after ’em.

  Then there again was the bell calling the horses for the Cup. There was no excitement in the Lily Lagoons stable this year, because their entrant, a colt named Black Cloud, was merely a tryer, running chiefly to prove his stamina as a station sire, his only chance of winning by fluke, which was something the stable didn’t care for.

  Jeremy led the horse away as usual, with Darcy in silks, the difference this time the company: Rifkah, quite excited, and Kurt with his camera. All other owners were leading their horses, except General Esk, who had two soldiers at the head of his, because Red Rory was playing up so badly. Esk shook his head when Jeremy waved to him. Jeremy called, ‘It’s only at the Post you’ll know what he’s going to do, Mark. Don’t give up yet. That fight’s what he’ll win with . . . if he wants to.’

  They were in Saddling Paddock. Trooper Jorkins, Esk’s jockey, went sweating, miserable-looking, bandy-legged, to the weighing-in. While waiting, Esk came over to Jeremy, who then quietly told him about the plans of the Communists for the night. Esk also said he’d like to see the Kruppsers humiliated, but agreed that it would do the Jews no good, therefore he would pass the tip on, through Old Malters. ‘Don’t speak to ’em myself, old man . . . just a stiff bow. I don’t like the way they eat for a start. Slaves to prejudice, aren’t we!’

  Kurt and Rifkah were in demand at the moment by other owners, wanting Kurt to photograph them with their horses and Rifkah.

  Trooper Jorkins came back with his riding gear, stared at by Red Rory surely with malice aforethought. While the other soldiers held the beast’s tossing head, Jorkins flung on the saddle. He was stooped to grab the dangling girth, when Rory swung neatly round on his forelegs and let him have both his hind iron hoofs fair in the behind. Jorkins let out a yell, went sprawling face down in the gravel. Rory looked at him with a horse’s grin, while most of those around laughed heartily, poor Jorkins’s unhappy Pommy inadequacy being a general joke among the racing crowd. The laughter was all the louder for the wretched man’s floundering about, trying to rise, now howling, ‘Ow . . . ow . . . he’s bruk me laig . . . he’s crippled me . . . I knew the divil would . . . oh, ow . . . I should’a’ desarted . . . ow!’

  The only one alert to the seriousness of it was Kurt, who leapt to the stricken man’s aid, knelt over him, felt him, looked up, crying, ‘He is bad hurt . . . you got first aid? Zen kvik . . . splint and stretcher . . . splint, splint, splint . . . kvik!’ Forcibly he kept Jorkins from moving. Jeremy went to his aid.

  But instead of stretcher and splints came Dr Fox, striding, looking very much the Government Medical Officer, in bright white linen and white topee, but black-browed. ‘What’s going on here?’

  Kurt looked up at him in evident surprise. ‘Oh, Doctor!’ Then he said, ‘Bad femoral fracture . . . joost short of pelvic joint.’

  Fox rasped, ‘Take your hands off that man!’

  Kurt looked helpless for a moment, then said urgently, ‘I am compressing ze break. If I let go and he move, it vill compound.’

  Fox roared, ‘I said take your hands off that man!’ His face was flaming with anger.

  Kurt’s face turned grey. A look like agony was in his large black eyes. He licked his thickish lips, said, ‘No, Doctor . . . not till he is splinted. Pliss get splint.’

  Fox was snarling now, ‘I’m the one who gives the orders here . . . and if you don’t do as I order now, you’ll take the consequences.’

  Kurt said hoarsely, ‘I am doctor, too . . . and only consequences I care about is for zis man’s leg.’ He looked away from Fox to the others crowded round, to shout, ‘Vere is splint?’

  There were the splints, in the hands of Jeremy. It was to Jeremy whom Kurt addressed himself now: ‘I want you slip splint under my hand, and tie.’ He looked elsewhere. ‘Somevun take him by shoulders. Jeremy . . . get your knees below his knees so he cannot move as you push . . .’

  ‘Here,’ said Fox shortly. ‘Give me the splints, Jerry . . . I’ll help him.’

  Both doctors worked swiftly and in silence. In a few minutes the moaning muttering Jorkins was splinted perfectly. Kurt and Fox and Jeremy and the man at the shoulders placed him gently on the waiting stretcher. Kurt looked at the still glowering Fox, and rising, dusting his knees, said, ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ and turned and pushed through the crowd.

  Fox muttered, ‘Take him into the scales-shed . . . I’ll give him something for the pain.’ He also rose, with immaculate knees all soiled. He looked at Esk. ‘You’ve got first-aid men to look after him, General?’ When Esk nodded, Fox added: ‘I leave him with you, then. I’ll keep an eye on him. Run him up to hospital in the plane tomorrow.’

  For the moment the Cup Race had been forgotten. Even the President had come to see this strange affair. Now it was over — well, jockeys often come to grief. Another rider for Red Rory. Charlie Bishoff was calling through his megaphone, asking for a rider for Red Rory, weight about one hundred and forty pounds. There he was in a moment, asking the General for the job: Fergus Ferris. ‘You?’ demanded Esk.

  Fergus showed the split lip in a grin. ‘Started life as a jockey. Went on to the Winged Horse.’

  ‘By jove!’

  ‘You must know that the Royal Flying Corps was recruited from cavalry officers.’

  ‘You’re right man. The job’s yours. Can you get silks?’

  ‘I’ll look after him,’ said Jeremy. ‘But it’s going to depend on Rory, too.’

  But already Fergus was making friends with Rory, who was sniffing him with evident interest. Fergus said with a wink for everybody, ‘Horses know talent when they smell it.’ There was some snickering. But he silenced it by putting an arm round Rifkah, saying, ‘You can smell talent, too, can’t you, sweetheart, with that lovely Yiddisher nose?’

  ‘Yes . . . you go and vin!’

  ‘There!’ he said, grinning round the crowd. ‘Now I’ve got the luck of the Jews with me too.’ He set off for the scales-shed.

  Red Rory certainly played up in the Parade and going to the barrier, but how much through his own and his rider’s urge to show off compared with the perfidy of his nature could only be guessed at. Jeremy evidently thought it was more the former, since he said to Kurt and Rifkah, ‘I’d back him if I were you . . . while the odds are long. It looks as if all he needed to put him in the mood for racing is to maim some human being.’

  The Favourite was another roan colt, Blue Pigeon, belonging to one of the Eastern Downs Pastoral Company’s stations, but smaller than Red Rory. The money was all on him.

  Charlie Bishoff had them all lined up: They’re Off!

  Rory was with them. The old familiar scene. The sudden surge of colour of hides and silks, the sense of the force of it in muscle and bone. The thunder. The enveloping dust. The old familiar scene that never lost its excitement. The thunder rolling with the dust-storm. Emergence of the flashing force that trailed the storm. Its coming up the Straight to complete the first easy mile — with the Favourite and Red Rory out in front and pacing it together, great loping strides to their mighty bellows-breathing. The crowd yelling for both horses. Rory’s odds going down, the Pigeon’s up: ‘Red Rory, Blue Pigeon — Come on you beauts!’ Past in a flash. Then the trailing field, with Black Cloud leading, but never a hope of catching those two lightning flashes running neck and neck, eye and eye, white of eye to white of eye in trial of strength that only a horse can know.

  Into the dust, and out of it — into the mirage — to c
ome wobbling like a rushing dream-thing out of it, and into the Straight now for the mighty effort — ‘Blue Pigeon, Red Rory — Rory, Rory, Pigeon, Pigeon!’

  But Red Rory had it, was only playing with the Pigeon, as Jeremy shouted — he and his smirking jockey playing a game — just shot ahead when the crowd was in ecstasy of suspense — and won by a length and a flowing ginger tail. ‘Red Rory, Red Rory — what a horse — Fergus Ferris — what a horseman!’

  As people were saying during all the business going on out before the grandstand, the congratulating of owner and rider, the kiss that both got from the lovely Jew-girl, the genteel applause from the stand: ‘He flew the horse in!’

  There were two not so complimentary, Pat Hannaford and Eddy McCusky. Eddy said to Pat, ‘Lairy bastard, isn’t he!’

  ‘You can say that again, mate.’ Then, after seeing Rifkah lift that lovely rose-mouth to meet the half-hidden bunny lip reaching down to her, Pat added: ‘Y’ad a bit of a go with him the other night, they tell me. Why’n’t you finish him off tonight? I got a feelin’ there’ll be more trouble tonight at the Ball. Pick the bastard again, and do him properly. He’s only piss and wind. I’d do the shit meself . . . only he’s a bit small for me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ murmured Eddy. ‘Might, too.’

  Well, there it was, the old Cup Ball again; and again in the new style beginning with the marching of the military band, this time playing Waltzing Matilda, and the common herd following. And as always the Elite came from the Big House in their big cars, done up like sore toes, to strut and mince their elegant way in to their special places while the mob merely gawped through the doors and open louvres; but tonight to be sniggered at for what they were, the Master Class who can Kiss Me Arse, by the elite of the proletariat. What a crowd of the stuck up bastards, too — Generals and Colonels and Professors and Doctors and Majors and all kinds of Upper Crust Shit! But where were the representatives of the Master Race, the Krauts, the Kruppsers, the Nazi Bastards? They weren’t coming; that’s for sure, because proceedings are starting, the President’s spruikin’. They must’a’ been tipped off. Somebody with a big mouth that’d have to have it stopped. The bloody bastards . . . but we’re set for strife; and strife there’s going to be. If it ain’t goin’ to be war on the enemies of the Workers’ Fatherland, then make it a Class War!

  Proceedings went as usual to the drawing of the Golden Horseshoe Prizes. The little black mare, Dusky Lassie, donated by Vaiseys, was won by Lieutenant Denzil Dickey, not present. The first shot in the Class War was fired then, when Geordie Jenks yelled, ‘Bet it was rigged!’ President, Lady President, Patron Professor, General, all looked in surprise towards the hidden accuser, and then when only jostling and muttering followed, looked scornful and withdrew their gaze to the business in hand.

  Formality finished with, the Committee gave over to the military band, which struck up Roll Out the Barrel. Pat Hannaford, the one MC tonight, called, ‘Select your partners for a foxtrot.’

  There was a concerted move of young men towards the Jew-girl, just brought in by Jeremy Delacy and for the moment exchanging a smiling word with General Sir Mark Esk and Professor St Clair. Fergus Ferris was the only one bold enough to shove in and ask her to dance. His boldness may have been anticipated by those with ulterior motives. Anyway, it fitted nicely into the organisation. Pat Hannaford, watching him all the while, allowed him two circuits of the hall, doing his stuff at full throttle with his partner, then right at the big front doorway, into which the usual mob of simpletons was packed, slipped up and tapped him on the shoulder, grinning widely at Fergus’s surprise.

  ‘Hey, what’s this?’ demanded Fergus.

  ‘Bloke wants to see you outside . . . I’ll take care of the lady.’ Pat pushed in between them.

  ‘What bloke?’ asked Fergus.

  ‘Go and see.’ Pat gave a shove that sent him into the crowd. There must have been hands ready for Fergus. He vanished.

  ‘Come on, dance,’ said Pat.

  But Rifkah baulked. ‘Vot ist?’

  ‘You don’t want to dance with that cow. He’s mixed up with them Huns.’ He tried to force her into dancing.

  She resisted him. ‘Don’t be meshugeh!’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Silly.’

  ‘It’s you’t’s bein’ silly, gettin’ mixed up with a type like that. He’s a Fascist . . . belongs to a Fascist movement.’

  There was a sudden movement of the crowd in the doorway — outward. Shouting out there now. Then the cry went up: ‘A fight!’

  Those inside, at least the vulgar, who heard it above the band, stopped dancing. A movement from there. Rifkah started to join it. Pat snatched her back. ‘Don’t go out there . . . there’s trouble.’

  She swung on him. ‘Zat trouble you mek?’

  ‘These bastards’a’ got ’o be shown where they get off . . .’

  She jerked away from him, joined the rush that had now started with the stopping of the band. Uproar outside now, men shouting and women screaming, the crowd like a mob of goats milling about a billy-fight, dust rising in the moonlight. Policemen’s hats bobbing amongst the mostly bare heads. Lanky Cahoon towering above the lot, his long arm swinging in rabbit-punching. Then someone insignificant in size came at Dinny from the side, hit him under the ear. He went down. The someone jumped on him, then several on the someone, with yells of Commo Bastards and Fascist Shit and much of the usual obscenity that seems the basic expression of the Australian mind. Other police were going down. Superintendent Bullco, in the doorway, was shouting, ‘Colonel Chivvy . . . get your lads to help my men!’

  Chivvy bawled, ‘Major Martin . . . muster troops!’

  Then the voice of General Esk was raised, in a tone never heard round these parts, cutting-sharp with power of personality and authority: ‘Countermand that order, Colonel!’

  The Colonel swung on him, gaping. The General added: ‘This is a civil disturbance. Get your men out of the way.’

  ‘But . . . but, Sir, we’ve always helped the police in trouble . . .’

  ‘I don’t care what you’ve always done. It isn’t a convict settlement any more. Countermand that order, man . . . or I’ll do it for you, and relieve you of your command.’

  ‘Aah! Major . . . all military personnel back to quarters.’

  ‘Sah! Sergeant-Major!’

  ‘Sah!’

  Bullco, his face twisted as with pain, gasped, ‘General . . . my men are being bested. This’s a riot . . . a Communist plot!’

  ‘That’s your business, Superintendent. Troops can’t legally be used for other than military purposes without declaration of Martial Law.’

  ‘Who’ll declare it?’

  ‘Not I, sir.’ Esk marched off after his retreating marching men. Bullco, seeing his own men in full flight, slipped out, and with somewhat more dignity, for which he was better equipped, since not in uniform, followed them. The Master Class also slipped out discreetly, got into their cars, started up.

  The mob were still fighting among themselves, but with no such zest for it; and soon it was over, save for exchange of insults. A score or more were on the ground, being attended by mates or comrades, amongst them Fergus, with a squashed mouth and the makings of a second black eye, and Eddy McCusky who was moaning that his jaw and several ribs were broken, and Kurt, silent but for his gasping, obviously in great pain from having been kicked in the abdomen. Rifkah, going to Kurt’s aid, cried hoarsely, ‘Ven I come I zink vot kindly happy pipples you are!’ She wept over the panting Kurt. Jeremy came to her aid, raised the little man in his arms, carried him down to the camp.

  The police were coming back, with batons and revolvers. The bravos scattered.

  It was the end of the Ball. No use hanging about the place with no band and armed policemen watching every move. The crowd drifted away. A few got into Finnucane’s by identifying themselves with shouting, because old Shame-on-us had locked himself and his family in. The others went back to their camps.
The bravos gathered again to slang each other across the river: Trouble-making Commo Bastards — Scabs, Bosses’ Men, Fascist Shit — and to sing the songs that stirred them, The Red Flag, The Internationale, Solidarity for Ever, Rule Britannia, Australia Will Be There, The Road to Gundagai.