Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  The cackle: ‘Didn’t you hear it?’

  ‘You been dreaming, ladies . . . awp!’ The priest’s voice ended in a yawn.

  ‘Dreaming, is it? When all these others heard it too? We all heard it plain as . . . as the choir singing . . . plainer, because ’twas hivinly music!’

  Father Glascock yawned again: ‘Nice to know they play Schubert in Heaven . . . specially when Schubert was probably a Jew — ee-awp!’

  ‘There was other music . . . divoin music, the loike of which I never did hear. I tell you, Father . . .’

  ‘Tell me in morning . . . when you’re properly awake.’

  The cackle rose sharply: ‘And whan you’re properly sober!’

  ‘Madam!’

  ‘Don’t you Madam me! I tell you . . .’

  ‘No you won’t. I’m off to bed.’ Scrape of his chair. Slap of his scuffs.

  Mother Mathias fairly screamed, ‘Oh, ye of little faith!’

  The priest’s retort came from his room, ‘And you of too much yap!’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ cried the Reverend Mother. ‘We have a miracle . . . and no credence even from the one who should be the first to believe. What shall we do, my children? We must have goidance. We can get nothing here . . . only the smell of drink. Come . . . let’s go to the church, and ask our Blessed Lady for it . . . come!’

  There was some murmuring between the other occupants of the presbytery, on the other side of the iron wall from Prindy. But he wasn’t interested now. He dropped back to the pillow, was soon asleep, and remained so, despite the renewed organ recital in Father Glascock’s room.

  Next morning there was more talk of the disturbance between the presbytery guests, Prindy included. Fergus asked him, ‘You’ve got good ears, mate . . . did you hear any bloomin’ angels?’

  Prindy answered briefly, ‘Kweeluk singing-out middle-night.’

  ‘That’s it!’ declared Fergus. ‘Curlews . . . ahaaaa!’

  Father Glascock wasn’t there to join in the laugh. He was away at early Mass. Nor was he inclined to laugh when he returned and they discussed it over a breakfast of watery porridge and slimy rissoles, after his reporting that he’d found the church packed with convent females when he went there at dawn, along with a great swarm of mosquitoes that they’d had to smoke out with an extra burning of incense. ‘It isn’t funny, really. What we’re fighting is superstition. This sort of thing only makes what we’re doing a turning from one devil-devil to another. With all due respect to Her Reverence . . . she’s a bloody old fool!’

  General Esk and Prindy heard a first-hand account of the angelic visitant from the Reverend Mother herself, when in mid-morning they called on her to take their leave. The General took the precaution to enjoin Prindy not to laugh when he mentioned the matter, saying that to do so would not be The Thing, don’t y’know. Prindy took advantage of the injunction to tell the General about Barbu’s people and to say that he’d like to say goodbye to them for Barbu. ‘Of course,’ said Esk. ‘We couldn’t face our old friend Barbu Ram again without being able to report that his family are well and happy, eh what?’ That’s how he put it to Mother Mathias. She pursed her seamed old mouth over it; but in view of the extremely polite hearing she had to her story of the Visitant, to say nothing of that fat gift the General was making to the Convent, she could hardly refuse.

  Thus Prindy had a last clinging moment with his bride, in the comparative privacy of the kitchen. If there were to be any true reporting back to Barbu Ram, it could only be of the abandonment of his family’s grief at this moment.

  Father Glascock went with the departing ones to the air-strip, not simply out of politeness, but to give them the benefit of his connexion with Certain Powers by making the sign of the cross over them as they entered the Junkers.

  Again Prindy sat with Fergus, the General having said he wanted to ride in the cabin to do some writing. So thumbs up to Father Glascock and Brother David on the ground, and roll away downwind. A minute of standing on brakes, raging like the Old One at his worst, in the pre-flight run-up. Then away upwind at full gallop, to lift up out of the dusty clutching hands of Mother Earth, into the realm of the Old One; but not yet to climb higher than to make sure that all donks were doing their stuff, and then to swing back in salute to Father and Brother, to clip the tree-tops across to the Mission station, run down the street just above the roofs, with everybody out to wave, even Mother Mathias. Then over the casuarinas and along the beach, to scatter the laughing blacks and uncover their dogs. Out to sea then, and up over the pearling fleet already heading back to their grounds, with the crews waving like human beings, instead of stiff-bowing like wound-up dolls. Over the islets and the whirling snowy clouds of disturbed pigeons. Then the islands were behind, and ahead the southern vista, the green-brown land, backed by the dun wall of the far-off Plateau, and domed by the blue — the blue, the blue.

  V

  That determined fellow, Fabian Cootes, had reached the sea. From the Junkers, there could be seen his smoke signal rising from a bit of beach, the first dry land to eastward of the involuted debouchment of the Leopold River. A sweep round the locality by the aircraft revealed that it could have been reached easily enough from inland after the river had been crossed higher up. Therefore, whether the Coot could claim that he had made it under his own steam, as he had insisted he was going to do, would be debatable; for judging by the number of canoes on the beach and the crowd of blacks and the fact that the dunnage was still in a heap, the last twenty-five miles or so must have been travelled in pukkah style, and the party not long arrived. No sign of horses, or of the Lily Lagoons blacks, according to sharp-eyed Prindy. Fergus declared that the horses were with the party when he saw them the day before yesterday. He added, speaking over the intercom to General Esk, ‘They’re going to be mad when they get your message. They were probably going to wait here for the horses, gorging on fish and crabs. Maybe they’ll get the blacks to piggy-back ’em to our rendezvous.’ The message, or Signal, as the General called it, dropped to the party, instructed them to be waiting at a certain point some thirty miles southwest of here, where the aircraft would be landing in three or four days’ time.

  The signal acknowledged, the aircraft turned eastward, flying low and over the clear jade of the deeps just beyond the muddy shore-line, competing with the sea-eagles for a view of what was going on below. Most interesting and even exciting viewing, revealing creatures some of which were well worth turning back for another look: a mighty devil-fish that surged up from below like a newborn island, and dugongs big as bulls, and basking old-man turtles, and, wonder of wonders to the young co-pilot, a sporting school of young whales. Less interesting denizens of the region were three or four small groups of blacks, either camped on beaches or paddling canoes between the mostly mangrove-cluttered shore and small scattered islands each with its frosting of nesting pigeons.

  Thus for about a hundred miles. Then there appeared ahead what at first looked like a sharp northward turn of the coast, but proved to be a substantial island, divided from the mainland by a passage some five miles wide and now white with tide boiling over a maze of reefs. ‘Lady Beaumont Island,’ yelled Fergus. ‘Wonder who the lady was . . . wife of the boss of the toady who reckoned he’d found it, I suppose? You know this place?’ Prindy shook his head. Fergus went on: ‘All the halfcaste kids from the Old Compound here now . . . the girls, anyway. You might find some old sweethearts. Careful I don’t tell ’em you got a wife back on Leopold . . aheeeeah!’

  The Mission Station was on the shore of a bay on the eastern side, a much more substantial settlement than that in the Leopolds, since much older. Fully grown coconuts lined the wide white beach; and substantial exotic trees sheltered the neat squares of white buildings. But more interesting, at least to Prindy by the look of him, was the shipping lying in the bay. No mere pearling luggers here. There were two naval vessels, one large and grey, with three funnels and the Union Jack at her bow as well as the White Ensign
at her stern, the other by comparison small, white-hulled, with one yellow funnel, well known as the Australian naval survey sloop Arafura, operating out of Port Palmeston. Also there were two trim white schooners, each flying the Cross of Jesus from her peak.

  No untidiness on the beach here, like canoes and native humpies. Facing the beach were the bigger buildings, on the verandah of one of which could be seen a line of white-clad figures, as Fergus did a nicely proper fly-past. He remarked, ‘Old Tusker Tasker’s there, Chief Wow of the local Wowsers . . . and the Naval Brass.’ Whether or not he said it as excuse for not doing his usual aerial play-about or merely as information was not disclosed. He swung away, over broad and fertile-looking gardens where black workers stood to wave. Then in a moment they were down — with gyros whimpering.

  As one enchanted, Prindy would not be surprised by any of the odd things that continued to happen to him. That his enchantment was accepted by pretty well everyone he had dealings with was evident enough, even if, as usual, most believed they accepted nothing but the work-a-day. The awed peeping and whispering of old acquaintances was acceptance, anyway. None of these presumed to speak to him. He didn’t give them a chance, seeming not to see them. Even the Reverend Mr Tasker must have felt looked-through by the calm grey eyes when, on being introduced, he said he was already acquainted with the Young Man. Nor did Mrs Tasker fare any better. As if in an attempt to break the spell, she remarked, in an aside, while seeing to seating at lunch with the company literally glittering with white linen and gold braid, ‘My . . . we have become big for our boots, haven’t we!’

  Mr Tasker had another try by suggesting that the Mission take care of the Young Man while the General went about his business with his naval colleagues. A reasonable enough suggestion; but in it an unmistakable note of vindictiveness. Thanking him, the General said that, apart from feeling responsible for his young friend as the grandson of a man he held in such high esteem as Jeremy Delacy, he was sure no boy of ten would be anything but broken-hearted to miss the chance of spending a couple of days aboard warships. Mr Tasker, with what seemed like a slight sneer, remarked that it would depend on the boy’s background. The General countered that with a chuckle, ‘This young chappie’s background didn’t prevent him doing most of the flying to get us here . . . eh what, Fergus, dear boy?’

  The official business was to include a conference on coastal defence matters aboard HMS Durbah, and a short oceanographie cruise in HMAS Arafura.

  Immediately after lunch, the official part adjourned for their business, accompanied to the jetty, where a pinnace lay, by the Missionaries, that is the local Superintendent and his wife and Mr Tasker and his, and peeped at by numberless dark eyes wide with wonder at the sight. What a sight: to see one who had shared the squalor and ignominy of their breed, walking so easily in such proud company, to be received as part of it by the stiffly standing crew of the pinnace, to be handed aboard the sleek vessel as if he were a princeling!

  Indeed, it was as a prince or some such exalted being that Prindy was received aboard the cruiser. Captain Silskin himself handed him over to a special steward for conducting to a stateroom he was to share with the General. Having bowed him into the cosy place, stowed his luggage and shown him bedroom and bathroom, bowing himself out, the steward said, ‘Hif yer ’oiness wishes summink, jes’ ring, sir . . . there’s the bell.’ He meant it, too, the way his pale blue English eyes rolled and his paler forehead rumpled.

  A little later, while Prindy was contemplating the view from one of the numerous portholes, a knock at the door. A man in trim white uniform, with red and blue badges and peaked cap under arm, was there, who said, ‘Chief Petty Hofficer Wilkins, Sir. Captain’s orders . . . you would like to make tour inspection of ship, Sir. Hif yer ’oiness is ready nah . . .’

  Thus did the sorcerer’s apprentice see things in the way of wizardry in doing violence comparable only with what the Old One himself was capable of. It was a pity, perhaps, that his privilege, although undoubtedly regarded by his several guides as something very special, didn’t extend to firing one of those great guns or a torpedo or two, to prove the powers they boasted of.

  Back in the stateroom, he found General Esk, who told him they would be dining with the Captain, and later, at a gathering of officers of both ships, seeing motion pictures of Imperial Defence activities North of Australia.

  After the picture show, Captain Silskin had Esk and Prindy to a private sitting in his own quarters. There Prindy was given a large illustrated book on warships and ginger beer to beguile him, while the men drank brandy and smoked cigars and talked of local naval defence in a manner to suggest that their very meeting had been arranged because of their fears for it in emergency in the hands of those they referred to as the Awstralians. The General said, ‘Really, old man, you have to see it to believe it . . . which is why I’ve got you heah. Complete irresponsibility. These survey sloops have been working this coast for the best part of twenty years . . . and still they’re using native pilots who learnt their navigation of the locality from the Japanese. This Commander fellow freely admits it. As I see it, the surveys are only annual naval picnics . . .’

  The Captain cut in with a laugh, ‘I understood the Australian Squadron’s concentration on Melbourne every November was that.’

  ‘What’s this concentration?’

  ‘The whole shebang converges for exercises in Port Phillip Bay . . . which means to be at hand to see the running of the Melbourne Cup . . . races, don’t y’know . . . Australian equivalent of our Derby.’

  ‘Gad, Sir!’

  ‘Rather shows ’em up as horse-marines, what?’ Both laughed. The Captain went on, ‘But, of course, they have no real naval tradition, as with us . . . or the Yankees, even who, after all, took it from us . . . out of Devon . . . Mayflower and all that. These people came out of the gutters of London. Any nautical tradition they have belongs to the convict ships. I know ’em, old man. We train their officers. There’s only two kinds of ’em . . . the toady and the cad. They may make great soldiers . . . but never sailors.’

  The General sighed: ‘If only I could believe they’d make real soldiers, not the mere shock-troops they’re only shown as. You fellows can do the naval part of it for ’em . . . you’ll have to. But they’ll have to defend ’emselves on land . . . and I can’t see ’em doing it. Wait till you see this utterly undefended country tomorrow . . . thousands of miles of coast, known only to the Japanese . . . and not a bally Australian concerned about it!’ He sighed again: ‘You’ll see it all tomorrow.’

  There next day it was to be seen in the first glimpse of the faces hanging over the rail of the Arafura, as the cruiser’s pinnace drew up to the gangway, bringing Captain Silskin, the General, Prindy. The faces of guttersnipes, one might easily be moved to call them, at once shrewd and sycophantic, now looking on their betters as such while still holding that they had no betters, an ambiguity that was probably what made the faces look shut, as compared with the open, pinker faces of those below. From street-loafers’ lounging there was sudden springing to disciplined attention at a sharp nasal order from the bridge.

  Amongst the faces there were familiar ones, too. However, these were very different from the rest, although quizzing no less: black faces, under jack-tar caps. The Aborigines used as what the General had called Pilots were of that tribe of islanders who’d had ruthless control of the Old Compound cook-house at the time of Prindy’s induction. A couple of these had been cooks. One raised a hand as if to give sign-language, but dropped it when the grey eyes slid off him as if wiping off his existence.

  Aboard the pinnace was the Durbah’s Chief Petty Officer Wilkins, still in charge of Prindy, it seemed, and either in accordance with naval formality or his own inclination, bound to transfer the responsibility to his opposite number on the sloop. This was CPO Pickles, as Wilkins named him in introduction. Prindy he named as ‘’Is Young ’Oiness.’

  CPO Pickles accepted the responsibility readily enough, a
lthough with mean face shutting rather more tightly. However, at first opportunity, when the sloop was under way and he returned from seeing his men settled to their duties, to Prindy standing where he had left him near the roaring funnel, he asked, ‘Wha’s this ’Ighness business them Poms is givin’ you, young feller-me-lad?’

  The grey eyes met the quizzing slits of blue in that disconcerting stare, which probably meant no more than it usually did, that the question was not properly understood. It made the slits sheer off, even if it did not immediately quell the guttersnipe cheekiness: ‘Mean to say, you’s on’y a creamy Abo kid . . . now ain’t you? So ’ow can you be an ’Ighness?’ The lean nosy Aussie face swung back, twisted with a grin. ‘ ‘Less you’s the son ’o King Billy o’ the Brinkins . . . awawawah!’

  Prindy looked away, towards the swiftly moving mangroves of the mainland, a couple of miles to starboard, red haze above them, hint of the red wilderness behind.

  The man looked at a loss. After a moment he asked, ‘Wha’s yo’ name, anyway?’

  Whether it was Aboriginal wariness of betraying identity to a stranger, or a degree of awareness of the situation’s implications, Prindy answered promptly, ‘Munda Khan.’

  ‘Eh . . . what kind o’ name’s that?’

  ‘Indian.’

  The slyness of the face turned sycophantic. ‘Aw . . . I see . . . that’s ’ow the ’Ighness comes into it, eh?’ A pause. ‘But you don’ wan’ me callin’ you Your ’Ighness, do you?’ The slits again avoided the questioning grey eyes. ‘Them crawlin’ Pommy buggers . . . they love that kind o’ thing. Different with us. ’S all right callin’ officers Sir, and Governors Yo’r Excellency, and things like that. But callin’ kids Yo’r ’Ighness . . . aw, strike me pink! ‘Less you’s real royalty, o’ course. But you ain’t that, are you?’

  Prindy smiled in reply to the ingratiating chuckle, and asked, ‘Will you show me engine working?’