Jeremy almost croaked it: ‘So you’re going to overland ’em with the stock?’
Eddy shot him a hurt glance, then grabbed his jaw as if to support the official set of it. ‘You know I wouldn’t do a thing like that. They’ll be kept in settlements as close to their country as possible. The males’ll be given lucrative work . . . like road-making, timber-cutting . . .’
‘You’re going to herd all these people together, with their tribal differences?’
‘We want to get rid of tribal differences . . . tribalism . . .’
‘And create Bloody Nothings like ourselves!’
Eddy became annoyed. ‘For chrissake . . . you’ve got to have some system of confining ’em, controlling their movements! D’you want me to leave the women at the mercy of the thousands of troops that’ll be crowding in here soon?’
‘Mercy? Is that what you think of your countrymen as soldiers . . . rapists?’
‘They’ll be men away from home for a long while . . . and, besides, there’ll be others . . . thousands of Yanks of all breeds . . . Negroes.’ Then suddenly Eddy looked desperate, spoke appealingly: ‘There’s a bloody great war on, Jerry . . . the war we’ve always feared. Everything’s changed. Look . . . I’ve had to break up my home, send my wife and kids away. It breaks my heart to have to break up the tribes, too. But it’s the bloody war, man!
A moment of silence. Then Jeremy, calm now, said, ‘If you’re making settlements, what’s wrong with making one here . . . and letting me stay on to help run it.’ Eddy blinked. Jeremy went on: ‘There’s a nucleus of my own people. I’m known to blacks for a hundred miles around. You’ll have to have people with experience of blacks to run your concen — er — settlements.’
Eddy viewed the distance again, champed his jaw, growled, ‘There’s the trouble with your reputation with those on top.’
‘What for?’
‘Well . . . causing disaffection amongst the natives . . .’
Jeremy exploded. ‘Oh, balls! I’m going to put it to Professor St Clair.’
Eddy swung on him. ‘He isn’t with us any more. He’s gone back to New Guinea . . . Army appointment. I’m Acting Director.’
Jeremy exhaled heavily: ‘Jesus!’
Out of the silence that followed, Colonel Cootes came in with the military tone: ‘Army wouldn’t approve of your being here, anyway. Rear HQ will be established on the Beatrice.’ When Jeremy looked at him, he added quickly: ‘You’re not considered a good security risk, you know . . .’
Jeremy exploded again. ‘You bastards . . . get out of my house . . . before I throw you out!’
All stared at him. Though evidently but half the man he had been, he looked as if quite capable of doing just what he said. A moment. Then Colonel Cootes swung away, snatched up his cap, jammed it on his head, while pressing the boyish curls back with a hand, went marching to the door. The others more or less slunk after him.
In the doorway Cootes halted and turned back. The scowl was in place again, and the voice coldly Churchillian: ‘I’ll give you now till the First of January. After that I’ll be wanting this place for my own HQ. If you’re not out on that date, I’ll have you removed by military police.’ He marched off, with the others at his heels.
Jeremy stood where he was, getting only a glimpse of them through the creepers of the porch as they climbed back into the car. He was fighting for breath. As the car started up, he felt a touch, looked round, to find Nanago at his shoulder. He put an arm about her, drew her to him, stroked her dark head as she wept softly on his breast.
After a minute or so, Jeremy said easily, ‘Well, let’s have a brandy, eh?’
Fergus came to join them, saying he’d heard it all. Jeremy said, ‘I don’t think anything would’ve been gained by truckling to them. I guessed they’d come to throw their weight about in their new importance and would have something to embarrass me with. Neither ever liked me.’
Fergus asked, ‘Who would the bastards ever like . . . except ’emselves?’
Sipping his brandy, Jeremy mused, ‘I wonder why it is . . . that most people will hate you simply for not accepting them at their own valuation?’
‘Obvious . . . jealousy of the little for the big.’
‘I don’t see it like that. Both of these two positively revere ruthless masters. Look how McCusky grovelled to Cobbity, who was just an arrogant bureaucrat, while more or less despising St Clair, who’s really a nice intelligent chap. And I guess the Coot must have fawned on the HQ Brass, as he calls them, to get where he has. I’ve heard him speak well of Hitler and Mussolini . . .’
‘Birds of a feather.’
‘It still doesn’t make sense to me. In nature you find fawning and domination . . . and jealousy, too. But only those creatures of proven superiority show jealousy . . . of their rights, not of individuals. Inferiors can presume on a superior’s rights . . . but always back down when challenged. There’s no evidence of resentment, vindictiveness, as in humans. There two men are in position of considerable power now. I felt no resentment . . . although I was suspicious. I couldn’t congratulate them because of the obviousness of it all. Maybe I should have . . . I mean out of kindness to fools.’
Fergus said, ‘I’m afraid I didn’t help much with the famous wit.’
‘If Cootes had any intelligence he would have expected it from you. But at the same time he is intelligent. That’s what beats me. He was looking for an excuse to throw his weight about, to prove to us that he really is a big man . . . and he seized it. He has to call me a bad security risk because I declined rank he’s chiselled for . . . and McCusky to say I can’t be trusted with Aborigines, when he knows quite well they’d do what I told them while they’d run from him. But why? That’s what I’m trying to get at. It seems to be the fault in human nature. For my part, if I’m wrong on some point, I’m grateful for being put right . . .’
‘You’re a perfectionist, Jeremy . . . in an imperfect world.’
‘I won’t have it that our lovely world’s imperfect . . . or that our wonderful genus isn’t capable of overcoming its meanness.’
‘What . . . in the face, of this?’ demanded Fergus. ‘These bastards are turning you out of house and home.’
Jeremy breathed, ‘Yes!’ and swigged his brandy.
After a little silence, Fergus asked, ‘What happens now?’
Jeremy answered promptly, ‘For my part, I’m staying put.’ When the others stared at him, he added: ‘I don’t mean here. That’s impossible. But I can’t let them hunt me out of my country . . . and at such a time. That would be cowardice. If it’s invaded, I want to meet the enemy. I’ll fight my own war, if necessary.’
Fergus asked, ‘You mean you’ll go bush?’
Jeremy jerked his lips towards the Plateau. ‘There’re countless hide-outs over that way. There’ll be no police, no trackers, no bushmen . . . only fool soldiery like Cootes . . .’
‘Can I go with you?’ Fergus asked quickly. ‘I could plant my kite in that possie we chose. I’ll have to, anyway. I couldn’t make a living flying down South these days. The Raff want the kite. They’ll take it off me. I’d rather prang it than let them have it to destroy.’
‘I’m afraid it’d rather complicate things . . . two’s a crowd when it comes to taking to the bush. But chiefly there’s the fact of our circumstances. This isn’t just a temporary thing. The old order passeth . . . and we old ones pass with it. My act of defiance is largely one of despair. What can I expect, except to die the way I want to . . . either defending what’s really indefensible in the long run, or hiding from the ruin of what I’ve loved, which is sure to come . . . because, even if we’re not invaded by the Japs, we will be by all the others . . . and every invasion of this country, from the first convict settlement, the various mining rushes, the railway, Vaiseys, the road, has scarred it beyond remedy . . . so what is there left for me, but to become truly one with what’s left? Your defiance must be positive. There’s no point in your living like a hunt
ed blackfellow . . . and dying like one. Plant your aeroplane, by all means. You might have use for it . . . and at least will have the satisfaction in not giving it up . . . then get South . . . or anywhere you can make your protest have some value.’
Fergus bit his lip, said with difficulty, ‘I don’t like parting like this. We’ve got pretty close lately. If I’d had a father like you . . .’
‘You’d probably have turned out like one of my sons. Let’s be realistic about things. You’ve got a life to lead . . . I only a life to end. I’d like to go out thinking that you’re doing something to make our countrymen love the place instead of hating it, to want to make it a place of beauty in the world instead of destroying it pandering to humanity’s greed. You can give me a lot of help organising things right now. There’s Nan here and the others to be got away and set up in comfort . . .’
Nanago shrilled: ‘No-more . . . I stay wit’ you!’
He raised a finger. ‘You can’t, dear. You’ve promised to let me die on my own . . .’
‘What for you want to die now . . . when you not sick and only war . . .’
‘Shush, now. It would spoil everything . . . I having to look after you, you having to look after me. Besides, you’ve got the mob to look after. What’s going to happen to everybody without someone to watch over them?’
‘I can’t go away from my country!’
‘You certainly can’t go into one of McCusky’s concentration camps. That’d suit him down to the ground. I’ll fix it with Bridie Cullity for you to set up camp near her. I’ll arrange with the bank for finances. I’ll see if I can get Rifkah to go with you. I might be able to get messages to you . . . and if all goes well, you can come back. That all right?’
She nodded, blinking back the tears.
Jeremy said to Fergus, ‘They’re sure to be clearing the Missions out. They can’t leave ’em in the Front Line. We’ll just have to get hold of Rifkah. We don’t want her becoming a refugee a second time. There’s young Prindy, too. Either the Catholic Church gets him . . . or McCusky . . . unless we get in first. I’d like to fly over to Leopold and have a talk with Glascock . . . and bring ’em back and send ’em down with you and Nan in the motor vehicles. Let’s start nutting things out. There’s a hell of a lot to do. Must get all the rations out of here. There’s the horses . . .’
‘What’ll you do with ’em?’ asked Fergus.
‘I’m certainly not going to leave ’em here to be back-ridden by soldiery. Run ’em over to the coast country through Catfish Gorge. At least they’ll put good blood back into the brumbies there. Now, first the matter of going to the Mission. Will you take me tomorrow? Let’s get a load of canned stuff to give them for Christmas . . .’
It was next morning, Friday, soon after breakfast, while the truck was at the rear of the Big House, being loaded with the stuff for flying over to Leopold, when again the warning, Intruders, was sounded. But now there was no sound of an approaching engine, and the approach so slow that scouts had to go take a peep. These latter returned with the news that the vehicle was Barbu’s van, the intruders old Ali and Billy Brew. Jeremy groaned: ‘Complications! Poor old buggers probably want me to take ’em in.’
Although the situation was actually much worse than that, it proved less of a complication to his plans than Jeremy supposed. Billy Brew had been badly injured in what amounted to a freak accident, and had got Barbu to bring him to Lily Lagoons less for treatment to continue living than for succour in dying. ‘I’m goin’ ’o die, Jerry,’ was Billy’s greeting as Jeremy helped him from the van. He couldn’t walk. They had to carry him to the little hospital on a stretcher.
Barbu was only concerned about his family. He’d come to try to get Jeremy to get in contact with the Mission by radio. Evidently he’d tried it at Beatrice and refused to believe that by wartime regulations ordinary use of radio was prohibited, or that his wife and daughters would not be left to the mercy of the Japanese, who he supposed were practically upon us. When he heard that the Junkers was about to fly to the Mission and would take a message for him and bring one back, he had to be restrained forcibly from getting into it. Fergus would have taken him. However, Jeremy thought it unwise. ‘They don’t like him there. He could easily mess up everything, running round hysterically. As it is, Glascock might take some talking into it. Look, I won’t go with you. I’ll write a note to Glascock, and to Rifkah . . . and leave the rest to you. It might even look better that way . . . just as if we’ve got it all arranged with McCusky and Cootes. You might even get the Barbus. They’ll be better off with the Indians down the Centre the old fellow wants to take them to, than in camps. Glascock’ll see that. Leave it to you, son. If you can’t work it, come back and get me and I’ll see what I can do. Meantime, I’ll have to look after poor old Billy. He won’t last more than a few hours . . . ruptured liver, by the look of it . . . and he wants me to see him out.’
Fergus went.
There was no treating old Billy, except by giving him sips of rum, which Jeremy said would only make him worse. Jeremy wanted to give him opium for the great pain he was suffering. Billy gasped, ‘Too weak’s I am, Jerry. Want all me strength . . . tell you ’bout it. Rum, Jeremy, ol’ friend . . . the ol’ familiar . . . juice.’
Jeremy gave it to him in sips, while, lying waxed almost to the hue of death, he whose face and bald head had always flamed like the rising desert Sun, told the strangest of all the tales told of his freakish adventures in defiance of bosses, bombasts and bullies. In between administering the one acceptable specific, Jeremy mopped the sweat of death oozing from the domed brow, trickling down through the ragged white beard.
Billy said that even before he’d been told he had to leave the zone he’d had trouble with troops now stationed at Caroline Springs: ‘They got ammunition dumps there now . . . guarded be the . . . the lowest class o’ Southern mongrel. They’d been interferin’ with me donks from . . . the start . . . copper give’s ’em open . . . slather. Ridin’ ’em, knockin’ ’em . . . about. When I get marchin’ orders from that . . . that Coot . . . I’m told I can’t take me team. So’s really open slather now. Them mongrel military bastards . . . they start target practising on the donks. That ain’t enough, neither . . . hand-grenades . . . Jesus!’
Often Billy’s voice faded away to a whisper. Then it was he wanted the rum. He struggled on, most of the time clinging clammily to Jeremy’s free hand: ‘Some me donks come ’ome to the plant . . . cryin’ to me to ’elp ’em . . . trailin’ their guts . . . oh, ah!’ The tears streamed from the dimmed old eyes. ‘’Ad to shoot ’em meself . . . me own . . . oh, Jerry!’
‘Take it easy, Billy.’
‘I’d no ’tention goin’ away . . . I reckoned on beatin’ crost country . . . jes with the donks . . . to the Alice Sandstone. I get what’s left the team on the move. But you know me . . . al’ys got o’ get square. I goes back on one the donks . . . makes up a bomb with gelignite I left at the plant. There’s a guardroom at the biggest o’ the dumps . . . bastards guardin’ it al’ys boozin’ or playin’ cards or sleepin’ . . . never seen one with a book. Night-time, I comes up on far side the dump. Inside ’igh barbwire fence . . . amnunition packed around with sandbags. I got a long enough fuse . . . long’s me arm. But you can’t trust old fuse. Maybe it landed so’s the fuse hit the detonator and percussed it. I don’ know. I don’ know much ’bout what ’appen’ after I chucked it. I just ’ear them bastards laughin’ round the front. I lights the fuse, chucks, was swinging away on the donk . . . Christ . . . fire and bloody brimstone . . . all I remember’s the donk’s boltin’ through burnin’ bush . . . and must ’a’ fetched up ’gin a tree . . . oh . . . oh!’
‘Easy, Billy.’
‘I come to . . . find the bush smoulderin’ round me . . . men yellin’ somewheres . . . me donk dead. Next I’m back at me plant, drinkin’ water. Next I’m under a tree in the bush . . . and someone callin’ . . . “Billy, Billy Brew”. I wake up and look, and there standin’ off a b
it’s that old Lamala o’ mine . . . jes like before . . . big blackman . . . but it’s daylight now. He says, “You come, Billy.” I get up. He’s gone then. I don’t see him no more . . . but I know he’s leadin’ me . . . cos I hear him callin’ . . . “Billy, you come!” Then I’m on the railway track. I’m headin’ North, I know . . . cos there’s me shadow West o’ me. Then there’s the train. I didn’t ’ear it. I’m perishin’ o’ thirst. Porky Jones and his fireman’s helpin’ me onto the injin . . . goin’ up to Town . . . givin’ me water. I can’t talk to ’em. Only I ’ear ’em talkin’ about explosion. Men killed. I ain’t never before killed a man, Jerry. I been dreamin’’bout that. But I ain’t sorry . . . like them mongrels was Huns or Japs. You reckon that’s bad?’
‘It was your war, Billy.’
‘Yeah . . . tell ’em that yarn for me, Jerry . . . Billy Brew’s War.’
The whisper was getting fainter: ‘They wan’ ’o take me . . . get doctor. I ’ear meself talkin’ ’nother voice . . . like that Lamala talkin’ . . . “Put him off Tom Toohey’s.” They do that. But I don’t see Tom. Lamala call me crost to Barbu’s . . . sayin’, “Take him out to Jerry . . . Jerry find him good place for leave him bone.” You goin’ ’o do that, eh, Jerry . . . find place for my bone? There Old Man now . . . Lamala . . . I come, Old Man . . . I come . . . I come . . .’ The whisper faded away while still the lips moved slightly.
Then the lips were still. Jeremy felt the pulse, rose quietly, went out. He called Darcy, ‘Get the ute out . . . put in some tools. Old man close-up finish. We’ll take him up to the foot of the Plateau and bury him.’
He went back, sat again, wiping away the sweat, occasionally taking the pulse. In about an hour the eyes opened slightly, the mouth, too, as if about to speak. But both eyes and mouth stayed like that. Jeremy felt the pulse. He placed the limp hand beside the once-plump body that in its tattered and charred khaki bushman’s outfit had suddenly sagged. He reached and so placed the other. Then he rose, looked down at the set dead face. He breathed, ‘Poor old Billy . . . the first casualty . . . on our side.’ After a moment of staring, he bent to the head, whispered into the waxen ear, ‘Go after your Lamala, Billy. I’ll see to your bones.’ In rising he brushed the pale dome with a kiss. He then busied himself with strapping the corpse to the stretcher. This done, he went out and called Darcy.
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