Power of Pinjarra

by Sandra Dengler

  “Pop says he read in the Western Champion last week that there’s forty-five hundred people in town here. And all because of this labor strike business.” He stopped. He was spouting off too much. That sure wasn’t very clever of him.

  Still, she seemed to accept his opinion as gospel truth. She wagged her golden head and continued the drift north. “I agree, it is a mess. Papa says the strikers’ camp is a vermin-filled hotbed of drunkenness and disease. Papa preached there last Sunday. Told them all they have to repent.”

  “Mmm. Think any of them repented?”

  “When they found out he wasn’t ordained, they threw bottles at him. Papa says he doubts the depth of their commitment to the faith.”

  “No need to doubt the depth of their commitment to the bottles.”

  She giggled, and it tinkled like music.

  Suddenly making money was not high on Marty’s list of priorities; getting rid of his cousin was. Let Jase find pick-up work hauling. Marty would make certain that Miss Fowkes enjoyed a safe afternoon stroll, for the streets here near the railroad yard swarmed with strikers.

  Jase darted ahead. “Mr. Miles! Mr. Miles!”

  “Mr. Miles owns a carting company,” Marty explained. She probably already knew that, but just in case. “Has half a dozen bullock carts and horse drays. Jase and I drive for him now and again.”

  Those incredible creamy-blue eyes flicked toward him. “You drive those big bullock carts?”

  “Yair, well, uh,” he stammered, “I, uh, don’t use some of the words the older drivers use—not often, anyway. Uh…”

  Fortunately, Jase and Mr. Miles were now so close he could drop that subject. “Mr. Miles, may I present Miss Pearl Fowkes. Miss Fowkes, August Miles.”

  They exchanged pleasantries as Marty’s mind raced, darting from nook to nook among his memories in search of something to talk about. His mind was distressingly blank.

  Jase was whining, “No hauling atall?”

  Mr. Miles shrugged. “Way it is, lad. No trading, no merchandise. Stores stocked up a month ago, anticipating this. That’s why hauling was so good then. Now Barcaldine’s just one big fortified camp, holding its breath and waiting for trouble.”

  Marty’s heart gave a disappointed lurch. With no work to do, Jase would be at his elbow the whole blessed day.

  Mr. Miles kept talking. “Besides, I had to promise to use only union haulers, and they’re striking in sympathy with the shearers, same as the railway workers. So I couldn’t hire you boys even if I had something to cart.” He paused and frowned. “Yer know, though—yer might go ask Henry Sealy. He’s taking a string of bullock wagons out next week or so. He has his own private carts, so there’s no union involved. He might be able to use you.”

  Next week. He was stuck with Jase clear till next week!

  “Uh, yair, well—thank you, sir.” Marty nodded and started to move off. Two other haulers worked out of the railway station. Maybe one of them…

  Mr. Miles nodded toward the station. “Might steer Miss Fowkes away from here, Marty. The army’s bringing some arrested strike leaders in from Clermont and it’ll get ugly when they arrive. Not something for a young lady, eh?”

  “Too right, sir!” A train carrying prisoners and guards, eh? Interesting. If it came through soon, it would pass them on its way to the station. That explained why so many strikers and hangers-on milled about the railway yard. Marty’s chest swelled with importance as he undertook what seemed to him to be a most noble task, protecting this young lady—cousin or no cousin. It was far more than he had dared hope for! Clearing his throat, he nonchalantly asked her, “Anyplace you’d like to see?”

  “Well…” For a moment she considered the offer, her soft brow delicately knit. “Though I’ve been in this town only a month, already I’ve noticed how important sheep and cattle seem to be here—and I know so little about what one does with them.”

  “Good-oh. Let’s see. McLaughlin’s wool scour isn’t too far away. Let’s start there.” Marty grinned and started off at a leisurely pace along the trackside. He’d stay close to the railway, just in case there might be something to see. “Jase? Try Harry Cleave. Maybe he has some work for you.”

  “You heard old Miles. Union only and nothing moving. I’ll come along and remind you all the stuff you forget.” He cackled and pranced ahead. The drongo.

  “Where did you say we’re going?” Her voice was so soft.

  “Wool scour. That’s a shed where they clean up the wool. Wash it. There’s a shearing shed not far beyond. We can stop there, too.”

  A million horses—well, more like a dozen—came clattering by. Army troops. The leader of the mounted unit tipped his hat toward Pearl. “Good afternoon, Miss Fowkes.”

  She smiled and nodded, the soul of propriety. “Major Paterson. Good day.”

  And the unit clattered on.

  “You know him?” Marty tried to wave away some of the bulldust the horses were raising.

  “When Papa visits the army camp I usually go along, so I know most of the officers. They invite us to tea.”

  “Mmm.” Marty had never been invited to tea, not even by Mum. Then again, he had never wanted to be, until now. “Wonder where…uh oh!”

  From where they stood they could see the tin roof of McLaughlin’s shed flashing in the sun. A train had stopped right in front of the shed, gray smoke boiling out its stack. The trouble Mr. Miles was expecting at the station had instead de-trained right here, at McLaughlin’s wool scour.

  Guards with rifles and bayonets lined up beside the railway car as the arrested strikers from Clermont stumbled off the train, bumping into each other. They were manacled in pairs along a heavy chain, a clumsy parody of a twenty-bullock team.

  From all directions strikers came running and yelling. Unloading the prisoners away from the station hadn’t put the strikers off in the least. Major Paterson’s regulars fell in beside and behind the chain of misery, and the major himself led the way. Here they came, straight toward Marty.

  “Perhaps it would be better to examine the wool scour some other time,” Miss Fowkes suggested.

  The chaotic, noisy procession moved along—guards shouting, horses clattering and prisoners clanking their chains of woe. All around them the hostile strikers churned angrily.

  “Jase! Help me shove a path through; straight south looks like the safest way to go.” Marty wrapped an arm across Miss Fowkes’s shoulders to pilot her toward safety.

  “Just a minute. Somebody’s bound to bung on a blue any minute. It’s gunner get exciting in a hurry!” He disappeared into the crowd.

  “Jase!”

  Half the mounted unit pressed their way forward, flanking the major and forcing the crowd to make way. As guards waved their bayonets high, the phalanx of nervous, sweaty horses plowed a furrow through the milling mob. And Marty was in the middle of it all.

  A tree. Gotta find a tree, Marty thought frantically. A good, solid tree would offer some protection, but the only trees along the railway were a few scrubby acacias. The shouting intensified as someone in the mass hit a soldier with a rock.

  These army mounts were local squatters’ horses; they could handle the confusion of a mob of cattle or sheep, but not this screaming melee. With flaring nostrils the horses danced, their eyes rolled back in fear. One of them, panic-stricken, bolted into the crowd.

  Suddenly a man in a dark coat slapped his hat against the face of Major Paterson’s bay. The horse lunged straight up, terrified, and nearly rolled backward. Marty watched as the dark coat pushed through the throng and disappeared as the crowd parted, closing the gap behind him.

  From somewhere within the line a rifle went off; the bittersweet blue gun smoke dissipated itself in the roiling clouds of dust. Marty’s nerves, like the horses’, could take no more. He flung Miss Fowkes down against the trunk of a puny acacia and huddled over her, protecting her as best he could. Jase was gone, but Marty could not think of him now. He was painfully aware that their sole protect
ion in this din was a soft lacy openwork of frail branches. Another gunshot exploded in the air. Marty held on to the tree—and Miss Fowkes—for dear life, waiting for it all to be over.

  For what seemed like centuries the horror whipped and whirled about them. Miss Fowkes coughed and choked on the dust. So did Marty. The chains jingled more faintly. The shouting grew less intense as the strikers swept along beside the prisoners. Still, Marty waited a good long time before he raised his head.

  He was handing Miss Fowkes to her feet when Jase came along, wound up like a two-penny clock. Grabbing Marty, he yelled, “What a blooming coward, lying there in the bulldust! That big galah nearly dumped the major! Lucky that last bloke nabbed him ’fore he got away!”

  Marty started to stutter something, but Miss Fowkes didn’t give him a chance. She berated Jase soundly for calling her protector a coward. She got on Jase’s back so stridently that Marty almost believed her. He hadn’t really lost his nerve; Miss Fowkes’s safety was his first responsibility, and he had discharged that duty well.

  Yet every morning for days afterward Marty awoke in a cold sweat. The vivid nightmares ducked in and out through the corridors of his mind, evading remembrance.

  ****

  Mr. Miles had been right. Henry Sealy, the manager of Barcaldine Downs, had built a string of bullock carts to drive west. Pop overruled Mum’s objections and gave Marty permission to sign on as a driver. But not Jase. Jase was still a bit young to handle five yoke of bullocks, said Pop.

  Marty enjoyed the life of a bullocky. You were your own man. You felt a wonderful sense of power, being in control of ten strong, massive beasts. Of course, on this trip Mr. Sealy put only four bullocks to a cart and didn’t even use his big table-top wagons. Besides, it was hard to feel very strong and powerful when you were soaked to the skin, which was often because it rained frequently, and Marty was usually the last wagon in line. The carts ahead of him would churn the track into deep, gooey ruts, making progress difficult as well as messy. He found himself caked with mud more often than he cared to think of.

  Mr. Sealy led on his sorrel mare and a half dozen outriders rode among the bullock carts. They all carried rifles or shotguns in dark shiny-wet scabbards. Were these men expecting trouble or simply being cautious in light of the labor unrest? Marty was sorry he had not asked Mr. Sealy. Another thing, why was he taking this route?

  They followed the railway, sometimes using the side path the track-layers had forged, and sometimes blazing their own way through the brigalow. Marty fell easily into the slow and steady splock-splock rhythm of all those cloven feet. The railway trestled across a slight, gentle dip. The bullock carts lurched down the dip and slipped and slid up the other side. Marty had to prod his oxen hard to get them out of the dip. If Miss Fowkes could only see him now, Marty smiled to himself.

  They were maybe three miles out when they heard the distant hooting of a train whistle. As his sorrel mare waltzed excitedly in place, Mr. Sealy flagged the train with his hat. The locomotive huffed and puffed, then finally squealed to an impatient halt. Rain sizzled and steamed on its shiny black boiler. Marty brought his bullocks to a stop, then applied most of his attention to the train. Magnificent. You’d almost think it was alive!

  A motley assortment of men poured out of a car, each with his bundle of belongings. Some were half- or quarter-castes; some were old; some nearly as young as Marty. Their swags bulged. Obviously these men planned to be on the road a long time.

  Suddenly it dawned on Marty. Shearers. These men were free shearers, nonunion workers brought in to break the strike and get the shearing started. Mr. Sealy had contracted with these outsiders and now he wanted to cart them to his station with a minimum of fuss and danger. Had Pop known this, would he have let Marty come? But then, surely Mr. Sealy would have mentioned to Pop and the others that they might make use of the free labor as well. Bantering and swapping insults in strange accents, the men clambered aboard Marty’s bullock cart.

  “Bit small to be driving bullocks, ain’t you?”

  “Picked before he was ripe, eh?”

  Marty was used to allusions about his small size. He shot a grin over his shoulder. “I can stop ’em if you’d rather walk.”

  “Break it down, mates. He’s a good sort.”

  The horsemen drew their rifles and shotguns, balancing them lightly across their pommels. They were watching everywhere.

  Mr. Sealy led off, south and away from the railway. Instantly the going got a lot easier. In a wet year like this, grass grew practically everywhere, binding the dirt. Cloven hooves that would cut bare mud into a churned morass hardly dented grass at all. Frequently the bullocks slid and staggered on the slippery wet tufts, but that was a minor price to pay. Marty turned his cart a little aside so that his bullocks weren’t following right in the others’ softened tracks. His oxen wound through the scraggly forest with a decidedly springier step. They seemed to know they were heading home.

  Someone shouted beyond the trees to the east. Marty heard horses approaching. Many horses. A score of riders burst out of the bush. Union men! Another group crashed through the brigalow beyond them. Still more mounted riders thundered toward them from the railway. A hundred of them, at the very least! The unionists had heard rumors about Mr. Sealy’s free help—and they were here to stop the scabs before they could start!

  A shotgun roared. More infernal shouting. Another gunshot. Marty left his bullocks in the capable hands of God and started running. Where to? He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

  Three strides later he slid in the wet grass. His right foot zipped out from under him and he slammed down on his hip and right arm. The pain in his right shoulder slashed through his whole body, snatching his breath away. Panic seized his pounding heart.

  Numbed by terror, he curled up in a tight little wad in the cold, rough grass. The solid hooves of horses shook the ground. Guns roared all around him. Why me? Why always me? He had no idea how much time had passed. He hadn’t the slightest notion who—if anyone—was winning. He didn’t care. The guns blasted his nerves and made his rigid body shake. His mind imagined blood flowing and men falling that his eyes, pressed tightly shut, could not see.

  Shouts of war turned into shouts of jubilation. Men were laughing and crowing; horses pounded a retreat. No more guns. It was over, but he could not unlock his muscles; they had petrified. His body had stopped shaking, but he couldn’t make it move.

  Warm, rough hands unfolded him, checked for injuries, and sat him up. Mr. Sealy continued to probe about a bit, announced his shoulder had probably popped out of joint but it was all right now, and bound his arm tightly against his body with kerchiefs. Amidst jolly yabba, the horsemen and the shearers congratulated each other on the victory. They gave Marty a leg up behind Mr. Sealy and he rode double-dink on the sorrel mare all the way to Barcaldine Downs.

  Only Mr. Sealy, it seemed, failed to enter into the heady joy of victory. Grumbling more to himself than to Marty, he spent most of the ride home reviling union men and their violent ways in the bitterest of terms. “Brainless animals,” he’d mumble. “Coulda got someone killed. Not worth a brass razoo, the whole mob of them. Worse’n a pack of dingoes.”

  Chapter Five

  Dreams of Other Places

  Somewhere in the last rains of the autumn wet, everything turned around. All the union leaders that had been transported from Clermont stood trial, first in Barcaldine and then in Rockhampton. They were convicted. The union movement scurried about like a chicken with its head lopped off to keep the effort going. But deprived of their driving force—the leadership—they accomplished nothing. Constant rain reduced the tent camps to slurpy, slogging misery. Dysentery and fever sapped men’s physical strength. The carters began carting again, and the railway workers started once more to lay track westward. Most of the newspapermen went home. The world had lost interest in Barcaldine.

  On June 14 the union held its last parade. From the nearly abandoned tent camp to the union of
fice on Ash Street marched a sad and sorry crowd as the fife and drums played Auld Lang Syne. It was over. The pastoralists had won.

  From the balcony of the Shakspeare, Pearl watched the street below as the silenced fife and drums disappeared into the dark building. Why did she feel these men’s sadness so strongly? They hardly deserved sympathy; they were rabble, cursed by sin and strong drink. They had opposed Marty’s father and his associates—all prominent and influential men, men of wealth and high regard.

  Papa moved through the dejected, milling mob, shaking hands, speaking to this man and that. Obviously, Papa was in his element. Pearl was not. Already she was becoming terribly bored with Barcaldine, and she had been here only a few short months. When the months stretched into years, how would she be able to stand it?

  And as months always do, they did indeed stretch into years. The labor problem pretty much resolved, the Frobels never came to Barcaldine anymore, especially after the railway was extended to Longreach the next year. Pearl longed for the genteel company of the powerful squatters, men with money. When Papa brought home dinner guests, which he often did, they were always such common people.

  Pearl completed schooling and was more than happy to put education behind her. The schoolroom had been dark, cramped, and overcrowded. Soon Pearl obtained employment at the new soap factory, owned by a friend of Papa’s. Pearl was glad to have a job, even if it was making the soap her mother used in her laundry business. However, she eventually became disgruntled, noting that there is absolutely no pleasure to be found in sheep grease and lye.

  Desperate to smell like something better than cooked fat, Pearl tried the boot factory. It was a good job, sewing together leather uppers. She could get shoes for her father at great discount, and sometimes they made a women’s style that she and Mum could tolerate. But when she ran the sewing machine needle through her thumb, nail and all, she decided it was time to find a new job.