by Tony McKenna
Bill Martin joined him for drinks then they went for dinner in the hotel dining room. Martin knew nothing about his son’s disappearance so Jack decided not to mention the subject as it only disturbed him, and the buyer would not be able to help here in South Australia anyhow.
‘What time we leaving in the morning, Bill?’ Jack pressed the serviette to his lips, folded it and placed on the table.
‘Need to get away early, Jack, got a long drive up to Marree.’ Martin looked at his watch. ‘Saying that, I better make a move.’ He stood up from the table. ‘Let me get this, Jack.’ He reached for the bill.
‘No, mate, I’ll just put it on my room account. Charge it to the company.’ Jack signed the docket and then walked through the lobby to the hotel entrance to see his guest off.
‘You sure these cattle are there, Bill? We don’t want to drive all the way up there to find they’re still on the road somewhere.’
‘Talked to Marree this afternoon, Jack. They arrived today and are yarded. The drover in charge is a bloke called Tom Cooper. He’s very reliable … always gets his mob in on time. You’ll meet him tomorrow as he also acts on behalf of the owner. See you in the morning, Jack. I’ll pick you up early.’
‘See ya, Bill.’ Jack walked to the lift to go to his room.
Wide-eyed with fascination the two boys sat in the lounge captivated by the atmosphere of the pub. There were two couples at one table in the lounge, their voices raised to be heard over the din coming from the front public bar where Tom Cooper and Toffy stood leaning on the counter engrossed in animated conversation with a dozen or so other men. As the bar serviced both areas they could see everything that was going on so felt they were definitely a part of the celebrations. On more than one occasion Tom Cooper or Toffy would look in their direction to give them a wave and the barmaid, a large woman with yellow blonde hair piled on her head, large gold earrings and red painted lips kept filling their lemonade glasses and smiling at them. ‘You’re part of Tom Cooper’s team, lads, and that’s good enough for me,’ she said as she topped their glasses up again.
The front bar was packed with men of all ages. There were drovers, ringers, railway workers and a smattering of town folk distinguishable by their dress. A group was playing darts at one end of the bar and a pool table was fully occupied at the other. The room was filled with laughter, loud voices and a haze of blue tobacco smoke.
Nobody knew, or really cared for that matter, how the fight started.
There was a sudden commotion as two men struggled with each other before one let fly with a right hook that sent his opponent flying into the mass of drinkers at the bar. Tom Cooper was shoved against the counter, his beer spilling over his shirt. Placing the empty glass carefully on the polished bar top he made a show of wiping the beer from his dusty shirt then turned around slowly. Grabbing the offender by the collar with his left hand he hit him hard on the chin with his right fist. The poor bloke, having taken two solid punches, collapsed in a heap at Tom’s feet.
As if that was a signal, the whole bar erupted in curses and wild swinging punches. The barmaid screamed for them to stop, ducking to avoid a bar stool that narrowly missed her head and smashed into the bottle display on the back wall with a crash of shattered glass. She continued screaming abuse at the men as she ran up and down behind the counter yelling and waving her fists. At one stage she leaned across the bar and grabbed a man by the hair, yanking his head back, fortunately just in time to miss the punch aimed at his nose.
Tom Cooper was right in the middle of the heaving mass of men towering about six inches over them. He was bareheaded now, his hat somewhere trodden underfoot on the beer-swamped lino, swinging punches with devastating effect at anyone unlucky enough to be in range. Toffy, to the boys’ amazement, ignored the brawl and just went on calmly drinking his beer, seemingly oblivious to the mayhem around him.
The publican appeared suddenly from behind the boys and pushed through the counter door into the bar servery. He was not a big man and was dressed in a collarless shirt and waistcoat and wore silver armbands to keep his shirt cuffs from swallowing his hands. He yelled loudly for the fighting to stop but was ignored completely. He stood for a moment surveying the damage to his hotel. There were broken glasses, smashed chairs, a front window shattered, tables overturned and a sea of spilt drink sloshing on the floor.
Jack and Harry sat transfixed watching the fight, unable to believe what they were seeing. They yelled in shock and jumped from their stools however when the gunshot exploded. The men fighting stopped in mid-punch and stood frozen in action like comical statues, staring at the publican.
The little man stood behind the bar, the still smoking twelve-gauge double-barrelled shotgun in his hands, this time pointed across the counter. Nothing was said for what seemed like minutes then Tom Cooper spoke.
‘Bloody hell, Bert … you’ve blown a dirty big hole in yer own ceiling.’
All the men looked up to see where the shotgun pellets had hit the ceiling leaving plaster hanging in straggly threads from the gaping hole. Laughter, just a ripple at first, turned to great gales that swept through the bar. Men had tears in their eyes, holding their sides while rolling around bumping into each other. Men who just minutes before were attempting to murder each other were now slapping the very same people on the back like great mates, laughing and pointing at the damaged ceiling.
‘You blokes have a good time?’ Cooper asked as they walked with him and Toffy back to the camp.
‘Geez, boss,’ Jack said, ‘that was some fight! Never seen nothin’ like that before.’
‘Yeah, wasn’t too bad,’ Tom said as if he was discussing the meal. ‘Said we always celebrated at the end of a drove didn’t I?’
The cameleer was a tall beared man with a hooked nose separating dark wary eyes under hooded brows, his height accentuated by the long striped shirtlike garment he wore down to his ankles. The boys could see he wore boots, weathered and scuffed, that seemed out of place with his garb. He didn’t have a hat on but wore a cloth over his head secured with a woven band of cord so only his face was visible. Jack started to giggle furtively because the man reminded him of the costume the teacher had made him wear in a Christmas nativity play a couple of years ago. Jack whispered to Harry that he thought the play costume looked more authentic than what the cameleer wore.
Tom Cooper and the man were obviously aquainted. After greeting each other they talked for some minutes glancing in the boys’ direction several times. A number of tawny coloured camels were in a nearby post-and-rail yard, their flat elongated heads swivelling on long necks. They had haughty expressions on their faces as if they were superior to everything about them, and made half-grunting coughing sounds while they snapped viciously at each other.
‘They look pretty bad-tempered those camels, Harry.’
‘Too right, Jack. Glad we’ve got horses. I wouldn’t like to get too close to them.’
Tom Cooper signalled for the boys to join him with the camel driver so they dismounted and walked over, leading their horses. Tom Cooper introduced them by their Christian names to the Afghan.
‘Ishmael Mohamed Hassan, at your service.’ The man flashed a smile, bowing his head slightly to them but not extending his hand, so the boys just nodded awkwardly in response.
‘Call him Ishmo, lads; everyone else does,’ Tom smiled. ‘He acts a little strange at times, doesn’t speak much English and in fact, saying his name is about the longest sentence he says.’ Tom laughed at his own joke. ‘He’s all right though, aren’t you, Ishmo?’
‘You go to Coober Pedy with me?’ The tall man asked.
They both nodded, unsure of what to say in the presence of this comical-looking character.
‘You may be joining me then. This afternoon we are leaving.’
On the way back to the wagon to pick up their belongings they were concerned about whether they were doing the right thing. Travelling with bad-tempered, biting camels and heading off into the des
ert with a cartoon character was not what they imagined would be part of their journey to Coober Pedy.
‘Ishmo’s all right, lads, no need to worry,’ Tom said when they expressed their concerns. ‘He’s well respected for his bushcraft and he’s never been in an ounce of trouble all his life out here. People are a bit suspicious of the Afghans but Ishmo is as honest as the day is long. I wouldn’t let you go with a no-hoper, you know that. Just takes a bit of getting used to is all.’
‘OK. We believe you, boss, don’t we, Harry?’
‘Yeah, guess so. Thanks, boss, for arranging it for us.’
‘Right you are. There’s one other thing though.’ He paused waiting for their attention. ‘I’m not your boss any more and I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. It may be a big country but life has a habit of bringing friends together out here. Next time we meet I’m not boss or Mr Cooper …you call me Tom, OK?’
They loaded their gear carefully on Dolly, lashed their blueys to the saddles and checked their saddlebags. Reynold was waiting as they worked, with his meagre belongings tied in a sugarbag to his stock saddle.
Toffy stood by the wagon, watching the boys prepare for the next leg of their journey, knowing he was going to miss these two young lads. He had been on a drove before with Reynold and liked his company also but there was something special about these blokes. They were determined, willing and caught on quick. He had no doubts they would find opal, probably lots of it.
Tom Cooper rode in as they were about to mount up. He told them he had received a message to say that Warri had been airlifted to hospital in Adelaide and was responding well to treatment. This news buoyed their spirits, particularly Reynold who was beaming.
‘Yu ’ear that news? I tol’ yu uncle Warri ’e gonna be all right, eh?’
They said goodbye to the team drovers but couldn’t see Wandoo. Shaking hands with Toffy and Tom Cooper they climbed into the saddles but found it hard to just ride out, as it seemed so final. Toffy had disappeared somewhere behind the wagon and Tom Cooper walked to his horse.
‘Gotta go,’ he said. ‘There’s a buyer due shortly from Adelaide. Have a good trip and keep in touch when you can. See ya.’ He touched his hand to the brim of his hat in a friendly salute then kicked his horse into a canter toward town without looking back.
The three young riders had only gone some yards when a ‘whooping’ figure on a galloping horse came up fast from out of the dunes. Pulling the horse to a slithering stop in front of them, Wandoo said breathlessly, ‘nearly miss yu blokes, eh?’
‘We looked for you, mate, but couldn’t find ya. Glad ya turned up.’
‘I bin out on reserve camp, Jack. Got somethin’ for yu though.’
Wandoo took two beautifully crafted leather stockwhips from the pommel of his saddle. He handed one each to Jack and Harry. ‘Jus’ to say thanks.’
Before they could respond, Wandoo wheeled his horse without another word and returned over the dunes swallowed by the dust, leaving the boys to just stare in wonder at this gift of friendship.
‘Makes ya stop and think doesn’t it, Harry? We’ve lived all our lives in the city and been out here only a coupla months and made more friends, good ones at that, than we ever had back there.’
Jack Ferguson slumped back in the comfortable leather seat of Bill Martin’s Ford watching the desert blur past the window as they neared Marree. ‘Not all that different out here to much of the other outback country is it, Bill?’
‘There are certainly similarities. There’s not much in the way of trees and plenty of red dust and spinifex out here but that’s like a lot of Western Australia country too. We’ve maybe got more salt lakes though.’
‘Yeah, and there are pockets in Queensland and the back country of New South Wales much the same, the Territory too.’
‘Not far away now. We’ll inspect these cattle first then have a couple of beers in the pub and make our offer in the morning if the stock is as good as I’m told they are.’ Bill Martin looked at his watch, ‘Made good time, Jack.’
‘At this speed we could go back tonight,’ he joked.
‘Marree dead ahead.’ Martin nodded through the windshield at the shimmering buildings materialising out of the desert in front of the bonnet. ‘Look at that!’ He slowed the Ford to point through the window, ‘Don’t see that too much these days.’
‘A camel train!’ Jack spotted the line of animals strung out and silhouetted against the sky some distance to the left heading west into the sun. ‘Don’t often see riders on horseback with them either,’ he said, noticing the three horsemen trailing the camels, leading a pack animal.
‘That’s true. Wonder who they are?’
‘Just some silly buggers heading out into the heat.’ Jack wiped sweat from his brow. ‘Give me a comfy bed with a couple of coldies anytime, Bill. Don’t fancy camping in the open like those blokes have to.’
An image flashed briefly into his mind as he spoke, of his son Jack and young Harry Turner, camped on the ground near some old abandoned mine shaft out of Kalgoorlie or Coolgardie or wherever the hell they were, with not enough to eat and in rags. He quickly dismissed the thought, as blocking these images out when they came was the only way he had learned to survive. Otherwise he would be a mental wreck and no good to anyone, his son included.
‘Let’s find this Tom Cooper and check the mob out before the light fails.’ Bill Martin swung the big Ford into a park at the front of the hotel. They both noticed one of the front plate-glass windows was boarded up.
Chapter Twenty Five
The boys soon learned that their first impressions of Ishmo were very wrong. He certainly looked strange and talked differently from anybody they had ever met but he proved to be a wealth of knowledge about many things and two in particular … camels and opal mining. The information on camels didn’t interest them too much as they couldn’t see how anyone could love these long-legged, awkward-looking animals like Ishmo seemed to do. They had to admit though as the trip progressed that they weren’t as bad tempered as they first appeared and when they were on the trek, roped together, were docile and gentle. The animals protested loudly though every morning as they were being harnessed.
The pace was slow. Ishmo explained one night that to force camels to walk fast was a mistake, as the animals would cover more ground if allowed to set their own rhythmical speed of around three miles an hour. They could walk all day, heavily loaded, without stopping at this pace he said.
‘And they don’t need to drink because they store water in that big hump don’t they, Ishmo?’ Harry sounded knowledgeable.
‘Oh, no, no, no!’ Ishmo waved his hands emphasising his dismay. ‘Not in the hump, goodness no. Hump is food.’
‘Food?’ Harry was amazed.
‘Not food but … how you say it? Yes, yes … fat.’ He bobbed his head several times, white teeth flashing from his dark bearded face as he smiled. ‘Camel not drink much all time, no. Camel not wanting much water.’
‘Think I’ll stick with horses, Ishmo,’ Harry said.
‘Horse good yes … but to ride the camel …’ Ishmo shrugged his shoulders without explaining as if words could not describe the experience.
‘Could I have a ride sometime, Ishmo?’ Jack asked.
He nodded to Jack then looked at Harry and Reynold. ‘You like ride the camel?’
Harry wasn’t too excited about the prospect but Jack urged him on ‘Go on, Harry, it’d be fun. Bet I can ride better than you,’ He goaded.
‘You’re on, then.’ Harry turned to Reynold. ‘Reynold, you in are you?’
‘Yu bloke mad. Rennol ’e not ridin’ no camel. That final!’ He walked purposefully away from the fire leaving no room for argument. Jack realised then that, although competent on horseback and fearless in the saddle, he was terrified of the camels.
They learned from Ishmo through sign language, broken English and a lot of laughter more about camels than they really needed to know. That their eyes had lashes
with brows that kept the sand and sun out and that their noses were just slits with muscles inside so flies or dust couldn’t get in. They learned that a camel’s two-toed feet were wide and a bit like snowshoes for walking on the sand and had thick pads to walk over stones without damage on uneven ground. The coats were short now in summer but in colder weather, Ishmo said, grew some inches long which was highly valued and that they had incredible eyesight able to see for miles. A camel could survive in 100-degree heat they learned, for more than two weeks without water.
Averaging around thirty to forty miles a day the boys’ excitement grew with each sunrise. Coober Pedy, their goal when they left Perth, was now only days away. The route Ishmo followed travelled back over much of the country they had covered coming down from Anna Creek to Marree and although they eventually were on station property they passed many miles south west of the actual homestead.
Ishmo’s other favourite subject was opal mining. He explained to them that he wanted to look for opal but couldn’t leave his beloved camels that had been his life since arriving as a boy with a load of them many years before. The boys couldn’t determine his age but figured he must be well over seventy. He hadn’t needed any papers to come to Australia when he did as he was considered just part of the package when the camels were shipped. Ishmo had never married as there were no Afghan brides to be found and he had lived an almost hermit-like existence, shunned by all except a few whites and his fellow cameleers.