'a' been jist about the middle of shearin' when yer pegged out. I wonder
who got yer last cheque. Shoo! theer's another black goanner--theer must
be a flock of 'em.”
He rested Brummy on the ground while he had another pull at the bottle,
and, before going on, packed the bag of bones on his shoulder under the
body, and he soon stopped again.
“The thunderin' jumpt-up bones is all skew-whift,” he said. “'Ole on,
Brummy, an' I'll fix 'em”--and he leaned the dead man against a tree
while he settled the bones on his shoulder, and took another pull at the
bottle.
About a mile further on he heard a rustling in the grass to the right,
and, looking round, saw another goanna gliding off sideways, with its
long snaky neck turned towards him.
This puzzled the shepherd considerably, the strangest part of it being
that Five Bob wouldn't touch the reptile, but slunk off with his tail
down when ordered to “sick 'em.”
“Theer's sothin' comic about them theer goanners,” said the old man at
last. “I've seed swarms of grasshoppers an' big mobs of kangaroos, but
dang me if ever I seed a flock of black goanners afore!”
On reaching the hut the old man dumped the corpse against the wall,
wrong end up, and stood scratching his head while he endeavoured to
collect his muddled thoughts; but he had not placed Brummy at the
correct angle, and, consequently, that individual fell forward and
struck him a violent blow on the shoulder with the iron toes of his
blucher boots.
The shock sobered him. He sprang a good yard, instinctively hitching up
his moleskins in preparation for flight; but a backward glance revealed
to him the true cause of this supposed attack from the rear. Then he
lifted the body, stood it on its feet against the chimney, and ruminated
as to where he should lodge his mate for the night, not noticing that
the shorter sheet of bark had slipped down on the boots and left the
face exposed.
“I spect I'll have ter put yer into the chimney-trough for the night,
Brummy,” said he, turning round to confront the corpse. “Yer can't
expect me to take yer into the hut, though I did it when yer was in a
worse state than--Lord!”
The shepherd was not prepared for the awful scrutiny that gleamed on him
from those empty sockets; his nerves received a shock, and it was some
time before he recovered himself sufficiently to speak.
“Now, look a-here, Brummy,” said he, shaking his finger severely at the
delinquent, “I don't want to pick a row with yer; I'd do as much for yer
an' more than any other man, an' well yer knows it; but if yer starts
playin' any of yer jumpt-up pranktical jokes on me, and a-scarin' of
me after a-humpin' of yer 'ome, by the 'oly frost I'll kick yer to
jim-rags, so I will.”
This admonition delivered, he hoisted Brummy into the chimney-trough,
and with a last glance towards the sheep-yards, he retired to his bunk
to have, as he said, a snooze.
He had more than a snooze, however, for when he woke, it was dark, and
the bushman's instinct told him it must be nearly nine o'clock.
He lit a slush-lamp and poured the remainder of the rum into a pannikin;
but, just as he was about to lift the draught to his lips, he heard a
peculiar rustling sound overhead, and put the pot down on the table with
a slam that spilled some of the precious liquor.
Five Bob whimpered, and the old shepherd, though used to the weird and
dismal, as one living alone in the bush must necessarily be, felt the
icy breath of fear at his heart.
He reached hastily for his old shot-gun, and went out to investigate. He
walked round the but several times and examined the roof on all sides,
but saw nothing. Brummy appeared to be in the same position.
At last, persuading himself that the noise was caused by possums or the
wind, the old man went inside, boiled his billy, and, after composing
his nerves somewhat with a light supper and a meditative smoke, retired
for the night. He was aroused several times before midnight by the same
mysterious sound overhead, but, though he rose and examined the roof on
each occasion by the light of the rising moon, he discovered nothing.
At last he determined to sit up and watch until daybreak, and for this
purpose took up a position on a log a short distance from the hut, with
his gun laid in readiness across his knee.
After watching for about an hour, he saw a black object coming over the
ridge-pole. He grabbed his gun and fired. The thing disappeared. He ran
round to the other side of the hut, and there was a great black goanna
in violent convulsions on the ground.
Then the old man saw it all. “The thunderin' jumpt-up thing has
been a-havin' o' me,” he exclaimed. “The same cuss-o'-God wretch has
a-follered me 'ome, an' has been a-havin' its Christmas dinner off of
Brummy, an' a-hauntin' o' me into the bargain, the jumpt-up tinker!”
As there was no one by whom he could send a message to the station, and
the old man dared not leave the sheep and go himself, he determined to
bury the body the next afternoon, reflecting that the authorities could
disinter it for inquest if they pleased.
So he brought the sheep home early and made arrangements for the burial
by measuring the outer casing of Brummy and digging a hole according to
those dimensions.
“That 'minds me,” he said. “I never rightly knowed Brummy's religion,
blest if ever I did. Howsomenever, there's one thing sartin--none o'
them theer pianer-fingered parsons is a-goin' ter take the trouble
ter travel out inter this God-forgotten part to hold sarvice over him,
seein' as how his last cheque's blued. But, as I've got the fun'ral
arrangements all in me own hands, I'll do jestice to it, and see that
Brummy has a good comfortable buryin'--and more's unpossible.”
“It's time yer turned in, Brum,” he said, lifting the body down.
He carried it to the grave and dropped it into one corner like a post.
He arranged the bark so as to cover the face, and, by means of a piece
of clothes-line, lowered the body to a horizontal position. Then he
threw in an armful of gum-leaves, and then, very reluctantly, took the
shovel and dropped in a few shovelfuls of earth.
“An' this is the last of Brummy,” he said, leaning on his spade and
looking away over the tops of the ragged gums on the distant range.
This reflection seemed to engender a flood of memories, in which the old
man became absorbed. He leaned heavily upon his spade and thought.
“Arter all,” he murmured sadly, “arter all--it were Brummy.
“Brummy,” he said at last. “It's all over now; nothin' matters
now--nothin' didn't ever matter, nor--nor don't. You uster say as how it
'ud be all right termorrer” (pause); “termorrer's come, Brummy--come fur
you--it ain't come fur me yet, but--it's a-comin'.”
He threw in some more earth.
“Yer don't remember, Brummy, an' mebbe yer don't want to remember--_I_
don't want to remember--but--well, but, yer see that's where yer got the
pull on me.”
He shovelled in some more earth and paused again.
The dog rose, with ears erect, and looked anxiously first at his master
and then into the grave.
“Theer oughter be somethin' sed,” muttered the old man; “'tain't right
to put 'im under like a dog. Theer oughter be some sort o' sarmin.” He
sighed heavily in the listening silence that followed this remark and
proceeded with his work. He filled the grave to the brim this time, and
fashioned the mound carefully with his spade. Once or twice he muttered
the words, “I am the rassaraction.” As he laid the tools quietly aside,
and stood at the head of the grave, he was evidently trying to remember
the something that ought to be said. He removed his hat, placed it
carefully on the grass, held his hands out from his sides and a little
to the front, drew a long deep breath, and said with a solemnity
that greatly disturbed Five Bob: “Hashes ter hashes, dus ter dus,
Brummy--an'--an' in hopes of a great an' gerlorious rassaraction!”
He sat down on a log near by, rested his elbows on his knees and passed
his hand wearily over his forehead--but only as one who was tired and
felt the heat; and presently he rose, took up the tools, and walked back
to the hut.
And the sun sank again on the grand Australian bush--the nurse and tutor
of eccentric minds, the home of the weird.
OUR PIPES
The moon rose away out on the edge of a smoky plain, seen through a
sort of tunnel or arch in the fringe of mulga behind which we were
camped--Jack Mitchell and I. The timber proper was just behind us, very
thick and very dark. The moon looked like a big new copper boiler set on
edge on the horizon of the plain, with the top turned towards us and a
lot of old rags and straw burning inside.
We had tramped twenty-five miles on a dry stretch on a hot day--swagmen
know what that means. We reached the water about two hours “after dark
“--swagmen know what that means. We didn't sit down at once and rest--we
hadn't rested for the last ten miles. We knew that if we sat down
we wouldn't want to get up again in a hurry--that, if we did, our
leg-sinews, especially those of our calves, would “draw” like red-hot
wire's. You see, we hadn't been long on the track this time--it was only
our third day out. Swagmen will understand.
We got the billy boiled first, and some leaves laid down for our beds
and the swags rolled out. We thanked the Lord that we had some cooked
meat and a few johnny-cakes left, for we didn't feel equal to cooking.
We put the billy of tea and our tucker-bags between the heads of our
beds, and the pipes and tobacco in the crown of an old hat, where we
could reach them without having to get up. Then we lay down on our
stomachs and had a feed. We didn't eat much--we were too tired for
that--but we drank a lot of tea. We gave our calves time to tone down a
bit; then we lit up and began to answer each other. It got to be pretty
comfortable, so long as we kept those unfortunate legs of ours straight
and didn't move round much.
We cursed society because we weren't rich men, and then we felt better
and conversation drifted lazily round various subjects and ended in that
of smoking.
“How came to start smoking?” said Mitchell. “Let's see.” He reflected.
“I started smoking first when I was about fourteen or fifteen. I smoked
some sort of weed--I forget the name of it--but it wasn't tobacco; and
then I smoked cigarettes--not the ones we get now, for those cost a
penny each. Then I reckoned that, if I could smoke those, I could smoke
a pipe.”
He reflected.
“We lived in Sydney then--Surry Hills. Those were different times; the
place was nearly all sand. The old folks were alive then, and we were
all at home, except Tom.”
He reflected.
“Ah, well!... Well, one evening I was playing marbles out in front of our
house when a chap we knew gave me his pipe to mind while he went into a
church-meeting. The little church was opposite--a 'chapel' they called
it.”
He reflected.
“The pipe was alight. It was a clay pipe and niggerhead tobacco. Mother
was at work out in the kitchen at the back, washing up the tea-things,
and, when I went in, she said: 'You've been smoking!'
“Well, I couldn't deny it--I was too sick to do so, or care much,
anyway.
“'Give me that pipe!' she said.
“I said I hadn't got it.
“'_Give--me--that--pipe_!' she said.
“I said I hadn't got it.
“'Where is it?' she said.
“'Jim Brown's got it,' I said, 'it's his.'
“'Then I'll give it to Jim Brown,' she said; and she did; though it
wasn't Jim's fault, for he only gave it to me to mind. I didn't smoke
the pipe so much because I wanted to smoke a pipe just then, as because
I had such a great admiration for Jim.”
Mitchell reflected, and took a look at the moon. It had risen clear and
had got small and cold and pure-looking, and had floated away back out
amongst the stars.
“I felt better towards morning, but it didn't cure me--being sick and
nearly dead all night, I mean. I got a clay pipe and tobacco, and the
old lady found it and put it in the stove. Then I got another pipe and
tobacco, and she laid for it, and found it out at last; but she didn't
put the tobacco in the stove this time--she'd got experience. I don't
know what she did with it. I tried to find it, but couldn't. I fancy the
old man got hold of it, for I saw him with a plug that looked very much
like mine.”
He reflected.
“But I wouldn't be done. I got a cherry pipe. I thought it wouldn't be
so easy to break if she found it. I used to plant the bowl in one place
and the stem in another because I reckoned that if she found one she
mightn't find the other. It doesn't look much of an idea now, but it
seemed like an inspiration then. Kids get rum ideas.”
He reflected.
“Well, one day I was having a smoke out at the back, when I heard her
coming, and I pulled out the stem in a hurry and put the bowl behind the
water-butt and the stem under the house. Mother was coming round for a
dipper of water. I got out of her way quick, for I hadn't time to look
innocent; but the bowl of the pipe was hot and she got a whiff of it.
She went sniffing round, first on one side of the cask and then on the
other, until she got on the scent and followed it up and found the bowl.
Then I had only the stem left. She looked for that, but she couldn't
scent it. But I couldn't get much comfort out of that. Have you got the
matches?
“Then I gave it best for a time and smoked cigars. They were the safest
and most satisfactory under the circumstances, but they cost me two
shillings a week, and I couldn't stand it, so I started a pipe again and
then mother gave in at last. God bless her, and God forgive me, and us
all--we deserve it. She's been at rest these seventeen long years.”
Mitchell reflected.
“And what did your old man do when he found out that you were smoking?”
I asked.
“The old man?”
He reflected.
“Well, he seemed to brighten up at first. You see, he was sort of
pensioned off by mother and she kept him pretty well inside his
income.... Well, he seemed to sort of brighten up--liven up--when he
found out that I was smoking.”
“Did he? So did my old man, and he livened me up, too. But what did your
old man do--what did he say?”
“Well,” said Mitchell, very slowly, “about the first thing he did was to
ask me for a fill.”
He reflected.
“Ah! many a solemn, thoughtful old smoke we had together on the
quiet--the old man and me.”
He reflected.
“Is your old man dead, Mitchell?” I asked softly. “Long ago--these
twelve years,” said Mitchell.
COMING ACROSS
We were delayed for an hour or so inside Sydney Heads, taking passengers
from the _Oroya_, which had just arrived from England and anchored off
Watson's Bay. An Adelaide boat went alongside the ocean liner, while we
dropped anchor at a respectable distance. This puzzled some of us until
one of the passengers stopped an ancient mariner and inquired. The
sailor jerked his thumb upwards, and left. The passengers stared aloft
till some of them got the lockjaw in the back of their necks, and then
another sailor suggested that we had yards to our masts, while the
Adelaide boat had not.
It seemed a pity that the new chums for New Zealand didn't have a chance
to see Sydney after coming so far and getting so near. It struck them
that way too. They saw Melbourne, which seemed another injustice to the
old city. However, nothing matters much nowadays, and they might see
Sydney in happier times.
They looked like new chums, especially the “furst clarsters,” and there
were two or three Scotsmen among them who looked like Scots, and talked
like it too; also an Irishman. Great Britain and Ireland do not seem to
be learning anything fresh about Australia. We had a yarn with one of
these new arrivals, and got talking about the banks. It turned out that
he was a radical. He spat over the side and said:
“It's a something shame the way things is carried on! Now, look here, a
banker can rob hundreds of wimmin and children an' widders and orfuns,
and nothin' is done to him; but if a poor man only embezzles a shilling
_he gets transported to the colonies for life_.” The italics are ours,
but the words were his.
We explained to this new chum that transportation was done away with
long ago, as far as Australia was concerned, that no more convicts were
sent out here--only men who ought to be; and he seemed surprised. He
did not call us a liar, but he looked as if he thought that we were
prevaricating. We were glad that he didn't say so, for he was a bigger
man. New chums are generally more robust than Australians.
When we got through the Heads someone pointed to the wrong part of the
cliff and said:
“That's where the _Dunbar_ was wrecked.”
Shortly afterwards another man pointed to another wrong part of the
cliffs and observed incidentally:
“That's where the _Dunbar_ was wrecked.”
Pretty soon a third man came along and pointed to a third wrong part of
the cliff, and remarked casually:
“That's where the _Dunbar_ was wrecked.”
We moved aft and met the fourth mate, who jerked his thumb over his
shoulder at the cliffs in general, and muttered condescendingly:
“That's where the _Dunbar_ was wrecked.”
It was not long before a woman turned round and asked “Was that the
place where the Dunbar was wrecked, please?”
We said “Yes,” and she said “Lor,” and beckoned to a friend.
We went for'ard and met an old sailor, who glared at us, jerked his
thumb at the coast and growled:
“That's where the _Dunbar_ went down.”
Then we went below; but we felt a slight relief when he said “went down”
instead of “was wrecked.”
It is doubtful whether a passenger boat ever cleared Sydney Heads since
the wild night of that famous wreck without someone pointing to the
wrong part of the cliffs, and remarking:
“That's where the _Dunbar_ was wrecked.”
The _Dunbar_ fiend is inseparable from Australian coasting steamers.
We travelled second-class in the interests of journalism. You get more
points for copy in the steerage. It was a sacrifice; but we hope to
profit by it some day.
There were about fifty male passengers, including half a dozen New
Zealand shearers, two of whom came on board drunk--their remarks for the
first night mainly consisted of “gory.” “Gory” is part of the Australian
language now--a big part.
The others were chiefly tradesmen, labourers, clerks and bagmen, driven
out of Australia by the hard times there, and glad, no doubt, to get
away. There was a jeweller on board, of course, and his name was Moses
or Cohen. If it wasn't it should have been--or Isaacs. His christian
name was probably Benjamin. We called him Jacobs. He passed away most of
his time on board in swopping watch lies with the other passengers and
good-naturedly spoiling their Waterburys.
One commercial traveller shipped with a flower in his buttonhole. His
girl gave it to him on the wharf, and told him to keep it till it faded,
and then press it. She was a barmaid. She thought he was “going saloon,”
but he came forward as soon as the wharf was out of sight. He gave the
flower to the stewardess, and told us about these things one moonlight
night during the voyage.
There was another--a well-known Sydney man--whose friends thought he was
going saloon, and turned up in good force to see him off. He spent his
last shilling “shouting,” and kept up his end of the pathetic little
farce out of consideration for the feelings of certain proud female
relatives, and not because he was “proud”--at least in that way. He
stood on a conspicuous part of the saloon deck and waved his white
handkerchief until Miller's Point came between. Then he came forward
where he belonged. But he was proud--bitterly so. He had a flower too,
but he did not give it to the stewardess. He had it pressed, we think
(for we knew him), and perhaps he wears it now over the place where his
heart used to be.
When Australia was fading from view we shed a tear, which was all we had
to shed; at least, we tried to shed a tear, and could not. It is best to
be exact when you are writing from experience.
Just as Australia was fading from view, someone looked through a glass,
and said in a sad, tired kind of voice that he could just see the place
where the _Dunbar_ was wrecked.
Several passengers were leaning about and saying “Europe! E-u-rope!”
in agonized tones. None of them were going to Europe, and the new chums
said nothing about it. This reminds us that some people say “Asia! Asia!
Ak-kak-Asia!” when somebody spills the pepper. There was a pepper-box
without a stopper on the table in our cabin. The fact soon attracted
attention.
A new chum came along and asked us whether the Maoris were very bad
round Sydney. He'd heard that they were. We told him that we had never
had any trouble with them to speak of, and gave him another show.
“Did you ever hear of the wreck of the _Dunbar_?” we asked. He said
that he never “heerd tell” of it, but he had heerd of the wreck of the
_Victoria_.
We gave him best.
The first evening passed off quietly, except for the vinously-excited
shearers. They had sworn eternal friendship with a convivial dude from
the saloon, and he made a fine specimen fool of himself for an hour or
so. He never showed his nose for'ard again.
Now and then a passenger would solemnly seek the steward and have a
beer. The steward drew it out of a small keg which lay on its side on a
shelf with a wooden tap sticking out of the end of it--out of the end of
the keg, we mean. The beer tasted like warm but weak vinegar, and cost
sixpence per small glass. The bagman told the steward that he could
not compliment him on the quality of his liquor, but the steward said
nothing. He did not even seem interested--only bored. He had heard the
same remark often before, no doubt. He was a fat, solemn steward--not
formal, but very reticent--unresponsive. He looked like a man who had
conducted a religious conservative paper once and failed, and had then
gone into the wholesale produce line, and failed again, and finally
got his present billet through the influence of his creditors and two
clergymen. He might have been a sociable fellow, a man about town, even
a gay young dog, and a radical writer before he was driven to accept
the editorship of the aforesaid periodical. He probably came of a “good
English family.” He was now, very likely, either a rigid Presbyterian
or an extreme freethinker. He thought a lot, anyway, and looked as if he
knew a lot too--too much for words, in fact.
We took a turn on deck before turning in, and heard two men arguing
about the way in which the _Dunbar_ was wrecked.
The commercial travellers, the jeweller, and one or two new chums who
were well provided with clothing undressed deliberately and retired
ostentatiously in pyjamas, but there were others--men of better
days--who turned in either very early or very late, when the cabin was
quiet, and slipped hurriedly and furtively out of their clothes and
between the blankets, as if they were ashamed of the poverty of their
underwear. It is well that the Lord can see deep down into the hearts of
men, for He has to judge them; it is well that the majority of mankind
cannot, because, if they could, the world would be altogether too
sorrowful to live in; and we do not think the angels can either, else
they would not be happy--if they could and were they would not be angels
any longer--they would be devils. Study it out on a slate.
We turned in feeling comfortably dismal, and almost wishing that we had
gone down with the _Dunbar_.
The intoxicated shearers and the dude kept their concert up till a late
hour that night--or, rather, a very early hour next morning; and at
about midnight they were reinforced by the commercial traveller and
Moses, the jeweller, who had been visiting acquaintances aft. This
push was encouraged by voices from various bunks, and enthusiastically
barracked for by a sandy-complexioned, red-headed comedian with
twinkling grey eyes, who occupied the berth immediately above our own.
They stood with their backs to the bunks, and their feet braced against
the deck, or lurched round, and took friendly pulls from whisky flasks,
and chyacked each other, and laughed, and blowed, and lied like--like
Australian bushmen; and occasionally they broke out into snatches of
song--and as often broke down. Few Englishmen know more than the
first verse, or two lines, of even their most popular song, and, where
elevated enough to think they can sing, they repeat the first verse
over and over again, with the wrong words, and with a sort
of “Ta-ra-ra-rum-ti-tooral, ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rum-ti,
ta-ra-ra-rum-tum-ti-rum-rum-tum-ti-dee-e-e,” by way of variation.