Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  ‘Look out you stay in charge of any place under my jurisdiction.’

  ‘You sack me and see what happens.’

  ‘Aw, shut up and go to bed.’

  ‘Are you going to take that yeller piece away from here?’

  ‘I’ll do anything . . . if only you’ll shut up. I’m tired.’

  ‘I’ll bloody bet you are!’

  Jeremy pulled Bishoff away from the gate: ‘Let’s have another little walk while they get over it. Feel up to it?’

  ‘Wide awake.’

  ‘You might as well get the low-down on the dispute from me. You’re sure to hear a version someday. You’ve told me you’re country-bred. There were still blacks in your district?’

  ‘Only a handful of full bloods. Fair number of crosses.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to ask you a very personal question. You needn’t answer, if it offends you. You know what Black Velvet is?’

  ‘Of course . . . “Going the gins,” as they say.’

  ‘That’s not the question. It is . . . Have you ever tried Black Velvet yourself?’

  Bishoff chuckled: ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘Nicely answered. If you’d reared up like most silvertails and said, “What do you take me for?” it wouldn’t’ve been worth going on. Now, I’m using the term Black Velvet not simply to apply to full blood women, but any of obvious Aboriginal strain, “yeller girls”, or “creamy pieces”, as they’re called, half and quarter.’

  ‘Still not guilty.’

  ‘You make it sound like a crime.’

  Bishoff looked quickly, said, ‘I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘That’s all right. It is actually against the law . . . to cohabit with an “Aboriginal Female”, as the Ordinance puts it. They don’t mention cohabitation with a male . . . presumably because a whitewoman’s taking on a boong’s unthinkable.’

  ‘But, you can marry . . .’

  ‘Not without the consent of the Chief Protector of Aborigines . . . and then not a full blood. But don’t let that worry you. Your “not guilty” bears me out in what I want to say. I’m not going to go so far as to ask if you felt like taking on one of these yeller or creamy girls . . . but could you say that there was a fair interest in them amongst the males of your town?’

  ‘Why, sure. They were the town whores. Some dashed pretty girls among them, too. It was a pity to see ’em being preyed on by low types . . . I mean . . .’

  ‘Take it easy. You don’t have to apologise, son. Whatever else they call me it’s not a Low Type. They’ll call me a “Combo”, along with any other whiteman who doesn’t make a secret of having a coloured woman for wife or mistress. They just don’t understand the fact that I don’t make a secret of it. My son Martin is in the clear because he does just that. There’s really nothing to going the gins in these parts. But never own up to it. That is definitely not done.’

  Bishoff was obviously embarrassed, kicking up little spurts of dust as they went. Now they were headed along a direct track to the creek, with the Moon, now well down the sky, staring them in the face.

  Jeremy went on: ‘Have you ever thought what the Australian nation would have been like if the pioneers had succoured their hybrid offspring, had given even a little of the care they gave their stock . . . instead of letting them starve to death on the withered breasts of mothers starving because that very stock had destroyed the hunting grounds, or else were murdered in the camps when seen as pale-skinned monstrosities visited on them by devils?’

  ‘No, it never occurred to me. It would’ve made us rather like the Latin American nations, I suppose.’

  ‘Exactly. We’d have been a Creole Nation . . . of a different type again . . . unique. We might all have had the seat out of our pants . . . but we’d’ve had that uniqueness to contribute to the world, in music, literature, politics . . . instead of being just lousy copies of the stock we came from. Do you know the literal meaning of Creole?’

  ‘Half-breed?’

  ‘No. It comes through Spanish and French from the Latin, meaning created . . . that is a created people, a new people. That’s what we might have been. We’d have been largely a rural population . . . true peasants. There’d’ve been no need for planned immigration, because as hybrids we would have bred fast. How’s it strike you?’

  ‘Well . . . colourful. But you did say we’d’ve had the seat out of our pants like the South Americans.’

  ‘But at least we’d have been free.’

  ‘Don’t the Yanks run South America? And what about the Vaiseys in Argentina and other places?’

  ‘I guess the South Americans could get rid of them whenever they wanted to. They wouldn’t be constitutionally stuck with them, as we are with the moth-eaten King of England, which makes us dominated by the British parliament, and ultimately by British capital.’ Jeremy exhaled loudly, adding, ‘But I’m back on my hobby-horse. What I want to tell you is enough about the reality of this business of my sons’ you’ve just overheard, not to go away regarding it as just something dirty . . .’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘I think you’d be bound to . . . unless you understood the implications. But let me get on . . . Remember I was telling you how the whitewomen came and broke up the liaisons their men had started with the blacks. Now, I guess the whitewomen of South America were just as jealous of their conjugal rights. But their men were different from ours. They weren’t afraid of their women as Anglo-Celts are. Whereas it was the missus who put the stockwhip round the dusky interloper she found with her old man in this country, the Spanish-bred master would put it round his wife for intruding on his private business. I feel sure that but for the fear of their women, our forefathers would have been proud enough of their half-breed bastards at least to feed them . . . or rather honest enough in their pride, because the pride is there, still . . . in secret. I stress this thing about our women, because it’s the crux of this thing, the whole Delacy thing. I do declare that all of us bushmen would have mated frankly with Aboriginal women, but for those prudish harridans, our Irish, Scotch, Welsh, and English mothers, sisters, aunts, cousins . . . all of them. They only have to see you treating an Aboriginal woman like a human being to raise the cry Gin Jockey . . . and we bolt like bandicoots at the howl of a dingo.

  ‘The row you just heard not only exposed Martin as a Gin Jockey, but his brother as being jealous of him. It isn’t that Clancy’s going without. You’ll soon enough hear he’s got a Chinese girlfriend, one of the pure-blooded Ah Loys. But I’ll be bound he’d rather have someone out of the camp, because they were the first accessible females he’d seen . . . the more desirable because the more accessible. I suppose you know our sexual preferences are established quite early in life?’

  ‘Yes . . . I’ve read Havelock Ellis . . . and all that.’

  ‘The lonely bush-boy in puberty is naturally attracted to the pretty budding Creamies and Yelleries . . . and the girls themselves are quite mad to get a white boy. Beautiful as the girls though most of their menfolk are, the girls prefer the whiteman every time, even if he’s rubbish. Whether it’s physiological or psychological I’ve never worked out. But it’s only too patent. Most of them will have a whiteman’s baby as near to puberty as they can bear. That’s no exaggeration. Most halfcaste families have one, two or more lighter than they ought to be kids in them. Husbands don’t mind, as if it’s normal . . . just as this Willy Ah Loy takes it.’

  They reached the creek. Jeremy suggested they walk for a little. He resumed: ‘My sons aren’t really happy men. Why? They like the work they do . . . and I’m sure it’s not their alienation from me, because they’ve grown up with it and are bound to it by allegiance to their mother, and also by temperament. No . . . I’m convinced that it’s this Black Velvet business. They don’t have sexual partners of their own natural choice. Martin’s not long been married . . . to a squatter’s daughter from the South . . . real blue-blood squattocracy that goes back to those horrible beg
innings I’ve mentioned. That’s what I mean. He married that girl to do the done thing. God forgive me, didn’t I do the same myself? You only have to watch the squatters with their wives to know that what I’m saying is the truth. Go to a bush party of any sort, and as soon as the concessions to snobbery are made, the men break away from the women . . . mostly to get out into the fresh air, because they’re out-of-doors men, and booze and tell dirty yarns. Those poor women! You can see the humiliation in their eyes . . . and also the meanness in their tight mouths. They’re as much victims as the men, of course . . . of the system. What’s the use of a lady trained at the best ladies’ school to a man who has to battle with this harsh country and needs a woman only to cook his tucker and root like an animal after watching animals root all day? The Squatter’s Lady is the absolutely last choice of women for the bush. The first choice is the obvious one, the women with their roots in the soil itself . . . the Aboriginal woman . . . and I don’t doubt that many, given the chance, would become something of ladies in their own right . . . and still be able to go out and bring in your dinner from the bush when things were bad, and save you having to go and raise the wind at the foreign-owned bank that eventually will foreclose on you and sell you out to the foreign-owned company that will do you the favour of letting you stay on as manager. I guarantee that if all the stations in these parts had had mistresses who’d had a slap of the tarbrush, it wouldn’t be as it is today . . . hardly one remaining that belongs to the man who runs it . . . and I guess that’d go for practically the whole of Australia.’

  The night heron again flew out of the timber croaking, heading for the homestead as before. ‘Don’t tell me!’ exclaimed Bishoff.

  ‘I should imagine he’d be sleeping off that heavy slug of brandy I gave him. Poor old Bob! He must have caught Martin with the girl and tried a little blackmail. That’s an old Aboriginal custom. Use of his women by others means nothing to a blackfellow more than to do with friendship, relationship, or trade. The fact that the average whitefellow makes a secret of it that he’s ready to pay to have kept is surely to be taken advantage of. You mustn’t see old Bob as any less the Pookarakka for doing what to us would be unthinkable. Poor Martin, too! His state was surely indicated by his rage in dealing with the old fellow. Having the guts to sneak out under our noses and root the girl . . . but only to finish up acting like a boy who’s been caught pulling his puddin’. Well, this ought to do us, eh? We’ll get back. What’s the time? Nearly three. Look . . . there’s the stars I told you of rising . . . remember, concerning Koonapippi. Orion just popping up . . . the Cat’s Cradle . . . and above, to the North, the Bull . . . the Dilly-bag of Shades . . . and there, the Pleiades . . . a bit hard to see in this bright moonlight . . . the Old Lady herself . . . Ol’Goomun-Ol’Goomun.’

  As they set off to walk back, Jeremy asked, ‘Have you guessed about the boy?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Young Prindy, Nelly’s quarter-caste son . . . Martin’s son . . . my grandson.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Don’t let it worry you. He’s not the only Delacy born on the wrong side of the slip-rails. My old Dad had one yeller-feller, Jumbo, so-called from his Skin name, Jumbajinna. He lives in Palmeston, a fair amount of the time in jail. He gets away with a lot because he was a police inspector’s son. Give the old man his due, he gave Jumbo as much recognition as he dared, with his job and his wife. My mother, of Welsh descent, was very prim and proper. Jumbo is my half-brother, of course. He married halfcaste and has a whole tribe of Delacys who are, of course, my nephews and nieces . . . cousins to my worthy sons. Then there are my brother Jack’s son, Darcy, and his kids. I’ve told you my brother was killed on Gallipoli . . . by Winston Churchill and others!’ The last bit came like the crack of a whip. Bishoff looked quickly. But Jeremy went on calmly enough: ‘Darcy’s mother is my wife, Nan, or Nanago. So Darcy is my stepson as well as my nephew. Nan was Jack’s mistress when he went to war. I didn’t inherit her in the hand-me-down system of the blacks. When I came home after the war, I found her starving and ill, actually deprived of what comfort and security Jack left her in by my lady wife, when there was no one to protect her. I think I’ve hinted that my first wife divorced me out of spite . . . using my taking Nan in as grounds . . . I took her in to physic and fed her . . . and I married Nan in the same spirit. But that doesn’t mean that my Nan is a symbol of spite . . . at least as far as I am concerned. She’s the sweetest woman I’ve ever known. And then, don’t forget my ideas on miscegenation. I don’t have to go tchinekin to get my heart’s desire, like my son and the rest of the poor bastards.’

  ‘You have no children . . . er . . . er . . .’

  ‘Creamies? No. Nan’s illness prevented it. Perhaps for the best. I’ve had a lot of trouble with crossbreeds, trying to help them, as I thought. They’re a different problem from the straight-out Aboriginal. Really a sociological one. I might have been too hard on my children, trying to make them perfect representatives of their race . . . Euraustralian . . . would have been, for a certainty. It’s an easy way to get yourself roots in a country you want to belong to with all your being . . . too easy, I think. Properly a man should do it on his own.’

  They were swinging back from the creek towards the homestead now sleeping whitely in the blaze of the Moon. Jeremy said, ‘Well, that’s about all . . . except a bit about Dinny Cahoon that you ought to know, in case what I tell you confuses you when you hear other tales. Remember I told you . . . or did I ? . . . that this yeller girl, Nelly, is Piggy Trotter’s daughter. Cahoon found her there in the camp after the Peg-leg Nelly business, and took her out and sent her to his sisters as a housemaid. It’s a common thing for police to do . . . as Protectors. Usually they take them at the age of eight or ten. The kids are glad enough of the better food, shelter, and protection, no matter what the treatment. Halfcaste are mostly neurotic and need and even appreciate discipline . . . other than that of the old people, which is, of course, the cause of the neurosis. By fourteen or fifteen they have to be got rid of, sent to the Halfcastes’ Home in Town, because if they haven’t got involved with some male by then, usually white, the John himself will be looking at her in a way not to please his missus. At the time Dinny was stationed at Caroline River, not in charge, but under a sergeant. He had quarters with his sisters. They’re all Irish born . . . emigrated on the death of their parents. Dinny was only a schoolboy. The old biddies are much older than he. They’re very religious. I suppose Dinny is, too, in his way. He’s hardly been out of their sight . . . except on bush-patrols. He rarely drinks . . . and then goes quite crazy . . . and his only dealings with a woman, I think, are those I’m going to relate.

  ‘After the capture of Bobwirridirridi, Dinny was promoted to sergeant, and given the Beatrice Station . . . with the biddies in attendance, of course. He probably wanted it so as to keep an eye constantly on the Toohey household. They say that Jinbul visited Tom Toohey’s place every day, looking for tracks . . . of Brumby and Micky. They brought their maid, Nelly, of course, a pretty thing, aged now about fourteen . . . and never been touched, thanks to the religious teaching and supervision of her mistresses. How Martin cut her out I don’t know. He could’ve taken advantage of Race Time . . . it was about then . . . during the Races, or after, when Dinny would be away in Town seeing the people he’d pinched during the festivities through the court. It must’ve got out through blackfellow talk. Blame it on the Willy wagtail, who’s supposed to watch these affairs with great interest and enjoyment, and then report them to the spoil-sports. Dinny went quite mad, called Martin out, although Martin was only half his age, and gave him a sound thrashing. There were no witnesses to the fight . . . at least no white ones . . . but it was soon known far and wide. Also that Dinny went home and got Nelly, took her into the scrub and stripped her and flogged her . . . and then poked her himself. I suppose he’d been secretly desiring the kid for a long while. It seemed to settle him down. He even became friendly with Martin. The Irish are strange
in matters of sex. Anyway, next thing she’s up the duff. But to whom? Both boys have light complexions and light eyes. It took some time to tell . . . but I think it’s pretty obvious now that the boy is Martin’s . . . obvious, that is, to everyone but the pair themselves. Martin has shown no interest in the boy whatsoever. I’ve never seen him give the boy a second glance. But Cahoon even calls him Sonny Boy and buys him lollies . . . and’s been known to brag that he’s his son . . . when in drink. I guess the old biddies won’t have such a sinful admission sober. Anyway, there it is. You’ll soon hear about it. Apparently, although it’s interesting to call the boy Martin Delacy’s creamy bastard, there’s piquancy in the idea that he might be Dinny’s.’

  They passed into the homestead paddock. Jeremy said, ‘I won’t come back to the house. I’ve got all my gear out. I’d only embarrass ’em at breakfast. I’ll camp in my ute till daylight, then get a bite at the kitchen, and piss off. There’s nothing really to keep me around. Either those inoculations did the trick . . . or didn’t. If you want any more help, let me know. Otherwise I’ll see you at the Races, eh?’

  ‘My word! I’d like my wife to meet you . . . your wife, too.’

  As they came up to the motor shed, Jeremy said, ‘There’s an old chap works a donkey team down inside, Billy Brew. He’s got a lot of donks . . . a lot too many, according to squatters and stock inspectors. Your predecessor fairly hounded him. Not that it did old Stinker any good, because Billy’s too good a bushman to corner. As he brags, he can hide his team in a hollow log if need be. I just wanted to say that he’s a pretty good vet himself, and with a bit of co-operation from me, keeps his team in a lot better health than most of the complaining squatters keep their stock horses.

  ‘When you meet up with him, start by giving him my regards. It’ll save a lot of bother.’ Jeremy chuckled: ‘Well, I’ll say mummuk.’