They sat down in shade. Here the tumble made it impossible to see the wall ahead of them; but there was the sense of the mass of it in the background.
‘There was no recruiting and training depot in these outlandish parts, of course . . . you had to go South. Jack was off on the first boat. Within a week or two of getting there he was a Lieutenant of Light Horse. He’d wanted me to go along with him; as I could easily have done, for all Rhoda or Da cared. The cattle business was in the doldrums. They were well enough staffed, with Aboriginal labour, and a couple of reliable old white stockmen as overseers. They had nothing to worry about. There’s no better boss’s man than the famous Australian Ringer. There’d be no squattocracy but for him. So Da and Rhoda were able to spend most of their time in Town. That was the only place you could get any immediate news of War in those days, of course. Not that they were worried about it a bit the last I saw of them . . . or anybody else, for that matter. The general opinion was that it’d be over in a matter of months. In fact the spirit of those interested was one of “Hurry along or you’ll miss the show.” Well, let’s get on again, eh?’
He continued as they walked: ‘Why I didn’t go with Jack, when I followed so cloosely behind him, I don’t know. I can’t recollect my feelings then . . . except that I was troubled about losing him. Rhoda’d said I could go if I liked. All of her brothers were in khaki. I guess she wanted me in it, too. She never really liked Jack, for all his nice ways. She could’ve been a bit jealous of her status as Squatter’s Lady in not having her man doing the done thing . . . especially one such as “Following the Flag” . . . the Union Jack, of course.’
Jeremy halted while she clambered over a rocky pinch, resuming: ‘It was quickly made clear that Australia’s part’d be to deal with the Turks, who’d naturally be out to seize the Suez Canal. We were the boys to stop ’em . . . the world’s best cavalrymen. But for Jack’s going, I don’t think I’d’ve gone myself. Surely I’d’ve thought about it and seen through it as an Imperial racket . . . even though I didn’t have much interest in or knowledge of politics in those days . . .’
‘Do you now?’
‘I hear enough on the radio and read enough in the papers just to maintain my long-established belief that it all stinks of power-grabbing. Ready to go on? Good. Well . . . the very fact that when I left to go South with the expressed intention of only going to see Jack off on his troopship is surely indication of reluctance. At that stage of the War you could see your warriors off right beside the ship. There he was, aboard the biggest ship I’d ever seen, one of a vast khaki mob . . . a faceless mass, of uniforms, boots, hats, arms . . . which is what an army is. Not that he was with the common mob, packing the hatches, the rails, the ratlines, but up on the passenger deck with his brother officers. I can see it plainly as a picture yet . . . Flash Jack, my handsome winsome brother, so smart in his well-fitting uniform, the plumed hat at just the right rakish angle, the gleaming leather of Sam Browne and leggings. I looked right into his smiling eyes. That’s how I saw him go . . . out of my life . . . taking my heart with him. I hadn’t realised the depth of my hero-worship of my elder brother . . . I was still the young brother at thirty-two. I knew then I’d have to go after him . . . to save him from what I suddenly realised was War, which for all the talk of glory, really meant destruction and death. I wrote home that night to say I thought of enlisting. It would take a fortnight for them to get the letter. Two days later I wired it, asking were there any objections. Within a few hours I got word back to say: None whatever, best of luck and love, Rhoda, Da, the Boys. Next day I got another from Mother and Kathleen, saying: God go with you both . . . Here, let me get you a stick. It’ll make walking over these rocks easier . . . three legs are better than two.’
After getting her the walking stick he continued: ‘I was commissioned within a couple of weeks . . . Light Horse, naturally. They called us the Flower of the Nation. The cheers we’d get riding through the streets of Adelaide . . . so many of us for the last time! It’s always the Flower that’s destroyed . . . why not the runts?’
‘Runts don’t go to war.’
‘Oh, yes they do . . . with a bayonet at their backside . . . and make no less soldiers than the others. I’ve seen too many brave conscripts.’
‘But Australians were not conscripted.’
‘No . . . they refused to be . . . but only because the Irish were in rebellion against England at the time . . . and as the rest of our mixed Anglo-Celtic population had gone off to ‘Follow the Flag’, that left a majority of Irish at home to fight the Conscription Issue, which meant really to fight for old Ireland . . . in the way that expatriate Irishmen prefer it . . . with their tongues!’ He paused to help her.
‘Well, I became one of the faceless khaki mass too . . . to be loaded into the troopship Medic, an old White Star liner . . . we and our horses, the best horses in the land and the best men . . . but just beasts to the big boys running it. I had an awful sense of being trapped as I walked up the Medic’s gangway . . . expecially on seeing the faces of those on board waiting to receive us . . . British faces, naval and military officers. It was like betrayal of one’s own country. They looked so foreign.’ Jeremy fell silent, as if reliving the experience.
‘Well . . . we went straight to where they wanted us . . . El Kantara, in the Palestinian desert, on the Suez Canal. It was May, burning by day and bitterly cold of nights. I had something much more bitter to put up with than the weather, though. News came to me there that Jack had been killed on Gallipoli while I was at sea. What made it worse was what I’d learnt of militarism in the meantime. Some of those British officers we had on board were of quite high rank . . . had been in Australia organising things. We were, of course, under British command. Their contempt for us was so frank as to be a joke with us. I don’t know if you’ve heard the one about the British General who, when asked what he thought of Australian officers under his command, said: “Great soldiers . . . but impossible as gentlemen!” It was worse even than that with us, because as yet we hadn’t proved ourselves as soldiers. We were just damned colonials. If we’d had two penn’oth of guts we’d have mutinied. Instead, we took it as a joke . . . even accepted it, I suppose.’
‘You too?’
‘Not quite. I hit back a bit . . . to my military detriment . . . and perhaps the eventual saving of my life at the hands of the callous bastards. Military men are like elephants. They never forget . . . that is anything that’s a slight to their rank, which is their power over other men. But it wasn’t simply their personal arrogance I objected to. It was the essential evil of what they stood for. Britain was supposed to be fighting to avenge brave little Belgium, to make the world safe for democracy . . . when in fact the British General Staff was embarked on a grand-scale military adventure. Our presence in Asia Minor was supposed to be, as I’ve said, to outflank any movement of Boche and Turk threatening the British Empire in that direction. The frank declaration of these brass-bound yahoos was to the effect that we were there to bring down the Ottoman Empire and add it to our own. What fascinated them was to be following in the footsteps of Alexander the Great. Evidently every military adventurer dreams of that. They knew everything about Alexander’s campaigns . . . taught ’em at Sandhurst as the Great Example, maybe. One monster I was involved with aimed to get from Baghdad to Bokhara simply because Alexander had failed to do it. He . . . the monster . . . made three attempts at it, lost men and animals by the thousands, through starvation, thirst, cold, heat, disease, enemy action . . . gave it up disgruntled only after someone somewhere told him there weren’t any more men and horses left to give him. I can imagine him saying . . . in some Brass Hat’s mess in Cairo: “Rotten luck, don’t y’know . . . another ten thousand or so men and horses and I’d’ve done the bally thing and gone down in history.” I saw a lot of that sort of thing, because I had a sort of roving commission. Being branded a bad type because of those remarks of mine on the troopship, I was eased out of my unit. Militarism
’s such a mad thing that if it judges you incompetent it’s as likely to promote you as cashier you. They hadn’t grounds to do the latter with me . . . so up I went. They made me a sort of super horse-coper, an officer farrier . . . the limit in rank of which was only that of sergeant. Not that anything much was done for the beautiful beasts we’d brought, except shoe ’em . . . or shoot ’em. The only treatment a sick or injured horse got usually was a bullet. Eventually all were shot. Those wonderful beasts who really won the campaigns with their stamina and courage over the enemy’s cavalry . . . even those that carried the conquering generals into Jerusalem, Beirut, Damascus . . . all shot out of hand. Not a single horse was brought home out of scores of thousands . . . not even one as a gesture to the nobility of the species!’ Jeremy’s voice became rough with emotion. ‘We’re a people without compassion,’ he said. ‘What sort of nation could do what we do, to animals and simple savages? Only one that could accept as its wartime leader and hero an artful dodger from the slums of London, the Cockney runt they hailed as the Little Digger!’
He stopped, breathless with anger. After a moment he said, ‘Forgive the outburst. You probably don’t know whom I’m referring to.’
‘Oh yes I do . . . but I’ve never heard him described in those terms, I must say.’
They were at the foot of the escarpment now, right up against the towering red wall. In a little overhang were yellow limned stencils of human hands. When she asked about them he said he didn’t understand the significance truly. The few local blacks remaining, either knew little about the galleries or pretended ignorance; and he himself had been too whiteman-stupid to find out what he might have while there was still the chance. The stencils were made by blowing yellow ochreous paint from the mouth. ‘One thing you can be sure of, they weren’t done just for the fun of it. No blackfellow ever did anything like that except with deep purpose. Perhaps these indicate, by number or position, the type of cave in the vicinity. There are several types. Some are very sacred. That’s why I didn’t bring the boy. Let’s sit down here till I finish the story. It’s nice and cool, with a bit of a view.’
Through tree-tops could be seen the limitless wilderness below, violet in the noonday heat.
He said, ‘I got my field rank eventually so as to save anybody with seniority the trouble and embarrassment of having to give such a type the warrants necessary for movement. I was then able to detach myself from everybody and go pretty well anywhere I wished. I tell you this so’s you won’t have any illusions about my being a soldier. I was in several actions . . . but only as a witness. I went armed . . . but only for my own safety. I’ve never killed a fellow man nor been party to such killing.’
After a pause he went on: ‘Now for the Vaisey business. I was still in Asia Minor when I received word from home that Vaisey was going to build a great meatworks in Port Palmeston to can meat for the fighting forces . . . hence our fortunes were reassured. It didn’t trouble me at first. In fact I was pleased. At least it stopped the perpetual complaint from both Da and Rhoda about the hard times at home . . . that is to say they weren’t making the money they’d expected. Being parted from Rhoda and freed from the bad old habit that had maintained enough of the primary need and admiration responsible for joining us to perpetuate it, I’d soon begun to see her as a stranger. I was particularly affected by her evident indifference to my sorrow over loss of my brother. She replied by reminding me that thousands of men were dying similarly . . .’ he paused significantly, but did not look at Lydia, who coloured slightly . . . ‘and after all it was for King and Country. Da wasn’t much more sympathetic. I believe it was his callousness helped to kill my mother, whose favourite Jack was. Within a year of his death she was dead, too. My sister, who stayed with her always, hinted at something of the sort.’
‘Your sister didn’t marry, you said.’
‘No . . . she had that streak of the nun common in the Celtic women. It was as well, seeing how her own death would have affected her family, if she’d had one.’
‘She’s dead, then?’
‘She died about ten years ago . . . at the Peel Island Leper Station.’
Lydia looked aghast, murmuring, ‘Leprosy?’
‘Don’t be scared. It isn’t really as infectious as people think. Where and how she contracted it, God knows. It’s always much of a mystery. But had it she did. It was properly diagnosed. I saw to that. If she hadn’t been white she’d have been run across on the Leper launch to Mud Island, off Palmeston and left to rot. As it was, she was quietly smuggled out aboard a steamer going South . . . But I’m telling you about Vaiseys . . .’
‘It seems to me that Vaiseys are only a means of your expressing the bitterness you feel over all the other things you’ve told me of.’
He said sharply, ‘Vaiseys and their kind, the absentee landlords are the abomination of this land. Hear me out, please!’ After a moment he went on quietly: ‘Next came the news of the terms of the new prosperity. All stations selling stock to the Vaisey meatworks would be taken over by the Company. Cash would be paid for all buildings, plant, stock, along with shares to certain value in the concern . . . and all owners retained as managers on generous salaries. Gone for good would be the old insecurity, the hazards of weather, markets, all the rest. We would be part of an international organisation that needn’t care two hoots in hell if there were drought here, pleuro there, union trouble somewhere else, revolution, flood, fire, war . . . some places of ours would be functioning easily and bringing in the dough. I wrote back in haste to say that we would also be losing our independence, our very nationality. Da wrote to me in very clever Irish policeman’s terms about the need to be politic.
‘It wasn’t long after that I was sent to Europe. The Alexandrine adventure was over. We’d beaten the Turk but not Arabia Deserta, for all that our generals had the advantage over Alexander in being Sandhurst. Also, our brother the Boche was proving himself more than our match in the grand old game of war, again without the benefit of Sandhurst. Because of my name, perhaps, and the aim to embarrass me, they first sent me to Ireland to take charge of a gang of British military thugs there to express the bit of Hun that seems to me to be in every Englishman . . .’
‘Oh, I say . . . reahlly!’
‘I thought you admired the Germans?’
‘Not as Huns, dear boy!’
‘These goose-stepping Jew-murdering Schutz Staffel elite of your hero Hitler strike me as being Huns . . . But we declared a truce on politics, didn’t we?’
‘You broke it!’
‘I apologise. Let me get on with the story. I mentioned Ireland only to let you know that I know something of Irish reality. Most of the trouble was that politic of Da’s. Through it half the Irish were at the other half’s throats. Anyway, I wasn’t there long . . . only long enough to learn that it was as foreign to me as any other country I’d been in. I refused duty there . . . and was sent to France, evidently for elimination in the general wholesale slaughter then taking place.’
Jeremy took a look at the wall above, saying, ‘We’ve got to wait for a certain amount of light to get into the gallery for best effect. It’s a bit early yet.’
He went on with his story: ‘I’d given Rhoda Power of Attorney over my share in the property. It was what a soldier had to do to protect his interests. Jack put his in Da’s hands . . . of course, with his will. Rhoda could do anything at all in my name. But you’ll recall that I told you I’d actually founded the place on a homestead mining lease, which is something very different from a grazing lease. I also held the Lagoons area by Miner’s Right, because something had made me feel that Tantalite was really valuable stuff . . . the chemist, the metallurgist, you see. All soldiers were granted indefinite exemption from the laws governing tenure and such things. Fortunately, Da and Rhoda hadn’t thought of that, nor I to mention it in my objections to their sell-out. What they’d signed away was grazing rights and property. If they’d known, they might have found a way round it with your sma
rt boy Alfred at hand. But he’d soon cleared out, leaving his minions to carry on. Da was soon gone, too. On the eve of the end of the War he was killed by a horse . . . as all men who ill-use horses should be. Da was a fine horseman, but a cruel one. I think it was his cruelty that made both Jack and me as gentle as we were with horses . . . and with much better results. In fact there was a double Nemesis in Da’s death. You know Jumbo Delacy, the halfcaste jockey who rode the Cup winner . . . and that he’s my half-brother?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, Da begot him soon after arrival in the North. All the old police had their halfcaste bastards . . . repudiated, of course. But Da only half-repudiated Jumbo . . . Jumbajinna, to give him his proper name. He took him out of the blacks camp where he was born and let him grow up on the station. Jumbo worshipped him . . . used to follow him about wherever he went . . . which was mostly on horseback, Jumbo riding any sort of beast, bareback. He became so expert with horses that when he was scarcely in his ’teens he took over the horse-breaking for the station when Jack went off to war. There was another of the bar sinister side of the family had to be included in the household with Jack’s going . . . his favourite yeller girl, Nanago, and her baby, Darcy. In case you haven’t guessed, the same Nanago is now my wife. When I say household, I mean they lived on the homestead, somewhat better than the blacks. I saw Nanago and her baby arrive. Jack had formerly kept them out of sight, down on the Beatrice. As a dyed-in-the-wool Squatter’s Lady, Rhoda hated the blacks. There’re two reasons for this hatred of the squatters’ . . . for one reason they’ve been unable to enslave the blackfellow as they’d have liked . . . and then there’s the miscegenation thing. Well, with us away at the War and Da more and more under her influence, Rhoda pretty soon got rid of the three Delacys disgracing the name by not being the right colour . . . or rather two, since poor Nanago was only a victim of the clan. She and her baby were not only driven off the station, but hunted out of the district. Rhoda had the Beatrice River policeman see to that. Jumbo was able to hang around, although not about the homestead, because Da wanted him for occasional horse-breaking and the racing. If temporarily at the homestead, he had to camp with the blacks. He took it badly. According to him, he killed Da. Not that you can believe much that poor Jumbo boasts about. Da had a bad habit of quieting a horse that was playing up by giving it a clout behind the ear with the butt of his stockwhip. He used a special steel-butted whip for the purpose. It can give a horse a bad headache. Jumbo claims that he trained a colt to go berserk when it was done to him, especially to get Da. Sure enough, a colt went mad when Da did just that to him, threw him, then trampled him to death. As I say, I don’t know how true it is . . . but, anyway, it’s become a legend now.’ Jeremy sighed, took another look at the wall.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 24
