Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  But if George failed to score a point with the women then, he did later, when not long after the Moon had set and the night seemed very dark and menacing and a crocodile was heard bellowing down in the salt-arm, he told Prindy that it was probably the same old bull they had encountered the day before, come round looking for the women, told where they were by the dotterels, who were mates of crocodiles and who had watched their own progress round the swamps. He suggested to Prindy that they two shift camp, because Old Tchamala might be annoyed with them if they stopped where they were and spoilt the hunting of one of his friends, and it wasn’t likely that the crocodile would come while they were there. Queeny cried, ‘Dat on’y bloody puggin blackfeller gammon . . . but spone you go ’way, I don’ give you no money for buy tobacco and tommy’awk from dat tin miner.’

  George had been throwing out hints about money for those things. He now told Prindy that he would tell the crocodile that the women were no longer here, and raised his voice to call something in lingo. It seemed to work. The bellowing was not heard again. All slept soundly, worn out by the long hard day and comforted by mopokes telling them that the district was clear of forces likely to do them harm.

  The butcher birds had them out with the first flush of dawn, singing for those scraps, as Prindy put it in a little song he sang back to them:

  Gool-gool, gee gool-gool,

  Butcher Bird in tree,

  Singin’ for breakfas’,

  Gool-gool gool gee gee!

  ‘Yakkarai!’ cried George. ‘Properly Mundinjana my-boy . . . properly Song Man!’

  The bold birds came swooping down, sounding their usual sharp croaking warning to anyone silly enough to interfere with them. There was one such, as his name betokened — Mungus, who although so stuffed with the spoils of the hunting that he had ignored the scraps, came at one bird yapping: Kai-kaikai-kai! — to have no such victory as with the old-man crocodile. While that bird nipped him on the snout, another took him in the rear, right in the anus. Shrilling with pain, he went leaping into the creek. When his friends had done laughing at him, they all told him it should be a lesson to him, especially in the matter of barking. ‘How many time I tell him you you got ’o keep quiet spone you wan’ ’o be huntin’ dog?’ Prindy asked him when he came to him, shivering as ever with shame in his folly.

  Nothing had been said about when they should go to the tin-mine; but such was the expressed longing of all three adults for tobacco as soon as the butcher bird incident had passed, that it was evident they wouldn’t be wasting much time heading that way. In fact within an hour or so of being roused, that’s what they were doing.

  Breakfast was awaiting them just a little way up the creek in the form of a delicacy known in the patois as stick egg. It was no egg at all, but a gall growing on a miniature type of swamp bloodwood. The bit of dry swamp they came to was thickly grown with the small bushes, every one of them infested. The galls showed by their size (about that of a tennis ball) and colour, that they were at their very best for eating, according to George, packed with the larvae of the Gall Wasp, which would be fat with the syrupy juice that, by means of some marvellous natural chemistry induced by the parent fly in depositing her eggs, was supplied them from the sap of the tree. All you had to do was pull the gall off with a twist of the hand, then crack it open with a rock and suck out the squirming contents. The munjongs, which is to say the newchums, expressed their delight with it; and there was no doubt about Mungus’s appreciation, despite his silence. Mungus was silent even when a family of kangaroos, drinking from the creek, came bounding out, to go thud-thud-thudding into the dense forest — except for some faint squeaking. There were other foods in plenty, such as yams of several types, cycad nuts, things that had to be prepared and cooked, even prepared for days in the case of the last, and fruit trees that in their season would be bearing. Altogether a fruitful land, despite the fact that it had been overrun some two-score years before by the kuttabah and that even worse despoiler, the Chinee-man, tin-mining, proving that the land itself, left to itself, could recover and re-establish its creatures, except the human. Soon they were seeing ample evidence of the mining, in the way of old gravel heaps and shafts and rusty bits of steel and broken glass — and weeds, weeds, Chinaman’s and whiteman’s weeds, that had perhaps once taken full possession of the creek-banks, but now, what with floods and the greater resilience of native growth, were looking pretty poorly on it.

  The rock of the country changed markedly as they progressed, from the hard granite into soft micaceous stuff, with consequent widening and deepening of the creek bed, so that but for the poor little flow of water, it looked more like the bed of a river. Quartzy benches, grown with quite big trees of aquatic type, now stretched away from the stream on either side, to banks becoming higher and steeper as the country rose. The stream was getting muddier, too.

  They had been going for some hours, when Prindy, at George’s heels, clicked his tongue. George stopped. Jerking his jaw to indicate upstream, Prindy said, ‘Injin.’ Apparently not even Mungus could hear it, while they all stood listening. There was a lot of noise in the tree-tops from the wind. But George knew those supersensitive ears by now. He said they’d better get up on top. He chose the bank on their left, found a gutter by which to make climbing easy for his old enemy swinging along in the rear, led the way up.

  The surrounding country was flat open forest. It would not be hard to spot a camp or homestead well ahead. All were soon able to hear on the gusty wind the beat of some kind of engine. Then there was glimpsed the shimmer of new galvanised iron through the trees. They went warily. It proved to be a small homestead, comprising a verandahed dwelling built at ground level, a couple of sheds, a small elevated tank, a stockyard, fowl-run, all a little distance, say quarter of a mile, from the creek. By the creek was another tank and shed, and near these the low humpies of a blacks’ camp. It was from the point beside the creek that the sound of the engine came. No sign of life, except a couple of horses sleeping under a tree.

  George sent Prindy across the creek to see if there were anything to be avoided there, and when he came back to say Nutching, ordered him to take the women over there and follow the creek up to somewhere above the homestead, keeping out of sight, which should not be difficult, because of the screen the top-of-the-creek timber made along the banks, and there to sit down and wait for him. He held out his hand to Queeny for money. She got the wad from her drawers, tried to fob him off with a single One Pound Note. He demanded two, on the threat of abandoning them. Cursing him, she gave in.

  Prindy already had an easy way down to the creek and up again. He led the way, and along up the other side; while the beat of the engine grew louder, and along with it came the intermittent sound of voices and the ring of tools. At length they came in sight of the source of the sounds, just a glimpse through the trees: a sluice-box at the foot of a bush-timber chute built into the bank on this side, at which half a dozen men were working, a couple of them ruddy while the others black, all clad only in shorts. The blackmen were shovelling the stuff from the chute into the box, while the whites, one tall and lean, the other nuggety, were cleaning up the concentrates with a device worked by the popping engine. A glimpse was enough for the trio. They drew away from the creek, skirted the region of operations, in the manoeuvre crossing a road evidently made by the frequent passage of a heavy truck, came back to the creek-bank at least two hundred yards above, where the greater height and density of the timber below made a perfect screen. The most luxuriant growth was revealed as being due to a pool of clear green water stretching away as far on either side as could be seen from there. It looked very inviting, but in the circumstances must be viewed from afar, at least by the women. The banks were quite steep here, impossible of negotiation by Queeny. Prindy wanted to go down at once and get water for them in a coolamun made with paperbark, but was prevented by his mother. However, as time passed, she succumbed to his pressing, and he went, leaving Mungus struggling in silence i
n Queeny’s strong brown hands. Before bringing the water up, Prindy went downstream to take a look, and saw that the water was dammed by a natural bar. The sluicing was going on below it. He didn’t dare to go too close. He went back for the water and carried it up by an easier route than that by which he had gone down.

  Soon after he came back to the women the engine down below stopped, and along with it the sounds of work, but not the voices. The difference in the voices could be distinguished, the loud harsh voices of the whites, the high whooping laughter of the blacks. It was noon. Evidently the workmen were having crib. That’s what Queeny reckoned. ‘I like a bit o’ brea’n’beef,’ she said, swallowing.

  ‘Might-be Nungalla bring him,’ said Prindy.

  ‘You stop dat lingo!’ his mother snapped.

  ‘Got ’o talk lingo long o’ bush,’ he complained.

  ‘By’n’by we back long o’ Beatrice.’

  ‘Me-two-feller Nungalla go long o’ Mooragetaghee first-time.’

  ‘No you don’t. We go long o’ railway line.’

  Prindy broke the silence that followed by saying he could hear George’s voice now down with the others. They waited. Still George did not come. The engine started up again, and the sounds of work. But no George. Prindy said he would go and take a peep, and without waiting for agreement, shot off to do so, along the top of the bank. Mungus dashed after him. He turned on the dog and ordered silence. Mungus appeared to understand, and trotted at his heels.

  Prindy approached the scene of operations under cover of the contraption at the top of the chute into which the gravel for washing in the sluice-box below was dumped, brought from somewhere by means of that road they had crossed. It was a rough thing built of vertical saplings, just two L-shaped wings each side of the head of the chute, its purpose to feed the latter by gravity as the stuff was shovelled away below. As it protruded from the almost vertical bank, an easy and apparently safe way to get a clear view of what was going on below was to get into it and look through one of the wide cracks between its timbers. It was pretty well filled. One had only to drop down a couple of feet onto the red gravel and duck into the left-hand corner. Prindy did so, with Mungus on his heels — only to find the soft dry stuff sinking under him as even the slight impact of his jump set it flowing down the chute — and his struggling only made things worse. In a moment he and Mungus were out on the chute, and sweeping down as a couple of heaving heaps, to the astonishment of the couple of black shovellers at the foot attracted by their stifled yelps, who dropped their shovels and bolted. They crashed into the wooden sluice-box, now to be swept along in the muddy mess made by the ejection of a heavy stream of water from a wide pipe at the head of the sluice. Thus they were delivered onto the riffles, to the astonishment now of everyone, even a couple of large dogs. The two whitemen were no strangers, but the Knowles brothers, Nugget and Knobby, whom Prindy must know by sight at least. But familiar or not, Prindy was not staying. He struggled up, leapt off the plate, landed in a heap of wet tailings, bogged to the knees, was helpless again. A lean strong red-brown hand closed on a slender golden-brown arm; and the mean hatchet face came close to his own as Knobby, shouting above the din of the nearby engine, demanded, ‘Eh . . . where’d you spring from?’ Mungus fared no better. As he fled, kai-kai-kai-ing, the big dogs leapt at him and stood over him while he lay on his back squeaking for mercy.

  Apt pupil of Bobwirridirridi, Prindy slipped out of the grip, leapt out of the gravel, bolted for a road leading up the left bank through a cutting, his dog doing likewise. But there was something wrong with him, as everybody but himself saw, expressing their concern with sharp cries: ‘Eh, eh, boy!’ His right foot was shiny red with blood; and blood could be seen to spurt with his every step on it. He kept on, reached the road. The dogs went after the pair till someone shouted at them.

  Then Nugget Knowles, shutting off the engine, yelled at King George, ‘He one o’ your mob?’ and when George nodded, he added, ‘Well, stop him . . . he’s bleedin’ bad!’

  Prindy was scrambling up the rutty road. George put hand to mouth and called, ‘Kokanjinni . . . danook . . . danook!’

  Prindy stumbled to a halt, looked back. George signalled him to return. Prindy turned, but still stood, grey eyes on the whitemen. George called, ‘No more fright . . . him all right.’

  Prindy came slowly, to stop again when Nugget came hurrying to meet him. Nugget said, ‘’S all right, sonny . . . gi’s look at yo’ mundowi.’ Prindy looked down at his foot, apparently only now aware of the wound. A pool of blood was gathering round it.

  George said, ‘Boss all right, Kokanjinni.’

  Nugget came up to him, sank down to look at the wound: ‘Crise, you got a bad cut there. Here, sit down. I’ll have to stop the bleedin’.’

  The cut, evidently made by a shovel or some such thing he had struck in being hurtled along, was on the outside of the foot near the sole, almost from heel to toe, and deep as the bone the way it gaped and the blood pumped out of it. Prindy looked at George, who nodded, then sat down. Nugget pressed the gaping lips of the wound together, said, ‘That’ll have to be stitched.’ He let go, to pull from the pocket of his khaki shorts a grubby handkerchief, which he folded quickly, while telling George to get a small stick. Then he applied the handkerchief as a tourniquet just below the ankle. The bleeding stopped immediately. ‘Now, you hang on to it . . . tight now . . . and I’ll carry you up.’ Again Prindy looked for George’s agreement.

  The lanky Knobby, staring at Prindy, said as his brother took him up in his arms, ‘I know him . . . he’s from Beatrice . . . that right, eh?’ he asked of Prindy.

  Prindy met the narrow quizzing pale blue eyes, but didn’t answer. Nugget took a look at him: ‘Yeah . . . seen you Races, eh?’

  Knobby added, ‘Nelly Ah Loy’s kid.’ He looked at George for confirmation. When George appeared not to hear, he asked Prindy, ‘Wha’ name, you runaway or sumpin?’

  George said, ‘Lil bits walkabout, da’s all, Boss.’

  Nugget said, ‘Where’s his mother now?’

  No answer. Nugget added, ‘Better tell her . . .’ cause I wan’ ’o take him up the house and put couple o’ stitches in that wound . . . or he’ll bleed to death.’

  George made a sign to Prindy, who jerked his chin whence he’d come. ‘Sing out to her,’ said Nugget.

  A nod from George and Prindy put hand to mouth and called: ‘Ku!’

  No answer. Prindy called again, without reply. ‘Come on,’ said Nugget. ‘She can come behind. Got ’o get this fixed. Got ’o get that twitch off, or it’ll do damage to yo’ mundowi . . . and you don’ wan’ that, eh?’ He smiled at Prindy, who looking into the blue eyes, smiled slightly in response.

  Then just as they set off towards the road up the other bank, there was a yell from the opposite side. The dogs barked. All looked. There was Nell at the top of the cutting: ‘Le’ my boy ’lone, yo’ bastard!’

  She was rushing down. ‘Nelly Ah Loy, all right,’ said Knobby. ‘’Ere comes trouble!’

  Nugget waited for Nell, got in before she started her screeching for her boy: ‘Now, don’ be silly . . . he got a bad cut. Look at the blood everywhere . . . bleed to death if it’s not stitched . . .’ He swung away each time she tried to take the boy from him. When Knobby tried to hold her, she struck him a blow in the chest.

  ‘Bloody bitch!’ snapped Knobby.

  ‘Now look ’ere!’ Nugget yelled at her. ‘I’m not goin’ ’o hurt him. I’m goin’ ’o fix him. If you’re runnin’ away or sumpin, I don’ care. Just let me fix ’im . . . then you can go . . . I won’ tell nobody. Come on . . . have sense . . . don’ be jitty . . . there’s a good girl! You know me, Nugget Knowles. Right, eh? Okay, come on up the house. I’ll give you a feed . . . give you new dress . . . looks like you need both . . .’ Nugget’s voice was kindly, a very different one from the harsh nasal snapping of his brother.

  Panting, in tears now, stroking Prindy’s blood-spattered leg, Nell gave in, fol
lowed Nugget as he swung back to resume the climb up the bank. A truck could be seen at the top.

  Then the dogs, Mungus with them now that barking seemed in order, yelled again. Everybody looked to see Queeny swinging down to join them. The cry went up from the blacks: ‘Eh, look out!’ Knobby Knowles laughed, calling her name. Everybody knew Queeny.

  Nugget called to his brother: ‘Leave you to it, Knob.’ Knobby went to the engine and restarted it, but stood watching the others up the hill. When Queeny came along he leered at her, bawling above the din, ‘’Ullo, tweet’eart!’ She grinned at him, went loping after the others.

  But Nugget was not waiting. Reaching the truck on top, he lifted Prindy into the cabin, then helped Nell up, then went round and started up and swung away towards the house.

  At closer quarters the house could be seen to be a hotchpotch of old and new materials, iron and bush timber, it was an old place rebuilt, Nugget said as they came up to it. ‘Belong to the Boss Chinaman in the ol’ days . . . Hang Gong. Hang On, we call it . . . Hang On Creek . . .’ he added with a guffaw. ‘Only ’ope we can ‘ang on to it . . . yaaaahaaa!’

  It was bungalow-built, on a foundation of stone and antbed, comprising four small rooms, to be seen on either side of a narrow passage. The front verandah, facing westward, that is towards the creek, was evidently the part most lived in by the present occupants. At one end were beds of saplings and hide strips, screened from outside with sacking. The rest of the furniture was likewise home-made, mostly from kerosene cases. Prindy, being carried in and placed in a sacking and sapling deck-chair, swung his head round to look at a large ornate radio set against the wall. Nugget noticed and said: ‘Wireless . . . you like wireless, eh?’ Prindy nodded. ‘No good puttin’ it on yet,’ added Nugget. ‘Can’t get nothin’ in daylight. Tonight, eh? Keep the mundowie up now, while I put a box under it.’ He got a kerosene case and folded a sack to make a cushion for the small foot. ‘Now I’ll get the doings,’ he said, and went into the passage and through to one of the rooms. Prindy looked out at Queeny swinging up the track from the creek, accompanied by the three dogs. Black women and children and dogs in the camp were out to stare at her, some waving and calling in the high, drawn-out way of their kind.