Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  Whereas the legal system of the land, apart from the sheer hounding of malefactors, which naturally went on all the while, normally dealt with its affairs in the same leisurely way as other Government Departments, which is to say between the hours of 9 a.m. and 4 p.m. from Monday to Friday, a state of emergency was declared for all those concerned in it over this weekend. Superintendent of Police, Clerk of Courts, Stipendiary Magistrate, Administrator, and lesser officials, conferred until late that Friday night and decided that there be a minimum of delay in presenting the cases of Abduction and Complicity Therein and the holding of the Coroner’s Inquest into the presumed deaths of certain Aboriginal persons, to wit Nelly Ah Loy, Queeny Peg-leg, and King George; so as to preclude as much as possible the embarrassment officially felt in the circumstances. To handle with proper official dignity something that had been besmirched by being previously adversely dealt with by such scurrilous rags as The Palmeston Progressive and Truth was impossible. But fortunately the slanders of the one would not be published till next Friday, nor of the other before the Sunday following. So Monday of next week was named as that for the Abduction hearing; and devil take anything else listed; and Wednesday for the Inquest. It was then left to underlings to sweat out the weekend in the elaborate business of preparation.

  It could all have been saved, all the running to and fro and the labour, if they had only thought less about dignity and more about the kind of people who were out to rob them of it. Then it might have occurred to someone that, with modern methods of transport, the offices of Truth might be considered not much further than that of the plaguey Progressive, that an edition would be published in the meantime, and that their adversaries would stop at nothing to use it to their ends. Of course the air mail didn’t come in from the South till midday Sunday or go back till Monday morning. But what of a chartered aircraft? And was there not one such, operated by a fellow who would come at anything for money?

  That’s how it happened. Fergus Ferris flew out with those photographs and the story at first light on Saturday: and there it all was in Truth that came off Sunday’s mail plane, under headlines almost word for word as Superintendent Bullco had predicted: Police Brutality to Aboriginal Children — Still This Evil Thing Goes On — Are We a Nation Without Shame?

  Prindy and his bride would never have known how famous they were, had not the youngest of the McCusky children, a boy of about Prindy’s age, who having seen the paper when he went with his father to get it and been refused any further look at it and told that the huge picture on the front page, of the black kids with neck-chains was not of the kids in the house, early next morning stolen round to those kids while they were eating their breakfast on the side verandah and shown it to them.

  Another sidelight to the affair was receipt of a telegram that same Monday morning by Jeremy at his hotel a few minutes after the Post Office opened and an hour or so before he was to appear in court: Immensely proud of you stop put the boot in hard stop love love love Alfie.

  Stipendiary Magistrate Bundy made it clear in opening the case of Wilful Abduction and Complicity Therein that the Defendants were for it, whatever their pleas or defence. He was renowned, of course, for his malice aforethought towards those arraigned before him on Monday mornings; by reason of his wife, as some said. But this Monday was after a weekend of enforced preoccupation with this very matter, when probably he could have spent it fertilising those orchids for breeding for which he was also somewhat renowned; a weekend wasted, as he saw it, since Waste of Time was the burden of his old dog’s growling preliminaries: ‘I am not going to waste the time of the Court on a case that should never have had to be brought before me. The Law of the Land is explicit enough about the lawful custody of Aboriginal persons. It is vested in the Protector, pure and simple . . . and there is no gainsaying it except by illegal processes. One of the Defendants is an ignorant man, an Indian . . . but he cannot plead ignorance of the law in this matter because he has already been dealt with under it. The other is not ignorant by any means, and as far as I can see can only plead arrogance in the matter. I repeat that the issue is clear. The Protector can do what he likes in respect of his lawful assignment of protecting Aboriginal persons. That is the Law. Whether or not it is bad law is a matter for argument in much higher tribunals than this that I am empowered to preside over. This is a court of summary justice. I will not have it turned into a Banyan Tree for the airing of anti-social views by malcontents whose aim is to attract the attention of the doubtful media of publicity . . .’ That last bit left him breathless and with old-dog’s jowls jerking. Getting his breath back he growled, ‘Proceed!’

  Sergeant Nullity, prosecuting, read the indictment. Barbu Ram, alias Ali Barba, entered the dock, bobbing and cringing, to plead Guilty. Sergeant Cahoon, minus whiskers now and with blue jaw bluer than ever for the rest it had had from the razor, but with no such confident grin as lately, took the witness stand to testify to how, by a long and circuitous and arduous search for a certain Aboriginal Person, to wit Prendegast Alroy, absconded from lawful custody, he had discovered that the said Person had taken up with the Defendant and travelled with him in the course of his hawking itinerary through several centres at which he could have reported the fact that he was harbouring a Ward of the State and at one of which he could have surrendered the Ward to a proper authority, instead of which he actually gave out false information regarding the Ward’s identity. Subsequently he himself had found traces of the wanted Person on Defendant’s premises at Beatrice River and then had located the Person and taken him into custody. Afterwards when he had charged Defendant with the offence of Harbouring, the latter had wept and told a cock-and-bull story of finding him in a bird-net and thinking he was a Hindu God sent to marry his daughter, a child of eight. Defendant admitted having told the other defendant in the case, Delacy, the true identity of the Person. He had then arrested him. The Sergeant made no reference to any assistance he might have had from Tracker Jinbul, also shaven and shorn now, and sitting on the bench reserved for black policemen.

  Under examination by Sergeant Nullity, Barbu babbled of Prindies and Lil Golden Poys and Hindu mythology, to the subdued amusement of some of the court and the obviously growing irritation of His Worship. He claimed that the boy had never told him where he had come from, that he truly believed he had been sent by the Gods to be his daughter’s husband, and that he would have incurred the wrath of the Gods had he tried to get rid of him. He knew him not as Prendegast Alroy or Prindy Ah Loy, but as King of the World. Loud laughter, until His Worship, with jerking jowls, threatened to clear the court. Barbu admitted that his daughter had told him the boy was one of these other persons, as he had told Sergeant Coon-Coon, that he had lied in saying the boy had gone back to the Centre after the Races, had known he was hiding down the river for some weeks, and had permitted him to visit him frequently and help with the pickling and bottling of the mango chutney — more laughter — but hadn’t thought he was doing wrong, because he believed the boy was properly under the protection of Mother Shasti, Divine Protector of Children. Stipendiary Bundy had to hammer hard for silence. Yes, Mr Jeremy Delacy had given the boy a pony, but without knowing who he was. However, yes, Mr Delacy had asked him later if King of the World were in reality Prendegast Alroy, and he himself had told him that in fact he was.

  Mr Billings, Counsel for Defence, took over Barbu and stressed the point of his being Hindu and how that affected his conduct generally; an exciting idea, at least to two or three of those present, among them Fay McFee, who forgot about her notes and sucked her pencil; until His Worship stopped it by almost yelling, ‘Mr Billings . . . time and again it has been stressed in this court where Aboriginal lore has been raised as defence that this is a Court of British Justice, and that nothing but the basic principle of that justice, fear of God — the God of the Christian Bible — and honour for the King, will be tolerated. Extenuating circumstances, indeed, because of some hocus-pocus this cunning old blackman professes to b
elieve in! Next thing you’ll be asking me to condone this abomination of child-marriage that the Defendant uses as excuse for breaking the law. When this man was last before me I called him a Dirty Old Man for permitting his wife and daughters to practise prostitution. I do so again . . . in respect of this filthy thing of marrying his little daughter to a small boy . . . and have half a mind to send him to jail for it, on a charge of Corrupting the Morals of Minors . . . so the sooner you limit your defence to asking me to be lenient because your client is an ignorant Indian, the better it will be for him, for yourself, and for the valuable time of this court.’

  Mr Billings sighed, murmured, ‘As Your Worship pleases,’ and sat down.

  Mr Bundy asked Sergeant Nullity if he had anything further to say, and being given a negative, asked the same question of Barbu — then promptly silenced the poor old fool for trying to say it. Mr Bundy went on: ‘I have told you before, Ali Barba, that the filthy practices of your own benighted country will not be tolerated in our decent clean young Western society . . . and I warn you now, that if ever you come before me again, I will jail you without the option and recommend your deportation back to India. You are fined £100 . . . no time to pay . . . Call the Defendant Delacy!’

  ‘Jeremy Deleon Delacy!’ A stir in court.

  Jeremy entered the dock, erect, red-faced, tight-lipped, his eyes on Terra Australis del Espiritu Santo, away there out of the window. Sergeant Nullity read the indictment of Complicity in the Case of Abduction Hereintofore: ‘How do you plead?’

  ‘Guilty.’ That caused a stir.

  Bundy took over: ‘You are undefended?’

  Without looking at him Jeremy answered shortly, ‘I can defend myself.’

  The jowls shook. ‘You will use my title when addressing me.’

  Jeremy said to the distance, ‘Sir!’

  ‘You will also direct your attention to me, Defendant.’

  The grey eyes met the meaty red ones, to the evident discomfort of the latter. Blinking, His Worship growled, ‘Have you anything to say for yourself?’

  ‘Yes, sir . . .’

  ‘Then say it . . . and I warn you to be brief. As I said at the beginning of proceedings, I will not have this court made a soap-box orators’ forum for airing their own grievances.’

  ‘Even if one’s grievances are legitimate, Your Worship?’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent! Several times I’ve ordered you from my court for conduct bordering on Contempt. Be careful I don’t have you removed from it in the jail delivery van. Proceed!’ The old dog’s eyes dropped from the cold grey stare. The jowls shook.

  Jeremy addressed himself again to the landscape: ‘On learning from Barbu Ram that the boy who was passing as his son-in-law might be the quarter Aboriginal child known officially as Prendegast Alroy, I refrained from doing what I fully realised I should do according to the law, which was to report the matter to the Authorities, for the reason that I felt to do so would constitute an act of cruelty . . .’

  Bundy cut in sharply: ‘What are you saying?’

  Jeremy had been speaking slowly and deliberately, conscious no doubt that Fay McFee wanted every word of it. He looked at the Beak, asked, ‘You wish me to repeat it, Your Worship?’

  ‘I do not! I’m warning you to be careful what you say.’

  ‘I assure you, Sir, that I’m choosing every word with the greatest of care . . . since from what you’ve told me you are more than ready to jail me for contempt.’

  ‘I can also jail you for casting aspersions on the administration of authority in this area.’

  ‘May I ask you to quote the act or ordinance that so empowers you?’

  Bundy went purple, answered in a strangled voice, ‘You may not! You’ve elected to do without Counsel. I will not have laymen . . . bush-lawyers . . . arguing law in my court.’

  ‘As Your Worship pleases. I shall have to rely on my conception of what is called British Justice . . . which is that it is supposed to be based simply on Equity, on fairness of interpretation of the Statutes and Common law.’

  Bundy looked as if about to have a fit. Fay’s tongue was bulging her cheek as if she had a terrible abscess, so terrifically was she writing.

  After a moment Jeremy asked, ‘May I go on with what Your Worship asked me . . . namely if I had anything to say for myself?’

  His Worship could only nod and blink at Fatty Doscas below him as if pleading for his help.

  ‘I was saying that I felt that to betray the boy’s whereabouts to the authorities . . . in the case, the local police officer . . . would constitute an act of cruelty. I felt so because I’d seen how happy he was with the Barbus. I know the boy well. I have known him since his birth and had watched him grow up at Catfish Creek Out-station . . . where also he was very happy. I’ve not known a happier or more talented child of his breed and circumstances. He was removed from Catfish and placed in official hands. The result was that he ran away like a frightened animal . . . made a journey that is well nigh incredible in his determination to be free of what was imposed on him in the name of the Law . . . and seemed to have found his heart’s content. I knew that eventually he would be located and dragged back . . . but hardly expected that he would be dragged back like a dangerous felon, or an animal, in chains . . .’

  ‘That will do!’ snapped Bundy.

  ‘How do you mean That Will Do, Your Worship . . . that I’ve said enough in defence of my action to convince you . . .?’

  ‘No . . . that I won’t have you using this court to air your views and bring discredit on the officers of the law. Any more, and I’ll order you to stand down. Proceed!’

  ‘There’s nothing more to say, Your Worship, except that I’d like to have legal custody of the boy myself to ensure that he doesn’t have to suffer this official bullying . . .’

  ‘I warned you!’

  ‘Ever again, Your Worship, as I’m afraid otherwise a boy of his spirit is always going to have to . . . until something even terrible happens. That’s all I have to say.’

  For a moment the old dog was at a loss for words; then what he said was unexpected: ‘I have no authority to give you legal custody of the boy . . . or even to recommend it. It’s a matter entirely for the Protector.’

  ‘I know, Sir . . . I’m only gratified that you should even think of it.’

  The meaty eyes opened in surprise, then shut quickly to their squinting littleness. His Worship reached for his pen, and writing in his book said, ‘You are fined £10 . . . in default one month’s imprisonment.’

  Jeremy bowed to the Bench, turned and swept his grey stare over the rest of the court, causing quite a lot of blinking or flight of hostile eyes. Pretty well everybody had crowded in or packed the verandah to hear this bit. There was Eddy McCusky, Superintendent Bullco, the Knowles brothers and their skinny old man, Miss Kitty Wyndeyer, and, of course, those so-lately-bearded bravos who had been responsible for the whole thing.

  Bundy snapped, ‘The court adjourns.’ And while everybody rose for him as the representative of Georgius VI, Dei Gratia Rex, he ducked out under that Most Worshipful One’s garish insignia, as ever looking as if it had swallowed him up.

  Jeremy took out his cheque book and approached the grinning Clerk of Courts, who gave him his fat hand, wheezing, ‘Hello, Jerry, old man . . . how you doin’?’ Two cheques; one for £10, the other for £100.

  Fay McFee was packing up as Jeremy passed her with chuckling Barbu beside him to go out. She hissed at him, ‘Great stuff!’

  He grimaced. ‘Praise from you is praise indeed.’

  She grinned, heaving herself up. ‘Wait’ll you see what I’m going to do with this!’

  He looked at her inquiringly; but she shot out, was gone.

  What Fay did with it became evident next afternoon, when Port Palmeston had a rare treat in the form of a bundle of leading southern daily newspapers published that morning to read, brought up by Fergus Ferris. The Abduction and Complicity case made front-page news, not because o
f any particular southern public interest in the thing itself, but by reason of the intrusion into it of the Indian Government Representative in Canberra, enraged by being told and asked his opinion of what Stipendiary Magistrate Bundy had said to Barbu about his country. The inner Government circle hadn’t to wait for the news so long as the common herd. There was a rushing to and from between His Honour the Administrator’s Office and the Crown Law Office and the Post Office from 8 a.m. to noon. Poor old Bundy was called out of Court to go on the mat, his place taken by Dicky Doscas, and Dicky’s by Miss Williams and Miss Williams’s by the temporarily-reappointed Miss Wyndeyer. First poor old Bundy was chewed up by Judge Bickering, his immediate boss, and when spat out, was passed on to the Old Man, who made such a job of him that he went home sick and took relief in poking his orchids.