Poor Fellow My Country

by Xavier Herbert

  There were figures waiting at the shed, with a motor truck. As they neared, it could be seen that only one of the faces of those who waited was what would be called white; a familiar one, that of General Esk. All but one of the others was black, the exception golden-brown as Prindy’s, and again familiar. Fergus revved to charge his carburetters, cut his engines. Once again that strange silence in which the grounded spirit cried.

  All eyes were on the aeronauts as they emerged, but the General’s looking beyond them into the cabin, plainly expecting to see someone else, as proved when he spoke to Fergus: ‘Neither of ’em with you, eh what?’

  In a flippant few words Fergus explained the situation at Lily Lagoons, while Esk gave his attention to Prindy, taking his hand. ‘And how are you, young man?’

  Prindy responded gravely, watched intently by the dark eyes in the background. He took in the background scene at a glance, then appeared to dismiss it, even the smile given him by the familiar brown face, turning to the General to say that his grandfather had sent over a gift of Lily Lagoons beer and some brandy, and Rifkah some of her mango jam. ‘Very thoughtful of them,’ said the General, ‘And most acceptable, I assure you.’

  That familiar brown face came thrusting in, with a brown hand outstretched to Prindy. ‘You know me,’ said a whining voice. ‘David. You know wet day Port Palmeston, we go ridin’ truck with Miss Wyndeyer. I Catholic Missionary Man now.’ Prindy took the hand, but evidently was not a bit impressed by the reunion. David made up for it by sharply ordering the blacks to see to the unloading of the aircraft, personally supervising it, declaring loudly to the superior ones that the Drink, as he called it, would have to be carried in the cabin of the truck: ‘Dem Native cunnin’ thief.’ Fortunately the truck, a massive old-fashioned thing, had room in front for all the superior ones as well, with David driving.

  A rough track brought them to the little whitewashed townshiplike Mission station. Young trees lined that one red dusty street: the usual poincianas and jasmines and coconuts. As should be, the church was the main building, built like any other tin bush church, except that it had verandahs on either side and cables slung across the roof to anchor it to the ground in case of high winds, a precaution that might be considered anomalous in view of the crosses on the roof-top fore and aft. The open door of the porch gave a glimpse of the altar, bright with candles, flowers, gilded fittings, but no worshippers. Still the place was not deserted. One verandah was packed with a gathering seated before a whiteman with a black beard standing by a blackboard. The whiteman waved to the truck. The others glanced, revealing themselves as Japanese. Seeing Prindy craning to see, David remarked, ‘Father Glascock teach English Japanee pearlin’ man.’

  Obliquely across the road from the church was another building surmounted with crosses, this a bungalow of fair size with verandahs screened with bamboo lattice louvres an open one of which gave a glimpse of two pale peeping faces framed in nun’s barbs and hoods. Back of this was one of those enclosures, against the high wire netting fence of which small black girls in uniform clothing crowded. Next to it was what was evidently the kitchen, judging by the smoke pouring from a flue that took the place of a cross and aproned figures amongst those peeping. On the church side, further up, was another convent-like building with crosses, but no nuns, and small uniformed boys crowding the compound at the rear. Otherwise the buildings of the street were sheds, except for the last one, another bungalow with crosses, but with verandahs open and no one about. ‘Dis Presbytery, where Father Glascock live,’ as David explained to Prindy as they drew up before the place.

  David saw to the unloading in his bossy way, himself carried the liquor to the rear, placing some of the beer, which had come in wet sacking, in a big charcoal cooler on the back verandah, the rest with the other stuff in a back room he unlocked and locked again. Then he took himself off, bowing obsequiously to the General and Fergus, simply nodding to Prindy and saying, ‘See you by’n’by, young feller. We have big talk about Port Palmeston.’ He headed for that building behind which the boys were herded and now shrilly playing.

  Fergus, Prindy, and General Esk sat in deck-chairs on a side verandah evidently used for lounging and dining and with some slight view of the beach through the fringe of casuarinas. Prindy watched the activity on the beach, the movement of semi-naked blacks about their humpies and canoes, the play of naked children on the edge of the falling tide. Meanwhile Fergus and the General talked, of the Cootes Party, of things at Lily Lagoons, Fergus being mostly droll about it all, to the restrained amusement of Esk, occasionally calling on Prindy to bear him out in the drollery.

  They had sat for half an hour or so, when there was seen movement through the casuarinas in the region of the rear of the church, accompanied by chattering as of a flock of noisy birds. Evidently Father Glascock’s school was out and his pupils heading back to their luggers. But not all the pupils were leaving. Out in the street were other voices, and then their owners to be seen approaching: two Japanese clad in starched white linen, one even with a topee, between them the bearded priest, in khaki shirt and pants and wearing Japanese thongs, while his companions wore European shoes. The man in the topee was big for his breed, of a height with the stocky priest, the other a typical midget. All carried books under their arms. Behind them at a little distance was coming David again. All turned into the Presbytery. Those on the verandah rose to meet them, the General with an arm about Prindy’s shoulders.

  There was no doubt about the priest’s surprise in seeing Prindy, or at any rate one of his kind enjoying familiarity with a general. Esk was quite formal in introducing the boy: ‘Your Reverence, allow me to introduce Master Prendegast Delacy. The Reverend Father Glascock, my boy.’ By the slowness of his movement, it was pretty certain the priest wouldn’t have shaken hands, only that Prindy, so used to introductions these days, thrust out his small hand, with a murmured, How d’you do. The priestly eyes ran over the tailored poplin clothes. The priest then introduced the General to the Japanese. The biggish man was Captain Okado, described as Number-one of the Pearling Fleet, the other Chief Engineer Sakamura. There was much polite hissing and bowing on the part of the two.

  As the company settled down, David came from the rear with a tray bearing glasses and two bottles of beer and one of lime-juice. The priest frowned. Esk said quickly, ‘My friend Jeremy Delacy kindly sent over a few bottles of his special brew, Father. Hope it’s in order and all that.’

  ‘Quite all right,’ said the priest. ‘Glad of it. Only I don’t like this fellow’s flunkey ways.’ He snapped at David, ‘I’ve told you before, boy . . . I don’t like being waited on.’

  Quite undeterred, David set out the glasses, poured beer for the men and lime-juice for Prindy, bowed himself away. The priest asked Esk, ‘Do they get waited on like that over at the Protestant Mission?’

  Esk chuckled, answering diplomatically, ‘Well, I haven’t seen alcoholic liquor being served.’

  Father Glascock gave a grunt that might have meant good-humoured response, then raised his glass, saying, ‘Banzai!’

  The Japanese leapt to their feet to the toast: ‘Banzai!’

  They drank, remarked on the excellence of the brew, talked of beer and language. Esk remarked that he understood the term banzai, meaning may you live a thousand years, was reserved for acclaiming the Japanese Emperor. There was no true enlightenment from those who ought to know. Captain Okada’s English was impossible to follow; and although Sakamura spoke the language reasonably well, evidently some formality prevented him from intruding unless ordered to do so by his chief. Something of the complexity of Japanese formality was revealed with the coming of David with more beer and the priest’s outspoken annoyance over it after ordering him not to do it again: ‘He’s immensely useful to me. But I can’t stand that ingratiating manner of his. Whether he’s been trained to it, or it comes natural I don’t know and don’t care. I just won’t have it here!’

  Captain Okada hissed politely, addre
ssing the priest: ‘Excuse Grascock, Sir. Meaning Ingshatink, pliss?’ It was a strange, harsh, heavily masculine voice.

  The priest groaned, reaching for a Japanese-English dictionary, murmuring, ‘Why don’t I learn to speak basic English always?’

  When the word Ingshatink had been turned up, translated, discussed at length by the two Japanese and Fergus, with the others looking on, Okada said to Glascock, ‘David iss some Japan-man, so humble man, must.’

  Again the priest groaned, mumbling, ‘God save us!’ Then aloud he asked the Captain, ‘How do you mean?’

  It took the best part of five minutes to get the meaning, and then only through Sakamura, who could probably have given it pat, if permitted earlier. While it was going on, Glascock groaned to Esk, ‘These endless verbal postmortems. I’ve come to wonder if I can stand the strain.’ The interpretation at last forthcoming was that David being of Japanese blood and lowly origin, was bound to act as servant to those whom he regarded as his superiors, not in duty but as a privilege. ‘Ah!’ sighed the enlightened priest. ‘I see now that I’m doing him wrong by refusing him inequality . . . and in trying to stop him from bullying the blacks . . .’

  ‘Meanink Booryink, Sir?’ asked Okada.

  Reaching for the dictionary again, Glascock said, ‘I’m afraid my English school isn’t the bright idea I thought it was. Rather is it a penance for my sins.’

  Since the remark was addressed to no one in particular, Sakamura, who understood it, chuckled, to be at once pounced on by his captain for an explanation. When he got it, Okada laughed uproariously, smacking his thigh with terrific wallops. Sakamura joined in. Soon everybody was laughing. After that the lingual struggle went on with better humour. Perhaps the beer helped.

  Then a couple of young black girls arrived, wearing identical blue cotton dresses with white hemming, and bearing between them a huge basket covered with a white table cloth. They arrived giggling, but were very circumspect as they laid the table, acting as if they were not there. Then suddenly they were not there. Father Glascock rose and proceeded to seat his guests at the table, this time taking no notice when yet again David came with beer. Engineer Sakamura showed how he came to understand that humorous complaint of the Reverend Father’s by emulating him when he crossed himself in saying grace over the pigeon pie and sweetbucks. It was poor fare. Even the Reverend Father apologised for it after thanking the Lord for providing it, although rectifying the seeming anomaly by blaming it on the cooks. The pie tasted more of onion than of pigeon, and its paste could have served as well as the base for the soggy treacle pudding that followed. Nevertheless, all but one of the guests expressed appreciation, Esk and Fergus with polite murmurs, the Japanese with genteel belching that couldn’t have been hard to simulate. Prindy, who at least had the excuse of not having an appetite blunted with beer, merely picked at his portions. Fortunately for everyone, the portions were small.

  The meal over, it was arranged that after siesta, for which the Japanese would be returning to their ship, Captain Okada would send a boat ashore to pick up the others, in order to return the hospitality. Then, hissing and bowing, the slant-eyed pair departed. The General and Fergus retired to the room they shared. Father Glascock eyed Prindy again as if surprised to see him there. ‘What’re we going to do with you?’ he asked. ‘You want to go over to play with the black kids?’ Prindy answered simply by meeting the dark blue eyes and holding them. Glascock shrugged. ‘Well . . . have a snooze in a deck-chair. I’ll get you a stretcher for tonight.’ He went off to his own room.

  Prindy dropped into a chair, but certainly not to snooze. He saw a big hermit crab battling across the hot sand outside, evidently seeking a shady spot for digging in. He leapt up and out and grabbed it. The crab at once retreated into its purloined shell. As back in the days of life at the Compound and first playing on a beach, Prindy whistled softly into the shell, bringing the poor creature out begging for mercy from the torture of sound. He put it back where it would have to do the long hot haul all over again. Snores were now coming from the priest’s room, real brass-reed snores that seemed to shake the very iron building. Prindy, the sound-tormented one now, grimaced, and walked away, heading for the beach. He was in the casuarinas, when he heard something behind him, swung, and saw David approaching. ‘Hello,’ said David. ‘Where you go?’

  ‘Only look-about.’

  ‘I take you, show-him-you, eh?’

  They went through to the beach, of which there was now a vast expanse, the tide being well out. Not a sign of life, except that of the little creatures waging their eternal war out on the oozing sand. The blacks had retired to their humpies of bark and casuarina boughs. No dogs as might be expected to challenge intruders. David explained that dogs were prohibited here, as were many other things, like weapons that could be used in fighting, like people who caused trouble, like fornication, like all forms of blackfellow business. He used the word Fornication, and with something like gusto, for all his mincing way of speech and the primness he put into explaining what it meant: ‘Dat puggin’ when you not properly marrit in church. But dey all fornicate here, I tell you. Dey out dere on lugger now, dem young lubra, fornicatin’ wit’ dem damn heathen Japs.’ He went on to say that Farther Glascock was a fool to trust the Japs, believing that by having them come in here during the spring-tide lay-ups he could keep an eye on them and so control the traffic in black velvet. But, according to David, all that was affected was to make the traffic easier, since otherwise it depended on the chance meeting of the wandering tribes of the mainland with Japs ashore for water and game. Now everybody knew where everybody would be at New Moon and Full. Why did the blacks always turn up here in force with their comeliest girls at such times? Plain as daylight though it was, Father would not see it, said that he had the word of Captain Okada that there would be absolutely no Humbuggin’: ‘Word of gentleman, he call it. Okada ain’t no gentleman. He coloured man . . . like Chinee . . . like you’n’me. He good man, Father. But he don’t know nothin’ ’bout blackfeller and Jap. No dog, he reckon. Plenty dog dere. Dat lot hide ’em. Plenty shovel-spear, too. Plenty blackfeller business. Plenty fornication. Dem no good bloody black bastard! You t’ink dat bad talk for missionary-man? Well, it ain’t. Not for Catholic Missionary. On’y bad talk for Catholic time you say t’ing like Jesus Bloody Christ, or God Bugger Me.’ At that David crossed himself hastily, as if to show that his pronouncements were more in the way of religious instruction than blasphemy.

  David said they would go out to the mission schooner, St Francis Xavier. The trim vessel lay out in the permanently deep water, apart from the pearlers. He claimed he was captain and engineer. Grabbing up a small dinghy and hauling it across the sand without apparent effort, he bragged of his usefulness and piety.

  So out across the jade water and aboard the ship. She was well appointed, with two cabins and engine-room, a spacious hold, fo’c’stle, all spick and span. When they went up in the bow David had Prindy lean over to touch a piece of varnished wood screwed to the bowsprit. To do so, he explained, would give him some of the good luck invested in the ship through carrying that bit of wood. It was a piece of the timber of the ship the great missionary, Francis Xavier, Apostle of the Indies and Patron Saint of Australia, as David described him in parrot-sounding phrases, had sailed in when bringing Christ to heathen Asia. That ship was so blessed that it had never rotted away like others, and so had been sawn into little bits for attaching to ships like this, which then shared its blessedness: ‘Dat Saint Francis Xavier, too, he so bloody holy, when he die he don’t rot neither. He dere now, in some big church, all-same when alive.’ David sighed. ‘I like to be like dat, too, meself. Francis Xavier, he not always good man. Like me before, he fornicator, drinkin’ man, proper no-good. Reckon he might be a Protestant, too. But he seen Light, like me. Catholic Church wonderful t’ing. Better’n woman. I marrit dat chuck now. More better you come Catholic, too . . . chuck up dat no-good blackfeller bijnitch. I ask Father for you. Well,
come on, now, I show-him-you church.’

  Back to shore, and up through the casuarinas. The church was much more impressive within. They paused in the porch, where after dipping fingers in the holy water stoop, crossing himself, and genuflecting, David led the way in, pointing things out, with lips, naming them in a reverent whisper. It was sizeable, although having only a couple of sets of pews up in front, the rest of the seating the bare antbed floor, the polish of which testified to its use as such. Prindy was wide-eyed with interest.

  They went up the left side, looking at the framed prints depicting the Stations of the Cross, and so to the Shrine of the Virgin. The statue was half life-size, of plaster, garishly painted in Italian style. David projected his lips to St Joseph’s shrine in the recess of the other side, explaining that these were the actual parents of Jesus. Jesus himself, also in plaster and of similar size, but unpainted save for the nasty red of the wounds, hung, as ever, on the cross, up above the pulpit. As they came to look at the Crucifix, David said that Jesus was also the son of God, but without explanation or apparently impressing his companion. Still, Prindy was plainly interested in the Crucifix, probably the first he’d ever seen, and maybe seeing it as what he might have heard was called by Jews The Hanged God of the Goyim, which could have meaning only when the thing was seen.