In the murky morning light Prindy, watching from a cosy cave above, saw them go get saplings to make a carrying device for their mate and stuff from their camp of yesterday for breakfast. When they’d gone back to the crevice, he also paid a visit to their camp, and helped himself to a can of corned beef, a packet of biscuits, and a bottle of tomato sauce. He breakfasted in a spot where he could keep them in view. He watched them struggle with their burden along that terrible ledge, then lie down to rest when it was over. He watched them start off again, in a direction that showed they would be heading for their advanced base, the Turtle Hole Yard, in which region they’d left their hobbled horses, instead of for Corella Bore, which was much nearer and from where they could have got help quicker by someone’s going on to Catfish Homestead. Evidently that was what he was waiting for. At once he rose and headed that way, too, but at a more acute angle to the straight line that would have taken them to their destination, had they been able to do anything like follow it. This gave him a direct heading for Lily Lagoons homestead. He set off at a lope. It would be a good day’s walking for legs as short as those golden brown ones still were.
It began to rain again. When Prindy reached the flat below, he might have followed the road home without much fear of leaving tracks. Perhaps it was days of caution that kept him so. He kept to the bush, at least with the advantage of finding things to nibble on as he went: fruits, shoots, roots. Thus into the afternoon, by which time the rain had eased again to drizzle. He was coming up to the top gate when he heard a sound that caused him to swing in the direction he had come. It proved to be the thud of hoofs. Soon into view came an oilskinned horseman, riding so hard that he had to pull his mount to haunches to stop him at the gate. It was Tracker Tipperary. Through the gate, he resumed the urgent pace.
The light was failing when Prindy reached the race track paddock and there heard another sound, ahead this time. The hum of a motor. He planted himself in long grass, to see the big truck belonging to Lily Lagoons go roaring by, flinging up a haze of yellow mud with its whirling skid-chains. Darcy was driving, with Tipperary as passenger.
The boy crossed the paddock to westward, and followed the fence on that side to the orchard, through which he went to where a concrete culvert drained from the homestead to the creek. Ankle deep in rushing water, he went up the culvert, and so came to the rear of the annexe. By way of the little stockyard there, he entered what constituted the animal hospital, the several stalls on the back verandah. With a sigh of accomplishment he halted here, removed his sodden khakis, and shivering, grabbed a horse-rug from a rail and wrapped himself in that. Thus attired, he went inside. The place was lit. He took a wary look into the clinic, which was empty. However, the sound of hawking was to be heard from the little ward adjoining. He went on to the master’s den. The man himself was there, standing before his bookcase, a large book in hand. Prindy clicked his tongue.
Jeremy looked, startled for a moment by the odd shape. Then as the boy came in, he raised a finger and nodded towards the clinic. Putting the book down, he came to the boy, put an arm about his shoulders, and guided him along the passage to the room that was his whenever he chose to live in this part of the homestead. He didn’t speak till they were inside with the door shut. Then he said, ‘Hello! I was wondering if you might come in. Know what’s happened?’
The damp fair head nodded. Jeremy removed the horse-rug. ‘You’re cold. Let’s warm you up with a towelling, eh?’ He went out, to return with a big bath-towel. Vigorously rubbing, Jeremy told of having Tracker Splinter in the ward, physically recovered, but otherwise in even worse condition than on arrival since hearing what had happened to Sergeant Bugsby: ‘He’s pretty badly hurt, eh? I’ll have to do something for him, dog though he is. I’ll try and get ’em off to the siding as soon as I can. They’ll have to get a move on, anyway. The road’ll go out again by the look of things. From the message I got, they’ll have to get the Flying Fox down to him . . . on the train.’ Finished the towelling, Jeremy said, ‘You’d better stay put here for the time. They shouldn’t be long turning up. I’ll get supper sent over, and dry clothes. It’s best they don’t see you till everything’s clear.’
Prindy asked, ‘You been hear him?’
‘About Rifkah? Not yet. I’m hoping to hear from Clancy. I’ve been listening-in on the radio skeds all day.’
Wrapping himself up in the towel, Prindy asked, ‘She come on train, you reckon?’
Jeremy hesitated. ‘I don’t know about this week’s train . . . but she’ll be along sometime . . . don’t worry.’ He patted a small shoulder, went out.
When the truck came in it was quite dark and raining heavily. Jeremy waited in the rear door of the clinic, while the four oilskinned figures came with the stretcher on which the bulky tarp-covered figure lay. He gave no greeting. When they halted, he asked curtly, ‘What would you be wanting?’
From under one of the sou’westers came the cold precise voice of the Inspector: ‘I sent you a message, Sir.’
‘I sent what you asked for.’
‘My Sergeant’s in a bad way.’
‘All the more reason to keep going to the railway while you can. If it’s urgent, you can get the doctor down by rail.’
‘It is urgent, Sir. I’d like you to take a look at him, if you’d be so kind.’
‘Why me?’
‘You’re skilled in such things.’
‘You denied me the right to use my skill on that unfortunate girl you upset with your bullying. Besides . . . you’re police . . . you must have had training in first aid.’
‘You’ve got special equipment here . . . X-ray.’
‘If you think I’m going to let you monkey with my X-ray . . .’
Ballywick cleared his throat. ‘I meant yourself, Sir . . . if you’ll be so kind.’
‘How dare you ask kindness of me . . . when through your callousness a frightened girl’s suffering God knows what!’
The Inspector swallowed hard, said with difficulty, ‘Come now, Sir . . . my Sergeant’s been unconscious for more than twenty-four hours. My own limited knowledge tells me he could be at death’s door. I intend to get him to a doctor as soon as possible . . . but, meantime, some skilled attention might well save his life.’ The voice became hoarse: ‘Surely you wouldn’t be so vindictive as to put a man’s life at risk?’
‘Nor a woman’s!’ snapped Jeremy.
Silence, while all stared, and the covered burden snored. Jeremy broke it: ‘I’ll agree to give him such attention as I’m capable of . . . on one condition . . .’
The hoarse voice broke in harshly: ‘I’ll make no bargains where my duty’s concerned. The search for the wanted person will go on.’
Jeremy’s voice became harsh, too. ‘You stinking hypocrite . . . still sanctifying your bullying by calling it duty! I’m not striking a bargain. I used the word Condition.’
Ballywick drew a deep breath. ‘Name your condition, Sir.’
‘When preventing me from giving a sedative to that distraught girl you called me a Horse Doctor . . .’
‘No insult was intended. I was only informing you of the regulations in such a case.’
‘Good. It’s regulations I want to stick to now. I’m qualified only to treat animals and take a fee. You did say that you want to regulate any call you may have to make on my goods or services by proper requisition, didn’t you?’
‘I did.’
‘Right. If you’ll agree that I’m dealing with an animal in this case, I’ll do what I can for him . . . as for any stricken animal.’
Even the rain on the roof and Bugsby’s snoring seemed to be stilled in the next long moment. Scarcely able to get it out, Ballywick at length replied, ‘To save the life of my officer, and friend . . . I agree.’
‘Okay. Put him down and take off your coats and things. I won’t have any more police arrogance in my house. Then bring him in.’ Jeremy backed in, disappeared. He was back from his den with a sheaf of bluish forms to wave the
party with the stretcher to place their burden on the operating table. Then he said to Ballywick, ‘This’s an official form for services rendered to a Government department . . . in triplicate, you see, in accordance with Government love of wasting paper. I’ll require you to put your signature to it . . . and Constable Stunke to witness it.’ Ballywick held out his hand for the fountain pen Jeremy took from his pocket. ‘Wait,’ added Jeremy. ‘You’ll observe that it says here Species of Animal. What’re we doing to put? You call yourselves Peace Officer, I understand. But that written would look even more ridiculous than it sounds. Besides, that mysterious boss of yours might want you to be more specific in identifying the creature, in case it looks like you’re rigging the exes. So, say . . . Species of Animal, a ‘Sergeant of Secret Police, Answers to name of Bugsby’ . . . that suit you? Then I’ll write it in first . . . and you can sign.’
The Inspector’s hand shook slightly as he signed, and his voice with it: ‘As a police officer, dealing with people whose egotism makes them naturally hate the law, I’ve run into a lot of vindictive men in my time, Mr Delacy . . . but never one like you.’
Taking paper and pen to hand to Stunke, Jeremy answered, ‘You have the advantage on me, Inspector. I’ve run into too many types like you . . . whose need for ascendancy over their fellows is what, in my opinion, is wrong with the law, with the world.’ His face was dark with feeling, but his voice steady. He added when he got the paper back: ‘I’ll fill in the details later and give you your copy. One I’ll send to . . . the Attorney-General’s Department, I think you said . . . the other to the Press with the story of this poor hunted Jewish girl. And now, if you’ll be so good, you can leave your man to me. You’ll find quarters prepared for you in the harness-shed, with clean dry clothing, and food. It’s of the kind I issue to my blacks, of course . . . but you’ll find it all of good quality . . . as I’m sure Constable Stunke, who knows the usual quality well, will vouch. Goodnight.’
When the police were gone, Jeremy turned to look over Bugsby, saying to Darcy, ‘Hmm . . . we’ve got a job on here, son. Take us all night, perhaps. That ankle’s bad. Could be gangrenous already. Poor old Bugsby. Looks like your days as a paid bully are over. They won’t want you chasing your fellow men with an artificial foot.’ He added: ‘You’d better get a feed and some dry clothes, Darcy. I’ll give him some sulpha, and get things ready in the meantime.’
For most of the night Jeremy and Darcy worked on the still-unconscious Bugsby. The fractures of femur and tibia were set and splinted, the pus and lymph drained from under the scalp, dried blood cleared from nasal passages, the football foot kept under constant fomentation, all to the effect that the Animal answering officially now to the name of Bugsby not only looked more comfortable, but sounded so with easier breathing.
Once they were interrupted in their quiet work by a strange sound within the building, faint above the steady roar of rain, like kweeluk-crying. Their eyes met. A groan was heard from the ward. That was not where the sound came from. Also, both knew the sound well, even if one of the hearers was surprised to hear it now, as shown by the rolling of his dark eyes in sweaty scarred yellow face. Jeremy murmured, ‘Yes . . . Prindy’s here. Came in at dusk. I’d better go and quiet him.’
It was the strained sweet sleep-singing, the song My Rown Road. Jeremy waited at the closed door, awaiting the opportunity to intrude into the magic of sleep in the proper way:
I follow, follow, follow, follow Rown Road
I find him by’n’by
Kill dat whiteman, kill him die
Dat my Road, my Road, my Proper Road
My Rown Road . . .
When the little voice trailed off, Jeremy said softly, ‘Prindy, sonny.’ Twice he repeated it. There came a sigh from within, faint sound of turning over. Jeremy waited a little longer, then with careful tread returned to the clinic. Thus into the small hours.
Jeremy was asleep in his bedroom and Darcy gone home and Nanago watching over the patient, when in the weeping dawn Inspector Ballywick, despite orders to await reports, called to see how things were with his Bugsby and also to say that when radio contact was made with Town he wished to make an official communication. Nanago told him that the first Radio Schedule would not be till eight and her husband not available before that time.
Ballywick was in the radio-room while Jeremy got through to Dr Fox. The procedure in such circumstances was for the AWA operator in Port Palmeston to act as intermediary between the parties in communication by means of the town telephone system. Thus he relayed back to Jeremy the information that Dr Fox would be leaving for Beatrice River by section trolley as soon as he’d had breakfast. Before calling out, Jeremy read an ordinary Post Office message for delivery to Clancy, just a few words to say that he was waiting to hear from him. Then he handed headset and microphone over to the Inspector, but remained standing there, as the man had himself, despite a glance that clearly showed Ballywick would have preferred to be alone.
Inspector Ballywick called Police-Superintendent Bullco, giving a skimpy account of what had happened on his expedition, and requesting the assistance of certain officers whom he had been informed had special ability in tracking and also experience in dealing with the Aboriginal boy who was causing all the trouble, namely Sergeant Cahoon and his Tracker Jinbul. By the time it took, Bullco was being difficult, perhaps piqued by having something done over his head and now saying Told You So as nearly as it could be conveyed with official dignity through a third party who was not concerned. Anyway, the reply was that the required officers would be coming down on tomorrow’s train.
As Jeremy ushered Ballywick out of the radio-room, he remarked that he would be sending the big truck in to the railway to pick up the doctor as soon as it could be got away, and asked if the Inspector wished to go in with it or send any of his men. Ballywick looked at him suspiciously, asking, ‘Why should I?’ Jeremy shrugged and replied that he was only considering the matter of loading.
In fact Jeremy was considering a great deal more than he said, as revealed as soon as the coast was clear and he was able to go to Prindy and tell him of the coming of his old enemies. He said, ‘I think you’d best go in with Darcy. I won’t send anybody else. No good you going back to the Sandstone. They’ll be led a dance just the same. All we want is time. Let’s hope we hear from Clancy to say we’ve got all we need. Go to Barbu. Tell him that if there’s trouble over having you there, I’ll get him out of it. Better make a start right away. You can get out without ’em seeing you, can’t you. I’ll keep nit for you. Wait down the road a bit . . . say on the bend where the big mangan is. I’ll tell Darcy to stop for you there . . . if all’s well. Just to be on the safe side, don’t show yourself till he stops. Right?’
The fair head nodded. Jeremy pressed a small shoulder. ‘See you by’n’by, then. Mummuk yawarra, and mazzeltov!’
Although it was only drizzling when Prindy slipped away from the homestead, he managed it without detection, even clad in oilskins. He hadn’t long to wait at the plum tree. There was the waxing-waning drone of the motor soon to be caught by his sharp ears above the roar of rising waters eastward. But wax and wane though the motor did to the driver’s negotiation of the slippery road, there was no hint of its slowing down in approaching the rendezvous, as expected. The contrary — it loomed out of the rain, came roaring to the bend, round it. The sharp eyes peeping from within a leafy bush would not have missed the identity of the passengers, Stunke up in front with Darcy, sick drooping Splinter standing clinging to the cab at the back.
Prindy stood till the sound was lost in the watery roar, then, with a sigh, set out to follow it. What meant another thirty miles to legs so well exercised of late as those golden brown ones fairly twinkling because of their wetness beneath the oilskin?
The rain set in again, as yesterday, to pour all day. He walked the road without caution, because it soon was a lot of little rivers filling little lakes that spilled away eastward to feed the monster that roared
the more it was fed. When he came near the Rainbow Pool about noon he went in to take a look. There was nothing to see, only boiling mist, but everything to hear — the Voice, in the measured thunder of which all other sounds in the world sang. Prindy sang into it:
Tjeritju wijeru, wijeru agula,
Alga agula, Numeriji ga!
Look out you-lot,
Old One proper koolah now.
No-more Snake Man you,
All right, you look out.
Alga agula! Look out, look out, look out!
He splashed on into the afternoon, nibbling when food was offered by unseen hands, taking his few spells always by the river, always by some bend where perhaps, he could appraise its serpentine might, where he could feel its brown spittal shower him as it lifted one of its myriad yellow tongues.
It was darkening when the truck came roaring back, making heavy going of it by the look of the steaming radiator. Only Dr Fox aboard with Darcy. Across the Old One’s heaving yellow back was to be glimpsed the fence of Beatrice Station’s northern bullock paddock. That meant ten miles from the homestead. Good going for those small legs. But they’d had enough. He found one of those horizontally growing paperbarks with a burnt-out underbelly, poked its hollow gut with a stick to make sure he would have it to himself, then stripped off bark for bedding, and in the process got a handful of large white grubs for supper. He tossed in the bark, climbed in. The Voice was deep and muffled in there, with new over-tones. He sang himself to sleep — sang in his sleep: Follow, follow, follow my Rown Road.
Poor Fellow My Country Page 166
