Kangaroo

by D. H. Lawrence

  ‘One!’ came a loud, distinct voice, as if from nowhere, like a gun going off.

  ‘But one or the other—’

  ‘Two!’ a solid block of men’s voices, like a bell.

  ‘One or the other you’ll—’

  ‘Three!’ The voice, like a tolling bell, of men counting the speaker out. It was the diggers.

  A thrill went through the audience. The diggers sat mostly together, in the middle of the hall, around Jack. Their faces were lit up with a new light. And like a bell they tolled the numbers against the speaker, counting him out, by their moral unison annihilating him.

  Willie Struthers, his dark yellow face gone demoniac, stood and faced them. His eyes too had suddenly leaped with a new look: big, dark, glancing eyes, like an Aboriginal’s, glancing strangely. Was it fear, was it a glancing, gulf-like menace? He stood there, a shabby figure of a man, with undignified legs, facing the tolling enemy.

  ‘Four!’ came the sonorous, perfect rhythm. It was a strange sound, heavy, hypnotic, trance-like. Willie Struthers stood as if he were fascinated, glaring spellbound.

  ‘Five!’ The sound was unbearable, a madness, tolling out of a certain devilish cavern in the back of the men’s unconscious mind, in terrible malignancy. The Socialists began to leap to their feet in fury, turning towards the block of Diggers. But the lean, naked faces of the ex-soldiers gleamed with a smiling, demonish light, and from their narrow mouths simultaneously:

  ‘Six!’

  Struthers, looking as if he were crouching to spring, glared back at them from the platform. They did not even look at him.

  ‘Seven!’ In two syllables, Sev-en!

  The sonorous gloating in the sound was unbearable. It was like hammer strokes on the back of the brain. Everybody had started up save the Diggers. Even Somers was wildly on his feet, feeling as if he could fly, swoop like some enraged bird. But his feeling wavered. At one moment he gloated with the Diggers against the black and devilish figure of the isolated man on the platform, who half crouched as if he were going to jump, his face black and satanic. And then, as the number came, unbearable in its ghastly striking:

  ‘Eight!’ like some hammer stroke on the back of his brain it sent him clean mad, and he jumped up into the air like a lunatic, at the same moment as Struthers sprang with a clear leap, like a cat, towards the group of static, grinning ex-soldiers.

  There was a crash, and the hall was like a bomb that has exploded. Somers tried to spring forward. In the blind moment he wanted to kill—to kill the soldiers. Jaz held him back, saying something. There was a most fearful roar, and a mad whirl of men, broken chairs, pieces of chairs brandished, men fighting madly with fists, claws, pieces of wood—any weapon they could lay hold of. The red flag suddenly flashing like blood, and bellowing rage at the sight of it. A Union Jack torn to fragments, stamped upon. A mob with many different centres, some fighting frenziedly round a red flag, some clutching fragments of the Union Jack, as if it were God incarnate. But the central heap a mass struggling with the Diggers, in real blood-murder passion, a tense mass with long, naked faces gashed with blood, and hair all wild, and eyes demented, and collars burst, and arms frantically waving over the dense bunch of horrific life, hands in the air with weapons, hands clawing to drag them down, wrists bleeding, hands bleeding, arms with the sleeves ripped back, white naked arms with brownish hands, and thud! as the white flesh was struck with a chair leg.

  The doors had been flung open—many men had gone out, but more rushed in. The police in blue uniforms and in blue clothes wielding their batons, the whole place gone mad. Richard, small as he was, felt a great frenzy on him, a great longing to let go. But since he didn’t really know whom he wanted to let go at, he was not quite carried away. And Jaz, quiet, persistent, drew him gradually out into the street. Though not before he had lost his hat and had had his collar torn open, and had received a bang over the forehead that helped to bring him to his senses.

  Smash went the lights of the hall—somebody smashing the electric lamps. The place was almost in darkness. It was unthinkable.

  Jaz drew Somers into the street, which was already a wide mass of a crowd, and mounted police urging their way to the door, laying about them. The crowd too was waiting to catch fire. Almost beside himself Richard struggled out of the crowd, to get out of the crowd. Then there were shots in the night, and a great howl from the crowd. Among the police on horseback he saw a white hat—a white felt hat looped up at the side—and he seemed to hear the bellowing of a big, husky voice. Surely that was Kangaroo, that was Kangaroo shouting. Then there was a loud explosion and a crash—a bomb of some sort.

  And Richard suddenly was faint—Jaz was leading him by the arm—leading him away—in the city night that roared from the direction of the hall, while men and women were running thither madly, and running as madly away, and motor cars came rushing: and even the fire brigade with bright brass helmets—a great rush towards the centre of conflict—and a rush away, outwards. While hats—white hats—Somers, in his dazed condition saw three or four, and they occupied his consciousness as if they were thousands.

  ‘We must go back,’ he said, ‘We must go back to them!’

  ‘What for?’ said Jaz, ‘We’re best away.’

  And he led him sturdily down a side street, while Somers was conscious only of the scene he had left, and the sound of shots.

  They went to one of the smaller, more remote Digger’s Clubs. It consisted only of one large room, meeting room and gymnastics hall in turn, and a couple of small rooms, one belonging to the secretary and the head, and the other a sort of little kitchen with a sink and a stove. The one-armed caretaker was in attendance, but nobody else was there. Jaz and Somers went into the secretary’s room, and Jaz made Richard lie down on the sofa.

  ‘Stay here,’ he said, ‘while I go and have a look round.’

  Richard looked at him. He was feeling very sick: perhaps the bang over the head. Yet he wanted to go back into the town, into the melee. He felt he would even die if he did so. But then why not die? Why stay outside the row? He had always been outside the world’s affairs.

  ‘I’ll come with you again,’ he said.

  ‘No, I don’t want you,’ snapped Jaz. ‘I have a few of my own things to attend to.’

  ‘Then I’ll go by myself,’ said Richard.

  ‘If I were you I wouldn’t,’ said Jaz.

  And Richard sat back feeling very sick, and confused. But such a pain in his stomach, as if something were torn there. And he could not keep still—he wanted to do something.

  Jaz poured out a measure of whiskey for himself and one for Richard. Then he went out, saying:

  ‘You’d best stay here till I come back, Mr Somers. I shan’t be very long.’

  Jaz too was very pale, and his manner was furtive, like one full of suppressed excitement.

  Richard looked at him, and felt very alien, far from him and everybody. He rose to his feet to rush out again. But the torn feeling at the pit of his stomach was so strong he sat down and shoved his fists in his abdomen, and there remained. It was a kind of grief, a bitter, agonised grief for his fellow men. He felt it was almost better to die, than to see his fellow men go mad in this horror. He could hear Jaz talking for some time to the one-armed caretaker, a young soldier who was lame with a bad limp as well as maimed.

  ‘I can’t do anything. I can’t be on either side. I’ve got to keep away from everything,’ murmured Richard to himself. ‘If only one might die, and not have to wait and watch through all the human horror. They are my fellow men, they are my fellow men.’

  So he lay down, and at length fell into a sort of semi-consciousness, still pressing his fists into his abdomen, and feeling as if he imagined a woman might feel after her first child, as if something had been ripped out of him. He was vaguely aware of the rage and chaos in the dark city round him, the terror of the clashing chaos. But what was the good even of being afraid?—even of grief? It was like a storm, in which he could do
nothing but lie still and endure and wait. ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ Perhaps it is the bitterest part, to keep still through it all, and watch and wait. In a numb half-sleep Richard lay and waited—waited for heaven knows what.

  It seemed a long time. Then he heard voices. There was Jack and Jaz and one or two others—loud voices. Presently Jack and Jaz came in to him. Jack had a big cut on the chin, and was pale as death. There was blood on his coat, and he had a white pocket-handkerchief round his neck, having lost his collar. He looked with black eyes at Richard.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Blowed if I know,’ answered Jack, like a drunken man.

  ‘Half past eleven,’ said Jaz quietly.

  Only an hour—or an hour and a half. Time must have stood still and waited.

  ‘What has happened?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Nought!’ blurted Jack, still like a drunken man. ‘Nought happened. Bloody blasted nothing.’

  ‘Kangaroo is shot,’ said Jaz.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘No—o!’ snarled Jack. ‘No, damn yer, not dead.’

  Somers looked at Jaz.

  ‘They’ve taken him home—shot in the belly,’ said Jaz.

  ‘In his bloomin’ Kangaroo guts,’ said Jack. ‘Ain’t much left of the ant that shot ’im, though—neither guts nor marrow.’

  Richard stared at the two men.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he said to Jack.

  ‘Me? Oh, no, I just scratched myself shaving, darling. Making me toilet.’

  There was silence for some time. Jaz’s plump, pale face was still impassive, inscrutable, and his clothing was in order. Jack poured himself a half-glass of neat whiskey, put in a little water, and drank if off.

  ‘And Willie Struthers and everybody?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Gone ’ome to his missus to have sausage for tea,’ said Jack.

  ‘Not hurt?’

  ‘Blowed if I know,’ replied Jack indifferently, ‘whether he’s hurt or not.’

  ‘And is the town quiet?’ Somers turned to Jaz. ‘Has everything blown over? What has happened?’

  ‘What has happened exactly I couldn’t tell you. I suppose everything is quiet. The police have everything in hand.’

  ‘Police!’ snarled Jack. ‘Bloody Johnny Hops! They couldn’t hold a sucking pig in their hands, unless somebody hung on to its tail for them. It’s our boys who’ve got things in hand. And handed them over to the Hops.’

  Somers knew that Johnny Hops was Australian for a policeman. Jack spoke in a suppressed frenzy.

  ‘Was anybody killed?’ Somers asked.

  ‘I’m sure I hope so. If I haven’t done one or two of ’em in I’m sorry. Damned sorry. Bloody sorry,’ said Jack.

  ‘I should be careful what I say,’ said Jaz.

  ‘I know you’d be careful, you Cornish whisper. Careful Jimmy’s your name and nation. But I hope I did one or two of ’em in. And I did do one or two of ’em in. See the brains sputter out of that chap that shot ’Roo?’

  ‘And suppose they arrest you tonight and shove you in gaol for manslaughter?’ said Jaz.

  ‘I wouldn’t advise anybody to lay as much as a leaf of maidenhair fern on me tonight, much less a finger.’

  ‘They might tomorrow. You be still, and go home.’

  Jack relapsed into a white silence. Jaz went into the common room again, where members dropped in from the town. Apparently everything had gone quiet. It was determined that everybody should go home as quietly and quickly as possible.

  Richard found himself in the street with Jaz and Jack, both of whom were silent. They walked briskly through the streets. Groups of people were hurrying silently home. The town felt very dark, and as if something very terrible had happened. A few taxicabs were swiftly and furtively running. In George Street and Pitt Street patrols of mounted police were stationed, and the ordinary police were drawn up on guard outside the most important places. But the military had not been called out.

  On the whole, the police took as little notice as possible of the foot passengers who were hurrying away home, but occasionally they held up a taxicab. Jaz, Jack and Somers proceeded on foot, very quickly and in absolute silence. They were not much afraid of the city authorities: perhaps not so much as were the authorities themselves. But they all instinctively felt it best to keep quiet and unnoticed.

  It was nearly one o’clock when they reached Wyewurk. Victoria had gone to bed. She called when she heard the men enter. Evidently she knew nothing of the row.

  ‘Only me and Jaz and Mr Somers,’ called Jack, ‘Don’t you stir.’

  ‘Of course I must,’ she cried brightly.

  ‘Don’t you move,’ thundered Jack, and she relapsed into silence. She knew, when he had one of his hell-moods on him, it was best to leave him absolutely alone.

  The men drank a little whiskey, then sat silent for some time. At last Jaz had the energy to say they must go to bed.

  ‘Trot off, Jazzy,’ said Jack. ‘Go to bee-by, boys.’

  ‘That’s what I’m doing,’ said Jaz, as he retired. He was sleeping the night at Wyewurk, his own home being across the harbour.

  Somers still sat inert, with his unfinished glass of whiskey, though Jaz said to him pertinently:

  ‘Aren’t you retiring, Mr Somers?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, but didn’t move.

  The two were left in silence: only the little clock ticking away. Everything quite still.

  Suddenly Jack rose and looked at his face in the mirror.

  ‘Nicked a bit out of my chin, seemingly. It was that little bomb that did that. Dirty little swine, to throw a bomb. But it hadn’t much kick in it.’

  He turned round to Somers, and the strangest grin in the world was on his face, all the lines curved upwards.

  ‘Tell you what, boy,’ he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘I settled three of ’em—three!’ There was an indescribable gloating joy in his tones, like a man telling of the good time he has had with a strange mistress—‘Gawr, but I was lucky. I got one of them iron bars from the windows, and I stirred the brains of a couple of them with it, and I broke the neck of a third. Why it was as good as a sword to defend yourself with, see—’

  He reached his face towards Somers with weird, gruesome exultation, and continued in a hoarse, secret voice:

  ‘Gripes, there’s nothing bucks you up sometimes like killing a man—nothing. You feel a perfect angel after it.’

  Richard felt the same torn feeling in his abdomen, and his eyes watched the other man.

  ‘When it comes over you, you know, there’s nothing else like it. I never knew, till the war. And I wouldn’t believe it then, not for many a while. But it’s there. Gripes, it’s there right enough. Having a woman’s something, isn’t it? But it’s a flea bite, nothing, compared to killing your man when your blood comes up.’

  And his eyes glowed with exultant satisfaction.

  ‘And the best of it is,’ he said, ‘you feel a perfect angel after it. You don’t feel you’ve done any harm. Feel as gentle as a lamb all round. I can go to Victoria, now, and be as gentle—’ He jerked his head in the direction of Victoria’s room. ‘And you bet she’ll like me.’

  His eyes glowed with a sort of exaltation.

  ‘Killing’s natural to a man, you know,’ he said. ‘It is just as natural as lying with a woman. Don’t you think?’

  And still Richard did not answer.

  The next morning he left early for Mullumbimby. The newspaper gave a large space to the disturbance, but used the wisest language. ‘Brawl between Communists and Nationalists at Canberra Hall. Unknown anarchist throws a bomb. Three persons killed and several injured. Ben Cooley, the well-known barrister, receives bullets in the abdomen, but is expected to recover. Police, aided by Diggers, soon restored order.’

  This was the tone of all the newspapers.

  Most blamed the Labour incendiaries, with pious horror—but all declared that the bomb was thrown by some unknown cr
iminal who had intruded himself into the crowd unknown to all parties. There was a mention of shots fired: and a loud shout of accusation against the Mounted Police from the Labour papers, declaring that these had fired on the crowd. Equally loud denials. A rigorous inquiry was to be instituted, fourteen men were arrested. Jack was arrested as the leader of the men who had counted out Willie Struthers, but he was released on bail. Kangaroo was said to be progressing, as far as could be ascertained, favourably.

  And then the papers had a lovely lot of topics. They could discuss the character and persons of Struthers and Ben Cooley, all except the Radical paper, the Sun, praising Ben for his laudable attempts to obtain order by the help of his loyal Diggers. The Sun hinted at other things. Then the personal histories of all the men arrested. Jack, the well-known VC, was cautiously praised.

  What was curious was that nobody brought criminal charges against anybody. Jack’s iron bar, for instance, nobody mentioned. It was called a stick. Who fired the revolvers, nobody chose to know. The bomb thrower was an unknown anarchist, probably a new immigrant from Europe. Each side vituperated and poured abuse on the other side. But nobody made any precise, criminal accusations. Most of the prisoners—including Jack—were bound over. Two of them got a year’s imprisonment, and five got six months. And the affair began to fizzle down.

  A great discussion started on the subject of counting out. Tales were told, how the sick men in a hospital, from their beds, counted out an unsympathetic medical officer till the man dared not show his face. It was said that the Aussies had once begun to count out the Prince of Wales. It was in Egypt. The Prince had ridden up to review them, and he seemed to them, as they stood there in the sun, to be supercilious, ‘superior’. This is the greatest offence. So as he rode away like magic they started to count him out. ‘One! Two! Three!’ No command would stop them. The Prince, though he did not know what it meant, instantly felt the thing like a blow, and rode back at once, holding up his hand, to ask what was wrong. And then he was so human and simple that they said they had made a mistake, and they cheered him passionately. But they had begun to count him out. And once a man was counted out he was done: he was dead, he was counted out. So, newspaper talk.