To Name Those Lost

by Rohan Wilson

  Applause and raised hats.

  Caislin, her head swivelling inside the cowl, studied the rallied men and women. They’re lookin at me, she said.

  Who of you has paid the railway rate? the chief said. Who has paid it?

  A hand here or there rose.

  Who has refused?

  Dozens of hands appeared overhead.

  I applaud you, the chief ruler cried. Stand firm. The railway rate is nothing less than a crime. The parliament would have us make good the losses of a few speculators. But I tell you this, brothers. We are not answerable for the debts of the Launceston and Western Railway Company. We are not answerable and we will not pay.

  Another bout of cheering followed.

  But it’s easy to rob an orchard when no one keeps it, the chief cried. While our backs were turned, the legislature amended the Railways Act. They voted to confiscate our property, steal our money, and make ruins of our lives. How can they do this, brothers? How can their authority extend even to our property? To our purses? Does it only take an act of parliament to shed us of our rights?

  A murmur passed among the crowd of people. Some of them called out.

  No, brothers, the chief said. No. It is because they believe us weak. Because they believe the undue exercise of power over the supine and the insipid is their prerogative.

  Flynn stuffed into his mouth the last of his bread. Says the man exercising his power over the supine and insipid, he said.

  The crowd was mostly families, Sunday-dressed in suits and hats, folk come off the many farms sewed like quilting into the flat land around Longford, come in their carts, come on horseback, come to protest the railway rate that had affected them all, but as Flynn looked across them now, chewing, he saw that barely an eye at all was turned to the chief ruler. The better part had come about to stare at Caislin.

  By the blessed fock, he said.

  We should go, Caislin said.

  Flynn leaned on his staff and stood. What? he called to the crowd. What are you lot of fools looking at?

  Many looked away then. Mothers pulled their children close. Fathers crossed their arms. But one young fellow continued to glare. He took a few steps nearer and he had a rag knotted convict-style around his neck that he was adjusting as he spoke. He was a fellow full of his own importance. He loosened his rag and spoke. That leper’s got no business amongst decent healthy folk, he said.

  Flynn twisted his hands around the staff. Leper?

  Get him away. We don’t want him here.

  What, and you’ve never seen a hangman before? Flynn said.

  He’s a hangman like I’m the Queen of Spain.

  Caislin pulled his arm. Pa, let’s go.

  Flynn stood for a time locking eyes with the fellow. The leather of his hands creaked on the hardwood staff. Ever seen a man get dropped? he said.

  The fellow nodded his head.

  Takes a special breed, I will tell you. Dropping men all day.

  He’s no more than a boy.

  He is what he is, Flynn said.

  Tell him to take that bag off. He makes folk nervous.

  Well, and it’s precisely that he wants you nervous. What’s the good of a hangman who calms?

  The young fellow rubbed his throat. Perhaps he wanted to say more, for he drew breath and straightened, but he seemed to think the wiser of it and in the end he turned, stuck his thumbs through his belt, and walked away.

  Please, Caislin said, let’s go now.

  Aye, and we can go, he said as he stared after the fellow. We can go.

  He parted the crowd with his staff like a weary shepherd and pushed through and Caislin behind him clutched his knapsack. They passed the crowd in the main street paying no heed to the muttered contempt that came to them. She kept close to her father where the crowd was thicker and he could feel her tugging at the straps of his bag. The street sloped away fringed by buildings down towards the mud and reed flats of the distant river, peopled along its length, and he was peering towards the bridge when the tugging grew more insistent. Wait, she said and tugged. He looked across his shoulder.

  Mornin.

  The local constable was standing at his side. He was all in black and was as skinny as a pull-through for a rifle. On his cap the crest of the Territorial Police caught the sun and the chinstrap on his lower lip stirred as he spoke. Some concern has been expressed about you two, the constable said.

  We’re leavin, sir, Caislin said and she pushed Flynn forward.

  I’ll require you to move along, the constable said.

  Yes, sir, she said. We are.

  She pushed at Flynn’s back, but Flynn would not be moved. He was staring down at the constable. He braced himself on his staff and leaned closer.

  Require me what?

  You heard what I said.

  Aye. Is minic a gheibhean beal oscailt diog dunta.

  The constable swayed back. What? he said. What’s that you said?

  It means is minic a gheibhean beal oscailt diog dunta.

  Aint you a barmy little so and so.

  Pa, let’s move, Caislin said.

  She was pushing him when Flynn simply placed one hand on the constable’s chest and shoved him aside. The fellow seemed to shrink inside his clothes, made small by such sincere disregard. Away and tug your willy, boy, Flynn said softly.

  The constable stepped back. Folk nearby turned to see what had transpired and they were frowning or craning their necks. Flynn leaned calmly on his staff.

  See now, the constable said, and he gestured at Caislin, where she stood motionless in shock. I’m requiring you to move along.

  Don’t look at him, Flynn said.

  A brief disquiet crossed the face of the constable.

  You want to be looking at me. I’m the cause of your trouble. The constable switched his eyes onto Flynn.

  You see, I belong to the stamp of man as states his principles. My principle is never yield to the Crown.

  One or two folk in the crowd had begun to shuffle away. There was talking and pointing, and Caislin seemed turned rigid with it. The constable scanned the crowd and by the time his eyes came back to Flynn he’d drawn his billyclub. This aint County Kerry, he said and he waved that long black finger. Now get yourselves along fore I come up in a temper.

  You take me amiss, boy.

  I what?

  Wave that thing all you like. We’re not under your yoke. We don’t take instruction from the likes of you.

  The constable snorted. That’s Fenian talk, he said. I can arrest you as Fenians.

  Caislin stirred to life. She grabbed at her father’s elbow all of sudden. Leave him be, Pa. Remember what we’re about.

  Flynn lifted his hand to her for quiet. It’s not politics we are talking, he said. We are no part of politics and no part of the law. We are stateless. You understand?

  I understand, the constable said. You’re anarchists.

  I’ll make it simple.

  The constable watched him closely.

  You’re a man and I’m a man.

  He tapped the stick in his palm. And so what?

  So that is all, Flynn said.

  I’m a man and you’re a man?

  Aye.

  And what’s he? The constable jabbed his stick at Caislin.

  He, Flynn said, is the mouth of the lion.

  Sounds like politics to me, the constable said.

  Flynn’s great unruly brows dug together. You would put yourself above me, which I refuse. You’re no more and no less than anyone.

  The constable lowered his club. His face fell as he considered this. He began to speak but stopped. He cleared his throat. Two pound a month I’m paid, he said after a pause. Two. That don’t hold me to much in the way of politics. I take me two and do what I’m told.

  There is the root of your troubles, Flynn said. Take pride, man. Be your own master.

  They were attracting a rancorous gaze from the crowd of villagers and the lines of sashed and suited Rechabites. Flynn
doffed his great hat to them, as a gentleman might. And for all of you, he said, who put yourselves below a waffling fool like that fellow up there. You hang the petty thieves but give the great ones power. Wake up to yourselves. Look around you.

  He replaced his hat, set it straight, took his daughter by the hand and led her through the droves of people, the path opening before them as startled folk stepped aside and closed again behind.

  Take your leper and go, someone called.

  Fenians! called another.

  They walked and did not look back.

  At the bridge that crossed the weedy river towards Launceston Flynn halted to resettle his load like a mountaineer and drink from his corked bottle. Caislin at his side was still watching to their rear, the huddled set of her shoulders showing her concern. He offered her the bottle. There was a buggy coming over the bridge driven by a stout young fellow smart dressed and as he passed he stared at Flynn and his strange companion, and Flynn in return just touched his hat. The cart rolled on and from the backwards-facing seats sat two children with their mouths agape at the odd ghostly face of Flynn’s daughter. Caislin looked away.

  The roadside grass sang with summer insects. The fields, boxed with hedges of sweet briar, held flocks of sheep that huddled beneath the riverbank willows or lay like dogs panting with the heat. Flynn had not recorked his bottle but walked with it, slugging from the neck and looking about the country there, the condition of the stock that grazed. Land parcelled up with post and rail fencing and ordered like tiles around the hill’s curve. It was all so thoroughly a small misshapen, transported, bastard England that he felt alien in it.

  As they walked, his daughter turned to him. You think I should take it off, she said.

  Flynn pursed his lips. He swigged from the bottle.

  You do, she said. I know.

  Flynn said nothing but watched along the river. He drank.

  I can’t, she said. Not yet.

  All right.

  But I will. And soon.

  Well that would be all right too, he said.

  Across the river the Rechabites had struck up a march. The dry metalled road where they paraded seemed to smoke, such was their number.

  Well here’s how things stand, she said. There’s no money for food more than a crown or two. There’s Ashley and little Branna we’ve left with the O’Malleys, without nothin for our landlord, nor for his. And here’s you, the man who won’t talk to the police.

  When we make Launceston I’ll talk to some fellows who know some fellows, he said. We’ll turn something up. We near had him yesterday in just that manner.

  She surveyed the road with her lonely breath hissing in the fibre of the hood. She said nothing further. What more could be said to such a man as himself? What that could douse the blaze of his anger? She knew him better. More than that, she carried that anger too. Handed down from him.

  There is a bit of cunning needed, he said. Yes, and rightly there is. Toosey is no sort of fool. Let me tell you something about him, from when I knew him in the Port.

  I’ve heard all your stories, Pa.

  Be quiet and listen, he said. There was a fellow in with us by the name of Chauncey Johnson.

  I know about Chauncey Johnson. You told me. Toosey smashed him up with rock. I know.

  The point being, Flynn said, the point being that we need a bit more sense about us than Gimlet-eyed Chan Johnson ever had.

  You Irish aint known for sense, she said.

  And what are you? Tas-bloody-manian?

  I’m nothing at all. I’m the sole of my kind.

  Good girl. That’s the way.

  The parade began to mount the sandstone highway bridge, the chief ruler at the head signalling with his marching baton and the satin banners of each order floating plumply above the crowd. Flynn looked across at the calamitous sound of the parade and scowled and spat on the road.

  Some rat cunning is what’s needed on our part, he said. To be sure.

  There’s nothin clever about killin him, Pa.

  Flynn had hiked up his knapsack though and was stepping into the road, the lonely toll of his pots lost among the mounting parade racket. She adjusted her bedroll and followed.

  Did you hear me?

  Flynn said not a word. He walked on, wearing a look of concern like an etching in stone.

  LAUNCESTON

  COME THE DEEPS OF NIGHT THOMAS Toosey stole soundlessly out among the rolling stock of freight trucks and carriages into the fringe of reeds at the riverbank. The hills above the river were outlined black before a sheen of stars. He stumbled and cursed through the mud as he made across the banks to the bridge that joined outlying Invermay to the city proper. Before long he was walking through the town of Launceston, casting an eye up and the down the unpeopled streets, his shadow circling as he crossed pools of light below the gas lamps. He passed by the tall gold-stencilled windows of Blundells Glass and China and caught a glimpse of himself dragging over the irregularities in the pane, like his image given back off a lake. With his few sorry effects, his odd round hat. Called from the pits of some wilderness. Not a sight for a weak stomach. He looked away.

  He walked up past Prince’s Square where in the wind the oak and elm hissed. The houses here were of the failing sort. Rows of untrue fence. Tin rooves scabbed and flaking. He walked to one house that was a narrow conjoined box with a narrow yard in front and stood gazing up at it. There was a light burning behind the curtained window. He removed his hat and smoothed his hair. He lifted the wooden gate and entered, scaled the steps, stood before the door. He knocked twice.

  The woman who answered was holding a candle and when the light of it called Thomas Toosey from the dark of her verandah, holding his faded hat and standing at a civil distance, her face fell in ill temper.

  Minnie, he said. Good evening.

  She stared, her head nodding very slightly.

  You look well, he said.

  I’d hoped you were dead, Thomas.

  He tapped his hat to dislodge the burrs. There were holes spaced around the crown where sun and rain, countless years of it, had eaten the felt. He stuck his finger into one. Wilhelmina—

  So did Maria, she said.

  He let out his breath. He thought about what to say but there was nothing to say.

  Michael will be along, she said. He won’t be pleased to see you neither.

  I’m not much of a man, he said. I know it.

  You’re no sort of man at all.

  I know it, he said.

  You left them penniless, my sister and nephew.

  Not penniless, no. I sent them every bit I earned.

  Maria died believin in her heart that you despised her.

  You’re wrong about that. I wrote to her. She knew my feelins.

  Minnie brought the door around to close it. Goodbye, Thomas, she said.

  He put his hand to the panel. Now hold on, he said through the crack.

  Goodbye.

  I done the wrong thing.

  Remove your hand.

  But I come to set it straight.

  You left her, Thomas. You can’t correct that.

  I want me boy, he said.

  Minnie inched back the door, one large eye, as white as river quartz, peering around. He isn’t here, she said.

  Toosey stepped back. He exhaled and looked down at his hat and when he looked up he was frowning. Woman, do not piss me about, he said.

  He came here once. He’s a troubled boy. Never a minute of peace with him. He wouldn’t stay for fear of the police.

  Where is he?

  I don’t know. Such a father, such a son I suppose.

  Toosey replaced his hat. He stood quietly staring at her. So help me, that better be the truth, he said.

  In the pale light of the flame she looked unwell. Listen, she said, talk to your brother-in-law. You know what he’s like. Walking the town all day, gabbing. Chances are he’ll know a thing or two about your boy.

  Will he be long?


  I shouldn’t think so.

  He looked along the road and looked back at her.

  You’ll have to wait out there. I won’t have you in the house.

  Very well.

  Minnie stared at him a moment. You never even come to her funeral, she said.

  For which I am sorry, he said. Now and forever.

  Sorry pays no debts, does it.

  No.

  He stepped off the verandah. The door crashed closed behind him, the locks turned over. He unslung his swag and dropped it on the ground. Then for a time he sat on it thinking. The truth was this: he had liquored himself up day after day until she, his lonely Maria, could no longer bear it. He’d left her in poverty and she had died. The sun rose and set and that fact never changed. It was a truth to tear him to pieces.

  For a long time he thought about going after his boy. He could ask around the pubs. Someone would have seen him. But he lingered nevertheless and late in the evening he saw, shifting among the shadows in the road, one shape deeper and darker than all and when it crossed a band of moon it was, as he knew it would be, a handcart set on a pair of huge wheels, horseless, rolling as if of its own volition. He stood by the gate as it neared. The wheels turned crookedly on the axle, a great worn grindstone set in the centre rigged with pulleys turned as well. Dear Polly I’m goin to leave you, the cart sang, for seven long years love and more. The greaseless hubs shrieked at each revolution. It rolled up before the house and fell silent.

  Ho there, Toosey called.

  For all his years the knife sharpener had grown gnarled and hump-backed and shaped around his contraption like a trimmed shrub. He raised his eyes off the road and saw the bushman standing, arms folded, by the gate.

  Thomas bloody Toosey, he said.

  He came forward with his hand out. A tottering prophet, limp with age.

  Brother Michael Payne, Toosey said.

  They gripped hands across the fence and clapped each other on the arms.

  Among the instruments on the cart was a small towel and Brother Payne, raised his derby, mopped himself with it, and dried his sparse white hair. He wore a wild set of muttonchops below either ear and these he dried similarly.