To Name Those Lost

by Rohan Wilson

  A high-sided cart pulled by a black mare in blinkers rolled down the Charles Street hill with the squeal of its axle horrible like a crow. The people in the street gave way before it and some of them were waving their hats and the surly teamster on the bench lifted his hat to them in return. It pulled up before Bell’s and Toosey saw now that a troupe of men were squatting in the bed. They were six, all dressed in black, and they had on black gloves, tall hats wreathed in black crepe, and wore stern expressions to a man. They dismounted one by one and stood looking about.

  Now you will see it, the fellow beside Toosey said.

  A murmur went through the crowd lining the windows. Some stepped away and others removed their hats as if out of respect for these dour men and everywhere people in the street began looking back at the six undertakers. Toosey stood with his arms crossed, watching. Everything about it made his hair stand up.

  The six in black dragged something heavy off the cart and laid it in the dust and they stooped down, and when they stood they had mounted lengthwise along their shoulders a grey clapboard coffin. At the windows folk abandoned their places wholesale. The crowd drew back entirely from the doors and the undertakers lumbered up to the wide entranceway with their load and dropped it. Foremost of them was a huge bull-necked fellow, thick-jawed, his shoulders distending the seams of his coat. He pushed back the coffin lid and retrieved from within it a tall forester’s axe. The women screamed. One fainted dead away onto the road. The undertakers shouldered up the coffin and ducked through the doors inside the purchase-room darkness.

  The fellow beside Toosey swigged from a flask of spirits. Let these six do their work, the fellow said and he motioned for Toosey to take a drink. Toosey shook his head.

  Damn the rate, the fellow cried. Damn the railways.

  Toosey watched the room for what would follow. Long instants of silence. In the crowd, folk craning their necks the better to see. Toosey narrowed his eyes but nothing in the sunless dark inside had shape or substance. Then came a roar. The devil-like pitch and intensity startled him. That was followed an instant later by an even more tremendous howl inside the purchase room as the place fell into general panic. People rushed for the doors, clambering over benches, over chairs, and women screamed and men pulled them by the arm and some fell and were trampled and some fought over the backs of folk gone down or climbed from pew to pew and the crowd rolled outward from the doors like the bursting forth of water, the undertakers among them kicking and lashing out, while in the street some of the armed men began to give fire overhead, the small sharp reports of revolvers and with it the heavier thud of rifles. The windows of Bell’s shattered as folk began to spill from there onto the road, gripping their hats, running, looking back at the scenes inside the purchase room and shouting, and all along the street echoed the endless crying of horses, the breaking of glass, screaming.

  For a while Toosey just stood watching. He could not quite believe it. The crowd drew away past the stores and hotels and a core of a hundred or more men led down the street in a march with glass breaking everywhere as larrikins started to loot. But even as he stood with his arms folded and his uneasy feelings turning to outright alarm, he saw the town’s vagrant children in twos or threes. He saw the girl with her cup. Children bewildered, running to one another, huddling up. The whole scene awash in gunsmoke. Toosey tugged down his hat.

  Here you are, he said to himself. The ex-drunk. The thief. What have you to show?

  A fresh round of gunfire made him flinch.

  Whatever was left of his wicked life, and he knew it might not be much, whatever was left was owed plainly and honestly to his child.

  He started forward into the smoke.

  THE RIOT

  JANE ELEANOR HALL CROUCHED BY A gas lamp on the crest of the Charles Street hill and surveyed the town below through her fingers. A numberless crowd covered the streets like a carpet, pitted in part with the holes of bonfires. Men loped through the smoke and dust, men blacked up with charcoal to hide themselves, wielding hoes and clubs and axes, hooting and whooping. The depth of noise made the whole air tremble. Above the rooves smoke scudded in a band of utter black. She held her face and could hardly breathe. Her gut knotted up. The town had lost its mind.

  It took her a while to understand. The railways. The levy. She exhaled and rubbed her head. All week there had been warnings that if the auction went ahead then blood would follow. But this was more. This was rebellion. Gangs in masks moved store to store smashing the plates of glass that lined the street in a weave of silver. They dragged furnishings into the road to feed the fires. She looked across a town obscured by smoke billows. The people of this place were not suckers. They would not bear the debts of another. Now the railways’ shareholders and the men of Kennerley’s parliament would truly learn it.

  She crouched there a long time. She had set about finding the man Thomas Toosey, the finding of him, the getting back of the money. Now her gut was knotting and her breath stalling in her chest. She rubbed the stubble on her head. At length she stood. She might have returned to the hut. Maybe even to Rabbit’s place. She might have stayed away from the trouble. Stayed safe. Instead she began to descend the hill. This was not the hour for fearful ways. She needed to act.

  Her father had often led her along this road for her leg, for the bettering of it he always said, and he would take her hand crossing the roughest holes and then have her walk alone that she would give the leg the strength it needed, and him talking, always talking, calling her the bravest girl about and darling Janey in his rough whiskey voice and pointing over the river to the new station building dressed in its flags and bunting and promising her a trip to Longford or beyond in first class, for he was a railways man, a navvy, working a pick and barrow and laying out the ballast, and that was how he came to be retrieving a charge from its blast-hole while it was still wired and his death was instantaneous, the foreman had told them, instantaneous, as if that excused it, but that was no word she knew, a girl of fifteen hardly lettered, and her mother flew to claw out this fool’s vocals when he said there would be no money forthcoming for the funeral, no widow’s pension, by order of the Board of Directors and owing to her father’s status as a temporary hire, and in the end it was only Rabbit the tapman who’d help, only Rabbit with the five pound they needed to see him rightly buried and he gave it so freely, did Rabbit, that her mother never thought to question the debt, the interest that doubled it, and their now-alarming lack of income, and short of paying it off Rabbit had other ideas for her mother that would put her on her back at a shilling a fuck, and little Janey too, he said, who was plenty old enough for cock, and so here she was now limping her way towards the sundering town in the aid of murder, made the tool of men once more, for all that she’d sworn otherwise.

  Drawing closer to the strife the source of it became apparent. There were five taprooms along that emptied men into the street with mugs, bottles, pitchers, waving them aloft, calling boorish toasts variously to the premier, to the king, to the railways, and then lastly to the railway’s lawyer Mr Douglas. One of the drunks put up a call that was taken on by every man.

  Up to Douglas’s! Up to Douglas’s!

  She limped on with that howl in her ears. Ahead, the crowd in their numbers was flinging rocks through the windows of some flash-looking place and uprooting the paling fence and tearing out the garden. She walked the slope of the street with her eyes down. Men in packs of three and four broke doors and dragged chairs through the tended flowerbeds of the wealthy, laughing like crazed men, laughing and swearing. When she rounded into George Street the crowd there had a banner: Don’t Pay The Rate. They were chanting the same slogan over and over. Beating kerosene tins. Hollering. From a gas lamp they’d hung a half-finished guy, a sad figure wadded with hay and with a tiny head of carven wood lolling weirdly in the rope. He wore a top hat of black felt, a silk vest. On his face a painted scowl that told of his hatred for the common man.

  As she stood there watch
ing the guy turning in his noose Bunyip jogged up beside her and crouched. He was breathing heavily and sweating. He hung his long thin arms over his knees and dropped his head, heaving air in and out, dropping beads of sweat on the dirt. She felt better to see him but she put her back to him anyway. Bunyip had a purse from somewhere, which he emptied into his palm. A few shop tokens, tanners, a shilling coin. He tossed the purse in the street.

  A shillin, he said. In an hour out there. And look at em all.

  Naff off, she said.

  Oh lovely that is.

  She turned to him suddenly. If my leg wasn’t so bung I’d bloody kick you senseless.

  Who was they anyway? he said.

  What a friend. Leavin me like that.

  They might have shot us, Janey.

  I ought to truss you up, she said without looking around. Truss you like that scarecrow there.

  Who was they?

  They was after someone. Some fellow called Toosey.

  What a queer bloody thing to wear. A hangman’s hood. He looked a proper loony.

  She let him sit in silence a while, letting him stew. Then she said, This fellow. The one they want. They’ll pay ten pound for him.

  Ten? What’s he done?

  Stole some money off them. A lot of money by the sounds of it.

  Ten, Bunyip said.

  He sorted through the bits in his palm. He picked out the coins and pocketed them. There remained a few shop tokens, which he pressed into Hall’s hand. That’s for you, he said. He had hold of her wrist lightly at first but it tightened as he pulled her closer. There’s somethin else better than ten pound you might offer me, he said. He held her waist and breathed into her neck.

  If you say it’s me titties I will cuff you one.

  They do get me enthused, he breathed.

  Long hair, she said and pushed him off. Perfectly grey. Wearin a natty little billycock. If we can find him—

  You could pay off Rabbit.

  Yeah. The whole lot.

  Christ, he said and looked around sharply. Christ, long hair. Like in a braid?

  Braided, yeah.

  I seen the cove. Oh bloody hell. I seen him, Janey. Just lately.

  Bunyip took off.

  Oi, she said.

  They followed the agitators parading in the centre of the road. Among the hundreds of men and women and the woollen drifts of smoke it was a job to see anything. On Brisbane Street every place was closed. The tearoom had sheets of roofing tin pitched before its bay window as a primitive barrier, great tall sheets rusted and stuck through with nail holes, and covering the door were battens affixed directly onto the frame. She looked around at the miscellaneous destruction as she followed Bunyip. The dire work being done on properties nearby. Teams of boys stoning shopfront glass. Two men in waist aprons chasing them off with sticks. Hall turned her head, taking stock of it all.

  Where’s the police? she said.

  But Bunyip wasn’t listening. Everyone saw him, he said. Your man the Indian. He was talkin to the city kids. Askin about somethin.

  He pushed past a circle of gents and lightly patted the pockets of one chap but took nothing. They went along by the Launceston Bank and turned up the hill.

  Talkin about what?

  How should I know?

  You sure it was him?

  Grey hair worn long. Black hat. It was him.

  She scanned the street. Smoke drifting through the scenes of bedlam. Bunyip led her further to where the crowd thinned outside the merchant quarter. They stopped before a huge flat-fronted brick-and-render cottage fringed neatly with shrubs of rose and lavender and saplings of willow. There were others at the door of this place, trying it. Some of them kicked at the panels. Before long the wood splintered up and the frame gave way and they filed inside. Bunyip scratched his chin as he watched the men, scratched the onset of beard.

  Where’s the bleedin police in all this?

  Oh you only just noticed, she said. Sharp one you are.

  Bunyip watched the men. One chap toted out a load of pewterware bundled in a sheet and behind him came another with an oil-painted English landscape, broad and heavily framed, and on his head a stack of top hats. She knew what he was thinking and she didn’t like it.

  That ten pound will see Rabbit off my back, she said.

  Won’t be an easier profit than a bit of carried-off silver.

  You can’t take it through the streets in daylight. That’s mad.

  These buggers are doin it.

  It’s ten pound for trackin him home. Findin where he’s holed up. That’s as easy a ten as I know of.

  Ought to be your ma payin it back. Not you. It’s her as spent it.

  She slapped him on the shoulder. Oi, she said. He was my father. Blame the railways if you want to blame someone.

  Bunyip kicked a stone along the road.

  Rabbit won’t give you a fair price, she said. Not a hope. He’ll pay whatever he likes and what can we do about it? Stamp our feet? We won’t get no ten pound off him.

  Hold on there, he said and looked past her. Hold on. Here comes the johnnies.

  A line of municipal police had deployed at the corner. They were uniformed in black and wore black leather ankle jacks and white sashes slanting crosswise to their belts. A crowd had gathered in counterpose to them, and called don’t pay the rate! Don’t pay the rate! The municipals formed up and stood facing the crowd. Each man with a long wooden stave held out, each with his eyes jumping. Their sergeant, marked so by his sabre, stepped forward. He called on the rioters to cease their vandalism and disperse or be hauled before a magistrate on charges. The rioters jeered. The sergeant pressed his gloved hands to his hips and waited for the catcalls to die away but the din grew only louder.

  What are they playing at? Hall said.

  From the skirts of the crowd a rough sort of woman was yelling through her hands, Give em some, boys! Give em some! Her call fired something in the mob. Others of that body took it up. One man broke, and a next, and a next, and soon the group in its entirety was pouring down the slope.

  The constables raised their staves. In those moments their nerve was tested to its utmost. A rolling influx of rioters smashed around them. A blow felled the sergeant and knocked loose his peaked cap and spattered his blood across the road and the sight of it sent some constables into retreat. They ran doubled over, lashing out with their sticks, while fence slats and stones and bottles rained down on them. Only when they had made some distance up Brisbane Street at a sprint where the savings banks and estate agents kept house did their attackers break off.

  This is some hard game, she said.

  Aint it though.

  Such was the wash of noise that she could feel in her chest the shouting and the crying out. The blood-soaked sergeant rose and like a drunkard staggered about the street and fell and rose again. He was followed by a troupe of children calling cries of dog shit or weakling. They threw stones. They spat.

  Come on, Bunyip said.

  He walked the slope keeping his eyes ahead and Hall went after him. They headed down by the town park where folk now sat in their dozens drinking. There were fewer people in this part of town, less noise, so when Bunyip reached out and punched her in the arm she started in fright.

  What did I tell you? he said.

  Bugger off.

  He punched her again.

  Ow, she said.

  Look.

  Away by the gates of the park three men stood in a loose sort of circle and in the centre, sprawled on the ground, was a boy. The boy was in fact Oran Brown, who was regarded by most as a fair hand at fist-fighting, but he was bloody about the mouth and painted with the dust in which he’d lain. The men standing around paid Oran no mind though as he flailed and tried to rise. Their attention was directed wholly upon one another. Bunyip said something then but Hall didn’t hear him. Her ears had filled with the sound of her heart like a fresh salt wind and she began to backtrack and wheel away.

  That’s the
one, he said.

  From the side of her eye she watched the group, two louts in straw boat hats, the third man, a mean looker, kit in a thin coat and with a small billycock set artfully low over his brow. This last man had a long ash-coloured braid slung across his shoulder and it was this feature, his hair as the Irishman had described it, that gave him up as the miscreant Thomas Toosey.

  Bunyip was staring at the men.

  Don’t look at them, she said.

  Your easy quids.

  Get your eyes down.

  They carried on past the park gates. From there they could see Toosey standing dead centre of the roadway, feet spread, his jaw working side to side. The men in straw hats seemed set on softening him up for they stepped past Oran Brown making their hands into fists. But this fellow, this Toosey, had drawn a chipped and rusty knife. He held it to one side and with a tip of his head motioned for the men to keep coming. They looked at one another and they looked at Toosey. They stopped. Toosey flexed his fingers on the twine handle. When he then started towards them in a languid stride they began to backtrack. They turned tail and ran.

  Oran Brown lumbered to his feet. He looked like he might run with the men but he did not. Toosey came to him and he tucked away the knife and bent to one knee. He addressed a series of questions to the boy, each of which was met with a small quick nod or a shake of the head.

  What’s he sayin?

  I can’t hear.

  Don’t stare. Move that way a bit.

  Oran Brown tugged something from his shabby pants. Something modest enough to cup in his palm. He held it up. Toosey’s expression changed. He turned to study the park, the stands of elm and oak. He turned to study the road. He seemed to be pondering where next to go.

  What’s he after?

  How should I know?

  He looked about the street. With each turn of his head his braid snaked. You could see his qualities in the state of his dress. The wire-taut tendons of the neck. He surveyed the street once more and when he lowered his eyes and started into town she dug her elbow into Bunyip’s ribs.