Capricornia. Xavier Herbert

“What’s that?”

      Gazing afar again, Frank said, “Jock had one of Mark’s half-caste kids with him on the train.”

      “Don’t be a fool,” muttered his mother.

      Frank looked at her and said, “’S fact—you’s been talkin’ about it last half hour yourself.”

      She flushed and snapped, “Garn—bag y’r ’ead!”

      Oscar flushed too, and said to Peter Differ in a rather strained voice, “What is it Peter?”

      Differ, who had been studying the ground, looked up and for a moment held Oscar’s eye. He was himself the father of a half-caste, for which he knew Oscar despised him. Therefore he was pleased to tell the truth. He spoke quietly, in a rather cultured voice, saying, “Your brother Mark gave Jock one of his half-caste piccaninnies for a stock-boy. Jock had him on the train.”

      Oscar looked astonished. After a moment he said huskily, “Bosh! Mark hasn’t got a—a half-caste.”

      “Well that’s what Jock said,” answered Differ.

      “He said Mark’s got two yeller-fellers at Flyin’ Fox,” said Frank, “and plenty more in the bush.”

      Oscar carefully lit his cigarette, then said, “You can’t believe a drunken fool like Pommy Driver.”

      “Jock’s a decent coot,” snapped Frank, “even if he is a Pommy.”

      “May suit you,” said Oscar coldly; then he turned to Differ and said in an employer’s tone, “Got everything ready?”

      “On the buckboard,” said Differ in the tone of a Capricornian employee.

      “Good-o. Then let’s get going. Come on Marry.”

      Marigold slipped from Mrs McLash’s knee, stood for a moment to be kissed, then went to her father. Mrs McLash then assumed an amazingly childish expression of goodwill and admiration and said, “Goodbye Mister Shillingsworth. I’m sorry for what Frank said. Goodbye lovey-ducks—tatta pretty dear. Please don’t take no notice of poor Frank, Mister Shillingsworth. I’m afraid he’s not all there.”

      “Oh that’s all right Ma,” said Oscar. “Hooray.”

      “Let Frank do his own polgisin,” Frank growled as Oscar went away.

      His mother showed her few teeth at him and said with terrible emphasis, “You fool! Your mouth’s bigger’n your brains.”

      “Where’d I get me mouth—and me brains too?”

      “Not off me you poor galoot. And don’t you start young man.”

      “Well you stop then.”

      “My gawd—to think I ever took the trouble to raise it!”

      “Who asked you to?”

      “Damn you boy——”

      “Shut up, Frank,” cried Joe Steen. “Don’t go upsettin’ your Ma or I’ll dong you one.”

      “Try it!” yelled Frank, then rose because his mother rose, and fled.

      Train-day was a special day to people living on the railway, particularly to the fettlers, to whom the train brought not only mail and stores and news from civilisation in the form of gossip, but wages for the past fortnight’s work and liquor for the next fortnight’s drinking. At least in the Caroline River Gang’s camp the night of the day was always one of carousal.

      It was the habit of Joe Ballest, ganger of the Caroline Camp, to invite his men to his house to drink beer on train-day nights. He was one who liked company with his beer so much that although these parties always ended in a brawl he persistently gave them. And he was one who loved beer so much that, not having means to buy it in quantity sufficient for his needs, since beer cost two-and-six a pint and he could consume four pints for every working-hour of a day while he earned but three-and-six, he brewed his own. He was not particular about the taste of beer so long as it was strongly alcoholic and hopsy. He brewed with hops and sugar and yeast and mashed potatoes and any other likely ingredient he happened to have in hand, and fortified with a liberal dosing of overproof rum. Owing to the climate it fermented well and quickly; indeed it often frothed right out of the barrel, especially at night, since then it could work without interference, when it would even creep into the brewer’s bed and cause him pleasant dreams. In such a climate the use of preservatives in brewing was imperative; but Joe Ballest would use none but O.P. rum; he belonged to that backward school of drinkers which regards scientifically-preservatised liquors as All Chemicals and therefore harmful; hence his beer always turned out to be all clots and ropes and bacteria.

      Ballest held his usual party this train-day night. His guests were his mate, Mick O’Pick, and the ordinary fettlers, Funnigan and Cockerell and Smelly. In and about the doorway leading to the back veranda lounged the lubras of the men, and behind them a crowd of natives from the local camp. Now and again a pannikin of beer would be handed to the lubras, who sometimes gave a sip to those behind.

      When the party waxed lively the lubras came in and took seats, and the others took the doorway. When it became boisterous the lubras took liberties with their men, and the others sometimes slipped inside and snatched. Frank McLash came later, then Sam Snigger and Karl Fliegeltaub, who both lived across the bridge. The party was uproarious when Cockerell crept up to Mick O’Pick, who was laying down the law about politics, and poured a glass of beer over his head. All but old Mick and Ballest laughed loudly. Ballest shouted angrily about wilful waste. Mick gasped and groped till he regained his sight, when he leapt up bellowing, snatched up a large kerosene-lamp that stood on the table beside him, and dashed it at the iron wall. Flames shot up to the roof.

      Everyone rushed out but Ballest and Mick. Ballest was sitting on his lounge when the lamp was smashed. He had risen and was shouting. Mick rushed at him and hit him on the jaw, sent him flying. Funnigan and two blackfellows rushed in with sodden sacks and tackled the flames. Cockerell and Frank tackled Mick.

      Mick bellowed, “Strike an old man—strike an old man—hooligans—cowards!” and fled.

      Thus the party ended, as usual.

      An hour passed. The camp was silent save for clicking of music-sticks in the distant native camp and the drone of voices of Frank and Smelly and Cockerell in the house of the last-named and the incessant muttering of Ballest in his house—“Drink a man’s beer and murder him—ungrateful unsociable ill-bred ’ounds!” Old Mick was sitting on a chopping-block by his back veranda with a young lubra smoking at his feet, watching the moon rise over the bush and crooning an Irish folk-song.

      Suddenly a wailing-cry rang out. Mick’s lubra turned her half-naked body quickly to the right. Mick turned too, listened for a while, then said, “An’ what was that m’ dear?”

      The girl, with cigarette hanging from her lips and chin advanced, clicked her tongue for silence. A pause. Then the cry again, long and mournful. And again, this time in a different key.

      “Dingo,” said Mick.

      “No-more,” said the lubra. “Two-fella. One-fella dog no-more dingo, one-fella piccanin.” She rose, adding, “Go look see.”

      She went off towards the railway with Mick at her heels.

      Again the cry, this time accompanied by faint thumping sounds. “Him dere,” said the lubra, pointing to a rake of cars and trucks. She cooee’d, was answered at once by a burst of joyful barking.

      They found that the sound came from one of the trucks. The lubra climbed in and found Nawnim and the dog he had travelled with. Nawnim rushed into her arms, thinking she was Anna. The dog whined and rubbed against her legs. She kicked it away. She lifted Nawnim and called to Mick and lowered the child to him, then picked up the dog and tossed it into the night. Back on the ground she took Nawnim from Mick and examined him, then said contemptuously, “Yeller-feller,” and gave him back.

      Mick took Nawnim