Читать книгу We of the Never-Never - Jeannie Gunn - Страница 6

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To begin somewhere near the beginning, the Măluka—better known at that time as the new Boss for the Elsey—and I, his “missus,” were at Darwin, in the Northern Territory, waiting for the train that was to take us just as far as it could—one hundred and fifty miles—on our way to the Never-Never. It was out of town just then, up-country somewhere, billabonging in true bush-whacker style, but was expected to return in a day or two, when it would be at our service.

Jack, the Quiet Stockman, was out at the homestead, “seeing to things” there. The Sanguine Scot, the Head Stockman, and the Dandy, were in at the Katherine, marking time, as it were, awaiting instructions by wire from the Măluka, while some of the Company “put finishing touches” to their New Year celebrations. And every one, with, of course, the exception of those in Darwin, was blissfully unconscious of even the existence of the Măluka’s missus. Knowing the Măluka by repute, however, every one was agreed that the “Elsey had struck it lucky,” until the telegraph wire, whispering the gossip of Darwin to the Katherine, whispered that the “new Boss for the Elsey had been and gone and married a missus just before leaving the South, and was bringing her along with him.” Then the Sanguine Scot was filled with wrath, the Company with compassion, while the Dandy’s consternation found relief in a dismayed “Heavens above!” (The Dandy, by the way, was only a dandy in his love of sweet, clean clothes and orderly surroundings. The heart of the man had not a touch of dandyism in it.) The Head Stockman was absent in his camp. Had he been present, much might have been said on the “advantages of having a woman about the place.” The Wag, however, retained his usual flow of speech and spirits.

“Buck up, chaps!” he chuckled encouraging! “They’re not all snorters, you know. You might have the luck to strike one of the ‘ministering angel variety.’ ”

But the Sanguine Scot had been thinking rapidly, and with characteristic hopefulness, felt he had the bull by the horns. “We’ll just have to block her, chaps; that’s all,” he said. “A wire or two should do it”; and, inviting the Dandy “to come and lend a hand,” led the way to the telegraph office; and presently there quivered into Darwin the first hint that a missus was not wanted at the Elsey.

“Would advise leaving wife behind till homestead can be repaired,” it said; and, still confident of success, Mac felt that “ought to do the trick.” “If it doesn’t,” he added, “we’ll give her something stronger.”

We in Darwin, having exhausted the sight-seeing resources of the little town, were wishing “something interesting would happen,” when the message was handed to the Măluka.

“This may do as a stopgap,” he said, opening it, adding as he read it, “It looks brimful of possibilities for interested onlookers, seeing it advises leaving the wife behind.” The Măluka spoke from experience, having been himself an interested onlooker “down south,” when it had been suggested there that the wife should be left behind while he spied out the land; for although the Măluka knew most of the Territory, he had not yet been to the Elsey Cattle Station.

Preferring to be “the interested onlooker” myself this time, when we went to the telegraph office it was the Măluka who wired: “Wife coming, secure buggy”, and in an incredibly short space of time the answer was back: “No buggy obtainable.”

Darwin looked interested. “Mac hasn’t wasted much time in making inquiries,” it said.

“Or in apologies or explanations,” the Măluka added shortly, and sent in reply: “Wife can ride, secure suitable mount.”

But the Sanguine Scot’s fighting blood was up, and almost immediately the wire rapped out: “No side-saddle obtainable. Stock horses all flash”; and the onlookers stared in astonishment.

“Mac’s in deadly earnest this time,” they said, and the Măluka, with a quiet “So am I,” went back to the telegraph.

Now, in the Territory everybody knows everybody else, but particularly the telegraph people; and it often happens that when telegrams of general interest are passing through, they are accompanied by confidential asides—little scraps of harmless gossip not intended for the departmental books; therefore it was whispered in the tail of the last message that the Katherine was watching the fight with interest, was inclined to “reckon the missus a goer,” and that public sympathy was with the stockman—the Katherine had its women-folk and was thankful; but the Katherine knew that although a woman in a settlement only rules her husband’s home, the wife of a station-manager holds the peace and comfort of the stockmen in the hollow of her hand.

“Stock horses all flash,” the Sanguine Scot said, and then went out and apologised to an old bay horse. “We had to settle her hash somehow, Roper, old chap,” he said, stroking the beautiful neck, adding tenderly as the grand old head nosed into him: “You silly old fool! You’d carry her like a lamb if I let you.”

Then the Măluka’s reply came, and Mac whistled in amazement. “By George!” he said to those near him, “she is a goer, a regular goer”; and after much careful thought wired an inane suggestion about waiting until after the Wet.

Darwin laughed outright, and an emphatic: “Wife determined, coming Tuesday’s train,” from the Măluka was followed by a complete breakdown at the Katherine.

Then Darwin came in twos and threes to discuss the situation, and while the men offered every form of service and encouragement, the women-folk spoke of a woman “going bush” as “sheer madness.” “Besides, no woman travels during the Wet,” they said, and the Măluka “hoped she would prove the exception.”

“But she’ll be bored to death if she does reach the homestead alive,” they prophesied; and I told them they were not very complimentary to the Măluka.

“You don’t understand,” they hastened to explain. “He’ll be camping out most of his time, miles away from the homestead,” and I said, “So will I.”

“So you think,” they corrected. “But you’ll find that a woman alone in a camp of men is decidedly out of place”; and I felt severely snubbed.

The Măluka suggested that he might yet succeed in persuading some suitable woman to come out with us, as maid or companion; but the opposition, wagging wise heads, pursed incredulous lips, as it declared that “no one but a fool would go out there for either love or money.” A prophecy that came true, for eventually we went “bush” womanless.

The Măluka’s eyes twinkled as he listened. “Does the cap fit, little ’un?” he asked; but the women-folk told him that it was not a matter for joking.

“Do you know there is not another white woman within a hundred-mile radius?” they asked; and the Măluka pointed out that it was not all disadvantage for a woman to be alone in a world of men. “The men who form her world are generally better and truer men, because the woman in their midst is dependent on them alone, for companionship, and love, and protecting care,” he assured them.

“Men are selfish brutes,” the opposition declared, rather irrelevantly, looking pointedly at the Măluka.

He smiled with as much deference as he could command. “Also,” he said, “a woman alone in a world of men rarely complains of their selfishness”; and I hastened to his assistance. “Particularly when those men are chivalrous bushmen,” I began, then hesitated, for, since reading the telegrams, my ideas of bush chivalry needed readjustment.

“Particularly when those men are chivalrous bushmen,” the Măluka agreed, with the merry twinkle in his eyes; for he perfectly understood the cause of the sudden breakdown. Then he added gravely: “For the average bushman will face fire, and flood, hunger, and even death itself, to help the frail or weak ones who come into his life; although he’ll strive to the utmost to keep the Unknown Woman out of his environments particularly when those environments are a hundred miles from anywhere.”

The opposition looked incredulous. “Hunger and death!” it said. “Fiddlesticks!” It would just serve them right if she went; and the men folk pointed out that this was, now, hardly flattering to the missus.

The Măluka passed the interruption by without comment. “The Unknown Woman is brimful of possibilities to a bushman,” he went on; “for although she may be all womanly strength and tenderness, she may also be anything, from a weak timid fool to a self-righteous shrew, bristling with virtue and indignation. Still,” he added earnestly, as the opposition began to murmur, “when a woman does come into our lives, whatever type she may be, she lacks nothing in the way of chivalry, and it rests with herself whether she remains an outsider or becomes just One of Us. Just One of Us,” he repeated, unconsciously pleading hard for the bushman and his greatest need—“not a goddess on a pedestal, but just a comrade to share our joys and sorrows with.”

The opposition wavered. “If it wasn’t for those telegrams,” it said. But Darwin, seeing the telegrams in a new light, took up the cudgels for the bushmen.

“Poor beggars,” it said, “you can’t blame them. When you come to think of it, the Unknown Woman is brimful of possibilities.” Even then, at the Katherine, the possibilities of the Unknown Woman were being tersely summed up by the Wag.

“You’ll sometimes get ten different sorts rolled into one,” he said finally, after a long dissertation. “But, generally speaking, there’s just three sorts of ’em. There’s Snorters—the goers, you know—the sort that go rampaging round, looking for insults, and naturally finding them; and then there’s fools; and they’re mostly screeching when they’re not smirking—the uncertain-coy-and-hard-to-please variety, you know,” he chuckled, “and then,” he added seriously, “there’s the right sort, the sort you tell things to. They’re A1 all through the piece.”

The Sanguine Scot was confident, though, that they were all alike, and none of ’em were wanted; but one of the Company suggested “If she was little, she’d do. The little ’uns are all right,” he said.

But public opinion deciding that “the sort that go messing round where they know they’re not wanted are always big and muscular and snorters,” the Sanguine Scot was encouraged in his determination to “block her somehow.”

“I’ll block her yet; see if I don’t,” he said confidently. “After all these years on their own, the boys don’t want a woman messing round the place.” And when he set out for the railway along the north track, to face the “escorting trick,” he repeated his assurances. “I’ll block her, chaps, never fear,” he said; and glowering at a “quiet” horse that had been sent by the lady at the Telegraph, added savagely, “and I’ll begin by losing that brute first turn out.”