Читать книгу We of the Never-Never - Jeannie Gunn - Страница 8

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Bush chivalry demanding that a woman’s discomfiture should be ignored, Mac kept his eyes on the horizon for the first quarter of a mile, and talked volubly of the prospects of the Wet and the resources of the Territory; but when Flash was released, and after a short tussle settled down into a free, swinging amble, he offered congratulations in his own whimsical way.

“He’s like the rest of us,” he said, with a sly, sidelong look at the Măluka, “perfectly reconciled to his fate.”

Although it was only sixty-five miles to the Katherine it took us exactly three days to travel the distance. Mac called it a “tip-top record for the Wet,” and the Măluka agreed with him; for in the Territory it is not the number of miles that counts, but what is met with in those miles.

During the first afternoon we met so many amiable-looking watercourses, that the Sanguine Scot grew more and hopeful about crossing the Fergusson that night. “We’ll just do it if we push on,” he said, after a critical look at the Cullen, then little more than a sweet, shady stream. “Our luck’s dead in. She’s only just moving. Yesterday’s rain hasn’t come down the valleys yet.”

We pushed on in the moonlight; but when we reached the Fergusson, two hours later, we found our luck was “dead out,” for “she” was up and running a banker.

Mac’s hopes sank below zero. “Now we’ve done it,” he said ruefully, looking down at the swirling torrent, “It’s a case of ‘wait-a-while’ after all.”

But the Măluka’s hopes always died hard. “There’s still the Government yacht,” he said, going to a huge iron punt that lay far above high-water mark. Mac called it a forlorn hope, and it looked it, as it lay deeply sunk in the muddy bank.

It was an immense affair, weighing over half a ton, and provided by a thoughtful Government for the transit of travellers “stuck up” by the river when in flood. An army of roughriders might have launched it, but as bushmen generally travel in single file, it lay a silent reproach to the wisdom of Governments.

Some jester had chalked on its sides “H.M.S. Immovable”; and after tugging valiantly at it for nearly half an hour, the Măluka and Mac and Jackeroo proved the truth of the bushman’s irony.

There was no choice but a camp on the wrong side of the river, and after “dratting things” in general, and the Cullen in particular, Mac bowed to the inevitable and began to unpack the team, stacking packbags and saddles up on the rocks off the wet grass.

By the time the billy was boiling he was trying hard to be cheerful, but without much success. “Oh, well,” he said, as we settled down round the fire, “this is the Land of Plenty of Time, that’s one comfort. Another whole week starts next Sunday”; then relapsing altogether he added gloomily; “We’ll be spending it here, too, by the look of things.”

“Unless the missus feels equal to the horse’s-tail trick” the Măluka suggested.

The missus felt equal to anything but the tail trick and said so; and conversation flagged for a while as each tried to hit upon some way out of the difficulty.

Suddenly Mac gave his thigh a prodigious slap. “I’ve struck it!” he shouted, and pointing to a thick wire rope just visible in the moonlight as it stretched across the river from flood bank to flood bank, added hesitatingly: “We send mail-bags—and—valuables over on that when the river’s up.”

It was impossible to mistake his meaning, or the Măluka’s exclamation of relief, or that neither man doubted for moment that the woman was willing to be flung across a deep, swirling river on a swaying wire; and as many a man has appeared brave because he has lacked the courage to own to his cowardice, so I said airily that “anything better than going back,” and found the men exchanging glances.

“No one’s going back,” the Măluka said quietly: and then I learned that the Wet does not “do things by half.” Once they began to move the flood waters must have come down the valleys in tidal waves, the Măluka explained. “The Cullen we’ve just left will probably be a roaring torrent by now.”

“We’re stuck between two rivers: that’s what’s happened,” Mac added savagely. “Might have guessed that miserable little Cullen was up to her old sneaking ways.” And to explain Mac’s former “dratting,” the Măluka said: “It’s a way the rivers have up here. They entice travellers over with smiles and promises, and before they can get back, call down the flood waters and shut them in.”

“I’m glad I thought of the wire,” Mac added cheerfully, and slipped into reminiscences of the Wet, drawing the Măluka also into experiences. And as they drifted from one experience to another, forced camps for days on stony outcrops in the midst of seas of water were touched on lightly as hardly worth mentioning; while “eating yourself out of tucker, and getting down to water-rats and bandicoots,” compared favourably with a day or two spent in trees or on stockyard fences. As for crossing a river on a stout wire rope! After the first few reminiscences, and an incident or two in connection with “doing the horse’s-tail trick,” that appeared an exceedingly safe and pleasant way of overcoming the difficulty, and it became very evident why women do not travel “during the Wet.”

It was a singularly beautiful night, shimmering with warm tropical moonlight, and hoarse with the shouting of frogs and the roar of the river—a night that demanded attention; and, gradually losing interest in hair-breadth escapes from drowning, Mac joined in the song of the frogs.

“Quar-r-rt pot! Quar-r-rt pot!” he sang in hoarse, strident minims, mimicking to perfection the shouts of the leaders, leaning with them on the “quar-r-rt” in harsh gutturals, and spitting out the “pot” in short, deep staccatos. Quicker and quicker the song ran, as the full chorus of frogs joined in. From minims to crotchets, and from crotchets to quavers it flowed, and Mac, running with it, gurgled with a new refrain at the quavers. “More-water, more-water, hot-water, hot-water,” he sang rapidly in tireless reiteration, until he seemed the leader and the frogs the followers, singing the words he put into their mouths. Lower and lower the chorus sank, but just before it died away, an old bull-frog started every one afresh with a slow, booming “quar-r-rt pot!” and Mac stopped for breath. “Now you know the song of the frogs,” he laughed. “We’ll teach you all the songs of the Never-Never in time; listen!” and listening, it was hard to believe that this was our one-time telegraphing bush-whacker. Dropping his voice to a soft, sobbing moan, as a pheasant called from the shadows, he lamented with it for “Puss! Puss! Puss! Puss! Poor Puss! Poor Puss!”

The sound roused a dove in the branches above us, and as she stirred in her sleep and cooed softly, Mac murmured drowsily: “Move-over-dear, Move-over dear”; and the dove, taking up the refrain, crooned it again and again to its mate.

The words of the songs were not Mac’s. They belong to the lore of the bushmen; but he sang or crooned them with such perfect mimicry of tone or cadence, that never again was it possible to hear these songs of the Never-Never without associating the words with the songs.

The night was full of sounds, and one by one Mac caught them up, and the bush appeared to echo him; and leaning half drowsily, against the pack-saddles and swags, we listened until we slipped into one of those quiet reveries that come so naturally to bush-folk. Shut in on all sides by bush and tall timber, with the rushing river as sentinel, we seemed in a world all our own—a tiny human world, with a camp fire for its hub; and as we dreamed on, half conscious of the moonlight and shoutings, the deep inner beauty of the night stole upon us. A mystical, elusive beauty difficult to define, that lay underneath and around, and within the moonlight—a beauty of deep nestling shadows, crooning whispers, and soft rustling movement.

For a while we dreamed on, and then the Măluka broke the silence. “The wizard of the Never-Never has not forgotten how to weave his spells while I’ve been south,” he said. “It won’t be long before he has the missus in his toils. The false veneer of civilisation is peeling off at a great rate.”

I roused as from a trance; and Mac threw a sharp, searching glance at me, as I sat curled up against a swag. “You’re right,” he laughed; “there’s not a trace of the towney left.” And rising to “see about fixing up camp,” he added: “You’d better look out, missus! Once caught, you’ll never get free again. We’re all tethered goats here. Every time we make up our minds to clear out, something pulls us back with a jerk.”