Читать книгу Short Stories Volume 1 - John Arthur Barry - Страница 3
ОглавлениеBy JOHN ARTHUR BARRY,
in The Pastoralists' Review.
"The 'orse'e knows above a bit, the bullock's but a fool;
The elephant's a gentleman, the battery mule's a mule;
But the commissriat cam-u-el, when all is said and done,
'E's a devil, an' a ostrich, an' a orphan child in one.
'E'll gall an' chafe, an' lame an' fight—'e smells most awful vile;
'E'll lose 'isself for ever if you let 'im stray a mile,
'E's game to graze the 'ole day long, and 'owl the 'ole night through,
An' when 'e comes to greasy ground 'e splits isself in two."
—Barrack-room Ballads
When Centralia was first settled the inhabitants complained bitterly of the smell of the gidya that surrounded the town. But as the trees were cut down that grievance gradually passed away.
Then, for their sins, Providence transformed the city into a camel rendezvous for the rest of the continent, and also, shortly afterwards, sent them a big boiling-down works. But this last is only a detail and has nothing whatever to do with the story, although new arrivals, sitting down to dinner and catching a whiff of camel and putrid ''digester" combined, have been known to leave the district hurriedly.
When the first camels and their Afghan owners made their appearance the surrounding settlers were rather inclined to hail them with gratitude and plug their nostrils. They would be, at any rate, a relief—so it was imagined— to the tyranny and high tariffs of the European carriers. But the latter coalition at length smashed, the Centralians found themselves face to face with a monster that had taken full charge and declined to budge at any price. And the invasion still continued, until the "ships of the desert" might be numbered by thousands, and their stench was like that of a pestilence.
Likewise, every man journeying about the Centralia district, either in buggy or saddle, had the one set form of invocation before starting—"Hope I shan't meet those d——d camels to-day."
In such case a smash or a bolt, or both, was inevitable. At the mere smell of the camels, horses would rear up and snort wildly, a sight of the outlandish beast renders them frantic, and a bellow sends them dashing madly away.
The saddlers and wheelwrights alone were jubilant, for they had more work than they could attend to. Nothing seemed able to endure the presence of the ungainly brutes; and once, even, when the train from the capital left the rails just opposite to where a mob of them were pasturing on roly poly, there were not wanting people to connect cause and effect.
As the nuisance and the smell grew stronger, public meetings were called, at which the speakers inveighed against the "campbells," cammles," and "kammils," as they were impartially termed, and against their heathen drivers. But it was all of no use. They were too firmly established to be got rid of lightly. So long "strings" continue to file out of Centralia heavily laden, for the desert stretches to the north and west, and horsemen and men in vehicles continued to be crumpled up and shattered whilst the alien chuckled derisively. And no one for a long time hit on the only absolute remedy.
Upon a day, however, old Johnson, of Gunyahgoonah, driving into town in his new 80-guinea "Abbott" met a camel string in a tight place, viz., at the bridge spanning the muddy ditch of an Inland river, on which Centralia is deposited.
"Get out o' the road!" he yelled, as the horses pranced and tore after the usual fashion; "get out o' the road, you blasted black niggers? D'ye want to break me up?"
But the Afghans only smiled blandly, and urged their charges on. When within ten yards or so of the horses, the leading camel, in response to a shout, curled his upper lip over his long teeth until it looked like a well-rolled swag, and hissed and bellowed with all its might. Round whirled the horses, and off they dashed at a headlong pace for home. At the first log (an old girder left by the bridge-builders), the buggy capsized, sending poor Johnson kite-high, and landing him in a bed of well grown burrs. Luckily, his cuts and bruises were all on the surface, and he soon pulled himself together again.
"'Orse no good, sahib," remarked the leading Afghan affably as the train came up. "S'pose sahib buy two kaamel for buggee. That ver' good; no run 'way like— fool 'orse," whilst all the others grinned and chuckled, and appeared to think the matter one of the best jokes on record out of many such. Then Johnson arose, and for a time prayed with the heathen in the most picturesque and earnest style he was capable of.
And, as it was a common remark in Centralia that when "Snorter Johnson o' Gunyah, opened well out he was the red-hottest member in the Far West," some effect ought to have been produced.
But, in this case, the aliens only laughed more than ever at the dusty, hatless, blood-smeared unbeliever, who stood in the middle of the road and foamed at the mouth, and spoke with emphasis.
One horse was crippled, the new buggy hopelessly ruined, and Johnson vowed vengeance.
He knew it was useless to write to the papers, go to law, or convene a public meeting. All these things had been done by other sufferers, without further result than more money out of pocket; and he puzzled his brains for a long time in vain as to how to get upsides with the enemy.
Now Johnson was a man who hated to be in anybody's debt, so for many years he was positively unbearable about the station, and his overseer and all hands had a very rough time of it.
Once he thought he saw a chance, but it was blighted almost as soon as born. He was a J.P., and, sitting on the bench, he felt a thrill of joy when four Afghans appeared, charged with riotous conduct.
Fifteen years' penal servitude was the lightest sentence that occurred to him, and the senior sergeant could only check him by telling him that down below he would, if he persisted, be called an ultre vires; and, not liking the sound of the thing, he gave in. Eventually, as 150 of their countrymen succeeded in proving an alibi, the culprits got off scot free.
All these matters took root and rankled, and but that, one happy day, he had an idea, he would probably have taken a shotgun and the law into his own hands.
Johnson was by nature anything but a reading man; but in these days, when his vindictive feelings used to get him down and jump on him, he would sometimes snatch up a book and glance over it. One of these happened to be about the Indian mutiny. Turning the pages carelessly, his eye lit on a passage that made him cry "Eureka!"—at least, that's what he meant, only what he really said was "Hell!" It was only the old story of the greased cartridges. But it was new to Johnson, and gave him the idea alluded to above. Doubtless he would have taken his idea into Centralia, and tried its effect there if need had been. But luck saved him the trouble and danger inseparable from such a course.
Riding one afternoon through an unstocked and little-frequented paddock his horse suddenly stopped dead—stuck his fore-legs out like broom-sticks, chucked his head up and whistled fiercely, "Camels, by G—d," exclaimed Johnson, as he caught a whiff of the well-known aroma. Dismounting, and cautiously peering through a belt of thick scrub, he saw ten of the animals contentedly feeding on a patch of saltbush. They had evidently strayed from some camp on a T.S.R., not far away, and their head-stalls were still upon them. Galloping into the station, Johnson sent all hands out with orders to bring the camels home by hook or crook. Then telling the butcher to kill couple of pigs and render the fat down, he felt at last in a fair way to try the success, or otherwise, of his experiment.
Towards, evening the men returned with the camels, which they put in the stockyard, where also the butchering had taken place. Lumps of pork fat and entrails of pig lay about, and warm lard stood in a big pot.
Besides this, Johnson, with a new broom in his hand, took up his position and awaited developments. Close to him a couple of wondering men held a tall bad camel, who roared and at intervals tried to bite his guards.
The squatter knew well enough that it was only by the greatest fluke in the world his capture had been made, and that a very short time would elapse before the owners were upon the track of their property. Sure enough, presently up rose half-a-dozen Pathans—long-haired, bushy whiskered, villainous-looking, and of whom Johnson, to his delight, recognised a portion of the very band that had been the cause of his coming to grief. No sooner had they entered the yard, and were staring with gestures of disgust at the traces of the unclean animal everywhere apparent, than Johnson, dipping his broom into the pot, proceeded to liberally bedaub the big camel, whilst the Musselmen, promptly taking in the full horror of the thing, lifted up their voices in shrieks and yells of "Ya Allah!" Then, seeing Johnson still hard at work they made a rush, but drew back hastily to the cracking of stock whips around their legs, and the flourishing in their faces of pieces of offal. And one who received a sprinkling of the fat of the accursed animal girded up his loins, and, with a despairing cry, fled, as if the avenger of blood was behind him. And at this the others, who had drawn ugly-looking knives, put them away, and fell on their knees with loud cries of No! No!! NO!!! redoubled as another camel was led out for smearing.
"All right," said Johnson. desisting, "strikes me, somehow, that I'm top dog this time, you several sorts of condemned niggers!"
Then taking the head heathen by the arm he led him to a shed where lay the remains of the ruined buggy; also he showed him poor old Shot Plover's hide stretched out to dry; and, finally, presenting him a bill for £120, he gave him till morning to consider the matter.
That night all hands and the cook kept watch around the stockyard. And all night long the heathen argued the matter in all its aspects. At breakfast time, as they appeared still undecided, Johnson ordered another pig to be killed, and the screams of the dying porker helped them to a decision in the shape of an order for the money on an Afghan firm in Centralia. In a couple of hours they returned with the cash, the camels were let out, all except the anointed one, with which they would have nothing to do, and casting glances full of hatred at the jubilant squatter, the euchred Pathar took their departure muttering fiercely at each other, doubtless of future vengeance. But the Afghan invasion of Centralia was a busted-up contract in less a month. Pigs were at a premium; and the place literally reeked of pork fat, rendering it impossible for a true believer to stay in the town and keep his caste. So by degrees they took their departure; and the grateful people talk of presenting Johnson with a piece of plate—when the times are better, and reconstruction ceases to be a by-word in the land.— Pastoralists' Review
