Читать книгу Capricornia - Xavier Herbert - Страница 13

A FEW days before Christmas, the Shillingsworths, driven by the new lessee of Red Ochre, Jack Burywell, set out in the buckboard on the first stage of their long journey to the South. A pack-team driven by natives followed with their baggage.

Many more people than usual were waiting for the returning mail-train, most of them to travel up to town for a Christmas spree. Among the crowd, though not one of the intending travellers, was Humbolt Lace of Red Coffin Ridge, come down on business. Another of the people, though not one of the crowd at the Siding House, was old Karl Fliegeltaub, benign, bespectacled, square-headed old outcast, who waited with his only friends, the blacks, near the goods-shed. He was waiting for a bottle of Christmas cheer from Soda Springs, expensive liquor on which Mrs Blaize put a tax on account of the sinking of the Lusitania and the prestige she lost through dealing with him. Mrs Blaize had no rivals in her trade with Fliegeltaub. Mrs McLash had refused to serve him since having become involved in the war through her son’s decision to enlist; indeed she had threatened to run him through with a bread-knife if he came near her. Frank had not yet enlisted. As a matter of fact he was making the steam of the train for which the crowd was waiting, being now fireman of the mail-train, well on the way to realise his great ambition. His rapid advancement was due to the fact that many of the railwaymen had gone to the war. But this was his last day’s work as a civilian. He would be sailing for the South on the same steamer as the Shillingsworths.

Oscar spoke to Lace and learnt that he was the father of a son whom he would see when his wife came home on the steamer after next. Then, as though divining the thought in Lace’s mind—thought of the return of Carrie as it concerned the pregnancy of half-caste Constance, which of late had caused the man much worry—he asked after Constance, and learnt to his surprise that she was about to marry Mrs McLash’s half-caste rouseabout, Yeller Elbert.

Lace looked uncomfortable when Oscar stared at him. Oscar said, “But the kid’s so young—only fifteen or so!”

“Elbert’s young too,” said Lace to the ground. “Only about twenty-three or four. And he’s a good sort of coot for a yeller (he remembered Norman’s presence)—er—half-caste.”

“I mean she’s too young to get married,” said Oscar. “Doesn’t know she’s alive yet—like calfing a weaner.”

“I feel that way about it too,” said Lace. “But you see she picked up with Elbert when he came up my place for eggs and things for Ma McLash—and—well I’m going to see him stick by her. That’s the size of it.”

“You don’t mean to say she was carrying on with Elbert?”

“Yes.”

“Well I’m hanged. How long’s this been going on?”

“Can’t say exactly. Pretty well from the time she came, I think, to judge by her condition. Of course I’ve got to see the girl protected.”

“Well I’d never have thought that of her. Always a good kid, and well brought up.”

Lace said with a smile, “With a drunken combo.”

Oscar felt nettled. He said rather brusquely, “Differ was a good father to her, whatever his faults. He taught her well. It’s a damn shame if she’s got to go back to the Binghis.”

“Elbert’s not a Binghi.”

“He’s damn near it.”

Lace tried to spit. The fluid simply fell from his lips and fell on his khaki breast. Cleansing himself with a handkerchief, he slowly said, “Well it’s no fault of mine she’s got into trouble. I trusted her same’s you’d’ve done yourself. Couldn’t watch her day and night. I’ve reported the matter to the Protector.”

“I wasn’t meaning anything against you,” said Oscar. “Only it’s a pity she never got the chance to marry white.”

“She’d never get that. And that’s just the reason I want to see her settled down with Elbert. There isn’t a yel—er—half-caste in the country better than he is since he’s been working for old Ma McLash. I’ll see he looks after her. I’ve leased See Ghoon’s old peanut farm down the river here. That’s ’t brings me here today. I’m going to set ’em up as farmers.”

Oscar cocked his head, rather surprised to hear that this nincompoop was capable of arranging anything so wise.

“I’ve bought seed for ’em,” said Lace. That was a lie; he had taken the seed from the station-store, together with tools and many other things. “And I’ll place a tenner for ’em with Ma McLash, so’s they can draw on her for a bit of tucker till they get on their feet.”

“Who’s paying?” asked Oscar. “Abo Department?”

“Oh no,” said Lace lightly. “I’m doing it on my pat.”

Oscar felt embarassed. Here was a good fellow to be sure, going to all this trouble to help a child he hardly knew, while he himself, who had known her half her life, had done nothing, had indeed treated her rather meanly, as he sometimes thought. He said with feeling, “That’s very decent of you Lace.”

Lace smiled, and kicked the gravel, and made much clinking with his spurs. Oscar went on, “I’ll put in a few quid too. Can’t do much with things as they are; but later on if there’s money needed I might be able to help. Just ask Jack Burywell. He’ll know my address. I told Peter I’d keep an eye on her. Afraid I’ve been too busy. But it don’t seem necessary with you about, anyway. Most protectors are only that in name. Very decent of you, very decent.”

“Don’t mention it,” murmured Lace.

“When’s the wedding?”

“Day after New Year’s Day, up at my place. The Protector will send a parson down.”

“That’s the stuff. Do it properly. I wish I could be there. Look, I’ll give you seven quid—a fiver for the farm, two for wedding-presents. Give ’em a treat. Poor kids haven’t had many in their lives. Yes—by golly, I wish I was round about to keep an eye on ’em with you.”

They were talking about half-castes, very quietly so that Marigold and Norman might not hear, when someone in the crowd cried, “Here she comes!” Every eye turned to see.

Away in green distance, in the tiny yellow-floored gap in the bush between the blue peak of Mount Packhorse and a hill of sparkling quartz that stood on Red Ochre territory, a black dot appeared, a dot surrounded by a haze of dust.

“He’s hitting her up,” said someone.

“So he oughter,” said another, “seein’ he’s three hours late”

“My Frankie’s drivin’, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs McLash with a gulp.

No grass grew under a train when the engineer let Fireman McLash take the throttle. Frank was one of those creatures that have become so common since his day, a speed-maniac. The Capricornian Railway had great need of such as he.

The train came in grinding and shuddering, with coal and water spilling from the engine.

“She’ll run through,” said Mick O’Pick.

“Not if my Frankie’s pullin’ her tail,” said Mrs McLash.

It was no uncommon sight to see a train overshoot a stopping-place. The causes were several. First, the engineers of the service were not always properly trained men and hence not expert in judging speed in relation to distance and load and braking-power as they should have been; then they were not always sober; then their trains were not equipped with automatic braking systems such as are used on more upto-date railways. When an engineer wished to stop a swiftly-moving train he had first to whistle to the guard requesting him to apply the hand-brake of the van, and then apply the hand-brake of the engine. Guards did not always hear. Sudden stopping, which could be effected easily by sanding the rails and reversing the driving-gear, was dangerous, because the train might telescope and overwhelm the engine. Locomotive crews on duty lived like rats on leaky ships, always ready to leap overboard. However, Frank McLash was an expert driver. Rarely did a train play tricks with him. As his mother guessed, he had control of the mail-train that day. The engine stopped dead at the water-hydrant. A bolt or bar or some such thing was seen to fly from out the off-side bogey and sail over the stockyard.

Looking for all the world like more parts of the train detached through the jar of the sudden stopping, the passengers dropped off, most of them heavily, many to stagger and fall. This was a specially festive journey. Not only were all the passengers coming up for a Christmas spree, but many were also going to the European War. No—not all were coming for a spree; for there were chained in a stinking cattle-car eight Aboriginal prisoners who were coming up to jail; according to what their fellow passengers said with laughter they were not so much felons as excuses for outback policemen’s holidays. The cattle-car was near the engine, and thus within sound of the gushing hydrant, which was music in the chain-gang’s ears. While their sodden fellows staggered past on the way to the Siding House, they rattled their chains and cried out miserably, and in vain, “Water—water!”

“Damn,” growled Oscar. “Here’s that cow Jock Driver.”

There was Jock in the middle of the crowd, waving his wideawake and shouting. He was going to the war. That was what he was shouting about. When he saw old Fliegeltaub he hooted, “Bluidy awl’ Boche, wait’ll we get B’lin and see’t we do to bluidy awl Koyser—wait’ll we get Potsdam—and Rotterdam and Amsterdam and Tinker’s Dam—Remem’er Belgium, ye rottendamn stinkin’ bluidy awl’ Hoon.” And he burst into song, in which others joined him, a song that went to the tune of The Marseillaise:

There is a spot in Germany where we Aussies soon will be We’ll get to Berlin if it costs us our lives, We’ll kill all the Fritzers and pinch all their wives. Tar-ra-rah, tar-ra-rah, tar-ra-rah—

“Ugh!” grunted Mick O’Pick. “Remimb’rin’ Bilgi’m wit’ a vingince!”

Oscar hastily took the hands of the children and led them through the house to the back veranda. He was joined there soon by Lace and Burywell, and later by three passengers who could not find seats inside. It was with dismay that he learnt that Jock was going to the war, since it meant that his obnoxious company must be suffered all the way down South. There would surely be unpleasantness if Jock came into contact with Norman. As Oscar had observed when several times he had met Jock in the past four years, the fellow regarded the adoption of Norman as a great joke. The boy had not yet been exposed to his ribaldry. Oscar was particularly anxious that he should not be exposed to it now, wishing to get him away from Capricornia in the same state of ignorance of his origin as he had succeeded in keeping him in so long. His wish was partly for Norman’s sake, partly for his own. Because he was not looking forward to the task of having to explain the boy’s true origin to his relatives in Batman, he had it in mind to adopt Differ’s idea and say he was Javanese.