Such Is Life (29 page)

A hot day is not an imperative condition of the true mirage; but the ground must be open plain, or nearly so; the atmosphere must be clear, and the ground thoroughly dry. It is worthy of notice that horses and cattle are entirely insusceptible to the illusion. Another fact, not so noteworthy in view of the general perversity of inanimate things, is, that you never see a mirage when you are watching for it to decide an argument. It always presents itself when you have no interest in it. In this quality of irredeemable cussedness it resembles the emu's nest. No one ever found that when he was looking for it; no one ever found it except he was in a raging hurry, with a long stage to go, and no likelihood of coming back by the same route.

To complete the picture—which I want you to carry in your mind's eye—you will imagine Cleopatra and Bunyip standing under a coolibah—standing heads and points, after the manner of equine mates; each switching the flies and mosquitos off his comrade's face, and shivering them off such parts of his own body as possessed the requisite faculty. And in the centre of a clear place, a couple of hundred yards away, you may notice a bullock-wagon, apparently deserted; the heavy wool-tarpaulin, dark with dust and grease, thrown across the arched jigger, forming a tent on the
body, and falling over the wheels nearly to the ground, yet displaying the outline of the Sydney pattern—which, as every school girl knows, differs from that of Riverina.

In the foreground of this picture, you may fancy the present annalist lying—or, as lying is an ill phrase, and peculiarly inapplicable just here—we'll say, reclining, pipe in mouth on a patch of pennyroyal, trying to re-peruse one of Ouida's novels, and thinking (ah! your worship's a wanton) what a sweet, spicy, piquant thing it must be to be lured to destruction by a tawny-haired tigress with slumbrous dark eyes. No such romance for the annalist, poor man.

Such, then, was my benevolent and creditable allotment, such my unworthy vagary, at the time this record opens. I had camped in the Dead Man's Bend late on the previous evening, had wakened-up a little after sunrise, and turned out a little after eleven. Then a dip in the river, to clear away the cobwebs, and a breakfast which, if not high-toned in its accessories, was at least enjoyed at a fashionable hour, had made me feel as if I wanted a quiet smoke out of the gigantic meerschaum which I unpack only on special occasions, and something demoralising to read.

But the austere pipe resented this unworthy alliance so strongly that, for peace sake, I had to lay aside the literary Dead-Sea-apple. Then I remembered the official letter I had received on the previous day. I had merely glanced over it before acting on the orders it contained; now I re-opened the document, and pharisaically contemplated the child-like penmanship and Chaucer-like orthography of my superior officer:—

Sydney 28/11/83

Mr T Collins

Dr sir

Haveing got 3 months leave of Absence you are hereby requested to be extra atentive to the Interests of the Dept not haveing me to reffer to in Cases of difeculty or to receive instructions from me which is not practicacable on account of me being in the other Colonys. I write this principaly to acquaint you Communication from Mr Donaldson Mr Strong Mr Jeffrey representatives will meet you at Poondoo on monday 10 prox re matter in dispute. Keep this apointment without fail comunni-cate with central Office pending further Orders from me.

Ynnnnnnnnly

R Wmlnlnllnn

I was now on my way to keep the ‘apointment.' I was still about twenty miles from Poondoo; and the next day would be ‘monday 10 prox.' I intended to start again at about two o'clock; so I had still a couple of hours to spend in what civilians call
rest, and soldiers, fatigue; whilst studying such problems as might present themselves for solution. Pup was safe by my side, and I had nothing to trouble myself about. A thought of the transitoriness and uncertainty of life did occur to me, as it has done to thinkers and non-thinkers of all ages; but I deftly applied the reflection to my superior officer, and so turned everything to commodity.

The unfortunate young fellow, I thought, is a confirmed invalid, sure enough. A trip round the colonies may liven him up a bit, or, on the other hand, it may not; and, if he returns, it is to be hoped that kind hands will soothe his pillow, and so forth; and when, with dirges due, in sad array, they have performed the last melancholy offices, I trust that some one will be found to dress, with simple hands, his rural tomb. I would do it myself, for, as the poet says, ‘Ah, surely nothing dies but something mourns.' A sweet fancy, but not so filling as the cognate reflection—

“Ha-a-ay!”

Somebody calling from the other side of the river; probably some forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, looking for his mates—The cognate reflection, namely, that nothing withdraws but it leaves room for a successor. And this successor—thus favoured by a Providence which has kindly supervised the fall of the antecedent sparrow—will be entitled to live in a four-roomed weatherboard house, with the water laid-on, and a flower-garden up to the footpath, and a few silver-pencilled Hamburgs in the back yard, and everything comfortable. Ah, me! it is the thought of the dove—

“Ha-a-a-ay!”

Peace! peace! Orestes-like, I breathe this prayer. Thy comrades are sleeping; go sleep thou with them.—The thought of the dove that has suggested this fairy picture of the dovecote. And something tells me that Jim Quarterman is not likely to forget acertain cavalier who called one day about a dog. Doubtless her memory holds him enshrined as a person of scientific attainments and courtly address; offering a contrast, I trust, to the uninteresting hayseeds who have come under her purview. And will he not come again? Yea, Jim, mystery and revelation as thou art! he will come again, to lay at thy shapely and substantial feet the trophy of an—

“Ha-a-a-a-ay!”

Ay, lay thee down and roar—Of an Assistant-Sub-Inspectorship. Ah, Jim! tentatively beloved (so to speak) by this solitary, but by no means desolate, heart!—setting aside the rises I would
take out of thy artlessness, and the way I would whip thy simplicity with my fine wit till thou wert as crestfallen as a dried pear—I confess a spontaneous thought associated with the mental carte-de-visite of thy wholesome avoirdupois. No less, indeed, than the psychological recognition of an angel-influence—

“Ha-a-a-a-a-ay!”

In vain! in vain! strike other chords! You can call spirits from the vasty deep; but will they come when you do call for them?—An angel-influence, tangible, visible, audible, which would make Jordan the easiest of all roads to travel by thy side. Peerless Jim! crowning triumph of Darwinian Evolution from the inert mineral, through countless hairy and uninviting types! how precious the inexplicable vital spark which, nevertheless, robs thy sculptured form of all cash Gallery-value; and how easy to read in that gentle personality a satisfying comment on the concluding lines of
Faust:

The Woman-Soul leadeth us

Upward and on.

A double meaning there, by my faith! Alas! poor little Jim! go thy ways, die when thou wilt; for Maud Beaudesart comes—

“Ha-a-a-a-a-a-ay!”

Rest, rest, perturbed spirit. By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stop 'st thou me?—For Maud Beaudesart comes o'er my memory as doth the raven o'er the infected house. Get thee to a nunnery, Jim. The chalk-mark is on my door; for Mrs. B. has no less than three consecutive husbands in heaven—so potently has her woman-soul proved its capacity for leading people upward and on. Methinks I perceive a new and sinister meaning in the Shakespearean love-song:—

Come away, come away, death;

And in sad cypress let me be laid.

Fly away, fly away, breath;

I am slain by a fair, cruel maid.

Nicely put, no doubt; but the importance of a departure depends very much on the—

“Ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay!”

No appearance, your worship. Call for Enobarbus; he will not hear thee, or, from Caesar's camp, say ‘I am none of thine.'— On the value of the departed. For instance, when a man of property departs, he leaves his possessions behind—a fact noticed by many poets—and the man himself is replaced without cost. When a well-salaried official departs—such as a Royal Falconer, or a
Master of the Buckhounds, or an Assistant-Sub-Inspector—he perforce leaves his billet behind; and we wish him
bon voyage
to whichever port he may be bound. But when a philosopher departs in this untimely fashion, he leaves nothing—

“Ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay!”

And echo answers, ‘Ha-a-a-a-ay!' Authority melts from you, apparently.—Leaves nothing but a few rudimentary theories, of no use to anyone except the owner, inasmuch as no one else can develop them properly; just a few evanescent footprints on the sands of Time, which would require only a certain combination of age and facilities for cohesion to mature into Mammoth-tracks on the sandstone of Progress. All on the debit side of Civilization's ledger, you observe. Consequently, he doesn't long to leave these fading scenes, that glide so quickly by. And when the poet holds it truth that men may rise on stepping-stones of their dead selves to higher things, he is simply talking when he ought to be sleeping it off in seclusion. I understand how a man may rise on the stepping-stone of his defunct superior officer to higher things; but his dead self—it won't do, Alfred; it won't do. But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, as if the clouds its echo would repeat.—

“Ha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ay!”

Who is he whose grief bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow makes the very lignum quiver in sympathy? It may not be amiss to look round and see.

So I turned my head, and saw, on the opposite side of the river, about eighty yards away, a man on a grey horse. I rose, and advanced toward the bank.

“Why, Mosey,” said I, “is that you? How does your honour for this many a day? Where are you camped?”

“Across here. Tell Warrigal Alf his carrion's on the road for Yoongoolee yards, horse an' all; an' from there they'll go to Booligal pound if he ain't smart. I met them just now.”

“Where shall I find Alf?”

“Ain't his wagon bitin' you—there in the clear? You ain't a bad hand at sleepin'—no, I'm beggared if you are. I bin bellerin' at you for two hours, dash near.”

“Who has got the bullocks, Mosey?”

“Ole Sollicker.”

“Couldn't you get them from him yourself?”

“I didn't try. I was glad to see them goin'; on'y I begun to think after, thinks I, it's a pity o' the poor misforchunate carrion
walkin' all that way, free gracious for nothin'; an' p'r'aps a trip to Booligal pound on top of it; an' them none too fat. But I'm glad for Alf. I hate that beggar. I wouldn't len' him my knife to cut up a pipe o' tobacker, not if his tongue was stickin' out as long as yer arm. I wasn't goin' to demean myself to tell him about his carrion, nyther; on'y I knowed your horses when I seen them; an' by-'n'-by I spotted you where you was layin' down, sleepin' fit to break yer neck; an' I bin hollerin' at you till I'm black in the face. I begun to think you was drunk, or dead, or somethin'—bust you.” And with this address, which I give in bowdlerised form, the young fellow turned his horse, and disappeared through a belt of lignum.

I walked across to the bullock-wagon. The camp had a strangely desolate and deserted appearance. Three yokes lay around, with the bows and keys scattered about; and there was no sign of a camp-fire. Under the wagon lay a saddle and bridle, and beside them the swollen and distorted body of Alf's black cattle-dog—probably the only thing on earth that had loved the gloomy misanthrope. I lifted the edge of the hot, greasy tarpaulin, and looked on the flooring of the wagon, partly covered with heavy coils of wool-rope, and the spare yokes and chains.

“A drink of water, for God's sake!” said a scarcely intelligible whisper, from the suffocating gloom of the almost air-tight tent.

I threw the tarpaulin back off the end of the wagon, and ran to the river for a billy of water. Then, vaulting on the platform, I saw Alf lying on his blankets, apparently helpless, and breathing heavily, his face drawn and haggard with pain. I raised his head, and held the billy to his lips; but, being in too great a hurry, I let his head slip off my hand, and most of the water spilled over his throat and chest. He shrank and shivered as the cool deluge seemed to fizz on his burning skin, but drank what was left, to the last drop.

“Now turn me over on the other side, or I'll go mad,” he whispered.

He shuddered and groaned as I touched him, but, with one hand under his shoulders, and the other under his bent and rigid knees, I slowly turned him on the other side.

“Wouldn't you like to lie on your back for a change?” I asked.

“No, no,” he whispered excitedly; “my heels might slip, and straighten my knees. Another drink of water, please.”

I brought a second billy of water, but he turned from it with disgust.

“If you could make a sort of an effort, Alf,” I suggested.

He treated me to a half-angry, half-reproachful look, and turned away his face, I rose to my feet, and rolled back the tarpaulin half-way along the jigger, for the heat was still suffocating.

“Is there anything more I can do for you just now, Alf?” I asked presently.

“More water.” I gave him a drink out of a pannikin; and, as I laid his head down again, he continued, in the same painful whisper, and with frequent pauses, “Have you any idea where my bullocks are?—I was trying to keep them here—in this corner of Mondunbarra—and they're reasonably safe unless—unless the Chinaman knows the state I'm in—but if they cross the boundary into Avondale—Tommy will hunt them over the river, and—Sollicker will get them.”

It must be remembered that Alf was camped at the junction of three runs: Yoongoolee lay along the opposite side of the river, whilst on our side, Mondunbarra and Avondale were separated by a boundary fence which ran into the water a few yards beyond where the wagon stood. The fence, much damaged by floods, was repaired merely to the sheep-proof standard. The wagon was in Mondunbarra.