Joe Wilson and His Mates [96]
to get most of the wages due to us --
the Boss had drawn some of our stuff and spent it.
We could have started on the back track at once, but, drunk or sober,
mad or sane, good or bad, it isn't Bush religion to desert a mate in a hole;
and the Boss was a mate of ours; so we stuck to him.
We camped on the creek, outside the town, and kept him in the camp with us
as much as possible, and did all we could for him.
`How could I face his wife if I went home without him?' asked Andy,
`or any of his old mates?'
The Boss got himself turned out of the pub. where the barmaid was,
and then he'd hang round the other pubs., and get drink somehow,
and fight, and get knocked about. He was an awful object by this time,
wild-eyed and gaunt, and he hadn't washed or shaved for days.
Andy got the constable in charge of the police station
to lock him up for a night, but it only made him worse: we took him back
to the camp next morning and while our eyes were off him for a few minutes
he slipped away into the scrub, stripped himself naked, and started
to hang himself to a leaning tree with a piece of clothes-line rope.
We got to him just in time.
Then Andy wired to the Boss's brother Ned, who was fighting the drought,
the rabbit-pest, and the banks, on a small station back on the border.
Andy reckoned it was about time to do something.
Perhaps the Boss hadn't been quite right in his head before he
started drinking -- he had acted queer some time, now we came to think of it;
maybe he'd got a touch of sunstroke or got brooding over his troubles --
anyway he died in the horrors within the week.
His brother Ned turned up on the last day, and Bob thought
he was the devil, and grappled with him. It took the three of us
to hold the Boss down sometimes.
Sometimes, towards the end, he'd be sensible for a few minutes
and talk about his `poor wife and children'; and immediately afterwards
he'd fall a-cursing me, and Andy, and Ned, and calling us devils.
He cursed everything; he cursed his wife and children,
and yelled that they were dragging him down to hell. He died raving mad.
It was the worst case of death in the horrors of drink
that I ever saw or heard of in the Bush.
Ned saw to the funeral: it was very hot weather, and men have to be
buried quick who die out there in the hot weather -- especially men
who die in the state the Boss was in. Then Ned went to the public-house
where the barmaid was and called the landlord out. It was a desperate fight:
the publican was a big man, and a bit of a fighting man;
but Ned was one of those quiet, simple-minded chaps who
will carry a thing through to death when they make up their minds.
He gave that publican nearly as good a thrashing as he deserved.
The constable in charge of the station backed Ned, while another policeman
picked up the publican. Sounds queer to you city people, doesn't it?
Next morning we three started south. We stayed a couple of days
at Ned Baker's station on the border, and then started
on our three-hundred-mile ride down-country. The weather was still very hot,
so we decided to travel at night for a while, and left Ned's place at dusk.
He parted from us at the homestead gate. He gave Andy a small packet,
done up in canvas, for Mrs Baker, which Andy told me contained
Bob's pocket-book, letters, and papers. We looked back,
after we'd gone a piece along the dusty road, and saw Ned still standing
by the gate; and a very lonely figure he looked. Ned was a bachelor.
`Poor old Ned,' said Andy to me. `He was in love with Mrs Bob Baker
before she got married, but she picked the wrong man -- girls mostly do.
Ned and Bob were together on the Macquarie, but Ned left
when his brother married, and he's been up in these God-forsaken scrubs
ever since. Look, I want to tell you something, Jack:
Ned has written to Mrs Bob to tell her that Bob died of fever,
and everything was done for him that could be done, and that he died easy --
and all that sort of thing. Ned sent her some money,
and she is to think that
the Boss had drawn some of our stuff and spent it.
We could have started on the back track at once, but, drunk or sober,
mad or sane, good or bad, it isn't Bush religion to desert a mate in a hole;
and the Boss was a mate of ours; so we stuck to him.
We camped on the creek, outside the town, and kept him in the camp with us
as much as possible, and did all we could for him.
`How could I face his wife if I went home without him?' asked Andy,
`or any of his old mates?'
The Boss got himself turned out of the pub. where the barmaid was,
and then he'd hang round the other pubs., and get drink somehow,
and fight, and get knocked about. He was an awful object by this time,
wild-eyed and gaunt, and he hadn't washed or shaved for days.
Andy got the constable in charge of the police station
to lock him up for a night, but it only made him worse: we took him back
to the camp next morning and while our eyes were off him for a few minutes
he slipped away into the scrub, stripped himself naked, and started
to hang himself to a leaning tree with a piece of clothes-line rope.
We got to him just in time.
Then Andy wired to the Boss's brother Ned, who was fighting the drought,
the rabbit-pest, and the banks, on a small station back on the border.
Andy reckoned it was about time to do something.
Perhaps the Boss hadn't been quite right in his head before he
started drinking -- he had acted queer some time, now we came to think of it;
maybe he'd got a touch of sunstroke or got brooding over his troubles --
anyway he died in the horrors within the week.
His brother Ned turned up on the last day, and Bob thought
he was the devil, and grappled with him. It took the three of us
to hold the Boss down sometimes.
Sometimes, towards the end, he'd be sensible for a few minutes
and talk about his `poor wife and children'; and immediately afterwards
he'd fall a-cursing me, and Andy, and Ned, and calling us devils.
He cursed everything; he cursed his wife and children,
and yelled that they were dragging him down to hell. He died raving mad.
It was the worst case of death in the horrors of drink
that I ever saw or heard of in the Bush.
Ned saw to the funeral: it was very hot weather, and men have to be
buried quick who die out there in the hot weather -- especially men
who die in the state the Boss was in. Then Ned went to the public-house
where the barmaid was and called the landlord out. It was a desperate fight:
the publican was a big man, and a bit of a fighting man;
but Ned was one of those quiet, simple-minded chaps who
will carry a thing through to death when they make up their minds.
He gave that publican nearly as good a thrashing as he deserved.
The constable in charge of the station backed Ned, while another policeman
picked up the publican. Sounds queer to you city people, doesn't it?
Next morning we three started south. We stayed a couple of days
at Ned Baker's station on the border, and then started
on our three-hundred-mile ride down-country. The weather was still very hot,
so we decided to travel at night for a while, and left Ned's place at dusk.
He parted from us at the homestead gate. He gave Andy a small packet,
done up in canvas, for Mrs Baker, which Andy told me contained
Bob's pocket-book, letters, and papers. We looked back,
after we'd gone a piece along the dusty road, and saw Ned still standing
by the gate; and a very lonely figure he looked. Ned was a bachelor.
`Poor old Ned,' said Andy to me. `He was in love with Mrs Bob Baker
before she got married, but she picked the wrong man -- girls mostly do.
Ned and Bob were together on the Macquarie, but Ned left
when his brother married, and he's been up in these God-forsaken scrubs
ever since. Look, I want to tell you something, Jack:
Ned has written to Mrs Bob to tell her that Bob died of fever,
and everything was done for him that could be done, and that he died easy --
and all that sort of thing. Ned sent her some money,
and she is to think that