I stared at him. “You think the animals know?”
He nodded. “Animals, they know.”
I didn’t see why the death of one drunken, dissolute old man should excite the animal kingdom very much, but there was no good arguing it with Liang, if indeed the language difficulties had permitted argument. I stayed with him in silence for a minute or two, and then went back into the room, to Sister Finlay and her patient.
Stevie was fully conscious now, and evidently in considerable pain. He was moaning a little; from time to time his face became distorted as the spasm racked him, and this was more eloquent to me than the noise that he was making.
When he saw me he said to Sister Finlay, “What’s that Pommie parson doing here?” I think it was parson that he said, but Sister Finlay is sure that it was bastard, and says that she didn’t know which way to look when he called the vicar a Pommie bastard. Whichever way it was, it doesn’t matter. I went over to the bed and said, “I came out with Sister Finlay when we heard you were sick. Sergeant Donovan would have brought her out here, but he was away at Millangarra, so I came instead. How are you feeling, cobber?”
“I’m bad,” he muttered. “I been bad three days. Got a bottle of whiskey, Roger?”
“I haven’t,” I said. “I didn’t bring any, and anyway it wouldn’t be good for you.”
He stared at me for a minute. “Your name’s Roger?”
“That’s right,” I said. “I’m Roger and you’re Stevie.”
“I know,” he said. “Harps and angels’ wings. Pack of bloody lies, that’s what I think.”
I felt Sister Finlay beside me quiver with indignation, and I must say it didn’t look as though Stevie was likely to accept the sort of spiritual consolation that I could offer him.
“That’s all right,” I said. “We’ll argue that one out when you’re well. We’ll get you into Landsborough tomorrow, and then the ambulance will come and fly you to Cloncurry.”
“I flown further than that,” he muttered. “Up ’n down, up ’n down, all across the world, carrying the Queen. Ottawa, Keeling Cocos, Nanyuki, Ratmalana—I know all them places. I got the Seventh Vote—did you know that, cobber? Did you know I got the Seventh Vote?”
I glanced at the sister, and she raised her eyebrows. He was wandering in his mind, of course, but anything that would take his thoughts off his pain was probably useful, since we had no morphia to ease it. “I never heard that,” I replied. “How did you come to get the Seventh Vote?”
The pain hit him again, and his face contorted with the spasm. The current of his thought was broken, because presently he said, “I been sick in the belly three days. Got any whiskey, cobber?”
“I’m sorry,” I said patiently. “I didn’t bring any with me.”
Sister Finlay said, “Lie down, and try and get some sleep, Stevie. It won’t be long till morning, now, and then we’ll get you to the hospital.”
I withdrew a little from the bed, partly because I could not help her in her treatment of the disease, and partly because I was hot and sweating again, and my head was swimming, and I did not want her to see my condition. The old man’s hallucinations went round and round in my tired brain, the Seventh Vote, Ottawa, Keeling Cocos, carrying the Queen. I seemed to remember that he had talked to me like that before. Where did it all come from, what vagrant memories had come together to be expressed in those words? Old copies of some travel magazine for Ottawa and Keeling Cocos? Some article in the Australian Women’s Weekly about the Queen? And then the flying motif once again. But that was easier, because I knew that once a man has piloted an aeroplane the memory lies deep within his brain, and he can never forget it.
I sat there in a hot discomfort while the crisis rose upon the bed. From a great distance I watched the spasms, and watched Sister Finlay doing her best to help her patient; it was little enough that she could do. Liang was bringing hot, steaming cloths now from the other room, and they were laying them upon the skinny, rigid abdomen. And presently, as the hot fit passed and I grew temporarily more comfortable, I heard the old man say,
“Is Liang there?”
“He’s just in the next room,” said Sister Finlay. “Do you want to speak to him?”
Stevie nodded, and the sister called Liang, who came to the bedside. He said, “You want something, Stevie?”
“Too right, I want something,” the old man said. “Give us a pipe, mate.”
The Chinaman glanced at the sister, who shook her head, and Liang withdrew softly to the other room, leaving her to fight her patient. “Not now, Stevie,” she said. “You’ve had enough of that for today—it would be dangerous to take any more. Come on—I’ll give you another of these cloths.”
There was a long, long pause. At last I heard him say in a weak voice, “Give us a whiskey, Sister. I’m bloody crook.”
She said a little desperately, “I haven’t got a whiskey, Stevie, and it wouldn’t be good for you. Lie still, and try and get some rest.”
The spasm came to him again, and I saw her holding him down upon the bed with both hands on his shoulders. Liang must have been somewhere in the background watching, because he came forward softly and helped her, and together they fought with Stevie till the spasm passed. I felt ashamed that I was not helping her myself, and that I had given in to my weakness, and I got to my feet, holding on to the table.
“Can I do anything?” I asked stupidly.
The patient was quiet again now, for the moment and until the next spasm. She turned to me, and she was sweating with her exertions, and a wisp of her damp hair had fallen down over her eyes. “How are you feeling, Mr. Hargreaves?” she asked.
“I’m all right,” I said. “I felt a bit queer just then, but I’m all right now.”
She brushed the hair back from her eyes. “Come out on the verandah.”
We went out of the room, and the moon was still fitfully lighting up the clearing and the forest, and the animals were still there watching us. She turned to me, and said in a low tone, “I know you’re feverish. Can you understand what I’m saying, Mr. Hargreaves?”
“Of course,” I said. “I understand you perfectly.”
She nodded. “I don’t think he’s got a chance,” she said quietly. She glanced at her wrist watch. “It’s an hour and ten minutes since he came to, and he’s much weaker now than he was then. I think he’ll die before morning, Mr. Hargreaves.”
I nodded. “I should think so. There’s nothing we can do?
“Nothing,” she said. “The only possible thing would be an operation now, at once, and I can’t do that. Even if I had my medicine case I couldn’t do anything for him, except give him a dope to ease the pain. He’s having a great deal of pain.”
“I know,” I said. “I can see that.”
“I think our job now is to make things easy for him,” she said quietly. “I don’t think it would hurt him to have a few pipes of that opium stuff. I don’t think it will make any difference, now.” She looked up at me. “Would you think that very terrible?”
I shook my head. “No. I should think it was the kindest thing that you could do.”
“It’s very unprofessional,” she muttered. “I don’t know … If he were quieter, it might conserve his strength …”
I said, “I should let him have it.”
She nodded gravely. “I think one ought to.” She hesitated, and then turned to me. “I don’t think it will kill him,” she said quietly, “but if he takes enough to put him under, I think he may die before he comes to. I want you to understand exactly the position, Mr. Hargreaves.”
“Nevertheless,” I said, “I think you ought to let him have it.” I hesitated, and then I said, “If I may, I should like to sit and talk to him a little, while he’s going off.”
Behind us, the darkness was closing down. “Of course,” she said. “I’ve never seen this stuff work, and I don’t know how long it will take. If it’s like any of the others, there’ll be a drowsy period when the pain is a
lmost gone, before he goes to sleep. He may be able to talk sensibly for a few minutes then.”
The shadows crept out of the room behind and enveloped us; on the far side of the clearing we could see the beasts of the field, waiting. She shivered a little. “Those animals …” she said. She turned back to her patient, and then said, “For goodness sake!”
“What is it, Sister?” And then I saw what it was. The room behind us was indeed nearly in darkness, because the kerosene in the lamp had come to an end, and there was now only a small flickering blue flame above the wick. “Never mind,” I said. “There’s a candle somewhere.”
I went into the room, and called, “Liang!” He came at once from the other room, and a ray of candlelight shone from the door. He looked at the lamp with concern and went straight to it and shook it, but it was bone dry. I went to my case and opened it, and took out my torch. “I’ve got this,” I said, and it shone a pool of yellow light upon the floor. “Have you got any more candles, Liang?”
“Little candle,” he said ruefully. “Very small.” He went back into the other room, and returned with about an inch of candle burning in a saucer.
“Is that all there is?” I asked.
He nodded.
“No more candles?”
He shook his head.
“No kerosene? Nothing more to burn for a light?”
He shook his head again.
I turned to the sister. “We’ll be in darkness before morning, I’m afraid. The candle won’t last long, and this torch is very dim.”
She laughed shortly. “It’s just one thing after another tonight, Mr. Hargreaves. It doesn’t matter much, after he’s gone to sleep. We’ll have to keep watch over him, but when he’s dropped off we’d better put the lights out, so as to have them if we need them later on. He may come to again.”
“I should think that’s the best thing to do,” I said.
She turned to Liang. “Give him a pipe now, if he wants it.”
“One pipe?” he asked.
“Give him as many as he wants, to kill the pain and send him to sleep,” she said.
He took the torch from me, and padded off into the next room. He came back presently with the long metal pipe and the spirit lamp and the brown stuff in the saucer that we had seen upon the chair beside the bed as we came in. He put them down upon the chair again, and drew the chair up to the bed.
Sister Finlay said, “Liang’s got a pipe for you, if you want it, Stevie. You can have one now.”
He did not speak, but lying on his back he made an effort to roll over on to his right side, towards the room. He seemed to be incapable of moving the lower part of his body; Liang moved forward and with Sister Finlay helping him arranged the old man’s limbs in a comfortable and reclining position on his side. Then Liang lit the spirit stove upon the chair, and took a sort of skewer and dipped it in the brown substance, and picked up a morsel about the size of a pea, and began to toast it in the blue flame while it burned and sizzled. Then he transferred it carefully to the tiny bowl of the metal pipe, put the bowl to the flame, and drew in slowly to get the morsel glowing; he exhaled at once. Then he gave the pipe to Stevie.
The old man took it, and put it to his mouth; he inhaled deeply, held it for a few moments, and exhaled it from his nose; the smoke was acrid and unpleasant. He did this four or five times, and it appeared to give him almost instantaneous relief, because within a minute or two he was lying more relaxed, and the strained lines of pain were smoothing on his face. The pipe was apparently finished with those few inhalations, because he handed it back to Liang.
“Another?” asked the Chinaman.
The old man nodded, and Liang set about preparing another pipe. I moved forward and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Stevie,” I said. “I’m Roger Hargreaves. You know me; I’m the parson from Landsborough. Remember?”
“Too right,” he said weakly. “You got on Black Joke.”
“That’s right,” I said. “You and I are cobbers. You’re a sick man now, Stevie. You’ll go off to sleep after you’ve had these pipes, and while you’re asleep we’re going to take you into hospital for an operation. I think it’s going to be successful, and you’ll be strong and well again, but there’s a risk in every operation. I’ve got to die some time, and so has Liang here, and Sister Finlay; we’ve all got to face it when the time comes. You’ve got to face it too, Stevie. You may die tonight. Would you like me to say a prayer or two before you go to sleep?”
“Harps and angels’ wings,” he muttered. “I don’t hold with that.”
“I know you don’t,” I said. “What creed were you baptised in to, Stevie? What church did you go to when you were a boy?”
“I never went to no church,” he said. “I was raised out on the station.”
“When you were in the army, what did you have on your identity disc?” I asked him. “C. of E., or R.C., or what?”
“Church of England,” he said sleepily. “That’s what they said I was.”
“Then you’re one of my parishioners,” I said. “Look, Stevie, I’m going to say two little prayers, and then I want you to answer one or two questions. They’re very simple. Now listen carefully.”
So I did what I had to do, and he was quite good about it, and I gave him the Absolution. Then Liang was ready with the second pipe, and he took that and smoked it, and now he was much easier, and apparently in little pain.
He handed the pipe back to Liang.
“Another?” asked the Chinaman, and Stevie nodded. I glanced at Sister Finlay; she shrugged her shoulders slightly, and then nodded.
Stevie said, “I’m dying, aren’t I?”
“I hope not,” I replied. “If you are, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I’m crook all right,” he muttered. “She wouldn’t let me have three pipes, ’less I was bloody crook. I ain’t afraid of dying. I’ll go carrying the Queen.”
The hallucinations were returning; no doubt that was the opium. Perhaps the fading mind was poisoned through and through with that outlandish drug. “You’ll be all right,” I said quietly. “God is very merciful, and he won’t judge you too hard.”
“You don’t know nothing,” the old man muttered weakly. “I could tell you things. Old Liang here, he’s got the rights of it. I ain’t done so good. I know it. I’ll start lower down next time. But I’ll be right. Everyone gets another shot, however low you go, and I’ll be right.”
He seemed to be convinced about reincarnation in some form, and he was too weak for me to argue with him. I was weak myself; the hot fit had come on me again, and I was restless and sweating.
“You’ll be right,” I said. “God will look after you.”
There was a long, long pause while Liang fiddled about preparing the next pipe. “I ain’t afraid of dying,” Stevie muttered at last. “That’s nothing. Old Liang here, he knows a thing or two. It’s just going off to sleep and sliding off into the next time, into the dream. I reckon that I’d rather be there than here.”
I was too hot and fuddled with my fever to say anything to that. Liang lit the pellet in the bowl of the third pipe and gave it to Stevie; the old man inhaled deeply four or five times, and gave it back to Liang.
“Another?”
Stevie gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head, and relaxed on to the pillow. Liang gathered up the spirit lamp and the pipe and the saucer of opium, and padded off with them to the next room. I moved and sat down on the chair beside the bed. Sister Finlay bent over and held the old man’s pulse for a minute, and then stood up again.
“Going off now,” she said in a whisper.
I nodded. “I’ll sit with him for a bit.” I glanced at the candle; it was burning very low. “You can put that candle out and save it, sister, if you like. We may need it later on. I’ve got the torch here.”
She moved to the table and blew out the candle; I switched the torch on for a moment. Stevie’s hand was lying on the sheet. I took it a
nd held it in my own; it was rather cold. I was concerned at that, and then I thought that part of the effect, at least, lay in my own high temperature. I switched the torch off, and sat holding him by the hand. A little light filtered into the room from outside in the glade, but it was waning, and as I sat there a few raindrops fell on the iron roof again, and steadied to an even drumming.
I knew that there was something that I had intended to ask Stevie, and that I had forgotten. I sat there in the darkness holding his cold hand, fuddled and incompetent in my fever, trying to remember what it was that I had forgotten to do. The drumming of the rain upon the roof perplexed me, making it difficult to think clearly; I felt myself falling into a coma, and I had to jerk myself awake. What was it that I had to ask?
And then it came to me—it was about relatives. I had forgotten to ask if there was a wife anywhere, or any children—any relatives who should be told if the old man should die. It was quite doubtful if anyone in Landsborough knew much about him, because they were all so very much younger. Even Liang probably knew little about his relations. As for myself, I did not even know his name.
I pressed his cold hand, doubtful if I had not left it too late. “Stevie,” I said. “Stevie, can you understand me? This is Roger here—the parson. Tell me, before you go to sleep—what’s your other name, your surname? What’s your full name?”
I felt the hand that I was holding stir a little in my own, and I forced my fuddled mind to concentrate upon what he was saying.
“Anderson,” he muttered, “David Anderson. Me cobbers call me Nigger.”
Three
IT was no novelty to me to come upon a man known by two names, and I can remember a feeling of relief that he was still able to talk, because it was important to find out about any dependants. The country districts of Queensland are full of men like Stevie; I know several sailors who have jumped their ships and have worked for years upon the cattle stations under false names, and one or two husbands who have escaped from intolerable marriages in some city. The police know all about these men in most cases and turn a blind eye, because white labour on the cattle stations is getting scarcer every year. Like Liang with his lettuces and poppies, they see no point in persecuting a man doing a good job unless there is some compelling reason forcing them to do so.