Daphne. An Australian Story

by Guy Boothby

DAPHNE.

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An Australian Story

By GUY BOOTHBY.

⁠... There is always work
And tools to work withal for those who will;
And blessed are the horny hands of toil.

—Lowell.

TALL, angular, and peculiarly plain, she was the wife of a Queensland Bush Carrier; and it is, I believe, an accepted fact that ladies of that station are not noted either for their culture or their refinement.

Crawling with heavily-laden bullock wagons across plains and never-ending scrubs would not appear to be an existence possessed of many charms, and yet I believe there is no case on record of a man or woman who, having once served his or her apprenticeship to the trade, has ever returned to a civilized life again.

In the Queensland Bush carrying-trade, you must understand, there are three main arteries, the townships of Hughenden, Longreach, and Charleville, and from each of these places there flows continually a stream of enormous table-topped wagons, bound for stations in the Great more or less remote from what is generally supposed to make life worth living.

The existence of the carrier is rough to a terrible degree, and must in no way be confounded with that of the respectable, jog-trot class who ply their trade in English rural districts. Let me picture for you a night's camp of one of these nomad families

Imagine a treeless plain, say some two or three hundred miles from civilization, extending as far as the eye can reach on every side. In the foreground you will probably have a fair-sized water-hole, up to the side of which, as you look, lumbers an enormous wagon, piled with loading of every kind and description, and drawn by perhaps twenty bullocks. Wearied after their long day's march, the team drags up to the water and then comes to a halt with a deep grunt of satisfaction. The sun, which throughout the day has caused them untold agonies, now lies low upon the horizon, turning the dreary plain into the likeness of a waveless sea, and painting the placid water-hole with colors of ever-changing beauty. Once at a standstill, the work of unyoking commences; and after this is accomplished, the off-sider, or driver's assistant, bells certain bullocks, and conducts the herd to water and the best grass; the driver meanwhile places the yokes in proper order upon the pole, preparatory to an early start upon the morrow.

The carrier's wife, by this time, has descended from her perch on the summit of the load, and, with a crowd of nut-brown children at her heels, has set about her preparation of the evening meal. Ere it is eaten, the sun has packed his pillows in the west, and dropped into his crimson bed.

As daylight disappears, and without an interval of twilight, darkness descends upon the plain, and one by one sundry jewels drop out of the treasure-house of night to deck the canopy of heaven. The stillness is most remarkable, and later on, when each member of the tiny party has found a resting-place among the loading, or beneath the wagon, it becomes even more intense, till only the whistle of a curlew, the cry of a marauding carrier dingo, or the distant boom of the bullock bells jars upon the sleeping night.

By daybreak the community is once more astir, and when breakfast has been eaten, the team is yoked up. Then the woman places herself and children upon the top of the wagon, the carrier takes his place and cracks his heavy whip, the bullocks sway forward, and once more the journey is resumed across the same interminable plain. So, week in, week out, from year's end to year's end, the same life goes forward never varying save when rain, or scarcity of grass, makes the track unpassable. Small wonder therefore, that the women grow to be hard and rough, consorting, as they do, with none but the sternest of the opposite sex, and daily doing work that would test the patience and endurance of the strongest man. These are some of the folk who in reality do the building up of our colonies, although the credit goes to another noisier, uglier, and far less useful class. But to get back to my story.

As I have said at the beginning, she was tall, angular, and peculiarly plain and, in spite of the glaring incongruity of it, it must be recorded that her baptismal name was Daphne. Her husband was a carrier on the Hidgeree-Kalaba track, and she was at once the brain and mainstay of his business.

My first acquaintance with them occurred on the edge of a Boree scrub, a dismal place, and more than a hundred miles removed from either of the above townships They were camped beside a big water-hole, and on dismounting from my horse, I was introduced by the carrier, with becoming ceremony, to his wife. Great were the proofs of friendship they showed to me, and long will I cherish the memory of that rough but hearty hospitality. Next morning I went my way, they theirs, and it was not for nearly a year that we met again.

When next I heard of them, Daphne was in the township hospital, recovering from a serious accident occasioned by a fall from the wagon: and her husband, an enormously built man, with a rough manner, which, by those unskilled in such matters, might easily have been mistaken for insolence, had that very day returned with loading from the west. By inquiring after his wife, whose illness I was aware of, I touched the right string; for his eyes lit up, his voice softened, and he answered my questions with surprising meekness.

“She was getting on well,” he said; “but all the same, it was terrible slow work.”

Now, it must be known here that although the Kalaba hospital occupies the best position in that township, even then, it is, if anything, a little less cheerful than an undertaker's showroom. Great grey plains surround it on three sides; the township, with its ugly whitewashed roofs, stares at it from the fourth; and it would be impossible to say which view would be likely to have the most depressing effect upon an invalid. I am told that Kalaba was only designed as a depot for the Great West, and I console myself with reflection that in the very near future the Overland railway will obviate it necessity, and then it will be scattered to the four winds of heaven. At present it is the Decalogue turned backwards.

When my business was finished, I rode up to the hospital and left some newspapers. Daphne being the only patient, I found her occupying the best bed in the only ward. Her wiry black hair straggled in rank confusion about while her complexion harmonized, as near as a well-tanned skin would permit, with the dingy whiteness of the counterpane. Only the great dark, honest eyes lent relief to the monotony of her expression, and they were now full of something which, when read aright, spelt hopelessness of an extraordinary degree.

Towards the end of the afternoon the husband made his appearance, and, preceded by the matron, stalked into his wife's presence. For a moment he stood in the doorway, dazed, bewildered perhaps by the half darkness; then, recognizing his wife, he advanced towards the bed.

“Daphne, old gal,” he said, with a little tremor in his voice, as he bent over her, “an how is it with ee now? Ye looks better by a darned sight!”

She gave a little sigh before she replied.

“I'm nearly well now, Bill; better'n I have been by a long chalk. Sit ye down, old man, and tell us 'ow it goes with the children an' the team!”

Bill sat very gingerly on the edge of the bed, and as if out of compliment to the peculiar cleanliness of the place, fell to scrubbing his face with a flaring red cotton handkerchief.

“The kids is fit, an' the team's first-class!” he answered.

Then with a gesture of almost awe, he assumed possession of one of the thin brown hands upon the coverlet.

“My lass, 'ow dog poor yer 'ands has got, to be sure; but they was always pretty 'ands to my thinkin'.”

Daphne patted his great brown paws and allowed a little wan smile of gratified vanity to flicker across her face. Let the woman be ever so old and plain, she is never beyond the reach of a compliment from the man she loves.

“An' 'ow's the back?” she asked.

“A1, an' no mistake: green as a leaf all the way. From here to Kidgeree Creek there's water in every hole, an' the little wild-flowers yer used to like is that thick along the track, yer can hardly the grass for 'em. I brought yer some!”

Out of the lining of his big cabbage-tree hat, he took a tiny bunch of Bush blue-bells and placed them in her hand. It was a critical moment for both of them. He was acutely afraid of ridicule; she, for some reason she could not have explained, did not know whether to laugh or cry.

She laid the flowers on the table by her bedside, and then turned to her husband, the better to express her thanks.

“Bill,” she said softly, “you was allus a good chap to me!”

“Nay, nay, my lass, you mustn't say that. You don't know 'ow we misses yer out yonder; things ain't the same at all without you. Make 'aste an' get well an' come back to the kids an' me, an' let's get out of this 'ere town.”

“Bill! I shan't be——”

“Shan't be what, lass?”

He looked rather anxiously down at her.

“I shan't be——” The weak voice paused as if to think of a word, then she seemed to choke, and after that a painful silence ensued. Finally she said: “I—I shan't be long.”

Bill gave a sigh of relief and continued: “I'm 'avin' new tires put on the fore-wheels, an' we've got the new pair o' steers in place o' Billabong an' Blossom that were too old for work. We've got full loadin' out to the Diamantina an' back, an' when the trip's done there'll perhaps be a matter of twenty pounds to put into the stocking for the kids. Get well, my lass, an' come back to yer place on the load: the Bush wind, an' the blue sky, an' the sight o' them wild-flowers'll soon set yer right. Yer ain't feelin' any worse, are yer?”

“No, old man; the doctor says I'll be out again this side o' Sunday.”

“That's the talk! We're camped down yonder on the Creek, an' the day ye're out I'll come up an' fetch yer meself. The team'll be all fresh, the loadin' 'll be aboard, an' the very next mornin' we'll have the yokes on, an' be where a man's' got room to breathe!”

“Why, Bill, I never 'eard yer talk so before! It's like what the parson, who comes here every Monday, calls poetry!”

There was an ocean of pathos in the man's reply.

“Yer see, old girl, I must talk a bit different, for yer ain't been ill like this afore!”

Another long silence fell upon the pair. Then he rose to say good-bye, and his wife's face grew, if possible, paler than before.

“Bill!” she began falteringly, “I've been a-tryin' all the time yer've been here to tell yer somethin', but I dunno 'ow to begin. It's this way——”

“Out wi' it, my lass. What's wrong? Ain't they been a-treatin' yer well in 'orsepital?”

“It's not that, Bill,” she answered. “But there, I can't tell you. Flesh and blood couldn't, let alone yer wife. You must just ask the doctor, when yer get outside, if 'e's got anythin' to say agin' me walkin' with the team, will yer?”

“If yer says so, in course. But, Daphne, there ain't nothin' agin' it, is there?”

“You ax 'im; 'e'll tell yer, Bill.—But 'ere's the matron coming: I guess yer'd better be goin'. Tell them kiddies their mother ain't forgot 'em!”

Raising herself with an effort, she pulled the big man's tangled head down to her, and kissed him on the forehead with a gentleness that would have been grotesque, if the sentiment that prompted it had not been so gruesomely pathetic. Then, as the matron approached the bed, he went down the corridor to find the house-surgeon.

The latter, I may tell you, was a rough man, embittered by hard work and insufficient returns; the position of house-surgeon in a Bush hospital being but little sought after by the shining lights of the profession. When Daphne's husband entered, he was engaged writing to the Board, demanding, for the sixth time, an increase in his meagre salary.

He looked up, and seeing the man before him, said roughly, “Well! what do you want?”

The carrier shuffled from one foot to the other with evident uneasiness.

“Beg yer pardin, sir, an' sorry for interruptin'; but the missus axed me to ax you as if it were likely yer'd have any objection to 'er walkin' alongside the team when she comes out?”

“Whose missis?—Oh! I understand: the woman in the ward there. Walk beside the team? Good heavens, man! What are you talking about? Are you mad? How on earth can she walk beside the team?”

“I mean, in course, sir, when she's well enough to come out.”

“Well enough to come out? Why, man alive! she's as well now as ever she will be. It was compound fracture of both femur, and a double amputation. She hasn't a leg to stand on, much less to walk with! No! No! You'd better look out for a house in the township, and find somebody to move her about for the rest of her life. She'll never be able to travel with you again.—Here! hang it, man, go outside if you're going to be ill!”

“I ax yer pardin, sir, but—if yer don't mind, I'll just sit down for a minute. Everything's—a-goin' round an' round, an' I don't somehow feel kinder well!”—“Chambers's Journal.”