Western Mail 25 December 1905, page 10
The Doubly Deserted
by Val Jameson
Up in the heavens, a westering sun cast oblique rays, still fiercely hot, on the parched bush that stretched its shrivelled growth as far as the eye could see from the prospectors’ camp. Nearby, a windlass under a roof of boughs stood on a fair-sized dump, the accumulation of many months of toil. Two men left the tent conversing earnestly. A large dog with a drooping tongue trotted at their heels.
One was burdened with a swag strapped firmly across his bent shoulder “It’s no use talkin'” he said, ”I’m full up o’ workin’ for expectations. I’m goin to have a change an work fer wages! We’ve wasted too much time on this rotten show already!” “I’ll stick to ‘er, while I’ve got a bean” said the other firmly. “Well, goodbye, Jim! You’ll find me at the Golden Crown when you come to Yundamindra.”
“Right oh!” replied Jim. They gripped hands and parted.
The traveller strode off along a narrow bike-pad skirting the deep-rutted road. The dog followed him a short or distance, then paused and looked back, hesitated a moment, and trotted towards the motionless figure gazing with mournful eyes at his retreating mate. The insects had commenced their evening requiem in glad relief for the departed sun. Cool zephyrs heralded the approach of night when Jim O’Connor turned his steps toward the lonely camp.
“Good old Darkie!” he stooped to pat the black silky head close at his side. “I’ve got one mate left at least!” The dog leapt to his hand and licked it in reply. “Hughie’s an alright bloke Darkie, but he hasn’t got the spirit of a true prospector, or he’d ‘ave stuck to the Moonbeam! Now, if you could only do a turn at the windlass, we’d get on famous for I’m positive we’re not far off the chute ! But, with a sigh of regret,
“You’re only a dog !”
Though Darkie’s replies were unintelligible, it was better to hold a one-sided conversation than wait for the black silence, the outward melancholy of the bush to mate with the inward melancholy of a solitary mind.
Although Hughie would seem to have acted a callous part in deserting his mate, it was not before all other persuasion was used to slacken his fanatic hold on the Moonbeam. This extreme step of desertion he fully believed would have the desired effect, but he had not gauged the strength of his partner’s faith in the possibilities of his mine. Frequently he returned to find him plodding away below, with Darkie as ‘man on top’, yapping defiance at casual wayfarers. Then realising how deeply grafted were these hopes of success he ceased to urge further proposals of abandonment.
Jim worked steadily on, blasting the adamantine quartz with dynamite and laboriously wheeling the useless debris to an abandoned drive below, as without a mate it could not be conveyed in the usual way to the surface. Traces of gold were apparent here and there, but too meagre to warrant the speculation of a crushing.
Success meant more to Jim than Hughie knew. It meant the fulfilment of a promise long delayed by the tardy hand of Fortune. Then one day two letters were handed to him by a passing teamster as he was enjoying a contemplative smoke after the evening meal. Eagerly he scanned the hand-writing before breaking the envelope. One, from a woman’s pen, he tucked away in his pocket with a pleased smile and read the contents of the least important. It was from Hughie, and contained a five pound note, which the writer apologised for sending.
“though it may come in useful before you strike gold in a Moonbeam he wrote!”
Jim was inclined to resent the gift, though in actual need of money and determined to return it on the morrow. Lighting a candle, he chose a restful position on his bunk to enjoy at leisure the more precious document.
“Dear Jim,” the omission of the customary “my” sent an imaginary ball of ice from head to feet. He read the remainder of the letter with a sensation of stabs.
” I am very sorry to tell you all must now be over between us! Mother says as it’s eighteen months since you left us, and it’s always expectations you write about, but nothing definite. It is not fair to expect me to waste the best years of my life in this way. I get tired of being nagged at, so to please her, and you so far away, I am going to marry Bill Hopkins. Am returning your presents and photos in the next mail. With best wishes, yours sincerely. Doreen McCarthy.”
The letter slipped from slackened fingers and fluttered to the ground. The man’s face blanched with sudden pallor. He lay ominously quiet, with twitching lips and eyes aflame with consuming emotion. The love he had hoarded for this girl who so lightly discarded him was the one purpoise of his life. It was the lure that urged him in the pursuit of fortune. Deserted by his mate, be was now doubly deserted. Black desolation engulfed his thoughts, and from this chaos he saw but one escape.
”Rotten world of men and women” he exclaimed bitterly. “It’s time to go!”
A grim purpose tightened the muscles of his face as he stooped to unfasten a portmanteau. First, he laid upon the table a photograph of the false Doreen. Placed it upright, supported by a book and a parcel of letters carefully tied together. His next care was to examine his rifle. Finding it in good condition, he applied the cartridge with a steady hand, and, standing before the photograph, he stared into the smiling eyes pictured there.
“Good-bye, Doreen!” he muttered, then bent his forehead to the muzzle and raised his foot to press the trigger. His only witness, Darkie, could not comprehend these unusual proceedings and suddenly decided in his canine mind that his master was endeavouring to teach him a new trick. At the instant of pressure on the trigger he flung bodily forward against the arm supporting the rifle, and the bullet harmlessly passed through the canvas roof.
Trembling from head to foot, the would be suicide relaxed his hold on the rifle and fell on his knees with arms outstretched across the bunk. Then, with a sudden change of mood, he leapt to his feet and thrust a cap on his head, calling to the dog, “Come on, Darkie ! This fiver of Hughie’s ‘ull see us through an all-right spree ! It’s a choice between a bullet and a spree absolutely. You spoilt the bullet you rascal, but you shan’t spoil the spree!”
The scene in the Yundamindra Hotel bar when Jim O’Connor entered was congenial to his mood. In remote mining townships, where no other shelter is afforded the men in camps, where no other escape is available from bush monotony, where no elevating distractions foil the publican of his prey and release men’s minds from the degrading influences and poisonous effects of adulterated liquor, such scenes are not uncommon. A crowd of men surrounded the bar in varying stages of intoxication. Their voices mingled in one confused uproar. Some were clothed as they left their work, in coarse flannel shirts belted beneath dungarees, liberally grimed with dust and clay. Others wore light silk overcoats and khaki trousers, but ties and coats were absent.
Jim was mightily relieved to find that Hughie was not amongst them. Being a stranger to such orgies, he received only cursory nods of recognition from the others, but in reckless mood, he won a more cordial footing by shouting drinks for all. The new barmaid, a young girl of moderate appearance, seemed unused to her work. She visibly shuddered in that oath-laden atmosphere, and seemed awkward and mute before the expressions of drink-sodden men.
Jim O’Connor watched her contemptuously at first, then with increasing pity, as her trembling fingers filled the glasses and placed them on the counter. The landlord, vexed with her shy manners, commanded her rudely to “Look smart there !” and added more in an undertone.
When her hand was seized by a drunken admirer the landlord laughed and permitted the persecution. Unable to resist the mute plea in the girl’s frightened eyes, Jim seized her tormentor by the shoulders and forcibly ejected him through the doorway, following to face the man’s revengeful onslaught. The blusterer soon discovered the superior fighting skill of his opponent and staggered into the hotel again to escape further punishment.
Jim was about to follow when a small hand fell lightly on his arm. Turning in surprise, he saw it belonged to the girl whom he had championed. “I want to thank you,” she said, “for taking my part. I thought all were alike, but you are different!” Looking into her tear-swept eyes and listening to her grateful words, Jim felt a sudden shyness come upon him.
“We’re a rough lot!”‘ he said, “but you don’t seem used to the game! Other barmaids, I’ve seen up ‘ere make light o’ such ways !”
“You are quite right.” replied the girl, “I have never been in a hotel bar before. I was sent here, believing I was to undertake the duties of waitress only. They compelled me to do this work, but while you were putting that dreadful man out I was told to leave the bar, pack your traps, and clear out, as you won’t suit here, and I’m glad I won’t suit,” emphatically. “I’ve never been so miserable in all my life.”
All desire for the intended spree seemed overcome by interest in this helpless girl. They sat together on an old log beside the building with Darkie resting at their feet. Jim did not return to camp but stayed to see his new found charge safely off in the homeward train the next day. Her callous employer refused to contribute towards her fare, but the ticket was purchased by Jim, who felt every inch a man in his new role of guardian. When he stood on the station platform, straining his eyes to catch the last flutter of an extended handkerchief, he was surprised to experience a sense of loss but comforted himself with the recollection of a promise to write soon.
He flattered his conscience on the brotherly nature of this new regard, for he was determined never to trust a woman’s constancy again in the deeper ties of mateship. But suspense marked the days that passed before the arrival of that promised letter. The monetary obligation was acknowledged prettily and repayment was enclosed with sincere words of thanks. Each succeeding week brought a successor, by urgent request, brimful of news.
Jim’s star of good luck appeared in the best of all seasons. A fortnight before Christmas he unlocked with the point of his pick, a veritable underground safe or what is in mining parlance called a ‘pocket’. A mass of pure gold! One of old Mother Nature’s surprises. The pocket was found to contain five hundred and sixty ounces. The news electrified those who had ridiculed the chances of the Moonbeam, and Hughie, though pleased at Jim’s good luck, could not repress a pang of regret. When Jim requested him to call upon the local banker and settle the business of banking the returns, he stared in speechless amazement.
When he recovered his breath, he stammered, “But I’m not in it now. Didn’t I chuck it six months back?” “You did,” replied Jim, smiling, “but I took yer in as a sleepin’ partner on the strength of that fiver you sent me” “Rot!’ protested Hughie, but his face shone ecstatically as Jim continued.
“I’m to he married next month to the dearest girl in Australia, and I owe my happiness to that very five-pound note, eh Darkie?” He stooped to fondle the dog that had grown so precious in his sight.
“If dogs could speak,” he lightly said, “Well, Darkie would know a thing or two!”
Moya Sharp
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