Tuesday, April 20, 2021
BLACK ANDERSON. A Story of the South Coast.
(By 'Polygon.')
The waterfall fell sparkling into the
bay. It was spring. The sealers had come
out again for the summer's plunder.
'Yes, that's the place,' said old Bob
Gemble. 'You can see him still — poor
old Steve. See him by the rock, there,
all grinning. But he's rotten and white
now and there ain't much left on his bones.
Thank God, though, no bird or nibbling
shark got at him. He must have stood
right 'ere and 'eaved him in and the
water took and dropped him down by
the stone and spread its white sheet over
him. We found him in the morning sitting
there, just as he is now, with the fall
tumbling down all on top of him and his
throat cut from ear to ear.'
The two men were standing on the
cliff, looking over a rocky ledge into the
midmost of the welter of foam below,
where something white and gruesome was
wedged.
'It's a queer perch he has down there,'
said Gemble.
''He'll break up soon," said the young
man, and be carried down.'
'No- not yet. He's lasted three years
out and I know he won't find an easy
bed not yet. No, not until --. But we
had better shift, boy. Come on.
The young man stooped and hoisted a
dead kangaroo to his shoulder. Its limp
forepaws and shattered head lolled down
over his back and blood dripped unheeded
from its nose on to his ragged trousers
at every step, as he followed old Gemble
back to the camp in Doubtful Island Bay.
The fall sounded fainter and fainter as
they went crashing along.
'I'm glad , to be away from that,' said
the young man. 'It's a creepy -sight.'
"It sure looks unnatural to see him
hanging there,' said the old man, trudging
ahead. 'He's hung three years with the
water over him, but his ghost won't let
his white bones drop.' The old man spoke
hoarsely and his words trailed off to a
mumbling and grunting. The young man.
looking at the set of the shoulders that
were forcing a way through the thicket
ahead of him, thought to himself, 'One
day Bob will tip Black Anderson over
board.' But as they trudged on and the
sound of the fall could be heard no more
and a chilly wind blew up from the south,
making the old man shudder a little, and
his shoulders to droop, the young man,
stumbling under, his burden, grunted to
himself, 'No, not him. He hasn't got
the guts.' It was the very thought that
Bob Gemble was thinking of himself. Yet
be was under a vow.
Gambling Around the Fire.
Lolling beneath a rough bough shelter
near the beach that night, their feet
towards the fire, built at the entrance,
the sealers played an old, long since forgot
ten game with, greasy cards and chips of
wood. Already, having yet taken nothing,
they were gambling away their rightful
share of the season's catch. Black Ander
son, the headsman and owner, was with
them— a gigantic negro in white canvas
trousers, faded blue shirt and a red cloth
knotted around his neck. He was win
ning a little. It was just as well, thought
everyone, for Anderson, when losing,
might knock a man into the fire, or kick
the cards from his hands or, with one
swing of his mighty arm, wrench the whole
frail roof of bushes down on the head
of his crew and leave them struggling in
the ruins while he went laughing to the
shelter of his tent. To-night, however,
he was winning, and he chuckled and
boasted of what a season it was going to
be and how he could knock over more
seals than any man on the coast and what
a fine crew he had, while beside him,
like a dog, crouched the dumb black wo
man Dinah.
The fire was the only light on the circle
of faces. It was kind to those hard fea
tures. It flashed on the grins at the black
man's jokes and smoothed out the scowls
with its dancing shadows. The young man,
being on his first, voyage, thought it all
very jolly and comradely and doubted that
ever Anderson could have poor Stephen's
throat and pitched him into the fall as
Gemble said he did. As for Gemble, he
was thinking ahead, for this was only the
first night of the season.
The season, so far as sealing mattered
was a good one. The richer, the take the
higher were the stakes to be won at the
nightly gambling. With the summer nearly
out, Anderson seldom made jokes around
the fire. He cursed and bullied and cheated
the mongrel lot that cowered under his
rule. The young man saw Mooney cheated
beaten and thrust out of the circle and
having heard him muttering at night
thought to himself that one day Mooney
would murder Anderson partly for re
venge but mostly for the belt he carried
at his waist. The young man, having seen
Andre cuffed and humiliated and having
intercepted low glances from his evil black
eyes had thought to himself that one day
Andre's smouldering rage would overcome
his fear and he would knife Anderson, as,
it was said, he had knifed young Hook
for jealousy two years before. The young
man, knowing the lust of Peter's mind,
wondered whether he ever would carry
out his threats, to disposses the leader.
When Bob Gemble had one of his mad
turns and crooned about his old boat
mate Steve and the white bones in the
waterfall, the young man wondered
whether, revenge of a comrade's death
might not be a more powerful force than
lust or greed or injured pride. Finally, the
season then being nearly over, the young
man, frenzied with terror and sick with
loathing, wondered whether one day he
would kill Anderson himself.
There was not a man in the crew that
had not said to another that he would
kill Anderson but could they ever mutiny?
Gemble's revenge. Andre's grievance
Peter's lust and Mooney's greed had no
place for the help of others and went un
satisfied rather than that others should
share its satisfaction.
Meanwhile Anderson stormed and bul
lied, sometimes brandishing the brace of
pistols he always carried, sometimes wav-
ing a cutlass, more often subduing the
curs with a blow of the first or a kick;
and when, in the day time, they saw him
poised in the bow, saw hhn leaping to
the rocks and gagped at his skill and dar-
ing they, could not but admire as they
feared this splendid giant. Then hate and
courage failed.
An Old Haunt.
Then one evenuig they came to Man
duran, an old haunt. The old huts were
still there. The poles for Anderson's tent
were still standing. The soak they had dug
the season before was awaiting. The weary
sealers sighed with a sense of peace, like
men sinking into an easy chair by an old
and friendly hearth. There was one new
face among them. Two days before, from
Joe Newman's boat, by cajolery, force and
bargaining with sealskins belonging to his
men Anderson had acquired another
woman. Dumb Dinah, burdened with his
tent and baggage, trailed behind him and
the new favourite in meek devotion.
That night, over the cards, there was
another quarrel. Anderson cheated and
when the young man spoke a greasy black
palm was pushed, into his face and the
savage laughed at him.
"Dogs", said the black man, rising, and
spat at them. Gemble, who had been crazy
all day, started to scream something about
Steve. Anderson yanked him up by the
shoulder and flung him crashing through
the wall of the hut. The three others
trembled and crouch lower.
"Pigs." Anderson kicked at the dying
fire, scattering embers among them and
laughing, stamped off to his tent. The
dumb gin crawled after him. The three
were still crouched in silence, the cards
forgotten around them. Old Bob had
ceased groaning. Presently he got up and
went away. The young man had disappear-
ed. The three at the fire were waiting.
They may have slept as they sat, but when
a shot sounded, all were bolt upright and
listening.
Presently old Bob came in. Presently the
young man came in. Moolby, the new
gin, crept to the fire and Peter drew her
to his side. No one asked questions for
no one needed to. The only human sound
heard that night was the moaning of
Dinah, flung prostrate, grieving over the
corpse of the villain who lay in the moon
drenched tent, her course hair matted in
the blood of the man she had murdered
in the torment of her love.
In the morning they dragged her away
and flung the body down the soak, scrap-
ing earth on top of it. Then they moved off, the woman whimpering in the stern.
Saturday, April 10, 2021
Going for Broke: Hunter Valley Motorcycle Ride
The proverbial felines and canines were falling on my roof Wednesday night!!! Will I have to ride through the pouring rain to McGraths Hill to find no one there??
No chance. Thursday morning weather was bright and sunny, the rain had cleared and so off I went on the trek to McGraths Hill full of hope for a pleasant days riding.
Fifteen or sixteen hardy souls assembled at Maccas McGraths Hill ready to go. I even arrived in plenty of time at 9.30am for our 10am start. The lack of traffic because of the school holidays made the trip quite bearable.
The route was pretty straight forward … up the Putty Road for morning tea at the Grey Gum Café and then on to Broke for lunch.
Red Leathers Ron (in white leathers) was nominated by me as TEC as I had no volunteers. He accepted the nomination gracefully and did a fantastic job.
Because of my latest accumulation of speeding tickets I told the assembled throng that I was going to stick to the speed limits and anyone wishing to chance their arm were welcome to pass me. A couple of riders duly did so.
The ride to the Grey Gums was incident free with no traffic to hold us up and pleasant sunshine to enjoy. The café is only open Friday to Sunday so we availed ourselves of their tables and toilet facilities and enjoyed our morning tea delights whilst talking total crap as is the norm. Soon the riders got restless and moved to their bikes so I took that as a signal to get going on the second leg of our trip to Broke. Two riders left us and headed back to whence we came with all sorts of lame excuses like … I have to work on the boat etc??? The rest of us headed north through the twisties to Milbrodale road where we took a right turn (I took a shortcut through the school zone!!) and headed on to Broke and the renovated park with skateboard deck and kiddies playground. Some of the riders were suggesting they ride their bikes on the skateboard deck but grandma said no???
With lunch finished and the threat of rain looming everybody headed for the hills (PITS etc) asap. I made a leisurely getaway with John Osborne to Wollombi, Laguna, Bucketty where the rain decided to force us to put on our wets. Within five kilometres the rain had stopped and we cruised on down the old road and past the PITS as I had a heavy date at Jonah’s, Whale Beach in the early evening so I had to get home to get my finery on???
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