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The Purification of Mulfera · Stingaree

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  Chapter seven is stingery by E. W. Horning. This Liberov's recording is
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  in the public domain, read by Beesway's Candle. The Purification of Malferer Moulfera,
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  Station N. S W. Was not only an uttermost end of the
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  earth, but an exceedingly loose end, And that again in more senses than
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  one. There were no ladies of Molferer, and this wrought inevitable deterioration in
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  the young men who made a bachelor's barracks of the homestead. Not that they
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  ever turned it into the perfect pandemonium, you might suppose, but it was
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  unnecessary either to wear a collar or to repress an oath at table. And
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  this sort of disregard does not usually stop at the elementary distancies. It is
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  true that on Molfero the bark of the bachelor was something worse than his bite,
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  and his tongue no fair criteria to the rest of them. Nevertheless,
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  the place became a byword even the backlo And when at last the Good Bishop
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  Methan had the hardihood to include it in an episcopal itinerary, there were admirers
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  of that dear divine who roundly condemned his folly and enemies who no longer denied
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  his heroism. The lord Bishop of the Backblocks had at that time been a
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  twelvemonth or more in charge of what he himself described playfully as his oceanic see.
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  But his long neglect of Molfre was due less to its remoteness than to
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  notorious fact that they wanted no abject tival and illiterative bishops. There an obvious
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  way of repulse happened to be open to the blaspheming squatter, though there was
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  no other instance of its employment. On these upcountry visitations. The bishop was
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  dependent for his mobility upon the horseflesh of his hospitable hosts. Thus it became
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  the custom to send to fetch him from one station to another, and as
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  a rule the owner of the manager came himself with four horses and the big
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  trap. The manager of Molferer said his horses had something else to do,
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  and his neighbors backed him up with some discreet encouragement. On their own account,
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  it was felt that a slur would be left upon the whole district if
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  his lordship actually met with the only sort of reception which was predicted for him
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  on Molferer. Bishop method however, was one of the last men on earth
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  to shirk a plague spot, and on this one warning was eventually received that
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  the Bishop and his chaplain would arrive on horseback the following Sunday morning to conduct
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  divine service, if quite convenient, at eleven o'clock. The language of the
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  manager was something inconceivable upon the receipt of this cool advice. He was a
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  man named Carmichael, and quite a different type from the neighbors who held up
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  horny hands when the Bishop decided on his raid. Carmichael was not a native
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  of this colony or of the next. But he was that distressing spectacle,
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  the public schoolman who is no credit to his public school. Worse than this,
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  he was a man of brains. Worst of all, he had promised
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  very differently as a boy. A younger man who had been at school with
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  him, having come out for his health, traveled some hundreds of miles to
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  see Carmichael, whose conversation struck him absolutely dumb. He was captain of our
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  house, the visitor explained to Carmichael's subordinates. And you daren't say dash in
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  dormitory, not even dash in appearance. This redoubtable person was chiefly remarkable for
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  the intellectual cast of his still occasionally clean shaven countenance, and for his double
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  eye glasses, or rather the way he wore them. They were very strong
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  and very common without any rooms, and Carmichael bought them by the box.
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  He would not wear them with a cord, and in the heat they were
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  continually slipping off his nose. When they did not slip right off, they
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  hung at such an angle that Carmichael had to throw his whole body and the
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  head backward in order to see anything through them except the ground. And when
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  they fell, some one else had to find them. While Carmichael, cursed
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  for his naked eye, was as blind as a bat's. It's go mustering
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  on Sunday, suggested the overseer, every blessed man, let him find the
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  whole place, deserted homestead and hut all. Let's get blind for the occasion
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  was the bookkeeper's idea. Every mother's son that would do, agreed the overseer.
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  If we just got blind enough, and we might get the blacks from
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  Poony Creek to come and join the Dards. The overseer was a dap of
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  Victorian with a golden mustache, twisted rakishly up and down at either end,
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  respectively, like an overturned letter s. He lived up to the name of
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  smart. The bookkeeper was a servile echo with a character and a face of
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  putty. He at once perpetrated an opprobrious ode to the overseer and an answer
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  to the name of chaucer ever since. Carmichael leaned back to look from one
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  of these worthies to the other, and the spectacled eyes flamed with morderant scorn.
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  And I suppose you think you were funny your fellows, said he,
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  and without the oath, which was a sign of his good will, except
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  when he lost his temper with the sheep. If so, I wish you'd
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  get outside to entertain each other. Since the fellow's coming, we shall have
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  to let him come. The thing is how to choke him off ever coming
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  again without open insult, which I won't allow, a service of some sort.
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  We shall have to have this once. I want to go yard,
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  declared the indiscreet Chaucer. If you do, I'll rehearse the men the overseer
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  promised. You idiots, thundered Carmichael, whose temper was as short as his
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  sight. Can't you see I weakened on the prospect as much as the two
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  of you stuck together. But the beggar certainly be a public school and vasty
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  man, and I won't have him treated as though he'd been dragged up on
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  one of these god forsaken colonies. Now, most properly, you cannot talk
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  like this in the bush unless you were also capable of confirming the insult with
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  your fists. But Carmichael could then he was much too blind to fight without
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  his glasses. He was, in fact the same strenuous character who set his
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  dogmatic face against the most harmless explets in dormitory at school and said it successfully.
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  Because Carmichael was a mighty man whose influence was not to be withstood.
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  His standard alone was changed or he was playing on the other side. Yet
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  he had brought a prayer book with him to the backblocks, and he was
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  seen studying it on the eve of the Episcopal descent. You may have his
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  say, observed Carmichael darkly. And then I'll have mine and a Heckelin inquired
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  Sparta, in a nasal voice full of hope and encouragement. Not at the
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  function you fall, replied Carmichael sweetly, for when it's all over, I
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  should like to take him on about the Athenasian Creed and the thirty nine articles.
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  Only both substantives were qualified by the epithet of the country. For Carmichael
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  had put himself an excellent temper for the day of battle. The day dawned
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  blood red and beautiful, but in a little it was a blinding blue from
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  pole to pole, and the thermometer in the Verandah reached three figures before breakfast.
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  It was a hot wind day, and even carmichael subordinates pitied Doctor Methan
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  and his chaplain, who were riding from the south and the teeth of that
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  Probethean blast. But Carmichael himself drew his own line with unswerving rigidity. Though
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  the deep Verandah was prepared as a place for worship and covered in with canvas
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  twas kept saturated with water, he would not permit an escort to sally,
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  even to the boundary fence to beat the uninvited prelate. Not long after breakfast,
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  the two horsemen jogged into view, ambling over the sand hills, whose
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  red hot edge met a shivering sky some little distance beyond the station pines.
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  Both wore pith helmets and fluttering buff dust coats, but both had got hot
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  black legs, the pair and gaiters being remarkable for their length. The homestead
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  trio, their red necks chased by the unaccustomed collar, gathered grimly at the
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  open end of the veranda with their exchanged impressions, while the religious raiders bore
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  down upon them. They can ride a bit too. Aren't bothered if they
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  can't, exclaimed the overseer. And considerable astonishment. And do you suppose,
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  my good fool, inquired Carmichael, with the usual unregenerate embroidery. Do you,
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  in your innocence suppose that an accomplishment confined to these precious provinces? There
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  is brown as my sugar, said the keeper of books and stores. Bishop
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  looks as though he's been out here all his life. Carmichael did not quarrel
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  with his observation of his ervseer, but colorless eyebrows were raised above the cheap
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  glasses as he stepped into the yard to shake hands with the visitors. The
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  bearded bishop returned his greeting in a grave silence. A chaplain, on the
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  other hand, seeing the victim of a nervous, volubility, and unduly anxious
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  to return for his chief's taciturnity, which he essayed to explain to Carmichael on
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  the first opportunity. His lordship fears to heat so much more than I do,
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  who had so many more years of it. And to tell you the
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  truth, he still little hurt at not being met for the first time since
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  he has been out here. And why did he come, demanded Michael bluntly.
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  I never asked him, did I no? Er? No? Butter?
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  Oh well, we won't go into it, said the chaplain. I
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  am glad to see your preparations, mister Carmichael, that I consider very magnanimous
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  sinew under all the circumstances, and so will his lordship when he has had
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  a rest. You won't mind his retiring until it's time for the little service,
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  mister Carmichael, Not, I returned Carmichael promptly. But the worst paddager
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  Malfero in its worst season, was not more dry than the manager's turn.
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  Shortly before eleven, the bell was rung, which roused the men. On
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  weekday mornings. They began trooping over from their hut while the trio four gathered
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  on the verandah as before. The open end was the one looking east,
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  but the sun was too near the zenis to enter. Many inches and with
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  equal thoroughness and tagged, Carmichael had placed the table, the water bag,
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  and the tumbler at the open end. They were all they could do in
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  the way a pulpit, desk and lectern. The man tramped in and filled
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  the chairs, forms, tin trunks and packing cases which had been pressed into
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  the services that's makeshift sanctuary. The trios sat in front. The bell ceased,
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  the ringer entering and taking his place. There was some delay, if
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  not some hedge. Then came the chaplain with an anxious face. His Lordship
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  wishes to know if all hands are here, he whispered across the desk.
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  Carmichael looked behind him for several seconds. Every man jack, he replied,
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  And damn his Lordship's cheek, he added, for his equals benefit. As
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  the chaplain disappeared, rum cove. That chaplain, whispered Chaucer in the guarded
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  manner upon whose frequent portion is the start brutal, how so, inquired Carmichael,
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  with a duly withering glance. Chaucer told the whispers of a word which
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  he had overheard through the weatherboard wall of the room in which the bishop had
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  sought repose. It was, in fact the monosyllable of which Carmichael had just
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  made use of. He, however, was the first to heap discredit on
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  the bookkeeper's story, which he laughed to scorn with as much of his usual
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  arrogance as could be assumed below the breath. If you heard it at all,
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  said Carmichael, which I don't for a moment believe you heard it in
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  the strictly biblical sense. Can't be expected to know what that is, Chaucer.
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  But as a matter of fact, it means lost and done for,
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  like our noble selves, and it was probably applied to us. If this
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  the least truth in what you say, truth, he began, but was
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  not suffered to add another word. Shut up, snarled Carmichael. Can't you
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  hear them coming? And the tramp of the shooting boots, which doctor Meththin
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  was still new chum enough to wear, followed by the chaplain's lighter step,
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  drew noisily gearer upon the unseen part of the verandah that had circled the whole
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  house. Stand up, you cripples, cried Carmichael over his shoulder, a
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  stage whisper. They all came to their feet as the two ecclesiastics appeared behind
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  the table at the open end of the tabernacle. Carmichael felt inclined to disperse
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  the congregation on the spot. There was the bishop still in his gaiters,
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  in his yellow dust coat. Even the chaplain had not taken the trouble to
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  don his surplus. Sir, anything was good enough for Molfra. Carmichael plunged
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  forward with a jutting jaw, but an authoritative voice rang out across the table.
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  Sit down. The bishop had not opened his hairy mouth, which was
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  the smart young chaplain who spoke, and all obeyed except Carmichael. Now beg
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  your lordship's apart. He was bearing with sarcastic emphasis, and the manager of
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  Molfa was cut as short as he was himself the habit of cutting his feat.
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  If you will kindly sit down, cried the chaplain, like everybody else,
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  I shall at once explain the apparent irregularity upon which you doubtless about to
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  comment. Calaiko glowered, threw his glasses for a few seconds, and there
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  resumed his seat with a shrug and a murmur happily inordible to all but his
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  two immediate neighbors. On his way here this morning, the chaplain went on,
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  his lordship met with a misadventure from which he has not yet recovered sufficiently
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  to address you, as he fully hoped and intended to do to day.
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  At this all eyes sped to the Bishop, who stood certainly in the drooping
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  attitude at the Chaplain's side, his episcopal hands behind his back. Something happened,
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  the glib spokesman continued, with stern eyes, something that you do not
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  often hear of in these days. His lordship was accosted, beset and like
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  the poor man and the scriptures, despitefully entreated, not many miles beyond your
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  own boundary, by a pair of armed ruffians. Stuck up, cried one
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  or two men bush rangers, one or two more. I thank you for
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  both words, said the Chaplain, bowing. He was stuck up by the
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  bushranger, who was once more abroad in the land, really, mister car
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  Michael, But the manager of Mofre rose to his full height, and,
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  leaning back to get the speaker into focus, stuck his arms akimbo in a
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  way that he had in his most aggressive murmurs. And what were you doing?
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  He demanded fiercely of the chaplain. It was I who struck him up,
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  answered the Souis desson chaplain, whipping a single glass into his eye to
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  meet the double ones. My name is Stingaree. And in the instant's hush
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  which followed, he plucked a revolver from his breast, while the hands of
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  the sham bushops shot up from behind his back, with one in each.
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  The scene of the instant after that defies ordinary description. It was made the
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  more hideous by the frightful imprecations of Carmichael and the short, sharp threat of
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  Stingery to shoot him dead unless he instantly sat down. Carmichael bade him do
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  so with a gallant oath, at which the men immediately behind him joined with
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  his two companions, and pulling him back into his chair, and there holding
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  him by main force. Thereafter, the manager appeared to realize the futility of
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  resistance, and was unhanded on his undertaking to sit quiet, which he did,
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  with the exception of one speech to those behind, if any of you
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  happened to be armed, he shouted over his shoulder, shoot him down like
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  a dog. But if you're all as fairly had as I am, let's
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  see what the beggar's got to say. Thank you, mister Carmichael, said
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  the bushranger, still from the far side of the table, as the comparative
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  silence fell at last. You are a man after my own heart, sir,
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  and would as leef have you on my side as the simple ruffian on
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  my right. Not a bad bishop to look at, continued Stingery, with
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  a jerk of the head towards his bait with the two revolvers. But if
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  I had let him open his mouth, now, if i'd had you,
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  mister Carmichael. But I have doubts about your vocabulary too. The point appealed
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  to all prison and there was a laugh, in which, however, Carmichael
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  did not join. I suppose you didn't come here simply to give us a
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  funny entertainment, said he. I happen to be the boss, or I
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  have been hitherto. And if you will condescend to tell me what you want,
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  I shall consider whether it is worth while to supply you or to be
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  shot by you. I shall be sorry to meet my death at the hands
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  of a thieving blaggard. But one can't pick and choose in that matter before
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  it comes to choosing, however, is it any good asking what you've done
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  with the real bishop and the real chaplain if you've murdered them? As I
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  Stingery had listened thus far with more than patience. In fact, was something
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  akin to approval to the captive, who was still his master with the with
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  all his villainy, the Bushranger was man enough to appreciate another man when he
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  met him. But Carmichael's last word flicked him on a bare nerve. Don't
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  you dare talk to me about murder? He wrapped out. I've never committed
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  one yet that you were going the right way to make me begin. As
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  for Bishop Methven, I have more respect for him than for any man in
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  Australia. But his horse was worth two of my mates, and that's all
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  I troubled him for. Didn't even tie him up, as there would any
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  other man who just relieves the two of them with their boots and clothes.
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  Twas quite as good as tying up with your roads, as red hot as
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  they are. But my mate here doesn't agree with me. The man with
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  the beard very emphatically shook a matted head, now relieved of the stolen helmet,
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  and observed that the quicker they were, the better it would be.
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  He was as taciturn a bush ranger as he had been a bishop. But
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  Stingaree was perfectly right. Even these few words would have destroyed all chance of
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  illusion in the case of his mate. The very clothes which become us so
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  well, continued the Prince impersonators, who happened to be without a hair upon
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  his face at this period, and looked every inch his part. They're very
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  boots we have only borrowed. I will tell you presently where we drop the
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  rest of their kid but as the misuit of pajamas a piece and not another
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  stitch, and we blindfolded and drove them into the scrub as a last precaution.
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  But before we go, I shall also tell you where a search parties
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  is likely to pick up their tracks. Meanwhile, you will all stay exactly
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  where you are, with the exception of the store keeper, who will kindly
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  accompany me to the store. I shall naturally require to see inside of the
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  safe, and otherwise our wants are very simple. The outlaw ceased. There
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  was no word in answer. Curious hush had fallen on the captive congregation.
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  If there is a store keeper, suggested Stingery, he'd better stand up.
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  But the accomplished chaucer sat stark and staring. Not with you, whispered Carmichael
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  in terrible tones, or we're done. And even as the bookkeeper rose tremulously
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  to his feet, the strange and stealthy figure the sign assured of all eyes
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  but the bush rangers for a long minute reached the open end of the verandah,
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  and with a final spring, a tall man in silk pajamas, his
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  gray beard flying over either shoulder, heard himself upon both bush rangers at once.
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  With outspread fingers, he clutched the scruff of each neck at the self
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  same second. Crash came the two heads together, and over went the table
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  with the three men over it. Shots were fired from the struggle on the
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  ground, happily without effect. Stingaree had a shooting hand mangled by one blow.
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  With a chair whirled from a height, Carmichael got his heel with a
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  venomous stamp upon the neck of Howie, and in fewer seconds that it would
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  take to write their names, the rascal were defeated and disarmed. Howie had
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  his neck half broken and his face was darkening. Before Carmichael could be induced
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  to lift his foot, a cockroach bawled the manager, drunk with battle,
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  I'd hoof his soul out for two pins. A moment later he was groping
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  for his glasses, which had slipped and fallen from his perspiring nose, and
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  making use of such expressions withal as to compel a panting protest from the tall
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  man and the silvern stripes. My name is Nethin, said he. I
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  know it's a special moment, but do you mind. Carmichael found his glasses
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  at that instant, adjusted them, stood up, and led back to view
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  the bishop and his next words with the apology of the gentleman. He should
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  have been, my dear fellow, cried the other. I quite understand.
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  What are they doing with the Ruffians? Have you any handcuffs? Is it
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  far to the nearest police barracks? The next act this moving melodrama was not
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  the least characteristic of the chief performance. When Stingaree and partner had been not
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  only handcuffed, but lashed hand and foot and incarcerated in separate lock huts with
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  a guard apiece. And when a mounted messenger had been dispatched to the barracks
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  at Clare Corner, and the remnant raised a cheer for Bishop Meththin. Twas
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  then that the fine fellow showed them the still finer stuff of which he was
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  also made. He invited all present to step back for a few minutes into
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  the place of worship, which had been so charmingly prepared, so scandalously misused.
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  But he hoped to see them all yet again in the evening. If
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  it would not bore them to give him a further and more formal hearing,
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  then I won't keep them five minutes now, he whispered to Carmichael, as
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  the men went ahead to pick up the chairs and take their places, while
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  the Bishop hobbled after, still in his pajamas and was terribly inflamed and swollen
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  feet. And then he added, I must ask you to send a buggy
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  at once for my poor chaplain. He did it his gallant best, poor
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  fellow, but I had to leaven fallen by the way. I am an
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  old miler, you know it came easier to me. But the cinder path
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  and running shoes are a different story from hot sand and naked feet. And
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  now, if you please, I will strike one little blow while our hearts
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  are still warm. But how shrewdly he struck it, how straight from the
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  shoulder, how simply, how honestly, There is perhaps no need to tell,
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  even those who have no previous knowledge of back block Bishop Methven and his
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  manly ways. What afterward happened to Stingery is another matter to be set forth
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  faithfully in the sequel. This is the story of the purification of Molfer's station
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  in s w in which the bush range is played but an indirect and most
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  inglorious part. The bishop and his chaplain, a good man of no present
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  account, stayed to see the police arrive that night, and the Romantic Ruffians
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  taken thence next morning in unromantic bonds comparatory. Little attention was paid to their
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  depart partly on account of the truculent attitude of the police, partly because the
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  episcopal pair were making equally early start in another direction. No one accompanied the
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  armed man and the bound but every man on the place from homestead men's hut,
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  rabbit as tent, and boundary rider's camp, every single man who could
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  be mustered for the nonce, had a horse run up for him, escorted
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  doctor Methan in close cavalcade to the Molfara boundary, where a final cheering took
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  place, led by Carmichael, who of course was the font and origin of
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  the display. And Carmichael rode by himself on the way back. He had
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  been much with the bishop during his lordship's day, and he was too morose
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  for profanity during the remainder of that day. But it was no better when
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  the manager's mood lifted and the life of Molferer slipped back into the old,
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  blinding, perspiring groove. Then one night, a night to the very week,
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  thus sensationally begun the ingenious choice began one of the old old stories on
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  the moon that Veranda. Carmichael stopped him. While that particular old story was
• 25:06
  still quite young at the telling. There was an awkward pause until Carmichael laughed,
• 25:11
  I don't care tuppence what you fellows think of me, said he,
• 25:15
  and never did I saw a lot of the bishop. He went on less
• 25:19
  aggressively after a pause. Sy we saw assented, smile you, Bill,
• 25:26
  added Chaucer, For there were two to one. He ran the mile for
• 25:30
  Oxford, continued Carmichael. Two years he ran it and won both times.
• 25:37
  You may not appreciate quite what that means. And with the patience foreign to
• 25:41
  his character as they knew it, Carmichael proceeded to explain, but he added
• 25:48
  that was nothing to his performance last Sunday, and getting here from beyond the
• 25:52
  boundarying the time he did it in bare foot would have been good enough.
• 25:57
  His shoes, don't you forget his feet? I can see them and feel
• 26:03
  them. Still, Oh, he's a grand chap, the overseer allowed,
• 26:10
  we nevers did he wasn't his ally chimed in. Carmichael took no notice of
• 26:15
  a turn which the youth with the putty face had never employed toward him before.
• 26:19
  He was also in his school Aleaven, continued Carmichael, still in a
• 26:22
  reflective fashion. Was it a public school, inquired smart, Yes, the
• 26:29
  public school, added Chaucer, Not mine, if that's what you mean,
• 26:33
  returned Carmichael, with just a touch of his earlier manner. But he knew
• 26:38
  my old head master. It was quite a pal of the dear old man.
• 26:42
  We had such lots in common, added the manager, more to himself
• 26:48
  than to the other two. The overseer's comment is in no consequence, but
• 26:52
  the bookkeeper was emboldened to add matters even less. Suffice it that between them
• 26:57
  they brought the old Carmichael to his feet, his glasses flaming in the moonshine,
• 27:03
  his body thrown pugilistically backward, his jaw jutting like a crag. The
• 27:10
  old Carmichael, indeed, but not in word as oldier. Just now,
• 27:15
  I didn't care tuppence what either of you thought of me, he roared,
• 27:18
  though there wasn't the least necessity to tell you, because you knew. So
• 27:22
  I needn't repeat myself, but just listen a moment and try not to be
• 27:26
  greater fools than God made you. You saw a real man last Sunday,
• 27:30
  and so did I had almost forgotten what they were like that quality. Well,
• 27:36
  we had a lot of talk, and he told me what they were
• 27:40
  doing on some of the other stations. They're holding services something like what he
• 27:45
  held here every Sunday night for themselves. Now, it isn't in human nature
• 27:49
  to fly from one extreme to the other, but we are going to have
• 27:52
  a try to keep up our Sunday end with the other stations, at least
• 27:57
  I am, and you too are going to back me up, he paused,
• 28:03
  not a syllable from the peer. Do you hear me? Thundered Carmichael,
• 28:11
  as he had thundered in the dormitory at school. Now, after twenty
• 28:15
  years, the same good cause once more, Whether you like it or not,
• 28:21
  you fellows are going to back me up. And Carmichael was a mighty
• 28:26
  man whose influence was not to be withstood. End of chapter seven,