His Father's Mate Page #3

"His Father's Mate" is a poignant short story by Australian author Henry Lawson, exploring the themes of friendship, loyalty, and the complexities of relationships in the context of rural life. Set against the backdrop of the Australian bush, the narrative revolves around the bond between two young men, highlighting their shared experiences, aspirations, and the challenges they face. Through vivid imagery and characteristic Australian vernacular, Lawson delves into the emotional landscape of his characters, ultimately shedding light on the enduring impact of familial ties and the sacrifices made for those we hold dear. The story reflects Lawson's mastery in capturing the essence of life in the bush, blending humor and pathos in a deeply resonant tale.

• Short story

								


“Why did they call yer Isley for?” queried Bob, as they resumed their
seats. “It ain't yer real name, is it?”

“No, my name's Harry. A digger useter say I was a isle in the ocean to
father 'n mother, 'n then I was nicknamed Isle, 'n then Isley.”

“You hed a--why--brother once, didn't yer?”

“Yes, but thet was afore I was borned. He died, at least mother used ter
say she didn't know if he was dead; but father says he's dead as fur's
he's concerned.”

“And your father hed a brother, too. Did yer ever--why--hear of him?”

“Yes, I heard father talkin' about it wonst to mother. I think father's
brother got into some row in a bar where a man was killed.”

“And was yer--why--father--why--fond of him?”

“I heard father say that he was wonst, but thet was all past.”

Bob smoked in silence for a while, and seemed to look at some dark
clouds that were drifting along like a funeral out in the west.
Presently he said half aloud something that sounded like “All,
all--why--past.”

“Eh?” said Isley.

“Oh, it's--why, why--nothin',” answered Bob, rousing himself. “Is that a
paper in yer father's coat-pocket, Isley?”

“Yes,” said the boy, taking it out.

Bob took the paper and stared hard at it for a moment or so.

“There's something about the new goldfields there,” said Bob, putting
his finger on a tailor's advertisement. “I wish you'd--why--read it to
me, Isley; I can't see the small print they uses nowadays.”

“No, thet's not it,” said the boy, taking the paper, “it's something
about--”

“Isley!”

“'Old on, Bob, father wants me.”

The boy ran to the shaft, rested his hands and forehead against the bole
of the windlass, and leant over to hear what his father was saying.

Without a moment's warning the treacherous bole slipped round; a small
body bounded a couple of times against the sides of the shaft and fell
at Mason's feet, where it lay motionless!

“Mason!”

“Ay?”

“Put him in the bucket and lash him to the rope with your belt!”

A few moments, and--

“Now, Bob!”

Bob's trembling hands would scarcely grasp the handle, but he managed to
wind somehow.

Presently the form of the child appeared, motionless and covered with
clay and water. Mason was climbing up by the steps in the side of the
shaft.

Bob tenderly unlashed the boy and laid him under the saplings on the
grass; then he wiped some of the clay and blood away from the child's
forehead, and dashed over him some muddy water.

Presently Isley gave a gasp and opened his eyes.

“Are yer--why--hurt much, Isley?” asked Bob.

“Ba-back's bruk, Bob!”

“Not so bad as that, old man.”

“Where's father?”

“Coming up.”

Silence awhile, and then--

“Father! father! be quick, father!”

Mason reached the surface and came and knelt by the other side of the
boy.

“I'll, I'll--why--run fur some brandy,” said Bob.

“No use, Bob,” said Isley. “I'm all bruk up.”

“Don't yer feel better, sonny?”

“No--I'm--goin' to--die, Bob.”

“Don't say it, Isley,” groaned Bob.

A short silence, and then the boy's body suddenly twisted with pain. But
it was soon over. He lay still awhile, and then said quietly:

“Good-bye, Bob!”

Bob made a vain attempt to speak. “Isley!” he said,”---”

The child turned and stretched out his hands to the silent, stony-faced
man on the other side.

“Father--father, I'm goin'!”

A shuddering groan broke from Mason's lips, and then all was quiet.

Bob had taken off his hat to wipe his, forehead, and his face, in spite
of its disfigurement, was strangely like the face of the stone-like man
opposite.

For a moment they looked at one another across the body of the child,
and then Bob said quietly:

“He never knowed.”

“What does it matter?” said Mason gruffly; and, taking up the dead
child, he walked towards the hut.

It was a very sad little group that gathered outside Mason's but next
morning. Martin's wife had been there all the morning cleaning up and
doing what she could. One of the women had torn up her husband's only
white shirt for a shroud, and they had made the little body look clean
and even beautiful in the wretched little hut.

One after another the fossickers took off their hats and entered,
stooping through the low door. Mason sat silently at the foot of the
bunk with his head supported by his hand, and watched the men with a
strange, abstracted air.

Bob had ransacked the camp in search of some boards for a coffin.

“It will be the last I'll be able to--why--do for him,” he said.

At last he came to Mrs Martin in despair. That lady took him into the
dining-room, and pointed to a large pine table, of which she was very
proud.

“Knock that table to pieces,” she said.

Taking off the few things that were lying on it, Bob turned it over and
began to knock the top off.

When he had finished the coffin one of the fossicker's wives said it
looked too bare, and she ripped up her black riding-skirt, and made Bob
tack the cloth over the coffin.

There was only one vehicle available in the place, and that was Martin's
old dray; so about two o'clock Pat Martin attached his old horse Dublin
to the shafts with sundry bits of harness and plenty of old rope, and
dragged Dublin, dray and all, across to Mason's hut.

The little coffin was carried out, and two gin-cases were placed by its
side in the dray to serve as seats for Mrs Martin and Mrs Grimshaw, who
mounted in tearful silence.

Pat Martin felt for his pipe, but remembered himself and mounted on the
shaft. Mason fastened up the door of the hut with a padlock. A couple of
blows on one of his sharp points roused Dublin from his reverie. With a
lurch to the right and another to the left he started, and presently the
little funeral disappeared down the road that led to the “town” and its
cemetery.

About six months afterwards Bob Sawkins went on a short journey, and
returned with a tall, bearded young man. He and Bob arrived after dark,
and went straight to Mason's hut. There was a light inside, but when Bob
knocked there was no answer.

“Go in; don't be afraid,'” he said to his companion.

The stranger pushed open the creaking door, and stood bareheaded just
inside the doorway.

A billy was boiling unheeded on the fire. Mason sat at the table with
his face buried in his arms.

“Father!”

There was no answer, but the flickering of the firelight made the
stranger think he could detect an impatient shrug in Mason's shoulders.

For a moment the stranger paused irresolute, and then stepping up to the
table he laid his hand on Mason's arm, and said gently:

“Father! Do you want another mate?”

But the sleeper did not--at least, not in this world.
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