THE DEPRIVED... Chapter 4...Part 14.

A continuation of my book.

It was on the fifth day of their wanderings that the men lead Sam through some rocky hills and down into a valley of green scrubland and then up the other side to where a small river ran, fed from its source among the rocks and down to meet a carpet of grass and trees and there, at its centre sat a ramshackle hut made mostly of wood and covered with skins of some sort. To one side were other smaller dwellings, more like tents covered in the same animal skins. Sam could see the smoke from a fire which was fed by a woman who suddenly stood up and waved when Walking Tom shouted a greeting as the men neared the camp. The woman ran inside the hut, to be followed out by an old man who carried a rifle which seemed older than he was, more a musket than a gun. He wore a white hat on straggly white hair which seemed to cover his face in a wild growth of whiskers and beard that flowed down to his waist.

By now the four men had reached the camp and the old man put down his gun and began to berate the three Aborigines in a strange language, shouting and with a finger pointing at each of them in turn. The three men seemed quite unperturbed by this outcry, their wide grins exposing large white teeth and then without more ado they left the old man to his ranting and wandered over to the tents and vanished inside.
“Do you see what I have to put up with!” shouted the old man now turning to look at Sam.
Sam said nothing, now realising that the old man was not an Aborigine and that his harangue at the others had been a mixture of their own language with a smattering of English.
“And who are you?” asked the old man, his eyes taking in the torn prison uniform.
Sam smiled, recognising the Irish brogue as coming from the South of Ireland.
“My name’s Sam.” he said simply.
“Ah, an Irishman.” exclaimed the old man with some excitement then stopped, his eyes becoming wary.
“You’re wearing prison clothes. Have you escaped?”
“No. I’m not an escapee.” replied Sam. “It is hard to explain and I ask that you give me some water and food and then I will explain how I came to be with those men.”
“Those good for nothing rascals!” exploded the old man, seeming to forget Sam’s request as he walked over to the tents and began shouting through the opening flaps. Coming back, he picked up his gun and walked into the hut, to poke his head out of the open doorway and call for Sam to come inside. Inside the hut it was airy and strangely cool although the animal skins gave out a strange smell.
“My name’s O’Connor.” said the old man, motioning Sam to sit on one of the stools. “I’ve been in this God forsaken country for forty years and spent twenty of them years in prison before I got my ticket of leave and found this place. I have me a woman, an Aborigine woman although she goes back to her tribe ever so often. She goes and leaves me to fend for myself.” said O’Connor as he poured out some water in a tin mug which Sam drunk eagerly.
“Walking Tom!”
The old man had walked outside and Sam listened as he rattled off some commands to Walking Tom.
“I told him to cook some meat and potatoes for you.” he explained, returning and lifting a bucket of water up onto the table. “Just tip your tin in the bucket when you want a drink.” he offered and Sam refilled the mug and drank.
The smell of burning meat filled the air, wafting into the hut and causing Sam’s mouth to salivate.
“It’s good to have another man to talk to.” said O’Connor as he settled himself on the other stool. “You can’t talk to them outside, those heathens. I taught Walking Tom some words but he acts dumb when he wants to and does whatever he’s a mind to do. They’re heathens and with minds of their own. You take Walking Tom out there. He can get up in the middle of the night and just walk away, taking the others with him. He goes on a walkabout and the Lord knows where they wander off to. Sometimes they’re gone for weeks and then come back like ghosts, just as if they’ve not been away. But they are excellent hunters and bring me meat and plants. Smell that?”
The old man suddenly stopped to sniff the air.
“That’s Kangaroo meat on the fire. I call them ‘Hopalongs’. I don’t know what them outside call the animals but they have many uses, like them skins what’s covering this shack and the tents outside. I haven’t got a clue how to pronounce the names of them outside and that’s why I give them names I understand.”
O’Connor stopped talking when Walking Tom came into the hut, carrying the meat and potatoes on a large wooden tray which he set down on the table and left.
“Eat, boy.” ordered the old man and sat quiet as Sam crammed the food into his mouth, eating till he sat back and held his bloated stomach with a wide smile of appreciation.
“Now.” said O’Connor. “Tell me about yourself and how you came to be here. Tell me everything and don’t miss a bit.”
Sam began to talk, talking about his early life and of his parents and Beth, open in his explanation as to how he ended up in prison and of his time spent in the prison hulk.
The light was fading by the time Sam finished talking and the old man threw some animal skins on the floor of the hut.
“Get some sleep and we’ll talk more in the morning.”
Sam lay down and was asleep before the old man had settled himself on a bed made of brushwood and covered in Kangaroo skins.

Sam opened his eyes to the sound of the old man shouting at someone outside. Rising and peering out through the opening he saw the old Aborigine woman with flossy white hair. She had very thin arms and legs and tended the fire while the old man stood over her.
“Where have you been, you worthless old bag of bones!” he shouted. “We have a guest and you haven’t even cooked the breakfast!”
The old woman appeared not to be listening to him as she poked at the fire with a stick. Seeing Sam, the old man left the fire and came over.
“She’s as deaf as a post!” he shouted, as if Sam was also deaf.
Sam smiled as he saw the old woman look up at the old man and make a motion with her hand which was obviously a rude gesture. No, she was not deaf and Sam was to learn that the Aborigine was cleverer than O’Connor supposed. While they were happy to smile and obey orders it was something of a game to them, only doing what they wanted to do and then vanishing on their walkabouts.
The old woman had cooked some meat over the fire and brought it in and laid it on the table before walking out and squatting outside with the three Aborigines.
“Eat it! It’s snake.” qualified the old man when Sam picked up the meat and sniffed at it.
“Do the soldiers ever come here?” asked Sam as they ate breakfast.
“I have never seen then.” answered O’Connor. “I only stumbled on this place when I was out and about. I was trying my hand at prospecting, you know, looking for gold and came across the river down there. The boys and my woman came afterwards, just appearing one day with some Kangaroo meat and skins. I was pretty glad of that because I’d already eaten my mule and my dog and was near starving. Anyway, I marries the woman in a sort of ceremony so as to keep her here with me. Them boys are a help when they’re here and so I settled and have a nice life.”
Sam went outside. The old woman was gone while the three men were playing some sort of game with their throwing sticks. They were extremely agile and accurate at hitting the target, one of the wooden spears planted in the ground.
“That’s all they’re good for!” exclaimed the old man, joining Sam.
“Look at the way John No Longer jumps around. He’s dancing to the spirit for good luck.”
Sam watched John No Longer as he bent his thin legs and then jumped up and continued to prance about in a most strange fashion. The other two now joined him in the dance.
“Why is he called John No Longer?” asked Sam.
“Well, I could not pronounce any of their Aborigine names so I begins to give them proper names and I called him John. But it appeared the Aborigines have no use for short names and he refused to answer to it. So I decided he was John No Longer and that was the name he liked. The same with him there.” he said, pointing out Jim Who Whistles.  “He has a stick which, when he spins it on a cord of gut whistles really loud and so that’s why I called him Jim Who Whistles. As for Walking Tom, I called him that because he’s always off on his walkabout.”
“What is her name?” ask Sam, indicating the old woman who had returned from behind one of the tents with some grubs. She had finished eating and now sat to pick at her teeth with a bit of stick.
“She’s called Bag Of Bones!” cackled O’Connor.
Going back inside the hut, the old man demanded that Sam tell him of news about the ‘Home Country’. Sam told him of the continuing potato famine and the way they had been treated by the English. O’Connor spat at the ground.
“One day.” he swore. “We’ll be rid of those leeches and be free as we once were!”
Sam shrugged. He had seen the poor and deprived who lived in the slums of London’s East-End and knew they had it worse than those in Ireland who breathed the clean air of the South.