CHAPTER 50
The rain hit without warning and lasted for two days and nights, drowned a Slav and an Italian in the pit and shut the work down for the first time since the fire.
The miners huddled under tents. Rain-soaked canvas drooped above their heads and spit out the fires as quickly as they were lit. It was a cold, damp rain, dull and quiet without the fury of lightning. The ground ran brown and muddy between the rows of tents and boots sank. Bedding, packs, matches and food were piled in the corners on warped pieces of metal to keep dry. Men and women stunk of damp clothes that had been dried, then wet, then dried and wet again. The open sewer pipe near the hills overflowed and the fetid sludge slid toward the camp. Old clothes and hemp sacks filled with sand lined the outskirts to keep the muck from entering, but the sludge found every crack and veined intently.
Ghan sat in Whistler’s tent on a soaked piece of a flattened cardboard box. They ate quietly, each with a tin of meat and a fork. His was lamb; Whistler ate sardines. Tin dog, they called it. The bread, soaked as a sponge, rotted in the corner.
The rain weakened the spirit. No work yesterday, none today, unlikely any tomorrow. Three days without wages hung on the camp. Even Whistler didn’t smile, his face gray and drawn as the clouds. The din of Whistler’s fork prongs hit against the bottom of the can as he dug for a final bite. “There’s talkin’,” he said to his can.
Ghan munched the warm lamb, so tender and overcooked that the texture felt previously chewed. “Whot kind of talkin’?”
“Angry talkin’. Comin’ from every side now,” Whistler said. “Rain makin’ it worse. Nothin’ t’do but talk.” The old man poked at his food. “Some talkin’ strike, some talkin’ riot, but everybody talkin’ mad. Foreigners hot as piss ’bout those drowned miners. Got a right t’be, too. Managers kept those boys down there too long. Saw the water risin’ an’ didn’t bring ’em up. Can’t even bury the bloated bodies ’cause the mud keeps fillin’ in the graves.”
Ghan cleaned his tin and set it on the ground next to his feet. He looked at Whistler. “Managers want me to spy,” he said. “Tell ’em if there’s rumblings. Why I got the job. Only reason I got this job.” Ghan waited for a reaction.
Whistler finished his last bite, scraped the plate clean and licked both sides of his fork, then grinned widely. “Yeh ain’t a rat, Ghan.”
Ghan grinned back. “Not a day in m’life.”
“Whot yeh gonna do when they start askin’? Even the bosses can feel the water boilin’.”
Ghan shrugged. “Stall ’em, I guess. Tell ’em there’s complainin’, but nothing’ organized. Just the normal rantin’.”
“Yer in a tough spot, mate. Won’t be long ’fore the anger spills over. Somepin’s gonna happen that’ll knock the pot over. Sure as ’ell it’s comin’. Men on every side just waitin’ fer somebody t’sneeze an’ the pot gonna knock clean over an’ burn the ’ell outta people.” Whistler stopped, sucked his gums for fish. “The big guys’ll blame yeh fer not givin’ ’em warnin’. Be happy to take it out on somebody.”
The cardboard under Ghan’s bottom sank into the mud, but he didn’t care. He shrugged again. “I ain’t gonna think ’bout it. Take one day at a time. Save my money case I gotta get out. If they catch me, not too much they can do t’me that hasn’t been done already.”
“Break yer bones,” Whistler lamented.
“Like I say, ain’t nothin’ new. When it’s done, go on livin’ or go on dyin’.”
“Yer fergettin’ ’bout the sufferin’ in between.”
“Didn’t ferget.” Ghan looked at his big, rough hands. “But I ain’t a rat.”
Whistler rose stiffly, his joints cracking and sore with rheumatism, all the more rigid with the rain. He dug through a pile and brought out a rusted can, pulled off the top and took out an old sock with a ball at the end. He swung it in the air like a pendulum. “I’ve been puttin’ money away. Little here an’ there when I can. Ain’t much.” Whistler threw the sock at Ghan, who caught it quick. “First sign of trouble, come in here an’ take it. Get the ’ell out ’fore they come fer yeh.”
Ghan threw the sock back. “Ain’t takin’ yer money, Whistler.”
“Damn right yeh is!” Whistler shot back. “I got family. Got my shitload of girls t’care fer me. Whot yeh got?” He rubbed his stubble. “Look, I ain’t long fer this world. My bones so tight feel like they’re gonna split in two. Hurts so damn bad to walk an’ move my fingers, I come close t’eatin’ rat poison just t’make it stop. Only reason I’m still here is my girls. Crush their gawd-ferin’ hearts if I killed m’self. Think I’d be burnin’ in ’ell, they would.”
Whistler squeezed his lips bitterly. “I don’t need the money, Ghan. If those sons of bitches hurt yeh, it’s gonna hurt me. Hurt me somepin awful inside. Yeh know how those damn girls made me soft like butter! Got enough pain wivout yers.”
Whistler stuffed the sock into the can and put the top back on, then buried it in the pile. “If yeh don’t need the money, it stays here. But if yer in trouble, gawd damn it, take it!” Whistler shoved a pile of old clothes on top. “Now come on. Let’s get outta here an’ see if anybody’s got a game on.”
The old men hunched out of the tent, pulled up their shirt collars over their necks and pulled down their hats against the pelting rain. Cigarette smoke drifted and extinguished from a large tent on the Aussie side. A low hum of voices came from the opening and then a high shout and then the low hum again. Whistler pulled back the flap. The ceiling was high, so they stretched out their backs and dripped. “Boys gotta game on?” Whistler asked.
“Depends,” a burly, sunburned man answered. “Got money?”
Whistler jingled the coins in his pocket.
“Orright.” The man nodded. “Join in.” He scooted his wooden crate over. “Make room for the old-timers!” he ordered. Each rump slid over a spot.
“Whot yeh playin’?” Ghan asked.
“Fly loo.” In the middle of the men lay a slab of wood and on top sat six small pyramids of sugar. The men vigorously waved at the flies in the air. “Place yer bets!” the man hollered.
Ghan placed his coin in front of the fourth cone of sugar. The other men followed, each picking a pile, some doubling up. “Bets placed!” the man shouted. “Three, two, one, down!”
The flapping of hands stopped and stilled, every eye watching the buzzing blowflies. A hairy, ugly fly swooped down, circled the sugar while the men held their breath. Then another fly drifted down and without stopping to consider landed on the second mound of sugar and started licking at the granules. Three of the men cheered and clapped while the others grunted. The winners held out hands for the payout. “Flies comin’ in like black clouds from the sewage,” another man explained. “Don’t know whot flies like more, shit or sugar.” The men laughed.
“Whistler an’ Ghan, right?” the headman asked pleasantly while he divvied up the winnings. They nodded. “Winston. Good t’ave yeh. Yer new, ain’t yeh?” he asked Ghan.
“Don’t feel like it,” Ghan answered while he dug for another coin. “Been workin’ the mines most of m’life. One don’t seem different from the next.”
“Fair dinkum.” Winston nodded. “Why yeh boys livin’ down wiv ’em stinkin’ E-talians? Should be over on our end.”
Whistler shot Ghan an I told yeh so glance and answered, “Lady down that way feeds us. Damn good cook, too. Only reason. Old farts like us need t’take a hot meal when we can.”
Winston frowned with understanding. “Just watch yerself. ’Em people don’t wash their hands. Eat same place they shit.” Snorts and growls rumbled around the table amid the flapping hands. “Last game! Place bets!”