The Bishop ~ Australian Pioneer Story

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The Bishop

That wasn't his real name nor title - that was conferred on him by a clever, witty young Pioneer because he claimed that Archbishop Davidson was his uncle. "Right - O!" said the young Hard Case, "Then you must be a Bishop, at "least". And The Bishop he remained to the end. A letter addressed to "The Bishop of Kwolyin", sent through the Post Office actually reached him - such is Fame and wit.

We brought him with us from Victoria. He was so anxious to get away from Melbourne that we sensed something wrong, but we agreed to bring him, pay his expenses, and he would work it out when we settled.

He had been sitting on the doorstep when we came out. His appearance was not altogether prepossessing - he had a round melonish head, fair hair, bulgy pale-blue eyes and only one ear. The holes of the other were there but the fleshy parts were missing - his hearing was perfect. He was garbed in a very dirty striped Football Jersey, a pair of dungaree strides, no sox and a pair of well-worn boots.

He jumped up smartly, swallow the last bit of apple and said, "Good mawning'!" in a, what The Boss termed, Ladida, sort of way. The Boss returned the greeting, then asked what he wanted why was he there so early in the morning? He wanted a job, that's what; and a gentleman down the road told him last night that he might get one here, so he came early to get it. No, he hadn't had any breakfast yet; and no, he had no other clothes - they had been stolen one night as he slept. And people were suspicious of chaps without any luggage. No, he had no living relations, and his name was Ern Roberts.

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In 1908 the name of Lord Roberts was very familiar to all, so The Boss asked jokingly if the youth were any relation to the Great Soldier. "I'm not certain", he answered gravely, "But I think there is some link - my people came from England when I was a baby; but they are long since dead and I don't know much about my relations."

Well, what could The Boss, so soft-hearted, do but engage this orphan of the Storms of Adversity? He was not afraid of work, not he! And when his day's work was over he took a tin of worms, a pack of food, a dozen or so apples and repaired to the nearby river Lang-lang, to return at dawn with a bag of eels and spotted trout or black-fish.

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We found as the days passed that he was related to many public figures - Florence Young, the famous beautiful actress was his Auntie the second week; and the next week so was Carrie Moore - it was most interesting, really. We had fixed him up for clothes and a hat and he was quite respectable, and exceptionally good-mannered, so we closed our eyes to whispers that this youth had "diddled" a baker out of the day's takings at a town some fifty miles away, and left in a hurry.

He came in one day carrying a horrible, long, shining snake-skin. I was in the dairy, which was cold and sweet, and the intrusion of anything so nasty made me jump and yell, "Get out of here with that horrible thing, you idiot!" He retired slowly and with dignity - "I'm sure I don't know what's wrong with people today, and why all the fuss over a snake-skin - it's harmless enough. Jim Murphy came at me like a mad bull when I went there; he said his wife would go screaming mad if she saw that; it's dead enough, isn't it?"

"Look, Boy," I was trying to keep calm, "If you don't get out of my sight with that horrible thing, I'll -- I looked around for something hard and heavy but Ernie had disappeared round the corner of the dairy. Later he explained to The Boss that he had longed for a snake-skin belt for many a day and when he killed the reptile down in the gully he immediately "skun" it for that purpose - there was no harm in that, was there, now?

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The Boss there was no harm in it, but the sight of a glittering snake-skin would give any person a shock, "So keep it out of sight till it is tanned and then make your belt". Ernie was satisfied with that dictum and for several days there was no sign of the nasty thing; then one day I sniffed something rather revolting on the air around the back door. "Something very dead around here", I told The Boss. He also sniffed thoughtfully. "Shoo! Dead right enough! But where the he** can it be?"

I suggested, "In the apple-shed," which was adjacent. "Yes," more sniffing, "Seems to come from there - follow your nose. Gosh! It's awful!" It certainly was. I opened the door and there was the horrible smelly skin wrapped around the youth's hat lying on a bench. When he appeared later in the afternoon and was charged with the offence of creating a nuisance or, in vulgar terms of The Boss, "a ****ed stink", Ernie, with an air of injured innocence, took the hat with its decomposing ornament and buried it down in the apple-orchard.

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He made friends with a young lad further up the road, and this innocent listened open-mouthed to Ernie's stories, took them home and related his doubting relations with them. This lad, impressed with the story that Roberts had been a fast and furious goal-sneak with the mighty Carlton Football Team, introduced him to the local footballers, and soon he was one of the Band. We were told his tactics, although unorthodox, were amazing. No given area could contain such an ardent player - he would charge with the ball through forbidden areas; pummel inoffensive opponents for the merest trifles; and challenge the Umpire every time he gave a decision against Ernie's side.

He would return from a practice or match laden with cigarettes and chocolates, also a Guernsey with the local colors, all of which he declared had been given to him in gratitude for his assistance on the field. If we gave a thought to it at all we may have guessed there something a bit queer about the business, but we were too much engrossed just then with our own affairs - we were preparing for our Exit from Victoria and our Entrance into The West.

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He decided that roast, stuffed rabbits were ideal food for a footballer and no matter what we had for our evening's meal, Ernie sat down to two large-size, roast, stuffed rabbits, and when he had finished with them there wasn't enough left on the bones for the smallest kitten.

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However Pay Day arrived - it always does, somehow; and, "The sins that we do by two and two we pay for one by one", is cruelly true. The big coarse-looking man with a bush of unkempt whiskers that strode up to the house a week before we left was the Avenging Angel for poor Ernie. We looked at the stranger with unconcern, but his appearance had a remarkable effect upon the champion footballer - he let out a terrified yip, leapt to his feet, knocked over a chair and bolted out of the room, meeting the visitor on the edge of the verandah.

We heard only a confused murmuring, then the raised voice the stranger - "I don't care, I want my money~ I must have my money." Some more confused murmuring then the raised voice - "I must have my money or I'll hand you over to the police. Get a move on."

The face of the youth was contorted with agony, tears were in his bulging eyes, and his whole expression and attitude exhibited the most abject misery.

The coarse voice rose again - "Go on! Do something!" With dragging feet the wretched lad turned back to the door where we were standing watching the Play. He wiped his wet cheeks, cast a suppliant look at The Boss and spoke in a choked voice - "This is Mr Maloney, Boss; I owe him seven Pounds for the Football Jersey and sox." And cigarettes, and chocolate, and bottles of lemonade," broke in the whiskered stranger, "And you were sneaking off without paying me, weren't you, Dam* you, only I got wind you were going!"

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The Boss took it all in and said quietly, "What sort of fool are you to give tick to such an extent to a total stranger and only a lad at that?" The big man swelled visibly, "I have my living to make from my shop and I sell when I can; but this lying young cub" - he thrust a large, hairy, freckled hand in Ernie's face - "told me he was your young brother so I thought you would be paying for anything he couldn't."

We both burst into laughter and the lad burst into loud sobbing at the same moment; the big fellow renewed his threats to call in the police - Comedy and Tragedy hand-in-hand. The Boss waited till the lad ceased his wailing, gave him a good, stern lesson on lying and cheating, then wrote out the cheque and paid the man off. This individual gave a final glare at the woe-begone Ernie and told us we would be wise to get rid of such a miscreant; "Don't take that to The West," he added as a rider, "Don't pollute a good new country with that lying skunk".

It was a very chastened Ernie that busied himself in preparing for our departure, and we agreed to take him along with us in spite of the warning we had received from his irate creditor. When we got to Melbourne, Ernie advised us he had an Aunt and Uncle in a suburb who would house him till we were ready to sail. This suited us as well and it was not till a couple of hours before the scheduled hour of departure that he came on board.

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He was standing with us on the Upper Deck looking down at the Wharf when he suddenly let out a cry and shrank behind The Boss. "What's wrong now?" The Boss enquired, "Not another creditor is it?"

By that time an officer had come up the gangway accompanied by a plump, motherly, well-dressed middle-aged lady. They halted and looked around enquiringly, then Ernie broke out from behind The Boss, cried "Mother!" and ran towards her. We could not hear what passed, but the Officer beckoned us to come over, which we did; and he explained that the lady was the boy's mother and had wired the vessel to detain him till she arrived. She was a sweet, gentle creature, the wife of a ganger on the Railways in the Victorian Midlands, and she told us that the boy was always an unruly, difficult child. Time after time he had run away from home and the police had brought him back each time. Then when they procured him a good position he ran away from that with the day's taking in his pocket. "A very difficult boy," she sobbed.

"But how did you know he was going with us?" I asked, and she explained that her sister had sent her a wire, upon receipt of which she came to the City to stop him leaving the Country. We told her our side of the tale - how he was an orphan and cast himself upon our mercy. She understood it only too well. "And I believe he's going under a false name," she broke into a fresh gush of tears; then she added, "His name is William Benson no matter what he calls himself." When we told her we were quite willing she should take him away with her she thought for a few minutes the said sorrowfully - "Perhaps it's better this way. He's bound to disgrace us some day and it will be so hard on the other children - he can go with you. But I would like you to send me a line some day to let me know what he is doing." Then she kissed her wandering boy goodbye, wished us Luck, and stumbled blindly down the gangway. Poor Mother!

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The moment she was gone, the youth assumed a confident, assured manner - a sort of What-the Heck-do-I-care-for-anyone attitude; which was scarcely affected by the Officer returning and ordering him down to the lower Deck where he belonged. He had been subject to these uprisings occasionally and they used to amuse me greatly. I remembered New Year's morning when the neighbour, Mr Murphy was visiting us, and young Roberts stalked in, threw a contemptuous glance in the neighbour's face, and said "Happy Noo 'Ear to you, Murphy!" And Murphy with ready Irish wit answered, "New ear yourself, you mean, I've got two perfectly good ones as it is". Ern had then been ordered out by The Boss, to add to his discomfiture, but he went out with a haughty toss of the head - the blood of the famous relatives must have been flowering at High Tide at those moments.

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As he was sea-sick most of the way across I saw or heard very little of Ernie; but he told us afterwards that he had entertained the passengers with music and song nearly every night, and the First Engineer had told him he should be "On the Boards", so I presume a good time was had by the passengers below.

When we had everything ready to leave the City and go up to the Wilds, Ernie approached me and in an off-hand manner said, "Please tell The Boss I want a new organ to take up with me - I'll choose it myself." I looked at him slightly perplexed - "Organ? What do you mean? Organ of what kind?" "A mouth-organ" was what he required but that sounded too common for a relative of the great soldier, I suppose. Anyway he got the organ, and our lives were thereby embittered.

At night we would sit or lie in our tent in the dark, silent Bush far from the haunts of civilisation, and the strains of the organ would proceed from the other tent hour after hour alternating with song. The notes wold echo through the silent wood, all sad and sorrowful songs, chief of which was "Don't-ah-tell-ah-mawther if I'm-ah-with-a the a-slain, I'm-ah-all that's-ah-let to-ah-her; but-a kiss her-ah-dear sweet-a lips for-ah-me again, and-a break the-ah news to a-her". Then again it would be a sob song about "A little-ah-boy called-ah Taps."

One morning when The Boss was irritable on account of the billions of sand-flies burrowing into his skin, he asked the youth why the **** he put in all those "Ahs"; "Sounds so silly," he said crossly; "If you must sing, at least do it properly. "Ernie looked at him coldly. "I don't think you understand Voice Production", his voice was condescending and cold, "or you'd know that all great singers do that to keep the right balance." The Boss told him to go fry his face or shut up and handed him an axe; but I could see Ernie was wounded to the very soul.

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That night the mournful songs came clear and heart-rending upon the frosty air, and this time it was - "Tell a-mawther I'll be there-a, when she a-climbs the-ah golden ah-stair; this ah-message Blessed-ah Saviour-ah to her-ah bear." There was a distinct home-sickness and wanting-mummie in every note, but we offered no comfort, we had wasted our pity in the past.

Then some natives came to the camp at a water-hole a few miles away and Ernie went to pay them an official visit. He returned full of praise, they were lovely people, and he knew all their names and all about their families. I have no doubt they would have been astonished had they heard the tales. Then one evening he came back from the visit with a small, weedy, three-cornered, blue mongrel dog on the end of a string. In answer to our questions he said haughtily - "George let me have her cheap". "Cheap!" sneered The Boss surveying the cringing mongrel; "that thing would be a dear as a gift. What did you pay for it?"

After a few sulking minutes he out with it - "Five Pounds!" - "Five Pounds?" We were astonished and angry. "And what do you think you're going to do with it?" asked The Boss. "When I leave here I'm going kangarooing with Bill. "And who was Bill, we wondered, but didn't ask - we were past it - the old adage "A fool and his money are soon parted" was here exemplified. And some few days later we discovered that he had also handed over his good serge suit, and good white shirt, and a woolen sweater. George must have thought Ernie was Daddy Xmas - things like that came very seldom in his life, I feel sure; and who can blame him for grabbing when he had a chance? The little mongrel disappeared after a couple of weeks, and Ernie mourned for her for a few days then forgot all about it.

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Each night the Bush was treated to the sad, sad songs; the favourite being the "Don't-ah tell-ah mawther if I'm-ah with the ah-slain"; and after Gallipoli where his bullet-riddled corpse was thrown across the barb-wire entanglements for the other to climb over, I wondered if he had any prescience of the fate awaiting him. But since the Dog and George affair The Boss was rather short with the youth, and after the putting on of one of his High Tide shows he was sacked, and we slept in peace.

He pushed himself in with the young Pioneer, Len Bolt, a few miles away - the only other person for many miles around, and Len made good use of him as a target for his jokes. Anyhow, he was company. Then a couple of other men arrived and Ernie went to work with them it was during this period that he acquired the title of Bishop, and to the very last he was always known as The Bishop - many people were quite surprised when they saw his real name on the Honour Board, they had never heard it.

After we were surveyed up and other settlers moved in the Bishop remained in the District moving from place to place as he was sacked - he never stayed very long anywhere. The Boss met him once on the long trip to the Railway some forty miles away - The Boss was going but Ernie was returning. He had two small pigs in a crate, and one hand held the reins while the other was thrust through the bars of the crate for the piglets to suck his fingers. When The Boss asked shy the *evil he was doing that, he was told coldly that "It's the only way to keep them quiet; when I take my fingers out they squeal."

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About this time the Bishop had his Baptism of Fire where alcohol is concerned. The clearers were having a celebration - a case of beer brought out the ling stretch from Town plus a bottle or so of whisky. They sat around the table with the Bishop quite gay and ready for the spree. Big Nic poured him out a mug of beer - "You'd better just take a taste, lad; if you've never had booze before it might knock you".

The Bishop took a long swig, pronounced it quite as good as what mother used to make - "That wouldn't hurt anyone," he declared, emptied the mug and held it out for more. The older men, good old miners, were hesitant, but young Bolt could not deny himself the fun he could see ahead, and Ernie's mug was filled again to overflowing. A pack of cards was produced, a game of Euchre begun and ever and anon the mugs were replenished. Big Nic considered it quite one of the best amateur performances he had ever witnessed, and marveled what the youth was made of. Ernie was flicking cards about, wildly, ordering his opponent to "Pick it up, if you're game", when without an instant's warming he disappeared under the table. One moment he was there all life and go and the next he was a limp heap down among the dregs, tobacco ashes and a dog or so, to the unholy joy of the rascal Bolt.

The next day was one of tribulation and woe to the poor Bishop. He clasped his head, moaned and groaned, with intervals of blaming Bolt; and when the men reminded him that he wouldn't be told - would have his own way - he accused them of hocussing his beer. "Chewed-up tobacco in it, that's what - chewed-up tobacco! I noticed a queer taste in one mugful - you doped it while I was shuffling the cards, that's what!"

Yet I was able to write his mother that he had done nothing to disgrace the family after three years, so her mind would be at rest - her wandering boy.

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We always bought out our stores in bulk, three of four months stores at once, but cheeses, being things that dried out quickly when cut, were not bulk, just a few pounds at a time. But one day when the Bishop came to see how we were doing without his aid, he rolled an eye at me and enquired, "Do you still get only a few pounds of cheese at a time?" I pleaded guiltily, we did, but why did he ask that? Oh, he just thought of it when he saw Mr Gillam bringing out a whole bale of them the last time he went to Town.

"Good Heavens! Surely not! Why ever should they bring out a bale of cheese? And anyway how do you know they did?" He smiled disdainfully, "I passed him on the road and there was the bale of twelve cheese roped together and strapped on the back of his sulky. "I still wouldn't accept it. "But how do you know they were cheeses?" He was ready for that. "I said to him: You have a dozen cheeses there, I counted them", and he said, "Yes, a dozen cheeses", and he said he reckoned they'd have indigestion when they'd finished that lot".

I felt there was something fishy about that story and a week later I discovered it was a bale of binder-twine, and Mr Gillam, knowing the Bishop, couldn't resist taking a rise out of him. He laughed himself sick when I told him the story - it was all so amusing. But there was never anything vicious or harmful to anyone in the fun, and the Bishop was never distressed nor worried about it.