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Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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James Francis Dwyer
JAMES FRANCIS DWYER (1874-1952) was an Australian writer. Born in Camden Park, New South Wales, Dwyer worked as a postal assistant until he was convicted in a scheme to make fraudulent postal orders and sentenced to seven years imprisonment in 1899. In prison, Dwyer began writing, and with the help of another inmate and a prison guard, had his work published in The Bulletin. After completing his sentence, he relocated to London and then New York, where he established a successful career as a writer of short stories and novels. Dwyer later moved to France, where he wrote his autobiography, Leg-Irons on Wings, in 1949. Dwyer wrote over 1,000 short stories during his career, and was the first Australian-born person to become a millionaire from writing. —Wikipedia
The Black Cat, December 1909, with "At the Bridge"
NIGHT fell like a black pall upon the barren hills. Out of a chrome-colored rent, low down on the western horizon, came a wind that skimmed the froth from the torrent that foamed under the rain fusillade. The great drops hissed downwards as if fired from heavenly artillery. The water gurgled down the slippery banks and flung itself into the torrent that roared protestingly as the hills shouldered it in the narrow places. The stream looked like a monster serpent, sinuous, spiteful, slimy, growing stronger each moment as the black slopes gorged it with their offerings.
A jagged strip of lightning split the fat clouds, and a man, slipping and sliding down the narrow track, saw for an instant the little, swinging foot-bridge fluttering nervously above the torrent. The sudden glimpse of the swollen stream seemed to upset the man's balance. His feet slipped forward, and with many oaths he tobogganed down the glassy surface, stopping himself at last by gripping the lava boulders on the side of the beaten path.
"Curse it," he growled, "I've lost the axe."
On hands and knees he crawled upwards, feeling carefully over the ground that he had just covered in such undignified haste. The water, rushing down to join the torrent, sprang into the openings of his big thigh boots, spurted up his forearms and played with his great beard as he brought his face closer to the ground and tried vainly to pierce the darkness.
"I must have slipped quite a bit," he murmured. "If I don't find the axe I can't—Ah!"
The black dome was torn again by a wicked thread of silver, and in the ghastly light the man's hand reached forward and closed on the missing axe. With a growl expressing his pleasure at the recovery of the implement, he turned and moved cautiously down the slope.
On the little shale ledge where the wire ropes supporting the bridge were fastened securely to the rocky bank, the man stood for a moment. Then, grasping the axe with his right hand and with his left gripping one of the strong hawsers to which the iron yokes supporting the planking were securely fastened, he stepped on to the swaying structure and moved out towards the middle of the stream. The bridge trembled under his heavy tread—trembled as if afraid of the white-lipped waves that lurched upwards at the swaying planks.
Reaching the centre, he steadied himself by placing a foot against each side of the iron yoke, and then, swinging the axe, brought it down with a slanting stroke inside the hawser so that it bit sharply into the narrow plank. A shower of chips dived into the current, and the bridge rocked tremulously beneath his blows. He changed hands and hacked furiously. Once the axe hit the wire rope and rebounded, narrowly missing the man's face, but he redoubled his efforts.
At last he stopped and moved cautiously backwards. Kneeling on the bridge and gripping the axe with both hands, he reached forward and smote the plank the end of which he had cut away front its supporting yoke. Again and again he hammered it till the pikes at the far end gave way under the strain. He pushed it downwards, and when the lightning flashed wrathfully he saw the white waters reach up to the sagging timber and wrench it mightily. In the darkness that followed the flash, his imagination pictured the gap—a great black mouth waiting to choke the life out of the stumbling pedestrian. For a moment he stood gaz ing at the spot, and then he made his way back over the swinging structure and climbed up the slippery slope.
Ten minutes afterwards the man entered one of the small cabins that crouched like frightened things near the gaunt mine buildings. It was a miserable two-roomed shack, and the loosely hinged outer door rattled violently after it was barricaded from within. In the outer room there was an odor of coarse cooking, of steaming suds, of things moldy and damp.
The room was empty, and the man only paused long enough to pull off his great boots before tiptoeing cautiously to the door leading into the bedroom. He opened it carefully, and a woman's head, nodding in the aureole of yellow light thrown by the small oil lamp, was jerked backwards and the sleepy eyes blinked at him nervously. The man came closer, and the woman lifted an admonishing finger as he rolled awkwardly in trying to balance himself on his toes.
"How is she?" he questioned hoarsely. .
"H'sh, she's asleep," whispered the Woman. "I think she's a little better." She lifted the lamp a few inches and the subdued yellow light fell upon a child sleeping on the bed.
The man moved closer and the woman watched him nervously. He leaned over the sleeper, and with his head turned sideways listened to the labored breathing.
"Not so much of that chokin' sound," he murmured. "'Er throat is a bit clearer."
The woman nodded. "I think she has passed the worst of it," she said.
The man still bent over the bed, his huge form silhouetted on the whitewashed wall behind. Presently the woman became aware of his wet condition and she moved him back with thin, wasted hands. At that moment the child stirred, the shawl that was tucked around her throat was flung back, and the movement exposed a tiny toy bear that was snuggled in her arms.
The man glanced at the toy and then swung his face towards the woman.
"What's that?" he growled. "Who gave her that?"
"It's a little toy," stammered the woman. "H'sh, Mike, it's only a little toy."
"Who gave it to her?"
The woman put her finger on her lips and held up her hand, but the man moved quickly from the bed and gripping her wrist pulled her roughly into the outer room.
"Who gave her that?" he demanded.
"Doris—Doris Merrick," spluttered the woman, "Oh, Mike—Oh!"
The man's fingers gripped the thin arm till the woman sobbed protestingly.
"What did you take it for?" he growled.
"I couldn't help it," sobbed the woman. "Mike, dear, Kitty saw the little thing before I could refuse it. Ah, she did."
She lifted up the coarse apron and sopped at the tear currents that raced down her cheeks. The man cursed incoherently.
"Do you know where Merrick is to-night?" he cried. "Do you? I didn't tell yer. The swine 'as gone over to Elliston huntin' for scabs to break the strike!"
"An' what's that to do with the little bear?" sobbed the woman.
"Why, his kid give it to yer. We ain't takin' anythin' from a sweatin' boss or his brats!"
He made a movement to enter the inner room, but the woman clung to his arm and he stopped.
"Oh, Mike, don't take it from her," she screamed. "Ah, don't! The little dear ran down in the rain with it an'—an' Kitty saw it first. Mike, if you could have seen. Her two blue eyes swelled up like balloons wid joy. Mother o' God, could I refuse? Could I, Mike, tell me? She went to sleep huggin' it in her little arms. If you was the leader of fifty strikes I couldn't refuse it after she saw it."
The woman sank into the battered chair and buried her face in her apron. The man stood watching her for a second's space, then he unlatched the outer door and sprang into the night.
The cold blast of air awakened the woman from her fit of sob bing. She rushed to the threshold, tripping over the big thigh boots that lay where the man had thrown them a few minutes before.
"Mike," she shrieked. "Mike! Mike!" But no answer came back out of the blackness.
Down the track leading to the footbridge, Mike Hartigan, barefooted and bareheaded, stumbled blindly. The wind flung the rain in chilling douches into his face; the lava rocks battered his toes. He reached the incline directly above the bridge, slipped forward and went down the track head-foremost, but again, as he struck the little ledge, the lightning lit up the scene, and Hartigan gave a yell of agony.
"Merrick," he yelled. "Stop! Stop!"
The screaming torrent choked his cry with its deafening clamor and he sprang out on to the bridge. The water was very close to the planking, and it bubbled over the boards as he rushed forward, yelling and cursing. He reached the centre and stopped instinctively on the edge of the awful gap. For a moment he stood upright. Then he gripped the wire hawser, wound his legs around the iron support and flung himself forward. Something struck him, and he grasped it with his free hand. The waters swept over him, tugged at him till his arms ached, and the sinews in his legs cracked under the strain. The blood pounded through his head, but he dragged himself backwards, reached up and caught the wire and made of himself a barricade against which the current swept the man that he gripped with his right hand. The strain was fearful.
"Merrick," he roared. "Only one plank gone—climb—climb—"
The man clinging to Hartigan seemed to hear and understand, he had been blinded and stunned by the first plunge into the tor rent, but now he shook himself and struggled to reach the hawser. He gripped Hartigan's legs and pulled himself up, crawled slowly forward till he felt the edge of the plank, and then, exerting all his strength, he lifted himself out of the water and fell face downwards upon the boards over which the waves were playing leap frog.
For a moment he lay quite still, then he turned and reached out with both hands over the gap.
"Where are you?" he screamed. "Hello! Hello! Speak out! Hello!"
But only the throaty gurgle of the torrent and the shriek of the froth-skimming wind answered his call.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.