Illywhacker by Peter Carey Read Free Book Online Page A

their task, their understanding of life, with my father, while I sat alone on thelimber with my thoughts which were only interrupted by my father hollering “brake”. There was such weight in that cannon that the brake must be applied at the top of hills, and I was meant to know without being told, to jump down off the moving limber and turn the big wheel at the back of the cannon; this applied wooden blocks directly to the cannon wheels and, making a God Almighty scream, prevented disaster on steep hills.
    My father did not normally beat me badly, but there was an incident during the shearers’ strike that resulted in a bloody beating. It was his fault, not mine. He got carried away with some wool cockies in Terang, and although I was only ten years old at the time, I could see that he wouldn’t get the sale. These were fellows who wanted some fireworks, but my father missed the signs. He drew them pictures of mad-eyed shearers coming down to rape their wives and burn down their sheds. He let off ten shells and demolished a stand of iron-barks, leaving nothing but bleeding sap and torn splinters as soft as flesh. When it was over I could see the look on the men’s faces—you see the same look outside brothels as they put on their hats and hurry away—a flaccid, shamed, satiated look.
    These squatters told my father: “We’ll think about it.”
    Well, he was nice as pie to them, but I felt the skin around my little testicles go hard and leathery and I sweated around my bum-hole and I will not describe for you the beating he gave me on account of this, but rather paint you the picture of my revenge, for it is this that I count as the day of my birth, just as it is from 1919, from the day I landed at Balliang East, that I count the days of my adult life.
    My revenge did not take place immediately, but I did have an idea. I imagined, as I sat alone on the limber with my bruises, that I lacked the courage to carry it out. But the idea would not go away. It grew inside me. At night it comforted me. Soaked to the skin on the road to Melbourne—we were covering about twenty miles a day—the idea made me smile, but I remained dutiful, applying the brake and letting it off as required.
    In Melbourne he had some work for a Grand Tattoo. He was paid for releasing showy blasts above the river Yarra; I don’t know the occasion.
    But on the 15th June 1895—when the squatters had defeated the shearers without the use of cannon—we came down the Punt Road hill towards the Yarra as part of a procession. My father had a uniform on, and my two brothers were also dressed up withleggings and hats like officers. My father had promised me a uniform too, but at the last moment he decided it wasn’t worth the money.
    I did not honestly think I had the courage, but courage is a funny thing.
    “Brake!” called my father. “Brake!”
    Well, I jumped out. He turned and saw me. Have you ever seen the Punt Road hill where it comes down past Domain Street towards the Yarra? By God, it’s steep. Well, I put the brake on at the top. The blocks of wood screamed against the steel, but as we came down the hill, I did it. It was such a well—oiled wheel. It moved so swiftly, so easily. Even a boy of ten could make it come whizzing back.
    I had not planned to destroy whatever home I had and it only occurred to me in that moment, that moment when I had released the brake, when the screaming wheel suddenly went free and silent, that instant before the other screaming began, it only occurred to me then as my father’s eyes, panicked by the sudden silence, found mine, it only occurred to me then, as I said, that I now had no home. Yet the only thing I regretted afterwards was the damage to the horses. They were gentle creatures. I meant them no harm.
    “Poor little fellow,” said drunk and sentimental Jack, releasing a tear or two which he smeared across his furry cheek. “Poor little chap.”
    Thus encouraged I could not stop. I spewed out the