El
condenado recuerda la granja, su hermana y hermano, y la religión de sus
padres. Su padre era un hombre muy fuerte y determinado y su madre sabía ceder
cuando hacía falta. Del clásico australiano “Robbery Under Arms” de Rolf
Boldrewood …
… The clergyman
from Bargo came one day and christened me and Jim—made one job of it. But
mother took Aileen herself in the spring cart all the way to the township and
had her christened in the chapel, in the middle of the service all right and
regular, by Father Roche.
There's good and
bad of every sort, and I've met plenty that were no chop of all churches; but
if Father Roche, or Father anybody else, had any hand in making mother and
Aileen half as good as they were, I'd turn to-morrow, if I ever got out again.
I don't suppose it was the religion that made much difference in our case, for
Patsey Daly and his three brothers, that lived on the creek higher up, were as
much on the cross as men could be, and many a time I've seen them ride to
chapel and attend mass, and look as if they'd never seen a 'clearskin' in their
lives. Patsey was hanged afterwards for bush-ranging and gold robbery, and he
had more than one man's blood to answer for. Now we weren't like that; we never
troubled the church one way or the other. We knew we were doing what we
oughtn't to do, and scorned to look pious and keep two faces under one hood.
By degrees we
all grew older, began to be active and able to do half a man's work. We learned
to ride pretty well—at least, that is we could ride a bare-backed horse at full
gallop through timber or down a range; could back a colt just caught and have
him as quiet as an old cow in a week. We could use the axe and the cross-cut
saw, for father dropped that sort of work himself, and made Jim and I do all
the rough jobs of mending the fences, getting firewood, milking the cows, and,
after a bit, ploughing the bit of flat we kept in cultivation.
Jim and I, when
we were fifteen and thirteen—he was bigger for his age than I was, and so near
my own strength that I didn't care about touching him—were the smartest lads on
the creek, father said—he didn't often praise us, either. We had often ridden
over to help at the gathering of the large cattle stations that were on the
side of the range, and not more than twenty or thirty miles from us.
Some of our
young stock used to stray among the farmers´ cattle, and we liked attending the
group because there was plenty of galloping about and cutting out, and fun in
the men's hut at night, and often a half-crown or so for helping some one away
with a big mob of cattle or a lot for the pound. Father didn't go himself, and
I used to notice that whenever we came up and said we were Ben Marston's boys
both master and super looked rather sad, and then appeared not to think any
more about it. I heard the owner of one of these stations say to his managing
man, 'Pity, isn't it? fine boys, too.' I didn't understand what they meant. I
do now.
We could do a
few things besides riding, because, as I told you before, we had been to a bit
of a school kept by an old chap that had once seen better days, that lived
three miles off, near a little bush township. This village, like most of these
places, had a public-house and a blacksmith's shop. That was about all. The keeper
kept the store, and managed pretty well to get hold of all the money that was
made by the people round about, that is of those that were 'good drinking men'.
He had half-a-dozen children, and, though he was not up to much, he wasn't that
bad that he didn't want his children to have the chance of being better than
himself. I've seen a good many crooked people in my day, but very few that,
though they'd given themselves up as a bad job, didn't hope a bit that their
youngsters mightn't take after them. Curious, isn't it? But it is true, I can
tell you. So Lammerby, the keeper, though he was a greedy, sly sort of fellow,
that bought things he knew were stolen, and lent out money and charged
everybody two prices for the things he sold 'em, didn't like the thought of his
children growing up like Myall cattle, as he said himself, and so he fished out
this old Mr. Howard, that had been a friend or a victim or some kind of pal of
his in old times, near Sydney, and got him to come and keep school.
He was a curious
man, this Mr. Howard. What he had been or done none of us ever knew, but he
spoke up to one of the farmers that said something sharp to him one day in a
way that showed us boys that he thought himself as good as he was. And he stood
up straight and looked him in the face, till we hardly could think he was the
same man that was so bent and shambling
and broken-down-looking most times. He used to live in a little hut in the
township all by himself. It was just big enough to hold him and us at our
lessons. He had his dinner at the inn, along with Mr. and Mrs. Lammerby. She
was always kind to him, and made him puddings and things when he was ill. He
was pretty often ill, and then he'd hear us our lessons at the bedside, and
make a short day of it…(adaptado de Robbery
Under Arms, de Rolf Boldrewood)
Vocabulario
Shambling: To
walk in an awkward, lazy, or unsteady manner, shuffling the feet.
Muster squatter
glum publican shambling
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El
autor
Thomas Alexander Browne nació en Londres, el hijo
mayor de un capitán de barco. Su madre fue su primer admiradora. Después de
dejar una carga de convictos en Hobart la familia se estableció en Sydney en
1831.
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