The Blindness of One-eyed Brogan by Henry Lawson
They judge not and they are not judged—'tis their philosophy—
(There's something wrong with every ship that sails upon the
—The Ballad of the Rouseabout.
“And what became of One-eyed Bogan?” I asked Tom Hall when I met him
and Jack Mitchell down in Sydney with their shearing cheques the
Christmas before last.
“You'd better ask Mitchell, Harry,” said Tom. “He can tell you about
Bogan better than I can. But first, what about the drink we're going to
We turned out of Pitt Street into Hunter Street, and across George
Street, where a double line of fast electric tramway was running, into
Margaret Street and had a drink at Pfahlert's Hotel, where a counter
lunch—as good as many dinners you get for a shilling—was included
with a sixpenny drink. “Get a quiet corner,” said Mitchell, “I like to
bear myself cackle.” So we took our beer out in the fernery and got a
cool place at a little table in a quiet corner amongst the fern boxes.
“Well, One-eyed Bogan was a hard case, Mitchell,” I said. “Wasn't
“Yes,” said Mitchell, putting down his “long-beer” glass, “he was.”
“Rather a bad egg?”
“Yes, a regular bad egg,” said Mitchell, decidedly.
“I heard he got caught cheating at cards,” I said.
“Did you?” said Mitchell. “Well, I believe he did. Ah, well,” he
added reflectively, after another long pull, “One-eyed Bogan won't
cheat at cards any more.”
“Why?” I said. “Is he dead then?”
“No,” said Mitchell, “he's blind.”
“Good God!” I said, “how did that happen?”
“He lost the other eye,” said Mitchell, and he took another drink.
“Ah, well, he won't cheat at cards any more—unless there's cards
invented for the blind.”
“How did it happen?” I asked.
“Well,” said Mitchell, “you see, Harry, it was this way. Bogan went
pretty free in Bourke after the shearing before last, and in the end he
got mixed up in a very ugly-looking business: he was accused of doing
two new-chum jackaroos out of their stuff by some sort of confidence
“Confidence trick,” I said. “I'd never have thought that One-eyed
Bogan had the brains to go in for that sort of thing.”
“Well, it seems he had, or else he used somebody else's brains;
there's plenty of broken-down English gentlemen sharpers knocking about
out back, you know, and Bogan might have been taking lessons from one.
I don't know the rights of the case, it was hushed up, as you'll see
presently; but, anyway, the jackaroos swore that Bogan had done 'em out
of ten quid. They were both Cockneys and I suppose they reckoned
themselves smart, but bushmen have more time to think. Besides, Bogan's
one eye was in his favour. You see he always kept his one eye fixed
strictly on whatever business he had in hand; if he'd had another eye
to rove round and distract his attention and look at things on the
outside, the chances are he would never have got into trouble.”
“Never mind that, Jack,” said Tom Hall. “Harry wants to hear the
“Well, to make it short, one of the jackaroos went to the police and
Bogan cleared out. His character was pretty bad just then, so there was
a piece of blue paper out for him. Bogan didn't seem to think the thing
was so serious as it was, for he only went a few miles down the river
and camped with his horses on a sort of island inside an anabranch,
till the thing should blow over or the new chums leave Bourke.
“Bogan's old enemy, Constable Campbell, got wind of Bogan's camp,
and started out after him. He rode round the outside track and came in
on to the river just below where the anabranch joins it, at the lower
end of the island and right opposite Bogan's camp. You know what those
billabongs are: dry gullies till the river rises from the Queensland
rains and backs them up till the water runs round into the river again
and makes anabranches of 'em—places that you thought were hollows
you'll find above water, and you can row over places you thought were
hills. There's no water so treacherous and deceitful as you'll find in
some of those billabongs. A man starts to ride across a place where he
thinks the water is just over the grass, and blunders into a deep
channel—that wasn't there before—with a steady undercurrent with the
whole weight of the Darling River funnelled into it; and if he can't
swim and his horse isn't used to it—or sometimes if he can swim—it's
a case with him, and the Darling River cod hold an inquest on him, if
they have time, before he's buried deep in Darling River mud for ever.
And somebody advertises in the missing column for Jack Somebody who was
last heard of in Australia.”
“Never mind that, Mitchell, go on,” I said.
“Well, Campbell knew the river and saw that there was a stiff
current there, so he hailed Bogan.
“'Good day, Campbell,' shouted Bogan.
“`I want you, Bogan,' said Campbell. `Come across and bring your
“`I'm damned if I will,' says Bogan. `I'm not going to catch me
death o' cold to save your skin. If you want me you'll have to bloody
well come and git me.' Bogan was a good strong swimmer, and he had good
horses, but he didn't try to get away—I suppose he reckoned he'd have
to face the music one time or another—and one time is as good as
another out back.
“Campbell was no swimmer; he had no temptation to risk his life—you
see it wasn't as in war with a lot of comrades watching ready to
advertise a man as a coward for staying alive—so he argued with Bogan
and tried to get him to listen to reason, and swore at him. `I'll make
it damned hot for you, Bogan,' he said, `if I have to come over for
“`Two can play at that game,' says Bogan.
“`Look here, Bogan,” said Campbell, `I'll tell you what I'll do. If
you give me your word that you'll come up to the police station
to-morrow I'll go back and say nothing about it. You can say you didn't
know a warrant was out after you. It will be all the better for you in
the end. Better give me your word, man.'
“Perhaps Campbell knew Bogan better than any of us.
“`Now then, Bogan,' he said, `don't be a fool. Give your word like a
sensible man, and I'll go back. I'll give you five minutes to make up
your mind.' And he took out his watch.
“But Bogan was nasty and wouldn't give his word, so there was
nothing for it but for Campbell to make a try for him.
“Campbell had plenty of pluck, or obstinacy, which amounts to the
same thing. He put his carbine and revolver under a log, out of the
rain that was coming on, saw to his handcuffs, and then spurred his
horse into the water. Bogan lit his pipe with a stick from his
camp-fire—so Campbell said afterwards—and sat down on his heels and
puffed away, and waited for him.
“Just as Campbell's horse floundered into the current Bogan shouted
to go back, but Campbell thought it was a threat and kept on. But Bogan
had caught sight of a log coming down the stream, end on, with a sharp,
splintered end, and before Campbell knew where he was, the sharp end of
the log caught the horse in the flank. The horse started to plunge and
struggle sideways, with all his legs, and Campbell got free of him as
quick as he could. Now, you know, in some of those Darling River
reaches the current will seem to run steadily far a while, and then
come with a rush. (I was caught in one of those rushes once, when I was
in swimming, and would have been drowned if I hadn't been born to be
hanged.) Well, a rush came along just as Campbell got free from his
horse, and he went down-stream one side of a snag and his horse the
other. Campbell's pretty stout, you know, and his uniform was tight,
and it handicapped him.
“Just as he was being washed past the lower end of the snag he
caught hold of a branch that stuck out of the water and held on. He
swung round and saw Bogan running down to the point opposite him. Now,
you know there was always a lot of low cunning about Bogan, and I
suppose he reckoned that if he pulled Campbell out he'd stand a good
show of getting clear of his trouble; anyway, if he didn't save
Campbell it might be said that he killed him—besides, Bogan was a good
swimmer, so there wasn't any heroism about it anyhow. Campbell was only
a few feet from the bank, but Bogan started to strip—to make the job
look as big as possible, I suppose. He shouted to Campbell to say he
was coming, and to hold on. Campbell said afterwards that Bogan seemed
an hour undressing. The weight of the current was forcing down the
bough that Campbell was hanging on to, and suddenly, he said, he felt a
great feeling of helplessness take him by the shoulders. He yelled to
Bogan and let go.
“Now, it happened that Jake Boreham and I were passing away the time
between shearings, and we were having a sort of fishing and shooting
loaf down the river in a boat arrangement that Jake had made out of
boards and tarred canvas. We called her the Jolly Coffin. We
were just poking up the bank in the slack water, a few hundred yards
below the billabong, when Jake said, `Why, there's a horse or something
in the river.' Then he shouted, `No, by God, it's a man,' and we poked
the Coffin out into the stream for all she was worth. `Looks
like two men fighting in the water,' Jake shouts presently. `Hurry up,
or they'll drown each other.'
“We hailed 'em, and Bogan shouted for help. He was treading water
and holding Campbell up in front of him now in real professional style.
As soon as he heard us he threw up his arms and splashed a bit—I
reckoned he was trying to put as much style as he could into that
rescue. But I caught a crab, and, before we could get to them, they
were washed past into the top of a tree that stood well below
flood-mark. I pulled the boat's head round and let her stern down
between the branches. Bogan had one arm over a limb and was holding
Campbell with the other, and trying to lift him higher out of the
water. I noticed Bogan's face was bleeding—there was a dead limb stuck
in the tree with nasty sharp points on it, and I reckoned he'd run his
face against one of them. Campbell was gasping like a codfish out of
water, and he was the whitest man I ever saw (except one, and he'd
been drowned for a week). Campbell had the sense to keep still. We
asked Bogan if he could hold on, and he said he could, but he couldn't
hold Campbell any longer. So Jake took the oars and I leaned over the
stern and caught hold of Campbell, and Jake ran the boat into the bank,
and we got him ashore; then we went back for Bogan and landed him.
“We had some whisky and soon brought Campbell round; but Bogan was
bleeding like a pig from a nasty cut over his good eye, so we bound wet
handkerchiefs round his eyes and led him to a log and he sat down for a
while, holding his hand to his eye and groaning. He kept saying, `I'm
blind, mates, I'm blind! I've lost me other eye!' but we didn't dream
it was so bad as that: we kept giving him whisky. We got some dry
boughs and made a big fire. Then Bogan stood up and held his arms stiff
down to his sides, opening and shutting his hands as if he was in great
pain. And I've often thought since what a different man Bogan seemed
without his clothes and with the broken bridge of his nose and his eyes
covered by the handkerchiefs. He was clean shaven, and his mouth and
chin are his best features, and he's clean limbed and well hung. I
often thought afterwards that there was something of a blind god about
him as he stood there naked by the fire on the day he saved Campbell's
life—something that reminded me of a statue I saw once in the Art
Gallery. (Pity the world isn't blinder to a man's worst points.)
“Presently Jake listened and said, `By God, that's lucky!' and we
heard a steamer coming up-river and presently we saw her coming round
the point with a couple of wool-barges in tow. We got Bogan aboard and
got some clothes on him, and took him ashore at Bourke to the new
hospital. The doctors did all they knew, but Bogan was blind for life.
He never saw anything again—except `a sort of dull white blur,' as he
called it—or his past life sometimes, I suppose. Perhaps he saw that
for the first time. Ah, well!
“Bogan's old enemy, Barcoo-Rot, went to see him in the hospital, and
Bogan said, `Well, Barcoo, I reckon we've had our last fight. I owe you
a hiding, but I don't see how I'm going to pay you.' `Never mind that,
Bogan, old man,' says Barcoo. `I'll take it from anyone yer likes to
appoint, if that worries yer; and, look here, Bogan, if I can't fight
you I can fight for you—and don't you forget it!' And Barcoo used to
lead Bogan round about town in his spare time and tell him all that was
going on; and I believe he always had an ear cocked in case someone
said a word against Bogan—as if any of the chaps would say a word
against a blind man.
“Bogan's case was hushed up. The police told us to fix it up the
best way we could. One of the jackaroos, who reckoned that Bogan had
swindled him, was a gentleman, and he was the first to throw a quid in
the Giraffe's hat when it went round for Bogan, but the other jackaroo
was a cur: he said he wanted the money that Bogan had robbed him of.
There were two witnesses, but we sent 'em away, and Tom Hall, there,
scared the jackaroo. You know Tom was always the best hand we had at
persuading witnesses in Union cases to go home to see their mothers.”
“How did you scare that jackaroo, Tom?” I asked.
“Tell you about it some other time,” said Tom.
“Well,” said Mitchell, “Bogan was always a good woolsorter, so, next
shearing, old Baldy Thompson—(you know Baldy Thompson, Harry, of
West-o'-Sunday Station)—Baldy had a talk with some of the chaps, and
took Bogan out in his buggy with him to West-o'-Sunday. Bogan would sit
at the end of the rolling tables, in the shearing-shed, with a boy to
hand him the fleeces, and he'd feel a fleece and tell the boy what bin
to throw it into; and by and by he began to learn to throw the fleeces
into the bins himself. And sometimes Baldy would have a sheep brought
to him and get him to feel the fleece and tell him the quality of it.
And then again Baldy would talk, just loud enough for Bogan to
overhear, and swear that he'd sooner have Bogan, blind as he was, than
half a dozen scientific jackaroo experts with all their eyes about
“Of course Bogan wasn't worth anything much to Baldy, but Baldy gave
him two pounds a week out of his own pocket, and another quid that we
made up between us; so he made enough to pull him through the rest of
“It was curious to see how soon he learned to find his way about the
hut and manage his tea and tucker. It was a rough shed, but everybody
was eager to steer Bogan about—and, in fact, two of them had a fight
about it one day. Baldy and all of us—-and especially visitors when
they came—were mighty interested in Bogan; and I reckon we were rather
proud of having a blind wool-sorter. I reckon Bogan had thirty or forty
pairs of eyes watching out for him in case he'd run against something
or fall. It irritated him to be messed round too much—he said a baby
would never learn to walk if it was held all the time. He reckoned he'd
learn more in a year than a man who'd served a lifetime to blindness;
but we didn't let him wander much—for fear he'd fall into the big
rocky waterhole there, by accident.
“And after the shearing-season Bogan's wife turned up in Bourke—-”
“Bogan's wife!” I exclaimed. “Why, I never knew Bogan was married.”
“Neither did anyone else,” said Mitchell. “But he was. Perhaps that
was what accounted for Bogan. Sometimes, in his sober moods, I used to
have an idea that there must have been something behind the Bogan to
account for him. Perhaps he got trapped—or got married and found out
that he'd made a mistake—which is about the worst thing a man can find
“Except that his wife made the mistake, Mitchell,” said Tom Hall.
“Or that both did,” reflected Mitchell. “Ah, well!—never
mind—Bogan had been married two or three years. Maybe he got married
when he was on the spree—I knew that he used to send money to someone
in Sydney and I suppose it was her. Anyway, she turned up after he was
blind. She was a hard-looking woman—just the sort that might have kept
a third-rate pub or a sly-grog shop. But you can't judge between
husband and wife, unless you've lived in the same house with them—and
under the same roofs with their parents right back to Adam for that
matter. Anyway, she stuck to Bogan all right; she took a little
two-roomed cottage and made him comfortable—she's got a sewing-machine
and a mangle and takes in washing and sewing. She brought a
carrotty-headed youngster with her, and the first time I saw Bogan
sitting on the veranda with that youngster on his knee I thought it was
a good thing that he was blind.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because the youngster isn't his,” said Mitchell.
“How do you know that?”
“By the look of it—and by the look on her face, once, when she
caught me squinting from the kid's face to Bogan's.”
“And whose was it?” I asked, without thinking.
“How am I to know?” said Mitchell. “It might be yours for all I
know—it's ugly enough, and you never had any taste in women. But you
mustn't speak of that in Bourke. But there's another youngster coming,
and I'll swear that'll be Bogan's all right.
“A curious thing about Bogan is that he's begun to be fidgety about
his personal appearance—and you know he wasn't a dood. He wears a
collar now, and polishes his boots; he wears elastic-sides, and
polishes 'em himself—the only thing is that he blackens over the
elastic. He can do many things for himself, and he's proud of it. He
says he can see many things that he couldn't see when he had his eyes.
You seldom hear him swear, save in a friendly way; he seems much
gentler, but he reckons he would stand a show with Barcoo-Rot even now,
if Barcoo would stand up in front of him and keep yelling—-”
“By the way,” I asked, “how did Bogan lose the sight of his other
“Sleeping out in the rain when he was drunk,” said Mitchell. “He got
a cold in his eye.” Then he asked, suddenly:
“Did you ever see a blind man cry?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, I have,” said Mitchell.
“You know Bogan wears goggles to hide his eyes—his wife made him do
that. The chaps often used to drop round and have a yarn with Bogan and
cheer him up, and one evening I was sitting smoking with him, and
yarning about old times, when he got very quiet all of a sudden, and I
saw a tear drop from under one of his shutters and roll down his cheek.
It wasn't the eye he lost saving Campbell—it was the old wall-eye he
used to use in the days before he was called 'One-eyed Bogan.' I
suppose he thought it was dark and that I couldn't see his face.
(There's a good many people in this world who think you can't see
because they can't.) It made me feel like I used to feel sometimes in
the days when I felt things—-”
“Come on, Mitchell,” said Tom Hall, “you've had enough beer.”
“I think I have,” said Mitchell. “Besides, I promised to send a wire
to Jake Boreham to tell him that his mother's dead. Jake's shearing at
West-o'-Sunday; shearing won't be over for three or four weeks, and
Jake wants an excuse to get away without offending old Baldy and come
down and have a fly round with us before the holidays are over.”
Down at the telegraph-office Mitchell took a form and filled it in
very carefully: “Jacob Boreham. West-o'-Sunday Station. Bourke. Come
home at once. Mother is dead. In terrible trouble. Father dying.—MARY
“I think that will do,” said Mitchell. “It ought to satisfy Baldy,
and it won't give Jake too much of a shock, because he hasn't got a
sister or sister-in-law, and his father and mother's been dead over ten
“Now, if I was running a theatre,” said Mitchell, as we left the
office, “I'd give five pounds a night for the face Jake'll have on him
when he takes that telegram to Baldy Thompson.”