But it was 1930, and Drogheda knew all about the Depression.Men were out of work all over Australia. Those who could stoppedpaying rent and tying themselves down to the futility of lookingfor work when there was none. Left to fend alone, wives and childrenlived in humpies on municipal land and queued for the dole;fathers and husbands had gone tramping. A man stowed his fewessentials inside his blanket, tied it with thongs and slung it acrosshis back before setting out on the track, hoping at least for handoutsof food from the stations he crossed, if not employment. Humpinga bluey through the Outback beat sleeping in the Sydney Domain.The price of food was low, and Paddy stocked the Droghedapantries and storehouses to overflowing. A man could always besure of having his tuckerbag filled when he arrived on Drogheda.The strange thing was that the parade of drifters constantly changed;once full of a good hot meal and loaded with provisions for thetrack, they made no attempt to remain, but wandered on in searchof only they knew what. Not every place was as hospitable orgenerous as Drogheda by any means, which only added to thepuzzle of why men on the track seemed not to want to stay. Perhapsthe weariness and the purposelessness of having no home, no  place to go, made them continue to drift. Most managed to live,some died and if found were buried before the crows and pigspicked their bones clean. The Outback was a huge place, and lonely.But Stuart was permanently in residence again, and the shotgunwas never far from the cookhouse door. Good stockmen were easyto come by, and Paddy had nine single men on his books in theold jackaroo barracks, so Stuart could be spared from the paddocks.Fee stopped keeping cash lying about, and had Stuart make acamouflaged cupboard for the safe behind the chapel altar. Few ofthe swaggies were bad men. Bad men preferred to stay in the citiesand the big country towns, for life on the track was too pure, toolonely and scant of pickings for bad men. Yet no one blamed Paddyfor not wanting to take chances with his women; Drogheda was avery famous name, and might conceivably attract what few undesirablesthere were on the track. 

      That winter brought bad storms, some dry, some wet, and thefollowing spring and summer brought rain so heavy that Droghedagrass grew lusher and longer than ever.Jims and Patsy were plowing through their correspondence lessonsat Mrs. Smith’s kitchen table, and chattered now of what itwould be like when it was time to go to Riverview, their boardingschool. But Mrs. Smith would grow so sharp and sour at such talkthat they learned not to speak of leaving Drogheda when she waswithin hearing distance.The dry weather came back; the thigh-high grass dried out completelyand baked to a silver crisp in a rainless summer. Inured byten years of the black-soil plains to the hey-ho, up we go, hey-ho,down we go oscillations of drought and flood, the men shruggedand went about each day as if it were the only one that could evermatter. This was true; the main business was essentially to survivebetween one good year and the next, whenever it might be. Noone could predict the rain. There was a man in Brisbane called Inigo Jones who wasn’tbad at long-range weather predictions, using a novel concept ofsun spot activity, but out on the black-soil plains no one put muchcredence in what he had to say. Let Sydney and Melbourne bridespetition him for forecasts; the black-soil plainsmen would stick withthat old sensation in their bones. 

     In the winter of 1932 the dry storms came back, along with bittercold, but the lush grass kept dust to a minimum and the flies weren’tas numerous as usual. No consolation to the freshly shorn sheep,which shivered miserably. Mrs. Dominic O’Rourke, who lived ina wooden house of no particular distinction, adored to entertainvisitors from Sydney; one of the highlights of her tour program waspaying a call at Drogheda homestead, to show her visitors thateven out on the black-soil plains some people lived graciously. Andthe subject would always turn to those skinny, drowned-rat-lookingsheep, left to face the winter minus the five- and six-inch-long fleecesthey would have grown by the time summer heat arrived. But, asPaddy said gravely to one such visitor, it made for better wool. Thewool was the thing, not the sheep. Not long after he made thatstatement a letter appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald, demandingprompt parliamentary legislation to end what it called “graziercruelty.” Poor Mrs. O’Rourke was horrified, but Paddy laugheduntil his sides ached.“Just as well the silly bloke never saw a shearer rip up a sheep’sbelly and sew it with a baling needle,” he comforted the embarrassedMrs. O’Rourke. “It’s not worth getting upset about, Mrs. Dominic.Down in the city they don’t know how the other half lives, andthey can afford the luxury of doting on their animals as if they werechildren. Out here it’s different. You’ll never see man, woman orchild in need of help go ignored out here, yet in the city those samepeople who dote on their pets will completely ignore a cry of helpfrom a human being.”  Fee looked up. “He’s right, Mrs. Dominic,” she said. “We all havecontempt for whatever there’s too many of. Out here it’s sheep,but in the city it’s people.” 

      Only Paddy was far afield that day in August when the big stormbroke. He got down from his horse, tied the animal securely to atree and sat beneath a wilga to wait it out. Shivering in fear, hisfive dogs huddled together near him, while the sheep he had beenintending to transfer to another paddock scattered into jumpy littlegroups trotting aimlessly in all directions. And it was a terriblestorm, reserving the worst of its fury until the center of the maelstromwas directly overhead. Paddy stuffed his fingers in his ears,shut his eyes and prayed.Not far from where he sat with the down-dropping wilga leavesclashing restlessly in the rising wind was a small collection of deadstumps and logs surrounded by tall grass. In the middle of thewhite, skeletal heap was one massive dead gum, its bare bodysoaring forty feet toward the night-black clouds, spindling at its topinto a sharp, jagged point.A blossoming blue fire so bright it seared his eyes through theirclosed lids made Paddy jump to his feet, only to be thrown downlike a toy in the heave of a huge explosion. He lifted his face fromthe earth to see the final glory of the lightning bolt playing shimmeringhalos of glaring blue and purple all up and down the deadspear of gum tree; then, so quickly he hardly had time to understandwhat was happening, everything caught fire. The last drop ofmoisture had long since evaporated from the tissues of that decayedcluster, and the grass everywhere was long and dry as paper. Likesome defiant answer of the earth to the sky, the giant tree shot apillar of flame far beyond its tip, the logs and stumps around itwent up at the same moment, and in a circle from around the centergreat sheets of fire swept in the swirling wind, round and roundand round. Paddy had not even time to reach his horse. 

      The parched wilga caught and the gum resin at its tender heartexploded outward. There were solid walls of fire in every directionPaddy looked; the trees were burning fiercely and the grass beneathhis feet was roaring into flames. He could hear his horse screamingand his heart went out to it; he could not leave the poor beast todie tied up and helpless. A dog howled, its howl changing to ashriek of agony almost human. For a moment it flared and danced,a living torch, then subsided into the blazing grass. More howls asthe other dogs, fleeing, were enveloped by the racing fire, faster inthe gale than anything on foot or wing. A streaming meteorscorched his hair as he stood for a millisecond debating which waywas the best to get to his horse; he looked down to see a greatcockatoo roasting at his feet.Suddenly Paddy knew this was the end. There was no way outof the inferno for himself or his horse. Even as he thought it, a desiccatedstringybark behind him shot flames in every direction, thegum in it exploding. The skin on Paddy’s arm shriveled andblackened, the hair of his head dimmed at last by somethingbrighter. To die so is indescribable; for fire works its way fromoutside to in. The last things that go, finally cooked to the pointof nonfunction, are brain and heart. His clothes on fire, Paddycapered screaming and screaming through the holocaust. And everyawful cry was his wife’s name. 

      All the other men made it back to Drogheda homestead ahead ofthe storm, turned their mounts into the stockyard and headed foreither the big house or the jackaroo barracks. In Fee’s brightly litdrawing room with a log fire roaring in the cream-and-pink marblefireplace the Cleary boys sat listening to the storm, not temptedthese days to go outside and watch it. The beautiful pungent smellof burning eucalyptus wood in the grate and the heaped cakes andsandwiches on the afternoon tea trolley were too alluring. No oneexpected Paddy to make it in.  About four o’clock the clouds rolled away to the east, andeveryone unconsciously breathed easier; somehow it was impossibleto relax during a dry storm, even though every building onDrogheda was equipped with a lightning conductor. Jack and Bobgot up and went outside to get a little fresh air, they said, but inreality to release pent breath.“Look!” said Bob, pointing westward.Above the trees that ringed the Home Paddock round, a greatbronze pall of smoke was growing, its margins torn to tatteredstreamers in the high wind.“God Jesus!” Jack cried, running inside to the telephone.“Fire, fire!” he shouted into the receiver, while those still insidethe room turned to gape at him, then ran outside to see. “Fire onDrogheda, and a big one!” Then he hung up; it was all he neededto say to the Gilly switch and to those along the line who habituallypicked up when the first tinkle came. Though there had not beena big fire in the Gilly district since the Clearys had come toDrogheda, everyone knew the routine.The boys scattered to get horses, and the stockmen were pilingout of the jackaroo barracks, while Mrs. Smith unlocked one of thestorehouses and doled out hessian bags by the dozen. The smokewas in the west and the wind was blowing from that direction,which meant the fire would be heading for the homestead. Fee tookoff her long skirt and put on a pair of Paddy’s pants, then ran withMeggie for the stables; every pair of hands capable of holding abag would be needed.In the cookhouse Mrs. Smith stoked up the range firebox andthe maids began bringing down huge pots from their ceiling hooks.“Just as well we killed a steer yesterday,” said the housekeeper.“Minnie, here’s the key to the liquor storehouse. You and Cat fetchall the beer and rum we’ve got, then start making damper breadwhile I carry on with the stew. And hurry, hurry!”  The horses, unsettled by the storm, had smelled smoke and werehard to saddle; Fee and Meggie backed the two trampling, restivethoroughbreds outside the stable into the yard to tackle them better.As Meggie wrestled with the chestnut mare two swaggies camepounding down the track from the Gilly road.“Fire, Missus, fire! Got a couple of spare horses? Give us a fewbags.”“Down that way to the stockyards. Dear God, I hope none ofyou are caught out there!” said Meggie, who didn’t know whereher father was.The two men grabbed hessian bags and water bags from Mrs.Smith; Bob and the men had been gone five minutes. The twoswaggies followed, and last to leave, Fee and Meggie rode at agallop down to the creek, across it and away toward the smoke.