by Whispering Gums

 

A post in our 2025 series featuring works published in 1935 (or by authors who died in 1935). This post includes a short story that was published in The Cairns Post on 28 December 1935, and is by the English-born Nancy Francis.

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Nancy Francis (1873-1954) was a poet, and writer of short stories, essays and serialised novels. She was born in Bakewell, Derbyshire, England, in 1873, the only daughter of Thomas Slack Marsden, and Eliza Marsden. According to the Obituary in the The Cairns Post, her mother was the surviving descendant of the Beaton family, which was connected, through service, with Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland. Her Yorkshire-born father was a well-known musician who had played a cornet solo in front of Queen Victoria. Nancy developed her musical talent, and apparently had “a beautiful and unusual soprano voice”. She also wrote verse as a hobby and contributed to various periodicals.

According to the Obituary, Nancy married Frederick James Francis in 1900, and they lived in London and other country centres, before coming to Australia, just before the 1914-18 war. With three young daughters, they travelled as far as the Bloomfield River, in Far North Queensland, where her husband joined his brother in various mining ventures. During this period Francis “acquired her exhaustive knowledge of the North Australian bush and its aboriginal inhabitants, of whose character and folklore she made a sympathetic study”. She increased her output over this time, with her verses, articles and short stories appearing regularly in the Bulletin and other southern periodicals. Much of this writing appeared under the nom-de-plume of “Black Bonnet”, which Bernice May (Zora Cross) indicates her love of Henry Lawson (who wrote a poem titled Black bonnet”).

After some time – not specified in the Obituary – the family moved to the small mining township of Rossville outside Cooktown, where Frederick and two brothers continued working in mining and other development. The Obituary says that “among these jungle clad hills she produced some of her best literary work, including many of the poems later collected and published in book form”. In 1927, Bernice May wrote about Francis and her daughters – who all became published writers in their teens – and praised the quality of their verse. May clearly had some correspondence with Nancy and her daughters, and was impressed by what the girls had achieved under their mother’s home schooling. Francis wrote to her, “How I long at times for a creepy novel, a box of chocolates and no bright ideas that nag to be put on paper”, which May says reminded her of Mary Gilmore who “in her first passionate days of great poetry declared she could not take her hands out of the cooking-basin and washing-up dish fast enough to run away to her pen and write some fiery line that had flashed to her across her domestic work”. Bernice May understood the challenge faced by women artists.

In 1928, Nancy and her husband moved to Cairns, but not long after, in 1929-30, she travelled back to England. On her return she “joined her husband at Herberton where she lived until her death”, on 28 June 1954. Her husband, who had also worked as a freelance journalist, predeceased her in 1942.

According to the Obituary, she was actively involved in community activities, including being a member of the C.W.A. from its inception, and President of the local branch for eight years. She also worked for the Red Cross and Patriotic Associations during both world wars. She remained a journalist throughout her life and was keenly interested in politics and world affairs. She also left behind four children, the three daughters (Patricia, Kathleen, and Christobel) and a son. The Obituary describes her as follows: “Generous and warmhearted, and with a vast fund of kindness for the underprivileged, she retained the standards of her English upbringing in a new country and a changing world”.

AustLit focuses on her writing. She wrote under many variations of her name and initials – N. Francis, Nancy Christobel Francis, N. C. Francis, N. C. F, N. F., Nancy C. Francis – as well as her Black Bonnet pen-name. They list 426 works by her under her Nancy Francis names, and another 62 under Black Bonnet, so she was prolific. And yet, she does not appear in the plethora of reference books, histories and guides I have on Australian literature. Why? Perhaps it’s because she spent her life in such a remote part of Australia, away from the literary world, though she did have writing published down south. Or, maybe it’s simply that for all her writing, she had only one published book, her poetry collection, Feet in the night and other poems, which was published by The Cairns Post in 1947. All her other writing appeared in newspapers and magazines/periodicals.

Indeed, this book’s reviewer in Mackay’s Daily Mercury (28 August 1948) implies that the ephemeral nature of newspapers is behind obscurity when they write that “beautifully hewn lines of poetry, melodious verses which have stirred the infrequent verse-readers for a morning half-hour, lie … forever entombed in rows of bound newspapers in libraries”. Fortunately, however, Francis had managed to compile a volume from her output, and the reviewer liked the result:

“FEET IN THE NIGHT” is … taken from the first poem of the first section, which deals sympathetically with the vanishing natives of this continent, who move like shadows on the hill, or ghosts in the scrub, along dark green valleys and dim waterways out to where the jungle ends. The other sections celebrate the Galllpoli era, romance, soft and melancholy, the scenic glories of the North, and memories of England and the out-bound voyage

We do not hesitate to express the opinion that almost every poem in the collection was well worth rescuing from its dusty obscurity. These verses have been polished and polished again. All are graceful, delicate and restrained.

According to AustLit, her writing for Queensland newspapers included essays in series, such as her studies of North Queensland Aboriginal culture, titled ‘By Forest, Scrub and Shore’ (1939-1940), which include detailed discussions of customs and practices in the region; a series of historical essays on ‘The Anglican Church in North Queensland’ (1936-1938); and many essays on Captain Cook. AustLit also says that her travels Western Europe and Northern Africa around 1930 inspired several poems which expressed her identification with the North Queensland landscape and a longing for her North Queensland home. It seems she travelled overseas more than once, with The Courier-Mail (26 April 1938) reporting on a planned trip to “the Continent” in 1938.

Nancy Francis may not (yet) have come to the serious attention of those documenting Australia’s literary history, but back in 1927, Bernice May was impressed, writing that,

“One does not know whether her crisp articles on nature study, her accounts of the blacks and their ways, or her verses are the most remarkable”.

Today’s piece, “The black snake”, which references the “snake” motif frequently found in Australian bush stories (including Henry Lawson’s), draws on familiar short story tropes to tell a good story. It shows a writer who knows her craft and how to entertain her audience.

The Black Snake

(By Nancy Francis)

Joan Carter looked, anxiously at her husband, lying flushed and feverish on his bunk, muttering as though he was dreaming badly. She was new to the North. Jim had lost his job in Sydney during the depression and leaving his young wife with her mother had followed the “Go North” slogan. After some months wandering he had finally taken up with a man considerably older than himself, a bachelor and a miner, whom he had met in a northern mining town, and who for a small con-sideration had “taken him in” as a mate. With this man, Dick Staten, he had worked for a couple of years at a spot 50 miles from the nearest town and just made tucker. Six months ago, however, the mates had struck such a rich patch of tin bearing wash that Jim had been able to send for his wife. The tin had petered out, but indications were so good that they worked hopefully, expecting any hour to strike it again richer than ever.

But here Jim lay with an attack of fever. The day before he had complained of head-ache; to-day he was very ill; the nearest doctor 50 miles away on a bush track. There was no telephone, no means of communication, except by horse. The horses were away – who knew where – there were no fences in the country to keep them.

Staten had been in and out of the hut several times. He was a long lean man of 40, with a skin burnt like leather, and piercing blue eyes. Ever since Joan had come to the claim he had been very kind, always ready to help Jim to fix things more comfortably for her, coming in at night to talk to them. Goodness itself! Unreasonably, Joan had become impatient. She never seemed to have her husband to herself. Jim said when she complained: “Oh, poor chap; he’s lived like a hermit for years; he likes to see you – who wouldn’t. He means well.”

Meaning well or not, Joan had almost come to disliking the man, “always poking about” but now she was glad enough of his help and advice.

“Touch of fever,” he had said. “Keep him from getting chilled; give him quinine and lemonade; he’ll soon be on his feet again.” And he had brought lemons and quinine. He had seen there was plenty of wood chopped for the stove.

“Joan,” said the sick man. He had opened, his eyes, and spoke quietly “We found wonderful tin yesterday; did I tell you? I forget.”

“No, you did not tell me,” she replied.

“If it goes on we will be rich; we can go back, rich, in a year or two where it is not so hot”. The last words were a murmur as he lapsed into stupor again.

Joan got cold water clothes, laying them on his burning head, changing them repeatedly. The sick man moaned and moved and the night wore on. Joan was afraid. Staten had said a “touch of fever.” She thought of all that might happen if her husband got worse instead of better – no help except that of Staten – no neighbors. When dawn came there seemed to be no change in Jim, and as she sat drinking a cup of tea, heavy-eyed and most unhappy, Staten came in. He walked to the bunk and looked thoughtfully at his mate.

“Pretty sick,” he said, “I wonder if I should go for the doctor.”

“How long would you be away?” Joan asked.

“Two days in and out. I’d go at once only I don’t like leaving you. I may not find the horses easily either; they haven’t been used for a fortnight and they wander a long way.”

Hesitating, Joan said, “Jim was conscious last night for a minute. He said you had struck it rich.”

The man looked at her queerly. “Expect he was wandering. It’s the same old thing, Mrs. Carter, a bag of weak stuff.”

The girl’s thoughts were on her husband, and she said, “I think you ought to fetch the doctor, or get advice and medicine. I shall be all right”.

“I’ll go out and see where the horses are and bring them in. I’ll go after mid-day if Jim isn’t better, he said.

He lingered, drinking a cup of tea at Joan’s invitation. Joan listened attentively to his directions of how to treat fever. It appeared that he has had several bad attacks, and his experiences rather terrified her.

Staten looked again at the patient. He had no doubt that Jim was very ill, worse far than his wife in her inexperience had any conception of.

Suddenly he felt sure that Jim would die. He said, hurriedly, “I’ll go once for the horses, Mrs. Carter,” and left the hut.

From his own humpy he took bridle and went off up the hill. Useless – that ride into town. Jim would be dead or better, before he got there. He would be dead in fact. Still Jim’s wife would never forgive him if she thought any chance had been neglected. He hadn’t much opinion of Jim Carter anyway. A marvel how that girl had married him. She was all right. He had been very interested in her. The tin that was all right too; it needn’t make any difference. Jim’s wife would have his share.

Deep down Staten disapproved these thoughts. They came in spite of himself.

At the top of the hill he heard horse bells. He did not go towards the sound, but walked deliberately in the opposite direction.

It was very hot; the cicadas shrilled in the she oaks; there was one high penetrating note, loud as steam whistle; it beat on his head; on his brain. He walked on and on, not looking for horses.

He knew now that he meant to do nothing. Jim was dying. By and he would marry Joan, and have the tin.

At mid-day he had walked miles. He was conscious of hunger, but was very thirsty, and coming to a creek in a patch of jungle scrub he drank, and lay down on the bank, was so much cooler there than in forest, and he was not in a hurry. He planned how he would return to the hut, saying he had been unable find the horses. How he would – if Jim were not dead go out again – return once more with the same story, and by then surely Jim would be gone.

He planned his sympathy; his help. Joan could not do without him; she had no money; no friends; she would be grateful – and more.

Hours passed; the man was absorbed in his dreaming. In his own sight he was justified. He could have done no more than he had done. It was useless to ride into town.

So he persuaded himself. It was not possible that Jim would live, when he was so sure of his death. The afternoon wore on. He must start back, having come a long way. He reached for the bridle, lying among the grass at his side and grasped it. A wicked head turned on his hand and a sharp angry pain shot through his wrist. He saw the fatal teeth marks through the skin – saw the black snake gliding away, and fierce trembling anger seized upon him. He battered the snake to death before reaching for his knife to cut out the poison. He had a fine excuse now for not getting the horses.

Towards evening the sick man revived, and as it got cooler and the night wind stirred the branches outside he slept naturally. In the early morning he woke and the fever had left him. Joan watched him with thangsgiving in her heart. Thank God; Thank God!

Presented [sic?] Jim whispered: “Where is Staten,” and his wife explained that Staten had gone for the horses the day before and had not returned. Of course, he might have gone into town without returning to the hut. He had been so very good and helpful. Both husband and wife were very grateful to Staten, who lay dead in the jungle. It would have been wiser to have used the knife on his wrist before killing the black snake.

He had been dreaming too much.

Sources:

Bernice May (aka Zora Cross), “Black Bonnet and her daughters“, The Australian Women’s Mirror, 3 (26),  24 May 1927 [Accessed: 8 April 2025]
“Black Bonnet“, Daily Mercury, 28 August 1948 [2 April 2 2025]
Black Bonnet, AustLit [5 April 2025]
Nancy Francis, AustLit [5 April 2025]
Nancy Francis, “The black snake“, The Cairns Post, 28 December 1935 [Accessed: 8 April 2025]
Obituary, The Cairns Post, 10 July 1954 [Accessed: 2 April 2025]

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