We of the Never Never
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Jeanie Mrs. Aeneas Gunn >> We of the Never Never
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But experience teaches quickly. On the first day, after running
into me several times, he learned the wisdom of spying out the land
before turning a corner. On the second day, after we had come
on him while thus engaged several other times, he learned
the foolishness of placing too much confidence in corners,
and deciding by the law of averages that the bar was the only
safe place in the Settlement, availed himself of its sanctuary
in times of danger. On the third day he learned tbat the law
of averages is a weak reed to lean on; for on slipping round
a corner, and mistaking a warning signal from the Wag, he whisked
into the bar to whisk out again with a clatter of hobnailed boots,
for I was in there examining some native curios. "She's in THERE
next," he gasped as he passed the Wag on his way to the cover
of the nearest corner.
"Poor Tam!" How he must have hated women as he lurked
in the doubfful ambush of that corner.
"HOW he did skoot!" the Wag chuckled later on when recounting
with glee, to the Maluka and Mac, the story of Tam's dash for cover.
Pitying Tam, I took his part, and said he seemed a sober, decent
little man and couldn't help being shy; then paused, wondering
at the queer expression on the men's faces.
Mac coughed in embarrassment, and the Maluka and the Wag seemed
pre-occupied, and, fearing I had been misunderstood, I added hastily:
"So is everyone in the Settlement, for that matter," thereby causing
further embarrassment.
After a short intense silence the Wag "thought he'd be getting along,"
and as he movad off the Maluka laughed. "Oh, missus, missus!" and Mac
blurted out the whole tale of the edict--concluding rather ambiguously
by saying: "Don't you go thinLing it's made any difference to any
of us, because it hasn't. We're not saints, but we're not pigs, and,
besides, it was a pleasure."
I doubted if it was much pleasure to Tam-o-Shanter; but forgetting
he was sober by compulsion, even he had begun to feel virtuous;
and when he heard he had been called a "sober, decent little man,"
he positively swaggered; and on the fourth morning walked jauntily
past the Cottage and ventured a quiet good-morning--a simple enough
little incident in itself; but it proved Tam's kinship with
his fellowmen. For is it not the knowledge that some one thinks well
of us that makes us feel at ease in that person's company?
Later in the same day, the flood having fallen, it was decided
that it would be well to cross the horses in the rear of a boat,
and we were all at the river discussing preparations, when Tam
electrified the community by joining the group.
In the awkward pause that followed his arrival he passed a general
remark about dogs--there were several with us--and every one plunged
into dog yarns, until Tam, losing his head over the success of his
maiden speech, became so communicative on the subject of a dog-fight
that he had to be surreptitiously kicked into silence.
"Looks like more rain," Mac said abruptly, hoping to draw public
attention from the pantomime." Ought to get off as soon as possible,
or we'll be blocked at the King."
The Katherine seized on the new topic of conversation, and advised
"getting out to the five-mile overnight," declaring it would
"take all day to get away from the Settlement in the
morning." Then came another awkward pause, while every one kept
one eye on Tam, until the Maluka saved the situation by calling
for volunteers to help with the horses, and, Tam being pressed
into the service, the boat was launched, and he was soon safe
over the far side of the river.
Once among the horses, the little man was transformed. In the quiet,
confident horseman that rode down the gorge a few minutes later
it would have been difficult to recognise the shy, timid bushman.
The saddle had given him backbone, and it soon appeared he was
right-hand man, and, at times, even organiser in the difficult
task of crossing horses through a deep, swift-running current.
As the flood was three or four hundred yards wide and many feet
deep, a swim was impossible without help, and every horse was
to be supported or guided, or dragged over in the rear of the boat,
with a halter held by a man in the stern.
It was no child's play. Every inch of the way had its difficulties.
The poor brutes knew the swim was beyond them; and as the boat,
pulling steadily on, dragged them from the shallows into the deeper
water, they plunged and snorted in fear, until they found themselves
swimming, and were obliged to give all their attention to keeping
themselves afloat.
Some required little assistance when once off their feet; just a
slow, steady pull from the oars, and a taut enough halter to lean
on in the tight places. But others rolled over like logs when
the full force of the current struck them, threatening to drag the
boat under, as it and the horse raced away down stream with the
oarsmen straining their utmost.
It was hard enough work for the oarsmen; but the seat of honour
was in the stern of the boat, and no man filled it better
than the transformed Tam. Alert and full of resource, with one hand
on the tiller, he leaned over the boat, lengthening or shortening
rope for the halter, and regulating the speed of the oarsmen
with unerring judgment; giving a staunch swimmer time and a short
rope to lean on, or literally dragging the faint-hearted across
at full speed; careful then only of one thing: to keep the head
above water. Never again would I judge a man by one of his failings.
There were ten horses in all to cross, and at the end of two
hours' hard pulling there was only one left to come--old Roper.
Mac took the halter into his own hands there was no one else worthy--
and, slipping into the stern of the boat, spoke first to the horse
and then to the oarsmen; and as the boat glided forward, the noble,
trusting old horse--confident that his long-tried human friend
would set him no impossible task--came quietly through the shallows,
sniffing questions at the half-submerged bushes.
"Give him time!" Mac called. "Let him think it out," as step by step
Roper followed, the halter running slack on the water. When almost
out of his depth, he paused just a moment, then, obeying the tightening
rope, lifted himself to the flood and struck firmly and bravely out.
Staunchly he and Mac dealt with the current: taking time and
approaching it quietly, meeting it with taut rope and unflinching
nerve, drifting for a few breaths to judge its force; then, nothing
daunted, they battled forward, stroke after stroke, and won across
without once pulling the boat out of its course.
Only Roper could have done it; and when the splendid neck
and shoulders appeared above water as he touched bottom, on the
submerged track, he was greeted with a cheer and a hearty, unanimous
"Bravo! old chap!" Then Mac returned thanks with a grateful look,
and, leaping ashore. looked over the beautiful, wet, shining limbs,
declaring he could have "done ito n his own," if required.
Once assured that we were anxious for a start, the Katherine
set about speeding the parting guests with gifts of farewell.
The Wag brought fresh tomatoes and a cucumber; the Telegraph
sent eggs; the Police a freshly baked cake; the Chinese cook
baked bread, and Mine Host came with a few potatoes and a flat-iron.
To the surprise of the Katherine, I received the potatoes without
enthusiasm, not having been long enough in the Territory to know
their rare value, and, besides, I was puzzling over the flat iron.
"What's it for?" I asked, and the Wag shouted in mock amazement:
"For! To iron duds with, of course," as Mine Host assured us it
was of no use to him beyond keeping a door open.
Still puzzled, I said I thought there would not be any need
to iron duds until we reached the homestead, and the Maluka said
quietly: "It's FOR the homestead. There will be nothing like that
there."
Mac exploded with an impetuous "Good Heavens! What does she expect?
First pillows and now irons!"
Gradually realising that down South we have little idea of what
"rough" means to a bushman, I had from day to day been modifying
my ideas of a station home from a mansion to a commodious wooden
cottage, plainly but comfortably furnished. The Cottage had confirmed
this idea, but Mac soon settled the question beyond all doubt.
"Look here!" he said emphatically. "Before she leaves this place
she'll just have to grasp things a bit better," and sitting
down on a swag he talked rapidly for ten minutes, taking a queer
delight in making everything sound as bad as possible, "knocking
the stiffening out of the missus," as he phrased it, and certainly
bringing the "commodious station home" about her ears, which was
just as well, perhaps.
After a few scathing remarks on the homestead in general, which
he called " One of those down-at-the-heels, anything-'ll-do
sort of places," he described The House. "It's mostly verandahs
and promises," he said; "but one room is finished. We call it
The House, but you'll probably call it a Hut, even though it has
got doors and calico windows framed and on hinges."
Then followed an inventory of the furniture. "There's one fairly steady,
good-sized table at least it doesn't fall over, unless some one
leans on it; then there's a bed with a wire mattress, but nothing
else on it; and there's a chair or two up to your weight
(the boss'll either have to stand up or lie down), and I don't
know that there's much else excepting plenty of cups and plates--
they're enamel, fortunately, so you won't have much trouble
with the servants breaking things. Of course there's a Christmas card
and a few works of art on the walls for you to look at when
you're tired of looking at yourself in the glass. Yes! There's
a looking-glass--goodness knows how it got there! You ought
to be thankful for that and the wire-mattress. You won't find
many of them out bush ."
I humbly acknowledged thankfulness, and felt deeply grateful
to Mine Host, when, with ready thoughtfulness he brought a couple
of china cups and stood them among the baggage--the heart of Mine Host
was as warm and sincere as his flashing smiles. I learned, in time,
to be indifferent to china cups, but that flat-iron became one
of my most cherished possessions--how it got to the Katherine
is a long, long story, touching on three continents, a man,
a woman, and a baby.
The commodious station home destroyed, the Katherine bestirred itself
further in the speeding of its guests. The Telegraph came with
the offer of their buggy, and then the Police offered theirs;
but Mine Host, harnessing two nuggety little horses into his buck-board,
drove round to the store, declaring a buck-board was the "only thing
for the road." "You won't feel the journey at all in it," he said,
and drove us round the Settlement to prove how pleasant and easy
travelling could be in the Wet.
"No buggy obtainable," murmured the Maluka, reviewing the three offers.
But the Sanguine Scot was quite unabashed, and answered coolly:
"You forget those telegrams were sent to that other woman--the Goer,
you know--there WAS no buggy obtainable for HER. By George!
Wasn't she a snorter? I knew I'd block her somehow," and then he added
with a gallant bow and a flourish: "You can see for yourselves, chaps,
that she didn't come."
The Wag mimicked the bow and the flourish, and then suggested
accepting all three vehicles and having a procession "a triumphal
exit that'll knock spots off Pine Creek."
"There'd be one apiece," he said, "and with Jackeroo as outrider,
and loose horses to fill in with, we could make a real good thing
of it if we tried. There's Tam, now; he's had a fair amount of practice
lately, dodging round corners, and if he and I stood on opposite sides
of the track, and dodged round bushes directly the procession passed
coming out farther along, we could line the track for miles
with cheering crowds."
The buck-board only being decided on, he expressed himself bitterly
disappointed, but promised to do his best with that and the horses;
until hearing that Mac was to go out to the "five-mile" overnight
with the pack-team and loose horses, leaving us to follow at sun-up,
he became disconsolate and refused even to witness the departure.
"I'd 'av willingly bust meself cheering a procession and lining
the track with frantic crowds," he said, "but I'm too fat to
work up any enthusiasm over two people in a buck-board."
A little before sundown Mac set out, after instructing the Katherine
to "get the buck-board off early," and just before the Katherine
"turned in" for the night, the Maluka went to the office to settle
accounts with Mine Host.
In five minutes he was back, standing among the ponchianas,
and then after a little while of silence he said gently:
"Mac was right. A woman does not represent business here."
Mine Host had indignantly refused payment for a woman's board
and lodging.
"I had to pay, though," the Maluka laughed, with one of his
quick changes of humour. " But, then, I'm only a man."
CHAPTER V
When we arrived at the five-mile in the morning we found Mac
"packed up" and ready for the start, and, passing the reins to him,
the Maluka said, "You know the road best "; and Mac, being what he
called a "bit of a Jehu," we set off in great style across country,
apparently missing trees by a hair's breadth, and bumping over
the ant-hills, boulders, and broken boughs that lay half-hidden
in the long grass.
After being nearly bumped out of the buck-board several times,
I asked if there wasn't any track anywhere; and Mac once again
exploded with astonishment.
"We're on the track," he shouted." Good Heavens I do you mean
to say you can't see it on ahead there?" and he pointed towards
what looked like thickly timbered country, plentifully strewn with
further boulders and boughs and ant-hills; and as I shook my head,
he shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. "And we're on the main
transcontinental route from Adelaide to Port Darwin," he said.
"Any track anywhere!" he mimicked presently, as we lurched, and heaved,
and bumped along. "What'll she say when we get into the long-grass country?"
"Long here!" he ejaculated, when I thought the grass we were driving
through was fairly long (it was about three feet). "Just you wait!"
I waited submissively, if bouncing about a buck-board over thirty miles
of obstacles can be called waiting, and next day we "got into the long-grass
country", miles of grass, waving level with and above our heads--grass
ten feet high and more, shutting out everything but grass.
The Maluka was riding a little behind, at the head of the pack-team,
but we could see neither him nor the team, and Mac looked triumphantly
round as the staunch little horses pushed on through the forest of grass
that swirled and bent and swished and reeled all about the buck-board.
"Didn't I tell you?" he said. "This is what we call long grass";
and he asked if I could "see any track now." "It's as plain as a
pikestaff," he declared, trying to show what he called a "clear
break all the way." Oh I'm a dead homer all right," he shouted
after further going as we came out at the "King" crossing.
"Now for it! Hang on!" he warned, and we went down the steep bank
at a hand gallop; and as the horses rushed into the swift-flowing
stream, he said unconcernedly: "I wonder how deep this is,"
adding, as the buck-board lifted and swerved when the current
struck it: "By George" They're off their feet," and leaning over
the splashboard, lashed at the undaunted little beasts until they
raced up the opposite bank.
"That's the style!" he shouted in triumph, as they drew up, panting
and dripping well over the rise from the crossing. "Close thing,
though! Did you get your feet wet? "
"Did you get your feet wet!" That was all, when I was expecting
every form of concern imaginable. For a moment I felt indignant
at Mac's recklessness and lack of concern, and said severely,
"You shouldn't take such risks."
But Mac was blissfully unconscious of the severity. "Risks!"
he said. "Why, it wasn't wide enough for anything to happen, bar
a ducking. If you rush it, the horses are pushed across before
they know they're off their feet."
"Bar a ducking, indeed!" But Mac was out of the buck-board,
shouting back, "Hold hard there! It's a swim," and continued
shouting directions until the horses were across with comparatively
dry pack-bags. Then he and the Maluka shook hands and congratulated
each other on being the right side of everything.
"No more rivers!" the Maluka said.
"Clear run home, bar a deluge," Mac added, gathering up the reins.
"We'll strike the front gate to-night."
All afternoon we followed the telegraph line, and there the track
was really well-defined; then at sundown Mac drew up, and with
a fiourish of hats he and the Maluka bade the missus "Welcome Home!"
All around and about was bush, and only bush, that, and the telegraph
line, and Mac, touching on one of the slender galvanized iron poles,
explained the welcome. "This is the front gate." he said; "another
forty-five miles and we'll be knocking at the front door."
And they called the Elsey "a nice little place." Perhaps it was
when compared with runs of six million acres.
The camp was pitched just inside the "front gate," near a wide-spreading
sheet of water, "Easter's Billabong," and at supper-time the conversation
turned on bush cookery.
"Never tasted Johnny cakes!!" Mac said. "Your education hasn't
begun yet. We'll have some for breakfast; I'm real slap-up at
Johnny cakes!" and rummaging in a pack-bag, he produced flour,
cream-of-tartar, soda, and a mixing-dish, and set to work at
once.
"I'm real slap-up at Johnny cakes! No mistake!" he assured us,
as he knelt on the ground, big and burly in front of the mixing-dish,
kneading enthusiastically at his mixture. "Look at that!" as
air-bubbles appeared all over the light, spongy dough." Didn't I
tell you I knew a thing or two about cooking?" and cutting off
nuggety-looking chunks, he buried them in the hot ashes.
When they were cooked, crisp and brown, he displayed them with just
pride. "Well!" he said. "Who's slap-up at Johnny cakes?" and standing
them on end in the mixing-dish he rigged up tents--a deluge being
expected--and carrieded them into his own for safety.
During the night the deluge came, and the billabong, walking up
its flood banks, ran about the borders of our camp, sending so
many exploring little rivulets through Mac's tent, that he was
obliged to pass most of the night perched on a pyramid of pack
bags and saddles.
Unfortunately, in the confusion and darkness, the dish of
Johnny cakes became the base of the pyramid, and was consequently
missing at breakfast time. After a long hunt Mac recovered it
and stood looking dejectedly at the ruins of his cookery--a heap
of flat, stodgy-looking slabs. "Must have been sitting on 'em
all night," he said, "and there's no other bread for breakfast."
There was no doubt that we must eat them or go without bread
of any kind; but as we sat tugging at the gluey guttapercha-like
substance, Mac's sense of humour revived. "Didn't I tell you I
was slap-up at Johnny cakes?" he chuckled, adding with further
infinitely more humorous chuckles: "You mightn't think it;
but I really am." Then he pointed to Jackeroo, who was watching
in bewilderment while the Maluka hunted for the crispest crust,
not for himself, but the woman. "White fellow big fellow fool
all right! eh, Jackeroo?" he asked, and Jackeroo openly agreed
with us.
Finding the black soil flats impassable after the deluge, Mac
left the track, having decided to stick to the ridges all day;
and all that had gone before was smoothness itself in comparison
to what was in store.
All day the buck-board rocked and bumped through the timber,
and the Maluka, riding behind, from time to time pointed out
the advantages of travelling across country, as we bounced about
the buck-board like rubber balls: "There's so little chance of
getting stiff with sitting still."
Every time we tried to answer him we bit our tongues as the buck-board
leapt over the tussocks of grass. Once we managed to call back,
"You won't feel the journey in a buck-board." Then an overhanging
bough threatening to wipe us out of our seats, Mac shouted, "Duck!"
and as we "ducked" the buck-board skimmed between two trees,
with barely an inch to spare.
"I'm a bit of a Jehu all right I " Mac shouted triumphantly.
"It takes judgment to do the thing in style"; and the next moment,
swinging round a patch of scrub, we flew off at a tangent to avoid
a fallen tree, crashing through its branches and grinding over
an out-crop of ironstone to miss a big boulder just beyond the tree.
It undoubtedly took judgment this "travelling across country along
the ridges"; but the keen, alert bushman never hesitated as he swung
in and out and about the timber, only once miscalculating the distance
between trees, when he was obliged to back out again. Of course
we barked trees constantly, but Mac called that "blazing a track
for the next travellers," and everywhere the bush creatures scurried
out of our way; and when I expressed fears for the springs, Mac
reassured me by saying a buck-board had none, excepting those
under the seat.
If Mac was a "bit of a Jehu," he certainly was a "dead homer,"
for after miles of scrub and grass and timber, we came out at
our evening camp at the Bitter Springs, to find the Head Stockman
there, with his faithful, tawny-coloured shadow, "Old Sool em,"
beside him.
Dog and man greeted us sedately, and soon Dan had a billy boiling
for us, and a blazing fire, and accepted an invitation to join us
at supper and "bring something in the way of bread along with him."
With a commonplace remark about the trip out, he placed a crisp,
newly baked damper on the tea-towel that acted as supper cloth;
but when we all agreed that he was real slap-up at damper making,"
he scented a joke and shot a quick, questioning glance around;
then deciding that it was wiser not to laugh at all than to laugh
in the wrong p]aace, he only said, he was "not a bad hand at
the damper trick." Dan liked his jokes well labelled when dealing
with the unknown Woman.
He was a bushman of the old type, one of the men of the droving days;
full of old theories, old faiths, and old prejudices, and clinging
always to old habits and methods. Year by year as the bush had
receded and shrunk before the railways, he had receded with it,
keeping always just behind the Back of Beyond, droving, bullock-punching,
stock-keeping, and unconsciously opening up the way for that
very civilisation that was driving him farther and farther back.
In the forty years since his boyhood railways had driven him out
of Victoria, New South Wales and Queensland, and were now threatening
even the Never-Never, and Dan was beginning to fear that they would
not leave "enough bush to bury a man in."
Enough bush to bury a man in! That's all these men of the droving days
have ever asked of their nation and yet without them the pioneers
would have been tied hand and foot, and because of them Australia
is what it is.
"Had a good trip out?" Dan asked, feeling safe on that subject,
and appeared to listen to the details of the road with interest;
but all the time the shrewd hazel eyes were upon me, drawing rapid
conclusions, and I began to feel absurdly anxious to know their
verdict. That was not to come before bedtime; and only those who
knew the life of the stations in the Never-Never know how much
was depending on the stockmen's verdict.
Dan had his own methods of dealing with the Unknown Woman. Forty years
out-bush had convinced him that "most of 'em were the right sort,"
but it had also convinced him that "you had to take 'em all differently,"
and he always felt his way carefully, watching and waiting, ready
to open out at the first touch of fellowship and understanding,
but just as ready to withdraw into himself at the faintest approach
to a snub.
By the time supper was over he had risked a joke or two, and taking
heart by their reception, launched boldly into the conversation,
chuckling with delight as the Maluka and Mac amused themselves
by examining the missus on bushcraft.
"She'll need a deal of educating before we let her out alone,"
he said, after a particularly bad failure, with the first touch
of that air of proprietorship that was to become his favourite
attitude towards his missus.
"It's only common sense; you'll soon get used to it," Mac said
in encouragement, giving us one of his delightful backhanders.
Then in all seriousness Dan suggested teaching her some of the
signs of water at hand, right off, "in case she does get lost
any time," and also seriously, the Maluka and Mac "thought it would
be as well, perhaps."
Then the townswoman's self-satisfied arrogance came to the surface.
"You needn't bother about me," I said, confident I had as much
common sense as any bushman. "If ever I do get lost, I'll just
catch a cow and milk it."
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