I BECOME A LAND-LUBBER.
When I was a brass-bound apprentice on a wind-jammer, aged sixteen, I
visited Melbourne on my first voyage, and became acquainted with the
young lady who now enjoys the honour of being Mrs. Senex. Naturally
then, when the idea of settling in Australia occurred to me, Victoria
was the State I first thought of. I applied to the Government, stating
my case, and their reply was a very distinct damper. Regarded in the
light of a hint not to come, it was a verbal brutality:--
"The amount you mention is utterly inadequate to make a start in
Victoria, and we should not advise you to leave your present
employment until something more certain and easy eventuates."
A distinct "Tite-Barnacle" flavour about it altogether. New South Wales
was my next try. Far more encouraging. I could certainly come to that
State; I would be put in touch with farmers in whatever district I
selected, and when I thought I had enough experience to start for myself
they would do their best to find me land. Also they sent me some
pamphlets.
Then Queensland. Ah! that _was_ something like a hospitable
invitation:--
"Certainly you ought to make a decent start with the amount you
mention. Even with nothing you are welcome if willing to work. We
hope you will decide to come.... If you are not afraid of work and
a bit of roughing it, you should command success," and so forth.
Accompanying this missive was a parcel of pamphlets on which six
shillings postage had been paid. So I reckoned Queensland was good
enough for me, and it was--and is.
I watched my ship leave Newcastle on the Sunday. Next day I was in
Sydney enquiring about a boat for Brisbane. It was the time of the
Badger tram strike, and, as most people remember, shipping was being
held up. However, the company I went to said they were running a special
boat on Wednesday, and I might squeeze in. Went steerage, of course; had
to study economy now. And it _was_ a squeeze-in all right. She was an
awful old tub. I won't mention her name. The steerage bunks were two
high and two abreast--four in a section. My berth was on the cold hard
deck under a bottom bunk, whose inhabitant had, of course, an unpleasant
habit of spitting. Two blokes camped on the table, and several, like
myself, on the deck. Well, I hadn't forgotten my old sailor dodge of
"pricking for the softest plank," so it was no particular hardship to
me, and I passed a fair night.
I went on deck about 6 a.m., in time to see my old pal, Sugarloaf,
abeam.
The weather was clear, blowing a bit, and a good lop of following sea.
Breakfast was at 7.30. When the bell went I was on the fo'c'sle head,
and waited a minute or two before leisurely descending. The mob was
jammed round the table like peas in a pod, jaws working overtime, eyes
hungrily roaming over the table, hands ever and anon reaching like
talons for the eatables. I accosted the steward, poor man, who, with a
care-lined face, was hovering round like an unquiet spirit.
"Can't help it, sir," says he; "you'll just 'ave t' do the same as th'
others--grab what ye can, and Go delp the last man. Cripes! They are a
'oly lot er cormorants this trip."
So I grabbed a spud, a ragged lump of meat, and a hunk of dry bread,
which were all I could effect salvage on, but it kept the worms quiet.
After that I was always anchored in mid-table half an hour before meals,
and held on like grim death against the rushing tide when the bell went.
Very soon half of them were squatted round the table like vultures half
an hour before time, so my dodge failed in the end.
They were a merry, rough, happy-go-lucky crowd. Mostly shed hands,
rouseabouts and suchlike, bound for Rockhampton and Townsville. They
soon jerried that, if I was a pretty smart seaman, I was also an
extremely raw new chum; and the old, old gohanna farm tale was sprung
off on me with enthusiasm. I didn't know what a blooming gohanna was. I
was also advised to keep my eye open for a few likely-looking emus when
I got settled, as there was good money in their plumes. I got a bit
suspicious of fifty-foot carpet snakes, but swallowed cannibal blacks
and crocodiles in the Atherton scrub. North of Townsville, I was
informed, it rained for nine months, and then the rainy season started.
I caused a good deal of amusement all right, and the roars of laughter
might have been heard all over the ship when I mentioned casually that I
had some heavy blocks ashore in my baggage, with a view to hauling down
scrub timber. (N.B.--The blocks were stolen from my ship, but as I
originally stole them from the Standard Oil Co.'s wharf in New York, I
reckoned I'd a proprietary right to them. You'll find the mate of the
average tramp an accomplished pincher. He's got to be, the way owners
cut requisition lists). They enquired if I had any idea what scrub was
like. I said "No, but I supposed it was just ordinary trees." More
merriment.
It was late in the evening when we arrived in Brisbane. I got ashore at
once, and chartered a cabby to take me to some decent place to camp. He
did, and charged me five shillings for a five minutes' journey to that
fine caravanserai, the People's Palace. Next morning I was early at
Roma-street station, enquiring for my traps from Newcastle. They hadn't
arrived, and wouldn't do so for a week or more--congestion at
Wallangarra. Bestowing my blessing on the Railway Department, I strolled
down to the Lands Office, and interviewed the gentleman with whom I had
corresponded aboard ship. Let me pay a tribute to his courteous
urbanity, and the patience with which he answered the innumerable
questions I was inspired with.
"Yes, Mr. Senex, Queensland has good soil ... er--it _is_ suitable
for growing potatoes. Yes, it _is_ possible to go dairying in the
State. Orchards? Oh, yes! Fruit grows here," and so on.
How he must have laughed when the brand-new, fresh-minted, new chum left
him! Well, I learned that among the earthly paradises abounding in
Queensland the district of Atherton was, for climate, scenery and
general farming purposes, the nearest approach to Heaven in the State. I
could do anything there--grow my beloved spuds (my dad was Irish, by the
way), or dairy, run an orchard, or raise chooks. In fact, the trouble
was not so much what to grow as what not to raise, in case of swamping
the market, off twenty acres.
Of course it was Atherton for me after that--you bet! Couldn't get there
quick enough. I found time, though, to worry the Department of
Agriculture a bit, and I have no doubt they were very delighted to see
the last of the infernal bore who "wanted to know, you know," and
wouldn't be satisfied with the assurance that Atherton _was_ a good
place.
"Yes; but," said the bore, "have you ever been there?" And when they
said "No," the bore opined that they couldn't know so very much about
the place after all, and doubtless caused secret fist-shakings behind
his unconscious back.
One brilliant gentleman told me he'd give me a half-fare concession to
visit Gatton College next day, and, in the joy of getting something for
nearly nothing, I forgot to worry them any more. The other gentlemen
probably stood him a drink that afternoon.
I thoroughly enjoyed that trip, and it was queer to think that at Gatton
I was further away from the sea than I had ever been since I was born,
and I don't think I bored the College people. I was such a palpable
"newey," with such an eager interest in everything and so easily
entertained. I caused one of the principals a heart-throb though when he
turned round and caught me clambering over the fence en route to pat old
"Spec," one of the savagest bulls in Queensland, I think, standing
treacherously quiet on the other side. I was hauled back by the neck,
while "Spec" boomed his disappointment and pawed up the earth in
showers. I would have liked to have stayed there a week, admiring the
beautiful, sleek cattle and dropsical pigs, snoring in bloated
contentment, but the setting sun and the 8 p.m. train took me back to
Brisbane.
I went to the Lands Office next day and worried them some more. They
gave me a railway concession as far as Gladstone, and I left, staggering
under a pile of maps, plans and pamphlets, which I afterwards
conscientiously waded through and finally used for papering the walls of
my bush humpy to keep the draughts out.
About 9 p.m. that evening I boarded the Gladstone mail train, and found
myself one of a herd of males penned up in a bare wooden "three-in-one"
dog-box of a carriage, with a mouldy odour of mildew, sulphur and
antediluvian "Flor-de-Cabbagios" hanging about it. A short wait, a long
whistle, a jarring jerk or two, and we slowly rumbled out of Brisbane
into the moonlit country, and into the romantic mystery veiling the
unknown life before me.