The homestead, standing half-way up the slope that rose from the
billabong, had, after all, little of that “down-at-heels, anything’ll-
do” appearance that Mac had so scathingly described. No one could call
it a “commodious station home,” and it was even patched up and shabby;
but, for all that, neat and cared for. An orderly little array of one-
roomed buildings, mostly built of sawn slabs, and ranged round a broad
oblong space with a precision that suggested the idea of a section of a
street cut out from some neat compact little village.
The cook’s quarters, kitchens, men’s quarters, store, meat-house, and
waggon-house, facing each other on either side of this oblong space,
formed a short avenue-the main thoroughfare of the homestead—the centre
of which was occupied by an immense wood-heap, the favourite gossiping
place of some of the old black fellows, while across the western end of
it, and looking down it, but a little aloof from the rest of the
buildings, stood the house, or, rather, as much of it as had been
rebuilt after the cyclone of 1897. As befitted their social positions
the forge and black boys’ “humpy” kept a respectful distance well round
the south-eastern corner of this thoroughfare; but, for some unknown
reason, the fowl-roosts had been erected over Sam Lee’s sleeping-
quarters. That comprised this tiny homestead of a million and a quarter
acres, with the Katherine Settlement a hundred miles to the north of it,
one neighbour ninety miles to the east, another, a hundred and five to
the south, and others about two hundred to the west.
Unfortunately, Mac’s description of the House had been only too correct.
With the exception of the one roughly finished room at its eastern end,
it was “mostly verandahs and promises.”
After the cyclone had wrecked the building, scattering timber and sheets
of iron in all directions, everything had lain exactly where it had
fallen for some weeks, at the mercy of the wind and weather. At the end
of those weeks a travelling Chinese carpenter arrived at the station
with such excellent common-sense ideas of what a bush homestead should
be, that he had been engaged to rebuild it.
His plans showed a wide-roofed building, built upon two-foot piles, with
two large centre rooms opening into each other and surrounded by a deep
verandah on every side; while two small rooms, a bathroom and an office,
were to nestle each under one of the eastern corners of this deep
twelve-foot verandah. Without a doubt excellent common-sense ideas; but,
unfortunately, much larger than the supply of timber. Rough-hewn posts
for the two-foot piles and verandah supports could be had for the
cutting, and therefore did not give out; but the man used joists and
uprights with such reckless extravagance, that by the time the skeleton
of the building was up, the completion of the contract was impossible.
With philosophical indifference, however, he finished one room
completely; left a second a mere outline of uprights and tye-beams;
apparently forgot all about the bathroom and office; covered the whole
roof, including verandahs, with corrugated iron; surveyed his work with
a certain amount of stolid satisfaction; then announcing that “wood bin
finissem,” applied for his cheque and departed; and from that day
nothing further has been done to the House, which stood before us
“mostly verandahs and promises.”
Although Mac’s description of the House had been apt, he had sadly
underrated the furniture. There were FOUR chairs, all “up” to my weight,
while two of them were up to the Maluka’s. The cane was all gone,
certainly, but had been replaced with green-hide seats (not green in
colour, of course, only green in experience, never having seen a tan-
pit). In addition to the chairs, the dining-table, the four-poster bed,
the wire mattress, and the looking glass, there was a solid deal side
table, made from the side of a packing-case, with four solid legs and a
solid shelf underneath, also a remarkably steady washstand that had no
ware of any description, and a remarkably unsteady chest of four
drawers, one of which refused to open, while the other three refused to
shut. Further, the dining-table was more than “fairly” steady, three of
the legs being perfectly sound, and it therefore only threatened to fall
over when leaned upon. And lastly, although most of the plates and all
the cups were enamel ware, there was almost a complete dinner service in
china. The teapot, however, was tin, and, as Mac said, as “big as a
house.”
As for the walls, not only were the “works of art” there, but they
themselves were uniquely dotted from ceiling to floor with the muddy
imprints of dogs’ feet—not left there by a Pegasus breed of winged dogs,
but made by the muddy feet of the station dogs, as they pattered over
the timber, when it lay awaiting the carpenter, and no one had seen any
necessity to remove them. Outside the verandahs, and all around the
house, was what was to be known later as the garden, a grassy stretch of
hillocky ground, well scratched and beaten down by dogs, goats, and
fowls; fenceless itself, being part of the grassy acres which were
themselves fenced round to form the homestead enclosures. Just inside
this enclosure, forming, in fact, the south-western barrier of it, stood
the “billabong,” then a spreading sheet of water; along its banks
flourished the vegetable garden; outside the enclosure, towards the
south-east, lay a grassy plain a mile across, and to the north-west were
the stock-yards and house paddock—a paddock of five square miles, and
the only fenced area on the run; while everywhere to the northwards, and
all through the paddock, were dotted “white-ant” hills, all shapes and
sizes, forming brick-red turrets among the green scrub and timber.
“Well!” Mac said, after we had completed a survey. “I said it wasn’t a
fit place for a woman, didn’t I?”
But the Head-stockman was in one of his argumentative moods. “Any place
is a fit place for a woman,” he said, “provided the woman is fitted for
the place. The right man in the right place, you know. Square people
shouldn’t try to get into round holes.”
“The woman’s SQUARE enough!” the Maluka interrupted; and Mac added, “And
so is the HOLE,” with a scornful emphasis on the word “hole.”
Dan chuckled, and surveyed the queer-looking building with new interest.
“It reminds me of a banyan tree with corrugated-iron foliage,” he said,
adding as he went into details, “In a dim light the finished room would
pass for the trunk of the tree and the uprights for the supports of the
branches.”
But the Maluka thought it looked more like a section of a mangrove
swamp, piles and all.
“It looks very like a house nearly finished,” I said severely; for,
because of the verandah and many promises, I was again hopeful for
something approaching that commodious station home. “A few able-bodied
men could finish the dining-room in a couple of clays, and make a
mansion of the rest of the building in a week or so.”
But the able-bodied men had a different tale to tell.
“Steady! Go slow, missus!” they cried. “It may look like a house very
nearly finished, but out-bush, we have to catch our hares before we cook
them.”
“WE begin at the very beginning of things in the Never-Never,” the
Maluka explained. “Timber grows in trees in these parts, and has to be
coaxed out with a saw.”
“It’s a bad habit it’s got into,” Dan chuckled; then pointing vaguely
towards the thickly wooded long Reach, that lay a mile to the south of
the homestead, beyond the grassy plain, he “supposed the dining-room was
down there just now, with the rest of the House.”
With fast-ebbing hopes I looked in dismay at the distant forest
undulating along the skyline, and the Maluka said sympathetically, “It’s
only too true, little un’.”
But Dan disapproved of spoken sympathy under trying circumstances. “It
keeps ’em from toeing the line” he believed; and fearing I was on the
point of showing the white feather he broke in with: “We’ll have to keep
her toeing the line, Boss,” and then pointed out that “things might be
worse.” “In some countries there are no trees to cut down,” he said.
“That’s the style,” he added, when I began to laugh in spite of my
disappointment, “We’ll soon get you educated up to it.”
But already the Sanguine Scot had found the bright side of the
situation, and reminded us that we were in the Land of Plenty of Time.
“There’s time enough for everything in the Never-Never,” he said.
“She’ll have many a pleasant ride along the Reach choosing trees for
timber. Catching the hare’s often the best part of the fun.”
Mac’s cheery optimism always carried all before it. Pleasant rides
through shady forest-ways seemed a fair recompense for a little delay;
and my spirits went up with a bound, to be dashed down again the next
moment by Dan.
“We haven’t got to the beginning of things yet,” he interrupted,
following up the line of thought the Maluka had at first suggested.
“Before any trees are cut down, we’ll have to dig a saw-pit and find a
pit-sawyer.” Dan was not a pessimist; he only liked to dig down to the
very root of things, besides objecting to sugar-coated pills as being a
hindrance to education.
But the Dandy had joined the group, and being practical, suggested
“trying to get hold of little Johnny,” declaring that “he would make
things hum in no time.”
Mac happened to know that Johnny was “inside” somewhere on a job, and it
was arranged that Dan should go in to the Katherine at once for nails
and “things,” and to see if the telegraph people could find out Johnny’s
whereabouts down the line, and send him along.
But preparations for a week’s journey take time, outbush, owing to that
necessity of beginning at the beginning of things. Fresh horses were
mustered, a mob of bullocks rounded up for a killer, swags and pack-bags
packed; and just as all was in readiness for the start, the Quiet
Stockman came in, bringing a small mob of colts with him.
“I’m leaving,” he announced in the Quarters; then, feeling some
explanation was necessary, added, “I WAS thinking of it before this
happened.” Strictly speaking, this may be true, although he omitted to
say that he had abandoned the idea for some little time.
No one was surprised, and no one thought of asking what had happened,
for Jack had always steered clear of women, as he termed it. Not that he
feared or disliked them, but because he considered that they had nothing
in common with men. “They’re such terrors for asking questions,” he said
once, when pressed for an opinion, adding as an afterthought, “They
never seem to learn much either,” in his own quiet way, summing up the
average woman’s conversation with a shy bushman: a long string of
purposeless questions, followed by inane remarks on the answers.
“I’m leaving!” Jack had said, and later met the Maluka unshaken in his
resolve. There was that in the Maluka, however, that Jack had not
calculated on a something that drew all men to him, and made Dan speak
of him in after-years as the “best boss ever I struck”; and although the
interview only lasted a few minutes, and the Maluka spoke only of the
work of the station, yet in those few minutes the Quiet Stockman changed
his mind, and the notice was never given.
“I’m staying on,” was all he said on returning to the Quarters; and
quick decisions being unusual with Jack, every one felt interested.
“Going to give her a chance?” Dan asked with a grin, and Jack looked
uncomfortable.
“I’ve only seen the boss,” he said.
Dan nodded with approval. “You’ve got some sense left, then,” he said,
“if you know a good boss when you see one.”
Jack agreed in monosyllables; but when Dan settled down to argue out the
advantages of having a woman about the place, he looked doubtful; but
having nothing to say on the subject, said nothing; and when Dan left
for the Katherine next morning he was still unconvinced.
Dan set out for the north track soon after sun-up, assuring us that he’d
get hold of Johnny somehow; and before sun-down a traveller crossed the
Creek below the billabong at the south track, and turned into the
homestead enclosure.
We were vaguely chatting on all and sundry matters, as we sat under the
verandah that faced the billabong, when the traveller came into sight.
“Horse traveller!” Mac said, lazily shading his eyes, and then sprang to
his feet with a yell. “Talk of luck!” he shouted. “You’ll do, missus!
Here’s Johnny himself.”
It was Johnny, sure enough; but Johnny had a cheque in his pocket, and
was yearning to see the “chaps at the Katherine”; and, after a good look
through the House and store, decided that he really would have to go in
to the Settlement for—tools and “things.”
“I’ll be back in a week, missus,” he said next morning, as he gathered
his reins together before mounting, “and then we shan’t be long. Three
days in and three out, you know, bar accidents, and a day’s spell at the
Katherine,” he explained glibly. But the “chaps at the Katherine” proved
too entertaining for Johnny, and a fortnight passed before we saw him
again.