COOK AND HUTKEEPER.
I never had given much of my attention to the art of cooking, and was
rather alarmed on finding I would have some seven or eight experienced
bushmen to deal with. The first day’s bread we had brought with us in
the cart, the frying-pan and kettle were to do the rest. The men seemed
satisfied with plain things, and the superintendent appearing favourably
disposed towards me, I felt less anxious than I had expected on
commencing breadmaking on the second morning. I had never baked anything
bigger than a three or four pound loaf before, but the process being all
the same, I ventured on a stone of flour for this my first professional
attempt, and not seeing well how to lay so great a cake of dough in the
usual manner among the ashes, a happy idea came to me of cooking it in a
large circular camp oven. I got it in very nicely, set the vessel on a
bed of red-hot cinders, and heaped plenty of the same upon the lid. In
about half-an-hour, I looked within to see how the work was going on, and
was glad to see the top hoven up, and as brown as well-baked pie crust,
quite tempting to look at. I gave it a few minutes more, to make sure
that the heart was reached, and when all was done turned out upon the
grass as pretty a loaf as I had ever seen, with a top like a flat dome,
and sides as crisp-like as butter biscuit. Setting it upon a stump to
cool, I again placed the oven on the fire to bake a leg of mutton, being
careful to lay some small lumps of suet on the bottom to prevent burning.
Burn it did however; turning it appeared but to present a new face to be
charred. I put more suet in, and still no gravy. Dinner time drew near,
and I became excited at the thought of the seven hungry men. I sighed,
but got no relief thereby, in the certain prospect of being sent about
my business for incompetency. The dinner party stopped their work upon
the stock-yard fencing and approached. The wind was from me to them,
and I noticed one or two looking curiously forward directly after I had
lifted the oven lid to get the meat out, and feared the smell was telling
tales on me. My hope now rested solely on the loaf. With a subdued air,
silent and foreboding, I handed it to one to cut, while I served the tea
out. I heard a sound as of some one at the dish that held the dry roast,
and a query put, “What’s this a piece of,” and then a great guffaw of a
laugh with “Well done Scottie, will we have to skin you or it I wonder.”
I turned my head to look and knew not how to shape my excuse, but there
was so little sign of anger in the speaker’s face that I was encouraged
to tell how the thing had happened with me, and to promise better work
next time. A few of the older men grumbled a good deal, and asked what I
was good for to do no better than that, but Tom, the young man who had
first spoken, rubbed the edge off their comments, and going with me to
inspect the oven, found a small crack in the bottom had let the fat out.
But hardly had the discovery been made, when a faint crash was heard; the
cutter of the loaf had sent his knee through its arched top in setting it
bottom up upon his lap. On clearing away the broken shell there appeared
a substance “that might be either cheese or grindstone,” the man said,
“which ever you please, it’s heavy enough for the one, and blue enough
for the other.” Tom laughed as I never saw man laugh before, and said I
would be the death of him, if he looked much longer at me. Though very
grateful to him for standing between me and harm, I could not see the
occasion of his mirth, and for once felt it was not contagious. There
being nothing else to eat than the two things I have named, the men did
the best they could with them, but Tom, as he was leaving to return to
work, told me he was afraid after the “tuck out” that I had given him
he would hardly be ready for the next meal, and asked if I had such a
thing as a pill or two about me. Before they came back at sundown, I had
baked a large flat loaf about the size of an arm-chair cushion, among
the hot ashes of the large wood fire—very eatable—but the dough having
been rather soft when I slid it from the sheet of bark that served for
kneading-board, it had doubled up in places, and had absorbed too many
cinders in its bottom crust. I had besides made ready a pile of pancakes,
fried in fat, with which Tom fell so much in love that I spared not the
frying-pan in maintaining the supply at all the three meals of the day.
About the end of a week however, on perceiving he was not eating so
freely of them as at first, and was evidently transferring his affections
to the loaf, and on finding that they were not altogether agreeing with
myself, I made no more.
When I had been about a fortnight thus engaged, the cartman left
suddenly, and I was told that I would have to take his place for a day
or so. When the information was brought to me, I was busy making ready a
dinner that I assured myself would atone for all past deficiencies. All
my ingenuity had been expended upon a potful of beef and mutton stew,
which was slowly simmering at the fire; the fluid portion had assumed
the consistency of jelly, and I flattered myself that great though the
quantity was, there would be but little of it left for supper. The cart
was got ready with a load for the diggings, and I was hailed to come
and take charge of it. A strong breeze was making free with the lighter
ashes of the fire, and the pot had no lid. I was hurried, and a little
anxious about how a horse was managed, so that my mind was not altogether
with my work. The hail was repeated, this time by the superintendent; the
frying pan stood on end against a stump; seizing it I made a lid of it
and ran. Shortly after returning, I looked to see how my last production
had been relished. The pot stood away from the fire, full as when I left
it, cold; and the meat hidden beneath a thick brittle layer of what
unmistakably was mutton dripping. The phenomenon was unaccountable until,
to my confusion, I recollected the make-shift lid. I had been using it
at breakfast time, and in my haste had forgotten to clean it out. There
was very little said to me about it, but on the following morning, on
returning from a second journey to the diggings, I found an old man, a
stranger, had superseded me. I tried to think that the change from cook
to cartman was promotion; but for a time every fresh meal the old man set
before us, humbled me into sincere thankfulness for having been spared
from going on the tramp again.
A few days after the change took place, a drove of fat cattle, about
twenty in number, and the first of our killing stock, arrived under
charge of two horsemen from some distant station. Calved and reared at
large in the open bush, they were just wild enough to fly either from or
at a man on foot, but at the same time so innocently stupid, that a man
on horseback might ride in and out amongst them if he but kept quiet,
their distinction between friend and foe being apparently ruled by the
number of his legs. The animals were too tired to make the first yarding
of them difficult. On the following morning, however, when assisting
to enclose a few of them in the slaughtering pen, I was made to fear
that here might lie the end of my strange pilgrimage. The main yard was
about thirty yards square; the twenty bullocks gathered close together
about the centre, snorting and pawing the ground as we mounted the high
rails and dropped inside. Refreshed by their night’s rest, and nimble
with hunger, they rushed about seeking some way of escape, now and again
crowding into the railed passage leading to the slaughtering floor, which
served as an intermediate yard, with slip rails for barring it from the
main enclosure, when we had got the animals we wanted in. A rush was made
to these slip rails as often as this happened, but as often, for close
upon two hours were they hurled from our hands in the act of placing
them. The courage and temper of the superintendent were much tried; once
I saw him fight his way singly from behind through the angry herd, to
help the men who were trying, but again in vain, to close the passage.
As the now infuriated beasts ran at us with lowered heads, I was too
busy making my own escape to see how his was made, but I heard some
cracks given on a dull sounding body, and seeing him from my perch on
the top rail a few minutes after still on the ground, with a light stake
in his hand, I felt encouraged next time not to run so readily, and by a
little careful observation was bye and bye enabled to distinguish signs
of mischief in the animals from those merely of alarm. By what rule I
judged I could not say, but believe the process was much the same as when
interpreting the expression of a human face. Once, however, I presumed a
little too much on my discernment, and had only time to get upon the top
rail with one leg over, when the animal sprang up, and it and rail and I
were thrown sprawling on the ground outside. As it did not on the instant
run away, I did, as well as a stunned leg would let me.
The weight of the bodies when killed and dressed ranged from eight to
eleven hundred weight, and it fell to me as cartman to carry the quarters
as they were cut, from the sling bar to the cart, no light task to
one who had yet to learn the art of balancing a yielding mass upon my
shoulders, and who trusted only in the stiffness of his back. I only
dropped one quarter the whole time I was employed in carrying, about six
months, but that one was the first I attempted, and unfortunately it fell
in the mud. On the second morning after breakfast, the superintendent
desired me to make ready to ride the cattle out for a few hours’ feeding.
It was not for me to say No, but I told him I had not practised any
other riding than in a cart, and that I was doubtful he would lose his
stock. He poohed at my scruples, saddled a small brown horse that had
a character for sobriety and slowness, and mounting it himself, rode
after the uncaged animals in their first rush to the water. When they
had quenched their thirst, he headed them round to where I stood waiting
under cover of a bush, but before I could take his place, they had gone
off at a run, and there was nothing for it but to beat them in the race.
Never, I thought, had horse flown as mine now did, over holes and stumps
with flying leaps, his head erect, and his ears laid back, as if he knew
his work, and expected I knew mine. After galloping thus about a mile, we
got in front, but could not stop the herd; half a mile more, but still
they ran. I was beginning to be alarmed, for they minded me no more than
they would one of themselves. At the end of the third mile, however,
their pace began to slacken, and shortly after, on reaching a fine grassy
bottom, they commenced to feed. It had taken us but a short time to come
this distance, but I doubted the like expedition in the return, and
consequently got into the saddle again shortly after mid-day to begin
it. I had a stock whip with me, the lash of which was about fifteen feet
in length, attached to a handle shorter and smaller than a policeman’s
baton. I had felt quite unable to use it in the morning’s run, but now
made bold to try. Throwing the lash out from me, and describing a large
oval in the air with the handle end, finishing with a jerk as I had seen
the drovers do, I thought to make some of the brown hides smart, but a
swing of the tail round to the part touched, was for a while the only
answer the phlegmatic brutes would give me, and having to stop the horse
at every such attempt, thereby losing much more than was gained, I broke
a branch from a tree and rode at them with it determined to bring the
matter to an issue one way or another, but on raising it to strike, the
horse mistook my intention and shied, nearly throwing me to the ground. I
durst not repeat the experiment, but as something had to be done, resumed
the whip, and now swinging it round my head, produced after many trials
a soft twiney crack, that made my heart leap for very joy, seeing it
made the creatures prick their ears, and snuff the wind. The horse stood
quiet while I practised, meekly winking his eyes, and appearing to take
no offence even when, as often happened, I got the lash entangled about
his legs. At last I made a crack that rang like a gun-shot through the
woods, and then another. The herd came walking as to a centre; I pricked
the horse forward, shouted, and while they were yet on the move, got them
headed for home, and giving them no rest, we reached a ridge about half
a mile from the yard, with the sun yet a good hour high. But here the
superintendent met me mounted on a tall grey horse without saddle. He was
out in search of another of the horses that had gone amissing. Seeing me
so near home, and all going well, he set me on the bare back of the old
horse he had come on, and rode away upon the other. My new seat had a
projecting back bone running down the middle, I made the best use I could
of my knees to bear my weight, and might thus have saved myself from
damage, but just as the yard came into view two diggers on foot appeared.
Foreboding mischief I shouted and waved to them to keep away, but they
did not understand or would not. The herd caught sight of them, and ran
off at a swinging trot across the creek and away up into hilly ground. My
knees could no longer support my weight, which at every leap the horse
took, came down with cruel effect upon the ridge board I sat astride of.
The men jeered and laughed, whistled, and called “Joe, Joe,” after me
until I was lost to hearing. Darkness was fast approaching, and I was
beginning to despair about my work, when the superintendent came riding
up, and with a few cracks of the whip, quickly made the animals close
their ranks, the rearmost crowding to reach the front, and all at the top
of their speed to get out of reach of his anger. I had a tale to tell on
reaching the hut, but did not tell it, though Tom next day let me know
in confidence that a plaister of pipe clay was the finest substitute he
knew for lost skin.
Next morning at daybreak I was sent with a saddle on my shoulders to
bring home the missing horse from the stock yard of an out station about
four miles higher up the creek, and in due time was mounted and making
my way slowly back along the road. Becoming a little more confident in
my seat when about half way home, I applied my single spur with the
lightest of touches, and received in return a whisk of the tail across
my back. The reply made me hold some little consultation with myself.
The animal had turned his head slightly round as if to see what the
matter was; his ears seemed fidgetty, and I wondered what that signified,
but the pace becoming slower and slower until it came to a dead stop,
there was no alternative but to use my armed heel as before. The hinder
parts rose on the instant and I was nearly thrown. I was glad to make
peace on any terms, and “woed” him quiet. We could not remain standing
still however; I geehupped and chirked with my mouth in the style of my
predecessor the cartman, but all in vain, until by slapping him with the
end of the bridle on the neck, I got him urged forward to where a tree
dropped its branches within my reach. I was becoming angry, and might
have to ride him often yet before leaving the neighbourhood. Having
heard it said, that according as the will of the man or of the horse
ruled at the first acquaintance, so was it likely to be afterwards, a
now-or-never impulse overrode my fear, and armed me for the battle. He
stood peaceably looking back at me as I wrenched a branch off. Giving him
one hearty whack with it behind, he winced and shook my feet out of the
stirrups, and went off at a hard gallop which was never slackened till I
drew him up at the hut door. My face felt rather flushed, and the horse
was blowing. The superintendent came out and asked if I had not more
sense than to ride a grass-fed horse at that rate. Feeling that sense
had very little to do with the matter, I would have justified myself had
not Tom at the moment clapped me on the back, and said with a singular
grin upon his honest face that I had a very devil in me, if I but knew
it. The character suggested in the remark being likely to be more
serviceable under existing circumstances than the other that would have
been assumed in telling the plain story, I held my peace, but shortly
afterwards ascertained from Tom that a horse that has been accustomed
only to a riding switch, is apt to misunderstand the meaning of a spur.
The adventure seemed to have rid me of my fear. Duty became a pleasure
to me when I could perform it in the saddle. The ranges were no longer
hills of difficulty when other legs than my own were bearing the fatigue.
The risk of losing the direction in which the hut lay ceased to be a
matter of anxiety, when I had the unfailing instinct of my dumb companion
to rely on, though once that instinct played me false, by bearing me
to the home station at the Amphitheatre, when I meant returning to the
slaughter-yard. Night came on shortly after I had slacked the rein to
him, and in the darkness I failed to recognise the road that we had
struck on until too late. Much hard work previously at the slaughter-yard
had, no doubt, much to do with this visit on which he took me to the
place where he had been foaled and reared.
Our old cook left, and in his room there came a young man newly arrived
from Scotland, whose christian name was David. It took but little time
for us to discover in each other kindred sympathies and habits. It was
like finding a green place in the desert. Had we been Frenchmen, we
might have kissed, and sworn life-long brotherhood, but being creatures
of less impulse we merely “hung our harps upon the willows” and mourned
over departed joys, and the small prospect at present of meeting new
ones. He had been at college, with a view to becoming a minister, but
something which he could not well explain had unsettled him, and sent
him—here. He talked of books, and was yet so full of the school, that
he was often on the floor reciting passages from the classic authors;
Greek and Latin seemed to be the languages that best suited him, when
the pots and pans did not require his attention. Very companionable,
and with an expression of face, that looked somewhat like a sly laugh
taking a rest, he had unfortunately become possessed of the idea, that
there was no securing personal independence but by keeping strict guard
upon the personal dignities. He quickly made himself acquainted with the
duties proper of a cook and hutkeeper, but beyond these he would not go
when the superintendent himself was not concerned. This was soon made
plain to his fellow-servants, who thereupon took in hand to correct the
evident errors of his education. David was in their mouths at every turn
of their leisure in and about the hut. Not a draught of water or light
to a pipe was wanted but he was called upon, and as for face washing,
there was more of it in a week now than I had seen in a whole month
before, for David was the water carrier, and they could not think to see
him idle. When there was a sheep to kill no hand but mine interfered
to help, for who but David had any business with it. He at length lost
heart; I tried to counsel him, but he could not bend, nor could he leave,
for he had engaged himself to serve twelve months upon the station. The
superintendent at last got him removed to a bush hut, to cook and shift
the hurdles for two shepherds. In this isolated and lonely situation,
without books, and with, in all likelihood, the rudest of society in
the men he shared the hut with, the yet fresh memories he had related to
me of his early homes and haunts and his hopeful studies, would begin to
burn within him, run in his dreams by night, and waste the vigour of his
mind in vain imaginations by day, until the dull routine of his duties
saddened him down to passive acquiescence. A few weeks after he left us,
I received intelligence from Melbourne that called for my presence there,
and never saw him again.
I had not heard from home for about twelve months, and it was by mere
chance that a note to me addressed “Post Office, Avoca,” came to hand.
It spoke of letters and of the arrival of an old friend from Glasgow.
I left the slaughter yard on the second morning after receiving the
information, and, carrying only a pair of blankets, and a hook pot, with
a little bread and tea, started for Ballarat, there to take the coach for
Geelong, thence to Melbourne by the steamer, being much too impatient to
think of walking all the way, though my pay of thirty shillings a week
with rations, could ill afford the expense. My mind running so much on
home during my journey down, I looked with somewhat modified impressions
on the scenes traversed; they had no longer novelty to recommend them,
and I found myself contrasting them with those of the old country. I
thought of the old hawthorn hedges there, of the quiet little villages,
where, to the passer by, peace and contentment seemed to find a home,
and where perhaps, when the children were at school, few were to be
seen—an ivy-covered spire, rearing its modest head above the thatched
roofs near, with a little graveyard, hallowed to the villagers as the
resting place of their dead—every nook and corner associated with some
story of the past, almost every house intimately connected with the
memories of preceding generations—green lanes and shady walks, where the
aged in their feeble rambles find the young following in their early
footprints with just such blushing tales of confidence and love, and just
such simple-hearted hopefulness, as they can remember of themselves:
whereas here, everything in which man has a hand seems new, and hardly
finished, the smell of paint and fresh split timber predominant through
all, with occasionally a scent upon the air of green-wood fires. Little
for the old world superstition yet to fix upon outside of the mind;
the few hillocks that have begun to dot a corner of the township must
be multiplied—familiar voices must first be missed, and memory dwell
upon the bygone years in which they were accustomed to be heard—the
living must feel themselves walking near the dead—before those old home
impressions about things unseen, that make men grave and uneasy, they
know not exactly how, can renew their troubling influence in dreams
and times of loneliness. Without local tradition to establish mental
sympathy with the place, and with people of strange dialects and tongues
gathering around, the heart may miss much of its accustomed comfort, but
there is work to be done, and good reward for it, and while that is being
realised, old habits modify, friendships and local interests arise, so
that gradually the place becomes to all intents a lasting home.