The Darling--which is either a muddy gutter or a second Mississippi--is
about six times as long as the distance, in a straight line, from its
head to its mouth. The state of the river is vaguely but generally
understood to depend on some distant and foreign phenomena to which
bushmen refer in an off-hand tone of voice as “the Queenslan' rains”,
which seem to be held responsible, in a general way, for most of the
out-back trouble.
It takes less than a year to go up stream by boat to Walgett or Bourke
in a dry season; but after the first three months the passengers
generally go ashore and walk. They get sick of being stuck in the same
sort of place, in the same old way; they grow weary of seeing the same
old “whaler” drop his swag on the bank opposite whenever the boat ties
up for wood; they get tired of lending him tobacco, and listening to his
ideas, which are limited in number and narrow in conception.
It shortens the journey to get out and walk; but then you will have to
wait so long for your luggage--unless you hump it with you.
We heard of a man who determined to stick to a Darling boat and travel
the whole length of the river. He was a newspaper man. He started on
his voyage of discovery one Easter in flood-time, and a month later the
captain got bushed between the Darling and South Australian border. The
waters went away before he could find the river again, and left his boat
in a scrub. They had a cargo of rations, and the crew stuck to the craft
while the tucker lasted; when it gave out they rolled up their swags and
went to look for a station, but didn't find one. The captain would study
his watch and the sun, rig up dials and make out courses, and follow
them without success. They ran short of water, and didn't smell any
for weeks; they suffered terrible privations, and lost three of their
number, NOT including the newspaper liar. There are even dark hints
considering the drawing of lots in connection with something too
terrible to mention. They crossed a thirty-mile plain at last, and
sighted a black gin. She led them to a boundary rider's hut, where they
were taken in and provided with rations and rum.
Later on a syndicate was formed to explore the country and recover the
boat; but they found her thirty miles from the river and about eighteen
from the nearest waterhole deep enough to float her, so they left her
there. She's there still, or else the man that told us about it is the
greatest liar Out Back.
. . . . .
Imagine the hull of a North Shore ferry boat, blunted a little at the
ends and cut off about a foot below the water-line, and parallel to it,
then you will have something shaped somewhat like the hull of a Darling
mud-rooter. But the river boat is much stronger. The boat we were on
was built and repaired above deck after the different ideas of many bush
carpenters, of whom the last seemed by his work to have regarded the
original plan with a contempt only equalled by his disgust at the work
of the last carpenter but one. The wheel was boxed in, mostly with round
sapling-sticks fastened to the frame with bunches of nails and spikes
of all shapes and sizes, most of them bent. The general result was
decidedly picturesque in its irregularity, but dangerous to the mental
welfare of any passenger who was foolish enough to try to comprehend
the design; for it seemed as though every carpenter had taken the
opportunity to work in a little abstract idea of his own.
The way they “dock” a Darling River boat is beautiful for its
simplicity. They choose a place where there are two stout trees about
the boat's length apart, and standing on a line parallel to the river.
They fix pulley-blocks to the trees, lay sliding planks down into the
water, fasten a rope to one end of the steamer, and take the other end
through the block attached to the tree and thence back aboard a second
steamer; then they carry a rope similarly from the other end through the
block on the second tree, and aboard a third boat. At a given signal
one boat leaves for Wentworth, and the other starts for the Queensland
border. The consequence is that craft number one climbs the bank
amid the cheers of the local loafers, who congregate and watch the
proceedings with great interest and approval. The crew pitch tents, and
set to work on the hull, which looks like a big, rough shallow box.
. . . . .
We once travelled on the Darling for a hundred miles or so on a boat
called the 'Mud Turtle'--at least, that's what WE called her. She might
reasonably have haunted the Mississippi fifty years ago. She didn't seem
particular where she went, or whether she started again or stopped
for good after getting stuck. Her machinery sounded like a chapter of
accidents and was always out of order, but she got along all the same,
provided the steersman kept her off the bank.
Her skipper was a young man, who looked more like a drover than a
sailor, and the crew bore a greater resemblance to the unemployed than
to any other body we know of, except that they looked a little
more independent. They seemed clannish, too, with an unemployed or
free-labour sort of isolation. We have an idea that they regarded our
personal appearance with contempt.
. . . . .
Above Louth we picked up a “whaler”, who came aboard for the sake of
society and tobacco. Not that he hoped to shorten his journey; he had no
destination. He told us many reckless and unprincipled lies, and gave
us a few ornamental facts. One of them took our fancy, and impressed
us--with its beautiful simplicity, I suppose. He said: “Some miles
above where the Darlin' and the Warrygo runs inter each other, there's a
billygong runnin' right across between the two rivers and makin' a sort
of tryhangular hyland; 'n' I can tel'yer a funny thing about it.” Here
he paused to light his pipe. “Now,” he continued, impressively, jerking
the match overboard, “when the Darlin's up, and the Warrygo's LOW,
the billygong runs from the Darlin' into the WARRYGO; AND, when the
Warrygo's up 'n' the Darlin's down, the waters runs FROM the Warrygo 'n'
inter the Darlin'.”
What could be more simple?
The steamer was engaged to go up a billabong for a load of shearers from
a shed which was cutting out; and first it was necessary to tie up in
the river and discharge the greater portion of the cargo in order that
the boat might safely negotiate the shallow waters. A local fisherman,
who volunteered to act as pilot, was taken aboard, and after he was
outside about a pint of whisky he seemed to have the greatest confidence
in his ability to take us to hell, or anywhere else--at least, he said
so. A man was sent ashore with blankets and tucker to mind the wool, and
we crossed the river, butted into the anabranch, and started out back.
Only the Lord and the pilot know how we got there. We travelled over the
bush, through its branches sometimes, and sometimes through grass and
mud, and every now and then we struck something that felt and sounded
like a collision. The boat slid down one hill, and “fetched” a stump at
the bottom with a force that made every mother's son bite his tongue or
break a tooth.
The shearers came aboard next morning, with their swags and two
cartloads of boiled mutton, bread, “brownie”, and tea and sugar. They
numbered about fifty, including the rouseabouts. This load of sin sank
the steamer deeper into the mud; but the passengers crowded over to
port, by request of the captain, and the crew poked the bank away with
long poles. When we began to move the shearers gave a howl like the
yell of a legion of lost souls escaping from down below. They gave three
cheers for the rouseabouts' cook, who stayed behind; then they cursed
the station with a mighty curse. They cleared a space on deck, had
a jig, and afterwards a fight between the shearers' cook and his
assistant. They gave a mighty bush whoop for the Darling when the boat
swung into that grand old gutter, and in the evening they had a general
all-round time. We got back, and the crew had to reload the wool without
assistance, for it bore the accursed brand of a “freedom-of-contract”
shed.
We slept, or tried to sleep, that night on the ridge of two wool bales
laid with the narrow sides up, having first been obliged to get ashore
and fight six rounds with a shearer for the privilege of roosting there.
The live cinders from the firebox went up the chimney all night, and
fell in showers on deck. Every now and again a spark would burn through
the “Wagga rug” of a sleeping shearer, and he'd wake suddenly and get up
and curse. It was no use shifting round, for the wind was all ways,
and the boat steered north, south, east, and west to humour the river.
Occasionally a low branch would root three or four passengers off their
wool bales, and they'd get up and curse in chorus. The boat started two
snags; and towards daylight struck a stump. The accent was on the stump.
A wool bale went overboard, and took a swag and a dog with it; then the
owner of the swag and dog and the crew of the boat had a swearing match
between them. The swagman won.
About daylight we stretched our cramped limbs, extricated one leg from
between the wool bales, and found that the steamer was just crayfishing
away from a mud island, where she had tied up for more wool. Some of the
chaps had been ashore and boiled four or five buckets of tea and coffee.
Shortly after the boat had settled down to work again an incident came
along. A rouseabout rose late, and, while the others were at breakfast,
got an idea into his head that a good “sloosh” would freshen him up; so
he mooched round until he found a big wooden bucket with a rope to it.
He carried the bucket aft of the wheel. The boat was butting up stream
for all she was worth, and the stream was running the other way, of
course, and about a hundred times as fast as a train. The jackeroo gave
the line a turn round his wrist; before anyone could see him in time to
suppress him, he lifted the bucket, swung it to and fro, and dropped it
cleverly into the water.
This delayed us for nearly an hour. A couple of men jumped into the row
boat immediately and cast her adrift. They picked up the jackeroo about
a mile down the river, clinging to a snag, and when we hauled him aboard
he looked like something the cat had dragged in, only bigger. We revived
him with rum and got him on his feet; and then, when the captain and
crew had done cursing him, he rubbed his head, went forward, and had a
look at the paddle; then he rubbed his head again, thought, and remarked
to his mates:
“Wasn't it lucky I didn't dip that bucket FOR'ARD the wheel?”
This remark struck us forcibly. We agreed that it was lucky--for him;
but the captain remarked that it was damned unlucky for the world,
which, he explained, was over-populated with fools already.
Getting on towards afternoon we found a barge loaded with wool and tied
up to a tree in the wilderness. There was no sign of a man to be seen,
nor any sign, except the barge, that a human being had ever been there.
The captain took the craft in tow, towed it about ten miles up the
stream, and left it in a less likely place than where it was before.
Floating bottles began to be more frequent, and we knew by that same
token that we were nearing “Here's Luck!”--Bourke, we mean. And this
reminds us.
When the Brewarrina people observe a more than ordinary number of
bottles floating down the river, they guess that Walgett is on the
spree; when the Louth chaps see an unbroken procession of dead marines
for three or four days they know that Bourke's drunk. The poor,
God-abandoned “whaler” sits in his hungry camp at sunset and watches the
empty symbols of Hope go by, and feels more God-forgotten than ever--and
thirstier, if possible--and gets a great, wide, thirsty, quaking, empty
longing to be up where those bottles come from. If the townspeople knew
how much misery they caused by their thoughtlessness they would drown
their dead marines, or bury them, but on no account allow them to go
drifting down the river, and stirring up hells in the bosoms of less
fortunate fellow-creatures.
There came a man from Adelaide to Bourke once, and he collected all the
empty bottles in town, stacked them by the river, and waited for a boat.
What he wanted them for the legend sayeth not, but the people reckoned
he had a “private still”, or something of that sort, somewhere down the
river, and were satisfied. What he came from Adelaide for, or whether he
really did come from there, we do not know. All the Darling bunyips are
supposed to come from Adelaide. Anyway, the man collected all the empty
bottles he could lay his hands on, and piled them on the bank, where
they made a good show. He waited for a boat to take his cargo, and,
while waiting, he got drunk. That excited no comment. He stayed drunk
for three weeks, but the townspeople saw nothing unusual in that. In
order to become an object of interest in their eyes, and in that line,
he would have had to stay drunk for a year and fight three times a
day--oftener, if possible--and lie in the road in the broiling
heat between whiles, and be walked on by camels and Afghans and
free-labourers, and be locked up every time he got sober enough to smash
a policeman, and try to hang himself naked, and be finally squashed by a
loaded wool team.
But while he drank the Darling rose, for reasons best known to itself,
and floated those bottles off. They strung out and started for the
Antarctic Ocean, with a big old wicker-worked demijohn in the lead.
For the first week the down-river men took no notice; but after the
bottles had been drifting past with scarcely a break for a fortnight or
so, they began to get interested. Several whalers watched the procession
until they got the jimjams by force of imagination, and when their
bodies began to float down with the bottles, the down-river people got
anxious.
At last the Mayor of Wilcannia wired Bourke to know whether Dibbs or
Parkes was dead, or democracy triumphant, or if not, wherefore the
jubilation? Many telegrams of a like nature were received during that
week, and the true explanation was sent in reply to each. But it wasn't
believed, and to this day Bourke has the name of being the most drunken
town on the river.
After dinner a humorous old hard case mysteriously took us aside and
said he had a good yarn which we might be able to work up. We asked him
how, but he winked a mighty cunning wink and said that he knew all about
us. Then he asked us to listen. He said:
“There was an old feller down the Murrumbidgee named Kelly. He was a
bit gone here. One day Kelly was out lookin' for some sheep, when he
got lost. It was gettin' dark. Bymeby there came an old crow in a tree
overhead.
“'Kel-ley, you're lo-o-st! Kel-ley, you're lo-o-st!' sez the crow.
“'I know I am,' sez Kelly.
“'Fol-ler me, fol-ler me,' sez the crow.
“'Right y'are,' sez Kelly, with a jerk of his arm. 'Go ahead.'
“So the crow went on, and Kelly follered, an' bymeby he found he was on
the right track.
“Sometime after Kelly was washin' sheep (this was when we useter wash
the sheep instead of the wool). Kelly was standin' on the platform with
a crutch in his hand landin' the sheep, when there came a old crow in
the tree overhead.
“'Kelly, I'm hun-gry! Kel-ley, I'm hun-ger-ry!' sez the crow.
“'Alright,' sez Kelly; 'be up at the hut about dinner time 'n' I'll
sling you out something.'
“'Drown--a--sheep! Drown--a--sheep, Kel-ley,' sez the crow.
“'Blanked if I do,' sez Kelly. 'If I drown a sheep I'll have to pay for
it, be-God!'
“'Then I won't find yer when yer lost agin,' sez the crow.
“'I'm damned if yer will,' says Kelly. 'I'll take blanky good care I
won't get lost again, to be found by a gory ole crow.'”
. . . . .
There are a good many fishermen on the Darling. They camp along the
banks in all sorts of tents, and move about in little box boats that
will only float one man. The fisherman is never heavy. He is mostly a
withered little old madman, with black claws, dirty rags (which he never
changes), unkempt hair and beard, and a “ratty” expression. We cannot
say that we ever saw him catch a fish, or even get a bite, and we
certainly never saw him offer any for sale.
He gets a dozen or so lines out into the stream, with the shore end
fastened to pegs or roots on the bank, and passed over sticks about four
feet high, stuck in the mud; on the top of these sticks he hangs bullock
bells, or substitutes--jam tins with stones fastened inside to bits of
string. Then he sits down and waits. If the cod pulls the line the bell
rings.
The fisherman is a great authority on the river and fish, but has
usually forgotten everything else, including his name. He chops firewood
for the boats sometimes, but it isn't his profession--he's a fisherman.
He is only sane on points concerning the river, though he has all the
fisherman's eccentricities. Of course he is a liar.
When he gets his camp fixed on one bank it strikes him he ought to be
over on the other, or at a place up round the bend, so he shifts. Then
he reckons he was a fool for not stopping where he was before. He
never dies. He never gets older, or drier, or more withered looking,
or dirtier, or loonier--because he can't. We cannot imagine him as ever
having been a boy, or even a youth. We cannot even try to imagine him
as a baby. He is an animated mummy, who used to fish on the Nile three
thousand years ago, and catch nothing.
. . . . .
We forgot to mention that there are wonderfully few wrecks on the
Darling. The river boats seldom go down--their hulls are not built that
way--and if one did go down it wouldn't sink far. But, once down, a boat
is scarcely ever raised again; because, you see, the mud silts up round
it and over it, and glues it, as it were, to the bottom of the river.
Then the forty-foot alligators--which come down with the “Queenslan'
rains”, we suppose--root in the mud and fill their bellies with sodden
flour and drowned deck-hands.
They tried once to blow up a wreck with dynamite because it (the
wreck) obstructed navigation; but they blew the bottom out of the river
instead, and all the water went through. The Government have been boring
for it ever since. I saw some of the bores myself--there is one at
Coonamble.
There is a yarn along the Darling about a cute Yankee who was invited
up to Bourke to report on a proposed scheme for locking the river. He
arrived towards the end of a long and severe drought, and was met at the
railway station by a deputation of representative bushmen, who invited
him, in the first place, to accompany them to the principal pub--which
he did. He had been observed to study the scenery a good deal while
coming up in the train, but kept his conclusions to himself. On the way
to the pub he had a look at the town, and it was noticed that he tilted
his hat forward very often, and scratched the back of his head a
good deal, and pondered a lot; but he refrained from expressing an
opinion--even when invited to do so. He guessed that his opinions
wouldn't do much good, anyway, and he calculated that they would keep
till he got back “over our way”--by which it was reckoned he meant the
States.
When they asked him what he'd have, he said to Watty the publican:
“Wal, I reckon you can build me your national drink. I guess I'll try
it.”
A long colonial was drawn for him, and he tried it. He seemed rather
startled at first, then he looked curiously at the half-empty glass,
set it down very softly on the bar, and leaned against the same and
fell into a reverie; from which he roused himself after a while, with a
sorrowful jerk of his head.
“Ah, well,” he said. “Show me this river of yourn.”
They led him to the Darling, and he had a look at it.
“Is this your river?” he asked.
“Yes,” they replied, apprehensively.
He tilted his hat forward till the brim nearly touched his nose,
scratched the back of his long neck, shut one eye, and looked at the
river with the other. Then, after spitting half a pint of tobacco juice
into the stream, he turned sadly on his heel and led the way back to the
pub. He invited the boys to “pisen themselves”; after they were served
he ordered out the longest tumbler on the premises, poured a drop into
it from nearly every bottle on the shelf, added a lump of ice, and drank
slowly and steadily.
Then he took pity on the impatient and anxious population, opened his
mouth, and spake.
“Look here, fellows,” he drawled, jerking his arm in the direction of
the river, “I'll tell you what I'll dew. I'll bottle that damned river
of yourn in twenty-four hours!”
Later on he mellowed a bit, under the influence of several drinks which
were carefully and conscientiously “built” from plans and specifications
supplied by himself, and then, among other things, he said:
“If that there river rises as high as you say it dew--and if this was
the States--why, we'd have had the Great Eastern up here twenty years
ago”----or words to that effect.
Then he added, reflectively:
“When I come over here I calculated that I was going to make things
hum, but now I guess I'll have to change my prospectus. There's a lot of
loose energy laying round over our way, but I guess that if I wanted
to make things move in your country I'd have to bring over the entire
American nation--also his wife and dawg. You've got the makings of a
glorious nation over here, but you don't get up early enough!”
. . . . .
The only national work performed by the blacks is on the Darling. They
threw a dam of rocks across the river--near Brewarrina, we think--to
make a fish trap. It's there yet. But God only knows where they got the
stones from, or how they carried them, for there isn't a pebble within
forty miles.