of the tyre immediately over the valve bulged out further from the rim
than any other portion of it, and so touched the tin. This was remedied
by deflating the air tube, loosening the valve and shoving it well in
and back from the rim; then properly bedding the outer cover and
inflating slightly before again screwing the valve up. A final
tightening was given when the tyre had been fully inflated, and I had
the cover an equal distance all around from the thenceforward ever-ready
and effective appliance.
Then, having tested it on the burrs about the "camp," I debated whether
it was an ejector or a dissuader, an interceptor or an arrester, a
burr-catcher or a burr-guard--and, so debating, to sleep.
* * * *
But not for long--soon I had company. Dingoes--the howling nuisances of
the bush--began their unearthly wailings in the scrub. A revolver-shot
scatters or quietens them for a while; but soon they collect again, and
emphasize their piteous, dismal cries.
An early start from the Tea-tree; and soon Central Mount Stuart is
sighted, rising slowly into distinctness, until, at about 20 miles on,
the track is within about 3 miles of it.
A gum creek, the Hanson, runs between the track and the mountain, and
between the creek and the track is a belt of mulga.
The mount itself rises out of the heart of a vast stretch of level
country.
For myself, with memories of printed and spoken descriptions, I expected
to see a solitary peak; instead there is a short range, consisting of
three or four hills, the highest of which--this Central Mount
Stuart--rises 2500ft. above sea level. Its formation is among its
peculiarities, but its layers of red and bluish rock give little
foothold for vegetation. And, above all, it is affirmed that it is only
2½ miles out from the exact centre of the continent of Australia. But on
this point there is room for doubt.
Central Mount _Stuart_, too? Yet I remember to have read in one of
Stuart's diaries:--
"There is a high mount about two miles and a half, which I hoped would
have been in the centre; but on it to-morrow I will raise a cairn of
stones and plant the flag there, and will name it Mount Sturt, after my
excellent and esteemed commander of the expedition in 1844 and '45,
Captain Sturt, as a mark of gratitude for the great kindness I received
from him during that journey."
The hill must always be an object of surpassing interest to each fresh
observer. One cannot but feel saddened by the crowding thoughts of
hardships undergone by those intrepid ones who first penetrated here.
* * * *
But it was an exceedingly warm forenoon; and, although Mount Stuart is a
sight well worth travelling many a mile to see, I notice the short
Philistinish sentence in my note book--"Would have preferred a brewery."
Some day there may be a Central Mount Stuart Hotel.
* * * *
The road from the Tea-tree had been fair and level, and so it continued
to the Hanson Well--a total of 33 miles.
At the Hanson a blackfellow was bending over and drinking from the
troughs. He was somewhat startled on turning and seeing me dismount;
but, though he had with him a few implements of the chase and an iguana,
he did not look particularly wild.
My waterbag was empty. Leaning the bicycle against something, I stepped
over towards the well and began--"Here, 'Hanson,' lend a hand to----"
But he had very civilly started walking after me to lend the hand before
I had asked it of him.
The bucket was soon landed, and not another word was spoken until I had
drunk deeply of the sparkling liquor. Then I found that the naked one
was capable of "yabbering" fairly well.
"'Nother white pfella walk longa track?" he said, inquisitively.
"No more--which way blackpfella sit down?"
"By and bye more blackfellow come."
Then, indicating a direction by a hand-wave he added vaguely--"Longa
scrub."
Then I went to the machine. Lighting my pipe, I overhauled the parts,
spinning wheels and performing other simple operations.
"Hanson" had approached cautiously; but at length his curiosity got the
better of him, and he came near. He sat down on his haunches and eyed it
quizzically, and for several minutes in silence. At length--
"My word, good pfella nanto that one!" ("Nanto"=horse.)
I jumped into the saddle and exhibited my nanto's paces. Then laid it
down.
He quizzed it again.
"Him no wantit feed? No walk-about?"
"Ah, wait," I said; and took out the air pump, and set to work.
"Hanson" rose from his haunches and bent over the inflating tube.
"My word," he cried, slapping his legs in prodigious glee--"My word, him
grow fat all right, _my_ word!"
I gave him half a stick of tobacco. Never yet have I heard a blackfellow
say "Thank you." "Hanson" received the tobacco in silence, and just as
if he didn't know he was on the point of asking for it. Yet he may have
been thinking of something else because, as I handed it to him, he
said--
"White pfella him big one clevah. What him think, him do?"
I thought I had heard the same thing somewhere before.
"Yes," I coincided, and felt for the moment that it devolved upon me to
say or do something towards proving myself worthy of a share in the
flattering opinion. "Awfully clevah. I-er have known--"
I was about to speak of a scientific American's flying machine; but the
bicycle was quite far enough in that direction.
"Have known-er eccentric bodies of them stand bolt upright on their
heads. Say 'Nansen'--I mean 'Hanson'--" as the thought struck me--"did
_you_ ever have a try at standing on your head?"
But "Hanson" didn't savee. He giggled; repeated to himself vacantly a
few times "Head? Head?" and finally put a poser to me.
"Which way?"
It was but a Christian duty that I should instruct and edify the poor
benighted heathen. No one besides us two were near to witness the good
deed; so as he sat on his haunches and continued gazing up into my face
expectantly, I slung my satchel on the handle-bars, emptied into it a
few things from my pockets, levelled off a little sandy space on the
ground, and showed "Hanson" by a single object lesson how the "clevah"
thing was done.
The benighted one took very kindly to my humble Christian endeavour.
"Well, 'Hanson,'" said I, taking up my satchel and replacing the
articles, "do you think you could manage it? Tell you what; suppose you
stand alonga upside down, then this other fat--one stick of tobacco I
give it. Savee?"
"Hanson" saveed.
"Me do it all right, I think," he said, scrambling from his squat, and
valorously stepping over to the small clear space.
There he went down on all fours, and jambing his head on the ground
sought to invert himself. He was far from succeeding the first time he
tried, or the second, but needed not the slightest word of encouragement
from me to try and try and try again.
"Here 'Hanson,'" said I at last, compassionately, "knock off. You'll be
suffocating yourself. Besides, I want to ask you which way track go."
But he had taken it very much to heart, this feat of standing on his
head, and was bent on its achievement.
"Which way track go?" I said again.
"Me do it this time all right, I think;" and was "this time" just as
near success as before.
"Don't you hear?" I called out. "I want to ask you about the road." But
_he_ only wanted to stand on his confounded head.
I rather regretted having put him up to the wrinkle; the track from the
well might be in any direction.
"Me give it you that fellow stick of tobacco all the same you stand up,"
I said.
Again he only muttered a choking "Me do it all right," and again another
try.
But it was all of no avail. He couldn't stand on his head and I couldn't
stop him from trying. His face might long since have grown purple; but I
was unable to see. His ulster would hang downwards and get in the way.
"What infernal nonsense," I said impatiently to myself. Here was I, in
the heart of a continent, miles from any other white man, my sole
companion an unknown black, myself ignorant of the track, and paying
for the freak of a moment in this absurd way.
"Hanson" was still struggling. I gave him up as hopeless, got into the
saddle, and wheeled away.
I wonder if "Hanson" has done it yet, and if upon the strength of it
he's been raised in rank in his tribe!
* * * *
Those aborigines are a perverse lot. Bushmen and those who have long
lived at the telegraph stations or at Port Darwin agree that you can
never rely upon astonishing them. Take a tribesman from the inlands, as
the native police have sometimes had occasion to do, show him the
"mighty ocean," and he regards it stolidly; and so with many of the
marvels of civilisation. But do some fantastic trick or show him some
simple, gaudy thing, and he is transported.
But their laughter is mostly a giggle, especially in the presence of
white men. I never heard from any of them a boisterous outburst, nor
ever heard one with a bass voice--unless he also had a bad cold.
My "Hanson" was not wholly uncivilised. He wore, as I said, an "ulster."
Now, a blackfellow's full dress away from settlements consists of an
"ulster"--not universally so called--and a waist band, which are worn
low down in front. The "ulster" measures about 10 inches by 6, and is
suspended from the band. Of course where white men are stationed and the
blacks are permitted to congregate, the "nager," or clothes-line, is
drawn lower down and higher up on the part of the females, and those of
the males who can procure them wear bifurcated garments.
* * * *
Eight miles from the Hanson Well, and we are at the Stirling
horse-breeding station. Fair road for most of the spin, though there are
three sandhills near the end of it. And in the short spin, too, we say
good-bye to that salt bush--here a strongly-growing patch--which has
been for so many miles, so many hundred miles, our sole companion.
A wide, fertile and picturesque creek-flat, studded with gums, was
ridden over before the Stirling Creek itself, and afterwards the
station, came into view. Following up the watercourse I had arrived
within a couple of hundred yards of a not imposing little row of
buildings (for all that, there was a pleasure in sighting them) without
being able to detect a soul, when suddenly out of the creek started up,
as if by magic, about fifty of the best specimens of Australia's hirsute
savages I have ever had the opportunity of picking up broken pieces of
volapuk from--a handsome, murderous-looking set of able-bodied
cut-throats, who came racing towards me.
"Hello, my beauties," I said, and pressed as quickly as convenient to an
open door.
Resting the bicycle against a verandah post, I looked inside and asked
hungrily "Anybody home?" but there came no reply.
Wheeling sharply and addressing the crowd of sable ungarmented savages,
now volubly "yabbering" and deeply interested in a discussion of the
bicycle--"Which way boss walk, sit, run, tumble down, or jump up?" I
enquired anxiously.
One only, so far as I could make out, laid claim to be a linguist.
"Him go after bullock. Not long him come back. You wait?"
This was a re-assuring start, anyhow.
Wait? Rather! Though I badly wanted to push on to Barrow's Creek I would
have waited a week, could it have been so arranged, to see this man--for
the bare sake of having one good look at him, for the possibility of a
hand shake from him.
For I had heard of him, though never previous to my passing Oodnadatta.
And I had heard of his lion courage from those who must themselves be
brave men. I knew of the spear marks he bore, and how it was he came to
bear them; yet fearlessly as ever remaining here by himself for months
at a stretch, a kindly master to a horde of athletic treacherous
savages, with not the slightest chance of anybody coming to his
assistance should he ever be in need of aid!
When, after a couple of hours "wait," I saw him riding up, I felt no
pang of disappointment; he looked in full the hero I had pictured him. I
managed an indifferent-sounding "Good day--a bit hot?" and looked away
over to where stood his horse; but I watched him with a leaping, boyish
happiness through the corners of my eyes, and there came again and
again to my mind the expressive deliberate words of more than one
quiet-spoken old bushman--"Ah! But it is _he_ who is the grand man!"
There was no doubt that I was outside the pale of civilization now; he
had heard nothing of a cyclist being on the road.
There was no occasion to tell him I was hungry. A welcome feast was soon
prepared, and I ate--no, I fear, I gorged.
And what a mine of information is this man himself! What would he not be
worth to the interviewer? But he talks with more than the modesty of the
bushman, and that is saying much.
The natives now-a-days along the overland track are not, in his view,
quite so black as they are painted in the imagination of some residing
south of Alice Springs. Articles might be pilfered from a camp left
without anyone in charge, but otherwise the natives near the wells and
on the road might generally be looked upon by the passer-by as harmless,
if properly handled. To east and west, however, are several places in
which the natives are "cheeky." "And," added my host, "some 'bad'
fellows now and again find their way into the Bonney"--a fresh water
well to which I had not yet come.
* * * *
From Stirling to Barrow's Creek is 22 miles. The first eight or nine of
these takes the traveller along the Stirling Valley, over well grassed
and timbered reek flat sand plains.
Here are many healthy specimens of the celebrated Stuart's Bean tree.
This is one of the most beautiful of shade trees. The few I had noted
particularly had grown to a height of from 35ft. to 40ft. The pods when
ripe split open, and, the bright scarlet beans within being exposed, a
very pretty picture indeed is presented. The beans are very hard, and
about three-eighths of an inch long. Dusky damsels gather them, bore a
hole through each one, and string them into necklaces. Even lying about
on the ground those bright-coloured little ornaments served to add
another charm to the romantic scenery of Stirling Vale.
Although not given to collecting curios, I took one with me over the
Foster range (five miles of barren mountain-top and very stony track,
the descent on the north side being particularly steep) and along the
further eight miles of stony creeks, cutting through flats between other
ranges, which led to Barrow's Creek.
* * * *
At the crossing the creek is wide, and heavily timbered with gums. The
telegraph station lies the other side, and is very prettily situated at
the foot of a steep hill which marks one side of a gorge in a range
bearing away to the east. The buildings are of stone, and everything
about the place bears evidence of a very attentive supervision. The
whites "in camp" at the time were the station master, two or three
assistants a cook and a police trooper. A well-kept and prolific garden
is close by, and a low stone wall and headstone mark the burial place of
those who were killed when the natives made their oft-told-of attack.
That was in '73, when as yet the natives were unaccustomed to the new
institution of the Overland, and when their favorite recreation was the
cutting of the wire. They watched a line repairing party file out,
northward; and having waited, with their native cunning, until those men
were beyond the possibility of recall, on a Sunday evening, when the
eight inhabitants of the station were talking together outside the stone
wall, they suddenly sprang from ambush and poured in a shower of spears.
And yonder are the graves of the station-master and a linesman, who paid
for the natives' treachery with their lives, while others paid for it
with months of agony from spear wounds and thrusts.
* * * *
There is no place of call in the 160 miles between Barrow's and
Tennant's Creeks, and it was certain I would be very hungry before that
distance had been travelled, however short a time it might occupy.
Here was a stage in which a sporting rifle or a shot gun would very
probably come in handy. But then a gun is of no avail without powder and
shot, and the carrying of these, to say nothing of a kangaroo leg or
turkey (buzzard), loomed up an altogether swamping difficulty.
Still I knew I could do comfortably for a fair time without food,
provided I had plenty of water This latter was promised me in the
several wells ahead. The "going" was said to be fair; so, after looking
into the matter, I saw no reason why the distance could not be covered
without weighting myself with bulky provisions; and I finally resolved
on trying to make the run with water only by me.
So before breakfast time on the morning fixed for the departure I gave
notice of my intention not to take anything; and, happening to have in
my hand at the moment the only article in my possession which I could
very well do without--the 3dwt. bean--I handed it over to the resident
trooper, who had made out a road plan for me.
"Why not keep it? You know there are thousands to be got about here?"
the officer asked wonderingly.
"Then throw it away," I answered; "it's altogether too much of an
unnecessary weight for me."
"Three pennyweights!" The trooper ejaculated in his surprise.
But I was not allowed to keep intact my resolution; and out of the
multitude of good things pressed upon me. I chose a small piece of cake,
rolled it in paper, and hung it to the lamp bracket.
* * * *
Within the first half-mile I overtook a small mob of sheep, with two or
three black boys in charge; and, rather than scatter the little flock,
rode to one side, in through the scrub, until they had been left behind.
Before another mile had been covered, I noticed that my cake had
disappeared. It could not have been long gone; and, as the thought had
just entered my mind to eat it up and so be finished with it, I stopped,
leaned the bicycle carelessly against a bush, and walked back; but the
tracking through the scrub was slow, whereupon I gave up the search and
returned.
The bicycle had been blown over by a gust of wind, and was lying on the
ground. Worse still a thousand times, the stopper had been jerked out of
the neck of the waterbag, and the precious water had drained out.
However, it was only 20 miles to a soakage; my spirits were high after
my recent good living: so, with a few cursory remarks to the wind and to
Diamond, I remounted and rode on.
* * * *
Before many miles had been covered, against a head wind and under a
sweltering sun, a sharp thirst reminded me that I had eaten a salt-meat
breakfast; and that thirst became sharper still before Taylor Creek was
reached. The track, too, was a bit heavy--over flats of light loamy soil
and sandy plains for the greater part of the 20 miles.
On coming opposite the bend, where the Taylor Creek is nearest on the
track's eastern side, I rode across to refill the waterbag; but all the
soakage water had dried up. Holes had been sunk in the gravel about two
feet deep, but only a white gritty clay showed at the bottom of each
one.
It was a weary search along that creek's bed; up and down I tramped
anxiously, burrowing and scratching, but unavailingly; and after an hour
spent in this way, it was a sadder man who returned to pursue an onward
course.
Six miles is not far; but it counts for very much when a man has done
twenty before it on a hot day, and that is topped up with an anxious
search, a sandy road, and a disappointment. That six miles took me to a
well sunk in the Taylor, at a point where the creek passes through a
range. A bucketful of water was soon hauled up, and, pushing in one of
the two stop-bolts which were provided at the sides for that purpose,
thus leaving the bucket suspended on top of the well, I leaned over and
had gulped down three or four mouthfuls before I made a shocking
discovery.
The horrid stuff was almost salt!
I spat out what I could; but what I had swallowed had far from given me
relief.
Yet how it glistened! Was it mockery? I laughed a little, and knew the
laugh was forced. Yes, this was thirst.
Would the tantalising stuff be better boiled? I made the experiment; it
failed.
I tried it with some meat extract (a few capsules of which I had);
but--it was salter than ever.
With tea? Perhaps, but I had no tea.
A smoke for consolation--no, I dare not.
I bathed my face and hands, and was a little relieved. Then, filling
the waterbag, on the off chance of later on feeling more disposed
towards poisoning myself, made all the haste I could for the Wycliffe.
* * * *
An old turn-off track beyond the Taylor Well leads out in an easterly
direction to the Frew River and El Kedra--both abandoned stations. The
country about there had been stocked at one time, but the natives were
uncontrollable and very troublesome, spearing and slaughtering many of
the cattle; and the lessees deemed abandonment advisable. From those
places, and from another lower down and to the west--Anna's
Reservoir--the natives count upon having frightened away the white men,
the would-be settlers, and are inclined to "fancy" themselves
accordingly. In other words, they are said to be "bad" about those
places, and, as somebody significantly expressed it, are "spoiling for a
hidin'."
It was dreary "going"; and the thoughts associated with the country were
not cheering. It was flounder, flounder through the heavy sand, with the
lips parched and the throat dry--and growing drier and drier. I turn
back now to my note-book and find the single entry--"This five-mile
'plug' is the killing gait."
Yet no creek showed itself. My legs were beginning to send up signals of
distress--and all the time that water "flopped" in the bag and tormented
me.
The night came on swiftly. Diamond, we must make a dash for it! On, on!
An ant-hill or a stump overlooked as I tried to make out the timbers of
a creek in the far distance, now wrapped in the evening haze, and I was
sprawling on the ground, and Diamond had been thrown heavily as well. I
limped over, and tried to mount--tried again and again, but each time a
numbed knee refused to answer to the call.
I sat down to ponder things. That knee-cap--the swelling startled me for
a moment. I might crawl, no more--crawl, and leave Diamond behind. But
whither? That could not be thought of.
No sleep that night. And water--!
The bag--! No; it were better not. I tried to sleep.
Yet, that water--was it so _very_ bad? I wasn't so thirsty back at the
well; it would be palatable enough now.
I reached for it, and drank it greedily.
"Fool!" The reflection came instantly. "Now look out!"
How hot it was--stifling.
My brain was converted into a busy telephone exchange, and every
subscriber was ringing up viciously.
"Hello? hello?"
That was from the leg; a cramp. I attended to it.
Again a vicious ring. The swollen knee called for sympathy--anything
else I couldn't give it.
A violent call. The tongue this time. Poor member, poor badly-treated
member. But be still. Yet somehow, try as it would, it couldn't get back
to its proper place.
Then, in a quiet moment, the brain set to work on its own account.
Diamond--was Diamond safe? What were the faithful one's injuries?
But another interrupting call: those muscles again.
A mosquito! Ha, sing away, fasten your sucker where you please--you are
but a mere circumstance to-night!
Hot Moisture! on my forehead! Now, what mysterious well within me held
yet a drop of water? (Was that a rustle? Niggers, perhaps. Ah, well--)
Ants? Very well; what matter? But--but keep off that knee!
And, oh, for one long deep drink of water!
Dives, has that monster Lazarus relented and begged for you a drop of
water yet?
* * * *
It is wearisome to write how _I_ felt and what _I_ said and did--more
wearisome perhaps than it is to read. But these unpleasant incidents
seem to be regarded as the "most prominent features" of the journey; and
they are here set out, not because there is any gratification to be got
from the operation, but because by pointing out the pitfalls, they may
serve to make easier the path of those who shall follow me.
* * * *
The dawn, if it brought no assuagement of the thirst, brought at any
rate more hope; and still stiff and sore and aching, I limped, leading
Diamond, towards the Wycliffe, which I knew could not be far away. It
was an hour's drag through sand and scrub before the turn-off pad was
reached; then a mile down the pad, the waterhole itself.
The Wycliffe is a wide watercourse which, after rain, stretches out
unrestrained at many places in its course into a series of shallow
swamps and clay-banked waterholes. One of these was filled to
overflowing with "the nectar of the gods;" and, literally, rushing to
its edge, I drank with rapturous delight.
The cravings of an abnormal thirst having been satisfied, I placed the
polluted water-bag to soak, made a pot of tea, further refreshed myself
with a wash, and had hardly touched the earth when I fell asleep.
* * * *