rustle, and sat up quickly.
Three blackfellows were walking towards where I lay. At the instant of
seeing them they were scarcely half a dozen yards off. I did not
move--where was I to move, and why?
"What name you wantem?" I asked.
As none of them had on anything more than what looked like a piece of
old clothes line with the frayed ends knotted together in front, with
boomerangs thrust through it at the sides, and as each carried a
woomera, or throwing stick, and a spear, they appeared to be quite
respectable wild savages.
It is at such moments that a self-respecting person should, in a
twinkling, live his life over again--he should look down through the
corridors of his years, and renounce all his wickednesses.
Also the armed and treacherous natives; these denizens of the wildest
tract of the Australian continent, descendants of those (or maybe the
men themselves) who have murdered settler and traveller in cold
blood--these formidable fellows, I say, should have raised a whoop, and
casting their spears at my prostrate form, should then have robbed me of
the few trinkets I possessed, and my revolver, and have left another
carcase to tell silently of the infamy of the black people.
But things go wrong. For my own part, instead of looking back through
any corridors, I observed that the feet of my visitors were much larger
than were those of the natives south of the Alice. And, instead of a
war-whoop and a deadly lunge, one of the three stretched out a hand and
whined the single word "Baccy?"
And this is the romance of our Dark Continent!
These undraped fellows, carrying spears and boomerangs, roaming about an
unfenced wilderness, romantic enough in contour and general setting,
capable enough, one would judge, of eating uncooked rattlesnakes for
choice--whining "Baccy?"
It was exasperating. Besides, I wasn't going through the country loaded
up with tobacco for free distribution among blackfellow-strangers.
It, at the instant, occurred to me that those three strapping fellows
might, if they chose, possess themselves of all the tobacco I had, and
the bicycle into the bargain, I was certainly too weak to--
Then it flashed through my mind--"What would the fearless fellow back at
the Stirling do?" I made up my mind for him at once.
"You fellows, get!"
Then I turned over, as if dead certain they would "get!"
And after "yabbering" to or about the bicycle they disappeared--whither
I did not know.
By the generality of those white men with whom I conversed on such
matters before reaching Alice Springs, it is--or was--an accepted belief
that, from that place onward, natives are nearly always about at
watering places along the overland track, although the traveller may not
catch sight of even one. They are ever so much more sharp of sight and
hearing than the whites, and, being treacherous themselves, they are
very suspicious of strangers, and so they hide if they do not clear out
on learning of a strangers coming.
Some of them believe or pretend to believe the whites have robbed them
of their choicest hunting grounds, and, naturally, these work themselves
up into revengeful passions when dwelling on their wrongs.
It is always best, or so I heard, when the traveller is alone, or there
are only two together, to keep moving--not to linger long at one spot.
And I must say that I have noted a spicy and suggestive _soupçon_ of
restlessness at night-time in the manners of those few travellers with
whom I camped beyond the Alice. The revolver was invariably seen to
before turning in.
And, on principle, a revolver should be carried. If whites ceased to
carry the weapon, then the natives, observing its absence would grow
braggishly bold and presuming.
* * * *
Seventeen miles of bad travelling ground--red loam and sand
plains--brings the traveller to the Devonport Ranges. A couple of miles
before passing through them, a creek, the Sutherland, was crossed. The
white sand in the channel was piled up in strange formations. How
terrific and eddying the current of water must be which at wide
intervals comes tearing down! As it stood, the bed suggested a
reproduction, in the solid, of a narrow strip of wild-surging
tempestuous ocean--a series of waves and billows, small mountains high.
Through the range though, it is good riding.
A mile or two beyond the Sutherland, on a flat among the low hills,
huge, smooth boulder-like masses of granite threaten to block the way;
but the track winds in among them, and out again.
The boulders lie thickly around in every direction, singly or piled one
upon another. They are of all shapes--round and oval predominating--and
run from scores to hundreds of tons in weight. Some are so perched as
almost to tempt the passer-by to bring a crowbar with him next time he
comes and tip them over.
These are "The Devil's Marbles," and a very novel and rather fantastic
appearance they present. The solitary traveller may easily conjure up
images of giant hobgoblins coming along in play hours to practice the
game of "Catch"--surely, by the way, the devil's own favorite game.
I was about to sit in the shade of a large boulder, when from the
further side of it came out an animal uncanny and weird as its
surroundings. In form it resembled an iguana, but was five or six times
larger than any one of that species I could remember to have seen, and,
while I stood and looked in mild astonishment, it rose on its two long
hind feet, and so walked a short distance; then as suddenly "flopped"
down again, and disappeared.
The 36 miles from the Wycliffe to the Bonney Creek is nearly all bad
country for cycling over. I was riding at the moment of first sighting
the Creek, and a little while afterwards was able to discern the well
away out from the farther bank. To the left of the crossing and not far
from it, a small column of smoke was rising; and by the fire--two
standing, the others sitting or lying down--were half-a-dozen
bandicoot-hunters.
I had reached the Creek's bank before observing the blackfellows, and
had been on the point of dismounting; but their unexpected presence (I
had noticed no fresh tracks), induced me to keep going, and I spurred
Diamond cruelly on to make him cross the pebbly bed, past which there
promised to be a stretch of good hard level road on which I
could--well, manoeuvre, should the occasion for doing so arise; although
it would have taken much forcible persuasion to induce me leave the
water once I reached it.
But Diamond was very weakly and out of condition that afternoon and
stuck its rider up right in the middle of the gravelly passage. I came
off with a right-pedal dismount and faced over the skeleton barricade
only just in time to see the backs of two fast-running niggers before
they disappeared into the scrub.
I pushed Diamond up the Bonney's bank and over to the well.
One hesitates to perpetrate an obvious joke about this Bonney water. But
I had eaten nothing, with the exception of the "gooseberries" already
mentioned, since leaving Barrow's Creek, so now made the quart-pot full
of thick soup, and devoured it, before carting in a stock of firewood,
for we must camp this night at Bonney Well, notwithstanding its rather
evil reputation.
Firewood was scarce, and the coming night gave promise of being chilly;
but, a sufficient stock collected, I strolled down to the blackfellows'
camping ground. They had left no weapons, but had generously allowed to
remain for my inspection (or it was hospitably intended?), one iguana
(on the still smouldering embers, and over-done now), six inches intact,
and several small pieces of frizzled snake, and one half-picked
bone--which last may have been part of a picaninny's arm, so evil did it
smell. The flies had taken possession of everything eatable, and there
appeared no good and sufficient reason for disturbing them.
* * * *
"Better not light a fire," I had been warned, wherever unfriendly blacks
are said to visit, especially when camping alone. But when the chilly
early morning comes and the marrow in one's bones gets frozen, a fellow
having insufficient covering is certain to start a thawing blaze, and
take his chances with the waddying niggers. Last night had been warm,
but this was a season of sharp changes--with the day time only there
invariably came great heat.
As I lay stretched on my sheet of waterproof, I ruminated on many
things--on the many narrow escapes from dire disaster of this and other
days. How often had I straightened out those pedal cross-bars, which
luckily ever seemed to receive, give to, and so dull the hidden timber's
sharp upsetting blow! Fortunate to be sure was I in having chosen this
priceless treasure of a bicycle frame. Again and again my eyes opened
wide in astonishment, when, after some unavoidable stump's onslaught, a
tumble, or other mishap, its every part was found to be perfect.
So with my head shoved into the widest part of a pair of pyjama
mosquito-curtains, I made certain that my revolver was close at hand,
and, being hungry enough to make me feel miserable, was yet quite happy
and contented in the knowledge that I was to some extent experiencing
the reality of those indefinite possibilities of which I had been
forewarned.
* * * *
A mosquito-curtain is grateful and comforting; but after a hot day's
toil one feels little inclined to erect a frame-work about one's couch,
fix up the netting, and cut pegs to keep it down all around. For pegging
would be necessary; if it were left anyway loose, the average
able-bodied, athletic mosquito of these parts would just lift the thing
up and get to work. Therefore I contented myself with shoving my head
into whatever most bag-like spare wearable I happened to
possess--pyjamas, for instance--thus lessening the effectiveness or
length of the insects' sting by the thickness of the sheltering
material.
It is further South that the story is told of the mosquitoes and the
boiler-maker.
A man was engaged re-riveting a faulty boiler-plate. The mosquitoes were
very troublesome; but, after showing fight awhile, this rivetter devised
a plan of revenge, and resolutely worked on until the job in hand was
finished. Then, smiling through his swollen lips and eyelids, he climbed
in through the man-hole, clapped on the cover, and laughed in wild
derision as those on the outside stamped on the plates, frantic and
enraged at thus losing their prey. Then came a silence. Then a strange
humming was heard; next a boring noise; and then, to the hidden one's
dismay, an intruding sting appeared, and yet another, and still
countless more, all feeling around to grip and fasten on to him. But the
boiler-maker was a man of resource; and as the stings projected, or
injected, with mighty blows he clinched them tight, chuckling the
while, until those outside, making discovery of what was being done to
them, took fright, and, spreading their wings flew upwards--and nothing
whatever has been seen of that man or that boiler since.
* * * *
From the Bonney Well I started, after breakfasting on a pipe-full of
tobacco, with the intention of making Tennant Creek (62 miles) that same
night. But several unforeseen events altered those plans.
Gilbert Creek is 14 miles ahead. And here (I smile disdainfully now) I
made myself uncomfortable. I picked up a pad that led into the creek;
then having dined on meat extract and smoke, carelessly led the bicycle
across the creek. But no pad in this direction was to be seen, and I
heedlessly wandered on until what appeared to be another creek was
crossed. Then a bend; this was crossed also--the bicycle having to be
led much of the time. Now this was getting monotonous; still no pad
leading onwards. There was nothing for it but to go back on my tracks.
But my tracks--where were they? We had been passing lately over a hard
gum flat, covered with leaves, and no mark showed to my inexperienced
eye. I remember at this moment, that I paused, ran my finger through my
hair, and felt as lonely as that other unfortunate man who lost his
shadow.
I had come from the East; going by compass, I rode on--to a creek. This
I followed back, pushing the machine over the uneven surface, and not at
all sure, after all, whether this was the right creek. But--a furrow!
I put the water-bag to my lips, and, I think, almost drained it.
All was plain sailing back to the waterhole now, and there the existence
of the several creeks was explained away--the water was in a billabong,
or a short creek-arm, which had been mistaken by me for a separate
watercourse. But the last hour or so had taken more out of me than a
day's hard work could do.
* * * *
Three parts of a mile up the pad, a dozen dingoes were scampering over a
short patch of heavy sand through which I had walked when coming down. I
stopped short to observe them. They were as confounded as those niggers
were whom I had before watched examining the tracks of the machine. A
man had passed over that patch; of that those dingoes certainly had no
doubt. But whence had he come, and whither gone? They scented up and
down on either side in vain. The trail of the bicycle they
disregarded--that was no man's marks. And there they were excitedly
scampering up and down when a revolver shot led them to slink into the
scrub, each taking a way of his own.
* * * *
Nearly the whole of the 30 miles and the next mile (Kelly's) is bad red
sand, unrideable in places, the pads being filled in with loose drift
stuff; while tussocks of grass and porcupine, low scrub and fallen
jagged timber, await one at the sides.
Riding over telegraph poles is a feat which the cyclist here is called
on frequently to perform. In many places the track runs alongside the
old line of wooden telegraph poles; in other places, again, the modern
galvanised-iron rods stand just where stood those wooden poles of older
days. In each case the old poles, in various stages of decomposition,
lie often right across the track; and the rider cannot always see them
until after he has felt the bump.
Against the continued use of the wooden poles there had been many grave
objections. Four of the most pregnant sources of trouble were white
ants, lightning, bush fires, and the rapidity with which that part of
the wood below ground rotted away.
* * * *
Formerly line-repairers were nearly always at work. Now most of the
repairing is done but once a year, before or after the line has had its
annual end-to-end inspection.
In the changed circumstances the overland telegraph stations are no
longer chiefly depots for the use of those whose chief business it is to
keep the line in efficient working order, but are mainly for the
occupation of those whose duty it is to re-transmit messages from one
repeating station to another, up or down. From Palmerston a "wire" is
sent to Daly waters, repeated there, and received at Alice Springs;
thence on to Hergott, and so to Adelaide. Or it may be re-transmitted
first at Powell's Creek, next at Barrow's Creek, then at Charlotte
Waters, and so on to Adelaide. One sequence of repeating stations
operate through the night, the other throughout the day. At some--Alice
Springs, for instance, the work goes on continuously.
The working of the line from Palmerston down to Attack Creek (between
Powell's and Tennant's Creeks) is superintended from the north; the
lower part, from Alice Springs.
* * * *
Half way between the Gilbert and Kelly's Well the track runs as a main
street through the heart of a thickly populated city of spires, known as
Little Edinboro'--a multitudinous array of ant hills, stretching out
east and west far beyond the range of vision, and extending also some
miles along the track.
There were fresh horse tracks near the well; and at the well itself, two
white men, with their two or three black-boys, were camped, "spelling."
An offer of hospitality was at once extended to me; and, as I had been
three days and two nights without eating "white man's tucker," there was
no hesitancy about the acceptance.
And it did not require much persuasion to induce me to camp here; for he
who eats not, neither shall he feel much inclined to work.
"You'll not think I'm a beast, will you?" I said apologetically. "The
fact is, I've eaten nothing for three days." But there is no need to
apologise on the Overland.
* * * *
An army of ants marched up and promenaded on the table-cloth; but
provided one is reasonably cautious and brushes the insects off before
taking into his mouth any of the pieces of meat to which some may have
fastened themselves, their presence at one's dining table is of no great
consequence when one is very hungry.
Ants are very numerous everywhere through the continent; and, in a
journey through, one comes across communities of them, representing, I
believe, every known kind and species.
The traveller is not much interfered with by the white ants found north
of the MacDonnell Ranges--those favor a harder diet than that which man
provides--but the ordinary meat, sugar and bread-devouring varieties,
muster up in myriads wherever one camps.
At many of the camping grounds alongside wells, soakages and
water-holes, are oblong 7 × 4 spaces enclosed by sloping, little banks
or walls of scooped-up sand, six inches high or so. As the troublesome
and evil-smelling insects climb up these walls, the loose sand gives
way, and they topple back again. Within such ingeniously-fashioned
ramparts the traveller is secure--from one pest, at any rate.
Nor are flies less universal than ants. They are always, everywhere.
They attack one's eyes shamefully; but the slightest scratch anywhere
calls for immediate protection against their poisoning attentions.
A plaster of wetted clay is not a particularly cleanly covering; but it
acts very well for protective purposes, and I believe it also possesses
curative properties.
At meal times a piece of meat lifted from hand or ground to the mouth
becomes so thickly covered with the pests that the diner finds it
imperative to flourish it around him and cry "Shoo!" blow hard upon it,
or make one or two feints at biting before taking the stuff in.
But they are philosophers, these men of the bush, and so declare that
the flies purify the atmosphere, demolish poisonous matters in the air,
prevent the spread of devastating disease--and so on. Some people, tho',
if snakes were so numerous that folks couldn't travel the country
without wearing a snake-proof suit, would certainly discover how very
essential the reptiles were to--perhaps the armour-maker's existence.
* * * *
Up North--or was it down South--a talkative gentleman with a glass eye
(named--the man's I mean--Blank), keeps a store. One day, _ipse dixit_,
he was shoeing a restive horse. The flies were very bad. His glass eye
suddenly pained him; and when he made effort to take it out of its
socket, to his horror, he found he couldn't. The flies had bunged it!
That is the man's story, not mine. I can only vouch for their infinite
capacity to bung eyes not made of glass--and to imperil souls.
* * * *
None of the eye-protecting fixings seem to be satisfactory for use by a
cyclist in country where careful steering is called for. Those which
will keep out the flies are objectionable, for various reasons. The
principal being that they also obscure the vision.
At Oodnadatta, a fly-guard made of very fine meshed wire was given to
me, and I carried it right through to Palmerston. It was made as a very
large pair of spectacles, and when folded occupied but very little
space. Because of a few faults, I did not often wear it. It darkened the
ground, got uncomfortably hot at times, and when a fly did get
underneath, the little wretch invariably wagged its tail with joy at
having a whole eye to itself, and "wired in" so avariciously, that
hunting it out became an instant necessity. And then outsiders, dozens
of them, would hang on to the wires and search for a wide opening,
shoving their stings through now and again in the hope of reaching
something. Nevertheless, if one of these wire-meshed guards could be had
to fit close all round the eyes, it would be as good as, if not better,
than most of the others. Goggles with colourless glass were not to be
had. The netting of the ordinary hat-veil is too open; a cyclist when
riding does not shake his head about so the flies soon enter through.
Cheese or mosquito nettings are hot, sticky and uncomfortable; and
dangling corks are too ornamental.
* * * *
There were several of the ant-repulsing citadels at Kelly's Well, and in
one of them, close by a bush to which I could fasten Diamond, I spread
my sheet of waterproof. But my camp companions pressed upon me some of
their own blankets--generosity of a prince was that encountered from
first to last.
Well-fed, and kicking about under warm blanketing, with a sense of
safety, and with food and water at one's hands--yes, certainly these
things have their advantages.
* * * *
The dingoes gathered round and howled; but to their noises I paid little
heed--until someone moved. Then, looking out, I saw one of my hosts
kneeling on his bed clothes, and in the act of pointing a rifle towards
where a loud-voiced member of the serenading party sat.
The blackboys' sleeping quarters were near the fireplace; and just after
I had become fully conscious of what was going on and expected to hear a
shot fired, one of the "boys," rising on his elbow, suddenly exclaimed
pleadingly, "No shoot that one dingo, mitta! Him my fadder, I thinkit."
At which interruption the one spoken to muttered--was that a curse?--I
laughed, and the dingo vanished.
It was not the first time that thus the white man had been robbed of his
prey. For to hold the hand in such circumstances is only prudent.
In the morning the hat of the aboriginal who had saved his father's
second-life was missing; but after a short search it was recovered some
little distance from the camp--or its remains were discovered, in two
parts. The brim was torn from the crown, and a strip of about an inch
between them had been bitten out all round.
I reckoned nothing would come amiss to that species of wild animal which
would chew up a nigger's hat-band, and for ever after was at night time
more or less uneasy about my bicycle's tyres.
The natives of these parts hold pretty generally to this doctrine of
metempsychosis, or transmigration of souls: your father, dying, may
"jump up whitefellow," or be changed into a kangaroo, an emu, an eagle,
or a dingo--mayhap even an ant.
One of the natives was named the equivalent for kangaroo, with something
tacked to it. Wherefore he must never taste kangaroo flesh.
It has been written somewhere:--"Australian natives are treacherous. You
should never in the bush let one walk behind you. Keep him always in
front." A bushman told me that was altogether wrong advice. "If you have
any cause to be suspicious of a nigger's intentions," he said, "keep him
behind you, and well out of sight at that--even if you have to hit him
on the head with a waddy to make him stay there."
This authority was rather violently disposed towards the natives, whom,
_inter alia_, he charged with the atrocious crime of having once
kidnapped a dog of his. "If anyone of them starts giving you back
answers," said he, "to shoot is about the only way to make quite sure
about that one. It's fine," and he laughed, "to see the beggar's jump."
He assured me he had, on occasion, known 'em to jump as high as seven
feet.
* * * *
From Kelly's Well the 32 miles to Tennant's Creek provided the best
stretch of cycling ground for many a day. The soil was of a firm loamy
nature, covered in places with gravelly quartz and ironstone.
The first part was over level ground timbered with mulga and box, and
with not a hill in sight anywhere to east or west; but at about 20 miles
some low flat-topped scattered rises appear, and then, at 26 miles, the
McDonnell Ranges. Here ironstone and quartz veins outcrop, and colors of
gold are found in many of the gullies.
An excellent track continues on and over the range (which is not a high
one) and then level country again spreads out.
* * * *